by Crissy Moss
“If they make them, do they get the money?” I asked.
“Lass,” Akwulf said, stopping to give me a long, measured look. “If you make something, then it’s yours. You keep it. What you do with it is your business afterward. Sell it, use it, or throw it in the forest for the deer for all we care. But it’s yours to do with as you see fit.”
I looked down at my threadbare dress and what was left of my leather shoes. I needed to replace them, but I didn’t have the supplies or money to do so. I did have some skills, though, and people needed more than just woolen socks in the winter.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I said. “Thank you.”
They nodded in reply.
Conversation turned to the plans for the day. Reprovisioning water, letting horses rest, and cooking. I learned that the camp had been a temporary build, meant to set up for a few days before going on to the next village. That’s why most of the tents were small structures. The larger tents meant for longer stays were packed away, waiting arrival at a larger town. At Ludwald, Akwulf told me, they would be setting up every tent. It would be a carnival air as people from Ludwald came out to see what the new caravan had in trade and made deals with the various merchants.
They didn’t usually set up the temporary camps between villages, preferring to push through till they could get supplies and make trades, but one of the wagon wheels broke. It took a few days to repair it, and I happened upon them shortly after the repairs were completed. Another day, and they would have been gone.
As we talked, various people walked into camp, had breakfast, and wandered away. Some joined in the conversation; others avoided me. I saw Orin for a brief moment before she slipped back out into the camp, unwilling to risk a confrontation. I suspect it had more to do with her sister being next to me at the moment.
“Is this the little thing you rescued from the forest?” asked a large, muscled man at the edge of the circle.
“Behave yourself, Mykul,” Akwulf said. “Say hello to Sybel, and be proper.”
He snorted. “When have you known me to be proper?”
“There is a first time for everything,” Akwulf said. “Sybel, don’t pay him any mind. He’s rough around the edges, but he’s a good man to have at your back.”
I smiled. Mykul reminded me of James’s father. Gruff and loud but entirely helpful. How James became so quiet I wasn’t sure. Perhaps he had taken after his mother in that way.
I swallowed down the bite of porridge, using it as an excuse to look down and hide the lump that had suddenly risen in my throat. It had been a while since I’d thought of James, or my only kiss. Or the utter shock turning to disgust on his face when I emerged from the flames.
“I hear you’re off to the mage’s island,” Mykul said.
I nodded, not looking up at him.
“I hope you have a harder edge than you look, girl,” he said. “The island is a dangerous place.”
I looked up at him then and studied him for a moment. His eyes were soft, almost grandfatherly, with genuine concern etched there. Did I look that bedraggled and lost to him? Knowing my state of threadbare dress, I suppose I did.
He, on the other hand, looked hardened by years on the road. Soft leather armor with additional plates attached to his breastplate, every inch of it covered in scratches, scuffs, and the occasional suspicious dark stain. He didn’t move with the slow grace of Ayrula; rather he moved with a purpose. Every move telegraphing power and will behind it.
“I will do what I must,” I said.
“The island isn’t a place for meek little children,” he said. I saw no criticism or accusation in him. He was simply sharing a fact, one that he thought I needed to know. “There are men and women there who have studied for decades, perfecting their arts. They don’t take kindly to those who don’t take their craft seriously.”
I sat a little straighter. Is that what he thought of me? That I wasn’t serious?
“I’m determined to get to Kemoor,” I said, “and find the answers I need. I have to go. This isn’t some lark I’m on. I didn’t run away because my parents tried to marry me off to the wrong farm boy, or because I wanted to prove myself. I am here because it’s the only place I can go. If it’s dangerous, then I will just have to deal with that as it comes.”
“It’s dangerous, all right. It isn’t just the mages on the island.”
He gave a sidelong glance at Ayrula. She stared back, her face impassive.
Turning back to me, Mykul nodded then turned on his heel and walked away.
“What did he mean by that?” I asked Ayrula.
She ignored me, ladling up a heap of the tasteless porridge and thunking it into her bowl. She slapped the ladle back into the soup pot and walked away from the fire. I couldn’t help but notice that she’d gone in the exact opposite direction of Mykul.
“Young love,” said Akwulf with a snort.
“Are you sure about that? They look like they hate each other.”
“Of course, they do. Unrequited love; it does that to you. The feelings get all bottled up inside, and they still need to come out. So, instead of sweet nothings, you whisper curses. But those two have far too much respect for each other to do it directly.”
“Then his warnings about Kemoor should be taken with a grain of salt?”
“No, his warnings about Kemoor are accurate,” Akwulf said. “The servitors are deadly, and all of them spend time on Kemoor before they go out into the field. Thankfully, there aren’t that many of them at any one time, but even one can be deadly with their servants walking through walls like they do.”
“Ayrula doesn’t seem bad,” I said.
He gave me a thoughtful look. “No, she doesn’t, I suppose. She’s been pleasant enough this trip, and I’m glad that Edwum hired her. But you met the other one, didn’t you?”
“Orin? Yes, I met her.” I still had a streak of guilt over our introduction and the singeing I’d given the little ifrit.
“Servitors come in many shapes and sizes,” he continued, “but even the smallest of them is deadly. I’m surprised you were able to slight her like you did and get away with it. A testament to Ayrula’s authority, I think. If she hadn’t been there, it’s likely Orin would have eventually caused you a great deal of pain.”
I wasn’t as sure about that as he seemed to be. Orin had been spiteful, and whiny, but her servant was hurt. If she hadn’t been hampered by the ifrit, I was sure she would have clawed my eyes out on the spot. I made a note to myself to watch my back while she was in the vicinity.
“Doesn’t matter, though,” Akwulf continued. “She’s small, but she’s already killed men. I heard she laughed when she did it. That one likes to hurt others.”
“Then why is she here?”
“Madra Kemoor decreed it to be so, and no one says no to Madra Kemoor.”
“Madra Kemoor? Is the island named for her?”
“For her family, yes. She’s the madam of the servitors. And she has a home on Kemoor, among other places. If you ever run into her there, miss, go the other direction. You don’t want to deal with her. And you certainly don’t want to get on the bad side of a servitor.”
“I think it’s too late for that,” I said, pointedly looking toward Orin’s tent.
***
The rest of the day went along without interruption. I helped Akwulf by foraging and making hard breads and quick rolls. He introduced me to more of the men and women of the caravan.
There were fifteen in all, seven of whom had been longtime associates of the caravan: a mercenary, the cook, and five traders. There were also the two servitors, Orin and Ayrula, recently hired on. The rest were travelers riding with the caravan for safe passage. It seemed an easy number to sustain, and protect. Even with the unexpected addition of a newcomer, the caravan would not suffer, or so Akwulf assured me.
Akwulf was the center of the camp. Everyone had to eat and would come and go from the campfire bringing stories, songs, jokes, or a bit of go
ssip. With such a small company, it wasn’t difficult for some of the travelers to get on each other’s nerves, but for all the minor catcalling or barbs shot between them they seemed to be a cohesive group. Except, perhaps, for Orin. She avoided the campfire, waiting until I left the circle before she got her own meals.
For my part, I regaled listeners with stories of my journey across the mountains. The tale of the thunderbird seemed to be the favorite.
Later that night, I settled back into the sleeping furs with Ayrula not far from me.
The day had been long, and I had learned a lot about my new companions. Akwulf’s information on the servitors had been especially interesting. But the more I learned, the more I realized there was so much more for me to understand.
What was a servitor? What were the ifrits? Where did they come from?
It didn’t seem likely I would get answers to all of my questions soon.
“I can hear you thinking, Sybel.”
I nearly jumped at her words. Her breathing had been so steady and calm I’d thought she’d gone to sleep.
“I’ve just had a lot to take in today,” I said diplomatically.
“I suppose you have.” She shifted slightly, and I caught the glint of light off her eyes as she turned toward me. “It’s a new world out here on the plains, I suppose. It’s almost like you’ve never experienced anything. I’m surprised your village managed to stay hidden in your valley, though. No traders or caravans there?”
“No caravans,” I said. “The only real way into the valley is on the river, and most of the ships that came up the river were there for the trees.”
“Ah, a logging community up in the backwoods. That might explain a few things. Still, it’s rare to meet someone who hasn’t at least heard of a servitor.”
“I still don’t know what a servitor is,” I said. “Nothing good if I listen to Mykul.”
“Mykul’s angry. He wants more than he can have, and he’s taking it out on everyone around him.”
“You mean he wants you?”
The words were out before I could stop them, and I sucked in my breath in a short hiss. My cheeks were burning, but it was too late. I couldn’t take them back.
I heard her shift on her sleeping mat and tried to see her in the dark of the tent. There was nothing but a dim outline of darker night.
“Servitors aren’t like everyone else,” she said, her voice very low. “We don’t marry or have families like others do. Our devotion is to our clan, and to our servant. All else is a distraction.”
“But how do you make a true connection that way?” I asked. “What about love?”
She pushed her bedding aside and sat up. I could feel her eyes boring down on me in the darkness.
“Love is more than the body,” she said. “It’s more than one person. You loved your parents once, did you not?”
I nodded, though she couldn’t possibly see me. Could she?
“I love my clan,” she said. “They care for me, and I for them. It is the way servitors have always been, and it is the way it will always be. Now and then, another might come into our lives that we grow fond of, but it can never last. The nature of the servitor will always be clan first, ifrit second, and all else beneath that.”
“It has something to do with your servant, doesn’t it? The way you’re bonded?”
I’d been watching her twist the tiny rings on her pinkies every time she entered the firelight, though her ifrit stayed out on the edge of the camp, patrolling. I could tell from the way she touched the rings, and the way the others avoided speaking about the ifrits, that my answers lay there. I didn’t really expect an answer from her. It seemed to be a taboo subject among the travelers, something I could ask only because I was an outsider who didn’t know anything about civilized customs. But just because I felt safe in asking didn’t mean she would answer.
Still, the curiosity had been burning inside me since I learned about the rings, and the ifrits. I had to try.
“The ifrits serve us, nothing more,” she said.
I heard the blankets rustle and felt her gaze lift from me.
“That seems a lonely life.”
“Does it?” she asked, her voice slightly muffled with her back to me. “I've been to the cities where ladies wear their dresses and walk about with big bellies or babies on their hips. They answer to one man and go no further. But I have a different partner any night that I want. No commitments, no one trying to tell me where I may go or what I may do. It’s true freedom, Sybel. The way the dragons made us to be. I spend my time of my own choosing.”
“I-I’m sorry,” I stammered. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”
“You know nothing of my life, Sybel,” she said. She sounded almost tired, worn out by my questions, not angry. “You know nothing outside the little vale you once called home. There are other ways, other lives worth living. Just remember that when dealing with others out here on the plains.”
“I will,” I said, pulling my blanket up to my chin. “Thank you.”
We both fell silent after that, locked in our own thoughts. I had so much to learn. I’d been locked into one small part of the world for too long, and it seemed there was more to learn about those beyond the vale than just magic.
Orin
Over the coming weeks, I settled into my new life on the caravan.
In the mornings, I helped Akwulf with cooking and gathering herbs and berries from our local foraging. I kept an eye out for anything from Winifrey’s book that might make evening meals different.
I quickly learned that it wasn’t Akwulf’s cooking that was in question. Everyone loved his cooking, but having the same thing day in and day for months on end got boring. Everyone bolted down their food without tasting it because they already knew what it tasted like. A new flavor, even subtle, gave the caravan riders something interesting to try. This bit of spice, sometimes literally, made a huge difference in morale.
For my part, just having people around again, being able to scrub my skin in the rivers, and wear freshly washed clothes was a huge morale boost.
After breakfast, I helped Edwum’s wife, Nathye, care for the horses while everyone else was finishing the preparations to move again.
When I first stumbled upon the caravan they had been delayed because of a broken wheel. Because of that they had fully set up, taking the opportunity to clean and mend anything that needed it. Life on the road was nothing like that.
Each night, we made camp. Only a few small tents were pitched, with most people sleeping in or under the wagons. Very little was pulled off the wagons and a few supplies added to the quick packs. It took less time to set up and dismantle.
And each night, Akwulf set up the fire where everyone could gather, eat, and share stories.
But the horses had the best of both worlds. Each night, they were stripped of everything but their bridle, brushed down, and checked for any injuries. The horses, Edwum said, were vital. If a horse turned up lame, then the entire caravan ground to a halt while they healed.
Once everything was packed up, horses in their tack and passengers in their carts, the caravan started out on the road again.
Many of us walked beside the caravan, picking herbs, hunting, or just enjoying the journey. We’d climb up on the carts for short rides or walk beside the scouts when they came back to tell us of obstacles ahead, but overall the journey was far easier than my path over the mountains.
Ayrula often walked with me. Saying little but always listening.
It was during this time that I finally got a glimpse of her ifrit. A giant that stood head and shoulders above anyone else in the caravan, with oily looking skin made of smoke and ash. Inside its chest was the pulsating heart of fire, and two burning coals for eyes.
The ifrit came and went, never making a sound. It seemed to react to her desires even though she never spoke.
I stared in awe the first time the massive creature leaned down to pick her up and lifted her up to the top of a
wagon to tack down a loose flap. Once she was safely back on the ground, the ifrit was gone again, disappearing between one blink and the next. I didn’t know if the creature was still nearby or back out on patrol at the outskirts of the caravan.
Ayrula's ifrit was nothing like Orin’s. Besides the size and different-shaped horns, Orin’s ifrit wasn’t as silent. It preferred to keep near Orin, always scrambling over crates and barrels and laughing when someone jumped at its presence. The creature had a sadistic sense of humor and seemed to play off Orin’s own cruelty.
As I walked with Ayrula, I told her stories of life in a small village. She found it odd, questioning me about some of the customs or inserting anecdotes about life outside the valley. Marriage, it seemed, was less common outside the valley. Traders came and went along the coasts, but only the caravans reached the innermost cities.
Except for Kemoor, the island at the center of the plains.
Ayrula wouldn’t tell me much about the glittering gem known as Kemoor Island, but others did. Magical forests that appeared from nowhere. Globes of ice with fire shining from within lining every street. Pure white marble lining the roads but never getting dirty or wearing down.
I wasn’t sure how much I believed them, but the pictures they conjured were beautiful.
***
We made it to Ashton, and the village came out to greet us. They brought colorful blankets, warm furs, and yarn from soft wool. In exchange, Edwum and the others traded carved wooden utensils and flasks from farther west. Sheets of a soft cream cotton, and even some of the herbs I had been collecting. It seemed our caravan was not the only one in want of new tastes.
True to their word, I was the one to trade for my spices, and I was able to get a new set of warm clothes to replace my old dress. It wasn’t much, but it was mine, and it wasn’t held together with string and hope.
That evening, Ayrula slipped away to another tent, even under Mykul’s grumbles. But his grumbles, I’d learned, only fueled her independence. She wouldn’t be trapped with any one man even if everyone around them could see how much they cared for one another. Perhaps because of it.
