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| Chapter 70. A Distant Refuge | |
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aeve’s journey started at dawn with six of Akemi’s hand-picked retinue. They were a silent and sullen lot as they guided her through the rough terrain. Her makeshift gown had been exchanged for a drab unbleached cotton blouse, loose doeskin breeches and boots that blended well with the dappled shadows of the jungle. She trod obediently between a pair of male warriors clad in studded leathers. They bore the mien of veterans and had battle scars to prove it. Each had a sword sheathed at his hip and a small wooden buckler strapped to his back. Ahead of them, a raven-haired woman forged their trail over the root entangled earth, occasionally hacking aside clinging vines and brush with swift sweeps of a machete. Though she was lithe and lightly built, it was clear by the strength of her strikes she was no less capable of fighting than her warrior friends. Clad in light leathers, she had a horn bow slung over her back. From time to time she would draw them to a halt so that she could scout ahead or pause to change directions. Bringing up the rear, a pair of men carried large wicker packs laden with the necessities of wilderness survival while a woman walked unburdened at the end of the party. Maeve guessed the woman was magi, although of what discipline she did not know. Of the six, she was the most gaudily dressed, her outfit both revealing and ornamented. The hems of her sleeves and skirt glistened with frayed brocade which framed cabochons of fire opal and mother of pearl. The first day proved trying with the dark-haired ranger setting a brisk pace through the wilderness. They paused only twice to take water and small bites of food while Maeve rested in their midst, surrounded and intimidated by their watchful gazes. A few times she tried talking to them but her words were met with stony silence. That night she learned that the showy mage was in charge. It was at that woman’s command Maeve’s wrists and ankles were bound before she was laid out on bedding. All through the night one of the party sat nearby, awake and watchful. Uncomfortable and humiliated, Maeve did not sleep well and morning came too soon. She was released to perform hurried ablutions and take a portion of bland fare. The camp was hastily disassembled and the march continued. For three days they traveled in this fashion, each day and night much like the others. Her captors spoke surreptitiously among themselves but did not address her directly. They treated her with a strange mixture of contempt and awe, never allowing her out of their sight. As noon of the fourth day approached, they reached the red hardpan of the Sagelands and followed a dusty track northward. The sun blazed down on them mercilessly and with each gust of warm wind, her clothes were inundated with gritty red dust. By evening she was utterly exhausted. Through sheer will alone she placed one foot after the other on the hard dirt track. She no longer cared about the world beyond her private misery, Maeve only wanted to stop and rest. Amid the resinous odor of the brush and the buzzing rasp of cicadas, her mind wandered back to her warm secure little cottage and the many breakfasts she had shared with the Gaenors and Ironfasts. She thought of her feather bed and the hearth fire and the nights of music and dancing at festival time. She was drawn abruptly from her reverie. Maeve had so abandoned the world around her that she nearly bumped into the ranger. The woman’s intense brown eyes locked with Maeve’s startled stare and it was only then she realized that they stood in an enclosure. The cliff over shadowing them was pocked with slim rectangular windows that pierced smooth adobe brick walls. There was a commotion and she saw faces emerge from the shadows of the many homes followed by the susurration of voices. “Feona!” called a lean man as he shambled stiffly toward the ranger. She looked away from Maeve and spread out her arms, suffering herself to be embraced by the strange man. Suddenly there were children swooping among the curious visitors and the breathless silence was gone, replaced by chatter. Maeve looked on numbly as Feona greeted the man. His face was hideously scarred and dyed with vivid green ink. One eye was missing completely, leaving a puckered and grotesque emptiness where eyelids had been sewn or cauterized shut. Maeve glimpsed more scars as the wind shifted his pale caftan. “Xian, did you receive Akemi’s message?” “Aye,” he said, turning his face so that his one remaining eye could gaze upon Maeve. His shock of midnight hair drooped like a rooster’s comb over his scarified brow, “Is this my new guest?” “Yes,” said the ranger just as the other woman strode forward. “Good to see you again, Simone,” Xian said to the scantily clad figure. “You have secured a safe place for our charge?” “Yeah,” he said, pointing a calloused thumb toward the highest adobe structure on the cliffs. Maeve counted the three long ladders that led up to its door stoop and sensed by the way they were tied in place that they were drawn up at night. The initial silence and suspicion with which they had been greeted suggested the villagers were accustomed to unwanted visitors, “She’ll be comfortable and safe, I promise you.” “Excellent. Akemi said we could count on you.” “Come, let me take you inside where it is safe,” he said, turning to face Maeve. Maeve nodded, uncertain what was expected of her. It seemed these people did indeed consider her a guest rather than a prisoner. It was odd, for they seemed far less wary and tight-lipped than her escort. Something was being left unsaid. Maeve had little time to contemplate this, though. Xian placed her into the care of an adolescent boy who moved swiftly before her. In her exhausted state, it was all she could do just to keep up as they scaled the three crude ladders. Winded with exertion, she stood gasping at the door stoop of the highest building. Her flipped anxiously as she gazed down from a great height on the yard. The boy knocked on the thick wooden door before scrambling back down the ladder with the agility of a monkey. A spry elderly woman opened it. “Come,” she said simply, clearly expecting Maeve’s arrival. Her thin hand lightly clasped Maeve’s wrist. The interior of the mud brick building was cramped and dim. The low timbered ceiling forced Maeve to hunch as she followed the woman up three flights of stairs, each more narrow than the other. At last she emerged on a crowded landing outside of a sturdy door. The woman opened the door and retrieved a short ladder from the neighboring room. Without a single request for help, she propped it against the wall climbed a few rungs until the beamed ceiling was within easy reach. She patted the hoary woodwork with her hand until something clicked. She pushed up, revealing a narrow opening. “Come on up, dear,” the woman said before she grasped the lip of the opening and used the last couple rungs of the ladder to enter the chamber above. Maeve stared numbly at the ladder, and then followed, knowing not what else to do. “It’s humble, but hopefully you will find it comfortable,” she said once the two of them were inside the square chamber. Maeve was relieved that she was able to stand at her full height for the ceiling was high. Narrow windows let in the evening’s last light but a small brass oil lamp burned softly on a low table beside a plate of goat cheese and crisp unleavened bread. A large earthenware jug of water perspired beside the food and she licked her dry lips instinctively, eager to drive the taste of dust from her mouth. “If you need anything, ring that,” the woman said, gesturing toward an old brass hand bell perched beside the lamp, “There’s more blankets in the chest. If you need anything at all, don’t hesitate to ask.” “Thank you,” Maeve murmured, at once grateful and demoralized. She sat down on the edge of the low cot as the door groaned shut and she heard the muffled sound of the ladder being stowed away. The bed was made from long narrow logs lashed together with sinew. A netting of leather straps held aloft a mattress stuffed with down. Nestled under the low frame there was a clean earthenware chamber pot, another sign that she was not expected to leave the room. For now, however, weary, thirsty, and hungry, it was enough. She partook of the food and drank nearly all of the water, reserving enough to dampen a cloth so that she could wash away sweat and grime. She paused at one of the narrow windows and gazed out over the red plain and rock formations. The empty land served as a reminder that she was alone in the middle of nowhere, trapped among strangers. Maeve took comfort in the fact that Mog was alive, at least, safe if only by virtue of his unique talents and her compliance. She crawled naked between the soft blankets of her bed and fell nearly instantly asleep. She awakened sore and confused at dawn. The sound of the hatch being pushed open startled her. Maeve sat up with the blankets gathered to her for modesty. The aroma of freshly baked bread wafted ahead of the old woman as she emerged from the floor. “Good morning, dear. Did you sleep, well? Hopefully nothing disturbed you.” She shook her head, watching as the woman placed a plate of steaming bread and what appeared to be scrambled eggs on the table beside the lamp. It had not been extinguished and had burned out some time during the night. The old woman examined it and nodded to herself, then picked up the empty crockery from the night before. “I’ll bring you more water for drinking and bathing.” “Who are you?” Maeve asked. “You can call me Arda, dear. Is there anything else I can get you?” Maeve opened her mouth to speak, then stopped herself. She was confused, detecting in the guileless woman’s responses that Maeve was not considered a prisoner. She wanted to know what the villagers had been told. “I want to talk to Xian,” she said. It was the only other name she knew in the village and hopefully a source of answers. “I don’t think he’s up and about yet, dear. I’ll pass on a message to his household, though. See you soon and don’t hesitate to ring the bell if you need anything.” Maeve nodded, waiting until she was alone before rising to examine her breakfast. It was chilly in the lofty chamber and she went back to her bed to drape a blanket over her shoulders, unwilling to wear the sweaty and soiled clothes she had arrived in. Arda was good to her word and returned with the promised water and basin. She had the young boy with her this time and he helped to carry a folded mound of towels and set them on the bed before departing shyly with the dirty crockery. “Brought you a gown, dear,” the woman said before departing, “Should fit, although it may be a little short. I’ll clean your traveling gear.” “Thank you,” she murmured, uncertain what to make of things. For the next couple hours she cleansed and dressed, followed by anxious pacing and then resignation as she lay on the bed staring at the ceiling beams. Once more the hatch in the floor groaned open but this time it was not Arda, but the bony figure of Xian who emerged from the floor. She sat up, and watched as he closed the hatch, then settled stiffly on the room’s lone cane chair. “You wished to speak with me?” he said, his one remaining eye fixed upon her. Now that Maeve saw him in full daylight she realized that not all of the scars were ritual necromancer marks. His pale skin bore gleaming expanses of old healed-over burns. His odd crest was largely a result of his scalp being partially melted away by flame. A faint smile crooked his lips for he sensed that his disfigured body was an object of curiosity and pity. “I wondered what reason was given for my arrival here,” she said, lowering her gaze out of politeness. “I was told the White Mantle sought for you. We were asked to keep you hidden and safe. I assume that is true?” Maeve swallowed and rose, going to the window that overlooked the village yard. “Does the White Mantle often seek people?” “I guess that depends. I’ve only known them to kill.” “You do not fear they will come here seeking me and destroy this place?” Xian shrugged although it was clear such gestures were difficult for him. “We are deep in Shining Blade territory. Even if the Mantle knew you were here, they would have to get through the jungle patrols before they reached the open plain and revealed themselves to our scouts.” “Yet this place has strong defenses,” Maeve replied, “and your people were anxious at our approach.” “Aye, the Mantle were once so bold that they came knocking on our door, but that was over a year ago. Naturally we tightened security. You are perfectly safe here.” Maeve met his gaze, realizing he had misinterpreted her questioning and was seeking to reassure her. She debated confronting him with the truth. But what if he was yet another of Akemi’s lackeys? Maeve had no reason to trust him. Not yet. She looked away from him again, casting her gaze over the red landscape once more. “Did the White Mantle do that to you?” she asked. “Yeah, how’d you guess?” Xian grumbled, his foot shuffling awkwardly on the floor, “It’s not a pleasant tale, hardly suitable for idle conversation.” “Humor me, the hours are long here alone,” Maeve said, her mind focusing upon him. In telling his tale she might glimpse the nature of his spirit. “Not much to tell, really. I was told that I had helped defend a temple from the White Mantle. The place was sealed up and set on fire and at some point the Shining Blade found me in the rubble and took me into their care.” “Sounds awful. I’m sorry you endured that,” Maeve said sincerely for she sensed the man’s discomfort at having to recall his trauma. “I don’t remember much, so perhaps it is a mercy.” “You must be tough to endure so much suffering.” She felt a faint flicker of pride as he warmed to her. “I guess I’m tough. Many who saw me then later told me they did not believe I could possibly survive. They even tried to find my family so they could see me before I died.” “How terrible.” “Well, that’s the thing. They didn’t know who I was. The Canthan monk who was looking after me asked my name and he said I responded with ‘xian’. I’ve been Xian ever since.” “You don’t remember anything?” Maeve asked. She felt guilty for manipulating him like this, but she needed a friend, someone she could trust. Empathizing with the suffering of others was one way to do that. “Sometimes I have memories, but it’s as if they belong to someone else. Obviously I was a necromancer at some point although that is largely lost to me now. I get on as best I can. I did not ask to be wounded nor spend the rest of my life in exile, but that’s life and it’s better than nothing.” Maeve turned and smiled at him, realizing that she genuinely liked him. He was exactly what he presented himself to be. He had an honesty that was both rare and refreshing to someone with her talents. “Maybe when things settle down, I can try to help you recall your past,” she said. “Feona mentioned you were a mesmer. Trust me, I’ve asked a few to probe around. I was told an Akestora might be able to shake something lose. Mind you, I won’t refuse your offer, I just don’t want you to feel bad if nothing happens.” “Of course. I’d be happy to give it a try when you’re ready.” “Thanks. Sorry about the accommodations. I know it’s spare. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have other matters I must attend to.” “Thank you for seeing me,” she said, “and I’m simply grateful to be alive. No need to apologize.” He rose stiffly and nodded at her politely before departing. For a while Maeve remained on the edge of her bed, her mind shifting through everything she had heard and felt. Something stirred at the far reaches of memory and she paced, trying to tug it loose and having even more compassion for Xian and his losses. She knew she could help him somehow but the means escaped her. For now, however, she resolved simply to gain his trust. It was enough to have an ally among strangers, and she hoped he would have the decency to be outraged once it was time to reveal the truth. |
