If she so wanted, Daina could claim responsibility for the boy’s upbringing. It was her choice, and her right, as the Watcher and reaper who had rescued him. She would become accountable for his education, his nurturing, and his assimilation into the community. Marshaan smiled inwardly. He could lay claim too, or bring the boy before the community, but as he’d been watching Daina, he was almost certain she had already made her choice. When she had called the boy “my child,” she had meant so literally.
Daina loosened her embrace on the boy and held him at arm’s length once again.
“Do you think you’ll be okay, at least for now?” she asked tenderly.
The boy wiped his nose with the back of his arm and slowly nodded his head.
“Okay then,” she said. She stood, placing her hand underneath his chin. She raised his face to look into hers as the moist streaks on his cheeks glistened in the midday sun.
“Would you like to come with me? To stay with me? At least for a while?” Her smile broadened. “I have a younger brother, about your age I believe, who I’m sure would like to meet you. Does that sound okay with you?”
This was another reason Marshaan knew Daina would be an ideal caregiver. This wasn’t the first child she had chosen to care for as her own.
“Okay,” the boy mumbled.
The crowd parted as the boy and the Watcher made their way toward the mountainside community. The boy’s bare shoulders were slumped, and he still occasionally wiped his nose as he walked. Even from behind, Marshaan could tell that his eyes were downcast, already trusting the guiding hand of Daina to lead him.
From the Legends of the Cyneþrymm
Third Pastille
12For when these offerings are done
with pure hearts and right minds,
the gods in their good pleasure will bring forth the bounty of the lands.
13And all the people,
with pureness in spirit
and the truth in their heart,
will reap the reward of the land.
14There will be rejoicing in the streets,
and all will join in.
The temples will fill with songs of praise.
Even the stones of the ground will ring out with prayers of thanksgiving.
15And the gods will be pleased . . .
8
Brynslæd, Five Years Later
The gods had not been pleased.
Five years passed, with the Empire caught in a worsening famine. For five seasons, fields throughout the Empire grew withered in spotty, random locations; leaves turned brown, shot through with holes, and stalks grew thin, becoming weak and brittle.
This was both new and puzzling. Brynewielm’s wrath usually came in the form of searing drought or consuming fire. But the rains had been plentiful. The land remained untouched by flame. Seeds seemed to sprout vigorously in the spring, only to have the plants wither and die throughout the summer. Always in different fields, different areas, each withered patch slowly spread and grew, year after year. By the time of harvest, there was little left to gather.
No other sign of the gods’ displeasure had been given. Prayers were offered, sacrifices performed, and still the reason for the dying crops remained a mystery. All except one key factor: five years had passed with the Empire in famine, and five years had passed since Tristan Denaeus had been the honored dead.
In the public’s eye, this was no coincidence. Over those five years, Brynslæd’s judgment had slowly shifted from the gods not being pleased with the offerings to the gods not being pleased with the tainted blood of the Denaeus family line. Nothing that followed—prayer, offerings, sacrifice—had wiped the stain of their failure from the depths of the Gildrom, from the wrath of the gods, or from the tongues of the people.
As the tide of public opinion swayed, so too had they grown skeptical of Remè Denaeus’s judicial ability. After all, if his family was deemed imperfect by the gods, what did that say about his judgment? Fewer and fewer cases were brought before his bench. Days came when no one appeared at all. As the public lost their confidence, so too did the Council and, finally, the Temple. On his final day, the Elder came, as Remé knew he would. In humiliation, Remé was unceremoniously stripped of his robes and escorted from his chambers by Þrymm guards.
Remé was now a shell of a man—his hopes ruined, his faith shattered, his pride broken by the reputation of his accursed family name. He was hardly ever seen in public, staying mostly at home at his cluttered work desk, writing nonsensical notes and drawing abstract doodles that were only clear to his own fractured mind.
He’d not laid a hand on Rhiana, or the children, since that fateful day of Tristan’s death. In fact, he had not touched them at all. His gaze rarely left the middle distance between himself and his wife. Or his children. Or, anyone else that bothered to greet him. Even now his hair was permanently disheveled, his clothes rumpled, his eyes sunken, and his face grizzled and slack. He looked homeless, and for all intent, he was. He had no center, no purpose, no hope. Rhiana barely recognized him any longer. And she barely cared.
Like her husband, Rhiana rarely ventured outside their home. She was no longer sought out for her herbal skills, despite her tremendous knowledge. Of the few times she was seen in public, she was out in Bryneslæd’s vast grainfields among the harvesting hands with the poor, the widows, the slaves, and others less fortunate. It was brutal, back-breaking work, but it was an income. Plus, she could pocket enough grain heads behind the backs of the field lords to grind into flour for a few loaves of bread.
And that is where she found them, wriggling among the seeds as she was threshing one evening by candlelight: the pale, worm-like bugs, similar in size and shape to the grains they fed on.
How have we missed these for so long?
But of course they had missed them. From a distance—say the distance from the eye to the field beds—they were indistinguishable from the grains themselves. Rhiana had to look closely just to make sure. Was this truly what had been killing off the crops all along?
The next day she strayed into one of the infected, brown fields, examining a few stalks of the dying grain. Sure enough, the worms were there, burrowed into the heads and stems. She examined an adjacent field, one that was just starting to show signs of withering, and found a few more. The farther away she looked from the infested fields, the fewer worms she found. But they were there. This was the cause, she was sure of it.
But what to do? And, why should she even care? Why should she seek out a cure for the famine of an Empire who hated her?
The counsel she had given to her daughter came back to her: Like water, Sigquaya longs to heal, to fill, to nurture and soothe.
Why should she seek out a cure? Because it is what healers do.
Even so, she couldn’t help the way that she felt. Yes, she was a healer, and, yes, she would seek a cure. But she would do so, at least at times, through gritted teeth and with grudging hands.
That night she shook out a few grain heads, watching the tiny worms wriggle around the tabletop. Here are your gods, Brynslæd, she thought. Here is your judgment and your wrath.
As she thought it, she caught one under her thumb . . . and pressed.
9
About an hour’s walk east of the gates of Brynslæd, a waterfall spilled from the rocks where the base of Dunwielm met the Gespyrian Forest. Its thin veil draped over sixty feet of sheer rock cliffs and into a deep pool surrounded by tall pine and dense fern. This place was called the Mihtcarr, the Mouth of the Gods. This was where a select group of Rectors from the Temple of the Cyneþrymm gathered during the ritual performed within the Gildrom, praying, singing, and watching the Mihtcarr. Always watching. It was the most important task of the entire ceremony, barring the sacrifice itself.
Two deep insets sat above the waterfall’s opening, resembling eyes; the overall effect looking like the face of a god as water spilled out of its mouth to the waiting p
ool below. If the water remained clear throughout the day, the sacrifice had been accepted. If at any time the water ran red, the sacrifice had been rejected, “spit out” by the gods, and the coming harvest season was in doubt.
From one side of the pool, a small creek meandered its way south, joining up with the Sadrean River next to a clearing ringed with cypress trees tall enough to be a natural barrier to wind, and to prying eyes.
Fifteen-year-old Arteura Denaeus stood in the clearing a short distance from her brother Marcus, three years her junior. They faced each other, both holding weapons, the frustration of the past few years burning with intensity in their eyes.
“You think today?” Arteura taunted through gritted teeth.
Marcus merely twisted the sword in his hands as an answer.
“Okay.” She shrugged and advanced.
She made two strides, raising her twin swords across her body, one in her left hand, one in her right. She’d seen it. Her target. Before she had even moved. He was standing sideways, crouched, his weapon held high, at this chest, his back exposed, just above his kidney. It would be a kill shot with the first blow. She moved to strike, feinting with a left, drawing his attention, while stabbing with her right. Marcus’s eyes flew wide as he held up a hand to fend off his sister’s attack. “Wait!”
Arteura stopped. Her blades were inches from both his back and neck. She held, raising her brow. “What?” she growled, virtually vibrating with taut adrenaline.
He looked at her pitifully, like a deflated balloon. “I think my handle’s come loose,” he whined.
She relaxed, shook her head, and rolled her eyes, dropping her weapons in the pine needles at her feet. “Let me take a look.”
He held out the practice sword for her. She took it and examined the hilt.
Marcus’s sword was half his body-length long, carved from a thick aspen branch, three fingers wide and tapered to a fine point, like those of the Þrymm guards. It would hurt if stabbed into an exposed rib, but would hardly break the skin. A small cross-guard was tied next to the hilt with thin, green vines to protect his knuckles. The vines were wrapped along the grip to give a firm hold. It was one of those vines that had worked its way loose and was flapping between Marcus’s fingers. It wasn’t broken, just annoying.
They were here because they didn’t want to be anywhere else. This was their special spot, just the two of them, blessedly alone. For them, it was a safe place, with safe company. A momentary respite for all that seemed wrong with the world. Since Tristan’s death, the gossip over their older brother’s sacrifice had trickled down even to the children’s classrooms. Both Arteura and Marcus were bearers of the “soiled” Denaeus name. Both siblings had come home on many occasions with red, swollen eyes and scrapes and cuts, their noses and knuckles bloodied from their latest skirmishes. Schooling was a privilege afforded only to the wealthy and influential of the Brynslæd Empire. The Denaeuses were not wealthy and, as a judge and scribe, Remè had barely been influential, even before his fall. Still, like himself and his father before him, Remè insisted that his children be educated.
Schooling may have been a privilege, but to Arteura and Marcus, school had become a curse, like a prison where the inmates had rebelled—against them—and the guards had turned a blind eye.
They found this spot a little more than a year after Tristan died; it was peaceful here, quiet, save for the distant rustle of the Sadrean on one side and the wash of the Mihtcarr on the other. It was a place to talk, to swap war stories and battle scars, and to lay in the stillness of the short grass, looking up at the blue sky of the warm summer days.
Soon their war stories developed into mock wrestling matches, each teaching the other skills that would help them survive, at least through another day of school. Takedowns and dirty tricks. Kidney blows and groin shots. Punches and countermoves. Still, for both siblings, it was preferable to school. Their fighting here had boundaries and limits. They taunted each other, of course—they were siblings, after all—but any jeer was done for humor, not harm.
Then, last year, as Marcus entered his first year of military schooling, they’d decided to make the area a weaponry training ground. They set up targets for bow shooting and knife throwing; they padded an area with pine boughs and fern fronds for hand-to-hand combat, and they cleared a wide patch in the center for practicing swordsmanship. Each weapon they used, from longbows to blades, they carved themselves by hand using downed tree limbs and strong, fine vines. They even made “uniforms” matching those of the Þrymm guards. Well, as much as could be matched with strips of cloth and fine thread pinched from a few Brynslæd street vendors. Still, they were decent replicas, and Marcus was proud enough of his that the seeds of a career path had soon been planted in his mind.
The time out here, just the two of them, had proven beneficial, at least for Marcus. Though he was not yet a teen, it was clear already that Marcus would grow into a formidable young man one day. And soon. He had curly, dusty blond hair and narrow eyes, like his father. His shoulders were already wide set and his body was losing its childish fat, replaced by lean, long-limbed arms and legs. He was still gangly, but muscles were already filling in. To date, there was only one person that he couldn’t best in the training arena with his swordplay—only one person whose prowess and natural skill always seemed two steps ahead of his own. And that was Arteura.
His sister was still a good head taller than him, taller now than their mother, and almost eye to eye with their father. She was lean and muscular, her strength hewn more out of necessity than by pedigree. She wore her long, copper hair back in a thick braid, accenting her high forehead and wide, steel-gray eyes.
Arteura’s skills with weapons were entirely self-taught. Unlike Marcus, she used two blades, short swords, not much longer than the length of her forearm, made of wood from a fallen, weathered oak, giving them a dull gray color. She’d carved them with a tapering edge from hilt to tip, and the hilt was also her design, trident shaped, with the cross-guards turned outward at the ends and fashioned into points a finger’s length long. Like Marcus, her grips were wrapped with thin, green vines but, unlike his, Arteura had a small wrapping of extra vine at the ends of each grip, fashioned into a pommel. These she most often used to whack her brother backhanded across the temple or in the kidneys with a resounding thump. She loved that sound.
Arteura finished repairing his weapon and handed it back. Marcus held it up and turned it this way and that, smiling in satisfaction.
“To arms, sister!” He challenged her.
“If you insist.” She walked back and picked up her own swords, turning and facing off once again. “You sure you’re ready?” she drawled as she twirled the blades in her hands, across her fingers and back. It was a skill she’d perfected with her mother’s mixing spoons. She only did it to show off—and because she knew how much it annoyed her brother.
“Stop that!” he growled.
“Why?” she asked innocently. “Does it bother you?”
“Ye—no!” He pouted and tried to adopt an air of knowledge. “It’s just not necessary in any proper fighting technique.”
Fighting technique. She suppressed a giggle. Another of her natural skills was the knowledge that fighting was only 20 percent physical and 80 percent mental. If she were honest, it was the main reason why she’d won more battles with her brother than she could count, and quite a few at school too, often with bullies much larger than her, and usually before they’d even begun.
“Sure it is,” she countered. “You see, I’ve already beaten you. You just don’t know it yet.”
“No you haven’t!” he complained. “We haven’t even begun.”
“Yes we have,” she said
as she extended her still-spinning weapons at arm’s length in his direction like fans.
“Stop that!”
She did, stopping them in a perfect, upright grip. She was smiling, though now the flash in her eyes was anything but friendly. She clacked them together like she’d seen the butcher do when sharpening his steels.
“Ready?” she asked.
“Yes!” he answered in exasperation.
She extended the left sword in his direction and beckoned him forward with a flick of her wrist, still flashing a dry smile.
He moved in on her, sidestepping to the right, his knees bent and his blade held aloft once again at waist level.
Arteura turned in place to follow, holding her ground, drawing back her weapons and tucking her elbows at her sides. She knew she didn’t have to wait long, and she didn’t.
He advanced. His sword lifted high, slashing down with speed and precision.
She raised her left blade above her head, blocking the attack, the clack and hiss of wood ringing out as blade clashed with blade. She danced to the left like a bullfighter, spinning with him as Marcus passed. She saw her opening and gave him a sharp, backhanded thrust in the kidney with her right-hand pommel, then stepped back, resuming her ready stance as if she’d never moved.
Marcus yelped, staggered another step, and turned, holding his ribcage and grimacing.