Finding Destiny (11 page)

“Jimeyon?” Chanson asked, giving Eduor a blank look.

The reverend
dyara
chuckled. “He reasoned that Eduor cannot
ask
for help with the harvest and still be able to claim Falkon’s lands as his own if Falkon does not show up before the last of his land is harvested ... but there is nothing in the law against us helping without
being
asked. So, on your feet, you two. I’m not so old I don’t remember what it’s like to be finished doing
that
, but the rest of the village is waking up and will be here very soon. You can cuddle in the evenings after a hard day’s work.”

Burning with embarrassment, yet touched by their acceptance, Eduor climbed out of the bed to start dressing. He returned for a quick kiss and to hand Chanson her clothes—and to give her another kiss—but her indulgent grin let him know she wasn’t upset at this unexpected end to their privacy.

“They’re right,” she murmured. “If you can get in all of the harvest, then that’s a stronger case for you to stay and manage the land that Falkon abandoned. Not that I expect him to return today.”

“I would have him return safe and whole,” Eduor murmured back, knotting a fresh loincloth around his hips, “but no, not today. Even if he does, there is some land to the northwest that could have a cistern dug and some fields scratched out. Or maybe orchards planted. I’m pretty good with trees. Not that there’s much room in the village for a new house, but ...”

“But you could live with me,” she agreed, rising and finding her own clothes. Loincloth in hand, she paused to look at him. “Eduor ... where do you want to be, three years from now? What life do you want to lead?”

The question was an unexpected one, but a good one. It was also one he had an answer for. “I want a good home to live in—whether or not it’s at the temple doesn’t matter—a good day’s work to be proud of, and most of all, to be at your side still, three years from now. If you’ll have me.”

Sitting down, he strapped on his sandals. Chanson bent over and looped her arms around his shoulders, bringing their faces close together. “Do you know what I want, three years from now?”

“What would you like?” he asked, meeting her dark brown gaze openly. “If I can get it for you, I will.”

She grinned. “I want you. As my husband, if you would have me as your wife. And I want you to have work that you can be proud of, just as I’m proud to be one of the
dyara
for Oba’s Well. I want you to have fields and trees that I can help water. And I want to know if these gorgeous gold curls of yours are inheritable ... if you’re willing to have a child or two with me.”

Children. He could see them now, a blend of her features and his, laughing and playing in the temple courtyard with the other children in the village. Swallowing, he nodded. “I’d like that. A lot.”

“Then let’s get your harvest in, so that the lazy, absent Falkon has nothing more to claim. He certainly lost his claim to
me
the day he rode out of here. You gained it when you walked in and stayed, and proved to be a fascinating and much better man.” Kissing the tip of his nose, she released him and let him continue dressing.

Which Eduor did, in a very good mood despite the lingering embarrassment from their being overheard by her own mother and a handful of others.

SEVEN

Hearing the horns of the children tending the herds at the village edge, and the cheerful pattern that warned of a friendly caravan approaching, Eduor stood and stretched. Mindful of the hot midday sun and his paler-by-comparison flesh, he hadn’t loosened the neckline of his
thawa
and wrapped it kilt-like around his hips, but that meant he had to spend a few moments flapping the fabric to cool himself down.

“Hey, Substance Man! Do you think you’re allowed to stop working?” Marison called out from two rows over, digging industriously at the base of the next sweetroot plant. The last of the grains and all of the fruits and greens had been harvested with the help of her and the others, yesterday. Now the remaining vegetables had to be dug out of the ground, a laborious task at best. “You’re not allowed to sell more than a tenth of this to any caravan, so keep digging.”

“Yes, Mother Marison,” he muttered. A couple of the other men chuckled at his quip but took a few moments to stretch as well. Someone fetched the pitcher of drinking water from the end of the row and passed it around. Eduor accepted it gratefully and drank deeply when it was his turn, then handed it to the next harvester.

Moments later a youth pelted into view, dodging the thorn-bearing limbs of the acacia trees guarding the field. His voice carried, “Falkon! Falkon’s back! It’s Falkon with the caravan!”

Eduor froze, mind racing, while the youth detoured to head toward the village and deliver his message there as well.
The harvest isn’t fully in. He can still reclaim the land, even if I can legally claim the larger share of this year’s bounty for my own . . .

The caravan came into view, its members apparently having decided to follow the boy who had fled to warn Eduor of its approach. There weren’t more than ten riders, with maybe fifteen beasts all told, the horses bearing saddles and the dromids laden with packs. At the forefront rode a vaguely familiar man in leather armor. Next to him rode a woman, also in boiled leather. Falkon lifted his hand in greeting to some of the villagers as they crossed the harvested portion of the field. Stopping a few lengths away, he leaned on the pommel of his saddle.

“So. Who’s been taking care of my fields in my absence?”

“Your fields?” Marison asked before Eduor could respond. Pushing to her feet, the yellow-clad woman dusted off her knees. “
Your
fields? When you left before they were planted and returned only after the vast majority has been harvested?”

“Marison, please,” Eduor murmured.

She pointed at him. “
This
man has done all the work. He plowed your fields, sowed your seeds, weeded your plants, tended your trees, helped your mare foal, fed your chickens, harnessed your donkeys, watered your fields, pruned your orchards, plucked your fruit, reaped your grain, and
dug in your dirt
.”

“I don’t see him digging now,” Falkon pointed out. “In fact, I see a lot of the rest of you digging.”

“Well, he didn’t
ask us
to help him, so the effort is still all
his
.” Hands planted on her hips, she drew in her breath to say more. Eduor touched her arm.

“It’s alright, Marison. Really, it is.” Facing the man on horseback, Eduor lifted his chin. “Yes, I took care of everything for you. I won’t deny I was hoping you wouldn’t return for a few more weeks, but the land is yours, if you still want it.”

“The harvest, however, is
his
,” Marison interjected.

“Actually,
we
want it.”

Even Falkon turned to eye the man on one of the horses behind him. “What are you talking about, Chowrick?”

The other man nudged his mare forward. He tugged down the facecloth of his turban and grinned. It wasn’t a pleasant smile. “I mean, this is clearly a prosperous village. Surely they can afford to spare some of their food ... and their other goods.”

Falkon and the woman next to him both stiffened. Eduor quickly sized up the others in their caravan. Calling it a caravan was a misnomer, he realized; all of them wore wax-boiled leather, and all of it showed signs of wear and repair.
Warriors, not merchants. This is a raiding band.

“I did not lead you here to pillage my home,” Falkon growled, reaching for one of the blades slung at his waist. He turned his horse to face the other man as he did so. Eduor quickly moved out of the way of the mare’s hindquarters, putting himself closer to the would-be bandit in their midst.

“You are but one man, and the only Sud in this war band. Everyone else you rode with chose to stay with their distant kin ... or died in the fighting.” Chowrick smiled his not-smile a second, equally brief time. “Do you wish to follow them?”

“I
won’t
let you raid my village!” Jerking his short, curved sword free, Falkon froze as most of the others unsheathed their own blades. One of the other men and two of the women, including the one still at Falkon’s side, did not draw their own weapons, but the rest did.

“You are just one man,” Chowrick challenged Falkon, lifting his own blade. “What can one man do?”

Eduor jumped. Hooking one hand over Chowrick’s shoulder, he grabbed at that upraised arm and used the weight and momentum of his falling body to drag the other man out of his saddle. It helped that no one had remembered how close he was to these riders, so the element of surprise was on his side as he made his unconventional attack. The mare neighed and scrambled sideways, shying away from their falling bodies. Twisting as he fell, Eduor planted a knee somewhere on the would-be bandit’s stomach, hard enough that the other man
eeped
as they landed.

Scrambling to his feet, fingers still latched tightly around that sword-bearing wrist, Eduor spun. The move, ducking under his captive’s arm, flipped Chowrick facedown in the rough soil of the half-harvested field. From there, it was easy enough to plant a foot on his shoulder blade and pinch the back of his hand, pressing on those dark-skinned knuckles until the sword dropped free.

“...
That
is what ‘one man’ can do,” Eduor stated, loudly enough for the others to hear over the downed bandit’s groaning. “And I am the
least
skilled of all these farmers.”

Dropping his arm, Eduor stepped back. He kicked the sword out of reach as he did so and waited for Chowrick to stand. Thankfully, no one in the field snorted with laughter at his claim. It was the truth, after all; he was the least skilled of all the
farmers
in Oba’s Well. As for being a warrior, well, he was out of practice, but probably had as much training as anyone in this little war band, if not more.

A glance at the others showed them looking at each other and re-sheathing their swords. Some of them gave Falkon sheepish looks. Regaining his feet, Chowrick moved to pick up his sword. Eduor stepped on the blade and folded his arms across his chest. Defeated twice, the man looked at the others in his war band. They avoided his gaze.

“Go on. Take your horse and get out of here,” Eduor told him. “There’s a cave with a cistern two days’ walk almost due west of here. It’s on the main caravan route. You can find whatever you want
elsewhere
in Sundara. I can guarantee you won’t find what you’re looking for here in Oba’s Well. Or at least you won’t like what you
will
find.”

The other villagers backed him up. “Go on!” “Get out of here!” “Don’t come back!” “We’re even tougher and meaner than he is!” “Yeah!” “Sands take you!”

Chowrick flinched from the clod of dirt thrown his way. A glance showed no more support from his fellow warriors. Dodging Falkon and his horse, he trotted down the field after his mare, who had stopped at the edge of the trees to nip at some of the weedy grass growing there.

As he left, one of the remaining warriors shrugged and offered, “He was the war band leader. But ... he’s been defeated by a
farmer
!”

“Yes, what do we do?” one of the women asked, eyeing Eduor warily. “I don’t want to follow a dirt-digger!”

“That dirt-digger ... is my brother,” Falkon stated, startling Eduor. He looked down at the ex-Mandarite and twisted his mouth in a wry smile. “What he owns, I own ... and what I own, he owns. You’ll take care of
our
farm, won’t you, Brother?”

Vaguely recalling something in the inheritance laws about adopted siblings and their legal rights—and that declaring their relationship in front of so many witnesses was the biggest part of making it official—Eduor looked around at his fellow villagers and nodded. “Sure. I’ll, um, keep the family farm in good condition, and make sure your room is ready for you whenever you visit, or are ready to come home. And since you’re the one with the heart for fighting, you can have the war band in my place. Agreed, Brother?”

“Agreed, Brother. And we’ll
pay
for our food and supplies,” Falkon stated firmly. “But ... at a discount, I trust? In the name of family?”

“Why not?” Eduor muttered wryly. “Nothing like family to rob you blind, right?”

Thankfully, both sides chuckled, warriors and villagers alike.

The woman on the horse closest to Falkon reached out and tapped his elbow. “... Well? Aren’t you going to mention me?”

“In a moment—ah, there she is. I see Chanson coming this way.” Falkon waited until the blue-clad
dyara
finished jogging up to their patch of the sweetroot field, and held up his hand. “... I’m sorry I left you like I did, Chanson, but I hope you’ve moved on. A
dyara
deserves a man who is one with the land she blesses with Sundra’s waters. I am more a man of the flame, these days, and fire and water don’t always mix so well.”

Panting a little from her run, Chanson nodded, shook her head, then shrugged. “I’m glad you’re alive, and I hope the others are, too, but ... it’s been nine months, Falkon. I’ve
definitely
moved on. In fact, I have a betrothed now,” she added, tucking her palms on her hips in imitation of her mother. “The man who stepped up and took good care of
your
land. And if you’d only had the good sense to stay away for a few more weeks—”