Read Gate of Al'hei :: chp 7.

At the top of thin wooden stairs, I open the ramshackle door to my home. Immediately, Tawlyn flies down from her perch, chaining together rapid chirps which start low and rise to high notes, as she usually does when she is excited. The dim light of sunset shines through the open, netted window, and revealing the cozy wooden interior of the cabin. Herbs hang to dry from the rafters, and a storage cabinet and a table and chair lie opposite the window and near the center of the room respectively. Smiling, I stick out my arm to allow her to perch on it. The boar-skin wrapping covers my scar-covered arm. Her blue-green feathered wings are held out for balance, revealing the sapphire feathers which sit underneath. She must have gone hunting since I was last here, as indicated by a new scar across her thin beak- I would trap her in the house for safety if I did not care for her freedom so much. At least she had shut her gate this time. I whistle ascending notes in a practiced, but rudimentary imitation of her tones, and she leaps from my arm, flying around the room before landing back on her perch, staring at me.

I grin as I whistle 2 low notes, telling her to eat. She catches the fat-dense strips of boar I had cut for her without moving from her place, only flapping her wings for balance. Her oscillating calls ask for more. The spoiled bird! A quick huff tells her no, but of course, she keeps up that back and forth whistle. I reach out and stroke her feathers, sitting down on the mattress I had bought last time I was in the town, Dwäi. The thatch ceiling holds up pretty well, my last repairs seemingly having solved my frequent problems with leaks.

I grab the silver wrought harp from the bedside, placing it in my lap, and begin a descending series of notes. Quickly, Tawlyn joins in, at first her chirps mirroring the notes I play. She usually has a habit of this, but her warble levels out into something which rises over the waterfall of notes I play, seeming to complete it. As we continue, she rises to a crescendo of increasingly high notes which seem to match the descending tones which I play. When I restart the descending rhythm, I hold the first note, letting Tawlyn sing freely. Her tones rise and fall rapidly, before falling into the pattern which I had been playing. I pluck a few strings experimentally, deciding which notes seem to fit the pattern. My hands seem to move on their own, fast enough that if I were to think of what I am actually doing, I would end up with my fingers in knots and a broken harp.

…

We played until my hands tired to where I was having a hard time just keeping rhythm. It dawns on me how tired I am. I stroke Tawlyn’s feathers, answered by a few happy chirps, set the harp back onto the peg where it rests, and fall backwards into the bed, whistling a long, high pitched tone, which I mean for Tawlyn to learn as ‘tired’ or ‘sleepy’.

--~

I have to constantly remind myself that I have a serious duty to lead, but I cannot wipe the grin off my face. The oasis’ location, ahead of me, is betrayed by the dense green life of palms and ferns around it. Truly it is a blessed secret. Truly, the Gods smile upon me. Behind me, Emag prays. Over the next dune, we can see the glistening blue water peeking from behind foliage, in stark contrast to the yellow-white expanse which lies all around, bathed in the bright rays of early sundown. Dismounting, I call the troupe to follow suite. The first to approach me, lead in hand, is Emag.

Never one for conventions, Emag simply said “I will keep your secret.” as he walked past, clearly eager to enjoy the cool water. It always is strange to me that someone so concerned with the Gods cares so little for their rituals- but it isn’t my business, and I trust him with my life besides.

“Praise be to the Gods for sharing this oasis with you, and through this, sharing it with me. You have the rights to this oasis. I will keep your secret.” Buzan says, his voice raspy. I nod in affirmation and he passes by me, grumbling- albiet his grumbling sounds almost happy.

In a line, the rest of troupe approach me, each repeating the traditional mantra, a few adding an extra “blessings, Relyn”, usually alongside a grin. As Faaryl speaks his, I glance at Canaya, only to find her staring straight into my eyes. I quickly direct my gaze to Faaryl, making sure to not look straight into her eyes.

As she approaches, my eyes stick to the ground before settling on her, seemingly of their own will; not that I can blame them. Of course Canaya repeats the phrase perfectly, straight faced- though her eyes seem to give away her smile. Gods, she is beautiful. It is not just beauty, though. I am sure that poets have tried to describe her and they all will have fallen short. There is just something about her way of moving, of acting, which is so graceful, so deadly.

Finally, the last of the column, Virol, repeats the typical phrase and I turn around towards the oasis, only to almost walk into Emag, who wears a serious expression, unbefitting of someone at an oasis.

“There is a young man- a boy, really- laying at the oasis. He wears the thieves brand, Buzan says.” He relayed.

I have seen firsthand how far the Thaki will go to punish thievery. Hopefully our thief is unpursued. Of course, I am aware what I should do as leader. It has always been clear that outsiders have no right to oasis. Even bringing a traveler to one is shameful- of course, none of my troupe would tell a soul about my bringing of the beautiful duelist. Then, it should simply be a matter of slicing his throat, giving him a simple death, and preventing him from finding this oasis again.

“Bring me to him.” I respond. Emag looks at me as if to ask me if I am alright, but instead he turns around and leads me around the oasis.

True to Buzan’s description, the boy has a circular mark on the back of each tanned hand. He wears an assortment of torn clothing and a suprisingly nice yellow shemagh, which has been dropped around his shoulders, revealing golden hair. On his side he carries a waterskin and a short knife. It would be easy to mistake him for dead, save the very subtle movement of his chest. Gods. I do not want to kill anyone, much less some poor boy. I cannot ask anyone else to kill a sleeping man, though. This is my duty. I pull the knife from my belt, glancing back at Emag, who now stands beside Buzan, frowning.

“I don’t want to do it, but I must.” I tell him, grimacing.

I get no answer. I just need to slice the boy’s throat. Gods. I need to slice the meat. It is just a cut of meat. I am hunting, and I need to put down the Gleae I struck with my bow. I drop to one knee, ignoring the Gleae’s slow breathing-

“Hold on.” A female voice calls behind me.

Turning around I see Canaya, her face neutral. What I had been about to do makes me shiver briefly as I stand to face her.

“Yes?”

“If you are to kill him, at least give him a chance. ‘The honor of he who kills an unarmed opponent is forever stained.’” She eyes me with an unreadable look.

I let out a breath. “And how should I go about dueling a passed out thief?”

“You will provide him with food and water, and in 3 days time, if he is ready, you will duel with him.” She explains, as if it is a matter of course.

“I….” how should I respond to that? Is the troupe okay with a thief in out midst? I glance at Emag, and he no longer frowns, though his face is pointedly blank, and Buzan is nowhere to be seen.

“…okay.” I finally manage. I will have to figure something out to escape this duel, but I cannot bring myself to kill the sleeping boy. I need to think of something to tell the troupe.

“Bh’Kellar. I see your honor, Relyn.” She plants a kiss on my cheek, glancing back and laughing as she walks away. It is always the crazy ones, Gods help me.