Rise of the Red Harbinger (42 page)

This plot would be much worse, yet also better than anything they’d done before.

***

Lincan sat down at the round table and quickly suppressed a smile. Marshall, Desmond, Horatio, and Baltaszar set down their trays and sat, trying to look around without seeming obvious. Marshall asked quietly, “Did Lao say how long it would take? Was he able to do it right away?”

Lincan matched Marshall’s volume, “He said he’s bonded most of the other kitchen workers, so he should have been able to distract their minds and make them focus on other things while he emptied the jar.”
Mission complete. Now we wait and see what happens.
The five of them all received Badalao’s thought simultaneously, and looked at one another and smiled.

Desmond pointed out, “Good thing sunset still comes late. Else Lao wouldn’t’ve been able ta tell us anythin’.”

Baltaszar responded, “See? Now we sit here and enjoy the proceedings.”

They ate their food slowly, agreeing to save their soup until last, just in case anyone noticed they’d finished their soup and hadn’t felt any ill effects. A few minutes later, their plan began to take effect. Lincan heard a girl two tables over exclaim to her friends, “Light of Orijin, the soup is so hot! I can’t feel my tongue!”

The men at the table next to them huffed and coughed into their handkerchiefs as tears flowed down their cheeks. Another young man their age jogged past them to the counter, interrupting those who were receiving their dinner trays. He spoke directly to Badalao, waving his hands and fanning his mouth. It took all the fortitude that Lincan and the others could muster not to laugh.

Badalao provided them with another update after a few more people approached him.
Luther overheard the complaints. He told me to add more broth and stir the soup some more.
Lincan could practically hear the laughter in Badalao’s voice. Luther was the head of the kitchen and a very stubborn man. The kitchen used his recipes and he hated being criticized. If people were complaining about Luther’s soup, nothing much would be done about it. Luther was pompous enough that he likely wouldn’t even taste the soup to entertain people’s complaints. Lincan appreciated the brilliance of their plan.

As more moments passed by, the room was filled with red, tear-filled faces, hands fanning mouths, gasps, and a ridiculous number of requests for water jug refills. Lincan held no ill will toward any of the people in the large room, and he was sure that his co-conspirators felt the same way, but he could not help but feel a guiltless amusement at the events unfolding. The five of them agreed to depart and leave their soup noticeably untouched, as well as to go directly to their respective quarters to avoid any suspicion.

He and Baltaszar barely spoke before going to sleep. If anyone might’ve been listening, they wanted to avoid incrimination. Lincan fell asleep quite easily, much more so than he’d anticipated. He woke up early the following morning and roughly scratched his head at the first thought – a rather alarming one - that entered his mind. He craned his head to see Baltaszar sitting up on his bed, against the wall, sketching away on a parchment pad that Maven Savaiyon had given him. He whispered imperatively, “Tasz!” Baltaszar glanced up from his sketchbook. “I just realized-what if the liquid spirit caused some sort of allergic reaction? What if we seriously hurt someone?”

Baltaszar bobbed his head around, entertaining the possibility, and then flashed a smug smile. “Even better: if enough people were affected by the venom tail spirit, guess who would likely have to heal them?”

The thought hit Lincan like a punch in the head. He looked sternly at Baltaszar, “Did you do that intentionally?”

Baltaszar whispered back, “No, I swear I didn’t even think about it until I woke up. I honestly didn’t really think the spirit would affect people as much as it did. That soup vat is huge. I assumed it would just dilute.” A knock at the door alarmed both of them.

The timing had been too perfect. “Come in, “Lincan responded after a moment.

Maven Delilah walked in, the ever-present smile on her face. Lincan’s heart sank. Delilah was in charge of the infirmary. “I am truly sorry to disturb you so early, Lincan. I have some good news and bad news, depending on how you look at it.” She didn’t wait for a response. “The good news is that we have excused you from all of your normal responsibilities for the next two days, at least.” She studied his countenance. “The bad news is that there was a large issue with the mess hall last night and we need you immediately in the infirmary. Dozens of people need to be extensively healed.”

“Let me have a moment to get dressed.” He expected Maven Delilah to leave the room, forgetting that she was from Sundari–where the women knew no discomfort or shame about undressing or being naked. She watched him arise and dress without showing the slightest sense of awkwardness. Sundari women generally had no interest in men, except for procreation. They chose women for their romantic and marital partners. The thought didn’t lessen any of Lincan’s embarrassment while changing his clothes. Once Lincan was ready, Maven Delilah turned and walked out of the room, expecting him to follow. As he left, Baltaszar smiled again, staring intently at his parchment pad. Lincan shook a finger at Baltaszar as he walked by and uttered through gritted teeth, “Intentional or not, I am going to get you back!”

Chapter 16

My Word is My Bond

From
The Book of Orijin,
Verse Forty-Eight

We have created you in wondrous varieties and have breathed into you countless differences. Do not confuse Different for Evil, for Evil causes harm. Others are not evil simply because their customs are different from your own.

He’d run so far
and for so long that he’d lost sight of the other boys. Every year the trial was different. This year, all they had been told was to run into the forest at sunset. After ten minutes, the scouts would come to find them. If they could last until the darkness of the evening, they would be accepted for soldier training. The gist of it had sounded so simple, yet only a handful of children were accepted every year. Only children who had reached six years could participate. Any child that was not selected could retry each year up until nine years of age. Most importantly, every child had to receive the facial tattoos before six years, regardless of whether they were taking part or not.

Marshall’s chest heaved; he had had no inkling as to why becoming a soldier was so important, other than that it would surely make his parents proud. His cousin Alden had refused to take part and Marshall’s parents had voiced their disapproval quite openly. Alden had received his facial markings less than a year ago–two black lines straight down his face, each intersecting an eye. Every child received the same tattoo to start. Ever since then, Marshall had wondered why Alden would go through the pain of the tattoos and then forego soldier training. Surely the agony of the ink was worse than anything else they would face.

Marshall slapped his own face vigorously. Alden did not matter at this point. He looked around as he ran–many of the other children had already stopped running in order to find a decent hiding spot. His friend Cason had kept pace and was running several yards to Marshall’s left. Cason had stopped at a tree and had begun climbing. They had discussed the strategy as soon as they were informed of the nature of the trial. Marshall targeted a suitable tree with high, dense branches, and climbed as fast and as high as he could. He and Cason had agreed that they should not hide too close to each other, lest one of them give away the other’s location.

Marshall perched upon a somewhat-thick branch and waited. He was a rather wiry six year-old boy, but then most of the others in his village were the same way. Most were always active, helping their fathers with various tasks. Marshall stayed completely still, with the exception of his head swiveling back and forth. The scouts would be nearing soon; in fact, they might have already started searching for the boys. Marshall relaxed. Tensing up would be no help. He focused his eyes in the distance ahead, searching for movement. As he waited, he prayed. Staying hidden had become the most important thing in that moment and just as he’d started whispering requests to the Orijin, shadows bobbed and wavered in the distance.

He and Cason wore dull brown breeches and shirts. As the search party neared, doubt bubbled in Marshall’s mind. Though his body would blend, his face and head would still be obvious if not hidden. Marshall prayed more desperately.
Orijin, I beg you, please hide me. Please protect me. I will devote my whole life to honoring you if you please do not let them find me.
Marshall repeated the request over and over as he watched half a dozen men split up to search his and Cason’s tree. They’d reached his first and looked curiously into the branches, as if confused. Marshall jerked his head behind the branch and dared not move it again. The voices circled the tree, sure they were missing something. As he heard them finally agree that there was no one in it, a prolonged scream came from Cason’s tree.

Marshall darted his eyes to it just in time to see his friend, falling upside down, smash into the ground. Marshall froze. The six men ran toward Cason and huddled around the boy’s body. They stayed in the same position for what felt like hours, as Marshall clung to his branch, unable to move. The men eventually arose, the largest with Cason hunched limply over his shoulder. Even in the darkness, Marshall could see Cason’s blonde head was misshapen and swollen. Marshall looked away and clenched his jaw.
No. You are not allowed to cry. You are six years old and a Taurani. You have just passed this trial. Crying is for five year olds and failures. Taurani warriors do not cry. Or mourn. Or show weakness.
After several minutes, Marshall pried himself from the branch and climbed down the tree. A single tear streamed down his cheek and dangled from his chin. He wiped it away quickly.

Marshall gasped and contorted in his bed until he was positive of his surroundings. He had been at the House of Darian for a few months, and Cason’s death had regularly haunted his dreams ever since Marlowe’s defamation of the Taurani.

In truth, Marshall needed to believe that Marlowe was wrong. If his people were anything like what Marlowe had said, then Marshall had no idea how he could live with himself. Since he had begun reading
The
Book of Orijin
, Marshall had not discussed it with anyone. During schooling he tended to keep his mouth shut. The book was actually interesting and that annoyed Marshall even more. He wanted to disagree with it, but the book made sense.

He had been able to control the darkness when Maqdhuum was about to kill him and Aric. The more he dreamed about Cason, the more apparent the connection became. He had prayed desperately in that tree for the scouts to not find him. They were mere feet below, with trained eyes, and did not even suspect that he had been hiding there. The only logical explanation would have been that the Orijin had given him that manifestation then.

And if his people had been going through so much trouble to hide their manifestations, then the tattoos and the trials at age six were all fabrication and meaningless.
Even worse, it would mean that Cason’s death meant…

Marshall shut down the notion and sat up. There were other things to focus his attention on. He still wondered about his mother. She had to have popped up somewhere. Unfortunately, the world was too big beyond the Taurani village for Marshall to be able to even guess where that might be. Marlowe would likely be of no help, so he would have to pursue other avenues. The instructors were the most knowledgeable people at the House, but seeing as how he was only under the tutelage of three of them, Marshall had little idea of specifically who might be able to help.

It was Abraday, and he would have to meet with Maven Savaiyon shortly for his “History of Ashur” lesson, with the other new arrivals. The subject matter was interesting, especially to him and Baltaszar, both of whom knew next to nothing of the world. However, Maven Savaiyon constantly changed the days and times of their lessons because he was always needed to travel.

Marshall didn’t bother with breakfast. He usually had no appetite after the dreams about Cason, but along with that, he was not in the mood to talk to the others. Instead he pulled on the first shirt and pair of breeches he found and walked downstairs to the first-floor common room where Maven Savaiyon would be waiting for them.

Maven Savaiyon sat on a stool, eyes closed as if pondering something important. Marshall moved as silently as possible, but Savaiyon opened his eyes at Marshall’s entrance into the room. The others would not arrive for another half of an hour.

Savaiyon perked up, “For a lesson this early, no one arrives
earlier
because he has nothing else to do. What can I help you with, Marshall?”

Marshall smirked, somewhat abashed that his intentions were so obvious. “I need some information. I do not know who can help me, though. I do not feel comfortable turning to Marlowe, so I thought that the Mavens might be of some help.” It had become clear over the past few months that several Mavens did not see eye to eye with Marlowe on numerous issues. Savaiyon did not openly discuss any dislike of or disagreement with Marlowe, but he had been known to admit to his stance in private and discreet discussions. Marshall had never actually had such a discussion with Savaiyon, but he felt confident in confiding in the man.

“Are you so brazen as to make such presumptions that I or other Mavens would oppose decisions made by Zin Marlowe?” Maven Savaiyon stood at least a foot taller than Marshall, but now his head seemed to be at a level with the ceiling.

Marshall composed himself. “This is not presumption based on the gossiping of little children, Maven Savaiyon. There is a growing faction here that opposes what Marlowe stands for. And while this faction practices great discretion and does nothing to make others aware of its existence, it is known within the faction that you are an ally. I understand, Maven Savaiyon. You are an honorable man. You live with dignity and character. It is understood even within the faction that one does not speak openly about your views or attitude toward Marlowe. And that is why I come to you now. I seek your guidance out of respect. Not brazenness.” Marshall had managed to look Savaiyon in the eye without wavering.

Savaiyon eased his posture and sat on the stool. “Good.”

Marshall had expected, at the least, that he would be reprimanded for speaking too sharply. “Excuse me?”

“You have heard me correctly, lad. It is good that you would explain your meaning, rather than clumsily try to defend against my accusation. It is true, there are those within the House that oppose Zin Marlowe’s way of thinking. Does this make them villains? No. Cowards? Not necessarily. Mistaken? Most likely. Most people in this world make decisions based on what they think is best for those that they love and for whom they care. Do you know anything of the man?”

Marshall shook his head, “No. He explained that he is older than he appears. That is all.”

“Zin Marlowe hails from Cerysia, a nation that abhors Descendants. He earned his manifestation at seven years and that was the last he saw of his family. Of Cerysia. I do not know how long ago that was, but once he bore the Mark, Marlowe’s parents had him brought to the banks of the Eye of Orijin. They did not have the heart to kill him themselves, so they abandoned him. To make a long story short, Marlowe has nothing in this world except for the House of Darian. We are his family.

“He is very open about his disdain for violence and combat. Especially within these walls. Marlowe will do whatever he thinks is necessary to ensure that the House of Darian is not threatened. For him, that means that its residents must be peaceful. It is bad enough that Prince Garrison hunts us while being a Descendant, himself. For Marlowe, it is enough that the House of Darian exists and harbors Descendants, because it gives us the same opportunity that it gave him.

“The man knows much of this world, especially the worst of it, Marshall. It is easy to judge a man based on his appearance. Based on a conversation. Too often, we do not have the patience to learn about a man before we decide whether he is good or evil. Consider my words before you decide what kind of a man Zin Marlowe is.”

Marshall meekly uttered, “I understand. But then why would you oppose him in the first place?”

“I disagree with certain decisions that he has made, because they are not in the best interest of the Descendants. There have been numerous signs pointing to Jahmash’s return. In my opinion, Zin Marlowe has placed the safety of Descendants from King Edmund as a higher priority than the world’s safety from the Red Harbinger. I do not know whether he genuinely does not believe the signs, or if he refuses to believe them out of stubbornness, but Marlowe’s aversion to violence and combat will diminish our ability to protect and defend ourselves from Jahmash. I disagree with Marlowe because I believe that the Descendants need to be proactive in learning to fight, with and without our manifestations. Gunnar had taken strides to begin that process. You saw what happened to him. Even if he is alive, and even if we can save him, we can no longer turn to Gunnar to train us.” Savaiyon gave him a suggestive glance.

“I cannot give you a definitive answer right now about training others. You are not the first person to make the suggestion, but I have other affairs to handle before I can make that a priority. And that is why I am here in the first place. I would like some help in deducing where my mother might be. When we returned to my village, I found the remains of my family members, all except for my mother. If she was not there, then she likely managed to escape, possibly with other survivors. There are several instructors here, many who have an intricate understanding of Ashur’s history, as well as the histories of specific people. Is there a specific person that might help me narrow the possibilities of where Taurani would go in such a situation? Have knowledge of nations and towns that would welcome my people?”

Savaiyon eyed him curiously, “Your people, specifically your parents, never mentioned possible destinations in such an event?”

“Not to sound facetious or haughty, but the Taurani never considered the notion that we might lose a fight. Surrendering and fleeing were never options to us.”

Savaiyon stared with an unfocused gaze for a few moments. “Maximillian. Maven Maximillian instructs a course on the histories and cultures of the Taurani and the Anonymi. You should speak to him.”

Marshall perked up. “How do I find him?”

“Maximillian is the groundskeeper of the House. Every morning, he is out tending to the lawns and flora for hours. The only issue is that only Marlowe tends to know exactly where he would be working each day. It would be better to seek Maximillian out during meal time in the dining room.” Savaiyon continued, as if knowing Marshall’s next question. “He is Cerysian–golden tan skin with short, dark hair and a full, graying beard. He is shorter than you. His eyes…they carry a great deal of wisdom. That is the only way I can explain it, but you will know it when you see him.”