The Grandmother looked up at Agais from where she sat cross-legged on the floor of her hut, the lines of her face a picture of innocence. Night was falling once more and, though they usually rode until the dark claimed every foot of the desert, the clanmaster had called an early halt.
When Grea had asked him why, his silence was so sullen she hadn’t braved voicing the question again.
“And what game is that?”
Agais glared at the Grandmother, caught between respect for his elder and exercising his role as head of the Arros.
And as a father-to-be.
“You can’t manipulate the signs, Grandmother,” he forced through gritted teeth. His eyes passed to the once again unconscious form of Raz, still held to the bed. “I don’t know if you had visions of this creature and made up the fortune, or if you’re trying to bend fortune around him, but you can’t manipulate prophecy.”
“The telling is real,” Grandmother said quietly.
“Then stop trying to entwine it around this boy!” Agais snapped, pointing at the child. “Raz i‘Syul? Did you think I wouldn’t notice, or that Grea wouldn’t tell me? ‘Child of the Sun’? ‘Son of the Sun’? You’re trying to match the words to an atherian, Grandmother!”
“There are scholars who believe lizard-kind consider themselves to be Children of the—”
“I DON’T GIVE A MOON’S FUCK WHAT THEY CONSIDER THEMSELVES TO BE!”
The old woman jumped at Agais’ roar, eyes wide. Beside her, Raz stirred but did not wake. The man, for one, took a deep breath.
“I’m sorry,” he said after a moment, seating himself on the floor and leaning an elbow against the short table in its center. “But you frustrate me. You’ve given Grea reason to fear for that boy’s life,”—he motioned toward Raz—“and as an expecting mother she’s taken to the idea of keeping him with the clan.”
“Agais…”
“If she realizes you think this atherian is the one the signs are pointing to, she’ll be twice as upset. You told us it was our son who would bear the burden, not some castaway we crossed paths with in the desert.”
“Agais.”
“Even if you aren’t wrong and this boy is the one of whom the Sun speaks to you, it wouldn’t be up to us to raise him. It can’t work. We can’t even be sure the boy is capable of developing normally around men. Could he learn our language? Our culture? Could he—”
“AGAIS!”
It was the Grandmother’s turn to yell, and this time Raz woke abruptly, jerking in the bed. Every one of his limbs except for his wing had been freed, and the child clambered to straighten, looking around and hissing. The old woman went to him immediately, and he calmed at the sight of her. She soothed him, placing a hand on his scaled arm and stroking his face with the other. When he was quiet, she turned back to the clanmaster.
“Agais,” she said in almost a whisper, forcing herself to look him in the eye. “I-I was not intending to tell you…”
She faltered, and in that breadth of silence Agais felt some invisible steel hand grab at his throat. Cold crushed over him, watching the emotions that flit across the old woman’s eyes. Fear, pain, frustration, grief… For a face usually so calm and understanding, it was frightening.
“Agais… your child won’t… your daughter… she won’t…”
And then the cold was gone. Numbness replaced it absolutely, draining his skin of feeling before rushing inward. The only sensation the man could make out was the deep, drowning pound of his own heart. For a moment he sat, oblivious to all except the wordless facts that were painted out in the Grandmother’s gray eyes. She opened her mouth to try and explain further, but he raised a hand to stop her.
For a full minute Agais sat in silence, letting the realizations weigh on him, letting them catch hold in the frenzied jumble of his thoughts. When at last he could speak again, it was only barely.
“Grea… Grea cannot… Grea will not hear of this,” he stammered, feeling the heavy stone of grief drop from his throat into the pit of his stomach. “Is that understood? You will never tell her what you… what you mean to tell me.”
The Grandmother swallowed, eyes wet, but nodded, and Agais got to his feet. His sight was oddly blunt, as though he were looking at the world through dirty glass. Horrible thoughts snaked into his reality, like some tangible nightmare. For a time he stood, one hand on the wall of the cart for support, alone and trapped in his own cruel mind. The Grandmother stood by, silent, hands clasped in front of her chest to keep them from shaking.
Finally Agais blinked and looked around. Then, slowly, he made his way to the hut’s entrance.
“Grandmother…” He stopped before pulling the flap open. His voice was hoarse and dead, barely his own, and his eyes looked out into the pale night unseeing. “As a father, I can hope. As a father, I have to hope…”
Only a soft sob responded from behind him, and with that Agais felt the stone sink a little deeper. Stepping out into the cold, he let the hides fall behind him and turned right to head for his favorite spot outside the wagon ring. He felt unwilling, just then, to return to his wife and unborn daughter.
His fated daughter…
Back in the hut, the Grandmother grasped for the edge of the bed and eased herself to her knees as she continued to cry wordlessly. With one wrinkled hand covering her face she let her body shake, hating the truths that had finally fought their way free. After a few minutes something heavy pressed against her hair, lifted, then pressed again. Looking up, the woman realized that Raz had shifted in his bed enough to reach her with a clawed hand, and was attempting to stroke her head in the same way he enjoyed so much. Despite herself, the Grandmother smiled a sad smile, daring even to gently grab hold of the infant’s slim fingers, finding comfort in the alien grasp.
________________________
Over the last days of the journey, Agais did as the Grandmother had suggested, and a slow trickle of visitors flowed through the old woman’s hut as the rest of the clan were introduced to Raz. Jarden, with some prodding from his lovable—if slightly rebellious—younger wife Surah, went first. The man, brave as he was, was not so anxious to come face-to-face with the atherian again now that the babe was awake. He approached the Grandmother’s wagon with the same caution one typically took when trying to get close enough to a dog to see if it was rabid. Surah, losing patience, had threatened the withholding of certain nighttime comforts if the man didn’t enter, which proved enough to spark Jarden’s usual courage back to life.
The encounter had initially gone about as well as could be expected, despite the Grandmother’s and Grea’s attempts to warn Raz of Jarden’s arrival. They admitted later that Agais’ suggestion of temporarily replacing the restraints on the boy’s arms and legs had been a good one, but too late. It took almost ten minutes to calm the atherian sufficiently to let Jarden approach and offer his hand to be sniffed. Surprisingly, potential for a promising bond took seed when Raz finished his sensory inspection of the offered limb and proceeded to nip it playfully. Jarden yelped and leapt back, examining the appendage only to find that it was barely scratched. The child, meanwhile, erupted into his series of harsh sounds that everyone had rapidly realized to be laughter. Jarden, hearing this and satisfied that all five fingers of his hand were still attached and moving, began to chuckle as well, until both of them were laughing uproariously.
After that the introductions went smoothly. Or at least relatively so. All the adults went first, Tolman—a dark-skinned, dark-eyed Percian friend—leading the way. After him came Ishmal, Kosen and his wife Delfry, Ovan and Hannas—another married couple and friends of the true Arros—Trina, the widowed wife of Surah’s brother, and finally Achtel and the ever-skeptical Iriso. The woman appeared as unconvinced as ever, even after Raz had accepted her with his childishly alien smile, and she stormed out of the hut as soon as possible.
The next day came the yo
unger members of the family, one at a time. Kosen and Delfry’s older daughters, Eara and Zadi, went first, both a shade nervous, but left the Grandmother’s wagon with no qualms. Prida, a young runaway the clan had accepted two years ago at the tender age of sixteen, entered closely followed by a guarding and watchful Tolman. Some of the older members of the clan disapproved of the man’s interest in the girl. He was eight years her senior, true, but Agais had looked into the situation and found nothing but patient affection, and so had let the matter drop.
The youngest children were more hesitant, skittishly eyeing the hut until Izan—Achtel’s oldest of four sons at fifteen—stuck out his chest and marched in. He came out wide-eyed, staring at the hand the lizard-kind had examined like it had grown a mouth and learned to speak.
After that the other children had had to be forced into a line to keep them from all rushing in at once.
Asahbet was next, followed by his younger brothers Ryler and Sasham. Trina led her daughter Kâtyn in a minute later, and Ovan tailed off the main group, escorting his little twins—brother and sister—into the hut. Foeli and Barna, both six, had eyes the size of their small fists when their father coaxed them into offering hands to Raz. After all, despite being at least three summers younger, the babe was a half head taller than either of them and covered in scales.
It was then that the day’s only difficulties arose. Iriso flat-out refused to let her children Mychal, an energetic boy of seven, and Anges, a shy little girl of five, near the atherian despite even her husband’s encouragement. The Grandmother herself had grave words for the woman, saying Iriso was counter-intuitively endangering the two youngsters by not familiarizing them with Raz. What might happen if the boy ever got loose, she’d asked darkly. What would happen if he didn’t recognize them?
Iriso had retorted that having the “beast” amongst them to begin with was a danger in and of itself, but with the entire clan introduced to Raz and finding little to fear, she finally gave in. Still, the woman somehow negotiated that Jarden, Tolman, Agais, and her husband all be in the hut while her children were being familiarized with the boy, and so the quarters were more than a little cramped. Mychal went bravely, smiling at Raz’s searching nose, and Anges giggled when the babe’s forked tongue flicked over the skin of her small arm. Scowling, Iriso hurried them out of the hut, muttering under her breath about “flesh-eaters” and “oversized reptiles.”
Both the Grandmother and Grea had had to cover snorts of derisive amusement. The happy sound added a drop of darkness to Agais’ quickly blackening mood.
For days now Agais had watched his wife. Silently he judged her movement and actions. She looked healthy enough, and there were no signs of trouble with the pregnancy. In fact, several times she’d gasped in momentary shock as the baby kicked or punched lively, smiling and catching her breath.
And yet, each time this happened, Agais felt dread grab at his throat like some wicked spirit of terror.
The Grandmother had never been wrong about a birthing. Or any other similar event for that matter. The Sun had blessed her with clear voices, visions that struck her at odd times, giving her a glimpse of what would come to pass. As it was with the telling, as it was with her vision of Agais’ child.
His daughter, he thought with a sick mix of thrill and grief.
Still, it was possible that the woman could be wrong. There had to be a first mistake somewhere in these glimpses the Grandmother had.
Agais, against his will, allowed himself to hope, if only a little. He needed to hope. He needed to have that glimmer of light to hold on to if he wanted a prayer of keeping what he’d seen in the Grandmother’s eyes from Grea. She was a few days into her ninth month now. The birth was near, proven by the baby’s increased agitation, and hopefully within the next few weeks the nightmare would end. Agais would hold his crying daughter—or son, even—up before the Grandmother.
He would prove her wrong.
At that moment, shortly after Iriso had ushered her children out of the cramped hut, Agais caught his wife’s eye. The woman smiled at him from beneath loose strands of long bleached hair, winking affectionately. He felt his stomach turn, but forced a smile back at her, pretending that he, too, was pleased with the day’s work. In truth, Agais had watched from the depth of his own thoughts for most of the time, too preoccupied to bother being in the room with body and mind.
The lovely Grea. His soul’s better half in every way.
He would prove the Grandmother wrong. He had to.
VII
The Garin was a sight no matter how many times one might have witnessed it before. Surrounded by a wall of high dunes, it bloomed from the sands as travelers crested the hills from any direction. The desert lake, it was called, and not lightly. The Garin was a little piece of paradise in the middle of the barren wastes that were the Cienbal. It had everything—clean water, shade provided by the numerous copses of palm and weeping trees that patched its shores, slim silver fish flickering just under the lake’s surface. The only reason a town hadn’t developed around the oasis was that it was a hundred leagues too far from anywhere, making routine trade nearly impossible. It did, however, form the Garin into an ideal resting spot for the weary traveler, as well as the perfect place to spend the broiling months of the summer season. A twisted double crescent of sparkling water against an endless canvas of dusty tan, the lake had wide shores more than large enough to house a hundred families with room to spare.
Despite the delays they’d had, the Arros still arrived fairly early in the season. Only a dozen or so clans were already camped at the edge of the oasis. Their timing was fortunate, giving the family a good choice of where to settle for the next two months, and they needed the selection. Grea’s coming labor would require quick water from the lake, and almost as important was the need to keep Raz’s presence quiet. It might be weeks, but until the atherian tribes came from the Crags to the east, there was too much risk in letting the other families find out the Arros were keeping the babe.
One Iriso was manageable. A hundred, on the other hand…
“There.”
Agais, Jarden, and Tolman were debating by the clanmaster’s wagon, looking out over the Garin from their place atop the northern dunes. Agais was pointing to a spot at the near edge of the lake just below them.
“In the nook of the west shore, beside the palm groves. We can set up by the trees, near the shallows. We’ll have shade, spare wood to burn or sell, and a safe place to collect water and bathe. And, worst come to worst, the trees will provide plenty of cover if the ath—if Raz needs it.”
Or we need it, he thought humorlessly after the two men had nodded and left to spread the word.
The Garin was a clear diamond against the scoured face of the desert, but it was a flawed gem. Danger was present as much as comfort, and it paid to be ready. Marsh crocodiles and their smaller caiman cousins were locals of the lake, making washing, fishing, and collecting drinking water safe only in the extreme shallows along the shore. Besides that, where large amounts of living creatures amassed, so too came the predators. Man-flesh might not be the most reliable source of food, but sandcat attacks happened repeatedly over the summer months regardless, though few were ever successful. Even the dune scorpions braved an occasional assault at some of the smaller families, striking and dragging their prey off into the dunes before any widespread alarm could be raised. It was the reason why, once most of the clans arrived, they tended to form little pockets of massed settlements to dot the oasis rather than spread thin around its edge. It was a habit that had proven useful often, and sometimes in unexpected ways.
Seven years ago, long before Agais and Jarden’s father’s death, the Garin had fallen prey to raiders. Or fallen under attack, at least. The raiders in question had either severely underestimated the number of clansmen they were up against, or had somehow lost a vast part of their force to the summer heat. The result was just
under fifty lightly armored marauders charging down the hill in the middle of the night, bearing torches and swinging sabers. The element of surprise had been on their side, granted, but they’d made the mistake of attacking one of the largest mini-settlements around the lake. Likely they’d thought it would yield the largest take in a quick smash-and-grab.
It was about the only thing they got right.
Twenty-five families awoke to several burning homes, each caravan with at least four capable men and women among them and some with more than ten. Rather than the easy victory they’d anticipated, the raiders had found themselves surrounded by almost two-hundred very angry nomads, not a few among them skilled with a bow, blade, or staff.
While thirty clansmen died that night, only half-a-dozen bandits managed to escape up the hill without an arrow in their back or steel between their ribs. The Arros had been in the midst of the conflict, but thankfully all made it out with their lives.
Sometimes, though, when he’d indulged in too many spirits, Jarden still liked to show off the scar on his left thigh he’d received from a “lucky” saber slash.
Chuckling at the thought, Agais heaved himself onto the front of the wagon where Grea waited as usual, gray eyes wide with excitement, looking out over the Garin. Grabbing the draft horses’ reins, Agais gave them a snap, and the train began moving again. A quarter of an hour later the carts circled in, forming the practiced ring just at the edge of the shadows cast by the palms.
The next few hours were spent making camp, a much larger endeavor than the usual nightly fire and stone ring to keep in the horses. One at a time, starting with the Grandmother’s wagon at the back and moving forward, patched canvas tents were pitched, backed up against the carts for support and extra room. The entrances faced inward, leaving the inside ring an open circle just big enough to fit all twenty-four Arros comfortably around an evening bonfire. Afterwards, the men worked together to unload the lengths of crafted wood that made up the more permanent horse pen—stowed away in Tolman’s relatively empty wagon—and set about digging pits in the sand deep enough that the vertical posts would hold firm. Meanwhile, the women and younger children began setting up the camp in more detail, covering the hut floors with large cloth carpets and reed mats, wide enough to ensure that little sand could escape into the living areas, even with the wind. Thin bedrolls—the same ones the families used during the cooler months—were laid out alongside each other, sheltered by the tents and leaving the wagons with much more room to spare.
Child of the Daystar (The Wings of War Book 1) Page 6
