Heir of Scars I: Parts 1-8

by Jacob Falling

“Even the Echo needs her rest, Ma’am,” he answered when asked. “We keep her taught through the day, but let ‘er run slack a bit in the dark. Let the canvas, the wood and rope breathe a bit.”

  Adria nodded silently from one of her perches on a heavy coil of spare rope, covered in tarp to protect it from weather, but also accommodating as a makeshift seat, at least for someone of a less-than-sailorly build.

  From here, as Josson sang his low tunes, Adria could look out over the sleepy mid deck, up at the sails and stars, or turn her eyes back to where home had long since disappeared.

  But she most longed to see what lay ahead, and kept most hours standing astern.

  One among the Knights who kept this watch, easily the eldest among them, stood always alone until relieved near dawn, and always offered Adria a nod and salute when she rose onto the fore deck.

  He was old to hold no rank, and Adria might have assumed him a newer recruit, a pardoned prisoner who had served his time, perhaps, or a man bereft of family and purpose late in life, turning to the cloth and the sword.

  But this one’s strong build, and the way he carried himself told Adria he was both well-seasoned in combat and well-accustomed to duty. She had never seen him practice with the other knights, and it was easy to see why — he was well above it.

  Where the others wear the arms given to them, Adria noted when she had a moment to look him over. This one has filed edges, trimmed straps, even hammered buckles into a slightly different shape. Few would notice on the Knights, but… he has tailored the armor to conform exactly to his fighting motions.

  He turned to lean back against the railing, and his sword sheath shifted its own weight smoothly, its hilt maintaining the exact same reach for his hand.

  Were he and Captain Wolt to have a brawl, Adria smiled, turning back to the unknowable horizon. I would put my whole bag of coin on this elder knight, rank or no.

  When Adria at last approached the Knight, he saluted her more or less formally, and they both turned out to silently look over the railing and into the dark horizon where the unseen sea met the sky.

  “Such a haze on the water tonight, almost like the sky has fallen.” She nodded out across the water, sighing. “It seems an ill omen.”

  He shifted, and for a moment she thought he would say nothing, but then he nodded as well.

  “This is just a hint of the fog that often borders the Northland Sea in spring, your Highness. Cool winds from the Demarrow Sea, just north, wander down, and sometimes it will cover the masts. This is how sailors mark the border of the seas.”

  “Isn’t it dangerous?” Adria asked, thinking, He must have been a sailor once.

  He shrugged. “There’s nothing to run aground out here. In fact, as we near the Northlands, the islands themselves seem to gather the fog, and the sea mostly clears. It’s a good sign to know we near land.”

  His voice had real depth, and cracked at the edges, like the lines at the corners of his mouth and eyes. “Still... if you ask me, Ma’am, all omens are ill on this journey.”

  “Then consider it asked,” she smiled a bit.

  He laughed a little, and favored her with a glance.

  “What is your name, sir?” she asked.

  “I am called Elias.” He saluted her again — not formally now, at all, but familiarly, in a way which might have seemed disrespect to any superior, but Adria understood immediately to be exactly the opposite. She immediately felt at ease with him, somehow.

  “You seem a rather... uncommon Knight, if I may say,” Adria ventured. “At least for this particular contingent.”

  “I might return the compliment, if I dared to speak to a prince in such a fashion.”

  “I’m certain that is among the better compliments spoken of me among your contingent,” she smiled. “And quite nearly the first words spoken directly, save from my brother, obliged by familial bonds, if not by fealty.”

  “Ah,” Elias nodded. “And no doubt you’ve gone to great lengths to ingratiate yourself, not to mention the many hours of grooming and garment selection demanded of a Princess of Idonea.”

  Adria was actually a little taken aback by this leap in forthright wit, but recovered quickly. “And here I thought the discipline of combing my golden locks one hundred times before bed had gone wholly unnoticed. I’ll withhold flogging my maid tomorrow after all.”

  He shrugged.

  “Still,” Adria nodded. “I take your point. You’re the first actual Knight I’ve addressed. And I’m stubbornly clinging to my Aesidhe dress, but, like you… I’ve grown accustomed to a certain freedom of motion the Knight garb doesn’t really encourage, at least untailored.”

  “Hm…” he shook his head and favored her with a longer glance. “Fairly said. And I’ll also confess to a reluctance to adapt, more than once in my life. You can see that already, of course.”

  “I can see and hear well enough…” Adria’s smile was undiminished, so welcome was this oddity among those she had otherwise found of little interest, as they had her. “I mean no offense, Sir Elias, but I must ask... how old are you?”

  “Ah, is this what you mean by uncommon?” he laughed. “Your Highness, are you implying that I am too old for the order, or questioning why I have gained no rank in the service of Heiland and her Sisterhood?”

  “It’s a…” She half shrugged, half nodded. “…facet.”

  “Well then…” Elias sighed. “I am just old and wise enough to know when an order I’m given is foolish, and I am just young and spry enough to defend those which are not.”

  “Ah... so then you are an insubordinate and irreverent Knight.” Adria gave a short laugh. “I don’t wonder now why you are not elevated, but I do wonder why you are a Knight at all, either by your own choice or by the Sisterhood’s.”

  “I am not the most welcomed of the rank and file,” Elias smiled. “But I still maintain some friends, and survive at the edges of the order, at least for now. All men need a place.”

  “And is that who we sail with?” Adria pressed him a little, still with good humor. “The insubordinate and subordinate? The edges of the order, for those who fail to follow them?”

  “Only the best for the well-groomed princes of Heiland. A gathering of whelps, a lame archer, an old castoff, and a first-time commander.”

  “But... you have commanded before,” Adria ventured, turning her head back to him. “It shows in your manner and your bearing. But... perhaps not among the Knights.”

  “Is that so?” He shrugged and half smiled, waiting for her to continue.

  “Very well, let me see...” Adria sighed. “Your hair is dark, which makes your family not likely of Heiland originally, which goes some way to explain your name, which is also not of our land — in fact, not Aeman at all...”

  He smiled, stroking his beard once and nodding, urging her on.

  “Your speech is perfectly passable, from the north, but not specifically Heiland in dialect... so I would guess you originally learned Aeman in the Northlands. Still... it is not your first language. Your grammar is excellent, but some of your pronunciation is slightly exotic, in just a way I think I begin to recognize, for I have heard it before — from the Matriarch herself, in fact, among others.”

  He half shrugged.

  “Your original tongue was Kelmantian, as is your name, and so that is your place of birth. Since you haven’t completely lost your original accent, I would guess that you left as an adult, but you’ve had a decade, perhaps two, to learn our language.” She smiled as he shook his head. “How is that for a guess, Sir Elias?”

  “A history of subordination and its opposite.” Elias lazily saluted her once more, offhand. “You can see and hear true enough.”

  “Did you have some command in Kelmantium?” Adria asked, now genuinely curious, but trying to remain casual. “Were you in the war?”

  “No,
not really.” He shook his head, after a hesitation. “Such a long time ago.”

  “You don’t wish to speak of it,” she amended, and hurriedly closed the subject. “Still, a good reason you’re here, the language alone. I feared the Sisters being our only Kelmantian speakers.”

  “And Your Highness, of course,” he nodded.

  She blinked. “I speak a little.”

  “I think we see one another’s quality well enough, Highness,” he returned. “And it’s well known you were trained by the Sisterhood.”

  Adria nodded, then asked, after a moment, “Tell me, Elias, and answer honestly, or else do not answer...”

  “I shall, Highness,” he hesitated only a moment.

  “Do you believe any of the Knights upon this ship of any worth, apart from you?”

  “I knew none of them before, but I have watched them as you have, no doubt.” He hesitated. “Your eyes are as good as mine. Excepting three or four, they are all freshly trained and completely untried in real battle. Though some bonds are beginning to form, they remain wary of each other and this mission.”

  Adria nodded grimly. “They cannot be ready for such a journey... such an unknown.”

  “You are as young as they,” Elias shrugged. “Are you ready for such a journey?”

  “I am ready enough to know that they are not.”

  “Fair enough.” Elias chuckled.

  “I have had advantages that they have not,” she continued. “And have done a good deal of living in few years.”

  “This much I can see,” Elias agreed, with a grin.

  Adria smiled, allowing a pause. “You know, my uncle and I used to speak this way.”

  “Lord Preinon?” Elias returned her smile. “I shall take this as a compliment, though no doubt not a popular one. Still, his name still holds esteem with many. At least, among those who know wise orders from foolish ones.”

  “That brings me some comfort.” Adria swallowed. “But… one more question, Sir Elias.”

  He nodded.

  “What are your orders?”

  He turned and looked her over once more, looked through her, even, to the far distant shore of what he once must have called home.

  “I am to see the scions of Idonea safely to Kelmantis, Highness.”

  The words were careful, almost practiced.

  But he speaks the truth, Adria was certain. There is at least one among them not careless of my continuation.

  “Then I will leave you to it,” Adria said quietly, then nodded as she turned again toward the stair to mid deck. “Keep warm, Sir Elias.”

  “Sleep well, Your Highness.”

  With a final salute, he did as instructed, and pulled his cloak tight around him against the growing wind, which slowly broke apart the mists below, showing the clear mirror of stars.

  When she turned down the bedclothes of her bunk Adria found a sealed letter upon her pillow. Its seal was common, one which might be used by any in the service of Heiland, but the parchment was relatively fine, likely only something possessed by a person of some rank — a noble, a commander, or a Sister with station.

  Quietly, Adria slid the letter back under the covers, unopened, scanning the tiny cabin quickly for any other sign of intrusion. Then she unlatched her door, hand on the hilt of her knife. She peered out into the short hallway beyond, listening closely, but only the sounds of the sea against the hull could be heard, wind and the usual groanings of the ship.

  Adria closed and latched the door, sat on her bunk and opened the letter where the light could reach.

  The single page was almost wholly empty, except for one word in the center of the page, “Assassin.”

  Adria did not fall asleep as quickly as she might have liked.

  What Does Not Burn

  Summer passed into winter, and Adria lived and learned well among the Aesidhe, split between the Runners and the Shema Ihaloa Táya. When Preinon was in camp, he continued to gather and train his new Hunters.

  But more than once as the warm season wore on, Knights threatened Aesidhe camps near the edges of the wild, and Preinon joined the Runners to help lead the tribes out of danger.

  The inner camps swelled, Shema Ihaloa Táya most of all, and Adria learned and waited among them to welcome the newcomers and the return of the Runners.

  After each rescue, some among the exiled inevitably joined the lines of Preinon’s spear and bowmen, the Hunters in Rows, who remained perpetually in training.

  “They are not ready,” Preinon would insist when questioned. “When their war comes, it will not be in the Wild. There will be no question.”

  He spoke often in Aesidhe with her now, for Adria had learned much of their language more quickly than she had expected. Shísha helped in this when she was encamped, and Adria always took the opportunity to help the Lichushegi in any tasks which would further her education.

  Among the Shema Ihaloa Táya, Adria mastered the simple skills all children seemed to almost know without effort — the weaving of a basket, the stitching of a pair of shoes, the carving of a wooden bowl and the building of fire.

  Once Adria was shown the method, her hands also found their way more and more quickly, as many new tasks built upon those earlier learned.

  A bowl is not so different from a bow, Adria reasoned as she whittled a bit more wood carefully around the edge.

  After years of Sisterhood training, of watching knights drill, of rows of books from the libraries and patterns on the chessboard, so much of what she learned as Aesidhe seemed without boundary.

  Nearly all tasks were taught to girls and boys alike, with no thought of class or future profession, such as there was among the People. There were few rewards for excellence, no punishments for failure. Even the worst of her food was eaten without complaint, the first of her mismatched shoes found feet to fit them.

  Her freckles darkened, her fingers callused where they held the knife, the ax, the bow.

  “I remember thinking once that, with all the books I had read in Windberth, my head must surely be full,” Adria smiled. “Now, it feels like they only prepared me for what I only now begin to understand.”

  “It is good they filled your mind, Princess,” Preinon nodded. “But they never filled your hands or your heart.”

  She took his point well, though she proved him wrong on one count when given the chance.

  Wordlessly, she joined the Hunters in Rows when they formed a line with their bows.

  “You have always waited in patience. You have drawn and waited for the rabbit or the elk to come into the open, to be still, to offer itself before you. You have kept the quarry from fear. And then you have shot swiftly before he can flee. You have been alone and hungry.”

  Preinon nodded, walking before the line slowly. “Now, you must wait for my voice alone. Your enemy will not know the wisdom of an animal and will not fear you. He will march upon you in rows. And you will draw upon my order, hold upon my order, and fire upon my order.”

  He came to the end of the line, where Adria had thought, foolishly, to hide.

  “They will not fear a single Hunter or a single arrow,” he said, speaking as if he had not seen her, as if it had not been her he saw. “But they will soon learn to fear a hundred.”

  She held her uncle’s gaze, unflinching, until he shouted.

  “Arrow…” And they all drew, not perfectly, but soon they had their arrows between knuckles and resting on the string.

  “Draw…” Preinon shouted, and they were much better in sync. Adria turned her eyes from him to her chosen target tree.

  One… Two… Three…

  “Fire…”

  Her first bow proved itself many times over, both in practice and in the brief hunting forays she was allowed, by Preinon or the elder camp Hunters. She sensed that there was still reluctance to let her stra
y far from camp, especially without Preinon’s express word or presence.

  An elk was always the first great challenge, when a Hunter was most often named as such, but Adria was certainly not yet invited on an expedition distant enough to make elk a likely quarry. Nonetheless, she was able to gain some respect upon returning from a hunt with Mateko with two fat pheasants in hand.

  Hunters and young members of the tribe gathered around to admire the fine birds. As was customary, they passed them around, as well as the bow with which she had slain them, admiring her craftsmanship.

  “She took them both in flight, one after the other, in the space of one breath,” Mateko retold, proudly.

  “And Mateko swam out to get them,” Adria said, a little imperfectly, but well enough to be understood. “He shivered all morning.”

  The Hunters joked with her as an equal, clapping her on the back and giving her words of congratulations. Adria, unused to such attention among them, found herself rather more talkative than she might otherwise have been.

  “It is my first bow,” she explained. “I had much help. I think it turned out beautiful,” or “I used white ash. I soon hope to make a stronger yew bow,” and finally, “Someday, I’ll be able to use the bow I brought from... brought with me...”

  She ran to her tent to retrieve the bow, and as she unwrapped it among them, they all seemed awed at its size or its strange composition — the etched end caps of burnished bone and dark shaft of wood she had not grown strong enough to draw to a useful length.

  “One day I will be strong enough,” she said again, and some nodded silently, though no one said a word, and no one would touch it. She remembered Tabashi, then, and felt somehow ashamed.

  Afterward, as she and Mateko cleaned the pheasants, he as well was uncharacteristically silent, and Adria grew worried.

  He let me have my shot at the pheasants, Adria thought. I should have shared more of the recognition. I must seem ungrateful.

  But Mateko spoke before she could phrase a proper apology. “Lózha, have you spoken with Watelomoksho about your black bow?”