Wanderling (Spirit Seeker Book 1) (20 page)

“The boy’s gifts are valuable for
battle strategy. He can see troop movements from leagues and leagues away,
anticipate their every move,” said Burano. “With his help, we can know the
numbers and placement of the Gerstadt defenses.”

Adala offered some of the salad to
a soldier, who looked at her like she was crazy and pushed the basket away. She
paid no heed, listening to Tobin’s translation of Shairo’s words.

“We know nothing yet,” he said.
“The boy has a valuable gift, but even so, our tribes will not take it as a
sign to take back the fertile lands unless he is
the
one
with the
spirit gift. If our priests agree that he is a sign from the gods, we will
consider it. If he is false, there is no harm done between our people. You may
go back to your well in the hills and leave our territory forever.”

Burano seemed impatient. “But
regardless of what your priests say, it would be a shame to let this chance go
to waste. With our numbers combined, we have maybe three thousand men. With
that force, combined with the boy’s skill of knowing enemy troop movements, we
can catch Gerstadt off guard and take it over easily. There aren’t many
soldiers, and the city’s only great defense is in the walls of the castle. We
must act swiftly, before they know what is happening.”

“My people have waited a thousand
years for the gods to send us a sign and lead us to the fertile seaside. If
this isn’t the right time, we will wait longer.”

Burano scoffed. “Do you want your
child to never see the ocean? To never set eyes on a fertile crop and have a
plentiful life?”

“My child will take care of
himself or herself better than anyone born in this land of plenty from which
you came,” Shairo retorted, standing up. “Speaking of which, my wife is calling
me. It is time to dance and celebrate the hope of our spirit guide.”

Shairo turned around and raised
his voice in a rejoicing cry, which led into a song that his clanspeople joined
in on, chanting the words and clapping their hands. Adala paused to watch as
many of them rose from their seats on the dirt and spun round and round, arms
reached towards the sky and voices calling out in a steady beat that seemed to
make the earth shake. They shed their top shirts, revealing vests underneath. A
few of the men were shirtless, whooping and spinning to the music.

Through the sea of spinning bodies
and women’s hair flying around, Adala spotted Ravi. He weaved between dancers
and came straight to Adala.

“Come,” he said, taking her basket
and setting it on the ground.

“No, I don’t think that’s a good
idea,” she said. “I don’t dance usually.”

“Come,” he said, and pulled her
forward. She groaned, looking to the native women as examples. They spun in
arching circles, and some of them stomped and moved their hips with the rhythm
of the song.

Ravi took her hand and spun her
around twice, then drew her closer. Adala backed away a little and began to
sway with the rhythm, listening to the singers as their foreign words strung
one into another in an endless, beautiful ballad. Ravi sang the words in a low
voice, winding his hands around Adala’s waist to guide her with the rhythm of
the music.

She noticed Trigg being dragged
into the dance by a native girl with wild braids in her hair and a vest that
showed part of her stomach. Adala grinned to see him try to imitate the dance
with rigid movements.

Ravi led Adala in waving her arms
to the sky, then circled her in a swerving, stomping dance. She turned round
and around, letting the music take her up. The words of the song were unknown
but glorious to her ears, and she drank in the moment.

The song grew faster. Though they
could not communicate with her through words, Ravi led her well through the
steps, their feet moving in mirror movements. Then he lifted her into the air
on a high note unexpectedly, and she felt weightless for a brief moment before
he returned her softly to the ground. She spun, her arms in the air, faster and
faster as the music climaxed. She turned so rapidly that as the last note of
the song ended, she began to stumble. But Ravi’s arms stopped her, and she
smiled up at him.

“Thank you,” she said a little
breathlessly. She turned away, thinking it was probably time to find Ollie and
begin cleaning up the feast if there were any leftovers. But she stopped in her
tracks when she saw Tobin’s eyes on her from the edge of the crowd. He still
sat next to Burano, but he stared at her with a stone cold expression. He
looked away quickly as she returned the gaze.
Is he jealous?
She
thought, laughing inwardly. She dared to hope he might be.

“On second thought,” she said,
turning back to Ravi with an alluring smile. “Another dance?”

Tobin’s head swam with thoughts of
the evening’s events when he slept that night. Something about the rhythmic
music of his mother’s people evoked an emotional response within him, making it
harder to suppress his anger with Burano. It pained him to see Burano use Adala
and Shem the way he did, and it pained him almost as much to see him manipulate
the Roharian people. And in spite of himself, he kept seeing images of Adala
dancing with the Roharian warrior.

Tobin wished he had Adala to talk
to. He wanted to share with her how the music of the desert clan haunted him.
How he felt his mother was speaking to him, telling him to get away. But he had
no chance to plan a successful escape or to speak to Adala. She was not called
to read in the following days, and with the clan camped near them Burano always
kept Tobin by his side for translating. As far as Tobin could tell, Adala spent
her days caring for the horses and chatting with Ollie. Sometimes he caught a
glimpse of her from a distance as she helped prepare and serve the evening
meals, but he scarcely saw her outside of that.

Tobin spent endless hours watching
Shem and Burano track the movements of the desert clans and translating their
findings to Shairo and Yarele and any other members of their clan that they
brought to meet with Burano. The tribes farthest away began their journey on
the first night, traveling faster than Tobin thought possible on foot. The
closest tribes stayed where they were, for days, and when Burano expressed
curiosity about that, Shairo explained that all of the clans would plan on
arriving precisely on the tenth day, as not to use up all the resources at the
central location. The closer they came to the meeting day, the more smoke Tobin
saw on the horizon during the evening meal. He grew more and more anxious to
find a time to sneak Shem away, but they were constantly with Burano,
surrounded by his most trusted officers, including Jarod.

Each time Tobin opened his mouth
to translate for Shairo and Yarele, the leaders of the hosting desert clan, he
considered telling them the truth about Burano: that he had stolen Shem from
his family and was using them for his own gain. However, he couldn’t guess what
Shairo’s response would be. Burano’s offenses would anger them, to be sure, but
Tobin feared that if he revealed the truth they would wage battle against
Burano. What would happen to Shem, Adala, Ollie, Trigg, and Boggs if that were
the case? Would Tobin make it back to his sister ever again? With so much at
stake, Tobin was hesitant to risk it all by revealing the truth.

As much as Tobin feared Burano and
his plans for Shem, he feared the power of Shairo, the proud Roharian chief,
far more. In their dealings, Tobin observed him carefully. Shairo was sure to
stop Burano short any time they discussed a battle with Gerstadt, always
stating that it was for the priests of the clans to decide if it was time to
return to the seaside. The chief seemed perturbed by Burano’s constant references
to the potential battle, though he never lashed out about it. He was an elusive
type of leader, the one that remains patient and understanding until you break
his trust entirely. And Tobin hoped to never learn what would happen if Shairo
lost his precarious confidence in Burano.

A group of the desert dwelling
warriors shed their weapons and over-shirts to climb the face of the rock
structure every morning, soaking up the condensation with their shirts as Tobin
had demonstrated for the Wanderlings. They spread out in the morning to hunt,
then gathered in the shade of the rock tower when it grew unbearably hot. The
foliage near the soldier camp was growing scarcer by the day, and foraging
parties had to travel farther and farther to gather food for the campsite.

Tobin wished he could speak with
the members of the Levenor clan about Shairo and learn more about the leader,
but he had few chances to do so without Burano. In fact, the leader seemed to
be directly preventing him from being alone with the tribe, always keeping
Tobin at his side under a watchful eye.

He thinks I will switch sides
still,
Tobin realized one day when Burano requested yet again that Tobin
sleep on the floor inside the tent as a guard for Shem.
He suspects I will
try and sell him out to Shairo and his people.
Tobin couldn’t be angry
about Burano’s suspicion, of course, because it was entirely correct. But it
was difficult nevertheless to be at Burano’s beck and call.

The most private interaction that
Tobin had with a desert dweller in Shairo’s clan came during a couple of
evenings at the sunset feasts. Ravi, the young warrior who had danced with
Adala on the first night, approached Tobin directly, clasping his right hand
across to Tobin’s right shoulder in greeting.

“I need your help,” pleaded Ravi
in the Roharian tongue.

Tobin translated his words into
Bolgish for Burano, who sat next to him as always.

Ravi shook his head.  “No, I
want
you
to teach me words in the white language. I need to speak to the
woman in your clan.”

Tobin raised his eyebrows, peering
up from his seat on a boulder to evaluate the warrior before him. Ravi had
longish hair and high cheekbones, plus a broad chest that barely fit into his
leather vest. He boasted a couple of visible scars from arrow wounds, and he had
a very polished knife at his hip—his prized possession aside from his bow,
Tobin guessed.

“What does he say?” asked Burano.

Tobin shook his head. “He’s asking
for advice on women,” he replied to his commander. “I will get rid of him.”
Turning back to Ravi, he said quickly, “The woman in our clan is named Adala,
and she has been called for.”

“But she is still unmarried?” said
Ravi, looking a bit too hopeful for Tobin’s comfort.

“She is unavailable,” said Tobin,
a bit too harshly. “She has planned to marry a white man from her home clan.
She talks about it all the time. It’s bothersome.”

Ravi’s dark eyebrows lowered in
confusion. “She
plans
to be married?” he said.

Tobin sighed, understanding Ravi’s
misunderstanding somewhat. In the desert clans, relationships went a little
differently. If a man took a woman to bed, then they were married. There were
no formal in-between stages and surprisingly few separations as far as Tobin
could tell. “In her home clan, marriage takes longer. People have to think
about it for months or even years first,” he explained.

“If she is still thinking about
it, then she is free to consider other options,” Ravi said simply, with a
hopeful smile. “I need to tell her my interest. What words can I say?”

“If I understood that woman enough
to know the words that would woo her, I wouldn’t be standing here right now,”
Tobin said. “She danced with you the other night; that’s progress. Just keep
doing what you’re doing.”

Ravi seemed to finally pick up on
Tobin’s tone, and he bowed his head slightly before departing.

On the morning of the tenth day,
Tobin chanced another run-in with Ravi. Early in the morning, Burano addressed
Tobin, saying, “Fetch Adala for me, will you? All of the desert clans will be
arriving today, and I want her to read the final installment of the monk’s
writings before we all gather together.”

As Tobin wandered the camp looking
for Adala, he spotted Ravi striding between piles of supplies carrying a cactus
flower. Tobin rolled his eyes and followed Ravi’s sickeningly adoring gaze to
where Adala sat, crouched next to a fire and helping Ollie with breakfast.

Tobin tried to catch up, but Ravi
reached her first, tapping her on the shoulder and presenting the blossom to
her with a winning smile.

When Ravi held his gift out to
her, Adala’s face took on a highly annoyed expression, her lips curving into a
frown. “Why do you insist on keeping this up?” she cried, crossing her arms and
ignoring the flower.

Tobin stopped in his tracks,
barely concealing a laugh. He had hardly seen Adala in days, and seeing her
tortured by Ravi’s advances was a surprisingly amusing scene. He stayed at a
distance, unnoticed by Adala, Ollie, and even Jarod, who leaned against a
boulder by the fire.

Jarod laughed from his seat in the
shade. “I’d think you knew why he’s here by this point, wench.”

“For you,” Ravi said, ignoring
Jarod’s jeer. “Pretty flower, pretty girl.”

He picked up a couple of words,
thought Tobin with a grin.
Poor guy; it’s all for nothing.

Adala let out a sigh, her whole
body slumping in frustration. “How could you like me? We don’t even speak the
same language!”

“Someone would have to speak a
different language in order to like you,” Jarod called. “You two are perfect
for each other.”

Adala shot Jarod a death glare, a
muscle rippling in her jaw.

“Flower,” Ravi said again, taking
her hand and pressing the bloom into it.

“Why?” she groaned again.

“Blue eyes,” Ravi said, brushing
her hair away from her face in what should have been a tender move, but Adala’s
sour expression took away the moment. “Blue eyes, blue sky.”

Adala waved his arm away. “Lots of
people have blue eyes, you know. If you’re into that, give the flower to Ollie!
His eyes are blue.” She gestured to where Ollie sat, sipping from a flask.

“Don’t cast him on me, girl,” Ollie
chuckled. “He’s your problem to deal with. If he’s going to persist though, you
should tell him that the hare and lizard were better, more delicious gifts.”

She turned back to Ravi. “You
cannot give me any more gifts, do you understand? It’s no use. You only speak
five words. If you could understand anything, I’d tell you to get lost and to
take the rest of your clan with you.”

Ravi reached forward and tugged a
stray lock of her hair, slicing it off with the blade of his knife.

“Seriously? Taking my hair?” She
said, balking at his bold move. She backed away, towards Tobin, and then turned
abruptly, only to run straight into Tobin’s chest.

“Hey there,” Tobin said, clasping
her arm to keep her from losing balance. He couldn’t contain what he knew was
probably a smug grin on his face.

Startled, she pushed away.
“Eavesdropping much?” she spat.

“Just enjoying the show,” he said,
glancing over her shoulder to where Ravi stood, stuffing her lock of hair into
a pouch on his belt.

“I’m glad someone’s amused by it,”
she said. “Why don’t you make yourself useful and tell him I’m not interested.”

Tobin looked from her to Ravi and
back again, soaking up the best entertainment that he had witnessed in days. “I
couldn’t do that,” he said finally. “It would break the poor man’s heart.
Besides, he probably doesn’t interact with women besides married ones and
sisters, considering how small his clan is. He will have more distractions when
the other clans arrive tonight.”

“Why are you here, anyway?” she
said. “Shouldn’t you be plotting with Burano?”

Tobin stopped smiling, reminded of
his dull existence as Burano’s shadow. “Burano sent me to get you. He has one
final scroll from the monk that he wants you to read before the clans arrive.”

“He waited until the last minute
on that one,” she said, following him towards the tent. Tobin stopped at the
doorway and gestured for Adala to duck inside. No sooner had she gone in than
Burano emerged to speak with Tobin.

“Stay on guard,” said Burano,
stepping in closely to speak in Tobin’s ear so that Adala and Shem couldn’t
hear his words inside. “From what I recall, the monk’s story ends quite poorly,
so the girl might be a bit less cooperative when she finds out what happened to
him.”

A lump rose in Tobin’s throat.
“What happened to him?” he asked.

“The monk failed the tribe’s test…
and they were less than graceful about the disappointment,” Burano said grimly.

Tobin’s throat felt tight, and he
couldn’t find the words to say anything else. He stared dumbly after Burano as
the leader disappeared inside the tent.

As Tobin stood guard outside of
the tattered tent, he felt numb with shock. His head spun with worry of the
possible outcomes for Shem and the rest of them if the tribal test went badly.
Vaguely, he heard her words drift out of the tent in muffled phrases.

At sundown, my captors intend
to perform some sort of ritual. The witch doctor called it a “spirit feast,”
and I fear that I may be the feast.

My advocates assure me that I
will survive because I am their prophesized warrior guide, and the desert
spirits will not kill me because they will be under my command.

They don’t believe me when I
say I am not the warrior guide. They say I may not know it if I am. Perhaps
it’s true, though I know it is heresy against the gods to say so. I do not pay
homage to the desert fiends.

I cannot speculate as to what
they have in store for me at this “spirit feast,” but all I can do is wait.
Dusk is nearly upon me, and my hand trembles as I write these words. I fear
they may be my last, if I am to fail this test of a spirit feast. My hope is
that the gods grant me mercy on this night.

Adala’s voice quivered at the
final words, followed by a moment’s tense silence.

“It is as I thought,” came
Burano’s voice from within the tent. “Thank you for reading, Adala.”

“Did he die?” Shem asked in a
small voice. “Did the spirit feast kill him?”

Tobin gulped, feeling like his
head was on fire.
Burano is leading the boy into a ritual that I’ve never
even heard of, and it appears that the man who wrote those scripts died during
it.
Tobin could hardly believe his mother’s people were capable of such
wild practices, but he knew that he had underestimated both their superstitions
and their propensity for violence in the past.