by Lexy Wolfe
Ash emerged shortly, pausing to look around. Spotting Mureln, he joined him. "You do not need to spare my pride so much, Bard. I am not ashamed of my journeyman's behavior." He pulled his hood up as they walked. "I am irritated she cannot see the embarrassment she brings to her family and our people."
"Forenten are a fascinating people." The bard's dry comment elicited a curious look from the mage.
"Explain," Ash stated, and then added in nearly forgotten courtesy, "Please."
"Ah, well. Your people are well known for being..." Mureln paused, searching for the diplomatic word, opting for blunt honesty. "Elegantly condescending."
Ash almost smiled. "You are definitely not Forentan. My people would dance around the truth for days and still never speak on it directly if they could help it. It is refreshing speaking with someone who can get to the point within my lifetime," the mage admitted. "My master used to tell me I was too direct for my own good." Mureln chuckled quietly. "You said all Vodani come to the city your people originated from at least once in their lives. Have you been here in this Desanti city before?"
"Twice." Mureln looked skyward in silence for a moment. "Once when I was a boy. Once after I attained my mastery. It is more difficult every time to return, but I always long to return just as much."
"Even though being here obviously causes you real pain?" Ash's voice held something more than clinical curiosity.
Mureln opened his mouth to snap back, and then closed it again, jaw muscles twitching. "Do you Forentan feel anything from your land?" he finally asked in a low voice. "Do you feel the life that flows through each and every part of it? Do you feel it not as a master pulling and pushing the threads, but because you are a small thread of that intricate fabric?"
The bard looked at Ash, his eyes holding a haunted look in their depths. "Can you imagine hearing the echoes of the screams when the life was ripped out of the heart of the land itself during the ancient Great War?" Having no words to offer, Ash simply shook his head, his attention fixed on the bard. "Even though the ocean waves offer the Vodani solace and peace, we return to this land. To Desantiva. So we do not forget where we came from." Looking away, he half growled, "Nor forget who caused it."
Ash started to say something, and then stopped, frowning inwardly. "Is that why you hate my people? Because of what my ancestors had done?"
Looking back in surprise, Mureln shook his head. "Stars above, I do not hate your people, Illaini Magus. Even if while we are here, my instincts are to scream curses at you, your students... even my friends and the healer. It is an unforgivable weakness to allow our instincts to dominate us." Eyes forward, the olive-skinned Vodani fell silent.
The mage broke the awkward silence between them after several minutes. "When my master took me as his apprentice, he taught me of the Great War between Forenta and Desantiva. But he was not like many other masters. He did not take pride in our victory over the savages who threatened to destroy us as most of my people do." Ash folded his hands into the sleeves of his robe, looking down at the bedrock smoothed to a dull gleam from untold numbers of feet that had trod upon it.
"Master Bennu said our triumph was our greatest shame. He said a victory is no victory if what it takes to win makes you little better than what you defeated. I do not feel what you do here, though I can tell there is something different in the rocks themselves." Ash paused, searching for the words. "But I appreciate you feel genuine pain, and my ancestors were the cause of it. I never really understood what he meant until now."
Mureln had turned to regard the mage’s hooded profile as they walked towards the central market, the volume of voices—human and beast—and a boisterous cacophony of music growing. "I think I would have liked your master. He sounds like he was a wise man."
The full impact of the market noise hit them when they came out of the quieter road into the chaos that was the central market. The aisles were wide enough to admit three northern wagons abreast, and still Desanti of all ages and appearances crowded the space. Laughing children chased each other around the more methodically moving adults. Merchants bellowed over the noise, trying to outshout one another.
After several moments, Ash finally realized what bothered him. "Why are they speaking trade common? Given there are only Desanti or Vodani who speak Desanti here?"
"Tradition." Mureln shrugged one shoulder. "It had always seemed odd to me, too. But believe me. I was grateful when I was a boy first learning to speak Desanti."
The Desanti themselves differed from each other drastically, ranging from lighter browns to being a few shades from pitch black. While most seemed to have dark hair and eyes, there were those who had light brown, sun-streaked hair. Most had shed the robes that protected them from the intense heat of the day, wearing anything from tunics and trousers to simply loincloths that left little to the imagination, regardless of gender. The mage made a mental note that no one but a bare handful seemed older than either of them.
The dark Desanti natives intensely scrutinized the two men, most scowling at them darkly, especially at the mage. Some regarded them with an odd, open, childlike curiosity. A few recognized Mureln, greeting him with exuberance. Generally, the Desanti conversed only in their native tongue, reserving trade common for commerce alone. Remaining stoically nearby the bard, Ash considered for the first time what foreigners to Forenta must have felt like. Relegated to the minority, he discovered it felt extremely uncomfortable.
Angry shouts drew everyone’s attentions, most of the Desanti excitedly running off to witness whatever the source of the furor was. Ash moved closer to Mureln’s side, in case they might blame whatever was the issue merely on his presence. "What is that all about?"
"Nothing that concerns us at all," the bard reassured. He looked keenly interested in following the Desanti as well, ever curious. "It's a mating dispute, from the sounds of it."
Ash drew back from the sea of people moving in their direction as the source of conflict moved towards them, biting back a comment about animalistic savages. "Considering your interest, I assume this is not a normal occurrence?"
"Not of this nature." Mureln stood on his toes as if he could catch a glimpse of the source of the commotion. Seeing the throng was coming their way suddenly faster, he pulled Ash further back along one of the stalls to get out of the way. "Not only are there two men vying for the same woman, the woman is a Swordanzen."
The familiar, well-muscled warrior named Radisen, clad in an ornate loincloth and decorative leather pieces on his arms erupted from the wall of people as they moved aside to let him stumble backwards. Following him, another Desanti who could have rivaled Emaris with his massive build stalked after him. "The woman is mine, dog!" the bigger man bellowed.
Radisen regained his balance and took an aggressive stance, but did not lay a hand on any of the many weapons he wore. "You have no right to her, Sumalen! The elders gave me the right to win Storm il'Thandar!"
While Radisen irritated Ash, something about Sumalen deeply bothered the mage, something beyond the mere fact he was Desanti. He put a hand on Mureln's shoulder to get his attention, but the Vodani hushed him as the pace of the confrontation was escalating rapidly.
A woman’s voice rang clearly from near Mureln and Ash, drawing all eyes. Those around her bowed to her with deference, and backed away, clearing the area around her. "The elders can talk all they want. In this matter, they have no voice."
Ash looked over the woman appraisingly. Unlike most of the other Desanti women he had seen so far, this woman’s clothing was less provocative and more functional in design, a simple unornamented leather skirt and snug half tunic bleached to a sandy tan contrasted with her rich copper skin. The half tunic bared one shoulder, displaying a vivid black tattoo of a diving eagle's silhouette. Traces of scars became visible the longer he looked. Bandages were stained red, bringing a darker scowl to the mage's features.
Compared to the two Desanti men, she was slight, but there was nothing soft or fragile about her. H
er green-gold eyes were as hard as those of a bird of prey. "The elders have no more right to offer me than either of you have to claim me. I have earned my freedom from tribal mating traditions." She leveled a critical look on the first man. "You should know this, Radisen."
Sumalen spat to one side in derision. "A Swordanzen woman. Men are the warriors. Women are there to be claimed by the strong!" He took two steps, advancing on Storm who glared at him as if daring him to try touching her.
Without warning or thought, Ash moved to stand between Storm and the two men. Silence fell as the Desanti stared in shock at a Forentan, of all people, getting in the middle of the mating challenge. "The woman said no," he stated coldly. "Leave."
Time itself seemed to stop as the Desanti considered the man. Finally, both turned and stalked away, and the crowd melted away with them in disappointment, now that the spectacle was over.
As he watched the antagonists leave, Ash was unprepared for the iron hard grasp on his lower arm as the Desanti woman dragged him around to face her. "I do not need anyone to protect me, defiler," Storm hissed. "I especially do not need the likes of you protecting me. Stay out of matters that do not concern you." The woman shoved him away from her and stalked off into the crowd that parted hurriedly from her path.
Ash scowled after her, absently rubbing his arm. "Are you all right?" Mureln asked quietly in concern.
"Ungrateful savage," the mage growled under his breath.
Mureln looked exasperated. "Don’t you understand? She is a Swordanzen. You are lucky she didn’t kill you. You are fortunate none of them tried to kill you." He looked askance at Ash. "What the hell possessed you to get in the middle of that?"
Ash gave a dismissive sniff, letting Mureln guide them out of the market and away from the chattering Desanti staring and pointing at him, some amazed. Others were less charitable. "No Desanti savage would be able to harm a Forentan mage."
Biting back harsher words, Mureln said in clipped tones, "You keep telling yourself that, Forentan." Ash flicked a sideways glance at the bard, surprised at his tone and words, and fell silent.
Ash finally broke the silence between them. "Perhaps it would be best if I returned to the hostel tent for now." Mureln did not hesitate to agree, leading Ash far enough so the mage would not get lost.
Ash retreated to the privacy of his sleeping area, ignoring his journeyman's petulant complaints about not getting any time with him. Creating a dimly glowing ball of magelight, Ash pulled his sleeve up to examine his arm. He was equally surprised and unsurprised to see darkening bruises left behind by the woman’s merciless grip.
‘Do you Forentan feel anything from your land?’ Mureln’s words echoed in his mind unbidden. Ash frowned to himself as he raised his head. "If Vodani feel the echoes of the past," he wondered to himself, his words slow, "is it possible Desanti feel it moreso?" After a moment, he shook his head sharply. "Impossible." He covered the bruises with his hand, willing them gone with his magic. But he could not will away the shadow of doubt clouding his thoughts or the vision of a pair of fierce green-gold eyes that reflected absolutely no fear of him in their depths.
Chapter 23
SOUND echoed from the high ceilings of the ornately decorated Hall of Remembrance that resided in the great butte that anchored First Home. Histories long forgotten were carefully embedded in ancient mosaics into the rough hewn stone. Flickering torches made the still pictures appear to move as if alive. The pattern of tiles on the floor radiated out from an ornate fountain that flowed with the purest cool water.
Studying the fanciful images, Almek silently contemplated the similarities between the Forentan academy and this Desanti place, sighing softly, murmuring to himself. "So alike, yet so different."
He approached one of the images, reaching to touch the stone around a dragon. Chains shackled the creature, its mouth open in a scream as flames haloed its silhouetted form. Blood red slashes across its flanks reflected deep wounds. Around it, tiny depictions scattered around the dragon showed humans and beasts in various stages of dying. He did not turn to look at the person approaching behind him. "This is very old."
"It is the first made in the Hall of Remembrance." A man appearing about sixty years old approached, his weathered, dark brown skin looking like old leather. He regarded the image as he stood next to Almek. "It represents the rage and pain that our ancestors felt when the defilers tried to destroy us. But we were strong and endured."
Almek turned and smiled, offering the Desanti man a bow. "Elder Verris. It pleases me to know that the desert children not only endure, but thrive." He glanced to the image again thoughtfully, and then gave the Desanti man his full attention.
"You honor us, Lord Almek." Verris bowed, lowering his eyes respectfully. "As you requested, I have sent for the surviving Swordanzen of the Vi’disa tribe extinction." He smiled warmly up at the Guardian. "My grandfather told me of your last visit to our lands. Many of the younger generation had hoped to bear witness to your presence some day, myself included."
"Your grandfather?" Almek stopped short, frowning some as he thought back, doubting his memory. "It has not been so long since I have been here. Perhaps only fifty years at the most." Verris’ laughter puzzled and intrigued the Guardian.
"Lord Almek, you honor me to consider me one of the honored ancients of our people, but I will have seen only forty summers this cycle." Verris chuckled and waved expansively towards the starry mosaic on the ceiling, a trio of comets haloed by smaller shooting stars forever racing across the depicted heavens. "Our lives are much like the warriors of heaven. They are bright and courageous."
Almek considered the images, troubled. "And short-lived," the Guardian murmured sadly.
"Do not pity us, Lord Almek. My people have neither shame nor regrets that our time on this world is so much less than that of foreigners or outlanders." Verris's mild voice took on a pride edged in defiance. "Our survival is our victory over the defilers. They thought to destroy us. Destroy the land we called our own."
Verris’s expression hardened, though a small, mirthless smile touched his lips. "While it displeases many, it pleases me the defilers are here in First Home." Holding his arms out, he said proudly, "They can bear witness to their ancestors' failure. They will not find it easy when they come again to strike us down."
"The Great War is over, Verris. They will not come again as they did before." Resting a comforting, calming hand on Verris’ shoulder, Almek blinked. "You have Guardian sight!"
Verris shrugged, dismissive of the revelation. "We are a nation of warriors, my lord. Survival depends on anticipating your opponent. It is whispered that the greatest among us can see through time itself."
"The survivor?" Almek asked hopefully, even more intrigued.
Though he straightened proudly, Verris’s voice hinted at a paternal ache and sadness. "Yes, my lord. She-"
"...She?"
Verris smiled. "Yes, my lord. She. My granddaughter. The only Githalin Swordanzen of our generation. Claimed as Thandar the Golden’s own."
"Who will not tolerate you constantly trying to defy tradition to convince me to accept a season mating dance, Grandfather." Storm spoke conversationally as she approached, pushing a strand of light brown hair streaked with vivid red and bright blond back in the leather headband. She placed a light kiss on the older man’s cheek. "Radisen and Sumalen are lucky it is the Time of Gathering. But if they push too far, I will kill them." To Almek, she offered a respectful nod, but did not lower her eyes subserviently as Verris had earlier.
Verris frowned at the slight. "Show Lord Almek Two-Tones respect, Storm!" he scolded. Gaze cool but annoyed, Storm dropped a hand to the hilt of one of her many bladed weapons, Verris echoing the gesture.
Almek quickly spoke to diffuse the impending violent confrontation. "It is quite all right, Elder Verris. There is no insult from one who is as obviously skilled as she is lovely." Almek was pleased to cause a faint blush to appear on Storm’s cheeks as he caught her
hand to kiss the back of her knuckles. Verris grumbled, but acquiesced to Almek's denial of any insult, still glowering at the Swordanzen woman.
"You wished to speak of the Vi’disa tribe." She turned to Verris. "I would speak with Lord Almek alone."
The depths of pain reflected in her eyes, echoed in her voice, quelled any protests from her grandfather. "Of course, Githalin Swordanzen." Bowing deeply, the older man excused himself quietly and left.
Almek studied the proud young warrior a long moment, taking note of the bandages around her middle and her thigh, deep red with fresh blood. "Child, you still bleed from the fight? How long has it been?"
"Perhaps two phases of the greater moon." Storm shrugged, unconcerned. "It is not the first time I have encountered dinnais, and I must still answer challenges made to me." She did offer reassuringly, "My wounds will be healed by the next moon phase."
"I meant the wounds on your spirit as well, Storm il’Thandar." His voice was quiet, gentle concern clear.
Storm closed her eyes, looking away. "I wish I could say I knew they will heal eventually. I have found little solace knowing the evil was stopped." For a brief moment, she looked more like an impossibly young girl weighed down by far too much responsibility than a seasoned warrior.
Almek repressed the urge to hug the young woman in comfort, recognizing her determined pride to prove herself strong. "Tell me what happened."
"We had arrived too late to save anyone from the tribe. The touch of the dinnais had corrupted even the youngest." A single tear escaped her closed eyes. "I was the only one left after the adults of the tribe were dispatched... to attend to the tainted younglings. And then honor the dead by building their pyres to set their souls free to rejoin the warriors of heaven." Barely audible, she hissed, "All but the shell the dinnais inhabited. Its victim became its prison."
