The Swampling King (The Windwalker Legacy Book 1)

by Ben S. Dobson

  He nodded. “I understand. It would be a greater honor than I deserve to be shown this sign. I will not speak out of turn.”

  Strange, to hear a highlander call anything her people might do an honor. Zerill wished it could have been under different circumstances. “When that is done, you will be judged. Your crimes will be spoken aloud, and a punishment chosen. Even then, say nothing. This is not the place to unburden yourself, or ask forgiveness. Trying to would only waste words. The Kinmeet will not spare you, but it will be… quick. You will not suffer.”

  “That is a kind of mercy in itself,” said Gryston. “More than one of your people might be shown in the Peaks. Is that all?”

  “It is all that you must know.” Afterward, the Lighteyes would decide whether to keep Zerill as Grandmother, or to choose Jeva—but whichever future they picked, Eian Gryston would not be alive to see it.

  “I told you I would pray for you and your people,” he said. “I would prefer it not be a lie. Is there still time?”

  Zerill nodded. “For a short prayer.”

  He raised his face toward the sky once more and touched two fingers to his forehead. His lips moved silently, and then were still. For a time, he stayed like that, looking toward his god through the dark and the mist, and then he opened his eyes, and he said, “I am ready.”

  Korv knelt at Gryston’s side and drew his knife. He reached down to cut the bonds on the old man’s ankles, but hesitated when their eyes met. What inspired him to speak, Zerill didn’t know—perhaps he could respect the highlander’s grace in the face of death, or it might have been something in Gryston’s words or his prayers—but he said, “I have thought of this day before. It was not like this. You… are not what I thought you would be.”

  “Nor are you.” A deep sadness passed across Gryston’s face. “I imagine if we took the time to know our enemies, we would find that they rarely are.”

  Korv didn’t answer, but there was a strange, thoughtful look in his eyes as he cut the rope at Gryston’s legs and lifted him to his feet.

  Korv, are you well? Zerill signed.

  I’m fine, Korv answered, though that look remained. Maybe it only meant he’d found some sympathy for a man he hated, just as she had, and he was troubled by it. But she didn’t know, and that made her nervous.

  I promise you, they will not hurt Azra, she signed. Josen won’t let that happen.

  I wish I could believe that as surely as you do. But that isn’t… I don’t like this, Zerill. Bargaining with highlanders, speaking to them as if they can understand anything about us.

  We have to work with them, if we are going to stop the purges. To save our people. I thought you understood that.

  I understand what we have to do, and why we need the highlanders, Korv signed. What I don’t understand is why you are so friendly with them. I listen to this man speak, and it is too easy to forget who he is. It is… dangerous.

  Zerill raised an eyebrow. I don’t see the danger in speaking to a bound old man.

  Not only him. Travelling with these highlanders has… changed you. You look at them differently, talk to them too easily. Sometimes when I hear your loudspeech, I think I am listening to one of them. Do not let yourself forget what they did to Azlin.

  You think I could? Zerill’s fingers flicked the signs out indignantly. You think I could possibly forget that? She is the reason I am doing this. And it won’t mean anything without your help. I need to know that you’re still prepared to support me, Korv.

  Korv glanced from her to Gryston again, and nodded reluctantly. My daughter is with your highlander prince, he signed. What choice do I have? Come. It is time.

  The Kinmeet was already largely assembled when they left the tent, a wide circle of the Abandoned, thousands strong. All of them turned to watch as Zerill led the highlander general to his final judgement. Thousands of eyes watched her approach; thousands of bodies parted to grant her passage to the low mound at the center where Grandfather Tarv and Grandmother Nevris stood waiting. Zerill tried not to show it, tried to keep her head high and her eyes forward, but she could feel their judgement, like heat from a fire—it was there whether or not she looked at the flames. Her people believed that she had betrayed them for a highlander, and that kind of anger burned hot.

  They weren’t wrong, or not entirely. She’d committed a kind of betrayal, if not the one they believed she had. She’d convinced herself that she could use Josen without getting too close, without changing the way she felt about the highlanders, and she’d told her people the same.

  She’d lied.

  She hadn’t meant to, but even so, she’d lied. Somewhere along the way she’d let herself see the highlanders as more than the enemy. Korv had been right about that much—it was hard to keep that hatred alive after speaking to them. She’d watched her sister fall from Josen’s sword, but when she’d said goodbye to him, she’d felt something like sadness. Gryston had led dozens of purges, killed an uncountable number of her people, and she couldn’t help but pity him. And now that they’d taken root, she couldn’t make those feelings stop.

  Azlin would be ashamed. I did all of this because of her, and she would hate it. That probably should have meant more, should have made her question what she was doing. But it didn’t. She couldn’t let it.

  She’d made a promise, and she meant to keep it.

  For all she knew, Azlin was among the ancestors, watching her right now. Maybe she’d heard the promise Zerill had made to her, and maybe she did hate it. But even though it had been made in her name, it wasn’t for Azlin. Azlin was gone. Nothing could change that. The promise was for everyone who could still die like she had. For Azra, and all the children of the Abandoned like her, just old enough now to join a fight they couldn’t win. A fight they would watch their brothers and sisters and mothers and fathers die fighting, just as Zerill had. A fight they would die fighting themselves. If she could spare them that, Zerill was willing to become someone her sister wouldn’t have recognized. Someone who didn’t always recognize herself anymore.

  Whatever it takes.

  Squaring her shoulders, she took her place beside Tarv and Nevris.

  Korv led Gryston to one side of the hillock, and held him there by his still-bound wrists. And very suddenly, no one was looking at Zerill anymore. No highlander had ever before stood in Kinmeet.

  And this one was responsible for killing more of the Abandoned than any other.

  He looked so out of place there at the center of the circle that he might have come from another world entirely. Though some in the crowd had hair as white, Gryston’s skin was brown where it should have been pale, and the cloudy grey of his clothing stood out amid the dark hides of the Abandoned like the moon against the night sky above the mist. He stood tall and looked straight ahead, as if he didn’t feel ten thousand pairs of eyes on him—and maybe he didn’t. It was dark, and his own eyes were weak. But either way, if he meant to die with dignity, he’d started well enough.

  Finally, when all of the Abandoned had gathered, Grandfather Tarv took a step forward, and spoke. “I will not waste time. Grandmother Zerill is returned to us. She used deepcraft to save a highlander, let him see the Kinhome and helped him escape. She will answer for this, if she can. And for why the daughter of my son,”—there, his voice went raw, just for an instant—“is with the highlanders still.” He thrust a closed fist in Zerill’s direction, and opened it into an upright palm. Speak.

  And, desperately hoping it would sound as eloquent aloud as in her head, Zerill did. “I will not deny that I did these things,” she said, loud enough for all to hear. “I did. I knew that the highlander prince would be executed when the Kinmeet convened again. I could not let that happen. He is too valuable still.

  “I took him to the place the highlanders call Greenwall, where he believed that we would find aid. Near there, I was taken prisoner by Lenoden Castar, and separated from Prince Josen. Castar wanted information. He… hurt me.”

  Her spli
nted fingers still pained her, but it had been near ten days now, and the pain was bearable. She held them up for all to see, and gestured at the healing bruises on her face, turning a circle so that the Abandoned on all sides of the knoll could see. There was movement in the crowd at that. No voices, but wide eyes, signs of distress and concern. Whatever they thought of her, her people didn’t wish her that kind of harm. There was some comfort in that.

  “I told him nothing, but I would have died there if a highlander woman had not freed me. The same one the prince said would help us. That woman, and the general of their knights, the man before you now”—she gestured at Gryston—“helped me escape from Greenwall. And while we made our escape, Prince Josen found us. He chose to put himself at risk to come back for me, not knowing I would already be free.”

  More signs exchanged among the Kinmeet there, and these ones less sympathetic, but she had expected that. She was treading dangerously close to outright praise for these highlanders. Glancing at Gryston, she decided that asking him to speak would be unwise, just then.

  “You cannot believe that highlanders would do these things. I understand. I would have agreed with you, once. But when we escaped, we took the boy, Eroh, with us. The boy marked by their Sky God, with golden eyes. I tell you again that he is one of us, one of the Abandoned. I have seen this for myself, and so did the highlanders who gave me aid. A prince, and a general, and the daughter of a duke. Leaders among their people, and all of them willing to help me because of what Eroh means to them, as a symbol. They see the boy as a sign that it is time for peace. Even now, they are taking him to the Plateaus, to show their people the truth. To put a king on their throne who will see an end to the purges.

  “But if you cannot believe any of that, there is one thing more: Lenoden Castar means to stop them. To use the boy to take the highlander throne himself, if he can. I saw proof of this in Greenwall, where he has already taken power. I saw Eroh’s face, dyed dark by Castar so that no one would see its true color. He may be marching troops to the Plateaus already, and if not, he will be soon. If he succeeds in this, he will redouble the purges, to distract the highlanders with an enemy other than himself. The end of the Abandoned would be nothing more than an opportunity to him. This is why I had to be sure that Josen would reach the Plateaus, why I struck a bargain with the highlanders. I did these things because I believed that they had to be done.

  “Most of you think that I am here to plead for understanding. That I will say now how wrong I was, and beg forgiveness, and withdraw as grandmother.” Zerill took a deep breath, raised her chin, and said, “I will not.”

  And then every hand in the crowd was moving, exchanging signs of shock, or disbelief, or dismay. No one had expected defiance. She was meant to be begging for mercy, begging to be allowed to stay.

  But begging would only put things back to the way they had always been. It wasn’t good enough.

  “I will not apologize,” she said again. “I will not hide from what must be done. I am more certain now than I was before that this is the only way. I have seen what the boy means to the highlanders. I have seen what they are willing to do because of him. I am not saying we should trust them completely—Azra is there to silence Josen if he tries to say anything about the Kinhome. But trust or no, we cannot ignore this chance to end the purges. We will never have a better one. They cannot match Castar’s forces. They need us. If we go to them now with terms of peace, they will have no choice but to accept. And even if I am wrong—if Josen’s promises were lies, if he means to take our aid and betray us after—the fact remains that Castar must be stopped. This is not a fight we can ignore.” And then the final thrust: “I am not alone in this. Korv will tell you the same.”

  The hands of the Kinmeet fell still as quickly as they’d started moving. If they hadn’t expected defiance, at least it fit with her reputation. It could be understood. That Korv would speak for her was unimaginable. The surprise in Grandfather Tarv’s eyes when he looked at his son spoke for all of them.

  “He has earned your trust many times over,” Zerill said into the silence. “He saw what I saw, when he and his hunters found us. Will the Kinmeet hear him?”

  There was no hesitation. Near every man and woman there opened their fist into a flat palm, and dozens stepped forward to voice their assent, each acknowledged and allowed to speak in turn. Korv’s voice had always held sway in Kinmeet, but Zerill suspected that it was more than just that. They were afraid. Tarv’s son was not known for rebelliousness or flights of fancy; his word carried weight. That he would give his support to Zerill was enough to turn her words from a story into something that could be real, something they had to listen to. It was… promising.

  After only a few had spoken, Tarv held up his hands at the dozens of others still waiting. “It is enough,” he said. He gave Korv a long, searching look, and then, “The Heartspears will listen.”

  Nevris gave a curt nod of her head. “The Shadowfeet agree,” Tavid said for her.

  When all who had come forward had rejoined the circle, Tarv held his fist out to his son, and opened it; Grandmother Nevris did the same. Korv didn’t speak right away, just parted his lips, closed them again, and looked to Zerill. She pointedly signed, Speak, just as Tarv and Nevris had.

  “I have seen the boy,” Korv said at last. “He is Abandoned. This is not a question. And I believe Zerill. She is many things, but no liar. But that question is wrong. The question is not if I believe Zerill, but if I believe the highlanders.” He hesitated, swallowed, looked at Gryston; the old knight met his eyes, but that was all. For a long time, Korv said nothing. Among the crowd, more than one of the Abandoned shifted impatiently. Even Zerill wasn’t certain if he would say more, or what he would say if he did. Please, Korv. Do this for me.

  Finally, he pointed at Gryston and spoke again. “This one’s name is known here. Eian Gryston. Leader of their Storm Knights. He has led more purges, killed more Abandoned than any highlander. But my hunters did not take him. He gave himself, when we did not ask. To show they do not mean harm.” Another long pause, and that same strange look in his eye as before. “I… believe this, too.”

  His voice rose, then, and at last he sounded like himself, like a man whose word could change the course of a Kinmeet. “If this man gave his sword to me, there must be truth in what the highlanders say. I believe the boy changes much for them. I believe Lenoden Castar will fight for their throne, and the Abandoned will suffer. I believe we must do what we can to stop this. Zerill saw it first, but we did not listen then. We must listen now.”

  More signs and glances were exchanged throughout the gathering, but Zerill couldn’t see a consistent message in them now. She decided to look at that as a victory. Indecision was better than outright denial.

  The silence stretched out again; Tarv’s eyes moved between Gryston and his son, but he said nothing. Finally, Nevris moved her hand, and Tavid gave voice to her words. “Will any speak against this?”

  It surprised Zerill not at all to see Jeva move to the front of the gathering. The few who had stepped forward first ceded their positions when she advanced, until she stood alone. She had challenged Zerill as grandmother, and that meant she was the next thing to a grandmother herself until one of them was chosen. If she wished to speak, no one was going to stand in her way.

  “I say it is a trick,” Jeva said. “I think there is no fight with Castar. Highlanders tell you lies, you tell Kinmeet, we let down our guard. Show ourselves, our secrets. Make it easy to kill us. You forget what the All-Kin taught: we do not survive by showing ourselves to highlanders.”

  “You believe they would let Castar stab their king’s son, just to trick us?” Zerill shook her head. “Impossible. How could they know I would find him, heal him, bring him here?” She pointed at Gryston; he looked like he very much wanted to say something, but he stayed silent, just as she’d instructed. The way things were going, he would only have made it worse. “This man is the lord general of the Stor
m Knights. Do you think he would plan a trap where he is the sacrifice? No. He came to answer for what he has done, as a sign of good faith.”

  “Good faith from highlanders?” Jeva spat on the ground at her feet to show what she thought of that. “He is old. Knows he can’t fight, did this instead. Maybe used the prince too. They have twisted minds, poison thoughts. Could do anything. They fear us enough.” Too many were already nodding at that. And Jeva had more to say. “We talk and talk and he still lives.” She jabbed a finger at Gryston. “We know his crimes. I say he dies now. Already seen too much. Who is with me?”

  Too many were. Far too many. Hundreds stepped forward then, and hundreds more signed their support. Just like before, Zerill could see the Kinmeet slipping away from her. They want highlander blood, not peace. Whether or not Jeva had meant to, she’d said exactly the right thing. They didn’t want to hear that they were wrong; they wanted to believe that things could stay the same, stay familiar. They wanted vengeance.

  There was a sudden heat in her chest, some constraint burning away, and she realized she was as angry as she’d ever been. She’d watched a highlander kill her sister, and that had been close; this was worse.

  They were choosing to die.

  “No,” she said, and was surprised by the sound of her own voice. Tarv and Nevris had already moved to acknowledge the first of those who had come forward; both of them looked at her in astonishment. There was a way to Kinmeet, and this wasn’t it. “No. This cannot be who we are.”