Progeny (The Children of the White Lions) (63 page)

“Now. When I asked Fenidar some of these questions, the ijul refused to answer me. Despite my growing reservations, I did my duty. I followed
his
orders because the regent had order
me
to do so. Yet when Fenidar ordered we split our forces, I should have said no. It was as brainless a ‘plan’ as possible. But I did not say no. For some reason, I agreed.”

Nathan actually knew what that reason was. Nundle had shared with the sergeant what he had witnessed that night by the fork in the road. While Nathan had been disturbed to learn that he had been the target of a Weave, he had also seemed relieved to discover that the poor decision had not been his.

Turning to eye Nundle, Nathan said, “Now, I know you have you all been wondering about our little friend here.”

Nundle’s heart nearly leapt through his chest as every soldier turned to stare at him. He felt himself shrink a few inches under the weight of their collective gaze.

“The night Nundle arrived, he brought with him information that answered some of these question even while creating more. What he told me was difficult to accept. Yet that is what I did. I believed him. I trust him.” Nathan paused and let out a heavy sigh before saying, “Men, there is more to this story than you’ve been told.
Much
more.”

To a longleg, the soldiers looked uneasy.

“We are going to share with you everything we know. I ask you to hold your questions until we are done.”

Nundle looked askance at Nathan and whispered nervously, “We?”

Turning his gaze to Nundle, Nathan said, “Tell them why you were following us. The truth.”

Wary, Nundle eyed the soldiers before glaring at Nathan, yelling at the sergeant with his eyes alone. A warning would have been nice.

“Which parts?”

“All of it, Nundle.

“
All
of it?”

Nodding, Nathan said, “Exactly as you told it to me.”

Facing the soldiers, Nundle offered them a nervous smile and launched into same story he had shared with Nathan his first night with the Sentinels. When he revealed he was actually a mage, an acolyte who had studied at the Strand Academies, the soldiers seemed dubious rather than afraid.

“Show them, Nundle,” muttered Nathan.

He shot a worried look at the sergeant.

“Are you sure?”

“Quite,” said Nathan with a nod. “But nothing big, please.”

Taking a deep breath, Nundle wondered what might be an appropriate display. Settling on something he had learned in his first weeks of studying Air, he reached for a number of the white Strands, knit them together quickly, and released the Weave.

A blast of wind rushed over the plains, pressing the grass flat to the ground and buffeting the soldiers, forcing them to lift their hands and shade their eyes from bits of grass and dust. After a few heartbeats, the breeze faded.

The soldiers lowered their hands and stared at Nundle with a mixture of fear and awe. They certainly accepted his story now.

A moment later, Cero called out, “Under the authority of the Constables, I order you to surrender yourself into custody!” Looking to the soldiers before him, he said, “An outlaw stands before you! Take him!”

Whether or not they considered doing so, Nundle would never know.

Nathan exclaimed, “All of you will hold your positions!” His voice shot across the still plain like a peel of thunder. When none of the soldiers moved, he shifted his gaze to the Tracker. “Constable, you have no authority—none!—over my men. You will
not
order them to do anything, understood?!”

Showing an incredible amount of resolve, the Tracker held Nathan’s stare and, his eyes narrowing, said, “Then
you
give the order to arrest him.”

Nathan shook his head.

“Not yet.”

Nundle turned and stared in open astonishment at the sergeant.

“What do you mean, ‘not yet?’”

Without taking his gaze from Cero, Nathan said, “Continue with your story, Nundle. Quickly, please.”

Nundle wondered if he should instead take off on his horse and ride away as fast as his little chestnut could carry him. If Nathan intended to arrest him, then he had severely misjudged the longleg. Praying he had not, he steadied himself, turned back to the soldiers, and resumed his story.

The turning point for Nundle seemed to be when he revealed that his preceptor and Fenidar was the same person. The revelation sent a ripple of shock and anger rolling through the ranks. Cero appeared baffled by the revelation.

Next, he went on to tell the true history of the White Lions, a story few of them appeared to know based on the interested, thoughtful expressions the soldiers wore. Then he recited Indrida’s prophecy, line for line. The longlegs—even Cero—sat, enthralled.

When he was finished, Nathan looked over to him and asked, “May I have the letter?”

Nundle reached into his pocket, pulled out the folded parchment, and, leaning over, placed it in Nathan’s outstretched hand. Nodding his thanks, the sergeant turned to his men.

“This is the message that brought our little friend to us. Please, try to restrain yourself as I read it.”

The soldiers stared at each other, clearly uneasy, as Nathan unfolded the parchment and began to read. Despite his request, he had to pause a few times as the men reacted. When he revealed that Preceptor Myrr had been responsible for the destruction of Yellow Mud, many of the soldiers cursed, turning visibly angry.

Once Nathan was able to calm them, he resumed reading. As he neared the final lines aloud, Nundle braced himself. He doubted this would go over well.

“‘I have sent word to our friend in Smithshill to be vigilant for the man who apparently escaped. Fix this.’” Nathan paused, looked up to his men, and said solemnly, “It is signed, ‘Everett.’”

A moment of stunned silence passed before shouts of disbelief pierced the air.

“No!”

“Never!”

“It’s a lie!”

While many cried out, some soldiers sat silent, nodding slowly, seemingly unsurprised.

One of the Sentinels shouted, “Perhaps it’s from someone else named Everett!”

Another called, “Oh, come on, Bedwin! Truly?”

Bedwin stared at Nathan and asked, “What do you think, Sergeant?” Most of the soldiers turned to eye Nathan as well, waiting for his assessment. Despite everything, these longlegs still looked to him for guidance.

Letting out a heavy sigh, Nathan said, “I believe that this missive is in fact from the duke. Need I mention what is muttered in dark corners about Duke Everett’s ascension to the Sovereign’s Chair?”

During Nundle’s first night with the Sentinels, Nathan had shared with the tomble the rumors that swirled around Duke Everett. The duke’s father, the well-respected and well-liked Gill Redlord, had died two years ago during a hunting excursion with his son, having fallen from his horse. There were questions as to how accidental the tumble had been.

Another soldier called out, “Who’s the friend in Smithshill?”

Without hesitation, Nathan answered, “For my coin, I believe it to be the same man who put Fenidar—or Jhaell as he is truly named—at the head of our column.”

Wil asked, “Are you suggesting the regent is involved, Sergeant?”

“I am not suggesting it,” said Nathan. “I am saying it. Regent Alpert and Duke Everett are entangled in all of this.”

Some of the longlegs grumbled, visibly uncomfortable.

Nundle pressed his lips together. Admittedly, he knew little about the social order of the Oaken Duchies, but he suspected that accusing a duchy’s sovereign of conspiring with the Cabal was a common, happy occurrence.

Raising his voice over the increased muttering, Nathan called, “So! This is where we are!” The murmuring quieted. “I will not order you to disobey the regent. I refuse to put you in that position. What I
am
going to do is something that has never happened in the history of the Sentinels.” He paused, running his gaze over the soldiers. “I am going to let you make the decision
yourself
.”

While Nundle glanced over at the sergeant, surprised, the nearly fifty soldiers stared at him, their faces expressionless.

His voice unwavering, Nathan continued, saying, “You have two choices. The first, come with me, and, when we find these ‘outlaws’ and the farmers I believe they rescued, stand with me as we try to learn their piece.”

The men remained silent while waiting for the other option. Nundle thought it a good sign they had not immediately shouted Nathan down.

“Your second choice is that you may arrest me for treason and resume carrying out your original orders. I promise to submit quietly and not interfere with your task.”

The men sat in their saddles, clearly stunned.

Nundle had suspected that Nathan would talk to the Sentinels, somehow explain things to them before approaching the Progeny. What Nathan was doing now would have never crossed Nundle’s mind as a possibility. Never.

Shifting his gaze to the Tracker, Nathan said, “And Cero, should the men choose to arrest me, you are welcome to take Nundle to the Constables. I will not stop you.”

Nundle turned to gape at Nathan.

“Pardon?!”

Nathan ignored him, his gaze reserved for his men alone.

Wil was the first to speak, his voice full of disbelief as he asked, “Are you asking us to vote?”

“I am.”

Clearly dubious, Blainwood asked, “Like…for village council?”

“Exactly,” replied the sergeant. “I have terms, though. Simple ones. Whichever choice gets the most votes wins. Those who voted the other way
must
abide by the decision. With or without me at the head, we proceed as a unit. Can you all agree on that?”

The soldiers looked at one another and, after a few moments, they were nodding their heads.

“How is this going to work?” asked Wil.

Nathan looked to the Tracker.

“Cero? Come here, please.”

Cero’s suspicious gaze remained fixed on Nathan as he moved through the lines to face the sergeant.

As the Tracker halted his horse before them, Nathan said, “Behind me stand two trees that Greya and Lamoth have conspired to place before us,” he said, invoking the names of the goddesses responsible for fate and nature. “Does everyone have their flint and steel?”

Each soldier reached to wherever he stored his small, oiled leather pouch that contained a flint and steel striker, char cloth, shredded fibers, and oak bark tinder used for basic spark-based fire-starting.

“Good,” said Nathan. “Cero and Nundle will each sit behind one of the trees, blindfolded.”

Peering at Nathan, Nundle asked, “We will?”

“Yes, Nundle. You will.” Turning to Cero, he said, “As will you, Cero. You both have an interest in seeing how this plays out, do you not?”

Cero nodded. “I will go along with this for now.”

Nathan looked back to Nundle. “And you?”

Nundle stared at the sergeant, a large frown on his face. This gamble by Nathan was either a brilliant tactical move or a terrible, foolhardy mistake. Nundle could not tell which. Nathan might be willing to submit to arrest, but he most definitely was not. He supposed that should he come out on the losing end, he could always use the Strands to free himself. Putting his faith in Nathan, he nodded once.

“I, as well.”

Facing the soldiers, Nathan called, “One at a time, you will walk behind each tree and drop your pouch into the helmet of the person you side with. Cero, to arrest me and pursue the outlaws. Nundle, to speak with the lawbreakers and see if there is more to this tale. I will not vote. Nundle and Cero are not soldiers, they get no vote—even though we can assume their votes would surely cancel one another out. As I sent three men to carry a message to Corporal Holb, that leaves forty-seven of you. The side with at least twenty-four votes wins. I will
not
reveal the final count—only the ultimate decision. Is everything acceptable?”

The men nodded slowly. They were clearly nervous.

Glancing between Nundle and Cero, Nathan said, “After each vote, you will take out your pouch and place it in a bag. This way, no one will know another’s choice.” He studied his men. “You can vote your conscience without fear of repercussion. Are there any questions?”

The soldiers remained quiet. A few shook their heads.

Nathan dismounted his horse and handed the reins to the nearest soldier.

“Eadding, Blainwood. Your helmets, please.”

After the two soldiers unhooked the headpieces from their saddles and handed them to the sergeant, Nathan looked at Cero and Nundle.

“Let’s get to it.”

After Nundle and Cero dismounted, the trio walked in silence to the two trees. Nearly fifty paces of open grassland separated the healthy and diseased oaks. Cero went left, toward the sickly tree while Nundle headed for the vibrant, strong oak. Both sat down with his back to his respective tree trunk.

Nundle watched Nathan bend down to tie a length of cloth around Cero’s eyes. The sergeant placed one of the Sentinels’ silver, domed helmets on the ground in front of the Tracker and gave him a leather bag for the flint and steel pouches. Neither longleg said a word.

Nathan walked to Nundle, kneeled down, and handed him a helmet and a bag.

“Sorry to put you through this, Nundle.”

“I would have appreciated you discussing this with me in advance.”

“If I had, you would have tried to talk me out of it, I think.”

“Perhaps I would have, perhaps not. Mostly likely, I would have. Regardless, I would have liked the opportunity to at least think this through.” Cocking an eye, he asked, “Are you sure
you’ve
thought this through?”

“More than you know, Nundle. A man should choose his own fate. Especially when it comes to something like this. I cannot—I
will
not choose it for them.”

Nundle regarded his friend for a moment before sighing and taking off his wide-brimmed hat.

“Blindfold me, then.”

The sergeant took a piece of rough burlap and wrapped it around Nundle’s head and eyes, tying it off in the back. When he was done, he patted Nundle’s shoulder and said, “Ketus be with you.”

“I think you could use the luck more than I.”