Lakhoni (8 page)

Lakhoni
gritted his teeth.

“Look
closer,” Gimno said.

He
did so. He quickly noticed something he hadn’t seen before. It was a footprint,
but there was no outline for the toes. Even if the print was older than a week,
there should still be a sign of toes. “Somebody wearing a shoe of some kind.”

Gimno
struck Lakhoni on the left shoulder. “There! How do you know it hasn’t worn
away?”

“It’s
not the stormy season. Early winter is almost always still and dry.” Lakhoni
looked around some. “No animal tracks. No signs of any kind of weather. This
print has not faded or deteriorated much. So no toes means a shoe.”

“Good.
What else?”

Lakhoni
sat back on his haunches, considering. “Nobody in my village wore shoes this
early in the year. Neither do your people.”

“Our
people,” Gimno said, his voice firm.

“Our
people.” Lakhoni carefully kept his emotions under control, his face still. He
stood and walked carefully around the immediate area, scouring the ground.
“This one’s on top of older prints without shoes. Probably from one of the
king’s raiding party.”

“A
good guess. It might be that Zyron’s dog’s wore boots of some kind.” Gimno
raised an eyebrow. “But keep looking.”

Lakhoni
hunkered down again, trying to take everything before him in. He looked around
the village center, trying to order events in his mind. He ignored the other
Separated who were gathering items from the huts and making a pile near the
well. A glimmer of a thought came to him. He turned to the dirt again. In a
moment, he found it: blood from the attack on the village. Once he found the
first patch, he could distinguish the dark patches in the dirt. He looked back
at the print.

“But
this print is on top of blood. On top of my old prints too. Someone came here
after that night.”

Gimno
nodded. “Yes.”

“Not
the king’s men. This is someone else.” Confusion struck him. “But who else
would have come here?”

“That’s
a stiff leather boot. Someone prosperous.”

Lakhoni
stood and faced the tall man, a feeling of unease creeping from his neck to his
lower back. “Who would have come? And why?”

Gimno
also stood, the lines in his face hardening. He looked out over the dark trees,
in the direction of the cavern of the Separated. “I can tell you who. It is a
guess, but my gut tells me I am right. But I cannot tell you why.” He started
toward the trees, gesturing at the other men. “We leave now.”

With
arms full of blankets, pots, and other things culled from the village, the men
of the Separated melted into the trees.

“Gimno,”
Lakhoni said. “Who? Who came here?”

His
tattoos glistening in the sun, Gimno continued into the trees. Lakhoni hurried
to catch up, his heart beating quickly. This hurry and the weight of the tall
man’s voice told Lakhoni that the warrior was scared.

Gimno’s
voice rasped through the shadows of the forest. “The Usurpers. The Usurpers
came to your village.”

Death.
The rich, sweet stench of rot assaulted her. Ree reeled back, spinning to get
away from the gaping maw before her. She felt sure that a hand, gnarled and
clawed, would reach from that pit to grab her if she didn’t move fast enough.
Before she could take a step, her pathway was barred by indistinct, looming
figures. Their hazy shapes looked like wide, stunted trees, but with pale
yellow eyes glowing from their shadowed faces.

She
spun again, heart hammering in her chest, desperate to find an escape. Long
arms, deep with shadow and menace reached for her. The stink of the pit filled
her head and body.

All
strength left her and Ree screamed in hopeless terror.

She
was sitting in her bed, sweat making her skin feel sticky and chilled. Cold
light filtered through the nearly translucent animal skin covering her window.
Heart beating wildly, she looked around quickly.

A
dream. It had been a dream. She was home, safe. In her father’s temple, in her
room.

Ree
hugged herself tightly, then, still too cold, snuggled her woven blanket around
her. She could still smell the stench of that horrible pit, feel the hands of
those figures just behind her shoulders.

What
had the dream meant? Her father’s spiritual advisor, Omnio, claimed that all
dreams had a meaning, that dreams were messages sent by the First Fathers and
the Great Spirit. Omnio said that most people were just too blinded by their
flesh to understand the messages.
What would he say about this one?

Ree
shook her head, deciding to try to put the images out of her head. She sidled
to the edge of her raised sleeping pallet and lowered her feet into her soft
skin slippers. She briefly considered going to her father’s throne room to try
to puzzle out the lock on his stone box, but discarded that idea. There would
be guards and she just needed to do something to get her mind off her dream,
not get into big trouble.

Ree
reached up and removed her cloak from the carved bone that had been stuck into
the stone wall of her room. Tossing her blanket onto her bed, she donned the
cloak and circled the room. She idly picked up trinkets as she passed them on
their shelves. A shiny bronze set of earrings that her father said were shaped
like shells felt smooth and good in her hands. She wondered if she would ever
see the ocean. It was only three days’ journey to the east, but her father had
never allowed her to make the trip. He had to protect his precious flower.

Ree
put the earrings down, picking up a delicate wood figurine of a beautiful
woman. She had found this one on the colorful mat spread out by a young boy in
the market square of Zyronilxa. The boy had claimed that the carving was of one
of the First Mothers, but Ree preferred to think it was a carving of her
mother.

Whenever
she asked her father about her mother, his answer came quickly: “She died in
childbirth.” Ree would often ask about siblings and other family, but Zyron
always insisted that her mother had no family. Ree wondered why she didn’t just
believe her father, but he always pushed Ree off the subject, as if he were
hiding something. But what could he possibly feel like he had to hide? Her
father was king; he could do whatever he wanted.

 Carefully
replacing the carving, Ree decided that a walk in the night air would help her
calm down and slow her racing thoughts. She let her door close slowly and made
her way down the hallway to the main corridor that wound in a slow circuit
around the inner, second-story walls of the temple.
Down the stairs and out
into the courtyard or to the terrace?
Feeling too lazy to go down stairs
and then have to climb them again, Ree opted for the terrace. Her slippers
whispered on the heavy stones of the floor as she walked. She held her cloak
more tightly around her body, keeping the chilly night air away.

She
soon came to the doorway to the terrace and slipped outside. A blue-white moon
hung heavily in the sky almost directly overhead. It was surrounded by a thick
carpet of stars that glinted and shimmered in the autumn air. Ree took a slow
deep breath, soaking in the evening. An image of the stench-filled pit flashed
through her mind, but she fought it off, opening her eyes wide to take in as
many of the stars as she could.

Ree
stepped closer to the edge of the terrace, looking over the city that spread
out from the temple. She could see only two or three small fires—or maybe they
were torches—in the stone homes that encircled the huge building that was her
father’s temple. She walked back along the terrace to the other edge. This side
of the terrace dropped straight down to one of the courtyards of the palace. As
she approached the edge, she heard a voice.

Instinctively
ducking, Ree almost dashed back inside, but curiosity got the better of her.
She lowered herself to her hands and knees, crawling carefully on the chilly
stone to the edge of the terrace. Down in the courtyard, she saw the paddock
and low stables where horses were kept, the dog pen, and on the other wall, she
saw dim light filtering out through the gaps around a door to the slaves’
quarters. She stayed in that position, listening in the direction of that
light. After a moment, she heard the voice again. She couldn’t tell what it was
saying, but it was a man’s voice.

The
voice got louder for a second. It was Shelu! Ree wondered why Shelu, her
father’s favorite warrior, would be in the slaves’ quarters this late at night.

Then
she heard the other voice—a girl’s. It was loud and frightened. Then the girl’s
voice suddenly cut off.

Ree
understood why Shelu would want to keep the girl quiet; he was not supposed to
be in there. The slaves belonged to her father and he had made strict rules
about other men spending time with the female slaves. If King Zyron found out
about Shelu’s presence in there, especially this late at night, who knew what
would happen?

Ree
decided to tell her father in the morning. She had never liked Shelu and she
would love seeing the angry man get in trouble.

As
she eased herself backwards, Ree wondered why Shelu would be visiting a slave
this late at night. Ree knew perfectly well what men and women did together,
but Shelu had access to plenty of other slaves and servants. Why would he take
the risk?

When
she was close to the doorway back into the temple, Ree stood and hurried toward
her room. Yes, Shelu was breaking a rule and he deserved to get in trouble for
it. She almost stopped as a thought struck her.
I can’t tell father, he
would want to know what I was doing out on the terrace in the middle of the
night.
And even if Ree spoke only truth, there was little chance that her
suspicious father would believe her.

Shelu
was up to something and it was against the rules. She would find out what the
man was doing and then decide whether to tell her father. If Shelu was doing
something really bad, her father would appreciate knowing and would thank her.
Then maybe he would see that her curiosity wasn’t only a bad thing. And if
Shelu was just being a stupid man following his desires, maybe Ree would keep
it quiet until she found a use for the knowledge.

The
apple crunched satisfyingly in his mouth, sweet juices bursting and then
flowing down his throat. Lakhoni edged closer to the fire, looking around at
all of the people gathered at Gimno’s fire. The small circle trembled with the
intensity of the conversation.

One
of Gimno’s warriors had spotted an apple tree full of ripe fruit soon after
leaving the village. They had all filled pouches, blankets, pots, and even
tunics with as much of the small crunchy fruit as they could carry.

When
they had arrived at the cavern with fresh fruit and tales of Usurpers in the
area, people had flocked around them, asking questions. Many of those people
now sat or stood in Gimno’s fire circle, and nervous chatter echoed off the
stones.

Fully
warmed after the journey through the cold winter day, Lakhoni wandered around
the fringes of the crowd, chewing thoughtfully. He considered making apples his
only meal for the next few days. As he moved, he caught snatches of
conversation, voices raised in angry tones.

“—find
them and destroy them!”

“We
must take things slowly and carefully. They are the invaders and—”

“—retrieve
our birthright . . .”

This
last caught his attention. It was strange that any of the Separated—a people
that had left behind their homes with Zyron’s people of their own free
choice—would want to reclaim a birthright that the Usurpers had stolen from
Zyron’s great grandfathers.

Every
child of King Zyron’s people heard the story—the chief of the village had told
it every year during the mid-autumn celebrations. The First Fathers had fled a
wicked people across the great waters to the east, guided by the light of the
Great Spirit, when a conflict erupted. The patriarch of the First Fathers had
died, leaving the First Fathers and their families without a leader. The middle
brother had claimed to be chosen by the Great Spirit to rule, and the younger
brothers had raised arms in support. The two oldest brothers, knowing it was a
sin to fight family, had taken their families and fled into the wilderness to
the south.

King
Zyron was a descendant of one of those two older brothers. The Usurpers,
somewhere far to the north, often invaded, trying to claim all of the earth for
their greedy power, but Zyron’s people—the People of Promise—had always fended
the Usurpers off.

It
was said that the Usurpers practiced all kinds of evil, sacrificing humans and
doing unthinkable things with animals and innocents.

Now
the Usurpers had made it farther south than anyone could remember seeing them.

And,
for some reason, they had visited Lakhoni’s village, and maybe even gone into
his family’s hut.
Why?

Lakhoni
drifted away from the crowd, heading in the direction of one of the training
rings in the middle of the cavern. The Usurpers’ motives were none of his
concern. His only thought now should be to do all he could to gain the total
trust of the Separated so that he could find a way to escape and get to Zyronilxa.
And there he would find his sister and guide the sword of justice to fall upon
those who had murdered his family.

He
stepped between the two tall stones that had been placed as a portal to his
favorite training ring. He had run, dodged, ducked, and rolled around this
training circle enough to know where all of the depressions and bumps were.
Looking around, he was glad that most of the people were still at Gimno’s
circle, leaving him free to work alone. He didn’t like having an audience,
especially when he was practicing feather leaps.

He
placed his feet shoulder-width apart and closed his eyes, letting out a slow
breath. He focused on the feeling of his feet on the stone, willing his body to
become completely still. In a brief moment, he had centered, his body feeling
one with the stone beneath him. Gimno said that he would learn to center so
well at some point that if a running boar were to slam into him full-tilt he
would not be moved.

Lakhoni
didn’t know yet if he believed that, but he knew that more strength infused him
with each moment that he stood still and calm.

Willing
his heart to beat calmly, Lakhoni began to flex his leg muscles. He pushed them
to become tighter and tighter, forcing his breathing to remain even. When he
felt his legs might snap, he bent his legs slightly and launched himself
forward. He stretched his right leg forward, aiming the ball of the foot at a
small rise on the ground. He tightened the muscles of his leg until the moment
before his foot came into contact with the rise. Pushing off almost before he
landed, he flung himself to the left now, his left leg tight and his foot aimed
carefully at another small rise.

This
was the feather leap; it was how Gimno had descended the entrance shaft to the cavern
of the Separated on the night that Lakhoni had first been taken in. The
objective was to be in such control of your muscles and actions that you could
push off anything quickly and easily—and through this be able to change your
direction with astonishing speed. Gimno insisted that a man could dodge arrows
from an army with the feather leap.

Lakhoni
could probably dodge a stone thrown by a child, but that might be the limit of
his abilities. He intended to master this technique. Pushing off his left leg,
he sprang across the ring to another rise, and then another. Soon he was
nearing the portal stones. Elation filled him. He was spending too much time on
the ground before each succeeding leap, but he also knew he was doing better
than ever before.

Gathering
all of his strength and forcing it into his right leg until it practically
hummed with tension, he pushed off the last rise. He shot off the ground and
reached toward the top of the stone. Gimno had done this and had leapt easily
to the top of the same portal stone two weeks previously.

He
was going to make it!

His
knees slammed into the stone with an explosion of hot pain. Just as he began to
slide down, he understood that if he were to hit the ground askew as he was, he
could break a leg. He instinctively pushed off the stone with his arms and
feet. He arched his back as far backward as he could, envisioning himself doing
a back flip and landing on all fours. He had to tuck his legs—
like this
—tight
up to his body and fling his arms hard in the direction of his mid-air tumble.

He
hit the ground, balls of his feet landing first, his legs bending fluidly to
absorb the impact and his right hand coming down immediately after. He stopped
moving, feeling as if he had landed lighter than he could have hoped for.

Lakhoni
stayed that way for a moment. The dark brown and black hues of the cavern floor
filled his vision.
By the Fathers
. He glanced at his posture. He had
landed like a cat, or a spider—lightly and in total control. The flip he had
done passed through his mind; he could see what he had made his body do.

“How
did I do that?” he asked the ground. He pushed himself to his feet and glanced
around. Nobody was near; nobody had seen. He briefly wondered why he cared that
none of the Separated had seen him, but the thought left him as a glimmer of
understanding lit his mind. “I thought I was going to make it. I lost focus on
my actions and forgot the moment.” He knew this was why he hadn’t gained the
top of the portal stone. Gimno had said, countless times, that he had to be in
total control of each muscle and that anticipation, fear, and other emotions
too often got in the way of that control.

That
must be how I did the flip. It was like I was watching myself.
Lakhoni shook off the surprise
at what he had done and focused on his state of mind during the flip and his
landing. He needed to be able to do that kind of thing again.
It must have
been the danger of breaking my leg. I knew I couldn’t afford to do that. I
wouldn’t get out of here for months.
It had been the need that made him
focus. The urgency of staying healthy had cleared his focus until it was sharp
as the edge of a fine obsidian dagger.
I need to be able to do that again.

The
pain in his scraped knees faded as he walked slowly inside the perimeter of the
training ring. He thought about justice and rescue; the mission he felt
commanded by his family to fulfill. He strode across the ring again, centering
himself instantly. He flung himself forward. He feather-leapt from rise to
rise, feeling a delicious strength and clarity fill him.

As
he leapt, he considered trying the portal stone again. He decided against it.
He would try another day when he was stronger.

He
landed lightly back in the center, every muscle calm and feeling as if he had
taken a refreshing walk.

“Cub!”

Tingles
of surprise splashed up his neck and on his scalp. He spun toward the voice.

Gimno
leaned casually against a portal stone, regarding him with bright eyes. “Well
done! Still needs work, but you’ve been practicing, I see.”

Digging
for the crystal-clear focus he’d had moments ago, Lakhoni grinned at the tall,
fiercely tattooed man. With a feeling of sudden rightness, Lakhoni felt his
focus return.

“Who
needs practice?” he asked.

“You
still do, but that is good work.” Gimno smiled at Lakhoni’s insolent tone.

“I’ve
got time.”

“You
do.” Gimno turned and gestured for Lakhoni to follow. “Come now. You are due
for a haircut.”

Lakhoni
followed, stroking his head with one hand. Gimno was right. Lakhoni hadn’t
noticed it, but he now had thick fuzz covering his entire scalp. And his youth
patch along the top of his head was almost a half-thumb length.

He
followed Gimno as the tall man wove between huts, making his way toward a side
of the cavern Lakhoni had never been to. This was the side where the small man
who had led the sacrifice of the boy lived.

Lakhoni
could tell by Gimno’s body language where the man was heading: directly toward
the hardened leather-covered wood door of the spiritual leader of the
Separated. Was it possible that the man who had killed the young man was to be
the person who would shave Lakhoni’s head? Would he use the same knife that was
used to make the sacrifice?

A
tremor of fear ran the length of Lakhoni’s body. Fury followed on the fear’s
heels. Then fear came again. How could Lakhoni hide his revulsion from this
man? And if the man detected Lakhoni’s true feelings, there was no doubt what
would come next.

Gimno
stopped a few paces in front of the door and clapped loudly three times.
Lakhoni glanced around, wondering if he could make his escape now.

It
would be certain death.

The
door to the hut swung outwards, and one of the red-dyed men, the Consecrated,
stepped out. He looked at Gimno questioningly. Gimno spoke, “This cub is due
for a haircut.”

The
red man glanced at Lakhoni. Fear made Lakhoni’s muscles go soft.

“Come,”
the Consecrated said and turned back into the hut.

Gimno
followed, ducking slightly to avoid knocking his head against the top of the
doorway.

Lakhoni
stepped forward, the darkness inside the hut and the darkness he knew to be in
the murdering man who lived there filling him with terrible fear. But that
darkness beckoned him forward and he would not shrink from it.