AdeleAnnesi

Ariland

Except for the goats and their occasional bleating, the fields are desolate. A deep stillness has settled here,
one that has come more from neglect than from peace. Yet beneath the quiet is a silent a plea for someone of
means and interest to take up the cause of this place.
I stand at the one fence that remains here. From behind the coarse wire gleams a single yellow eye. The
Nubian head that holds it leans against the barrier, nudging it outward while the eye looks up and stares.
The bent back with ribs protruding from the thin, splotched hide reveals the creature's years, though the
bearded face in impish contentment seems at peace. The eye closes, the head tilts up, revealing the stubble of
a small goatee. The creature wobbles on slender legs pressing herself against the metal.
I push my fingers through the mesh to scratch the fragile head. There is little I can do for Cada. The satraps
tell me she is dying. She was born ill, they say, and retarded, an eternal child that relies on an older sibling
for protection.
I have been left in charge of her and this place as a punishment because I asked too many questions, or rather
because I asked what they didn't want to answer. Yet, they will seek an accounting for the land when they
return, which they promised to do in a fortnight. So I tell myself to get busy, then I tell myself there is
time. The goats will forage until no grass remains, though the satraps have given me their word that they will
return before then. This offers no comfort. Our last meeting did not go well.
It was the morning of Assays, and of the crop of protégés, two of us were to be inducted, though only one
could be First. This season I believed it would be me, not because I have a greater intellect but because one
of the satraps had taken a liking to me. At least that was how it seemed, but with Demaris one could never be
sure. He is a cantankerous old crank with a fringe of bristling white hair crowning his head like a laurel
wreath. He treated me well during the Indoctrination, while still managing to keep his distance, though in
the end he told me how it went.
Among the satraps Demaris’s word was law, and he wanted the honor of First to go to someone who was a
thinker.
“They’re all thinkers, Dema," said Panal, one of the other two satraps who would examine us. “Some of them
simply think more rationally.”
Demaris looked at him over rimless spectacles. “They think like old men, without scrutiny or imagination.”
“They ask few questions," said Panal.
“They ask few questions because they are ignorant," Demaris said. “That is bad enough. But these ask little
because they are afraid, and that is worse.”
Panal looked at his other colleague, but Boru was busy gnawing the bones of a blue pheasant he had caught
and cooked with his own herbs. He disliked being distracted at the dinner table, but it was the night before
the examination and each satrap had his own ideas.
“I do not mind the questions," spoke Boru around a mouthful of fowl. “It is the answering that is a plague."
He spat a piece of bone onto the coarse straw that covered the stone floor. “And the young ones tend to
ask too early.”
“You think fifteen too early?" Demaris poured a draught of wine into a crystalline glass that gave the wine
an aspect like crushed velvet. “You were hunting at fifteen, and you usually caught your prey.”
Boru wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “Hunting was work, Uncle." He looked at Demaris. “It kept me out of
my father’s way in the season.”
“It kept you from asking questions – from challenging him." Demaris sat back on the hide-covered stool.
“It amounts to the same.”
“I think it does not." Demaris took up his glass.
Boru watched his uncle drink the last of the wine in a swallow, thinking it showed a singular lack of
discernment where truly fine things were concerned. Yet it was Demaris who had sponsored his young
nephew as an apprentice. Boru’s father had taken little interest in his son’s education and rearing, and Boru’
s mother, Mathilde, had died of encephalon fever when the boy was six. By then his father, a true nomad,
had left for another world. Boru rarely spoke of it and when he did, it was with a distance born of the same
discipline that enabled him to stalk his prey for days. Demaris, however, had always believed that Boru’s
success in hunting came more because his prey gave up than because of the young man's prowess.
With little more chatter, their dinner ended early, and the satraps departed for their separate chambers to
seek wisdom. Demaris locked his door, unbolted the window and threw it open. Crisp air rushed in, and
he breathed it deeply and gazed at the evening sky. The vault of heaven was cobalt, the sliver of moon white
gold, and Demaris found himself wondering, not for the first time, whether it was so great an honor for a
fifteen-year-old boy to become a satrap and then perhaps a chieftain who would have his own sons only to
leave them behind. It made him wonder, too, whether it was so well to be First.
Demaris dropped his kneeling cushion to the floor beneath the window and leaned on the stone sill. He
folded his arms across his chest, but instead of bowing, he stared at the moon. Once the hour had grown
late and darkness had come, he closed the window and took himself to sleep.
At dawn he awoke, chilled beneath the fleece bed covering. He pulled the sacking tighter, but the effort did
little to warm flesh and bone that had seen too many winters on too many worlds. Now the seasons changed
too quickly and always to winter, and he was tired of traveling.
But the satraps were the organizers, first to make the arrangements after the nomad chieftain chose a new
place and last to leave. In the beginning Demaris had liked this way well enough; it gave him time to adjust to
starting over, but adjustment turned to resignation and resignation ultimately to indifference.
“Ah, well, you old sod," he chided himself. “Out of bed.”
As he spoke, he could see his breath. He stuck an arm out from beneath the fleece and reached for his
examination shawl, then pulled it over his head and eased to his feet, shuffling into the eiderdown slippers he
had made for himself on some world he had long forgotten.
“At least the shoes were good," he muttered.
He opened the window and found the air warmer than in his chamber. The sun shone like brass, and he
stretched in the light of it. He adjusted his robes and searched the shelves for the alabaster box that held
the ceremonial ring. Today was a betrothal of sorts, to the calling of satrap, one who would impart the
ways of the nomads to the children. It was also a vow to follow the nomadic ways, perhaps even unto
becoming a chieftain. With effort Demaris pushed the amethyst ring onto his forefinger where it pinched his
flesh.
In the antechamber of the great hall, the elders were gathered to pray before the ceremony. They knelt side
by side under the open Pallas window and raised their clasped hands, speaking first in unison, then one by
one. They prayed for guidance and strength. A unanimous vote was not required, but the backing of all
three satraps was preferred. Demaris surmised how the vote would go and did not think he would be
pleased.
Finally, the men lowered their hands and stood. First in line, Demaris turned and moved toward the hall
entrance. Panal and Boru followed. They reached the closed door, and Demaris tapped it twice with the
ring. A guardian opened it, and the three satraps walked to the front of the room, the elders behind them,
then turned and faced the crowd.
The benches were full, those in attendance speaking softly among themselves. Some had even brought cups of
honey lotus water, which they drank this time of year.
Demaris took his place in the middle of the dais, Boru on his right. Panal stepped up to the other side and
positioned himself on an elevated lectern slightly apart. He would ask the questions and moderate the
examination. The others would listen to the answers as they had for the past year, and the audience would
remain silent.
The first of the two finalists strode in. He was tall for fifteen and well-muscled from the wilderness of his
youth. He had been a goatherd since childhood and had killed many beasts to protect his drove. He was
rumored to have shown as much prowess as Boru at his age, maybe more.
He was called Rowell, and his father, Docar, had been decorated for bravery in many wars. Docar was
second in command only to the general, and it was said that the only reason he did not replace him was that
Docar was more valuable. But the satraps were forbidden to speak of the wars, and the people were content
to leave the fighting to those who went ahead.
Rowell stood at the podium and faced the crowd.
“State your name." Panal raised his right hand and positioned it with two fingers against his temple.
Rowell did the same, the giving of an oath. “I am Rowell ap Docar.”
The youth was aware, even at such a young age, of the influence of his father’s name and already had ideas of
surpassing him. The questions came methodically then, and Rowell answered with little effort and less
emotion. He was well-trained and knew what he believed about the nomads, their ways, the requirements for
satrap and the qualifications for chieftain, the one to whom even the general bowed.
“You believe in the subjugation of other worlds and their cultures to advance our own," Panal said.
As with the other interrogatory parts of the examination, Panal formed the question as a statement, leaving
Rowell only with the requirement of assent. Once the questions were answered there would be no
discussion, though at the end of the time each pupil was granted one inquiry of his satrap of choice. It was
perfunctory, revealing more about the loyalty of the pupil than the beliefs of the satrap.
“Yes, I believe in the subjugation of other worlds and their cultures to advance our own." Rowell stood
with his hands behind his back in imitation of a leader about to give an orison.
“You have answered well, Rowell ap Docar," Panal affirmed. "We draw to the close of your examination.
What is your inquiry, and of whom do you wish to ask it?”
Rowell’s mouth twisted into a smile. He looked at Boru. “My question is to you." He nodded in Boru’s
direction. “What was your age when you made your first kill, and what was your prey?”
Something in the tone of Rowell’s voice revived the crowd's interest, as if the years of attending Assays
might finally pay off in something worth seeing.
“That question is two-fold, but I will allow it," said Panal, reasserting control over the proceedings.
Boru leaned forward in the paneled chair. “I had seen ten suns, and it was a mountain lion with a head twice
the size even of yours, Rowell ap Docar.”
The crowd laughed. Rowell let their noise die down.
Demaris shifted position. “You are silent, young Rowell, but your expression tells me something. What have
you in mind?”
Rowell ap Docar’s eyes narrowed. His hand went to a leather string around his neck. “I think I have
surpassed you, Boru." Rowell pulled at the string until it produced from his tunic a talon longer than a
man's hand. “I was nine when I made my first kill, and mine was the great north bear.”
The crowd drew a sharp breath, then fell silent. They looked from Rowell to Boru. In making his point,
Rowell had made an error in judgment. He had publicly dishonored Boru and alienated the one vote that
might have been undecided. It appeared certain he would forfeit the award of First.
But if his error was great, mine would prove greater, for at the close of Rowell's time of questioning it was
decided that he had merely shown his desire to be best. This was required of those in authority and showed
the essence of what a nomad was. With his answer, Rowell had simply proved himself a zealot and in so
doing proved himself true.
In a sense, I did the same. I, too, showed who I was, but I have never been like Rowell. I am not like my
people, except in some ways like Demaris, though he has learned to hide himself.
When it came my turn at the podium, I answered well and had the small satisfaction of knowing that Rowell,
at the last, had not. But Panal looked at me with cold eyes, and I knew I was not his choice. I knew also
that he would not change his vote.
Boru was composed now and sitting back in his chair, one leg crossed over the other, his hand under his
chin. He seemed to be contemplating my answers, but I thought this a gesture, that he had merely closed
himself against what Rowell ap Docar had revealed. Boru would vote for me, but by default.
“Your turn at inquiry has come," Panal said. "What is your question, and of whom do you ask it?”
His voice was flat, and I knew he did not want to give my question more attention than the least required. I
felt something inside me stir, as it had they told me during the preparation that we would leave this place.
We had already stayed long because the land was rich, and now that we had it nearly to ruin the time had
come to leave. The armies had already cleared the next place. It was ready for us, and we must go.
I, however, did not want to leave. This was my first place of belonging, and I had grown to love it despite
the law that prohibited such attachments and forced all to live as if the time were short. I took stock of
myself and looked at Panal, whose gnarled fingers gripped the lectern.
“Your question?" he asked, impatient.
“My question is of Demaris," I said. "How can you sanction the conquering of lives no less precious than
ours simply because we have been selfish enough to squander every world on which we have ever lived? We
call ourselves nomads, but we are thieves and cowards who would rather move on to other places than face
what we have done to this one.”
Suddenly my age made no difference. They came in from the hall with weapons to silence me. I was cited on
two counts, treason and perjury. I had rebelled against our ways, thus the authority that oversaw them, and
I had already said yes to the question put to Rowell. I had said I believed in the very thing of which I
accused Demaris. After such a display, my time would likely be short.
I could not look at Panal, and Boru was laughing quietly to himself. Yet as I watched Demaris, I saw he was
not angry. He looked at me with something like respect but also with sadness because he knew what was
coming
“You’ve little guile," he said.
He spoke with such resignation that I knew he had expected this of me. I had asked similar questions of him
over the past year, usually when we were alone and talking of my family and how they had left. I could not
understand their choice, and now I would not accept it. It was only at the intervention of Demaris that they
did not destroy me. He talked them into a punishment instead.
“Let him stay, if he likes it so much," he told the satraps and the leaders. "Let's see if he survives. I doubt he
will, but even if he does, it will be of interest to us. It will merely show that he has more strength in him
than we thought. Then we can decide what to do with him.”
But I knew Demaris, and I knew that he had set them up because he hoped they would find me alive. If they
did, he could make a case for my continued survival. If not, well, at least his conscience would be clear. So
I awaited their return and in the time between tended the land and the goats, caring for them as I did myself.
Then one day, as promised, the satraps returned.
“You cannot stay here," said Panal. He was so angry that his voice shook and his face was the color of a
persimmon.
“You cannot stop him, Panal," Demaris said. "It was his punishment, and now it is his wish." His voice was
quiet, and he seemed to have become even more withdrawn since I had seen him last.
Boru had not returned. I presumed he was having dinner somewhere, as it was about that hour.
“But he will not survive here, and worse, he has gone against our people. Such independence is not
permitted." Panal’s voice was hoarse.
“Isn’t it?" I spoke softly. “Nomads take what they need when they need it from whomever, wherever they
choose. Is this not independence?”
Panal hated that I was smarter than he, and I knew he would have killed me if he could. But I still had some
royal blood, even if it was from generations past, and he feared retribution.
“Stay, then." Panal spat the words. “Stay, and see how well it goes for you here." He leaned closer, and I
could smell his rancid breath. “Will your great heart and your intellect save you then?”
I wanted to say that they had so far and that even though I was afraid, it was better to be afraid if it meant
freedom. But I said nothing. Panal, as always, took me for a fool, then turned and walked away.
Demaris put his hand on my shoulder. I had not thought him capable of even this small display of emotion.
“You are certain you want to stay?"
I nodded.
“I will try to return when I can." Demaris took his hand away.
I knew he would not come. They would not allow him to return, and he would do nothing more to upset the
balance of nomad life. He touched his fingers to his temple, then to his heart and turned away.
I stood and watched him go until I could see him no longer, until the daylight began to fade and the bells on
the goats could be heard above the silence. I walked to the pen where Cada stood, with her fuzzy head and
contented yellow eyes that told me she was done feeding. I opened the gate, and she scampered away, her
thin body brushing the low lying branches of Ariland’s remaining trees, her youth renewed for a moment by
one she had come to trust.