[Mkguild] Dream's Aria: Dark Interlude (2 of 3)

[Ryx]

            “Can you find a light, minstrel?  I cannot see but blackness.”  
After ten paces on his crutches Egland fumbled about to his right and found 
another archway.
            “I am trying, but there is neither torch nor striker in the sconce.” 
The marten’s tenor growl filled the echoing chamber.  “And the name is Dream, 
sir Knight, not minstrel.” Something metal and heavy rang with a dull thud 
eliciting a string of pained hisses from the unseen minstrel.  “Damnation!  I 
found the brazier; gods curse the thing, in the middle of the floor just there.  
We’re in the dressing chamber.”
            “I will retrieve a torch from the hall.”
            “Nay, ts’amut!   There are none in the courtyard, and it is no 
little pace to find one in the hall.”  Egland felt a hand touch his hip, then 
move to his arm as Dream sought him out and forestall his retreat.  “Besides, we 
needn’t see to bathe, and I need to soak.  I’ll soon think misery fine company 
when the wine catches up to me.”
            “How far to the baths?”
            “A dozen paces at most, if you avoid that ambushing brazier.  A tun 
of soap is usually somewhere near the pool.”  Dream’s hand drew him into the 
deeper darkness, gently guiding him around the brazier upon its pedestal in the 
center of the room.  “There’s a bench to use.  Doff that tabard and I’ll lead 
you on.”
            Egland did as he was bade, unfastening the shoulder of his recently 
altered tabard.  One of Coe’s nurses had seen that his antlers would interfere 
with his garments and had some tailor modify his entire wardrobe.  Thus, once 
unfastened and the sash loosened the tabard fell free.  He caught it with one 
hand and laid it upon the bench he could feel brushing against his knee.  In the 
darkness nearby he could hear the minstrel divesting himself of his far fancier, 
and far more complicated, raiment.
            At the moment Egland felt glad of the blanketing darkness, feeling 
suddenly self-conscious at his nakedness.  He had always felt such, even in the 
bathing caverns of Yesulam among his fellow faithful.  As such he had sought to 
bathe in the off hours when few if any were present, when he could let his 
thoughts wander without the ever-present fear that anyone might catch him 
glancing or even staring where he should not.
            “Brrah!” Dream exclaimed at last, “I don’t look forward to putting 
all of that back on in the dark, but it feels good to be free of it!”  The 
marten’s hand once again found Egland’s elbow and urged him into motion.  “Come, 
let us be cleansed.”  Egland felt the minstrel’s other hand at his hip, “A step 
to the right, the edge of the brazier is not pleasant to walk into unawares.  
Nor do I fancy hauling you to your hooves should you trip upon it.”  Once safely 
around the unseen obstruction Dream lead only by the touch upon Egland’s elbow.  
“How fares your recovery?”
            “Swiftly, considering such injuries.” Egland supplied quietly while 
he shuffled along on his crutches.  After more than an hour upon them his 
shoulders and hands ached terribly.  “The healers say the bones are whole, I now 
need only regain my lost strength and figure out a completely new sense of 
balance.”
            Dream guided him around a corner into the heavy warmth of 
water-laden air.  “The latter, I daresay, will be more difficult than the 
former.”  Egland could hear the lazy susurrus of undisturbed water under the 
steady plinking of dripping condensation.  “Expect many a bruise to pride and 
posterior before you once again master the steel dance of war.” A staying hand 
touched Egland’s chest.  “Two steps down and then sit, the last step is into the 
depths and about waist high for you, I imagine.”  Egland could hear the marten 
splashing about, testing his footing with one paw.  The guiding touch left and a 
louder splash followed.  “Aye, that’s the right of it.  Have care.”
            War water lapped at Egland’s hooves as he cautiously descended the 
two steps and slowly sat down on the rim of the pool.  From the echoing of 
splashing water and voice he judged the pool to be large.  His ears told him 
that the chamber was longer than wide.  Setting his crutches upon the edge of 
the pool Egland carefully eased off the lower step and into the comfortable 
embrace of warm water.
            “What think you, ts’amut?  Better than a little basin of snowmelt?” 
Dream queried from somewhere to Egland’s right.  “The soap is here in a wooden 
tun as well a deeper ledge to sit upon.”
            “It’s warm, thank Eli.” Egland leaned there against the pool’s edge 
by sinking into the water and bracing his arms along the lip of the stone pool.  
“How are such marvels done in such an inhospitably cold clime?”
            “Hah!  You fear yet more magic?” Water surged when Dream pushed 
toward the deeper middle of the pool.  “They do the same here as elsewhere; they 
put the pool above a source of heat.  In this case one of the kitchens, from the 
smells and sounds coming through the stones.  At the far end of the bath is the 
chimney for the ovens.”
            Unconcerned at the moment about actually bathing Egland luxuriated 
with a leisurely soak in the warming water.  “So simple, heh.  In the heat of 
Yesulam the baths are below ground where the water is cooled rather than 
warmed.”
            “We are not so different here than elsewhere in our daily lives, 
after all.”
            Egland stretched each of his legs slowly as the warmth of the bath 
eased into the atrophied muscles to chase away the tension.  “Perhaps, except 
needing a good brushing down as often as my horse.”
            Dream laughed from somewhere in the middle of the dark pool.  “Yes, 
well, there is that point.  It adds variety to life.”
            “Yashua’s stones, minstrel!  Variety?  Every man you meet was once a 
woman, every woman once a man?  You know not if a child is ten summers or 
fifty?” Egland snorted derisively, “I’d not call that variety, I’d call it 
confusion!  I don’t know if the lamb is for slaughter or soliloquy!”
            “You read the poetry, first.  If they don’t offer appreciation then 
they’re just dumb beasts.  You are new to this, ts’amut, just as we all were at 
one time.”
            Egland sighed heavily, “It is too new, too fast upon so much all at 
once.” The elk shook his head slowly.  “And why do you keep calling me that?”
            “What?”
            “Ts’amut.”
            “Your friend was the steppelander, Bryonoth?  I thought from such 
acquaintance you would know something of the language.  It means –“
            “Brother.  It means brother, I know.  Other than that rat, Sir 
Saulius, you’re the only one who has spoken a word of the language.  And even 
the he did not call me ts’amut.  Why do you?”
            Dream was silent for a few moments, the water stilling as he floated 
motionless.  “You need one.” He said at length, quietly.  “Bereft, bereaving, 
alone among so many unknown and strange to you.  The word was taught to me, many 
years ago, by a dear… friend.  My own ts’amut, if you will.  Ajhes ts’amut.”
            “That one was close to you.” Egland replied softly with some 
surprise.  Ajhes had many layers of meaning from the mere closeness of unrelated 
friends, to affection, or even love either emotional or physical, or both.  It 
was a weighty preposition not tossed about lightly.  “Who was this ajhes ts’amut 
of yours?  What became of him?”
            “He joined your ecclasia; he went to this great church city of 
Yesulam where I could not follow.” Dream intoned flatly.  He drifted over to 
seat himself on one of the submerged stone benches.  “His name was Sahan 
Deross.”
            Egland blinked in shock at the name that reached his ears. “Who?” he 
managed to croak at length.
            “Sahan Deross, son of Earl Buran Deross of Pyralia.”
            “Who called himself Namir.” Egland felt his heart shrink as if 
crushed by a mighty fist as memories flooded from the past to lay their sorrows 
upon those still fresh.  The words escaping his throat were a whisper.
            “Namir, yes.” The marten replied.  “Of Lequon en Nahmir, a story of 
Steppes folklore, of the forging of peace between the mountain peoples and the 
steppes.”
            “The Two Princes, by historical treatise, seven hundred years before 
our Reckoning.  Both became mighty kings who ended centuries of war.” Egland 
supplied in a stunned daze.
            “For love.” Returned the marten in an equally subdued whisper.  “How 
came you to know the one called Namir?”
            Egland cupped his face in both hands and stared into the darkness 
slack-jawed for several long moments.  The memories came upon him in a flood if 
vivid images, moments of his past flickering across his mind’s eye with 
arresting clarity.  “He was new come to the novitiate some ten years ago.  I was 
just past my sixteenth year, four years into the studies for my future role as a 
papal knight.  As he was beyond his majority, in his nineteenth year, he was one 
of the eldest at the novitae.  He seemed very lost and in the early months spoke 
to almost no one, secluding himself in the libraries.
            “As you said, alone and bereft.  Sensing that he was vulnerable and 
weak certain of the more unruly young brothers sought to use his inexperience to 
their advantage.  Be that by false friendships, threats of harm, or outright 
threat of false witness they pushed and pulled the novices to suit their ends.”
            “And what of you, sir knight of Yesulam, bearer of naked steel and 
letter of blood?” Dream queried challengingly, knowing that the Namir of his 
memory loathed warfare and all who practiced its art.
            “When I happened upon a half score of the worst that had cornered 
Namir and two other novitiates to… use in contrition of their initiate vows I, 
too, foreswore my oaths and vows not to raise hand to my fellows of the Church.
            “Three I smote with such violence that their service thereafter was 
proscribed by the lasting injuries.  Four others were felled but recovered in 
time and the last three would have had the best of me but for the arrival of 
other novitiates.  All were tried, myself among them.  Seven were discharged and 
bade never seek service to the Church thereafter.  Those I injured most 
grievously remained, but were sequestered in roles of menial services.  As the 
one who stood against them with violence I was made to serve penance for 
violating my vows but that moment of courage reached the Patriarch’s ear.  Five 
years ago he called me to the ranks of his personal guard.
            “But before I could become a proper squire I had to become more than 
a petty nobleman’s poorly educated cast-off whelp.  While I understood sword and 
shield I knew little of scholarly work.  I could read, but not well, enough to 
partake in study of the Canticles.  I sought out the scholarly, eventually 
coming to novice Sahan.
            “I liked him easily, for his gentle humor and patience with my 
ignorance.  The library was his armory, his field of battle and triumph.  For me 
it was a besiegement that I weathered with ill grace if for nothing more than to 
be near him.
            “And…”  Egland stared down at his hands, not seeing how they had 
changed in the darkness, but his past hands with the vividness of memory.  “And 
I knew why!  I dared not say, but I knew why I wished to be at his side.”  He 
raised his head to look toward the oddly attentive minstrel.  To what end was he 
telling this strange amalgam of man and beast such things?  What brought him to 
such revelations, given to none before, even those closest to him in any regard 
throughout his service to the Church?
            An old familiarity between the two, the link from his past and the 
past of the curious minstrel?


      

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