STORY PAGE

It was all so very sudden.
That was what she remembered the most about it, whenever she looked back. She had always had the impression that death would be rather like falling asleep. One would slowly realise they were dying, but be unable to do anything physically, simply feel their mind slipping away piece by piece, and in the last moment of consciousness make the retiring, understanding decision to embrace that empty, all encompassing darkness.
It would be darkness, or clouds and the chorus of heavenly angels. She had never really decided which it would be.
For what seemed the longest period of her life, the period in which she wasn’t actually living, she had no name. It seemed as if the moment her body was left behind she was no longer the person she had been. The name that person had carried didn’t matter anymore.
How it happened. Yes. She was standing at a set of lights, patiently waiting for the red man to become a green man. She was not a jaywalker, and she managed to not feel humiliated when a group of teenagers ran across the road ahead of her, dodging cars and laughing all the way. It felt instinctively as if they were laughing at her for not having the foolishness or maybe the courage to do what they were doing. A car honked its horn at them and she felt a little better.
The red man had turned to green. At this familiar set of lights there was no sound, so she had kept her eyes fixed on the electronic sign - kept her eyes fixed on it as she walked across.
She heard, dimly, the squeal of tires as if someone was suddenly hitting the brakes. It was actually the sound of someone who had accelerated on the hill and forgotten about the lights just on the other side.
Her vision was abruptly jolted from the set of lights. The world spun around her, she saw trees, a telegraph pole, there was the sound of smashing glass, her shoulder stung suddenly, something heavy hit her head, her vision twirled several times as if she were rolling (she was, she realised) and then pavement slammed towards her.
Visual reactions. No pain, as yet. Only a stunned silence. A car had jolted to a stop near her; she saw the bumper close enough that she could touch it, only she couldn’t move. It was a grey car. A very ugly grey. She found herself staring at the license plate, intently, as if she somehow needed to stare intently at something to keep herself from - she didn’t know what. License plate GOTS627. She said it in her mind again and again. Memorising, so she could tell the police of course. Although whoever it was hadn’t run from the hit and- she knew, at the back of her mind, that she had been hit. She hadn’t accepted it as yet.
Somewhere someone was honking a horn, someone had given a scream during the time the world had been spinning, and she remembered it now. She wondered who had screamed. Some man was saying ‘Oh my god!’ over and over again, and someone was demanding if anyone had a phone.
“I don’t have any credit left on my mobile!” A female voice, desperate, angry, flustered. A little angry too with whomever she was talking to.
It seemed strange that the whole thing should irritate someone. Irritation seemed the wrong sort of emotion.
That was her last thought before darkness swallowed her, without any warning.
The lights were turned off. Everything. Gone.
“Took your time.” Said the bland voice in the darkness.
“What?”
“Took your time. Usually takes quicker. Reluctant to leave, were you? Dead soon enough but spirit not so willing. Had to stick on to that physical shell for awhile.”
“What?”
Suddenly everything came into focus. Darkness became light. Yet she didn’t need to blink or shade her eyes. It was as if she didn’t have eyes anymore.
She waved her hands in front of her face - only she had no hands, and no face.
She seemed to be floating somewhere. Across from something.
She squinted across from her without needing to. The figure was clear to her sight or however she was seeing.
He didn’t really look like a doctor.
Tall, overbearing, broad shouldered. And very disgruntled. His hair was black, fading to grey and white at the edges. He wore the gear that one would expect an aged rocker to wear: tight long sleeved shirt of strange mixed colouring, black leather pants. He was pale, unearthly pale.
Oh, and he had wings.
That made her realise something.
“Are you an angel?”
The angel thing stared at her, without smiling, without frowning, but she had the impression he was annoyed.
“N-o.” He said it slowly, tightening his fists. He was holding what looked like a piece of white pottery with swirling lines, his fingers embedded in it.
“Are you a devil?”
“N-o.” He shifted his feet. He seemed to be standing on a white nothingness, which she was floating in.
She couldn’t think of anything else. His wings were grey and white, black feathers falling down at the edges. He was ragged and worn.
“I am Gots.”
“Gots?” She blinked, remembering the grey bumper of an ugly car. GOTS627.
“Guardian. Of. The. Soul.”
“The soul?”
“Your soul.” He lifted the piece of pottery to what must have been her eye level. It looked like something chic from the 70’s.
“My-?” “It’s in here. Safe, while I have it. We’re travelling at the moment. It might take awhile. Not that time is relative here. There is no time at the moment. Never is any time.” It seemed as if Gots was talking to himself.
“I-” she stopped as she realised what this all actually meant. Silence fell around them for what could have been time or no time at all but if what he spoke was true it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered if she was dead.
A bitterness so heavy overwhelmed her that had she had a throat she would have had to swallow thickly to force back the urge to gag.
She had always supposed, in the dim moments that she had thought about mortality, that finding out one was more than a few cells would be a comfort. One would realise they had a soul with an immense relief. What she felt was far different.
“So I’m dead.”
It was stated without a question to it and Gots made no reply. It must have been true.
“Where am I going then?” She forced a smile, or the feelings of one.
“I’m taking you to Her. She will answer your questions.”
“Her. So Earth religion was wrong all along. It’s a female God.”
“No. She is a female God, yes, but not the female God.”
“There’s more than one God?”
“Of course. There is more than one world to be governed.”
“More than one?”
“It isn’t my job to answer your questions.”
“Then what is your job?” Feeling like picking an argument, she directed her futile anger towards him.
“I am the guardian of your soul. I am directed to take you to whoever wants you.”
“You mean I die, and I’m someone’s pickings?”
“Hardly. I mean you are chosen, I am sent, you die, I am your guardian, you arrive.”
“I was chosen to die?”
“You were chosen. Part of being chosen is that you must die.”
She missed having a body. She could blink, she could raise her eyebrows, wave her hands around, or glare with venomous anger. Instead all she could do was say:
“You killed me?”
“You were chosen. You had to die. I am the Guardian of the souls of the Walkers. Yes, I killed you.”
“Souls of the-?”
“Chosen.”
“Chosen to do what?!”
“She will answer your questions.”
“What type of Guardian are you? Aren’t you meant to be comforting?”
Something close to disdain entered Gots so far blank expression “It is my duty to bring you to the one that chose you. No more.”
“No sympathy for consumers then.”
No sense of humour either. He just stared, gaze slightly downward, shoulders hunched forward. The feathers of his rag tag wings hung limply. Only his hands held emotion, the lines of his fingers tense as they disappeared into the pottery that supposedly contained her soul.
Her soul. She was dead.
As yet, she still didn’t accept that. She was hanging onto the moments of time that didn’t exist. She was alive so long as she could think and burn her energy and not collapse with fear.
“You are here.” Gots said.
Blackness again.
Chapter Two
“Marquene”
Death.
So far it hadn’t worked out exactly as she had expected it. She also couldn’t remember quite what she had expected of it in the first place. Everything she had ever done was ordered neatly inside her mind or soul or whatever it was she was still in possession of, but she felt herself unable to feel the proper emotion towards it. Only what seemed to be a slow acceptance of defeat. Why care about what had been left behind if it could not be reached again?
Instead, she felt herself caring more for what had not been left behind. What hadn’t been done.
From darkness, to a light that revealed nothing, to darkness again. Now her surroundings came into focus again, she felt it before she saw it. The sense of there being space around her. She hadn’t known, until now, that one could actual sense space without distinctly seeing or smelling or hearing anything.
It seemed to be perhaps a dim consciousness. That consciousness slowly became an orange, golden colour. Thick stones wavered with the shadows of cast flames. She was in a large cavern. It held the air of a waiting area, a reception, the type of area where Kings and Queens met their subjects.
It was empty of furniture; it simply had several levels leading upward, stairs not quite connected. They led unevenly, like the ladders of a board game with snakes.
She seemed to be at the lowest level, with the cavern spread out before her. Somehow she knew that if she turned there would be nothing behind her. Not even a blackness that one could fall into. Simply nothing.
She had come out of that, and now she was standing, alone. Gots, the Guardian, her killer it seemed, was gone. His mission must have been completed.
But was she really alone? She could see no one else, but, as they had told her of the presence of the cavern, her instincts now told her that it was not empty. There was something lingering in the air. A watchful presence. What had Gots called it?
Her.
“Walk towards me.”
The voice rang out at the same moment that she – Her – appeared at the very head of the many stairs. A small figure, but somehow imperious, commanding, with a strength that filled the empty space around her. Without thinking, she walked towards Her.
“How unpractical of Gots to not tell you more. He will always be the same. Please… I am Marquene.”
So saying, Marquene lifted the hem of her dress, trailing down two of the steps. Somehow that seemed to be a grand, amazing gesture for Marquene to make. Almost as if they were meeting halfway. True, she still had several flights to walk, but it felt as if Marquene was making the true effort.
As she drew closer she studied the small, commanding figure, a female with hair and eyes of blood crimson. Clothed in a flowing dress of blue, through which wound a cloth of the same shade of her hair. Both colours melded together when the dress reached the floor, like blood spreading into water. Marquene’s petite form was almost lost in the colours, but she held herself so assuredly that it was always she who wore the dress.
Three steps below Marquene. The face was overbearing, heavy brow, small chin, cheekbones that jutted outwards as if trying to impress their control over her other features. She could perhaps be called beautiful, but only in a very handsome way.
“I’m so glad you could come.” The words were courteous, but her voice was the same as when she had made her command. There was an iron will, more importantly, an iron will that would always be met and could not be refused.
“Why am I here? Who am I?”
“You are here because I need you. You are Eadan Dervla. Eadan, to I.”
“That was not my name.”
“Not when you were on that world, no. Eadan is your name on your new world.”
“I-” she, now Eadan, looked down. She was struggling to hold her control. Everything had been moving, quickly, a tide that she had to flow with. Now suddenly having a name made her remember exactly what she was.
“I’ve just died, I didn’t even now there was such a thing as having a soul, there being Gods - what is going on?!”
“Mm yes, you are becoming upset. That happens. Just be quiet and listen to me.” There was a tone of parental knowledge and impatience in Marquene’s voice, a lack of respect for anyone else’s judgement “I’ll explain it all.
“There are worlds.” The woman turned her back, walking to the head of the stairs, where she turned and looked about the cavern. It was obvious Eadan was to stay where she was and be a silent audience to the unfolding drama.
“Worlds upon worlds. Governed by Gods upon Gods. These worlds are of varying importance, as are the Gods. There is one world which is the most important of them all. If good fortune favours it, so too does good fortune favour the other worlds. The same applies to misfortune.
“There is also one God who is the most important of them all. The overseer. Below him, all other Gods are of lesser importance. Levels of power, much like these stairs.
“I am Marquene. Goddess of Fate. I am what you could call of power one-step below that of the Overseer. I am known as The Second.
“There is also another God known as The Second. He is of equal power to I. The God of Chaos, Ro’sarriak. He is not my brother. He is an annoyance.”
Marquene cast her gaze down from surveying the surrounding area as if staring over the galaxy. Her eyes were hard, and despite herself, Eadan could not squirm away from them.
“He works against me. He has the same resources, the same powers. He uses Gots to bring Walkers to him, as I do. I had Gots bring you to me, as you are a Walker. The Seventh, to be precise.
“Walkers are souls that have the ability to move from one world to another, upon death. They can only do this once. For the average human soul it is quite a strain, you see. Some are reborn on their own planet out of random energy you could say, but that does not make them powerful at all. Walkers are souls that can actually harness that energy, without knowing it. Gots was created to be able to use that energy to bring you from one world to another. Walkers, you see, have the power, but do not know how to use it. Gots does not have that power but he can use it from within you.
“Every world has its own legends about Walkers. Many have forgotten those legends. But Walkers have always, always done something incredible for the history of the world they are reborn in. Whether it is to that world’s detriment or benefit it depends on if that Walker served under Ro’sarriak or I.
“There haven’t been many Walkers. Of those that have existed, the majority have been sent to the main world. I’m sure you can see why that is understandable.
“To be short. My last Walker was killed. I need a new agent upon the main world, and I have chosen you.”
Eadan said the first thing that came into her head “How was the last Walker killed?”
Marquene gave a tight smile of displeasure “His name was Aonghus, Sixth Walker. He was very valuable to me and brought about great changes to the main world.
“Ro’sarriak and I do not fight each other directly, but our agents do. Ro’sarriak currently has one Walker upon the main world. Tynan.” Upon uttering that man’s name, the displeasure in Marquene’s voice became a heated wave of hatred that made Eadan step backwards. The Goddesses blood red eyes had grown hot and angry.
“The Fifth Walker. He is very powerful and very dangerous to my Walkers. He and Aonghus were enemies and it was Aonghus who was defeated. Tynan killed him.”
“That means-”
“Yes. Once you are upon the main world you will be Tynan’s new opponent. He will begin to work towards your death once he has confirmation there is a new Walker.”
“I don’t understand. Why not just bring more Walkers, overwhelm Tynan?”
“It is not so simple. There is no everlasting supply of your kind. For the ages that we are to exist, there is an allotted amount of Walkers that will be born, and at the appropriate time, chosen. One cannot urge a Walker to be born, or choose them at a too early time. That is why the death of a Walker is so devastating to the cause, whether it be mine, or Ro’sarriak’s. We work to change the worlds for the best of our means, but Ro’sarriak is quite happy if he can slay my Walkers in the process. I have great power other than my Walkers… however, you are a handy device.”
Eadan sat herself down on one of the steps, resting her chin on her hand. She could either go completely mad at that moment, or stay logical. She chose the latter.
“But how handy could a Walker be? You say we can move between worlds, once, the first time we die. Other than that what do we do?”
“One does not become a Walker by chance. Unique souls are chosen, ones with special abilities, special endurance. You are worthy to the challenges presented.”
“But why me? I have no special… characteristics, traits, whatever. Surely there are other Walkers available?”
“I’m not looking at a gift shop window, Eadan.” That same mothering, knowing tone backed by angry impatience “I had to choose you. My other living Walkers are already placed on their worlds, and they can only die once. The second death is the last; Walkers are not immortal. After your death I will have to wait a decade or more before I can choose a new Walker that can be sent to the main world. That is why you are a risk.”
“You expect me to fail?”
“No, I expect what I wish to use you for will fail. You are not a warrior. Aonghus was a warrior and he failed. I need something more than a fighter to go against Tynan. I need knowledge.”
Something about how Marquene spoke that word gave Eadan a chill. There had been a dark flash at the back of the Goddesses eyes, something that she had not told Eadan, purposefully.
“Knowledge?”
“Yes.” Her eyes were clear again “I am more favoured by The First than Ro’sarriak, but he is close behind me, especially now that Aonghus is gone. I need to take risks to gain more favour. You are one of those risks. I cannot simply send you and hope that things work out. No. This time I must risk losing a Walker in order to gain.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning I must risk destroying you in order to make you more powerful.” She continued before Eadan could speak “I have attempted it before, with normal human souls. No success. I believe I need to use the soul of a Walker to have any chance at success. Failure would mean to lose a Walker, which is certainly something I would not like to happen. But the advantages outweigh the disadvantages.
“You have a choice to make. Enter into these risks, and you could become more powerful than you know. Refuse, and I will not hesitate to change your mind by any means necessary. Follow my command… and you will live.”
ChapterThree
“Eating Death meets Life”
There was only one offer that could be made, that would have tempted Eadan Dervla the most out of all things that could be given. Love, fear, desire, pain, truth, justice; all these belonged to one thing. Life.
Throughout her small existence on Earth, she had been conscience of one thing above all else. Despite misery, despite pain, despite the shades of grey mixed in with all the other colours, life was something she could not give up. When thoughts of suicide had crossed her mind, she had abandoned them simply because even at its lowest moments, life still held an enchantment for her. Even in pain, it delighted her, simply to be alive.
That decision had been taken out of her hands. Now she wanted nothing more than to return to that everyday nothingness.
Her questions weren’t going to be answered. Marquene gave her no more option than to nod her head meekly, and know within herself that whatever was expected of her, she probably could not achieve it. She tried only because she wanted to live, not out of any loyalty towards the Goddess.
Abruptly Marquene was gone from her vision, so to the golden chamber. The Goddess had not waited to give any words of advice or warning. No explanation of what exactly she was going to do. Perhaps it wasn’t necessary.
Eadan was once again a spirit in darkness, but she could feel. She could feel power, all around her, like the water of a closed bay; slowly, ever so slowly beginning to move, as if a far off earthquake deep below the water’s surface was pulling back the waves; an eerie stillness followed by the immense power of water flowing to, and crashing on, the shore.
Sluggishly, the power began to respond to whoever was commanding it. Motionless as she was within it, Eadan began to feel that power sensing her, moving about her, as if it were a spiritual essence only now realising her presence. That sensation grew stronger, and the power was now no longer probing about her, but forcing through her, sweeping through every part of her mind, her thoughts, her memories, crawling its way through every gap as if it were an eight legged insect with hateful, spine-decked legs and swarming, grasping feet with digging claws. She tried futilely to writhe away from it, but she could not move, she saw at the back of her mind an image of herself suspended in pure darkness, arms and legs bound to her body as a silken thread wrapped tighter, tighter, tighter around her, as sheer as silk and as sharp as the edges of a hundred thin blades. A caterpillar in a chrysalis, only bound not by its own choice, but from some terrible fate that watched it all with a silent smile.
The pressure on her mind became intense, so intense that she became to scream with all she had, a silent scream more dreadful for its silence, and it seemed to be accompanied by dozens of screams that had come before. She realised that those were the voices of Marquene’s previous attempts at this dreadful rite, who had all, one by one, fell into silence. The horror of that stifled her with a moan, and for a moment she stopped struggling.
She was trapped. All around, she could sense it as clearly as if she was a physical being, a force was wrapping about her, so tightly that if she needed to breathe she would surely have been suffocated. In its own way, she was being spiritually smothered, until even the darkness around her failed to exist. There was only the power, covering her, almost devouring her.
Eadan made one last futile attempt to break free. Like a python, the power responded, sluggishly wrapping itself even tighter. She could move only slightly, and there she tried with all her strength, thinking that somehow if she just broke one tiny hole she could escape through. Again she thought of herself hung in an empty space, and could picture dimly, pale fingers straining at one small gap.
An invisible needle ran across that gap, sealing it tight. Everything disappeared.
Eadan was claustrophobic. She feared certain places, and also, feared the rush of a gigantic crowd. Shopping centres could unnerve her until she had to leave. No reason would make her stay. She often couldn’t say why, but she just had to go. An elevator was terrifying, for the endless blackness that was above and below, and the idea of being trapped in a tiny space, suspended, with nothingness all around. She could only stand it for the hope that the doors would fall open, and in a rush she would expel into sunshine, light, and open space.
This was far worse than any elevator, but the comparison was the same. When all she had left was the sensation of being trapped, Eadan abandoned her struggle, and prayed into the nothingness. Please. Please let the doors open.
She hated Marquene with a passion. As the prison squeezed tighter, bearing down on her soul, piercing needles into her thoughts, forcing itself through her skin, peeling away her layers, she thought of the blood red eyes of the Goddess, and hated her for her power without culpability. As fearsome and as hateful as a vengeful Christian God that accepted only sacrifice and pain as suitable worship. She had the well honed hate of a worshiper from birth who inwardly seethed and grinds against the foot of their God, but is so psychologically ingrained to worship, that any thought of rebelling is met by instinctual fear of Hell and wrathful punishment.
When the power wrapped so tight that it began to break her into pieces, each piece surrounded by its very own prison, then she began to cry. The pain was unbearable, feeling herself pulled from the edges, as if Marquene was a horse driver, whipping stallions with a fury that pulled Eadan into a thousand pieces, a medieval punishment. Tighter, tighter, tighter, until she was in so many pieces that she could barely think. Each piece wrapped, smothering, tightening, tightening, squeezed out of the edges and disappearing into nothing; a pure agony that felt worse than being born, or burnt alive, or cut into pieces by any physical object, worse than any death that she may have briefly feared in what life she had lived. Why was it doing this to her, what was the purpose, why break her into a billion pieces and force itself all through her until every inch of her soul had been violated?
She was left, one tiny piece of consciousness. Everything else had been devoured.
Then a stake was driven through her heart, slowly, a coiled wire. She was overwhelmed completely at last, suffocated and strangled, and the end of the power took what was left of her and ate her whole.
She was going to be sick.
That thought flashed through her mind about an instant before her very own insightful prophecy took place. She retched violently, dry, hacking coughs that tore at the inside of her throat but couldn’t be stopped. That crawling sensation all over her skin seemed to be receding with each cough, as if she were spewing out an illness or a possession from deep inside her.
When the sensation finally passed she collapsed with exhaustion, shivering, her vision blurred and her chest aching. The world around her was dark, but it was so incredibly bright. Black shapes against a dark blue sky, dark grey earth near her eyes where her head had fallen to the ground, the feel of cold moisture beneath her fingernails. She was so overwhelmed that she felt herself retreating into comforting oblivion.
She returned quickly enough. Mere unconscious was nothing compared to what she had felt when the power had - at the mere memory of that spiritual violation, she was on her knees, bent half over and retching again. This time she managed to empty whatever was inside her more successfully, and in disgust, crawled a space away before she collapsed again.
Her body’s reactions at least seemed to be waking her. She was conscious enough to realise now that she had a body, and that it seemed to be the one she was familiar with. Similarly, the world around her seemed alike to any forest from Earth, deep during the night hours just before dawn.
It was easy to imagine, for a few moments, that she was indeed back on earth, and it had all been a dream. But the lingering feeling at the back of her mind, the memory of her hateful experience, being eaten alive, it couldn’t be shaken anymore than a murderer could wash blood from their hands a million times and hope to no longer feel the residue.
She was alive. Unless this dark wood was the afterlife, she had survived whatever Marquene had done to her. That meant she was a Walker, a success, and that something was expected of her. What, she hadn’t been told.
The night air was surprisingly brisk, colder than an ordinary night, so it had to be a Winter of some kind. There was no snow on the ground, but precious little grass either. Perhaps it was Spring, or late Autumn.
Her hearing was functioning well enough. With it she heard nearby water, and, not trusting herself walking, she made her way on all fours towards the sound. She was clothed, surprisingly, and inspected the material with her eyes as she looked down to trace the progress of her hands on the dirt. Rough cloth, it itched against her skin, but it was a nice feeling this time. Loose trousers and vest with long sleeves, but no shoes.
When she reached the water she found a small, narrow stream, trickling along solemnly. She used her hands to scoop up the moisture, greedily sucking it from her fingers and washing away the hateful taste from her mouth.
She could see her reflection, ghostly and wavering, in the water surface. She looked the same as she remembered.
Eadan leant back on her feet, blowing out her breath noisily and tracing the mist on the air. No shoes, and clothing that barely kept back the cold.
She found herself chuckling quietly, and lowered her gaze, staring at the serenely flowing water of the stream. Within it, wavering black branches, dark rocks, and the far off reflection of a pale white moon - her mind flew open.
Larquz the largest of the moons appears every night, except for during the deep winter months where it can only be glimpsed by the inhabitants of the Dry Mountain Range, the feared warrior race described as Savages by Garesh Regent of To`lach, a politician and feared strategist who was raised by an advisor of the former Regent of the To`lach, one of the most powerful Elven races, they depend upon sea trade, as much of their kingdom is surrounded by water, including their main castle raised on a cliff island almost separated from the main continent, connected only by a small channel of land heavily guarded by army of V’uierzlai has grown in numbers it was once small V’uierzlai a powerful fields of land farmers and crops the downy hill country the moon Larquz can be seen every night except for during the deep winter months but the smaller moon can be seen-
Eadan screamed, clutching her head with her hands. She fell to her side, wide eyed, staring into nothing. A flood of words flew through her mind, as real as the stream near her only as heavy and hammering as being caught under a massive waterfall. Unstoppable, a calculating internal voice, the vocal personification of the power that had forced its way through her; now driving her into the ground.
Shut up shut up shut up SHUT UP!
Larquz the largest of the moons appears every night-
On and on, through her mind, again and again, until she passed out from the strength it took just to try and close the door on whatever Marquene had done to her.
ChapterFour
“Tola”
Disconnected voices. At first they seemed to be vocalising indecipherable sounds, but each rippled in her mind, changed, distorted, until she heard the words and knew them.
“Who do you think she is?”
“She looks human to me.”
“Human, and from the city. Look at her, she’s a pale face.”
“What’s a pale face from the city doing here of all places?”
“Maybe she was sold and being taken as a servant to V’uierzlai. Probably complained so much they threw her off a wagon and she crawled her way to water until she collapsed.”
“Let’s just leave her here.”
A third voice, “Don’t be ridiculous. She might be valuable.”
“Valuable? She doesn’t look as if she could lift a heavy pitcher of water, not less be sold as a servant.”
The third voice again “And would we give her to the slave traders to be bargained off?”
Silence.
Reproachfully this time “You forget we sell horses, not human flesh. It will be a bad day when the Illia became slave traders for money. This pale face might be useful, slave or otherwise.”
“I won’t go near her.”
“Did I say you had to? Tch, you’re barely children, all you think is about joining the horse gatherers, being big men, you forget what has to be tended to when they’re away hunting the stallions. They may bring in the money but remember it’s us, the common folks, we keep the clan running.”
“Aww keep your sermons to yourself Tola!”
Footsteps shuffling away, voices calling. The creaking of large wooden wheels and the impatient stamping of many hooves. Horses blowing out their breath, swishing their tails, water being gathered.
“Valuable, ah yes…” the third voice again, speaking rougher than before, a feminine voice but so shaped by time and the cares of self survival that it was as worn as any man’s “pale face may as yet bring value for Tola.”
Silence again.
When Eadan woke once more, she swore to herself that this time she would hold onto it. She concentrated on the closest sound, and discovered it to be the creaking of wagon wheels, a steady chorus all about her. So to she was swaying from side to side, and opening her vision she saw she was within a small wooden bunk with a pale brown ceiling above her, and below her the interior of a small wagon, lit by thin, rectangular windows. It was about the size of one room, the walls lined with cupboards and shelves, and in one corner there was a table and chair. The bunk below her was empty, and the back of the wagon was a closed door, with folded in steps that would extend downwards when the door opened.
It was sparsely decorated, rudimentary, but practical. Compared to the last few places she had been, Eadan liked it.
Rising slowly, and finding that didn’t encourage a return of nausea, Eadan swung her legs over the edge of the bunk and jumped. Her feet were bare, as before, but she wore warmer clothing, of a make she didn’t recognise. The cloth was rough to the hand, and didn’t stretch far. It was a muddy brown, and the tunic was tied at her waist by a horsehair belt.
Trying to exit the wagon was a bad idea considering it seemed to be moving along at a generous pace, so instead she moved to one of the small windows on the wall. Pressing her face to the dust encrusted frame, she dimly saw a dirt road below the wagon, and more wagons in front and behind it. The road was surrounded by thick, inhospitable looking trees and sparse of shrub and grass.
The squeak of hinges behind her. Eadan turned in surprise to see a door opening from the front part of the wagon; she hadn’t seen it during her first study of her surroundings. A short, squat figure squeezed through it from what appeared to be the rider’s seat. The door fell shut, cutting off the view of a dark grey horse grudgingly pulling the wagon along.
Swarthy skin surrounded small black eyes that regarded Eadan with a closed, cautious glare. Any thoughts of being looked after by a kind, motherly figure flew from Eadan’s mind.
“So the pale face is awake, is she.” The woman spoke. Her face was so heavily wrinkled she could have been anything from forty to ninety. Roughly spun clothing hung around her without shape, and veined, clawed brown hands dug into the edges of her dirtied apron.
“Yes. Thank you for giving me shelter.” Without realising it, Eadan formed the strange words, and somehow made them say what she meant to say.
That surprised the woman as much as it surprised Eadan. Her fingers dug into the apron even tighter, and she looked her up and down, black eyes gleaming with sharply roused suspicion “You speak the language of my people. Do you know the Illia?”
Illia the horse wanderers travel in clans by wagons they are the finest human gatherers breeders trainers of horses rivalled only by Elven tribes that make the same living the horse gatherers catch the wild horses the Illia gather horse-
“Augh!” Eadan put her hands to her head, squeezing her eyes as tightly as she could, trying to force her mind backwards. By some miracle, the door slammed shut. The information stopped.
The woman was staring with even more suspicion now. She looked ready to leap forward and slit Eadan’s throat with one of those long nails.
“I, uh, yes, I do, a little. Forgive me, I am ill, I have… headache, a bad headache.” Unnervingly, the words came only as she bid them. Those she had not spoken before came haltingly, disconnecting her speech, but once she was aware of them they settled in her mind as easily as any word from her old language.
“You speak our language well enough. You know the accent. But you do not look like an Illia. You are pale, like you are from the cities. Are you?”
“I am from… somewhere, I am not sure. I have been ill, my mind is confused.”
The woman grunted, “It happens. Fever can confuse things. A grown man can forget his own name; I have seen it. Illness is universal.” With that proclamation, most of the suspicion was dismissed “I am Maria Tola, you will call me Tola. I heal the horses of my clan, and the people. I was one of those that found you by a stream in the woods by the trade road. Do you remember?”
“I, I’m not sure. I did not know where I was but I remember woods, and a stream…”
Tola did not seem put off by her trailing silence “The trade road is the main road into V’uierzlai. Now there is peace my clan are bringing horses into V’uierzlai once more, to trade, to sell. This is how we make our living. It’s been slim pickings during the war, only trading with the human cities…” her face curled with distaste “where the horse buyers have no discerning wisdom and even less money. Fortunately we hope to recuperate those losses when we reach V’uierzlai. The Elves need fresh horses and the Illia supply the best.”
“Elves?” Eadan asked the question cautiously, trying not to trigger another influx of internal information.
“The V’uierzlains, Elven race, perhaps the second most powerful. Or the first, no one is sure now days.” Tola sat down at the small table, pulling open various tiny draws, retrieving small dried fruits and herbs “If you do not know that then you must have been ill indeed.”
“Something like that.” Eadan sat down, suffered a slow stare for having done so without invitation, but felt the better for the clouds that lifted further from her mind.
“If you wish to go anywhere, I would suggest V’uierzlai. The peace may be tremulous, but during the trading, you can find a job or… something to do, whatever your use is.” She waved her hand disparagingly, placing one of the dried fruits in her mouth and chewing loudly
“So what will you do for me?”
“What?”
“You don’t expect me to give you a free ride all the way to V’uierzlai do you? You must work for your keep! Clean the place, organise things; I don’t care. But you must pay me somehow. You have no money, nothing but some worn trousers and a vest which I made sure to get rid of, they were filthy with dirt.”
“I-”
“Well don’t stare at me, girl. You’re old enough to work, why, a child is old enough to work, and you look old enough you should be married with several children by now. The women of the Illia, they work, they bear children for their men, and if not, they find something else to do to be useful to the clan. If you are not useful, you are nothing. So tell me, are you useful?”
Eadan took the question on face value. If, as it increasingly seemed to be, there was an index of information in her mind, perhaps she really was useful, perhaps, she had the knowledge that Marquene thought so valuable and had tried so hard to find. She wanted to think about that more, but Tola’s persistent glare required a quick answer.
“I think I am. But not perhaps the way you want it.”
“It may be. But you will learn. If you wish to travel among the clan I will have to have a reason for keeping you here, else I must surely cast you to the roadside. And I will do so with pleasure if you give me no reason not to.”
“I can only say that I will do my best to be useful. I am sure I can find something. And I can cook, I know that.”
Tola snorted, “Anyone can cook. But you try, I see that, I understand.” Any sympathy towards Eadan those words were attempting to entail failed to convince, seeing that Tola regarded her with a calculating, oil-black gaze.
It reminded Eadan, strangely, of Marquene’s crimson eyes. She looked away hastily, to the closed door at the front of the wagon “Ah, how is the horse pulling the wagon without guidance?”
“Hah! You are no horse wanderer, indeed. He follows the other wagons. He has done so all his life, of course he has. He doesn’t need me. No, I sit there for the fresh air, and for the entertainment. And I watch, yes, I watch for the horse gatherers. They will be returning soon with the new horses, to be trained, to be bred and sold… and when they return you will hope you have a reason to be here. The horse gatherers do not like strangers, especially female ones without a use. But then-” a cold, cruel smile formed on her thin, reddened mouth “I’m sure the men could find a use for you if they had to, even if you may be past young breeding age you can still – ah… inspire them, shall we say?”
Eadan dodged the pointed reference, and the obvious enjoyment it gave Tola “The horse gatherers, they are the men of the clan, they hunt down wild horses and bring them to the clan to be trained?”
“Yes, they are the finest warriors of the clan. They leave us for weeks, months; hunting down horses while the rest of us look after the ones already found. They return for selling season, and when their flock becomes too large for them to shepherd. They are grown wild, to suit their purpose. Every young man of the clan wants to be a horse gatherer, when he grows taller and stronger and can ride his horse well. Yes, you must find a use for yourself - what it is, I don’t care. If the horse gatherers must have you, so be it, they will trade me for your purchase. I found you, so I must take whatever your worth is. Try indeed to do something valuable so I may beg a high price, yes.” Again that cold smile and laughter in the black eyes. With a shiver, Eadan wondered just how many people had been traded by Tola towards the horse gatherers. Not a slaver, really?
“Enough of such pleasant talk, I will return to my entertainment. And you, you think of something to do. Tonight some of the clan will want to have a look at you, and you at them, I’m sure. It’s some while yet until we reach V’uierzlai, and who knows what may happen until then…”
Walkers have always, always done something incredible for the history of the world they are reborn in.
Had a Walker ever been sent to Earth? Would they have been someone Eadan had learnt about, only half listening as she sketched on class handouts? A saint, or a monster?
When the wagons drew into a large, protective circle, she sat on the folded out steps to rest after gathering firewood for Tola. To her had been the duty to gather the wood, break down the wood, clear a space, pack stones down to the ground. Only now did Tola take over, to cook, with the jealous zeal of any master chef.
With her arms wrapped around herself, Eadan shivered in the cold, trying to understand why she was there. Marquene had said nothing to her, spoken vaguely of knowledge and someone called Ro’sarriak who was almost as powerful as the Goddess. Marquene wanted her to do something; had tried it before, and failed, yet seemed to succeed this time.
Knowledge.
Hesitantly, Eadan looked to the sky and the two moons poised within it.
The smaller of the moons is present at all times of the year and visible from all lands even during daylight it can be seen faintly-
She saw, in her minds eye, a vision of the smaller moon, a white cloud on a blue sky. That crawling sensation along her spine, but fainter than before.
Deliberately, she spoke a word within her mind.
V’uierzlai.
One of the two primary Elven Kingdoms V’uierzlai is aligned to Marquene and the First God powerful by land no sea trade V’uierzlai led by Kings-
A swirling image, hundreds of faces, staring eyes and foreheads decked by crowns. Their names ran through her mind like information scrolling down a screen.
“Ah!” She slipped down the step and landed on the cold ground with a thump, spread eagle.
“Grace is not your use then.” Tola called from by the fire, cackling extravagantly.
The dirt was close to her eyes. Screwing them tight, she commanded the information to stop.
Kiiings – King - Aonach Sian. Present ruler of V’uierzlai. Formerly Captain of the King’s Royal Guard upon the King’s death the V’uierzlains appointed Aonach Sian their new ruler.
Aonach Sian.
That was all for now.
Exhausted, she crawled back to the step and rested her head on it. She had the knowledge, for sure, but somehow she knew it would be far less useful than Marquene must have hoped. Each little word that was pulled into her mind by force had a thousand other words connected to it, too much information, too much to ever want to know, all at her disposal. How was she ever to sort through it all?
Language at least was a gift that came to her fairly easily. She needed only to hear one word, perhaps two, and the pathway towards that language seemed to unroll before her. It was much easier than deliberately trying to find it.
She wondered if that was true for most things. A sudden idea struck her, and she blinked a few times, refocusing her vision to where Tola crouched by the fire. Unconsciously, she had been watching her cook what appeared to be some kind of bread.
Slight concentration was all that was required to unfurl within her mind the process taken to make the bread.
Eadan laughed.
“What’s so funny pale face?” Tola snapped.
“Nothing… I just - knowledge, it means a lot, doesn’t it?”
Small, rag tag children ran by Tola’s fire, laughing at the old woman’s complaints and staring with open curiosity toward the pale face, the supposed city dweller without a use. Travelling nomads with fresh minds and easy cunning, they could be heard in the distance rounding up the horses under the clan’s care, and their language had a complicated but graceful symmetry. Similar to the flowing movement of muscles beneath the skin of a galloping stallion, Eadan imagined.
A few minutes after the meal had been eaten more than the curious children came to investigate Eadan. A woman with the same hawklike purpose of Tola strode into the healer’s camp, her dark hair falling loose to her shoulders almost in a defiant statement against the tangles that could form in those thick curls.
“Tola!” She called the woman’s name with the tone of a leader commanding a rebellious subject “Where is this pale face you have taken in?”
The healer rose from her witchlike crouch by the fire, tilting her eyes towards where Eadan sat upon the wagon steps.
A fiery, dark eyed gaze flew towards Eadan, and the tall woman strode in her direction, gesturing imperiously for her to rise. Eadan did so, and found her chin grasped roughly to force her face upwards. Her head was turned with abrupt jolts from one side to the other, making it difficult to simultaneously study her attacker. The woman seemed to be in her thirties, but this was mostly concealed by a trim figure and heavy makeup, especially about her eyes, dark streaks further underlining their dramatic oval shape.
“Her bones are strong. And her eyes. Grey, strong, like stone. But I cannot say much for the rest of her.” The woman released Eadan from her visor like grip, turning her back dismissively “Is she such an investment? How is she as a worker?”
“She is a good worker.” Tola moved closer, her eyes moving between the two of them “She doesn’t complain.”
“That may be. But she is a pale face. If she is from the city-”
“I do not know that she is from the city.”
“You do not know? You take such a stranger into your own wagon? Tola, you go too far. What will you say to the clan? What will you say to the horse gatherers? They will accept no excuses.”
“She is under my command, she will do no harm.”
“We will see.” The tall woman snapped after the quiet had became far too heavy for even her to endure “When the horse gatherers return you will be forced to answer to the clan for accepting this pale face, this stranger into our midst. She may be a good worker but what else can she do? What is her use? This is on your head Tola. If it goes badly, I will not stand for it.” She didn’t give Tola a chance to reply, turning on her heel and stalking from the area.
Tola spat on the ground after the woman had left “Fire-eyed witch!” She spun her gaze towards Eadan’s expectant face, snapping out the words “That is Hedda, she belongs to the leader of the horse gatherers, Herlui. As his woman she has rights over us all. Or so she likes to think. Tola pays no dividends to a woman who earned her power only by pleasing her man and giving him no children. Hedda thinks he’ll keep her on for pleasure, but he’ll tire of her for sure if she doesn’t bear him a son. Some women think they’re clever – but no woman is cleverer than Tola. She knows how the Illia work. You mind my words, pale face.”
Eadan nodded silently, and then risked asking, “If she approaches me, what should I do?”
“It is not likely but she would do anything to see me lose my standing in the clan. I am respected for my skills.” She nodded her head in the direction of the rest of the clan, eyes shrewd “They may see me as old Tola, but old Tola they fear, old Tola they call when they lie bloodied and wounded. It always has been so, shall be till the day I lose my use. Then, I, myself, will walk from the clan and end it. No one will take away my position other than Tola. If Hedda approaches you, keep your mouth shut. She can only do harm if she is allowed. No more talking! Clear the fire pale face, then get to bed. It will be a long day tomorrow.”
Meekly, Eadan obeyed, snuffing the fire with dirt till her nails were filthy and her skin was worn and sore. She spared moments afterwards to lean back on her heels, and stare to the dark surroundings.
The world was empty for her. She had knowledge; no doubt Marquene would find a way to use it, to wring it out of her, no matter the cost.
Chapter Five
“The use of the pale face”
“Don’t be foolish! He’s not going to hurt you, not unless you give him reason. Useless girl, give me that!”
Tola wrenched the bridle from Eadan’s hands, scowling at her darkly and making her stalking way towards her heavy set horse, who continued to chew his hay with a placid expression.
“I’m sorry.” Eadan stammered, “He’s just… so big.”
“He’s a horse, what do you expect? He’s built to pull my wagon along and when he can no longer do that, I’ll sell him.” She bridled the horse in a no nonsense manner, then shoved him towards Eadan “Go hitch him up to the wagon.”
“But I don’t-”
“Watch and learn!” Tola barked, “See the rest of the clan doing it? Well do it yourself! Don’t you show me up pale face!”
Hesitantly, Eadan pulled the horse along. He followed obediently, still chewing on the last of his hay. She could almost feel his feet stamping on the ground behind her, and the hot spray of his breath on her shoulder.
She was a suburban, to the core. The closest she’d been to a horse was a pony at a local fair, and she’d been scared of it too.
She knew she was being ridiculous, she was more likely to scare the horse herself than he was to hurt her.
“Come on, step back.” She tried to lead him backwards to the wagon, but he baulked at her ill direction, tossing his head with a blowing out neigh
“Easy, easy.”
He stamped his feet on the ground, pulling at the bit and her tight hold of the reins.
“I don’t want to hurt you, please.” Closing her eyes, she loosened her hold on the reins, half expecting them to be pulled out of her hands, followed by the sound of distant galloping.
Instead, the horse let out a nickering sound, tossing his head one last time then settling into a slow sidle towards the wagon.
“Good boy…” Eadan patted down his mane, opening her eyes to survey the equipment. Trying to be casual, she studied the busied Illia around her, watching as they drove their wagons past.
A young boy in the distance was hurriedly tying up a large stallion, handling the animal three times larger than himself with ease. His olive fingers flicked from one leather strap to another, tightening buckles and sliding metal into place.
Slowly, Eadan followed the boy’s lead, letting her hands do what his had, working by a knowledge seemingly embedded in her now. Gradually all the buckles seemed to find their right place, and the horse itself was withstanding the procedure with patience.
“You done pale face?” Tola came up behind her, the cackle in her voice ready to break out at the sight of whatever mess Eadan had made. Instead, her dark eyes widened, then narrowed, and she looked between Eadan and the horse with sudden suspicion.
“Who helped you then, girl?” She said at last.
“Nobody, I, ah, I just did it.”
“Nonsense. You’re no more familiar with a horse than you are with a man.” Tola cast her gaze around the nearby area. Unable to find anyone suspicious looking, she flung her eyes back to Eadan with the visual force of a whip “I don’t trust you, but you’ve done what I told you to so I’ll let it go for now.” There was a sudden malicious sparkle in the black depths “Seeing as you’re so adept, I shall rest in the wagon while you take the reins.”
The woman’s rough laugh followed her into the wagon, and then the slamming of the door.
“Good riddance.” Eadan muttered, hauling herself up into the driver’s seat with some difficulty. Wiping the sweat from her forehead, she gave the reins a careful flick, swaying in the seat dangerously as the horse obediently pulled the wagon into motion. Not willing to spare a hand from the reins, she sat as far back as she could, squinting in the heavy rising sun and trusting the horse to follow the slowly developing train of wagons as the Illia left camp and started on the road once more.
The morning heat rose with the sun, and she continually wiped her forehead with her arms, red faced. The shadows cast by the surrounding trees were not long enough to cover the entire wide road; the wagons of the Illia moving gradually along the sun burnt centre. Occasionally a grinning, olive skinned stranger would ride past her, accustomed to the sun and with a flask of water by their side. She was undoubtedly a source of amusement.
Her lips were dry and cracked, but she didn’t want to risk abandoning the reins to enter the wagon as Tola had, and beyond doing that there was no way of getting water. The horse had had a bucket to drink out of before the journey; she hadn’t been quite so lucky.
To pass the time, she hummed herself a tune, but was unable to remember whether it was a classic crooner or something accompanied by the sound of fingers clicking to the beat, and five boys singing their hearts out with treacle sweet sincerity. Eadan found herself laughing at that thought, and it was such a refreshing sound that she surprised herself. She hadn’t really laughed, well, since before she died.
The memory of that quieted her, but she wouldn’t allow herself to be disenchanted. She swayed to the movement of the wagon, tracing the journey of the earth below the horse’s hooves. The old stallion was becoming familiar to her, she could see when he took in a breath, and how many beats his massive heart gave. The occasional soft nicker he gave seemed to joy in the heat of the sun, gentle on his back, and the feel of solid earth beneath him. He was happy, content with his lot, and certainly enjoyed this human more than the dark witch with the cruel hands.
“Is that how you see her?” Eadan asked, chuckling.
“Yes,” said the horse “she pinches my skin with her fingers.”
Eadan nodded agreeably, imagining that as something Tola would do.
Then she stopped nodding.
Oh… my… … HOLY CRAP!
She pulled the horse to a lurching stop, took in a deep breath, was unable to sustain herself on that, and took in another, gasping.
An iron hand was wrapping down on her chest. She was panicking.
Gulping in air like a fish on land, and still suffocating, she half-fell half-stumbled off the driver’s seat, collapsing on the churned dirt of the road, gagging on nothing.
“Are you alright?” The wet nose of the horse nudged her side; he whinnied at her, only she didn’t hear just that. She heard it, but she also heard what he meant, which wasn’t right, which was crazy, which was INSANE.
Her vision was spinning before her eyes, black dots dancing gleefully, when Tola’s hand slapped across her face and knocked her backwards.
Eadan fell on her back, pulling in a desperate, massive lungful of air. She could hear her pulse pounding in her ears. Her lungs filled, emptied, filled.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?!” Tola screeched, looming over her, her black eyes burning like those of a - of a dark witch. Apt description.
“I, I’m sorry, I started… hyperventilating.” Still gasping like she’d just run one hundred meters in ten seconds, Eadan turned her flushed face upwards, struggling to focus her vision.
“Well no wonder.” Tola snapped “Forgetting to take a water flask with you.” She tossed something hard and heavy into Eadan’s lap “Drink, and then get back up there!”
Unscrewing the lid of the flask with shaking hands, Eadan gulped down the water, struggling to level her nerves. Only when she was confident that she had done so did she even attempt to climb back onto the driver’s seat, and take hold of the reins.
“Lovely day.” Said the horse, seemingly satisfied she was alright.
“Yes.” Eadan said at last, giving the reins a flick to stir him into motion. Bopping his head, he pulled the wagon along, completely unperturbed by the whole situation. Perhaps he thought she was a horse, masquerading as one of those strange humans.
Eadan didn’t know what she was.
She dreamt she heard raised voices, cries of joy and welcome, boisterous shouting. She didn’t know if it was the truth, or delirious dreams brought on by the heat of the sun.
She knew when Tola woke her, shaking her roughly, wrinkled face looming over her with the same bitter black eyes.
“Get up! The clan wishes to see you. The horse gatherers wish to see you.” She put special emphasis on the last words “Get up and don’t disappoint old Tola.” With almost the air of a fellow conspirator, Tola pulled her upwards, leading and dragging her at the same time towards the open wagon door and down the steps.
Eadan blinked in the sudden influx of light. A circle of flames held before faces suddenly pale in the darkness that threatened to intrude on a sanctuary of lanterns. Tola pushed her into the middle of the sanctuary, but Eadan felt anything but safe.
Indirectly across from her she recognised the handsome features of Hedda, with a greater measure of pride and certainty in her bearings. The reason for that appeared to be the man standing beside her, directly from Eadan.
He was tall, that was the first thing she noticed. He was also as broad and intimidating as any grown stallion. His chest was the equivalent length of a table, but there was an uncanny air about him that he could move quickly, suddenly enough to startle.
He had black eyes like Tola, only larger and in a strange way, more powerful. There was an assurance in there stronger than Tola’s self worried suspicion, this was a man that suspected rarely because he had no need – nobody would think to go against him.
And if they did, no doubt it wouldn’t take him long to settle the matter.
Those black eyes now took Eadan in, and she waited hesitantly for him to speak. The size of his barrel chest seemed to indicate he would sound somewhere between James Earl Jones and Kiefer Sutherland.
“So this is the pale face I have been hearing about.” He said at last. His voice surprised her. It was ordinary, deceptively ordinary, almost bordering on the high twang of an adolescent male still becoming accustomed to his broken tones. If anyone was going to rebel against him, they would so because his voice indicated he was not so infallible as he appeared to be. Adolescent males could be bargained with, bought, and eventually, defeated.
However, seeing Hedda beside him, it was easy to surmise he was Herlui, the leader of the horse gatherers, and therefore not to be thwarted.
She remained silent as he continued to take her in, finally shifting his gaze to Tola, who stood behind her expectantly.
“What reason does the old one have to bring a pale face into our clan?” He asked.
“The pale face will serve Tola, and fetch a price from the V’uierzlains.” Tola replied, with unexpected gravity. It seemed even she respected the man’s power in the clan.
“How will she serve, and what will she do to earn such a price?”
Here Tola was not so sure. In the moments it took for her to decide her answer, Herlui looked back to Eadan and questioned her.
“What is your use then?”
All eyes turned to her. She took in a deep breath.
“I know languages.”
That wasn’t what they expected. Even Herlui’s black eyes momentarily looked perplexed. But he quickly recovered “And what use is that to the Illia?”
“I can translate. Help with bargaining. You see that I speak your language; I can speak others just the same.”
His eyes narrowed “Prove it.”
Here was the difficult part.
“Alright, say a word from another language, any language.”
The Illia stirred. There was the sound of faint snickering.
He spoke a word. She didn’t recognise it.
“Say a sentence from that language, please.”
More laughter, more audible now. She could almost feel the heat of Tola’s glare from behind her. In front of her, Herlui’s eyes glowed. He seemed to be thinking: give her enough rope, and she’ll hang herself with it.
He spoke again, and as before with his own language, the words suddenly made sense to her.
“… tongue of V’uierzlains we sell horses summer season.”
It took her a moment to realise she understood, he simply wasn’t as gifted at the language as he could be. It seemed they only knew the tongue enough for raw bargaining. Good. Time to impress.
She opened her mouth, and spoke.
“This is the tongue of the V’uierzlains who you sell horses to during the summer season. I can speak this tongue fluently, as well as any other languages you will need to use in trading. I can help you, make sure you cut the best deal you can make and also be sure you aren’t cheated. I can speak Elven tongues, human tongues and more than you could imagine. This is my use.”
She was doing something striking, for throughout her speech the surrounding Illia no longer laughed at her, and most of the ridiculing had gone out of their expressions.
“Very well.” The leader of the horse gatherers said at last in his own tongue “You may stay among the Illia until Tola so chooses to sell you for price.”
As quickly as that, it was over. The Illia dispersed, some looking disappointed, others looking interested as to what this new asset could achieve. Tola was congratulating herself on her tidy piece of profit.
“Get back to sleep! I will have plenty for you to do tomorrow!” The woman snapped.
Chapter Six
“V’uierzlai“
Being among the Illia, the ability to speak to animals seemed to be a vast talent, and what she should have stated as her use. But somehow, she didn’t want to bring it up. Somehow it seemed wrong, unnatural, she could feel a certain sensation in the depth of her that told her instinctively that it wasn’t right, this was a gift no human was meant to have, not to the extent that she had it. Accordingly, she felt anyone who knew of it would feel the same, fear her, and perhaps hate her.
She did what she could to avoid the situation. While it seemed to have become her position to care for Tola’s horse, she made no further attempts to speak to him, and he seemed to return the favour. He may not have been bothered by the situation, but that didn’t go very far into making her feel better.
Her days among the Illia seemed to drag on, but every time night fell the weeks before faded into a blur as if they had passed in an instance. She had adopted their clothing, their language, and with the watching she had accomplished, could tend a horse with the best of them. And while there were never any songs around the fire or group reminiscing, the Illia had accepted her to the extent that she was no longer an oddity, but ordinary.
As her workload increased, she saw less of Tola, who dedicated herself to caring for the stock that the horse gatherers had brought from their last set of travels before entering V’uerzlai. It became Eadan’s responsibility to clean the wagon, set up breakfast, package lunch, and have dinner rea