❖❖❖
Over mornmeal, everyone wishes Mercet the happiest of pasedays. The traditional meal of one’s paseday centers on a serving of flaps that number in the years one has folded. In Mercet’s case: nine. As one grows older, the flaps are supposed to shrink in size, making a stack of thirty or forty flaps manageable when compared to a childhood stack of three or four. However, this stack of nine set before the group is at first a convivial challenge, but quickly evolves into complete agony among them.
“I’m fuller than a prenog on Sharpen’s Day,” Mercet cries out, rubbing his stomach in an exaggerated gesture. The others chuckle at Mercet’s small voice sputtering some old-man’s adage, followed by their own groans of overstuffed pain.
Ethan presents Mercet with a big silver gift. The nine-year-old unwraps it to find a Yantak action set and lets out an unfiltered yelp. Without pause, Mercet dismisses himself to unpack and play, giving the others a chance to begin dissecting the previous night’s tap from Iahel.
“I can’t believe there’s a skirmish between states,” Bernard starts. “And what are these, appize the term, twofooters thinking if they assume they can take on the Carvingians? Those friends are massive. I ran into only one and barely survived.”
“It’s odd for sure. I just hope it doesn’t escalate into anything further. And Lincoln forgive me, but if it’s an all-out slaughter, it might be for the best,” Sanet continues.
Ethan listens and then adds, “It’s odd that after twenty-five hundred years of peace, the Misipiants would suddenly decide to post a march into Carvinga.”
“Do you think someone instigated this? This ranpart, maybe?” Bernard asks.
“Wellion isn’t the type to start wars,” Sanet insists.
“I wouldn’t dismiss him so easily,” Ethan says, pointing his finger at Sanet. “In fact, I was doing some investigating last night and found that Cadwellion’s been seeing a weonslow.”
“A what?” Bernard asks.
“A weonslow.” He pauses a minor. “You’ve both met a smith, right? They’re similar, except instead of designing gear or armor, weonslows . . . weave information from the Land. They have an unusual understanding of old languages and ancient histories.” Ethan looks around, noting which guards are within earshot. He then leans in close to the two and whispers, “Cadwellion used to have a secret prisoner here. Years ago. He would sneak downstairs after dusk and speak with him for hours and take extensive notes.”
“For what?” Bernard wonders.
“If Wellion was keeping him a secret, how do you know about him?” Sanet asks.
“The night we found you, Cadwellion had me follow him downstairs while he spoke with him. I wasn’t allowed to get close, but he inspected the prisoner’s body and whispered something to him. That priced man was down there for years. Unfortunately, I never had a reason to speak with him personally or even see him out of the shadow. I tried to find a way to sneak down there, but it was always guarded, which surprises me, as I’ve been allowed to go nearly everywhere within this stonetin. But he’s gone now or been sent left. I last heard of him about a year ago when a guard told me the prison downstairs was vacated.”
“I never knew any priced were kept here,” Sanet says mainly to herself.
Ethan continues, “The strangest part is that the prisoner knew your curam. That’s how Cadwellion knew who you were when you didn’t, and about your supposed son or not son or whatever the foretale is now.”
“Your son?” Bernard exclaims.
“A long tale.” Sanet dismisses him.
The subject is sore for her, causing what Ethan perceived as a growing rift between her and Cadwellion, especially once the ranpart redacted the notion she had a son. Sanet still believes in him, however. Still trusts her ranpart.
“In any case, I think this prisoner is the one who told him about the brass, and I think he also forewarned him about the war. Which is why I believe he sought out this weonslow,” Ethan finishes.
“Has Cadwellion found any other pieces?” Bernard asks.
“According to his notes,” he whispers the next few words, “that I shouldn’t have,” Ethan then pulls out a few pieces of a pad, watching nervously any guards who might spy on them before smiling, “according to these translations, there are only seven pieces. The two you found and three somewhere over in the western states, which is where Cadwellion has been the past six months.”
“And where do you think the other two are?” Bernard asks, curious.
“That I couldn’t find, which is why I want to visit Cadwellion’s weonslow.” Ethan sits back, folding the writings back into his pocket. Nervousness and excitement compete inside him.
“Isn’t the crux of our situation whether or not we should be uniting this brass and not finding more of it?” Bernard adds.
“If Cadwellion believes joining them would end the war, shouldn’t we try and do that? Isn’t that what we should attempt to do?” Sanet offers.
“If Iahel’s letter is right, she’s saying to keep the pieces apart,” Bernard counters.
“I think speaking with the weonslow will help us understand what this all means. In truth, I don’t trust Cadwellion with Mercet’s life. Or, frankly, my own. I want to know what he knows and then either we can continue to help him . . . or we stop him.”
“Why would we want to prevent him from ending the war?” Sanet asks.
Bernard answers, “In this Land, you’re never sure what motives drive a friend. I agree with Ethan: the more we know, the better.” The three sit back in silence as an air of hesitation rests between them.
❖❖❖
At the break of dusk, they pull up to Ethan’s haynest, and Ethan escorts Mercet to the front door.
“Approsh for the acers paseday, Dad.”
“You’re doubled welcome, Sur Mercet Good Sur.” Ethan ruffles Mercet’s hair as Undess greets them at the door, her face contorted from crying. Ethan huffs, unwilling to start another grit with her. “What’s wrong now?”
“It’s over, Ethan.”
At the words, Ethan closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. It’s been “over” many times before. He turns to Sanet and Bernard in the carriage and holds up a single finger for them to wait a minor while he steps into the house.
“Mercet, why don’t you go to your room?” Mercet rolls his eyes before running off and around the hall corner. To Undess, he says, “So, tell me how it’s over again,” then huffs.
“It’s clear you don’t love me anymore, Ethan. You’ve made that obvious over and over.”
“You don’t make this easy for me, Undess. I try to help you through your grief, but it’s been ten years now. You can’t believe this is healthy for us. Or for Mercet.”
“How can you be so cruel? He was my first child. He was our first child. And you’re off celebrating with Mercet like Kevin’s sending is nothing.”
“You don’t want to celebrate Mercet’s paseday. You want him to just wallow in grief with you. You want us all to sit around in a constant sadness.”
“Our lives on this Land are nothing compared to what awaits those who believe. Our lives are just a speck before the Eternal Future. We are sent here as tests of our faith. And Dustian shall judge our lives as lived.”
“Undess, I can’t have a religious conversation with you right now.”
“Oh, you never have time for a religious talk with me. You go on with your flam Lincolnism, like everyone else who barely believes, and you give nothing back to Him.”
Ethan takes a deep breath, resigned. “I need to go.” He spins and moves to exit.
“If you walk out that door, you better never come back.”
Ethan stops. He turns. “There is no ultimatum here. This is as much my haynest as it is yours. If you want to end our union over a religious disagreement or your refusal to let go of the past, then, by all means, it’s over. But you can’t threaten my son or my haynest.”
She steps forward. “You’re just going to walk out that door?”
Ethan stands firm. “We are two very different people, Undess. You’ve made that clear.”
She slaps him. “I know about Amil. I know you’re slipping with her. And to have Mercet there. It disgusts me.”
Ethan’s heart jumps. He has been careful. He knows how wrong it is for him. But Amil is soft and warm. It is wrong. At this minor, he hates Undess. He raises his hand to his warm cheek and sees Mercet peering around the corner. “It’s done then. Mercet, get your things.”
Mercet steps out.
Undess turns. “Mercet, go back to your room. This has nothing to do with you.” She turns back to Ethan. “He is my son first.”
“How does that make any sense? He’s our son. We chose him together.”
“You walk out that door, and you’ll never see him again.”
Ethan closes his eyes. The threats are always the same. He opens his eyes. “I am leaving, but I will be back.”
Undess, not speaking, presses her lips tightly together.
“And I’m telling you,” he raises a finger to her, “if you do anything to him, I will never forgive you.”
“As Dustian will never forgive you,” she counters.
“Oh, you shnite woman, just stop.”
She smirks at his inability to counter her. Instead, Ethan turns and leaves the house, slamming the door. He stomps over to the carriage and steps up to one of the guards. “I need you to stay here and keep watch on my son. Make sure she doesn’t leave with him.”
“And if she does, Sur?” the guard asks.
“Just make sure I can find him when I return.”
The guard nods. Undess has acted out from exasperation at times, but she is never rash. She acts this way whenever Mercet shows more affection to Ethan. She sees a power struggle between him and her. I should never have started things with Amil. I lost my moral high ground. Ethan puts his head in his hands.
In the carriage, after Sanet asks if everything is wisnok and Ethan remains silent, they ride as such for the duration. Sanet places her hand on Ethan’s. He pats it as he looks over at Bernard, who ignores the thickness of the carriage’s air and instead stares outside with the same wide-eyed wonderment as Mercet.
To be that simple again.
❖❖❖
They arrive at the weonslow’s haynest a little after the full moon. A small breeze climbs over the hilltop they’ve been ascending for the past hour and winds through a line of vacant houses.
Ethan informs them, “We’re in a part of town most don’t live in, but this is where she supposedly lives.” The three look out toward the haynest, seeing a modest building with a soft flickering light inside.
Stepping off the carriage and up to the door, they find it’s carved to resemble various famous bodies of Salsman, one of them a poor interpretation of Cadwellion. There are other depictions of Salsman life: winter sandstorms, serial sendlefts, the massive council building.
Ethan knocks politely, and Sanet and Bernard stand at the ready behind him. He turns to see Bernard with his mitt on a dagger. “Don’t think we’re in for a fight,” Ethan smiles.
“I’ve seen enough since I’ve left Radiba. You’d be surprised.”
The door creaks open, revealing what at first appears to be a wrinkled woman, but the sight’s undone by a triple set of eyes, each stacked on top of the other, and two hands without thumbs but instead uncommonly long fingers that wrap in and on themselves. She speaks in a slithery and strange language, which Ethan understands, a language from Yikshir’s past and one that Cadwellion had insisted he learn.
“Good vigil, Ethan,” the woman says without pause.
“Good eve. We wanted to speak with you,” he responds in the same language.
“I was expecting you. Please, come in.” Ethan wonders how she knew he’d come. He turns to Sanet and Bernard and translates. She opens the door fully and invites them into the old haynest.
Stepping inside, they find a dimly lit and pleasing space with a small crackling fire in a stone hearth and a set of tea mugs waiting on a table. Ethan notes three place settings.
The woman looks between them. “I would have set a fourth had known you’d bring a fourth.” She glares at Bernard while Ethan translates.
“Bernard Babek,” Bernard responds, reaching out to shake hands despite her long, twisted fingers. She looks him over cautiously and turns back to the kitchen, without shaking. Bernard lowers his mitt.
“Let me find another setting. Please, sit down.” Ethan translates everything she says to Sanet and Bernard and motions for them to sit. They watch the weonslow’s fingers unravel in and on themselves as she digs through a cluttered cabinet. With only three seats, Bernard pulls a chair from across the room and sits down in it backward.
“Drink, drink,” the weonslow encourages. Ethan and Sanet take a sip, but Bernard holds back, his eyes darting cautiously around the room.
When the weonslow returns with a mug, she pours herself a sip and begins to drink with them. As Ethan watches the weonslow’s fingers nimbly wrap around a few sugar cubes to dip in her mug, he starts. “So, why were you expecting us?”
“It was Cadwellion’s bargain that I wait for you. That when Sanet,” she nods to the woman in the green hood, “returned, we were to speak. I’ve been waiting for you to visit for . . .” She looks to be counting in her head with each number tied to amplified frustration. “A full month now.” She takes a tremendous sip of her tea. After Ethan translates, Sanet speaks up.
“Is this about the brass?”
“Yes, dear. But more to the point, it is about the War.” She pours herself a bit more tea.
“The war between Misipit and Carvinga?” Ethan questions.
“Ah. The opening salvo.”
“There’s more?” Bernard gasps, hearing the translation. Ethan’s mind races to his studies of the Last War and tales of the great explosions and the sending of millions.
“Yes, stranger who was not invited. And the only way to control the War is to reunite the brass. Sur Cadwellion’s plan is now as such, and it is why he’s traveled to find the remaining pieces in the west.”
“There’re seven collectively, right?” Ethan asks.
“Yes. When the Merigen brass orb was shattered into seven pieces, each of the fragments was placed in a discreet stonetin around the continent, with the largest of the pieces transported to Carvinga, where the Carvingians have been protecting it for over a hundred years. They were chosen to protect this most notable piece because of their closed border. I have no doubt this attack from the Misipiants is a distraction to, in the chaos of battle, procure it.”
“But Cadwellion is trying to end all this?” Sanet asks.
“His aim, as it has always been, is to protect the Land.”
“But what’s this orb for?” Bernard asks.
“As much as there's written about it, we know that it is an orb of calling. To give people the strength and confidence to fight. And it gives them the strength to die for a cause.”
At her answer, Ethan attempts to understand the logic of her position. “Isn’t it paradoxical to rally people to a war you intend to end? Or am I missing something?”
“My boy, as I have said, it is only an opening salvo.”
“What did he want you to tell us?” Sanet asks. “What does he want us to do?”
“He wants you to meet him in Carvinga in a month’s time. And, if you were successful in your task, to bring Logan Hunst with you. There, he will reunite the brass orb.”
Ethan’s mind races among all the scenarios, all the various bits and pieces of information he’s gathered over the past years and past months. Nothing sums to anything true. “I’m still not understanding how some orb will stop this confrontation from happening.”
“Cadwellion believes that whoever controls this orb controls the War. Ending or starting a skirmish is not part of his concern. The War is coming, regardless of some… distraction south.” The weonslow sips her tea again in a giant gulp. T
he answers were still unclear. Ethan decides against his better judgment, feeling the weonslow won’t be much of a threat, and shares their secret.
“I must confess that Sanet and Bernard recovered two of the pieces. So, I have to ask, if the final fragment is in Carvinga and Cadwellion found three of them out west, where is the last piece?” Ethan speaks without translating, unsure he wants Sanet to know of his confession.
The weonslow’s fingers curl tightly in on themselves at this revelation, as if what she’s heard was not the way the discussion was to go. Her eyes dart most prominently to Bernard, who’s upsetting everything she’s prepared.
After a major, she speaks again. Reluctant. “It is in Trimod.”
“Trimod?” Ethan responds.
“Trimod? What is that?” Bernard asks.
Ethan answers. “It’s an island. Halfway across the Merurro Sea. It was one of the first states abandoned after an endless row of tormisands decades back. Bodies believe that now it’s a place of lost souls. Where no one goes if they have their head spun straight.”
“But the crimson men are sure to go. We have to stop them. We have to get there first.” Sanet states.
“Cadwellion already has bodies recovering this final piece. This task is of no concern to you. He was clear with me that you should set straight for Carvinga. You’re already behind his schedule.” The weonslow commands.
“Who is he trusting to recover them? Why not do it himself if these pieces are so unispar.” Ethan asks.
“He has risked many lives to retrieve these fragments. He has entrusted his research and faith to procure the final piece in Trimod. It is too far east and too far away to go himself.”
“Don’t translate this, but I’d like to step in here and say that if someone is going to possess these fragments, I’d rather it be us,” Bernard says.
“Chasing off to Trimod? You know there’re likely monsters there? Big ones,” Ethan protests.
“I agree with Bernard. And we’re not asking you to go.”
“I go? I’m not going. I’m telling you that you shouldn’t go.” As Ethan’s temper steams, the weonslow stands and walks back to the kitchen to grab a few biscons from her cabinet. She returns and passes them out simultaneously. Ethan takes one in a huff, flabbergasted that sailing on the sea to Trimod is something anyone would seriously consider. He snaps into the biscon and bites his lip, cursing to himself.
Advent of the Roar (The Land Old, Untouched Book 1) Page 28