Chapter 4

When they reached the tent, Butu went to his blankets and dug out his marbles.

"Come on, we've got the night. Let's play," he said, as if nothing had happened.

Paka retrieved his own bag and sat in the tent opening, where the best of the remaining light was. Remi retrieved a pouch and looked at Hatal, who sat on his blanket with his back to them. Butu nodded silently at his tentmate's concerned look, and Remi joined Paka.

"Hey, guard! Can you get us some dinner? We're growing boys here!" Remi shouted. Paka grinned as he drew the playing circle. Butu crouched next to Hatal, but facing Paka and Remi. Idly, he pulled one of his marbles out — an amber, a rare stone for the desert and one of his favorites.

The youngest of them was still the shortest, but he was the fastest. His sharp features would make him twin to his great-uncle, the kluntra of the Kadrak, when he could grow the moustache the older man favored. And when he grew another foot in height. Where Butu was the shadow of a tent wall in coloring, Hatal was the tent wall itself.

"Want to try again tomorrow?" he asked to launch the conversation.

Hatal said nothing, head hanging between his legs.

"You fell," Paka said suddenly. Remi went very still, and Hatal curled up a little bit tighter. "That means you'll be leaving like the kluntra's son." A tear on his dark brown cheek caught the last rays of light.

"I'm not going anywhere, shumi," Butu said, but doubt crept in.

About three years ago, Butu and Zhek had met in a challenge similar to the race. Zhek's father had begun training his son with a sword, and the third-cycler had taught anyone else who wanted to know, so he could practice swords with his magic, which for some reason the trainer wouldn't let him use. He even taught Jani.

Butu was his best student, but because of Zhek's formal training, could not quite catch the older elf. The challenge was like the race — all in good fun, with bragging rights for victory. They fought on the roof of the stables under a full moon. Butu knew the advantage was his. The kluntra's son was a better swordsman, but he couldn't sense things around him in the dark nearly as well. Soon after the fight started, Butu hit Zhek in the back of one knee. Instead of counterattacking, Zhek lost his balance and slid off the roof. The boys had scattered as shouts of alarm rose, leaving the kluntra's son alone.

Zhek never came back, and whenever Butu had seen him since, the kluntra's son glared at him like Zasbey always did — as if he, personally, was responsible for all the world's troubles.

Butu put a hand on Hatal's shoulder, but spoke for everyone.

"This'll all blow over. We've been in worse scrapes, done worse things."

"Yeah," Remi said. "They never did find that last sheep!"

Hatal snorted, but looked up. Paka wiped his face and grinned. Butu stood and slapped his friend on the back.

"C'mon, Hatal. Let's play marbles. You name the game."

Remi tossed a leather pouch at his younger cousin, who caught it with a sly grin.

"Do you even need to ask?"

Butu grinned back. "Not really. If I gave you your choice every time, we'd never play anything but Sentinel."

They all laughed, pounding a rhythm on their bare chests with one fist, and Hatal unfolded and joined them. He tossed a clear, quartz marble into the center of the circle and dropped six plain, red granite marbles around it. Then he and the other boys dumped all of their marbles on to the sand, outside the drawn circle.

"Sentinel guard our villagers, guard our clan and guard our kluntra," Hatal chanted. "Sentinel stop the pillagers, save the people of old Philland."

His pile of marbles, made from various materials from sandstone to iron to semi-precious ones like Butu's amber, grew into a lumpy, humanoid figure about six inches high. Hatal stared at the others, daring them to question his craftsmanship.

Butu, Paka and Remi said their own chant, turning their marbles into thumb-high soldiers, the invaders to this town of marbles. Butu placed his amber general, a miniature model of himself with no features, at the head.

Each boy took a turn ordering a soldier into the field, and then Hatal advanced his sentinel, his only defense against the triple threat. He groaned as one of Butu's soldiers caught one of his villagers, dragging it away while Remi sacrificed a soldier to defend it. Butu's soldier dragged the red granite marble out of the circle and the three assaulters gave a small cheer of victory, which was short-lived as the sentinel crushed three more attackers with one blow.

The game would be won for Hatal if he defeated all the enemy soldiers, almost three hundred. He would lose if his six villagers or the kluntra were captured and removed from the field. The odds did not seem fair, except his three opponents were not supposed to work together — each of them sought to pull the kluntra or the most villagers from the field. Their soldiers could attack each other, despite the threat of the sentinel.

Eventually, Hatal lost because Remi and Butu worked together. Paka sided with Hatal in moaning about it, so a rematch was set up.

They were well into this game, laughing and panting, the remains of their dinner strewn about, when Zasbey came back to the tent she shared with her husband. She stood in the flap for a minute, looking over her shoulder at them. They stared back, Butu hardest of all. He thought she scrutinized him the most. Then she disappeared inside.

"She'll be better when Mak get's back," Butu said as they went back to the game, in which Paka's sentinel struggled to defend its four remaining villagers. "She's all lonely and alone."

"When's he get back?" Hatal asked.

"Another week, at least. Had to go all the way west, to the Nukata."

"Big trade, that one. So far away," Remi said. "Hope he gets a good deal."

"Not much the Ahjea makes that everyone else doesn't," Butu said. "That's why there's no al's in the fosterlings this year."

The elves of Philland had three-part names. The first part was the name chosen by their parents, and the third part was the name of their clan, but the middle part described their relationship to the tribe's ruling family. An al' was directly related by blood to the clan's kluntra – a son or a father. An el' was a close relative – a niece or nephew, a sibling or an aunt or uncle. An un' was a distant cousin. A ku was a man who had been adopted into the clan after giving up any claim to his birth clan – a rare event – or a woman who chose to pursue a trade of her own instead of marrying. A ten was a foundling of the clan.

None of these boys did, but Zhek used to throw Butu's ten status in his face at every opportunity — he was an al', after all, who would one day rule the Ahjea, while Butu would never be anything better than a laborer under him.

My parents ... Butu suddenly had the unwilling thought as Paka cheered a successful assault taking out several of Remi's and Hatal's soldiers.

Butu couldn't remember his parents or anything else from before the Ahjea made him a ten. Zasbey had told him simam had killed his parents. Simam was the poison wind that roved the shanjin and turned any adult it caught outdoors into statues that crumbled like dried out sand castles when you touched them. Because simam never harmed children, though, it left a trail orphaned babies and children wherever it went.

He didn't question it. Clans thrived because of their children, be they al' or ten. The Treaty of Mnemon, which governed day-to-day life among the tribes, prevented the capturing or kidnapping of children from another clan. But once in a while he would wake from a nightmare of suffocating heat and scratching sand stinging his face.

"Butu!"

He came out of his musings and stared at the board, all but depopulated by Paka's last strike.

"It's your turn," his shumi said, and Butu grinned back at him.

This is the only family I'll ever need.

SYNOPSIS  |  CHAPTER 1  |  CHAPTER 2  |  CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4  |  CHAPTER 5  |  CHAPTER 6

Copyright 2005-2007 Eric Zawadzki and Matthew Schick. All Rights Reserved.
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