The Heirs of History: A Nation From Nothing

by T. Josiah Haynes

  Falhadn translated, confused as Rynyr was. “Drea is kind. He wants me to live with him.”

  “My house is nothing like the congresser’s mansion.” But it’s safe. “But we would be honored.”

  Rynyr shrugged. Falhadn seemed to decide that Balhenhill had simply seen how important it was to fraternize with the foreigners. Rynyr and his brother Drashk helped Balhenhill off the ground. He ached beneath his skin.

  “I need to ask Drea.” Rynyr patted Balhenhill on his shoulder. “But I am honored to live with the man who… Horyfyr tyndil? …defended my honor.” The Representative’s son smirked.

  How easy it is to save a life.

  Chapter twenty-three

  All In Support

  Salyryd the Roamer and the Segchyhah Representatives sat about the Marble Slab, on the end closer to the cavern’s mouth. The congress, including its newest member Sarahedeen, sat squished at the other end. Ganjinhill and Falhadn also sat in attendance, to translate.

  Falhill’s heart raced, his palms perspired. The Segchyhah had lived next to the Hillites for a month now. He could only guess why they had called an emergency meeting with the congress. And his guesses made his teeth grind.

  “Thank you all for coming today,” Salyryd said as Falhadn translated. “We feel uncomfortable lingering much longer.”

  Drea gaped. “You are taking your leave?”

  “We believe two weeks is enough time to prepare our departure. We had a doveling from Lorodin, in Doamchay. Lorodin is one of a hundred communities, each one led by a Shindo — a sort of queen. Lorodin’s Shindo is pregnant. If we leave in two weeks, that should give us four months to arrive in time for the celebration this Shindo invited us to — plenty of time to travel halfway across the world.” Salyryd chuckled, but no one else joined in.

  Another Representative named Mihivy spoke, “My sons were attacked a week ago. Rynyr and Drashk told me about some bastard ruffian and his associates in a tavern. My son has a black eye—”

  Salyryd interrupted calmly, “We are not so stubborn to see that our presence causes quite the stir.”

  Balgray looked to her wedson Ganjinhill. “We still haven’t voted whether or not to become a member nation in the Segchyhah Collective.”

  “Come now, Congresser,” Drea moaned. “They are leaving because our people do not accept them.”

  “I count maybe a dozen who despise our saviors like you say. But the vast majority has seen their generosity.”

  “The Segchyhah will never be welcomed by all Hillites; therefore, we shall not vote.”

  Denhall stood from his marble chair. “Enough!” His cheeks burned red. “Drea, you will not delay this vote any longer! Your persistence will be the death of us all!”

  “Calm down, Congresser.”

  “I elect Hrashhill be annexed into the Segchyhah Collective.”

  Drea and Theral both rapped their knuckles against the Marble Slab. Theral spoke first. “I object to your wording. Will the Segchyhah even take us in? After the abuse they’ve gone through?”

  Salyryd answered, “We will not disallow any people from joining the Collective. Your people have been largely kind to us, with only a few exceptions.”

  Drea shouted, “We will not vote on your election, Congresser Denhall!”

  “With everyone here as my witness, I will have Rudfynhill throw you in a cell with Kraek and Laebm if you obstruct this body’s legislative abilities!”

  Soldier Rudfynhill stood at the egress, unmoving, uncomfortable.

  Drea pointed his bony finger at Denhall. Fumbling for words, he finally said, “You are a hothead. And an atheist. And you are only a congresser because of me! You were only governor of Enesma because of me! I believed in you, but you are about to plunge this colony into oblivion!”

  “All in support?”

  Denhall’s hand raised high. As did Balgray’s. Unable to meet Drea’s gaze, Falhill raised his hand.

  Yrnhill the younger looked around and squeaked, “Me? Am I really the deciding vote?” Falhill had to laugh at the notion. Yrnhill looked to Sarahedeen, then to Salyryd. “Will you ever discourage a Hillite from worshipping the one true Hrash?”

  Salyryd’s lips slowly widened. “No. Religious freedom is a guaranteed right in the Segchyhah Pact.”

  Yrnhill laid his face on the Marble Slab and raised his hand.

  Denhall stared at Drea, Theral, and Sarahedeen, whose fists remained lowered. “The ayes have it.” Scribe Henhadn scribbled the results in a dark corner aglow with candlelight. Denhall fell back into his chair.

  Suppressing a smile, Salyryd uttered, “Then there is the issue of who will serve as your Representative.” Mihivy passed her some frayed parchment. “We have actually prepared a list of everyone who we believe is qualified. But the decision is ultimately this congress’s.” She passed the list.

  Falhill was the first to eye the dozen names. His crooked nostrils flared. Ganjinhill, Falhadn, Zannahill, Balgray, himself, Yrnhill the younger, Yrnhill the elder, Denhall, Traamis, newlyweds Caln and Glaad, and Cleric Sharanhall sat inked upon the yellowed parchment. Then he passed it on to Balgray.

  Unable to speak very loudly, Falhill said, “We will vote on this in the next week or so.”

  Salyryd continued, “If it is appropriate, we would like to leave behind a dozen or so Segchyhah in Hrashhill, to assist with defense and continue trading knowledge. We would also like for several Hillites to join us on our journeys.”

  Denhall nodded, now in possession of the list. “That sounds reasonable. I will say that Falhadn and Zannahill are our two primary teachers. I don’t think we could part with them both.”

  The rest of the congressers observed the list, Salyryd thanked the congress, and the Segchyhah left the cavern. A thin sheet of palpable silence.

  Denhall turned to Theral, his brow tense with fury. “Are you proud of yourself, Congresser?” He stood. “You and Kraek have starved us. I congratulate you on your genocide.” He turned to Drea. “And you, Drysword. I don’t understand why you would try so wholeheartedly to leave us defenseless against a potential attack. And to pretend like she is anything but your sycophant—!” He threw a gesture at Sarahedeen and stormed from the cavern.

  Neither Drea, nor Theral, nor any of the others uttered a word for quite some time. You have left us defenseless if Yaangd ever finds our pilgrim shore. The same sentiment showed on each face about the Marble Slab.

  Chapter twenty-four

  The Rasp of an Iron Hinge

  In her vast mansion, Falhadn lay atop violet silk cushions, wrist over her damp forehead. The midsummer heat had seeped in through the blue-gray bricks. She knew she had to tell her husband of her decision, but she didn’t know how.

  As she waited for Falhill to come home from one of his lengthy congress meetings, Falhadn tried to catch some rest while she could. But the sweltering pall caused her just enough discomfort that she couldn’t fall asleep. She tried to visualize a pet tomcat she had as a girl; imagining Silver going about its normal routine — jumping onto high ledges, rubbing against her leg, licking itself — would often lull Falhadn into a sly slumber.

  But the temperature remained unbearable. She tossed and turned. Her mind raced. How to tell him? She and Falhill had made things work, it seemed. He protected her from Sailor Henhall, protected himself from Hrabhill the elder. And they had rekindled everything the night the Segchyhah structure shone blue. Why had she decided to throw it all away?

  She knew that would be Falhill’s question. She needed an answer. The answer was simple. But her mind could formulate no words. She started to think about her former lover but tried to push it from her thoughts. I’m leaving everything behind.

  Their marriage was doomed from the start, she realized. Though she did not grasp her own intentions at the time, Falhadn had married Falhill out of spite. Sure, Falhill’s love of the written word meshed well with her love of the spoken word. And Falhadn had been twenty-four and unmarried — an old crone by birthi
ng standards. Falhill was a few months younger, but he had lived through a failed betrothal with some poor seamstress.

  Falhadn had moved from her parents’ home in Jevilk when she turned twenty. She found a cheap apartment in the South Bend and attended the Academy of Teaching and Scholarship. Her parents sent silver and gold every month in exchange for a weekly detailed letter.

  After two years of study, she began to teach linguistics at the Royal Conservatory. She taught seven-year-olds, even one of Yaangd’s grandchildren.

  She met Falhill at Princess Balyaangdhedeen’s sixteenth birthday — though she since married and her name was now Bartembalhadn. Falhadn had worn a tight ivy green gown to the fete, and Falhill wore an ostentatious, ill-fitted ermine robe of beige and white. Falhadn laughed when she saw the absurdity of his outfit. She remembered her first thought, I can work with that.

  Falhill made her laugh that night. Falhadn made him blush. They danced. They told each other of their parents’ failure to marry them off. So, the decision sat in their laps. They wed eighteen months later. I should have known then that he was slow to action. Falhadn’s father and mother attended the Eangd wedding — even tried to pay for a newlywed retreat. That was the last time Falhadn saw her parents.

  Falhadn still wrote her parents once a month or so. Until the first miscarriage. The last letter she had penned told a lie. That she remained pregnant. Even though, days prior, gore had spilled from between her legs. She and Falhill had to purchase a new feather bed and all new furs to sleep under. On occasion, it occurred to Falhadn that her parents might still believe they have a grandchild.

  Five years. Falhadn had spent more than five years dedicated to this weak man. Had those five years ended up as garbage for the river? Some speck of decency held her back from telling her husband, “You are garbage to me.”

  Voices outside the front door jarred her awake. She had fallen into a shallow slumber. Her clammy skin had stuck to silk cushions.

  “…was all we could do to hold them here another two weeks. Don’t feel defeated.”

  “It’s more than kind for them to provide the food for the banquet.” Falhadn knew this voice to be her husband’s. “I don’t feel defeated.”

  “Well you look it.” And that voice must be Drea’s. “I hope you’ll forgive me for overreacting. I still don’t trust outsiders. After everything with Yaangd—”

  “You don’t have to say anything.” Falhill fiddled with the outside of the door handle. “We should move past the issue.”

  “I’m glad you feel this way. Besides, the culprit is on house arrest. Once the Segchyhah leave, the Lionheart can be released, and Balyrnhall will fill his cell.”

  When Falhill finagled the bronze key into the fresh-forged iron handle, the door crept open, letting in dusky indigo moonlight. Its iron hinges, however, had not settled at perfect angles to the door. So the door scratched at Falhadn’s ears.

  “Oh, darling? You’re here. I thought you might be in the Segchyhah camps.”

  Drea nodded perfunctorily. “I’ll see you later, Falhadn. Ask your husband about the banquet.” His sly smile slipped out of view as the old man waddled towards his mansion one house down the beach.

  Falhill stood lifeless, his goofy grin slowly fading into confusion. He shut the door. And there it is. The rasp of an iron hinge — uneven, not quite in its proper place and angle. She knew the time had come. The answer still evaded her. But she would have to improvise. She parted her lips, but the words were slow to come. “We need to talk.”

  Falhill looked so confused, like a kicked dog. “What?”

  “I could have been dressing,” she answered. “You just brought Drea inside without checking if your wife was decent!”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

  “You’re always so sorry,” Falhadn mocked her husband half-heartedly. “Don’t apologize all the time.”

  “I don’t understand. Is this what you wanted to talk about? Where is Dalnommeth?”

  “With some other Panthiri, saying her goodbyes. Why do you care?”

  “I wanted to know where our houseguest was. We are responsible—”

  “Queen of Hrashhill indeed.” Her words finally broke through his paper-thin armor.

  Falhill’s brow furrowed. “Don’t remind me of that horrible day. Shadows. My opponents feel the need to hide beneath the night. That’s a victory, how I see it.”

  “Victory? They humiliated you. They humiliated us both!”

  “Then what did I kill Hrabhill for?!”

  “Was that you trying to be fearsome?”

  “You certainly didn’t complain when I protected you from the sailor Henhall!”

  Falhadn laughed. “I distinctly remember saving you.”

  “And you didn’t complain when Kraek and Laebm left your students alone.”

  “You haven’t accomplished a single thing, and you’re grasping at thin air. You’re trying so desperately to live up to your father’s legacy, but you never will, Falhill.”

  Her husband charged at her. Instinct compelled her to jump up from her cushions and scurry behind the settee, inflaming her thigh scar — from the night she and Falhill were most in sync.

  Falhill grabbed the violet cushions and threw them soundlessly across the room. His eyes were fire. He threw a wingback mahogany chair towards the front door. “At least I was raised by decent people. My father and my mother will go down as heroes of the rebellion.”

  “Your father was stupid enough to smuggle a fugitive priest to Enesma. No wonder he was hanged.”

  Falhill clutched a green amorphous vase that Kraek’s wife had gifted as a sort of peace offering. He hurled it behind Falhadn, and it shattered into glimmering shards. “I will never be ashamed of my parents’ legacy. I will never be ashamed to look up to my father. You should be more than ashamed that you’re becoming your father more every moon’s turn!”

  Her belly trembled at that. Falhadn tackled her husband. “At least my father is strong and successful!” Now atop him, she slapped him across the cheek. “Not some poor farmer!” She hit his head against the cold stone floor. “My daddy is twice the man you’ll ever be!”

  Some virility pumped into Falhill’s arms as he threw his wife from on top of him. “He’s a murderer.” Awkwardly, they both stood. Falhadn ran towards the kitchen, and Falhill stumbled after. “He made your life a living hell.”

  “I ache for the days before I knew you!” Her hand found an iron skillet. It flew past her husband’s face. “Disappointment after disappointment!” A heavy old rolling pin hit Falhill in the stomach. Falhadn clutched a knife. “Slow to action. Slower to success. I wish you had died in Enesma.” The knife headed for Falhill’s forehead, but he ducked and tripped forward. Falhadn gasped at her own words, actions. Her husband grabbed her wrist.

  Falhill pulled her close. “I’m tired of your vitriol. Your words are acid, your actions venom. If you want out of this marriage, I will gladly send you back to Old Coast. We can live out our days on opposite sides of the world. You can live in sin with your suitors, and I’ll forget you ever existed.”

  He had hit close to the mark. Falhadn scowled. “And what if I stay here?”

  “You don’t think I see how you act around your fellow teacher Zannahill? Like Denhall said, he’s a married man, Falhadn, and you a married woman.”

  “Zannahill? There is nothing—”

  “And even your pupil Ulmhall, more than a decade your junior. You spoke to him in hushed tones. You whispered with him like some tart. I’ve seen you caress Denhall’s arm, laugh at Dreahall’s japes, you’re even chummy with Primhill to the point I’m sure he’s attracted to you.”

  Falhadn tried to shake free, but her husband’s grip was firm. “You and the whore, Zan? Your lonely, widowed ‘best friend’ Balgray? And our houseguest Dalnommeth? I’ve seen how you two look at one another.”

  “You know there’s nothing there. But I’m not so sure about you and your slew of strapping youn
g men.” He dragged her out of the kitchen and towards the front door. “Perhaps that’s why you’ve always been a vicious bitch.” He opened the door, the iron hinges rasped again, and he pushed her over the threshold. His voice turned soft and dire. “What happened the second time you were pregnant?”

  Caught off guard, Falhadn stood tall. “I imagine it’s what you suspect.”

  Falhill’s eyes watered. He unsheathed his steel longsword and shouted. Falhadn pulled the door shut. From inside, Falhill sliced at the door. For what seemed an hour, Falhadn stood on the portico face to face with a moonlit door — the salt breeze tickling the back of her neck. Slashes of steel on wood. The unbridled grunts of a frustrated man.

  After thirty or so strikes, Falhill seemed to surrender to the door. After a moment, Falhadn reopened the splintered door, and the iron hinges squealed in agony. Falhill’s cheeks glimmered. He dropped the sword. He shrugged his shoulders. “Why? Why do you hate me?”

  Falhadn almost smiled. “I’m going with the Segchyhah. No matter who the Representative is. I’m going with Salyryd.” He had no answer. “And fix those hinges.” She strode past him to the bedroom.

  Chapter twenty-five

  Banquet

  A week before the autumnal equinox, five thousand souls gathered beneath the peach-colored sky. The thin shadow of a swollen cloud passed over Falhill’s flushed face. His stringy black hair stood atop his pate, held by two wooden pins. Next to him, his wife smiled and laughed along with Representative Salyryd the Roamer, on her other side.

  So Falhill turned to Balgray, on his other side. She spoke with her wedson, Ambassador Ganjinhill. Across from Falhill sat Sarahill and his daughter Sarahedeen. Sarahill spoke with Traamis and Yrnhill while Sarahedeen laughed at Dreahall’s jokes. Even Drea seemed to ignore Falhill, opting to stumble through a broken dialogue with Representative Mihivy and his youngest son.