Hatam-Ile, 14th of Seventhmoon 3045
In a matter of days the steppe had transformed into a miniature city of canvas tents, seemingly blanketing all of the Meril-An plains beneath them. Ren’i had kept his promise of not disturbing the daily lives of the akheris and the army had retreated a league and a half’s distance from Hatam-Ile, but as the steppe was flat and entirely barren it wasn’t difficult to make out the camp even at a distance. The living quarters of common soldiers were divided into smaller zones by company, and battalions formed their own distinct districts in the mishmash of colourful canvases.
Hawk shielded his eyes with his hand in the sunlight. Even the vantage point was nearly a full league from the camp, but he could still clearly distinguish the enclave set up in the middle of the camp where the prince and his Guard of Honour’s tents, marked with red flags, were positioned.
He noticed during his days of observation that the camp’s daily routines followed the same pattern almost to the minute. Morning practice, meeting between the prince and his brass, lunch, afternoon break, evening practice. The army moved like some great, well-oiled machine, each of its parts knowing its duty and place exactly. Fetching water was the only errand that broke the monotony. A steady flood of soldiers streamed towards the river to fill all manner of water containers from barrels to waterskins to bathing tubs.
The demons had taken Onniar’s advice, Hawk noted as he returned to Hatam-Ile on the morning of Sixthday. He circled through the woods to the vantage point, three pheasants hanging under his arm, and watched as hundreds of soldiers divided into pairs and practised to the same beat. The sight was bewildering. The air steamed with their breathing and turned it misty, but they kept up the pace despite the cold. Hawk thought he could just make out a tall, red-headed figure in the frontlines, though he knew not even his eyes saw that far. He climbed down from the cliff, unnoticed by anyone, and went his way.
Ren’i was still sweaty from the practice when he pulled on a dry tunic and attached the breastplate over it. The sun had only just crept above the horizon and started melting the nightly frost with its first rays when Yurau parted the flap of a large red-striped tent and Ren’i stepped in, meeting the expectant gazes of his consuls and captain Hamr.
”Good morning, your highness,” Kha’ar said, and they all bowed lightly to Ren’i.
Of the three consuls of the fifth legion Kha’ar was the most experienced. He’d already earned his first merits when emperor Verqur’ei, Ren’i’s grandfather, had only been a young heir to the throne, and had lead his former legion to victory against the asari rebellions of Kara.
In the middle of the tent stood a sturdy wooden table. A map had been spread on top of it. Hamr was leaning against the table, staring at the map stubbornly as thought waiting for it to speak to him.
Ren’i straightened and let his eyes wander from one face to another. On the other side of the table Vannuil and Qel were measuring him with their gazes, expressions as blank as a statue’s. Kha’ar stroked his black goatee, smiling a lopsided smile. The consuls were all war-hardened professionals, and Ren’i’s guess was that none of them were under 2000 years old. Ren’i was a baby in comparison. Though they had to respect his rank, he knew they were inspecting his every movement as though measuring his capacities – or waiting for a chance to strike at the first sign of weakness.
His position was secure only so long as he had no siblings, cousins, or children of his own. It didn’t stop the consuls from judging his moves and making early decisions about whether they would side with him or not when the next, inevitable dispute over inheritance caught fire.
”Morning, gentlefolks,” Ren’i replied, tilting his head. ”I’ll spare you and myself useless formalities, seeing as we’ve held counsel every morning in the past weeks. Let’s just get down to business.”
The breastplate and cloak felt uncomfortably warm, but he didn’t let it show on his face. He made sure to always appear in front of his consuls in full uniform, polished metal gleaming as though they were on their way to a parade instead of war.
Qel’s mid-length braids slipped over one shoulder as he bent down and set the pointed end of the pair of compasses over the Meril-An plains. He measured the distance from Hatam-Ile to the land bridge without uttering a word. He was dark where his colleague Vannuil was pale, and his tightly braided hair was as pitch-black as his skin.
”I’ll speak frankly, then,” Vannuil said. She was tall and powerfully built, and had the sort of sombre, steady voice of a soldier who was used to giving orders, not taking them. ”We’re past the midway point of Seventhmoon, highness. The akheris have delayed our strategy enough with their talk of negotations, further delaying their ’decision’ time after time.”
Ren’i nodded to signal that he was listening.
Vannuil continued, ”their approval does not – and it should not – mean anything, for there is nothing to discuss. The empress’s orders are clear. They will join us, either the easy way or the hard way.”
”With all due respect, your highness,” Qel intervened, gaze still on the map. ”It is admirable that you’ve given them the chance to negotiate. Volunteers always make for better soldiers, and our purpose here is to integrate the akheris into the empire more than anything. We don’t want to come back here every five years to remind them of their allegiance.”
”But?” Ren’i asked.
Vannuil smiled, if it could be called a smile. Her eyes were such a pale blue that they looked white, as white as her hair, and Ren’i flinched under her gaze reflexively.
”We are not dependant on their hospitality, but they ours.” The sheer force in her pointed glare would have chilled the blood of a more sensitive soldier. ”These are Kishan lands and they are Kishans.”
”I know they’re playing for time,” Ren’i said.
”Then why wait? Both parties already know what the other is trying to do,” Qel said.
Ren’i shook his head. ”I don’t believe they’re trying to stall endlessly. I’ve spoken with their chief and they know just as well as we do that the Liqaris are on their way. We don’t have an unlimited amount of time.” He clasped his arms behind his back. ”Kha’ar, you have done battle in Liqaria. How long is their winter?”
Kha’ar was still stroking his beard. ”It is now midwinter in the northern parts of the continent. The east coast is a flat tundra where no trees grow, and winds blowing from the Eastern Sea result in harsh winters – almost as harsh as our own in Hol Saro. The Khuusian mountain range on the western coast blocks air currents from advancing and forces clouds to go in endless circles over the Mori plains. The thaw won’t come for at least two more months.”
”Are you sure?” Vannuil asked sternly.
”Completely. If the sea currents are in their favour, they can expect to begin marching at the end of Ninthmoon at the earliest. If winter overstays its welcome, they might not start moving until the Eleventhmoon.”
A silence fell in the tent, broken only by the tapping of Qel’s pair of compasses against the table.
Ren’i glanced at the roof, a pensive look on his face. ”It’s only a couple more days until the return of Merenos. I doubt the Liqaris will dig themselves out of the snowbanks by then, so we may as well wait until the festival for the akheris to reach their decision.”
”And if they haven’t reached it even then, your highness?” Kha’ar inquired.
Ren’i remembered his discussion with the gray-haired woman after his accident and smiled. ”I have a feeling they will.”
Qel sighed. ”If you say so, highness.” He took the wooden figurines set on the edge of the table and started placing them on the map. ”Well then. Kha’ar and I have some suggestions for the final battleground that we’d like to hear your thoughts on.”
Hatam-Ile, 16th of Seventhmoon 3045
The forest soil felt different through the akheri-style suede boots. The soles were thin and soft, unlike the stiff military boots that Kishans wore as a part of their uniform. Ren’i felt every root, pebble and bump through them, which had hurt the first evening, but he’d started growing numb to it.
Onniar walked ahead, bow hanging from his shoulder. He’d been taking Ren’i in the woods three nights in a row, just taking him through different routes and letting him get accustomed to this new environment. Ren’i had felt like a child while the huntsmaster named trees and plants for him. Southern beeches, silver ashes and the dwarf elm, which fared in the dry desert conditions. Many of the dry bushes that he’d believed dead were laden with pale, translucent berries in the shelter of their spiky branches and yellowed leaves, so well masked by their surroundings that they were nearly impossible to spot. They had gathered several bags’ worth of them and carried them to Hatam-Ile.
”Kheru berries. They’re sour, but make for good wine,” Onniar had said when Ren’i ate one raw and grimaced. ”You’ll get a taste in a couple of days.”
Sweat poured down Ren’i’s back as they trudged deeper and deeper into the woodlands. The wasteland was left far behind and the sandy soil turned into dirt mixed with clay, then to low-growing grasses. The trees and shrubs grew thicker, and branches created shadowy alleys beneath them, providing at least a bit of relief from the heat. Ren’i lifted the waterskin to his lips and drank. They’d been walking for two hours already, wandering even farther than the previous days, and he felt the exhaustion weighing on his limbs.
”What exactly are we looking for?” Ren’i asked. The backpack felt heavier with each step, its straps chafing against his skin. He’d finally made his first kills with an akheri bow – two plump pheasants – and thought longingly of good beer with greasy drumsticks frying over an evening campfire.
”You’ll see in a bit.” Onniar pointed to the left and went on, ”we’re almost there. Follow me.”
Leaf trees grew so close to one another that the scorching sunlight couldn’t reach all the way to the ground, and Ren’i was delighted to notice that in many places the tree roots were covered with moss and twigs. He felt his jaw drop as they pushed past the thicket into a large clearing.
The sunlight filtering through the treetops was only a faint, greenish glow that made the entire grove look like it was giving off its own light. In its centre stood a deep forest pond, its water glittering turquoise. Ren’i stepped closer. The water was so clear that he could easily make out the bottom.
”It’s safe to drink,” Onniar said. He knelt by the pond and filled his waterskin.
Ren’i copied him and filled his own, brought it to his lips and emptied it in one go. He refilled and emptied the waterskin once more, then screwed the cork back on after having filled it again. The light made the fine sand at the bottom of the pond shine like gold. Ren’i submerged his hand in the water and reached down to try the sand with his fingers, only to notice that the pond appeared shallower than it truly was, thanks to the clearness of the water. He could reach nowhere near the bottom.
Onniar barked a laugh. ”Don’t go so far down that you fall in. The pond’s deep.”
”How deep?”
”Hmm. Four meters or so, I believe.”
Ren’i bent down, cupped water in his palms and splashed the icy water on his face. The cold came as a relief; the thought of taking a dip in the pond was suddenly tempting.
He left Onniar by the pond and examined the trees encircling the clearing more closely. Many of them looked vaguely familiar. The shape of the leaves and their serrated edges confirmed his suspicions: chestnut trees. They didn’t grow as tall as the chestnuts in Central Kisha and their leaves were much paler in colour than those of their northern cousins, but the Hytherlandian sun pampered them in ways the winters in the north could not.
”They’re already ripe,” Ren’i wondered out loud and pulled a chestnut off its bough. In the north they wouldn’t ripen for many lunar cycles of Kauarin.
Onniar stretched and plopped down in the grass. ”Of course. That’s kind of why we’re here, actually.”
”Oh?”
”Nightsong asks us to bring them every year for the festival. We’ll gather as many as we can take back with us, and then we’ll head home.”
After a brief moment of respite Ren’i watched Onniar scaling a tree with all the agility of a squirrel. He found a sturdy branch to sit on and started picking. Ren’i shielded his head and stayed at a safe distance as chestnuts started raining down from the treetops at such force that the ground shook and scared all birds off the nearest trees.
It turned out that Onniar had packed burlap sacks in his backpack. They stuffed both backpacks, then the sacks, which surprisingly didn’t take very long. The chestnuts grew bigger than they did in the north – the biggest one Ren’i saw was almost as big as his fist – and their backpacks were bulging so much that they could barely pull the straps closed. Ren’i tied a rope around the legs of his pheasants and hung them from his belt, and they began their return journey to Hatam-Ile, weighted down by a heavier load than on the way there.
”You’ve earned your thanks. An extra pair of hands came in need,” Onniar said as they finally found their way back on the trail.
”You do this all by yourself every time?” Ren’i asked, voice breaking with how out of breath he was. On top of a backpack he and Onniar were both carrying one full sack each, and he could feel his arms begging for mercy. Onniar was a full head shorter than him, and Ren’i couldn’t fathom how the huntsmaster managed with his half of the load.
”This used to be Silverbrook and Willow’s job, but times change.” Onniar glanced over his shoulder and saw the puzzled look on Ren’i’s face. He went on, ”they were on a scouting trip in Seiye when Liqaris found them. Willow – one of our hunters – fell, but Silverbrook survived. She can no longer climb or carry anything heavy, but her bow arm was spared.”
”Didn’t Mineha heal her?”
Onniar shook his head. ”The land bridge is almost a five-day journey from Hatam-Ile. Silverbrook had to travel for two weeks with her injuries, all the way from Liqaria to here. Mineha managed to save her life, which is a small miracle in and of itself, but some of the damage was permanent.”
Ren’i was quiet for a long time. Silverbrook walked with a limp, but that wasn’t uncommon among soldiers and Ren’i hadn’t paid it much mind before. Of all the akheris he’d met so far Silverbrook was the liveliest and chattiest, much like Onniar: it was difficult to imagine her in the throes of imminent death.
”Liqaris have much to answer for,” Ren’i said darkly. ”I’ll make sure it takes them at least a week, if I can help it.”
Onniar stopped. He directed one long look at Ren’i.
”Ren’i,” he said quietly. ”You are the same taivashi as the Liqaris. You do know that, don’t you?”
”Well, yes, but… Sure, they’re the same species as us, but our tribes parted ways a long time ago already.”
”Your cultures and languages differ in many ways, that much is true, but from our point of view there’s no difference between you and them. What the Liqaris did is what Kishans have done to countless akheri lives long ago, and will continue to do so from now on, too.” He said it calmly, like a statement, which cut much deeper than Hawk’s open accusations. ”This is our home, and we don’t want them here any more than you do. They’d crush us without hesitation – kill what little is left of our culture just to get their hands on your people.”
Ren’i stared at him. Onniar smiled sadly.
”What they did to Willow and Silverbrook was awful, but ask yourself honestly: how does it differ from what we’ve already endured all these centuries?” Onniar silenced him with a shake of his head. ”You don’t need to answer me, Ren’i. But as your teacher I want you to look at things from a different perspective, as uncomfortable as it may be at times.”
For the rest of the journey the only sounds were the twittering of birds and the humming of wind in the treetops. Ren’i concentrated only on his next step, then the next, and couldn’t get a word out of his mouth until they reached the place where the hook-toothed lynx and her cubs had attacked them.
”Onniar,” he said. To his relief Onniar glanced at him and smiled in his usual manner. ”I’ve been thinking about something. Your scouts know the land bridge better than us. Is it possible to take an entire army across it?”
”Where did this come from?”
”We’ve been considering a certain strategy with my consuls. Come what may, we do need a plan.”
Onniar slowed down so that Ren’i managed to catch up with him. They walked side by side, Onniar looking thoughtful.
”It is possible, in theory,” he said, ”but if you’re thinking about taking your forces across, I’d urge you to reconsider.”
”Why? If the Liqaris can do it, so can we. We could get to them before the winter’s over. They’re not used to doing combat in the snow, but we are.”
”I don’t doubt that,” Onniar said soothingly and nodded. ”But crossing the land bridge is tricky even during low tide. You’d have to send your forces across in groups of some ten, twenty soldiers, and they’d have to stay and wait on one of the islands as soon as the water starts rising again. It takes two to three days to cross the islands – probably weeks for an entire army – and I doubt every single one of you would make it.”
”It’s that dangerous?”
”More than just dangerous. The tides don’t cover the islets entirely, but there are constant storms blowing towards the Cape of Mists from the sea, and the tall waves can pull a taivashi on an akheri in the ocean just as easily. The rocks are slippery and steep, and the sharp shoals surrounding the islets would prove fatal were you to fall off.” Onniar paused. ”Whoever decides to cross the Cape will suffer terrible losses.”
Ren’i nodded. ”Understood. If their headcount matches what we’ve heard we’ll be forced to fight on the defensive, and we’re going to need all of our forces if we wish to win from such positions.”
The sun was already setting when they crossed the bridge and returned to the city. The doors of the elder’s house were shut tight and a white trail of smoke rose to the sky, a clear sign that the elders were still holding counsel, as they had every day for the past two weeks. Ren’i pushed the irritation off his mind and followed Onniar across the square to one of the side alleys. Ornamental lanterns and fabrics were hung from almost every window, but the lanterns hadn’t been lit despite the approaching nightfall.
The lanterns are lit as Merenos rises, Ren’i recalled the elderly akheri woman telling him. The festival was the next day and preparations were at full swing, judging by the delicious smells wafting from people’s homes.
Onniar stopped at the door of the very last house on the alley and knocked three times. Laughter emanated from the house, coming ever closer, until the door opened. An enormous cloud of vapour escaped the house, and Ren’i felt his stomach gurgling when he recognised the scents of cooking meat and root vegetables. A brown-skinned and black-haired akheri woman grinned upon seeing them.
”About time,” she said and waved at them. ”Come on in. You get to help with the peeling.”
Onniar sighed loudly. ”Exactly what I was afraid of.”
They stepped in and Ren’i shut the door behind them. The inner walls were the same yellowish sandstone as the outer ones and in many places they had been decorated with colourful tapestries. Oil lamps stood on window sills and tables, the whole house basking in their light. It was a cosy and a very tidy place.
Ren’i glanced at the sack he was carrying and stood on the doorstep without moving an inch, attempting to kick the boots off his feet without anyone noticing, but the woman laughed and said, ”don’t bother with your shoes. We’re not cleaning until all the cooking’s done, anyway.”
There was something distantly familiar about her features. Ren’i muttered an apology as he strode after Onniar into another room, the enchanting scent of grease strengthening with each step, and tried not to picture the look on Ruan’s face had she seen him walking inside a stranger’s house with his shoes on.
The kitchen was brightly lit and every surface was covered with jars, bowls, platters and cutting boards. Instead of an open hearth there was a large baking oven that took up most of one wall. Pokers, frying pans, pots and grin irons hung from hooks, along with so many different types of knives that Ren’i hadn’t witnessed such an arsenal even in his army’s armaments. A woman with silvery hair was pushing meat skewers in the oven, leaning onto a cane for support with her other hand. She glanced over her shoulder and Ren’i recognised her at once, though she was dressed in a light, loose dress instead of her hunting outfit.
”Will you look at that, helping hands,” Silverbrook said. Her eyes locked on the pheasants Ren’i had brought. ”Put those down on the table – yeah, there, by the cutting board. You can pour the chestnuts in those vats,” she said and pointed at the wooden dishes that looked like wash tubs standing in a corner.
”Is this your house?” Ren’i asked as he set the pheasants on the table.
”Mine and my wife’s.”
”Your wife’s?”
Silverbrook grinned as the darker woman bent down to kiss her cheek. She was tall and plump where Silverbrook was short and willowy, and Ren’i could not help staring at her face. She had the same angular face, full lips and proud nose as…
”I’m Nightsong,” she said. The smile accentuated her sharp cheekbones. ”Apologies for my cousin, in case you’ve been forced to tolerate his company in the past days.”
Ren’i blinked. ”You’re Hawk’s cousin.” Of course. The similarities between them were clear as daylight, though Nightsong’s expression softened the impression. He shook himself mentally and returned the smile. Where were his manners? ”And I’m Ren’i. Nice to meet you.”
”I know,” Nightsong said, amused. ”I was there when you arrived.”
”Oh, right. So you were.”
”It is nice, admittedly, meeting you in person.” She placed her hand on chest and bent forwards slightly. ”This is how you greet one another where you’re from, right?”
Ren’i hastened to return the gesture. ”Yes, just like that.” He glanced at Onniar from the corner of his eye. ”Um, how does one greet others politely around here?”
Nightsong’s smile widened. She extended her hand to Ren’i before Onniar could intervene. ”Give me your hand. Right, not left. You shake hands with your left with family members and with your right with new acquaintances.”
They shook hands. Nightsong had a strong grip and she looked Ren’i straight in the eye, which unnerved him. Her eyes were the same colour and shape as Hawk’s, and Ren’i felt confused under their scrutiny.
The oven door slammed shut and Silverbrook placed her oven mittens on the nearest surface. ”Honey, could you keep an eye on the pan and make sure the food doesn’t burn?” Nightsong stepped past her and lifted the lid covering a large frying pan, which filled the room with a fruity smell. Silverbrook turned both pheasants around, inspecting them carefully. ”Well shot, both of these. The arrow hasn’t left a big hole under the wing.”
”Thank my apprentice. He shot them both,” Onniar said. He was already squatting on the floor and had started peeling the chestnuts with his pocket knife.
”With an akheri bow?”
”Yup.”
Silverbrook quirked her brows. ”Well, well. Perhaps there’s still some hope left for you,” she told Ren’i, who chuckled. ”Put on gloves. You’ll have to pluck them yourself since you felled them, too. You know how to do that?”
”I do. We do eat pheasant in the north, too.”
Silverbrook watched from the sidelines as Ren’i started plucking his birds. She nodded, looking satisfied, when the first bird had been freed of its feathers, and left Ren’i to attend to the second one in peace. A moment later the oven was opened again and a new cloud of hot steam filled the room. Ren’i surveyed the knives on the rack, trying to find something suited for filletting, when Silverbrook tapped him on the shoulder.
”Don’t slice them too thin or the meat will dry too much when cooked,” she said and handed him a meat knife.
His skill with the knife left much to be desired, but he knew how to pick out all the edible parts of the bird from the bones and tendons so carefully that nothing would go to waste. Nightsong took the bowl where he’d gathered all the cut meat and shot him a pitying look.
”Well, I’m sure you tried your best. How they look doesn’t affect the taste, at least,” she said, turning the roughly cut fillets to join the fruit cubes on the pan. Ren’i turned his reddened face elsewhere and tried not to see Onniar, who was shaking with silent laughter.
”Sorry,” Ren’i mumbled.
Silverbrook flashed him a wide grin. ”Don’t mind her. The important thing is that you’re helping.”
”That ill-tempered captain will be none too happy when he learns that you’ve turned his prince into a kitchenhand,” Onniar pointed out, shaking his peeling knife in their direction.
Silverbrook looked around, then shrugged. ”How odd. I don’t see anyone here but two sweaty hunters who gossip more than work. Where on earth have you seen a prince?”
Ren’i couldn’t stop himself from laughing.
His questionable talents in the kitchen didn’t stop the others from putting him to work. He’d stood around aimlessly for all of ten seconds before a clean cutting board and row of bloodred, oblong root vegetables that left stains everywhere appeared in front of him, then apples, then peaches, apricots, and a whole slew of colourful vegetables whose names he didn’t know. One of the women took the bowls he filled as soon as he’d finished a batch, and more ingredients materialised under his nose before he’d so much as rinsed his knife.
He only half-listened to Nightsong and Silverbrook’s chattering as they talked and laughed amongst themselves. Onniar had sat down on the floor; he was halfway through his undertaking and hummed to himself as he worked, surrounded by an army of chestnut peels. There was something in the rhythm of manual labour that took Ren’i’s attention entirely, and he forgot the aches in his tired limbs and the exhaustions of the past day. The house was small but comfortable, and he felt oddly welcome despite the unusual circumstances.
Ren’i had a feeling that he’d never been to a real kitchen before this. He had, naturally, in his boyhood years sneaked in the palace kitchens to pilfer (and as a grown-up to politely request) snacks between training sessions or during the dark hours of the night, but there were always twenty, thirty servants busy at work there. It was not a place you could call cosy even with the best of intentions. It was a hollow, official place with room for nothing but haste; neither crown princes nor soldiers were welcome there to learn how to knead dough.
Those few individuals that he’d thought of as friends while growing up were other soldiers from the barracks, and soldiers didn’t visit one another’s homes. His home were the barracks and the dust of the earth beneath his feet. One was ordered to places like that, not invited, and he’d always been good at taking orders.
Nightsong cracked the kitchen window open upon noticing Ren’i drying his sweaty palms on the hem of his shirt, and the heat in the room eased. Sounds of talking, laughter and cooking carried from other houses, and the smells revealed that most of their neighbours would not be going to bed early.
”Perhaps we should let them go,” Silverbrook said at last when Ren’i had started yawning every few minutes. ”Preferably before we’re forced to prepare the guest room.”
Onniar scrambled to get up from the floor and shook the mess off his pants. He didn’t look tired, but that didn’t surprise Ren’i: the huntsmaster had told him that most akheris slept late in the afternoon during the summer.
”You’re coming to the festival tomorrow, right?” Nightsong asked Ren’i.
”Of course.”
She smiled, which made her resemble Ared quite a bit. ”Great. You’ll notice that food tastes better when you’ve helped prepare it yourself.”
The night was star-bright, and the journey from Hatam-Ile to the camp didn’t feel as long as it normally did. Ren’i washed, changed into a clean undershirt and crawled beneath his quilts, sure that he’d pass out within minutes. The cold air prickled at his cheeks and left the air steaming with his breath, and he heard Onniar’s words inside his head.
’How does it differ from what you’ve done to us?’
The thought kept him up later than he was ready to admit, and when he finally did fall asleep he dreamt of deserts and firestorms.
“How does it differ from what we’ve already endured all these centuries?” “’How does it differ from what you’ve done to us?’” Oof, those are hard questions to ask, but it does need to be asked too… Onniar casually just dropping these things on Ren’i works so well, though, just pointing out that he’s not seeing the whole picture.