Why can't Lorthas be wrong?

Chapter 1.

What is he doing? Jeran wondered, peering down from his hiding place above the stream. From his vantage point, he had a beautiful view of the surrounding countryside. In the distance, the mountains of the Boundary stretched across the horizon, their dark stone absorbing the afternoon light.

Sunlight glinted off several snow-capped peaks, the brilliant white contrasting nicely with the dark mountains. South of the Boundary, the land rolled.

The season's first wildflowers dotted the hills, which were green with new spring gra.s.s.

A stream snaked through the hills, twisting back and forth through the valleys. It pa.s.sed below Jeran, cutting a line of blue through the otherwise green landscape. From his hiding place, he could hear the quiet babbling as the waters flowed southeast to join the mighty river Alren. Jeran had been coming here to swim when he stumbled upon the stranger.

Below him, lying motionless along the stream's near bank, was a boy.

Not just any boy, but a boy Jeran did not recognize. Living as he did in a small farming village close to the Boundary, Jeran did not often see people he did not know. Seeing anything new at all was rare. Squinting his eyes, he crawled forward, trying to get a better view.

The stranger lay at the edge of the stream, bare-chested. His head hung over the water, his left arm submerged nearly to the shoulder. He was motionless, so still that Jeran thought him asleep, or perhaps dead. After a few moments, the stranger jerked his arm, splashing water high in the air. He scanned the nearby bank frantically, but did not find what he was looking for.

Uttering a quiet curse, the first sound he had made in all the time Jeran had been observing him, he resumed his original, immobile position.

The stranger intrigued Jeran. Finding a stranger in this part of Alrendria was rare enough, but finding one doing something so peculiar was rarer.

Jeran was desperately curious to learn what was going on. He leaned far out over the edge of the embankment. By the time he felt the ground giving away beneath him, it was too late to do anything about it. In a shower of dirt and pebbles, he fell down the hillside.

The fall was not a long one, nor was the slope so steep that he risked serious injury. Nevertheless, overwhelming fear filled Jeran. Before, he had been a silent observer, watching from the safety of concealment. Now, his presence betrayed, he no longer had the security of anonymity. The stranger had certainly heard the ground crumble above him, and he must have seen Jeran tumble down the hillside.

Not having met many strangers in his life, Jeran had only stories on which to base his opinions. The strangers in stories were trouble more often than not.

Jeran finally stopped his descent, arms flailing desperately as he regained his balance. Rolling quickly to his feet, he found himself standing only eight hands away from the stranger. The young man no longer reclined along the bank of the stream, staring into the water. He was now on his feet, crouching low, a stick grasped tightly in one hand, as if preparing to attack.

The stranger was head and shoulders taller than Jeran and more heavily muscled. Long rips ran down his dirt-smeared breeches, and the once-white shirt on the ground was in a similar state of disrepair. The stranger's hair was golden-brown, and though unkempt, it hung to his shoulders in tight curls. Its color matched his almond-shaped eyes perfectly. Those eyes stared warily at Jeran.

A large scar was visible on the stranger's shoulder. It looked like a burn, and, as Jeran stared at the injury, it seemed to take shape, appearing like a bird in flight. For a brief instant, he wondered if burns, like clouds, often had shapes you could see if you looked close enough.

Jeran cursed himself a fool, overwhelmed by another wave of fear.

He swallowed, trying to work saliva back into his mouth, focusing his mind on the danger at hand. Keeping close watch on the stranger's movements, Jeran shifted his eyes back and forth, searching for some means of escape.

The stranger looked both faster and stronger than him, but Jeran had a better familiarity with the area. At least, he hoped he did.

Jeran tensed, ready to turn and run for the village, his lungs filled with air so he could scream. He was not yet so much a man to feel ashamed by screaming for help. The stranger's eyes delayed his flight. They looked wild, almost savage, but they did not appear menacing or dangerous. Instead, fear filled them.

Jeran could not understand this new revelation. The strangers in stories were sometimes mean and sometimes nice, but they were never afraid. Jeran had no illusions; he knew he was not particularly threatening. If the stranger were afraid of him, he decided that he had no cause to fear the stranger.

Raising his arms slowly, to show he meant no harm, he took a step forward.

He swallowed again, forcing a smile onto his face. "My name is Jeran Odara," he said in a voice that only quavered slightly. "I was watching you from the top of the hill." Jeran pointed to the top of the hill, speaking slowly and clearly, hoping to rea.s.sure this unfamiliar boy of his good intentions. "And I . . . Well, I guess I lost my balance. I didn't mean to frighten you."

The stranger did not move, nor did his wild eyes leave Jeran's face. "I just wanted to know what you were doing," Jeran continued, but the stranger still showed no sign of understanding. "Are you from around here?" Nothing. "Did you come from Portal?" Nothing. Jeran asked a few more questions, but the stranger remained unresponsive.

With the stranger's continued silence, Jeran's fear returned. He stammered, unable to speak clearly, his chest tightening. His hands began to tremble, and he decided that now would be a good time to take his leave of the stranger.

"I'm sorry I bothered you," he apologized. "I'm going to go now."

Jeran turned around slowly, keeping his eyes on the stranger as long as possible, ready to run at the slightest movement from the stranger. A voice suddenly growled, "Dahr." Jeran flinched at the sound. His nerves were so on edge that, for an instant, he thought the sound had come from a wild animal.

Then he realized it was the stranger who had spoken. He turned around, once again facing the boy. "What?"

The stranger took a slow, deep breath. "My name is Dahr," he said, his voice a pitch lower than Jeran's, "and I was catching fish."

Jeran scanned the bank of the stream. "Where did you put them?"

"What?" Dahr replied, his face scrunching in confusion.

"The fish you caught," Jeran explained, looking around. "I don't see any."

"Oh," Dahr said, looking embarra.s.sed. He shrugged his shoulders guiltily. "I haven't caught any yet. Some days I do better than others, and today hasn't been one of my best." Dahr straightened from his crouch, visibly relaxing.

"Would you show me?" Jeran asked curiously. He had never heard of catching fish without a pole.

Dahr's eyes brightened. "Sure!" He looked at the stick clutched in his right hand. Laughing, he dropped it to the ground and returned to the stream bank.

Lying on the moist earth, he explained the procedure to Jeran. "All you have to do is lay next to the water and put your arm in as deep as it will go. You stay very still until a fish swims over your hand, then jerk your arm and toss the fish out of the river. Watch!"

Dahr resumed the position he had been in prior to Jeran's fall down the hillside. Jeran stood behind him, watching with interest. Time pa.s.sed, but nothing happened. After a while, Dahr frowned and said, "There don't seem to be many fish around here right now." He sat up, picked up his dirty shirt, and used it to dry his arm. "There were plenty here before!" he lamented.

Jeran thought about it. "Maybe they were scared away when I fell down the hill," he guessed. "I'm sure they'll come back if we wait a while." Jeran's stomach growled, and he put a hand over his belly to quell the noise. Blushing, he asked, "Are you hungry, Dahr?"

The boy nodded eagerly, and Jeran said, "I know of a clearing not too far from here where there are berries. Most aren't ripe, but there should be enough to make a quick snack. By the time we're finished, maybe the fish will have returned. Would you like to join me?"

Dahr nodded again, his own stomach growling at the prospect of food.

"Thank you," he said. "I haven't eaten since yesterday morning. I was hoping to catch some fish for breakfast," he added with a laugh, "but since it's well past midday, you can see what kind of luck I've had." Good luck or bad, Jeran was impressed. He could never have sat along the stream bank all morning without being terribly bored.

The boys scrambled up the hill side by side. As Jeran led them through the brush, he asked Dahr a long string of questions. "Which farm are you from? Maybe my uncle knows your parents. I thought I knew everyone around Keryn's Rest - there aren't many people here - but I've never seen you before. Are you from Portal? I've seen Guardsmen from Portal before. They stop in Keryn's Rest on their way to and from the castle. Every now and then, Lord Talbot himself comes to the village to order supplies and talk to the village council. He usually stays at our farm. He and my uncle served together in the Tachan War. Sometimes traders stop in our village as they travel, but I've never met anyone normal who lived in Portal before. What is-"

"I don't live in Portal," Dahr interrupted, "and I'm from far away. My parents died a long time ago and I was . . ." Dahr's eyes grew momentarily distant, "raised by someone else." Dahr shook himself, looking down at Jeran with a smile. "I left home at the beginning of winter. I've been on my own since then."

"You've been by yourself all winter?" Jeran asked incredulously. It was now early spring. He doubted he could have survived an entire season on his own, especially one as cold as this past winter. His estimation of Dahr improved greatly with the boy's admission. "I'm sorry about your parents," Jeran told him. "My parents died a long time ago too. I've lived with my uncle since I was a baby."

"It's okay," replied Dahr. "I don't remember my parents. They died a few months after my fourth Naming day. For the last eight winters, I lived on a large estate in eastern Rachannon. It was hard work, but I guess things could have been worse."

As Dahr finished his last statement, disbelief quickly replaced Jeran's concern. He looked his companion up and down skeptically. "That can't be true!" Jeran exclaimed. "You must be older than twelve winters!" Dahr towered over Jeran, nearly as tall, and broader than some, of the adults in Keryn's Rest.

Jeran shook his head back and forth, all but convinced that Dahr lied. "It's not possible!" he insisted. "My Naming Day is during harvest, and this was my fourteenth winter, but you're more than two hands taller than me and muscled like an ox! You have to be older than twelve winters!"

Jeran regretted his words instantly, sensing they had hurt Dahr. The boy's brow lowered indignantly, and the muscles of his jaw tensed. His eyes hardened, taking on that wild look again. Stopping, he put his hands on his hips forcefully, and in an angry voice snarled, "I'm not wrong! And I'm not a liar!"