Middle of the year 631

Summer

Quiet moon

The philosopher Walfer sometimes liked to describe the man as the superposition of two distinct entities. On the surface, the awakened being, his face turned towards the sky. This one's really only interested in the things that he can change. Deep down, the sleeping being, his face turned towards the ground. This one aspires only to immobility, to the ignorance of what he rests on. The pendulum that links them both allows one not to slip into the light, and the other not to sink into darkness. It seems to me that Walfer's reflection on human duality can be relevant to the very nature of our body. The flesh struggles to keep its initial shape, while the mind conjures up as many ways to slash it. The scar is the visible combination of these two forces. Since the time of my initiation to medicine by Narsilap Ail Shuri, and probably even before, the mechanics of the world have never ceased to fascinate me. There are few things as wonderful as those we take for granted. The revolution of the stars. The passing of the seasons. The healing of a wound. I don't believe there's a single wise person who fully understands these processes, yet they dictate the course of our lives without most of us giving them a second thought.

When I think of the first moons after my arrival among the Ceras, the dichotomy evoked by Walfer, between the desire for movement and the desire for nothing to change, is the one that first comes to mind. The years in Ifos had shaped me. I was now functioning in a somewhat wobbly way, torn between the desire to leave and the fear of the upheaval I would find along the way, and I suffered from it. Despite the isolation of the Wall, the distant rumor of the world reminded me how much things had changed there. I knew that sooner or later I would have to accept the measure of all that would not come back. My childhood memories, which I had embraced during my captivity, had crystallized to the point of fragility. It seemed to me that I had been better able to preserve myself from the contagion of nothingness than most, probably because I had been fortunate enough to know other lives and to have access to the words, the intellectual fuel to resist it. I was still suffering from the effects of captivity.

It's true that in absolute terms I wasn't much freer with the Ceras than in Ifos. Nevertheless, for someone who had been dragging chains through the putrid galleries of Carm, there was one big difference between these two places: here I wasn't treated like a prisoner. I was free to come and go as I pleased. My only real captors were the mountains and my ignorance of their laws. I didn't need anyone to tell me that if I escaped I wouldn't get far. Whether my punishment would be meted out by the mountains or by the spear was, in my opinion, of the same logic. It was easy for me to live with this reality as long as I didn't think too much about it, as long as I didn't think about Brindy, and I was able to live in peace with those who were keeping me. After all, they had not only spared me, they also shared what little they had with me.

And then, from time to time, in brief but clear flashes, I realized that even if I had made it through the Wall, I probably wouldn't have been ready to face what was waiting for me on the other side. I had let chimeras settle in, and now I had to face them, defeat them along with the ghosts of Ifos. To admit that it would not be enough for me to leave the mountains for everything to be put back in place. Ulrick wouldn't be resurrected. Robin, and Ucar, and Brindy wouldn't wait for me at the Ronna farm. No one would play at the end of the path lined with herbs, nor would Dera and Frieze expect me at the Basin. Those years had faded away. A time of adjustment would be necessary so that I would not lose my footing. As I expected nothing in particular - or at least nothing accessible - it seemed to me that the contemplative melancholy of the Ceras, their solemn austerity, was suited to the mourning I had to go through.

Thus, with patience, I was able to begin the path of reconstruction through simple gestures, sharing a meal, a fire, a chore. I was a stranger, of course, and not everyone liked me. I was surprised, however, by how little time it took me to stop reflexively lowering my head at the slightest vocal outburst, and to be able to hold a gaze without looking for greed or contempt. Relief came smoothly, as I realized that I didn't need to watch my back constantly and that sometimes they were even watching my back for me. Sometimes I laughed at other people's laughter, found pleasure in the touch of a body, in the warmth of a smile, even when it wasn't meant for me. The human soul is like its flesh in many ways, it seems to me that under the right circumstances, one can get over anything. I don't know if the same is true for people's memories, because the Ceras' was even more deeply bruised than mine. All their children bore the weight of a tragedy that they didn't experience themselves.

The memory of the dead was everywhere, slipped between the silences, engraved in the stones as much as in the eyes. What I had taken for restraint at first was more of a permanent apology for discretion, a bruised wish that the world would lose interest in those who deliberately slip away from the pages of history. The Ceras had returned to their old ways, and some seemed to believe that the Greyarm massacre had been a punishment for those who had strayed from them. Thurl said they had become a hidden people again, a phrase that meant both everything and nothing. I suspected that I would need to hear that story to understand more, but I also figured that it would come on its own, in its own time, and that I already had a lot to do with my own self.

The peak, and by extension the village of the people of lufe Thurl, was called Su-Lanté, which translates word for word to Solitary Stone. Under the roofs of lauze lived about two hundred and fifty souls, whose daily life was limited to the twin valleys that opened on either side of the rocky cape. In reality, most of the farmers in the Brown region don't go farther from their village than the Ceras, but in Su-Lanté, the limits were visible to all. There, people raised livestock, kept bees and harvested food, and scoured the nearest forests for dead wood, which was burned with dried dung cakes. In the caves that abounded all around, buckets of chopped bark were spread out, on which grew clusters of round and delicious mushrooms, while in the deeper caves there were pools where white crayfish, salamanders and fish were fattened. The Ceras had a humble lifestyle, but they didn't seem to lack anything, and their supplies were sometimes supplemented by the profits from the raids they carried out on the Brownians.

Thurl commanded about forty warriors, who spent their time watching over the mountain passes and guarding the fort. Their attacks on the Brownian land were meticulously planned, often in coordination with the men of other lufes, who came from time to time to resupply at the peak. They mostly hit the Greyarm primacy, but sometimes also Hill's, where they ambushed patrols and merchants when they could, but usually just stole the herds of shepherds who had no choice but to keep their animals grazing in the foothills. From my observations there must have been three or four villages in the vicinity, and others further east, but Su-Lanté was the most important in this part of the Wall and, despite their informal ways, Thurl obviously enjoyed a special status among the ragged confederation of cera noblemen.

In the fort as well as in the village, people lived with each other, ate together at sunrise and at sunset, in common houses where several households could gather. It was traditional to dine with at least one different person every day, although in practice small groups were formed according to affinity. In the underground stronghold, the two daily meals were taken under a large vaulted room that followed directly from the access staircase. Here the warriors mingled freely with the servants and craftsmen, and often assisted them in their daily tasks. The Ceras had a more moderate form of patronage than the Carmians, based on loyalty oaths rather than gold, and while the warriors were clearly a separate caste, they also seemed to see themselves as Ceras first and foremost, members of a people bound together by adversity, in which individual roles were largely interdependent. Few distinctions were made between those who fought and those who fed, those who patched clothes and those who cleaned up after others. As a result, after the lufe and his augur, one of the most influential men in all of Su-Lanté was Porlas, the waxworker.

For a few days after my arrival, I was put up in an alcove in the garrison, away from the tough, quarrelsome men there. A little later, for convenience, I migrated to one of the excavated rooms in the fort itself. It was a dark and cold hole, quite unpleasant in spite of all the efforts I made to make it more attractive. I accumulated trinkets from my walks in the valley, a broken antler, a beautiful clear quartz crystal, bouquets of fragrant herbs or dried flowers. Nothing really managed to brighten up the place. No matter what I placed on the two shelves and the flat nooks and crannies, the walls remained as dark as ever, and there was a vibrancy about them that was too implacable for my taste, an intimidating solidity that swallowed up everything else. Fortunately, I spent my days elsewhere, mostly outside, and only went there to sleep.

After my first night there, I found all the things that had been confiscated from me, including my weapons. At first I thought it was a mistake, but later they let me keep them. I took to wearing the bronze dagger on my worn belt, not fully realizing what those few inches of metal represented. Lord Thurl was a cunning man. We both knew that no one arms a prisoner, and the ambiguity of my status forced me to be constantly cautious. I never knew whether or not I was within my rights, or for that matter what those rights were. As long as my mind contorted itself with these riddles, Thurl could sleep soundly in the certainty that I wasn't thinking of anything else, of escape or rebellion. Moreover, time was his ally. During this period of latency, habits were born. Timid roots began to take shape, groping for sustenance and holds that my flayed soul was voraciously hoping for. My meetings with Breanna, which at least were regular and had a clearly defined purpose, were the most obvious anchor, and to my mind this was no accident either.

Every other day I would meet the young woman for several hours, the entire morning or the afternoon, and we would talk under the watchful eye of Marwenn, her old nanny. A warrior on duty also accompanied us, supposedly to ensure the safety of the two women. I had decided to start by teaching Breanna scoï, because it contained the elements of several other languages (including rajjan), but also because its practice was widespread. On her part, the young woman taught me to gibber a few words in cera. Our educational meetings took place outside when the weather allowed it, on the rough terrace formed by the upper covering of the garrison. We would set up a small table and a few stools before sitting in the sun with rough styluses and two wax tablets, chipped but functional. In case of rain, we would retreat under the specular stone dome, the only place in the fortress bright enough to suit our exchanges. Regardless of the weather, Marwenn would give us minty herbal teas with which we would sometimes be served a few cakes of wild cereals, or a delicious comb of fresh honey.

Breanna was just fifteen years old, although she often looked older, and Marwenn watched over her like a mother wolf over her cubs. The nanny was a thin, short woman whose brown skin looked as tanned as that of an old sailor. Darting from the shadow of her white headdress, her small vigilant eyes watched my every move, looked out for any ambiguous or inappropriate gesture. Her attention never wavered, while after the first hour the unlucky warriors who were appointed in turn to keep us company showed mostly vacant looks that betrayed boredom. I had quickly concluded that Breanna's mother had died while giving birth to her or shortly thereafter, and that Marwenn was much more than a simple nanny to her. However, I had discovered just as quickly that our talks, which took place mostly in brownian, represented a salutary escape for the young woman. Shyly at first, then with more and more confidence, she established between us a freedom that wasn't controlled by anyone.

Sometimes narche Chara attended classes, and when she did, we conducted our activities in an impeccable manner. However, when we were alone, we chatted without worrying about the work. Breanna would lean studiously over the table, flutter her dark eyelashes as she pointed to her tablet with frightening confidence, to tell me in brownian the story of something she had seen the day before, some gossip, or a saucy joke she had heard from a warrior in the garrison. She would intersperse her sentences with cera words that I would repeat stupidly so as not to arouse Marwenn's suspicions. It was an exciting game to secretly break down the formal barrier we were supposed to maintain, and we both enjoyed it.

When there were no rumors or witticisms, Breanna would sometimes talk about more personal matters, about herself, the frustration and pride of being the daughter of the lufe. I would submit to her demands and tell her whatever she wanted to hear about me. Brindy was her favorite subject. It was never really dangerous, but I enjoyed maintaining this rebellious intimacy. It was nice to have some semblance of complicity with another human being, but there was also a part of me that did some unpleasant calculations. I figured that in the future the friendship of lord Thurl's daughter might well be useful to me. Maybe it would even save my life.

When I wasn't teaching frank-sabir to Breanna, I sometimes went for a walk in one of the twin valleys, to discover the fir trees and the waterfalls, or to climb the cliffs, or to look for the breathtaking viewpoints that were waiting to be discovered on the highest ledges. Around Su-Lanté paths abounded, even on the heights, hammered by the boot of men or the sharp hooves of animals. These solitary excursions were made as much by envy as by mimicry: I had noticed that the Ceras frequently did the same. At first I found it curious to see men, women, and even children leaving the village alone, in storms, hail, or pouring rain, to retreat into the mountains. Thurl, with whom I sometimes chatted at mealtimes, explained that isolation and communion with the mountain spirits were the primary expression of the spirituality of his people. To obtain the blessing of the spirits, one had to go and see them in person, where they lived.

Religion was omnipresent in the daily life of the Ceras, so omnipresent in fact that I used all sorts of tricks to avoid the subject with Breanna and her father. Fortunately, the inhabitants of the mountain didn't mind, and Thelis the augur seemed to have more of an advisory role than a proselytizing one. People would visit him to tell him about a dream or a dilemma, sometimes even to tell him about a feeling, and the old man would decide, interpret or advise with as much simplicity and common sense as his superstitions allowed. Thelis never addressed me directly, but he often gave me kind looks that suited me. He also led the rituals of his people, small pilgrimages that saw him lead a crowd to some sacred site, a lake of pure water or a thousand-year-old pine tree to make offerings or sacrifices to the spirits. In spite of his great age, the augur, once he was started, could move on the tracks with the vivacity of an old goat, a sign - it was said - that he knew how to let himself be inhabited by the spirit of the wind. Obviously I didn't believe a word of it, but I sometimes joined these processions, because my presence helped me to be accepted by the most devout Ceras.

The days unraveled until midsummer. I was finally beginning to get my bearings and to be able to exchange awkward courtesies with my hosts. Since I understood their customs a little better, it was easier for me to consider my place in their company, and some of the inhabitants of the village even began to invite me to dinner. Among them was Porlas the waxworker, and also a goat breeder who made a very good impression on me but whose name I have forgotten. As things stabilized outside of me, I was able to turn to my own desires. This was certainly visible. At the end of the Quiet moon, lufe Thurl invited me to join him on a hunting trip. I accepted willingly, without losing sight of the fact that this too wasn't entirely coincidental.