His people didn’t care... except a devout few.
Decisions, these few thought, should be made the way a tree grows—from the earth up and from many roots. They didn’t believe in building walls or hiring men with swords to keep their enemies out—because they did not believe in enemies.
For their beliefs, they were persecuted and derided as zealots. So, with heavy hearts, they decided to leave Firgaard.
It was not so easy.
They were under the dominion of a king now. A king who was not interested in letting them go. A king who ruled Firgaard and the land surrounding it, from the mountains, across the desert, to the sea.
“But,” said the king, “I will be generous with you.”
He would give them the scrublands beyond the desert and he would let them go peacefully—on one condition. For as long as they lived beyond Firgaard’s walls, they would pay him a tax in exchange for his generosity: one tenth of their yearly harvests.
With no other choice, they agreed.
They crossed the sand sea together and when they came to the scrublands, they built five Great Houses, swearing to keep the old ways intact. To be hospitable and build no walls. To give according to the needs of others. To always make decisions as a whole, so that no one could be trampled upon.
And, most of all, to never forget they belonged to each other.
When people from far-off lands fled because of war or famine or flooding, when Firgaard shut its gates, the five Great Houses of the scrublands let the foreigners in. They gave them land to build new homes on and shared whatever they had. So the foreigners stayed, living and marrying among them. Defending them against the very ones they’d fled from and bringing with them new stories and gods: the Skyweaver, guardian of all souls, and her gift of the Relinquishing. These newcomers taught them the art of a well-crafted blade. They convinced them that sometimes, in times of great danger, you did need to pick up a sword to protect your kin.
As the years turned to centuries, the scrublanders looked less and less like the ones they’d left behind in Firgaard. And it is when you cannot see yourself in another that you turn them into an enemy.
In this one way, the scrublanders did not protect the old ways—by forgetting they did not believe in enemies.
Three
“What do you mean, you didn’t pack my tent?”
Roa rounded on her brother, who was currently unbuckling his horse’s bridle and sliding it over her head.
After their day’s travel, the desert sun pulsed low in the sky and waves of heat rolled up from the golden sand. They’d stopped early due to a herd of dragons spotted nearby. Most people saw the return of the dragons as a sign the kingdom was healing. But they were still dangerous predators best avoided.
“There wasn’t room,” said Jas after tying his horse up with the others. A faded maroon sandskarf was wrapped loosely around her brother’s head and shoulders, protecting him from the sun, and his two earned knives were sheathed at his hips, their blades engraved with the pattern of Song.
“So you left my tent behind?”
Turning to her, he lifted his hands, palms up. “I’m sorry. I had to.”
“Where am I supposed to sleep?”
Jas looked away, out over the caravan. Roa followed his gaze.
She could see Dax from here, setting up his tent, shirtless and alone. The sweat gleamed across his arched back as he hammered pegs into the earth. Pegs that weren’t strong enough to keep a tent tethered if a storm hit.
Roa had fought with Dax about it on the waytothe scrublands, and he’d promised to buy new ones while staying at the House of Song.
Another broken promise,Roa thought now. He hadn’t bought new tents just like he hadn’t lifted the sanctions on her people or formed a more representative council.
He’d promised her both things before the revolt.
But that’s what the treaty is for,she thought, trying to calm herself,to make him keep his oaths. When they returned, he would be bound by more than honor to make good on his promises. She would see to it that he did.
“You can sleep in Dax’s tent,” said Jas.
Roa’s gaze snapped to her brother.
This felt like subterfuge. Like betrayal. Jas knew how Roa felt about sleeping in Dax’s tent. Why would he do this?
