Flight of the Scions

Chapter 4: Waryoni Garèo

The chain is the basic unit of measurement at four rods or sixty-six feet. Ten chains make up a furlong and eighty make a mile. For shorter distances, there are one hundred links in a chain. — Basic Children Education

Over an hour later, she was gasping for breath as she shoved the trunk the last few links over an exposed root. It bumped against the boulder and she slumped over the sun-baked wood. Sweat poured down her face as she stared at the rough, pitted surface. She was thankful it was in the shade instead of the sun that bore down on her back. Everything about her hurt: her arms, knees, and bare feet.

She struggled to pry her fingers off the handle. When she did, it took her a minute to get her digits to straighten without pain.

Still panting, she turned and leaned into the trunk. A mile didn't seem like a lot when she had walked it over the years. She knew most of the larger features, those weren't hard to miss, but it was different when she struggled to drag the chest even a foot. Every rut, rock, and swell of stone turned the heavy chest into an unbearable weight.

Dread filled her. She could never drag it to Rock River, the other village on her father's lands. It was too heavy and the idea of carrying it another few miles was too much for her to bear. She lifted her head and peeled her hair from her face to look back at her father's tower.

"Sands!" she swore and slumped back. She didn't even fight the tears as she berated herself for not coming up with a better lie for her mother. Sliding down, she sat on the ground and rapped her head against the side of the trunk. "Sands! Sands! Sands!" The last two utterances were in Miwāfu. It always felt better to swear in her mother's language.

Kanéko stopped swearing after a few seconds. It wasn't helping her. Slowly, she leaned back against the warm wood and considered her options: she could head back to the keep to get Jinmel's wagon or find some place to stash the chest until she got back. In the woods, there was less chance her mother would stumble on it. She smiled grimly and stood up with a groan.

As she peered around for a hiding spot, she heard a terrible noise. It was midway between a man being tortured and the wailing of a drunk. She groaned, only one person sang so badly, her tutor Garèo. The desert man claimed he was one of the greatest singers in the world, but in the few months he had been around, Kanéko had yet to hear a single note in tune. She cringed as the volume grew louder. Maybe by greatest singer, he meant loudest.

Garèo rode a bay mare but didn't bother with a saddle or bridle. Instead, he rode with one hand resting lightly on the horse's mane. To the side, a brown mare that Kanéko didn't recognize walked obediently with her head even with the bay's hindquarters. Like the bay, there was no rope holding the brown in place, but she paced as neatly as if there had been one.

Kanéko had read of desert clans with a close connection to horses. They communicated with their mind and hearts—telepathy—but Garèo never said he was one of those clans. Then again, he didn't talk about the desert or his clan, the Waryōni.

Garèo waved his hand in wide circles as he continued his song, moving every part of his body. He did the same thing when he was talking.

Despite the horrid tones coming out of his throat, both horses only flicked their ears in response.

He trailed off singing as he drew closer. His gaze dropped from her to the wooden trunk. His upper lip twisted for a moment, the black chevron mustache titling slightly. It matched the green-tinted darkness of his hair and contrasted with the light green of his eyes.

Kanéko held her breath as he pulled his horse up to her travel chest.

Lifting his gaze, he slipped off his bay and crossed over to the gap to land on it. The wooden trunk shifted under his weight.