by Alex Paul
It was past nightmeal with darkness drawing in when the Alda released them. Arken wanted to run home and tell his parents about the war and his triumph over Gart. He grabbed his gastag pack and flew across the courtyard with the other boys.
Arken slowed at the fort’s entrance under the high stone arch where the bridge over the moat began. He removed his sandals because his grandfather insisted he toughen his feet each day by running home barefoot. Gart and his friends ran ahead while others teased him about having to run barefoot as he put his sandals in his pack. He had tried to get them off quickly and stay ahead of Gart, because now Arken would have to watch for Gart and his friends pouncing on him from the shadows.
It’s all because of grandfather’s rule.
Arken felt bitter. Yet his grandfather had good reason to make him run barefoot; the old man had almost died escaping capture once when they’d taken his sandals, and he’d run barefoot until his feet were bloody shreds. Grandfather had vowed then that if he survived, he and all in his family would never be so weak that they needed shoes to survive.
Arken jogged down the hill toward the harbor and town on the road of round, gray stones. Thanks to grandfather, the stones did not hurt his calloused feet. He felt weightless as he dropped down the hill more easily than rushing water.
Arken knew he would have to keep a wary eye for Gart and his friends. Sometimes they would jump out from behind entryways and beat him for sport. They never damaged him enough to leave evidence of an attack because they could receive the whip for that. But after being beaten by his rival today, Gart might be so angry that he wouldn’t care about leaving lasting damage.
Arken decided to stop and give Gart time to grow bored waiting for him and go home for dinner. He stood where the road drew close to the harbor but was sufficiently higher than the boats, which gave him a good view.
Ships lay calm at anchor in mid-harbor or at the docks for loading or unloading. Some held trade goods arriving in Lanth while others sailed soon for foreign ports. Lanth offered her citizens a prosperous life as the only good harbor on the western edge of the Circle Sea. Situated between the Mines to the southwest and the Tolarians, Amarrats, and lesser states to the east, the Lantish people lived for trade.
Almost thirty of the ships in the harbor flew his father’s flag, the red harse head on a white background. Red and white stripes a foot thick ran from front to back at deck level to decorate the black, wooden hulls. The sight of his father’s ships made him happy because he’d spent wonderful days on board those ships before entering the Academy. He loved the sea and longed to live upon it once again.
He set off when he reckoned Gart had lost patience waiting to beat him up. The sloping street leveled out and took him past rows of two-story white plaster houses with red tile roofs. The homes were built in long blocks with common walls. These were common citizen’s houses. Although the average citizen of Lanth was wealthy enough to have slaves and land holdings, they did not live in the Royal Compound, the city within a city where the noble families lived in luxury.
Mealtime and discussion of the imminent war had emptied the streets. Cobblestone and brick echoed his footfalls as he ran the street’s center to be safe from the darkened doorways where Gart sometimes hid.
Drunken shouts came from a tavern doorway and made Arken jump. He scolded himself mentally for being so scared. He slowed because the intersection ahead was the likeliest place for Gart to wait. To the left was a slight hill and the way home. Straight ahead, the road climbed for more than a mile toward the city’s western wall. The road to the right was blocked by a guardhouse and gate, which allowed entry into the city’s Royal Compound.
Only royals and slaves had permission to enter the inner city. Arken had snuck in once. The guards had assumed him royal because he was in his Academy uniform and, except for him, only males from noble houses were allowed in the Academy.
The Royal Compound had stunned him. It was a paradise where lush, walled gardens surrounded each house. Food carts occupied every street corner and, to his amazement, the food was free—all paid for by the king. The carts offered pults, a sweet, juicy fruit as well as warm nuts, flavored drinks of fresh juices, and sweetbreads. They even had fresh, creamy goat’s milk and cheese. He had stuffed himself with free food until he could barely move, and then fallen asleep in a park while gazing at fat goldfish swimming in a pond.
Guards had stirred him awake to ask if was ill and where he lived. He couldn’t lie; that would violate his Academy oath, so he had told them the truth. Embarrassed at their failure to keep a commoner out of the compound, the guards let him go unpunished with a warning not to tell a soul.
Arken passed the intersection that led to the Royal Compound without any sign of Gart and, with a sigh of relief, started jogging up the gradual hill that led to his home. Each passing intersection made Arken more certain Gart would not seek revenge for his loss sparring with Arken today.
“Stop!” a voice shouted. Arken turned to see Gart running after him. Arken picked up his pace to a sprint, knowing he could outrun Gart. Then something tripped him, and he tumbled to the ground. He got his hands under him but not quickly enough. He smashed his nose on the cobblestone and saw stars.
“Such a clumsy boy!” Arken had blacked out and woke to find Gart standing next to him. He jumped to his feet and assumed the ready position for hand-to-hand combat, though he knew it would do him little good. Two boys were standing behind Gart, though he didn’t recognize them.
Suddenly, the three boys spun around and sprinted for the Royal Compound.
“Don’t be clumsy on SeaJourney, Arken, it could prove fatal!” Gart shouted. Through tears caused by his painful nose, Arken noticed a rope lying in the street. Gart’s two friends had waited in doorways on opposite sides of the street with a rope hidden in the crevices of the cobblestones. When Gart had shouted they had pulled the rope tight and tripped him.
Arken noticed that blood was all over the front of his tunic. He pressed his hand to his nose and tipped his head back. Though his nose didn’t hurt too badly, it was bleeding profusely.
The wooden door of his home swam before him through his tears. He let himself in and went to the kitchen to clean himself up.
“They are waiting on the rooftop to celebrate your birthday.” Arlet, their Nander kitchen slave, appeared from her small room behind the fireplace. “Oh my goodness, what happened to you?” Her bright blue eyes opened wide to express her shock and seemed to glow beneath her heavy eyebrow ridges. Golden blonde hair covered her whole body in a thin layer that looked like fur but was, in fact, just a thicker coating of the hairs humans possessed. She was only a little taller than him but twice as wide and powerfully built.
“I tripped on my way home and hit my nose,” Arken said, as Arlet cleaned his face with a washcloth.
There, I didn’t lie exactly, he thought.
There was no point blaming Gart, since they would all lie and deny their crime. In the end, if he told the truth, he’d only upset his parents.
“On your day of birth! That’s so upsetting,” Arlet exclaimed. “They’re arguing,” Arlet warned as she bent over to press the wet cloth against his nose. “I’ve heard your name many times. And happy day of birth. Did you advance?”
“Yes!”
She kissed his cheek. “I’m so proud of you, Arken.”
“Thanks.” Arken hugged her, his hands gripping the light golden hair of her shoulders. Arlet had been part of their family his entire life, and he felt comfortable around her, even though she looked quite different from human women in so many ways, including the hair that covered her entire body.
To Arken she was simply Arlet. She was somewhere in age between his father and grandfather, though Arken could never remember exactly how old. To him she seemed ageless because she was stronger than any human female Arken had ever met.
“Here’s a clean tunic for you. Go change and join your parents on the roof.” He returned to the kitchen in mom
ents.
“Are you better now?”
“Except for a sore nose,” Arken said, as he felt to make sure it was no longer bleeding.
“That will go away. You’ll be as good as new,” Arlet assured him.
He stepped through the kitchen door and into the courtyard. Flower fragrances filled his nostrils as he climbed simple stairs made of wooden beams protruding from the white plaster wall.
“I’ll be right up with food. Tell your parents,” Arlet said from the kitchen.
“Arken!” His sister, Em, squealed when he reached the roof. She had been sitting with her parents in the wooden chairs Balloom had made for family seating. Zela, Arken’s mother, lifted her arm from around Em’s shoulders so that she could run to Arken and hug him.
Em was six, and her long dark hair and hazel eyes matched their mother’s. She wore the tunic worn by all children of Lanth: white sleeves to the elbows, skirt to her soil-smudged knees. Arken knew the black dirt on her olive skin was most likely from helping mother in the garden.
Her smile warmed his heart as she hugged him. “Happy day of birth.” But then she let go and stepped back.
“Your nose is bloody, Arken!” Em said as she wiped blood from her face.
“Bloody?” his mother Zela rose from her chair with a concerned look on her face. A jewel-encrusted clip, bounty from Nortak’s raid on Catonia, held back her long, black hair.
“I tripped and fell running home,” Arken said, telling only half the story. He pressed his hand on his nose to stop the dripping blood.
“Here, sit. Let’s get you cleaned up.” Zela pointed to an empty chair.
Arlet came to the roof just then with a tray of food.
“I just got him all clean,” Arlet complained as she grabbed a cloth to help Zela.
Zela pulled her long white dress back to keep blood away as she took the cloth and poured some water from the clay water urn Arlet had brought. Then she and Arlet scrubbed the blood from Arken’s face.
Arken winced several times but didn’t dare cry out; that was not the warrior’s way.
Zela’s silver bracelet tinkled music in his ears as she worked, and the fragrance of the oils she wore made the aroma of his meal vanish. Her hazel eyes met his and her mouth took on a determined set as she spoke.
“How could you fall so hard, Arken, to do all this damage?”
“I tripped running home fast because we were held late,” he said.
She blew air from her pursed lips to lift strands of black hair that were getting in her eyes, which, to Arken, implied she didn’t believe him but she wouldn’t pursue it further.
“There.” She kissed his cheek. “We’ll get you another clean tunic after you eat.”
“Keep this on it, Arken, until you’re sure it’s stopped bleeding.” Arlet handed him another cloth.
“So that’s why you were late from school today? They held you late? I waited to practice bow with you!” Grandfather Balloom clapped him amiably on the back.
“Yes, the Alda held us late to tell us about the war.”
“Ahh, the war.” Balloom raised an eyebrow. “We’ve been discussing the war all afternoon. I had just grown accustomed to peace with Tolaria! Now we’re their ally against the Amarrats! It’s an upside down world. In my day, we fought Tolarians for twenty years! Ah, well, happy day of birth, Arken.”
Balloom leaned over and hugged Arken. His body was lean and strong for a man in his sixties, though he stooped slightly due to a fall from horseback that retired him from the King’s Harsemen and led to his career as a bowmaker. The bend in his back made him stand half a head shorter than Arken’s father.
“Thank you, Grandfather.” Arken felt grateful he hadn’t asked about today’s rock test.
“How did the rock test go today, Arken?” Nortak asked.
Arken’s heart sank, for how would he explain to his father that he hadn’t passed the test?
“And happy day of birth!” his father added as he hugged Arken using forearms bulging with muscles like the heavy ropes on his ships, thick and hard as iron. Nortak stood just under six feet tall on thighs thicker than Arken’s waist. Blond hair without any gray framed Nortak’s face despite the fact that he was nearly forty. He wore it much shorter than Arken, which was the custom for men when they married. They wore it long and tied it back with a gastag strip until marriage, and then cut their hair to indicate that they were no longer available.
Nortak’s sparkling blue eyes radiated energy and enthusiasm. Arken’s father was a wealthy merchant and a retired Sea Service captain. Arken could only hope to be like him. The only thing his father lacked was a royal title. He would never possess it, Arken knew, for in Lanth, only birth conferred nobility. The king could grant favors, which he had done for Nortak’s victories, by giving him a captaincy and sending Arken to Academy—but never nobility.
“I failed the rock test, but then I graduated by combat,” Arken said.
“Graduated by combat? Congratulations!” Nortak beamed. “What weapons, who did you fight?”
Arken stood taller. “Against Gart, our salcon, with wooden swords, shields, and full armor.”
“He’s huge! Well done,” Nortak said, glancing with approval to Zela.
“Your grandmother would have been proud were she alive today,” Balloom added.
“Yes, she would,” Nortak confirmed. “It would have been nice to see her reaction!”
“I wish you could have met your grandmother, Arken,” Balloom said.
“But you were strong enough for the rock test? You lifted it?” Nortak asked.
“Yes, I can pick it up. The problem I had was that I’m too short to place the rock on top of the pole,” Arken explained.
“Well, that problem will disappear within a year as you get your growth,” Nortak said. “So tell us about the sparring match and how you won.”
I hope he’s right, Arken thought. He went on to describe the fight as Arlet served the meal and then took a seat near Balloom, her master, as was common for Lantish slaves.
“Did sparring practice with your father help you?” Arlet asked when Arken was done.
“Without a doubt, Arlet! Sparring with Father made me used to fighting against a bigger opponent. Everything you taught me helped, Father. In fact, he started by swinging overhead, so I used the step in with shield overhead maneuver you showed me.”
“Excellent.” Nortak patted Arken’s head with his enormous hand, and despite his intent to be gentle, the very mass of his hand seemed like a sack of corn meal falling on Arken’s skull.
“You’re just like your father at this age: short for his years but extremely strong,” Balloom said as he took a bite of ban. Arken loved roast ban, his favorite meat.
“I hope so,” Arken lamented.
“Not to worry. You’ll start to grow soon,” Balloom consoled him.
“It’s not all that wonderful being large.” Nortak shifted in his chair and the wood creaked. There weren’t many chairs that didn’t groan against his weight. “My bones hurt me the year I grew and gained all that height!” His smile faded and he glanced down, and then up, his eyes locking with Zela’s, who nodded. She looked at Arken, seemed nervous, and then turned away and wouldn’t look at him again.
“That’s going to be miserable,” Arken said, “being at sea as a saldet and having my bones hurt constantly!”
“Well, you see...” Zela said, and then stopped as Nortak held his hand out. Zela seemed relieved, though he could see she was shaking slightly. Arken frowned and studied his mother. What was going on? Why was she so nervous? Had someone seen Gart trip him with the rope and already told his parents?
“Son, I don’t know a better way to tell you this.” Nortak’s tone sounded serious.
“What?” Arken’s heart thumped.
“Your mother doesn’t want you to go on SeaJourney.”
“That’s why I fought Gart today! Why don’t you want me to go, mother?” He felt like everything he had wor
ked for, especially his victory over Gart, was for nothing. “If I don’t go, they’ll throw me out of the Academy!”
“All fair questions, son. Hear us out.” Nortak sat forward in his chair. “Your mother attended a soothsayer today. Your SeaJourney wasn’t even the reason she went. The war concerns us, and she went there to inquire about how best to use our fleet. At the session, the soothsayer mentioned you specifically, which scared her. She came back convinced you’re going to die on SeaJourney.”
“Mother!” Arken looked at her in disbelief. “How could a soothsayer know that?”
She blinked nervously and fiddled with the gold necklace Nortak had given her, and then cleared her throat. That made her cough and she reached for water before speaking.
“You may not die,” Zela countered. “He warned me of danger and violence on the trip.” She grasped his hand. “I’m so worried for you.”
Arken pulled it back, feeling betrayed. He was no longer a child, especially after today. He had beaten a salcon, the largest boy in class, in sparring combat. Once he went to sea, he was on his way to being a saldet, an apprentice officer.
She folded her hands in her lap and looked down at her white tunic dress. He had never seen her look so scared and hesitant. She had always been his confident mother, a member of a group of wealthy Lantish women who maintained a social life just below the royal families. Her group of friends had their own social events, which were sometimes more extravagant than those of the royals since their families earned more business income than the royals who lived at the indulgence of the king.
Zela administered their home, slaves and family lands. She was a beauty to behold despite two children and nearing forty. Yet in just one day she seemed to have added years to her age. Arken felt he had caused this awful change, yet he had to live his life.
