Son of Truth (Follower of the Word)

by Morgan L. Busse

  Horrified, Nierne pulled on the bottom hem, hoping to cover more of her legs. But the fabric would not budge. She blushed when she thought about how Father Karl would scowl if he saw her legs exposed. She tugged harder, her hands shaking now. With a small cry, she pulled one more time, then gave up. She didn’t want to be late. Nierne hurried across the room, her face hot. She stopped at her pallet and opened the chest and pulled out the small sandals she had been given.

  “You are to come with me.”

  Nierne whipped her head around and found the woman with the pepper colored hair standing behind her. She nodded, not trusting her voice. She pulled the sandals on and stood. The woman had already moved to the door. Nierne followed.

  Outside the room, sunlight streamed in from open windows along the right wall of the hallway. Nierne glanced out the closest window. It seemed the manor circled a small courtyard. A fountain stood in the middle with four stone benches. Large, leafy bushes with bright pink flowers circled the fountain. The western side of the manor stood across the courtyard, a beige color, matching the sand that covered the ground. A warm breeze swept through the window.

  “Lady Meira instructed me to show you the jobs you will do when you are not needed elsewhere.”

  Nierne turned away from the window and looked at the woman. Her face was void of emotion, a shell of a woman with nothing inside. A heavy weight replaced the emptiness inside Nierne. Her stomach churned until it hurt.

  The woman stopped before a door and opened it. She stepped back and motioned Nierne inside.

  The room extended for about five feet before opening up into a wide, spacious area with two doors leading to other rooms. Shelves covered every wall, and on them were books and writings of every kind. Leather-bound books. Burgundy, deep green, dull brown. Embossed with silver or gold. Some with covers so old that the leather was peeling away. Others were just stacks of pages bound by twine and cloth.

  There were also scrolls, embellished metal tubes with tassels at the end, stone tablets etched with letters that even Nierne could not decipher. Vases painted with bright colors and depicting scenes from some ancient time were scattered between the books and scrolls. Any and every form that people had used to record history was represented in this room.

  A long window was nestled between the walls of shelves, allowing natural light into the room. A long, narrow table stood in the middle of the room with dozens of books stacked on top. A thin layer of dust covered the books and table. A chair stood on either side.

  In another time and place, seeing a private library of this magnitude would have thrilled Nierne. But now she felt nothing. It was as if that part of her was dead.

  The door shut behind her. “My name is Lamya.” Nierne turned and watched Lamya cross the room. “What is yours?”

  Nierne took a deep breath and let it out. “Nierne.”

  “Nierne,” Lamya said as if testing the word. Her Temanin accent made her name sound more like Near-nay, rather than Near-nee. She moved behind the table. “Well, Nierne, Lady Meira has instructed me to teach you how to clean and care for her study and library.”

  Nierne nodded dully and watched as Lamya showed her how to dust the shelves and carefully remove the scrolls from their small cubicles. She didn’t bother to say she already knew how, having taken care of the entire Monastery library back in Thyra. That life no longer existed, and she did not want to remember it.

  Lamya moved into the next room. From floor to ceiling were more books, scrolls, vases, and paintings. Lamya continued her instruction. Once Nierne caught Lamya looking at her with concern and pity. Nierne turned away. She didn’t want to know what lay behind Lamya’s gaze.

  After showing her the library, Lamya led her around the estate. Vineyards surrounded the manor. Rows and rows of grapevines were tied along the twine strung between posts. Waist-high walls made of large slabs of rock separated the vineyards. Tall cypress trees dotted the estate, providing pockets of shade from the hot desert sun. A well stood beside the last vineyard, with a group of men gathered around. Beyond the vineyards were brown hills covered in scrub brush. The sky was a pale blue, but it was rendered almost white from the hazy lines of heat waves rising from the land.

  The manor itself was almost as large as the Monastery. The halls were wide and spacious. Arched windows lined the walls to let air move freely through the manor. The stone it was made from was sand-colored and rough to the touch. Potted plants in large urns brought color to the beiges, browns, and whites that decorated most of the rooms. After an hour, Lamya left her in the library to work.

  As the day advanced, so did the heat. By midday, Nierne was thankful for her short tunic. Lamya gave her a long piece of cloth to tie her hair back with. Her hair was growing long, and soon she would need to cut it. The Monastery had strict rules about how long her hair could be, and Nierne had faithfully kept it shoulder-length.

  Lamya came back to the library and led Nierne to the kitchen for the midday meal. The kitchen was a wide-open room with arched windows to let the desert air flow through. At the end of the room stood a large fireplace, which at the moment was dark and cold. Copper pots and pans hung from the ceiling, along with dried herbs and a hunk of marbled meat. A long table took up the middle of the room, topped with bowls, pitchers, and wooden utensils. Two women worked on lumps of dark dough on the table. An earthy smell permeated the room.

  In the corner closest to them was a small table with four chairs. Lamya motioned to it. “Sit down. I will get us some food.”

  Nierne sat and watched Lamya talk to one of the women. So far, Lamya had been kind to her, showing her how to take care of Lady Meira’s estate. Nierne studied Lamya more. Lamya looked like the other Temanin women she had met: sun-browned skin, dark hair streaked grey, and eyes so dark they were almost the color of the ink she’d used back in the Monastery.

  But not all of the servants here were Temanin. There was an Avonain man she had passed in the hallway. Nierne had recognized the eyes. And a very dark-skinned Hont. But no one was like her. Or as young. Which made her feel uncomfortable. She remembered Lady Meira’s words, and her stomach twisted into a tight knot. She knew she wasn’t here just to dust the scrolls. And Lamya knew it too. But the older slave had said nothing as to what that specific purpose was.

  Lamya came back with a couple of flatbreads. She handed one to Nierne. Nierne took the bread and nibbled on the edge of it. Her appetite was gone. She did not want to eat, to sleep, or do anything. But she made a show of eating for Lamya’s sake.

  Lamya sat down across from her. She folded her flatbread and took a bite, her eyes on Nierne. Nierne looked away and nibbled some more. “I know this isn’t easy,” Lamya said. Nierne chewed her small morsel. “But it could be worse.”

  What could be worse?

  “You could have been sold to one of the Azar houses. At least here you have food and clothing and little to do.”

  Nierne took another bite without looking at Lamya. She is trying to be nice to you, part of her whispered. Who cares? said another. But Nierne had been brought up by the Monastery fathers not to be rude. So she finally looked at Lamya. “How long have you been a slave?”

  “Many years,” Lamya replied.

  “How-how do you stand it?”

  Lamya laughed softly. “You learn to cope. And you find others to help you. You stick together.” She took another bite of her flatbread.

  A more pressing question filled Nierne. The thought of it made her face grow warm. “Do you… Do you know why I was bought?”

  Lamya’s smiled vanished. “Yes,” she said quietly. “I am sorry.” Her eyes turned down toward the table.

  “Is there any way I can convince Lady Meira to let me serve in other ways?” Nierne put her flatbread on the table. “I am a scribe. I will soon be taking my vows, but if…” she couldn’t say the words. Her face flushed instead.

  Lamya looked up. “You are? A scribe?”

  Nierne nodded. “From the Monastery in Thyra.”


  Lamya sighed and put down her half-eaten bread. “Then I am truly sorry. But you are a slave now, not a scribe. And Lady Meira is not kind to those who disobey her.” Her eyes flickered as she said this.

  Nierne stared at Lamya. “What do you mean?”

  “Lady Meira is an exacting woman,” Lamya said. “She expects utmost obedience. If you obey, she shows favor. If you don’t…” Lamya rubbed her arm. “But it is better to serve here than at one of the Azar Houses.”

  “So I don’t have a choice?”

  Lamya laughed again, a low harsh laugh. “No. Slave, remember? But we have all been where you are, Nierne. Just do as you’re told, and all will be well. Trust me.”

  Nierne put her flatbread down. She couldn’t swallow. Her throat had constricted so tightly she could barely breathe. Lamya picked up her flatbread and took another bite, her gaze now focused on one of the windows. Nierne stared at her. How could this woman just calmly sit here after what she had shared? Years, she had said. She had been a slave for years. Nierne looked ahead at her own life. Would that be the end tale of her life? Years served as a slave in a Temanin household?

  How did Lamya do it?

  Could she do the same? Nierne stared at the table. She didn’t think so.

  13

  Rowen walked behind Drake, her hands bound behind her back. After traveling for three days across the dry desert, they had finally reached Temanin’s capital city. Drake’s men walked on either side and behind her, protecting her from the crowds that now pressed against them along the streets of Azar. Protecting, and ensuring she did not escape.

  Azar was nothing like the White City or Avonai. There were people everywhere, thousands, stacked upon each other, shuffling along the dirt streets between buildings three or four stories tall. Booths were assembled along the street with merchants out front shouting at passersby to sample their wares. Shadows cast by the tall buildings shaded the crowd below from the blazing desert sun, but they did not quench the heat.

  Dead chickens were strung up in one booth. Another showcased clay pots and bowls. A woman leaned out of the windows above and beat a brightly colored rug. Children dashed across the streets. Scruffy dogs wove between the people, nipping at their heels or barking. Fragrant perfume drifted from one booth, a strong floral scent. Right next to the perfume tent stood another with dead animal carcasses dangling from hooks. Flies buzzed around the rotten meat, and the smell mixed with the floral scent, creating a revolting stench.

  Rowen wrinkled her nose and breathed through her mouth. Drake led the way down another street. The smell slackened slightly. A little boy darted in front of Drake, causing Rowen to crash into his back.

  “Move it!” Drake shouted and shook a fist at the boy. The boy never looked back, disappearing down an alley. “And watch where you are walking.” Drake turned and glared at Rowen.

  Rowen ignored him and regained her balance. They started down the street again. Rowen stared at Drake’s back. He was a hard, cold man. She did not have to touch him to know that. He saw only gold, and he sold lives to obtain it. He reminded her of another man, the man she had touched weeks ago. The one the Word had called Son of Truth. She wondered what had happened to him after that night. She would probably never know.

  She also wondered about Lore. Even if he did get away after Lady Astrea’s bonding ceremony to follow her, how would he ever find her now? He still thought she was going to Thyra with Nierne. Never would he guess she had been taken to Azar.

  Rowen let her breath out slowly and glanced at Drake again. Was it possible that, deep down, Drake wanted forgiveness too, like that other man had? Or were some people cold right down to their very soul?

  Rowen looked away. She had a feeling Drake was more like Cleon: more likely to turn on her than to turn from darkness. That, and she wasn’t sure she should use her truthsaying power unless the Word had specifically directed her to.

  There was still so much she didn’t understand about herself.

  Drake turned and made his way down another street. The other men stayed close to Rowen, acting as a human cage. A couple of women looked down from a wide window on the second floor of the building they were passing and stared at Rowen. Rowen looked away. Her pale hair and skin stood out amongst the Temanin people like a moon on a dark night. The only people who looked like her here in Azar were probably slaves. To these people, she was another captive to be sold.

  That wasn’t too far from the truth.

  The streets became narrower, the buildings dirtier the farther they walked. Her body grew sticky and damp as the hot desert sun beat down on her. There was no space between buildings now, just tall, dirty, sand-colored walls as far as the eye could see, with windows and doors scattered across their surface. Rowen squinted. Her head throbbed from the bright sunlight.

  Drake stopped in front of a narrow black door. He turned and pointed at Rowen. “Lanzo, take her to the room in the back.”

  Lanzo grabbed Rowen by the arm and guided her to the door. Drake opened the door and entered first.

  Compared to the bright sunlight outside, the inside of the building look as dark as night. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust. Lanzo dragged her down the hall. “Yes, that room over there,” Rowen heard Drake say ahead of her. A door opened, and Rowen was thrust inside. A sleeping pallet lay against the far wall beneath a window.

  The door shut behind her. Rowen stood in the middle of the room. She gripped her arms across her body as if to hold herself together. Fear and grief warred inside her chest. This was not the future she had hoped for: an empty room inside the city of Azar. To use her gift of healing for profit.

  But think of those you saved.

  Rowen stared out the window. The area outside looked almost like a small park, with only dry earth and weeds. Two stone benches the shape of half moons stood in the middle of the area. Twenty feet away was another three-story building.

  Aren—he was alive because of her. And so were those other men, if Drake had kept his word. And Nierne. Too bad Nierne would not be going back to Thyra. But better to be in Avonai than to be sharing Rowen’s fate here in Temanin.

  They should almost be north now, maybe even to Avonai. Safe. Free of Drake and this place.

  Rowen moved toward the sleeping pallet and sank down on her knees. The bright sunlight from the window beat on her head.

  So was it worth it? Was it worth trading her power for their lives?

  She gripped her hands together and stared at her knees. In her mind, she knew it was. She could never have let Aren and others die when it had been in her power to save them. And so she had done what she could.

  But in her heart, she wished for any other future than her new one with Drake.

  • • •

  The sky was filled with deep reds and purples above the small park outside Rowen’s room. Torches had been lit and hung from brackets along the walls. Warm light shone from both the first and second apartment windows that lined the park. The faint hum of a thousand insects thrummed from the shadows.

  The two semicircular stone benches stood empty in the middle of the park. Tall, prickly weeds grew up along the walls, but no other plants had emerged through the hard and cracked ground. Three silhouettes stood against the far wall, hidden in the shadows between two torches.

  The gravel crunched beneath Rowen’s boots as she followed Drake across the park. A warm evening breeze picked at the stray wisps of hair around her face. Above, the sky grew darker, and the sweltering desert heat lessened. A single star appeared just above the roofline.

  The three silhouettes moved toward the benches. One of the men behind Rowen held out a torch. As they approached the benches, Rowen could see that the man in the middle had something wrapped around his face. When he drew closer, she realized his head was wrapped in long white linen cloths. There were two slits with dark eyes peering out and a narrow slit for the mouth. Pinpoints from the torchlight reflected in his eyes. He wore a long pale robe that draped ac
ross his body. A dark blue sash cut slantwise across his middle.

  The bandaged man stopped. A low, deep voice emitted from the slit in the bandages. “So this is the woman? She does not look like a healer to me.” The man twisted his bandaged head to get a better look at Rowen.

  Her heart thumped loudly inside her chest and her breath came faster. She wanted to turn and run away, but her legs would not move.

  “Tell me, Drake, why should I believe you?” There was scorn and a hint of sadness in his voice. “Every healer in Temanin has tried to heal me, and failed. What makes you think she can?” His gaze came back to rest on Rowen.

  “You believed me enough to come.”

  Rowen stared at the bandages, following each loop where it covered his forehead and nose and chin. What did he hide under there? Did she really want to know?

  The man crossed his arms and looked at Rowen again. “I’m a man with little left to lose. But that doesn’t translate into belief. What makes her so special?”

  Drake nodded his head at Rowen. “Show Sherard your hand.”

  Rowen swallowed, and her stomach knotted up. She couldn’t move, couldn’t even lift her hand to remove her glove. I can’t do this. I can’t!

  I am here.

  Rowen looked up. The sky was now black and dotted with hundreds of stars.

  Heal him.

  I- I’m afraid of what he is. I’m afraid of the pain.

  Drake took a step toward her and raised a fist. “I said, show Sherard your hand!”

  Rowen flinched and looked at Drake. He glared back.

  You will not be alone.

  Rowen slowly turned her head until she faced Sherard. He watched her with an unblinking stare. Hesitantly, she lifted her hand. Don’t leave me! Her hand began to glow as the familiar healing warmth filled her chest.

  Sherard looked down at her hand. “By the Maker,” he said and took a step forward. “Is it true?” He looked up into Rowen’s face. “You can heal by the touch of your hand?”