Mother of Rebellion (The Leyumin Divided Saga Book 1) Read online

  Mother of Rebellion

  Leyumin Divided Book I

  B.K. Boes

  MOTHER OF REBELLION

  Beyond Here Publishing

  Copyright © 2017 by Brianna Boes

  ISBN 978-1-948673-00-6 (paperback)

  ISBN 978-1-948673-01-3 (hardcover)

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Maps by NA Studio Design

  Editing by Mary Novak

  Dedicated to my Mama and Papa, Barb and Les Meadows, who have been examples of love and faith for as long as I can remember.

  To Mama for teaching me how to always see the silver lining, and to Papa from whom I inherited the stubbornness which enabled me to finish this book.

  Both of you have supported my dreams from the day I was born.

  Thank you.

  Contents

  Prophecy of the First Oracle

  Part I

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Part II

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  Chapter Sixty

  Chapter Sixty-One

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  We were united once.

  We will be united again.

  Thus says the Sustainer of all life.

  Watch for these things, so you might recognize the Unitor:

  War will ravage the land, and the darkness of the Other — that which corrupts — will cast shadows over it.

  Innocents will be deceived; brother will turn against brother.

  Blood will soak the desert sand.

  The Beast of Old will be reborn.

  In Leyumin’s darkest hour, the Unitor will claim the five nations.

  But they will become a mighty sword.

  Together they will cut down that which threatens them all.

  That which was lost will be refound.

  And the whole of Leyumin will once again become one people—

  No longer divided against one another.

  The darkness will be defeated.

  We were united once.

  We will be united again.

  Thus says the Sustainer of all life.

  PART I

  Chapter One

  Imrah

  The City of Sydor, Adikea

  1st Cycle of Chenack

  986 Post Schism

  Imrah stayed with her son all morning, treasuring every moment, trying not to think about what was to come. They’d promised the night before to be strong. No tears. Chins up. Hands steady.

  Anakai was better at this than she was.

  Today, I lose my son. What will I do when he’s gone?

  Hope of a better life came to Imrah when her son was born. He gave her purpose. For eight years, she filled his mind with stories from her childhood and quoted the passages she could remember from her mother’s Book of Holy Proverbs. She sang to him the songs of the Temple of the Sustainer, all with the hope of inoculating him against an inevitable future. Her prayer was that he would retain his heart in the hell that was the Kelda Canyons. If some small part of her, part of her people, survived inside of him despite Adikean indoctrination, perhaps her life would be more than what her captors had made of it.

  Anakai’s little hand slipped into Imrah’s as they rounded the last bend in the walkway that wound through the Outer Gardens of Sydor. This section of the gardens was open to foreigners and slaves. They weren’t nearly as beautiful as the Ancestor’s Haven, a section of garden reserved for true-blooded citizens. Those of Imrah’s status could only glimpse it through barred gates. But Imrah loved the Outer Gardens just the same.

  Bright flowers bloomed amidst the cacti’s prickles, sending the smell of sweet nectar with the breeze. The gnarled trees held beauty in their pale branches, adorned with wide leaves and sprinkled with colorful fruits ranging from light yellow to deep orange.

  These gardens held happy memories for her and her son. As a baby, she’d carried him along the gentle curves of the garden’s pathways, pretending for a short time that her life was different. That his life was different. The small room they shared in the household of Dramede Dakkan was suffocating, but Sydor’s gardens were open and free and beautiful. Later, Imrah would bring him there so he could explore. Always the curious child, Anakai loved to roam the gardens, searching for trails of ants and looking under small rocks. Even now, on his last day in Sydor, his eyes searched for something new to delight in as they walked.

  In a city that held so much hardship, the gardens offered Imrah some peace.

  When the exit came into view, Imrah stopped. Her hand went to her round belly as her second child kicked within her. She glanced down at Anakai, who now focused on a small lizard sunbathing beside the walkway. It was so like him, to notice the little creature when everyone else passed it by. She watched him, etching the scene into her memory. Like most young slave-sons, he wore billowing linen trousers that cinched below the knee and a brown vest. He knelt on the edge of the path, pursing his lips at the little orange lizard.

  If it were any other day, Imrah would have caught the lizard to let her son hold it. But time was running short, and they were at the end of the walkway. Imrah’s breath caught in her throat at
the sight of the gate that led out of the gardens.

  Not yet, she thought. There’s still a little time.

  With some difficulty, she sat on one of the garden’s many benches, balancing herself against her swollen stomach. The reddish-brown stone was warm from the sun though it sat under the shade of the trees. Imrah couldn’t help but breathe a sigh of relief as the warmth eased the discomfort in her lower back. She tapped her foot against the cobbled path, allowing Anakai a few moments with his lizard. But only a few. She wanted him close.

  “Come sit, Anakai.” Imrah patted the bench, and her son plopped down next to her. His eyes stayed on the creature until Imrah pulled out a sweet pastry from the satchel slung over her shoulder, baked for him with care that morning.

  Anakai took it from her eagerly. He took a bite and smiled with cheeks full. Swallowing, he pinched off a piece and held it out toward her. “Want some, Momma?”

  “I made it for you,” she said.

  Imrah laughed as Anakai filled his mouth again, and she put her arm around him, pulling him closer. His rich, bronzed skin nearly shimmered under the sun, contrasting against her slightly paler, olive shade. She kissed the top of his newly shaven head.

  Even now he’s sweet at heart. But her smile faded as Anakai stopped chewing and stared at the pastry, his face downcast. He scratched the underside of his right forearm, where the Dakkan Household emblem had been tattooed shortly after his birth. It matched Imrah’s own brand, three vertical dots enclosed in a thick-lined rectangle, except hers was a raised scar instead of smooth black.

  A memory surfaced of an old, withering hag using the dark arts to imprint the symbol on her son’s arm. They had marked Imrah with a hot iron brand both times — once after her capture and again when Dramede Dakkan bought her at auction. She didn’t know why slave-wives and slave-sons were branded differently, only that the hag had seemed ill after performing the branding on Anakai. She guessed their use of the dark arts was limited somehow. That this unnatural evil had been banished everywhere else for a reason; it was sacrilege. Imrah would have much preferred the hot iron for her son, though it would have been more painful. The scarring of the body was better than the scarring of the soul.

  Imrah closed her eyes and mentally shoved those memories into the farther corners of her mind, burying them once again. She looked at Anakai, who finally took another bite of the pastry only to chew it slowly.

  Imrah found herself awed by his strength and saddened that he had to use it. He doesn’t want to show his fear. It’s easier to live in the moment and forget about everything else, because the bad moments pass soon enough. She sighed. If only the good ones would last a little longer…

  With cheeks full, Anakai’s brows knit together as he looked up at her. “Will my hair grow back, Momma?”

  His hair had been shaved that morning in preparation. Imrah had saved a lock of his dark brown hair and stored it away in a small box in the corner of the room they shared. The box was an homage to things she had lost. It held a flowered hairpin she wore on the day she was taken from her home, scraps of paper inscribed with the names of her family members in Ergon, a blanket she made for a baby stillborn, and now a lock of her son’s hair.

  “One day, you might grow it back out, but they will probably keep it this way until you turn fifteen or sixteen.” Imrah guessed based upon how long returning slave-son warriors tended to wear their hair, always twisted into rope-like, matted locks which hung below the shoulders.

  Anakai frowned. “That’s a long time.”

  “Seven or eight years,” Imrah said. Saying it made her heart ache. Years I won’t be a part of, and two years after that. When he comes back, will he even want to find me again?

  It was more than likely that she would never see him again. It was uncommon for slave-son warriors to seek out their mothers or sisters after having grown up in the canyons. Their mothers were symbols of their foreign blood — a weakness to be pushed away. Their fellow slave-sons were now their families.

  Anakai looked up at Imrah, his gold-speckled green eyes wide and pleading. “Do I have to go? Can’t you keep me here?”

  Imrah swallowed hard. Her eyes fell, and her cheeks flushed hot as she worked to keep tears at bay. “I wish I could.” Despite herself her chin quivered. “But, neither one of us has a choice.”

  How will I live without my boy? She closed her eyes and tried to gather herself.

  Anakai’s hand rested on her own. Warm and gentle, a whisper on her skin, Imrah barely felt the calluses on his fingertips and on the heel of his palm. She focused on the fact that he belonged to her, if only for a little while longer. In that moment, he was all there was. Everything else faded. Imrah memorized the feeling of his touch, listened to the steady sound of his breathing. If she concentrated hard enough, maybe she would remember what it was like for him to be with her.

  “Momma?” Anakai removed his hand and tapped her shoulder.

  Imrah cleared her throat and opened her eyes. She meant to smile and ask him about the lizard but looking at him unraveled her. An unexpected sob caused her to turn away and cover her mouth, refusing to weep in front of him.

  He trusts me. I should be able to protect him.

  “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” She buried her head in her hands. Anakai moved to the other side of the bench to sit on his knees in front of her. She began to turn away from him again. They promised each other they would be strong, and she was breaking. But Anakai cupped her face in his hands and leaned against her so that her head rested on his little chest. He stroked her hair, imitating what Imrah had done to comfort him so many times.

  “It’s not your fault, Momma. I’ll be brave just like you said. I’ll be okay.”

  Imrah pulled back but didn’t look away this time. Anakai wiped away her tears with the palms of his hands, his calluses rough against her skin.

  If only that were true, she thought, but she smiled and wiped away a sticky glob of fruit filling from the corner of his mouth. Such a sweet child. So concerned for me when his life is about to change forever.

  Imrah dried her eyes with the hem of one of the sashes of her dress. She desperately wanted to believe he would live. “You are my brave boy, and yes, you will be just fine.”

  A bell rang twice from the center of the city, a signal for mid-morning, and Imrah’s heart sank. “It’s time to go.” She took Anakai’s hand and led him out of the gardens.

  They made their way in silence through the streets of Kahlyr Hills, the residential area of the Central Sector. Anakai held her hand tighter as they passed their home, the Dakkan Household. It would likely be the last time Anakai ever saw the place. It was a near copy of the households surrounding it: curved outer walls made of layered sandstone; swirls of tans, reds, and cream. An iron gate painted brown sat off to the side, large enough for the household carriage to enter and leave the premises.

  The streets here were wide enough for two carriages to pass each other, plus room for pedestrians on either side. Rock gardens and sculptures stood between the walls of different households, ensuring no family of significant wealth felt cramped.

  Soon, they were at the Emperor’s Gate. They waited in line with others of their kind, slave-wives and slave-children, as ornate carriages of true-born citizens passed between black obsidian pillars and huge, open iron gates. Slave children jumped and pointed as a carriage pulled by pikkans entered the city. Only the Emperor’s own blood could afford such beautiful beasts; they were native to the north and required endless coddling in the desert. The elegant creatures were covered with small soft feathers, and their whinnies were nearly musical compared to the gruff snorting of sandbeasts. Normally, Anakai would have joined the other children in their reverie, but today he barely spared them a glance.

  When they reached the front of the line, Imrah lifted her right arm, showing her household emblem. The guard noted her on his ledger and allowed them through the smaller iron gate used by slaves, cut into the wall next to the right
-hand pillar.

  On the other side lay the Inner Road, a wide cobblestone thoroughfare with high, man-made walls on either side that ran from the Central Sector down to the edge of Sydor, ending at the Arch of the Warrior. It bypassed the Middle and Lower Sectors, creating a way for the elite to make their way to and from the city without having to navigate its less savory parts.

  Each side of the Inner Road was crowded with foot traffic. Imrah led her son by the hand, weaving in and out of the crowd. Vendors selling everything from produce to silk lined the walls of the Inner Road, calling out their wares as they passed. The smell of fried foods, perfumes, and burning incense barely masked the stench of body odor, manure, and livestock.

  The Arch of the Warrior stood tall in the distance. It was Sydor’s eastern gate. Beyond it lay only desert and canyons. There, Imrah would have to give Anakai to the Adikean Army. With every step, Imrah’s chest tightened a little more. Her body ached as she forced herself to lead Anakai toward his fate. Every step was a contradiction, a battle within her.