Chapter 24: Politics (Patreon)

The swing of Hadrian’s fist over his shoulder came so close Elliot felt the wind of its passing on his ear, but he managed to slip his head down and away just in time. The rhythm of their spars no longer felt quite as panic inducing, although the hunter was always just fast enough to force Elliot to a maximum level of effort.

It was the morning of their arrival in Tular, the sun just creeping up to the point where its rays were glinting through the tree cover, and Elliot’s day was already three hours old. Slip, slip, slip again, jab, cross, slip. The familiar cadence was almost soothing, Hadrian always ending the session with these basic drills rather than any free striking or grappling. Running, footwork drills, simple bodyweight exercises, and sparring were the core of every session, with extra activities like rope climbing or sprints thrown in randomly and without warning.

“Enough,” Hadrian said, pausing suddenly. “Back to camp.”

He’d been even more terse than usual this morning, possibly because he was still annoyed about Grik. Breka had taken to the book merchant right away, but Hadrian’s frustration with more unexpected company had been obvious. To his credit, the hunter hadn’t let it affect his training. Elliot felt no more sore than usual.

They jogged back, arriving to find Breka awake and preparing breakfast while Grik still slept hidden under his cloak, dresser looming behind him. The smell of cooking sausage made Elliot’s mouth water. The forest had thinned out as they approached the next freeholt, moss and ferns fading to drier soil shot through with roots and rocks.

Breka glanced up as they arrived, greeting them with a smile. She waved the skillet she was managing in Elliot’s direction, then in the direction of the wagon. “I made something for you. Give it a look.”

Walking over to the indicated space, Elliot found a sheet of paper with a few sentences scrawled in charcoal lettering. He held it up to the light and squinted, finding it difficult to read what was presumably Breka’s handwriting. 

Fortunate favors the bold, but not the brave, in an eternally tragic example of the world’s lack of true justice. The Gods watch, but do not ward, and kings reign but do not rule. To be human is to err egregiously, and yet not endlessly. 

“What do you think, boy?”

“Um, it’s certainly alliterative,” Elliot replied. “Reads like somewhat empty philosophy, I guess. Is it a quote? Or are you, uh, trying your hand at writing?”

Breka chuckled, sticking the pan back onto the rack over the fire and walking towards him. “That’s a quote from Adenicius, a somewhat insufferable intellectual who currently writes out of Rhodea, but only in his own little-spoken mother tongue. And that mother tongue, called Iludean—” she leaned in close and spoke softly, “is the language you learned a week ago. I wanted to see if it carried over to the written word. You could make a decent sum as a translator, you know. As much as I think he’s a twat, he makes some good points about the state of power politics, and people pay decent money to have his work translated to Common.”

“Did you say Adenicius?” Grik’s voice came blearily from under his cloak, his head easing out as well a few seconds later. “Do you have any of his new work? I’ve been out of touch for a long time, and I’d love a look.”

“I’m afraid not,” Breka said, plucking the paper from Elliot’s hand. “We were discussing an old quote. I don’t keep up with his tirades.”

“Perhaps he does tend towards the grandiose, but I think he’s writing for his audience,” Grik replied, rubbing his eyes. “Surely you can’t fault his message.”

“I think he’s a bit too cavalier in his implied calls for violence, although I’ll grant you his position is sympathetic.”

“Sorry, can I ask what you’re talking about?” Elliot interjected.

Breka sighed. “Adenicius is a scholar in the Rhodean Convectorate who draws attention because he’s directly descended from Iludean royalty.”

“Iludea was an independent nation back in the days of the old empire,” Grik added, rising to his feet, “on Rhodea’s southwestern border. It served as a useful buffer against the empire, and Iludea was clever enough to parlay that into continued independence. But when the empire fell, and Rhodea was beset by spirits, one of the Rhodean Praetors decided the best thing for unity would be a new enemy. So he conquered Iludea and used that success to declare himself autarch. That was about a hundred years ago.”

“There was a short-lived independence movement, but it was crushed many decades ago in fairly brutal fashion,” Breka said. “Adenicius is attempting to push for its revival without quite stepping over the line into sedition—while also living as a member of Rhodean high society.” She shrugged. “I can understand the goal. It was a bloody and unjust conquest. But it’s hard not to look like a hypocrite when you live a life of luxury and rub elbows with Rhodean governors and generals while writing manifestos about the evils of power. It’s also easy to call for independence when you don’t have to swing the sword.”

“He writes about an end to tyranny, and doesn’t shy away from his own circumstances,” Grik replied. “He’s trying to change the system from the inside.”

“Easy to say. His own sister disowned him over his politics, but I suppose family is complicated. At the end of the day what do I know? I’ve never met the man.”

“How does he not get in trouble if he’s that obvious?” Elliot asked. It seemed a little implausible that a repressive regime would be excited about one of their own agitating for revolt. Especially in a world like this, where power seemed to be almost everything.

“From what I hear, he’s quite charming,” Grik replied, “and a certain rebelliousness of spirit is in fashion right now. He’s also adept at playing politics, and keeping himself useful enough to one faction or another to stay protected.”

“It also helps that they don’t take his aspirations too seriously,” Breka added. “It would be very different if it seemed like he was close to getting what he wants. For now, keeping him around is pleasing to a large segment of the common folk, and lets his backers carry the banners of liberty and support for the oppressed without actually having to support egalitarian policies. Grik—do you want breakfast? We’re heading out shortly, but it’s easy fare to eat on the move.”

“That would be lovely,” the man exclaimed, “I’ve been mostly foraging the past few weeks. The wonder of a true meal would be deeply appreciated.”

“Ah yes,” Breka agreed, smiling, “the wiles of civilization do begin to pluck at you once you’ve been out in the rough for a few months.”

Hadrian snorted, Elliot mentally mimicking the noise. As far as he could tell, the old lady didn’t go a night without her four-poster bed. He still hadn’t managed to catch her in the act of drawing it out of the earth—something he was sure was happening—but like clockwork once it got late enough in the evening he’d be coming back from exercising or a bathroom break and there it would be, sitting on a canvas sheet on the forest floor.

They headed out shortly after, Grik eating his third helping of travel bread stuffed with cheese and sausage.

“Have you all been through Tular before?” Grik asked between bites. “It’s a lovely sight for first-timers.”

“I’ve been through several times before, but my two associates are in for a treat,” Breka replied.

“What’s it like?” Elliot asked.

“Oh no,” Breka replied, grinning. “You need to see it for yourself.”

“Quite right,” Grik agreed, also smiling. “Words do not do it justice.”

They continued for another hour, their pace accelerating as the path became clearer and clearer. The trees stayed large and spaced apart, but as the trail went by Elliot started to hear the sound of rushing water in the distance. 

The end of the forest came suddenly. Ahead, the ground dropped away like it had been shorn by a giant’s knife, and the world was laid out in front of them. A massive canyon ran from east to west, and while it was only about five or six wagon-lengths across at the site they had emerged from the woods, farther east it stretched wide enough to encompass Bastogne ten times over. At its terminus there was a massive cascade of water pouring over a sheer edge hundreds of feet up, mist hanging in the air like a fallen cloud.

Below the falls the river took up much of the intervening space, but erupting out of the middle of the water was a tree. It was a behemoth, although not comparable to the trees Elliot had seen on the northern horizon. Stretching at least several thousand feet into the air, it stood like a skyscraper from Earth. Looking up, he saw branches—each of which could’ve easily fit a dozen wagons abreast—connected by some kind of complex webbing, and each hosted a huge variety of structures large and small.

From their vantage point on the south bank of the canyon, looking off to the east, it almost seemed like a work of art. The giant branches stretching in all directions, leaves each large enough to cover a house, the spray from the waterfall catching the sun's glow to form an arcing halo behind it all. Elliot felt his mouth hanging open.

“The most long-standing freehold in the Gerrwood,” Breka said, sounding smug. “A bit more mature than Bastogne.”

“What are they here for?” Elliot asked softly, still staring. “What’s the resource this was made to collect?”

“Dust of the Dreamer,” Grik replied, staring at the view with clear appreciation. “It’s in the waters of the Amaranth, but much too dilute to do anything with. Here though, Mother Yarba pulls it out with her roots, and it grows into her wood. The locals are experts at finding the places where it’s most concentrated and pruning them away without harming her.”

“Mother Yarba? Is the tree…sentient?”

“No. Well,” Grik said, tilting his head, “probably not. With entities of such age and ethereal presence, it pays to stay open-minded. But not as far as I know.”

“The dust is a powerful reagent for quite a few different processes, but it’s famous for its use in alchemy and enchanting,” Breka added.

“Many say it's the remnants of an ancient Titan,” Grik added, his voice taking on a rhythmic cadence, “with power beyond modern comprehension. Its death left a massive spellheart hidden at the peak of the world, slowly dissolving into the great waterways of the northern wilds.”

“It’s a nice idea,” Breka said with a small smile, “but most scholars would tell you it’s likely a natural ore that’s too ethera-dependent to be found in significant density outside of the far north. Perhaps someday an expedition will be able to prove the matter one way or the other.”

“No one’s been to the far north?” Elliot asked, feeling a swell of excitement. He’d always regretted the lack of wonder that came from the modern world being so thoroughly catalogued. Even though he knew life would have sucked in many ways back in the age of seafaring explorers, it hadn’t stopped him from dreaming.

“The Selkans, certainly,” Breka replied. “But try asking them. Some Titans somewhere, I’m sure. No one that made the information about what was there available to the wider world, that much we can say confidently.” She glanced up at the sun. “We need to follow the canyon wall for another mile before we hit the lifts. Hadrian, go ahead and make sure there are no large parties that will make us wait. Elliot, some more appraisal practice for you I think.”

Hadrian nodded and set off at a quick jog. Elliot stretched and slipped the pack over his shoulders to get access to the Tome of Eyes. At least the new scenery would be a nice change of pace while he got back to work. The wind had picked up as they left the forest, enough to keep his hair moving, and he was grateful the images formed by the Tome weren’t susceptible to being blown around.

Grik’s eyes widened when Elliot pulled out the book. “Oh my! Oh my, my. Is that a grimoire? Would you mind terribly if I took a look?”

“Sure,” Elliot replied, stretching out a hand with the book. Grik seemed like someone who could handle a grimoire.

“It’s a beautiful specimen,” Grik said, easing the Tome from Elliot’s hands, holding it gently as he took in the golden cityscape filigreed on the cover. “Absolutely beautiful.”

Moving his hands lightly over the edges of the black leather, Grik began to mutter to himself. “Quite subtle for its power level. Illusion? No, projection. But divination-based rather than recorded. Fascinating. A scryer? No, no I don’t think so. But similar. Clearly a training aid, but of a rare variety. Inspection skill? But where’s the scrying aspect…”

He continued to manipulate the grimoire, still muttering, then cracked open the cover. The image that formed above the pages was of a small village, houses made of wood and thatch, set against the backdrop of a large mountain range. It was verdantly green, and a stream ran through the central thoroughfare. Grik’s eyes widened. “Projection with a divination base, but historical. Historicity appears solid. Masterful work.” He closed the cover gently, and handed the book back to Elliot with a smile. “Thank you. That is a magnificent piece. Do you know what you have there?” 

“I think so,” Elliot replied, tucking the Tome of Eyes back under his arm, “it was a gift from a member of the Sunsguard.”

“Really? That surprises me. It’s far from their standard issue. This started its life out in the world, I guarantee it. Then a master enchanter improved on what was already there. It has significant depth. If you’ll forgive me, from what I’m able to sense, I think you’re far from utilizing it to its full potential.”

Elliot tilted his head. “The man who gave it to me wanted me to succeed, I think, and he never mentioned anything beyond its use to train my appraisal skill.”

Grik’s mouth quirked slightly. “I’m sure he was fully open with you, especially if he was a member of the Sunsguard. But he might not have had a complete understanding. This is an old grimoire, several centuries at least. I would venture to guess that he inherited it. Perhaps that’s how it was explained to him, but I promise you there’s more. It has an etheric affinity for divination that far exceeds the demands of an appraisal skill. If you spend enough time with it, I think you’ll start to see what I mean for yourself.”

“Huh. Well, thanks for the heads up.”

“Thank you for the opportunity to examine such a beautiful grimoire,” Grik replied. “I’ll let you get to your work.”

Elliot looked down at the Tome, drumming his fingers lightly on the cover design. For all the promise of his spatial ability, the lure of combat skills, and Breka’s plans to diversify his capabilities, it was [Detailed Appraisal] he found the most joy in. The ability to investigate the world around him was a precious thing, something he would have enjoyed at any point in his life, but especially now that he’d been thoroughly uprooted and surrounded by unknowns.

"Elliot!" Breka called from the wagon, breaking him out of his reverie, "come help a frail old woman with some sorting."

He glanced at her hunched-over figure with suspicion. That was her harmless-old-merchant voice. Walking over, he took a look at the wagon's interior, still filled with goods. "What do you need moved?"

"I’ve just stumbled upon something I didn’t think it would be possible to find this deep in the wilds,” she said, glancing off into the trees, “and that means a change of plan. Normally this would be a supremely useless discovery, but you have unique needs. I didn’t anticipate getting to this training for months yet, but as of right now, you have a new special task.”

"Special task?" he repeated, narrowing his eyes.

"Very special," she said, smiling. "Head east and a titch south, almost parallel to the canyon but about fifteen degrees into the forest. After twenty minutes you'll find a small lake, with a cave entrance on its north shore. Go inside and fetch me something valuable." She pulled a large pack he'd never seen before from inside the wagon. "Take this, but don't let our gentle book merchant see the contents. Put it on when you're into the woods."

Elliot lifted the edge of the canvas flap, and his eyebrows twitched. The pack held a leather cuirass and trousers, almost armor-like in thickness, as well as a large hunting knife. "Uh, Breka, what am I going to find in the cave?"

"Adventure. Excitement. Perhaps treasure,” she replied cheerfully. “Try not to die, and don’t kill anything unless you absolutely have to. Good luck."