The Children of the White Lions: Volume 02 - Prophecy (75 page)

Nikalys glanced at Wren to find the tijul sitting up, openly gawking at him.

“As Broedi can’t answer me at the moment, mind telling me what is going on here?”

Shifting his gaze to Broedi, Wren said, “I will if he promises not to maul me.”

The bear glared at Wren and growled even louder, prompting Nikalys to step closer to the hillman and say, “Remember why we came here. He’s not much use to us if he’s dead.”

Broedi turned his gaze back to Nikalys and, a moment or two later, the growl slowly, reluctantly faded away. Nikalys eyed the bear, waiting to see if he would make another move. Content he would not, Nikalys looked back to Wren.

The tijul’s wide, elongated eyes were locked on him again, studying every detail. When Wren’s gaze flicked to the scabbard at Nikalys’ side and the golden hilt sticking from it, the already present confusion in his eyes deepened. After a moment, he looked back to Nikalys’ face and muttered, “Aryn?”

Nikalys blinked, shook his head, and said, “No—”

“Ever the fool, Wren” interjected Broedi, his voice terse and sharp. A quick look back to Broedi revealed the White Lion was back to being a hillman and glaring at Wren. “How could that be Aryn? Unless time went back upon itself.”

His eyes narrowing, Wren muttered, “Then how is—”

“He is Aryn’s son. Aryn and Eliza’s son.”

Wren gaped at Broedi, his eyes going round.

“Their
son
?”

As Broedi stood from the platform’s floor, Nikalys raised his left hand, palm out, and said, “Stay where you are, Broedi. I don’t want to knock you down again.”

Without taking his eyes from Wren, Broedi muttered, “With one Weave, I could hold you where you stand and do as I pleased.”

Nikalys frowned. He had forgotten about that. Apparently, so had Broedi in his anger.

“Are you going to attack again, then?”

After a long pause, Broedi rumbled, “For the moment? No.” The hillman’s anger was still simmering, yet he seemed to have control over it now.

Turning to Wren, Nikalys asked, “What about you? Will you behave?”

Wren continued to stare at Nikalys in silence, evidently stunned by Broedi’s revelation. After a moment, he managed a short nod.

“If Broedi will, so will I.”

Peering over to where the thorn stood, staring at them, Nikalys wondered what they thought of this display. From outward appearances, they seemed wholly unconcerned by Broedi’s outburst and Wren’s response. Feeling an apology was in order—and with Broedi in no condition to give it—Nikalys strode toward the center of the wooden platform.

As he moved past Broedi, he muttered, “Try to remain calm.”

The hillman nodded once, his heated gaze still fixed on Wren.

Moving to stand before Puno and what he assumed were the Mataan, Nikalys glanced from one triangular face to another. The four enslaved hillmen—two of which were actually hillwomen now that he looked closely—behind the thorn gazed at him with inquisitive eyes.

Clearing his throat, he repeated the greeting Talulot had offered him on the beach and said, “May the sun shine upon you.”

His words had no effect. The four Mataan did not move or speak.

He glanced over at Broedi, hoping for some guidance, but the hillman was still staring down Wren. Sighing, he peered back to the Mataan offered a small smile, and said, “Ah…good days ahead?”

As one, the four thorn raised their left arms, extended their six-fingered hands, and closed their eyes. Just as Talulot had done at the beach and Puno again on the cliff’s path, they swayed side to side as mature oaks do in a steady breeze. The platform went as quiet as the Yellow Mud olive groves on a Seventhday afternoon. Taking the opportunity to check on Wren and Broedi, Nikalys found the White Lions no longer glaring at one another. Rather, both were watching the Mataan, Wren with a bewildered expression on his face.

Nikalys turned back to the Mataan and waited. Eventually, the rightmost thorn opened its eyes and dropped its arm. After several moments, it whistled, “You shine bright. Brighter than friend Aembyr, even.” Tilting its head slightly, it added, “Noteworthy.”

Nikalys glanced back to Wren. The tijul was staring at him again, his eyes cautious and curious.

“I am called Alumon,” whistled the thorn. “Who are you?”

Looking back, Nikalys said, “My name is Nikalys Isaac.”

“That is your name. I want to know who you are.”

A tiny furrow appeared in Nikalys’ brow as he considered his answer. After a moment, he took a deep breath and said, “I am the son of Thaddeus and Marie Isaac of Yellow Mud. And I am the son of Aryn Atticus, the champion of Horum, and Eliza Kap, the champion of Gaena. I am farmer, brother, friend, soldier, and child of the White Lions.”

With a soft creak of wood, Alumon swiveled its head and torso to stare at the other Mataan. The three opened their eyes, dropped their arms, and stared back at Alumon. For several moments, the four Mataan looked between one another, the crackling of their rough, bark-skin the only sound they made. Eventually, all four turned their gaze back to Nikalys. With a tilt of its head, Alumon spoke.

“Tell us what you would have us do.”

A moment skipped past as Nikalys stared at the thorn, his expression blank.

“Pardon?”

“We await your guidance,” whistled Alumon. “Share with us our fate.”

Perplexed, Nikalys turned to Broedi. Every bit of the hillman’s anger had evaporated and had been replaced by muted bafflement. Wren, too, appeared bewildered. Concluding that neither of the White Lions would offer any clarification, Nikalys looked back to Alumon.

“I do not understand. What do you mean, you await my guidance?”

Alumon whistled, “We—and all buhanik—shall do whatever you ask of us.”

After a long pause, Nikalys asked the obvious.

“Why?”

“Because we promised to do so.”

Nikalys cocked a single eyebrow.

“You…promised?”

Alumon tilted his head in the opposite direction.

“We did.”

Nikalys glanced over to find Broedi—a frown resting upon his lips—striding to where Nikalys stood. Stopping on his right, the hillman stared at Alumon and rumbled, “Who did you promise?”

Alumon shifted its glass black eyes to Broedi.

“The savior of the buhanik: the Enlightened Oracle.”

Nikalys stared in stunned silence. The title was reserved for the Goddess Indrida.

“Indrida?” rumbled Broedi, his voice a mixture of surprise and doubt. “You promised
Indrida
to do what—” he glanced at Nikalys “—he says?”

“In a sense, yes,” whistled Alumon.

“What does that mean?” asked Broedi.

“While we four did not promise, Mataan of Buhaylunsod before us did.”

Finding his voice, Nikalys asked, “Before you? How long before you?”

Alumon turned head and torso to eye Wren.

“Seven generations past.”

“Seven?” repeated Wren, his eyes narrowing sharply. “That was before I arrived.” The tijul began to walk toward the center of the platform, making nary a sound as he did. Nikalys supposed the name Leafwalker was well earned.

“Yes,” whistled Alumon. “It was. She visited a cycle before you walked into the city.”

“Hold a moment,” rumbled Broedi. “That would mean Indrida foretold our arrival over a century ago.”

“Yes it would,” said the thorn.

“But that is impossible.”

“Why is it?” whistled Alumon.

Broedi did not respond. He simply stared at the thorn, a skeptical frown resting upon his lips. After only a breath, Alumon tilted its head and spoke.

“You are the ‘champion of Thonda,’ yes?”

Broedi was quiet for a long moment before nodding slowly.

“I am.”

“She said that you would doubt us,” said Alumon, his hair rustling in the wind.

“Did she?” rumbled the hillman. “You will forgive me, but your claim is a grand one.”

Alumon adjusted its head again, paused a moment, and then whistled, “The four will hold the names of three.”

The odd turn of phrase had a strange effect on the White Lion, washing away all visible disbelief in an instant. The hillman’s new expression was blank and impossible to read. Evidently, the words meant something to him.

“Broedi?” muttered Nikalys.

The giant was quiet another moment while gnawing on his lower lip. Letting a small sigh slip from his lips, he rumbled softly, “They speak true. Indrida was here.”

Nikalys asked, “Those words. What do they mean, Broedi? What aren’t—?”

Wren interrupted him, stepping forward while demanding, “Explain yourself, Alumon!” The tijul was clearly perturbed. “Why is this the first I’ve heard of a
Goddess
visiting you? And what sort of promise did you make?”

“Her visit was not for you to know,” whistled Alumon. “She instructed the Mataan not to share anything with you. The secret was to remain so until ‘one who shines brighter than the sun arrives and claims heritage of Horum and Gaena.’” Turning to look at Nikalys, the thorn added, “In exchange for the aid she lent us, we promised to do as you say. Share with us our fate, Light-From-The-West.”

“Hold a moment,” interjected Wren. “Before Aryn’s son shares anything with anyone, I have more questions. What sort of aid did she lend?”

Returning its black-eyed gaze to Wren, Alumon whistled, “She warned us.”

“Of what?” demanded Wren.

“That the Chosen were planning a great invasion.”

Wren’s brow furrowed.

“I warned you of that.”

“So the stories go,” whistled Alumon. “But you were not the first, friend Aembyr. The Enlightened Oracle appeared on this platform, shining in her resplendence, and told the Mataan that the Chosen were coming, revealing exactly when and where the enemy would venture into our wilds. Our defenses were lax as peace had reigned our lands for six generations. Buhanik believed the Chosen had grown weary of warmongering. Without Indrida’s foresight and your aid, we would have been quickly overwhelmed.” Eyeing Wren, Alumon added, “She told us of your arrival. And how you would bring the aliipin to aid us.”

At the mention of the hillmen slaves, Broedi began to growl.

Wren took a step back from the giant and, in a defiant tone, said, “Before you turn bear on me again, know that a mutual
agreement
exists between the Titaani Kotiv-aki and the buhanik. An arrangement entered into with open eyes!”

“What sort of ‘arrangement?’” asked Nikalys.

The tijul glared at him.

“One that does not concern you, son of Aryn. Go ‘shine bright’ elsewhere and let your elders sort this out.”

Broedi growled, “Is it so hard for you to be pleasant!?”

“Spare me, Broedi!” spat Wren. “What? Because he’s Aryn and Eliza’s son, I’m supposed to be kind?”

Broedi advanced on Wren, rumbling, “If you cannot manage a kind word, I will rip one from your throat!”

“Enough!” bellowed Nikalys. The authority that echoed in his voice surprised him. Both White Lions stopped and turned to stare. Glaring at the pair, Nikalys asked, “What is wrong with you?”

“With me?” huffed Wren. “Nothing.” He glanced at Broedi. “If you recall, the overgrown animal attacked me.”

Broedi glared at Wren for a moment, fuming, before he rumbled, “I would like it if you answered his question.”

“What question was that?”

Before Broedi could respond, Nikalys did.

“What sort of ‘arrangement’ did you make with the hillmen?”

A frown slipped across the tijul’s lips. Looking back to Broedi, he said, “You should thank me for what I did.”

Broedi crossed his arms and squeezed his biceps with opposite hands. Nikalys guessed it was taking every bit of self-restraint Broedi had not to leap at Wren and pummel him.

“Thank you?” growled Broedi. “Why should I thank you for enslaving aki-mahet?”

His eyes flashing hot, Wren exclaimed, “Because without me, your kind here would be dead, Broedi! Dead! The bones of your precious aki-mahet would be sticking up from the dirt or used in some Chosen’s candelabra! I did what was needed to save them!”

Nikalys reached inside himself for Horum’s gift, waiting for Broedi to react violently. Yet the hillman managed to hold still, glaring hard at the tijul. After a number of excruciatingly tense moments, he spoke.

“Explain,” rumbled Broedi. “
Now
.”

Nikalys released his hold on the gift inside him as Wren moved to stand on his left, positioning himself so that Nikalys stood between the White Lion pair.

Peering around Nikalys at Broedi, Wren said, “After the First Council’s overreaction to Carinius, Jart and I left the duchies and came to the Provinces. He stayed for less than a year before moving on.” Cocking a long eyebrow at Broedi, he added, “You know how he can be.”

Glancing at Broedi, Nikalys said, “Jart?”

“Jarthidil Mellark,” rumbled Broedi. “Greya’s champion.”

“‘The Nomad’?” asked Nikalys.

“The same,” replied Broedi. “It was a name well earned. Jarthidil would…wander. One day he was here…” He trailed off and shrugged his shoulders.

Wren finished the thought, saying, “The next, he was gone. A true pain to keep track of.”

“He wandered?” asked Nikalys, confused. “Why?”

“Before the Assembly,” rumbled Broedi. “Jarthidil named his occupation a ‘traveler of roads.’”

“What does that mean?” asked Nikalys.

“He never explained,” said Wren. “And trust me, I asked. Hundreds of times at least.”

Nodding in agreement, Broedi said, “I, as well. Jarthidil’s past was his own. And whatever wandering tendencies he had before the Assembly were exacerbated once Greya touched him. He went where the winds of fate blew. Should you ever ask where he was going—or why—he would say ‘I go where I go because I am going there.’”

“And that is exactly what he did,” said Wren. “He would go somewhere on a whim. Without notice. While I found the Provinces a perfectly nice place to live, Jart grew restless with each passing moment. One morning, when I awoke in our camp, Jart was gone. No note. No ‘farewell Wren.’ Nothing. He was just gone.” He shook his head and sighed. “Alone now, I kept to myself for a time, venturing into cities should I crave a bit of company. Although, as there are
no
ijuli here, my presence was often cause for excitement. At first, they called me The-Radiant-Long-Lived, but I did not care for that. Therefore, I became ‘Aembyr-The-Ageless.’ Smiling, he ran his fingers through his luxurious brown hair. “I am something of a legend here.”