“He had never told me where he lived. I knew only his first name, but not what family he was from. He had to protect them, he said, from the stigma of having a son who loved a half-elf.”
“What’s a stigma, Mother?” Aric was young, but he understood that telling this story was hard for his mother, could see sadness playing about her lips and eyes, the lines it made in her forehead. He knew, also, that he had forced her to tell it—that asking about him so frequently, and more and more often in the market stall where other elves could overhear, had put her in a position where she had to give him the story. But just this once, she had insisted, and then they’d never speak of it again. He had agreed to her terms, although with a small boy’s uncertain grasp of what “never” might mean.
“It’s something that other people might judge someone for, without knowing the real story behind that fact. What it really meant was that he was ashamed of being with me and didn’t want his family to know about it. And when he learned that he had fathered a child, he wanted nothing more to do with me—with us, really. It was as if he had thought it was all just a game, and it wasn’t until that happened that he knew there could be consequences.
“Anyway, I never saw him again after he left the inn.”
“Really?”
“That’s right. I have no idea if he is alive or dead. Dead, I expect. He was a man of strange, dark moods, and I never expected him to have a long and happy life.”
“How odd.”
“In a way. And then again, not at all odd, but sadly all too common.” She took a path that would lead them back toward the city, and Aric stayed close to her side. “Because he made clear that he wanted nothing to do with our lives, I never told you about him, Aric. And as I told you at the start, I’ll never speak of him again, so don’t bother asking. I’ve given you all the details you need. Your father was a man who loved and hated me at the same time, hated all I was, and it’s for the best that you never knew him.”
After that, whenever Aric wandered the city streets and byways, he wondered if his father had truly died, or had simply avoided the elves. He stared at every older man he saw, those of an age to have been his father, searching for some sort of resemblance to himself. But he never saw any, and the man never returned to make any claims upon him.
He had never felt altogether comfortable in the elven district. His mother had barely been tolerated there, and when she took up with a human man, that tolerance was stretched even thinner. Aric grew up on its outskirts, not part of human or elf society, hated by both. His mother continued to work her stall, and brought young Aric with her, but from an early age he understand the glares and curses and epithets hurled his way.
The first time he touched a metal coin, it came from a human. That had been during Aric’s fourth year. A woman bought several bolts of cloth, planning to make dresses for several daughters, and paid with a metal coin. That was a rare enough event that Keyasune handed it to the boy, so he could see what it looked like. As soon as his tiny fingers touched it, he saw details, in his mind, of the life of the woman who had given it to his mother. He saw her moving with melancholic loneliness through a noble’s estate, thinking about a husband who was rarely at home. Servants cared for two children, both quite young, and she looked in on them, an expression of delight animated her face, but sorrow showed through her eyes. Keyasune, struck by the detail her young son offered, asked a slave she knew who worked for the family, and the slave confirmed Aric’s account.
After that, she tested her son often. He seemed able to do similar things with other metal objects, and in this way he developed his psionic connection to metals. He didn’t know until years later that she had kept the coin, although it represented a great deal of money to her. He had worn it ever since, as his medallion—though when she had presented it to him in that way, she had reminded him that if he was ever in desperate enough straits, it could still be used as currency.
Then, in his tenth year, his mother died. The elves, who had never truly embraced him, banished him from the market. On his own, frightened and hungry and dressed in rags, young Aric tried to make his way in the city, begging or stealing to keep himself fed, refusing to part with his coin medallion.
Aric went to the chaotic intersection where Cutpurse Lane intersected with Red Mark Alley and Finder’s Alley. The carvings on the walls there showed scenes of an ancient battle, with humanoid soldiers engaged in combat against creatures with reptilian features and long, forked tongues. One of the buildings had a niche cut out of it, at ground level, and for a time, that spot had been where Aric had curled up to sleep at night.
One night, he awoke there to find a bundle tucked up beside him, wrapped in cloth. When he opened it, he was astonished to find clothing in his size, meat and vegetables, and even a few coins. That was the first time he became aware of his mysterious benefactor, and since he knew of few people wealthy enough to give such treasures to a stranger, he decided it must have been a gift from Nibenay himself.
This expedition truly was a gift from Nibenay, although it remained to be seen whether gift was the right word. Assuming he survived it, though—and assuming there really was metal beneath the ruins of this city, because if they didn’t find any, Aric had a feeling he’d be blamed for that failure—it could be the best thing that ever happened to him. He might amass enough wealth to join the nobility. If nothing else, he could enlarge his shop, hire some hands, get work from the kingdom crafting all that new armor and weapons. In any case, it appeared that poverty was in his past now, that from now on he wouldn’t have to worry about how to take on every job that came his way because he could ill afford to turn down a single one.
No, he was certain that at journey’s end, his life would be irreversibly changed. And he was ready for change. He enjoyed working with steel, crafting swords especially. But they were always for someone else. His life was fulfilling, he supposed, in a limited way. Life on Athas was more a matter of survival than fulfillment anyway. But he had a passing acquaintance, through his readings and even the occasional night at Sage’s Square listening to the scholars ramble on, with the works of Athasian philosophers, and he had the sense that there should be more to life than that. There should be some sort of satisfaction with one’s lot, and acceptance that one had done everything he could to live his life to the utmost.
So far, Aric had not done that. A half-elf ordinarily couldn’t expect much more than basic survival, or so he had been told. But he wanted more from life than survival. Perhaps this was the curse of the literate, the knowledge that there was more to be had, and if this expedition gave him that, he would take it gladly.
4
Elsewhere in the city, the man was back at the fringes of the elven market. He had ventured into the market briefly, spent a few bits on spices, eyed some of the elf women, and then retreated into a dark alleyway from which he could watch the goings-on.
He had tried, once again, to resist the urge that compelled him here. But he could not do so. The memory of that last time, the slashing of his blade, the blood slicking its polished surface and spattering wetly on walls and road, the astonishment on the face of the elf as she watched the human with her dying, then realized the blade would bite her next … these things were too powerful to deny. They held him in an iron grip, their images seemingly more real than his daily life. His family members spoke to him with words that sounded distant, their faces ghostly, while the dying breaths of those he had killed were immediate and alive.
He realized that each time he did it, the compulsion to return and do it again gripped him sooner. If this kept up, if he could not forestall his own appetites, he would be here every night. That would never do—he would be seen, recognized, remembered. Already there were more foot patrols in the area, soldiers in the market, forcing him farther back into the alley, where he could lose himself in shadows.
Maybe tonight he should go home, lie in the arms of his wife, put all this from his mind. He was torn, not wanting t
o turn away from the market, but wishing he wanted to. Then he saw a human man strike up a conversation with one of the elf women. She didn’t look like a prostitute, but he couldn’t always tell. Anyway, elves were notorious for loose morals—prostitute or not, most of them would do anything for a few coins.
The elf and her human struck away from the market, toward the seedier end of the Hill District. Just as the last pair had done. These had a similar look about them, too, the man obviously of a high enough station to pay well for an hour’s pleasure, the elf fair-skinned, voluptuous, with hair so red that when he cut her, the blood would hardly show on it.
He hurried up the alley and saw them crossing the next street. He had to get ahead of them over the space of the next block, fast enough to make it around the corner. After that they would reach a busier area, one where women and men stood outside the buildings beckoning passersby inside to watch entertainment of the most depraved sort.
The man sprinted to the corner, then tore around it without looking first. A couple, both human, were dragging a cart laden with firewood, and the man crashed into them. The people released the two-handled cart when the man hit them, and the cart upended, tipped over by its own unbalanced load. Wood spilled into the street.
“Sorry!” the man said. He had to step over the firewood. The encounter slowed him down too much—his targets made it across the street, and within moments would be within view of the debauchery up ahead.
“Sorry?” the woman who had been pulling the cart said. “I’ll show you sorry. There’s a patrol just down the block. Let’s see what they have to say about madmen running full tilt without watching.”
“I was careless,” the man argued, “not criminal. I’ve apologized.” He yanked a coin from the purse hanging at his waist and tossed it onto the ground. “That should make up for my error.”
The couple took their eyes off him as soon as the coin clinked against the ground. The man darted back around the corner, into the dark shelter of the alley. He was breathing heavily, his heart pounding.
That had been too close. He had let the targets get too far ahead of him, and he had taken foolish chances to catch up.
With one wistful look back at the market, he gave up and headed for his home, his family.
For tonight, he had to resist the impulse. He couldn’t afford to be caught. That would be humiliating, and potentially suicidal.
The farther he got from the market, the more his heart slowed, and his step. The urge told him to go back, try once more. But he didn’t; he still had the presence of mind to listen to reason, he told himself.
As long as he could do so, he wasn’t utterly lost.
5
In her sleep, Myrana thrashed and kicked so much that Lauriand punched out at her in the darkness of their tent. “Ow!” Myrana cried. She sat up, rubbing her forearm. “That hurt!”
“Sorry, but you were pummeling me. Were you dreaming again?”
“People always dream,” Myrana said.
Lauriand’s younger sister Krisanthe groaned. “Not me,” she said, “because I’m not asleep, and I’m not asleep because you two won’t shut up!”
“Sorry, Kri,” Myrana said. “Yes, Lau, I was dreaming. Go back to sleep, and I’ll try to stop flailing about so.”
“That sounds good to me,” Lauriand said.
“Me as well!” Krisanthe flopped back down onto her pillows—life on the road was hard, but she was a girl who loved her pillows and she always slept with several.
Myrana put her head down on her single pillow, but her eyes wouldn’t close. The dream had been so vivid, she didn’t want to accidentally find herself back inside it. But as she tried to think about it, to analyze it, the memory dissipated, like trying to hold onto a fistful of sand held underwater.
All she was left with was a grain of meaning, and she could hardly wait for sunrise to share it.
She didn’t have long to wait. Although inside the tent she wasn’t able to tell, the night was almost over when her cousin hit her. Soon she heard the caravan’s morning sounds, someone stoking the fires for cooking, someone else filling the trough the mekillots drank from, shouting at the beasts when they tried to breakfast on her, still another walking away from the camp to empty a bladder held throughout the night.
Myrana pushed aside her blanket and dressed quickly. She snatched up the staff that helped her walk and headed from the tent, looking for her brother.
Welton, in whom House Ligurto had entrusted the ultimate responsibility for this caravan, squatted beside the fire, holding a mug of tea. The sky was lightening, and soon enough the sun would roar over the horizon, bringing with it the punishing heat of the day, but for the moment the air was crisp and cold. Myrana limped to his side, her staff digging into the sand with every step.
“Good morning, sister,” Welton said when he heard her.
“And to you.” She put a hand on his shoulder and lowered herself carefully to crouch beside him.
“Tea?” he asked.
“I’ll have some in a moment,” she said. “I need to talk to you, Welton.”
He looked at her for the first time. His hair was as black as hers, his eyes almost black as well, burning with fierce intensity. He was lean and muscular, and would have been commandingly tall if not for his hunched posture. Myrana had never understood why he kept his shoulders curled in, instead of standing straight and letting their breadth show. “Yes?”
“I need to leave the caravan.”
“Why?”
“I have been having these dreams …”
He regarded her over the rim of his mug. “You’re not leaving because of some dreams.”
“They’re not regular dreams,” she said. “Special ones.”
“I know the kind you mean.”
“Then you know it’s best not to ignore them.”
“Usually.”
“These are urgent, Welton.”
“Telling you what? Just go? Walk away from your family, your responsibility?”
“It isn’t that … it’s just, what if my true responsibility lies elsewhere? I think that’s what the dreams are saying. They demand action.”
Welton tried to treat every family member the same, but whether he realized it or not, Myrana saw that he sometimes babied her, as if her youthful injury made her less capable than others. She watched his gaze flicker toward her bad leg, and then back to her face. “Where do they want you to go?”
“I’m not sure. Into the desert. From there I’ll just have to let them guide me.”
“What if they don’t, Myrana?”
“There isn’t much in this life I can put my faith in, brother. You, our family, and my dreams, they’re all I have. If I don’t trust them …” She left the statement unfinished. She didn’t know how to finish it—it was rare for her dreams to steer her wrong, and when they were this persistent she knew there was meaning behind them. She didn’t always know where they would lead, but if she remained open to their message she was generally rewarded. Sometimes the whole family was—her dreams had led them to a new, previously unknown oasis when one they had used for generations had become poisoned, and had warned of ambushes, and of suppliers trying to cheat them.
So if her dreams wanted to take her into the wilderness, without the family, who was she to ignore them?
“I don’t like it. It’s dangerous out there.”
“Danger is everywhere, Welton. Two of us died not ten days ago, and they hadn’t even left the caravan. None of us will live forever.”
Welton took her hand. “I want you to, though.”
“I know, Welton. And I want the same for you. But we can only do what we can do.”
His face tore into a wide grin. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard truer words. Nonsensical ones, perhaps, but true.”
“I will miss you terribly, brother. But I have to do this.”
“I know what you’re like when you get this way, Myrana, trust me. I won’t try to stop you. But I won�
��t let you go without protection.”
“What sort of protection do you have in mind?”
He tapped his fingers against his mug for a moment, considering. “Two of our best,” he said. “How about Sellis and Koyt?”
“Can you spare them?”
“I can’t spare you. It’s worth it to do without them if it means you’ll do whatever it is your dreams want you to accomplish out there and then return to us quickly.”
“Very well,” she said. “Will you tell them, or shall I? I’d like to leave today.”
“I’ll tell them,” Welton said. He rose to his feet, drawing her up with him, and wrapped his arms around her in a tight embrace. “You be careful out there. This family needs you.”
“Not as much as it needs you,” she said. “I’ll take no unnecessary chances, and with Sellis and Koyt along, I should be as safe as if I were right here with you.”
Having procured her brother’s unwilling but necessary consent, she kissed his stubbled cheek and then roamed off to empty her own bladder, her staff chunking into the earth beside her as she walked unevenly up the slope of a low dune. She appreciated his concern for her, and his belief that the caravan needed her. She had spent most of her life believing she needed it, but the truth was for more than a year she had found herself hating the unceasing travel, the uncertainty of life and location, the fact that every beautiful view or delicious sip of water from an oasis or spring would be nothing but a memory in a day’s time.
Myrana wanted nothing more from life than to find someplace she could stay, somewhere to become rooted. She’d been born into he nomadic life, but did that mean she could never try any other?
She didn’t know if these dreams had anything to do with that goal—if at the end of whatever trail they sent her down, she would find her spot to stay in—but sticking with the caravan would only guarantee that she would never have it.
It wasn’t Myrana’s intention to desert her brother. She said she would try to return, and she meant it. But intentions were only that. Dreams or no dreams, no one knew what the day after tomorrow would bring.
City Under the Sand: A Dark Sun Novel (Dungeons & Dragons: Dark Sun) Page 10