Lakhoni (16 page)

“Are
you going to let me go?”

Ree
thought quickly. “I wish I could. Maybe another day. But it’s winter right
now.” She would get in so much trouble if anyone found her in here. She had to
leave.

“Is
he going to kill me?”

“I
don’t think so.” Ree tried to catch the girl’s darting gaze. “I heard him say
something about a sword.”

“I
told him I don’t know! You’re working with him, trying to be nice to me! I
still don’t know!” The girl burst into tears.

Ree
dashed across the room, putting her hands on the girl’s shaking shoulders. “No,
I’m not. I’m really not. I’m sorry.”

Why
does he think she knows where the Sword is?

“Please
let me go.” Her voice was so soft, so scared, that Ree almost stepped back to
let the girl past.

“You’ll
die.” A stirring of determination touched her throat as she spoke. “But I’ll
help you get away after winter. They shouldn’t do this to you.” Ree swallowed.
“Or to anyone.”

The
girl looked up, her gaze finally resting on Ree. Tears had left shining trails
on the girl’s face. “You’ll help me?”

“I
will.”

The
girl lowered her face into her hands and scrubbed at her cheeks. She scooted
back on her bed, then met Ree’s eyes again. “Who are you?”

Ree
stepped toward the door. She had to leave, or she was going to be caught. And
if someone found Titan outside by himself, it would look strange. She headed
for the door, but stopped long enough to answer the girl. “I’m Ree.”

The
slave girl nodded. “I’m Alronna.”

“After
today, you should be able to eat something more than soup,” Simra said. She
knelt beside him with another bowl.

Lakhoni
grunted. Two weeks of lying on his back, broken only by visits to the trench
outside and the few moments it took Simra’s father, Neas, to help him move so
the sleeping mat and blankets he used could be changed.

Two
weeks!
I
think. I might have lost track of a few days.

He
could nod now without feeling like he stood upon a dizzying cliff. Most of the
aches in his body had slowly dissipated. The fever and chills were gone too.
But his muscles were unused. He wondered if he would remember how to walk.

Simra’s
dark brown eyes met his again. A faint smile touched the corners of her lips.
“Which I’m sure pleases you to no end.”

Lakhoni
forced a smile, swallowing the first sip of hot soup. Had he ever thought this
concoction tasted good?

“How’s
the voice?”

Fear
flooded Lakhoni. Moisture came to his eyes, but he willed it away. His throat didn’t
hurt so much anymore beyond a dull ache. He didn’t understand why he couldn’t
talk. He wanted to trust Neas that his voice would return, but when Neas said
that he couldn’t tell what was wrong, it was hard to believe.

He
opened his mouth.
Come on, now. Just work!
He tried to form some words,
tried to tell her he was getting better. All that came out was a high-pitched
sound of air being forced through his throat underscored by small grunts.

“No.”
Simra’s hand touched his shoulder, staying there for a long moment. “It’s okay.
Father says it will heal. Don’t push it too hard.”

They
found their rhythm and the clay bowl Simra held emptied.

“At
least we can get that down, without you interrupting and trying to regale me
with tales of your adventures.” She had a joking tone and there was sympathy in
her eyes. “I really don’t care where you came from or how you got so sick. I
have no questions whatsoever as to what would make you travel in the middle of
winter.”

Lakhoni
was briefly grateful that he had no voice.
At least I have time to create a
good story.
He smiled at Simra; this time it was less forced. Aside from
her and Neas, he had no contact with anyone else. The village had decided there
was no need to visit the strange boy who had emerged from the wilderness of
winter now that Neas and his daughter were dealing with him.

“And
I really have no reason to ask you about the horrible scars on your head and
ribs.” Simra settled more, her shoulders relaxing as she adjusted her position
so she was sitting on the dirt floor next to him, her legs tucked under her.
Her tone softened as she continued. “You’re the only boy in the village who
hasn’t asked me to marry him.”

Lakhoni
snorted a laugh.

She
looked down, realized he had been listening, and burst out laughing too. After
a moment, Lakhoni braced himself on his elbows and levered himself upwards.
Simra helped him sit up and lean against the furry pelt that hung from the wall
near his sleeping mat. He nodded his thanks. When she had helped him before, her
strong hands on the bare skin of his chest, he had felt awkward. Now he was
used to it. Making sure the blanket didn’t slide down too far, he settled
backward, looking around the hut that had been his home for two weeks. It
appeared this village had extra huts to go around; nobody else slept here.

The
silence that settled between him and Simra might have been awkward a week ago,
but now it was comfortable. Minutes passed as they sat there, his eyes on the
small fire that kept the hut warm.

“You
must be bored.”

Lakhoni
smiled, nodding.

“Even
with the stories I tell you, spending all day in here must be awful.”

He
shrugged.

“Or
maybe the stories are the worst part?”

He
had known her two weeks, but he knew her better than he had known anybody, save
for Lamorun. Being only able to listen and watch, he perceived things about her
from the way she held herself or said something. Like now. Simra was joking,
but he could tell she sincerely worried that he didn’t enjoy her company. She
doubted herself at the strangest of times.

She
was confident in her opinions of the world around her, but when it came to
herself, Lakhoni had learned that she was less sure. He didn’t understand it.
Simra was easily the most beautiful girl he had ever seen. She could cook, hold
a conversation; she had talked about going hunting with her father. How could
anyone so nearly perfect doubt themselves?

Lakhoni
made no move to answer her half joking, half doubting question. He let the
moment draw out, then caught her eyes and smiled. He shook his head.

“You’re
not very nice, you know,” Simra said, jokingly disgusted with him.

He
shrugged again. He mouthed the word, “More,” raising his eyebrows.

She
had no trouble interpreting his meaning. “Okay.” Her brow furrowed as she
thought. “Myth, legend, truth, or a little of both?”

Lakhoni
held up two fingers.

“Both.
All right. You’ve probably heard this before, but since you can’t do anything
to stop me, I will go ahead and tell it anyway.”

Lakhoni
snorted.

“Hundreds
of years ago,” Simra began, “maybe thousands, the First Fathers escaped a
wicked land across the seas. A land peopled by sorcerers and witches, assassins
and thieves.”

Lakhoni
knew the story of the First Fathers, but the way Simra told it was different. It
was like a painted song, with her voice the brush that created pictures of an
ancient family with a divine destiny to fulfill. It sounded as if it were a
story passed down, word-for-word, among her people.

“The
First Fathers were four brothers who married four sisters, and later there were
two more brothers. They were led by the Great Spirit to gather chosen family
and friends to them and journey across broken land and wily sea until they
could find a land of safety and prosperity.

“Although
they were led by the Great Spirit, the brothers were not united. The two older
brothers, upon whom the rights and privileges of rule had been conferred by
their father, did all in their power to complete their journey, while the four
younger brothers sought dominion over the people they were leading to an
unknown destiny.”

Simra’s
eyes had grown unfocused as she spoke.

“They
built ships and sailed across oceans, guided by a tool of ancient wisdom and
wonder. This Guide was said to be a gift from the Great Spirit. It was a golden
skull. Instead of eyes, there were magnificent, clear gemstones. When the
people followed after evil, the gemstones grew cloudy and red. But when the
people acted rightly, the gemstones stayed clear.”

Simra
paused for a moment. “The First Fathers took the Guide from the treasury of the
wicked king of the land they lived in. Using the Guide, they found their way
through the wilderness to a great eastern ocean. Without the Guide, they would
never have completed their journey; they would have been lost forever in the
ocean depths.”

As
Simra spoke, Lakhoni let his thoughts wander, enjoying her voice. He wished he
knew how close Simra’s village was to Zyronilxa. If he could speak, he would be
able to ask. He could also get directions and continue his journey.
What if
I never speak again? How will I find Alronna?

“When
they arrived at their land of promise and plenty, the four younger brothers
deceived many of their friends with empty promises and lies, and led them in
attacking the older brothers and their families. The older brothers knew they
had to protect their families, so they fled southward. Thus, the land north is
that of the Usurpers—the unlawful rulers—and the land south is the land of the
true First Fathers.”

“The
wondrous Guide fell into the hands of the Usurpers, but it is said that their
unrighteousness was so great that the Great Spirit withdrew this gift from
them. Our people know that when the time comes, the Great Spirit will restore
the Guide to us and will lead us to reclaim our rightful, choice land in the
north, driving the Usurpers into the sea.”

The
Bonaha said something like that. Maybe the Separated aren’t so different from
the rest of us.

No,
the people of Zyron don’t practice human sacrifice.

“But
for now, there are two peoples: the Usurpers and the people of Zyron. The name
Zyron had been taken by each of our kings to show honor to the eldest
brother—so we remain the people of Zyron to this day.”

But
is murder any better?
Of
course not. He could not be one of the people of Zyron any longer. He had no
people and no place to call home.

The
silence in the hut made him realize that Simra had stopped speaking some time
ago.

“You
suddenly look very sad,” she said.

The
kindness in her voice and the concern he saw in her face softened something
inside of him. He clenched his jaw, clamping down tightly on the flood of
emotion that suddenly welled up. He tried not to meet her eyes, but failed.

Simra
stared intently at him. Her deep brown eyes, flecked with green, caught his and
held them. Lakhoni’s heart suddenly began pummeling his chest and he had to
fight hard to control a breath that caught in his throat . Both of her strong
hands enclosed his hand. He met her gaze again.

“You
will get better. Your voice will come back.” Simra’s smooth, delicate neck bent
slightly as she stared at him.

His
mind suddenly blank, his heart still pounding, Lakhoni’s control ebbed. He
clenched her hands, not wanting to tear his eyes from her face.

“And
when you get better, I hope you will tell me . . .” She looked
down.

Long
moments of silence passed. The heat of her hand was like a heavy cloak, or of
hot coals in the middle of a chilly night. He squeezed her hand, wishing she
would finish her sentence.

Without
looking at him again, Simra set his hand down onto the blanket. She rose
gracefully and leaned down to pick up the soup bowl. Before she turned to
leave, her voice came quietly.

“Your
name. I would like to know your name.”

The
door closed quietly behind her, a draft causing the small fire to twist and
dance.