Birthrights_Revisions to the Truth

by J. Kyle McNeal

  “Any day now.” Whym sensed Seph was speaking as much to the tree as to him.

  “The snow’s melted,” Whym said. The early spring rain had cleared the last weather-related obstacle to their departure.

  “Yes.” Seph sighed and closed his eyes. “Yes it has.”

  Whym had noticed changes in Seph since the day Tedel returned from the first errand with Lily—the errand Tedel had revealed was no errand, but an offer of freedom. Seph seemed more relaxed around them but, at the same time, more secretive. While Whym was thrilled his Faerie friend no longer worried about being left behind in slavery, he suspected Tedel was withholding something important. On several occasions, Whym had come across Tedel and Seph in furtive conversation. When he approached, those conversations had turned into uncomfortable silence or lame discussions about the weather. Although Whym had obliquely broached the topic, Tedel always found ways to avoid answering. Whym’s frustration had increased to the point he was prepared to confront Tedel. But then he’d remembered his petty jealousy over Kutan’s and Stern’s private conversations, and decided to hope Tedel would eventually offer the information.

  This moment, though, provided the perfect opportunity to ask Seph instead. Whym opened his mouth to speak, but at the last moment, decided to keep his curiosity at bay. So they sat, Seph staring at the juniper, Whym at Seph, until the cold latched onto the skin of Whym’s arms. He rubbed it away with quick strokes. “In case we don’t have the chance when the birth comes, I want to thank you—for saving our lives, for the food, the shelter—for everything.”

  They’d decided not to continue to wait in Colodor for Stern, and Seph had proposed they leave when Raven’s labor started. That timing would provide him a credible reason for being careless enough to allow them to escape, as well as an excuse for not noticing they were missing for half a day or more.

  “I should thank you for the work you’ve done in the shop and forge.” Seph turned to face him. “We’ll miss having you three around.”

  Whym smiled. He guessed the second part might be true, but their work barely covered the cost of their keep. The few moons they’d helped in the workshop wouldn’t begin to compensate for their purchase price. “We’ll miss you and your family as well. Maybe someday we’ll meet again.”

  “Something tells me we will.” The blacksmith pushed himself up from the bench and looked again at the juniper before turning back to Whym. “I need to check on Raven. See you at dinner.”

  Whym was still puzzling over the conversation as he headed to the room he shared with Tedel and Kutan. He could hear them arguing from the hall. “What makes you think you have any input on where we go next?” Kutan said. “I don’t recall inviting you to tag along.”

  Whym opened the door and stepped inside before Tedel responded. “We’ve covered this. Tedel’s going with us.” He shut the door with more force than intended. The echoes of its closing reverberated down the hall.

  Kutan glared at him. “We need to find Stern. I’ve heard enough of this nonsense about the Steward.”

  Whym started to disagree. “If Stern were here—”

  “Stern’s not here,” Kutan interrupted. “That’s the point. You talked so much before about getting back to Kira and your family. Now you’re the one who wants to keep chasing a myth?” Kutan pointed at Tedel. “You’ve been seduced by his stupid Faerie stories. We’re not slaves anymore. You don’t have to be so desperate to believe.”

  The mention of Kira and his family gave Whym a pang of regret. A part of him desperately wanted to return to Riverbend. Another part, though, warned that if the First Lord had targeted him, his return would put them in danger. “I’m not doing this again. We’ve already decided,” he replied, his tone making clear he had no intention of rehashing the discussion.

  “Fine.” Kutan glowered at Whym. “We go to Endeling first. But we should go through the Vinlands. Following rumors about a magical creature near the Mysts is a waste of time.”

  Of course the rumors are bunk, but going through the Forgotten Forest and past the Mysts will keep us far from the slavers’ routes. “It’s a more direct way,” Whym repeated what he’d said the other times they’d argued about the route.

  “You don’t scale a cliff when you can take a path around,” Kutan continued. “It’s clear which of us you favor, but at least use common sense.”

  Why can’t you understand I’m not picking Tedel over you? Whym’s cheeks puffed out as he exhaled. “Let’s go. We’re late for dinner.”

  .

  .

  “We can’t venture into the Forgotten Forest unarmed. We need to ask Seph to let us make weapons,” Tedel suggested after dinner, despite Whym’s earlier dismissal of the idea.

  “They’ve already done too much,” Whym countered, motioning toward the packs lined against the wall of their room. “They’ve provided packs, clothing, food for the journey, and they’re out our purchase price. Our help in the workshop’s barely worth our keep.”

  “Tedel’s right,” Kutan agreed. “We’ll need to be armed with something other than the bows and arrows we’ve made. Otherwise we’ll have to steal weapons and risk being caught doing it.”

  Whym’s jaw dropped. He couldn’t remember the last time Kutan had agreed with Tedel.

  “Of course, making them ourselves would be asinine,” Kutan added, spoiling the chance to start smoothing over their differences. “I, for one, want a sword that won’t break the first time it’s used.”

  Whym thought back to the result of his failed attempt to make a pick for the mines. Kutan had a point. “Fine. We ask. I just wish there was something we could do to pay them back.”

  “We can leave,” Kutan grumbled. “If the smiths he’s hired start gabbing about how well he treats us, it’ll make our escape look even worse.”

  “We better do it soon. Raven looks like she’s about to burst.” Tedel had developed a way of speaking—a facial expression, a subtle turn of his body—that gave the impression he was only speaking to Whym. Predictably, it provoked Kutan.

  “Or we could leave him behind—” Kutan thrust his chin toward Tedel—“to work off the debt.”

  I’ve had enough! Whym could feel the veins in his temples throb. “Let’s go see Seph now. I bet he’s still in the workshop.” He slung open the door and stomped out, not checking if they followed. When he reached the workshop, though, they were right behind him.

  “Seph,” he called as he stepped inside. The blacksmith and his daughter were seated at the table where the group ate breakfast each morning. They turned as Whym entered.

  “Can we do it now?” Lily asked.

  “All right.” Seph stepped out to the entrance where he received customers and met each morning with the salesmen. He returned moments later with three hemp-wrapped packages he set beside Lily on the table. “You hand them out.”

  She gave the first package to Tedel, her clear favorite of the three. “Go ahead, open it.”

  Tedel untied the string and pulled back the hemp to reveal a sword, two daggers, and a belt with sheaths designed to carry all three weapons. “Oh, my!” He looked at Lily, then Seph. “These are incredible.”

  Lily clapped her hands together and smiled, green eyes sparkling, then delivered the other two packages.

  Kutan lifted the sword from the table and examined it under the flickering lamplight. Then he stepped away to execute the controlled swings he used for his training exercises. “The balance is perfect. And so light!”

  Whym traced his finger down the razor-sharp blade of his sword. The craftsmanship was exceptional—not a single flaw. “I don’t know how to thank you.”

  “Finish your quest.” Seph smiled as Lily hugged his leg. “Then do some good afterwards.”

  Whym noticed Tedel turning his sword back and forth, studying the symbols engraved into the hilt. He looked at the symbols on his own
sword—a different mark on either side—but they meant nothing to him.

  Tedel pointed to one of the symbols. “This is the—”

  “The maker’s mark.” Seph cut him off.

  “And this?” Tedel flipped the sword over and pointed to the symbol on the other side.

  “The maker’s mark,” Seph said. A look of understanding passed between them, and Whym made a mental note to ask about it later.

  “Dinner’s ready,” Raven announced from the house, her voice echoing through the hall and into the workshop.

  “Best not keep her waiting.” Seph shrugged and made for the workshop door.

  As he followed the blacksmith toward the house and dinner, Whym noticed Tedel hang back with Lily. He knew he shouldn’t, but he hung back also, just past the door, to eavesdrop.

  “You like them?” she asked.

  “Lily, why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Tell you what?”

  “Your father’s Pyrborn and Amondon!”

  A pause followed. I should go to dinner and ask Tedel later. If they open the door, I’m caught—no excuse for listening. Whym tried, but couldn’t persuade himself to move. His ear remained glued to the door.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Look. The maker’s marks. This is the mark of Pyrborn. This is Amondon.”

  “So?”

  “So? So bonded Faerie—even the Pure—can only have one mark, the mark of their father’s blood.”

  Faerie? Is Seph Faerie, too? Whym was too wrapped up in following the conversation to fully consider the ramifications of what he’d just learned.

  “So?” Lily repeated.

  “This sword has both. Your father’s double-bonded. Maybe that’s why you have magic without needing the Unum.”

  Lily’s voice wavered. “But Papa doesn’t even know I have magic.”

  Magic? Whym’s mind filled with questions.

  There was another long pause. “You’re right. I was just being silly. Let’s get to dinner.”

  “You shouldn’t tease like that,” Lily scolded.

  Whym hurried down the hall and out of sight before the door opened. He’d not known Tedel very long, but he knew him well enough to know what he’d said to Lily at the end of the conversation was for her benefit alone. Whatever he’d figured out from the maker’s marks meant a great deal to him.

  .

  .

  “Mama’s water broke!” Lily woke them, slinging open the door with a loud whack as it slammed against the wall behind. They’d already said their goodbyes at dinner, but she rushed over and gave Tedel a hug anyway before dashing off.

  Whym woke groggy, still stuffed from the feast. When the words sank in, he hurried to get dressed.

  Seph stuck his head in the door. “It’s time. Know you’re always welcome here. And be safe.” He paused, looking at Tedel as if there were more he wanted to say, but then turned and left.

  In moments, they were outside breathing the crisp night air. Tedel, who’d been going on “errands” with Lily to scout the route, led them through the city and to the less trafficked northern gate. It was closed for the night. Two guards stood nearby, alert despite the quiet evening.

  Kutan open his cloak just enough to reveal the handle of one of the daggers in his belt. “I could take them both myself before they could make a noise.”

  Tedel shook his head. “No need.” He pointed toward a huddle of structures built against the wall. “The wall’s to keep men out, not in.”

  Careful to be quiet, so as not to draw the guards’ attention, they scaled one of the structures and climbed the last bit of weathered stone. Whym and Tedel huddled on top while Kutan searched for a spot to secure a rope with which to climb down. “Don’t wait for me. When you reach the ground, go for the trees. I’ll catch up,” he told them once the knot was ready.

  “What are you going to do?” Whym asked, more protest than question.

  “If I leave the rope, we’ll be out a rope, and they’ll know which way we went.” He gave Whym a look that said he should have known without asking. “I can climb down. Don’t worry about me.”

  “What if you fall and twist an ankle—or worse?”

  “Then your Faerie can lead and protect you,” Kutan snapped. “Now go.”

  Welloch, Chapter 41

  .

  .

  .

  In the time of Dyrmor, the first Mother, the Dragonborn absorbed many peoples into their culture. According to law, the station of those absorbed was inverse to their previous station. Freed slaves stood above their former masters, with the highest standing reserved for the descendants of the Tungan slaves freed by Siroth.

  .

  Any who refused to accept their station were named Forsaken.

  .

  —Excerpt from the Tungresh,

  the sacred scrolls of the Dragonborn

  .

  .

  Welloch

  .

  .

  .

  .

  The drumbeats grew faster, more insistent, and the drummers’ bodies glistened near the fire, their violent strikes spraying sweat that pooled on the wooden platform. The ritual was being held despite the news of the army’s advance. If anything, the news had intensified the Dragonborn’s response to the Reaping, the one day per turn reserved to honor the desert gods. It was the only time when the Bone Reader outranked the Mother.

  I know Nikla said it’s for the old gods and not the crops, but it makes no sense to hold a harvest festival in spring. The snow just melted, and the ground’s not even thawed. Quint had meant to ask the Bone Reader for an explanation, but hadn’t found an appropriate opening. Despite his continued discomfort in the man’s presence, Quint had met with him in secret throughout the winter moons. There’d been so much to discuss—preparations for war, plans to influence the Mother—he’d waited to sate his curiosity, then forgotten.

  That morning, a single strike of the massive bass drum—a drum with a voice powerful enough to vibrate the chests and bowels of those streets away—had wakened him. As the sun climbed, more drums and drummers joined, like the quickening of the people’s collective heartbeat as the climax neared. Unlike his first Reaping, when he’d rushed to the square and watched in boredom, this time Quint had waited for the sun to peak and the beat to accelerate before leaving his tent.

  When he’d reached the spot where he planned to watch, the sun had started its descent. As a foreigner, he wasn’t welcome among the people when the Bone Reader and Mother addressed the crowd. He stood just beyond the square’s edge against the corner building of a feeder street. The beat was pulsing when the first Dragonborn appeared. The poorest came first, placed their meager offerings, then trudged away to claim a spot in the square. As the sun dipped closer to the mountaintop, the offerings and the displays made of presenting them increased in grandeur. The elders arrived last, their servants hauling chests of grain and baskets of food, while they prostrated themselves in ostentatious exhibitions of prayer.

  When the last of the elders left the stage, Quint could feel the anticipation building. The bonfire was stoked higher in preparation for the Mother’s arrival, rumbling like distant thunder. Fed continuously, it burned with such intensity he could feel its heat from where he stood.

  The previous addresses he’d witnessed—vapid discourses on faith and patience—had been disappointing after such a build-up. He expected this turn to be different, for the Bone Reader to challenge the Mother to take action. At least, the Bone Reader had promised as much.

  Quint looked up at the snow-capped peak above to watch the sun disappear with deep orange splendor. Soon after, the buzz of the crowd announced the Mother’s entrance. She ascended the stage, the corpse of a lamb draped over her shoulder, the blood from its slit neck flowing down her right sid
e in an expanding sanguine stain on her pure white robes. She set the lamb’s body on the platform and began to speak.

  Quint yawned. It was the same message as the previous turn—the same message she’d delivered again and again to him when he urged her to prepare her people. “We’ll do nothing to prepare, but wait and pray for the dragons to return.”

  Whenever Quint had expressed hope of changing her mind, the Bone Reader had coached him against it. He was right. Trying to influence her was like attempting to move a building by pushing on its wall.

  The Mother finished and moved to the side of the stage. Quint dug the dirt from under his fingernails as he waited for the Bone Reader to arrive. When a collective gasp rose from the crowd, he squinted against the flames but couldn’t see anyone approaching the platform. Then he noticed the crowd parting. The Bone Reader was coming from the back, where he’d walk through the people.

  Quint stood on his toes to glimpse the man. When he saw him, he understood the crowd’s reaction. The Bone Reader was powdered white, naked but for a jaguar cape, the animal’s head worn like a hood. Quint recognized the decoration from Nikla’s stories. War!

  “Our forefathers abandoned their gods for a dragon’s protection,” the white-powdered spectacle roared after mounting the stage. “Dragons die. Gods do not!” The crowd murmured a mixed response. “We must beg their forgiveness!” The drumming had stopped. The Dragonborn waited with an eerie quiet.

  During the last Reaping, the Bone Reader had cut open the Mother’s sacrificial lamb, interpreted the signs from the gods, then delivered a message of hope and perseverance. This time his eyes swept for sympathetic faces. “Tunga—” he used the ancient name of the Dragonborn—“my people. Before me I see the remnants of a once-proud nation too long humbled. The Mother soothes you with assurances. But you’ve seen the signs. Death stalks us as surely as the morning sun will rise in the sky.”

  He picked up the lamb and held it high, the body dangling above the stage. “This is a sacrifice worthy of a dragon.” With a grunt, he heaved it into the crowd, knocking over the surprised woman on whom it landed. “The gods receive this with offense and silence. They demand a true sacrifice—the sacrifices our ancestors offered before the Mother starved them of their due.”