The Heirs of History: A Nation From Nothing

by T. Josiah Haynes

  Falhadn raised her eyebrows. “Couldn’t the same thing happen to you, if you’re sticking to this false identity?”

  Ratikit gestured to the guards behind him. “Solitary confinement every other day, special orders to protect me when I’m amongst the masses.”

  Falhadn buried her face in her sweaty palms. “What is this?”

  “Look, to make a song a verse, this operation involves a hundred guys from every ethnicity you can think of, in a dozen different cities. In other words, no one king or Shindo or shaman has the power to take it down. Only the Collective.”

  “You’re with the Segchyhah Collective? Aren’t you Wotby?”

  “My home may not be a member nation, but I am a Wotby-Segchyhah. Honestly, makes me less suspicious.”

  For the first time, Salyryd spoke, leaning beside the visitor’s exit. “The Collective sponsors several international investigations.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me about Ratikit’s sting?”

  “Even the Representatives don’t know details of undercover operations.” Salyryd sighed. “I hate to say it, but imagine if Representative Feedra’anam knew the details. Fifty-fifty chance she would have told Arfwa.”

  “So,” Ratikit continued, “no hard feelings. I’ll rot in here for a fortnight before my boss comes up with a way to break me out.” He stood. “Nice to see — however misguided — that our newest Representative is a brave one. Don’t let it bite you.” He nodded, and three of the guards led him through the prisoner’s exit.

  Salyryd and Falhadn left the prison, where Nahyra and Ylgartz awaited. “Obviously, this stays between you and me. We won’t mention it at the meeting,” Salyryd whispered out of Nahyra and Ylgartz’s hearing. “I’ll tell Mihivy. For legal reasons, we need to tell a third Representative. But that’s it.”

  “The meeting? At what point do we go on without Kimyenud?”

  The greater portion of the Segchyhah had arrived by foot yesterday. Unfortunately, the Doam Representative had fallen ill. Kimyenud had arrived at Pereadoc by palanquin, already a week unconscious. The meeting of the Representatives had been delayed until Kimyenud’s health improved.

  “At this point, we need to respect Kimyenud,” Salyryd answered. “In two or three days, though, ask me again.”

  Nahyra ambled up. “Is everything taken care of?”

  Falhadn pursed her lips. After a moment, “Yes.”

  Salyryd left her, and Falhadn’s escort walked her to the Grafot Building. Expecting to retire to her quarters after such upsetting news, Falhadn found that Ganjinhill had other plans.

  “A bird, from Independence,” he said as soon as Falhadn entered the yellow brick building.

  “Good tidings, I hope.”

  “We should speak in private.”

  Ganjinhill followed Falhadn to her quarters. “You’re worrying me, Ambassador.”

  “From my wedmother.” Ganjinhill handed her the letter.

  Yrnhill must have lit a fire in her hearth. By its flickering light, Falhadn examined Balgray’s clumsy hand:

  To the Hillite Representation,

  Admiral Uandem has discovered our colony. He has sailed back to Old Coast to make an example out of Congresser Falhill, Congresser Theral with her son and grandson, Potter Fal, Laborer Baljiridhall, and Cleric Traamis. Kraek is dead. Yaangdhill the Twisted lived among us for eight months as the harpist Rudrud, and now he rules the colony, with the traitor Drea Drysword as his puppet. All our soldiers are dead, except Laebm who betrayed and slew them. All the Segchyhah who stayed behind are dead, except Mihivy’s son Rynyr who disappeared. Anyone who speaks out against Prince Yaangdhill or Congresser Drea is either imprisoned or starved into submission. I am sorry I cannot write more. Send help. Uandem will return with more Old Coasters before the new year. Please help.

  Congresser Balgray

  Falhadn’s heart dropped. Make an example out of Falhill, she read again. And no mention of Denhall. Nor Zannahill. Nor any children, save little Gaerhall.

  But the simpleton harpist? And Drea. The traitor. Her head swam.

  Ganjinhill waited with bated breath. “So? We need to go to Salyryd and Mihivy and the rest of the Representatives. They can send a small envoy up to Doamchay. But we need the Segchyhah to defend its member nation from foreign invaders!”

  “You read this?”

  “It’s from my wedmother. I thought it was for me.”

  Falhadn crumpled up the letter. She gazed at her feet. Then looked up. She remembered the hardest decision she ever made — how she got through it. She could do it again.

  “Ylgartz!” she shouted so he could hear her outside the closed door. Ylgartz entered, concerned. “Arrest this man. Don’t let him talk to anyone. Segchyhah, Panthir — I don’t care what kind of prison. Only let him speak with nobody.”

  Ganjinhill stared — too saddened to be angry, too confused to be belligerent. Ambassador Ganjinhill sat agape as Ylgartz the Indigo obeyed his Representative.

  Ganjinhill snapped out of it. At the door, he started to writhe. “You can’t do this, Falhadn! What are you trying at?!” Ylgartz slapped a hand over his mouth, but Ganjinhill squirmed just enough to shout, “She’s crazy! It’s Independence! They’re being—” Ylgartz knocked him unconscious with a swift knock over the head. He dragged Ganjinhill from the room.

  “Representative?” Nahyra called from without, and she appeared in the doorway.

  “Go,” Falhadn commanded, “ensure Ylgartz is not stopped.”

  Nahyra nodded. But before leaving, she asked, “What is that you’re holding?”

  “This?” Falhadn tossed Balgray’s letter in the hearth. “Chimney fodder. Off, now.” So Nahyra bolted.

  The corners of the parchment blackened and withered away. She had thought herself free of Falhill when she joined the Segchyhah, unencumbered by her husband. But now, her shoulders felt as light as air. The letter had turned to ash, and Falhadn warmed her feet by the fire.

  “But have the Shrih occupied that section of the Great Forest?”

  “Not yet, but—”

  “I don’t see how you can claim rights to an uninhabited section of a vast forest.”

  “Well, we have. In writing. In a Segchyhah treaty.”

  Falhadn looked to Salyryd. “Is that true?”

  Salyryd looked at Feedra’anam, then at Falhadn. “We’ll need to review the treaty. It’s a hundred years old, and Shrih Su has probably violated it a dozen times since then.”

  Feedra’anam scoffed. “Violated? We have never attacked a member nation. Our quarrels with the Quoxil are outside the Collective’s purview.”

  “With all due respect, King Kalath’erim and his predecessors played fast and loose when it came to enacting sanctions on the Doam.”

  Falhadn looked around the room, breathed it in. The Representatives met about an oval oaken table, in a large room meant for an audience. However, only seven Representatives occupied the chamber. It should be eight.

  The Doam Representative Kimyenud had worsened over the past three days, so Salyryd called for the meeting without her. Her son and assistants offered to sit in for her, but Feedra’anam insisted no proxy sit in attendance. “Confidential matters,” she cited. Even Falhadn knew the Shrih reviled the Doam.

  Feedra’anam scowled at Falhadn. “If we allow a settlement on the border, that sets a precedent. In five years, they’ll want a settlement on the new border. After a hundred years, the Shrih are left with half the forest they are entitled to!”

  “But does your government have any current plans to settle on part of the Great Forest?”

  Feedra’anam simmered, unable to answer.

  So Falhadn continued, “Then I elect we allow the Doam to settle that land.”

  Salyryd jumped in, “I think Falhadn has the right of it. But, Feedra’anam, let me state for the record that this ‘new border’ will not move every five years. You know how slowly the Doam population grows. They wouldn’t have the settlers anyway.”

&nb
sp; “You’re assuring me? Are you putting that assurance in the resolution?”

  Salyryd nodded. “Mihivy, I want to add to the resolution, officially.”

  Representative Mihivy was a hefty, completely bald man of fifty-eight years. He served as the Representatives’ transcriber, a place of honor. He penned Salyryd’s amendment, and the Representatives voted. Feedra’anam opposed, as did the Thuvaeir Representative Bassun Yarwell — though Falhadn did not know enough about the Thuvaeir Representative to know why he opposed the resolution.

  The Representatives discussed tensions to the south. The king of Dovanthing — not a member nation — had been poisoned, though he was recovering. He blamed the king of Thuvaeing — the Collective’s southernmost member nation. Bassun tried to convince the Segchyhah to travel south instead of north, but the Representatives denied his request.

  After some financial matters were detailed, Jenneseille mentioned rumors of Fauvre artifacts to the far north. She requested a small envoy travel there while the bulk of the Segchyhah stayed in Doamchay. No one opposed the idea.

  Feedra’anam brought up the next item. Pirates or possibly mountain clans had displaced a few hundred non-Segchyhah Dovanthiri. They had sailed to a Segchyhah embassy in Thuvaeing and requested asylum. In a previous meeting, some had suggested coastal unoccupied Shrih land. Feedra’anam wanted to breach the topic and stop the “butchering of her homeland” and keep the Dovanthiri where they were, in the Thuvaeing capital. But Bassun claimed they lived in inhumane conditions there — since the capital city was already overpopulated. Bassun conceded, though, when Feedra’anam asked him to contact other Thuvaeir lords with more sparsely populated islands.

  The sickly Doam Representative Kimyenud became the next focus of conversation. Pyegel the Pallid, the oldest of the Representatives, suggested a few names as potential replacements, but Salyryd ended that conversation as soon as it began. “We still hope for a rapid recovery.”

  Salyryd readied to rise, signalling adjournment, but Feedra’anam protested. “I do have one more resolution I think it’s important for us to discuss.” Salyryd ceded the floor to the Shrih Representative. “As more and more foreigners settle in the Great Forest, I believe we should push for a semantic modification, if you will.” She pulled out a scroll from behind her chair. “As many of you know, the Shrih have a name for the Great Forest — Hrasavaa. This resolution would show our support of Shrih rule in the Great Forest by urging all Segchyhah to no longer call it by its Segchyhah name, but by its Shrih name, Hrasavaa.”

  Falhadn asked, “Is there a Doam word for the Great Forest?”

  Salyryd answered, “Yes. Gorochanlay.”

  “Well, don’t you think it’s best to use the Segchyhah name if it is such a contentious border?”

  “That is exactly why I am putting forth this resolution,” Feedra’anam spit back. “The forest’s edge is the border. Other than this new settlement in a barely wooded area, Shrih Su is the only nation which occupies the Hrasavaa.”

  “No,” Salyryd said, almost without feeling, “I see where Falhadn is coming from. It’s a contentious border. The Segchyhah should not support one people or the other in this way. Meeting adjourned.” She rose to adjourn without even a vote. No mention of Drea or Uandem or Yaangdhill, she thought. No mention of Falhill.

  The Panthir Representative, Violor, son of Nearil, led them to another room in the Segchyhah embassy. As the Representative of the host nation, Violor arranged for the banqueting.

  Much to her chagrin, all the poached salmon and lobster tail in Pereadoc couldn’t get rid of the pit in Falhadn’s stomach. She had inadvertently cemented herself as Feedra’anam’s rival.

  “It’s not Ganjinhill?”

  “No, Representative,” Ylgartz replied, “a stranger — can’t speak Panthir, nor much of the Segchyhah tongue.”

  He walked briskly towards the eastern border of Pereadoc, Falhadn in tow. The buildings grew shorter, and the streets widened. The edge of the city contained only natives of Pereadoc — no sailor nor Segchyhah in sight. Falhadn spotted some foul glowers from the locals, but she continued by Ylgartz’s side.

  When they arrived at a humble prison built into the inner wall of Pereadoc, Ylgartz identified himself and Falhadn. They met no difficulties with the guards. On the first floor below sea level, Ylgartz stopped. “All we really understood was your name. He kept repeating, ‘Falhadn’.”

  A prisoner awoke from a mossy corner of his cell. He leaned on his elbow. “Falhadn?” He had grown a beard, bushy and unkempt. Yet he still kept the sides of his hair short. His clothes had turned to tatters, but he didn’t appear dehydrated or hungry. Only filthy. “It’s me.” That voice. He speaks the Hillite tongue. The man clambered up to the bars of his cell. Those eyes.

  “Back, you,” Ylgartz commanded, but Falhadn stopped him.

  “I love you, Falhadn,” the man said. He had been a hunter. The governor of Enesma. A congresser. Her lover. Since that night at The Bow and Starboard.

  “I love you, too,” she cried. Overcome, Falhadn embraced him through the bars. They kissed. “You smell awful.” They kissed and laughed. “And you taste worse.” Their lips pressed together, and Falhadn knew she could endure anything. “You’re an answer to my prayers.”

  “I travelled to the other side of the world for you,” Denhall said, in between kisses.

  “Is this Falhill?” Ylgartz asked, clueless. But Falhadn ignored him. He didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. Except Denhall. Here. In my arms. Safe.

  Chapter thirty-five

  All Hail Yaangd

  Falhill sat in his own excrement. He stretched his foot to work out the cramps, then returned to its pool of yellow. He only imagined it was yellow; he couldn’t see anything through the black. The pool seemed to have no end either; a thin layer of fluids from a hundred different slaves covered the floor of the oarsmen’s underbelly.

  As his sight fell away, his other senses heightened. He could hear Theral calling for her son and grandson. He could feel the splinters on the handle of his long, heavy oar. He could smell the rotted wood. He could taste the sea salt seeping through the rounded walls.

  Theral rowed three benches down, but Falhill couldn’t hear any other familiar voices nearby. Slave drivers swung thorned whips to terminate any conversation they tried to hold, though. Those same drivers would bring around stale bread twice a day — breakfast and lunch. For dinner, a communal jug of sour beer.

  But one pleasure accompanied the drivers’ oppressions; they brought torches. Falhill’s eyes ached at the sudden glow, but the firelight staved off his insanity. One afternoon, Falhill held a torch for the less fortunate slave tasked with mopping up as much waste as he could. Another day, eleven-year-old Gaerhall held the torch for Falhill while he scrubbed the repugnant filth deposited upon the warped wooden floor.

  Most days, Falhill wore a single shackle about his left ankle. He shared his bench with a brawny, gray-bearded slave, whose attire had disintegrated some time past. Falhill’s own sandals had withered away by now, and the collar of his undershirt stiffened with sweat and spit.

  One day, Falhill was relieved to find a slave driver passing about a bucket of swill. But the novel luncheon proved to be vomit-inducing. In fact, Falhill suspected it to be the crew’s vomit. That night, Falhill slept in his own bile.

  Sleep eluded Falhill, even though the drivers only allowed for two hours of sleep, in shifts. Falhill dreamt of Falhadn some nights, Drea on others, once of Primhadn, and twice of Henhall. Every dream turned to nightmare. Falhadn would set herself aflame and die before Falhill, Drea would torture him and his parents, Primhadn would blame him for her sacrifice, and Henhall would feast on his flesh. Falhill’s unclothed neighbor fared much better; he died on the twentieth night.

  The old man rotted for a day before any of the drivers believed him dead. One Old Coaster even whipped the skin off his back before dragging him above deck, splattering cool blood across Falhill’s chest and chin. Now
Falhill had his own bench to sleep on.

  Every day consisted of rowing in pitch black, eating hard barley, rowing for a few more hours, more barley, rowing some more, drinking as much old rum as one could down before the driver yanked it away, rowing back and forth, then lying down to rest for two hours. Falhill spent most of the time with an oar in his hand but his thoughts elsewhere.

  He thought of Drea’s tearful eyes. He imagined he sunk his thumbs into Drea’s eye sockets. He fantasized about the sound of anguish the old man would have made. Drea sold Falhill — and for what? So Drea Drysword could continue as ruler? To save his own skin? To save his grandson’s birthright? Because he did not see Falhill as a surrogate son, as Falhill had seen Drea as a surrogate father? Falhill had to stop thinking on Drea; it discouraged him. He needed to keep a positive outlook if he were to make it out of this alive — or die with any shred of dignity.

  On the evening of the thirtieth day, Harbinger dropped anchor. Falhill’s dry throat attempted to call for his companions, but his vocal folds had eroded. The dawning sun cut through the palpable black of the underbelly. The hatch to the outside had opened. Falhill’s eyes adjusted slowly. Among the hundred enslaved oarsmen, only the Hillite prisoners marched onto the main deck.

  For the first time in a lunar cycle, Falhill saw the state of his companions. Potter Fal’s blue and green raiment had turned brown, and her long dress had gone to shreds, covering only above her knees. Laborer Baljiridhall wore no shirt, but his dark brown breeches kept their integrity. Alchemist Gaerhill Graymatter limped on his right leg; all his clothing had fallen away to dust. And his eleven-year-old son Gaerhall wore a brown tunic and breeches which had once been dull pink and forest green. The boy had worn a fur mantle, but the drivers must have pilfered it.

  Falhill’s fellow congresser fared no better. Theral’s underclothes had withered away, leaving a frayed ermine robe to cover her lanky, forty-six-year-old frame.