The Journey of the Marked (The Miyran Heir Book 1) (21 page)

As the air transport continued its
route, Jurf’s stomach began to churn. How would he know when to exit the
transport? Was Banston the only stop? Would there be an announcement? And what
would he do once he arrived in Banston? He fiddled with the strap on his bag
and constantly turned his head from side to side, debating what to do. Perhaps
he should walk to the front of the transport and ask the conductor. He disliked
the thought of being singled out as naive, though missing his stop would
definitely be the greater catastrophe. He drew in a shaky breath and started to
stand when the man next to him spoke.

“What’s your name?” the man asked.

Jurf looked at the man, realizing
that his constant fidgeting had likely disturbed the man’s concentration. “I
apologize. I ... I haven’t ridden a transport before and, well, I’m not sure
where to exit.” He glanced nervously at his hands and then looked back at the
man. Tip was the only other Liput Jurf had met, but this man resembled an older
version of Tip. Something about the man’s nose looked like Tip’s. Then he
remembered that the man had asked his name. “Jurf. My name is Jurf. And yours?”

“Tren,” the man replied. He held
Jurf’s gaze for a moment. “Where are you going?”

“Banston.” Jurf decided to stick
with his cover story. “My uncle asked me to buy tools for our neighborhood and
thought the experience of the Plinte funeral would be good for me.” He laughed
a little at this, though with less conviction than when he previously had told
the tale. The man didn’t respond immediately. Maybe he recognized the story as
a lie. Jurf twisted the strap of his bag around his finger and bit his lower
lip.

Tren beamed and slapped Jurf on the
leg. “You’re in luck, Jurf. I’m also going to Banston for the funeral. We can
go together. I understand they’ve arranged a tent village for the visitors. They
expect many to help with preparations for the funeral, of course. I’m sure we
can find a job for both of us to do.”

Jurf expelled a sigh of relief. “Thank
you. I appreciate the help.” Then he blurted, “You’re Liput, right?” Tren
looked at him with eyebrows raised. He shouldn’t have asked. How would he know
what a Liput looked like if he hadn’t met one? And where would he have met one?
They rarely travel to the city. He tried to keep his voice casual.
Don’t
mention Tip, don’t mention Tip
.

He turned to Tren and the words
tumbled out, “I remember meeting some Liputs last fall after the great harvest.
I was buying produce for the diner where I work.” He rushed on, “The colored
tips of your hair made me think you might be Liput. Though perhaps I’m mistaken.
I apologize for asking.” He waved his hand to dismiss the question and bit his
tongue to keep from saying anything else. Even to a Liput, admitting he
assisted marked ones was dangerous. He needed to use caution when speaking with
anyone. What had he gotten himself into? The man was staring at him. Jurf
flicked his eyes away and then looked back to the man.

Tren stared at him a moment longer.
“Yes, I’m Liput. We do sell produce to many of the diners and restaurants in
the city. Very likely you purchased from one of our stalls.” Tren patted Jurf
on the shoulder, then resumed his watch out the window, effectively ending the
conversation.

They rode in silence for the
remainder of the journey. After many stops and just as the sun begin to set,
Tren motioned to Jurf that the next stop would be Banston. Apparently, Banston
was the end of the route. Identifying the correct stop would have been simple,
since signs were posted on the station platforms. Jurf was pleased to have made
a friend, though. He accompanied Tren to the tent camp for visitors and waited
in line for an opportunity to speak with the Plinte coordinating the sleeping
arrangements. As a result of the large number of visitors, the coordinator
suggested that Tren and Jurf share a tent. After a brief discussion, they
agreed that shared accommodations would be suitable. They obtained a tent
number and found their tent after asking directions from a few other visitors. It
was small with two sleeping covers, towels, and a lamp. They lit the lamp and
replaced the cover atop it. They wrestled with the latches holding the tent
flaps open until they finally loosened.

Jurf’s stomach started growling. His
mother had packed a little food for his journey, but he had eaten a good
portion of it already on the transport. He dug into his bag to see what he had
left. He pulled out a couple pieces of fruit. Hopefully he could find a job
tomorrow that would provide meals. He bit his lip as he looked across the tent
at Tren, who was organizing his sleeping roll, then he held out one piece of
fruit. “I only have two pieces of fruit left, but you’re welcome to have one.”

Tren stopped what he was doing and
turned to face Jurf. “Very kind of you, Jurf, but not necessary. I overheard a
couple of other travelers and apparently the Plintes have prepared food for
everyone. Let’s go find someone we can ask about it.” He extinguished the lamp
and picked up an electric torch, motioning for Jurf to follow him.

Jurf said a silent thank you for
finding Tren. He placed the fruit back in his bag and followed him.

Once outside, they tied the flaps
shut and, using the electric torch, walked back in the direction of the
check-in station. The Plinte who coordinated tents was still there and pointed
them in the direction of the dining area. After they walked a short distance,
Jurf noticed a concentration of lights ahead. With every step, the dull roar of
conversation grew louder and more distinct.

“There must be a lot of people,”
Jurf said to Tren.

“Certainly sounds like it. Do you
smell that?”

Jurf did indeed and it made his
mouth water. “Yes. I’m really hungry.”

He picked up his pace and Tren did
the same. They slowed down as they neared the open field. Jurf was amazed at
the number of people. There were hundreds, which surprised him, given the late
hour. The area was lit with a combination of large electric lights on stands,
which produced dim light, as well as dozens of low blazing pit fires. People
were scattered in groups all across the field, laughing and eating. He followed
Tren toward the food lines, hoping he didn’t need much money to pay for the
food. As the remaining coins from the money Prizene had given him were few, he
needed them to last. He watched Tren pick up a plate and start adding food. He glanced
around, noting that there was no one nearby to collect money. Was it really
free? Quite possibly, since the Plintes were more generous than anyone in the
city. Still, Jurf was too embarrassed to ask. He grabbed a plate and tried not
to take too much food, but it all looked so good that he couldn’t help himself.
After selecting a variety of different dishes, many of which he had never seen,
he followed Tren to an open space on the grass near one of the fires. The food
tasted as good as it smelled.

*******

Tren watched Jurf while he ate. The
boy must be half starved, considering the huge quantity of food on his plate. He
wasn’t sure the poor lad was even chewing. Jurf reminded him so much of Tip — a
bit awkward and naive. Yes, Jurf was definitely holding something back on the
transport, but Tren would wait for the right opportunity to find out what it
was. Despite having half the quantity of food Jurf had dished on his plate,
they both finished eating about the same time. The sun had set long ago and
Tren was tired from the day’s journey.

He placed his hand on Jurf’s knee. “I’m
going to turn in now. You’re welcome to stay.”

“No, I’m really tired, too. Plus, I
want to be ready to help tomorrow.”

Tren smiled. Jurf was a good kid. “Let’s
go, then. I think they’re collecting plates and utensils over there.” He
pointed toward a group of volunteers with large containers in front of them.

After handing their dishes and
utensils to the washers, they started the walk back to the tent village. While
people had greeted them pleasantly, Tren registered the shock on many faces. He
guessed they were surprised to see a Liput in the village or perhaps a Liput
with a Hurfen. His eyes twinkled as he stole a glance at Jurf — an unusual
pair, indeed. As they reached the edge of the field, Tren noticed a wooden
structure, somewhat resembling a tree, erected at the edge of the village. He
steered Jurf toward it out of curiosity.

Several Plintes sat on stumps
around the structure, carving small, round discs. Tiny lit candles decorated
the structure and were placed behind each round disc, illuminating them. As he
neared the structure, a Plinte man finished his carving, stood, and placed the
disc on a shelf on the tree. Then the man picked up a tiny candle, lit it, and
placed it behind the disc. The man bowed his head momentarily, then walked into
the village.

Tren and Jurf studied the discs on
the structure. Each disc portrayed a crudely carved image of a face. Tren
scanned the two men and one woman sitting around the tree to find one of the
men, an old Plinte man, looking up at him. Tren asked, “What is this?”

“The Tree of Remembrance,” the old
man replied. “One disc for every individual killed by someone else’s hand.” The
old man stood and pointed to one disc. “This one I carved for my eldest son. He
joined Anyamae’s warriors at the age of twenty during the Graelith battles and
was killed two months later.” He pointed to another and continued, “And this
one is for my nephew, marked at age sixteen and never heard from again.” He
looked down at the disc in his hand. “And this one is for my granddaughter,
whose funeral you have come to attend. Thank you for honoring her.” He placed
the disc on the tree, then lit a small candle and placed it behind the disc.

Tren surveyed the tree and the
hundreds of discs already placed there. His mouth dropped open as reality
dawned on him. The Liputs thrived because of the sacrifice of others. Hundreds
of Plinte children had been lost defending the Lady and the citizens of Zolei,
all to protect those like the Liputs. The untold number of lost children and
grieving families humbled him and brought tears to his eyes.

The old man watched Tren and said
knowingly, “You have experienced the death of a child?”

Tren simply nodded. “My three sons
were marked. We often take for granted the sacrifice your children have made
for us. Until now, I never truly understood. I resented the fact my children
were marked, but now, seeing all those you’ve lost, I feel proud my sons were
chosen. Maybe, just maybe, they’ll make a difference.”

The old man inquired, “Have your
sons survived?”

With tears running down his cheeks,
Tren looked at the old man. “My oldest son perished not two days after he was
marked. Word never reached us about our second son. We still have hope he
survived, as little news filters to Kentish. We received confirmation my
youngest son at least made it to the city.” Whenever speaking of Tip, Tren
habitually held back key pieces of information. “But we don’t know whether he
still lives.” Tren wiped a tear from his cheek.

The old man placed his hand on
Tren’s shoulder. “Wait here.” The man returned to the stump and began carving
another disc.

Tren looked at the tree again and
then turned to Jurf. What an odd expression the boy wore. Yes, he seemed shocked
by news of Tren’s sons, but there was something else in his expression. Tren
would have to find time to speak to him alone tomorrow. For now he returned his
attention on the old man.

The man motioned to a young Plinte
boy nearby to come closer and whispered something in his ear. The boy raced
toward the village, only to return a short time later with a small container. When
the old man finished carving, he opened the container and dipped the tip of his
knife into the substance. He then dabbed the tip of the knife in several places
on the disc. Finished, he wiped his knife clean and returned it to his side. After
blowing on the disc, he studied his work. He returned to Tren’s side and handed
him the disc.

Tren gave a quick bow to the man,
then looked at the disc with curiosity. The image on the disc portrayed a
full-faced boy with a thick mass of hair on his head, the end of each strand a
bright green. The man placed his hand on Tren’s arm and said, “No man should
bear the weight of three marked sons. Lady Anyamae has a special plan for your
sons. I am certain of that. Tonight and for the length of the event, we shall
honor your fallen son with ours.” He nudged Tren toward the center of the tree.

Tren wiped his face as he stood
before the tree. He selected an empty space to the left of the center and
placed the disc in honor of Trul. After picking up a small candle, he lit it
and placed it behind the disc. He bowed his head, remembering his eldest son —
how frightened he had been to leave home as the councilmen forced him through
the barrier … and his face, frozen in terror when his lifeless body was
returned two days later. Tren turned to Jurf to see Jurf’s head bowed, as well
as the head of the old man. He thanked the man for his tribute.

The man gazed at Tren for a moment.
“There’s a café in the center of town. A man named Lifston and his daughter run
it. You might give their tea a try,” he added with a meaningful wink.

Tren bowed his head and thanked the
man again. Then he and Jurf returned to their tent.

Once they were settled inside, Jurf
said, “What’s so important about a café?”

Tren had been considering this
himself. “I don’t know, but I definitely intend to find out.”

As the sun started its slow descent
to the horizon, the rock began to rise sharply on Eros’s left, indicating the
base of the mountains. The marked ones had been gradually climbing all day, but
Eros suspected the path would become more strenuous as they continued. The old
men would soon leave them. Eros had absorbed much from Aston and the others
during the day, as had Kenrya, and they were well prepared for the journey
facing them. While they might not avoid all the dangers, the ones they had
already faced had sharpened their senses and given them a better chance of surviving.
The path rounded a sharp turn and Aston halted the wagon, calling for those
ahead and behind the group to gather.

“This is where we part company, my
friends,” Aston said. “The men and I will travel away from the path in the
direction of this field,” he pointed to the right of the path in the direction
the sun now set. “Chimsey added a few items to your packs that you may find
useful.” Chimsey nodded in agreement, as Aston continued, “I don’t have to tell
you to be careful. As you’ve learned, many things are not what they appear. Your
bags carry sufficient linoya root and food supplies to reach your destination. Trust
your instincts.” Aston looked directly at Eros. “I believe they will guide you
well.”

The marked ones gathered their
packs. Prizene turned to Henry, the old Human who had jumped among the rizon to
save the marked ones. His wounds were healing, but he was still weak from the
savage attack. “Thank you for everything.”

His eyes twinkled. “It was a great
adventure, my dear. I won’t see many more in my day and relish the ones I
have.”

She returned his smile, gave him a
quick kiss on the cheek, and climbed down gently from the wagon. She loaded her
pack on her back and tested the strength of her legs, which had returned.

“You won’t have to travel far
tonight,” Aston said after checking Prizene’s injuries. “The sun will soon slip
beyond the horizon. Tomorrow you’ll be stronger.” Aston turned to face the
group of marked ones. “Travel a bit farther along the path until you find an
opening in the rock face to your left. This opening leads to the deeper, darker
parts of the forest. You’re still two days from the destination you seek. Follow
the darkness, as only once you reach the darkest part of the forest will you
find the entrance.”

“How will we recognize it?” Eros
asked.

“Listen to your heart.” Aston
placed a firm hand on Eros’s chest. “That is your best guide now.”

“Will you be safe?”

Aston tilted his head to the side. “Oh,
don’t worry about us.” In a quieter voice that only Eros could hear, he added,
“We’ll spend the night in the field, then head back across the wetlands to
await more of the marked.” He winked.

Eros smiled and clasped Aston’s
hand.

They nodded farewell to the old
men, thanking them again for their assistance, then proceeded along the path,
looking for the opening. The old men watched them for a few moments, then
prodded the Eaoz to pull the wagon in the direction of the field.