Shenn folded his arms. “Don’t thank me yet, I’ve heard the eld are bloody difficult to kill.”
“If you say so,” Ren replied absently. Who knew if the man was even telling the truth about who he was? Ren was all alone in the Shambles and he knew no one in Harkana. From what he could see, this man was clearly Harkan. He lacked the sophisticated manners and opulent attire Ren was accustomed to in Solus, the way the traveling lecturers in the Priory smelled of fresh cardamom or sweet cassia, their hair glistening with wax. The Harkans had none of that, even Shenn—who was well mannered and well dressed—looked common compared to the men of Solus, and he reeked of old castor oil. Still, Ren wanted to know more about his family and his people. He wanted to embrace the kingdom he would one day rule.
“Can you tell me about my sisters?” he asked. “I was sent away before I could meet them.”
“If you wish,” Shenn said reluctantly, as if the topic bored him but he would do it anyway. He spoke at length about his wife and her sister, about the clothes they wore and the place where they lived, how they looked and how they spent their days, how Kepi enjoyed sparring with her trainers while Merit managed the affairs of the kingdom. Each description, each detail—no matter how brief—made Ren eager for more. He wanted to fill the blank spot in his memory, the place where his childhood and his family should have been.
Impulsively, Ren thought to ask about his mother. Sarra Amunet, who was once Sarra Hark-Wadi, had left Harkana at nearly the same time that Ren had left the kingdom. The timing had always made Ren wonder if he were the reason for her leaving, if his exile in the Priory had somehow been the cause of their parting. He needed to know more. “Sarra Amunet, the Mother Priestess, does she visit Harkana—do you know her?”
Shenn shook his head. “She has little or no contact with the kingdom, and your sisters don’t speak of her. I know as much as you, maybe less,” he said, his tone telling Ren that he had nothing else to say on the topic. Surely that wasn’t true, but Ren decided not to press him.
This man was his brother by custom of marriage, but Ren knew nothing about him. His accent and his manner were as strange as his face. He once more felt the urge to distrust Shenn, but he fought it. I must forget the customs of Sola and embrace what is Harkan. But he knew this would not come easily. If a thing seems foreign we assume there’s something wrong with it. Without him knowing it, the Soleri had trained him to mistrust his people, to think of them as nothing but savages, barbarians at the walls. To assuage his uneasiness Ren kept up his inquiries, asking about Harkana, what the people ate, and how they lived. Shenn did his best to comply, but his answers were always too brief for Ren’s taste.
As he asked his questions, the trail wound higher up the mountainside. The morning had come and the white flowers had disappeared, the buds closed once more in the warmth of the rising sun. Around them waves of steam rose off the rocks, making the air shimmer. Ren recalled his lectures in rhetoric, the way the priors would ask the boys seemingly simple questions, although the answers they were seeking were far more complicated. He wondered if it would work on Shenn, or if the man was too clever, or too experienced, to fall for such a ruse.
“This grass,” Ren said, turning to Shenn with wide-eyed innocence. “What’s it called?”
Shenn gave a slight smile. “Smoke grass. Didn’t the warden tell you?”
“Not really. Maybe he did. Maybe I wasn’t paying attention. Does the eld eat it, the grass, I mean?”
“No, it feeds on the rodents that eat the grass. The eld has a taste for their sweet blood.” Shenn picked up a dead branch and thrashed the smoke grass, flushing out a medium-sized rat, a fat, furred creature that scampered away with a squeak. “There’s more at the higher altitudes,” he said. “The eld hunts them. It’ll scoop up ten or twenty in a day, given the chance.”
“So many?” Ren asked. He had starved in the Priory but would eat his fingers before he ate one of the skittering creatures that filled the wispy grass.
Shenn shrugged. “We should be grateful the eld has a taste for rats rather than men.”
“Maybe I will be, if I ever get off this mountain.”
They spent the afternoon following the smoke-grass trail, resting, sharing provisions. Later, the trail ended at a stream and a slim waterfall. “We’ll need to climb,” Shenn said, shading his eyes and looking up. Ren did not like being alone with the man, especially on the more treacherous cliffs, but he had no way to get rid of Shenn, so he tried to put some distance between himself and his brother.
They traveled up the path that ran alongside the crashing water, the dog close at Ren’s heels. The path led away from the stream, up the sheer side of the precipice. To double back around to the smoke grass, they skirted along the cliff, though this time there were no planks or ropes, just a slender ledge and some wedgelike handholds carved into the cliff face. How he would get back carrying the eld horns, even if he were to kill the beast, he couldn’t imagine.
It was then, with the dog barking and fear in his throat, that Ren saw his so-called brother tear one of the handholds free, cracking the ancient stone. Shenn continued ahead, without warning him. Ren would have to continue moving without the use of the hold. Shenn watched and they locked eyes. Ren stretched his arms, feeling them lengthen as he reached around the splintered rock to the next hold. He balanced, his hand in the air as he grasped for, then gripped, the next handhold. He teetered and nearly fell, but his grip held and he was able to gain his balance. A few more steps and he reached the end of the narrow passage.
Shenn kept his distance, moving ahead, not looking back.
Had his brother tried to kill him? Had he fractured the handhold on purpose? It had happened so quickly Ren had not had time to process what he’d witnessed. Again, he wondered why the man was here. What were his true intentions? Ren didn’t know, but he guessed they were not good. At the ridge he caught sight of a stream and more smoke grass, and he used it as an excuse to pick up the pace.
“Slow down, boy,” Shenn called. “What’s the rush? The eld will come when it chooses. The hunt is about waiting.” He quickened his pace. “Come, let’s find a perch and wait for the animal. An eld is trapped, not hunted.”
Ren would not listen, nor would he allow Shenn to draw any closer to him.
His brother by law smiled too broadly, his voice was too loud but trailed off at the end of each sentence. “Did you know that your grandfather lured the eld into a pit? And that your father trapped his between a pair of rocks?”
Ren did not answer, struggling to keep the distance between them as his suspicions about Shenn multiplied, but the stones grew denser and he was forced to slow his pace.