The forest was still dark and quiet but to the east the horizon was blanching. He did not feel rested but he knew that he would not be able to get any more sleep. He stood up and gathered his blade and his pack. Chewing on some nuts he had grabbed from the Great Temple’s kitchen, he walked back to the road and peered at the sky that whitened in subtle degrees as it bowed to the horizon.
“Aria…” he thought longingly.
She was somewhere in that direction, and upon her the sun was rising too. He took a deep breath of the fresh morning air and it reinvigorated him a little.
“I’m coming,” he said out loud.
Then he headed north, away from everything he knew.
He did not meet anyone during his first few days on the long, winding road. It was the middle of Fall Passing Festival after all and people rarely travelled during the celebrations. Despite the intense loneliness he felt, he was at first glad he did not encounter anyone. He was too raw emotionally, too confused even, to indulge in casual banter with strangers. What would he have said to the travelers he met? What of his ordeal could he share with them? Aria was omnipresent in his thoughts. Questions regarding the night she was taken haunted him. And Master Baccus’s words and death consumed him. And he could share none of that. So at first he silently rejoiced in the empty roads. But as the days passed and the vegetation around him grew more barren, he quickly discovered that silence, when the only choice, lost much of its appeal. And it was with an undisguised relief that on the fourth day of his travels he encountered the Longroove family and their farm hands.
Cassien spotted them in the distance as he passed a T-junction. He anxiously waited for them, torn between his need to be around people and the fear that they would ask questions he could not answer. As they approached, the man at the head of the little troop, a squat middle-aged man with shoulders larger than an oxen’s and a square graying beard that fizzled when he smiled, hailed him with the wave of a hand.
“Hethens’s Breath on you, stranger!”
“And on you,” Cassien replied.
The man eyed the sword at his belt and gave a quick look around the intersection.
“Where you be going on your own?”
“East by way of north, to the port city of Gray Arlung and then across the Empty Sea to the lands beyond.”
“That’s a long trip right there all by yourself!”
Cassien nodded.
“That it is. I wouldn’t mind some company to tell the truth.”
“Sure. We’re heading that way too. We spent the fall passing festival in Greenburrow and we’re returning to the farmstead, a day’s walk or so northwest of here.”
The man bent slightly at the waist.
“Name’s Burlkin,” he said.
Cassien bent at the waist as well and introduced himself as Nikos, the first name that was not his that popped in his head. Burlkin turned around and introduced the rest of his little group. Behind him was a white-spotted, gray horse with a striking black mane that the farm-head led by the reins. Frendzy, as the horse turned out to be named, was pulling a small wagon. On the bench of the wagon sat Burlkin’s daughter, Elega, a rough-faced, slender teenager who lacked the grace seen in city-ladies but seemed kind and gentle, and his wife, Berline, a wide-hipped, large-breasted matron that appeared loving and severe at the same time. Walking beside the cart to the right were the farm hands, Twim and Belim, two slim and wiry brothers who turned out to have more stories to tell than a court jester. To the left of the wagon were Burlkin’s two sons, Jalel and Ralep, one tall with his father’s shoulders and an easy-going demeanor, the other shorter, thick-legged and with something serious in the wave of his brow. The wagon itself was overflowing and a large, fabric tarp tied over it held its contents in place. Cassien knew that it would be filled with goods from the township; supplies for the coming winter when the roads’ conditions would be too poor for travel and the farmstead would be closed onto itself for months at a time.
After the introductions were done they set out together, Cassien walking at the head of the convoy alongside Burlkin. The chariot’s wheels creaked at regular intervals in the mid-afternoon air, and Cassien was glad for the familiar and decidedly human sound.
Shortly after they started, Twim began telling a story about a fellow named Grimber who, he said, had scaled the Great Barrier on his own. The story had him go through countless ordeals only to have him bring back from the lands beyond berries that grew on a bush that Hethens himself had blessed by urinating on it during his time in this realm. With those berries, Twim insisted, he had brewed the legendary Ale of the Crimson Glow. Belim loudly disagreed with him about the specifics of the story and stated with the conviction of a mule that the best ale was most definitely the one brewed from the rare hot-wheat of Arlong province, and thus his story could not possibly be true. They went on arguing back and forth for a while before getting into a different tale altogether.
Elega and Berline were murmuring to one another behind them, more or less shyly laughing every so often. Jalel and Ralep were mostly quiet, except for commenting once in a while on a sound coming from the forest or a certain light in a cloud and what it might mean for the next day’s weather.
Cassien did not know what to say or do. He felt slightly out of place but was glad to silently listen to the brothers’ stories and later to the accounts of the fall passing festival that Burlkin offered; a much less lavish and sophisticated affair than what Cassien was used to in Syndjya, but a good time nonetheless by the sound of it.
As the day advanced and the weariness of travel settled in, the chatter slowly died down. By early evening, the little group was mostly silent and only the creaks of the wagon and the neighs of Frendzy arose with regularity. Cassien had become comfortable with the silent presence of his companions. It was reassuring, even soothing. He quietly walked by their side, his mind rehashing the same questions it had been dwelling on in the past few days, but in a markedly less tensed fashion, even clearer to some extent.
The sun was quickly diving toward the horizon, its light taking red-orange hues a couple of feet above the forest, when Burlkin turned to Cassien.
“So, the land beyond the Empty Sea, huh?” he asked. “What’s a young fellow like you going so far for?”
The question took Cassien by surprise. He could not tell him the truth, lest he thought him crazy. Plus, Master Baccus had warned him that he would be sought after, so he could not possibly reveal who he was anyway.
A warm wave of embarrassment set his chest alight. His mind started racing and without really having decided to, he fumbled a lie.
“Well, I’m on a… pilgrimage. You see, my mother was sick, gravely sick. And, er, the healer did not seem to be able to do anything. No matter the herbs he gave her, no matter the offerings we presented to Hethens at the Health shrine, nothing helped.”
He thought of Aria as he talked and he let the pain of her absence tighten the lines of his face.
“She kept getting worse. One night she was on the brink of life. Her breath was short. She burnt with a fever and she’d turned white like the bark of a Helm tree.”
By then a fully formed tale had taken shape in his mind. Details sprung to life as if they were real, so much so that half-way through telling the story it was as vibrant as any one of his memories.
“We were desperate; I was desperate. I could not lose her; I need her…”
He looked away for a second before continuing.
“I went to the Great Temple. There, in the inner sanctum, is the most life-like statue of Hethens there ever was. It is so truly rendered that one almost feels its breath rise and fall. I sat by it and I prayed to the Great Doer. I had heard from one of the Brothers of a special place in Cahifu, the land beyond the Empty Sea. There, he told me, is a temple unlike any in Alymphia; one where Hethens Doings still occur. As I sat in the temple and my mother was dying, I swore to Hethens that if He were to breathe health into her I would go to that place and donate t
en years of my life to Him.”
He stopped for a second for emphasis, vaguely aware of some feeling of shame pulsating behind the vibrant texture of his lie.
“The next morning my mother started getting better.”
He flashed a small smile to Burlkin.
“And so here I am, keeping my promise.”
“Horn and Fur! That’s quite a story!” Burlkin said, “I’m glad your ma’ got better.”
“Me too.”
“But ten years… that’s a long time, boy.”
“It is,” Cassien said, feeling slightly uncomfortable with how easily the whole tale had sprung out of him. Aria’s face flashed in his mind and determination contracted his features.
“But when one gives a promise, one must keep it.”
“That is honorable, for sure,” Burlkin said.
“I think it’s beautiful,” Elega added from behind them.
Cassien turned around and saw the whole troop looking at him. Taken by surprise as he had been by Burlkin’s question and caught up in the making of his fib, he had forgotten about them. They had all heard his tale. He had lied to all seven of them, not just Burlkin. For some reason it bothered him, as if lying to one person was justifiable but to seven was not. Shame swelled warm in his chest and cheeks. He tried to dismiss it with a wave of his hand that he saw Elega mistake for a sign of humility. He did not correct her false impression and a voice in the back of his head pointed out that it was another lie.
“I’d better get used to it,” he thought to himself.
“Always be all you are,” the uninvited voice of Master Baccus resounded in his mind.
“With each lie one negates a part of himself,” it went on.
But was it still Master Baccus or had the voice taken a softer edge, a more feminine resonance, a gentler tone? Cassien did not have time to linger on that question.
“The travel-station!” Twim exclaimed.
Cassien turned around and in the distance, a click or so away, he saw a light glowing between the trees on the left side of the road.
“Finally!” Elega and her mother rejoiced in one voice.
“My bottom was getting numb sitting on that bench!” Berline added.
“Looks like we’ll have company tonight as well,” Burlkin said with a smile. “Probably folks traveling south from Fishermoore, or Gray Arlung even.”
“Maybe they’ll have a fish or two to barter! I haven’t got me a salt fish in a long time!” Belim said with undisguised gluttony.
They reached the travel-station shortly before sunset. As they approached, the last sunrays filtered through the bare trees and momentarily colored the woods with the colors of fall; fiery yellows, bright oranges and deep reds. Two wagons were parked on the side of the road and six horses could be seen grazing between the trees not far from there. The travel-station had a wide spray of planks for roof and no walls to speak of. There was a large fire-pit in a small clearing north of it and behind it was a decently sized barrel filled with more dead leaves than water.
They found the other travelers around the fire-pit, roasting salt fishes over the crackling flames of a small fire. Burlkin had been right; the four men were transporting heaps of fish preserved on large slabs of salt from the city-ports of the Empty Sea to Syndjya. The merchants yielded originally from Gray Arlung and their accents were sharp compared to the slow drawl of the farmers. Their intonations were crisper and their words ended more abruptly. The men stood up as Cassien and the farmers approached. The introductions that followed were a striking patchwork of accents, contrasting tones, and modulations.
The leader of the group, Lelond Grayspray, was an unremarkable sandy-haired man with a burly smile and thick sideburns. He was accompanied by his son, Jonsea, who had long arms and thin fingers that kept pushing strands of his dark hair away from his pointed face. They were escorted by two armed-hands, fellows named Teegrol and Smootaid, both tall and muscular; quiet men with blades at their belt and an ugly light in their eyes. Father and son were wrapped in large fur capes while the armed-hands both wore straight shirts with long sleeves and rough-fabric pants which went around their waist multiple times before hanging down their legs like flowy drapes.
Burlkin and his people set up for the night in the travel-station while Cassien sat by the fire. Once the farmers were done, they joined them. Twim and Belim traded with Lelond a few small bags of nuts they had purchased in Greenburrow for salt-fishes. Berline put a large pot of water over the fire and with the help of Elega filled it with beans, vegetables and pieces of dried meat. Cassien, who had not eaten a warm meal since leaving Syndjya four days prior, offered to buy a bowl, but Burlkin refused his coins and insisted he have a bowl of the rich soup anyway.
“A young fellow on such a holy pilgrimage needs all the help he can get!” he said jovially before turning to the merchants and telling them about Cassien’s made-up tale.
“How lies spread fast,” Cassien thought, an uncomfortable pinch pulling at his chest as Lelond and Jonsea praised his fictional endeavor.
Later, after they were done eating and the night had fallen cold around them, the men talked of the coming winter as they filled crooked, wooden pipes with pungent tobacco. They pulled long and hard on them and exhaled thick volutes of smoke over the flames, satisfaction clearly visible on their faces. Cassien sat silently among them. He stared at the dancing flames and did not really hear what was being said. The flames reminded him of Aria, of the game of words and mist they played. He missed her terribly and despite the warmth of the fire her absence was a cold fist in his belly. He feared for her too and, as it had done restlessly in the past few days, his eyes lost in the flames, his imagination took over and led him to dark and unpleasant places.
Master Baccus’s name pulled him out of the miasma of his thoughts and drew him back to the ongoing conversation.
“The temple runner,” Lelond was saying, “Hethens’s Breath on his Long Journey, was found dead in the Great Temple.”
Cassien was surprised. He did not think the news of Master Baccus’s untimely demise would reach the coastal towns so fast.
“He was old,” Lelond went on saying. “But I heard there are reasons to believe his death was not natural. Some apprentice, the last person seen with him, is being sought-after for questioning.”
“That’s awful!” Berline exclaimed. “I saw the temple runner, ‘twas years ago, when he came to Greenburrow for the opening of the new shrine, the Harvest one, I recall. We came down for the celebrations. He said real nice, beautiful, things. A holy man he was. A kind, kind man; you could see it in his eyes and how he talked to folks.”
“That sure is terrible news,” Burlkin added. “He was a rare man, he was. I heard that on top of his many official duties he also took care of orphans at the Great Temple in Syndjya.”
“A kind man he was,” Berline said again.
For a moment Cassien felt like a cornered animal. He was certain that they would somehow make out that he was the apprentice, that he was the one who was wanted. But they went on talking about his master without paying him any mind. After a while Lelond looked around guardedly and said in a low voice:
“But there’s more…”
He bent forward in an invitation to connivance and everyone assembled around the fire responded in kind and drew closer to the flames.
“There are rumors that Prince Hobgard and Princess Aria have gone missing.”
A strangled exclamation escaped Berline’s lips and she brought an afflicted hand to her bosom.
“Princess Aria!”
“Yes… A friend of mine, in Fishermoore, he’s the brother of the captain of the city watch there. And it’s said that the same apprentice wanted for the death of Master Baccus had something to with their disappearance. They received pigeons three days ago, as did most cities in the kingdom, and a royal decree has been issued that instructs for his capture.”
“Both the prince and the princess, gone? No way!” Burlkin exc
laimed.
“That sounds like a hoax to me,” said Twim
“Sure does,” said Belim.
“No, my friends, it is true. None of it is supposed to be known, secret decree, you see. The king wants the affair kept quiet and resolved before it spills out of control. We haven’t had a childless king since the fall of the Angry King.”
Elega’s eyes grew wide and fearful at the mention of the wicked king’s name.
“And if they are gone for good, it would spell a world of trouble for our good King Hedgard. The politics of succession would be a nightmare.”
The fire cracked and the flames shot wavering shadows over their faces. Lelond looked around the fire-pit and his features took a wicked turn and his voice dropped even further.
“There’re even rumors of dark happenings coming from Syndjya.”
“Dark happenings?!” Berline said, an apprehensive frown on her face.
“Rumors of the Undoer’s work.”
There was a short silence where the peasants could be heard shifting uncomfortably on the ground. Teegrol and Smootaid, who had been smoking their tobacco in silence, stood up as one man and without a word left the clearing toward the travel-station.
“Didn’t figure them for the scare-easy types,” Burlkin said half-jokingly.
“More like they don’t like no nonsense,” Ralep said sounding rather annoyed.
He elbowed his brother and the pair stood up and left too. Burlkin gave them a disagreeing glare and Elega looked at her feet, embarrassed.
“They don’t mean no disrespect,” Berline hurriedly said.
“None taken,” Lelond said. “But it’s true. We’ve heard different things along the coast in the past few days. Haven’t we Jonsea?”
Jonsea, who had been working on a thick piece of wood with a knife, looked up at his father, waved one of his long locks of hair away from his face and nodded.
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