Ber, Day 16 of Melia, Winking Moons, Year 602
The longer I live, the more I wonder if the Cure for Everything isn't just Tomorrow.
—From the private journals of Bricot Camdetch, Master Alchemist at Craestor University from 600 to 604
* * *
Steady, now, thought Craix to herself.
A soft rain was falling and had soaked through her clothing and into her skin. The ground beneath her was churned and muddy—one of the surest telltale signs of civilization. The city gates before her were open, and she trudged through, disappointed to find only a few huts arranged haphazardly within the bare timbered fort walls, and a slew of ragged tents to fill in any available space.
"Good morrow," said one of the lookouts to her. The man leaned on his pike, and she nodded him a curt greeting before turning to regard the none-too-cheery sight that met her.
After her visit to Liminey, Craix had traveled to Beechton to receive her next missive.
Generally, Craix preferred wilderness and quietude to anything else, but as she shifted her pack more securely up onto her back and stared at the grimy little settlement, her heart sank. This time, she'd been hoping for a clean inn and hot food. No one had told her Beechton would be a green settlement offering none of the comforts an established village might.
In addition, it would be difficult for her to retain autonomy in a place like this. When she was about her business, Craix preferred to avoid the prying eyes and curious questions of strangers.
When Craix can, she should stay on her own, her father had used to say. Craix is safest when she keeps her own company.
Well, that wasn't possible now.
Night was falling and she'd need sleep before she put her plan into action the next day. She glanced about, trying to guess who to approach about renting a—tent? for the night.
Most of Beechton's inhabitants were as miserable and sodden as she was. Several men labored in the rain to add supports to their daub huts and tents, doing their best to protect their families.
Over by the far wall, two little children—boys, laughed uproariously as they played and splashed in the generous puddles. They were both absolutely naked.
The people of Beechton had built the bulk of the settlement up under forested areas as much as possible, and Craix guessed they wouldn't need to put up with too much inclement weather in general. But a persistent rain like this could flood even well-built towns.
She decided on a likely hut—the biggest one with the most light shining from within. It was a welcoming sight in the waning and sodden evening.
Others watched her suspiciously as she made her way through the tiny settlement. She made eye contact with several inhabitants and tried to smile, attempting to assure them she meant no harm. She hoped it was a smile, anyway; it sort of felt like a grimace.
She knocked on the untreated wooden door, soft and slippery with rain.
"Enter," said a gruff voice.
She pulled the door open,peering around it into the hut. A elderly man and his—wife? Sister? Sat on bare stumps in the center of the packed floor. Craix could see where they'd sealed the places where the floor met the walls with extra sand, rocks, and clay. Unbelievably, the little home was dry. There was a cheery fire going, its excess smoke escaping through a vent in a side wall, and a pot of something simmered on an iron spider over the flames. She blinked in surprise.
The man stood immediately. He was large and tall, with a thin, grey tail of hair that hung limply down his back. His broad shoulders were garbed in a simple shirt of stained tan fabric. The woman wore a shift that might have been green at one point, but was more grey now. Her face was pretty, but lined with worry and weariness now. Her dark hair was likewise pulled back from her face.
"Evening," Craix said cautiously.
"Evening," the man answered, an unspoken question in his voice. The longer the two of them stared at her, the less she had any idea of what to say.
She licked her lips. "I—I'm a newcomer here."
"No, really?" asked the man sarcastically.
There was a long silence while the three continued to stare at one another.
"I—yes," she replied.
He gave a snort that might have been a laugh. "You'd like to settle here?" he asked. "You picked a fine night for it."
But Craix shook her head. "No, I only want to stay the night. I'm passing through, and plan to take the river south. I have coin to pay for lodging."
The woman's eyes lit at this, but the man said stiffly, "We like to know who we're welcoming into our midst before sharing hospitality. Tell us your name, boy—and I'd like to know—just personally—whom you worship and if you're loyal to the emperor or not."
The evening was fraught with boobytraps; she could already tell. How was she to answer the man? His voice gave no sign which affiliations he might prefer. She cared only to be correct. Hang the truth.
"I don't practice a religion," she answered slowly and honestly. "But I acknowledge the Divine Pantheon."
The woman relaxed a little. Craix took this as a positive sign.
"The emperor is our sovereign," she continued. "And I begrudge the man who fails to acknowledge that."
The man had stiffened, so she added, "But I believe citizens have the right to better living through the brewing of potions." Then she held her breath, waiting to be dismissed from the settlement.
This seemed to satisfy the man. "We do brew some potions here," he said. "Which I know pleases the emperor none too well. And we worship the Divine Pantheon, who protects and keeps us. So if you feel differently, you can just trot on out of Beechton and we'll say no more about it."
Craix gave a sharp nod. "I think it well," she said simply. "I feel as you do."
"Good," said the man grimly. "You said you need lodging?"
An hour or so later, Craix lay on her back in a borrowed tent and looked up at the tautly stretched fabric, inspecting it for leaks. The air was moist and chill, but between her own blanket and the ones the settlement had provided, she was warm enough.
So this is Beechton, she thought. The way Hule and his wife had seemed loathe travelers who differed on political and religious beliefs haunted Craix. Was this how the whole world would eventually behave?
It had happened slowly, this sort of—schism. And it would only continue to get worse, she knew.
Strengthened by her resolve to do her part, Craix actively sought sleep and did not pull away when it claimed her.
The next day dawned bright and cool, with the bright drops hanging off of the trembling boughs and occasionally raining down on settlers' heads.
She stuffed her things into her pack and went back to the center of the little enclave to pay Hule. She also bought a tough iron auger from a local tinker at a very fair price. Calumn knew she would use it if all went according to her plan. There was food to be had from the little circle of cookfires near the front gates of the settlement, and she hungrily downed some fried sausages, burning her fingers on the piping fat.
She was relieved to put Beechton behind her, but in her mind she wished them all well. It had to be difficult, carving a life out of the wild like that. Then Craix grinned. Carving a life out of the wild was something of a speciality for her—and it was so much easier when one was left completely alone. Quickly, she found a stout piece of timber and trimmed it using her hatchet. She loved a sturdy walking stick.
It was a matter of hours before she reached the mouth of the Grey River and looked up to check the position of the sun. Two bells, perhaps? Good, she still had time.
The sun glinted off the surface of the water and made her eyes ache. Beyond the grassy shore, Craix could make out a distant island or two. She could already tell from the flow of the river which way she'd need to go. For now though, she needed to get to work.
She took a quick glance around before stripping off her shirt and hanging it on a nearby obliging tree branch. The sun warmed her skin nicely—and she didn't fear being discovered too much. Most people would just assume she was a boy working in the heat as the glands in her chest had never developed any extra tissue. She smoothed a pesky lock of brown hair up and out of her eyes. The rest of her hair was still cropped short, like a man's.
The lapping sounds of the river were comforting, and the distant rapids shushhhhing made her feel insulated and somehow safer.
First, she needed to find the right logs. A quick and appraising stroll around the area brought a pair of dead logs to her attention. These she hauled over to the riverbank where she'd hung her shirt. The bark had all fallen off of the large, round pieces of wood, but some knobbly branch ends still remained for more efficient relocation. When they lay side by side on the bent grasses, Craix dusted off her hands and looked up once more. She needed at least two more logs.
There. Inland a bit, she could just make out a large, dead tree standing tall and straight by itself. It looked to be about the same girth as her other two prizes, so she set off to retrieve it.
Some of the ground she traversed was marshy, and a few times, cool water seeped annoyingly into her boots.
When she reached the tree, she was momentarily daunted by its sheer height. Then she took a deep breath and pulled out her hatchet.
Halfway through the cut, Craix went back to the riverbank for her shirt. Her hands were blistering badly, so she tore small strips of eborel from the fabric and wrapped them tightly about her palms. The stinging heat of them eased, and she went back to the dead tree to finish. At length, the giant piece of lumber fell with a series of tremendous cracks. Good. Now, she needed to cut it into smaller pieces.
The heat of the day began to wane. She took some water from the edge of the river and guzzled it, being sure to taste it first. Then she buried her head in the cool, sparkling liquid. She emerged from the water quickly, sending a spray up into the air, and doused the back of her neck with it.
It was a pleasant afternoon. She went fishing and caught a nice-sized drum.
Feeling anxious about her task, Craix reminded herself that she had plenty of time to get to Tief and that she might as well enjoy the prep time she'd allotted for herself.
She built a fire and roasted her fish, and with a full belly, Craix fell asleep.
The next morning, she awoke to the call of an owl. She sat up and rubbed the sleep from her eyes. The day was dawning chill and fresh, but would be bright for all that.
She had much to do.
Craix began by hacking away at the large, dead tree in the clearing with her hatchet. She wrapped her hands in the dirty strips of cloth once more to protect her tender palms and did her best to absorb the shocks traveling up her arms and vibrating throughout her body. One part of the tree had a stubborn knot that she decided to cut around rather than through, so she wound up with one long piece and two shorter ones.
By now, she was sweating, but she hauled the logs one at a time toward the beach. When they all lay side by side—all five of them, she dabbed helplessly at the perspiration on her sticky brow and looked up at the sun. She was hungry already.
Deciding on a whim to cool off a bit initially, she plunged into the river headfirst and startled a pair of toads on the bank. The water bore her up easily and pulled at the excess fabric of her clothes. Her toes squidged pleasantly in the chalky mud and she tramped about on the river bottom recklessly, disturbing bright red clouds of sediment. The water was lovely, and the rays of the mid morning sun were beginning to lend a glint to the surface of the river.
At length, she trudged back out of the water feeling oddly heavy, with her clothes stuck tight to her skin. She shook out her cropped hair and raked a hand through it. Then she took off her sodden shirt and went to look for something to eat.
She didn't have to go far. There was a greatnut tree standing a few hundred gerds away, and she scooped up some of the nuts to bring back to camp. She nearly stomped carelessly on a patch of wild strawberries, so she stooped and picked some of the delicate things. With her pockets full of nuts and her hands full of berries, she returned to empty out her spoils on an obliging flat rock nearby. She had an unpleasant feeling that this wouldn't be enough for her repast but decided to down everything anyway and see how she felt.
After a hasty meal, she returned to her project. She found two more dead pieces of timber, smaller than the others, and trimmed them until they were mostly flat. All of her big logs and joist timbers were very dry, which boded well for when she was riverbound. The extra air in the wood meant they would all float easily.
Now, for the auger she'd purchased in Beechton. It was heavy for its size, which she reasoned was probably a good thing. With her five big logs laid out end to end and one of her supports laid perpendicular at one end, she positioned the tip of the tool so it would pierce both the top and bottom piece she was working with currently.
Then she turned the little crank and watched in pleasure as the end bit deep into the lumber. Little shredded spirals of wood began to grow and crawl up out of the opening, and she paused every so often to blow away the excess. When she'd drilled a hole all the way through the support piece and part of the way through the base, she stopped.
Craix went out into the forest once more, the shade feeling wonderful after the beating rays on the beach. She secured ten pieces of slim green stems, baby trees. She chopped with her hatchet until they were all of a length and then trimmed the sides to make them approximately square. They'd hold better that way.
Back at the shore, she hammered one of the stakes down into the crosspiece with the flat of her hatchet. She had to pound until the upturned end of the stake was flattened and frayed, but she managed to work it almost all of the way in. This she did nine more times—boring holes with the auger and then pounding the stakes down in so the little raft held together.
She checked for stability by maneuvering the logs back and forth and frowned a little at the extra give.
Craix glanced up at the sky to find several hours had gone by. It would be time for dinner soon, but she thought she could finish in time to enjoy a leisurely evening before departing the next day. The last thing she did was cut down a large sapling with her hatchet, now sticky with sap, and drag it to the beach. She used the auger one more time to bore holes in the long pole, and then fitted these over the exposed corner stakes on the diagonal, pounding the sapling down into place.
Exhausted, she sank down beside her raft and laid a tired hand to its hull. She tried to wriggle it back and forth as she had before—albeit not trying very hard—and was satisfied enough to find that it did not move. Good.
The work wasn't good if Craix isn't ready to fall over at the end of the day, her father had used to say, and she smiled a little to herself.
Dinner was abbreviated. The fish weren't biting, so she ate a huge pile of greatnuts and downed a huge belly of cold water she sucked from a clear spring emptying into the river.
Then she built up her fire again from the night before and prepared for sleep. She roasted some of her chestnuts by lining them up on a rock and thrusting it near the flames but fell asleep before she could check to see if they were done.
The next morning, she took a moment to look for a green piece of timber three times her height and found one not too far from the shore. Then she put on her socks and shirt—still drying by the fire. She put on her boots and stomped out the cooling embers. Then, with a last glance around, Craix grunted and shoved until her raft was riverbound, then hopped on board, steadying herself with her pike.
She loved companionship as much as any human, but at times like this, she gloried in being alone.
* * *
He was always taken aback by the grandeur of Trader Bay and by the glimpses of the wide Boradîc Sea beyond. Every time he traveled back to his home port, Bricot seemed to forget the visual details—the imperial majesty of the ships in the harbor, the dynamic spray of salt water and calls of sailors ready to take travelers out into the open water.
After saying goodbye to Farax, Bricot had continued on foot out of Craestor and on to Trader Bay, where he'd booked passage north onboard the Gallant. Then he'd spent the night in a modest little inn called Yvette's.
Now, he blinked tired eyes up at the masthead and tried not to become dizzy from the subtle bobbing motions the ship was making.
It would turn cold once the Gallant had made its way partially through the Boradîc Sea and toward the continent of Boradîn. Bricot's childhood home was located toward one of the Heladrithian poles, so there would still be a little snow and ice to reckon with, even in normally temperate Melia. He thought of the clothes in his pack, annoyed that he hadn't brought any cold weather garments to don when the weather turned. He simply hadn't needed the furs and skins he'd grown up wearing at Tengue university, and they'd all either worn out or been ravaged by moths anyway.
At the sound of the bell, passengers began to queue up to board the ship, and Bricot fell into line. When it was his turn, he gave the mate a paper ticket to show he'd paid for his passage, then stepped out onto the wide deck, which was littered with coils of rope and smelling of fresh-scrubbed timber. It would not smell this way when he departed in two weeks or so, he thought ruefully.
As he received directions to his bunk room and settled in on the ship, he tried not to think of what he was leaving behind. Someone would need to take over his classes, of course. And the Facerum would remain in Colin's office, waiting until he returned.
He cursed his luck that he had to leave off the translation work for now—just as he was finding a steady rhythm with the work, too!
Though he tried his best not to, he thought of Farax. And Ishka. And Ishka and Farax—sparring together on the green, Ishka and Farax laughing. Perhaps even going into town together. Against his will, his mind conjured images of her lithe frame and flowing, dark locks of hair. There was no telling what would happen at Craestor while he was gone, and while removed, he was completely powerless to influence university life in general. It was maddening.