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

  They neared the end of the Inner Road where the crowd thinned. The Arch of the Warrior loomed over Imrah, and she instinctively wrapped her arm around her son’s shoulders. The Arch consisted of layered sandstone to match the outer walls of Sydor. On one side, an Adikean Warrior towered above the outer walls, feet planted firmly, a long spear raised, matted locks hanging down his back as he looked upward. On the other side, an equally gigantic therbak reared its snake-like body, its claws pulled up next to its torso, the end of its thick tail curling on the ground, wings outstretched toward the man, almost touching the end of the Warrior’s spear. Another black iron gate closed the gap under the arch. The entrance to the city was beautiful and terrible at the same time.

  A hundred little boys just like her son stood in their places beneath the arch as the gates opened. All of them would be taken to the Kelda Canyons. There, among the cliffs and therbaks, those who survived would be molded into well-trained warriors who would bear the majority of the death toll should war come.

  And Adikeans craved war.

  But my son isn’t like that, Imrah thought. Anakai loves stories and laughter and sweet pastries.

  She wanted to believe he would never be like Dramede Dakkan, Anakai’s master-father and her master-husband. Anakai bore witness too many times as their master had beaten or whipped Imrah. Every time, she made Anakai promise her he would grow up to be different. In the eight years he was hers, she tried to instill in him the values of her people, but the Adikean Army would spend another ten years instilling their own values.

  Even if he survives, he won’t be my son.

  Other slave-wives tried to warn her when he was born. Over the years she witnessed their sons return hardened, uninterested in their blood relatives. Their souls were lost to the Kelda Canyons, all trace of their mothers’ heritage erased. But she had refused to admit Anakai was lost to her until now, when she could no longer deny it.

  A scribe called to her son and a few other boys, directing them to a line in front of his little table. He was stationed by the gate, a scroll laid out before him along with ink and quill. He was there to ensure every slave-son who turned eight over the past year was accounted for.

  As Anakai’s little hand slipped from hers, whatever sliver of hope she had been holding onto slipped away too. She wanted to grab him and run, but there were too many warriors with hardened faces and ready spears. She knew if she tried to save him, one of the warriors would kill Anakai to make an example of her. Imrah was nothing but a slave-wife to them, and her son a half-breed. Only if he proved himself through training would he earn a pseudo-citizenship of Adikea.

  The scribe spoke to Anakai, and her son raised his right arm as the scribe noted his household. A warrior handed Anakai a brown tunic and a headscarf for the impending trek across the desert. Anakai looked back at Imrah with uncertainty until a hand tattooed with the low-rank symbols of a slave-son warrior grabbed his shoulder, moving him into a line of boys similar in height and weight. She tried to smile, to give him courage and strength. A scream rose in her chest, but she swallowed it and endured its pressure building up against her heart.

  Holding herself together, she managed a nod and what she hoped was a reassuring smile, just as her mother had done when Imrah was taken from her mountain village in Ergon. Adikean Warriors had crossed the treacherous Mavyem Valley by way of Radelle’s Heart Bridge to steal slave-wives who would give them sons for their army and daughters to serve in their homes. Many innocent men were killed when they came to her village, including Imrah’s father. Arrows aimed at children motivated the young women of childbearing age to come quietly. At fourteen years of age, Imrah was led away with a coarse length of rope binding her wrists. When she looked back, her mother smiled and nodded while tears streamed down her face.

  As the memory flooded over her, Imrah stood still. Fear, both current and remembered, froze her body. She forgot to breathe until a gentle hand on her back broke her stupor. Imrah jumped and gasped. Another slave-wife was next to her.

  “Name’s Fyla,” she said.

  Breathing rapidly now, Imrah ignored the woman and craned her neck to find her son again. She spotted him, but he was being led farther and farther from her. He slipped on the brown tunic and wrapped his head, making it harder to tell him apart from the other boys. He faded away into a sea of headscarves and brown tunics.

  Imrah stood on tiptoes, squinting at the boys, trying to discern which one was Anakai. When she couldn’t find him, panic set in, spreading as her chest tightened and her breathing became frantic gasps for air. Tears blurred her vision.

  “Let him go,” Fyla said. “It’s the only thing you can do.”

  “No,” Imrah said, barely able to speak. She let her tears fall without inhibition. A cluster of women to her right caught her eye. Proud mothers — the Pure Born of Adikea. They looked so out of place among the other women, who were either stoically resigned or emotionally distraught. The Pure Born sometimes chose a military career for their sons. Their boys would be groomed to become high ranking officials and were, to a certain extent, protected from the harshness of the Kelda Canyons. A burst of anger toward them flared up from the depths of Imrah’s being; their pride mocked and belittled her horror.

  “How can they stand there like that?” Imrah said, “The army can have their sons! Not mine!” She took a step toward the departing horde of slave-sons. Desperation clawed at her insides as the gate under the arch closed.

  But Fyla’s hand wrapped tightly around Imrah’s arm. “Stop,” she said. “They’ll hurt him if you cause a scene. You know they will. We have to leave. Now.”

  Imrah shook her head, strength draining from her body as reality sank in. She strained to catch a final glimpse of Anakai, but they were marching the boys down the dusty red highway, into the desert and toward the Kelda Canyons.

  He’s gone. It’s done. The thought crushed her. With little thought, Imrah allowed Fyla to lead her away from the gate.

  “What’s your name?” Fyla asked as she brought Imrah to the wall and let her lean against it. The stone wall burned her skin where her slave-wife’s dress left her back exposed. There was no shade here, and the sun beat down with an intensity Imrah hadn’t quite noticed until now. The physical pain seemed appropriate, something to feel besides the pain of losing a child. She sank to the ground.

  Fyla knelt to her level, and asked again, “Your name?”

  “Imrah,” she managed.

  “This is your first son?” Fyla seemed to know the answer.

  “Yes,” Imrah whispered. The world blurred out of focus, sounds became muffled, and her stomach ached.

  He was my first-born, my joy, my beautiful baby boy.

  “I wish I could tell you it gets easier,” Fyla said, “but it doesn’t. You learn how to cope. If the little one growing in your belly is a boy, try not to attach yourself.”

  Imrah’s hand went to her stomach. “Maybe it’s a girl.”

  “Maybe. I’ve had four boys.” Fyla shrugged. “I would’ve died a long time ago if I loved them all as much as I did my first. Look at them like one of them from the moment they’re born. It’s the only way.”

  “Why are you helping me?”

  Fyla turned her head and showed Imrah a mark behind her left ear. It was a family insignia, an Ergonian tradition.

  Imrah touched her own mark, remembering the greeting and mantra of her people. “No river of brotherhood flows as deep…”

  “… as the blood of Ergonians,” Fyla continued.

  “Loyalty above all else.” Imrah closed her eyes, the connection to her past calming her spirit for a moment.

  “The Sustainer be witness,” Fyla finished.

  For the first time, Imrah really looked at Fyla. The woman was older than Imrah, and there was a tired resignation in her movements and tone. Imrah realized Fyla had come to accept life in Adikea, and in that moment, she wanted to know how to make the pain go away.

  “What do I do now?” Imr
ah asked.

  “Go back to your household. Do your work. Mourn your son as if he were dead. When he returns, he will not be small or innocent. If he survives training, he will be Adikean, from the tattoos and matted locks down to his soul.”

  Not my Anakai, she thought, though the words mingled with a clear sense of self-deceit. The child within her kicked. She held her swollen stomach, trying to process what was happening. Imrah vocalized the only hope she had for her future. She repeated as she rocked back and forth, “Maybe this child is a girl. Maybe it’s a girl.”

  Fyla patted Imrah on the head like a mother to a child. “I hope so,” she sighed and moved on.

  When she could breathe easily again, Imrah struggled to her feet. Her hands lingered on her belly. Hope now seemed a cruelty she had inflicted on herself. When the child kicked, something was different in the way Imrah felt it.

  Look at him like one of them.

  She looked back at the Arch of the Warrior, hollow inside as she tried to take Fyla’s advice. She closed her eyes and told herself Anakai was dead. And she tried to accept it because it was easier than the truth.

  Chapter Two

  Moloch

  Sarrem Family Estate

  The City of Eunoya, Eikon

  2nd Cycle of Chenack

  986 Post Schism

  The steel blade coming at Moloch missed his shoulder by an inch as he leapt backwards, causing his brother to stumble forward. Waen recovered and attacked. This time, Moloch met his blow with his own short sword. A dull, rhythmic clanging bounced off the high stone walls of the courtyard as the twin brothers fought. Moloch was barely keeping pace with Waen, whose face drew tight with fierce determination. The only thing that saved Moloch from complete embarrassment was his quick reflexes.

  And, he liked to think, his witty commentary. As he dodged and blocked Waen’s onslaught, Moloch kept a smile on his face. “I hope you’re enjoying yourself,” he said, straining against the next blow. “You get so little to brag about. You deserve to win sometimes.”

  Waen grunted and struck overhead. Moloch lifted his sword to meet the blow. Waen didn’t lift the pressure. Instead, he bore down with all his weight. Moloch tried to push back, but Waen gave one final shove, and Moloch stumbled backwards and fell on his rump.

  Waen didn’t stop. He strode forward and hit Moloch’s hand with the broadside of his sword. Moloch yelped and dropped the hilt, and before he knew what was happening Waen was on top of him, sword at his neck.

  “You think you’re funny, brother,” Waen said, a scowl forming. “But your words can only get you so far.”

  Moloch labored to breathe under the flat of Waen’s sword pressing on his neck. “Just because these aren’t sharpened, doesn’t mean they don’t hurt,” he said, voice strained under the pressure.

  For the first time that day, Waen smiled. “I know,” he said.

  “My lords!” A shout sounded from across the courtyard.

  Waen lifted his sword and stood, backing away from Moloch, his face once more a perfect picture of stoicism. Moloch sat up, rubbing his chest, and took a few deep breaths. Turro, their father’s Master-at-Arms, crossed the courtyard grounds with a determined stride. He was an older man, very traditional. His shaved head and gray stubble beard gave him a rough look.

  “That’s enough,” he said as he came near. He stopped a few paces from them and pointed his gaze at Waen. “Lord Waen, you must practice self-control.”

  Moloch laughed from his seat on the ground. “He’s got plenty of that. He needs to loosen up a little if you ask me.”

  Waen opened his mouth, but Turro held up a hand. There were very few men the Sarrem children accepted chastisement from, but Turro had their father’s authority behind him. It had always been like that, as though Turro was an extension of their ever-absent father.

  “And you, Lord Moloch, need practice. Period. Your sword work is abysmal. Lord Lenworth could do better, and he’s ten! Perhaps even little Lady Sherlotta could offer you a challenge.” Turro offered them both a hard stare, which made Moloch squirm. Implying his youngest siblings could beat him at swordplay was nothing compared to that stare. Finally, Turro sighed. “In any case, your father is asking for you two. He’s returned from Patriphos. You’ll find him in his study.”

  Moloch got to his feet. “How precious. I’ve been looking forward to some father-son bonding.”

  Waen scoffed and rolled his eyes. “Is everything a joke to you?”

  “Of course not,” Moloch said in mock offense.

  “Just get going,” Turro said. “There’s no time for nonsense.”

  Both Moloch and Waen gave Turro a respectful nod and headed toward their father’s study. Waen walked ahead of Moloch, back straight as a rod, shoulders squared, every movement stiff and formal.

  Moloch sighed. Born on the same day, only minutes apart, Waen should be the one person in the world Moloch knew best. Instead, it was the exact opposite. The two of them may have shared a birthday, but that was it. From appearances, down to the core of their being, they couldn’t be more different.

  Finally, they reached the door to their father’s study. Waen stopped to smooth his tunic before entering. Moloch didn’t bother. When they walked in, their father was sitting at the fireplace. His hardened features were accentuated by his stiff, brown vest which extended beyond each shoulder by a handwidth. The crisp, white sleeves of the shirt underneath billowed — as was the current fashion — and buttoned at the wrists with golden clasps. The Great Nibal Sarrem was getting older, but he still carried himself with confidence. Even sitting still, he emanated power and authority. He gestured to the chairs opposite him.

  The study was a decent-sized room, but the furniture was sparse. Only a desk, now unoccupied, and four chairs near the hearth accompanied by two side tables. A small fire crackled to Moloch’s right, adding light to the otherwise dim atmosphere.

  “Come and sit,” Nibal said.

  Moloch sat in the chair Waen had left open. He settled into the cushioned seat and waited. Their father leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and fixed his eyes on them. The silence seemed to last for hours. It was a tactic; Moloch knew that. But it still worked to unnerve him. Since their childhood Nibal Sarrem had handled Moloch and his twin brother like this. Waen was still, staring straight ahead, while Moloch shifted in his chair. He let his posture go and rested his elbow on the armrest, his chin on his fist.

  How long will he make us sit here before he speaks? Moloch glanced at his brother again. What is Waen thinking? How hard does he have to concentrate to keep his features so bland and serious?

  Moloch and Waen didn’t talk anymore. Not since they turned twelve, four years ago, when Waen realized their father didn’t count him as the oldest son.

  To be fair, it had surprised Moloch as well. Waen was the motivated one, the strong voice, the kind of man who put his head down and barreled through any obstacles standing in his way. Moloch would have supported Waen’s right as the eldest brother, if Waen hadn’t chosen to treat Moloch as one of those obstacles. That had just made Moloch angry. It wasn’t like he couldn’t lead. At twelve, Moloch had preferred to be carefree and untethered. Now, though, things were different. The seeds of competition had been sown.

  Waen had chosen this path.

  Moloch would finish it.

  He broke the silence as he usually did. “Father,” he sighed. “Why have you called us?”

  His father leaned back in his chair, a smile playing on his lips. Nibal loved his games. Whatever test he’d given them, Moloch would never know if he passed or failed.

  “Waen, are you not curious as well?” Nibal raised his brows.

  “Yes, Father,” Waen said.

  Always so stiff.

  Moloch and Waen reacted differently to their father’s pressure. Waen wanted to be perfect, which was fine because he very nearly was. Moloch wanted his father’s approval, but he couldn’t bring himself to strive quite as hard as his brother
to gain it. That wasn’t what his father was looking for, anyway. Didn’t General Nibal Sarrem, Duke of Eunoya and Chief Military Advisor to the King of Eikon, want his successor to have his own mind? Waen was good at following orders, but it was Moloch who had the ideas.

  “I want to speak with you both about a few things. Your inheritance, for one. A decision needs to be made and soon. You are both my eldest son—” Waen opened his mouth to speak, but Nibal held up a hand and continued. “A few minutes means nothing to me, Waen.”

  Moloch let through half a smile as Waen visibly deflated.

  Nibal continued. “I must decide which of you will continue my work as Duke of Eunoya and thereby gain a seat on the War Council. That is the first step to becoming the next Chief Military Advisor, and whomever I choose to become duke must also have the qualities for that esteemed position. I want my son to sit at the king’s right hand once I’m gone.” Nibal watched them both, his words spoken in a deliberate way. “You are both of my blood. There is potential in both of you.”

  “I would honor you and our family name,” Waen said, sitting straighter, if that was possible.

  “I’m sure you would. As would Moloch.”

  Moloch nodded toward his father, showing a sign of respect.

  “Moloch can’t even decide what he wants for breakfast most days,” Waen said.

  “Stop being so desperate, Waen. It doesn’t suit you.” Moloch smirked at his brother and leaned forward as his father had done earlier, with elbows resting on his knees. “So, Father, what is it you want from us?”

  Nibal smiled wide and sat back, crossing his arms. “I just wanted to make you both aware that I’ll be watching. You must make your own case for my favor. Build your own reputation. You’re sixteen now. It’s time to see what kind of men you’ll be. Your decisions will dictate your future. Be aware. Be smart. And be bold. I will offer you opportunities to prove yourself, but you must also create your own.”