Inkblots: A Tale of Magic, Adventure, and Romance

XXIV. A Beldaran in the Desert

Adir's wife was kind but shy—only a few year' Alia's senior—and it took her only a few moments to grab a length of cloth for drying, a bar of some herbal smelling soap, and a pile of clothing that Alia assumed was for her to change into. Together, they wove back between small smoky fires and laughing children toward the gentle sound of running water.

The slender, dark-haired woman—whose name Alia had immediately forgotten—rounded an outcropping and then ducked into a small grotto. Alia followed, blinking at the dappled light that danced on the walls. She looked up to see a chunk of sky spilling downward into the cave, reflecting pleasantly on the water. There was a sandy shore, soft and inviting looking, and it was there that Adir's wife placed the items she had carried.

"Here?" asked Alia, feeling nervous. She was very conscious of the sounds of human life bouncing of the cavern walls all around. She glanced behind her, seeing distant gleams of fire but no obvious onlookers.

The other woman smiled, looking wise. Much to Alia's surprise, the woman spoke better Beldaran than her husband, though heavily accented. "It is a place only for the women," she said. "Another may come to bathe herself but it will be private."

Alia's chin ducked in a nervous nod. "Thank you."

Adir's wife smiled again and gestured toward a small rocky outcropping. "Over here are stones for washing. Your clothing can dry here."

"Thank you," said Alia again. This time it was heartfelt—her clothes were past grimy.

With no further formalities, the slim woman ducked away, back toward her fire and young son.

Alia stripped quickly, feeling oddly exposed. Her layers of clothing were stiff with sweat and dust, and she tossed them into the water with a look of distaste. Hands clutched to her body nervously, covering her breasts and pubic bone as though rapacious men stared from every corner, Alia grabbed the soap and sidled awkwardly into the water. She'd been hoping for a sense of shelter and modesty, but even in the deepest area of the bathing pool, the water came only to mid-thigh. With another anxious glance, the young Beldaran shivered at the chill of the water, sighed, and sat down on the sandy pool floor.

A sharp gasp whistled between her teeth at the first icy rush, but it quickly became more tolerable. For a few blessed moments, Alia was almost relaxed, sitting there in a cold pool in a strange land with no friends to be seen. At last, with great reluctance, she stood up and grabbed at the soap, working at the thick layer of grime on her arms and torso. The thick lather smelled foreign but pleasant, and as she worked Alia's thoughts turned again to Kit. Not that it got her anywhere to think of his outright rejection over and over, but like the ripples that surrounded her in the water, the thoughts seemed to perpetuate themselves.

She tried to wash the bitter thoughts away as easily as the desert dirt. No rejection, no fierce anger, no prickling eyes, no vision of scornful brown eyes imprinted on her mind. The closest she could achieve was a blank emptiness, but that served its purpose. The blankness carried her through washing her hair, drying on the cloth—a deerskin?—and slipping into the strange, loose desert garb.

It was only when she had knelt next to the pool and begun scraping at her stained dress with a worn stone that something happened to break her reverie.

"You are the companion of the man—Silvertongue." The voice was female, elderly, and unmistakably Beldaran—and it issued a statement, not a question.

Alia spun, laundry forgotten. "I—" She had expected to see a familiar face, if the speaker was from her homeland, but instead an old, leathery desert woman peered keenly at her. "I am traveling with him, if that's what you mean," she said awkwardly, possible connotations of the woman's statement catching up to her.

The old woman provided no support or dissent. She just shuffled forward across the sand, with the last dim light of what must be the setting sun gleaming on silver hair. Alia watched her warily, feeling uncannily like the prey of an owl or some other predator. Instead of pouncing, though, the woman just settled herself on the rocks, sighing and rubbing at her knee.

After a long second, Alia eased up and began scrubbing at her dress again. It was only then that the newcomer spoke.

"He carries a lot of pain—or is truly callous." Again, the woman spoke clear, perfect Beldaran, piquing Alia's curiosity.

"He—" Alia blurted bitterly, ready to complain of his betrayal, but a soft memory of the emotional afternoon caused a rush of guilt that washed away her anger. "Pain," she said instead, voice soft and shaky.

The silver-haired elder nodded, head remaining bowed at the end. "As I thought. I will do what I can to ease it, though there is slim comfort to be provided."

Questions rushed through the Beldaran girl's mind, piling on one after the other. She chose carefully, still intimidated by the small, hunched figure. "How did you know? Who are you?"

"My name is Liandra," the woman said, looking back toward the younger girl. "As for the rest, I think the Hero is owed that first."

"You are Beldaran." The name confirmed what the accent had suggested.

Liandra shook her head sharply. "I was born in your land, it is true. But this is my home and these are my people now."

Alia began to wring streams of water from her dress with tired arms, trying to process the subtext of what Liandra had said.

"You haven't shared your own identity," added the older woman. Her tone was one of amusement, not chiding, but Alia blushed nonetheless.

"Alia," she said quickly. "Of—of Beldara." No one here would know that her father hadn't claimed her, and Beldara was the home of her heart. "I was a student at the Librum, before..." It suddenly seemed impossible to explain everything that had happened.

"Before the magic failed." Liandra seemed unsurprised, and Alia looked at her startled. "Go on," said the older woman, not offering any answers.

"I was—" She had to choke out the words. "I was exiled when the Book came apart. So I came with Kit—Kitrell—to find answers." It was a woefully inadequate summary of what she had dealt with, but the words were too hard to speak.

Liandra had raised an eyebrow at Alia's nickname for the Hero, but she didn't say anything about it. "If you will come, I can provide them," she said. "I suppose you have earned the right to what understanding I can give. In return, I will be interested to hear more of your experiences."

Alia nodded without thinking, hurriedly shaking the now-clean dress out across the stones and scrambling upright. It wasn't until she was following Liandra's shuffling gait back through the main cavern that she realized this meant confronting Kit again, and standing before his curious friends to face more potential embarrassment. But the old woman never hesitated, and she had no chance to back out now.

Loud laughter and young boisterous voices still echoed from Kit and friends, but when Liandra led the way around the corner, their reaction was markedly different. Posture was corrected, bowls and stones were set on the ground, and more than one polite voice murmured, "Grandmother," in deference.

"I would speak to Silvertongue," she said directly.

Alia finally forced her eyes up from the ground and toward Kit, wincing at the use of the name that she knew he hated. But the golden-haired hero only nodded and stood up gracefully. "Of course, Grandmother," he murmured.

Liandra didn't wait before turning and leading them back into the dim glow of the main cavern.