Chương 79: [Tales from Stormvast] The Firstborn

Hanza was named the lord of House Padma the same day he watched his father die. He'd turned eight only the day before. An occasion that had gone more or less uncelebrated, given a confluence of extraordinary circumstances. At least one such circumstance, even eight-year-old Hanza understood, was his father's severe illness. Another was the news of Leafell's surrender to the Wreathworn Army, bringing to end eight years and more of bitter resistance.

It was this—the surrender—that seemed to be on everyone's mind and lips. Generals shut themselves in the strategy room late into the night and through to the morning, arguing loudly enough to keep the whole house awake. Servants whispered fearfully to each other, only to look away in shame and resentment whenever Hanza walked past. The surrender was all anyone wanted to talk about. Even though Lord Garza lay dying upon a sheet covered in his own blood.

Even though the infirmary continued to overflow with servants and soldiers stricken by the same mysterious illness. Even though the heir to the house had just turned eight yesterday. And even though Hanza's birthday doubled as the anniversary of his mother's death. How kind the gods must be, to let husband and wife die within one calendar day of each other, to allow the stars to align so and thereby reunite the couple in the afterlife.

At least that was according to the Handmother, the only soul in the whole house who seemed unfazed by all the turmoil and misfortunes. Presently, the wizened old woman stood proudly amidst rows of weeping servants. She looked upon Lord Garza's pallid and quickly cooling visage, then declared today to be the day when House Padma's fortunes would turn. No more disease. No more defeat. Pox upon the Wreathworn Army and may vengeance take the false emperor at their head.

For today, the gods shall recognize Lord Garza's sacrifice—the pain and suffering he'd borne on his people's behalf. Heaven shall smite House Padma's enemies and grant its progeny a millennium of prosperity. And she looked to Hanza now. With fierce pride and undying hope etched upon her wizened face. She looked to him as if he might be the one to spearhead this so-called millennium of prosperity. The Handmother looked to him. And Hanza looked away.

With his gaze downcast, he saw only his father's stiff corpse, the blood-soaked sheet underneath. Recoiling, reeling, suffocating, Hanza shot to his feet and ran out of the room. Someone called out his name. Half-hearted footsteps followed in his wake. Hanza didn't stop. He ran across the estate and out through the stable. He didn't slow down until he found himself deep in Threestone Forest, snaking through the thicket in his eight-year-old frame. That was when he realized that he was lost.

All around were trees and more trees. It seemed that none of the Padma men had run after him, and if they had, they'd long lost the scent. The trees closed in on him. Or that was how it felt to eight-year-old Hanza. All around, he heard the rustling of leaves and the snapping of twigs and branches. Insects? Animals? Monsters? Hanza ran. He didn't know where to. Knew only that he didn't want to be alone. He'd felt alone inside the Padma estate. He felt alone now deep in Threestone Forest.

He didn't know where else to turn. The trees continued to close in. Branches and roots whipped against his body, left cuts and bruises. He grabbed his dagger—the one with the bejeweled hilt, an heirloom passed down through generations of Padma lords—and used it to hack his way through the thicket. It was draining work, but he couldn't stop. Not when he was so desperately alone. How long did he run for? By the time he came to a stop—had to stop because he'd come to a dead end —he was cut up from head to toe.

His cloth shoes, meant for mourning rather than running through the woods, had long rotted away, leaving him barefoot. He felt the chill damp of the earth with every step. He felt it as he approached the strange darkness that had emerged in the middle of a thicket. He felt it as he stood before the cave opening. The threshold between two lives. Between what was and what once could have been." Hello?" His voice sounded so feeble. So unbefitting of a noble lord, Hanza could imagine his uncles berating him.

He took a steadying breath and tried again." Hello? Is anyone there?" What had he expected to find? Here inside a cave darker than darkness? He had only vague notions imparted to him by folktales and superstition. Of the underground's connection to the nether realm." Mother." Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon. The word had spilled out before Hanza himself knew its meaning. Along with it, the first teardrop fell. He hadn't cried when his father passed.

He hadn't cried when he got lost in the woods. But he cried now, calling out a word that had meant nothing and everything to an eight-year-old boy." Mother. It's me, Hanza. I… I hope you're well. I hope the spirit-gods are kind to you." The darkness gave no answer. Hanza's eyes flooded with more tears, as his narrow shoulders shook with mighty sobs." Why won't you talk to me, mother? Do you blame me for what happened? I want you to know that I didn't mean it. At least… I don't think I did."

Hanza didn't know for certain. All he'd been told was that his mother had died giving birth to him, and in his childish mind, that equated his mother's death to his fault. None of the adults in his life had ever corrected him on this point, so it must have been true." I'm sorry, mother," Hanza sobbed.

"Will you forgive me? Will you let me see you? Or, at the very least, will you let me hear your voice?" Still, the darkness gave no answer. Hanza continued to sob. He sobbed until he had no tears left. Until the tears soaked through his tunic and mixed with the blood that was already there. Hanza was alone, once more and always. He didn't know what else to do but turn around and leave. And that was when—" You have a lot of nerve to show yourself here." Hanza spun again, eager and terrified in equal measure.

But the speaker wasn't his mother. It was a little boy, one who looked a lot like… no, one who was an exact replica of Hanza himself. The boy was his twin. Dressed in a strange white robe. Unkempt hair long enough to fall to his waist. And a face—Hanza's own face—contorted in rage and contempt." Who… who are you?" Hanza asked weakly. It was all he could do to stay on his feet. The earth beneath them had never felt colder." I have no name to give to a traitor," the twin spat.

Then he really did spit, a hateful globule landing at Hanza's feet." I… you know who I am?"" Of course I do. You're the plunderer's whelp. Your ancestors built their stronghold atop the ruins of my homeland. Your father stole my mother from her family. And you. You killed her. Drove her to the edge of the mortal realm, to be claimed by the netherlings as one of their own."" I… I don't understand." Hanza began to back away, suddenly very sure that he shouldn't be here.

Should never have come here in the first place, no matter how alone he'd been. But then the boy—his twin—took one stride to close the distance and grab him by the collars." You don't need to understand." The boy bared his teeth, eyes burning with hatred.

"You need only to hear me. Hear me as I curse you! Curse your family and all your descendants for a thousand years and more. Pox, death, and maledictions upon you and yours for your cowardly betrayal. For the hell you put me and my mother thr— argh!" The boy let go. Grabbed the side of his face. The side that was now bleeding profusely, sliced open as it'd been by the dagger in Hanza's hand." I'm sorry!" Hanza cried desperately, even as he held out a bloodied dagger in one shaky hand.

"I'm… I didn't mean…" And that was when the cave did answer. A woman's voice, thin and reedy. Plaintive. Begging to be heard." Shaza," the voice called.

"Shaza, come back. Don't leave me. I won't know what to do without you." And even in the midst of the most terrifying moment of his life, Hanza felt his heart break anew. Because he understood who the voice belonged to. And he knew to whom the voice spoke and to whom it didn't. He knew who his mother had chosen. Once again." Begone!" the chosen boy snarled, one hand flailing blindly, the other trying to stem the bleeding. His white robe rapidly soaked through with blood.

"Begone and never come back! You are not wanted here!" Hanza turned and ran. For what felt like the umpteenth time today. But this time felt different. This time felt final. Like he was leaving something behind that he would never get back. He ran. He cried, fresh tears bubbling from gods knew where. He ran and he cried and he begged for forgiveness… until his legs crumpled underneath him and sent him tumbling onto the ground. Into darkness. He woke some time later, in his own room and on his own bed.

Someone had carried him back to the estate. He had no memory of who. Only the sense of residual warmth upon his chest. His eight-year-old frame rocking against the back of someone kind, caring, and beautiful. If only he could remember their face! But how could he, when the scene had taken place only in his imagination? One of the Padma men must have found him passed out in the woods and carried him in. That was the only plausible explanation. Hanza tried to sit up.

Only then did he become aware of the objects in his hands. He must have lost consciousness while holding onto them, and no one had been able to pry them out of his hands. His right hand held the dagger—the very same with which he'd cut his twin's face in a moment of panic. And in his left hand… was a small wooden box. The box looked oddly familiar, even though Hanza was certain he'd never seen it in his life.

It was foreign yet familiar in its every facet, down to the engraving of a black snake upon its lacquered lid.