Birthrights_Revisions to the Truth

by J. Kyle McNeal

  Whym stopped walking to take it in. The bottom of the carving looked like the roots of a giant tree, but instead of stopping at a solid stone base, they spread out across the ground before plunging into the earth. As the roots rose, they merged—not into a trunk, but into the bust of a man.

  “Shhh.” The boy looked up at the statue as if he feared it might have heard, then whispered, “It’s the Master.”

  Whym had been so awed by the statue, he hadn’t noticed two of the buildings across the square were the source of the smoke that had led them to Fetor. Unlike the buildings collapsing around them, these two appeared well-maintained, with a layer of white plaster reflecting the sun.

  Weevil pointed to the building on the left. “We can talk there.” He gave the statue wide berth, walking in a wide arc around the square to reach his destination.

  As they crossed the square, Whym caught a flash of movement from the windows of the upper level of the second building. When he looked up, though, nothing was there. Something’s wrong here. I know it. But when he thought back to the mess his words had gotten them into in Aldhaven, he bit his tongue. Kutan’s in charge. Trust him.

  The boy king opened the door for them to enter. There were no candles or lamps, just the light entering from the open door. The only furniture in the room was a long, misshapen table that sagged in the middle. For benches, sections of fallen trees had been dragged or rolled in, the tops unplaned. Piles of bark sat on the floor next to them where they’d worn off from use. The floor was littered with child-sized, woven straw sleeping mats. There was no decoration or other markings of any kind on the plastered walls, except for a single circular section of wood railing fastened to the wall waist-high.

  Weevil sat cross-legged on one of the mats near the center of the room. “You have questions?” The other boys were still filing in, encircling the three of them where they stood.

  Kutan set his pack on an open spot of the floor near Weevil then sat down. Whym noted how he angled the hilt of his sword so it could be swiftly drawn, and followed his lead.

  Kutan waited until Whym and Tedel were seated before he began. “Have you heard of the Stewards?”

  Weevil shook his head.

  “The Stewards were a race with great magic that lived in this land long ago,” he explained. “They were the original race here.”

  Weevil shrugged.

  “We’ve heard stories of a creature in the Mysts with magic. Do you know of such a creature?”

  The mention of a creature in the Mysts prompted the boy to point out the open door. Then he leaned toward them. “That’s the Master of Death,” he whispered.

  “This Master, he has magic?”

  The little king opened his mouth to answer when the boards above them creaked and the thump of footsteps turned his attention to the stairs at the back of the room. Weevil hopped to his feet, held up his pointer finger for them to wait, then dashed upstairs, taking the steps in twos.

  Whym desperately wanted to know Kutan’s plan, but the other boys still surrounded them. They met eyes, though, and he could sense Kutan’s concern. There was a muffled discussion above them, then Weevil returned. Gone was any pretense of amiability. “You have food?” he demanded.

  “Could you take us to this Master?” Kutan countered.

  “You have food?” The boy pointed to the packs on the floor.

  “If you can’t tell us more, we should be going.” Kutan stood, exaggerating his movements to communicate his frustration. When he started to bend for his pack, the other boys advanced with the sharpened ends of their sticks pointed at him. “Or, we could stay a while longer.” He pulled some food from his pack and set it on the floor. “You’re hungry?”

  Weevil pointed at Whym. “You have food?” Whym grudgingly took most of the food from his own pack, leaving only a few strips of dried meat and a small sack of nuts. Tedel did the same without being prompted.

  “You’ll stay here tonight.” No offer, an order. “Lem, fetch supper.” A small boy, lingering by the door, exited the room. Weevil collected the food from the floor and divvied it up among the others, keeping the largest portion for himself.

  Lem returned, not with dinner, but an armful of ropes—a woman bound to each. There were four haggard women, stooped like farmers who’d spent their lives hunched in the fields, and a pregnant girl, who Whym guessed was a couple turns his junior.

  Two of the women shared the burden of carrying a large cauldron, the third, a wooden bucket that sloshed as she walked, and the fourth, several long brown loaves of bread. The pregnant girl, who stayed at the back, balanced a tray of food using the swell of her belly to stabilize it. The women placed the cauldron and bucket on the floor next to the table and the loaves of bread on top. The girl with the tray trudged upstairs after Lem released her rope.

  “Supper,” Weevil announced, and started toward the food. As the boys queued behind Weevil, Lem led the older ladies across the room, where he tied their ropes to the circular railing Whym had noticed earlier. Neither Weevil nor the other boys gave any indication Kutan and his assistants should queue, so they watched instead beside their packs as the others ate. Each boy broke off a piece of bread, smashed down the middle to form the semblance of a bowl, then used it to scoop the thick soup from the cauldron, gulping it down before the liquid seeped through. When they’d finished eating, they went to the bucket and ladled a drink of water using a hollow gourd. By the end of the line, after so many soup-covered hands plunged into the water to grab the gourd, the color of the liquid in the bucket was indistinguishable from the greasy brown soup.

  .

  .

  “Weevil?” Kutan had dispensed with “Your Grace” after his food had been taken and he was prohibited from leaving. “You awake?”

  “Yeah?” The boy king had warmed up after dinner—and after consuming much of the food he’d confiscated. As he’d groaned from his overfilled belly, they’d talked about the area around Fetor until the door was closed for the night. During the conversation, though, he’d avoided any discussion about the Master or the other inhabitants of the town—particularly whoever lived in the room above them.

  “I need to shit. Is there a ditch near?” Kutan asked when most in the room were sleeping.

  “Why didn’t you go with the others after dinner?” Weevil sounded annoyed.

  “Didn’t need to then. I’ll give you my sword if you’ll take me. Or, if you’re afraid, you could send someone else.”

  “Ain’t afraid of nothing,” the boy boasted. “Hand it over.”

  Kutan gave Weevil the sword, then followed him across the room, tripping over a couple of the boys sprawled out on the floor on the way. When the door opened, he saw the fog from the Mysts had jumped its river barrier and hung thick and damp in the air around the statue. A muted glow from the moon provided the only light.

  “This way.” Weevil walked with the sword held before his body, his grip betraying the fact he’d never been trained on how to use one. Even with such a light sword, his skinny arms seemed to struggle to hold it upright.

  “Weevil,” Kutan asked when they were far enough from the building, his voice low, “are you the oldest of the soldiers?” He’d overhead the boy use the term for his comrades earlier in the evening.

  “Near ‘nough.”

  “What happened to those older?”

  Weevil stopped, spit on the ground, then scraped dirt over the spit with his foot. “When I’m old enough, the silver robes will take me to serve the Master also.”

  “And the women? Why are they tied up?” Kutan had hoped getting Weevil alone and away from whoever was listening in the room above might loosen his tongue. It seemed to be working.

  “It’s for they own sake, else they’d wander off and get lost. They’s not from here.” Weevil spoke casually, as if binding women was natural. “A couple got loose a few turn
s back, and they’s lost for good.” He spit and covered it over.

  “Where are the women from?”

  Weevil shrugged. “Dunno. The silver robes brung ‘em. They’s only been one came since I remember.”

  Silver robes? Every answer’s another mystery. Kutan was both fascinated and frustrated as he tried to solve the puzzle of Fetor. “What happened to the girls born here?”

  Weevil spit into the ground and covered it over again. “You’ll call them—” he repeated the spit and cover ritual—“if you ain’t careful. And they’s—” another spit and cover—“none too happy to be bothered.”

  “Are you saying the dead come back?”

  Weevil spit and buried it with his toe. “Pit’s there.” He pointed ahead with the sword.

  Kutan moved forward with baby steps until he found the edge, then hung his rear over the side as he squatted. He was able to push out some urine to disguise the fact he hadn’t needed to go—the sole purpose of the trip to speak alone with Weevil.

  While Kutan waited for an appropriate amount of time to pass, he thought about the spitting. He spits whenever someone speaks of the dead. But that means—He rose to return to where the boy waited. “Weevil, what will happen if the pregnant girl has a daughter?”

  Weevil didn’t need coercing like Kutan had feared, but answered straightaway. “Baby girls go to the Master. Boys gotta be trained as soldiers first.”

  Kutan decided to press his luck with another question. “Is one of those women your mother?”

  Weevil turned away and headed wordlessly back toward the building. Kutan quickened his pace to catch up, then walked calmly beside him for a while. Before they reached the square, though, Kutan grabbed the little king, clamping one hand over the boy’s mouth and catching the hilt of the sword with his other as he dragged Weevil to the ground. There was a soft clang as the metal hit stone, but he’d kept it from making the type of noise that would rouse the others. Once he pried open Weevil’s hand to release the sword, Kutan rolled onto his back, pulling the boy on top of him. He tightened his arm around Weevil’s neck and wrapped his legs around the boy’s legs. The little king kicked and struggled to wrench free, but to no avail. Kutan was far stronger and more skilled. Eventually, Weevil quit fighting.

  “I won’t hurt you if you stay quiet,” Kutan whispered behind his ear. “If you call out or scream, I’ll snap your neck. Nod if you understand.”

  Weevil nodded with Kutan’s hand still over his mouth. Slowly, Kutan lifted his hand. “There. See? I don’t mean you harm.” Weevil turned to look at him, lips quivering and tears in his eyes.

  “Who lives upstairs?”

  The boy glanced over his shoulder, but the building and statue were out of sight from where they lay. “The silver robes’ leader,” he whispered.

  “Did he order you to keep us from leaving?”

  Weevil nodded.

  “Did he tell you what he planned to do to us?”

  Another nod.

  “What’s his plan?”

  Kutan could watch the decision being made by the boy’s changing expression—whether he feared more the silver robe’s wrath or the hands around his neck. “We’re to tie you up. He’ll take you to the Master.”

  Weevil had said no one but the silver robes reemerged from the Mysts. Kutan didn’t know what these silver robes did to the people they took to the swamp, but there was no way he would allow the three of them to be bound and led into the swamp. I could kill the little king and get Whym and Tedel out before the others knew what was happening. Any that tried to stop us would meet my blade. The problem with the plan, though, was he didn’t want to kill any of the pathetic boy soldiers, nor did he like the prospect of fleeing at night through unfamiliar terrain.

  “Weevil, when you’re old enough, do you want to serve the Master?”

  The boy looked back again toward the statue then shook his head.

  “Would you like to be a real king—one with no silver robe to tell you what to do?”

  Weevil didn’t respond immediately, as if he were only just then considering the prospect. After a pause, he nodded.

  “I’ll make you king. I’ll free you from service. But you must trust me.” Kutan turned Weevil’s head so he could look into his eyes. Behind the fear that dominated the boy’s expression, he saw an innocence he thought he could trust. Please let me be right. “In the morning, as soon as there’s enough light to see, I must go upstairs and meet with the silver robe. No one can follow me. Understand?”

  Weevil nodded again.

  “Then let’s go back.” Kutan retrieved his sword from the ground and stood with a finger before his lips. “But remember, not a word.” He motioned for the boy to lead, then followed him back inside.

  Time crawled as he waited for dawn. He lay awake on the floor facing the king of Fetor, who likewise faced him. It was too dark to know if the boy slept, but Kutan could tell by the sound of the breathing on both sides of him that Whym and Tedel had succumbed to sleep’s call. Despite the rush of energy his own fear provided, several times he caught himself nodding off. Knowing that falling asleep could mean death, he took one of the daggers from his sword belt and dug the blade into the flesh of his thigh to cut the sleep from his body. He could feel the blood seeping through his pants, but his eyes remained open.

  Even still, Kutan startled when he realized the morning light had crept into the room without his noticing the change. He could see the irises of the boy king’s eyes. With jerky turns of his head, he scanned the room. The two sentries by the door were still asleep. Only he and Weevil were awake. The panic subsided, and he rose slowly, taking only the dagger with him as he crept to the stairs. Weevil’s gaze followed him.

  As Kutan ascended the stairs, he tested each to find the spot where it creaked the least before applying his whole weight. When he was just a couple steps from the top, he could see the room over the low railing. The upstairs was even darker than the room below, but he could make out some of the shapes. It was one large open room with no door. There was a canopied bed in the far corner—the type you’d only find in the homes of the very wealthy—a set of drawers against the wall opposite the bed, and a small square table near the center with two chairs. Against the shuttered window behind him sat a high-backed, cushioned chair.

  He quit testing each step and leapt the last two stairs, heading toward the bed, dagger raised. He stopped in his tracks when he realized it was empty.

  “The Master’s been watching you.” A man’s voice came from the other side of the room, near the window.

  “Who are you?” Kutan closed half the distance between them before the man responded.

  “Surely, Kutan, you’ve figured that out by now. The boy didn’t gab during your walk earlier?” Without leaving the tattered, mold-spotted chair, the man kicked open the window, flooding the room with light. He faced the window, only the top of his head visible over the back of the chair.

  How could he know my name? Kutan puzzled, but then remembered telling Weevil when they’d first met.

  The balding man swiveled the chair and rose to his feet with great effort, his body supported by a gnarled cane. He was crumbling like the village. The end of his nose and most of his left ear had rotted off. The skin of his right cheek was also missing, exposing the muscles and tendons of his jaw beneath.

  Kutan recognized immediately the distinctive silver robe of the Order of the Oracle. “A teller?”

  “I’m not a teller. I’m the teller.” The man’s opaque eyes flashed silver to match his robe. “I’m the true Voice of the Order, the Voice in the Mysts.”

  The Voice in the Mysts. Why is that familiar? Then it hit him. The prophecy the Council used to justify the invasion of the Fringe was called the Prophecy of the Voice in the Mysts. “You’re Teller Zenai?”

  “I am.” Teller Zenai turned the corners of his li
ps upward in a repulsive smile.

  “Who is this Master of Death?” Kutan demanded. “Is it the last Steward?”

  “You don’t believe in the Stewards.” The teller took a shaky step forward, then another step. “You wouldn’t believe if I told you.” Another step—he was so close Kutan could smell the foulness of his breath. “Go see for yourself.”

  “Come no farther, old man.” Kutan held out the dagger toward the teller’s chest. “Tell me what’s going on in this place, what you’re doing to the boys and girls you take into the Mysts?”

  “Do not deign to order me!” The teller’s face contorted to bare his teeth. “The boys I lead to Death are dead already. The girls would wish to be.”

  Kutan moved the dagger forward until it was almost touching the silver robe. “I’ve seen the boys. There’s nothing wrong with them.”

  The teller cackled—a sound that made Kutan want to drive his knife into the man’s neck. His unseeing eyes again flashed silver. “You see only today. I know the future.” He took another step forward and the pointed blade made contact, the tip of the dagger leaving a starburst of red on the robe. “Swamprot, an incurable affliction. When they come of age, their flesh will decay and fall from their bones.”

  Kutan had never heard of such a disease. “How do you know this?”

  The teller lifted the sleeve of his robe to reveal an arm covered with sores, the mottled skin cracking where the rot hadn’t already stripped it away. “It’s passed from father to son.”

  You’re their father? Kutan remembered Weevil spitting at the mention of his father and realized the boy didn’t know the truth. “And the girls?”

  “Why is this your concern?” Teller Zenai gripped the blade digging into his chest. It sliced into his fingers.

  Kutan fought the urge to shove the knife farther into the teller’s chest. “If you could really see the future, you’d have never let me survive the night. Answer my questions!”

  “Women are unaffected by swamprot.” The teller smiled—a rotten-toothed, stinking smile. “But when they come of age, they’d be afflicted by me.”