Birthrights_Revisions to the Truth Read online

  The door of the storage shed swayed in the late afternoon breeze, knocking against the sun-faded shed wall with a rhythmic clack. Something’s wrong. Stern and Kutan wouldn’t leave the food inside unprotected. He edged closer, but heard no voices.

  “How stupid to leave the cottage without a weapon!” he berated himself as he considered what to do. After weighing several different approaches, he decided to throw stones at the door to draw out the intruder. At worst, he figured, he knew the area well enough to outrun any danger.

  As he passed the shed, though, the netting filled with preserved fruits gave him a better idea. “Never rush to fight,” Stern had counseled. “Make your adversary come to you.”

  Whym untied the netting and grabbed a dried deerskin and a few lengths of twine. He deposited them on the windowless hearth-side of the cottage, then with the calculated steps of a predator stalking its prey, returned for the ladder. Once it was in place, he began a cautious climb to the roof. But no matter how careful his steps, the wood creaked a protest against his weight. He descended and moved to where he could watch the cabin door to determine whether he’d given away his presence. When the door remained closed, he was satisfied whoever was inside couldn’t hear his movements over the wind and clacking shed door. He returned to the ladder and climbed to the roof, still wincing at the noise of each step.

  Once he reached the chimney, he fitted the deer hide over the top and secured it with twine. Then he worked his way to the edge of the roof above the door to wait. The gray dusk had darkened, and a saffron sliver of moon hung in the sky by the time he recognized the flaw in his plan—what if there’s more than one person inside? But it was too late to change course. He was already crouched, net spread, ready to jump.

  He heard coughing inside the cottage, and the fire hissed as someone doused the flames. Then the door opened and a man stumbled out in a haze of smoke. Whym threw the net and leapt on him, praying there wouldn’t be another.

  “What the—” the man shrieked as Whym’s weight drove him to the ground. Whym tumbled off as they fell, then rolled to his feet while the man struggled against the net. With only a brief glance to ensure they were alone, he pinned his adversary facedown and locked him in place with his knee, twisting his arm behind his back.

  “Who are you?” Whym masked his terror with a gruff voice.

  “Get off!” The man struggled in vain.

  “Who are you?” Whym jerked his adversary’s arm, eliciting a howl of pain.

  “Brosz. Ansel Brosz. Where’s Stern?”

  Whym froze. Ansel Brosz was the criminal named on the post Stern and Kutan were seeking. “Searching for you.” Whym eased his grip, ready to jerk again at the first sign of fight. “What are you doing here?”

  Ansel quit struggling and craned his head. His mouth opened in recognition. “You’re the Ellenrond boy! He left you here alone? I thought he was planning—” he stopped abruptly, his eyes narrowing as he realized he’d said too much.

  “Planning what?” Whym demanded, but Ansel turned his head back to face the ground. He refused to speak, no matter what threats Whym employed.

  With his attempt to force an explanation unsuccessful, Whym bound Ansel’s wrists and ankles with the remaining twine, pulled him to his feet, and forced him to hop inside. By the time he’d finished tying him to a chair, Whym’s nose and throat were raw from the smoke in the room. He opened the shutters and climbed back to the roof to remove the hide. When he returned, Ansel was still staring straight ahead, lips clasped shut.

  Whym tried a different, gentler tactic after restarting the fire. “You hungry?”

  Ansel glanced at him then returned to his clasped-lip stare before relenting moments later. “Yes.”

  Whym added more water to the venison stew he’d eaten the past four days. It had turned, its rank odor rising to mix with the smoke in the room, so he added extra spice and boiled it longer than usual. He wrinkled his nose as he tasted it, but Ansel didn’t seem to mind. His captive devoured the stale lumps of stew-soaked bread Whym spooned him. “When did you last eat?” No answer.

  Whym picked up his leather volume of poems and hunkered by the hearth. He couldn’t read by the embers’ light, but he knew the passages by heart. The pages just provided something besides his frustration on which he could focus his attention. After so long alone, sitting with company in silence was agonizing.

  Ansel cracked first. “Please, don’t tell him.”

  Whym looked at his captive over the top edge of the book with the wariness of a gambler watching the dealer in a game of shells. “Don’t tell him what?”

  “I’ve already said too much,” Ansel answered, eyes downcast.

  Whym stood and returned the book to the shelf, using the time to think of what to say next. Before he spoke, though, something at the end of the shelf caught his eye. “Where’d you get this?” He spun, holding the key in front of his captive’s face. “How’d you get Stern’s key?” The volume of his voice increased with each word.

  At first, Ansel tightened his mouth as if he were going to resume his silence, but then he slumped against his bonds, fear fading into exhaustion. “Stern gave it to me three days ago, when he said to meet him here.”

  The Wildes, Chapter 9

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  No gallows or executioner’s block is fit for a traitor. Those deaths are too kind.

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  —Truth (Judges 3:5)

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  The Wildes

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  Whym startled awake, his nightclothes drenched with sweat, his breaths labored. He’d been dreaming the same dream for three nights. Ansel! He reached out to get his bearings. The fire had died, and clouds had rolled in thick and heavy with rain, blocking the moon’s light. It’s just a dream, but I’ll never get back to sleep if I don’t check. The kernel of doubt that forced him each time he woke to check on his captive was growing in his gut—like a grain of sand becoming a pearl within an oyster.

  “Ansel?” There was no response. He’d not expected one. When Whym had refused to believe Stern would hand over his key, his captive had withdrawn like a turtle into his shell, staring trancelike and refusing to speak. He’d even soiled himself rather than respond to Whym’s offer to partially untie him for calls of nature. Whym provided food and water, but had otherwise left him to stew in his own filth.

  “Ansel?” Foggy with sleep and forgetting the urine soaked into the dirt floor, Whym’s hand slipped forward. He landed on his elbow with a grunt. In the dream, the floor had been slick with blood, not urine. He reached out, found the man’s ankle, and pinched hard the calf above it. Ansel flinched.

  Whym wiped the urine-soaked mud from his hands onto his captive’s pants, then returned to the hearth seething with anger. The pinch had felt good—too good. After turns as a target for bullies, he was tempted to release his pent-up rage. This situation was different from the impossible fantasies of retribution he harbored against the twins. Ansel was real. He was vulnerable. He was sentenced to death.

  Whym shuddered at how near he felt to violence. He returned to his sleeping spot and pressed his body against the stone hearth, letting the pain of a sharp edge against his shoulder refocus his thoughts. I’m not that type of person. I’m just tired. The dream’s stealing my sleep and my judgment. The rage that had risen so close to the surface scared him. It warned of what he could become, and reinforced his decision to use the apprenticeship to escape Riverbend rather than becoming a seeker.

  Although he tried, his unease prevented him from falling back to sleep. When a gray dawn roused him from his sleepless rest, he unlatched the window. The fog remained. Wet air crept into the cottage. Ansel was awake, watching him—silent, defiant. Whym returned the stare, his lip twitching into a sneer. I
need a break. I can’t continue waiting—just waiting.

  He stretched, his back cracking as he opened his shoulders. Since capturing Ansel, he’d neglected his exercises. Every part of his body ached. He ran his hand through his hair, pushing down the cowlick before realizing his hand still stank of piss. That’s it! I’m going to wash and get back to my routine. Who knows how long before Stern and Kutan return? No more waiting.

  He stripped off his nightclothes and stuffed them into a sack together with a waxy hunk of soap and a scrubbing bone. Then he scooped from the floor the pants and shirt he’d worn the past five days. They reeked. He put on the pants anyway, realizing he smelled no better. There was no point soiling a fresh set on the trip to wash. When he started to put on the shirt, though, the acrid stench of dried sweat burned his nostrils. He added the shirt to the sack of dirty clothes, intending to make the walk to the river bare-chested.

  After grabbing clothing to change into, he opened the door to greet the drizzle. With a full rain barrel, there was no reason to go to the river to wash, but the prospect of being away—from the cottage, from Ansel—was too enticing. He searched for ways to justify the trip and settled on being able to reset his traps as a valid excuse. He latched the window and, in case predators hadn’t claimed the traps’ contents while he’d been tending to Ansel, grabbed another sack. With his hand on the door latch, he looked back at his captive. I’ll sort out what to do with him when I return. I can’t keep him tied to the chair in his own filth forever.

  “Don’t leave me!” Ansel broke his silence when Whym opened the door—the first words the man had spoken in more than two days. “Something’s wrong. They should’ve been here by now.” He no longer wore the stoic mask. Fear—panic even—had replaced his blank expression.

  Now you’ll speak? Whym turned back. “Are you ready to tell me what Stern planned and why he’d give you his key?”

  Ansel’s jaw tightened. He looked away, staring again at the hearth. “Aakkhh. Much longer and I’ll deliver your head myself.” Whym stormed from the cottage in frustration, stopping only to lock the door behind him.

  “Wait!” Ansel called again.

  Whym stomped off toward the nearest trap. I’m not playing this game. We’ll see if you’re ready to talk later.

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  Despite the drizzle, it was refreshing to be outside. Whym could feel his anxiety draining away as he entered the old growth forest. He found comfort amidst the trees—trees that had claimed their spot before his birth and would remain long after his last breath. He scraped sap off a pine tree and rubbed it under his nose to clear from his memory the odor of his rank shirt. Then he headed toward the traps.

  “Luck!” He saw the lifeless gray body of a rabbit as he approached the first trap. He dropped the rabbit into the empty sack and reset the metal jaw. He’d discovered he had a knack for trapping—a sense for where the animals would be drawn. He closed his eyes, stepped to the left, took two steps forward, set the trap down again beside an abandoned ant mound, then grabbed his things and left.

  With the second trap, he was not so fortunate. Part of a leg was all that remained of the devoured carcass of the squirrel. He’d knelt to release the jaw when a blood-curdling scream from the direction of the cottage froze him. He dropped the trap and tore through the woods at a full sprint, leaving the sacks behind. “Ansel!” he shouted when the cottage was in sight. “Ansel, are you okay?” No answer.

  He stopped when he reached the garden, his chest heaving. This could be a trap. Or maybe it’s just Ansel trying to lure me back. Then he noticed the shutter hanging askew. The weight he’d felt in his gut during the dream returned.

  “Ansel?” he called warily. “Are you there?” Again, no answer.

  He turned the door handle—it was unlocked—and opened the door. I’ve seen this before—over and over again for the last three nights. Ansel was still bound to the chair. His head was missing.

  Whym wanted to leave, to turn and run and never return. But he didn’t. Whatever had happened was his to own. Running would solve nothing. Then he noticed the note on the table. A rock had been placed on the edge to prevent the breeze from disturbing it.

  Whym’s throat constricted. He lunged back through the doorway, fell to his knees, and retched. The cool rain tapped on his bare back as he fought to regain his breath. When his breathing calmed, he wiped the bile from his chin with the back of his hand, then pushed his torso upright. What should I tell Stern? Should I tell Stern? He scooted against the cottage wall and hung his head in thought.

  Ansel was telling the truth about the key! I’ve pledged five turns of my life to Stern, but have no idea what he has planned for me. Hopeful he’d gain their confidence in time, Whym had tried to ignore the hushed discussions between Kutan and Stern from which he’d been excluded. But the scene inside the house proved that the secrets they harbored were deadly.

  Who was Ansel Brosz? Why did the Council want him dead? Why would Stern give him his key? What is Stern’s plan? As Whym struggled with questions he couldn’t answer, he felt less and less like an apprentice trying to earn his master’s trust. I’m a puppet, he realized. Stern’s pulling my strings. He’d trusted his master, but those bonds had frayed to the point of breaking.

  His mother’s words steeled him. Enough. You’re to be a seeker. Don’t act like a child. Though he didn’t want to be a seeker, he did need to learn the skills if he wished to escape and remain hidden. Stern’s not your father, he reminded himself. He’s a tool—a tool for learning, a tool to use to escape RatsNest and the humiliation that waits there. Rat Man!

  Whym lifted himself from the soggy ground outside the cottage. He was no longer a scared boy. He stood calm, calculating, a little dangerous—armed with a secret.

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  The cottage was spotless—the dirt floor cleaned of blood traces and packed hard—and the shutter repaired. Marvel’s note was burned to ashes. Ansel Brosz’ body rested a man’s length below the forest floor. Only Whym’s words could reveal what had transpired.

  He was sitting against the hearth listening to the crackle of the fire and reading poetry when the lock on the door clicked open. “You’re home!” He greeted Stern and Kutan with the excitement of a child long separated from his parents. They trudged in, their green cloaks soaked and dirty. With sunken eyes and a drawn face, Stern, for once, looked his age. “I thought you’d never return. There’s rabbit stew still warm.”

  Stern dropped his pack on the floor and leaned his staff against the wall, his face gaunt, shoulders hunched.

  “I’ll have some.” Kutan leaned his pack against a table leg. The post had taken a toll on him as well. Beneath his eyes, dark circles sagged toward his prominent birthmark. Whym had never seen his fellow apprentice so haggard. “And he should eat as well.” Kutan pointed to Stern. “Even if he doesn’t want to.”

  “What happened?” Whym asked.

  “We lost the post.” Kutan chewed his lower lip after he spoke the words. Whym had struggled to master many of the skills taught to him, but he’d learned to be observant. When Kutan chewed his lip, he was lying. “Marvil found him first.”

  “You must have tracked him quite a ways to have been gone so long. And to miss the fifty gold bounty…” Whym hoped Kutan would say something to repair the frayed bonds of trust.

  “Yeah.” The fatigue in Kutan’s speech matched his appearance.

  Whym kept testing the waters, unwilling to accept that they’d continue to keep him in the dark. “What did he do to warrant such a bounty?”

  “Enough!” Stern smacked the palm of his hand against the arm of the chair into which he’d sunk. “It’s been a long, wasted journey. It’s time to rest.”

  The frayed bonds snapped. In bitter silence, Whym ladled two bowls of stew, then returned to the fire and his poetry.

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  A heart strong like stone to rule.

  A mind sharp as steel to lead.

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  Such men are long remembered

  and seldom missed.

  Bothera, Chapter 10

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  The demise of the Truth shall result not from dissent within, but from the defiance of the defeated beyond the border. Upon their return, the blind shall see, and the scab of the Council of Truth shall be ripped away, leaving the land and its people to bleed anew.

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  —Prophecy of the Voice in the Mysts

  Teller Zenai of the Oracle of Bothera

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  Bothera

  Two Turns Earlier

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  Small wisps of spiraling smoke rose from the incense plates, producing a spicy sweet haze to mingle with the offerings in the Hall of Riches. Outside, the temple complex overflowed with pilgrims who’d come to Bothera to celebrate the Fifth Sabbat of Amalan. To the Quondam—the remaining followers of the Allyrian Code—the moon of Amalan was their most holy period, a time of fasting and prayer.

  As the center of Quondam religious life, the Oracle temple was packed before dawn. Later-arriving worshipers massed outside, filling the grounds with prayer rugs, the air with chanting. Most days Quint found the humming pulse of the services pleasant. Today, it buzzed in his head like swarming bees. He was grateful Teller Salf’s meeting with a new patron—the middle son of a prominent financier—gave him an excuse to shirk his duties as the son of the Voice of the Oracle. Otherwise, he’d have been expected to suffer the constant drone at his father’s side, without break, until nightfall.

  In loose white pants and a plain top, Quint blended into the backdrop of white marble as he waited for the teller to arrive. The Hall was his favorite place. He loved wandering among the collection of statues, busts, and altars, imagining the distant places from which they’d come and the peoples who’d brought them to the Lost Land. Most visitors to the Hall left awed by the piles of gold, silver, and gems that littered the massive chamber. Only the idols interested Quint.