The Heirs of History: A Nation From Nothing

by T. Josiah Haynes

  Balgray started to enter her manse, which she shared with her wedbrother, but stopped herself. “Old Coast has no lumber left, save the Saarfy Rainforest. And the rainforest is protected by fanatics, though I suppose that won’t stop the Unholy King from cutting them down to provide lumber for a new war fleet.”

  “What do you mean, ‘no lumber left’? Old Coast had no shortage I was aware of.”

  “You remember I was an herbalist in Meireer, yes? Well, I thought it passing queer when sailors started to seek me out, hoping to trade any bits of lumber I may have procured in harvesting herbs. I had some gnarled dogwood root, and balsam logs — no more than hearth fodder. But the sailors gave me real coin for it. Multiple occasions. I heard port gossip, too.”

  “You think we could trade with Old Coast? Lumber for food?”

  “Well,” Balgray answered with a shrug, “we have the Segchyhah now, who are more than gracious. And I wouldn’t want to invite the Unholy King to our shores anyway. And that mad king has probably cut down half the rainforest since we left. Ignore me. Just the ramblings of an aging woman.”

  “You’re thirty-five-years-young. And I suppose I heard similar trade talk in Enesma, though I spent little time by the ports.”

  “Any way you look at it, it’s a moot point.” She brushed Falhill’s shoulder. “You’re a good friend, Falhill. And a good congresser, too. Your father would be proud.”

  “I know.” They left it at that, and Falhill walked another few hundred feet to his own abode. In his crooked nostrils, he smelled something rusty. No, blood.

  On the gray-brown wall of his portico, someone had painted FALHILL QUEEN OF HRASHHILL in blood red paint.

  Falhill scrubbed at the crimson on the front of his house with warm rags soaked in water. His elbows grew tired straightaway, then his knees. He hoped to have the graffiti cleared by the time Falhadn arrived, but it seemed unlikely. The fires in the Segchyhah camps so upset her, Falhill did not want to worry her any further.

  He hardly erased half a letter when a voice called from within. “Congresser Falhill?”

  “Out here, Dalnommeth.”

  Through the doorway strode a comely woman of forty or so years. He knew that this Dalnommeth was a noble widow from the far off kingdom of Panthing. Besides that, he knew little. “Why are you out?” Her Hillite tongue proved broken and stumbling although Falhadn tutored Dalnommeth for two weeks ever since she lived with them.

  Falhill gestured to the sprawling marks on the sea-facing outer wall. She sounded out the words, “Falhill… Queen… of… Hrashhill…” She placed an invisible crown on her head. “You are queen?”

  “It’s an insult.” She did not understand. “It’s rude. It’s unkind.”

  “Friend? Or foe?”

  Falhill nodded gravely. “Foe.”

  “That water?”

  “Water. Yes.”

  “You need grohhar. How do you say it?” Dalnommeth seemed to give up on the translation and retreated within to find it.

  Each of the congressers had taken in an honored houseguest from the Segchyhah Collective, except of course Theral.

  Drea hosted the strapping Rynyr, Representative Mihivy’s youngest son.

  Denhall lived with Mihivanda, Representative Mihivy’s only daughter. Ganjinhill and Balgray — as well as Falhill, he had to admit — wanted Denhall to marry the Segchyhah girl. Mihivanda seemed interested in the youngish hunter-turned-congresser. But Denhall had little interest.

  Balgray and her wedbrother hosted Urawil Graslan, a young nobleman betrothed to a female Segchyhah soldier. Urawil was a once-removed cousin to Bassun, the Thuvaeir Representative to the Collective, who had not trekked to Independence.

  Whether he liked it or not, the Segchyhah gave Yrnhill a Shrih priest named Rhoaal’erim to live with. Their religious backgrounds could do a lot of good for both peoples. Or start a holy war, Falhill considered, but he pushed the thought from his mind.

  Finally, Sarahedeen, the congresser-in-training — she took in Theral’s intended houseguest when she rudely rejected the idea. Gerundayn was a young Doam man who served as assistant to Representative Kimyenud. Unlike the rest of the houseguests, Gerundayn intended on travelling with the Segchyhah west whenever they took their leave. Falhill gathered from his wife’s gossip that Gerundayn wanted to succeed Kimyenud as Representative, though most expected Kimyenud’s own son Sardayn to take the reins.

  Dalnommeth returned with a wooden bowl, overflowing with ash from the hearth. “Grohhar is…” She made a wiping motion. She demonstrated. The paint, or whatever it was — Falhill suspected pig’s blood — washed off thrice as quickly. Falhill and Dalnommeth shared a giggle. Excited, they tackled the stain together.

  Hrash above, she’s pretty. Fifteen years my senior, but nobility seems to have its advantages. Upon refilling the rag with ashen water, he took the opportunity to observe the curves of her body. Inundated with childish guilt, he averted his eyes.

  “Falhill is Queen of Hrashhill, do they mean? No ‘is’ here.”

  “I don’t think they cared about grammar.” She didn’t understand. Falhill banged his knuckles against his forehead, and Dalnommeth laughed like a horse.

  “In Panthing, there is a… Pereadoc is my home. A place… A town… A port in Panthing. Pereadoc is a port town in Panthing. There is home. My mother and father are there.”

  “Do you miss them?”

  “Miss? Sad? Yes, I am sad about my mother and father not here.”

  Falhill ran out of things to say. So he grinned. Together — Hillite and Panthir-Segchyhah — they wiped away the scarlet stain upon his house.

  Chapter twenty-two

  The Representative's Son

  In the darkest corner of Sarahill’s tavern, Sailor Balhenhill gulped at his third pint of beer. As the only tavern in the colony, Sarahill could have watered down all his drinks and acted as cruelly towards his less preferred customers as he wished. Yet Sarahill remained a good man. Everyone loved him. Perhaps my wife should serve drinks.

  Sarahill poured beer into a flagon and handed it to Rudlaarhill, Fenhall’s eldest living bastard. He had married Cleric Jeulcaln’s younger daughter, against both fathers’ wishes. Jeulcaln’s elder daughter died fighting under the Unholy King’s banner, in the Second Battle of Anang, Balhenhill recalled. He also knew Rudlaarhill could be a fierce hothead. Rudlaarhill had been an agitator in last week’s riot.

  Servant Rudbalhenhedeen swept the dusty entryway and laughed with patrons while Sarahedeen — counting the days till she was officially elevated to congresser — wiped at glass tankards stolen from Enesma taverns. Her betrothed, young Dreahall, laughed along with pretty girls. Sarahedeen’s jaw clenched, but she kept at her washing, perhaps with slightly more vigor.

  Balhenhill hid his face in the remotest booth of the lively establishment. He knew his wife remained as reviled as the invading Segchyhah. A dozen bruises radiated from various parts on Balhenhill’s body, a testament to defending his wife’s honor. Though he always stood up for her, he was simply very bad at it.

  His wife Balhenhadn had served as a neophyte in Meireer’s tall temple throughout Yaangd’s early reign. The king had ushered in a golden era in Old Coast for two decades, before he descended into insanity.

  Yaangd funnelled taxes into the sciences and infrastructure. Alchemist Faaryanhill discovered that the contamination of rivers with human waste greatly contributed to deadly disease. Scribe Thormbalhadn discovered two new planets, an unfathomable distance away, naming the first after the king and the second after herself. High Prophet Shelyrbm travelled the countryside with Yaangd’s royal coffers, feeding the hungry, housing the homeless, and mending older temples. Yaangd had won over every commoner in the kingdom.

  So his high taxes levied against the governors and nobility were uncontested. The rich could not pay the commonfolk enough to turn against their beloved king. When the king decreed that any religious man or woman could come to the capital Eangd and study to bec
ome a Brave Priest and join his holy army, Balhenhadn beamed from ear to ear. She packed a backsack, kissed her two-year-old babe, and ran off to the palace.

  Months passed before Balhenhadn returned to Meireer, though it was under a banner of war. She slew no one, cast no dark magic. But she marched with the sorcerers. Though she styled herself an Herbalist, the refugees from Meireer swiftly figured out Balhenhadn was a False Priest, however briefly.

  So he resigned to hide his face in public, whenever he could. But he was as bad at hiding as he was at brawling.

  “Sailor Balhenhill?”

  He turned to find the fifteen-year-old bastard Rudlaarhill. Balhenhill breathed in, prepared for a punch to the face. “Apprentice?”

  “It’s Soldier now. I turned sixteen this week. With Laebmhill gone, and Kraek and Laebm in prison, Primhill took command of the soldiers. He promoted me as a gift. A well-earned gift.”

  “Congratulations, Soldier.” Balhenhill shifted his eyes, confused.

  Rudlaarhill leaned against the counter and drew within whispering range. “I know it’s a sensitive topic. But everyone kind of knows your wife learned with the False Priests.”

  Balhenhill’s heart pounded. “She never once fought against the rebel cause.”

  “Your wife and I may not see eye to eye on religion. Hrash knows the wife nags me about going to temple. But perhaps your specially talented wife can do some good for this colony.”

  “She contributes to the colony, same as you and me.”

  “I’m not talking about her services as an herbalist. I’m talking about dark magic.”

  Balhenhill looked up at the youth. “My wife has nothing to do with dark magic,” he lied. “I suggest you return to your friends. We can’t help you with whatever you’re looking for.”

  “All she would need to do is say a few words, and the invaders’ encampment would be engulfed in flame or the ground would rise up to swallow them whole.”

  “I understand what you’re asking for, but my wife is not a magician. She is an herbalist and nothing more. Now please, leave me alone.”

  Rudlaarhill shoved Balhenhill’s head forward and left him be. You’re not the first to ask, Balhenhill thought and summoned Sarahill to fetch him a fourth beer. That was when the Segchyhah burst in.

  Laughter cut through every raucous conversation in the tavern. If the Segchyhah didn’t want to draw attention to themselves as they entered, they failed. One Segchyhah man, a few years older than Balhenhill, wore a lemon and lime-colored shirt — far too baggy for his slender frame, but the shirt tucked into his tight beige breeches. He had apparently told the joke.

  Falhadn followed him inside. Then, four more men and two females. Besides Falhadn, they were all foreign. “A round for the eight of us. Spiced rum, if you have enough of it,” Falhadn requested of Sarahill, who nodded genially. Falhadn said something in the Segchyhah tongue.

  “How about you speak so we all know what you’re saying,” Rudlaarhill commented for all to hear. The tavern quieted.

  Falhadn cocked her head. “These are our honored guests. They do not speak our language. Not yet, at least.”

  Rudlaarhill stood from his table of friends. “They’re not wanted in here.”

  Sarahill stopped preparing the eight rums to run around the counter. “This is not your establishment, Rudlaarhill. I’ll serve them if I see fit.”

  “You’d serve foreign invaders?”

  “If their coin is good.”

  “They killed Laebmhill, my swordbrother.”

  Falhadn took a step towards the boy. “That was Ganjinhill, and in self-defense. Laebmhill was a souse. You could smell it on him all hours of the day.”

  “Can somebody shut this woman up?”

  “You should listen to your own words, bastard. You sound as uneducated as you look.”

  “If you weren’t a lady, and wife to a congresser, I’d slam my fist into your pretty little jaw.”

  “Go ahead. My husband won’t do a thing about it.”

  Rudlaarhill’s fingers tightened into a fist. He shoved Falhadn aside and charged at the man with the lemon and lime shirt. The Segchyhah man took a fist to his nose. The other four Segchyhah men grabbed Rudlaarhill. He squirmed and shouted, “Anyone gonna help me? These are the guys who killed Laebmhill!”

  “Send them back to wherever they came from!” one voice called. “All hail Kraek!” added another. “Never forget brave Soldier Laebmhill!”

  Though Sarahill and even Dreahall tried to hold them back, Rudlaarhill managed to rally four of his friends. Falhadn cried out some plea in the Segchyhah tongue, and the Segchyhah did not fight back. Sarahill managed to pull one man off a surrendered Segchyhah, and Dreahall did the same. Falhadn tried and failed to subdue Rudlaarhill, but Sarahedeen and Rudbalhenhedeen tackled Rudlaarhill’s friend.

  Only Rudlaarhill continued to strike the man in the lemon and lime shirt. When Falhadn grabbed at his arms, he shoved her to the ground, and she let out a yelp. One Segchyhah ran towards Rudlaarhill, but the foreigner earned a punch to the gut. When Rudlaarhill unsheathed a sword, Sarahill roared, “You’re going to regret this, bastard!”

  Balhenhill charged into the boy, his shoulder knocking the air from Rudlaarhill’s lungs. Balhenhill struck him in the face repeatedly. The newly minted soldier’s nose bled. But more friends ganged up on Balhenhill. “Warlock!” one spit. “Lies with witches!” screamed another. Balhenhill lay flat on his back. Now his own nose bled. And his bones ached. Kicks to the side. Someone bore their steel. His vision blurred, and the pain dulled.

  Dusky sunlight pressed through Balhenhill’s heavy eyelids. A slight tap on his cheek. “Sailor? Balhenhill?” a woman’s voice whispered loud as thunder. “You’re safe. Rynyr and Sarahill pulled them off of you.”

  His lungs filled with air all of a sudden. His eyes opened, and he felt a dull pain where he knew bruises would form on the morrow. His back lay against hard-packed dirt, his head propped up on Falhadn’s backsack. He coughed and grabbed at Falhadn’s arm. “Is Sarahill alright?”

  “He’s fine. I imagine he’s as mad at me for trying to show these guys a good time as he is at Rudlaarhill for starting the brawl.”

  Balhenhill took stock of the Segchyhah hovered over him. Four men and two women. But where was the man with the lemon and lime shirt? Commotion behind him — the final Segchyhah knelt behind Balhenhill, reaching into some queer backsack. He produced a sturdy satchel. “Water,” he said with an accent and handed it to Balhenhill.

  He took a swig. The water tasted sweeter than normal water, but the hydration proved a welcome gift. “Thank you.”

  Falhadn gestured towards the man in the lemon and lime shirt. “This is Rynyr, youngest son of Representative Mihivy.”

  “Thank you for… In there…”

  Balhenhill nodded, then turned back to Falhadn. “Who are they?”

  Falhadn stood. “This is Rynyr’s older brother, Drashk.” She walked to a man and woman with nearly the same face. “The twins, Kalimun and Hrehenor — from Doamchay.”

  “I am Nahyra,” the other woman said. Her brown hair rested below her waist. “Assistant to Salyryd, but…” She shared a glance with Falhadn. “But this is my mate, Vaird.” The man beside her put two fingers to his forehead.

  Falhadn walked up to the last man, about the same age as Balhenhill. “And this is Brehyly, sort of a step-son to Representative Jenneseille.”

  Nahyra giggled. “Step-son is not the correct word.”

  “Well, here, it is. And I’m doing the introducing, so I can introduce him however I like. Besides, Brehyly can barely understand a word I’m saying.” Indeed, Brehyly simply nodded along, grinning like a child.

  Balhenhill felt a twinge of shame. Smiling faces. Helpful hands. And my wife burned down their tents all the same. “Hello, everybody. I’m Sailor Balhenhill.” When he attempted to stand, he realized how much ale he had drunk. He stumbled back to a lying position. “Sorry about Rudlaarhill, and his friends
. His father is just as much a hothead.”

  Falhadn translated, then responded, “We needn’t dwell on it.”

  “How do you say it?” Rynyr added, fingering at his cheek. “Black eye.”

  “His father isn’t going to like that.”

  Balhenhill propped up on his elbow. “Please don’t take that as any sort of declaration of war.”

  Falhadn gave a hollow laugh as she translated. “Don’t worry. We’ve gotten used to the looks.” She brushed a lock of brown hair from in front of his eyes. “That was brave of you.”

  He smirked. “Why do you think I did it? Just to impress you and your friends with my stunning bravery.”

  Falhadn translated, and everyone shared a chuckle. “I thought things were changing around here. It’s been three weeks the Segchyhah have lived next to us. The congressers took in honored houseguests. The Segchyhah have passed out food supplies to most every family by this point. What else can they do?”

  “Houseguests,” Balhenhill repeated. “I suppose you and Falhill took one in?”

  “Yes, some middle-aged Panthir. I tutor Dalnommeth on the Hillite language every day.” She gestured to Rynyr, in his lemon and lime shirt. “Rynyr here is Drea’s houseguest.” Her smile turned sour. “His sister Mihivanda lives with Congresser Denhall.”

  Balhenhill kept his composure. Memories of scheming. The shadow of evil secrets. “You’re living with Drea Drysword?”

  “Drea is kind,” Rynyr answered. “I understand he did not… want us to help. But he is kind.”

  Balhenhill’s heart raced. He knew what it meant to remain in Hrashhill after the Segchyhah would inevitably leave. Especially as Drea’s houseguest. “Live with us,” he uttered. “Me and my wife.”

  Rynyr understood, but he did not think he did. “Drea is kind.”

  “Drea has a lot he has to do every day. He’s leading the congress, planning a wedding, maintaining the storehouse, not to mention he’s seventy-three.”