Fifteen
days out from the village, the caravan was within an approachable
distance. It began to loom before him, a
blur of movement and shimmering color against the sands. For the first time, it
occurred to him to be worried, but by this time, they had seen him. First one, then another, then three of the
riders on the outskirts of the tented wagons gave a shout, then erupted into a
high-pitched yelling that was song-like in its intensity. Had he intended harm—he, a solitary
traveler—he would almost certainly have reconsidered; as it was, he resisted
the impulse to turn and run, since there was nowhere to run, and to flee would
likely signal guilt, and cost him his life.
These thoughts ran through his head as he steadied his legs and
proceeded, clutching his whittling knife from instinct rather from a real sense
that it would protect him—it would not.
The nearest horseman pulled up several yards ahead and stopped. He seemed to be a kind of scout—the slow
caravan would take a bit longer to approach, giving him time to dispatch the
stranger if harm or trouble were meant.
He called out a single syllable that Bren did not understand, pointed,
then laid his tall stick—perhaps a standard rather than a weapon—on his lap and
held up his hand. No doubt, Bren
thought, the others had arrows aimed at his heard. He forced his hand to relax, the whittling
knife falling back into his pocket. Then
he withdrew his hands—not too slowly, not so fast as to case alarm—and held
them in front of him, palms facing up, signaling his peaceful intent. The rider nodded, whistled to his left and
right, and dismounted.
To say
that Bren froze would perhaps be accurate, though he did so out of apprehension
rather than panic, or so he tried to tell himself. He saw the staff—whether weapon, he could not
tell—change hands, passed to a rider on a tawny colored horse, and a second
rider dismounted, coming to the side of the first. The first looked Bren in the eye, and he saw
a fierce sparkle under their thick brows.
He heard several rapid syllables, accompanied by a gesture that seemed
designed to call forth something from him, but he merely stood,
bewildered. The first rider nodded to
the second, who spoke to Bren from deep in the throat, but he shook his head.
He knew only a little of a language that was not his own; he learned it from
some boys who had come to stay in the village when he was young. Now those few words and phrases circled his
head as he wondered whether he should try to form them into sentences. They resembled the first rider’s speech more
closely, but none of those syllables held meaning for him. The riders looked at one another, and first one
and then the other gave a sharp nod, as if deciding something. The first pulled from a pocket a colored
scarf, and the other did likewise. They seized his wrists with a firm grip, but
not a rough one, and tied his wrists together in front of him. Then, holding his elbows on either side, they
marched him forward, the staff-bearing rider falling behind. By this time, Bren realized, the caravan had
halted fully, spreading around him like its own colorful city.
Vaguely,
Bren wondered whether he might be able to escape. The scarves were not tight,
and his captors were slight and held him loosely. But he didn’t consider it seriously. He was on their territory—at any rate, their
territory had engulfed him—and he needed food.
He had supplies to barter. When
they bound him—symbolically, he thought, because yes, he could escape—they did
not bother to remove his large pack or the bags strung about him. Time enough to seize them when they reached
their destination, he supposed.
The
caravan apparently traveled in the same configuration that it settled in, Bren
surmised from the determination with which his captors led him through the
mobile tents. He began to see eyes and
limbs poking through doors, but he was urged ahead every time he cocked his
head to one side, so he did not see complete people, only shapes and shadows
and parts—and not so many, even of these.
From what he could see, the tents were mostly rounded on the bottom, the
bottoms themselves made from either wood or metal. They stood about waist-high off the ground. Bright
pinks, oranges, and reds hung loose but not limp from the shapes. Though the outer layers fluttered in the
breezes, there did seem to be some foundational fabrics secured inside the
base. Alina would have been
intrigued. Bren had never seen such
light fabrics, or such rich dyes. Here
and there, a horse and rider were stationed.
There
was a darker tent toward the back—through the eight or so that surrounded
him. This seemed to be the one to which
they were leading him. At the base of
it, they paused, and a short ladder was folded from the inside down. This close, Bren could see the wheels at the
base, and the carvings and inscribed characters on the base. It was good workmanship, and a jealous
admiration crept behind his eyes. He stiffened
his movements a bit. Misunderstanding,
his guards adjusted their pressure. They
shoved him up into the tent. When he
stumbled forward, however, they caught him. He nodded and relaxed. After all, pride and jealousy were equally
useless to him at the moment.
The
inside of the tent was larger than it at first appeared. It was, like the exterior, black, though there
were other colors, still mostly dark, on the floor, the draperies, and some
cushions. The first rider gestured for
him to sit. He shrugged and did so. Then, they left.
Bren
had lowered himself onto an elbow when he felt rather than saw a rustling of
the tent opening. The first rider had
returned, bearing food. Bren sat up
abruptly and for a moment, stared. She—yes,
she—had removed the swath of fabric from her neck, face and hair. Her eyes were keen and dark, unyielding but
not unkind. Bren nodded with respect and gratitude. The tray she carried had a base—sort of an
inverted cone—on the bottom, and acted like a table when but down near
him. She untied his wrists and nodded to
the food. “Thank you,” he said. Her eyes widened, then she nodded briefly,
and withdrew to the door.
The
food consisted of a bread spread with a nutty paste and some dried fruit—traveler’s
fare—and also a refreshing broth, clear and warm but not hot, salty but
refreshing. Bren ate gratefully, feeling—for
the moment—more fortunate than not. He
sipped from a clear bowl a sweet drink that put him in mind of cider.
He was
soon finished, but not satisfied. His
stomach gurgled in the most alarming manner, and he felt a cramp. Groaning, he doubled over, and as the feeling
passed, he became dizzy. Poison! The word flooded his mind, and he groped
toward his pack, a scant foot away. One
of the mushrooms, he knew, would cure most poisons, but the edges of his sight
were fuzzy, and he groped as if through tunnel before all went black.
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