The band resumed its journey the next day, buoyed across the plains on high spirits. Eidahn and I shared a cart that day. I felt well enough to ride, but it wasn’t until the afternoon of the day after that the two of us tried a few leagues on donkeys. Both of us were swaying and trembling with the effort by the end of it, but to be on a steed again was a tremendous relief to him.
It was less a relief to me. I hid behind a wagon to vomit as soon as we dismounted.
That night, Gena was visited by Lady Iltara.
And the night after that.
And the night thereafter.
It was as Gena suspected: having failed to entice me into her service, Lady Iltara focused—lavished—her attentions on Sister Gena. With this confirmed, a few more facts came into clearer focus. She had chosen me not for any other reason but for that it was possible to speak and reason with me, and that she thought that would be more profitable than sending insubstantial, dreamy visions (no matter how vivid) to the three of us.
So why was she so interested in obtaining our fealty? Was that simply the simplest way to remove us as threats?
She did not venture to cultivate a sensual relationship with Gena, though Gena’s physical description of her appearance matched my memory of her (I had been wondering to what extent she might alter her presentation. She had the power, I presumed). What she did try to cultivate, it seems, was a sense of intimacy. Gena rolled her eyes as she described the flirtatious banter, but it was impossible for her to disguise her admiration for Iltara’s sharp, frankly unimpeachable wit.
Lady Iltara, Gena said, spoke “pityingly” of me, insisting that she had “revealed the truth” to me and dismissed me until such a time as I would return to “receive of her succor.”
And having seen firsthand how difficult it was to pry useful information from the lady, Gena apologized again to me for being so demanding on me. I deflected, urging her to think nothing of it, but the soft, petty inner organ of my ego was greatly pleased to have the “I-told-you-so”.
The band reached the north end of the Lignem Valley by the end of the third day—a spade-shaped river valley whose northern point represented, though not the northernmost extent of King Emault’s legal claim, the furthest that any of his vassals would risk sending a tax collector. The band had a customary route that transited a short length of the Lignem, through the foothills the bounded it to the west, and then north out of the tip, down the Orlan Blue. While in Orland, they (we) would visit one large township (Clerriol) and a hamlet that barely rated the description (Itun) and then carefully bypass two villages1.
The band erected its camp within sight of Clerriol. The town had raised a merry little forest of flags and banners, and so too did the Windvalley Riders. The field between the two became a non-stop festival of music, dancing, haggling, and sport.
Hester, naturally, seemed to be the epicenter of the gaiety, day and night. He regaled children of his (and our) adventures, led songs, refereed wrestling matches, entered and won several of them, and raced the horses. I took the opportunity to practice my Yaria as a translator and seek out a few nice bowls of bread porridge2 as prepared by the Orlanders. Aside from that, I spent more time with the duuchin, fretting over my broken leg. I was beginning to fear for the rest of my journey: carts and donkeys were all well and good, but what would I be doing once we reached the river and parted with the band? How was I to defend myself from mortal danger, which seemed to dog us on a weekly basis?
“What will you do, then?” he said, turning the question back on me. We sat at a quiet edge of the camp with a good view of the festival field. Some performer with a bowed string instrument was leading a lively, drunken-sounding waltz. Occasional cheers bubbled up from the crowd and floated to our ears.
“Hm. Buy a horse. No, a donkey.” It was almost reflex, answering my own questions when prompted like that. Magister Montigo had made sure of that.
He chuckled. “Ask for one.”
I looked up. “Oh? That is a lot to ask.”
“Animals are valuable, yes. But so too are the bonds between us.” At my evident lack of understanding, he continued. “It is… ah, you are a historian”, he said, using the Ivian word. “You should know this. Ties of homage. Reciprocal debt.”
“I see,” I said in Yaria. “Allied Nico?”
He made a tilt of the head and a shrug. “Close enough. We are bound, first through Nico but now directly to each other. We have shared enough to say so. A donkey would be a large favor. But not a debt to be repaid. A boon to be honored.”
“I see,” I said again, thinking it was more true this time. “But I fear… to fight, like this.”
“You have Hester to fight for you.”
“What if I am called to fight?”
The duuchin regarded me critically. “Filly at a tent-wagon, I say.”
“What?”
“Why should you fight? You are a poor choice for a fight.”
“The fights come to us,” I complained.
The duuchin considered this. “It is true. But do not forget: filly at a tent-wagon. Novice swordsman, broken leg. You should not seek a fight.”
“But Hester, and Iltara…”
“He seeks a fight, yes. Should you?”
“… No?” I ventured, lacking the vocabulary to complain further about it all.
“Good,” he said, as if that were that.
Late at night, I charted, worked and scribbled, distilling the nuut of the skies into üildel. And, despite our conversation, I did not skimp on the more warlike acts of wind and thunder.
This didn’t surprise me too much: Orlanders have an uneven relationship with the nomads of the veld. To me, a student of history deep in the interior of the kingdom, the Yariagar were a people with a strange lifestyle, traditions, and governance—an interesting topic of study!—but at the bottom of it they were certainly people. And sure enough, I had been able to enjoy my time with them like they were people. But to some northern Orlanders, they were monsters. And on some level it makes sense: if your grandfather was killed by the men who rode horses and drove sheep over the endless sea of grass, that’s going to be a lot more important to you than some abstract notion about the politics of periphery interactions. ↩
The kitchener at Ilianath often had this simmering in a pot for anyone up and about late at night, such as the garrison’s night watch and certain apprentice wizards with studies to conduct. It was thick with vegetables and a pleasant wheaty sweetness. When you’ve been away from home for a long time, sometimes it’s the day-to-day foods you miss most rather than your favorites. ↩