Progeny (The Children of the White Lions) (27 page)

It did not take long for her to conclude that Fallsbottom would be a miserable place to live. Everything was wet. The ground was a pasty mud, the roofs of the tarred buildings dripped water constantly, and people squished as they walked. The lone benefit of the mist was the effect it had on the vegetation. Atop the ridge, dust had coated a sun-cooked, tan landscape, yet in the valley, everything was a rich, verdant green.

As they had moved through town, Broedi had drawn a fair number of long stares. Men who did not marvel at Broedi’s size eyed her with leering expressions she did not like. At one point, a filthy, unkempt man had shouted something inappropriate at her. Broedi had stared at the man as they passed, loosing a rather lupine-sounding growl. Eyes wide, the man had turned and sloshed down a nearby alley, tripping and falling into the mud.

They had made their way past fishmongers, blacksmith shops, tanners, carpenters, masons, and all other sorts of working-class professions. She had spotted a sign naming the ‘Efrern Warehouse and Pressing Shop’ where the Isaac’s share of the harvest went every year. She tried not to imagine her father sitting on a cart before the old wooden building.

For the first mile or so out of Fallsbottom, the road had remained full of people, heading in both directions. The farther south they went, the less crowded the road became as people peeled off, heading to nearby homesteads.

At one point, she spotted two men traveling north and nearly leapt from the road. Their gray uniforms clearly marked the men as Constables. Broedi had acted as if there was nothing to worry about, even greeting the men as they passed.

The road rose in places and dipped in others, reminding Kenders of waves. Atop the crests, she could see the Great White River to the east, flowing in the same direction they walked. On their right, to the west, the tall rocky ridge loomed over them, providing constant shade from the afternoon sun. While the cliff face was not quite sheer, climbing it would be dangerous.

The ridge on the other side of the river had peeled away about a mile back, heading east. Grasslands broken up by small clumps of oaks filled its place.

Neither of them had said a word since leaving the outskirts of Fallsbottom and the quiet was making Kenders restless. She had been looking forward to this time alone with Broedi yet now that she had the hillman to herself, she was reticent to broach the subject of magic, which only made her feel more out of sorts. She typically leapt ahead without thought of the potential consequences. The past week had so jumbled her that she was actually exhibiting some caution.

The road ahead was empty save for a tiny a dot of a wagon at least a mile away. Looking over her shoulder, she traced the brown ribbon of road clear to the horizon. It was bare of traffic.

“Do not worry, uora. We are alone.”

Kenders glanced up to the hillman. “How can you be sure?”

Broedi drew in a deep breath, paused a moment, and said, “We are alone.” He spoke with confidence. “You may ask your questions if you would like.”

She stared at him through narrowed eyes. “What questions?”

“The questions you have been wishing to ask for days but have been afraid to voice in front of your kaveli.”

The hillman’s assumption irritated her, even if was accurate. A bit of her typical stubbornness flared.

“I don’t have any questions.”

“My mistake, then. I apologize.”

For a few moments, the pair strode down the road in silence. Realizing she was wasting valuable time, Kenders swallowed her pride and readied to ask a question. Not ‘the’ question, but a question. She was still anxious about openly discussing the Strands, so she chose to start with something innocuous, something she had been wondering since meeting the Shapechanger. “Broedi? How old are you?”

Looking down, the hillman rumbled, “Not the question I was expecting.”

“What question were you expecting?”

He was quiet for a moment before answering. “To be honest, I am not sure. But I know that was not it. Why do you ask my age?”

“Just curious. Father said ijuli lived for a thousand years, tombles a couple hundred. Are hillmen like ijuli or tombles? Or like us?” She felt her atypical caution fading.

“We are not ‘like’ any race. Aki-mahet are aki-mahet.”

A hawk cried out, its screech echoing off the cliff wall. Broedi’s gaze drifted up to where the bird of prey soared overhead. A slight smile spread over his face.

Changing her tactics, Kenders said, “Fine. Can I ask how long hillmen live?’”

Without taking his eyes from the hawk, Broedi said, “From when we are gifted to our kaiti—mother—until we pass on to meet Maeana, we spend nearly two hundred years with our kotiv-aki
.
” He dropped his gaze from the sky and, seeing her confusion at the word, added, “The closest word in Argot would be ‘family’ or ‘tribe.’ Although kotiv-aki are much larger.”

“Then you are more like us than ijuli?”

“Again. We are not ‘like’ anyone.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Yes, I do,” rumbled the hillman.

Kenders waited for more, but Broedi remained quiet. Getting the hillman to say more than ten words at once was like trying to get Nikalys to share the last slice of a grape tart.

“So, I’ll ask again: how old are
you
, Broedi?”

“Ask a new question, uora
.
”

“Answer this one, and I ask a new one.”

Looking down at her, he said, “You are suddenly determined.” His slight smile returned. “Good. Now, ask a new question.”

She hesitated, trying to think of something that might loosen Broedi’s tongue. “Do hillmen believe they go to see Maeana when they die?”

Glancing down with his eyebrows arched high, Broedi rumbled, “Another odd query.”

She shrugged. It was the first thing she had thought of other than, “Can you teach me to not be a mage?” That would come later. “Well, do they?”

“Many aki-mahet believe that, yes.”

“Do you?”

The slight smile returned. “Do you believe the sky is blue?”

Kenders stared at the hillman for a moment before tilting her head back to look up. There were a few puffy, white clouds, but the sky was mostly clear. And very blue. Confused, she looked back to Broedi. “I don’t understand.”

“I do not
believe
the sky is blue, uora
,
for it is blue. I do not
believe
we see Maeana when we die, for it is so.”

“You sound awfully certain about that.”

“I sound certain because I am certain.”

“How can you be? I mean, I believe in the gods, at least I think I do. Actually, I’m not sure.”

“You should believe, uora. Most find it insulting when mortals question their existence.”

She smiled wide, thinking he was making a jest. She stared at him, waiting for him to join her but his face remained clear of mirth. Her smile faded. “They…find it insulting?”

“The Celystiela have a high opinion of themselves. Their pride is soft.”

She continued to stare, still waiting for something to indicate that he was jesting, silently hoping that he was. “How would—could you know that?”

“Because I have met a number of them
.
”

Kenders nearly stumbled over her own feet. “You’ve
met
a number of them? The gods? How?”

Broedi hesitated a moment before saying, “I have been to the Celestial Empire
.
”

With doubt permeating her gaze and voice, she asked, “It’s real?”

The hillman swept an arm outward, indicating the terrain around them.

“As real as the land you see around us. In fact, this looks a bit like the area near the Seat of Nelnora. Fewer flowers here, though.”

“Are you mocking me?”

Broedi turned his gaze down to her and, his voice firm, said, “I do not mock, uora.”

Kenders shook her head in disbelief. She was still getting used to the idea that Shapechangers were real. Now, she needed to add the gods and goddesses to the list.

Looking back to the hillman, she asked, “So…the Locking? The gods walking Terrene. All of that is true?”

“I do not know what ‘all’ you refer to, uora
.
I can tell you what I know to be true, though.” He looked down at her. “Would you like that?”

Eager, she nodded. “Please.” For the moment, this trumped her worries about the Strands.

Broedi’s thin smile crept across his lips. “You are determined
and
curious. Very good.”

Facing forward, he took a deep breath, held it a moment, and slowly exhaled. When he began to speak, his deep baritone filled the quiet forest. “Ages past, the world was empty. The Celystiela—Good, Evil, and those that were Neither—shaped Terrene, creating lands, animals, and races of beings. Some you would recognize. Most would be strange to your eyes. Many perished countless years ago. The nine evil Celystiela—you know them as the Cabal—directly opposed the nine good Celystiela—the High Host. War raged between the Cabal and High Host, both in the divine realm and on Terrene, claiming more mortal lives than I care to imagine. The remainder, the Neither, abstained from their conflicts and simply were. That is how it was for a very, very long time.”

Broedi paused and looked over to see if she was paying attention. She most definitely was.

“Go on, please.”

Smiling, he continued. “Nearly five thousand years ago, the god of Deception disguised itself, visited each Celystiela, and proposed a meeting to reach a truce between the Cabal and High Host. The disparate Celystiela agreed to meet on the condition it occurred on the mortal plane.” He glanced over at Kenders. “While on Terrene, the powers of the Celystiela are muted.”

Kenders was curious how a god’s power could be diminished, but held her question.

“The Cabal, the High Host, and those that were Neither met on a mountaintop in the Red Peaks—although the summits had a different name then. Once all had arrived, treachery reigned. The Cabal surprised their brethren, unleashing their powers at once and nearly overwhelming the High Host as well as the Neither. Naturally, the High Host and the Neither retaliated. A great cataclysm ensued. Fire poured from the ground. Lightning split the sky. Lakes boiled. Seas froze. Thankfully, the mortal realm gentled their power, else Terrene would no longer be.”

Kenders was enthralled. Broedi might not talk much, but he was certainly a wonderful storyteller once his tongue loosened.

“When the battle was over, the High Host and the Neither stood alone upon the ruined mountaintop. The Cabal were gone. Those who remained believed they had destroyed them.”

“They killed them?” asked Kenders. “Can you kill a god?”

Shaking his head, Broedi frowned. “No, uora. You cannot.”

“Then where were the Cabal?”

“That was the question the remaining Celystiela asked themselves. It seemed that the cataclysm had been so great, so terrible that it had obliterated the Cabal’s true forms, even burning their names from existence. They were not gone, though. From that day forward, their essence could only take root in a mortal being of Terrene.”

“So, they look like men and women?”

“Or aki-mahet. Ijul, tomble, dirgmour, atarkas, oligurt, kur-surus, nascepel. Any race, truly.”

“The Cabal could be anyone?”

“Yes.”

“Can you tell if someone is?”

“No, you cannot.”

Kenders eyed Broedi for a long moment, suddenly concerned. With some hesitation, she asked, “Broedi…you aren’t one of the Cabal, are you?”

Turning his gaze to her, he rumbled, “What do you think?”

Kenders studied him. His kind eyes. The hint of a serene, calming smile on his lips. If he was of the Cabal, she was a fish.

Shaking her head, she said, “I think it was a silly question of me to ask.”

His smile grew wider than normal and he turned his gaze down the road. She remained quiet for a few moments, thinking. The idea that anyone, anyone at all, could be one of the Cabal was unsettling.

Looking back to Broedi, she asked, “The other gods? What did they do?”

“Do, uora?”

“You haven’t said how the gods came to be locked on Terrene.”

“I was trying. You interrupted me.”

“Sorry.”

“Do not be. One does not get answers without asking questions.”

Smiling, she asked, “In that case, Broedi, will you continue your story?”

Wearing a slight smile of his own, Broedi rumbled, “The Celystiela who remained on the mountaintop attempted to return to their divine realm, but discovered that none could remember their home’s name. Like the names of the Cabal, the battle had ripped it from the minds of the Celystiela
.
Without the lost name, they could not return. Locked from their home, trapped on Terrene, they were destined to remain in the mortal realm. The High Host and the Neither formed a new nation and shaped a new race—the divina—to serve them. Each Celystiela built a great city celebrating his or her own self and that over which they hold dominion. And to this day, that is how things remain. That, uora, is the story of the Locking.”

Kenders was quiet for a time. It was an incredible story, one she would have discounted as a playman’s saga had she heard it from anyone else. Yet, coming from Broedi, the tale rang true. “If they need servants, if they are trapped here, does that mean they are not all powerful, then? Most people in Yellow Mud thought they were.”

“I have asked myself that question more times than I can count,” replied Broedi. “They are powerful, for sure.
Very
powerful. Yet, they are not above seeking the aid of mortals.” He gazed down at her, a strange look in his eye. “Would an all-powerful being need a mortal’s help?”

She pondered the question but before she could arrive at an answer, Broedi looked up, eyed the sun, and rumbled, “We should find a suitable place to wait for your kaveli.”

Kenders supposed the history lesson was over.

When they reached the next rise in the road, Broedi stopped and looked in all directions.

A gradual slope started at the banks of the river, rose up to meet the road, and continued west to the base of the ridge. Sprawling oaks and bushes filled the land on both sides of the way. Turning toward the ridge, Broedi studied the cliff face. With a grunt and a nod, he headed off the road toward the rocks. “We will wait there.”