A Tribute at the Gates

by C. J. Aaron

  “Those are all points well taken, Ryl,” the captain responded, his voice sincere. “Our struggles are no more than a drop compared to your ocean of agony. Forgive me if I misspoke.”

  The look on the mender’s face registered shock as he witnessed the scene unfolding before him.

  “What was happening in Tabenville was an atrocity,” Le’Dral whispered, as if speaking the horrors would somehow bring them back to life. “Had I known sooner, I would have run him through myself. Without exception, every guard in Tabenville has been replaced. Lieutenant Millis is now the acting sub-master. He is a kind-hearted man. He and his squad were personally picked for their loyalty to my command and their mild sentiment toward the tributes.”

  Ryl was surprised to hear that among the guards there was that drastic a swing in feelings toward the tributes.

  “Your actions, however, while noble, cannot be repeated,” Captain Le’Dral commanded, rising to his feet. He struck an imposing figure, towering over Ryl at his full height. “Do I make myself clear, Ryl?”

  “Yes, sir,” Ryl replied softly.

  “I understand there is likely no one here that will ever truly earn your trust,” the captain continued, his voice once again calm and compassionate. “I need your word that if any situation arises, you will get a message to me before taking matters into your own hands again. The mender will be my ears, report to him before attempting a stunt like that again.”

  Ryl nodded his head in acknowledgement, still in disbelief of the conversation that he was now having. Le’Dral more so than Mender Jeffers was the direct embodiment of the guards and the society that he had come to loathe. Yet, neither the captain nor the mender, through word or deed, had directly acted to cause any additional undue harm to a tribute.

  A battle waged inside him between his mind and his heart. His head told him that, although they hadn’t directly harmed him, they were still an integral piece of the society that condoned their torture and imprisonment. His heart, however, still held out hope that somehow their compassionate sentiment could create a spark. That this tiny spark could be fanned and nurtured into a flame, igniting a blaze that could spread throughout the land like wildfire.

  “Thank you, Ryl,” Le’Dral said quietly, turning to the mender. “Carry on, Mender. See that he has what he needs to recover.”

  With a salute, he turned on his heels and strode out of the room, the sound of his heavy boots echoing as he exited the clinic.

  Mender Jeffers let out a sigh and turned to Ryl, shaking his head in disbelief.

  “Let us hope that we’ve had enough excitement for the day,” Jeffers stated bluntly. “Get some rest now. We’ll get you up and walking again before the day is through. I have arrangements to make for getting you to Tabenville on the morrow. Until later, Ryl.”

  With that, Jeffers left the room, shaking his head and mumbling under his breath. Ryl lay back, stretching out on the small bed. It seemed since his visit with Da’agryn, every new day held another surprise, and every surprise filled his head with more questions. He closed his eyes, breathing deeply, trying to quiet his churning mind. Sleep took him instead.

  Ryl was awoken by the rumbling of his stomach. Sarial had delivered his dinner while he’d slept. The mouthwatering scent of the stew had ignited the appetite in his belly. He devoured the meager portion as if the meal were his last.

  The mender arrived shortly after. Helping Ryl to his feet, the pair spent time walking around the square until his legs cried out in protest. Returning to his small room in the clinic, the remainder of the day was spent saying farewell to a select few of the tributes that were either staying in Cadsae or returning there after the completion of their daily assignments.

  The few that were especially close to Ryl stopped in to check on him. Aelin, in particular, was upset that he was leaving again so soon. The boy assured him that he would be awake in time to see him off the following morning. Mender Jeffers had to shoo him out of the room for Ryl to rest.

  The following morning broke cool and clear. Ryl was awake again before the sun cleared the eastern palisade, burning off the remainder of the darkened night sky. A slight breeze blew off the ocean to the south bringing the briny smell of salt. The curtains swayed peacefully in the wind. Ryl sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. He was surprised by the absence of pain in his abdomen and chest. He pulled his shirt up, examining the bruises. The discoloration was dramatically lighter than the day before.

  Mender Jeffers entered, stifling a yawn with the back of his hand, a small, light pack thrown over his shoulder.

  “Morning, Ryl,” Jeffers said cheerfully. “How are you feeling today?”

  The sight of Ryl’s bruises stopped the mender in his tracks, his words trailing off.

  “How’s that possible?” Jeffers gasped. Ryl let the shirt fall over his stomach. “Up until two days ago, I wasn’t sure if you’d ever wake, you were covered in bruises nearly head to toe.”

  Jeffers crossed quickly to Ryl, pulling up a corner of his shirt.

  “Remarkable,” the mender muttered to himself. “I’ve never seen healing at this speed, Ryl. At this rate, your bruises will be no more than a memory in less than a week. Do they still hurt?”

  The mender scientifically prodded the more discolored bruise over his ribs. Ryl exaggerated his response.

  “”Yes, when you push on them, they do,” Ryl snapped at the mender.

  “Sorry, Ryl,” the mender reiterated. “This is astounding.”

  Ryl folded his arms across his chest and concentrated on pushing the feeling of urgency to the mender. Jeffers momentarily looked confused, as if his thought process had been abruptly severed. He refocused quickly, handing the small pack to Ryl.

  “My curiosity will have to wait,” Jeffers said, dejected. “The guards leaving for Tabenville, I’m afraid, will not. It took some persuasion on my part, but I managed to commandeer one of the wagons used for Harvest so you won’t have to walk. Won’t be all too comfortable, but at least you’ll get there in one piece.”

  “Thank you, Jeffers.” Ryl interrupted the mender before he could continue. “Thank you for everything.”

  The mender blushed. Ryl had truly meant his words. The mender had proven to be an unlikely ally in a sea of enemies. The care and compassion that he had showed to Ryl and the rest of the tributes was unexpected constant.

  “Yes, yes,” Jeffers stumbled over his words. “Don’t thank me yet. The guards aren’t exactly pleased to have the extra cargo to carry. You’ll be riding with the treatment to the waystations. Please do stay out of trouble.”

  Ryl stood before the mender could offer assistance which drew a surprised complaint that he quickly waved off. He grabbed the crutch, leaning on it, more for show than function. Testing his legs one at a time, he bent them at the knees, finding his mobility had improved as well since the day before. He could feel his strength, however, was still lagging far behind.

  The pair crossed the interior of the building, stopping at the mender’s neatly organized table.

  “Don’t think you’re getting out of here without your treatment now,” Jeffers reminded Ryl, handing him the large oblong pills and a cup of water he’d left waiting on the table.

  Ryl looked at the pills with a feeling of trepidation. Da’agryn had explained the true nature of the treatment and for the first time since learning the truth, he was about to commit to poisoning himself. Truly, what choice did he have? The sickness would be far too debilitating for him to avoid taking the treatment for long enough for the sickness to run its course. The only plant capable of producing the remedy didn’t grow anywhere near The Stocks.

  He took a deep breath, tossed the pills into his mouth and began the revolting process of chewing, choking down the vile substance as quickly as possible. Mender Jeffers watched carefully as Ryl swallowed the last of the poison, carefully noting it in his ledger. The water was a blessing, mitigating some of the overpowering unsavory flavor, yet he knew the
taste would linger throughout the day.

  Outside, the whinnying of the horses, reminded the pair that time was running short. Jeffers accompanied Ryl out of the clinic, helping him as he clambered into the rear of the small cart, sliding the wooden crutch in after him. The cart had been constructed to carry crops, not human cargo. Its plain rough walls and floor promised to be unforgiving on the journey ahead.

  Jeffers bid Ryl farewell and gave a rough salute to the pair of guards riding at the head of the wagon before returning to the clinic. Ryl looked toward the guards, meeting eyes with the one holding the reins as he looked over his shoulder. The guard simply snarled and whipped the horses into motion, spilling Ryl backward, nearly tossing him from the wagon. The hateful laughter of the guards burned into Ryl’s ears.

  At the head of the wagon, the two horses worked their way into an easy canter exiting the square joining the main road. As they passed the smithy, Aelin burst through the door to bid his friend farewell, waving from the middle of the path until they were well off into the distance.

  No sooner had they left the village when the second guard turned to address Ryl.

  “Listen to me, herd,” the guard spat. “We make for Tabenville before nightfall. We’re not here to keep you company. You will sit there until we tell you to get up. I don’t want to hear a sound out of you.”

  “Yes, sir,” Ryl barked back at the guard.

  “That’s your one warning,” the guard screamed in return, his face turning red with anger. Ryl met his hateful stare without backing down.

  “Don’t try anything, herd,” the guard hissed in warning. “Ain’t no one here to fish you out this time.” The guard punctuated his statement by spitting at Ryl. He slid back against the small wall to avoid the venom.

  Ryl turned his head defiantly away from the incensed guard, leaning his back against the wall. Unburdened as it was, the crudely build wagon exaggerated the effect of every stone and divot in the road, bouncing him around effortlessly. With naught else to do, Ryl focused on controlling the woodskin to soften the impact every time his body was tossed into the air. The result was always far too late and the practice was draining. After a short time, he gave up the pursuit to rest, determined to try again as soon as possible.

  Ryl turned to his thoughts as he attempted to lessen the strain of the bouncing cart. His last few days had gone by in a blur. Having been allowed to rest, visit with friends and even carry on conversations with the mender and the captain, even as guarded as they still were, had made him feel alive in ways he could scarcely remember.

  Within a matter of minutes, that misconception was again revealed for what it was, a mere fantasy. The attitude of the guards toward the tributes had not changed for the better. Had his actions, while granting the tributes a small reprieve from the physical violence, laid the groundwork for a brooding resentment that would one day explode with a viciousness yet unknown to The Stocks?

  Ryl thoughts turned to the words of Da’agryn.

  You must never give up hope, echoed through his head.

  Already, Ryl had been astonished to find others whose blood was unburdened by the alexen who did not harbor baseless animosity toward the tributes. Ryl repeated the thought in his mind, over and over.

  There will be others.

  There will be others.

  Da’agryn had also been curious about the true nature and extent of Ryl’s untapped power. The old phrenic had believed that Ryl could hold in him the elemental skill of soulborne wind. He had said that understanding his blood would be the key. Ryl turned his thoughts inward, working to decipher the mystery that was hidden within his blood.

  He closed his eyes, picturing the blood flowing through his veins, rushing throughout his body. Ryl could feel the connection immediately, could sense the understanding. Yet every time he reached for it, it flowed just out of range. He opened his eyes, glancing cautiously around. The guards were lost in conversation and didn’t spare him a look.

  Ryl looked down at his right hand that rested palm up in his lap. Focusing his thoughts, he tuned out the world around him. The gurgling of the river running along the road behind him slowly vanished. The rhythmic cadence of the horses’ shoes on the road slowly muted before disappearing altogether. He focused on the blood flowing down his arm to the veins in his hands. He concentrated on its speed, collecting power, creating a wake of wind as it rushed toward his hand. He flicked his wrist outward, willing the wind to carry on toward his feet.

  Nothing.

  The natural draft created by the motion of his hand dissipated almost immediately.

  Ryl tried not to be frustrated by the failed attempt. In his head, he knew that the skill would take an immense amount of concentration and practice, yet in his heart he yearned for the instant gratification. He pleaded with the power in blood to let him succeed.

  Over and over he tried.

  Over and over he failed.

  30

  The horses ate the miles quickly running alongside the river’s lazy course, passing the crops and fallow fields that blanketed the gently undulating landscape. Ryl spent the miles in silence, his mind a flurry of activity. He was lost in thought, striving to decipher and understand the unknown power flowing throughout his body. He practiced controlling the woodskin and toiled with a grasp of the soulborne wind. He made a pattern of practicing the woodskin then the soulborne wind, breaking up the repetition with small periods of uncomfortable rest and meditation.

  Ryl barely noted when they paused at the first waystation to drop off the treatment. No conversation was offered in his direction, so he remained silent, diligently working in the inner recesses of his mind.

  They had been traveling for hours when the familiar landscape surrounding Stillwater came into view. Ryl turned his body to look at the small camp. He could see the movement of three bodies working near the shoreline. The annual fish harvest would be occurring soon, preparation must be in full swing. He laughed to himself as he contemplated where Quinlen would have found to stash his homemade brew now.

  Ryl closed his eyes as he looked toward the still waters of the lake, taking in a deep breath of the fresh air. Through the blackness he could see the beginning of three tiny beacons of glowing golden light flickering softly in the distance. He snapped his eyes open, focusing instantly on the people working near the shore. He closed his eyes and was again rewarded with the same results.

  Ryl was shocked. The beach must have been one hundred paces away from him, yet he could clearly make out the signatures left by the tributes. The distance was staggering to him. How many times had he written off the glowing orbs that flashed in his mind when he closed his eyes as merely a trick played by the sudden absence of light? Again and again, he closed his eyes with the same result. The beacons of light grew fainter before disappearing completely somewhere around two hundred paces.

  After passing the Stillwater camp, the uneventful journey trudged on. Not long before nightfall, the shadows of the Erlyn rose, looming over their path. Ryl could feel her call, sense her relief that his heart still beat. He had no recollection of his last passage through her midst, he had barely clung to life the last time she had seen him. The gloom of the forest welcomed him as it swallowed Ryl and his silent companions whole.

  Ryl greeted the Erlyn with a thought as the guards stopped the wagon to light their torches. One of the two guards dismounted, carrying a torch a few paces ahead, lighting the way for horses and wagon. The river had long since receded back to its original flow. The road was wide and solid, making for fairly easy travel.

  The urge to connect with the Erlyn was great. Ryl fought it off with effort. His body and mind were drained from the day spent practicing. He longed for the common house, for a cot to rest his weary body in as well as reprieve from the painful bed of wagon.

  The trip through the Erlyn seemed to last forever, though the slackened pace made for a considerably smoother ride, for which Ryl was thankful. He felt at home inside the woods, he spent
the idle time marveling at the beauty he found in the enormous trees and creeping vines. Glowing moss dotted the trees high above, shimmering like stars in a clear night sky.

  Eventually the arboreal gate signifying the exit to the Erlyn came into view. Through it, the massive statue of Taben the Defender, shrouded in the featureless blackness of the coming night towered over the village. The torches in Tabenville were already lit, flickering in the low light. The square and road ahead were deserted.

  The wagon stopped abruptly in front of the small waystation. The driver stepped down, attending to the horses, while the second rounded the back of the wagon. In what appeared to be a polite gesture, he extended his hand to Ryl. Slinging his small pack over his shoulder, Ryl skeptically reached out.

  The moment before their hands met, the guard lunged forward, his iron grip locking on to Ryl’s forearm. With a jolt, he wrenched Ryl headlong from the wagon, letting go as soon as his body was airborne. Without thinking, Ryl tucked his shoulder, rolling over himself, letting the momentum propel him back to his feet. Although his legs were weak, he turned defiantly toward the guard, reaching his hand up to catch the crutch that had been thrown sideways at his face.

  Ryl twirled the crutch with a fluid grace and flare that surprised even himself, before planting the end on the ground and sliding the support under his shoulder. With a smile and the slightest nod of his head, he turned from the guard, slowly hobbling his way toward the common house. The guard stood frozen in place, mouth open in shock, watching him calmly walk away.

  31

  Ryl struggled with the swollen door to the common house, jerking it open on his second attempt. The interior of the hall was sparse, several mismatched tables and chairs were arranged haphazardly close to the exterior door leaving a narrow aisle between the paltry kitchen and the staircase. There was a small fire crackling away on the far side of the room. Ryl watched as the thin layer of smoke hovering just below the ceiling was sucked out through the seams in the walls. The room smelled like a pungent mixture of mildew and smoke.