The Edge of a World, page 8
“Sleep, visitor.”
He drifted in and out of slumber. The old man left the flap open to let the sun and the wind spill in. It allowed Otar the pleasure of catching glimpses of the outside world. Other tents made up the backdrop, while people flitted in and out of his field of view. Women carried laundry baskets; children chased each other, their laughter soothing the darkness inside Otar away; a warrior patrolled on a path outside, wandering repeatedly through Otar’s view, his hand on the pommel of his sword, the other in his sash—the same way Andres and Onder always walked around.
For a few precious moments, it allowed Otar to just be. At midturn, when the shadows grew longer, the ground vibrated anew. For a moment, everyone in Otar’s periphery froze, then the warriors ran in one direction, and the women and children in another.
Otar fought himself upright, tried to stand up. The old man appeared in the tent opening and all but ran to Otar, hooking one arm around his chest, and together they wobbled out into the open.
In the distance, beyond the camp, Otar made out a dust cloud, advancing fast. Warriors, he could glimpse through the opening in the tent wall, took up a defensive position on the outer edge of the camp, while the old man kept them both moving along until they reached a circle of women armed with daggers and swords. Inside huddled the children. The ring opened for them, and when they passed through, closed.
Small-turns trickled by. The blistering sun was unforgiving. Sweat ran down Otar’s temples and back, his heart drummed in his chest, and his vision turned blurry. The old man held firm. No one spoke as they watched the approaching cloud reach the settlement, the pounding feet of heavy animals reaching a crescendo.
After another tense moment, a call came from the other side of the camp. There was a pause, then another call came again. The women eased their stance, they sheathed their weapons, and shooed the children into another direction.
The dust cloud swept over them, spitting out yardar after yardar, each carrying a grim-looking warrior.
The hunters had returned.
In the middle, on the most magnificent beast Otar had ever seen, rode Andres. Otar was unable to take his eyes away.
The other warriors sat down, but Andres kept going. Otar’s gaze met with Andres’, and Andres swung the massive black yardar into Otar’s direction, the birds’ extended wings almost touching the walls of the tents on both sides. Andres stopped right in front of Otar and the old man, who was still holding him upright.
With a thud, something landed at his feet. It was a bloody scarred hand wearing a gold ring on its thumb.
The hand of the slave leader.
Otar gulped. He looked back at Andres, who watched him with solemn eyes. He swallowed once more, then he bowed as deep as he dared without toppling over. The old man helped him upright again. The world swam. He kept his gaze focused on Andres. Gone was the forbidding and cold man; his shoulders were relaxed, and he had the beginnings of a smile on his lips.
He slid from his yardar, handing the reins to another warrior, who led the beast away.
Otar wobbled. The old man grabbed for him, but all strength had left Otar, and he stumbled to the ground. He squeezed his eyes shut, bracing against the impact, but it never came. Strong arms enveloped him, a body smelling of steel and leather and spice pressing him close.
“Enough running around for you,” Andres said and hefted him up, carrying him back to the tent and into the bed. Otar, too tired to care, let his head rest against Andres’ chest and closed his eyes.
Sleep was upon him before Andres had settled them both into bed.
Chapter 9
“I don’t know what my brother is thinking, or if he is thinking at all. I want to take him and shake him until he finally tells me what is going on, but no, the stoic leader is taking on all the responsibilities and fights the battles within himself and doesn’t rely on or even trust me to help him. I’m a leader as well! Why have I earned his scorn in this matter? Please explain to me Aaoran. Does he fear I won’t support his decisions? Does he think so little of me?”
(Letters from Onder to Aaoran-peras)
This time when Otar woke, he wasn’t alone. Distantly, he wondered when he would be able to just stay awake. At least he didn’t dream of darkness and voices again. Had that been the ghost? But then it usually only came to haunt him in the ruins.
“You with us, visitor?” The old man asked. He was sitting at Otar’s side on what seemed to be a small stool, leafing through a book.
“I hope so,” Otar whispered.
The old man smiled and helped him to sit up to sip some more water. He settled back with a sigh, then remembered the bloody hand. Otar hesitatingly asked, “Should I have done more?”
The old man watched him with clear eyes.
“The hand,” Otar added, “should I have said some grand words or a specific vow?” His throat was scratchy and painful, and his voice was almost drowned out by the calls outside.
The other shook his head. “You didn’t reject the gift. We burned it as an offering to the lords.” Then he checked Otar’s wound.
The silence felt oppressive.
“I’m sorry they had to take lives.” Life was sacred for the tribes.
The old man straightened up and threw him an unreadable gaze before answering. It was clear in his stilted voice that he was choosing his words carefully. “Slavers aren’t tolerated in these lands, and they know if they are caught that death is their punishment. The tribes settled the matter a long time ago. And yet, they come.”
So in the end, it hadn’t been about him at all. Yes, the slavers had wronged him, and Andres had offered him the hand of the leader as proof that justice for him had been served, but in the end, they would have died either way. Which was fair. Slavers were a menace, and Otar was sure nightmares would haunt him for many turns to come. And yet, for one moment, he had wanted it to be about him, because apparently Andres wasn’t a fever dream, and parts of him were slowly catching up with that revelation.
“Leader Andres was furious though,” the old man added after a small-turn, as if he was reading Otar’s thoughts.
“Old man, you talk too much,” Andres’ voice slipped between them. They looked over and found him standing in the tent opening.
“Do I really?” The old man smiled serenely. “Isn’t talk all we old people have left?”
Andres rolled his eyes. Cackling at Andres’ expression, the old man pointed at Otar’s wound. “He is healing nicely. But it will be a few turns before he can be on his way.” There was a clear emphasis on the last three words. Otar tried to not let it get to him.
Andres nodded. “I’ll talk to the council.”
“See that you do, leader.” The old man winked amused at Otar, and then he was gone.
Andres pinched the bridge of his nose, then shook his head as if he was dispelling whatever had taken hold of his thoughts. He looked at Otar, and for a moment, all the summers and winters that stood between them melted away, as if they had said goodbye merely a few turns ago, and they grinned at each other in old understanding.
Andres crept closer. Here, on the ground, he differed from sitting astride his yardar, fury and anger vibrating through his posture. The imposing leader.
Here, he was a mere man with soft eyes and an almost impish gait.
Here, he was Andres.
He stopped at the side of the bed, and Otar scooted to the left to make enough room for him to sit down if he wished to.
Andres perched on the edge.
“I thought I had imagined you,” Otar said after the silence between them stretched on too long.
“Believe me, it was quite the surprise to discover you, half-dead at our very doorstep.” Andres interlaced his fingers on his lap.
“How did you find me?” He remembered howling dogs and the impact of hard, sunbaked ground.
“The hunting dogs took an interest in you. We let them out to hunt on their own, and we heeded them no mind at first, but they wouldn’t shut up. So, one patrol checked on them.”
Another lull in the conversation, broken by the sounds from outside of grinding metal, the ever-present laughter of the children, and singing.
Otar took in Andres’ harsh profile—the furrowed brows, the stiff posture.
“You killed them all?”
“Yes,” Andres said without hesitation. His discomfort at the admission was clear; Otar could still read that much on his face, even after all this time.
He touched Andres’ arm. “Good.”
Some of the stiffness drained away, and a smile flickered on Andres’ lips.
“What happens now?”
Andres raised a hand and laid it on Otar’s cheek, who couldn’t resist turning into it. Andres’ eyes glittered in the oncoming shadows. “For now, you sleep.”
Fighting against the command, Otar yawned involuntarily. He’d just woken up. Sleeping was the furthest thing from his mind. And yet, the sweet call of darkness crept upon him and then claimed him once more.
Sleeping was the only thing he did over the next three turns—as the old man smugly informed him when Otar could stay awake for more than a few small-turns.
Once more, the old man was sitting in the chair beside the bed, leafing through a book. He raised his head when Otar moved around, watched him for a moment, then closed the book with a nod.
“Leader will be pleased.” And with that cryptic message, he walked to the tent flap and tied it back onto a small wooden hook. Fresh morning air crawled in, bringing a slight chill. The old man stuck his head out and called out a few words; it took only a small-turn before someone shouted back. Then he shuffled in again.
“Water, visitor?”
Otar found himself too parched to speak. “Please,” he croaked out after a few attempts. But before the old man could follow through with his offer, Andres stood in the tent opening, his chest heaving as if he’d been running.
“I’ll take care of him, elder.”
The old man crooked his head to the side. “See that you do, leader.” And after a clap on Andres’ shoulder, he was gone.
Andres stepped further into the tent and took the water jug, filling up the shallow bowl they had used before. Otar fought himself into an upright position, breathing through various spells of dizziness. For a moment, Andres hovered haltingly, then he held the dish out.
Otar smiled and wanted to take it with his trembling fingers, but Andres shook his head, put the bowl into Otar’s hands while holding it steady with his own.
Otar tried to not dwell on the feelings that the gesture evoked. Instead, he concentrated on the sweet tasting water—it was tepid, but he savored it like the finest wine from the Palace of Rasanell.
“Don’t make yourself sick,” Andres chided, and Otar did his best to control himself.
After the water was gone, he let Andres take the bowl and waited. His stomach twinged, but the water stayed down.
Avoiding Otar’s eyes, Andres looked down at the dish in his hands, turning it around.
“How long do I have?”
Andres sighed and returned the bowl to the jug. “The tribe will ride in seven regular turns.”
Otar exhaled. It was to be expected. He nodded. “Please carry my thanks to the council to grant me that much time.”
“You can thank them yourself. The old man has been watching over you.”
That meant … Old Man: it wasn’t an endearment for a beloved older figure or even a father or grandfather; it was a title. His nursemaid was the leader of the elder council. Tribes had two councils: the actual leaders, whose numbers depended on the size of the tribe—Andres was one of five leaders; and the elder council, who functioned as advisers and voices of reason. Both often attended the overarching council sessions, the All-Council, when the different tribes came together.
Otar stared at Andres, willing him to tell him he was joking. But Andres shrugged his shoulders. “Men in power gravitate toward you.”
There was a truth to Andres’ words he couldn’t deny. He buried his face in his hands.
Andres, Jasner, Turas, Aaoran, they had all exuded that powerful charm. Perhaps the attachment from Marit made more sense now as he was the son of a leader. But what about Berat? Otar racked his brain about what Berat had told him. Remembering he had been the son of a rich merchant.
Andres nudged his leg, and Otar made space for him as he had done before. For a moment, they breathed together. Finding the other so close was nerve-wracking and unbelievable. He just needed to reach out and touch Andres. At moments, he still believed he would wake up and everything would just be a dream.
“How did the slavers get the jump on you?” Andres’ gaze filled with curiosity.
Otar tapped his fingers on the blanket, smoothing over the fine material and exquisite ornamental stitches. For the first time since waking up in the tent, he mourned his notebook.
“Someone who I trusted sold me out. I think he manipulated my flasks, and then he led me to the mountains promising fresh water so that we could make it all the way to Adabel.”
“Trusted …” Andres repeated slowly with a grin. “How pretty was his face?”
Otar swatted at him, making Andres laugh.
When he quieted down, Otar slung his arms around his knees and rested his head on them, looking sideways at Andres.
“Why have you been so close to those mountains?” If Otar remembered Andres’ stories correctly, the tribe should have been farther to the east, closer to the Black Mountains that bordered the lands by the big ocean.
“Rumors about new slavers have been circulating for a while. The All-Council decreed the more battle-experienced tribes investigate various sightings and previous known hiding places.” Andres interlaced his fingers. “Witness reports told us they must have taken camp in the mountain range you pointed us to, but we hadn’t yet decided on how best to approach them.” He grinned. “You kind of made it clear where they would be.”
“How funny.”
Andres’ smile deepened, turning into the one that dimpled his cheeks and always made Otar’s heart beat faster.
When they had traveled together five summers ago and parted on friendly terms, he had thought there had never been more between them than easy friendship and sexual compatibility—he had been very wrong.
At midturn, after Andres had excused himself murmuring something about tribe business, the Old Man brought him a stew, or a less rich version of what the tribes usually cooked. Andres had cooked a few times in their time traveling together, and the broth had always been thicker and spicier. Here it was thin, almost devoid of bits and pieces, and blander. At least the bread was fresh and fluffy.
Otar had watched Andres go with mixed feelings. He wanted to say so much more, wanted to reach out—but he’d clawed his hands into the blanket around his knees instead.
Their parting had been amicable. Andres wasn’t a nobody; he and his twin Onder, as well as three other steppe riders, governed this tribe. The Kruson tribe was one of the biggest tribes in the eastern and central steppe. It was split into smaller segments, each led by one of the five leaders, and was supported by the elder council.
Andres took up the mantle of leadership when he had been very young, barely twenty summers. The Kruson tribe didn’t follow hereditary leadership but elected those they wanted to follow and Andres proved by his very nature that he was a fair and level-headed leader who was also a fierce warrior. He was a proud man who loved the steppe.
When Otar had accepted Andres into his bed, he acknowledged that there would never be more between them as Andres would never leave the tribe. Not that Otar wanted there to be more, as he shied away from emotional connections—always living in fear of the monster inside him. He was also unwilling to follow a travel pattern dictated by others, not until he fully discovered the Ancients’ secrets, a task that seemed even more impossible with every passing turn.
Why was he even thinking about this now? Andres was probably married by now. Otar hadn’t taken a closer look at the mess of beads in his hair. Maybe there was already a kid running around, a little adorable fierce looking menace.
And yet, Otar missed him fiercely. Upon seeing him again, everything rushed back, the longing he ignored, the pain after parting, the loneliness he pushed away, the—
“Not hungry?” The Old Man’s voice startled him. Otar almost dropped the bowl in his hands. The other was watching him with furrowed brows.
“I was lost in thought.” As if to prove his point, he took a spoonful of the stew and ate. It had smelled heavenly when the Old Man had handed it over, but it tasted even better, his body not caring for the missing spices. Despite its appearance, it was more of a porridge. Thin, but earthy and sharp without being spicy. Otar had eaten nothing like it in any of the Seven Lands. He almost choked at their thoughtfulness; his stomach still tender.
The Old Man hummed. He settled down on the small stool and drank tea. With the bowl, he had brought an additional jug and two cups made of fine silver with intricate ornaments driven into them, covering the entire outer surface. It itched inside him to draw them.
The aroma from the second jug was rancid and spicy at the same time. Otar found it a better idea to concentrate on the stew first, forcing himself to chew before taking the next spoonful. He was famished, and yet he waited after every few bites and listened to his stomach before eating more. Soon he was dabbing up the dregs with the fluffy bread.
His hunger was soothed, even if the famished feeling never went away. One moment the monster was sated and therefore was Otar, and a small-turn later, the craving gnawed at his bones again.
“How long have you known leader?”
Otar looked at the Old Man, but his face only showed curiosity. He wasn’t sure why the other wanted to know, but saw no harm in telling him. “Since I have been ten and six summers.”
The Old Man nodded in thought. “And you’re what now? Twenty and five?”
Otar grimaced. “Twenty and nine.” It might be even thirty now. He’d lost all sense of time, not bothering with the calendar since he had begun exploring the jungle.
