Birthrights_Revisions to the Truth Read online

  Whym locked his knees to resist the urge to run away. Despite so much time spent debating his options, at that moment, he’d have volunteered for the Fringe would that have brought a more rapid end to his humiliation.

  “I do.” A voice sounded from the crowd just as he opened his mouth to announce he’d choose a commission in the army.

  No matter how impossible it seemed, Whym had harbored an unspoken hope that a master might claim him. When he heard the voice, though, he assumed it was a mean-spirited prank by the twins. But when Stern Sandoval lowered the hood of his pine green cloak and advanced toward the stage, Whym knew it was no prank. It was worse.

  Stern was a seeker—the best seeker in the Lowlands. But he was also the son of Ather Sandoval, the traitor who’d betrayed Whym’s great-grandfather to the Council of Truth. Despised and distrusted by both sides following the cessation of conflict, Ather had moved with his only child to the Wildes. There, in isolation, they’d found a guarded peace and scratched out a living as seekers.

  As Whym watched Stern approach, his instinct was to reject the claim. When he searched and found his parents in the crowd, their stricken faces urged the same. But in his shock, Whym remained mute.

  Stern stepped onto the stage, his slate-colored eyes fixed on Whym. Unlike the other masters who’d dressed up for the occasion, beneath his cloak, the seeker wore traveling clothes—a long-sleeved linen shirt and loose-fitting pants—and a sword belt around his waist with a dagger tucked in at his hip opposite the scabbard. Straight white hair hung unevenly to his shoulders, and stubble covered his jaw and chin.

  “Dim Whym! Dim Whym!” Tyrus tried to revive the chant.

  The shouted insult turned out to be the incitement Whym needed to act. This is my only chance to escape the twins. Hands trembling, he signed his pledge, trading a certain misery for a frightening unknown.

  Stern pressed his master’s seal into the red wax to finalize the arrangement, his emotionless face providing no reassurance. “Be at the Fiddlestop at first light,” he instructed, then pulled the hood over his head and left without a congratulatory handshake.

  Whym was still so shocked he could do no more than nod his understanding. He gathered himself and made his way down the stairs. “Traitor. Rebel. Rat Man.” He picked the words from conversations as he passed. He could feel everyone’s gazes following him.

  When he reached his parents, his father caught his arm. “Let’s go home,” Maldwyn said, his earlier anger displaced by a disquieting anxiety. Without waiting for the ceremony’s end, they headed home as they’d come that morning—in silence, each nursing emotions yet too raw to voice.

  Not until their front door closed behind them, did Isabel Ellenrond round on her husband. “My son will have nothing to do with that scum!”

  His father spoke softly, a lifetime of humiliation conditioning him to contain his emotions. “The contract’s signed. You know it’s final.”

  Whym retreated toward his own small room as Maldwyn Ellenrond reached to comfort his wife. She shoved him away, standing, fists clenched, with the ferocity of a mother bear protecting her cubs. “Stop cowering like the rat they’d have you be. Act like a man for once!”

  Whym slipped into his room just ahead of the whap of an open hand against flesh. He closed the door and crumpled onto the mat in the windowless room. Although common in RatsNest, he’d never before witnessed violence in his own home. He was crushed by the knowledge he was responsible, and ached for the release tears would bring. But as he lay staring into the darkness, no tears would come.

  .

  .

  Later, a knock roused him from his sleepless stupor. “Son?” A flickering candle lit the room as the door opened. Whym had lost track of time. Dusk had come and gone.

  His father squatted beside the mat. “Your mother’s prepared dinner.” He opened his mouth to say more but struggled to coax out the words. “About before…”

  The tears that had resisted earlier rushed forth. Whym turned away. My first day as an adult, and I’m crying like a baby. “What I said this morning…it’s all my fault,” he blubbered. “I’m so sorry!”

  “Enough!” His mother appeared in the doorway, arms crossed, swollen cheek wiped clean of tears. “You’re to be a seeker. Don’t act like a child.”

  Riverbend, Chapter 5

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  You can become someone new; you can never again become yourself.

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  —Truth (Ministrations 1:4).

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  Riverbend

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  First Lord Artifis Fen strode down the hallway, the purposeful thump of his boots meant to signal his irritation. Under normal circumstances, he would have arrived early to steer the pre-meeting conversations. But for this emergency session called by Lord Cullen, Artifis intended his late entrance to make an impression.

  That bumbling fool should’ve approached me before convening Council. These lords are harder to train than the kennel hounds. He liked them less.

  He swung open the doors to the TruthHold. The other twelve lords of the Council of Truth were seated—six on each side—around a rectangular mahogany table. Around them, on each of the five walls, hung tapestries depicting pivotal moments in history. The newest, commissioned by Artifis himself, showed his grandfather, Samir Fen, with his boot on the neck of ArWhym Ellenrond. The only other furniture in the stark room was the melted throne said to have belonged to the last king of the Lowlands—a Faerie king, if one believed in legends. It remained in the corner as a warning against allowing another sovereign to rise.

  Snippets of heated conversation greeted the First Lord as he entered the room.

  “What could the seeker want with the boy?”

  “We shouldn’t allow it! Sandoval and Ellenrond together again—apprenticeships should be subject to the Council’s approval.”

  “We should imprison them both and be done with it.”

  “Lords—” Artifis cleared his throat. His arrival hadn’t stopped the conversations, but his barbed tone did. He shoved aside the high-armed chair reserved for the First Lord and stood at the head of the table with every eye fixed on him. “Why was my holiday interrupted?”

  “Surely you’ve heard?” Lord Gwyn, one of the few around the table Artifis could stomach, spoke up. “The traitor’s son, Stern Sandoval, has claimed the great-grandson of ArWhym Ellenrond as his apprentice.”

  “We cannot allow this unseemly union!” Lord Belos Cullen banged his meaty fist on the table. A lord since before Artifis was born, the air of privilege hung on him like his flabby folds of skin and dangling jowls. His body was soft, his opinions, firm. He was the only lord remaining who dared openly oppose Artifis.

  “Belos.” Lord Fen spoke in a matter-of-fact manner that contrasted with Lord Cullen’s impassioned speech. “I understand why you’d rather be in our company than with your wife and son. I’ve met them. But urgent matters should be brought first to my attention.”

  “It’s the right of any lord to convene Council.” Lord Cullen stood, hot with anger, knocking over his chair and spraying drops of spittle. “I’ll not tolerate you insulting my family. You. Will. Apologize!”

  Artifis leaned out over the table toward where Lord Cullen stood. “You should apologize for wasting our time. If you’d have shown the discretion befitting a lord, instead of acting like a squawking hen, I could have told you I arranged the apprenticeship.”

  There was a collective gasp from the seated lords. Lord Cullen looked as if he’d swallowed a fish bone that had lodged in his throat. “Why were we not informed?”

  Artifis, cool and calculating, moved to the toppled chair. He righted it, then slid it toward the senior lord. “We have war in the Fringe, drought turning the Mudlands to desert, a
nd regions growing restive. Should the apprenticeship of a child require the full Council’s attention?”

  Lord Cullen stepped back from the chair. “You had no right!”

  Artifis pushed it forward again, patting the back like a teacher dealing with an unruly pupil. “The prophecy’s clear. The only threat to the Council is from beyond our borders. Winning the war in the Fringe will eliminate that threat. It’s time to heal the rifts created during the Reformers Rebellion.” He patted the chair back once more. “What better example than the kin of the apostate working with the son of his betrayer?”

  The grayed lord rejected the proffered chair and continued, unwilling to surrender the point. “I, for one, would have never consented.”

  “You prefer to nurture the divisions among our people?” Artifis repressed a smile of satisfaction as he slammed closed the trap he’d set for Lord Cullen. “Do you stand to profit from continued strife?”

  Like a bayed animal, Lord Cullen swept his eyes back and forth to survey the faces around the table. Where once had been allies, he now found foes. He stormed from the TruthHold.

  Artifis gave a mock expression of dismay, and slid the empty chair into place under the table. Even better than I’d hoped. There’s a reason we Fens occupy the seat of First Lord. While others dither and fret, we seize opportunity.

  “If it pleases Your Grace,” Lord Gwyn rose with a half-bow once Artifis returned to his position at the head of the table, “I move we adjourn to enjoy what remains of the holiday.”

  Your Grace. Artifis smiled. The servants used the title, but it was uncommon to hear it from the lips of another lord. He intended to make it more common. “That pleases me, indeed.” I must find another like Lord Gwyn to take Belos’ seat.

  Artifis stood until the other lords left the TruthHold, then sagged into his high-armed chair and kneaded his thumbs into his temples. Despite claiming otherwise, the apprenticeship had not been his idea. The pairing of Sandoval and Ellenrond—two storied, but fallen families—augured trouble. He already had enough trouble.

  “Your Grace?” The deep, scratchy voice of Volos Myrr sounded from the entrance of the chamber where he’d waited, unnoticed, for the lords to leave. Despite an appearance that should draw attention—polished bald head, penetrating onyx eyes, and fierce angular face—he was seldom noticed unless it suited his purpose. He was a man of whispers and shadows and, though he held no official position, the First Lord’s most trusted adviser.

  Artifis motioned to the nearest chair. “Sit.”

  Volos eased into the cushioned chair, his indistinct brown hood pulled low over his forehead to below his brows. He meshed his fingers together and pressed them against his stomach, his thumbs circling each other as he waited.

  Artifis dropped his forearms to the table and looked up, worry lines creasing his brow. “The apprenticeship was a surprise to you?”

  “A surprise to everyone, Your Grace.”

  “And?”

  “To my thinking, this is a fortunate turn of events.” Volos paused, but continued when Lord Fen said nothing. “Your Grace has oft lamented the myopia of your forefathers in not addressing the reminders of the Reformers Rebellion. Seeker is a most dangerous profession. With the last heirs working together—”

  The First Lord grasped Volos’ line of thinking. “You’re suggesting an accident?”

  “This is an opportunity to scrape away both thorns with no risk of being pricked.” Volos didn’t smile; he seldom smiled. But his dark eyes gleamed with what Artifis interpreted as satisfaction.

  “This accident should take place far from Riverbend,” Artifis cautioned, though he knew the warning was unnecessary. If anything, Volos was overly thorough in the care he took to ensure the First Lord was never implicated.

  “I know just the place, Your Grace.”

  “And it should be made clear the apprenticeship was conceived by the Council,” Artifis added.

  Volos nodded, lifting his back from the seat. “I overheard you tell the lords as much, Your Grace. I’ll see to it personally.” He stood to leave.

  “And—” Artifis stopped him—“it’s time for Belos Cullen’s seat to be vacated.”

  Volos ran his fingers and thumb down the line of his smooth-shaven jaw until they met at the point of his chin. “Understood.” He bowed and left.

  Artifis returned to kneading his temples. When he’d first assumed the role of First Lord from his dying father, he was incapable of such a bold response. More deaths on my hands but not an ounce of guilt. What would my young self think of the man I’ve become?

  Riverbend, Chapter 6

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  Seasons fade and are born anew,

  as turns succeed each other.

  Not until your own babe you view,

  will you grasp the love of a mother.

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  —Inscription by Isabel Ellenrond,

  Poems of Discovery

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  Riverbend

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  “All done?”

  Whym dropped his pack to join his father on the worn rug beside the hearth. “I guess,” he shrugged. Having few belongings made packing easy. He’d taken everything he thought might prove useful, and one indulgence, the leather-bound book of poems his mother had gifted him on his eighth turn. He could recite every verse by memory, but there was an altogether different pleasure in feeling the weight of the words in his hands.

  His other childhood possessions—a bag of polished marbles and a rock collection with a fist-sized geode—remained on the shelf. He’d palmed the geode while packing, imagining once again what lay hidden within the dull exterior. He’d even considered cracking it open before he left, but in the end, had returned it to the shelf, unwilling to forfeit the lasting enjoyment of the unknown for a fleeting pleasure.

  Maldwyn Ellenrond wistfully eyed the half-filled pack. “It seems so long ago,” he mumbled, but left the thought unfinished. Before Whym’s birth, the same pack had held his possessions. But unlike Whym, he’d left childhood behind not when he packed, but when he unpacked to accept his life in Riverbend.

  “Is it boiling?” Whym’s mother approached from across the room, the front of her shirt dusted with flour from the dumplings she’d worked through the night to prepare. Without waiting for a response, she checked the water, then scraped the uncooked dumplings from the wooden cutting board and into the cast iron pot. Whym’s mouth watered in anticipation of the delectable mix of pork and cabbage seasoned with ginger and chives.

  These were his final moments at home. When he returned, he’d do so as a visitor. So he savored both the aroma and the moments. He wouldn’t miss the peeling white paint, the crumbling entry stairs, or the weathered door that hung from rusted hinges. He wouldn’t miss the salvaged and second-hand furniture. He wouldn’t miss the paper-thin walls intended to separate neighbors, but that instead merged the sounds of their lives into a single cacophony of living. What he would miss was the sense of home. No matter how difficult he’d found life outside, he’d always felt safe and loved within these walls.

  “Here ya go.” His mother handed him a full bowl. He cradled it between his legs, relishing the coalescence of pain and pleasure as the heat spread to his inner thighs. Then he dipped a still-steaming dumpling in vinegar and chewed it open-mouthed so his breaths might cool it further. He ate one dumpling after another until the bowl was empty and he was warm and full. Exhaustion tugged at his eyelids, coaxing him to sleep.

  “No napping. You need to get going soon.” His mother gave a gentle shake to his shoulder before he drifted into slumber’s clutch.

  “Just a short one?” he suggested, but a knock on the door pulled him to his feet.

  “Hello?” Kira called from outside. When the
door swung open, she threw her arms around him. “Is it too early?” she asked, too late for it to matter. “You left so fast yesterday. I didn’t have the chance to say goodbye.”

  He hugged her back. “I’m glad you came. I’d have hated to miss you.”

  Her thin lips pressed together, and she pushed away to cross her arms. “It didn’t occur to you to walk the few doors down to say goodbye?”

  Whym blanched. “I…I’m sor—”

  She stopped his clumsy apology. “Just get your things and I’ll walk you to the Fiddlestop.” A warm smile melted her earlier frostiness.

  Whym turned to grab his pack. His parents were standing behind him, his mother with arms outstretched. “I love you.” She squeezed him tight and didn’t let go.

  “C’mon, Issy.” His father’s hand on her shoulder forced a reluctant release.

  “Be careful!” she added as his father slipped the pack over Whym’s shoulder.

  Whym saw tears welling in their eyes. “I love you both,” he said, then left to join Kira, who’d stepped outside and was waiting in the faint glow that presaged the arrival of dawn. So early, they had the streets to themselves.

  As they rounded out of sight, Kira slid her slight hand into his. Whym’s sweaty-palmed insecurity returned. There was much he wanted to say. He wanted to tell her he’d miss her. He wanted to tell her how beautiful she was. He wanted to reveal she was more than a friend—much more. “Are you pleased by your apprenticeship?” was all he managed. I’m so spineless!

  His banal question left them both dissatisfied. Kira responded with the same disappointed look as when she’d pushed away earlier. “I’m pleased to be finished with school, I guess.” She swung their hands back and forth as she’d done since childhood. “And I’m grateful I won’t need to serve the clergy like the other RatsNest girls. Five turns of the Truth would be drudgery.” It was unusual for Kira to speak frankly about her opinions on the Council and the Faith, but this morning, something had dispelled her typical caution.