Tree of Ages 2

by Sara C. Roethle

  The settlers, who’d had the wherewithal to drag a few horses along, took turns riding, giving extra time to the women and older folk among them. Iseult had offered his horse up a few times, though the animal was bred for war, and many feared riding him. Even with the help of the horses, there wasn’t a single person among the group who wasn’t tired or hungry. Ealasaid seemed hardly able to keep her feet as she walked along, the hem of her dirty blue dress dragging in the coastal sand. An elderly woman rode Ealasaid’s horse, and had fallen asleep upright in the saddle. Her loud snores, the occasional hungry grumble, and the sound of the ocean kept an odd rhythm as the sun slowly made its way across the sky.

  “There,” Maarav pointed, riding up beside Iseult to get his attention.

  Iseult saw nothing but black stone jutting up in the distance. The far off rocky outcropping had been worrying him for a while. If they were unable to find a way around it, they might have to journey deep into reiver territory to continue onward.

  Ealasaid had looked up as Maarav pointed. “I see only rocky mountains,” she commented.

  “Precisely,” Maarav replied smugly. “The settlement we seek is guarded by those rocky mountains.”

  Excited chatter erupted amongst the settlers, hopeful that they would soon have hot meals and a place to rest. Iseult narrowed his eyes at the distant spires, but could see no way in. They jutted up against the coast, probably forming a cove in the middle, impassible on either side.

  “I hope you are correct,” Iseult said simply, not caring about the settlement itself, as long as there truly was a ship inside.

  “I am,” Maarav replied. “Where do you think I went when I died?”

  Iseult’s breath caught in his lungs. It wasn’t often that he showed surprise, but he was sure that it showed now. He and Maarav had not had any further discussion on why their mother had told Iseult his brother was dead. Iseult still hadn’t quite convinced himself that Maarav truly was his long-dead kin. To hear that he’d been living in some hidden settlement this far north was absurd. Ridiculous. Yet, he couldn’t help but be curious.

  “You lived there?” Iseult asked evenly, hoping to keep Maarav talking.

  “Aye,” Maarav replied, “but that is a tale for another time, when prying ears are not near.”

  Iseult frowned as he continued to scan the distant rocky escarpment, wondering what sort of people would live in such a remote, hidden location, and why his brother would be sent to live among them. If he truly had, what eventually brought him to Migris? There were too many unknowns, and he was trusting this man to aid in one of the most important tasks of his life.

  He glanced at Maarav, who smiled happily, content atop his horse even though they’d had little food in the past two days.

  One of the settlers, a man of around sixty years, dropped to his knees in the sand, unable to go on any longer. The man had refused any time in the saddle, too prideful to take the offered help, and now it was catching up to him. Iseult dismounted gracefully and hoisted the man up by the shoulders. With the help of Ealasaid and one of the other settlers, they helped the man onto the saddle of Iseult’s horse. The man apologized profusely, but took the offered help, saying, his legs weren’t working quite right, but he’d be able to walk again soon.

  Iseult shook his head as he took the horse’s reins to lead him. How had he ended up in the position to take care of this flock of people, and at what point had he begun to care about failing them? He shook his head again. He was growing soft. In the treacherous world he knew, the soft did not survive for long.

  As they neared the rocks, Iseult continued to scan their surroundings for some sign of inhabitance. A sharp whistle cut through the air, coming from the direction of the massive rock wall.

  Maarav lifted his fingers to his mouth and whistled back at the exact same pitch, first low, then with a high lilt at the end.

  After that, there was silence.

  “Someone will meet us at the gates,” Maarav explained.

  “What gates?” Ealasaid asked as she walked beside Iseult.

  Maarav grinned. “You’ll see.”

  The settlers chattered amongst themselves as they marched onward. The sun continued its slow creep across the sky. By the time they reached the base of the rocks, the sun had nearly disappeared beyond the horizon, leaving them in the looming shadow of the rocks, with no entrance that Iseult could see.

  Suddenly, as if by magic, a woman appeared from within the rock wall. She was short, with long, graying hair, and tight black clothing encasing a form slender and strong for her age. She eyed the settlers cooly until her eyes found Maarav.

  “You know better than to bring foreigners here, boy,” she said tartly.

  The settlers shifted nervously. If they were turned away, there was nowhere else to go but to their deaths.

  “Oh come now, Slàine,” Maarav replied as he dismounted, “you know I can’t resist helping those in need.”

  The woman, Slàine, let out a hearty chuckle, then spread her arms wide. “C’mere and give your ma a hug.”

  Maarav did as he was bade, wrapping the small woman in his arms. Even if they did not allegedly share the same mother, Iseult would have suspected the term “ma” had come from a shared bond, rather than blood, as the woman looked nothing like Maarav.

  As they pulled away from each other, Slàine’s eyes found Iseult. Her expression softened as she turned back to Maarav. “It seems we have much to discuss,” she said quietly.

  The settlers continued to shift uncomfortably, though all remained silent, hoping they would not be turned away.

  Slàine eyed them all in turn, including Ealasaid. “You must all know, there is no turning back from here. Once you are inside, there is no leaving these walls.” Her eyes shifted to Iseult. “Of course, any ken to Maarav may come and go as they please.”

  Iseult nodded, and a few nervous murmurs passed through the group. Eventually the old man climbed down off Iseult’s horse and stepped forward. “I accept your terms. Even if I wanted to leave, only death awaits me at the hands of my own countrymen.”

  Slàine nodded, not bothering to ask why the only other option was death. The remaining settlers talked amongst themselves, but the soon all agreed to Slàine’s terms. All but Ealasaid.

  The girl, still standing beside Iseult, shifted from foot to foot before stepping forward. “I’m afraid I cannot agree to those terms. An Fiach murdered my family, and I must have my revenge.”

  Maarav grinned at that. “I will vouch for the girl,” he told Slàine.

  Slàine gave him a knowing look, but nodded. “Well, come on,” she said tiredly as she turned back to the stone wall, waving them all to follow her.

  Iseult’s curiosity got the better of him as he stepped ahead of the settlers to see the entrance. Not only that, if there was some sort of trick to going inside, he wanted to observe it firsthand.

  Slàine walked into an alcove in the stone that turned sharply to the right. She took a lit torch that had been mounted on the wall, then turned to the left, followed by another sharp right, like switchback trails on a steep mountain. Iseult followed behind her and Maarav, then came the settlers with the horses. The switchbacks were just tall enough and wide enough for the horses to pass through easily, though the close quarters elicited various degrees of concerned whinnies. After the switchbacks came an open cavern that seemed manmade, as the walls were smooth, forming a perfect dome, though Iseult had no idea how such construction was possible. Several more torches mounted into the stone lit the space.

  Everyone filtered into the cavern before Slàine ventured onward, into another narrow crevice, once again with only the light of her torch to guide them. At that point, the path split off into several, then the path they chose eventually split into several more, like some sort of maze. Finally, just as many of the settlers were beginning to panic, they reached a solid stone wall, with no paths leading away except the one they’d taken.

  Slàine stepped forward and kn
ocked on the stone in an intricate pattern composed of quick knocks, light knocks, and slow, heavy ones that likely bruised her knuckles.

  Iseult watched in awe as the stone began to rumble, then a segment of the stone separated and swung inward. Slàine led the way through, followed by Maarav. Iseult followed next, inspecting the door as he passed, but not spotting any mechanisms that would give him a clue how it worked. Regardless, it was the perfect cover. Anyone venturing into the maze-like corridors would undoubtedly get lost long before reaching the doorway, but if they did make it that far, they’d only be met with a dead end.

  Inside, the sight was even more spectacular than the entrance. An entire village was built into the massive cove, complete with stone walkways in between the buildings. They’d entered on an upper tier, providing a view of the distant, calm coast within the cove. The rocks jutted far enough into the ocean to form a bay, protecting the narrow coastline from the more violent waves that hit the rest of the shore.

  Many of the buildings in front of and below them were constructed of the same dark stone of the cliffside, reminding Iseult of Sormyr, the Gray City.

  People still milled about the streets, even though darkness was quickly descending. Iseult would have liked to stay atop the tier to observe things further, but the refugees began to filter in behind him, along with the nervous horses. Ealasaid had taken up the reins of Iseult’s horse, and now handed them to him without a word.

  He followed Slàine and Maarav down wide stone steps as the two chatted happily.

  Ealasaid walked down the steps beside Iseult. “What is this place?” she whispered as her gray eyes darted about nervously.

  Iseult glanced again at the stone buildings as he continued down the steps. “It’s a place not on any maps, with a hidden entrance, requiring that any who enter may never leave again. Whatever this place is, I doubt that it’s good. Most things this hidden, are hidden for a reason.”

  Ealasaid frowned as they reached the base of the steps, and a wide walkway that seemed to be the main street of the village. Although, village was not the correct term. It was more of a city, all hidden away inside an impossibly large cove.

  “I imagine your friends are hungry,” Slàine said loudly so that all could overhear.

  Appreciative murmurs sounded behind Iseult. He was starving too, and was curious about the city, but he’d forgo food and information if they could board a ship and sail for the Archtree.

  Slàine led them past several smaller residences to a large building that appeared to be an inn, though there was no sign to hint at a name. The bottom portion of the structure was composed of dark stone, while the upper two stories were whitewashed wood. The lack of actual color in the hidden city was jarring.

  A young boy dressed in a too large tunic took Iseult’s reins, and the reins of the other horses as the party was led into the inn. The few passersby eyed the newcomers curiously. Iseult sensed no animosity from any of them, though he still felt nervous to be trapped in such an odd place.

  The scent of roasting meat and fresh bread overcame Iseult’s senses as he followed Maarav into the inn’s warm interior. Soft lantern light illuminated the space, accompanied by tall white candles on many of the small, wooden tables. Normal looking folk filled many of the tables, while a rotund barmaid carried a large tray of food and drinks to disperse. A slender, aged barkeep stood behind a narrow wood bar, looking sullen.

  Slàine left them to approach the barkeep.

  Maarav stepped to Iseult’s side and leaned in. “Slàine’s husband,” he explained, nodding in the direction of the barkeep. “Poor skunner.”

  The refugees, along with Ealasaid, all huddled near the door, obviously out of place. Maarav moved to take a seat at a vacant table, and Iseult joined him. Taking this as a signal, the refugees began to seat themselves, often at tables with the locals since there was a limited number of seats. Slowly the atmosphere became more comfortable as conversation grew. Food was passed around, along with sweet wine, whiskey, and fresh water.

  No one sat at the small table with Maarav and Iseult, though there were two vacant seats. Ealasaid continuously glanced over at them, as if wanting to usurp one of the chairs, but unsure if she was welcome.

  Iseult turned his attention away from the rest of the room to Maarav as food was placed before them. The thick slab of pork and fresh bread made Iseult’s mouth water, but there were important things to discuss before any comforts could be had.

  “What is this place?” Iseult asked quietly, his words easily hidden from prying ears in the loud din of conversation.

  Maarav had torn into his pork with bare hands and teeth, and had to put the greasy hunk down to reply, “This is where I was sent when I died.”

  “Explain,” Iseult demanded, frustrated. If Maarav really was his brother, why had his mother told him he was dead? Why was he sent to such an unusual place?

  Maarav pulled apart his bread and filled it with ham, then took an enormous bite. Once he’d swallowed, he replied, “Our mother sold me off, so that you and she might live. I was put to work within these walls, and once I’d earned it, I was trained. Once I was trained, I was put to work some more.”

  “That’s a lie,” Iseult interrupted. It was preposterous. His mother had loved both her sons. She’d cried for months when Maarav had succumbed to illness.

  “I do not blame her for it,” Maarav said happily. “We were destitute when we left Uí Néid. We had no way to survive. Our mother’s decision saved all of our lives.”

  “Except hers,” Iseult growled.

  Maarav nodded. “I heard when it happened. I’d assumed you were dead too. Then a few days ago, a friend of mine walks into the inn with Finnur herself. Ma had shown us that picture so many times, I’d recognize that face anywhere. My friend leaves Finnur in her room, asks me to make sure she doesn’t leave, and explains that some men may be looking for her. One, quite old and not very tall, and the other, taller than most men, with black hair, and eyes like a hunting cat, rumored to be unbelievably fast, an expert swordsman. The man sounded like someone my brother could have grown into, or at the very least, someone hailing from Uí Néid. Still, I was quite surprised to see you outside of my inn.”

  Rage washed through Iseult. Maarav’s final explanation had rushed by his ears as he considered the character traveling with Finn. This friend must have been who’d originally taken her. Was this person Cavari, or something else? The roots that had taken Finn and had nearly suffocated Iseult and Àed had been of the Dair, there was no mistaking it.

  “Who was this friend?” he demanded. “How had she known we would be looking for Finn?”

  “I’ll not give this person’s identity up willingly,” Maarav answered after taking another bite and a swig of whiskey, “but suffice to say, she likely knows just as much about Finnur as either of us. I do not know her motivations, but she’s a soldier in with the Lady of Migris herself. That is all I will say on the subject.”

  Iseult frowned. Maarav had said she. This woman had travelled with Finn, and knew his description. Perhaps Maarav referred to Anna, previously known to him as Liaden, but she was no soldier. She was a con-woman and a thief, but no warrior. Anna must have taken Finn from this other woman at some point.

  “And you just happened to be around to witness all of this?” Iseult asked. “To witness my arrival in Migris?”

  Maarav shrugged. “Finnur’s arrival was a surprise, though I admit, after I’d spotted her, I’d intended to follow wherever she went, just to see what she was up to. I witnessed her abduction, and recognized the woman who took her. I also knew that woman had recently acquired a ship, and had been spreading word that she was looking for crewmen. That’s how I knew to lead you to the dock, though I had not expected them to cast off so soon.”

  All that Maarav said made sense, but Iseult still found it difficult to trust. His brother still hid a great deal.

  “You never answered,” Iseult said calmly, casting a glance around the room
. “What is this place?”

  Maarav raised an eyebrow. “No reply on anything else I’ve told you? Not even a thank you for all of the valuable information?”

  Iseult eyed him cooly. “Thank you.”

  Maarav sighed. “This is a place that acquires men and women of special talents. Those acquired are trained, and put to use, just as I was. Eventually, I payed off the coin given to our mother, and earned quite a bit more. At that point I left and opened my inn, wanting to be more involved in the world, though I remain loyal to those dwelling within these walls.”

  Loud laughter filled the room. Many of the refugees were becoming intoxicated.

  “Trained to do what?” Iseult asked.

  “Kill,” Maarav replied simply. “We all have our individual talents, suited to individual cases, and there are always people who need other people killed.”

  “You’re assassins,” Iseult observed. He personally didn’t care for the vocation, but held greater distaste for those who made the vocation necessary. If you wanted to kill someone, you should do it yourself.

  Maarav nodded.

  “And magic users,” Iseult added, thinking of the stone door into the city.

  Maarav nodded again. “Some of us, but not me, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  Iseult finally began to pick at his food. Nothing he’d been told so far would interfere with his task . . . as long as they boarded a ship soon. “What will become of the refugees?”

  He noticed Ealasaid hovering nearby, pretending not to look at them. He ignored her.

  “Those with appropriate skills will be trained,” Maarav explained. “Others will be given other vocations and will live normal lives. They will receive pay, have homes, and will be safe from both the reivers and An Fiach.”