Read Online Progeny (The Children of the White Lions) by R.T. Kaelin - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: R.T. Kaelin
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sure you hit them.”
Glancing over, he spotted the tiniest of smiles on her face. Smiling back, he said, “I will.”
The pair walked down the road, side-by-side.
Chapter 8: Plan
Kenders sat against the trunk of a tree, resting her head against the bark and peering upwards, through the leaves and into the night sky. Both moons were visible tonight. White Moon was nearly full while Blue Moon was in the midst of waning, just a thin, cobalt crescent in the sky.
She and Nikalys had eaten, but her stomach was nowhere near full. Eveningmeal had been a lone rabbit seasoned with a bit of foraged hillsage and roasted over the fire. Nikalys had buried the carcass and guts so no scavengers or wolves would be drawn by the smell. Distant howls of wolves had echoed through the forested hills throughout the day as they traveled. There was no need to leave an open invitation.
Their tiny campfire crackled and popped in the dark, sending up curls of wispy, white smoke into the boughs overhead. It was dying, but that was by choice. The night would not be cool enough that they would need the warmth.
Kenders was tired, but every time she closed her eyes, all she could see was the devastation of Yellow Mud. After a time, she had given up and scooted over to rest against a tree trunk. She had not moved since.
Digging into their sack of scavenged items, she sought something to occupy her mind. Pulling out the tinderbox, she opened it and withdrew a firestick. She had used one to start the fire, but she had barely looked at it. Now, she held up the thin, red-tipped stick before her and studied it.
Father had never bought any from the traveling merchants, but not because he feared the sticks were magical as the other villagers did. In fact, he had repeatedly called such thoughts “the most backwards thing” he had ever heard. He claimed that he simply preferred the feel of flint and steel.
Kenders ran the firestick against the inside of the lid. The tip flared and ignited with a small puff of smoke that smelled like rotten eggs. She stared at the little flame, watching it slowly consumed the stick.
“Don’t waste those,” grunted Nikalys. “We’ll need them.”
She looked over to her brother and found him staring at her through cracked eyelids. He was leaning against a fallen oak trunk, his legs outstretched and hands folded across his chest. He looked as if he was taking a nap on a Seventhday afternoon. She eyed the hunting knife resting on his belly, already unsheathed. People did not take naps with knives at the ready.
Tossing the remainder of the firestick into the campfire’s meager flames, she closed the tinderbox. Nikalys eyed her for a moment before shutting his eyes again.
Kenders stared at him for a long time, thinking. After their brief confrontation in the road, she had made a decision and had spent much of the afternoon and evening trying to figure a way to broach the subject with her brother.
“Nikalys?”
Without moving a muscle and with his eyes still shut, he muttered, “Yes?”
“Remember the year that you threw a fit when Father and Jak went to Smithshill? You insisted you were old enough to go, too?”
A wistful, embarrassed grin spread across Nikalys’ face.
“Sure. I was…ten? Eleven?”
“You were thirteen.”
“Was not.”
“Yes. You were. I remember because I was twelve and excited about my Maiden’s Day.”
Every girl in the Oaken Duchies marked her thirteenth yearday by having an intimate celebration with her family, the day a girl is no longer a child, yet still not a woman. In a couple of years, when her eighteenth yearday arrived, a much larger celebration—Matron’s Day—would denote her entrance into womanhood.
Nikalys cracked open his right eye and looked across the dying fire. “Are you sure?”
Raising a single eyebrow, she said, “Nik.”
He gave a conciliatory shrug and mumbled, “Perhaps I was thirteen. What about it, though?”
“Do you remember the small
Glancing over, he spotted the tiniest of smiles on her face. Smiling back, he said, “I will.”
The pair walked down the road, side-by-side.
Chapter 8: Plan
Kenders sat against the trunk of a tree, resting her head against the bark and peering upwards, through the leaves and into the night sky. Both moons were visible tonight. White Moon was nearly full while Blue Moon was in the midst of waning, just a thin, cobalt crescent in the sky.
She and Nikalys had eaten, but her stomach was nowhere near full. Eveningmeal had been a lone rabbit seasoned with a bit of foraged hillsage and roasted over the fire. Nikalys had buried the carcass and guts so no scavengers or wolves would be drawn by the smell. Distant howls of wolves had echoed through the forested hills throughout the day as they traveled. There was no need to leave an open invitation.
Their tiny campfire crackled and popped in the dark, sending up curls of wispy, white smoke into the boughs overhead. It was dying, but that was by choice. The night would not be cool enough that they would need the warmth.
Kenders was tired, but every time she closed her eyes, all she could see was the devastation of Yellow Mud. After a time, she had given up and scooted over to rest against a tree trunk. She had not moved since.
Digging into their sack of scavenged items, she sought something to occupy her mind. Pulling out the tinderbox, she opened it and withdrew a firestick. She had used one to start the fire, but she had barely looked at it. Now, she held up the thin, red-tipped stick before her and studied it.
Father had never bought any from the traveling merchants, but not because he feared the sticks were magical as the other villagers did. In fact, he had repeatedly called such thoughts “the most backwards thing” he had ever heard. He claimed that he simply preferred the feel of flint and steel.
Kenders ran the firestick against the inside of the lid. The tip flared and ignited with a small puff of smoke that smelled like rotten eggs. She stared at the little flame, watching it slowly consumed the stick.
“Don’t waste those,” grunted Nikalys. “We’ll need them.”
She looked over to her brother and found him staring at her through cracked eyelids. He was leaning against a fallen oak trunk, his legs outstretched and hands folded across his chest. He looked as if he was taking a nap on a Seventhday afternoon. She eyed the hunting knife resting on his belly, already unsheathed. People did not take naps with knives at the ready.
Tossing the remainder of the firestick into the campfire’s meager flames, she closed the tinderbox. Nikalys eyed her for a moment before shutting his eyes again.
Kenders stared at him for a long time, thinking. After their brief confrontation in the road, she had made a decision and had spent much of the afternoon and evening trying to figure a way to broach the subject with her brother.
“Nikalys?”
Without moving a muscle and with his eyes still shut, he muttered, “Yes?”
“Remember the year that you threw a fit when Father and Jak went to Smithshill? You insisted you were old enough to go, too?”
A wistful, embarrassed grin spread across Nikalys’ face.
“Sure. I was…ten? Eleven?”
“You were thirteen.”
“Was not.”
“Yes. You were. I remember because I was twelve and excited about my Maiden’s Day.”
Every girl in the Oaken Duchies marked her thirteenth yearday by having an intimate celebration with her family, the day a girl is no longer a child, yet still not a woman. In a couple of years, when her eighteenth yearday arrived, a much larger celebration—Matron’s Day—would denote her entrance into womanhood.
Nikalys cracked open his right eye and looked across the dying fire. “Are you sure?”
Raising a single eyebrow, she said, “Nik.”
He gave a conciliatory shrug and mumbled, “Perhaps I was thirteen. What about it, though?”
“Do you remember the small
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