Wars of the Aoten

  Chapter XVII

  The Melic with the marred face, Aachen by name, came by his features through many unfortunate encounters with angry bees. Though he looked even worse than most Melics, his personality simmered with optimism, always thinking of what good thing might be possible, perhaps because the rewards of his work always proved sweet. Seeking out honey for the clan had led to many skills within him, in particular keen hearing as he tested for hollow trees, and a high threshold for pain. Long expeditions also had brought him into contact with many natural aids to healing and good health, in a Melic sort of way.

  His father had been Lombard, the greatest of the honey-hunters, mentor of the family trade. Never a mark had been put on him by a bee, and he was as clean a man as ever lived among the Melics. But one afternoon, as he and Aachen together sought ripe hives, he stumbled and fell out of the branches, landing amid rotting logs on the forest floor. Before he knew it he wallowed in a vast honeycomb, covered with the angry bees who had made it. That lack of stings over the years now betrayed him, as his body had developed no resistance. The rarity of a Melic dying a violent death, and of Lombard falling prey to stings after so long, for a time threw Aachen under suspicion of foul play, but in the end the clan made Lombard a hero instead of Aachen a villain.

  Theodoric and Artur found Aachen in the camp and led him toward the building housing the injured. Many of the wounded had already left its confines, but some remained. Andreia still lay stretched out on her back by the wall.

  Along the way Theodoric related all of Aachen’s many medical discoveries, but Artur wanted to talk about other things.

  “What do you mean, we need the other clans? What do you know of them? Just because we’re trusting you doesn’t mean we’ll trust just anybody,” he said in a harsh whisper, walking quickly at Theodoric’s side as if trying to catch his attention.

  “We have only our minds to offer. But that too will fall short: Thirty-two to one, Artur, learn from the thylak. You will need more.”

  “Do you think to play some kind of trick? Do you wish to pollute the Rufoux? I can’t tell my people they need Bedoua — our forefathers raided their camps at will, in broad daylight! They bit the heads off their rumidont and spit them back into their tents! And besides, they do stink! I meant that literally — they’re rank like animals!”

  The three entered the building, and Aachen knelt by Andreia as the debate continued.

  “The Bedoua have skills neither you nor I know. The light shines upon all, but only chosen eyes see chosen sights,” said Theodoric.

  “Look,” Artur said menacingly, but still trying to conceal his voice. “If we’re going to do this, you’ll have to use plain talk. I don’t have time to figure out your word games.”

  “We live in a wide world, Artur of the Rufoux. The Earth opens to all of us, but each clan has taken a different path. Each clan has uncovered different wonders that the Earth births for all. The Bedoua make an odd substance: Hard as rock, but clear. They make it with fire, just like your metals, so you see, you have a hidden knowledge in common with them. Their harsh desert lands have taught them to survive on much less than would keep you alive for only a week. They could have much to offer — besides their numbers.”

  “How do you know so much about them?”

  “I observe,” said Theodoric matter-of-factly. “Nothing else to do.”

  “Well, fine, you’ve been spying on them just as you have us. But you know nothing about the Koinoni, and I do. Every flood they bring their boats up the Alluvia and try to cheat us out of our crops. They are trustworthy like shadows, creeping about unseen in their long cloaks, doing what they please under cover. They would steal the breath out of your lungs if they could. You don’t know them like I do, and they can’t be trusted.”

  “Certainly we Melics alone would quickly fall victim to their cunning. But together with you, Artur, with your advanced insight, we can keep an eye on them.” Theodoric tried not to sound patronizing. “Besides, they know of other peoples outside Medialia. Those other lands must be filled with marvels you and I could not even imagine. No telling what they could bring to the battle — besides their numbers.”

  “The Koinoni would love to march into battle with us and disappear. They would leave us stranded, or sell us over to the Aoten for a string of beads. They offer their friendship to wealth alone, and the game of cheating it away from others.”

  “Perhaps we can persuade them that trading with all of Medialia would be more profitable than just trading with giants. How much did the Aoten offer you for grain?”

  “You have an answer for everything, don’t you? Very slick, I guess you’ve been thinking about this for days up in your tree. Well, what have you to say about the Raspars? You ever even seen a Raspar?”

  “No, I must admit, but I have laid eyes upon their city. Such beautiful strength, never before had I seen anything like it. The planning of the tall buildings, the might it took to cut and move that stone, and the carving! Their statues look like a song, but instead of disappearing like notes into the air, their sculpture will stand forever! Certainly they would have much to contribute, besides …”

  “Numbers, right,” interrupted Artur sourly. “I wouldn’t trust a Raspar any farther than I could throw him.”

  “You could throw a Melic a far distance,” said Theodoric. “And as of yesterday you didn’t trust us at all.”

  “No, I can’t agree to this. Melics are one thing, but Raspars! Our elders tell tales of such treachery — they murdered an entire clan! And Koinoni, Mog’s goblins! How could I explain that one to Wyllem? Koinoni are the bane of the whole world — throw them to the Aoten, I say! Then the other clans would come to us with sacrifices of gratitude! And the Bedoua, that bunch of sloppy herders of rumidonts, Rufoux stables would not allow them entry,” Artur ranted under his breath.

  Andreia stirred as Aachen felt her forehead and gently tested her abdomen with the flats of his fingers. He moved her head about slightly, and tested the joints of her hips and knees, her shoulders and elbows. He rolled her lower body over just enough to look under her, and peered into her eyes. They stayed open, but slightly out of focus, as he stood up.

  “No bleeding, as far as I can tell, and no discharge. The pipes and beams inside do not appear to be broken. She’s too hot, that’s the main thing. I can collect leaves and seeds to grind a poultice, but the hot skin needs treating from the inside.”

  “Do you know of any cure?” asked Theodoric.

  “No,” said Aachen, who had overheard the conversation with Artur.

  “Do I have no hope then?” Artur asked meekly.

  “Her life is in serious jeopardy, but as long as she breathes she draws in hope. It will not come from me, however. She needs Bedoua healing.”

  “What?”

  “The Bedoua know much about healing,” Theodoric said. “They know the poisons.”

  “What!” exclaimed Artur. “Do you think I’m going to let poisoners close to Andreia?”

  “The line between death and life divides thinly, and between poison and medicine as well. Too much of anything can kill a man; just enough might cure him. The Bedoua alone in Medialia know this skill.”

  “The Bedoua again! How much of this Medialia rabble must I indebt myself to?”

  Andreia again stirred. “S’Artur,” she said softly.

  “What? What is it?” the Rufoux chief quickly turned attentive and knelt beside her.

  “She talks not to you,” said Aachen. “She drifts in her sleep, and will tell her dreams what she has to say.”

  Artur looked away from the Melic healer and back to Andreia. “What is it?”

  “Ar-tur.”

  She groaned and sighed heavily.

  “See. Creature peep bl-ast hoe.” Her voice faded to nothing on the last word, and she said no more.

  Artur looked upon her silently before slowly rising. Her lips burned their brightest red, blazing with the heat of her fever. “ ‘Creature peep b
last hoe?’ What could that mean?”

  “The light hides much from the blind when the true seer lies in darkness,” said Theodoric, and Artur snapped his head toward him. “Or, in other words,” he corrected himself, “She knows: ‘Secret, your people’s last hope.’ ”

  Artur thought for just a second, then understood. “The secret?”

  “Herein dwells the secret — all the clans together, and you must be their leader, Artur. You are the only clan chief strong enough. Andreia sees the truth in the depths of her sickness. You must be at least as strong as she is.”

  “Lauræl.” And Artur gazed upon her still body.

  “She is worth keeping, no?” asked Aachen, wiping his four-fingered hands on a soft leather towel.

  “Andreia,” and he raised his eyes. “We must.”

  “Well, you may indeed need the Raspars and Koinoni, and the Bedoua as well to defeat the Aoten, eventually. But this girl needs the Bedoua now.”