Chapter 5 - Oaths and Yearnings
The air grew cooler and damper as the Thistlebranch cart descended into the hollow of Mossgrove Dell, the dense vegetation forming a fragrant canopy overhead. Sunlight filtered through in soft, dappled patches, illuminating the topmost layer of the Shyren settlement nestled within the grove.
Inconspicuous stone structures, their contours softened with craftily placed patches of greenery, dotted the more thickly overgrown clusters of ferns and shrubs. These camouflaged hatches provided access to the heart of the Shyren settlement sprawled beneath layers of moss fields and dirt, and also provided easy escapes for any Shy caught out if ever danger approached. There seemed to be no signs of that today since a good number of Middleshy were out and about on the surface.
The murmur of quiet industry mingled with the soft chirps of meadowlarks, soothing background music for the mostly Middleshy farmers and traders as they went on with their work. Sylven wasn’t even the only Sunshy perusing Mossgrove’s offerings, but unsurprisingly no Deepshy were in sight.
Menna leaned forward, her eyes scanning the activity with a practiced eye. She spotted stalls laden with freshly harvested grains and herbs, and others displaying spools of moss fibers, baskets overflowing with roots and vegetables, colorful dyes, jars of resin and sap, and even furniture carved from wood or nutshells. The stalls were all collapsible, ready to be packed up in a moment, their awnings and tablecloths doubling as sacks to stow all the merchandise. Their bright hues standing out in stark contrast to the muted greens and browns of the surrounding trees and mosses. The Thistlebranches’ cart came to a halt near one of the moss-draped stone hatches, and Kerren stretched his arms, grinning at the sight of familiar faces.
“Home stretch,” he said, ruffling Menna’s hair as she playfully ducked away with a mock glare.
Sylven dismounted Whisker with practiced ease, his eyes immediately scanning the area for useful supplies. Whisker flicked his ears, the tension in his wiry body easing slightly with the weight coming off his back, and the familiar textures and scents of plants and dirt underfoot replacing the more artificial feel of the Shyways. He pawed the soft moss, enjoying the feel of damp earth squelching between his toes after a day of treading on tamped pebbles. Through their bond, Sylven could feel a hint of the pika's relief, a welcome respite from his burdens.
Kerren sidled over and gave Sylven’s shoulder a firm squeeze. “It was a comfort to have you along on the Shyways, young Sunbrave. Hope you find what you need. And if any tradergives you trouble, let me know. Few Middleshy would dare cross a friend of the Thistlebranches.”
“No time to waste in going about our business, the sooner the deals are done, the sooner you two can get on with your own pursuits,” Kerren nodded to both Menna and Murdo. “And there’s always something worth seeing at Mossgrove.”
___
In the safety of the grove, the hush of the dell gave way to the lively chatter of Shyren striking deals. The Thistlebranches started circulating among their trading partners while Sylven strode purposefully toward a corner where tools and equipment were displayed.
Menna decided to let her father and brother start with the wheeling-dealing, she could just swoop in later as back-up when needed. It would be smarter to canvas for notable items earlier in the day, before the traders got a better sense of the interest in their goods. Her gaze darted between the array of merchandise displayed, her mind already calculating the potential value of each item, assessing their worth against the effort and chards required to acquire them. At the arcade dedicated to fashion and fabrics nestled under the low-lying branches of headily fragrant ylang-ylang trees, she spotted a roll of deep green weevil silk, its fine threads shimmering faintly in the light. It wasn't practical for everyday use as a Middler on the trading circuit, where showing off may hinder you from haggling for the best deals, but its rich texture and hue would certainly make an impression at the Big Mix.
“Mother will insist,” Menna muttered under her breath, already imagining Ellanna’s approving nod and smug smile.
Nothing else at the arcade caught her eye so she drifted over to the jumble of rickety lean-tos lining Bowerbird Avenue. Glittering scraps of metal, colorful beads, and shards of polished glass spilled across the tangle of twigs that lined the corridor, remnants of their original occupants. Every year after mating season, the glitter-obsessed birds would abandon their sparkling bowers laden with all sorts of shiny, gaudy trinkets they’ve gathered from across the caldera, and maybe even beyond. The Middleshy traders of Mossgrove would then take over the corridor of discarded hoards, staking claim to whatever mismatched treasures lay within a certain radius of their hastily erected shacks. Once the stockpiles had been picked through, they would take down their showcases and leave the bowers ready for the birds’ return next season. This was what made it worth stopping at the settlement when you time it right.
Menna perused the jumble, keeping an eye out for something that would have attracted the bowerbirds beyond mere color or glitter. Her eyes lingered on what first looked like a dirty rectangular slab of carved ibex horn, dumped on a lower shelf along with all the other relatively dull-looking items. It was curious that a bowerbird would be drawn to something so plain. Unless there was something more to it. Menna knelt to take a better look, wiping off the dirt with her hands. The middle of the slab moved from side to side as she rubbed its surface. It was a slide rule! It looked simple at first glance, but you could only appreciate how exquisitely well-crafted it was by operating it. The unadorned frame, when slid along the central bar, revealed rows of intricate runes and figures engraved into the horn and inlaid with thin shards of Arclith. Their faint glow suggested the potential to store a considerable charge, to help with arcane calculations perhaps? If so, this wasn’t just a tool, but could be a key to unlocking profound secrets.
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Just waving an old magical slide rule around won’t really help me at the Big Mix though, she thought, weighing the merits of elegant clothing compared to enigmatic relics. She picked up the device, sliding it closed to conceal its true function. If the bower merchants didn’t always know exactly what they had, it wasn’t her responsibility to tell them. No one would be surprised at her driving a hard bargain. At least among the Middlers, Menna’s mastery of the art of haggling was beyond dispute.
___
Across the square, Sylven ran his hand over an expandable rucksack sewn from lizard leather stretched over a frame of bird wing bones, its seams and straps reinforced with woven moss fibers. When fully expanded, a medium-sized kobold egg would fit just about right inside. “How much?” he asked the vendor, a burly Middleshy with shrewd eyes, who named a steep price with an appraising look at Whisker.
Sylven didn’t flinch, countering with a trade of rare animal pelts and herbs gathered from the open grasslands where no Middler, no matter how burly, would dare to tread. The vendor hesitated, stroking his chin, before nodding reluctantly. Sylven tossed the rucksack over his shoulder, his expression betraying nothing of the triumph he felt at being able to let Menna know later that she wasn’t the only one who could haggle well.
Further along the market lane he spotted another stall selling spurs for boots—the attachments were designed to urge mounts to go faster or turn quickly, although they could cause a bit of discomfort for the animal.
“These will get him moving,” the vendor said with a sly grin, pointing out how you could even sharpen the spurs further to be more effective.
Sylven hesitated. He could feel Whisker’s wary gaze on him from where he was hitched, the faint hum of their bond carrying a wave of unease. He glanced at the pika, who flicked his long, silver whisker in response, as if sensing the threat. This is about survival and honor, he told himself, pushing aside the twinge of guilt. He’ll adjust.
"I’ll take them," he said finally, his voice firm, securing the purchase with a handful of shiny pebbles and a chipped kobold scale.
___
As the Thistlebranches finished their trades, Menna and Sylven crossed paths near the hatch leading down to Mossgrove proper, next to where the cart had been parked under leaf cover.
“Find what you need?” Menna asked, her tone casual but her eyes sharp, taking in his purchases with a practiced eye.
“Enough,” Sylven replied, adjusting the rucksack on his shoulder, but also hoping to distract her so she wouldn't recognize the spurs for what they were.
Menna nodded toward the spurs innocently hanging from his pack. “Interesting choice in accessories. Didn’t think you’d need something like that for your mount. I'd assumed that you're quite the natural with them."
Sylven’s jaw tightened. “Sometimes you have to push, even if it’s uncomfortable. You wouldn’t understand.”
“And you think driving an animal beyond its comfort zone is better than working with it?” Menna shot back, her tone laced with disapproval.
Sylven met her gaze evenly. “It’s not about better or worse. It’s about what works. It's about achieving your goals, no matter what it takes." He met her gaze, his own expression hardening. "Besides, what's a little discomfort to a mount compared to being able to contribute something important to all of Shykind?"
Menna exhaled sharply, shaking her head. “There are other ways to contribute, to make a difference.”
“Well, you’re going to need more than fancy clothes and trinkets to impress the Deepshy,” Sylven countered, his eyes landing on the green silk and slab of ibex horn that Menna was hugging to her chest.
The tension hung heavy between them, crackling in the air like a poorly contained spell. Menna stepped back and put her hands on her hips. “It’s not all about impressing them. I’m not like my mother. Tying to find a way to learn and work with them is just a means to an end,” she insisted. “Do you think if I came up with anything important, I’d just keep it to myself down there with the Deepshy and never climb back up to share it with everybody?”
Sylven sighed and scratched the back of his head. “Ok, ok. I guess we’re both just trying our best to be accepted and useful. I don’t agree that you need to suck up to those pale, weak-boned snobs down there, but… I was never great at studying and putting words and numbers together anyway, so I wouldn’t know better,” he stammered. “I’m just used to the Deeps always hoarding their Arclith secrets like bowerbirds. We Sunshy don’t have that luxury—we share what we find.”
Menna nodded and relaxed her arms. “Fine. Just be careful. You may be annoying but I’d much rather you stay alive. My dad seems to like you,” she sighed and extended a hand. “Egg or no egg, promise you’ll show up at the Concord Crossing?”
Sylven clasped her hand and shook it sportingly. “Ok, I promise to see you all again at the Big Mix! Sunshy’s honor!” He flashed his broadest smile. “But you can be sure I’ll bring back an egg, or if not, something even better!”
___
Back in the Cradle Caverns, the soft glow of the egg-candles flickered, their shadows dancing against the damp walls. Vikka sat hunched near the edge of the nesting chamber, her long claws tapping restlessly against the cold, hard stone floor.
Her egg hadn't emerged yet, though the faint bulge pressing against her lower back was a constant, irritating reminder of its unwanted presence, a gnawing ache both in her body and her mind. She shifted, her tail twitching anxiously, trying to find a comfortable position, but the tension coiled tight in her lean body refused to ease.
“Still nothing?” one of her clutchmates, Skaith, asked with a concerned chirp as she passed by, her own egg proudly displayed in a woven sling.
“Not yet,” Vikka muttered, avoiding her gaze.
Skaith’s expression softened with sympathy. “It’ll come. Don’t stress yourself. You're the last of us to lay, so it's only natural that you're a bit... anxious." Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. "Besides, I've heard that the longer it takes you to lay, the stronger your hatchlings will be."
Vikka forced a faint smile, though her tail flicked in agitation. There won’t be any hatchlings, not this time, or ever, she thought. Her clutchmates and the nest mothers had begun to glance her way more often, their concerned whispers growing louder with each passing day. Most believed her unusual moodiness and reclusiveness were due to the delayed egg—sympathy, not suspicion—but it only made Vikka feel more isolated.
She caught Ryrik watching her from across the chamber, her sharp eyes narrowing slightly before she turned back to her weaving with a disapproving shake of her head. “You should spend more time with the others, Vikka” Ryrik said, her tone clipped. “A kobold alone is a kobold who forgets the tribe.”
A shiver ran down Vikka's spine, ending right at the spot where her egg was starting to show. Ryrik's gaze felt like a physical weight, a constant reminder of the scrutiny she was under.
They’re all watching, Vikka thought, her claws digging into the cold stone. They think they know, but they don’t. They don’t know anything.
Her gaze drifted toward the cavern entrance, where the faintest glow of daylight filtered through the tunnel, beckoning her like a lifeline. It was a reminder of the horizon that called her to walk towards it, the freedom that lay tantalizingly close, yet frustratingly just beyond the suffocating confines of the cradle.
This dead weight will drop any day now, and I need a good excuse to be allowed outside, she thought, seeing this as her only way to break away from the colony’s tedium. Once they think I can’t lay eggs, I won’t have to deal with any of this anymore. I’ll be free!