Hey, digressors! I bet you'd almost forgotten this blog existed, hm? Sorry about that. Between my usual difficulties focusing on things, the ongoing battle with Lyme (in which I've made some progress), and the struggle to rewrite 'The Survivor' (the new version is with beta readers right now -- I'll post an update when I have a better idea of how much more needs to be done), the blog kind of fell through the cracks.
This past year has been especially difficult because my mom was diagnosed with stage four breast cancer on October 30th, 2018, and lost her battle with it on October 2nd of this year (2019). She was an amazing woman and my biggest fan in all things, and although it's painful to think of writing and publishing new things without being able to show them to her, I know it's what she would want.
Something else I know is that Part Four of 'The Runaway' (a prequel story to 'The Follower', focusing on how Jorthen Lavahr and Sohrem Terahl met and became friends) has been sitting half-written on my hard drive since 2016. I've finally finished it, and if y'all don't mind, I'd like to continue publishing it here. Eventually I might pull all my Sehret backstory pieces together and publish an anthology on Kindle, but I'm not there yet, so for now, the story will be free-to-read. Since it's been a long time since the previous parts of the story went live, here are the links for your convenience:
And now, without further ado, here's...
The Runaway
Part Four
Reshan Guard Military Base, Jaern – Reshan Territory
Eight years ago
It had been almost a month since Atrin had rushed Jorthen through registration and deposited him into his shared quarters with five other recruits — all new, and all at least two or three years older than him, just like everyone else who lived, learned, and worked there. It was supposed to be a training facility for people to learn how to fight so they could protect their country should it ever face war, but more likely they would all be assigned guard posts either around Jaern or in their hometowns and never see a clash more intense than a barroom brawl.
As most soldiers over twenty-five had either been promoted to officer status or been assigned to posts elsewhere, the majority of those walking the halls were in their late teens or early twenties and acted every bit the adolescents they were. Thus, the base felt more like a glorified school which happened to include combat training in its curriculum.
He’d always wondered what it would be like to go to an actual school, with a crowd to get lost in so no-one would bother to look at him, make him work through problems aloud, or recite difficult-to-pronounce texts. Now he wished he could go back to learning from a tutor at home, where the drama and immaturity of those who by all rights should have been more mature than him made every day a nightmare.
Not that his days would have been particularly dreamlike otherwise.
More than anything, he wished Amra were there so he could tell her about it. He’d written letters, six of them already, but knew deep down that they probably wouldn’t reach her. Atrin had never been pleased with how much time Jorthen spent with Amra, and although Mother had always been sympathetic and pulled strings to give them opportunities to interact, Atrin made it his life’s goal to do the opposite. Jorthen wouldn’t be surprised to learn that the whole reason he’d been shipped off to the Guard so young was because Atrin feared it would be harder to keep them apart as they approached adulthood. Mother would never have allowed this.
But Mother was dead, so there was no use thinking about it.
The rest of the recruits bustled and chattered around the cafeteria, gathering food and swooping into seats beside their friends to whisper about their instructors and groan about how sore they were from training. Jorthen sat alone at a corner table and observed them all in silence. The food here was lackluster, but at least it filled his stomach. The girls at the table to his left, however, seemed less content with it. Ahead of him was a cluster of boys who huddled together and spoke in what they thought were hushed tones, but not hushed enough to keep their words from drifting to his ears a few yards away. He filtered them out for the most part, until he heard his own name enter the conversation.
“Can you believe they let in that scrawny little waif? What is this, a nursery?”
“Please,” another boy countered. “You know the Lavahrs are richer than half the council combined. Councilman Lavahr probably bribed them with a castle or something.”
Jorthen’s throat and the hand holding his fork both tightened as he kept his gaze trained on the meal he’d barely touched. It was just talk. Talk was stupid. There was no point getting worked up over it.
The fair-weather heart stuttering in his chest had a different opinion.
“Well, he’ll either be kicked out or drop dead soon enough. Haven't you heard him gasp when he spars?”
A boy laughed. “He’s a regular little wheezer.”
“We should call him that!”
“Oh, perfect. Hey, Wheezer!”
Jorthen's shoulders bunched as the boy hollered at him. Just talk. Just names. It wasn't a big deal.
A chorus of mouths shushed the boy and hissed at him to keep his voice down.
“Why? It's not like he'll do anything. He’s a milksop.”
“He’ll tell his father,” one of the others said a little too loudly. “And how much fun d'you think you'll have on a founding family's bad side?”
“Private Lavahr!”
A grown man’s voice from the cafeteria’s entryway made Jorthen jump. He fought to keep his breathing under control as he nudged his plate away from him and rose to face the doorway. “Y-yes, s-s-sir?”
Muffled snickers and exaggeratedly repetitive hissing sounds came from the bullies’ table.
One of the officers whose names Jorthen hadn’t learned yet stood in the doorway and beckoned with a twitch of his head. “Report to the infirmary. Now.”
Oh, no. He didn’t know which was worse — the fact that the officer had announced the summons so publicly, or that it had been given in the first place. Jorthen fought a cringe and muttered, “Yessir.”
“What was that, Lavahr?”
Anxiety twinged his stomach. He raised his voice. “I… said…yes, s-sir.”
The officer glared as if Jorthen’s slowed speech were an attempt at sassing him, but said nothing. Jorthen started for the door, realized his food was still on the table, and turned back to deal with it. Every step drew another eye to him, and he felt like passing out by the time he finally reached the entryway and headed down the hall.
“Other way, Lavahr,” the officer said, exaggerating Jorthen’s surname as he spoke it. “That way’s the women’s quarters.”
Jorthen’s cheeks burned as he turned and headed the other way.
At least the hall to the infirmary was quiet at the moment. Everyone was either training or eating, except for him and a few unfortunate souls assigned to watch the various doors and make sure no-one slipped in or out without approval. He wished they’d take a break, but as he knew that wasn’t happening, he forced himself to approach the infirmary door and knock.
“Come in.”
He drew a shuddering breath and entered. Geram Kellyn’s stooped back and greying hair greeted him. Geram turned briefly and gestured for Jorthen to take a seat on the examination table before he resumed crushing herbs at his workstation. “Didn’t see you for your checkup yesterday.”
Jorthen sat where he was told and fought not to squirm. He swallowed and waited until he felt he had some control over his tongue before answering, “Sorry.”
Geram sighed heavily and left his mortar and pestle to approach Jorthen. “You’ve naught to fear from me, boy. Not unless you’ve done somethin’ wrong. Have you?”
“…No, sir.”
Geram grunted. “Thought not. So stop your shaking — you’re safe here.”
Talking became a little easier as Jorthen’s heartrate slowed. “Thank you, sir,” he said quietly.
Another grunt, and Geram returned to his workstation to stir the newly crushed ingredients into a cup of water before extending the mixture to his patient. “Drink this.”
Jorthen grimaced and pinched his nose as he obeyed. The grainy texture of the herbs swept over his tongue and down his throat. The feeling was familiar, but the taste seemed fouler than usual. He returned the cup to Geram and kept hold of his nose for a few seconds before releasing. When he did, the residual flavor of the drink left his expression pinched. “What’s that?”
“It’s your daily medicine,” Geram said. “But a double dose — it’s what you’ll be taking for the next couple weeks.”
“Why?”
“Because you’ve not taken it as prescribed.”
Jorthen cringed. “N-no, I… I’ve been taking it.”
Geram’s lined brown eyes met his. “Have you really?”
He only lasted a few seconds under Geram’s scrutiny before his gaze dropped and he mumbled, “No, s-sir.”
“And why not?”
He swallowed hard and lifted a shoulder, unable to come up with a good answer.
Another sigh whistled from Geram’s nose, and he let the question go. “Take off your shirt.”
Jorthen stiffened and shook his head. Before Geram could insist, he muttered in a rush, “Too cold. Think I’ve got a fever or s-something.”
“You don’t have a fever,” Geram said sternly, “any more’n you did the last time I asked. You’ve got a habit of lying to physicians, boy — mind explaining why?”
The accusation changed his tangled tongue to stone, and he said nothing.
“Look now, lad,” Geram murmured. “I’ve been ‘round long enough to know a few things, and to learn how to keep a secret. I need to know what ails you if I’m to look after your wellbeing. And for that… I need you to remove your shirt.”
“I can’t,” Jorthen whispered, afraid he’d stutter if he tried for more than those two syllables. Why did Geram care, anyway? Physicians never cared. They just did what they were told, and kept telling him the same things he’d been hearing since infancy.
“Boy,” Geram said, tapping Jorthen’s knee with the back of his hand. “Nothing you say here leaves this room. On my life, you can trust me.”
Jorthen’s heart thudded painfully, and he fought the urge to look over his shoulder to see if his father had stepped through the wall to stare at the back of his head. It felt like he was right there. Jorthen’s chest hurt, his hands grew numb and cold, and his throat tightened.
Another tap came at his knee. “Private Lavahr?”
Jorthen swallowed hard as the fatherly tone in Geram’s voice brought tears to his eyes. He took as deep a breath as he could manage, closed his eyes for a moment, then nodded and pulled off his shirt.
———————
Geram fumed silently as he finished examining his youngest patient and sent him back to his quarters with a fresh prescription. It had taken all his willpower not to scream at the poor lad as he questioned him, with the true object of his rage nowhere in sight.
Now he sought the offender out, leaving his post to find Councilman Lavahr’s private quarters and rap sharply on the door.
Watch your mouth, Kellyn, he told himself. No good’ll be accomplished by you getting fired.
When no-one answered the door immediately, Geram banged harder on the portal and called gruffly, “Lavahr, it’s Geram Kellyn — open up.”
At last the mahogany door swung open to reveal Atrin Lavahr’s vaguely exasperated expression. “Should I expect my door to be broken down regularly, or are you here to hand in your resignation?”
It was all Geram could do not to break the man’s face. “You’ll want to invite me inside.”
“And why might I want that?”
“’Cause you don’t want me announcing the results of your boy’s latest physical to the whole base.”
Atrin gripped the doorframe and worked his jaw before taking a step backwards. “Please come in.”
Geram obeyed and waited for the door to close before snapping, “If ever a boy turned out more like his father—”
Atrin barked out a laugh. “You think Jorthen takes after me?”
“I mean you and Theran,” Geram said darkly.
Atrin’s eyes flashed as he sat on the edge of his desk. “Are you accusing me of something, physician?”
“If I thought it’d make any difference, I would, but we both know it wouldn’t.”
Atrin crossed his arms, relaxing smugly. “Then may I ask the purpose of this social call?”
“You’re on track to kill him, Lavahr.”
“My father didn’t kill me.”
Geram’s fists clenched at his sides. “Well, the lad’s not you, and bless him and his mother for that.”
“You imply none of his positive traits are the result of my efforts.”
“He might have a shot at growing into something decent,” Geram said through gritted teeth. “But if you keep up the Lavahr ways with him, he’ll never get the chance. Is that why you brought him here? To finish him off?”
This time Atrin rolled his eyes, and straightened to pour himself a glass of wine from an ornate pitcher on his desk. “I’ve done nothing to or with him that wasn’t for his own good.”
“I doubt that,” Geram growled, but again had to admit to himself his own powerlessness. To challenge a Lavahr was to risk one’s own ruin. He advanced slowly, trying to picture a battered nineteen-year-old before him rather than an indifferent thirty-something. “I’m not simple enough to think we’re friends. I’d not want to be yours after this.”
“Then it’s lucky for you I lost interest in such a friendship fifteen years ago.”
“But I’ll not stand by and do nothing as you force a child into an earlier grave than he’s already destined for. I know if I toss him out of the ranks, you’ll push him back in. Maybe he’s even better off here.”
“His siblings are certainly better off.” Atrin sipped from his glass. “His lack of discipline will trickle down to them if I’m not careful.”
Heat flashed through Geram. Careful, he reminded himself. “So if he’s to stay here, then I’m keeping an eye on him. He’ll keep coming in for regular check-ups and take whatever treatment I prescribe.”
“Isn’t that your job?”
“I’ll also take a detailed account of any and all changes in his condition. Illnesses, cuts, scrapes… bruises.”
Atrin’s grip on his cup tightened as his eyes locked back onto Geram. “What has he told you?”
“Nothing,” Geram answered truthfully. “Thanks to you, he could barely look me in the eye without trembling. But I’m a physician. I know the marks of a beating when I see them.”
Atrin worked his jaw and carefully set his glass back onto his desk. “What do you want? Money? A favor?”
“I want you to leave him be. He’s under my care, and founding family or not, if I find more bruises on him, I will file a report.”
“You’ll be replaced.”
“Maybe. But at least the lad would know there’s someone who cared enough to stand up for him. You should know well how much difference that could make. And you should also recall I don’t make empty threats.”
Boots scraped as Atrin pushed away from the desk and advanced to tower over Geram, eyes narrowed, knuckles white. Geram held his stare, long past being intimidated by any of the Lavahrs. While he knew the power they held and knew to tread lightly around it, he also knew that sometimes even the thinnest ice was worth stomping through.
“It’s only for the sake of our history that I’m relenting, physician. And it’s a one-time deal. If you challenge me again, I'll have your job. And I’ll continue to discipline my son as I see fit.”
“No more bruises.”
“No more,” Atrin agreed. “Not that I’ll admit to causing them in the first place.”
Geram sniffed and wagged his head as he went to the door. “As I said. If ever a boy turned out more like his father…”
As soon as he shut the door behind him, he felt the impact as glass struck and shattered against it. Geram slammed his fist against the wood in retaliation, then returned to his post, muttering pointlessly violent words the whole way.
———————
Present day
"So let me see if I understand this." Boots clomped heavily at Jorthen's right, scraping as they reached one end of the room and reversed course. "An undocumented Shamindo rode in on a stolen horse yesterday, and you were the first to discover him."
"Yes, sir," Jorthen said without looking up. He scrawled his signature on the first page before him and flipped it over to skim the next few paragraphs for the next line and any pertinent information preceding it. He made a show of locking his eyes onto the paper, not daring to let them stray or let himself lean back an inch. Any deviation from the task at hand might signal readiness to break away from it.
"Next you called for the guards, and had them aid you in bringing him to Geram for an examination. I suppose that makes sense — it's difficult to question an unconscious or disabled prisoner."
Jorthen didn’t like the tone being taken so far, nor did he like that the word 'prisoner' had entered the conversation. "Yes, sir."
"But here is where my understanding fails me." The boots stopped, and Jorthen's pen halted in mid-signature as he tensed. "When you checked on the boy this morning and Geram informed you of the proper protocol for this... situation... rather than turn the prisoner over to the proper authorities, you agreed to become his interim guardian. I assume that decision led to the drawing-up of the papers you're currently using as an excuse to avoid eye contact."
Jorthen swallowed a remark about how Atrin had been the only one talking, and instead dragged his pen to the signature's conclusion before setting it aside and straightening to meet his father's stare. "I'm not looking for an excuse, Father — I only want to finish this paperwork before San wakes up."
"San, is it?" Atrin's tone dripped with displeasure. "Is that all the name he has, or have you crafted a pet name for him already?"
"It's what he gave, so it's what I use. He'll give me the rest when he's ready."
The desk shook as Atrin slapped it. Jorthen flinched back instinctively, and Atrin's cold eyes glared down at him, daring him to speak again. "The boy has no rights, Lieutenant. As both a criminal and a trespasser on Reshan soil, he deserves nothing more than a locked cell and enough sustenance to keep him functional until his trial."
Jorthen's fingertips chilled again, and he dragged the papers closer to himself without breaking eye contact with Atrin. With their eyes locked, it was hard to speak, so he formed his words slowly and deliberately. "I'm aware of that. But he's seventeen, and it’s within my rights to help him."
"You would align your reputation with his, simply because he happens to be young? Youth is no excuse for misconduct, especially in the case of... foreigners."
Jorthen's pulse accelerated until his chest ached, and he broke off the staring contest with Atrin he could scrawl out the last two instances of his signature as he answered quietly. "There's more to his story that we don't know yet, and I don't think he's dangerous. If I'm wrong, I'll take responsibility for that."
"And if he harms one of your students? If he steals someone else's property or uses your leniency to take sensitive information back to his people?" Atrin scoffed and leaned over until Jorthen felt hot breath on his forehead. "The Shamindo are not known for being honest or respectable, Lieutenant. They're tricksters and berserkers by nature, and to assume one to be anything else without extensive evidence to the contrary is to invite chaos."
"With all due respect, sir," Jorthen said as he stacked the papers neatly and stood with them in hand, "I think that's my problem, not yours."
Atrin straightened. "And yet I'll be the one left to clean up the mess if you're wrong. But I suppose we'll see how it goes soon enough."
"Yes, sir."
"But Jorthen..."
The words came just as Jorthen had lain his hand on the doorknob to exit. He halted and gripped it without looking back. "Yes, sir?"
The boots scraped again, then halted as Atrin said, "Just remember that if you're wrong, and the Shamindo commits a new crime after you’ve extended asylum to him, the consequences will be dire."
"Like I said, sir, I'll take responsibility if that happens."
"I don't mean for you — I mean for him. Do you think there's a gallows behind the base for no reason?"
The reminder of the structure which had already plagued Jorthen’s thoughts today made him shiver.
“I’m not trying to be cruel, Lieutenant,” Atrin said. “I’m trying to help you.”
“…Thank you, sir,” Jorthen said, and quit the room before the conversation could devolve any further.
He wasn’t hungry, but the day was halfway gone and he’d eaten nothing, so he headed to the mess hall. As usual, it was a bustling echo chamber of laughter, chatter, and egocentricity. The soldiers and students had segregated themselves by rank, and by rapport within those ranks. The youngest recruits were the loudest, and the officers on the far side of the room were the quietest. Once in a while, a young student snuck over to the officers’ section and attempted to flirt with someone there, and every time they were shut down and slunk back to their snickering friends. A few officers glanced Jorthen’s way as he entered, then leaned in and said something that made their companions chuckle and wag their heads.
Jorthen retrieved his lunch — after an uncomfortable two minutes of pretending not to notice how many in line gave him intense once-overs — and retreated to the one empty table across the aisle from the other officers. As usual, they saw him but offered no greeting, and he returned the favor.
The usual whispers drifted past him. All knew there was talk of him being promoted to a full captain soon, given the authority to organize his own missions, to act independently of his superiors in more contexts. Few approved, and most expressed their disapproval through quiet mockery. He ignored them all. Their opinions wouldn’t help him today.
Atrin was right about one thing — taking responsibility for San was risky. Jorthen wasn’t usually one to take risks. However, the idea of fast-tracking a vulnerable youth into prison or to the gallows never sat well with him, and San didn’t seem like a hardened criminal. Damaged, yes, and maybe a bit unhinged, but those weren’t crimes in and of themselves.
The trick would be keeping him on his hinges long enough to learn his story, and remaining patient enough to draw it out of him without incident.
It was with this goal in mind that Jorthen kept his meal brief and was as discreet as possible about returning to his quarters. A few recruits still stopped him along the way, but he brushed them all off in turn. It was a relief to get into the officers’ section where the recruits weren’t meant to follow, and to see that none had chosen to violate that rule at this particular hour. He hoped that meant San had stayed put and been quiet enough not to draw attention.
He knocked on the door before unlocking it, trying to give San as much warning as possible. The image of a trashed, abandoned room flashed through his mind, along with Atrin’s threats regarding what would happen if San caused any more trouble. But when he entered, the room was exactly as he’d left it, except now San was sitting on his cot, baggy uniform all but falling off his skinny shoulders, and a book on zoology in his lap.
Jorthen blinked and shut the door behind him. “You can read?”
“No,” San answered, closing the book. “I just like the pictures.”
“Oh.” Jorthen forced a strained smile. “I see you were right about my uniform. I’m sorry about that.”
San shrugged before setting down the book, then stared at his lap in silence.
Jorthen sighed and plopped down onto his own bed, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees in an attempt to look less intimidating. “…San, may I be candid with you about something?”
“What does ‘candid’ mean?”
“It means I want to tell you the truth, even if I don’t think you’ll like it.”
San’s eyes flicked to meet his before dropping again. “Sure.”
“Your arrival has drawn quite a bit of… negative attention. More than half the people I’ve met think you’re a spy. While I know that’s unlikely, I’m not familiar enough with you to prove otherwise. So sometime within the next day or two, I’ll need to conduct a formal interrogation.”
San tensed visibly. “You’re gonna torture me?”
“What? No — no, nothing like that, I promise.” Jorthen clasped his hands and tapped his thumbs against each other as his lips pressed themselves flat. “But, um…’formal’ means I’ll need to have one of my superiors present to ensure a thorough and orderly line of questioning.”
“…Which means…?”
“It means that my f-father…” Jorthen cleared his throat and straightened a little. “My father, Councilman Atrin Lavahr, will likely be present at the interrogation. While he’s not on active duty, he still holds rank in the Guard, and he’s my direct supervisor in most affairs.”
Even if he weren’t, with how dramatically Atrin had reacted to San’s arrival, Jorthen couldn’t imagine him passing up the opportunity to inject himself into the situation now. And if Atrin Lavahr wanted something, he could always find a way to get it, whether he was entitled or not.
San fidgeted and looked even more uncomfortable than he had in Geram’s examination room. “So you won’t be the one asking the questions?”
“Technically I will. My father will likely take a turn, and he might ask some tough questions, but…” He hesitated, trying to read San’s anxious expression. “…I promise I’ll be there the whole time. Even if I’m not the one talking, I won’t leave. You’ll never be alone in the room with him, or with anyone other than me.”
The relief in San’s face flowed down through the rest of him. He didn’t thank Jorthen, but at least he seemed to trust him, if only a little more than he trusted anyone else in the base. It was a start.
Now Jorthen just had to maintain that trust well enough to keep Atrin from destroying it.
“All right, then,” Jorthen said, straightening fully and tapping his knee in a nervous gesture even as he smiled. “I’ll work on scheduling that soon. First, let’s get you something to eat.”
