There were four travelers there, two men and two women. At the sound of his voice they rose to their feet, but none of them spoke. The old man waited politely, trying to appear pleasant and harmless. But the quiet stretched on, long as long, and still no word was spoken.
Understandably, the old man grew irritated. He was used to being shunned or shrugged aside, but these folk merely stood. They were quiet and restless, moving from foot to foot while their hands twitched nervously.
Just as he was about to sulk away, the fire flared and the beggar saw the four wore the blood-red clothes that marked them as Adem mercenaries. Then the old man understood. The Adem are called the silent folk, and they speak only rarely.
The old man knew many stories of the Adem. He’d heard that they possessed a secret craft called the Lethani. This let them wear their quiet like an armor that would turn a blade or stop an arrow in the air. This is why they seldom spoke. They saved their words, keeping them inside like coals in the belly of a furnace.
Those hoarded words filled them with so much restless energy that they could never be completely still, which is why they were always twitching and fidgeting about. Then when they fought, they used their secret craft to burn those words like fuel inside themselves. This made them strong as bears and fast as snakes.
When the beggar first heard these rumors, he thought them silly campfire stories. But years ago in Modeg, he had seen an Adem woman fight the city guard. The soldiers were armed and armored, thick of arm and chest. They had demanded to see the woman’s sword in the king’s name, and though hesitant, she presented it to them. As soon as they held it in their hands, they had leered and pawed at her, making lewd suggestions about what she could do to get it back.
They were tall men with bright armor and their swords were sharp. They fell like autumn wheat before her. She killed three of them, breaking their bones with her hands.
Her own wounds were minor by comparison, a dark bruise along one cheek, a slight limp, a shallow cut across one hand. Even after all the long years, the old man remembered the way she had licked the blood from the back of her hand like a cat.
This is what the old beggar thought of when he saw the Adem standing there. All thought of food and fire left him, and he backed slowly into the shelter of the surrounding trees.
Then he set off toward the next fire, hoping third time would prove lucky.
At this clearing were a number of Aturans standing around a dead donkey lying near a cart. One of them spotted the old man. “Look!” he pointed. “Grab him! We’ll hitch him to the cart and make him pull!”
The old man darted back into the trees, and after running to and fro, he lost the Aturans by hiding under a pile of moldering leaves.
When the sound of the Aturans faded, the old man dragged himself from the leaves and found his walking stick. Then, with the courage of one who is poor and hungry, he set off to the fourth fire he saw in the distance.
There he might have found what he was looking for, because around the fire were traders from Vintas. Had things been different they might have welcomed him to dinner, saying, “Where six can eat, seven can eat.”
But by this point the old man was quite a sight. His hair stuck from his head in wild disarray. His robe, ragged before, was now torn and dirty. His face was pale from fright, and his breathing groaned and wheezed in his chest.
Because of this, the Vints gasped and made gestures before their faces. They thought he was a barrow draug, you see, one of the unquiet dead that superstitious Vints believe walk the night.
Each of the Vints had a different thought as to how they could stop him. Some thought fire would frighten him off, some thought salt scattered on the grass would keep him away, some thought iron would cut the strings that held the soul to his dead body.
Listening to them argue, the old beggar realized that no matter what they agreed on, he would not be the better for it. So he hurried back to the sheltering trees.
The old man found a rock to sit on and brushed the dead leaves and dirt away as best he could. After sitting for a while he thought to try one final campsite, knowing it would only take one generous traveler to fill his belly.
He was pleased to see a lone man sitting at the final fire. Coming closer, he saw a thing that left him both delighted and afraid, for though the beggar had lived many years, he had never before spoken to one of the Amyr.
Still, he knew the Amyr were a part of Tehlu’s church, and—
“They weren’t part of the church,” Wilem said.
“What? Of course they were.”
“No, they were of the Aturan bureaucracy. They had . . . Vecarum—judiciary powers.”
“They were called the Holy Order of Amyr. They were the strong right hand of the church.”
“Bet a jot?”
“Fine. If it will keep you quiet through the rest of the story.”
The old beggar was delighted, for he knew the Amyr were a part of Tehlu’s church, and the church was sometimes generous to the poor.
The Amyr came to his feet as the old man approached. “Who goes there?” he asked. His voice was proud and powerful, but also tired. “Know I am of the Order Amyr. None should come between me and my tasks. I will act for the good of all, though Gods and men might bar my way.”
“Sir,” the beggar said, “I’m just hoping for a piece of fire and some charity on a long road.”
The Amyr gestured the old man forward. He was armored in a suit of bright steel rings, and his sword was tall as a man. His tabard was of shining white, but from the elbows the color darkened into crimson, as if dipped in blood. In the center of his chest, he wore the symbol of the Amyr: the black tower wrapped in a crimson flame.
The old man sat near the fire and gave a sigh as the heat soaked into his bones.
After a moment, the Amyr spoke, “I’m afraid I can offer you nothing to eat. My horse eats better than I do tonight, but that does not mean that he eats well.”
“Anything would be a lovely help,” the old man said. “Scraps are more than what I have. I am not proud.”
The Amyr sighed. “Tomorrow I must ride fifty miles to stop a trial. If I fail or falter, an innocent woman will die. This is all I have.” The Amyr gestured to a piece of cloth with a crust of bread and a sliver of cheese. Both of them together would hardly be enough to dent the old man’s hunger. It made a poor dinner for a man as large as the Amyr.
“Tomorrow I must ride and fight,” the armored man said. “I need my strength. So I must weigh your night of hunger against this woman’s life.” As he spoke, the Amyr raised his hands and held them palms up, like the plates of a balancing scale.
When he made this motion, the old beggar saw the backs of the Amyr’s hands, and for a second he thought the Amyr had cut himself, and that blood was running between his fingers and down his arms. Then the fire shifted and the beggar saw it was only a tattoo, though he still shivered at the bloody markings on the Amyr’s hands and arms.
He would have done more than shiver had he known all that those markings meant. They showed the Amyr was trusted so completely by the Order that his actions would never be questioned. And as the Order stood behind him, no church, no court, no king could move against him. For he was one of the Ciridae, highest of the Amyr.
If he killed an unarmed man, it was not murder in the Order’s eyes. If he strangled a pregnant woman in the middle of the street, none would speak against him. Should he burn a church or break an old stone bridge, the empire held him blameless, trusting all he did was in the service of the greater good.
But the beggar knew none of this, and so he tried again. “If you don’t have any food to spare, could I have a penny or two?” He thought of the Cealdish camp, and how he might buy a slice of meat or bread.
The Amyr shook his head. “If I did, I would gladly give it. But three days ago I gave the last of my money to a new widower with a hungry child. I have been penniless as you are ever since.” He shook his head, his expression wea
ry and full of regret. “I wish circumstances were different. But I now must sleep, so you must go.”
The old man was hardly happy about this, but there was something in the Amyr’s voice that made him wary. So he creaked back onto his feet and left the fire behind.
Before the warmth of the Amyr’s fire could leave him, the old man tightened his belt and made up his mind to simply walk through ’til morning. Hoping the end of his road might bring him better luck, or at least a meeting with some kinder folk.
So he walked through the center of Faeriniel, and as he did, he saw a circle of great grey stones. Inside that circle was the faint glow of firelight hidden in a well-dug pit. The old man noticed he couldn’t smell a wisp of smoke either, and realized these folk were burning rennel wood, which burns hot and hard, but doesn’t smoke or stink.
Then the old man saw that two of the great shapes were not stones at all. They were wagons. A handful of people huddled round a cookpot in the dim light of the fire.
But the old man didn’t have a shred of hope left, so he kept walking. He was almost past the stones when a voice called out: “Ho there! Who are you, and why do you pass by so quietly at night?”
“I’m nobody,” the old man said. “Just an old beggar, following my road until its end.”
“Why are you out walking instead of settling down to sleep? These roads are not all safe at night,” the voice replied.
“I have no bed,” the old man said. “And tonight I cannot beg or borrow one for all the world.”
“There is one here for you, if you would like it. And a bit of dinner if you’ve a mind to share. No one should walk all day and night besides.” A handsome, bearded man stepped from the concealment of the tall grey stones. He took the old man’s elbow and led him toward the fire, calling ahead, “We have a guest tonight!”
There was a small stir of motion ahead of them, but the night was moonless and their fire was deep in a concealing pit, so the beggar couldn’t see much of what was being done. Curious, he asked, “Why do you hide your fire?”
His host sighed. “Not all folk are filled with love for us. We’re safest by being out of harm’s way. Besides, our fire is small tonight.”
“Why is that?” the beggar asked. “With so many trees, wood should be easy to come by.”
“We went gathering earlier,” the bearded man explained. “But folk called us thieves and shot arrows at us.” He shrugged. “So we make do, and tomorrow will take care of itself.” He shook his head. “But I am talking too much. May I offer you a drink, father?”
“A bit of water, if you can spare it.”
“Nonsense, you will have wine.”
It had been a long time since the beggar had tasted wine, and the thought of it was enough to set his mouth all a-watering. But he knew wine was not the best thing for an empty stomach that had walked all day, so he said, “You are kind, bless you. But water is good enough for me.”
The man at his elbow smiled. “Then have water and wine, each to your desire.” And saying so he brought the beggar to their water barrel.
The old beggar bent and drew up a ladle of water. When it touched his lips it was cool and sweet, but as he drew up the ladle, he couldn’t help but notice the barrel was very nearly empty.
In spite of this, his host urged him, “Take another and wash the dust from your hands and face. I can tell you’ve been on the road for a long and weary while.” So the old beggar took a second dipper of water, and once his hands and face were clean, he felt much refreshed.
Then his host took his elbow again and led him to the fire. “What is your name, father?”
Again the beggar was surprised. It had been years since anyone had cared enough to ask his name. It had been so long he had to stop and think about it for a moment. “Sceop,” he said at last. “I am called Sceop, and you?”
“My name is Terris,” his host said as he made the old man comfortable close to the fire. “This is Silla, my wife, and Wint, our son. This is Shari and Benthum and Lil and Peter and Fent.”
Then Terris brought Sceop wine. Silla gave him a heavy ladle of potato soup, a slice of warm bread, and half a golden summer squash with sweet butter in the bowl of it. It was plain, and there was not a lot, but to Sceop it seemed a feast. And as he ate, Wint kept his cup full of wine, and smiled at him, and sat by his knee and called him grandfather.
The last was too much for the old beggar, and he began to cry softly. Perhaps it was that he was old, and his day had been a long one. Perhaps it was that he was not used to kindness. Perhaps it was the wine. Whatever the reason, tears began to trickle down his face and lose themselves in his deep white beard.
Terris saw this and was quick to ask, “Father, whatever is the matter?”
“I am a silly old man,” Sceop said, more to himself than to the rest of them. “You have been kinder to me than anyone in years, and I am sorry I cannot repay you.”
Terris smiled and laid a hand on the old man’s back. “Would you really like to pay?”
“I cannot. I have nothing to give you.”
Terris’s smile widened. “Sceop. We are the Edema Ruh. The thing we value most is something everyone possesses.” One by one, Sceop saw the faces around the fire look up at him expectantly. Terris said, “You could tell us your story.”
Not knowing what else to do, Sceop began to speak. He told how he had come to Faeriniel. How he had walked from one fire to the next, hoping for charity. At first his voice faltered and his story stumbled, for he had been alone a long time and was not used to talking. But soon his voice became stronger, his words bolder, and as the fire flickered and reflected in his bright blue eyes, his hands danced along with his old dried voice. Even the Edema Ruh, who know all the stories in the world, could do nothing but listen in wonder.
When his story came to an end the troupers stirred as if waking from a deep sleep. For a moment they did nothing but look at each other, then they looked at Sceop.
Terris knew what they were thinking. “Sceop,” he asked gently. “Where were you headed, when I stopped you tonight?”
“I was going to Tinuë,” said Sceop, who was a little embarrassed at how caught up in the story he had become. His face was hot and red, and he felt foolish.
“We are bound for Belenay ourselves,” Terris said. “Would you consider coming with us instead?”
For a moment Sceop’s face lit with hope, but then it fell. “I would be nothing but a burden. Even a beggar has his pride.”
Terris laughed. “You would tell the Edema about pride? We do not ask you out of pity. We ask because you belong in our family, and we would have you tell us a dozen dozen stories in the years to come.”
The beggar shook his head. “My blood is not yours. I am not a part of your family.”
“What does that have to do with the price of butter?” Terris asked. “We Ruh decide who is a part of our family and who is not. You belong with us. Look around and see if I am lying.”
Sceop looked up at the circle of faces and saw what Terris said was true.
And so the old man stayed, and lived with them for many years before they parted ways. Many things he saw, and many stories he told, and everyone was wiser in the end because of it.
This thing happened, though it was years and miles away. I have heard it from the mouths of the Edema Ruh, and thus I know it to be true.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Kernels of Truth
“IS THAT THE END?” Simmon asked after a polite pause. He was on his back, looking up at the stars.
“Yes.”
“It didn’t end the way I thought it would,” he said.
“What did you expect?”
“I was waiting to find out who the beggar really was. I thought as soon as someone was nice to him, he would turn out to be Taborlin the Great. Then he would give them his walking stick and a sack of money and . . .I don’t know. Make something magical happen.”
Wilem spoke up. “He’d say, ‘Whenever you are
in danger knock this stick on the ground and say “stick be quick,” ’ and then the stick would whirl around and defend them from whoever was attacking them.” Wilem was lying on his back in the tall grass, too. “I didn’t think he was really an old beggar.”
“Old beggars in stories are never really old beggars,” Simmon said with hint of accusation in his voice. “They’re always a witch or a prince or an angel or something.”
“In real life old beggars are almost always old beggars,” I pointed out. “But I know what kind of story you two are thinking about. Those are stories we tell other people to entertain them. This story is different. It’s one we tell each other.”
“Why tell a story if it’s not entertaining?”
“To help us remember. To teach us—” I made a vague gesture. “Things.”
“Like exaggerated stereotypes?” Simmon asked.
“What do you mean by that?” I asked, nettled.
“ ‘Tie him to the wagon and make him pull’?” Simmon made a disgusted noise. “I’d be offended if I didn’t know you.”
“If I didn’t know you,” I said hotly,“I’d be offended. Do you know Aturans used to kill people if they found them living on the road? One of your emperors declared them to be detrimental to the empire. Most were little more than beggars who had lost their homes because of the wars and taxes. Most were simply press-ganged into military service.”
I tugged at the front of my shirt. “But the Edema were especially prized. They hunted us like foxes. For a hundred years Ruh-hunt was a favorite pastime among the Aturan upper crust.”
A profound silence fell. My throat hurt, and I realized I’d been shouting.
Simmon’s voice was muffled. “I didn’t know that.”
I kicked myself mentally and sighed. “I’m sorry Simmon. It’s a . . . It was a long time ago. And it’s not your fault. It’s an old story.”
“It would have to be, to have a reference to the Amyr,” Wilem said, obviously trying to change the subject. “They disbanded what? Three hundred years ago?”
“Still,” I said. “There’s some truth in most stereotypes. A seed they sprouted from.”