Yechvan stoked the fire and wrapped his cloak tighter around his shoulders. “Koruzan’s hair, is it getting colder as we descend?” They’d spent three days on the damnable mountain, and Yechvan was tired of the smell of campfire smoke and the taste of jerky and the ever-present chill in his bones.
“We’ll need to keep an eye on Grind’s plans for the weather,” Zu replied. “Might be another tumultuous Cillion this year.”
“Bad weather will only help us in the war—should it come to that—so pray to Grind for rain and sleet and snow.”
“You know it will,” Zu said, his somber tone edged with excitement. “We both know Grusk better than to doubt his intentions. He’s been looking for any excuse to lead us into another war since the last one ended.”
More senseless deaths on Yechvan’s conscience. More friends joining the ranks of ghostly visitors.
Grask stirred in his bedroll. For the past two nights, sleep had come slowly to the boy. Yechvan had watched, helpless, as Grask wrestled with himself, the pain of his uncle’s betrayal coaxing tears from his eyes and growls from his throat.
Grey storm clouds crawled across the darkening sky in the east. Yechvan couldn’t tell whether they were coming or going. The wind on the mountainside was far too unpredictable to be of any help in determining their trajectory. If only he could harness their energy and force the clouds to dump oceans of rain on his battlefield to slow Peryn’s advance north into Banx, like the wizards and shamans of yore.
What a rush it must have been to wield such awesome power. What wondrous battles must have occurred during the First Age. It was less impressive to ignite the field with pitch and flaming arrows. The tar could be smelled, avoided, neutralized by waiting for a downpour to wash it away. But to spark a wall of fire with aught but a word, to summon lightning, to command an army of bears or wolves to do the caster’s bidding…Yechvan had been born in the wrong age.
As usual, Zu had fallen into a deep, peaceful slumber the instant he stretched out on his bedroll. Yechvan had only one memory of Zu waking in a cold sweat. In their youth, the pair had been camping near the holy ash tree outside Brogh when Zu jolted awake, ranting about a ghastly man with yellow eyes coming to steal Yechvan away. He had been asleep again within a minute and hadn’t recalled the nightmare the following day, but to this day he was uneasy around the ash tree.
“Why did he do it?” Grask blurted, tossing off his blanket and sitting up. “Why?”
“Speculation is for fools and prophets.” Yechvan’s heart reached for the boy, but no words would assuage his misery.
“You have so many answers, Yog,” Grask said. “How can you deny me this?”
Yechvan sighed. “Because I don’t want to break your heart further.”
“You think he knew it was me. That I was his target.”
Yechvan considered. “The way I see it, there are two possibilities. But you must promise me something if I am to share them with you.”
“What?” the boy asked in desperate anticipation.
“Afterward, you will let the subject lie. We still have two days of travel ahead of us, and I’d prefer not to waste them agonizing over what may or may not be.”
Grask stared hard at Yechvan, his grief warring with his curiosity. “I can try.”
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“There is a lesson in this, you know.”
“I am quite certain we’ve been over this before,” Grask said, his anger mounting. “In battle, when things don’t go as planned, you must be able to move on, not let your emotions overwhelm you. Something like that?”
“Yes, something like that.”
“But this isn’t a battle against an unknown enemy. This is my own flesh and blood. My uncle tried to kill me!” Grask yelled. “You don’t have family. How could you understand?”
Yechvan gave the boy a moment to compose himself. He’d been accused of far worse, and the boy was grieving. But his words stung all the same. “I have no living relatives, true enough. Your mother and uncle were obsessed with blood ties.” He scratched his burgeoning beard. “When you are camped before your first battle, men and women gather round the fires sharing remembrances of times past. You grow close, by necessity or circumstance or mere survival. You cling to memories of a less harrowing time. But as the days go by, darkness wraps you in its leathery embrace and whispers in your ear that Trilan is come to steal you away to his Realm, and the only thing that keeps him at bay is the man or woman sitting next to you by that fire. The fighting goes on and your numbers dwindle. The darkness returns. You never know when you might return to camp without that person beside you. When you might be forced to leave them behind on the battlefield, a rotting feast for the worms, bones picked clean by the crows.
“At the end of the war, all that remains are broken spirits held together by bonds even the gods could not rend asunder. No blood tie will ever be as strong as the one you share with those whose lives you save through decisive action in the morass of battle, or through meticulous planning ere you set foot on the field. Nothing can sever the bonds formed with the woman who would raise a shield over your head when your arm is cut too deep to do so yourself, with the man who would take an arrow to protect you from that pain, despite the threat to his own life.”
And that connection pales in comparison to the agony you’ll feel when those same men and women leave you behind because you had to open your mouth, to claim your plan was superior, Yechvan thought bitterly.
“Oh yes, Grask,” he continued. “I may not have shared your exact experience, but to say that what your uncle did is more difficult to bear because he is your blood…it is foolish and na?ve.”
Grask had sobered by degrees as Yechvan spoke. Now he bowed his head in shame. “I am sorry, Yog.”
“Don’t be too hard on yourself,” Yechvan replied, softening. “Grief is a heavy burden to carry alone, as Zu oft reminds me. ‘If you try to carry it on your own, you die.’” He nudged Grask in an attempt to raise his spirits.
The boy managed a weak smile and picked at his fingers. “What are your two theories?” he finally asked.
Pleased that the qince’s curiosity had won out over his grief, Yechvan said, “The first possibility, and the more likely, is that your uncle saw Solonia setting on your father’s life and seized his opportunity. He was versed in our traditions, so he had only to bide his time and prepare for your coming of age. He might have orchestrated the falling out with your father to provide cover for being in Peryn so he could recruit like-minded followers to his cause without suspicion. Perhaps he thought killing us would divide the nation, and then he would swoop in with the old nobility at his back and take control. He was fool enough to believe that plan might succeed. It may leave a bitter taste to hear it, but the attempt reeks of his iniquity. I know you loved him, but you are smart. Even through your grief, you see the truth in my words.”
Rather than speak through the tears that choked him, the boy nodded, his gaze dragged back down to his fidgeting hands.
“The second possibility is that he sought the aid of the Perysh king, who has long hoped to reclaim Oonkowt and the surrounding lands on our southern border, lands your father took shortly after the Emergence. Serick’s plan would afford the king a risk-free way to secure both his coveted territory and an ally upon the throne of Banx, had your uncle been successful. Had he killed Zu, Banx would have lost her greatest warrior, her heart. Had he killed you, Banx would have lost her heir, her future. Had he killed me, Banx would have lost…well.”
Grask laughed through his sobs. “You are important to Banx, too. Why do you deem the first scenario more likely?”
“I doubt the Perysh king would have sanctioned something so reckless or foolhardy. I don’t know him myself, but Zu met him long ago and reckoned the man had some of his honor yet intact. I believe, in some misguided way, Serik felt he would be fulfilling a duty to his countrymen by killing you, giving them a chance to reclaim their land after your father’s death.”
Grask sniffled and wiped his nose with his sleeve. “Yes, I suppose I must have been the target. Even Uncle Serik wasn’t stupid enough to believe an ambush would have killed either you or Zu.”
