Eternal Call - Chapter 3

Welles had found Wren waiting at the cave, curled up in a blanket on a travel pallet beside a low burning fire.  She had at least the sense to not give away her position by light.  Clever little thief had tucked herself away around the first bend of the cave and behind a rising stalagmite, and not even a glow had given her away.

Wren turned with knife in hand as he approached her, but he smiled to her and she settled down once more.  “I’m cold,” she whimpered to him but with a delighted gleam in her eyes.  He knew that look, and he could not deny the chill of the night either.  He stripped of his armaments, and everything else, drawing out another blanket from his travel pack to lay over her own.  He crawled beneath the covers to find her likewise unclothed except a delicate chain of brass and gold interlinking loops around her neck.  His hand stroked the Erien chain, then moved down her body.  He was a step closer now in his plan.  He kissed Wren with the force of his success and the desire his body felt in her nearness.  She responded wildly in kind.  Soon, neither of them were cold as they created and shared heat; both oblivious of the hard ground that grazed their flesh. 

In the past their passions had always matched, burned as long and as fierce, but now he felt something different from her.  Some endlessness that he could not match.  As the deep night surrounded the world outside the cave, he felt weariness upon him.  Wren curled up beside him, their bodies cooling with their sweat, she drew the cover up over them.  “You aren’t tired are you, Welles?”  She cooed and her fingertips followed the line down the center of his chest, beyond his belly, and teased him.  He knew she had her answer when his body could not respond to her touch.  “Mmm, perhaps once you’ve worn this,”  she drew another chain from her pack, as ever nearby, then lay upon him, the fullness of her body pressing against his chest.  He drew a finger across her shoulders and lazily caressed her back.  As the coolness of the chain lay about his neck, the laziness of his touch dissipated like a strike of sunlight through a cloudy morning. 

Weariness dropped from him like a discarded husk.  He knew he could match her wants measure for measure again.  But this is not why he had gotten the chain, not for such carnal, base reasons.  He drew her away.  “Let’s rest, Wren.  We need to travel tomorrow.”  The excuse would have to do, perhaps out of habit for he did not feel tired anymore.  Still, no use traveling at night and best take advantage of the opportunity for rest not knowing when it would come again, nor how long the chain’s first influence upon him would last.

She pouted and slid from him, drawing the covers up as she tucked into his side and smiled, “Can you imagine a night like this every night?”

Not for the first time, and he was certain not for the last, Welles shook his head and said, “You are a decidedly unwell woman, Wren.”

They woke the next morning, or once he walked to the cave of the mouth and found the sun, early afternoon, feeling perfectly refreshed and alive.  It was time, now, to part ways.  Welles could not afford to keep being distracted by Wren, and she had her own path to follow.  They dressed in silence, Wren humming cheerfully at the prospects no doubt dancing in her brain of immortality and wealth unbounding.  The thrill of stealing great trinkets for centuries to come.

Welles packed his gear and armed himself, Wren’s nimble fingers helping him with the straps more difficult for him to reach.  She patted his shoulder as the last buckle was done, and he turned to kiss her warmly.  “Wren, I hope our paths cross again some day,” perhaps not true, but hopefully it would make this easier.

He felt her stiffen beneath his hands, “You’re leaving me?”  She drew away from him.

“We have different paths to follow.  You have your treasures to gain, and I have my revenge.”

She scowled and spat at his feet, “You’re revenge.  Do you think you can destroy the Sedlaral on your own?  You need me.”

He would not argue, but turned for the mouth of the cave and descended the ridge for the road beyond.  She was not so easily put off, and came running up beside him with her travel pack on her shoulder. “You need me, Welles.  There is information I can get, that you cannot.”

“Sell your body will you?”  He did not turn to her nor pause his steps.

“It is just a body after all.  You find pleasure enough in it.”  She did not need to press up against him as she did to remind him.

He increased his pace, “I have something to achieve, Wren, and then I’m done with this chain.”

“You’re mad.  Madder than I am.”

At least, he had to chuckle, she acknowledged that she was mad.  He stopped his walk and turned to her, “Wren, we will meet again.  But now, now I have to go on my own.  Find your treasures and enjoy your conquering of the thieves nighttime world.  I have my own darkness to fight.”

He gave a light push of her shoulder away from him as he turned once more to the road.  He needed to travel fast, but on foot so that he might take advantage of passersby for a ride and news.  Wren’s tendencies to alarm towns would not help him.  He needed to make friends, not steal from them.

Wren’s last words were lost to him as his thoughts consumed his attention.  The day felt hot upon his back, and the chain warmed to his skin beneath his shirt and mail.  He still had a long way to go, but now, as long as he was careful not to be slain, he had the time he needed to get there.

***

Yells of “Go, go, go!” and “Get it!” greeted the ears of Kiema long before she saw the Sedlaral city.  As trees thinned, parting branches revealed a long open field of trimmed grass.  Rushing back and forth over this field groups of Sedlaral, both women and men, called and pointed out directions as three hoops were alternately thrown or rolled across the field.

Brought to a pause at the sight, Kiema studied the game until Jsiels pushed her forward, “We haven’t time to let you watch Kalias.”

It did not matter anyway, as both teams had stopped and drawn together to watch her pass.  Some sneered, posturing their superiority, but she could feel their tremor of cautious fear.  A bitter temptation to soothe that fear snagged her values, but she would then play into their hands if she started plying her gift among them.  It is only that gift which could cause them such distress.  If she used it, even to help, they would only be convinced to Jseils way of thinking: that she was an evil taint to be purged from the world.

As they crossed the field into the pavilion village, its permanence disguised by the impermanent structures, the game began again, but the yelling seemed to have lessened.  She spared a glance behind her as one player was struck down by another when still watching her walk away.  An impish grin played at the corner of her mouth.  It was the order of the day as she was directed through the village.  Each passerby stopped to look at her.  Parents drew children close to their sides or sent them quickly into their nearby tents. 

Such colors the tents bore of slightly changing colors.  Greens at one angle verdant and another hazed as grass with morning dew, cinnamons that burnished orange of sunset with one step around its corner.  How fine the material was made.  Kiema was eager to inspect it, but there were to be no delays.  She would not be afforded that opportunity until they stopped before a blue pavilion that changed with the tones of the sky through day.  Uerila spoke swiftly, “Jsiels, tell the Elder we are here,” the way she spoke it seemed as mere formality.  Surely with the reaction of the people she had passed, any who needed to know she was here had been informed.  “Iselan, prepare your tent for my son’s arrival.  You,” she directed to Kiema, “will be given quarter here, with me, until the Elder and his counselors dictate otherwise.  Go in.”

It was not much of a welcome, but one should not expect such things.  Kiema stepped inside to find a well appointed room with two pallets just barely drawn up from the floor by a low construction of wood.  Uerila stepped in behind her and pointed to the pallet to the left. “There,” was all she said and went on to a corner of the room, ducking behind a flap Kiema had not noticed was there before. 

Careful of the many carpets and blankets that decoratively and functionally scattered the floor, Kiema went to test the bed offered to her.  For all its simplicity in construction, she felt the ease of its comfort beneath her, the smoothness of the material of its covers.  She turned slightly and ran her fingers along the pavilion wall.  The surface was silken, but of more substance than she would have anticipated.  She pressed more firmly and realized that this length of material was not the same as the outside.  There were two layers here between her and the world beyond.  It gave her a cocooning feel.

Uerila returned from behind the flap, her hair smoothed and her face cleaned of its shadings.  Her skin now a perfect alabaster framed in the darkness of her hair.  She tossed Kiema a bone comb.  “You can wash back there, but if you need to relieve yourself, I will show you where you may go.”

Taking that as an invitation to clean herself up, Kiema took up the comb and offered it back to her.  “I have what I need in my travel pack.  Will I be afforded time for meditation?”

“No,” was the quick reply and a flash of concern in the mottled eyes of Uerila.

“Very well, as you say,” Kiema smiled and with her travel pack still slung over her shoulder, she went behind the flap.  There she found a small pump, delicately sturdy in its structure and a small bowl beneath its spout.  To her left was a larger bowl already filled with murky water, perhaps from Uerila’s own cleansing. 

Unpacking the comb and a small cloth wrapped about a sliver of soap, she worked the handle of the pump carefully to find its easy use quickly brought a stream of water gently up from the ground below and filled the bowl.  She washed her hands and her face before undoing the ties of her hair.  With gentle strokes, she made her way down the length of her auburn hair with her comb, and used this moment to meditate briefly.  Perhaps a nearby Changling would sense her enough to communicate and send on her message to the Circelus.  She could not call out as she had before, nor did she have a need to do so.  Curiosity now kept her here, and she would follow out the Sedlaral wishes until it did not suit her to do so, or it threatened her life.

A quick plaiting of the hair, she rinsed her hands once more and dispensed the grimy water to the near basin.  Wiping down the bowl before she wrapped up her soap and cloth again along with her comb into her pack, she then walked from the small sectioned off area and found Uerila in conversation at the door.

She turned with Kiema’s approach and spoke low, “The Elder is prepared to speak with you.”

“I see you have no delays in my need to be here.”

Jsiels stood just outside the door and stepped back only slightly when Kiema exited.  “Keep quiet until you are spoken to, Changling.”  His companion, another male of Jsiels’s similar bent from the look of disdain in his eyes, smirked and took up position behind her as Jsiels led her on through the tented village again.

Fewer stares met her this time, and children were allowed to play, gawk, or taunt her as they pleased without concern from their mothers or fathers when she passed by.  Something had been communicated quickly since the time she had arrived, and her threat to them now perceived as less than before by any indication of the pointed indifference to her trodding down the well worn paths of their home.  Jsiels spoke to the man behind her, “Gilors, you have spent your time well.  They all know her to be unworthy of fear.”

Kiema could only smile, which, as ever, caused Jsiels to frown.  He had given her the other guards name and answered an unspoken question.  She could have done little more herself without plying her gift upon him.

They came upon a simple tent of grey and pearl.  Jsiels pulled back the opening.  The fragrance of burning wood and herbs escaped to envelope Kiema.  “Sit there,” Jsiels pointed to a cushion a few steps inside, and just as she crossed inside the entrance closed behind her.

Kiema sat as instructed across form the Sedlaral Elder, flames dancing between them.  He did not look old, though she wondered if any of their race did, but his eyes held memories of long suffering.  Weariness softened his face, contrary to those who sat on either side.  Their glances were flame bright, sharpened by shadows.  Yet, it was the glare of uncertainty.  The only hate she could sense came from Jsiels and Gilors sitting just outside the door.

“You are known to us, Kiema Heartruler.”

This name given her jangled the thoughts out of order in her mind.  She did not try to conceal her confusion, and prompted, “Yet, the name you give me is unknown.”

“A name given to one who can sway hearts to peace or anger.  We have not forgotten the deaths in Polieal,” the Elder’s right side companion spoke.

And so that was the name of that village years ago. Kiema recalled the day with agony, but, this time, maintained her outward calm.  Sea-blue eyes moved from one to another, “A dark day for us all that we could not reach settlement with peace, and had to learn through more death.  But be assured, I rule no hearts.”  Not adding, Least of all my own.

“A dark day?”  The elder’s brows rose, “Our kin chose war over peace.  The outcome was swifter than expected, perhaps, with the unknown strength of the Changlings, but not inevitable.”

“Your people defended themselves with what skills they had and only until provoked,” again the right side Sedlaral spoke.  A man, at least Kiema sensed, of steady observations, for his hazel eyes were unwavering in their constant appraisal.

“It is an honored enemy that joins us,” the Elder said with a firm nod, “but it is a boon we bring you here to ask.”

Kiema pursed her lips briefly, and then offered a reserved smile, “A favor is more welcomed when not forced upon.”  She mildly reminded them she had been kidnapped.

“We regret your treatment, but our messengers did not know the purpose for which we wished you brought to us.”

“Because they would disagree with that purpose?”  This idea opened up many portals of expectation and supposition.

All three nodded slowly, but did not speak.  They certainly did not waste effort in pleasantries.  It was obvious they wanted her to ask the reason.

She waited and looked each over as she sent slender threads of gift to read their emotions once more; wary tension, resignation, and discontent.  This last came from the one Sedlaral who had not spoken.  She focused on her.  The brown hair was liberally tied and twined with slender leather, as many of the revered females of the village wore their hair.  Her fingers never moved from their folded position in her lap, and green eyes of darkest hue, rarely blinked.  When they did, it was slow, as if to do so was an annoyance and only performed with the minimalist of effort. 

Kiema asked of her, “I fear I do not know what to call you, but would you tell me why I have been brought here?”

One of those slow blinks, the temptation of a rueful smile, “You read my heart, Kiema Heartruler, and feel my dissention from our Elder and Councilor.  I will not have you use it against me.  For though my children died at Polieal, I regret their deaths and the effects of those actions that bring us to now, but I do not regret this we ask of you:  We ask that you speak on our behalf.”  A droll smile, “Yes, you that drove us to kill ourselves.  Your voice will carry far and heavily on the minds of the people.”

Kiema settled back, relaxed her spine, and calmed the sudden hurricane of thoughts, memories, and feelings churning powerfully inside.

“We ask much,” the Elder spoke softly.

“No,” Kiema managed a kind smile, and the smile grew when she felt the ripple of their shock along the thread of gift like a twang of a string.  Any other than a Changling would not have known the Sedlaral sitting serenly across from her had reacted at all to her simple word.  “No, you ask only what is right of a member of my guild.  But I must know more of your people to defend them well.”

“You are welcome here,” the Councilor spoke just before the respected village lady on the left blurted, “We do not have time.”

“Oh, do not think I will wait to act in some way.  A song,” Kiema smiled, finding herself in her element, the position for which she was trained, opening all around her, “yes, a song in a tavern can often stir the thoughts of others,” a subtle smirk.  “A well performed song will spread.”

“And what will this song do?” the Elder questioned simply.

“Turn memory upside down.”