Keeping the Fire: Docks and Nettles

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The Archives were dug into the granite of the four tiered spire that Fortress Edgar was built upon. The upper floors were built all around with wood, lined with carpets and tapestries, and regal if albiet bustling. The floors below this became more cramped. They had been old siege storeroom in former centuries and their lay out was cryptic full of tunnels and small chambers arrayed all throughout with books and papers. She would not have been able to navigate the maze at all if she had not had the help of her watcher. She was always accompanied by Iven, one of the librarians, an aged and bearded man bent low with rheumatism but still holding himself with fine bearing. Everything she took he noted, what pages she looked at he made, at least a rough accounting of, for indeed all of the secrets of the Fortress were here, every treaty, every plot, every treachery in the long and twisted path the Edgarans had followed to maintain their autonomy. Here too was the sources she was looking for, poems and references beyond counting, and more than enough material for seven fold lifetimes of inquiry. Yet, she had hardly the time she needed. The day after speaking to the King he had announced he would hold council with Djaught Mehethe on the next festival day, less than a week away. She had been at the books every waking minute since then. Coralm and Tavya must certainly have been concerned but in truth, she had no time for either. Today she realized that she needed to stop. She had been staring at the same page for almost an hour. She was getting distracted, her intellect was exhausted.

She bid Iven to leave the works ready for her and left the Archives early making for her quarters by the quickest route. A puzzle of timing was vexing her between three poems, and she couldn't stop thinking about it however much it frustrated her. She was so distracted by her walk that she lost her way once, and regaining it, bumped twice into other people traveling down a busy thoroughfare given over to people engaged as spinners and weavers. She almost walked into a third man, and in trying to go around him, found that he moved to meet her. He was trying to get her attention.

“Qwimeren,” he greeted her in Djashar, then in poor Eddinite just as heavily accented as his Djashar, “You are a Luminary yes? Ah, I have looked for you. I have need of talking to one,” he said, and Polena tried her best to smile. His speech was delivered with a quiet politeness that wasn't particularly unnerving. But his clothing was off, a Monan style neka of yellow linen dyed with docks and nettles, boots fitting more the road than the court, finery of woven twine and cheap stones. It was all fool's gold; things worn by the poor when feigning wealth. Worse signs were the number of scars he bore for a man in his early twenties, at least five different ones across his face and neck.

“All kindness,” said, with a nod, “But had I the time I would love to help you, uh... Have we met?”

“No. But, I’m called Dama, and meeting you is good.” The name was common enough to lend anonymity and it made her only more worried.

“Thank you Comae Dama, but your concern with a Luminary must wait till another day. Please come see me at our quarters and if you...”

“Ah, but there not time, please, my friend is convert. She lives near your mile forts. She is dreadful sick. She needs to be near Luminary.”

“I'm so sorry to hear that, you know where one of the People suffers, all People lend strength,” she said, looking about her. Near here there was a group of girls spinning wool to threads, but not one was over twelve. Further down the way a trio of young mothers traded off nursing and work, two of them were in haughty conversation while the third, a child at each breast, let out a loud laugh. There were no guards, no one armed, no way to go but back as she came, or through Dama.

“I really, cannot come to her now, Dama, but please do tell me where she is and I will come as soon as I might,” as she spoke she wheeled widely around him and tried to continue past. Dama moved to meet her, stopping her with his body. He was done with the ruse.

“Best you come now,” he said, pulling back the fold of his neka to show a blade kept to his chest below it.

“Alright, that's makes it clear,” said, Polena, taking half a step back, “which way?”

And as he started to speak she stepped fast backwards and bolted sprinting back the way she came. Women of the court often wore soft shoes of cloth but a Luminary's footwear, though humble and comfortable is above all functional. They were workers before ever they were priests. She ran as fast as she could, sparing no breath to shout, pounding her feet along the set cobbled stones of the corridor, its chambers whipping by. Frightened looks of the weavers greeted her as each she came close by dodged clear, she could not spare a look behind to see if Dama had his knife out but she felt certain he must be close. She saw a corridor up and coming and fast turned down it, losing her footing in the turn but regaining it as her body hit the wall. Yet she made not three steps before crashing headlong into a man. He through his arms out and caught her stopping her in place. Now she shouted for help, throwing a fist clear to his jaw, Polena would not let herself disappear in this place. The man let go of her and stumbled back as she kicked him and started to follow up to knock him down and blow past him.

“Polena, Polena I'm sorry!” it was Gambre, Tayva's slave. Polena looked back. Dama had not followed her. When she had bolted he must have gone the other direction rather than chance getting caught up in a chase. She turned back to Gambre helping him steady himself and wincing to see his bleeding lip.

“Gambre, I'm so sorry.”

“'Tis' nothing, nothing, my fault really.”

“It isn't your fault but we don't have time to talk. Were not safe. Take me to the nearest guards.”

He nodded moved right away, as if being given an order took his pain away at once. By the time the reached the guards Dama, certainly not his real name, would be gone. That night, Polena would give thanks to the Will of the People that protected her by assuring that a friendly face was near at the right moment. Certainly there could be no other reason that he had been so close by at just the right moment.

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