Ruin Star: Prologue

To begin, I give my name to the annals of history and to the present and future scholars who read this account, as the writer, organizer, and overall god of this record: Baradin, Master Archivist.

From Master Archivist Baradin's "Chronicles"

Fifth day of Vasca, 550 Post-Ruin

* * *

Aithen stared when he noticed his grandmother crying.

He didn’t understand those silent tears, then. Watching the woman show any emotion, especially a smile or frown, was strange. He wondered what it meant as his mother held him in her arms under the vexing heat of the sun.

He turned and saw his father pay a man for the wagon and horse. A few other shirtless men helped pack the bed with cargo that contained everything they owned. They tied the boxes down to the planks of wood, securing them.

They departed Brucove, a place Aithen believed was his home. His grandmother stood at a street intersection and waved to them with those strange, unnatural tears still on her cheeks. The sun had risen high, forcing Aithen to squint until they left her behind altogether.

The Desolation lay before them, a wasteland of heat, despised by children. No one spoke in those moments. There was nothing to listen to except the clopping of horse hooves and old wood creaking as their wagon crossed over the dead, uneven ground.

* * *

His mother caught him by the arm before he fell to the hot earth. She pulled him up, and set him again on her lap—his shoulder ached, and his splintery seat had scraped the underside of his leg, but he didn’t cry. He never cried.

“Oh, Aithen,” Mother said, rubbing the pain from his legs. “I’ve got you. You’re safe in my arms now.”

The scorching sun scorched his eyes and skin. He pushed aside his long blond hair when it tickled his nose. His mother’s embrace protecting him, and he could feel her heat, her insatiable need to carry him everywhere. He glanced at his father, who had had his hands on the reins, his squinted gaze forward, and a clenched jaw. His light complexion glowed red.

Aithen looked ahead and watched their steed trot along their invisible path. Perhaps it was something only adults could see. Beyond, the desert didn’t seem to end. Mother called it the Desolation.

Aithen wanted to go back home to his bed in Brucove.

He shifted his attention to his mother’s sleeveless arm and dug his nails into her skin. She then turned him in her lap and leaned over to meet his eyes with her dark ones. She managed a small, chiding smile.

“Are you hungry, Aithen?” she asked. “Thirsty?”

He shook his head.

She looked away and hummed as she contemplated the horizon. Then her face brightened. “I believe we all need a song to cheer us up.”

Aithen thought a moment about the offer. He would feel safer if they were back in Brucove, but he nodded his approval. Mother glanced at Father.

“Be a shame to let your beautiful voice waste away,” he said.

Mother’s powerful arms wrapped around Aithen and brought him close. Then, she sang a melody he knew well:

Hello, my seabird.

Stay safe in my arms.

The night is come.

Stay sweet, my seabird.

Fly on, my seabird.

The wind will take you.

The morn will come.

Stay true, my seabird.

Aithen fixed his sight on her soft, pale face. The heaviness of sleep now blurred his vision. The sunlight and the heat of the desert seemed to sap all his strength.

“You’ll change this world, my little seabird,” Mother said, smiling. “Did you know? You’re too special to stay here. One day, I know you’ll go to the Sea. Soar high above it like a seabird and escape this life. I’ll make sure of it. Do you remember the seabirds, Aithen?”

To his chagrin, he realized he didn’t.

“They’re beautiful.” Her voice trailed away. She gazed past him, in awe of something visible only to her. Aithen felt entranced and tried to visualize what a seabird looked like. He had already forgotten.

“Sumena…” Father muttered.

“You’ll glow brighter than any other,” she continued, her eyes still unfocused. “Fly faster and stronger than any other. Because you’re my little seabird.”

“Ward Governor Ellar has been good to us,” Father said. “We have a cart and horse. We even have lodgings inside the Governor’s estate! Few can claim that privilege. And if we’re faithful, Aithen will have a future. Ellar himself promised me.”

Sumena smiled down at Aithen again. “I know. You’re right,” she said. “This is our future.”

Aithen squinted past his father and out into the open desert. He stared until his eyelids grew heavy and he slipped into an uncomfortable sleep in his mother’s arms.

When he awoke, the sun had hidden its face in the dark, and a cool night’s breeze brought a chill to his skin. Shadowy, box-like buildings surrounded them. No merna-lamps lit up the street as in Brucove.

“We’re here,” Mother said, jostling him. “Grenstike.”

Aithen glanced around him, his eyes adjusting to the dimness. He saw decrepit shadows trudging in the dirt in various directions. None of them made a sound.

His father directed the horse down a winding road toward a large, dark building that loomed above them. Darkness obscured their path—the many twists and turns through the streets to arrive somewhere that felt lost to him.

After what felt like an eternity, they halted.

“We’ve arrived at last,” Father said.

Aithen wanted to, then. Only he didn’t.

He never cried.

Their new home was larger than their old one. At least, he supposed it was. Everything was dark, and the only light emanated from a single, fading merna-lamp just outside the doorway. Father opened the door, picked up the lamp, and crept forward. After a moment, he waved them in. Mother held Aithen’s hand and led him inside.

The merna’s light didn’t illuminate everything, though Aithen thought he saw some furniture, chairs maybe. A table. They stood in a large room where the merna light couldn’t even reach the walls.

They hadn’t taken many steps before Aithen heard the pounding of several footsteps outside. A gust of wind rushed by him, grazing his cheek, pulling on his hair—then disappeared into the darkness. Aithen spun around, eyes wide, and Mother swooped him up into her arms.

“Avenell…” Mother said.

“Come out of there!” someone bellowed. “All of you! Quick!”

Father hurried back to the entryway, holding the merna-lamp up. Something felt wrong—like someone else was in the house with them.

“This is our home,” Father called out. “I’m Avenell Tyrees, employed by—”

“You fool! A bandit has fled inside! Get out!”

Father hesitated, and Mother acted. Holding Aithen close, she hurried back out the door and past Father, who remained behind. Ahead, several men carrying merna-lamps crowded into their courtyard. They seemed ordinary except with dark scowls. They parted for Mother. Aithen kept his head against his mother’s breast and tensed when they almost touched one of them.

Aithen closed his eyes then and heard voices collide while his mother rocked him in her arms and spoke to him in a calming, reassuring voice. Aithen only felt tense and cold. He wanted his bed in Brucove. He wanted the frightening men to go away.

Then shouts and screams erupted inside the house. Aithen glanced up in surprise as the men began filing out again. They brought out another smaller man, gripping his shirt tight with closed fists. The shadows concealed his face from Aithen’s view.

They pushed the man to the ground. He didn’t rise, but his arms flailed. He was at least awake.

Father stepped forward from behind the crowd of men. “Watchmen!” he bellowed, taking hold of a man’s arm. “Please don’t hurt him. Take him away to prison. He has harmed no one. You must all know this man.”

“He is not from here,” someone said. “He is an outcast. Even his own family don’t want him.”

“Even so,” Father said. “He stayed his hand when he could have harmed us. Surely you can do the same?”

The men glanced around at each other. One of them stepped forward. “You and your family are new here,” he said. “Our laws demand that water thieves die for their crime. The Authority approves this law.”

Everyone’s sight fell on them. Aithen felt exposed, scared that somehow they would attack him, too.

They didn’t.

Mother held him close and started toward the doorway. The crowd parted for them once more. Once inside, Aithen wriggled his way out of his mother’s grasp. She set him down, and Father came in behind them, closing the door. As he did, Aithen heard sudden cries from outside. Shouts of pain and anger. Crying. He stood where he was and listened. They all did.

Someone screamed, “Oathbreaker!”

Soon, the voices faded into the night, and Aithen didn’t remember how he returned to bed. He tossed about, wrestling with sleep until he succumbed to it just before dawn.