The Edge of a World, page 4
The elder hesitated and then let his shoulders drop. “That would be kind.”
They stared at each other; the night cicadas took up their lone song, interspersed with the ribbit ribbit of the frogs from the river pools. Laughter drifted over. Someone sang a lullaby.
Otar finally gave in. “What did I wake?”
“We call it the Keeper.”
“I’ve never heard of one.” Otar inched to his table. He itched to write down the information the other provided.
The elder sighed, and Otar stared at him. The elder was avoiding his gaze and looking out through the open window. Then his eyes went to Otar, expression intense, and this time Otar wanted to run away from it.
“I never thought you’d actually make it inside. I never expected you could wake it.” The elder paused. “There are legends passed from ancestor to ancestor. Legends that speak of an unprecedented evil. Once it resided in these mountains a very long time ago.”
“The void monster.”
But the elder shook his head.
“Something else. Our ancestors called them the white devils.” His gaze flicked over Otar, surely noting his almost white hair, and Otar resisted hiding it under his hands. “We came once from the north, fleeing an evil that did unspeakable things. And yet when our ancestors arrived at this mountain the same devils had already been here, building the place you have now discovered.
“Our ancestors lost so much and had nothing more to give, so in their desperation they fought back, but they pushed too hard, not knowing what would happen. They woke the Keeper, the guardian the white devils had with them.
“Here, the legends are not clear what exactly happened, but the Keeper went mad and threw off its chains, chasing down friend and foe.
“The Keeper raged and raged, destroying everything in its wake, so our ancestors fled, hid in the mountains, and felt the tremble in the walls and the floors for turns and turns. The devils weren’t able to contain the Keeper and so they fled as well.
“When the last of them was gone, the Keeper fell silent.” The elder licked his lips. He shook his head and continued. “Our ancestors waited in fear, and they waited, and they waited, but the Keeper did not come for them, nor did the devils return. To be sure, they purged the stories and legends, and only the elder of the village will be told the truth. Hoping it would be enough to let the Keeper sleep, and for the devils to forget about us.”
Otar tapped a finger against his chin. “This is the first time I’ve ever heard a story like this.”
The elder didn’t comment.
Otar let his hands drop and slumped. “You want me gone.”
The elder inclined his head. “You woke the Keeper. You don’t belong here.”
The comment shouldn’t sting as much as it did. But Otar was reminded that he belonged nowhere. Not in this village, not in Rasanell, not in his own home, and not with … no, every place he traveled to had rejected him.
“When Marit has recovered and is in the right mind to hear it, I’ll tell him you said goodbye.” The eyes of the elder weren’t unkind, but hard. “Someone will bring you provisions and the letter that has arrived in the last turn.”
Otar made a formal bow. “Thank you for your hospitality.”
The elder only nodded and walked out, leaving Otar alone with the encroaching night and his thoughts.
Not long after, a woman brought the promised food and one message. Regardless of how they parted, the elder had been generous. The food was enough to last him a few turns.
The new letter was from Turas, the adviser to the Heir from Rasanell. He eyed it with trepidation, but then he noticed the letter from his mentor he had left on his desk before the disastrous trip. He opened that one instead.
Otar,
Whatever you are doing, leave it be and come to the steppe. We found something you must see. Ask for the Adabel ruin at the Patreshka University. They will arrange a guide to bring you to me.
Come.
Forever yours,
Aaoran
There was no date. He read the missive thrice, making sure he didn’t miss a hidden meaning or any instructions, but those few sentences were all that was there. At least now he knew what to do next. He penned a short reply to send so that Aaoran had an idea of when he could expect Otar. He estimated it would take him roughly eight turns to make it to Patreshka, depending on his method of travel and the path he took. Then, if he remembered the map with the ruin locations well enough, it would be another few turns before he would reach Adabel.
He searched in his memories for what he read about the Adabel ruins. They were on the smaller side, close to a little mountain range cutting off the steppe to the ocean. Many summers ago, scholars had found small clusters of buildings hidden under sand and rock, but not much more. They suspected it might have been larger than it seemed, but other scholar factions hotly contested the idea. At the same time, the interest in the ruins and the Ancients waned, and the funding became tight. Shortly after, they abandoned the site.
Four summers ago, he almost did the trek to the ruins out there, but then he chose a different direction—now he was going, anyway.
It was hard to suppress the bitter laughter at the irony.
When dawn heralded the oncoming turn, Otar left the village without saying goodbye to anyone—the elder would spin his own tale on why he’d gone, and, despite their interest in him and his travels, he and the villagers hadn’t been close.
It proved once more that he was nothing but a stranger passing through. Aaoran would call him dramatic at those thoughts, telling him he’d just not found his people yet, and that he should give it time.
It was slow going, the turns spent in the mountains still clung to his bones, making every step harder than it should be. He missed his yardar; it got injured right before he reached the village and needed to heal. He left a note for it to be given to someone in need because returning for it now would probably not be a good idea.
The ground was hard and cold, and the forest seemed to watch him more than usual.
On the third turn, he was lucky. He crossed paths with a traveling caravan of merchants that were going to Patreshka and were willing to take him on.
They didn’t travel faster than he alone did, but it was welcome company. The run in at the ruin had sapped too much strength out of him. The monster inside him gnawed at Otar’s bones. Here, with so many people, energy ran high and the monster could satisfy itself by taking bits and pieces here.
The group was a merry bunch who traveled on this route every season. There was a core group that had originally formed the caravan, and they had picked up and dropped off different people along their journeys.
The leader was a massive woman from the north with broad shoulders and hands that could rip Otar apart. She had a no-nonsense attitude and kept everything running smoothly. When he first asked to come aboard, she scrutinized him, eyeing his thin arms. Which was fair. He was tall but thin-limbed and gangly, and he looked like someone who spent all his time indoors bowed over books—which he did. However, his travels over the last summers had put a little more muscle on him and had added color to his skin.
The leader sighed when Otar said he could do anything, not quite believing him, but in the end she took pity and relented. “You can help Berat with smaller tasks, then.”
And this was how Otar was tasked with doing chores when they settled down for the night. Getting water for the cooking, finding firewood, moving things in and out from the storage caravan for the cook of the communal meal. Berat, the other man on the job, was younger than him and nice enough—he reminded Otar a lot of Marit, but without the gleam of worship in his eyes. Instead, they held an edge that betrayed Berat’s outward and easygoing nature. Otar had seen the same hardness in Aaoran’s eyes when they talked about the past.
Then, everything had seemed larger and easier and newer. Now …
With a sigh, he brushed away the thoughts of the past and picked up another dry looking branch.
“That’s a heavy sigh,” Berat commented with amusement. He was close in height to Otar and heavier. His muscles had the same wiry structure Otar often saw on the steppe riders, even if Berat was missing the same hair color and complexion. Granted, he had only ever seen a certain faction of steppe riders, the ones Andres and his twin Onder had overseen to guard the Bakusaran ruins—under contract with Aaoran. The ruins were close to Otar’s home village, and Aaoran had showed them to him when Otar was ten and six summers old.
It was hard to pin down where Berat was from since his accent was non-existent. This either meant he had an excellent education or he had moved very often.
“Otar?” Berat’s smile shifted, showing an unfamiliar edge.
Otar shook his head. “I apologize. My mind was elsewhere.”
Berat gave him a look that said it was evident, and Otar grinned ruefully. He threw the branch in his hands to Berat, and Berat caught it in one smooth movement. Otar whistled. Berat bowed and put the branch onto the stack.
“Boys!” the voice of the caravan leader echoed through the forest.
“You’d think being almost thirty summers would count for something,” Otar grumbled, while Berat called back, “Coming!” Together, they hefted the bundle up and half-carried, half-dragged it out of the woods.
A blacksmith, traveling with the group for the second time, took care of the fire, while an old woman, on her last journey to settle down with a daughter in Patreshka, cooked. Berat and Otar cut the vegetables and meat and handed the cook everything when she needed it.
It was dark when they were all allowed to claim their own food portion. Berat and Otar kept close enough to the group in case of trouble, but they sat down sufficiently far away to have some privacy.
The meal was tasty and hearty, a mix between a vegetable stew and a porridge with a grain that Otar wasn’t familiar with.
“What are you doing in Patreshka?” Otar asked after a moment of silence while they ate.
Berat rolled his shoulders back, his spoon scraping over the dish’s bottom. When the food was gone, he put the bowl down and stared into the fire, his brows furrowed. “I did business on the southern islands, but I have been away too long. It is time to return to the steppe.”
“Where is your tribe traveling?”
Otar possessed a rudimentary knowledge of tribe culture. In the past, he had pestered Andres and Onder with hundreds of questions about the way they lived and their customs, about the beads in their hair and the songs they sang every evening. They had indulged him, telling him all kinds of stories and tidbits, particularly about their own tribe that traveled the central part of the steppe. There were more tribes—along the eastern mountains, in the deep south, and the far north—all of them with their own unique customs and traditions, and none of them ever the same.
Berat licked his lips and after a moment, said, “They are dead.”
“I’m sorry.”
But Berat shook his head. “It doesn’t matter.”
Otar didn’t press. Instead, he rose and extended a hand to Berat. He looked at it for a long time, and then he smiled, grabbed it, and let himself be hauled up.
They picked up their dishes, washed them at the basin, and then stored them dutifully. They informed the leader that they were done for the turn, and she sent them off with a lazy gesture.
Otar slept beside Berat in one of the storage caravans. It was a tight fit, and especially the first night had been awkward, but it also made certain affairs easier.
When they woke in the middle of that first night, almost on top of each other, neither of them looked away. Otar wondered if it really was a good idea, but the monster and him had been so hungry—a hunger that no people-food, no people-drink would ever satisfy, because it craved the energy, the life force, of living beings. When it went too long without feeding, it came for Otar.
Intimacy helped; in the throes of passion, energy flowed more freely, and the monster took its fill on what was given. And Otar himself sought physical contact with other people just as much. He wanted to get lost in them, explore every inch, let the monster loose to take it all and fill out Otar completely. It was a slippery slope, his control precarious, the chance of losing his hold on the monster always a constant undercurrent, as it had happened in the past—and yet, it was a drive for him, almost an addiction, one that was never curbed.
After they settled down together, Otar rolled over and kissed Berat, who came willingly, as he had since the first time, and Otar took what he could.
Much later, when Berat rested against him, already asleep, his breath hot and wet against his neck, Otar allowed himself for a moment to just be.
Chapter 5
“Sometimes I do wonder if I made the right decision in pursuing the Ancients and their secrets, as it has brought me much pain and loneliness, and seldom satisfaction. I understand now why some scholars leave their field after summers of fruitless search for answers or anything substantial. And yet, I push myself to go further …”
(From: Aaoran-peras’ private collection of letters from the scholar Otar)
Otar missed Rasanell, the Crown Jewel of the Wooden Lands. A sprawling city around a river. Encapsulated behind five city walls, he had surveyed the walls for turns to understand their construction, a knowledge he wanted to apply to the ruins.
Winds blew from the west through the alleys and streets at the height of summer taking most of the sweltering heat away, Otar had welcomed them together with his friends on one of the many terraces of the palace.
Rasanell had been the first place he felt as if he might belong, and even after he left, he loved the city with all his heart.
Patreshka differed, the Desert Rose of the Steppe Plains, had high walls and small gates to brace against the periodical sandstorms and bandit attacks, Andres had once explained to him. Clashes between the tribes and hit-and-run raids were other reasons settlements chose to wall up. Andres pointed out on a map that this happened more on the southern coastline, where fishing and more predictable rain for planting allowed for a permanent settlement to thrive. Otar still felt that tingly sensation as the turn he realized Andres had never ignored one of his many questions.
The steppe rider even told him about Patreshka’s history. Sitting in a caldera, the natural high stone walls formed the first city wall. A long-ago monarch became so paranoid that he ordered an extra ring to be built for defense—he got his wish, and when the wall was finished, a revolt promptly disposed of him. The grievance? The increased taxes to finance the construction. Andres had closed that story with laughter, and all the steppe riders who had sat around the fire and understood Common joined in, murmuring about the idiosyncrasy of city folk. Otar had smiled and basked in the warmth of the fire and the camaraderie.
As it traveled closer to its destination, the caravan joined a stream of merchants and travelers. Otar was sitting next to the leader on the first wagon as she led the yardar with snarls and click sounds. She pointed out the different defense structures, while Otar wrote it all down and sketched what he could see. He tried to be as inconspicuous as possible so the guards overseeing the incoming road did not have any reason to accuse him of spying or, even worse, treason. Getting arrested on those grounds would probably amuse Aaoran, but Otar had no wish to embroil himself in that kind of headache, again.
The main gates were flung open, and a steady stream of people flowed in and out. The enormous doors were made of an unrecognizable wood and were reinforced with sheets of metal to withstand the intense battering of the storms. Otar had never experienced one, but the steppe riders spoke of dust towers so large they blotted out the sun and everything around oneself, with massive rolling waves of sand burying all. Otar wondered what it would feel like. The air was hot and dry and filled with dust clouds, making breathing hard. Fine sand grains clung to everything; Otar felt the gritty texture even on his teeth. The leader of the caravan cackled when he complained about it.
While trying to brush some of the sand off his clothing he watched the people around him. Left and right, they hauled around baskets and odd packages, drove loaded carts, or sold their wares on the way. The air was filled with the clucking of chickens, the brays of nervous yardar, and the clomps of the many feet on the stone bridge, underlaid by the creaking of wood and metal and leather.
For a moment, the walls loomed over them, and then they passed through the gate. The guards scanned the crowd, watching everyone like hawks. Tensing in fear of being discovered, Otar waited for one of the guards to point out his crimes, from the petty theft of cooling cookies as a little boy to the boiling monster inside him. He forced himself to relax and instead concentrated on what lay inside.
Small houses made of stone and clay huddled close together, not an inch between them. The clay was found in the ground around Patreshka, and stones were aplenty outside, but wood needed to be imported and was expensive. Otar wanted to ask a local builder how they constructed the house without the support of beams.
The caravan followed the wider central road up to the main trade market, with the caravan leader telling him about where he could find which market. It was clear that both cities had a slew of separate markets, depending on the goods they offered. One for yardar and big livestock, one for wood and bigger metal works, one for fabrics, another for fruits and vegetables—there was also one for leather, but at least in Rasanell it was closer to the tanneries which lay outside the walls because of the smell.
The main trade market was the central place for smaller livestock and pets, teas and spices and food, and as well fine metalworks and general goods like bowls, cutlery, keepsakes, books, lamps, candles and everything else one might need in daily life.
Otar hoped they’d also sell brew cakes as his supply of brew had run out. He hadn’t had a good brew since he and Andres … Otar stared ahead and wondered when it would stop hurting. Tomorrow? Sometime in the future? Never?
And why was he now thinking so often of the other man? They had parted ways amicably, both travelers and not to be tied down. Was it the steppe that made him nostalgic?
