Alchemy's Child (The Mindbender's Rise Book 5)

by D J Salisbury

  How he hated that nickname. He clenched his teeth, but forced his fists to relax. “Will you join our quest?”

  Aramiel started to shake his head, but an older warrior interrupted. “No! Why should we care about Outsiders’ problems?”

  His own father. Of course. “Agrevod, the choice is not yours.” He turned to his brother. “Aramiel?”

  “Listen to me!” Agrevod shouted. “We must have more proof than a knife-stealing wizard’s sword!”

  “Ain’t no wizard what made it,” Lorel shouted. Blast. She stood a solid foot and a half shorter than his boneheaded brother. She’d never fought under that kind of disadvantage.

  Sahilaad grabbed her arm and hauled her back. “They know, warrior.”

  Viper tried to look down his nose at his much taller brother. “Choose.” If there was any justice in the world, the turd would stab the sword into the ground and walk away.

  Aramiel hesitated, but his gaze was glued to the broadsword. The sandcrab wouldn’t give it up easily, not even for their father’s approval.

  Most of the young men frowned. All of the older men muttered agreement. The women crossed their arms and glanced at each other.

  “Is this one acceptable proof?” Kyri slithered out of the wagon’s side window and coiled upon the roof. It surveyed the gasping crowd for several seconds before pointing its snout at the sky. “Thunderer, this one begs acknowledgment of the Quest!”

  Lightning flamed across the clouds, followed instantly by raucous thunder.

  Half of the spectators dropped to their knees. Others gaped at Kyri. Everyone lifted their hands to the thunderdrums in solemn devotion.

  “It’s a thunder snake,” a small child shouted.

  Kyri examined the crowd, and its gaze settled on Aramiel. “It is imperative the earth’s thunder undertake the Quest.”

  Aramiel stomped forward. “The Thunderer tells us the quest is true, but I refuse to become a nameless wanderer. Not even for a thunder snake.” He scowled at Kyri and stalked away. But he still cradled the broadsword in both hands.

  Chattering and gossiping, the crowd soon followed him.

  Drenfeg tossed a trader’s token at Viper, grabbed Sahilaad’s arm, and led the bone carver away, both of them muttering like mating lungfish.

  “What’d the toad call that noodle brain?” Lorel strolled closer. “You think he’ll come?”

  “Earth’s thunder, but only the Wind Dancer knows why.” Viper stuffed the token into his pocket and nodded. “When the turtle turd breaks down and asks for the sheath, he’ll agree. He won’t give it up afterwards.”

  “You think he won’t steal it?”

  Not even Aramiel was that stupid. “Stealing a weapon is the lowest thing a warrior can do. He’d be Outcast.”

  “He looks plenty dumb, to me.” Lorel frowned and walked toward her horse. “Can’t believe we’re stuck with the tangled chunk of Loom lint.”

  Simply thinking about traveling with the sandcrab gave him a headache. But Aramiel was as boring as he was annoying. He was more interested in how Kyri had pulled off the lightning trick.

  He peered up at the roof. “An impressive performance. Did you generate the lightning, or did you really appeal to the Thunderer?”

  Kyri uncoiled and considered him. “Which does the hatchling desire to hear?”

  “The plain truth.”

  “The correlation was fortuitous. This one was cognizant of aggregating power and withheld communication until fulguration commenced.”

  That sounded fairly simple. “Will you teach me how to predict lightning?”

  Kyri arched its neck.

  Sometimes he was amazed at how little it took to please the serpent.

  Chapter 23.

  A dawn breeze caressed his skin. Viper straightened his aching back, stood a little taller, and tried not to shiver. He dared not show anything resembling fear.

  Too many people wanted to kill him as it was.

  Dressed only in a light linen loincloth (a concession to Zharyl’s squeals of outrage when Drenfeg ordered him to strip), he stood at the center of the dance ground, surrounded by two hundred people, yet isolated. Utterly alone until the dance started.

  Today the tribe would choose his fate.

  Praise the Thunderer, Agrevod’s arguments to kill him and all of his crew had failed. Now his father’s only choices were to dance or turn his back. Since he couldn’t see the tall warrior’s head above the crowd, it appeared Agrevod had chosen a third path, the dishonorable option of refusing to witness the dance.

  Not his problem. His own mistakes were hard for him to handle. Agrevod could deal with his decisions.

  The cantor tapped his drum.

  A small circle of men formed and moved slowly to the left. The handful of warriors swayed grass-like through the steps of the dance, graceful and calm. In fact, most of them seemed indifferent.

  They totaled a tenth of the warriors who could have joined.

  The shaman tallied the dancers and smirked.

  He choked on bile. If too few women entered the dance, the tribe would refuse to trade with him. He’d be Outcast again. And this time he’d be branded across the forehead to proclaim him forever shunned.

  The cantor beat a new rhythm.

  Slowly, an outer circle formed. All of his sisters. His mother. Three aunts, even the one who hated him. A couple of girls he didn’t remember. A group of older women.

  Surely these few weren’t an acceptable number. And they showed barely more interest than the men.

  Drumbeats thudded faster.

  A handful of children skipped forward.

  The outer circle expanded and spun to the right. More women scurried into the ring.

  How many did he need to save his honor?

  Most of the men danced slowly. Moving as if his joints pained him, old Sahilaad plodded stoically. Only one warrior capered exuberantly. Praise the Thunderer for Darienel’s loyalty.

  The dancers in the outer circle frolicked with vigor and joy. His sister Quintazora dragged in four more girls, in one case by her hair. His mother pulled in another aunt and a grandmother who could barely stand upright.

  By his admittedly biased count, most of the children and over half of the women had joined. He remained motionless, watching them, glancing at the chieftain.

  Finally, Drenfeg nodded.

  Praise the Thunderer, enough people danced. Agrevod couldn’t claim the tribe chose against him.

  His lips twitched in a tiny smile. Now he only needed a decent omen.

  The shaman scowled and crossed his arms.

  Make that a glorious omen.

  The cantor sang thanks to the Thunderer, begged mercy from the Wind Dancer, and placed both hands flat on his drum.

  The dancers froze.

  A toddler continued to wander the circle. He plucked several stalks of green grain from the edge of the dance ground, wandered past the women, and waddled toward the center of the circle. He ran into a warrior’s legs, fell down flat on his rear end, and peered up at the man with astonished eyes.

  Viper smothered a grin. That little one was pure Setoyan. A Zedisti child would be bawling his voice out.

  The boy looked over at him and laughed. He scrambled to his feet and tottered directly to him.

  His smile grew bittersweet. The top of the infant’s head reached to his shoulder blades.

  As short as he was, he would always be considered a child, and never an adult. No matter what he accomplished, he would always be stunted, useless, Outcast.

  The toddler’s smile faded. He solemnly offered the grain in his chubby hands.

  Unripe grain in an unripe tribesman’s hands. He’d call it a promising omen. Grinning, he accepted the prophetic offering and bowed deeply to the boy.

  The child giggled and ran to hide behind his mother.

  The cantor tapped a single beat on his drum. The dancers relaxed from their frozen positions and murmured to one another.

  The shaman
frowned and whispered into Drenfeg’s ear.

  The chieftain nodded solemnly, strolled to the center of the dance ground, and held both hands high. “The Verdict of the Dance is to accept this man as a trader within the Tribe of the Wind.” He put his hand on Viper’s shoulder. “The omen promises a good and fruitful relationship.”

  “How so?” shouted a warrior. “He took, but he gave nothing in return.”

  Uncle Naristith. His father’s eldest brother. The man had never liked him, but he’d always been fair. Had Agrevod talked him into questioning the ceremony, even though he couldn’t talk him out of watching?

  “He gave friendship and respect. It’s more than most outsiders offer.”

  “I would rather have fair payment,” Naristith grumbled.

  The chieftain drew his sword. “Fair payment is assumed, and this ensures it.”

  Viper laughed, and all eyes turned to him. “There is a saying among traders. ‘The man who would cheat a Setoyan isn’t a trader; he’s a corpse.’ ”

  The warriors roared approval and the women cheered.

  Drenfeg bent down, gently thumped Viper on the back, whispered “Well said,” and walked away.

  Praise the Thunderer, now the ordeal was officially over. He’d earned the token Drenfeg had tossed so casually.

  Lorel and Tsai’dona eased through the crowd.

  “When did you go talking to traders, kid?” Lorel swatted him on the shoulder with one hand and ruffled his hair with the other.

  Agony shot from his bruised wrist to his swollen elbow. He pushed the pain down where he wouldn’t feel it, for a few minutes, anyway, and grinned up at his turybird.

  “Hands off, pine tree.” His elation was too fresh for her antics to bother him. “At the Trader’s Inn, every time Trevor took me there.” Not to mention during his journey from Setoya to Zedista. “Did you think I’d been playing the game on instinct?”

  Lorel grunted noncommittally.

  He snorted. He’d provided for them, bought a wagon and a small herd of horses, and she still thought he didn’t know what he was doing?

  Tsai’dona draped his sling around his neck and tucked his arm into its cradle. “So now you’re a full-fledged trader?”

  His stomach flopped dizzier than a stranded bluegill. “Just barely. The vote was close. I didn’t think my father… had so much influence.”

  “I didn’t think he hated you that much,” said a Setoyan woman.

  Joy bubbled up from his belly. “Good morning, Mama.”

  “Shush. You’re too old to talk like a tentling.”

  Lorel grinned at the older woman. “My mom says you’re never too old to respect your mother, Carreida.”

  Obviously they’d had plenty of time to gossip yesterday. Seeing his mother’s blank look, he added, “In Zedista, it’s disrespectful to call one’s mother by her proper name.”

  “Outlander customs.” Carreida sniffed and fluttered her hand. “If you insist on calling me ‘Mama,’ the men will consider you a baby.”

  Viper frowned at his dusty bare toes. They already did. Nothing he said would change their minds. “I ceased to be Setoyan the day I left your tent.” He looked up at his mother’s sad face. “Now I make my own wind-blasted rules.”

  Carreida laughed. “I thought you’d be our shaman someday, with your curiosity. Now I think you’ll climb higher yet.”

  “Not higher,” he whispered. “But far wider.”

  His mother nodded understanding.

  Lorel waggled her eyebrows at Tsai’dona. “Did the kid just say he was planning to get fat?”

  Tsai’dona laughed and shook her head.

  Viper sighed. “You turybird.”

  Naristith stalked through the crowd and stopped several feet away. Ignoring the women altogether, he scowled at Viper for several moments.

  Lorel stirred resentfully, but Carreida laid her hand on the girl’s shoulder.

  Naristith’s frown didn’t waver. “You’ve seen fourteen summers.”

  More or less. Viper nodded slowly.

  “Have you taken a warrior’s name?”

  “I’m not a warrior, but I’ve taken an adult name.” Viper smiled slyly and pointed with his thumb. “I gave her a warrior’s name.”

  Naristith glanced at Lorel. “An Outland girl-child? She has no name.”

  “She is Lorel Gyrfalcon.” And his turybird had won the name several times over. “Is there any name to best that one, Naristith the Condor?”

  “The dragon.”

  Viper snorted. “Offer a recent name, not one from ancient myths. One who could defeat her, young as she is. She earned her name before fierce warriors, and she lives up to it. And she is sworn to me.”

  Naristith studied his turybird’s muscular arms and legs, the scars on her face and hands. “No warrior will dare fight her; he’d die of shame if she bested him. And she might be that skilled.” He turned back to Viper. “The other female?”

  “Tsai’dona wields the other magic sword. She earned it for the same reason Aramiel received his.” Not exactly a convincing endorsement. Who knew why a magic sword would choose that bonehead.

  “Indeed. Even the wise woman and pretty Zharyl are sworn to you.” Naristith nodded, his face pensive. “My brother was ever blind to anything he didn’t wish to see. Good traveling, trader.” The warrior touched Viper’s shoulder and stalked away.

  A dragonfly could have pushed him off the Deathsinger’s cliff. A compliment? From a man who disliked him long before Agrevod did?

  “I never thought I’d hear him say such a thing,” Carreida murmured.

  Lorel smacked her fist into her palm. “I wanted to punch him.”

  “And we’d have named you Brat, or branded you a troublemaker.” Carreida looked at Lorel meaningfully. “The true warrior is patient, even with fools.”

  “Then the kid oughta be a Loom-woven warrior.” Lorel glared mockingly at him. “I seen him sit still for hours, once in a pile of snow.”

  Did she really need to bring that up? It had been a scientific experiment. Induced by shock, maybe, but not by stupidity.

  Carreida laughed.

  Tsai’dona scanned the crowd again. “Where is Zharyl? I thought she’d be one of the dancers.”

  “She’s an Outlander, for all she looks a bit like us.” Carreida shrugged. “Only members of this Tribe could dance for Adoriel.”

  Lorel punched his shoulder teasingly. “Where’d you get a fancy name like Adoriel, kid?”

  He swayed but managed to keep his balance. Forcing himself to not adjust the sling nor his aching arm, he massaged his shoulder and scowled at the turybird. “Blame her.” He pointed his chin at his mother.

  “Don’t mothers name their sons in your stone-bound city?” Carreida spoke innocently, but the twinkle in her eyes set Tsai’dona to sniggering.

  Lorel grunted. “Not fancy names bigger than the kid.”

  “Ah, but Adoriel was a fairly large baby. Though come to think of it, he was slow even then. He waited ten days after the Alignment before he decided it was time to be born.”

  “Ten days!” Lorel gawked at him. “I never heard of a babe holding out that long!”

  Tsai’dona shook her head slowly. “I knew a guy who lasted seven days. He was the stubbornest mulehead I’ve ever met.”

  “That’s the kid.” Lorel sighed dramatically. “Stubborn from the start, and he ain’t changed since.”

  Women. Nobody was safe once they started reminiscing. He rolled his eyes and tried to ignore the conversation. Where was Darienel or Sahilaad when he needed a man to talk to?

  “Stubborn can be useful,” Carreida said. “Of all my children, only Adoriel finished everything he started. Sometimes to my benefit, and often to his woe. I remember a hornet’s nest he insisted was full of honey…”

  Viper groaned. He’d forgotten about that incident.

  Lorel sniggered.

  “But still, he didn’t come back empty handed. He had plenty grubs in his buc
ket to satisfy the whole tent.”

  “Yuck,” Lorel wailed.

  Tsai’dona’s face puckered. “What did you do with them?”

  “Fried them in bahtdor grease, of course. After we’d pulled several hundred stingers out of the poor child’s hide.”

  “Zharyl and Bess are coming.” And praise the Thunderer for the distraction. “Could we go over my childhood exploits later? Preferably much later?”

  The women laughed and turned to watch the tall girl and the old woman work their way through the gossiping crowd.

  He wasn’t worried about sensible, gray-haired Bess, but he studied Zharyl with particular misgiving. The girl seemed far younger than her reported fifteen years. Her face glowed with simple joy.

  Viper sighed. At his mother’s questioning glance, he whispered, “She’s too young.”

  Tsai’dona touched his good arm. “At her age, I was in advanced sword training. She’s not that young.”

  “But she’s such an innocent!”

  Lorel blinked at him. “You’re joking, right?”

  Tsai’dona snickered.

  With several young people trailing close behind her, Zharyl bounced into their midst.

  The girls giggled and preened. The boys drooled and stared at her with worship in their eyes.

  Zharyl ignored them all. “I’ve said all my goodbyes. I’ve had so much fun here! Are you ready to go? Is all your trading done? Mine is.”

  He’d barely started. In spite of her leave-takings, he expected to be here a few more days. But he’d survive without another haggling session until Veriz, if he had to. He’d accomplished his main reason for being here: He’d found the broadsword’s wielder.

  Too bad it had to Aramiel.

  “Oh, look! Your mother is here!”

  He would get used to Zharyl. Really he would. Sooner or later. He wasn’t as sure about Aramiel.

  “I need to speak with my son. Privately.”

  What was the fuss all about? She’d already blabbed his darkest secrets, even stuff he’d forgotten.

  Carreida ignored Zharyl’s hurt expression, herded him into her tent, and shooed the slaves out.

  The smell of ground-beetle bread and bay leaves perfumed the air. His mouth started to water.