Fourth Son

By Monica Poole

When a mining accident claims his father’s life, sixteen year old Jahnes Tehrel must find a way to keep his family from being forced into slavery in a world of harsh laws and even harsher penalties. Standing in his path is a divinely-appointed puppet government and a church intent on exploiting the people of Jahnes's world for their own mysterious needs.

While Jahnes works on a plan that will protect his family he uncovers a secret about his parents' past and their role in a deeply guarded prophecy. This ancient foretelling holds the key to destroying the very fabric of the church’s power. It is a secret the priesthood is determined to keep hidden. His parents did their part in advancing the prophecy and now Jahnes has his own role to play, one that will separate him from the family he loves and challenge everything he believes, setting him on a dangerous path toward a confrontation with a power he never knew existed.

Enter the realm of the Trimar Republic, a world of dictators and overzealous priests and priestesses led by alien gods steeped in intolerance and social segregation. Political and religious intrigues combine on a dark canvas taking you on a journey best visited from the safety of pages.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Monica Poole
• Release date: Mar 1, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310730283

Monica Poole

Monica Poole resides in Denver, Colorado with her husband, Douglas and her three children, Deby, David, and Michael. She started making up stories at a young age and never outgrew the fun of it. The world of the Trimar Republic has been in her head from a very young age. "A frightening thought when one considers the darkness of that landscape," she admits. "Who knows what factors give the imagination its direction?"As an adult she became interested in the issues of religion and politics. "I know, the two issues no one wants to discuss! But the differences in belief are what makes them so interesting. The part that intrigues me most is seeing how religion and politics combine to control society. If a person is convinced that their eternal destination is decided by their present behavior, then that behavior can be controlled. That power can be used for good or ill depending on the motives of the one dictating the behavior. It is a sobering thought to see how our society is controlled in this very way, whether it be religious, political, or needs motivated. The people deciding the rules have their own selfish interests in mind and not necessarily what is best for society."By day, Monica is the owner and operator of a specialty bakery. She is on the board of Rocky Mountain Fiction Writers and she moderates two fiction critique groups, both in Denver. She writes during her free time. Look for the first three books in the Trimar Republic Series to be out in 2015 and 2016.

Book preview

Prologue

The Planet Varenti of the Trimar Republic in the year AR946...

Dain Kessera swung the arc of his harvester blade through the tall, sun-ripened stalks of grain. The midday heat beat through the fine silk of his surri top so the smell of sweat and the heady aroma of the cut grain filled his senses. All around him he heard the steady rhythm of more blades being used; this from the work of the Laborers his father had hired out of the a’bahorro the day before.

Dain had seen the men as they arrived; tattered, groggy from their long, predawn walk, chatting and joking over which of them would work the hardest.

There had been thirty who had scattered throughout the field. They worked bare-footed and bare-chested, their surri pants cut ragged above the knee. Their backs were burned a dark, reddish brown. The result of a lifetime spent outdoors.

Throughout the day, two of the Laborers had stayed near him. Around the time he judged the field to be half cleared, Dain set his blade aside and pressed his knuckles into his lower back, arching to ease the stiffness.

The two looked up and then quickly away. They set their own blades aside and settled cross-legged among the piles of cut grain. One, the older of the two, pulled out a bulging skin which Dain assumed held clouded tea.

The pair had been watching him all day, gesturing and smiling, saying as much with their bodies as they now did with their words. The two leaned close, passing the skin and talking in the old Darlee tongue. They kept their expressions neutral, as if they were discussing matters of no importance, and were completely unaware that he could understand them.

The older man commented on the fine silk of his surri and how foolish it was to work in such expensive clothing. The younger commented on the thickness of his flesh and how pale he was and no wonder his father needed Laborers to bring in his harvest.

Dain drew out his own skin, along with a round of dry-baked bread. He drank and ate, listening, thinking that his color was not so different from theirs and trying to dampen his anger over their insults, when he heard the elder use the word "pahtuh," masked in a spit.

The Darlee word meant infant, but the common tongue used the word to describe any child still under his mother’s authority. That pahtuh had been used in reference to him, a grown man, five years Obedient, suggested that he was spoiled and, most pointedly, that he was a son who had not felt his father’s wrath or the punishing sting of a cane strike.

How could they assume that? Hadn’t he just labored hard? Hadn’t he kept pace?

Fire lit in his stomach and rolled up his chest. He felt an insane urge to rip off his shirt and show the men his backside. He’d put his scars against any Laborer, especially these two. They went from his shoulders, down to his buttocks and thighs, all the way to the backs of his knees. There was a reason he worked with his shirt on. The same reason that made him resist his urge.

Anyone who saw his body would assume he was willful and disobedient, but he wasn’t. Not that his father hadn’t beat him. He had. But it was his grandfather who had made the majority of the scars. Pain was supposed to give him his Sight. That’s what his grandfather claimed, but so far the beatings hadn’t worked. The only reason he didn’t have fresh welts was because his grandfather had become too ill to deliver them.

The two saw him listening and bowed, still sitting, barely bending their backs, their expressions questioning. "Ekiri?" one of them said, calling him lord in the common tongue. Did he expect some service from them? Where they not allowed to sit, to also have a rest? Did he regard them as slaves?

He stared at them, considering whether he should answer them in their own language. He wanted to. The flood of words seemed ready to choke him. He imagined their faces widening in fear when they realized he had understood their taunts. The vision made him smile. They took this for an apology and grinned back, giving him the slight, tilted nod that conveyed acceptance.

He clamped his teeth to keep his mouth from opening.

Perhaps he would have them beaten. He could. Twenty lashes on the stone would teach them to mind their tongues. But he would have to go to the Watch to accomplish that, and he didn’t dare. Not because he would have to humiliate himself by repeating what the two had said, his avoidance came from the fact that he had been warned, repeatedly and painfully, to never, under any circumstances, let the Watch discover that he spoke Darlee.

Not that it was against the law for a Commoner to know the old tongue, and it probably wouldn’t arouse any suspicion. But there would be the question of who had taught him and why, and therein lay the danger.

It had been his grandfather who had taught him. Knowing, he said, would be yet another way to help him See. For who can say what language the gods will use to speak to you when the time comes?

From the age of five on, Dain had spent endless days linked mind to mind, hearing not only Darlee, but three other languages as well; all obscure tongues that no Commoner would bother to learn. A Commoner living in Darles might learn Darlee, but never the other three. Knowing all four of the ancient tongues was suspicious. It was reaching for the gods. And who did he think he was? A Seer, gifted with the Sight?

Such would be the accusation, and Dain would not deny it if it came, but he certainly wouldn’t invite it. Going to the Watch held its own dangers. If his grandfather discovered his thoughts, that he had considered exposing his knowledge, all because he couldn’t take being teased by two no account Laborers...

Orin Kessera was feeble, sick, and confined to his bed, but he was still alive. He could still command discipline.

Dain set his anger aside. The truth would come at the end of the day, when the sheaves were counted. Then these fools would see what he was capable of. He stood, wiped his brow on the sleeve of his shirt and picked up his harvester, but just as he took a swing through the grain, a voice whispered mind to mind.

Come to me, the voice ordered, "Now!"

Dain stumbled, barely catching his balance. The men near him spit their slur and laughed. He didn’t look at them. The voice was his grandfather.

Had Orin been listening? His grandfather was sick, and he couldn’t even make a link. But he just had...The voice sounded again. "Hurry!"

Dain loosened his grip on the harvester. It fell with a thud, echoing the sick feel already gripping his stomach. I wouldn’t have gone, he wanted to send back, but he didn’t. That would be pleading, and pleading was for infants, not grown men who knew better. He started across the field at a steady pace, not running but not delaying either.

When he reached the house, he saw his mother standing on the porch. Though she tried to hide it, he could tell she was crying.

Why would she weep? She had nothing to fear.

I knew today would be the day, she said as he approached, but he wouldn’t let me keep you from the fields. He said you’d come when the time was right. How did you know?

Dain heard the question, but didn’t answer. Not out of disrespect, but because he couldn’t figure out what she meant. What did his mother mean by saying that today would be the day? The day for what?

Not having any reasonable comment, he bowed, and after receiving her nod, edged past her and into the house.

His grandfather’s room was on the second floor. In the short time it took Dain to traverse the space, he figured out what his mother had meant.

She thought Orin was dying.

He reached for the door, his hand trembling so hard he almost couldn’t grip the knob. He got a hold of it and eased the wood back.

His grandfather lay still, his gray tufted head turned toward the nearby window. One blue-veined hand rested atop the once massive chest. The room was immaculate, smelling strongly of soap and pine resin, but over that was another smell, something old and sour that no amount of cleaning could cover.

Dain crossed the room, purposefully averting his eyes from the stool in the corner and the ever-present length of cane hanging near it. He hated this room, hated coming here, the look of the dark wood furnishings, the smell of the cleansers his mother used, the shine of the mineral polish coating the floor and walls.

He reached the bed and dropped to one knee beside it. His grandfather turned, moving his head slowly on his shriveled neck. He looked like a skeleton draped in folds of wasted skin. He should have died days ago, but he had held on, refusing to let go of this life. He insisted there was a last vision, a part of the Anoka, the True Record, that the gods were waiting to show him.

Orin couldn’t possibly have a price, so it was foolish to suffer. Dain had prayed to the gods almost daily to let Orin go. If there was a vision, couldn’t they show him? He was ready. He had the gift. His grandfather had said so.

Dain. Orin’s voice was like the wind in a hollow. I see him.

Who? Dain asked, willing his grandfather to let go and at the same time, leaning in, so if the gods should at last find him worthy, he might see the Anoka himself.

The one the gods have been waiting to show me. I told you. Do you believe I have a price? That the gods would hold me here to suffer for nothing? Orin choked on the words and his body seized. His chest rose and fell in a fit of coughing. Black spittle dribbled down his chin. It was lined with streaks of scarlet and the smell of it was the sickly sweet odor of a rotted corpse.

Dain took a cloth from a basin and wiped his grandfather’s lips, dabbing, being careful not to tear the fragile skin. He looked too weakened to even speak.

The gods will show me what they’ve shown you, he said, his tone gentle. "If it is part of the Anoka, I’ll see it and they’ll give me the words I need to pass on the story."

Since when have you ever heard them? His grandfather pushed the cloth away.

Dain let his hand be pushed. He let out a shivering breath. Tell me then what you see.

I see the one who will come, Orin began, his voice low but stronger than it had been in days, as if the vision itself had infused him with renewed vigor. He comes from far away, from across the stars. I see him... there. He lifted a shaky hand to the window and pointed to the east field which had recently been planted. His hair is like the night and his eyes are the color of deep water. He is shielded in light but surrounded by shadow. I see a temple behind him. Its walls are made of stone, pitted and foul. He swings his driver and the temple crumbles to dust.

Again the coughing came, gurgling with the sound of blood. Dain pulled back from the stench, his gorge rising. Orin’s breaths drew his cheeks into deep pockets. Dain thought to lift his grandfather, to ease his breathing, but he had learned the price of disturbing a vision.

He waited and the cough quieted. Is there more? Dain asked.

Orin nodded. "The man reaches into the dust. When he draws his hand back it’s filled with small stones, smooth and solid. These are the true stones, he says, the children of my Beloved. He puts the stones into a pouch, and then he is gone."

Dain leaned toward the window, straining with the desire to see. Where does the man go? he asked.

I don’t know. Orin’s shoulders relaxed and he seemed to sink into the bed, diminished, and Dain knew that the vision left him.

Orin was a True Disciple; a Voice of Joale. He had promised Dain that one day he would also be ordained, but Orin had withheld the blessing, claiming that the gift was not his to give, and that the Anoka could only be received.

Orin made a plaintive noise, drawing Dain out of his thoughts. He saw the life return to him. What do you see? Dain asked.

It is the temple. Orin’s eyes widened.

What? Dain asked. What’s wrong?

It’s standing again. The stones are like black glass.

The temple is made of glass?

I see it. Shadow and light. The Builder and the one who helps him. I see them both.

Dain again turned his gaze to the window, but as before there was nothing, no vision, only the field. I don’t understand.

Orin’s body seized, his back arched so only his shoulders and hips pressed into the bed. His lips drew back in anguish.

The shadow and the light, Dain repeated, his pitch rising. Orin couldn’t die, not until he gave the blessing. Without the Anoka, the vision would never be clear. I don’t know what you mean. Are there two Builders or only one?

Both are the Builder. It’s the Balance. You have to understand!

The words ended with a sharp intake of air. Dain watched, willing his grandfather to take another breath, afraid it wouldn’t come. He grabbed Orin’s shoulders. You’ve only ever talked of one Builder. One leader to gather the people. He squeezed. Too hard. The bones snapped like a cluster of brittle twigs.

Orin dragged in a sharp gasp. Yes... He said the word with a release of air that sounded like a slow hiss. One is true and one deceives... The words faded until the last was no more than a gritty whisper.

Dain lurched to his feet. His grandfather couldn’t be dead, not before he had given the blessing. He staggered forward to shake him, but stopped, his hands tightening with the memory of snapping bones.

He stepped backwards until his back bumped the wall, and then slid down and laced his fingers through his hair.

"Remember!"

The command reverberated in his brain. His grandfather hadn’t given it. Dain heard it all the same. He cried out. No more than a whimper. The sound cut through the quiet. He scrubbed his hands across his face feeling the grime of dirt and the dry bits of grain cuttings mixed with sweat and tears.

Why was he acting like an infant? He could remember. He had done it before.

He thought through the vision, playing the words over, trying to form a picture in his mind, but no matter how hard he tried the picture wouldn’t form.

The shadow and the light. The Builder and a Helper and a temple made of glass. It had to be the sickness confusing Orin’s words. It was so hard to make any sense of them. But he had to. How could he repeat the words and describe the vision to the next generation if he couldn’t picture it, and if he couldn’t picture it, how could he ever remember it?

He looked at the body, willing the chest to rise. Just one more breath -- one was all he needed. Orin could give the blessing if only he could draw one more breath.

He watched, but the chest didn’t rise, and it wouldn’t. Not ever again.

He curled on the floor and pulled his knees to his chest. Orin had told him so many times that he had the Sight. He had promised it would come, but it hadn’t come.

Your father doesn’t have the gift, so it has to be you. You have to be the one.

I have to be the one, Dain mumbled.

Orin couldn’t be wrong. He was never wrong. By all the names of the gods, Orin Kessera had the Sight. How could anything he said not be true?

* * *

Dain couldn’t have said how much time passed before he came to himself, but when he opened his eyes, he saw that his grandfather’s body had been taken away and the bed stripped of its linens. Footsteps sounded in the hall. He looked up and saw his mother standing in the doorway.

Are you well? she asked. Her brow creased and her eyes shadowed with concern. Your father came. Even he couldn’t rouse you. Dain’s gaze went automatically to the stool and the cane, his shoulders tightening. He had left the harvest, left his blade lying in the field. He knew better. It’s alright, Dain. He’s not angry. He’s worried. We both are.

There was nothing to be worried for. Dain knew that. He considered telling his mother about the vision. It would be easier to tell her first, before he told his father. He wanted to be sure he had it right. Not that it was confusing anymore. Just like the other visions his grandfather had shared, he had shaped this one, molded it into a pattern he could understand. He wanted to tell it. The more he told, the more likely he would be to remember it, and his mother would be so pleased to know that the gods had at last found him worthy and let him See.

He gentled his eyes and curved his lips into an easy smile. It’s okay, Mama, he said, pushing up from the wall, Grandfather has passed on the blessing. Walk with me and I’ll tell you of all the days to come and what will happen here.

Sixteen shall be the age of Obedience wherein a child shall know the Law and in knowing be subject to any consequence and punishment thereof.

~From the Book of Laws for the Common Man.

Chapter One

The Planet Capalus of the Trimar Republic in the year AR963...

In the year Jahnes Tehrel reached the age of Obedience, he lived with his family in a small mudbrick house built outside Arasel Village in the thickets between the Teheraganu River and the Great Eastern Plateau.

It was near dark; long past the time for Jahnes’s father and three older brothers to be back from their work. The four had spent Winter camped at the family’s mining site, five acres on the western edge of the plateau, a rocky expanse that housed some of Mayket Island’s most productive nekele gem mines.

Jahnes watched as his mother, Laonah, set the table. It wasn’t unusual for her to be busy on a reunion day, but Jahnes knew the truth. It wasn’t eagerness or anticipation motivating his mother’s work. It was apprehension, a lingering sense of pending danger flowing from her like the unseen shadow of an unreborn spirit or the threat of the Watch’s eye. The fingers of her anxiety wrapped around him, filling him with a need to act. To move. To do anything to distract himself from what he felt coming.

Not that he had any idea what was coming, but some terrible event was there waiting, and, like his mother, he wanted desperately to escape it.

He stepped in front of her and thrust his hands under the stack of plates she carried. Won’t you please let me help?

She pulled back. He lowered his hands. A small tremor sounded in his exhale. Forgive me, Mama, he said. It’s just that--

I know. She gave him a weak smile. If you need a task, go and draw water. Your father will want a bath. She looked past him, and the light in her eyes grew distant. It will ease him.

Jahnes swallowed hard, not liking his mother’s tone or her look. He wanted to ask her what she saw, and more, what she meant, but she had already returned to her work. With a sigh, he took the pole and buckets from the corner by the door and headed outside.

As he dropped the first bucket, a rustling of cloth sounded from behind. He turned, hoping to find his father and brothers, but it was only his younger sister Kalah. Her long black hair was wet, stuck to her face and neck as if she had been out in a storm. He caught her smell and knew immediately where she had been. She smelled of fish and salt water along with grass and river clay. The fine silt clung to her calves and bare feet, and the clay had stained her palms a dark grayish lavender.

She had been digging, not only in the river but also at the shoals along the sea wall. She had the grimy, outer fold of her sarrie drawn to her waist, the cloth gripped tightly in one hand, the other hand fisted at her waist.

Has Father returned? she asked.

Not yet. Jahnes drew up the first bucket and dropped the second. Does Mother know you were digging at the shore?

She won’t mind when I show her what I’ve found. Kalah opened the cloth revealing a quantity of spike mussels too numerous to count. One of the small, pointy, brown shells fell to the ground. She plucked it up and set it with the others.

Jahnes looked past his sister into the fading light. Did anyone see you?

There were some guards. She tugged his shirt leaving a dirty, gray smudge. Stop worrying. None of them followed me. The ones I saw were too far away. Besides, they don’t like Ahran Ghan’s new laws any more than we do.

It doesn’t matter what they like! Jahnes snapped, too harsh, but he couldn’t help it. Kalah was only fourteen, not Obedient, but she knew better. The guards are sworn, and Delchie Ghan expects his laws to be obeyed. He looked at the mussels and suppressed a shudder. There had to be over a hundred.

She’d brought home the same number two days before and again three days before that. Delchie Ahran Ghan’s newest law limited each family to ten per member per week. You can’t count on the guards always looking aside, Kalah. If one of them catches you with more than we’re supposed to take, you won’t give them a choice. They’ll come to Mother for the price, and she hasn’t got it.

Kalah frowned, but the look of it showed more mischief than regret. You might have lived a whole two years longer than me, Jahnes Tehrel, but you don’t know a thing about sneaking around. I don’t dig in the same place all the time. I know all the best spots. So stop worrying. I won’t get caught. Besides, if I didn’t have these to add to our supper there wouldn’t be much to eat and you know it.

Jahnes held back what he wanted to say, that justifying a crime didn’t make it any less wrong. Everyone has the same limitations. It isn’t fair to take more than our share.

Fair! She yanked the cloth closed and leaned toward him. Is it fair to charge for what’s always been ours to take? No law should leave a family hungry.

He fixed her with a cold stare. She stared back just as cold, her dark blue eyes narrowed to slits. Kalah spoke her mind, at least around him. More so when she knew she was right, and in this instance, she was right. The law was unfair. Jahnes knew that, but fairness didn’t change the fact that Obedience to the law was the Law. The Watch wasn’t going to step in and save anyone. If they were going to do that, they would have already.

Defying Delchie Ghan, deliberately breaking his law-- three times in one week! And here Kalah was, with her back up, acting as if the guards would always look the other way-- it was madness! They might. They knew families were starving, but relying on a guard’s pity was a fool’s risk.

If just one of them decided that his honor wasn’t worth a family starving there would be a fine. Not one Kalah would pay. She wasn’t Obedient. So the guard would come here for the price. Jahnes didn’t know how much his parents could pay, but he could guess and the quantity of food offered at table wasn’t his only clue.

His sister was still glaring. He looked away first, but not in a way that gave his blessing. She stepped back and tilted her head and softened her look as if to make a plea. The pose made her appear demure. It was a performance, and both of them knew the true heart of it. He grunted his disgust then returned to his task, looping the handles of the full water buckets over notches cut into each end of the pole then lifted the weight to his shoulders.

He should have never started this conflict, but he could hardly change that now. The mussels were dug, and damn it all, his family needed the food. They were already half-starved, and the majority of what was left in their storehouse had to go for planting. His mother had rationed what was left, their meals growing more and more meager, but Jahnes wasn’t starved, not even a little. Kalah knew that. Everyone in his family knew it.

Four years ago, when he was twelve, he had started an apprenticeship with Bhen Erhen, the village blacksmith. Bhen and his wife Marah didn’t have any children. A fever had swept through Arasel nearly twenty-three years ago taking over half of the population, and the Erhen’s two children, with it. Jahnes hadn’t known Bhen then. The year of the fever, his parents hadn’t yet been moved to Arasel. Those in the village who had lived through the plague said that the death of their children had nearly killed the Erhens, and whether it was heartache or fear that prevented them, Marah never again drew blood, or if she did, the drawing didn’t take.

Jahnes didn’t know what the Erhens had been like before. The Bhen he knew was a quiet man, not hardened, but he didn’t let anyone close. Marah was the opposite. She treated him as if he were her own son, fussing over him, mending his clothes, and like any village wife, she measured love by keeping a person well fed.

His body showed it with thick flesh and heavy muscles. He already had most of his man shape. His own mother had commented on it, saying how lucky he was to have secured such a valuable apprenticeship. She hadn’t intended harm. He knew that. But her words made him feel guilty for every bite of food he took from his family’s table.

Go in. He thrust his chin toward the house. Mother will want help washing those. It wasn’t a blessing, but it wasn’t a condemnation either.

His sister smiled, triumphant, and then ran for the house. He followed her to the kitchen where he emptied one of the buckets into a basin. The other he took to the back porch where his mother kept her washing tubs. Experience had told him that it took seven trips to the well to fill one of the tubs.

He emptied the bucket, then went out again. It was getting darker. He lit the lantern that hung from the well cover and continued his work. Each time he went out, he looked for his father and brothers, and each time they weren’t there the worry gnawing at his insides sharpened.

It wasn’t his emotions alone working on him. His mother’s fears were with him too, stronger now. His father and brothers should have been back by midday. If the trouble delaying them was small, one of them would have run ahead with a reason. If there had been an accident, then still, one of them would have come for help. That no one had come didn’t bode well. Either there was no one left to come, or whatever had happened, there was nothing that could be done for it.

Laonah knew what was wrong: he was sure of it. Whatever gift the two of them shared, hers was stronger. While he could sense his mother and sometimes catch a glimmer from others, she could sense anyone who came near her.

Her ability was the reason they lived out here, so far from Arasel Village. His mother couldn’t take being around people. She never went into town, except to attend temple, and only then when Church Law mandated her presence.

Whenever she did go, the emotion Jahnes sensed from her felt like being in the absolute center of chaos, the press of so many minds piling in around her. She would kneel so still while the priest spoke. Others likely thought she was meditating, but Jahnes knew she was barely enduring the agony. Not physical pain of the kind that damaged the flesh, this pain damaged her mind, so she needed to lie in bed quiet for days afterwards.

Sharing her experience had always terrified him. It made him wonder when he would experience the same, or if he ever would.

When he was younger he had tried talking to her, as much for reassurance as for knowledge, but the few times he questioned her, her answers were brief. Afterwards, she always gave him some unpleasant task, making it abundantly clear that she didn’t want to discuss the topic.

Their last conversation had been almost five years ago. Instead of her usual answers, she had gotten angry and warned him not to ask any more questions. He was going to start his apprenticeship soon, and if he didn’t want Bhen to take that opportunity away, he had better hide what he could do. Having special power, being touched by the gods made the Church interested in a person. If he didn’t want the Watch to come and steal him away he would keep his mouth shut.

And so he did. Never saying anything. Not even to his family. His father knew he was touched, that he had the gods’ gift, but his brothers and sister didn’t. Times like now, he wished there was someone he could talk to. His ability was growing. There were times when he could catch more than glimmers. It was like what he was experiencing now, a sure sense of impending disaster, making him want to run, to save himself, but it was just a feeling, not Sight, and without knowing the shape of what was coming, how could he ever hope to escape it?

Maybe if he could See it, then maybe he wouldn’t be so afraid.

He closed his eyes and reached with his mind, focusing more intently than he ever had before. He imagined his touch as long tendrils, surging outward, seeking anything familiar. Instead of catching a feeling, he heard footsteps. They were coming toward him from out of the darkness. Heavy, labored footfalls and something else; a strange scraping he couldn’t identify.

He opened his eyes, and as he did, his brothers, Cohl, Tarehn, and Auhnel stepped into the ring of lantern light. Auhnel, seventeen and the youngest of the three, stood to the front, alone, his arms crossed tightly over his narrow chest, his night-black hair disheveled, tousled about his head and sticking up in dirty tufts. Jahnes had never seen Auhnel look so daunted.

Tarehn and Cohl stood a little behind but side by side. Their heavy cotton surris were torn to rags, crusted with dirt and what looked like dried blood. Each gripped one end of a stretcher made of tent canvas and tree limbs. His father wasn’t standing with them. That, coupled with the agonized expressions on all three of his brothers’ faces sent a tremor through Jahnes so strong his knees buckled. He caught the edge of the well to keep from falling. The bucket he had been hauling dropped back with a splash. Tarehn started talking before Jahnes could ask what had happened.

He was digging a shaft. Tarehn sounded out of breath.

Cohl took over. There was a cave-in. There was nothing any of us could do except bring his body back.

Jahnes’s mouth went dry. He tried to push Cohl’s words out of his mind: a cave-in... his father’s body... He averted his eyes from the lifeless mound on the stretcher.

We tried to get to him faster, Auhnel said, his voice breaking.

He was dead when the rock hit him, I told you that! Cohl snapped.

Auhnel nodded but his breath hitched and a low, plaintive wail rolled from his lips.

Auhnel was tough, like boiled leather. He never cried. Tarehn’s chin quivered, and Jahnes’s vision blurred with tears.

Stop it! All of you. I don’t want any of you crying. And you two, Cohl pointed to Tarehn and then more forcefully to Auhnel, there’ll be no blaming or saying we could’ve done anything different. Cohl cast an uneasy glance toward the house. This is going to be hard enough for her as it is.

She already knows. The words spilled out. True words, Jahnes knew, but also wrong words; words he immediately regretted.

What do you mean? Cohl asked, his tone dangerous.

Jahnes looked away, head down, submissive. It was stupid to be so careless. Cohl was only twenty-one. Being thrust into place as the head of the family, the last thing Cohl needed was the added burden of knowing that he had a mother and brother with a holy ability-- an ability that would attract the unwanted attention of the Church-- and could easily lead to one, or both of them, being taken away. She’s been acting strange all night. She knows something’s wrong. That’s all.

Cohl stared at him. Jahnes bowed deeper, dropping his chin to his chest. Cohl tilted his head and lowered his gaze, making a gesture of acceptance. Auhnel spoke, his voice overloud, Mama might have thought something was wrong, but she won’t be expecting this. He looked to Cohl as if his words might earn him some absolution for his earlier weakness.

Cohl didn’t acknowledge the comment. Instead he gave each of them one last hard look, a warning to keep it together, to be men. Then he pulled on his side of the stretcher and they all made their way to the house.

Laonah met them at the door. She had the outer fold of her sarrie caught up to dry her hands. When her gaze fell on the stretcher, she let go of the cloth and smoothed the garment into place. For an instant, she seemed to be looking past everyone, and then she slumped against the open doorway, the tears already in her eyes. He’s dead.

The words weren’t a question. Auhnel opened his mouth to speak, but one look from Cohl silenced him.

I felt it. I felt his body break, but I didn’t want to believe... She leaned forward as if to take a step, instead her hand slid down the doorframe. Jahnes reached to catch her. She collapsed into his arms and cried out with a keening wail that echoed against the night.

Kalah came to the door, her eyes wide and her color ashen. Jahnes caught her and pulled her to him before she could reach the stretcher. Seeing their father’s broken body would only make her sorrow greater.

Jahnes didn’t know how long he crouched there, holding his sister and mother, listening to their cries, taking in their pain, so much that it felt like a giant set of hands was pushing his body, trying to cram every part of him into a tight ball centered between his chest and the upper curve of his back. It took all of his will to do what Cohl said, to hold everything in and not cry along with his mother and sister.

We should take him in, Jahnes said after his mother’s anguish had lessened to quiet sobs. She pushed back from him.

Cohl, Tarehn, bring your father inside. Her voice shook, but she stood on her own. Auhnel, lay a clean sheet on our bed. There’s one at the bottom of the linen chest.

Jahnes followed her into the house. Kalah came too. He stood with his sister in the back corner of his mother’s room out of the way as his brothers lifted their father’s body and gently laid him on the sheet-covered bed.

Tell me what happened. Laonah’s words broke the silence.

Cohl told the story.

He was working a new pocket. Cohl shook his head, taking more than a little time to regain his composure. The rock wasn’t sound. I told him not to go, to save it until we could get more supports, but it was our last day and h-he... Cohl drew in a deep breath and let it out slow. He said we had to work the pocket.

Cohl and his mother locked eyes. Had to? his mother asked.

We were behind our quota. I don’t know how far. I haven’t counted. Cohl looked away and Jahnes didn’t need the gods’ gift to know his brother was lying. Cohl had counted. Whatever he had come to wasn’t good. We’ll be all right, Mama, Cohl said. I’ll make sure we get by.

Laonah nodded, but the look on her face said she didn’t believe anything was going to be all right ever again. I want you all to leave me. I’ll get him ready for tomorrow.

I can help, Cohl offered.

No, Laonah said. I can do what needs to be done. It’ll be best now if you all go. Kalah will see to supper. I know none of you feel like it, but I want you to eat. Her voice was little more than a whisper, but there was an authority in it that said she wouldn’t be argued with.

Let me at least bring you some food, Cohl said.

You all have your fill. I’ll be fine.

Cohl nodded, his brow pinched, clearly not wanting to give in but doing so all the same.

Jahnes let his brothers and sister file out ahead of him. At the door, he looked back. His mother was smoothing his father’s hair, looking into his ruined face. Her shoulders rocked with silent tears.

Before, because they were all together in the same room, everyone’s grief had been mingled inside of her, but now that they were alone, just the two of them, he could share his mother’s emotion separate from everyone else’s. He sensed her fear, but there was more. She still had that looming sense of something coming; only now it was stronger.

He pulled away from his sense of her, suddenly terrified.

If the doomed feeling had not been a foreshadowing of his father’s death, then what was it? Was there something else coming? Something worse?

There had to be. There was no other explanation.

Putting words to that reality made a cry swell in his chest. He turned and ran out of the room. He couldn’t let his mother see him. Not because she wouldn’t know what he was feeling. She could sense him better than he could sense her. He ran because he couldn’t bear to see the look in his mother’s eyes when she realized that their emotions agreed.

He stumbled out of the room, past the kitchen table where his sister and brothers had gathered, and out the front door. 

Gifting shall begin with the Common Man. This is well considered. Thirty or forty parts less one is equitable. But let not the gifting exceed forty-nine parts. For even when the need is great, the one who earns, if he is to remain faithful, must not be severely burdened.

~From the Holy Book.

Chapter Two

Jahnes didn’t stop running until he got to the well. The lantern had burned out, but the moon gave enough light to see by. He leaned against the edge, gulping the cool night air, pushing against the emotion bent on crushing him.

A hand brushed his back. He stepped aside, and Cohl leaned in next to him.

Jahnes kept silent, letting Cohl have his time. Waiting out of respect, but also because he knew his brother didn’t find words easily. In the quiet, he noticed the jagged, torn nails and the dirt ground into the creases of his brother’s hands. He hadn’t considered the terror each of his brothers must have felt when the cave-in happened; hearing the rock tumble down, knowing how hopeless it was, and how unlikely the chances were that they would find their father alive.

But Cohl’s hands showed he had dug anyway, pulling at rock and mud, mindless of the pain. It was a miracle they had managed to get him home at all, but at the same time, Jahnes wouldn’t have expected anything less.

I’m sorry, Cohl said, so subdued Jahnes barely heard the words. I’m sorry for all of this.

The cave-in? Jahnes tilted his head so he could see his brother’s face. The tears were right there, pooled along the rims of Cohl’s eyes, so heavy one blink would free them. But Cohl refused to cry. He stood stiff, close enough to touch but otherwise far away. It wasn’t your fault, Jahnes said, trying to comfort, but Cohl went on, speaking in the same quiet tone, as if he hadn’t heard a word Jahnes had spoken.

He wouldn’t let any of us go with him. He told me that if he could get a few good-sized stones, we’d be okay. One of the first things he taught us was to never work alone. I should have reminded him of his own rule.

Jahnes wiped tears from his eyes. His grief wanted to rush out, to find solace. Holding back made him feel as if his chest would burst open. But he did hold back, because Cohl had ordered it. So while his brother was with him, no matter how hard he had to struggle, Jahnes wouldn’t let himself cry. Father wouldn’t have listened.

Cohl looked at him then quickly away, but not quickly enough to hide a look of regret that flashed in his eyes. Jahnes tried to puzzle out what the look meant. In the