Arad had one sister; Illie, five years his younger. With no mother to speak of, Illie grew up with only her brother caring for her. At the age of eight, when his father sent Arad to study with Win Wal—the unarmed instructor for his regiment—Illie went along and played in the dirt while Arad practiced. Soon Ooji had adopted the little girl as her own as well, and began teaching her of the arts important to her homeland; weaving, diet, and herbal healing. There were other things Illie learned as well—Arad saw her sitting once with Ooji in the tall grasses, both of them waving their arms slowly in the air above them, to no purpose he could see. Knowing Illie was cared for though, and not ignored at home, allowed Arad to focus fully on his krakar, and he excelled.
When he entered his first tournament at the age of twelve and decimated all competition, Win Wal coached from the side, and Ooji and Illie cheered from the front benches. Arad didn’t care that his father showed no interest.
At the age of fifteen summers, his father ordered Arad to begin military training. He spent the next three years marching and engaged in weapons practice, though he spent at least as much time cleaning out horse stalls, digging ditches, and sharpening swords. Being the Commander-General’s son afforded him no benefits; if he couldn’t work his way up through the ranks as his father had done, then he wasn’t worthy in his father’s eyes. There were no wars during those years, and so little opportunity for advancement through the ranks once his training was complete, but Arad didn’t care. His interest was only in krakar; he happily finished off his five-year obligation in the army and immediately retired, so he could return to his passion.
Disdainfully, his father didn’t attend his retirement ceremony.
With five years of hard training and labour under his belt, Arad was far stronger and faster than he had been. Under Win Wal’s tutelage and coaching, he tore through the local competitors and gained invitation to the national tournament in Yalcinae, City of the Overlord. He met no serious opposition there, and quickly became Champion Krakari of Somria.
His sister had followed his progress all through the years, but in Yalcinae she was conspicuously absent. Arad returned victorious to his father’s regimental barracks, but she was gone, all her possessions with her.
He confronted his father, and was told that she had been married to a powerful chieftain to the north. Taral needed eyes and ears in that land, and Illie was the right age.
Furious, Arad stormed out of his father’s war room and walked off the barracks, vowing never to return. He rented a room in the town that had sprung up years before, adjacent to the garrison. He agonized over his sister’s fate, even considered attempting a rescue, but knew his chances of success would not be good, and would likely result in his sister’s execution at the chieftain’s hands. In the north, they were not known for lenience with their women.
Reluctantly he decided his only course of action was to wait; perhaps one day soon she would visit home, and then he could take advantage of the opportunity to steal her away, to somewhere far and safe. Where Win Wal and Ooji came from, he imagined; perhaps they had family he and Illie could find shelter with, to start a new life.
Meanwhile, Arad continued to compete in krakar. No one could challenge him. He polished his technique with his master’s guidance, and began teaching as well; though it held little interest for him, wealthy merchants and even some lords wanted their sons to study under the Champion of Somria. The coin was good, and he was able to hire more comfortable apartments, both in Yalcinae and in the northern garrison town (which his father had never named, feeling it was only a temporary holding while he awaited advancement).
One day his father summoned him, a rare occurrence. It had been nearly a year since Illie had been sent away, and Arad had not seen his father since. His mother, he knew nothing of; he hadn’t seen her in nearly a decade, and had no idea of her whereabouts. She might even have died. In his mind he felt he should have wondered, but inside his heart, he was unable to find any part of himself that seemed to care.
Standing in his father’s war room, at attention despite himself, he was offered no hospitality. His father, taller and leaner than his son (who received his appearance mostly from his mother, excepting his father’s dark Somrian skim tone), stood over him precisely as Arad’s commanding officer might, with arms clasped behind him, his thick black hair cut short and glistening with perfumed oil, his father’s only vice.
His father, Arad had thought, was not an attractive man, with a thick nose, a fine line for lips, and small, intense eyes. Where another man’s demeanour might have softened his look, his father’s was made only the more unpleasant by the arrogant aura of command he exuded.
“I have a duty for you,” his father had said coolly.
“I am retired,” Arad had replied in the same tone.
“You are a man of Somria and of her army,” his father had answered flatly. “Retired or not, you ease at my leisure. If I call upon you, your duty is to answer. And you will address me as an officer and father,” he added, his eyes narrowing coldly.
Arad’s throat had boiled with acid, his head hot with the desire to throw his father down and beat him, but he curtailed it. He was a krakar; he would not be pressed.
“I stand at your command, exec,” he had replied formally.
His father watched him for a moment, then nodded and turned to pick up a small package from the table behind him.
“You will take this missive to your sister.” He held the package to Arad, a book-sized sheaf of papers wrapped in brown leather.
“Exec, I’m not trained as a carrier. Why me?”
“I thought you’d like to see your sister,” his father had replied enigmatically.
Arad could see something else; there was another, hidden reason for this. His father was not one to do any favours, especially not for Arad, where the aging officer had nothing to gain.
But he had wanted to see his sister, and this gave him an excuse. Perhaps, if the opportunity arose, he might be able to rescue her.
He had accepted the package. “I stand at your command, exec. I’ll see it done.” He nodded, more to himself than to his father.
“Dismissed,” his father had said, already turning away.
It was the last time they spoke.
Six days of travel later, sitting a flat stone alongside a smoky campfire, Arad gazed up at the snow-capped mountain pass beyond which lay the northern realms, and he again puzzled over the situation. His father would not be sending the message simply to allow him to see Illie; he had chosen Arad to go for some purpose. At first he had imagined that his father might have had an ambush awaiting him, but he had dismissed the thought; his father had no feelings at all for Arad, and he certainly didn’t have reason to want him dead. There must have been another reason, but Arad had been unable to conjure one up.
As he had so many times in the days before, he turned the package over in his hands, examining it. It was a simple leather wrapping, with no writing or symbols on it.
He owed his father nothing; besides, the package was for his sister, and she wouldn’t mind him looking inside. He tore it open quickly, feeling a flash of guilt as he violated the trust of the seal. Inside was a letter, folded around a small piece of wood to protect the ink from smearing. He removed the wood and read the letter.
It was addressed to Illie from his father, and contained no more warmth than the conversation he had shared with his father six days earlier. His sister was to inform the chieftain that an army of bandits was preparing in the eastern mountain pass to attack the northern lands. His father was preparing a policing action, but might be too slow, and the chieftain’s lands would be in danger of being overrun. The chieftain would be wise to march into the pass and engage the enemy whilst they were still unprepared. End of message.
No I hope you are well, or Your mother sends her greetings. Arad wondered what it would be like to have parents who cared as Win Wal and Ooji did; as far as he had known, blood ties seemed meaningle
ss. Except his sister, of course . . . she mattered. Only she.
The content of the letter bothered him. His father didn’t give a whit about the chieftain or the northern lands. Arad knew there was absolutely no chance he would send a letter to warn him. No, here was another reason, and one that required Arad carrying the letter. To gain trust?
Did the bandit army exist? Or was it just a ploy, to gain some advantage? If so, what?
Arad packed up his belongings, kicked out the fire, and headed up into the mountains, not towards the western pass which led to the town where his sister was being held, but for the eastern pass. He had to know.
・ ・ ・
“What did you discover?” asked Gallord-Smit. He had listened quietly to Arad’s story so far, putting aside his authority to allow the young man the chance to tell it freely.
“Betrayal,” Arad breathed. He closed his eyes and clenched them for a moment, bottling the cold fury that threatened to erupt, then turned back to the Front-Captain calmer; more contained. “Betrayal,” he repeated, “of the most monstrous sort.”
Gallord-Smit didn’t answer, waiting.
“There was an army in the eastern pass,” Arad continued, “but it wasn’t a bandit army. It was a full regiment of my father’s army, dug in with a trap ready to spring. He intended to ambush the northern chieftain’s force, then use it as a pretext for invasion.”
“Classic political motivation,” Gallord-Smit observed with a shrug.
For a moment Arad felt fury build again, this time directed at Gallord-Smit for his callous appraisal, but he quelled it; it wasn’t the Front-Captain who had—.
As much to control his rage as to finish the story, he started talking again. “When the chieftain realized he was tricked and beaten, he would have murdered my sister,” he said coldly. “I wasn’t going to let that happen. I went to my father’s regiment and told the Right-Commander that he had new orders from my father, to withdraw. I knew he wouldn’t believe me on my word, since I was no longer a soldier and had no documentation as proof. But it would force him to pause.”
Gallord-Smit nodded. “He’d have to send back for confirmation.”
“Which would give me time. I went then to my sister and gave her the message—my message. That she should warn the chieftain of a rebel army led by one of my father’s Right-Commanders bent on conquest. That he should dig in at the northern exit to the pass, making it impossible for the army to advance.”
“The regiment’s presence would be exposed, and they would have no chance in an attack through the pass,” Gallord-Smit contemplated, half to himself. “The presence of the army would eventually draw the attention of all the northern chieftains. Your father would be forced to order a withdrawal or face a combined army from a disadvantage.”
Arad nodded. “He ordered the Right-Commander home, then court-martialed him.”
“Of course,” said Gallord-Smit. “By punishing him, he proved the man a rebel, not acting under his orders. Which would make him an honourable leader in the eyes of the northern chieftains. It would mean peace in the region, not conquest, but it would be the easy way out for your father.”
“Yes,” Arad agreed.
“You destroyed a good commander’s career,” Gallord-Smit said accusingly. “He was caught in the crossfire between you and your father.”
“How many lives were saved by his court-martial, Front-Captain?” Arad asked. He was angry, but not because of the officer’s accusation.
Gallord-Smit considered. “There is no victory in unjust war,” he quoted.
Arad was startled out of his anger. “Benjak Fray! You studied krakar, Front-Captain!”
Gallord-Smit smiled. “Of course. Did you imagine that no krakar practitioners sailed the great sea before you? My teacher taught private students in Benn’s Harbour before you were born; he returned home 7 years ago. His name was Ril Ban.”
“Incredible,” Arad said, a smile softening his face. “A year here, and I’ve never heard word of him.”
“But you didn’t finish the story. What of your sister? Did she gain her release, as compensation for her assistance to the chieftain?”
Arad’s smiled vanished. He turned away, so the officers couldn’t see his face as rage flushed his cheeks, and tears welled above them.
Gallord-Smit was silent for long time. Then, gently; “What happened to her?”
Arad whirled on him; the Front-Captain’s escorts stirred, but didn’t move. “She was recalled by our father. He placed her on trial and had her executed for treason. I confessed that it had been me who did it—that she didn’t even know. But he had her killed anyway. He told me—” Arad continued through clenched teeth, struggling to get the words out. “—that it was appropriate punishment for me, for betraying him, and ruining a good officer’s career. He killed her to punish me,” As he spoke the final words, he glared at Gallord-Smit, defying him to deny it.
But of course the man could deny nothing; no one could. Arad’s father had told him exactly what he did, and why. And Arad knew full well that he himself had been completely responsible.
“So you see, Front-Captain,” he continued once he was better composed, “I cannot help at all. My father won’t listen to me. You’ll have to find some other way to prevent your war.”
8 SAYRI
“Not the merest chance, I tell you,” one of the warders was saying as he came in through the tavern entrance. He was a thick-jawed man, with a slightly hunched back, and stood a hands-breadth taller than his three companions. “I was there; the day Arad took on Jin the Sailor. He was better than that one, the sea-mongrel or whatever they call him. The Somrian toyed with the man until he tired, then dispatched him, no contest I say.”
“Sea-monster,” one of the others following him said, pushing past patrons leaving the tavern to come alongside the bigger man. He was short and narrow of shoulder, but his voice was incongruously deep for his size. A prominent, beak-like nose dominated his face, lending him a very administrative look that was inconsistent with his uniform. “You did nay see him at the tournament in Bogstown. He threw them all about as children.”
“Strength isn’t everything,” the first warder said as they passed Sayri. She bent her head to adjust cups on the platter as though they were off balance, her face turned away from them as she did. Her hair blackened with dye and cut short to a bob, she thought it unlikely that any would look twice at her, but old habits died hard; she had been on the run for a year now—exactly a year this morning—and she wasn’t about to let down her guard now.
The tavern in which she had found employ was near the north wall, across the city from the stadium where she had met Arad. Fans of the matches rarely found their way here; over the last few moons, however, his name had been on more and more lips as his victories accumulated. He had been, as she heard from patrons and coworkers alike, impossible to defeat on the stage. His name and face were well known in Benn’s Harbour now; all the more reason she didn’t regret her choice to keep her distance from him. As he became more famous, it would have become increasing dangerous for her to be seen with him.
Sayri had seen Arad a few times, though he had not seen her. Once he had come into the tavern and sat down alone, watching around the tavern while he drank—looking for her? She wondered. That day she had pretended to suddenly fall ill and excused herself; fortunately the lady of the establishment, Wolna, was quite paranoid about sickness from living through a plague in her homeland (somewhere far east was all Sayri had picked up), so she had permitted Sayri to leave.
The other times she saw him, Sayri had passed Arad in the street. He was at a shop once, buying spice; the other times he was just wandering, looking at people. Once she had almost stopped him, turning away only at the last moment when his eyes were almost upon her. If he had been more observant he would have seen her, but few in the city saw Sayri unless she wanted them to. City folk walked about nearly oblivious to their surroundings; she imagined it was a habit that deve
loped in the presence of so many other people. She had worried, her first few days in Benn’s Harbour, that people would be suspicious when she did not greet everyone she passed in the street; she was in hiding, after all. She had soon, though, realized that in the city, one did not do this. Partly because it was impossible, with the hordes of people passing by every day. But also, one got so accustomed to the sea of faces, like trees in the forest or flowers in a field, that soon one didn’t see them at all, and became startled when spoken to by a stranger.
In any case, Sayri needed to limit her exposure on the streets as much as possible, dyed hair or not, and especially she needed to avoid been seen by warders. This was difficult, since she was expected to serve them at the tavern, where warders were known for appreciating a pretty face. Sayri, however, had discovered a trick; by rubbing salt water on her face every night before sleep, she had cultivated skin that dried and peeled, making her much less attractive, and giving her an excuse to lower her head most of the time. Her employer had offered all sorts of home cures for her “condition”, which Sayri thanked her for and took to her room, but of course never used. So while the guardsmen who frequented the tavern still commented on her attractive bottom and often slapped it, they rarely approached her from the front once they had glimpsed the flaking skin covering her face.
“Jasenth,” Wolna called from the kitchen, and Sayri curtseyed to the merchants she had just finished serving and walked quickly to her employer, weaving through patrons collected at the bar on the way. Wolna was gruff and hard-working, and expected no less from her girls, but she was fair, and didn’t tolerate mistreatment of her servers by the patrons. For Sayri, this was critically important; she recalled her second day at work, when a drunk farmhand had groped her. Her hand had already been straying to her knife when Wolna interrupted, berating the farmhand and escorting Sayri away. After that Sayri had realized that she needed to be aware of the trauma that still lurked within her, and keep her reflexes under a tight control. She learned to grit her teeth and laugh at the men who were really, she came to realize, mostly just showing affection for her, however rudely. For those who tried more than that, there was Wolna, formidable and ever-present.
Sayri's Whisper: The Great Link Book 1 Page 9
