Into the Fold

by Chase Blackwood

  I blinked twice, surprised to see him there. I glanced about and saw Caine, Kallon, and Janto as well. They had joined Sakhira and Garit about the campfire.

  How long had they been here? How long had I been out?

  “We solved the second puzzle,” Garit said excitedly.

  Oria was nodding. Adel was smiling. Caine and Janto were eying Aeden with distaste.

  “And?” I asked weakly, sitting upon a log.

  Garit looked about, not sure if he should say more.

  “It turns out the riddles are probably not in order,” Sakhira stepped in.

  “Meaning?” I asked.

  It was Adel’s turn, he was eager to share. He loved puzzles and games.

  “Meaning, we have two puzzles, and you have the other three. Your first puzzle led us to the fork in the Lufian River.”

  Sakhira jumped back in, “And the second puzzle has us waiting until the full moon.”

  That didn’t make any sense.

  “There was nothing about the moon in it,” I exclaimed, as I temporarily caught sight of a single lightning beetle in the distance, glowing a soft amber in the night.

  “That’s because our puzzle spoke of it,” Kallon said. He glanced up as he recollected and recited the second puzzle, “Look for what is sometimes new but forever old, plentiful when not in the Fold, whose luster rings true, for then the path will be certain through and through.”

  I let the words settle through the fog that enshrouded my mind. I searched for meaning in the words. My brow wrinkled. It must have been evident, for Janto now spoke.

  “The razor grass of the Aria Plains,” he said loudly, gesturing to the south, “It reacts to the light of the moon, curling up its defensive blades, exposing a solitary flower for pollination.”

  “How do you know this,” my voice was almost accusatory.

  Janto seemed slightly taken aback. I hadn’t meant it as an insult. I just found it surprising that he had known about the razor grass. Deeper down I was simply embarrassed. Upon the plains of pain and death, should have been obvious enough. I had ignored the first line in our second riddle and paid the price.

  Caine cut in defensively, “Obviously it’s from Historium of the Fold.”

  He said it so haughtily as if everyone should have read it.

  “You never read it,” Garit stated. “Janto read it and you just repeated what he had said.”

  Garit seemed genuinely confused. He had no malintent, but simply was trying to correct a misspoken truth. It was the first accidental barb Garit had thrust upon Caine.

  Caine’s face turned red.

  “Of course I’ve read it,” he retorted hotly, “How dare you question me. You’ve hardly read anything.”

  Garit seemed taken aback by his anger, and defended himself the only way he knew how, with honesty.

  “I’ve read quite a bit.”

  Caine was eyeing Garit dangerously. Adel was looking at the ground, twiddling his thumbs as he thought. Oria looked anywhere but at the others as she stared at the leaping flames of the fire.

  There was a lapse into silence. The only sounds were the campfire crackling under the purpling sky of gloaming. Aeden moved away from my side, leaving me to feel colder, and partially aching for his presence.

  Don’t get me wrong, I was still angry with him. But, in that moment of weakness, I desired comfort. I would have been happy to curl up in his arms as I listened to one of his stories from his past.

  He came back with a few strips of meat and laid them onto a flat stone beside the fire. The stone was nestled over a bed of hot coals. The meat sizzled, sending small trails of smoke into the darkening night sky.

  “So, we have to wait for the full moon,” I said just loud enough to be heard.

  Sakhira nodded. Garit grunted. Oria glanced skyward as if willing the moon to transition phases faster.

  “Perhaps we could play a game,” Adel offered aloud, filling the silence with his contemplation and childlike wish.

  Kallon smirked and huffed slightly.

  “I think we’re too old for games.”

  Adel seemed slightly off put. Caine stepped in, almost defensively.

  “We could see who has the best story,” Caine proposed.

  Aeden glanced up, but said nothing. A half smile formed on Adel’s lips as he sucked some honey from its waxy comb. Caine nodded almost imperceptibly to the former monk.

  Sakhira appeared to contemplate it. Garit was smiling and nodding enthusiastically.

  “Nothing about the Inquisition,” I interjected.

  Garit’s smile slipped from his face.

  “How about an ancient civilization, now all but disappeared?”

  I half nodded, as another wave of pain swept through me. Sakhira leaned forward with interest. Aeden glanced up from cooking the meat.

  “Sounds interesting,” Adel said.

  “Then we’ll go around, each telling a story, and judge who’s best at the end,” Kallon interjected, attempting to take charge of the gameplay for the night.

  There was an overall murmuring of agreement. The campsite fell into a small jumble of conversations as we figured who’d go first.

  I sat, watching the fire, feeling its warmth, and wishing for Aeden to return to my side.

  Chapter 54

  “There’s an art to storytelling and not everyone has mastered it.” King Benbow - Bodig

  Gloaming settled its weight over the campsite, bringing with it the cold and deep purple of night.

  Garit, Adel, Oria, Sakhira, Caine, Janto, Kallon, and I sat around the campfire, telling stories. These stories stretched over the course of the next several nights as we waited for the full moon to cast its light upon the Fold and shine the way to the Sages of Umbra.

  Aeden sat apart, alone. It had become his custom as the weight of the group remained against him. I still held anger toward him. Kallon saw him as competition for the affections of Oria. It’s funny how quickly he had forgotten about Muriel. Sakhira was threatened to a subtler extent. Caine obviously hated him, and Janto simply followed Caine’s lead.

  This didn’t stop the group from telling stories. Numerous tales were told, most of which I have forgotten.

  I had spent the days recuperating and the nights socializing and listening to each person tell their piece. Each day I felt moderately better. Each day Aeden would check my bandage and offer a decreasing amount of jack-flower tea. Each night brought a different fable and a different voice to narrate.

  Kallon had spoken of old Chur. More specifically, he had spoken of the Ancient Knights of Chur. I only remember this because Garit had interrupted the story. Garit was convinced the Ancient Knights were just another name for the Inquisition. This drew derisive comments. It was his claim that the Inquisition predated the Calenite Empire that drew our ire.

  Oria had related some story about some forgotten princess and her unequaled beauty. She had excessively tossed her hair when telling her tale. She had cast too many long glances at Aeden.

  What was it about women competing for the affection of a disinterested man that so bothered me?

  Adel had relayed a religious story from the book of Khein. Having spent most of his life as an ordained monk of the Holy Order of Sancire, it wasn’t a surprising choice. He narrated some fable about a hidden sorrow, locked between two mountains, for eternity. It had been Salvare’s punishment for the Creation War.

  I don’t remember what Janto had said. Even as I sit here, struggling to remember, it remains as a small hole in my memory.

  As for Sakhira, he had relayed some story about a magical bow used during the schism. Aeden had appeared far more interested than I, despite continuing to sit apart.

  Adel had begged for Aeden to join. It wasn’t until the third night that Aeden had sat briefly beside the campfire. I could see the looks the others gave him. They were dark and angry.

  I remember Aeden’s story because of the group’s contempt and because of his words.

  Ae
den had spoken of the final night in Verold. The night the Inquisition had attacked. The night John had died. There was fire and fury in his eyes. Not once did he look away from Caine. It was awkward, uncomfortable, and unnerving. It was also a glimpse into his soul as I relived that night through his eyes.

  It was funny how no one dared say anything after his recount. Aeden had silenced the camp with his words and his presence. Even Caine refused to speak until Aeden had resigned himself to a spot outside the circle of firelight.

  It was the following night that I remember most. It was a night that nearly broke the group.

  Chapter 55

  “Words can lead to war, whilst falling upon deaf ears.” Oral Record of the Amevi

  As night fell upon the Fold, the group gathered about a fresh campfire. A plum sky settled itself overhead as a thousand stars vied for our attention. The moon grew wider as she shyly revealed her ever-glowing face. Her weight could be felt in our minds and our hearts as we continued to bide our time, waiting for the Plains of Aria to allow us passage.

  This night, however, was different, indelible even. It was memorable for the thread of weakness that bound us together, waiting to be tugged upon, and to tear the seam of perceived friendship.

  I sat and watched, glimpsing the hidden thread of intrinsic binding.

  Janto was flexing his muscles by the firelight as he showed off and attempted to make Caine smile. Adel was licking some honey off his fingers; a greedy look of contentment had settled upon his face. Oria was staring across the camp, to the solitary figure of Aeden.

  Aeden sat alone, as he had done most every night since Caine, Janto, Kallon and Adel had joined us. He’d interact with Adel of course, they were friends. He even talked briefly with me, checking my bandage and checking on me.

  He did this less often as the pretext of care had fallen away. I was feeling better. My arm was healing quickly, yet all the ministrations in the world did nothing for my thoughts. They circled about Aeden like vultures over carrion.

  He had entered my dreams and occupied my waking mind. He was like an infection. His remembered touch a forgotten kiss. His deep grey eyes had become two pools of mystery. His face, placid and unreadable like some distant mountain.

  The inner turmoil was a storm of conflict.

  At times I couldn’t stand the sight of him. Then, periodically, I’d find myself searching the campsite, hoping to catch a glimpse of him, hoping to catch him staring longingly, thinking of me.

  It didn’t make sense. It didn’t have to. I was angry. I was lonely. I was young.

  My thoughts were interrupted by Adel.

  “Who’s turn is it tonight?” he said, looking around the camp eagerly.

  His eyes finally stopped on Caine. Adel knew who’s turn it was. He just wanted the stories to resume. He had finished his sweets and wanted entertainment.

  Janto playfully shoved Caine, pointing to him, “Caine’s if I’m not mistaken.”

  Caine enjoyed the attention. He craved it. He needed it.

  “It better be the best story we’ve ever heard!” Janto teased.

  Caine rubbed at his chin thoughtfully. He narrowed his eyes and looked at the group.

  I too, took a moment to study the group.

  Kallon glanced to Oria and rolled his eyes, but Oria was looking elsewhere. Her attention was still with Aeden. She had tried to wave him over, but Aeden remained aloof. She displayed a mixture of sadness and frustration as she bit lightly at her lower lip.

  For some reason, Oria had gotten under my skin. Yet, part of me hoped Aeden would see her invitation and join us by the campfire. He’d remember is passion toward me. He’d beg for forgiveness and I’d pretend to be rebuffed, dragging it out as long as I could

  But he didn’t come. He remained apart, thinking his thoughts.

  Caine drew in a breath and began.

  “I will tell you a lesser known fable from Seller’s Row within the Red City.”

  Garit looked up attentively. Adel was openly smiling. Janto had stopped playing and fidgeted as he sat. He reminded me at times of a nervous rodent, unable to sit still.

  Sakhira rummaged for some dried meat, but otherwise remained silent.

  “Listen carefully,” Caine said, “for there’s a great truth hidden in this tale.”

  He cast one last glance around the camp, as if gathering in everyone’s attention, ensuring all eyes were on him. His narcissism demanded it.

  “A long time ago, there was a king who had loved bread,” he began, his voice low as he told his story. “He loved it more than anything else in the world. He had hosted a competition, inviting all the best bakers from Verold. Bakers poured in from as far as Dimutia and Templas, the Isle of Galdor and the Isle of Mann.

  “They used rye and barley, wheat and corn, potatoes and yams, salt from the Fire Mines of Janam, sugar from the nectar from the kalon flower, and water from the deepest wells of Roewold.

  “This caused the king’s baker, Tineman, to become jealous. As he watched these unique breads baked and displayed, he grew anxious and he grew angry.

  “As the king sampled each and looked at him, saying, ‘I know you’ve something special in store,’ the baker grew desperate.

  “The baker fled in the deepest hours of night. He searched far and wide for ingredients to make the perfect loaf, for he had to prove to the king that he was worthy of keeping.

  “The baker had traveled to the farthest corners of the Imperium, from the massive city of Sawol to the frigid hills of Winter’s Bind. But it was in the foothills of the Shroud Mountains, that the baker had met a hidden group. This group sold him a magic ingredient in exchange for his seed. The women of the group had promised that it would allow him to make the best loaf of bread Verold had ever seen.

  “This part of the Shroud Mountains became known as Tineman’s Pass.

  “The baker rushed back to Bodig, with the ingredient in his pocket, excited and anxious to bake for the king. The baker slipped into the kitchens at the peak of night, and followed a secret recipe, whispered to him from afar, and sprinkled the magic ingredient into the dough.

  “He placed the dough into the brick oven and retired for the night.

  “The following morning the baker returned to the kitchens, proclaiming to the staff, that he’d just made the best bread the king would ever try. He bragged and he whistled as he made his way to the oven, only to find it empty.

  “In a frantic search, the baker examined the kitchens and then the city for the loaf of bread. It wasn’t until he’d made his way as far as Sha’ril, did he come across the bread, for it had made friends with a bard, and had learned to sing and dance.”

  Janto broke down laughing, interrupting the fable. Caine eyed him carefully, unsure if the laughter was at him or at the story.

  Kallon was shaking his head.

  It was Garit, however, that spoke and broke the spell.

  “That’s stupid,” he said, “it doesn’t make any sense.”

  But before he could finish his sentence, Caine had stood, red in the face.

  “It’s a story you moron,” he shouted, “You know nothing about stupidity, having been bred in the back of some farmer’s barn.”

  Caine’s anger was hot as the campfire, radiating heat for all those around.

  Garit looked utterly confused. He stammered and struggled to articulate his thoughts. Janto had stopped laughing, but retained his goofy smile. He stood and put an arm on Caine. Yet, Caine wouldn’t have it. He shrugged Janto off as he continued to stare incredulously at Garit.

  A single word had sparked a fiery outrage, and that spark had just landed on a heap of kindling.

  Kallon soon stood. He cast a quick glance at Oria, hoping she’d see his act of heroism. He then turned to face Caine.

  “He wasn’t calling you stupid,” Kallon said, in an attempt to defend Garit and to show his bravery.

  “Peace,” Adel shouted, but no one paid him any attention.

  “You’re
defending the imbecile?” Caine shouted.

  Caine couldn’t believe it. How dare someone call him stupid?

  Kallon puffed out his chest. Garit, unsure of how to react, stood too.

  “He’s not an imbecile,” Kallon spat.

  Caine wasn’t listening. His face was an angry mask of indignant rage. He took a step forward, the light of the campfire cast him in evil hues of red and orange.

  “His mother was a whore,” Caine continued, undeterred.

  Something in Garit snapped. His eyes went wide. His mouth formed a grim line. He flew into a blind fury. He launched himself at Caine in a tumbling heap of arms and legs.

  Adel shouted and tried to stop them. Oria ran to get Aeden. I shouted ineffectively.

  I watched as Kallon tried to peel Garit off of Caine. Caine misunderstood and shoved Kallon. Kallon stumbled back, anger evident on his face. He took a swing at Caine and ended up hitting Janto. Janto leapt forward and punched Kallon in the stomach.

  The situation was spiraling out of control. I knew I had to do something. I glanced back, looking for Aeden. Where was he? Why wasn’t he helping?

  I saw Oria tugging on a reluctant Aeden. Her hands were on his arm. Her breasts pressed against him as she struggled to move him. I felt my cheeks turn red. I tore my gaze from them as Janto threw another punch at Kallon.

  I had to act. This needed to stop.

  I jumped forward. I shouted. I struggled to separate them.

  My voice was lost to the night. My efforts drowned by the anger of uncontrollable men. I fought to pull them apart only to receive an elbow to the face. One moment I was shouting and standing. Then next I was a heap on the ground, clutching at my cheek.

  Sakhira suddenly stood over me, offering a hand. His face was a mask of concern.

  He helped me up.

  As I stood, I saw Aeden swoop in like some predatory bird. Finally, he had taken action.

  His features were carved from stone. His body a blur of motion. His intent sharp as a blade.

  Aeden tossed Kallon aside like a sack of beans. Adel struggled with Garit as Aeden moved in on Janto. It was almost comical to watch, as Janto brought up his hands to fight. Aeden never once looked threatened. He simply snapped a kick forward. Janto instantly doubled over, clutching his gut like a wounded animal.