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╩ 38 ╩
The Barrow was not in the style she had seen for Westin tombs, but that was hardly surprising to her. It must be ancient or the Djaught's men would not have given it a second look. About ten paces high, about a hundred long at it's widest part, it was set around with stone along its base. This, along with the streams gave an impression of a boundary one was better off not to cross. Yet, clearly it had been crossed. There were two piles of recently dug earth near the top of the tomb, as well as a pair of tents. The flag of Fiedjan was set on a spear, but it hung lazily, half off its pole as if tied in haste or left overlong in a storm.
There was quiet talk among the hava, the common soldiers of the Djaught's retinue. Those hava closest to the Barrow had readied their spears, as if expecting an ambush from the bare top of the mound. Mehethe would not have it. Without even leaving his horse he snapped his rod against the beast's saddle. The loud “clack” of iron brought the hava immediately to ready. They stood straight, stopped their whispered, and shouldered their spears as surely as if the clack of the rod had been the crack of a whip. Polena marveled at such discipline, but cringed at the fear of authority that must be it's source. She walked the few paces between her and the Djaught, never really taking her eyes off the silent camp at the top of the mound.
“It is quite a place Djaught. How long did your vassals work here before leaving?”
“I do not know.”
“Ah, was the minister in charge of that?” repied Polena, trying not to sound as nervous as she felt.
“No I was. I say I do not know because my men were never given permission to leave.”
Polena looked away from the Barrow for the first time then up to the Djaught. He was stoic as always, but there was a difference to him. He did not have the fear that the other soldiers showed, nor did he hide it under smugness, anger, or bravado. It was as if he was not afraid because he was not anything. Mehethe called out a greeting, loud enough that one of the ministers watching jumped. There was a long, long silence. He sniffed once at the air, as if coming to a conclusion. “Djahava,” he snapped. The leader among the hava rushed to his side and took a knee, fist over his heart in salute.
“Take two men. Take Curator Ibe to the top of the barrow. Tell us where my men are.” Polena looked over to the Curator. He was the older and fatter of the two ministers she had seen her first day speaking with the Djaught, the younger having stayed behind to attend to the Proper's affairs. A Curator was something different than a Luminary. They were folk that had spent much of their lives in service of the Goddess of Pureblooded Ness. It was an old and complex worship, deeply aesthetic and inextricably tied to the politics of the Proper. One did not become a Curator unless one could afford to, both financially and politically. Curator Ibe took a very long time to get off of his horse and when he did, seemed that he was going to take much longer to get his effects in order. The wait pryed at the part of Polena that could not sit still and at length she asked the Djaught:
“How many did you leave here? What where they doing?”
“Four. They were digging further into the Barrow, as they had been given the Curator's blessing to do so when first we came to this place.”
“And what do you think happened to them? Is this area dangerous? Are there bandits? Barbarians?”
“We will know soon enough. Let the Curator seek it out first.”
“Why was he not here? It seems like he would know best how to proceed with an excavation.”
“Perhaps if he was from your Alliance, Luminary, they make your preists work but ours do not. The studies of Hin-Qwokha Ness are difficult and ardjuous. Curator's like Ibe have no time to learn other arts. That is the difference between a Luminary and a Curator. You are a practitioner of many arts, but he is a master of one. And for it he can evict spirits and call down a ration of luck when we should need it.”
Polena had heard this sort of talk before. A Luminary does not claim to have any power. To be a conduit or a focus of the People's power, yes. A Luminary might perform great works, blessings, even miracles should the People be so willed. But talk of shamans, casters, and Curators working spells had always bit at her a little. She had been to fortune tellers, she had seen tricks of jugglers, she had even taken part in a Havkarran rite once. While all of them moved her, she had never seen anything beyond her ken.
“We should go up,” Polena said, ever more impatient. Were this an ambush, she reasoned, it would have already been sprung. Either the place was empty or the people there needed desperate aid. In either case there was no reason to delay.
“We will go up when the Curator deems it safe. I will not break taboo Luminary. This is an old tomb and a powerful one and we must tread with care. It is no place for men to walk lightly.”
Polena chuckled at that. Djashar has sixteen pronouns, most of them gender neutral. But he used men deliberately, and that was all it took. She shrugged her pack to the ground, steadied Coralm's gladius so that she could draw it, and picked her way down and through the stream.
“Luminary! Wait for the Curator,” called Mehethe, his voice raised with warning more than alarm.
“Djaught, you spoke of the difference between a Curator and Luminary. Let me tell you another. We do not wait.” She started up the hill, the hava staring wide eyed at her as she took the slope. She smiled with confidence. In her heart, she knew she did so out of fear. For if some spirit lingered here, and it was not that of Djasho, there was no telling what pathos may motivate it. Yet, the cold of the place suggested that whatever it was, it could not be kind.
There was quiet talk among the hava, the common soldiers of the Djaught's retinue. Those hava closest to the Barrow had readied their spears, as if expecting an ambush from the bare top of the mound. Mehethe would not have it. Without even leaving his horse he snapped his rod against the beast's saddle. The loud “clack” of iron brought the hava immediately to ready. They stood straight, stopped their whispered, and shouldered their spears as surely as if the clack of the rod had been the crack of a whip. Polena marveled at such discipline, but cringed at the fear of authority that must be it's source. She walked the few paces between her and the Djaught, never really taking her eyes off the silent camp at the top of the mound.
“It is quite a place Djaught. How long did your vassals work here before leaving?”
“I do not know.”
“Ah, was the minister in charge of that?” repied Polena, trying not to sound as nervous as she felt.
“No I was. I say I do not know because my men were never given permission to leave.”
Polena looked away from the Barrow for the first time then up to the Djaught. He was stoic as always, but there was a difference to him. He did not have the fear that the other soldiers showed, nor did he hide it under smugness, anger, or bravado. It was as if he was not afraid because he was not anything. Mehethe called out a greeting, loud enough that one of the ministers watching jumped. There was a long, long silence. He sniffed once at the air, as if coming to a conclusion. “Djahava,” he snapped. The leader among the hava rushed to his side and took a knee, fist over his heart in salute.
“Take two men. Take Curator Ibe to the top of the barrow. Tell us where my men are.” Polena looked over to the Curator. He was the older and fatter of the two ministers she had seen her first day speaking with the Djaught, the younger having stayed behind to attend to the Proper's affairs. A Curator was something different than a Luminary. They were folk that had spent much of their lives in service of the Goddess of Pureblooded Ness. It was an old and complex worship, deeply aesthetic and inextricably tied to the politics of the Proper. One did not become a Curator unless one could afford to, both financially and politically. Curator Ibe took a very long time to get off of his horse and when he did, seemed that he was going to take much longer to get his effects in order. The wait pryed at the part of Polena that could not sit still and at length she asked the Djaught:
“How many did you leave here? What where they doing?”
“Four. They were digging further into the Barrow, as they had been given the Curator's blessing to do so when first we came to this place.”
“And what do you think happened to them? Is this area dangerous? Are there bandits? Barbarians?”
“We will know soon enough. Let the Curator seek it out first.”
“Why was he not here? It seems like he would know best how to proceed with an excavation.”
“Perhaps if he was from your Alliance, Luminary, they make your preists work but ours do not. The studies of Hin-Qwokha Ness are difficult and ardjuous. Curator's like Ibe have no time to learn other arts. That is the difference between a Luminary and a Curator. You are a practitioner of many arts, but he is a master of one. And for it he can evict spirits and call down a ration of luck when we should need it.”
Polena had heard this sort of talk before. A Luminary does not claim to have any power. To be a conduit or a focus of the People's power, yes. A Luminary might perform great works, blessings, even miracles should the People be so willed. But talk of shamans, casters, and Curators working spells had always bit at her a little. She had been to fortune tellers, she had seen tricks of jugglers, she had even taken part in a Havkarran rite once. While all of them moved her, she had never seen anything beyond her ken.
“We should go up,” Polena said, ever more impatient. Were this an ambush, she reasoned, it would have already been sprung. Either the place was empty or the people there needed desperate aid. In either case there was no reason to delay.
“We will go up when the Curator deems it safe. I will not break taboo Luminary. This is an old tomb and a powerful one and we must tread with care. It is no place for men to walk lightly.”
Polena chuckled at that. Djashar has sixteen pronouns, most of them gender neutral. But he used men deliberately, and that was all it took. She shrugged her pack to the ground, steadied Coralm's gladius so that she could draw it, and picked her way down and through the stream.
“Luminary! Wait for the Curator,” called Mehethe, his voice raised with warning more than alarm.
“Djaught, you spoke of the difference between a Curator and Luminary. Let me tell you another. We do not wait.” She started up the hill, the hava staring wide eyed at her as she took the slope. She smiled with confidence. In her heart, she knew she did so out of fear. For if some spirit lingered here, and it was not that of Djasho, there was no telling what pathos may motivate it. Yet, the cold of the place suggested that whatever it was, it could not be kind.
╩ ╩
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