The Edge of a World, page 9
“Ah,” the Old Man said, and then he said nothing at all.
While the silence stretched between them, Otar handed his empty bowl over. The Old Man took it, put it to the ground next to his feet, and then picked up the second cup and filled it with the contents of the other jug, handing it over. Otar wrinkled his nose at the acrid odor. The Old Man chuckled.
“Elder, I hope I’m not too presumptuous, but what am I to call you?”
The Old Man studied him for a long moment and then nodded to himself. “You may call me Borroi.”
Otar inclined his head in acknowledgment, then sipped the beverage. And while it wasn’t pleasant, it wasn’t as horrid as he had feared. Borroi chuckled at the expression of disdain Otar couldn’t suppress.
“Fermented yardar milk, leaves from the southern regions, rock sugar, and spices. It’ll make you strong and healthy.”
Otar took another sip. It was better than the first, and while it would never become his favorite drink, he could get used to it at moderate intervals. And it was warming.
“Leader is a fair and, what is the word in Common …” Borroi spoke as if the previous conversation never stopped between them. “Ah, stoic. He is a fair and stoic man.”
Otar knew that, and he was about to say as much, when Borroi threw him a look that said he had more to impress on Otar.
“Leader always thinks his actions through. He never rushes without considering his options or consequences.” Borroi took a sip from his cup, his gaze steady on Otar, a degree cooler than before. “At least, that is what I thought. We tracked the slavers for turns and turns, waiting for the right moment, finding the best approach, making sure we had them cornered, that none of them could escape justice.” Another sip, a gaze over the rim of the cup. “And then you arrived.”
Otar swallowed, unable to bear his eyes any longer, and looked down into his own cup.
“At first, after we found you, we thought you were dead, or soon to be gone. But you clung to life with ferociousness. Leader, when he saw you dangling like a doll in the arms of the patrol, was ready to march to war right then and there. He was beyond anger, a beast barely tamed on the insistence that we needed to care for you first, that we still didn’t know where they were, and that you could have crucial information.” Borroi topped up his own cup. “But when you were stable and had uttered the location, he called for the warriors and rode to war.”
War was probably an exaggeration, but Otar didn’t dare voice that opinion under Borroi’s penetrating stare.
“Tell me, visitor, are you more a stranger or a friend to the tribe? Will you bring fortune or ruin?”
The words shook Otar to the core, feeding right into the deepest fears he held locked away. If he examined them too closely, he was sure he would never find the strength to move forward again.
Andres’ return saved him from answering. The moment the tent flap moved, his entire attention latched onto it.
“Old Man,” Andres greeted Borroi, who smiled serenely back. The elder rose with a nod, took the empty bowl and his own cup as if he was a mere servant, and with a last unreadable gaze directed at Otar, he was gone.
“Nosy elders,” Andres murmured after Borroi was out of earshot. He unclipped the silver cup that always dangled from his belt and poured himself yardar-tea from the tea jug. He offered to top Otar’s up, but Otar shook his head, murmuring something about spices and his delicate stomach. Andres, looking right through him, chuckled. Then he sipped the tea and closed his eyes in bliss.
“Rough turn?”
Andres winked at him and perched on the bed. “Every small-turn, there are additional problems.” He took another sip, savoring it. “Problems the tribe members could solve themselves, and yet they rely on the leaders and stop thinking for themselves.” He sighed, looking tired. Otar ached to take Andres into his arms. “Sometimes I want to leave it all to Onder, and settle down somewhere quiet.”
Otar grinned. “You’d miss the steppe.”
Andres shrugged, his gaze far away. He focused back on Otar. “How are you? And be honest.”
The ‘I’m fine’ was ready on his lips, but he backtracked. “Getting better. The wound is still tender, moving around aggravates it. I’ll have to live with some discomfort for a while. It was a good stab,” he tried to joke, but Andres didn’t laugh.
“Killing them was too merciful.”
This time Otar gave into the impulse and reached out, laying his hand on Andres’ arm, ignoring the sudden quickening of his heartbeat at the skin contact. The monster stayed away, surprisingly. “I’m alive, and they can’t hurt me or anyone else ever again. You and your warriors made sure of it.”
Andres nodded, but the muscles under Otar’s fingers didn’t relax.
“Andres?” He had never seen the other man like this, closed off and guarded, bowing under an invisible weight.
But Andres turned the empty cup in his hand over and over. His mind was heavy. “For a tribe leader, there is a path. A path that is entwined with traditions, with beliefs, with rules. Handed down from leader to leader to keep order in the tribe and between the tribes. Stepping off the path brings war.”
“Okay,” Otar said carefully after Andres stopped, the silence stretching between them. He moved his hand away, but Andres grabbed it, keeping it trapped between the arm and his own warm hand. The monster twitched before settling down again.
“When we first met—you, me and Onder,” he chuckled mirthlessly, “you were nothing more than a boy made of skin and bones, with big curious eyes and too many questions.” He shook his head, shifting on the bed, turning more to Otar. His gaze was still lost in whatever memories must play in his mind. “At the Bakusaran ruins you were always underfoot, sometimes you were even funny, but you were also something to protect.”
“Ouch.” But Andres had a point. He had been very young, very naive, and very annoying, pestering everyone with question after question.
A smile flitted over Andres’ lips. “When we met again many winters later, you were different and yet the same. Still curious, with a hundred more questions. Not a boy anymore, a man, but still something to protect.” He paused and shook his head. “No, someone I wanted to protect. Someone I wanted to hold onto—but you didn’t want me to. And there was also duty.”
Otar licked his lips, the words confusing him. Had Andres always wanted more? He never assumed, had even mentioned to the other, that they had a nice and easy friendship. Had told him to go when the letter from Onder arrived calling him to the tribe.
And now it was too late.
“I understand,” Otar said in a whisper.
“You don’t,” Andres shot back and waited as if he expected Otar to argue, but he had no words inside him.
Andres exhaled and picked up his tale again. “I chose duty, but I didn’t comply with it. I angered the elders with decisions I made, born out of the chasm between us. But I didn’t care because I made a promise. When we parted, I promised to find you again.”
He had, in a way. That morning when they parted ways, Andres had held Otar’s hand, kissed him one last time, and told him he would find Otar again, wherever he was. Otar had assumed Andres meant as a general term, like when Otar was in trouble, not as the specific intention that Andres would return to him. His heart beat painfully in his chest.
Clearly, from the way Andres was looking at him now, it had been a wrong assumption. All the memories of them pressing in, all the little gestures and touches they had shared, the quiet moments Otar had always dismissed as easy companionship. He searched for words, a treacherous hope spreading through his body. Was it possible he wasn’t too late?
Andres kept talking, oblivious to Otar’s turmoil. “But the matters with the tribes took too long to settle, and you had said nothing encouraging for what was between us, so I convinced myself that it was better to move on, to not return, to break my promise, and for the moment put it on hold. And I thought I was free again.”
“Andres …”
But Andres shook his head. “When I realized it was you, bloody and broken in the arms of the scout, never in my life have I felt such rage.” He looked down at his hands now. He loosened his grip on Otar and clenched his hands into fists. Otar laid his own onto them, spreading his fingers.
“I took pleasure in killing them.” Andres’ voice pitched so low, Otar needed to lean forward to understand him. “I made sure their leader understood why we had come. I relished the terror in his eyes.”
Otar closed the gap between them, winding his arms around Andres’ stiff shoulders, hugging him close.
The path Andres had spoken of was one of life. Steppe people cherished life. The lords they answered to had strict rules about killing. Steppe riders hunted down bandits and slavers with a solemn mindset, executing them without joy, but with sadness and reverence. Those who found excitement in bloodshed were exiled, often banished from the steppe.
Will you bring fortune or ruin?
Otar closed his eyes and hugged Andres closer.
Chapter 10
“Brew is a very delicate drink, and a brew cake should be carefully prepared so that the full flavor is developed. Never chop off too many of a chunk from the entire cake, and do not mangle the edges badly. Loose leaves will lose flavor quickly, so take less than you think you will need. When you add the leaves, the water should have boiled but not be boiling hot anymore. Let it sit for the desired strength, but not more than one turn, otherwise the bitterness will be overwhelming.”
(From: „How to make the perfect brew”)
“Aaoran is worried about you.”
Otar looked up from the book he was leafing through, a distraction while he sorted his thoughts. After Andres’ confession, he’d slept through most of the turn, drained by the emotions inside him.
“Onder!” He exclaimed surprised after he registered who was standing in the tent opening.
Onder grinned and stepped in. Andres’ twin had always been fun to talk to. Of a similar temperament as his brother Onder had answered all of Otar’s questions about the tribes and the steppe riders with a smile and a twinkle in his eyes. In the few letters that reached Otar from Aaoran, his mentor consistently included news about them both.
Noting the two jugs, one with fresh tea, Onder unclipped his own cup from his belt and poured himself. He offered to fill up Otar’s as well, but Otar pointed to the water.
When Onder took the first sip, he closed his eyes in bliss, as all the other tribe members did. Otar shuddered and made a face as he remembered the taste.
“Not fancy enough for your western tastebuds?” Onder commented on his expression.
“It surely is an acquired taste.”
Onder waggled his eyebrows and settled on the stool beside the bed.
“Aaoran is alright?” Otar feared his mentor himself might have been ambushed.
“They are waiting for you at the ruins.” Onder took another sip, savoring the taste in the same manner Andres did. “They were surprised when you didn’t arrive in the time frame you gave in your letter. And when I brought news of what had happened, I could barely calm them down. They were ready to go after the bandits themselves.”
“Slavers,” Otar corrected.
Onder winked at him. “As far as they are concerned, they were bandits, otherwise …” He let the words taper off.
“Doctor Mare would have killed us all.”
They both chuckled. Aaoran’s chosen partner was a fierce and protective man, well trained in the art of healing and all matters of death.
Onder raised his cup and watched Otar over the rim. “Andres killed them all.”
“He told me.” Otar returned the steady gaze, but his fingers danced restlessly over the intricate pattern of the blanket, feeling the different stitches and ornaments painted onto it with the twine. “I’m sorry.”
“Otar.” Onder’s hand settled on his, but Otar snatched them away. The monster crawled under his skin. This morning, it had risen from its slumber and was a constant undercurrent, ready to pounce.
Would the monster ever have enough?
“Please go.” Otar clicked his mouth shut to stop more words from tumbling out. He didn’t say that it might be better to send him away, to get rid of him, to never look at him again. This was why he didn’t get close. Whatever had possessed Andres, it was clearly Otar’s fault, as Borroi implied.
Onder watched him a moment longer and sighed, disappointed. Guilt settled in Otar’s stomach, along with the other regrets and the many fears about being wrong and causing people he cared about pain. Onder had been good and nice to him, and yet …
Onder rose without another word, gone before Otar could call him back. Numbness spread through his limbs. He had done it, had successfully driven the other away. Now he needed to do it with Andres, cut the ties that seemed to keep them and then … He drew his knees up and let the camp sounds settle around him. The monster’s presence meant that he was getting better and was becoming restless. Borroi had advised him to stay one more turn in bed to make sure the stitches would hold. He closed his eyes, not sleeping. He had slept enough for several lifetimes, but he was unwilling to face reality. When someone entered the tent, he didn’t react, or the next time, or the next, until the aroma of food reached him.
He turned his head, and there was a bowl filled with what seemed to be a similar porridge he had the turn before on the makeshift nightstand, accompanied by two thick slabs of bread. At the sight, his stomach growled, and he realized he was famished. The porridge was thicker this time, with a bit more spice. His belly accepted the food without complaining.
He was dabbing up the last dregs with the bread when Borroi stepped through the tent opening and closed the flap behind him. He didn’t come closer, but hovered in the semi-darkness.
“How is your stomach?”
Otar’s smile was genuine. “Better, and whatever this was,” he held the cleaned out bowl up, “it was delicious.”
“You should move around soon, to build up your strength again.”
Time was running out. They wanted to move on, yet Otar’s state was preventing them to do so. But what should he do out there? Wander aimlessly through the camp? That didn’t sound appealing.
On top of it all, he was bored. Once more, he felt the painful loss of his notebook. With it he could at least sort through his notes, he could … he perked up at the sudden idea.
“Borroi, could I be allowed to observe and record your customs?”
The elder crossed his arms, studying him. “The council will decide.”
Otar inclined his head. “I’d be grateful.” He put the empty bowl on the nightstand. Borroi stepped closer to help him to the chamber pot and then back to the bed. Otar endured it with flaming cheeks.
After Otar’d settled again, Borroi sat down.
“I think I should apologize, visitor.”
“Why ever?”
“I judged something that wasn’t mine to judge.”
Otar considered the words while sun beams streamed through the air vent, shifting slowly with every small-turn wandering by. “You spoke the truth. I was the reason he turned mad with anger and diverged from the path your lords have shown you. It’s in your right as protector of the tribe to question my intentions.” He paused. “To be honest, I never would have guessed Andres would react like this. I thought he would be angry, yes, as we were … friends, companions for a while. I hold him dear, but we were never close. At least, I thought …”
“You love him.”
Otar flinched at the words. He always shied away from them, but over the last turns he did nothing but think about how he felt, and what role Andres had played in his life. Was it love? Was it friendship? He didn’t recognize where one ended and the other began. Or did it even matter?
Was it really as easy and as complicated that he loved Andres?
“I don’t know.”
Borroi hummed. Laughter echoed outside, and a gaggle of children ran past, their shadows like a puppet theater dancing over the tent canvas.
“Are you ashamed?”
“No.” At least he could say that with conviction. He never experienced embarrassment about the people he took into his bed.
“You turned away at the words,” Borroi pointed out.
“I dread them. I fear losing him.” Even if he never had him. A door he closed himself, he realized. Andres took revenge on the slavers for hurting him, but that didn’t mean there was still more, or that Andres had forgiven him for driving him off the path.
Borroi didn’t roll his eyes, but it was a close thing. “Do you know whose tent you occupy?”
Otar crooked his head. His fingers never stopped stroking the beautiful patterns on the blanket—a gesture that brought him much comfort over the last turn.
His gaze went from the blanket to the rest of the tent they’d put him in. For the first time, he was able to take a closer look, registering the finely carved furniture, the draped carpets with bold colors that felt soft under his feet, the expensive and well-cared knick-knacks scattered throughout, even the embroidery under his fingers. Everything was lavish and beautiful.
“Oh.”
“Not everything is lost, it seems. The young finally opens his eyes.”
“This doesn’t mean—,“ Otar protested.
“Onder!” Borroi called in a sharp tone. The tent flap shifted, and Onder poked his head in. Had he been listening in the whole time?
“Bring leader,” Borroi commanded. This was the man that led an entire council, making decisions others obeyed.
“As you wish,” Onder said with amusement in his gaze.
Otar narrowed his eyes. He felt as if he were missing a few pages in a book, as if they all assumed … but there was nothing to it. Even after his breakdown, Andres had left without a word, without a backward glance. Andres wasn’t his, and now, never would be.
As if summoned by Otar’s own thoughts, Andres appeared in the tent opening and held the flap to the side with one arm, his eyes roaming over Otar.
“You look alright.” Andres furrowed his brows in confusion.
