by Dana Marton
“They say people sometimes disappear into the mist.” I repeated what I had heard from the servants.
“Two,” the Guardian of the Cave exclaimed. “Two, in how many centuries?” He shook his head, then continued in a calmer tone. “One of the old Guardians, a wanderer, saw more than the others. Twice he brought a slave from Karamur. Both were badly abused by their masters.”
I stared at him, beginning to understand.
“The slaves had been flogged badly enough so that everyone knew they could not have moved on their own. Their masters had left them tied to the whipping post at the market place, a warning to the others. When those battered slaves disappeared, rumors must have started among the Kadar,” the Guardian of the Cave explained.
I shared their meal, barley soup and meat cured into strips as tough as leather. I chewed; they gnawed. They did not have many teeth. A comfortable silence surrounded us, interrupted only by the crackling of the fire. I had many questions, but I waited respectfully for them to speak to me.
“The scrolls are calling,” their guardian said suddenly in the back, his voice sour, as if that made him exceedingly unhappy.
I turned to him. “What do they say?”
He shot me a dark look.
I tried another approach. “Grandfather, would you tell me what is written upon the scrolls?”
He looked at me as if he had never heard a question with less merit. But after a lengthy silence, he deigned to speak. “No one knows, of course.”
He pushed to his feet painfully and shuffled forward to sit by us. “We believe they will tell us how to defeat the coming enemy.”
“Mayhap reading them could prove useful,” I suggested in a tone as respectful as I could manage.
He looked at me with disdain.
The Guardian of the Cave replied in his place. “He cannot. His duty, as was his father’s before him and will be his son’s after him if he joins the spirits before the battle begins, is to guard the scrolls for the time when the one who can read them cometh.”
“And when will the reader come?”
Hope and sorrow mixed in the old man’s gaze. “You, Tera of the Shahala, are the one for whom the scrolls await.”
I blinked hard. My heart missed a beat. “Maybe you are mistaken, just this once,” I suggested while bowing politely. “I have no special powers.” I did not want great powers. Indeed, I feared the thought, having learned well the lesson of my great-grandmother.
They said nothing. They were perhaps the three oldest and wisest men in the world. They probably did not make many mistakes.
You, Tera of the Shahala, are the one for whom the scrolls await.
I forgot to breathe.
Jarim flashed into my mind unexpectedly. Jarim, whose evil spirit my mother had softened with her own until he could not kill me, not even when the war neared. He had sold me into slavery that brought me to Karamur. And all that time, the scrolls had waited.
If this was my destiny, Jarim had done nothing but help me fulfill it. Had he had a choice? Had my mother? Could I do anything else but follow the path before me?
I tried to find answers to those questions in my heart, but I searched in vain.
“And you guard the cave?” I asked the Guardian to my left, determined to at least learn as much as could be learned from the three of them.
He nodded with pride. “The Sacred Cave that holds the Sacred Scrolls. And my father before me. And his father before him, going back all through history.”
I glanced around, looking for some sign of the extraordinary. “Is this the Sacred Cave?”
“You will enter the Sacred Cave when the time arrives.”
Impatience welled in me to know more, but pushing for more answers would have been impolite, so I turned to the Guardian on my other side.
“I have not seen any gates.” The Forgotten City had no gates, nor did it need one, for the mountains and the power of the Guardians provided sufficient protection.
The old man smiled at me with indulgence, as a father might smile at his young child. “I guard The gate.”
The Guardian of the Scrolls glared at him. The Guardian of the Cave cleared his throat.
“She is The One. She should know,” the Guardian of the Gate told them, his hands coming up in a defensive gesture.
And then I finally understood. “The Gate of the World?” I swallowed. “Is it here?”
He smiled again. “On the other side of the mountain.”
“Will you tell me more about it, Grandfather?” I asked, expecting him to say “when your time is here,” so when he began the tale, my heart thrilled.
“At the beginning of time lived the First People.” He leaned back to grab a chunk of wood to throw on the fire, but the wood must have been wet because smoke rose between us.
The Guardian of the Scrolls mumbled something about fools, but the Guardian of the Gate paid no mind to him, just cleared his throat to continue.
“As the only people in the world, they lived in peace. They had land aplenty, and it provided all they needed, never a fight among their men. And these First People multiplied and filled many islands. On each island, their customs and ways changed a little to fit the land, but they still remained brothers and called themselves one nation. They respected the spirits of their ancestors, and those ancient spirits helped them, some say even walked among them.”
I barely noticed the acrid smell of smoke as I leaned forward so I would not miss a single word.
“And the wisdom of these First People stretched without end. They commanded the first metals out of stone and shaped rocks and fitted them together to create cities.”
“They built the Forgotten City too,” the Guardian of the Cave interjected, then fell silent again and nodded to the other man to continue.
“They could build many things, the way of which is now lost to us. They built the first ships and sailed them even over the ocean.”
“The wild ocean?” I gasped.
“All the water was not so wild back then. Like Mirror Sea, the waves stretched in peace and could be sailed. But as centuries passed, the hardstorms grew more and more frequent and soon made the wild ocean impassable. So the First People built gates to connect their nation from island to island, land to land. In their time, all the islands and lands had many gates, but as the people of each land grew more and more different, the time came when they forgot they were all brothers.”
He gave a sad, resigned sigh before he went on. “Rugar was the leader of a far distant island, his heart filled with darkness. The hardstorms spilled over his land and brought famine to his people. When they cried out in need, he looked with envy upon a neighboring land. He trained the first warriors and traveled through the gate and killed his brothers.”
The Guardian of the Cave nodded gravely. The Guardian of the Scrolls huddled under his robe and stared into the flames.
“Thus the first war began, and the unjustness of this great killing rose to the spirits and made all mankind distasteful to them so they no longer walked among men. And when they so abandoned the people, more famine came, and more war and diseases with it. And the number of those First People waned like the moons. Many of the gates were destroyed in those times. On all the islands of Mirror Sea, only one remained.”
Which was all right, since our Mirror Sea was one of the few waters where hardstorms rarely reached, so our waters could still be sailed.
I had heard of the gates before, from travelers who had come to seek my mother from distant lands. But back then, the stories seemed like children’s tales to me, and not until now did I understand the full wonder of such a creation.
“Ages after that, new people arrived from faraway kingdoms and repopulated the islands, but they knew little of the First People or their extraordinary ways,” the Guardian of the Gate said.
“In places, the few First People that remained were hunted and tortured for their knowledge. They were enslaved and abused until the last of them died. T
heir brothers, hearing of this on other islands, hid and never passed on any of their wisdom. When the last of them disappeared, so did their secrets with them. Some of those distant islands still have gates, but no one knows now how to open them, so the people who live there are trapped.”
I drew closer to the fire to keep warm as I listened to the Guardian.
“On Dahru, our people the Seela showed great respect for the First People, and thus they shared their knowledge with us. They knew, I think, that their race was coming to an end. A new world emerged, with new ways that left little room for theirs.”
“It is said the blood of the First People mixed with that of the ancient Seela, and we carry it on still,” the Guardian of the Cave interjected.
The Guardian of the Gate nodded. “So say the legends.”
He poked the fire before he went back to his tale. “Those lands that have gates use them if they can and guard them, for they are true treasures the likes of which no longer can be made. Those who settled on lands without gates or lost the knowledge to use their gates are cut off. They no longer remember where they came from and forgot the rest of us. There are many islands and lands like that and many people. We call them ‘Sorlan’—Beyond.”
He shifted on the hard stone of the cave floor. “Some of these islands are thick with magic, they say, and ruled by sorcerers.” He fell silent.
I had heard some of this before, as parts of the story were familiar to my people, but not the whole history. I knew little about the First People, and I had never before heard of the people of “Beyond.” The Shahala stories talked mostly about our kind, how they came from afar and settled on Dahru where they found sanctuary. And how the Kadar came after that. My people thought the ancient race of Guardians long extinct.
The Kadar warriors protected the island, and when their numbers grew greater, they went away to fight foreign enemies in faraway places, never giving them a chance to reach our shores. The Shahala lived in peace, and the power of healing in them grew even stronger, and they repaid the Kadar by healing them from the wounds of war when their services were called upon.
I told the Guardians as much, and they nodded, for they knew that tale as well. And the Guardian of the Cave knew even more—the names of all the great healers of our people and the names of all the great High Lords of the Kadar, from Coulron all the way to Batumar.
At the end, my thoughts circled back to the gate. “I never knew Dahru held the Gate of the World.”
“Not many people do.” The Guardian of the Scrolls glared at the Guardian of the Gate again. “We do our best to keep the gate’s true power concealed, lest it become a prize fought for by evil men.”
“Most gates can open only to a handful of other gates, their range limited. The Gate of the World can reach all the other gates,” the Guardian of the Gate said with pride.
“As long as it has a true Guardian,” the Guardian of the Cave added.
“Why do you stay hidden?” I asked them the question burning in my mind. “If you have the powers of the First People, you could do such good in the world.”
“We have little of the power of the First People, but even for that, our ancestors were hunted without mercy,” said the Guardian of the Scrolls. “Other nations came to try Dahru before the Kadar and Shahala settled here. Some of those nations used the island as a resting place on their way to other destinations; some sought to conquer the Seela and stay here.” He fell silent for a moment, and I knew he had more tales of those dark times, tales he did not care to share.
His frail body shuddered as if wanting to shake off his interloping thoughts the way furry land animals shake off water. He rubbed his knee and went on with the tale. “The wind of centuries blew away the conquerors. They died of wars and diseases, hunger and treachery. We feared that soon the Seela too would perish, so we hid ourselves in the mountains and swore to protect the last of our people so we could go on preserving our ancient knowledge.”
I thought about Talmir and how he had been kidnapped by the Tezgin mercenaries because they thought he had special healing powers, and how he had been sold into slavery. Had the Kadar not protected our island, I wondered where the Shahala would be by now.
I found a strange irony in that, for the Kadar themselves had slaves and would accept a Shahala slave if sold to them, although they would never attack the Shahala to take slaves and would indeed defend our nation as a whole from being enslaved by others.
We talked about that for some time, and about the First People, until the Guardian of the Gate pushed himself to his feet with effort. “The High Lord is returning. We should not hold the mist much longer.”
I had wanted to see my mother’s grave again, so I stood with some disappointment but said farewell, even to the Guardian of the Scrolls, who did not seem to notice I was leaving. I hurried back to the palace after a brief glance at the path that led south through the mountains. Freedom still awaited there, but many warriors would be coming home from battle who would need my help with their injuries. I found I could not desert them.
I reached my chamber unnoticed, just as the light of morning broke through the disappearing mist. I left the door open behind me to allow in clean air and held my breath as I dipped the glowing tip of the sleeping stick in water. I changed into my gossamer nightrail, lay upon the bed, and pulled the cover over me.
Leena’s eyes fluttered open after a short while. I closed mine and listened to her move about the room, readying my clothes for the day.
I must have fallen asleep, for I woke to the sound of the horns proclaiming Batumar’s return. Leena barely had the time to help me dress and arrange my hair before the High Lord sent his summons.
She fed me a few bites; then we rushed down the corridors, Leena clinging to the single charm hanging from the belt she wore only when Batumar was out of the palace.
My stomach clenched as her anxiety spread to me. Had he been injured? If so, I prayed to the spirits the injury would not be beyond my abilities.
I pushed open the door of the High Lord’s antechamber, leaving Leena outside. I did not need escort when I was with Batumar. I breathed a sigh of relief when I saw him and closed the door slowly, allowing Leena a glimpse.
He sat on one of the ornately carved chairs in his antechamber while one of his stewards stood before him with a scroll in hand, giving his report. Batumar’s gaze cut to me when I entered, but he did not interrupt the steward. I bowed, startled by his appearance. Like a stranger was he, in clothes stained and soiled beyond recognition, most of his face covered by a generous growth of beard, except the jagged line of his scar.
His obsidian eyes shone with intensity, his large frame, even slumped in the chair as he sat now, radiated true strength. His dark hair, longer than when he had left, hung in the thick braid some Kadar preferred for battle. He looked as if a warrior of old had come to us from the legends.
The steward droned on about supplies stored for the eventuality of siege, while the voices of servant women filtered from the sleeping chamber. I skirted around the men and walked in there, not wanting to disturb the report.
Two servant women poured water into a wooden tub, the largest I had ever seen. They bowed as I entered. They were palace servants, assigned to someplace other than Pleasure Hall, so I did not know their names. I helped them lift the heavy pails despite their protests. They were older than Leena, and besides, I always welcomed exercise. A healer had to have enough strength to lift or turn her patients if needed.
At home, I had roamed the woods and climbed numaba trees all day long. At the House of Tahar, I worked alongside the servants. But since I had come to Karamur, I had barely done more than walk from Pleasure Hall to the kitchen. Climbing the cliff made me realize how soft I had grown. The effort strained me more than it should have.
When I finished with the last pail, I moved out of the women’s way and caught sight of Batumar watching me from the doorway. A good fire roared in the hearth, its heat touching me as if I stood
right next to the flames.
The scent of freshly split wood filled the air, coming from the armload that must have been carried in recently. The servants noticed the High Lord too, at last, and fell silent, bowing to him as he strode into the chamber.
I had forgotten how tall he stood, how imposing, how mismatched we were in strength. I swallowed and glanced away. Perhaps I should have run while I had had the chance, while I had the advantage of his absence. A quick bolt of panic dashed through me from head to toe. Had I doomed myself by remaining?
The bed groaned under his weight as he sat and stretched his feet toward the fire. The women immediately set to undo his boots and strip off his clothes. His armor of leather, worked nearly to the hardness of metal, already lay in the corner.
One of the women removed his doublet, and I caught my breath at the sight of fresh blood on his tunic. I had hoped the blood stains on his outer garments were the blood of the enemy. I watched his face to see if the movement of any limbs caused him pain, and searched from afar for the site of the injury.
I found it as soon as they pulled the tunic over his head—a gash in his side where he had caught the tip of a sword. I could not see how deep the cut went, as dried blood covered most of the wound. I searched his body for other injuries but did not find any, although the women had tugged off the last of his clothes, and he stood before me naked.
Even tired, dirty, and wounded, his body looked more powerful than any warrior’s I had seen, and I had healed many. He did not have that lean look of youth—he had daughters probably not much younger than I—but instead he was built with solid muscle, his skin covered in scars. Decades of battles had shaped the man, his body having conformed to fight as if it had been made for it.
He stepped to the tub and sank into the steaming water, closing his eyes the moment his head came to rest on the edge. As the women washed him, I picked up his discarded clothes to set outside the door. Then, having nothing else to do, I waited for him to be ready for my healing.
The women washed him without gentling their touch as they scrubbed around the cut. Oh, for the spirits’ sake… Had their eyesight weakened with age and they mistook the wound for grime? I stepped forward. The water had turned red too fast. Too hot, I guessed, making Batumar’s blood flow faster.
