While Nattia’s reunion was particularly joyful, the Kasari of Melleray were extremely friendly, even to the nonhumans among us. Surprisingly, they had a set of guest hostels set aside for the use of newcomers and visitors. They were crude little cabins, compared to the conjured pavilions we were used to, but they were clean, tidy, and comfortable in the summer’s heat.
The settlement was laid out like the other Kasari settlements I’d seen, with small huts spaced regularly and neatly in a row, little gardens surrounding them. There was an orderliness to their camp that was a contrast to the often haphazard way the Wilderlords settled. Every hut had a neatly printed sign in High Perwyneese script indicating who lived within.
They had prepared a feast for us, that evening, with every family in Melleray contributing a dish in the little iron kettles they preferred. It was rich and intriguing fare, with exotic herbs and spices I’d never encountered and meats and vegetables I was unfamiliar with. But it was good and hardy fare, and they served it with some rye bread that was passable. There was also a starchy paste that was a popular dish, from some tuber or plant I’d never encountered before. It wasn’t bad if you added a lot of salt.
Alya and I enjoyed sitting together on a blanket around the great campfire in the center of the square. We weren’t count and countess, baron and baroness, lord and lady, or spellmonger and wizard’s wife, or even father and mother; we were husband and wife, boy and girl, with our responsibilities and duties far away. The strange-tasting beer that Captain Irimel brought us as a gift from the camp soon made things even cozier.
Soon after dinner, pipes were produced, and songs were sung. Instead of a single singer or even a duet, the Kasari all sang together, in their own language. It was entertaining, even if I didn’t understand it.
“They are speaking a derivative of Irish,” Forseti informed us, when he rolled over to where we were sprawled. “Southwestern dialect, most likely. Which means they are descended from the Celtic League cultural group of colonists who settled western Perwyn. Although there are some Welsh loan-words in their speech and even some Narasi.”
“It’s pretty,” Alya agreed, as she leaned into me and watched the fire.
“It’s an old folk song,” Forseti continued, it’s “head” – or, at least, the appendage that seemed to house his “eyes” – facing us. “It denotes an uncommon amount of cultural retention, compared to the other ethnic enclaves I’ve encountered.”
“How is that useful?” I asked the machine.
“It gives me context,” Forseti assured. “It allows me to track the evolution of culture across the centuries. By comparison, the Narasi Wilderlords and Riverlords have lost much of their original culture. Most of it appears to have been fabricated in the wild. The Kasari, on the other hand, have maintained a strict history and culture that is largely unchanged from their ancestors. It is academically interesting.”
“I suppose we should start looking around for that installation you want to find,” I sighed.
“It is not far from here, according to my maps. This geophysical monitoring station was proposed, at the time, but not yet built. It was deemed a sufficiently geologically stable location to be considered safe by colonial planners. It would theoretically provide ample warning for any potentially disastrous eruption. It is doubtful the warning system is still in operation. It is interesting that they seem to have turned the aircraft landing pad into a goat pasture.”
“I’ll speak with Captain Irimel in the morning about it,” I promised, yawning. “No doubt some of the locals will have an idea how to get there.”
“The sooner I can evaluate the station and determine the extent of the damage, after six hundred years of abandonment, the sooner I can establish what befell the early colony,” Forseti continued. “If the antenna is intact, it is possible I can establish a connection with the Calsat network and even locate the New Horizon.” Though the proposal was delivered with a complete lack of emotion, as Forseti usually spoke, I could infer a certain eagerness and hope in its voice.
“It’s one of my highest priorities,” I pledged. “I have great hope that you can help me find some answers, in this strange land.”
Once the little carriage rolled off to speak with Gareth about something, Alya confided in me.
“You know, I find that thing more disturbing than your magical constructs,” she said, in a whisper. “I don’t think I entirely trust it.”
“Forseti?” I asked in surprise. “He’s been nothing but helpful. And he’s my firmest link to the Ancients,” I reminded her.
“I know, Gareth and Ruderal have explained why it’s so important,” Alya nodded. “But your constructs are stupid. That thing is smart.”
“My constructs are based on ancient sea creatures. Forseti was a constructed intelligence. Constructed by our ancestors. That carriage isn’t even his original . . . body,” I said, trying to find the right words.
“Perhaps that’s why I mistrust it, then,” Alya decided, as we watched the machine get Gareth’s attention. “I suppose because it’s just too human.”
“Those things once were entrusted to run most of human civilization,” I pointed out.
“And where is that civilization, now?” she countered. “And where are the rest of . . . them?”
“Perhaps we’ll find out, while we’re here,” I admitted. “Those are some of the questions I wanted Forseti’s help with.
“Just watch him, Minalan,” Alya said, after a long pause. “He’s not a servant or a vassal. He’s not even alive. What loyalty does it owe to you?”
I chuckled. “He considers me the regional colonial administrator, actually. He’s not wrong, from his perspective. But as such, he’s duty-bound to assist and serve me.”
“So it says,” Alya said, shaking her head. “But what guarantees do you have of that?”
“No more than I have in any of my men,” I considered. “I just have to trust him. And watch him,” I added. “I’ve learned an awful lot of helpful things from Forseti. Gareth has pillaged his ancient knowledge like a vault. Even Ruderal likes him, for some reason. And Lilastien trusts him.”
“I suppose I’m just being paranoid,” she sighed.
“No, you’re being cautious, and concerned about something you don’t entirely understand. That’s not a bad thing,” I pointed out. “I appreciate your insight.”
“I don’t have insights, I just have suspicions,” she said, reclining back into me. “I do trust Lilastien. I trust Gareth. And I do trust your judgement. It’s just strange to see that thing moving in a place where magic doesn’t work.”
“Our ancestors didn’t even use magic when they came to Callidore. That’s one of the things Forseti taught me. He is not dependent on magic in any way.”
“And yet an unliving object moves of its own accord and speaks with authority. How is that not suspicious, my husband?”
I had no answer to that, not without introducing Alya to volumes of ancient history and hours of lectures on science. Tekka is its own discipline, and it rarely intersects with magic. Explaining that to her would have taken time, and she would have found it patronizing.
So I did what a good husband does. I shut up and allowed her to have her suspicions without trying to change her mind. Indeed, it was hard to argue against them, though I thought her approach to the matter was misplaced. I didn’t mistrust Forseti because he continued to function in the realm of the jevolar; I mistrusted Forseti because at some point in that ancient history I was reluctant to discuss with Alya, something happened that had compelled our ancestors to reject their artificial servants. That, to me, was the suspicious part.
The next morning, Nattia appeared at breakfast with her brother, Travid. He was a smallish man, with straight dark hair and not Nattia’s distinctive red curls, but there was no mistaking their relation. His face and hers were very similar in form, though his was wider and hers was more angular. They bore the same freckles and pale skin.
“My broth
er,” she introduced, with a smile. “He wanted to meet you.”
“Ah, yes, Travid,” I nodded, as I gave him the Kasari salute. “Well met. I’ve heard much about you. Including the fact that you have rajira.”
The young man blushed and looked guilty as he returned the salute.
“Yes, I came into it at about the time of the invasion,” he revealed, as he sat down in front of my cabin. He spoke perfect Narasi. “Indeed, Master Fondaras identified it and explained what it was to me.”
“So why did you not seek to be trained?” I asked, curious. The guilty look persisted.
“Well, my lord, things were harried, during the invasion,” he said with a sigh. “I spoke to a mage in Tudry about it, once, but then Tudry was attacked. I had to get away with my patrol. Then I struggled with it for about a year when . . . well, something happened. I . . . I caused a mighty storm. I was trying to do something helpful, but then things got out of control.”
“They often do, with Wild Magic,” I sighed, nodding sympathetically. “Even with training, some magi are gifted with abilities that can get out of control. The histories of the Magical Academies are filled with such accounts.”
“Well, I conjured a blizzard,” he said, bluntly and directly. “A big whopping blizzard that buried all the Wilderlands. And beyond,” he said, glumly. “From what Nattia says, I . . . I made it an eventful Yule, that year,” he said, his blush deepening.
“Wait, this blizzard happened just after the invasion?” I asked, my mind racing. “Around Yule?”
“Aye,” he nodded. “There’s no telling how much misery I brought down on folk. That’s why I did as the masters suggested and came to Melleray. Here, at least, I was able to finish my Raptor course in peace, without hurting anyone,” he said, proudly displaying the intricately woven badge on his tunic. “I like it here. It’s peaceful.”
“Nattia, do you realize . . .” I asked.
“That my brother produced the blizzard that produced the Snow That Never Melted?” the Sky Captain asked, with a smile. “I do! Indeed, that is why I wanted to introduce you, my lord. I explained to my brother what great things happened due to that event, including how it led to the creation of the giant falcons. I thought you would want to know about it,” she finished.
“Thank you, that is remarkably interesting,” I agreed. But my mind was still racing. So, the snowstone spell had occurred as a result – or at least in conjunction – of a magically conjured blizzard. How in six hells was I supposed to factor that into my thaumaturgical equations? “Would you consider coming to Vanador and being trained in magic?”
The lad looked troubled. “I . . . I like it here,” he admitted, uncomfortably. “I’ve spent years here, now, and I’ve accomplished myself as a ranger.”
“You wouldn’t lose those skills or that title,” I informed him. “Indeed, one of the leading barons of my realm is a Kasari. Captain Arborn.”
“What?” Travid asked, sharply. “A Kasari has sworn fealty to a Narasi lord?”
“It’s all right, Trav,” soothed Nattia. “Count Minalan is not like the Wilderlords. None of the Magelords are. He’s the one who led the Great March,” she informed him. “Captain Arborn swore fealty, ’tis true, but he is married to Baroness Pentandra, one of the greatest of magi,” she said, proudly. “In return, Minalan granted him Osbury to rule as a barony . . . and the rest of Bransei.”
“That . . . that can’t be true,” Travid said, shaking his head. “Captain Arborn would not marry a Narasi! The Kasari would never consent to be ruled by a Narasi! And no Narasi would—”
“Alas, the only Narasi you are familiar with are Wilderlords,” I interrupted. “Magelords tend to be more enlightened about such things. Nor are all Magelords Narasi. Baroness Pentandra would be quite irritated being classified as such, as she is a proud Remeran, descended from the Imperial Magocracy. She’s hardly a Narasi. And she has her own barony to rule. She makes no claim over Osbury or Bransei. Quite the contrary.”
“That is . . . this is much to digest,” he sighed. “There have been many changes since I left the Wilderlands.”
“More than you can imagine,” his sister assured him. “You left me to learn to be a falconer. Now I ride one like a horse,” she pointed out. “The entire Wilderlands is transformed, thanks to the Spellmonger and his brave men.”
“Speaking of which,” Travid said, suddenly, “my lord, what can you tell me about this Gareth fellow?” The question earned him an elbow in the ribs from his sister, whose blush suddenly matched her brother’s.
“Well, Travid,” I chuckled, “that’s a long story . . .”
We spent the day resting and recovering from the passage through the wastes, and the Kasari of Melleray were incredibly hospitable. Our horses were provided fodder and hay – they had a few of the beasts, as well, and there was plenty of pasturage higher up the mountain. They were generous with their food, as well, and helpfully provided salves to soothe the inevitable rashes resulting from our passage.
They devoured the news we brought from the south with keen interest, and they were especially impressed that I had secured some peace for Bransei through my treaty with Ashakarl the Goblin King. The remarkable tale of me leading the Great March through the Wilderlands enchanted them, and I gained much respect among them as a result. Indeed, the news of the alliance between their folk and the Magelaw seemed like a welcome tonic to the isolated clan.
The Kasari of Melleray led a simple but useful life, it seemed. As I spoke to their captain in broken Narasi, with the occasional assistance of a translator, I learned that the tribe had assumed guardianship over those traveling through the wastes, below, as well as other duties.
They scanned the horizon day and night for signs of smoke or wildfire, both considered anathema to the Kasari in general, and they patrolled the frontiers of their territory rigorously – and for good reason. The tales of strange beasts and unwholesome powers in the land were too specific to be mere legend. While the Kasari were not warriors, they were called upon to defend their lands from time to time, and they stayed vigilant to any interlopers.
They survived by hunting, mostly, as well as a little farming and gardening. They eschewed grain crops due to the unsuitability of the land for such, though they traded for wheat and barley with the folk of Anferny domain. They also traded with the Kilnusk clan to the north for iron, copper, and other metals. And they traded occasionally with the Tal Alon to the northeast for vegetables and the legendarily potent beet rum they produced. The Kasari, in general, aren’t great drinkers compared to the Narasi or the Imperials. But every community has a man or two who enjoys a bit of liquor.
As for what they traded, it was the usual Kasari fare: rope, skins, furs, hides, and a number of simple but useful items they carefully crafted for trade. As the settlement was small, they were able to secure an abundance to sustain them. And, apparently, the other communities in Anghysbel were liberal in support of the outpost for their service in warding the southern frontier.
Gareth brought something else to my attention, after a day observing the clan.
“You do realize, Minalan, that the Kasari have been sending their Talented people here for centuries?” he asked.
“That was what I have heard,” I nodded.
“Well, few of them return to the Wilderlands, apparently. They usually marry within the clan and raise their families here. Oh, a few marry into families from Anferny, but my point is that they have concentrated a population with genetically high rajira, in Melleray. A place without magic.”
“Yes, that does seem to be what they have done,” I nodded.
“What kind of magi do you think they would make?” he asked. “If they were to all come south to Vanador?”
“From what Travid told me, they are happier here,” I explained. “They like being within the realm of the jevolar.”
“Oh, I know – Travid made that clear enough,” he nodded. “But I was just thinking what an asset they would be,
if they were to be properly trained. They already know how to read,” he pointed out.
“I’ve already extended an invitation to their captain,” I agreed. “But they are wary of magic for a reason, Gareth. Some of them who came here were subject to terrible expressions of their Talent. Your future brother-in-law, included.”
“Yes, I heard about his role in that blizzard,” he chuckled. “I don’t know if it’s ironic or mere coincidence, but it is interesting. And . . . well, he’s not terribly keen on me,” he admitted. “Apparently, I don’t measure up to the Kasari ideal, or something. It doesn’t help that we’re in a realm where I can’t show him where I excel the most. I’m just some scrawny man who likes his beautiful sister. And he mentioned the stupid rites I’ll have to go through if Nattia and I want to get married,” he added, glumly.
“If Pentandra got through them, I think you can,” I said, charitably. In truth, I knew from her description of the rites that Gareth may have an even worse time than she did. The male side of them was quite physically challenging, in places.
“It would be easier to face if I was certain I’d end up with Nattia, after going through them. From what I understand that’s not always guaranteed,” he said, his voice low.
“The will of the mating council can be harsh, if they don’t think the match will work out,” I agreed, reluctantly. “Such things have happened. But all life is risk, Gareth. If you don’t play, you can’t win. And the Kasari are very strict about such things,” I reminded him. “There is no way you can avoid it, if you want to wed.”
“I know,” he groaned. “I was discussing it with Forseti while we were going through the wastes – and while you would think he wouldn’t be the best to counsel a man on matters of the heart, he was actually surprisingly helpful. Speaking of which, he is nearly spinning his wheels off to get to that ancient installation. Do you want to go speak of it with the captain?”
Footwizard Page 14
