Sedich: The Annals of Lusiartha - Book 1

By R. Ann Humphries

Rilan Crendu is a slave. Laboring alongside the rest of his conquered race, he lives his life at the whims of his Regiment overlords. But when a secret society captures him and leads him to touch the Sedich – a centuries-old stone imbued with the power of the Creator – Rilan becomes not only a rebel, but the rebel leader.

Able to control fire with his hands, Rilan attracts the attention of the Sovereign - the bloodthirsty leader of the Regiment - whose sole focus is bringing Rilan down. Joined by soldiers, civilians, and slaves from across Lusiartha, Rilan must learn how to command and lead those he once had to obey, and he must do so quickly. For if the Sovereign succeeds and Rilan falls, Lusiartha’s last chance for freedom falls with him.

• Language: English
• Publisher: 29 Palms Publishing LLC
• Release date: Dec 5, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311728432

R. Ann Humphries

R. Ann Humphries is a lifelong science fiction and fantasy addict. Unable to find a portal to Narnia in her closet, she started inventing her own fantasy worlds and story lines. She graduated from Gardner-Webb University with a BA in Creative Writing. She lives in western North Carolina with her two weenie dogs, Smith and Wesson.Humphries was introduced to the world of science fiction and fantasy by her father, who made her sit down and watch every episode of the original Star Trek series at a young, impressionable age. Hopelessly hooked from that point on, she moved through dozens of sci-fi/fantasy television shows, books, movies, and video games like a true addict. While the entertaining, escapist side of such stories is obvious, Humphries believes there’s a truly valuable side to far fetched and whimsical stories, one that allows readers to examine themselves and humanity through nontraditional and unfamiliar lenses.

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Sedich

The Annals of Lusiartha - Book 1

by R. Ann Humphries

Copyright © 2014 R. Ann Humphries

Published by 29 Palms Publishing LLC at Smashwords

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form or by any means, including scanning, photocopying, or otherwise without prior written permission of the copyright holder.

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite eBook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Table of Contents

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

About The Author

Connect With Me

Dedication

To my dad for getting me started. To my mom for keeping me going.

Chapter 1

The sea lapped at the base of the cliff and Rilan, nibbling at his cold lunch, listened to the breaking waves. The sun beat down with an uncomfortable heat, but the ocean breeze and the shade of the tree under which he sat cooled Rilan. He stared off into the southeast where, gray and flat, the main island of Setu rose out of the water.

Staring off home, eh?

Putting down his biscuit, Rilan turned. Jamek stood behind the tree, his lunch pail in his hand. Rilan motioned for him to sit. Just staring off. No particular place.

Jamek nodded and sat, leaning against the tree trunk. He pulled a bit of ham from his pail. No particular place except away from here, anyway. When you leave for your Cailath school?

Rilan ignored the bitterness in his friend’s voice. Tomorrow.

Jamek grunted. I’m not looking forward to being shipped off myself. One more year of freedom for me, eh? He took a bite of his ham.

Freedom. Rilan scoffed.

For Rilan, and every other child between the ages of fourteen and nineteen, Regiment schooling was mandated. The government of Cailath, called the Regiment, ruled the four isles of Lusiartha with a stiff hand. Every island and each individual were required to serve the Regiment in whatever capacity deemed necessary. For children, that meant attending one of the official Regiment schools on the island of Mailyn. For all residents of Setu, the tiny cluster of islands Rilan called home, it required planting and harvesting food for the rest of Lusiartha.

The corn crop isn’t faring well this season, Jamek said around his mouthful of ham. Not enough rain. The Regiment won’t be pleased.

Rilan pulled out a handful of blackberries, his going-away treat for himself. So we tell them the truth. It’s not our fault if it doesn’t rain.

As if Cailath cares about the truth. All they want is results. Crops. And we don’t have many of those.

Rilan nodded, still staring out toward the mainland. He wondered what it would be like to live on the other islands and be free of the uncertainty of the weather patterns. Labor was hard on Shain, where all the goods of Lusiartha were manufactured. At least it wasn’t dependent on things beyond the workers’ control. Rilan refused to believe life held the same challenges on Mailyn. Working in the schools or markets would be a holiday for him.

How many others will be leaving with me tomorrow?

Jamek shrugged. On Enna, just you. I can’t speak for the other islands but you know Cailath is organized. Never too many children born in one generation. The workforce can’t all be the same age. Then who would be here to tend the crops when you lot go off to school? Rilan knew Jamek’s resentment was not directed at him.

Licking blackberry juice from his fingers, Rilan looked down at the brand on his left wrist. Under Cailath rule, every resident of Lusiartha was marked on his or her first birthday. Each brand, emblazoned into the flesh with hot irons, had two characters — a letter telling the bearer’s native island and a number unique to each individual. The Regiment told its subjects the brands were for their own safety and to name those who belonged and those who didn’t. It seemed to Rilan more of a mark of ownership.

Do you blend in at that school of yours? What’s it called?

Dren.

Aye, there. I mean, don’t the people from the other islands look different?

Rilan smiled at Jamek’s inexperience. He had held that same innocence in his first year of school. The pale skin of the other islanders had fascinated him, as had the light eyes and hair of the majority of them. With his deeply tanned skin, brown eyes, and black hair, Rilan had been unable to deny his Setu heritage.

No, I don’t blend in at all. The people of Mailyn, Shain, and Cailath all look nearly the same. Pale skin, blue eyes. Even yellow hair. It makes this, he held up his left wrist, almost obsolete.

The two sat in silence a moment longer, each lost in thought. Then Rilan stood. I must go.

Returning to work, eh?

Rilan nodded.

Good. Get your lazy bones back to the field where you’re meant to be. Setu scum. Jamek smiled.

Rilan smiled back, but as he walked down the dirt path that led to the village, a feeling of dismay grew in his heart. Jamek was joking, but he did not understand. He had not yet been to school or experienced the harsh words and sidelong glances the students gave the few from Setu. Thanks to the Regiment’s strict monitoring of the breeding of Setu natives, very few children were born on Setu — especially across the four lesser islands. Setu students were always the minority at school and the other students constantly reminded them of it. Except Caelamyn.

A smile spread across Rilan’s face. Caelamyn Orlo, Rilan’s friend and protector at Dren, had no problem with Rilan’s heritage. The two had met during their first term two years ago and had become fast friends. Blonde, blue-eyed, and easily twice as big as Rilan, Caelamyn lived and worked on Shain. In the Regimental hierarchy, Shain was only above Setu, so Caelamyn ranked practically at the bottom with Rilan. However, due to his size, the Mailyn and Cailath students did not mess with him and by extension, Rilan. Caelamyn was the only bright spot in Rilan’s returning to Dren.

The village was empty when Rilan reached it; nearly all its residents were still out working in the fields. Consisting of around two dozen houses, a well, and a central square, the village lodged forty-eight people. All of whom did some form of work for the acres of farmland surrounding them. Walking through the center square, Rilan saw three small children drawing water from the well. He stopped as the oldest, a girl named Oriasa, lowered the bucket.

Can you lift it by yourself, Ori? Rilan smiled. Ori, as the six year old preferred to be called, did not like to be patronized. She made a face at him.

Aye. She reached up and grabbed the rope. Planting one foot on the rim of the well, she began hauling up the bucket. I’m in charge of fetching water, after all.

Ori’s younger brothers, Palen and Marcol, hopped around their sister. Yes! Palen, the older of the two, squealed. Mother says we are having a festival tonight!

Feshtibal? Marcol, at three, was just now able to help with the daily chores. He held an empty bucket in his hand, waiting until his sister needed it. I wan go to feshtibal!

Ori grunted as she lowered the filled bucket onto the rim of the well. Fest-i-val, she said. She untied the rope. It’s fest-i-val, Marcol.

Marcol grinned widely. Yesh! Feshtibal!

Rilan laughed. Sure that Ori could handle her chores and her siblings, he said goodbye. The last home of the village, a two-room hut surrounded on three sides by fields, was Rilan’s. He pushed the thin cloth door aside and entered.

Father? he called. Laying his lunch pail beside the door, he walked into the main room of his hut. A washing basin leaned against the far wall, surrounded by shelves for storing all of his and his father’s possessions. Two chairs stood beside a small wooden table in the room’s center. Several crates of food, the provisions given to the family out of the crops grown for village use, completed the room.

Rilan? His father’s voice came from the smaller back area where the two of them slept. The creak of the bed, the thunk of wood against wood, and Rilan’s father hobbled into the room. Called Bram, Rilan’s father looked nearly identical to his son. The leader of the small Enna community, Bram was the only member of the village that was not required to work in the fields. According to the Regimental laws, he was, but every year Rilan not only worked his required hours, but also those of his father.

His father clutched a thick stick in his right hand. Leaning against it for support, he limped closer to his son. A smile stretched across his face. Finished in the fields, eh?

Rilan nodded. I’ve done three times my quota this year, Father. I should meet no resistance at the boats tomorrow. Setu students did not get any lighter work quota than those who did not attend school. It’s all finished.

Bram slapped him on the shoulder. That’s my son. Working hard so I can live a life of ease here at home.

Rilan smiled also, but out of reflex, not humor. Turning away from his father, he ground his teeth together. When Cailath had invaded Setu ten years ago, Bram and the other men of the village had resisted. Many had died. Rilan’s father had been wounded. After Cailath control had been secured, the Regiment doctors had amputated Bram’s right leg below the knee. Rilan believed the Regiment had expected his father to die, but the old man was too stubborn to comply. Now, out of respect of his sacrifice, the villagers held him as the village leader, a position more of honor than responsibility.

Did you bring water? Rilan’s father looked inside the basin. These dishes need to be clean for the festival tonight.

No. Ori, Palen, and Marcol were at the well. I’ll return once they are finished. He turned to face his father. I wish you wouldn’t throw a festival for me, Father.

Bram cocked one eyebrow. And who said this festival was for you, young man? He tried not to smile, but failed.

You have, every year I leave for school. A ‘going-away celebration,’ you call it. He lowered his eyes. There is nothing to celebrate.

Lowering himself into the closest chair, Bram frowned. Rilan gripped his father’s arm, making sure he was firmly in the chair before letting him go. I hate going to Mailyn. I don’t belong there. I need to be here with you, with the crops. I should —

You should not be so negative at such a young age, his father interrupted. Rilan did not reply. You must go to Dren. You know the law.

Rilan crossed his arms. I don’t care about the law. Perhaps I will run away tonight, hide in the fields until after the boats leave. I would gladly stay here and work, I won’t be useless.

You will do no such thing. His father’s voice was not harsh, but heavy. They would search for you, Rilan. They would come to Enna and question us all and not rest until you were found. Then, once they had you, both you and the village would be punished. Would you really risk such harm to the villagers for your own happiness?

Rilan wanted to argue with his father’s logic, but he couldn’t. The Regiment did not tolerate dissension or resistance. A quick glance down to his father’s empty pants leg reminded him of that.

No, he finally said. I would not. It is an insult to every person from Setu when we have to sit through their classes. He spat the word. You should have heard their version of the conquering of Setu. I could barely contain myself. Rilan closed his eyes, remembering. The soldiers of Cailath were described like heroes in shining armor, taming the barbaric natives of the coarse, crude Setu islands. They portrayed us as walking around naked, scratching clams and mollusks off the seaside rocks for food. He clenched his fists and looked at his father. Setu students aren’t allowed to speak during class. I could not correct them. Not that they would have listened.

Bram looked down at his hands. No mention of the castigation, I suppose?

Like the Regiment would admit to mass murder? No, the fact that the Cailath soldiers massacred one man, one woman, one boy, and one girl from each village they conquered is left out. Castigation. He shook his head. Such a clean word. The price of resistance, they called it. No, they do not teach that. That is a lesson meant only for Setu natives.

Rilan sat in the chair opposite his father. So how can the village throw me a festival every time I leave for school? The Regiment murdered our people. They killed my aunt, and we celebrate their dominance over us. It is disgraceful.

Reaching across the table, his father took Rilan’s hand. Rilan did not meet his gaze. I know you miss Clissa, he said. She was like a mother to you. Rilan’s mother had died giving birth to him; he had no memory of her. Her sister, Clissa, had cared for him in her place. She had been the woman chosen for the castigation. And I am sorry Dren is so unbearable to you.

Bram’s voice grew firmer. It is not Cailath’s dominance that we will celebrate tonight. It is our own lives that we commemorate, that deserve celebration. The harvest is nearly over and the nights are growing colder. So we will have our festival, and one last night of joy and merriment.

He rubbed his fingers over Rilan’s brand. There are still things worth rejoicing over, if only we will look for them. Our celebration is an act of defiance. A quiet act, yes, but one of defiance nonetheless.

Rilan finally looked up. His father looked at him expectantly, but all he said was, I must go fetch the water. Pulling his hand free, he took two buckets from beside the basin and left.

A quiet act of defiance, he mumbled. Head down, he trudged toward the well, arguing with himself. What good was a quiet act of defiance? Did his father think the Regiment cared if an insignificant village on the very edge of Lusiartha held a tiny festival every year? What good did it do to celebrate a culture that was slowly being extinguished?

Ori and her brothers were not at the well. Sullen, Rilan tied the first bucket to the crank and lowered it. A splash, then he lifted the bucket slowly.

But if festivals wouldn’t save them, what would? Quiet acts of defiance were the only ones the Regiment would allow. Was it not better to celebrate a dying culture as long as possible than to risk it being extinguished altogether? No one on Setu or Lusiartha stood a chance of fighting the Regiment. Soldiers patrolled every street, inspected every house, and questioned every citizen. Births, deaths, marriages, trades, travel — the Regiment monitored every aspect of a person’s life. How could anyone ever hope to mount a resistance against such a force?

As if on cue, two soldiers entered the center square. Rilan concentrated on untying his bucket. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the soldiers approach him.

Shouldn’t you be out in the fields, boy?

His bucket in his hand, Rilan turned to meet the soldiers. Both were several years older than he was, though still young. Rilan tried to keep his face neutral.

I just came from there. After I take this water home, I will return. Even he could hear the bitterness in his voice.

The larger of the two cocked his head to one side. Do I sense a problem here? He clenched a hand around Rilan’s left wrist, making a point to knock the full bucket out of his other hand. It landed on its side. Water rushed out, soaking into the dry dirt almost instantly. Rilan glowered at the soldier.

You’ll mind those eyes, boy. The soldier that had first spoken to Rilan pulled his face upwards. Make a note of his number. This one has an attitude.

The larger soldier glanced at Rilan’s wrist, released it, and then removed a small ledger from his belt. The first soldier held Rilan’s chin as the other skimmed through the pages.

Says here you’re due to ship out to Mailyn tomorrow, the big soldier said. Rilan did not reply. Might want to check that attitude of yours before you arrive at Dren.

Rilan could no longer contain himself. Oh, really? Is that advice from one level-headed man to another? He instantly regretted his cheek, but he kept his face stern.

The larger soldier snapped the ledger shut. The other tightened his grip on Rilan. Rilan’s stomach twisted into a knot.

Shall we teach him a lesson?

Rilan knew he couldn’t fight back. He was outnumbered and they were both older than he was. Nevertheless, such rage coursed through his veins that he felt he could snap them each in half. In addition, though it disgusted him, he entertained the thought of how simple, pleasurable even, it would be to kill them both. His fists clenched in anticipation.

Even though adrenaline and fury fueled him, logic stayed his hand. He had once seen a man fight with Regiment soldiers. He had been hanged the next day. No matter his anger, Rilan could not get himself killed. He would not do that to his father.

As the larger soldier yanked his arms around his back, Rilan did not resist. The first soldier reared back, slamming his fist into Rilan’s gut. He would have doubled over from the pain, but the bigger soldier held him upright. Another blow to the stomach, followed by several to the face. Rilan closed his eyes and clenched his mouth shut. They could hurt him, but they would never make him cry out.

After several more blows, the larger soldier threw Rilan to the ground. A few kicks to the back, then the first soldier said, Enough. Much more and we’ll have to report it. Can’t have him bleeding when he ships to Dren.

Rilan laid face down on the ground, but he could hear the smile in the larger soldier’s voice. Yes. I believed he has learned his lesson. He laughed, kicked Rilan’s back once more, and then walked away. Rilan did not get up.

Festivals would not save the people of Setu. What good were quiet acts of resistance when foreigners could assault people in their own villages?

What did you do that for, eh?

Rilan recognized Jamek’s voice, but he remained face down in the cool dirt. Nothing was broken, he concluded, but there would be several nasty bruises.

Jamek knelt beside Rilan and rolled him over on his back. Come on, you’re not dead. Sit up. He offered his hand and Rilan took it. He stood slowly. Couldn’t just keep your mouth shut, eh? You had to say something.

Rilan shot Jamek a look. What are you talking about? I think my self-restraint was remarkable. Ah. He gingerly laid a hand on his side. Ouch.

Aye, ouch. Jamek rolled his eyes but smiled. That’s what happens when you smart off to Cailath. He shook his head. I tell you, Rilan, you’re insane.

Not insane. Just angry.

We’re all angry. We don’t all talk back to soldiers.

Maybe we should.

Jamek made another face. We’d all be dead. Is that what you want?

Walking back to where his bucket had fallen, Rilan picked it up. The other was gone, no doubt taken or dropped down the well by the soldiers. Of course not, he said. However, deep in his heart, something twisted uncomfortably. This was not life. Wasn’t true life worth risking death? If everyone throughout Lusiartha could just find the will to revolt . . . but no, they would never win. They couldn’t.

He said none of this to Jamek. Refilling his bucket, he looked at his friend and smiled. Thank you, Jamek.

For what? Watching you get pulverized?

Rilan chuckled, and then gasped. Laughing hurt. No. Just . . . thank you. Picking up his bucket, he laid a hand on his friend’s shoulder. I’ll miss you when I leave.

Jamek smiled. I know you will. Who else will be there to pick you up after your fights?

The festival took place in one of Enna’s barns scattered around the fields. Most of them stored crops and the tools necessary for farming. One held the livestock the villagers kept for their own survival - chickens in a wire cage, several horses for pulling the plows, cows for milk, sheep for wool, and a family of pigs for meat. This barn was close enough to the village that, as the sunset burnt the clouds red, the villagers snuck out of their houses without too much fear of the soldiers.

Think anyone noticed us? Jamek asked Rilan as he closed the barn door behind him. The smell of the animals seemed stronger in close quarters.

No. They’ve beaten up one slave today. Their quota is filled.

Rilan and Jamek were the last to arrive. Near the door stood all the animals in their cages and stalls, shoved close together for tonight’s festivities. The rest of the villagers stood past the haystack. A few talked, while others danced to the music played by a handful of musicians. Several just stood and watched. Far from the barn walls, torches hung from the ceiling. Despite his earlier mood, Rilan found himself smiling.

Rilan! A jolly man with a mug in his hand approached the two boys. Bout time you arrived!

Rilan smiled. Hello, Shmoi. Already into the ale, eh?

Shmoi, who was Ori, Palen, and Marcol’s father, raised his mug amiably. Aye. What else are festivals for? Come. You must play for us. Briath has no rhythm.

The throng of villagers parted as Shmoi led Rilan to the back corner. There, on sacks of animal feed, set four people holding musical instruments. Rilan’s father, playing a hand drum, sat in the back. In front of him sat Shmoi’s wife, Talia, and her brother, Thol. Both held violins. Briath, Jamek’s older sister, sat closest to the crowd. She held a tin whistle in her hands.

Rilan looked at the whistle and at Briath’s fingers flying over the holes. When Rilan was young, Clissa had introduced him to the whistle. After her death, he taught himself. Music was a vital part of village life, both now and before the Cailath invasion, but only the most skilled musicians could handle the whistle. Rilan’s father had taught him the drum, but he’d found no love for it in his heart. His instrument was the whistle.

When Cailath had invaded Setu and shipped its occupants out to the smaller islands to farm, nearly every musical instrument in the village had been destroyed. The whistle, drum, and two violins had been smuggled out. Now, the entire village shared them, hiding them in various locations to keep them secret.

Shmoi waited for the band to finish their song before speaking. Give it up, Briath, girl, Shmoi said. You’ve not the talent Rilan has.

Briath smiled good-naturedly. Aye. But I’ve twice the talent you’ve got, eh, Shmoi?

The villagers laughed, Shmoi included. Briath handed Rilan the whistle and Rilan took his place on the feed sack. He looked to the villagers.

What song shall I play? he asked, knowing full well what they would reply.

Aydin’s Song!

Rilan smiled and put the whistle to his lips. His father tapped out the counts, and the song began.

The song told of Aydin, a boy who lived when Setu was new. One day, as he herded his sheep, a lamb left the flock. Aydin searched the island, leaving his home far behind, but the lamb could not be found. On the third day of his search, Aydin reached the sea. There he found the beautiful maiden Aislin bathing in a tide pool. Mesmerized, he abandoned his hunt and approached the girl. The two fell in love, the innocent, passionate love of youth. It was a story of chance, of blessings, of life lived to the fullest.

The song, however, was not simple. Rilan’s fingers flew over the whistle's small holes, playing quick runs and jumping trills. When the song told of Aislin’s looks, of her eyes blue as the water and hair dark as the night sky, the song slowed and flowed, like the ocean itself. Then, telling of marriage, the pace quickened, and Rilan’s fingers flew once more.

At the song’s ending, the villagers clapped and cheered. Rilan’s father reached forward and patted him on the back. Rilan smiled back genuinely.

He stood, holding out the whistle. Now it’s your turn Shmoi. You’re such a great judge of talent, eh? Let’s see you play!

The villagers laughed again as Shmoi took the whistle. Rilan stepped away as the villagers began dancing to the new tune.

You really do have talent, Rilan.

Briath’s voice made Rilan turn. The tall, long-haired girl leaned against the horses’ stall, apart from the dancing villagers. Her face was serious.

Rilan approached her. Thank you. He looked at her for a moment. Briath, may I ask you a question? He leaned against the stall beside her.

Briath sighed. Jamek told me that you were attacked today. You want to know how I survived Dren, how I could stand living under the subjugation and hatred. Briath, at twenty, had finished her schooling last year. She looked hard at Rilan. It was not easy.

No. It is not. Rilan lowered his eyes. Did you ever get the urge . . . to fight back? To resist them?

For a moment, Briath’s eyes flared wide, as if frightened by the prospect. Then, sighing, she looked across the barn. Jamek, bouncing his head to the rhythm of the music, was showing a spider to Ori and Palen. He held out his hand, letting it crawl onto the young girl’s hand. She squealed.

I did. Many times. But to risk so much — She looked again at her brother, then at the celebrating villagers around them. It was too high a price for me. She looked back at Rilan. But perhaps not high enough for you?

Rilan turned his eyes towards his father. He thumped his drum intently, eyes closed, mouth half-smiling. Rilan sighed. Aren’t the most precious things always those with the highest price?

Briath grunted, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. The two stood without speaking, watching the surrounding festivals, yet not participating. Behind them, a horse snorted.

Has your father spoken to you? Briath finally asked. About us?

Rilan did not have to ask her what she meant. As the eldest boy and girl in the village, both Rilan and Briath had grown up knowing they would one day be married. Because of the Regiment’s monitoring of the amount of children born yearly, generations were much smaller than they had been in earlier decades. If the village was going to survive, its people had to marry whoever was available. It was not a topic Rilan liked discussing.

He enjoyed Briath’s company. She was an intelligent, strong, and wise woman. However, to Rilan, a forced marriage to anyone, even a lady like Briath, was just another prison, another trap shoved on him by the Regiment. He had known, long before he had started school, that as soon as his education on Mailyn was complete, he would have to take Briath as his wife.

No.

Briath shifted her weight uncomfortably. Oh. Well, perhaps I should wait for him to tell you. You leave for Mailyn tomorrow. You need not worry about it now.

Rilan laid a hand on her shoulder. His anger was not directed at her. Tell me, Briath.

The girl cleared her throat awkwardly, then nodded. Aye. Well, my mother is concerned. About my age. Catrine was a stern woman. If she were concerned about anything, she would have wasted very little time speaking to Rilan’s father.

What about your age?

You still have four years of schooling left. By the time you have finished, I will be twenty-four.

Rilan made a face. I know. Why does this concern your mother?

Briath hung her head. My mother is concerned that, as I age, giving birth to children, p-particularly sons, will become m-more d-difficult. She struggled to keep her composure. "She wants us to marry when you return from Dren.