by C F Welburn
Dunn Elohim followed his eye to where his fellow ashen stood.
“Go, enjoy your party! You’ve earned it!” Balagir nodded and drifted away from the polite diplomacy to where the conversation lapsed into the prosaic and unpretentious. He planned to drink until his worries were forgotten.
“Why the long face?” Ginike asked, already slurring. “You’re not paying.”
“Come Balagir,” Kiela added. “Mourn later. You deserve today.”
He wanted to tell them that the mourning was only part of it, but instead mustered a smile.
“You’re right. Let’s drink the share of the fallen.” And he raised his glass. The others mirrored the gesture.
“To absent companions,” said Unvil in a surprising show of sentiment. It reminded Balagir he was not alone in his grief. The jaegir, for all his irascibility, had travelled for a long while with Roje, and he was missed.
To Freya, he thought, caught off guard by the pang at her name in his head.
The relics said nothing. The loss of Tye was still the worst of it for them; they had no inclination to grieve for lesser ashen they had barely known.
There weren’t many of them left. Still, more than could be said for the askaba. As long as there were dead fires, they could re-emerge, but all they had built up over the centuries had been torn down. If they did return, they would be scattered, leaderless, weak. Like ashen, he thought. And what of those? The same could be said for every lit fire, there could be an ashen. Later he would consult his map and learn their exact number across Ythinar.
“And where do we go from here?” Kiela asked. “The ashen, I mean?”
Balagir realised they were all looking at him. He was still having difficulty processing all he had learnt from Sisken, and there were still too many holes. Settlers, he’d said they had been, and Balagir had told the others such. But why could they not recall it, as Sisken recalled his brother on his father’s farm? He did not feel content with what he had learnt.
“Wherever you like, I suppose,” he said, shrugging. “Danger has passed, but little else has changed. We still answer to the piper, and more ashen will take the place of those fallen. Perhaps they should be found early and educated. We would do well to avoid more black-eyes amongst us. Maybe we could build something from this.” He almost thought he saw Igmar standing in the crowd, smiling at his words. He looked down at his wine and shook his head.
“Spoken like a true leader,” Ginike said mockingly. “But enough of this martyrdom. I for one intend to make the most of this.”
“How so?” Kolak asked.
“For one, I will marry!” he said, raising his glass. “If Kiela will have me.”
Ever the doomsayer, Unvil snorted. “Why bother? Marriage is for settlers. For those who may have children.”
“The gesture is flattering,” Kiela said noncommittally as Ginike’s face sagged somewhat more than normal.
“I’ll return to the islands, I suppose,” Kolak said distantly. “Never much liked the south, and can’t say this visit has done much to improve that impression.”
At his side, Ygril made a whirring noise, which suggested he thought along the same lines.
“And what of the relics? I mean, the heroes,” Ginike amended quickly. Morogan, Quevil, and Ivorn, who still stood apart, looked at him with distaste.
“We had it good before you bothered us. I suppose we’ll return. Once Tye is avenged, that is.”
“Aye,” Quevil rasped. “All of this has reminded me how I hated that old life.”
“And the southerners can never refuse us wine again,” Ivorn added, lifting his glass.
“Now that the askaba are gone, I’m lost,” Inverna confessed, and almost as quickly seemed to decide: “Perhaps I’ll return to Iylleth. Yes, I’d know more of that power in the mountains. Of its true nature and limits.”
“I’ve still a few oaths outstanding,” Unvil added. “And once my belt is empty…” He shrugged, letting his words fade off.
“And you two?” Kiela asked, looking at Denge and Raf Fade. The cadaverous Denge lowered his glass.
“I’ve a few oaths pending. One lies in the islands, if you’ll accept my company?”
“My pleasure,” Kolak said with a thin smile.
“I’m thinking of retiring,” Raf Fade said, surprising them all. “I hear in Eskareth there’s a theatre. I don’t know why, but I’ve always felt it was in my blood.”
“And you, Balagir?” Ginike asked, goading. “You are, after all, the hero of the piece. How will you milk it? A striking statue in the palace square? A manse overlooking the vales? Perhaps a wine crafted in your name?”
“I suppose I’ll return to Kirfory for a time. Mystery remains, and Imram has but one pair of eyes.”
“I never pictured you turning scholar,” Ginike said.
“Nothing to do with the Harlequin’s Cap, I’m sure,” Kiela said with a wink.
“Well, whilst there are two birds to kill…” Balagir said.
They were distracted then as they became aware of a settler doctor listening in on their conversation.
“Can we help?” Unvil asked gruffly.
“He’s with us,” Balagir said, much to their surprise. “Some of you already know him as Jerikin.”
“Well, I’ll be,” Ginike said, slapping the doctor’s back in a way which may have been deemed inappropriate by several onlookers. “I might have guessed you’d be crawling around somewhere.”
“I’m quite difficult to get rid of,” Jerikin, or Medic Trell, said levelly. The relics and newcomers were still frowning even after it was explained he was a lych, and Denge—the least likely looking to be worried about a curse—drew back, wary of possession.
“He’s the unsung hero of the siege of Eskareth,” Balagir said, and the lych bowed his head humbly as questions and praise were equally heaped upon him.
“Dying’s overrated,” he joked. But there was something beyond his smile; a suppressed shudder at the memory of so many deaths.
The wine and the conversation flowed, and shortly a glorious feast was underway, followed by music and lively jigs in every nook and arbour of the garden.
Balagir had to rub his eyes when he saw Unvil partaking in the merriment, and even laughed when he saw Ginike tumble backwards over a fish-shaped hedge; his adventures may have come to an end, but he would continue to discover a means to injure himself.
Balagir let himself be pulled into the dance and finally, throwing his hands skyward, relinquished his inhibitions, daring to truly believe that they had won. This resignation released his terseness, and he began to drink until the night swam with faces and songs with bellowed choruses.
Once the hours were small, he rested for a time on a marble bench. It was quieter now. Only the drunk and rowdy remained, although the relics still seemed to be exercising their impressive capacities without falter. As he sat, wondering where Kolak and Ginike had got to, he thought he saw someone familiar. It was a settler for sure, by the colour of the eyes, yet there was something uncanny. As a dog pounces upon a shadow to find its paws impinged on empty air, so too did his mind leap at the wraith of remembrance.
He glanced sideways as Denge leant into him, and with an elbow brought the ashen’s head up to bob woozily.
“Eh?” Denge managed.
“That woman over there, she look familiar to you?” Denge blinked and took a moment to focus. Then he blinked again and rubbed his eyes.
“Don’t know. Sort of reminds me of Tal.”
That was it. Tal. Balagir leapt up. Except now her eyes were green, and she mingled with the citizens of Ozgar as if she were one of them. Balagir barged through the revellers to seize her jacket.
“Hands off me,” she said brusquely.
“Tal?”
“Who wants to know? Oh. You’re one of those ashen, aren’t you? My apologies. I suppose we have you to thank. You just caught me off guard, grabbing me like that. I… What’s wrong?”
“Tal. It
’s me, Balagir! Don’t you remember?”
“Remember what?” she said, staring uncertainly at Balagir, then at the ghoulish Denge, who had appeared behind. Her fellow settlers were whispering with mounting curiosity.
“You are… you were an ashen! Do you not recall?”
“Me?” she said incredulously before laughing. “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.” But there was something of doubt in her settler eyes.
“Who are you, Tal? What do you do here? How long have you been in Ozgar?” She frowned and scoffed.
“I’m Tal,” she announced, splaying her hands as if that were enough. “I’m from Ozgar.”
“You don’t sound certain. Where do you live? Where do you work?”
“I live…” She trailed off. “It’s been a long night; perhaps I should stop drinking.”
“It’s not the drink that has you addled, my friend. You’ve been changed.”
“Ridiculous!”
“Are these your friends? What are their names?” Suddenly the revellers with whom she had cavorted backed away uncertainly. Tal watched them, aghast.
“You can’t seriously be saying… Me, an ashen? You jest.”
“I’m afraid not.”
“But I would recall. Why, that’s Bagger and Fer, and over there, Ghan. We go back… don’t we, boys?”
“We only met you this morning, Tal,” the one called Bagger said uneasily.
“That can’t be. I know your faces, I feel…” Balagir put a hand on her shoulder as her newfound friends hastily disappeared into the crowd.
“It’s not possible,” she mumbled. “I feel hunger, I feel thirst. It is said you do not.” Balagir shook his head in wonder.
“Then you’ve changed. But you were an ashen. A black-eye and no doubt. We met on the Spite Spear, remember? With Kolak and Raf Kajor.”
A brief light in her eyes at the names, but only as one grasps at a fading dream.
“Why can I not remember?”
“The white ones got you…” And then Balagir’s words trailed off as his drunken mind yielded to logic. He clapped so suddenly that Tal flinched.
“Balagir?” Denge asked, concerned. But he wasn’t looking at the corpse-faced man, but out into the crowd, glancing, gazing, searching. Without further explanation, he dashed off into the swaying, noisy garden.
He found Roje next, down at the docks, arm-wrestling with his top off. His big red hair and wild beard were recognisable from across the water. He waited until Roje had easily beaten his opponent.
“Hail the new champion, Roje!” the bookmaker announced as the large man counted his winnings with light-grey eyes.
“Roje, a word, if you will,” Balagir said, catching his elbow.
“Sorry, my friend. All done for today. Got some coin that needs drinking.”
“Then I’ll join you.” The lion-maned man stopped and examined him.
“You’re one of those ashen, ain’t you? The ones that saved the city?”
“That’s right.”
“Then why do you wanna drink with me? If it’s all the same, I think I’d rather—”
“I’m buying.”
“Then let’s go to high town. No sense in drinking sailor swill.”
It took Roje a tankard to approach the subject, a further to stifle his indignation, and a fourth before he would actually look beneath his cloak. He frowned at the belt which hung there, and as he played with the buckle, it came loose and clattered to the floor.
“But I don’t recall any of it,” he concurred at last.
“Maybe the fire will restore your memories. But first I must find the others?”
“There are more like me?”
“I hope so.”
The night was getting old, yet still the festivities went on. Braziers blazed, and music and laughter trickled out of every side street. Even the children did not sleep, making the most of their freedom as their parents danced and roared.
Further along the dock, adjacent to a sweeping stone bridge, was a lowly inn called the Steadfast, where they happened upon a pair of idris tucked away in a shady corner. Even between themselves they were strangers, but finding solidarity in being among the few of their kind in the southern city, they had shared drinks. They looked up suspiciously as the black-eyed ashen and brutish red-haired settler approached their table.
“Raf Isil, Raf Kajor, it’s a relief to see you.” The two idris shared uncertain glances.
“Have we met?” Raf Isil asked suspiciously.
“You could say that,” Balagir began.
“Show us your belts,” Roje demanded, devoid of diplomacy. Raf Kajor’s yellow eyes narrowed.
“It’s a seedy town when the thieves have become so bold.”
“We do not wish to rob you,” Balagir assured. Slowly the two idris did as bade and examined the strange contraption about their waists.
“What manner of garb is this?” Raf Isil muttered.
“An ashen belt,” Balagir said. “You were one of us. We’ve come to remind you.”
They sat and talked for some time, and although not convinced, the idris could not deny the strangeness of it all. The unexplained belt, the fog that shrouded their memories. Grudgingly, they agreed to meet on the bridge outside at noon the following day.
Weary but determined, Balagir and Roje pressed on.
Hect, even with his brown eyes, stood out like a sore thumb. In his barbarian attire no settler in their right mind would wear, he was heralded as the life of the party by those who assumed it some sort of frivolous prank.
They pulled the half-naked man away from his novel popularity to break the news.
“Impossible,” he spat.
“Care to explain the belt? The axes?” Balagir asked. “You’re no lumberjack.” They asked searching questions to which answers were not forthcoming. Hect’s mood somewhat dampened, he grudgingly agreed to be at the bridge at midday.
They found Lud in an unexpected way. A large group of people had gathered at the foot of the hill, and Balagir and Roje pushed their way through. The ‘gnilo lay sprawled upon the cobbles, blood pouring from an open eggshell skull.
“What happened?” he asked one of the bystanders.
The pale-faced man shrugged.
“Not rightly sure. One minute we were talking, then he claimed he could fly. Said he had something in his bag that gave him power. We thought he was joking, but… he threw himself off the cliff there. Fell like a stone.” Balagir shook his head sadly and backed away. So, the ‘gnilo had discovered something in his pouch that had tugged his memory. Unfortunately, whatever powers he had had were gone. And so now was he.
Suddenly his desire to find Freya became more urgent, and he continued his search with renewed vigour.
By the time they returned to the gardens, Lyger had been discovered by the others, who were questioning her fervently, much to the jaegir-mercenary-turned-settler’s discomfort. Unvil and Inverna, upon seeing their red-haired companion, embraced him so that he gawped in wonder.
“It seems I had more friends in Ozgar than I realised!”
“You remember nothing?” Unvil asked.
“No,” Roje said, shaking his head. “You seem familiar, but I know you not. Funny, I never imagined myself being friends with a jaegir.”
“Jaegir or not, we ashen stuck together.”
“Maybe I’ll remember when we visit your fire.”
“Our fire,” Inverna amended.
“That remains to be seen,” Roje said, examining the peculiar group he was suddenly and inexplicably a part of.
“The others will meet us on the morrow,” Balagir explained. “Maybe there is a chance they can regain their memories.”
“Then you’ve found them all?” Denge asked.
“No. Not all,” Balagir said, looking once more across the square.
He passed through the palace, around the tower of Lye, back across the gardens, and over to the clifftop. In the east, the sky was beginning to pale,
and only the most ardent of carousers remained abroad.
He noticed a figure sat alone, between the shrubs and statues, gazing to the east. He looked at her carefully, as though she might wink out of existence if he glanced too abruptly. When he was certain she was no figment, he approached.
“May I?” He indicated the space on the marble bench.
She looked up, her eyes sharp and blue.
“If you like. It’s always a spectacle,” she said, almost to herself. “The dawn of a new day. Who knows what it will bring, and what will change ere it darkens once more.”
“Who indeed,” Balagir said.
“I recognise you,” she said absently.
“You do?” he said, sitting up.
“You’re the one they’re all talking about. The ashen that saved us.”
“Oh. Well, I did not do it alone. In fact, a great many made the difference.” He sidled closer, and she looked up, startled. “You know, when I first met you, I didn’t like you very much.”
“We’ve met before?”
“You don’t recall?” he asked sadly.
“I feel lost. Tell me, why do I know your face? It seems I have dreamt it.”
“It was no dream, Freya. We met long ago, in the Good Company. Do you remember Igmar?”
She shrugged.
“So, I was an ashen,” she mused. “I found my belt earlier. I thought it a mistake, but then, so much makes no sense. You know the reason I’m really sitting here? Because I have no home. I know not what I’m doing here, how I came to Ozgar. Only that I have no friends or family here. And then the celebrations began. This furore with the ashen frustrated me, like an old, ungraspable memory. A story someone once told me.”
“You were in that story.”
“And now I am not?”
“You may yet be,” he said, and slowly he took her hand in his own.
At noon the following day, they assembled on the western bridge. Normality, albeit a groggy one, had returned. Cogs and boats returned from their morning catches, but the streets were quiet as people nursed sore heads.