CHAPTER EIGHT

The Bright and Beautiful Kiran Tommlinnsonn

They drove the horses hard across the expanse of dead earth. Kiran took up the stirrups while Leta held on to the pommel. Leta had not sat ahorse in six years and her thighs and backside suffered for it. The horses seemed to joy in being free of their burden. These were no plow horses, but horses built and bred for speed. Clark and Kiran's plan was clearly not one of opportunity or haste. This had been well thought-out and planned over weeks, if not months. Leta had decided while back in the Sjlunroca that she would trust Clark to get her out of the ‘Roc, and he had done that. But she hadn’t planned on choosing sides between him and the force of the crown. No, that was stupid; of course she had. Escaping the ‘Roc would make her an enemy of the state, as sure as killing a monarch.

“Where are we going?” Leta screamed above the galloping of hooves.

“Somewhere safe—or as safe as we can be this close to the Sjlunroca,” said Clark. His deep voice carried easily over the noise.

Leta looked behind her again, gratified to see the royal guard small in the distance. Unlike Clark and Kiran, their horses were fixed fast to their carriage, and it would be no easy task to cut them loose. They would either have to take the time to saddle their horses or they would have to drive them with the carriage towed behind. Anand, and what of Anand? Was she so callous that she no longer worried about others? No, she wasn’t too callous. She just had no energy left for anything except her own survival, and Anand was part of that reason.

Out of the ocean of clay before them rose an island of sickly green and brown—an approaching oasis. The short brush rose taller and grew before Leta’s eyes into a forest and possible safe haven. Leta felt open and exposed on the flat plains, her animal mind craved somewhere to hide.

Leta had thrown her lot in with Clark and Kiran, and she let the sounds of hoofbeats fall below her as she trained her eyes ahead and prayed to any god who would listen for safety. It had been years since she’d trusted anyone but herself, leaving her feeling helpless. But here she sat astride a horse between man and God, hoping she’d make it alive.

* * *

Leta’s thighs and backside ached with the miles of riding without stirrups. She alternated between trying to hold on with her thighs, which caused her legs to grow tired, and letting the rhythm of the horse’s strides bounce her up and down, which hurt in a myriad of other ways. So, by the time they came to a stop in the middle of the woods, Leta was so relieved she had almost forgotten how she had gotten there—and why.

The stretch of forest before her looked no different than the rest of the forest they’d traversed, with one exception. From out of the ground rose a tall, white cylinder. It was as wide across as three horses and rose at least four stories high.

“See? I told you not to worry,” said Clark to Kiran.

“Very well. I do appreciate your working knowledge of wayfares.”

“Bless the Cattoleiri who have so blessed us.” Clark punctuated his words with an open hand that pressed to his mouth, then to his forehead. Leta had a flash of memory: her mother doing the same gesture with the same words before she tucked Leta in at night. It was a knife to her gut, and she almost doubled over as if she’d been punched.

Leta didn’t care if Clark wanted to stand out here and bless every Cattoleirin in turn, she was going to get off the horse and the fuck out of here. It would be easier for her to hide alone and unhorsed, anyway. She just needed to get away from these two.

Kiran swung his leg over the horse and hopped down, then reached his arms out to help Leta. Leta ignored him and hopped down on the other side. She looked around. Obviously, straight ahead would be the easiest way to go, but if she ran off, the two would follow her on horseback, and then she’d have six pursuers. She’d need to wait and pick her time. If she was lucky—

In front of her, Clark had reached out his hand towards the wayfare and again, created a hole straight through to the inside, which indeed was hollow. The miracle stunned her anew. She had forgotten mainly about the first time she’d done it, but now she was again faced with its impossibility. Behind her, she heard Kiran slapping the horses and yelling “yah, yah!” Then the galloping of hooves started, then faded into the distance. There went her escape.

Clark turned to her and smiled. “I’ll join you this time.” And he climbed into the wayfare. Kiran put a guiding hand on her back, which she swatted away. The meaning didn’t escape her, however. She was being welcomed in, but she wouldn’t be welcomed out. They had her surrounded, and she had little choice but to follow. She thought of Anand and the weapon that hand had wielded.

The inside of the wayfare was dark and without the open hole, there would be no light at all. The ground beneath them was hardpacked dirt with patches of soft moss that had managed to grow without the benefit of light. Leta followed the interior wall and slid down with her back against the cool metal. Her legs gave out halfway towards the ground, and she landed with a painful thump. She allowed herself a minute to luxuriate in the stillness below her and stretch her legs. She would be sore for days.

Kiran had entered behind her and found his way to the middle of the wayfare.

“You’ll be quick with the flint?” asked Clark.

“Always.”

Sparks rose before Leta while to her right, the hole that Clark had made disappeared. They were plunged into the darkness, hoping that Kiran would strike true.

Leta thought to close her eyes, maybe that would awaken her from this dream. To wake and be back in the ‘Roc—or if she were wishing—back in the Aria, six years ago and a world away. Safe in her bed, preparing to run to Dagna and tell her about the horrible nightmare she’d had.

The sound of fire and flash of heat brought her back to the present. A tear fell from her eye. She told herself it was from the smoke.

“We can probably let it burn for an hour before we’ll have to worry about breathing the air,” said Kiran, following the trail of smoke up to the ceiling. “It won’t be long enough to leave after, but we can eat and talk and then take a rest. I don’t imagine they’ll think to check the wayfares.”

The pain in the backs of her thighs was deep and sweet as she pulled her legs in towards herself. She hung her head, not bothering to look up in the low light, not wanting to see the two men, not wanting them to see her. “Why—” she started but had nowhere to go. Why had they taken her? Why were they running? Why was her mother killed? Why did life keep going on? There was no way to end the sentence, so she didn’t. “Why?” she repeated, looking up across the fire at Kiran and Clark, who had taken a seat between them.

The two men shared a look. Clark nodded towards Kiran, giving him reluctant permission. Kiran ran his hand through his hair, which flopped back down in some places and stood at attention in others. “It’s kind of a long story, but I guess I should start with a bit about me.”

“When do you not?” asked Clark.

“I’ll ignore that if you’ll set us out a little something to eat.”

“I live to serve, master Kiran.”

Leta let the young man’s gentle voice wash over her as she chewed a piece of hard cheese and sat upon hard dirt and wondered why it was her life seemed to be so hard.

* * *

Kiran’s Story

Kiran Tommlinnsonn, private third rank of the Great Army of Western Key, was a kind, bright, and beautiful young man. Unfortunately, no one in the providence of Western Key cares about those sorts of things. At first, Kiran didn’t notice much at all. He always managed to make friends, even if they were never the popular sort. Popularity had no draw for Kiran, who wasn’t interested in the things opularr kids were: fighting, war strategy, and the crook.

It was tradition in Western Key, that when a boy became a man (through a series of slightly humiliating events including tufts of proto-beard, smelly armpits, and the un-oiled transition from a high-pitched voice to a lower one), he would receive a crook on his birthday. It usually happened within the one or two years following the aforementioned transitional markers. A newly minted man would open a gift that was left on his doorstop the night before his birthday from the leaders of his local arena. Inside the gift would be his training crook, a smaller, and duller version of the crook used by the soldiers of the army. They were generally around three-feet long and the inside of the one-foot hook on the fighting end would be lined with a dull metal, instead of the razor-sharp blades of a real crook. The manling would hold the crook with fierce determination, because he would know that it wasn’t really a gift, it was an invitation to begin training in the arena. For, what else was a young Western Key man to do if not to fight?

Kiran, unfortunately, had quite a bit of time to answer that question. His puberty hit right on time. He was several moons shy of his fifteenth birthday. He was never much of a fighter, and his build could be described as slight by a very generous estimate, and besides, it could be argued his transition to manhood wasn’t complete on the eve of his fifteenth birthday. So, when he awoke the next day, fifteen years and crookless, he didn’t think much of it. Ernie Campersand had asked him if he’d been “crooked”, but he was the only one. And so, another year passed without setting foot in the arena.

Something unexpected started happening over the next year, which became more pronounced as he approached his sixteenth birthday. There was a sense of dread growing, not a dread that he would again feel the shame of being uncrooked, but the dread of wielding the thing. The young men around town took to wearing their crooks in a holder across their backs. It was an affectation that the girls often complained of being showy, but it gave Kiran a sense of impending dread. They were just for practice, sure, as were the months he would spend in the arena. But Kiran often got the sense that he was the only one who thought of what they were all practicing for: The Rebellion War.

Kiran watched the crooks around him grow from glorified sticks to killer blades. He watched some wielders grow old before their time and watched some walk away to the front lines without returning. And just as his humiliation began to fade into memory, he received a gift.

“Shit” was the first word he spoke as an eighteen-year-old man. He hadn’t left his small mountainside home that morning looking for a gift, he’d just planned on feeding the goats like most mornings. He hadn’t even realized it was his birthday, as any anticipation over the day had died sometime over the last year. But there was no mistaking the package on his doorstep for what it was. Kiran’s hands went reflexively to his hair, raking through the straight, thick mass, which was still tousled from his night’s poor sleep. He looked to his right towards the next mountainside home, but it was only matron Elsielynn who lived there, a war widow who’d never remarried or had children (“Painful enough for once, thank you,” she’d been fond of saying to her suitors). To the left lived the Parttrages who had been blessed with four boys, but the oldest was still less than a dozen summers. No, this package was surely meant for Kiran .

His parents were still asleep in their beds when Kiran closed out the first rays of morning and walked the six steps to the round kitchen table. The rattan chair squealed as he pulled it out one-handed and the sound startled him so much he almost dropped the package. Maybe eighteen is still too soon for a killing weapon. The wrapping was plain white cloth, tied hastily with red and white butcher’s twine. There was no effort made to disguise the shape. The twine came undone easily and Kiran carefully exposed the weapon within. It seemed smaller than usual. Was this a slight against him or just the result of him being so much older. Back when he was fifteen and sixteen, his friends would often show off their crooks. There was an almost superstitious belief about the crooks: a newer, larger, or finer crook meant that the instructors at the arena had big plans for the soldier. One with a crack foretold a bleak outcome. But the only thing that Kiran could see while looking at his crook was death. But not his own. The shiny metal on the inside that was the prelude to a blade was made to perfectly ring the neck of a rebel soldier, as if the Lord Below was shepherding his flock back to the afterlife. Indeed, soldiers of Western Key had all sorts of derogatory names for rebels derived from livestock, from “nanny-heart” to “lamb’s blood”. Kiran thought lovingly of his own heard of goats and wondered if it would be so bad to number among one of them.

This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

A gasp sounded from behind him. “Ortley, come look,” said his mother, her voice tentative and still, as if she were afraid to scare the moment away. He wished it would.

#

Within the month, Kiran was training every day at the arena. As high up in the stone mountains as he was, the arena was a sad, small little thing. It was made only of a single room with a flat and lumpily padded floor. His instructor, however, was sharp and hard in every way. Petronus Ballinaster emerged from the womb with a scar on his face than ran from nose to cheek. His subsequent forty years had done little to soften it. He liked to pace around the outside circle of the arena as the new men clashed and fell and rose again. He punctuated each step with a smack on the ground with his crook, a long and twisted thing, gouged and warmed in areas, but never broken: the sign of a true warrior.

Today Kiran was slated to spar with Harlington Damaskas, a boy much smaller than Kiran but with significantly more hate in his soft baby face.

Harlington never walked, but rather slunk from place to place, using his crook as a natural appendage, another part of himself. His cloth wrapped feet padded almost silently as they crossed into the red outlined ring. He made Kiran feel oversized and clumsy. “Ballinaster, sir, are you sure we shouldn’t find someone more appropriate for Kiran to duel?” He looked up at Kiran from thick and tightly curled eyelashes. “A drunken bear, perhaps?”

“Quite enough, Damaskas,” said their teacher, but Kiran thought he could sense a small twitch of his lips, right where the scar hit.

“Yes, Ballinaster, sir. I just wanted to make sure that Kiran didn’t want to just go ahead and take the lamb’s mark.”

That was too much for Kiran to ignore. Kiran was not a warrior by nature, he was fine with that. He would do his duty to his village and hopefully leave without too much in the way of injuries, he didn’t need any fanfare or glory. But talk of the lamb’s mark angered even Kiran’s soul. He’d never seen one in his life, because he’d never left his village. The lamb’s mark was the mark of a coward. It was a pass out of warfare, only, taking the mark would mean never returning to Western Key. He was no marked lamb.

Kiran tightened his grip on his crook. He knew Harlington liked to fight low and dirty. He’d use his quickness and size to target Kiran’s knees and ankles, like a feral pup. Feet hip-width apart, light on the toes, shoulders taught and ready to spring. He could do this.

“At three,” said Ballinaster. The two men raised their crooks and banged them against each other once, twice, three times. Before Kiran had even readied his first sweep (he had planned a downward thrust to try to catch Harlington’s hook with his own and flip it), Harlington had spun away from Kiran, raising his crook in the air, then come around with a downward spin with the back of his crook that connected with the outside of Kiran’s left ankle and smarted horribly. Determined not to give in so easily, Kiran bit down on his back teeth and stabbed at Harlington with the butt of his crook, hoping to catch the smaller boy in the gut. Unfortunately, Harlington had anticipated this move and knocked the bottom of Kiran’s crook, loosening his grip on the weapon. Kiran cursed under his breath, a curse aimed at all the world’s Harlingtons and rebels and gods. He was supposed to be wielding a fearsome weapon, but it felt like what he’d been gifted was instead a lightning rod for violence and pain. What would happen if he just put it down and backed away? There was a moment, less than a breath, that Kiran really considered it. He really decided to just give up, that was all. What was honor to a goat-herder like him? Why die on the battlefield when he could watch a kid learn to walk or bounce merrily to from rock to rock? He was no man of violence. But violence found him again in the form of a blow to the head with entirely too much force to be sporting in a training exercise. Kiran’s body went limp immediately.

He came to quickly, woozy, then dizzy, then angry. And ready to fight. Kiran learned something that the meek didn’t. That hate is a powerful motivator. Before leaving the arena that day, before putting away his crook, he needed to see something. He walked over to Harlington, for the first time not afraid of the small boy. It was the first time he’d even allowed himself to realized that he had been afraid in the first place. He went over and shook his hand. It wasn’t customary in the arena, but they were both men of Western Key and he wasn’t going to let them be enemies. Harlington was suspicious as Kiran approached, as if afraid he might try to fight him in his punch-drunk delirium, but he needn’t have worried. Kiran just wanted to look in his eyes, and feel his skin on his own. Only, Kiran got more than he bargained for.

“Good match, Damaskas.”

Harlington squinted at Kiran, but completed the handshake, “Thanks,” he said. And as his small, still a boy’s mouth, opened to speak, something floated out of it. It was like nothing Kiran had ever seen. It was like the tiniest spark of a newly-lit log. It was far too small to see, but it was impossible to miss. Kiran shook his head and decided to lay down for a little while more.

Over the next few weeks and months, Kiran practiced with his crook, fueled his anger, and accepted the little sparks as part of his post-head injury life. The sparks still made him uncomfortable and he avoided looking directly at them like one avoids looking right at the anxious thought that’s been gnawing at you all day. Both demand to both be seen and ignored in equal measure. When the sparks really started to bother him, he thought of Whitey Elg, who had a fall from a tree as a child and hit his head hard enough that he could no longer speak or move the left side of his body properly. Kiran supposed that as far as sequelae of head injuries went, a few sparks were a small price to pay.

His crook became his own. Not his own piece of property, or his own gift. It became a part of him, like his dark hair and once broken toe. He was a decent fighter, once he let himself be so. He wasn’t the strongest, or the fastest, but he was sure. His years of navigating the side of a mountain let him a familiarity with his own body movements that few others had. This extended to his knowledge of his own body in space, but also to his foe’s. He could see when someone put themselves off sure-footing and could tell where they would stumble to. And when they did, he was there.

With his anger as bellows, it didn’t take long for Kiran to catch up to his peers and travel to the front lines. The battles raged in the valley where the two great mountains met. The rebels would attack and then retreat into homes built at the foot of the mountains, their flocks and families safe up towards the top, like Kiran’s. Kiran rode in a large caravan, his own cart lined on all four sides with benches carrying young men, and the occasional woman. His neighbor, Chaunter, spent the whole ride in nervous chatter. His sparks were particularly small and a turquoise color, he hadn’t seen many like them. Most sparks of the people he knew were white or yellow. He watched them flare and fade away while preparing himself for the battle. The ruler of Western Key had called in re-inforcements and Kiran was ready to bring himself and his crook to fight.

In the next few days there was travel and setting up camp and maybe more drinking than was particularly prudent, and then, there was war. Kiran had heard stories of war and had envisioned it many times. This bore little resemblance to the picture in his head. This battle was a brutal and messy thing, loud and confused without seeming beginning or ending. He took several breaths in, staring at the precipice of war, reminding himself of what he’d trained for, all he'd learned, and his family he loved enough to die to defend. He settled his gaze below and tried to pick out a single fight. Then was when he realized that without looking at the color of their uniforms and banners, he couldn’t tell the difference between his country men and the rebels. Those who called themselves people of Western Lay.

One of his comrades was fighting tirelessly with his long and darkened crook. The man took a great swing and sheared the rebel’s head clear off. A gasp spilled from Kiran’s lips and his eyes bore down on what had been there. The spurting of blood was horrific, as was the way that the body crumpled on the floor. But then something even greater and more terrible happened: the body exploded in a shower of sparks. In all of the past few months, Kiran had never seen so many sparks in one place. He was seeing more than just little flashes of light, he was seeing a person’s very soul leave his body.

His crook became heavy and hot in his hand. Kiran dropped it without further thought. It would rot here and return to the earth. Or it would be picked up by one of his comrades to make a new killer of them. He hoped for the former, for a little peace in the valley, but he could not—would not—stay to find out. He backed away a few paces, then the fear of seeing another shower of sparks turned his body and he ran back to camp.

It took some time, for Kiran could not bring himself to ask, but eventually he found himself at the very last tent, at the very edge of camp. A middle-aged woman with a face like just drying leaves was stoking a fire and looking dour. Kiran nodded to her, and then gestured at the fire. The woman shrugged, then stood and left the tent. Apparently, she didn’t need to witness his shame. All the better. There was only a single rod in the fire, the one the woman had been using as a poker. Kiran walked quickly towards the flame, reaching his arm out as he walked, not wanting to give himself a moment’s hesitation. He knew what he saw and he would not see it again, at least not with a weapon in his hands. The poker was hot and incredibly heavy. He might have used a glove but it wouldn’t be in his hand long. He reached out his opposite arm, the sleeve already rolled up past his elbow, and with a bloody hiss and a heartening scream, he jabbed the poker into his own arm. Once this was done, he dropped the rod to the sandy ground where it let out a small hiss.

The screaming did not stop. Kiran fell to the ground, simultaneously wanting to grab his arm and fearing to touch it.

“You really did it, didn’t you? Hurts, right?” The woman had returned and blessedly came bearing a rag and pail of cool water. It was the last kindness any one of Kiran’s kinsmen would pay him.

* * *

“Wow,” said Leta.

“I know,” said Kiran, “it’s been a really—”

“You sure know how to waste someone’s time.”

“What now?”

“What does that entirely too long and rambling story have anything to do with me? Are you physically incapable of getting to a point?”

“Eat this, you’re cranky,” said Kiran, shoving a piece of bread towards her. “And no, I am not incapable of getting to a point, but I wanted you to understand what it was about you. What it was that made me break into an almost impenetrable Divine Prison to get you. These sparks, everyone has them, like embers off a dying flame. But yours are like fireworks. Which explains part of why it is so difficult to be near you sometimes.” He said the last through gritted teeth and forced smile.

Hearing him talk about her, and her sparks, whether or not she believed in them made her uncomfortable.

“What does that mean, my sparks are like fireworks?”

“Don’t you see? Why I can do what I do? Why you have sparks like the last day of harvest?” He looked at her cuffs for the smallest fraction of a second. “Leta, you’re coming into your powers. The Cattoleiri are returning. It’s all happening again.”

“And what, you’re trying to kill me before I go mad and kill everyone? Because I’m sure my sister and the whole world would be happy to beat you to it, no need for theatrics.”

“Sweet Fete, no! No. I don’t believe what they say, Leta, about the Cattoleiri going mad and ruining the world. I think we need the Cattoleiri, and I’m going to find them and bring them together. I’m the herald.” Kiran shrugged. “It’s what I do.”

“And I should believe you… why?”

“Well, Clarkson and I did rescue you from the Divine Sjlunroca.”

“Who said I needed rescuing?”

“Is that why you tried so hard to ruin our plan? You preferred the comfortable life as a prisoner in the ‘Roc, as you all call it?”

“How could I have ruined your plan if I didn’t even know about it. And again, I didn’t need rescuing.” Except… “My mother. Did you… did you hurt her?”

“No.” His tone was firm, his jovial tone was replaced with a harshness that looked just as natural on his face. “And I am sorry for your loss. We knew that was a possibility, but we weren’t quick enough to stop it.”

“Possibility? What did you think was happening?”

“There have been rumblings, even in Central Umara, which generally remains loyal to the throne, of discontent amongst the people. That’s not too uncommon, every few years there is a decision that a royal makes that the general population doesn’t care for. But this time, there was another rumor, one that seemed to come from Central Umara itself. It was said that the queen’s own sister had become addicted to tophra.”

“So?” asked Leta. “It wouldn’t be the first time I was accused of such.”

“Yes, but with the timing of it, the discontent of the people, and the fact that it seemed to come from the crown itself… we believed they were going to kill you. But instead, it looks like they were planning on framing you, and moving you to the Divine Barukh.”

A shiver went down Leta’s spine. The Diving Barukh was said to be nothing short of a nightmare. Mothers in the ‘Roc told their children stories of the Divine Barukh to keep them in line, like a mother on the outside warning of the Ferretman.

Leta needed a second to think. “I have to go…relieve myself.”

Kiran hesitated for just a fraction of a second, but then turned to Clark, “Okay, we can wait. Clark will open a hole for you, but don’t be too long. It’s not safe out there.”

There was a large tree about a dozen paces from the wayfare that afforded Leta some privacy. She did actually have to relieve herself but it wasn’t the only thing she wanted to. What she wanted was answers. She crouched behind the tree and wrestled out the paper she’d taken from her mother’s grip. Her mother had been murdered, and she’d either been framed or she was on the chopping block next. She hadn’t trusted her mother in at least six years, and now she was hoping that one of her last tophra-driven scribbles may give her some insight into this fine disaster she’d gotten herself into? No, Leta hadn’t gotten herself into anything. She’d been battered and tossed around for the better part of the morning, for the better part of her life.

Still crouched, she unfolded her mother’s paper. It seemed to be a series of concentric rings, shakily drawn, no surprise there. One was labeled “sub basmnt!” with a star. There were other scribblings on the outside, such as “second Sunday pickup” and “in the laundry hampers”, as well as—Leta shook her head at this—“it’s in the tophra! Tophra!”

Gods, she was stupid to place any hope in this. Nonetheless, she folded it and put it away in her bag, then bounced-dry and stood up and walked back into the wayfare.

With her thoughts somewhat clearer, she embarked back on the road to answers. “Who are you people?”

Kiran took a deep sigh and looked up at the gathering smoke above their heads.

“It’s a—”

Leta cut him off. “Long story? Why don’t you give me the short version. Please.”

“I’ll do my best, but you lose a lot of nuance in the short version.”

“I’ll do my best to survive.”

“Very well. Three years ago, not long after I left Keilai—”

“Shorter.”

He ruffled his hair, leaving one side standing on end, his lips formed into a straight line, showing the first signs of frustration. Leta was impressed. He’d kept his calm longer than she’d thought he would.

“We belong to something of a collective, Clarkson and I. We’re trying to stop the return of The Root and the subsequent destruction of Umara by plague, famine, and death. Short enough for you, Princess?”