Lies of Descent

by Troy Carrol Bucher

  Li’sun had given her a simple explanation. “For every day you lived in a future possibility, your body aged that same day here in the present.”

  By her estimate, she’d spent at least six years traveling the ways. Six years—gone—and all she could remember were a few scattered glimpses. What good does it do if I can barely remember anything—only enough to be confused? It wasn’t at all like Ri’jarra had explained before bonding her to Ky’lem.

  Ni’ola drifted in frustration, watching the stars move along their journey west. She spotted the constellations she knew—the Sword and the Wreath, the Stallion, the Necklace, Peidon’s Goat—and more than one falling star streaked across the horizon. While they were not actually the Gods of Light descending as her father had told her, they were still a symbol of their sacrifice, and she thanked the Fallen appropriately after each. Occasionally, a fish or turtle broke the surface, splashing soft waves in her direction.

  Ni’ola tried to reach the power beneath her once more with no change. Whatever blocked her remained—an impenetrable stone wall. She pounded the back of her head against the wood of the log. It was infuriating. None of her memories told her what to do. She’d racked her brain searching, but the few recollections that came were like the one about tan’tari being set into bone. A quick thought as if it were a forgotten memory, and then the origin of it fading from her mind before she could grasp it. At times, the memories came three or four in a row and other times there were none—and when they did come, they made no sense. She would never be able to trust her thoughts again.

  Li’sun had been little help. “I can give you no lessons, asha’han, until you become an okulu’tan. All I can tell you is to fight when the time comes. Fight for your life.”

  His words were useless. There was nothing to fight, so Ni’ola did the only thing she could do, drift and listen to the chant and the hum of the lake as her lifeblood leaked from her arms.

  The night passed on. She was cold—colder than she’d been in the mountains with Ky’lem. The world felt distant to her, and the hum of the lake had grown louder. It called to her now. She knew a way to pass the barrier. It would be easy. Simply let go—let her spirit sink beneath the waves that lapped against her body—but to enter this way would be a one-way journey. Something lay beneath the surface that would not share its power. Something that wanted her. Something that needed life to wake and fight the enemy it had opposed since the beginning of creation. It would take her spirit for its cause, and it would not allow her to detract from that goal. Giving in to its call would mean surrendering her life.

  Do not give in, asha.

  “Ky’lem,” she whispered. She reached out to him.

  He moved quickly, ignoring the pain from his healing body. He favored his leg, but it did not slow him. He moved with reckless abandon for one so injured.

  It is too late. I don’t know what to do. I think I am dying.

  No. I will be there soon. You must hold on.

  The lake needs me.

  I need you!

  He burst out of the trees along the shore. She felt the crunch of the rocks beneath his feet and the blood pound within his chest.

  She wanted to draw strength from him, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it. Li’sun had said not to draw from him while his oya’sha was weak. She would not kill him to save herself.

  The call below grew more insistent—strong and comforting, like her father reaching to hug her and tuck her under the covers after a long day. If she gave in to the power beneath the water, it would consume her, but she understood its need. She wanted to help it gain strength to fight the enemy.

  I will die with you if you give in. Fight it! I am almost there. He sped up, even though his muscles and lungs burned with exhaustion.

  She could resist no longer. I am sorry, Ky’lem. She took a last breath, ready to give herself to the water.

  A second form came out of the darkness, slamming into Ky’lem and knocking him from his feet. She felt the pain of a blade biting into his side. He tumbled among the rocks and lay panting on his back, his own knife lost in the fall. A figure climbed on top of him.

  “It is almost over. I will not allow you to help her, pachna,” a nasal voice said.

  Jal’kun straddled Ky’lem. The young spirit-taker who’d argued for her death brought the blade down toward Ky’lem’s throat.

  “No!” Ni’ola screamed. She thrashed at the ropes. He is mine!

  Even in his weakened state, Ky’lem was not helpless. He had the training of a warrior, where Jal’kun did not. Ky’lem’s hands came up and locked onto Jal’kun’s wrist, stopping the blade’s downward arc. He brought a knee up at the same time, using it to buck Jal’kun up and over his head.

  Jal’kun flipped forward onto his back. The two men lay head-to-head—Jal’kun’s hand holding the knife and Ky’lem’s holding on to Jal’kun’s wrist.

  The two rolled along the shore before separating and climbing to their feet. Ky’lem was slower and his breathing was labored, but he pulled himself up into a fighting stance.

  Ni’ola could see none of this with her eyes, but she felt it through the bond as a blind woman listens and feels.

  “I continue to underestimate you, but that was the last time,” she heard Jal’kun tell Ky’lem.

  She felt Ky’lem spit. “So you’ve finally shed your cowardice enough to fight your own battles.”

  “Again, you are mistaken, Ti’yak. It is the other okulu’tan who are cowards. I’m doing what must be done to prevent this abomination. I served Ri’jarra faithfully and listened to his insane whispers for years. Only I know the truth of his visions. I should have been his ent’lai, not this asha’han.”

  Ky’lem lowered his center of balance, preparing for the okulu’tan’s attack. “Come then, spirit-taker. I am not the asha’han you threaten with your knife.”

  “This?” Jal’kun held the knife up and laughed. He ran his finger along the edge, and it came away wet with Ky’lem’s blood. “Why would I use this?” He tossed the knife through the air to Ky’lem and licked the blood from his finger. “Now that I have the taste of your spirit, I’ll rip the life from your bones.”

  Jal’kun waved his hand, as if cutting a puppet’s strings, and Ky’lem collapsed to the ground.

  Ni’ola screamed and beat at the surface of the lake with her mind. The water around her boiled and steamed, but the power beneath defied her grasp. She felt Ky’lem’s spirit weaken as Jal’kun drained the life from his body.

  “Nooooo!” Ni’ola screamed. She threw everything she had at the barrier. It bent, further and further, until at last, with a deafening explosion of water and steam, it gave way. Ni’ola filled with power. The tan’tari beneath her skin blazed like torches, lighting the water around her in an eerie red, and her eyes blazed with fire.

  She bent the power to her will, forcing it to strike at the okulu’tan before he could kill Ky’lem. Light, bright as the noon sun, shot from her hands in two narrow beams that raced over the surface of the lake.

  Jal’kun’s head snapped up. The two beams struck an invisible shield. White-hot power splashed around the edges, but the shield held.

  She remembered the old spirit-walker’s lightning and pulled more power from the limitless depths of the lake. It threatened to overwhelm her, but she didn’t care as long as she saved Ky’lem. She let it flow through her body and hurled it out over the okulu’tan. Lightning, jagged and blinding, struck down at Jal’kun. Thunder boomed out over the lake.

  Jal’kun staggered backward and fell to one knee. His shield flickered. “Not possible . . .” he gasped. Sweat beaded his forehead. “I will not be defeated by an asha!” He rose unsteadily to his feet, his shield growing solid once more.

  She struck again and again, pounding at his shield, but Jal’kun held her attack at bay. She could not draw more. She was dangerously close to
shattering her tan’tari, and if that happened, Ky’lem would be dead.

  What do I do? Call the wind as Ri’jarra did against the Draegorans? A funnel in the sky would be of little use against Jal’kun. There were no clues from the ways to help her. Think! There must be a way to defeat him. She had unlimited power to draw from in the water.

  The water . . . and Ri’jarra. There was something about the old spirit-walker and water. She dug for the memory and realized it lay in her past, not her future. Ri’jarra’s only lesson rose in her thoughts as if she stood next to him in the pool once more. “All waters are connected to each other. Too few okulu’tan remember this lesson.”

  Ni’ola sent beams of molten energy beneath the surface of the lake. They flowed toward the shore, but instead of rising when they reached the bank, they dove under the land until they were beneath Jal’kun.

  The ground rumbled, and Jal’kun searched around in confusion. He did not adjust his shield. It proved to be his undoing. A pillar of light erupted from the ground beneath him and rose to the heavens. Jal’kun screamed.

  Ni’ola could hear his flesh sizzle and pop and smelled roasting flesh through Ky’lem. When she was certain he was no more, she let the power go, and the light extinguished, returning to the darkness of the night. Before she let the power fade completely, she used it to fill Ky’lem and to heal her own wounds. The wounds on her arms closed and mended, and she made sure to heal her eyes this time before letting the power go. She sagged against the ropes that held her, exhausted. The cool water of the lake washed against her body. She had nothing left.

  All was quiet. The voices of the okulu’tan had ceased, their chant abandoned.

  Sensing her weakness, the power of the lake struck. It wanted the energy she had taken returned, and it wanted her. An invisible hand took hold of her spirit and dragged it down into the depths.

  The coolness of the water became suffocating and hot. She fought it, grabbing for anything that would help. The power gripped her tighter, sucking at her life. She tried to pull the energy of the lake back to her, just as she’d done to save Ky’lem, but it was closed to her now. So she pulled at the only other thing she could feel, Ky’lem.

  Greedily, she tore away the oya’sha she’d replaced and used it to hold off the power of the lake. It could not take her, but neither could she escape its grasp.

  Ky’lem gasped, and his eyes rolled back in his head.

  She would kill him if the stalemate continued. They would both be lost. “Is that what you want, our deaths?” she yelled.

  Lightning crackled over the water, raising the hair on her body. The power continued to pull at her, and she drew more strength from Ky’lem to hold it at bay. “You cannot have me!”

  With a deafening clap, a burst of lightning exploded over the water. When it faded, the power in the lake eased back below the surface. The hum was also gone, no longer calling to her. Ky’lem lay on the shore.

  Ky’lem! Don’t die—not because of me. Please, wake up.

  He stirred and coughed. Ni’ola? The query was faint, but he lived. She could feel the wonder and awe in his mind and, behind it, pride.

  Chapter 38

  Pekol jumped when Riam pulled himself out from beneath the cart. “By the Fallen, boy. Don’t startle a man like that.”

  Riam stood and straightened the sling, making sure the knife remained hidden. He faked a wince for Pekol’s sake. He no longer needed to wear the thing, but he had to keep up the pretense. He still had no feeling from his elbow down, but it didn’t stop him from using the arm. He picked up a handful of wet straw and used it to wipe black goo from his fingers. “I was checking the axles. I think they need to be greased after all the rain. The wood looks swollen.”

  The axles did need it, but not from the rain. He’d used his knife to scrape out all the grease he could reach. Then he’d pushed mud and dirt in its place. Pekol would be worn out by the end of the day, which was exactly what Riam wanted.

  “Rain’s never bothered the cart before,” Pekol said. He rubbed at the thin coat of whiskers along his jawline.

  Riam shrugged. “It rained something fierce last night. The water was all the way up to the bottom of the cart.”

  “Didn’t seem that strong.” He looked Riam up and down. “But you do look like a drowned marcat,” he said and let out a cackle. The laugh was forced. “You stayed with the cart all night?”

  Riam gave him a wide grin. “Never let it out of my sight.”

  “No one bothered it?”

  “Who would bother an empty cart? Though come to think of it, I did hear footsteps once. Must have made a wrong turn because they turned around as soon as they came to the end of the alley.”

  Pekol’s forehead wrinkled.

  If Pekol knew about the Draegoran coming, Riam imagined he must be very confused. If the stakes of the game they were playing were not so high, he would have laughed. He needed to keep the raker off-balance.

  “Did you meet with Bortha?”

  Pekol’s confusion turned to suspicion. He cocked his head. “Nothing you need to know about, and you’ll forget about that conversation.” He curled a hand into a fist. “I don’t need to remind you who’s in charge, do I?”

  Riam dodged around the back of the cart. “No, sir. I didn’t mean anything. I’ll keep my mouth shut and work like I’m supposed to.” He cowered down and put a hand over his face protectively. “You’re the raker, I’m the churp. I know my place.” He looked at Pekol between his fingers. He might have overdone it.

  The mad-dog look faded from Pekol’s eyes. “Good. Let’s get going.” Pekol moved to his place at the handles, grabbed them, and pulled like any other day. The axles squealed as the cart rocked forward, but it didn’t move. “Push on the back. Once they loosen up and dry some, it should be fine.”

  Riam used his good arm to push. The cart groaned and screeched, but it barely moved. He’d done too good a job. The wheels were frozen. This part of the plan had been an afterthought, something that might even the odds if it came down to a fight. If Pekol climbed underneath, he’d know what Riam had done. Pekol might actually kill him here in the alley. Riam pushed harder, throwing all his weight into the effort, even using his “injured” arm. His feet scraped at the wet cobblestones.

  With a loud shriek, something broke free and the wheels turned.

  “That did it. Keep pushing. It’ll get easier,” Pekol said over his shoulder.

  The cart rolled a little more smoothly by the time they turned the corner onto the street. Riam eased off, letting Pekol take most of the effort.

  The morning continued this way, with Pekol shouldering the load and Riam pretending to push whenever Pekol glanced back in his direction. Anytime they stopped, Riam scurried to complete his tasks as fast as he could. He wanted to get the cart loaded, and he didn’t want to give Pekol the chance to rest. Once they made it to the pit, he would make his move when Pekol struggled to empty the barrel Jami had prepared. Riam didn’t want to do this, no matter how much he disliked Pekol, but good people had to stand up for those who could not.

  Riam grabbed a chamber pot and walked to a sewer drain. Before coming to the city, he would have believed that pushing a man over a cliff and calling it an accident was cowardly and unfair. He had no such qualms about fairness anymore, at least not where Pekol was concerned. Ask the gate guard or Doby or Stick. None of them would care if they were alive and had a second chance. Besides, it really wasn’t any different than when his uncle had executed the prisoners back in the town where they’d discovered Nola. He thought his uncle Gairen would have approved.

  He’d daydreamed yesterday that he’d get answers about Stick from Pekol before the man died, but that was a fantasy that would get him killed. No, he would remove Pekol quickly and settle for justice. Then he would go to the island where he could serve something greater, something good.

 
Riam placed the pot back on the doorsill and moved to the next shop. Soon they would be at Master Silva’s bakery. So far there hadn’t been a thing worth taking to the Square, which was good. Riam needed enough time to return and retrieve his clothing from the tailor and be gone before anyone complained of refuse in the street or unemptied chamber pots.

  They rounded a curve in the lane and came within sight of Master Silva’s shop.

  He couldn’t see the barrel. Jami had failed him.

  He held a curse on the tip of his tongue, just short of saying it out loud, when the crowd parted. There it sat, up against the wall right where it always did. Thank the Fallen. Jami had done his part after all.

  They made their way building by building toward it, stopping at each so Riam could collect the waste of shop owners and merchants. Riam’s heart beat faster the closer they came. Please let Jami have filled it with something that could not be sold. Without the barrel, Pekol would sit back and make Riam empty the cart. There would be no opportunity to catch him unprepared.

  The cart clunked to a stop in front of Master Silva’s shop. Normally, this was the best smelling spot on the street—the strong odor of baking bread always made Riam hungry—but today, a sharp, tangy smell floated on the air.

  “Morning, raker,” Master Silva said, stepping out of the doorway. His voice was absent of the disdain he usually reserved for Pekol. He moved toward the barrel. “Let me give you a hand since your churp is injured.”

  Fallen’s mercy! Master Silva would create a scene if he noticed something out of place with the barrel. Riam looked for a place to flee. He might get away if he made it down the closest alley and into the crowd on the next street before Pekol could catch him.

  Pekol let go of the cart handles and rubbed at his shoulders. Beads of sweat ran down his temples and his chest heaved. He cocked his head to the side and looked at Riam.

  Riam shrugged. When Pekol turned back to Master Silva, Riam shuffled to the side, putting the cart between him and the bakery.