Child of the Kaites (The Firstborn's Legacy Book 1)
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Child of the Kaites
Beth Wangler
Other Works
The Weavers’ Blessing
The Kangraffs’ Curse
Noemi’s Dragon
“The Lake of Living Water”
Copyright © 2018 Beth Wangler
All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.
The photo used on cover is by Joshua Sortino on Unsplash.
ISBN: 1722933569
ISBN-13: 978-1722933562
DEDICATION
For Angie
and for He who is our Champion
CONTENTS
Other Works
DEDICATION
CONTENTS
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Izyphor’s Map
Forziel’s Fixed Map
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Epilogue
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
So many have contributed to Child of the Kaites in the six years it took to move this book from an idea to a reality, and I’m deeply thankful for each of you. Whether you gave encouragement or feedback, I could not have done this without you.
Thank you to particularly to my mom, who is my biggest supporter. Thank you to Angie, C.J., Ashley, Jean, Beth, Maxxesbooktopia, and Texaslawstudent for reading, liking, encouraging, and giving me feedback. ACMiles and Noelle, I’m so thankful for your design tips. Jill and Beth, I couldn’t have finished this nearly as quickly without our sprints—you ladies are heroes!
I’m indebted to the lovely people at TapEx, who kept me fueled with tea and tolerated me as I hogged the corner table for hours.
I’m also thankful for the wonderful community of Twitter writers, who challenge and encourage me. A special thank you to the Phoenix Fiction Writers, who encourage, share resources, offer advice, and are helping with promotion. You are my favorite authors.
None of this would be possible without God, the first world creator, the ultimate storyteller, the one who saved me and inspires me to write, and whose Word directly inspired this series. Thank you for literally everything.
And lastly, thank you, my dear readers, for sharing in this story that I care so much about. I hope you enjoyed it and look forward to hearing from you!
Izyphor’s Map
Forziel’s Fixed Map
Chapter 1
The sky glows gray through the rustling curtains. I perch on the adobe windowsill. It and the cedar floor under my bare toes are cool after the shade of night.
Out the window, past the houses scattered down the hill and the old mine gouged out of the cliffside, I glimpse the midnight sea. It separates me from the Izyphorn mainland and my family.
My most vivid memory of my family is one I never saw in waking life, one which has awoken me more nights than not in these past three years: dead bodies broken and bleeding into the Izyphorn sand.
My nightmare is a portent of what will happen if I ever return home. Its memory blurs the view from my window.
I lean out the window and breathe deeply of the morning air. A white sliver slips over the eastern horizon. The new-risen sun paints a trail on the water. Its tail points toward the west, the direction of Maraiah’s promised homeland.
The new beginning, untouched by the past or the future, is my favorite time of day. Even in my childhood in the wilderness with the kaites, I loved it. If anything, the time is sweeter now. My frequent nightmares guarantee I witness it often.
Barring a distraction, the memory of my family will haunt me for the rest of the day. Thankfully, I know just how to distract myself: It’s time to find my place on the porch and continue recording the histories that the kaites taught me. I sigh and turn away from the window.
Feet patter on bare floorboards. My curtain door flutters. “Raiba,” a little voice squeals, and six-year-old Pitka launches herself at me.
I smile at the reminder that my loved ones on the Izyphorn mainland aren’t my only remaining family. Not anymore.
I sweep my adopted cousin, a mass of flying braids, flapping underdress, and squirming limbs, up into an embrace. “Good morning, Pipit. You’re up early.” She usually sleeps another hour.
When I let go, Pitka stands beside me. “Of course I am!” she sings, spreading out her arms in jubilation. “How could I sleep when Mayli comes home today?”
Maylani, “Mayli” for short, is another of my three adopted cousins, two years younger than me. Mayli’s been away for a year, visiting with family friends on the mainland. While she has written during her absence, Mayli’s letters are irregular and like her real conversation: full of her voice but lacking in substance.
My heart lifts. Soon Maylani will be home, and I can learn bits of what actually happened while she was away.
I twist my face into an exaggerated frown at Pitka. “What? Are you sure she’s not coming back next week?”
“Of course it’s today!” Pitka giggles. “Even Tatanda and Anik are up.”
The Iranines have no word for “mother” or “father.” Children simply call their parents by their names, and so Pitka refers to her father, Tatanda, as everyone else does. Ira is such a small community that the informality has no consequence. After three years of living among the Iranines, though, I still have not adjusted to this custom.
“Anik is up? But he did not come home until late last night,” I say, astounded that Maylani’s twin is awake. Anik has taken to staying out with the other young men till all hours of the night.
“Mayli’s coming home! How could any of us sleep late?”
“You are right, of course.” I tweak one of the two thick braids dangling in front of Pitka’s shoulders. Excitement bubbles inside of me, despite the sinking apprehension that our time apart will have irreparably changed my relationship with my closest friend. I’ve never reunited with a loved one after being apart for this long.
A servant’s entrance briefly interrupts our conversation. The door drifts back into place behind him. In his hands balances a tray of light snacks: a glass of coconut milk, a bowl of dried figs, and a barley cake moistened with olive oil. Since I arise hours before the rest of the family breaks their fast, the servants always bring me an early snack.
“Good morning, Raiba, Pitka,” the servant says in a demure tone. He slides the tray onto the table beside my bed. Coconut milk in an earth
enware glass sloshes but does not spill. “Do you need anything else?”
I shake my head. “No, thank you.”
He slips out of my room. Pitka’s eyes linger on the tray of food, and her stomach growls.
She looks at me, eyes wide, then bursts out laughing.
“Are you hungry, little Pipit?” I tease.
She crosses her arms and pouts. “I’m not little.”
I chuckle. “I know, it’s just habit. Are you hungry, big Pipit?”
Her stuck-out lip shakes, then stretches in a wide grin. “Yeah. But I’m so excited, I could burst!” To demonstrate her point, Pitka bounces on her toes.
“Well, we don’t want that. Why don’t we get dressed so we’ll be ready when the ferry comes in?” I suggest.
Pitka glances down at her chemise, which she, like I, slept in, and shrugs. “We may as well,” she agrees. Her eyes stray to the table beside my bed, where the servant left the tray of snacks. Pitka likes to steal some of it when she gets up early, and I always let her. “Ooh, can I come back here when I’m ready?”
“Of course. But I’m really hungry,” I warn. “There won’t be any snacks left by the time you get back.”
“I’ll be too fast,” Pitka challenges, and her little bare feet scurry off to her room.
As my door flap settles back into place, I consider my clothing. Here on Ira, I must pretend I belong. I, a Maraian, can barely pass for an elite Iranine with my brown hair curled and my pale skin permanently darkened by a childhood spent under the sun. Natural Iranine coloring is slightly darker than mine even now. Still, no one has questioned my claim to kinship with this family since my arrival three years ago. Only “Uncle” Tatanda and I know that I am not actually his distant relation, and only I know that I am Maraian.
It is a festive day because of Maylani’s return, so I choose one of my richer dresses. Dye is expensive; colorful outfits are worn only for special occasions. I slip a sleeveless V-neck dress of pale blue over my head and tie closed a beige vest.
I tuck the empty chain around my neck under my dress, missing my chanavea for the millionth time. All Maraians receive a chanavea, a special charm with a unique stone at its center, from the kaites at their birth. Without my chanavea, I feel like a traitor to my people and to Aia-Thaies, our Creator.
At least its loss is not my fault. The slavemaster ripped it from my neck the night...
Enough of that. It’s time to focus on the present.
Pitka’s early rising means I won’t get to write today. Guilt wars with acceptance. Preserving the truth of the past is my purpose in life; I know that now. I used to think very differently, but that changed the night I...ran away.
Writing down the histories is something I should do, but my little cousin is more important. I have the rest of my life to write; she is only a child once.
I’m halfway through pinning my artificially-curled hair up with gold combs when Pitka bursts back into my room, dressed and dangling her sandals by their straps. “Told you I’d be fast,” she seeks my praise.
“Oh, no! You beat me!” I gasp. Pitka giggles, and I lay a hand over my stomach. “I guess I’ll have to share my food with you after all. Would you like help with your sandals?”
Pitka looks down at the shoes. “I tried to tie them, Raiba, but bows are hard.”
Her mother used to tie Pitka’s sandals and was teaching her how to tie them herself when disease swept across the island just over a year ago. Pitka has struggled to learn bows since then.
I kneel and help Pipit slide her feet into place, then wrap the laces around her calves. “Girls tie at the side, boys bow at the front,” she chants the children’s ditty. As soon as I finish the second bow, Pitka squeals and clambers over my bed to the snack tray. “Ew, milk?” She wrinkles her nose.
“Mm, it’s so good,” I respond, sliding the last comb into place in my hair.
“You have weird taste. Who in their right mind likes milk?”
“Anik does,” I point out.
“Yeah, but Anik also likes flatbread with mashed olives, peppers, and sour yogurt on it.”
She has a point. Anik will eat anything, however bad it tastes to the rest of us.
“Well, I still think you would like it if you tried to like it.” I sit on the edge of the bed with her.
We eat in silence for a minute. A thump comes from next door—Anik running into something or knocking something off his dresser. Pitka and I look at each other, and she laughs, the only response to most of Anik’s actions.
When Pitka catches her breath, she tilts her head. “Tell me a story, Raiba. Please?” she tacks on at the end.
“Which story would you like?”
“The one about Nhardah and the Lake of Living Water.”
Her request isn’t surprising; it’s her favorite story. I take a deep breath and slowly exhale to focus. It’s easy to forget important details after telling the story so many times—not that Pitka will let me forget.
“Nhardah was one of the Firstborn,” I begin, “the children of the First Humans, who were created by Aia-Thaies their Father. Nhardah was a handsome boy, as were all of the Firstborn, and he had an adventurous soul. While his brother Neemech loved watching over animals and their sister Sain delighted in studying the plants that grew from the ground, Nhardah ever found joy in exploring the paradise land of Elcedon.
“One day, he happened to be exploring the mountains in the north of Elcedon, higher than any human had gone. Those mountains were endless, stretching up and up into the sky. They were the link between the physical and spiritual worlds.
“So Nhardah was in the mountains, and he stumbled upon a vast lake of water so clear, so peaceful, that he could see stones of bright colors at its bottom, even where it was very, very deep. He was tired from hiking, so he knelt at the lake’s edge and drew a handful of water to his mouth.
“O! How good it tasted! It was cool and clean, but so much more than that. He dove into the lake. The water seemed to reach into every corner of his body, setting him tingling, making his skin glow for a moment. Jubilation shook him. He shouted in joy. He had found the most wonderful place! He had to bring his family and the other people there!
“But then something went wrong. Do you remember the story of the Pond of Separation?” I question, pausing to drink the chilled milk Pitka finds so revolting.
“That’s where the traitor star Aivenah cried?” the little girl checks. Pitka wipes her chin with her wrist.
I nod. It was a pond in Elcedon formed from tears of hatred and envy, tears that were not in harmony with Aia’s will. “What happened there?”
Pitka frowns in thought, momentarily forgetting the flatbread in her hand, and then light dawns in her face. “The humans disobeyed Thaies and drank from it. That’s why Elcedon was destroyed and their deity cursed them.”
Her memory gives me pride. Pitka is indisputably the best pupil I could ask for.
“Exactly. The curse,” I recite, “was this:
Where once you had ease,
now labor and weep.
The ground that once was your dance floor
shall produce thorns and weeds.
Through you all creation is cursed
until I restore perfection.”
Pitka shivers, though it is already warm. “I wish they hadn’t drinked it,” she mourns. I agree.
“So, just as Nhardah was drinking from the Lake in the mountains, the other humans drank from the Pond of Separation. The joy fled Nhardah’s heart, leaving him cold. He clutched at the ground, afraid of what he did not know, and he cried out to Aia for help.
“Aia-Thaies heard his cry. He met Nhardah on the shore of the Lake of Living Water. Nhardah asked Aia what was happening, with tears streaming down his face.
“‘Peace to you, My son,’ said Aia. ‘What you feel is not caused by your actions, but by your family, who chose to drink of a different water. Because of them, all creation is under a curse, and you are part of creation.
You did not initiate the curse, however, and the water you drank here is from the Lake of Living Water. Therefore,
Though all now die,
yet you will live,
And through your descendants
I will redeem creation.’”
Pitka interrupts to ask, “What’s ‘redeem’?” She always forgets.
“It means to buy back, to free from its curse.”
“Oh.” Pitka flops down on the bed and wiggles into a comfortable position. “So, the curse won’t last forever?”
“No,” I agree.
“What happened next?”
“Next, Thaies warned Nhardah to rejoin his family. Nhardah left the presence of Aia and the Rending happened, tearing Orrock apart from ierah. In the process, Elcedon was destroyed, but the humans survived because of the kaites,” I finish.
Clapping from behind us makes Pitka jump. I do not startle easily, but even I am surprised that Anik managed to enter the room unnoticed. “I love that story,” Anik says, plopping down on the edge of the bed. “‘Though all now die, yet you will live.’ Gives me chills every time you tell it.”
“Raiba, is Nhardah really still alive?” Pitka asks after punching her brother—a weak punch that could never hurt him.
I nod.
“I hope I see him someday.” She kicks her feet as she daydreams.
“Maybe you will, little squirrel.” Anik reaches his long arm out and tickles her. She shrieks and flails uncontrollably. Pitka’s knee knocks over the now-empty tray.
“If she ruins my bed,” I warn Anik, picking up the spilled dishes, “you will have to clean it.”
“Aw, Raiba, have some fun with us,” Anik teases, but he stops tickling Pitka. His eyes linger around my neck. In the scuffle, my empty chain came untucked. I shove it back under my dress, and Anik’s eyes meet mine for the briefest moment.
My heart races. Did Anik see? Does he know that I’m Maraian?
But why would he know? It’s just an empty chain, free of a chanavea that would give me away.