Miles to Babylon

II: The Darklander, part I

            Tuck hadn't been wrong; Awen knew next to nothing about the Sombrien Festival. It was a wildborn affair, a remnant of the Old Way, held along the western bank of the River Lael—but even that much Awen knew only from Tuck and the others. At Ilvany, the vestals would paddle raw anyone who so much as mentioned the Sombrien.

            Really, it was a wonder the Kingdom even permitted it. Druids and their Old Way were one thing—the wildborn were tolerated, so long as they kept worship to their own homes—but if what she had heard was true, there would be Darklanders on Holy ground this night.

             The river road was the fastest route, but that also made it the most traveled. And everyone knew where the Faith stood on the Sombrien. One wrong person finding out... No. Better to cut through the fields. So long as she didn't accidentally trample some farmer's harvest, she ought to be safe. Her heart thudded against her ribs, bringing with it an odd smile. Safe... Could she really get away with this?

             But as she crested a small hillock and caught the first glints of light along the river, the excitement curdled like spoiled milk in her stomach. So many people, milling about like ants along the banks. If she were recognized... She pulled her shawl tighter, one hand steady on the reins.

              The road curved back to meet her at the last hill, winding down to a great stone bridge with arches wide enough for two riverboats to pass abreast. The Monger's Gate, they called it; in the summer it was bedecked with woolen banners to welcome merchants of the south, but never had she seen it as it was now, crowned with torches that choked the air with smoke and resin.

              Tents and stalls crowded the western bank, amongst them more than a few villagers she recognized. Not a one wore the white of the Holy Kingdom. These, like Tuck's family, were the wildborn: the old blood of Emeralis, clinging to their old, green gods—or at the very least, indisposed to take the Kingdom's. Then there were those who could only be the Darklanders. Awen twisted in the saddle as she passed, frowning a little; dirty and bedraggled they might be, but they were far from the raggedy savages in the augurs' tales. In the half-light they appeared as slender young trees, manes of hair drifting like autumn leaves over their heavy cloaks.

              The man at the makeshift stable was a dwarfish, bearded fellow whose Anglic was clipped and harsh, but he was friendly enough to let Awen tie up Wyn for only six crowns. She raked through her pocket, filling her hand with half the coins she'd brought. The dwarf only stared at them, eyes bulging... then he chuckled and pushed three back at her, leaving her unsure what to do besides thank him and run off.

             Flowing with the chattering crowd proved a test of nerve. She couldn't help but look over her shoulder every few seconds, sure she had seen a flash of white out the corner of her eye and certain it was Auntie Thea come to find her, or Augur Frye with his doughy smile; but each instance proved no more than the flap of a tent or a clan banner blowing in the wind. Face shadowed, Awen Fetherlinge trod like a ghost down a narrow alley strung with hanging lanterns.

             As she wrestled her guilt, doubt crept in to relieve it. God had never deigned to give her answers  before; why start now? She'd just as likely find a cure for the Cothe. There was plenty of time to turn back—but what was that smell? Someone was burning clove, or maybe cinnamon; whatever it was, it was infinitely sweeter than the musky stuff in Chapel. She followed a hissing, spitting noise to a pit where cooks were peppering blood sausages, and was watching them from the side when the big red-faced man offered her one from his skewer. It was scalding hot and popped like a grape in her mouth, but it was the best thing she'd ever tasted, and she told him so as well as she could with most of it running down her chin. The group roared with laughter at that, thanking her in accents thick with ale, a mug of which they suggested to wash down the food. She declined as respectfully as she could; she had only ever tasted wine, and dared not lose her wits tonight.

           As she took her leave, Awen thought she caught another glimpse of white near a stall where a woman stood arguing over an egg-shaped locket. She dropped her head, taking her steps in longer strides; when she finally dared a glance back, the figure was gone. But it had been a person this time—she knew it had.

           She lost herself in a crowd where the shopkeepers were making a full show of their wares, openly deriding their competitors just across the way to the point that it felt as much a piece of theatre as anything. In the case of a particularly clever insult, the crowd would laugh and cheer, encouraging the other. They showed no sign of stopping; one family had even set down a small blanket with their dinner. Awen made to turn, trying to keep from being caught too deep—then dropped to the ground at a sight that set her blood on ice.

           A sentry—not Myddvai's local guard, but a sentry of the Holy Kingdom, fully armored in military white. Though the powder was a rarity this far west, he even looked to have a hand cannon tucked at his waist. Auntie Thea's veiled warning played over in Awen's mind—do you like living in Myddvai? She reached to shroud her face, but the sentry wasn't looking at her; he was watching a couple of young, burly fellows, one in the garb of Myddvai, pushing at each other while a laughing woman tried to pry them apart.

           Awen took the chance to duck between two of the quieter stalls, and found herself in a calmer alley filled with the work of artisans. It took an effort to stop herself calling out to Tuck and his family, who were selling woolen clothing in the old sage-and-blue of Emeralis. She forced herself to walk past obsidian knives with runic markings and leathern handles, past tawny metallic scopes that gave off a whirring hum as she neared. There were tapestries and totems, books and mechanisms, curiosities she could study for ages... yet none compared to the distant music rising through the trees.

         What began as a slow drone of pipes was soon attended by a wailing fiddle, playing a tune so otherworldly Awen wondered that it had ever fit in a human mind. It was everything choral music was not, but she didn't fully realize its allure until she was halfway up the bank. She wasn't alone; others had turned to follow along, while a clever wind made it look as if invisible feet were shuffling in the grass beside them.

          An orange moon lit the way to a clearing just beyond the edge of the nearby wood. Within it leapt a golden bonfire, turning the trees into gamboling shadows around a circle of dancers. Looking past the revelry, Awen could see fiddlers and chanters weaving their melodies from a pew of fallen logs. They didn't seem a band; as the song ended, several players got up as others came forward to replace them.

          She drifted toward a group of children around her own age, but soon realized her mistake as one of them turned to her and smiled.

           "Hello," he said, "you from Myddvai?" He had a pleasant voice.

           "Is it so noticeable?"

           "Not from a distance. You might want to work on the look o' fright, though. Dead giveaway, that."

            As the melody spun into a reel driven by a hand drum, the revelers gathered again with a whoop and a clamor. "Want to try?" said the boy. "You can come with us."

           "No—thank you, but I don't know how." The dancers were splitting into two rings, one inside the other.

            The boy gave her a crooked grin. "It's dancing," he laughed, "there's no how." He held out his hand and, with barely a moment to think, she took it and let him pull her into the circle.

             As much as Awen loved music, she had no illusions as to where the Faith stood on dancing. And worse even than the guilt was the embarrassment—her feet felt alien, and she was abruptly aware of how silly her arms looked, swinging in the grip of the boy at her right and the girl at her left. But the song became another, then another... and at some point, the blush faded from Awen's cheeks. The real shock came when she looked down and saw that her hands were her own again. The line had broken, and when they all partnered up, she didn't even think twice; she accepted a dance with the boy from earlier, though she barely spared him a glance as they stepped together. One of his friends asked her next, then another, until she no longer knew who was leading who. Even when they dropped hands and spun back-to-back, she barely opened her eyes until the end of a slow waltz, when her partner leaned forward and spoke gently in her ear.

            "That man over there is watching you."