by C F Welburn
“As great as their appetite for wine,” Freya commented drily.
“I see,” Imram said glumly. “Well, I should still very much like to converse with them one day. They may be our truest window to the past, though they are, relatively speaking, still confined to recent history.”
“Back to the beginning,” Balagir said, steering the subject away from those he still fumed at. “I’ve told you what Sassarek said about the hiilg and dhaki; what of these?”
Imram sucked in his breath.
“Little, and nothing. This is a human city, full of human history. Hiilg feature significantly more than ashen, having been a race that knew great power for a time, but as they have not been the focus of my research, I fear I have scant to disclose. Their extinction clearly makes study of them more complicated.”
“I saw one once.”
“You saw a lowly descendant perhaps, but the hiilg, the great race they were reported to be, have long since vanished from Ythinar. By historians they are regarded as the first great civilization, displaying the earliest examples of writing and craft. It is proclaimed that even current beliefs deride from them; early settlers were impressionable. If the hiilg themselves were influenced by older races, then I’ve never read it. These dhaki, if indeed that was the race of the piper, are unknown to me. The further back, the more blurred things get, and the hiilg are already shrouded in much mystery.”
“Are the hiilg mentioned in relation to the ashen? For, if what the askaba said was true, then we both have the dhaki in common.”
“I’ve never heard of a connection. Then again, it’s news to me that the askaba are so involved in our affairs.”
Balagir sighed. He had hoped the scholar was holding back some great revelation.
Imram took a long draught, muttering into his cup. When he looked up, he met the annoyed stare of Freya—not dissimilar from her normal stare.
“You’ve got something to say, then be coherent,” she said.
“Maybe I’ve been poorly focussed. The history of men is short and full of their own strife. Yes, why hadn’t it occurred to me before… The hiilg predated them, it is possible that there could be more information about the ashen, yet where to begin…”
“You mentioned the hiilg invented writing. Has none survived?” Raf Isil asked.
“I’m no expert. Fragments, I believe. Worn stone carvings discovered in northern ruins, if memory serves me. I read something about this… yes, maybe… hold on, just… where did I put…” He stood and left the room without explanation. Sounds came back to them. Shuffling, muttering, a moving ladder, grunting, blowing, more shuffling—culminating in Imram’s flushed face supporting a tome the size of a newborn and cobwebs in his hair. He sat, sending a maelstrom of motes towards the ashen, who reflexively covered their drinks with their hands.
“Yes. This is it,” he said, licking his thumb and leafing the pages. He turned the book so the others could read it.
“Why don’t you just tell us what it says?” Freya said, eyeing the tiny, fading script.
“Very well,” Imram said, proud to be of such service. This was his hour, the book his sword, the words his power; this was when the scholar shone as brightly as the warrior.
“Hersten—an archaeologist of late last century—discovered the main bulk of the artefacts belonging to the hiilg. In fact, the reason we know what we do is principally down to him. He wrote here that he believed there was a large hiilg temple, ‘the capital of civilisation—Umbra,’ he called it. He claimed to have narrowed down the location, but…”
“But…?” Freya said, poised to toss her empty cup against Imram’s infuriating head.
“Alas, no more.”
“He never found it?”
“If he did, it is undocumented. It says here he never returned from the expedition.”
“Does it say where it was?” Raf Isil asked.
“I’m predicting the north, if Sassarek spoke true,” Balagir surmised whilst Imram leafed back and forth until he discovered a yellowed distorted map.
“Hm, you may be right, though their geography or calligraphy was lacking back then. It mentions a pass called Bluster Chasm. Sound familiar? No? Let me cross reference that with this…” He seemed to enjoy giving a running commentary of his slightest action, but at least he made progress and swiftly had a new map laid out besides the tome. They watched as his finger traced north, east, then: “Here! Bluster Gulley, it is called on this map. Doubtlessly related.” Balagir looked at the fine line, like a crack on porcelain.
“So, it’s east of Warinkel.”
“North of the Soaksoil range, if this is correct.”
“And there lies this Umbra?”
“Who can say?” Imram pondered. “But Hersten certainly travelled that way on his last trip.” They all followed his finger to an empty part of the map, blank until its tattered edge. “Uncharted,” Imram said flatly. “You’re not considering…”
“What choice do we have?” Balagir said. “This could be our only chance to discover the origins of the ashen. Hersten’s research points to Umbra, the hiilg may tell us of the dhaki, and the dhaki…” The thought hung, too frail to pursue. A wisp of gossamer to swing over an abyss.
“You’re leaving at once?” Imram asked forlornly. Balagir looked at the faces of his companions: Raf Isil’s distracted, Freya’s quarrelsome.
“I think we can wait until tomorrow. I’ve a few things to take care of.”
“Excellent. Then I will use what time I have to refocus my research. Anything I have on the hiilg and Hersten’s expedition will be ready by dawn.”
“A map might come in handy.” It was the first time he had seen a depiction of Ythinar and, accurate or not, it gave him a sense of just how far he had come.
“I’ll make a tracing, though it will be cruder than the original, I fear.”
“If we’re done here, where’s this tavern you and Kiela seemed so fond of?” Freya asked, already nearing the door.
“The Harlequin’s Cap. We passed it on the way.”
“I’ll find it,” she said, pausing at the door. “Meet me there when you’re ready.” Then she was gone.
“Raf Isil?” Balagir asked.
“I think I’ll stay here a while, if you don’t mind?”
“Mind? Of course not!” Imram said, delighted. “So rarely do I meet a like mind.” Raf Isil smiled his thin idris smile and moved off to examine some dilapidated tome that had caught his eye.
Imram, meanwhile, accompanied Balagir to the door.
“I’m pleased you came back,” he said fondly.
“Were it under different circumstances.”
“Aye. An ill wind blows ill tidings. But we will not sit back and do nothing.”
“My other companions are Roje, Unvil, Inverna, Kiela, Ygril and Ginike—yes, miraculously he’s still with us. They are following up leads on the askaba and aiding the Dunns in Eskareth. They know they can trust you with a message.”
“Of course!” Imram said, swelling with import.
“In the meantime, if you can broaden your research to include the askaba and the kraelyn, in particular one dubbed Ceniza—”
“Consider it done!” he interjected, as if information were bread for his malnourished mind.
“For the nonce, the askaba seem to be the most pressing threat. We must find out what it is they know.”
“I’ll make a scholar of you yet!” Imram said wryly.
“I’ll be back as swiftly as I’m able.”
“Ahh,” he said, suddenly recalling something. “That’s where this little thing might prove pragmatic. I came across it in the market shortly after you left and have had no use for it until now.”
Balagir looked shrewdly at the small metal box.
“That has a whiff of the askaba about it.”
“Indeed it does. But why not use their inventions against them?”
“What does it do?”
“It’s a form of communication devic
e. It will not allow us to talk, unfortunately, but it will allow me to signal you should the need arise.”
Balagir accepted the object, weighing it and dropping it in his bag. “Fine, but only matters of urgency.”
“Of course. Will there be anything else?”
“As a matter of fact, yes,” Balagir said, looking over at Raf Isil, who appeared absorbed in some text. “I would like you to find out about the kalaqai,” he said quietly. “The askaba who captured me expressed great interest. Revealed that they had been long seeking her.”
“Did he indeed?” Imram said, rubbing his beard.
“And his brother referred to her as Jakan’s chisp. It is clear she is pivotal and has connections to both the ashen and the dhaki.”
“Well, who would have thought it. And it’s been with you for some time?”
“She has, yes. And I intend to keep it that way. The others know of her, but the less importance I place upon her, the safer she should be.”
“Prudent. I’ll look into it, though nothing I read about the ashen mentioned such an entity.”
“There’s more,” Balagir said, pulling the mysterious wand from his pouch. “This is the wand I mentioned. The kalaqai led me to it. I’ve been unable to determine its purpose.”
“Curious,” Imram said, twisting it in his fingers. “You’ve tried using it of course?”
“To no effect. It seems important, but it has been as much use as a dead twig.”
“Hm. Will you leave it with me tonight? I’ll return it in the morning.” Balagir hesitated. Had it been anyone else, he would not have let it out of his sight.
“Keep it safe.”
“Of course,” Imram said, dropping it in his pouch.
“Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve matters to attend to.”
“As do I. Be careful,” Imram said, peering into his eyes. “You’ve changed.”
“We all change,” Balagir said plainly.
“Not all for the better.”
“One must adapt to survive. The branch will bend in the storm, or break.”
“Are you sure you haven’t been reading more?”
A weary grin touched the corners of his mouth. “Goodnight, Imram.”
“Goodnight.”
Hoki was locking up when Balagir arrived, but beamed when he saw him and reopened his door.
“Balagir, my favourite ashen customer. It’s been a while.”
“Well met, Hoki. I trust it’s not too late?”
“For you, no; for idle browsers, yes. I’m up to here with those. But first, tell me, how is Doom working out for you? I’ve been eager for a report.”
Balagir looked down at the talisman, and in that mere glance, so many bloody memories coursed through his mind. He blinked and returned his gaze to the smith.
“I’d rather be the wielder than the challenger.”
“Ha! My, how I would love to see it in use. Being a smith is like being a writer. I work my craft, but it’s you rascals off gallivanting around that get the true pleasure; to indulge, to lose yourself in the tale whenever the whim takes you.”
“Gallivanting is not a word I would attach to Doom, but I see your point.”
“And who am I to argue? I’m a smith—not of the word variety—and it has been a long day. Come, let’s take care of business and then wet our throats.”
“I admire your priorities,” Balagir said, stepping into the shop.
Hoki was a pleasant man, and certainly the most amiable smith Balagir had come across, but when had an ashen ever let sentiment stand in the way of commerce? Thus, in that darkened forge, with an overly tired and trusting purveyor, he sold all of the items he had duplicated in Sisken’s device. The askaba may be scheming wretches, but they were truly unmatched in their black mechanical arts.
He let Hoki have them at a cheaper price than the originals would be worth, but a much higher price than any useless replica should be. With sufficient funds, Balagir set about his purchase, declining an upgraded sword talisman out of loyalty to that which had served him so well. He chose a new season-cloak; not as fine as his previous one, but it was able to accommodate the shade-band once more and felt immediately more comfortable.
“How about that drink?” he suggested when they were done.
“Just when I thought you couldn’t be a better customer,” Hoki said, grinning as he bolted the door.
Hoki accompanied him to the Harlequin’s Cap, where they partook of Bohal’s latest masterpiece, Kargore’s Cage. A somewhat inappropriate name, seeing as several of the patrons had witnessed the grisly horrors of that not-too-distant night. Still, it was a talking point and went down better than, well, the kargore’s victims had. That too was a common joke about the bar.
Once they had quenched their thirst, Hoki got to discussing the intricate details of keg work with Bohal, and Balagir sidled along to where Freya sulked, already on her third drink.
“Mind if I join you?”
She shrugged indifferently. Whatever “intuition” Kiela had had, it was beyond him, and if this was Freya’s display of affection, he would be loath to incur her wrath.
“I’ve missed this,” he commented, smacking the foam from his lips. It gained him little more than a grunt. “You’re quite the conversationalist tonight,” he said, and she turned to face him.
“And you’re surprisingly chirpy.”
“When the beer’s this good…”
“You’re hardly recognisable from yesterday.” His black-eyed humour, his blood-soaked clothes. He shook it off.
“No point brooding,” he said, aiming for nonchalance but lacking conviction as the bleak memory tainted his drink like a drowned fly. He could feel a change; of course he could. No one did what he had done and remained as before. Not even an ashen. Especially an ashen. Imram had commented on it, and the others had seemed warier. But now, in this moment, he could feel the old Balagir back, beneath the surface. The one that dared to think that somehow, everything was going to end well. It was the ale talking, of course. He hadn’t felt this way earlier. With the hangover would come a fresh wave of darkness. So what? He would enjoy oblivion whilst it lasted.
“How are you?” he asked after another swig. She snorted, then, deciding to indulge him, turned fully on her stool.
“You humour me, or speak genuinely?”
“Genuinely, I suppose,” he said, realising that he did actually want to know. Freya was a closed book at the best of times, never more so than of late, and trying to get her to relax among company was impossible. Maybe this was the opportunity where they could finally get to know one another.
She sighed and said then perhaps the most candid thing she had ever uttered.
“Afraid.” She finished her beer and waved for another. Balagir waited until Bohal had set it down, that one heavy word sinking through his body. Hearing her of all people admit it unexpectedly unnerved him. She took a sip, then went on.
“What we learned today about the ashen,” she said. “Does it not bother you?”
“Which part exactly?”
Ignoring him, she continued.
“I’ve wondered before where we come from, why we exist. We all do, don’t we? When we awake by the fire. But then things get in the way. Oaths, smoke… events take over. Not many of us return to question our existence, and now that I find myself doing so… well, I’m not sure if I didn’t prefer my ignorance. Take the settlers whose petty beliefs reassure them, give them hope, a point, a goal.” She set down her mug. Her black eyes held something more fragile than he expected to see, and it shook him. “What are we, Balagir?” she asked simply.
He took a long draught before he found his tongue.
“That’s what we are going to find out. We’ve come a long way. Answers are there, they must be! And we’ve got each other, haven’t we? We’re not drifting alone anymore.” His face grew warm as he heard his own words. “I mean, we’ve got our group. The other ashen.” Perhaps a little too brusque.
�
�I know what you meant,” she said, looking away for a moment. “It’s just… Maybe if we knew the truth, we would wish we didn’t. Maybe we would have been happier upon Trummond Dorr, drinking with the relics. Blessed by blindness.”
“If one does not question their existence, then what’s it all for?” Balagir said, the conversation having taken a much more philosophical turn than he had expected. “Living, dying in ignorance. Sparking, fading, becoming nothing, not even leaving anything behind… I mean, all of this has to mean something, doesn’t it? There must be some purpose.”
“Settlers remember their ancestors’ mistakes and learn from them. They are born and give birth. I shudder when I think what that makes us… what the piper has made us.”
“Oh yes, him,” Balagir said darkly. “Unfortunately, he is more wretched than us. A ghost, so it seems. Trapped forever playing that bitter tune. At least we get to escape,” he said, raising his mug with a wan smile.
“Yet he’s not gone,” she said with a certainty that surprised him. “Why else would he demand his smoke? Punish us for not obtaining it? He needs us as much as we need him.”
“Maybe these answers lie in the north,” Balagir said, somewhat bleakly. “In any case, we have a trail now; if the hiilg lead us to the dhaki, then we will already know far more than any other ashen.”
“If the askaba don’t succeed beforehand.”
“There is, of course, that possibility.”
Even she allowed herself a crooked smile. Slowly she inspected her empty mug. “Another?”
“Why not?” he said. And they shared the first smile he could remember since they had met so long ago in the Good Company. Was he about to say what he thought he was? The beer had loosened his tongue…
“Freya,” he began, surprising himself at how much he suddenly wanted this. “I’m glad we—”
“Shhh,” she hissed, turning away.
That stung. Perhaps he had read it wrong, but there was no reason for such abruptness.
“I only—”
“Listen,” she said again, and his eyes widened in understanding. “You hear it?”
Someone, very softly, almost inaudibly, below the din of the bar, was humming a very familiar tune. From where they sat, he could detect no other ashen present. Then he caught a glimpse of something crouched, moving between the legs of the patrons. He seized Freya’s wrist and nodded towards where a young girl slipped through the crowd. She was a waif, a cutpurse, and an adept one at that. She took one man’s wallet even as she danced away between the forest of legs to the next. But that was neither here nor there. It was the tune she hummed that shook them. They shared a sudden look as many questions exploded wordlessly in their eyes.