Tharan is fairly certain he’s dying.
The pain sears through his entire being. He has just enough focus to attempt to heal himself. But what must be poison of the highest potency continues to fester and eat away at his skin. He has never endured pain like this before, not in all his long years. His cries tear at his throat. As the pain consumes his mind and his vision narrows to the tiniest pinprick of light, a brief rustle of the air. Warmth as arms encompass him. Her unmistakable scent. Her voice.
He clings to her.
And still his strength fails him. He cannot breathe. The world grows darker even as the searing needles continue to dig into his back.
And then, blessing beyond measure, she sings to him. With a voice lovelier than any Song Master he’d ever heard. Her voice washes over him, cooling the pain that threatens to overwhelm him.
Tell her. Tell her while you still have the chance.
…
No.
Instead he begs her. The Bell. The Bell must be returned to his people. The weight of regret threatens to tip the desperate balance. He has not yet trained an Ascendant to take his place to guide them. He has not yet found his successor. But the Bell…
The sharpness with which she replies warms his heart. Perhaps, even if it is his time to return to the Chord, at least he can do so listening to the singing of the woman he loves.
Alkara…
Light sifts through Tharan’s eyelids. He blinks and squeezes his eyes shut. Doë’s sound hums along, a soft background. Beyond that, muffled voices compete for Tharan’s attention. He flutters his eyes open and closed, groaning with the light. The voices stop. Tharan lay on his stomach, facing a canvas wall. He rolls to one side but a hand stops him from continuing to his back.
“The flesh on your back is new. There’s still a ways to go.” Soft and soprano, the voice rises above the background noise. “I believe the pain would force you into shock if you rest on it.”
Tharan contents himself on his side. His thoughts muddle, but he regains enough focus to realize it is Dreonna that had restrained him. His chest plate lay on the ground. He suppresses a brief shudder against the chill and glances down. His tunic absent, leaving his chest bare, but at least the Bell still rests on its chain around his neck. The warmth of the Bell a comfort, even though it only makes the chill more sharp.
Dim light fills the inside of the tent from a small lantern. He surveys the small tent. Tharan lets out one small but long breath. The muscles in his back release their tension. Alkara and Iroshi are here. And alive. His eyes dart around. The children too. The Chord provides.
Tharan continues with his scan and frowns, his mouth going dry.
Where are Fiontann and Caitria?
Iroshi takes a seat on a chair near Tharan’s head. He taps a waterskin against the cot. Tharan swallows. His eyes widen as he takes the skin. He tilts his head to keep the waterskin upright and with a few large gulps drains it. “My apologies,” He wipes his mouth with a sleeve, “I hope –”
“Don’t you worry.” Iroshi keeps his voice low. His gaze comes from afar, as though a distance keeps it from the forefront. “We have plenty.”
Tharan watches Iroshi for a few moments and breathes another sigh, despite whatever severity steels Iroshi’s eyes. He had achieved his goal.
The memory of immolating the Forsaken returns to Tharan’s mind. He holds his breath. Rage had filled his heart when the small girl was threatened. Gooseflesh erupts across his skin. A soreness steals over him. His casts his gaze back to the floor.
Dreonna moves to his back and, from her prodding, inspects his wounds. The palpations sit firmly in the back of Tharan’s attention. Her ‘hmms’ likewise fall from his attention.
Tharan looks again around the tent, not focusing on anything until his gaze rests on Alkara. She sits with head on her knees and arms wrapped around her legs. She clutches a yellow ribbon in one fist. And the chill seems to creep its way past the Bell and seep into his heart.
And then his gaze rests on Alkara, who sits with her head on her knees, her arms wrapped around her legs, her fist clutching a yellow ribbon.
Guenwyvar.
Tharan tilts his head to Dreonna, “How might standing affect your treatment?” He looks back to Alkara but finds Iroshi has stood between them. No sound or scurry of light betrayed his movement.
“I don’t think so,” The tone brooks no argument. Iroshi narrows his eyes. A fraudulent smile lives on his lips. “We need to talk. You and me.” His eyes shift to Tharan’s back. “Given your health, I hope for your sake the answers are as pleasing to my ears as they were to the Forsaken.” A twinkle alights in Iroshi’s eye, “I suppose you’re starting halfway there.”
Alkara stirs in the corner of Tharan’s eyes. She lifts her face. Even in this dim light Tharan notes puffy eyes and red nose. Alkara stands and moves to Tharan’s cot. Ragged, tattered clothes hang from her. Burns and scrapes peek through the remains of the clothes. Some would shame the propriety of a Doësin yet Alkara walks without care.
“Dre just finished saving his life,” Alkara’s voice crescendos above Iroshi’s and Dreonna’s. She crosses her arms, “Now you’re going to kill him.”
Iroshi shrugs. “A life for a life,” his eyes never leave Tharan. And he doesn’t blink. “You owed him for saving your life, we’ve repaid that account.” Iroshi grips the dagger’s hilt on his belt, “No fight is fair, and if an enemy is weak we strike without mercy.”
Tharan raises his hand with open palm. He winces as even this small movement stretches his mending skin. “We are not foes. I came to aid you.”
“Hmm.” Iroshi sets his jaw, “Do you normally spy on those you claim to help?”
Alkara sucks in air over her teeth. Her eyebrows draw together as she watches Tharan. Her lips press together.
Tharan eyes are drawn to Alkara but he keeps them on Iroshi. He concentrates to the point of not blinking. “I deign to use the methods efficacious to my designs.” Though Tharan grimaces with a perhaps too hard prod from Dreonna, he keeps his voice even. “Messages between our homes travel slowly. Even with the advantage I nearly arrived too late.”
Iroshi chuffs. “Plausible. Maybe even too convenient. Your conversation with the dark elves sits uneasy in my thoughts.” He squats and brings his eyes level with Tharan’s, “Are you the threat to my family? Somehow part of it?”
Alkara bites her lip and shuffles from one foot to the other. She frowns at the back of Iroshi’s head. Dreonna tuts and stops her inspection of Tharan’s back.
Tharan frowns. “You cast bones with a single portent. Your contention begs the question. I would never so easily throw aside the works I’ve conducted.”
Tension ripples in their locked gaze. Iroshi smiles but it goes no further than his mouth.
Dreonna steps back from the operating table, “Uncle Iro?” Her voice holds a hint of tension. “What does that mean?”
Eyes still on Tharan, “I was abducted,” Iroshi keeps his tempo smooth, “but I wasn’t the target.”
Tharan nods, “Alkara is the true goal of your enemies.” Tharan lifts his arm and winces before setting it back to rest. “Iroshi’s capture was meant as a means to control her.”
Iroshi’s grin widens and reaches up to touch his eyes. There’s some affectation there nonetheless. Tharan resists analyzing the expression. Even so far removed from the Reäsin, Iroshi acquits himself in their duplicitous mannerisms.
For every scrap of information gained, two misinterpretations and three false leads are purchased. Iroshi speaks with the ease and misdirection of his kin, though not as practiced. Iroshi smirks, “We appreciate your concern, Master Tharan.” Alkara’s half-Forsaken uncle steps back and half-turns toward the tent’s canvass, “And I’m grateful for your help. But… we can take care of ourselves.”
“Uncle!”
Everyone save Iroshi turns to Alkara. Tharan swallows. Her outburst dizzies him, though he feels Iroshi’s fixed gaze keenly.
Alkara’s face reddens. She takes a step back and furrows her brow. Her eyes dart down and to the side.
Did she surprise even herself?
Alkara shoves a foot hard into the ground, “Look, we can take care of ourselves. We do.” She huffs, “We could have taken on the Forsaken alone. Probably.” Alkara shakes her head, frowning, before leveling a glare at Tharan. She stares Tharan down with fire in her eyes. “I’m pissed he was spying on us too. And would rather he never do it again,” She turns back to Iroshi, “But you’re always finding friends in low places. Nothing wrong with having a friend in a high one for once.”
Iroshi’s smile persists through Alkara’s tirade. He arcs at eyebrow at Tharan with her final point. His hand remains on the dagger hilt.
Considering? Or another affectation.
The game continues, but Tharan’s grasp slips at times. The number of possible missteps in a Reäsin game? Infinite. Alkara’s aid lifts his spirit a little. But he pushes the idea from his mind. Any hope of Alkara being keen must be tempered.
Iroshi lifts his hand, but loosens his grip on the dagger, “Well then Bell Keeper,” he extends his hand, “shall we make nice?”
Tharan shifts to extend his mobility and raises his hand to meet Iroshi’s. “Adverse conditions instruct friendships.”
His gaze shifts to Alkara. Peering at Tharan’s chest, she bites her lower lip and looks down and away. Her cheeks redden as she coughs. The cough shudder shifts her tunic, revealing pink, freshly healed skin in places. Alkara tugs at the remnants of her clothes to cover herself.
Tharan’s tongue sticks to the back of his mouth. A tidal surge pushes against his throat, urging him to swallow. He clears his throat instead. Heat billows up through his core, swatting away the chill.
“Good.” Iroshi draws Tharan’s attention back. Iroshi releases the handgrip. “We’re making some low enemies at the moment,” he chuckles. “I’m guessing Afanen will pull me its way in the near future.” He knocks the side of his foot into Tharan’s cot, “Maybe I’m in need of some boots.” The half-Forsaken turns back to Alkara, “I’ll stop by for a discussion on fletching next time.”
Tharan takes a prolonged breath, “I would bow but–” he gestures to the cot on which he lay. “My house would be greatly honored by your presence.”
“Mmhmm,” Iroshi nods and turns to Dreonna, looking over Tharan. “How long until the invalid can travel?” An edge of absurdity infiltrates Iroshi’s tone.
The physician returns to inspecting Tharan’s back. Slight gradations in her movement betray her head shake. “Two days.”
Iroshi whistles a long, low note. “Well, I hope you can figure out food–”
“Uncle!” Alkara’s cry overrules whatever else Iroshi had planned to say.
The half-Reäsin chuckles, looking over his shoulder. “We’re not gonna leave him.” He looks back to Dreonna, “We need to go before that schedule. How soon?”
She breathes out her nose, “Well, if we want the recovery to take a month we can leave now.” With each word her tempo increases, “Or we wait an hour and it takes a week. In four hours he’ll need five days rest.” She takes a sharp breath, “I don’t know if all the toxin is neutralized and we’ll need to stop to redress his bandages. Plus we don’t have much more to spare. I’ll need to find a certain fungus that grows in the Depths. So Chiron will need to go with me. Oh, we can’t–”
“If I may,” Tharan cuts into the impromptu speech. “I traveled with two companions, Where are they? They might provide assistance. They are Bread Eaters.”
Iroshi speaks without looking at Tharan. “They’re dead,” The words lay in the air flat and emotionless. “You’re gonna need a week’s rest. We need to leave in–”
“No, they’re not.” Alkara says with a frown. She misses Iroshi’s sigh, “I mean, the woman yes, I think so. The other was alive.”
“When you saw him,” Iroshi whispers into the tent. “So now he’s dead or worse. Whatever’s left of him isn’t worth recovering.”
Tharan clenches his jaw, “Rescuing. Fiontann is a good man and I will not abandon him. Not to suffer a fate you believe would leave him yearning for death. Not to the whims of the Forsaken or to be found by some other denizen of this place.”
Iroshi’s eyes harden as he looks at Tharan, “They’re counting on you coming for him.” Iroshi stalks to the tent’s opening, “The longer we’re down here,” he looks back but over Tharan, toward Dreonna, “the more likely they’ll succeed in their mission.” Iroshi pushes out into the tunnels of the Depths.
Tharan slowly pushes himself into a sitting position, shooing away Dreonna’s restraining hand. He stares at the tent flap, “We will prepare ourselves for their attempts.” He turns to Alkara, then Dreonna, “Do either of you object?”
Alkara shrugs, she stares at the canvass leading out into the Depths.
Dreonna furrows his brow. “I agree with you.” Her mouth quirks. “We shouldn’t leave this… Bread Eater in the dark.” She swallows. “Not here.”
Tharan nods, “Thank you. Fiontann serves well. I will not give up on him.”
Dreonna stares at nothing, “They won’t have had much time with him yet.” She looks down at Tharan, “Though with your back. In two days…” She trails away into a musing silence.
Tharan flexes his back and winces as the pain greets him. “For that,” he sighs through his nose, “I have an answer. This will only take an hour. Less if Fiontann resides in Doë’s forge.”
Dre furrows her brow. Her eyes flick up to the ceiling and her head bobs. Muttered numbers drift out from her upturned mouth. She looks down again, “Do what you think you can. If you aren’t travel-ready you won’t go. My decision.”
A small laugh escapes Tharan in a puff of air, “I defer to your expertise in the medical arena Dreonna,” He stretches his shoulder, rolling it into the pain to test that friction point. “But this is not a show of bravado. If I say I am able to travel, it is true.”
Dreonna raises her eyebrows. She wrinkles her nose with an open mouth before closing it without a word. Tharan supplies one curt nod in appreciation. He may be travel-ready, but it would not mean he should be traveling. Semantical teleogians would dissect the point, but this is not a classroom.
Tharan turns to Alkara, looking to gauge her mood. Her cheeks bear a tinge of redness still. She stands with arms crossed, but the bottom of her left ribcage shows through the tatters. Her eyes remain fixed on anything but Tharan.
A soft smile graces Tharan’s lips. He should focus on his own health for now. Certainly not on the soft curvature of–
Tharan looks away, down at floor between his feet. He breathes in deep, long breathes. After taking a moment to re-establish some sanity, Tharan pulls his legs up beneath him and stares forward.
He reaches up and grasps Doë’s Bell. Warmth spreads into his hand and down through his forearm. He chants, low at first, but rhythmic and resolute. Idle twitches and grimaces crest Tharan’s face, but his purpose stands resolute. Warmth. Heat. The Fiery Forge of creation burns through his wound, cleansing Tharan in its holy fire. Tharan’s allows the pain to fall away and sinks into the restorative meditation.
Guen…
Back in a ball, Alkara clutches the ribbon. Heat rises just behind her eyes. Tharan will be fine in less than an hour. But Guen…
Oh Guen…
Pangs of emptiness fill her stomach. A screaming silence. A sob pushes its way up her throat but Alkara bites the inside of her lip. Her eyes flicker to the slumbering children. They’d been so good at keeping their voices down before. Alkara blinks at the sight of them, her lips quiver.
Please forgive me Guen. Urdima forgive me. I’m sorry.
Why does Uncle Iro insist that I lead the team? If things keep going the way they are, she won’t have a team left to lead! Isn’t this proof enough that she should go solo? She just keeps getting people killed…
A sob convulses through her and escapes. She grips the ribbon harder.
“Alkara,” Uncle Iro puts a hand on her shoulder. He squeezes once, a soft token of support.
Alkara nods. She presses her eyes shut and clamps down with her jaw.
Iroshi pulls Alkara up and into an embrace. “Hang in there young one,” an accommodating smile fills his expression, “Guen will be back before you know it.”
Alkara stiffens. Uncle Iroshi must have misspoken. She blinks at the ground and, with a mumble, “Back?”
Her surrogate father holds the embrace longer. He nods, “There is a ritual.” Iroshi squashes Alkara in the hug, “But right now we need to focus on getting above ground.” He pulls away and looks Alkara in the eye, “We will discuss it then.”
Alkara swipes at her nose. Snot drips from her nostrils. She sniffs and nods. “Were you…” Alkara sneaks a look at Uncle Iroshi’s hands, “able to get anything else from the dark elves?”
Iroshi flicks his eyebrows up once, “Not as much as I’d like.” He chuckles, “Which is to say nothing. I’m surprised your… friend,” He tilts his head toward Tharan, “was able to get anything done.”
Tharan sits cross-legged on his cot, his chest rises and falls in steady rhythm. Beads of sweat run down his muscled, trim torso.
Alkara’s cheeks warm. She shakes her head and looks away, eyes up on the tent’s ceiling.
So he’s strong. Very strong. Chiron’s stronger. I’ve seen him and Uncle Iro and Sengmar shirtless. No big deal.
Alkara drops her arms from the embrace and pulls herself into a ball once again. Her thoughts return to a shirtless elf sitting in meditation. Alkara wriggles and shifts.
The ground shifts with her. It vibrates and trembles. Alkara looks down at the rock but nothing changes. One moment the vibration is there and the next it’s vanished. “We’re not friends,” Alkara begins, not taking her eyes from the rock underneath. “I barely know him.”
The ground lurches and Alkara catches herself from tipping. She unfolds herself and looks to Uncle Iro, “What’s… is that him?”
Iroshi gazes at the elf. “He’s a strong one.” He nods, “Most Bell Keepers are. It’s good he’s on our side, despite my earlier threat.” Uncle Iro glances sidelong at Alkara, “You could do worse than him.”
Alkara blinks, “I… what do you mean? I’m not doing anything with him.” She shakes her head, “I buy arrows from him. That’s it. Good arrows.” Heat burns through her ears, “And a great bow.” She swallows, “He likes my stories?”
Uncle Iro grins like a loon, “Mm, quite.” He looks over at the shirtless Tharan, “He’s keen on you as well.”
A knot ties itself in Alkara’s stomach. The heat in her ears filters down to her cheeks. “I don’t think… that’s… true.” She finds meeting Iroshi’s gaze impossible. “Not exactly a high-paying customer.”
“Exactly.” Uncle Iro gives her a weird look that she doesn’t appreciate. Alkara stays quiet, intent on examining the threading of her sleeve. She catches Iroshi shaking his head before he departs the tent.
Tharan holds his breath. One. Two. Three. Four. He releases it with the same count. Each beat brings a little more consciousness to his mind. The meditation complete, he opens his eyes in weary laziness. Dim grey surroundings meet his eyes. Slowly the remainder of the tent comes into focus.
Tharan visits his chin with his attention, feeling its pointedness, its near lack of sensation. He moves up to the corner’s of his mouth, twitching each separate and then together. He brings his ears to the forefront of his mind, not yet allowing his attention to drift to the nearby sounds, but instead flexing the muscles and angling the lobes in minute motions.
He continues through his body to the feet, stopping along the way at his shoulders, hands, chest, and waist. Each of the visits awakens more of his body, bringing it back from the meditative trance he’d entered. It isn’t necessary to take so long, but with the ordeal he’d been through, every extra step would aid his recovery.
Tharan swings his legs off the cot and stands. A spike of pain spears through his back. Not fully recovered after all. He flexes and moves his back muscles, shoulders, and lumbar.
Dreonna lifts her head from a book, closes it, and makes her way over to Tharan. “I should examine the wound,”
Tharan considers this is Dreonna’s equivalence to an offer. He nods and turns to face away from her.
Dreonna peels away bandages, “Hmm.” Her cold finger prods Tharan’s back. Sometimes dangerously close to the wound. “It’s closed. This is nearly healed.” She stretches the skin with gentle fingers. “You’ll need more time to recover fully.”
Tharan nods, the prognosis does not surprise him. The small needles of pain twinge as he flexes and stretches. Whatever toxin or venom the Forsaken used bewilders him and his field surgeon.
“I would prefer to examine the toxin’s effects on your tissue, but I won’t cut into you to do so.” Dreonna presses her ear against Tharan’s back. He pulls away from the abrupt contact but relaxes a moment later. “The coloration is improved. I will monitor the poison’s progression.” She rights herself, “You might recuperate entirely. Especially when we get to Three Rivers and I can concoct a potent anti-toxin.”
Tharan nods, “Yes, there is some remnants of the injury, but I will recover.”
Dreonna purses her lips, “Your wound has odd characteristics. It’s cauterized.”
Tharan pulls his shoulders back, “Yes.” His back twinges as he stands taller, “Doë’s divinity extends to their followers with the cleansing flame of creation.”
Dreonna’s brow twitches. She grimaces and looks down, through Tharan’s torso to the injury on his back, “That must have been painful.”
“For the careless,” The Bell’s weight pulls at his neck. “The Forge is not a place for inattentive or irresponsible craftspeople. Damaged vessels are remade through a melding process to bring them into a new phase of existence.” Tharan’s eyes soften, “A greater calling than before.”
Dreonna narrows her eyes. Her gaze drifts into a far-away place. Her mouth opens.
But Iroshi interrupts them, “Dre, help me with something, will you? The kids will be up in a bit.”
Dre nods, grabs her pack, and heads to Iroshi.
Tharan glances around the tent. His chestplate sits under the cot with no hint of his tunic. “Might I borrow–”
“No,” Iroshi shakes his head, smiling. “We have your old one, though not as laundered as you’re used to.” Iroshi tosses a balled cloth to Tharan, which Tharan catches. “We scavanged some things from the Forsaken, but none are fit for service.”
Tharan nods, “Perhaps I can be of assistance then. Where are they?”
Iroshi gestures to a neat pile of clothes in the tent’s corner. He turns to Dre and joins her.
Tharan holds out his tunic. The fabric cascades into a tattered remnant of its former splendor. He sighs, then reviews the pile of clothes. Most barely maintain the distinction. Tunics and breeches now are scraps of cloth, leather, and half-melted buckles. But enough material remains.
Tharan shakes his head free of a smile. This task must be completed by hand. No chant or meditation will spur its completion. Sewing dulls the mind. Even the Cimäudi Clag mend shirts or sow crops. It stands as a humbling lesson gifted to Tharan.
His perspective shifts. Tharan hums and chants with tentative hands. He holds the needle steady, and begins. The needlework needs improvement, but Doë guides his hands as in all things.
Each stitch fits into its moment in time, and comes to an end. Tharan reaches for another shirt to find the pile empty. He blinks at the empty pile of ground. Flow didn’t enter his mind, but it must have taken him nonetheless. He finishes the chant with the traditional closing. “Go n-éirí an t-ádh leis an mbrionnach.”
Serene peace falls upon Tharan. He fits the needle back into his pouch with a full heart. He lifts a tunic for inspection.
The horrid thing assaults his eyes. They are serviceable, which is the best thing that can be said about the terrible, patchwork things.
Tharan nods and slides one ill-formed tunic over his chest. He straightens and lifts the breastplate into place. By Doë’s hand the buckles and bindings remain. He folds the remaining three tunics and places them into his pack.
Tharan casts a furtive glance at Iroshi. The Half-Reäsin assists Dreonna with whatever project she engages in. Tharan nods, almost entirely to himself. He crosses the tent to Alkara, herself sitting in the same corner as last he saw. The yellow ribbon lays twisted in her grasp.
He speaks in a low voice for only her ears, “Alkara, may I join you?”
She sniffs twice and swipes at her face. She looks up into his eyes before throwing a shrug into the air, “Sure.”
Tharan takes a place next to her, too close for propriety’s sake were they in polite society. Here the tent’s close quarters requires proximity. Tharan basks in that closeness. He closes his eyes for a moment, his heart buoying up in his chest.
Tharan releases the feeling in a measured, long breath, shifting his gaze at the end toward Alkara. “I am truly sorry about Guenywvar. Losing a companion such as her can only result in a pain so poignant most could not bear to contemplate, let alone experience.” He allows a moment’s pause. “What will you do?”
Alkara narrows her eyes with a glower, “What do you mean?” She shrugs again, this time with force, “What can I do?”
Tharan pulls back an inch, “Will you not take another companion?”
Alkara recoils, “What? I’m not– What the fuck is wrong with you?”
Tharan blinks and shakes his head in minute movements, “I hear of our Bread Eaters taking new companions when–”
“Tch! Why does that not surprise me.” Alkara throws her hands up, but doesn’t release the ribbon. “They probably go through companions like dogs go through bones or a cat goes through–” Her lip pulls up in an angry scowl. “What do you want?”
Tharan, a little taken aback, immediately chides himself. How could he have expected anything other than such a volatile reaction from Alkara? “Forgive me. I wished to express my condolences but instead blundered through our cultural differences.” He sighs, “She was a good and faithful friend, it was impolite… nay, an insult, to imply that you would do anything but honor her memory.”
Alkara looks down at the ribbon. The scowl falls from her expression to leave a blank stare. “I… I just keep… losing friends.” She sniffs and wipes her nose again. “This time though–”
“Alkara?” Iroshi breaks their solitude. “We’ll be leaving soon. Start waking the children please. And gently.” He starts to turn but stops with a gleeful smile, “And you might enjoy a new tunic.”
Alkara’s cheeks fill with a warm red glow. She opens her mouth to speak but must think better of it somehow. Instead Alkara nods and stands, leaving Tharan alone on the ground. She grabs the bottom of what passes for her tunic and Tharan averts his eyes. His heart beats hard in his ears.
The feeling subsides slowly. Alkara’s soft voice floats to him as she moves among the children. He reflects on her tenderness, so contrary to how she handles monsters and, from what he’s gathered, men. Her voice, soft as it is, radiates warmth and richness. Tharan reigns his thoughts in as they wander too far and wide into a future that might never materialize.
A young Doësin half-elf boy yawns and stretches against his cot. He glances about the tent with nervous movements until his eyes find Dreonna. “Um,” the voice quaver’s in the air, “Excuse me, miss?”
Dreonna pauses in her work but doesn’t turn immediately. She sets down a mortar and pestle to address the boy.
The boy fidgets, “Aren’t you Cassius’s friend?”
Dreonna’s eyes widen, “I… I don’t–” She swallows and looks down at the boy’s feet. “I know Cassius. How do you know him?”
“He talks about you.” The boy sniffles. “A lot.” He looks left and right, as though expecting someone to chime in. “Well, not a lot a lot. But when he does talk it’s always about you. And your friends.” He tugs on Dreonna’s breeches and points at Alkara, “Does that mean she’s the Aberrin-Bane?”
Iroshi chuckles.
Alkara quarter-turns toward the boy, pausing in rousing another child. Her mouth gapes open until she frowns at Dreonna.
The alchemist pales in the dim light, somehow finding a more pallid skin tone. She leans in to Iroshi and whispers.
The boy ignores it all, “By Urdima’s Branches! The Aberrin-Bane saved me! Cassius isn’t going to believe it!”
Alkara forces her mouth to stay even. But quickly fails and smiles. She joins the boy with Dreonna and kneels, “What’s your name?”
Dull aches pound in Tharan’s chest. Most Doësin his age will have raised families with five or six children. Every declined courtship ticked the clock one step closer to the end and no children. And Alkara stands there out of reach, a phantom future with children unlikely even were she to return his affection.
Would a career hunter, a campaigner, even desire children? They would draw her attention, bring her mind back from the dangers she faced on the road. And if not? Perhaps there is a future with Alkara but no children. Happiness lives in that possibility, but at the cost of contributing to his clan’s future in a priceless manner. How could he justify such a sacrifice?
Stop it.
The rebuke punctures the fantasy. He buries the yearning and looks away. Sweat tingles on his skin as his body tenses. He’s better than this. He is Cimäudi Clag and will not succumb to emotions like these. They are to be taken hold of, mastered.
“My name’s Alwyn!”
“Alwyn is it?” Alkara says with a smile. “Well Alwyn, we’re gonna get you home, safe and–” She starts and looks at Dreonna and Iroshi. “Wait a minute. If Alwyn knows Cassius. Then…”
Dreonna nods. “These children are from The Dorsey Home.”
Tharan’s anger at himself morphs. His teeth grind. This is a fire he can stoke. He had heard that Alkara and her companions investigated the Dorsey Home. Were it in Afanen, his judgment would descend in quick justice against the traffickers. He flexes one fist.
“We’ll discuss this later,” Iroshi eyes the children, forcing the other’s attention to their presence. “Alkara, take them outside to relive themselves. Please stay close.”
Alkara nods and ushers the children outside.
“How long?” Tharan asks. The question sits unanswered in the air. The fire in his chest burns. “How long have they been trafficking children to this place?”
Dreonna shakes her head. “Rumors. Rumors say it’s been generations. It’s rumors only because someone is keeping it quiet.” She picks up the pestle and begins grinding the paste in the mortar. Her voice picks up just above the grinding of stone on stone, “I was ten when they sold me.”
“There ought to be room for them at the Sanctum.” Iroshi muses. “In the meantime, we need to keep their spirits up. It’s going to be a long trip out of here.”
Tharan purses his lips, “Not so long. I only traveled three days, by my estimation.”
Iroshi looks at him with his eyebrows raised.
“There is an entrance at the foot of Mt. Doe. Our miners found it a few centuries ago.”
Iroshi nods, “Even with the longer trip through the forest, it’s better to get out of the Depths sooner than later.”
Tharan nods, “When we reach the surface, I can send an escort with you back to Three Rivers.”
Iroshi chuckles, “Appreciate it. But no thanks.” And without another word he returns to his work.
Tharan blinks, then tilts his head back to rest on the canvas, finding the direct response preferable to any other antics the half-Reäsin might deign to visit upon him.
After a few minutes Alkara returns with the children, and Iroshi turns to them with a wide smile. The children, who are now wide awake, seem to find it difficult to stand still.
Iroshi wiggles his eyebrows playfully. “Alright kids, I have something very special for you. Are you ready?” All four children nod enthusiastically as he holds up four small vials. Each filled with a dark grey, powdery substance. Each capped with a small cork and twine wrapped around each end. “These vials are filled with magical ash.” He says as he hands each child a vial. “They’ll help hide you from the monsters of the Depths. Now, we’re going to play a game while we walk. Hold your vials close and tell me if they’re hot or cold.”
“Cold!” The children say in chorus.
Iroshi waves his hand in front of them, then theatrically reveals a sprig of spruce, seemingly out of no where. As the children gasp in delight, he murmurs a prayer to Urdima and with a flourish, draws the primal symbols in the air. The children gape at their vials. Iroshi smiles, “And now?”
“They’re hot!” They say excitedly.
“But not too hot!” Alwyn chimes in.
Iroshi chuckles and ruffles the light brown hair on Alwyn’s head, “No, not too hot. Wouldn’t want to burn anyone would we? Now, whoever’s vial grows cold first becomes the captain. The Captain’s job is to tell their adult the secret password. Are you ready for the password?”
Tharan smiles as the children nod with continued enthusiasm. Iroshi is Reäsin, through and through. Tharan wonders, not for the first time, what Iroshi’s story is. Maybe he would find out at one of their “chats.”
Iroshi stands, “Alright, one kid to one grown-up, take your pick!”
Three of the children, including Alwyn, rush toward Alkara and Iroshi, snagging hands as quickly as possible. One little boy turns and runs straight for Tharan, looking up with excitement as he realizes he gets to “keep” his grown up. Dre chuckles as she continues to pack.
Iroshi laughs, “Well, I can manage two of you, but only for a little while. Then you’ll have to walk with Dre and Chiron, got it?” The children nod. Iroshi glances at Alkara and winks at her.
Alkara gives him a faltering, heavy smile, tries a little harder to smile down at little Alwyn holding her hand.
Iroshi looks around, “Alright, everyone ready? Remember the secret password? Let’s go!”