Birthrights_Revisions to the Truth

by J. Kyle McNeal

  He remembered clearly Nikla telling him she didn’t believe in dragons, but he turned away instead of arguing the point. He was now well-practiced at retreating. After Welloch, the Council’s forces had not rested, attacking them in every place of refuge. Four more times the army had attacked. Four more times he’d led the Dragonborn to safety. The last attack, though, had pushed them beyond the final village. They were now forced to camp in the uninhabited region near the edge of the Fringe. “Nikla, more and more of your people are questioning the need for a Mother. Many have already embraced the old gods.”

  Nikla reached out and brushed the hair hanging over his brow, the first tenderness she’d shown him since the last attack. “It’s times like these they need me most. Otherwise, the sacrifices will begin again.” It was not a part of her people’s history she liked to discuss, but after what had happened at the Reaping, Quint had forced her to cover it in detail. “I can’t stop the Council of Truth from defeating my people, but I won’t let them fall prey to the Fire of the desert gods.”

  He knew it would be of no use to reveal the Bone Reader’s threat—the gods had taken the life of the previous Mother, and could do so again. Nikla was as ready to risk her life to oppose the man as she’d been to swing out over the Dragons Teeth. “I know. It’s just that I’m worried for you. I love you.” He said the words each time they met, but he was growing increasingly unsure which of the two of them they were meant to reassure. He dearly loved Nikla the peasant, but his feelings about Nikla the Mother were more complex. It was not her physical transformation that had muddled his emotions, but his own guilt and his perception that her feelings toward him had shifted.

  She smiled and bent to kiss his forehead. She never returned the words of affirmation. Quint wished he could hold her again, so his embrace could say what he’d failed to convey with words. Both Nikla and the Bone Reader had refused this request.

  .

  .

  Quint surveyed the camp from the entrance to his tent. He’d been correct to instruct the refugees to leave any extra tents behind. Although the people of the towns and villages where they fled were added to their number, each retreat yielded fewer Dragonborn. Some had fallen to sickness. Many had chosen to stay behind and fight, despite knowing the choice meant certain death.

  Fadia had stayed at the last village. He missed her the most of those they’d left behind. Though old and hunched, she’d been a pillar of support during each retreat. But she’d lost faith when he’d revealed their plans to hide in the mountains. She’d given him the sign of respect—a sign he’d felt unworthy to receive—before sitting to wait beside the sharpened stick she’d intended to use as her weapon.

  That people remained behind didn’t worry Quint. What concerned him was that a disproportionate number of those choosing that fate had been loyal to the Mother. It was as if they’d rather fall to the menace of the Council than to the menace in their midst.

  “You coming?” Arianne beckoned from inside—another day, another visit.

  “Yes.” Quint ducked inside where she was lounging on the furs. Despite appearances, what he’d told Nikla was true. Not once had he touched her in the way everyone supposed. Instead, they spent their time together talking, something they both seemed to enjoy.

  “What happened?” he asked when he noticed her puffy eyes and the fresh welt across her cheek.

  “The strap.” She shrugged. “To remind me.”

  “Remind you of what?”

  Tears filled her eyes. “He claimed I’m pleased to see you.”

  “I’m sorry,” Quint said, the phrase becoming a too-common refrain.

  She shook her head and looked up at him. “No, it was my fault for showing it.”

  He flinched. The way she looks at me, anyone watching would know her feelings. We must act soon, before the Bone Reader begins to suspect—if he hasn’t already. “Arianne.” He sat beside her. “Do you remember our first meeting?”

  “Yes.” Her rising tone made the response more question than answer.

  “Do you remember our secret?”

  “Yes.” She leaned close and whispered, “You’re plotting with the Mother against him.”

  With the Mother. Quint considered revealing that the Mother knew nothing of the plan, but decided against it. He pulled a small pouch Dermot had secured for him from his pack. Dried and ground death caps, innocuous-looking mushrooms with olive-tinged caps, a milk-white stipe, and soft gills. They were easily mistaken for a common edible variety, but delivered a painful death if consumed. He handed her the pouch. “The time to act has arrived.”

  “What’s this?” He caught her wrist as she started to stick her finger inside.

  “This is how you’ll save your people. You’ve seen him speak with the gods, right?” Almost daily, the Bone Reader snorted a powder and drank a potion he claimed opened his mind to their voices. It was the potion that had stained his teeth and lips black over turns of use.

  She nodded. “Often.”

  “I need you to add this to the powder he uses to mix the potion.”

  Her eyes widened, and her jaw dropped as she realized what he was asking of her. “They’ll know it was me!”

  “Don’t worry. It takes time. Days. With sickness spreading through the camp, no one will suspect you.” Quint tenderly rubbed the top of her forearm with one hand as he cradled it with his other. He’d been careful to avoid such contact before, both to reduce his own temptation and because he feared she’d mistake such for the promise of something more between them in the future. Today, he counted on that result. He was uncomfortable relying on Arianne’s loyalty to her people and the Mother. On what he’d seen in her face when she looked at him, though, he’d wager all their lives. He just had.

  Arianne bit her lip. She started to say something, then stopped herself and kissed him instead. “Okay. I should get back, so he won’t blame me for dallying.” She pushed to her feet and exited the tent, pausing when she stepped outside for a final wistful glance back.

  Quint felt nauseous after she left. He’d drawn an unknowing Nikla into a plot to kill her rival. He’d manipulated Arianne using her feelings for him, touching her and letting her kiss him. And to compound his uneasiness, when he’d felt her press against him, he’d wanted to kiss her back.

  Nikla, I’m sorry—the too-familiar refrain.

  Mountain Overlooking Endeling, Chapter 62

  .

  .

  .

  Grind it like cumin seeds with mortar and pestle until a powder fine remains. Then spread it on all you prepare—a taste as familiar as your own mother’s bread. This, Jah commands, one must do with His truth.

  .

  —Truth (Lessons 13:1-3)

  .

  .

  Mountain

  Overlooking

  Endeling

  .

  .

  .

  .

  “You’ll never believe me!” Kutan rushed up to Whym and Stern when he saw them. “I found the Steward! He was here by the stream.” They met Kutan’s claim with narrow-eyed disbelief. He’d been the last of them to admit the Stewards existed, so he understood their skepticism.

  “What did he look like?” Whym asked, his left eye squeezed nearly shut and his mouth on that side sucked into his cheek.

  “He was young. I mean, he’s as old as the mountains, but he looks our age,” Kutan stammered. “His eyes were clear and gray. I don’t know how to start to describe the color of his hair. Brownish, with streaks of silver? I asked him to stay and wait for you, but he refused.”

  “We met him, too.” Stern seemed grumpier than usual. Kutan sensed an uneasiness between Whym and Stern that hadn’t existed when he’d left them.

  “Really? He didn’t mention that.” What happened between you two after I left the mountain?
/>   “What did he say?” Whym asked, words terse, jaw stone-hard.

  “Nonsense, really. Something about a city of death and me being the ghost who’d lead the other ghosts back into the world of men. Nonsense, really.” The Steward had made Stern’s riddle-filled lessons seem straightforward.

  “That’s it?” Whym looked disappointed, as if he’d anticipated something more.

  “He didn’t even mention meeting you. What did you expect?” Kutan felt like he was being unfairly interrogated, and had to restrain from lashing out. “What did he say to you?”

  “Too much.” Stern walked over to the stream, squatted, then drank from cupped hands before splashing water on his face.

  Kutan turned to Whym. “What happened?”

  “Ask him.” Whym shook his head, his upper lip curled as if there were a bad smell. “Maybe he planned to kill you, too.”

  “What?” Kutan’s mouth hung open.

  Whym shook his head again and walked away.

  .

  .

  During a break later that afternoon, after a trek filled with silence and clenched-jaw glares, Kutan lost his patience. “That’s it!” He stood and spread his arms for emphasis. “I’m sick of feeling like we’re in a funeral procession and can’t speak. We just found the last Steward, and I, for one, want to discuss it. But first, you’re going to tell me what happened between you two.”

  Whym glared at Stern, making it clear he wouldn’t be the one to explain. Stern, for his part, acted as if he’d not even heard his elder apprentice. He just kept poking at the ground with a stick.

  “You want unpleasant?” Kutan threatened. “Keep up this silence, and I’ll guarantee it.”

  “I’ve devoted my entire life to the resistance.” Stern said to Whym as if Kutan weren’t present. “What did you expect?”

  “Expect?” Whym slung the word back at him. “I trusted you. I respected you.”

  “I didn’t do anything!”

  “You might have. If he hadn’t drugged you.”

  “No, I only considered—”

  “How could you have even considered?” Whym rose to his feet, his voice elevated to the point of shouting. “I risked my life. I left my family and Kira behind to follow you into what I knew was a trap. As soon as Ansel arrived, I should have run to the Council and confessed everything.”

  “Ansel?” Stern’s face turned ashen.

  “Yeah, I caught him. Then Marvil took his head and a key to the cottage. Did your teller not foresee that? Or was I supposed to already be dead?” Whym stormed off into the woods.

  Kutan turned to Stern when he was gone. “What did you do?”

  “I didn’t do anything.” Stern looked away.

  “You were going to kill him?” Kutan recalled Whym’s words from earlier. “The teller again? His stories hold that much sway over you?”

  His master looked up to face him. “You don’t understand.”

  “Dang right I don’t understand.”

  “The Steward’s death was needed for the resistance. As to Whym…look, you didn’t see the visions. Whym will raze the whole of the Lost Land if he’s not stopped. But I just couldn’t do it. You two are like sons to me.”

  “It’s good you were never a father.” Kutan could see how the words pierced his master’s tough skin. “Visions, dreams, prophecy—whatever you want to call it. I’d use the scrolls that record them to wipe my ass. And me? Were you to kill me as well?”

  “No.”

  Stern opened his mouth to say more, but Kutan hurried after Whym without waiting for further explanation. He found him with his back pressed against the thick trunk of an oak tree, staring into the darkening gray of dusk. “Hey.” He leaned his own back against the side to Whym’s right.

  “Hey.” Whym echoed.

  “Stern told me. I understand why you’re angry.” He waited for a response, but none came. “For what it’s worth, I don’t believe he’d have done it.”

  “But what if he’s right to kill me? What if I’m destined to do terrible things? What if the Steward gave me the weapon needed to do it?”

  What could Stern have possibly said to make Whym ask this? Kutan intended to find out. But first, he needed to get them speaking again. “There’s no such thing as destiny. There’s no such thing as fate. We make our own futures with every decision we make.”

  “Right,” Whym scoffed, “and there’s no Steward, no Faerie, and no magic.”

  Kutan swallowed the medicine served him. He deserved it. After the Mysts, Endeling, and meeting the Steward, he was willing to consider all manner of things he’d rejected before, particularly after what the Steward had told him. “Laatst said something else, something I didn’t want to mention around Stern.”

  Whym leaned his head around the tree. “What?”

  “Something I don’t understand. But you spoke with Tedel before. I thought maybe you could pass on the message.” Kutan couldn’t help but see the irony in what he was asking of Whym. Someone who still wouldn’t admit to believing in ghosts was asking to send a message to a dead person.

  “What?” Whym didn’t try to hide his impatience.

  “He said to tell my Faerie brother not to be afraid of fire.”

  “Your Faerie brother?”

  “The Steward told me the same thing as Salazar. He said I’m Faerie and should find my people. That, and all the ghost nonsense.”

  Whym held out a smooth black rock Kutan had noticed him rubbing earlier. “He wasn’t talking about Tedel.”

  “You?” Kutan was stunned. “It’s time you tell me everything, starting with what happened in the Mysts.”

  .

  .

  Whym told about the Sorg, the Before, and why he’d scratched away his fingernails to find the amulet. He told about the conversation he’d overheard at the Tarried Tinker—how he knew Tedel was truly Faerie and so were Seph and Lily. He told about the Steward and the Unum, and about the vision he believed was meant to show him how to unlock his magic. The voice from the Mysts, though, he kept to himself. If a vision from some augur in Bothera could tempt Stern to kill him, he didn’t want to think how tempting would be an admission he was hearing a voice naming him the Servant of Death.

  Kutan drew his sword, squinted again, and studied the blade. It was no longer perfect, but scratched and nicked from use. “You mean this is magic?” He held it like it was suddenly fragile.

  “No, made with magic.” Whym described again what he’d pieced together—Seph was not only Faerie, but also one of the few with magic this side of the Blight. “But the maker’s mark is significant. I just didn’t understand what Tedel was saying. Something about double-bonding.”

  “Speaking of bonding—” Kutan sheathed his sword and pointed to Whym’s clenched fist—“are you ready to try?”

  Whym looked back to where Stern waited.

  “He was seduced by the teller’s lies. He did nothing,” Kutan repeated the seeker’s argument. “Whym, he thinks of you like a son.” Kutan grabbed Whym’s shoulders and looked him in the eye. “Imagine if no one forgave your mistakes. Worse, imagine if they knew all the things you only thought about doing.”

  Whym let the point sink in, thinking back to what he’d been tempted to do to Ansel and what he’d fantasized about doing to the twins. “Fine.” He stood, convinced.

  Stern had made a small fire and was seated, shoulders hunched, watching the flames when they returned. When he saw them approaching, he stood. “Whym, I’m sorry. I—”

  “I’m sorry as well,” Whym answered, more stiffly than he’d meant to. “For Ansel,” he clarified.

  “Everybody’s sorry.” Kutan stepped to the fire. “Now that we have that out of the way, Whym’s got a trick to show us.” He turned to his Faerie brother, eyebrows raised.

  Whym pulled his fist from his
pocket and knelt by the fire. He moved it tentatively toward the flame but drew back as the heat began to hurt.

  “Don’t be afraid of fire,” Kutan urged.

  Whym inhaled, then thrust his hand into the flames as he let out the breath. He turned his head, gritting his teeth, waiting to feel the burn.

  “How?” Stern gasped as the flames parted.

  The Vinlands, Chapter 63

  .

  .

  .

  Of all wounds trivial, beware wounded feelings. Unattended, they will fester and spread.

  .

  —Truth (Lessons 13:5-6)

  .

  .

  The Vinlands

  Two Moons After Leaving Endeling

  .

  .

  .

  .

  Whym woke grumpy and frustrated. He rolled out of the hammock with a grunt, pulled the sack of nuts from his pack, and took out a pinch of walnut meat.

  “You look chipper.” Kutan was already awake and stretching, doing his daily exercises with the sword.

  “Don’t start with me,” Whym growled, memories of the night before fresh in his mind. Kutan had mocked his attempts to blow a leaf with magic, easily besting him with his breath. Whym’s testiness, though, was due more to his own frustration at his lack of progress with the magic than Kutan’s taunts.

  The flames had parted without effort during the bonding, so Whym had expected all magic to come as naturally. The reality was that what he’d been able to do using the power the Unum had unlocked could only be used for parlor tricks. Fire, he couldn’t control at all. Flames would move away from him when he was in danger—though coals did not, as his blistered finger could attest. He was no more successful with wind. The episode with the leaf had made that abundantly clear. He’d had a modicum of success with water, shooting water up Kutan’s nose as his friend had tried to drink. That was the extent of his magic. He’d practiced with the Unum every day with no appreciable improvement.

  Fortunately, the visions from the Before were having an impact. He opened his mind to them every night. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a dream of his own. Instead, he relived their lives, whatever they wished him to see. When he woke in the morning, those visions—dreams or whatever they were—were as real to him as his own memories. Even his muscles remembered. Despite not practicing at all since the Mysts, his movements with the sword were smooth, instinctive, and decisive—the product of lifetimes of experience. The bow, hand-to-hand combat, and many other skills were the same. With several, he’d already surpassed Kutan, which annoyed his hard-training colleague to no end.