Dreams and Shadows (The Aylosian Chronicles Book 1) (39 page)

“There was news of a man the Guardian had brought from the Forest People. We worried that there was some new menace he was devising against us, and so sent a small group to… borrow you. Unfortunately, your companion was skilled, and lucky, and you escaped.”

Realisation dawned on Michael that the men who had assailed Samo and him in the alleyway of the city so many moons ago had been sent from here, and uncertainty again grew within his chest. But the man called Baro had relaxed at Michael’s words. “It seems you have a tale to tell, Michael,” he said. “You are escaped from the Guardian, an entire Rist sent down here for you, and you have lived amongst the Wanderers. You must tell us of these things.”

Michael looked up at the man, and it was only now that he saw the anticipation in Baro’s eyes. Something in what he had said – that he had lived with the Elahish – had caused it. But why that would be, he couldn’t say.

He was nervous about telling his tale, however. “Look,” he said, “Everyone I’ve met in this place has started off treating me well, and then I tell them what’s happened to me, and before I know it, people are trying to kill me, and…” he swallowed hard as the memories again bubbled, “…and then people get hurt.
 
People I care about.” His mother was dead because of his story. He didn’t know how Aneh was. Perhaps she had survived, or maybe the Chet’tu or those demons had killed her too. It was all because of him.

Baro crouched down in front of him, his hand reaching to rest on Michael’s shoulder. As their eyes met, Michael caught a glimpse of a man in another world: a man who had been the only one to ever be like a father to him. His clothes had been dirty, much like the man who was now before him, and though their beards were of a different shade – Baro’s dark, matching his hair – they both held a distinct gentleness in their eyes.

“I do not know what sorrows you have seen, Michael,” he said. “And I do not wish to cause you more pain. I will not seek to compel you, but it would be a great boon to our people if you tell us of the Wanderers.”

Michael was silent for several moments, pondering the request. Baro now only sought information about his time with the Elahish rather than to learn of his whole tale. That was better. He briefly worried that they might use the information to seek harm to Aneh’s people, but quickly discounted that. They had at least one Weaver of their own, so if they hated Weavers as much as the Guardian did they wouldn’t have allowed him to remain.

Eventually, he nodded his assent. Baro smiled as he again stood. “On the morrow then. I will inform our people.”

Before he could leave, Michael remembered a question he had been meaning to ask, “When is that? I mean, I don’t know how long I slept. What time is it?”

The dark-haired man retained his smile as he replied, “You slept for many marks. The sun will soon set.”

And with that piece of information he turned and left Michael alone again to his thoughts, already beginning to consider what he would say to these people about the Elahish.
Will their response to me be friendly?
he wondered,
Or will they try to kill me too?

And with those thoughts, he closed his eyes, once more leaning back against the wall.

CHAPTER NINETEEN:
 

Choices

I have often heard it said by woman or man that they have no choice, as if no part of their destiny is their own to shape. But such thoughts are born of hopelessness, and may prevent such a person from rising to the heights that are awaiting their views. Even in the darkest times, a woman has choices. Should death be certain, she may choose to believe that hope remains, and thus spy salvation that would otherwise escape her. Or should such relief not be forthcoming, she still may choose the manner of her death, that when her soul departs her mortal frame she may with joy and gladness receive the glories that await her. No, to say that she has no choice is really just to say that she fears the unknown, when it is the unknown which oft-times provides the sought for relief.

From the Wisdom of Ashael

***

He got very little sleep that night. The rugs a woman had brought him were comfortable enough, but his body had recovered from the exhaustion that allowed sleep to overtake the fear and despair that dominated his thoughts. So he lay awake, tossing and turning, often staring through the room in which he lay into the dark tunnels surrounding him.

Being underground, he had no awareness of time and was grateful when men and women started to rise from their beds signalling the start of a new dawn. He gratefully received a plate of food for his breakfast, the woman who brought it this time sitting down at his side with her own.

“I am called Silha,” she announced. “May I ask you a question?”

Michael was surprised at the directness of her approach, but saw her friendly look. “Sure,” he replied.

“It is said that you have lived amongst the Wanderers. Is it true?” she asked.

At first, he was surprised that word had got around so quickly, but then remembered that Baro had said that he would be gathering people together today to hear of Michael’s stay amongst the Elahish. “Yes,” he said, “but it was only for a few dawns.”

“And you have witnessed a woman Bow Weaver?” she enquired.

At Michael’s confirmation, her expression became a mixture of surprise and wonder. “What I would give to have such a Weaving…” she finally said.

“Is it unusual here, then,” asked Michael, “for women to be Bow or Sword Weavers?”

Silha’s eyes widened at his question, Michael for the first time noticing that she was relatively young, not much older than him. “We do not have women with a warrior’s Weaving,” she stated. Then she paused, her face hardening a little, “Perhaps…”

But she stopped there, and Michael needed to nudge her, “Perhaps what?”

“Do you know that the Guardian has children who show a Weaving removed from the city?” she asked.

When Michael nodded, she continued, “Perhaps a woman with a Weaving for warrior skills would be too obvious.”

She looked at Michael and saw the confusion on his face, and so continued, “The games small boys play often involve fighting, both playful and sometimes not so playful. Thus the earliest signs of a warrior’s Weaving may go un-noticed as their Weaving is confused for mere talent, and we may save a small number before the Guardian identifies them. Girls are not permitted to enjoy such games, and so any Weaving for swords or bows would be quickly noticed.”

A hardness entered her voice, “No, we girls must cook, sew, and laugh for the men. Women are little more than decorations; toys. We are useless.”

“You find kids with a Weaving and bring them down here?” Michael queried, trying to change the direction of their conversation. “How do you do that?”

Silha smiled at his question. “The Guardian is not the only one with spies.” Her face grew sombre again though as she continued, “But we can save only a small number. Most, the Guardian finds and steals.”

She became lost in her thoughts, and Michael interrupted the silence this time, “Is that what happened to you? Did the people from the tunnels discover your Weaving and bring you here?”

Her eyes darted back to him, and Michael could see the regret in them as she spoke, “Alas, no. I have no Weaving, as most of the people who live here do not. It was my brother who was taken by the Guardian. He had passed only nine summers,” her voice was now filled with sadness at the memory, “and the Guardian tore him from our family: we who loved him more than life itself. Do you know his great crime?”

Of course Michael could have had no idea what her small brother’s Weaving was, but he shook his head, encouraging her to continue.

“He came into our home one morning more excited than I had ever seen him, demanding to show us a new trick he had discovered. Little Ara was always so full of joy and mischief, and we were accustomed to him discovering some new marvel or another. And so we sat at his command and awaited his revelation.

“He finally brought the hand that had been hiding behind his back in front of him, displaying the three small flowers he had brought: one a bright yellow, one a deep red, and another blue. He then said simply,
‘Watch,’
and as he closed his eyes we stared as he had instructed.

“At first, we could not see anything, but then, slowly, the flowers began to merge. It was the most astonishing thing I have ever seen. It was not long before he opened his eyes again, but the excitement in his face quickly fell as he saw the expressions of my parents. In his hand now lay not three, but one flower, its yellow, and red, and blue mixed as if small drops of paint had been thrown against it.”

Silha had looked away as she had been telling her story, but turned back to him again now, “I think it was the most beautiful thing I have ever seen, and also the most terrible. It broke my heart because I knew what it would mean. Little Ara had no idea, of course. He thought only that he had discovered a wonderful trick, as if all people could have done the same if only they knew the secret.

“I fought my parents. They said they had to inform the city administrators or our family would be at risk. I screamed and shouted at them,
‘We are a family no more if they take him!’
But it was no use, and never have I wept more bitterly than when I saw a Rist take him and the other ten or so children through the gates of the city, never to see him again. Of course, the teachers at the school would have discovered his Weaving soon enough anyway, but still I could not forgive my parents.

“That is when I came here,” she said, her voice returning to the solidity of the present. “I ran away from my home and had decided to seek revenge on the Guardian in any way I could. But Baro discovered me and told me that if I wished to take my revenge, I would have to survive. And to do that I would have to leave the city’s surface.

“Thus am I here,” she concluded.

Michael waited before speaking, eventually finding only the words, “I’m sorry.” Then adding, remembering his own recent experience, “The Guardian seems quite happy to wreck families, doesn’t he?”

Silha looked at him as if to enquire what he meant, but he didn’t want to talk about his mother, so decided to ask another question first, “So is that why most people are here? For reasons like yours?”

“Oh,” she replied, “Some are here because a friend or family member was taken from them. Some have a Weaving themselves, as I have explained. Some were simply lost and without home and have been welcomed amongst us. And some, of course, are criminals, seeking safety from the consequences of their actions.”

They didn’t speak any more after that, and Silha soon rose and went back to whatever tasks were hers to perform. Her story: the stealing of a boy from his family, was something that struck a little too close to home for him, and he was glad that there were no more interruptions for the next few marks.

***

The circular room in which Michael was waiting was almost full by the time Baro came and found him, saying that the people were eager to hear his tale of the Wanderers. He led Michael over to a table against the far wall and after announcing him to the room motioned him to climb up. The room wasn’t quite full, and probably could only have held two hundred people if packed, but looking out at the expectant faces, Michael felt there could have been a thousand and he wouldn’t have been any more nervous.

Michael would later reflect on the fact that there were no children to be found anywhere in the tunnels, but right now, all he could think of were his nerves of addressing so many people hungry for his paltry story.

But he told what he could. The nerves were obvious in his voice to start with, but eventually calmed, though he related his time amongst the Elahish in bitty fragments as different memories appeared. If his public speaking teacher from his school in England had been assessing him, she would have been appalled and failed him miserably, but the faces here were held rapt by every word he spoke. The expressions showed awe when he spoke of the circular tents with animal shapes as uni-directional windows; of heat stones; of the musicians and artists; of the foods created that were beyond divine.

It transpired that of the hundred and eighty people or so in total who inhabited the tunnels, there were less than a dozen who had a Weaving; and those were mostly warriors of one type or another, with three artists: a sculptor, a singer, and someone who played a musical instrument somewhat like a recorder. It seemed that as the arts were also encouraged intensively amongst the children of Aperocalsa these individuals had managed to avoid detection when their Weavings had first appeared, once again at first being mistaken for being merely talented. Only Baro’s Weaving was neither Warrior nor Artist, being what he called a Fire Weaver: though that could certainly be put to good use in a fight Michael remembered with a shudder. He later learned that Baro had been the only child in living memory to have been born in the tunnels.

When he had finished relating what he had remembered, Baro facilitated questions, and it seemed to Michael that everyone present had several, so that they broke for lunch but then resumed the session afterwards. The group was fascinated by the tiniest details, not just of the Weavings he had seen, but of the life of the Elahish, as if they were people from myth being brought to life for them.

By the time they finally finished, Michael was exhausted, but even as the crowd dispersed talking excitedly amongst themselves, there were individuals who approached him with ‘just one final question’.

Once evening arrived, announced by Silha bringing him a meal, things had finally quietened, and it was his turn to quietly ask about the lives of those who lived here, and they talked until it was time to retire. Michael was pleased with how he had evaded questions about how he had arrived amongst the Elahish, and about why he couldn’t return to them, but Silha was more persistent when they were alone.

“But you have lived amongst them. Surely you would find them again, and they would welcome you,” she insisted.

“It’s not that simple,” he replied. “I can’t go back. I don’t even know where their camps are.”