As Vesânth and Eursett discussed what to do with the body — which he was not terribly interested in — Deros circled around them in the direction of the foraging aloga. Palamera shot him a sympathetic look though it was obvious she was not going to be able to break away for any private expression. Eursett was rather stern about the diligence of apprentices. Meanwhile, Sírus and Goronkía were staying put nearby, from their body language due to some order he had missed. Bariaki was trailing far enough behind Beyaugus and Lecto to give them space, but he was headed up the pass just the same.
Enseres came without being called once he was near, tail flicking and head down as if unsure if Deros was still upset with him. Deros made some encouraging clicking sounds and waved him over, which elicited an immediate bounding excitement from the animal. Rubbing over Deros copiously with his neck, lifting up one leg for a wrap-around hug — the only thing he resisted doing in the sort of affection aloga showed was licking with his long, sticky tongue. That had taken forever to train him out of.
After enduring this exchange, Deros produced the treat bag from his belt, then opened it and tossed it on the ground. Enseres stuck his snout in it immediately and began devouring the contents, grunting in both satisfaction and warning for the other aloga not to try and approach. The hair on his back and tail stood up tall for similar reasons.
As Enseres enjoyed his bug-and-minced-offal bag, Deros watched the pair of his father and Lecto ride slowly up the incline. As they neared the top, Kionmus finally arrived at the gate with two more Azakan. One he recognized as his friend — the scent-tracker Aerion — a Blessed that was only a few years older than him. Soon the group met, and no doubt news and orders were conveyed to the general.
The treat bag scooched along the sand as its weight was depleted, and Enseres followed it every inch, hidden tongue flicking away inside to capture every sliver of the rich paste inside. Finally, he finished, signaled by him lifting his head out and sniffing around for more, as if another had been tossed down when he wasn’t looking. Deros walked over and scooped up the empty bag, closing it and stowing it away in the bottom of a saddlebag. With that, he mounted Enseres and started toward the path back up the canyon. It was time he made his case to the general.
Moving slowly at first, when he saw them all head up and pass through the gate, he increased his pace. The guard Telalo was no longer sitting atop the wall, but standing and almost looking alert, spear in hand. It seemed silly to Deros — if any threat arose, he’d be using his bow long before such a weapon. But it was entirely for appearances with the general around.
Passing once more under the portcullis but remaining mounted, Deros caught no sight of his father or Lecto, but Kionmus was off to the side with his back to any approach, taking a piss into the corner of the wall and cliff face. Aerion was nearby and also dismounted, a hand holding the reins of both of their animals. He lifted his other hand in greeting.
Making his way over, Deros returned the wave and called, “Hail General. Aerion. Out enjoying the breezes of Easthold?”
“Of course, Deros! Not as if we have anything better to do, after all,” Aerion replied. His tone was that of playful sarcasm, all too typical between them. He was an archetypal Hamaleen, somewhat shorter than Deros, with skin of pinkish-red and sparse redder freckles. His long hair was the grayed-out mauve of adulthood spent under Azrom, and his pale gray eyes held a hint of blue. There was nothing that stood out to his features except some quirk that made him seem slightly amused, even when he might not be. Most were never sure, and even Deros sometimes doubted, who’d known him all his life.
The general only grunted and muttered something unintelligible to the greeting, as if lost in his own thoughts while relieving himself. He finished finally, in no apparent hurry, redoing his pants and turning around to nod to Deros with a fairly haggard face, which Deros recognized and knew to be one of the very hung-over. He was an otherwise decent-looking man, tall and chiseled of features with a naturally thick, powerful build. His eyes were deep-set purple and made for an intimidating gaze, while the full braid of his gray hair was pretentious for his age if not his station. He wore the standard kit of Azakan tan, but over it was draped the black-stained leather longcoat of a general-at-peace. In wartime, it would be hung up and unused for so long as peace eluded him, replaced by ancient and precious bronze armor.
“Bloody Azrom,” Kionmus growled in his deep voice, which was even rougher than usual. “The Southern King has no mercy, does he? Bah. Deros Aun Beyaugus.” He paused, squinting up to study the one he named. “Stay away from Hezera’s cups, Deros. Cheap cider that’ll kill a skinny slip like yourself. Almost did me in.”
“It’s the spices, General,” Aerion said, in the tone of ‘I told you so’. “Lack thereof. You wouldn’t be the first to pass from these undiluted poisons. You aren’t invincible.” It was perhaps an overcautious statement — deaths from such a thing were rare. But the general was too important a figure for such chances, even one who’d obtained the title through clout and charisma more than competency.
Kionmus grumbled something unintelligible and dark, perhaps a curse. “I’ll pay a better cidermaker, that’s for sure. She lured me! Lured me in with that smile and figure…”
Deros suppressed a snicker as he said diplomatically, “I will heed your advice, General — thank you for bravely testing this new produce for the community. Sadly, I have another favor to ask.”
“A favor, is it? Hmph. Go ahead.”
After exchanging a glance with Aerion, who held up an eyebrow curiously, Deros met Kionmus’s eyes and said, “Allow me to go on this expedition, General. I know there are ten and the tenth is open. Who better than another Blessed Azakan, I ask you? I have senses the match of any scout and can be well-utilized for distant observation or protection from ambush. I am among the fastest of riders, with a mount at the pinnacle of health. A keen choice, wouldn’t you think?”
Unfortunately, Kionmus was already frowning. “I had first thought of Aeradea or Palmus for a runner… Why do you request this, as opposed to being assigned? Who wants to stick their head into the beast’s maw? Tell me you’re not cooking up some idiot dream of being an adventurer like that heretic book you were on about.”
Deros had to resist wincing at the insult, doubly so from the fact the drunk even remembered. The diaries of Esteron Horizoncarver — deified into Explorer as the northern tribes lost the remembrance — weren’t fiction, to his deduction.
“That was ages ago,” Deros declared, misleading. “Every boy dreams about it since the books came, General, but things change.” Like the community rejecting knowledge. “The gods are the gods, and stories are stories. Anyhow, my reasons are simple: the experience as an Azakan in already soft times by most reckoning, and a chance to prove myself.”
The general held his frown as he began moving toward his aloga, but rubbed the scruff at his chin with a hand, considering. “Well, soft times is spot on…” He trailed off as he put foot to stirrup and set himself upon his mount, with grunts from both he and it. He met Deros’s gaze on a more even level and shook his head. “The ones you’re proving it to are the problem. Might as well pick out the heavy stones for my head as let you get yourself killed on some mission I sent you on. Bad side of Beyaugus Peacemaker? That’s one stone. The boulder would be your mother. Founder’s Balls, but she can hold a grudge.”
Well, he couldn’t deny that — as a holder of ancient inherited property and appointed Governess of Residence in addition to Seneschal for the Talasentian estate, Sebiona Talasentia was not one to cross, particularly in regards to her family or clan. The latter had lost much of its meaning compared to how it would’ve been in her own mother’s day, and even more so further back, at least for all that he had heard and been taught. The ancient families still held wealth and status, and with it, old rivalries. Memories for offenses were essentially a tradition.
Deros moved his aloga closer to the general and said insistently, “I will tell my father and mother myself, General, and take all responsibility, in spirit. They won’t be able to fault you. I just need you to authorize in principle, essentially.”
Kionmus scoffed audibly at this, still shaking his head. Just as he was opening his mouth for a reply-
Aerion, climbing atop his own mount, interjected with, “Let the smooth-talker go, General. He’s got the tongue and mind of a senator, and knows better than anyone what his father would do in some prickly situation. Seems perfect for a tenth with his veritable feast of assorted goodies.” Aerion was smirking away right at Deros while delivering such a ridiculous line. “I’ll look after him. We work well together, anyway. You can just blame me if he gets a little scratch on his cheek.”
The general was getting stiff-backed about it, scowling darkly. He flicked his reins irritably to start himself away from the cliff, toward the gate. “It’s not going to work on me, you louts. No. Better safe than sorry.”
Cursing inwardly at Aerion interfering so ineptly, Deros turned his mount to follow and scrambled in his head for how to proceed. Bribery, perhaps?
Aerion had not moved, sitting back in his saddle and watching Kionmus ride away with a grin. “Guess I’ll just have to ask for those coins you never paid up from the dice.”
Kionmus wheeled around immediately with an absolutely indignant expression, his face a shade redder as he pointed his finger in admonishment at Aerion. “That was last five-day! And I was drinking! No one would take that bet seriously.”
Shrugging as if helpless, Aerion lamented, “A shame, truly, matters of honor unrequited. Still, these wounds would find some soothing in the hospitality of a dear friend on the long, hard road ahead…”
Glaring balefully at Aerion for a long moment, the general finally sighed in defeat. “Fine. He goes.” His eyes shifted over to Deros as if seeing his future doom. “We’re plenty even, if he comes back twinkling and pretty. Otherwise, I’ll be catching every hell, and I’ll make sure you take the same if not the brunt. And you’ll still owe me — if we’re even still breathing. Understood?”
“As clear as the water at Surrender, General,” Aerion replied sweetly.
“I’ll return hale and healthy, General Kionmus,” Deros added with what he hoped were solemn tones. “I promise you.”
Sniffing dismissively, Kionmus half-turned his aloga around and said, “Still young enough to make promises you can’t control, aren’t you, boy…” With that, he headed off in the direction of the fort.
“Twinkling and pretty,” Deros muttered low, pondering how that would ever be true, and why it would come out of the general’s mouth.
“Oh yes,” Aerion replied as if it were obvious. “You’re the prettiest eligible Azakan in all the lands! To hear the maidens and such tell it, you know? I do have a younger sister, after all. I’m informed on such matters. Besides that, even some of our fellows agreed enthusiastically… to think, all this time, what I couldn’t see but for my brother was actually a prince!”
It was Deros’s turn to glare at Aerion. “So it’s you that managed to get that into the general’s parlance, then? And the whole damned fortress, apparently? Am I your friend or your enemy?”
Aerion’s eyes were anywhere but on Deros. “Deros, I’d love to chat, but there are preparations to attend to… and just look at Azrom, so high already!” He flicked his reins and started off quickly after the general. “I’ll catch you on the trail, my prince!”
Deros frowned as he watched him go, calling, “We’ll be speaking again, Aerion! At length!”
I can’t get married soon enough. While that was hardly going to stop flirting, teasing, and the like, particularly among the Azakan, it would at least mitigate it. And prevent embarrassing misunderstandings, or the bold ‘forgetting’ he was taken and uninterested, despite his age and technical unmarriedness. While he was no prince just as there was no king in the canyon, his family was indeed well-off and powerful, which didn’t help matters.
Casting it deliberately out of his mind, he hurried off on his mount back toward the Ridgeway, allowing himself to get excited for the journey. He had never been to Many Sands — he could only hope that all was well and that the community remained untouched by the trouble that had occurred. Bandits would likely be long-gone after hitting a caravan, and where they took their loot was anyone’s guess, but certainly not back to Bluehand territory. It was also possible they’d find signs of the struggle along the way and be able to gain evidence of what exactly happened. If there were raiders, though… that would become complicated. Most of the party would likely retreat, with scouts going in for more information. And there was the possibility of chance battle or ambush. A small chance, perhaps, but part of his duty would be looking out for it.
In addition to personal preparations, speaking to his father and mother was needed first. He’d have to insist it was his campaigning rather than the general’s choice that had him going, so as to accept responsibility as he’d promised.
Taking the Ridgeway at a canter, he followed it without event until the terrain began a sandy incline peppered with jutting rock and clusters of shrubs. After he crested it, the whole of Miracle Springs could be seen at the bottom — the farms and industry were clustered all around the sinuous meander, with the plentiful waters not far from the tops of the levees holding it at bay. The river folded around many times in a compact area, going in three directions. If he took a leftward bent he’d head toward the market and harbors, and if over the rivers across a ferry he could go to Gobaha Island, a unique feature completely surrounded by water where goba reedbugs were raised in three-storied habitats to be fat and juicy for consumption — primarily for aloga. Beyond that was the dead-end of the Spillbasin, where the floodgates had been raised up for the first time in a generation, in the very midst of the last storm.
Straight and due west across the river was the Hand of Plenty, where most farmlands stretched, full of sweetcane, small hairypod fruit trees, and many, many small tufts of curlroot that would ripen soon, before the variety of spring seeds would be sown into the enriched soil. Few coveted the taste of curlroot cuts, especially by the end of the season, which was why meat in winter was especially savored, and stews or soups were the typical meal of cooks. He’d heard many gripes about it before the storms — men claiming they’d ‘survive on cider’ and so on. Liars, of course.
The river snaked around The Hand going north in a curl that would wind back west. The feature that affected this was Bloodbound Bluff, a cliff of the canyon that was as tall and steep as a mountain. Dark brown and gray-streaked stone was bared underneath a sandy top, and into that stone were carved many ancient structures as though grown from it, known as the Old Residences. Above it was the Fortress and below was the Hospital at the base of the cliff face.
Around this and in layers of nearby, less-steep inclines were much newer constructions made of concrete by the expertise of the Founderfolk — protected western allies downriver known for their building-making. Among their greatest of feats was the gray dome that was The Hall of The Senate. It was easily the equal of any other sight of the canyon, though many might ascribe the greatest instead to the Observatory, a white tower rising high above the dark walls of the Fortress.
Deros could see down the slope of irregular sand, rock, and scrub that his father was at the bottom, angling around outgrowths of wild cane on the path that would lead to The Hall. Another rider was speeding off toward the markets from Beyaugus, perhaps the source of delay that had allowed Deros to catch up. Deros whistled loudly with two fingers in his mouth aiding, which caused his father to stop and turn, to look. The Chancellor waved, beckoning Deros, then turned back around, continuing at a slow pace.
Enseres barely needed any encouragement to fly down the slope, which despite the general rockiness, still had a straighter path of packed-down sand for easier traversal. Deros slowed as he neared his father and his old mount making their way toward The Hall, moving steadily away from the river and up a long, gradual slope of plentiful shrub. A few citizens were about, escorting aloga around for insects or foraging — many would be doing so all over the canyon, specifically to collect wild snailfern heads that were sprouting early. They would be a welcome change of flavor for the pots. Others did some opportunistic hunting — one such was walking with an all-wooden spear, its blackened tip impaling completely a very dead yellow lizard right through its middle.
“Son,” Beyaugus greeted Deros as he waved at the lizard catcher. “Are you riding with more news, then? I hope your fellows aren’t dawdling — your counsel was sound and worth repeating to the general. I’m afraid the day has greeted him poorly.”
Deros suddenly felt uncertain and guilty for his inward feelings to his father’s response earlier. Had he been wrong? It wasn’t as if his father was always an easy read. Swallowing the matter down by necessity, Deros cleared his throat and steeled himself as he settled Enseres down and into a matching walk next to his father. “Yes, ah, news of sort. I’ve come to tell you that, through my own insistence and persuasion, I have been granted leave as a member of the expedition group. Or envoy, if that’s a more apt term.”
His father looked over at his son sharply. His mouth opened, closed, then his gaze looked off, toward the river, his expression severe and close to a grimace. “That is… troublesome. I could guess the reasons why. I’d ask you to reconsider, as your training is still incomplete as an Azakan, and this is a matter for veterans. If inexperience caused issue, you’d not be happy with yourself, nor others with you. There’s a reason why the decision is supposed to be left to the leaders.”
His father could certainly sow doubt in him with ease. But there was enough pride to overpower it. “I am of the Blessed — a step above most, and while there are veterans even of us, yes, there will certainly not be them exclusively. Right? Even with ten. And I am a logical tenth, even from Aerion’s mouth, because of the things you taught me. Besides, most veterans were younger than I when they went to war, and this isn’t even that. I’m ready and I need it more than even five more years of clacking sticks and hitting wooden targets. Stalking sand and birds. So I’m going. If I wasn’t ready, I’d have been laughed away rather than taken seriously and accepted.”
Beyaugus shifted in his seat and took a deep breath as if he’d go into a firm tirade, but instead he let out the breath slowly with his eyes on his reins. “Well argued,” he muttered with a touch of wonder. His eyes came up to the path in front of him. “If your mind’s made up, I can’t stand in your way. Your mother… she’ll be beside herself.”
“And you?”
His father’s eyes finally met his, and he held them for a long moment. “I’ll worry, son.”
He felt the guilt hit hard, then. It was a confusing sort of guilt. On one hand, he understood it, and on another, he knew every day was a risk for any Azakan — to predators and to the land itself, with endless heights traversed that could kill a man with one false step. And there was disease, which could rear its head at any time. But he supposed they were all known things, with daily confirmations contrary. The trip was an unknown day after day after day. His family would worry, and it made him realize Palamera would too, while he was away unseen and untouched. He could be guilty for wanting to go, but ultimately the truth was still that it was someone’s duty within the community. Why not him? Such risks were inevitable as an Azakan, and everyone had to come to terms with that.
“I’ll be alright,” he assured his father. “The whole plan is to be cautious. This is no bare-hand climb up the bluff. What sort would ever attack a Hospitaller envoy?”
“There aren’t any known tribes that would. Bandits might or might not. But tribes or clans fracture and bold war leaders arise promising riches, sometimes from lands the others have been separated from. That is a worry. The rains could’ve been some omen to a group, or simply opened up an old route. Many are nomadic, following the froul. If the beasts come further south, so do the nomads. There are groups that know nothing of us, and likely groups we have never heard of.”
Deros nodded to this, hoping such a group wasn’t their problem. It could mean trouble for allies or even war for all of them. When he was barely old enough to walk, his father had been up north, forging an alliance as an ambassador against another hostile alliance of tribes favoring raids to the south, with talk of ‘destined’ conquest. Peace talks had failed catastrophically, so the Azakan went to war in support — a portion, at least. Achieving victory after victory with progressively fewer casualties, they finally defeated the strongest forces, which broke the will of the rest. Beyaugus hammered out treaties with the remainder, ensuring peace and fair trade for close to a generation.
“Well,” Beyaugus continued when Deros made no reply, “I will wish you good luck, son, since I cannot wish to go with, or that you would stay. Explorer go with you, then, Azakan. I will break it to your mother. She’s at the Hall, last I saw. Only to break the flood, understand? It will still come. You’ll still need to see her. No man can avoid such a thing.”
“I understand, Father.” And he’d be steeling himself particularly for that encounter. “I think I had best do all other preparations before that.”
“Sound reason.” Beyaugus Peacemaker moved his mount closer to his son, enough to reach his hand over and grab a shoulder. Squeeze. In his face was… what Deros imagined was love and pride. And hope, somehow, like the insistence of it, like the attempted transfer of it into him as encouragement, through a tight grin, through the pressure of his weathered hand. “You’ll do well, son. Mmn?”
“I will.” Somehow, he couldn’t say more. His voice just stopped, and he was nodding, insistent, as they held each other’s eyes. It was strange, in that moment, to be at the precipice of a journey, out and away, and toward his father so many thoughts swirled, but each had no end in the shape of a spoken word… they were just there as a chaos of emotion and memory cycling. He wondered if his father felt something similar, as they both sat there, saying nothing.
The scant few moments came and went, and his father moved off and away with his aloga. Having to say something more, Deros blurted, “Farewell. Look after Mother, would you?”
Beyaugus nodded once. “I will, son. Farewell.” With that, he rode off, toward the gleaming dome of the Hall.
Deros watched him go. He felt a bit silly for his awkwardness. But ultimately it was well he was taking the trip — when he returned and their worries were over, it would surely be easier to leave the next time it was needed. He could not fault his parents for not wanting to let him go. Their family, despite prosperity and power, had not been fortunate in every regard. His mother had miscarried twice before having three, and Deros’s older brother and younger sister had both passed from the wasting sickness. She had never gotten with child again, and so he was the one and only.
Dreading having to face his mother, he headed off for the Old Residences, setting his mind to the needs of the trip. It was something he was trained to conduct at a moment’s notice, but forgetting something was all too possible. And he’d have to find Palamera. Too many difficult goodbyes.
Azrom was blinding bright and well above the horizon by the time Deros was walking through the garden of his family’s estate, practically holding his breath as he sought out his mother. He’d made every other preparation, stacking Enseres with a heavy load of what he hoped was everything needed — he knew much of it would go on one of the pack aloga that would be waiting for them all by the river’s end. After that, he’d left word with the majordomo at the estate that he’d return to hopefully meet his mother there, after he found Palamera. But it had been nothing but frustration and a waste of time. He’d been to the Hospital and to frequented paths elsewhere, to back again, asking around. The second time at the Hospital, he had to threaten that he’d hunt every inch of the place himself, only to be told by a Matron, ‘Palamera is aware of the situation but is busy, and will see you at river’s end before your departure’. With that he’d been soundly shooed out, and not kindly.
Perhaps she is angry with me, he was thinking as he navigated a contoured brick path between assorted aesthetically-arranged trees, bushes, and succulents. But wouldn’t she want to argue if she already knew? A grave matter came up, forcing her attention elsewhere? Perhaps it was the Bluehand. Hospitallers dealt with the dead as well as the infirm. They might have dropped that in her lap to deal with, as a test. In any case, he’d have to wait to find out.
Numerous flowers were in-bloom throughout the garden, coloring it with streaks of yellow and red and purple. Some of them had fruits or seeds or were grown as herbs, while others were there for show. In the central divide that the path curved around, there was a thick block of vegetation dominated by godberry bushes, frillferns, and the arching shade of taller treeferns. A bench under one was a favorite spot of many a denizen of the compound, including himself. His mother was not immediately evident, so he continued down the brick path in its alternating gray and brown-red checkered pattern, one he’d walked thousands of times.
As he circled around, she was there, taking iron shears to an overgrown bush, two others nearby already made into perfect rounds. She trusted no other with such acts in the garden, in fact coveted some of them for relaxation or relief. She wore a dark-orange dress accentuated with bronze, her typical godberry-purple robe she wore over most attire laid half-folded over the back of a nearby greatcane chair.
“Mother,” he greeted simply as he approached.
She made a final snip with the shears, then turned toward her son, taking a deep, slow breath as she met his eyes with an unreadable expression. She was a tall, lithe woman, carrying a palpable aura of authority set in the frame of mature beauty. Her smoky mauve hair was partially pinned up, keeping the locks mostly out of her face. Pale gray eyes were framed by heavy black liner, and her pale red skin was unblemished — a favorable trait she’d passed on to Deros, though their color would still deepen where exposed to Azrom. His mother carried the further features of status in layers of gold and silver bejeweled necklaces, rings, and bracelets, all in all a bizarre contrast to the crude shears in her hand. That she was so presentable while conducting in such labor perhaps showed her stress.
She tossed the shears down into the brown mulch and strode across the rest of the distance between them. Deros tensed involuntarily, unsure exactly what she would do in this uncommon territory of his leave-taking. His mother grabbed ahold of his arms, looking up at him in the slight difference of height with eyes somehow soft and accusing at once. Then she embraced him, her chin to a shoulder with his likewise as he was bent down and pressed against her, practically bathed in the rosy scent of her perfume.
“My child,” she intoned as she squeezed him tightly. “Why? Why, oh why did fate make you Azakan? Force this cruelty on a gentle boy who dreamt of the stars and the heavens? You studied their maps, learned their names. You would sit in this very garden and read every book you could get your hands on. On nature, on philosophy you didn’t understand, even that ratty old word collection. Cover to cover, and how many times, Deros Íýteron? Do you remember?”
“I remember, Mother,” he managed, somewhat strangled by the hug. She really didn’t need to squeeze him so hard. “The Dictionary of Alnaseria. Four times.” It had been useful, teaching him of things and concepts his people knew nothing about. Strange animals never seen, such as ‘apes’ which were like furry, bestial men, or ‘fish’, like compact eels. Or that the air was composed of ‘oxygen’ and ‘nitrogen’ gasses, the former essential to life and the latter inert. That light was made up of different rays, such as heat/calorifiant, chemical, and cosmic. Lost technologies like the steam engine, the gun, and immortium steel. Many, many things, but all of it frustratingly shallow. He had been meaning to re-read it again, for years.
Finally, his mother sighed and released her hug, pulling back, though her hands still held his arms firmly, as if he’d run away otherwise. Her eyes searched his face like she was seeing it change before her, while she wore an expression painted a mixture of fondness and sadness. “And you lectured everyone about it endlessly, hmm? Science and so on. What actually everything was, instead of what they called it. The air, the water, the moons. You were the dictionary, delivering facts like the news of the day. What happened to that boy? How did he become the proud warrior racing off to chase the fires of Azrom and dare it to burn him?”
“Moha…” he began in gentle admonishment, but trailed off, shaking his head. Ultimately she knew the answers, she just hated that they existed. Right then, anyway.
The eyes that continued seeking their answers began to well up. Deros wordlessly reached into his pouch for a clean white handkerchief — he formed a careful point to it and raised it to his mother’s eye precisely, one after the other, in his attempt to absorb any tears before they scarred her makeup. But as he did so her face contorted and she let out a sob, while her hands seized his together, the handkerchief caught between them.
Tears falling from her eyes, she shook his hands and cried, “See?” Another sound, a strangled sob with a tinge of hysteria, came from her. “Such a precious, subtle boy, wasted out in the baking sands!”
Deros looked down, away from her eyes. He felt a conflicting bundle of emotions at her lamenting words. Some embarrassment, shame, guilt, yes… but she cherished things in him few cared about, valued him more than perhaps anything else in the world. So much that it bubbled out of her when she perceived him in jeopardy. He loved her for it and so he would not correct her when she was so clearly wrong. He was not wasted, as one of the Blessed. She knew this deeper down, but it didn’t change how she felt.
His mother shook his gripped hands in hers once more, drawing his eyes back to hers. “Promise me, Deros,” she insisted, blinking away tears. “Promise me you will return with not so much as a scratch on you.”
Gently shifting his hands so that he put the handkerchief into hers, he then enclosed her hands in his — with that, he set his jaw and eyes for the firmest of oaths. “On the ashes of my ancestors. On the dust that they become, I swear… it will be done… I will return. Just as you see me, unharmed. Worry yourself no more, moha.”
With her lips pressed together, her head rocked in a series of small nods, as if she were trying to convince herself. She sighed finally, in relief or exasperation, Deros couldn’t tell. “Alright,” she said, and took her hands back to dab the cloth he’d given her carefully at her eyes. Soon, her typical composure returned to her, though with slightly smudged makeup. “Such a convincing manner. Your father’s son, you are. I’ve told Palamera to be mindful of it.”
Deros smiled mildly in response. “Sage advice, I suppose. But I mean every word earnestly. I will not take risks and I will never tire in alertness, as others will depend on it.”
“See that you do not. All of your parts must be in good working order if you and Palamera are to fill these grounds with yelping, running children like your ancestors demand. Remember that to be the core of your destiny, Deros. Where’er your boots wander, your bare feet trod here. Amongst other bare endeavors.”
“Mother…” Deros this time fully admonished, in embarrassment. He didn’t quite blush, if only because the matter was such typical territory for her. It was uncommon for a man to bring his wife to his mother’s property, but Deros had no sisters. Rather than him moving in with Palamera’s family, his mother had arranged for him to inherit the estate, then eventually a daughter who would marry and continue the line as a Talasentian, by special exception. Other daughters might live under Palamera’s ‘claim’, as the case went, though she was not firstborn to the estates of the Huar family, so it was unofficial or hypothetical. In any case, the Huar were obtaining much in the merging. It was entirely why the joke about him being a ‘prince’ was going around. That his father was wealthy and unusually owned his own property through construction only added to this.
“I only speak the truth.” There was not a hint of shame in her. “Now. It’s time I do my duty, hmm? Sit.” She turned and walked in the direction of the chair.
He followed and took a seat in the chair of contoured creaking cane, lashed together and stained red possibly before he was born. It still held up well. Greatcane tended to, whether as chair, spear, arrow, or whatever else.
“You did not even speak to Palamera, I see,” his mother said as she inspected his hair from his right side. She took a long, thin blue ribbon of satin from her satchel and stared at it for a moment. “You will have to before you leave.”
“I know, Mother,” he assured her, and waited. No Azakan who went on mission beyond the canyon ventured without braid and ribbon tied in their hair by their loved ones. Two were minimal — one by one’s mother and the other by one’s mate, sister, closest friend, or something of the like. Those with children were supposed to have one for each in addition, and pretty much anyone else who wanted to — who cared deeply for them — could as well. When the campaign was over, it would be returned, as a memento of that time. One way or another.
Wordlessly, his mother measured and cut the ribbon, then began working small locks of his hair into a braid tendril, the ribbon woven between. The end was made into a tight tie, knot, and small tail which would not easily come undone. Deros solemnly endured the act — in truth, it was a special honor of the Azakan, and one rare for his generation. Some walked around with bracelets of braided ribbon like rainbows, the result of famous warriors like Solanetta Spinningfang or Karios Three Eyes. While he’d been taught endlessly that lack of glory was better for Miracles Springs, as it meant peace and prosperity, it couldn’t ever erase the awe of their deeds.
“There,” his mother finally said when it was done. “See that you return it unblemished.”
“So I shall,” Deros replied as he rose and embraced her again. “Do take care of the old man, alright?”
“I have to. He only takes care of his senate and the whole of the canyon. Or tries to. But never himself.” As they parted, she touched Deros’s cheek with a hand. “Go, young man, and see your love. Tell her to come and see me soon. And then get this Bluehand business over with, and come back to me and brag over a feast. I will bake berry pie and osanut cake. I’ll make a second and hide it, and we will glut alone the next day like greedy thieves, sipping cider.”
Deros could not help but smile, as he took his mother’s hand from his cheek and squeezed it one last time. “I should like that very much. Etch it in stone, then. Farewell, mother.”
She nodded with a meager smile, and he released her hand. He turned and took the long walk out, feeling like it was a hike up a mountain. He glanced one last time her way, just before he made the curve around the trees, to see her still watching — they exchanged a final wave before they passed out of each other’s sight. It was painful leaving her like that, leaving home as he was for assuredly the rest of winter — at best twenty days, he imagined. But it was something he’d chosen to do, something he had to do. So he put one foot in front of the other, and it got easier with each one.
As Vesânth and Eursett discussed what to do with the body — which he was not terribly interested in — Deros circled around them in the direction of the foraging aloga. Palamera shot him a sympathetic look though it was obvious she was not going to be able to break away for any private expression. Eursett was rather stern about the diligence of apprentices. Meanwhile, Sírus and Goronkía were staying put nearby, from their body language due to some order he had missed. Bariaki was trailing far enough behind Beyaugus and Lecto to give them space, but he was headed up the pass just the same.
Enseres came without being called once he was near, tail flicking and head down as if unsure if Deros was still upset with him. Deros made some encouraging clicking sounds and waved him over, which elicited an immediate bounding excitement from the animal. Rubbing over Deros copiously with his neck, lifting up one leg for a wrap-around hug — the only thing he resisted doing in the sort of affection aloga showed was licking with his long, sticky tongue. That had taken forever to train him out of.
After enduring this exchange, Deros produced the treat bag from his belt, then opened it and tossed it on the ground. Enseres stuck his snout in it immediately and began devouring the contents, grunting in both satisfaction and warning for the other aloga not to try and approach. The hair on his back and tail stood up tall for similar reasons.
As Enseres enjoyed his bug-and-minced-offal bag, Deros watched the pair of his father and Lecto ride slowly up the incline. As they neared the top, Kionmus finally arrived at the gate with two more Azakan. One he recognized as his friend — the scent-tracker Aerion — a Blessed that was only a few years older than him. Soon the group met, and no doubt news and orders were conveyed to the general.
The treat bag scooched along the sand as its weight was depleted, and Enseres followed it every inch, hidden tongue flicking away inside to capture every sliver of the rich paste inside. Finally, he finished, signaled by him lifting his head out and sniffing around for more, as if another had been tossed down when he wasn’t looking. Deros walked over and scooped up the empty bag, closing it and stowing it away in the bottom of a saddlebag. With that, he mounted Enseres and started toward the path back up the canyon. It was time he made his case to the general.
Moving slowly at first, when he saw them all head up and pass through the gate, he increased his pace. The guard Telalo was no longer sitting atop the wall, but standing and almost looking alert, spear in hand. It seemed silly to Deros — if any threat arose, he’d be using his bow long before such a weapon. But it was entirely for appearances with the general around.
Passing once more under the portcullis but remaining mounted, Deros caught no sight of his father or Lecto, but Kionmus was off to the side with his back to any approach, taking a piss into the corner of the wall and cliff face. Aerion was nearby and also dismounted, a hand holding the reins of both of their animals. He lifted his other hand in greeting.
Making his way over, Deros returned the wave and called, “Hail General. Aerion. Out enjoying the breezes of Easthold?”
“Of course, Deros! Not as if we have anything better to do, after all,” Aerion replied. His tone was that of playful sarcasm, all too typical between them. He was an archetypal Hamaleen, somewhat shorter than Deros, with skin of pinkish-red and sparse redder freckles. His long hair was the grayed-out mauve of adulthood spent under Azrom, and his pale gray eyes held a hint of blue. There was nothing that stood out to his features except some quirk that made him seem slightly amused, even when he might not be. Most were never sure, and even Deros sometimes doubted, who’d known him all his life.
The general only grunted and muttered something unintelligible to the greeting, as if lost in his own thoughts while relieving himself. He finished finally, in no apparent hurry, redoing his pants and turning around to nod to Deros with a fairly haggard face, which Deros recognized and knew to be one of the very hung-over. He was an otherwise decent-looking man, tall and chiseled of features with a naturally thick, powerful build. His eyes were deep-set purple and made for an intimidating gaze, while the full braid of his gray hair was pretentious for his age if not his station. He wore the standard kit of Azakan tan, but over it was draped the black-stained leather longcoat of a general-at-peace. In wartime, it would be hung up and unused for so long as peace eluded him, replaced by ancient and precious bronze armor.
“Bloody Azrom,” Kionmus growled in his deep voice, which was even rougher than usual. “The Southern King has no mercy, does he? Bah. Deros Aun Beyaugus.” He paused, squinting up to study the one he named. “Stay away from Hezera’s cups, Deros. Cheap cider that’ll kill a skinny slip like yourself. Almost did me in.”
“It’s the spices, General,” Aerion said, in the tone of ‘I told you so’. “Lack thereof. You wouldn’t be the first to pass from these undiluted poisons. You aren’t invincible.” It was perhaps an overcautious statement — deaths from such a thing were rare. But the general was too important a figure for such chances, even one who’d obtained the title through clout and charisma more than competency.
Kionmus grumbled something unintelligible and dark, perhaps a curse. “I’ll pay a better cidermaker, that’s for sure. She lured me! Lured me in with that smile and figure…”
Deros suppressed a snicker as he said diplomatically, “I will heed your advice, General — thank you for bravely testing this new produce for the community. Sadly, I have another favor to ask.”
“A favor, is it? Hmph. Go ahead.”
After exchanging a glance with Aerion, who held up an eyebrow curiously, Deros met Kionmus’s eyes and said, “Allow me to go on this expedition, General. I know there are ten and the tenth is open. Who better than another Blessed Azakan, I ask you? I have senses the match of any scout and can be well-utilized for distant observation or protection from ambush. I am among the fastest of riders, with a mount at the pinnacle of health. A keen choice, wouldn’t you think?”
Unfortunately, Kionmus was already frowning. “I had first thought of Aeradea or Palmus for a runner… Why do you request this, as opposed to being assigned? Who wants to stick their head into the beast’s maw? Tell me you’re not cooking up some idiot dream of being an adventurer like that heretic book you were on about.”
Deros had to resist wincing at the insult, doubly so from the fact the drunk even remembered. The diaries of Esteron Horizoncarver — deified into Explorer as the northern tribes lost the remembrance — weren’t fiction, to his deduction.
“That was ages ago,” Deros declared, misleading. “Every boy dreams about it since the books came, General, but things change.” Like the community rejecting knowledge. “The gods are the gods, and stories are stories. Anyhow, my reasons are simple: the experience as an Azakan in already soft times by most reckoning, and a chance to prove myself.”
The general held his frown as he began moving toward his aloga, but rubbed the scruff at his chin with a hand, considering. “Well, soft times is spot on…” He trailed off as he put foot to stirrup and set himself upon his mount, with grunts from both he and it. He met Deros’s gaze on a more even level and shook his head. “The ones you’re proving it to are the problem. Might as well pick out the heavy stones for my head as let you get yourself killed on some mission I sent you on. Bad side of Beyaugus Peacemaker? That’s one stone. The boulder would be your mother. Founder’s Balls, but she can hold a grudge.”
Well, he couldn’t deny that — as a holder of ancient inherited property and appointed Governess of Residence in addition to Seneschal for the Talasentian estate, Sebiona Talasentia was not one to cross, particularly in regards to her family or clan. The latter had lost much of its meaning compared to how it would’ve been in her own mother’s day, and even more so further back, at least for all that he had heard and been taught. The ancient families still held wealth and status, and with it, old rivalries. Memories for offenses were essentially a tradition.
Deros moved his aloga closer to the general and said insistently, “I will tell my father and mother myself, General, and take all responsibility, in spirit. They won’t be able to fault you. I just need you to authorize in principle, essentially.”
Kionmus scoffed audibly at this, still shaking his head. Just as he was opening his mouth for a reply-
Aerion, climbing atop his own mount, interjected with, “Let the smooth-talker go, General. He’s got the tongue and mind of a senator, and knows better than anyone what his father would do in some prickly situation. Seems perfect for a tenth with his veritable feast of assorted goodies.” Aerion was smirking away right at Deros while delivering such a ridiculous line. “I’ll look after him. We work well together, anyway. You can just blame me if he gets a little scratch on his cheek.”
The general was getting stiff-backed about it, scowling darkly. He flicked his reins irritably to start himself away from the cliff, toward the gate. “It’s not going to work on me, you louts. No. Better safe than sorry.”
Cursing inwardly at Aerion interfering so ineptly, Deros turned his mount to follow and scrambled in his head for how to proceed. Bribery, perhaps?
Aerion had not moved, sitting back in his saddle and watching Kionmus ride away with a grin. “Guess I’ll just have to ask for those coins you never paid up from the dice.”
Kionmus wheeled around immediately with an absolutely indignant expression, his face a shade redder as he pointed his finger in admonishment at Aerion. “That was last five-day! And I was drinking! No one would take that bet seriously.”
Shrugging as if helpless, Aerion lamented, “A shame, truly, matters of honor unrequited. Still, these wounds would find some soothing in the hospitality of a dear friend on the long, hard road ahead…”
Glaring balefully at Aerion for a long moment, the general finally sighed in defeat. “Fine. He goes.” His eyes shifted over to Deros as if seeing his future doom. “We’re plenty even, if he comes back twinkling and pretty. Otherwise, I’ll be catching every hell, and I’ll make sure you take the same if not the brunt. And you’ll still owe me — if we’re even still breathing. Understood?”
“As clear as the water at Surrender, General,” Aerion replied sweetly.
“I’ll return hale and healthy, General Kionmus,” Deros added with what he hoped were solemn tones. “I promise you.”
Sniffing dismissively, Kionmus half-turned his aloga around and said, “Still young enough to make promises you can’t control, aren’t you, boy…” With that, he headed off in the direction of the fort.
“Twinkling and pretty,” Deros muttered low, pondering how that would ever be true, and why it would come out of the general’s mouth.
“Oh yes,” Aerion replied as if it were obvious. “You’re the prettiest eligible Azakan in all the lands! To hear the maidens and such tell it, you know? I do have a younger sister, after all. I’m informed on such matters. Besides that, even some of our fellows agreed enthusiastically… to think, all this time, what I couldn’t see but for my brother was actually a prince!”
It was Deros’s turn to glare at Aerion. “So it’s you that managed to get that into the general’s parlance, then? And the whole damned fortress, apparently? Am I your friend or your enemy?”
Aerion’s eyes were anywhere but on Deros. “Deros, I’d love to chat, but there are preparations to attend to… and just look at Azrom, so high already!” He flicked his reins and started off quickly after the general. “I’ll catch you on the trail, my prince!”
Deros frowned as he watched him go, calling, “We’ll be speaking again, Aerion! At length!”
I can’t get married soon enough. While that was hardly going to stop flirting, teasing, and the like, particularly among the Azakan, it would at least mitigate it. And prevent embarrassing misunderstandings, or the bold ‘forgetting’ he was taken and uninterested, despite his age and technical unmarriedness. While he was no prince just as there was no king in the canyon, his family was indeed well-off and powerful, which didn’t help matters.
Casting it deliberately out of his mind, he hurried off on his mount back toward the Ridgeway, allowing himself to get excited for the journey. He had never been to Many Sands — he could only hope that all was well and that the community remained untouched by the trouble that had occurred. Bandits would likely be long-gone after hitting a caravan, and where they took their loot was anyone’s guess, but certainly not back to Bluehand territory. It was also possible they’d find signs of the struggle along the way and be able to gain evidence of what exactly happened. If there were raiders, though… that would become complicated. Most of the party would likely retreat, with scouts going in for more information. And there was the possibility of chance battle or ambush. A small chance, perhaps, but part of his duty would be looking out for it.
In addition to personal preparations, speaking to his father and mother was needed first. He’d have to insist it was his campaigning rather than the general’s choice that had him going, so as to accept responsibility as he’d promised.
Taking the Ridgeway at a canter, he followed it without event until the terrain began a sandy incline peppered with jutting rock and clusters of shrubs. After he crested it, the whole of Miracle Springs could be seen at the bottom — the farms and industry were clustered all around the sinuous meander, with the plentiful waters not far from the tops of the levees holding it at bay. The river folded around many times in a compact area, going in three directions. If he took a leftward bent he’d head toward the market and harbors, and if over the rivers across a ferry he could go to Gobaha Island, a unique feature completely surrounded by water where goba reedbugs were raised in three-storied habitats to be fat and juicy for consumption — primarily for aloga. Beyond that was the dead-end of the Spillbasin, where the floodgates had been raised up for the first time in a generation, in the very midst of the last storm.
Straight and due west across the river was the Hand of Plenty, where most farmlands stretched, full of sweetcane, small hairypod fruit trees, and many, many small tufts of curlroot that would ripen soon, before the variety of spring seeds would be sown into the enriched soil. Few coveted the taste of curlroot cuts, especially by the end of the season, which was why meat in winter was especially savored, and stews or soups were the typical meal of cooks. He’d heard many gripes about it before the storms — men claiming they’d ‘survive on cider’ and so on. Liars, of course.
The river snaked around The Hand going north in a curl that would wind back west. The feature that affected this was Bloodbound Bluff, a cliff of the canyon that was as tall and steep as a mountain. Dark brown and gray-streaked stone was bared underneath a sandy top, and into that stone were carved many ancient structures as though grown from it, known as the Old Residences. Above it was the Fortress and below was the Hospital at the base of the cliff face.
Around this and in layers of nearby, less-steep inclines were much newer constructions made of concrete by the expertise of the Founderfolk — protected western allies downriver known for their building-making. Among their greatest of feats was the gray dome that was The Hall of The Senate. It was easily the equal of any other sight of the canyon, though many might ascribe the greatest instead to the Observatory, a white tower rising high above the dark walls of the Fortress.
Deros could see down the slope of irregular sand, rock, and scrub that his father was at the bottom, angling around outgrowths of wild cane on the path that would lead to The Hall. Another rider was speeding off toward the markets from Beyaugus, perhaps the source of delay that had allowed Deros to catch up. Deros whistled loudly with two fingers in his mouth aiding, which caused his father to stop and turn, to look. The Chancellor waved, beckoning Deros, then turned back around, continuing at a slow pace.
Enseres barely needed any encouragement to fly down the slope, which despite the general rockiness, still had a straighter path of packed-down sand for easier traversal. Deros slowed as he neared his father and his old mount making their way toward The Hall, moving steadily away from the river and up a long, gradual slope of plentiful shrub. A few citizens were about, escorting aloga around for insects or foraging — many would be doing so all over the canyon, specifically to collect wild snailfern heads that were sprouting early. They would be a welcome change of flavor for the pots. Others did some opportunistic hunting — one such was walking with an all-wooden spear, its blackened tip impaling completely a very dead yellow lizard right through its middle.
“Son,” Beyaugus greeted Deros as he waved at the lizard catcher. “Are you riding with more news, then? I hope your fellows aren’t dawdling — your counsel was sound and worth repeating to the general. I’m afraid the day has greeted him poorly.”
Deros suddenly felt uncertain and guilty for his inward feelings to his father’s response earlier. Had he been wrong? It wasn’t as if his father was always an easy read. Swallowing the matter down by necessity, Deros cleared his throat and steeled himself as he settled Enseres down and into a matching walk next to his father. “Yes, ah, news of sort. I’ve come to tell you that, through my own insistence and persuasion, I have been granted leave as a member of the expedition group. Or envoy, if that’s a more apt term.”
His father looked over at his son sharply. His mouth opened, closed, then his gaze looked off, toward the river, his expression severe and close to a grimace. “That is… troublesome. I could guess the reasons why. I’d ask you to reconsider, as your training is still incomplete as an Azakan, and this is a matter for veterans. If inexperience caused issue, you’d not be happy with yourself, nor others with you. There’s a reason why the decision is supposed to be left to the leaders.”
His father could certainly sow doubt in him with ease. But there was enough pride to overpower it. “I am of the Blessed — a step above most, and while there are veterans even of us, yes, there will certainly not be them exclusively. Right? Even with ten. And I am a logical tenth, even from Aerion’s mouth, because of the things you taught me. Besides, most veterans were younger than I when they went to war, and this isn’t even that. I’m ready and I need it more than even five more years of clacking sticks and hitting wooden targets. Stalking sand and birds. So I’m going. If I wasn’t ready, I’d have been laughed away rather than taken seriously and accepted.”
Beyaugus shifted in his seat and took a deep breath as if he’d go into a firm tirade, but instead he let out the breath slowly with his eyes on his reins. “Well argued,” he muttered with a touch of wonder. His eyes came up to the path in front of him. “If your mind’s made up, I can’t stand in your way. Your mother… she’ll be beside herself.”
“And you?”
His father’s eyes finally met his, and he held them for a long moment. “I’ll worry, son.”
He felt the guilt hit hard, then. It was a confusing sort of guilt. On one hand, he understood it, and on another, he knew every day was a risk for any Azakan — to predators and to the land itself, with endless heights traversed that could kill a man with one false step. And there was disease, which could rear its head at any time. But he supposed they were all known things, with daily confirmations contrary. The trip was an unknown day after day after day. His family would worry, and it made him realize Palamera would too, while he was away unseen and untouched. He could be guilty for wanting to go, but ultimately the truth was still that it was someone’s duty within the community. Why not him? Such risks were inevitable as an Azakan, and everyone had to come to terms with that.
“I’ll be alright,” he assured his father. “The whole plan is to be cautious. This is no bare-hand climb up the bluff. What sort would ever attack a Hospitaller envoy?”
“There aren’t any known tribes that would. Bandits might or might not. But tribes or clans fracture and bold war leaders arise promising riches, sometimes from lands the others have been separated from. That is a worry. The rains could’ve been some omen to a group, or simply opened up an old route. Many are nomadic, following the froul. If the beasts come further south, so do the nomads. There are groups that know nothing of us, and likely groups we have never heard of.”
Deros nodded to this, hoping such a group wasn’t their problem. It could mean trouble for allies or even war for all of them. When he was barely old enough to walk, his father had been up north, forging an alliance as an ambassador against another hostile alliance of tribes favoring raids to the south, with talk of ‘destined’ conquest. Peace talks had failed catastrophically, so the Azakan went to war in support — a portion, at least. Achieving victory after victory with progressively fewer casualties, they finally defeated the strongest forces, which broke the will of the rest. Beyaugus hammered out treaties with the remainder, ensuring peace and fair trade for close to a generation.
“Well,” Beyaugus continued when Deros made no reply, “I will wish you good luck, son, since I cannot wish to go with, or that you would stay. Explorer go with you, then, Azakan. I will break it to your mother. She’s at the Hall, last I saw. Only to break the flood, understand? It will still come. You’ll still need to see her. No man can avoid such a thing.”
“I understand, Father.” And he’d be steeling himself particularly for that encounter. “I think I had best do all other preparations before that.”
“Sound reason.” Beyaugus Peacemaker moved his mount closer to his son, enough to reach his hand over and grab a shoulder. Squeeze. In his face was… what Deros imagined was love and pride. And hope, somehow, like the insistence of it, like the attempted transfer of it into him as encouragement, through a tight grin, through the pressure of his weathered hand. “You’ll do well, son. Mmn?”
“I will.” Somehow, he couldn’t say more. His voice just stopped, and he was nodding, insistent, as they held each other’s eyes. It was strange, in that moment, to be at the precipice of a journey, out and away, and toward his father so many thoughts swirled, but each had no end in the shape of a spoken word… they were just there as a chaos of emotion and memory cycling. He wondered if his father felt something similar, as they both sat there, saying nothing.
The scant few moments came and went, and his father moved off and away with his aloga. Having to say something more, Deros blurted, “Farewell. Look after Mother, would you?”
Beyaugus nodded once. “I will, son. Farewell.” With that, he rode off, toward the gleaming dome of the Hall.
Deros watched him go. He felt a bit silly for his awkwardness. But ultimately it was well he was taking the trip — when he returned and their worries were over, it would surely be easier to leave the next time it was needed. He could not fault his parents for not wanting to let him go. Their family, despite prosperity and power, had not been fortunate in every regard. His mother had miscarried twice before having three, and Deros’s older brother and younger sister had both passed from the wasting sickness. She had never gotten with child again, and so he was the one and only.
Dreading having to face his mother, he headed off for the Old Residences, setting his mind to the needs of the trip. It was something he was trained to conduct at a moment’s notice, but forgetting something was all too possible. And he’d have to find Palamera. Too many difficult goodbyes.
Azrom was blinding bright and well above the horizon by the time Deros was walking through the garden of his family’s estate, practically holding his breath as he sought out his mother. He’d made every other preparation, stacking Enseres with a heavy load of what he hoped was everything needed — he knew much of it would go on one of the pack aloga that would be waiting for them all by the river’s end. After that, he’d left word with the majordomo at the estate that he’d return to hopefully meet his mother there, after he found Palamera. But it had been nothing but frustration and a waste of time. He’d been to the Hospital and to frequented paths elsewhere, to back again, asking around. The second time at the Hospital, he had to threaten that he’d hunt every inch of the place himself, only to be told by a Matron, ‘Palamera is aware of the situation but is busy, and will see you at river’s end before your departure’. With that he’d been soundly shooed out, and not kindly.
Perhaps she is angry with me, he was thinking as he navigated a contoured brick path between assorted aesthetically-arranged trees, bushes, and succulents. But wouldn’t she want to argue if she already knew? A grave matter came up, forcing her attention elsewhere? Perhaps it was the Bluehand. Hospitallers dealt with the dead as well as the infirm. They might have dropped that in her lap to deal with, as a test. In any case, he’d have to wait to find out.
Numerous flowers were in-bloom throughout the garden, coloring it with streaks of yellow and red and purple. Some of them had fruits or seeds or were grown as herbs, while others were there for show. In the central divide that the path curved around, there was a thick block of vegetation dominated by godberry bushes, frillferns, and the arching shade of taller treeferns. A bench under one was a favorite spot of many a denizen of the compound, including himself. His mother was not immediately evident, so he continued down the brick path in its alternating gray and brown-red checkered pattern, one he’d walked thousands of times.
As he circled around, she was there, taking iron shears to an overgrown bush, two others nearby already made into perfect rounds. She trusted no other with such acts in the garden, in fact coveted some of them for relaxation or relief. She wore a dark-orange dress accentuated with bronze, her typical godberry-purple robe she wore over most attire laid half-folded over the back of a nearby greatcane chair.
“Mother,” he greeted simply as he approached.
She made a final snip with the shears, then turned toward her son, taking a deep, slow breath as she met his eyes with an unreadable expression. She was a tall, lithe woman, carrying a palpable aura of authority set in the frame of mature beauty. Her smoky mauve hair was partially pinned up, keeping the locks mostly out of her face. Pale gray eyes were framed by heavy black liner, and her pale red skin was unblemished — a favorable trait she’d passed on to Deros, though their color would still deepen where exposed to Azrom. His mother carried the further features of status in layers of gold and silver bejeweled necklaces, rings, and bracelets, all in all a bizarre contrast to the crude shears in her hand. That she was so presentable while conducting in such labor perhaps showed her stress.
She tossed the shears down into the brown mulch and strode across the rest of the distance between them. Deros tensed involuntarily, unsure exactly what she would do in this uncommon territory of his leave-taking. His mother grabbed ahold of his arms, looking up at him in the slight difference of height with eyes somehow soft and accusing at once. Then she embraced him, her chin to a shoulder with his likewise as he was bent down and pressed against her, practically bathed in the rosy scent of her perfume.
“My child,” she intoned as she squeezed him tightly. “Why? Why, oh why did fate make you Azakan? Force this cruelty on a gentle boy who dreamt of the stars and the heavens? You studied their maps, learned their names. You would sit in this very garden and read every book you could get your hands on. On nature, on philosophy you didn’t understand, even that ratty old word collection. Cover to cover, and how many times, Deros Íýteron? Do you remember?”
“I remember, Mother,” he managed, somewhat strangled by the hug. She really didn’t need to squeeze him so hard. “The Dictionary of Alnaseria. Four times.” It had been useful, teaching him of things and concepts his people knew nothing about. Strange animals never seen, such as ‘apes’ which were like furry, bestial men, or ‘fish’, like compact eels. Or that the air was composed of ‘oxygen’ and ‘nitrogen’ gasses, the former essential to life and the latter inert. That light was made up of different rays, such as heat/calorifiant, chemical, and cosmic. Lost technologies like the steam engine, the gun, and immortium steel. Many, many things, but all of it frustratingly shallow. He had been meaning to re-read it again, for years.
Finally, his mother sighed and released her hug, pulling back, though her hands still held his arms firmly, as if he’d run away otherwise. Her eyes searched his face like she was seeing it change before her, while she wore an expression painted a mixture of fondness and sadness. “And you lectured everyone about it endlessly, hmm? Science and so on. What actually everything was, instead of what they called it. The air, the water, the moons. You were the dictionary, delivering facts like the news of the day. What happened to that boy? How did he become the proud warrior racing off to chase the fires of Azrom and dare it to burn him?”
“Moha…” he began in gentle admonishment, but trailed off, shaking his head. Ultimately she knew the answers, she just hated that they existed. Right then, anyway.
The eyes that continued seeking their answers began to well up. Deros wordlessly reached into his pouch for a clean white handkerchief — he formed a careful point to it and raised it to his mother’s eye precisely, one after the other, in his attempt to absorb any tears before they scarred her makeup. But as he did so her face contorted and she let out a sob, while her hands seized his together, the handkerchief caught between them.
Tears falling from her eyes, she shook his hands and cried, “See?” Another sound, a strangled sob with a tinge of hysteria, came from her. “Such a precious, subtle boy, wasted out in the baking sands!”
Deros looked down, away from her eyes. He felt a conflicting bundle of emotions at her lamenting words. Some embarrassment, shame, guilt, yes… but she cherished things in him few cared about, valued him more than perhaps anything else in the world. So much that it bubbled out of her when she perceived him in jeopardy. He loved her for it and so he would not correct her when she was so clearly wrong. He was not wasted, as one of the Blessed. She knew this deeper down, but it didn’t change how she felt.
His mother shook his gripped hands in hers once more, drawing his eyes back to hers. “Promise me, Deros,” she insisted, blinking away tears. “Promise me you will return with not so much as a scratch on you.”
Gently shifting his hands so that he put the handkerchief into hers, he then enclosed her hands in his — with that, he set his jaw and eyes for the firmest of oaths. “On the ashes of my ancestors. On the dust that they become, I swear… it will be done… I will return. Just as you see me, unharmed. Worry yourself no more, moha.”
With her lips pressed together, her head rocked in a series of small nods, as if she were trying to convince herself. She sighed finally, in relief or exasperation, Deros couldn’t tell. “Alright,” she said, and took her hands back to dab the cloth he’d given her carefully at her eyes. Soon, her typical composure returned to her, though with slightly smudged makeup. “Such a convincing manner. Your father’s son, you are. I’ve told Palamera to be mindful of it.”
Deros smiled mildly in response. “Sage advice, I suppose. But I mean every word earnestly. I will not take risks and I will never tire in alertness, as others will depend on it.”
“See that you do not. All of your parts must be in good working order if you and Palamera are to fill these grounds with yelping, running children like your ancestors demand. Remember that to be the core of your destiny, Deros. Where’er your boots wander, your bare feet trod here. Amongst other bare endeavors.”
“Mother…” Deros this time fully admonished, in embarrassment. He didn’t quite blush, if only because the matter was such typical territory for her. It was uncommon for a man to bring his wife to his mother’s property, but Deros had no sisters. Rather than him moving in with Palamera’s family, his mother had arranged for him to inherit the estate, then eventually a daughter who would marry and continue the line as a Talasentian, by special exception. Other daughters might live under Palamera’s ‘claim’, as the case went, though she was not firstborn to the estates of the Huar family, so it was unofficial or hypothetical. In any case, the Huar were obtaining much in the merging. It was entirely why the joke about him being a ‘prince’ was going around. That his father was wealthy and unusually owned his own property through construction only added to this.
“I only speak the truth.” There was not a hint of shame in her. “Now. It’s time I do my duty, hmm? Sit.” She turned and walked in the direction of the chair.
He followed and took a seat in the chair of contoured creaking cane, lashed together and stained red possibly before he was born. It still held up well. Greatcane tended to, whether as chair, spear, arrow, or whatever else.
“You did not even speak to Palamera, I see,” his mother said as she inspected his hair from his right side. She took a long, thin blue ribbon of satin from her satchel and stared at it for a moment. “You will have to before you leave.”
“I know, Mother,” he assured her, and waited. No Azakan who went on mission beyond the canyon ventured without braid and ribbon tied in their hair by their loved ones. Two were minimal — one by one’s mother and the other by one’s mate, sister, closest friend, or something of the like. Those with children were supposed to have one for each in addition, and pretty much anyone else who wanted to — who cared deeply for them — could as well. When the campaign was over, it would be returned, as a memento of that time. One way or another.
Wordlessly, his mother measured and cut the ribbon, then began working small locks of his hair into a braid tendril, the ribbon woven between. The end was made into a tight tie, knot, and small tail which would not easily come undone. Deros solemnly endured the act — in truth, it was a special honor of the Azakan, and one rare for his generation. Some walked around with bracelets of braided ribbon like rainbows, the result of famous warriors like Solanetta Spinningfang or Karios Three Eyes. While he’d been taught endlessly that lack of glory was better for Miracles Springs, as it meant peace and prosperity, it couldn’t ever erase the awe of their deeds.
“There,” his mother finally said when it was done. “See that you return it unblemished.”
“So I shall,” Deros replied as he rose and embraced her again. “Do take care of the old man, alright?”
“I have to. He only takes care of his senate and the whole of the canyon. Or tries to. But never himself.” As they parted, she touched Deros’s cheek with a hand. “Go, young man, and see your love. Tell her to come and see me soon. And then get this Bluehand business over with, and come back to me and brag over a feast. I will bake berry pie and osanut cake. I’ll make a second and hide it, and we will glut alone the next day like greedy thieves, sipping cider.”
Deros could not help but smile, as he took his mother’s hand from his cheek and squeezed it one last time. “I should like that very much. Etch it in stone, then. Farewell, mother.”
She nodded with a meager smile, and he released her hand. He turned and took the long walk out, feeling like it was a hike up a mountain. He glanced one last time her way, just before he made the curve around the trees, to see her still watching — they exchanged a final wave before they passed out of each other’s sight. It was painful leaving her like that, leaving home as he was for assuredly the rest of winter — at best twenty days, he imagined. But it was something he’d chosen to do, something he had to do. So he put one foot in front of the other, and it got easier with each one.
