Traveler
2 Ashan 718
"I remember the glaring suns vividly that trial. Ahmir and Keffe were mirages to me, wavering on the line between real companions and fever dreams, and every time I blinked, so did they from my vision. I don't know if I'd ever been quite so scared of losing them in the Hotlands. Not for me, of course, I always found my road home. But for them, even the receding heat of Vhalar did nothing to stop the scorch during the day, and it only enhanced the misery once the suns fell. The sands, for all their scalding touches during the day, retained heat much the same as an icicle. That is to say, not at all. If we didn't die from thirst, we died from cold. And we did it every trial as we traveled. It was normal for us. The road is never easy, but it's always worth it."
- Journal of Zevan al Myros, son of Cassion
The wagon wheels turned as they walked, Zevan's soft slippers sliding slightly as the red and gold sand spread beneath his feet. He touched the wrap on his head, a turban from spun cloth that protected both the top of his head and his eyes from the burn of the suns. The camels that pulled the wagon were slow moving, but they were sure-footed, and Zevan wanted to emulate them. Behind him, Ahmir and Keffe trudged, their curved swords at the ready on their belts, but thoroughly bored. Keffe watched Zevan's back, the dark skin of his torso hidden beneath the dust-brown cloak he wore. She clutched her waterskin close to her small chest, debating on offering Zevan a drink.
"Ah, boy isn't worth it, Keffe," Ahmir said, looking at his sister with dark eyes. He scratched the stubble of a beard that was already forming on his face, though he shaved only a few breaks before. He was the older of the two, by an arc and thirteen days, but he acted as much her father as brother. He was the one to suggest she accompany the caravan this time, and that meant he had to protect her at all costs. And that meant from men, too, like Zevan. There was something strange about a Nashaki man who knew the sands as well as that one, and there were rumours in the taverns that caravans he accompanied were sometimes hit more frequently by nomadic bandits. Nobody had directly accused the young man, mostly because he was the reason many of them got home safely through the desert, but it seemed odd to the guard. He wanted nothing to do with a man who may be consorting with bandits, and certainly wouldn't let Keffe associate with him.
Zevan seemed to hear them, though it would have been impressive over the churning of the wheels on the sand, the cracking like small pieces of glass being crunched under the heavy wood. His eyes, squinted at the suns, observed both their faces for a moment before he turned back to the road, eyes on the horizon. He had heard them, and he considered the possibility that people assumed he was orchestrating misfortune for his own benefit. A frown creased his face, not because he could have, but because some thought he would. For arcs, he'd dedicated his life to leading trade through the Hotlands, a guide by which caravans would find success and, in dire circumstances, ways home should they be waylaid. It was true, though, that danger seemed drawn to Zevan, and he couldn't help avoid it. He found paths, ways there and back, but not ways to avoid danger. Part of him didn't want to avoid danger. It is what made his job unpredictable and fun.
He didn't realize that danger found him on purpose.
Keffe ignored her brother and rushed forward, holding out the waterskin to Zevan. The Mortalborn smiled in appreciation and uncapped it, titling it back to take ever the slightest sip of the water. Keffe's brow furrowed, for she knew he had to be parched, but he just smiled and offered it back to her. Her brown hair, tightly curled but radiating off her head like the arms of the suns, shook as her head did, and she pushed it back onto him.
"That can't be all you want, Zevan," she began, but the Mortalborn just smiled and stopped her. He pressed the skin back into her hands and answered her softly.
"I am quite satisfied, Keffe. Thank you," he said, his eyes back on the horizon. She frowned, but he pretended he would not see it. She fell back to Ahmir, whose brow knitted at Zevan's back. Keffe's pout was pitiful, and he wanted to slap her across the face to snap her from it, but his ire just fell on Zevan. He stalked forward, but the Mortalborn seemed to sense him before he was close enough to strike. As Zevan turned, a hard brown fist rushed at his face. Not expecting violence, the surprise allowed the strike to land, and Zevan fell backwards into the sand, dazed eyes staring up at Ahmir.
"She's not good enough for you, band--" he began, but Keffe's terrified yelp tore his gaze away. He looked at her, and she was staring at the same horizon Zevan had been. Figures had appeared there, dark against the overwhelming tan of the sand seas, moving on mounts that were too sure-footed to be horses. There were rumours of a desert tribe, the Badir, that raided the caravans this deep in the Hotlands, and it seems the rumours were more than just word of mouth. Swearing to Raskalarn, Ahmir pulled himself to his feet and drew his scimitar, Keffe following suit. Zevan scrambled from the sand, brushing himself off and drawing the mediocre dagger he kept on his person for eating. It would do little against trained warriors, but Ahmir and Keffe seemed more than capable of handling the safety of the caravan against a few Badir.
"We must find a flat place!" A caravan driver called, and Ahmir and Keffe shouted their agreement. Zevan knew there was such a place, a quarter mile away, but they'd have to be swift if they didn't want to get caught at the height of a dune. Zevan relayed the information, and though Ahmir's suspicious gaze wounded him, he started off toward the right spot. The caravan, six carts led by two camels each, turned slowly, more slowly than Zevan would have hoped. The camels were sure in the sand, but not the carts, and one threatened to topple over multiple times. Zevan moved beside it, placing a dark hand to steady it, though it barely did anything. As they crested the dune, an arrow fletched with the sandy brown feathers of the Dunebird flew by Zevan's head, planting firmly in the carriage carrying the supplies headed toward Yaralon. Keffe screamed, drawing Ahmir's attention. It all happened so quickly. All at once, the Badir surrounded them, far more men than they'd thought initially, and Zevan realized it was a trap as soon as the club smashed into his head, rendering him unconscious. The black edges of his vision remained at bay just long enough to see the Badir close around them, completely cutting off their escape route.
His eyes opened slowly, expecting the see wooden or stone walls, but instead staring out over the dunes of the Hotlands. Crawling across his torso was a small sandsnake, uninterested in the Mortalborn as it slithered by him and went to find a den to take refuge for the night. The temperatures were dropping, and it needed to bury itself in the sand or risk dying to cold. Zevan's head throbbed, and when he reached up, sand and blood caked his scalp. He looked into the dune, where four carriages were overturned and destroyed. No bodies were found, leading Zevan to believe that they either all escaped, or the Badir were rebuffed enough for the Nashakii to recover their dead. He sighed, sitting up with a groan. His throat was dry, his body coated with specks of sand here and there. He looked around, turning instinctively back towards the city of Nashaki. He was closest to it, but something told him that was not the road to take. Instead, he turned toward the east, beginning the long trek to whatever was over there.
He saw the structures before anything else, rising high into the sky like monoliths in the sand. He thought them cliffs, eroded by time and weather, but as he drew close, he felt the eyes on him. Each of the stony structures housed round openings, doors, and Zevan soon came to understand: The Sky Caves. As a child, he was told about the Konkaro, the strange tribe of desert dwellers lead by Kova Rain. He knew she'd have to be an old woman now, but perhaps she was still around. Suddenly, he knew he was supposed to be here. Something had drawn him to this place, and he knew that he had come for a reason. There was a story here. Something called to him.
As he was led to Kova Rain, Zevan's eyes soaked in the culture of the Konkaro. Their lives were as vertical as they were horizontal, and that appealed to Zevan. He made a note to come back and learn of these people. This was a story he'd love to hear.
- Journal of Zevan al Myros, son of Cassion
The wagon wheels turned as they walked, Zevan's soft slippers sliding slightly as the red and gold sand spread beneath his feet. He touched the wrap on his head, a turban from spun cloth that protected both the top of his head and his eyes from the burn of the suns. The camels that pulled the wagon were slow moving, but they were sure-footed, and Zevan wanted to emulate them. Behind him, Ahmir and Keffe trudged, their curved swords at the ready on their belts, but thoroughly bored. Keffe watched Zevan's back, the dark skin of his torso hidden beneath the dust-brown cloak he wore. She clutched her waterskin close to her small chest, debating on offering Zevan a drink.
"Ah, boy isn't worth it, Keffe," Ahmir said, looking at his sister with dark eyes. He scratched the stubble of a beard that was already forming on his face, though he shaved only a few breaks before. He was the older of the two, by an arc and thirteen days, but he acted as much her father as brother. He was the one to suggest she accompany the caravan this time, and that meant he had to protect her at all costs. And that meant from men, too, like Zevan. There was something strange about a Nashaki man who knew the sands as well as that one, and there were rumours in the taverns that caravans he accompanied were sometimes hit more frequently by nomadic bandits. Nobody had directly accused the young man, mostly because he was the reason many of them got home safely through the desert, but it seemed odd to the guard. He wanted nothing to do with a man who may be consorting with bandits, and certainly wouldn't let Keffe associate with him.
Zevan seemed to hear them, though it would have been impressive over the churning of the wheels on the sand, the cracking like small pieces of glass being crunched under the heavy wood. His eyes, squinted at the suns, observed both their faces for a moment before he turned back to the road, eyes on the horizon. He had heard them, and he considered the possibility that people assumed he was orchestrating misfortune for his own benefit. A frown creased his face, not because he could have, but because some thought he would. For arcs, he'd dedicated his life to leading trade through the Hotlands, a guide by which caravans would find success and, in dire circumstances, ways home should they be waylaid. It was true, though, that danger seemed drawn to Zevan, and he couldn't help avoid it. He found paths, ways there and back, but not ways to avoid danger. Part of him didn't want to avoid danger. It is what made his job unpredictable and fun.
He didn't realize that danger found him on purpose.
Keffe ignored her brother and rushed forward, holding out the waterskin to Zevan. The Mortalborn smiled in appreciation and uncapped it, titling it back to take ever the slightest sip of the water. Keffe's brow furrowed, for she knew he had to be parched, but he just smiled and offered it back to her. Her brown hair, tightly curled but radiating off her head like the arms of the suns, shook as her head did, and she pushed it back onto him.
"That can't be all you want, Zevan," she began, but the Mortalborn just smiled and stopped her. He pressed the skin back into her hands and answered her softly.
"I am quite satisfied, Keffe. Thank you," he said, his eyes back on the horizon. She frowned, but he pretended he would not see it. She fell back to Ahmir, whose brow knitted at Zevan's back. Keffe's pout was pitiful, and he wanted to slap her across the face to snap her from it, but his ire just fell on Zevan. He stalked forward, but the Mortalborn seemed to sense him before he was close enough to strike. As Zevan turned, a hard brown fist rushed at his face. Not expecting violence, the surprise allowed the strike to land, and Zevan fell backwards into the sand, dazed eyes staring up at Ahmir.
"She's not good enough for you, band--" he began, but Keffe's terrified yelp tore his gaze away. He looked at her, and she was staring at the same horizon Zevan had been. Figures had appeared there, dark against the overwhelming tan of the sand seas, moving on mounts that were too sure-footed to be horses. There were rumours of a desert tribe, the Badir, that raided the caravans this deep in the Hotlands, and it seems the rumours were more than just word of mouth. Swearing to Raskalarn, Ahmir pulled himself to his feet and drew his scimitar, Keffe following suit. Zevan scrambled from the sand, brushing himself off and drawing the mediocre dagger he kept on his person for eating. It would do little against trained warriors, but Ahmir and Keffe seemed more than capable of handling the safety of the caravan against a few Badir.
"We must find a flat place!" A caravan driver called, and Ahmir and Keffe shouted their agreement. Zevan knew there was such a place, a quarter mile away, but they'd have to be swift if they didn't want to get caught at the height of a dune. Zevan relayed the information, and though Ahmir's suspicious gaze wounded him, he started off toward the right spot. The caravan, six carts led by two camels each, turned slowly, more slowly than Zevan would have hoped. The camels were sure in the sand, but not the carts, and one threatened to topple over multiple times. Zevan moved beside it, placing a dark hand to steady it, though it barely did anything. As they crested the dune, an arrow fletched with the sandy brown feathers of the Dunebird flew by Zevan's head, planting firmly in the carriage carrying the supplies headed toward Yaralon. Keffe screamed, drawing Ahmir's attention. It all happened so quickly. All at once, the Badir surrounded them, far more men than they'd thought initially, and Zevan realized it was a trap as soon as the club smashed into his head, rendering him unconscious. The black edges of his vision remained at bay just long enough to see the Badir close around them, completely cutting off their escape route.
His eyes opened slowly, expecting the see wooden or stone walls, but instead staring out over the dunes of the Hotlands. Crawling across his torso was a small sandsnake, uninterested in the Mortalborn as it slithered by him and went to find a den to take refuge for the night. The temperatures were dropping, and it needed to bury itself in the sand or risk dying to cold. Zevan's head throbbed, and when he reached up, sand and blood caked his scalp. He looked into the dune, where four carriages were overturned and destroyed. No bodies were found, leading Zevan to believe that they either all escaped, or the Badir were rebuffed enough for the Nashakii to recover their dead. He sighed, sitting up with a groan. His throat was dry, his body coated with specks of sand here and there. He looked around, turning instinctively back towards the city of Nashaki. He was closest to it, but something told him that was not the road to take. Instead, he turned toward the east, beginning the long trek to whatever was over there.
He saw the structures before anything else, rising high into the sky like monoliths in the sand. He thought them cliffs, eroded by time and weather, but as he drew close, he felt the eyes on him. Each of the stony structures housed round openings, doors, and Zevan soon came to understand: The Sky Caves. As a child, he was told about the Konkaro, the strange tribe of desert dwellers lead by Kova Rain. He knew she'd have to be an old woman now, but perhaps she was still around. Suddenly, he knew he was supposed to be here. Something had drawn him to this place, and he knew that he had come for a reason. There was a story here. Something called to him.
As he was led to Kova Rain, Zevan's eyes soaked in the culture of the Konkaro. Their lives were as vertical as they were horizontal, and that appealed to Zevan. He made a note to come back and learn of these people. This was a story he'd love to hear.
"For the born traveller, travelling is a besetting vice. Like other vices, it is imperious, demanding its victim's time, money, energy and the sacrifice of comfort."
— Aldous Huxley
— Aldous Huxley
