Oleja watched them go.
Chapter Twelve
The light of the setting sun slanted in through the windows of the forge. It gleamed on the armor Oleja worked to polish. Another evening approached, and with it another night of work. Monotony had begun to settle over the routine, and though her days felt anything but dull as of late, she itched for something new and different to pass the time—something the cycle of the city days didn’t seem capable of providing.
She had to get out of Ahwan, and soon. Both for her peoples’ sake and for her own.
But to do that, she needed another plan. Asking the king directly didn’t work. Nor did proving herself to the soldiers through fighting, and now even tinkering got her nowhere. Only one other route remained from her original plan: going through the city and telling her story to the people, gathering support for her cause that way. It would be slow and tedious, but what choice did she have? It wasn’t like she could gather all the people of the city into one great ring and tell her story to every pair of ears at once; her best bet lay in getting the people themselves to help her spread the tale. If luck favored her, the story would travel through word of mouth and incite a call to arms as it passed around.
Telling her story never came as an easy task. She hated to admit to her past as a slave; the pity people looked upon her with never failed to sour her mood. Immediately they saw her as weak, a victim, and she couldn’t stand to be viewed as such. But she had to speak of it now if she planned to tell her story in full.
She would start with her birth, of course—or what she knew of it. Telling the people of her skyborn heritage brought an air of mysterious heroism to her tale. They didn’t have to know the truth of the skyborn babies, and she wouldn’t bother to delve into her complex relationship with the term—her reclaiming and retelling of what it meant to be skyborn, a hero in her own right if only by her own word. The people of Ahwan needed none of that. As long as they thought of her as a fated hero, the foundations of her story were set.
Then the rest of the events would follow. Escaping her village, killing the eclipser guards, killing Honn, reaching Ahwan. She could leave out the unexciting and the unflattering, but all of her most heroic deeds should be told.
And if that didn’t work… well, nothing stood between her and the village besides plenty of walking. She always planned to free her people on her own, and though she tried to take the advice Pahlo gave her—and Ude before him—if the people of Ahwan were unwilling to help, she’d do it on her own anyway. Nothing could hold her back from finishing this.
One last shot at convincing the people of Ahwan she was a hero. After that, she marched alone.
The back door of the forge opened and Sreovel stepped in. Oleja tensed.
“Ah, I thought I heard you in here. The sounds of work coming from the forge reached my cabin just out back around the bend.”
“Well, yes, I do work at this time every day.”
“Every day, sure, but tonight as well? Why aren’t you at the festival?” Sreovel leaned against the wall, her posture relaxed, hands folded in front of her.
Oleja looked at her for a moment. “The what?”
“The festival down in the city. You’re likely the only one who isn’t there.”
“What’s a festival?”
Sreovel eyed her curiously. “You know, like a big party.”
Oleja still didn’t know what the eclipser tried to explain to her, and clearly that showed plain on her face.
“It’s a celebration,” continued Sreovel. “There’s food and drink and dancing. Tonight is called ‘Aukai’s Night,’ it’s to honor the old hero of Ahwan, Aila Aukai.”
“What does one do there?”
“Well, celebrate. Eat, drink, dance. I did say that, yes? You go around and have fun with others from the city.”
“I see.” Oleja kept up her work polishing armor where she sat at a table.
Sreovel waited a moment before speaking again. “You should go.”
“Why?”
“To have fun, Oleja. Have you done anything fun since arriving here in the city? Gone around to see the sights, even?”
“I’m not much one for—”
“Go, I will finish your work here in the forge.”
Oleja hesitated. “Are you not going to the festival?”
For just a moment, Sreovel did not speak. Then she smiled and waved a hand. “No, I don’t go to gatherings in the city. Many of the people don’t like for me to partake in the things that go on there. I’m sure you understand that.”
Oleja didn’t answer.
“They let me stay here in Ahwan, but they prefer I keep out of sight. I won’t push against that.” She paused and cleared her throat. “Anyway, you should go. It’s sunset, the celebration has already started.”
Oleja nodded and hurried for the door, keeping her head low and eyes lower. Some feeling sat heavy in her gut, something she couldn’t quite place, but it unnerved her all the same.
The air outside the forge felt cool and crisp in comparison to the oppressive heat of the building. An aroma of freshness lingered on the breeze as well, the smell of trees and the mist in the air, kicked up by the river coursing over stones in its path. Hidden amongst the smells of the forest lay just a hint of hot food, wafting up into the hills from the city below.
Oleja followed the path southwest as it descended towards the city. She passed by the fork that led over to her cabin. Tor remained there while she went to the forge since he refused to enter the building even when Sreovel did not work inside. She’d leave him there while she went to the festival as well, not knowing what to expect down in the city but guessing by Sreovel’s description that it was not the place for coyotes. The last thing Oleja needed was for Tor to go and snatch a whole plate of food from someone when she turned her back for just a moment. She wanted to impress the people, not anger them.
Music floated through the air even before she reached the valley proper, growing from a distant hum to a more identifiable tune. As Oleja entered the city streets, the full force of the festival surged before her at once, drawing her into the folds immediately.
Everywhere she looked, people danced and played instruments. Their tunes raced fast through the streets while the dancers kept pace, hopping around and laughing and cheering. Paper lanterns hung from strands winding back and forth above the streets. Painted on each, all in different colors, was the symbol of Ahwan. A thousand smells filled the air, each one pointing to different foods but tangling together in the air so that Oleja didn’t know which way to go for any one of them.
Every tavern that lined the streets was alive with light and music. Doors and windows all stood ajar. Tables lined the front of each, piled high with food and mugs of sloshing drinks, and the cooks and servers stood around them, pushing food and mugs into the hands of all who passed by. By the time Oleja reached the end of the first street, she had been offered so much food that she had no hope of holding it all. A sausage—skewered on a single-pronged metal stake and still sizzling with grease—found its way into her hand, and she bit into it as she went. The steaming interior burned her tongue.
“Oleja!” called a voice, and she turned to see Cyrah running towards her, Brashen and Wil only a few paces behind. She waved to them.
“You’re here too?” she asked once they got within earshot—a small radius given the blaring music on every corner.
“Of course we are here, everyone in the city is here!” called Cyrah over the noise. “We were just looking for you, we hoped you’d make it.” She looked Oleja up and down. “But you might have bothered to get dressed up first.”
Oleja looked down at her clothes—the same black pants and cream-colored shirt she wore every day. Soot and grease from the forge stained the shirt, but it still smelled fine and had no tears in it yet, making it far finer than the threadbare clothes she wore when she arrived at the city.
Cyrah, on the other hand, wore a dress of deep green with laces binding
it below the neck and a low-cut back. Somehow, more metal ornaments dangled from her body than usual. Each one caught in the lantern light as she moved. Her black hair hung straight and unbound as always, though it looked freshly washed and brushed.
Wil and Brashen each wore a flowing shirt of blue, Wil’s with silver embroidery around the neckline and Brashen’s with frills at the chest and sleeves. Looking around, Oleja saw many others wearing similar getups. She looked down at her own clothes again.
“This is all I have.”
“Here, come on,” said Cyrah, and grabbed her by the arm. She pulled her off through the street.
They arrived a short while later at a small building crammed between taller ones to either side. Cyrah took a key from her shoe and opened the door. They entered the dark room beyond.
Light sprung into the space when Cyrah lit a candle. It illuminated a neat room, more pristinely organized than any Oleja had ever seen. Books lined shelves and diagrams hung from the walls—maps, Oleja thought at first, but then, upon looking closer, she saw that they depicted stars.
Cyrah disappeared through another doorway leading deeper into the house, and then returned a moment later. “Here, try this on,” she said, holding out a dress on a hanger. Oleja took it and looked it over. The fabric was deep maroon and light as air. A white band wound around the hips, embroidered with dark grey silver in a shape like waves. Long flowing sleeves hung from the sides, bearing matching white accents at the wide cuffs.
“I don’t know, I’ve never worn anything nearly so fine.”
“Put it on, and hurry—we are going to miss the whole festival if you stand there and gawk at it.” She took the dress again and tossed it across the back of a chair. “And wash up before you change—you’re covered in grime. I got soot all over my hand just from grabbing your arm, and now I have to wash it off.” She approached a basin in the corner as she spoke, a wide bowl of clear water. She scrubbed the black stains from her hand.
Oleja washed herself quickly and then changed into the dress. It fit her comfortably, sized well for her height; the hem hung low near the floor.
“Why do you have this?” she asked Cyrah, who now stood behind her and fussed with Oleja’s hair. “It’s much too big for you, you are a whole head shorter than me.”
“It belonged to my father, back when he used to wear such things,” said Cyrah.
“Ah.”
“Sorry I don’t have any shoes your size. You’ll just have to wear your boot, I suppose.”
Cyrah finished braiding Oleja’s hair anew and washed her hands again. “Leave your bag here, you can come and get it later. And your other clothes too, that way you don’t have to carry them.”
Together, they set out again, back down the street towards the hub of festival activity. Night had descended as the last of the sun’s light faded from the sky, and a few stars peeked out from behind the curtain of black. After a few minutes of searching, they rejoined Wil and Brashen.
“Wow, nice dress,” said Brashen when Oleja stepped before him. She felt awkward in the thing, like she didn’t know how to move properly anymore.
They walked through the streets together for a while, enjoying the merriment and snacking on the food carted around in great abundance. Oleja had never seen so much food at once before in her life. It filled her with an odd sense of relief, but guilt and grief as well. She ate her fill on impulse regardless.
The four of them soon arrived at an enormous tent set up in the center of a square, a pointed canvas roof with open walls for people to come and go as they pleased. A long countertop built from crates ran through one end, lined with stools on one side and a row of barrels on the other. Servers in aprons ran up and down the length between the counter and barrels, passing off mugs of wood or clay or metal to patrons seated atop the stools and standing between them. Tables crammed in under the remainder of the tent, with a small rectangle of space in the center for dancing. All of the tables were just as full as the counter. Servers weaved around between those as well, trays of mugs in their hands.
It was a great outdoor tavern, temporarily taking up the square.
A flash of red curls emerged from the crowds as Maloia stepped out a ways down the street, surrounded by half a dozen others. She waved to Oleja as her friends started off in the other direction. Oleja waved back before Maloia hastened after the rest of her group.
“Come on,” said Wil and led Oleja and the others ahead into the tent.
The air within hung heavy with a haze of smoke. Voices and music filled the space, but even more crowding were the bodies, seeming to take up every free spot beneath the tent and then some. Oleja followed Wil and Brashen as they wound through the crowd, Cyrah just behind her. She held her dress in her hands as she moved, dodging table corners and other patrons on which she might find herself snared. Dresses truly had no practical uses to her.
They reached the counter and Wil leaned between two people who sat on stools. “Four, please!” he called to the nearest server. In a flash, she disappeared.
“Hey! Hey, you!” rang a voice, rising above the others. Oleja turned. An old woman watched her from where she sat with several companions at a table nearby, frizzy white hair sticking up from her deep brown scalp like mountain peaks. Wrinkles created dozens of gullies across her face.
Oleja leaned closer. “Uh, yes?”
“I like your leg! How’d ya lose it?”
A heat rose into Oleja’s cheeks. She dropped her dress to hide the prosthetic. “Oh, uh—”
A quick recognition flashed across the woman’s face. “Oh!” she exclaimed, and then shifted in her seat. She leaned back, pulled her right leg up over the table, and slammed it down on the surface. The dull sound of wood-on-wood echoed up. Oleja looked back at the woman in disbelief.
“Lost it fighting for Ahwan. I was a soldier back in my younger days,” said the woman. She thumped her fist against her chest.
Oleja hiked up her dress again, higher now to show off the limb to the other woman.
“Fantastic design!” said the woman, her eyes wide. “It looks incredibly functional. Did you make it yourself?”
“I did,” said Oleja, stepping closer to make sure the woman heard her. “I could make you one too, if you’d like.”
The old woman shook her head vigorously, reaching out to Oleja and clasping one of her hands in both of her own. “Oh, no, that’s quite all right, dear. Mine works fine. One like yours would’ve served me well when I was still young, but I don’t move fast anymore. And I don’t need a leg that’ll outlast the rest of me!” She cracked a grin and folded her leg back under the table. “But you still haven’t answered my question—I told you my story, now you tell me yours.”
“Oleja!” Wil called to her over the noise, holding four mugs in his hands.
She turned back to the woman. “Give me just a moment.” The woman smiled and nodded to her. Oleja turned back to the others.
“Making friends?” asked Cyrah.
“That woman was quite friendly.”
“Yeah, she’s drunk.” Wil handed a mug to Oleja. He, Brashen, and Cyrah all knocked their drinks together, tapping them to Oleja’s where she held it as well. All three drank.
Oleja swirled the foamy liquid around in the mug. Not water, that much she could tell. She put it to her nose and smelled it—sour, pungent, strong. She twisted up her face.
“What is this?”
“Ale.”
She took a reluctant sip. It tasted no better than it smelled.
“You’ll get used to it,” said Cyrah, noting the way she smacked the tongue on the roof of her mouth. Oleja nodded and took another slow sip.
A few people got up from their stools at the counter nearby. Brashen jutted his head in the direction of the vacancy, and the three of them started over.
“I’ll be right there,” said Oleja after them. She turned back to the old woman who laughed at something with her friends.
“Sorry about that,” said
Oleja, crouching by the woman and glancing around the table. All eyes turned to focus on her.
“Not to worry. By the way, my name’s Yewli,” said the old woman.
“I’m Oleja. Oleja Raseari. You want the story of how I lost my leg? I’ll tell you, and I’ll do you one better. My tale begins in a canyon somewhere to the southeast…”
By the time she wrapped up her tale, a funny mist sat about her mind—like sleepiness, but midnight had not yet arrived, and the night was still young besides. The old women marveled at her story, asking questions now and again but mostly just listening intently. When she finished, they thanked her and bid her well and then headed out for the night. Oleja got up from her crouched position by the table. A sudden swaying nearly knocked her back to the ground. She hurried over to where Wil, Brashen, and Cyrah sat at the counter.
“Don’t drink that,” she said, stumbling into Cyrah as she pushed the girl’s mug away from her.
“Why?”
“There’s something bad in it,” she blurted out. Her words came quicker, her heart beginning to race. “It’s poison, like from the rattlesnakes. The mutant rattlesnakes. It’s venomous water.”
Wil nearly spit out his own drink—at first, Oleja thought, in fright at the news she shared, but then he barked in laughter.
“Oleja, you’re tipsy.”
“What?”
“It’s alcohol. Did you drink the whole pint?”
She looked down at the empty mug in her fist. She hadn’t enjoyed the drink, but with every exciting turn in her story, the group of women cheered and slammed their drinks together, taking long swigs before returning their attention to her. It seemed only appropriate that she go along with the celebrations, seeing that they cheered for her own successes, and that she wanted to gain their trust and allegiance by proving herself a likable friend and capable leader. She had downed the drink without paying much attention.
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