Arrows of Desire 4.13

I was not particularly surprised to discover that the Caith did not, in fact, as Velevir had said, live in ‘mud huts.’ Yes, it wasn’t a town in the traditional sense, more a collection of wagons and lovingly woven and embroidered tents and canvas coverings clustered around what were clearly the ruins of some ancient settlement, but the quality of the textiles involved rivalled or exceeded what we had in Guildport. Not that it would have justified driving them off their land if they had lived in mud huts, it just didn’t surprise me that the dhampir propaganda was wrong.

Heavy, grey, angular slabs made up most of the stonework of the ruins, and from the places where they had collapsed or fallen apart I could see that they were affixed together with interlocking grooves rather than mortar, which perhaps explained why despite the massive amount of weathering on them, most of the settlement’s walls were still standing.

There were also glyphs here and there which I recognised form my nascent magical studies, and flowing runes that were utterly lost on me: glyphs being a type of spell-crafting that used the magical equivalent of geometry, and runes being symbolic and requiring an understanding of that language.

My ‘innate Outlander magic,’ as Mousington talked about it, still worked on the same principles, but had been somehow stamped on my mind and soul by the Dungeon when it had brought me to Alaria. This had the advantage in that my skill with empathomancy and what Mousington referred to as ‘perhaps some kind of advanced biomancy’ was more fluid and seamless than basically anything a normal person could achieve, and the disadvantage that I didn’t know how I was doing anything.

My skill with illusion magic, on the other hand, was entirely my own: I understood why the hard-light constructs were easier to shape after real creations, why they were so fragile, how they interacted with my mana and the mana of other people. Well, I did a bit, at least.

Some of the Caith glyphs and runes were softly glowing as our group passed, others long faded, chipped and dead. Even the destroyed ones, however, had been carefully cleaned of debris and detritus. I didn’t want to assume too much about this alien society and culture, but it seemed that the Caith had an extreme reverence for the past and worked to maintain this historic site.

Still, despite the manifest strangeness, there was something familiar about the ruins: the angular lines, the grey stone, the way things seemed to be laid out in symmetrical patterns. I couldn’t quite put my finger on why, though.

Although the perhaps nomadic settlement was very different to Guildport, and even moreso to Vienna, there were still commonalities, Caith going about their day to day tasks in the gathering dusk: sweeping tents, preparing food, washing clothes, and, to my surprise, educating a gaggle of green children in an open air class-room where they were teaching looping, elegant letters on great slate boards. I had sort of assumed they were an oral culture because of the lack of permanent settlements, but I had clearly been wrong.

When I looked even closer, I also noticed that the forge I passed was working what was clearly high-grade steel on some kind of heavily enchanted anvil, and there were bits and pieces of enchanted tools and devices scattered around that told me that the Caith clearly had an advanced magical tradition. Itzcota had been right, they were not primitive in a technological sense, I shouldn’t have been so quick to make assumptions and map what I thought I knew about societal development onto the Caith.

Through my empathomancy, I was able to tell that there were some four hundred odd inhabitants in the camp-slash-town, with several coming and going into the surrounding jungle, and many gathered in a large, open, central area. Our small group, and me in particular, drew looks from the assembled Caith, and many of the townsfolk abandoned their various tasks and followed us into the central area dominated by a bonfire, and where a towering, scarred Caith man was standing over a table and conferring with a group of men and women.

Itzcota said something as they neared, and the tall Caith, who very much seemed to be in charge, looked up with hard eyes. He had similarly braided and pulled back hair to her, although his hairline was reseeding. Still, I could see perhaps a glimmer of relation between him and Itzcota, and from the way his heart soared and he moved quickly to wrap her in a hug I was reasonably confident that he was her uncle—their ‘Chief.’

She returned the embrace, and they had a relatively long, but extremely rapid-fire exchange in Caithian. I had been listening to the language all day, and I was reasonably sure that it was agglutinating, like Japanese or Hungarian, where words were added to with various prefixes and suffixes to create entire phrases.

What the phrases meant was still lost to me, but I’d worked out what I thought were greetings and thanks just from observation, as well as a handful of root-words for things like trees, rivers, and what I thought was danger. Only the latter came up once or twice in Itzcota and her uncle’s discussion, and I was forced to rely on my ability to read emotions more than the language to get a sense for what was happening.

The Chief, once he had gotten over the joy of seeing his niece alive, had rapidly adopted a steely, calm, sceptical blue aura as Itzcota spoke, gesturing to me and Nathan. At some point she must have said we were Outlanders, because the suspicion and the hostility of the assembled crowd towards Nathan and me eased somewhat. Itzcota’s uncle, however, was clearly unconvinced by what seemed to be a relaying of Laera’s offer—given how her name cropped up a new times.

Based on his emotional reactions, it did not seem to be going well. His aura showed dubious pale green, something that mirrored Itzcota’s own, but moreso. Eventually, he shrugged and beckoned us forward.

“Hello,” I said. “I’m Charlie, and this is Nathan. I’m sorry we don’t speak your language.”

The chieftain clearly lacked his nieces’ grasp of Valorian, because he immediately turned to Itzcota and waited for her to translate.

“I am Capactl,” he said via Itzcota. “Chief of the Talzacta.” Itzcota frowned. “That is… ‘People of where the Sea Meets the River.’” She cleared her throat and continued. “I do not know why you have come, Outlanders, or why you saved and released my niece. But because of that, you will not be killed.”

I gulped. Not being killed; that was nice. I had had some hope, given how Itzcota had seemed open to some kind of treaty, but my gut told me that the chief was not of a similar mind.

“Thank-you, we appreciate that,” I said, choosing my words carefully. “We’re here on behalf of Guildport, the place we arrived at. We’ve been asked to try and seek a peaceful settlement with you by the Guildmistress, Laera. We do not want war.”

“I am aware of your mission, and your words,” he replied. “But you have come for nothing. Peace will come only when the invaders are all dead, or when they leave.” He paused and considered for a moment before continuing. “As for you Outlanders, I am not unsympathetic, and your kind gave much to our people, long ago; if you agree to follow our laws, you would be permitted to join our tribe.”

“That is generous of you,” I said. “But the guild isn’t going to leave, and more and more adventurers are arriving constantly. Moreover, unlike Port Imperial, there is no reason that Guildport and the Caith couldn’t be friends. Or, at least, not enemies. The Guild is only interested in the dungeon, nothing beyond it; they aren’t the same as Port Imperial.”

“And yet my son was murdered by your precious Guild,” he replied.

Despite his calm, placid features, I could feel a well of rage bubble up at its words. The chief’s son. Fuck. I’d hoped that ‘cousin’ had been from a different part of Itzcota’s family tree. That made this much harder: it was personal for him now.

“I am truly sorry for your son’s death,” I said, bowing my head. “I am a healer, and as soon as I heard I raced to where he was, to try and save him. I am so sorry that I was too slow. And you’re right, his murder was a crime, no goat is worth someone’s life.”

The chief’s anger hardly abated, although it did all but vanish towards me.

“I am grateful for your attempt, Healer,” said the Chief. “And your words are very fine. But fine words will not bring Ehzcatl back, nor do they change the situation. Our lands are being invaded, and I am charged with defending them. That is all there is.”

“I do not dispute that these are your lands, nor that your attacks are not unprovoked,” I said. “Guildport was founded without your permission, and that was an injustice, but the Guild is open to paying you a percentage of the profits from delving, in perpetuity, and in allowing your people free and unhindered access to the settlement.

“Laera also said she was prepared to draw a line beyond which we would not expand, and guarantee that the Guild would never attack you as the Mercians do. The Guild has good relations with the Merfolk of the reef, and would like to have good relations with you.”

“And those who killed my son?” said the chief. “Blood calls out for blood, Healer.”

“And many people from Guildport were killed in your attack, including those who had nothing to do with that fight,” I said. “Blood calling out for blood is a never-ending cycle.”

“There is an end, when the invaders leave,” said the Chief.

I took off my glasses and rubbed the bridge of my nose. This is why I hadn’t wanted this job. I wasn’t a diplomat. We were going around in circles.

“Is there anything that we could offer that would make you change your mind?” I asked. “Do you have any terms by which you would consider peace and a treaty where Guildport could remain, even in a different, less colonial form? Laera wishes to bargain with you in good faith, I know she does.”

The chief fell silent after Itzcota finished relaying my words, and I could feel the blue creeping back into his aura as the searing red began to gradually fade. I tucked my thumbs, hoping for just a sliver of something. A place we could start.

Then he spoke again, short and definitive, and I knew what he meant before Itzcota translated his answer. My heart fell.

“No.”

 

***

 

TW: Racism and Queerphobia

Interlude: Caroline

Dearest C,

I was so sorry to hear about your friend Glesvir’s death at the hands of those savages. I didn’t know him well, but he seemed like a thoroughly decent and respectable fellow. I hope his soul is received tenderly.

Thank-you for updating me as well as to the damage to the town; shocking to think that those primitives were able to cause some damage to a dwarf-made wall! Still, it is a relief to hear that the attack was not devastating.

Were relations better, I would dispatch a squadron of marines to help reinforce you! I hope that your Guildmistress either becomes more reasonable, or is replaced, and the tensions between our two towns settle down so that we can once again begin to collaborate against the Green Menace.

Thank-you for more of your fascinating scripture; I find it very interesting.

Please be safe, and do keep me apprised.

Your friend,

S.

Caroline finished the elegantly written Valorian, and set down the crisp, perfectly dry letter. Direct post wasn’t possible since that freak had abused their position to illegally steal a whole swathe of property, but it was still possible to get messages through to Port Imperial using the strange sea-dwelling Merfolk who lived in the reef off the coast as intermediaries.

Seveena had been a lifeline in this increasingly mad world, a voice of reason and sanity who saw how insane it was to have a bunch of savages just left to their own devices within a supposedly civilised town. Belevar, as wonderful as he was, had brushed her off when she’d tried to broach the subject of how things might be changed: ‘the Guildmistress is in charge;’ ‘she has too many allies on the board;’ and ‘there are more animals than us.’

Caroline was just about to begin drafting her response when the door to her room banged open, and Belevar entered like a storm cloud, tossing his coat, wet from the squall that had rolled in from the bay a little before noon, onto the ground.

“Caroline, have you-”

“Bell,” she said firmly. “What have I told you about clothes on my floor? I will now have my abode turned into a barn.”

The dhampir man huffed, but picked his black coat up and hung it on a peg by the door.

“Have you heard?” he said. “That twit of a Guildmistress let the prisoners go!”

Caroline frowned. “She did what!?”

“Let them go! And sent that… neby, or whatever the fuck it calls itself, off to negotiate with them,” raged Belevar, his entire body trembling with fury. “Negotiate! After they murdered Glesvir!”

Her darling took a deep, shuddering breath and rubbed his forehead. Tears began to roll down his cheeks.

“Hush now, hush now,” said Caroline, standing up to pull him down to her bosom. “It’s all right.”

“How is it alright?” sobbed Belevar. “How is it alright!? This place- this place is fucked-”

“Language, Bell,” she admonished him, running her hands through his hair. “And it’s going to be alright, because we’re going to make it alright.”

“How?” said Belevar. “How?”

“To start with, we’re going to get rid of that Harlot of a Guildmistress,” she said.

Belevar blinked up at her, giving her a look that he clearly thought she was insane. But Caroline wasn't mad. No, it was just that she was no longer the mostly meek young woman she had been back in America. Something had changed, all the way back in her first 'delve' of the dungeon, when she'd been facing that Earth elemental. To begin with, she'd been overcome by existential fear, too terrified to move. But then… then something that shifted inside her, and she'd found courage she had never known she had possessed. And since then? Since then she never felt too afraid, because if she could stand up for herself and face down the worst darkness once, she knew she could do it again.

Of course, toppling that half-breed who'd been placed in charge wasn't just a matter of courage, it would also require subtlety and subterfuge, but Caroline had always known she was bright. If she was careful, she was sure she could get this town dancing to like marionettes in no time.

“Now," she said, taking out her handkerchief and wiping her dear Belevar's eyes. "Who told you about all this…?”