Tales from the Goddess War Ch. 03: Witness

Beware of the pitfalls of character development in minor stories! This was supposed to be a simple stroke story but now that we're at installment number four, I can see that I've failed. Nothing for it now but to sit back and enjoy the view as the journey unfolds

The morning after Twyla had surprised Bemere, the mage was even shyer than usual. Bemere hadn't had the patience to try drawing her out, so she, in fairly blunt terms, described what was going on with her body. Twyla, predictably, had blushed furiously, until her boundless curiosity had gotten the better of her. Bemere answered her questions about fae physiology as they rode down the slope, occasionally asking questions of her own. Bemere wasn't at all surprised to learn that Twyla hadn't ever dallied with a lover. What did surprise her was the maestra's ignorance of all but the most basic facts about her own body.

"You've never touched yourself intimately?" the elf asked, shocked.

The mage looked away, already turning red. "The college requires that we devote all of our energy to the contemplation of the mathmagick. It's common knowledge that the upper maestiri have lovers, of course, but they are from wealthy families. I am a no one and the Pale College is my only kin. I know all to well that it neither loving nor forgiving. Were I to get pregnant from some dalliance, I'd be forced to abandon another child, my child, to their rough care. I would rather die than do that. As for the self-love, I'm quite aware of it. It is easier that I keep it an unknown pleasure, rather than a nagging temptation."

"That's an impressive show of determination. Now I see why you've taken to the kyickmur so easily."

Twyla flushed again, this time with pride. "I've always been a good student at least. I was curious, why are these called the counties? There's no one here."

Bemere pretended not to notice the change of subject. "Already this morning, we've crossed the territory of five different counts. Back when the high king ruled the clans, this land was divvied up and titles given to the high king's children, or as rewards in court. Since the land was mostly empty, it was just a formality. There are twenty-three different counties here, and for whatever reason, the titles have been carefully handed down, and have outlasted the high kings that created them. Now it's tradition and no one would dream of changing it."

As they headed down the slope, trees began to appear, and then larger woodlands. Twyla couldn't help herself from asking Bemere more questions as they rode that afternoon. The first questions were fairly typical, about fae kinship and their long lives. Bemere began to actually enjoy answering the mage, curious at the reflection of herself, and the fae, in the young woman's questions. She had always been curious how they were viewed by these people with their all too short lives.

"Who would you say are the most intelligent beings across the Allworld?"

"I can only answer for the lands I've seen or read about," Bemere said. "Even with our long lives and wanderlust, the Plenilune have only visited a fraction of the Allworld. How should we reckon intelligence? Each race has their own gifts."

"Hmm. Let's start with the arcane."

"What you would call mathmagicka? The Stonekin, of course."

Twyla stared at her. "Trolls?"

Bemere laughed. "You seem surprised?"

"I've only seen a troll once, but it behaved like all of the descriptions I've read, the movements slow and lumpen, without fine coordination. They speak slowly, and poorly, if they can speak at all. They are recounted as ignorant of the world around them, without any interest in what's going on around them."

"Where did you see a Stonekin?" Bemere asked. "I've never heard of them frequenting Osh Caernon."

Twyla smiled at the memory. "Someone had built a storehouse where it was sitting. They didn't realize that the rock in their way was a troll, so it was included in the building foundation. There was quite a panic when it stood up one day. It began to walk away, but the pace was so slow that Master Johann and I were able to walk out to see it for ourselves. That was two full days after it had woken up, but it had only staggered a couple of leagues."

"I saw Stonekin move quickly once," Bemere said. "It is terrifying. Their story is veiled in mystery, and not even the wisest of the fae comprehend them. Yes, their movement seems strange to us, but I've read that what our eyes see is only a fraction of their full existence. I've never understood what that means but maybe that is why they are content to remain still for so long. I'm curious, were you taught where the arts of mathmagicka originated?"

The maestra shrugged. "Not really. It's assumed to be a natural ability gifted to some."

"That's mostly true, except it's not natural for us. The spells the geomancers use are simply the fragments of Stonekin language that humans manage to pronounce. The ritual with all the stones and ribbons? It is likely a coarse representation of some parallel action of the Stonekin, like you might gesture with your hands as you speak. I often wonder if anyone in the Pale College has the slightest clue about the powers they are constantly fussing with. So far, only you Humans have been mad enough to use it. For whatever reason, a Stonekin must have decided it was a good idea to teach Humans long ago."

Twyla shrugged. "Maybe someone just asked."

"That is both possible, and terrifying. You look very pleased with yourself just now."

The mage grinned. "Because I know something that no one else in the Pale College does. Not even Maestro Johann. Thank you, Bemere. I am immensely pleased with our conversations."

It was Bemere's turn to laugh. "You scholars are just as mad in your own ways."

"Oh, you have no idea," Twyla assured her.

The rest of the morning passed pleasantly, neither of the women were in any particular hurry and the sun was warm on their shoulders. When they stopped for a meal, Twyla first performed the stretching and bending exercises of the kyickmur. The maestra was a diligent student, impressing Bemere with her mind as well as her willingness to accept discomfort. The elf woman was already feeling her libidinous urges growing and had to force herself to avoid looking at the other woman's body for longer than necessary.

Later that afternoon, they were beginning to look for the last wayhouse before Grand Locks. It finally appeared in the distance, but instead of the lonely cluster of buildings they'd expected, they found a large encampment crowded around it. She took a cylinder from a saddlebag and peered through it, studying the encampment.

"What is that?" Twyla asked.

"Military, looks like a small army," Bemere said. "But I don't recognize those banners, and where could they even be headed, this far off the plains? This is an interesting surprise."

She leaned back and retrieved her journal from a saddlebag and used a bit of lead to make notes.

Twyla was nervous. "Do you think they're attacking the locks?"

Bemere looked away from her spyglass long enough to give Twyla a comforting smile. "Not a chance. There is an Imperial detachment with them. The emperor's treasuries depend on canal tolls and he takes a dim view of anything that would upset the boat traffic."

"That's a relief then," Twyla said.

Bemere lowered the spyglass and looked to make sure Twyla was paying attention. "Battles aren't the only danger around an army. Please, stay close and keep your eyes sharp."

Twyla swallowed and nodded. Bemere leaned back to replace the journal and returned the spyglass to whatever pocket it had appeared from.

"Let's ride ahead, it would be best if we were well away before evening comes."

"Why do you think the imperials are here?"

"Armies on the move have the unfortunate habit of devastating everything in their path. In return, those that they brutalize, create milita to harass and ambush armies. That's destructive enough, but often than not, they become bandits, adding even more misery, and so things spiral out into chaos. So, even before the canal was here, Imperial legions hired out their veterans to keep the soldiers and locals from each other's throats. They're strictly neutral about the fight and expect everyone to honor their neutrality."

"Or they get the stuffing knocked out of them by the legions?"

Bemere laughed. "Exactly right. Thankfully, that hasn't been necessary very often."

"That must look odd, soldiers just watching other soldiers battle it out."

"A few years back, I actually saw two opposing armies escorted to the battleground by Imperials from the same legion. The escort all camped together while the armies fought, then split up to escort each side back home."

Twyla chuckled. "That is a very civilized way to run a war."

Bemere smiled oddly. "I agree. Add enough civilization and, with luck, someone will finally realize there are better ways to get what you need."

"And then?"

The elf looked at her. "I'm sorry?"

Twyla smiled. "From your tone, I was expecting you to say '...and then we can finally get to work' or some such."

"Ah, it sounds as if you've reached the chapters on politics in Cejum Orpharides," Bemere said.

Twyla flushed slightly, but less than the elf had expected. "I was curious why you were called Moon Fae. You don't stay up all night and you don't seem to watch any of the moons except when you worry about weather."

"It doesn't sound like my warning to keep a sharp eye was necessary," Bemere said. "You are correct, we don't have anything to do with the whirling celestials up there. The name has more to do with the fact that we are the Silver, as the High Elves are known as the Golden."

"I read something about the seasons but I had trouble with some of the symbols. It looks like he says the Silver were moons, and then it got really arcane with number glyphs I haven't seen before."

Bemere sighed and shook her head. "I do wish Madeline hadn't gifted you that twaddle. You're aware that the moons control the seasons?"

"I read about the idea a long time ago. Something about different amounts of light?"

"Right. Cejum wasn't happy with the interest the court had with the politics of other races. In those passages, he's accusing the court of meddling in affairs of others, like moons changing the seasons. It's a terrible analogy, Cejum's political discourse was even worse, if possible, than his pontifications on the valour. Inaccurate, oversimplified and overblown throughout."

Twyla frowned. "I thought that's why you were here, as a spy."

"Twyla, you would be an astounding diplomat. Yes, I am here as an Eye, which is a far more polite way to say it. There are dozens of envoys, all across the known lands. We watch and document what's happening outside of our borders. Those reports create a picture of the Allworld that the Selene, our queen, uses to guide the course of our civilization."

"Where does the meddling come into it?"

Bemere sighed. "There are have been certain adjustments made in the past. But you see? He's oversimplified his inaccuracy. It was not for our benefit alone, it has helped Humankind as well."

"I'm confused again."

"The Pretender's succession war was a disaster for everyone, but for the Plenilune elves it was nearly a death blow. We sent troops to our allies, not fully understanding how long that war could last, or how many of us would never return. We don't have children as quickly as humans, so the Plenilune are diminished and our lands will suffer for a very long time."

"That's awful," Twyla said.

"The Selene knew that Human wars would be the doom of us all. There were very few paths forward from those dark days. We could have withdrawn within our borders, but even if we'd been willing to abandon our allies, that path is just another type of death. So, to protect ourselves, She ruled that we should know everything we could about all of our neighbors. Sometimes there are situations that require...adjustments, to ensure as much stability as possible, for everyone."

"I feel as though I'm seeing behind the curtain at a theatre. How long ago did your queen make this decision?"

"I don't remember exactly, less than a Human generation after the last of the companies returned home. Maybe fifty years after the Pretender was defeated."

Twyla was silent for a dozen rods, thinking about that. "What about now? It doesn't seem like things are very peaceful," she finally said.

Bemere glanced at her, a slight smile on her face. "When was last major war?"

"Like the succession wars There hasn't been...oh, I see. But there's an army right in front of us. There's fighting, every warm season."

The elf shrugged. "Humans are a rowdy bunch and no plan is perfect. Instead of the seasonal formal battles, imagine constant fighting everywhere, season after season, year after year."

"That makes sense, I guess. I would have thought that you'd make us more like the Fae."

"Since you are Humans, that would be quite difficult. We don't want to control you, just keep your constant mayhem and destruction to a minimum. You must be your own people, with your own glories and horrors."

"Have I mentioned how much I enjoy our conversations?" Twyla asked and Bemere laughed.

As they approached the camp, a few of the soldiers noticed them but no one seemed to care. The path had widened and was almost a road now and one side, the buildings of the wayhouse were almost lost in the middle of a large tents. On the other side of the road, the forest was thick and wild looking. Here and there, soldiers were gathering dead wood for their fires, but they were too intent on their tasks to pay much attention to the riders.

Ahead of them, a group emerged from the tree line. They were struggling to hold a small figure that was putting up a terrific struggle.

"What are they doing?" Twyla exclaimed.

Bemere had already spurred her horse into a gallop, its thudding hooves threw up gouts of grass and dirt. Heart in her throat, Twyla spurred her horse after the elf.

As she neared the group, Bemere seemed to fall from her saddle and Twyla gasped, thinking her companion had fallen. Instead, Bemere twisted her body and rolled, somehow landing on her feet. She sprinted at the knot of people, the toes of her boots digging into the turf just as her horse's hooves had. Somehow, she now had a sword in one hand, held trailing behind her.

Then she was in the group of men, her blade flashing up once before she had a grip on the prisoner's spindly arm. She pulled the captive around as she spun and stopped, putting herself between the small form and the group of shocked soldiers. One of them screamed, gripping his forearm before falling to his knees, staring at his hand laying on the ground. It still gripped the length of knotted rope he'd been hitting the child with.

Twyla managed to maneuver her horse around the knot of shocked soldiers and jumped to the ground behind Bemere. She was horrified to see how small the rescued captive was. Who would attack a child?

In front of Bemere, the soldiers were hurriedly drawing curved short swords and Twyla heard shouting from the camp. More men appeared from the woods, but Bemere's eyes were locked on the soldiers in front of her.

"Who leads here?" she demanded.

Twyla knelt beside the child and as it looked at her, she froze in surprise. This was no child, nor even a human.

"I will ask once more," Bemere demanded, her voice impossibly cold and hard. "Which of you is the leader?"

"Up yers, ye pointy-eared cunt!" the newly handless soldier screamed. "Now we gots two extra helpin' of gash tonight, and I'll be chopping your tits off! Take 'em!"

Without a sound, Bemere charged them again. Her sword came up as she dashed through the group again. There was a black blur of her blade and a ringing sound as the elf as spun past the handless man. All of them gaped as Bemere came to a another statue-like stance on the other side of them. In their midst, the handless one made a gargling noise. His head fell backwards and his body slumped to the ground, his neck three-quarters cut though.

"I am Serah Adda Bemere," she said loudly. "If any of you whoresons were so blessed to catch a glimpse of my cunt, you'd find that it doesn't have ears, pointy or otherwise. Now, who is the next senior?"

"Uh, that would be me, ser," a skinny woman with ropy arms said. She dropped her knife, slowly raising her hands. "We're city watch. Rest of you throw 'em down."

The rest of the blades thumped to the ground and Bemere waved them away from them, in the direction of the camp. There was the sound of riders hurriedly mounting up. Still staying between the group and their blades, Bemere went to where Twyla was carefully bandaging a deep gash in the gnome's calf. Bemere sat on her heels and whistled a greeting in gnomish.

The female gnome whistled a reply, gesturing at Twyla.

Bemere smiled slightly and patted the air as the sound of galloping horses drew nearer. More of the soldiers were coming out of the woods, their chatting falling silent as they saw the scene in front of them. Twyla glanced up from her bandaging and saw them drawing close, looking uncertain, but their hands on their knives.

She stood up and threw the gray traveling coat off her shoulders, revealing her maestra's robes.

"Take another step and I will blow your heads straight out your asses!" the maestra snarled.

The soldiers, who had already been advancing as slowly as they could, were more than happy to stop a safe distance away. Twyla glared in the other direction, but they were already staying a safe distance away from Bemere's blade. Grumbling to herself, she knelt back down and wet another cloth from her canteen to clean the dirt smudged on the gnome's face.

The riders galloping from the camp weren't as bashful. Four of them slowed to a trot but didn't rein in until they had surrounded the Bemere and the others. Two of them dismounted, one of them was a middle-aged imperial cavalryman. Several scars crossed his face, badly healed enough that they twisted his expression into an evil looking sneer. The other rider was a rangy woman who stayed near him, her hand near a knife hilt.

"I am Sergeant Sestian Atious, Imperial Cavalry," the man announced in a gravely voice. "Put up your sword."

After a long moment, Bemere knelt, produced a cloth and laid the sword on it. She rose to her feet gracefully. "Sergeant, I am Serah Bemere Gwynnestra, Knight of the Silver."

"The Silver?" he asked, not believing what he had heard.

Bemere pulled an ornament from the collar of her shirt and held it out to the man.

He took it and examined it closely.

"Well met then, Serah," he said, handing it back. "I am a sergeant of the Tenth Cavalry, and this camp's provost."

"It's wine, not glory, for the weary and immortal Tenth," Bemere replied.

The man's eyebrows went up but he merely nodded. "What happened here, serah?"

"This group was abusing this gnomish woman. Seeing her peril, I attacked them immediately. I judged the one I saw beating her would forfeit his hand."

The sergeant glanced at the nearly headless body. "And you missed?" he asked dryly.

"No. After I took his hand, I identified myself. In return, he ordered his companions to capture myself and the maestra."

"Your sword was out?" the sergeant asked.

"It was but they didn't seem impressed until I used it again."

"You say they were abusing the little one there."

Bemere squatted down and whistled to the gnome and she held out her arms. Twyla was just finishing the bandage on her leg, but the rest of her limbs were badly bruised and scraped. Sounding very much like an indignant sparrow, she gestured to more bruises forming on her face.