"Tell me the meaning of your braids or your knots," Mirand asks, his youngest daughter, Ylinia, upon his knee, a bit of bread in her hands as she eats it in tiny little bites. The two older children sit together by the hearth, their muffled voices rising and falling in play as they speak to one another, weaving some kind of new tale or game among themselves, a boy and a girl learning to navigate the stormy and yet beautiful waters of relationship in the bosom of wonder-filled reality.
"What is it you wish to know?" Eldarien asks.
"What is their significance?"
"Since you ask, it seems you already know."
"No, my wife simply told me that there was a significance."
"Ah, I see..." says Eldarien, with a glance at Alíja. "And there is. It seems as though she already surmised more about me than I let on in words, and the words proved to be but a confirmation."
"There is much I didn't know," Alíja says, "but yes, I surmised."
"Well then, I suppose there is no harm in saying more," Eldarien continues. "See, all the soldiers of the Empire wear a braid in their hair, on the right temple, and pulled behind the ear. It is a sign by which they immediately recognize one another, even while not in uniform. This knowledge is well known to many, as one cannot understandably keep such things hidden. But the further intricacies are harder to decipher. For those in office also wear a left braid that hangs down freely before the ear rather than tied back into the rest of the hair. And according to one's rank, the braid bears one, two, or three knots, indicating whether one is a lieutenant, captain, or general, with another knot added accordingly. There are more intricacies even than this, though they are not relevant to our current conversation and are knowledge reserved only to those in office."
"So Alíja, you knew by Eldarien's braids that he was a soldier of the Empire?" Mirand asks, turning to his wife. "But he has no left braid, nor knots."
"But he did," she says.
"In that you are right," Eldarien confirms.
"A patch of hair roughly cut is not easy to hide, especially if it is so close to the face and the eyes."
"Ah yes, I see it now," observes Morlof, who until now has been silent, though clearly he has been following the conversation closely.
There is in fact a short tuft of hair along Eldarien's left temple that looks to have been cut a couple inches from the skin in a rough fashion with a knife or a sword, and it hangs down uneasily among locks of much longer hair, most of which are pulled back into a tie at the name of the neck.
At this point, the conversation is momentarily interrupted as Morlof's wife, Yelía, arrives with a steaming pot of tea and five cups, which she sets before them.
"The ginger tea is ready, dears," she says, sitting down with them. "Please, take some; it is straight from the garden."
"Thank you very much," Eldarien says, as he allows her to pour him a cup of the steaming liquid, in the process filling the small room with the sweet smell of ginger and of another strong herb. "Is there lavender in this?"
"Indeed there is! Both are good for the stomach and the nerves. At least it has been thought so in my family for generations, and I myself am a firm believer."
"My mother used to grow lavender above the window sill in her kitchen, and she would make tea with a dash of mint...and milk when we had it," Eldarien says, softly, sipping from the tea. "This is very good, Yelía. It reminds me of home."
"That is good to hear," she replies. "How long has it been since you were home?"
"How long?" Eldarien repeats, taking another sip of his tea and directing his gaze to the children sitting by the hearth and playing in the carefree way proper to children but so rare in adults. The firelight glistens in his eyes as the room is hushed for a long moment, his hosts watching him and awaiting his answer. "It has been too long," he says at last, "Much too long."
"Well, perhaps now that you are back in Telmerion, you can make a visit?" Mirand suggests.
"...Yes, perhaps," Eldarien replies noncommittally and then shakes away his memories. "We were speaking of the custom of the knots."
"Yes, you had them, and now you don't," Mirand says, "but you kept the braid of the soldier. Why is that?"
"Because I still remain faithful to my oath to serve the authentic good of the Empire, as much as I am able to do so in my situation."
"But...if you don't mind me asking...are you not a deserter?" Morlof asks, perhaps with too little tact.
"Yes and no. Some would call me so, and at times I think to myself that I am so as well. My original company was entirely destroyed, and I was the only survivor. After this, I was assigned to another company of three hundred men and was with them for but a few months before receiving an order that I knew I could not carry out. I left the army with the full knowledge of all involved, as I said earlier, and on matters of conscience."
"Could punitive action still be taken against you?" Alíja asks.
"I suppose it could, yes," answers Eldarien. "I will not know until I encounter authorities of the Empire who are acquainted with my situation. The question is, I suppose, whether it will be understood that I wish to serve the Empire in a way different than before, or whether it will be seen as a betrayal."
"Yet you said that you think the Empire has done great evil and that you must stand against it," Morlof says.
"That is true. But I still think that the Empire can be good for Telmerion, if it can be faithful to its original purpose," says Eldarien, but immediately after saying this, he knows that he doubts it. The conversation is cutting deep into questions and insecurities within his own heart, as the atrocities committed in the name of the Empire rise before his imagination; he tries to bury them again so as not to let his own doubt show before his hosts. "Forgive me. I know not whether any of you are in some measure favorable to the rebels and wish the yoke of the Empire could be thrown off. I know that Alíja said earlier that you foster no such tendencies, but still...such things are hard to gauge, and I do not expect complete transparency from you after such a short acquaintance."
"I would say that we are more or less neutral here, Eldarien," replies Morlof, "though I do wonder whether any native Telmerin, in his heart of hearts, truly rejoices in the fact of the Imperial occupation. But regarding the feasibility of martial rebellion, some shade more one direction, and some more the other. That is true for most in this village. We see that the Empire is neither all good nor all evil, and that its presence has brought many boons even while also bringing the loss of many things that we once our own. In my opinion, I think that the rebellion is quite justified in many respects, considering the current state of affairs, though this does not mean that I would participate in it myself."
"I question whether civil war is the best course of action," Alíja adds. "I for one strongly wish there was a way to achieve these goals without more bloodshed and loss of life. I was raised in closer proximity to the center of the Empire's capital in Telmerion, and thus, you could say, have more 'Imperial blood' in me than others, figuratively speaking. I understand the native identity of the Telmerins, and I myself am one, but I wonder if it is possible to turn back history after so many generations of mutual coexistence, of intermarriage, and of cultural intermingling. Either way, I hope we find a way to proceed in peace."
"Then we are much in agreement," says Eldarien.
"Did you know," Mirand bursts out, immediately changing the tenor of the conversation, "that they have started public executions in the main streets of the capital city and in Ristfand as well?"
Eldarien lowers his eyes for a moment and sighs deeply, before replying. When he speaks, all that he says is, "Yes...I only recently became aware of this."
"And ever since the Minstead rebellion," Mirand continues, "the Imperial army has begun drafting young men from the neutral territories west of the mountains, even as young as sixteen years of age."
"I had heard rumors but did not know whether it was true. Much, it seems, has progressed since I set sail from Brug'hil to Tel-Velfana years ago, or even since I departed from Tel-Velfana to return here. It is, I admit, uncanny to fight for a military, for a civilization, of whose actions I am in large part unaware."
"Do you not think, therefore," Morlof begins, hesitantly, "—I ask this as a matter of thought, not as a conviction—do you not think that perhaps an independent Telmerion would be better than one under the hand of the Empire?"
Eldarien turns uneasily in his chair and tries to hide the fact that this thought has been preoccupying him repeatedly over the past few months. At last he replies, "After the initial conflicts following upon the Empire's invasion two hundred years ago—after the surrender of the Telmerins and their incorporation into the Empire—there has occurred a harmonious conjoining of the two cultures. The roots have grown together deeply. I doubt it would be possible now to sunder them entirely, even with the sword."
"Is it right to restore violence after the conflict originally ended with an agreement of peace and coexistence? Yes, they came with the sword, yet when all was said and done, they brought peace," Yelía says, explicitly entering the conversation for the first time. "I know an old woman should not butt into the affairs of younger men arguing over politics. But there is something I want to say. The Telmerins were a group of warring tribes before—were they not?—caught in an endless contest for the throne of high king and ruler of all Telmeric peoples. Rare was the clan that wished only to live out its days peacefully, in the place allotted to it. And though such clans there were—my ancestors being one of them—this did not mean that we were free from the tyranny of others."
"Yes," Eldarien affirms, picking up on the trail of her words, "and in that light, I find it unsettling to think that the Empire was able to achieve such peace between clans which for centuries had fought one another so persistently."
Yelía lets out a deep sigh. "It is a mystery to all of us how the seven clan leaders unanimously agreed to pass the right of highest authority to the Emperor and his legate in Brug'hil and to be acknowledged as equal brothers in the onarion, the council of the seven. But regardless of how this occurred, it has, it seems clear to me, brought much good. And apart from Olrig the Mad, no clan leader has openly questioned or opposed this authority over the past five generations...of course, until the uprising of Wygrec Stûnclad four years ago."
"I suppose the question that is before us is whether the ancient conflict should be restored, or if it is even possible to do so, now that the Empire and Telmerion have become so deeply conjoined." Eldarien says pensively. "And why—why did our people yield those many years ago? Is it because they learned a lesson of coexistence or because they were cowed to their knees by a superior force? I don't know how to even begin to proceed unraveling this fabric."
"I don't know what there is to unravel," Yelía replies, quietly but with a touch of impatience. "Do you think there is some secret hidden in the past that has led to all of this? There was peace, and now there is not. It is that simple. Is it the Empire that has changed, or is it the people of Telmerion?"
After this, probably sensing the rising tension of the conversation, Alíja stands and says, "Well, it is getting late. I suppose it is time that we clean and prepare to retire for the night."
"Yes, yes, you are quite right," Morlof agrees, also rising to his feet. "Come Yelía, let us return home and show our guest where he will be staying."
"I shall remain here a moment to help my daughter-in-law to tidy her house before the night," she replies. "Why don't you go yourself? I will be over soon."
"That is quite alright. We will see you soon enough."
After offering to stay and help—and receiving a gentle and friendly refusal—Eldarien bids goodnight to everyone and follows Morlof across the yard to the other house. The sun has already long disappeared behind the horizon in the west, and darkness has cloaked the land thoroughly, such that no more than a few yards are visible before Eldarien's eyes. From the moment he steps out of the house he feels enveloped both in darkness and in cold, for with the departure of the sun a bitter chill has also fallen upon the land. The sounds of night, too, greet him: the hooting of an owl in a nearby tree and, a little farther away, the call of a warbler, and, at the very edge of hearing, the hum of the ocean's waves as they wash continuously against the rocky shore. He chances a glance to the sky and sees a star-speckled firmament peeking through dark and low-hanging clouds. This is the same sky that he had looked upon in his desperation the night before, and yet now her radiant face is partly obscured, veiled, even as she winks through with her beauty still, in the dancing of the innumerable stars and the richly saturated color of the celestial aurora, visible to the naked eye as though it were an ethereal mist hanging about the earth.
Inside the house, Morlof promptly shows Eldarien to a small back room, furnished with only a rickety wooden desk and chair and a straw-padded bed with a worn fur coverlet. Over the desk is a paned window twelve-by-twelve inches square and now totally dark.
"I am sorry if it gets cold here during the night," Morlof says, "but there is no direct heat to this part of the house. We have only one hearth, and unfortunately this is the furthest room from it. The furs should keep you reasonably warm, however. Just keep your nose under the blanket, or you might wake with a red plum between your eyes."
"Thank you for your thoughtfulness, Morlof, but for me it is no problem. I have spent numerous nights under the stars and in the nocturnal cold, and my nose has abode it all until now."
Morlof turns to leave but pauses, as if something has come to his mind, and glances back. "Oh, and about Yelía, please be patient with her and forgive her. She speaks from the heart, but at times she feels more quickly and more vividly than she thinks, and her words run ahead of her mind."
"I understood as much, but thank you for your words. There is truly nothing to forgive."
"Good. Well then, I suggest that you retire for the night. She may be a while yet, and there is no need to speak with her again before the night is up. As for myself, I am exhausted from a day full of many words, and shall retire shortly as well."
Eldarien nods silently to this, but then Morlof speaks again, as if in his absentmindedness he has only now remembered something else essential as well.
"But first, before I go," he says, "let me get a clean change of clothes for you and a basin of warm water. You can refresh yourself, and we will take your clothes, wash them, and give them back to you by the end of the day tomorrow."
With this Morlof leaves the room, pulling the door closed but for a few inches. With a sigh, Eldarien sinks down onto the bed and rests his face against his hands. What is happening to me? he thinks. Do I even know who I am anymore or for what I stand? I have been given the gift of life again, even on the very verge of death, and yet for what purpose am I to live?
He tries to think of the previous years of his life and of the events that have led him to this place, but his mind fails to summon anything, dull with an intermingling of exhaustion and pain. He tries for a few moments, grasping for some semblance of rational thought, some control over his memory, and therefore over his present and his future. But it slips through his fingers, and he finds himself standing empty handed with a shame-laden past, an uncontrollable present, and an uncertain future. At first, his heart rebels against this, terrified of where the current might lead him if he surrenders to it, surrenders to those things beyond his own control and comprehension, but he is too tired to resist, and he surrenders more out of exhaustion than out of desire, though somewhere within him desire too dwells, even in hidden.
He finds himself sinking into a deep and inaccessible memory long buried, long ignored even if not forgotten, which in this moment becomes as if fully present anew. His heart recoils, and he tries as it were to slam shut the doors of his mind and his imagination. But there he is, again, as a young man not yet fully come of age, standing in the open doorway of his home in the village in which he was born and raised. It is night, and the star-speckled sky stands brilliant behind him, unchanging and yet ever inexhaustible in wealth of beauty. But the sight he sees is darkness itself, without a hint of stars or moonlight or, for him, even a hope of the dawn.
He has rushed in from the hillsides overlooking the hamlet, where he had sat atop "his" rock, as they called it, and gazed upon the night sky, as he was wont to do. It is dangerous to be out at night, of course, as Ma always says, for the marauders—the Relihim—can come at any time if they happen to be passing this way. The life of these bandits consists in scouting the forests, traversing the wild, in search of ill-gotten gain. And if, on discovering human habitation, they choose to do what they do best, then they draw near to the village or the hamlet or the homestead, whatever it may be, and before anything else, they engulf the entire habitation in a circle of flame. When all is dark and and the nocturnal air is illumined only by the light of the blazing conflagration, they descend upon the settlement to take for their own what they will: material goods, livestock, women-slaves, and all the wealth that can be found. The paradox now is that if he had stayed outside of the village, exposed to the wild, he would have been safer than if he returned to the village upon seeing the light of the flames glowing through the trees in the distance, and thick black clouds of smoke billowing into the sky. But he gave hardly a thought to his own safety, so overwhelmed was he with concern for his family, for his mother, father, and sister. In the house was a cellar, concealed such that only those who knew of its location would be able to find it. He had prayed while he ran that his family had taken refuge in the cellar before anything had happened to them. But as he came to his home, after weaving through the flaming chaos of the village, what he saw destroyed all hopes in his heart.
Oh, Ma, if only I had been here, perhaps I could have protected you! For now, I stand in the doorway of our house, and I look down upon your lifeless and blood-drenched body, desecrated like a temple torn and looted by the evildoers. My body trembles at this sight, and tears spring to my eyes as I sink to my knees, the loud crackling of flames disappearing from my numbed ears. I hear nothing now but the memory of your voice, fading away, fading away, as if saying farewell, until it too echoes no more and falls silent.
I know not how long I kneel here before you, tears pouring from my eyes and sobs tearing at my body, before I come to my senses again. The cellar! I must look in the cellar! Perhaps Pa or my younger sister Selía are still there, too afraid to come out. I try to rise to my feet, but find myself unable, my legs devoid of all strength and my whole body shaking uncontrollably. And the thought of stepping over your lifeless body is inconceivable. Yet so is the thought of leaving you and fleeing. I remain, therefore, in indecision for a long and tortured moment. At last, and pushing away all further thought, I pull off my outer cloak and lay it over your body. Then I step around you as best I can and walk to the back of the room where the wood panels of the floor conceal the secret cellar. I pull back the boards and lower myself inside. But it is empty, full of nothing but the damp and musty scent of earth untouched for many months.
My heart sinking within me, I pull myself up again from the cellar and rise to my feet. What more can be done? Pa... Selía... Where have you gone? The thought of searching the bodies strewn throughout the village causes my stomach to churn and my head to spin. But I have no choice. I stumble to the doorway and, upon stepping into the open, I almost immediately hear a voice. A familiar voice.
"Please, I beg you, just leave now. You have already taken everything that I love. Take my life if you will, but I beg you to leave our village at once."
It is Pa's voice, firm and strong even as it trembles with fear in the face of pain and death and with sorrow at the loss of which he speaks. And in response to this, my heart is torn, the pain of my father compounded with my own, and it is also drawn out of itself toward him. I yearn to be with him, to be at his side, to let him know that he has not lost everything. My body begins to move almost without my knowledge but then is frozen in place as I witness, through the darkness of the night illumined by flames, the events that unfold before me.
"Why should you live if all you care about has been lost?" one of the brigands says, his voice threatening. Even though I cannot see his face, his smirk is so evident that it is audible.
"This is not about my life but the life of our people!" Pa protests. "You are destroying everything that the Telmeric people stand for—and for what, for power and gain?"
"Your tongue irritates me," says the same man. "Let us remove it from your body." An axe blade flashes in the air, and, to my surprise, it is deflected by Pa, who has drawn a long hunting knife from his belt. By the force of his own swing, now deflected, the brigand stumbles sideways and loses balance. Pa takes advantage of the opportunity and kicks him hard with the bottom of his boot, sending him to the ground. As Pa turns to flee, two more men step forward, their faces covered in thick war-paint, clothed in animal furs, and with horned helmets upon their heads. One catches Pa's exposed leg with a downward thrust of a heavy war hammer, preventing his movement—the thick crushing sound reverberating through my whole being, and much more so Pa's anguished cry—and the other steps forward and raises a great blade with jagged edge. It all happens in a rapid flurry of movement, from the beginning to end, and I am unable to move even an inch, frozen in terror and agony. The blade comes down straight upon Pa's head, his eyes upturned towards his murderer, and two final words dying short upon his lips:
"Eldarien, flee!"
His words catch me by surprise even as they smite my heart. My father's last thought and concern was for me, and even in his dying breath he sought to protect me. I did not realize he knew of my presence, but his sacrifice makes more sense to me now, as I realize that I am standing much closer to the whole scene than at first I noticed. But I am now separated from the Relihim only by the shadows surrounding me and by the unmoving figure of Pa. He had tried to divert them from my presence and had been unable, so now let me at least heed his words as best I can. And flee!
It is too late to escape unnoticed, for once Pa was felled to the ground, my own presence became obvious—not only because I stood directly before the band of brigands, to me too many to count—but also because, involuntarily, I had let out a terrible scream at witnessing the death of my own father. So now is the time to run, to run like the wind runs through the spring hillsides, waving and dancing with grass and flowers, or like the storms rolling in from the mountains in winter, or like the love of mother and father pouring over me and into me from my earliest days, and washing on, into the life that lies beyond the grave.
And I run, blind to all else, tears still ripping from my eyes, leaping without thought through the smoldering ring of fire surrounding the village, into the woods, and up into the hills, the pounding footsteps of men behind me. How many are there? Certainly they do not all follow in pursuit. One? Two? I try to listen, but I can hear very little over the pounding of my own footsteps and the pain throbbing in my head. I am young, but I am fast; yet even so, I do not hope to outrun these men, trained and experienced for decades in the wilderness. My only hope is to hide, to hide somewhere where they can neither track me nor reach me. But is there such a place?
Even as the question enters my mind, I know the answer. Yes, there is such a place. It is the cave of Sera Galaptes. It lies only a short distance into the hills, at the base of the mountain that leads up to Gorojin Peak. I do not even think of how difficult it will be to find in the darkness of night, all the while trying to keep such an agonizing pace. No, I just run, leaning into a hope beyond my despair, a guidance beyond my blindness, reaching out to what I cannot touch and throwing myself forward through the underbrush while the branches of trees lash at my face, arms, and hands, cutting me and making me bleed.
When my body's cries to stop become unbearable, I pause for a moment and collapse against the trunk of a massive, ancient tree, its gnarled roots breaking through the surface of the ground and snaking along the forest floor in every direction. But immediately, the sound of heavy footfalls behind me spurs me to run again, to seek a better hiding spot or even the cave itself. The land now rises sharply underneath my feet, and my muscles burn as I force my legs to carry me forward and upward. Rocks also now litter the path, of diverse sizes, some hardly more than stepping stones on my path and others large boulders standing as insurmountable obstacles that can only be nagivated around in order to proceed on my way. This slows my progress, but I trust it slows my pursuers' as well.
Tufts of grass. Gnarled roots of ancient trees. Fallen debris clothing the forest floor. Jagged rocks and loose stones. A landscape rising ever upward to the three high and lofty peaks, Meldjin, Gorojin, and Landjin. Our land is rugged, cold and unpredictable, wild and dangerous, but also with her own beauty, a beauty which has always attracted me to wander into her bosom and to sit among her trees, to perch atop her ancient stones, to walk among her dense underbrush, and to sing in my heart and at times in my voice. And now, amidst the pain of my sundered world, my slaughtered family, this beauty mysteriously beckons me, as if offering me shelter and repose. But I feel insensitive to this call and want to cry out in pain and rebellion. Why couldn't you save my parents, my sister? Why has their blood fallen to sink into your soil, to become but the fertile nourishment of future growth? No, I resist this thought. They deserved to live in their own right and not to die at the hands of such monsters. If this cycle of death continues, there will be no future growth, no blossoming of new life.
Eldarien, flee.
Flee?
You are new life.
Do not let this life be engulfed in death.
My footfalls begin to pound against solid rock, free from soil and vegetation, and the path starts to descend rapidly downward beneath me while the land continues to rise on my left and my right. Could it really be? I try to remember the landscape surrounding the cave of Sera Galaptes, but my mind betrays me. Forward, forward must bring me there. But as I try to move, my body betrays me too, and I begin to stagger in utter exhaustion.
Footsteps. Footsteps behind me. Wickedness chasing me to a bloody and terrifying end. No, the sound of footsteps that I hear is nothing but the pounding of my own racing heart echoing in my ears. Have they really given up the chase? As this thought flashes through my mind, the landscape around Sera Galaptes returns to me. It is not this. But I realize this too late, for, in my staggering exhaustion, I slip right into a wide sinkhole that lies but eighty yards before the doors of the cave: the barrow of Sera Galaptes, the tomb of the ancient clan of Galapteä and their long-sung and never-forgotten king, after whom the barrow is named.
The sinkhole provides little to break my fall, and I find myself tumbling headfirst over stone and then falling into the abyss. Just as I begin to regret finding my death through an accidental fall after escaping the jaws of the sword and axe, I find my body crashing into water, water that soon envelops me and buoys me up—some great underground pool from the rains and snows that poured moisture into this great sinking hole in the ground. And before this water, which cushioned me in my fall, begins to drown me and pull me under, becoming my tomb, I force my arms and legs to move, pulling me to the surface of the water. My coughs echo through what seems to be a large and expansive underground cavern, though it is too dark for my eyes to see anything, even were it two inches before my face. I swim, and the swim is not long before my knees strike rock, and I clamber out of the water and onto the shore.
I push myself to my feet, but I collapse again in pain and exhaustion. My whole body is racked with pain, both from the over-exertion of my limbs and from the fall across rock, and most of all from the overflowing suffering of the heart. But I cannot now give vent to this agony and I soon find consciousness slipping away from me. My last thoughts are the realization that my pursuers cannot find me here, in the depths of the earth, and a sense of relief for this, followed then by the depths of my heart falling out in an anguished vision: the faces of my father, mother, and sister, present before my mind's eye, whom I will never see again in this life.