The Children of the White Lions: Volume 02 - Prophecy (2 page)

As Nentnay was so near the border, the skin tones of the men and women were mixed, ranging from the dark, nutty brown common to most Yutians to the paler skin of southern Cartusians. Nearly everyone he saw had thick, brown or black hair, making his own long, whitish-blonde hair—pulled together and bound by three cords—decidedly out of place. As were his elongated arms, fingers, and facial features. He suspected he was the first saeljul any of these people had seen. The inquisitive, silent looks he received as he strode past the first buildings confirmed it for him.

Several dozen paces into the village, he halted. The happy chatter he had heard earlier on his way into Nentnay was gone. The only sounds in the village were the rush of the river and the songbirds’ chirping.

Standing before one of the longhouses on his right were three men and a boy, all dressed in stitched leather tunics and breeches.

“Excuse me. I was wondering if you might assist me with something?”

All four stared at him, mute.

After a moment, Tandyr lifted an eyebrow and raised his voice a bit. “I said, I was wondering if you—”

“Are you an ijul?” asked the boy suddenly. The question was spoken in Argot, the accent clipped and short.

The man closest to the child reached out to put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. He whispered to him, quiet enough that the sound of the river washed away his words. Tandyr’s gaze shifted between the pair. Their tan skin was of similar tone and their thick, wavy black hair was nearly identical.

Turning, he approached who he reasoned were father and son. The other men standing with them both took a few, quick, unconscious steps backwards. One bumped into the wall of the longhouse.

Tandyr offered the boy a slight smile and asked gently, “Do I look like an ijul to you?”

The boy nodded once.

“Yes.”

“Ah…” murmured Tandyr. “And have you ever seen an ijul?”

Shaking his head, the boy said, “No.”

“Then how would you know what one looks like?”

“Batta tells us stories.”

“Does he?” asked Tandyr. “And what do ijul in…Batta’s stories look like?”

“Hair that shines as bright as the sun, arms that flow like a river reed blowing in a soft breeze, and the quiet grace of a snow leopard.”

Tandyr smiled at the flowery description.

“Batta sounds like a good storyteller.”

“He is,” replied the boy. “He knows a lot of them on account he’s so—”

“Menet!” interjected the boy’s father. “That is enough.” Glaring at his son, the man muttered, “Go inside with your mothers, please.”

“But I—”

“Now, Menet!”

Tandyr lifted his gaze to the father. The man’s tone was curiously terse.

Menet scowled at his father as he mumbled, “Yes, Father.” He scampered to the entrance of the longhouse, lifted some sort of tanned animal skin hanging from the entryway, and disappeared inside the darkened interior.

Tandyr returned his attention to the three men. The two against the wall had withdrawn further and were now sweating, an unusual fact due to the slight chill in the air. Menet’s father showed a touch more steel, holding Tandyr’s gaze without flinching.

“You,” said Tandyr, nodding at the father. “What is your name?”

The man hesitated a moment before answering.

“I am called Dese.”

“Greetings, Dese,” said Tandyr. “I have been seeking some unusual…things for quite some time now. I have reason to believe one might be here.”

Dese remained motionless and quiet, the defiant glint in his eye irritating Tandyr. Eventually, the man spoke with a frown.

“We are a simple people, wanderer. Unless you consider hide, fish, or pinewood ‘unusual,’ I fear your journey has been in vain. Perhaps you should look elsewhere.”

The inquisitive cluck of a chicken pulled Tandyr’s attention to the longhouse’s corner. A single brown-feathered fowl emerged from the side of the building, strutting, its head bobbing as it walked.

Looking back to the man, Tandyr said, “I find your words to be less than hospitable, Dese.”

Dese’s face hardened.

“Hospitality is for friends and neighbors, ijul. You are neither.”

Tandyr regarded the man, studying him. He was brave. Brainless, but brave.

“Ah,” muttered Tandyr. “I see.” His gaze flicked to the pair of men standing behind Dese. “Are these your friends, Dese?”

Dese crossed his arms over his chest, the colored beads hanging from strings draping along the sleeves clicking softly against one another.

“They are my brothers.”

Tandyr studied the two men. One had dark skin and a bald pate, while the other had light skin and long, light brown hair held that fell past his shoulders.

“Truly?” said Tandyr with honest surprise. “They look nothing like you.”

“We share the same father,” replied Dese. “We are house brothers.”

Tandyr expected some sort of explanation would be forthcoming, yet Dese offered none. The Cartusian’s reticence was starting to irritate him. As he stood there, waiting, the chicken wandered between him and three villagers, pecking at the ground as it searched for a stray seed or grub.

“Which of your ‘house brothers’ do you care for more, Dese?”

The man stiffened.

“Pardon?”

“It is a simple question,” said Tandyr, an edge to his voice now. Nodding to the pair of men, he asked plainly, “Which is your favorite?”

The man’s expression shifted, his worry deepening.

“Why do you ask?”

Tandyr glared at the man.

“Answer my question, man.”

Dese’s eyebrows drew together.

“Who are you, ijul?”

Tandyr was trying to keep calm, but this mortal was not making it easy.

“Choose, Dese.” He peered between the two men against the wall. “Or I will choose for you.”

The man stared at Tandyr for a long, quiet moment. The chicken at their feet clucked softly.

Tandyr’s eyes narrowed. Lowering his voice, he said, “Surely you are wondering: choose them for what?”

Reaching for the bright white Strands of Air, Tandyr knit a quick pattern and directed the Weave around the chicken. The fowl squawked in alarm as it was suddenly held in place, prevented from continuing its leisurely search for grubs or whatever it was chickens ate.

Tandyr lifted his gaze to the three men and found the trio staring at the fowl with wide eyes. He allowed himself a tiny smile.

He glanced around the village once, wondering if he might encounter resistance. He severely doubted any competent Air mage would languish here, but over the years, he had learned to be careful. When he did not spot even a flicker of recognition in anyone’s eyes, Tandyr looked back down and tightened the Weave.

Instantly, the chicken’s clucking morphed into sharp shrieks of pain, slicing through the misty solitude of the mountain valley. Other villagers stared in shock as the bird thrashed helplessly, screeching as Tandyr’s pulsating white Weave slowly constricted around its body. Men and women rushed from longhouses and onto the muddy road, drawn by the chicken’s cries. He took his time, hoping to draw the entire village out.

As the street filled, the brown-feathered fowl stopped squawking, no longer able to draw breath. At that point, Tandyr squeezed the Weave tight, eliciting a series of moist, crunching pops. The chicken’s yellow-beaked head lolled to one side and Tandyr released the Weave, letting the bird fall limply to the ground.

Dese, his brothers, and the citizens of Nentnay stared at the dead bird in wide-eyed silence. The boy, Menet, was peering out from behind the leather skin covering of the entryway, his eyes locked on Tandyr rather than the bird. A dark-skinned woman stood behind him, hovering protectively.

Raising his voice so everyone could hear, Tandyr said, “If you answer my questions, nothing else needs to die today.”

If he could avoid killing anyone, he would do so. Stories spread when strange ijuli marched into villages, indiscriminately killing people. Chickens, less so.

“Now, I’m looking for a stone.” Lifting his hand, he extended his long, thin thumb and said, “It is supposedly the size of one’s—” He stopped when he noticed Dese’s gaze shift, flicking to something behind him. Turning around quickly, he spotted a figure shuffling towards him, feet scuffling in the muddy road.

Tandyr’s already wide eyes grew round.

The individual that was approaching was tall and incredibly thin, more so than even a malnourished ijul. Lightweight linen robes hung from his bony frame like too-dry stringmoss drooping from a willow tree. Skin as thin as scraped parchment covered his hands and skull, stretched so tight that it seemed that any sudden movement might split it open. His head was bald, his lips so slender they were nearly absent. Vibrant blue eyes perched over a pair of dual vertical slits where most had a nose.

Clean, unadulterated excitement flooded Tandyr’s veins. He had finally found one of them.

The aicenai moved deliberately, padding ever closer to Tandyr. Halting a dozen paces away, he fixed Tandyr with a sharp, intelligent stare and sighed. The long, weary breath sounded eons old itself.

Tandyr tilted his head, observing, “You sound tired.”

“I am,” replied the aicenai. His voice reminded Tandyr of a faint breeze rustling through a field of tall grass “Very…
very
tired.”

With a respectful incline of his head, Tandyr said, “The years have been hard on you, have they not?”

The parchment-like skin around the aicenai’s eyes crinkled. “Your concern is as false as it is unnecessary.” Each word was spoken with a drawn out deliberateness. “My plight does not matter to you.”

Tandyr shrugged, saying, “Believe what you must.” He paused a moment, half expecting the figure to disappear at any moment. “What are you called?”

“Batta Badukralda.”

Tandyr glanced over his shoulder, back to where the boy stood in the longhouse entryway.

“You are young Menet’s storyteller, then, are you?”

Batta ignored the question entirely, his bright eyes locked on Tandyr, legitimate confusion etched in the lines of his face. Leaning forward as if trying to see inside of Tandyr, he asked, “Which of the nine are you?”

Tandyr smiled.

“Surely you know that your talent will not work on me.”

Batta nodded slowly.

“I am aware. That is why I am asking the question.
Which
of the nine are you?”

The question gave Tandyr a moment’s pause.

“What do you mean? Which of the nine what?”

The ancient aicenai shook his head.

“Do not patronize me. I know what you are, what is housed in that saeljul’s form.”

Curious, Tandyr took a number of steps closer to Batta.

“How could you?”

Time—and many mistakes—had taught Tandyr it was best he keep his identities, both of them, a closely guarded secret. Only a handful of individuals throughout all of Terrene knew who he truly was.

Batta held his ground against Tandyr’s slow advance and, in a voice wheezing like a late-Harvest wind, said, “We discovered what the Suštinata was.”

“Did you?” asked Tandyr.

The aicenai nodded, his eyes narrowing.

“It was only a matter of time before your kind came looking for it.”

Tandyr could not hold back the grin that sought to spread wide over his face. His mortal heartbeat quickened even as he tried to temper his excitement. He needed to keep control of his emotions, else his true nature might escape. He took a deep, steadying breath.

“So one of them is here, then?”

With a slow nod, Batta said, “It is.”

Tandyr’s heart pounded harder, accompanied by a sudden surge of suspicion. This was too good to be true. Halting in the street, he stared hard at Batta.

“What game do you play with me, aicenai?”

Batta shook his head.

“I play no game.”

Tandyr did not believe him.

“You know what the Suštinata is?”

“I do,” muttered Batta. “I have for nearly nine hundred years.”

Cocking a surprised eyebrow, Tandyr asked, “Why did you not fulfill your promise?”

“It was best the stone remain lost.”

“You broke your oath.”

A flicker of grimace touched Batta’s thin lips.

“Regrettable, but necessary.”

Lifting his gaze to the sprawling pine forest, the towering Yaubno Mountains to the north, and the rustic longhouses, Tandyr asked, “Why here?”

Sadness trickled briefly over Batta’s wizened face. “When the others perished, I continued our charge for a time. However, I grew weary of hiding.” Looking around at the forest and mountains, he said, “We had studied in this valley long ago, and it pleased me. So, I came back.” His gaze drifted to the villagers behind Tandyr. “The people here are kind and quiet.”

Tandyr was almost disappointed. He had expected that when he found one of the stones, it would be protected by a thousand mages or the army of three nations.

“How long have you been here?”

Batta shrugged.

“I have lost count of the years. A few hundred or so.”

Tandyr’s eyes grew wide. His search had been underway for eons. To discover that one of the Suštinata had been sitting in one place for so long, unprotected, was terribly frustrating.

“Where is it?”

Batta lifted a bony arm and pointed down the street, further into town. Swiveling his head, Tandyr spotted four wooden poles in the middle of the street, arranged around a gray stone pedestal. Four more logs rose from the posts at an angle, meeting at a point and providing the frame for a roof that was not there. Unlike the red, treated wood in the rest of the village, these poles were gray. Years of weather had leached any color from the wood.

“The shrine?” muttered Tandyr.

In small villages like Nentnay, worship to the entire pantheon of Gods and Goddesses was done in a single shrine like the one in the street. Only cities had temples.

“The stone is there,” answered Batta. “I assure you.”

In disbelief, Tandyr asked, “You left it out in the open?”

Batta shook his head, a slight smile gracing his lips.

“No, that would be unwise.”

Tandyr glared at him, confused.

“What do you mean?”