Birthrights_Revisions to the Truth Read online

  “I shouldn’t have asked,” Whym said. “It’s not my business.” He was still uncertain what had set off his fellow apprentice in the first place.

  “I heard Stern tell you my mother’s from the Fringe.”

  So, he wasn’t sleeping after all.

  “She’s not. I don’t know where she’s from—someplace far away. The Fringe is where my parents met, though. That’s what he meant.”

  “Oh?” Whym was glad to have Kutan speaking again. After the conversation on Sentinel Mountain, he was even more curious about his fellow apprentice’s origins, but cautious to say nothing to upset him.

  Kutan scanned the area then spoke with a hushed tone. “I told Stern he needed to tell you after Captain Brosz was captured. He thought you weren’t ready, that you didn’t know enough about the resistance. But ready or not, you needed to know.”

  “Captain Brosz?” Ansel?

  Kutan looked around again. Even if Agnis knew about Stern’s involvement with the resistance, he clearly didn’t want her to overhear what he was telling Whym. “The post that got away. He’d been funneling news about the supply caravans to the Shades since before the start of the war. His death will be a painful blow.”

  Whym felt a dizzying mix of guilt, dread, and anger as he considered the implications. Ansel was a key figure for the resistance, and I’m responsible for his death. If Stern had just trusted me earlier, this could have been avoided. He added another item to the list of transgressions he attributed to the seeker. “You weren’t out for the fifty gold?” he asked to keep up pretenses.

  “Keeping Captain Brosz alive would’ve been worth far more than fifty gold to the resistance. We found him, too, but couldn’t be discovered traveling with a wanted man. We sent him ahead, planning to double back.” Kutan shook his head. “But someone set a trap for us. Probably Marvil.” He spat the name. “The trap held us more than three days before we escaped. Marvil found him before we could catch up.”

  Though Whym was relieved that Kutan gave no indication he knew or suspected what had transpired at the cottage, another knot was forming in his stomach. The secret Marvil gifted is not mine to use, but Marvil’s! What lengths would I go to in order to keep my involvement buried like the body in the woods?

  .

  .

  The trip to town required a half day, so they’d not expected Stern to return until the next afternoon. But as they were resting by the fire after dinner, the door swung open. The seeker stepped in, his face drained of blood.

  “Back so soon?” Agnis maintained a pleasant tone as she stood to greet him, but her unease was evident in the way she shifted her weight from one leg to the other, waiting for an answer.

  “There’s a new post.” Stern delivered the news with the same leaden monotone he’d used after discovering Ansel’s death. He spoke, but his eyes were unfocused, his mind elsewhere. “It’ll take us away for a long time.”

  “Refuse it,” Kutan suggested.

  “Not this one.” Stern exchanged a knowing glance with Agnis.

  “All this excitement,” she sighed, “and I need to visit the privy.” She left the seeker and his apprentices alone in the cottage.

  Kutan turned to Stern when the door closed. “Since when can’t we refuse a post? They’re open to all seekers.”

  “Since now. And not this one.” Stern sat at the table and pulled out his pipe. Whym hadn’t thought it possible, but he looked even more tired than before. “Fink was clear. We take this post or they’ll revoke my master’s seal.”

  “Who’s named on the post?” Normally, Whym wouldn’t have interrupted a discussion about work, but after the trip to Sentinel Mountain, he felt entitled.

  “The last Steward.” The seeker delivered the message they were being sent to search for the last of a mythical race the same as if they’d been tasked to catch a common thief.

  “The last Steward?” Kutan’s rust-colored eyebrows pressed down toward his eyes, and his freckled nose flared in disbelief. “They’re sending us to chase our tails?”

  Stern ignored Kutan’s outburst. “Because of the unusual nature of the post, we’re to be compensated whether or not we succeed.”

  “Should we slay a dragon or some Faerie while we’re at it? Even were the Steward real, how could we catch such a creature?” Whym had never seen Kutan speak to Stern in such a manner. It made him uncomfortable, like witnessing a child berate his mother.

  “We’re only required to find the Steward, not catch it. Some villagers in a remote spot north of the Mysts called Endeling claim to know where it lives. But I share your concern. Something feels wrong about this post.”

  “How long will you two be gone this time?” Whym asked, silently bemoaning the prospect of living like a hermit in the Wildes while they were gone.

  “We.” Stern took a deep drag on his pipe and expelled two lungfuls of smoke in a sudden fit of coughing. “You escort Agnis to Riverbend tomorrow and visit one night with your parents. Then we all three together will search for this myth.”

  Whym’s eyes lit up. For Kutan and Stern, the post was a forced march that would pull them away from their affairs. To Whym, it sounded like the adventure of a lifetime.

  Welloch, Chapter 17

  .

  .

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  The Tunga emerged purified from the burning sands. The false idols of their ancestors discarded, they brought with them into the green land the cleansing Fire of the desert gods. Hardened by the crossing, they ruled wherever their feet met earth.

  .

  But life in the green land proved too easy, water too abundant. The generations that followed, who’d not endured the purification, neglected the sacrifices. They slipped back into the fickle arms of the very gods who’d forsaken their forefathers. Without the Fire, the Tunga were plants without roots. Their dominion shriveled.

  .

  If not for the bravery and sacrifice of Wyvern, the last descendant of the Bone Reader who’d led the Tunga from the desert, the Fire would have been extinguished.

  .

  —Excerpt from the Tungresh,

  the sacred scrolls of the Dragonborn

  .

  .

  Welloch

  .

  .

  .

  .

  “May the fire of the sun purify.”

  “May the sands scrub you clean.” Quint extended the traditional response to Fadia, the bent and wrinkled woman occupying the tent nearest his own. She stood to face him wearing the heavy blue cloth of a widow’s robe, then balanced her cane against her leg and crossed her arms over her chest. It was a sign of respect reserved for the tribe’s leaders. He acknowledged the unexpected display with a smile. Anything more would have been considered uncouth. Such a strange people.

  Nikla’s lessons were paying off. Even the Mother had noticed. He now looked back on his days of ignorance with disbelief. The customs in Welloch differed so much from those in Bothera, he guessed he’d unintentionally offended everyone he’d met since his arrival. He was surprised the Mother hadn’t insisted the Shades take him away. But his hosts had forgiven his ignorance and, now that he understood and respected their customs, accepted him.

  “You found some?” Nikla squatted next to the flap of his tent, bottom resting on her ankles, heels just off the ground. Quint marveled at her ability to remain in that position for long stretches of time, and attributed it to fieldwork. His knees ached just watching her.

  “A few.” He placed the small cage containing crickets on the ground and knelt on both knees beside her. She’d already woven the reeds of sticky grass together to fashion the bottom of a fist-sized basket.

  “Then let’s get started.” She’d been concerned their lessons were growing stale, so was mixing in activities. This morning, she planned to show him how to make the of
fering boxes to the Dragonbrother, a ritual performed daily by even the poorest of the tribe’s families.

  “You redo the weaves every day?” Quint asked as he fumbled with the blades of grass. He found the delicate movements tedious and frustrating, and often broke the blades and needed to start over. She’d already finished her second basket, but he was still adding the sides to his first.

  “Nah, they can last a few days if it doesn’t rain. But it doesn’t take long once you get the hang of it.”

  She laughed as he yanked out another broken blade in frustration. He threw the half-made basket to the ground. Forgetting they were no longer concealed by tent walls, Nikla placed her hand over his. “It’s not a race. You’re not being judged.”

  The initial lessons—at least, after the embarrassing introduction—had been cautious and formal. But as Nikla gained confidence in her teaching ability and Quint proved to be an interested pupil, they’d shifted to a playful banter. At first, shaking hands in greeting had been a hurdle. Now, she’d touch his leg or elbow during explanations and no longer flinched when he touched her. The lessons were about the customs and history of the Dragonborn, but there was also an undercurrent of exploration of their shifting boundaries.

  She handed him a sturdier blade. “Try this one.”

  He picked up his half-finished weave and, to his relief, the thicker piece withstood his ineptitude. Finishing two lopsided baskets, though, still took the better part of the morning.

  “See!” Nikla clapped her hands together. “Not so bad, right?” She tucked a few loose blades into the sides then set his baskets next to hers, the contrast with her tight weaves making them look more misshapen.

  “Right,” he lied. He intended to use his offering boxes for as long as they held together then extend the life of his neighbors’ discards to avoid weaving more. He was certain Fadia, at least, wouldn’t mind giving him hers.

  “Next, you put in the lining.” She took a handful of white birch wood shavings and spread them until the bottom weave was no longer visible. “You can use other woods, but I think birch looks best.”

  Quint scooped some shavings. “This, I can handle.”

  Nikla plucked out one of the crickets and twisted off the head, holding the body until it stopped moving. She then detached each leg, careful not to break them. “In the old days, the baskets were larger. On festival days, the rich offered a sheep or goat. Even the poorest would have offered something—a frog, squirrel, hare.” She paused, with a brief but sorrowful look away before continuing. “But times are tough, and crickets, plentiful.”

  “Must have been one hungry dragon!” Quint joked. “No, not hungry, but one very full dragon—at least on festival days.”

  She stood and squared her shoulders. “Whatever the Dragonbrother left, the family would use the next day.” Her response was serious. She’d either misunderstood or disapproved of Quint’s jest. “It’s the act of offering that matters, not the contents.”

  “Let’s hope so, unless dragons have developed a taste for crickets.”

  The second quip was met with a withering stare. “We’re now a poor people. Many struggle to feed themselves, while you’re provided all you can eat. You wouldn’t understand what it’s like to be without.”

  He knew she could be touchy about her people’s rituals and recognized he’d taken the teasing too far. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you,” he said, chastened.

  “Sometimes it’s not the intent, but the result, that matters.” She laid the disassembled crickets on the ground in front of her and stared at the pieces as if deciding whether to continue the lesson. He waited, anxious. Although he’d grown more comfortable around her, he found to his delight, that Nikla remained a mystery. The lessons had changed his outlook. He didn’t want to do or say anything to put them at risk. But as much as he valued the content of the lessons, he valued more the moments with her.

  When she picked up one of his baskets, he sighed with relief. “The arrangement’s symbolic. The upper leg’s considered the best cut of meat. It should be placed first, facing outward like this, to show the Dragonbrother we’re offering our best.”

  She placed the cricket pieces into the tiny baskets, explaining the meaning behind the order and location of each. Quint did his best to feign interest. Of all the strange rituals and customs of the Dragonborn, he found the daily arrangement of these offering boxes filled with bugs the silliest.

  “It’s foretold, if we keep faith and continue to show our respect, the spirit of the Dragonbrother will one day return to restore our people,” she concluded.

  “You still haven’t told me about the Dragonbrother. Is it Wyvern?” He remembered the name from a previous lesson. Although she’d started by teaching the history of her people, she’d shifted to their customs and manners without finishing the story. To date, they’d covered the arrival of the Dragonborn—or Tunga, as they were then called—their initial military success, and the nation’s subsequent collapse. Dragons had yet to enter the conversation.

  Nikla’s jaw hung open. “Did you know nothing of my people before coming?”

  Quint stared his admission, afraid anything he said might be misconstrued. She shook her head. “I’d only planned to make the offering boxes today, but let’s go inside and I’ll tell a short version of the story.”

  Once they were seated on the furs, she began. “Wyvern’s father, the Bone Reader, was killed as the Tunga retreated into these mountains. Despite being younger than you, Wyvern was named Bone Reader, the leader of our people in the days before the Mother. So many had been killed or enslaved, the Tungan nation had been reduced to one final settlement.

  “Wyvern, though, proved to be an exceptional military commander. Vastly outnumbered, he used the terrain to repel several attackers. But a single defeat would have finished the Tunga. Many in the tribe were advocating surrender, preferring slavery to the death their enemies promised.

  “But Wyvern was unwilling to concede defeat. Instead, he prayed to the Fire of the desert gods. After two days of nonstop praying, the gods granted him a vision that would save his people. They showed him a dragon, the half-flesh, half-fire creature described in the Tungresh. He left to search for this dragon, allowing the Fire to guide him high into the uninhabited mountains to the north. He was weak from hunger and suffering from the cold when he reached the cave he’d seen in his vision. There he found Siroth, the last remaining dragon in the Land of Amon.”

  “Is Siroth the Dragonmother?” Quint was trying to piece together the few fragments of the story he knew.

  “She was the Dragonmother’s mother. You see, Siroth was going to slay Wyvern. When she saw the Fire that had guided him, though, she felt a kinship. She spared him, allowing him to remain in the cave. In time, they connected—mind and body. Every day for four moons he pleaded with her to join him and return to the realm of Man. Every day she refused. Drawn back by the need of his people, he left on the first day of the fifth moon, hoping she’d follow. What he didn’t realize, what Siroth had kept secret, was she was swollen with child and couldn’t leave the cave.

  “When Wyvern reached the Tungan village, he discovered another had usurped his position as leader and sworn allegiance to the chief of the Allawa, strongest of the four neighboring tribes. His own people handed him over to the Allawa chief, who ordered Wyvern staked to a tree outside the village and decreed the same death for anyone who aided him.

  “In the meantime, Siroth gave birth to a dragon son, Brorsidst, and a human daughter, Dyrmor. Eager to finally reveal the secret to her mate, she prepared to leave in search of Wyvern. Dragons are self-sufficient at birth, but Dyrmor needed constant care. Not knowing how long she’d be gone, Siroth found a nursing goat to provide milk then left her daughter in her son’s care.

  “When she reached the Tungan village, she found Wyvern’s corpse still staked to the tree. Grief-stricken, sh
e razed the village, killing every man, woman, and child. Then she razed every Allawa village and town, sparing only the slaves in chains.

  “As she prowled the smoking ruins of the last village for survivors, she came across a woman holding the scorched body of a child in her arms. The scene made Siroth think of her own children. As she turned to leave, her desire for vengeance sated, the woman leapt at her, screaming curses, and speared her with a pike from a fallen soldier. If only Siroth hadn’t turned back, the pike would have deflected off her tough scales. But she did turn. The pike found her eye and killed her.”

  Quint was engrossed with the story, but something didn’t make sense. “If Siroth killed the Tunga, how are your people still here? Are the Dragonborn descendants of Dyrmor?”

  Nikla seemed pleased by his curiosity. “The slaves—the ones Siroth spared—fled. When they found the last Tungan village in ashes, they retreated even deeper into the mountains, all the way to where we are now, a place never before settled by Man.”

  Quint found the tale entertaining, but implausible. Dragons, mystical visions, and magical fires, he believed, were the stuff of children’s tales, not history. He’d spent his life surrounded by men who claimed to speak with gods and see the future. They were frauds. He’d also spent countless days among the idols in the Hall of Riches without once seeing evidence they harbored magical powers. They were stone and metal, nothing more.

  Nikla peeked outside to check the sun, frowned, then stood. “I’ll tell you more next time. I have a lot of work to do.”

  Quint surprised them both when he caught her arm as she ducked to leave. “How soon can be the next time?”

  “I…I’m not—” He pulled her against him until he could feel the wetness of her breath. Then he kissed her. She tensed at first but soon relaxed and leaned into him, returning his kiss with the passion her eyes had promised. “I must go.” She pushed away and straightened her frock.