First Born
By Astra Crompton
By Astra Crompton
Chapter Two : Starting Again
Ambra T’Renia had made her way back home from the village in good time. There was still some life in these old legs yet. As she rose over the crest of the hill, the shadows cast by her house created a comforting cool over the yard. Though, to her surprise, there was a flitting shadow moving across the roof’s silhouette. Shielding her eyes against the glare, she picked out the son of her neighbour scrambling across the tiles some eighteen feet above her head.
“What are you doing there, Kathiz?” So addressed, the boy clambered to the edge. He was ungainly and loping, his clumsy, oversized feet struggling for purchase among the smooth ceramic tiles. For a moment, Ambra was terrified the boy might tumble right off to certain death on the rocks below. But Kathiz steadied himself with both slab-like hands, the long, stick-thin fingers wrapped around the eaves for balance. He squinted down and, realizing who it was, grinned. The gash of a mouth seemed to split his face into halves.
“Sovan, T’Renia! I was cleaning the leaves off your roof, ma’am. There are enough up here to make paper screens, you know?” Kathiz’s young voice was loud and clear in the early morning air. Ambra shook her head, sighing.
“Kathiz! This early in the morning, the roof is still covered in dew! What in the great shadows of the mountains possessed you to clean my roof at this hour, and without my request?” The youth was still grinning broadly, obviously pleased with himself.
“Mother said to make myself useful, ma’am. But having done all my chores already, I thought I’d come see if I couldn’t help you, instead. Mother said I ought always do favours for others so that my fortune would not be faced alone, whatever that means…”
Kathiz’s certainty faltered towards the end of his declaration, but his enthusiasm would not be derailed. “Did you want these leaves for your own paper, T’Renia? I can bring them down, if you’d like!” He popped to his feet and instantly his long arms started wheeling through the air in wild circles as he tried to steady himself. For a hectic moment, Ambra was certain he would tumble over backwards, but he somehow managed to get his gnarled feet beneath him and scrambled out of sight over the slope of the roof. A moment later he popped back into view with an oversized cloth parcel mounted on his back and secured across his chest. He tottered under the weight of it, but managed to make it back to the spot where he’d first appeared.
“Oh, for Isham’s sake, not so close to the edge, child!” Ambra exclaimed, exasperated at how often he made her heart race with worry. “How you have not been the death of yourself yet, I’ll never understand!” Kathiz grinned and let out a delighted laugh, followed swiftly by an unsteady wobble as his exuberance nearly threw him off the roof. “Or the death of me, at that. You do make me worry something awful! How did you get up there in the first place, you wild boy?” Kathiz pointed to the front side of the house and began his ungraceful scamper to show her what he was gesturing at. Ambra made her way around to the front of the house again and, shielding her eyes, looked up. “Yes?”
Kathiz’s face appeared over the edge and he lowered a bent piece of metal down until the crook of its angle hooked onto the roof tile. Leaving this wedged where it was, he shimmied himself over the edge and swung his spindly legs free. Then, hanging by his fingers he walked himself over to the piece of metal and slowly transferred his weight to the hanging bar. It wobbled a little, and he paused, the oversized cloth filled with leaves throwing off his balance. At last, he managed to stretch his legs out and touch his long toes to the wall, and so steadying himself, braced hand over hand down the bar until he was close enough to drop to the moss-covered rocks in front of the house.
He shook himself off, dislodged the metal from the tiles and stepped back grinning.
“I was very careful not to leave a single mark, ma’am!” Ambra made a thoughtful sound in the back of her throat and shook her head in disbelief. She inspected the metal bar he held and the simple square of cloth he was using as a sack. Neither were proper tools of the trade. The bar looked like a piece of twisted scrap discarded by the blacksmith, and the cloth looked like one of his mother’s tablecloths.
“You are a clever little devil, aren’t you, Kathiz?” she asked, eying him sternly.
“Am I, ma’am?” Kathiz asked, the smile faltering for the first time. “Are…you displeased, T’Renia? I can put the leaves back, if you want me too… I can’t promise I’ll remember where each leaf goes, but I can do my best to spread them out how they were, if you didn’t want them removed…” He fidgeted under her staring gaze, the long Meshura fingers and toes curling under, his shoulders hunching up to his stick-out ears.
Ambra just laughed – a full-bellied laugh that filled the misty air and shook her whole frame. She patted a hand down on Kathiz’s shoulder and, by degrees, his smile returned. He joined in with a tentative chuckle of his own, and waited for her to subdue her mirth.
“You are earnest, I’ll give you that. There’s no harm in cleaning the leaves off, boy. I normally wait ‘til later in the year, though. The leaves are still falling, and they’ll keep on falling for a few more weeks.” She pointed up at the ember-orange leaves of the teishur trees and patted his shoulder kindly with the other hand. His smile melted away and he scuffed bare toes against the ground. “There, there, boy. It simply means you’ll need to go up again in a month or so and clean off what’s left.”
“Oh, do you mean it, ma’am? Thank you, ma’am! I promise I’ll get every last one!” She laughed again and shook her head.
“I’m sure you will! Now, let’s get you inside. Fire Tea to warm up your belly and a coal towel to sooth those poor toes, mnn? Running through the cold dew in bare feet – at this time of year! If you caught an infection your mother would never let me hear the end of it!” She led him around to the stairs and the two of them climbed up to the bright red front door. “Have you ever made paper, Kathiz?” She asked curiously, still smiling.
"I’ve watched T’Azuri and T’Brenne make it, ma’am, but I’ve not done it myself.” Kathiz replied promptly, opening the door for his neighbour. T’Renia grinned and nodded.
“With all these fresh leaves, it would be a perfect time to learn, would it not?”
In this way, life had passed seven years for Kathiz in the town of Ganos in the south-eastern Highlands of Muzin. He had been barely a year old when Ruenne’s feet had found their way to the mild side of Mount Yalil. It had been a hard year. Her scar had kept her out of many people’s care, and more than once she was forced to trade her body’s warmth for a roof over her and her child for a night. She was thin but resolute by the time she stumbled across Ambra T’Renia’s front steps.
The old woman had brought her before the people of Ganos. They were reluctant to let her stay. They knew what the brand meant, and with the babe still in swaddling clothes, they knew that this child must be the very accursed First Born that had earned her the mark. What sort of misfortune would follow in his footsteps? What sort of fate would hound his path through life?
It was Ambra who had been stern with them. “This woman has faced hardships,” she had told them, “by Isham’s grace only has she kept both herself and her babe alive to come to us. Will we turn her away because of fear? The mother is branded, yes. She must start with nothing – but look, she has nothing left to be stripped away. The child is Cursed, but that blackness marks his path, not ours. The Curse does not spread like a disease; it does not transfer from one host to another like a parasite. It is his burden to bear, and not his fault that he was forced to live this life. Should he be punished merely for living?” She had said more, even though no more was needed. Ruenne had fallen at her feet and had wept with gratitude. She had kissed the old woman’s boots and rocked her child. The boy had remained silent through all of this. They were allowed to stay.
It was not long before Ruenne had proven herself to be hard-working, upright and courageous. She never shirked a duty, and always kept both herself and her baby busy.
In time, her hair grew long, and she kept it swept forward over the marred side of her face. As it slipped from view, so too did it slip from the minds of the townspeople. She built up her reputation again as a multi-skilled craftswoman, a mother of deep love for all children, a friend with much-needed advice. Through her virtues, in time, she was able to build a new life. But the scar would forever change some things. She was anathema to a mate. No one – male or female – showed interest in her as a partner or even a lover for a night.
The child, as he grew, proved to be cheerful and kind, open-hearted and accepting of all living things. He was as caring for a plant as for a fellow townsperson. True, bad luck did seem to dog his steps, but while he was around, if there was anything that could or might go wrong, it was upon Kathiz that misfortune swooped. Like a beacon, he attracted all accidents and illness, and his friends and neighbours were spared. So it was that pity not fear, compassion not distrust was given to Kathiz. Despite his tumultuous start in the world, he was cared for and loved and raised to know nothing of his origins.
As a boy-child, still many years away from becoming a man, in the full flush of his Auspice marks, he was much like any other child his age. He was curious and excitable, full of dreams of distant races beyond the mountains and wild beasts in the forests. He played games of speed and strength. He listened to the elders’ stories of danger and adventure with rapt attention. He did his chores with
exuberance and gusto. But despite all of this seeming goodness, he was still Cursed.
The world had a way of finding those marked. It had a way of weaving a trap, as if it evaluated what you most held dear so that it could best hurt you.
In his seventh year, the true meaning of the Curse of the First Born would come to light. The minor bad luck – the broken bones and blood fevers over the years – would come to mean nothing, merely a facet of breathing. This year, his scope of the world would forever change.
Kathiz and his childhood friend were walking the path through the low sran forests, taking the circuitous route back home. The mountain sloped down before them, and they went stumbling along in flat boots, wheeling their arms through the air to keep their balance and shrieking with laughter. Kathiz flopped about, seeming to flap from one position to another like a rag doll. Ilaya, on the other hand, born under the Auspice of Ishala, was perfectly formed in shape: smooth and rounded with wide almond eyes and a petal mouth. However, the purple blotches of her Auspice covered her skin in scaly patches from head to toe, including a large, jagged piece that completely surrounded one eye and trailed over half of her face.
Between the two of them, they looked like diseased mongrels or little monsters making a racket as they went flailing along the path. Eventually, they reached the fence that bordered the road. The birds in the bushes remained quiet and the creatures of the low brush hid in their burrows until the two passed by.
Ilaya clamoured onto the fence posts first, and Kathiz was quick to follow. Teetering along, they took the beams one at a time, trying to keep their balance as they followed the road.
“You know what my brother told me?” Ilaya chirped suddenly, as was her fashion, and continued without waiting for an answer. “He said they got an outrider yesterday, down at the taverna. Outrider wanted eight rooms! Can you imagine?” she squealed in her tiny voice. Kathiz wobbled and nearly fell before balancing himself out again.
“That’s an awful big group for this time of year. Any idea who they are?” He asked. Ilaya turned about to face him and made a neat backwards step.
“Certainly do! The outrider said as much. Hunters are coming to town! Hunters, Kathiz! Isn’t it fantastic?” This time Kathiz did fall off the fence and landed in the wild grass, causing a puff of spores to shoot up into the air.
“Hunters? Real, actual Hunters?” Kathiz badgered from the ground. She turned around, laughing at him, and sat herself down on one of the fence beams. “What are they looking for, do you know?” Ilaya shrugged and grinned, the marking on her face twisting her impish smile into something grotesque.
“Oh, you know, probably the usual. Brigands and monsters and who knows…maybe YathRagazi!” Kathiz felt an involuntary shiver and threw a handful of grass at his friend. It fluttered harmlessly away on the breeze and she laughed at him again.
“Oh, come on. There’s no YathRagazi around these parts. Nothing that exciting happens ‘round here!” Kathiz protested, rubbing his spindly fingers through his fiery hair.
“Hey!” Ilaya squealed, leaping off the fence to tackle him. Kathiz let out a cry of mock-protest and the two tumbled through the grass wrestling with each other. He let her pummel him with tiny, soft fists and giggled to himself. Then, without warning she speared him in the gut with a blade-shaped hand. “Hutz!” she squealed, stabbing him again for good measure as he tried to bat away her hands and stab her back.
“Hutzka!” He declared, triumphantly stabbing her right in the belly and lightly winding her. She shrieked and tackled him again. They gradually drew to a stop and lay back, rubbing at sore midriffs and staring up at the soft wisps of cloud stretching across the lavender sky.
“You shouldn’t joke about things like that, you know…” She said after a short silence. He rolled his face to regard her, still catching his breath, a puzzled look stretched over his distorted face.
“Hutzka? It’s just a game, Ila…” He murmured quietly. She slapped a hand across and whacked him on the arm.
“Not Hutzka, you dolt. YathRagazi. They aren’t something to joke about. They’re real monsters, Kathiz. My brother had a traveler once, a few years ago, who had grabbed what he could and run from one, y’know. The man’s whole village had been eaten. Not just the animals and the flocks, Katholas, but all the people too – every one of them. Sucked the blood right out of them without even touching them.” They were both silent for a moment, contemplating that.
“The Hunters who go after YathRagazi must be really crazy, then. Hey, Ila? I don’t know if I could do that. I mean, if a YathRagazi is really strong, he could just suck all the blood out of you before you even saw him. You’d never know what hit you!”
“Yeah, scary!” Ilaya agreed. They exchanged glances, then she sat up and shook out her shaggy hair. Kathiz watched her for a moment and then sat up himself.
“We should go meet them, y’know? See if we can help out at the taverna. We might get to overhear some real Hunter stories. What d’you say?” He asked, the Meshura grin stretching his face. She stared at him for a moment, honey-coloured eyes unblinking for a long while. Then, without warning, she jumped up.
“We can ask my brother to get us in there, right?” Kathiz bounded to his feet too and laughed.
“That’s the spirit, Ila! Let’s go!” She nodded, pondering something to herself for a moment. “What is it?” Kathiz asked, wondering what had captured her attention.
“Oh, y’know, it’s just…” She stepped closer, looking up at him with wide, innocent eyes. Then, without warning, she shrieked, “Hutz!” Her hand was already in motion before the sound had left her lips and she stabbed him in the ribs before he could block. Squealing, she scrambled through the slats in the fence and began running down the road, Kathiz hot on her heels hollering threats with a grin on his face.
They discovered that many of the other youths of Ganos had had a similar idea and were already lining the street by the east gates. Kathiz and Ilaya jostled to see as the outrider and her entourage of Hunters and servants came into view. There were some sixteen people altogether, but it was easy to pick the Hunters from the rest. Five of the travellers had a bearing to them, a presence that could not be masked. These were the faces of men and women who looked evil in the eye and struck with steady hands. Kathiz let out a whoop of excitement that added to the chorus of voices in the street that morning.
Four men and one woman were the objects of this youthful adoration. They surveyed the crowd: two of them stern and austere, two grinning and winking, one baring his double fangs and snarling in play at a couple of the children, who obediently squealed and dashed back from the road.
The travelers made their way in unofficial procession to the doors of the Rana dur Sorn taverna where Ilaya’s brother Rakosh worked. The children flailed after them, but Rakosh stayed them at the threshold with a reproving glance and shut the doors. Wailing in dismay, the children swarmed the windows, waving at the Hunters through the glass. Some of the children, too small to see, reached Auspice-marked hands up to tap on the windowpanes.
“Here…” Ilaya whispered, tugging on Kathiz’s elbow. “This way,” she gestured. Without question, he followed her lead around the side of the building and through the service gate. The sather tethered to the hitching post snorted and shook his shaggy crest at them as they entered the yard. Ilaya gave the beast a wide berth and they slipped past to the kitchen door. She knocked and motioned for Kathiz to be quiet. A moment later, one of the kitchen staff opened the door.
“Why, if it isn’t little Ila and Katholas! Did you think you could sneak in to see our illustrious guests because Rakosh works here?” Kathiz nodded, grinning ear to ear, but Ilaya just stood there, looking up with her eyes huge in her face. The cook chuckled to herself and shook her head. “You wait here and I’ll see if your brother wants you underfoot today.” She slid the door shut, but the two children could still hear her bellowing over the noise of the kitchen to Rakosh. They waited, fidgeting in the yard for what seemed hours, until finally the door slid open again and Ilaya’s brother stood there.
“What do you pests want?” He asked, words hard, but mouth twitching to suppress his grin.
“Oh, please brother! Please! Let us in! There are real live Hunters in there!” She had both hands up and offered in supplication, her eyelashes batting, pink lip protruding.
“You think these great Muzina want a couple drip-nosed jackals skulking about their chair legs? There’s a reason I closed the front doors, Ila. These travelers want a room to rest, not to be badgered by you scrabblers, or they’d’ve stayed in the fields with the mites!” Ilaya whined a wordless complaint but Kathiz grinned up at him.
“But so many people, YuyatanRako?” Kathiz charmed in his best polite grammar. “Surely a scullery boy – or girl – would be a great boon today, no? We don’t want to loaf about in soft chairs, no sir! We’re here to be put to work! Let us carry your platters and trays! Let us pour myl for your guests! What do you say to that?” Rakosh folded his arms across his chest, his best tuzi jacket so stiff with starch it barely creased. Even professional Rakosh was obviously excited enough to want to impress his elite guests. He regarded the two of them with a mistrustful eye for a long moment. Then, without warning, he reached down and ruffled Kathiz’s hair with one big hand.
“You’d better watch that honey tongue of yours, Katholas. People are going to start thinking your father was a Suoro.” Kathiz was tempted to stick out his tongue at that, but he didn’t want to sour his chances. He just grinned again and saluted the man. Rakosh shook his head and scratched his earlobe. “Do not make me regret this, you two. Inside with you – ask Seika how you can not get in her way…”
Both bowing and saluting, and offering prayer hands to Rakosh, they slipped into the kitchen and found themselves in the whirling world of the taverna. As warm as the day was already, the kitchen was hotter by far. Here the men and women were stripped to the waist, having foregone their tuzi, and were rushing about in either their tuziyula undershirts or bare-chested, baggy pants tied up around their knees, toe-capped sandals in favour of proper boots. Even so, many of them were still sweating, yelling and hollering across the crowded room. Before they could make sense of the tumult of motion, Seika swept down on them with a stoneware platter of sliced cold meats and cheeses, and a pitcher of myl.
“You, and you,” she said, thrusting the dishes into their hands. “Take these out to the Hunters. Be quick, but don’t spill a thing! Go!!” Nodding dumbly, the two friends went tottering out of the kitchen under the weight of the food and drink to the common room. It was already bustling. The previous night’s guests had emerged from their rooms to socialize in the main atrium, some striking up conversation with their new guest-mates, others sitting inconspicuously by the empty hearth working on this or that handicraft, eavesdropping on the astonishing tales that were even now being told.
The friends made their way to the broad stone table in the centre of the room and Kathiz cleared his throat. “Excuse me, good Muzina? Cold meats and cheese from the kitchen for your enjoyment.”
“And cold myl!” Ilaya squeaked, setting the pitcher down. One of the Hunters, an RnClan by the looks of him, grinned raggedly and saluted them. The two children fidgeted for a moment, in awe of these celebrated adults before them. But Seika was already bellowing from the kitchen that they were needed, and so – reluctantly – they scurried away. “Is it just me, or do they seem bigger than normal people?” Ilaya asked in a whisper. Kathiz grinned at her.
“Nah, they’re not so big. You’re just super tiny, that’s all.” She hit him on the shoulder, but she was grinning.
They were kept busy for the day, and both worked hard. They bussed the tables,
cleaned the emptied dishes, took orders to the kitchen. Here and there, they managed to catch snippets of tales:
“So, there we were, up against this YathRagazi, and its mate comes out of no where, flinging fire from its hands like a demon…”
“It wasn’t so much that the battle-cat was an issue, but she had four cubs, see, and with six clawed-legs flailing in defence of her young, you can understand…”
“That’s how I got this scar; I thought I was going to bleed to death, that time…”
“The Regent himself had commissioned us to take care of this band of brigands on Mount Sazin that had been stealing from the Imperial School of the Makon…”
So many famous names of places and people, monsters and beasts of the wild, spoken of so casually – all in a day’s work for the finest of fighters. It was enough to give a young child dreams. These were the rewards of unsurpassed skill. What you had been, what gender you were, none of that mattered if you could swing a weapon as deadly as these five. When one of them actually brought out his Ruzor, Kathiz nearly tripped over himself. The light glittered off the chains as the blades swung free of their brace, and the Hunter demonstrated several flashing turns of the deadly, hooked crescents while he walked along casually. This was not merely a life of courage and danger; it seemed an entirely different world. For a few hours, Kathiz and Ilaya were part of it, however vicariously. They worked their hardest, respect guiding their motions, offering only the best for these great warriors who had so thoroughly earned it.
Their hard work paid off. As the day wore on into evening, and most of the guests had gone into town for the night services of the local shrine, or to their rooms for some privacy, the children were allowed to rest. Kathiz and Ilaya made their way back to the common room. Both had sore, blistered feet, and were weary and hungry. They sat down by the hearth where Rakosh set to preparing Fire Tea for the night. Seika brought them a small platter of food for a day’s work well done.
Then a man came to sit with them by the fire – one of the Hunters. At first, they scrambled from their seats, as tired as they were, but he waved them back to their places. He pulled up a short stool and sat between their chairs, sipping at his wine.
“You both worked hard today. Thank you.” He had a deep voice like thunder rolled up in the clouds. He wasn’t young, but not yet too old. He had lines in his face from wear and injury and memories not to be forgotten. Kathiz mutely offered the platter to him, but he declined with a gesture. “So what tale would you like?”
“Pardon?” Kathiz croaked. The man grinned at them.
“Well, you managed to get in, despite the doors being shut. You both skulked about all day, listening in with these looks on your faces…” He mimicked quickly their dumbstruck expressions. “Did you want to hear one of the tales in full, instead of just what snippets you overheard before?” Ilaya blushed furiously, and Kathiz fidgeted in embarrassment.
“We thought you’d be tired of telling them by now,” he murmured, stuffing a piece of smoked latem into his mouth. The Hunter grinned again.
“I assure you, we have enough tales to never give the same one twice. We do, of course; we tell our favourites. There are plenty too horrible to burden another with. Those who have not the mettle to become Hunters often lack the strength of heart to hear some of the things we endure.” The children exchanged a glance, half-awed and half-apprehensive. “Let’s see… Which scar should I tell you about…” He mused aloud, fingering by turns the various white and red sealed gashes along his skin. The white, he explained, were from blades, the red were from fire. He had a serrated mark along the inside of one hand where he’d been bitten by a battle-cat. He had a black smudge underneath the tanned skin of one elbow where a piece of iron from a bandit’s mine had embedded and been missed when cleaning the wound. He had a long line that ran from the outside of his knee to his ankle where he’d been grazed by a spear – he’d had to stitch it up himself.
“How are you still in one piece?” Kathiz squeaked, staring at the mesh of scars that laced the man’s body. The Hunter laughed and shrugged his shoulders.
“The Goddess made me tough. I’d be dead by now if She hadn’t.” He replied, amused, but earnest.
“What are you hunting now?” Ilaya asked, squirming in her chair to get comfortable.
“Nothing really.” He replied, and laughing at the disappointed look on her face, held up his hands for an amendment. “We’re on our way to Mallon to pick up a request.
Seems some feral Bodovians crossed the border, and have been spreading plague into the livestock around there.” He paused, the storyteller in him rising again to feed the hungry looks on their faces. “But you never know what might show up between now and then – it’s a long way yet to Mallon.”
“What might show up?” Ilaya prompted, grinning.
“Ah,” The Hunter replied, nodding sagely. “A thief, perhaps, stealing purses from young mothers on their way home? Or a rabid garlob, charging with horns down when our backs are to the cliffs? Or perhaps a marked Muzina, running from the shame that seared the brand into their skin? Maybe even a YathRagazi, who knows…” He expected questions or exclamations at that, but the girl before him looked troubled, and not by fear. The boy merely looked confused.
“You hunt people for being ashamed?” Kathiz asked. Ilaya kicked him in the shin, but he ignored her. “Why? Isn’t the shame bad enough?” The Hunter sat back and rubbed his jaw thoughtfully.
“There are different levels of shame, I suppose. There’s the shame of lying to your parents. I wouldn’t kill a countryman for that. Besides, your parents would probably beat me to it.” He quirked a brow to show he spoke in jest, but the little boy still looked mighty serious and the girl had begun to squirm again. “But there are some shames that are not to be forgiven. Murderers, rapists, thieves, and those who fail their Test of Pain. These are people who have been given a chance and, looking straight into the eyes of Isham, have spit upon their life and their country. That is unforgivable. They are branded so that they may be known. If any Hunter finds them, it is their right if not their obligation to pass judgment. Many, I’m afraid to say, never redeem themselves.” Kathiz frowned thoughtfully and rubbed his left cheek.
“What do they look like?” He asked, squinting into the fire.
“Kathiz!” Ilaya squeaked. “I think we should go back into the kitchen. We’ve rested quite long enough.” She hopped to her feet and patted the Hunter’s shoulder. “Thank you very much for your stories, sir!” And without another word she grabbed the boy’s hand and dragged him protesting out of the common room.
The Hunter sat on his stool by the fire, staring over his shoulder at the children until they disappeared from sight. Then he stood, straightened his tuzi, tested the grip on his dagger and left the room.
“What are you doing?” Kathiz asked, throwing Ilaya’s hand off once the door had swung shut behind them.
“What are you doing?” she shot back, her eyes wide with fear. “Don’t you understand, Kathiz?” He stuck out his lip and, pouting, crossed his arms over his bare chest.
“No, I don’t. What are you getting all upset about?” She let out an exasperated noise and flung up her hands.
“He hunts people with the brand!” She hissed, trying to keep her voice low, but merely achieving a shrill tone.
“So?” Kathiz asked, intentionally obtuse.
“If he doesn’t know about them, he won’t go looking for them. Okay? So, we shouldn’t give him cause to go looking.” She took his hand in hers and squeezed, looking up into his face, trying to see if he understood. He blinked, looked down at their clasped hands and slowly pulled his fingers from hers.
“What are you saying, Ilaya?” His voice was dull, and he kept his glance lowered. She made a sound and fell silent again. A cook came into the room and grabbed a couple pots, shot them a curious glance, and went outside.
“Oh, Kathiz… Don’t you know?” He looked up, a miserable look on his face, eyes pinched to hold back the tears. She took his hand and pulled him over to the table. Dabbing her finger in a bowl of sauce she drew out a mark. “Do you know what this means?” she asked, squinting up at him.
“Is my mum a murderer?” He asked softly. She shook her head.
“No, Kathiz.”
“A thief?” He asked in the same frightened voice.
“No, Kathiz. You must know what it means – what it means about you…” He yanked his hand away and stepped back from her shaking his head.
“No, Ilaya… This is not funny.” He slapped a hand on the mark she’d made and smeared it across the wood. She didn’t say anything, didn’t look at him. Small, purple-stained shoulders hunched up to her messy hair, hands clenched together before her chest. “Ilaya… It isn’t true. My mum…” He choked, fists balling at his sides. His friend looked over, streams of saline bright on her cheeks. She squeezed her eyes shut and began bawling, her tiny voice filling the hot kitchen like a wailing baby.
Kathiz burst out the door and into the yard, past the kitchen staff smoking their pipes and cleaning the day’s pans. They called after him, but he was running through the night, trying to make it back to his home as if borne by wings. His boots slapped the ground as he ran, skinny arms flapping, knock-knees banging together. Twice he fell on the gravel road, scraping his knee and splitting his lip on a rock. He wiped the blood away as he got up and kept running, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he pushed himself up the hill to the small house his mother had built.
He got into the yard doubled-over from a cramp in his side, his muscles screaming, wobbling legs threatening to collapse. He half-crawled up the steps and slid open the door.
“Mum?” Kathiz cried out, neglecting to take off his boots, clumping directly into the hearthside room. “Mum?” She was standing there, her back to the fire in the wall, and before her stood the Hunter from the taverna. Kathiz fell to his knees, his arms shaking. “How? How did you find her so fast?” He was crying, trying so hard not to, but his tears wouldn’t stop. The Hunter turned to observe him.
“I hired a padukai to take me to Ruenne’s house. It did not take long.”
“How…How do you know her name?” Kathiz croaked, staring at his mother. She had sorrow in her face, but was still holding back her tears. His heart swelled for her; she was so brave! The Hunter looked at him with obvious scrutiny. There was no kindness in his expression now.
“Did she not tell you? Had you never wondered about these?” He asked, raising a hand to finger the gold hoops in her ears. “Or wonder about the spouse who gave them to her?” His hand moved to his own ear, where two gold rings pierced the flesh. The first he fingered slowly. “Hers were cast with mine, Kathiz.” A choked sound came out of the boy’s throat and he fell back onto his haunches, boots scraping across the wooden floor.
“What do you mean?” Kathiz croaked half-heartedly. But he knew – as much as he wished he did not, he knew.
“I told you that some shames could not be forgiven, did I not? That those branded would be called to judgment? Look well, my boy.” And the Hunter’s hand went out again. This time he brushed back the cascade of fiery hair that fell over Ruenne’s cheek. There, beneath her eye, was the puckered mark – the very same Ilaya had drawn on the kitchen table. “You had seen this before I mentioned it. You knew that your mother was branded. Did she never tell you why? Never tell you what you are?” Kathiz was hyperventilating now, feeling a pain in his chest that was more than just the cramp or the fear. He clutched his Meshura fingers against his clammy skin, trying to rip the feeling out of his heart.
“I walk the dark path…” Kathiz offered, barely able to speak. “I have the hardest fate before me. I must be strong…to face the trials of the world and survive…”
“Katholas, my love.” Ruenne’s voice, tight and courageous. “I need you to go into the bedroom, darling. Your father and I need to talk.” She did not smile, for that was one lie farther than she could go. Kathiz let out a wordless cry and shook his head, crawling towards her. “Kathiz!” She barked, and there was such pleading in her eyes, such desperate need, that he stopped where he was and fell silent. She crouched down to him, gently lifted him to his feet, and pushed him towards the bedroom door. “You must stay here, my love. No matter what happens, no matter what you hear, you must stay here. Do you understand?” She had his face between both hands, and she kissed him fervently, on each cheek, on his brow, in his hair. He tried to shake his head, trying to find words that would make sense of this, explain it away, make it not so.
She wiped at his tears with her thumbs and hugged him fiercely. “Cry for both of us, my love. My fate has caught up with me, and I must face it alone.” Before he could do anything, she pushed him back and slid the door closed. The latch slammed shut, and she jammed it into the frame.
“Mum!” Kathiz screamed, pounding his fists against the wood, punching holes through the paper panels of the screen with his fingers. He pressed his eye to the torn paper, trying frantically to see what was going on. He saw the Hunter – his father – lead his mother out onto the patio and slide the door shut behind them. He saw shadowed forms step down, growing muted and then disappear. He heard voices, lowered and hard, but could not make out the words. He heard his own heartbeat rushing in his ears. He tried to hold his breath, to will them to come back.
Time stretched on before him. He scrabbled at the frames of the door again, trying to break his way through. He managed to scrape up his knuckles, got his hand caught once in the wood, cut himself on a sliver, bruised himself punching and palming the door, all to no avail. He heard the voices raised for a second, heard his mother start to say something, and then there was silence. He pressed his eye back to one of the holes in the screen and, terrified, saw a light blaze outside, diffused by the paper in the patio door. He heard the crackle of flames given fuel. He pounded against the door, felt it rattle in the frame, but it would not budge.
Then the patio door slid open and the Hunter came back into the house. With careful steps he crossed the room and smashed the latch with his weapon, catching Kathiz before he could run past him. The boy flailed and screamed, beating hands and gnashing teeth at any part of the man he could reach. The Hunter slapped him hard across the face, then grabbed his jaw so harshly that Kathiz could not open his mouth.
“You fight as she did to keep you.” Zatos frowned at him. “Listen to me, boy. This
was as it had to be. She lived for you, to raise you and make you into a man – against all sense and reason. She threw away her honour and her life, everything she’d worked for, so that you might be safe. If you want to blame anyone for what has happened, look to yourself.” Kathiz stopped trying to see past him, looked up into that hard face, into the eyes he had inherited, and felt his heart skip a beat.
“What have you done?” Kathiz gummed through an aching jaw. Zatos took a deep breath and his look softened slightly.
“For the crimes of perjury and failing her Test of Pain, she has been punished.” He shifted, lifting Kathiz’s chin in his hand. “Kathiz, my son. It is over now. You are free.” Slowly, Zatos let go and stood before Kathiz, looking at this child of his, his First Born. Kathiz caught his breath, his lungs aching, his heart still pounding in his chest as he felt the words wash over him. He shouldered past the Hunter and crossed the floor with faltering steps. He braced both hands on the doorframe, and tentatively, shaking with fear, slid it open.
He saw many things in that first instant, but his brain allowed him only one horror at a time. The fire in the yard was a small pyre, merely two feet high, and on it his mother’s body burned. His voice died in his throat. His eyes were drawn to the pike.
It was true her body burned on the pyre, but here her head was aflame. Severed from her slender shoulders, impaled upon the sharpened wood, Ruenne’s face was suspended, nearly at the height she had stood in life, hair writhing in the heat, the old welt on her face bright and shiny, her face smeared with blood. The eyes were staring, focused, and it seemed to Kathiz that she was looking right at him. The fire had eaten the water from the tears she had wept. All that was left were the white tracks of salt that marked her cheeks.
Kathiz could not make a sound. He could not think. Zatos crossed the floor and came to stand behind him. He gently placed a hand on his son’s shoulder, and as if scalded by fire himself, Kathiz yelped and jumped away. Zatos made to say something, but the boy let out a terrible scream, face contorted with anger and repulsion.
Kathiz backed away. He fell down the steps to the ground, scrambled to his feet. Wheeling, he ran. He crossed the yard and the road. He ran into the woods and down the mountain. He crossed over bridges and fields. He vaulted fence posts and ditches. Only once did he stop, falling on the banks of a stream to thrash in the water. He lay there, screaming over and over until his throat was raw. When he was finally still, he lay there in the current, felt it soaking through his pants and boots,
until he began to shiver. Then he picked himself up and kept running.
When morning found him, he was asleep in a field of grain. He slept late, body and heart exhausted beyond anything he’d endured in his short life. He did not dream, for the Goddess has some mercy, even for those walking the black path. He could have slept for days, had he not been wakened by a stick prodding his bare, scratched shoulder, and a voice calling out,
“Hey. Hey! You’re crushing our wheat!”
“What are you doing there, Kathiz?” So addressed, the boy clambered to the edge. He was ungainly and loping, his clumsy, oversized feet struggling for purchase among the smooth ceramic tiles. For a moment, Ambra was terrified the boy might tumble right off to certain death on the rocks below. But Kathiz steadied himself with both slab-like hands, the long, stick-thin fingers wrapped around the eaves for balance. He squinted down and, realizing who it was, grinned. The gash of a mouth seemed to split his face into halves.
“Sovan, T’Renia! I was cleaning the leaves off your roof, ma’am. There are enough up here to make paper screens, you know?” Kathiz’s young voice was loud and clear in the early morning air. Ambra shook her head, sighing.
“Kathiz! This early in the morning, the roof is still covered in dew! What in the great shadows of the mountains possessed you to clean my roof at this hour, and without my request?” The youth was still grinning broadly, obviously pleased with himself.
“Mother said to make myself useful, ma’am. But having done all my chores already, I thought I’d come see if I couldn’t help you, instead. Mother said I ought always do favours for others so that my fortune would not be faced alone, whatever that means…”
Kathiz’s certainty faltered towards the end of his declaration, but his enthusiasm would not be derailed. “Did you want these leaves for your own paper, T’Renia? I can bring them down, if you’d like!” He popped to his feet and instantly his long arms started wheeling through the air in wild circles as he tried to steady himself. For a hectic moment, Ambra was certain he would tumble over backwards, but he somehow managed to get his gnarled feet beneath him and scrambled out of sight over the slope of the roof. A moment later he popped back into view with an oversized cloth parcel mounted on his back and secured across his chest. He tottered under the weight of it, but managed to make it back to the spot where he’d first appeared.
“Oh, for Isham’s sake, not so close to the edge, child!” Ambra exclaimed, exasperated at how often he made her heart race with worry. “How you have not been the death of yourself yet, I’ll never understand!” Kathiz grinned and let out a delighted laugh, followed swiftly by an unsteady wobble as his exuberance nearly threw him off the roof. “Or the death of me, at that. You do make me worry something awful! How did you get up there in the first place, you wild boy?” Kathiz pointed to the front side of the house and began his ungraceful scamper to show her what he was gesturing at. Ambra made her way around to the front of the house again and, shielding her eyes, looked up. “Yes?”
Kathiz’s face appeared over the edge and he lowered a bent piece of metal down until the crook of its angle hooked onto the roof tile. Leaving this wedged where it was, he shimmied himself over the edge and swung his spindly legs free. Then, hanging by his fingers he walked himself over to the piece of metal and slowly transferred his weight to the hanging bar. It wobbled a little, and he paused, the oversized cloth filled with leaves throwing off his balance. At last, he managed to stretch his legs out and touch his long toes to the wall, and so steadying himself, braced hand over hand down the bar until he was close enough to drop to the moss-covered rocks in front of the house.
He shook himself off, dislodged the metal from the tiles and stepped back grinning.
“I was very careful not to leave a single mark, ma’am!” Ambra made a thoughtful sound in the back of her throat and shook her head in disbelief. She inspected the metal bar he held and the simple square of cloth he was using as a sack. Neither were proper tools of the trade. The bar looked like a piece of twisted scrap discarded by the blacksmith, and the cloth looked like one of his mother’s tablecloths.
“You are a clever little devil, aren’t you, Kathiz?” she asked, eying him sternly.
“Am I, ma’am?” Kathiz asked, the smile faltering for the first time. “Are…you displeased, T’Renia? I can put the leaves back, if you want me too… I can’t promise I’ll remember where each leaf goes, but I can do my best to spread them out how they were, if you didn’t want them removed…” He fidgeted under her staring gaze, the long Meshura fingers and toes curling under, his shoulders hunching up to his stick-out ears.
Ambra just laughed – a full-bellied laugh that filled the misty air and shook her whole frame. She patted a hand down on Kathiz’s shoulder and, by degrees, his smile returned. He joined in with a tentative chuckle of his own, and waited for her to subdue her mirth.
“You are earnest, I’ll give you that. There’s no harm in cleaning the leaves off, boy. I normally wait ‘til later in the year, though. The leaves are still falling, and they’ll keep on falling for a few more weeks.” She pointed up at the ember-orange leaves of the teishur trees and patted his shoulder kindly with the other hand. His smile melted away and he scuffed bare toes against the ground. “There, there, boy. It simply means you’ll need to go up again in a month or so and clean off what’s left.”
“Oh, do you mean it, ma’am? Thank you, ma’am! I promise I’ll get every last one!” She laughed again and shook her head.
“I’m sure you will! Now, let’s get you inside. Fire Tea to warm up your belly and a coal towel to sooth those poor toes, mnn? Running through the cold dew in bare feet – at this time of year! If you caught an infection your mother would never let me hear the end of it!” She led him around to the stairs and the two of them climbed up to the bright red front door. “Have you ever made paper, Kathiz?” She asked curiously, still smiling.
"I’ve watched T’Azuri and T’Brenne make it, ma’am, but I’ve not done it myself.” Kathiz replied promptly, opening the door for his neighbour. T’Renia grinned and nodded.
“With all these fresh leaves, it would be a perfect time to learn, would it not?”
In this way, life had passed seven years for Kathiz in the town of Ganos in the south-eastern Highlands of Muzin. He had been barely a year old when Ruenne’s feet had found their way to the mild side of Mount Yalil. It had been a hard year. Her scar had kept her out of many people’s care, and more than once she was forced to trade her body’s warmth for a roof over her and her child for a night. She was thin but resolute by the time she stumbled across Ambra T’Renia’s front steps.
The old woman had brought her before the people of Ganos. They were reluctant to let her stay. They knew what the brand meant, and with the babe still in swaddling clothes, they knew that this child must be the very accursed First Born that had earned her the mark. What sort of misfortune would follow in his footsteps? What sort of fate would hound his path through life?
It was Ambra who had been stern with them. “This woman has faced hardships,” she had told them, “by Isham’s grace only has she kept both herself and her babe alive to come to us. Will we turn her away because of fear? The mother is branded, yes. She must start with nothing – but look, she has nothing left to be stripped away. The child is Cursed, but that blackness marks his path, not ours. The Curse does not spread like a disease; it does not transfer from one host to another like a parasite. It is his burden to bear, and not his fault that he was forced to live this life. Should he be punished merely for living?” She had said more, even though no more was needed. Ruenne had fallen at her feet and had wept with gratitude. She had kissed the old woman’s boots and rocked her child. The boy had remained silent through all of this. They were allowed to stay.
It was not long before Ruenne had proven herself to be hard-working, upright and courageous. She never shirked a duty, and always kept both herself and her baby busy.
In time, her hair grew long, and she kept it swept forward over the marred side of her face. As it slipped from view, so too did it slip from the minds of the townspeople. She built up her reputation again as a multi-skilled craftswoman, a mother of deep love for all children, a friend with much-needed advice. Through her virtues, in time, she was able to build a new life. But the scar would forever change some things. She was anathema to a mate. No one – male or female – showed interest in her as a partner or even a lover for a night.
The child, as he grew, proved to be cheerful and kind, open-hearted and accepting of all living things. He was as caring for a plant as for a fellow townsperson. True, bad luck did seem to dog his steps, but while he was around, if there was anything that could or might go wrong, it was upon Kathiz that misfortune swooped. Like a beacon, he attracted all accidents and illness, and his friends and neighbours were spared. So it was that pity not fear, compassion not distrust was given to Kathiz. Despite his tumultuous start in the world, he was cared for and loved and raised to know nothing of his origins.
As a boy-child, still many years away from becoming a man, in the full flush of his Auspice marks, he was much like any other child his age. He was curious and excitable, full of dreams of distant races beyond the mountains and wild beasts in the forests. He played games of speed and strength. He listened to the elders’ stories of danger and adventure with rapt attention. He did his chores with
exuberance and gusto. But despite all of this seeming goodness, he was still Cursed.
The world had a way of finding those marked. It had a way of weaving a trap, as if it evaluated what you most held dear so that it could best hurt you.
In his seventh year, the true meaning of the Curse of the First Born would come to light. The minor bad luck – the broken bones and blood fevers over the years – would come to mean nothing, merely a facet of breathing. This year, his scope of the world would forever change.
Kathiz and his childhood friend were walking the path through the low sran forests, taking the circuitous route back home. The mountain sloped down before them, and they went stumbling along in flat boots, wheeling their arms through the air to keep their balance and shrieking with laughter. Kathiz flopped about, seeming to flap from one position to another like a rag doll. Ilaya, on the other hand, born under the Auspice of Ishala, was perfectly formed in shape: smooth and rounded with wide almond eyes and a petal mouth. However, the purple blotches of her Auspice covered her skin in scaly patches from head to toe, including a large, jagged piece that completely surrounded one eye and trailed over half of her face.
Between the two of them, they looked like diseased mongrels or little monsters making a racket as they went flailing along the path. Eventually, they reached the fence that bordered the road. The birds in the bushes remained quiet and the creatures of the low brush hid in their burrows until the two passed by.
Ilaya clamoured onto the fence posts first, and Kathiz was quick to follow. Teetering along, they took the beams one at a time, trying to keep their balance as they followed the road.
“You know what my brother told me?” Ilaya chirped suddenly, as was her fashion, and continued without waiting for an answer. “He said they got an outrider yesterday, down at the taverna. Outrider wanted eight rooms! Can you imagine?” she squealed in her tiny voice. Kathiz wobbled and nearly fell before balancing himself out again.
“That’s an awful big group for this time of year. Any idea who they are?” He asked. Ilaya turned about to face him and made a neat backwards step.
“Certainly do! The outrider said as much. Hunters are coming to town! Hunters, Kathiz! Isn’t it fantastic?” This time Kathiz did fall off the fence and landed in the wild grass, causing a puff of spores to shoot up into the air.
“Hunters? Real, actual Hunters?” Kathiz badgered from the ground. She turned around, laughing at him, and sat herself down on one of the fence beams. “What are they looking for, do you know?” Ilaya shrugged and grinned, the marking on her face twisting her impish smile into something grotesque.
“Oh, you know, probably the usual. Brigands and monsters and who knows…maybe YathRagazi!” Kathiz felt an involuntary shiver and threw a handful of grass at his friend. It fluttered harmlessly away on the breeze and she laughed at him again.
“Oh, come on. There’s no YathRagazi around these parts. Nothing that exciting happens ‘round here!” Kathiz protested, rubbing his spindly fingers through his fiery hair.
“Hey!” Ilaya squealed, leaping off the fence to tackle him. Kathiz let out a cry of mock-protest and the two tumbled through the grass wrestling with each other. He let her pummel him with tiny, soft fists and giggled to himself. Then, without warning she speared him in the gut with a blade-shaped hand. “Hutz!” she squealed, stabbing him again for good measure as he tried to bat away her hands and stab her back.
“Hutzka!” He declared, triumphantly stabbing her right in the belly and lightly winding her. She shrieked and tackled him again. They gradually drew to a stop and lay back, rubbing at sore midriffs and staring up at the soft wisps of cloud stretching across the lavender sky.
“You shouldn’t joke about things like that, you know…” She said after a short silence. He rolled his face to regard her, still catching his breath, a puzzled look stretched over his distorted face.
“Hutzka? It’s just a game, Ila…” He murmured quietly. She slapped a hand across and whacked him on the arm.
“Not Hutzka, you dolt. YathRagazi. They aren’t something to joke about. They’re real monsters, Kathiz. My brother had a traveler once, a few years ago, who had grabbed what he could and run from one, y’know. The man’s whole village had been eaten. Not just the animals and the flocks, Katholas, but all the people too – every one of them. Sucked the blood right out of them without even touching them.” They were both silent for a moment, contemplating that.
“The Hunters who go after YathRagazi must be really crazy, then. Hey, Ila? I don’t know if I could do that. I mean, if a YathRagazi is really strong, he could just suck all the blood out of you before you even saw him. You’d never know what hit you!”
“Yeah, scary!” Ilaya agreed. They exchanged glances, then she sat up and shook out her shaggy hair. Kathiz watched her for a moment and then sat up himself.
“We should go meet them, y’know? See if we can help out at the taverna. We might get to overhear some real Hunter stories. What d’you say?” He asked, the Meshura grin stretching his face. She stared at him for a moment, honey-coloured eyes unblinking for a long while. Then, without warning, she jumped up.
“We can ask my brother to get us in there, right?” Kathiz bounded to his feet too and laughed.
“That’s the spirit, Ila! Let’s go!” She nodded, pondering something to herself for a moment. “What is it?” Kathiz asked, wondering what had captured her attention.
“Oh, y’know, it’s just…” She stepped closer, looking up at him with wide, innocent eyes. Then, without warning, she shrieked, “Hutz!” Her hand was already in motion before the sound had left her lips and she stabbed him in the ribs before he could block. Squealing, she scrambled through the slats in the fence and began running down the road, Kathiz hot on her heels hollering threats with a grin on his face.
They discovered that many of the other youths of Ganos had had a similar idea and were already lining the street by the east gates. Kathiz and Ilaya jostled to see as the outrider and her entourage of Hunters and servants came into view. There were some sixteen people altogether, but it was easy to pick the Hunters from the rest. Five of the travellers had a bearing to them, a presence that could not be masked. These were the faces of men and women who looked evil in the eye and struck with steady hands. Kathiz let out a whoop of excitement that added to the chorus of voices in the street that morning.
Four men and one woman were the objects of this youthful adoration. They surveyed the crowd: two of them stern and austere, two grinning and winking, one baring his double fangs and snarling in play at a couple of the children, who obediently squealed and dashed back from the road.
The travelers made their way in unofficial procession to the doors of the Rana dur Sorn taverna where Ilaya’s brother Rakosh worked. The children flailed after them, but Rakosh stayed them at the threshold with a reproving glance and shut the doors. Wailing in dismay, the children swarmed the windows, waving at the Hunters through the glass. Some of the children, too small to see, reached Auspice-marked hands up to tap on the windowpanes.
“Here…” Ilaya whispered, tugging on Kathiz’s elbow. “This way,” she gestured. Without question, he followed her lead around the side of the building and through the service gate. The sather tethered to the hitching post snorted and shook his shaggy crest at them as they entered the yard. Ilaya gave the beast a wide berth and they slipped past to the kitchen door. She knocked and motioned for Kathiz to be quiet. A moment later, one of the kitchen staff opened the door.
“Why, if it isn’t little Ila and Katholas! Did you think you could sneak in to see our illustrious guests because Rakosh works here?” Kathiz nodded, grinning ear to ear, but Ilaya just stood there, looking up with her eyes huge in her face. The cook chuckled to herself and shook her head. “You wait here and I’ll see if your brother wants you underfoot today.” She slid the door shut, but the two children could still hear her bellowing over the noise of the kitchen to Rakosh. They waited, fidgeting in the yard for what seemed hours, until finally the door slid open again and Ilaya’s brother stood there.
“What do you pests want?” He asked, words hard, but mouth twitching to suppress his grin.
“Oh, please brother! Please! Let us in! There are real live Hunters in there!” She had both hands up and offered in supplication, her eyelashes batting, pink lip protruding.
“You think these great Muzina want a couple drip-nosed jackals skulking about their chair legs? There’s a reason I closed the front doors, Ila. These travelers want a room to rest, not to be badgered by you scrabblers, or they’d’ve stayed in the fields with the mites!” Ilaya whined a wordless complaint but Kathiz grinned up at him.
“But so many people, YuyatanRako?” Kathiz charmed in his best polite grammar. “Surely a scullery boy – or girl – would be a great boon today, no? We don’t want to loaf about in soft chairs, no sir! We’re here to be put to work! Let us carry your platters and trays! Let us pour myl for your guests! What do you say to that?” Rakosh folded his arms across his chest, his best tuzi jacket so stiff with starch it barely creased. Even professional Rakosh was obviously excited enough to want to impress his elite guests. He regarded the two of them with a mistrustful eye for a long moment. Then, without warning, he reached down and ruffled Kathiz’s hair with one big hand.
“You’d better watch that honey tongue of yours, Katholas. People are going to start thinking your father was a Suoro.” Kathiz was tempted to stick out his tongue at that, but he didn’t want to sour his chances. He just grinned again and saluted the man. Rakosh shook his head and scratched his earlobe. “Do not make me regret this, you two. Inside with you – ask Seika how you can not get in her way…”
Both bowing and saluting, and offering prayer hands to Rakosh, they slipped into the kitchen and found themselves in the whirling world of the taverna. As warm as the day was already, the kitchen was hotter by far. Here the men and women were stripped to the waist, having foregone their tuzi, and were rushing about in either their tuziyula undershirts or bare-chested, baggy pants tied up around their knees, toe-capped sandals in favour of proper boots. Even so, many of them were still sweating, yelling and hollering across the crowded room. Before they could make sense of the tumult of motion, Seika swept down on them with a stoneware platter of sliced cold meats and cheeses, and a pitcher of myl.
“You, and you,” she said, thrusting the dishes into their hands. “Take these out to the Hunters. Be quick, but don’t spill a thing! Go!!” Nodding dumbly, the two friends went tottering out of the kitchen under the weight of the food and drink to the common room. It was already bustling. The previous night’s guests had emerged from their rooms to socialize in the main atrium, some striking up conversation with their new guest-mates, others sitting inconspicuously by the empty hearth working on this or that handicraft, eavesdropping on the astonishing tales that were even now being told.
The friends made their way to the broad stone table in the centre of the room and Kathiz cleared his throat. “Excuse me, good Muzina? Cold meats and cheese from the kitchen for your enjoyment.”
“And cold myl!” Ilaya squeaked, setting the pitcher down. One of the Hunters, an RnClan by the looks of him, grinned raggedly and saluted them. The two children fidgeted for a moment, in awe of these celebrated adults before them. But Seika was already bellowing from the kitchen that they were needed, and so – reluctantly – they scurried away. “Is it just me, or do they seem bigger than normal people?” Ilaya asked in a whisper. Kathiz grinned at her.
“Nah, they’re not so big. You’re just super tiny, that’s all.” She hit him on the shoulder, but she was grinning.
They were kept busy for the day, and both worked hard. They bussed the tables,
cleaned the emptied dishes, took orders to the kitchen. Here and there, they managed to catch snippets of tales:
“So, there we were, up against this YathRagazi, and its mate comes out of no where, flinging fire from its hands like a demon…”
“It wasn’t so much that the battle-cat was an issue, but she had four cubs, see, and with six clawed-legs flailing in defence of her young, you can understand…”
“That’s how I got this scar; I thought I was going to bleed to death, that time…”
“The Regent himself had commissioned us to take care of this band of brigands on Mount Sazin that had been stealing from the Imperial School of the Makon…”
So many famous names of places and people, monsters and beasts of the wild, spoken of so casually – all in a day’s work for the finest of fighters. It was enough to give a young child dreams. These were the rewards of unsurpassed skill. What you had been, what gender you were, none of that mattered if you could swing a weapon as deadly as these five. When one of them actually brought out his Ruzor, Kathiz nearly tripped over himself. The light glittered off the chains as the blades swung free of their brace, and the Hunter demonstrated several flashing turns of the deadly, hooked crescents while he walked along casually. This was not merely a life of courage and danger; it seemed an entirely different world. For a few hours, Kathiz and Ilaya were part of it, however vicariously. They worked their hardest, respect guiding their motions, offering only the best for these great warriors who had so thoroughly earned it.
Their hard work paid off. As the day wore on into evening, and most of the guests had gone into town for the night services of the local shrine, or to their rooms for some privacy, the children were allowed to rest. Kathiz and Ilaya made their way back to the common room. Both had sore, blistered feet, and were weary and hungry. They sat down by the hearth where Rakosh set to preparing Fire Tea for the night. Seika brought them a small platter of food for a day’s work well done.
Then a man came to sit with them by the fire – one of the Hunters. At first, they scrambled from their seats, as tired as they were, but he waved them back to their places. He pulled up a short stool and sat between their chairs, sipping at his wine.
“You both worked hard today. Thank you.” He had a deep voice like thunder rolled up in the clouds. He wasn’t young, but not yet too old. He had lines in his face from wear and injury and memories not to be forgotten. Kathiz mutely offered the platter to him, but he declined with a gesture. “So what tale would you like?”
“Pardon?” Kathiz croaked. The man grinned at them.
“Well, you managed to get in, despite the doors being shut. You both skulked about all day, listening in with these looks on your faces…” He mimicked quickly their dumbstruck expressions. “Did you want to hear one of the tales in full, instead of just what snippets you overheard before?” Ilaya blushed furiously, and Kathiz fidgeted in embarrassment.
“We thought you’d be tired of telling them by now,” he murmured, stuffing a piece of smoked latem into his mouth. The Hunter grinned again.
“I assure you, we have enough tales to never give the same one twice. We do, of course; we tell our favourites. There are plenty too horrible to burden another with. Those who have not the mettle to become Hunters often lack the strength of heart to hear some of the things we endure.” The children exchanged a glance, half-awed and half-apprehensive. “Let’s see… Which scar should I tell you about…” He mused aloud, fingering by turns the various white and red sealed gashes along his skin. The white, he explained, were from blades, the red were from fire. He had a serrated mark along the inside of one hand where he’d been bitten by a battle-cat. He had a black smudge underneath the tanned skin of one elbow where a piece of iron from a bandit’s mine had embedded and been missed when cleaning the wound. He had a long line that ran from the outside of his knee to his ankle where he’d been grazed by a spear – he’d had to stitch it up himself.
“How are you still in one piece?” Kathiz squeaked, staring at the mesh of scars that laced the man’s body. The Hunter laughed and shrugged his shoulders.
“The Goddess made me tough. I’d be dead by now if She hadn’t.” He replied, amused, but earnest.
“What are you hunting now?” Ilaya asked, squirming in her chair to get comfortable.
“Nothing really.” He replied, and laughing at the disappointed look on her face, held up his hands for an amendment. “We’re on our way to Mallon to pick up a request.
Seems some feral Bodovians crossed the border, and have been spreading plague into the livestock around there.” He paused, the storyteller in him rising again to feed the hungry looks on their faces. “But you never know what might show up between now and then – it’s a long way yet to Mallon.”
“What might show up?” Ilaya prompted, grinning.
“Ah,” The Hunter replied, nodding sagely. “A thief, perhaps, stealing purses from young mothers on their way home? Or a rabid garlob, charging with horns down when our backs are to the cliffs? Or perhaps a marked Muzina, running from the shame that seared the brand into their skin? Maybe even a YathRagazi, who knows…” He expected questions or exclamations at that, but the girl before him looked troubled, and not by fear. The boy merely looked confused.
“You hunt people for being ashamed?” Kathiz asked. Ilaya kicked him in the shin, but he ignored her. “Why? Isn’t the shame bad enough?” The Hunter sat back and rubbed his jaw thoughtfully.
“There are different levels of shame, I suppose. There’s the shame of lying to your parents. I wouldn’t kill a countryman for that. Besides, your parents would probably beat me to it.” He quirked a brow to show he spoke in jest, but the little boy still looked mighty serious and the girl had begun to squirm again. “But there are some shames that are not to be forgiven. Murderers, rapists, thieves, and those who fail their Test of Pain. These are people who have been given a chance and, looking straight into the eyes of Isham, have spit upon their life and their country. That is unforgivable. They are branded so that they may be known. If any Hunter finds them, it is their right if not their obligation to pass judgment. Many, I’m afraid to say, never redeem themselves.” Kathiz frowned thoughtfully and rubbed his left cheek.
“What do they look like?” He asked, squinting into the fire.
“Kathiz!” Ilaya squeaked. “I think we should go back into the kitchen. We’ve rested quite long enough.” She hopped to her feet and patted the Hunter’s shoulder. “Thank you very much for your stories, sir!” And without another word she grabbed the boy’s hand and dragged him protesting out of the common room.
The Hunter sat on his stool by the fire, staring over his shoulder at the children until they disappeared from sight. Then he stood, straightened his tuzi, tested the grip on his dagger and left the room.
“What are you doing?” Kathiz asked, throwing Ilaya’s hand off once the door had swung shut behind them.
“What are you doing?” she shot back, her eyes wide with fear. “Don’t you understand, Kathiz?” He stuck out his lip and, pouting, crossed his arms over his bare chest.
“No, I don’t. What are you getting all upset about?” She let out an exasperated noise and flung up her hands.
“He hunts people with the brand!” She hissed, trying to keep her voice low, but merely achieving a shrill tone.
“So?” Kathiz asked, intentionally obtuse.
“If he doesn’t know about them, he won’t go looking for them. Okay? So, we shouldn’t give him cause to go looking.” She took his hand in hers and squeezed, looking up into his face, trying to see if he understood. He blinked, looked down at their clasped hands and slowly pulled his fingers from hers.
“What are you saying, Ilaya?” His voice was dull, and he kept his glance lowered. She made a sound and fell silent again. A cook came into the room and grabbed a couple pots, shot them a curious glance, and went outside.
“Oh, Kathiz… Don’t you know?” He looked up, a miserable look on his face, eyes pinched to hold back the tears. She took his hand and pulled him over to the table. Dabbing her finger in a bowl of sauce she drew out a mark. “Do you know what this means?” she asked, squinting up at him.
“Is my mum a murderer?” He asked softly. She shook her head.
“No, Kathiz.”
“A thief?” He asked in the same frightened voice.
“No, Kathiz. You must know what it means – what it means about you…” He yanked his hand away and stepped back from her shaking his head.
“No, Ilaya… This is not funny.” He slapped a hand on the mark she’d made and smeared it across the wood. She didn’t say anything, didn’t look at him. Small, purple-stained shoulders hunched up to her messy hair, hands clenched together before her chest. “Ilaya… It isn’t true. My mum…” He choked, fists balling at his sides. His friend looked over, streams of saline bright on her cheeks. She squeezed her eyes shut and began bawling, her tiny voice filling the hot kitchen like a wailing baby.
Kathiz burst out the door and into the yard, past the kitchen staff smoking their pipes and cleaning the day’s pans. They called after him, but he was running through the night, trying to make it back to his home as if borne by wings. His boots slapped the ground as he ran, skinny arms flapping, knock-knees banging together. Twice he fell on the gravel road, scraping his knee and splitting his lip on a rock. He wiped the blood away as he got up and kept running, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he pushed himself up the hill to the small house his mother had built.
He got into the yard doubled-over from a cramp in his side, his muscles screaming, wobbling legs threatening to collapse. He half-crawled up the steps and slid open the door.
“Mum?” Kathiz cried out, neglecting to take off his boots, clumping directly into the hearthside room. “Mum?” She was standing there, her back to the fire in the wall, and before her stood the Hunter from the taverna. Kathiz fell to his knees, his arms shaking. “How? How did you find her so fast?” He was crying, trying so hard not to, but his tears wouldn’t stop. The Hunter turned to observe him.
“I hired a padukai to take me to Ruenne’s house. It did not take long.”
“How…How do you know her name?” Kathiz croaked, staring at his mother. She had sorrow in her face, but was still holding back her tears. His heart swelled for her; she was so brave! The Hunter looked at him with obvious scrutiny. There was no kindness in his expression now.
“Did she not tell you? Had you never wondered about these?” He asked, raising a hand to finger the gold hoops in her ears. “Or wonder about the spouse who gave them to her?” His hand moved to his own ear, where two gold rings pierced the flesh. The first he fingered slowly. “Hers were cast with mine, Kathiz.” A choked sound came out of the boy’s throat and he fell back onto his haunches, boots scraping across the wooden floor.
“What do you mean?” Kathiz croaked half-heartedly. But he knew – as much as he wished he did not, he knew.
“I told you that some shames could not be forgiven, did I not? That those branded would be called to judgment? Look well, my boy.” And the Hunter’s hand went out again. This time he brushed back the cascade of fiery hair that fell over Ruenne’s cheek. There, beneath her eye, was the puckered mark – the very same Ilaya had drawn on the kitchen table. “You had seen this before I mentioned it. You knew that your mother was branded. Did she never tell you why? Never tell you what you are?” Kathiz was hyperventilating now, feeling a pain in his chest that was more than just the cramp or the fear. He clutched his Meshura fingers against his clammy skin, trying to rip the feeling out of his heart.
“I walk the dark path…” Kathiz offered, barely able to speak. “I have the hardest fate before me. I must be strong…to face the trials of the world and survive…”
“Katholas, my love.” Ruenne’s voice, tight and courageous. “I need you to go into the bedroom, darling. Your father and I need to talk.” She did not smile, for that was one lie farther than she could go. Kathiz let out a wordless cry and shook his head, crawling towards her. “Kathiz!” She barked, and there was such pleading in her eyes, such desperate need, that he stopped where he was and fell silent. She crouched down to him, gently lifted him to his feet, and pushed him towards the bedroom door. “You must stay here, my love. No matter what happens, no matter what you hear, you must stay here. Do you understand?” She had his face between both hands, and she kissed him fervently, on each cheek, on his brow, in his hair. He tried to shake his head, trying to find words that would make sense of this, explain it away, make it not so.
She wiped at his tears with her thumbs and hugged him fiercely. “Cry for both of us, my love. My fate has caught up with me, and I must face it alone.” Before he could do anything, she pushed him back and slid the door closed. The latch slammed shut, and she jammed it into the frame.
“Mum!” Kathiz screamed, pounding his fists against the wood, punching holes through the paper panels of the screen with his fingers. He pressed his eye to the torn paper, trying frantically to see what was going on. He saw the Hunter – his father – lead his mother out onto the patio and slide the door shut behind them. He saw shadowed forms step down, growing muted and then disappear. He heard voices, lowered and hard, but could not make out the words. He heard his own heartbeat rushing in his ears. He tried to hold his breath, to will them to come back.
Time stretched on before him. He scrabbled at the frames of the door again, trying to break his way through. He managed to scrape up his knuckles, got his hand caught once in the wood, cut himself on a sliver, bruised himself punching and palming the door, all to no avail. He heard the voices raised for a second, heard his mother start to say something, and then there was silence. He pressed his eye back to one of the holes in the screen and, terrified, saw a light blaze outside, diffused by the paper in the patio door. He heard the crackle of flames given fuel. He pounded against the door, felt it rattle in the frame, but it would not budge.
Then the patio door slid open and the Hunter came back into the house. With careful steps he crossed the room and smashed the latch with his weapon, catching Kathiz before he could run past him. The boy flailed and screamed, beating hands and gnashing teeth at any part of the man he could reach. The Hunter slapped him hard across the face, then grabbed his jaw so harshly that Kathiz could not open his mouth.
“You fight as she did to keep you.” Zatos frowned at him. “Listen to me, boy. This
was as it had to be. She lived for you, to raise you and make you into a man – against all sense and reason. She threw away her honour and her life, everything she’d worked for, so that you might be safe. If you want to blame anyone for what has happened, look to yourself.” Kathiz stopped trying to see past him, looked up into that hard face, into the eyes he had inherited, and felt his heart skip a beat.
“What have you done?” Kathiz gummed through an aching jaw. Zatos took a deep breath and his look softened slightly.
“For the crimes of perjury and failing her Test of Pain, she has been punished.” He shifted, lifting Kathiz’s chin in his hand. “Kathiz, my son. It is over now. You are free.” Slowly, Zatos let go and stood before Kathiz, looking at this child of his, his First Born. Kathiz caught his breath, his lungs aching, his heart still pounding in his chest as he felt the words wash over him. He shouldered past the Hunter and crossed the floor with faltering steps. He braced both hands on the doorframe, and tentatively, shaking with fear, slid it open.
He saw many things in that first instant, but his brain allowed him only one horror at a time. The fire in the yard was a small pyre, merely two feet high, and on it his mother’s body burned. His voice died in his throat. His eyes were drawn to the pike.
It was true her body burned on the pyre, but here her head was aflame. Severed from her slender shoulders, impaled upon the sharpened wood, Ruenne’s face was suspended, nearly at the height she had stood in life, hair writhing in the heat, the old welt on her face bright and shiny, her face smeared with blood. The eyes were staring, focused, and it seemed to Kathiz that she was looking right at him. The fire had eaten the water from the tears she had wept. All that was left were the white tracks of salt that marked her cheeks.
Kathiz could not make a sound. He could not think. Zatos crossed the floor and came to stand behind him. He gently placed a hand on his son’s shoulder, and as if scalded by fire himself, Kathiz yelped and jumped away. Zatos made to say something, but the boy let out a terrible scream, face contorted with anger and repulsion.
Kathiz backed away. He fell down the steps to the ground, scrambled to his feet. Wheeling, he ran. He crossed the yard and the road. He ran into the woods and down the mountain. He crossed over bridges and fields. He vaulted fence posts and ditches. Only once did he stop, falling on the banks of a stream to thrash in the water. He lay there, screaming over and over until his throat was raw. When he was finally still, he lay there in the current, felt it soaking through his pants and boots,
until he began to shiver. Then he picked himself up and kept running.
When morning found him, he was asleep in a field of grain. He slept late, body and heart exhausted beyond anything he’d endured in his short life. He did not dream, for the Goddess has some mercy, even for those walking the black path. He could have slept for days, had he not been wakened by a stick prodding his bare, scratched shoulder, and a voice calling out,
“Hey. Hey! You’re crushing our wheat!”
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Astra Crompton lives in Victoria with her husband, two cats and leopard gecko. She is an artist, illustrator, graphics and game designer, hand-crafted seamstress and author. You can follow her work at: www.astracrompton.com, tarorae.deviantart.com and UlZaorith.etsy.com__________________________________________________
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