The Mapmaker's War (18 page)

As a Voice, Edik helped those born away understand the ways of their new home. He felt much sadness for many of them. They often carried hidden pain that inflicted itself time and again only within. In extreme, they stole, hoarded, struck, lied, belittled. The actions gave life to what was underneath. They had suffered a great lack. They appeared difficult to love, and they were the ones who needed it most. They wanted the comfort and peace offered to them but mistrusted both. Even the ones who behaved with respect and kindness found life among the Guardians difficult to comprehend and accept at times.

Why do you think that is, Aoife? asked Edik.

Without a pause, you said, Because we've been betrayed.

How so? asked he.

You shook your head. You spoke the truth but couldn't explain why. You had begun to question more deeply the manner of the world to which you'd once belonged, or rather, been born.

Who might I have been had I been born among instead of away? you asked.

Fragments of your life streamed out to him. Shattered nonsense. He listened to the pieces, to what you'd been reduced to. Tears pierced your eyes. Edik opened his arms. You leaned away. Deep within, you wanted nothing else but to be held. He didn't move. You forced your head to his shoulder and wept. He held you until a calm settled throughout your body. When you slipped from his embrace, he smiled with warmth.

Until love and peace are constant, our purpose is not fulfilled, said he.

ALMOST TWO YEARS HAD CYCLED SINCE YOUR ARRIVAL IN THE SETTLEment.

Three years had passed since the war had begun, and at last it was over. The end came almost as abruptly as it began. Violence had reached far beyond the boundaries of the settlement across the river from the kingdom you had left behind. The remote settlement that had accepted you was spared destruction but not loss.

You couldn't conceive why the fighting had spread as it had. You couldn't imagine the shock of the reclusive Guardians suddenly invaded. The warriors of the trails fought to protect Egnis from harm. They endured random acts of violence. Their settlements had never been attacked in this way, not according to any remembered history. Many of them had been betrayed by villages who had been neutral neighbors before. You wondered what the armies of aggressive men thought when they found enough to loot but the misperception of threat.

Several people of your settlement were relatives of warriors who never came back. Although these warriors had returned for brief visits during the war | gift of the gaps | they were otherwise missing or dead. Hope turned pale.

You twice saw a warrior knock upon the door of a waiting family. The news brought grief and shrouded bodies. Worse, grief and no body. Worse still, no word.

There were ceremonies for the bereaved. If a body returned, a ritual took place near it before it was cremated. A fire was built in a large iron cauldron for each person and tended by companion warriors until the ritual's end. Anyone could speak or share an offering. Friends and family sat nearby while words were spoken or gifts were given to the fire. Most heartrending were the children, who had received tender care from those who had died. He taught me, he showed me, I loved him because, said they. Some did not speak. They fed the fire with gifts made with their own hands. Dolls, carvings, sculptures, with meaning special to the person and the warrior. When the ceremony ended and the fire died, the family took the ashes to scatter in private.

You attended each of the ceremonies. These warriors you had not known. You were tempted to hide, but you faced the consequences of your actions. Long glances forced your eyes to the ground. They knew who you were.

Once, before you were fluent in their language, Aza said that a group wished to speak with you. They had lost their beloved in the war. She hoped to bring peace to you all. You agreed. Aza prepared you for the meeting. She assured you they didn't wish to persecute. When you sat in the circle among them, all wept. Aza translated as they spoke of their pain and confusion. Their people had lost warriors before but never so many in so short a time. They wanted you to explain what events had taken place before the first attack. They wanted to know why the war had begun. They wished to understand what made those born away so hurtful.

You told of your involvement. Beginning to end. You revealed your husband had been the prince, then King, but that seemed to matter little to them. Your explanations of what had taken place, of your world away, fumbled as excuses which you didn't agree with or believe. No more than they, could you make sense of the cruelty. You told the truth as you knew it. It was all you could give.

A woman who hadn't spoken leapt into a pause of silence. Aza translated.

You didn't kill my spouse, but a shard of your deeds was in the blow, said she.

You rose and knelt next to her.

Yes, it was. I am sorry. I am sorry to you all, you said.

She bowed her head, then embraced you. Together, you cried. You couldn't bear her forgiveness.

YOU AWOKE IN THE MIDDLE OF THE FREEZING NIGHT. NO NOISE HAD startled you. No sounds disturbed your return to sleep. Yet you went to the window and looked down to the road. A lupine shadow carried moonlight on its shoulders. You crept back to bed, stalked the image in your mind like a dream.

The next morning, word passed from one and all that Leit had slipped in through the darkness. He wished for tempered greetings. That is to say, he didn't want to be swarmed. The adults honored this. They waved or bowed their heads with respect, but the children couldn't contain themselves. They ran and leapt toward him. They shouted his name. He accepted their affection and returned it. The first time you saw him, from a close distance, you thought he winced with pain each time he was embraced.

You had heard people speak of him.

He was known as the warrior without a deliberate kill.

He had been away longer than the other warriors. He was dispatched soon after the war had begun. His role was to train those who had never before felt called to take up arms. His gift was discipline. He was adept at self-control. Under his guidance, the angered men | some women | would learn cool restraint and conscious action. Mindless violence and bloodshed offended his nature. No warrior took life lightly.

The people had believed he would return. They couldn't conceive that he would not. They honored him for his bravery, kindness, and composure. None was more skilled to maneuver the perils of the world.

As well, Makha the wolf accompanied him. Her loyal presence gave many comfort. She had been Leit's companion since his voice had changed. He had saved her as an orphaned pup. Some thought her not quite mortal. She was old for a creature of her kind, but her body and mind did not fail her. She protected Leit, kept to his side.

Within days of his arrival, the entire settlement felt brighter, as if a cloud had drifted away.

Leit requested a time of transition. He didn't hide but did not reenter a peaceful life again at once. Although he had a home of his own, he took refuge with an elder warrior and his spouse. If he was seen in those first weeks, he was often entering or leaving the forest with Makha or tending children at a nursery.

The next occasion you saw him, he stood with an infant asleep on his chest. The baby rested against the copper breastplate on which it lay. Leit's eyes were closed and turned to the sun.

YOU WERE CURIOUS ABOUT LEIT. ALTHOUGH YOU SAW HIM WHEN YOU passed nurseries or the smithy, sometimes in the fields, you hadn't found the courage to speak. You wanted to experience for yourself why he evoked such affection and respect. No matter that you were accepted among them, you were still the woman who had caused the war. That made you responsible for his pain, the depth of which you would be horrified to learn.

The daily work you chose had little connection to what you had done in your life before. You found pleasure in making bread. Precise measurements harkened what you once marked on a plane. Repetitive kneading brought to mind trudges on monotonous terrain. What you had done before fed no one, but it had satisfied a sort of greed.

Then came a morning when a mother and her twins stopped for a large loaf. The girl and boy were no older than four. You and your fellow bakers had made small dried-cherry buns for the visiting children. You gave the girl and boy their treats. They thanked you and smiled through the crumbs. The mother looked at them as they ate. Her expression was content and filled with love. In that simple moment you thought, I never looked at the twins that way.

You began to watch parents with their children, mothers in particular and their young ones in response. You had told no one of the girl and the boy. Your neighbors knew where you came from, that you had been a mapmaker, and that you had been married. For whatever reason, you couldn't speak of the twins.

Troubled in mind and heart, you found sleep elusive. Some nights, you walked to a location that overlooked the plain. The land was elevated and surrounded by trees. The low plateau had been worn bare by contemplative others drawn by the quiet and the view. Mountains rose in the far distance. On occasion, wild horses raced and grazed in the valley below. There was no escape from the moon.

On late summer night when you arrived at the plateau, you saw a figure sitting in the space. You decided to turn back. Your movement caused a rustle. A low growl froze your blood.

Thank you, said a man's voice. The growl stopped. The figure split into two forms.

I meant no intrusion. I will leave, you said.

You've come for a reason, said he. He didn't stand. He turned his body to slip a shirt over his head.

There's room enough. Sit, said he.

You approached. The moonlight brightened the two forms, a large man and a wolf.

I don't recognize you, said he.

You spoke your name and admitted that you knew who he was. You had seen him in the settlement.

Did you come for silence? asked Leit.

Yes, you said.

Please, may we share it? asked he.

You sat away from him and Makha the wolf. The moon was high and bright, almost full. Cloud shadows drifted on the plain.

The wolf sat next to him with her body pressed against his left side. Her shoulder met the back of his shoulder, her hip at the base of his spine. Her muzzle and throat were brilliant silver, the rest of her coarse fur burnished.

She regarded you with a gaze wild and wise. You remembered the shadow in the road on the night when you had awakened. Surely that had been her. You dared to look her in the eye. Only for a moment. What kind of beast shows such devotion to a man? you thought. As you turned toward the open land, you noticed a stain on Leit's shirt. He wasn't wearing the copper breastplate. You knew then it wasn't ceremonial or official. The thin armor covered a wound.