Primeval Origins: Light of Honor (Book 2 in the Primeval Origins Epic Saga)

by Brett Vonsik

  “Ma—” the young Baraan made to say something before being cut off by the combined glares from both his parents. For a moment, Aren thought the young dark-haired Baraan was going to defend the Tellen . . . his friend, before getting those scornful looks that shut him up.

  “Dis be all ya fault . . . Tellen.” The Baraan spoke at the young Tellen . . . Rogaan. “Suhd had no need ta follow off after ya. Ya should have pushed her away. Now she be gone with dem doin’ da unthinkable ta her.”

  Rogaan gritted his teeth as they continued to accuse him of doing everything to destroy their daughter’s life. He had the look of one seeing things in his head and not liking it. The Baraan woman quit her accusations and went back to just weeping. Their black-haired son stood leaning against the stone wall of their cell brooding with arms folded across his chest. Rogaan brooded as well, but something more than just the woman-child being taken or her parents blaming him seemed to be gnawing at him. His fuming anger appeared to be inwardly focused instead of at the woman-child’s parents. He blames himself. Aren didn’t know how he could use this, so he put it away in his memory for maybe a future use.

  Aren shook off his concern for the others after he realized he was getting drawn into their troubles. He had his own troubles and needed to think of a way out. He pondered his situation and options for some time, running multiple future events through his head to see . . . think through, where they would lead. All led back to giving the Subar what he wanted. He had to play along with his assigned task as eyes and ears, observant to what these Tellens and Baraans were about and convey that to him. If he could get the Subar to remove him from this cell, he would have a chance to flee, but Aren couldn’t figure out an excuse as yet for being liberated that he would find believable.

  In the midst of his deep thoughts, the Baraan parents went at the young Tellen again, this time with plenty of words speaking to their unhappiness with the young-one’s smithing father. This time, the young Baraan made better attempts at defending his Tellen friend, but in the end, was berated back by his parents into a brooding silence. Aren learned much from the exchange. The parents spared few accusations concerning the older Tellen . . . Mithraam. They spoke of his meddling in town affairs as an outsider and of his defiant acts against the town and of his secretive and sinister associations with the dark robes. The Ebon Circle . . . What do they have to do with this Mithraam? That last accusation provoked the young Tellen to the defense of his father before the Baraan parents turned the argument back to the young woman-child now in the hands of the Sakes. The young Tellen was silenced at the insinuation of Suhd being mishandled and that . . . Rogaan was the cause of it. Aren’s attention piqued at the talk of associations with the “dark robes.” Could this be the Ebon Circle whose temple looms in the lands south of Brigum? The same Ebon Circle his father had associations with and from where Aren suspected came the Agni stone that touched his mind and was now in the hands of his questioners. An anxious flush of worry swept over Aren. Whispering to the Subar of Tellen associations with the Ebon Circle might well lead to discovering those of my father’s and me.

  More accusing words poured at the Tellen. Hurtful words spoken in anger by the parents worried for their young woman-child. They had no way to take out their angst on those truly responsible, so Rogaan took the brunt of their emotions. The young Tellen kept surprisingly silent, sitting, staring at the floor in front of him. I’d not take that abuse from anyone, Aren admitted to himself. No new revealings were forthcoming in the continuous berating they gave Rogaan. With no new information, their rants became irritating to Aren, and . . . they still kept at it. Aren grew more irritated the longer it went on; even the guards who had been grinning earlier were now showing signs of annoyance. Aren’s irritation was not so much that the Tellen just took the verbal pummeling without responding, but they were repeating themselves such that they were now interrupting his thinking. Intolerable! Aren couldn’t take it any longer.

  “Silence!” Aren repeated himself when the Baraan parents didn’t comply with his first command to shut up. “Silence, all of you fools. How can anyone think with you jabbering on about things beyond your reach?”

  The room went silent. Aren looked around, wanting them all to understand he would tolerate no more. The guards kept silent, but wore surprised, yet pleased expressions. Rogaan looked at Aren from under raised eyebrows with thankful eyes and a relieved half smile. The young Baraan . . . Pax, from the back of his cell mouthed with rolled eyes what Aren thought was “thank the Ancients.” The mother stared at Aren shocked, as if she was seeing him for the first time. The father responded differently than the rest. He carried anger all about him and looked as someone about to do foolishness to satisfy his emotions.

  “Ya pointy-ear judger,” the Baraan father started with venom thick on his tongue. “Ya no tell me or me family ta be silent. It be ya kind dat causes troubles. Holdin’ ya selves above all and dinkin’ ya have a right ta judge us. Ya kind has no rights ta question us.”

  Pointy-ear? . . . The insult burned at Aren until he heard little else. First, his captors insulted his kind and him, more importantly, and now this low-witted lout. Without thinking things through, Aren leapt to his feet and grabbed through the bars at the older Baraan with the intent to painfully flick his head with sharp fingernails as a warning to stop insulting him. Despite the Baraan’s surprise at the Evendiir’s boldness, he side-slipped Aren’s swipe and caught his arm with heavily calloused hands. Oops was all Aren could think of in that moment. He was not so careless, normally, but everything . . . the cryptic symbols, the burning ropes, the teasing puzzles, the painful torments, the spinning colors, and the insults all got to him. The angry Baraan then twisted the arm he had a strong grip on, causing Aren to cry out in pain. Aren tried, but couldn’t pull free. Yanking and further twisting, the Baraan painfully slammed Aren’s face into the bars while snarling as if he meant to pull Aren’s arm out of socket. Aren realized he was in serious trouble and cursed himself for losing control so easily, but now . . . how to get out of this predicament . . . with his arm still attached? Frantically, Aren sought to pull his arm free of the Baraan’s powerful grip, but failed with every try.

  “Release me!” Aren angrily demanded.

  Bracing himself with his body close to the bars to improve his leverage, the Baraan readied his whole body to pull on Aren’s arm. Panic welled up in the pit of Aren’s stomach, making it difficult for him to concentrate and think his way out of this predicament. Aren wasn’t a match for the Baraan, physically. Intellectually, Aren knew he was more than able to put this low-wit in his place. What was I thinking when I stuck my arm through the bars? Aren admonished himself. He thought to beg for his arm. No! I’ve done nothing wrong. His thoughts then turned to pleading. Yes. But I must take care not to sound as a beggar. This lout owes me an apology. Aren felt a strong pull on his arm. He realized it was too late to speak words to secure his freedom. He held his breath and closed his eyes and braced and grimaced, ready to feel his arm and shoulder separate. He waited. And he waited. Those powerful calloused hands still held him fast, but didn’t pull hard. Aren peeked open an eye. The Baraan gripped him with his body pressed against the bars, straining with a pained expression, trying to pull with all his might, but a tanned hand extended by a thick forearm gripped the Baraan’s wrist keeping him from his intended work. Aren looked to his right and found the young Tellen, his arm stretched to the shoulder through the bars and his hand around the older Baraan’s wrist, stalemating him. Shocked and relieved, Aren exhaled, then breathed in deeply and with tears welling up in his eyes he commented. “Uhhgggg . . . you all smell horrible. When did you last bathe?”

  Ignoring Aren, the young Tellen grunted and pulled the gritted teeth Baraan to the bars. A genuine shocked expression took over the Baraan’s face. Suddenly, arms of the young Baraan wrapped around his father’s shoulders. The younger one’s eyes were filled with concern and sadness . . . yes,
sadness, Aren noted.

  “Da,” the young Baraan spoke with an unexpected stern kindness. “Ya can no do this. He’s done nothin’. And I be seein’ dat look in Rogaan’s eyes. He not be lettin’ ya go until ya let go of dis one.”

  Moments passed; long, painful moments for Aren. The older Baraan’s face softened as he released his grip on Aren. Rogaan slowly released his hold on his elder. The Baraan immediately took hold of his wrist, wincing at his own touch on bruised skin.

  “Stay away from me and me family, Pointy-ears,” the older Baraan warned with a spat to punctuate his words. “And da same for ya, Rogaan. Ya be no longer welcomed in our family.”

  Aren backed away from the bars to ensure he wasn’t caught up in another squabble between the Baraans and Rogaan. Rubbing his stinging wrist, Aren went to his spot and sat down with knees drawn up to his chest and his back against the brick wall. I’ve got to keep myself from being careless. No more grabbing others, even if they’re idiots. Use your tongue, Aren . . . Use your tongue.

  The Baraan father and Rogaan stared at each other for a long while, each wearing a determined air more than hinting of their unwillingness to give in to each other. Rogaan broke their silent standoff with a dismissive shrug, then sat down an arm’s length from Aren. The Tellen looked in a brood . . . no, in an anger, Aren assessed, but wasn’t sure who he was angry at. The Baraans quieted down with only the occasional sniffle and sob coming from the mother. They kept to themselves for a time with only an occasional whisper between them. That young Baraan stood leaning against the back wall, looking fouled as if he swallowed a pond jumper. The guards too were quiet . . . finally . . . Aren felt happy at that. No noise coming from the cells or surroundings, and no spinning symbols or puzzles in his head. He leaned back against the wall, relaxing for the first time in a long while since he could recall.

  He rested his eyes, closing them for a time while enjoying the quiet. Relieved of the pain and chaos in his mind, he started realizing just how badly he had felt. What rid me of those symbols? His mind calmed as his thoughts returned to the moment those spinning symbols left him. Strange that the puzzle symbols left me when these new prisoners arrived. The symbols had tormented his mind since he first touched the double-ax enwrapped, flame-shaped red gemstone. Aren then chastised himself for touching the thing when he took it from his father’s study hideaway. The gemstone, truly an aged Agni stone, a gem of power likened to the kind used in temples of old by Kabiris and, if legend spoke truth, the Ancients themselves. Aren suspected the stone to be something like what it turned out to be when he found his father handling it so carefully, never touching it with his naked hands. Aren’s uncontrollable curiosity at things unknown made him careless, blinding him to ancient dangers and bestowing upon him the pain and torment of those symbols spinning in his head ever since he woke from the flagstone floor of the study almost a full moon ago. Fearing his father’s wrath, and worse, his disappointment in him, Aren snuck from their home with the gemstone carefully wrapped in a cloth seeking undisturbed time to figure out how to undo what he had done. Tucked away in his favorite hiding spot, Aren had only a brief opportunity to investigate the thing before a tall cloaked Evendiir he had seen engaged in discussions with his father earlier approached him speaking a tongue he didn’t understand. Aren recalled a painful flash, then no memory of things until he found himself staggering at the northern gate of Farratum . . . a long way from his home in Windsong and his father.

  Since the day Aren stepped foot into Farratum, he sought help, but no one offered beyond the occasional soup or bread meal. The streets had been his home with him doing little better than surviving. Aren’s reluctant attempts to journey home and offer himself and his misdeeds to his father all failed. Usually, he found himself recovering in a dark place after blacking out. And, each time the painful intensity of those tormenting spinning symbols worsened, sometimes leaving him incapacitated. The last time he awoke, he found himself picked up by the street watch who brought him to this prison after they discovered his Agni stone. They were convinced Aren stole a rather expensive jewel, but when they handled the gemstone, bad things happened to them. After several incidents where guards were left with only half a mind, those questioners paid him the first of a handful of unpleasant visits seeking knowledge of the how, what, and where of the Agni stone he possessed. Aren was convinced the taller of his questioners knew or suspected the jewel more than its simple description. That questioner spent too much focus and time asking of it. He was persistent, if not relentless. And then, there were those cursed spinning symbols traveling along patterns in his head, seeming to tease, dare him to solve a riddle he didn’t know existed . . . until recently, just before his capture. What has rid me of the symbols? The answer is here; it has to be.

  Aren looked about his cell, the adjacent cells, and the room. What is it about this place . . . ? He looked for anything out of place or unique. Nothing. Even the material the room and cells were made of looked commonplace, if not well made. He looked over the guards. These four in the room were new, but dressed in dark uniforms near identical to those they replaced . . . more Sakes. Aren found nothing about them different than when he was first hauled into prison and thrown into this cell. He had suffered the symbols then. Painfully. It wasn’t until these newcomers were thrown into the cells with him that he felt relief from the symbols for the first time. And this morning, the symbols returned as the distance between him and the newcomers grew. His return to this cell resulted in the opposite . . . the spinning, throbbing symbols retreated from him the closer he came back to the cells and the newcomers. The older Tellen was absent, and so were the symbols, so nothing about him, Aren concluded. Aren focused on the younger Tellen and the Baraans. What about them?

  Aren silently studied the Baraans for a while, looking for anything. They seemed just a typical family thrust into a very bad situation and not knowing what to do about it. Aren surveyed everything about them; clothing, mannerisms, interactions with each other, even scars and skin paintings. Nothing stood out of them except that the skin paintings of swimming animals, sails, and entwined ropes on the father looked similar to those he observed on riverfolk down at Farratum’s wharfs. Yet, the Baraan and his family were from Brigum from what Aren learned from listening to them so far . . . and it’s landlocked. No river to speak of there. There’s something more to him, though. Aren dismissed that thought, then took interest in the others. Nothing else appeared out of the ordinary concerning the Baraan or his family. Turning his scrutiny on Rogaan, Aren quickly saw that he was Tellen, but of mixed blood. Taller, slightly leaner of body, lighter skin, less thick of a beard than that proudly worn by Tellens he knew of. His hair was typical Tellen in color . . . dark, but not as coarse . . . more of a Baraan’s hair. His muscles and strength displayed in defense of that young woman-child was Tellen and more. This one is strong, maybe stronger than most I know except maybe the smiths in Sital. Yet, he doesn’t braggingly toss his strength in the face of others as most Tellens would. Aren observed the young Tellen . . . the mixed blood . . . Rogaan . . . looking all wounded in head or heart or both, but Aren noted that he appeared aware of everything around him, alert and watching and thinking.

  “Wish you would stop looking at me in that way.” Rogaan spoke in a low voice that sounded like a light rock slide.

  Aren felt warm as a nervous surge rippled through him, causing his arms and fingers to twitch. The Tellen . . . Rogaan . . . had been watching him. Recovering quickly and not wanting to sound as if in the wrong, Aren asked a question. “How so?”

  “As if I am a caged animal,” Rogaan continued. “Like the strange ones merchants bring to town in their caravans and demand coin to see. You know, the ones they never let out of their cages.”

  “I meant nothing of it,” Aren attempted a halfhearted apology. This one thinks. And with strength . . . a dangerous combination. He decided to try sounding as if befriending him, to find out more of h
im and the others, and use what he learned to help himself escape this place. “My name is Aren.”

  Rogaan looked at him as if considering how he should respond. A moment passed that left Aren uncertain of the young Tellen . . . Rogaan was considering to be civil or hit him. The young Tellen finally replied, “I am Rogaan, son of Mithraam.”

  Aren quietly exhaled with relief. No fist to the head. He followed this opening by engaging Rogaan in small talk for some time, learning a little of what brought him and the Baraans to Farratum and jail. Aren did so, he thought, without revealing much of himself except where he came from and what his captors did to him. For as insightful and intelligent as Rogaan unknowingly showed himself to be, Aren still considered him a Tellen and not as so capable as himself in reasoning and thought. Aren skillfully guided their talk. He discovered Rogaan’s home was Brigum. His father a rather capable smith with an interest in the affairs of others . . . Good to be aware the older Tellen has a penchant for putting his nose where it doesn’t belong. And that Rogaan’s mother was an Isin. A mixed coupling of Tellen and Baraan. That must be an interesting family gathering. Isin, the friendlier of the Houses in the western reaches of Shuruppak and one at odds with House Lagash, as Aren recalled from secretly listening in on his father’s conversations. Aren had no liking of Lagash. Many troubles in Windsong and Farratum were said to lie at the door of that House. He had no direct interaction with Lagash and hoped he never would. Still . . . being in good with House Isin could prove advantageous, Aren mused. But what would they want of me? Aren also unveiled Rogaan’s liking of the bow . . . and if the Tellen was anything close in the truth of his word, a very good shot with one. More information the young Tellen freely spoke . . . Rogaan’s friend in the other cell, Pax, has known Rogaan for years, but Pax and his family came from another place his friend and family have never shared. They must be lawbreakers hoping not to be discovered. Too late for that. And that the young woman-child, Suhd, is sister to Pax and a weakness for Rogaan and, from their behaviors, the rest of them. Rogaan’s enthrallment with her got him in much trouble . . . even killed a guard. That won’t go well for him. And her family will likely suffer over her as well. Rogaan was less easy with specifics of how they got themselves into tangles with Farratum law, finding themselves here with Aren. It had something to do with Rogaan’s father . . . that story the young Tellen left unclear. That’ll teach the old Tellen and his nose a thing and some.