Chapter 20: Nugget
Ayla Rúth Harya
A month ago, the idea that humans could be anything but evil seemed impossible. Humans started the war; they stole our lands, magic, and resources; they were greedy, disgusting creatures devoid of honor or compassion.
Then, suddenly there was an exception—Jace. He was an ex-soldier of all things. The kind of human I should despise above all others. Someone who, by his own admission, slew more of my brethren than he can count.
And yet, Jace’s repeated efforts to keep me alive—in spite of a hate I made no efforts to hide—challenged my expectations. When he killed people I thought were his friends for my sake, my convictions were obliterated. Here was a human who was not evil. Here was one human I could trust. This left my heart in turmoil.
When we arrived at Tempest, I still simmered with the heat of our previous traveling companions’ betrayal. Other than Jace, someone who must be an anomaly, no others were trustworthy.
The human city was a constant reminder of what I’d lost; of scorched earth; of silence where once there was laughter. It was a dangerous place where the threat of discovery meant death or imprisonment. Every human was a target for my rage, a threat to assess.
Rage and loathing are difficult emotions to sustain for an extended period of time. Intellectually, it is impossible to forget that the anger is justified, but at some point, the body must rest. I was tired from weeks of travel under the heat, constant vigilance, and the weight of my hatred.
Renn showed me a playful side to humans. I didn’t want to trust, but she introduced me to a place where humans appreciated cuisine from my homeland, and my gratitude created dissonance with my resolve to hate. I saw humans being kind to each other. Later, I would see another side to them, one that reinforced my own prejudices, but the cracks in my ironclad beliefs were spreading.
Two days later, my body shut down. I became ill and sweated the whole night, suffering nightmares of a burning Tyrna, the many friends and family who died before my eyes, and the many places we’d tried to call home before we were once again driven away. But when I woke, I found that like the fire in my dream, the intense emotions I tried to hold on to had gone up in smoke and only a void remained.
It is little over a week since we left the Waste behind us. I have gone outside enough times to know that as long as I do not remove my head wrap or outright tell anyone I am an elf, the humans will treat me as one of their own.
Jace has decided it is a good idea to join Renn and Cornelius, and we will guard their merchant caravan, at least for a round trip
There is a chance we will find some of my people in the northern plains. The expedition has been delayed, however, for reasons I do not understand.
So I explore the city. At first, I did it out of boredom. Now, I must admit I do it out of curiosity, and because in some small way, I know that, while I am not eager to call any of them friends, I am beginning to see humans as people, with a nuanced culture. Not a race composed of senseless killers.
This morning I decide that instead of spending it at the shooting range—Bear has already left on his own mission and nothing else there poses a challenge—I will wander aimlessly. Renn spots me from the breakfast hall and sprints toward me.
“Ayla!” She says. “Do you want to come with me to a tea shop that opened on eight street? I’m bored out of my mind waiting for Corny and Jace to settle the permit amendment requirement issue—which is honestly just bullshit that it’s taking this long.”
“I’d rather not. I feel like people watching in silence, and you’re no good at quiet.”
Renn rolls her eyes. “Ouch. You really know how to let a girl down easy.” She doesn’t sound hurt by my directness. I have learned she has a thick skin and finds my “sandpaper personality” amusing. “Well, if you change your mind, the place is called Bitters. They have outdoor seating if you want to people watch with me instead of alone.”
She winks, and though I show no sign, on the inside, the corner of my mind twists upwards. I know exactly what she means. Renn’s idea of people watching was “pointing out cute guys”, a pastime I find utterly ridiculous…and somewhat amusing to watch.
Renn waves goodbye then skips back to the breakfast hall. I leave the inn and head to the market. It’s a busy enough place to start.
The market is especially interesting to me because it is a microcosm of human behavior. There are stalls and storefronts operated by both the fair-skinned and black and brown people that make up the majority of the population of Tempest. Their interactions illustrate the many personalities and prejudices between the groups.
The dark-skinned peoples are primarily from the far southern lands, which were dry and desert even before the Shattering. In my understanding, their skin color is a natural adaptation that makes them superior at dealing with relentless sun. I think their color would have been convenient for me living and traveling through the Waste.
The way Renn explained it to me, the fair-skinned apparently settled Tempest first, and, in the beginning, felt threatened by the sudden influx of “southerners.” Meanwhile, the southerners banded together to form their own unique culture and created a strong community in the city that now represents nearly half the population. Early in Tempest’s history, they were segregated. But intermarriage and the need to depend on each other tore down walls. And yet, an echo of that prejudice is still there among some.
I hear street performers playing music between the din of the rhythmic shuffle of footsteps, the melodic shouts of vendors advertising discounts on fruits and fragrant spices, and the hum of conversations.
Moving in the direction of the music, I navigate the crowd of street walkers. They wear colorful garments in strange cuts. Less flowing and natural than what I’m used to, with angular cuts and adornments that serve no practical purpose that I can see. Even bright hats that do not protect from the sun and patterned capes draped over a shoulder, useless for the wind or cold.
It is amusing, and I know it is only possible to dress this way because the city knows peace. It also makes adventurers and travelers easy to distinguish from the rest. There have been markedly less ever since those participating in the mayor’s quest set out from the city.
The musicians sit on a street corner, their patchwork clothes and plumed hats distinguishing them as bards—the catchall name for entertainers. An open box lay before them, where people have dropped coin. There are other gifts next to the box, such as a collection of fruits and even a bottle of rice wine.
The band consists of three women, and despite the difference in their ages, by the similarities in their features—they each have a mole in the same place at the corner of their lip—they must be a family. The youngest woman plays an ebony flute. Its deep, slow melody is sweet and melancholic. The next oldest, who was probably her mother, plays a string instrument nearly as big as she is, its honeyed drone produced by the friction of a bow across the strings. The last must be the grandmother. She writes the punctuation of each phrase with marching slaps along the edge of the box on which she sits.
The music stirs a weird nostalgia inside me, despite never having heard the tune.
It is these foreign yet familiar elements of human culture that impress upon me just how similar elves and humans are. The presentation may be different, with different nuances, and yet we are fundamentally the same.
Out of the corner of my eye, a boy catches my attention and my heart skips a beat. He is dressed in rags and his skin is brown, but I know that face. My body moves on its own and my voice shouts a name: “Ewan!”
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Of course, he doesn’t turn around. How could he? Ewan died when I was still a child. The disconnect makes my brain hurt, and memories I haven’t thought of in more than a century flash before me as if they were yesterday:
A pale faced boy with a broken body. Many elves work together to pull him out of a hole in the ground. While playing in the woods, his brothers say they heard the earth roar, then watched as it opened its mouth like the jaws of a monster and swallowed him whole. His brothers stand over him, weeping as his father sets the boy down on the ground. My own hot tears stream down my face as I shout at them that they were wrong, he couldn’t be dead. How could the forest we all loved do such a thing, and why?
Too many years and too many deaths stand between that time and now, so the pain of loss I felt then holds no bite now. It is ridiculous that I should feel anything at all. I blame the music for putting me in such a state.
Before I walk away, I toss three coins into the musician’s box and the flute player’s eyes smile at me; then I head toward the boy.
He stands still in front of a fruit stall, just outside the shade of its awning, while the fair-skinned vendor casts sideways glances at him between negotiating with a heavyset woman filling her basket.
It has mottled brown fur, a ferret-like body, and a bushy tail. Standing on two legs, it sniffs the air, turning its head as the red gem embedded in its forehead catches the light.
It is a carbuncle—a rare species of creature that is said to be attracted only to the pure hearted. The carbuncle pulls on the boy’s ear with some urgency, then points up the street with a tiny finger. I follow the boy’s gaze. At first, there is nothing remarkable in that direction. Until I hear the shouts.
“Stop! Thief!” A voice calls out, nearly drowned by the din of the market, but loud enough that several people turn to see what the commotion is.
Not two seconds later, a figure bursts from between a group of spectators, knocking several of them over. Presumably, this is the thief. A dark-skinned man with a hooded cloak that partially conceals his face, and a sack over one shoulder. He turns to look behind him as he sprints forward, failing to notice the boy with the carbuncle who stands in his way.
The boy does not react in time and the thief knocks into him hard. The thief tries to keep his feet, but the sack throws him off balance and he rolls into the corner of the fruit stand, breaking one of the shelves and spilling oranges into the street.
The guards’ shouts grow louder, and the thief picks up his sack, scrambling to get away.
Meanwhile, the boy slowly gets to his feet, the carbuncle chirping worriedly on his head. In his hands, he holds a jewel encrusted diadem. It must have fallen out of the thief’s sack when they fell.
Then three uniformed guards arrive at the scene. The first is a tall, lanky man with jet-black hair and a protruding throat knot. His eyes dart from his skin, to ragged clothes, then fixate on the diadem in the boy’s hands, and he does not hesitate to draw the wrong conclusion.
“I caught one of them!” The lanky guard shouts. “You two follow his partner. I’ll take care of this one.” The two other guards follow this order and continue their sprint after the real thief, while he towers menacingly over the boy. “Thought you could get away with it, didn’t ya?”
It's absurd. Can’t the guard see that the boy was just an innocent bystander who happened to pick up something the other had dropped? The boy isn’t even trying to run away, or keep the stolen item for himself. Rather, he holds it up, offering it for the officer to take it back.
The lanky man sees none of these things, rather only the judgment he already passed. In a practiced motion, the guard slides a black club from behind his belt, then swings it at the boy’s head—where it connects with my forearm and shoulder in a high shield block.
A small vortex of wind whirls around me as I whisper the name of the wind. With my right hand, I cross my body and grip the hilt of my sword, then thrust the butt into the guard’s gut. Immediately after, the wind coalesces and pushes the man backward several meters, where he falls to his knees clutching his stomach and gasping for air.
I blink.
When did I move? Why did I move? This child is nothing to me. Have I just put my own life and safety at risk for the sake of a boy I don’t even know—because he looks like someone from my childhood? Ridiculous. And yet, my body moved on its own.
“What do you…think you are…doing, citizen?” The guard says between gulps of air.
It takes me a moment to understand why he does not immediately attack me. I do not look like a bandit or thief. In fact, I am quite well dressed, all things considered.
While my garments are less flashy than the more “fashionably oriented” people of Tempest, my city clothes are of good cut and quality. My newly restored blue cloak—the enchanted cloak Jace gave me—is clasped on the shoulder with an expensive silver brooch. My boots are premium leather. My green tunic and fitted trousers are fresh and unsoiled from long travel.
I may not look like what humans consider a noblewoman, but I can “pass for a wealthy merchant’s daughter”, or so Renn had joked.
All of this contributes greatly to the guard’s reluctance to simply respond with aggression in turn without giving me a chance to explain myself. It helps that my attack was clearly not meant to seriously injure, rather to stop him from harming the child. My sword is still sheathed; though, depending on how the guard responds going forward, it may not be so for long.
“What’s wrong with you?” I shout at the guard. “You could have killed him. He is just a child!”
The guard pushes himself up to his feet. “Excuse me, ma’am. But that boy is a thief. It is my duty to put paid to their kind.”
Ah, so this man is one of the prejudiced kind. Not surprising. “He is not a thief, but an innocent bystander who the real culprit knocked into. Your quarry dropped this thing while scrambling to get away.”
The boy tugs on the edge of my cloak and I look down as he offers me the diadem the same way he’d tried to do so for the guard. I smile at the carbuncle as it climbs on the boy’s head and stares daggers at the man who tried to hurt his friend.
Throwing the diadem at the guard’s feet, I growl:“Take it and go.”
The guard’s face twists in anger. “You expect me to believe an unlikely story? I caught that red handed and you…”
But the people gathered around us have overcome their surprise. There is a sudden swell of shouts that echo my own indignation. The fruit stand owner is among the loudest of these, berating the guard for his ignorance and pointing at the broken stand as evidence that the thief crashed through here.
The danger to the boy has passed, and the crowd is growing as more people come to rubber neck the increasingly loud verbal barrage against the city peace officer who nearly killed an innocent child.
Once again, humans surprise me with their ability to show compassion even to someone they do not necessarily like. It did not escape my notice how that fruit stand owner had looked at the boy before the incident. There was only wariness in his eyes then; and yet afterward, his rage at injustice was loudest.
That thought nudging the back of my mind, I slip away in the chaos now that I am not needed any longer.
Not long after, when I’m only a couple streets from exiting the market district, I notice I am being followed. It is the boy with the carbuncle. When our eyes meet, he lowers his head, then shuffles his feet uncertainly, like a mouse unsure whether it should run and hide. But he doesn’t run.
I should leave him behind. I should shout at him and scare him off. It wouldn’t take much. He is already terrified enough as it is. He is not my responsibility.
Instead, I nod for him to follow and he quickly catches up, a bit apprehensive, but still keeping stride next to me despite his shorter legs. The carbuncle on his shoulder chirps at me to slow down. When I do, the creature chirps twice in approval.
The boy looks lean under his baggy rags, but not frail. Still, he is definitely underfed. “Are you hungry, child?”
The boy brightens, nodding enthusiastically.
“What’s your name?” The boy shrugs and shakes his head. I get a flash of intuition and narrow my eyes. “Do you…speak?”
The corner of his mouth twists in a half smile and he shakes his head again, slower this time. His deep auburn eyes twinkle the same color as the carbuncle's.
“That’s going to be a problem. I need to call you something…” I’m about to suggest a series of names until I land on something he likes, but before I can do so, the carbuncle launches its furry face right at mine, bracing itself with soft little pads on my cheeks as its nose touches mine, then deftly leaps back onto the boy’s shoulder."It’s the most terrifying display of adorable I’ve ever encountered in my life. As our noses touch, I sense a faint connection, a gentle telepathic nudge. Suddenly, a name comes to mind unbidden. “Silas?”
I’m stunned when the boy nods. He looks uncertain again. Perhaps, he is afraid I will react poorly to the exchange.
“Don’t worry, Silas. I won’t harm you or your friend.” I ruffle the boy’s hair. It is filthy. The boy is in desperate need of a bath. I extend a finger to the carbuncle. “What’s your name?” It paws at my finger, and the connection happens once more, even easier than the last time. “Nugget…”
Nugget the carbuncle turns a happy circle on Silas’s shoulder. I can’t help but smile. It is a fitting name. Small, precious, unique.
“Let’s go. Silas, Nugget, follow me.” As I lead the way to Rare Delights, I vow to myself not to get attached. The plan is simple: I’ll feed the child and his pet, then we’ll go our separate ways.