Lorinth, Taria
May 3, 1190 PT

Jon

Jon prodded the wood ox east toward the Therman Farm.  “Won’t it be nice to sleep in our own beds tonight?”

Ella bit her bottom lip and plunged her hands into her pockets. She had sat silently the entire three miles home. As they turned onto their property, she sprang from the bench and marched to the house, leaving Jon to park the wagon.

He yawned and pulled the animal into the pasture between the barn and garden. Most of his frustration had waned into exhaustion. The glint from both moons cast bluish-red shadows across the stone shed as he trudged by.

The house had remained the same since his teenage years. His stay then had been brief but memorable. Now, thirty years later, the single-story building still stood securely, nestled into a hill with an exterior wall of fieldstone. The roots of hemlock trees held the roof intact. Cool sunrock light streamed out the windows framed by limestone arches. The smell of fresh bread greeted Jon as he opened the door and stepped onto the flagstone of the parlor next to the kitchen.

Ruth turned the sunrocks in the furnace, which bridged the two rooms. She removed a loaf pan from a narrow oven next to the furnace, then stepped through the archway to meet Jon with a lingering kiss. Jon pulled Ruth closer and traced her jaw with his lips as she giggled.

“What’s bothering El?” she whispered.

“Being fifteen.” Jon turned his attention to the kitchen, where his surrogate father lay on his cot. “How did David do with the elixir?”

Ruth shrugged. “It’s medicine, not a miracle. He wanted to talk with you, but . . .”

David’s snores filled the room.

“Speaking of, I’m off to bed.” She yawned, kissed the back of Jon’s hand, and started down the dim hall toward their bedroom. “Don’t be long.” She looked over her shoulder and winked. Jon stared after his wife with a stupid, boyish grin. He was quite ready to follow when a gravelly voice called from the kitchen.

“I’m not sleeping.” David struggled to sit on his cot, rubbing his thickly bearded cheek with a calloused hand.

Jon trudged into the kitchen.

David’s wrinkles appeared more pronounced in the month since Jon had left for Estbye than in the entire thirty years he’d known him. Though an impressive age for a Tarishman under Drawlen rule, the man’s physical resilience had waned in his mid-eighties. His sallow skin and haggard breath gave further evidence. How long before the Drawls decided David Therman had outlived his usefulness?

Jon pictured the urns in the sick house. Another scene flashed in his imagination: Urns, filled with ash and painted with the whimsical illustrations of a child’s mind, rattled in nets hooked to the side of an iron-caged cart. In the cage, ashen-faced people sat crowded together, and death, a faceless figure clothed in shadow, drove the cart with an air of leisure.

As he sat on the bench next to the cot, Jon disguised his inner turmoil under a layer of sarcasm. “Resting your eyes, were you?”

“Praying and waiting for you, Jonathan.”

“Praying I wouldn’t strangle our new business partner?”

David rubbed his wrapped ankles. “Ach.”

Jon pushed his hands away. “That’ll only make it worse, old man.”

“That’s the problem. I’m old.”

“You waited up for me so you could complain?”

“No, I want to speak with you.”

“We had an agreement. You said you wouldn’t involve me with the Ruvians.”

“I haven’t. I told Alistar you’d refuse.”

“You told Cameron I’d throw a tantrum.”

David grinned. “Oh, yes. I did, didn’t I?”

Jon shook his head. “I’m not happy about it, but—”

David’s brown eyes twinkled, and he nudged Jon playfully with his bony elbow. “Quite the little trinket, isn’t it?”

“Was it stolen? They said they found it in the Dead Lands. I find that unlikely.”

“Why not? It’s a whole country of ruins. And even if they robbed it from a Dead Land tomb, it would technically be a Ruvian treasure. And speaking of trinkets and treasures.” David rose and jostled over to a far corner of the kitchen, digging through cluttered shelves and returning with an unpainted wooden box.

Jon ran his hand through his hair. “You could get arrested for having a thing like that.”

“I could be arrested for a great many things, and so could you, Master Smuggler.” David traced the engraving on the cover, a seven-tongued flame surrounded by Ruvish writing. “Your father asked me to save it for you. I never opened it. That privilege is yours.” He pressed the box into Jon’s hands. “I had thought to give it to you sooner, but, well, you’ve made your opinion of your heritage quite clear, and I’ve respected your wish. But frankly, I’m running out of time. We are running out of time.” Then David collapsed on his cot.

Holding the box, Jon rose. “Get some rest, old man.” He walked down the sloping hall leading to the bedrooms, the contents of the box clanging with each step. Confirming his decision, he paused at the open door of the cellar. He would work with the Ruvians, but he would not be one of them. He tossed the box onto a pile of crates, where it tumbled next to the wall. When Jon closed the door and made his way to the bedroom, his shoulders slumped as he watched Ruth sleeping soundly. He crawled into bed and kissed her forehead.

—

Jon spent the next few weeks in turmoil. He felt simultaneously trapped and enthralled by the potential of working with the Ruvians. Although he had resolved to forget the box, it nagged him. His frustration soon changed to worry, however, as David’s health declined while the Third North stalked the Lorinth countryside.

The creak of the front door, followed by Ruth’s weeping, awakened Jon just after sunrise in late June. He clambered out of bed and rushed to the parlor, where she sat crying on the floor.

He knelt and wrapped his arms around her. “What is it, love?”

He followed Ruth’s gaze toward the kitchen, where David lay snoring on his cot. She shuddered and whispered to Jon, “The elixir—it isn’t working. Joran came to the sick house last night and told me Duval is coming to take David on the Life Harvest. The caravan leaves today.” She buried her face in Jon’s shoulder, trembling with sobs.

After a few minutes, David cleared his throat and called for them.

Ruth wiped her eyes as she and Jon entered the kitchen. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

David lifted himself upright and patted Ruth’s back when she sat next to him. “Not to worry, dear. Duval’s intentions are no surprise. Besides, Sovereign’s ways are at work. We all knew this day would come, and I’m ready to face my final journey. I’ve been ready for quite some time.”

Jon pulled the bench next to the cot. “You . . . you could go to Sidras, David. You could live among the Ruvians.” The thought appalled him, but the idea of David in the grim procession at the Life Harvest in Drawl was far worse.

David sighed. “To what end? Death will come to me soon, no matter where I go. Besides, wouldn’t Duval find it suspicious that only after his lieutenant’s warning do I hide myself? Joran took a great risk. And surely, your family would reap awful consequences if I avoided this fate. You know, long ago, I decided not to hide from the world. Why should I turn back now?”

Squeaky hinges interrupted them as Ella stepped out of the bedroom she shared with her brothers. When she entered the kitchen, she met her mother’s tear-filled eyes. “They’re coming to take him, aren’t they?”

David motioned for Ella to come closer. He took her hand and met her gaze. “Yes, the officers will come soon, and I’ll go with them. Don’t be troubled, Ella. Think instead of all the very lost and frightened people I’ll meet along the way. Think of the hope I could bring them before the end.” He brushed a brown curl away from her face. “Now, wake up your brothers for breakfast so we can finish our story.”

Rubbing tears from her eyes, Ella sniffled and nodded.

When she left, David lay back down, and Ruth started frying bacon slabs. Unable to bear the heavy mood, Jon tucked himself in a worn chair near the furnace.

The children rushed past him and planted themselves at the side of David’s cot as he sat up. Jon fumbled with his pipe and found himself enraptured by David’s masterful storytelling.

“Let’s see. Where did we leave off?”

Jeb screeched. “Regem the Selfless was facing down the general of the Tyrant’s vanguard!”

“Yes, yes.” David clasped his hands and leaned forward. “So, the young hunter, wounded from an arrow to his shoulder, weary from battle, faces his final foe. The towering, heavily armed Karthan warrior looms before him.” He drew his arms over his head. “The monstrous creature looks down at the boy and laughs. ‘You would stand between the great Faust Dragonsbane and his throne? Drop your sword, and I will offer you a merciful death!’

“But Regem is unafraid. ‘I am but a vessel of Sovereign. As long as he gives me breath, I will be like a mountain between your false king and his prize.’”

As David spoke, Nate and Jeb sprang from the floor and sparred with imaginary swords. They settled down after Jon scolded them.

David smiled and placed a hand on his chest. “‘So be it,’ says the general, and he raises his claymore, bringing it down upon Regem’s head. The boy lifts his humble blade to block the blow, but it shatters.” David raised his hands to block a phantom blow, and the children squirmed. “But Regem’s faith is not in his sword. It is in the words of the Saint who has charged him with this great task. And so, Regem lets the broken blade fall and takes the Saint’s gift from his pocket.”

“Oh! The dragon’s fang,” Nate yelled.

“Yes. He lunges forward and thrusts the fang into the skin of the general’s ankle. Sharper and more deadly than any weapon of man is the tooth of a dragon. Even for the ogres of Faust’s wicked horde, the dragon’s poison brings death. The general quivers, howls in anguish, and falls dead.

“But Regem’s victory is brief, for the world gate is opening. Its great golden rings cease their spinning and stand upright. A cloud of mist spills from its center. For a moment, all is silent.” David thrust his fist to his mouth and coughed violently. He waved a hand as he recovered. “Then, the thrum of metal against metal and boots on stone fills the valley. The mist clears, and through the magical gate, Regem can see into the land of Greq many thousands of miles away. There, on the threshold of the gate, is Faust the Tyrant, seated on his fiendish dragon, with the whole of his forces marching behind him.”

Ella handed David a mug of water.

Mumbling his thanks, he took a sip and went on. “And so, with the life already leaving his lungs, Regem picks up a jagged rock from the ground. He rushes to the pedestal at the base of the gate, tosses aside the sunstone that powers it, and smashes the mechanism with the rock in his hand, forever ending the age of the World Walkers. The golden rings quiver and sway. Faust lunges forward, but he is too late. The last human voice Regem hears is Faust cursing him in anger. Now, Regem is trapped in the solitary Valley of the Gate with no help for his wounds and no way home. But it is a worthy sacrifice, for he has saved his beloved Palimar from falling once more under the cruel thumb of Faust the Tyrant.”

Jeb and Nate whooped and took up their imaginary duel once again. Ella laughed and shook her head.

“So, dear ones,” said David as the boys settled down. “That is the end of our final tale. But tell me, why do you think our hero turned out to be Regem, the lowly huntsman, and not the king or any of his knights, or even the mighty shapeshifter? What did the Saint see in this young man that the others lacked?”

With oohs and grunts, Jeb and Nate competed for David’s attention, but it was Ella’s calculated answer that won over the commotion. “He trusted in the wisdom of the Saint instead of his own power, even when it seemed foolish or hopeless.”

David applauded, and they spent a few minutes discussing the story.

Jon leaned forward in his seat. “Children, help your mother with breakfast.”

Nate moaned, but Ella dragged him to his feet and Jeb followed them to the table.

David joined Jon in the entry room, and they sat across from each other in their worn straw chairs for the last time.

Jon’s gaze flitted to the front door, sunlight filtering through the wide gap at the bottom. He pictured himself at fifteen, standing in that very doorway and looking back at the old man in the straw chair with disdain. “Burn in hell!” he had shouted before walking out of the house and out of David’s life. The next time he stood there, eleven months ago at age forty-four, he’d been newly released from prison.

“We’ve spent many hours in this room, you and me,” David said, breaking Jon’s reverie. “I taught you to read in here. And your children as well. In fact, your father and I spent many hours here, sitting, just like this.” He patted his armrest and grinned, though his eyes were sorrowful.

After several minutes, Jon took a deep breath and made the request he had vowed never to utter. “Tell me—about my father.”

David smiled as if Jon’s words had lifted a burden he’d been aching to shed. “Lucas Riley was an impressive young man, full of passion. Most Ruvians were very closed off from the world for a long time. Others lived in slums and had forgotten their heritage. We were dying out when your father was born.

“He was one of the last descendants of the old kings. Every clan wanted him as their own. When he was a boy, he was moved from one of the strongholds in the mountains to Sidras to escape a local epidemic. On the way, he saw the long line of journeyers heading to the Life Harvest to be sacrificed. That image haunted him.

“He was determined to make his people strong again. Strong enough to aid Drawlen’s castaways, those deemed too weak or old to be of use. Strong enough to reclaim a place of our own, to live freely without the fear of Drawlen oppression.” David curled his hands into fists. “He risked not returning to you and your mother. But it was worth it, Jon. It was worth the risk if it meant he was one step closer to realizing that vision.

“Your father died when his work had barely begun. Don’t get the impression I wish you to take up his fight. Vengeance, while it makes for a good story, ruins a man like no other ambition. But the Ruvians are without their rightful leader.” He pointed at Jon, his eyes darkening. “Without you and your family, the bloodline of kings is lost.”

Jon leaned back and sighed. “Kings and bloodlines don’t mean much these days, David. Everything is about power.”

“And who, but you, has the power to give the Ruvians a new home?”

“Just because I can build a house doesn’t mean I want to live in it.”

Horses whinnied outside, disturbing the tension. Ruth rushed into the room and peered through the distorted windowpanes. “They’re coming.”

David struggled to his feet and faltered.

Jon grabbed his arm and helped him up. “David, I just—”

Fists pounded on the door, echoing through the house. When Jon opened the door, Percy Duval greeted him. The captain’s eyes alighted in satisfaction as he regarded David’s feeble form.

David boldly stepped over the threshold and hobbled up to him. Outside, Joran stood at attention next to a horse-drawn cart, where a sergeant waited in the driver’s seat.

“Nice of you to join us, Therman,” Duval said.

David straightened. “Must be getting slow if they have rangers working the Life Harvest.”

Duval spit at his feet. “Silence, Therman. Respect is still in order.”

David grunted and spun around. The three children, now standing in the yard, rushed to him. He hugged Ella and kissed the tears on her cheek. “Cling to hope, sweet girl.” He turned to Jeb, who gripped his sister’s hand. “Courage, Jebadiah. Find your courage. Understand?” Jeb nodded, tears swelling his round, soft eyes. David then put a hand on Nate's shoulder. “Remember our lesson today, Nathaniel. Put your hope in Sovereign’s truth, not in your own strength.” Nate nodded, jaw quivering. Finally, David faced Jon.

Before he could speak, Duval whacked David in the back with the flat of his sword. “Move it!” He pushed the old man against the cart, but David struggled to climb in.

Duval sneered at Jon and Ruth. “You’ve come a long way from crawling on the streets. You are now the official holders of the Therman property. Don’t waste it.” Duval tossed a brown envelope at Jon, who fumbled to catch it.

Behind Duval, the sergeant cursed and shoved David face-first into the cart.

Nate charged past Duval, screaming profanities. Duval stepped toward him, but Joran moved between them. Jon ran after Nate and grabbed his collar. As the sergeant drove the cart away, David clutched the rails.

His eyes wide, Joran stood face-to-face with Duval. Despite this, his voice was even. “Captain, let me take charge of these whelps. Father Ferren is waiting for us at the temple.”

Duval scowled at Nate with such hatred, Jon feared he’d be holding his son’s corpse before the day’s end. In silent desperation, Jon offered a prayer to David’s god, the Ruvian god, his father’s god: Sovereign, David says you are the Great Protector of the weak and broken, so here we are. Protect us.

To Jon’s astonishment, Duval relented. “Very well, Lieutenant.” He mounted his horse and followed the cart.

Once Duval disappeared down the road, Joran addressed Nate. “You fool! He would’ve run you through without a second thought.”

Jon put his arm around Nate’s shoulder. “Please, he’s just a boy.”

Joran glanced down the empty road. “Keep your boy in line. There’s no need for you to lose another one. Listen, I’m being reassigned to Shevak, so I’ll accompany David as far as the Modrian Mountains. He’ll be well cared for.”

“Either way, he goes to his death. What does it matter?” Jon said.

“One day, you and I will rise above this, Jon. Until then, I’ll look out for you as best I can.” Joran nodded to Ruth. “Goodbye, sister.” Then he mounted his horse and rode away.

Nate pulled back from his father, shaking his fists. “How could you let this happen?”

Jon caught him by the arm. “We don’t have a choice, Nathaniel.”

“We do. You’re just a coward!”

Jon gripped Nate’s shoulders. This child of eleven had the fog of a war-weary soldier in his hazel eyes. For a moment, Jon remembered five years ago, staring into the dark eyes of his then fourteen-year-old son, Remm. His shirt had been torn and there was blood on his hands. Jon shook the image and narrowed his eyes at Nate. “Listen to me, boy. I take risks every day to keep this family together.”

Nate glared, then spat on the ground. “I’d rather be alone and free than together and waiting to die!” He pulled himself out of his father’s grip and stormed into the shed, slamming the door.

Ella smiled at Jon sympathetically and led Jeb toward the house. The boy rubbed at his tear-streaked face as he looked over his shoulder.

Ruth put a hand on her husband’s back, squeezing his shoulder.

Jon hung his head. “He’s . . . just a boy, Ruth. He doesn’t know what he’s saying.”