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“That’s the thing. Stormlanders saw me in the water and they just… froze. Only their war chief dared approach me.”

The youth of Secondhome were assembled in the meal chamber for their midday resting period.

“What about that foreign blade?” Lloyd asked. “Swords from the other isles are so impressive. I wish I could collect them.”

Ma'at shrugged. It was in the Quarterchief’s map room. His father practically slept with the blade under his pillow now.

“Something about that inscription is bothering him,” Ma’at said. “Funny thing is though; it looks like our own home script.”

“It’s a blade with an inscription from the Outlander clan,” Sara said. “But it’s not ours. Obviously, the only place it could come from are other Outlanders. Right?”

For as long as Maat had been alive, there were no other Outlanders aside from the dwindling band of mostly-men who’d come here with the Quarterchief. They formed the core of Secondhome’s elders, and while it was clear even from the name that Secondhome was not their homeland, they never spoke about the land of their birth.

“That… would certainly explain why my father was so surprised,” Maat admitted. “Still, he’s positively spooked.”

“Maybe the Quarterchief’s band was trying to get away from their people?” Lloyd said. “They’re in exile, or a mutinous band of warriors? Either way, they don’t want to be found.”

Maat shook his head. “He cries out in his sleep, begging to be sent home, even to this day.”

Such had it been for as long as Maat possessed memories.

Both Lloyd and Sara grew quiet.

“Yours too?” Sara asked after some time.

“Maybe your families fled our were exiled, and the clan from your home island has come to exterminate their wayward mutineers?” Kur'iel said between bites of a tart flatbread.

Maat grimaced. This conversation was not going to assuage his anxiety. He rose from their shared bench.

“Heading somewhere?” Sara didn’t look up from her blood-apple.

“Goanna go ask,” Maat said.

Better than waiting here wondering about worst case scenarios.

The path to the Quarterchief’s chambers was down three flights of stairs, near the center of the complex. There was a warm glow from beneath the bird-skin privacy curtain. But when Maat peeked inside, he found only Hector looking over the Stormheaths map.

“Hey, Maat,” Hector said, not even looking up. “You’ve got surprisingly quiet footsteps; almost didn’t hear you coming. If you’re looking for your father, he’s on the surface. Something urgent has come up, though he did say he’ll see you before he heads out.”

It was the first Ma’at heard of any of this. “Is that strange blade here?”

Hector shrugged and scratched at his beard. “It’s with the Quarterb- uh, Quarterchief. He’ll be taking it with him.”

“And do you know anything about what it is? Where it comes from?”

“What, the machete?” Hector shuffled aside to let some clanmates past. “It’s meant for chopping through thick vines. Not really a weapon of war, though it’ll still kill ya all the same. Would’ve loved to have one back in the day.”

The old guardsman was just going to keep dodging Maat’s questions. The young man took his leave, but not before observing what Hector was doing with the map. Hector was not blind and could still see well enough to make out most objects and details, particularly if there was enough backlighting. He was paying special attention to the mountains and cliffs on the western border of the Stormheaths, far away from the river delta and the lands controlled by the Laval clans.

This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

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Ma’at emerged into the stifling humidity of a Stormland’s noontime and saw his father dressed in light, perspiration-wicking travel gear near the compound gate. A tamed centurion bird laden with supplies waited nearby.

“Father,” Ma’at said. “Are you leaving?”

Michael turned. “Ma’at, you’re up early. I was going to wait until the evening cooldown to say goodbye and head out. But since you’re here…”

The Quarterchief had with him a group of four Stormlanders and two human same-clan, Graham and Kyle. Old friends of the Michael. Each had their own pack-bird.

“I’m going on an expedition to the north shore,” Michael said. “We will be gone at least two months. Listen to deputy chief Kev’kurien while I am away.”

“What’s happening?” Ma’at asked. “Ever since that day with the Stormlanders…”

“I just need to go verify a potential threat to the isle. Most likely just a trading fleet trying to make inroads. Maybe some pirates in need of correction. But if it’s not…” Quarterchief Michael paused to adjust a strap on his pack-bird. “Ah, but by the time I return the full moon may have waned. I was to do something special for your birthday party, Ma’athiel. I’m sorry, but it has to be done.”

“My birthday… party?” Ma’at angled his head to one side, quizzically. “Like, a feast? Festival?”

“Yes to both,” the Quarterchief said.

Age was tracked by phases of the moon on the isle. Eighteen flood seasons would have passed since Maat’s officially recorded birth. Still, the Alabaster Isle had no real celebrations, beyond the right of passage that came with milestones. And while it was true that Maat’s twentieth birthday marked the threshold of adulthood for the mix-mashed clan of exiles and Outlanders that was Secondhome didn’t have strong traditions to draw upon.

“Feasts and parties to celebrate the anniversary of each birth were a custom among our people,” Michael continued. “I’ll bring you a present from the ports of the north shore to make up for it.”

“Thanks, I suppose?” Ma’at said.

“To think, you’re older now than I was when I was made Quarterchief,” Michael said, and grinned at his son. “Just a few years, and you’ll be as old as I was when you-”

“I think we have plenty of time before we go thinking about that.” Maat’s cheeks grew rather uncomfortably warm.

“Never know when a political marriage might have to be forged to unify the clan,” Michael said – likely joking, but Maat could never tell. “Might be, uh, Octochiefs running around before long.”

“This is always embarrassing enough. But somehow you go and make it sound even more awkward,” Ma’at said.

Goodbyes would be cut short. The crew was sitting out in the sweltering sun, sweating and wasting water. Leaving early could cut a half-day off the journey, and so they made their leave.

“And, Maat,” the Quarterchief pointed towards the young man’s heart. “Behave yourself, and when I return you can have the war-bat. Consider it a right of passage.”

Ma’at nodded. “Of course, father.”

Strange birthday festivals timed to the moon circling back around to its position at your birth were some odd, alien relic of his father’s homeland. But a right of passage for aging into adulthood? That was a storied Stormlander ritual that made sense.

The expedition to the north shore set out on foot, leading their pack-birds on leashes. The birds would never make good mounts, even for a shorter human; too panicky, too finicky, bone structure too hollow.

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Maat returned to the meal chamber to relay the events of the past hour or so to the youth of Secondhome. By the time they were done, the mid-afternoon cooldown was well under way.

“So the Quarterchief is headed to the north shore? The exact thing we vowed not to do to the hostile neighbors?” Lloyd asked.

“He’s heading far to the east,” Ma’at said. “The Leval-kin’s authority ends at the other side of the river. And they’re not smuggling anything, just looking for answers. Laval can complain and grovel, but unless the delegation is caught literally along the River Torrent, blades in hand, what’re they going to do?”

“Beyond the strange blades, what else has got the neighbors so heated?” Sam'ien asked.

Maat told the gang once more about the enemy raiding party’s strange hesitation to venture into the flooded portions of the ruins. “River-born,” they’d called him. Sure, Lionli’Laval jumped in there to get him, but Lionli is the fifth son of a clan-chief, young, brash, and with everything to prove.

“Must think you’re blessed by the river,” Sara said.

“Something like that,” Ma’at said.

The River Torrent certainly provided plenty of sustenance for Ma’at. Almost like it was on his side.

“Goanna have to take it easy for the next week or so,” Lloyd said.

Kev’kurien would run a tight ship, but it’s a very Stormlander-based ship, built on appealing to clan and family allegiances. He’d call upon a clan-mate to perform a task as a favor, or as an labor-based tax for the good of the settlement. With no or tenuous clan-bonds to the Stormlanders, it was unlikely Maat would be called upon. Sara and Lloyd’s mother was of a distant, unrelated clan, so they were likely last in line to be called up to fulfill the familial duties.

What’s more, the recent attack delayed their duties teaching the young ones. They wouldn’t return to the fishing pools without at least some armed protection.

“Y’know, those strange blades are made of that shiny metal right?” Sara said. “Stormlanders don’t typically work with those at all. Secondhome’s the only place on the southern shore with a forge.”

“The only other metal I can think of is, well, those wrecks in the clearing,” Lloyd said.

“And some of the artifacts at the temple,” Sara added.

As for leads, there were few to be found at this juncture. Just questions. What could they do, if not wait for Maat’s father to return?

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