Lies of Descent

by Troy Carrol Bucher

  The Wolves were almost to Master Iwynd. The old Draegoran was giving him an opportunity to escape. He backed down the pier one step at time, expecting the young Wolf to turn around at any moment. He was, however, far more worried about Master Iwynd than he was about himself.

  A woman’s scream and the ring of steel hitting steel decided Riam’s next move. He wasted no more time worrying about Master Iwynd. He turned and darted down the dock. At any moment the young Wolf would notice his absence. He imagined footsteps pounding after him and ran faster.

  Sure enough, he hadn’t gone twenty steps when a yell came from behind him. “You, boy! Stop!”

  The pier ahead wasn’t empty. Aside from the numerous people who were either loading ships or traveling about their business, there were stacks of barrels and boxes, pallets piled with heavy looking bags, and several wagons filled with goods. Riam had no idea which of the dozen ships before him was The Dolphin’s Lady.

  “Pardon!” Riam shouted as he dodged around a wagon and jumped over a trunk a man had just put down. No longer his imagination, he could hear the young Wolf running behind him. The bundle Riam carried slowed him down.

  He cut close to the edge of a stack of crates. He caught movement to his right and threw himself to the left. His foot caught his other leg and he tripped, sending the bundle flying and him tumbling. When he came to a stop, he pushed himself up to see Engvale standing atop a box and holding the net out before him.

  Riam had no time to ask what he was doing. The young Wolf’s footfalls grew louder and Engvale cast the net an instant before the Draegoran rounded the crates. There was no time to dodge the unexpected throw no matter how fast the Draegoran’s reflexes. The net covered him completely, tangling in his legs and taking him down to the wooden planks far harder than Riam had fallen.

  Engvale gave the young Wolf no time to recover. He jumped from the box and pulled a belaying pin from where it was tucked into the waist of his breeches.

  Snarled up in the net, the struggling Wolf could not draw his sword or defend himself. Engvale brought the wide, heavy end of the pin crashing down on his head. A hollow thunk echoed down the pier, and the Draegoran collapsed in a heap. Engvale gave the Wolf a second blow, and by the smacking sound, Riam didn’t believe the young Draegoran would ever wake. The workers around them scattered and pretended they saw nothing.

  “Go. The ship is the third on the right. I’ll catch up.” The net mender lifted the lid on one of the crates and pulled at a handful of netting, dragging the Wolf with it.

  Riam shivered, imagining the young Draegoran’s rotting body delivered to some faraway port. He felt sorry for whoever opened the crate later. Turning away from the grizzly scene, he scooped up the bundled sword and made his way down the dock as fast as his feet could carry him.

  He couldn’t read the words painted in swirling letters, but The Dolphin’s Lady was easy to spot. The front of the ship held a carving of a woman with one arm around a large fish and her other arm pointed forward. It was also the only ship swarming with activity. Men coiled ropes, checked tie-downs, and scrambled up and down the rigging.

  “We sail now,” the captain said as soon as Engvale arrived and ushered Riam across the gangplank.

  “But Master Iwynd isn’t here yet!” Riam said.

  “Lad, I was paid to take you to Arillia, and I was told to sail the instant you were on board. The old Draegoran threatened to take my soul if I didn’t, and he said nothin’ about waitin’ for him. You’re here, so we sail, and that’s that.”

  “But—”

  The captain turned to his men. “Cast off and signal the towboat to pull us out. Kari, stow the gangplank.”

  Engvale grabbed Riam by the shoulders and pulled him in close. “I must go. Master Iwynd will follow close behind, I am sure of it. There is a trader I buy from in Hammisal named Feyza. Find her, and she will help you.” He passed Riam the pouch of coins Master Iwynd had given him. “Take this.”

  Riam pushed it away. “I have money.”

  “No. Take it.” Despite his words that Master Iwynd would follow, Engvale looked worried. “You do not know how long the wait will be. You may need it.”

  Riam nodded. “Thank you, Engvale. I hope the Wolves don’t catch you.”

  “No one on the pier will say anything, and my apprentice will swear he was here today if anyone asks. Besides, I am only a simple net maker who witnessed a fight near the docks—who would question me about a missing Draegoran?” He smiled, flaring his bushy mustache and exposing stained teeth before running down the gangplank.

  “Good luck to you, child. May Sollus watch over you on your journey,” he called as the ship pulled away.

  Riam watched the pier, hoping that at the last moment before it was too late Master Iwynd would come running. He never did.

  The captain stood beside him. “It’ll be fine, lad. You’ll see. A smooth sea never made a skilled sailor.”

  * * *

  —

  Riam stood with the captain on the aft deck of the ship, still looking back at Parthusal. Above them, crewmen scurried up the rigging to untie the mainsails. Riam wished he could join them. From that height, he would be able to see the entire coast road. While the odds of him even recognizing the Scissor Docks from halfway across the harbor were poor, and even poorer for spotting any trace of Master Iwynd, he felt guilty for not at least trying.

  The truth was, however, that it did not matter. There was nothing he could do regardless of what he saw behind them. Master Iwynd had to be alive, and he would find a ship to follow them. Doubt nagged at him though. What if Master Iwynd didn’t escape the Wolves? What will I do alone in some far-off land I know nothing about? He groaned at the thoughts and images that formed in his head—of being forced to clean filthy alleyways and pisspots, of maggots and rotten food, and of hunger and fear. He set his mind. By the Fallen, I will never go back to being a churp. I’ll die before becoming a slave again.

  “Why the sour face, lad?” the captain asked. “From here, the city is beautiful. Parthusal,” he went on, “it is like a wife. She is the most beautiful when duty forces you to leave her behind or when you return after being gone on a long voyage. It is the time between that wears a man down. Stay away too long, and you forget her. Stay with her too long and her blemishes and foul habits grind upon your soul. That is why I love the sea. The sea never loses her beauty.”

  Riam gave the captain a lopsided smile and scanned the horizon. He had to agree—at least about the sea. Where the city might be larger and grander than anything he’d ever seen, the concept of so many people living together was easy to grasp—it was like home, only bigger. Nothing in his memory compared to his first real look at the ocean. The vastness of it, stretching out to the horizon ahead, mesmerized him.

  The must-and-brine smell was still there, but now that they were out on the water, it was almost pleasant. With the sun high behind them, the ocean reflected lines of orange-and-red sunlight back into his eyes, making the waves flutter like rolling flames that hissed against the ship’s hull. A multitude of birds circled above them or dove down into the water to come bursting back out in a fountain of sparkling droplets.

  There was something more, too. Something Riam could sense but not see, hidden under the surface, like the quiet, forceful strength behind Master Iwynd’s eyes. Riam couldn’t tell exactly what it was, only that it was so powerful it made him feel small and insignificant. He stood frozen, lost in the water’s raw strength.

  “You’ve never seen the ocean before, have you?” the captain asked.

  “No.”

  “Well, close your mouth. You won’t be so astonished when you start puking your guts out for the fish.”

  One of the sails caught the wind, and it snapped like a whip.

  “We’ve the broad reach of the wind. Drop the towline!” The captain yelled. “Hold the sails low till we�
�re free, then let ’em fly. We’ll be running with as much speed as she’ll do.”

  “Make way to the beak!” a sailor yelled at the others on the middeck as he dodged between them. He took the stairs to the foredeck three at a time before scrambling to the nose of the ship to free them from the towboat.

  Riam watched the crew work, but his mind remained on other things.

  After all he’d been through—the attack by the wasps, the battle at the outpost, the long days of cleaning the streets for Pekol—he wasn’t going to the island. He was headed to a place he knew nothing about, and he was alone. That scared him to the center of his bones, but there was also a kind of freedom that came along with it very much like when Gairen killed his grandfather and dragged him from his home—a feeling that the worst of things were over and that a new path opened before him.

  In Arillia, nobody would know him. There would be no Draegorans or Esharii trying to capture him, there would be no long-lost family members trying to use him for their cause, and there would be no crazy talk of the Fallen and their bloodlines. If Master Iwynd never came, he had money enough to buy an apprenticeship somewhere and live a normal life if he desired. The future lay open to him, and he was free.

  These were pleasant thoughts, but he didn’t really believe any of them. He’d had the rug pulled from beneath him too many times now to believe he would ever be free of the regiments. He’d gained some distance and freedom, but that was all. He remembered Bortha’s words, “If you can do things no one else can, you’re a threat.” The Wolves and the Owls, maybe the other four regiments as well, would always be looking for him, either to use him or prevent others from using him. His grandfather expected him to return and defeat the leader of the Wolves, a task that seemed impossible. The Wolves wanted to add him to their rolls. Someone, even it was not Master Iwynd, would find him.

  The loud pops of the sails snapping taut above him pulled Riam from his thoughts. The world lurched as the wind-filled sails drove the front of the ship down into the water. Riam lost his footing and stumbled to the railing. Mistaking his reason for being there, the men in the towboat waved their hats and yelled out Sollus’s blessings to him on their way back to the city and their families.

  Chapter 43

  Kyden Thalle, commander of Owl Regiment, signed his name and placed the long-feathered pen down on his desk. The words on the paper before him blurred together in the weak candlelight. He stoppered the inkwell and rubbed his eyes. He was tired. Tired of conspiracies and maneuvering, tired of secrets . . . tired of the lies. Everyone important to him would soon be out of reach of Kyden Verros and the Wolves. Both of his sons were dead, and Master Iwynd would be setting sail with Jonim’s boy shortly, if they hadn’t already departed. His regiment now numbered less than fifty, although no one else knew this but the Owl’s master-of-the-rolls, and Kyden Thalle had sent him, against his strong objections, off to evaluate the rebellion brewing in Mirlond. Kyden Thalle’s fingers moved from rubbing his eyes to massaging his temples.

  Under fifty—from a regiment that once numbered in the hundreds.

  He ran a hand through his thick white hair and looked around the room, at the scrolls stacked neatly upon the shelves, the books of varying height and multicolored spines seemingly stored at random, and the odds and ends that remained from more than four-dozen kydens and nearly a thousand years.

  All will be gone. Fallen help me, but I was not wrong.

  He leaned forward and blew on the ink, drying it so that it could be folded up and sealed. He didn’t have much time, and he didn’t know why he’d wasted his remaining moments writing the letter to Jonim’s son. The boy might never receive it, but he’d handled things poorly with Gairen over the years and would not leave things unfinished.

  He read it over one last time.

  * * *

  —

  Son of my son, blood of my blood,

  If you hold this letter, then you’ve escaped the coffin that is this island. I do not seek to explain my decisions and do not require your forgiveness, but I fear I do owe you at least a semblance of a reason for sending you away—for sending all of you away. Master Iwynd likely told you that you are to be trained for a single purpose, but that was merely a pretense to move you both beyond the reach of Kyden Verros. I have lost both my sons, and I have no desire to see either you or Iwynd in the ground beside them. I also have no desire to see you used by another regiment, a weapon for their continued shortsightedness.

  There is no easy way to say this, so I’ll come to the point of this letter. There is no great plan for saving us all from the greed and hubris of the Wolves. For that, I am afraid it is already too late.

  Long ago my mind was opened by an Esharii spirit-taker who spared a young and desperate half-warden and helped him save his closest companion. When I became kyden, the seed planted by the tribesman allowed me to discover the true depths to which we have betrayed our cause. I vowed never to train another recruit, that I would not add another source of strength to the enemy our regiments were created to stand against, and that I would do all in my power to reduce the number of Draegorans across all the regiments. I have done unforgivable things to prevent recruits from obtaining a crystal, but for you I go back on my word. I will not leave you helpless in the battle that may come during your lifetime. Your training is my parting gift. May it serve you well.

  If you choose to return to the lands of the Covenant, there will no longer be an Owl Regiment. The Hounds and the Bloodhammers will fall in behind the Wolves, even to the peril of their own ranks. Sheep who watch their brethren eaten and believe it will never be them. The Ironstrikers are reclusive and only desire to be left alone with their books and their forges. As long as they keep producing blades, the Wolves will tolerate them. If Kyden Blane and the Stonebreakers remain, he is a man you can trust, but I fear his regiment will be next. They are all my failures—for even though I’ve shown the other kydens the truth, they refuse to acknowledge it. I could not convince them that the regiments must be ended. I also underestimated the depths of Kyden Verros’s hunger.

  The best advice I can give you is to remain absent from this land. Learn a trade. Find a wife one day. Do whatever you desire. I free you from this curse. You owe us nothing.

  * * *

  —

  Kyden Thalle nodded to himself and stood up from the desk. The words would have to be enough. He’d made his choices long ago, both right and wrong, and he would face the endgame when Kyden Verros challenged him. He ran his hand over the pommel of his longknife. He did not hold on to any illusions that he might win. He hadn’t drawn any power into the blade for years, and Verros would not accept any form of submission save death.

  His aide, Half-warden Tuon, stepped into the doorway and knocked lightly on the open door. “Sir, you asked for this.” In his hands he held a folded red pennant, recently removed from where it flew over the tower.

  Tuon wore his black hair short and nearly flat on top, the opposite of what most others favored. Thalle thought of Tuon as a boy, but he was only a few years behind Gairen. Strong-willed and always willing to fight, he’d chaffed at being Kyden Thalle’s aide while his peers commanded scouts along the Esharii border.

  “Yes. Thank you.”

  Tuon set the pennant down on the desk and turned to leave.

  “Wait.”

  Kyden Thalle tightened up the folds to make it smaller and placed the red pennant in a wooden box, making sure it lay smoothly within. He folded the letter, sealed it carefully using blue wax and the candle, and stamped it with his sigil before placing it reverently on top. He started to close it, but as an afterthought placed the seal he’d just used inside the box as well. He eyed the room, but he could see nothing else he desired to pass on. He flipped the lid closed and locked the box.

  He held both the box and the key out to Tuon along with a purse full of coins. “Take the box and depart f
or Parthusal immediately. There, you are to find the first ship bound for Arillia. You will locate Master Iwynd in Hammisal and present the box to him and letter within to the boy he trains. You are to tell no one where you are going, and you will serve Kyden Iwynd until he sees fit to release you from his service. Do not return without finding them.”

  “Sir, with respect,” Tuon said hesitantly, “if it’s to be open war with the Wolves, my place is here watching your back.”

  “Your place is where I tell you it is, and your duty is to do what I tell you to do. Must I remind you of your oaths to myself and the regiment?” He didn’t like being harsh with Tuon, but he had no time for explanations.

  “Yes, my Kyden.” The half-warden saluted and reached for the box.

  Kyden Thalle held tight a moment, preventing the half-warden from pulling it out of his grasp. “You will proceed from this room straight to the dock and order the boat waiting for you to cast off. You will make no stops and retrieve none of your possessions. Understood?”

  Tuon nodded, but he refused to meet his eyes.

  Kyden Thalle released the box. “Go. Depart through the kitchens and the servants’ quarters. All other routes are blocked.

  Tuon’s mouth was set in a grim line, but he said nothing. His body was rigid as he gave Kyden Thalle a final salute. He turned and was gone.

  Kyden Thalle took a deep breath and relaxed. The final piece on the board had been moved. He pulled his longknife from its sheath, set it on the desk, and sat down to wait for Kyden Verros and the Council. He was sure it would not be long.

  Epilogue

  (A Return to the Beginning)

  Convinced the Draegoran and Ferrick were not returning, Lemual eased his way out of the barn. He’d heard the men approaching as he unsaddled and brushed down Clod, the old bay they used for pulling the plow and their small wagon into town. When he’d spied Ferrick, he’d almost shouted to the magistrate, that was, until he saw the man in gray. He didn’t know what the Draegoran wanted with Father, but Lemual wasn’t about to interfere. He’d stayed in the barn and kept quiet, even when he watched Riam dragged from the house and taken away. He felt a pang of guilt for that, but he could not have stopped it.