Shadows of the Conclave

Table of Contents:

Part 1: Bound to the Anointed (Narrated by Taeyon Vendari)

Chapters 1 to 15

Part 2: The Heart of Intamu (Narrated by Jendarr Intamu)

Chapters 16 to 26

Part 3: Blade of the Ajamar (Narrated by Xavian Ajamar)

Chapters 27 to 32

Part 4: The Law and the Light (Narrated by Taeyon Vendari)

Chapters 33 to 42

Part 5: Fire of the Exiles (Narrated by Jendarr Intamu)

Chapters 43 to End

Part 1: Bound to the Anointed (Taeyon's POV)

Chapter 1: Honored

I was eight years old when I attended my first Clan Games competition as a participant. Expectations were high, and I knew it. I was the strongest boy my age in the city and the most athletic. I was expected to win at everything. I expected myself to win at everything.

For the most part, I did win.

No other boy in my group could throw the bronze globe as far as I could. No other boy could hurl a javelin with greater accuracy. I was unmatched when it came to sparring, even against boys years older than me.

Jendarr Intamu was my greatest competition. Even at just eight years old, he was a bundle of wiry muscle, and he always went around shirtless, showing off his body to others. It was admirable to look at, intimidating. By contrast, my body was bulkier, my muscles round and thick. I did not like to show myself off. I threw him down in the sparring match and pinned him, writhing and squealing against the sand. He went away angry and tear-streaked, and I did not care because I was the best. That was all that mattered to me. I watched for my father’s silent approval, drinking in his stoic nods and the barest twitch of his smiles of pride as if they were a feast of cakes and honey.

My name spread around the games as the most favored son, the most honored of the Ancestors, unbeatable at any task. I felt a meter taller than I was. My first Clan Games and I would come away the champion of the younger contestants in every category.

The Clan Games were chaotic with crowds of thousands, an endless deafening cacophony of cheering and shouting. Another group of young people was preparing for the do’caris kata’yen, the staff dance. It was not a test of combat or strength. I had performed well enough at it, winning my group. My forms were perfected by hours of strict drills with my father, but I had not cared so much. It was a boring activity.

My eyes slid across the group of contestants. They were not rivals. These were all sons and daughters of lesser clans, peers to one another but not to me, as first son of the powerful Vendari. For the most part, they were all skinny and weak, sacks of skin and bones with underdeveloped muscles and poor balance.

Except for one upon whom my eyes caught. He seemed not at all like the others. He had more muscle, for one. He did not have Jendarr’s wiry, chiseled cords. Neither was he like me, with my bulk. This boy was something else, something intriguing and enticing. As the drums beat and flutes rose, the dance began, and I could not pull my eyes away from him. His body was firm and precise, graceful as none of the others were. Where strength was lacking, poise, energy, and emotion seemed to fill him.

I smiled when he won the golden medal.

His name was announced: Kadari of Donosi Clan. He was their first son. I had paid no attention to any Donosi before, yet he could have competed in my group. Possibly he could have won in my group. What a scandal that would have been. Possibly he could have even beaten me. My movements were more precise, better practiced, but they did not have his energy, his feeling, his connection to the music. I saw in Kadari the critical weakness in my father’s instructions on the do’caris kata’yen. He had trained my motions to be perfect and strong, but it was not about the perfect execution of the movements. It was about melding body, sound, and staff in ways that I had not.

My eyes followed him as he left the performing stage. An old man came up to him, and he wrapped his arms firmly about the man’s waist. I knew from the look they shared that this man, wiser than my father, had been the one to instruct him.

I yearned for that wisdom. I did not know why it felt valuable to have, but it pulled on every part of me. I followed Kadari to his next competition. I had not yet participated in this one, the mallet strike. It was entirely unlike the staff dance. It was a test of raw strength.

I watched from the crowd as Kadari spent some time studying it. His sea-green eyes were intense, flicking between the mallet and the spinning ball he was supposed to strike. With a heave of his arms, he hefted the mallet, which looked to weigh about as much as he did. He did not swing right away but spent more time studying the mallet and ball. I watched and wondered. He began to swing, but I saw that he was not aiming for the target. He spun around and around, and I knew at once what his plan was. It struck me as ingenious. He would build up momentum until he had enough to strike the target with much more force than he could have managed from a single swing.

At first, Kadari’s eyes were alight with triumph at his idea, but this lasted only a few moments. I watched as his flashing expression changed to one of frustration and then horror. He had lost control of the spinning weight and could not get himself closer to the target. Around and around he spun, a whirlwind of boy and mallet. The watching crowds stumbled back from him, yelling and cursing. I knew that fear kept his white-knuckled grip on the mallet. Should he release it, it would become a heavy missile flying into the crowd.

I did not wait to see if one of the adults would intervene. A few strides brought me to the racks of wooden weapons used for sparring matches. I grabbed a heavy shield that would have been used by a boy twice my age. My arms could barely lift the round of leather-covered wood, and I would never have been able to fight with it. I did not need to fight, only to charge.

There was no fear. Fear was a feeling foreign to me. I only knew action, and that this boy needed my help and that I wanted to help him. I did not want to see him shamed or hurt. I wanted that bright intelligence to remain in his eyes. I pushed my way through the shouting crowd, charging with the heavy shield bared in front of me.

The strike of the mallet seemed like the punch of an angry god. The shield exploded into splinters, and despite the firm plant of my feet I was thrown backward and landed heavily.

I looked up to see Kadari staring at me, his eyes wide with shock. For a moment we stared at each other. Then his features melted into concern. The pain came then, in a sudden burning rush that seared my arm. I looked down and saw a few shivers of wood jabbing into my dark brown flesh, blood weeping around their base. The true pain was deeper though. Ridoran bones are very strong. I had never broken a bone until that day.

Kadari rushed to me his hands working into knots. He did not know what to do, but I could see the desperate desire to help me painted across his stricken face, and this warmed me. I did not cry, although the pain threatened to force tears from my unwilling eyes. I did as my father had taught me, forcing the pain into a corner of my mind where it could not overwhelm me. I was not the pain, and the pain was not part of me. It was only real if I allowed it.

Kadari cried enough for both of us. The tears streamed down his anguished face as he fretted over my injuries. He could not form any coherent words. I wanted to reassure him, but my jaw was tight with the pain. If I spoke, I was afraid I might lose control. I refused to cry, to take any risk of crying.

Then my mother was there. Her face, as always, was calm and controlled. She was well trained in the medical arts, an unusual choice for a woman of her station, but that had made her all the more focused on being an expert. She took the kit from the medic and waved him away. A silvery injector hissed, and my arm became numb and cold. She worked on me for many minutes, removing the shivers of wood, cleaning the wounds, applying various ointments and injections and then setting a traditional splint of wood and bandages when she found that the kit did not have one of the high-tech, robotic autosplints common in the hospitals.

Kadari watched all of this happen, his eyes wide and seemingly mesmerized. He was no longer crying, and the tear stains on his cheeks were crusted with dust. My mother looked at him a moment and frowned. The disapproval was plain on her face, but at least she did not say anything.

“That was a foolish thing to do,” she said to me. “How are you going to compete in any more of the games like this?”

A fierce defiance bloomed in my chest. I did not care now about the games or any other competitions. I did not have anything more to prove.

“Someone needed to help,” I said. “I do not regret it.”

My mother only tsked in annoyance. She looked again at the boy. “You should consider the honor of your clan first, Taeyon. The shameful choices of others are not your concern.”

I ignored those words, although they bit at my young heart, my desire to make my parents and my clan proud. I had done something the Ancestors would find worthy, I decided, even if my parents disagreed. It was enough.

My mother finished her task and gave me a capsule of medicine for the pain. Then she left us. I think she went to consult with my father about what to do next, but I didn’t care. I was alone with the boy now. The pain was merely a bother at the back of my mind. I held out my uninjured forearm in the gesture Ridorans use for greeting. The boy knocked his own forearm against mine.

“I’m Taeyon Vendari,” I said.

“Kadari,” the boy looked down. “Kadari of Donosi.”

I did not like that he wouldn’t look at me. Now that the crisis was over, I could sense the shame growing in him. I went over and picked up the mallet from among the shattered splinters of the shield. I held it out to him. “You didn’t hit any of the targets, so you haven’t actually finished your attempt.”

“I don’t think I’m strong enough,” Kadari mumbled.

“You had a good idea. You just have to be ready for the weight and control it.” I figured I sounded older and wiser, and I hoped, encouraging. I held the mallet out to Kadari.

He took it tentatively. Finally, he looked into my eyes. That was the first time he’d ever looked into my eyes. For a moment he just stood there, staring. It unnerved me a little bit. Nobody had ever stared at me like that before. A kind of dreamy look came over his face, and his full lips spread into a smile. I was embarrassed, and I looked away.

Whatever the spell, it was broken, but Kadari set his jaw in determination and pressed his lips tightly. He approached the swinging ball again. He took some time with the mallet now, hefting it and lowering it, giving it a few practice swings. I grinned. He was getting himself ready for the weight, learning the feel of it in his hands and shoulders.

To the side, I saw Jendarr surrounded by the usual gang of boys that following him around like a bunch of chicklings.

“Look at him,” Jendarr said. “I bet he’s as likely to smash his own knee as hit any of the targets. He can barely lift the mallet.”

The gaggle of boys laughed.

White-hot rage seared through me. I was not one to show anger quickly. My father taught discipline before all else, yet I knew the possible heights of my rage were greater than most others. My good hand balled into a fist, and I might have struck Jendarr if so many adults hadn’t been around us.

“Just shut up and watch him.” I spat the words at them with all the venom I had.

Jendarr stared at me, his eyes wide and incredulous. I understood his shock. My anger surprised even me. Why would I, first son of Vendari, speak up for the son of some nothing clan? By rights, I should be joining the boys in their mockery. Even so, they did not argue back. Jendarr’s eyes narrowed into a glare. He leveled it first at me and then at one of his followers when they tried to voice a comeback. He pushed his gaggle away toward another event, unwilling to make a confrontation. Good. He knew I was the stronger.

Kadari was really getting his wind-up going by that point. Around and around the mallet swung. Some brave spectators still surrounded the event, but they gave it a much wider distance than before. I noticed the old man again, the wise one. There was a noticeable gap between him and the rest of the crowd. He stood as close as I did.

With a heavy thunk, the heavy mallet struck the spinning ball. Metal crashed as the ball swung, bending two plates flat and nearly finished a third. I could have done better, but it was still an accomplishment to be proud of.

My prize was seeing the shine of triumph in Kadari’s eyes. The old man clapped and put his arms around the boy. Then they turned toward me. I bowed my head to the old man. He might have only been Donosi, but it seemed my duty to honor him as I would any great Ancestor.

“My grandfather,” Kadari introduced.

“Honored,” I replied, keeping my head bowed.

The old man put a weathered palm on my shoulder. His voice was surprisingly strong and steady. “I am honored by you, young one,” he said. “You saved my grandson from much shame, and you suffered for it. No one here is as brave, old or young.”

His words bloomed warmth in my chest. I raised my face to him, hoping it would not seem disrespectful to do so. His rich brown eyes looked down on me only with tenderness, and a smile split his wrinkled lips. It was strange, but I think Kadari’s grandfather saw something in me that day before hardly any words had passed between us. He seemed a man who could read your soul through your eyes and your heart through your lips, and I don’t think anyone has ever seen me so deeply as he did in that moment, perhaps more deeply than I had ever seen myself.

His weathered hand slid down my good arm until he reached my hand. With his other hand, he took Kadari’s. He placed our hands together. “The Ancestors honor a bond between you,” he said. “They approve.”

This man did not look like a shaman, but he spoke with more conviction about the will of the Ancestors than any shaman I had ever heard. I could not take my eyes off Kadari. He was looking at me with that same lost, dreamy look he’d had before. I squeezed his hand beneath my own, and I felt him squeeze back, and then the afternoon sun broke free from a dark cloud that had been shading the fields most of that day, and a sharp, fragrant breeze blew in from the river. I don’t think I had ever felt the presence of the Ancestors until that moment, not even during the shaman’s ceremonies, but I felt them then, and I knew that Kadari’s grandfather was right about us.

I did not know it at that moment because the feeling was too alien to know and too deep for awareness, but one day I would call it true love.