Lord Ceridia lifted her hand and the soldiers stopped their advance through the crowd.
“Hold off, he’s harmless,” she said.
There were whispers in their village that the only reason the Drinkmaster was still alive was because Lord Ceridia liked his wines so much that she had them imported to her palace in Reinbeck.
Lord Ceridia turned to address the crowd once again. “Every year we come together so the strong can volunteer to join the ranks of our beloved United Azanthean Army.”
Kuba looked around the crowd. Some folks swelled with pride, while he shrunk. Sure, there were some people who genuinely put themselves forward for service, mostly for the money. But what Lord Ceridia really meant by ‘volunteer’ was that anyone who could move, had completed their mandatory lessons, and who didn’t already serve a purpose in the town was guaranteed to be recruited into the army. Kuba looked up at Ion, who didn’t seem worried at all.
His brother was a hunter and served his purpose by providing meat to the village and pelts to the tax collectors, so they always seemed to leave him alone. But the army had taken other employed citizens in the past, albeit rarely. Ultimately, the list of volunteers was subject to the will of the highest in command.
“And so the bright can receive the highest honours in the lands, beginning their journeys to become Skreeh and Tekera, to serve the will of the God-King in the shadows of the great sky above as part of the House of Historians.”
The crowd rumbled. Some of them even looked Kuba’s way. Around here—well, around everywhere, really—it was considered one of the highest honours to join the ranks of the Historians. No Historians had been recruited from the Village of Zar since his parents during the Battle of Burrath. To become Skreeh or Tekera, you had to be exceptionally bright and a very quick thinker. Most people who joined the Historians came from the larger cities, where the mandatory lessons were more thorough.
But his parents had been the village’s healers and had shown promise, according to the Lessonsmaster. During the Battle of Burrath, many Skreeh and Tekera had been lost, targeted by the Northern soldiers. It had been a matter of supply and demand—or so his Uncle Malek had told him—and there was nothing his parents could have done to prevent their recruitment.
They rarely heard from people who had been recruited on Allegiance Day. Occasionally the odd person may return to their hometowns, if they had been appointed to serve there. Most of the time though, there was not a trace, not even a letter, just silence and a hefty annual payment of Zanthies from Azul. The latter was what Kuba received.
“So?” Lord Ceridia clapped her hands together. “Shall we get right to it?”
Ion watched intently as one of the Skreeh walked to the centre of the stage. It was the same dramatic spectacle every year. The sound of fancy shoes clacking on the wooden stage was the only thing that broke the silence in the crowd.
The Skreeh drew her hood back. She was an older woman with long dark hair and a sun-kissed glow impossible to attain in the rainy mountains. “Still skies,” she said, bowing her head to the crowd.
“And strong roofs,” Ion and the rest of the crowd mumbled back.
“On behalf of the House of Historians, I thank you all for gathering here today,” she continued, looking out eagerly at the crowd. “And on behalf of Vallich, Commander of the Elevenths and the United Azanthean Army, I thank you as well. These past years have been the most peaceful and prosperous years Azanthea has experienced.”
Ion rolled his eyes at her words. The Village of Zar was anything but prosperous; most folks were barely able to survive. The Skreeh moved to the corner of the stage closest to him, as if she could sense his doubt from across the crowd.
“But our enemies are never far off. There are Northerners still at large, and the outlaw country of Raknabrooke would love nothing more than to see us fall.”
Ion looked around as some people in the crowd muttered in fear. It was well known throughout Azanthea that, in the Queendom of Raknabrooke, those who served the God-King were marked for death. The Skreeh’s threatening words didn’t bother Ion, though. What people often forgot was that they were a small and insignificant mountain village, hardly a target during a battle. The fear mongering was quite laughable, but his fellow villagers seemed to buy right into it.
“So, today, stay with us until the sun sets on this land while we scour the crowd for the best of the best,” she continued, as if they had an option. She took a moment to observe the crowd and the silence made Ion uneasy, or perhaps it was his gurgling stomach. She finally raised both her arms in the air. “May Allegiance Day begin!”
On her words, the soldiers surrounding the stage began to infiltrate the crowds. Ion had heard that in some of the larger towns and cities they had massive stadiums to host everyone for the long day. Here, they just had this dewy, partially trampled field.
“Well, I’ll be taking a nap,” Ion said as he gathered his hair up into a knot on the top of his head. If he couldn’t eat to settle his queasy stomach, he would sleep it off. “Wake me if they come by.”
He heard Kuba chuckle as he lay down on the moist ground. His mother was less impressed. The moisture on the ground soaked through his shirt, but it would be better than standing all day or until they were dismissed. Ion closed his eyes, the sun warm on his face, and he let the sounds of chatter sing him to sleep.
“Wake up, Ion.” Malek’s foot nudged him in the shoulder. Ion could have sworn his eyes were closed for only a minute.
His eyes cracked open, and he immediately saw one of the soldiers hovering over him. Ion sprung to his feet. Mud slopped off his shirt as he stood. There were a couple of soldiers, one of the Tekera, and the town’s Lessonsmaster surrounding them. Normally it was just one or two soldiers. Clearly, they were being more thorough this year.
“Apologies,” Ion mumbled, his head dropping.
“Yes, mine as well,” his father said while giving him a stealthy side glance.
“Children, eh,” his mother chimed in, rolling her eyes, clearly trying to lighten the mood. “Y’know what I mean?”
“Actually, I do not,” the Tekera said, the red hood still up. “Please state your names and ages for the ledger.” The Tekera motioned to the local Lessonsmaster, who was acting as their scribe.
“Malek Zarborn, fifty-five, and these are my sons—”
The Tekera lift a hand. “Everyone will state their own names for the ledger.”
“Evie Zarborn. Fifty.”
“Ion Zarbon. Twenty.”
“Kuba Lichnact. Twelve. Assigned to house Zarborn back in the year eleven hundred and five, after the First Fall.”
“Both of your parents were recruited to the army?” the Tekera asked.
“To the House of Historians, sir,” Kuba’s voice trembled. Sweat was building up on his brow.
“Interesting,” the Tekera said, taking a step towards Kuba. The Tekera looked like a menacing creature hunching over Kuba, his red cloak hiding his face. Ion looked down at his brother, who was visibly uncomfortable. He took a step towards his brother, but immediately felt his father’s strong hand on his wrist.
Ion hated seeing Kuba like this, his face pale and eyes fearful. He knew that Kuba struggled with a panic of the mind, and he did look particularly panicked at the moment. Ion hated standing by and watching this stranger make Kuba uncomfortable.
“Could you back up a little?” Ion said to the stranger, breaking away from his father’s grip. The Tekera looked straight at him. His hood cast a sinister shadow on his face. The man scowled, and Ion knew he had to self-correct. “Could you back up, please, sir?”
The Tekera did not move and neither did Ion.
“Occupations?” the hooded figure asked.
“We are hunters,” his father said. “We provide for the entire village.”
“Well, it is not that big of a village now, is it?” the Tekera snidely remarked, still looking at Ion. The Tekera then turned to Kuba. “Boy, you are still i
n your lessons, I presume?”
“Yes sir,” Kuba replied but did not look up.
“How does he fare?” the Tekera asked, stepping back and leaning towards the Lessonsmaster.
“He is quite bright, just like his parents when they were my students. They became our healers.”
Ion’s heart began to race. This was not going well. They were never even asked their names, let alone questioned. And how treacherous of the Lessonsmaster? The old man had taught every child in the village. How could he throw them straight to the Historians without even flinching?
“Tell you what,” the Tekera said, “We are in need of new recruits to our House and I am in the mood to reunite families today. So, Kuba, how would you like to join—”
“Not a chance in the skies! He’s my boy! You hear me now? Mine!” Ion jumped at his mother’s rattling voice. She stomped over to the Tekera and pointed a finger right in his face. “He’s only twelve. You can’t take him, he is still in his lessons.”
The Tekera swatted her hand away. “I can, and I will. We have quite a large recruitment quota this year. He should be honoured he is chosen to join our ranks. He will finish his lessons at the finest school in the world.”
“I don’t give a damn about your schools, or the House, or—”
“Evie,” Malek spoke, his voice low and steady, and an odd look in his eyes, “there are better ways to solve this.”
“Uncle Malek?” Kuba whispered, eyes still fixated on the ground.
Ion looked at his father. How could he not be standing up for Kuba? “I’ll go.” The words slipped out of his mouth before he even realized it.
“What’s that?” the Tekera said, stepping forward.
Ion stepped forward and placed his hand on Kuba’s shoulder. “You heard me. I’ll go. Take me instead.”
The Tekera’s shrill laughter made Ion’s hair stand on edge. “How noble! But you know that is not how this works. There are no trades. We prefer recruiting young. They are more… malleable. I want him.”
Ion gritted his teeth.
“Son, there are other ways to resolve this,” Malek repeated.
“Oh, really, Pa?” Ion exploded. “Because I don’t see any!”
“Ion, just calm down,” his mother pleaded, trying to turn him to face her. “Your father—”
“Clearly doesn’t give a damn!” Ion shrugged her off and maneuvered himself between Kuba and the Tekera. He dropped to his knees in front of his brother and looked up into Kuba’s honeycomb-coloured eyes. “Y’okay?”
Kuba nodded, but his expression was blank and his eyes darting in every direction unable to focus. Sometimes this happened, when the panic was bad.
“I’m here,” Ion reassured him squeezing his brother’s wrist. “And I won’t let them take you.”
“Soldiers!” the Tekera yelled.
“You can’t take him!” Ion shouted back, but not breaking his eye contact with Kuba, whose eyes were slowly beginning to focus back on him.
Two pairs of cold, gloved hands grabbed his arms, pulling him away from his brother. Ion tried wrestling them away.
“Get off my boy!” his mother cried as they dragged him to his feet. She lunged at one of the soldiers. His father caught her just in time to hold her back.
A crowd began gathering around them.
Ion squirmed, trying to get out of their grasp, but they were strong. The Tekera turned to the crowd.
“People of Zar,” he said, twirling so the whole crowd could see. “This poor lad is terribly jealous that we’ve selected his adoptive brother to join our noble House of Historians.”
“Liar!” Ion spitting at the Tekera. A strong fist connected with his abdomen and he keeled over in pain.
“In our House,” the Tekera continued, “we do not reward jealousy. In fact, we punish it.”
The Historians were stoic, but the loud cheers of the soldiers were enough to fill the valley. Even some of Ion’s fellow villagers joined in. Ion growled in protest.
“Ah, Lord Ceridia,” said the Tekera as Reinbeck’s Lord approached the circle. “What do you propose the punishment be for such an obscene display?”
“Do what you will,” she said, waving a hand in the air without looking at them, as if she was embarrassed by the display.
Ion locked eyes with the Tekera. He could hear his mother’s cries, but he was too intensely focused on what was going to happen next. A beating? Prison? Would they kill him?
The Tekera gave a nod to the soldier holding Ion. Their grunts of satisfaction rang in his ears.
A fist rammed into his stomach from the left and then another from the right. The two soldiers threw their blows with such efficiency that Ion couldn’t get a breath in. The steady stream of punches didn’t stop. His innards felt like they were being bludgeoned. The pain was excruciating.
A thunderous strike connected with his lower ribs. Blood flew from his mouth. He gasped for breath. His stare was fixated on the ground where drops of blood congealed on the dirt.
The soldiers threw him backward. He stumbled and, unable to keep his footing, fell back onto the dirt. He stood up and wiped the blood from his chin. If this was how he was going to die, he was going to go down fighting.
Ion pulled his fists up in front of his face, like he had done back when he and his friends would play fight in the village streets. He had never been in a real fight before.
The soldiers laughed.
Ion charged towards the soldier on the right as fast as he could in his injured state. He grabbed her around the waist. As soon as he had his hands locked around her, Ion felt the second soldier’s hand around his collar, yanking him off.
He fell back to the ground again, his elbows catching him. The soldier who had thrown him hovered overhead. The tall, armoured man reached down, grabbed his collar, and lifted him off the ground. Ion watched as he reared his fist back.
It came crashing down, square on Ion’s face.
Chapter 4
Village of Zar, 1st Day of the Month of Warmth, 1114 A.F.F.
Ion jolted awake. The quick movement caused aches across his body. He coughed as his hand landed on his stomach. He winced at his own touch.
“Oh good, you’re awake.” His mother rushed over to him and shoved a hot mug of tea into his hands.
Ion looked around. He lay on a mattress of furs in a log home. He was at his parents’ cabin. A flood of relief rippled through him. He was alive.
Then the memories of the day began trickling back.
“Kuba!” He jumped to his feet and dropped his cup on the floor, sending hot tea spraying across the room. His mother jumped back to avoid the stream of hot water. He took a step forward but couldn’t support his weight, and he fell back onto the soft bed.
His mother rushed over to his side. “You need to rest, sweetie. It’s a miracle you can even stand.”
“They have him, don’t they?” Ion growled. Tears welled up in his eyes.
“Oh, Ion,” she said, placing her head on his shoulder. He didn’t notice before, but now that he was so close, he could clearly see her cheeks were stained with tears.
“Mum,” Ion broke the silence, a fire rising in his core. “Where's Pa?”
“He’s gone.”
“What do you mean gone?” A pang of anger hit him in his already bruised stomach.
“He went to get your brother back,” Evie said. Her face looked tired. Ion wanted to hold and console her, but his anger overwhelmed him.
He rose gingerly to his feet and began slowly pacing the small, wooden room. Each step caused the floor to creak and sent a twinge of pain through his wounds. He ran his hands through his thick hair. How could his father—the man he had always looked up to—have just stood there and done nothing? And now he was gone.
“Where did he go?”
“Ion,” Evie got up and wrapped her arms around him. He winced. “Your father does have a plan. He would never let any real harm befall you boys, trust me.”
“Really, Mum?” Ion said. “Any real harm? Look at my face!” He pointed to his eye, which he could feel was practically swollen shut.
His mother turned her head away, unable to look at him. “He has sway in Azul—”
“I don’t believe you.” Ion coughed, a slight metallic taste filling his mouth. He wiped the blood away with his sleeve. “Why would he? He’s a hunter, from an insignificant village.”
“Ion, your father and I feared the possibility of this day,” she said stepped forward and caressed his face in her hands. “Your father had quite the influence back in the day. I trust that he’ll make a deal. The four of us will be together again, no matter what. No one will bother us anymore.”
Ion pulled his face away and walked over to the windowsill. He gripped the ledge, digging his fingers into the stone. She was lying; his father had never been to Azul in his life. Who would he be going to talk to there? Why would he have let his own son get beat to a pulp?
The tree around the small hunting cottage rustled in the evening sun. Ion took a deep breath of the fresh mountain air, trying to calm himself, but the crisp air stung his aching lungs, causing him to erupt in a coughing fit. Each cough reminded him of his parents’ betrayal.
“He didn’t even help me,” Ion said resentfully. “What master plan could he possibly have?”
“You have to understand, Ion, that there are some things I've promised I’d never tell to keep all of us together. And this is one of them.”
“Seriously?” Ion exploded, launching himself off the windowsill and landing back on the bed.
“My darling boy,” Evie said as she walked over and sat next to him. She placed a warm hand on his cheek as her eyes welled with tears. She crouched down, so that she could look up at him, but he turned his head away. “I really can't. I'm so sorry. It’s for your safety.”
“Really, Mum? Just look how safe I am now.”
She sighed and ran her hands across the thick brown furs on the bed.
“It isn’t fair. They can't … they can't just take Kuba,” Ion whispered, his fists clenching on his lap.
All the King's Traitors Page 3
