Sekáen wool - produced in the north by the semi-nomadic people, the Sekáeni, the wool is quite different than most: an ideal fabric for extreme temperature flips, light yet still powerfully insulating, does not absorb odors much, and can absorb moisture without feeling wet. The froul it is derived from are a cultivated breed that all outside of their territories would call a sek.
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Travel through the blasted, scorched desert continued the same as before, only hotter and hotter. The enõìve suits sweat visibly, which smelled like oil and strange, bitter herbs. Deros removed his cloak and had Semõìn stow it for him in the saddlebags. He kept his goggles down most of the time. Paetas, at the behest of Palamera, blessed him with a spare scarf, a checkered yellow and green oddity that might’ve been one land or another’s colors, but he wasn’t sure. He donned it without wondering too much, happy for the protection from rays and sand. He also saw that Palamera had a wide-brim straw hat, like an eeler. He could almost smile.
Paetas dies last, he thought ironically.
Still on the wide-open plain, Azrom just kissing the horizon, they came to a halt, though a slurry of activity still commenced. The pack animals and wagons were all clustered in a central position as many simple yurts were speedily assembled by the work of most of the Ironbloods — on top of laid-out circular fabric bottoms, crisscrossing dark frames were unfolded from a condensed state like a bundled-up fence, making a frame for a bulkier, conical roof piece to connect to, requiring four Ironbloods to position and anchor. Cloth was draped over, tightened around with cord, then staked into the ground. Finally, an additional little vestibule-like entrance was assembled on a simple oval frame.
Deros watched all the camp creation right along with Semõìn, who was apparently exempt due to watching a prisoner, as others with such weren’t participating either. Instead, Semõìn made a slow circle around it, as if doing a patrol. Deros figured it to be a ‘looking busy’ sort of maneuver. But the vaetors weren’t really looking — Kerrick and presumably the rest of them were helping right alongside.
One yurt he noticed had no vestibule at all and had a larger frame for the door flaps. Two Ironbloods were moving a heavy rectangular box through, with someone barking at them to be careful. He recognized the voice and quality of curses to be that of Elek. A workshop, he supposed. She had a gun in her hand, as she pushed through the flaps she was simultaneously trying to hold open for the other two as they awkwardly maneuvered inside. There was a thud, then muffled, sharp, extensive cursing.
Even Semõìn heard it, and he chuckled. “Lucky that rifle’s probably broke, or I'd worry getting shot.”
Rifle. Yes. Subcategories of guns. Rifles, cannons… pistols. And car-bines, slightly smaller than rifles.
“Why do they break?” Deros ventured hopefully.
“Eh, bad drops sometimes. Messes up part of the lock mechanism. Or the le noka cylinder.”
“Cylinder,” Deros repeated. He tried to wrap his head around it, and what he could remember of the flashes he’d seen of them manipulating the guns. “You… rotate the bullets inside.”
Semõìn snickered. “Something like that, kampriço.”
Ass. Just tell me how it works! “At least you have two car-bines if one malfunctions.”
“No. One carbine, one shotgun.”
Yet another category. “Shotgun… which has the weird sticky exploding bâvâ.”
“Tangleshot. Melnûteur.”
“How does that work, precisely? Is it shapertech?”
“Ah, wouldn’t my curious kampriço like to know?”
“Nok you, Semõìn. Jerk-ass.”
Semõìn only laughed at that, finally maneuvering his rekas into the camp instead of around it, while on the horizon of the west Azrom was setting. They passed Ironbloods unpacking gear and heavy, rolled-up sleeping mats. As if the giant had been waiting for it, Deros’s eyes found the great form of Raetmus. Watching. He didn’t wave or react, yet Deros felt the malice somehow. Semõìn made some sort of likely rude gesture with one arm curling around another and thrust upward emphatically. There was still no reaction. Implacable.
I hope the guards like me and not him.
He was brought to a yurt closer to the inside ring, all the lounging pack rekasí nearby, with constant traffic all around. He tried to decide if that was a good thing or bad thing, but couldn’t.
The guards were already present. Semõìn dismounted and, after retrieving Deros’s fur cloak from the saddlebags, brought Deros over with the anchor cording all gathered in his hand, pausing at the entrance.
“Oda, did the keirtum talk to you lot, yet?” Semõìn asked.
“Et,” a guardswoman with a thick accent said, shifting her rifle on its sling. “We know to the oafish crazy Corzakus dungheap, whom we spit upon!” She made an exaggerated faux spitting noise. “Let him nok himself on way to fifty hells for mutiny-talk!”
“Et,” the other guard said simply.
“Well, I must say, that is encouraging to hear voiced,” Deros replied. “I, too, would love to see him nok himself instead of killing me. I ask you, isn’t this face too pretty to be ruined by the bloating of death?”
The guardswoman seemed suddenly stunned by the question as she eyed him, and stammered. “I… ah, y-…”
Semõìn burst into laughter. “I think she agrees, kampriço!” he exclaimed, then took Deros through the flaps, saving the woman from her awkwardness.
The inside was more spacious than he would’ve thought. Only two thin poles in the middle holding up the frame otherwise interrupted the openness. From one pole a dimmed lantern filtered a subdued light throughout. Relatively near the middle, circling it, were three thick mats and blankets spaced evenly, and two Hamaleen were already there, their cord anchored directly to one of the guards, waist-to-waist. One of the captives was the Sylmex with white hair, while the other was not one he recognized. Middle-aged, of unclear allegiance, he was already in his blankets with his eyes closed.
The Ironbloods were standing and chatting low. They exchanged greetings with Semõìn, as he walked up and handed over Deros’s lead to one of their number not already burdened.
Deros deliberately forestalled any dumb quip of Semõìn’s by turning and grabbing his arm with his bound hands — he looked up insistently into that hated, perpetual, collectively uniform face and whispered, “Semõìn, please: do all you can. And make sure Paetas does, for Palamera. Et?”
For once, Semõìn didn’t make light. He thrust out the fur cloak to Deros and said, “I will, kampriço. You’ll see morning, I promise. I’m taking a shift here, and Paetas will too at hers, I think. Not much, but something. Oda… sleep well. Long road ahead.”
Deros nodded vaguely, releasing Semõìn's hands to take the proffered cloak. The Ironblood turned away and departed.
His own ‘personal’ guard was arranging the slack of the cording, curling it into small hoops kept at his waist. He jerked his head at Deros and said, “Tribal, oda, they say you pissed off that big nokhead Raetmus, et? What did you do?”
Turning around fully to face everyone, Deros shrugged and offered, “Ah, I slept with his sister.” He left a dramatic pause, taking on an expression of regret. “Then I told her she was bad in bed.”
They chuckled. One of the other guards said, “He can’t nok with you in here. Just be easy, et?” He pulled a little pouch from his belt and tossed it to Deros. “Eat if you want.”
Having caught it in his hands, Deros sat down on the bed to open the pouch and see its contents. Dried meat, probably froul. He glanced over to the white-haired Sylmex, who was sitting, chewing meat, and watching.
Deros's eyes slid over to the Ironbloods, but they didn’t seem like strict sorts, all close together and talking low. The distance between beds was just enough not to need yelling to communicate. He decided to introduce himself. “I’m Deros Îýteron, Azakan hunter. Blessed.”
The Sylmex’s eyes widened. “Do you have charm powers you are using on them?”
Deros barely kept from laughing, shaking his head. “Sensory. I just… studied the ways of words and people. I’ve missed the mark as much as I’ve hit, trust me.”
The Sylmex nodded slowly, clearly not understanding. “I am Sâkia Orékȩ, a warrior. An honor, Blessed hunter.”
“Likewise, warrior Sâkia.”
A guard finally spoke up. “Oda, no conversing, quari. Protocol.”
“Apologies,” Deros called as he smiled at the guard winningly. “I was just telling my friend here how cooperative and appreciative we should be, to play our part for the Organism.”
“Well, that’s just noki nice, quari, how refreshing to have a devout tribal convert already. I’ll add points to your grade at the end of this. Do keep it up.” Deep sarcasm.
Deros smiled grandly and gave a thumb’s up, then commenced to eat some of the dried meat. It was reasonably fresh and smoky, almost the twin of the common travel food from Miracle Springs. He only ate a few bites, though, his appetite supremely lacking from the doom hovering over his head. At least an old staple could be his potential last meal.
He laid in the bed for a while, eyes shifting around to deduce the security of the situation over and over. The walls of the yurt were not easy to sneak into, that was certain. The sturdy frame of interlocking, screwed, wood-like, dark poles had only little diamond-shaped spaces between, barely enough to fit an arm through. The material draped around it was thick and heavy, and as he’d seen, staked into the ground outside. It would be obvious and noisy getting in or out, by all appearances.
The guards were fairly diligent — not simply laying down to nap, at least. One of them always patrolled around the wall, while the others stood there, often chatting close. Aware, at least. Every hour a new shift came to exchange places. Deros didn’t like that much, but he understood the logic.
As it got colder, Deros got under the blankets and tried to rest. He tossed and turned through two shift changes, always opening his eyes shortly after closing, Raetmus like a phantom lurking in the dark of the unknown, ready for his unawareness. Try as he might to rationalize it away and comfort his mind, to willpower himself to sleep, he couldn’t. Even after hours, he found himself unsure if time that passed was in sleep or wakefulness. At best he slept minutes here and there, with some noise or another making him start awake, looking around for his killer. Being a light sleeper certainly didn’t help matters…
Past the fourth shift change, Deros heard someone come in too early for the shift, and the others quieted their talk suddenly. That made Deros practically fly up to see who it was, fearing the worst.
Not Raetmus.
An Ironblood with some sort of blue cloth in one hand approached the other guards, though while staring at Deros. “I’m here to take the mouthy one,” she said flatly. “The keirtum wants to interrogate him about the situation.”
Deros noticed she had two painted red triangles at her breast, instead of one. More of their stupid ranks. How many could there possibly be?
But all the guard who swiftly began handing over Deros’s lead to her said was, “Zeko, zeki, Vaetor.”
Deros rose out of his blanket to stand, bundling his cloak around him and stifling a yawn. “A midnight liaison, then? Not my first, I must admit.”
The woman didn’t seem amused. She approached Deros and thrust the blue cloth into his hands with force enough to push him back slightly. A coat. At the same time, she grabbed his wrist bindings and quickly undid them, barking, “Don this, playboy. So your sorry ass doesn’t freeze. Hurry up about it.”
“Zeko…” Deros complied with the demand, undoing his cloak temporarily to put the thick blue coat on. Garish, but quality northern Sekáen wool, like Azakan usually wore. He re-donned his fur cloak and began tying the checkered scarf around his head, to cover his ears and face, dropping his goggles to his neck. He had to finish as he walked, as the vaetor was already turning around and walking out.
He rubbed at his unusually-freed wrists and hands as they pushed through the flaps into the freezing night air. The scarf felt paper thin against the cold, in particular. He was led over to a rekas as well as one other unranked, apparently waiting Ironblood, already mounted. The vaetor simply gestured at her mount for him to climb up, as she anchored his cord to one of the beast’s hoops. He mounted up without complaint, surprised and rather elated to have his hands free for once, even if they were completely freezing.
They were soon off through a well-lit, very quiet camp, most Ironbloods presumably sleeping inside the yurts, but hardly all. He noticed one patrolling inside the camp, and as the vaetor’s path seemed to be heading out, he noticed two sentries circling around the outskirts.
Just as he was beginning to look around and become concerned about their route, the vaetor snorted behind him and said, “I know what you’re thinking, tribal, but you have not been had. Calm yourself. Raetmus is under close watch. Snoring, I hear. And I am no traitor to the Ordení. Keirtum Soriel is my superior and I obey her will to the absolute.”
“Admirable,” Deros replied. “I love to hear it. And thank you for freeing my hands.”
“Don’t thank me, scum.”
“Alright, then.”
In silence, they continued very slightly past the camp, to a huge, worn-down sandstone slab that was possibly the only meager elevation for miles. A mounted figure stood atop it, apparently gazing out upon the horizon and the full breadth of Keramus arching across it. Deros glanced around at the rest of the celestial landscape above, noticing first Balgus-Orvakon’s bright glow, then Genopia — The Wandering Sister — in what he believed was the western sky.
Pointing me to home, old friend? I’m afraid that’s impossible, but I appreciate the gesture.
As they began traversing over the sandstone toward the figure, the vaetor called over her shoulder, “Stay here, Raishon.”
Some form of nonverbal agreement occurred, and the vaetor continued on to what Deros soon confirmed was Keirtum Soriel, for the little cape at her shoulder. They proceeded right up to her side and paused there. Deros decided to let someone else speak first.
“Thank you, Cienové,” Soriel said off-hand, without turning her head.
“Of course, vin,” Cienové replied, and was otherwise utterly still, waiting.
Deros had to hold his tongue not to say ‘that’s a pretty name’ — somehow he didn’t think she’d appreciate it. The chances of being put in a chokehold for it were not zero.
After an additional long pause still staring at the galaxy, Soriel finally seemed to suck in a breath, then said, “It’s breathtaking, that. I can’t get over it. It dwarfs anything I’ve ever seen. Mount Datha, the Palace of Agea Ban Goteós — even Jandus Om himself. Spectacular. Enough to visit this pontnok dirt-hole at least once in a lifetime. I can see why he came here. Somewhat.”
“Who came here?” Deros could not resist that nugget.
Soriel’s horned helmet turned to him. “The Waymaker, boy. God.”
Deros stared for a spell, then he shook his head. “I don’t know who you mean, but they weren’t gods who came to these lands. Esteron was a… prime wielder, as was who we call Founder, who was a woman, despite disagreements with that in the north. Do you really believe a god came here?”
“Not ‘a’ god — God. Yes, there is an irony to the word. Deity is like that for you too, isn’t it? The Waymaker Relentara of Ozrus, tribal. A deified man long, long, long gone. The only reason anyone came to this world is that he came first. Actual deity or just a super genius, well… that’s for historians, theologians, and other noki dust breathers to argue over, not me. He existed and was way beyond anything before or since.”
“Even the Shapers? They seem to think themselves gods or quite close to it.”
“They leave that to interpretation. Why didn’t you just ask Eklásia when you met with her in private, hmm? Sounds like fine pillow talk.”
Any words caught in Deros’s throat, to that. She knows! I should deny-
Soriel barked a laugh at him, shaking her head. “I’m the contact, boy. She sent word to me indirectly, to watch out for you and the girl. So, Deros, how was it, to be with a goddess?” A mocking, ribald emphasis to the word.
“We didn’t…” Deros began weakly, still caught off guard. He cleared his throat and made himself sigh. “She just teased me. She wanted to give us both something to look forward to.”
“That sounds like something she’d do. Capricious, that one.”
Cienové cut in suddenly, “You actually have some self-control of some kind, tribal? Color me nokieun amazed.”
Annoyed by her tone, Deros turned to glare up at her. “Don’t pretend you know me, alien.”
Soriel breathed a laugh and said, “Don’t mind her. My second-in-command is abrasive at best, and after hearing about your oddly prolifically-spread reputation, gained an especial dislike for you. At least I think that’s what it is.”
“Well, you two make an absolutely adorable couple,” Deros said with sharp sarcasm.
Loudly, Cienové replied, “We’re not a coup-”
“Nevermind it, Cienové,” Soriel admonished in exasperation, before turning her head back to Deros. “We have a couple of subjects to address, One Ball Deros. Raetmus. He agreed to let us search his belongings for the spear. Nothing. He maintains it was a deliberate bluff, everything he did intended to mentally torment you. He wanted your necklace, too, knowing it a prize your people value. He even asked me to withhold information back to you so he could continue making you suffer until back on Cajhor.
“I pressed him hard on what he really intends and though he danced around details, he admitted his plans are more long-term. What I gather is he will use his significant pull in Cerovuâ to arrange… well, something maniacal, I’m sure. Make sure you’re given over to the State if you aren’t tripped into a trap contract. Conspire a kidnapping wherever you’re allocated if needed, that sort of thing.”
Deros shook his head at the information. That conniving prick. “Did you search Kerrick’s belongings as well?”
Soriel scoffed loudly. “There’s no nokieun way Kerrick is involved, boy. He’s a straight arrow with no creativity whatsoever. His brain can’t even conceive of such a plot.”
“He doesn’t need to. Raetmus is the maniacal one, remember? And Kerrick absolutely hates me. He’s repeatedly said he’d like to see me dead.”
“Good soldiers separate wishes from orders, and that good soldier is not going to jeopardize his middling but acceptable career with this pont. How would they even use the spear in camp? If Raetmus was going for that as opposed to taunting you, this was the dumbest way to go about it imaginable.”
“Maybe he didn’t think I’d be able to raise the alarm like I did, as a mere captive.”
“Then congratulations. You thwarted him. They spooked and tossed the spear, gave up the plot. You win.”
It was Deros’s turn to scoff. “Right. There is something we’re missing, Keirtum, mark my words. As for the spear, tell me: is Raetmus serious with oaths?”
“Corzakûssians are extremely serious with blood oaths. But the one that he effectively made over the relevant blood of his mentor would take priority, et? Any lies after would just be to see the first oath succeed.”
Deros was quiet for a few moments, considering. “No. He was adamant. I’d ask that you search the whole camp for the spear. And can you not simply detain him?”
Soriel erupted in bitter, derisive laughter. “No, I can’t detain him, though he’s being watched in camp. All he’s done is say nasty words to you, a quari. Little does he know who his enemy is, but I can’t just come out with that, now, can I? On the bright side, tribal, you might see vengeance executed on your behalf, post-mortem.”
Deros wasn’t amused. “And the spear?”
“Nokieuri le parta! No, damn it. If a spear isn’t found with your noki name on it, I look like a complete idiot. And it won’t be. Do you have any idea how much gear we have? And you expect to systematically check every nook and cranny? You’re delusional, tribal. It’s not happening.”
“Well, I guess we’ll just entrust the promised property of Eklásia to your wisdom, then.”
Far from offended, Soriel nodded. “It’s all I have to offer, such as it is. I’m supposed to leave it clandestine that you’re her prize. That being said, do you have any other requests to the jurisdiction of said wisdom?”
“A pair of gloves. Another thick scarf. Free’d hands. A knife. Palamera and I cut loose and perhaps a spare rekas to see us on our way. Hair tie. Information.”
“Done, done, sometimes, rejected, rejected, done, maybe. I’m not breaking our primary mission protocols for your ass. No militarily actionable intelligence beyond what you’ve already seen. I’m sure you’ve drilled some things out of that moron, Semõìn, but don’t expect it from me. Anyway, I’m supposed to arrange a meeting between you and the girl, if feasible. It might be now or never, under the current excuse for any spies. Do you want me to fetch her?”
Hesitating, Deros had to contemplate the question carefully. I cannot have her sussing out a private meeting… At least I don’t have to pretend fainting to speak with her, now. But she’ll be quite curious why we’re favored…
Studying the implacable alien face of Soriel’s suit, trying to decide how much he should trust the woman behind it, Deros finally admitted, “I don’t want Palamera to know about the meeting. Or the deal. I need this framed as our mutual patron’s favor simply from the hilltop encounter. Without any… romantic aspects. We’ll worry about the deal on Cajhor. Can you do this?”
‘Of course,” Soriel offered in bemused tones.
“You are scum, aren’t you, nokboy?” Cienové spat in disgust. Deros ignored her.
“Cienové, fetch the girl,” Soriel commanded. “You can leave your nokboy with me.”
“He’s not my-... Zeko, vin.” Cienové dropped off of her mount swiftly, then seized Deros before he could get off himself, pulling him down with perhaps a measure of extra roughness. “But,” she continued, “I’m binding this trash’s wrists again, and I’m leaving Raishon.”
“Fine.”
Cienové did as she said, placing clasps around his wrists, sealing it up, then tying additional cord around it. She seemed to take particular satisfaction in making sure the bonds were overly tight. Deros decided to pretend it didn’t bother him.
When she was finished, she transferred the longer waist tether over to the keirtum’s mount, then wordlessly re-mounted her rekas to depart back to the camp at a measured pace.
After a time, Soriel queried in amusement, “Not going to ask for the bonds to be loosened?”
“I wouldn’t mind it.” Deros cleared his throat.
Soriel sighed and coughed a laugh at the same time, as she dismounted and waltzed over to redo the cording at his wrists, giving them a bit of blessed give. He was certain the Ironblood was smirking immensely behind the helmet.
“Appreciated,” Deros muttered when she was done. “She’s possibly even more aggressive than Kerrick or Raetmus toward me.”
Soriel shrugged and crossed her arms in front of her. “Pent up energy trying to focus somewhere. Everyone is getting worse with it. We stay in the enõìve almost completely, Deros. Minimal exposure. We’re conditioned for it, but it is grueling. Our only real relief is to remove the crown occasionally, in controlled conditions. For most, it's not even relief.”
“Why not? And isn’t this actionable intelligence?”
“You’re a smart boy, you’ve figured some things out, et? Most surface information is irrelevant. But anxiety would be why, boy. The exposure. I don’t feel it, personally. We’re pumped chock-full of the best medicines. One is an HK cocktail. Hunter-killer. Some kind of microg-eater. I think we’re fine from little incidental exposure. Even the filter we use in the crown isn’t noki perfect.”
“Microorganisms that kill other microorganisms?” Microg was not a word he heard very often. Only from Hospitallers speaking about diseases and ‘preventative measures.’
“Wahz, tribal!” Soriel exclaimed. “Amazing what some of you know. Bits and pieces of civilization buried out in the endless sand.”
“I’m a veritable bundle of surprises, in particular.” Deros glanced over at the guard ‘Raishon’, mounted and watching from a distance, idly. Only two giants from wide-open freedom, yet giants were giants. He’d be lucky to nudge one slightly, much less take them down.
Hold to hope, even against the hopeless. I will, Father. Always.
“I’m sure our benefactor will enjoy unwrapping each of them,” Soriel replied with rich suggestion. “You’ll have it made if you make it to the palace, One Ball. I doubt she’ll bore of such an exotic acquisition anytime soon.”
“How comforting.”
“Well, you certainly have a cute pout developed. If you-”
“Why are we headed to a volcano?”
There was a long pause as she stared. “That’s the sort of actionable intelligence I was talking about. Semõìn is going to the top of my pontlist, now. I’ll make noki sure he-”
“It wasn’t Semõìn, Keirtum Soriel. I overheard some idiot guards talking at the base camp at Twisted Bend.”
She scoffed and took a deep breath. “Of course. Chattering, wet-ear, pontnugget no-studs! At any rate, Deros, I won’t be talking about a volcano, which may or may not be a codename, nor our destination in this ponthole, which may or may not be related.”
“Understood. My spies may or may not have to go home empty-handed.”
A sniff was all the response he got. Soriel then turned her head to look back over at Keramus’s great bulk.
Deros followed her gaze. “Where is Cajhor? You’re looking at it, aren’t you? Ready and eager to return. Which star is it?”
She shook her head, then pointed downward.
Deros looked down at the sand, confused. “Underground?”
Soriel burst out in laughter. “No, you nokhead. Cashor is not in the northern sky. It’s blocked by your fat planet. And even if it wasn’t, you couldn’t see it. Not without a telescope.”
“How far is it? Cashor? Cajhor, Cashor. Those names are oddly close.”
“Some things are complicated to explain without more context. I’ll let you speculate on distance. And Cajhor is ultimately short for Cajhor Al Dûl.”
A distant star? It would have to be for Keramus to look different. What is at the volcano? Something I both want to know and don’t. Relentara, was it? ‘God.’ Right. Probably just another frustrated explorer that others decided to deify.
“There she is,” Soriel declared, jerking her head to the camp. Deros turned to see Cienové riding up from it in the dark, Palamera obviously bundled up in front of her.
Time to steel myself for this. A little truth on a bed of lies. What a wonderful catch I am. But it won’t matter if we escape. It won’t matter if we don’t. I’ll either forget that witch ever existed or I’ll live with the consequences of failure as her slave, to keep Palamera safe.
As they rode up, Palamera was eyeing him and Soriel with alarm and tremendous curiosity. She was covered quite well against the cold, with coat and cloak, her riding gloves, woolen hat, and a scarf wrapping her face, leaving nothing but her eyes visible. Her hands were unbound. Cienové helped her down and led her over to Soriel, so she was standing next to Deros.
Soriel faced and loomed over them, hands held idly at her belt. “Good, she’s here. I told Deros a little, but I saved the bulk to save my breath. As you both know from your encounter on the cliff, the Shaper Eklásia is interested in both of you prime-using quari. She’s instructed me — another she patrons — to watch out for both of you and extend help in what way I can. That’s limited, because she doesn’t want the favor obvious or known, which could make you targets. But I’ve already been protecting Deros from Raetmus. I can help in other small ways. Cajhor will be a different story, but your patron will be… very inclined to assisting you in your future.”
“Of course she’s interested in Deros,” Palamera muttered darkly, eyes slanted to the sandstone below.
Deros looked at her insistently and implored, “Palamera-”
“Thank you for your assistance,” Palamera interrupted, head turning back up to Soriel. “I’m not sure I need anything that you can provide. Though I’d like to check over the health of the other members, here. The… quari.”
“Which would include me, naturally,” Deros offered. “I’d like to talk to Palamera privately as it is, if I may?”
“Et,” Soriel said, shrugging. “I can’t guarantee other meetings, as this one is under the guise of investigation. As for health, I’ll have the medic check over each of them. Alright… you want some privacy. The best I can do is the end of these ropes, but we can’t hear if you’re whispering.”
Soriel and Cienové strode over to their rekasí to unwind more slack in the tethers, then walked off slightly, standing together with their backs to the camp. They both pulled out their shotguns as they waited.
Deros walked over the sandstone until the rope was at its relative maximum. Palamera stood where she was with her arms crossed around herself for a spell. Deros waved her over, mouthing ‘please’ insistently. She seemed to take a deep, deep breath, shake her head, then finally relented to follow him.
Positioning himself so they were more side-by-side just in case the Ironbloods could read lips, Deros eyed her and her extremely defensive, miffed posture, then whispered, “First of all, I’m ready for my tongue lashing. Come out with it. But whisper.”
She seemed to collect herself, taking another measured breath and straightening her back to her full height as she always did when annoyed with him. Finally, she directed a glare. In a restrained whisper, she replied, “I know you have been trying to manipulate them. Throw them off-guard. I know that. The acting, the false persona. But I hate what you chose to cause it. I don’t understand why you had to take such a-a… licentious, degenerate-... manner! Surely you could’ve won them over some other way. A way that doesn’t make me feel like a cast-aside harlot! Why did your mind go there, Deros? Look what it has done…” She trailed off, shaking her head.
Deros was quite sick in his stomach from the words, the shame and the guilt rising to the surface. He didn’t meet her eyes as he said, “Saying sorry isn’t enough, but I’m sorry. I wish I could’ve figured out another way. My mind went where it did for no other reason than understanding warriors. Soldiers. Even more, they’re rough killers. A bunch of Daexo types. I know what would amuse them… observed it, absorbed it into instinct. But in my head, I was only thinking to disarm them, and that I would kill them if I needed to. One doesn’t fear a fool — a clown — and so that is what I became.”
He leaned in close to her, at her ear, then whispered low, “I still have a knife, thanks to it.”
Finally, Deros lifted his eyes to hers, not knowing what he’d find, as he leaned back away. She was staring, searching his face, visibly breathing in the cold night air. There was no fear, nor did he think hatred, just hurt and uncertainty and a need reaching for absolution. A need to believe him, a need for assurance.
“Do you find Eklásia beautiful, Deros?” Palamera asked quietly.
It was something he was not at all surprised to hear her ask, though it didn’t displace the palpable warning filling the air from it to any man with any sense, whatever her attempt was to make it sound casual.
“She’s disturbing and makes my skin crawl, goddess or no,” Deros replied, picking and choosing his bits of honesty. “She’s like a predator stalking prey, both to me and to you, however the ways might be different. As a hunter, that’s not where I want to be.” It was something that just came out of his mouth, and he wasn’t sure he liked it. “This is just another reason we have to escape. Do you want either of us in her clutches, if it can be avoided? I don’t. I hear there are worse things, as well. Some will be experimented on.”
Palamera’s eyes slid away as she stewed on his words. After a time, she said, “I don’t ever want to be apart from you. To imagine it… that’s what keeps me awake at night, with nothing to embrace but the cold. I keep telling myself… I may have to endure it. Just as I have to endure the possibility of never hugging my sisters again. To have it all taken away… to be alone… it doesn’t feel like life at all. It feels like death.”
“Palamera, I promise you, we will not be apart. I will ensure we are together. Just trust me in this.” No matter what I must do, I will keep you safe. “You are the only woman I could ever be in love with, the only one I want.” He moved close, trying to be stealthy to watchful eyes behind them as he reached his bound hands to take one of her unbound, gloved ones — she met his eyes, hand trembling… perhaps from the cold. “Any other is made pale by your light, my rising dawn. No other is gorgeous to me. And don’t complain about that word now, as we’ve already traded.”
Welled tears in her eyes were damped quickly by a gloved free hand as she nonetheless coughed out the ghost of a laugh, then shook her head, clearly trying to keep a hold on herself. “How can you take me through every emotion in mere minutes, Deros Îýteron? Every time I try to be firm with you, I… am I just clay in your hands like everyone else?”
He smiled weakly. “None are, really. I wish it were true. I’m just quicksilver in your pocket, becoming whatever form I need to in order to stay there.”
Formless and poisonous… But he tried to reject that banal thought.
Not clandestine at all, Palamera bared a hand from a glove to reach up through a thin scarf and touch his cheek. Deros had his mouth open, to admonish, to stop her, but the words caught in his throat. He squeezed his eyes shut at the contact, feeling tears want to well up himself.
Please, just let this be it, here. Let her warmth soak in and let the nightmare be banished. Let us awaken in each other’s arms in a bed within what we call home…
“Whatever it is we must do, Deros,” Palamera said with a firm, almost fierce tone. When he opened his eyes he saw what he heard in truth, through the windows of her eyes. The soul of true resolve. “I’ll do it. I can’t lose you. I won’t.”
She searched his face, and he was convinced what she saw was more than he’d ever be. She continued, “If we must leverage a fanged viper’s power, then so be it. Whoever and whatever else, too. We will persevere through it all, my love. I’m… afraid — I can’t stop shaking, I’m so afraid — but I won’t give up. We’ll fight through it and we’ll be together. I promise you we will be.”
He could only stare in amazement at her words, and after them, she embraced him, to which he wished he could return it, but his hands were bound. Instead, he leaned down so his chin was at her neck. He felt her trembling, but gradually it calmed through the wordless embrace. He was proud of her, to speak encouragement to him, even though he felt entirely unworthy of it. Effective, too, in ways she couldn’t know. She thought the same as him, on some core level.
Could such love survive anything? He hoped to avoid finding out, as he did not intend on setting foot on Cajhor, nor seeing the ‘viper’ ever again.
When the embrace broke, Deros’s mind was on the practical again. They didn’t have infinite time to speak. “The unwanted subject, Palamera,” Deros ventured. “Eklásia. What did you feel when you delved into her with your power?”
Palamera’s eyes glazed over as she recalled, then she shivered. “It was horrifying. Her entire body felt surgically operated upon. Altered. And that is not the worst. Her bones and muscles had a living… latticework wrapping them, connecting and anchoring, helping her move, helping her breathe. A whole other lifeform wrapped around and branching into her insides, with strange central rods of it in the center of her bones, surrounded by marrow. A missing womb, and instead some other connected, pulsing organ… when I touched it with makar, I… I let go… it all looked so painful, so twisted…”
Deros felt his skin crawl all anew. The touch of unseen fibers brushing across- “And what of Paetas? A normal Ironblood.”
Hugging her arms to herself, Palamera nodded. “Yes, I’ve delved into her. And the suit. Separate organisms. The young woman inside is… almost normal. Overly thin and long, but not even your height. Very fit and healthy, with wiry, built-up muscles as if to compensate. Something unusual in the blood, but I can’t say what. Just… everything is slightly off. And the suit. Alive, with a nervous system responding to the host’s every move, as if the guts of an insect directing an exoskeleton. They move differently inside, letting the suit carry the load. But the muscles are weakening with time and her aches and pains are growing. She is uncomfortable, agitated. And she’s… ah, a-anxious. To get back to… Cajhor. Another world, isn’t it?”
Deros nodded, then raised an eyebrow. “You were going to say something else.”
Palamera froze for half a second as their eyes were locked, then she looked away, over to Keramus, slumping slightly and sighing. “Horny,” she muttered, finally.
“Oh.” Deros cleared his throat, nodding slowly in the awkwardness. Then he recalled something about Paetas: her prior stated attraction to Soriel. “Oh. Right. You. You sensed it because she’s attracted to you.”
Her eyes did not meet his, chin rising up and — he knew, despite not seeing — her lips pressed together. “Let’s not talk about it,” she replied, quickly and with a crack in her voice.
Despite everything, that particular discomfort amused Deros. He didn’t quite have the spirit to tease, however, with his lies haunting him. He was glad, as it meant that Paetas would probably continue to look out for her. And he wasn’t the only one leveraging charm. “As you wish, my love.”
Protocols of non-fraternization, wasn’t it, Semõìn? Protocols can’t make people blind, though. Symmetry is symmetry, charm is charm.
Palamera opened her mouth to say something else, but there was a whistle and a little tug on his cord. Soriel called out, “Songtime is over, lovebirds! Wrap it up.”
Deros reached up with his bound hands to cup Palamera’s face with his hands as best he could, wanting to look into beloved eyes he’d captured in his one more time. Then he kissed her nose through the fabric, then her forehead, before he stood up straight and tall enough to cradle her head under his chin. In response, her arms wrapped around him in a final hug.
“As you said,” Deros whispered, “we’ll be together, we’ll persevere. We’ll never give up. Be strong, Palamera Serratus Huar. I love you. Always.”
“So I will, Deros Îýteron Talasentia,” she whispered back. “You stay strong. And beautiful. I love you while the stars remain.”
He smiled briefly at the name, as they separated and began walking back. Only someone’s wife would pull such a thing when he’d been publicly granted the honor of a hero’s name in his own, as his son. His mother’s clan would be omitted or added, never made to replace. But a wife or a mother could humble a man from any earned name, being the holder and heir of the old ways of the clan. Deros was even the technical heir until he had a daughter…
Boldly claiming her promise before its appointment. I wish it were so. I wish it could be. I’d trade any name for it.
Returned to the rekasí and the vicinity of the Ironblood captors, Deros said quietly, “Keep whatever you saw — all of this — confidential. The less I am tied to her the better.”
Soriel only shrugged. Cienové shook her head at Deros, then turned to Palamera and spat, “Fallen for this nokboy’s tricks too, now? Typical. Thought I heard you knew better.”
Deros could tell that Palamera was smiling under her scarf as her eyes flashed Deros’s way. “What can I say?” she asked in helpless exasperation. “He’s an enchanter.”
A mutual one, my love. A mutual one.
Sekáen wool - produced in the north by the semi-nomadic people, the Sekáeni, the wool is quite different than most: an ideal fabric for extreme temperature flips, light yet still powerfully insulating, does not absorb odors much, and can absorb moisture without feeling wet. The froul it is derived from are a cultivated breed that all outside of their territories would call a sek.
[collapse]
Travel through the blasted, scorched desert continued the same as before, only hotter and hotter. The enõìve suits sweat visibly, which smelled like oil and strange, bitter herbs. Deros removed his cloak and had Semõìn stow it for him in the saddlebags. He kept his goggles down most of the time. Paetas, at the behest of Palamera, blessed him with a spare scarf, a checkered yellow and green oddity that might’ve been one land or another’s colors, but he wasn’t sure. He donned it without wondering too much, happy for the protection from rays and sand. He also saw that Palamera had a wide-brim straw hat, like an eeler. He could almost smile.
Paetas dies last, he thought ironically.
Still on the wide-open plain, Azrom just kissing the horizon, they came to a halt, though a slurry of activity still commenced. The pack animals and wagons were all clustered in a central position as many simple yurts were speedily assembled by the work of most of the Ironbloods — on top of laid-out circular fabric bottoms, crisscrossing dark frames were unfolded from a condensed state like a bundled-up fence, making a frame for a bulkier, conical roof piece to connect to, requiring four Ironbloods to position and anchor. Cloth was draped over, tightened around with cord, then staked into the ground. Finally, an additional little vestibule-like entrance was assembled on a simple oval frame.
Deros watched all the camp creation right along with Semõìn, who was apparently exempt due to watching a prisoner, as others with such weren’t participating either. Instead, Semõìn made a slow circle around it, as if doing a patrol. Deros figured it to be a ‘looking busy’ sort of maneuver. But the vaetors weren’t really looking — Kerrick and presumably the rest of them were helping right alongside.
One yurt he noticed had no vestibule at all and had a larger frame for the door flaps. Two Ironbloods were moving a heavy rectangular box through, with someone barking at them to be careful. He recognized the voice and quality of curses to be that of Elek. A workshop, he supposed. She had a gun in her hand, as she pushed through the flaps she was simultaneously trying to hold open for the other two as they awkwardly maneuvered inside. There was a thud, then muffled, sharp, extensive cursing.
Even Semõìn heard it, and he chuckled. “Lucky that rifle’s probably broke, or I'd worry getting shot.”
Rifle. Yes. Subcategories of guns. Rifles, cannons… pistols. And car-bines, slightly smaller than rifles.
“Why do they break?” Deros ventured hopefully.
“Eh, bad drops sometimes. Messes up part of the lock mechanism. Or the le noka cylinder.”
“Cylinder,” Deros repeated. He tried to wrap his head around it, and what he could remember of the flashes he’d seen of them manipulating the guns. “You… rotate the bullets inside.”
Semõìn snickered. “Something like that, kampriço.”
Ass. Just tell me how it works! “At least you have two car-bines if one malfunctions.”
“No. One carbine, one shotgun.”
Yet another category. “Shotgun… which has the weird sticky exploding bâvâ.”
“Tangleshot. Melnûteur.”
“How does that work, precisely? Is it shapertech?”
“Ah, wouldn’t my curious kampriço like to know?”
“Nok you, Semõìn. Jerk-ass.”
Semõìn only laughed at that, finally maneuvering his rekas into the camp instead of around it, while on the horizon of the west Azrom was setting. They passed Ironbloods unpacking gear and heavy, rolled-up sleeping mats. As if the giant had been waiting for it, Deros’s eyes found the great form of Raetmus. Watching. He didn’t wave or react, yet Deros felt the malice somehow. Semõìn made some sort of likely rude gesture with one arm curling around another and thrust upward emphatically. There was still no reaction. Implacable.
I hope the guards like me and not him.
He was brought to a yurt closer to the inside ring, all the lounging pack rekasí nearby, with constant traffic all around. He tried to decide if that was a good thing or bad thing, but couldn’t.
The guards were already present. Semõìn dismounted and, after retrieving Deros’s fur cloak from the saddlebags, brought Deros over with the anchor cording all gathered in his hand, pausing at the entrance.
“Oda, did the keirtum talk to you lot, yet?” Semõìn asked.
“Et,” a guardswoman with a thick accent said, shifting her rifle on its sling. “We know to the oafish crazy Corzakus dungheap, whom we spit upon!” She made an exaggerated faux spitting noise. “Let him nok himself on way to fifty hells for mutiny-talk!”
“Et,” the other guard said simply.
“Well, I must say, that is encouraging to hear voiced,” Deros replied. “I, too, would love to see him nok himself instead of killing me. I ask you, isn’t this face too pretty to be ruined by the bloating of death?”
The guardswoman seemed suddenly stunned by the question as she eyed him, and stammered. “I… ah, y-…”
Semõìn burst into laughter. “I think she agrees, kampriço!” he exclaimed, then took Deros through the flaps, saving the woman from her awkwardness.
The inside was more spacious than he would’ve thought. Only two thin poles in the middle holding up the frame otherwise interrupted the openness. From one pole a dimmed lantern filtered a subdued light throughout. Relatively near the middle, circling it, were three thick mats and blankets spaced evenly, and two Hamaleen were already there, their cord anchored directly to one of the guards, waist-to-waist. One of the captives was the Sylmex with white hair, while the other was not one he recognized. Middle-aged, of unclear allegiance, he was already in his blankets with his eyes closed.
The Ironbloods were standing and chatting low. They exchanged greetings with Semõìn, as he walked up and handed over Deros’s lead to one of their number not already burdened.
Deros deliberately forestalled any dumb quip of Semõìn’s by turning and grabbing his arm with his bound hands — he looked up insistently into that hated, perpetual, collectively uniform face and whispered, “Semõìn, please: do all you can. And make sure Paetas does, for Palamera. Et?”
For once, Semõìn didn’t make light. He thrust out the fur cloak to Deros and said, “I will, kampriço. You’ll see morning, I promise. I’m taking a shift here, and Paetas will too at hers, I think. Not much, but something. Oda… sleep well. Long road ahead.”
Deros nodded vaguely, releasing Semõìn's hands to take the proffered cloak. The Ironblood turned away and departed.
His own ‘personal’ guard was arranging the slack of the cording, curling it into small hoops kept at his waist. He jerked his head at Deros and said, “Tribal, oda, they say you pissed off that big nokhead Raetmus, et? What did you do?”
Turning around fully to face everyone, Deros shrugged and offered, “Ah, I slept with his sister.” He left a dramatic pause, taking on an expression of regret. “Then I told her she was bad in bed.”
They chuckled. One of the other guards said, “He can’t nok with you in here. Just be easy, et?” He pulled a little pouch from his belt and tossed it to Deros. “Eat if you want.”
Having caught it in his hands, Deros sat down on the bed to open the pouch and see its contents. Dried meat, probably froul. He glanced over to the white-haired Sylmex, who was sitting, chewing meat, and watching.
Deros's eyes slid over to the Ironbloods, but they didn’t seem like strict sorts, all close together and talking low. The distance between beds was just enough not to need yelling to communicate. He decided to introduce himself. “I’m Deros Îýteron, Azakan hunter. Blessed.”
The Sylmex’s eyes widened. “Do you have charm powers you are using on them?”
Deros barely kept from laughing, shaking his head. “Sensory. I just… studied the ways of words and people. I’ve missed the mark as much as I’ve hit, trust me.”
The Sylmex nodded slowly, clearly not understanding. “I am Sâkia Orékȩ, a warrior. An honor, Blessed hunter.”
“Likewise, warrior Sâkia.”
A guard finally spoke up. “Oda, no conversing, quari. Protocol.”
“Apologies,” Deros called as he smiled at the guard winningly. “I was just telling my friend here how cooperative and appreciative we should be, to play our part for the Organism.”
“Well, that’s just noki nice, quari, how refreshing to have a devout tribal convert already. I’ll add points to your grade at the end of this. Do keep it up.” Deep sarcasm.
Deros smiled grandly and gave a thumb’s up, then commenced to eat some of the dried meat. It was reasonably fresh and smoky, almost the twin of the common travel food from Miracle Springs. He only ate a few bites, though, his appetite supremely lacking from the doom hovering over his head. At least an old staple could be his potential last meal.
He laid in the bed for a while, eyes shifting around to deduce the security of the situation over and over. The walls of the yurt were not easy to sneak into, that was certain. The sturdy frame of interlocking, screwed, wood-like, dark poles had only little diamond-shaped spaces between, barely enough to fit an arm through. The material draped around it was thick and heavy, and as he’d seen, staked into the ground outside. It would be obvious and noisy getting in or out, by all appearances.
The guards were fairly diligent — not simply laying down to nap, at least. One of them always patrolled around the wall, while the others stood there, often chatting close. Aware, at least. Every hour a new shift came to exchange places. Deros didn’t like that much, but he understood the logic.
As it got colder, Deros got under the blankets and tried to rest. He tossed and turned through two shift changes, always opening his eyes shortly after closing, Raetmus like a phantom lurking in the dark of the unknown, ready for his unawareness. Try as he might to rationalize it away and comfort his mind, to willpower himself to sleep, he couldn’t. Even after hours, he found himself unsure if time that passed was in sleep or wakefulness. At best he slept minutes here and there, with some noise or another making him start awake, looking around for his killer. Being a light sleeper certainly didn’t help matters…
Past the fourth shift change, Deros heard someone come in too early for the shift, and the others quieted their talk suddenly. That made Deros practically fly up to see who it was, fearing the worst.
Not Raetmus.
An Ironblood with some sort of blue cloth in one hand approached the other guards, though while staring at Deros. “I’m here to take the mouthy one,” she said flatly. “The keirtum wants to interrogate him about the situation.”
Deros noticed she had two painted red triangles at her breast, instead of one. More of their stupid ranks. How many could there possibly be?
But all the guard who swiftly began handing over Deros’s lead to her said was, “Zeko, zeki, Vaetor.”
Deros rose out of his blanket to stand, bundling his cloak around him and stifling a yawn. “A midnight liaison, then? Not my first, I must admit.”
The woman didn’t seem amused. She approached Deros and thrust the blue cloth into his hands with force enough to push him back slightly. A coat. At the same time, she grabbed his wrist bindings and quickly undid them, barking, “Don this, playboy. So your sorry ass doesn’t freeze. Hurry up about it.”
“Zeko…” Deros complied with the demand, undoing his cloak temporarily to put the thick blue coat on. Garish, but quality northern Sekáen wool, like Azakan usually wore. He re-donned his fur cloak and began tying the checkered scarf around his head, to cover his ears and face, dropping his goggles to his neck. He had to finish as he walked, as the vaetor was already turning around and walking out.
He rubbed at his unusually-freed wrists and hands as they pushed through the flaps into the freezing night air. The scarf felt paper thin against the cold, in particular. He was led over to a rekas as well as one other unranked, apparently waiting Ironblood, already mounted. The vaetor simply gestured at her mount for him to climb up, as she anchored his cord to one of the beast’s hoops. He mounted up without complaint, surprised and rather elated to have his hands free for once, even if they were completely freezing.
They were soon off through a well-lit, very quiet camp, most Ironbloods presumably sleeping inside the yurts, but hardly all. He noticed one patrolling inside the camp, and as the vaetor’s path seemed to be heading out, he noticed two sentries circling around the outskirts.
Just as he was beginning to look around and become concerned about their route, the vaetor snorted behind him and said, “I know what you’re thinking, tribal, but you have not been had. Calm yourself. Raetmus is under close watch. Snoring, I hear. And I am no traitor to the Ordení. Keirtum Soriel is my superior and I obey her will to the absolute.”
“Admirable,” Deros replied. “I love to hear it. And thank you for freeing my hands.”
“Don’t thank me, scum.”
“Alright, then.”
In silence, they continued very slightly past the camp, to a huge, worn-down sandstone slab that was possibly the only meager elevation for miles. A mounted figure stood atop it, apparently gazing out upon the horizon and the full breadth of Keramus arching across it. Deros glanced around at the rest of the celestial landscape above, noticing first Balgus-Orvakon’s bright glow, then Genopia — The Wandering Sister — in what he believed was the western sky.
Pointing me to home, old friend? I’m afraid that’s impossible, but I appreciate the gesture.
As they began traversing over the sandstone toward the figure, the vaetor called over her shoulder, “Stay here, Raishon.”
Some form of nonverbal agreement occurred, and the vaetor continued on to what Deros soon confirmed was Keirtum Soriel, for the little cape at her shoulder. They proceeded right up to her side and paused there. Deros decided to let someone else speak first.
“Thank you, Cienové,” Soriel said off-hand, without turning her head.
“Of course, vin,” Cienové replied, and was otherwise utterly still, waiting.
Deros had to hold his tongue not to say ‘that’s a pretty name’ — somehow he didn’t think she’d appreciate it. The chances of being put in a chokehold for it were not zero.
After an additional long pause still staring at the galaxy, Soriel finally seemed to suck in a breath, then said, “It’s breathtaking, that. I can’t get over it. It dwarfs anything I’ve ever seen. Mount Datha, the Palace of Agea Ban Goteós — even Jandus Om himself. Spectacular. Enough to visit this pontnok dirt-hole at least once in a lifetime. I can see why he came here. Somewhat.”
“Who came here?” Deros could not resist that nugget.
Soriel’s horned helmet turned to him. “The Waymaker, boy. God.”
Deros stared for a spell, then he shook his head. “I don’t know who you mean, but they weren’t gods who came to these lands. Esteron was a… prime wielder, as was who we call Founder, who was a woman, despite disagreements with that in the north. Do you really believe a god came here?”
“Not ‘a’ god — God. Yes, there is an irony to the word. Deity is like that for you too, isn’t it? The Waymaker Relentara of Ozrus, tribal. A deified man long, long, long gone. The only reason anyone came to this world is that he came first. Actual deity or just a super genius, well… that’s for historians, theologians, and other noki dust breathers to argue over, not me. He existed and was way beyond anything before or since.”
“Even the Shapers? They seem to think themselves gods or quite close to it.”
“They leave that to interpretation. Why didn’t you just ask Eklásia when you met with her in private, hmm? Sounds like fine pillow talk.”
Any words caught in Deros’s throat, to that. She knows! I should deny-
Soriel barked a laugh at him, shaking her head. “I’m the contact, boy. She sent word to me indirectly, to watch out for you and the girl. So, Deros, how was it, to be with a goddess?” A mocking, ribald emphasis to the word.
“We didn’t…” Deros began weakly, still caught off guard. He cleared his throat and made himself sigh. “She just teased me. She wanted to give us both something to look forward to.”
“That sounds like something she’d do. Capricious, that one.”
Cienové cut in suddenly, “You actually have some self-control of some kind, tribal? Color me nokieun amazed.”
Annoyed by her tone, Deros turned to glare up at her. “Don’t pretend you know me, alien.”
Soriel breathed a laugh and said, “Don’t mind her. My second-in-command is abrasive at best, and after hearing about your oddly prolifically-spread reputation, gained an especial dislike for you. At least I think that’s what it is.”
“Well, you two make an absolutely adorable couple,” Deros said with sharp sarcasm.
Loudly, Cienové replied, “We’re not a coup-”
“Nevermind it, Cienové,” Soriel admonished in exasperation, before turning her head back to Deros. “We have a couple of subjects to address, One Ball Deros. Raetmus. He agreed to let us search his belongings for the spear. Nothing. He maintains it was a deliberate bluff, everything he did intended to mentally torment you. He wanted your necklace, too, knowing it a prize your people value. He even asked me to withhold information back to you so he could continue making you suffer until back on Cajhor.
“I pressed him hard on what he really intends and though he danced around details, he admitted his plans are more long-term. What I gather is he will use his significant pull in Cerovuâ to arrange… well, something maniacal, I’m sure. Make sure you’re given over to the State if you aren’t tripped into a trap contract. Conspire a kidnapping wherever you’re allocated if needed, that sort of thing.”
Deros shook his head at the information. That conniving prick. “Did you search Kerrick’s belongings as well?”
Soriel scoffed loudly. “There’s no nokieun way Kerrick is involved, boy. He’s a straight arrow with no creativity whatsoever. His brain can’t even conceive of such a plot.”
“He doesn’t need to. Raetmus is the maniacal one, remember? And Kerrick absolutely hates me. He’s repeatedly said he’d like to see me dead.”
“Good soldiers separate wishes from orders, and that good soldier is not going to jeopardize his middling but acceptable career with this pont. How would they even use the spear in camp? If Raetmus was going for that as opposed to taunting you, this was the dumbest way to go about it imaginable.”
“Maybe he didn’t think I’d be able to raise the alarm like I did, as a mere captive.”
“Then congratulations. You thwarted him. They spooked and tossed the spear, gave up the plot. You win.”
It was Deros’s turn to scoff. “Right. There is something we’re missing, Keirtum, mark my words. As for the spear, tell me: is Raetmus serious with oaths?”
“Corzakûssians are extremely serious with blood oaths. But the one that he effectively made over the relevant blood of his mentor would take priority, et? Any lies after would just be to see the first oath succeed.”
Deros was quiet for a few moments, considering. “No. He was adamant. I’d ask that you search the whole camp for the spear. And can you not simply detain him?”
Soriel erupted in bitter, derisive laughter. “No, I can’t detain him, though he’s being watched in camp. All he’s done is say nasty words to you, a quari. Little does he know who his enemy is, but I can’t just come out with that, now, can I? On the bright side, tribal, you might see vengeance executed on your behalf, post-mortem.”
Deros wasn’t amused. “And the spear?”
“Nokieuri le parta! No, damn it. If a spear isn’t found with your noki name on it, I look like a complete idiot. And it won’t be. Do you have any idea how much gear we have? And you expect to systematically check every nook and cranny? You’re delusional, tribal. It’s not happening.”
“Well, I guess we’ll just entrust the promised property of Eklásia to your wisdom, then.”
Far from offended, Soriel nodded. “It’s all I have to offer, such as it is. I’m supposed to leave it clandestine that you’re her prize. That being said, do you have any other requests to the jurisdiction of said wisdom?”
“A pair of gloves. Another thick scarf. Free’d hands. A knife. Palamera and I cut loose and perhaps a spare rekas to see us on our way. Hair tie. Information.”
“Done, done, sometimes, rejected, rejected, done, maybe. I’m not breaking our primary mission protocols for your ass. No militarily actionable intelligence beyond what you’ve already seen. I’m sure you’ve drilled some things out of that moron, Semõìn, but don’t expect it from me. Anyway, I’m supposed to arrange a meeting between you and the girl, if feasible. It might be now or never, under the current excuse for any spies. Do you want me to fetch her?”
Hesitating, Deros had to contemplate the question carefully. I cannot have her sussing out a private meeting… At least I don’t have to pretend fainting to speak with her, now. But she’ll be quite curious why we’re favored…
Studying the implacable alien face of Soriel’s suit, trying to decide how much he should trust the woman behind it, Deros finally admitted, “I don’t want Palamera to know about the meeting. Or the deal. I need this framed as our mutual patron’s favor simply from the hilltop encounter. Without any… romantic aspects. We’ll worry about the deal on Cajhor. Can you do this?”
‘Of course,” Soriel offered in bemused tones.
“You are scum, aren’t you, nokboy?” Cienové spat in disgust. Deros ignored her.
“Cienové, fetch the girl,” Soriel commanded. “You can leave your nokboy with me.”
“He’s not my-... Zeko, vin.” Cienové dropped off of her mount swiftly, then seized Deros before he could get off himself, pulling him down with perhaps a measure of extra roughness. “But,” she continued, “I’m binding this trash’s wrists again, and I’m leaving Raishon.”
“Fine.”
Cienové did as she said, placing clasps around his wrists, sealing it up, then tying additional cord around it. She seemed to take particular satisfaction in making sure the bonds were overly tight. Deros decided to pretend it didn’t bother him.
When she was finished, she transferred the longer waist tether over to the keirtum’s mount, then wordlessly re-mounted her rekas to depart back to the camp at a measured pace.
After a time, Soriel queried in amusement, “Not going to ask for the bonds to be loosened?”
“I wouldn’t mind it.” Deros cleared his throat.
Soriel sighed and coughed a laugh at the same time, as she dismounted and waltzed over to redo the cording at his wrists, giving them a bit of blessed give. He was certain the Ironblood was smirking immensely behind the helmet.
“Appreciated,” Deros muttered when she was done. “She’s possibly even more aggressive than Kerrick or Raetmus toward me.”
Soriel shrugged and crossed her arms in front of her. “Pent up energy trying to focus somewhere. Everyone is getting worse with it. We stay in the enõìve almost completely, Deros. Minimal exposure. We’re conditioned for it, but it is grueling. Our only real relief is to remove the crown occasionally, in controlled conditions. For most, it's not even relief.”
“Why not? And isn’t this actionable intelligence?”
“You’re a smart boy, you’ve figured some things out, et? Most surface information is irrelevant. But anxiety would be why, boy. The exposure. I don’t feel it, personally. We’re pumped chock-full of the best medicines. One is an HK cocktail. Hunter-killer. Some kind of microg-eater. I think we’re fine from little incidental exposure. Even the filter we use in the crown isn’t noki perfect.”
“Microorganisms that kill other microorganisms?” Microg was not a word he heard very often. Only from Hospitallers speaking about diseases and ‘preventative measures.’
“Wahz, tribal!” Soriel exclaimed. “Amazing what some of you know. Bits and pieces of civilization buried out in the endless sand.”
“I’m a veritable bundle of surprises, in particular.” Deros glanced over at the guard ‘Raishon’, mounted and watching from a distance, idly. Only two giants from wide-open freedom, yet giants were giants. He’d be lucky to nudge one slightly, much less take them down.
Hold to hope, even against the hopeless. I will, Father. Always.
“I’m sure our benefactor will enjoy unwrapping each of them,” Soriel replied with rich suggestion. “You’ll have it made if you make it to the palace, One Ball. I doubt she’ll bore of such an exotic acquisition anytime soon.”
“How comforting.”
“Well, you certainly have a cute pout developed. If you-”
“Why are we headed to a volcano?”
There was a long pause as she stared. “That’s the sort of actionable intelligence I was talking about. Semõìn is going to the top of my pontlist, now. I’ll make noki sure he-”
“It wasn’t Semõìn, Keirtum Soriel. I overheard some idiot guards talking at the base camp at Twisted Bend.”
She scoffed and took a deep breath. “Of course. Chattering, wet-ear, pontnugget no-studs! At any rate, Deros, I won’t be talking about a volcano, which may or may not be a codename, nor our destination in this ponthole, which may or may not be related.”
“Understood. My spies may or may not have to go home empty-handed.”
A sniff was all the response he got. Soriel then turned her head to look back over at Keramus’s great bulk.
Deros followed her gaze. “Where is Cajhor? You’re looking at it, aren’t you? Ready and eager to return. Which star is it?”
She shook her head, then pointed downward.
Deros looked down at the sand, confused. “Underground?”
Soriel burst out in laughter. “No, you nokhead. Cashor is not in the northern sky. It’s blocked by your fat planet. And even if it wasn’t, you couldn’t see it. Not without a telescope.”
“How far is it? Cashor? Cajhor, Cashor. Those names are oddly close.”
“Some things are complicated to explain without more context. I’ll let you speculate on distance. And Cajhor is ultimately short for Cajhor Al Dûl.”
A distant star? It would have to be for Keramus to look different. What is at the volcano? Something I both want to know and don’t. Relentara, was it? ‘God.’ Right. Probably just another frustrated explorer that others decided to deify.
“There she is,” Soriel declared, jerking her head to the camp. Deros turned to see Cienové riding up from it in the dark, Palamera obviously bundled up in front of her.
Time to steel myself for this. A little truth on a bed of lies. What a wonderful catch I am. But it won’t matter if we escape. It won’t matter if we don’t. I’ll either forget that witch ever existed or I’ll live with the consequences of failure as her slave, to keep Palamera safe.
As they rode up, Palamera was eyeing him and Soriel with alarm and tremendous curiosity. She was covered quite well against the cold, with coat and cloak, her riding gloves, woolen hat, and a scarf wrapping her face, leaving nothing but her eyes visible. Her hands were unbound. Cienové helped her down and led her over to Soriel, so she was standing next to Deros.
Soriel faced and loomed over them, hands held idly at her belt. “Good, she’s here. I told Deros a little, but I saved the bulk to save my breath. As you both know from your encounter on the cliff, the Shaper Eklásia is interested in both of you prime-using quari. She’s instructed me — another she patrons — to watch out for both of you and extend help in what way I can. That’s limited, because she doesn’t want the favor obvious or known, which could make you targets. But I’ve already been protecting Deros from Raetmus. I can help in other small ways. Cajhor will be a different story, but your patron will be… very inclined to assisting you in your future.”
“Of course she’s interested in Deros,” Palamera muttered darkly, eyes slanted to the sandstone below.
Deros looked at her insistently and implored, “Palamera-”
“Thank you for your assistance,” Palamera interrupted, head turning back up to Soriel. “I’m not sure I need anything that you can provide. Though I’d like to check over the health of the other members, here. The… quari.”
“Which would include me, naturally,” Deros offered. “I’d like to talk to Palamera privately as it is, if I may?”
“Et,” Soriel said, shrugging. “I can’t guarantee other meetings, as this one is under the guise of investigation. As for health, I’ll have the medic check over each of them. Alright… you want some privacy. The best I can do is the end of these ropes, but we can’t hear if you’re whispering.”
Soriel and Cienové strode over to their rekasí to unwind more slack in the tethers, then walked off slightly, standing together with their backs to the camp. They both pulled out their shotguns as they waited.
Deros walked over the sandstone until the rope was at its relative maximum. Palamera stood where she was with her arms crossed around herself for a spell. Deros waved her over, mouthing ‘please’ insistently. She seemed to take a deep, deep breath, shake her head, then finally relented to follow him.
Positioning himself so they were more side-by-side just in case the Ironbloods could read lips, Deros eyed her and her extremely defensive, miffed posture, then whispered, “First of all, I’m ready for my tongue lashing. Come out with it. But whisper.”
She seemed to collect herself, taking another measured breath and straightening her back to her full height as she always did when annoyed with him. Finally, she directed a glare. In a restrained whisper, she replied, “I know you have been trying to manipulate them. Throw them off-guard. I know that. The acting, the false persona. But I hate what you chose to cause it. I don’t understand why you had to take such a-a… licentious, degenerate-... manner! Surely you could’ve won them over some other way. A way that doesn’t make me feel like a cast-aside harlot! Why did your mind go there, Deros? Look what it has done…” She trailed off, shaking her head.
Deros was quite sick in his stomach from the words, the shame and the guilt rising to the surface. He didn’t meet her eyes as he said, “Saying sorry isn’t enough, but I’m sorry. I wish I could’ve figured out another way. My mind went where it did for no other reason than understanding warriors. Soldiers. Even more, they’re rough killers. A bunch of Daexo types. I know what would amuse them… observed it, absorbed it into instinct. But in my head, I was only thinking to disarm them, and that I would kill them if I needed to. One doesn’t fear a fool — a clown — and so that is what I became.”
He leaned in close to her, at her ear, then whispered low, “I still have a knife, thanks to it.”
Finally, Deros lifted his eyes to hers, not knowing what he’d find, as he leaned back away. She was staring, searching his face, visibly breathing in the cold night air. There was no fear, nor did he think hatred, just hurt and uncertainty and a need reaching for absolution. A need to believe him, a need for assurance.
“Do you find Eklásia beautiful, Deros?” Palamera asked quietly.
It was something he was not at all surprised to hear her ask, though it didn’t displace the palpable warning filling the air from it to any man with any sense, whatever her attempt was to make it sound casual.
“She’s disturbing and makes my skin crawl, goddess or no,” Deros replied, picking and choosing his bits of honesty. “She’s like a predator stalking prey, both to me and to you, however the ways might be different. As a hunter, that’s not where I want to be.” It was something that just came out of his mouth, and he wasn’t sure he liked it. “This is just another reason we have to escape. Do you want either of us in her clutches, if it can be avoided? I don’t. I hear there are worse things, as well. Some will be experimented on.”
Palamera’s eyes slid away as she stewed on his words. After a time, she said, “I don’t ever want to be apart from you. To imagine it… that’s what keeps me awake at night, with nothing to embrace but the cold. I keep telling myself… I may have to endure it. Just as I have to endure the possibility of never hugging my sisters again. To have it all taken away… to be alone… it doesn’t feel like life at all. It feels like death.”
“Palamera, I promise you, we will not be apart. I will ensure we are together. Just trust me in this.” No matter what I must do, I will keep you safe. “You are the only woman I could ever be in love with, the only one I want.” He moved close, trying to be stealthy to watchful eyes behind them as he reached his bound hands to take one of her unbound, gloved ones — she met his eyes, hand trembling… perhaps from the cold. “Any other is made pale by your light, my rising dawn. No other is gorgeous to me. And don’t complain about that word now, as we’ve already traded.”
Welled tears in her eyes were damped quickly by a gloved free hand as she nonetheless coughed out the ghost of a laugh, then shook her head, clearly trying to keep a hold on herself. “How can you take me through every emotion in mere minutes, Deros Îýteron? Every time I try to be firm with you, I… am I just clay in your hands like everyone else?”
He smiled weakly. “None are, really. I wish it were true. I’m just quicksilver in your pocket, becoming whatever form I need to in order to stay there.”
Formless and poisonous… But he tried to reject that banal thought.
Not clandestine at all, Palamera bared a hand from a glove to reach up through a thin scarf and touch his cheek. Deros had his mouth open, to admonish, to stop her, but the words caught in his throat. He squeezed his eyes shut at the contact, feeling tears want to well up himself.
Please, just let this be it, here. Let her warmth soak in and let the nightmare be banished. Let us awaken in each other’s arms in a bed within what we call home…
“Whatever it is we must do, Deros,” Palamera said with a firm, almost fierce tone. When he opened his eyes he saw what he heard in truth, through the windows of her eyes. The soul of true resolve. “I’ll do it. I can’t lose you. I won’t.”
She searched his face, and he was convinced what she saw was more than he’d ever be. She continued, “If we must leverage a fanged viper’s power, then so be it. Whoever and whatever else, too. We will persevere through it all, my love. I’m… afraid — I can’t stop shaking, I’m so afraid — but I won’t give up. We’ll fight through it and we’ll be together. I promise you we will be.”
He could only stare in amazement at her words, and after them, she embraced him, to which he wished he could return it, but his hands were bound. Instead, he leaned down so his chin was at her neck. He felt her trembling, but gradually it calmed through the wordless embrace. He was proud of her, to speak encouragement to him, even though he felt entirely unworthy of it. Effective, too, in ways she couldn’t know. She thought the same as him, on some core level.
Could such love survive anything? He hoped to avoid finding out, as he did not intend on setting foot on Cajhor, nor seeing the ‘viper’ ever again.
When the embrace broke, Deros’s mind was on the practical again. They didn’t have infinite time to speak. “The unwanted subject, Palamera,” Deros ventured. “Eklásia. What did you feel when you delved into her with your power?”
Palamera’s eyes glazed over as she recalled, then she shivered. “It was horrifying. Her entire body felt surgically operated upon. Altered. And that is not the worst. Her bones and muscles had a living… latticework wrapping them, connecting and anchoring, helping her move, helping her breathe. A whole other lifeform wrapped around and branching into her insides, with strange central rods of it in the center of her bones, surrounded by marrow. A missing womb, and instead some other connected, pulsing organ… when I touched it with makar, I… I let go… it all looked so painful, so twisted…”
Deros felt his skin crawl all anew. The touch of unseen fibers brushing across- “And what of Paetas? A normal Ironblood.”
Hugging her arms to herself, Palamera nodded. “Yes, I’ve delved into her. And the suit. Separate organisms. The young woman inside is… almost normal. Overly thin and long, but not even your height. Very fit and healthy, with wiry, built-up muscles as if to compensate. Something unusual in the blood, but I can’t say what. Just… everything is slightly off. And the suit. Alive, with a nervous system responding to the host’s every move, as if the guts of an insect directing an exoskeleton. They move differently inside, letting the suit carry the load. But the muscles are weakening with time and her aches and pains are growing. She is uncomfortable, agitated. And she’s… ah, a-anxious. To get back to… Cajhor. Another world, isn’t it?”
Deros nodded, then raised an eyebrow. “You were going to say something else.”
Palamera froze for half a second as their eyes were locked, then she looked away, over to Keramus, slumping slightly and sighing. “Horny,” she muttered, finally.
“Oh.” Deros cleared his throat, nodding slowly in the awkwardness. Then he recalled something about Paetas: her prior stated attraction to Soriel. “Oh. Right. You. You sensed it because she’s attracted to you.”
Her eyes did not meet his, chin rising up and — he knew, despite not seeing — her lips pressed together. “Let’s not talk about it,” she replied, quickly and with a crack in her voice.
Despite everything, that particular discomfort amused Deros. He didn’t quite have the spirit to tease, however, with his lies haunting him. He was glad, as it meant that Paetas would probably continue to look out for her. And he wasn’t the only one leveraging charm. “As you wish, my love.”
Protocols of non-fraternization, wasn’t it, Semõìn? Protocols can’t make people blind, though. Symmetry is symmetry, charm is charm.
Palamera opened her mouth to say something else, but there was a whistle and a little tug on his cord. Soriel called out, “Songtime is over, lovebirds! Wrap it up.”
Deros reached up with his bound hands to cup Palamera’s face with his hands as best he could, wanting to look into beloved eyes he’d captured in his one more time. Then he kissed her nose through the fabric, then her forehead, before he stood up straight and tall enough to cradle her head under his chin. In response, her arms wrapped around him in a final hug.
“As you said,” Deros whispered, “we’ll be together, we’ll persevere. We’ll never give up. Be strong, Palamera Serratus Huar. I love you. Always.”
“So I will, Deros Îýteron Talasentia,” she whispered back. “You stay strong. And beautiful. I love you while the stars remain.”
He smiled briefly at the name, as they separated and began walking back. Only someone’s wife would pull such a thing when he’d been publicly granted the honor of a hero’s name in his own, as his son. His mother’s clan would be omitted or added, never made to replace. But a wife or a mother could humble a man from any earned name, being the holder and heir of the old ways of the clan. Deros was even the technical heir until he had a daughter…
Boldly claiming her promise before its appointment. I wish it were so. I wish it could be. I’d trade any name for it.
Returned to the rekasí and the vicinity of the Ironblood captors, Deros said quietly, “Keep whatever you saw — all of this — confidential. The less I am tied to her the better.”
Soriel only shrugged. Cienové shook her head at Deros, then turned to Palamera and spat, “Fallen for this nokboy’s tricks too, now? Typical. Thought I heard you knew better.”
Deros could tell that Palamera was smiling under her scarf as her eyes flashed Deros’s way. “What can I say?” she asked in helpless exasperation. “He’s an enchanter.”
A mutual one, my love. A mutual one.
