The Exiles

9. He who goes there

Attin waved his hand about, back and forth, swishing his blade until the moonlight glinted off the edge. A brief respite in the sudden pallor.

Moonlight? He wondered, but no more when someone before him said, "Wow. Careful where you aim such things, young man!"

Attin blinked at the figure slowly emerging in front of him, peeling away from the dark like a shadow come to life. It was a young man, perhaps only a few years older than Amer. His eyes dazzled like an emerald pond glimmering in the early morning sunlight. His smile skewed upon his face, deep dimples framing his ruddy lips. Like a prince from a medieval tale, his hair fell about his shoulders. And Attin gawked. He gawked as he had never gawked before. He had not expected to run into a young man in the woods, let alone almost skewer the guy with his woven knife.

"Pardon me. I didn't expect to see you there." He dropped his hand to his side, though he did not yet make the knife disappear.

"Who were you expecting?" the man asked, raising his brows. His gaze briefly acknowledged Attin's hidden knife.

The man dared not step closer. Good.

"No one." Attin cleared his throat and stood taller, squaring his shoulders, trying to make himself look bigger than he was. "I wasn't looking for anyone—but my Papa is nearby..."

The man with the emerald eyes and warm honey for skin smiled a little wider. "Are you sure?"

Attin tightened his grip on his knife, but otherwise held his ground. Just in case he attacks, "Of course I am. He's gathering some firewood."

The man humphed, rather amused. He eyed Attin from head to toe, and before Attin could do much at all, an elegant sweep of the stranger's elegant hand made the solid knife in his grip disappear—

—only to reappear intact on the stranger's palm. He grabbed the elaborate hilt and turned it about, all the while Attin trembled in his boots. "Nice workmanship. Good solid frame, nice sharp edge... I don't even mind the carvings, though they are a little too fancy for my liking."

The man struck out into thin air, trying it out for weight and strike. "Balanced too." He stood before Attin with a smile that finally showed teeth. "And to think it's a weave! Well done, young man. I have not seen such impeccable weaving for quite some time. You'd put mine to shame, that's for sure."

"How—how did you know it—it's a weave?" Attin fumbled for words, surprised he'd been found out; weaving in secrecy and that to weapons, which were banned.

The strange boy stared at Attin again. Amused. "Ah, am I to believe they've finally stopped talking about the poor old boy stuck in a limbo?"

Attin shook his head, shivering slightly in his clothes—not that the weather was cold anymore. It wasn't. In fact, he was sweating under the layers, but a chill still coursed through his body. "The boy stuck in a limbo?"

"Ah, never mind. It's so lonely here I forget the customs of old." The boy offered his hand out to Attin. "The name is Maine Chymer, the Third, cousin to King Ovek the first. At your service...?"

Attin blinked, utterly shocked and awed as he clasped the boy's hand in his and shook it like a man—only to have Maine grip his forearm with his hand and shake it like the old warriors on Earth. "Chymer?"

"Yes." Maine tilted his head and studied the confused child in front of him. "You look rather familiar. Have we met before? I rarely meet another weaver in this dastardly fog. What year is it where you portalled from?"

"Nineteen fifty—" Attin did not get to finish that sentence.

"Burnt sugar! Nineteen, you say? Has it truly been that many years since they have trapped me?" Maine turned slowly towards the surrounding fog, rubbing his chin, mumbling to himself. "Then that means I've been here almost"— his eyes narrowed at Attin, suspicious of him. "You said Chymer, as if you know of the name. Well? Do you?"

Attin nodded, feeling his mouth dry and his heart skipped a beat. He'd never wanted to be home as much as he did at that moment. Yet, he'd never been as curious either. Maine sounded awfully like Maan...

"What is your name, pray tell," Maine whispered, advancing cautiously on Attin. "For if you are another soul thrown up by my mind, I'd be right disappointed."

"I'm Attin Lucian Ovek, the third child of King Ovek of Chymer the third, of Cerulean Lands." Attin knew not why he mumbled his official introduction, but there was something about Maine that compelled him to do so. He desperately tried to conjure another dagger in his hand, but he couldn't concentrate enough to weave one. Not in the fog and not in front of the stranger in a strange land. "Where are we?" he asked, daring to take a chance. "I was walking in the woods near my home trying to conjure Maan the Ferryboy... and instead, I'm here... with you. Who are you?"

"Conjure me?" Maine pipped curiously. "I don't understand, child. No one can conjure me, for they have cursed me to these lands till a Chymer mends what I broke and sets me free."

"You are Maan the Ferryboy?" Attin asked.

"Maan the ferry—you mean Maine? The fairy child?" Maine cocked his head to the side. "Because my mother was of Fae?"

Attin felt his blood run cold. Did Granny have the entire tale wrong? Could it be she didn't know the complete story? No one did. Not anymore. Maan wasn't a god-blessed weaver of miracles, but another Chymer trapped in a world they didn't belong in?

"In the tales, they say you can weave the pain away..." Attin mumbled, hoping some part of the story was true.

"Weave pain away?" Maine laughed. "Does it look like we can weave anything in here, in this smothering, dense fog, boy?" He raised his brows, eyeing Attin's hands still held behind him, still trying to weave another weapon. "How's that going for you? Got another knife for us yet so we can arm ourselves and escape this hellish place?"

Attin's heart sank, and he shook his head; his hand was still empty. What will become of my dear Nessie now?

"Did you say King Ovek of Chymer?" Maine narrowed his eyes, animated suddenly. "Does that make you and I blood? Are you my kin? Finally, come to rescue me? I'm ready to be saved. Three hundred years in such a prison is too long indeed for a child's crime."

"Save you?" Attin's tongue nearly glued itself to his palate. Save you? You were meant to save Nessie... not...

"For someone to lift the curse." Maine smiled eagerly. "You must know a way out of here. After all, you did somehow portal in! How did you do it?"

Attin blinked in terror. How indeed! He had no clue.