Instead, the visitor drew close, his limbs alive in anticipation of violence. He allowed his nearness to be his threat, staring, saying nothing. The abuser’s breath reeked not of bitter, but of some recent meal; this cruelty had no reason. As the visitor looked deep into the abuser’s eyes, he also looked inward at the long years of his own life abused in a forsaken place. Those years had given rise to another breed of malice and intolerance: one directed at low men like this, men who defiled the stewardship entrusted to them by denying their families the patience and kindness they deserved.
“Do you know how close you are to death?” the sun-worn man said. “I’ve no care for your life at this moment. Were it not for the family you’ve thrown down at your feet, I would end you here.”
The abuser did not yield his own ire. “I don’t owe you anything. I have fed and clothed and housed my own well enough these many years. Don’t you show up and play the hero. I have my own way of keeping things right around here. And you gave up any part of it the day you left the brat.” His eyes darted to the lad. “So you can take yourself back to your desert, and hope I don’t share ill news of you with those who would see your visits here as a violation of your sentence.”
The visitor shook his head in disgust and leaned in toward the man so that his nose nearly touched the other’s. “You are a fool. If I am the criminal you suggest, what makes you believe I won’t kill you to silence your gossip? And if I am not, then your threat is empty.”
“You possess a double tongue,” the abuser shouted back. “I will not be trapped—”
“It is this family that is trapped,” the weathered man cut in. “Bound to you for sustenance and protection. But instead you feed them knuckles and fear, when they would have the better part of you to learn and grow by.” The visitor’s wrath seethed in his words. “You are more use to them dead than alive. For then at least their fear will be gone, and hope may enter their hearts.”
The abuser sneered. “Hope?”
“The last victim of every prison,” the visitor replied. In his mind he felt a thousand hot suns upon his cheeks and brow, tasted the dust and grit of his barren home, and recalled the countless children he’d carried into the care of others, bearing the simultaneous hope and fear that he was making the right choice of their guardianship.
With profound sadness and resentment—some of it at himself—he recalled that he had found others before today who had betrayed his trust, who had laid hands on the innocents he had entrusted to them.
If his banishment could be more bitter, it was in moments such as these when the only good of it was sullied by the neglect and abuse visited on the children he’d left to such men.
And it was in these moments that the soil of his heart grew stonier, when he sought—with all his training from so long ago (honed by decades of practice since)—not to protect, but to destroy.
Destroy a monster that would harm his own family.
With that thought, guilt pricked at the edges of his consciousness, but he would not let it stop him.
The weathered man gave the boy another long look. “Which is this man’s strong arm?”
The lad’s brow wrinkled. “His right,” he answered.
The visitor then seized the abuser and ran him from the cottage. The other had no time to react or defend himself. With his precise, powerful grip, the weathered man steered the derelict father deep into the trees and out of sight. The abuser protested loudly, swearing oaths and calling for help. His cries echoed back into the grove and were lost around knotted trunks and deep ravines.
Then the weathered man let him loose, his indignation boiling over.
The abuser whirled, whipping a fist around at the visitor’s head. The sun-worn man ducked and struck the man’s chest, knocking the wind from him.
But the abuser did not give up so easily. He kicked at the man’s groin. Again the weathered man avoided the blow and drove a crushing fist into the abuser’s cheek—the same place the boy had been hit.
The other howled in pain and frustration, his eyes bright with rage.
But the man of so many suns had lost his patience. He barreled the man to the ground, and in one lithe motion drew out his sword and cut off the man’s right arm.
As the abuser screamed in shock and pain, the visitor quickly cut off a swath of the man’s shirt and used it to stanch the flow of blood spurting from the stump of his arm. He then tied it off and stood up. The abuser groaned and cried for some time; the weathered man watched with unfeeling eyes.
When he thought he could be heard again over the abuser’s softer cries, the visitor took up the severed arm and held it between them. “You will either redeem yourself with the arm I’ve left you, or I will come again and find you. Don’t fool yourself that you can take your vengeance on your family and run. There is no place far enough I cannot track you. And I have no other cause in life. If you ever trusted in anything, you can trust in that.”
The man who wore the skin of many suns and winds and skies then tossed the arm into the high grass and returned to the small home. He paused at the steps again, considering what he would say to those inside. But that was a brief moment, since he now knew only one way to speak, even to a woman and child.
He strode in and found the boy comforting his mother, who had gotten herself to a chair. He knelt before her, holding her hands. The weathered man took one knee beside them, and sought their frightened eyes.
“He will never lay another hand on you. And if ever you fear he might, remind him of this day.” He then fixed his gaze on the lad. “You’re going to be all right, son. I am sorry for what has gone before. But even that will give you mettle when you are grown, if you use it well.”
The sun-worn man put a hand on the boy’s shoulder to reassure him. Then he stood, nodded to them both, and returned to the road that had brought him to this shattered home.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Sedagin
They rode hard for three days through storms. The downpour discouraged talk; they either rode, ate, or slept. Little more. They were exhausted, but to Sutter, it was a good kind of weary.
The late-afternoon sun emerged, replacing the clouds that drifted south, carrying the storm away. Sutter closed his eyes and relished the feel of the warmth upon his cheeks. Birds bathed and drank from pools of water that had collected in the road. Ravens and crows squawked and flew away as they passed, returning to the puddles behind them.
It had been days since he had dug a root, at least voluntarily. And his nails looked great!
In the light of day, their run-in with the League seemed to him like a dream. A magnificent dream! The fire from Vendanj’s hand, the clash of steel from the gate tower, and the drumming of rain and hooves and thunder all felt very far away as they walked their mounts over the sodden road and listened to the stirrings of the wild around them. A weary peace settled over them, all save Mira, who never seemed in need of rest. As they continued north under a bright sun, chatter ceased completely.
At the close of the day, the road forked, one path turning northeast, the other due west. Vendanj took neither route, instead leading them straight ahead into the dense trees, away from the traveled roads. He did not stop until the constellation of Kittel the ox had risen up from the watery grave legends confined her to each day. Mira left Tahn and Sutter to build the fire on their own, and returned quickly with three hares for supper. Not to be outdone, Sutter searched the soil and dug up several wild roots to roast over the flames. They ate quietly, sitting close to the fire as the chill of night pressed in upon them, the clear skies with all their stars feeling especially close and brittle in the cold.
When they were done, Mira stood and quietly took a position near a tree thirty strides from their bedrolls. Tahn watched the Far as she wrapped her thick, grey cloak tightly about her, and sat in the crook of a double trunk pinion tree. Ceasing to move, she became difficult to see.
Sutter’s friend was smitten. Good for him.
Su
tter had something else on his mind. “What of the boy?” he finally asked, his words jarring in the silence that had befallen them.
“Ask me,” the lad said. “My name is Penit. I’m right here.”
Wendra smiled and shook her head reprovingly at Sutter.
“All right, then. How did you come to be sitting on a horse fleeing the League and not staying with your friends back there in the city?”
“Truly a mystery,” Tahn broke in. “Where might he have spent his night if the League had offered their hospitality?”
“Where indeed,” Braethen said.
The boy cleared his throat. “I’m ten, not deaf.”
Sutter turned to the boy. “I just mean, where’s your family? Do you have parents? Aren’t they going to be worried? We all started riding through the rain and no one stopped to think about that.”
Tahn decided he agreed with Sutter. “Sutter’s not making a joke of this,” Tahn added. “A child has family, or should. If Penit has one, we shouldn’t be interfering.”
Penit nodded appreciatively. “I’ve got no one. Just the pageant wagons. And it’s getting harder to play the stories. The troupe was only going to survive if we did well in Myrr. There’s not enough money in the smaller villages anymore, and the larger cities all have the League. You were there,” the boy said, looking at Sutter. “You saw what almost happened. Everyone in the troupe thought the rhea-fols important to portray, but it gets hard on an empty stomach. A scop must get paid. And besides, he asked me to join you.” The boy gestured toward Vendanj. “I’ve got no one else, what do I care?”
Wendra frowned, but refashioned her expression into a smile of welcome for Penit. “It’s nice to have you along.”
Tahn and Sutter frowned as well. Each for his own reasons felt a fatherless child was an unhappy thing. For Sutter, especially, it brought up old, painful memories that this fatherless waif had come to them from a pageant wagon. Memories of his own true parents …
“I’d like to see you play the stories, Penit,” Braethen chimed in.
Sutter groaned.
“I don’t mind. So long as there’s food enough for me,” the lad said, and looked away as if to end the focus of attention on himself.
“Uh-huh,” Sutter harrumphed.
Wendra broke the silence. “Do we put the boy in danger, Vendanj? Brave or not, this is no place for a child.”
The Sheason put down the last of his meal, and looked across the fire at her. “It was his choice to join us,” Vendanj said, appearing to feel as though his answer was all the explanation that was required. Then he added, “Penit, if you choose to stay with us, when we get to Recityv you and I will talk about what that means. You are welcome to remain with us beyond there if we are agreed on that.”
Penit nodded. “Fine by me.”
“So he joins us. But what are we doing?” Sutter challenged.
Vendanj gave the root-digger a narrow look. “You are constantly putting us in danger with your foolishness,” Vendanj answered. “All is not as it was in the Hollows, Sutter. Watch closely.”
Sutter’s jaw flexed, but he controlled his anger and said in an even voice, “You helped us escape the Bar’dyn, and we’re all grateful. And no one here is happier than I am to be out of the Hollows. But I’m worried that you expect to meet more trouble; if that’s true, and you’re not telling us, that puts us at greater risk.”
Vendanj turned understanding eyes toward Sutter. “That is the first wise thing you’ve said, Sutter.” Then the Sheason gathered their attention with his discerning gaze.
“You know our destination is Recityv. It is the seat of the regent.” He received a number of blank stares, which seemed to await more. “Though she has no authority over your homeland of Reyal’Te, she rules the nation of Vohnce. And during the War of the First Promise it was in Recityv that most of the kingdoms of the eastlands formed an alliance to meet the threat of the Quiet. That convocation created the First Promise itself.”
Vendanj frowned. “What is not told in your reader’s tales is that many kingdoms did not join the War of the First Promise. And the Convocation of Seats lost generations of its youth to war. The First Promise did survive the Craven Season, and the Quiet was defeated. But in the countless years that came after, the Promise was lost. People forgot or, in the absence of any threat from the Quiet, no longer cared.
“Thankfully,” Vendanj said, “the veil was sealed. The Shadow of the Hand lay dormant for a time; but its inhabitatants languished in their own scorn and discord … and waited.
“Ages later, the Hand was opened again, and hastily the defunct Convocation of Seats was recalled. Because the First Promise had been abandoned by the family of man, Dannan the Elder opened his shirt, drew his blade across his chest, and spilled his blood in the Great Hall of Promise at Recityv, uttering the words of the Second Promise, the New Oath. It is said that those seated at the table rushed to christen their swords with his blood and stand with Dannan till vanquish or void.”
“And they vanquished, right?” Sutter interjected, his voice now bright with enthusiasm.
“Indeed they did.” The Sheason touched one hand to his chest above his heart in an unconscious gesture as he appeared to reflect on the victory. “But that war cost dearly. Women who did not themselves fight bore children and raised them to join their fathers and brothers fighting in the farthest reaches of the North.
“The end came with a terrific battle. So powerfully did the Order of Sheason draw upon the Will that the earth itself was rent in twain. A hundred Sheason joined hands to force the land to swallow up the hordes of the Quiet in the Valley of Sorrow. Every last Sheason thus linked fell dead at the violent calling of the rent. But the Bar’dyn were destroyed, and the Quietgiven that survived withdrew to wait upon another day.”
Vendanj paused as though assessing whether to share what came next.
“But balance had been upset, the stability of Forda I’Forza. The Hand had weakened enough to permit the darker creations from deep inside the Bourne into the world. And we have been living on this side of the veil ever since … waiting.”
“And now the Bar’dyn have come as far as the Hollows,” Sutter said.
“The Hand is open again,” Braethen said in horrified awe.
“And whatever or whoever they seek is safer at Recityv.” The Sheason looked at both Wendra and Tahn.
“Can any kingdom be safe?” Wendra asked, standing protectively behind Penit.
Vendanj nodded with appreciation of the sentiment. “The convocation has been dormant for generations. Even during the Mal Wars they did not reunite; a dozen disparate banners flew, and unrest between factions threatened the success of turning back the Quiet. But,” he said, a hint of hope in his voice, “the regent has called again the Convocation of Seats.”
A new question formed in Sutter’s mind. “Is there to be a Third Promise? Is war upon us?”
The Sheason smiled gently, something he did more rarely than even the Far. “There is no need of another promise, Tahn. Only for men to keep those they’ve made.” He paused, looking at each of them in turn, his searching eyes considering, weighing. “I know I ask much of you. And while you’ve exercised your own will to be here, it is not easy. There is more I would tell you, but the time is not right. I ask you to trust me. To accept that knowing certain things before it is prudent to reveal them would put us all at greater risk. Trust that I will not lead you down a false path.” In a much gentler tone he said, “We will be safe, if we choose well. But neither will it be easy. Every day this journey will grow more difficult. You will despair, and some of you may even turn back.”
For a long time, only the sound of the fire could be heard.
Sometime later, Vendanj spoke again. “I will trust you with this: Before we reach Recityv, we will visit the Scarred Lands. We will talk more of it later, to prepare. For now, if you have stories of this place, call them to mind and remember their warnings. It is a dire land that I would rather
avoid, but cannot.”
Sutter had heard of this place, known commonly as the Scar. But all he could remember was a vague sense of emptiness and despair. Just what we all need right now!
“How about a story, Penit?” Braethen finally said, clearly trying to steer conversation away from such dark topics. “I wasn’t in the square to see you play a part. And you’ve promised us a fancy.”
Penit smiled. “My pleasure. What would you like to see?”
“How about something about the Scarred Lands,” Sutter jested, helping Braethen lighten the mood.
He then looked at the boy, and wondered if, in another life, he would have been Penit, if he would have been fatherless, playing for bread and cups. The dark thought threatened to ruin the good humor he was helping to invite.
“How about the Great Defense of Layosah,” Penit said. “It’s one of my favorites.” He clapped his hands together twice. “Layosah it is,” he announced, his voice falling to a deeper pitch than Sutter thought possible from the boy’s small frame.
Wendra looked eager with anticipation of the tale. Vendanj sat back, his features thoughtful, as though still reflecting on the previous conversation. Braethen nodded appreciatively, and seemed to remember (too late) the story’s essence, or else he might have tried to stop it.
* * *
Tahn looked again for Mira. Her shape was lost in the shadows beyond the firelight. He left the company of the fire to seek the Far. Searching the darkness for her familiar face, Tahn approached the tree where he’d last seen her.
From the stillness, he heard, “You give me away by coming on so directly.”
Tahn stopped. “I did not mean … I will go back.” He turned to go.
“Did you need something?”
Her voice was controlled, low. Tahn finally saw her through the charcoal hues of early evening. “No, nothing. You just always sit alone away from the fire. I thought you—”
“Thank you. I am comfortable. You may join me,” she finished. Tahn wanted to say something more, but found no words that wouldn’t sound clumsy. Instead, he looked up at Kittel and traced her outline among the spray of stars.
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