Heir of Scars I: Parts 1-8 (61 page)

Adria considered many answers before the next day, each a little more crafted from the last, each a little more clever, until she was not even certain which question she was meant to answer. By the time they arrived, her head was filled with cacophony, a storm of ravens.

“Do you think in words?”

“Yes...?” She answered, half uncertain, half defiant.

“Who are you talking to?”

Adria was so prepared for the blow, and so filled with answers in circles, that she now found herself exhausted when at last she had need of her wit. She blinked, already flinching, and then simply gave the most obvious answer, even if it seemed ridiculous.

“I… I am talking to me.”

And there was no attack. He simply stood silently for a moment, and then, as he had before, returned to camp.

It was a progress,
she sensed, but she knew she was not finished.

You think you don’t understand, he had said the first time. 
That is why you don’t understand.

Perhaps it is not a riddle, 
she wondered that night as she drifted to sleep to Chasebatu’s watch song. 
Perhaps there are simply no words to explain it.

She bolted awake that night, with the memory of a dream fading, water and air, falling apples and falling. A dream without words.

Preinon awoke as she entered his tent, having forgotten to scratch on the flap. Half dazed and half excited and still half asleep, she stood between him and the firelight for a moment before speaking, in a mixture of languages.

“
I am afraid.
 I think, and
so I don’t understand
. 
I talk to myself…
as if I don’t already know. I react instead of act. 
A mind divided can only defeat itself.
”

He said nothing.

“When I saved Náme at the camp, I was not afraid. I did not wait for your signal or follow the plan.
In the end, I did not think, I did not react. I acted, and there were no words.
The words only came after, when I tried to make sense of it.”

He half rose and shook his head, or perhaps nodded. Adria realized it was daylight inside the tent, though she knew it was night, and then she saw that it was not Preinon who sat before her, but her father, Ebenhardt, and he whispered, “You are dreaming.”

You are dreaming,
 Adria repeated to herself the next morning, as she awoke, as she rolled up her bedroll, as she prepared and ate her breakfast. Long after the dream itself had half faded, she repeated these words, even as they walked again into the woods.

As they entered the glade, Adria closed her eyes and followed Preinon’s footsteps. He might have been her father then instead of her uncle. He might have been friend or enemy. As even the words of the dream faded into silence, anything might have been.

When he stopped and turned, she opened her eyes only a fragment, and saw the world as a reflection upon rippled water. Beneath its surface, all things were full of light, and she could see the motion of this light within the motions of the world.

A crow which flew before it lifted its wings. The open petals of a flower which had not yet unfolded from the bud. The sun and stars as they turned above, in ever-changing dance.

The dream of our world we all bring to life.

And the lips of her uncle which had not yet begun to speak.

“Do... you… think… in…?”

Reflections on rippling water.

She had but to reach out and make her own ripples upon the water to change the world.

They moved at once, and the world stilled around them, watching, waiting, its breath held utterly. He may have spoken the words, or might not have. They may have happened too slowly for her to hear. They may have been an echo in her head, from before or after.

It did not matter, there was only the motion. Thoughts and words would come later, in the memory of the dream, and not the dream.

This has already happened…

Theirs was more of a dance than a battle. Where his arms reached out to push her, she had already turned aside, and his half correction alike was countered. He had only to alter his intent and she knew it, changing her motions accordingly, which he was able to counter just the same.

He turned to strike with his other hand, and she was not there. His leg rose, and hers had moved just enough to push it aside. When their unarmed limbs could not connect, they drew blades, Preinon pulling a knife from a sheath on his shoulder, while Adria drew hers from her belt, and the balance was disrupted. With his blade his speed seemed to increase.

She dropped to the side, half-rolling, her own blade weak in its defense from its low position. She fell upon her blade arm, and his dagger sent hers spiraling into the grass, as he followed her into a roll. But the roll gave her just enough leverage with her unarmed hand, and her first two knuckles struck the base of his neck hard enough to stop his breath.

He rolled away and into a hunched position, half astonished, half pleased. His breath would return, but he could fight no more, and might easily have been silenced forever by her recovered blade.

Preinon bowed his head to her and gave the Aesidhe sign for “Understand.” Without responding, she merely knelt beside her uncle and helped him to lie down. As he quickly relaxed his body and mind to save air, Adria stroked the muscles on the side of his neck to help the breath return.

It has been decided…
Adria nodded.
Zho limiyate.

Nearby, a crow took flight, just as she always knew it would.

Hunters and Healers

S
ummer alchemized into winter. The Hunters hunted and the Runners raided — first in small measure, then finally more in earnest, as the winter wore on. Food for the tribes was more scarce, as those who had lost their camps were absorbed into those who remained, and the last of the Mewashemesitibopi fled from the cities again.

Adria found herself on more of these excursions than she had before, and the Runners seemed to have much more faith in her abilities after her rescue of Náme, though the particulars of the incident were never again discussed.

Adria also found herself paired with Mateko more often than not, especially when they scouted the Aeman villages and Knight forts and camps for food and supplies.

“
I think they are trying to get us to marry,
” Adria joked, whispering as they estimated villagers and stocks of grain, trying to determine how much excess they might have. The Aesidhe would not wish a starvation winter upon anyone, Aeman or otherwise.

“
You are a good mother to
Náme,” Mateko smiled, and then made the shape of a circle around her stomach. “
And they know you can run with a swollen belly.
”

Adria blushed, then tried to turn the conversation to seriousness. “
I am serious, though. You are the swiftest, and I am nearly the slowest still.
”

He shrugged. “
I can escape,
Lózha.
You
...” But he did not finish the sentence, and a guilty look crossed his face.

Adria exhaled, as if she had been struck. 
Ah...

He glanced at her apologetically, and she nodded her understanding and forgiveness. “
I understand. You can escape, and I likely would not need to.
”

With the coming of the snow, Adria’s skin paled. Despite her clothing, in the depth of winter she could not be mistaken for an Aesidhe. If captured, she could tell any number of stories to justify herself, princess or otherwise.

“Besides
,” Mateko shrugged, grinning. “
They are probably hoping more of my great skill will be contagious
.”

She struck him in the arm, and their humor was restored.

Mateko often asked Adria to teach him some Aeman.

“
If you wish it, I will
,” she answered, though the idea, for some reason, did not appeal to her, though she had found the snippets he had learned from Shísha and Watelomoksho amusing.

Seeing her anxiety, he shrugged and smiled apologetically. “
I am often close enough to hear. It would be good to know what the enemy says.”

Adria nodded her agreement, and when they had the chance, she taught him some basic words, and though he struggled with the pronunciation, he was a quick student, and they were happy to share such a thing between them, almost like a secret.

“Fingers,” she said when he wiggled them. “One… two… three… four… five fingers…” when he counted hers.

“Hand…” as she touched her palm.

“Hands…” when they clasped, and “lips” as they kissed.

After a moment, she placed her hand upon his chest for support.

“Heart,” she whispered, feeling the drum beat against her. “Quick and warm, like mine… a heart of fire.”

They ran hard all winter, but the efforts of the Runners proved indispensable, Aesidhe refugees far less cold and starving than they would have been, the Aeman villages and forts a little less stocked, a little more frightful of the Wilding Ghosts of winter.

As Adria gave a signal of danger for what seemed the hundredth time, she wondered if Aeman children on the borderland dreamed of ravens as much as she.

But there was no more slaughter. A few Knights left bound and awaiting their dawn relief, but no blood staining the perfect snow, broken only by footsteps smoothed again upon the night’s return.

Preinon’s strategy was thoughtful, and the Runners set up intermediate camps to bury excess goods while they sought out the next village. They left much behind, buried in caches only they could find, mapped carefully in mind for the use of future seasons.

Adria saw little of Imani and Náme that winter, though they were always overjoyed upon her brief infrequent visits, and she was certain to bring them a particular treat each time.

Though she still never spoke, Náme’s mood had improved, her sleeping had become settled, and her use of hand signs was as proficient as any Aesidhe her age.

“What did you bring, Mother?
” she had begun to ask Adria after their first embrace upon reunion. In absence of her own, Náme referred to both Adria and Imani as “Mother.”

And Adria might pretend for a moment to misunderstand, or ask,
“Why should I bring you anything, N
á
me? You are already so spoiled.
”

The girl would frown with disappointment, until Adria produced the toy or snack she had secreted in her pack.

Seeing Shísha was now more often a reunion as well, for the Lichushegi often remained at camp, or upon another purpose. Adria knew this as a growing tension between the Holy Woman and Watelomoksho, but did not express her concern directly.

“
There is more for me to do here,
” Shísha insisted diplomatically, when Adria herself tried to address the situation. “
I am a Healer first, and a Hunter second. It is for the younger and the stronger to scurry about. You and Mateko go be the heroes.
”

Adria frowned perplexedly at her words. 
You are likely no older than Preinon,
 she argued, but only to herself. And far stronger than I in most ways.

Aloud, she answered simply, “
Can you not be both a Healer and a Hunter,
Lichushegi?”

There was a moment of silence as Shísha seemed to focus upon whatever she was stewing in her pot — food or medicine.

Shísha nodded and considered Adria with her sightless eyes.

“You are asking of yourself, not of me,” she said in Aeman.

“I am,” Adria admitted, though she only now realized it. “But that does not change the question. Is it possible to heal as well as harm?”

Shísha nodded as she worked, but not in affirmation.

Adria sat beside her, now smelling the stew in the pot, and said. “My uncle has taught me to fight with an undivided mind. My father taught me the same, though I did not realize it at the time. We played a game of battle, chess, and he said of it that the perfect game was one of equal balance, where whenever one player gained an advantage, the other player would restored it in the next move, so that winning and losing was impossible.”

Shísha ladled out a little of the broth, cupping her hand under the spoon and holding it up for Adria to taste. Adria did so, and smiled. “Rabbit.”

Shísha nodded. “What does this rabbit say to you, daughter of kings?”

Adria shook her head. “It says just what I have been taught before. It says that you hunted him. It says that there is no difference between food and medicine — that stew heals the body as well as singing and drumming and dancing Mechushegiya. It says that the hand who hunts the rabbit is the hand that makes the stew.”

“Your fathers have taught you well,” Shísha said simply. “But they must heal themselves before they can heal their lands and their people.”

Adria nodded solemnly. “
My uncle forgets. He seeks to save the People, but divides us, just as father divided 
Heiland.”

Shísha sighed, replacing the spoon into the soup, and placing her hand upon Adria’s.
“That is why some of us must be Healers first, before Hunters. We must be reminded of what our divisions create. We must regain the balance that others have lost.”

Tears came to Adria’s eyes as she realized what she was being told, and she placed her other hand atop Shísha’s own, and held it there. After awhile, she whispered, “I understand, Lichushegi. You have always taught me well, and I choose you as my Mother. I am the one who can heal this division, and it will be so. I will teach my uncle what he has taught me.”

“
It is a good promise,
Mélitali,” Shísha said after a moment, smiling a little.

Adria smiled as well. “
It is a good stew,
Imatéli.”

Adria knew the fulfillment of such a promise would not be easy. As spring came, she searched for a moment to speak to Preinon of such things, but always found reasons to forestall.

I might only have a single chance,
 she reasoned. 
It must be at a crucial moment, when I know I can succeed, or else I may lose his trust, and the chance may never come again.

Clearly, her uncle believed in his plan, and his army of Hunters, and his orders to the Runners after the first thaw made this clear.

“
This is the season,
” he assured them. “
The season when we will not retreat, but will push forward against the enemy. The Runners must be the ones who track their movements, who find their weaknesses, and who take our message of war to the great tribes of the People.
”

And despite their growing unease, the Runners did just this again that spring, though now Adria joined her uncle’s own force of Hunters, amazed to watch it grow more swiftly than the two years before.

After his initial gathering of the tribes near the Shíme Okshowaniya camp, he marched the army in a slow spiral path as they trained, and with each new stop in each new tribal camp, he gained a few more men — though the few women from the years before did not return.

All men now,
Adria realized. 
Except for me.

“I bring you word from the Others,” Preinon would say to the tribal Hunters. “They teach their children of us now. Do you know what they say? They say that we have turned upon one another. They say that we are savages and not brothers. They say that we have no right to our hunting grounds. They say that the forests are of Heiland, and that Heiland is of the Others.

“They say there is no room for us, and that they must destroy us if we will not become as they are. They say that we must learn their language and forget our own. They say that we must pray to their god and forget what our Grandmothers and Grandfathers have taught us.

“They say that our skin must pale and our hearts surrender, that we must become them, or we must die. But I say that if we become them we will die all the same. I say I would rather die with a prayer on my tongue. I will die with my heart full of fire for the faith of our ancestors. I will die for the freedom to live.”

And she heard his words, she knew their truth, and yet she understood, more and more, that what she and Shísha had said was true.

The more these Hunters bend themselves to fight the Others,
 she thought. 
The more like the Others they become.

“Why are the People called the Aesidhe?” Adria asked at camp one night, wondering why the thought had never occurred to her before. Occasionally, when they were alone, they still spoke in Aeman. “It doesn’t sound like an Aeman word.”

“No,” he shook his head. “It was borrowed from the Wenish, who settled this land long before the Aeman. They thought of the People as half spirit, half flesh. They were wary of them, but respected them. They coexisted far better than any have since. But the Wenish were pushed from this land earlier even than the Aesidhe, by Aeman raiders and settlers, Somanan armies...”

“They still exist, though...” Adria nodded. “South of Heiland, in Elwynd High?”

“The Wenish? Yes... I visited their clans a few seasons back. They are half Aeman now, but much of their customs and language yet survive. They have defended their hills many times against many enemies — and still do. I have little doubt that your father considers them a future conquest. Or the Knights, anyway.”

“Why did you visit them? Did you seek alliance?”

He shook his head. “Nothing so formal as that, no. It is said by the elders that tribes of Aesidhe joined the Wenish when they fled.”

“Is it true? Do some yet remain?”

“It is certainly true that the Wenish aided these tribes, but the climate they settled was high in the hills and mountains, where the Aesidhe were unaccustomed. They moved on to seek out others of the People, for they heard tales of Aesidhe who dwelt in what wilderness remains in a corner of Somana.”