The Tales of the Wanderer Volume One: A Book of Underrealm (The Underrealm Volumes 4) Garrett Robinson (poetry books to read TXT) 📖

“You are drunk,” she said with deep disapproval. “Soldiers from Feldemar have killed three of our people. We are going to retaliate. I am sending you out with the raiding party. It is about time you learned something of real combat.”

I snatched my arm away from her, drawing back. “You are riding to Feldemar?”

“No,” she said, her gaze steely. “You are.”

“You are not even coming with me?” I said. “I have never fought before. I have never killed before!”

Her mouth shriveled into a scowl. “I am well aware of that. But you have had training, just like any of us. It is about time you got your arrows wet. The journey through the pass will sober you.”

“No,” I said, my voice coming out as little more than a whisper. I shook my head and spoke louder. “I will not.”

I could almost feel the tension rise in her body. “You will.”

I tried to push past her. “Leave me alone.”

She snatched my arm and shoved me down on the bed. Ignoring my protests, she dragged up my arm and pulled back my sleeve, exposing the family mark. “Do you see this? Do you know what it means? It means you are pledged to the service of this family.”

Her grip was too strong, and I could not break free. “I never wanted that mark!”

“It is your duty,” she said. At last she let me go, flinging my arm away as though it were something dirty. “You are a child of the family Telfer. It is an honor, and it comes with a responsibility. Yet here you sit, weeping into your sheets about a mangy hound, drinking yourself into a stupor as though you lost someone important.”

Before I knew it, I was on my feet, my nose only a few fingers away from hers. “I had him since my eighth year,” I said, my voice dropping to a growl. “He was my friend.”

“He was a dog, you witless girl,” said my mother. “And he was mine. Not yours. I am Rangatira. You are not even fit to be one of my rangers—but I will forge you, like a blade, until you are. Get dressed. Do you think I acted this way when your father died?”

“I am sure you did not,” I said. “But then, you never really cared about him, did you?”

She slapped me. I suppose it was not as hard as it could have been. Certainly I had taken harder blows in weapons training. But still I went crashing back atop my bed, cradling my cheek with one hand.

“If you were not my daughter, I would put you to death for disobeying me, and I would be within my rights to do so,” said my mother calmly. “But being my child will not protect you if you continue in disobedience. Your Rangatira has given you an order. You will obey it, or you will face the King’s law.”

She turned on her heel and marched from the room, slamming the door shut as she went. Slowly I realized that she was not angry for my words about my father; she was only upset that I continued to disobey her. That was all that mattered. How useful I could be to her.

I lay on the bed, fresh tears staining my face and the sheets. I tried to force my sobs to subside, but it happened slowly.

The King’s law. Would she truly brand me as a traitor? I thought she might. What would be the penalty for defying one’s lord? I knew a soldier could be exiled for that, or executed. But I did not think, even then, that she would order the death of her own child.

That left exile.

And with that thought, my mind was made up. If I was going to be cast out of my home, then I would not wait for her to pronounce that judgement. All the unease that had been building in me for years, all my discontent and dissatisfaction came welling up in me at once.

Ditra was the only person in Kahaunga whom I loved, and she was growing ever more distant as my mother dragged her further into her duty to the family. There was nothing to hold me here. And if I stayed, I would either be miserable for the rest of my life, or accept my fate, as Ditra had, and become one of my mother’s warriors, a sword for her to wield, an arrow for her to loose at her enemies.

I would not let that happen.

Quickly I dressed myself—in “useful” clothing, as my mother would have put it, though the plans I was forming would be little use to her. I fetched a pack from my closet and filled it with more clothes, as well as my box of flint and steel. I paused, thinking that mayhap I should run to the kitchens and get some food for my journey. But I had no time. My mother would soon send guards to find me. I would have to hunt on the road. That was fine; I journeyed often through Tokana, and I was able to keep myself well fed as I did so. I slung the pack over my back, took up my bow from where it rested near the door to my room, and left.

No one saw me as I snuck out of the stronghold, but my heart did not ease as I made it into the city. All the guards knew me, and even if I pulled my cowl down over my face, my clothing was too fine for them to think I was simply some passerby. And it was night, besides—no one wandering the streets in the moonslight would pass without suspicion.

Thus I tried to remain alert, watching in all directions for anyone approaching me. But it was hard. My head was still heavy with the wine I had drunk. I know I stumbled, I know I crashed into