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As casualties mounted, though, the remaining Faerie chiefs realized they needed a different approach were they to survive. They decided to perform a ritual similar to what the Stewards had done during the Breaking. They sent two chiefs north to protect their people and preserve access to Amon’s power. The other five, along with the men and women strongest in the power, linked themselves to perform the ritual.
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Although not as strong as the Stewards, the joined Faerie still shook the land, opening the earth to swallow the Ippur River. They poisoned the dirt, air, and water of the Barren Plains to create the Blight. The effort consumed the Faerie who performed the ritual and destroyed the five Unum.
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—Excerpt from The Rise and Fall of Magic—The Faerie Histories
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Near the Foothills of Colodor
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Whym didn’t risk speaking with Tedel after Ard’s departure. Exhausted, he slept—a sleep filled with dreams of magic. A Faerie!
“Up!” Damin’s voice was a thunderclap that breached the morning’s peace and sent the chained men scrambling. Whym was again lifted by his neck to his feet.
As he pawed at the fresh cuts the shackle had added just below his jaw, he realized the pain in his feet was gone. A layer of callus as thick as shoes covered his soles. The paste had worked. He looked at Tedel with refreshed hope.
The captives lined up and cupped their hands in front of them. Murck walked down the line doling out chunks of a dark brown bread Whym recognized from the market in Aldhaven. Ard followed with a pot of water. As soon as the bread touched their hands, the men would scarf it down like dogs would a hunk of meat then return their hands to the cupped position. Ard tried to pour the water before they could get their hands down to catch it. It was a cruel game. “Bweh yoo.” The men received the water with mouths still filled with bread. “Bless you,” they repeated after swallowing.
Whym was too slow and missed half of his allotted slosh. “Mother Hen.” Ard looked at the mud still drying on Whym’s body and sneered, “You look like a hawg in a walla.”
“Bweh yoo.” Whym held the water he’d been able to catch in his muddy hands like something fragile and precious. He gulped down the bread and sucked up the water. “Bless you.”
Kutan refused the food and drink. Murck passed him by with a wicked grin, but Ard sloshed his share onto the ground anyway. “Kutan,” Whym whispered when Murck and Ard left. He wanted to get his friend’s attention and encourage him to do what was needed to maintain his strength for an escape.
“Ssss.” Tedel placed his finger over his lips and tilted his head toward Damin, who was standing on the supply cart.
“Go!” Damin thundered, and the linked captives started shuffling, chains jangling, down the road to Colodor.
They walked and walked and walked. The sun rose high in the sky then started its descent. They walked. Whym longed to continue his conversation with Tedel, the longing making the time seem to crawl by. He didn’t dare speak as they marched, though. When they crossed a small stream, Damin announced they’d break. Despite being chained together three across, the captives arranged themselves so they could all kneel by the water and drink at the same time.
The water was muddy and filled with grit by the time it reached him, but Whym had never enjoyed a drink more. “Bless you,” he whispered sarcastically to the stream.
Whym had hoped to have a chance to speak with Tedel during the break, but as soon as the captives had drunk their fill, they resumed the march toward Colodor. The road angled upward, and they began to climb. Whym still didn’t see mountains in the distance, which meant they still had a few days more, at least, to escape. Learning that Tedel was Faerie had lifted his spirits and made him more hopeful that escape was possible. He was puzzled, though, by why Tedel hadn’t used his magic to escape already and was anxious to ask.
“At ease.” The call to end the day’s march finally came, and the captives readied themselves for the night.
“If you’re Faerie, why haven’t you escaped?” Whym asked at the first opportunity. “With your magic,” he clarified after Tedel responded with a puzzled look.
Tedel’s face screwed up as if the question were a heinous insult. “I don’t have magic.”
Whym felt foolish for having believed. “So you’re not Faerie?”
Tedel shook his head. “Most of the Unum were destroyed to create the Blight. Only two Faerie families can still bond with the earth, and they restrict the ritual to the Pure.”
Whym stared blankly. Unum? Bond? Pure? “What’s an Unum?”
“You know nothing of this?” Tedel looked at him in disbelief. “The Unum’s the tool used to unlock the power of Amon, what you call magic. Without access to the Unum, we Faerie are no different from other men.” Tedel then proceeded to tell Whym the story of the Faerie exodus from the land, a tale far different from what was recorded in the Truth.
“So the Faerie created the Blight?” Whym asked when he’d finished. The Truth presented the story as if the Faerie had been driven into the wasteland and would have certainly perished.
“Yes, as protection,” Tedel clarified. “But now, the Faerie possess only two of the nine Unum. Five were destroyed to create the Blight.” Tedel paused, and his eyes sought Kutan before continuing. “The Akapinga took one before they disappeared. Another had been lost long before.”
“If there are still two, why wouldn’t you have magic?” Whym asked, confused by the story and surprised to find himself believing it. He wondered, though, how much their desperate situation contributed to his belief.
“Each Unum can only be used by the descendants of the original pairs who created it. With only two left, most Faerie have no hope of bonding. And these days, even many who could bond are not allowed. The leading families restrict access to the Unum to protect their influence. Only the Pure—Faerie with both parents from the ruling families—may bond. They treat those without power as servants. That’s why I ran away—why I’m searching for the last Steward. I’m going to persuade him to return our birthright, the power of Amon.”
Whym studied Tedel’s face for any hint of deception, but found none. The story was too far-fetched to be anything but true. “If you don’t have magic, how can we escape?”
Tedel stared at his feet. “I’d hoped you’d tell me.”
Near the Fringe, Chapter 32
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‘Tis Not the Path, But the Destination
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The road wraps distant ‘round the tall mountains,
The path through the peaks is narrow and high.
Two travelers meet, a fork confronted.
“You taketh the road, the path taketh I.”
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They met again at their destination
To share a bite, a tall drink, and their time.
“The valley,” one said, “a sight to behold.”
“The summit,” the other said, “is sublime.”
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Each left content with the route they’d chosen,
And pleased their fellow traveler survived.
They agreed the way held little import,
All that mattered was they’d both arrived.
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—Amin Strell
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Near the Fringe
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“Ya know, Cyrus? I’m glad your fa—His Grace—sent me away. Good riddance.” Volos gulped the last of his ale, sloshing most of the mouthful on his shoulder as he emptied the mug. He gurgled a juicy burp and swallowed the ale a secon
d time before lying down. His head bounced against the seat of the converted supply wagon that was serving as a makeshift coach for their journey, but before long, he was snoring.
Cyrus considered lying down himself, but his body was restive after being cooped up all day. He regarded the man across from him with a shake of his head. What happened to Volos? The man he’d known as his father’s adviser was disciplined in speech, fastidious in appearance—his smooth-shaven head and rugged jaw framing black eyes that cowed lesser men. This snoring drunkard was a caricature of a fool without the colorful costume. Is this trip to the Fringe a punishment for him as well?
Volos had spent almost the entire trip drunk, sleeping, or both. Patches of salt and pepper stubble now poked from his once-polished crown. Facial hair spread across his face like mold on a damp wall during the rainy season. A pinkish web had replaced the white backdrop of his once-penetrating onyx eyes. Cyrus had met with trepidation the news Volos would take over his training. In fact, he’d feared the man more than the Shades and the tribes of the Fringe combined. Now, he felt pity.
In the first days after leaving Riverbend, though, he’d joined Volos in his binge of despair. Separation from his twin had made Cyrus feel like a piece of him was missing—as if someone had severed an appendage. But as the passage of time cauterized the wound, that feeling lessened and was balanced by the satisfaction he took from the ever-increasing distance from his father. He’d begun to accept—even look forward to—the change.
When the wagon came to rest, a soldier stuck his head inside. “Sir, we’ll stop here for the night.” Cyrus recognized him from the days he’d spent watching the recruits in the training yard while his instructors droned on about camp layouts.
Most of the soldiers escorting him to the Fringe were pulled from that group of trainees—fresh-faced soldiers headed for their first taste of war. But there was also a small handful of grizzled veterans that kept to themselves—separate fire, separate food, separate sleeping location. It was an unusual dynamic. They didn’t recognize the authority of the officer in charge of the detail, and acted like their mission came from someone much higher up the chain of command.
Cyrus had asked the officer, one of the trainers from Riverbend, about the group, but the officer had assumed the men were reporting to Volos. The mystery piqued Cyrus’ curiosity to the extent he decided to put the question to his barely conscious adviser. When Volos mumbled something unintelligible about assassins, though, Cyrus attributed the response to the alcohol and put the question aside for later.
“Mmmmm,” he groaned as he stretched his back after stepping to the ground. I should be marching with the other men. Being forced to ride in that coach is as bad as watching the recruits train while trapped inside the classroom. Volos, however, had prohibited Cyrus from joining the other men during a rare spell of lucidity, ranting about arrows and ambushes. Cyrus had considered ignoring the prohibition many times while Volos slept, but feared the consequences of disobeying should the man sober.
“Brrr.” Cyrus shivered. The air was cold—colder than chilly, though not quite freezing. He reached back into the coach to get his coat and hand wraps. Volos was snoring. Well, he didn’t forbid me to eat. Cyrus wrapped the supple deerskin over his hands and moseyed over to where the new recruits were lined up to receive their rations. He wasn’t hungry in the slightest, since he’d done nothing but sit, but he looked forward to some different company.
He saw a group of five soldiers standing with their rations beside a small pile of branches, what he guessed would soon be their fire for the evening. He decided to join them. The tallest of the group was speaking authoritatively with a heavy Mudlands accent. “From what I hear, fightin’s the easy part—burning villages, chasing down stragglers to put a sword in their back.”
“Then why’s the Council need so many men?” a squat, stout boy asked, scratching his tangle of curly brown hair with his free hand. “They done come three times to my village. Took a few with ’em each time.”
“Didn’t say folks weren’t dying. They’s dying all right, but it ain’t during the fightin’.” The other four listened attentively as the tallest continued, “They say the Shades pick men off at night, and them tribesfolk got magic they use to curse the camp with disease.”
“Fella I knowed said near half the camp’s sick,” another added. “Tha’s why he done run away—woke up one morning and the men on both sides was plum cold dead. Now, he’s hidin’ in the forest near his folks, sneakin’ in to get some food now and then.”
The soldier on the far left leaned in with a conspiratorial glance to either side but missed seeing Cyrus behind them. “I hears folks been talking—quiet-like, mind you—‘bout sendin’ the recruiter away with a boot up his ass when he shows up again. And not just the Mudlands—all the regions.”
“Ain’t nothin’ but talk,” the tall soldier dismissed the rumor. “They know the Council’d hang ‘em.”
“I just hope it’s over soon,” the short boy opined.
You and me both. Cyrus waited silently behind them, interested to find out what else they’d say before he was discovered.
The one on the far left leaned in again, speaking with a hushed tone. “Don’t get to hopin.’ I heared a couple trainers talkin’ ‘fore we left. They said Commander Fen’s camped for the winter. Don’t plan no more fightin’ ’til spring and the snows melt.”
“Why they sendin’ us to freeze our nuggets off, then? Why not stay in the city ’til they’s ready?”
“Heh. That was the plan until Lord Fen’s boy pitched a wicked fit. Tired of trainin’ and ready for war, so they sent us with to keep him company.”
“Maggot-filled cow patty! Spoiled brat wants to play at war,” the tall soldier spat the words. “He kin play all he wants for all I care—long as I don’t gotta be his toy soldier.”
“Bet he ain’t never dug a shit hole when the ground’s frozen,” the short one added. “Heck, bet he ain’t never even held a shovel!”
The soldier on the far left spotted Cyrus. His eyes bulged, and he started to back away from the group until his heel caught on a rock. He fell hard on his tailbone, spilling his meal in the dirt. Cyrus stepped forward as the other four soldiers turned to see what had spooked their friend. “But I bet you’ve never gutted a man while he watched. Do you know how difficult it is to fish out the entrails before he passes out? Surely that’s harder than digging a hole?” He smiled and winked at the taller soldier, who looked as if he were about to wet himself. “Would you like to see?” See Father, I learned more than you realized.
Near the Foothills of Colodor, Chapter 33
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Whoever strikes you on one cheek, offer to him the other. When he turns his back, place a knife between his shoulders.
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—Truth (Lessons 15:9-10)
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Near the Foothills of Colodor
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“Cain’t have ya forgetting me now,” Ard cackled and snapped his wrist. The worn-in black leather whip popped next to the ear of one of the slaves. The man didn’t flinch. Trained ‘em well.
He rewound the whip and checked where the bleached reeds had been interwoven with the leather. The handle was as soft and smooth as when he’d first taken it off the body of the officer in the Fringe. Over turns of use, it had become an extension of his own arm. Always did know I wasn’t meant to be a farmer.
The thought opened the door for other memories from his childhood in the Mudlands. He tried to chase them away—there was little he wished to remember from those days—but they settled anyway like a bird brooding a clutch of eggs.
For as far back as Ard could remember, he’d despised the life of a farmer—waking before the sun to spend aching-backed days bent over in
the fields. He’d wanted to follow after his own father—not the sorry man he’d been forced to call by the title, but the soldier who’d stuck it to his mum. When he’d run away to enlist on the day of his twelfth turn, though, the army had rejected him. “Too young and no war to fight.”
When war returned to the land several turns later, he’d left again. He’d been on his way to the Fringe to volunteer, less than a day from the main camp, when he’d run into Damin and
Murck. They’d been headed in the opposite direction, driving three lines of naked men—more than thirty total. The men had been chained together by their necks and feet, but were winding all over the path as he passed.
When he’d witnessed Damin’s ineffective whole-armed flops to discipline them, he couldn’t resist showing off his skill. Ard’s one true talent was handling a whip. He’d started as a child, snapping his stepfather’s beloved dog with braided vines. By the time he’d left the farm, he could use a bullwhip to yank hair from his sisters’ heads without touching their scalps. In only a few snaps of his wrist—snaps that split open the skin on the chained men’s backs—he’d had them in a neat line, marching straight. He’d also found a job. He’d agreed to join the slavers, relinquishing his soldiering dreams, because, for the first time in his life, he’d felt wanted.
“Hop to it, Mother Hen!” He placed the cracker behind the left knee of one of the new boys. He’d not snapped hard enough to draw blood, but a fresh welt marked the spot. Whap! He hit the back of the boy’s other knee for no reason other than it was what he wanted to do—a perk of the job.
“Rest up!” Damin thundered from the front, which freed the men to relax until dinner. It was Murck’s turn to ready the food, so Ard nestled against the trunk of an aged oak for some rest of his own. He hadn’t realized he’d nodded off until the toe of Damin’s boot against his thigh roused him for dinner. He opened his eyes to see the last of the day’s light lingering atop the hills.
Birthrights_Revisions to the Truth Page 20
