The Stolen Prince (Blood for Blood Book 1) (8 page)

Skeet’s father coughed in the silence. All looked at him attentively.

“Yes, Windfather. The Terra are a powerful force when we are united.” Tip waited, casting his eyes upon the other chiefs. “Yet how long have we wasted time, slaughtering each other instead of facing our blades against the real enemy?” His eyes were fiery, even angry. Skeet was sure there were men in the hall that Tip had faced in battle before. “We have the same purpose. We will not fight against the Terra but for the Terra. Let us agree on that at least.” There were many nods. “Then we must ask, what are we seeking?”

“Peace for the blood of our mothers!” someone shouted. Many called out cheers in response. This was a quote all fighters knew. Revenge. Blood for blood. Skeet knew it was true, and he wasn’t sure how his tribe would avenge all the blood spilt if they wanted peace. Was it possible to avenge his mother’s blood in some other way? To be patient?

“Yes,” Tip said. “But why do we avenge them? What has been taken from us?”

“Our land!” another answered the chief.

“Our children!”

“Our food!”

“Our very lives!” Windfather added, making no effort to hide the bitterness from his words.

“Yes,” Tip nodded. The other chiefs grew excited… Was the Chief of Kaldin actually suggesting war? “We must not let the blood stain our eyes so much that we may not see.” This was a common warrior theme—without eyes you were nothing as a zipper or vanisher. It was both literal and figurative. You did not want to become blind in battle by your opponents’ blood, but you also did not want to become so consumed in fighting that you lost sight of where you should go next. Both could be distractions.

An audible groan went around the ring.
Peace again
, they were thinking.

“We want our land. We want our chance at a life of peace. We don’t want our captured to be slaves or anymore dead to stain this land or these walls. Not until they’ve lived a long life. We must try for this, my brothers. We must try first for this.”

“You mean the boy,” someone said.

“Yes, I mean the boy.”

“And trust an
Alem
?” Windfather shouted. “You are putting the fate of the Terra in the hands of our enemy’s son.” Skeet could see Gage sighing. Windfather was stirring their opponents up. Murmurs of anger moved across the circle. Skeet grew nervous.

“I say we need to go to war!” Windfather said. “If we use the boy, then use him to hurt the king.”

Another guardian stood up, facing Windfather. “You dare to deny prophecy? To ignore legend?” He looked around, eyes meeting the other faces. “There will be the bridge between two peoples…”

The noise was increasing. Gage and Tip glanced at each other, worry on their faces. Some already had their hands grasping stones and daggers.

“Let me speak.”

Everyone looked toward the voice, but nothing was there. Then suddenly Hakon was standing in the center of the circle, before the chiefs and scribes. Skeet was immediately annoyed.
What a show off
, he thought. Had he been hiding in the shadows all this time?

Hakon kneeled, putting his dagger to his forehead. His tattoo glistened scarlet and gold in the firelight. Hakon then stood. “Terra people, I believe in your cause. In our cause. Let me go. Let me finally reveal who I am and reason with the king. I cannot see our people die… and I do not want to kill my family before I know them.”

“This is not about your own desires, boy.” A chief snapped.

Hakon turned, fire reflecting in his eyes. “I am one of you! As much as you have tried to remind me I am not, I am one of you. I honor the code, I worship the Master, and I honor the earth. I have lived and fought in desolation. I want vengeance as deeply as you do. Let me do this thing for your people, my people. Isn’t this why you robbed me from my cradle? Isn’t this why you took me from my true home?” He turned to look around at all the gathered hunters, guardians, and chiefs. His eyes caught Skeet’s. “King Arden would slaughter you or enslave you, but perhaps his own son can persuade him otherwise. If we have that chance, that chance for retribution without bloodshed, shouldn’t we take it? Let me do the thing you intended for me to do.”

Hakon barely finished speaking when Windfather turned to him and said, “We did not all agree then of your purpose, and not all of us agree with it now. You may love this people—and as you should. We have raised you. But you are still the son of the Alem, the offspring of murderers and tyrants. You are tainted with the blood of the enemy, and you cannot remove their mark.” Windfather took his hatchet and pointed the tip to Hakon’s tattoo.

Skeet saw the burning in Hakon’s eyes. His calm demeanor was evaporating in the face of Windfather’s words. Tip quickly stepped forward, taking Hakon’s arm and pulling him back. Windfather smiled. Just like his children, he aimed to provoke Hakon to fight.

“Then let fate decide!”

Skeet stood, as the other warriors around him did, looking for the person who called for the duel. This was what they had expected, what they had planned for, but Skeet had held on to the vain hope the tribes would come to an agreement. All the chiefs in the inner circle looked at each other and nodded.

A tall chief stood. “To go to war immediately or send the boy. These are the choices. Are there any other disputes?” Tip and Windfather eyed each other in silence, and then both shook their heads.

“A duel of decision!” The shout went up among the youngest hunters, aged twelve or thirteen, always hungry for a fight.

The tall chief silenced them. “Guardians, who shall fight?”

Gage stepped forward to put his hand on Hakon’s shoulder. “Hakon will fight, as he should.”

One of the guardians from Windfather’s tribe stepped forward. “It is our tribe that fights for war. One of the Three Winds should fight for the honor of their father.”

“I will fight for my father,” a feminine voice said. It was Jocki. She stood among the women old enough and skilled enough to attend these grand councils.

Windfather smiled, looking at his warrior daughter. “You cannot, Jocki. You are engaged.” Jocki frowned, sitting back down.

“Then I will fight.” It was Bavol, the second Wind.

The tall chief nodded. “Good. In the morning we will have a duel of decision.” A solemnity folded around the room like smoke. No one spoke. All were dismissed except the chiefs and guardians.

Skeet eyed the Winds as they left. As much as he hoped it wouldn’t come down to a fight, it thrilled him now that it had. Skeet adjusted his spear along his back and grinned. He had his own fight to start.

***

Gage waited for Tip as the others left the council. Tip nodded as he passed, and they moved through the tunnels, looking for a place where they could talk more privately. There was always danger of a vanisher or zipper willing to spy for the highest bidder, especially when tribes were gathered together like this. Fortunately, no great skirmishes had broken out. Yet.

“I can’t believe the other tribes still suggest killing him,” Tip began. “That would do us more harm than good at this point.”

“I agree,” Gage said. Hakon had proved himself to be compassionate. There was no need.

“But the rest of the Terra don’t understand that.” Tip glanced around and gestured for them to move forward. They stepped into the caves that had been converted into a foundry for the war. The sound of burning metal and clanking weapons drowned out the sounds of their discussion. “Gage, I worry that if it hadn’t been for the guardians, we wouldn’t have gotten our duel. I’m afraid our tribe alone still believes in the legend.”

Gage nodded and leaned in to be heard. “If everything works, Brother, they will become believers soon.”

Tip nodded, but he still frowned. “Hakon will win?”

“Against anyone.” Gage looked out.

Tip looked out, his eyes examining the weapons piling up. “He has yet to fight his own kind.”

“Yes,” Gage sighed, “and then he will have to adapt and learn fast. I’m sure they will want to kill him more than the Terra do.”

“Skeet is prepared to go with him.” Tip grimaced. “I don’t like the idea of sending out both my sons.”

“They will not be going alone. We will all go.”

Tip nodded, turning pensive. He looked like a man weighed down by the burdens of war and the cries from the unavenged dead. Gage wondered if he looked that way. “We mustn’t lose hope,” Gage said. “Not yet.”

“I wonder if we did the right thing.” Unconsciously, Tip scratched at the long scar on his neck. It had been eighteen years since the Alem knife had met his throat, but the scar was still dark, a constant reminder of their sacrifice.

“We tipped the balance. That is all.” Guardian didn’t like to think of the dozens of men who had been left behind to die in the citadel. He wouldn’t allow their deaths to be in vain.

“Some still think we should have killed the king when there was the chance,” Tip said. “After so much war, I find myself agreeing with them.”

Gage wondered too about their decisions, doubted their moves. But they were a patient people, and if they failed this time, there would be another time to try again. The legends moved slowly—the way they were meant to.

Gage voiced the thoughts he had kept hidden. “I’ve been wondering when we should tell Hakon the truth. That ultimately his mission will fail.”

Tip nodded, his face full of sorrow. “His mission will fail, but he will not fail us. Do not tell him the truth. He must doubt who he is. He must remain humble.”

Gage nodded, seeing the wisdom of his brother’s counsel. Amidst all the conflict, Gage had always been grateful that over the years, Tip and he always came to a quick agreement.

They moved away from the foundry toward their tribe’s gathering place. They overlooked their many hunters and boys from their perch on a higher walkway along the walls of the cavern. A small sparring had broken out between the boys and Hakon. Others looked on and laughed, intent on betting for a victor. Gage thought of the families back home, tending to their fires and building what life they could out of the desolation that surrounded them. They had waited and planned and prepared so carefully for these final moments. So much rested on such a young boy.

Tip rested his arm on Gage’s shoulder. “It will take blind faith, Gage.” He placed his hand on the rock wall beside them—a space that was empty of carvings or drawings. “Blind faith so earth shattering, the power of the Master can’t be denied.”

Then Tip, his chief and brother, was gone, having zipped away to their tribe below. All that remained of his presence was the shape of a hand in the wall, as if it were carved away by a master craftsman.

CHAPTER NINE

In strolled—no, danced–Kara’s favorite person in the entire citadel. Truthsinger had been her favorite teacher. He wasn’t really her friend—more like an entertainer and occasional tutor. He was a branch of the keepers, the one who spoke for them, translating all the histories and records into something magnificent.

Truthsinger bowed. He was shirtless, without a cape, and he wore tight trousers that had a series of slits through them so that the majority of his body was connected with the air around him. Servants followed behind him, carrying a large canvas that stretched to the height of at least three men. It was blank, save for a few blocks of wood that jutted out from various points along the outside edges. Truthsinger would use these small platforms to tell the history. Servants opened the large windows behind him and then dropped several thick curtains. Though it was a cold night, the curtains would keep in the warmth while allowing for fresh air to be provided for the telling. Truthsingers took a lot of air as they told stories, so it was important that he not suffocate the room or its inhabitants. An old saying went:
A bad truthsinger chokes his audience while a good history gives room to breathe
.

Everyone settled deeper into their seats to listen. The servants were bringing a second course.
If resources are so scarce, why do we have plenty to eat?
Kara thought. She refused a second plate. She preferred to skip to dessert.

Truthsinger bowed to the king and his guests and then winked at Kara, causing her to betray a smile. He stood before the large canvas and attached a belt around his waist. The belt carried a variety of paints, chalks, brushes, and other artistic tools that would aid his telling. He turned to the musicians, who began to improvise a fresh song.

Then Truthsinger began. He started at the center of the canvas, pulled out a single brush, and dipped it into one of the canisters filled with black paint.

“Attention, young ladies and gentlemen, you gray–eyed lords and ladies, supreme controllers of time and space. Listen well to the story of your history.” He began with the brush on the left side of the canvas. With careful strokes, he painted a series of ships. He kept the paint wet, and he placed his finger on the paint. “Watch how you traveled far from your homeland, riddled with war and chaos, to be free of the oppression that beset you. Centuries ago, traveling across the ocean, risking all, you carried your ships across the sea using the power.”

He placed his fingers on the image of the ships and zipped across to another area of the canvas, carrying the painted ships with him. The audience gasped. Though Kara had seen it hundreds of times, it still amazed her how Truthsinger could pick up the paint and move it across the canvas without taking the whole board with him.
It takes a special paint
, he explained to her once, but she had practiced secretly, and she could never do it. It must be a truthsinger secret.

“You traveled far from the other seas, zipping as far as your eyes could see, through storms and winds to unknown lands. You are the progeny of explorers and heroes.” He left the ships in the center of the canvas, trick finished, and painted another ship, this time with a man at the helm. He pulled out a smaller brush and painted a man with blue and purple robes, chest bare. “The man leading the charge, King Hava Arden the First.” Kara recognized the familiar image of her great–grandfather. His likeness was in several paintings hanging in the hallways.