Earthborn (Homecoming) (6 page)

On Mon’s right, the treasuremaster and the provisioner were caught up in their own business conversation—quietly, of course, so as not to distract from the
real
meeting going on at the king’s end of the table, where the soldiers were regaling each other with anecdotes from recent raids and skirmishes. Being adult humans, the treasuremaster and provisioner were much taller than Mon and generally ignored him after the initial courtesies. Mon was more the height of the sky people to his left, and besides, he knew Bego better, and so when he talked at all, it was to them.

“I have something I want to tell Father,” said Mon to Bego.

Bego chewed twice more and swallowed, fixing Mon with his weary gaze all the while. “Then tell him,” he said.

“Exactly,” murmured bGo.

“It’s a dream,” said Mon.

“Then tell your mother,” said Bego. “Middle women still pay attention to such things.”

“Right,” murmured bGo.

“But it’s a true dream,” said Mon.

bGo sat up straight. “And how would you know that.”

Mon shrugged. “I know it.”

bGo turned to Bego, who turned to him. They gazed at each other, as if some silent communication were passing between them. Then Bego turned back to Mon. “Be careful about making claims like that.”

“I am,” said Mon. “Only when I’m sure. Only when it matters.”

That was something Bego had taught them in school, about making judgments. “Whenever you can get away with making no decision at all, then that’s what you should do. Make decisions only when you’re sure, and only when it matters.” Bego nodded now, to hear Mon repeat his precept back to him.

“If he believes me, then it’s a matter for the war council,” said Mon.

Bego studied him. bGo did, too, for a moment, but then rolled his eyes and slumped back in his chair. “I feel an embarrassing scene coming on,” he murmured.

“Embarrassing only if the prince is a fool,” said Bego. “Are you?”

“No,” said Mon. “Not about this, anyway.” Even as he said it, though, Mon wondered if in fact he
was
a fool. After all, it was Edhadeya’s dream, not his own. And there
was
something about his interpretation of it that made him uneasy. Yet one thing was certain: It was a true dream, and it meant that somewhere humans—Nafari humans—lived in painful bondage under the whips of Elemaki diggers.

Bego waited for another moment, as if to be sure that Mon wasn’t going to back down. Then he raised his left wing. “Father Motiak,” he said loudly.

His abrasive voice cut through the noisy conversation at the military end of the table. Monush, for many years the mightiest warrior in the kingdom, the
man for whom Mon had been named, was interrupted in the middle of a story. Mon winced. Couldn’t Bego have waited for a natural lull in the conversation?

Father’s normally benign expression did not change. “Bego, the memory of my people, what do you have to say during the war council?” His words held a bit of menace, but his voice was calm and kind, as always.

“While the soldiers are still at table,” said Bego, “one of the worthies of your kingdom has information that, if you choose to heed it, will be a matter for a council of war.”

“And who is this worthy? What is his information?” asked Father.

“He sits beside my otherself,” said Bego, “and he can give you his information for himself.”

All eyes turned to Mon, and for a moment he wanted to turn and flee from the room. Had Edhadeya realized how awful this moment would be, when she asked him to do this? But Mon knew he could not shrink from this now—to back down would humiliate Bego and shame himself. Even if his message was disbelieved, he had to give it—and boldly, too.

Mon rose to his feet, and, as he had seen his father do before speaking, he looked each of the leading men of the kingdom in the eyes. In their faces he saw surprise, amusement, deliberate patience. Last of all he looked at Aronha, and to his relief, he saw that Aronha looked serious and interested, not teasing or embarrassed. Aronha, thank you for giving me respect.

“My information comes from a true dream,” Mon said at last.

There was a murmur around the table. Who had dared to claim a true dream in many generations? And at the king’s table?

“How do you know it’s a true dream?” asked Father.

It was something Mon had never been able to explain to anyone or even to himself. He didn’t try now. “It’s a true dream,” he said.

Again there was a whisper around the table, and while some of the impatient faces changed to amusement, some that had been amused now looked serious.

“At least they’re paying attention,” murmured bGo.

Father spoke again, a hint of consternation in his voice. “Tell us the dream, then, and why it’s a matter for the council of war.”

“The same dream over and over for many nights,” said Mon. He was careful to give no hint of who the dreamer was. He knew they would assume that it was him, but no one would be able to call him a liar. “A little boy and his sister, the ages of Ominer and Khimin. They were working in the fields, as slaves, faint with hunger, and the taskmasters who whipped them at their work were earth people.”

He had their attention now, all of them. Diggers with humans as slaves—it made all of them angry, though they all knew that it must happen from time to time.

“One time in the dream the boy was beaten by human boys. Humans who ruled over the diggers. The boy was brave and never cried out as they . . . humiliated him. He was worthy.”

The soldiers all nodded. They understood what he was saying.

“At night the boy and his sister and his father and mother lay in silence. I think . . . I think they were forbidden to speak aloud. But they asked for help. They asked for someone to come and deliver them from bondage.”

Mon paused for a moment, and into the silence came Monush’s voice. “I have no doubt that this dream is true enough, because we know that many humans and angels are kept as slaves among the Elemaki. But what can we do? It takes all our strength to keep our own people free.”

“But Monush,” said Mon, “these
are
our people.”

Now the whispers were filled with excitement and outrage.

“Let me hear my son speak,” said Father. The whispers ceased.

Mon blushed. Father had admitted him to be his son, yes, that was good; but he had not used the formal locution, “Let me hear my counselor,” which would have meant that he absolutely accepted what Mon was saying. He was still on trial here. Thanks Edhadeya. This could shame me for my whole life, if it goes badly. I would always be known as the second son who spoke foolishness out of turn in a war council.

“They have no sky people among them,” said Mon. “Who has ever heard of such a kingdom? They are the Zenifi, and they call to us for help.”

Husu, the angel who served the king as his chief spy, leading hundreds of strong, brave sky people who kept constant watch on the borders of the kingdom, raised his right wing, and Mon nodded to give him the king’s ear. He had seen this done before at council, but since he had never had the king’s ear himself, this was the first time he had ever been able to take part in the niceties of formal discussion.

“Even if the dream is true and the Zenifi are calling out to us in dreams,” said Husu, “what claim do they have upon us? They rejected the decision of the first King Motiak and refused to live in a place where sky people outnumbered middle people five to one. They left Darakemba of their own free will, to return to the land of Nafai. We thought they must have been destroyed. If we learn now that they are alive, we’re glad, but it means nothing more than that to us. If we learn now that they’re in bondage, we’re sad, but again, it means nothing more than that.”

When his speech was finished, Mon looked to the king for permission to speak again.

“How do you know they’re the Zenifi?” asked Father.

Again, Mon could say nothing more than to repeat what he knew was true. Only this was exactly the point that he wasn’t sure of. They were the Zenifi, but
they were
not
the Zenifi. Or something. Something else. They
used
to be Zenifi, was that it? Or are they simply a
part
of the Zenifi?

“They are Zenifi,” said Mon, and as he said it he knew that it was right, or right enough. They may not be
the
Zenifi, the whole people; but they are Zenifi, even if somewhere else there might be others.

But Mon’s answer gave Father little to go on. “A dream?” he said. “The first king of the Nafari had true dreams.”

“As did his wife,” said Bego.

“The great queen Luet,” said Father, nodding. “Bego is wise to remind us of history. Both were true dreamers. And there were other true dreamers among them. And among the sky people, and among the earth people too, in those days. But that was the age of heroes.”

Mon wanted to insist: It
is
a true dream. But he had seen at council before how Father resisted when men tried to press their case by saying the same thing again and again. If they had new evidence, fine, let them speak and Father would hear; but if they were merely insisting on the same old story, Father merely believed them less and less the more they pushed. So Mon held his tongue and merely continued to look his father in the eye, unabashed.

He heard bGo’s soft murmur as he spoke to his otherself: “I know what the gossips will be chatting about for the next week.”

“The boy has courage,” Bego answered softly.

“So do you,” said bGo.

In the silence, Aronha stood from the table, but instead of asking Mon for the king’s ear, he walked around behind the chairs to stand behind his father. It was a privilege that only the king’s heir had, to speak to the king privately in front of his other counselors without giving offense—for it was not presumption for the heir to display a special privacy with the king.

Father listened to Aronha, then nodded. “This can be said aloud,” he said, granting permission.

Aronha returned to his seat. “I know my brother,” he said. “He does not lie.”

“Of course not,” said Monush, and Husu echoed him.

“More than that,” said Aronha. “Mon never claims to know what he doesn’t know. When he’s unsure, he says so. And when he’s sure, he’s always right.”

Mon felt a thrill run through him, to hear such words from his brother’s mouth. Aronha wasn’t just standing up for him—he was asserting something so outrageous that Mon was frightened for him. How could he make such a claim?

“Bego and I have noticed it,” said Aronha. “Why else do you suppose Bego risked his own place at the king’s table in order to introduce Mon’s words? I don’t think Mon realizes it himself. Most of the time he is uncertain of himself. He can be persuaded easily; he never argues. But when he truly knows a thing, he never backs down, never, no matter how much we argue. And when he digs in his heels like that, Bego and I both know well, he’s never been wrong. Not once. I would stake my honor and the lives of good men on the truth of what he says today. Even though I think the dream was not his own, if he says it’s a true dream and the people are the Zenifi, then I know that it’s the truth as surely as if I saw old Zenif with my own eyes.”

“Why do you think the dream is not his own?” asked Father, suddenly wary.

“Because he never said it was,” said Aronha. “If it was, he would have said it. He didn’t, so it wasn’t.”

“Whose dream was it?” demanded the king.

“The daughter of Toeledwa,” said Mon immediately.

There was an immediate uproar at the table, partly because Mon had dared to mention the name of the dead queen at a celebratory occasion, but mostly because
he had brought the counsel of a woman to the king’s table.

“We would not have heard that voice here!” cried one of the old captains.

Father raised his hands and everyone fell silent. “You’re right, we would not have heard that voice here. But my son believes that the message of that voice needed to be heard, and so he dared to bring it; and Ha-Aron has declared his belief in it. So now the only question before this council is: What shall we do, now that we know the Zenifi are calling to us for help?”

The discussion immediately passed beyond any realm where Mon would be consulted, and he sat down, listening. He scarcely trusted himself to look at anyone, for fear he would break discipline and show a smile of such relief, such gratification that everyone would know that he was still only a child, the second son.

Husu opposed sending any sky people to risk their lives rescuing the Zenifi; in vain did Monush argue that the first generation, the one that had rejected all human association with angels, was surely dead by now. As they discussed the issue, with other counselors chiming in with their own points, Mon risked a glance at his brother. To his chagrin, Aronha was looking right at him, grinning. Mon ducked his head to hide his own grin, but he was happier at this moment than he had ever been before in his life.

He turned then, to glance at Bego, but it was bGo who whispered to him. “What if a hundred die, for this dream of Edhadeya’s?”

The words struck Mon through the heart. He hadn’t thought of that. To send an army so far into Elemaki territory, up the endless narrow canyons where ambush was possible anywhere—it was dangerous, it was foolhardy, yet the war council was arguing, not about whether to risk it, but whom to take on the raid.

“Don’t ruin the boy’s triumph,” murmured Bego.
“Nobody’s making the soldiers go. He told the truth and he did it boldly. Honor to him.” Bego raised his glass of mulled wine.

Mon knew to raise his own glass of twice-cut wine. “It was your voice opened the door, Ro-Bego.”

Bego sipped his wine, frowning. “None of your middle-being titles for me, boy.”

bGo grinned—a rare expression for him—and said, “My otherself is beside himself with pleasure; you must excuse him, it always makes him surly.”

Father proposed the compromise. “Let Husu’s spies guard Monush’s human soldiers until they find a way past the outposts of the Elemaki. From what we understand, there’s chaos among the kingdoms in the land of Nafai these days, and it may be far safer than usual to get in. Then, when Monush passes within the guarded borders, the spies hold back and wait for them to emerge again.”