Lies of Descent

by Troy Carrol Bucher

  “It is not known. There are other references to an asha’han becoming an okulu’tan, but none so direct as this one, and none mention the word twelve.

  “In truth, I’d hoped Parron would take your spirit on the lake, and that these words were from a future that never came to be. It is too late to hope for this now. You must lead the people to the Sko’dran,” Li’sun said.

  Ni’ola shivered with fear. There was something else there, buried in her memories, about the reference to the child marked by Faen. She shook her head, as if the movement might jar something loose. Nothing came. For the Sko’dran, she had more than enough memories of the death that would follow his arrival. They wanted her to name him. How do I do that? How could she name the warrior who would lead the Esharii over the mountains, and not just a warband or a tribe, but all of them—every man, woman, and child who could hold a spear? How many would be lost in such a war? Not only from the tribes but also from her former people. It would be thousands . . . no hundreds of thousands. And they want me to be responsible? She couldn’t bring herself to do that, no matter how much she’d already come to think of herself as Esharii.

  Ky’lem’s thoughts were her opposite. He wanted her to name him to this position with his whole soul. I am bonded to a madman—no, they are all mad! There had to be another possibility. She believed everything Li’sun said, but she would not do this.

  The ways held thousands of possibilities. Certainly this could not be the only path. She looked back and forth between them. Li’sun’s smile, meant to calm her, was menacing, and Ky’lem’s eyes were full of lust and desire. It will not be me. I will not be responsible. She pushed herself back toward the wall of the hut to get away. The drink made her mind fuzzy, but one thought remained clear. I will never name this Sko’dran. Never.

  Chapter 41

  Master Iwynd led Riam down narrow alleyways, paralleling the coast road. A musty brine smell, similar to the olive barrel, hung in the air, making Riam’s nose itch, and through the gap between the overhanging eaves, he could see gulls circling above them. At each cross street, Master Iwynd paused to spy around corners before dragging Riam through the crowd and into the next alley. Riam dodged all manner of refuse as they hurried down the backstreets, from broken crates to rotting fish, and even a suspicious lump that resembled a body wrapped in sheets. The few men and women who passed moved warily in the shadows, and they kept their eyes to the damp paving stones and their business to themselves when they passed Master Iwynd. Riam thanked the Fallen he hadn’t been a churp in this part of the city.

  Master Iwynd stopped behind a shop and drummed on the door. Little marked the place from any other. It held a plain, sturdy door, and like the rest of the buildings they passed, the two-story wall facing the alley stood barren of windows. The only indication of what lay inside were bits of rope scattered on the ground and piled against the wall. Riam bent and picked one up. Thin and frayed, it had the look of being too long in the sun.

  The bolt to the door clunked loudly in the quiet of the alley. The door opened a hand, and a slim, mustached face peered out. Whoever the man was, he stood less than a hand taller than Riam, only coming to Master Iwynd’s shoulder.

  The man swung the door wide and waved them in, craning his neck to look up and down the backstreet. “The front door is barred and there’s none here but me. I sent Olanda to the market and gave my apprentices the day off, like you told me.” The man was as thin and lean as he was short. Without the mustache, he could pass for a young man with the right clothing.

  “Thank you, Engvale,” Master Iwynd said as soon as the man closed and bolted the door behind them.

  The inside of the shop wasn’t large, but it wasn’t small either—about the size of Bortha’s common room. Nets crowded the room, making it feel jumbled and confining, and winding through the room felt like walking through a giant bird’s nest. Nets hung from the ceiling, were strung from hook to hook along the walls, and lay heaped in mounds on the floor. A heavy fishing net covered a wooden frame down the center of the room, and on each end of the frame, the net lay piled as high as Riam’s waist. In a corner, a stack of rope spools towered to the ceiling. The odor of must and brine permeated everything, and beneath it, there was the smell of fish and burnt hair. The floor, where visible, was stained with water spots and candle drippings.

  “’Course, as soon as I closed, I had more people knockin’ than I do in a tenday. That’s the way of things. When you want something, it’s never there, and soon as you don’t, it’s everywhere you look.” The reedy man coughed into his hand.

  Master Iwynd removed a small purse from his belt. “That will more than cover the loss to your business.”

  The man weighed the pouch in his hand. “That it will, sir. That it will.”

  “What have you seen?”

  “The Wolves are stirred up, that’s the Fallen truth. Never seen ’em so thick. I don’t know what they want, but there’s at least two taulins moving up and down the coast road. There’s another one to the south near the Wine Docks and a fourth near the Scissor Docks. Don’t know how many there are to the north. None of ’em have come to the shops, though. Their eyes are set to watchin’ the street and the piers.”

  “The Dolphin’s Lady is ready?”

  “They’re still loading a few things, but all the big cargo came in yesterday and none of the crew had shore leave last night. They won’t be happy about that.”

  “Inform the captain it’s time. If it’s not loaded already, it isn’t coming with us. We sail as soon as he gets the harbormaster’s clearance and a towboat set to pull him from the docks. I want the ship ready to leave the moment we board.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Engvale scurried to a front window and eased the curtain back, checking the street out front before ducking out of the shop. Master Iwynd barred the door behind him and dragged a rope spool to a spot where he could sit and peer around the edge of the curtain.

  Riam flopped down on a pile of nets.

  “We’ve a little time,” Master Iwynd said. “The Dolphin’s Lady won’t be ready for at least a glass, maybe two. Engvale will let us know when it is time to move. I’ve used him to watch the docks for years. He’s a good man. For now, you can tell me where you’ve been. The story is you jumped from the barge and ran away.”

  “Ran away?” Riam laughed. “I didn’t run away. That bastard Tannon and his friends threw me off the barge.”

  “Go on,” Iwynd said in a voice that doubted Riam’s words.

  To prove his side of the story, Riam sped through the events since leaving Hath, from his time on the barge to the fight with Pekol. He left nothing out. The old Draegoran didn’t interrupt or make any judgments, only nodding and asking questions about how and when Riam had used his newfound power.

  “You did well. A man like Pekol would have gone on killing. Let me see your hand.” He squeezed Riam’s fingers hard enough to create spots of white and watched the blood return. “I’ve never heard of anyone removing a glyph in such a manner.”

  He let go and shook his head. “The whole arm is completely invisible to my sight, as if there’s no spirit in the limb, which is impossible. I’m glad I found you, if for no other reason than to try and heal it.”

  “How did you find me?” Riam asked. “You were rebuilding the outpost when I left.”

  “A much simpler story than yours. I sent a letter to your grandfather with Captain Karlet. Gairen asked me to do it. I told him no, but I changed my mind. Later, when you didn’t arrive with the other children, your grandfather sent me searching for you. That’s when I discovered the Wolves were looking for you. I knew they’d bring you to the island in secret, so all I had to do was find their ship and keep watch. They don’t know I’ve secured a ship of my own—a fast one, prepared for a long journey.”

  “Is the island so far away?” Riam asked.

  “We’r
e not going to the island.”

  The abrupt finality of the words made Riam’s head spin. For months he’d remained fixed on getting to the island to keep from giving up. In one quick response, Master Iwynd had torn the rug from beneath his feet. “What do you mean, we are not going to the island?”

  “What I said. We’re not going to Doth Draegoras. You’d never survive the training.”

  Riam stood up and faced the arms-master. “If I’m strong enough to make it through Pekol and the Esharii, I can survive the island.” Master Iwynd thinks I’m not good enough. I will prove him wrong.

  “Sit down. I’m not questioning your ability. You’ve far more strength than you know. What I’m saying is that the Wolves will never allow you to wear the glyph of another regiment, and we can’t allow you to wear theirs, so there is no going to the island.”

  “But . . . but . . .” Riam sputtered.

  “There is no arguing the decision. It comes straight from your grandfather.”

  Riam slapped his leg in frustration. “You keep saying ‘my grandfather’ like I understand, but he’s dead . . . and I don’t even know why the Wolves are looking for me or why they want me, or why we can’t go to the island. Gairen wanted me to become like him, and I made a vow that I would. None of this makes any sense.”

  Master Iwynd rubbed at his temples, as if trying to avert a headache. “I’m sorry, boy. I’ve been at this so long I forget what it’s like to be young and blind to the world. There’s a reason Draegorans don’t have wives and give their children up to fosters, and you’re the Fallen’s evidence why those rules exist.”

  He took a deep breath and let it out. “Every male Draegoran has the duty to spread the blood, but they are not supposed to do more than . . .” he looked uncomfortable as he searched for the right words, “. . . to do more than gift their seed upon the women of the Covenant. A long time ago, when Master Thalle, the kyden of Owl Regiment, was a warden, he had two children—your father, Jonim, and your uncle, Gairen. He wasn’t supposed to know who they were, but he did, and once he knew, he made sure they were trained as Owls. You don’t need to know that story. Those were mistakes made long ago, but he followed the rules in all other matters afterward, and he never let the knowledge of his children interfere with his duty. Gairen was the same way, right up until your father’s death. That’s when he became obsessed with finding you.”

  Riam bristled at the casual mention of his uncle not following the rules. Gairen had saved him from a miserable life with a miserable old man. “Gairen believed in me, and he wanted me to become a Draegoran.”

  “No. Gairen wanted your grandfather to go back on his decision to stop training replacements, but he can’t. After speaking with him, I agree. But I didn’t say you wouldn’t be trained as a Draegoran, only that you won’t set foot on Doth Draegoras. Not until your training is complete anyway—which it never will be if you don’t meet my expectations.”

  Riam’s chin snapped up. “You’re going to train me?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to tell you. I trained both your father and your uncle, and if I can make swordsmen out of those two, I can do well enough by you.”

  Riam suddenly felt ashamed. He’d lost Gairen’s swords. How could he train without them? “What about Gairen’s blades? Don’t I need them?”

  “Forget the swords. They’re gone. Kyden Verros, the commander of the Wolves, has them both. You’ve got Hearst’s sword, and it’s a decent enough weapon, if a bit long for my liking. We’ll have to figure out how you took control of Gairen’s and bond you to this one once we’re far enough away that others won’t be able to sense the weapon’s location. But you’ll learn to use it properly before we worry about that.”

  They were quiet for a time as Master Iwynd watched the street through the window.

  Trained in secret. What would that make me? He wouldn’t be a real Draegoran without the glyphs from a regiment, which made him wonder why Master Iwynd was going to train him at all . . . unless he wanted something. There is more going on than the old Draegoran is telling me.

  “So, if my grandfather doesn’t want any more Owls to be trained, why are you training me? Why not let the Wolves have me? Which, I suppose, leads to the question I asked before—why are the Wolves looking for me?” Riam shivered at the thought of the Wolves catching him again. He remembered Hearst’s cold voice, threatening to brand Bortha and put him to work on the streets.

  “When Gairen asked me to write the letter, he was right about one thing. You must be trained. But he was right for the wrong reason. I’m not going to give you a history lesson, that will come later, but the reason behind the Wolves’ search is the same reason you were able to take Gairen’s sword—the strength of your bloodlines.”

  “Gairen told me about how we are supposedly descended from the Fallen. That doesn’t seem possible.”

  “Oh, he was telling the truth. We are—you, me, and every member of the regiments. Eight of Parron’s children led the survivors of the Fallen’s war to this land. Being descended from one of those eight is what gives us the ability to link with a catalyst—the crystals you see in the pommels of our weapons—and the number of bloodlines a person carries is a good indication of how strong they will be. Since one of Parron’s children fled south with his followers and joined with the Esharii tribes and another was killed in a war with Arillia before siring any children, there’s never been a Draegoran descended from more than six of Parron’s children.”

  “Wait . . . that would make the okulu’tan who attacked us Draegoran, the same as you, wouldn’t it? He was using magic.” Riam blurted out.

  “In a sense, yes, though I wouldn’t say that in the presence of a tribesman unless you mean to fight and kill him. To return to the question, though, there has always been the hope that a child descended from all eight bloodlines would be born.”

  “But you just said that was impossible, that one of the original eight had no children before he died.”

  “As far as anyone knows, he didn’t sire a child, but there have always been stories—rumors of a pregnant woman taken by the Arillians. There are others that say she fled inland.”

  “What does this have to do with me and the Wolves?”

  “Kyden Verros is one of a handful of Draegorans who are descended from six of the original children, and his abilities are uncommonly strong, even among them. He is, by far, the strongest living Draegoran—nearly as strong as some of the first generations. Because of your ability to take control of Gairen’s sword, he likely believes you are descended from seven—maybe even all eight—and he’ll stop at nothing to have you under his control. If he’s unable to do that, he’ll want you dead. That’s how the man sees the world. You are either an opportunity to expand his power or a future obstacle.”

  “Are you saying that I might be descended from all eight?” Riam asked, terrified of the response.

  “Doesn’t matter. I think the rumors and legends are just that, rumors and legends, but your grandfather and I both believe you’ll be at least as strong as Verros. Regardless, it’s what you did with Gairen’s sword that matters. No one has ever severed another Draegoran’s link to the crystal. It’s this ability that has me training you in secret.”

  “But why? I mean, I want to be trained—it’s all that’s kept me going since Gairen died—but how will I learn to help people if I never go to the island?”

  “I’m afraid your life will never be like other Draegorans. I’m to train you for one purpose, to break Kyden Verros’s link to his crystal. Once this is done, you will help your grandfather and our allies, the Stonebreakers, make certain there are no more recruits trained on the island—by any regiment—ever again.”

  “You’re saying you want me to stop the most powerful Draegoran alive! Not only that but help bring about the end of all the Draegoran regiments by preventing them from training recruits. Why would I wan
t to do that? The Draegorans keep the Esharii from invading and protect those who can’t protect themselves.”

  Master Iwynd looked troubled. He stared at Riam, obviously deciding how much more to say. “Because we have lost our way, and Kyden Verros must be stopped.”

  Riam was silent for a time. He frowned.

  Master Iwynd mistook the look on Riam’s face for worry about the Wolves. “Think of stopping Verros the same as stopping Pekol, only on a much grander scale.”

  That doesn’t help much. Stopping Pekol nearly killed me.

  “Trust me, when I’m done training you, no man will be able to stand against you with a blade. That, along with help from the Stonebreakers, should get you close enough to destroy Verros’s link and allow your grandfather to take control of the council and the other regiments.

  He eyed Riam up and down. “Speaking of training. We need to change your clothes. If you walk out of here in the gray clothes of a recruit, you’ll bring the Wolves running. I should have thought of that earlier.”

  They stripped off Riam’s shirt and fouled his breeches with tar and dirt. Master Iwynd tore the hem out of the bottom and cut a few holes in the seams to give them the appearance of long use.

  The whole time, Riam worried about Master Iwynd’s words. It wasn’t a man with a blade he worried about, but the strongest Draegoran who’d ever lived and the army of Wolves who followed him.

  * * *

  —

  On the other side of the harbor, and four hundred steads out to sea at four degrees south of east-by-northeast, rested the Isle of Doth Draegoras. Originally a landmass of bleached-white rock without a tree or shrub living on its surface, it was now a fortress, with a warren of hallways, training yards, barracks, smiths, gardens, and all manner of workshops that dealt with the art of combat and war. A high stone wall surrounded the island, with six square towers spaced evenly around its length. Atop each tower, a colorful pennant snapped and danced on the wind—six symbols marking six regiments, each created by the six children of Parron when they established the Covenant and charged themselves with guarding the tomb of a fallen god.