Finding Destiny

by Jean Johnson

Of Arbran ways, Eduor knew very little. But he was learning. Rather than letting him starve as the dust storm lingered for another full day, Sir Zeilas had shared some of his own provisions with Eduor ... after asking Famiel politely to share some of hers with him. The Knight had also insisted on escorting Eduor to the nearest village, a place which the map he carried listed as due west of their cave shelter by two days’ walk, closer than the previous one they had visited by a day and a half. And his Steed, that fabled, holy Arbran horse ... well, the Steed refused to carry Eduor, but the otherwise magnificent mottled stallion had no objections to carrying enough water to sustain the three of them for that long a distance.

  Eduor’s unexpected but highly welcome traveling companion finished tilting up the water skin in his hands. Leaning down in his saddle, Sir Zeilas offered the almost-empty bag to Eduor. “More water? We’ll be filling it up soon, I’m sure.”

  Eduor eyed the village they were approaching, licked his lips, and shook his head. “We’re almost there, but ... I don’t like the looks of the men milling around in front of the village gate.”

  Sitting up, the Arbran Knight shaded his eyes from the glare of the sun reflecting off the ground. His odd, foreign sun hat, much broader and flatter than the rain-shedding conical ones Natallians usually wore on the northern and western coasts, sheltered him only from the sun pouring down from above. It did nothing against the pale beige glare of the sunlight gleaming off the dust powdering the ground around them.

  “They have weapons, I think. You have good eyesight to spot that from this far away,” the Knight praised.

  Eduor shook his head. His own face was wrapped in the dirty scarf that served as sand shield and head covering. It didn’t do as much to shade his own eyes, but it did protect his pale skin from the worst of the glare. “I couldn’t see their weapons. But I did see the way they were gathering. That looks like a raiding party. A loosely organized war band.”

  “They have spears; they could be hunters,” the older man offered. Not that Sir Zeilas was that much older, but he was nearing thirty, half again as old as Eduor.

  He shook his head again. Among the collected writings of Sundaran culture Midalla had insisted he read and learn, preparing him for his now-thwarted role as interpreter-slave, had been a packet of essays and observations on village life. “They’d have their desert hounds with them if they were hunting. The beasts are bred for swiftness and keen noses. Good for scenting prey, flushing it out, and chasing it toward their masters. Besides, there are too many of them. This bush desert holds some life, but not that much.”

  Not that there had been much bush desert for the last half hour of walking. Bushes, yes, but most of them were hardy food-bearing perennials. Date palms and acacia trees outlined patches of soil, some of which showed signs of having been plowed, others of which held just enough grass to feed small herds of animals, like the cluster of goats off to their left. And everything was still dusty from the storm that had swept through the region.

  Still, it was better than the half-sand desert they had trudged through for the first day. Here, the ground was solid beneath their feet, if dusty. Most of the palms close to the village were tall enough to provide dappled, cooling shade. The presence of all these plants and the village itself suggested a good supply of water was available, enough to share with a pair of strangers. At least, Eduor hoped.

  The cluster of men in front of the village gate, with their spears, swords, and leather armor, looked like they were packing their horses and dromids for a journey. Women and children hung by the village gate, their clothing much more colorful than the duller, desert-hued shades of beige and brown being worn by the dark-skinned men. Among the brocaded reds and yellows, oranges, purples, and greens, a single woman stood out for two reasons. One, she was arguing fiercely with some of the men, and two, she wore an outfit dyed in shades of blue.

  Blue, Eduor knew, was reserved for the dyara, the water-callers, and that meant whatever she was haranguing them about, it was important business. The coastal mountains to the west were very tall and rugged. Either they diverted the winds bringing moisture from the sea, forcing them northwest into Arbra along the Bay of Winds, or they wrung most of the water out of the clouds sweeping successfully westward over the peaks. What did make it over those peaks was not enough moisture to keep this land green and growing all year long.

  It was said the first gift of the Goddess Sundra to Her people was an ability to call just enough water to feed Her people. Like magic, the ability was somewhat rare, and like magic, some dyara were stronger than others. Unlike a mage, all a water-caller could do was manipulate water, summoning or banishing, boiling or freezing, shaping and purifying, but their abilities were vital for survival in this sunbaked land. Serving as priests and priestesses, as village elders— regardless of age—the dyara were a part of what made life possible in the desert.

  As the two foreigners drew near enough to hear, the dyara stamped her foot and shouted, “Fine! See if we starve because you will not plow your fields. See if we die because we are undermanned when someone else thinks to attack us!”

  One of the men already mounted on a horse swept his arm out. “Every other tribe within five days of here is at peace with the Suds! You worry like an old woman, Chanson!”

  The dyara’s eyes widened and mouth dropped open in affront. Eduor could see the curve of her white teeth in her dark face and the whites of her eyes. Both he and Sir Zeilas stopped, not wanting to come close enough to be drawn into this particular confrontation.

  Recovering, she poked her finger at the mounted man. “And you aren’t worth the effort! You are throwing away your land, Falkon!”

  “I am going so I can save the land. They may be distant cousins, but the Aboris are our kin; their land is as precious as ours. I will not scrabble in the dirt while their food is stolen year after year and their women and children are harmed by the Rabs!”

  “Then go,” the dyara ordered. She pointed back to the village, but Eduor figured she actually meant eastward, beyond this little oasis. “Go fight your little battle. Prove you are a mighty warrior. But do not expect me to wait for your return!”

  “Chanson—” the man on the horse argued, his tone impatient.

  “Go!” Turning her back on the group, she strode toward the entrance. After three steps, she stopped, turned, and gave the lot a grim look. “... I will not fail in my duty to my people. Even if I think you are being idiots.” Straightening her tall, slender body, she lifted her hand. “May the waters of life bless you on your journeys.”

  Spinning on her heel, she strode to the mud-plastered wall circling the village and stepped deliberately over its threshold. Only then did she turn and look back at the men. Finished with their packing, they gave Eduor and Sir Zeilas a wary look. The one named Falkon, who seemed to be their leader, nudged his horse toward the two foreigners. He eyed Eduor, clad in plain, dusty versions of the tunic and tights favored by Natallians, then looked longer at the armor-clad Arbran mounted on his oversized sorrel-and-cream stallion.

  Falkon lifted his chin at Sir Zeilas. “What are you supposed to be, an Arbran Knight?”

  “I am one.” The Knight’s flat tone brooked no doubt. Then again, just the fact that he rode in plate armor with no sign of sweating, and that his stallion showed no interest in the other man’s mare, proved he was no ordinary man.

  The villager-turned-warrior eyed them both again, then pointed his spear at the pair. “Cause no trouble while you are here, foreigners.” Turning his horse around, he nudged the mare toward the others. “Come, we ride to save our kin-tribe!”

  Kicking their own steeds into movement, the dozen or so riders headed out around the edge of the village wall. Most of them were younger men, though a couple were grim-looking women. The desert kingdom breeds fierce fighters, Eduor remembered from his lessons. Smart ones, too. Since they know the local land, they’re setting out near sunset and will be able to travel in the cooler hours of the evening, wher
eas we had to be able to see where we were going and trudged through the heat of the day.

  “As if I would cause trouble,” Sir Zeilas muttered in Sundaran. “Arbora would have my Sword and my Steed if I did so without just cause. I’ve worked too hard to be a Knight, and a good envoy for His Majesty, to ruin it thoughtlessly.

  “On the bright side,” the Knight continued thoughtfully, “if their men folk are leaving to ride a good distance away, warfare or otherwise, they might have need for someone like you to do some of the labor around here. Other villages may not have such a need. Of course, you could travel with me all the way to Arbra, but I have a very long way to go to reach the capital and make my report to my king.”

  Eduor shook his head. “I don’t speak Arbran, save for the few words you’ve taught me so far. And if their dyara is so worried about the fields getting plowed, then they’ll have work for me. I’ll stay here for now. If they’ll have me.”

  Nodding, the Knight nudged his Steed toward the village gate. Eduor surreptitiously brushed at his clothes, trying to remove some of the dust clinging to them, then followed. Knowing in advance that blue was a reserved color, and that a show of prosperity would help convince these Sundarans that she was a prosperous merchant and thus worth their time, Midalla had given Eduor new, green-dyed clothes. Plainly woven linen, but still new, from the turban-cloth on his head to the cloth and leather boots laced on his feet. They just didn’t look new at the moment.

  At least I don’t have the collar in my way, though it did take the threat of charging her with wrongful imprisonment to prod Famiel into passing one of the guards the key. She refused to unlock it herself. Bitch. Thinking about her and her aunt, and all the suffering they had inflicted on him, was not going to put him into a friendly mood, however. Mindful of first impressions, Eduor cheered himself up with thoughts of freedom. She and her odious aunt are in my past. The future stretches bright and rife with possibilities in front of me. And, if what we heard was true, these people will be shorthanded for weeks, if not months. I can earn my keep and a few coppers beyond it, I’m sure.

  “Peace and sweet water to you, travelers. Welcome to the village of Oba’s Well,” the dyara stated, raising her hand as they reached the village gate. One of the older children dashed off, doing her silent bidding. “Or do you even speak Sundaran?”

  Sir Zeilas bowed over the dappled neck of his Steed. “We speak it well enough, dyara Chanson. Shade and peace to you and yours. I am Sir Zeilas, Knight of Arbra. This is Sir Eduor Aragol, from Mandare.”

  More than just the dyara frowned at that, though she was the only one to fold her arms over her chest. The other villagers just stared. “A Knight of Arbra, we can trust,” Chanson stated. “Your Goddess regulates your conduct. But a son of the Mandarites, and a warrior at that? We may be isolated, but even we have heard of your madness.”

  “Ex-Mandarite,” Eduor stated firmly. “Shade and peace to you, dyara Chanson. I may be noble-born,” he added, knowing there was no point in mentioning his recent bout of slavery, “but I have foresworn my birth land and will not go back. I am here to look for work.”

  “If you want to be a warrior, you should follow the others. Though I don’t see a weapon on you,” the dyara added tartly, eyeing his dusty, plain hose and knee-length tunic, with its Natallian-style slits up the sides. It was nothing like the formal layers he had once worn as a nobleman’s son, but then this was a sun-drenched land, rather than the tree-shaded hills of either Mandare or Natallia.

  Only the turban wrapping his head was Sundaran. The tights were a little warm, but they did protect his legs from the sun, as did the long sleeves of his tunic. The cut of the clothes worn by these Sundarans was a lot looser and shorter, with many residents boasting bared legs and arms, but then their skin was dark enough to withstand the burning touch of the sun for hours on end. He stood out somewhat in his plain green garments by their color as well as their cut, and knew these people would be judging him all the more for his foreign appearance. Still, he had to try.

  “I have no weapons, because I come in peace. And I have no need for them, for I do not care to be a warrior at this point in my life,” Eduor stated calmly. “If those men who have just left did so without first helping the rest of you with the planting and the plowing, then you may have need of someone to labor for you. I offer my services, if you are willing to hire me.”

  Her hands shifted to her hips. Before she could speak, the boy returned with a water skin, a shallow dish, and a small bowl. Eduor noticed the youth wore a blue sash around his yellow-and-green-clad waist, indicating he was a dyara in training. Offering her the skin, he held the glazed bowl steady while she poured water into it, invoking the ritual of welcoming.

  “May the waters of life bless you and give you rest and refreshment while you abide among us in peace,” Chanson stated, filling the bowl almost to the brim.

  Sir Zeilas dismounted with a clank of his armor as the youth held out the bowl. Accepting it with a bow, he gave the ritual reply. “I will abide in peace as I accept your refreshment and take my rest among you.”

  Drinking the water in the bowl, he drained it dry. The boy took it back, letting Chanson fill it once more.

  “May the waters of life bless you and give you rest and refreshment while you abide among us in peace,” she stated, emphasizing the last word with a pointed look at Eduor.

  He didn’t take offense. Sundarans were known to be as heated in their opinions as the climate of their land. They were a passionate people. Not hard like the Natallians and his fellow Mandarites had become, thanks to their constant warring, but fierce and passionate all the same. “I will abide in peace,” Eduor countered calmly, “as I accept your refreshment and take my rest among you.”

  The water was cool and sweet. It soothed his parched throat. Draining the bowl dry, Eduor handed it back to the youth with a bow. “Thank you.”

  “So. You think you can help us, and that we would want to hire you?” the dyara challenged Eduor, hands returning to her hips once the boy took back the water skin. He set the broad dish on the ground and filled it, giving the Steed something to drink as well, though without the formal ceremony.

  “The high heat of summer is nearly over,” Eduor reminded her. “If you are to have a good harvest come spring, you will need as many fields plowed and planted as you can this autumn.”

  “You claim to be a nobleman. Most nobles don’t bother learning real trades, and they don’t like grubbing in the dirt. Do you even know how to plow?” Chanson challenged him.

  He figured honesty was the best policy with this woman. “Not exactly, but I can learn.”

  “Well, we don’t have the time to teach you,” she said. “Not with so many men gone.”

  “I’ll teach him how to plow.” Sir Zeilas smiled wryly as both Eduor and the villagers eyed him dubiously. “Less than a third of the Knights in Arbora’s service are noble-born, and it hasn’t been that many years since I was a farmer’s son. Just do not expect me to hitch my Steed to a plow.”

  “We would not insult a foreign Goddess with such a request,” the dyara stated formally. “We know your Steeds are not mortal beasts ... and if you can teach this man to plow, you can have the use of Falkon’s fields and beasts for it while he is gone. Maybe he will come to his senses and return before the growing seasons are done, but they should not suffer in his absence.”

  Her tone suggested she doubted that. Turning, Chanson gestured for both men to follow her into the walled village. The others scattered, some heading out into the fields to do whatever they could in the few hours left before the sun set, the rest returning to their homes.

  Like so much else since the sandstorm, the buildings were coated in dust. But they were well made, crafted from stone and plaster. Flat roofs covered most of the workshops and homes, the granaries and the stables, while sunshade awnings made from woven palm leaves covered those rooftops, plus the occasional stretch of street and alley between each structure. Many
of the low-walled courtyards sported long palm wood poles, which supported yet more tentlike weaves.

  The mix of shadow and dappled sunlight allowed plenty of light for tasks while giving the locals cool shade. At least, in the places where the sandstorm hadn’t torn the awnings. Some still dangled in place, tattered and letting through large patches of sunshine, while others had been taken down to be repaired. Most of those were being repaired by gray-haired elders and the children they were minding. Other residents were tending clay ovens and cook fires in the courtyards of their simple homes.

  “We are a small village and do not have an inn, but you are welcome to stay in the guesthouse of the temple. If you can prove yourselves trustworthy and capable, I may give you permission to stay in Falkon’s home. He is the last of his family in Oba’s Well, since his sister married and moved to another village north of here,” Chanson informed them. Her mouth twisted for a moment before she added, “No doubt he expected me to care for his things, as if my duties as dyara were light and carefree.

  “You, Mandarite, will be responsible for tending his chickens and goats, plus the two donkeys and one mare Falkon has left behind. She is due to drop her foal soon. Until she does so and has recovered, you will have to get his donkeys to pull his plow. That, or pull it yourselves. You, Sir Knight, had better teach him how to care for the animals properly. Any damage to them will be taken out of his hide.”

  “I know how to tend animals. I can also weed and harvest. It was just the plowing part I never learned,” Eduor asserted. “And my name is Eduor, not ‘Mandarite.’”

  “Well, you had better learn quickly, Eduor,” she retorted. “With so many gone, we will be hard-pressed to keep everyone fed.”

  Eduor estimated the village held around two hundred people, with about thirty of those infants or young children and another fifty elders too gray-haired to have the strength for a full day’s farming. The rest were either youths old enough for fieldwork or fully grown adults. The loss of twelve or so people didn’t seem like a lot, but he knew these villagers would feel the pinch at harvesttime.