4 – 2

After two and more days with grimy skin, dirty tangles in my hair, and goddess only knows what else, ridding myself of them is luxurious. I'll never take being clean for granted again. This had been worth every single one of those copper coins. After being twice lathered and rinsed, then combed-by-fingers until every speck of dirt and knotty tangled was gone, my hair drips clean from where it's draped over the lip of the tub. My skin tingles in the hot water, sensitive from where I went perhaps a little overboard with the roughspun washcloth. I'm clean now, from head to toe, and that's the important thing.

I hum in pleasure as the warmth seeps into me. Another thing I'll not take for granted. I hadn't been cold, not truly, either night I spent outside. I had been spared that, through one means or another. Whether it was the elk, the fire, or simply my cloak, I was spared the worst of autumn night's chilled bite. Enough to survive, at any rate. That, I should think, is the difference. They had been sufficient, and while enjoyable in their moments, paled in comparison to this: a filled tub of steaming hot water. A luxury.

Worth every coin.

Floating in the tub, anchored only by where my head rests on the lip, I close my eyes and let my thoughts wander. With my ears filled with water, the already quieted noise of the taproom fades into silence. For a time, that's all there is in my mind. Then a question bubbles to the surface.

After I visit the Royah at Port Viara, I'll be free. It's my only obligation, and after it I can do as I please and go where I wish. What will I do with that freedom? I don't know. What do I want to do with it? A different question, and one whose answer I know, for it hasn't changed since I left my family. All of what I wanted to see then, I still do. I want to stand in the foothills of the Icewall Mountains, head craned back so far my neck creaks, waiting for the snow-laden, gray clouds to part and give a glimpse of those craggy, distant peaks.

I want to lose myself in the winding streets of the city-kingdoms, to see their ancient and layered histories rise around me. The thought of all those lives, all those years, is as dizzying in its appeal as the towering mountains. I want to stand in Hellfire Pass, so very far to the south, where the ruby-red sands burn in the desert sun. I want to feel the heat in the palm of my hand as I let handfuls fall from between my fingers.

So, perhaps the question is instead: Where do I want to start? I have seen the lake, and come as close to its waters as I ever will. I have walked beneath the darkened canopies of the forest and caught a glimpse of the ancient, reclusive powers that dwell in its heart. The Timberland has, I think, shown me all of itself that I wish to see. I believe that, from Port Viara, I will head south into the vast plains and gentle hills of amber-bladed grass. The city-kingdoms. One of them will be where I go next.

Which one, though? There are five, after all, and while I suppose I could find my way to them all in turn, I'm not sure I have any inclination to do so. Since I am choosing, there are two that rise above the rest in appeal: Galmash, also called the City of Sails, and Talent, the City of Spells. I've never been to the coast, nor have I laid eyes on the sea, and after bearing witness to the grandeur of Lake Viara, I can't help but wonder what the sea would be like in comparison. Are the waters as vast and blue? Is the sense of awe provoked lesser, greater, or the same?

Are there eels?

I have also heard of the ships they build there: massive, two-or-more decked vessels with huge, canvas sails. Supposedly, they also build fans and wheels of these sails and use the wind to power their mills and other industries.

The appeal of Talent, City of Spells, I should think is obvious: it is the seat and seed of magic. In tall, spiraling towers do the greatest minds in the land study what scraps of magic remain after the Damnation of Elves and seek to return what that great calamity took. Any magi worth their ice studied in the lecture halls and libraries of its universities. Did Clarke study there, I wonder? I think she must have, skilled magi that she is.

Thinking of Clarke makes me furrow my brow and give a little, frustrated whine in the back of my throat. I rather wish there was a way to define how she manages to so thoroughly distract my thoughts from what they were before. I was trying to decide where to go, and am now focused on her laugh and the spill of her ink-black hair and the shine of her blue, blue eyes. It's as bothersome as it is lovely. Perhaps I could track her down in the morning and ask what she thought of her time in Talent. It might help influence my decision.

If nothing else, it will be pleasant to see her again. A quick series of knocks at the closed door draws me from my thoughts. I sit up and shake the water from my ears. “Yes?”

Edith's voice is muffled, but easy to recognize. “Got yer rooms key 'ere, Miss Zira. If yer done cleanin' up, I can shows ye to it.” There's a little impatience, poorly hidden, in her words. It's irritating, but understandable. She does have a madhouse to run, after all. Besides, I think I've floated long enough. My fingers are very wrinkled.

“I'll be out in a moment,” I answer, and Edith's right, then is followed by a thump on the wall to one side of the door, as if she's leaned against it. I dress quickly, grab my satchel, and meet her outside.

- - -

In any other time or circumstance, wearing wet clothes is a monstrous annoyance. It is, across every scrap of covered skin, plainly uncomfortable. Now is no exception. I did my best to wring out every last drop, twisting and wrenching, but all that effort got me was damp clothes and a fading soreness in my fingers and wrists. In any other time or circumstance, I would not be pleased. Here and now, I don't care a bit. I'm clean; scrubbed and soaped and scoured from crown to heel. There is a bed nearby, calling me to slumber. I practically float back down the hall in Edith's wake.

The clamor and din of the taproom has only increased in my absence. The room, somehow becoming more crowded, though every seat appeared occupied when I first arrived. The clash of shouts, laughter, song, and curses resounds from the walls and ceiling to create a ungodly cacophany. That is to say nothing of the smell; drink and sweat come together, heated the press and number of bodies, with something sour and nose-wrinkling beneath it all. I don't care about this, either. I get to sleep in a bed tonight. It has a mattress, and pillows, and blankets.

I part ways with Edith at the base of the stairs, key pressed into my hand, and watch her square her shoulders. She casts a weathered eye over the taproom, spots where she's needed most, and plows into the sea of drunks. She parts it with pointed words and even more pointed elbows, each striking the soft and vulnerable places of her obstacles until they are no longer in her way. At the bar, Agnes handles the influx of empty flagons with the kind of ease born of long practice, all the while keeping up a steady stream of compliments, insults, demands for payment, and ejections. For a moment, I watch the masters at work, but the bed in room six is calling my name. So, I go.

The room is sparsely furnished; a bed, a table, a chair, and a desk. The bed is rather longer than my bunk back in my family's wagon, but about as narrow. It's tucked into a far corner from the door. The table sits by the headboard, beneath a window, with a lit candle dripping wax down into a metal dish. The chair and desk are across the room from the bed. In the furthest corner, its pipe going up and out through the ceiling, is a little pot-bellied stove. A small pile of cut and dried wood is stacked neatly next to it. Firelight comes through the slits in the grate, casting bars of reddened orange across the floor.

If only I had a line in front of the stove from which to hang my clothes. They'd be dry, come the morning. The chair will do, I suppose. I use my cloak to cover my satchel upon the table before dragging the chair over to within a foot of the stove. I close my eyes to bask in the dry heat given off at this distance. This will work perfectly. Giddy and rather pleased with myself, I arrange my clothes in the most advantageous of places for them to properly and thoroughly dry.

From there, bed. The sheets and blankets are soft on my bare skin, the pillow firm and welcoming to my weary head. I prop up onto an elbow, lick my thumb and first finger, then pinch the candle's wick out. With that light gone, I can see clearly out the window. It looks out onto the lake. The moon is huge tonight, so very fat and round and bright. Its light is harsh and gray, not at all the silver-softness of the small and distant stars. Bright enough to see by, or near enough.

Night fishermen, stooped under the weight of ropes and nets, load their boats before casting off to fish the moonlit lake for whatever catch can't be found in the daylight. Three set out, each one heralding their departure with lighted lamps and the small, brassy ring of a bell. A steady stream of drunkards flows from the taproom below, staggering on disobedient legs in every direction. Some go into alleys to puke, others to collapse into stupor, and the lucky few manage to find their way home. Movement in the tall shadow cast by the fishery. They're quick, darting shapes, unrecognizable until one trots proudly into the light, fish-fattened rat dead in its mouth. Cats, lean and smooth-furred, earning their keep as mousers.

A shriek of laughter filters through the glass, drawing my eye to the now-empty piers, where someone flees from another's half-hearted pursuit. The chaser shouts as the chased pulls away, long hair whirling around them as they look back and laugh again. This game, for it can only be that, continues for a short distance, before the chased allows themselves to be caught. Pursued and pursuer collide, arms entwining, spinning from the force of their joining. Laughter again, short, tapering into something I know well. I've seen my parents hold each other so, draw strength and love from the press of their brows.

My face burns, flush rising to scorch the backs of my ears. I shouldn't be watching this. It's a private moment, an intimate one, meant for the two of them and none other. It's strange; I don't want to join them in their moonlit embrace, but watching them fills me with a yearning that defies any further clarity. I tear myself away and drop back onto the bed, closing my eyes. The memory of them entwined crosses my mind in a slow, languorous drag, leaving behind a warmth and more of that strange yearning.

What is it that I want? Why can I not name what I feel? What is happening to me?!

I have no answers. Perhaps this is what it means to be grown; to always have more questions than answers. This thought is what I carry into sleep.