Dawn of the Flame Sea

by Jean Johnson

  Here the cavern was vast, if still somewhat natural looking with its rugged granite replacing the old former sandstone. Great pillars of stone had been left in place here and there, supporting and anchoring the vaulted domes of the ceiling. Those domes were made of thick, sturdy sun crystal, concealed by illusions on the outside to look like solid, bare rock. The amount of sunlight that got through, with much of it diverted to the rest of the stronghold, made the cavern perfect for growing things.

  Below those vaulted panes, racks of dirt had been erected by spell and will, filled with good soil imported from home, and planted with seeds. Already, a tiny shimmer of green graced those beds, which were being fed by a watering system created by Parren. A spell pumped water to the top, where it trickled through all the beds, layer after gently sloped layer, before dropping into a basin filled with fish eggs. Unlike the plants, those could not be spell-rushed in their growth. Still, once they were grown, the pantean that Jintaya still hoped to establish on this world would be able to eat without worry.

  That was the key to a good pantean; expeditions visited other worlds in the hopes of gaining new ideas, new objects, new sources of information and trade. Some worlds might have much worth trading for, or beautiful, exotic things to see, but nothing in the way of foods considered edible by Fae standards. She often thought Ban was lucky that Fae food was not just edible to him, but tasty as well. There had been that one world she had visited in her youngest days where everything had smelled and tasted like rubber sap to her . . .

  She found the missing pair working near the far end of the sprawling, winding cavern. The sheer number of planting beds impressed her. It also bemused her. Coming to within conversation distance, she waited politely for the dirt-and-gravel-slinging pair to notice her, then gestured at the latest set of tiered, sloped beds. “Are you planning on feeding all those natives as well as ourselves, Rua?”

  The younger Fae looked up at her, wiped a smudge of dirt from her cheek—or rather, smeared it around even more—and shrugged. “They know we are here, and they seem to be refugees . . . I thought it would be advantageous to allow them to remain. To integrate them into our outer stronghold. We will be able to question them directly about their world, in exchange for food. If they can eat it,” she amended, looking at the beds. “Not all of these are planted yet, nor will they be for a while. I want to talk with the natives about what local plants and such are edible by their standards, and have simply made enough places to start growing what they can eat.”

  “A wise choice,” Jintaya agreed, though she sighed as she said it. “I would much rather have started by observing from afar, testing carefully and living secretly until we knew more, but that choice was lost to us.”

  “We are here, and they are here, and we know about each other,” Rua pointed out pragmatically, returning her attention to the bin of dry soil—local soil, Jintaya realized—which she was mixing with water and dead bits of plant matter to hopefully get it to mulch while waiting for word on what could be grown. Ban came down from the stepping ladder and scooped up another bucket of the prepared stuff from the wettest end of the bin while Rua continued. “Speaking of which, when shall we meet them?”

  “Éfan has awakened the other four from their labors. They are still remarkably well, though their use of this world’s magic must be studied in more depth. Today we will all rest,” she said. “Tomorrow we will clean ourselves, dress nicely, and go visit the natives. We will introduce ourselves politely, in the hopes that they will be equally polite, and learn what we can of this world.”

  Her gaze flicked to Ban, who was not in the least bit perturbed by her pointed phrasing. “I am always polite, Jintaya.” At her arched brow, he added smoothly, “It is still very much a part of the word impolite.”

  Chuckling, she lifted her hand to his cheek, cupping his tanned jaw. “My Ban, you are the greatest treasure I have found, in all the worlds that yet exist.”

  Eyes closing, he turned his face into her touch, not quite kissing the edge of her palm. Letting her fingers slide free after a long moment, Jintaya studied the cavern. The way he felt for her, and she for him, was complex even by Fae standards. It was better to let it unfold at its own pace; her race lived many centuries, barring injuries, and he would outlive even her. A fact she knew troubled him. So she focused on the planting beds. “Are the beds wrought from stone? Did Kaife do the work?”

  “No, I did,” Rua told her. She straightened and tucked a strand of her long, goldenrod hair behind an ear, ignoring the fact she streaked more dirt on it. Her outfit of fitted knee-length shorts and sleeveless tunic were equally dirty, but the agriculturist did not care. Rubbing the small of her back with one hand, she eyed the ranks of tiered, tilted cultivation beds and rolled her other hand. “The local aether . . . It feels very good to work magic on this world. Particularly when those little light-balls come to you and fill you with warmth and vigor. But that was just for the tier frames. I could also mix the soil via spells, but . . .”

  “You prefer getting your hands dirty,” Jintaya agreed, smiling. “I shall leave you to it, but as soon as this particular task is done, you should rest—both of you. Thank you, Ban, for helping Rua.”

  He dipped his head in acknowledgment, then watched her turn and leave. Rua glanced between the two of them, but she kept her thoughts to herself. Jintaya was Fae; Ban was Shae, an outworlder. Such pairings were often complicated and best left alone to work out—or not to work out.

  To the agriculture specialist, Ban was a fellow member of the pantean, the expedition, and though he was not always sociable, he pulled his own weight. He didn’t talk much, but he worked as hard as the others. That was good enough for her. Together they went back to mixing and hauling soil and stone chips without words, prepping the beds for future local plants to use.

  ***

  Year 0, Month 0, Day 6

  After scrying and eavesdropping for six-plus days, the Fae Rii pantean knew that this tribe called itself the White Sands people, and that they had been forced out of their home territory by warring tribes far to the south. They knew the leader was the wound-crippled middle-aged man who sat most of the time under one of the bigger shade trees in the local valley. His name, they had learned, was Tah-yuh Halek, and that despite the wounds slowing him down, he was a good leader.

  They also knew he had two women he looked to for advice: the huntress Puna, who had given orders during Ban’s second confrontation with the natives, and a woman draped in bone-beaded fringes, Zudu the animadj, so named because she could manipulate the anima and anima-wisps that were the local names for magic, both free-flowing and condensed. There were others observed who had some rank, and some who were potential troublemakers, but those three were the primary ones to contact and hopefully befriend.

  Naturally, Ban was the one sent to inform them of their impending visit. Not because he could be tactful when needed—he could—but because if the natives reacted badly and attacked, he was the one member of their group who would survive an ambush. Of course, he knew that, and the Fae knew that. It was hoped the White Sands Tribe would not react harshly, however; there was no need for them to learn of it. One hoped.

  Ban wouldn’t care either way, save that it was Jintaya’s wish for him to remain inconspicuous. Difficult considering his clothes, his height, his tattoos and foreign features, but that was her wish. Walking calmly, quietly, politely up to the cave mouth where the tribe had taken refuge, he saw the two hunters on early-morning watch start and grab for their spears as he came into view.

  The mouth of the cave they had chosen was a bit too wide for them to get into position to block his entrance. The nearer of the two men called out quietly, torn between a warning and not wanting to awaken and alarm everyone still asleep. “You, stranger—stop!”

  “I will speak with your leader, Halek. You may accompany me inside.” There, that was his gesture of diplomacy. A brief glance be
hind showed the hunter debating a moment, before he gripped his spear and followed Ban, gesturing for the other one to remain at the mouth of the cave.

  Entering the cave without breaking stride, the tall outworlder stepped around, and in some cases over, the bodies sprawled out or curled up on the ground, depending how each person preferred to sleep. Some stirred, awakened, and started at the sight of him. They whispered among themselves, nudging and waking the others. With the dim glow of dawn at his black-clad back, they probably couldn’t see him well, but he had no problems with the dim lighting. Not with the aid of his magic-infused tattoos.

  By the time he got to the back of the cave, where Jintaya had shown him a scrying of where their leader slept, the middle-aged man named Halek already sat upright. He calmly followed Ban’s movements, while a couple of men who had been resting nearby quickly worked on stirring up the coals of the nearest campfire, eyes flicking warily between the coals and the stranger in their midst.

  “Ban,” the graying man acknowledged as their visitor came to a stop.

  “Halek.” Crouching, forearms resting on his knees, Ban looked the bearded man in the eyes. He knew the others had reported everything they had heard and seen about the pantean’s many activities to their leader, from his very first encounter with their tribe all the way to the cessation of stone types being exchanged, earlier. “Tomorrow, when the sun touches the third band from the top of the ravine we have claimed, Jintaya will appear.”

  “It’s Taje Halek,” one of the fire tenders scolded. “You will treat him with respect, or . . . or . . .” He trailed off when Ban turned and rose to his full height, towering over the young man. The same young man who had foolishly charged at him days ago.

  Without a word, Ban stared him down. The youth retreated half a step, wary of that steady, flat stare. His spear rose defensively under its weight.

  “Hunter Lutun, do not threaten our visitor,” Halek ordered. “Visitor Ban, do not threaten my tribe.”

  Turning, Ban dropped gracefully back into his crouch. It was a half-forgotten act of courtesy, to not make the injured man crane his head back just to look him in the face. “That remains to be seen, taje of the White Sands. When the sun strikes the third band from the top of our ravine, Jintaya will appear there,” he repeated. “As will the others of our pantean. You will then be given the chance to find a peaceful way to convince her that your tribe should stay and share in the bounty of this region.

  “Jintaya wishes to discuss your tribe staying.” Rising, he turned and headed for the cave mouth. “Be grateful it is not to discuss your tribe leaving.”

  He did not have to step over anyone as he left the cavern, for those in his path had moved. Then again, most everyone was awake now, watching him warily. Crossing into the cool, gray light of morning, he continued on his way toward the pantean ravine, noting the subtle and not-so-subtle changes Kaife and his companions had wrought.

  The granite dredged up from the depths of this world had been used to create covered troughs and gutters that followed the somewhat meandering walls, only to end in deep-carved pools scattered at intervals that would eventually fill with water from the few rains and flash floods that always plagued a desert environment. Off in the distance, uphill from where he walked, the ground had been scored with channels that would divert those flash floods.

  Most of the channels were covered to keep the water that would eventually flow through them clean and free of debris, but for now, they were empty, awaiting Jintaya’s decision on whether this White Sands Tribe should be allowed to stay or encouraged to go. Ban knew that Kaife had designs for fanciful little bridges, drip-irrigated planters, and other means of turning this place of raw stone and gritty dirt into a lush oasis. It was considered quite the coup for the relatively young man to be selected as the chief architect of the pantean stronghold, and he had worked up layer after layer of designs meant to be implemented in stages. But that was for a stronghold that was strictly Fae, not Fae and Shae.

  So far, what Ban had seen was not aesthetically displeasing, but it was still mostly Fae in appearance and influence: pointed arches, graceful curves, interlaced lines, and a motif of thin spreading out to wide, like stems spreading into flowers and leaves, though that was mostly inside the caves that had been resculpted into their stronghold.

  For a few moments, Ban wondered what these White Sands people would bring to the designs of this place if they were permitted to stay. It wasn’t the Fae way to segregate the locals in areas where they cohabited—aside from the sanctity of their actual stronghold—or to impose their own culture on the natives. However, he hadn’t seen much in the way of overt decorations among these White Sands people, aside from the bits of dyed leather and beading on whatever they wore.

  Then again, that was the lot of a refugee; they were lucky to have food, clothing, weapons, and each other. Some years, some worlds . . . he hadn’t even had clothing to call his own. It was not a set of memories Ban cared to remember right now.

  ***

  Year 0, Month 0, Day 7

  The season for this patch of the world was still months away from high summer, but the day had already started to warm by the time Halek gathered his tribe members outside the ravine, marked by its sandstone-turned-granite walls. He arranged them in a semicircle, warriors and hunters with bows in the middle, flanked to either side by the elderly, the young, and the mothers burdened with children, and those with spears at either end. That was a defensive tactic, as were the quintet of youths stationed so that they faced away from the ravine, their eyes scanning the cliffs, the other canyons, looking for anything and everything that might spring an ambush.

  Aside from those precautions, the taje had decided to treat this meeting as a formal occasion between potential allies. Everyone had scrubbed away what they could of the dirt of their travels and had donned what little finery remained to the White Sands—most of it portable in the form of fajenz beads and amulets strung on leather cords, but some still had other valuables. A bit of beaten gold, some actual cloth, white-dyed leather carefully wrapped against the grit and grime of the desert.

  Halek himself wore a long vest in somewhat creased white leather, decorated with patterns of fajenz beads in blue, green, reddish and brick brown, with a brown leather kilt decorated in blue, green, yellow, white, and cream. Some had worried over whether it was safe to display their beads, for fear that these new strangers would try to steal them as had the other tribes, but Halek wore his proudly. If the strangers were strong enough to steal their fajenz, then there was nothing his people could do about it. They were too weary of travel, too much in need of a new home to posture in the wrong ways.

  The sun touched the top of the ravine, the slightly taller side, as they dressed. That beam of light crept its way down through the first band to the second while they gathered and now brushed the third striation coloring the rock in shades of orange, cream, and brown. Movement drew their attention to the shadowed cleft, and the middle-aged leader strained to peer into the cool shadows. At first, he thought a strange golden mist had sprung up. Then the mist became humanoid shapes, but they still flowed as smoothly toward him as a leaf caught on the surface of a meandering stream.

  When they reached the opening of the little canyon and spread out to either side, still moving with inhuman grace, Halek found he had forgotten to breathe. Sucking in a deep breath, he focused on the figures. One by one, the eight figures were impressive; taken as a whole, they almost overwhelmed. He focused on the individuals as best he could, starting with the familiar one.

  The stranger named Ban, Death, no longer wore loose garments of black, finely spun cloth that covered all but his hands and his head. Instead, he had donned a black kilt or loin-wrap of some sort, pleated many times and buckled around his hips so that the folds just reached his knees. His feet were bound in sandals that covered the tops and sides in flaps and laced up to just below his knees but
left most of his calves bare to the view. He bore no other ornaments but needed none; his hide alone, covered in intricate, colorfully painted images, some familiar and many strange, was more than decoration enough. Halek could only marvel at how long it must have taken to dye all that skin.

  Turning his attention to the others, the taje noted that some were scaled over their arms, legs, and torsos like lizards, but the scales were made out of what looked like shades of gold ranging from pale cream to a ripe yellow. Armor, he realized, not natural scales.

  Their heads bore strange pot-like things, embracing their skulls with little wings of sculpted metal. The helmets guarded all but a pair of slits for their eyes, with tiny, regularly spaced holes where their mouths and half their cheeks should have been, and their feet were encased in full metal boots. Each bore weapons also made of the golden metal. It was not bronze—he knew that by instinct—but instead was some other metal, something that polished so well, he could see reflections repeated in each and every scale. They were distracting to watch, so he pulled his gaze away.

  Of the remaining three, one stood in the center of their formation with Ban; the other two flanked the ends of their own modest arc, in a reverse of what the White Sands had done to protect itself. One of the end figures wore layers of long garment that covered the person from shoulders to golden-covered toes, loosely sashed and bloused at the hips in a deceptively simple style. The outermost layer was so well spun, it was sheer, revealing hints of the arms that lay inside the sleeves. The fabric underneath was . . . amazing. Somehow, tiny flowers and other things had been woven into the pale, golden material so that it caught the light at different moments in different ways. A male, he realized belatedly, tall and slender with hair that fell like golden grain to his sashed waist. He carried a crystal sphere in his palm instead of a weapon.

  The other end figure wore odd gathered leggings, a vest that hugged her breasts and bared the muscles of her stomach, sandals with soles that curled up at the toes, and a garment he finally recognized as a variation on a proper desert poncho, if just as sheer as the man’s outer robes. It fell to her inner elbows at the sides, and dipped low in front and back to her hips. She leaned on a staff, her dark gold hair plaited and coiled around her head in a way that suggested a flower, and she leaned on a staff. No, a farming tool, he realized belatedly. White Sands had done some farming—who didn’t when they had a healthy oasis to claim?—but they had gained more in trade from their beads before their exile than they had grown as food.