The Edge of a World, page 12
“Good for him,” Otar muttered, filling his mouth with oat cake to stop himself from blurting out more.
“Otar.”
Otar swallowed, fed up. “Stop it. He has chosen and made that choice clear.” He took a swig from the water flask to wash down the oat cake. “I don’t know what you think you know, but we didn’t part as lovers. There was never a promise. I discovered my own feelings too late, and Andres has now moved on. So it’s all good and I’ll survive. And one turn, all this will be in the past. So by the lords, let me be, and let it rest.”
Silence settled between them. Otar almost regretted his outburst, but he was done.
Onder didn’t move, his gaze frozen on Otar. Then, he put his food down and opened a leather pouch clipped to his belt. He fished out a smaller bag and held it out to Otar, who eyed it warily as he took it. Half expecting to find a bead inside, he shook out its contents. Instead, it was a small round stone on a leather band. The stone glinted blueish in the fading sunlight, the hue close to the bead he had left behind. He stroked his fingers over it and caught ridges. When he held it closer to his eyes, he could make out symbol-like characters etched into it all over.
“What is it?” He looked up at Onder, his fingers running over the lines.
“A gift from Andres,” Onder said with great reluctance. He looked like a man who had not only lost a battle but an entire war.
Otar looked at the stone, then back at Onder, puzzled by Onder’s reaction.
“You look unhappy. Should I not accept it?”
That earned him a raised eyebrow and a faint twinkle in Onder’s eyes. “Would serve him right,” he muttered under his breath, but he didn’t elaborate. He sighed and looked up into the sky. “It shows that my brother is a bigger fool than I had thought possible.”
Otar kept staring at him, but Onder returned to his meal, eating in silence. After it was clear the other wouldn’t say more, Otar studied the stone, wondering what the characters meant. There wasn’t much in terms of a recorded tribe language; agreements between the tribes were written either in General Common or more often in Trade Common. Internally in tribes, stories, legends, and rules were communicated verbally, often in tales and sometimes in woven patterns.
What should he do with Andres’ gift? He sneaked back a look at the other, but even after he had finished his meal, Onder resolutely avoided his gaze and stared out over the steppe.
Following an impulse, Otar slipped the leather cord over his neck and put the stone under his shirt. It settled over his heart, warming to the temperature of his skin—soon it felt as if it had always been there.
At around midturn of the fourth turn, Onder pointed out a mountain range in the distance behind which the ruins lay. Together they estimated they would make it by nightfall.
Otar was thankful because he was exhausted. Everything in his body hurt—his butt, his thighs, his back was one big throbbing mess. How a few middle-turns of not being able to move had reduced him to this bundle of pain grated.
“Are you sure about nightfall?” he asked, more to distract himself from the pain than for Onder to confirm, even if it seemed impossible far.
“Only if we don’t take a break.”
That would hurt, but then they would also be safe. Otar didn’t want to admit it, but being caught by slavers had shaken him in a way nothing had ever before, and with the tribe he had felt protected. Enough warriors and people around him to step in if someone came. But out here? It took everything in him not to jump at shadows that moved, and he knew his nights had not been as restful as he would have liked, even if Onder never said a thing. But there was an understanding glint in his eyes every morning.
Thunder rolled.
They both looked at each other and then turned in their saddles to look back. Dark clouds gathered, piling higher and higher into an ominous anvil-like shape. Lightning flashed, and more thunder traveled over the steppe, loud and booming. The yardar shook themselves at the sudden sound, but remained calm.
Onder cursed and checked the landscape beyond the side of the road. “We could seek higher ground and wait out the storm, or we go for it.”
Otar looked back once more and tried to make out their distance from the storm. He had experienced thunderstorms in jungles and mountains, but Andres had told him that out here they moved differently and could literally drown you.
“You think we could make it to Adabel?”
The clouds came rapidly closer; at the next deafening thunder, the yardar danced anxiously on their feet.
“We’ll get drenched to the bone, but we should be able to outpace its center.”
“Let’s go.”
Onder snarled, and the yardar picked up the pace. Yardar were sturdy mounts but bred for long-term running and not sprinting. Stubborn creatures who would rather bury their feet in the sand than follow commands that exhausted them. But out here they didn’t disobey and ran faster and faster, never slowing down.
The hard ride aggravated every muscle in Otar’s body, but the quickening thunder and blinding, almost staccato-like lightning, spoke of the urgency that they needed to make it to shelter. It felt like turns before they finally raced into the mountain landscape. The rain reached them before they made it to the opening that would lead them deeper into the mountains to the excavation camp. Cold hard drops pelted down on them, drenching them to the bone, as Onder had predicted. Otar was sure he looked like a drowned rat.
Two guards who had sought shelter behind a stone wall, shielded halfway in, still checked them over, before ushering them through. More sentries eyed them from different hideaways along the path and above them. But then one of them recognized Onder, calling something down in Tribe, and Onder laughed before answering back. The remaining guards, relaying the news from one to the other, had friendlier faces, but they never took their eyes off the newcomers.
As soon as they were through and out in the open again, people came running. After Otar dismounted, dark fabric and the smell of sun and spices engulfed him.
Otar hugged his mentor back. “I have arrived, Aaoran-peras.”
Chapter 13
“Don’t think I didn’t see the new earring in your right ear. There was just no time to mention it or to even congratulate you. I wonder if you ever thought that life for you would turn out like this when I found you injured in the forest and brought you to Doctor Mare. And now you are wearing the token of his affection as your tradition demands. I congratulate you two. I know with you traveling all the time it hasn’t been easy, but I’m very happy that the Doctor takes you on your own terms.”
(From: Aaoran-peras’ private collection of letters from the scholar Otar)
After Aaoran could be convinced to let Otar go, the rain coming down hard still, Aaoran led him into the heart of the camp. Dozens of tents in all shapes and colors were clustered there under a massive stone overhang, barely supported by thin, rocky columns carved out by wind and rain. Onder detached himself from the group and pointed to a setup that looked more tribal, mentioning that he would ride back with first light. Aaoran nodded at that, and with a wave, Onder was gone.
It took a dizzying number of lefts and rights before Aaoran deposited Otar in a small tent, almost all the way at the back of the encampment, and promised to send someone with something to warm him up and that they would talk later.
Despite its size, the tent was comfortable, and more important, dry. It had a low bed, a table with a chair, and a trunk. Otar put his pack down and pulled out all his meager belongings, kept dry by oilcloth, and stared at them. He was grateful to be alive and yet, losing all the tools ached; they had been the first thing he had bought when he arrived at Rasanell, it had made his new path in life so more real. Perhaps Aaoran could spare some before he was able to buy some from a merchant.
He slipped out of his wet clothing, hung them up over the chair, and then put on the ones given to him by the tribe. They were sturdy enough but Otar was hesitant to use them for crawling around in a ruin, as they were of finer quality then his other clothes, and a gift. Another thing he needed to inquire about with Aaoran: new clothes.
He slipped into the shirt, undergarments and the slightly loose pants, leaving out the heavy coat with an expensive-looking waxed outer layer—Otar had resisted taking it, but Andres had insisted. Now Otar was even more grateful for it—should the rain persist; he would at least stay somewhat dry.
The tent flap opened, and Aaoran stuck their head in, eyes closed. “Are you decent?”
Otar snorted. “I am.”
Aaoran stepped in, water pooling at his feet, and closed the opening behind them. Sweeping a critical eye over him, Aaoran said, “You look ill.”
Otar shrugged and busied himself with moving his things around. He pulled out a new notebook Andres had found somewhere and paper and pencil and set them out on the table, then shoved a few more pieces of clothing into the trunk, and finally set his pack beside the bed. “It has been rough. My strength is still not quite there, but it’s getting better. We also crossed over in four turns.”
Aaoran smiled grimly. “I won’t insult you by asking if you’re up to it, but are you sure you’re up to the task?”
Otar raised an eyebrow, which seemed to convey the correct answer, as Aaoran nodded, satisfied.
“Let me know if you need a break. Onder told me it looked very bleak when they found you.”
Otar sat down on his bed. “I remember little of it.” There was darkness, and a voice, and something else, something intangible.
“Maybe it’s for the better.” Booming thunder almost obscured their words, followed by shouting and the noisy chatter of the yardar. Aaoran sighed, when they didn’t shut up again. “I need to check this. Stay inside and get warm again. No sense in getting a coughing cold on top of that still healing injury.”
After a stern gaze to drive their point home, Aaoran swept out.
Amused, Otar shook his head. Aaoran was still the same after all the summers they hadn’t seen each other—a comforting thought that some things remained the same.
He checked his damp clothing, then skimmed through the notebook and the papers he had used for the wedding mantle sketches. He made a few notes.
Every time he glimpsed the elaborate piece of work, his stomach lurched, and after one too many times, he put the drawings to the side. Instead, he added a few observations from the journey through the steppe and sketched in rough strokes a few more of the animals he had spotted. A steppe wolf cub peeking out from a depression in the ground, a mouse scurrying past, a bird of prey soaring high in the sky.
Otar let his thoughts drift back to his stay with the tribe and found himself drawing some of Andres’ newer tattoos, intricate patterns full of stories, shivering slightly as he remembered tracing them on skin, Andres’ wild gaze, and the softness of his touch. The monster had feasted, and Otar had felt alive.
“Anyone in?” A thin voice called over the still booming thunder.
“Yes,” Otar said, distracted.
A slender man bustled in with sparkling blue eyes and a ready smile. He was wrapped in what looked like a heavy tunic and a thick woolen mantle, water dripping down from his soft-looking hair.
“The head sent me to bring you food,” he held up a tray.
Otar nodded and pointed next to him on the table. There was a bit of space left between the spread papers.
The man put the tray down and hovered at Otar’s side.
“Anything else?” Otar asked after a few moments when the other didn’t move.
“My name is Deron.”
Otar stared at the other. He was exhausted, cold and hungry—he was in no mood for games.
The young man hovered a heartbeat longer, then his smile slipped when Otar said nothing else. He slumped his shoulders and slouched away.
Otar waited until the flap closed behind him, then he walked over and secured it.
The food he had brought was a porridge made from some unknown grain topped with a dark sauce and preserved vegetables; the tangy acidic taste strong on his tongue. It was a blander meal than the tribe had given him, but it was warm and filling and everything he needed at the moment, but it left him disappointed.
With a sigh, he pushed the empty bowl away and settled into the bed, burrowing down under layers of blankets and furs. He closed his eyes and listened to the pelting rain and moving thunder.
Now that he had finally arrived, excitement spread through his body. He was curious about what Aaoran wanted to show him. He was looking forward to exploring the ruin, ever hopeful he could pry some secrets out of the Ancients’ long dead hands.
At the same time, he was lost, untethered, as if he was missing a part of himself, as if—
He forced his thoughts away from that slippery road and rolled onto his side, drawing up his knees. The thunder passed over them, the rain picked up, voices called outside—Otar concentrated on the noise and let it lull him to sleep.
The vibrating sound of a gong woke Otar. He opened his blurry eyes and wondered where he was. The tent he had stayed in ten and six summers ago at the Bakusaran ruins? The different inns and caves he stayed in his travels? The tribe’s tent? They all blurred together. In the last turns, his thoughts had become increasingly sluggish to keep up, the memories all overlapping each other, running into one big mess. Bit by bit, he was losing the grip of what was present and what was past. As if he had somehow reached the capacity of what his mind could hold.
Seeing things where nothing should be didn’t help his state of mind. Things like the ghost in the ruins. The one in the mountains didn’t had one. But would the ghost be waiting here? And if so, would it for once reveal some of its mysteries?
At the thought of it, the monster perked up, its tendrils reaching for something that wasn’t there yet. Otar tried to suppress it again, but it only settled down a fraction and kept shimmering under the surface.
With a sigh, he peeled himself out of the bedding, feeling more rested than he had in a while. The air was cold and damp, but the thunderstorm seemed to have passed.
He washed his face and pulled a thick woolen shirt over the one he had slept in. When he slipped into his boots, he made a face at the lingering dampness in them and then stepped out.
Having inspected ruins on his own for the last summers, he had forgotten how overwhelming a whole dig site could be. People were already bright awake, hurrying in various directions, calling for each other in Common or more regional languages. A group of Peral scholars, somber in their black robes, stood around a table with notes thrown over it, locked into a heated discussion; workers armed with buckets and shovels marched into the direction where the ruins must lay, shoving each other and laughing; a merchant, just arriving through the passage he and Onder had ridden through the night before, was being led to a big tent, his yardar braying in agitation.
The gong sounded a second time, the last call for the morning meals, and Otar followed a stream of people hopefully in the direction of the kitchen tent. His stomach growled, and he was sure he would find Aaoran there, sweet-talking the kitchen matron into giving them a second or third portion—Aaoran was always hungry. They were seldom sitting still, constantly on the move, looking for something, inspecting, wondering—the same as Otar. It was probably why they got along so well.
Otar nodded at a few vaguely familiar faces. Scholars he might have encountered at the university in Rasanell, or at one of the ruins he had traveled to that had an excavation running. They greeted him back in the same superficial manner. Otar had never entrenched himself into the research circles, always staying apart to keep his own secrets from being discovered.
Because the ghost, which called itself Maugi, talked.
Otar hurried into the food line. A woman pushed a bowl with a grain porridge topped with nuts, dried fruits, and a small dollop of honey into his hands. He smiled his thanks before turning around and after a few more steps, claimed the first free seat he saw.
They’d put up rows of long tables, as well as areas with seat cushions for those that preferred sitting that way. For Otar it was a table, a bit off to the side, slightly obscured by the massive kitchen tent. He ate. Once more, he was missing the spices he had gotten used to in the last few turns with the tribe. And he should really stop comparing the food—he needed to let go and clinging to these thoughts wasn’t helping.
A few moments later, a cup of brew was put before him, and another person sat down on the opposite side.
Otar eyed Onder. “I thought you’d already left.” The sun had been up for a while now.
“Eager to get rid of me?” His tone was flippant, but harshness lingered on his face.
Yes. No. It was complicated. Otar settled on, “Maybe.”
Onder, in the middle of taking a sip from his own cup, paused and let it sink. “That was the most honest word I have ever heard out of your mouth.”
Otar rolled his eyes. His feelings for Andres and where they stood with each other were out in the open by his own doing. It was time to move on, and Onder was a literal reminder of what he couldn’t have. Symbolical and physical—they were twins. Even if Onder didn’t have the same scar, was thinner, and had different braids and tattoos.
Either way, his presence wasn’t helping his peace of mind at all.
“Otar.”
Otar swallowed and met his gaze. Onder smiled, but it held a painful edge. “It’s alright, I understand more than you think.”
Something heavy was pressing Onder down. It was unusual seeing the confident warrior so insecure.
“You know I was born as a sister to Andres, but I always wanted to be a brother. When I was very young, I fell in love with a boy from another tribe. We would meet at the trade markets and make plans, encouraged by our families, waiting until the winters would catch up, until we were old enough to be able to wed.
“When I decided not to be a sister anymore and became Andres’ brother, my love wasn’t able to accept it. Called me all the awful names people had thought up for those who were born different. It hurt, it still does, but I got over it and him.” He smiled more genuinely. “So yes, I do understand the devastation of a broken heart.”
