Loktos laughed heartily. His guffaws traveled through the icy air of the night.
Chapter XVI – Anamnesis
He opened his eyes. He was wandering through space, aimlessly. He could not see the luminous being, but he felt its presence just as one feels the sun. In the distance, an incandescent sphere took shape. He was approaching it. When he reached it, he noticed that its light did not burn, and yet it gave off heat. He let himself be drawn by an attraction to the core, and soon found himself immersed in the amber liquid of the globe.
He managed to take control of the sphere with his thoughts, and it began to move fluidly, without resistance. He crossed several galaxies with a spiral formation; some resembled birds, others were made up of millions of other galaxies.
He dodged inert masses which floated lost and outcast. The interstellar journey reached the speed of light, but the sphere managed to maintain its integrity. Moments later, it began to decelerate, and in front of him appeared a blue and orange world, dotted with green. He steered toward it.
He crashed against the atmosphere and felt its pressure all around him. Then, a blizzard, and clouds gently enveloped him. The day shone bright and clear. From up there, he could watch the green and blue of the world’s surface at his leisure.
He flew over a beautiful mountain range of high, pointed peaks, which stretched further than the eye could see. That landscape was wonderful. After passing over cities and villages, they began to descend, faster and faster.
They were close to a village guarded by two sentry boxes. In its center, there was an elegant building of dark, polished stone. Several carriages drawn by impressive steeds were traveling along the cobbles. There was also a white statue representing a winged being of divine poise, carrying a spear. Around it, people came and went among kiosks and stands.
He went down a street that led to a red sentry box in ruins. A poster showed a name he was familiar with. He went on along a landscape of plots of earth with different colors and plowed patterns and descended further and further until he touched the ground. The pilot of the sphere came out through the transparent membrane. And now what? The moment he set his bare feet on that soil, many emotions assailed his soul.
He felt a terrible need to cry, to be delirious, to howl on the ground, and to disappear. His sorrow became less intense when he heard happy laughter. It was a boy and a girl who were talking animatedly amid giggling.
He recognized the boy. That sad smile, the distant gaze, the things unrecognized, the unknown past, and the yearning to be free of the dreams that robbed him of his rest. He also recognized the girl. Those emerald eyes, that dear little nose, those rosy lips, and that chestnut hair. The sting pierced his heart so that he fell in love for the umpteenth time.
The friends moved away, and he followed them out of curiosity. They came to a hill with a huge tree and sat down in its shade. The sunlight lit their beautiful faces.
Their conversation left him breathless.
“I don’t understand why I love the sun so much, watching the sunrise and the sunset. Lulita always says I’m on the brink of madness. Luchy, what do you think’s the matter with me?”
“I don’t know, idiot. But it doesn’t matter why you like them, Manchego. What matters is that we enjoy these moments together.”
The girl leaned her head on the boy’s shoulder, and they let themselves be caressed by the warmth of the sun. Lulita! Luchy! Manchego!
Melancholy clutched at his heart. He wanted to weep but could not, because his tears evaporated in the air. The image began to fade together with the sweet sound of the laughter and the confidences, while he mourned for emotions he barely understood. But he knew that the purpose of that journey had been fulfilled and that the goal was to be confronted with that scene so that he would remember.
With his chest shrunken, he went back to the sphere and immersed himself in it. Once he was in the amber liquid, the sphere rose and disappeared into the eternity of ether.
Chapter XVII – The Reflection of the Inner Sun
The band of rogues headed northeast to Érliadon, that opulent city of the Empire along whose roads the wealthy traveled. They had ventured very little into that region because it was very well watched and the guards were effective against bandits.
But now, with Innominatus among them, they were no longer a band of inadequates. The Wild Man was intimidating, and Mérdmerén was sure that his presence alone would keep back the guards. That evening, they camped near the road that would take them northeast.
Innominatus began to gather tinder and small branches to make a fire and roast what little boar meat they had left. Diligent, thought the leader as he leaned against the trunk of a tree. Nobody else is as considerate as that. Let’s see if the others learn something, he told himself without too much hope.
Garamashi and Nárgana went behind some branches to talk. Ofesto and Godforsaken gathered some of the other men together and began to tell stories. When the fire was ready, Innominatus took a log and sat beside the flames, his gaze lost in those tongues. Others joined him, drawn by the invitation to meditate before the dance of the fire.
Mérdmerén withdrew to a small hill from which he could see the horizon in all its glory. The starry sea of the sky inspired him. He regretted having lost everything as a result of playing dirty tricks in the political arena. But who could manage to avoid getting mud on himself in a corrupt empire? One day, he told himself. One day, I’ll come back and take revenge on the ones who took away my honor.
Meanwhile, Innominatus watched the fire. Memories came to him and without putting up any resistance, the man allowed himself to be borne far away from there.
He saw Eutasia, who was cleaning the edge of the axe she had used to kill the wyvern when it had come to attack the clan’s llama pen.
Her golden skin shone under the haughty sun of noon. Her green eyes kept secrets. The muscles in her arms moved as she cleaned the blade and at the same time watched the winged reptile. Two Devonic Shepherd Dogs were enjoying a piece of meat as a reward for sounding the alarm in time. They would use the skin for armor to be used later. The wings are used to build awnings. The bones are used to make tools and a range of utensils. The fangs and claws are used to decorate clothing. They wasted nothing. He let himself be captivated by the line of mountains in the distance, like the spine of a great reptile. It was the beautiful, untamed Devonic Range of the Simrar.
A playful wind wrapped itself around his body. He looked to his right to contemplate his female carving up the reptile. The clan was gathering around the fallen beast to take the pieces of meat away to the stone wells where they would cure it. Eutasia was bloodied. Her angular face with its thick lips returned his gaze.
She knew he was now distancing himself. Her alpha male was changing, for good or ill. The nights of sex had been empty of affection, and not because he had finished impregnating all the women who had recently come into bloom.
He still gazed at her in that special way. In the Wild Lands, one did not speak of love. There was no time for it, only for survival. Any man who showed signs of falling in love was considered weak, and the woman who was the object of that love had Mother’s permission to kill him without the enamored male putting up any resistance. Such were the laws of the Wild People.
He, as the alpha male of the clan, had a right to claim the most nutritious pieces, such as the liver and other offal; after this, the alpha female would choose, then, finally, the other members of the clan, the non-dominant. The law also said that any non-dominant could train with Mother in the lands of the Malush, to fight to the death one day in the sacred battle for the position of dominant male or female of their clan. Only the strongest could lead the clan to the Nogard Taerg, their salvation.
The dominant male gazed at the clan, the males intent on the business of preserving the meat while the females looked after the young ones. He took a deep breath, knowing that Mother would soon send him another young aspirant to dominate the clan and take
his position as alpha male. He needed to prepare for the fight.
Once all the chores were finished, they all gathered around the fire. The non-dominant males danced to celebrate the downing of the wyvern. Meanwhile, the alpha male went on sitting in his place, a stump of massive width. Eutasia, who was also watching the ritual with a faraway look, had come closer. Both of them were immersed in their thoughts and memories.
Another melody began. Eutasia knew that just as with music or the breeze, the times were also changing course and that one day, she would end up losing everything she loved. Once the ritual was over, the leaders of the clan withdrew under an awning made out of wyvern wings. They lay down on the grass. Eutasia was distant, more so than usual.
The dominant male knew she was worried about the forthcoming sacred fight, and the possibility that a new male would take possession of her.
“Mate of mine,” he said, breaking the uncomfortable silence which had come between them. “Mother will soon send the offspring to challenge me to the sacred fight. The moment of my defeat is near. Will you regret it?” It was a strange question, but he needed to know whether he had left his mark on her.
Eutasia looked at him with those green eyes that pierced his soul. “Mother knows what she’s doing, mate of mine. If you die, you’ll die with passion just like your father. Death is a return journey to the Nogard Taerg. This life is a dream, and a dream it’ll be. It’ll go on being a dream for our heirs. Death is an honor which is granted, especially if you fall during a sacred fight.”
“Have you never thought that there’s something more to this life than simply following a tradition without questioning it? Perhaps Mother has set us apart from other possibilities. They’re just ideas that come into my head. Is it the same with you?”
Eutasia hesitated briefly. “Careful, mate of mine. You’re at a crossroads. If you take the wrong path, you’ll have to deal with the consequences and they might be a lot worse than death itself. If you lose your honor, Tzargorg, you’ll lose the name you got from the winds too.”
***
Nárgana could not take her eyes off the Wild Man, who seemed to be very far from there as he sat before the fire. He was beautiful. She had listened to troubadours’ songs and poets’ chants before, but never in her unfortunate life had she witnessed a spectacle like this. It seemed to her that between the fire and the man, there was an intimate relationship.
The woman imitated him. She too wanted to experience a little of that divinity. She gathered together her velvet dress, which was dirty and worn out, and sat down in front of the flames. She was still for a while, trying to grasp whatever had the Wild Man in his grasp. She failed utterly. She turned to look at the man with the golden skin and sky blue eyes. She sighed. She would never have someone as wise as that in her arms.
The woman broke the silence, shyly at first, but gaining fluency as she pursued her futile conquest. “Many of us have felt alone in this life,” she said to him. She could not give up the chance of seducing him. “Many of us still feel that way. It happens to me, particularly in this band. There’s so little love like in the Empire. What a horrible life, I don’t even know how I can still be alive. But you’re special. I hope one day, you’ll find your place in the world. You deserve it.”
Nárgana was silent for an instant, then went on. “A lot of men and women hate Garamashi. She’s from Vásufeld. She’s traveled the empire looking for shelter and somewhere where nobody’ll judge her, but the only thing she’s found has been other people’s hatred and a hell of words and insults.”
Innominatus’ eyes sought Garamashi. She was a woman who devoted much of her time to cleaning herself or arranging her hair, perhaps trying to make a conquest of the beauty that had always eluded her. Nárgana saw in the man’s eyes that he had understood her words.
This encouraged her to go on. “Ofesto is another one who’s suffered. He was part of the nobility in the northern domain. I don’t think he was anybody really important, but I’m sure he lived a life of luxury. He was banished for forcing himself on a girl in the castle where he lived. Since then, he’s sworn he’ll destroy anything he finds in his path.”
Innominatus turned his attention to Ofesto, who was fighting with other men over a piece of old, stale bread.
“Beside Ofesto is Godforsaken,” she said, on the brink of tears. “He lost an arm and a leg fighting on the frontier against Némaldon, many years ago. He’s never recovered from the horror he lived through.”
The man did not look this time. A creature as helpless as that awoke pity and even repugnance in Innominatus.
Nárgana went on, gazing up at the small hill where Mérdmerén was lost with his eyes on the horizon.
“And there—” she pointed to the small hill, “—is Mérdmerén. They took everything away from him. Oh, life’s hard, Wild Man. For a privileged few, it’s a dream with no rough patches. I wish I’d had a childhood without so much misery.” The gaunt woman lowered her gaze and said as she stood up, “I’ll leave you alone. I’m sorry if my stories have done nothing but alarm you. Before I go, I’d like to sing you a song I learned from a very sad troubadour. It goes like this,”
A fragile mountain waits calmly,
Longing for the moment to smile with love,
The clouds have traveled aimlessly,
A long journey, toward a frequent destiny.
The fragile mountain reflects her pain alone,
Listen to her cooing in her misguided waiting,
The bird does not wish to assess the murmur of pity,
Nor is the sun able to shine in the shadow of its loneliness.
The fragile mountain has given up, nothing can now move it from its fixed dwelling,
Through eternity it is slowly disfigured without acquiring glory
It is a mountain, and at least it has its memories.
Nárgana lapsed into a solemn silence. She could not hold back her tears, particularly knowing she was being watched by Innominatus’ profound soul. She turned and went away.
Part II
Chapter XVIII – Making Peace
At the hair-raising scream which came from the bedroom, Trumbar arrived at once. Ferlohren, writhing on the bed with pain, was clutching her belly. It seemed as if a ferocious claw had clutched her insides. They looked at each other and knew that the moment had come. There were three knocks on the door. Then, Ramancia the Witch appeared on the threshold.
The witch was dressed in long black clothes and a pointed hat. “It’s the moment!” she cried. Her shrill voice filled the house with anxiety. “Let’s see the laboring mother.”
In those faraway days, Ramancia still looked youthful and overflowing with life. She had not yet come to know the corrupt paths of the Black Arts, nor did she ever imagine that one day she would be persuaded to help the Nemaldines bring the master Legionaer back from death. The young witch was still in her young years of conjuring. She had migrated from Vásufeld, the city best known for its wood-crafting, a city where most people’s lore was around the creation of all sorts of wooden specialties. However, Ramancia had never been fond of woodcutting or, even worse, wood-crafting like her parents. Both her brothers had become apprentices in the said profession and, of course, had become excellent designers. But not her. She had been attracted by the strange path of witchery, of the subtle yet perceptible mystery that dealt with magic.
In her mind, magic was just a word used to explain the unexplainable. Magic was a field that encompassed many different things, from understanding the flow of nature to harnessing the power of the occult. The Conjuring Arts was a field of study that focused on using magic for specific purposes. The Conjuring Arts was a name baptized by the wizard Rummbold Fagraz, a man who tried and succeeded in creating a method out of the lore called magic. The Conjuring Arts were said method, and it had been quickly adopted by the Empire.
However, Ramancia always knew the Conjuring Arts were very limiting. They were confined to uses that benefited the Empire.
Way back when, to become a witch, she had fled her hometown and had settled in Ágamgor, where her late master, Serpanthia the Ol’ Witch, the late witch of Ágamgor, had taught her well. With Serpanthia’s unexplained death, Ramancia had taken the post of the city’s witch. A city, town, or village could never have more than one witch. A witch could have apprentices, but said apprentices had to find a town of their own to work in once they were advanced enough to establish their own practice.
For Ramancia, it had been easy, however, as her master’s death—or murder, depending on how you interpreted her death—was beneficial for her. It allowed Ramancia to take the position of Ágamgor’s witch.
A witch never made good money; it was not a lucrative profession. A witch’s pay was the ability to practice her lore. She had to be careful, though. Wizards often imprisoned witches who broke the law.
Witchcraft was ill-seen by most people in the Empire, so witches served mostly the ill-begotten and poor folk that needed a quick and dirty service. It was also true that the law-enforcing branches of the Empire cared less for the poor sectors, so unexplained deaths or curses that affected an entire generation would not be frowned upon as often. Being a witch was a position of power with many responsibilities, like creating those useful potions for the everyday commoner to use with their livestock or for themselves. Some people needed an extra push of energy, some needed a deadly weapon to kill an opponent. Potion creation was the breadwinning craft of a witch. But there was more for a witch than creating potions, enchanting items, summoning dead spirits, or reading the future. There was also the service of being a midwife.
She didn’t enjoy delivering babies. It was mostly because she could keep the placenta, an organ she often used to create potions of certain class and power, as part of the price for delivering babies. She also charged significantly fewer crowns than other professed midwives, so she usually served the lowest of the lower caste. However, she had offered her services to Ferlohren for a specific reason. She had sensed a strange surge of dark power in this home and was keen on harnessing it. Perhaps that placenta would give her some new ingredient she could extract to make something truly splendid.
Shepherd’s Awakening (Books 1-3) Page 27
