Selot obeyed his master. He closed his eyes and evoked that empty chasm which now contained a faraway light. He thought of his mother. He had to find her. He had to know her. He had to embrace her. He realized at that moment he no longer cared why they had been separated. He wouldn’t have cared if she had been the one to abandon him willingly, or if someone or something had forced her to give him up. He would embrace her and that would be enough. Everything would simply be resolved that way; distance and time would disappear by that simple gesture of embrace. He felt his legs running towards the land that was taking care of his mother; his eyes were already fixed beyond the chain of mountains to the north. He had to leave. Immediately. In his vision, the big empty space was now behind him, at his shoulder; he found himself safely on the opposite edge of the abyss and in some way, without effort, he had managed to get past it. He was trying to find his bearings and to understand which direction to run. Was the light that shone in the real world too?
“Do you know if she is alive?” he went back to pleading, now with tears in his eyes. The Uicic that led the Council thundered hostilely. “Janavel, we are warning you, you will be expelled from the Council with anything that follows!”
That threat to his master made everything more painful and complicated, but he had no intention of giving up.
“I have a right to know the truth!” Selot erupted in the direction of the enemy voice, with all the breath he had in his lungs. The smoke blinded him and no one would be able to tell if the tears that fell were from it or the desperation he felt. He let the salty drops fall from eyes which had experienced tears so seldom. They fell on the floor of dry, overheated stone; he watched where they landed, until his front was touching the ground, as he held his arm against his chest.
“I beg you, tell me if she lives,” he asked again, this time with a low voice. Janavel turned towards the members of the Council, in the hope they would give him permission to speak. Selot did not move. Behind a veil of tears, he held on tight to the light that had led him past the chasm. He wanted to stay close to the unknown warmth he felt for as long as he could. He heard the voice of one of the members of the Council. “You must decide independently on this matter. We have already said too much. He must support our cause, not follow his ghosts.” Selot understood they were speaking to Janavel, denying him permission to speak. Janavel however did not agree and spoke up.
“She returned to her people a long time ago, straight after your birth.” Selot lifted his head in the smoke and dense air to listen to every accent of every word pronounced by Janavel. “We know she is alive, that she is there, that she fights and that she stops at nothing to help whoever is in need of her.” Selot called forth all the air he had in his lungs, to take in those words and the waves of life they represented to him. That wonderful light was still there with him, still in this world.
“Janavel, distance yourself!” hissed the voice in anger.
Janavel retreated at this point, leaving Selot alone in the circle of torches.
From behind the barrier of fire, the question for which he had been summoned was again put forward.
“Do you accept the mission? Do you accept instruction and training? Do you accept the risks involved in undertaking such a mission?”
Selot had made his decision and answered without hesitation. He got to his feet.
“I accept. Let me train, let me do what I must to defend the Rotmandi people. Please know that I do not adhere to your cause and after this mission, everything must be deliberated once more.” He sensed a murmur of animated displeasure. Then came the hidden voice.
“We will be interested to know the outcome of this mission. For all the rest, do not doubt: we know how to curve your excessive behavior.” He listened to the threat through clenched teeth, without responding.
That night he slept like a log, without the dreams that usually tormented him.
II
Two months after waiting prudently, Var decided to return his people home, leaving the hiding places of the Hidden Valley. He had planned on a reconnaissance with his brother Bal, Captain Nora and Ucal. They reached Avascen on one of those very cold mornings at the end of winter, where one’s breath was icy despite the sun and clear skies.
Var observed what remained of Avascen. All that was left of the castle where he had resided was a pile of debris. The southern tower had resisted, miraculously intact. The rest of it had been wiped away. The town was unrecognizable. Not even the layout of the streets existed. He walked around pieces of walls that still stood, remnants of everyday objects covered in dust and rubble, burnt pieces of beams that were once support structures for roofs and which was now one big pile of debris. Everywhere he looked he saw only desolation. The wonderful vegetable patches of the court had been reduced to useless terrain. There were still signs of the furious cavalry that had devastated it. The earth was covered in salt. Nothing would be able to grow there for many years. The orchards on the hills that surrounded Avascen had been burnt down many times, down to the roots. Plants that hadn’t been completely burnt had been ruined in such a way that it would no longer be possible to recreate the variety of fruit that centuries of skillful knowledge had perfected. Before their hurried escape, the people of Atiarav had freed the flocks of sheep and goats, hoping to find upon their return, a few heads alive, if they had been able to survive a long winter. But the animals had been killed too. Their carcasses had been thrown into the wells and into the torrents to poison the water. Warehouses and storerooms where they had left provisions had been pillaged and destroyed. The metal farming tools had been stolen. Not a single gram of metal remained. It would take decades to extract the same amount of metal from the hard belly of the mountains, or else a great source of wealth to buy it all back at the markets. Nonetheless, one should not hope too much. The army had located the opening of the mines and had obstructed the entrances causing landslides to block the openings. Fire had swept through the hills. The horrifying signs of numerous, devastating fires could be seen in all directions. No more woods. Not even an acorn or hazelnut was left. No mushrooms or berries would be collected for many years to come. Wild game and every trace of life had fled from the burnt woods.
And still, the army had not been satisfied. They had collapsed all bridges which linked Avascen to the networks of roads, and destroyed lengthy parts of access roads. Avascen and that which remained, had been completely cut off from the Great Plain.
Var looked around, stunned by what he saw, his heart shredded by desperation. His brother Bal followed him, with tears in his eyes. The Emissary had done things right. No one would be able to live here for many years. He had not only destroyed houses and town buildings. He had annihilated everything that was vital. The earth. Water. There would not be a source of sustenance for who knew how many years. Not only that. Two factories that made bricks which were famous in all the world, had been completely destroyed. Their giant furnaces had been built and successively amplified over decades. For two hundred years they had manufactured bricks for almost all the cities in Atiarav, including Solzhaz. It had been one of the main sources of wealth for the small marquisate.
The people of Atiarav would arrive within three, or four days at most. Var had wanted to go on ahead in order to take stock of what awaited them, but he could never have imagined he’d come face to face with such a scene of devastation. He wanted to prepare his wife and his citizens so they wouldn’t be discomforted when they saw their houses destroyed. Now he realized that nothing could prepare them for something like this. He was speechless, and he couldn’t get his thoughts together. It was as if he had been annihilated too, along with Avascen. He and his companions couldn’t look each other in the eye.
Ucal had already witnessed this kind of strategy of destruction and he carefully searched for traces.
Nora climbed up onto the rubble of what was presumably left of the Academy. She had spent her most serene years there, those years when she swore she would taste something akin to h
appiness. She reached the top of the highest pile, sat down on the unstable rubble blackened by the smoke from the fires. She put her face in her hands and cried, taking all the time she wanted. Her hiccoughs opened the floodgates of the souls of Var and Bal, and so they too let their tears run freely. Avascen deserved their desperation and their sadness without hindrance. It deserved their deepest pain and it would have been dishonorable to deny it. In their memories, each one of them cradled a part of the place that had been their patria, their land and their history.
Ucal remained at a distant from the other three. He continued combing the area, searching for signs of passage to guess at how many men from Dar had been there, when, how long it had taken them to bring such destruction, and how they had operated. There had been other occasions where he had remained dismayed by the blind violence the Kingdom of Dar used to wipe out its enemies. He recognized their style. The difference was the dead. Ucal remembered a land devastated like this, but there had also been the smell of the death of civilians left on the ground that filled the air. He lifted his eyes to the skies to rid himself of those memories. At least in the case of Avascen, the worst had been avoided. His friends were aware of the danger they had escaped, them and above all, their children. Their children were still alive, next to those who loved them. Ucal knew that through the tears, there were also thoughts of gratitude. They could start again. Everything could start again as long as the root remained, and this root was intact.
Var thought of the groups from Ossbro and Ellem. They would find the same shocking scene. Avascen and all the towns of the Atiarav Valley would alone remain in the memories of the survivors. He turned his back on the world and cried against the wall of the southern tower that once belonged to the castle. His hands and his forehead pressed against the bricks.
Ucal approached him discreetly. Once he heard the cries of his friend subside, he drew near with silent steps, full of respect. Var did not lift his head from the wall of the tower.
“We’ll rebuild everything,” he said hoarsely, but firmly.
Ucal nodded.
“Higher up,” Var went on. “No one can live here for many years to come. Slowly, over time, we will be allowed to return. We will retreat to the original settlement of our ancestors, a few miles east,” he pointed with the wave of his arm. Ucal nodded again but he didn’t feel like adding anything more.
“Now I must go to them before they get here.” Them...his family, his people.
Ucal had many things to tell and ask him. He had caught sight of many traces and clues which should not be ignored, elusive testimony to important facts. He had to talk to him about it, but this was not the right moment. There would be occasion, when that deep mourning for his patria would soften, at least a little; the ceremonies of the people’s return, their cries, and the commemorations for those who had died in the endeavor. Soon, very soon, they would look once more on the land with the desire to rebuild, and the shouts and joys of the children would fill the air.
“Go to them Var,” Ucal said. “I’ll wait here. I’d like to check out a few things.”
Var nodded. He placed a hand on his shoulder in silent thanks. He went over to Nora. She had ceased crying too.
“Can you hear it, Var?” she asked when she was aware of his presence, a few steps away from the pile of rubble she was sitting on.
“What?” Var asked, looking around.
“The silence,” she answered. “You can’t hear anything. Not even the whisper of the wind, because there’s no grass left, no leaves on the trees. Just a slight whistle on bare ground, like a desert. No animal, no life.”
“We are here. Life will return.”
“I’m not so sure it is finished,” Nora added edgily.
“I’m not sure either.”
“Then why do you keep saying it’s over? Why did you tell us the King of Dar has retreated and will leave us alone? Why did you tell our people they could return?”
“I had no other choice, Nora. I’m not a fool. Now we must think how to survive. How to rebuild some semblance of a home.”
She breathed in deeply.
“Do not return to the forest of Leveaal, stay here with us,” Var asked her.
Nora grinned bitterly. “I can’t see anything from here. Who knows if it’s been destroyed too. From here, wherever I look, all I see is burnt land and devastation. Right now, I don’t feel like going there to see what remains.”
Bal joined the two of them, his eyes red and swollen. “Let’s go meet the others,” Var concluded resolutely. They called their horses which arrived with their noses to the ground, as if they too perceived the level of destruction all around.
Ucal watched them ride off. He had spied something shining at the top of the hill to the east. He quickly set off on foot. He wanted to verify it, but he already knew what he would find.
III
The day after meeting with the Council, Selot was on time for his training with Janavel. The master avoided any mention of what had happened, and put Selot through a day of very difficult exercises. He was inflexible and took him to his limits of tolerance. He didn’t exchange a single word with him, if not to give him orders for training.
At dusk, a warrior showed up. Selot looked at the new arrival, trying to get a glimpse of his eyes, but realized they were impenetrable. They were a smooth surface and Selot’s stare was blocked, with no possibility of getting through. He was a very well-trained Vetem. He was young, and probably a few years older than Selot. He guessed he was a little over twenty. He had a brazen smile and he was watching Selot with a derisive expression. He was a least a hand’s width taller than Selot. A toned and muscular physique could be made out under the shirt that fit him perfectly. He approached Selot and squared him up from his head to his toes a couple of times, his smile twisted mockingly. He walked around him as if he were evaluating a beast at market. He finally lifted his eyebrows, and twisted his bottom lip to show that he didn’t think the goods were up to scratch. Selot clearly picked up on a menacing vibe. He sharpened all his senses, his muscles ready to jump into action. The new Vetem seemed to enjoy himself all the more at Selot’s reaction, then he turned away and approached Janavel, who gave him a brief sign of acknowledgment, like two people who had known each other a long time.
It was Janavel to make the introductions: “This is Marrhit. He is the first. You will travel together.”
“What? Who? Wait a minute. The first what?”
“The first of you. Marrhit is the first Xàmvetem of the second generation. The first one to be born alive,” he went on. Selot recalled the words of the Council ‘three miscarriages, the fourth one is powerful but unstable, the fifth is you.’
Selot observed him trying to gather as much detail of his stature and his movements; he couldn’t see anything out of the ordinary. On the contrary. He moved like a feline with a build that commanded respect. His movements were harmonious. He could sense a person who was in control of his every muscle. And he felt his presence in such a remarkable way. Finally, he heard his voice.
“I do not understand the decision of the Council, Janavel. He looks like a wet chick just hatched from its shell.” Marrhit’s voice was harmonious like his body, with a vibrating yet dry timbre.
“You need each other,” Janavel responded.
“That remains to be seen,” interrupted Selot, “this was not part of the agreement. I travel alone.”
Marrhit’s mouth broke out into an uneven smile.
“Well, listen to that! You are hardly even born and you already think you can give out orders. Just so things are clear, between the two of us, I give the orders.” Selot ignored him.
“Master Janavel, you did not speak to me of this, and neither did the Council make mention of it when I was asked to decide.”
“There is a time for everything.” Janavel let himself relax with an air of amusement. “I have always wondered how your first encounter would be.”
Marrhit neared Selot, towering abov
e him, “You know nothing, poor Selot. Everyone hid the truth from you,” he chanted, “the abandoned orphan... you want to know where your mommy is? They never told you she got rid of you in a futile attempt to hide her shame? Did they ever explain to you that you are a half-breed, an illegitimate, a badly turned out hybrid?”
Blood pulsed swiftly through Selot’s veins. An image of his mother flashed through his mind, the one he had conjured up just a day earlier. He felt a wave of hate like he’d never felt before. He veiled his eyes to obscure them, and withdrew his sword. He threw himself into the insolent Vetem with all his might. He calculated his trajectory and then changed it abruptly for the element of surprise. Marrhit did not even bother to remove himself from where he was standing, nor did he try to defend. It was enough for him to move his arm.
“You’re not worth anything,” he said, berating. With a clever move of his upper body he dodged the blow and took advantage of Selot’s leap to unbalance him by tripping him up. Selot crashed to the ground, but jumped up straight away ready to attack again. He couldn’t understand how Marrhit had been able to disarm his lunge, but he was far too furious now to put his thoughts into any reasonable order. He threw himself angrily at the adversary, many times. But at the moment of contact, Marrhit became a type of illusion. He was never in the place he ought to have been, his body and sword always a hand’s width beyond reach, either to the side or behind.
Janavel observed with seeming indifference. Marrhit snickered at Selot’s every attempt, and each time his reaction grew more violent. He didn’t stop himself at tripping Selot up and pushing him into the ground; now he struck his back, his sides, his chest, and his head with the back of the hilt of his sword. The fight became a thrashing. Marrhit was clearly superior and it looked like he was only messing around. He delivered a final blow to Selot’s temple. Selot saw a blinding flash and became aware of a heavy pain piercing his cranium. He was on the ground again, beaten like a child who had been playing with a wooden sword. He got up, but could hardly stay steady on his feet. He saw flashing lights in his field of vision. He tried to clear the fog, but without success.
The Creed Page 4
