Wanderer's Song (Song of Prophecy Series Book 1)

by P. E. Padilla

  And then the blows began to fall.

  12

  “Fthr…awk…hss...awk…”

  The noise brought Aeden out of whatever dreamless sleep he had been trapped in. He tried to open his eyes, but didn’t have the strength. His eyelids seemed strange anyway, as if they were fused to the skin of his face. He tried to move his hand to rub them, but his limbs didn’t seem to respond.

  A light came close to him, burning like a sun. Aeden squeezed his eyelids, but they were already closed.

  “…the light…back off…” the sounds came again. Words, then, not unintelligible babbling. The ball of fire that had invaded the safety of his darkness receded.

  Something cool and wet touched his forehead, startling him, but his sluggish body couldn’t even muster the energy to flinch. His breathing quickened, but that was all he could manage.

  “…going to live?” another voice, a softer, more pleasant, almost musical one, said.

  “I think so, girl, though Danta knows how it’s possible. I thought for sure he was a goner.” This voice was deeper, obviously male, whereas the other, Aeden recognized, had been female.

  “Don’t crowd him, Fahtin,” another female voice—an older sounding one—said.

  Aeden focused all his energy on his eyelids, willing them to open. They did. Slowly. He fluttered them, bringing them up a hair and then allowing them to retreat when the light was about to overwhelm him. After what must have been hours, he opened them enough to see. Blinking rapidly and straining to make sense of the blurry world in front of him, he was finally able to pick out shapes.

  “He’s opening his eyes,” the younger woman said. Fahtin? Is that what the older woman called her?

  A dark-haired shape resolved itself into a girl, her pretty face hovering over his, much too closely. Aeden grunted. Words were still beyond him.

  “Back away now, Fahtin,” the older woman said. “Give him some room to breathe.” This woman’s more mature face came into view, an older copy of the young girl with decades and a just a few pounds added. “Would you like to drink something? Some water?”

  Aeden grunted again, tried to nod, but could not move his head. It weighed a thousand pounds.

  The cold metal of a cup touched Aeden’s lips and he vocalized his surprise.

  “It’s just a bit of water,” the kindly woman said. “Nothing to be concerned about. It may be a little cold, but that will be fine.”

  She tilted the cup and allowed water to drizzle into his mouth. The sweetness of it traveled down his parched throat, soothing the fire he hadn’t even known was there. He tried to take a breath and some of the water went into his lungs.

  The coughing fit that took him shot white-hot tendrils of pain through his body. The world spun and blackened at the edges of his sight. The darkness narrowed, and then everything else winked out.

  When Aeden was lucid again, he knew some time had passed. Music seemed to invade the darkness, its slow, haunting strains making him feel like weeping. The fast, raucous canter of other songs made him wish he could tap his fingers. He opened his eyes, more easily this time, and saw only the girl sitting in front of him, watching him.

  “Fahtin?” he croaked. Her half-lidded eyes snapped open all the way and she made a little seated hop.

  “Yes?” she said. “Yes. That is my name. You heard that much, did you? Good, then maybe your brains were not turned to mush like the rest of your body.”

  “Water,” he forced out past the desert of his mouth.

  “Of course. Here, but drink slowly and do not take a breath while drinking like before.”

  The familiar touch of the cup to his lips, and then the trickle of life-giving water felt wonderful in the midst of all his pain. The girl gave him barely a swallow at a time, then allowed him to breathe before tilting the cup for him again.

  “Mother says I can try to give you some broth, if you want. It will be days before you can eat, probably, but at least the soup will be something more than water. Would you like some?”

  “Aye,” Aeden forced out. Words didn’t hurt as much with his throat wetted.

  The girl bustled around for a few minutes and came back with another cup. Before it even got near his face, he could smell it. The tangy aroma made his stomach growl and his mouth start to water. She tilted the cup so he could take a little at a time, as she had done earlier with the water.

  “I added some cold water to it so that it wouldn’t be too hot,” the girl said. “Is it still too hot? Is it okay?”

  “Fine.” His speech sounded more like words and less like croaks now with the warm liquid soothing his throat even more than the water had.

  “You gave us quite a scare,” she continued. “No one was really sure if you would make it. Luckily, Jehira knows some herb lore, and there was not much damage inside you. The outside looked bad, though.” She seemed to have run out of things to say. “I’m glad you didn’t die.”

  “Me. Too.”

  It was at least two days, judging from the times he awoke to the light of day and to the dark of night, before they could prop him up so that he could properly see who was nursing him back to health.

  He was in the middle of what seemed to be a caravan of some sort. Wagons, shaped like rounded little houses on wheels, were arrayed like mushrooms in a faerie ring, their bright colors flashing in the sunlight filtering through the trees around the clearing they were in. A line of horses stamped, skin twitching and tails flicking, off to his right. A fire pit lay directly in front of him twenty feet or so away, and people hustled around doing work or chatting with others. They were colorful, too. At least, their clothing was.

  Fahtin stepped back from him. “There, will that do? Are you comfortable?”

  Aeden nodded. It was the first time he’d been able to get a good look at the girl who had been feeding him and nursing him back to health. He was well familiar with her dark brown hair, flowing in gentle waves to the tip of her breastbone, and the fine, angular cast of her face, but seeing her all at once like this, in the daylight instead of in small pieces in dim light, made him realize just how beautiful she was. Her hazel eyes had green starbursts within them that twinkled when she smiled. And she seemed to smile a lot. Her clothes, as colorful as the ones around her, were of reds and yellows, a dazzling display of lines and hues that hurt his eyes when he looked too closely at the pattern. Bracelets on each wrist clattered as she moved, and her skirt, bright yellow, seemed to make the sun above look almost dim.

  “Aye,” he said, “at least, as comfortable as I can be.”

  He was still in constant pain. He had not seen what condition he was in, but he felt it. The Croagh relegated the pain to a corner of his mind so it didn’t overwhelm him. Doing so made it seem as if his body belonged to someone else. It would not move at his bidding, and even something as simple as breathing caused agony that made him want to tense up. It was probably lucky for him that he couldn’t, or the pain would most likely increase. He twitched the fingers on his left hand and saw the movement out of the corner of his eye. That was new.

  “You seem to be more coherent than you have been,” she said. “That’s good. It means you are healing.” She nodded at him. “It is past time for a proper introduction. I am Fahtin Achaya, of the Gypta. And you are?”

  Aeden cleared his throat weakly. “I am Aeden, son of Sartan, of Clan Tannoch. Thank you for your care, Fahtin.”

  She smiled at him, her perfect white teeth shining in the morning sun. “So you are from the clans.”

  “I told you he was, girl,” the man’s voice he had heard several days past said. Its owner came into view. His dark hair brushed his shoulders and his face was clean-shaven. It was obvious he was related to the girl, with the same sharp features and thin face. His clothes—loose pants, a billowy shirt, and a vest over the top of it—were also striking in their colors. Blues, greens, reds, and yellows swirled and clashed enough to make Aeden dizzy. The man looked old enough that he was probably her father.
“With that hair and those eyes, in this place, what else could he be?”

  Aeden didn’t speak, waiting on the man.

  “I am Darun Achaya, Fahtin’s father and leader of this family. My wife is Ritma.” The older woman he had heard and seen earlier stepped beside the man and waved at Aeden. Yes, he could definitely see the resemblance to her daughter. She was still beautiful, though age had softened some of the sharp angles of her face, and she was a bit heavier than her other two family members. Fahtin seemed a perfect blending of her two parents.

  “What happened?”Aeden asked.

  “We were hoping you would tell us that,” Darun said. “We found you, just a hair’s breadth from being dead, lying twenty feet from another boy about your age who truly was dead. There were no weapon marks on you, none that we could see, but you were obviously beaten, and by more than just one man, if I don’t miss my guess.”

  “Beaten,” Aeden said. “Yes.”

  “Oh, Darun,” Ritma said. “Leave over. Let the boy regain some strength first before you ask him to recount something so distressing. There is plenty of time to learn the situation of his condition later. You just rest Aeden, regain your strength. You can answer questions when you are up to it.”

  “I understand your concern, Ritma,” her husband said, “but I need to find out if we will be attacked by the Crows. If the boy is some kind of criminal and sentenced to be executed, they may attack us for taking him in. Are you then, boy? Are you a criminal? Answer me that and I will leave the rest for later.”

  “I am no criminal,” Aeden said.

  “Very well. Rest then, get your strength, and we will hear your tale in a few days. Good enough for you, my wife?”

  Ritma slapped the man’s shoulder lightly. “Fine, but be off with you now. Nursing wounded men is women’s work and no concern of yours.”

  Darun favored his wife with a smile and moved off toward one of the wagons. The exchange, and the emotion that came with it, had sapped Aeden’s energy. He was not a criminal, true enough, but what was he? He had been cast out, left for dead. The clan did not want him. His life consisted of disgrace and embarrassment. He deserved to die. Why hadn’t he?

  The thought of taking his own life snuck into his mind, but his people did not believe in such things. It was the worst kind of cowardice, a proclamation that you did not have enough strength to face what the world brought against you. He may not be considered by his clan to be of the Croagh Aet Brech, but in his own heart, he always would be. His family may have disowned him, but he would not turn his back on what he was: Aeden, of Clan Tannoch, one of the Croagh, and he would not be a coward.

  But what would he be? That was the question, wasn’t it?

  13

  “Your people beat you nearly to death?” Darun asked when Aeden had told his tale. “And your father? What did he do while this was happening?”

  Aeden’s mind went back to that night, to the circumstances he last remembered before awakening in the caravan.

  The blows rained down upon him, precise, painful, but not lethal. The men attacking him were all skilled warriors, both with weapons and unarmed. Their strikes—punches, kicks, strikes with the knees and elbows—were delivered with just enough force to turn his tissue to blue-black mush without breaking his bones. The attacks meant to cause internal damage would wait until later. The sole purpose of the blows at the beginning were to cause pain without crippling him. Yet.

  Through it all, Aeden did not make a sound. He became dizzy with the pain, and soon it seemed as if he was removed from the actions, as if he was feeling it from somewhere else, watching the pitiful wreck of a body beaten over and over again. He fell many times, too many to count, but always dragged himself to his feet again. He would not die a coward. He would show them he was a man of the clan, no matter what they did to him.

  Soon enough, though he thought it had been more than an hour, his father stepped up. He had not yet taken part in the beating. His was a special role. Aeden was on his knees, unable to get to his feet any longer. In fact, he was surprised, in the murky midst of his thoughts, that he was even able to balance on his knees.

  His body swayed, threatening to collapse, but he locked his muscles rigidly and—through a great force of will—lifted his chin to look his father in the eyes.

  Aeden had never seen his father cry, but there were tears in his eyes now. Tears, and something else. Through the fog that clouded his mind and his vision, Aeden could swear he saw respect in those eyes. His father clenched his jaw, drew back his hand and struck Aeden in the side of the head. A brilliant flash of light exploded into his sight, and then he knew nothing after that.

  Until waking in the caravan.

  “He struck the final blow,” Aeden said.

  “Your father actually struck the last blow?” Darun asked. “Danta’s tender mercies, what kind of people are the Crows?”

  “A strong one,” Aeden said, leaving it at that.

  The people in front of Aeden remained silent for a moment, some busying themselves with food or drink, some scanning the area. Aeden caught Fahtin watching him, and he looked at her defiantly until she averted her gaze. Her eyes held unshed tears, but he could tell already that she was too strong to release them. He respected her for that.

  A few others had come to sit nearby as Aeden was telling his tale. An old woman, the skin of her face creased like aged walnut bark, sat next to Fahtin on a log. A small boy huddled at her other side, almost hiding in the folds of her skirts. A man and a woman stood at the edge of Aeden’s vision.

  “Well, then,” Darun said, looking at Ritma sitting next to him. “We’ve had your story now. I am convinced you are not a criminal, though I daresay I may question your sanity. We usually do not come this close to Crow’s land—”

  “The Cridheargla,” Aeden interrupted.

  “What’s that?”

  “Cridheargla, it’s what our land is called.”

  “Cree…cree… what is it again” Darun said, trying the words out on his tongue.

  “It is pronounced cree arg la. It is a shortened form of the full name which means old blood-red teeth. Crionna crodhearg fiacla in my tongue, Chorain, the speech of the clans.”

  “Right. Cree arg la. As I said, we normally do not come this close to the Cridheargla, but it was lucky for you that we did. You would not have lasted much longer without aid.”

  “I do appreciate it, Darun. Why were you so close to the clan land?”

  “We are Gypta,” the man said. “Traveling is what we do.”

  “Gypta,” Aeden repeated. “I do not know much of your people, other than that I have heard you sometimes trade with the clans. They say you make good clothes and knives.”

  Darun smiled. “Yes, that we do. Know you nothing else of us, then, good or bad?”

  “Some say other things, too.”

  “Let me guess,” Darun said. “We are thieves, we are cowards. We will cheat and rob you blind if you turn your back on us. We are the despised ones.”

  “I have heard such things,” Aeden said. “And I have heard that others outside the clans name us barbarians and workers of dark magic, the most evil kinds of men.”

  Darun laughed. “So some say. We, most of all, don’t believe everything we hear.”

  “Nor I.”

  “Good,” Darun said. “Fair is fair, boy. You told me your tale, so I will tell you of my people. The reality, not the rumor.”

  The caravan leader looked around at the others, his audience. Aeden had a feeling the man was waiting for others to arrive, the more the better, but then Darun shook his head and fixed his eyes on Aeden.

  “Many long years ago,” Darun started, “perhaps a thousand, perhaps more, there was a great nation. It was called Agypten. Now, you have to realize that there were many places in the world that did not have multitudes of people, yet most of the land had been claimed by one nation or ruler or another. Such was the case here.

  “Agypten had a king. As kin
gs go, the legend says, he was not bad, but the most important thing to him was to build his legacy for his sons and future generations.

  “There lived an isolated community of craftspeople within his lands. The name they called themselves has been lost to the ages, but the important part is that the king looked at them and saw how they prospered, and he began to worry. You see, these people were proud, and they rarely mingled outside their own large family.

  “Of course, when I say family, I mean an extended group of people related more by their being together over time than by blood connection. Still, they did not seek mates outside the family, kept themselves apart. Perhaps they thought they were better, or the culture of other groups insulted them, or there was some other reason, but there it is. They remained apart from the rest of the kingdom. This worried the king.

  “He could not eliminate an entire group of people, not quietly, so he came up with another idea.

  “‘You are to be my emissaries,’ he told them. ‘You are to travel the wide world sharing your crafted items, trading and becoming rich, all the while proclaiming me and my nation. You will bring fame to the name of Agypten so that whenever someone uses an item of your crafting or wears clothing you have made, they will think of this, the greatest nation in the world.’

  “The people were skeptical, but what could they do? They had to obey their king, and so they built wagons, packed up their belongings and the tools for their trades, and set out, looking forward to the promised time when they would return to the nation in favor and honor.

  “The world was different then, but one thing was the same as now: people were selfish and suspicious. As the traveling people made their way around all the areas of Dizhelim, rumors began to spring up like mushrooms after a heavy rain. They were thieves, they were swindlers, they stole children and ate them, they worshipped dark gods. As these false rumors spread, people treated them more and more poorly. Sometimes they were even forced to flee when large forces threatened attack.