Six Heirs

by Pierre Grimbert

  Reyan Kercyan was most wronged. They took away his title of Duke. They took his land. And he was publicly disgraced. He did not sink into a depression as one might have expected, but continued to live in Lorelia anyway, where he survived as a merchant.

  For her own part, Tiramis left the Council of Mothers. She merely declared that the Matriarchy wasn’t in danger and that she never again wanted to be questioned on the subject. The Ancestress herself asked that everyone respect this request; it was useless to revive these seemingly terrible memories.

  Tiramis took Yon in Union the next year. Yon is my ancestor, the grandfather of my grandmother.

  They moved here 118 years ago, to this same small southern province where I live.

  To everyone else, Nol and the emissaries are forgotten. There may be a few people who know some of the story, but they would have trouble distinguishing between the facts and the stories that are occasionally told.

  I have not forgotten. The heirs have not forgotten.

  Something wasn’t right.

  Nort’ had always possessed a sort of sixth sense that had saved him many times before, and this latest feeling of alarm was clanging louder than the six hundred bells of Leem.

  Ever since the apogee, he’d felt that he was being watched. Nort’ had always attracted looks, generally feminine ones, with his imposing muscular frame, but this was something else. Someone was watching him.

  Nort’ guarded the western door to the imperial gardens of Goran, standing with the most military bearing possible, arms tense at his sides, hand firm on his halberd. He usually performed his duty with an exceptional patience, but today he was ill at ease.

  He examined the passersby, then examined the closest windows in an attempt to expose his spy. He shot a glance at his two subordinates, frozen in the same posture, hoping that one or the other shared his fears. But they apparently had nothing on their mind except the changing of the guard.

  An old, filthy man clothed only in rags approached them, presenting an equally soiled cup in his wrinkled hands. A foreigner, no doubt, he thought to himself, maybe a Lorelien. The man broke into a series of pleas in a mix of Ithare and Goranese when Nort’, with a wave of his hand, had his subordinates unceremoniously sweep him away.

  This episode brought him back to the task at hand and made him temporarily forget his worries. It was hot at the end of the day, and Nort’ began to look forward to the change. His right arm was tired, and more than anything, he wanted to drop that cursed halberd, which was killing his shoulder. He also couldn’t wait to walk a bit. He was a former trooper and never really got used to the guard’s long decidays of forced immobility. Finally, his patience was rewarded: he was relieved to hear the six bells ring briefly from somewhere behind him in the palace, marking the end of the sixth deciday. The door opened, exposing three military men dressed in thicker clothes for the night guard. There was the necessary orchestra of exchanging halberds, then the ritual salute, and the new guards took their place.

  Nort’ decided not to mention his feelings to the night guard. Nort’ saw no real reason to inform them, and he would be roundly mocked if he confided his childish fears to the veteran warriors.

  He decided not to return immediately to the guards’ barracks since he had some free time. But the feeling of being watched stopped his long-awaited stroll before it could really begin. He couldn’t be at ease until this cursed foreboding, which stuck with him like a bad hangover, passed.

  If he had to, Nort’ was prepared to start a little skirmish with some strangers to soothe his unease.

  Yet he felt himself walking quite fast, muttering with a hand glued to the hilt of his broadsword, and staring down each passerby he came across with an evil eye. He stopped, took a long breath, and began his walk again at a more moderate pace.

  He rarely lost his composure so easily. “By Mishra, if something must happen, then let it happen now, gods damn it!” he grumbled.

  He heard an eruption of voices behind him. Turning around, Nort’ saw a mob of Goranese men fleeing something that wasn’t yet recognizable. Then the human mass split in two, making way for two Züu killers.

  The Züu killers!

  They didn’t need to show any discretion here in Goran, where their influence and reputation were well known. Nort’ saw the scarlet tunics, the vermillion headbands encircling shaved heads, the damned daggers—long and thin as needles—gleaming in their hands. And, more than anything, their eyes. They were the eyes of fanatics, ready to do anything to achieve their end: to slaughter their prey.

  They were coming his way, but that didn’t mean anything, as Nort’ was in the middle of the street. He drew his broadsword while slowly sliding to his left. Then it hit him: they were there for him.

  The two killers had seen his every move. Nort’ remembered those looks now; they had been watching him all day, faceless until now.

  They were no more than a few steps away from him and approaching rapidly, practically running. Nort’ saw the glistening of the daggers, the murderous eyes, and the curious crowd that wouldn’t interfere for all the world. A savage hatred rose up in his chest, and he let out a roar as he leaped toward the two men; his skin would come at a dear price.

  But instead, it was given freely; a third assassin he hadn’t seen came at him from behind.

  His cry died in his throat as the poisoned needle shot through him, and he silently collapsed at his murderers’ feet.

  Some moons after their return, the surviving Sages felt the urge to reunite. The old King Arkane of Junine was the first to act on this desire by inviting all of them to the most beautiful of the Lesser Kingdoms. The chosen date was the Day of the Owl: as such, they would commemorate the day that they had all left in single file, following Nol the Strange.

  Even though Arkane was one-handed, aging, and more or less ostracized by his peers, he was still a powerful individual, and finding his old friends wasn’t difficult. Everyone responded to his call, even Moboq, who was the farthest away and had to travel for two dékades.

  They were warmly welcomed. The ancient king, seeing them all reunited and joyous in his personal palace, declared that there was one fortunate outcome of their adventure, at least: friendship.

  They spoke of their personal fates, of the events after that “voyage.” They all empathized with the others’ misfortunes, particularly those of Rafa, Maz Achem, and Reyan Kercyan. But no one pitied their own situation; they all simply stated the facts, without appearing to regret the mutual silence that had caused it all.

  Later, free from spying eyes, each emissary renewed their vow to keep the secret, no matter what happened beyond the suffering, dishonor, and solitude that they had already felt.

  They left each other, promising to reunite again, which they did the next year, and two years later, then regularly every two years. King Arkane was not at their fourth meeting; he was the first among them to disappear. But three new people participated: Tiramis and Yon had a daughter, and Maz Achem, although aging himself, had taken his Union with one of his previous students, who quickly gave him a son. He came with his young wife and child, and no one voiced any objection.

  Thomé of Junine, whom King Arkane had abdicated in favor of, asked to represent his father. He knew nothing of the secret, but wanted to pay homage to the thing that had been most important in his father’s eyes. Of course his request was accepted.

  The arrival of these new characters in the group changed the style of the gatherings; what began as rather serious occasions eventually became family celebrations. The nations stopped sending spies to reveal the secret, which was never brought up again.

  In their own time, Moboq the Wise, Rafa de Griteh, and Reyan Kercyan had wives and children. The gatherings of the growing group became more and more organized. Since everyone came from faraway lands, they decided to set the meeting every three years in Berce, a Lorelien city, which was the closest point to the Island of Ji and an approximate midpoint between all of their homes.
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  Over the years, the old ones died out. The majority of their descendants continued to reunite to celebrate this event they knew nearly nothing about. Sometimes, when the night was dark enough, the ancestors brought the oldest of the children to the island. There, they shared a part of their knowledge, then took a solemn vow of silence. Perhaps they should not have done this.

  A secret, can it always remain so?

  This year is the year of the gathering. The Day of the Owl is only three dékades away. This will be my fifteenth year, and they will bring me to the island.

  Those who have gone come back different, more solemn, more serious.

  Sadder.

  I don’t really want to know. But I want to be a part of the heirs, see my adoptive cousins, uncles, and aunts again, and pay homage to Tiramis, to Yon, and to all my ancestors since them, all the way up to my own missing mother.

  In three dékades, we will meet for the gathering of the heirs, and I will go to the island.

  BOOK I: THE ROAD TO BERCE

  Bowbaq awoke soundlessly. He kept his eyes shut for a few moments, then reluctantly opened them. It was dark; morning was still far away. He brought the covers and pelts up to his chin and stretched out comfortably, resting his hands behind his head.

  Wos sounded anxious. Bowbaq heard the animal fidgeting in his pen. More than likely the wolves had ventured too close to his humble cottage. The man debated whether or not to get up, and eventually decided to stay under the warm covers. Wos had always been too nervous, and the wolves too timid and clever to attack a steppe pony in full health.

  Bowbaq tossed and turned in his bed; he missed his wife. As usual, Ipsen had left with their two children to spend the Season of Snows with her home clan. At first, he was always happy to rediscover his freedom. But after a few dékades, loneliness began to weigh on him. Perhaps he could go visit his own people? It was too late now to catch up to Ipsen, but his own native village was only a few days’ ride away.

  Wos whinnied. What a pain that pony could be! Bowbaq thought of all those times when “Master” Wos acted all high and mighty, thinking himself too imperial to pull a sleigh, caring only for grand, daring rides. Yes, he was quite the noble, adventurous steed.

  Letting out a sigh, Bowbaq resigned himself to checking on his mount. He reluctantly threw off his covers and went over to the chimney.

  The coals in the fireplace were still red; he realized that he must have been sleeping for only a few centidays. But still, a biting cold had already infiltrated the tiny cottage, and the small drafts coming through the cracks in the walls suggested the temperature outside was even colder.

  He piled on a few logs to get the fire going again. Then he prepared to go out, haphazardly throwing on all his furs without fastening the ties. Finally, he grabbed his walking stick and cracked the door open.

  Immediately, he felt the biting cold on his face. It seemed a calm night compared to the blizzard and the heavy snowfall of recent days. He closed the door carefully behind him and set out toward the back of the cottage where the pen was. It was nearly light as day out; the moon was full and its light reflected off the immaculate landscape.

  In spite of his large size, Bowbaq’s step was hindered by the thick layer of snow that covered the ground, and it took him several millidays to reach the fence. The pony was waiting for him there, stamping his hooves impatiently. He began chattering to Bowbaq as soon as he was in sight.

  “Stranger hunt us. Stranger come. Hunt us. Stranger. Many. Come hunt us. Stranger. Many.”

  Bowbaq rubbed his eyes as he trudged the last few steps. Wos’s abilities were truly amazing for a herd animal. It was rare for a pony to communicate with such ease. But he lacked restraint and calm, which gave predators the advantage. His words invaded Bowbaq’s mind with an indecipherable, buzzing disorder.

  As he lifted his head, he gazed hard into the animal’s eyes and reached for his mind, as he often did. He spoke to him without saying a word, directly from mind to mind, making an effort to choose simple words and concepts that the pony could understand.

  “Safety. Stranger weak. Frightened of us.”

  Then he formed a mental picture of a wolf and transferred it to the animal’s mind.

  “Stranger small. We big.”

  Wos reared and sent a few nervous kicks into the air. Neither Bowbaq’s gentle strokes nor his simple words reassured the pony.

  “No. No. No. Not him. Him small. Not him. Not dangerous. No. Stranger big. Dangerous. Many. Hunt us. Come. No. Not him. Dangerous.”

  The animal was visibly panic-stricken at his master’s ignorance. Despite his gift, Wos couldn’t really tell what it was that he feared; he only knew he was afraid.

  Bowbaq tried to reach the pony’s hindbrain, but to no avail. Not wolves? What then? An insomniac bear, running behind on his hibernation schedule? But Wos spoke of many. Bowbaq lamented the fact that animals didn’t know how to count. Many could be a whole lot.

  Foxes? Anators? Maybe even a pack of spotted lions? If Mir were there, Wos—and Bowbaq himself—would be a lot less worried. Bowbaq had raised the lion cub since birth, and he was very proud, as was his whole clan, to be friends with a genuine adult wildcat. But Mir was serving as Ipsen’s and the children’s escort for their journey, and they must have been dozens of leagues away from the cabin.

  The night wasn’t going to be as pleasant as expected. Closing his mind to the pony’s fanatic babbling, he retraced his steps back to the house. He wasn’t that worried. The predators must have simply been passing through, or roaming near the house not daring to venture too close, especially once he lit some logs and took position with his bow, on guard for any ill-intentioned carnivores. It was still rather vexing to find himself on a night watch, even though he had been careful to build his cottage far from concentrations of known predators.

  Back inside, Bowbaq gathered all the things he needed for his watch: a flint lighter, some kindling and a few dry logs, his bow and quiver, an ivory dagger that he slipped through his belt, and finally a bottle of fermented fruits along with a hardy piece of smoked ham. He wrapped it all in a thick skin that he planned on using as a blanket later, fastened the ties of his furs, and went back out.

  As he closed the door behind him, he noticed that instead of quieting down, Wos’s whinnies had gotten louder.

  Suddenly he heard a sharp snap accompanied by a vibration near his head.

  Reflexively, he pinned himself against the doorway, shielding his face. Then his eyes found the source of the noise.

  A crossbow bolt had pierced the wooden doorframe, barely a foot from his head. Bowbaq thought he could still see it quivering.

  Dropping his makeshift bag, he threw himself facedown on the ground just in time to dodge a second projectile, which grazed his hat and stuck violently in the door. On all fours, he scrambled behind a white mound a few yards from the house that he knew to be a dead stump covered in snow. He took cover behind it and immediately drew his ivory dagger, grasping it white-knuckled.

  The only audible sounds were those made by Wos’s and Bowbaq’s own labored breathing. He tried hard to slow his breath while at the same time focusing all of his attention on his attacker. Where was he? Who was he? How many were there?

  It takes more than a few moments to reload a crossbow, which meant one of two possibilities: either the man had at least two of them, or he wasn’t alone. Unfortunately, his conversation with Wos tipped the scale in favor of the second option. Were they pillagers? Warriors from an enemy clan? Wanderers?

  Bowbaq’s mind was racing in all directions. He focused his scattered thoughts on one thing: escape. Everything else could be cleared up later...or not.

  If he managed to make it back to the house, get the door open, and lock it behind him, he could defend himself better. There was no shortage of weapons in the house, and he could hold off his enemies at least until morning. Unless they set fire to the cottage. In any case, the house seemed leagues away, and Bowbaq kicked himsel
f for not having had the presence of mind to lunge through the door right away!

  Time flowed by like water in a river, and he knew that each wasted moment gave his enemies the advantage. It wouldn’t be long before they surrounded him, if they hadn’t already done so. If he could at least recover his bow, maybe he’d be able to prevent an attack from one side. But all his enemies would have to do is sit down next to a fire with a watchman and wait a couple of decidays until their prey froze to death.

  Bowbaq then came to the horrific realization that if Wos hadn’t woken him up, he would already be dead. His attackers showed no apparent signs of hesitation. They surely would have taken him by surprise and murdered him while he was still sleeping.

  Wos. If only the pony weren’t fenced in, he could call for him and escape. He mentally retraced his steps from the pen, but the pen was even further away than the house. What was there to do?

  Maybe...there was a wall on the south side—the other possible direction—that ran along a ditch that was used for drainage during snow melts. It was definitely filled with ice and snow during this time of year, but the bottom would still be at least a foot below ground level.

  But it certainly wasn’t very big. After shedding some of his most cumbersome furs, he had to be able to crawl through it—for a dozen yards or so at least—and get out of range of the crossbow quickly enough that his attackers wouldn’t have the time to get closer.

  He didn’t take the time to search for alternatives and threw off his first few layers of fur without even untying them. A glacial breeze bored through him right away, and he hoped that he wasn’t going to escape his attackers only to freeze to death on the way to his nearest neighbor’s.

  The most difficult part was going to be those few feet that stood between him and the ditch. He slipped his dagger into his boot and squatted, tensing his muscles in a spring position. He took a deep breath and leaped into the little strip of sunken earth that ran along the wall. His hands and knees sunk into a foot and a half of snow. He hastily brushed himself off and scurried toward the back of the house, expecting to feel the painful sting of a bolt at any moment.