Rebel Elements (Seals of the Duelists)

Rebel Elements

First Seal of the Duelists

Jasmine Giacomo

For Sensei David

To my editing team at Red Adept, I offer the thanks of a grateful empire. They, along with my beta readers, supporters, and impatiently waiting fantasy fans, are the spices in my seerwine.

Bantayan, Dunfarroghan and Shawnash

All Bantayan terms are pronounced with the basic Latin sounds, with one addition. The “ng” phoneme is always pronounced like the end of the word “sing”, never with a distinct “g” sound. Thus, Balanganam is pronounced as if it rhymes with “a song o’ Tom.”

Terms in Dunfarroghan and Shawnash are pronounced with the basic Latin sounds.

Waarden and Raqtaaq

The Waarden tongue is the official language of the Second Waarden Empire, and all citizens are required to learn it. Though most Waarden would cringe at the idea of their superiority being diluted, their language has been softened from its rough beginnings by the empire’s long inclusion of other cultures and tongues.

The double A, so common in Waarden and present in its very name, bears a long
ahh
sound, used in “par,” while single A’s have the short, broad sound found in the word “cat.” The letter J sounds like a Y, as in “yell.” Words ending in “-e” have an extra syllable for that letter, formed of the sound “eh.” Katje’s name is pronounced CAT-yeh, and Lotte is LOT-eh.

Much to the chagrin of the proud yet defeated Raqtaaq, their language makes as frequent use of the double-A as does the language of their Waarden conquerors. It performs the same sound as well, the long
ahh
, so that Raqtaaq is pronounced “rack-TOCK.” Their tongue also employs the “ng” blend mentioned in the Bantayan section above. Qivinga is pronounced “ki-VING-ah,” and rhymes with the British or Southern (American) pronunciation of “singer”.

Akrestan

Akrestan terms are pronounced like the Greek terms that inspired them, with vowel pairs always being pronounced as two separate sounds.

The pale-skinned stranger set a crested lantern on the stump next to Savitu and waited to speak until his blond-braided men had gathered and set down their boxes. A ring of slender shadows hugged the tiny clearing.

Savitu eyed the lantern’s crest.

“No.” The visitor used the Karkhedonian dialect, though his height and brown curls marked him as Waarden. “The Hegemon didn’t send me. A distant cousin of his once saved my life. You know him as Isos. My name is Marco.”

Savitu glanced at his cousins, who stood by the tree line. Mitlik wore an appraising look, wary of anyone of Waarden ethnicity, and with good reason. Qisuk’s expression was superior, as if by possessing broader shoulders and a more muscular chest, he automatically dispelled any threat the curly-haired stranger might present.

“I heard you weren’t happy with your current situation,” Marco continued. “I’m not either. Perhaps we can come to an understanding?”

Savitu eyed the dozen blond men behind Marco. Would they attack? Could Savitu’s hidden loyalists get him to safety if they did? “Does Isos know you’ve brought me gifts?” Marco stepped back in surprise, eyes raking Savitu’s person. “Isos didn’t inform you that I was a eunuch, then,” Savitu said, hating the sound of his high voice just as much as he had for the last fifteen years.

Marco’s eyes rested on Savitu’s Raqtaaq features—dusty copper skin and long black hair. “You’re a Second.”

“They let it hurt for Seconds.” Savitu’s hand indicated his cousins as well.

Marco winced. “The Waarden Emperor did that to you.” Hatred coiled behind his words.

“You know what we want,” Savitu said. “What is it you want?”

The Waarden’s dark eyes shifted to Mitlik and Qisuk. The lantern’s soft light made Marco’s face appear too young for a beard, but the flickering glow couldn’t hide the aging around his eyes. Savitu had seen similar signs of unwanted experiences in his own grooming mirror.

“You still have family, despite your fate. I have no one,” Marco said. “What I want is what you want, except that I want it for everyone.”

“Everyone?”

Marco gestured, and his men pried the tops off the boxes they had brought. Savitu’s breath caught at the sight of so many sharp, glittering points. His cousins approached to view the gifts.

“That’s not iron.” Mitlik frowned.

“It’s better than iron,” Marco said. “It guarantees success, if we use it right.”

Savitu blinked, absorbing the idea. “This will not be a swift victory.”

Marco finally smiled. “I have nothing but time.”

The paddy water swirled around Bayan’s tanned brown shins as he stepped to the next row of rice seedlings. He nudged a few green stems with his double-pronged wooden baton to see whether they had rooted well. They had.

He paused for a cool drink from the water skin he carried on his belt. Gnats buzzed, and frogs chirruped at the edge of the water. The day was already sticky, and the warm season not yet arrived.

He liked it over in the corner of the block of paddies. No one watched him or looked at him from the corner of their eyes, as if waiting for a sudden reprimand. Why did everyone assume he was exactly like his father?

Probably because his father was still their employer, no matter which position Bayan currently held. At fifteen, he’d worked in the fields for five years, learning the skills he would need to become the field supervisor for all the crops on his father’s farm.

He looked forward to the responsibility. His father was a wealthy and highly respected man in Pangusay, but Bayan wanted to succeed on his own terms. Being seen as his father’s son wasn’t his goal in life, after all. Bayan had big plans for himself which didn’t all involve farming.

Bayan twiddled his pronged stick, grinning as he thought of Imee. She was beautiful, and her laugh was pure music. He always tried to think of something funny to say, so that when he and his father traveled into Pangusay proper, to meet with Imee and her father at the trading market, he could hear her laughter again. She warmed all the right parts of him whenever she was close. She seemed to know it, too.

Suddenly, Bayan's mind slipped from his pleasant reminiscing. What had drawn his attention? Had someone called his name from across the paddy? He turned and saw the other workers bent to their tasks.

Then, in the murky water, he saw the ripple of an approaching swamp viper, barely noticeable as it arrowed toward him. Bayan searched for the viper’s prey, and saw a small cloud of jujufish fry nibbling imperceptibly at the skin of his ankles. The snake, nearly as long as Bayan was tall, disappeared among the seedlings. Bayan’s adrenaline rose. He knew the venomous beast could strike him by accident as it hunted its piscine meal.

The surface of the paddy stilled, hiding the serpent’s approach. Bayan backed toward the low bank, and the jujufish followed.

He gritted his teeth and grimaced, peering into the water. “Where are you?” he whispered, holding his pronged stick over the water like a spear.

The snake struck in a murky blur. Bayan drove his wooden weapon downward and jammed it into the mud at the bottom of the paddy. He leapt toward the bank in long splashing strides, expecting a bite on the calf at every step.

Dripping with muddy water, Bayan crouched at the edge of the paddy with the dry forest at his back. He stared at the water, but saw no sign of the snake. He’d have to go back in for his baton; he didn’t want to carve another one.

Then his eyes fixed on the prong jutting from the paddy and the tiny green shoot which sprouted from its handle. A new kind of fear shot down his spine. With a nervous gulp, Bayan slipped back into the paddy. He pulled the baton from the mud and turned again for the bank, keeping his actions casual. Only as he stepped from the paddy did he notice the weight dragging at his arm. The swamp viper’s skull was skewered by one of the prongs on his baton.

Bayan strode away from the civilization of the farm and slipped into the trees, dragging the snake’s corpse with him. His breath went ragged as he struggled to contain his emotions. They were the source of his problem, after all. Every time he became highly emotional, something like this happened. Once, he had set the corner of a shed on fire and barely had time to urinate the small flame to death before one of the farm workers rounded the corner. Another time, he had made the surface of an entire paddy turn hard and cold to the touch. Luckily for him, no one else had been around, and the hard water had returned to normal before anyone discovered the change, the rice none the worse for wear.

Bayan knew what was happening to him, and he hated it. He was turning into a Skycaller. If Imee ever learned of his condition, she’d drop him from her life like a hot coal.

Months ago, when he’d realized what triggered his magical outbursts, he’d tried to suppress his emotions. The magical events began a year ago, and according to the legends of the Skycallers, Bayan only had nine more to withstand before the magic abandoned him entirely, finding him an unworthy vessel. He didn’t care about being unworthy. He cared about marrying Imee and taking over his father’s prosperous farm. He cared about living his life the way he chose. No stupid magic was going to steal his dreams.

Bayan arrived at his destination: a crumbling, natural rock wall, deep in the forest, formed from the same volcanic runrock that shaped the spined mountains to the north. At the wall’s base grew a massive vine, thicker than his leg. It spread up the wall, tendrils clinging to rocky outcrops, wedged into crevices. Across the face of the wall grew ten enormous, deep red pitcher plants, nearly as deep as his arm could reach, should he be foolish enough to do so. One of the pitchers was sewn shut with catgut, and a hollow vine pierced its rounded bottom and curled down to a barrel in a protective box on the ground.

He let out a slow breath. “Hello, Gamay. I need your help with something.” He shook the snake’s corpse to the ground, put his knee against the baton’s shaft and, with effort, snapped it in half. “I know this isn’t what you like to eat, but I’ll give you the snake too, to make up for it.”