Heir of Scars I: Parts 1-8

by Jacob Falling

  Then the forest opened into a small meadow full of sunlight and wind, and Adria blinked away the light and cursed herself for her unwariness. The man cleared it just a moment after, and hailed someone ahead of him, at the far edge of the clearing where a small camp lay, maybe thirty meters away.

  This one wore a coat of mail and a surcoat of violet and black, and saw Adria even as she saw him. He dropped the ax in his hand and reached for his bow.

  At the sight of the colors and the reflexive motion of defense on the part of the Knight, Adria’s caution left her completely.

  Again time seemed to slow for her.

  By the time he raised his bow and fixed its arrow, she had sent three of her own — one to either side, and the third into his shoulder. His arrow flew wild, and he fell.

  To her left, the man she had followed drew his sword as he turned, crying out, “By the One...”

  Adria dropped her bow, drew her own blade, and ran. She closed the distance swiftly, trying to get too close for him to give his sword any real strength or speed.

  He retreated, one step at a time, trying to gain an opening, but Adria closed too swiftly, making small strikes to keep him wary, leading him to the nearest obstacle.

  He stumbled upon the stump of a tree, then caught himself... but it was too late.

  The first blow disarmed him, the second brought him to his knees, and the third left him lying across the stump.

  He breathed, as loudly as she, and met her eyes, and they were locked in the struggle that had not quite ended. His fingers groped for his sword or at his wounds, but without real awareness.

  He blinked, and his pupils unfocused, and blood cleared his lips and bubbled from the wide gash in his neck with each next breath.

  Time and her heartbeat resumed their normal pace, and she knelt down, or perhaps fell. Her strength was gone, and she fought to keep her blade in her hand, even to raise it.

  Adria wept, and shook her head, and whispered, again and again, “I’m sorry... I’m sorry... I’m sorry...”

  She blinked and blinked, struggling to keep her eyes open. It took both of her hands, and all of her will, to end his life completely, even now that she saw her father’s colors at the hem of his shirt, where it had found its way beyond his leathers.

  Mercifully, Adria allowed her eyes to close, and her breath was alone.

  Others broke into the clearing soon after, but she could tell they were her own. When her uncle approached, only moments later, Mateko trailing distantly behind him, Adria was not surprised, and she did not bother to hide her tears.

  “I am no Hunter, Uncle,” she said, speaking to his footsteps, neither raising her head nor opening her eyes.

  Distantly, she marveled, I have learned them by their sounds.

  Aloud, she continued, “I wounded him three times before he fell… Even then, I hesitated.”

  “I know,” he said simply.

  “No... Look at me, a child... crying.”

  “Listen...” and he turned her face away from the Knight. “That is no weakness... cry for an enemy’s death as you would a friend. They both have a spirit. They both are a life lost. Mourn even for the elk you bring down to feed the people. You must always mourn, must always value the life you have taken, no matter its virtue.”

  She nodded and looked around. She could see that Mateko was already stripping the body of the other Knight. The one beside her, she knew, must be hers to deal with.

  Another red bead, she thought.

  But she nodded, whispering, “Zho wateko limiyati, Amaksho.”

  “It is good you understand,” he sighed, and he knelt down beside her, began to straighten the man’s body, and folded his hands upon his chest, over his sword hilt.

  “Once more for the crows,” Adria whispered, and Preinon started at the words.

  “Where did you learn that?”

  Adria blinked at her tears. “It is something… something Matron Taber said once.”

  “I see,” he nodded. “It is an old saying. The Hunters have a saying, a prayer… one we say for the dead who our not our own, for the hunted. Would you like to learn it now and say it for the soul of this man?”

  Adria nodded. “Please teach me, Uncle.”

  Mateko, having finished gathering anything of use, returned. The three of them gathered around the body beside her, knelt, and spoke the words slowly, so that Adria could learn them for her own.

  Before she rose, she wiped her blade on the man’s surcoat, and managed to look him in the face again, realizing she would remember it for the rest of her life. Then, when she arose with them, she arose as one of them — a Hunter of Others.

  Adria awoke suddenly with a sense of danger, though none seemed apparent. Her blade still lay beside her, beneath the fingers of her stronger hand, and her bow was in easy reach, and these brought quick comfort as she replayed the last several days on The Echo in her head, ending with Elias and the letter of warning.

  Despite the lack of a window to tell her the hour, she knew that she had slept a full night’s rest, an unusually long period for her — but then she had slept so little in the past weeks.

  And I’ll likely get little on our mission in Kelmantium, she thought as she shook her head to clear the sleep away. Especially if I cannot trust those around me.

  On deck the night’s mists had cleared with the sunlight, and the sky was a cloudless and brilliant blue. Ahead and to port, the tip of one of the Northlands was just visible, its hills still beset with snow, though Adria guessed that this far north such snows may never melt, even so close to the sea.

  Elias guessed right, she thought idly.

  She turned and took the stair up to the forecastle at the prow of the ship, where a Knight whose name she had not yet learned kept watch. There was nothing to see ahead, but Adria could tell now what their route most likely was as she traced maps in her head.

  We’ll be turning more to the south soon, to more open seas, to avoid the eastern islands of the Northlands, she thought. The locals are not so friendly there. That will put us four or five days out from the coast of Numinon, if the wind holds, but then it will be another three or four days to the Kelmantian port closest to the inland capital.

  She sighed, “More than a week out.”

  “The wind has been slow, they say,” the young Knight beside her remarked with a neutral tone. “It should not take more than a week if it picks up. We’ve been unlucky so far.”

  “Have you sailed before, Brother?” she offered aloud, equally neutral, but at least a question. Perhaps she could get something from him, and maybe give him a little more respect of her presence.

  He sighed a little and nodded. “Before my knighting, yes. My father is a fisherman. I assume that is why I was chosen.”

  “Then you were chosen well,” she nodded, hopeful it did not sound either too complimentary or too false.

  He turned to her then, just a moment, and for the first time seemed to appraise her. But he said nothing more, and turned back to the sea.

  His stance is weak, though he can walk the deck. Adria observed. His eyes are uncertain, his mind without concentration. He may have some knowledge of the sea, but he does not understand it like the sailors. He places himself above the sea now, and will be cut off from it. And on land, should we come to conflict, this one will fall as easily.

  Adria thought a moment of Hafgrim’s assurance that they were better protected than it seemed, of Elias’ assurance he would see them to Kelmantis.

  Assassin, she thought, the note folded into the back of her belt pouch. She turned herself fully to lean against the railing, looking for any eyes that might have challenged her, a little surprised to find those of the green-robed Novice, standing alone beside the main mast.

  The girl tilted her head a little, without expression, and her dark hair, loose, wandered upon t
he wind, but too slowly, as if adrift upon the water and not the air. And then, for a moment, it seemed to still entirely.

  Adria slowly shook her head, and blinked her eyes, and all returned to normal. She sighed, and realized only then that she hand been holding her breath.

  Part Seven

  Divided Minds

  Novices

  The hunting party was welcomed back to camp without the expected elk, but nonetheless with sleds full of already preserved meats, wood cut and ready for the fires, arrows with violet fletching that the tribe would re-dye in dark greens and browns.

  The Knights’ camp had been well supplied, and Adria and the others had buried even more than they brought.

  “Safe for when it may be needed,” Preinon had explained, showing her the natural markers they used to guide them to the burial point, signs only a Runner would think to look for.

  They visited the Shema Ihaloa Táya camp first, where Adria’s doubts concerning her actions faded, the faces of the Knights she had slain lost in a sea of Aesidhe children who clung to her legs and thanked her for what she had brought to them.

  They cannot know or care how these were brought, Adria thought, smiling for them despite her guilt. They only know that they are cold and hungry.

  It was not until she was among the Runners that evening that Adria had to reconcile her actions. They gathered around the fire after the evening meal, and Shísha asked Adria to tell the story of the hunt. She might have refused, had it not been Shísha who had asked, and were it not for the sudden respectful silence which fell over the gathering.

  She looked to Watelomoksho, who nodded, and even motioned for her to stand.

  And so Adria rose, her legs shaking and her voice halting, her understanding of the language still imperfect.

  “My hunt ends in sorrow,” she began. As she spoke, she did her best to speak openly and honestly, but she soon realized there was much she could not express. Sometimes she did not know the words, and sometimes she knew there were no words.

  Time slowed as I fought… Adria wanted to say. But… time for the Aesidhe is a strange thing.

  “Zho aloloa,” Adria explained. I ran. But, no… it also means, I run and even I will run. There is no difference in their past, their present, their future. No wonder it feels as if the ancestors are always among us…

  But when she got to the Knights themselves, she found a little better expression.

  “Zho kóne okshopi,” she explained. “P’o koziya miléte. Koziya pugalo atemichepi.” I do fight the man, and he bleeds. He does breathe his spirit from his body.

  It didn’t all sound quite right to her, but the Runners followed her story with empathy, nodding their encouragement and understanding, offering a few words here and there. And as she struggled with the ending, when tears came easier than words or motions, many hung their heads to share in her sorrow.

  When she spoke of the prayer for the slain she had learned, many murmured its words. Then all that could be heard was the sounds of wind and fire, night birds and insects. The perhaps two dozen gathered Runners merely sat, in silence, for quite some time.

  Finally, Watelomoksho cleared his throat and spoke, in his most gentle, yet most assured voice.

  “Lozheskisiyama, you have given to us your story and we are grateful. For any good story you should be given a gift. For this story, you will be given the gift that we all are given upon our first lone hunt.”

  He rose and approached her, placed his hands upon her shoulders.

  “You are known as Lozheskisiyama, once Likshochuhalene. You were brought to us with a favorable omen, and you have proved yourself worthy of it this day, though it brings you sorrow. It is a sorrow we all share, those who have taken a life and freed the spirit from the body with violence. We understand this together. Among your Brother and Sister Hunters, you will now be called Pukshonisla, Follows the White Wolf.”

  “It is true,” the Runners murmured.

  And that was all — a ceremonial of sorts, though with much less ritual and symbolism than the one which had brought her into womanhood. Adria only nodded in recognition, and Chasebatu began a song of mourning, as he might have any other evening when blood had spilled, Aesidhe or Other.

  Most of the Runners remained in camp near the Shema Ihaloa Táya through the winter, and Adria’s tent remained among theirs and beside Preinon.

  Soon after awakening each day, one or more of the Runners would wave her over to help prepare the morning meal, to ask her to gather firewood, or to show her how to mend tent hide or carve the body of a drum or dye and fletch an arrow.

  It seemed a different task, a different companion, nearly every day. Catching eels with Ektito, cooking them with Kseku. Grinding dried roots with Wanawi, healing with Shísha. Knife sparring with Ménezo and Ihala. Climbing trees with Mateko to look for signs of smoke.

  “Were you born among the Shema Ihaloa Táya?” She asked, to keep herself from dizzying at the height, much further from the ground than a Hunter’s blind.

  Mateko shook his head. “I did not grow up this far south.”

  “You were born in the North, like me?” she smiled.

  He was squinting into the distance, rubbing the fingers of one hand together to keep them warm. “I was with the S’amnaya Shnaloto Ãshayuwela north of the Yakseanitáo Holobeya for much of my life.”

  His tone was flat, but this was not so unusual, so she continued. “How did you make it this far south?”

  “I walked, just as you did.” He turned away to look in the direction of the mountains he had mentioned, the Steps of Amos for Aeman Heiland.

  She could not tell if he was being reticent or facetious, so she tested. “I was told you had flown, in the shape of a swan. Is it not true?”

  “It would be unwise.” He did not turn his head, but from the sound of his voice she knew that he was smiling. “It is true that swans are beautiful, but terrible bullies. Do you think I would choose such a shape?”

  “Well, their necks are long. You would have made it a little sooner than if you were a duck, or even a goose.”

  He shrugged, changed his footing to allow him to warm his other hand. Adria had a bit better perch, and was able to keep her own hands inside her furs.

  “Forgive me the question,” she asked, after a few minutes of watching the empty horizon. “But was this tribe destroyed?”

  “Ãshayuwela?” He shook his head. “No, they moved before the Others came and were taken into other tribes. The Runners helped in this, and that is when I decided to be one of them.”

  Adria nodded. “How did you become one?”

  “You are full of questions today, Púksha.”

  “‘Púksha?’” she smiled. “You forgot some of my name.”

  He shrugged, grinning. “Unlike you, my tongue is tired today. Pukshonisla is such a long word.”

  Adria showed him her tongue in response. Judging from his response, Adria realized it was not considered a childish gesture among the Aesidhe, and they both grew silent with embarrassment.

  Adria still favored her time with Mateko, with Preinon, with Shísha, and worked alongside them whenever possible. As she helped Shísha clean up her camp one evening, returning her herbs and containers to their proper places, Adria asked the question she had thought upon first meeting the blind Holy Woman, but never asked allowed. “Do you dream, Lichushegi?”

  The woman thought for a moment as she went about her arranging, even pointing for Adria to move a clay jar to its proper place. “I dream much as you do, I think.”

  “I just wondered if you...” Adria hesitated. “See things.”

  “Yes,” Shísha nodded. “I was not born with blindness.”

  Adria was surprised she did not know this already. She switched to Aeman in haste to apologize. “I am sorry. I must have assumed it was so.”

  �
�When I was a child, there were sicknesses which the Aeman brought to our People. It became so bad that those of us who were made sick were sent to separate camps to die.”

  “That is terrible,” Adria said. She had never heard this story before.

  “My family was sent to one of these camps. We were all ill, but did not all died. I survived, but the sickness made me blind.”

  They had finished their tasks, and now Shísha seemed to be remembering. Her eyes danced about, as if dreaming while awake.

  Tainábe, Adria thought. The spirit wandering, the body at rest.

  But Shísha spoke no more of the memory just then, and soon Adria excused herself to help prepare the evening meal.

  Imani birthed a winter baby. Her husband sent a nephew to the Runners’ camp soon after her labor pains began, and Shísha and Adria returned to aid in the birth. Many of the women of the tribe gathered in the birth lodge to sing and cry out comfort, while the men of the family also sang and made prayers around the main fire of the camp.

  Imani was dressed in a long robe, and knelt upon a pile of soft furs at the center of the lodge, her arms wrapped around a large pole to help her stay upright.

  It was a long, sleepless night, but the energy of the tribe was inexhaustible. The elder women led them in song after song of joy, and whenever Imani cried out from the pain, some of the women cried with her, and even at the ultimate moment, her face showed an admixture of pain and joy that Adria had never seen before, and this in itself left her in awe.

  When the baby girl’s cord was cut, an elder woman of the tribe kept a length of it, which she later presented to Imani, dried and coiled within a carved wood charm in the shape of a turtle.

  “What did she name her?” Adria asked Shísha as they returned to the Runners’ camp long after dawn the next day.

  “Imani will ask an elder of the tribe to name her in time,” Shísha said. “The mother never names her child. She is not the best to know her spirit.”