The Chosen (The Compendium of Raath, Book 1)

by Michael Mood

  There were a lot of people around now. More people meant more safety, but in the back of her mind each person she saw was leering at her. She tried to numb herself to it and was almost successful.

  She remembered the first time she had felt . . . she guessed it might have been love, she wasn't sure. It was during one of the harvests, five or more years ago now. There was a boy whose name she couldn't recall now. He was traveling from farm to farm helping out for food and shelter. He had been strong, but she could tell that he was lost. Looking for something.

  Maybe I was lost, too, and looking for someone to reach out to.

  Her stomach had sunk every time he had looked at her and she'd had an intense urge to kiss him, but she wasn't sure how to go about it. She remembered how embarrassing it had been even though nobody knew about it. Her face was red all the time and not from the usual sunburn she carried around during spring. She felt engorged with blood in every part of herself. Full of red life and aching.

  The boy had left eventually, of course. He had moved on. And he had never known.

  That was the part of herself she was trying to kill now. The part she had to deaden. Her passion. If she thought of herself as a passionate being then everyone became a predator. If she thought of herself as a sack of meat – a creature – then it wasn't as bad.

  “Look at that,” Jon said, incredulity in his voice. He was pointing just ahead where a large red and white tent poked up over the horizon.

  “Mm” Wren's father grunted. “You were right, Hat. I did-” his voice broke. “I did need this, I reckon.”

  “It reminds me of our fifteenth summer, Cole. You remember that?”

  Her father's voice dropped to almost a whisper, barely audible over the wind. “This's where I . . . where I proposed to Lia.”

  Jon only nodded, but Wren's jaw dropped. She had only heard her father mention her mother's name three times ever, and all three had been when he was drunk and touching her. For it to come from his mouth so freely was shocking.

  Wren was not a stupid girl, but it took her a few moments to put into perspective what was happening. Her Graybeast release – the one she was waiting for at the carnival – was similar to what was happening to her father right now. Everything about his life that had been pent up over the years – things he had tried to release on Wren – was going to come flooding out.

  Wren wasn't sure she wanted to be around when it did. She didn't want apologies, she didn't want her father to hug her and smooth her hair and tell her everything was alright. She would throw up all over him if he did that.

  Fortunately nothing like that was happening, at least for now.

  The three sat saying nothing as the world bustled around them.

  I can't even enjoy the new sights, Wren thought.

  Jon and her father were whispering to each other, but she didn't care to hear what they said. The crowd swelled around them now that they were very close to the tents. Wren was unfamiliar with people, having been isolated most of her life. She almost couldn’t believe how many there were. As she looked around she realized that her own clothing was beyond shabby. Fine smooth dresses of all types were on display here. There were beautiful hats with ribbons, delightful jewelry, and shoes that would have been terrible to wear out in the field. Some of the women she saw had a good portion of their breasts showing, unashamed and unafraid to be linking arms with a man.

  I will be one of them someday, she promised herself meekly.

  The smells hit her next: the smell of hay she knew well, the smell of people she didn't. The whole thing started to overwhelm her.

  “You doin' okay back there?” her father asked.

  Wren grunted her approval.

  “It does take some getting used to,” he answered. “But we . . . well, we shoulda done this years ago.” He took a swig from the jug next to him.

  They drove up a bit farther until they found a place for hitching up their team.

  “Gonna hafta leave the horses here,” Jon said.

  There were long horizontal fences set up for this purpose. Horses and wagons lined them, their masters already somewhere in the carnival. Wren's father dismounted from the wagon and walked up to a man wearing a yellow vest. Wren noticed the red falcon of Marshanti inked crudely on the fabric.

  The man and her father exchanged words and coins and then the yellow-vested man took the reins.

  “Alright,” Jon said. “We walk from here.” He got down and stretched his legs, then grabbed his pack from the wagon. He picked a long piece of grass from the ground and stuck it between his teeth. “Farmers in the big city,” he said, smiling, and Wren couldn't help but smile too.

  Wren's father came over, grabbed his things (mercifully, he left the jug behind – but perhaps it was empty), and led the way towards the carnival grounds.

  If Wren had been any younger she would have wanted to hold someone's hand. She could envision herself getting swallowed by the crowd and for a panicky moment she imagined everyone was looking at her, the clumsy farm girl in shabby, out of place clothing. But when she forced herself to look around - really look - she realized that no one was paying her any attention, they were all pointing off somewhere or talking to one another or trying to look after their own children.

  She didn't stick out, she blended in.

  “I didn't bring any trade, but I brought coin,” her father told Jon.

  “Good,” said Jon. “There's a few things for sale here.”

  That was an understatement. Over the next few hours Wren walked from shop to shop drinking in everything that was there. Jewelry: necklaces, bracelets, earrings, mostly rope and bead, but a few metal. Clothes: fabrics she had never before, soft to the touch and eye-poppingly colored. Weapons: big swords, small swords, other things she didn't know. She was familiar a little bit with weaponry, but not much. Mostly from stories. Food: pies, candy, meat, even some kind of fruit called an orange. “Up from near the Vapor,” said the man who was selling the orange fruit. “My boys risk their necks bringin' 'em up. Won't grow up here. Only got a few left.”

  Her father turned the fruit around and around in his hand and spent a silver oplate on it. He split the thing open and gave some to Jon and Wren.

  “I'll save it for later,” Wren said. To an odd look from Jon she wrapped it in a kerchief and stuffed it in one of her pockets. She wasn't going to eat it ever. She didn't want it because her father had touched it. And, when he had handed it to her, he had smiled.

  After the shops Wren was always on the lookout for where they kept the animals, but it was hard to see anything with all these people around.

  “When's the show with the animals?” she asked Jon.

  “Should be starting soon. Having fun so far, Wren?”

  Wren nodded.

  “If we make our way to the big tent we might be able to get good seats.”

  “That would be good,” Wren said. “Good seats.”

  “You don't mind sittin' there for a bit do ya, Cole?”

  “Nosir,” her father said. “Gives me time to eat all this candy.” He held up a heaping double handful.

  He's drunk.

  -6-

  Wren's heart beat quickly as the show unfolded in front of her. Her stomach seemed to be flipping around and she was so excited that her leg was constantly shaking. It was hot in the huge tent but she didn't care. She was fixated on the creatures that were being paraded in front of her. Huge cats called lions roared and danced and someone rode something that looked like a horse, but had large humps on its back. There were Marshanti falconers whose birds dove through flaming rings and would even grab talons and somersault with each other in the air. Some animal called an ape – all the way from the lands near the Vapor – swung gracefully through the air on netting.

  There were tumblers, jugglers, contortionists, and other sorts of entertainment Wren had never dreamed was possible.

  The crowd would erupt every time something happened. And things happened all the time. Wre
n's head began to ache, but she barely noticed it. The Graybeasts had to come out soon, and just as things seemed to die down she got her wish.

  The show was seemingly over, but the crowd began to chant. Wren couldn't pick up the word at first but Jon and her father were on their feet chanting it, too.

  “Is it a Graybeast?” she asked excitedly to no one in particular.

  Then the massive animal made its way onto the hard-packed dirt and the crowd went wild because right behind it was another one, and another, and another. Four of the animals walked holding each others' tails in their . . . noses? Wren wasn't sure. Each one had a brightly colored blanket draped over its back, each bearing the image of the Marshanti falcon.

  The Graybeasts took commands from a man with a gigantic whip; he cracked it once and they let go of each others' tails and stood on their hind legs, their noses sticking straight up in the air. They let out a massive sound that drowned out the crowd.

  The whip man cracked it twice and the Graybeasts stomped back to the earth, shaking the ground and sending ripples of dust out from underneath them. Wren's stomach sank with the powerful shockwave. She would have to improvise. There was no way she could harm these animals – she was actually scared of them now that her initial wonderment had worn off. They had long tusks, a lot like a boar, but absolutely huge and gleaming white. One good stab from one of those and Wren would be going home dead.

  She was weakened and demoralized. The rest of the show was a blur to her and as she made her way out through the crowd she found she had to bolster herself. I won't fail. I'll do something else. I've come all this way. I'll see this through.

  Somehow.

  -7-

  The sun was just beginning to set as her father said, “Should prolly head out and find a place to sleep.”

  “Could stay in an inn in Marshanti, Cole,” said Jon. “Ain't a long ride.”

  “Need to be gettin' back,” her father said with a strange look on his face. “City's just another huge distraction.”

  “Last I knew, you needed distracting.”

  Jon was persisting awfully hard on this point for some reason. Wren noticed an odd look to his eyes as well.

  Her father took off his hat and ran his hands through his hair. “And I've had distractions,” he said. It seemed like he was almost fighting with Jon. “Things'll be different now.” Wren knew he was looking at her, but she wasn't looking at him.

  “I have to go to the bathroom,” she said, gazing off into the distance.

  “Well, let's get on the road and-”

  “No,” said Wren, clenching her legs together for emphasis.

  “Saw some pit toilets dug around back there,” Jon said, pointing. “Meet us back here, Wren, we won't move.”

  “Be careful,” her father yelled after her.

  Wren listened for the sounds of the animals, straining hard in the boisterous crowd. She walked quickly through the area trying to make a mental map of it so she could get back in a timely manner. Was this just another plan that was going to backfire? To her, at this point, it didn't really matter.

  She followed a trail of hay that was coming out of the back of the big tent and it led her right to where she wanted to be. The place where they kept the animals was fenced off, but she easily found a gap she could squeeze through. The whole place was filled with crates and rope and hay and little tents with blue and white patterns on them. But there were so many people. This would be tough.

  Wren took a deep breath and scampered behind some crates, trying to keep herself hidden as she sneaked towards the animal noises she now heard. Along the way she snagged a rusty tent stake that was laying on the ground. She flipped it around in her hand so she was holding it like a sword. It would have to do. This was going to be a fast mission.

  She continued her run, keeping to the shadows that the setting sun was casting. As she wove her path, keeping as far away from people as possible, it led her to the most curious darkened corner.

  The animal she found wasn't a Graybeast, but rather the ape.

  It was sitting in a pile of straw with shackles around its wrists. The chains clanked as it shied away from Wren, moving farther out into the light and away from the shadows she was in. She couldn't get at it in the light and she had already decided that this was the animal. It was now or never.

  Ape from the Vapor, fruit from the Vapor.

  Wren took the orange fruit out of her pocket and held it out, making a soft clicking noise with her tongue. The tent stake was behind her back, gripped in a sweaty palm so tightly that she could have sworn she was crushing the metal.

  The brown-furred creature lumbered slowly up to her and reached out its hand for the orange treat, but it couldn't quite reach. Its shackles weren't long enough, and as Wren stepped forward something about its wrists caught her attention. Where the shackles were, the fur was rubbed away and there were scars.

  For a moment she forgot to breathe. The scars were so much like those on her own arms, cut with sharp rocks or bits of metal to release tension. Something clicked in her brain.

  These animals. The fox. The mouse. The ape. I'm making them the victims, just like I am. It was a relatively simple realization, but one that shocked Wren thoroughly. She fell to her knees as the ape took the orange and stuffed it, peel and all, into its mouth. It let out a soft grunt and lightly shook its shackles.

  Wren took the stake from behind her back and looked at it, suddenly repulsed by what she had been meaning to do. Not knowing why, she handed it to the ape. The ape gripped the tool in its hand and bent to the ground.

  Clink.

  Clink.

  Clink.

  The shackles started to give way as the ape hit them.

  Clink.

  Clink.

  Clink.

  The shadows began to fade around Wren and for a moment she was baffled that the sun could be coming back up. Wren searched for the source of the light.

  It was coming from her.

  A red and gold pattern was burning on her forearm, shining out even through the long sleeve of her shirt. She jumped back and tried to scrub at it with her hand, but nothing happened. Some kind of magic. Some kind of curse. She panicked as it grew brighter. Red and gold lights danced around her.

  The ape looked at her, the red and gold lights reflecting in its eyes and flashing off its pupils.

  “Flee.”

  The voice came to Wren from nowhere, colliding with her already shaken consciousness. It felt sickening to her mind. She could barely understand the word, but there it was.

  “Flee,” it came again, hissing with a gravelly sound. The voice was coming from the ape.

  His shackles fell to the ground and he leaped away.

  Wren turned to run and she heard chaos behind her. She glanced over her shoulder to watch the ape destroying things; knocking over crates and barrels, pulling up stakes, and uprooting smaller tents. Graybeasts and lions trumpeted and roared, dogs and cats and birds ran and flew in all directions.

  These victims were free and so was Wren.

  And so, with her world drenched in red and gold, she ran, not knowing where she was going. Then there was a blinding pain in the back of her head, and everything turned from red and gold to black.

  Chapter 7 – The Tournament

  -1-

  The cold couldn't quite pierce Otom's traveling clothes, and he counted himself lucky that it wasn't the dead of winter. He was getting a good view of Kilgaan as the ship approached it. The large port city stood dark against the white snow and cloudy sky, looking rather like an ink blotch on paper.

  Otom had clung tightly to his meager belongings as he'd silently bartered his way onto the boat. Relatively few questions were asked of him. Most people understood that most Monks didn't talk, and coin was a universal language. The timing was impeccable: the ship had been leaving just as Otom had arrived at the docks of Kilgane, out of breath from a ten minute sprint.

  The voyage had been rough after thirteen y
ears of not riding the sea, but he'd made it through with relatively little vomiting.

  The wind whipped harder and Otom drew his brown robe tighter around himself. He had wrapped his forearm in three layers of cloth which was what it had taken to cover the light of his glowing symbol.

  He had very little knowledge of what it actually meant to be a Chosen. The glowing symbol was a calling directly from God. Legends of Chosen were passed through the ages, but Otom tended to be wary of all stories, as facts could twist over the years. Each mouth that spoke a legend would add a new verse from the corner of the speaker's mind. Maybe only bards and minstrels had more of the truth of it. But maybe they had even less.

  There were writings in The Book, as Umden had said, but they were as scattered and difficult to translate as legends were. Sin'ra, though. That was the commonality.

  He knew where the Temple was, generally. North of Haroma in the Frost Mountains. It was a long range that extended down into Hardeen Kingdom, and somewhere in its heights the Temple of Sin'ra hunkered against the cold, thin air. Only the most devout mages - Devotees and Monks chief among them - kept their vigils there.

  The boat eased its way home and Otom slung his pack onto his back. He'd actually gotten luckier than he'd thought with what he had grabbed. He had another robe and set of clothes, his whip, his branch, various oils and tonics that the Monks used for medicine, various scraps of fur and cloth, and his copy of The Book: half his own writing and half holy scripture. All these items were slung up in the bulging pack that he wore.

  It was really all he needed. Probably he needed even less.

  The city pained him more than he thought it would have. He saw that it had grown in size. The docks from his past were almost twice as large. Apparently the sea trade is picking up around here. Snow still covered everything, so that hadn't changed. The buildings, trees, roads, and rocks were frosted in white, and they would be for most of the year except for a very few brief months in the summer. Smoke rose from myriad chimneys.