Birthright

by Jean Johnson

  “I should not need to remind you that we botched our usual careful arrival,” Adan retorted.

  “Peace, cousin,” the other man stated, clasping Adan’s shoulders. As Fali was the cousin of Parren, Kaife was cousin to Adan. He smiled and nodded at his mate. “Parren’s offer would be a strong display of power if we conjured that water in front of them.”

  “We do not know how these primitives view their local magic, yet,” Jintaya reminded the young man, her gaze still on the bowl for all her pointed ears were on their conversation. “Nor how well they themselves can wield it. That was why we were to observe from a distance before making any approaches. The last thing we need is to be viewed as some sort of demons or gods. Now, what else should we consider, regarding magic and water?”

  Parren sighed. “If they already know how to draw water out of the aether of this world, then they may be able to do so far more efficiently than us.”

  “Precisely. Parren, Adan, Fali, Kaife, begin your scrying exercises and study these natives, while Éfan makes more room in these caves for us,” Jintaya instructed. “I shall prepare the myjii to boost our ability to learn the local language.”

  “And what will Tall, Dark, and Uncaring be doing?” Adan asked. His cousin smacked the back of his head. Adan flinched and shot Kaife a dark look, but didn’t protest the swat. Ban ignored his quip, choosing to drink from one of the water jugs brought across among their other supplies. Chasing someone was thirsty work.

  “They have reached the midrange caverns,” Éfan stated, his attention on his crystal. “Since he can speak their language, if he were to gently escort them elsewhere, I could expand our territory more quickly without frightening them by abruptly relocating all these walls.”

  “Ban?” Jintaya asked, turning to him.

  Taking a last swallow, he set the jug down and bowed to her. “As you wish.”

  “Gently,” she reminded him.

  He lifted a hand in acknowledgment even as he turned toward the sealed cave exit. Éfan waved it open with a flick of his fingers, then sealed it shut behind the dark-haired man. Ban passed through two more such portals, before spotting the flickering, golden-orange dance of approaching torchlight. Striking his crystal rod against one of the irregular walls, he extinguished it. Jintaya preferred the sweetness of diplomacy, but he knew that sometimes one had to prime the pump, so to speak, with a taste of potential unpleasantness.

  When Jintaya had rescued him during a previous trade mission, she had persisted with her calm pleasantness in the face of his raging suspicion, distrust, and hostility. Three times, he had nearly killed her . . . and three times she had forgiven and embraced him. It was the Great Guardian himself who had explained it to Ban, after assessing the man Jintaya had insisted on bringing back to Faelan with her expedition, when that particular world had proven too uncivilized for the Fair Traders to continue visiting.

  Jintaya is exceptionally gentle. She can be firm, yes—as unyielding as ice—but she does not care to kill, and will not personally kill. She is water in that she wears away bit by bit at hostility, distrust, and anger . . . but water is no hammer and chisel, able to carve a path in a single day. There are times when an expedition must be . . . expedient. You, Puhan—the only time anyone of the Fae Rii had bothered to get his name right, which made it stand out in his mind—will stay with her. You are ruthless beyond words when needed, expedient beyond thought. You shall be permitted to live among us, but you will guard Jintaya, and be the sword she cannot wield; not and remain who she is, who she must be. You are her opposite, and you each need the other, must be with the other, for there to be balance in both of your lives. This is your geas, for all you are not bound by it magically.

  The torch-wielding natives came around a twist in the tunnels, spotted his head and hands in the dancing shadows, and stumbled to a halt. Shaping his words carefully, mindful of his translation tattoo, Ban stated bluntly, “These caves are forbidden to your people. You will remove yourselves immediately . . . and look for others to occupy.”

  There, Jintaya, he thought. My own attempt at your preferred diplomacy.

  “All these caves are ours!” one of the younger men boasted. One of the older women tried to hush him, but he demanded, “We are many, and you are just one. Who are you to tell us where we can or cannot go?”

  “Ban.” He would have said more, but his name caused all eighteen natives to twitch and shift back. Some by only a finger-length, some by a full step. Why would they . . . ?

  “He is named Death?” one of the older men whispered, eyes wide with fear. “This is an ill omen!”

  Others whispered as well, a susurration of fear and wonder. It seemed the corrupted, Fae version of his name had a distinct meaning in the local tongue. Ban had accepted the new name because it was what Jintaya herself had named him, and he had felt as if she had given him a second life when he had finally accepted her help and her caring. A new name for his new life. But it was ironic that on this world, in this tongue, the name that had given him a second life actually translated as death.

  The woman with the longest spear, the one Ban had seen speaking earlier, stepped forward bravely, if warily. “There is only one of you, and we are many. Your name will not scare us away. There is water in this place, and food. Plenty for our tribe to take. You are only one man.”

  “I am not alone,” Ban told her. “Jintaya, our leader, has claimed these caves. You will remove yourselves immediately. Go seek others.”

  “Djin . . . taje?” She frowned at him in confusion. “You mean, Taje Djin?”

  “Jintaya,” Ban asserted, wondering why the woman would get a simple name backwards like that. Then the translated meaning caught up with him.

  Taya was similar to their word Taje, though the Fae used a softer “yuh” sound than these locals did. Taje in turn meant Leader. The rules of their grammar came to him with the realization that they always put the Taje before a name, not after. To do so after was . . . odd. Except there was a case where an emphasis could be made, he also realized.

  “We are led by Taje Jintaya . . . ul,” he added onto the end. It meant Leader Djin, Leader of All. The men and women, some young, some middle-aged, none old, eyed him warily. Repeating himself, Ban asserted one more time, “By her command, these caves are forbidden to all of you. Leave.”

  “No!” one of the younger males asserted. Bouncing a little, he lunged forward, stabbing at Ban with his spear. “These are our caves!”

  Sunsteel flashed between them as Ban reacted. Metal hit wood when the sword in his hand connected with the hardwood shaft. The uneven cavern echoed with a ringing tang and a dull metallic clatter of the bronze point hitting the stone floor. The youth gaped at his weapon—then yelled and attacked, swinging the now bladeless shaft. Ban ducked and swung the crystal rod in his left hand. It connected with the other man’s skull in a burst of steady, clean, golden-white light. Whipped around by the strength of Ban’s blow, the youth crumpled with a sigh, slumping across the floor.

  Ban eyed him, listening to the youth’s breathing. Unconscious, and struck hard enough to awaken with a headache no doubt, but probably not suffering from a serious concussion. He hadn’t activated any of his strength-based tattoos, so it wasn’t as if the would-be warrior’s brains had been splattered across the cave. Ban had far too many years of gauging his strength in more battles than this entire group would see in their combined lifetimes; he would not be so careless. Deliberate, but not careless. Holding the glowing rod off to the side, Ban pointed at the fallen youth with his sword, while the others stared wide-eyed at the crumpled figure, silent with fear.

  “He still lives. You will take him, and yourselves, out of these caves. I might not spare the next to attack me. Your entire tribe is not great enough in numbers to stop me. I am Ban. I serve Taje Jintaya-ul. Be grateful she is willing to share these canyons with your people. She will not share these part
icular caves. If you behave and are polite, you may be invited to stay, rather than be told to leave this area. If you are rude and attack . . . you will be lucky if there are enough of you left to leave.”

  There was no inflection in his tone, aside from a point of emphasis on their choices in this matter. He did not stress their impending deaths if they chose unwisely. Ban didn’t bother because he did not care. It had hurt him more than enough to learn after all these years that he could still care for someone. For Jintaya.

  “Pulek. Eruk,” the woman with the long spear ordered. “Grab Lutun. We will leave these caves alone. For now,” she added firmly, holding Ban’s gaze as if he were some sort of predator she had met. “Taje Halek will decide whether or not we will come back to them.”

  Two of the men moved forward at her command. Ban recognized one of them, the older of the two, as the man who had first spied upon the Fae. He had a few scars here and there, and was missing the tip of his third finger. He also eyed Ban warily, gaze flicking repeatedly to the blade that had nearly punctured him. The other fellow stooped and thriftily claimed the bronze spearhead.

  Waiting until the group had dragged the unconscious would-be warrior off, Ban paced slowly in their wake, making sure none were lingering to try to ambush him. Every so often, he glanced behind, and saw the work of Éfan, sealing up cave after cave in his wake with what looked like blank walls sculpted and colored to match the rest of the wind-and-water worn rock.

  I will have to remind Éfan to make the walls malleable enough that I can get through them at a touch, he thought, sighing with a touch of impatience. Otherwise there will come a day I will have to bash my way in, and ruin whatever sculpting work they will be trying to do, reshaping these caves into a proper Fae home.

  * * *

  Deep in the sand dunes to the south, Kuruk scowled at the coarse grains around them. They bore no traces of footsteps save the ones the five of them had made: Kuruk as leader, Charag and Tureg as fighters, Koro and his acolyte Pak. There should have been signs of the passage of over two hundred tribe members . . . but the winds of the desert, slow and sparse save at dawn and dusk, had erased all marks. “Are you sure the anima can track them? We haven’t seen signs of their passage in three days, now.”

  Koro, their middle-aged animadj, made a tsk noise. “You know as well as I that the anima can do many things if the will is strong and sharp. My will is trained by twice as many years as you have been alive, hunt-leader. And . . . what do I have in my hand?”

  “A torch,” Kuruk grunted, lifting his eyes to the sky. He did not care for the teacher-prompting-the-student tone of the older man, but let it pass.

  “A torch,” Koro agreed, his tone bordering somewhere between chiding and pompous. The animadj had earned the right to be proud, however. “I draw my will from the fire that named our tribe. I draw my power from the encircling energies of the flame as it consumes all that it can eat. The torch flames point firmly north, while the wind, when it stirs, travels to the southeast. The fire I have bound with my will and the anima knows where they have gone. We will find them.”

  The scouting leader eyed the torch in question. “Well, it looks like it needs more dromid dung.”

  “We still have another finger or two before Pak will need to make another torch,” Koro reassured him. “When we stop for that, I will use a bit of anima to pull up a little more water for us to drink.”

  “Good,” Charag grunted. “Marching in sand with my battle-axe is thirsty work.” Unlike the long bladed pole Kuruk used as a walking staff, and the lightweight bow and quiver of arrows Tureg wielded, he carried a heavy axe crafted of stout hardwood for the shaft and the wealth of two thick blades made of sharpened bronze.

  “Try marching with enough firewood for fifteen days,” Pak grunted. Charag gave him a disdainful look. Pak stuck out his tongue, then started to purse his lips.

  “Enough, Pak. No conjuring sand devils,” Koro added. “We don’t need them to be seen.”

  “Heed your master,” Kuruk agreed, chiding the young male with a jerk of his chin. “We are here to track those White Sands fools. Their animadj seemed to know of a place to settle to the north. For that many people, it would have to be a large and lush oasis. If they find such a place within half a moon’s travel . . .”

  “Then we will attack and take them over as war-slaves, claim their land for our own, and crush the Water Spears from each side,” Pak recited, lifting his own eyes to the sky.

  It was said that sky-anima was the rarest of all kinds that could be conjured, and thus the most powerful, for it made the lightning strike and the air boom and tremble. It caused the rains that made the landscape flood, which could kill people even on a cloudless day. Everyone implored the anima in the sky for kindness, patience, and mercy. Or mostly just for patience with others.

  He eyed the torch in his teacher’s hand. “Koro . . . Kuruk is right; the wind is picking up, and devouring the torch faster than I estimated. We should stop now, or as soon as we reach the next flat stretch. Those low rocks we saw from the last dune are near; it may be over the next rise, or the next two or three.”

  Grunting, Koro eyed the pitch-and-dung wrapped torch tip for a long moment, turning it a little to check how short the flames had become in the last selijm of travel, and nodded. The wind could and did disperse the smoke it gave off, but it was starting to smolder a bit more and burn a bit lower than it should. It would be better to prepare a fresh one. Fresh burned clean; the thin smoke from a mere torch would be lost in the wind, up until it started to gutter. Conjuring a sand devil, however, was something that could be seen for upwards of a full selijm, the distance a healthy person could walk in an hour.

  However, when they crested the next dune . . . they found the sand rippling down into hard-packed earth, and a slight rise of rugged rocks. Hard desert, as opposed to the soft stuff they had slogged through. Squinting, all five men stared at the new terrain. Finally, Tureg spat dryly, far more sound than spittle—no need to waste saliva, even if Koro could conjure water wherever they went—and lifted his chin.

  “I see cracks in the terrain ahead. Canyons,” he stated, shading his eyes from the sun’s glare. “There may be water in there, or there may be game. But mostly, there will be a lot of back-tracking as we try to follow the flames, which point straight and true regardless of what the actual trail chooses to do. This is where the anima-flame can do less for us than clear tracks would.”

  Kuruk grimaced. “That may be true, but we still have a job to do. If there is water for two hundred or more, and game and places to grow things, it is our job to scout it and decide if it’s worth claiming, as well as continuing to pursue. Pak, start your torch-making in the valley behind us. Koro, draw upon the anima for water. We will take a dune-break behind this crest. Bury your waste, and keep an eye on all directions, just in case.”

  Scattering to their tasks, the other four followed his orders in willing silence.