The Childless Ones, page 48
“Stop!” she screamed, but it was too late. Yet just before the blow landed, the blade stopped in midair, inches from its intended target’s mostly bald head. Nob released his grip from the sword and it just stayed there, frozen in the air.
“What the?” Nob said, staring first at his empty hands and then at the floating blade.
An invisible force threw the sword harmlessly to the floor.
“Nob,” Sera said, “this is my friend Padgett.”
Nob looked confused for an instant but then remembered something buried deep in his memory. “That’s right! I think you mentioned him before, Ser,” he said. “Nice to meet you, and sorry about the mix-up and…you know…trying to kill you.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Padgett said in his mix of Lanzehenese and Southland accents.
“Okay,” Nob said and sat down across from the man who seconds earlier he’d tried to cut in half.
Sera stepped outside to light one of her candles on a street lamp. No sooner did she return inside and place the candle down on the desk than every candle and lantern in the room spontaneously burst to life. “He’s a sorcerer or some such shit,” she said by way of explanation to Nob.
“I prefer Cree if you must use labels,” Padgett said.
“Whatever,” she said.
Though it’d been almost ten years since Sera had last seen him, Padgett looked pretty much exactly how she remembered: a slight man with dark skin and his head shaven, except for a little stubble at his temples. The only major difference was that he wore a patch now over his right eye.
“It’s been a long time, Sera,” Padgett said.
“It has.” She slapped herself once in the face. Despite the excitement, she was still fighting off the wine sleep. “What happened to your eye?”
“Oh, I won’t bore you with all that. But how are you?”
“Is that why you broke into my office?” she said. “To see how I was doing?”
“I need your help.”
“Well, you could have left a note. Or waited outside.”
“It’s cold outside.”
It was. “Fine. What’s up?”
“Maybe you should make some tea,” he said then.
“A long story, then?” she said.
He nodded. Not exactly what Sera was looking forward to that night, but what could she do?
It was a very long story, Padgett thought. Depending on how one considered it, they might say it started long before his own birth, which itself was many, many years ago now. But perhaps the same could be said of every story—that they start long before our births and go on indefinitely long after we’re gone. Of course, such is not a very practical way to look at things.
“You, I’m sure, know of the Mandrakhar,” Padgett said, when Sera returned with the tea.
“Sure,” she said, “there’s a whole neighborhood of them up here on the north side of the Riffel.”
“Yes. And do you know what makes them different than the rest of us?” Padgett said.
“Other than the pointy ears?” she said. Padgett nodded.
“They don’t live long, right? Only fifteen or twenty years or so?” Nob said, interjecting.
“Yes,” Padgett said. “But in the old days, there was another difference. In the old days, each Mandrakhi settlement had what they called Saloryn Bai—Memory Tree. Through this Tree, they would each pass down their memories from one generation to the next. And so, though each Mandrakhar would live but a score of years, within each lived the lives of hundreds, maybe thousands, of years of their civilization.”
“How come I’ve never heard of this?” Sera said.
“Because most of the Memory Trees died a couple hundred years ago,” Padgett said, gripping the scepter beneath his cloak.
“Why didn’t they just plant new ones?” Sera said
“Each Memory Tree produces several seeds over its life, but they can only sprout when treated with a special process—”
“Sorcery,” Nob said.
“One could call it that, but it is different in nature than the powers practiced by myself or my Brothers and Sisters. This process is something long since lost even to those of my order.”
“Okay, so I’m guessing this has something to do with how you said most died hundreds of years ago,” Sera said.
“Precisely. There was one surviving Tree. In the Westwood. Halfway between here and the Inner Sea.”
“What happened?”
“Four months ago, a group of religious fanatics who call themselves the Order of Men attacked the Mandrakhi settlement and burned down the Tree, slaughtering most of the Mandrakhar of that settlement along the way.”
“It’s a terrible world,” Sera said, shaking her head. “But I still don’t see where we come in. Or where you come in for that matter.”
“I have, through some trials and tribulations, come into possession of two artifacts that I believe together will get the seeds of the Tree to sprout.”
“Trials and tribulations?” Sera said.
Padgett thought of the fateful events that had led him to come into possession of the jewel, then later, the months of searching in the dark tunnels beneath the ruins. “You really don’t have enough time for that story.”
Sera yawned a big, gaping yawn. “Okay. Well I’m glad everything worked out. Sounds like a happy ending to a tragic story,” she said.
“You misunderstand,” Padgett said. “When I became aware of what was going on in the Westwood, I headed there immediately—even calling upon some of my fellow Ilyan Brothers and Sisters to help gather and protect the surviving Mandrakhar. Still, by the time we arrived, the Mandrakhir who holds the last remaining seeds had already fled. I’ve tracked this Mandrakhir, the ‘seed keeper’ they call him, to the capital, but the city is vast and time is of the essence, less some of the Order find him before I do.”
“So that’s where I come in.”
“You are an expert at finding people and things, are you not?”
Sera sighed, looked at Nob, who shrugged his shoulders in resignation, and then looked back at Padgett. “So it sounds like you need us to start right away?”
“More for you, honored guest?” Milaeus said.
It had been three weeks since Vorlan arrived in the capital. In that time, he’d gotten a little better at understanding his host’s accented Mandrakhi, though he still had to pay extra attention when she spoke.
She offered him the basket of unleavened bread. Her son, Cairlan, had finished his own meal but was not offered more. “I graciously decline,” Vorlan said in Mandrakhi. “I require no more sustenance.” He didn’t want to take more of what little they had. They had been generous to take him in.
“Very well,” she said.
Cairlan looked at his mother. Maybe he wondered why he’d not been offered more to eat. The boy looked around three years old—nearly full-grown. If they were in the Westwood, if the Tree hadn’t been burned, it would have been only another few months before he would be brought to it to receive yulthanispel.
Vorlan reached to his side and fingered the cloth bag that held the box of seeds. He might be amongst the last of his kind to experience the Tree. He tried to recall one particular memory that had fluttered like a bird through his mind on many occasions. It made him very happy any time he recalled it, but he couldn’t seem to access it right now. The memories of the ancestors were slippery things.
The boy went to fetch water. Milaeus began cleaning up the mat upon which they’d eaten.
“Tell me, Vorlan,” she said. “Do you long for the Westwood?”
“I long for the place a small amount. I long for my friends the most,” he said.
“News of what occurred grieves me,” she said. It was only a few days since the stories of what transpired finally reached the capital—although Vorlan pretended it was only coincidence he had left home just as tragedy befell his people.
“Yes. It grieves me as well.”
That night, laying on the floor in the front room of Milaeus’s house, Vorlan couldn’t fall asleep. After two hours of rolling around, he got up. He donned his cloak, placed his small wooden box, which he brought with himself everywhere, in a canvas shoulder bag and left the house. He went quietly so as not to wake his host.
He walked south out of the Mandrakhi Quarter, through a vast area where the humans placed their dead underneath the ground, and then towards the docks on the bank of the river. The streets and alleys near the docks were still crowded with people—though Vorlan couldn’t fathom their business at this hour. Across the river, he could see the lantern towers that illuminated the Capital Building and the Imperial Palace. He had not traveled to see them up close but guessed they must be taller even than the trees of the Westwood. He sat down on one of the stone benches that lined the river.
The journey to the capital had taken him much longer than expected. He had been cautious and evaded anyone he saw up ahead on the road; any time he spied other travelers in the distance, he’d leave the road and travel through the wooded countryside for a time before eventually looping back to the highway.
After a week, while riding through treacherous terrain off the main road, Vorlan’s horse stepped where leaves made the ground falsely appear flat and tumbled to the ground. Vorlan only just managed to leap off the beast before being crushed beneath its weight.
The horse’s leg was broken, the bone pushing up against flesh near the left gaskin. He stood over the suffering animal for an hour before building up the courage to put her out of her misery. He took up his hatchet and, with all his strength, struck the horse on her underside where he thought her heart was. The horse screamed, and the terrible wound oozed blood. Vorlan, panicking now, struck the writhing horse repeatedly with the hatchet, but the horse refused to die. At last, he threw the hatchet to the dirt and picked up a stone nearby on the ground, bashing the horse on the head until she was still.
From then on, blood covering the only pair of clothes he had, Vorlan went on foot.
After weeks of walking, he arrived in the capital. Despite the stories and some hazy memories from the ancestors, he wasn’t prepared for the vastness of the city. He asked around for directions to the “house of knowledge” mentioned in the letter: the Imperial Library, it was called. Many misunderstood his speaking of the Common Dialect, but eventually he found the place.
He didn’t go inside. Instead, he just sat in the square opposite the library, the hood of his filthy cloak pulled over his head to cover his ears, and watched all the people going in and out of the magnificent stone edifice. How could he trust one of these humans after everything they’d done? It was possible that everyone he’d ever known was dead. Eventually, he rose from the bench and left.
He sought out the nearby Mandrakhi Quarter and spoke to one of the elders there, telling him he was from the Westwood but being vague about his reasons for coming to the capital—only saying he needed his presence to be kept secret. The elder reluctantly agreed not to press Vorlan for answers and, after a night, placed him with Milaeus, who had volunteered to take him in. All involved agreed to claim Vorlan was Milaeus’s cousin who had come to visit from the settlement in Vicus Remorum.
In time, Vorlan would inquire about gaining passage to this “Ilyeth” place, but for now he would rest. He needed time to recover from his lengthy and exhausting travels.
The first of the morning bells had rung by the time Vorlan returned to the house. He hoped Milaeus hadn’t risen early and worried why he wasn’t there.
As Vorlan approached the small shack, he noticed the door slightly ajar. Certainly, he had remembered to close it when he left. His body filled with dread when, upon closer inspection, he discovered the door had not merely been left open but had been forced open, the small lock cracked off and thrown to the ground.
He opened the door an inch further and there, just beyond the entryway, lay Milaeus in a gathering of her own blood, her throat slashed, her eyes open and seeing nothing. Vorlan closed the door. Had the boy been killed as well? He was too frightened to look now. Whoever had come here would be searching for him, for the seeds.
He gripped the small wooden box through his bag and started running.
On her walk to work, Corinne tried not to think about what had transpired the previous evening. After months of gentle but persistent invitations, she’d finally agreed to join Schumm for dinner at his home. Though Corinne had said she could find her own way to his house in Park West, he’d insisted on sending a carriage. His house was a modest but clean, two-story building on a narrow lane a few minutes’ walk from the river.
Schumm greeted her at the door dressed in what Corinne thought must be his best outfit: a tailored coat, which fit more snuggly than it probably once had, over a white tunic with light embroidery on the front. “Hello!” he said, “please come in, come in!” He took her hand and kissed it in a way that felt much practiced.
While Schumm’s house-lady finished preparing the meal in the kitchen, the two sat awkwardly regarding one another in the parlor. Corinne had never noticed how much ear hair Schumm had. She was relieved when he asked about the book she had started working on in the library—another copy of The Travels of Mandel Longfellow, a book she’d already copied out a dozen times.
“A fine book,” Schumm said. “A classic.”
They ate mostly in silence, the quiet only occasionally broken by Schumm’s comments on politics or Corinne’s on how delicious the stew was.
After dessert, Corinne quickly remarked as to lateness of the hour.
“Yes, yes! You are right! I will get you a coach. I should have arranged to have one waiting for you! I am a fool! I am not so used to having guests so sometimes I forget the most common courtesies. I hope you don’t—“
“It’s all right,” she said, just wanting him to stop talking.
Out on the street Schumm removed a whistle from his pocket and blew it repeatedly until a carriage came clattering by.
“Thank you for everything,” Corinne had said.
“No, thank you for coming. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Yes,” she said, and they embraced. It was only after she started disengaging from him, started turning to climb up the carriage, that she realized he’d made an attempt to kiss her—lunging face-first like the trained seals of the traveling circus that catch rings with their snouts. She continued up the carriage and pretended to not notice his advance.
“Goodbye, Schumm,” she said, only when she was safely on board.
“Goodbye,” he said.
When she reached the library that morning and entered through the main doors, Corinne tried to walk quickly by him so she wouldn’t have to face him or talk with him.
“Good morning, Corinne,” Schumm called, but she pretended not to hear and rushed past. “This morning someone came in who—”
She went up the seven flights of stairs in a near run, panting and out of breath by the time she arrived at the top. She pushed the door open to her office and inside, sitting in the spare chair, was a man she’d never seen before . . . no, a Mandrakhir.
He was slight of build with black hair down to his shoulders and just the slightest bit of whisker-like hair above his lip. Few Mandrakhir had beards. He wore a brown shirt and black trousers. His eyes were purple, which was common enough for his kind, but Corinne noticed a particular intensity in his gaze. If she were honest, she would have to say he was probably more handsome than Erlan had been. He held a small wooden box close to his chest.
“May I help you?” she said, a little shaken.
He didn’t say anything at first; he just looked at her as if she’d surprised him with her presence rather than the other way around. “Say again? I . . . apologize for my words,” he said. Mandrakhar tended to speak fast, but this one was slowed down by his struggles with the Common Dialect. “People call me…I am…Vorlan. Forgive my intrusion, but your…leader. I believe he is Shoom, let me in. He told to me that he…that you were…expected shortly and that…wisdom…dictated I wait.”
“And…what do you need from me?”
He told her. She had difficulty understanding at times, but mostly she could piece together his meaning. Some of it she knew already—about the nature of Mandrakhar and about the attack in the Westwood. But other parts of the tale he told were new: his journey, his hiding in the capital, the murder of his host the previous night, his desire to go to Ilyeth, a place she wasn’t even sure existed.
“Flynn told me I shall . . . I can trust you—that I should come to you.”
Flynn. She remembered when he was just a boy and then later how he’d helped Erlan. “Yet you didn’t find me when first you came to the capital.”
“No. I contained nervous…I did not want to trust human.”
“And now?” she said.
She could see how old Vorlan was and knew what that meant. Erlan . . . a piece of him…is swimming around in there.
“Now I trust…not all humans…I trust you.”
“Why?” she said. She wanted him to say it.
“Because…I know your face. Because…part of me, I think…loves you.”
Padgett had to take care of some “Cree business” related to this magic tree thing but said he’d check in with them in a day. He’d told Sera he’d already asked around in the Mandrakhi Quarter without luck, but Sera thought hers might be better.
Sera had lived in Alder her whole life, but she’d only just barely passed through the outskirts of the Mandrakhi Quarter once or twice. There wasn’t ever much reason for her to visit that particular corner of despair. It was one of the poorest parts of the city, with little more than a collection of run-down buildings and shanties, so it wouldn’t be a destination for a leisurely stroll. As far as for work, Sera didn’t usually work for free, and most Mandrakhar tended to be a little lacking in the money department.
There was no clear demarcation for when the Mandrakhi Quarter started; instead, one just saw the buildings get crappier and crappier until what they found hardly qualified as buildings. The cobblestone streets appeared not to have been repaired since the first Lunaris emperor and were labyrinths of missing stones and potholes.
