There was only a moment’s pause as Twyla realized, “That’s why you’ve come back, isn’t it... to accompany Hafgrim?” She sounded certain, but a little incredulous.
Adria only nodded. She has just added it up, and found the conclusion unpleasant.
Twyla frowned. “Forgive me, but... is it wise to risk both heirs so?”
Adria shook her head. “No, but I made a promise.”
“A promise to whom?” Twyla blinked. “To Hafgrim?”
Again, Adria merely nodded.
“You’ve thought this through...” Twyla’s tone was almost accusatory.
“I cannot break this promise,” Adria sighed, shaking her head. “When I left, I thought it an act of rebellion. And I thought it chance that I found my way, across hundreds of miles, to the arms of my uncle. In the past three years, I slowly learned that there is much more design in what we do than chance.”
“Forgive me, but… You sound like the Matriarch.”
“And my Uncle. And my father.” Adria smiled. “I know that better now. How our steps are ordered, numbered. The Aesidhe say that the only path we walk is the one that begins where our parents’ ended. They don’t say goodbye, but tell someone to journey in a circle. After today, I know that my father meant for me to leave. And now I suspect that Taber intended it as well. I made a promise to return home. It was not an easy one to fulfill, but I understand that, no matter how much I have wished to run, I can never truly run away.”
They picked at the last scraps of their meal a moment, then Twyla said, “I almost followed you. I was... afraid for you, but, even more, afraid for myself. Afraid of leaving the only home I have ever known.”
“Come with me now,” Adria asked. “Leave with me tomorrow, and we will see the world together, as we once dreamed.”
Twyla sighed and sat down her chalice. “I am more of use to you here.”
“Not if I don’t return.”
“You will,” Twyla nodded. “You said it yourself. This is your home. You can never really leave it. Whether you would choose it or not, whether you would speak it aloud or not, you are your father’s daughter, and the first and only daughter of Heiland. Your birth... was a promise to its people, high and lowborn, Aeman or Somanan or Aesidhe or otherwise. Everyone has taught you this, your father, my mother, the Sisterhood, and all are still in agreement. Even Taber, for all her mystery of intentions, has not dared to strip your titles in three years of disappearance.”
Adria nodded, unwilling to disagree with any of these points. “It is a different world beyond Windberth, Twyla. Beyond the Aeman… I have been truly torn.”
“Then you are going to have to mend,” Twyla shrugged simply. “And one day heal the wounds your father has left in his decline.”
“Hafgrim will succeed Father. Heiland is his to maintain.”
“But that hardly leaves you without power... and certainly, you once held great influence with the prince. You can once more, given time and effort. You are his only real family now, and blood will prove thicker than Taber’s holy water. In the end, it is the one true coin of royalty. You made a promise to your House, not simply your brother.”
She truly has realized the wisdom of her mother, Adria thought. “So you agree that I should go to Kelmantium, after all?”
“It is not really mine to agree or disagree. I only worried you had given it too little thought.” Twyla poured the last of the carafe between them. “I will keep your tower for you, Adria. And I will remind even Taber herself of the title you hold, Princess Idonea, exile or otherwise.”
Adria toasted Twyla, nodding. “Very well, then… where is this brother of mine?”
The Merchant of Invisibles
The Moon Lodge, fortunately, turned out to be far more temperate than the Sweat Lodge had been the day before, its fire kept high enough to warm the women within and give heat for the cooking of their meals and those crafts which needed them. Adria had been led to join them even as Shísha and Mateko had left to join the Runners.
Adria found the hours she spent within the lodge educational, for she was able to see the work of all the women at once, and they chatted freely. She was able to absorb far more of what they were saying now, and they were all inclined to help her, repeating their words reflexively, and using their hand signs frequently to support their meaning.
One of the young women, Lulowela, was correcting Adria’s attempt to mend the stitching of her breeches when a shadow crossed the doorway of the lodge. The woman nudged Adria’s hand and nodded her head to the Elder among them, who was beckoning Adria to join her and a child at the doorway.
Adria ask permission to leave the presence of Lulowela, who smiled to acknowledge her successful phrasing of the request. Adria received no such smile from the Elder upon greeting her properly. Adria did not know the name of the woman, who considered Adria for a long moment with a strange expression — dismissive consideration, but with a hint of... envy? Adria wondered. That seems odd.
The Elder said nothing, but motioned in a way that made it clear Adria should go with the child, who was watching Adria with a rather different expression, the wide-eyed wonder many of the youngest and wildest Aesidhe held for her fair hair and skin. Adria took up her pack before following, not knowing how long she might be gone, and the Elder nodded and motioned her dismissal.
Adria took up her blade and wrapped bow from just outside the lodge doorway — no weapons of any sort were allowed within the Moon Lodge. She had not abandoned the habit of carrying her bow yet, nor the thought of one day being able to use it. It seemed a reminder of how much she might grow among the People, just as her blade reminded her of what she already was, and of the promises she had made as a woman.
Their blades are well made, Adria thought as she strapped hers to her belt and followed the child upriver to the main camp of the Shema Ihaloa Táya. But none of them are long enough to be considered a sword. It is a wonder they have not better adapted to the weapons of their enemy.
But then she considered that the shorter bows and blades of the Aesidhe allowed them to move more swiftly — made a group like the Runners all the more possible and effective.
Mobility... she smiled, remembering the lessons of her father from the chess games they had shared. For a moment, alongside those of her new womanhood, she felt the pangs of homesickness, but these would quickly subside with a new curiosity.
As they approached the edge of the camp, a strange man watched Adria closely, absolutely motionless, without even blinking his overly large and nearly colorless eyes. His gaze, and everything about him, made her a little uncomfortable, and yet she sensed no obvious danger from him.
The Aesidhe show no alarm at his presence, though they also give him wide berth. She examined him, in turn, and despite his strangeness, found him somehow familiar, though she did not at once place it.
The man was very pale, almost stony, and had no hair at all — though perhaps this might be too light or thin to be visible. He appeared neither very young nor very old, though his features, like those of the Aesidhe, seemed to be reluctant to reveal the details of age to her eye.
He was quite tall, but appeared much shorter for his pronounced stoop, and his build was incredibly strong, his arms overly long, so that he walked partially with his hands when he finally moved to meet her partway, not quite like an animal — almost more like someone with a crutch, though it did not seem like he bore any wounds.
This is who summoned me, she knew. Only someone this singular could break the rules of the People.
Adria only then noticed that the young girl who had led her had vanished as they approached, strangely without so much as a parting word or motion.
With disconcerting grace, the strange man rose to nearly his full height, removed his simple cap of an unknown cloth, and bowed low, until his head nearly touched the ground.
“Your R
oyal Highness,” he said quietly, in perfect Aeman, then smiled genuinely, his thin, gray lips dividing his cheeks nearly the span of his head. He settled in a partially stooped position, which seemed to be his most natural.
Adria realized, suddenly, why he was familiar to her, though the memory was vague. She had known someone like him, from her early childhood, but she could not now remember much, save that she had found him amusing, and had wrongly thought him to be her father’s jester, probably from his slight resemblance to such characters in stories she had read and been told.
“I am Moresidhe,” he offered by way of explanation, perhaps sensing her confusion. “Or, that is what your people call my kind. My name is Tabashi, although those among the People refer to me as Watemezi.”
Adria understood this word, and could not help but smile. The word meant, most literally, that thing over there, as one might refer to an object one had left across the room.
It implies that he is considered both distant and alien, yet known. Still, Adria was fairly certain no Aesidhe she knew would actually address a person this way. He is cultivating a sense of his own strangeness.
Though Preinon had assured her that the Moresidhe existed, she had not recognized her childhood acquaintance as one, and so had not known what to expect, for myths about them varied dramatically.
She greeted him with an Aesidhe hand sign of welcome, and he immediately produced the response, with sign and words alike, though he added again in Aeman, “Royal Highness.”
“Please,” Adria asked. “I’m not comfortable with my title… not here.”
“Ah, yes, you have a new name, as I understand.”
She blinked, a little surprised, but answered. “They call me Lozheskisiyama.”
He turned his head a little slowly, nodding. “A respectable Aesidhe name, one which speaks of both difficulty and esteem. Your new Matriarch, Shísha, always names wisely.”
She chose to ignore both the compliment and the characterization of Shísha as a Matriarch — though, of course, she knew that the Sisterhood had not created the word itself, merely formalized it as a title. Regardless, Adria’s curiosity grew with each exchange. How does he know so much?
“You speak perfect Aeman,” she said. “And without an identifiable accent.”
“Yes, I am well taught, and even more well traveled. It is not uncommon among my people.”
Adria nodded. “But you have your own language.” It seemed a safe assumption, so she did not make it a question.
“Yes,” and he was silent a moment. He studied her still, she was certain, but she did not see his eyes move.
“You are a messenger,” she said, trying to turn the conversation more to her benefit — which, she presumed, was the point of his presence.
“Oh no, you are mistaken.”
“It is what I was told of your people.” His voice, his manner, seemed almost as gray as his skin.
“Not a perfect translation, but then, what I am has no good word in Aesidhe, Aeman, or Somanan.”
His eyes have two lids, Adria realized, as the innermost opened, revealing a greater clarity of his gray-green irises.
He continued, “Like many of my race who have come of age, I am a... merchant — you would also say a scholar, sometimes a skald or on occasion a messenger, but always a merchant. That is the closest word.”
“A merchant foremost? If you have come to trade with this tribe, where are your cart and horse?” She half jested. She still had no way to gauge his trustworthiness, and regretted not having had more conversation about his kind with her uncle.
Tabashi gave no sign of amusement nor offense, and instead answered her question in earnest. “I trade only in small things, only that which I can carry upon my person, and only things of the greatest need and importance, frequently requiring haste. I travel unencumbered by vehicles or beasts of burden.”
“The thickness of this wood would not allow for much of a cart, regardless,” Adria nodded. “Aesidhe use small sleds, at least in snow.”
“It is true.” His voice remained so quiet, and he did not seem to acknowledge her half-jest.
They live mostly... underground? Adria thought she remembered this as fact. Or perhaps it is part of their myth.
“We are great craftsmen, my people, man and woman alike.” He pointed to her left hip. “That knife you carry was worked by a Moresidhe clan, as most of the metal instruments of the People were. Were I to examine it closely, I could likely identify its exact maker.”
Adria’s hand moved absently and protectively to her hilt, and Tabashi smiled. “Of course, I will not ask you to relinquish it, Highness. It is only a small point of interest.”
“That explains some of the unlikely articles I have seen among the Aesidhe,” She patted the hilt of her blade to vainly cover her embarrassment at the obvious distrust and asked, “Do you... trade only with the Aesidhe?”
Tabashi shook his head.
“You also work for the Aeman,” she nodded. “One of you worked for my father, long ago. I was only a small child.”
“Yes. It is one reason you are known to us. The Moresidhe you remember was a master engineer and worker of stone. His talent was great, even by our standards. He… designed and oversaw the building of much of your citadel at Windberth, and much of the city — elements which your kind have little knowledge of, but much desire for.”
Adria frowned thoughtfully. “Such as the reservoir system, our running water.”
He smiled once more. “Yes, and its requisite drainage into the Crookfinger. You understand its… novelty.”
Adria nodded. Something about her made him impatient as well as nervous. “Forgive me, Tabashi, I am guessing that you have a message for me, despite what you would claim as your primary occupation?”
“A message of sorts, it is true.” He nodded, with another barely perceptible smile. “I bring you a warning, and it is this: not all of the Aesidhe are wise enough to defend all the People. There are those who have given themselves to the enemy for small or great promises.”
“Traitors?” Adria blinked, not certain if she believed this. It contradicted everything she knew of the Aesidhe. She looked around, then, to see who might be nearby, and was surprised to find no one.
They truly are avoiding him, she thought, worried. And then she remembered why she had not been in the camp in the first place, and was now only there on special permission. Or... avoiding me. A woman’s blood is Wild Medicine — the Moon is unpredictable.
Tabashi nodded solemnly at her question as her attention returned. “There are betrayers who believe that these Aeman promises are equal to those of the Aesidhe.”
Adria breathed this in like a smoky air. Her eyes burned, her insides, to think that this might be true. But it brought questions.
Why tell me this? Why not the elders, the warriors, the Runners? She hesitated, but then asked, “And what of your kind? Is it wrong for me to ask to whom the Moresidhe owe their allegiance?”
“Wrong, not so.” He seemed to smile, but the expressions of his face were still none too easy to determine. “But it is a strange word. The Moresidhe rarely give their allegiance. We give counsel to many, but always for a price. That is why we are merchants and not messengers. And few beyond our kind understand the value of information... too often they pay dearly for trivial concerns, and so much knowledge is not as valuable to those who receive it as the desire for it would suppose.”
“Is this counsel you give me now of such low esteem?” Adria asked.
Tabashi considered this for rather longer than Adria expected, and without expression, save for a very slight but rapid movement of his eyes, a fluttering of both sets of lids.
A calculation, Adria realized. As if he is working numbers, and not words. His gaze seemed to pass through her. No... just over my shoulder, perhaps.
She thought
of chess then. She prepared herself to move, without yet revealing when or how.
“It is a difficult question to answer,” Tabashi finally admitted. “And I will first need to know something in return, as payment.”
“Ask it, then,” Adria urged, politely but without promise. She thought, How strange, to bargain for the knowledge of how valuable knowledge already given might be.
“Would you give your life for these people who are not your own, even knowing for certain that they would fall?”
Check, Adria thought. She blinked twice, and her senses seemed to widen as his question took root. He is saying something terrible, she sensed, somehow. He is not asking a question at all, and this is the true warning he is here to give. Adria herself calculated his question, and all that he had said, and his inscrutable features.
At that moment, Tabashi gave the barest hint of a frown, and she began to understand.
And then she made her move.
Adria drew her knife and took a step backwards to defend herself, letting her pack and her bow slip from her shoulder down to her other hand. And somehow, this was a signal the whole world seemed to understand.
Arrows sang out all around her, and cries in Aesidhe rose from all directions — some from within the camp, and some from without.
Everything which followed seemed to happen underwater, in slow and obvious motion, and still she did not have enough time to react. She raised her pack between herself and Tabashi, turned her blade to strike, and in turn he rose to his full height.
Her vision widened even more. She saw arrows in cross currents, and all of them of Aesidhe craft. She saw blades at cross purposes, as men in the dress and paint of another tribe crossed into the circle of the camp.
How did they evade the guards?
Unthinking, she half blamed herself for a moment — the wild Medicine of her First Moon. But then her blame fixed on Tabashi as she arced her blade, memories of what little training she had been allowed returned. What did he trade for this message? What is the death of a tribe worth, and... mine?
Heir of Scars I: Parts 1-8 Page 33
