“Did you say something, Oster?” the princess asked. Her eyes were still closed, and her lips were curled into a smile. He watched her until he knew for sure she was asleep again.
In the morn, she stood up and stretched out her limbs. The wound was healing nicely. She had resisted allowing him to continue cleaning and inspecting it, but Yohan had the moral authority from her previous attempt to deceive him on his side, and she relented. He noticed that her already significant muscle tone was more prominent, now that she had lost weight. And her ribs were showing. He still felt guilty, and was relieved that she said nothing further about food.
By the eve, however, the topic was unavoidable. He could barely bring himself to pick up the wood and start the fire—instinctively understanding that the thought of skipping this, the best part of the day, was a bad sign of his weakening resilience. The notion of lying down and falling asleep without a fire was scarily appealing, and all the more so because the pains in his belly had returned worse than ever.
He forced himself to build the fire anyway, not for his own sake but for hers.
“Now that I am much better, I could watch the camp while you hunt,” she suggested.
“Aye,” he replied. It was easier than listing all the reasons her suggestion was impracticable.
Apparently, she had learned his mannerisms better than he expected, and recognized his reserve for what it was. “Come on, Oster, we have to try.”
“Yohan.”
“What?”
He did not know why now, after all they had been through, he had decided to initiate this argument. They had gotten past the point where she used his heritage as an insult. Now it was just a name. But it was not his. Perhaps he simply wanted to hear that again before he died. “My name is Yohan.”
“Yohan,” she said. And shrugged. “It’s as good a name as any, I suppose.”
He smiled. A minor victory, perhaps, but he felt better.
“No more ‘Princess,’” she said. “Commander, if you prefer. But I’m okay with Jena.”
“I’m a bit tired right now, Jena,” he said, trying out the name. He thought he would have a problem saying it—nobility was not meant to be addressed so casually—but the name came easily to his lips. “We can discuss your plan on the morrow.”
“All right, Yohan. Sleep well.”
He awakened in the middle of the night. Something felt unusual, and it took him a moment to place it. Then he realized the fur blanket covered him. A moment of panic disturbed his mind. Had he kept it for himself? Then he looked over at Jena, sleeping peacefully a few feet away, uncovered. She had placed it on him, no doubt.
Since her recovery, they had not been sleeping as closely pressed together as before. The natural, if impractical, social mores that separated them had briefly slipped away during her ordeal, but once again reasserted themselves.
Yohan sat up and spread the blanket over her. It would not do. He had already shown more weakness than he thought himself capable of. There would be no more.
The fire was getting low. He pushed himself up and added a few small pieces of wood. Their supply was running out again. Soon he would have to summon the strength to go foraging for more. An impossible task, of course—but everything they had done to this point was impossible. They had made the impossible doable by taking one step at a time. Perhaps it would happen again.
The prospect of dying in these mountains had once filled him with dread, but the notion no longer bothered him much. This place had come to seem like home, the stars a roof and the surrounding peaks like walls. He had not known a real home since leaving Parca as a boy. The people of Vilnia had made sure of that.
Jena had seemed like one more of them. Perhaps worse. But not any longer. Somehow that had changed.
Home. He could die at home. It was better than the alternative.
The white tiger padded back into the aura of light, as quietly as the previous night. Yohan was not surprised to see it, although this time there was no confusing it with a dream. It circled the fire once before stopping. Then it bent its front legs, lowering itself, setting the dead mountain goat it carried in its mouth onto the ground. Then it looked up, but not at him. It seemed focused on something in the distance, something Yohan could not hear.
There were no words capable of expressing how he felt. “Thank you, friend,” was the best he could do. The tiger glanced at him, distractedly, then pawed back into the darkness, its unknowable mind already on some other destination.
He wondered whether his knife was still capable of slicing meat. Possibly, but he decided to keep it dedicated to its new purpose. He picked up the sword instead, waited for the shaking to leave his hands, and started to cut.
The smell of meat cooking woke Jena well before dawn. They enjoyed their first meal together in relative silence. Their old quiet reserve was returning along with the sustenance.
Not until the sun rose over the eastern peaks did she speak more than a few words. “I think it’s going to be warmer today.”
“Aye.”
9
Everdawn
Books were a rarity in the empire, and the vast majority of those that existed were housed in the expansive, treasured libraries of the large cities. Everdawn was an exception to this rule, however, possessing a modest collection of its own under the guardianship of the community’s historian. The histories contained in the Archives held the collective experience of generations of men and women in Shady Glen since the time of the Chekican Communion. Although the books were seldom referenced, the collection’s existence was a point of pride for Everdawn, and the historian himself respected nearly as much as the local magistrate and his officials. The position was not one of affluence, and the current historian lived with his daughter in a modest single-story house beside the Archives, but Jak imagined the intangible benefits of overseeing the collection outweighed all other considerations.
Jak admired the historian as much as anyone and held a certain reverential awe for the books themselves, but had seldom wondered what knowledge was contained within. His purpose in life was not to be one of the great thinkers, he knew. He could not read, so even if he were sealed inside the Archives for a tenyear, the books would be of little use to him.
Recent events, however, had made him more inquisitive. Perhaps the impetus was the story told by the Third of Swords, Rufus, during Harvest Festival. Discovering that the nearby mountains contained a godly artifact had certainly struck a chord within him, although Jak had doubted much of the truth of that legend. Presumably, the histories could confirm or disprove the Swordthane’s story, but only to those capable of unlocking their wisdom.
Jak’s inquisitiveness extended beyond the Swordthane’s tale, however. He had witnessed murder and taken part in a cover-up. A body had been hidden, not burned, and although Jak did not consider himself pious, the blasphemy did not sit easily upon his conscience. The lack of funeral rites was something that had never happened before in his experience. Death did not come every day to a small village like Everdawn, and when it did, everyone knew and took part. Ever since the event, he had expected the magistrate’s officials to haul him off to the gaol in Varborg. Only now was he coming to understand how effectively he had scared Hinch to silence.
If Jak’s own actions were the reason for his restless mind, however, the driving force behind everything was Kevik’s bizarre behavior. The killing of Gallo was one piece, but the strangeness had started on the very day of his return to Everdawn. Jak could see now that there were problems that could not be settled with sword or broom. The realization made him feel helpless.
Fortunately, he believed he had a solution—or at least a plan—and making a decision then acting upon it made him feel better. He could not read, but he had a close friend who could. And her father was the historian himself.
He knocked on the door and waited. Calla answered, smiling broadly as she saw him. “Jak! What brings you here?”
He was pleased that she was pl
eased. What he was asking for was no ordinary favor. Not only would she have to convince her father to allow them access, but would need to spend a considerable amount of time reading to Jak. In fact, his own role was so incidental that he felt guilty.
They exchanged pleasantries as she invited him inside for a cup of homemade cider. He did not wish to wait too long before asking, and quickly found himself interrupting a story about her recent picnic with Kevik before she could get lost in it.
“Calla, will you read some of the histories to me?”
Her expression showed surprise and bewilderment, and he was left with a long moment of agitated waiting. The last thing he wanted to do was overstep the bounds of their friendship.
Then she smiled. “You have something on your mind, Jak. Of course I’ll help you, but you have to let me know what it is.”
Now it was his turn to consider. He was not sure what he could tell her. Only a few days earlier, Kevik the Killer had sworn Jak to secrecy about a boy’s murder. And his other growing doubts—about gods and swords and death rites—were all so confusing that he did not think he could explain them. Even worse, nearly everything on his mind lately was tending toward doom and gloom. He hardly wanted to force that mood on her cheerful disposition.
On the other hand, this was the only way he could fight back against the gnawing uncertainty he felt. And if anyone could make him feel better about things, it was Calla.
She was studying his face intently. “Jak? Are you all right?”
“Aye. Nay. To be honest, I’m not sure.”
“Come on,” she said, taking him by the arm. “Let’s speak to Da.”
The Empire of the Twelve Kingdoms, formerly the Empire of the Ten Kingdoms and the Four Kingdoms before that, was formed in the fires of war from Ra’Cheka, the homeland of the Chekican Communion. As such, it stands as a living symbol of bravery and determination, a fallen monument to complacency and avarice.
Much of the popular conception of the Chekik people is in truth misconception, but even ignorance is often rooted in fact. The Chekiks were an erudite race, tall but slender of build, white-skinned and fair-haired; equally desperate for knowledge and power, and evil to the core of their wicked hearts. Many believe the gods chose the Chekiks to rule Ra’Cheka and all the lands it touched, yet the Chekiks did not recognize the true gods at all. They worshipped The Nine Devils of Hell, each of an aspect more hideous than the last, the greatest of which was Shuberath, the six-legged snake. In Shuberath’s name they conquered, in his name they killed, and in his name they sacrificed and feasted.
Ironically, the Chekiks disliked Ra’Cheka’s varied, oft-harsh climate. To escape it they built vast underground cities, incomparable in scale to the imperial cities of today. But the land above feeds and sustains all life in this world, and so the Chekiks imported slaves to till and toil. These were the hratha, an ignorant, savage race too governed by childlike emotion to rule themselves.
With hrathan aid the Chekiks made war on every neighbor, white and black banners bearing Shuberath’s image streaming as they marched, planted on field and floor as far as the vast eastern sea. The farther their conquests, the larger the Communion, and the greater their desire for more. Distant wars pulled increasing numbers of their kind away from Ra’Cheka, while within the homeland, poor harvests led to growing discontent and a challenge to Shuberath by the followers of Nagnuaqua, the bat without wings.
With their armies away, the two sides clashed within Ra’Cheka, an internecine conflict both foolish and fatal. The hratha first labored, then watched, and ultimately rose against their weakened overlords. Too late, the Chekiks set aside their differences to fight back, without restraint, calling on all Nine Devils for assistance, each call accompanied by more sacrifice. But the hratha had their own gods and heroes and met violence with violence, destruction with destruction. They slaughtered the Chekik people across Ra’Cheka, eradicated every remnant, collapsed the underground cities where they could and buried the openings where not.
Soon the hratha fought amongst themselves and scattered, forming the Four Kingdoms. These, in turn, fought and fractured until they were Ten, and then Twelve. For countless generations the hratha have governed and grown, fought and divided. Yet it remains to be seen whether the hratha, the people of the new empire, can ever learn to rule themselves.
Calla set the book down. “I’m not sure I like that last part.”
Jak agreed. “Nay. But it does explain a few things.”
She nodded. “I knew the Chekiks used to rule the empire, but I had forgotten that’s where the six-legged snake came from.”
“I’m not sure I ever knew.” Jak did not doubt that her education was far superior to his own.
“It doesn’t really answer your questions, though, does it?”
“Nay. But it’s the first one we tried. Maybe the next one will be more useful.”
But she was already shaking her head. “Maybe. But not today. Kevik promised to meet me soon.”
Jak was disappointed, but at the same time so grateful to her he did not wish to display any frustration. “We need a break anyway. My head hurts, and I wasn’t even the one doing the work.”
She laughed. “Reading isn’t work, silly.” Then her smile changed shape, from amusement to sanguinity. “I could teach you, you know.”
He had his doubts about that. Most educated children started learning to read when they were half his age, and it took them years and years. They were also much smarter than he, and had more spare time. “I don’t think so, Calla.”
If she was disappointed, she did not show it. Instead, her giggle filled the room with music. “We’ll talk about it on the morrow. I need to run.” She leaned forward and kissed his cheek, then hopped up from her seat. She took a step toward the exit, then turned back to him. “What are you looking at? Come on. Da won’t let me leave you alone in here.”
Jak had to admit that the first lesson had not been particularly useful, but he had enjoyed hearing the history of the empire anyway. He supposed there was something to be said for learning just for the sake of knowing.
At the same time, he was encountering a source of adversity he had not known existed. Jak had underestimated how difficult solving a problem through learning could be, which turned out to be not as simple as opening a book and finding the solution. First you had to find the right book—assuming that one had even been written. Then you had to make sense of the unusual language writers used. Why couldn’t authors write the same way people spoke?
It had taken all of their first session to identify which history was the correct one, and then another for Calla to skim the entire book to make sure she read aloud all the right parts. And that was just for the origin of the Twelve Kingdoms. He wanted to do it again for Tempus, for the Blade of Yagos, and for Everdawn itself.
For better or worse, he would be spending a lot more time in the Archives with Calla. The thought did not depress him, even if the reasons why he was doing so did.
Kevik was spending less time with Jak and more time drinking with Kurtis and Rodder, two friends closer to his social status who welcomed any opportunity for mead or wine. Jak had not been included in their revelry, nor had he partaken in any more exploring adventures or sparring lessons.
He also saw less of Kleo. She had recently begun spending a lot of time with Kluber, the son of Everdawn’s magistrate and a great match for her. Jak found his days no longer filled with her menial, meaningless chores.
Their mother Sofi was really the only one who gave him any work to do. Cooking and cleaning did not take him more than a few hours each day, however, leaving him all the time that Calla could spare. He just wished she could spare a little more.
Her spirits were not as high the next day when he came to her house. She still smiled when she saw him, but something was clearly troubling her. As they crossed to the Archives, he asked what was on her mind, but she had a frustratingly simple way of discouraging any unwanted line of conversatio
n. She broadened her smile with disarming effect, although he made one more weak effort. “Are you sure there’s nothing you want to talk about?”
“Let’s just get started, Jak. Okay?” As she opened the door and led them in, she added, “I’m really interested to see what we learn today.” Her words were genuine, plus they echoed his own thoughts, and he quickly refocused on their task.
An hour later she found the right history. “The rivalry and bond of Tempus and Yagos,” she read.
“Perfect,” he said.
She smiled at him, then lowered her head to begin.
The gods grew weary of this world that Great Theus constructed, its land and its waters, the animals both beast and prey, the sun and the moon and all the seasons combined. For this, too, Theus had the solution, and men were made.
But not from nothing. He summoned his brothers Yagos and Tempus and tasked them with creating life. It was a gift of power unrivaled among the gods, and the brothers were honored. Yet Theus knew of their jealousy for one another, and desired to teach them a lesson in cooperation. Each was limited to one element in their designs.
Tempus worked with fire, and conceived the soul. He lived in the sky to be inspired by the view. His creations had passion and determination, but lacked form with which to fulfill their desires.
Yagos worked with stone, and constructed the body. He dwelled underground, where the rock he needed was plentiful. His creations had substance and strength, but were entirely without purpose.
Each brother loved his children, yet wept for their flaws. Eventually, their sorrows drove them to each other. Together they met in the mountains, where earth met sky, bringing fire to stone. Body and soul melded, forming the perfect union, and humankind repaid the gods with their everlasting gratitude and service.
“That’s a better story than yesterday’s,” said Calla.
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