The Edge of a World, page 17
Turas dismounted and walked around to help Jasner. The heir looked at the offered hand and then got down on his own. Turas frowned, but let it go. Then he turned from left to right, as if he was searching for something or someone in the crowd. Otar sunk deeper into the shadows and focused on Andres instead.
The steppe rider stood straight with his head held high, the beads glinting in the sun. As always, when he was amid friends and trusted allies, he had one hand on the pommel of his sword and the other in the sash. Otar’s heart swelled. Even when he bowed to the heir, he didn’t give an inch about his own position.
Otar contemplated slipping away. Not just to his tent, but further beyond the ruins, wandering the Seven Lands indefinitely. He turned his body; the foot hovering over the stony ground—leaving Andres was the most unbearable thought he had ever had.
He huffed. Not losing out on the ruins had come first to his mind, but Andres stole himself into them as well. He planted his feet and thought it through for once. Giving up this place would be hard. These ruins held secrets he was desperate to uncover. There was an air of something he couldn’t quite put his fingers on; he was still missing a puzzle piece.
The crowd in front of him shifted. Otar used the moment to slip back to his tent. Soon they would summon him. He sunk down on his chair, his arms on his thighs, his head down, his thoughts running in circles.
It was Aaoran who found him first.
“Hiding?”
Otar raised his gaze and tried for a smile. It felt stretchy and fake. “You have no idea.”
Aaoran stepped further in, let the flap fall close, and stopped. “I have more of an idea than you may think.”
Otar realized they really might. He hadn’t been subtle in his letters after the incident, including his sudden departure from the university. Before he wrote at length about the two and later three of them, and then they were just forgotten. His mentor must have been curious, but they had never pressed for more.
“You never asked what happened.”
Aaoran crossed their arms, studying Otar, choosing their words with care. Their eyes flickered through the tent before they snapped back to Otar. “Would you have told me?”
“I wouldn’t have lied.” He never did.
“Ah,” Aaoran stated and then, “you would have said it’s complicated and left it at that.” Their eyes twinkled, and then the amusement dimmed.
Otar looked away, fiddling with his tunic. Aaoran was right. That is exactly what he would have done. Every question about himself, his past, his family and especially his research, he deflected.
And he was tired of it. Tired of keeping those thoughts and weird truths inside him, all these fears and questions without answers. There was no help, no one to sort it through with, to make sense of it all. He inhaled. The weight of what he was about to do crushed him.
Aaoran wasn’t prone to hysterics or fast verdicts. He weighed facts, considered options, and thought about possibilities.
Otar licked his lips. The words were on the tip of his tongue, knocking against his teeth. The silence dragged on too long already, but when Otar dared to look at them again, Aaoran was watching him with an open gaze.
“I think we need to talk.” Otar’s voice almost broke, fear choking him.
“As you wish.” They accentuated the words with a formal bow, folding their hands in front of their chest, and then bowing down, bending in half. Otar was embarrassed at the level of reverence Aaoran showed but didn’t dare to dissuade them from it.
The tent flap moved, and Andres stepped through, stopping when he noticed them both. His eyes darted from one to the other while taking in the somber air.
“Anything I should know about?” His hand tightened around the sword pommel. The fingers in his sash twitched—Otar flustered at the protectiveness.
Aaoran rose from the bow and smiled at Andres before speaking to Otar. “We’ll talk later.”
Otar nodded, and then he was alone with his lover.
Andres rolled his shoulders back, letting go of something, then looked at Otar. With one step, he was close, knelt down, wound his arms around Otar and tugged him close.
Otar came with little resistance, pressing his face against Andres’ stomach as if it was the most natural thing to do. The smell of leather and sweat and dust surrounded him, calming him. They didn’t quite fit together yet, but here, like this, it gave Otar hope. Perhaps they’d never get back the easy rapport from five summers ago, but as long as they were being honest …
Honesty. Had Otar ever been honest?
“Not eager to see the heir?” Andres rumbled.
Otar collected his thoughts, disregarding all the words that wanted to spill out of him. “There will be enough time to meet him properly.”
With the little patience Turas had, it would probably be sooner rather than later.
Andres hummed. The vibrations tickled Otar’s face, fingers curled into his hair, scratching at the nape.
“You know whatever happens, I’ll be by your side.”
“I know,” Otar mumbled into the clothing—because that was the logical answer.
Leaning back Andres cradled Otar’s face in his hands. His callouses scraped over the soft skin of the cheeks, those dark eyes wild.
“No, whatever comes, I’ll stand with you.”
The emphasis wasn’t lost on Otar. He searched Andres’ face for a sign of what he meant, but they remained unreadable—another piece missing.
“Andres?”
“Andres!” someone shouted at the same time, and the moment broke.
Andres studied his face again and then, after a demanding kiss, he was gone, demanding in a gruff voice what was going on.
Otar sunk back, blinking into the dancing sunbeams, wondering what had happened.
Waiting for something to happen could fray even the greatest of patiences. After three turns of neither Turas approaching him nor a messenger coming for him, Otar, overcome by the jittery feeling inside him, got tetchy and started snapping at everyone. With Andres receiving the brunt of it, yet taking it in stride.
But after yet another minor incident morphed into a full-blown shouting match, Andres took his unused bedroll from his pack and left their tent in the middle of the night.
Otar curled into himself, staring at the tent wall, not finding any sleep.
Aaoran handed him a fresh cup of brew in the morning—just the way he liked it—before Otar was even close to the kitchen line.
He raised an eyebrow but took the gift.
“News travels fast,” they said cryptically and then nodded at a tent, where Onder emerged, followed by Andres.
Heat spilled over his cheeks, and Otar sighed before taking a sip. He needed to apologize, but for that, for it to make sense to Andres, he needed to explain what was eating at him. But was he ready for that?
“Shall we talk?” Aaoran said from his side, sipping his own brew.
Otar exhaled and blinked into the rising morning light. “We shall.”
A man, wearing the colors of Rasanell’s royal family, materialized beside him, startling Otar enough that the brew sloshed out of his cup.
“Yes?” Otar asked while mourning his drink.
“His Imperial Highness Jasner ne Rasanell, Heir apparent to the throne of the Jewel of the Wooden Lands, requests your presence.”
Otar stared at the sad remaining dregs. “Now?”
The messenger stared at him as if he didn’t understand the question.
Otar sighed and looked at Aaoran, who smiled serenely. “I’ll find you later.”
Aaoran nodded, turned, and strode away.
Otar made a wavy hand at the messenger. “Lead the way, then.”
The heirs’ accommodation, the royal tent, had been erected at the furthest end under the mountain cliff. There was a small indentation there, almost like a cave, but not as deep. The royal tent stuck out from all the surrounding tents by its size and elaborate designs painted on the outer walls. Four grim-looking soldiers guarded it. In the distance, close enough to come running when needed, steppe riders made their rounds. Otar was sure that atop the stone walls other lookouts kept watch. No harm would befall the heir to the throne.
Otar snorted.
The messenger threw him a gaze that stated Otar wasn’t displaying sufficient humiliation for being summoned, but was too well-trained to comment on it.
The guards checked the courier first before they scrutinized Otar. Then they nodded and stepped away to let them through.
The messenger held open the left side of the double flap and announced Otar before scurrying away. Otar wished dearly that he could do the same.
He looked over his shoulder and wondered how far he would come before the rustling of clothes drew his attention back.
The tent was sectioned off. There was a front room with seat cushions and colorful rugs, and a low table held confections and fruits. Through a thin gauze fabric, Otar glimpsed a small desk covered in papers and scrolls. Jasner had always been diligent in his duties. Somewhere to the left, heavy fabric obscured the sleeping area.
Turas was seated at the desk measuring him through the delicate curtain. Movement behind the sturdier one indicated Jasner’s whereabouts.
Otar kept his gaze steady and his feet planted at the entrance, not moving an inch—he knew the protocol. Otar hated it, but Turas wholeheartedly embraced it, wearing it like a shield around him. Because the only thing Turas ever wanted was standing beside Jasner, but many envied his position, and protocol kept the balance in his favor. That was probably why he had been so hard in letting the accident go and shut him out. Jasner remained friendly after everything.
Turas didn’t rise or motion him forward. They were locked in a stalemate until Jasner emerged. He paused, looked between Turas and him, and sighed.
Otar furrowed his brows. That was a weakness Jasner had never allowed himself to show before. At first glance, the heir appeared as always, dark skin, even darker eyes and black hair, kept in a low bun at the nape of his neck. Maybe it was the dim light in the tent, but there were lines now around his eyes and mouth that hadn’t been there seven summers ago.
Jasner looked tired, a tiredness that was Otar’s fault.
To distract himself from the uncomfortable feeling in his stomach, he bowed deep. “My prince.”
There was another sigh, but Otar waited, keeping his gaze firmly on the floor. They knew that this display of submission wasn’t for Jasner alone, but also for Turas.
The murmured command for him to rise sounded loud in the quiet between them. When Otar was looking at them again, Jasner waved him to the cushions, and he and Turas settled opposite him.
As there were no servants present, it was on Turas to serve them brew. First Jasner, then Otar, and lastly himself.
The silence stretched as they all took a sip. The brew had a more earthy flavor, imported from the northern regions. Otar let the taste roll over his tongue, chasing the bitterness embedded in it.
They had summoned him, so it was on them to start the conversation. As he had previously found with Aaoran, he was tired. He had done what they had asked of him, written endless letters of his findings, or the lack thereof, talked at length about everything he tried, and it wasn’t enough?
“So, nothing new to report?” Turas’ tone dripped with contempt.
And Otar was done. “By the lords, you know I’d tell you first!” he hissed, too angry to keep his voice level, tired of the games and charades.
Seven summers he had wandered now through the Seven Lands. Seeing all its wonders and endless beauty, researching the Ancients, crawling over every inch of stone he could find, but finding nothing. Leaving behind a despair in him he couldn’t quite place, and that had had nothing to do with the accident.
Many scholars before him had been in the same situation, and yet they had carried on—had none felt the abyss inside them?
“Are you sure?” Turas put his cup down with more force than necessary. Apparently, he wasn’t the only one with a temper. Otar looked at his once friend—the rumbled robe, the blond locks in disarray, the brows drawn together—he appeared as exhausted as Jasner, even more so.
Guilt gnawed at Otar’s stomach.
“Turas,” Jasner said, and with that one word, they fell silent.
Otar stared into his brew. They had had endless cups of this blend back in Rasanell, talking endlessly, discussing all things of interest. His heart made a double beat, and he ignored it, not dwelling on the painful feeling.
“I found nothing because the Ancients left nothing behind besides crumbling stone and strange symbols on the walls.” When he had asked Maugi, the ghost had fallen silent and not returned for three ruins.
“You said that you would find answers, that you would find a solution to restore what was taken from Jasner, to make him whole again. Have you failed?” Turas leaned forward. “If so, you know the punishment.”
“I never agreed to anything! I stated I’ll try, but I didn’t make any promises,” Otar hissed, mindful of the guards outside.
“You willingly hurt him!”
“Enough.” Jasner’s voice wasn’t loud, but it cut through their shouting. One flick of Jasner’s eyes and Turas closed his mouth with a click, brows drawn together in confusion. Besides his own turmoil, Otar felt pity for him.
Jasner then turned his attention to Otar. “I apologize. This wasn’t why I told Turas to send for you. I should have read the letter before he sent it out. But as previously, he cannot let the matter go.”
Otar blinked at him.
Jasner smiled. A true one, not the ones reserved for court. “Yes, I wanted to ask if you had found something new, and while I didn’t expect it, because, as you said, you would have informed us, there is always the slight bit of hope. Also, it would be fascinating from an academic viewpoint to know more. That has been the reason for the continued support of the excavations.”
Otar stared at him, at the soft smile and the gentle expression. The feelings he once had for him, for them both, had established a strong friendship—the ending had been devastating.
“Then why am I here?”
“I miss you, my friend.”
“Oh,” Otar said stupidly. Was it as simple as that? His eyes went to Turas, whose face was a thundercloud. The lips pressed into a thin line, the whole body coiled inward, ready to jump forward.
Otar’s gaze drifted around to collect his thoughts. This was a development he hadn’t seen coming—not since he had almost drained Jasner of all his life force.
“This wasn’t what we talked about,” Turas said into the silence, his stare glued to Otar.
Jasner took a sip from his brew, putting it down in a delicate movement. “No, you told me what I should do and never listened to my objections in this matter.”
Turas sputtered, his cheeks turning red in anger.
“It was an accident, Turas, because I thought I knew better. I was arrogant, and for that, I paid the price.” He sighed, exhaustion spreading over his face as if he had been holding it together until this moment. “But you? You never accepted my view, thinking I couldn’t understand what had happened.” He shook his head. “I had always hoped that you’d come to your senses on your own. But this ends now. For the last time, I’ll repeat myself: This was never Otar’s fault, and I wish it would be handled accordingly. If you disagree, I will release you from your vows, but don’t expect me to ever take you back.”
Turas’ eyes bulged, his mouth open, but no sound came out. His fingers trembled, from anger or fear, Otar couldn’t tell.
Jasner interlaced his hands and rested his arms on his legs, sitting upright, his head high, unwilling to give in even an inch. There he was, the ruler he would one turn become. The eyes polished stone, unwavering, unforgiving. Turas’ entire posture turned to stricken, as if everything he had ever cared for was now slipping through his fingers.
Then, as if the strings were cut from a wooden puppet the entertainer on Rasanell’s streets used to tell stories with, his body collapsed into itself.
“I understand.”
Chapter 19
“You never asked what happened at the university. Why I stopped mentioning Jasner and Turas and what we had. I know you said it so that I wouldn’t lie to you, but I’m nonetheless grateful. The horrors of that day followed me for a long time into my dreams and waking moments. Touching someone filled me with dread for a long time. When Andres sought me out in the jungle and saved me, it was the first skin-to-skin contact in many turns, and I was so surprised by it, that I forgot about it all for a moment. Accepting Andres’ closeness after that was almost embarrassingly easy.”
(From: Otar’s letters to Aaoran, unsend)
Otar’s mind was still reeling when he walked back. Once Turas had bowed his head in submission, they had turned to more inconspicuous topics. It was surreal after all of Turas’ accusations and hurtful words. When Otar had left, he could feel eyes burning into his back.
Was it really over? Jasner had saved Turas’ life when he had been very young, and he paid the life debt with absolute devotion to Jasner—maybe it was even love. Would Turas ever accept a truce?
Otar strode down the stone road to the gate. The sun was now low on the horizon. When he had arrived at the royal tent, the guards had him classified as not a threat. Which was ironic, because he was.
Long ago, he had found a small leather-bound book, wedged between two old encyclopedia volumes in a corner of the Rasanell library that saw little traffic, if the amount of dust and cobwebs was any sign.
The text was a transcript of a transcript from an even older document that held a witness account told by the second cousin of an archivist and so forth, speaking of old legends and myths that were transformed beyond recognition. A half-page near the end, talked about soul eaters. The soul eaters lived in big white buildings, with round roofs and twisted spires. They could travel vast distances in the blink of an eye, wore peculiar clothing—long flowing robes—and ate the souls of people, sucking them dry and leaving only a husk behind.
