Birthrights_Revisions to the Truth

by J. Kyle McNeal

  “Just be quiet. Let me get my bearings.”

  “What the—” Whym landed hard on his tailbone as his feet were swept from beneath him. Then he felt something slide across his leg. The descriptions of poisonous snakes that lived in the swamps rushed to his mind. He thrashed wildly, kicking and swinging his arms. Then something, it felt like a vine or root of some kind, wrapped around his neck, squeezing the voice from his windpipe.

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  “Whym!” Tedel pulled on the rope to locate his friend. It was loose. He reeled it in farther until he reached the end. The knot was gone. Whym was gone. “Whym!”

  “What happened?” Kutan asked. Tedel could feel the rope around his waist grow taut as Kutan followed it to reach him.

  “What happened?” Tedel roared. If not for Whym, I’d be a slave, if alive at all. “What happened is you dragged us to our death in this cursed swamp!” He wanted to wail, to cry out, but the mourning would have to wait. They needed to escape the Mysts first.

  “Whym!” Kutan called.

  “He’s gone,” Tedel growled, “just like the girl.”

  “Whym!” Kutan called again then paused to listen.

  “Wait? Do you hear that?” Tedel said, hearing a faint sound in the distance.

  “Is it Whym?” Kutan asked, hope in his voice.

  “Shhhh. Just listen.” They waited in silence.

  “I don’t hear anything,” Kutan despaired. Then the sound came again. “It can’t be!” He turned toward it and bellowed, “Stern!” There was no response.

  “Let’s follow it,” Tedel suggested. “I’d rather move than wait here for whatever took Whym and the girl to return for us.”

  Blinded by the fog, their slow pace was tedious and frustrating. They were repeatedly blocked by the water and forced to retrace their steps. It had been a long time since they’d last heard the voice, and Tedel’s spirits were flagging. Then it rang out, clearer and closer than ever. “Kutan! Whym!”

  Riverbend, Chapter 46

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  Truth is slippery like a fresh-caught fish—vicious like a wolf who slays its young.

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  —Fei Proverb

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  Riverbend

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  Vademus chewed on his thumbnail as he waited for the doors of the TruthHold to open. He’d not been surprised to receive news Lord Cullen had been ambushed and killed shortly after passing the troops accompanying his nephew, Cyrus, to the Fringe. Vademus had been equally unsurprised when the TruthGuard had arrived a moon later to escort him to Riverbend. He regretted, though, the timing of his departure from the camp. Vademus had been forced to leave only shortly after Cyrus’ arrival. He liked the boy, and had looked forward to spending more time with him. Time away from Riverbend—and away from Artifis—he thought, would do wonders for the younger twin. Vademus certainly preferred to be away.

  The hinges moved without a sound as the TruthHold doors opened inward. Well-oiled hinges. Big brother always keeps things running smoothly.

  “It’s time,” one of the guards inside the chamber announced.

  Normally, the TruthGuard weren’t needed during Council meetings. Their presence was an ill omen. Vademus entered the chamber and was ushered to the near side of the table, leaving half of those assembled with their backs to him. He noted Lord Cullen’s vacant seat. That the late lord’s son wasn’t occupying it reinforced his suspicion that Artifis was behind what was happening.

  “Commander,” Artifis began, his cold glare turned toward his brother, “provide an update on the war.”

  How would I know, spending all my time traveling back and forth to this miserable city? “Of course, Your Grace.” Vademus had been briefed that the First Lord was not to be addressed this day as “brother.” But for once, Artifis hadn’t told him what to say. He considered the lack of guidance another ill omen.

  “The army’s camped for winter. There’s been no advancement since the last reports I sent to Council.” Vademus watched his brother for clues, but Artifis’ expression revealed nothing.

  “Then why are you requesting more troops?” Asaph Trent didn’t even bother to turn his balding head to pose the question.

  I didn’t ask for troops. Artifis dictates the troop levels. Vademus knew better than to provide the truth to the Council of Truth. “Winters in the Fringe are difficult. Illness is unavoidable in a camp that size. Plus, the Shades are still a thorn in our side. Their archers pester the camp edges under cover of night.” The reality was the troops were no more or less healthy than during the early stages of the war, and the Shades bowmen had become a minor annoyance since he’d ordered the scouting missions stopped. You lose men during war, idiot.

  Lord Trent continued his assault. “The Shades are able to attack during winter. Why have you instead chosen to wait around eating and drinking?”

  You’re upset about losing men, yet you want me to march them through the snow in the dead of winter. Moron. “The Fringe isn’t like the Lowlands, Lord Trent. The mountains in winter are not passable without many casualties.”

  The balding lord shifted his body so he faced the Commander for the next question. “Isn’t it true—” he poked his finger in the air toward Vademus—“you feared what Lord Cullen would report when he returned? If your ineffective leadership were revealed, you knew you’d lose your command. Isn’t that why you plotted his death?”

  “I had nothing to do with what happened to Lord Cullen. In fact, I encouraged him to let me send soldiers to accompany him. He refused. I can produce witnesses to attest to this fact.” Vademus wished he’d been shocked by the accusation. He wasn’t. The only shock was that Lord Trent, who was not normally one of Artifis’ lackeys, had been the one to level the charge. Vademus did regret, though, that this lack of surprise had taken from his declaration of innocence the passion one would expect of a man wrongly accused.

  “Lords.” Artifis stood. For a moment, the Commander thought his brother might intercede on his behalf. Instead, the First Lord motioned to the door opposite his seat at the head of the table. The TruthGuard led in a man Vademus recognized from Lord Cullen’s entourage. His ears and nose had been cut off, leaving him looking less than human. “There was a survivor of the ambush.”

  What’s this, brother? The brief moment of hope was gone.

  Artifis commenced the questioning. “You were with Lord Cullen when the attack began?”

  “Yes, Your Grace.” The man was nervous, his voice barely above a whisper.

  “And, was it the Shades who perpetrated this assassination? Speak up this time.”

  “No, Your Grace. They was our own men—arrived when we was almost to Bothera, sayin’ there was Shades nearby. Said Commander Fen sent them to protect us. Then they attacked when our guard was down.” The man looked near tears as he relayed the story.

  Vademus thought about objecting, but with his brother behind whatever was happening, he knew there was nothing he could say to improve the outcome. He just hoped Artifis would take care of him in the end. Banishment was the punishment—though he’d done nothing wrong—for which he hoped. He could already picture the small cottage in the woods where he’d live, far from the capital city.

  “Why were you not killed along with everyone else?” Artifis continued the questioning.

  “Please forgive me!” The earless man fell to his knees to grovel. “I didn’t fight. I ran. They caught me, and took my ears and nose to mark my cowardice. ‘A fate worse than death,’ they said.”

  If I‘d sent a team to dispatch the fat lord, would they have allowed a survivor? One they tortured? Can none of you see through this obvious charade? Are you unwilling, or complicit?

  “How do you respond to t
hese claims?” Artifis directed the question to his brother.

  “I’ve said already I had nothing to do with this. What further would you have me say?” Vademus hadn’t intended to challenge the First Lord in front of the Council, but his anger had gotten the better of him. Though he didn’t like his brother, he did love him. The betrayal was a sword to the gut.

  Artifis flushed. “Guards! Escort him to the dungeon. Allow no visitors. I’m certain he still has friends—and likely co-conspirators—here in the city. I’ll brook no escape.”

  Vademus gaped wide-eyed at the First Lord. He assumed the other lords would look into his brother’s face and see anger, disappointment, or both. But what Vademus saw behind the mask of practiced emotion was a smug satisfaction. His legs went limp as the TruthGuard seized him. “Brother, how could you?”

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  Artifis watched the TruthGuard drag his little brother from the room. He’d expected it to be emotionally wrenching. Instead, he felt numb, how he felt most of every day when he was not at the Cache. You shouldn’t have plotted to steal my birthright—my lordship. If it wasn’t for you, Father couldn’t have forced me to send Roslin and my child away. If it wasn’t for you, I’d never have been saddled with Ercilia Cullen.

  Once the TruthGuard and the mutilated witness were gone, Artifis addressed the assembled lords, “No matter your name or position, the Truth demands the rule of law prevail. My brother must suffer the consequences of his actions.”

  He sat down and tried to make it look as though he were putting himself back together after shattering news. He saw pity on enough faces that he assumed he’d portrayed the emotion well. “We must move forward with pressing business.” He kept his voice restrained. “The Council’s short one lord.”

  “Lord Cullen’s grandson’s but a child,” Erimus Gwyn opened the discussion as he’d been coached. “Who could take us seriously if children were allowed at this table?” Erimus was but a few turns removed from childhood himself, but no one mentioned the fact.

  “The Cullen family’s been represented in Council since its inception.” Lord Sanctor Doyle rarely spoke during meetings, but when he did, his words carried weight.

  “I agree with you.” Artifis had found it a useful expression to use, whether true or not. “But Lord Cullen’s son has put the Council in a difficult situation. I’m loath to speak ill of the dead, but we in this room are tasked as the bearers of truth. Suicide’s a selfish act.” Artifis paused to read whether anyone was offended by his assertion, and was pleased none of the other lords seemed ready to object. “Erimus has a good point. We cannot allow a child on Council.”

  Artifis paused, waiting again for objections. Lord Doyle eyed Artifis warily but said nothing, so the First Lord continued. “My wife Ercilia was a Cullen by birth—”

  “You’re not suggesting—” Lord Doyle interjected.

  Artifis stood and glared at Lord Doyle, stopping the senior lord in mid-sentence. “I’m not suggesting anything at the moment. If you’d be polite enough to let me finish, you’d know.” He straightened his robes. “As I was saying, my wife’s of Cullen blood. It can be argued that I represent the Cullen family on Council.”

  Lord Doyle waited to make certain Artifis had finished before responding. “Then what do you propose?”

  Artifis pushed up his sleeves and placed his hands, palms down, on the table. With a slight turn of his head, his eyes swept across the seated lords. “I believe the reason the regions grow restless is a lack of representation. I know some of your families hailed from other regions. Many of you still own land in those places. But I’m told the Council is viewed as being focused only on Riverbend and the Lowlands.”

  “Preposterous!” Asaph Trent scratched the graying patch of hair above his ear as he spoke.

  Artifis continued, “We all know we seek the betterment of all the regions—of all our people—but filling the vacant seat with, for example, an esteemed gentleman from the Vinlands, might help convince others of this truth.”

  “Let me guess—” Sanctor Doyle narrowed his eyes—“you’ve selected one?”

  Artifis acted offended. “On the contrary, I’d hoped you would lead a delegation to identify suitable candidates. The whole Council must consent, but we’d choose from your list.”

  “Me?” Lord Doyle didn’t hide his surprise.

  “I can think of no one more capable,” Artifis said. “Though I’d ask you to select two other lords to accompany you for a balanced perspective. I must excuse myself from consideration, as I’m needed here while the conflict’s ongoing.” Artifis suspected who Lord Doyle would choose, and he wouldn’t miss them one bit.

  Lord Doyle’s face brightened. “I’d be most pleased to assist in this way.”

  “Then that’s settled. This leaves us with one more urgent matter of business. We need to determine who will assume command of the troops,” Artifis announced.

  He was about to continue and ask for suggestions when Asaph Trent spoke. “Is there not a second in command?”

  No wonder the realm fell into civil war with asses like him ruling. Artifis faced Lord Trent. Doing his best to conceal his contempt, he asked with as serious an expression as he could manage. “You think it wise to replace a commander who murdered a lord with his hand-picked successor and best friend?”

  “Isn’t your son now an officer in the Fringe?” Erimus Gwyn interjected.

  Too early. I told you to wait until there were other candidates. We don’t want others to suspect this has been coordinated. “Cyrus is unseasoned. I’d hate to place such responsibility on his young shoulders.”

  “That’s not necessarily a bad idea.” Sanctor Doyle was more engaged than ever. “There’s little question he’ll lead in the future. As Commander, he could lean on the many experienced officers already in the Fringe. Even Vademus admitted the fighting is less difficult than protecting the supply lines. If he’ll follow our command and attack, not drag his feet like his uncle, we could finish this war and return the troops to their homes.”

  Artifis shook his head as if he were resisting the idea, but was merely waiting for the other lords to insist.

  “I agree,” Asaph Trent chimed in unexpectedly. Artifis had assumed Lord Trent’s overt criticism of Vademus was a veiled slight toward his own leadership and the nepotism that had elevated Vademus to Commander. “All in favor?”

  “Aye,” the other eleven lords responded.

  Artifis was the only lord not to speak. He placed his hand on the table and took a deep breath, making it appear he was shaken. “I’m opposed, but for selfish reasons. It’s not that this isn’t the best choice for the realm, but as a father, how can I ask this of my son?”

  “You weren’t much older than him when you were named First Lord,” Sanctor Doyle noted. He’d been a young lord himself once.

  “Then it’s decided.” Artifis looked up at the faces of the other lords, doing his best to maintain his stricken expression. “Let’s pray his shoulders are broad enough to bear the burden.”

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  Artifis had been drained after the day’s events, so tired he’d debated not crossing the Inge. He’d forced himself to go, regardless—to see Salazar. Ever since the man had stepped into the void created by Volos’ departure, Artifis felt as if he were going to the Cache as much to speak with the brothel’s boss as to visit the woman he kept there. The dynamic—the First Lord having to travel to his adviser—vexed him, and the resentment it created fed his frustration.

  There’s no shortage of men in NewTown who’d gladly serve as my adviser, he fumed on the walk to the Maze. But he couldn’t think of one of the number who could handle the role. Only someone experienced in the depravity of the Maze could begin to understand the inner workings of the First Lord’s mind. As he walked, this reality settled in, and he let the steady cadence of his step
s calm him.

  By the time he’d reached the dark alley that held the entrance to the Cache, he’d stashed his resentment below the surface. No trace of his true feelings showed as he met with Salazar. “How can you be certain who Sanctor will select in the Vinlands?” Artifis asked.

  Salazar scratched the stubble on his chin. “Have I ever failed you or led you astray?”

  “No,” Artifis admitted, the conciliatory nod of his head hiding his inner thoughts. To become king, I need men like you. Once I’m crowned, though, you’ll pay for making me crawl through your little door.

  Welloch, Chapter 47

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  Swim with a fish, fly with a bird, hunt with a wolf, hide with a hare.

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  —Tungan Proverb

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  Welloch

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  “The Commander was recalled to Riverbend,” the Shades scout informed Quint. “We don’t know why they remain camped. His absence hasn’t stopped them before.”

  “You told me an attack was imminent—‘days,’ you said. More than a moon’s passed since!” He’d used the scout’s information, as well as the internal strife created by the Bone Reader’s actions during the Reaping, to make some headway with the Mother. When the attack hadn’t come, she’d begun to disengage.

  “Have the Dragonborn send their own men to see.” The scout was fidgety, repeatedly snapping off the end of a small stick as they spoke. Only the nub remained, too small to break. He flicked it to the ground. “I’ll take them if you want. The Council’s army’s only a few days away.”

  “They’ve sent men already. It’s the only way they’d believe me in the first place. What I need is to know why the army stopped. Why are they waiting?” At times, Quint found himself almost wanting the Council’s forces to move, just to end the torture of waiting. In calmer moments, though, he hoped they would never stir. A tortuous wait with Nikla was better than what he feared the future would hold. He regretted the deal he’d made with the Bone Reader, and worried Nikla would no longer want him once she was named Mother.