Progeny (The Children of the White Lions) (76 page)

Finally pulling his attention from the soldiers, Broedi stared at the brothers. “Try not to worry. Give her time to sleep and recover, and she will be fine.”

“You say she’ll need more sleep?” asked Jak. A strange note had entered his voice. “Are you sure about that?”

“Quite,” rumbled the hillman. “I am hoping she will awake by tomorrow morning. Hopefully at least by the afternoon.”

Nodding to where Kenders lay, Jak said, “Looks like you’re off by a day or so.” He stepped past them, heading in Kenders’ direction.

Broedi, Nundle, and Nikalys all turned and found Kenders sitting up, her elbows resting on her knees, her head in her hands. Strands of her long, blonde hair, shining in the sunlight, hung in front of her face as she stared at the ground. She did not seem to be faring too well.

“Impossible,” muttered Nundle.

Broedi remained silent, a wondering expression breaking through his typical stoicism. After a moment, he looked at Nikalys and said, “Tend to your iskoa. It would appear she has a very bad headache. Take my bag and give her some meadowsweet. Just a pinch.”

Nodding, Nikalys scanned the area for the hillman’s bag and spotted it on the ground where Broedi and Nundle had been sitting and talking earlier. He started to walk toward it, but stopped. Curious, he stared at the bag across the field—

Shift.

—and with a smile, picked it up. Staring to where Kenders sat, hunched over—

Shift.

—he kneeled beside her, putting a gentle hand on her back. “Hey? How are you feeling?”

Without looking up, Kenders mumbled, “Like I got kicked in the head by a horse.”

Hearing footsteps, Nikalys looked up as Jak arrived.

Wearing a sling smile, Jak said, “Show-off.” He, too, kneeled beside Kenders as Nikalys rooted through Broedi’s satchel for the meadowsweet.

Still staring at the ground, Kenders asked, “Are the soldiers okay?”

Jak said, “They’re fine, sis.”

“Good.” She sounded relieved. “How long have I been sleeping?”

“Just the night and this morning,” answered Jak.

Looking up, she squinted against the brightness and lifted a hand to shade her eyes.

“Did I miss anything?”

Exchanging a grin and a wink with Jak, Nikalys said, “Only a little.”

Cero lay on his stomach, hidden by the tall meadow grass, staring at the tomble and the giant. The bits of grass that had wormed their way into his shirt itched like mad, but he resisted the urge to scratch. Once he heard what the boy had said about the Shapechanger’s hearing, he was afraid to move. He was even afraid to breathe.

When he had seen the young man get up and begin to talk with the sergeant, Cero had circled around behind a tent and moved into the grass, slinking along the ground like a derolla snake. The strange compulsion to know what the boy said was too strong to resist.

Unfortunately, he had only caught a few spoken phrases as the wind whistling through the prairie had masked most of what was said. He would have liked to move closer, but he did not dare. The need to learn about the boy and girl was tempered only by the urge to remain hidden.

The Southlands breeze stalled for a moment, allowing few words from the tomble to reach Cero’s ear.

“—do not trust the Tracker. I think he—”

Panic pierced Cero’s chest with the force of an arrow fired from only paces away. Thinking they knew he was here, listening, he nearly leapt up and ran away. Yet something stopped him. Against all logic, the urge to keep quiet and unnoticed pushed him down even further into the grass.

His heart raced as he waited. After a few dozen thudding heartbeats, the pair rewarded his unnatural patience by moving away from him and toward the girl who had just awakened. Cero closed his eyes and allowed himself a tiny sigh of relief.

Once his heart and breathing slowed, Cero reopened his eyes and peered through the grass, studying the girl and her two brothers as they sat on the ground, talking. He wished he could hear what they said, but it was impossible to get close to them.

Frowning, he began to scoot backwards. He was not going to learn anything more by lying here.

Once he had moved a safe distance back, he turned and, remaining on his stomach, crawled back to the tents. He stood slowly, ensuring that no one could see him, brushed himself off, and hurried behind the nearest tent. As he stood there, taking deep, steadying breaths, his gaze drifted to the ancient Imperial fort that still loomed over the prairie. Eyeing the battlements atop the walls, an icy darkness abruptly swelled inside his soul.

“They’re not high enough.”

Looking to the towers, he judged their height sufficient. A fall from that height should kill him, assuming he could find a complete set of stairs leading to the top. He had taken three steps toward the fort when he stopped and shook his head violently, trying to clear his mind. He shoved the cold, dark feeling inside him away, fighting against its black chill. It took a few moments, but it faded, leaving him standing in the grass, blinking, shivering.

“What in the Nine Hells was that?”

He could not fathom why such a horrible thought had entered his mind. He was certainly in a difficult situation, but killing himself was not the answer.

Turning back toward the camp, he gathered his nerves as best he could and stepped around the tent. Striding into the main camp, he headed straight for the grouped Sentinels. Sergeant Trell stood, his arms crossed over his chest, scanning the men in front of him while he spoke.

“—each of you has the choice. As soon as she is ready to move, we strike camp and head for the bridge. If you are not going with us, tell me before we march. You can go, free and clear. No one will stop you.” The sergeant’s gaze rested on Cero and remained there as he said, “If what you’ve seen so far has not swayed you, then nothing will. The opportunity to join a legend that will be retold by playmen for centuries is before you. Will you play a part? Or will you run?” Sergeant Trell pulled his eyes from Cero. “Go, men. Think. And decide.”

The sergeant turned and motioned for the strange Borderlander to follow him. Cero still did not understand the dark-skinned man’s role in any of this.

The assembled soldiers began to disperse. Some stayed in small groups, talking in hushed voices while others went off to stand or sit alone. To a man, they all avoided Cero, leaving him isolated amidst the tents and smoldering embers of last night’s fires.

As he idly watched a pair of butterflies flutter around a patch of purple wildflowers, Cero thought through the madness of the past weeks. Mages, Fenidar, prophecies of Indrida, the Cabal, the letter supposedly from Duke Everett. While he was still reluctant to believe the fantastic claims made by the tomble, the evidence was becoming increasingly hard to deny.

“Bless the gods. What do I do?”

Something deep inside of him was screaming out that these ‘outlaws’ were anything but; they were good people preparing to do great things. Nevertheless, something more powerful was tamping that belief down, stomping on it like all the bent grass around him.

As he tried to reconcile his conflicting feelings, the icy, dark feeling swelled inside of him again.

His right hand drifted up to finger the beltknife strapped to his thigh. His thumb lightly traced the handle of the short blade, curling around it as he cradled the tacky leather of the grip in the palm of his hand. With a thoughtless slowness, he began to draw the blade from its sheath. A quick slice across his neck was all it would take. Then he would be free.

His eyes went round as he pushed the darkness back down. Slamming the knife back into the sheath, he grabbed his temples with both hands and screamed, “Blast the gods! Stop it!”

A group of men sitting nearby stared at him, their expressions a mixture of shock and disdain. They rose from the ground and moved away as one, mumbling to one another as they went.

While Cero had not felt like himself in weeks, these urges to kill himself were new.

“What is
wrong
with me?”

Turning, he hurried to his tent and began to tear it down, hoping if he kept himself occupied, the dark thoughts would stay at bay. He had no idea what he would do once he was done packing.

6
^th
of the Turn of Thonda

Sabine straddled the back of Goshen, behind Nikalys with her arms wrapped around his midsection and her head resting on his back. The first time she had ridden with either of the boys—Jak, originally—she had tried to sit on the horse without touching him, keeping her arms to her sides. However, once the group had broken into a trot, she had thrown her arms around Jak to keep from falling. She had surprised him almost as much as she had herself.

After a few days of alternating with the boys, most of the awkwardness of the odd arrangement had passed. Her ease with the brothers had even reached a point to where she felt comfortable enough even to try to nap as they rode.

Yet despite the fact that she was exhausted, her current effort to sleep had failed. For a while now, she had simply been watching her sister, sitting in Kenders’ lap, waving the red-tipped firestick in the air in little circles while laughing and giggling.

Sabine smiled and sighed.

Nikalys mumbled, “Awake now?”

Sitting tall, Sabine said, “Never fell asleep. I’ve just been watching Helene.”

Nikalys turned to stare at the little girl. After a few quiet moments, he murmured, “You know, I envy her.”

“You do?” asked Sabine, shifting to peer at his profile. “Why?”

“Look at her. She’s free of worry. None of this bothers her.” He frowned and muttered, “To her, this is some grand adventure.”

While Sabine did not know Nikalys all that well, she recognized this mood. The young man carried his newfound responsibility with him nonstop. At times, it seemed he carried everyone else’s responsibility, too. She patted him on the back and said, “Things will work out, Nik. Try not to worry too much.”

He glanced at her, offered a tiny smile, and faced forward.

Sabine sighed again, this time with a tiny frown. It was moments like this where she wished that she still had her own horse.

While Nikalys and Kenders had slept the morning following the attack in the fort, Sergeant Trell had sent his men across the plains to look for their horses. During the confusion inside the ancient stronghold, Sabine and the others had lost track of the mounts. In the end, the soldiers recovered all but Sabine’s horse and the spare Broedi had been leading.

As every Sentinel had chosen to accompany them, the combined group now had fifty-four horses for fifty-five riders. Over a dozen soldiers had endeavored to have her ride with them, but she turned down every offer, blushing as she did so. When she asked Broedi what to do, his first response was that he could take the form of a horse himself so she could ride. Horrified, she had insisted she would rather walk the rest of the way. Only after she refused did she see his slight smile and realize the hillman had been jesting.

In the end, she ended up taking turns doubling up with Kenders, Nikalys, and Jak. While she was with one, Helene would ride with one of the others.

She rested her head on Nikalys’ back again, determined to try to get some rest. Since discovering the truth about her companions, she had not been sleeping well. Neither had Helene, but for entirely different reasons. The little girl rarely slept a full night without waking up at least once. From the day she was born, bad dreams plagued Helene’s nights. Strangely enough, since leaving the Moiléne farm, the intensity of the nightmares had lessened some, surprising Sabine. After what had happened, she would have expected the dreams to get worse, not better.

Nikalys took a deep breath, lifting Sabine’s head up a little. A tiny smile spread over her lips as she listened to Nikalys’ heartbeat. Despite all the madness, she found herself growing fond of him. He was kind, fiercely loyal to his siblings, Helene adored him, and without his heroics at the farm, Sabine and her sister would likely be dead. Nikalys was her hero in every sense of the word. Yet he was not the only one.

Sabine lifted her head and turned to her left, where Jak sat astride his horse. The elder ‘brother’ had stood with her and Helene at the fort, refusing to leave their side until they were safe. In her eyes, Jak was as brave as his brother was. Perhaps more so, considering he did not have any special gifts from the gods on which to rely.

Sighing, she shut her eyes. If she had to be swept up in some playman’s saga, she could have done infinitely worse than the one she was in now.

Nikalys patted her hands gently.

“Hey, wake up. The rest of the Sentinels are approaching.”

Not bothering to tell him she was not sleeping, she lifted her head and peeked over Nikalys’ shoulder. A number of horsemen dressed in red and black rode toward them at a steady trot from the east, cantering through the sparse trees and grass.

Sometime yesterday, she noted that the grasslands of her youth were more or less gone, having melted away behind them. At one point, she asked Kenders if they were in a forest. Her friend stared at her, smiled kindly the way one does when a child asks a silly question, and said “Not quite.”

Eyeing the approaching soldiers, Sabine asked, “How do you think this will go?”

“I hope well,” replied Nikalys. “Sergeant Trell seems to think that most of these men will join with us once they’ve had a chance to think things over. They’ll have questions, though. Lots, I would assume.” He paused and looked at the soldiers with whom they were traveling. “I’m sure they’ll want to talk with the Sentinels already with us.”

Sabine looked at the soldiers that rode in a loose circle around them.

“Good, then. The more protection, the better.”

“What?” asked Nikalys, his voice filled with mock hurt. “You don’t think I can keep you safe? I’m getting quite good with the sword, you know.”

It was the truth. In the three days since leaving the fort, Nikalys had become increasingly proficient with his father’s sword. Each evening, when the party would stop and make camp, Wil Eadding and the sergeant would spar, using different techniques and styles of swordplay. Nikalys would sit and watch in complete silence.