Servant of the King Chapter 25

Chapter 25

            Lakhoni was waiting for her when she came in the morning. After she had left the night previous, he had sat with his back against the pelt for a long time. Not long before falling asleep, an idea had come to him.

            So he had woken early, excited to see his plan through. While waiting for Simra, he had been tempted to push himself to his feet and go find her, but he wanted to maintain the surprise.

            She walked in the door, a bigger dish in her hand this time, her face in shadow due to the strong light behind her. It was only a few steps from the door to his sleeping mat. As she knelt, she looked at his face. She noticed the wall next to him.

            "Lakhoni," she read.

            Eyes widening in surprise, then stretching in delight, she turned to him. "Your name is Lakhoni?"

            He nodded, a fierce, too-strong joy filling him at seeing her reaction.

            She smiled at him for a moment and shook her head. "I can't believe I didn't think of that."

            Lakhoni grinned and held up the piece of charcoal that he had used.

            Simra closed her hand around his hand that held the charcoal. "Your name is Lakhoni."

            Brown eyes held his for a long, heart-pounding moment.

            "Lucky I can read," she said. She cocked her head to the side, a musing expression on her face. "Lucky you can write." She gently released his hand, sitting back on her legs.

            He made a show of looking around, waving his hand in the air.

            "You need something you can write on."

            Lakhoni nodded.

            She rose to her feet and ambled around the hut. "Maybe a flat stone, or even a tough piece of leather. It will have to be a light color." She paused and addressed him. "You'll have to tell me how you learned to write. Father taught me because he is the healer and he expects me to help him, but who are you that you've been taught?" Turning back to her search, she continued her monologue.

            Lakhoni set his charcoal down and reached for the deep plate she had brought in, the smells of eggs and fried vegetables too much for him to resist. Real food, he thought, mouth watering.

            "I hope you can write fast, Lakhoni. I have lots of questions for you. Lakhoni, that sounds like a name from the west—one of those warrior names. Is that where you're from?"

            He looked up, his mouth full. He had decided the story he would tell her would be as close to the truth as possible. He nodded.

            "Hey! You're supposed to wait for me to help you." She made to move toward him.

            He shook his head and used large movements to show her he was well enough to feed himself.

            A strange expression flitted across Simra's face. She looked sad for a second there. Isn't she glad I'm getting better?

            As he gobbled the food, he watched Simra wander around the hut. Eventually she stepped out the door. He guessed she was still looking for something for him to write upon. He scraped the last of the eggs and vegetables off the clay plate, setting down the pronged stick Simra had brought with the food and using his fingers to clean the plate off.

            A thought occurred to him. He looked closer at the plate. He turned it upside down.

            He was writing as small as he could with his awkward-shaped piece of charcoal when Simra came back in, holding another, far cleaner plate.

            "Lakhoni, I think this plate will be perfect." The last word was suddenly quiet. "Oh." She walked quickly over to him. "But I am sure I thought of it first."

            He flashed a smile at her, shook his head and pointed at his chest, and went back to his writing. The charcoal smudged easily if he wasn't careful, but it showed up very well on the pale brown plate. He heard Simra settle to a seated position next to him. I wonder if she would visit me if her father hadn't made her take care of me. The thought seemed to come from nowhere. He pushed it away.

            A moment later, he held the plate out to Simra. Before she took it, he pointed at the other side of it, reminding her it was dirty.

            "Yes, I know it had your breakfast on it." Simra took the plate. "And no, I'd rather not touch it, thanks."

            He rolled his eyes dramatically and pointed at the plate she held.

            "Fine, relax." She made a show of peering at the plate, cocking her head to one side and forcing a confused expression. "Wait, are you sure you know how to write?"

            He wished he could shout at her to get on with it, noted the irony of his wish, and flicked her arm gently with one finger. The crafty smile she offered him from under heavy-lidded eyes set his heart pounding.

            "Okay." She cleared her throat and began to read aloud. "I'm from a village far to the west. Everyone was killed in a raid." She gasped softly and looked up at Lakhoni. "Really? I'm so sorry."

            He nodded, hoping he hid well the sudden pain he felt in his throat.

            After a moment of seeming to search his face, she turned back to the note he had scrawled. While she read, he grabbed the clean plate she had brought back with her and began to write.

            "I was hurt bad," she continued aloud. "They thought I was dead. I think my sister might be alive too. I think they took her."

            He glanced up quickly as she finished what he had written and held up a hand for a moment. In another minute he was done with the second note.

            They traded plates and she continued reading as he scrubbed the first note off and began writing again.. "I tried to follow them, but I am not sure where they went. Someone told me they might be in Lemalihah. I came here to find my sister."

            In his haste to keep up with Simra, his writing had become larger, giving her less to read on each plate. They traded again.

            "I thought someone was trying to capture me, so I traveled in winter to get away from them. I can't say who they were, or if they followed."

            Another trade.

            "I ran out of food. I tried to kill a deer and broke my string. I ate part of my cloak." At this, Simra burst into laughter. Lakhoni laughed too, although the noises he made sounded like a dying dog to his ears. "I ate winter moss too."

            She took the next plate. "I kept going because if I stopped, I thought I would die. I want to find my sister. I found your village."

            When Simra finished reading the last note, she straightened and gave Lakhoni a stern glare. "That was somewhat abbreviated, wasn't it? Are you sure you can't give any more details?"

            Lakhoni raised his eyebrows and hands in question. Like what? he thought. He was proud of the story. There were no outright lies.

            "Like why your sister would be in Lemalihah and who took her and killed everyone in your village. Or maybe about who you thought was trying to follow you. Or maybe about how you survived on pieces of cloak and winter moss while you traveled through the heart of winter?"

            Lakhoni picked up a plate, using his hand to clean off the previous note. She read while he wrote. "I think the king's warriors did it."

She sat back quickly. "Why would you think that?" she asked.

            He wrote more. "Somebody had seen them do something like that before."

            "And you think they kidnapped your sister and now you think you can go find her? And what? Do you plan on getting revenge?"

            He held up one finger and nodded. Then two fingers and he shook his head.

            "Yes to the first question and no to the second one?"

            He nodded and wrote one more line. "I just want to find my sister. She's my only family."

            Simra regarded him for a long, quiet minute.

            Lakhoni hoped she would be satisfied with his story. He didn't want to try to explain the Separated or the murder of the young boy. Every time he tried to understand those people, he ended up just becoming confused. And her question about revenge touched too close to home regarding the justice he still felt he needed to find or administer for the deaths of his family and village.

He tried to think of something more to write that would end the somewhat awkward moment. As he searched Simra's face for a clue to her thoughts, he had the impression that she was trying to decide if she would believe his story.

She nodded.

Tension he had been holding in his shoulders left him. He leaned forward to try to push himself to his feet. He had been sitting and lying down long enough.

"I know there's more you aren't telling me."

He glanced at her face, her brown eyes, but looked away quickly. Pushing himself to his knees, he met her gaze again. He nodded. I can't. For lots of reasons.

"Maybe you'll decide you can trust me," Simra said. She put out a hand to stead Lakhoni as he eased himself to his knees. "Until then, I suppose that story will have to do." She rose with him, clearly ready to either catch him or slow his fall if he couldn't keep his feet.

The room didn't spin, although his legs felt shaky and boneless. He found his breath coming fast and could feel his heart beat in his ears.

"Take it slow," Simra said. "Give it time."

He stepped off the sleeping mat. He felt shaky like an old man, every muscle in his legs and torso protesting. He extended a hand toward a hut wall, but Simra was there. She stepped under his arm and wrapped her left arm around his back.

"I'll help," she said.

He pushed a small smile of thanks onto his face, taking another step. He felt like he had been running for miles!

He stopped and tried to slow his breathing. And this is just walking!

"Just make it outside. You can sit in the sun for a time," Simra said.

Her hand and arm were warm and strong. This was a new experience for Lakhoni. He wished he felt more like himself so that he could savor the experience of her touch on his back. As it was, it was all he could do to stay upright.

After a minute of standing still and taking long breaths, his heartbeat had slowed considerably. He pushed forward, taking one step, then another. Maybe two more paces to the door.

On his next step, his foot bumped against a slight unevenness in the dirt floor of the hut and in a moment of panic he knew he didn't have the strength to keep from falling. He clenched his jaw and stepped back leaning heavily on Simra. Her arm tightened and she grabbed his hand that draped over her shoulder with her right hand.

Her voice was soft in the hut that had been his home for over two weeks.

            "It's okay. I won't let you fall. We'll do this together." 

Servant of the King Chapter 24

Chapter 24

            "After today, you should be able to eat something more than soup." Simra met Lakhoni's eyes briefly.

            Lakhoni grunted. He could nod now without feeling like he stood upon a dizzying cliff. Most of the aches in his body had slowly, so slowly!, dissipated over the last two weeks. The fever and chills were gone too. But his muscles felt unused. He wondered if he would remember how to walk.

            Two weeks of lying on his back, broken only by the few moments it took Simra's father, Neas, to help him move so the sleeping mat and blankets he used could be changed. Two weeks! I think. I might have lost track of a few days.

            Simra's dark brown eyes met his again. A faint smile touched the corners of her lips. "Which I'm sure pleases you to no end."

            Lakhoni forced a smile, swallowing the first sip of hot soup. Had he ever thought this concoction tasted good?

            "How's the voice?"

            Fear flooded Lakhoni. He had pushed the worries away, but they returned in force with her question. He felt moisture come to his eyes, but willed it away. He opened his mouth. Come on, now. Just work! He tried to form some words, tried to tell her he was getting better. All that came out was a high-pitched sound of air being forced through his throat underscored by small grunts.

            "No." Simra's hand touched his shoulder, staying there for a long moment. "It's okay. Father says it will heal. Don't push it too hard."

            They quickly found their rhythm and the clay bowl Simra held emptied. "At least we can get that down quickly, without you interrupting and trying to regale me with tales of your adventures." Lakhoni heard the joke in her tone and saw the sympathy in her eyes. "I really don't care where you came from or how you got so sick. I have no questions whatsoever as to what would make you travel in the middle of winter."

            Lakhoni was briefly grateful that he had no voice. He was unsure of how he would explain. At least I have time to create a good story. He smiled at Simra, this time it was less forced. Aside from her and Neas, he had no contact with anyone else. It seemed their village had decided he was a problem for Neas and his daughter, so there was no need to visit the strange boy who had emerged from the wilderness of winter.

            "And I really have no reason to ask you about the horrible scars on your head and ribs." As Lakhoni watched, Simra seemed to settle more, her shoulders seeming to relax as she adjusted her position so she was sitting on the dirt floor next to him, her knees tucked slightly under her and to the side. Her tone softened as she continued, her voice wistful, and her eyes unfocused. "You're the only boy in the village who hasn't asked me to marry him."

            Lakhoni snorted in laughter. She looked down, seemed to realize he had been listening, and burst out laughing too. After a moment, Lakhoni braced himself on his elbows and levered himself upwards. Simra helped him sit up and move to lean against the furry pelt that hung from the wall near his sleeping mat. When she had helped him before, her strong hands on the bare skin of his chest, he had felt awkward. Now he was used to it. Making sure the blanket didn't slide down too far, he settled backward. He nodded his thanks, looking around the hut that had been his home for two weeks. It seemed this village had extra huts to go around; nobody else seemed to sleep here.

            The silence that settled between him and Simra might have been awkward a week ago, but now it felt comfortable. Minutes passed as they sat there, his eyes on the small fire that kept the hut warm.

            "You must be bored."

            Lakhoni smiled, nodding.

            "Even with the stories I tell you, spending all day in here must be awful."

            He shrugged.

            "Or maybe the stories are the worst part?"

            He had known her two weeks, but he felt like he knew her better than he had known anybody, save for Lamorun. Being only able to listen and watch, he felt himself perceiving things about her from the way she held herself or said something. Like now. Simra was joking, but he could tell she sincerely worried that he didn’t enjoy her company. She seemed to doubt herself at the strangest of times.

            But she was smart and had strong opinions about things. She seemed totally confident in her opinions of others and the world around her, but when it came to herself, Lakhoni had learned that she was less sure. He didn't understand it. Simra was easily the most beautiful girl he had ever seen. She could cook, hold a conversation; she had talked about going hunting with her father. How could anyone so nearly perfect doubt themselves?

            Lakhoni made no move to answer her half joking, half doubting question. He let the moment draw out, then caught her eyes and smiled. He shook his head.

            "You're not very nice, you know," Simra said, jokingly disgusted with him.

            He shrugged again. He mouthed the word, "More," raising his brows.

            She seemed to have no trouble interpreting his meaning. "Okay." Her brow furrowed as she thought. "Myth, legend, truth or a little of both?"

            Lakhoni held up two fingers.

            "Both. Alright. You've probably heard this before, but since you can't do anything to stop me, I will go ahead and tell it anyway."

            Lakhoni snorted. His throat didn't hurt so much anymore beyond a dull ache. He didn't understand why he couldn't talk. He wanted to trust Neas that his voice would return, but when Neas said that he couldn't tell what was wrong, it was hard to believe.

            "Hundreds of years ago, maybe thousands," Simra began. "The First Fathers escaped a wicked land across the seas. A land peopled by sorcerers and witches, assassins and thieves."

            What if I never speak again? How will I find Alronna and rescue her? How will I get to the king? The cadence of Simra's voice sounded like she had told this story before; almost as if it were a story passed down, word-for-word, among her people.

            "The First Fathers were four brothers who married four sisters. They were led by the Great Spirit to gather righteous family and friends to them and journey through the wilderness until they could find a land of safety and prosperity."

            Lakhoni knew the story of the First Fathers, but the way Simra told it was different. It was like a painted song, with her voice the brush that created pictures of an ancient family with a divine destiny to fulfill.

            "Although they were led by the Great Spirit, the four brothers were not united. The two older, upon whom the rights and privileges of rule had been conferred by their father, did all in their power to complete their journey, while the two younger brothers sought dominion over the people they were leading to an unknown destiny." Simra's eyes had grown unfocused as she spoke.

            Lakhoni wondered if she was seeing the small group of ancient people.

            "They built ships and sailed across a wild ocean, guided by a tool of ancient wisdom and wonder. This Guide was said to be a gift from the Great Spirit. It was a golden ball, shaped like a human skull, with two holes where eyes would have been. Instead of eyes, there were magnificent, clear gemstones. When the people followed after evil, the gemstones grew cloudy and red. But when the people were good and righteous, the gemstones stayed clear." Simra drew in a slow breath before continuing.

            "The First Fathers took the Guide from the treasury of the wicked king of the land they lived in. Using the Guide, they found their way through the wilderness to a great eastern ocean. Without the Guide, they would never have completed their journey; they would have found their deaths on the ocean floor."

            As Simra spoke, Lakhoni let his thoughts wander, enjoying her voice. He wished he knew how close Simra's village was to Lemalihah. If he could speak, he would be able to ask. He could also get directions and continue his journey.

            "When they arrived at their land of promise and plenty, the two younger brothers deceived many of their friends with empty promises and lies, and led them in attacking the older brothers and their families. The older brothers knew they had to protect their families, so they fled southward. Thus, the land north is that of the Usurpers—the unlawful rulers—and the land south is the land of the true First Fathers."

            I have to get better. My voice has to come back. But even if it took him a long time to get his voice back, he could not spend his days on his back anymore. He had to be up and working and practicing the skills that Gimno had taught him.

            "The wondrous Guide fell into the hands of the Usurpers, but it is said that their unrighteousness was so great that the Great Spirit withdrew this gift from them. Our people know that when the time comes, the Great Spirit will restore the Guide to us and will lead us to reclaim our rightful, choice land in the north, driving the Usurpers into the sea."

            I hadn't realized it, but the Bonaha said something like that when he killed that boy. Maybe the Separated aren't so different from the rest of us.

            "But for now, there are two peoples: the Usurpers and the people of Lemal. Each of our kings has taken the name of the oldest brother to show him honor- and so we remain the people of Lemal."

            No, the people of Lemal don't practice human sacrifice.

            He stopped, realizing what he had just told himself. But is murder any better?

            Of course not.

            Lakhoni suddenly felt completely alone. His family and village were dead; murdered by a king who was descended from an original ruler who had been righteous. Lemal does not honor the First Fathers with his murders. He felt that he knew why the Separated felt they had been wronged. He also knew that justice had to be served, but he could never truly be one of the Living Dead.

            He realized he could not be one of the people of Lemal any longer. He had no people and no place to call home.

            The silence in the hut made him realize that Simra had stopped speaking some time ago.

            "You suddenly look very sad," she said.

            The kindness in her voice and the concern he saw in her face softened something inside of him. He clenched his jaw, clamping down tightly on the flood of emotion that suddenly welled up. He tried not to meet her eyes, but he felt drawn to them.

            Simra stared intently at him. Her deep brown eyes, flecked with green, caught his and held them. Lakhoni's heart suddenly began pummeling his chest and he had to fight hard to control a breath that caught in his throat. Warmth touched his right hand. He glanced down. Both of her strong hands encircled his hand. He met her gaze again.

            "You will get better. Your voice will come back." Simra's chest rose gently as she took a deep, slow breath.

            His mind suddenly blank, his heart still pounding, Lakhoni felt his control ebbing. He clenched her hands, not wanting to tear his eyes from her face.

            "And when you get better, I hope you will tell me...," she looked down.

            Long moments of silence passed. The heat of her hand was like a heavy cloak, or of hot coals in the middle of a chilly night. He squeezed her hand, wishing she would finish her sentence.

            Without looking at him again, Simra set his hand down onto the blanket. She rose gracefully and leaned down to pick up the soup bowl. Before she turned to leave, her voice came quietly.

            "Your name. I would like to know your name."

            The door closed quietly behind her, a draft causing the small fire to twist and dance.

Servant of the King Chapter 22

Chapter 22

            All he saw was the flame dancing. The orange-gold-red, like living spears, swept up to the sky nearly as high as he was tall. He imagined the heat before he felt it.

            Bumping into the stone of a hut, he stumbled into the light cast by the fire. He heard noises, saw movement to both sides, but paid it no heed. The fire, huge and powerful, blazed and drew him in. At its edge, Lakhoni dropped his bow, barely registering its clatter on the frozen ground. He pried his hands off of his cloak and stretched them forward.

            Perhaps he had died and this was the world of spirits. Some said the world of spirits was paradise and others said it was for the damned. He didn't care which one he was in, or even if he still lived. The entire front of his body seemed to be melting into the glowing heat of the fire. When he felt his hands could move well enough, he reached up and pulled his cloak off his head, and untied the leather mask from around his face, letting them both drop to the ground. He wished he could remove all of his clothing and bathe in the flame.

            As his face thawed for the first time in what felt like years, Lakhoni began to understand the noises around him. Voices raised in question and anger. A baby crying. Deep voices. Dogs barking. He turned to allow his back to get some heat.

            "Who are you?" A man, shorter than Lakhoni and with narrow, sloping shoulders stood in front of him. His voice carried anger and suspicion. "Why do you invade our circle?"

            Lakhoni opened his mouth to answer. He tried to speak, but his throat felt as if he had swallowed a live coal from the fire behind him. A cough tore through him. He tried to speak again and failed again.

            "Speak or be cast out!" The man took a small step forward. He was certainly smaller than Lakhoni, but his sloped shoulders belied the strength that was evident in the man's chest and the rest of his body.

            Lakhoni coughed again. "I-" he said, trying to swallow to create space in his throat.

            Another man's voice, sharp like a knife, cut through the darkness. "Mibli! This boy is clearly sick!" Scuffling sounds followed.

            Lakhoni blinked. He was surrounded by people. Men, women, children, even some dogs were there. And they were all looking at him.

            "He must answer!" the slope-shouldered man, who must have been Mibli, said. His protective posture didn't change.

            "Let me through, curse your ancestors!" the second voice protested. "He is sick!" A bear pushed two people aside and entered the circle of firelight.

            Lakhoni wanted to turn back to the fire to work on his hands again, but realized this might be a rude thing to do.

            "And he is probably hungry! Can't you see he's nearly dead?" The bear was actually a hugely thick man with his body covered entirely by a bear pelt.

            "This is not your place." Mibli glowered at the enormous man.

            "This is exactly my place," the other said. He turned from Mibli and faced Lakhoni.

            A shudder slammed through Lakhoni. It was as if the warmth of the fire at his back had reminded him how frigid the temperature around him was.

            "Boy. Can you speak?" The bear man's eyes glowed with the gold of the fire.

            Lakhoni opened his mouth, but knew nothing would come out. He shook his head. Another spasm of coughing tore out of his chest.

            "Get some soup!" The bear man's voice carried through a strange haze that had begun to settle over Lakhoni. Soup was food. Lakhoni wanted to listen, to understand what more the bear man had to say, but the haze grew thicker.

            How had he gotten to the ground? The hard thing under him: was that his bow?

            He laughed through his nose, or more of a snort, at the contrast between his front and back. His rear-end felt as if it was cooking, while his front was already frozen again.

            Lakhoni moved to turn around, but found himself falling to his left.

            Darkness consumed him.

            He opened his eyes when the first hot splash touched his chin. A shape moved above him, making some kind of noise.

            Blinking and drawing in a deep breath, Lakhoni tried hard to focus. He was lying on his back, something soft between him and what was probably a hard dirt floor. A bundle of something that was also soft held his head up somewhat. The roof above him was mostly in shadow, but it looked like it was made of reed and river clay tiles. Like Salno's house back in his village.

            "Please, drink this."

            Lakhoni turned his attention to the shape—a young woman—that was leaning over him.

            "My father says you must have this or you will die," the young woman said. Her skin was the color of scraped and cleaned deer hide, her hair a glistening black that glowed in the light of a small fire behind her. He couldn't see her face very well with the shadows on it, but he felt he could sense some tension.

            "I-" the croak that came out sounded like an animal of some kind. He tried again, this time with worse results. His throat felt scraped and raw, like a fresh deer hide.

            "Just open your mouth and I'll pour it in," the woman said.

            Lakhoni complied, licking his lips. The thin soup, or whatever it was, tasted of meat, some kind of earthy, sharp root, and many vegetables. It was good, but unusual and strangely spicy. Not in a way that hurt though. He opened his mouth for another sip. No, the spiced flavor seemed to be soothing his throat somehow.

            "It won't really fill you, but he said it should help you fight off the winter sickness."

            He wanted to answer, to say thank you or something, but he didn't want to kindle the coal in his throat again.

            "You have to drink it all."

            He nodded. She lowered the clay bowl to his lips again. He felt ridiculous, as if he were a baby being fed by its mother. He tried to reach up to take the bowl, but the motion caused violent twinges of pain all over his body. His vision spun.

            "That was stupid. Don't move."

            He sucked in a breath, trying to stop the spinning in his head.

            "You lie there and I give you soup. It's simple," the woman—or was she just a girl?—said. 

            In response, he opened his mouth.

            He carefully kept his body still as she administered to him. Long minutes passed as small sips of the strong broth slid down his throat, warming him from the inside. He realized at some point that he was covered in several heavy blankets or pelts.

            "That's all," she said.

            Forgetting, he tried to reach for the bowl to tell her he was still hungry, but nausea stopped him. He drew in a slow breath.

            "No, that's all. More later." She turned. "Sleep now."

            Lakhoni lay there, knowing the hunger growling in his stomach would not let sleep come.

            Sunlight streaming through cracks in the doorway told him he had been wrong. He didn't even remember closing his eyes. No dreams of his village had come. No dreams of a terrible funeral pyre had assaulted him. No dreams, but plenty of hunger.

            And he felt hot. Sweat seemed to pour off his body, sliding down his neck, over his shoulders and dropping onto the mat he lay on. A shudder passed through him, bringing pain and hunger.

            He groaned, trying to turn onto one side and curl up.

            Now he felt cold.

            A soft noise came from the doorway. Carefully keeping his head still, Lakhoni glanced in that direction. Someone came in, a blinding flash of light behind them obscuring their features. Lakhoni blinked rapidly and regretted it. His head pounded and he realized that he was very thirsty.

            "Good, you need more soup." The same voice from the previous night.

            He watched as the young woman approached, then knelt at his side. As his vision returned, he realized something he hadn't noticed the night before.

            She was beautiful. Her long black hair framed an oval face with even, perfectly shaped features. Eyes the shape of an elm leaf, a straight and strong nose, and a lovely mouth. Lakhoni knew he was staring and didn't feel inclined to stop.

            "Good, you remember. Just keep your mouth open," she said.

            "Y-" he still couldn't speak. All that came out was a noise that he wouldn't have believed he could make if he hadn't just heard it.

            "No, don't talk. Give it time."

            Lakhoni didn't want to blink. She looked like—like a messenger from the First Fathers. Her hair dipped as she leaned closer.

            "By the stones! You have to swallow!"

            The moisture running down his chin and neck brought him back to the present. He closed his mouth, swallowing the small amount of spicy soup that hadn't dribbled out. Blinking at the heat of the liquid, he pulled his thoughts back together.

            "There. Father says you must drink it all again, so let's go," she said.

            Beautiful woman or no, he had to get back on his feet. Alronna had to be in Lemalihah.

            Looking up at the woman—no, she had to be the same age as him; she was a girl—he found his eyes getting tired. They felt strained and dry.

            He dropped his eyes to her hands. This was better. He and the girl quickly found a rhythm and only minutes had passed by the time the clay bowl was empty.

            "Okay. Now sleep."

            It cost him a moment of dizziness, but Lakhoni forced his hand to move. He tried to grab her wrist, but succeeded in only brushing it with his finger tips. Fingertips that he only just now noticed were wrapped in soft cloth. He had to get up, get moving again.

            The girl's eyes flashed for a moment. She gritted her teeth. Seeing him open his mouth as if to talk, she said, swift anger in her voice, "No. Don't try to talk. Just rest. We will make you better."

            Frustration welled up in him. Alronna had waited long enough.

            The anger in the girl's eyes seemed to dissipate. She unclenched her jaw with a visible effort. "Listen. You are very sick. We don't know where you've come from, but we have traditions that we must obey." Her reddish-brown eyes met his. "So we'll make you better. We have questions, but you can’t answer them so we will wait. You wait too."

            The girl sighed, glancing around the hut. Something in her face looked pained. Lakhoni instinctively followed her gaze as it traveled the walls. The home looked almost exactly like those of his village. Stone walls, sleeping mats, a small table, wooden shelves with trinkets, hooks sunk into some of the rocks of the wall. It was all the same, except for the tile roof. Like Salno's, because Salno had been important in the village.

            "I'm sure this is hard. But we will help you get better. I can't promise Mibli won't throw you out or do something awful to you once you're better, but my father has claimed a duty to you."

            Her hand rested briefly on his arm. A shock went through him at the spot she touched—it felt cold and hot at the same time. "My father is Neas. He is the healer of our village." The girl stood. "We will bring you more soup soon. As your throat heals, you can eat other things. But you have to rest now."

            Lakhoni blinked, wary of moving his head.

            She turned to the small fire in the middle of the hut. Bending slightly, she fed a small log to the flames. Straightening, she looked over her shoulder. "Soon you'll be able to tell us your name, and your story. For now, I'll be your healer. My name's Simra."

            She turned and left the hut.

            Simra.

Urgency to move toward Alronna prodded Lakhoni, but he could not deny the weakness and pain in his body. Alronna probably thought everyone in the village was dead. She was alone. Had she known about whatever it was beneath our mother's bed?

            He would find out. He would heal fast and waste no time getting back on his journey.

            On his back, sweat pouring from his skin, the sight of deep brown tiles not far above him, Lakhoni thought back to the cavern of the Separated.

            First Fathers, please don't let this be the same, he thought. The memory of his journey through the frigid winter, the wind that was sharp as swords, was still fresh, but it seemed that someone else had experienced it. He already felt distant from those days. Images of Gimno and Sana and Corzon flitted behind his eyes.

            They had cared for him and treated his injuries too. Were Simra's people going to do the same, then try to keep him captive? Am I even close to Lemalihah?

            His bones ached with exhaustion; his muscles still trembled periodically.

            I'm free from the Living Dead. And I'm alive.

            That means I'm closer. 

Servant of the King Chapter 21

Chapter 21

            He lay on his back in a patch of sunshine in the middle of a clearing. He thought he could hear the daily noise from his village, somewhere just beyond sight as he turned his head to the left and right. Laughter, sharp voices, the noise of someone chopping wood or something similar. The warmth felt so good, as if it were a friend he had not seen for years. Or like his bed after a long day hunting with his father and Lamorun.

            Something was wrong. He tried to push himself up to go and join his village, but he couldn't move. It was not so much that he was paralyzed, but that his limbs were too heavy for him to lift.

            That was okay, it was warm here and he was comfortable.

            But his family. Something told him that he hadn't seen them in a while and that they wanted him home soon. Perhaps for dinner. He had to go to dinner.

            He still couldn't move, although his stomach seemed to be twisting tightly.

            He had to get up. Had to see his mother and father, Lamorun and Alronna.

            That was wrong. Lamorun had died in one of the king's useless wars on the Usurpers.

            At the thought of the Usurpers, an image of a footprint outside of his family's hut came to him. What did that mean?

He struggled to make connections. If only he could stand, he could walk to the village and someone there would help him.

Someone there.

Alronna.

Everything in his body told him not to move as consciousness invaded. He opened his eyes, brown pine needles blurring into long spears that a rodent might use.

A dream. As he thought the word, he became instantly aware of the frigid temperature that seemed to want to absorb him and the tiny pocket of slight warmth in his torso. He had fallen asleep under the tree.

He had to move. Had to get up.

Groaning in pain, he forced himself to roll off his side onto his knees. When he put his hands down on the ground to steady himself, pain lanced through his fingers. He looked at fingers and hands; they were pale in the dim morning light that filtered through the canopy of pine branches. At least I can still feel them.

He began to crawl out from under the tree, then realized he had left his bag and bow. The quiver still hung over his shoulder. With that thought came dull pain from where the quiver must have been pressing into his side and back while he slept.

Pain.

Pain means I'm not dead yet. But one more night like this last one and Lakhoni wasn't certain he would make it through.

"I have to make it." He grunted as he dragged his things with him. He pushed his body to a standing position. Aches and stiffness forced him to try several times to straighten his back. "It can't be that far." He reached down to pick up his bag and bow. His movements were slow in the quiet of the winter morning. Slow like an oldster.

"It can't be that far."

He glanced up and only then realized that the sun was shining brightly over the mountains. The frigid wind had died too; perhaps the clouds had taken it with them as they departed.

He leaned toward the sun, willing his legs to move and catch him before he fell. It seemed that with every step, a shudder would course through him. He caught his cloak tighter around his body—or at least as tightly as it would go now that he had to carry his bow tucked under his arm. As he walked, he tried to jam his hands under his arms while still holding the cloak. He angled his breathing alternately up and down, first into his leather face mask and then down into his tunic.

The moment of warmth each breath gave fled too quickly in the face of the cold.

Every few minutes, interspersed among handfuls of snow and long, slow breaths, he would say it aloud again. "It can't be that far."

The morning passed slowly and quickly. He felt as if each step lasted an hour or more, but when he looked up into the sky, the sun was somehow behind him already.

Hunger pangs struck hard as afternoon dimmed into the evening.

He had been scouring the terrain as he walked, moving between patches of forest and open ground. He had seen no sign of any other living thing or anything edible.

Dark fell quickly. Only minutes before the sun's glow faded completely, Lakhoni found another sheltering tree.

Small and medium branches littered the bed of brown needles under the tree.

The thought of a substantial fire made his movements even clumsier than the cold had made him. Finally, after several tries, he had smoke coming from a pile of needles. Blowing gently, he added small twigs, then some small branches.

The fire's heat and warm glow seemed to kindle greater hunger in him. How long had it been? Two days? Three?

If only he could eat leather.

He held still, trying to catch the thought that followed his wish.

There. He searched the ground from his position between the fire and the tree trunk. He found a rock that was about as wide around as his hand was long. It was flat on one side, but had a very shallow cavity in it. He found another rock and started scraping at the cavity in the first rock. It didn't take him long to realize that he was making no difference.

He put the flat rock right next to the fire, then carefully sidled to the right, leaning out far enough to pick up a handful of snow. He placed the snow in the cavity of the rock; the snow melted almost immediately. Reaching to his belt, Lakhoni pulled his knife from its sheath, then carefully cut a tiny chunk of his cloak off. This he placed in the water in the cavity of the rock.

He sat as patiently as he could, for as long as he could, feeding the fire. The small amount of water actually began to bubble after a while. He left it for a few minutes longer, then used his cloak to protect his hands as he eased the rock away from the fire to cool down.

He could wait no longer. Taking the rock in leather-wrapped hands, he lifted it to his mouth, slurping the hot liquid up. A faint hint of deer meat filled his mouth. With his tongue, he took the small piece of leather out of the rock cavity and chewed on it. It was tough, but he could almost believe he was chewing on a very tough, overcooked piece of deer meat. His stomach rumbling, he chewed, praying that even this small bit of nourishment would keep him alive. He felt his eyelids getting heavy.

            "Too tired," he said. His unused voice sounded strange to him. This diminishment of his energy felt like it was a bad sign. He guessed that it would simply continue as his body fought the frigid cold with so little food to fuel it.

            Shaking his head, he repeated the process of making leather cloak soup. As he did, his thoughts turned to the buck he had tried to take the… How long ago was that? Was that yesterday? How did deer do it? They seemed to manage winters fine. He thought back to the buck pushing its nose through the snow, seeking food. He knew that they ate winter moss throughout the season, but was that all they ate?

            Winter moss. If it could feed a deer, could he eat it too?

            Lakhoni pushed himself away from his small fire and tiny amount of bland soup. He scrabbled under the branches of the pine tree and, the darkness nearly complete but for the stars and a rising moon, searched the woods for one of the rare winter-naked trees. It didn't take him long. Finding one, he fell to his knees and dug through the snow at the base of the tree with leather-covered hands.

            Starlight illuminated the winter moss, making it look pale and almost ghostly. Lakhoni pulled some and brought it to his nose. The smell of green things filled him, sending images of spring into his mind. He touched his tongue to the moss. No flavor. Next he took a small bit into his mouth and chewed. He had eaten grass before and this tasted much the same, only heavier—closer to what he imagined earth would taste like.

            The flavor wasn't one of the several flavors his father had taught him to watch out for as poisonous.

            "It couldn't hurt," he said. He stood and returned to his shrinking fire.

            Lakhoni broke the moss into tiny bits and added it to the already hot water in the cavity of the rock. He would leave it longer this time to see if the leather would soften more. He sat, adding fuel to the fire, the moments of near-comfort allowing him to send his mind on old paths.

            The Separated could not track him. He felt confident that he had thoroughly escaped them. Maybe they thought he had died and expected to find his corpse in the spring. He planned on disappointing them. He felt that these moments of clarity were an opportunity for him to confirm his objective in being out in this terrible cold.

            Alronna had been taken from the village, along with something else that came from under his mother's sleeping mat. Something about the size of a new baby—if that baby were in a square container of some kind. His village was gone, the people murdered.

            Justice or a sister? He snapped a thin branch over his knee. Am I after only Alronna, or am I supposed to bring justice to our family's murderers. Lakhoni sat there, waiting for his leather moss soup, looking inward for the rage that had filled him so many months before—the anger that had fueled him less than a week previous.

            He could not find it. No storm roiled in his soul anymore. Instead, he found a banked fire, its heat and glow nearly gone. He couldn't call it rage or fury. He didn't know what to call it, but it felt like the gently glowing coals of this fire were not wood coals but were something stronger, harder and hotter. Like they were stones heated by a mighty force and made to glow in darkness, lighting the way through a journey.

            Finding and rescuing Alronna would not be enough. The king and his raiders must answer for their crimes. It had to be like in the village. If someone stole something, they were made to return it, then they had to receive a number of lashes to their hands, then serve the person whose property they had stolen.

            Restitution. There had to be restitution and justice. He fed a stick to the fire before him. He didn't know how he would be able to mete out that justice. But he also wasn't supposed to be alive and wasn't supposed to have been able to escape from the Separated. I've made it this far. I'll find a way.

            Not because of anger or grief, but because law demanded it.

            Maybe not the king's law, Lakhoni thought, but a different kind of law. "Something greater," he said. He reached for his miniscule amount of soup and brought it to his mouth. The rock's heat felt good against his leather-covered hands. The soup's flavor was stronger this time. Leather moss soup was not delicious, but it was better than nothing.

            As he lowered the rock, the heat he felt gave him another idea. He found more rocks under the tree and put them all just on the edges of his mid-sized fire. Then he sat there, chewing leather, feeding the fire and resisting the urge to make more leather moss soup. If he wasn't careful, he would eat his entire cloak.

            Just before sleep took him, Lakhoni arranged the warm rocks in different positions along his body, curling around them. His stomach still rumbled. His toes still felt as if they were steadily freezing. But a feeling that he had crossed some kind of horrible chasm filled him. As if a difficult bridge had been traversed successfully.

            He wasn't finished yet. Not going to die under this tree either.

*          *          *          *          *

            Lakhoni came to a stream early the next morning. He guessed it was about four paces wide. Ice and snow covered it. How thick could the ice be? He found a dead branch and swept the snow off a small space near the stream's bank. Next he found a rock and, crouching low, slammed it into the ice. Cracks formed with the first strike. Only three hard hits later, freezing water splashed up as chunks of ice split apart. He had a hole that was about a half pace in width.

            ”Now what?" The idea of catching a fish had so overtaken him that he hadn't thought about what he would use to do it. He stood there, looking blankly at the hole he had made. He needed a net, but it would have to be small. And what would he use to make the net?

            He could use an arrow head as a hook and lower it on a thin strip from his cloak. "Bait?" he asked himself.

            No idea revealed itself. He had a hole in ice, and perhaps fish swimming in the water underneath the ice. But he had no way of catching one.

            "Sorry stream." He walked several paces to the right, then crossed the stream quickly. Orienting himself on the sun again, he left the stream behind. "Is it better to talk to streams or to myself?"

            He let the question dissipate in the still winter air along with the cloud of his breath. "If the stream talks back, that's probably better," he said, a grunt of laughter following. He laughed again, this time louder. It hurt his chest and throat, but felt good somewhere else—somewhere deeper. "Better if a stream talks back!" The bursts of laughter felt wild. An abandon he had never felt before washed through him. "So talk back, stream!"

            Lakhoni flung his hands out wide, welcoming the odd sensation that filled him. Nothing mattered beyond each breath, each step. If he could beat the winter with leather moss soup, nothing could stop him. And if winter won the day, so be it. All that mattered was that he still breathed and would fight for each breath. Exhilaration filled him. His bones seemed to burn with a sudden power. "Talk back!" He laughed at the clouds forming heavy bundles in the west. He screamed at the frozen woods and brush. He fell to his knees, bellowing his defiance. His chest and throat burned. His stomach was a chasm that would never again be filled. And still he shouted.

            He didn't know when his screams became tears. He only knew that he found himself on all fours, his feet and hands feeling as though they were frozen to the ground. Tears poured off his cheeks, and out the slits in his mask, dropping and leaving tiny holes in the snow beneath him. He lowered himself so that his forearms rested in the snow and tried to catch his breath. He had to keep breathing. The snow felt soft beneath him, strangely warm. It would make a nice bed.

            No. He still had several hours of daylight. He could walk more.

            But a little rest. Maybe some leather moss soup. He could find a tree.

            Lakhoni felt his body pulling downward—the ground reaching up for him.

            Why not?

            Nobody would know.

            He heaved in a freezing breath. Sharp pain, like tiny icicles, jabbed the inside of his chest.

            Nobody would know.

            But he had to fight for each breath. He could breathe just as well, maybe better, if he were walking. He pushed himself up, scrabbling through the powdery snow until he was on only hands and knees again. He pushed again, arching his back and getting his feet under him.

            He stood. Pain. There was pain and breathing. That was all.

            He looked to the crisp blue sky and found the sun.

            Tucking his bow under his arm and his cloak tighter around his shaking body, Lakhoni took a step forward.

            A spasm of coughing burst out of him.

            He took another step.

            He breathed in, holding the air until it felt warm again, then blew out, first into his mask, then his tunic.

            Another step.

            He found himself in a wide pasture of rolling mounds of snow. The forest had ended.

            Another step. Another breath.

            No more than an hour had passed when he saw the glint of fire and the shadows it threw on a circle of stone huts.