Melianarrheyal

by G. Deyke

  ~*~

  Mel makes up for my limp by allowing no other delays. She does not hunt; she does not wander; she does not make camp until we have gathered a fire's worth of wood from the pikhin that grow directly in our path. Ty suggests that we visit a Desert village, in hope of finding a healer, but she will not stray. “We go to the caves,” she says, “and only to the caves. We must not forget the mission.”

  Ty gives me a stick, saying it will speed our way, and it does. My face burns with shame as I take it, but Mel says nothing. She has not said much to me, of late. Perhaps it is because Ty has so upset her, but she hardly spares me a glance.

  We are faster now that I can limp on a walking stick, but still slower than before I hurt my leg. Every step is a reminder that I was a fool to run from the insect, and that Mel is very generous to keep me with her.

  She often walks ahead of me, now, perhaps because she is annoyed with my slow pace. Ty stays with me and watches me. He speaks with me often, whenever she is not nearby.

  “There is nothing you might say to me that you cannot also say in front of Mel,” I tell him, but he only gives a short laugh in response, and carries on as though I had said nothing.

  “Why do you never call her by her true name?” he asks me one day.

  “I stumbled over it so many times that she told me not to try anymore.”

  “Do you know it when you hear it spoken?”

  I nod.

  “Melianarrheyal?”

  I nod.

  “Flower of disdain, in the old language,” he translates, pushing the words out of his mouth as though they taste unpleasant. “Very typical of nobles. And Chinlar means vengeance – that House has always been known for it. I suppose she is carrying on their legacy.”

  I am too startled by his knowledge to answer – I shrug and nod without thinking. My thoughts are busy with how much he knows. Few can speak more than a few words of the old language, unless they are Namers. I know only the meaning of my own true name, and I doubt that Mel knows much more than hers, even though she is noble.

  “And you? Arri cannot be your true name.”

  I say nothing for a long time. I don't understand. How he can know this? Arri is a real name. I knew a girl named Arri once, so I know it is a real name – though it is not mine. I don't know how he knows.

  At last I shake my head. “I was named Arrek for strength,” I tell him. “I am called Arri now because it is clear that I have none.” And I ask: “How did you know?”

  “Because Arri is a name usually reserved for women. I do not doubt that strangers often laugh when they hear it.”

  I nod, taken a little aback. I know that people always laughed at me, and I know also that no one laughed at the girl Arri I once knew, but I never thought that this would be the reason. They laughed even when I was still Arrek. They have always laughed.

  And I still don't understand – I might if they were only surprised, but I don't understand why they laughed.

  “Do you know what it means?”

  I shake my head.

  “It means something hidden, secret, buried away.”

  “Then it is a fitting name, as I am a coward.” I cannot deny this. I have been a coward all my life, a foolish coward who would rather run or hide than fight. It is because of my cowardice that my leg is hurt and Mel's mission so slowed. I have been told so often how fitting my nickname is – this must be the reason.

  “It is not the hiding that comes of cowardice,” he says, “more that of hidden treasure. It implies that you have some hidden quality of strength or of truth, which may take all your life to come out, or may never, but which is there all the same.”

  “But I am a coward.”

  “All I am saying is that by name – and not even your true name – you are not a coward at heart, whatever you may show. You cannot expect those who gave you the name to know whether it is true.”

  From then on he refers to Mel as a flower, and he calls me Arrek until I ask him again and again to stop. “Please don't call me that,” I say. “I know I have no strength, only cowardice. That name does not belong to me.” At last he stops, and instead he goes back to calling me a dog.

  “Do you hate me?” he asks another time.

  I shake my head. “I have never hated,” I say. “I don't know what it feels like. But Mel does hate you, very much.”

  “It would be easier for me if you did.”

  I look at him, confused, but I say nothing.

  “You follow her so faithfully,” he says. “I'm surprised you don't hate me just because she does.”

  I frown. “I dislike you,” I offer.

  “Because of her?”

  I don't know how to answer to that. I open my mouth, close it again, open it. “She is my friend,” I say at last.

  I don't think that answers his question, but I don't know what else to say. I know that I dislike him. I am no longer quite as sure why. But he is a dead man. It isn't important whether I like him, nor why.

  “I would like to leave,” he tells me. “I would if I could, and quickly. I don't like this – it is tiring, always watching her little power plays. But I must make right my wrong.”

  What does he mean? I want to defend her, and I want to ask him what his wrong was and how he plans to right it, but I don't quite dare. “Why do you tell me this?” I ask instead.

  He smiles bitterly. “I am sorry for you, poor loyal dog. I would that I could turn you from this path, so that one less must die.”

  I don't understand, and I tell him as much.

  “You intend to keep following her?”

  “She is my friend.” Of course I will. Always, for as long as she permits it. What else should I do?

  He looks at me. “You know that she needs you to guide her through the caves. Do you know that she plans to leave you once she reaches Qualin?”

  “You're wrong.” He must be. Mel would never leave me. She is my friend.

  He sighs, then shrugs. “Well, with some good luck on my part and a great deal of poor fortune on yours, she will lose you in her own way.”

  “Poor fortune comes easily to me, but she will not leave me. She is my friend.”

  “Perhaps. We shall see.”

  “She will kill you,” I tell him. There is no danger in telling him: he has said himself that he will not leave, and that he already wishes he could. And I dislike keeping secrets. Mel never said I wasn't to tell him, after all.

  “Good,” he says. I don't understand, but now that he knows that he is dead, the air is clear between us.

  He tells me stories, sometimes, when he is not accusing Mel of anything. He tells me that his folk are seafaring traders, who live on an island off the coast of the Desert. He left them six years ago, and since then he has traveled all over Thilua, learning whatever he could find. That is why he knows so much about so many things.

  He tells me stories of the Desert, and of Saluyah. Its name means guardian in the old language, he tells me. It is guarding the rest of Thilua against something deep inside the stone plain on the other side of the River.

  A thousand years ago, he says, something came to Thilua from another world. No one remembers what it was, anymore, but they thought it was dangerous. They imprisoned it in the center of the stone plain, and they built Saluyah as the first line of defense if it should escape.

  There is a prophecy which says it will be freed in a thousand years, so perhaps we shall see it fulfilled before we die. Its time must be drawing near. I know Mel would laugh if she heard of it – she has never thought much of fate – but I wonder. I wonder what the thing is, and what it might do if it awoke, and who would free something so dangerous, and why.

  Little by little, he tells me more. The stone plain was not always barren, but when the thing came to this world, the land was hurt – whether by it or by whatever power imprisoned it. And there was a great city under the sea near the stone plain, and the people who lived there could breathe water, or they could somehow bring t
he air down with them, and that city also died a thousand years ago. The city is still there, he says. It glitters under the waves, too deep to reach. Some of the houses are built into the cliff, and they are still there too, but falling apart after so much time.

  The gate to that other world is still open, he says.

  And he tells me stories about the gods, about Haryin Two-Faced and the Sundancer and Rain-shaker, and the Queen of the Dark-Dust and the Scavenger – all the gods that are well-known in the Desert and the Mountains. He even mentions Snake.

  I like his stories very much. I have always liked listening to stories. It is part of why I liked to sit in temples when I was young, and why I always listened to Aharyin the Bard whenever he was nearby. Aharyin travels from city to city, paying kretchin in food for their stories and spreading those stories to other cities; he knows the kretchin gossip long before the nobles do, and so they pay him, sometimes, for information. It was from him that I learned of a noble bastard in Saluyah, long before I knew that child was Kerheyin's.

  Through him, I could have told my family that I was alive and safe in Therwil; but I thought it better to tell them nothing, so I have never given Aharyin a story. But I always liked listening to him, very much, and now I like listening to Ty. It is almost enough to make me forget my dislike of him.