Chapter Three
Druadaen knew exactly what path, and what time, it was best to run to the patientium. He had learned, during his five years in Tlulanxu, that early on summer mornings the stevedores in the trade quarter would have already finished unloading the cargo of ships that arrived late on the preceding day. That way, those who meant to depart swiftly had empty holds ready for lading shortly after dawn.
As a result, beyond the meandering wall that separated those docks from the city proper, the streets were already filled with jostling draught animals, pushcarts, ostlers and sutlers, all trying to out-shout and out-curse each other. So Druadaen had hit upon a shortcut that also kept him too busy to dwell on the misgivings that arose before his visits to the patientium: he ran across the ramshackle roofs of the trade quarter.
The tricky course had him running along the tops of walls, scrambling up this roof, leaping over that eave. It was excellent conditioning for service in the Legion, and also, was too exacting to give his mind enough time to linger upon things he’d rather it didn’t.
As he jumped down to and then raced along the roof peak of the trade quarter’s largest inn, a Basakayn-accented voice called up to him. “Ai, boy! You will fall to death of you!”
Druadaen smiled; he not only recognized the creaky voice, but also the lame grammar and easy jollity. “No time to worry, Pozhup! Back to sea, soon?”
“Hey-ah, boy! Before noon. You no fall! Or I scold you ghost!”
Druadaen laughed and ran swiftly on his way before his fears could catch up with him.
Still, he knew his footing so well that he did catch occasional glimpses of the bazaar. This day, it was mostly wares from the lands of Mihal’j. Embroidered bolts of white Basakayn etamine were being unrolled, their red and yellow arabesques moving in the ocean breeze as if reluctantly emerging from slumber. Lajantpuri merchants were hanging robes, sashes, and capes of foulard, their intricate silken designs shining wherever the sun caught them. Amidst loose ranks of rickety stalls marked by billowing sheets of Azhkanti homespun, Druadaen saw a table laden with brass chandlery from Athaericos, where a bright wink caught his eye. Nestled among the nautical hardware were pieces of sea-green murrhine glassware, each piece featuring a scene made from actual marine life frozen forever inside. He almost slipped trying to make out the details of one of those tableaux, but then righted himself and sprinted on before the aroma of grilled Lirhyzi mutton could pull him back.
At the end of his shortcut, he leaped back up to the city wall and flashed his student token at the two closest guards, who stared before they recognized and waved him on. He nodded his thanks and ran faster still, trying to reach his father before the weight of this fateful day could bring him, crush him, down.
* * *
Once in the patientium, Druadaen sat beside his father, as close as when he’d been a little boy, sharing thoughts and questions he hid from every other person, even his beloved mother.
“I’m scared Papa.” He whispered the affectionate pet name self-consciously, even though the tiny patientium held only the two of them. “The borders of Amarseker’s Creedland have still not appeared to me in my sleep. And the dreamguides say you usually see it at least once between becoming an epiphane and the day of your epiphanesis.”
He ground his palms together. “My dreams have been getting stranger. They are a jumble of scenes that make no sense. Some show things and places I know, but others are of places I don’t recognize, and which I doubt could exist. Some repeat, some do not. But they are never, ever peaceful.”
He looked at his father’s face. He always hoped for a response, but the only one he ever saw was a slow, glimmering trickle out of the corner of a closed eye. He thought of it as a tear, though the physicians insisted it was simply a reaction to the sound or movement of another person.
He put his head in his hands. “I’m afraid that this is what goes on in the minds of the insane. I’m afraid that on the night that you and Mama…” He couldn’t complete that sentence. “I’m afraid that the rat-bite fever I contracted that night damaged my brain in some way that not even physicians or sacrists can detect.”
He tightened his jaw against another surge of the fear and grief that arose with every visit to the patientium. It was as if he was living through the loss and the mourning all over again. At least with his mother, there had been an end to the grieving; she was ashes out upon the sea, in accord with Dunarran custom.
But that begged the old, unanswered question. “So,” he asked his father’s motionless body, “if you and mother really were Dunarrans, where are your parents? Your siblings? Any family at all?” In a nation where lifespans were three or four times those lived in other countries, it was wildly improbable that any one disaster or war could have wiped them all out, let alone erase all record of their existence.
And yet, to all appearances, that was what had happened. Long before Druadaen had awakened from his fever, both Connæaran and Dunarran officials had begun searching for the identities and whereabouts of his relatives. None were found, nor any records of them. Those Dunarrans who had known his mother and father, even Indryllis and Varcaxtan, explained that the topic of family rarely came up with Tarthenex and Mressenë, and that they had never been particularly forthcoming when it did.
Even Shaananca’s researches proved fruitless. Once Druadaen had been placed under her combined tutelage and care, she had shown him the personal inquiries she had sent. Indryllis and Varcaxtan did no less before being called away to their far-flung duties. By the time Druadaen knew enough to ask more detailed and informed questions, their returns to Dunarra had become infrequent and never brought them to the capital. To his way of thinking all he had left of his earlier life was his determination to become a part of the Legion.
But even that had changed. It was no longer fueled by youthful desires to perform great deeds and accrue great acclaim. Now, his quest to join the Legion was both a memorial to his father and a cherished vestige of the minutes and musings they had shared together.
Druadaen leaned back, wiped his eyes. “I wish I wasn’t so rushed today, father, or so tired.” He sighed. “I wanted to get to sleep early, but I was so worried, I couldn’t keep my eyes closed.” He stared at his father’s inert body, realized the irony in his complaint. “Whereas you can’t wake up. Not even to eat. Not even to care for yourself. And somehow, you remain alive. But how?”
It made no sense at all…but not in the way that all mancery or divine power defies practical explanation. The mystery in this case was why such a power was being exerted at all. But, now that Druadaen thought about it, maybe there was a way to find the answer to that question, along with others about the attack that had killed his parents.
He rose. “When Amarseker allows me to pass into the epiphanium, Father, and when I have dreamwalked to his Creedland, I will find out what has been invoked to keep you here. And why.” He placed a slow kiss on his father’s forehead. “I swear to you: I shall get those answers or become an outcast trying.”
Druadaen strode out of the patientium, glad to leave with a purpose rather than lingering on in his grief.
As he did far too often.