by E. J. Godwin
Caleb closed the box and buried it in his deepest pocket. The vision of a firefly glimmering across her balcony that night had whispered its own truth.
10
First Cloud
Hesitation is a choice, not a lack of one.
- Joásen, Raén of Udan
CALEB STARED in horror at the man dying at his feet. Soren stood to his right, facing the opposite way, both hands gripping the hilt of his sword as he scanned the brightening landscape. Two more Hodyn soldiers lay in the tall grass nearby, their clothing spattered with blood and their faces locked in the agony of death.
The harvest was in full swing, and with it the raids that yearly plagued the farmers and ranchers along the northwest borders of Ada. Caleb’s training was over. He had pushed himself to the limit for weeks, no less uncompromising than his instructors, determined to silence their doubts. Now he had killed his first Hodyn, his well-balanced Fetra singing through the air as if he had been born with it in his hands.
But he felt no pride, no sense of achievement. Only a firestorm of guilt ignited by the cold, accusing eyes of the dead. He couldn’t help thinking of Warren, and whether some Hodyn child was about to mourn the loss of a father.
Caleb fought to hold it in, but it was no use. He turned his back on the spectacle, and crouched down, bowing his head. With one wrenching heave he emptied his stomach onto the grass, as though purging the shameful deed from his body.
He sat recovering for a while, the breath of dawn chilling the sweat on his face. Then he felt a firm grip on his shoulder.
“Clean your sword and get on your feet, Caleb Stenger. You’ve done what’s required of you. It’s time we headed back to Udan.”
He nodded, did as he was told, and afterward followed his commander back to a grove of yellowing tamaracks where they had tied their horses. Soren drew his attention to the right. A distant plume of smoke and the roof of a barn rose above the morning mist. The lowing of cows and the clucking of hens traveled across the dew-soaked fields as if only a stone’s throw from his ears.
By the time they reached the grove and mounted their horses, Caleb’s hands were steady, his mind free of doubts.
From there they rode northwest, keeping to the shadows of the trees whenever possible as the day broadened about them. Caleb knew how privileged he was. Though a more experienced soldier always guided a recruit on his first oath-fulfilling duty, both as a witness and a comrade, that soldier was rarely the Supreme Raén of Ada. Yet Soren rode in silence, offering no word of comfort or praise. Caleb wished he would. Though he had come to terms with his deed, he still needed a little reassurance or at least a distraction to eradicate the poisonous images from his mind.
It was a full day’s ride to Udan. Color bloomed in the scattered woodlands, and a brisk wind flew down from the whitening mountains in the west. To the south, Hendra towered majestically above the clouds.
In the afternoon they came to Gegré-Udan, the road out of Ekendoré. Following it north, they soon crossed a bridge over a wide stream hastening from the mountains: the Winding River, which flowed through Grimoa, the land of the Hodyn to the northeast.
An hour or so later they reached a walled city, its back to the foothills of an eastern spur of the mountains: Udan Fortress. A stark contrast to Ekendoré, Udan echoed the austere practicality of Krengliné, though on a smaller scale. There were no stately homes save for one owned by the master of the town: Rewba, the First Underseer, the only civilian authority in Ada who was also a Master Raén.
Two modest towers flanked the south gate, and soldiers paced the walls. But its true defense lay in the lookouts and outposts in the hills beyond, which offered greater views of the surrounding country. A relatively small number of military families constituted the bulk of its population. This time of year, however, because of the enemy raids and the resulting influx of reinforcements from the south, Udan bristled with activity like any other town.
As they passed the gate servants appeared, greeted Soren and his companion with respect, and took the horses and baggage to the stables and barracks down the street.
The thought of a hot meal quickened Caleb’s weary limbs. But he would not rest until he saw Warren. He had left him in the care of a member of the Frehaiani, a middle-aged, kindly woman living in a plain but well-kept house past the barracks. When she opened the door to his knock, the sight of his son, plunging into his arms like so many times before, did much to erase the disturbing images of that day. Soren had no objection to bringing Warren along, and after Caleb thanked the woman, they left for the refectory.
Warren walked close, intent on the new surroundings, as Soren led them into a wide hall filled with yellow lamplight. Caleb breathed deeply, relishing the rich aromas of simmering pots of stew and freshly baked bread. A crowd of Raéni chatted noisily at tables stretched along the opposite wall; others ate their meals in weary silence, sitting alone or in pairs at smaller tables scattered through the rest of the hall. Soren did not greet anyone or announce his presence. He merely chose the nearest empty table and waited with his companions for their food.
There was no mistaking the big, towering chef as he threaded his way between the tables, dangerously balancing a platter laden with food over the heads of his customers. The autumn raids taxed even his strength, however, as well as his patience, and he set their plates down with a show of exhaustion.
The big man’s jaw dropped when he noticed Soren. He faced the crowded room. “Ykéa! Pay homage to the Master Raén of Ada!”
There was a clamor of scraping chairs as everyone scrambled to their feet. One seat crashed loudly to the floor, followed by a curse. Soren’s eyes twinkled. They all murmured various expressions of respect and returned to their seats. The few who remained stepped hesitantly forward, then withdrew when they saw the food on Soren’s table. In Ada it was an unspoken rule never to interrupt a meal unless absolutely necessary, and with a Master Raén this took on paramount significance.
The chef departed. “You enjoyed that, didn’t you?” Caleb said.
Soren handed Warren a slice of bread. “Yes—especially when the chef used the Raéni danger call to announce my presence.”
Caleb grinned, and started on his plate of stew. Warren, who had recently turned eleven, almost matched his father bite for bite. Soren ate sparingly—accustomed, Caleb presumed, to smaller rations.
They finished with a few mugs of yrgona, the Adan equivalent of ale. Caleb frowned when Warren lifted a mug to his lips. But after a tentative sip, the boy shuddered and plunked it down with a grimace.
Soren chuckled. “You should get him used to it. The Raéni drink it to revive themselves after hard duty.”
“You know how kids are about medicine,” Caleb said dismissively. “But tell me, Soren—shouldn’t I be doing a little mingling? No offense, but I can’t hang around you all the time. I need to establish my identity.”
Soren grunted. “The name Caleb Stenger will take care of that soon enough. The news of the Falling Man taking the Oath is all over Ada. But if you really want to meet them, you’ll be swamped in a few minutes.” He pointed a finger at him. “A word of caution: don’t dwell on your strange past. Garda and the Council of Nine have given you their official welcome. But the common folk, and especially the Raéni, are prone to superstition. Give them time.”
“Is that why you accompanied me here?”
Soren shrugged. “You once said you deserved the same chance as any other recruit. I’m here to balance the scales a little.”
Caleb sat speechless at this unexpected gesture. Yet before he could express his thanks, an aged man with a bald, mottled head and an uneven, toothy smile approached from the entrance. His wide but gaunt frame was dressed in typical Raéni leather gear and a fur-lined coat.
He hung his coat over the chair to Soren’s left and sat down. “Good to see you in Udan again.”
Soren turned to Caleb. “This is Joásen, my father. He’s been stationed here almost ten years. Fathe
r, meet Caleb Stenger, my latest recruit, and his son Warren.”
Joásen’s snowy eyebrows lifted. Then he reached over and clasped hands with Caleb. “Welcome.” His glance strayed to Warren. The boy stood up and extended his own hands, and Joásen repeated the gesture, grinning broadly.
“A pleasure to meet you,” Caleb said as Warren sat down. “Especially since I need to ‘break out of my shell’ as my people call it, and get to know my fellow soldiers.” Soren frowned at this indirect reference to Earth, and Caleb was quick to hide his blunder. “But Soren advises me to be patient.”
“That’s good advice,” said Joásen. “I’ve been around long enough to know that choice is stronger than superstition. But Raéni beliefs run deep. If you had arrived anywhere but near Illvent, well … ”
“I’m familiar with Illvent by now, of course. I assure you I had no intention to come to Ada in that fashion.”
The old man lifted a hand. “I meant no offense. Once you prove yourself, they’ll forget their doubts.”
Soren jabbed a thumb toward Caleb. “I broke him in only this morning.”
Joásen studied Caleb with newfound respect. “So soon! I’m impressed.”
Caleb smiled his thanks. “Who’s the Master Raén here?” he asked, wishing to change the subject.
“Rewba,” Joásen answered. “He’s a little fatter and shorter than most, but don’t be fooled by his appearance.”
“Sounds like an interesting man. Perhaps I should meet him.”
Soren leaned back in his chair, arms folded. “Here we go again. We should give you a new name: Ksordenal, the impatient one.”
“Highly amusing,” Caleb said flatly. “What does Soren mean in the ancient tongue, eh?”
He shrugged. “Man of the water.”
“I see. You were born by a lake or a river.”
Soren and Joásen grinned at each other. “Born? I was born in a house, like most people.”
“Obviously there’s some private joke here,” Caleb said, and they laughed.
“Let’s just say my wife and I used to swim a lot,” Joásen explained.
Caleb’s jaw dropped. Then he looked at Soren, his smile broadening.
Soren’s faded. “Mind your tongue, recruit!”
He was on the verge of ignoring this advice when a burly, dark-haired woman walked up. “Have you heard?” she said, addressing Soren and his father. “Yrda’s ranch was raided today. Two of his workers were killed, and he lost nearly twenty head of cattle.”
“Blast those cowards!” Joásen uttered. “How many Hodyn?”
“I’m not sure. Forty, at least.”
“They’ve never sent so many on a single raid before,” said Soren. He glared at his father. “Remember what I said!”
Joásen inspected his fingernails casually. “What was it? My memory … ”
“You know very well what. The Oath doesn’t require the old to fight in place of the young. If I find you out there in the thick of things, I’ll send you back to Udan hog-tied!”
Joásen straightened in his chair. “Bring help. You’re not the young pup you once were, either!”
The woman shuffled nervously, and her gaze fell upon Caleb. “It seems you sit in a place of honor, stranger. I’m Wirden.”
Caleb remembered Soren’s little speech, and studied his superiors for some indication of approval. But the Master Raén was deadpan, and Joásen was still fuming at his son’s admonition.
“Caleb Stenger,” he said at last, more sheepishly than he intended.
Wirden fell agape, then recovered. “I see.” She bowed formally, her dark bangs veiling her face. “Welcome to Udan.”
She crouched down to the boy. “You must be Warren,” she said, and ruffled his hair. Warren ruffled hers back, and she chuckled.
“Your son must have been born lucky if he can get a laugh out of this gal,” said Joásen, nodding his head toward Wirden. She glowered at him, but he took no notice, suddenly thoughtful. “Come to think of it, there’s something I’d like to let you borrow for a while.” He reached inside the pocket of his coat and brought out a large gold coin. “This is an Idi, which means good fortune in the Urmanayan tongue. A luck charm, if you will.”
“He’ll need it to reach Graxmoar,” Soren commented.
“Graxmoar!” Wirden exclaimed. “Your aim is high, newcomer.” Caleb bristled at the label, but he was more annoyed at Soren for bringing the subject up.
“It’s a rare item, so I can only lend it to you,” Joásen continued. “Keep it until your life here is established and you feel more at ease.”
“An Idi is no small honor, Caleb Stenger,” Soren said quietly.
Caleb accepted Joásen’s gift and mumbled his thanks. He turned the coin over in his hands. He noticed how familiar it looked—a standing figure on one side, flat and unadorned on the other. But in place of a man, a young woman or girl stood with her arms hanging downward, a mountain instead of a tree above her head.
“I’ll be sure to keep it safe,” he said, and carefully placed the coin deep inside his breast pocket, next to Telai’s gift.
Caleb hesitated, then fumbled around for a bit and drew out the coin he discovered near his ship. With all his studies and training occupying nearly every waking hour he had completely forgotten to ask about it.
“Your coin reminds me of something I found when I first came here. I thought it might be valuable.” With eager expectation he placed it in the old man’s hand.
Joásen brought the disc closer. “Definitely Urmanayan,” he murmured. “In good condition, too. Much like the Idi, except … ”
He trailed to a halt, frozen in shock as if he were staring down a lion’s throat.
Wirden drew close. “What’s wrong?”
With an abruptness that made them all jump, Joásen flung the coin on the table and struggled to a stand. He trembled, his eyes fixed on Caleb like a madman’s.
“You must leave,” he whispered hoarsely. “Now!”
Caleb gaped at him while Soren reached up and gripped his father’s arm. “What’s gotten into you—talking like that to a Raén who just took the Oath?”
Joásen flung him off. “This is no Raén!” he spat, sticking his finger at Caleb. “He’s the Bringer of Evil. He’s found the Medallion of Yrsten!”
Soren sat like stone. Wirden stifled a cry and backed away a step.
Caleb glanced from face to face. “This is a joke, right?—an initiation for recruits.” He waited for an answer. “Yrsten?” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “How can that be?”
The Master Raén snatched up the coin. He looked it over carefully, then stared at Caleb. The Medallion slipped from his hands, spun wobbling on the table for a second, then lay flat in a dead silence.
Folk had begun to gather by now. For Caleb, the room and all their faces took on a surreal, shrinking quality, as though seen through a lens. Warren tugged on his sleeve, fear growing in his eyes, and Caleb managed to whisper a few words of reassurance.
Grief was written on Soren’s face. “Caleb Stenger! How can you possibly have studied Orand and the Yrsten Prophecy and not know about the Medallion you possessed?”
The crowd around the table muttered dangerously. A chill settled into Caleb’s stomach. He swallowed and shut his eyes tight, trying through the haze of panic to remember that day in Gerentesk when he had recited the prophecy to Ressolc.
He realized his error at last, and shook his head in despair. “I thought it read the Ornament of Yrsten.”
Soren pressed his lips in doubt, then faced Joásen again. “He’s right. How can he be the Bringer when he barely knows what he possesses? There are some even among the Raéni who wouldn’t recognize the Medallion.”
“The prophecy leaves no doubt!” Joásen cried. “It says nothing about the knowledge or intent of the finder. Whosoever finds the Medallion of Yrsten shall be that Bringer, whether man, woman, child, or spirit.”
The Medallion lay on the table. Caleb
dared not touch it. He searched desperately for something to refute their accusation. It all seemed so ridiculous.
“I’m not evil,” he said quietly. “Just because I fell from the sky, doesn’t mean—”
“The Prophecy says whosoever,” said Joásen. “No one is excluded!”
“Then destroy it! Melt it down! Then there’ll be no damned Bringer of Evil!” Caleb grabbed the coin and tossed it across the table toward him.
Warren leaped forward and seized the Medallion before it rolled off the edge. “Mine!” he shouted in English.
One of the Raéni reached down and held him by the wrist. “Let go of that, boy!”
Caleb fell into a blind rage. He jumped up and threw his fist right into the man’s face, and pulled Warren off the table. The victim fell backwards against the floor, his mouth covered in blood.
A bedlam of shouting erupted, and several Raéni surged forward. Caleb, half dragging and half carrying his son, retreated to the wall near the entrance. They quickly surrounded him, and he stood with his back to the stone.
“Get away!” he bellowed, shoving Warren behind him.
They answered with the ring of steel, a half dozen blades all drawn at once. Caleb had no choice but to draw his own. As he faced them, ready to sell his life, his one bitter thought was that after all this time, after everything he had risked and sacrificed, his son would still end up an orphan—an orphan doomed to die on a world where his friends had suddenly turned into enemies.
Wirden was the closest, and Caleb was shocked to see tears welling in her eyes. “Surrender your sword!” she cried. “You have no right to wield the Fetra of the Raéni!”
“Touch my son again, and you’ll get a full demonstration of my rights!”
“Hold!” shouted a voice, and they all turned their heads.
Soren glared at them, one hand clasping the hilt of his sheathed Fetra. He forced his way through the crowd. Caleb braced himself, ready for the Master Raén to banish him. But the old soldier merely looked down at Warren, who clenched his father’s coat in his trembling hands.
