Therin wiped sweat from his face, huffing a breath, his lungs burning. They had been intermittently running and walking, trying to keep their pace quick. The restful vigor he had gotten from Ohira’s hidden cottage was fading faster than the daylight and as he called for a break, he slowed to a walk and then stopped. Throwing off his share of the weapons, he drank deeply from the cold water running beside them.
Roshan knelt a little ways downstream from him, cupping the water in his small hands and washing the thin film of sweat from his smooth face. Therin watched him, water dripping from his own stubbled chin before wiping his mouth on the back of his hand and calling to the Blademaster.
“Does Devan know you’re branded?”
Roshan froze in the act of brushing his thick black hair off his forehead and eyed Therin with an unreadable expression. The Blademaster’s dark eyes were bottomless, endless pools of uncertainty.
“That is unlikely,” Roshan answered quietly.
“Because you know he won’t like it or because you’re reporting to someone back in Dinaan?”
“Therin!” Noran chastised him for his accusation. The blond man slid his eyes from Roshan, meeting Noran’s pale gray with his oceanic blue.
“It’s a fair question, given your own situation.”
Noran opened his mouth to speak but Roshan cut in before he could.
“I was branded shortly after birth,” his voice was firm and the two brothers turned in unison to listen. “The Ka’Ti have a complicated history with the witches. Perhaps you know this?”
“No,” Noran said gently. “The Morinn are secretive and the outlying covens are not discussed.”
“Interesting,” Roshan said, his eyes on Noran. “Because it is the Morinn in particular that we Ka’Ti are tied to. There are no other covens but the Morinn across the sea in Dinaan.” He rocked back onto his heels, his hands folded in his lap. “Someone has not been very honest with you, witch.”
“What do you mean?” Therin asked and as he did he stood from a crouch, wiping his hands on his thighs. “What history?”
“Long ago,” Roshan began. “The Usurper came and liberated Dinaan from the barbaric rule of the chief and his council.” The snarl that Roshan put on the word told Therin just how Roshan felt about the eastern spin on the story.
“King Gideon,” Therin said and Roshan nodded.
“When Gideon arrived, the Ka’Ti were all but slaves to their Dinaaru cousins, second rate citizens in their own homeland. They supported Gideon and his claim. He spun them lies, telling them he would bring peace to the land if they helped him overthrow the chief and council. They would have equal rights, a voice in his government. They believed him and Kata’Vulin, the most powerful Blademaster and leader of the Ka’Ti, became the personal body guard of Gideon until he was slain by Shadesorrow herself.”
“Kata’Vulin is known even here,” Therin said. “He is known as the first western Paladin. He was said to be so devout, so pure, that he was immortal.”
Roshan scoffed.
“Paladin? No, he was Ka’Ti, a Blademaster. The Light he had was untempered by rules and regalia. He was immortal, though. He was the first man to breach the barrier between man and the gods, to really harness the Light and to understand what it meant.” The reverence in Roshan’s voice was heavy, holding the air around them in a state of hushed excitement.
“He was not born Kata’Vulin. He changed his name. It means ‘God’s Lightning’ in the Ka’Ti dialect of Dinaari.”
“I didn’t know you spoke a different dialect,” Therin said, frowning. Roshan continued, ignoring him.
“The Light sustained him, keeping him alive for hundreds of years. He had broken the dam to divinity, and he was the holiest man to ever live.
“When Gideon asked for his help, he could not deny the Light he saw in Gideon and his men. Kata’Vulin hoped that by helping Gideon win the throne, he’d be bringing the Light further to man, making it more accessible. He and his two most trusted men fought for Gideon, securing the capital, Yshnaa, in just a few days. As Gideon crowned himself King and sent his men home to bring back their families and tradesmen, Kata’Vulin felt his people were in danger. The Light spoke to him, perhaps it was as The Father, as it was for me.” Roshan stared past Therin, his brows lifted in thought. After a beat, he shook himself and resumed.
“Shadesorrow knew that he was a threat to her own power.”
“That must be when the witches were fortified,” Noran said thoughtfully, a hand on his chin. “During my indoctrination, I was told there was an event that spooked Shadesorrow, and consequently Aethra, and the witches were fortified with more power.”
Roshan shrugged noncommittally and continued.
“He begged the new king to let them return to the Wastes, a stretch of the desert that the nomadic Ka’Ti called their ancestral home. In the centre of the Wastes is Tansura, the Enduring Whirlwind, a supernatural windstorm conjured by Kata’Vulin to shield the area from the witches. It is said that the area is deadly to all who enter unless given permission by a Ka’Ti Blademaster. Shadesorrow herself is said to be powerless once inside the squall.”
Therin’s face was full of incredulous disbelief at these words but Roshan ignored him.
“Across the sea, perhaps across time itself, Shadesorrow had seen the way that Kata’Vulin’s divinity had grown. Disguising herself as a human, she entered the palace and before Gideon’s eyes, almost with his permission, she Unmade Kata’Vulin, claiming his soul as her own to twist and pervert.”
Therin frowned, the story deviating from his own knowledge. Their histories seemed to be at odds.
“Kata’Vulin was killed defending King Gideon during an attack by the witches,” Therin said. “He took the blade intended for the King and was laid to rest in the first monastery built by Gideon in Dinaan. It was the monastery that High Lord Morinn presided over.”
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“Wrong,” Roshan said sharply. “Shadesorrow Unmade him, leaving Gideon untouched as long as he agreed to a bargain: hand over every Ka’Ti female, forever, to be branded as hers. High Lord Morinn came decades later. He rewrote Kata’Vulin’s story, an eastern man usurping yet another western man’s legacy to further his own agenda.” Roshan’s anger was foreboding. The generational injustice he had been handed was a brand of a different kind across his face.
“But surely the truth lies between the two stories.” Therin suggested and Roshan glared silently. “The Ka’Ti were welcoming heroes during Gideon’s fight for the throne. Your stories–”
“They are not stories.”
“Theology and opinions aside–” Therin said, dismissively.
“It is a fact!” Roshan barked harshly. “Being blind to the truth does not make you more holy, Therin. My people are still secondary humans in Dinaan. Our women are subjected to horrors you can’t comprehend.” Light rippled across his flesh, a flicker of his rage made manifest.
“Given to the Morinn like animals! Those that are rejected by the witches have it arguably worse–married young and praying they never have a daughter of their own! Our men are forced to be brutal and unforgiving just to ensure our people survive another generation!” Spittle flew from the young man’s mouth as he raged, his swarthy face turning a deep crimson as he roared.
“I was three days old when they branded me, ripped from my mother’s arms as she tried to smother me so I would not have to endure the coming horrors. They executed her for trying to thwart them, and made my father watch as they cut out her heart.”
Noran’s head snapped up, his eyes wide. He opened his mouth to speak but no sound came out. Therin watched the expression on his brother’s face swing from horror to compassion, settling on shocked amazement.
“Why?” Noran whispered. “Why did they want to brand you so badly?”
“My father’s brother was a prominent Blademaster and sensed the Light inside me, even at hours old. He showed my father the passages in Shadesorrow’s Word that spoke of a Daughter of Man bringing about Shadesorrow’s return, a child of Light and Darkness. My uncle, hoping to end the stealing of our female children, told the Morinn of the auspicious nature of my birth, of my innate ability. I was labeled a tentative Daughter of Man, a prize of the Morinn.
“By the time I was three I knew it was a mistake.” His breath was ragged now, his eyes alight with a horrible fire. “I remember wondering why I was the only boy in a temple full of girls. My body looked the same, but I felt the wrongness of the situation. I was meant to be a Blademaster.” Tears were welling in Roshan’s eyes and he dashed them away with vicious anger.
“I had to hide the Light. It was almost painful to deny it, to tell myself it was unsafe. It was…” A ragged sob escaped him, grief and relief warring within him.
“The hatred I had for the witches was second only to the hate and disgust I had for my own body. They tried to indoctrinate me. Shadesorrow this, Daughter of Man that. But they could not convince me: I was Ka’Ti, a Blademaster born, a Blademaster I would become.
“I escaped back to my people when I was ten. I had played the part for them but I had never given up. By then, my father had taken a new wife and I had several brothers. The eldest was just a year younger than me. My father dressed me as a boy, claimed me as his son, and sent me with them to train to become a Blademaster.
“Shortly after earning my glaive, I returned home but my father said I was not welcome back to our people. We are nomadic, the only permanent place we have is Tansura, in the eye of the Everlasting Whirlwind. So he said there were too many risks to have me near as the Morinn were hunting for me.”
“Where is your Knife?” Noran asked suddenly. “They can track you with that.”
“They can’t anymore,” Roshan said with triumphant rage. He held out his palms, free of brands. “The Father took the witch's blood.”
“But your Knife–”
“My father buried it in Tansura, next to my mother. It is hidden by that holy storm.”
Silence fell and Therin felt his heart thundering in his own chest, sympathy and curious wonder at Roshan’s story coursing through him.
“What does Devan know?” He asked suddenly and Roshan sighed heavily.
“Nothing. That I am a Blademaster. That I am Ka’Ti. That I am not welcome home for some transgression or another. But he has said that as long as I am devoted to the Light, he trusts me.” Therin felt goosebumps race across his skin as Roshan held out his hand and let the wild Light flow around his extended limb. “And I am the most devout, the most dedicated to the Light, for it has chosen me and made me its instrument.”
Therin chose not to speak to either man as he restrapped the weapons to himself a short time later. He had taken time to digest Roshan’s story and for some reason he liked that the young Blademaster had duped the High Lord. A secret thrill of excitement coursed through him at the idea that Devan and his old fashioned views of what was proper and correct were completely undermined by him taking on Roshan as the Blademaster of Lightholde Monastery. If only the old dog knew that he had placed the training of so many men into the hands of Roshan, a branded witch.
Grinning as he fell into line behind Noran, Therin felt a little lighter as they started to jog.
When they slowed again, Therin hung back, his mind still full of Roshan’s words. He stopped himself from labeling it as a story, proud of himself for being more open minded. As he let his mind replay the words he caught the sound of Noran’s voice just ahead of him, muffled by the trees and foliage.
“...just was curious about something.” Noran’s tone was low, speaking softly to Roshan.
“Yes?” Therin noted that Roshan was not keeping his own voice low but he seemed to be erecting a wall between himself and the witch.
“Well, you said Shadesorrow Unmade Kata’Vulin,” Noran said. He was all but whispering now. Roshan did not deign to answer.
“And, well…” Noran’s shyness was painful for Therin. It was a stark reminder of their childhood together, Therin often speaking up for Noran when he would baulk. “I’m just wondering what she did with his soul.” Therin could almost feel Noran’s blush.
“You are a witch,” Roshan began slowly, as though talking to a child. “You of all people would know what she did with that most holy prize.”
“But see, that’s the thing.” Noran paused and sighed heavily. “Yes, I’m a witch. I can’t really deny that, can I? But my situation was…” He trailed off and Therin could not make out his words.
“You are correct. She had no reason to be honest with you.”
“...think I’m untrustworthy and I don’t want...”
The silence between the two men seemed to stretch on and Therin held his breath for a moment, listening even harder.
“Noran,” Roshan finally said patiently. “I would not have given so much of my Light to keep you from death if I felt that way. I see my own struggle within you. Just as I had no choice, something clearly prevented you from turning down the branding.”
“My mother was a witch,” Noran said suddenly. Therin felt his skin crawl with a cool shock. “Devan told me everything when I was younger and…” his voice trailed off and Therin cursed his brother’s softness. He heard him muttering for a minute longer followed by a soft sniffle.
“And then to care for him, to so desperately love him, without wanting that burnden... It’s how she trapped me, you know. It was face branding or she would enthrall me, make me do such terrible things to him…” His voice trailed off but Therin heard the catch in Noran’s voice and knew that he had stopped talking.
“Our stories are not so different,” Roshan said tenderly. “We both have mothers taken from us by the witches. We both have secrets. We both are not what we seem.”
“Yes,” Noran said in a hushed voice. “Yes.”
“I trust you.” Therin heard an affectionate thud, a hand slapping a back in a brotherly way. “You are a good man, Noran.”
“You are too, Roshan.” Therin ached at the smile he heard in his brother’s voice, and felt a grin slip to his lips despite himself.
