The days went on. The search party began preparations for its next journey out into the great desert. The last days of Rimvalen passed, and within a week and a half, the warm winds of Kynvalen – early summer – washed over the camp. To the south, in the lush forest, the birds and crickets sang their circadian rhythms, as clouds and rains and thunderheads came north and east off the distant mountains, through the steppes. But to the north, the air was dry. Dryer than before.
During the days, Heror would spar with and train the Midan soldiers. Through the day and into the evening, he would tend to his horse Shaadur, who slowly grew more comfortable inside the camp. He outfitted Shaadur with riding equipment. He would feed him, give him water, and ride out in the fields, where the horse could roam and be free again. In those moments, Heror felt just as free.
But in the mornings, Heror would always make a trip down the riverbank, to join Adjaash in the forest and help her gather supplies. She watched for him now – quietly, surreptitiously. Every now and then – kneeling on the riverbank to prepare the food for storage and preservation – she would steal a glance toward the bend in the river to the north. Eventually, Heror would appear, and she would smile to herself.
While Adjaash stocked up on meat to dry and ready for future use, she tasked Heror with finding wild blackberries in the forest – meant for faster preparation and consumption. She also sent him off to find mulberry leaves, but this was for another purpose: Feeding silkworm farms back at the camp, to help with the harvesting of silk.
When they were finished, Heror and Adjaash would return to camp. Adjaash would drop off the hunting meats at the mess tent, where the meat was then put through the preservation process. The Midans used a strange, sour-smelling liquid called vynegar – processed from figs – to preserve the meat in clay jars that were then sealed by crimped cloth and stored away. They already had dozens of jars ready for the journey ahead – first preserved months ago. Heror admired how self-sufficient they were, through their knowledge of the land.
Heror would drop off mulberry leaves at the silkworm farm tent – situated near the western end of the camp – and he’d leave with harvested silk stored in soft fabric rolls. He then took this harvested silk, and the berries he’d gathered, and spread it evenly among the leather packs set aside for the search party.
The search party was six strong – Adjaash, Heror, Brocus Elius, and three other Midan djauul soldiers. And on the 2nd of Kynvalen, they were nearly ready to set off.
That night – a clear and quiet night – Raldu called the party to the tall tent. They sat around the wooden council table – spaced evenly around the perimeter, with Raldu at the head of the table. At the table’s center, a large parchment map sat unrolled. It was similar in texture and style to the one Heror had been given – but it was a map of northern Mide, which stretched out into the Pylanthean desert. There was a distance scale at the bottom, and several ink markers in the blank wastes beyond.
“Thank you all for coming, and for your diligent work in preparing for this task,” Raldu said once they were all seated. “To reiterate: Our target for this expedition is one of the central temples we’ve identified in the desert, around 80 miles to the north-northwest of camp. Adjaash knows the way, and she will lead the party to the temple. From what we can tell, its entrance is a domed rotunda supported by columns, and it likely stretches farther under the sand. We were only able to see it from a distance on the last journey. This time, you’ll get in close. With Brocus taking the lead, you’ll cross-analyze whatever markings and symbols you can find. If the glyphs match what Brocus has associated with the Sword through his research, press on and search for it. If the temple appears to bear no association, don’t idle there. Come back and save your resources.”
Now Raldu turned his head and looked to Brocus.
“Brocus, can you tell the others what they should be searching for?”
Brocus nodded. His green tunic catching the light, he lifted a small satchel from his side with gloveless hands, unfurling a leather strap from his shoulder. He set the satchel on the table, then removed a small piece of rolled parchment. He stood from his chair and laid the parchment out flat on the table, revealing a few select symbols. Then he cleared his throat and began to speak.
“The ancient Pylantheans more often spoke with symbols than words on their palace walls. But there is one ancient letter cluster to be on the lookout for: Sphhrrhhvx. Notice how the ‘u’ here is more akin to a ‘v’ in our modern Kivvenean dialect. This is how the ancients wrote these words. Also note the relative lack of vowels. Such sounds were more implied by adjacent letters in ancient times, and not as pronounced. This word – Sphhrrhhvx – is the name of the Sword in ancient tongue: Pronounced ‘Sfar-hox’. The double letters signify its distinguished, sacred nature. Should we find any texts to peruse, on the walls or elsewhere, this word should be easily identifiable if it’s present. And associated texts may help pinpoint the Sword’s location, or signal its presence at the temple.”
Now Brocus brought his finger to the parchment.. Under the golden keatuu rune lights, Brocus traced his finger down to another cluster of symbols. One vaguely resembled a sword, but seemed to bend slightly at the end, as if a claw. Another one, Heror recognized from Ardys: The flowering Sun, the symbol of the divines.
“These are the other symbols I’ve found to be most associated with the Sword in ancient texts. Obviously, the flowering Sun is first. The second one may be the Sword itself, or it may be a religious recollection. In stories of Sphhrrhhvx passed down, it’s taken on another colloquialized name – ‘Wingtooth’ – which may derive from this. But this is the symbol I’ve most often seen paired with the Sword itself – Sphhrrhhvx – in texts. The last four symbols also adjoin the Sword at times, and they appear to be rough visual representations of animals and nature. The first appears to be a wolf. The second, a bear. The third could be either an eagle or a phoenix. If an eagle, it could be a reference to the God of the Elements – Shenithide – or it could be a reference to the legend of Hiirvanos, where the warrior who last used the Sword is at times labeled himself as an eagle. The final symbol is one that appears in both ancient Pylanthean and Ghiovani culture: The Kinat Kyryt – the Spring Tree.”
“What is the significance of the symbols in relation to the Sword?” one of the Midan djauuls asked, voice heavy with an accent.
“The texts don’t say it overtly,” Brocus admitted. “But we know nature and spirituality were two central parts of ancient Pylanthean culture, seeing that they came from Cyngoth and lived off the harsh lands. The bear could be a representation of strength – a quality the Pylantheans valued intrinsically. The Spring Tree is a reference to the Springs of Bor, but I don’t see the connection to the Sword in that case, nor do I imagine it will be of use in the desert. The wolf has definite relevance, however. That is the animal totem of Sparhh, the Courage God, in Pylanthean lore, so it stands to reason that there could be a connection to Sphhrrhhvx.”
Heror stifled a breath. He had been gazing at the wolf on his Pylanthean kinship cloth ever since he was a boy. And only now did he know its meaning.
“Those are my most important findings,” Brocus concluded. “If anything else comes to light as potentially relevant, we can communicate on location.”
Brocus started to roll up the parchment again, and once rolled, he slid it inside his satchel and sat back down. Now Raldu looked to Adjaash, who sat to Heror’s right.
“So we know what we’re looking for,” Raldu reaffirmed. “Adjaash, are all of the packs well stocked?”
“All six packs are fully stocked,” Adjaash confirmed. “Each person has four full canteens of water, two jars of dried meats, and a jar each of berries, corn, and chopped carrots and apples for the horses. Heror also helped me gather silk, which we can use for any injuries, either to us or the horses. We also have linen rolls for the horses to rest on, and to sleep on overnight, and I’ve given Nariyu the task of carrying supplies for making torches. For food and water, I’d say we have enough for three days worth – at least a full day more than the time we’ll be away.”
“Good,” Raldu said with a nod. “Always advisable to be over-prepared.”
The tent went silent. Raldu’s eyes carried to each side of the room. There was a sense of contentment from the group, and so Raldu last came to Heror, meeting the young man’s glance.
“The others here have braved the desert before, so I don’t need to tell them. But Heror… you must be careful out there. The heat is pummeling in the daylight, and the winds are cold at night. Adapt when the situation demands it. Keep yourself fed and hydrated. Ease up on the reins when you can; the sinking sand can be taxing for horses. And above all…”
Now Raldu looked about the length of the table again. His sharp eyes went both ways – piercing through the shadow like daggers – so that all could see his darkened expression.
“… Keep your eyes on the horizon, and your ears to the ground.”
He paused. A small gust of wind gently rocked the tent walls.
“I think we’ve addressed everything,” Raldu continued. “Are there any questions?”
Another wave of silence. Raldu nodded.
“Take tonight and tomorrow to rest,” he told the group. “The day after tomorrow, you’ll set off.”
Night came and went, and morning came again. The next day was clear and windful, with a rich blue sky dotted by roaming cumulus tufts. Heror went to the mess hall and ate breakfast. While he sat, he saw two riders he didn’t recognize make their way through camp, from the direction of the river. He assumed they’d come from the south. They leashed their horses on posts, then walked in the direction of the tall tent and disappeared. Heror looked on until they did.
He finished breakfast and made his way back to the river. Along the way, he saw one of the riders in the search party inside his tent – flap open – as he sat with his legs crossed and his head bowed, praying quietly on an ornate rug. Heror gave him only a silent glance before carrying on.
When he reached the riverbank, he started south and ventured into the woods. He pressed on until he reached the rightward bend in the river, and then he slowed up. Carefully, he leaned out from behind the trees and peered across the stream – but he did not see Adjaash.
Heror glanced to his left, then lifted his narrowed eyes and listened. He heard only the hum of the trees in the rising wind, and the calls of birds above. But as he started to sidestep past the tree, he heard a thump in the dirt behind him. As he turned, he saw that Adjaash had dropped down from a tree, and she lunged, flaring out her elbow. She pushed him up against the trunk and let out a short, triumphant laugh.
“Got you,” she muttered. “Again.”
“Doesn’t that get old?” Heror sighed.
“No,” Adjaash chimed with a shrug. “It doesn’t.”
They traversed the woods, trudging through leaves and twigs and loose soil, and soon, they came back to the open fields and steppes at the forest’s western edge. There they remained, as the sun climbed from the east to its peak in the sky, and prepared for its later descent.
By the fields of the steppe, Heror always felt a sense of ease and pure calm – something that was almost completely unfamiliar to him. If he couldn’t see the sun rise and set, he could almost imagine time being still here. The tall, loose grasses swelled and swayed in the constant breeze. In the open flats and hills beyond, wild horses and gazelle and buffalo roamed in herds and packs, as they did the day before, and as they had done for perhaps thousands of years. Above, the clouds drifted eastward in a thoughtless, eternal flow, riding the currents above with bliss and without care. Every now and then, they’d pass in front of the sun in the high western sky, but the warmth and light always came back – the forest edge awash.
Through it all, the sun’s warmth and light swathed over his face, as if the last of a beach-bound wave – and the winds tickled his ears and fiddled with his hair. And as he sat forward, with his arms around his knees on the western bank of the forest, he closed his eyes and took a deep breath. The feeling was unfamiliar – and so he cherished it that much more.
“It’s beautiful out here,” he noted at one point, in the late afternoon.
From his left – resting against a tree – Adjaash eyed him for a moment before nodding. For a moment more, they sat in quiet contentment, listening to the breeze and the birds – until Adjaash suddenly seemed to have a recollection. She jumped to her feet and started to turn away.
“I’ll be right back,” she said quickly. “You’ll like this.”
Heror watched after her as she disappeared in the forest. She was gone for a time – perhaps almost ten minutes – but soon, she came back with a narrow, pale golden-brown reed in her hand, around four feet long.
“What’s that?” Heror asked.
“It’s called ko-gash – sawgrass,” Adjaash replied, sitting back down by her tree. “It grows closer to the river.”
She crossed her legs and leaned back against the trunk, then set the branch of sawgrass down in her lap. It was a stiff, hardened material, and it appeared as though the stalk of sawgrass had been dead for some time. After setting it down, Adjaash pulled a dark metal dagger from her belt, then propped up the stalk and cut it at the midpoint. Then she cut it at the midpoint again. With a crisp lopping sound, the top halves of the stalks fell to the ground, and now Adjaash was left with a stalk nearly a foot long. Now that it was cut, Heror could see that the dead sawgrass was hollow; a thick husk wall protected an open interior.
Now Adjaash took the shortened stalk of dead sawgrass and shaved off isolated spines with her knife – meeting each spine and ridge at its base with keen focus and precision. She did this for several minutes – rotating the shortened stalk in her hand – until it was smooth and rounded, both on the outside and on the inside rim.
Next, Adjaash turned the sawgrass stalk width-wise in her lap, and with her dagger, she carefully carved out five small holes on the top, intricately spaced out across it. Three holes were clustered together closer to the far end, and after a small gap in the middle, two more holes sat side-by-side the opposite way. This too took several minutes, but Adjaash went along at a steady pace. Heror watched silently, patiently.
Once the holes were carved and cleaned out, Adjaash turned the far end of the stalk toward her and scraped around the circular opening one last time. Then she flipped the stalk around again, set her dagger down, and carefully compressed the near end with her two thumbs, until this opening was flat and level – like the reed of a flute. She flipped to each end one more time, brushing off flakes of dead plant matter into the grass – and then she flipped the makeshift reed back toward her mouth, positioned her fingers over the five carved holes, and brought her lips to the near end. Then she blew air – and a sound came from it.
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It was a soft flute sound – rough, deep, and oaken, but also rich and full – that intertwined with the swelling breeze. As the first note drew on, it wavered in the wind, until it faded. Adjaash paused and looked at Heror, and she could see he was now captivated by the sound. She dropped her eyes, brought the flute to her lips again, and took a deep breath.
In solfege, she played:
La-ti-dohh-rehh-tihh-lahh-sohh-mihh-lahh-tihh-sohh-lahh
La-ti-dohh-rehh-mihh-lahh-mihh-dohh-rehh-mihh-sohhhh-mihhhh
Mi-so-lahh-sohh-lahh-mihh
Re-mi-sohh-fihh-rehh-mihh
La-ti-dohh-re-mihh-rehh-tihh-sohh-lahhhh
And the sound faded again, giving way to the whisper of the world.
She lowered the flute now, and as she looked at Heror, she saw that he was frozen at her in awe. She dropped her eyes – suddenly a bit embarrassed – and she shrugged to herself with a small smile, brushing aside a strand of hair.
“It’s an old song I used to play more when I was younger,” she said casually. “It would sound better if the instrument was more polished.”
“It sounded incredible.”
Adjaash couldn’t help but blush ever so slightly, and she turned away, dropping her eyes again so Heror wouldn’t see. But after a moment, she raised her eyes again, resting her head against the tree. She took a deep breath, as the wind from the fields washed over them. It was quiet for a time.
“Where did you learn all this?” Heror eventually asked.
Adjaash glanced at him. Her smile faded just a bit.
“When you live off the land, you learn as you go,” she provided.
“True,” Heror conceded. “But you had to have known plenty when you first got here. Otherwise… would you have gotten this far?”
Adjaash looked at him a bit longer this time. She blinked, and her eyes started to drift. She glanced up at the sky, where a cluster of cumulus clouds drifted over the sun’s outer rim.
“My mothers taught me many things,” she finally answered. “Back in Torwa.”
“Mothers?”
“In Torwa, my village was a community in which many mothers oversaw the younger ones. They each bore children and then together, they led and taught the young. They would see where each child excelled early on, and they would give them paths to pursue. I was trained as a forager – a hunter and gatherer. As foragers, we were taught that the land and the water had everything we needed, and to respect the spirits of life.”
“More than one mother?” Heror questioned again, still in shock.
Adjaash nodded: “Over a dozen.”
Heror eyed her, then let out a sigh and looked out into the fields again.
“That sounds nice,” he pondered, his voice lower.
“Hm,” Adjaash managed, pausing for a second. “Some were better than others.”
She paused again, thoughts rising and receding as if the tide. Then she too let out a sigh, and glanced at Heror with a sad, quiet, understanding smile.
“I guess neither of us were able to be children for very long,” she observed.
Now she looked away and peered out into the steppes. Heror thought about her words.
The sun sank and started to set in the west.
“Do you want to go back?” Heror asked. “Is that why you need money?”
Adjaash gave a one-shouldered shrug.
“Here in Kivveneth, I’ve realized that you always need money,” she reasoned, her voice a bit lighter. “If I wanted to go anywhere, I would need money.”
She stopped for a moment, then dropped her eyes and looked at the makeshift sawgrass stalk flute. She rolled it gently in her lap, left to right. By impulse, her hand rose and wrapped around her shark tooth necklace. She fiddled with it.
“But I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t on my mind.”
The wild horses were roaming and grazing in the distance again, under the orange light of the sunset. Both Adjaash and Heror watched them now.
“Until the time comes to leave,” Adjaash said, “I like the freedom I have here.”
“Me, too.”
More silence. Then Heror looked at Adjaash.
“If we find this Sword,” Heror started to ask, “what does that mean for you?”
Adjaash shrugged again, then shot him a smile.
“I’ll still have things to do. I’m not going anywhere yet.”
She paused, and then she eyed him.
“What about you?”
Heror smiled, and then he nodded.
“I think I’ll stay here a bit.”
They smiled at each other, as if comforted by the answers they’d heard.
The sun fell below the fields. The sky darkened, and the two ventured back through the forest and returned to camp. When they arrived, the camp was mostly quiet in the low evening light – save for a half-dozen Midan djauuls sitting on tree stumps around a metal fire pit. The pit was alive with a smokeless keatuu flame that had been stoked hours ago, and the djauuls reveled around it.
As Heror and Adjaash approached, Heror recognized the djauuls Nubu and Omru – younger and older – whom he’d sparred with so many times before over the past ten days. They were leaning in, talking and laughing with the others. A lone djauul sat on the far side, performing a craft of some kind with a brush in his hand. Next to him, an elinji played an instrument freely, without method or meter – a large bowed sound box with a long wooden neck and a horsehair string. It let out a fluttering baritone sound – one Heror might’ve confused as a singing voice, had he not seen differently.
In Ardys, Heror had always heard of the djauuls and the elinji as mere creatures and monsters – descendents of the invaders, creations of the infernal Midan swamp. Pale skeleton men and walking beasts. In the stories he’d been told, they were always the enemies. They were the ones in legion with the dark Gods. His introduction to them in battle had not quelled these conceptions. But spending more time with them by the steppes, he started to see their joys. He started to see their habits and proclivities. He started to see them as they were: As people. And he began to see where he had been misled.
A djauul with his back turned heard the footsteps, and when he glanced around, Heror saw the old Midan Nariyu looking toward them, his thin black hair and beard catching dull pockets of flamelight. Nariyu nodded to Heror, then to Adjaash. With a grunt, he stood from his stump and turned to face the girl.
“You may take my spot,” Nariyu offered Adjaash. “Rest is calling me.”
“Thank you, but I won’t be staying up, either,” Adjaash replied.
Nariyu nodded again, then turned and ventured into camp. Now Adjaash turned to Heror. There was a firm note in her words.
“You’re welcome to stay up a bit longer, but I wouldn’t go too late. We’ve got an early day tomorrow.”
With that, Adjaash too retired into camp, leaving Heror by the fire pit with the other Midans. For a moment, he didn’t know what to do – but a friendly greeting from Nubu and Omru convinced him to sit and join them. Nubu jabbed Heror playfully with a wooden sparring sword as he sat, and Heror smiled. He leaned in toward the keatuu hearth and warmed his hands. The fire’s dance urged on his contemplation. The desert wind was colder in the dark.
“You are Heror?”
The voice startled Heror, but it didn’t take long for him to find the source. Across the circle, Heror’s eyes came to a younger djauul – perhaps less than a decade older than Heror – with a long, thin black beard, and a loose bun of hair on the back of his head. It was the djauul with the brush in his hand. In his other hand, he held a thick wooden tablet of some kind. On the ground by his feet were small wells of colored liquid.
Meeting the djauul’s eyes with his own, Heror nodded. The djauul returned the gesture and spoke in surprisingly smooth Kivvenean.
“I am Paru,” the djauul introduced himself. “A great gift it is to meet you.”
“I’m surprised you know of me.”
“It isn’t often that an Ardysan comes from the south to join our ranks.”
At the respect in the djauul’s voice, Heror winced. He had only been wandering north. At first, he’d never intended to stop. He was comfortable by the steppes. But still, he didn’t know if he’d earned his place here.
“May I ask you something?” Paru said before Heror’s thoughts escaped him.
“Yes?”
“Does this appear as you remember it?”
Paru now set his brush down on the stump and held the wooden tablet in both hands. The djauul flipped it around, and in the gold luminance, Heror saw a magnificent woodblock painting, with clashing colors just as rich and vibrant as the fire itself. Emerald hills flowed and fumed from the tablet’s knotted depths, blossoming in tufts of radiant green and jade, stretching into a southward sky of gilded scarlet. In the foreground, red plum blossoms and yellow pepon trees peeked into the frame, and a lone sunflower stood small to match the parent star, as it too gazed at the sight.
For a moment, Heror sat silently in awe – shocked that such an image could come of only wood and colored oils. And then he remembered the djauul’s question. He knew what Paru meant, and he knew what the answer would be – and still, he was compelled to ask.
“Is it supposed to be Ardys?” Heror asked from across the circle, past the fire.
Paru nodded. Heror blinked, then offered as much of a smile as he could through complicated emotions. The landscape beyond the courtyard of Alaris Khi Thung came back to him.
“Yes… it appears as I remember it.”
“Sa lantu.”
“How do you know what it looks like? You’ve been past the border wall?”
Paru shook his head.
“It is the image as my ancestors passed down to me, and as I pass down to my child,” Paru explained. “Memories of when my people lived far from the infertile Mire Lands and the harsh steppes. In the Emerald Forests of the Far East, they said there was endless abundance. They said things always grew. They never starved. They never had to move with the seasons.”
Heror nodded. He remembered the fruits of that abundance well, at the very least. It was something that had never been shared with him.
His thoughts were interrupted when the aimless elinji fiddle player suddenly played a low note with authority, setting the root for a tune. He went up a whole step, then to the fifth note of the scale – heavy, hairy fingers pressing the bowstring – and then he opened his mouth. From a low hum, the elinji began to sing.
“Saaa… naaa sarma ton…”
“Tu ig taehah samaruuu…”
And then the other Midans – Nubu and Omru and Paru and the rest – began to join in. They harmonized and droned on in majestic thirds and dissonant swells, as the fiddle warbled and waned in rich rushes of vibration. It was a peaceful song – one with more colors and measures than words themselves – and soon, the singing faded to a hum again, as the fiddle unleashed one last poetic trill. Heror watched them as they journeyed through the music. His idle lips parted an awestruck sliver.
And then the Midans still hummed. Some of them closed their eyes. Across the fire pit, Paru opened his and glanced at Heror, noticing the young man’s wondering expression. The Midan rider then smiled lightly and bowed his head, as the others continued to chirr.
“This is how we renew our spirits,” Paru said. “So we do not lose ourselves.”
Heror’s eyes traveled from end to end. He saw the peace on each Midan’s face. The fire felt warmer now. He felt his muscles slowly relax, as he gave in to the peace that had always evaded him. He let his feet slide forward in the dirt. His eyes welcomed the amber hue, as the low voices filled his ears.
“Say something, Heror.”
Heror was jolted out of his trance, and he blinked at Paru. The others still hummed.
“Say something?” Heror repeated, all of a sudden anxious.
“Yes.”
“What… should I say?”
“Say what you’re feeling.”
Heror cleared his throat, and then his eyes traced the fire circle. The idea that some of them wouldn’t be able to understand his words calmed him some small bit. His eyes lowered into the dark, and then he spoke.
“I don’t know if I belong here. I don’t know if I’ve earned my place.”
“Have you felt what we feel?” Paru asked. “What it’s like to be starved? What it’s like to be lost? What it’s like to be forgotten?”
Heror didn’t need to think. He nodded once more. And so too did Paru.
“Then you have earned your place, saerjin.”
The hums began to fade, ever gradually. Heror looked up and shared a smile with the rider.
Heror dwelled at the fire pit for a time longer, eventually bidding the Midans goodbye. Before he turned in for the night, he looked out at the desert one last time – his eyes surfing the endless waves of sand. He felt a cool rush of dry air meet his face, and for perhaps the first time, he let it soothe him. And then he retreated inside his tent and went to sleep.
A new day was waiting.