The Jackals of Il Essan

Chapter Two

A/N: Sorry for the looong delay - I haven't been able to access the Internet except very sporadically for the last month, thanks to Comcast and their suckiness, and I keep all my writing including the notes in Google Docs. So in the meantime I've been plotting out this first series. It's more fleshed out now and much more mystery-like, with a larger cast and several narrative threads.

I'm hoping that the made-up terms can be understood from the context, so I won't define anything up here. If you're confused by something, please ask in the comments/reviews and I'll try to answer as quickly as possible.


***


In the beginning, there was no light or life. Only a dead rock, swathed in dead seas, wrapped in empty skies and perpetual night. We were an infant, neverborn, exposed to the stars.

It was God, God-as-Mardu, the All-Creator, the Lightgiver, who came down to the earth. Where He stood the earth trembled, and there arose the great crater of Mount Calah, the fire mountains of the First Hearth, sundering through the North Ice. Where He traced the virgin soil the earth split above, and through once barren land rivers and lakes breathed new lifeblood. Where He brushed the dust the earth split below, and from the west seas to the east winds the leylines sung.

...

With Calah's fire He lit the lantern in the sky, and thus the Sun was born; with Calah's mud and ashes He forged all manners of new shapes, for whom He harvested lives from the starfields, before choosing one that He favored above all. Thus Man was born.

Of Man He foresaw deeds both great and terrible, a hunger for war and a capacity for love united in one creature. Thus it was to him that He gave the sacred flame of Mount Calah, as the mark of His providence, as the helm of Man's destiny...

...

Of the minor yazna no few dwell on earth, but three alone hold perennial residence in the Eternal Court, ere the pendulum revolves the heavens.

Mardu-yazna, creator of Man; Astare-yazna, creator of Woman; and Navija-yazna, the Cupbearer, plucked from earth as va'aja and raised to most beloved in Mardu's eyes.

- Selections from The Eidin


***


The paladin's brows had been disturbed by some shaky hand or grimy vestige of age, and the resulting expression on his delicately traced face was more fearful and pained than heroic. He had good reason for his distress, his sword and escutcheon a pitiful-looking defense against the firedragon that engulfed the neck and lip of the maiolica vase in over-exuberant crimson and goldleaf. A closer look at the escutcheon's charge suggested the House of Dagval's ivy-twined silver antlers - but that was ridiculous, as their most famous member in Gilgal the Longhand had never ventured north of Il Essan much less gone dragon-hunting in Eruval's far northern provinces, and his most famous exploit involved accidentally sacking his own city (among other unsavory habits).

Suen liked darkly humorous tales of villainy as much as any other young boy, though the vase had caught his eye because of its garishly bright colors more than anything else. The sloppy reds brandished beside vermilions and effusive sunburst yellows seemed to violate the very foundation of his etiquette master's Laws of Flower Arrangement with malevolent glee. The lilies trapped within barely dared to peek out their heads.

He was marveling over this rare depravity when the teacher, in the midst of a ramble on unicorn breeds, leaned back on the trestle desk and with his elbow caught the vase's edge. In horror Suen watched the vase tumble to the floor and split into several jagged pieces with a loud crack.

It was instinctive. Eyes fixed on the mess, he stood up and spoke without thinking, "Alü'hièn."

The pieces shuddered, reassembled. The cracklines disappeared in the varnish as if never existent. And the room shook with a collective gasp.

"Teacher! Teacher! Suen's doing magic!"

"That's gross - "

"My mum says it's illegal - "

Amidst the squalor of sliding seats and morbidly eager oohs and ahs, Suen could feel the burn in the tips of his ears sear a scorpion sting-trail down to his toes. His cheeks were as livid as sickly plums. His head felt like sinking into his chest as he stared down at the stone floor, wishing it would swallow him alive. He'd offered himself up for the spectacle of a public execution - there was no explaining that. A whole room of classmates had seen him cast a spell, when he knew what he was. What they all were.

"Silence. Silence!" The teacher rapped the wall with the tip of his cane. He was a commonborn man not long graduated from university, and unused to raising his voice. The appearance of the cane produced the desired effect though, and the children quieted down, mouths pursed as if words might still gush out the edges, and blinked up at him in expectancy.

"I know what The Eidin - and the law - says about va'aja and the practice of magic." He paused. "However, elementary spells are not forbidden, to any va'aja. To any of you. The law covers advanced and combat magics, not harmless household charms. Or healing magic, of course."

"But my addu said any kind of magic isn't proper - "

"Boys don't like it - "

"Silence!" His brief explanation had released the floodgates again. Suen was still cringing, but at least Father had been right, as always, and it technically wasn't illegal and he wasn't going to be carted off to gaol at any second. Not that the accusing stares around him were much better.

The teacher sighed and rubbed his temples. "Right. You're all Highfolk, so your anja don't do any magic, and you probably won't learn more than a few Glamours either. But va'aja who don't marry into families with many servants have to know how to take care of the household. So they do know some spells - in fact, that's considered a good thing. It's practical."

This raised a ripple of giggles. "But those are houseja!"

"And va'aja nevertheless. The fount of wealthy noblemen in Eruval is finite, you know." He was warming up to his topic - even without looking up Suen could sense the man's thoughts churning, high time for a lesson on social conventions, rather than pretty Seelies and baby mammals. "In your class - the noble class - it's more a matter of face than law or anything else. Traditionally, a married va'aja who knows magic insults his husband, because that says his husband can't protect him. A va'aja who works for pay insults his husband, because that says his husband can't provide for him. But a va'aja who knows Healing graces his husband, because that says his husband is a warrior. And of course, there's the religious element - but that's more a factor in the North than in the South."

"So - boys don't like it." The one on his right was casting a triumphant side-glance at him.

"You could say that. But I'm told that in the Southern courts, it's become popular these days to have a certain spell or charm associated with you. Consider - you're all fairly alike, unless you have unusually good looks or good breeding -"

"Some have unusually bad looks," the same one laughed. Suen colored. When the skin is paper-thin, even kittens' claws can tear it.

"No va'aja are ugly," the teacher replied automatically. "And political alliances and breeding matter much more with prospective wives. So you'll have to differentiate yourselves some other way, and you only have a courting period of a few years. Knowing an exotic charm or two isn't..a...poor...idea...."

The last few words sounded as if they were drowning under water, slow, distorted, resounding deep in Suen's chest. He couldn't hear the rest of the room now, only the echo of his own thoughts surrounding him like the vibrations within a huge bell. The scene became brighter and all the edges fuzzier and somehow warmer and softer, as if he were looking through a lens clouded with gold dust and nostalgia. His memory's eye. He was watching himself, his ten-year-old self, and he was becoming aware it was a dream - and not a good one, or rather one he'd rather forget.

He fought to wake. It was like paddling through heavy water to a receding sun.


***


There was warmth spilling on his face. His eyes fluttered open to streaks of ocherous sunlight on his nose and shoulders and chest. Above them he made out something flat and gray; the ceiling.

He wasn't dead. Necromancers, and somehow he was still alive.

He sat up so abruptly that he almost stumbled off the narrow bed. "Hello?" he tried.

No answer. The room was empty besides him, even of furniture except for the bed and what looked like an oval chamberpot in the far corner. This was probably a good thing. The last thing he'd seen had been the black smoke demon with the freakish eyes, and if those things were his captors...

The thought alone made him flinch and rub his sleep-stiff arms for a long moment. From what he'd read, those who lost themselves to Dark magic had few reasons to keep captives alive. All of them were painful.

Unless he hadn't been taken by them. Unless he'd been rescued somehow, after passing out...?

Now he stood and looked more closely at his surroundings. The sides of the room were smooth gray stone, the floor uneven and dented in places as if a giant had stomped there. A frayed tapestry of faded blue and beige geometrical design, studded with lusterless jewels, hung on the wall opposite the bed. To his right was a large iron door, and when hope blossomed in his chest he tried fiercely to smother it before approaching and trying the ribbed silver knob. Of course it was locked. He felt the tingle of latent spells in his fingers and realized with frustration that the locks extended to the magical. The room was much smaller than his own at home and he had a sinking feeling this was meant to be a prison cell. Captive, then.

The sunlight was coming through a barred window that sat high in the wall facing the door. He had to push the bed to the wall and take off his sandals - at least his clothes hadn't changed - and stand on the wooll-padded mattress to peer through the black bars. He tried shaking them but they held firm and bore no signs of rust or wear.

The first thing he saw were branches. There was an enormous oak tree that rose past his window. A few thick branches leaned tantalizing close to his ledge, but the bars seemed to ruin that prospect. Glancing down, he estimated he was about two floors above a field of wild grass sprinkled with scraggly hedges. There was a wide footpath that disappeared across his view. In the distance was a forest whose trees thinned as they neared the path as if plucked in random clusters. They looked like the slender pale-leafed things from Nemu, but it was too much to hope he was still in that forest - certainly there were no buildings of this size in Nemu, except for where the wardens and soldiers stayed at the perimeter, perhaps.

From what he could glimpse of the outside wall, the building was made of yellow stone. There was no sign of a window or opening near him. The sliver of shadow above him could have been the bottom edge of a turret, but it was mostly his imagination that placed him in a castle.

He had no idea where he was.

He had no idea where the others were; if his anja had escaped or been taken too. The latter thought was terrifying. It was already hopeless enough without imagining his gentle anja subject to ritual torture. That thought he tried to wave from his mind like a bothersome fly - surely Gaius would have gotten him away. He was among Father's most trustworthy men.

If they'd escaped they'd be back home by now in Cadenza, and an immediate search would have been launched for him. Judging by the mottled sky, he'd slept so long it was already evening. The clouds clinging low to the sunset were steeped in dense golds and corals and soft hints of lilac, like bruised peaches, and a brisk wind was starting to sweep the dying rays under the chill. The air was sweet, without the slightest note of rotting decay. Well, what were you expecting? he thought. Not every dark creature lives in perpetual night with a rattling graveyard guarding the door.

It had not felt that long. It had been a brief passage through night. Safeu-yazna, the Dreamfarer, thought him dead. But at the very end...what was it? Neither dream nor nightmare but something so perfectly lucid and detailed, even the inflections in his teacher's tone and the scuffmarks on the floor were just as he'd remembered them.
At least by his reckoning. Even when awake Suen couldn't have remembered that scene with such impeccable precision. There were only vague feelings, darting fish, iridescent pageants at the bottom of a bottomless pool. Impressions of burning shame and humiliation and laughter ringing in his ears, and the teacher saying things like it was okay, but not really, the way parents soothed small children about bedwetting.

He had just relived the memory. It nudged old places in him he thought were long shut, shrouded with cobwebs. If they shifted out of order, his whole body would collapse.

Don't be stupid. You're not one of those boy-crazy va'aja. He didn't care about the latest court fashions or morsels of gossip, even with most va'aja his age prodding him about Jussi and Fabian. So what if it wasn't very becoming - if it made him sound like a mannish stink-ogre? Didn't his own father, the most traditional man he knew, sanction his playing with basic magic? And his brothers never seemed to mind either. (Nanay thought it was cute.) It wasn't like he ever touched the elemental or combat spellbooks or the grimoires his brothers used in school. He'd learned Old Speech because he liked the exotic, lyrical feel of it on his tongue, because he liked to browse the ancient scrolls in their library, rubbing his fingers on the faded palimpsest like a happy cat, but he'd never ventured beyond simple spells that were useful at home - washing and scouring spells, little levitation spells to help pack, spells to repair and unlock, charms to make the birds sing. What was wrong with being a houseja anyway? It even helped him when he started studying Healing, with his tendency to spill everything in his reach.

And it helped him with the odd itch in his back. Ever since he was very young it'd flare for no reason, between the shoulderblades, after a period of not casting magic for a long time. A phantom rash. No ointment would cure it. But if he relented with a spell, any spell, it'd cool and fade.

Lost in thought, he was startled by the sound of clanking outside the door. There was nowhere to hide. Torn between backing up against the wall and holding his ground like someone who wasn't a coward, he froze as the doorknob twisted.

Never in Mardu's age could he have predicted what came next - a pale arm, and then the back of a slender blonde, his head craned away as if talking to someone down the hall. The blonde was balancing a silver tray of what looked like tin mugs and a tureen on his hips.

"Sorry, sorry - oh! You're awake."

The head turned and Suen saw that this - captor? - was shockingly young. A boy, no older or taller than himself.

Suen's first thought was that he was quite pretty, with a heart-shaped face that was dusted with freckles. He wore an loose, plain tunic and billowy dark green shorts, much wider and shorter-cut than Suen had ever seen on a man. Suen looked at him more closely and realized the boy had an undefinable, androgyne quality that was familiar. Va'aja. An almost kinship.

He didn't wear a sash. Suen had to resist a blush, remembering how his tutors said only common qiija, the street whores who danced in Caerlon's alleys, went sashless.

"Did you just wake? I checked in at noon, in case you were hungry." The boy looked flustered, but there was a hint of a halfhearted smile on his lips. "I brought you some stew and water. I'm Lulal, by the way."

Suen rushed to the door, his fear forgotten. "Where am I? Who's keeping me? Do you know who I -"

"I'm sorry...I'm not supposed to say." Lulal bit his lip. "But don't worry. You're not in any danger here. They - my master - said you have to stay for a while, but you'll be let out -"

"Your master? Who is he?"

"Well...that's not important. But he really doesn't mean you harm."

The words hardly reassured Suen. Lulal didn't look too sure himself. "Not - necromancers?"

"What?" Now the boy looked confused. "What's that? No, we're Eruvali -" He caught himself at the end and flushed, as if he'd just given something away. He pushed the tray at Suen, who automatically took it in his arms.

Suen pressed on. "My father's Devanal il Cedirne, Captain of Il Essan's Guard. He'll send out men for me. Please - I'm sure he'd pay a ransom."

"Yes, we know that, we know your father. Please, don't worry. You won't be harmed here, and you will be let go when it's all said and done."

"When? When will I be let go?"

Lulal's mouth twisted in a guilty frown. "I really don't know, but I don't think it'll be terribly long, or you'd go crazy in this room by yourself. I'm only ordered to bring food and make sure you're alright. Here - I brought a coverlet too, in case it gets cold at night..." He bent down and Suen saw a buttercup-yellow bundle on the ground just behind him. At Suen's hopeful glance, he added, "I wouldn't advise you to try to escape. There are guards in the hallway and all over the building. And they're not very nice."

"I don't even know where I am," Suen muttered, surly. He watched the door shut with a thud as Lulal stepped into the room and began smoothing out the bed-linen.

He did feel somewhat more relieved now. He wasn't being treated badly or deprived of food. That meant they wanted to keep him alive, right? The ransom idea made sense. Why else would they want to kidnap and keep a va'aja? He might be a Captain's son but he knew nothing useful to give up for torture. In the stories it was always forced marriage (or if a villain, rape) but he wasn't mythically beautiful and no one had a feud with his family.

That reminded him: "Has anyone else been taken too? My anja was with me..."

Lulal shook his head. His flaxen hair made a kind of wispy halo around his face. "No, I'm quite sure it's just you." He patted the bed and stood up, regarding Suen awkwardly. "I'll be back to pick up the tray before dawn. If you need a light, you can touch the moonstones like this..." He tapped one of the jewels on the tapestry, which filled instantly with a soft white glow. Another tap and it was dim again.

Suen was still brimming with questions but with a sort of clumsy half-bow, Lulal left him.

The stew was hearty and surprisingly good. Lulal came with more food and changed the chamberpot the next day, but could not tell him more. Suen decided to stop pressing the va'aja; it was obvious Lulal felt bad for him, but any servant would be in serious trouble if they violated orders - especially if their master was the kind who'd ambush and kidnap children. With no one else coming, Suen even started looking forward to his thrice-a-day visits. Lulal was happy to talk about himself and apparently he was Suen's age, only a little older, and a native of Caerlon, but common-born, and very admiring of Suen's jaek'ha.
But the visits were only brief respites. Suen spent the days staring out the window and the nights staring at the tapestry, whose moonstones traced an abstract rosette. He called out from time to time and his voice was a forlorn echo. There was no sign of men, or even birds for that matter. It was like the forest was dead.

He yearned for his books. Not only to pass the time but to slake his imagination, which was bored and more morbid than he'd ever realized. He retold the tales of Thalan the Wanderer and Leif Half-blade out loud, like a bard with a mean streak. Armies of ghosts. Poems carved on the faces of cliffs. Blood feuds in rose-red cities, under domed skies teeming with skyships and alien curses. His tutors liked to sniff that the Southlanders were effete, that they wasted time studying magic for its own sake rather than for useful things like war. That before and after the Empire they were essentially an endless harem of dancing boys, bereft of the bloodline cants that were the pride of the Eruvali warrior houses. What versions were they reading? Suen marveled. The Southlands of his stories was beautiful - and lawless and savage. A vast mythscape of Great Deeds that left someone or something or many things dead. Knights everywhere were cruel, when you thought of it.


***


Day bled into night bled into day. Like sloppy paintstrokes, dotted with the intermittent entrances of his young attendant. He found he was constantly sleeping through the afternoons, ensnared in memory dreams of the sort he had the first day, and at broken intervals through the night. The memories were random and mostly prosaic. He missed home badly; they were salt on the wound. Brandur the Fair, of house Heindal, the golden-maned knight from the North he'd seen a grand total of twice in his life, featured both times. Both times he realized the knight's handsomeness wasn't mere rumor or the afterglow of a childhood nostalgia.

He wondered if that was a sign for the future. He wondered if he'd be happy about it.


***


So when he did have a real dream, it took him by surprise. In it he opened his eyes and saw the window bars ripple, as if the night air were distorted, and transform into the silhouette of a snake. He held his breath - and then in the next second, the head shook and split in three. Three pairs of beady eyes watched him unblinking, unmoving. He was about to scream but then the creature was gone and he was waking up. His cotton jaek'ha was damp and sticky with sweat. He took it off and cast cleaning spells on it by the moonlight, almost with a vengeance. Its stripes faded and he couldn't care anymore.

The next day was Fifthsday by his reckoning; it'd been a week since he'd been captured. He'd never performed the devotions without a priest before, but it couldn't be helped. He stayed up for the dawn and tried to kneel on the floor as solemnly as possible, facing the East. His prayers were more like pleas. Navija-yazna was the god-aspect of va'aja but a whimsical being of light and air and not especially merciful to naughty little va'aja who weren't as devout as they ought to be. Aemona was so isolated it didn't have a musdin so he had - he winced to think of it now - rather flippantly neglected the rites. Well, if he got back home he'd leave offerings to Navija every day. Every - single - day, he repeated firmly.

Frustration gnawed at him. Why were the negotiations taking so long? The house of Cedirne didn't lack for money. It had to be something else. Something that injured his father's pride.

Finishing the rites he stood up, smoothing the front of his jaek'ha. His knees ached from the stone floor. Compulsively, he looked up at the window bars.

There was a man outside.

A man - or a youth, in huntsman's attire. It was hard to tell in the shadows but the face looked young. His skin was olive tanned like a Southerner and he was sitting without the slightest movement on the branch as if it were a bench, very casually.

He was looking at Suen. His gaze didn't waver.

Suen gaped. The huntsman had no arrow yet he was pinned. He'd thought - Lulal thought - no one else was allowed to see him.

They stared at each other for a long moment.

The awkwardness finally forced him to clear his throat. "...H-hello?" It sounded weaker than he'd hoped.

Something shifted in the huntsman's eyes.

It looked like - hatred. Venom. Of a sheer intensity Suen had never, ever seen before. Stunned, he stumbled backwards. But before he could utter another word, the stranger fled.

Shocked into action, Suen ran to the window. The branch was barely swaying. There was, impossibly, no one on the ground.

He'd been in deep danger just then, he realized. Those black eyes, scorched with hatred....the man was foe to him. His heart was still thudding. Yet - it wasn't really fear that gorged it, but a bizarre flush of excitement. Bad or not, something had finally happened, someone had finally appeared.

He shook his head. By Mar, was he that desperate to see someone who wasn't Lulal? Of course it hadn't really been that long, but Suen was growing aware of the fact he'd never actually been away from his family before. Cadenza had been his whole world. Even before Nanay, when other folks clucked their tongues at the sight of him - poor dear, no mother, a household of men and no anja - there was always Jussi, who was like three boys at once, and Father tried.

He'd thought himself a solitary spirit. That thought looked small and selfish now.


***


The brief episode renewed him.

It was high time to stop wallowing in his own misery like a wilting princess. Va'aja or not, he was still a son of the house of Cedirne, which was old and respected in the south provinces. His brothers wouldn't be scared and depressed, they'd be too busy upholding the family name (how, he had no idea given that only one person ever came into the room...but Fabian would've figured out how to break through the lock and Jussi probably would've charmed his way out by now - or rather, charmed Lulal into his bed, which was a gross thought that made Suen blush). And as dejected as he was, his family had to be feeling even worse; they had no idea if he was being mistreated or not, while it did look like his anja had escaped.

The stranger didn't come again, nor did any other person besides Lulal, for that matter. In the meantime Suen started rising at dawn rigorously, sleeping at nightfall, finishing his meals, doing some exercises, cleaning the bedsheets. He even tried the cleaning spell on his hair, but panicked when a few locks started changing color. He didn't like his plain brown hair much, but apparently chestnut faded into something far worse.

Days passed. He started counting on his toes.

***

He woke up to shouting.

"Get up. Get up!" His blanket was jerked off his body. He gasped, stunned to wakeness in an instant - it was cold.

"It's hardly a big deal, Trask." A second voice, bemused. "It's just a child."

Suen almost tumbled off the bed, bumping into a pair of legs, which were clad in black breeches and boots. They belonged to a pale-haired, hawk-nosed man who was sneering down at him as if he were a cornered rodent. Looking around frantically, Suen saw another man standing in the doorway, leaning against the post.

"And a spawn of Cedirne." The one beside him yanked him up by the arm, dragging him to the door. Too shocked to protest, Suen could only wince in pain. "What does he think he's doing? We had a plan -"

"Still in effect. Do keep going though. Reveal it all, why don't you."

The grip tightened. "I mean with the brat."

Suen was physically persuaded out the room. He had a brief thought this was supposed to feel like freedom, but everything was passing too quickly to register. The corridor was long and narrow and gray, lit by overhead braziers, empty of tapestry and statue or any other sign that someone owned these halls. But Lulal was right; there were guardsmen at the end, faces hidden behind armor, who nodded at his companions as they went past.

The one that was apparently called Trask pulled him half-stumbling down a narrow spiral stairway. The other one lagged slightly behind them like a shadow. He had long brown hair that was clasped loosely at the nape, in the manner of a fashion-conscious courtier. In the torchlight Suen could see what looked like a small smile flickering on his lips.

Both were dressed casually in loose shirts and jerkin, not so different from what his brothers wore at home. There was no uniform or mage's crest to identify them by. They bore no swords and Suen couldn't tell if they were noblemen or thieves or worse.

The steps seemed endless, but finally they halted at the bottom. There was only a wall there. It looked like a dead end and Suen was still staring with bewilderment, cheeks flushed with exertion, when Trask pressed a hand to it and muttered what sounded like a curt spell under his breath.

A large section of the wall disappeared. He was staring at the night sky.

"Well. Let's not keep the Baron waiting," said the long-haired one. He loped through the hole with brisk, purposeful strides. Suen had barely caught his breath before Trask yanked him after him. Both of them were tall and long-legged and he struggled to keep up, painfully reminded of how long it'd been since he'd really walked.

The feel of the grass beneath him was heavenly. Beside them he could see that the building was indeed a yellow-stone castle or fortress, far larger than he'd guessed, with sharp corners and flag-less turrets jutting past the crenelated battlement. There were no moats or gardens. It was an ugly, functional beast unlike the elaborate palaces he was used to seeing.

He looked at the one that wasn't dragging him like a sack of potatoes. "Am I - am I going home?" Trying not to sound too hopeful.

Long-hair chuckled. "Well, I hate to say it. But that was the plan."

"That his highness has decided to retract." Trask's voice was scathing. "Tough luck, brat. You're staying. Forever."

"Ahem. That's a bit of an exaggeration on Sir Cheerful's part -"

"Wait. Wait!" Suen stopped in his tracks, jerking back his arm. "What do you mean, I'm staying? What about - the ransom -"

"What ransom?" Long-hair blinked owlishly.

Suen gaped at him. "I thought - you kidnapped me for money."

"Money? Oh my. Are we bandits now?" The man turned to Trask in a show of indignation. "I thought the rumor was necromancers."

"I'm not the illusionist," Trask muttered. "The red eyes are a poor flourish. If Highfolk knew anything at all, they'd realize the similarity to the highland badger wraith."

"Then - why? I mean, I was stuck in that room doing nothing -"

"Well, that was sort of the point." Long-hair patted Suen's head, as if he were a small child. "We'd picked the most isolated room we could find. In due reason - Trask wanted to shove you in a dungeon, but they're quite moldy this time of year. You would've been let go, in time. Problem is - you've seen us now. And you'll see the Baron, which is even worse. Sorry, lad. Is it still 'lad' if you're a va'aja?" He strode forward without waiting for a reply.

Suen rushed to follow him. "But why? I don't even know anything about you two, or - or whatever's going on -"

"Oh, it's not you," he replied airily. "We make fun of them but the king does have a few mindseers of some ability, you know. Butchers, really."

It took a moment for Suen to realize what he meant. "So you mean - they can look through my mind? My memory?"

They turned the corner. Now Suen could finally see where the empty trail outside his window led. The sky was not yet completely dark; outlined against the rich blue there were trees in the distance, moving strangely. Then he heard something that sounded like shouts, amid bits of metal, clanging, and the unmistakable neighs of horses. Village noise.

So they definitely weren't in Nemu anymore. And he was surrounded by men. Suen's heart sank.

"Look? Ransack, more like."

"Why would they even bother? I'm just a va'aja. I'll tell everyone I stayed in a room and didn't see anything."

"Va'aja or no..." The man's smile was wistful, his voice sing-song. "They would've been quite interested in you when you did get back."

"Don't half-speak, Blaive." Trask was an ominous, sneering presence behind them. "A nitwit could start guessing by now."

"I am a nitwit. I don't have a clue why you'd take me and lock me in some tower and not bother with a ransom. Or why you're so determined not to let others see you."

"That hardly needs saying. Va'aja brats never know anything besides unicorns, glamours, and leg-spreading."

Trask's crudity nearly shocked him into silence. "I - you - I'm a virgin -"

They were nearing the encampment now. The smell of horses and ash and earth was pungent, the ground unpaved, well-tramped dirt. There were indeed men, in what looked like soldiers' tack, moving among squat stone houses and smoking braziers and the remnants of campfires. A few glanced curiously at them, but didn't address them. His captors didn't pause. Suen could hear snatches of their conversation - Eruvali, some in harsh Northern accents, others in clipped Western lilt. Yet others had that broad drawl that made them sound like his Father's men. It reminded him that he couldn't discern any accent in his captors' speech; Southerners, then, and maybe even Highfolk.

"Virgin? Say it louder then. The men here will be pleased to hear it." Trask leered. Suen shrank back; Highfolk, my ass.

The other man - Blaive - laughed softly. "Now he'll think we're a secret alliance of rapists." The idea seemed to amuse him greatly. They were heading out the encampment and he was leading the way into a copse of enormous scattered trees, carefully picking his way through the undergrowth, humming something incomprehensible under his breath. As he went he would reach up from time to time, his hand disappearing in the branches, skimming the lower leaves.

Finally he paused, head cocked as if listening for something. "Don't worry, only Trask is. The Baron doesn't condone any nefarious molesting of children." He sounded disappointed.

"I'm not a child," Suen muttered, rubbing his bruised arm. There were so many things he wanted to ask, so many demands he wanted to make, but it seemed like these two weren't the ones with information. Trask was an ogre and Blaive was just...a bit strange, in a way Suen couldn't quite put his finger on. "So this Baron - he's the one who changed the plans?"

"He's the one."

"And we're going to him now."

"Right this second."

"So if I can convince him to let me go...?"

"We'd listen." Blaive was looking at Trask. "Of course."

"Of course," Trask said.

Blaive's hand made a tugging motion in the leaves. Something swayed - a bough. And a sense of anticipation.

A moment later, they felt it.

It started with a murmur. Then - it was definite. The ground was rumbling - not like a quake, but very quietly, the way a man's shoulders shake in mirth. As if something was churning below them, deep in the heart of the earth. With a gasp, Suen stepped back. The others barely moved.

There is a type of enchanted beanstalk in the Northwestern provinces that grows astonishingly fast, right before your eyes, like a verdant rope surging to the sky. Suen had seen it once at the gardens of the Duke of Poetovia, whom his uncle served. It was pointless to cut it down; it would regrow with miraculous haste. The Poetovians made barstools from it.

This was something like that. Suen watched wide-eyed as the tree in front of them rose, ten feet, twenty feet, like a hellish beast shaking off sleep. But it wasn't the tree itself that was thrusting up, but the roots - knobby, twisted, spider-like things on either side of the tree that were pulling away from the earth, bearing its weight with ease, leaving a cavernous space beneath.

It crouched.

"It's a bit flashy," Blaive was saying. He half-sat on one of the roots, stretching his legs delicately, like a fussy, languid cat. "Well, after you. Guests first, my amma used to say. That's how she survived the dragon's den."

"Oh, this is - this is absolutely amazing..." Suen was still staring with awe at the tree, before realizing how simpleton he sounded and flushing. "I mean, it's interesting. But...there's nothing under there. It's just dirt."

"Oh. Right." Blaive waved his hand. "They don't teach va'aja magic, do they. Well, illusions and limeni and all that."

"Limeni?"

"Thresholds. But that's so plebeian. Don't stand there - walk through."

Suen peered through the space doubtfully. From what he could see, they'd only walk through to the other side. To grass, bracken, the eerie glow of moonlight. The hole was so large several men could stride through without brushing shoulders.

He stepped in anyway, his nose filling with the musky scent of wild earth and dew. He made a face; he had a primordial fear of spiders and worms and this was just what he imagined what a den for crawling night-creatures must look like. His shoulderblades itched. Trask and Blaive were dark shapes, soft breaths, behind him.

A thought struck him. "Why didn't you just use illusions the whole time? You could've kept up the necromancer act, and that's all the - the mindseers - would've seen. You didn't have to show yourselves."

"Hm. You're right." Blaive's voice was cheerful. "We weren't very thoughtful, were we."

He came up to Suen's side, long arm reaching out as if to brush aside a veil. In the dark Suen could feel him smiling. "But you couldn't have left anyway, the Baron's made up his mind. Don't worry though. Bluebeard doesn't really kill all his wives."

***


A/N: "Bluebeard" alludes to the eponymous French fairytale by Perrault, in which the young wife of a wealthy man with a blue beard gets a little too curious one day - and makes a gruesome discovery in his closet. You can read an annoted English version here: http://www.surlalunefairytales.com/bluebeard/index.html.

The beanstalk is a reference to Jack and the Giant Beanstalk, of course. :)

I often don't like things that are strange just for the sake of being strange, so I try to make sure most of the quirkier things have explanations - but it might take a while, so you'll have to be very patient (sorry, sorry). Like why Suen has memories in that room, the three-headed snake, Brandur the Fair, the capricious rash, the usage of sashes, the stranger, etc.

Geography is a huge deal in Eruval, which is why Suen is constantly noting Northern vs Southern. The kingdom is shaped like a vertical strip, and its most important border is the southern one with the Southlands, because traditionally Eruval and the Southlands have constantly been at war. (In fact, long ago Eruval once conquered all of the Southlands and many of the western kingdoms, creating the Valian Empire, before falling back during the Reconquest.) "True" Eruvali are Northerners, fair-skinned and pale-haired, tall, broad, and warlike; the Southern provinces have much more Southland influence and the people there tend to have slightly darker coloring and slighter frames. The oldest and most powerful families are generally Northern, as the warrior caste is the highest in society and the seat of government is located there, but the South tends to be more cosmopolitan due to trade and more fertile than the resource-poor North.

Suen's story is the main one, but I'm hoping to show much more of northern Eruval in the interludes that will cover other storylines.