Birthrights_Revisions to the Truth Page 2

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  Riverbend, Chapter 3

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  Without guidance, men are beholden to tradition, forever repeating the same mistakes. The Truth is Jah’s guidance to His people.

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  —Truth (Fundamentals 6:5-6)

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  Riverbend

  Ten Turns Later

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  Soaked, Whym climbed from the slow-moving water, his bangs flat against his forehead. He’d rinsed the blood from his clothes, and his wrung-dry undershirt now clung to the muscles of his arms and chest. As he sank into the cool clay bank of the Inge, he watched the ripples of his passing drift away.

  “Stupid!” he chastised himself for throwing the punch to Tyrus Fen’s jaw, and traced his finger over the bump under his left eye. The spot, where Tyrus’ elbow had landed, was tender, but the swelling was less than he’d expected. His ribs, on the other hand, sent shocks of pain with each breath. Just blowing the blood from his nose had wracked his back with spasms.

  He thought back to the days when he’d started school in NewTown. He’d believed then that winning the title of Guardian of the Faith would liberate him from the stigma of being the great-grandson of ArWhym Ellenrond. Ten turns had passed since the day he’d learned otherwise. He was the son of the Rat Man of Riverbend, and was destined to inherit the role—the punishment the Council of Truth meted out on ArWhym’s progeny for the former First Lord’s role in the Reformers Rebellion. Now, at sixteen turns of age, Whym’s every hope for the future was dampened by that realization.

  Still, he knew he shouldn’t complain. RatsNest children were seldom fortunate enough to attend school. In fact, he and Kira were the only ones in their class. His parents had scrimped and saved so he could hope for a better job than the street cleaner position the Council had foisted on his father. As a result, though, he was viewed by his neighbors as a cosseted snob schooled across the river. In NewTown, he was filth from RatsNest. Kira remained his best—and only—friend.

  “You okay?” Kira lifted her dress to her calves and eased down the embankment to join him. “That looked like it hurt.” Her soft tone mixed concern and reproach.

  Whym pulled his tunic from his sack and spread it over the clay beside him. “I’m fine.” At least, I will be.

  She pinned the loose dress material under her knees with one arm. With the other, she lowered herself to the tunic. “I was afraid you were really going to injure him.” She brushed wisps of fine auburn hair from her eyes, tucked them behind her ear, then licked her thumb and wiped at a smudge of dried blood on his cheek.

  Whym tensed. Of late, her touch disquieted him. He’d begun to notice the new curves framing her slender figure, the swells beneath her blouse drawing his bashful glances. “It was stupid, I know.” He hung his head. Growing up in the squalor across the river had left Whym a skilled brawler, good enough that he believed he could handle both twins at once in a fair fight. But fights, he found, were much the same as life—seldom fair.

  In RatsNest, brawn, and the mettle to use it, conveyed power. NewTown was different. Power derived not from physical strength, but from the influence of your surname. In this, the twins, Cyrus and Tyrus Fen, were peerless. The pain in his ribs paled in comparison to what First Lord Fen would have ordered if Whym had injured either twin.

  Kira tossed a pebble into the water. “At least the Seeding break will give you time to heal before the Choosing.”

  “Farmers’ kids don’t even go to school,” he groused. “The break makes no sense. I’m sick of the past defining the present.”

  Kira didn’t need to speak. Her raised eyebrow stopped Whym’s griping. He responded with a sullen gaze across the water, although it soon abated. “Yeah, the break will be nice before the Choosing,” he admitted.

  “Have you decided what you’ll pick?” Kira asked, her own apprenticeship arranged moons earlier.

  Whym had thought of little else. The Choosing ceremony marked the end of his schooling, the beginning of adulthood. His choice would determine his path for the next five turns, possibly longer. “There are so many tempting options.” He rolled his eyes. Despite top marks, his surname precluded any master from placing a claim. That left two paths from which to choose—a commission in the army or a position with the clergy. Both of which he found unappealing.

  Kira picked at a snag in her dress as she spoke. “At least you have a choice. The unschooled aren’t so lucky. Be thankful you won’t be sent straightaway to fight in the Fringe.”

  Whym looked away, momentarily chastened. He was not only thankful, he was also hopeful that should he pursue a commission, the war the Council was waging in the distant region would be over before he finished his training. “I’ve got it! I’ll choose to be First Lord of the Council of Truth.” He grinned, admiring his own cleverness. “It’s my birthright, you know.”

  “Don’t joke about that.” She glanced up the embankment to ensure no one had overheard. “Say that to the wrong person, and today’s pounding will seem gentle.”

  “Who else would I say it to?” Whym mumbled, the reality that he’d soon be separated from his only friend darkening his expression.

  Kira returned a sympathetic smile. Not saddled with a surname that left her a pariah, she had other friends both at school and at home in RatsNest. “Just don’t say it at all,” she admonished, then leaned back, elbows locked, palms pressed against the edge of the tunic.

  Lost in thoughts of the future, the two watched the river’s current in the comfortable silence only the best of friends enjoy. “I’ll choose to go wherever the twins don’t,” Whym said a short while later. He’d heard that Lord Fen considered apprenticeships beneath his sons and had arranged positions for them instead. Based on the Fens’ military background, he assumed the positions would be with the army.

  Kira turned to face him, looking as if she’d bitten into a raw onion. “You’ve not heard?”

  His stomach sank. “Heard what?”

  “They’re splitting up. Cyrus will be an officer. Tyrus will join the clergy.”

  The news hit Whym harder than the knee that had cracked his ribs. No matter his selection, he couldn’t escape the First Lord’s twins. “I should just volunteer for the Fringe.”

  “Don’t talk like that!”

  Whym ignored her. “Or I could run away to Bothera, the Mysts—maybe one of the villages along the Blight.”

  Kira dismissed the thought with a wave of her hand. “The seekers would catch you easy as a caged chicken.”

  He sighed his admission. “With my luck it would be Seeker Sandoval. The Council could mount my head on the walls as they did my great-grandfather’s.”

  “Stop it!” She sat up and faced him. “It’s bad luck to speak of dying.” Then, noting Whym’s glum expression, she added with a wink, “Besides, you’re not nearly important enough to execute.”

  Though Whym knew the last bit had been Kira’s attempt at levity, he believed the words to be true. “Five more turns,” he grumbled to himself, “and my required service will be finished.” Although he knew it was impossible—that the Council would never allow it—he dreamed of leaving Riverbend then and not looking back.

  Two birthrights. I could have been First Lord of the Council of Truth. But thanks to my great-grandfather, I’ll be Rat Man of Riverbend. I’m never going to have children. The Hunt will end with me.

  Riverbend, Chapter 4

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  No Hope For A Master

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  Ain’t never been to school

  Before I never cared

  But now the Choosing looms

  And I’m a little scared

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  My sissy stayed in town />
  To sweep and scrub and clean

  The priests she claims ain’t bad

  But says them lords are mean

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  My ma thinks it ain’t fair

  Thinks I should get to pick

  But Pa said I’ve no choice

  Because I got a dick

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  No chance to hang around

  And scrub for priest and lord

  ‘Cause when the Choosing ends

  They’ll hand to me a sword

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  —Norbert Simpring

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  Riverbend

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  “Hurry, or we’ll be late. You know that’d make trouble for your father.”

  “I’m coming.” Whym shuffled past his mother, tilting his head away as she tried to wet down his cowlick with a spit-slicked hand.

  “Leave the boy alone,” his father, Maldwyn Ellenrond, intervened. His own cowlick was greased down flat against his scalp, creating an oddly angular profile. “It’s his choice if he likes a horn on top of his head.”

  Whym stepped outside into the tiny shared courtyard and rolled his shoulders, stretching the seams of his patched brown jacket. His mother had done an admirable job getting the secondhand outfit to fit, but the sleeves still pulled beyond his wrists when he lifted his arms. He didn’t care. Were it up to him, he wouldn’t have dressed up at all.

  I don’t see why everyone makes so much fuss about the Choosing. They all know what’ll happen. For the unschooled, the ceremony was a formality to herald their transition to adulthood. Without apprenticeships, their fate was clear-cut: Boys would be sent to fight in the Fringe, girls would remain in Riverbend to serve the Faith. The fate of most of the educated was also predetermined, with payments and promises made to secure their apprenticeships long before the ceremony. Only a few masters eschewed the practice of bartering their apprenticeships—few enough that no unpaid apprenticeship claims had been made during the last three Choosings. This meant the only real uncertainty was whether the handful of graduates unable to secure apprenticeships chose a commission with the army or a position with the clergy.

  “Big day today,” his father said as they left the courtyard on the way to Redress Square.

  “Get to pick my prison for the next five turns,” Whym retorted, despite knowing he’d feel worse later for bringing up his parents’ inability to secure an apprenticeship. That they’d been able to scrounge up enough money for his schooling while working low-paying jobs was remarkable. Regret already bubbled to the top of his brewing emotions.

  “You have no idea the lengths your father and I—” his mother began, but the rest of her words caught in her throat.

  “It’s five turns.” His father’s nostrils flared. “You’d rather the Fringe?”

  “At least I wouldn’t be stuck in RatsNest like you!” Whym stopped momentarily, stunned by what he’d said. His parents had sacrificed so he could attend school. Yet, he was belittling them. He wanted to apologize, but his words had created a chasm he didn’t know how to cross. A mix of wounded feelings and embarrassment squelched further conversation.

  Although the reason for the lull in conversation was unfortunate, Whym did appreciate the extra time to consider his decision. That morning, he’d decided to pursue an army commission. But he’d been changing his mind several times each day. He felt trapped—trapped in Riverbend and destined for a life he neither wanted nor felt he deserved. The highest marks in my class, but I’ll go unclaimed. And both the army and the Faith will have a Fen there to bully me.

  He was still thinking, watching his feet as he walked, when his mother gasped. He looked up. The crowd spilled so far down the feeder street he couldn’t see the stage in Redress Square. It appeared as if all of Riverbend was in attendance.

  Whym and his parents were forced to push through the crush of spectators, toward the roped-off section reserved for ceremony participants. They arrived just as Lord Fen stepped to the front of the stage. “Ladies and gentlemen,” his booming voice demanded the crowd’s attention.

  That’s a man built to lead, Whym thought as he looked up to see the First Lord flanked by the other twelve lords of the Council of Truth. To think, if my great-grandfather hadn’t abdicated, Samir Fen would never have taken his seat on the Council. The Fens would still be soldiers, and would one day have taken orders from me.

  “Today, we gather to celebrate our children’s ascension into adulthood,” the First Lord continued. “May they be guided by the Truth and Jah’s hand to choose wisely.” Lord Fen then passed control of the ceremony to Lord Belos Cullen, and took his seat.

  The ceremony shifted into the corpulent lord’s tedious monotone. “Norbert Simpring.” Lord Cullen’s jowls shook as he spoke. A scruffy-looking boy Whym recognized from RatsNest climbed the stage stairs. “Who among you would claim this child with the promise to nurture and teach?” As decorum dictated, there was a pause to allow a master to make a claim. The lord, the boy, and the crowd all knew none would.

  Vademus Fen, Commander of the Council’s army and the First Lord’s younger brother, stepped forward after the pause. “Norbert Simpring, your brothers-in-arms welcome you.” The boy shook Vademus’ hand, and the crowd half-heartedly applauded his pledge signing.

  As the Choosing dragged on, Whym’s thoughts returned to his own looming selection. He stared at the stage in a daze of indecision until Kira’s name was called. “Kira Katona,” Lord Cullen announced, using her grandmother’s surname instead of her father’s. Whym watched her take the stage with bated breath, worried the name change indicated a problem with her apprenticeship.

  Pale and tiny, with a soft-spoken fragility that inclined even the meanest bullies to treat her gently, Kira ascended the stairs on the tips of her toes. She wore a pale blue dress that hugged her knees, and her auburn hair, curled under, bounced against the cream-colored shawl draped around her shoulders. She carried herself with poise like the other graduates from NewTown, which was fitting, because she’d been born there. Had her mother not died during childbirth, Kira would have been raised in the affluence of NewTown instead of in RatsNest as Whym’s neighbor.

  “Who among you would claim this child with the promise to nurture and teach?”

  Whym scanned the crowd for her father, Drusus Skinner. Drusus was a thick-armed, bellicose butcher, with a face so scarred by a childhood bout with Blight fever that his customers joked he must have butchered himself. Kira’s mother had consented to the match with Drusus solely for her family’s sake. Although the Katonas had not fought with the rebels, their early support for ArWhym Ellenrond’s calls for reform made them targets after the rebellion. They’d lost their fortune and family home, and had been forced to resettle in RatsNest. With the lawlessness of that period still fresh in people’s minds, Drusus had been the only of her many suitors willing to promise to relocate her family back across the Inge.

  Unfortunately for the Katonas, such informal agreements are of value only when the people making them can be trusted. Drusus was no such man. When Kira’s mother died during labor, the butcher had lacked even the decency to deliver the news to her family himself. Instead, he’d ordered a servant to bundle the newborn Kira into a basket and deliver it to her grandparents along with a note vowing financial support should she survive. When he’d remarried right away, and his new wife had borne a son a mere five moons later, few expected the scamp to keep his promise.

  Fortunately, Kira favored her mother in both looks and temperament. Whym marveled that someone so delicate and beautiful could have come from such a man. All told, Drusus Skinner provided Kira three things in life—an unremarkable surname, tuition to attend the NewTown school, and an agreement with a tailor, Arlis Thrump, to claim her
as his apprentice.

  “I would,” Tailor Thrump announced, easing Whym’s concern.

  After Kira left the stage, Lord Cullen droned the names of several more classmates, all with masters ready to place a claim. Not until Gregor Sump, the youngest of seven children, did any graduates go unclaimed. Gregor’s father, a merchant who operated a modest warehousing operation, was not nearly as successful in making money as he was begetting offspring, leaving

  Gregor as one of the few graduates without an apprenticeship.

  “I choose the Faith,” the boy announced to perfunctory clapping when no master placed a claim. Witness Wane, a prominent member of the clergy, stepped forward and enveloped the boy’s hand in his own.

  Three names later, Lord Cullen called Tyrus Fen. Those gathered erupted when no fewer than twenty masters—an unprecedented number—stepped forward.

  “I’m called to the Faith to lead men to the Truth,” Tyrus rejected their claims with a booming voice like his father’s. Although Kira had told Whym about the plan, based on the chatter that continued after the applause, news of the arrangement had not been broadly disseminated.

  When Cyrus was called next, the same group of masters rose, but with less impact on the crowd. However, when Cyrus chose the army, the square buzzed with speculation, leaving Vademus’ welcome for his nephew barely audible.

  After Cyrus, much of the crowd, including every lord but Lord Cullen, departed. As a result, when Whym’s name was called, the uneasy quiet the Ellenrond surname provoked was less dramatic than it might have otherwise been.

  Whym kept his eyes down and picked at the rough edge of a fingernail as he shuffled toward the stage with sweat-darkened armpits. A knot in his stomach tightened as he climbed the stairs and peered over his shoulder at the sea of faces. As far back as he could remember, only bad things happened when people took notice of him. Distracted, his foot caught the top stair’s edge, and he stumbled onto the stage. Those remaining hooted with laughter. “Dim Whym,” Tyrus jeered and encouraged others nearby to join the chant.

  “Who among you would claim this child with the promise to nurture and teach?” Lord Cullen shouted above the commotion.