Esra

by Nicole Burr

  She chose her next words carefully. “Then King Rїvan has achieved a level of deceit and malice unmatched by anything I’ve thus known. Forgive me, but I am…resentful that someone could get away with such treachery.”

  “Esra,” he said quietly, “I am very glad to hear ye feel that way.”

  Now it was Esra’s turn to be surprised. “Of course I would. What else would ye expect of me?”

  She hastily rubbed where the Witch Hazel rash was creeping towards her elbows on both arms. Cane shifted uncomfortably in his chair and cleared his throat. He had a habit of clearing his throat when he was struggling with whether to reveal more information to her or not. Meshok, who had been sleeping obliviously throughout most of the lesson, stretched out her back legs and perked up her ears, matching Esra’s anticipation.

  “Not everyone takes such news with …” he paused, squinting in an attempt to find the right word, “honor.”

  He could see the confusion in her eyes. “Do ye remember that I once had an apprentice before ye, a young man?”

  “Aye, but ye’ve never said much about him. He moved away very suddenly. I figured it was because he grew older and decided to pursue something other than knowledge, or that ye were unsuccessful in his training. Not that it was yer fault,” she added quickly.

  “Actually, ye are right in both senses,” he admitted, reaching under his chair for the box with his pipe and leaf. He set about the meticulous task of filling the chamber, pinching a few leaves and packing them carefully into the pipe, ignoring his student’s impatience.

  Esra was beginning to worry that her face would soon carry a permanent look of consternation from this man. “As in…?”

  “Well, he decided to pursue things other than knowledge, and I was utterly and shamefully unsuccessful as his teacher.” Esra tried to hide the surprise that alit on her face at his admittance of failure. Although he jumped around through his topics and could be enigmatic, Cane was a very capable teacher.

  He lit the chamber of his pipe, causing Meshok to shift closer to Cane’s chair. The dog had proven to be a pipe smoking enthusiast who loved the smell of burning leaf. Cane took the opportunity to rub her briskly behind the ears before he continued.

  “His name is Tallen, and ye will probably do well to remember it.” Esra saw something flash briefly in his eyes, perhaps disdain, or even hatred. Then she recognized it. Guilt.

  “Many years ago, I trained and informed the most dangerous man in the Kingdom. The new leader of the Elites, the descendent of Rїvan, and the most treacherous man alive. Rїvan may have long been dead, but his malice survives on in Tallen, I am disgusted to say.”

  “But how can this be?” Esra cried. “I have never heard of these “Elites” nor of anyone named Tallen. How bad could he honestly be if no one even knows he exists?”

  “Because,” Cane leaned forward in his chair, “a struggle that most people are ignorant of has been going on fer centuries. The Keepers and the Elites have been at battle since the age of Rїvan. This war has been waged mostly in locations uninhabited by common folk and in ways unnoticed by them. Fer years the scales have been tipped this way and that. But now with Tallen, the descendant of Rїvan and the most formidable enemy the Keepers have faced since Rїvan himself, I fear it will not stay a battle unseen. We have been able to keep most people uninvolved until this time…”

  “What do ye mean we?” Esra exclaimed. The itching on her forearms was growing more intense, they were starting to burn.

  Cane stood up, pipe in one hand, and went to the window. He peered out casually as he lowered the curtain with his free hand. Esra’s head was spinning, there were thoughts, half-thoughts, racing back and forth. She felt that there was no room for more, that these questions were already crashing into one another.

  “Nevermind, we will talk about the rest of that another day. Fer now, our instruction will focus on learning yer true history. Ye must know where ye come from in order to decide where ye will go. We will resume the prior rule about not speaking during lessons.” He reached for a large volume that was hidden beneath his chair and handed it to her. “I expect ye to read this in a week so that we can begin discussions.”

  “What do ye mean by ‘we’. What kind of battle? Is my family in some kind of trouble?” He could be so cryptic and mysterious, sometimes it drove Esra mad. Looking at his stone face, she sighed heavily and lowered the heavy book to her lap. With her left hand she absentmindedly traced the white lines on Meshok’s head that curled behind her ears and down her snout. It was something she often did when she felt discouraged and her friend nearby for comfort. Why was he being so secretive?

  “Alright,” she agreed, giving in for what seemed like the hundredth time that day. “Let’s continue.”

  V

  After her stressful new lesson, Esra decided to stop by the general store to tease Mr. Sturik about the bread beater. She was greeted by the familiar chime of the large brass bell as she swung open the door to the shop. Mrs. Lara Sturik, who was sweeping with small, jolted motions behind the counter, looked up and smiled genuinely when she saw Esra standing there.

  “Esra!” She beamed. “What a pleasant surprise!”

  Although it was commonplace for Esra to stop by the store once or twice a week, she was always greeted like a long-lost sister. Lara was in her late thirties, with curly dark hair and a short, slightly plump figure. Everything about her was soft, including the curves of her face and body, the waves of her hair, and especially her lulling voice that seemed to put everyone under a relaxing trance.

  The shop owner’s wife had moved a great distance from her family in the western Kingdom to put down roots in Sorley, but she quickly made friends with the more honorable townsfolk. The dishonorable would have loved to be friends with Mrs. Sturik as well, with the general store being a center of all the comings and goings of town, but seeing as she permitted no gossip within earshot, it was an empty hope. As such, most people had come to trust her with a fervor that was not misplaced. No secret would go beyond her lips to anyone else, including her own husband. She guarded people and the talk of their lives like a vulnerable child. Even greater than this seemed to be the sense of comfort that one came into when in her presence. It was strange, but being in a room with her was like the moment when you were in your bed and just about to fall asleep; snug and safe. The combination of her aura of peace and reputation for discretion ensured that one could come to her for either a friendly chat or advice on a very private matter.

  Mr. Sturik walked in from the back stock room while Lara stopped to lean on her broom. He was the exact opposite of his wife, energetic and as tall and angular as she was soft and rounded, with a great swirl of blond hair in the middle of his head. Lara glanced over her shoulder at her husband and asked Esra teasingly, “So what brings you here? Have you demand for more bread beaters? Perhaps as gifts?”

  Mr. Sturik chuckled beside her. They enjoyed the game Esra’s grandfather played probably just as much as he did. Mr. Sturik searched and plotted for these odd items like the fate of his store depended on it. Some poor trinket peddler was making out like a King with her grandfather’s strange purchases.

  “Aye, tis but a shame,” he shook his head with a grin. “I sold the last twenty off this mornin’. Demand is very high and the bread beater is quite a nice seller after all.”

  Lara giggled and swatted him on the shoulder. “Oh, you are a silly old man. Come Esra, sit and have some tea with us,” she beckoned to a nearby stool.

  “I’d be happy fer some of yer special Mitroot tea.”

  “I think that’s a wonderful idea. Besides, it’s about time my husband let me have a break,” she winked at Esra as she walked over to one of the long wooden shelves lining the store and scanned the various bottles and parcels. She selected a small wrapped package from a middle shelf and made her way to the black stove behind the counter.

  “How are yer studies going?” Mr. Sturik asked, taking a seat across from her at t
he counter. The store owners were one of the few people who knew the truth about Esra’s trips to Cane. Although Esra had never divulged this information personally, her grandparents must have, because they’d known for as long as she could remember.

  “Oh, quite well,” she answered. “Ye know Cane. Just finished hopping about with me through some Elvish history.”

  “Hopping,” Lara mused as she poured the steaming Water into small wooden cups. “That is a funny thing to picture Cane doing.”

  “What a sight!” Mr. Sturik laughed. Esra sipped at her Mitroot tea, delighting in the warmth spreading through her bones. She felt a twinge of disappointment, remembering that this loving couple could not have children. They did not seem to mind that a family was not fated to them and were quite contented with each other and their shop. And they had adopted and loved many in town like they would a son or daughter.

  Esra could remember that even as a child she had been drawn to the serenity of the general store. She had always been very active, constantly looking for new places to explore and new things to do. Being bored and keeping still were not desirable choices. The townspeople knew she had a reputation for being adventurous, and it was not uncommon to see her trying to climb a Tree much beyond her height or venturing into an area of the forest that other children avoided with suspicious fear. If there was one thing that could make Esra sit still, it was a good story about a place or time that she had never been to. Even as an adult her thirst for adventure and knowledge carried her through her studies with Cane. But there was something about the small wooden stools that lined the counter of her friends’ store that allowed her to sit peacefully for an hour at a time, listening to stories of the western city of Delmar where Lara was raised. One of her favorites was the story of how the two had met.

  Mr. Sturik, it seemed, had gone to the city to collect an inheritance he had received from an uncle. He was planning to use the money to open a store of his own. The wealthy grain merchant he had apprenticed under had paid him fairly well, but the man had a habit of shorting people on their orders and got fairly angry when Mr. Sturik refused to swindle customers out of their rightful share. Tired of working long hours with a less than honest man, he was grateful to hear that he would now be able to start a business of his own, and run it how he saw fit. Lara had just lost both her parents and was looking for someone to take her towards a small town in the eastern Kingdom to find her only brother. When she had taken a risk and asked this bright young man if he would mind escorting her, she immediately regretted offering to travel alone with a man she hardly knew. But Mr. Sturik laughed and said that he himself had just hired a caravan to transport the goods he had purchased for his new store, and that he would be happy to take her as far as Re Malik. As it turns out, Re Malik seemed to come too soon, and the young man decided that perhaps this fine young woman’s destination was as good a place as any to start his business, and from that moment on they never parted.

  “Are ye preparing yet fer the next Trader’s Day?” Esra asked the shop owner. Trader’s Days were festivals that lasted for three days and occurred once every spring and fall. It was an opportunity for traders and merchants from some of the large cities, like Mahesh in the north and Hals Arün to the south, to come exchange wares. The merchants also picked up some spices and other goods native to the region of Sorley for selling abroad.

  “Aye, I’ve been saving my coins fer one of those fancy perfumes my wife’s been eyeing.”

  Lara blushed at her husband’s disclosure. “I can’t help myself, they just smell so sweet and exotic. It is like being able to travel without leaving home. I can just close my eyes, take a deep breath, and imagine the wonderful places those smells come from.”

  “There are many tempting things at Trader’s Day,” Esra agreed. She was familiar with the intoxicating pull on one’s mind as a result of all the strange and wondrous enticements at these festivals. It was usually a day where walking into random objects was even more likely as her daydreaming took her far away from reality. “My grandparents always find at least one bolt of fine cloth and more than enough delicious treats. We must gain a Pig’s weight in the few weeks that follow.”

  “I think most people do,” Mr. Sturik laughed. “And I daresay the last few trips there have been an increasing number of merchants wishing to visit our fine blacksmith, Baelin. If he was a man interested in money, he could run most of them home with empty pockets.”

  “He is very talented,” Lara murmured in assent. “I have also heard that he will be coming to help your grandparents in exchange for some riding privileges?”

  “It’s true,” Esra nodded. “I think it will be a good agreement. Baelin is one of my best friends and I am glad that my grandparents will be able to take it a little easier. Our Horse Fariel is a fine Steed, so it will be nice to see someone ride him properly. I’ve often wondered if he has some royal lineage, as he is obviously no field Horse. He seems to be more fit fer a war.”

  “I have surely never come upon such a wondrous Horse elsewhere,” Mr. Sturik pondered, “and I have done a fair amount of traveling throughout LeVara.”

  Fariel was at least eighteen hands high, much taller than an average field Horse, with massive grey flanks that Esra could barely straddle. It was awkward to ride him, so she normally preferred the smaller Horse, Breti. But every once in a while she got a flare of courage and took him for a stroll through the woods. He was remarkably agile despite his size and could hurtle over most shrubs and fallen Trees. Had she been a better rider, she would have loved to see what he could really do, but as it was, a short ride left her breathless with her heart pounding in her ears. Not to mention that mounting the tall beast usually required the creative stacking of wooden crates in the barn.

  “Oh, I almost forgot,” she placed her arm on the counter and pulled up her sleeve to show the rash on her forearms. “I wanted to see if either of ye have seen this before.”

  Mr. Sturik gave a look of perplexity to his wife as he gently took Esra’s arm to look at her skin. They were both silent as he turned her wrist this way and that, studying the markings. Suddenly Lara stood up from her stool and went to the stove.

  “Nope, never seen anything like it! You, dear?” She implored her husband.

  “No,” he shook his head. “I haven’t any idea.”

  “Oh, well,” Esra sighed. “I was just wondering. I’ll stop at Muriol’s apothecary shop on the way home and see what she says.”

  “Good idea,” Mr. Sturik patted her hand gently.

  “More tea, Esra?” Lara asked as she took her empty cup away.

  “No, I must be off. But thank ye. It was delicious, as always.” She stood up and walked to the door, covering her arm and giving a wave. “Next time I will bring some beaten bread to share with the tea.”

  The door clanged shut behind her and Esra squinted in the bright light filtering through a sky peppered with thin, wispy clouds. Cool tendrils of a fall breeze swirled around her and she shivered involuntarily. Walking down a few buildings, she stopped in briefly at the mill to see if her grandparent’s grain was ready. After promising to stop by the next morning with Breti and a cart to pick it up, Esra strode past a line of shops and crossed the street to Muriol’s. The smell of Herbs and unknown Plants greeted her a good thirty paces before she reached the front steps of the apothecary shop.

  The owner, Muriol Menthy, was an elderly widow who smelled about as odd as her many wares. She had sparse white hair and a face so tough and wrinkled that it gave her the appearance of a Roja fruit left in the Sun. Her body was just as shriveled, with creased skin hanging loosely from her petite frame. The one youthful trait she retained were piercing green eyes that danced with excitement when someone came in to seek counsel.

  The townsfolk could not remember a time when the woman was married, nor anything about her husband, for it seemed that she had been in the town since its founding. Some of the more gossipy folk swore that no one could remember Muriol’s husband b
ecause she killed him off and made him disappear with one of her flesh eating minerals. Although Esra thought the woman was certainly odd, she saw no hint of maliciousness in her temper nor encountered anything wounding in her balms. She did not doubt that the woman was being unjustly judged, considering what some people said about others in the town that lived outside the normal traditions and expectations.

  Another reason she had a strong inclination to like this woman was because Meshok seemed to love her. Besides Baelin and Cane, Muriol was the only other townsperson that knew of Esra’s friend. As if on cue, Meshok slunk around the corner and trotted slyly up to Esra just as she was opening the battered wooden door to enter the shop. How she was able to do this undetected, Esra was amazed. Muriol looked up from the book she was squinting at in the darkened room.

  “Esra, Meshok, welcome,” she greeted them with a wave of her hand, placing a leaf in the book and closing it.

  “Hello, Muriol,” Esra strode past the long rows of jars and bottles, ducking under long strings of Herbs hung from the ceiling to dry. Meshok slunk her way around the counter and appeared next to the Herb woman, who was not in the least bit surprised by such an act and tenderly petted the beast behind her ears. “I am in need of yer advice on a rash that has appeared suddenly. It gives an itchy, burning feeling, and seems to be spreading over my forearms.”

  Esra raised her sleeves to show the old woman, whose sat as still as a stone as she gazed at the dark red dots.

  “Oh dear,” she breathed. “And it aches, ye say?”

  “It feels more like a burning itch. Nothing horrid, but enough to be a constant reminder and a bother.”