Birthrights_Revisions to the Truth

by J. Kyle McNeal

  The scout bent to pick up another nearby stick and began snapping anew. “If we knew, we’d tell you. Ever since we lost the man in Riverbend, the why’s have been harder to come by. That Brosz fella was more important than most of us realized.” Snap. Toss. Snap. Toss.

  Quint paced. Who cares what the Mother thinks? She only consented to the creation of a retreat plan. If the attack comes tomorrow, or a turn from now, it’ll be the same. The Mother had continued to resist any efforts toward constructing defenses, but the Bone Reader had begun preparations without her consent. “If nothing’s changed, why did you come?”

  “We caught some deserters who told us a new commander’s been named. Based on this, we’re bracing for them to begin marching any day. They may have already started since I left.”

  “Tell me everything you know about this new commander,” Quint directed, with an authority he didn’t, in fact, have. “Can we expect a change in strategy?” Not that it will make any difference. At this point, even if we could lure them into the narrow passes, any defense we could mount would, at best, slow the army by a matter of days.

  The scout shrugged. “Don’t know about strategy, but the new commander’s Cyrus Fen, the First Lord’s son.”

  “From brother to son.” Quint shook his head. “I’d wager there’s little change. I’ll pass on the warning.”

  The scout left the clearing. Quint stared at his boots, planning how to deliver the news. So much had changed since he’d stood with Dermot in this same clearing and met the Shades’ leader. She’d berated him, humiliated him. He’d deserved it. He’d not seen Dermot since. The scout had told him his friend had accumulated a few more scars, but was otherwise in fine health.

  Quint sat down on a log and rested his head in his hands. The clearing was far enough from Welloch that he could barely detect the hint of cooking fires in the air—a welcome respite from the charred taste the air in town left in the back of his throat. He was glad the Shades’ leader had made him stay. He regretted he’d made so little impact, but staying had allowed him to meet Nikla. My lesson! He rushed back to his tent.

  When he arrived, Nikla was already waiting on the furs. Her skin had lightened over the winter moons, but was again browned by her return to the fields. The field work also enabled Nikla to sneak away and visit Quint more often—a change he welcomed after the lonely winter. “I remember a time when you were the one waiting,” she teased, her smile playful. Her dark eyes asked, though, if the visits had become too frequent.

  He knelt on the furs and kissed her, at first softly, then with increased passion—one hand pressed into the tender curve of her lower back, the other cupped behind her head. “With you, I’m like an infant greedy for its mother’s breast.” Before he’d hoarded such sentiments, sharing them rarely. But he expected their world to change at any moment with the winding of a war horn. He felt stingy keeping the thoughts to himself.

  She reached to pull him closer, but his body tensed with a sudden realization. He drew back, away from her embrace. She sat up and he gripped her shoulders. “Nikla. It’s time to pack.”

  “You said that before.” She craned her neck to kiss him, but he held her away.

  “Pack! We must be ready to leave well before the battle starts.” The scout had told him the army would pursue and cut down any stragglers, but those who fled before battle would be safe. The Shades had ambushed enough pursuing troops that the army’s officers now kept their men closer to the battle.

  She leaned against him. “Don’t worry, I can pack quickly when it’s time.”

  “Nikla!” He shook her once to make the point. “I’ll need you to hurry the others. There’ll be no time to pack.”

  The shake was harder than he’d intended. She gaped at him, then jerked away with a swing of her arm before standing and storming from his tent.

  “Nikla, wait!” She was already gone. Quint wasn’t sure why he’d felt the sudden urgency. Earlier with the scout, he’d doubted anything had changed. But as he’d hurried back to meet her, something in his gut had told him this time was different. If it means a fight with her, so be it. As long as she’s packed and away when the real fighting begins.

  He changed into a clean outfit to brief the Mother. He expected her to do nothing, but he would try again to persuade her.

  .

  .

  When Quint arrived at the GreatHall, the Bone Reader was already there. “My place is beside the Mother,” he’d announced to the elders when the Mother insisted she and the Daughter would remain behind to support the defense of Welloch. “I’ll try to assure their safety should our defenses falter and the dragons not arrive.” Quint knew he’d added the last bit as a jab. None of the people with whom Quint had discussed the defense of Welloch believed the dragons would actually come.

  He no longer viewed the actions of the Dragonborn leaders with wide-eyed naïvety. Their every word—every action—was predicated on accumulating or maintaining power. He’d noticed the change in the Mother following the Reaping. She knew an attack was coming. She’d always known. Only now, she couldn’t count on the unquestioning support of her people when it came. What infuriated him, though, was that she seemed less concerned with the threat of the Council’s forces than the—now very real—possibility the Bone Reader would use the attack as a chance to seize control. You pig-headed dolts! If not for my retreat plan, there’d be no one left for you to rule.

  The Mother acknowledged him as he pushed past the guards. “You have news?”

  “Yes, Mother.” He went to one knee before the raised platform where she received audiences. “The army’s on the move—days away.” Quint prided himself on his honesty, so was surprised by how easily the lie had come.

  The situation reminded him of his father’s response when he’d complained to him of the tellers’ duplicity. “Lies are not inherently bad,” his father had advised. “They can be a coward’s shield or an assassin’s dagger. But they can also be a hero’s sword. You’d do well to learn the difference.”

  I’m learning, Father. Too late for my training with the Oracle, but I’m learning. I’ll do whatever I must to save the Dragonborn.

  There was excited chatter among the onlookers, but it stopped when the Mother spoke. “You have said such before. Why should we treat this differently?”

  “I’ve warned an attack is near. I’ve called for you to prepare. I’ve never before claimed the certainty of a date or time. Pull your people from the fields and have them pack.” He stood straight, unyielding.

  The Bone Reader studied the Mother’s face as she weighed her response. The black-lipped man had known she’d insist on staying behind with the troops. He’d counted on it. He’d told Quint as much. Quint, because of his agreement with the man, hadn’t tried to change her mind.

  “We will send scouts to verify,” she said after a long pause. She looked exhausted. The eyes that once burned with intensity behind the mask of tattoos and brands were spiritless.

  “Go ahead. But pull your people from the fields while you wait for their return.” Quint was unbowed. “It will be too late after the archers loose. Order them to pack. Order them to prepare. Whether the enemy arrives tomorrow or the next day, if those fields feed anyone, it will be the invaders.”

  He understood why the Mother had dragged her feet—why she’d avoided preparing defenses. There was never any hope to defeat this enemy. If they’d started earlier, though, they might have staggered the Council’s army and made pressing forward painful. She’d chosen instead to gift her people those extra moons of an existence where their imminent destruction didn’t weigh on their every thought. He sympathized, but didn’t agree with her.

  “We will send scouts.” Her cold stare dared him to press the issue, but she couldn’t bully him today.

  He stood defiantly, eyes fixed on hers. “Give your people a chance. Call them in from the fields!”
He raised his voice, buoyed by the knowledge others would support him. He had friends now among the Dragonborn, elders even. He’d not wasted those lonely winter moons when Nikla was not allowed to leave her uncle’s house. He’d visited the people. He’d spoken with them. He’d done precisely what Teller Salf had taught him—he’d secured their belief. The Bone Reader was not the only threat to her rule.

  “Mother—” the Bone Reader stepped forward to speak, but she stood to silence him.

  She nodded at the Daughter and the two elders flanking her. “Send scouts.” Quint tensed, ready to repeat his demand for action, but she continued. “And tell the people to prepare. If the scouts confirm, we will commence the evacuation.” She glanced at the Bone Reader then scowled at Quint. “If you are lying, I will have you flayed and thrown into the Dragons Teeth.”

  The Bone Reader had warned she’d learned of their secret meetings and was displeased. This threat was beyond what Quint had imagined could be her response. He gulped despite his dry mouth, then turned to leave. The scouts won’t return for several days if the army’s still camped. I need to find Nikla.

  Welloch, Chapter 48

  .

  .

  .

  Love is a flower planted in the fields—useless, beautiful. Women pull it with the weeds.

  .

  —Tungan proverb

  .

  .

  Welloch

  .

  .

  .

  .

  “I’ll go with you.” Nikla nestled into Quint’s chest, their legs intertwined. “If you want me to.” Their fight had ended as soon as she’d learned of the Mother’s threat.

  Starting at the base of her thigh, he traced her body with his finger, her skin smooth and soft as he moved over her hip to the curve in her waist. She pulled the finger away with a hand rough like the bark of a birch tree from long days in the field. “That tickles.”

  “I’m not leaving,” he declared. The scouts would return any day—any moment—and both Nikla and the Bone Reader confirmed the Mother wasn’t bluffing. If he stayed and the scouts confirmed the army hadn’t advanced, he’d have to pay for the boldness with which he’d forced her hand.

  “You must.” She pulled away and sat up, allowing the evening chill to descend upon the slick patches of skin where their bodies had been touching.

  “I won’t run away.” The declaration sounded heroic, but the real reason he kept to himself. I have nowhere else to go. Despite the warnings, he still didn’t believe the Mother would really follow through with throwing him to the Dragons Teeth.

  “But —”

  “Shhhh.” He pulled her back down against him. “Everything will be all right.” He hoped the words sounded comforting to her ears. They rang hollow to his own. Even if the scouts confirmed the army was on the way, everything would be far from all right. Still, he was pleased with the Dragonborn’s recent preparation. Those who were to stay and fight were as prepared as they’d ever be. Those who would go were packed and awaiting the order to leave. The people were ready, as ready as any people could be to fight, to lose, and to flee.

  She sighed, what he’d have thought contentment if not for the hot tears dripping onto his ribs. He pulled a fur over her and stared into the darkness, appreciating the peacefulness of the night sounds.

  A familiar voice interrupted, “You in there?” The flap of the tent opened, and a head stuck through the gap.

  Quint couldn’t see in the dark, but he didn’t need to see to know who it was. He sat up. “Dermot?” This can mean only one thing. The army is moving!

  Nikla woke with a start, gasped, then raised the fur until only her eyes and the top of her head showed.

  “Oh, sorry.” Dermot stepped back and closed the tent flap, though he remained next to the entrance. “But I can’t wait.”

  Quint scooted toward Dermot as Nikla hurried to dress behind him. “Does this mean they’re coming?”

  “They’re here.”

  “Here?” Quint scrambled to find his own clothes. “What do you mean ‘here?’”

  “They’ll attack at first light. They’re moving into position.”

  “But we’ve had no warning!” Quint found his pants where Nikla had tossed them earlier and hurried to put them on.

  “The messenger we sent—we found his body with the bodies of the Dragonborn scouts. This new commander, the First Lord’s son, he’s more competent than his uncle.”

  Quint finished dressing and flung open the tent flap. “Does the Mother know? The Bone Reader?” he asked as he stepped outside.

  “I found you first.”

  It was not the answer for which he’d hoped, but it was what he’d expected. “Nikla, sound the alarm. Start the retreat. Dermot, you go with me to the GreatHall. The Mother won’t believe the news unless she hears it from you.” He headed toward the town center but paused still in sight of the tent. What if something happens? He turned to return—to embrace Nikla again, just in case—but she was already sprinting toward home.

  “Wake up! They’re coming!” she yelled as she ran.

  With a pang of regret, he continued toward the city center. Outside the GreatHall, Quint stopped and turned to Dermot, the former slave’s scarred face illuminated by the torchlight in the square. “I’m not going in with you. Inform the Mother and make sure she announces the evacuation. But there’s something else—something that must remain our secret.”

  He waited for his friend to acknowledge what he’d said or to object. Dermot did neither, so Quint continued. “Ask the Mother to retreat. Tell her the Shades believe it’s important she and the Daughter survive this attack. Tell her whatever you can to make her go before the fighting starts.”

  Again, he waited for a response. Again, his friend said nothing. “Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  “Yes.”

  He wanted to scream. He trusted the big man with his life. Working with him, though, took a special patience. “Remember, you can’t let anyone know I asked you to do this. Okay?”

  As was his practice, Dermot didn’t answer right away. Quint waited impatiently for a response, watching the flicker of a nearby torch dancing between the scars on his friend’s cheek. “You in trouble?” Dermot asked when finally he spoke.

  The question reminded Quint that slowness of response didn’t equal a slow mind. Dermot was sharp and perceptive, more so than most. “Not yet.” Quint smiled, hoping to reassure him, then left.

  He didn’t bother to ask when they’d meet again. Dermot avoided promising things he couldn’t control. Battles, he’d said before, were unpredictable. The winning army might be certain, but there was no way to know which soldiers would live and die. “No tellin’ where the arrows fall,” was the way he’d put it. Quint supposed that was why he’d arranged the position with the Dragonborn instead of allowing him to fight by his side. Dermot would have done whatever he could have to protect him, but a single stray arrow could disrupt the best laid plans.

  Quint headed to the Bone Reader’s home to warn of the attack. More important, he wanted the man to know he was nowhere near the Mother when the attack was announced, on the off chance Dermot persuaded her to flee.

  .

  .

  “Why would the Council do this?” Nikla stood beside Quint on the overlook. Slate gray smoke billowed from Welloch, shielding the burning capital city from view. “What did we do to them?”

  “Nothing,” he sighed. “They do it because they can—because so few oppose them.” He looked over his shoulder at the assembled evacuees. The preparations had been worthwhile.

  Nikla had assembled nearly a quarter of the people by the time Quint had finished warning the Bone Reader. Everyone who’d planned to join the retreat was climbing the mountain when the first volley of flaming arrows had hit the tents and thatch
ed roofs of Welloch. The Mother and Daughter, though, were not among the evacuees. He’d hoped, not expected, his friend would succeed in changing their minds.

  Their absence left Quint in charge, a concession that had surprised him when it was granted. He assumed the Mother had agreed only to preempt a struggle over the leadership, but the intent no longer mattered. She wouldn’t survive the attack, nor would her successor. The only question was whether the Bone Reader would. Quint hoped not. He didn’t want to remain in power, but he now felt certain nothing good would come from his bargain with the man. In fact, he’d regretted it as soon as he’d agreed. But in his mind, the black-lipped liar had left him no other choice.

  “There’s enough water and food?” he asked Nikla just to have something to say. They’d prepared more than enough to last through the two days they were to wait on the mountainside for survivors, the several days’ march to the next Dragonborn town, plus more for when they arrived.

  They both knew the supplies were adequate, so there was no need for Nikla to answer. She stared down the mountain. “When will they stop attacking?”

  “When they turn their eyes to Bothera.” It was his father’s opinion, but Quint shared it. The Fringe couldn’t justify such an effort, and he doubted the lords put enough credence in the Oracle’s prophecy to wage war. There had to be a broader goal, a more important target, and Bothera was the only real pocket of resistance to the Council’s preeminence.

  “So we just continue to flee until then? When do we plant? What will we eat?”

  Dermot had prepared him for what to expect—retreat, wait, retreat, wait, retreat, wait…survive. “We’ll deal with that when the time comes.” Though, if the Mother had prepared for the past two turns, the dealing would have been easier. He looked back toward the sea of tents. “Have they put out the offering boxes?”