“Why?” he finally mumbled through his misery. “What do we…” What do we fight for? “Symea?” The absurdity of fighting for this land forced a short angry laugh from him. “Not the people,” he announced. “They’re all greeching miserable.” He pictured his family again. Then he recalled the few other folks he occasionally saw when visiting nearby villages. “All of them. Scraping by.”
Kelc struggled to sit up and wiped his eyes clear of tears. “Whoever started this mess never intended for it to become…this.” He pulled his knees into his body, gathering warmth that suddenly seemed to flee his goose-prickled flesh.
He remembered getting history lessons as a child, telling of the great wisdom and understanding of the first mighty Symeans. Oh, they knew weapons, certainly, but they ruled with an understanding, building a kingdom others sought to defend. “It’s as if we’ve grown worse. As if we grow less human with every generation. If we were free of the Empire now, what would we do? Create a beautiful kingdom?” He snorted. “We’re broken.”
Kelc looked up to the sky, into the white blanket of snowflakes that drifted to him, hoping to see an answer, but only snow waited there for him, coming to the world below gracefully. He pulled in a deep breath, deep enough that his ribs complained, and used the walls of the grave to pull himself to his feet. He then fought his way up out of the hole, submerging his desire to cry out as his injuries flared up.
Sitting on the edge, clutching his ribs, his feet dangling in a fresh grave, he fought to breathe, slowing his efforts and pulling measured breaths into his sore lungs. All around him, the wan landscape of headstones and dead grass seemed to reinforce his thoughts, mocking any hope that may have hidden unseen in his mind.
“Live and die,” he rasped, summarizing the Symean life. “We do that without reason. We do it because our fathers did it.” Kelc thought about that, thought about what the first kings of Symea must have thought, what they must have told their kingdoms. “They were wise. People could believe in them.”
Kelc raised his head, looking to the willow tree where it stood over the land, its bare branches now collecting snow. “We have no kings,” he said, silently paying homage to the willow. “We have no wisdom.” He knew he indulged his pity and yet he felt as if he learned something of his place, of his family and his land. “We have no belief. No.” That wasn’t right. Every man held belief as a right. It was theirs to extend to another man or not. Symea certainly withheld it from the distant Emperor, supporting him with hollow words while despising him and his realm for the sake of principle, honoring the fallen Symeans that gave the land her traditions. So why did it feel like Symea had no uniting force? No gods like other realms, no legends, no heroes. Kelc climbed to his feet, holding the willow in his sight. “No kings,” he sighed slowly, easing his breath out between his teeth where it clung to him like a hazy cloud wreathed around a lonely mountain peak. “We have nothing to believe in.”
“Okay, take it,” Varrl said.
In unison, Kelc and Kreg lifted the tank, and began the arduous effort of getting it to the blood furnace. The tank was almost completely full. Kenning Bann had been a large man, and large men held a lot of blood.
Adding to the problem was that Bann had laid for nearly a day before Varrl and Kreggen reached him, and another day since. His blood had thickened up quite a bit, requiring a thinning and slow draining of his fluids. When that happened extra silvering, the fluid that cleaned blood out of the vessels and ultimately replaced the blood in his veins, also added weight to the blood barrel.
The barrel was heavy enough that the two young men took short steps and breathed heavy within moments of beginning.
“Looks heavy,” Shaia said as she stepped out of the house to empty a wash pan.
“It is,” Kelc grunted. “Want a sip?”
His sister shook her head. “Don’t be disgusting.”
Kelc shot her a quick grin. “I can’t help it.”
“Set it down,” Kreg said. “My grip…”
Kelc lowered his end to the ground, matching his older brother’s effort, unwilling to cause the barrel to slosh out over the side. Normally a lid would be locked over the top but this was so full that the lid would have forced fluids out.
“So,” Kreg said, looking back at Shaia as he gathered his breath, “tell us about the rope maker. What was his name? Leeches?”
“Ha, ha,” Shy answered as she walked to her brothers. “His name is Lerghen and he is a big dumb ox. He barely knows his letters and cares more about rope and bags than any living creature should.”
“A big dumb ox, huh?” Kreg asked. “Sounds like a fantastic husband. He can pull you around town in a cart, you could ride him into market… Hells, you could cut a slab out of his backside if a famine hit. Very useful to have around.”
“He looks like he fell off the raised porch of his house onto his face,” Shaia added.
Kelc laughed. “Did you tell him that, or did you bat your eyelashes and tell him he looked rugged?”
“Tough,” Kreg supplied. “That’s the word that ugly men want.” He spoke in a high falsetto voice. “Oh, you look very tough.”
Kelc laughed with his older brother and after a moment, Shaia joined them.
“Be careful,” she told them, “you never know what your future wives may look like. The ox may be more appealing than one of the big fat peacocks you two will marry. At first you’ll see only the bright colors, but as that fades you’ll find you have a great fat hen at home.”
“My goodness, how improper your words have become since you’ve started the courting process,” Kreg retorted. “Referring to your fellow hearth holders as big fat hens?”
“And yours will be the biggest and fattest of all,” she laughed. “You might as well reconcile yourself to the idea that you’ll be married to a swamp sloth of a woman. Her name will be Blalula.”
Kreg laughed hard. “Blalula,” he hooted. “I haven’t heard that name in years. Not since we had lessons with…uh…the fat woman.”
“Mistress Balisa,” Shy said amidst her mirth.
“That’s right,” Kreg said, turning from his sister to Kelc. “We had this teacher when we were very young, maybe five or six summers. You were not quite ready to attend lessons. Shy and I attended together because I was behind and she was just at the age to start and this woman- This great big woman comes into the class. She blurts out that her name is Mistress Bal-something and asks everyone to repeat. Well, there’s only four students in the room and all of us just little so no one answers but Shy. And she says Blalula. Well,” Kreg said, shaking his head, “from then on that was her name. Not to her face, mind you, but that fat mean woman was Blalula. Hells, I haven’t even thought about that in a long, long time.”
“She once made Kreg write his own name two hundred times in the mud around the school house while it rained like the demons because he misspelled it on a board where he wrote it with charcoal.”
“Yeah, I got really sick afterwards,” he said, remembering. “That cow!”
Kelc and Shaia burst into laughter again after Kreggen’s words. It took a little while for them to settle down.
“So who is the next one?” Kreg asked. “The next suitor?”
“I don’t know. Father told me he doesn’t care who it is so long as the family has the courting coin and marriage coin.” She looked at Kelc, then Kreg. “Truth be told, I don’t know who is even out there. Mother and I are going into Haggon’s Mill next Markadol. While we’re there, we’re going to ask the town minister who is of age or coming of age in the next year or so.”
“Must you look only around here or can you look as far as Skurgaard or Chinggen Mor?” asked Kreg. “There must be throngs of men in the cities.”
“I don’t know,” Shy answered. “But wherever there are that many men, there are likely to be that many women, and not simple looking women either, but fancy elegant women. I’d look plain and rustic to their eyes, like some country lout.”
“You give yourself no credit,” Kreg said.
“You’re beautiful,” Kelc added. “Any man would be a fool not to break his legs running to you.”
“You two,” she said, turning away from the compliments as her face reddened. “You’ll make me over proud listening to such things. And,” she added, drawing the word out, “I must return and scrub the floors inside.”
“Yeah,” Kreg said, “and we must carry this mess to the furnace before father realizes how long we’ve been gone. Ready?” He looked at Kelc, who nodded. “One, two, three.”
They lifted together and began walking again. After only a few steps, something caught the back of Kelc’s boot and he stumbled. “Skeesh!” he barked, righting himself before he went over with the barrel, causing the blood inside to slop a little onto the gloves he wore. “Greeching rock.”
“That would have been some sort of mess,” Kreggen said with a nervous smile. “Be careful.”
“Yeah,” Kelc answered.
As they made their way to the blood furnace, Kelc felt his wrist begin to itch. By the time they set the barrel down in front of the little out building that held the furnace the itch had become something more agitated.
Kreggen threw the latch on the door to the building and immediately began checking the oil level on the furnace.
Kelc examined his wrist. A little blood and silvering had gotten on his skin and now it looked like it gave him a rash.
“Look at this, Kreg.” He held out his wrist.
“Huh, go wash it off.”
Kelc nodded and walked to the front porch, tugging his gloves off. “Shy,” he called. “Come out here.”
His sister came out, her sleeves rolled up and her brow sweaty. “What’s wrong?”
“Can you pour some water and bring me a soaproot? I got some silvering on my arm and it’s giving me a rash.” He held up his arm to show her.
She took it in both of her hands. “It’s blistering. I’ll be right back.”
“Is everything alright?” Adda called from within the house.
“Yes, mother,” Shaia answered as she got a pitcher and filled it with water. She fetched a soaproot and a cloth. “Here,” she said, handing Kelc the root and cloth. “I’ll pour a thin stream.”
The water was warm, but as soon as it hit the affected skin, Kelc jerked away from it. “Hells,” he hissed, “it hurts.”
“Wash it quick,” Shy said.
Kelc carefully dabbed the rash with the cloth, applying a little soap. “Damn it all,” he growled. “Look at this.”
“It burned you, Kelc. Have you never spilled it on your skin before?”
“I have,” he said, bewildered, “many times. You can’t work in the cleanhouse and avoid it. More water.” Again the water hurt, almost as if it were boiling hot. “Skeesh.”
He flexed his hand and waited for the pain to pass. Now the blisters were clean of blood and silvering, but they still throbbed, though not as badly as when he held them under the water.
“Thank you,” he said, looking up at his sister. She gave him a warm smile.
“Thank you,” she replied, “for complimenting me before. It’s nice to hear, even from my brother.”
“I’m still a man.”
Shy pursed her lips, considering Kelc. “I guess you are at that. I’ve been so used to thinking of you as my little brother, I guess I never thought of you…as…like that.”
“I know. It’s strange to suddenly see you going off looking for a husband.” Kelc frowned. “Suddenly, you’re so…beautiful…with all of these strangers waiting to…I don’t know.”
“You’re sweet,” Shy said, taking his hand in hers and looking at the burn on his wrist. “This will go away quickly. Just keep the blood and silvering off of it.” She clutched his hand tightly for a moment and then let go. “You need to finish with Kreg and I need to finish the floors before mother gets upset.”
Kelc nodded and she disappeared into the house with a swoosh of her skirts. He made his way back to Kreg, pulling his gloves back on, careful not to touch the blisters on his wrist.
“You ready?” Kreg asked, nodding to the barrel. The furnace roared next to him, the heat it put off instantly warming Kelc as it blasted his arms and face.
“Yeah,” Kelc answered, taking a hold of the barrel and heaving it up to the furnace funnel. But he wasn’t. Everything seemed to be changing faster than he liked and there wasn’t a thing he could do about it.
“Up! Now!” Varrl barked at his sleeping son, scaring him into an upright position. “Wear your sword, we’re headed into town.”
Kelc pulled in a deep breath to steady himself. “Yes, sir.” Town. That meant no chores and would likely mean some time with only Kreggen, or even completely alone.
Kelc practically leapt out of bed and into his nicest tunic, pants and boots. He rushed to the wash basin to find Kreggen cleaning up.
“Must be a trip to town with you two fighting to wash,” Adda said as she bustled by with a basket of bread on one arm and a stack of woven floor mats in the other.
Kelc and Kreg traded sheepish looks and resumed washing up for the trip.
“Where’s your blade?” Kreg asked.
“Hells,” Kelc muttered, returning to his room to get it. The sword belt was wider than he needed and made him look a little shorter. It dug into his ribs a little if he bent over. He buckled it on and then tugged his sheath around until it rested correctly on his left hip, riding down his leg. He fastened the loose lead to the top rear loop on his boot so the sheathe couldn’t bounce too far from his body. He checked himself in the mirror.
His auburn hair, still wet and cut short, looked almost black on his head, though it would lighten to its normal color of reddish brown as it dried. The formal Symean jacket, pale gray with dark gray cuffs, fit him well and helped his own grey-green eyes stand out. And though Kelc disliked it, he also felt stronger with the jacket held fast by the sword belt. He allowed himself a smile.
He turned a little to check his jaw, flexing it a bit to make it stand out. Fool, he thought. It’s not as if girls are going to flock to you because you wear a blade. Every man in Symea wears one. He snorted at the absurdity of his thoughts.
He checked his black pants, brushing off a few stray threads that clung to them. He then took a moment to rub a bit of polish onto his black boots, bringing them to a dull luster.
“Done preening?” Kreggen asked, leaning into the room, looking just as well arranged as Kelc. The younger brother blushed at the unexpected interruption. “You look just dandy,” Kreg added with a too-bright smile. “Come on! You’ll have no chance at one of the candle girls if we never get to Haggon’s Mill.” Kelc couldn’t help but grin.
The candle girls, the four daughters of Feldagar the chandler, had a reputation as being rather accommodating to visiting young men. Certainly the rumors told that they wouldn’t do enough to jeopardize their status for marriage, but short of that, very accommodating.
Both brothers bounded out of the house and climbed into the back of the wagon, taking up positions at each of the back corners, their legs hanging over the back.
Shy sat on the pack seat, a small seat on the back of the driving bench, while Adda and Varrl took the bench, the reins held by Varrl.
“So we can finally get on with this?” A snap of the reins cut off any answer if any was actually expected, and the wagon lurched forward.
Soon the wide expanse of headstones fell away and faded from view, blocked by mild grassy hills that were nearly imperceptible until viewed from far off. At a distance the swells stood out, making it seem as if none of the flatlands were flat at all.
Small clusters of trees began to pop up, their bark a pale tan with much darker patterns of brown in them as if they’d been stained or painted. None held any leaves, as cold as it was, but Kelc still enjoyed the sight of them, or anything different than the glum surroundings in which his family toiled daily.
“Courser hein!” called out Varr
l, telling his sons that a rider approached from his left side, to the north, using an ancient Symean military command.
Kelc and Kreggen climbed up into crouches to look for the rider, but it required little more than sight.
Atop a massive fluid brown courser rode an armored, heavily armed man. A dark cape flew behind him, lending an air of majesty to him. He stood in his stirrups, still half a league off and waved at what could only be Kelc’s family, or more likely, his father.
“Ho! Hold up,” Varrl called as he tugged the reins. “Whoa!” The wagon slowed to a stop as the rider still came at a full run. “Stand capable, boys, Hull Jista forgets nothing he sees. He once served in the highest of Symea’s Vanguard Company. He was sent out here to keep the peace with the warden.”
“Yes, sir,” both sons answered firmly, gaining their feet with new energy and adjusting their swords on their belts.
Hull Jista, the Territorial Warden’s deputy, commanded respect by both his bearing and reputation. More than respect he commanded fear. He sought what few lawbreakers existed in the surrounding lands and was solely responsible for hunting down any “dark practitioners,” should one wander into Symea, a role he was reputed to have held for Symea’s armies.
Dark practitioners were said to be evil worshippers or dark and forgotten evil powers. Witches, warlocks, cultists, mages, wizards and demons all belonged to this group, and Jista could defeat them all if the stories were true.
With only a word, he could condemn any person and then punish them as he saw fit with no oversight by anyone, nor consequence for any action or inaction he elected.
“I wonder what he wants,” Adda said, barely audible. “It’s not him that wants Kreggen. He’s not the Territorial Warden after all, he’s…”
“Hush, woman.” Varrl sounded worried, glancing from the oncoming man to his family.
Adda looked around nervously, the presence of the warden enough to create discomfort. She stepped over the bench and crouched with Shy where she sat, looking at the bottom of the wagon in deference, it seemed, to the newcomer.
Dread of Spirit: Rise of the Mage - Book One Page 3
