The Withering Sword

Chapter 59: Home Again

SILARON

Off the coast of Bainling, capital city of Miihing (subjugate kingdom of the empire)

Many nights he had dreamed of Bainling. He had seen it in daydreams as well, and occasionally a smell or a taste would remind him of it. He had missed it in his bones and muscles, in his soul.

But he had not known how much he missed it until he saw it on the horizon.

“Home,” said Nerion. It didn’t sound like him. His voice cracked with longing and disbelief, as if he thought himself in a dream that would vanish before he could reach it. Silaron glanced over his shoulder at his brother, who stood a few paces behind him, away from the forecastle bulwark of the ship where Silaron and a handful of other Tyovadh had gathered. Beyond Nerion, he could see that Woyo had abandoned her brushes and rags and leaned on the bulwark of the quarterdeck, watching the approaching land with wide eyes.

“Yes,” said Silaron, facing ahead again before he drew attention to Woyo’s negligence. Captain Dyomo had given her extra cleaning duties as punishment for stowing away, and Silaron kitchen duties for helping her. But like they had thought, she could hardly turn the ship around when they had sailed halfway across the Sea of Suns. Silaron still didn’t know what the captain would do with Woyo once they reached land. She might test the girl to make her a full Tyovadh, set her to some task away from the fighting, or put her on a northbound ship—if there were any. They hadn’t passed any on the crossing.

Neither brother spoke for some time, watching Bainling grow larger and even more recognizable. Silaron drank in the sights as if he had had his eyes closed for the past year: the densely-forested hills rising beyond the city limits, the colorful docks, the tangle of modest buildings spreading far to the left and the Gyoto-inspired homes of the nobility off to the right. He couldn’t wait to show it all to Woyo. Unable to help himself, he glanced back up at Woyo, who had taken up a soapy brush again and scrubbed with her usual enthusiasm. He couldn’t see it from here, but the movement probably accented her lean muscles.

Nerion came up beside Silaron, resting his hands on the bulwark. “I still can’t believe you didn’t tell me about her,” he said with a touch of his old nonchalance.

“I didn’t want to risk Captain Dyomo finding out about her before it was too late to go back. You might have talked.”

“I wouldn’t have talked,” said Nerion with mock indignation. “You just wanted to keep her to yourself.”

Silaron sighed and gave Nerion his usual patient, amused look. The horizon drew his attention again.

“Are you coming with me?” asked Nerion, lowering his voice and switching to Miihingese. Two of the sailors spoke it, but neither of them were near, and none of the Tyovadh would understand them. He had known for over a week that Nerion had something planned for their arrival, and it didn’t involve staying with Captain Dyomo’s force. They hadn’t spoken about it, but they knew each other too well.

“Does it seem like a good idea to you?” asked Silaron, also in Miihingese and matching Nerion’s tone. “The Tyovadh hunt down deserters.”

“We’ll die if we don’t leave anyway. And it’s not really deserting, is it? We aren’t real Tyovadh. Captain Dyomo would probably let us go if we asked her.”

“Don’t be stupid.”

“I’m not. She won’t want us to compromise her battalion. You’re a good enough fighter, but I’m terrible at it, you know I am. Anyone we fight with will be expecting us to be real Tyovadh. We might get someone else killed.”