Andrei

It had been a decade since I’d last been home, and home is a term I use loosely. Amalia. A land of simple needs and dismal weather, and I quote Sinclair when I say, “When it rains, it bloody pours. And when it doesn’t rain, it snows.”

As I stepped from the watercraft aboard which I’d been seasick for three days, the distinct scents of smoke, mud, and urine did nothing to sooth my gut.

Welcome home, indeed.

“Remind me,” I said to the raven-haired Partisan at the helm. “Where would I find the outpost?

The Navigator gestured vaguely to the north, speaking for the first time since I’d boarded. “I should warn you, the Administrator’s an asshole. Mind yourself, and if you can avoid the bunks, I suggest you do. They tend to reek of rotten meat and bodily fluids.”

“Lovely,” I said.

“Oh, and I wouldn’t take any chances with the forest at night.”

“Bandits?”

The Celestian shook her head. “You’re thinking like a Jaskan.”

“I was raised in Jaska.”

“Well, you’re headed for Oskari. Around there, there are far more dangerous beasts than its people. Plenty of critters. Nobody to hunt them. Any other questions? I’m on a schedule.”

I had no other questions. Not for her, anyhow.

“Then I pray your goddess protects you well, Brother Strauss.”

I was relieved when the surrounding waters bubbled and whirled, directing the embark to the east. I had no particular love for the elite crew, nor did I envy the life of a Navigator—a job reserved for the Celestian Partisans with an aptitude for manipulating the tides.

Pick up, drop off, pick up, drop off, death. I digress.

The Amali Base of Palisadian Operations—affectionately known as the Drop—consisted of unmarked buildings in pitiful shape, eight-foot fences, and wrought iron gates. When I arrived at the Outpost, mere steps to the north as it happened, I knocked and waited with soggy robes and dwindling patience. I had seen my share of Drops over the course of my pilgrimage. All had been properly serviced, even and especially throughout the night. All had been active with Legacy Partisans working their trades: blacksmiths, deckhands, stable-hands, cooks, and so it goes. Last I’d seen of the Amali Drop, it was no exception.

Much had changed.

Equal parts bored and offended, I entered the outpost uninvited. Seated at his desk behind a set of iron bars, the Palisade Administrator greeted me with a greasy smile.

“I was wondering how long you’d be knocking.”

Pushing sixty, the Partisan had served in his position as Administrator of the Amali Drop for nearly three decades. More than daily operations and maintenance, he served as a filter between active, in-territory Partisans, and Palisade.

I produced my permissions and slipped the pages between the bars.

“You’ll be replacing Father Belaia when he croaks?”

“I suppose,” I said.

“Identification?”

I sighed, turned 180 degrees, and swept my hair to the side. Like any other Partisan, my identification was tattooed on my neck in sapphire ink: ASTR12.

“I knew your father,” he said.

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Feigning interest, I turned to face the grotesque man. More than his expression was sour, I suspected he’d neglected to bathe in several weeks. “Oh?”

“You look nothing like him. Amali men aren’t often producing boys who look like girls.”

“Then perhaps I take after my mother,” I said, to which the man scowled. I’d be hard-pressed to find anyone who approved of their relationship.

“Your parents were nothing but traitors.”

“And you, sir, are nothing but a rotting hog,” is what I wanted to reply.

“So I’ve been told,” I said instead.

The Administrator snorted. “Staying until morning?”

“Actually, I thought I’d see about a carriage and—”

“No driver until morning.”

“Then a single horse would do.”

“No horses until morning.”

I chose the most patient of smiles from my repertoire. I cannot say whether or not it was convincing. “Do you have anything available before morning?”

“No.”

“Then with all due respect, Administrator, if there’s no traveling to Oskari tonight, why pretend to give me a choice?”

“Because I was hoping you’d be stupid enough to walk instead.”

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There was only one road to the village of Oskari from the Drop. That same road continued north toward the city of Jaska. Neither direction was commonly traveled, so I enjoyed the comfort of solitude as I walked.

Yes, I’d been stupid enough to walk. Stupid, but certain the wide outdoors would prove more comfortable than the acrid bunks.

The late summer night was as warm as one could hope for in Amalia, but the recent rainfall brought a chilling humidity—erratic to say the least. Inherent in a Celestian Partisan is the ability to regulate their own body temperature. Convenient but unpredictable—fatal even—without proper conditioning. Conditioning I did not have.

For the better part of an hour, I walked the One Road slowly, steadily, and undisturbed.

As I carried onward, I thought of my parents. They were traitors, but to what cause? I’d always wondered. And if I had some great love interest with whom to rebel, would I choose a different path? I supposed I would, and in fact, I had. Rhian Sinclair presented me with the opportunity to escape fate and I rejected it. Was it that I didn’t love her enough? Perhaps too much. My inexperience—my incompetence—would have only slowed us down.

A horse whinnied from deep in the woods.

Such fickle beasts, I thought. Distracted by the rigors of walk, it took me a moment to remember: there were no wild horses in Amalia. About the time I began considering the alternatives, I heard the footsteps crunching through the brush. With each step, the orange orb grew closer.

“Is there someone there?” I shouted.

I felt the heat rise in my cheeks as the light grew closer and a figure emerged. The man who approached was middle-aged, bearded but balding, Barren, but most definitely not a bandit. He wore the attire of a well-kept servant—sharp, white shirt, black trousers, and a tailed coat.

“Brother,” he said. “It seems I’ve found fortune in my misfortune tonight.”

“Do you require aid?”

“Better to say the need belongs to my horse.”

“I see. Do you often travel by night through the forest paths, Mister…?”

The skin around the man’s brown eyes wrinkled when he smiled. It betrayed his age, but it suited him. “Peter,” he said. “I understand you must find this suspicious.”

I nodded.

“Much of the land to the west belongs to my employer.”

I was not aware of any private land to the west, but I knew the records I’d studied from were sorely outdated.

“Does your employer have a name?”

“Yes, and after two decades in his service, I should perhaps learn it.”

The man may not have been particularly funny, but his demeanour put me at ease. A palette cleanse, if you will.

With nothing more, he led the way to the troubled mare on the forest path.

Behind her, the horse carted a mahogany carriage with a black metallic letter "R" stamped on the side. The problem was obvious. The leftmost front wheel was caught in the mud—a side effect of the copious amounts of rain.

It’d be a simple fix.

As Peter resumed his place at the reins, I secured my hand beneath the carriage and lifted it with ease. It had been a long time since I'd put my preternatural strength to good use.

At the time, the encounter seemed an innocuous coincidence, but I would eventually realize the chance meeting in the forest hadn't been chance at all, and I would soon learn the significance of the carriage with the golden "R".

That night, however, I remained oblivious and graciously accepted the stranger's ride the rest of the way to Oskari.