Seeds of Rebellion
Page 78
“You wouldn’t believe some of the remedies I’ve had to drink,” Tark confided with a shudder.
Galloran scratched his beard. “I would. I was treated for lungrot here myself once. Do yourself the kindness of not inquiring about the ingredients.”
Tark grimaced. “The treatment almost seems more violent than the ailment.” He coughed again.
“Such is the price one must pay to evict airborne parasites. Has Nedwin awakened?”
“Several times,” Tark said. “He’s been in and out all morning.”
Galloran touched Nedwin’s shoulder. The freckled man sat up, red eyes blinking. “Sire, am I needed?”
“I just came to bid you adieu,” Galloran said. “I’m overjoyed to hear you will recover.”
“It will take more than fungi to vanquish me, sire.”
“I believe it. You appear to be in competent hands. Farewell until we meet again in Longvale.”
“Hope you feel better,” Jason gasped. Since his first inhalation inside the tent, he had struggled to limit his breathing. Every whiff of the potent vapors made his eyes burn and the lining of his mouth tingle uncomfortably.
While Tark croaked a reply, Jason stooped out of the tent. Gulping fresh air, he held the flap aside for Galloran. The brief exposure to the heady atmosphere already had his legs feeling unsteady. He wiped tears from his cheeks.
“Back to the others?”
Galloran nodded.
Half an hour later, Jason and his companions rode down the pass on borrowed mounts into Broadvale. The expansive valley was sectioned into a patchwork of farmland nourished by an extensive irrigation system. Crops even flourished on the terraced slopes enclosing the valley, the tiered plots buttressed by retaining walls.
Cornstalks overburdened with ears rose higher than Jason as he sat astride his horse. Workers labored amid countless acres of wheat, binding the harvest into golden sheaves. Fragrant trees were assembled in long rows, limbs laden with bounteous fruitage. One field contained white pumpkins the size of Volkswagen Beetles, and huge yellow squashes contorted like bizarre, bloated sculptures.
Most of the buildings Jason observed were squat dwellings roofed with floral gardens. He also identified several windowless storage facilities. Beside a waterfall on the near side of the valley stood an enormous structure connected to a massive waterwheel.
Jason wondered if he had ever felt this refreshed. Yesterday, death had only been a few minutes behind them. Today they rode at a leisurely pace through the safest nation in Lyrian. The mat he had slept on had not been soft, but it had done the job. He had slumbered long and deep.
Beneath the warm sun, the group traversed the fertile valley at a relaxed pace. They passed a field smothered by tangled, leafy vines.
“What crop is that?” Jason asked.
“Describe it,” Galloran said.
“A bunch of vines that look like they belong in a jungle.”
“Those are kathoras, the most essential of all crops here. The fruit draws impurities from the soil. The vines hoard nutrients. Once the vines mature, the fruit is discarded, and the rest is plowed into the soil. Humankind has yet to discover a superior fertilizer.”
The road began snaking up a rise at the far end of the valley. When they topped the slope, another spacious valley spread out before them, running a long way to the east before it seemed to turn a corner. Like Broadvale, all available land was being cultivated, but this deeper valley also featured a large lake that mirrored the blue sky. Fishing vessels drifted on the water, the distance reducing them to miniatures.
One switchback below Jason and his companions, a pair of riders were ascending out of Crookvale. The riders looked up. One was a young man who bore an uncanny resemblance to Jasher, except he wore a neatly trimmed beard along his jawline and had darker hair. The other was a lovely woman, her striking eyes a frosty blue.
“Galloran?” the woman called.
“Is that Farfalee?”
“You have sharp ears.” She urged her mount to lope up the final switchback, and dismounted.
Galloran dropped to the ground, his broad grin creating a pair of dimples. “I did not expect to greet you until we reached Longvale.”
“I couldn’t wait,” Farfalee said. She walked to Galloran and embraced him. Tall and slender, she was nearly his height. Her thick black hair was pulled back in intricate braids, and she wore earth-toned clothing, with an elk-hide shawl draped across her shoulders. The days of young womanhood were behind her, but her beauty had yet to fade.
“Greetings, Galloran,” the young man said from astride his piebald mount.
“Could that be Lodan?”
“Yes, sir.”
“He sounds like a man!”
“His First Death ceremony is only weeks away,” Farfalee said. “You should attend.”
“His First Death? Has it been so long? When I last saw Lodan, he came no higher than my waist.”
Farfalee placed a hand on Galloran’s arm. “It has been too many years.” She looked up at the others in the group. “I understand one of you brought my husband’s seed to East Gate.”
“That would be Tark,” Drake said. “He and one other of our number remain at West Gate undergoing treatment for lungrot.”
Farfalee regarded Drake coolly. “Why must those who least deserve misfortune suffer the most?”
Drake gave her a wink. “What? No welcome for me?”
“I’m saving my enthusiasm for your departure,” she said.
Drake shrugged. “Maybe I’ll stay.”
“Until you’re exiled. Shouldn’t take long. It’s really just a formality.”
“Don’t fret, Failie,” he said, turning and raising the hair at the nape of his neck. “You’ll be rid of me soon enough.”
Farfalee gasped, her hands covering her mouth. “Your amar!”
“Karma has spoken,” Drake said simply.
Tears shimmered in her eyes. “Oh, Drake. I had no idea.”
“What happened to it?” Lodan asked, brow steepled in concern.
“My seed failed to form correctly the last time I was reborn,” Drake said. “This will be my final lifetime. I’m at peace with the notion. I’m not sure any lesser incentive could have convinced me to rejoin the living.”
Farfalee plucked uncomfortably at her shawl. “Under the circumstances, I imagine I can persuade the Conclave to defer any—”
Drake laughed harshly. “You think I care how the Conclave rules about me? I’d wear exile like a badge of honor. My only concern would be if they tried to keep me here. Save your influence for cajoling those old windbags into letting our people survive.”
Galloran scratched his beard. “I would. I was treated for lungrot here myself once. Do yourself the kindness of not inquiring about the ingredients.”
Tark grimaced. “The treatment almost seems more violent than the ailment.” He coughed again.
“Such is the price one must pay to evict airborne parasites. Has Nedwin awakened?”
“Several times,” Tark said. “He’s been in and out all morning.”
Galloran touched Nedwin’s shoulder. The freckled man sat up, red eyes blinking. “Sire, am I needed?”
“I just came to bid you adieu,” Galloran said. “I’m overjoyed to hear you will recover.”
“It will take more than fungi to vanquish me, sire.”
“I believe it. You appear to be in competent hands. Farewell until we meet again in Longvale.”
“Hope you feel better,” Jason gasped. Since his first inhalation inside the tent, he had struggled to limit his breathing. Every whiff of the potent vapors made his eyes burn and the lining of his mouth tingle uncomfortably.
While Tark croaked a reply, Jason stooped out of the tent. Gulping fresh air, he held the flap aside for Galloran. The brief exposure to the heady atmosphere already had his legs feeling unsteady. He wiped tears from his cheeks.
“Back to the others?”
Galloran nodded.
Half an hour later, Jason and his companions rode down the pass on borrowed mounts into Broadvale. The expansive valley was sectioned into a patchwork of farmland nourished by an extensive irrigation system. Crops even flourished on the terraced slopes enclosing the valley, the tiered plots buttressed by retaining walls.
Cornstalks overburdened with ears rose higher than Jason as he sat astride his horse. Workers labored amid countless acres of wheat, binding the harvest into golden sheaves. Fragrant trees were assembled in long rows, limbs laden with bounteous fruitage. One field contained white pumpkins the size of Volkswagen Beetles, and huge yellow squashes contorted like bizarre, bloated sculptures.
Most of the buildings Jason observed were squat dwellings roofed with floral gardens. He also identified several windowless storage facilities. Beside a waterfall on the near side of the valley stood an enormous structure connected to a massive waterwheel.
Jason wondered if he had ever felt this refreshed. Yesterday, death had only been a few minutes behind them. Today they rode at a leisurely pace through the safest nation in Lyrian. The mat he had slept on had not been soft, but it had done the job. He had slumbered long and deep.
Beneath the warm sun, the group traversed the fertile valley at a relaxed pace. They passed a field smothered by tangled, leafy vines.
“What crop is that?” Jason asked.
“Describe it,” Galloran said.
“A bunch of vines that look like they belong in a jungle.”
“Those are kathoras, the most essential of all crops here. The fruit draws impurities from the soil. The vines hoard nutrients. Once the vines mature, the fruit is discarded, and the rest is plowed into the soil. Humankind has yet to discover a superior fertilizer.”
The road began snaking up a rise at the far end of the valley. When they topped the slope, another spacious valley spread out before them, running a long way to the east before it seemed to turn a corner. Like Broadvale, all available land was being cultivated, but this deeper valley also featured a large lake that mirrored the blue sky. Fishing vessels drifted on the water, the distance reducing them to miniatures.
One switchback below Jason and his companions, a pair of riders were ascending out of Crookvale. The riders looked up. One was a young man who bore an uncanny resemblance to Jasher, except he wore a neatly trimmed beard along his jawline and had darker hair. The other was a lovely woman, her striking eyes a frosty blue.
“Galloran?” the woman called.
“Is that Farfalee?”
“You have sharp ears.” She urged her mount to lope up the final switchback, and dismounted.
Galloran dropped to the ground, his broad grin creating a pair of dimples. “I did not expect to greet you until we reached Longvale.”
“I couldn’t wait,” Farfalee said. She walked to Galloran and embraced him. Tall and slender, she was nearly his height. Her thick black hair was pulled back in intricate braids, and she wore earth-toned clothing, with an elk-hide shawl draped across her shoulders. The days of young womanhood were behind her, but her beauty had yet to fade.
“Greetings, Galloran,” the young man said from astride his piebald mount.
“Could that be Lodan?”
“Yes, sir.”
“He sounds like a man!”
“His First Death ceremony is only weeks away,” Farfalee said. “You should attend.”
“His First Death? Has it been so long? When I last saw Lodan, he came no higher than my waist.”
Farfalee placed a hand on Galloran’s arm. “It has been too many years.” She looked up at the others in the group. “I understand one of you brought my husband’s seed to East Gate.”
“That would be Tark,” Drake said. “He and one other of our number remain at West Gate undergoing treatment for lungrot.”
Farfalee regarded Drake coolly. “Why must those who least deserve misfortune suffer the most?”
Drake gave her a wink. “What? No welcome for me?”
“I’m saving my enthusiasm for your departure,” she said.
Drake shrugged. “Maybe I’ll stay.”
“Until you’re exiled. Shouldn’t take long. It’s really just a formality.”
“Don’t fret, Failie,” he said, turning and raising the hair at the nape of his neck. “You’ll be rid of me soon enough.”
Farfalee gasped, her hands covering her mouth. “Your amar!”
“Karma has spoken,” Drake said simply.
Tears shimmered in her eyes. “Oh, Drake. I had no idea.”
“What happened to it?” Lodan asked, brow steepled in concern.
“My seed failed to form correctly the last time I was reborn,” Drake said. “This will be my final lifetime. I’m at peace with the notion. I’m not sure any lesser incentive could have convinced me to rejoin the living.”
Farfalee plucked uncomfortably at her shawl. “Under the circumstances, I imagine I can persuade the Conclave to defer any—”
Drake laughed harshly. “You think I care how the Conclave rules about me? I’d wear exile like a badge of honor. My only concern would be if they tried to keep me here. Save your influence for cajoling those old windbags into letting our people survive.”
