[Interludes #2] Day One
The next morning Del arrived at Maleko's home shortly before sunrise. It was a small, but exquisite house in the wealthier section of town. Maleko opened the door even before Del could dismount. "I should have known you would bring your own steed. Father can pick up Mister Billy when he stops by to pick up my pets this morning," Maleko said, referring to the horse he had intended to bring along for Del. "Please come in."
Del followed Maleko into one of the most elegant homes he had seen. His boots echoed off the polished floors. Artifacts of obvious value were tastefully displayed. The prosperity of the Maltalia family was apparent in every aspect of the place. "Can I get you anything?" Maleko asked, reflexively. Del declined and Maleko continued with schoolboy enthusiasm, "I have trail rations, my sleeping bag, and a tent. I have connections in most of the major cities and towns in Elcaden. My family name carries weight in some circles." There was not the slightest hint of a boast in the tone; Maleko was merely stating the truth. As he spoke, he fingered a beautifully decorated long sword that hung at his waist.
"I did not want to carry this since I know I will never use it," he admitted, "but father said if people see it, they are more likely to leave you alone. Image is everything, he always says."
Del suddenly became acutely aware of his own image reflected in one of the mammoth gold-gilded mirrors that hung on the wall. He almost didn't recognize the man looking back at him - errant strands of brown hair already escaping the tie at the base of his neck, several days growth of beard shadowing his face, weather-worn travel clothes…all that was the same. However, without his janissary insignia, he seemed a stranger to himself.
As Maleko continued to point out his preparations, a gnawing concern began to grow in the back of Del's mind. It appeared his companion had no experience traveling or camping except at the finest of inns. Maleko, being perceptive, addressed that fact immediately. "I can take care of myself and even you, if needed, by other means. I'll admit that I do enjoy the finer things in life, but can 'rough' it if I must." He smiled disarmingly, "I just prefer not to."
"I'm not worried." Dell insisted, although in the back of his mind, he was.
His concerns, however, did not last long. And as Del relaxed that evening in the soft bed of the Frog Hair Tavern he began to think that for years, perhaps, he had been going about it all wrong. Certainly this was preferable to the discomfort of a hard dirt floor. A flame crackled in the firepit, the scent of seasoned meat still hung in the air from dinner, and the ale had formed a warm feeling in the pit of his stomach. It would be easy to grow accustomed to such luxury, he decided, if that was the path you found yourself upon.
As his thoughts turned to Ledare, as they often did in the last waking moments of the day, Del wondered exactly what kind of path he was now on.
Elsewhere...
"You know those texts by rote, my boy," Justiciar Galmache said from behind him. "And the answers you seek do not lie in The Writ of Umba."
"I never thought that I would hear you say those words, Justiciar," Ayremac answered without turning. "How many times did you send me to the The Writ during my training?"
"As many times as was necessary for you to understand the words of the Soul Judge well enough to act as Her agent in the world," Galmache told him and eased up to the holy warrior's side. He splayed a hand out over the text of the illuminated manuscript and continued, "But that time is years passed. Any clarity The Writ holds for you is already in your heart. Your answers are not here." Ayremac sighed.
"Then where are they, Justiciar?" Ayremac asked, turning his emerald eyes to the cleric. There was confusion in the holy warrior's face and no small measure of grief there as well. Galmache smiled at him.
"In the one place you've been avoiding these last few weeks, Ayremac," the man explained, placing a hand on the Officer's arm. "Out in the world."
The holy warrior sagged as if a great, invisible hand were pressing on his shoulders.
"I- I don't think I can," Ayremac said, his voice barely a whisper. "Everything I thought I was fighting for-"
"Is still out there," the Justiciar assured him. "You were called as an Officer of Umba. You are Her sword in the world. You are meant to bring Her justice to the people, not wither away in the dark beneath a mountain of dusty tomes."
"My allies are gone," Ayremac argued. "I am but one man." Galmache patted the holy warrior's cheek.
"Even a single candle may banish the darkness, my boy. You know that!" the cleric smiled. "And anyway, you have an ally. Ixin is eager to re-enter the fight." Ayremac looked surprised.
"Ixin?" he asked. "Surely she isn't well enough to-"
"You underestimate her resilience, I think," the priest answered. "Twice now she has returned from the Walk of 100 Days. It has made her strong in unexpected ways. She has taken to the secrets of The Writ and is anxious to return to the field. To be sure, her training is not complete, but I can think of no better teacher than the one who released her from her imprisonment." The Officer smiled weakly.
"You overstate my involvement in that. All I did was bring in the sword," he said. "And I don't know if I'm ready to take on a student. Even Ixin." The priest nodded.
"All I ask is that you think about it," Justiciar Galmache answered. "Think about it and I will pray to Umba for guidance."