“Perhaps,” he said, “what you call the ‘seegnur’ did die. What is a seegnur?”
Adara studied Griffin, but he did not seem to be mocking her. She framed her answer with care.
“‘Seegnur’ is what we call those who came from elsewhere, those the lore tells us made this world and set us to live upon it so that we might serve them.”
She tried to keep any bitterness from her tone but, judging from the glance Griffin Dane sent arrow-swift in her direction, she had not been wholly successful.
Nonetheless, his reply was mildness itself. “Well, then, here is my answer. I came from elsewhere, that is true enough. However, neither I nor the wisest or most skilled of my kind could make this world or make people to live upon it. That knowledge is vanished, burned to ashes by the fires of a war so terrible that it destroyed entire worlds, even suites of worlds. So, whether or not I am a seegnur must be yours to judge.”
Adara considered this.
“Well, I don’t see what else you could be. You are not from Artemis.”
“True enough, although, given what happened to my shuttle, it’s not likely I will be from anywhere else hereafter.”
Adara shrugged. “That I cannot say. If only one tenth of the tales told about the seegnur are true, I cannot see what would hold you from attaining anything you desire. You are not a hunter nor a pro nor a factotum nor of the support staff. Of all the classifications that define this world, you fit only one: seegnur.”
“Classifications?”
“Yay,” Adara replied, deliberately adopting the sing-song cadences in which the lore was most usually recited. “Once upon a time, in the cold and dark of space, the seegnur found a great rock. This rock was barren of life, but rich in metals and minerals. It held within its stones the capacity for the twin staves of life: water and air.
“Pleased with their find, the seegnur herded the great rock through the black pastures and placed it where a sun could warm it. Mystery upon mystery was performed. Oceans were shaped. Mountains were caused to rise. A moon was set high above so that there would be light at night and tides to keep the seas from becoming sluggish. Between oceans and mountains were crafted all the habitats needful for all manner of beasts and plants.
“Then, from the farthest elsewhere that was their first home, the seegnur brought plants and creatures to populate this new world, setting them in fortuitous and beautiful configurations. Thus a world that had been but shaped rock became softened and alive.
“At this juncture, some of the seegnur were content and said, ‘Here we have our paradise. Let us revel in it and be joyful.’ But others among the seegnur protested, ‘Nay. Paradise is not paradise if one must labor. The beasts and plants are lovely, but who will harvest them for us? Who will make our beds and cook our food?’
“And in this was seen great wisdom, so to the world, which was now called Artemis, were brought those who were like unto the seegnur in shape, but not in wisdom or in knowledge. They were given this command: ‘We shall permit you to dwell in paradise, but we place upon you one restriction. For most of your days you shall labor only for yourselves, but when those you will know as the seegnur shall come to you, then you will labor for them as well.’
“And the people accepted this as birds accepted flight and the fish of the sea accepted breathing water, as the way in which they were created. As time passed, the seegnur realized that merely having people who could serve them in menial tasks was not yet paradise. They desired those who would be wise in the ways of Artemis, specialists who would show the seegnur the secrets of this vast world they had created. So were made the factotums and the pros, the hunters and the divers, and all the other specialists.
“At this time, too, were shaped the altered beasts, so that not even the seegnur might be able to predict every creature’s actions. Now even those who had protested said all was good. In this way paradise was finally achieved.”
Adara looked at Griffin Dane and saw that her tale was not wholly unfamiliar to him—but perhaps not wholly familiar either.
“All the peoples agree to this point in the tale,” Adara concluded. “It is about what comes after that there is disagreement. From this disagreement have grown the many religions and philosophies. However, this bit of lore should be enough for you to understand why I say that of all the classifications and specializations, you fit only one.”
Griffin Dane nodded. “I see why you say that, even if I do not completely agree. Tell me, who taught you that tale?”
Adara shrugged. “It is told in increasing complexity to every child. My parents and grandparents taught me first, later my teachers.”
“So you have teachers here?”
Adara nodded. “Yes. Each specialization has those who have mastered specific lore. When they grow older, they teach as well as practice their art.”
“Are there no other sorts of teachers?”
Adara considered. “Not in every village nor even in every town, but, yes, such do exist. I have never studied with one, but my teacher, Bruin, was student to one such. From him Bruin learned to read and write, and also something of the greater lore that connects us.”
Griffin Dane straightened so quickly that the embers of the fire fanned to flame.
“Greater lore? Then some history survives? Perhaps some knowledge of the days before the seegnur left here?”
“There is such,” Adara agreed, “although it is the ken of old people, for it is useless when matters of keeping life and limb together are considered. I have never learned such, though I suspect that someday Bruin will wish me to do so.”
She heard ambivalence in her voice. It seemed to her there were so many more important things to know. She handled a bow with skill and could use a knife in many ways. She knew most types of game in her range, but she was still largely ignorant of those in other ranges. She had not yet mastered the spear, for, although she had grown tall, she was somewhat lightly built. She could handle simple water craft, but not those that relied upon sails.
Moreover, her bond with Sand Shadow was less than two years old. She had much to learn about demiurges as well. When there was so much to do, how could old stories matter?
Then Adara looked across the flames to where Griffin Dane sat, and reconsidered her rejection of the lore. What did one do when old stories became new? How would life as she had always known it, had always expected to know it, change if the seegnur came back?
* * *
When Adara’s voice shifted into that wonderful, rolling cadence and began recounting history as she knew it, Griffin Dane felt the glow of his dream rekindling within him. This was why he had sought Artemis—to learn what had become of that legendary pleasure planet, a planet where, had Adara only known it, those she called the seegnur had met the beginning of their end.
Yet Griffin heard something other than information in Adara’s tale. He heard mistrust. At least among those who had taught Adara, the seegnur were remembered with resentment as well as with respect. They might have shaped the world and its people, but the people did not necessarily thank them for it.
As long as Adara thought of him as seegnur and herself as “people,” there would be a gulf between them. Griffin did not think he could close the gap—not now, not yet—but perhaps he could bridge it.
“Adara,” he said, “I think that perhaps I do have a classification. In my own worlds I was trained to be a historian and archeologist.”
“Historian?” she said. “I think I have heard Bruin use that word. It is like a loremaster, but different. The loremasters are mostly interested in what shaped the world and how that shaping teaches us about the manner in which we should live our lives. A historian thinks that what has happened since the slaughter of the seegnur is important as well. ‘Archeologist,’ though, that is a word I do not know.”
Griffin was delighted by her response. He envisioned the first frail threads of a rope bridge being dragged into place between them. Careful not to break those threads,
he replied.
“An archeologist is like a historian, but interested not only in the events, but also in the physical things people left behind them. I spoke of the great war that destroyed the seegnur.”
“I remember,” Adara said dryly.
Griffin sensed the thread between them fraying. Clearly Adara thought he was condescending to her. He hastened to explain, “They left pieces of themselves behind, pieces that speak of their culture and what they valued. Sometimes—or so I believe—things speak more truthfully than words.”
Adara laughed. “Oh! I agree with that. In the village where I was born, there was one who claimed he lived in humbleness until the coming of the seegnur would bring right order again, but his belongings gave lie to his words. Although his tunics were simple, they were of the finest woven cloth; though he ate foods cooked without artifice, I know he always took the tenderest cuts.”
She rubbed the bridge of her nose. “Yes. I think there are archeologists among us as well—although they would not think of this as separate from being loremasters or historians. All we know of the seegnur is the lore, the tales of the ending days, and their broken things, left behind. These last hold great interest for some.”
But not for you, Griffin Dane thought. Very well. I will not threaten this thin bridge by showing how important I find those broken things. Perhaps your teacher and I may find more in common.
They might have spoken further, but the breeze rose into sharp biting gusts. Griffin’s coverall was made of fabric that maintained an optimal body temperature, but his exposed hands and face felt the chill.
Sand Shadow had been dozing near the fire. Now she stretched, looked at Adara, then moved out into the darkness.
Adara got to her feet and began burying the fire. “Sand Shadow reminds me that the night will only grow colder and that we have far to travel come dawn. The tent is not large, but it will hold us—or do you wish to sleep out here? I notice your clothing protects you well from the cold.”
Griffin nodded, his heart suddenly racing. Was this an invitation to more than sleep? He struggled to keep his tone matter-of-fact. That it was a test of some sort, he did not doubt. He answered neutrally as possible.
“It does, but I left behind the gloves and head covering, so I fear I am not invulnerable to cold. Who will keep watch if we both sleep?”
Adara snorted. “With the scent of a great cat covering us, why should we need to keep watch? And I am a hunter. That protects us where the other does not.”
“I think I need to know more about hunters,” Griffin Dane said.
“I think,” Adara parried with a slight grin, “you need to know a great deal about many things. We have many days’ travel in front of us. Then we can talk. Now we must sleep. You may sleep out here or in the tent. The choice is yours. I will sleep to the left.”
To the left proved not only to be to the left side of the tent, but to the left of Sand Shadow. Soon after the two humans were settled, the great cat returned and stretched her length between them, the most perfect chaperone in all creation.
Griffin yelped when he felt the furred back press against him. “She’s sleeping in here?”
“You do not think I would throw Sand Shadow out just for your sake?” Adara retorted.
Did Griffin imagine it, or was there a hint of laughter beneath the words?
“I suppose not,” he admitted. The great cat was very warm and had lain down with her fangs and claws toward Adara.
“Sand Shadow thought you would fear to enter the tent if she came in before you,” Adara said. “She did not wish you to be so afraid that you would freeze instead of sleeping warm.”
“Very thoughtful of her,” Griffin replied sourly. This time, he did not imagine the faint chuckle that reverberated in the enclosed space.
“Sleep well, Griffin Dane, the historian,” Adara said.
“Sleep well, Adara the Huntress. And thank you again for saving my life.”
* * *
Early the next day, Adara revised her estimate for how long it would take them to reach Shepherd’s Call. Griffin Dane was obviously doing his best, but his idea of a good pace and her own were quite different.
Initially, the huntress felt impatient. However, since impatience is the enemy of any hunter, Adara forced herself to examine why she was so eager to get to Shepherd’s Call. The answer was so obvious it did not take long to reach.
I want to hand Griffin Dane over to Bruin and be done with him. This seegnur makes me nervous—and not only for himself, but because of what he represents.
Sand Shadow, keyed to her emotions if not precisely to her thoughts, had sent along an image of a splotched and spotted puma kitten tumbling to the feet of a great, fat bear. So … Am I even wise taking Griffin to Bruin? Yes. I think I am, but I need not run so fast that I fail to notice there is a dhole pack on my tail, not merely a single dog.
This morning, Adara had not spoken to Griffin Dane beyond what had been necessary to set them on the trail toward where she had hidden her canoe. He had seemed to respect her silence—or perhaps what he had respected was the forest that surrounded them. Certainly, he kept darting glances side to side, as if he expected to be pounced on at any moment.
Like most hunters, Adara was comfortable with silence. Indeed, the ability to keep silence was among the first things a child must demonstrate before being accepted as an apprentice by a senior hunter.
But what I must hunt now cannot be stalked in silence. It must be coaxed after with words, as I might use a duck call to bring the birds to me.
Without further delay, Adara spoke. “Last night, Griffin, you told me you were a historian. Is this your family craft or is it one you found for yourself?”
He seemed startled, but replied readily enough, “Oh, very much my own craft. I am the youngest of seven boys. My mother always has said that she must have used up all her energy creating the six before me. I was apparently always a quiet child.”
“Seven children?” Adara was amazed. “Did they all live?”
“Why, yes. So did my three sisters.”
“Ten children in one family? Your mother must have spent all her life pregnant or nursing. My mother had enough trouble with five, and we were widely spread apart in age.”
Griffin paused. “We … She had help.”
“Ah, of course. We also use wet nurses,” Adara replied. “Still, your family is blessed with good health.”
“Yes.”
Adara noticed Griffin seemed uncomfortable with the subject. Perhaps it was only the matter of bearing children that made him choose his words so carefully. Men were often like that, quite happy with the sticky and sweaty details of engendering a child, but much less so with the realities that followed.
Interested as Adara was in knowing more about Griffin’s family—her own family life had been far from usual, so she found such tales fascinating—Adara remembered her purpose was to learn more about this stranger she planned to take home.
To learn, perhaps, if I should take him to my home.
“So you were quiet?”
Griffin laughed. “Outside, I suppose I must have been, since everyone tells me this was the case. Inside I felt like a storm made of questions. Where did this come from? Why did we celebrate this festival? Why did we use this form of address to one person, but a second form to a person who seemed—at least to me—much the same? Answers like ‘Because’ or ‘This is how we do it’ may have satisfied my brothers and sisters, but they didn’t me. I started seeking the answers, but all I found were more questions.”
“You said that you studied the seegnur and the things they left behind,” Adara prompted. “Did you find your answers along those trails?”
“Actually,” Griffin said, “after a fashion, I did. When I was young, my discoveries were known to many others: place names or the history of a certain building were matters of record. Then I made my first big discovery. On my world—in my entire system—the most important festival of the y
ear is called Water Day. Most people think of Water Day only as a time to meet with friends, to eat special foods we prepare at that time. I was curious, though, because none of the many rituals and decorations had anything to do with water.
“Eventually, I found out that Water Day actually had its roots in two events. The first was an old religious feast. The other was based in political events so long ago that the details were forgotten. Here’s what fascinated me: the political events, a revolution of sorts, had occurred when they did because of the religious festival, but everyone seemed to have forgotten the connection.”
He shrugged, clearly embarrassed to have shown this childhood enthusiasm. “After that, I was hooked. I wanted to know the whys behind everything we did—not the scientific whys, but the social whys. My parents thought I was exceptionally odd but, after raising six other sons and three daughters, they were inclined to be indulgent.”
Adara did not wish to dam the flow of Griffin’s speech, but she was puzzled.
“And how do you feed yourself on this knowledge of festivals and past events? Do your people value this so highly?”
“I wish,” Griffin replied with a rueful grin, “but, no, they do not. My family is very, very wealthy. Although all of us have been encouraged to learn a trade so we will not stagnate, the reality is that all of us could live quite well without working at all.”
Adara studied the man who walked alongside her, still bruised and battered, his only possession a single garment. She wondered if Griffin Dane realized that he was no longer wealthy.
Yet the seegnur had wealth enough to create this planet and all its people merely to have a place to play. His family’s accumulation of wealth is another proof that Griffin is a seegnur, no matter what he thinks. And if he is a seegnur, with the powers the lore says the seegnur possessed, then perhaps he is still possessed of great wealth. I would be foolish to pity him. Rather, I must be on guard.
But as Adara rested a hand on Sand Shadow’s shoulder, she admitted to herself that she did indeed pity Griffin Dane, so lost, so alone, so horribly ignorant and vulnerable.
Artemis Awakening Page 3