Progeny (The Children of the White Lions) (45 page)

Walking to the northern side of the building, he climbed the stairs to the rooftop. Custom seemed to dictate that people went up the northern set of steps and down the southern stairwell.

Once on the rooftop, he moved straight to the green awning with white stripes and greeted the vendor. The longleg was still setting up his goods but seemed happy to have a customer so early in the day. He was helpful, giving Nundle his full attention while the tomble looked over a vast assortment of leather travel packs, waterskins, bedrolls, firesticks, skinning knives, slings, snares, walking sticks, and more. Realizing how vastly under prepared he was for his trip, Nundle bought one of nearly everything. The vendor could not stop smiling.

Remarking that it seemed the tomble was going on a long trip, the peddler noted the sandals and ragged gray robe that Nundle wore and made an excellent point that neither would last long on the open road. Nundle had to agree. His acolyte garb was made for the paved halls and walkways of the Strand Academies, not for extended travel over dirt and rock roads.

The longleg directed him to another vendor with a bright blue awning on the same rooftop, one who sold children’s boots and clothes. Pushing aside his initial reticence to wearing clothing meant for longleg children, Nundle bought some proper breeches and a shirt, along with a new set of boots. Thanking both vendors, he moved to the southern side of the building in order to walk down the stairs.

When he reached the edge, he stopped for a moment and looked down at the city around him. The hundreds of colorful awnings made it look as if someone had chopped up a rainbow and sprinkled it over the rooftops. To his left, the green treetops of the oak forest through which he had traveled yesterday ran to the horizon. Within the city proper, three sprawling structures rose high above the rest of the buildings; Nundle figured they were temples. By now, the streets were as busy as they had been when he had arrived yesterday, perhaps more so.

Not wanting to delay any longer, Nundle moved to the open stairwell on the south side of the building and was about to climb down when something in the crowd below caught his eye. Two columns of longlegs in red and black uniforms were coming around the corner of a nearby building, moving through the center of the street on horses. Behind them rode other longlegs with dark blue uniforms trimmed with gold.

Running his gaze along the procession, Nundle froze.

“Impossible…”

Preceptor Myrr rode at the head of the column. The saeljul was wearing tan traveling clothes and not his normal crimson robes, but Nundle did not doubt the ijul’s identity. The white-gold hair and elongated features were unmistakable.

Panicking, his heart racing, Nundle leapt back from the stair platform and slipped behind the nearest vendor stall, confident that his size and bright red hair would have given him away in a heartbeat. He reached into his pack and pulled out the wide-brimmed hat he had just bought and jammed it on his head, tucking his hair into the cap.

The vendor of the stand behind which he was hiding spoke, his tone conversational.

“Red Sentinels.”

Nundle glanced up at the vendor, finding the longleg peering down at the soldiers.

“Pardon?”

Motioning below, the longleg said to Nundle, “The red and black soldiers are Red Sentinels. From the Great Lakes.” A frown creased his face. “I’m surprised the duchess granted Duke Everett permission to let them ride here.”

Nundle’s head snapped up at the name.

“Duke Everett? The duke of the Great Lakes Duchy is named
Everett
?”

The vendor peered at him, brow furrowed, eyes curious.

“Um…yes?”

Nundle’s heart pumped as though was in the middle of a Leisure Time post race.

“Where does he live?”

The longleg’s eyes narrowed.

“Redstone.”

Nundle’s eyes widened a fraction. The letter he held was from an ‘Everett’ and spoke of a city named ‘Redstone.’ While it was possible that both names were a coincidence, Preceptor Myrr’s presence said it was not.

He stared back to the street, wondering how the preceptor had found him. Even if Magistrate Ulius had returned and shared what had happened, the preceptor would not have had the means by which to track Nundle to Lakeborough. His gaze settled on two men riding beside his former teacher, flanking the ijul.

“The pair in gray. Who are they?”

The question drew another curious look from the longleg.

“Constables. Trackers from the look of them.” He paused before asking, “You are new to the area, I take it?”

Nundle ignored the man’s question. His heart was beating so fast that he thought it might burst.

“Constables? Here? How?”

The mutterings were simply Nundle musing aloud, but the vendor answered him anyway.

“Word is they’re hunting some outlaw mages. Something about a whole village being destroyed in the north. Not sure about the ijul up front, though. I’ve never heard of a saeljul in any duchy army. And he’s not wearing gray, so he’s no Constable.”

Nundle’s heart slowed a bit. They were not here for him.

Glancing up at the vendor, he asked, “You said mages? More than one?”

The longleg shrugged.

“One is enough, isn’t it?”

Nodding slowly, Nundle mumbled, “I suppose so.”

“To answer your question, though, yes. More than one mage. A friend sold a smoking pipe to a Sentinel yesterday. The soldier said they were hunting four lawbreakers.” His eyes went wide. “Four! Can you believe it?”

Nundle stared at the man blankly. He could not believe it. The letter he carried mentioned only one survivor from the preceptor’s attack. Peering back down to the column of soldiers, he muttered, “Four?”

Preceptor Myrr seemed to be tracking these four mages. And Nundle had a good idea why.

Turning to the longleg peddler, he asked, “Do you know where I can buy a horse? A very small horse?”

24
^th
of the Turn of Sutri

Jak sat alone in the grass, an anticipatory grimace on his face, and muttered, “Please get it right this time.”

Fifty paces away, a small, indistinct tongue of flame appeared several feet over tonight’s campfire. It wavered in place for a moment before dissipating in a disappointing puff of smoke.

Sitting beside the fire, Kenders slapped her open palms against her knees and shouted, her voice ringing out over the prairie.

“Hells!”

Jak sighed and shook his head. If she kept that up, she would have bruises.

Resting on the grass, across the campfire from Kenders, Broedi spoke, his tone firm.

“You are still rushing. Take your time. Focus. Be deliberate with each Strand. Do you understand?”

Kenders nodded, an expression of frustration mixed with determination on her face.

“Good,” rumbled Broedi. “Do you need me to show you the Weave again?”

“No,” said Kenders quickly, shaking her head. “I know it.”

“Then try again.”

Jak mumbled to himself, “Oh, good. Again.”

Tonight’s lessons were going poorly. Like previous nights, Broedi would demonstrate what he wanted her to do, Kenders would insist she saw ‘the pattern,’ and then try to replicate it. More often than not, something would then explode.

When the hillman did the magic, the campfire between them would flare and bend into different shapes. So far, Jak had seen a sphere, a cube, and once—to his surprise—a small bird. Mouth agape, Jak had watched the bird of fire fly in a graceful circle about the camp, soaring overhead, before disappearing into a puff of white smoke.

Earlier, Jak had been sitting closer to the fire than he was now, but after one of Kenders’ accidents singed his shirt and set patches of the tall Southlands’ grass on fire, he had moved back to where he sat now. While he was finding Kenders’ lessons interesting to watch, these with fire were dangerous.

“How’s she doing?”

Glancing over his shoulder, Jak found Nikalys approaching through the waist-high grass, the ever-present swishing sound of the tall blades masking his footsteps. They had moved into the grasslands a few days ago and Jak was already tiring of the constant rustling.

A couple days after skirting Lakeborough, the siblings and Broedi had come to a fork in the road; one branch went southwest, the other headed southeast. Rather than take either, Broedi had instead led them straight, off the road and into the forest. For a day, they had moved through thinning clusters of trees before the land finally gave way to endless fields of green grass spotted with patches of white and violet wildflowers. The land was beautiful, yet alien. Jak had spent his entire life where wilderness’ palette had been restricted to dirty yellows, dusty greens, and every imaginable shade of brown.

As he watched his brother draw closer, the sunset-soaked sky behind Nikalys forced Jak to squint. Streaks of orange and purple clouds filled the western horizon, a bright and colorful backdrop to Nikalys’ dark silhouette. Despite the glare, Jak could see that Nikalys was returning from his evening hunt empty-handed. Jak frowned. That meant a choice between salted rockeye or an empty belly tonight.

Jak’s gaze slipped to the scabbard hanging from Nikalys’ hip. Nikalys had taken to wearing the sword once they left the road, although Jak wished he would not. He was a danger to himself and everyone else with the blade. One night, he had drawn the weapon as if to practice with it and had nearly skewered his horse.

Lifting a hand to shade his eyes from the setting sun, Jak repeated Nikalys’ original question with a dry chuckle, saying, “How’s she doing? Well, let’s see. She nearly set the grasslands afire twice already, she almost burned off my shirt, and I’ve had to chase down Hal twice and Goshen once after a few small explosions. Other than that, she’s doing great.”

Wearing a slight grin, Nikalys asked, “So, better than normal, then?”

Jak smiled back.

“Much.”

Letting out a heavy sigh, Nikalys plopped down beside him.

“So, then. Salted rockeye tonight?” asked Jak.

“Afraid so. Unless you can convince Broedi to turn into the lynx and catch something.”

Jak sighed. That had not happened in quite some time. The hillman had explained that magic necessary to shift into an animal was more than he felt comfortable using right now.

Arranging the scabbard on his hip and settling in the grass, Nikalys muttered, “Did she fight him tonight?”

“Not too much,” said Jak with a small shake of his head. He glanced at Nikalys. “Truthfully, I think she was a little anxious to start this time.”

When Broedi had first started the nightly lessons, Kenders had refused to work with him, too worried she might accidently do something wrong. Broedi had been patient and, for the first two nights, had Kenders sit across from him and watch while he did small feats with Water and Air. On the third night, Kenders had finally tried herself.

At the moment, Broedi was speaking softly to her across the fire, quiet enough that neither brother could hear his words. Kenders was nodding quickly, a frustrated scowl on her face, as though he was telling her something that she had already heard from him multiple times.

Jak shook his head and frowned. He had seen that look a hundred times while growing up in Yellow Mud. Now that she was no longer a reluctant pupil, Kenders’ natural stubbornness was beginning to assert itself.

Broedi sat back and, a moment later, the fire flared and rose up. Flames shot up from the logs and molded into the shape of the bird again. Spreading its wings of fire, the bird circled the heads of the two mages once before melting away in midair.

“Him or her?” mumbled Nikalys.

“Based on how things have been going? Him. The last time he did the bird, she tried and—” A burst of fire flew out a few paces in all directions, interrupting Jak and causing Kenders and Broedi to both scamper back. Jak finished his original thought, sighing, “That happened.”

Nikalys chuckled as Kenders cursed—none too quietly—to herself. Broedi was up and walking around the campsite, stamping out a few patches of smoking grass.

Turning to Nikalys, Jak asked, “What about you? Getting any better with your…whatever it is?”

Nikalys’ expression darkened, his eyes narrowing as he muttered, “Not at all.”

The look on Nikalys’ face reminded Jak of when their father had tried to teach Nikalys how to pick grapes from the vine without bursting any. For a week, Nikalys had ended each day with sticky hands and a scowl. On the day he finally managed to pluck bunches without squishing a single grape, he wore a giant smile all evening.

Shaking his head, Nikalys said, “Blast it, Jak. Nothing I try is working.
Nothing
. It’s like trying to grab a handful of smoke.”

Broedi had been spending time with Nikalys, doing what he could to help, which was little more than tell stories about Nikalys’ blood father. According to the hillman, Aryn had been a master swordsman, using Horum’s gift of speed and strength to move about a battlefield like a frenzied firefly on a dark night. Broedi claimed to have seen Aryn single-handedly cut down a hundred enemies before they had any idea what was happening to them. Those stories, while enjoyable to hear, were not helping Nikalys learn how control the gift.

Nikalys began gesturing with his hands, trying to illustrate something that made sense only to him.

“When I get it to work, it’s so easy…I want to be over there and like that—” he snapped his fingers “—I’m there. I almost can feel myself moving, but then again, I can’t.” He glanced at Jak. “Does that make any sense?”

Jak gave him a look as though Nikalys had just asked if he knew what it felt like to fly through the sky like a bird. He would have liked to help, but he was not really qualified to do so. Instead, he offered a weak, “Keep trying, I guess?”

Nikalys sighed and nodded.

“That’s about all I can do.”

By now, Broedi had extinguished the small fires, returned to his spot across from Kenders, and now was urging her to try again. Even from where they sat, Jak could see the angry, determined look on her face as she stared into the empty air above the fire.