The Heirs of History: A Nation From Nothing

by T. Josiah Haynes

  Sprawling in both directions, thick tables of mahogany and oak and yew seated all the congressers, the Representatives, and their families. The leaders of the Hillites and Segchyhah towered above the thousands of commoners, atop a custom-built dais, surrounded with a dozen tall stairs on all sides.

  In the midst of thousands, twelve drummers and fifty fiddlers played jovial dance tunes. The musicians hailed from Quoxham, Yiwi, Shrih Su, and Panthing — Falhadn had told him.

  Falhill estimated two thirds of the Hillites came out of their hovels to accept the Segchyhah’s harvest. Somewhat troubling — the Segchyhah outnumbered the Hillites four to one.

  Dozens surrounded Falhill, ignored him. He succumbed to a strange sense of dejection and went to relieve himself by the river.

  On his way to the secluded bank of the Azure Artery, Falhill passed by Gaerhill Graymatter, who scowled at him, then the buxom widow Zan, who smirked at him. Falhill walked past the entrance to the Cavern of Congress and over the steep embankment. A long structure hung over the edge of the river, doored partitions every few feet. He entered one stall and did his business.

  Upon his exit, the simpleton Rudrud appeared from nowhere. He strummed his little harp, strikingly out of tune. “Behind closed doors,” he sang, “I saw a man. And this old man, he had a plan.”

  Instinct compelled Falhill to escape the madman’s ramblings, but he suddenly recalled the loneliness which awaited him at the banquet. “How are you, Rudrud?”

  “Better than porridge, better than stew. Give me a lover, I’m better than you.”

  Falhill chuckled. “Hrash above, how did you get this far unable to answer a simple question?”

  “A randy jape, a raucous jibe. Give me a bed, I’m along for the ride.”

  Falhill knew little of Rudrud. He always wore a bizarre red hat that obscured a third of his face. He would have stood taller than Falhill if he didn’t hunch over all the time. The arm with which he held his harp bulged with sinew while his left arm looked gnarled. The prevailing theory was that he was simply the bastard of a bastard, who took a horseshoe to the head at a young age. No one seemed to remember him in Enesma though Falhill felt he remembered the poor fellow from somewhere. He probably didn’t even know a rebellion was raging on when he joined us on the twenty-two ships. “Why aren’t you at the banquet, playing along with the musicians?”

  Another grating strum of the strings. “A lyre is fire, a harp is too sharp, when canned in a herd, a man can’t be heard.”

  “Selfishness then?”

  Rudrud let out an impish giggle.

  “Where did you come from?” Falhill uttered, mostly to himself.

  But Rudrud tried to answer, “Many speak of evil kings, but all I know is simpler things. I play my strings and laugh and sing, and smiling faces give me wings.”

  “Evil kings? If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were lucid enough to understand what I’m saying.”

  Rudrud shrugged.

  “If you only knew the horrors… Can you even know what it is to hold such vitriol for another soul? I would kill that Unholy King and Uandem and the Twisted Prince and Theul Jadeflame if I could — for my parents, for Primhadn, for every horrible deed they wrought. You probably don’t understand what revenge is though.” Falhill laughed aloud. “I envy you.”

  The simpleton rolled his eyes and walked backwards. He strummed his harp and sang, “The hills have ears. The river has eyes. The blind man — he peers. And the deaf man’s a spy.”

  “Goodbye to you as well.” Falhill returned to the banquet.

  Yrnhill and his stepmother left the great banquet table to carry off his younger brother Balyrnhall. It seemed he had bothered an unwilling Doam girl. A pale foreigner with long silver hair looked confused, and he tried to speak with Falhill — Falhill knew little of any Segchyhah language. Falhill almost ran into Sarahedeen, who stormed off in a huff. In the distance, Falhill could see her betrothed Dreahall giggling with some pretty ladies who frequented Sarahill’s tavern.

  Amongst the commoners, someone shouted, “Bastard!” The sound of clanking tankards and breaking glass drew hundreds of banqueters’ attention. Rudlaarhill placed his hand on a dagger at his waist. He had flipped a table and threatened whoever shouted the insult. His father and brother held him back and walked him away from the festivities.

  Rudlaarhill uttered vile curses. His father Fenhall and brother Rudglednhall apologized mirthlessly and to no one in particular. Rudglednhall, Falhill remembered, the boy who thought he could be Representative.

  A week and a half had passed since the congress decided who would serve as Representative to the Segchyhah Collective. Though not on the list of names the Segchyhah thought would prove helpful, Apprentice Rudglednhall wanted his name considered for the post. The congressers had a hearty laugh at the fourteen-year-old’s expense. Falhill hoped that didn’t get back to the boy.

  The only serious candidates turned out to be Ganjinhill, Falhadn, Zannahill, or Cleric Sharanhall. The first round of voting eliminated Teacher Zannahill.

  Drea had a personal connection with Sharanhall. When Drea escaped the capital with the child queen Jeufyn and a few of his household, Sharanhall was amidst those escapees. And Yrnhill adored the idea of a cleric serving. Sarahedeen voted however Drea voted.

  Falhill joined his vote to Denhall’s, in favor of Falhadn.

  Balgray believed her wedson Ganjinhill best exemplified what a Representative would need to be. When Theral refused to vote for anyone, Ganjinhill fell from consideration as well. “He will continue to serve as ambassador,” Drea had said, “and we as a congress will determine exactly what the role of ambassador looks like in the wake of joining the Segchyhah Collective. But that is a discussion for another time.” Balgray threw her support behind Falhadn.

  After the whole ordeal, Theral confided in Falhill that she only broke the tie in Falhadn’s favor because Falhadn was a woman. And she wanted to see Drea squirm.

  Now, at the opulent display of Segchyhah abundance, Falhill returned to his seat, next to the Hillite Representative. Falhadn looked in his eyes. “I wondered where you had scurried off to.”

  “I love you.”

  She recoiled. “I love you too.”

  “I’m glad you get to—”

  “Good evening, all!” Salyryd shouted in the Hillite tongue. The sun crashed into the eastern horizon, and the sky turned the color of grapefruit. A full minute ensued as the thousands of banqueters came to quiet. Falhadn stood, and Salyryd continued in the Segchyhah tongue as Falhadn translated. “We may be leaving you tomorrow. But as long as you are a member of the Segchyhah Collective, your storehouses will not deplete.”

  A smattering of applause.

  “Your lands shall remain sovereign. And your shores shall be defended.”

  Stronger applause.

  “Hrash is strong in these parts. He watches over his people.”

  Among other utterances, Traamis said, “Praise be.”

  “Thank you for all the kindness you have shown us these past six weeks. Just long enough to forge friendships, not long enough to truly get to know each other.” Salyryd raised her arms. “I am Representative Salyryd. And I want to see Hrashhill flourish on this virgin shore!”

  More applause. This many clapping hands took a long time to die down.

  “In two days, you will no longer see thousands of friends near your border. But the dozen or so we leave with you represent our longstanding commitment to helping Hrashhill not only survive, but thrive!” She gestured with her raised arms. “You will meet allies. You will see trade. You will hear of Hillite temples in far off lands. Hrashhill will become a nation that lasts for millennia!”

  Pounding on tables and stomping on rocky sands.

  “Thank you all! Now, eat!”

  Dozens of puddles of vomit. Hundreds of broken goblets. Thousands of dirtied plates. Falhill had known what he was volunteering for, but his wife had essentially guilted the entire congress and
their families to help clean up after the biggest banquet any of them had ever seen.

  Balgray and Ganjinhill would not meet Falhill’s gaze. Bitter that the ambassador didn’t become the Representative. Falhill hoped his close friendship with Balgray had not been compromised.

  Falhill helped Ulmhall from a pool of his own filth. “Oh, Hrash above, thank you, Falhill.”

  “Wild night?”

  “Sheljiridhadn kissed me on the mouth!” Ulmhall slurred, wiping vomit from his chin. “I’m sure it was a one-time occasion. But I can live it on one kiss for long enough.”

  “Glad to hear romance isn’t dead.” Though parents usually tried to marry off their children for some land or wealth advantage, only the nobility forced marriages on their children. Since Falhill had a humble upbringing, he had always held onto hope of a romantic marriage, bound by love. Did I get what I asked for? “It’s strange to remember back on those days in Enesma that you spent in our house, learning at whatever scrolls Falhadn threw your way.”

  Ulmhall chuckled. “Yes, it’s odd for me as well. To think how far I’ve come — now I’m one door down!” He laughed. Falhill had to laugh too. Ulmhall steadied himself and stumbled towards his home. Falhill kept at the clean up effort.

  As Falhill collected food-splattered plates with a cart, a drunken foreigner approached him. Long silver hair reached for his waist. This older man walked with a slight limp, and his skin reminded him of a ripe mango. He muttered some words Falhill could not identify.

  “I’m sorry. I do not speak Segchyhah.”

  But the man’s face darkened. He repeated his nonsense words, only louder.

  Falhill stepped back. “Let me call my wife. She knows more than I do.” He called Falhadn over, from wiping out tankards. “Alright, now repeat what you said.”

  Falhadn nodded. “Yes.” And she calmly spoke in Segchyhah.

  The pale old man wore a confused expression. More unintelligible phrases.

  Falhadn shook her head. “Sorry,” she said in Segchyhah. Then, a few more words in different languages. Quoxil, Falhill guessed by its harsh syllables. Then Shrih, Falhill knew by its whispery fluidity.

  But the man did not recognize any of it. By this time, Balgray and Salyryd approached. The foreign man scowled yet held back tears. He reached into his netted shirt. From an inner pocket, he withdrew a wrinkled parchment. Falhill’s heart stopped.

  “What is that?” Balgray asked, but she knew.

  Falhill took the parchment with the pictures from the old man. While Salyryd tried to communicate with the grimy-faced foreigner, Falhill observed the distinct characteristics of this parchment.

  A man and woman in faded brown ink. The yellow coastline, the blue river, the green forest. At the mouth of the Independence River, Scribe Henhadn had drawn a thatched cottage, leather hides, wheat stalks, and precious gems. And Beautiful Yaangdhadn sat inked in the ocean.

  At the bottom of the parchment, two brown arms shook hands. And next to the welcoming gesture were the names Ambassador Jiridhill and Ambassador Freily.

  Balgray fell to her knees, in tears. Ganjinhill rushed over to comfort her, though he did not understand. Falhadn held on to Falhill. Salyryd continued to try and speak with the man, but Falhill knew there was no point.

  When Soldier Rudfynhill walked over with his son to see what the commotion was about, Balgray shouted, “Arrest him! Arrest that man!”

  Rudfynhill stood confused, muddy rag in hand. “This Segchyhah man?”

  “He is no Segchyhah!”

  Everyone turned to Salyryd for confirmation. The astonished look on Salyryd’s slender face sent fingers down Falhill’s spine.

  Balgray wept anew. “He murdered my son! Arrest him!”

  Part IV

  The Traitor

  from the diary of Scribe Nudntry-bal the younger

  …since he was a young man. He rescued a princess, avenged a prince, and served as a congresser for many decades — all without drawing a drop of blood. The commoners named him Drea Drysword. Whether this was his pride or shame, no man could say.

  Drysword maintained his fame during the fight against Yaangd XXI. Drea established himself as a hero of Traamis's Rebellion when he risked his own life to save the king’s captive child bride Jeufyn — her full name was Jeulrudfynhedeen, though her married name would have been Yaangdbalhadn. Though congressers and clerics perished, Drea successfully escaped the capital, out from under the thumb of Yaangd the Unholy. Some claim he disguised himself and Jeufyn as False Priests.

  Once Drea had rescued the king’s child bride, he retreated to Enesma, with only a few surviving members of his household. In Enesma, he became the political leader, swift as a lightning bolt. With everything we now know, Drea was one hundred percent an anti-Yaangd protestant…

  Chapter twenty-six

  Honor

  His son’s blood still matted the hairs on Laebm’s wrists. It was the same evening that Ganjinhill slew the boy. His lungs hadn’t yet filled completely. Everything seemed so shallow, incomplete.

  Primhill pushed General Laebm into the prison building. “Are you sure you want to give yourself up?”

  Laebm could not reply. He simply walked into the left of the two cells and shut the iron bars behind him.

  “It’s not locked.”

  “Then fetch Denhall, or his apprentice.”

  Confused as ever, Primhill nodded and left Laebm by himself. The general wanted so badly to avenge his son’s death. His son’s stupid death. His stupid son’s meaningless death. But he sat in a corner of the prison cell.

  Unused, he thought with a sigh. But he recalled Balweanhill had occupied a cell for a few hours before Kraek had his head off. That’s how you avenge your ilk. Balweanhill beat his wife, Kraek’s daughter. So Kraek executed him, a harsher punishment than was custom.

  Then, there was Shelwyn. True, Kraek suspected he was Drea’s spy, but it was when Shelwyn spoke suggestively and aggressively to Fal that Kraek had his head off. Simply for speaking rudely to his wife. Kraek took action in honor of those he loved. I sit here in a corner while my son’s corpse lies on the beach, and his blood stains my hands.

  Primhill returned with Denhall and his apprentice Baljesshall. They locked the cell. Denhall tried to interrogate Laebm on what happened, but Primhill had to do most of the answering. Primhill offered him a pail of water to wash Laebm’s hands of the sticky crimson, but Laebm Lionheart could not accept the pail.

  All in all, he considered it the second worst night of his life.

  The next day, the high cleric visited Laebm. “I am truly sorry for your loss.” Traamis the True prayed over him and informed him of plans for Laebmhill’s funeral rites. “I could request your release for the duration of the ritual.”

  Laebm grunted. “Leave me in here.”

  “I hold sway over the congress. I’d like to use that influence for good.”

  “Please. Don’t let me go. Not while Ganjinhill is anywhere near.”

  Traamis sighed. “Forgiveness is a virtue.”

  Almost ashamed, Laebm realized he had forgiven Ganjinhill for slaying his drunkard son. “Forgiveness is not the issue. Now, please, leave me to my thoughts.”

  Traamis rose. “Hrash be with you, old friend.” When Laebm had served as a high general in the royal army, he ran into Traamis, one of the twelve holy counsels. But he didn’t think they were old friends by any stretch of the imagination.

  “Hrash go with you, high cleric.”

  When Traamis the True had left, young Baljesshall asked, “Why won’t you go to your son’s funeral?”

  Laebm regarded the youth of fifteen, five years younger than Laebmhill had been. “Honor dictates I would have to kill Ganjinhill. And I would kill him, if you gave me the chance.”

  This scared the boy, though he tried so desperately to hide it. And they sat in silence for many hours.

  The day after that, Slumswain escorted Kraek into the adjacent cell. Denhall followed close behind, d
ragging Kraek’s wife Potter Fal by the arm. The couple shared the second cell.

  Laebm recalled the river tourney when Rudfynhill had earned his odd title. The commoners thought he had come up from the slums like them, though Laebm suspected the Slumswain came from some money. Elsewise, how could he have afforded to enter the river tourney?

  Rudfynhill regarded the Lionheart in his prison cell with a mixture of respect and contempt, before leaving in a huff. Denhall took the time to speak with Baljesshall.

  In quick whispers, Kraek described to Laebm all he knew of the Segchyhah. “Take heart, cousin. Your son’s death will be avenged.”

  Laebm’s eyes betrayed him.

  “Friend?” Kraek muttered. “Have you lost your wits? Your son is dead — attacking the Segchyhah invaders.”

  “Enough,” Laebm grunted. “Of all this back and forth. Enough.”

  Kraek squinted and shook his head. “What do you mean? We’ve got to take back this colony — from those who want to destroy tradition and invite foreign invaders to our—”

  “Enough.”

  “Alright,” Denhall shouted from without the cells, “this isn’t a social club. Keep the conversation to a minimum.” Laebm smirked at the ugliness of Denhall’s haircut — shorn close on the sides. Denhall left his apprentice to watch over the prisoners.

  Rudfynhill nodded at Laebm, “General.” And he followed Denhall.

  Kraek receded from the partition in between the two cells. Laebm caught Fal’s gaze. Guilt tickled at his chest. She is your closest friend’s wife. Fal donned her unique genial smile and averted her gaze.

  “Don’t worry, Father. Gaerhill is doing as you asked.”

  “Fine, fine. I won’t worry. I trust you, darling.”

  As Kraek and his daughter Gaerhadn spoke, Fal played with Gaerhadn’s six children. The eldest, eleven-year-old Gaerhall, held the youngest, four-month-old Shelgaerhall. Baljesshall kept his hand on his hilt as he watched over the visitation.