Chapter 21: Ecology (Patreon)

The forest floor was loamy and moist from last night’s rain, every stone and green branch still slick with drops of water. It was a nightmare trying to keep his footing. Nonetheless, Elliot continued to jog. He’d already fallen several times, but if he slowed down too much Hadrian’s ambushes became painful instead of just shocking.

They’d been on the move for three days now, Breka managing to produce a covered wagon stuffed full of goods and an old mule to pull it from who-knows-where. The only trail wide enough to guarantee passage for the wagon all the way to Tular was still an overgrown mess, and the going was glacial. To travel twenty miles, Breka had budgeted a full one to two weeks. They tried to clear it as they went, but Breka had assured him it would already be overgrown again within the next few days. The Gerrwood was a restless beast.

There was undergrowth everywhere—the normal ferns and moss but also thick shrubs, clusters of hanging vines, and almost-invisible banks of dirt with drops behind them that came out of nowhere as he ran. It would be almost impossible to see a random person hiding, much less Hadrian.

As if the thought had summoned the man, Elliot felt a force grip his ankle and he went sailing face-first into the ground. The thick peat moss made the fall almost painless. Almost.

Elliot moaned softly, not bothering to pull his face out of the earth. The moss was a beautiful cushion, and he wanted nothing more in that moment than to take a quick nap.

“You are not using your skill to its full potential,” Hadrian said.

“I’m trying,” Elliot replied, still slightly short of breath from the fall. “I can’t target everything quickly enough when I’m running.”

“I chose a covering of picked moss because it would clearly register to your skill as artificially placed. You must become faster at assessing your surroundings."

“It’s so hard to take it in, I feel like I have to spend all my focus on not falling,” Elliot said, rising to his knees. “I’ll get physically faster and more dextrous as I go up to higher circles, right?”

Hadrian gave a half shrug. “Somewhat. Your profession precludes you from gaining too much on that front. But there will be minor changes.”

“What?” Elliot frowned. “Minor changes? But what about Breka’s plan to make me stronger even though I’m a merchant?”

“There are other attributes to cultivate. The paths to power are myriad. Perhaps she has some idea for your physical development, but I do not believe she could ever push you to the level of a combat-focused profession, nor even close.”

Elliot finished standing, trying not to let this bother him. I’m sure she has a plan. I just have to work hard. What options do I have, except to keep trusting her?  “I’ll try to speed up my inspection.”

“No. Now we spar.”

Elliot took a long, slow breath. Sparring used to be Hadrian throwing light blows while Elliot tried frantically to dodge, but over the last few days the hunter had begun teaching him simple combinations, and he was now expected to execute them while avoiding the incoming strikes. “Okay. Let’s do it.”

By the time they made it back to camp, Elliot was as sore as ever and mentally reciting his post-training mantra. You’re doing this for Rowan. This will all be worth it. Ow. Stupid Hadrian. It’s for Rowan. Keep going.

Breka had chosen a small open space—hardly even a clearing—between the trunks of three exceptionally large trees which appraised as ironbarks. There was enough space for the wagon, the mule, and a small fire. It was still early, and the light shooting through the canopy above left a dappled pattern over the campsite. Breka had a kettle hanging on an iron bar over the crackling flames.

“Good morning, boys,” Breka said, sitting in a small but well-cushioned folding chair. “Did you have fun?” There were faint trills of birdsong coming from higher in the foliage, and the scent of wet earth was strong after the rain.

Elliot, bruised, exhausted, and soaked from the repeated contacts with rain-sodden ground, sighed softly. “So much fun.”

“Wonderful. Let’s make breakfast.”

Hadrian had already moved over to his pack leaning up against the wagon and pulled out a wedge of hard cheese and some travel bread. Elliot had learned from a previous appraisal that the firm, flat discs were packed with a variety of powdered vegetables and seeds in addition to a rye-like grain base. Not exciting by any means, but palatable and nutritious. The cheese was delicious though, similar to a dry white cheddar.

Elliot had assumed he would be doing most of the cooking and cleaning, in addition to whatever else needed doing, but on the first day of travel it had been made clear to him that he was in fact expected to do the exact opposite. As Hadrian prepared a simple meal, adding boiled eggs to the bread and cheese, Elliot pulled the Tome of Eyes from his pack and started appraisal practice.

Neither of his fellow travelers were willing to explain anything in great detail, but he got the sense that for the next few months his job was to keep his focus strictly set on the select few things Breka had picked to mold his future skill growth. All Breka had been willing to tell him after a closer inspection of his core was that it felt like that of an infant who had somehow gained a profession—which made sense, as it had probably been created a few days ago—and that he should expect his schedule to be full for the foreseeable future.

Hadrian laid out the food on a simple wooden board pulled from the back of the wagon and they dug in, Elliot still mostly focused on his work.

The Tome had chosen a chaotic scene this time. Sand blew over cracked, hard dirt, and crowds of people moved through a cluster of stalls and awnings. The image captured the juncture of two main thoroughfares with a mass of figures in constant motion, most dressed in robes of light white cloth.

Elliot began his usual process. First, the items easily visible on the people, primarily light cotton fabric meant to be breathable in the heat but still able to block the punishing sunlight. Then the terrain: packed dirt roads that had been in place for centuries. Finally, the active objects he could see, numerous trade goods of all types and small denominations of currency. Then he circled back to the beginning, and began trying to expand each appraisal using the information already gathered.

Slowly, a picture emerged. The location was somewhere to the south, in a nation called Solt. The market seemed analogous to a bazaar from Earth, a mass of small stalls and individual merchants packed together in an outdoor space. It was called the Grand Plaza, in a city called Neimer.

Elliot often wondered if the scenes from the Tome were real, and if so how real. It had produced visions of named places before, and the few he’d asked Breka about had been unfamiliar to her, but she’d also said the continent was a vast place and she didn’t know most of it. 

He was pulled from his thoughts by an increase in the volume of Hadrian’s conversation with Breka. They’d been bickering about something to do with food, which Elliot had been largely ignoring, but Breka seemed to have just said something provocative.

“We cannot detour around Calderon simply because you want to sample a local mead,” Hadrian said heatedly.

“Oh, I think you’ll find that we can,” Breka replied, her eyes gleaming. “It’s said to be fit for the Gods. They won’t export it; they make it in-house and it’s all sold locally. We simply can’t miss it.”

“That would be nearly a hundred miles out of our way. Our entire schedule would be ruined.”

“One of the fur traders out of Hapoor said it was quite possibly superior to what you would find in the palaces of the old empire.”

Hadrian flexed his hands in his lap. “And how long would we stay at this monastery?”

“Oh,” Breka replied, waving a hand, “not long. I’m flexible on duration.”

“Are you indeed,” Hadrian replied through gritted teeth. “And what would we tell our sponsors about the delay?”

“I think some combination of our business in the freeholts taking too long and unforeseen weather events. We wouldn’t even have to detour until we’re nearly out of Remmir, plenty of time for things to go wrong. They’ll buy it.”

“Unforseen weather events,” Hadrian repeated slowly. He glanced at Elliot for an instant, then turned back to Breka. “Entieu par alaya, balass outmes tanquiedes?”

Elliot started. That had been a new language. But, as with the steppelanders’ tongue, he felt something in motion inside his mind as Hadrian spoke.

“Toura, bindou,” Breka replied, “vos entoria que’een, var—“

And then it happened again, just like back in the tavern. Something snapped into place inside his brain.

“—to speak of. I wasn’t convinced the Talessi were fully committed to this theatre, but I admit, I’m beginning to have doubts. A Witness could have been dispatched for something esoteric, but husks? That means violence is intended on a large scale. It’s going to be a mess cleaning everything up, and if Lonia expects me to fix this with no support then she can damn well be patient while I have some nice mead on my way back; and so can you, boy.”

Elliot’s eyes widened. This must be a local language, something they didn’t think an outsider would understand, and he had to make a quick decision. Telling them he understood would obviously out his secret. He had left out the part about speaking other—possibly all—languages when being debriefed, saying he’d overheard the steppelanders talking in Common at their table. 

It wasn’t something he was completely averse to sharing; it just felt like one more anomaly that would be difficult to take in, and who knew which would be the straw that broke the camel’s back? For all he knew a universal language affinity was far more inconceivable to them than a childhood without the Beacon.

“We’ve been operating under the assumption that the location is a distraction, forcing us to move our resources into play and burying their actual objective under the broader umbrella of the search for the Sleeper. But the husks change things. Even if the odds are close to zero, we can’t ignore the chance that they actually see a path towards the Titan.”

Elliot shifted uncomfortably. Keeping it secret just didn’t feel like an option. Now he knew they communicated in their own language, his silence changed from keeping his own secrets to plumbing theirs, and that would be a huge breach of trust.

“Um,” Elliot said, “this is going to sound strange, but you shouldn’t talk in that language in front of me if you want to keep things secret. Or, uh, maybe in any language. I’m not completely sure.”

“What?” Hadrian replied, frowning. “Are you implying you speak Old Andalusian?”

“Yes, that’s what I’m implying,” Elliot replied, this speech feeling like a deep thicket in his chest next to the birds and crags.

Hadrian drew back as if he’d been slapped as soon as the first words left Elliot’s mouth, and even Breka looked startled.

“How is that possible?” she asked.

“No idea,” he replied. “I certainly couldn’t speak multiple languages before…being transported. The man, or thing I guess, that sent me here said that language barriers would be smoothed away.”

Hadrian still looked shocked, staring at Elliot as if he’d grown a pair of antlers, but Breka leaned in with an intensity that almost made Elliot pull away.

“So,” she said, “to be absolutely, completely clear, that was the first time you had ever heard Old Andalusian, and you just immediately knew what it meant?”

“Uh, I missed the first thing Hadrian said. And the first part of your reply. It takes a few sentences to kick in with a new language I think.”

“How many languages do you speak?”

“Common, and now apparently Old Andalusian, and the steppelander language which I don’t know the name of. I neglected to mention that I was able to overhear them because they were speaking it and thought I couldn’t understand.”

“I had wondered,” Hadrian said, “as you are in no way a person who I would think subtle enough to overhear a clandestine conversation.”

Elliot shot him a quick glare. “And I suppose my own native tongue, which is called English.” He paused. “Actually, now that I’m thinking about it, I may not be able to speak that one anymore. I can feel the first three in my mind, and I can pick between them, but there’s no fourth.” That hadn’t occurred to him yet, and the realization made his throat tighten. Language was foundational to identity, and yet English had just been wiped away, his mind lobotomized to the point that he hadn’t even noticed.

Breka tapped her wrinkled fingers together in front of her face, a wild glint in her eyes. “I am going to speak in another language. Stop me when you understand it. Boarviast quontus blerinia, quer veritane, quer vortun. In id ap meantar, qunoctar il mentonen. Quevos va—by way of the road to Arinos, a peculiar route that is marked more for the variety of products it is used to transport than for any particularly stellar features of the road itself. In fact—”

“Stop, I have it. I started understanding at about ‘the road to Arinos’, and you’re describing a road used for a variety of trade goods that’s not otherwise that great.”

“Speak it back to me,” Breka commanded in the same tongue.

“I can speak this language now, I don’t know what it’s called, three cheers for me. Do you want me to talk about trade routes?”

“Holy Gods,” Breka breathed out, finally leaning back. “What a gift. I thought I was doing a good deed taking you on, for all I saw a use for you, but you may end up being more than I’d bargained for. There are so many uses for that ability, I could practically cry.”

“Yes, well,” Elliot replied, flustered. “As long as our deal still stands.”

“Oh yes, it stands,” she replied, wild-eyed look returning. “In fact, I’m going to accelerate the timeline. Hadrian, fetch my copy of Barter.”

The hunter looked at her slightly askance. “That wasn’t planned for another several months.”

“Yes,” Breka replied, “life is ever so changeable. Fetch it.”

Hadrian glanced over at Elliot, frowned, then walked to the wagon.

“What’s Barter?” Elliot asked. His gut twisted. Was Hadrian concerned? Any training that concerned Hadrian had to be particularly awful.

“Oh, just a game,” Breka replied, still eyeing him like he was a particularly plump bag of gold sitting open on the street, “you’ll see.”

Hadrian walked back, a wooden box in his hands. He knelt by the two of them, opened the case, and removed what looked almost like a game board from back on Earth. It came with a bag of carved wooden pieces, some shaped like people and many more shaped like coins, and a stack of cards with simple symbols on them.

Breka spread her arms wide, grinning savagely. “Let’s play.”