“I wish I could. I’d send it crisp and clean from behind, so I might remain upwind of you.” Her gaze moved to the filled chamber pot then back to Quint. “How could you expect your advice to be taken seriously?”
He didn’t intend to be bested in a verbal sparring match by a field hand. “You believe learning about a people whose capital’s worse than a Botheran slum will improve my advice?”
“As well as it might for any bird teaching a worm to fly,” she retorted. “I’m surprised someone learned holds ignorance in such high regard.”
Despite her combativeness, Quint found himself admiring the girl’s temerity, even enjoying the back and forth. “Okay then, cure me of my ignorance.” He pushed himself up to face her. “Share your wisdom.”
“Nikla,” she introduced herself with a slight bow of her head, her disappointment still evident.
“I’m Quint.” He stood and offered his hand in greeting.
She stepped back and looked toward the floor. “We do not greet with touch.”
He thought back to his first meeting with the Mother and remembered the distaste she’d shown when he’d proffered his hand. He’d tried to shake the hand of every Dragonborn he’d met. Until that moment, he’d believed their offish responses were meant to offend and signal he was unwelcome. In fact, he’d been the one giving offense. Perhaps lessons could do some good. “I’m sorry, I—”
“No, forgive me. If I wish you to learn and respect our culture, I must do the same of yours.” She stepped forward and grasped his hand. Before he could say more, she continued. “Today’s lesson will be brief. While primitive in comparison to Bothera, we place a high value on cleanliness. I trust if I return tomorrow, you’ll have time to clean your quarters and yourself?”
He turned beet red. With wit, she’d overcome his resolve to push her away. “Of course,” he stammered, with as much dignity as he could muster.
“Tomorrow.” She lowered her head in a slight bow and left. He didn’t see how, once outside, she paused to calm herself and let her heart stop pounding in her chest. He was focused on his own pulse that fluttered with anticipation. He vowed to quit sulking and make the best of his situation.
He set to work right away, hanging the furs outside to air and unfastening the window-sized tent flap in the back to invite the breeze. Then, after dumping and rinsing the chamber pot, he set off toward the river shallows to bathe. He felt like he was emerging from the grip of a long illness and was on the path back to his former self.
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Freshly bathed and shaved, Quint awoke revitalized before the cock’s crow announced morning. Instead of staring at the ceiling waiting for time to pass, he began the ritual of exercises Dermot had shown him to strengthen his body. On purpose, he was doing push-ups when Nikla arrived.
“Good morning.” She stepped through the open tent flap and glanced at his flexed body, her lips forming a bashful curve before she straightened them. Then, with a look of evident satisfaction, she surveyed the transformation inside his tent.
“Good morning.” He stood and casually slipped his arms into his white linen shirt, leaving it unbuttoned and hanging open. He bowed his head like she had before, hoping to impress her as a quick study.
Instead, she smothered a laugh in her hands. “Men don’t bow.” She found a comfortable spot in the furs. “Oh, and I should inform you that it’s considered shameful for a woman to enter alone the dwelling of a man not of her family.” She held her hands up, palms out, to avoid the words being misconstrued. “I only tell you this should you decide to persuade another to join you.”
Despite Dermot’s warnings against that type of involvement, Quint found the inviting stares of the Dragonborn women tempting. But he certainly didn’t wish to bring shame on Nikla. “We could find another location,” he offered.
She shook her head and answered in a voice far gentler than the day before. “My station’s below shaming. If not for the generosity of my uncle, I’d be Forsaken.” Quint had seen the Forsaken. They were considered below the castes—beggars or worse. The other Dragonborn treated them as pariahs.
“Perhaps that’s why the Mother chose me. I don’t know why else. I have no experience in teaching, and my own lessons ended when—” She didn’t finish the sentence, but the thought brought a look of such sorrow that he hurt for her as well.
Quint was impressed by Nikla the day before. Her continued forthrightness only increased his respect. Though he still believed the Mother’s choice of teacher was meant as an affront, he was more than satisfied with the selection. “Your lessons have already opened my eyes. I care nothing for station nor the Mother’s intent.”
“Then let’s begin.” She held out her hand for him to shake, not realizing shaking hands was something only done in Bothera during an initial introduction, then after to convey condolences. Without correcting her, he responded with a gentle squeeze of greeting. She beamed with the enjoyment of a forbidden thrill. Quint found, in what would have been a routine act the morning before, profound significance.
“There’s a poem we’re taught as children,” she began.
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Wheat eats the earth and reaches towards the light.
The sheep eat the fields bite by bite.
The wolves eat sheep under cover of night.
And then came Man.
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Men plant wheat, and bread they knead.
They fence in sheep and on them feed.
They tame the wolves. But in their greed,
Men kill men.
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But Dragons count time by the rise of mountains.
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“Have you heard it before?”
He shook his head.
“I was afraid not,” Nikla said, shifting her lips to one side in thought. “But I have no way to know what’s common among our peoples. I guess I’ll start at the very beginning of the Tungresh.”
Nikla, true to her word, started at the very beginning—the creation story. She told how the Makers divided the world among themselves, using oceans, mountains, and deserts to isolate their places of creation. She told how each designed the habitat and creatures of their land, but how only seven Makers were capable of creating beings that could themselves create—the seven races.
Quint nodded in familiarity as she named each race, ending with the creation of Man by Jah. “When the dawn of creation was finished,” Nikla continued, “these seven Makers returned to the heavens to begin work on a new world, leaving the lesser Makers behind on this one. Though the borders separating the many lands held for ages, the races eventually learned how to cross them. Man, in particular, thirsted to explore. When men discovered new lands, they treated the lesser Makers they encountered as gods. Sometimes they worshipped them along with Jah, sometimes in place of him.”
Quint considered creation stories more mythology than fact, though it gave him pause to find so much similarity in the stories of two cultures as different as the Quondam and Dragonborn. What he found most fascinating, though, was her explanation for the diversity of religions being due to the assimilation of the lesser Makers. It reminded him of the idols in the Hall of Riches that people once believed were actually gods. In the Allyrian Code, the religion which had framed his own perspective, the lesser Makers were servants to the two true gods—Jah, the God of Life, and Smeit, the God of Death. The only Maker mentioned after creation was Amon the Deceiver, who’d seduced Man into worshipping her by offering magic.
As Nikla continued with the arrival and spread of Man into the land in which they lived, his eyes glazed over. He didn’t perk up again until she reached the point where his ancestors, the Allyrians, entered the conflict with the Dragons.
“The Dragons responded to the encroachment of men into their domain by burning their sett
lements. When the Stewards tried to broker peace, the Dragons attacked them as well, forging an alliance between the Stewards and Man. The Allyrians, the most advanced of the tribes of Man, turned the tide of the conflict with their ability to make metals that could pierce the Dragons’ scales. They hunted the fearsome creatures so effectively that later generations doubted Dragons ever existed. The Stewards, as well, eventually drifted into legend, but for a different reason. Unable to maintain the harmony they sought amidst the expanding settlements of Man, they abandoned their homeland and isolated themselves deep within the Crags.”
Quint reflected on the lessons Teller Salf had given on the topic. The teller had taught that the races represented early tribes of men, a notion he found more plausible than believing in mythical creatures. “Do the Stewards still live in the Crags?” he asked, testing Nikla’s belief in what she was telling him.
She chewed her lip and tugged on her braid, her eyebrows squeezed in thought. “I don’t know. My mother was a scholar. She thought the Faerie were Stewards who’d returned to reclaim their homeland, but the Tungresh doesn’t mention them again. It doesn’t mention the Faerie at all. We know of them only by the stories told to children.”
“Really?” He was surprised the Dragonborn history would leave out something as fundamental as the Age of Faerie. “Our scrolls say the Faerie were Fei, one of the desert tribes, who sold their souls to Amon for magic after the Breaking.”
“It’s not in the Tungresh, but I’ve heard of the Breaking.” Nikla’s voice rose with excitement. “The ground shook and some buildings collapsed.”
Quint was incredulous. “The ground didn’t just shake during the Breaking. It shook so hard almost every structure in the realm was reduced to rubble. The quake was so intense it brought forth an ocean wave as tall as a mountain that washed away cities and flooded the regions with saltwater. The rock structures it lifted from the ocean floor still swirl the currents today. That’s why our coasts are unnavigable, and why this place is called the Lost Land. The Breaking cut us off from Old Allyria. We don’t even know if Old Allyria still exists, or if it, too, was washed away.”
“To my people,” Nikla’s voice softened as if she felt the need for reverence, “this is and has always been the Land of Amon. By the time of the Breaking, we’d already lost the territory gained with the help of the Dragonbrother and retreated here to the Fringe.”
Quint found amazing how fundamental events like the Breaking were inconsequential to the Dragonborn, and how a Maker like Amon the Deceiver was revered elsewhere. Quint was keen to learn more. “Who’s the Dragonbrother?”
Nikla leaned back to look outside, her eyes widening at the position of the sun. She looked like she wanted to continue but rose to her feet instead. “We’ll have to save that for another lesson.” She gave the customary bow of her head.
“Tomorrow morning?” he suggested.
She shook her head as she opened the flap to leave. “The Mother allowed for a lesson only one morning in five. More, and my aunt would surely object. Sorry, I must get to the fields before the day’s light is spent,” she said and rushed off.
Quint’s stomach ached, protesting the skipped meals, but he didn’t leave the tent right away. He wanted to ponder what Nikla had told him while it was still fresh in his mind. For someone who was still searching for truth in what remained of his own faith, there was much to consider.
Sentinel Mountain, Chapter 14
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In the Age of Faerie, Sentinel Mountain marked the eastern edge of the Tatami kingdom and separated the Tatum from their Akapingan rivals. The watchtowers on top, with a sweeping view of the open plains below, provided early warning of danger to the villages in the valley beyond.
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The towers were so effective that the raids had ceased, lulling the sentries into complacency. What was once viewed as a post of critical import, became a place to assign men unfit to fight. Bored by inactivity, the sentries smuggled ale and company to the otherwise lonely peak.
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The Akapingan scouts, however, noted the gradual change. During the Razing, a fall festival when the fields were burned over a seven-day period to prepare for the spring planting season, the sentries drank themselves into a stupor. They slept as an Akapingan raiding party slipped unnoticed into the heart of the valley. Upon waking, the sentries assumed the smoke billowing from the pillaged villages was the fields being burned.
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The raiding party looted its way to the Inge River before a survivor alerted the Tatum king’s army and a defense was mounted. Even when the sentries spotted the returning forces and lit the beacon, they had no idea what had transpired. When they learned, all twelve leapt to their deaths off the eastern cliffs, the cliffs now known as Dozers Down.
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—Excerpt from The Rise and Fall of Magic—The Faerie Histories
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Sentinel Mountain
Half a Moon After Ansel’s Death
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Whym bent his fingers backward despite the protest from his aching forearms. His fingertips were raw from the jagged rock, and his arms had yet to recover their strength. The group of three had bypassed the easy trail up the north face of Sentinel Mountain and taken an easterly approach, which required scaling the nearly vertical cliff of Dozers Down.
Whym inched toward the edge and surveyed the drop. It seemed less daunting in the night, when the trees at the base were but faint outlines illuminated by moonlight. He imagined how the sentries must have felt. Had the sheer terror of plummeting toward certain death blocked, for those last moments, the pain of their guilt? The thought reminded him of how difficult it was to bear the burden of responsibility for another’s death. Ansel was a stranger and wanted criminal, but the memory of his headless corpse tortured Whym. He couldn’t imagine the crippling guilt the sentries must have experienced after allowing their families and friends to be slaughtered. If it had been me, the ground couldn’t have come fast enough.
“Thinking of jumping?” Kutan’s voice startled Whym.
“Mmm,” he grunted. Since Kutan and Stern had returned from seeking Ansel, Whym had nurtured his feelings of betrayal to the point he viewed Stern more as a captor than a teacher. He’d vowed to treat them both as tools—means to an end. But while his master’s aloofness had made half of the vow easy to keep, Kutan had become inexplicably more amicable. Whym had expected the teasing and insults he’d endured during his apprenticeship to continue. Instead, Kutan had been sympathetic and supportive. During the climb, he’d guided Whym not only in his mechanics, but also in locating the best route up the cliff. It took Whym’s constant vigilance, particularly given his dearth of friends, to avoid thinking of Kutan as a friend.
“You did well today.” Kutan nudged him on the thigh with the toe of his boot. “Better than I did on my first climb.”
“Just glad I didn’t fall.” Whym withheld his appreciation. He’s right, though. I did well—very well. As soon as Whym had stopped caring about their opinions, his performance had improved. Stern had claimed practice bred confidence. For Whym, it had been the realization he was all alone that changed everything. He was no longer trying to meet another’s standards, nor could he rely on their assistance. He had to master the skills for himself—for his own survival.
“I’d have caught you if you had,” Kutan said. “Besides, with the rope you wouldn’t have fallen far.”
To Whym, believing that meant trust—something he was no longer capable of sustaining. “Glad I didn’t need to find out.”
Kutan sat next to him and looked up at the stars. Neither spoke, but it was not an uncomfortable silence. Words just seemed out of place. No, I won�
��t fall into that trap—believing you’re a friend.
He was about to get up and head back to the fire when Kutan spoke. “‘A lifetime to climb—a moment to fall.’ My father used to say that. I remembered it today while climbing.”
The statement marked the first time since the apprenticeship began that Kutan had spoken of his past. Whym could feel the barrier he’d constructed eroding. “Was your father a seeker as well?”
Kutan shook his head. “No, he was a merchant. After my mother left, he took me with him everywhere—to nearly every corner of the Lost Land.” His words were punctuated by pauses, as if he were reliving lost moments with his father as he spoke. “Out of all the places we visited, though, I don’t think I’ve seen a more beautiful view than from atop this mountain. Maybe it’s the climb. The harder you work, the more you appreciate the accomplishment.”
Whym, intrigued by his colleague’s past, hoped to learn how a merchant’s son had ended up apprenticed to a seeker. “What does he trade?” he asked, hoping to extend the conversation. But based on the grimace on Kutan’s face, the question was a mistake.
“Did. He’s dead.” Kutan stood and stalked back to the fire. He appeared to be asleep, his chest rising and falling rhythmically, by the time a confused Whym followed. Stern, as well, lay curled with his back to the fire. Whym knelt on his mat to stretch some more.
The fire, now sated, snapped and cracked, its orange flame nuzzled into a final few glowing embers. As Whym prepared to sleep, the seeker rolled over to face him, his body raised and resting on his elbow. “Have time for a story?” The haggardness fixed onto Stern’s face following the failed pursuit of Ansel had persisted. With each passing day, he looked more like the grandfather he could have been.
“Of course.” Whym regarded his master with caution. It’s unlike him to ask. Could he have learned what happened at the cottage? Could we have scaled this cliff just so he could throw me off it?
Birthrights_Revisions to the Truth Page 9
