by Cat Bruno
A short time later, they boarded the hired ship. Aldric found Syrsha standing near the bow. Many moon years before, on a trip from the King’s City to the Southern Cove Islands, he had found her mother just so. For a long moment, he watched her, steps away, as she stared across the sea. Her hair was pulled tightly back into a healer’s knot at the base of her neck. A light rain still fell, dampening her dark tunic. The girl had never taken to wearing Cossiman garb, instead choosing fitted pants and laced-up tunics when she was not wearing armor. He thought of Willem then, realizing how much he would have liked the girl and her Rexterran-styled clothing. Thinking of the man made Aldric’s throat tighten and his vision blur, until he shook himself free from the memory.
In nearly fifteen moon years, no one spoke of that day.
Swallowing hard, he called, “Strange that it should be raining as we make our way out of Cossima.”
When she turned to face him, it was as if another stood there. In place of fire-streaked hair burned tresses touched by midnight. The girl did not have her mother’s eyes, gray-green and woodsy, nor her hair, yet as a soft mist enwrapped her, Aldric shivered.
“We will arrive safely, if that is what you fear.”
He knew that she did not mean to speak so coldly, but her mage-sight had caused the words to splinter and crack like ice.
“A small comfort,” he told her.
Syrsha did not hold his gaze long and again watched the rolling waves. There were times when she was lost to him, and to the others as well. For hours she would sit in silence, and only Gregorr could reach her and call her back. For Syrsha, time-walking had come easily, and despite the toll it took on her body when she was gone overlong, none could convince her to cease. Once, after being absent for a half-day, the girl had taken to her bed for the rest of the quarter-moon. After that, the fennidi insisted upon limits for her time-walking.
Where she went, they only occasionally knew. Moon years before, she had visited each of them, yet it was Caryss to whom she went most often. Otieno had tried to intervene, but it was Sharron who reminded him that it was the girl’s right to know her mother, and to know what it was that she would one day fight for.
Joining her as she peered over the wooden railing, Aldric asked, “How fares Jarek?”
Her silence, lasting overlong, suggested that he should not have asked.
“Syrsha,” he whispered, with a hint of reproach, “He has done what he must. While you lived in peace in Cossima, he was a mouse in a den of snakes. And no more than a child when Delwin captured him.”
“A mouse?” she snorted. “One who commands sea and sky could never be so.”
“He was one against many!” Aldric fumed, defending the man as he had done in the past.
“For moon years now he has known who he is and what occurred the night my mother died. Yet he has done nothing. He follows after Delwin like a pup. And now his father is dead, having never known his son was always so near. He is worse than a mouse.”
Her words hissed from her lips, like the slapping of the waves on the boat’s hull. Her cheeks blazed red as she spun to face the mage.
“He let his father die! For no reason but to stay unknown. And now Delwin rules Cordisia, and my people will suffer for that mistake. And to think my mother once saved the boy.”
The girl was still young and filled with foolish rage, yet Aldric’s hands sparked fire, until he squeezed them closed. There was none near to intervene as he grabbed her shoulders. They were of equal height and his eyes, lightened with age, stared at her anger-filled ones.
“Jarek is an ally, as your mother planned!” he spit. “One who has for moon years stayed at the side of your enemy. Playing mouse yet wanting no more than to strike at the snakes around him. While you mastered sword and book, he stepped closer to that enemy, with no armor or aid. To think that you so easily forget his sacrifices would make your mother weep.”
He threw her from him, uncaring if she struck hard against the railing. At times she was an ungracious girl, stubborn and concerned with little but her own gains. Her dislike of Jarek had grown over the moon years, which made little sense to any of them. Syrsha had never met the boy, although, like her, he could time-walk. When first she visited him, at Otieno’s request, he did not know her and had been in the King’s City for nearly six moon years. Nor did he remember the diauxie or his time spent with them.
Moons before Syrsha’s birth, Caryss had visited Jarek at his mother’s farmstead and convinced the boy to travel with her, to train with the swordmaster. Otieno had, as they all had, Aldric could admit, developed fond feelings for Jarek, a serious and skilled boy. When he did not escape with the others, there was talk of traveling back to rescue him from Delwin. Yet, in the end, they had little choice but to leave, hoping that the High Lord would honor Caryss and keep the boy safe.
In his attempts to do so, Conri had mind-locked Jarek, preventing him from remembering his time with Caryss and her plans to keep the babe hidden. For the boy, none of them had existed. And it remained so, until Syrsha grew strong enough to undo the mind-lock that her father had placed.
By then, Jarek was no longer a boy and had moved up in the ranks of the Royal Army. King Crispin, his own father, did not know him as son, nor did Delwin, his uncle. Although Delwin knew the boy’s mage-skill, having seen it on the battlefield the day Caryss was killed. Jarek was Delwin’s weapon, although his hatred for his uncle had never waned, nor had his memory of his father. For moon years Jarek trained, mastering most after having spent a moon year in practice with Otieno. His Elemental skills were closely guarded, and only used far enough outside of the city gates that none would notice how the clouds shifted and the seas rose.
Word had reached them in Cossima that Crispin had been wounded by spear one night as he traveled alone through the Lower Streets, as was his custom. Thrown from afar, the tip struck him in the lower back, and, while the injury should not have been a fatal one, the King became feverish soon after. Many suspected poison, but the Royal Masters could not prove it so. Within the moon, he had died and his brother Delwin had taken the throne.
And all had changed for the exiles. And for Jarek, whose father had died without naming him his rightful heir.
“You think Jarek mourns for his father any less than you do for your mother, faela?” Aldric bitterly cried as she backed away from him. “When next you visit him, perhaps you should compare your tears with his to see who has wept more.”
After a moment, she called, “He was a boy when he was first captured, yet now is a man grown. Perhaps then he could not flee, but now? I have offered him aid and protection if he were to join us, yet he declines. Perhaps he has grown to enjoy being so near the throne as Delwin’s lap dog.”
“Would you enjoy the same? To watch as someone else ruled the North in your place? Or would it burn even more deeply?”
When she did not reply, he added, “Make peace with Jarek, for you have few enough friends in Cordisia and will need them all when you return. The boy will help win you the North, Syrsha, and only wants what should have been his by birthright.”
Still she did not speak. But that was victory enough. Soon, he hoped, the girl would understand his words. Soon, she must learn that she had enemies enough and need not make any anew.
As he left her standing where he had found her, Aldric thought of the Elemental further and wished, for once, that Jarek would have agreed to Syrsha’s request. He missed the boy, as they all did and would have rejoiced in seeing him.
One day, he thought, we will see the man he has become.
*****
3
It was hours before she spoke to him again, and the girl only did so out of need. Her cheek, darkened with a bruise, caught his eye as she asked which mount was hers. Her words were soft, calmed by the waters of their journey perhaps, and she did not look at him as he answered. Aldric thought about making amends with her, but she was atop the horse before he could. Instead, he sought out Otieno.
“I had not thought you struck her face, diauxie.”
With a shrug that suggested apathy, the Islander told him, “She is of a difficult age.”
Aldric had known the man long enough to recognize the veil he placed over many of his words. Most would have walked away then.
Yet, Aldric pushed. “For the Tribe, she is child still. What is your concern?”
The two men stood near Otieno’s large gelding, far enough from the others that their voices could not be heard.
“At times, she overvalues her skills and thinks herself unmatched. Or she will complain that she is too tired to train and sulk about while we spar. She is a fine swordsman, Aldric, better than most. Soon, to be better than I, even. But her sword is unblooded yet, and the girl has not earned a right to her arrogance.”
The mage hurriedly raised his line-scarred hand to his face, covering the smirk there.
“Have we not both been where Syrsha is?” he asked without removing his hand.
Gruffly, Otieno answered, “Neither of us sought a throne. Or had an army at our backs. She grew spoiled in Cossima, much of that my fault. I know little of these Sythians, but if they are what you have told me then perhaps it is for the best that we go there.”
Finally moving his fingers from his face, Aldric agreed, “They are fierce and independent, skilled with bow and spear. From birth nearly, the Sythians learn to ride and to shoot. Few miss their marks.”
“And you think that they will just welcome us?”
With a chortle, Aldric sighed. “They will not welcome us. But they will welcome her, once they see what she is.”
“We would be fools to trust them with the knowledge of who she is, mage.”
“The Sythians have lands and horses, grain and meat. Of late, they have begun trading for other goods, adornments and better tents. With that comes a need for coin, which they do not have. And we do.”
Shaking his head so hard that his braids swung across his face, Otieno jeered, “You think to buy our way into Sythia.”
With his own thin-shouldered shrug, Aldric replied, “The girl needs to learn the bow, and we have coin to pay for her training. More, Sythia is near enough to be a true ally in the coming moons. The deal should be an easy one.”
“And if they do not agree?”
“We keep asking until they do.”
The diauxie’s laughter was rare, for he had seen too much blood spilled, and the others looked over, even the fennidi, whose silver-rimmed eyes held questions.
“Let’s hope your plan words, Aldric,” Otieno called as he climbed atop the tall mount.
The mage knew that the plan would be a successful one, although not because he understood the needs of the Sythians. Once, many moon years before, the girl had visited him. It had been brief and her image flickered, as if clouds danced across Luna. Yet, across her back, hung a bow. Long and thin, the wood glazed and shining, unlike any he had seen in his time as a mercenary. It had come from afar, he remembered thinking.
And it had look well-used.
*****
It had taken him moon years of feigning obedience in order to be allowed some freedom. Not until he was nearing twenty moon years did Tomasz, as he was known here, have permission to travel without guard. As his rank in the Royal Army climbed, so did Delwin’s trust for him, and, with that, his chains loosened.
He could still recall asking Delwin for a half-moon leave to visit his mother, although he had lied about her name as well. His pale hair marked him as a Planusian, and Delwin had long known that he was little more than a farmboy. Mixed in with those truths, Jarek had offered lies, until, finally, he was granted leave to travel.
That first visit had been a strange one, for, in eight moon years, his mother had not seen him in flesh. She had known what had become of him, for he still could time-walk without discovery, even guarded and watched. For a quarter-moon, he had stayed with her, meeting his half-brother for the first time, the young son with his mother’s now-husband. Nicoline would never leave the farmstead, especially now that she had married. But Rexterra would never be safe for her, even with his father now dead.
Overhead, a glowing, midday sun watched, alone in a cloudless sky, as Jarek rode toward the farmstead. It had been nearly a moon year since he last saw his mother and he kicked at his thick-legged mount, sending the horse into a canter across overgrown grass. She would know it was he who came, for, moments before, rain threatened.
As he neared, Jarek noticed the boy running out to greet him and he slowed the horse, loosening the reins held tightly in his thick-skinned hands. The boy beamed at him, waving his soft arms high in greeting.
Jumping from the mount, Jarek called, “Izaak, look at how you’ve grown!”
The boy was taller than when last he saw him, and broader too, built more like his father, Leonn, than like Jarek himself. Even the boy’s eyes were like his father’s, gray-green with an absence of sea and sky.
When Jarek had first arrived in the King’s City, he forgot much of his past, and even the memories of his mother were edged with fog. For moon years, he did not visit her, in flesh or in time-walking. Even her name was lost to him. When Delwin’s mages questioned him about his past and about his Elemental skills, Tomasz had answered without delay and without lie. He was an orphan, without home or history when Caryss had found him and discovered his mage-skill.
But his time with her was not the only thing that Delwin demanded to know. For nearly a moon, Delwin’s mages prodded him, wrapping him in spell and stripping him of wards. Repeatedly, with sword and spell, they questioned him, until he grew weak and confused. He remembered how his body would shake and shiver as the strongest of the mages sought the truth from him.
Yet they had never found it.
Mind-locked by the High Lord, in a meeting Jarek did not ever recall, his memories had been nearly erased. Despite the missing time and forgotten thoughts, Jarek later understood why the Tribesman had needed to ensure that he remember nothing. If Conri had not mind-locked him fifteen moons years before, Delwin would have known where to find Caryss’s babe and the others.
With only a dark mage, a wood sprite, a healer, and a sole warrior to defend the babe, she would not have survived long. However, she had, and moon years before, it was a visit from the girl, near the age of Izaak, that allowed him to remember.
After quickly tying off his mount, Jarek embraced the boy, swinging him around until the boy giggled and cried out in delight.
“Have you saved me any of mama’s cooking, Izaak?” he teased, pinching at the boy’s soft belly.
His brother wobbled and laughed as he answered, “Sometimes mama lets me help her in the kitchen. She says that I need to become a strong boy. And you know what else she says? She told me that one day mayhap I can join you in the King’s City!”
Izaak was a few moon years younger than Jarek had been when Caryss had taken him from the farmstead, yet he had no plans on bringing the boy to Rexterra. Not while Delwin ruled.
The boy was without defense, untrained in both sword and sky. On one of his earliest visits, Jarek had spoken with his mother about the boy, only to learn that he seemed to have no mage-skill. His father was an unremarkable man, yet he was kind to Nicoline and had taken on nearly all of the responsibilities of the farm. His mother appeared content, which was enough for Jarek. And his brother was a good lad, though a bit soft and slow.
Nearing ten moons years, the boy needed to learn to fight, urgently now, for Jarek knew of Delwin’s plans. It would not be long before war spread across Cordisia, even to the isolated farmstead. A call for soldiers had already been decried.
With increasing briskness to his step, he hurried into the house, Izaak trailing after him, his bird-like voice chattering.
Spotting his mother slicing some honeyed ham, Jarek called, “Have you prepared all of my favorites?”
Her eyes, a faded shade of his own, held unspoken words as she looked upon him. She had heard the reports of war, he
realized.
“You must be hungry after such a long ride,” she told him, her words falling victim to her troubled thoughts.
Taking the offered plate, he began eating, refusing the chair she offered. His legs were tight, after having ridden for days. It did not take long for him to finish the ham and salted potatoes, and, when his plate was empty, he wiped at his face with a small slip of linen.
“It would do me well to stretch my legs a bit. Come walk with me mother.”
Izaak followed them from the kitchen back into the yard, then toward the sprawling fields, still green with low-lying plants.
When she noticed his gaze, Nicoline explained, “Leonn thought it wise to add a bean crop moons ago. I did not think we needed it, but they have done well all summer, and he has sold nearly all of our yield.”
With little more than a nod, Jarek asked, “What of the boy? He is of an age where he must decide what his future shall be.”
Izaak ran ahead, too far to hear their hushed words.
Around them, the winds increased, as if in anticipation. He watched as his mother plaited her hair, thinking it duller than when last he saw her.
“He is not like you, Jarek,” she sighed, tying off the ends of her thinning hair. “Izaak cares little for swordplay and is at ease with book and quill. His teacher at the school tells me how he knows nearly as much as she. He talks to me for hours of what new book he has found. The army is not for him, nor would I want it to be if what rumors I hear are true.”
“Some of the king’s advisors have suggested that he force all boys of twelve and over to join the newly expanded Cordisian Command. Izaak is nearly eleven, and this war will most likely not be a hasty one.”
“What are you telling me? He is a child!” she gasped, reaching for his arm.
He slowed his step, softly telling her, “The Command will use those too young to fight as squires and messengers. Once of an age, all will be forced to fight if war still breeds. I have thought long on this since last I was here and saw how the boy enjoyed study to sword. Send him to the Healer’s Academy, mother, where he will prosper in safety. The king will not seek to find fighters among those training in the Healing Arts.”
