• Peigra's Blog:

Calton's Shadow, Pt 4

By: Peigra

By day’s end, Peigra had acquired quite a bit of coin, and some great accolades, and laughter.

Baltik had been rested by his day in the stables, and stared at by anyone who came by and got hissed at, startled in their travels by the massive black beast that stuck its head out, warning people away from his territory. She was warned that if, or when, she returned to Meridian that she would have to pay for a larger stall for him, as the stablemaster was concerned for the other horses being nipped, or his stalls damaged by Baltik’s restlessness.

Peigra had only grinned, and attempted, again, to saddle Baltik.

Generous as he had been in the Before, the Baltik of now was much more limber, and settled himself down on the fodder in his stall, allowing her to set the saddle on. She would have been happier without it, but she was being taken to the drier lands, and that meant taking personal items with her for her own safety. Extra bags of herbs, small and compressed, against snakebite, scorpions, and other crawlie things that she knew would not harm her, but that did not mean others might not suffer along their route.

Baltik had endured the saddle, and the bags that would be little trial to him, at his height and size, and stood so Peigra could find a girth large enough for him, and tried several before the stablemaster brought one for one of the workhorses that barely fit, jerryrigged on each iron loop with ropes to the saddle. It would shift if she was not careful, but she had no worries. Down Baltik went again, allowing her to mount, and despite the stunned look from the stablemaster and those watching, Peigra had smirked, and she and Baltik had slowly pranced out.

Meridian was in full business, people and goods coming and going, Most of the wagons were easily avoided, and Peigra met Temur’s group at the gates, near the stairs that Baltik was eager to charge down to see how well he could. She gave his halter a tug and poked his neck with a finger. “Behave, we’re traveling with others,” she warned him, and he tossed his head at that. Others. They were probably on slow horses.

The ‘small group’ Temur had mentioned turned out to be eleven armed men, and Peigra raised an eyebrow at the old healer when she was able to catch his eye. These Bahmi were heading back to Shimmersand, and would be accompanying her until she reached the outpost. If they had been truly thinking of going, the previous day, Temur had soothed their objections somehow. Also seeing the great beast Peigra came on, nearly equal in height to their own odd, gazelle-like mounts with their sleek necks and constantly flickering ears, several became amused.

“You will be going the shore route, and there are always dangers,” Temur warned her, and she frowned at that. Shimmersand was the opposite side of the lake and river, passable by boat if someone wanted to attempt it, but most often folk rode around it, stopping at the waystations and outposts along the way for news and supplies.

Of the two routes, one spanned the road, down near where Peigra’s farming folk were, and would have passed them again, had they been going that direction. The lands of the drought were found beyond the bridge that had somehow withstood floods through the years. The roads were well tended despite the sandstorms and the threat of brigands and beasts, and this was the favored route, which could also take upwards of two months or more, dependant on storms, floods, and of course, the new hazards, the unpredictable rifts that could open and unleash terror in a contained area, or larger if the beasts formed themselves and started to roam.

The shore route was an oddly traveled one, rarely used by anyone save the Bahmi, who seemed to prefer it, as it got them to the drier lands faster, and they were not required to pay homage to the farmers of Freemarch as they passed, and sometimes help with their needs. Bahmi were generous in nature, but assisting every farmer who came onto the road, curious at where such a large group was going, might delay them weeks. Farmers were often in need of outside assistance, it was part of the hazard, and most duties were removing a felled tree from a shattered fence, but sometimes it was taking news back to Meridian of disease that was taking farms, or of Guardian activity that crept, now and then, into the lands, and had to be eradicated.

Going along the shore put the Bahmi within full view of their homelands, faster than the bridge way, and they saw few farmers along the way, most of the farms abandoned as they were so close to Meridian. Most of them had been abandoned due to the heavy stresses placed on them by the city’s occupants, many not farmers themselves and not understanding that it took time to grow grain, to weave cloth, and were always stopping at farms, not offering their services, but demanding goods and items instead.

Peigra had never been the shore route, but had heard of it, as it went near the headwaters of the lake, the lake that formed the river near her family’s farm and often flooded in the spring, and it would be something new that she had often wanted to see, in both lifetimes.

Temur’s hand on her leg caught her thoughts. “You stay with them, stay close. The way is not always safe, but it is shorter, and there are things along the way who have never seen such as you before.”

“Such as me?”

He motioned to her hair, and she nodded. Her easily identifiable hair was a hazard, and often, while on the road in saddle, she adopted the turban-like wrappings to hide it.

It also helped save her face from burning, turning her into a wincing, tight-faced monster when night fell because she could not get her skin to stop screaming. Baltik had guarded her on more than one occasion when she had been writhing to get comfortable, in any position, and unable to take some sleeping herbs due to needing to be on constant guard and flee for her life.

Beneath her, as if hearing her thoughts, Baltik tossed his head and gave a great snort.

There were also other dangers traveling in a large group, though the dangers would not be near Meridian but once they left most of its confines. Bandits roamed anywhere, there was little to be done about them, but they were always on the watch for large groups who might have larger prey to be gotten. If they were carrying something, they might also be leading to something greater, which also made them a target. Either way, they were going to be watched, and expected it. If it was not the bandits in Freemarch, it was the walking nightmares from Before, the Endless Court, whose allegiances had helped to split the realm in that timeline, and here, were more than a nuisance, and less of a united front, but were a danger all the same.

Bandits could be broken, jailed, made examples of through justice.

Endless Court were exterminated. There was no justice for them but death.

Peigra had done her share of being part of that extermination, and she was not proud of what she had done, but the end result that she had seen...anything was better than that.

Eleven Bahmi, and one young woman, who had been born to a Mathosian mother and an Eth father, whose only family knew she was alive again, and was afraid and acceptant of her. It was going to be a bumpy ride any way one looked at it.

Xanik was the one leading, and he was in his prime, proud of the scars he bore on his arms, and the two missing fingers on his left hand, earned fighting in the Before, and having cut them off when he had been brought back to honor his previous deeds. Swordfighting would have been a challenge to any normal man, had Xanik been a normal man and not a Bahmi with a reputation of honor and success.

On the saddle that had been crafted for him, there were pebbles, drilled and set into the sides of his saddlehorn to not harm the horse beneath him, and each pebble marked a kill.

Xanik’s saddle contained four such horns, all beaded with stones of no value to anyone save he and his pride in taking down those foes. There were dead enemies and those who had not been slaughtered yet, it was that simple. Temur had assured Peigra that there was no greater Ascended for her to be in the presence, and protection of.

She also suspected that, somehow, Xanik was, or had been, a son of Temur’s, for they were very close in appearance, in motion, and even had the same odd tilt of their head when something made them stop and think, a twitch along a cheek. It was more Peigra’s honor to be escorted by Temur’s son than it was Xanik’s escorting her.

There was no fanfare upon their leaving, and they left in a line, four spare mounts loaded with some of their gear. Xanik was in the rear, ensuring that he knew who watched as they left, and noted the faces. Peigra was mixed in with the spare horses, and poked Baltik when he tried to take his head, and the lead. “Behave, we’re supposed to blend in,” she muttered at him, knowing he could hear her. Not that they would blend in anywhere, with the beautiful gazelle-like heads bobbling back and forth around her, their sleek sandy-colored pelts that would blend in easily with the hot sands, as opposed to Baltik, who would be seen for miles against the sand and probably need to be checked regularly for pebbles in his frogs.

Given it was spring, the air was cool still but would warm, and the humidity would rise the closer they got to the lake. Along the road, the mud still firm and not yet liquid, there were the first spring flowers, yellow dots against the browns and faint greens, and Peigra smiled. As children, she and the other children had picked them, popping them off their stems with their tiny thumbs and giggling at the noise they made. They were always the first to appear, and always the first to vanish, gobbled by many of the animals on the farm for their nutrition, and by silly children, released and romping outside after so many months cooped up due to snow.

There had been no spring flowers in Before, as the lands had forgotten how to grow them.

They were beautiful.

As was his nature, Baltik was prancing as they left Meridian, proud of not only being out and with a rider, but on display, and ensured that anyone who saw him got a show. Peigra was rolling her eyes, knowing that the entire city knew the beast had left the stables. The trip was going to be entertaining, if nothing else. Xanik was also chuckling, a circle of Bahmi formed around the spare horses and Peigra, watching Baltik.

As with many of the Bahmi, Xanik was heavily tattooed, each one marking a battle, a time of his life that was worth remembering, his Bloodline perhaps, and each one had a story. Peigra had been told, in the Before, that some tattoos were passed down, as a mark of honor for a Bloodline who had a famous someone in their history, as Bahmi were a people of words, not of written books and tapestries for their memories. In the Before, Peigra had been shown, with great pride, many of the tattoos of their people, and had learned quickly to see the ones of different clans and skirmishes that bound many of them together.

Xanik had the familiar twining tattoo along his right, upper arm, which designated his clan, which was also the same as Temur’s, as was a second one on his left arm, which Temur also shared, which made Peigra all the more certain this was a sire and son matter as opposed to Temur’s gathering a group out of the blue. The fingers he had lost on his left hand had been blasted with a deep reddish-gold color that Peigra had never seen in a tattoo, and it looked as if they were bleeding still, save for the gold inscriptions on both stumps. She would have to ask him what they meant, and by what killing he had the right to wear them. Very few of the warrior class were ashamed to tell of their prowess, and since her return to the Now, Temur had teased her that a Bahmi would not be so cruel to her sense of fairness if she chose to find one who appealed to her. Meridian saw no shame in a brief clash of flesh between two consenting beings, as long as it remained that, two consenting beings.

Peigra felt comfortable in the saddle, and noted that it was a plain one, probably one of the spares that someone had struggled to find to fit Baltik’s wide back. As it was, this one was a bit too short still, and she would have to speak with a leathercrafter when she returned to Meridian. Saddles were often crafted to a specific posterior, but rarely to a horse, and Peigra had no shame spending coin on a well made saddle for the stallion. He was her escape from anything that harmed her, and his well being was as important as hers.

Beneath her, he tossed his head and gave another snort.

They took the road out of Meridian that went south, and eventually forked east where Peigra’s kin was, or west towards the lake. Peigra had never been west on the road, not very fond of roaming much, save to go herbing, and only then in areas she knew. Temur found no fault in what she brought back, and she was cautious not to wipe out an area’s herbs by taking them all, as others did, and she often found the ruins in their wake. A stripped area could not reseed itself, as there were no mature plants to produce seed.

The group turned on the west fork, and Peigra regretted not putting the turban on. The sun was growing strong, despite it being spring, and they had traveled some distance, lost in her thoughts and she had not been paying attention. Baltik knew where they were going, and stayed with the others, even if she was too lost to realize it. Or he was merely placating her by remaining in pace with the others. Silly beast. She had had to take some time from her packs to find honey balls for him, and had tucked them safely in her pack where, she hoped, even his long-ranged nose might not find them.

Lakeside Outpost was where they stopped to rest the horses as the sun was nearly gone in the west, and break out what supplies they felt were necessary for the rest of the journey. Baltik had behaved himself, and Peigra had smirked when she got down from the saddle and began pulling it and the packs from his back, and he banged his head against one particular pack, as if reminding her what was in it, and what he had done beneath her all day. She smiled to herself, and poked his nose gently. Wretch that he was, he knew where the honey balls were.

She had been warned that horses did not tolerate honey well, in the Before, but with a lack of good resources, and food scarce in many places, being both a protein and a form of a soothing liquid, honey was often used to those who traveled. Peigra was always on the lookout for honey when it was for sale from roaming travelers, or someone locally who had a hive and she could barter with them. Despite the warnings, Baltik had never choked on the honey balls, wrapped with herbs and small, fingernail-sized bits of grass she picked apart with her fingers, and she had often found herself giving the occasional one to a faltering horse if she was traveling with others. She could do nothing for a poorly tended horse, for she was not its keeper, and if its rider did not want her to waste her healing magicks on it, well, she was not its owner either, but the honey balls could at least give it a moment’s sustenance that she physically could not.

There were many abandoned buildings in Lakeside, and despite the rumor of ghosts from the tribesmen with her, she chose one and was determined to sleep out of the dew for once in her life. She knew she would be missing that dew soon, once they got onto the hot sands, but there was something damp and cold about the stuff when she woke that took lots of sunlight and dry winds to rectify, neither of which cooperated on a long ride. She also had a deep irritation for wet feet, and her boots came off the moment she could, letting them air dry and her feet as well.

Baltik was tied with the other mounts, and she slipped him a honey ball when she found the small pack of them in her bags, and saw that he was combed and his hooves checked for pebbles around his frogs. He tossed his head as he endured her ministrations, and she moved down the row of them. Despite wherever they were going, as an escort, their health was dependant on their mounts, and a small bit of healing to each nose to help them rest would harm none of them. Baltik would be suffering soon in the sands and the hot winds, but for now, he was content with his honey ball as he slurped it down.

The empty buildings had been abandoned with haste, but not with the usual salvage, as few had come back to rebuild here due to the ghosts that were said to haunt the area, and the strange fish-men whose very presence had dissuaded even the wealthiest farmer against resettlement. No one had come to take the stones of the small houses to rebuild elsewhere, which was a testament that something still indeed walked these buildings, or the superstition was still great enough that no one was willing to risk their lives for some stones.

Peigra grinned, looking to the group, and wondered what would have happened if a ghost appeared to them all. Xanik seemed a fair one, and with the tattoos on him, he had seen quite a many skirmishes, though the desert ones could be a superstitious lot sometimes, dependant on the clan, and held deep respect for the lives that they took and the places that they settled. Sacred sites to them were visited only by those who had earned the rights, and such honors were not often given in the Before, simply because most of those places had been desecrated and long razed for the greater war. It was difficult for a warrior to protect a shrine when there were ninety men coming at him, and he with two weapons and his armor alone. There had not been a great many victories at the shrines.

Peigra had seen three of them, invited by the wisewomen in the Before, and deeply honored to share in their rituals and the ceremonies that were surrounding them. Shrines were for women, for men, or for a caste, those being warriors, shamen, or others, such as healers from other races, which Peigra was, whose abilities had brought them great honor and respect among the Bahmi that they were invited to partake in such things.

As the child of two now-mixed races, Eth and Mathosian, though they had not been in the before, before the Before...the thought addled her mind, that it was the time before the war, in her past life, not the one she was living now. Sometimes it all made her head hurt. Often she caught herself wincing at it all, and wondering if her step to the left was the correct way to go, or would the war consume them all if she went right?

Thinking hurt more than it should have.

Shrines in the sand lands were honored places, and against the nape of her neck, for her own protection, was a tiny tattoo that had been drawn there as she had patiently sat, focusing on her magick, her past, anything but the pain of its creation. With her hair down, or back, bound in chains and ribbons in the style of the court in Before, it could not be seen, but Temur had known it was there before he had been introduced to Peigra, so it was not just a tattoo, but something greater. Rira had given it to her, wrinkled and wiser than Peigra felt she would ever be, and had worked most of the night on it, weaving song and color and her gentle hands and the needles with their inks into her skin, while seven others surrounded her in a circle, chanting and singing as well.

There was magick in the tattoo, Temur had told her, that marked her as favored among those of his people, and despite her coming from the Before, even now, it could be felt. Perhaps that was why it had been so easy for him to get this escort together, or maybe they simply had wanted to go that direction, who was to know. The tattoo on Peigra’s neck was her security with the Bahmi, and she had only to raise the hair on her neck and reveal it, and she was welcome, and safe, with most of the tribes as a wisewoman and shamaness of great power, though she felt she was not worthy of it because of her age, and much of her lack of knowledge in healings, though others chided her often she was not doing herself justice.

Soir and Genda were building the fire, and two others had been sent to gather fallen wood, and the pair at the fire were arguing with one another, but in a manner of old friends and jest. “Who taught you to use that flint?”

“My sire and his sire before him, swords protect their names! They were there and guided my very hands!”

“How empty was the barrel when they guided your hands, Soir?”

“Which barrel? There were many.”

As part of the band, Peigra was expected to carry her load also, but Xanik had not given her a task, so she went into the other small house that had been chosen, the one with the great overhand that might have protected her from dew, but she doubted it. Some of them would be in this one, the rest with her, and she was alone in the small house and sat down on the boards, and closed her eyes.

Wiser than many, Rira had taught Peigra how to ward an area so that she would be safe, and others might pass on without disturbing or discovery. It had saved she and Baltik many times during their flights between outposts and cities and battles, and both had learned to nap where they could, when they could, and to subsist on little sleep and honey balls until true shelter and rest could be had.

She grounded herself by touching the floor with both hands, sending her magick down into the boards, which amused many people, until she explained that most farmhouses were set above a root cellar, which sometimes could have an outside door, and bandits could lie for hours, waiting for everyone above them to sleep before preying. A warded floor was just one more means of safety.

She rose in a haze, setting her finger on the frame at the door, and along the walls, walking slowly, and concentrated.

As a child, she had done this, not realizing what she had been doing, when she had been playing hide and seek with her apprentice friends, for they had been the only children on the farm at that time her age, Diel not yet in their lives, and her uncle trying to adjust to her. He had been somewhat understanding that his elder brother had not started a family until he had been much older, and there had been some teasing that he, eldest of nine, of which two had survived infancy and childhood, had not found himself a mate by the time he was nearly fourty. Berdel had been the youngest, nearly twenty years Farel’s junior, and an accident that had survived to adulthood through some miracle.

Peigra had no memory now of what had been happening when she had discovered the trick, only that if she willed no one to find her, they could not. Finding plants and fences needed to be mended was easily done if she thought about it, and she could feel pain in the horses, and often reached out, her hand glowing faintly, as she touched them, easing some of the distress.

Several of the apprentices thought she was a witch of old, but the others were grateful for her healings, and her selflessness at helping with the livestock, which did not always understand that pain might lead to better conditions, but a leg had to be extracted from where it was wedged first before the pain might alleviate.

Small magicks had been easy, hiding herself, finding fences, knowing when the pastures were ready to be grazed, people were in need of small touches to help them endure the day. Purga had probably realized it first, and the only warning Peigra could remember had been when she had come, permanently, to live on the farm, her visits over, her parents dead, and no where else to go now but the small room to cry for them. “Keep that magick hidden, Berdel don’t like it,” was all Purga warned the child, and she had not understood, but Purga had known, and had tried to protect her granddaughter.

With so many coming and going, it was easy to miss the children who were in a constant state of harnessing horses and taking halters off and marking the slates in front of stalls for changes of ownership. No one paid any attention to the children, save one who might be so distinctive that she was recognized every year, and she was a niece, not an apprentice, with such strange hair and eyes that everyone inquired if Peigra had grown during the winter. She knew many of them by name, and often people brought her things, small gifts, such as a small packet of herb seeds, a roll of leather for new boots when someone had seen hers split their last visit to the farm, sometimes a length of ribbon or a hairnet to keep it from her eyes.

She had come to the farm, permanently, at six years of age, and Purga became her surrogate mother, and Berdel endured her tagging along behind him, learning about horses. She absorbed more from the horses and the apprentices than she did Berdel, and her grandfather, whose great scowls when he saw her frightened her greatly, and she often hid from him. Whatever Farel had did or had been, her grandfather knew something that had carried on from son to daughter, and no means of rectifying it, even if Peigra the child had known what it had been.

At eleven, Peigra had been seen by one of the messengers, her head against a horse’s flank and her hands glowing brightly, soothing it from a hard ride. Its rider had not cared if it lived or died, but she had, as despite its hardship, it would take the horrid man back to where he had come from and get him off the farm. Peigra was not happy healing the horse, knowing its life was not pleasant, but for a day or two, it was tended, its aches lessened, and she always had a honey ball or two for it.

The messenger had been new, and unfamiliar with the Windrunner secrets, and had reported it not to their superiors, but had mentioned it in passing at the meal. Diel, only beneath the roof two months, had been stunned to discover what Purga and Berdel had known for years, and apparently everyone else had as well but had said nothing. But the secret was out now, and the messenger’s comments caught the interest of other folk, and a Tester came to the farm on the heels of a spring flood, escorted by two Royal Guardsmen.

Shy of her twelfth birthday, Peigra had been woken, her magick deemed, its abilities sought and seen, and had been kitted off onto a horse, her clothing stuffed into a single pack, and gone into the rain that same night as Purga cried behind her.

The finger that moved along the stone walls now was honed, for it had lived two lifetimes doing this, protecting herself and that which was dear to her. The magick glowed on her fingertip, spreading from it in a creeping run up and down along the stones, and vanishing, but it was there. It was a warding, a prevention, and others could do stronger ones, but Peigra did what she could, and she was as dependant on the men with her as they were her. Their safety and sleep was tied to hers, and they had roofs over their heads, which meant no dew. She did not appreciate dew on herself, but enjoyed walking through it with her bare feet on grasses. It was a personal choice.

She reached the corner and turned, repeating it against the next wall. The stone house was small, sleeping perhaps six at the most, and not comfortably. Neither small house had a hearth in it, nor the floor marks or soot of a small brazier or stove for heating. Nail marks on the walls spoke of bunks there, long taken for firewood, and it must have been a wealthy farmer, as few could afford to build in stone. Stone was not common here, along the river, not in the great hewn blocks that were here. And there were many of them, which spoke of an oddness she could not place, and did not want to dwell on it.

She stopped at the doorframe, pressing her hand against it fully and let the magick seep into the stones. Walking out, she crossed to the other one with the overhang, and noted many of the bedrolls spread out beneath it. They were going to sleep there, protected from most of the dew and any sudden rains, and Peigra grinned. She repeated the warding inside the small stone building, and then touched each corner and the supports of the overhang. They were a bit more stout than would take one man in a drunken rage to get down, but stranger matters had happened.

As always, she sat, finding a comfortable place on the still-warm grass to watch the pair, fire lit, trying to turn the spit between themselves. Soir was trying to turn it one direction, Genda the other, and Peigra watched them with a gentle smile. She was always exhausted after using her magick to ward something, and knew it was from putting so much of her desperation and soul into it. Without the ward, anything could creep upon her, see her, find her, and worse. Baltik was a means of escape, but they would have left him and taken her first, as a horse was a means of free travel. Very few bandits would pass up a horse if one presented itself, even by murder.

A hand covered her braids, and she gave a great smile, looking up to Xanik as he crouched beside her. She had not heard him, and sighed. She was more tired than she had imagined from the wardings. “You are well?”

She gave a nod, and motioned to the buildings. “They’re warded, and we should be safe.”

“Then we shall sleep and be cold and warm ourselves once again when we reach the sands.”

Peigra burbled a chuckle, and Xanik patted her head. “Are any of you ever truly warm, even in the sands?”

Now he winked at her as he rose. “Now, that is a secret only the Bahmi will reveal. You rest this night, you will be watched. And the mounts are safe as well,” he said, holding up a hand as her head turned towards them. “Including your great black monster.”

“Baltik’s still got some growing to do,” she said with a faint grin.

“May he continue to grow, but stop nipping at the others tied with him.” She frowned at that, and Xanik gave her head another pat as he pushed himself up. “He will learn, with time, and patience, Peigra. For now, let him be as he is. They will teach him what he needs to know.”

“You spilled it!”

“Catch it!”

“Do not let it empty!”

Xanik and Peigra both looked to the fire, to Soir and Genda still arguing over something, and shared a grin. He left her against the stone column, and she closed her eyes again, feeling the air chilling now that the sun was gone. It would be good to sleep, and she knew that nothing would come to harm her, not with these men.

And whatever Soir and Genda were arguing over, they had finally come to some agreement, after Xanik gave each of their heads a gentle rapping with his fist. Whatever it was, it smelled good, and her stomach gave a growl that she tried to ignore. Food would do her good, as digestion kept a body warm while sleeping, and she would need it. The nights were often cold still in the spring, and with their location so close to the mountains, it would be some time before it came over the top and warmed them.

It took some effort but up she went, her legs remembering, but protesting, how to walk and she went to the fire, settling herself near it and feeling the warmth from it, small though it was but growing. Another massive hand came down on her head, and despite the moment’s terror, she dismissed it. “Need feedin,” the great voice said, and from across the fire, the other end of the spit, another man grunted.

“Needs growin,” he corrected his companion, and Peigra smirked. Soir and Genda, from the story that Temur had hastily explained to her, had been together in the Before and in the Now, and were so attuned to one another that it seemed as if they had been womb mates, or old fishwives. Good friends, and fighters, they were rarely apart, despite both having had mates in the Before, and two rather extensive broods of children. Temur had chuckled about that, and Peigra had not needed to ask any more.

She was young to them, barely of an age where she should have been off the farm. They told her that her body knew a good time to return, and apparently her hopes had been dashed when she had been returned as a teenager again. It had taken her long enough to sprout, and doing it twice was not something she was looking forward to, but as with the previous life, she had little choice. At least, now, she knew what was coming, and when.

“I’ll grow, eventually,” she mumbled, Genda’s great hand mussing her braids as she smiled up at him.

“Food and growth will make you stronger.”

“My food,” Soir said from the other side of the fire. “Mine, food from my own packs. Here, try this, my own blend,” he said, and passed her a small bowl. Peigra took it carefully, knowing what was in it, and gave a wide grin. Bahmi were not folk who fished often, save those whose clans roamed along their bounty, and those within the sands had come with some interesting concoctions for desert meat. Roasted, marinated, smoked, beaten with berries or plants, there were many ways to prepare something that had not looked appetizing when it had died, but might become a meal that even the sauce was being lapped up with fingers for one last taste.

They were always served in bowls, for each Bahmi had one, hand-made by themselves, and carried always. They never shared utensils or bowls or plates, and to do so was something of a taboo, perhaps because there was so little clay and wood out there in the sands. Such things were sometimes passed from parents to children, and extensive clans might have rows of them on display, set out at meals, silent and unused, in memory of those long deceased. They were packed carefully with each move, set into fibrous pouches that snaked in curves and rolled themselves neatly into long tubes that were draped on the back and bounced gently.

Sharing food with a stranger did not happen often, and Peigra gave a great bow of her head, and a motion with her hand as thanks, and Soir returned both to her. “Temur spoke you were trained by Rira.” She nodded, and Soir gave a great inhalation, filling himself out that his chest swelled upwards. “I am honored twice, then.”

“The only honor you hold is the one you hold each morning behind the trees,” Genda said, and some of the others laughed.

Soir made a threatening gesture at Genda, but he was grinning, and motioned Peigra to try what was in the bowl. Small bits of meat were there, and they did smell good, dried as a jerky but soft, and she took a small pinch between her fingers and dropped them on her tongue...and chewed, despite their stares.

The mixture had been rolled in a layer of pepperweed, and she was cautious at the first bite to roll that with her tongue away from her teeth. If the mix had been a test, she had passed something, as Soir took the bowl back from her and nodded to the others, and they in turn. The meat was tender, and well marinated with a soft, honey-salt baste, and she chewed slowly, avoiding the pepperweed, and swallowed it all quickly before she choked on the sudden gagging sensation of the fire from the pepperweed as it hit her stomach.

A horn was passed to her, and she took a large drink, having expected water and not the spicy ale, and tried not to choke on getting that down also. It was not the spicy brew that she had expected, and got some air into her lungs with a few back poundings, resting her head on her knees as the men chuckled.

A finger rose, and she pointed to Genda, who held the horn of ale. “That...wasn’t bit`qk,” she said, and he eyed the horn and her with a bit of confusion. There was more laughter, and Xanik was sitting beside her, rubbing her back as he would have a child’s.

“Bit`qk is for the sands, Peigra, not these wet lands. We will have some when we reach the sands, but to dishonor it, breaking its seal in these strange lands, would be to dishonor our folk.”

“She knows bit`qk,” one of the men said with a deep approval.

“Trained by Rira, in the Before,” Xanik said with a deep pride.

Across the fire, Soir’s chest swelled again. “Makes her a blood-sister, it does. Rira is one of my Blood Clan,” he said, but there was an oddness to his voice that made Genda laugh.

“Former Blood Clan. No lies to her, as they tossed you into the water and told you to swim your way to the nearest caravan.”

Xanik reached over Peigra’s head and cuffed Genda on the ear, but the laughter remained, and Soir’s chest deflated, but there was still pride in his face as he looked to Peigra. “We have shared a bowl, and from my own horn, and this makes us Clan, despite that Rira, in the Now, knows you not. I am honored to travel with you, Peigra, or did they name you anew?”

Peigra sighed, and nodded uncomfortably. That ceremony had been one she had wanted to both remember and forget despite the great honor she, a non-Bahmi, had been given. “I was Named Ran`tk,” she said, and all the men laughed at that, and she gave a slight smile.

“And Ran`tk you shall be when we reach the sands, little bug,” Soir said, reaching over to touch her hair. Purda, and Rira, had both known her well when they had given her the nickname, both aware that Peigra was just that, flittering all about, on every plant she saw to know what it did, and munching her years through many greens and flowers.

There was what was called trader food on the spit, a pair of gutted, spitted fish that Peigra recognized as from the river. Bahmi rarely ate from the sea, and it was a rare clan that relied solely upon such, but in times of low numbers of their usual prey in the sands, there was always the sea.

Rira’s clan, and Soir’s as well, had been near the water, but out of necessity, as there had also been a sacred site within their territory, and guarding that meant their roaming path was quite small compared to others. Their diet had consisted of many of the shellfish along the rocks and the fish caught in nets set out each morning, drawn in near the evening meal, and prepared for the following day’s meal. Fish was often found in the caravans, salted and packed into long wooden crates, and traveled well, but few Bahmi traded for it unless starving, and fewer still would admit to having eaten it.

Fish had always been on the farm’s table, several of the apprentices having that sole duty to catch many for the large guest pool that came and went, especially in late spring, when most of the foals were on the ground and the fall’s auction horses being separated from the main herds. It had been a treat to have the fish baked a certain way, and often the children were extra quick with their chores, and cautious of their actions, when Diel and Purda asked how the fish should be cooked, and many hands raised. Honored guests could chose how the fish was prepared, but often it was the children who did so, and bragging rights were had for days when someone’s idea was chosen.

In foreign lands, the Bahmi had had little choice but to adapt to the new foods, and Meridian, for all its greatness and clanking machines, had to get its food from somewhere. Fish was on all sides if one wandered far enough east, north or south of the city, and it was not difficult to set a hook in with some bait and wait for the fish to get interested. One could barter well with fresh fish, and some of the fishermen had contrapted strange crates that were pulled by wagons, the fish contained in water within and sold fresh and wriggling to cooks and others. Peigra had stared for quite a long time the first time she had seen one, and had, at first, wondered why a prisoner was being carted without bars or air holes.

The two fish had their bellies stuffed with herbs and spices, sewn with thick thread as they were turned on the spit to roast. It was taking a bit longer than expected for them to warm up, as each had been stuffed, earlier that morning, with ice to keep them fresh for the journey. Despite the downfalls to machinery, there were still advantages, and ice for storage was a great one. Salt could be a deterrent after many dry meals on the road, and a fresh piece of fish packed in ice, waiting at the end of a day’s ride, was enough to encourage anyone to embrace such technology.

For all their bluster, Genda and Soir were good cooks.

One had put salt and herbs into the ice, so that as it dried, the salt and the herbs began to flavor the fish, and wrapped in the thick, oiled cloths with more ice, the two fish were large, and made a good meal. Most times, fish was baked in large pits, wrapped in the thick, large leaves of the sea plants that Peigra had been taught to recognize as both survival food and landmarks. A spit was not the same, faster and sometimes uneven if one was lax turning it evenly, but the fish was well done with herbs, and the meat tasty so that it was difficult to know it had been caught in a river and not in the sea.

With the eleven men speaking softly, in their deep, gravelly voices, it was enough to make her feel wanted in the Now, even for a night, and she fell asleep without finishing her meal, the flat, clay plate that had been in her packs set aside before the meal was wasted.

She did not remember being carried to the small stone building she had warded earlier, set inside, and some of the men sleeping in with her, Baltik’s nibble to one of her braids as she was carried past him.