An Elegy of Heroes

by K. S. Villoso

  He sees Gaven standing in the middle of the street. There is a scent about him, one of a man who has not been home for a while—the stench of urine and dirt. His clothes are bedraggled. Unaware of Camden’s attention, he looks around him, scratches his neck, and says, “No. No. He’s gotta be here. Gotta be here somewhere.”

  His odd behaviour makes the hair on Camden’s arms rise. He tells himself to let it go—that wherever Kefier is, he would probably be able to take care of himself. He begins to walk away, but then he sees a shadow crossing the street. He presses against a wall and hears the sound of boots clicking.

  “Gaven,” a deep voice calls out. Baidhan. There is no mistaking the accent.

  “And who the fuck are you?”

  The man extends his hand. He is holding a large, round vial, with something purple inside. There is a loud shriek, and then the vial breaks. Smoke rises from the ground where the glass shards lie, emitting the scent of chemicals and burnt flesh.

  Camden covers his mouth, to stop himself from vomiting.

  The Baidhan chuckles. “I didn’t think I would get that sort of reaction so fast. Ylir really did a number on you, did he? But that’s behind you, now. Come with me. I will give you a future more glorious than your petty mercenary life could have ever offered you.”

  “No,” Gaven says. “Piss off. You—” But the Baidhan raises his arms and Gaven drops to the ground with his hands on his head.

  “Ylir is my apprentice,” the man says. “Whatever he did to you broke you. You are mine, now.”

  Gaven screams. Camden pushes himself off the wall to run.

  It is a mistake, but maybe it wouldn’t have mattered. Camden feels his limbs slacken, feels cold, wet cobblestone on his face. He remembers that he has not told Lillah where he was going. She had asked him to accompany her to the theatre, where she would be performing that night, and he had declined. Another mistake. Would that, too, have made a difference? Does anything?

  His last thought occurs a few moments later, not long after the Baidhan steps in front of him and brings out a large sword that looked like it belonged to Agartes himself. He thinks of Maira, of never having to face her again. She will think he is with Cal somehow.

  He probably will be, soon.

  Ka-eng live for centuries.

  Few people know the fact. Very few of her people live among the Kag, and those who do tend to re-invent themselves every half a century or so, to give the impression that they age and die like humans do. It is, they were taught, a precaution. If history has taught them anything, it is that humans are greedy and notoriously unstable. What will they do with this knowledge, if it becomes known? How many ka-eng will they capture, prod, and poke, in order to learn this secret, in order to use it themselves and against their fellow men?

  Jarche is three hundred and twenty-five years old. By ka-eng standards, this is roughly a little bit past middle age. By kusyani standards, she would still be a sprite youngster. But she has lived in the noisy, ever-changing world of men for most of her life, and so some days she feels elderly, like an ancient oak that has seen too much.

  Ancient oak, actually, is what the boy used to call her, back when he was still a boy. Like all men, he had aged too fast. She still remembers long, summer nights back in Hafod, when she would bake bread with the windows open while he would take his crutches to read his books on the kitchen table. He used to tell her how much he loved her bread, that he thinks it is the most wonderful thing in the world. He was always a flatterer, that one.

  She misses him as he was, before his body had healed. Before they had opened the box and Yn Garr had decided that the pace at which he was learning was not fast enough. She remembers arguing with him about that. By all the gods, the boy was too gifted to be allowed to progress so recklessly. Skill in the agan—especially one so strong—needed to be nurtured, not thrown into the fire.

  “Well, what do you want me to do?” Yn Garr had snarled. “It’s here now. It’s getting bigger, and if his enchantments are not strong enough, he’ll lose control of it. He’s already losing control, as it is. Or do I need to remind you again about what happened last time?”

  Last time had been when the boy returned, muttering and half-mad, after the creature had wrapped him in its embrace far too long. It should have never happened. But Yn Garr is impatient, has always been, and for a ka-eng who has lived for so long, she does not understand.

  “Stop feeding it so much, then,” she told him. “Wait a little bit. Give the boy time.”

  “Time to what? He’s here now. If he dies before he can get it to Dageis, what then? A descendant of Jaeth with this much skill in the agan does not come around every century!”

  “He’s not going to die.”

  The look Yn Garr gave her after those words nearly broke her heart. “What makes you so sure of that, Jarche?” he asked, and she was forced to leave it alone. She is too soft already, as it is.

  And so she sits here, alone, poring over papers—transferring large amounts of money to pay workers and mercenaries, handling accounts, supply requisitions, gunpowder permits, and the like—while she sips stew she made just for herself. She tells herself that any time she chooses to she can drop it all and leave; she has not visited her ancestral home for too long, and her family (if they are alive) will surely welcome her again. But she has done this for centuries, and in a way, she enjoys it.

  The cat meows. She picks up his dish to refill it and looks out of the window. She thinks of the boy again, of the only maternal feeling she has ever allowed herself, and wishes him well. In time, he will be home again, and they can laugh for a while. She can wait for that. Ka-eng live for centuries, after all.

  Chapter Eight

  The tendrils, black at first, turned purple if you stared at them long enough. There was a hint of fur there, a touch of scale here. They flicked forward, wrapping themselves gently around his arm as he came close. Jaeth’s son, it loved to croon. You could see the sky over Gorent reflected in the surface of its eye.

  Jaeth’s son. You wouldn’t hurt me, would you? Send the other away. He was here. He—!

  “Sir Ylir, sir.” He opened his eyes to his cramped quarters inside Aina's Breath and felt a heavy weight lift from his chest, as if somebody had punched him there and then pulled back. He glanced through the porthole and glimpsed the first rays of dawn peeking over the mountains in the distance. Right, he thought wearily, his head pounding. Daylight started early this time of the year in Gaspar.

  He ignored the loud presence outside the door and took his time getting out of bed. Shirtless, he ventured over to his desk and re-lit the lamp. An apparatus on top of it allowed him to heat last night’s spiced wine in a tin cup. A Hafed friend of his had designed it; the thing was notoriously unreliable, but some days it worked all right. Soon, the room began to smell of cinnamon and cloves.

  He pulled out the box from under his bed and found the clothes the Jin girl had laundered for him several weeks ago. They smelled of mothballs now, but that was preferable to the sweat stains he had been forced to deal with all this time. One does not show up in a Gasparian lord’s court wearing peasant attire, even if it was only the Lords of Al-ir and Barun.

  The thought of meeting Azchai made Ylir grimace with distaste. It would have been a lot easier if he had met the man under different circumstances. It wasn’t that he regretted turning him away back in Yn Garr’s estate in Cael—the man was so irritable, and his face so smug, that Ylir couldn’t have reacted any other way. But to suddenly realize that the man could be useful after such a dismissal didn’t bode well for their operations.

  He took a sip of the wine and the grimace turned to a frown. It started almost as soon as they arrived at Aret-ni; K’an of Al-ir, the Prestigious Lord Mhagaza, had sent word that he was removing Yn Garr’s Industries’ rights to build on his land. He was also confiscating all materials and resources on the site. It didn’t matter that such an act was illegal in the Kag; they were in Gaspar, which meant the
lords could damn well do whatever they liked. In all likelihood, Mhagaza had learned of their builder’s default and was going to try to get what he could out of it.

  And then of course as soon as he received that message, he received another from Azchai, who had arrived in Gaspar almost too quickly (did the man’s horses fly?). The man didn’t say “I told you so,” but he might as well have tattooed the words all over Ylir’s body. He repeated his offer and Ylir, bristling, felt like he had no choice but to consider it. What followed were several weeks of furious correspondence by mail, wherein Azchai repeatedly upped the stakes until Ylir could no longer open his letters without seeing red. That damned, greedy pig! Ylir even told his master that their best chance of profit right now was to turn the ship over and charge the insurance company. He’d find a way to survive.

  But Yn Garr’s reply was a definite “No.” Another infuriating man. Work with him, you buffoon. I don’t care if we lose money over it. This operation is about more than the profit. Foundations, fool, it’s all about foundations. Get that through your head. Or haven’t I taught you enough?

  Foundations. Ylir snorted—all well and good for Yn Garr to say such a thing, but no matter which way you put it, one and one can’t add up to five. Where was he supposed to get the coin to appease everyone—Al-ir and Barun both—and still make sure operations went underway? They were already out thirty-thousand ril!

  Maybe he could turn the ship over and sink with it.

  He smirked at the thought.

  “Sir.”

  “You’re still there?” he asked, irritated.

  There was an abrupt silence, followed by a shifting of feet. He sighed, pushing the wine away from him, and buttoned an old shirt up. “Come in,” he said, lifting his fingers. The door flung open.

  Ranias stood there with his hands in his pockets. His face was pale. “The horses have arrived, sir,” he squeaked.

  “And that warrants an announcement, does it?”

  “Sir?”

  He ran his hands through his hair. “Never mind. I suppose that means we should get ready to ride those dumb animals soon. Everything has been packed?”

  “Yes, sir. We’ve also sent word ahead of our arrival and secured the ship. The men we’re leaving behind are very trustworthy, sir. You have nothing to fear.”

  “I hope that’s true.” He glanced through the porthole and was silent for a moment. “The girl,” he said. “Is she ready?”

  “Sir?”

  “She’s joining us. What’s with that face? I can’t very well leave her behind with your men, especially after what happened last time. If you don’t have a horse ready for her, give yours up. You can ride a donkey in the meantime. Honestly.” He snapped his fingers, shutting the lamp fire from afar, and began the laborious task of putting on his boots. Ranias hovered around like a fly for a few moments, but eventually he must have realized how stupid he looked, because he bobbed his head and walked away.

  Burg was waiting for him out on deck, clad in thin leathers, furry shoulder-pads, and the most utterly ridiculous cloak he had ever seen in his whole life. It made the short man look like a mushroom. “What in Yohak’s name is that?” he asked, trying hard not to laugh.

  “I am told this is what Gasparians wear,” Burg snorted. His cheeks were red from the heat. “And what about you, you fine dandy? Do you really think the ponies would be impressed?”

  “Thank you for the compliment, but this is actually an old shirt.”

  Burg’s face grew serious. “What’s this I’m hearing about you wanting the girl with us? There ought to be enough girls along the road, don’t you think?”

  “That’s hardly my intention.” He leaned across the railing and faced Burg. “I still mean to return her to her family. After what happened last time, I’m not trusting her around these cock-brained monkeys. Besides, Burg, do you really think the woman would allow us to lock her up here while we go riding off into the sunset? Last port she could hardly wait to get out.”

  “That was before,” Burg murmured. He immediately dropped his head. Ylir saw the girl emerge from below deck. She had tied her hair in several knots, and he noticed for the first time that it went to her waist. The length of it was probably going to prove problematic during their journey. He was trying to think of a polite way to tell her to crop it when she came up to him and stared him in the eye.

  “Sir,” she said casually, but even behind that he sensed a tinge of venom—not a lot, but enough to jolt him from his thoughts. “I wasn’t told I was to go with you beyond the port.”

  “Change of plans,” he replied.

  “I see.” She glanced at Burg for a moment, then turned back to him. “I’m to ride a horse, I suppose?”

  He grinned. “You can walk, if that’s what you want. Although I’ve been led to believe that Ranias somewhere right now is procuring a donkey.”

  “My clothes aren’t suitable for travel.” She sighed. “Oh, why do I have to go? I’ve never travelled inland before. I like knowing where the sea is. I’m not even sure I can sleep without hearing waves, or thinking I can hear waves. It sounds funny but I feel like I could drown if I’m surrounded by land, miles away from the sea. You can’t possibly know what I mean, but...”

  Ylir looked at her and closed his mouth. The crashing of waves against an empty shore...

  He turned away and gazed across the horizon. “Burg, accompany her to that godsforsaken store you bought that absurd outfit from and get her whatever she needs. They’ll probably be men’s fitting, but they should have some small enough. All the better, don’t you think, keep her away from prying Gasparian eyes? And you, girl—start learning to keep your mouth shut. I know propriety is not a trait Jins are known for, but...well, if you don’t learn from me now you will soon. Now get out of my sight, the both of you.”

  The sea was quiet here, with waves that folded on top each other instead of rising tall like those she had grown up with in Jin-Sayeng. That was, of course, a surprise—she thought that the ocean looked the same no matter which angle you viewed it from. Burg had told her before that Aret-ni was at the base of an inlet, but those were just words to her.

  There was a haunting, wild beauty to the place though, one that she didn’t have difficulty admitting that she liked. The tall, layered cliffs surrounding the strip of beach were made of sandstone, streaked with white and yellow. The sand itself was white—she first noticed this when she got off the boat with Burg, and suddenly she couldn’t help but utter a small shriek of surprise. She immediately kicked off her sandals so she could feel the wet sand between her toes.

  In the distance, Sir Ylir watched them from the deck of the ship, but if he was displeased by her actions he didn’t say anything. Burg, behind her, made a comment she chose not to hear. It was difficult to care about anything else when you had seawater pooling around your ankles.

  She took her time at the store. It was true that there wasn’t much choice by way of travel clothes, but she had no desire to look like a pack animal, and Burg didn’t seem to mind waiting. “It’s just like shopping with my sister,” he said, grinning so wide the gap in his front teeth looked like a chasm.

  They left Aret-ni in the afternoon, passing through a narrow road framed by strange, dark trees with branches so low Sume had to duck many times to stop herself from falling off. The grass, where the sun could reach it, was tall and yellow. Her mount stopped often to pick at it, and Ranias had to touch its flanks with a whip to get it to move again.

  The small, lean beast was a strange affair for her. She had never ridden horses before and found the experience both frightening and exhilarating. An hour after they first moved on, her thighs began to sweat and swell from rubbing too much against the saddle. She remembered riding buffaloes, but that had been very different. She could still recall those times with her brother (back in a dead uncle’s farm, so long ago), how she would wrap her legs around its thick shoulders and feel like she was riding a mountain. One time, a gnat had stung t
he buffalo and it had gone wild, with both of them still on it. Later their father had screamed at Oji, asking what he would have done had his sister died.

  “Bury her,” he’d said, matter-of-factly.

  It all felt like it happened to someone else.

  The thought of her brother gave her strength. She knew some of the men—Tibal’s friends and sympathizers—resented her for what happened at the ship, and she could feel them watching her every move, waiting for her to fall or otherwise make a fool of herself. She did neither. One time, when the gelding reached out for another bite of grass and Ranias reached out to hit him, she tapped her heels into his belly as she had seen the others do and laughed as he galloped, pulling him back near the front, where Ylir rode. Ylir, of course, had barked at her to get back in line; he was even more irritable than usual on horseback. Still, she had made her point.

  She found herself thinking more and more of Oji in the days that followed. Travelling like this made her think of all the times her brother must have travelled himself. She could still remember some of his letters, how he himself had to learn to ride a horse, or how Kefier seemed perpetually unable to find a ride that didn’t want to kill him.

  Aden confirmed. “I don’t know what that was all about. Maybe the horse didn’t like the way he smelled. We had this mare back at Baeddan’s, you know—very placid old girl. Nothing more than a cow horse. She saw him and she lit up like she’d just seen half the demons in the Kag.”

  “It sounds like you all had fun,” she said. “In the Boarshind, I mean.”

  Aden gave a rueful smile. “There’s good and bad days. There’s good days—like now, believe it or not, when your client’s not a total nutcase or at least in Sir Ylir’s case pays really well.” He grinned. “Bad days—well, there was this client who had it in his head that he was going to convert a barn into a house, and let’s just say scraping half a century’s worth of cattle crap wasn’t in the job description. The very good days happen on pay out days.”