This is more for me, but feel free to read.
Part One
“Do you think I that I want to be here? I had a life once too. I had a life, a family, a beautiful woman, but they took all that away from me. We all have places that we would rather be, at a home, with a loved one, but here we are, far from the places that we love, the people we love. So today, don’t fight for me or because I told you to, fight for them! Fight for their happiness and lives! For the futures of your sons and daughters! Fight for them, for if you don’t, who will?
“First Division! Advance!”
-The General
One
The day was bright and sunny. Birds chirped and sang with a gusto that only happened with the turning of the seasons from the deathbed of winter to the rebirth of spring. The breeze was brisk and brought a chill to the air, but it also brought with it the smells of new growth and nature. Children played in the fields and were watched over by older brothers and sisters who, simultaneously, watched fields filled with sheep and cows out to pasture. The roads, made of a hard packed dirt that showed the steady passage of carts and wagons heading to and from the nearby village, was clear of any obstruction or plant. Ruts recently filled in showed their newness with the darker dirt that conflicted with the pale tan of the old roadbed.
A single rider rode slowly through the scene of tranquility, obviously enjoying the peace that was felt by all in the little hamlet. The man had dressed in a dark green cloak with a gold clasp over a deep blue shirt and black pants that were tight around the thighs. His cloak was thrown back over his shoulders, allowing him to embrace the wind’s chill. He guided his brown gelding more by the pressure of his knees than by the bit in the horse’s mouth. The horse moved amiably, at a fast walk, toward the village its rider showing no sense of urgency, but not hesitating either.
The village turned out to see the stranger in his well pressed clothes as he rode up to the village inn, which, as was typical with villages this size, also the seat of the local government. Blue and roofed in baked clay tiles, the inn was the largest building on the town square. It was three stories tall with a white painted porch on the front of the first floor that covered the doors to enter the building. To the right were the stables where two youths, most likely some relation to the innkeep, stood at the entrance gaping at the visitor. The right side of the square held the blacksmith and his large yard that allowed him to do all the work he was required to do. His house stood within his compound, whitewashed and, like every other building in the town, save for the inn, thatched. On the left stood several shops, including a general store and a bakery from which the smells of freshly baked bread wafted from. Through all this the visitor rode; his horse slowing down to a sedate walk until he had almost reached the front steps of the inn.
The innkeep, a man with a jovial smile and a large belly that showed that he enjoyed his wears as much as the establishment’s patrons did, came out wiping out a pewter mug with a dirty towel that could have only be called clean when being compared to the apron that covered his front. Underneath his apron though, were clothes that showed the wealth of the inn. They were smooth with good color and the look of prosperity about them. Though his smile was friendly and he showed no sign of unfriendliness, his voice was wary.
“Where you heading to Friend?” asked the innkeep, still wiping the mug. His eyes never left the visitor. “Can I help you?”
The visitor’s horse stopped five feet from the inn steps and bowed from the waist without dismounting. “I am looking for the mayor of this village,” he said without any preamble. “Would you please direct me to him?”
At this the innkeep stopped wiping the mug and his eyes became more piercing. “You have found him, Friend. What can I do for you?”
The visitor swept off the red tricorn that had kept his black hair down during the ride out and raised his voice in answer. “I call upon the Rite of Tecquasa.” The innkeep just nodded in response, and the visitor, clamping his hat back down on his head, turned and spurred his horse along the road at a full gallop.
The town’s citizens just stood there staring at their mayor in shock, as if the impossible had just happened. The mayor looked at the assembled crowd. “You heard the man. We have been honored, but there is a lot of work to do,” he said. No one moved. They all looked dumb struck at the news rather than getting the jobs that they needed to get done done. Anger took over the usually congenial man.
“Move people!” he shouted. “Move! We have work to do!” Finally the people started to wake from their shock and started to move. Mothers ran to scoop up little children and fathers ran off to their jobs to prepare for the coming ritual. The mayor just snorted, turned and walked back into the inn, untying his apron as he went.
The next day the garishly painted Saetar wagons started to appear outside the village. Their leader, a woman by the name of Artemisia, made arrangements with a farmer to have the use of his lands while they stayed at the village of Poskoe in the Blackwood district. By the time that the first wagon had arrived, the ground had already been marked out for the testing ground, while the railings and scaffolding had yet to be started.
All in all, there were 15 Saetar wagons, each holding a family or two. They set up their temporary home close enough to the village that it would not be a hassle to reach it, but far enough away that the citizens would not feel worried. While their approach caused much commotion, only a few people saw them approach. Mostly it was young men watching their flocks with a wary eye, but here and there a child’s face appeared staring with wonder at all the strange men and women. The rest were around their houses, their mothers quicker to catch their children before they snuck off and the Saetar kidnapped them.
It was all nonsense, but the commonly held belief was that Saetar kidnapped little children and stole them away from their families to follow the Saetar way of life. Never mind that the stories were false and that the Saetar never let any join with them save through marriage, which would account for the gradual, but steady drop in population. However, these were the beliefs that the people believed in and so was what they acted upon. Events months in the future would be blamed on the Saetar long after they had left. The Traveling People, for this was what the Saetar called themselves, accepted this and moved on with their way of life. A steady stream of people moved between the real village and the makeshift one, despite the villager’s reservations. Eventually children joined the throng, their mothers sick of trying to keep them indoors and shoving them outside so some work could be done. People came to the Saetar with pots to be mended, knives to be sharpened, and dreams of what their futures might hold, and each left as satisfied as they could be. Their pots were mended, often better than new, their knives honed to a perfection that none could match and fortunes were told with varying degrees of promise. Everyone seemed to have something that The Traveling People could do for them. Even the most fearful ventured into the camp in order to have things mended.
Trade went both ways though. Often men would venture to the inn at night for a glass of ale or berryjuice after a day of work or women would go to trade and acquire some goods that might prove profitable in the next town. Wool was purchased to be woven into thread. Cloth was bought to mend clothes and create new garments. Food was traded for in return for youth doing odd jobs around for various businesses. But most of all, the Saetar entertained. Every night, the group put on plays, games of chance, and all sorts of entertainment could be found. People visited them by the masses, just to get their fortunes told, to take a shot at the wheel of chance, or to see the Marklee’s The Fool of Old. Music could be heard no matter where one went and often, where groups gathered, people would be dancing. The dancing was continuous and only ended well into the night when the final guests had left. For that is what the common folk were to the Saetar, guests. Each one was given Guest Rites and not charged a thing to enjoy their fun, save for the games of chance. And they were never rigged, always allowing the people a fair chance. All this happened because the Rite of Tequasa was a special time for The Traveling People. It was a time of maturing and of celebration and joy, all with the culmination in the Rite itself.
While all this was occurring, work continued to progress on the testing ground. The ground in the center of town was leveled and the various features were built. Railings surrounded the ground while a scaffold that looked much like a hangman’s gallows stood over the ground. Outside the fence, a large pole made from one of the largest trees around, climbed thirty spans into the sky. Three hands across, the pole was a sturdy thing that supported another pole on top. From the crosspole, two ropes hung down; one for the test and the other to counterbalance the weight. Crosspieces connected the two poles for bracing, creating a stable platform for the goals of the test. Stands had been built so that the crowds could watch the events unfold unhindered. One end included a red gate through which the petitioner would enter while the other had a blue one through which the potential master would leave. In front of the stands the ground had numerous benches placed out so that others could still sit and watch.
Occationally, the mayor was bothered with problems that beset the build. The village carpenter had issues with the blacksmith about the making of nails. The farmers bickered so much about which one was least important, and therefore had to help haul in the great logs that had made up the poles. Because nothing was being done, the mayor assigned each farmer part of the job just to get it finished. They didn’t like that, but the job was completed by the next day.
The worst was the religious zealots in his mind. Zealots weren’t perhaps the best terminology to use, but they were the devout in the parish that came after him. Day and night, the insisted on coming to him, preaching about the sins of the Saetar and how they were going to corrupt the young or how their stay will affect how Sytan will bless their crops and livestock. Once he was woken up in the middle of the night after a long day dealing with the inn and village problems. After the mayor had struggled into his pants and flung on a robe, fully expecting to find a fire half-consuming the village with the ruckus that a man was razing, he found out that the man wanted the mayor to go over and tell all the Saetar to quit making noises that decent people would abhor and to go away. Another time, a woman old enough to be his grandmother marched into the latrine only to haul him out by his ear just to preach to him the evils of the Saetar and how Sytan will punish them for their indiscretions. Just when it started to be too much, the testing ground was completed. It had taken a fortnight, but it was finally finished.
That night, the mayor took Artemisia for a tour the completed structure, examining it to make sure that it would work for the Rite. At first, Artemisia just looked at it. After walking around the structure several times, she finally entered it though the red gate on the side. Inside, she scuffed the ground, seeing how much dust was produced. After that she went to the center of the ground and paced out the distances to make sure that all was even. Finally, she approached the pole and gave it a critical eye. Thought out this, she said not a word, but rather went about her work, doing what must be done.
“It looks just about right,” said Artemisia finally, pounding a hand on the upright post that looked directly from the gallows. “You and your village have done very well indeed. We are very honored to have your work here.” She turned and walked toward the red gate. The mayor let out a silent sigh that he hadn’t realized he was holding and scurried to catch up with Artemisia’s retreating back.
“No, no, mistress,” replied the mayor. “The honor is all ours. We were only too happy to help with this minor achievement.” In reality, the mayor cried for joy, knowing that the workmanship of his village would not shame him, nor cause the Saetar to stay any longer than they must. He was tired of it all and couldn’t wait for them to leave just so he could get a full nights rest once again.
Half way to the red gate, Artemisia stopped and faced the mayor. Her hand was outstretched and the mayor clasped it at the wrist, as per custom. “It will start then,” Artemisia said. “Tomorrow the Rite of Tequasa starts.”
2
The path worn between Poskoe and the Saetar camp had become muddy and pitted with all the foot, wagon, and horse traffic, forcing Iona Trangil to dodge nimbly about, lest he should put a foot wrong and place it squarely into a mud hole. It had to rain today, the day of The Test, of all days. The mud would make footing a difficult thing at best. That was the last thing the participants needed to worry about. The test was difficult enough. He just hoped that Liam was up to it.
Just then, Kian felt the sickening squelch of his boot sinking ankle deep into the mud. Blast it, he thought, Mother is going to kill me now. Not that she could make his life too much of a living hell. Living in a separate wagon with a few of the other single men had its advantages, but he still didn’t look forward to the confrontation. Bracing himself on dry land, he pulled the stuck boot free and looked at the new leather. It wasn’t ruined, the waterproofing the tanner had applied still held, but the dark brown mud stood as a direct contrast to the lighter leather. Perhaps if he got to town, he could clean it before anyone saw.
“Iona, wait up!” Turning, Iona saw one of his friends, Kian, running toward him down the road. He didn’t care about mud on his boots, Iona saw with a mild resentment. Inwardly, he sighed. He also didn’t have a mother who spent her last month’s earnings on a birthday gift for her son. Or a mother for that matter. Neither thought was something he could do anything about.
As Kian ran up, Iona walked to the side of the path and scrapped his boot against a nearby bush. “New boots and you have already ruined one of them,” laughed Kian as he reached Iona. “Hope your mother doesn’t hear about that.”
“They’re not ruined,” Iona said over his shoulder. “This one,” he held it up for inspection, “just got a little muddy.” Indeed, it did look much better. He just might get away with this. “And my mother will not hear about it unless you go blathering about it around the festival.”
“Don’t worry my lips are sealed,” smirked Kian.
Iona turned and continued walking down the path. Kian had to jog a bit to catch up. “Just like with Mrs. Choem’s pie?” asked Iona.
Staring off into the distance, Kian said “That was good pie.”
Rounding on his friend, Iona said “It wasn’t that good. My bottom hurt for a week when she found out, from you I might add, that we took it.” Kian looked taken aback. Perhaps he was for once, but just as Iona was about to turn back to the path, he saw a twinkling in his friends eyes. “What?” bellowed Iona. Kian said nothing, but point to his friend’s other boot. Glancing down, Iona saw that he had planted, what was formerly his clean boot squarely into a mud patch deeper than the last. Letting out a howl of frustration, he turned and stomped off down the path, careless of the mud.
“I think your mother heard that,” said Kian from behind him. Iona kept walking. From behind him, Iona could hear the squelch of mud as his friend caught up to him. Iona could see his friend in the corner of his eye as he marched down the road. And he didn’t look the least bit sheepish!
The rest of the trip to the town was spent in silence.