Into Forbidden Lands
The Meld

Some time later a melody began to form in Illiom’s mind. At first she thought it a remembered tune, but gradually recognised that it was not a product of her mind at all.

“Can you hear that?” Elan asked, even as Illiom focused on the ethereal voices.

Sereth nodded.

“They are singing us on our way.”

And so it was.

The mind-song of the Altrans was a wonderful harmonising of voices that felt like a blessing as it accompanied the travellers for the rest of that first day.

All heard it - Chosen, Riders and Iolans – and they travelled through the snow-clad mountains in contented silence. When they reined in to camp for the night the song softly faded into the background sounds of the land.

They ate from provisions that the Altrans had gifted them, Pell having become quite adept at improvising with the strange grains and seeds and nuts that now filled their larder. In no time, he had them eating a concoction of something with the consistency of dense bread, dunked into a piquant stew of mushrooms and wild beans.

“This is delicious, Pell!” Angar said, his mouth full. “But could you not have given us more than this miserable amount? A wren would go hungry on this!”

His remark was corroborated by several grunts of agreement.

Sereth’s Rider merely smiled, chewed on, and made no reply.

When everyone had finished eating, Pell glanced around the group.

“Anyone for seconds?” he asked, a twinkle in his eye.

There was a silent exchange of looks, but no one requested more. Illiom herself felt so full that she could hardly speak.

Pell chuckled to himself.

“It is called Nammak and it is a root, not only good for its flavour, but also for its high level of sustenance. The Altrans told me that it will keep us going even if we run out of all other food, so I made sure that we had enough to last for at least ten days.”

“Quite thirst-making, though,” Malco said, picking up his skin and guzzling with abandon.

Pell shrugged.

“If you want miracles, talk to Keilon Var.”

Keilon looked up sharply at the mention of his name.

“Illusions do not fill bellies,” Kassargan muttered past a smirk.

They pressed on through the mountains for four days, crossing high passes, traversing deep valleys and following narrow paths that clung precariously to sheer granite flanks.

The song of Altra no longer serenaded them, but the land continued to inspire a tender sweetness in Illiom’s heart. The weather remained clement and the skies, at first white with high cloud, became increasingly tinged with blue. The nights were persistently cold, however, and each morning the party would rise to shake off a layer of hoarfrost that had covered their world.

On the afternoon of the seventh day of Greening, they descended towards a plain entirely covered by Majesty trees. In the spaciousness of the great forest the horses picked up their pace and cantered with alacrity, their eyes bright with the thrill of speed, their nostrils flaring with the fresh and aromatic forest air.

On the morning of the tenth day, they broke out of the tree cover at last and emerged beneath a brooding sky.

The land beyond was cloaked with snow, but whereas in the north it had been pure and pristine, here it had degraded to grey sludge. Guided by the Draca, they continued to make good progress, traversing the now gently undulating plains.

Early in the afternoon it began to snow, but the snowfall soon gave way to sleet and then to a hard rain that saw them ride for the remainder of that day in a deluge. Donning their cloaks, they pressed on for as long as the light allowed, but were eventually forced to halt and set up camp. By the time Iod set, the entire party was crammed into a single tent with open sides, pressed around a small fire that spluttered and billowed smoke.

It was still drizzling the next morning, but the storm had lost most of its violence. By midmorning even that had ceased. The rain had wiped away all traces of snow, and the travellers now had to negotiate deep puddles and tracts of slush.

Two days later they came to the shore of a lake that stretched west as far as the eye could see. This had to be Lake Igris, a body of salt water that marked the boundary between Altra and Iol. Following Abdora’s guidance, they rode along the lake’s northern shore and, at dusk, came across a sheltered cove where they camped for the night.

The next morning, they reached their destination, a small, sweet water lake a few leagues north-west of Lake Igris. Here, Abdora’s guidance was withdrawn and they were once more completely on their own.

The waters of the lake were an intense blue, indicating an unusual depth. Even though it was still early in the day, they stopped and went no further.

Illiom and Tarmel walked some distance away from the others, shed their clothing and dived into the icy water. Soon they were out again, soaking up the warmth of Iod on the sandy shore, cherishing this small gift of time alone together.

They ate their evening meal while it was still light, and Argolan took advantage of the moment to make an announcement.

“We will stay here for a few days, for there are things we need to organise before we go any further.” She nodded in the direction of the lake. “This is our last stop before we head into the desert and the last time we will have access to plenty of water. When we do leave, we will walk, not ride. This will free the horses to carry our weight in water, which will extend our autonomy to a full seven days.”

“Walk?!” groaned Dreel, his eyes wide with disbelief.

Malco too looked concerned.

“Seven is good, but still not a lot and our progress will be slower!”

“Do you really expect me to walk?” Dreel complained, before Argolan could respond to the Blade.

“I do not think that Dreel should walk at all,” Kassargan cut in. “I think he should ride.”

The dwarf looked at the descrier, his expression incredulous.

“…all the way back to Calestor!”

Dreel’s eyes narrowed.

Argolan shrugged.

“Since you forced yourself onto this party, you must suffer its fate. We will make no special dispensations on account of your size - you might have considered this before you placed yourself in this situation.”

Dismissing him, she turned to Malco.

“About your comment, yes, it will be slower travelling on foot, but the difference will be negligible. Even if we rode we would not be able to ride hard, for that would only increase the horses’ consumption of water.”

“Is there anything else that we might be rid of – aside from Dreel?” asked Sereth. “Anything that might enable us to carry even more water? Increase our range even further?”

Argolan must have already considered this, for she answered without hesitation.

“No, we are already carrying the bare essentials for survival, and we do not know what we will replace where we are going.”

“What about fodder?” Illiom asked.

“We have enough, but anyway fodder is not as important as water. The horses can go for quite some time without food, not so without water.”

“And what about food for us?” Scald asked.

“Another reason we are stopping. Pell, what are our stores like?”

“I have used up everything the Altrans provided for us, except for the Nammak root, which we still have plenty of.”

Argolan interrupted him.

“Unfortunately the root increases our thirst, so we cannot eat it in the desert. Tomorrow we hunt and replenish our food stores. Then we must cure the meat so that it does not spoil. We will need to delay our departure by two days at the very least, maybe even three.”

“There is something else you must know,” Kassargan interjected. “Once in the desert, we should not ration our water. It is a common mistake and one that often proves fatal. People have been found dead with water still in their skins.”

“So, what do we do?” asked Scald.

“This may sound like a paradox, but we should drink more frequently, yet no more than a mouthful each time.”

Zoran nodded.

“I get it,” he said. “Or else we end up pissing it all away.”

Pell and Mist laughed, but Argolan scowled at the Rider.

After they had eaten, Tarmel and the other Riders tended the horses, and Illiom headed for the lake.

Iod was setting the western horizon on fire. Sudra hung almost directly overhead, balanced between light and dark, shining down on the world as if determined to prevent its fall into complete darkness.

A dark form sat on the shore of the lake, facing the sunset. It was Azulya, recognisable by the amethystine nimbus of light that surrounded her.

It was not unusual for a Chosen to be sitting alone, cradling their Key – they all did this from time to time.

Illiom hesitated for a moment, not wishing to interrupt her friend’s contemplation, but something made her bridge the distance that separated them.

As she approached, Azulya turned to her.

“Ah, Illiom, you have come to join me?”

Illiom sat beside her and glanced at the purple glow of Azulya’s Key.

“Trying to fathom its mysteries?”

A hint of a smile warmed the Kroeni’s gaze.

“More like trying to fathom the mysteries of this journey of ours,” she answered, gazing out across the still surface of the lake.

“So many unanswered questions…”

Illiom raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

They sat in silence for a time, until Azulya spoke again.

“Who are they?” she said, turning to Illiom. “These Adepts? These Bloodrobes? What is the feud between them that has warranted such a cataclysm? And when we do replace them, what will these Adepts do? Anything?”

Azulya looked haunted.

“What if they are nothing but cowards who would rather see the world destroyed than face the Bloodrobes? Who hides for thousands of years, Illiom? Who hides and does nothing?”

These questions were not new to Illiom. She had pondered them herself, and always arrived at the same place – nowhere. So Illiom asked the only question that might obtain an actual answer.

“What has brought this up?”

Her friend stared back at her for a long moment and then sighed.

“Fear, I guess,” she admitted at last.

She raised a hand and pointed towards the south-west.

Illiom caught her breath.

Irrsche.

Illiom had avoided looking at her, as though acknowledging her presence gave the Illstar power. It was larger than she remembered and, now that Iod was setting, her light shone stronger still.

“I saw her as we rode today,” Azulya continued. “Seeing her reminded me of the gravity of this undertaking.”

She straightened up and smiled.

“Thank you,” she said. Then, almost as an afterthought added, “Do you know that once, before all this happened, it used to take me days on end to free myself of an oppressive thought?”

“And now they leave within the hour?” Illiom filled in, nodding with recognition. “Yes, it is the same for me. It is a fine thing to be free of such burdens.”

Remembering her own fears and apprehensions and how she had allowed them to oppress her brought a small smile to her lips.

Azulya raised her Key. The light dappled her blue skin with purple and violet.

She laughed.

“Do you realise that our Keys share an interesting kinship?”

Illiom waited for the other to elaborate.

“You hold the Key of Faith, and I the Key of Union. Yours is the first and mine is the last. Every other Key comes between these two.”

They fell into a silence that expanded to envelop the world around them. Illiom’s awareness opened to include all the surrounding landscape, the lake and the now dark vault of infinite night.

When Azulya next spoke, her voice held a note of awe.

“I have a feeling that we are being led into something deeper and greater than any of us could have imagined.”

Illiom stared at her friend.

She knew that Azulya was accessing a deeper knowing that did not translate easily into words.

“It is hard to speak of, for when truth is uttered it often ceases to be true. It becomes tarnished by the mind’s inadequacy to express that which direct experience contains so effortlessly.”

She shook her head.

“Even this, what I say now, I cannot be sure I am communicating accurately.”

Illiom retrieved her own Key and touched Azulya’s with it. The two friends gazed entranced as purple and red fire danced entwined.

It reminded Illiom of their first meld as a group.

What if we are whisked away again?

They communed in silence for a while.

What we do not dwell upon is not fed, so it does not grow.

Startled, Illiom looked into Azulya’s eyes, uncertain whose thought that had been.

The thoughts flared up like embers in the breeze, then darkened and were gone.

Their stillness deepened, uninterrupted by words, unsullied by further thoughts. They sustained the exchange even when Angar came over. Seeing them so deeply engaged, the Rider withdrew quietly again.

The women leaned in towards each other until their foreheads touched. The stream of knowing that flowed between them reminded Illiom of her communion with Sudra, though mercifully this time the world around them did not vanish.

When the two friends made their way back to the encampment, it was completely dark. Irrsche had set and the night sky seemed peaceful in the Illstar’s absence.

Angar, on sentry duty, met them before they could reach the circle of light cast by the campfire.

“All well?”

“Never better,” Azulya replied.

Tarmel was still awake when Illiom joined him.

“I was about to get up and pay a visit to that Iolan conjurer,” he said. “Thought he might have seduced you into thinking he was me.”

Illiom laughed softly.

“It would take more than a two-bit magician to fool me! I was with Azulya.”

“Yes, I know. Angar told me. He said you seemed to be in deep communion.”

She explained the interaction in as much detail as she was able.

She felt him stiffen.

“Is something wrong?”

“I wish I was a Chosen, and I could commune with you in as deep a way.”

“Oh, Tarmel!”

She stroked his forehead and then kissed his eyes.

“But you are Chosen, Tarmel. You just do not yet know what for. And the union we share does not bear comparing.”

He kissed her.