Time's Children

by D. B. Jackson

  Isak bared his teeth in a grin both joyful and ferocious, a few beads of sweat breaking out on his tanned brow. But he appeared neither winded nor overly concerned. He met every sword stroke, anticipated every advance. He didn’t bother with counters, at least not at first. He parried and blocked.

  Already winded, his shirt soaked through, Tobias danced away, switched the sword to his left hand, and renewed the attack, hoping to catch the minister unprepared. This earned him another raised eyebrow from the minister, who actually gave ground briefly.

  Tobias’s ploy was an act of desperation; he fought better with his right hand. After the initial surprise spent itself, the minister seemed to grasp as much. He began to advance. He still fought guardedly, defending himself against Tobias’s blows. Now, though, he lashed out with a few attacks of his own.

  Tobias backed off again, shifted the weapon to his right hand, and engaged once more, circling, fighting with less frenzy, conserving what strength he had left. In truth, though, it was too late for that.

  “You’re good, lad. I could use a few young guards like you.”

  Tobias could think of no response, and was too winded to say anything.

  He lunged, trying an attack he had learned from Mara – a slash at the head, and a backhand toward the chest, so that his gleaming blade carved a bright “S” in the gloomy daylight. Isak parried both strokes with ease and flicked out his blade toward Tobias’s cheek. Tobias barely blocked the attack, stumbling back as he did.

  Isak pounced like a hunting cat, leveling two chopping blows at Tobias’s head. Tobias parried these as well, but could do nothing about the upward stroke the minister aimed at his midriff. His flesh burned, blood blossomed from the wound, staining his shirt.

  A superficial cut, but enough to decide the contest.

  Tobias stepped back, breathing hard, and bowed to the minister.

  The probationers whooped, whistled, and clapped. Isak answered Tobias’s bow before walking to where he stood.

  “You all right? I haven’t delivered a fatal blow to his majesty’s new Walker, have I?”

  “I’m fine,” Tobias said. “Thank you. I enjoyed that.”

  “As did I. You have a bit to learn yet, but if I’d had to fight you as a fifteen year-old, I wouldn’t have stood a chance.”

  Tobias’s smile slipped. Why did everyone talk to him about moving through time?

  “The rest of you oil and stow your weapons,” the minister said, addressing the probationers. “We’ll meet here again on the morrow.” He grasped Tobias’s arm. “You come with me.”

  The minister took him first to the castle healer, who mended his wound and also used his powers to ease the swelling and tenderness of the bruise on his face.

  “It’s easier when the injuries are fresh,” he said, a sour note to his voice. “Next time don’t wait so long.”

  Tobias murmured acknowledgment of this, eager to be away from the man. Once the healer had tended to him, Isak led him back toward the kitchen.

  “I’m really not hungry,” Tobias told him.

  “There’s more to the kitchen than food, lad.”

  Isak took him to one of several small, dim, musty chambers off the main kitchen. Stacks of barrels stood shoulder to shoulder, floor to ceiling, each with a spigot attached.

  “You like ale?” the minister asked.

  Tobias grimaced at the memory of his last night aboard the Gray Skate. Or rather, his last morning. “I thought I did.”

  “Had too much of it a time or two?”

  “The night before my arrival in Hayncalde.”

  “Ah, excellent. Have some now. You shouldn’t wait long to oar a boat you’ve capsized.”

  He produced two tankards from a dark space among the barrels, winked, and filled the vessels. He handed one to Tobias, tapped it with his, and said, “To a fine blade match.”

  “Thank you, minister.”

  Tobias sipped his ale; the minister took a long pull, wiped his mouth with his sleeve, and perched on one of the barrels. Tobias sat on another, raising a billow of dust in the silver light from a single, high window.

  “You’ve had a time of it since getting here,” the minister said, the intensity of his gaze belying a friendly grin.

  “The sovereign said much the same thing after you and the Seer left.”

  Isak drank some more. “I’m sorry for that – my harsh words with the Seer, I mean. I’m old enough to know better.”

  Tobias sipped his ale, unsure of what to say.

  “So, I don’t suppose you had people trying to kill you on Trevynisle.”

  At his hesitation, the minister lowered his tankard.

  “You did?” Isak asked.

  “A Belvora demon, the morning I left for Daerjen.”

  “Does the sovereign know?”

  “I told him last night.”

  “Blood and bone. Twice now. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised.”

  Tobias eyed him. “You know why the sovereign wanted me.”

  This time it was Isak who hesitated. “Aye. I don’t know much about Traveler magick, and until this morning, when the sovereign told me, I didn’t know what it would cost you to do what he has in mind.” He ran a hand over his shaved pate. “I’m not even sure what to say.”

  “Tell me about the war.”

  The minister drained his tankard, refilled it, and sat once more. “What do you want to know?”

  “Are matters as dire as they seem?”

  He blew out a breath. “I’m afraid they are.” He straightened. “What you’re really asking is, can we win? And the answer is no, probably not. And so the next question becomes, what are the consequences of an Oaqamaran victory, which is harder to answer.”

  “I told the sovereign I thought that if Aiyanth fell, so would Ensydar.”

  “You’re probably right. And so will Vleros. Milnos has been waiting centuries for the opportunity to end their feud for good. This would give them that chance. Without us there – and Aiyanth – Vleros won’t survive for long.”

  “What of Daerjen?”

  “Would we fall, you mean? I don’t think so. After taking Aiyanth, the autarch would turn his marauders on the Ring isles – Outer and Inner. At that point, they’d have no choice but to fight. They’ve been content thus far to let us carry the load. That would change. Their very survival would depend upon it. So long before the Oaqamarans reached our shores, they’d face an array of fleets intent on protecting themselves and the Inward Sea. It would be a long, costly, bloody war, but in the end I don’t think the Oaqamarans would conquer all the Inward isles.”

  Tobias took a pull of ale. “Thank you,” he said.

  “For what?”

  “You could have lied. You could have said Daerjen was doomed if I didn’t Walk back and stop the war. That might have made things easier for the sovereign, and for you.”

  Isak drank as well. “That’s not our way. The autarch might treat his people that way. We don’t.”

  “No, I didn’t–”

  “I know you didn’t mean to imply anything, lad. Don’t trouble yourself.” He took Tobias’s tankard, topped it off, and handed it back to him. “So, now that I’ve said my piece, do you intend to refuse to do your magick?”

  “No. I serve the sovereign, and I’ll do as he asks, contracts notwithstanding. You didn’t exactly paint a rosy image. Defeat for Aiyanth, Ensydar, and Vleros? Years of war in the Inward Sea? If I can prevent that, I should.”

  “And if you can’t?”

  “I should make the attempt anyway.”

  The minister raised his tankard. “You’re a good lad.”

  They finished their ales and stowed Isak’s tankards. Several guards converged on them as soon as they emerged from the kitchen.

  “The sovereign wants to see you, my lord,” one of the men said, addressing Tobias, not the minister.

  Tobias and Isak shared a glance.

  “I hope we can share an ale or two again soon,” the minis
ter said. “With any luck, maybe even this evening.”

  “With any luck,” Tobias repeated. He didn’t add that he’d be virtually unrecognizable, a grown man with gray in his beard and hair.

  He followed the guard to the now-familiar stairway, and trod the steps as he imagined a condemned man might, climbing onto a gallows.

  This is what you were meant to do.

  As they stepped into the corridor, Tobias caught sight of Sofya, who stood halfway between the stairway and the door to her father’s chambers. He and the guard started toward her.

  “I know my way from here,” he said to the man. “Thank you.”

  The soldier regarded the princess, then bowed. “Yes, my lord.”

  He turned away. Tobias continued toward Sofya, who waited for him, looking grave and proud and beautiful.

  “You didn’t tell me,” she said, as he drew even with her. She fell in step with him. “I didn’t know what Walking does to you.”

  “Few people do, your highness.”

  “Do you keep it secret? Your kind, I mean.”

  “No,” he said. “But there aren’t many of us, and our… our talents aren’t well understood by most.”

  “My father explained it all. Why he’s sending you, what happened last night, what it will be like for you when you return. I… I’m sorry for what I said earlier.”

  “Thank you, your highness.”

  “I would still be your friend, if you’re willing. When you’re back, I mean.”

  “I’d like that.”

  He walked on. She halted, but he knew she continued to watch him.

  Reaching the door, he knocked once. At the summons from within, he entered, crossed through the antechamber, and entered the chamber.

  Mearlan stood at his window, hands clasped behind his back. He remained so even after Tobias closed the door behind him.

  “I couldn’t decide whether it was more merciful to give you time,” he said, after a yawning silence, “to let you grow attached to the people here, or to send you sooner, so you have no time to adjust to the place. Both choices strike me as cruel. In the end, I consulted my daughter, of all people. She suggested I send you sooner rather than later. ‘There’s no way to do this well,’ she said. ‘So you should do it quickly and have done with it.’”

  “She may well be right, my liege.”

  After another silence, Mearlan said, “I’ve been pondering whether I have the right to send you back – whether any sovereign has the right to bend the course of history to his or her needs and desires. I have no good answer.”

  “Forgive me for saying so, my liege, but don’t sovereigns attempt to bend history to their needs every day? Isn’t that what wars are about? And treaties? And the decrees that shape the lives of your subjects here in Daerjen?”

  Mearlan chuckled. “That’s well-argued, Walker.”

  “Actually, it’s not my argument,” Tobias said, remembering lessons with Vaisan Ojeyd. “In Windhome, novitiates read treatises on the use – and misuse – of Travelers. I believe that particular line of thought originated with a fourth century Aiyanthan philosopher named Serenne Fareq.”

  “Intriguing. Perhaps I should have read more before contracting for your services.”

  They settled into a third silence. Tobias’s apprehension grew by the moment.

  “Are your kind uncommonly long-lived?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  At that Mearlan turned from the window. “I’m wondering if you’ll live longer than most. I know you’re about to age precipitously, but I’m thinking… you’ll add the years, but the wear on your body… It won’t really be like it is for the rest of us, will it? So perhaps you’ll live longer than most, and the years won’t be lost to you after all. At least, not all of them.”

  “I don’t know, my liege. I’ve never heard others speak of it.” I’ve never known of any Walker who went back so far, and lost so much.

  “Well,” the sovereign said, his tone too bright. “I suppose we’ll have to wait and see.”

  “Yes, my liege.”

  Mearlan sat, gestured at the chair beside Tobias. He sat as well.

  “You’ll have to…” The sovereign broke off, let out a small, breathless laugh. “This is terribly odd. You’ll have to convince me of who you are and why you’ve come. I won’t believe you at first. I won’t believe you’ve crossed so many years, and I’ll be doubly suspicious when you tell me why you’ve come. It’s hard for me to understand now, but at the time I was so very sure that war with the Oaqamarans was necessary. I thought the autarch incapable of reason, and I believed any concession to his demands would weaken Daerjen for a generation. So you’ll have a rough time of it at first. I’ll be hostile, dismissive, maybe even accusatory.”

  “All right.”

  He furrowed his brow and tapped a finger to his lips. “Then again, there may be a way around my stubbornness. Yes, I believe there is. My father used to say, ‘Blinders don’t become you, and neither does mistrust.’ Say it for me.”

  Tobias repeated the phrase.

  “Good. When I express my doubts, toss that epigraph my way.” He grinned. “It should put me in my place.”

  “I will, my liege.”

  “After that, things should be a bit easier. There are a few things we might do to avoid this war. First, we need to be less demonstrative in our support of Aiyanth. Caltha was queen of the Axle at the time. She was brilliant, but combative, and she hated the Oaqamarans. I believe her hostility toward them fed my own. You’ll have to help me guard against that.”

  “All right.”

  “The second thing you might suggest is that we make some concessions in the Bone Sea. This war began as a territorial dispute between Vleros and Milnos over the isles between their shores. They had been fighting for several years by the time Oaqamar and Daerjen stepped in. And really, the isles aren’t important.” He grimaced, shook his head. “Let me amend that: they aren’t important to us. They certainly aren’t justification for war. The royal family in Vleros will scream injustice and call us traitors, but the truth is, the isles don’t matter as much as I thought they did back then.

  “Finally, if all else fails, we can make some concessions in the Herjean as well. This would not be my preference, even today, even knowing how poorly the war’s gone. But it might be necessary.”

  “What kind of concessions, my liege?”

  “Again, territorial. The privateers in Westisle wanted safe passage through the Bone Sea and in the waters around Herjes. The autarch was already protecting them, but the Oaqamaran fleet could only do so much, and the Ring isles refused to give the privateers any quarter.”

  “Well, they’re outlaws. Why should they? Why did the autarch?”

  “A fine question. Why do you think?”

  Tobias considered the matter. “Gold,” he said. “The privateers must have paid them for protection and passage through their waters. So the autarch was getting a share of their plunder.”

  “As much as a tierce, from what I hear,” Mearlan said. “He’s still getting it to this day.”

  “You think you should have acquiesced to this?” Tobias asked.

  “No. We’re fighting this second war with the privateers – and have been for two decades – because neither my father nor I was willing to surrender to piracy. The autarch demanded that we draw back our fleet. He wanted us out of the Aiyanthan Sea altogether. It’s an unreasonable demand: those aren’t his waters, and the shoreline buffers he was demanding on behalf of Milnos were too large. Worse, giving in here will make our war in the Herjean that much more difficult. As a last resort, though, I’ll risk it.”

  “Very well, my liege. Pull back in Aiyanth, make concessions in the Bone Sea War, and be less aggressive in our pursuit of the privateers.”

  “Just so,” the sovereign said. “I won’t like it at first. I might grow angry, accuse you of treachery. But if you tell this younger version of me how much you’ve sacrificed to deliver my mess
age, I’m sure I’ll listen.”

  And if you don’t? Tobias wanted to ask. Instead he repeated the points the sovereign had made, doing his best to commit them to memory.

  The sovereign might have read doubt in his eyes. “Reasonably sure, at least. Which members of my court have you met thus far?”

  “The ministers of state and arms, the Seer, your Binder and Spanner, and, of course, your wife and daughter.”

  Mearlan scratched his brow, a frown furrowing the skin there. “Fourteen years ago, the minister of arms had yet to come to Hayncalde. He was a captain in the fleet, exceptional, but not yet seasoned enough to be a minister. My Spanner was here, but I’m not sure how much good he would do you. I had a different Binder, but the minister of state was here, and she was a trusted advisor even then. You might enlist her aid.” The corner of his mouth twitched. “And then there’s the Seer.” He leaned forward, forcing Tobias to meet his gaze. “I take it you don’t like Seer Cavensol.”

  “I’m more comfortable with the minister of state.”

  “I can understand that. Most people are. Still, back then I relied on Osten more than anyone else, with the possible exception of my wife. I trusted Gillian, too, but if you win Osten’s trust, you’ll have a better chance of convincing me.”

  “Yes, my liege.”

  The sovereign’s smile conveyed so much: sorrow, guilt, reassurance, confidence, even affection. “You’re going to do fine, Walker. I’m sure of it. When you return, Daerjen will owe you a great debt. As will I. And I promise you this: succeed, and I will never again send you back more than a quarter turn. You have my word.”

  “Thank you, my liege.”

  A bell struck out in the courtyard. Tobias had lost track of the time, but he thought it might have been the midday bell. He whispered the sovereign’s instructions a third time.

  When he finished, Mearlan nodded his approval. “Good. Remember to remind me that the Bone Sea conflict is decades old.”

  “I will.”