Lightborn

by L J Andrews

  The laughter ceased when Joshua pummeled Liam’s shoulder and turned his pale gaze back to Isa. “Don’t ask stupid questions, Isabelle. I’m to take you to Hadeon, or should I tell him you’d rather not obey a summons. I’d love to see what punishment that would bring. It just might make my day.”

  The sky swirled with gray clouds as Isa shoved past Joshua’s shoulder, intentionally striking his arm. “You’re a snake, Joshua.”

  Hurrying across the pens she nearly knocked over a game of Kings and Swine three thieves were playing near the side of Tyv Tower.

  “Watch out,” one said when the nudge to the table dropped one of his marker stones and a white peg.

  “Sorry,” she muttered and handed the thin playing peg back with a quick glance at the board. The game always stirred the memory of the kind scribe boy. One of the few happy thoughts left of Jershon. “You should use the serpent piece there. The duel odds are in your favor.”

  The older thief glanced at his colored pieces. After a moment he chuckled and moved a stone with an X painted on the surface and removed one of the red stones on the opposing side of the board. “Kingmaker,” he said as he crossed his arms.

  The defeated player glared at Isa, but she didn’t have time to show him the moves to free himself from the trap. She was never invited to play her favorite game, but now certainly wasn’t the time.

  Joshua was still following close behind. He scoffed at the players then glanced at Isa down his nose. “You must be trying to get away from us, dear Isa.” He laughed over his shoulder at Liam and Amoni. “I think I’ve offended her, boys. She didn’t even stop to beg to play as she often does.”

  Isa wheeled around and blocked the doorway leading back into the stone fortress. “And I think your angry tongue is nothing more than jealousy.”

  Amoni and Liam both had widened eyes as they glanced cautiously between Isa and Joshua. Liam must have already dipped into the ale because after a pause he laughed again and tried to slug Joshua’s arm. He ended up in a heap in the mud spewing curses and slurred words.

  Isa winked at Joshua before he could retort, or slit her throat, his expression prepared her for both, and slammed the wooden door in his face. His escort was no longer needed.

  “Master?” Isa whispered as she peered into the expansive dining hall. The oak table took twenty paces to walk end to end, and the gold chandelier reminded Isa of stars when all the flames flickered at dusk. “You summoned me?”

  Hadeon stood at the mantle of the massive fireplace with his back toward her. His long brown hair was tied neatly behind his neck, and only his infamous claymore blade was sheathed to his hip. Her master turned, flicked one finger to beckon her forward, and squared back to the fireless mantle. Isa hurried across the room and stood before the ashes waiting in silence for Hadeon to speak.

  It seemed a quarter of an hour passed before he cleared his throat and glanced at her without turning his head. “House Johab is pleased with the delivery, Isabelle.”

  She tried to keep her expression neutral, but the corners of her lips curled anyway. “I’m honored to have been entrusted with retrieval. Thank you for telling me, master.” Hadeon grunted and drummed his fingers along the hilt of his blade. Isa wasn’t certain if she should take her leave or wait. “Is there more you wish to say, Master Hadeon?”

  “You are young, Isa.” He turned over his shoulder and paced the edge of the table. Isa furrowed her brow and linked her fingers in front of her stomach. Something seemed amiss, and nothing was ever out of sorts with the leader of Tyv. “Your youth causes me to question whether I should mention this at all, but what do I always say about adversity?”

  “To learn from trial and pain so we become stronger and more cunning.”

  Hadeon nodded. “Something has happened in the Bloodlands that you should know.”

  Isa’s pulse thumped in her ears. Hadeon was acting strangely and it stacked her worries until a storm formed inside. “What’s happened to upset you, Master?”

  Hadeon chuckled and stopped pacing. “I have little care for what goes on between empires so long as it does not affect my guild and trade. I tell you this to make you stronger, Isa.” He cleared his throat and stepped closer so Isa could smell the subtle hint of musk and onion. “Jershon has been overthrown by the Empire of Mulek.”

  Isa swallowed ash. Her threaded fingers trembled, but she didn’t dare unlock them for fear any motion might cause her to stumble. “What?”

  Hadeon nodded. “Emperor Baz murdered Abram took hold of the wall, and invaded. It seems he had help from some traitorous Jershons.”

  Isa wet her chapped lips, unlocked her fingers to clutch one side of her head, and studied the stones in the floor instead of Hadeon’s eye. “What…what became of the people…of the city Sortis?”

  Hadeon sighed and stroked his dark beard. “You are intelligent enough to understand what happens when an empire invades, Isa.”

  “Master, I need…I need to go and…help her…” Isa tromped toward the double wooden doors, but Hadeon curled his strong palm around her arm.

  “Isabelle, you will do no such thing. The moment you bat those unusual blue eyes at those gates your freedom is forfeit. Why do we say the Creed of Tyv?”

  Isa swallowed hard. “For the oaths of loyalty each member makes and for the belief in our abilities.”

  “We are all oaths and guilds to the family of Tyv. You swore to give your energies, ambitions, and talents to no one but this guild. You will stand for nothing else, but our beliefs and hopes. You left your life behind. I told you what would be asked if you joined our guild. What did I say?”

  She gasped but found the words. “That any life I had was no longer my life. I was part of the shadows, and anyone outside the shadows didn’t matter. Only my guild to Tyv matters.”

  Hadeon released her arm and nodded. “The past remains in the past, there is no looking back. Never break your guild, Isabelle. Even if it means giving your life. I tell you this not because of your connection with Jershon, but because you must use this to become better, stronger, wiser. Take back your fears or you’ve given away power. Should you leave without my permission, you shall not be welcomed back.”

  Isa sucked in five sharp breaths. Her eyes burned as though boiling water had been dabbed across her lashes. After suffocating silence once again surrounded the master and apprentice she nodded. “I understand, Master Hadeon. I won’t be foolish, I just…how will I know if anyone is alive?”

  Isa blinked and swiftly wiped the steaming drop that fell onto her cheek. She straightened her shoulders and found a sliver of comfort in Hadeon’s softer tone.

  “You will need to decide if knowing who lived and who died is worth it to you, Isabelle. Will the truth help you, or hinder you? If you decide knowing will make you stronger, then I’m certain you’ll devise a way to find out. That’s all I needed from you. Finish your tasks for the day and this afternoon you will be paired with Col, Joshua, and Therese. You were injured in the wetlands after standing against three men. That is unacceptable and takes from our medicinal stores. You will learn to defeat five or more men before you run solo again.”

  Isa swallowed emotion and bowed her head. “Yes, zaeim.”

  Hadeon offered a nod toward the door and Isa took her leave without another word. Outside in the corridor she slipped into a narrow broom closet that held a single bucket and a dingy, cloth mop. The space reeked of mildew and lye soap, but Isa slid down the wall despite the smell.

  She hugged her knees and buried her face over the tops and cried. Isa sobbed, gasped, and sobbed harder in the darkness. Jershon was lost, Baz likely slaughtered the lot. Isa wiped her eyes and stared at her light brown skin. Her father always told her she looked like the sandy hills of the distant deserts. His wife told her the unique blue in her eyes was like the crystal pools near the gulf. For a moment she wished she were home, reading or drawing in front of the hearth, with her family. Both her father and his wife had died years before, but n
ow Jershon, her people, the home she hadn’t quite forgotten, was lost. Outside the graying sky turned black. Thunder clapped and heavy rain coated Thieves Waste.

  Chapter 4

  Trappers

  The burn of an open-handed slap shook Roark from sleep. He groaned against the cold dawn and the haggard grimace on the old woman’s face. She slapped his ear again, her accent one of the uneducated common language. “Wake up, boy. You sleep in my stocks, you work.”

  She wore an apron with two patched holes, though the rouge smock around her body was stained to the point of ruin from ash, manure, and slaughtered hogs despite the cover. The woman hunched with such a perfect curve to her spine it was as if a new head were trying to burst from her skin. Despite her frail appearance, Roark winced at the force behind the wooden bucket shoved in his face. “Work. Or no eats today.”

  Roark held up one hand and brushed stale straw from his hair with the other. “I’m going, Ouma.” He didn’t know her name, she’d never offered it up, but the common word for old one seemed to suffice. Ouma tsked and scurried toward the wooden shack she called a farmhouse.

  “You’ve riled her today, Ro.”

  Roark turned over his shoulder as he slipped on leather sandals that hardly protected his feet. He nearly forgot to respond to the alias he’d made for himself. The blisters on his toes rubbed as he stood; he sorely missed the handstitched shoes designed for his soles, but the life of a respected scribe was forever gone. The girl sniggered as she rose from the hay bed and tied her stringy golden hair off her neck. Roark imagined beneath the grime and dirt smudges she was probably lovely, like a blossom buried in the shade of the tree.

  He tried to smile but found smiling and joy had dimmed like his past life. “What makes you think it was me, Agnus? Perhaps, it was you who frustrated Ouma.” He tossed a handful of straw at her face while the other farmhands rubbed sleep from their eyes and stretched for another, dull, labor-filled day.

  Agnus titled her head, her innocence breaking Roark’s soul. The girl had no family, but she had two square meals, dry straw to sleep in, and had never seen death firsthand. She was a dirtier version of what Roark’s happier life had been. In turn, she could still smile. Agnus pointed to his forearms. “I’m sure Ouma thinks you’ve crossed into the realm of demon with those odious markings. How long did you save your wages only to spend them on…those?”

  “And don’t forget you went to the Saga camp to do it. That’s what made her really angry,” said an even dirtier boy.

  “Good of you to join us this morning, Furv,” Agnus said as she tossed a few kernels of dried corn on her tongue and popped them between her teeth.

  The lanky boy poking up through the straw was at least five years younger than Roark, but nearly his same height. Furv’s skin was creamy like fresh milk, but his dark hair curled tight against his head. The people of the Zaharan Empire were oddly pale, though most had hair and brows like night.

  Furv stretched, cracking his joints several times before rummaging through the straw for the worn tunic two sizes too big. “What are Saga like, Ro? Do they really have yellow eyes? I heard they only drink the venom from hissing roaches. Makes them immune, you see, from other poisons and such.”

  Roark didn’t answer and instead watched as Furv snatched a leather harness and tip-toed toward the grunting pig that slept near one wall. Gap boars were thick, leathery, and pungent. The beast twitched its spliced hooves in sleep as Furv inched closer. With a swift swipe, Furv secured the harness around half the boar’s head and the barn erupted in an uproar.

  Gap Boars were wild but were often used to clear fields since the pigs took a liking for root beetles that gnawed on the tender roots beneath the soil until the crop died. The boars were helpful, but never tamed, and detested being disturbed from lazy days of sleep.

  “You’ve only got its tusk!” Roark said as he dropped a spade and rushed toward Furv. Slimy, inverted tusks slashed at Furv and the boy dropped the harness to avoid a deep gash along his knee.

  “Get its feet,” Agnus said.

  Furv looped one end of the harness and tried to catch a foot as Roark snuck behind the pig. The leather loop missed the boar’s hoof and the angered pig ducked its head and sprinted at Furv who splayed against the back wall of the pen.

  Furv cried out and tried to scramble out of the pen before the sharp tusks had a chance of impaling his skin. The other farmhands watched with slightly more interest in life than typical gray mornings on the farm, but still none made any attempt to intervene.

  Roark wrapped a second strap into a sliding knot. Through reading about the wilds of the Bloodlands as a boy, he knew gap boars were sound sensitive. Their heightened hearing was a greater defense than even the tusks since the long teeth did little against the claws of a plains lion or the fiercer, stronger tusks of an asada baboon. Without the ability to hear predators and run, the boars would likely be nearing extinction.

  With a crack of the leather the boar squealed and shook its head as Furv scrambled over the rail of the pen and flopped in a heap on the other side. Agnus banged the iron end of her hoe against the beams of the barn and the boar shook its head wildly. Leather whacked the air with another flick, snapping and cracking, until the boar trembled in the corner. Gasses frequently emitted off the skin to repel insects, but now that the beast was frightened the barn was rank with smells Roark could taste down his throat. Quickly, before the boar could kick or bite, Roark slipped the looped knot around its neck and dragged two fingers smoothly across the pig’s crown several times. Calmer snorts and grunts came from the animal as Agnus hurried and handed the boar a handful of her kernels to get the never-satisfied appetite of the beast engaged.

  “How do you do that?” Furv asked as he adjusted the dirty tunic once he found his footing again.

  “Practice,” Roark said, tossing the harness at the boy.

  “Ro probably dealt with a lot of awful animals in the Desert Wastes,” Agnus said as she gathered tools for the fields.

  Furv shrugged and began the feat of pulling the boar toward the door of the barn. The boy cursed and insulted the beast when it continually stopped and tried to eat droppings or straw along the way.

  Roark tied his hair off his neck with a scoff as Agnus handed him a spade. Since his flee from Jershon nearly nine months earlier, his cropped hair had grown to his shoulders so waves he hadn’t known were there flowed down his neck. More than hair had changed. The brown of Roark’s skin was deeper from days in the sun and his shoulders had more length and sinew from working with plows, spades, and axes, not quills, parchment, and books.

  The identity of Ro from the Desert Wastes took shape the moment he’d escaped over the shattered wall into the Bloodlands. Even his forged travel papers had his new name and histories. The desperate and uneducated people living in the gaps and wastes between the four empires never questioned. If he was healthy enough to work and pay his share to the pit that was what mattered. The pit wasn’t equal in coin; funding red houses, taverns, and noble trade, while any coppers left went to the common people, finally leaving a half-coin trickling down to the farm hands, like Roark. Spending his purse meant he’d go without a new coat or blanket when the frosts came. No money would delay his search even more. He hadn’t anticipated how difficult it was to find Mount temples. After more study of the texts now printed on his arms, Roark soon realized the clues were vague. He would need to find the temples for further enlightenment toward the Holy Kingdom.

  The boar was in the hands of a tall man with little hair on his head when Agnus and Roark stepped beneath the hazy sun.

  “So, what are the Saga like, Ro?” Furv asked again and seemed ready to lean back against a dusty knoll.

  Roark tossed Furv a rusted pitchfork before the boy could sit. “They don’t drink hisser venom, Furv. They drink blood.” Furv and Agnus stared dumfounded until Roark almost laughed. “What do I always tell you two?”

  “We stink?” offered Agnus.

  Roar
k tapped a knuckle on her dirty forehead. “Use your heads and don’t believe everything you hear. The Saga are as normal as you’d imagine gypsies being. They wear a lot of silk and gold chains. They’re artists, that’s why I went to them.”

  “Yes, but,” Furv bent his head closer and lowered his voice, “they ink Phantoms too.”

  Roark’s mouth tightened. It wasn’t so long ago when the bloodthirsty Phantom guild of murderers had pillaged the merchant row only a mile east. It wasn’t as if the merchants had much to offer the thieves, but the Phantoms seemed more interested in blood and tattooing new thorns on their heads than goods to steal.

  “Well,” Roark said as he lifted the wooden bucket and iron spade over one shoulder. “If I held choice of customer against every skills man in the Bloodlands, I’d starve. Even the berry picker has made her deals in the dark.”

  “So, what do they mean, Ro?” Agnus said with a cheery skip in her step as they entered the dry fields. Ouma grew more thistles than crop, but Roark’s knowledge on aqueducts and watering systems used in Jershon and the ancients of Elysium had already yielded green stems not brown. The old woman might hate his tattooed arms, but Roark knew she was pleased he’d created something close to magic in her barren soil. She’d even accused him of being an Earthbreaker Lightborn. He hadn’t seen the god-blessed people of the Mount yet, but hopefully someday soon.

  Roark curled one side of his mouth and tapped Agnus on the nose. He’d never had a sister, but something about her round eyes created an innocence in the girl he wanted to protect. “That’s for me to know, Ag. I’ll tell you this,” he said when she frowned. “I got the ink to remind me of what I’m looking for. To never forget why I’m out here to begin with.”

  “Are you saying you miss the desert? I think I would hate boiling in the sun every day. At least here there are a few trees.”

  Roark smiled and dipped the bucket in the soupy well at the head of the fields. He imagined he’d hate the Desert Wastes too, if he’d ever been. Admitting he was from the broken Jershon empire was too great a risk.