Elidir

evening

I’ve spent two nights staring at a blank page. Two nights of opening this journal, then closing it again with nothing written. 

I leave for Breachill tomorrow and will arrive there in three days. I’ve left places before, built new lives for myself before. This is nothing new. So why is it so hard to write about it? Why is it so difficult to face it?

Maybe it’s because every place I’ve lived has been an escape from where I was. The Conservatory was my escape from home. From mom and dad’s constant fighting. From the reality of our financial collapse. From a family that had been coming apart long before I was brought into it.

Macridi was my escape from Kerse. From the shame and embarrassment of living through it. I had no one, and couldn’t bear being myself. And for a while, it worked. Only, Macridi wasn’t fully real. I moved through people there without staying. No one knew me because I didn’t let them. The comfort it provided was real, but it just wasn’t enough.

The Minstrels were the first time I felt authentic. I joined them, and that was a choice. So I was reaching, not running. I wanted real connections again. But maybe that need for belonging was still an escape from who I’d been. Who I’d chosen to become.

I’ve seen this pattern before. I saw it in the forest. It’s why Iskaryn is here with me, now. But seeing it doesn’t make it easier to escape it.

And now, I am about to do it again. Create a new life, a new me, in a new place. A more authentic me, if Iskaryn has anything to say about it (and she has plenty to say). But it has never worked before. Never for long.

Nish was convinced I am moving towards something, not running. I don’t know if that is true, but I want to believe it. I guess it comes down to whether, this time, I will build something I can remain inside.

I don’t know who they are. Only that I am meant to recognize them. And be recognized in return.

Conerica Straits

evening

We’re outside a small settlement, but I decided to stay with the camp rather than head into town. I’ve been avoiding the places we visited when I was last here because…I don’t know why. I guess I just don’t want to deal with it.

I was playing my flute casually, just some light and airy pieces that put some music out there without demanding attention. Something people could either listen or just talk over depending on their mood. I’d been doing this for half an hour with a small crowd around me when that group of three surprised me by taking seats at the fire. They had gone into town earlier–the sudden quiet was almost startling–but now they were back.

“How about something we can dance to?” one of the two men asked.

And just like that, I was trapped. I was still raw from two days of trying to keep away from them, but I couldn’t ignore the request without being rude. And I wanted to be rude, surely, but that was on me. They’d not done anything to deserve it. Not really.

Well, fine. I could hide behind my flute (I felt Iskaryn bristle at that thought). I went with an estampie because they have open endings and aren’t too tiring. Just a few sections in, there was clapping and foot-stomping, then someone brought over a wooden crate, and I had a real, if rustic, percussion line. 

The man who requested the change in music was dancing with the woman from their group, and a handful of others had joined in. We had gone from a quiet, relaxing night to a small but lively party in just a few minutes.

I switched us to a carole, and almost immediately a circle formed, everyone interlocking arms. This was more relaxed and a bit easier, but ten minutes in, I brought it to a close because I needed a break. There were hoots and applause as I sat down and took a long drink of water.

“Thanks for that. Most fun we’ve had in over a week,” I heard someone say off to my left. I turned to look in time to see one of the men from that group settling next to me. “Traveling through this country is like an extended wake.”

I didn’t know what I was expecting him to say, but it wasn’t that. It caught me off guard.

“I spent three days in Saringallow,” I said, “I’m fairly sure that’s what passes for entertainment there.” 

He chuckled politely in response. “I’m Pates. My friends here are Agelus and Paulana.” They both settled next to him and extended their arms in greeting.

“I’m Aemi.”

This was not what I needed. But. I could feel Iskaryn pushing on me, and I knew why. I needed to get over this…whatever it was. I wasn’t ready to answer questions, though, so I employed the age-old strategy of asking them about themselves first.

“What takes you to Elidir, Pates?”

“They’re renewing a push for a passage north and put out a call. We’re answering.”

Demand for Isgeri exports has always been high in Molthune, and the safest routes between the two all pass through Druma, which ruthlessly exploits this advantage. Lately, Druma has been raising tariffs on goods coming from Isger, and Cheliax started paying attention. With their influence waning elsewhere, they’re making another push to invest in Isger. Opening a passage north and kicking Druma from the table would be something of a two-fer.

This is basic Druma. They teach us this stuff practically before we learn to read. And, for the next half hour, it gave us something to talk about that wasn’t me.

Then the grace period expired. “So how about you? What has you going to Elidir?” Pates asked.

“It’s just a stopover,” I said. “I’m headed to Breachill.”

“And what’s waiting for you in Breachill?” Paulana asked.

I went with a version of the truth. “A better life than I can make for myself in Saringallow, for sure. Breachill was…recommended to me by someone I trust. I don’t know what I’ll find there, exactly, but it can’t be worse than where I was.”

“And where was that?”

“Rock bottom and digging.”

They could tell I didn’t want to go into it, which I appreciated. We made some small talk for a bit, then I politely excused myself to turn in for the night.

Honestly, they are decent enough people. This anger, or resentment, or whatever it is I am feeling towards them is obviously not earned, and it’s certainly not fair. But it’s not so easy to just turn off, either. Still, I can’t go the rest of my life avoiding people for the crime of being friends, so I’m going to make the effort to spend time with them tomorrow.

I don’t have to enjoy it. I just have to try.

Conerica Straits

afternoon

It’s been ten months since I last traveled this stretch of road to Elidir. With every mile I walk, there’s a tightening in my chest and a growing sense of unease that I can’t seem to shake.

The last time I was here, I was not alone.

There’s a group of three travelers with us, two human men and a woman, who have clearly been companions for a long time. They move together, speak across one another, and laugh too loudly at things that cannot possibly be that funny. It grated on me all morning.

I tried to put some distance between us, but their voices carried in a way that others’ didn’t. I moved ahead, fell back, and even kept to the far side of the wagons to block the sound. It made no difference. Even now, as we’ve stopped for a short lunch, I can hear them. Do they not even stop talking to eat?

I get fragments of their conversation whether I want them or not (and I do not). They are adventurers or expeditioners of some sort, apparently seeking a passage north through the Menador Mountains to Molthune.

And now that I’ve written that down, I think I understand why they have been getting under my skin. I keep seeing the Minstrels in them, and I resent it. I resent that they still have each other.

Iskaryn hasn’t been much help. Sometimes she’s a mirror; others, she’s a window. Right now, she’s neither, which makes this one of those rare moments when she doesn’t have an opinion to share–or impose on me.

Which is, I suppose, an opinion of its own. One that suggests that I just need to deal with this, and her involvement would only complicate it

Conerica Straits

afternoon

The caravan to Elidir assembled along Saringallow’s riverfront, which is close to the warehouse district. This presented problems for repeating my “offer Iskaryn as a scout” strategy, as that required calling her back to me; essentially doing the exact opposite of what I had been warned about. I was fretting about this all morning.

As it turned out, I needn’t have worried. There’s a large temple to Erastil here, and thus no shortage of wardens, scouts, trackers, and guides, many with animal companions. This caravan had two already, and Iskaryn’s services would not be needed.

The money I earned with Nish is going up in smoke. Three nights of nothing but expenses, followed by this.

But I wasn’t done. After all, if I am going to bleed coins, I might as well do it properly.

I realized I’d been taking my own safety for granted, especially given the stories about Isger—those walls in Saringallow exist for a reason. Yes, the Conerica River and its northern branch are patrolled, but they can’t be everywhere at once. All the merchants in this caravan (and the last one) wore some form of protection, and most of the travelers did as well.

And there was the same problem I had on the first day out of Petitioner’s Port: the look that says “she needs protecting” and the offers that follow.

Fuck that.

Nish put a stop to it last time just through proximity, but I needed to solve it for good on my own. So I purchased some simple leather armor.

Iskaryn was pissed off about it. One, I bought it without her there because we were in Saringallow, and two, because it cost me much of what I have left. Which suggests she would have tried to bully me out of it.

We must have been overdue for a row because we had a proper one when the caravan stopped for lunch. Thankfully, we both had the presence of mind to do it away from the group, so all I got was a bunch of concerned looks instead of hostile glares.

“You’ll need that money when we get to Breachill,” she said.

I countered, “It’ll do me no good if I’m dead.”

“You have me to watch for trouble and warn you!”

“You can’t deflect arrows and blades!”

“You don’t know how long it will take to find them! What if you run out?”

“Says the bird who forced me to buy that fucking journal!”

We attracted the attention of one of the hawks, a companion to one of our trackers, and it landed on the ground and glared at us. And, yes, I know what it looks like when a bird glares, because I have experience.

Regardless, I wasn’t in the mood for a nanny–already got one in the form of her nibs–or a social critic. “We’re fine!” I yelled at it. “She’s just being an ass!”

It looked at me, then at Iskaryn, who screeched at it indignantly. Then it flew off. I have no idea if it understood me or not, but the message was apparently received.

We’ve both cooled a bit, though I can feel the occasional flare of disapproval from her direction. If she had hands, she’d be wringing them. Or throwing them up. Possibly both.

She isn’t wrong about the money.

I’m not wrong about the armor.

And that’s the problem.

Saringallow

Evening

Nish left today. She’s going by boat because the roads west of here aren’t the safest way to travel, so we said our goodbyes on the docks at the riverfront.

“I’m not very good at this,” she said to me. “Saying good-bye, I mean. You’d think I would be by now.”

“Me neither,” I said. “I never know what to say. And I’m best at just avoiding it altogether.”

We embraced for a long time, then pulled away, both our eyes wet with tears.

“Look. I don’t know what happened behind you. But I know the difference between moving toward something and running away. Keep moving toward it, all right?”

I could only nod, fast and tight, then gave her another hug.

She pulled away first and boarded without another word.

Through the bond, I felt Iskaryn’s steady presence from somewhere above the rooftops. Not pushing. Not correcting. Just there.

I stayed and watched until the boat pushed off and slipped into the river’s current.

Saringallow

evening

Thilo was right about this city. Everywhere I go, it’s cold shoulders and narrowed eyes. Service delivered like an obligation, not a welcome. When I paid for my room, the innkeeper looked at me like I had no right to be here. What’s the point of running an inn if you resent the people who keep it standing?

Any fantasies I had about finding an inn or tavern to perform have been quietly strangled. No one wants an outsider. I don’t get it. I look around, and trade is everywhere–there are boats along the river, markets and shops with goods from beyond Isger, and of course our own caravan which brought cargo in addition to travelers. I must have missed the sign that says, “We want your money. We just don’t want you.”

But, Nine Hells, it’s more than even that. These people barely seem to want each other. I overheard two elderly men in the common room, and one of them actually said, “True friends aren’t too friendly”. Apparently, that’s an aphorism around here. They’re suspicious of their own neighbors.

There’s more cheer at the town gallows. Magdh, there are two of them.

And I get to spend three more nights here before the next travelers leave for Elidir.

Iskaryn is faring better than I am. The walls around us are high, but they enclose stretches of the farmland that surround the city–and its spite. There’s also a shabby orchard in the city’s center, the trees overgrown and gnarled from neglect.

From what I feel through the bond, she prefers the orchard and perches there during the day. As long as she minds Thilo’s warning, she can pass for nothing more than a particularly self-possessed bird.

She can feel me, too. When a stare lingers too long, or someone’s tone sharpens, I can feel her tense up. There’s this restrained indignation at the edge of my thoughts. She wants to intervene. I know how badly she does.

But she’s keeping herself in check.

Conerica River

morning

Thilo came to talk to me just now, before the caravan started moving this morning.

“There’s a couple things you should know about Saringallow,” he said in Sylvan. “It concerns the bird.”

The original name of the town, he explained, was Sarini’s Hollow, named after House Sarini of Cheliax, which established a small estate there. The town grew around the estate, as towns do when there’s a steady supply of work and money. Then the Sarini’s started dabbling in witchcraft, and because Cheliax is Cheliax, they turned their craft inward. Then they preyed on their own town to feed it.

When the townsfolk caught on, there was a huge uprising, and all the Sarinis were hanged. “Sarini’s Hollow” became “Sarini Gallows”, and in time it was shortened to the cheery name we know and love today.

“And what’s this got to do with me? Or Iskaryn?” I asked. I mean, it was everything I hated about Isger all in one tidy, horrible package, but so what? Lots of places had dark histories.

“It’s an insular place. They aren’t real warm to travelers, see. You’ll be welcome as long as you are spending your money, but not a moment longer. And, because of their history, unless you’re a priest of a respectable faith, open displays of magic don’t sit well with them.” He hesitated. “And that’s, uh, where the bird comes in.” His tone went dour there. He didn’t say, especially with her attitude, but he didn’t have to. The message was received. Iskaryn literally ruffled her feathers at that, but said nothing.

So that’s just great.

Iskaryn has been a lot of things. She has been my conscience, my shield, and my anchor. She’s stopped me from falling into old habits. She’s pushed, if sometimes dragged me forward, when I just couldn’t summon the will. And Magdh knows she’s been stubborn, irreverent, and infuriating.

But she has never been a liability.

He must have seen something in my face, as he softened his normally gruff manner. “You don’t have to do anything drastic. Just keep it subtle.” He gave Iskaryn a pointed look. “And act like a bird.”

To me, he said, “I’m telling you this because she’s done well by us. By me. She’s spotted trouble a couple of times, and because she can talk, we dealt with it before getting close. So I’m returning the favor.”

“Thanks, Thilo. I appreciate the warning. We’ll figure it out, I guess.”

I hope that is true.

Conerica River

night

Nish and I have been performing together these past four days. Mostly it’s been for the other travelers in the evenings, but we’ve also played a couple of taverns when the caravan stopped in towns along the way to take on more lading. I am a little stunned by how much money we’ve pulled in doing this, though I am pretty sure that most of that is on her. Still, I am not going to complain. She is letting me keep half of the takings, which is ridiculously generous and most appreciated.

I thought about asking her why she’s being so kind to me, but I’m pretty sure I know the answer. Iskaryn is confident that we won’t be living off handouts for much longer, but right now? I just don’t see an end to it.

Thilo has finally warmed up to me. Much of that is due to Iskaryn, who seems to have successfully smoothed things over with him (which is only fitting, since that was a mess she made). She takes her scouting role seriously and has even offered to get her direction straight from him instead of going through me. But I also can’t completely ignore that I’ve been spending quite a bit of time with Nish, and Nish is, as I said, quite stunning. I mean, I am not inclined in that direction myself, but Maghd, I am not blind; I can’t help but look. Thilo sure isn’t blind to her, either.

I had the idea to start learning more about where we’re headed, so I started inquiring about Breachill in the towns we’ve been passing through (I considered asking my fellow travelers, too, but Iskaryn seemed to think that was a bad idea, as it would invite questions that I am not comfortable answering and unable to escape).

I spoke to just over a half-dozen people, and just about every response started with: “It’s weird.”

If you don’t think that “it’s weird” provides sufficient detail about my destination, then you would be correct. So I pressed for details, and this is the picture that emerged: Sometime around 200 years ago, a bunch of pioneers settled in northeast Isger, in the foothills of the Five Kings Mountains, where they border Druma. Shortly afterwards, some insert-unexplained-phenomenon-here occurred, and they all lost not only their memories, but their ability to survive.

There was a lot of disagreement on what, exactly, is meant by “ability to survive”. Did they lose their resources, their life skills, or both? I never got a consistent answer, but one thing all the stories agreed on was that they surely would have died over the winter if not for the intervention of an altruistic, powerful, and apparently quite unencumbered wizard, whose surname was Breachton. He saved their lives and helped them build their future, hence the name of the town.

That all sounds pretty fantastical to me, especially the part about anyone associated with Isger being described as “altruistic”. But then again, I am traveling the road with a custodial, talking bird, which I summoned deep in a fey forest, sometime between nearly being killed along with the rest of my friends by a fey horror, and being visited by three towering figures of fate in the service of Magdh, who handed me a Harrow card with my own image on it. So who am I to judge what’s real?

One other point all the stories agree on is that Breachill, as a community, is fairly open and welcoming, in the way most settlements in Isger want to be, but can’t quite achieve because of the influence of old Cheliax or the scars from the goblin wars. It formed and grew somewhat disconnected from the country around it, and that has stuck. I can’t help but be reminded of Macridi, and while there is certainly some amount of wishful thinking on my part there, it does make me feel more at ease about where I am headed.

I pulled my Harrow card out after I was sure Nish was asleep, or at least pretending to be. I’ve seen these cards for sale here and there, almost always from fortune-tellers that are heavy on spectacle and light on substance. I haven’t been brave enough (or foolish enough, if I take Iskaryn’s opinion) to show mine to any of them. But I met a man in town today, a seer who, for whatever reason, felt earnest somehow. I asked him what the card meant.

He said it speaks to loss. Palpable loss, not the abstract kind. The ghostly figure—more pronounced in his deck than in the card I carry—represents those who are gone but never leave us. He was quick to point out that it doesn’t have to mean death: people fall out of our lives in different ways. Regardless, they leave lessons behind, and it is up to us whether we listen.

And, as with most Harrow cards, there is also the predictive meaning: a revelation or discovery from something ancient or distant. But he put less stock in that, saying a reading usually describes who you are, and the predictive is but one possible future. That, and the cards aren’t read in isolation, anyway; the tapestry is considered as a whole.

I don’t know how to square it. I wasn’t given a whole reading, just the single card I’m carrying. So maybe it isn’t about fate. Maybe it’s just a reflection of the decisions that brought me here. Maybe I’ll be faced with a choice in Breachill, and the card is reminding me that we make our decisions through the lens of our experiences.

Or perhaps Breachill is just where the next phase of my life begins, and it’s saying, where I take it is up to me.

When I look at this card, am I seeing my past, my future…or just myself?

Conerica River

night

We took on some new travelers in Dustspawn, including this stunningly beautiful half-elven woman named Nishlaldara, but who goes by “Nish” because, as she put it, “it was easier for people to pronounce, and less work for me to spell”. I liked her instantly.

She had a cittern strapped across her back, which is what first caught my eye, and we settled down together when the caravan stopped for a lunch break. We wanted to learn each other’s styles and find some common pieces, with the hope of maybe providing some musical entertainment in the evenings. It’s the sort of thing the travelers appreciate, as there’s not much to do along the way besides walk, talk, eat, and, um, relieve oneself.

I’ll get this out of the way: she is far more talented than I am. But, she’s also got about two decades on me, so that came as no surprise.

We made camp together tonight, and were talking instruments when I got sloppy and said, “I always wanted to learn strings, but we could only focus on two families at the Conservatory. In hindsight, vocal and wind were maybe a bad pairing, since you can’t do both at the same time.”

I could feel the next question coming before she asked it. “So you’re performance trained. Where did you study?”

Yeah, I had stepped in it. Even Iskaryn tensed up at that, but there was no way out except forward. “In Kerse.”

“And what’s a formally trained student of a prodigious institution in the Kalistocracy doing walking the roads of Isger?”

The old me, the one Iskaryn was here to keep away, would have spun a story much like the one I had invented for myself in Macridi. But I was trying this thing where I didn’t blatantly lie to people who maybe mattered to me, so instead I went with a vague summary of the truth.

“I’ve made some…bad decisions in my life. I’m trying to make a better one.” For what it’s worth, she seemed to accept that. And she wasn’t even offended when I followed up with, “And what has a talented performer like yourself walking that same road?”

“I was bored with where I was, and needed a change,” was the reply, which was an even more vague non-answer than mine, but probably a fair exchange. We both knew it and left it at that. I mean, we just met, and I wasn’t going to tell her how I’d burned down my life, built a new one, burned that one down, and then set fire to the ashes. We had an unspoken agreement not to push for more, and that was fine.

“Your bird is beautiful, by the way.”

Iskaryn was sitting on my shoulder, occasionally flexing her wings. Her blue was dulled a bit by the orange cast of the firelight, but Nish had seen her properly in the day.

“If you speak Sylvan, you can tell her that yourself. Though she might object to being called ‘my bird’. It’s…a bit more complicated than that. Iskaryn’s not even a bird, exactly.”

“I don’t speak Sylvan,” Nish said, as she pulled out a small clay figure I couldn’t quite see, then cast a spell. “But I can now. For a while, at least.” Which was, admittedly, a neat trick.

“Hold out your arm,” I said in Sylvan, testing Nish’s borrowed language. When she did, Iskaryn flew over to her and settled on it.

I had guessed that Nish was a bard, and I was right. She had me figured out as one, too. While she was admiring Iskaryn up close, she said, “I didn’t even know we could form these bonds.”

“I didn’t either, to be honest. I wish I could explain it. I was…in a bad way, then. So I think it was born out of need more than anything else.”

“And has she helped you…out of that way?”

“I’m not lying my ass off to you now, or running away, either, so yeah. She has. And still is.”

That got a laugh from her, but there was also a hint of sadness beneath it, too.

It wasn’t how I wanted to end the evening, though, or how I wanted her to see me. I liked Nish. What she thought of me mattered. So I said, “Iskaryn and I are learning to play together. Or rather, I play my flute, and she accompanies with a birdsong. It’s still a little rough, but we are figuring it out.”

“Oh, that, I have got to hear! Would you be willing to play for me?”

I smiled and pulled out my flute. I selected something simple, something we had practiced a lot in the days after Alabastrine. Iskaryn surprised me, though, as she tends to do when she is showing off, by improvising a new harmony. Not that I minded. It was far from polished, and we lost the tempo at one point and more than a few notes, but Nish didn’t care. She was thrilled.

“Oh my!” she breathed. “That may be one of the most astonishing things I’ve heard. And I have heard a great deal.”

I blushed, but I didn’t retreat into it. “Thank you. We still need some practice, but as I said, we are working it out.”

I’m going to miss her when we part ways. When we reach Saringallow, Nish will head west towards Ravounel, while I’ll go north to Elidir. But that’s okay, I think. Maybe some friendships are temporary, and aren’t meant to last longer than the time we share on the road.

The important thing is that I know I can do this again, and that’s enough.

Dustspawn

night

We’re in Dustspawn for the next couple of days while the caravan takes on lading.

You can’t just walk up to one of these things and tag along like a lost puppy. You pay a fee to be under their protection, which covers the cost of shared guards and scouts, and the safety of numbers in general. There are entire fee schedules—Druma loves its fee schedules—for the things, ranging from how you’re traveling to what you want along the way. Traveling on foot? That’s your base per-person fee. Riding an animal? Takes up more space, spreads out the caravan, and they smell, so there’s a per-animal fee. Pulling a wagon? Harder to defend, and they sometimes break, so there’s a base wagon fee and a per-axle fee. And so on.

You can even get amenities. Don’t want to bring your own food? Your meals can be provided for a fee. Don’t have a tent but want one? There’s a tent rental fee. Don’t feel like walking? There are a limited number of coach spaces. For a fee. You get the idea.

There’s another way to join up, too, and that’s to make yourself an asset instead of a liability. Which meant it was time to put Iskaryn to work.

For all the shit she gives me, when it comes time to rely on her for something serious, she really does pull through. I made a proposal, and she agreed without hesitation (and without an attitude).

“She can serve as an aerial scout,” I offered to the caravan-master. “She can talk, read, and even write, in Sylvan.”

He was skeptical. And I get it. I don’t blame him. Familiars, animal companions, and the like aren’t rare, but ones that can talk are. Literate ones? Even more so.

“Sylvan. How, exactly, does that help me?” he asked,

“I speak Sylvan. And this is Druma. Surely, some of the escorts for this thing do, too.” There’s a subtle art to chastising someone without being overtly insulting. I adopted a concerned tone. “Please tell me you don’t travel through the Palakar Forest without someone who speaks the language?”

He relented, though not before asking Iskaryn and me to prove our claim. We sent her off on a couple of simple scouting tests, and he pulled in a dwarven guard named Thilo, who also spoke Sylvan, to act as a translator. He verified everything, and then it was done.

And because Iskaryn is Iskaryn, after the contract was signed, she wrote “Thanks, asshole” in the dirt.

Thilo, to his credit, only paraphrased. But he did chide me quietly, afterwards. When I apologized, he said, “Just keep the bird in line,” and walked away.

So, thanks for that, Iskaryn. Now I get to be extra polite to Thilo for the rest of the journey.

Being a woman (and one who, even in my current state, draws the eye) with a magical bird traveling the road alone tends to attract attention. Most of that attention is either the wrong sort or the sort I am not currently interested in. Case in point. We’re at this inn called The Mineshaft—Dustspawn is an old mining town, so the decor is a whole thing—and I’m writing this all up. A man I did not want to get to know better came up to me just now and asked, “What are you writing in there?”

“I am just keeping a travelogue,” I said, because I try not to be rude to people (even when they deserve it, which, so far, they did not). Also, I need to travel with these folks for the next week, and it’s best not to make any of them mad at me.

“That’s not a language I recognize,” he said, which was deserving, and is precisely why I write this in Sylvan instead of the common tongue. I wanted to say, “That’s so assholes can’t read it over my shoulder,” but, again, trying not to be rude. So I went with, “Oh.”

The best way to end a conversation you don’t want to have is to smother it in the cradle. It’s hard to respond to “Oh” because there’s nothing to work with. After a few awkward moments of him just looking at me, waiting for me to go on, he gave up and left.

A triumph for the power of “Oh.”

Petitioner’s Port

evening

I walked alone to Petitioner’s Port. 

Iskaryn objects to my use of the word “alone”, since she was, of course, with me the whole time, but she knows full well what I mean by “I walked alone” and if you want me to do this, Iskaryn, please stop being so pedantic.

I could have waited for other travelers and followed along, or maybe even joined a small traveling group, or waited for a caravan, but honestly? I didn’t want the company, and I really didn’t want to spend another night in Albastrine waiting for company, since that also meant spending more money, and more money is something we just do not have.

See? I said “we” there, Iskaryn. Are you happy now?

Petitioner’s Port is quieter than you’d expect for what was meant to be Druma’s grand southern gateway. The Kalistocracy imagined lines of hopeful petitioners streaming north—hence the name—but the place feels far more practical. Even the road from Isger is called The Path of Commencement, which tells you everything about how the Kalistocracy sees the world. It isn’t the road to Isger: it’s the road from it. As if the only direction that matters is inward.

The town itself never bought into that way of thinking. It grew on its own terms, around work and trade and whatever made sense at the time. It reminds me of Macridi in that way. Half the buildings are redwood, likely cut from the same forests I once walked through. If I’m going to leave Druma, at least I’m doing it from somewhere that feels real.

It occurred to me, because I can see the obvious, that I could just buy passage on a boat from here and be back in Macridi in a couple of days. We could even travel all the way back to Kerse. I said this out loud to Iskaryn, and she screeched so loudly that she stopped traffic on the street. I am not kidding: everyone turned to look at us. Well, the joke was on her, because I just wanted to see what kind of reaction I would get, and she did not disappoint.

Childish of me? Yes. But I’m not pretending that I didn’t enjoy it, and that’s why you shouldn’t read over my shoulder while I am writing in my diary, Iskaryn.

There is no way in the Nine Hells I am walking alone through Isger, so this time, I am waiting for a foot caravan. One is organizing now, and will leave for Saringallow in a couple of days. For once, Iskaryn and I are in agreement: this is not the time to spend my days alone, especially alone and brooding to myself, because it’s just not safe. And while I can’t just get over it, I can learn to live with it, and that is really the first step. So, forced company, it is.

The caravan will stop in Dustspawn, which is a day out of the way in addition to a short layover, and Iskaryn isn’t happy about that (how she knows so much geography is anyone’s guess). I pointed out that we didn’t have much of a choice, and she, grudgingly, agreed. The only reason I am writing down this otherwise unimportant detail is to record that I won that one, even if she only grudgingly admitted it.

There are a couple of decent taverns here, but for whatever reason, I’m not finding my footing in them. The travellers here are more focused on where they are going, or why they are going there, or whatever, and music isn’t really on their minds. I am used to having to perform above the din of a dining hall, but nothing like this. I hope the rest of the trip doesn’t go this way, because we absolutely cannot afford to spend more than we are bringing in.

Iskaryn and I are in agreement on that point, as well.

Alabastrine

late night

I needn’t have worried. This is the first inn I’ve stayed at in months, and when I looked in a proper mirror, I was shocked by my reflection. I’m so gaunt that I barely recognize myself, and I doubt someone who saw me for a couple of days eight months ago would do so, either. While Davio taught me a handful of spells that were useful for a life spent mostly on the road–including one that kept me clean enough to neither look nor smell like the vagrant I’ve become–none of them provided food. This is what weeks of near-starvation look like.

The point was driven home when I sat down for a late lunch in the common room. The server put a large bowl of stew in front of me and said, “This one is on the house.” I didn’t ask. I knew why.

“I can perform tonight, if you like,” I said to her. The inn was nothing special, but I couldn’t afford better. Truthfully, I couldn’t afford “nothing special”, either, but I had to stay somewhere, and the cheap ones aren’t great for live music. Some aren’t even safe to sleep in. If they’d have me, I could make this one work.

She gave me a skeptical look–I would have done the same in her position–and she told me I’d need to speak to their manager first. Fair enough. It was just another audition, and I’ve had plenty of those.

I’d set aside some of the money for a flute, and finding a simple wooden one in the city markets was easy enough. It was a far cry from what I had been playing the past couple of years, but it would do. A couple of hours later, I was performing for the evening crowd.

As absurd as it sounds, playing taverns and inns along the way is my plan for reaching Breachill without starving. The math barely works. Most nights I’d just break even, but if a few go as well as tonight, I’ll come out ahead. If not… well, I am trying not to think about “if not”.

I’m also trying not to think about Isger. We didn’t spend more than a few weeks there, but that was long enough to make me dread going back. To put it bluntly, I don’t feel safe there.

Traveling the roads in Druma carries little risk. For all that people complain about the Mercenary League being cozy with the Kalistocracy, they do a good job of keeping the trade routes free of trouble. I have walked countless miles both in small groups or completely alone, and I rarely felt threatened. Isger is another matter entirely. I’ll have Iskaryn to watch out for me, sure, but I am better off not traveling by myself.

But that’s a problem for another day.

Western Druma

evening

I don’t even know what I’m supposed to put in this thing, so I asked Iskaryn, since this was her idea, and she answered, “The truth,” whatever that is supposed to mean. As that was not a helpful response, I followed it up with, “The truth about what?” and she gave me this funny look–and yes, I know she’s a bird, don’t ask me how I know it’s a funny look, I just know–and she said, “About how you feel. About your experiences.”

Except she knows I don’t want to talk about any of those things–I just want to forget most of it–so I said as much, and she just pointed out that this is how I got here. I didn’t have a response to that. Then it hit me: I was being lectured about the healing power of journaling by a magical bird that can’t even read or write.

And I must have said that out loud because she retorted, “I can do both,” and I just stared at her blankly, because what do you say to that? Which she took as a challenge, and proceeded to demonstrate it to me, promptly scratching out the Sylvan equivalent of “See? I told you so” in the dirt. Which is when I realized there was no escaping this trap she has set for me. And, yes, Iskaryn, I know you are reading over my shoulder as I’m writing this, and please stop it.

She objects to me characterizing it as a trap, and insists that this journal, or diary, or whatever I want to call it, was merely a suggestion.

Here’s what she means by “suggestion”: We’re at this trading post where the river–yes, that river–joins the Profit’s Flow, and I’m trying to buy food and water so I don’t starve over the next few days, and because I need a change from living hand to mouth in the wild. She lands on this book with an oil-skinned cover and starts shrieking at me. I try to shoo her away, and she comes back to it and does it again. This repeats a couple more times, and the shopkeeper, who apparently sees birds do this every day because he doesn’t even flinch, says, “I think they want you to buy that.”

Which, of course they would say that, because it’s expensive and they’d love nothing more than for me to give them money. And I’m looking at how many coins I have and realizing, sure, I could get this and a reed pen, or I could maybe eat for three weeks instead, and I try to explain this to Iskaryn–let’s not even go into what that must have looked like, me standing there, arguing with a bird who’s just shrieking back at me because, I don’t know, actually talking would draw too much attention somehow–and she is not having any of it.

I must look like I’m on the verge of a complete breakdown or something, because the shopkeeper takes pity on me–or maybe he just wants us to leave–and offers me a discounted price on it. And all I really want is for Iskaryn to just stop, so I agree to it, and now I’m going to run out of everything by the time I hit Petitioner’s Port. But at least I’ll be able to document it when it happens.

So, yeah. “Suggestion”.

I am supposed to record “the truth”? Okay, fine. Here’s some truth.

It hurts. It’s been almost four weeks and it hurts. Some days it feels like it just happened. Others, it feels like a lifetime ago. But that ache is always there. They’re gone, and there’s this enormous hole inside of me, and I don’t even know how to begin to fill it. And. It. Hurts.

It took me four days just to get out of the forest–four long days of one step ahead of the other, with Iskaryn flitting between branches above me. Then another day, along the road to here, slipping back into the trees whenever Iskaryn spotted someone approaching, because…I don’t know why. I just wasn’t ready to be seen yet. Or maybe I wasn’t prepared to see others. The walking helped, though. It kept me from replaying events. From wallowing in sorrow. It gave me something to do.

It would be so easy to just…give up. Go to Macridi–it’s not even half a day’s walk from here–and step back into that life. I could do it. It’s so tempting to do it. Only, I’m not that person anymore. She never even existed. She was just someone I made up, a role I could play based on half-truths because it didn’t require any difficult choices. So even though I could go back there, I just can’t. Someday, maybe, but not now.

This trading post has a shelter with small rooms that they let out to travelers. The norns didn’t deign to supply me with a schedule, but the way I figure it, they can see the strings of fate, right? So they’ve already seen all this, which means my time spent here is baked in. I’m just going to assume that however long it takes me to get to Breachill is how much time I have, and not fret over a couple of nights in a real bed for the first time in months. It is far from luxury–far from even a rundown inn–but it’s a bed nonetheless, and I’ll take it.

I’ll worry about the rest of it–how I’m going to get there and, more crucially, whether I’ll be recognized in Alabastrine–in the morning.