Decisions
Safe in my room, away from creepy Simathe eyes, I brushed out my tangled hair then looked about for my clothes. Someone had kindly taken it upon themselves to have them cleaned. They now waited in a neat, folded stack on a chair across from my bed.
I didn’t put them on right away, but went instead to the walnut armoire dominating one corner of the room. I opened it—and couldn’t believe my eyes at the rich, colorful array of dresses, robes, skirts, leggings, tunics, and blouses crammed inside. Awestruck, I fingered the satin sleeve of a rose-colored gown, imagining wearing it to the Council meeting I’d probably attend today. This gown was far more beautiful than any formal or prom dress I’d ever had occasion to wear. In a gown like this, I would look very mature, very elegant, very Aerisian…
I dropped my hand.
No. I’m not Aerisian, I reminded myself. Besides, today of all days, I need to wear my own clothes. I need to wear them so I can prove to Council that I’m just a simple woman from Earth, not the embodiment of some ancient Aerisian legend. I’m not the Artan. I’m just…me.
I closed the door of the armoire firmly, scooped up my own clothing, and brought it over to the bed. Slipping out of the borrowed nightdress, I dressed myself in what I’d brought from Earth. Barefoot, I went to look in the ornate silver mirror fixed to the wall beside my bed. A familiar reflection stared back: me, wearing faded boot-cut jeans, black belt, and a white T-shirt with the words “US Air Force” stamped in gold across the front, the Air Force emblem emblazoned beneath.
Definitely not Aerisian, I thought ruefully, still half wishing I could wear one of those lovely gowns…
Shoving away the idle longing, I furthered the non-Aerisian look by pulling my hair back into a ponytail with the extra ponytail holder discovered in a jean pocket. Now, that really made me look earthy. Not earthy in a sexy sort of way, but earthy in a very earthlike fashion. My clothes were entirely different from those of the Aerisian women I’d met so far, and my features doubly so. I’d yet to see anyone in this place, male or female, with coloring like mine. Not to mention, in comparison to most of the folks around here, I was pretty short. Even the smallest women topped my height by several inches.
Although these physical traits made me conspicuous anyway, my outfit ensured zero anonymity. I didn’t care. In the back of my mind, I was hoping against hope that when these people saw me looking like what I was—somebody clearly from Earth, and not their precious Artan—they’d be forced to admit their mistake and send me home.
I accepted this hope even as another part of my brain warned me it was stupid. Obviously, if these Aerisians cared about their Artan being from Earth, they wouldn’t have gone through all the trouble of bringing me here in the first place. My appearance today was unlikely to change their minds. I mean, I’d looked pretty much the same yesterday, if a bit more disheveled.
Troubled, I rubbed my forehead and sighed. Like it or not, I was probably stuck here awhile. Unless and until these people finally conceded that I had no magic or supernatural powers of any sort, they weren’t likely to relent. If only I could prove it to them! Maybe it would mean my being set free.
Set free…
Technically, I wasn’t a prisoner; not in their eyes, anyway. I felt like one, though. After all, I couldn’t even open my bedroom door from the inside. And going home? Forget about it. I had no idea how Risean Wy’ Curlm had brought me here, much less how to get back. So where did that leave me?
Not exactly staying of my own free will, that’s for darn sure, I grumped, plopping onto the edge of the bed to pull on my socks and tennis shoes.
History over Breakfast
As if by magic, as soon I was ready to go, Rittean appeared at my door. Hopefully, she wasn’t planning to escort me to Council. I hadn’t eaten breakfast yet, and really didn’t feel like facing them this early in the day on an empty stomach and with no coffee. Especially with no coffee.
The thought of breakfast and coffee was enough to remind me that I hadn’t eaten since leaving home yesterday. My stomach rumbled loudly, protesting that fact. Rittean glanced at me sideways, a bit surprised, I think. I guess the stomachs of proper Aerisian women never growled like angry bears. She took it in good humor, though, observing with a teasing grin, “You are hungry.”
I nodded fervently.
“Come, we will see if any food is to be found.”
With a friendly wink, she started off down the hall. This morning’s mishap on the balcony receded into the past. Suddenly, the day seemed much brighter. I jogged a few steps to catch up with her.
“So what’s on the agenda for today?”
“Agenda?”
“Yeah, agenda. Oh wait, I guess you all don’t use that word here in Aerisia, huh?”
This made her laugh. “Aye, my lady. Your patterns of speech are certainly foreign. Now, tell me, what is this agenda?”
“Let me see…” I screwed up my face, concentrating. “An agenda is the schedule for the day, I guess you’d say. What’s going on. What’s going to happen. What’s planned out, and what we’re going to be doing.”
“Ah, I see. This agenda denotes the day’s plans, in other words.”
“You got it!” I offered her a thumbs up. “So what are they?”
She cocked her head. “It is not for me to dictate how you spend your days. Nor anyone else. To my knowledge, the only plans thus far are that I’m to escort you to breakfast. Council gathers in two hours, and your attendance is required. Until then, I suppose you’re free to do as you please.”
“Maybe you could show me around?” I asked hopefully.
“Perhaps.”
Council, I thought sourly, matching my pace to Rittean’s, grateful for the companionable silence. Another meeting. What will it bring this time? A Joining? What is that anyway?
My Aerisian hosts had conveniently forgotten to explain that detail and, to tell the truth, I was sort of afraid to push the matter. Whatever it entailed, it sounded scary and I didn’t like thinking about it. I really didn’t like thinking about it now that I’d met the Simathe High-Chief and knew it had something to do with him. I guess by pushing thoughts of both it and the Simathe lord to the back of my mind, I was trying to convince myself it wouldn’t happen.
A few minutes and a couple of palace levels later, we reached the kitchen, which was a large, spacious room. The row of open windows as well as the wide door permitted cool breezes from the outside to stir the otherwise heavy air. At first, I wondered why it was so hot, but quickly spotted the huge ovens and open hearths. Whatever was cooking smelled wonderful, but despite the delicious aromas, I was already breaking out in a sweat and longed to escape outside.
“Could I have something light?” I requested. “Maybe some bread or fruit?”
“Certainly, my lady.”
Rittean beckoned to one of the several workers scurrying about. When he came bustling over, my Moonkind friend informed him of what I wanted. I was pretty weirded out by how he stared at me. However, upon comparing my appearance to that of everyone else around here, I decided I must seem a little strange. Not to mention, I’m sure he, along with everyone else, knew I was the supposed Artan. Heck, the servants were probably better informed of the whole situation than I was.
I accepted the food he brought with a smile and a simple, “Thanks.” The near worship springing to his green eyes at this small courtesy made me feel even warmer and more uncomfortable. Desperate for an excuse to leave, I said, “It’s hot in here. Can we eat outside?”
Rittean smiled sympathetically. “As you wish.”
With that, she led me out into the sunlight through a swinging half door. We sat under the leafy branches of a tall tree whose height exceeded the palace’s outer wall. Both its sun-speckled shade and the cool grass beneath were a welcome respite after the stifling kitchen, and I was glad to relax against the tree’s rough, brittle bark and begin my breakfast of buttery, toasted bread and fresh fruit. Even the water was tasty, it
was so clean and cold. It almost helped make up for the lack of coffee.
As I ate my fill, Rittean and I sat side by side, our shoulders lightly touching, neither of us saying much of anything. The peace of the day was broken only by the sound of the wind sighing through the tree branches above. It toyed impishly with Rittean’s moonbeam hair, which fell to her waist. She didn’t seem to care, even when the wind whipped strands of it against her cheeks.
The unexpected clinking of metal and the tread of heavy boots brought my head up in time to see a group of Simathe warriors, bristling with weapons, striding past in loose formation. They said nothing to us and didn’t acknowledge our presence by so much as a glance. We watched, spellbound, until they disappeared around the corner of an outbuilding. My appetite vanished. I dropped the remaining crust of bread onto the napkin covering my lap.
“Simathe,” I stated shortly, turning to Rittean.
“Yes.”
“What’re they doing here?”
“I…am not certain.”
Her obvious hesitation told me she really did know. I chose not to press the point, however, voicing instead some questions that’d been lying heavily on my mind.
“Rittean, please tell me. What is a Joining? And who, exactly, are the Simathe? Why do I get the feeling they’re not really…accepted around here? I mean, yeah they’re accepted, but it seems to me that people are a little freaked out by them.”
She wrinkled her nose. “Freaked out?”
I rolled my eyes contritely. “Sorry. That basically means scared of them, I guess. You know, people think they’re strange or something. Different. Weird.”
“Strange. Different. Weird,” she mumbled.
“Yeah. It’s like nobody really wants to talk about them. Whenever I mentioned this yesterday, the subject was either changed or ignored. Even in the state I was in last night, it was pretty obvious nobody was exactly pressing close to that Ilgard guy.”
As I said this, I was remembering the pupil-less black eyes and stony expression of the warrior I’d encountered last night and couldn’t repress a shudder. Although I usually tried not to judge by appearances, I couldn’t honestly say I blamed these Aerisians for mistrusting the Simathe. There was definitely something about them that didn’t invite closeness of any sort.
“Yes,” Rittean replied hesitantly, stretching out the one-syllable word. “They are indeed strange to us. The Simathe and the people of Aerisia have coexisted for ages, yet they are so unlike us…”
I waited to see if she would add anything else. She didn’t, just kept staring off into the distance. After a moment I reached out, touching her softly on the shoulder.
“Rittean?”
She started, her head swinging around.
“Forgive me, my lady. I am unsure how to relate this so you will understand. Above all you’ve witnessed in our land, you will surely find this the most difficult to believe.”
I raised my eyebrows skeptically. “Oh, c’mon now. I doubt you could tell me anything at this point that’d shock me too much. Why don’t you give it a try? Lay it on me—give me some history over breakfast.”
She didn’t even smile. Her shoulders slumped resignedly. “As you wish, but I had rather Lady Elisia were here to tell you instead.”
She paused, collecting her thoughts.
“Longer than legend can recall, stories have been whispered concerning a race of men who were immortal. It was not only that they did not die…” Her voice dropped to a whisper, “…but that they could not be killed.”
A chill slithered down my backbone, and goosebumps raised on my arms. People that didn’t die? And couldn’t be killed?
Freaky.
“For many years,” Rittean went on, “no one knew if such a race existed or not. Rumors abounded of strange infants: children born with eyes blacker than death and hair to match. Babes who neither wept, nor fussed, nor acted as other younglings. A few days after the birth, a stranger would arrive at the door of its home, offering to take the child.”
“Wait a minute,” I burst in. “You mean someone just showed up on their parents’ doorstep, offering to take their kid off their hands? That’s awful! Please tell me they didn’t comply.”
She stared at me, making no denials. I felt sick.
“They did, didn’t they? They gave up their own children?”
She winced. “You noted my reluctance to tell you this story, my lady. I knew it would be difficult, if not impossible, for you to comprehend. Perhaps I ought to summon Lady Elisia. She could—”
“No,” I objected, shaking my head. “No, it’s okay. Really. Please, I—I need to know what I’m getting into with this Joining and all. Go ahead and finish, Rittean. Please.”
I thought she’d refuse. But, acquiescing with a sigh, she said, “Very well, I shall continue.
“As I said previously, a stranger would come, asking for the babe. The mother, afraid not only of the visitor but also her unusual child, and ashamed to have borne offspring so different from her husband and herself, generally submitted. With the infant gone, all would be forgotten. It was as if she’d never given birth.
“So the rumors flew. Some folk swore they knew women to have birthed strange, noiseless children and the infants to have disappeared soon afterward. Others told of seeing strange men on the mountains or stalking though the great forests, their hair and eyes an unnatural, midnight black. Yet others claimed to have been helped by one of these fellows when they’d lost their way or found themselves in some sort of danger.
“The truth was not known until the adopted son of Lady Laytrii and Lord Ranetron was taken from the palace by an enemy of the High-Chieftess.”
“Taken?” I interrupted. “As in, kidnapped?”
Her brows knit in a frown. “Kidnapped? I know not this word.”
“It’s when somebody takes you from your family, friends, and home against your will. Usually for revenge or ransom, or some other underhanded purpose. Although that’s not always the case,” I added, thinking the word kidnapped applied pretty well in my own situation.
“Ah, I understand now. Stolen away—kidnapped. Yes, the child was kidnapped. Taken. For many days and nights, guards and soldiers searched. Even the Moonkind with their magic could not find him. All seemed hopeless, until one stormy night when the High-Chieftess and her husband sat with their advisors. The palace doors opened with a crash, admitting a dark, imposing figure. The rainwater had matted his ebony hair and streamed in rivulets off his head and clothing. Lord Ranetron and his fellow warriors drew their swords, but the stranger only pulled back his cloak, revealing the lost child sleeping peacefully in his arms. Great was the joy of that household, I can tell you! Following the happy reunion, the stranger broke his fast, then told his tale.
“His race, he said, was called Simathe. He spoke of a colony of such warriors, living well apart from others. Although they’d existed for ages, they were few in number and their actuality was not widely known. In recent years, however, with more Simathe being born, their strength was growing. The words spoken over the first Simathe so many years ago were being fulfilled.”
“What’s that mean? What words?”
“This, too, the stranger explained,” Rittean replied. “According to him, their ancestor was the child of a wealthy couple who were long barren. Only by the aid of a Scraggen—or witch-woman—was this child finally conceived.
“Now, when a Scraggen helps you,” she clarified in an aside, “you must expect a price will be paid. The price of this Scraggen was the couple’s child, whom she desired as a protector, a bodyguard for herself. When she promised the couple they’d have more children in the future, well—they complied with her demands.
“According to the Simathe telling this tale, the Scraggen took the child and poured all of her strength into making him the perfect soldier—the ultimate warrior. It is reputed a Simathe can go without food or water for weeks. He can fight for days without tiring. To his eyes, the dark is as light a
s day. Far longer than any other man can he run, and walk countless days without rest. He is tireless, sleeping little, if at all. No man is his equal on the battlefield. Yet the most astounding attribute of the Simathe warrior is…he cannot die. He cannot be killed.”
I felt my pulse racing, my mind whirling. This story—the entire idea of the Simathe, really—was unbelievable. Could it possibly be true?
I wasn’t aware I’d voiced that thought aloud until Rittean responded, “Aye, it is true. With my own eyes, I’ve beheld this first Simathe. I have spoken with him. The Simathe simply do not die. Nor do they grow old. They live forever, ageless and eternal.”
“Do they…do they want to be immortal? Do they want to die?” I faltered.
“That, I cannot say. Simathe are legendary for exhibiting neither passion nor sentiment, and for speaking as little as possible. Many wonder if they experience the emotions and feelings common to humanity. Many,” she pursed her lips, “many wonder if they are human at all.”
Suddenly uncomfortable, I lowered my head. If I were honest, I’d have to admit to wondering the exact same thing. Last night, the pitch-black eyes of the Simathe High-Chief had held no feeling or even life. They just looked, stared, as if they saw right past any exterior defenses and straight into my innermost being. The effect was disturbing, to say the least. Which made me ask my next question, something that’d been pressing on my mind during her story.
“Rittean, if the Simathe served the Scraggen, and the Scraggen are witch-women, does that mean the Simathe are evil? And if they are, why is Council so dead-set that I have one for a bodyguard? How do you know they can be trusted?”
My new friend looked decidedly uncomfortable. “I would not say all Scraggen are truly evil,” she hedged, “although some are and some border on it. Nor do I know to what extent the Scraggen and the Simathe are still connected, only that the first Simathe served the Scraggen who created him. Whether they still serve the Scraggen, I cannot say.”
The Sunset Lands Beyond (The Complete Series, Books 1-3): An epic portal fantasy boxed set Page 8
