Yerida, the lone seaport of Faltara was located at the end of a narrow fjord on the southeastern side of the island. Joren suspected it had been built there, centuries ago, for its defensibility.
The sheer cliff faces that lined the entrance to the fjord made its passing slow and vulnerable for an invading ship to navigate. There were other possible landing points on the island, but to reach any Faltari settlements required anchoring far away from the dangerous shoals that lined the majority of the coastline—not to mention avoiding the icebergs that drifted on the northern seas—then marching across unfamiliar mountains filled with jackals and sabers and frigid conditions most civilized soldiers had never experienced.
All that risk, for what? Joren mused. Only a few people in the world knew what treasures resided on this island. But centuries ago? Why did the ancestors establish settlements with defense in mind if they fought no wars?
Perhaps it was a different story. Or perhaps it was merely care and foresight on the part of their ancestors.
It had not been clear to Joren until his Wandering years, just how mythologized the history of Faltara had become. Until he learned that all peoples the world over—whether Attican or Taikan, Chardonian or Valgish, even the mysterious Elyan trader he’d encountered in the great free city of Beirus—all of them spoke of Crossings many millennia ago.
Some spoke of journeys from the north, which might correlate to the Gate at the top of the Spires. But most spoke of incredible journeys across treacherous seas from a distant continent. Some spoke of journeys from worlds that did not match the mighty fallen empire found in the world of the Abyss at all.
Perhaps there were many Gates of the Ancients. Perhaps there was only this one, and the time since the actual event was so much more vast than they were taught on the Isle of Faltara, that the tale of the true Crossing had been convoluted by all the peoples of the world. Perhaps there was some degree of truth to the Faltari version of the Crossing.
Or perhaps, there was no truth at all.
It was not until Joren spent time amongst the Fjuriin monks on the tiny Isle of Parduum that he first heard the Attican version of the settlement of Faltara itself.
A persecuted Valgish clan that fled north from a corrupt king, during the Attican Golden Age.
What was truth?
Truth lies not in tales, but in duty and honor. Truth lies in what we do each day.
Joren’s father had taught him this, just as Joren had taught Derrin, and now Malik. And one day, Joren hoped deep in his spirit, Malik would teach it to his own son or daughter.
What he’d come to understand during his Wandering was that there were questions he might never find the answer to. When he was younger, he did not know if he could live with that.
But there were worse things to live with. He’d learned that too.
Joren envisioned the battlefield in Taika, one of many revolutions that had occurred there. Severed limbs and skulls bursting with brain and blood. But it was not the images—every living beast was made of similar stuff on the inside, and it was nothing unnatural to see—no, it was the screams that haunted him.
Anytime Joren questioned the history he was taught, or wondered if it mattered whether the Faltari had always lived here, or whether they’d come from Valgland or somewhere else, he needed only to take himself back to the screams of battle.
Young men barely come of age wailing for mothers, screaming unintelligibly, shrieking, writhing, desperate for the agony to end.
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And it had been Joren’s duty to heal, to prolong that wailing life for as long as possible. To determine if there was hope, or to make the decision to end that fading life.
Only Madri knew what he’d endured in his spirit during uhmskara, and even she knew only a part. The deepest truth was known only by the gods, and Joren supposed this was always so.
The life they preserved on the island was good, in a way most people in the world could never know. The stories didn’t matter. The sacrifice was necessary.
Malik would come to understand one day.
The journey down from Kalengal Valley took two days, and Joren saw little of his son during the journey.
As shaman, Joren led the way, the three surviving dragon eggs stowed safely amongst his shaman’s chests, sealed by locks as well as runic incantations, no different than all the other sacred supplies loaded in his alkine-drawn wagon.
There were many rituals performed during the Festival of the Ascension, rituals performed only once each year, which required tinctures and urns, sacrifices and herbs, incense and ceremonial garb and inks and ward stones and scrolls and bones of sacred beasts and more. Shamans always hauled wagons of ceremonial supplies up to Kalengal Valley each year. No one knew what horrible treasure was added to the lot for the journey back.
Joren guided his wooly alkine down one last stretch of road, before coming to the edge of a wall of rock, and the world of mountain passes opened up to the glacial valley of Yerida, at the foot of the fjord.
Shouts erupted behind him. A dozen vessels were already anchored offshore, the glorious white cloth of sails catching the bright afternoon sun and beaming. Skiffs ferried goods to the docks. The sacred Festival of Ascension was over.
Now, it was time for the Festival of the Fading Sun.
The last rite before winter set in.
***
Riese struck Malik’s shoulder excitedly and pointed. Yuri howled as they rounded the last bend of path outside Yerida.
“God’s breath!” Yuri murmured. “Look at all the bloody foreigners! It’ll be a grand festival this year! I wonder if there’s any lemons. Gods, I hope there’s some lemons!”
Riese grinned. “You don’t want fruit. You want those Chardonian tarts!”
Yuri patted his stomach eagerly. “Earned it, I did! I’m bloody Ascendant!”
“You know, what I’d love is an Attican spear,” said Riese.
“Ha! There’s only half a dozen on the island.”
Riese huffed. “I’m bloody Ascendant and one of the best hunters on the island. A spear of steel would make the hunt so much easier.”
“How dare you suggest our spears are inferior,” said Yuri with a laugh.
“What does a shaman look forward to at the trading?” asked Riese.
Malik gazed out at all the ships. Many Faltari had ridden ahead of the caravan to welcome the foreigners. Already, in the square, Malik could make out carts and market stands arrayed with colorful cloths. In the past, he’d always been excited for the bards and the ales and the foreign knives, the delicious smell of breads that could only be baked with foreign flour and yeast. But this year, he didn’t care about any of that. His focus was on the flags flying from the anchored ships.
Malik managed to push back the thoughts, and said, “My father speaks only of herbs, so I guess I’m excited for that too.”
He winked at Yuri.
“For dream smoke, of course,” Malik added, and the boy howled with laughter. He grabbed the hand of his girl from the dance and spun her around. They’d been matched at the end of the festival, and Yuri had been flirting and laughing ever since. He was a man now, ready to take a wife, and settle down and farm the foothills of the southern Jackal lands and raise children.
All his life was coming together, and Malik felt guilty for how much he resented his friend. How much he wished he could find that same joy for himself.
Riese’s match, Vinder had joined them a few times during the journey down from the mountains, and she feigned happiness each time he came near. They’d gone hunting together before nightfall the previous evening, and Malik had found time to think.
Vinder had joined the party ahead, sent to secure the village of Yerida, before the foreign traders were allowed to ferry ashore.
Yuri bounded down the Soul Road, hollering for Riese and Malik to join him and his new match tonight for a mead after supper.
Finally, for the first time in two days, Malik and Riese were alone.
They paused on the ridge overlooking the bay, letting the procession pass them and meander down the foothills to the village below. Children paused nearby, gesticulating towards the ships with uncontainable enthusiasm.
“Quite the sight,” said Riese, gazing out at the sails. “I’ve always thought so.”
Malik nodded. Every time he saw Riese, he pictured her egg in the ashes, still glowing, pictured her hesitation to throw the egg in the fire. Now, he couldn’t take his eyes away from the crimson sails in the harbor below, bearing the white dragon of Attica.
“What if we did go?” Malik whispered.
“What?” Riese said, jolting.
“What if we left Faltara? Hop aboard with one of the traders at the end of the festival and go on a Wandering?”
Riese drew back and investigated his face. “Don’t mess with me, Malik Jorensein.”
“I’m not,” said Malik. “I’m dead serious.”
Riese gazed out at the shimmering sails, and a smile crossed her lips.