Serial
11: Sojourners
November
4th, 32 S.D. 08:18 Sevetslana, Upper Vestel
I remember well the day we left Palostrol. We gathered everything that we’d need for the journey south, at least until we’d arrive at the nearest city. The only things we had to wear though were the uniforms we’d been using for years on end. It wasn’t so much a practical concern as it was a mental one. We were soon to leave the school where we’d learned and lost so much, yet it seemed as if it wouldn’t let go of us. Symbolically, like the garb we wore, it ever clung to us, as black as oblivion.
Losha really stepped up, taking charge of both of us. She took it upon herself to plot out our general route, the provisions we’d need, and a dozen other concerns that I would have scarcely even considered. I would have liked to think that I’d always set an example for the younger students, perhaps not really as a mentor per se, but in general as an older student. I wanted them to see someone who was mature and decisive, qualities that I valued in adulthood. Yet she proved herself well beyond anything I was ever capable of demonstrating at the time. She moved about, methodically, systemically, as if the goal were already achieved, and we had only to follow the course. Details and specifics I would never have ensured - how much distance we could cover on which day, securing the school’s funds that Master Eltin had left behind, even the general safety of our route - she had already managed for us.
The coming of age for Astens is generally 16 years old. There I was, a full year past that, and still not a bit wiser on what it really meant to be an adult. Yet the same was hardly true of Losha. She understood something that I had yet to tackle, something that Master Eltin felt warranted her a new title: responsibility. Losha wasn’t just the type of responsible that takes care of duties as they were given; she looked for ways in which she was accountable. Everyone used to love to imagine and fear her as a big sister, but the fact was that she had become something more capable than that. She was a woman now. I however, could barely call myself a man yet.
We took everything of value and importance to us as we departed. There weren’t too many articles from my own room, just the necessities of travel. I wondered if I should have had more than a few personal effects to carry away from a place that had greatly changed my life. Perhaps if I had been there longer, if I had been in that school for most of my life like those two, would I have taken more?
Before we were to leave, scant hours really, I thought to perhaps take a memento from a friend’s room. It wasn’t as if he’d be back anytime soon to reclaim it, and wouldn’t it have been better that his memory lived on in some way rather than forgotten on the obscure reaches of Mount Anhel? But as I stood in the doorway before the threshold of his former space, I couldn’t go in. As if repelled, my feet gave pause. I could go no further than that, blocked by some barrier. Everything was as he’d left it, a chaotic cluster of objects mixed and strewn about the floor, the desk, the bed. It was a perfect snapshot of his character. I could not bear myself to disturb these pieces, the last vestiges of someone I had known throughout my entire stay at the school. Instead, I could but shut the door.
Turning back into the hall, however, I was confronted with yet more rooms absent of their owners. The people they once housed, the people I had once known, they would never return. Out of observance or compulsion, I closed each and every door in the dorms until at last I stood alone on the first floor, surrounded by silence on each side.
I wasn’t the only one closing things as we left. Within the first few steps out of Palostrol, Losha turned around and performed a series to shut the north-bound gate. The heavy doors shut Palostrol away, slowly, creakily pinching the school away from sight until its great wooden facades blocked it entirely. With a deep thud, we heard the bar fall in place behind the gates, locking the grounds away from the world. With it, a chapter of our lives had also concluded.
It was a strange experience indeed that the three of them were suddenly thrust into the likes of an outside world. Mesel had practically been raised in Palostrol and knew little of the Continent. Losha had spent more time in their school than not. Denze was the only one among them not to have lived in Palostrol for most of his life. Still, each of them was inexperienced when it came to interacting with society at large. It was an unintended fault of living so secluded a life, relatively speaking. Sure there had been a couple hundred other students to connect with, but they were hardly an example of the types of people that populated lands far and wide. For one thing, the people of the Continent could be notably ruder. The gentleman before Losha was surely one such example.
Sevetslana was a bustling city of industry, a heavy mining and transport hub some 60 kilometers south of Oskarya. It was a grungy center of humanity full of hardy folks, grim buildings, and questionable walkways. The city was the kind of place where one goes to lose faith in anything but money or alcohol. Here spirit and ambition gave way to resignation, the reality of a working-class life. While Losha had done some research into what their stops would be like, she hadn’t managed to come across a lot of exact information regarding this city in particular, thus Sevetslana had been quite a surprise to them as outsiders. Going through Sevetslana was the most direct approach to the Central Plains, so there was no avoiding it. Even if they had known beforehand of its conditions, no other way south was feasible. They were ill-prepared to spend nights outside, thus their progress had to be on a town-by-town basis. Sevetslana and the following locations after it were the only places they could reasonably reach in a day’s time.
The city had already served them for one evening, and on this morning they were nearly ready to resume their journey. The half-wise acceptable hotel they had stayed in had a decent, passable restaurant as well as an adjacent bar in the next room. Already the stools were filled with coveralled men getting their drinks in before the 9 A.M. shifts called them back to the pits of the earth. The bartender, an old man with a surly glare, laughed loudly at Losha’s face. Bits of spittle pelted her cheek, but for her part she remained collected and unfazed. He quickly handed a wanting hand another glass of vodka, filling up the cup to precise measurements without so much as a glance. He mumbled something in his native tongue, neither Asten nor Gandian.
“What are you, stupid or something?” he asked through his accent, although his grammar was uncannily spot on. “It is just like I tell my brother. These days, all the girls want to do is look pretty and not think. You are pretty, but it is obvious as well that you are pretty dumb. Why else would you ask such a ridiculous question?”
Another drinker chimed in on their conversation.
“Zetski, come now. When was the last time any woman talked to you? And this is how you treat the first lass to so much as even look at you?”
“Bah,” the bartender huffed. “I have talked to plenty of women in my time, you were just too drunk to notice.”
“I’m not drunk now...”
“Sir,” Losha said calmly despite the numerous offenses that had been thrown at her. “I merely asked what nearest city can we reach by train.”
“And I will tell you, girl, you are in that city already,” the bartender replied.
“I don’t understand.”
“Neyt. Of course not. As usual with women.”
Denze had the hardest time checking himself during this exchange. He was no outsider to ingrates or misogynists, but he could little stand to let them be, especially when they insulted someone so close to him. He and Mesel sat down eating in the restaurant portion, their backs turned to the ongoing discussion. Still, he could feel his pulse rising, the heat dancing up his neck and along his face, the tension curling in his chest. How he wanted nothing more than to stand up and sock the dirty b*****d straight across the head.
Ever since his fight with Einer, he’d wondered about all of the techniques serialization could enable in combat. Though he hadn’t done a thing to that man, he’d seen what was possible to achieve. Even if he could only emulate a fraction of that kind of talent, it would be more than enough to topple the average adversary. Satisfying himself with the fact that he could wipe out that pig-headed bartender was the only thing actually preventing him from doing it. With that, he angrily bit into a bagel as Losha continued.
“We are from up north. We do not know much about things down here.”
“You don’t know much about anything is what you say to me. There are no passenger trains that leave or arrive in Sevetslana. The only things that go by train are all the copper and iron these idiots risk their lives to dig up.”
A couple of veteran miners raised their shots and cheered.
“We dig to live, we dig to die!”
“We’ll dig anything for coin.”
“Even our own graves!”
And with that, they burst into dark laughter, finding it both comical and sad, yet accepting their fates all the same. Losha ignored them entirely.
“Thank you for the information then,” she said, turning around and heading back to Denze and Mesel. She sat down on the opposite side of their table.
“I was hoping that we could at least have taken a train to the Lower Vestel region to save us time and effort, but that, unfortunately, is not possible at the moment.”
“I heard,” Denze said, emphatically scowling. “That sexist vansel’s voice carries as far as his stench.”
“Watch you tongue, Denze,” she chastised.
“Sa, it’s not like anyone else around here speaks Asten. And Mesel here’s gotta learn it himself sometime, right? Why not start with the harsh words?” He poked at the kid good-naturedly, but the boy merely looked down at his plate with half-eaten bread in hand. Denze frowned for a second but then turned to Losha, changing the subject.
“So, where do we go from here?”
She carefully extracted a map from her large backpack. Having already finished her meal, she pushed her plate aside and spread the sheet in its place.
“Obviously the idea is to head south until we reach Lower Vestel, then southeast until we hit the northern borders of the Central Plains. After that we need to head almost directly to the center of, well, the Central Plains. My clan’s territory is large and vast, so we cannot pass it up or miss it somehow.”
She held the map right side-up for their view, tracing their path with her finger as she spoke. Denze noted that the map conspicuously contained no mention or detail of any current or past boundaries for the 14 major clans and their lands. It was no small feat of cartography to actually do so though; the lands were in constant dispute and in fact changed hands frequently. In the time since he’d been away, the geopolitical landscape had probably greatly changed, and even more so since Losha’s. Nevertheless, it would have been useful to know even the general layouts so as to avoid clans that were inimical to the Sventa and their kind.
“We can reach Anchta in three more days, stopping at these two towns for the night. After that we can head for Straztton and we should then be fairly close to entering the Central Plains.”
“And we’re walking the entire way?”
Losha sighed softly.
“For the present time being, we have no choice in the matter. There are no major rivers that cut as far south and east as we need to go, so we cannot go by ferry. I had hoped to find a pair of horses for purchase somewhere between here and Anchta. Two would be enough. You ride well?”
“Well enough,” he answered. “And yourself?”
“I have not ridden in quite a while, but it is nothing one so easily forgets.”
“It’d be easier if we could fly...”
“You mean... by balloon or something of that sort? I am afraid I do not know where to even start looking...”
“No, I meant with serialization.”
“Oh,” she said, realizing that his words were wishful thinking. “That would be nice, but that is still quite a ways above our levels, even for me.” She folded up the map and placed it back in her pack. “Anyway, such is the general outline of our course. At this rate, it is not likely to change. We should be on the road again by 10 ‘o’ clock to make it to the next town by nightfall. I must go to the bathroom for a moment.”
She stood up and left them, going around a corner and into a door. Denze folded his arms on the table and put his head down.
“Mesel,” he said. “A ‘vansel’ is a low-life, someone who’s either fat, lazy, stupid, or all of those things. They drink a lot or are around those who do. They’re loud, obnoxious, crude, and sweat very much. Combined with their poor hygiene, they have distinct, oppressive odors. That’s what it means in Asten. See? Our language is pretty easy. Vansel? Good-for-nothing shrieking moron.”
Mesel looked at Denze for a rare moment as he finished the last bits of his bread. All of a sudden there was a large crash behind them with the sound of smashing glass and some liquid gushing to the floor. An uproar of outrage exploded from several people, chiefly the bartender. A litany of creative cursing was strung together as they seemingly scrambled about.
“What sorta f**k-s**t is that Mavrov? My boot’s all wet now!” someone exclaimed.
The bartender grumbled something unintelligible in his throat.
“Damn your shrieking boots! Go step in s**t, they’ll look much nicer anyway,” he thundered. “More importantly, look at that. A whole row of glasses just... KIIISSSHH!” he said, miming the noise.
“Oh,” he then groaned, splashing into something. “And this keg here is broken!”
“Hey, put my cup under that leak in the side,” said a patron, hurriedly coming over.
“It won’t be free you weasel,” the bartender growled.
“Come on! It’s practically on the floor, so it should be on the house!”
“Hey, how do you think all of them glasses just flew off of them shelves?” another customer asked his neighbor.
“Hell if I know. Alls I know is that you can’t spell Olaf with oaf. Prolly banged his shithead self against the wall.”
“His name’s not Olaf though...”
And so the scene continued in much a similar fashion. Mesel looked back at the bar, his eyes still gazing as if he were himself so very far from the situation. As the excitement died down and the cleanup actually began, he turned back to Denze.
“Hey, don’t look at me. I mean, would I do a series like that?”
Later that day, they arrived in the town of Belvos, a somewhat notorious stay-over for traders, merchants, and business folks. Belvos itself was primarily involved in the lumber industry, but it happened to be positioned equidistant from Kravea to the east and Chetchevem to the west. The fastest way to either major economic hub was by road, thus housing travelers had become a sort of secondary industry. Occasionally it gave respite to those coming and going to Sevetslana, but unfortunately Sevetslana was a city not keen to let its people go. As if it had them by hook, the city allowed few to escape its hold. Their brief stay, however, had not been enough to condemn them to that gritty, harsh, urban wasteland.
Belvos was a world away, however, without rudeness, alcohol, or the looming threat of man-eating mines. The streets were clean and paved, and the buildings were made of wood and brick rather than rust. While there were a number of upscale hotels easily available to them - thanks in large part to the money Eltin had left behind - they chose a moderately quaint one instead.
After eating dinner, they retired back to their rooms for the night. There really wasn’t much else for them to do with themselves. Having spent most of the day on the move, none of them was exactly in the mood for yet more walking, thus sightseeing was out of the question. Until they reached Losha’s home, there wouldn’t be much to preoccupy them except travel. So as it was, they said their “goodnight”s at six ‘o’clock that evening.
“Are you sure you do not want a room to yourself, Denze?” Losha asked him as he was about to close the door.
“It’s fine. I don’t mind keeping him company. Besides,” he switched to Asten, knowing fully that Mesel would understand nothing of it. “He may pass the time in silence, but he passes the nights fitfully, as if in terror.”
It was the first time she’d heard about any such nightmares, but Mesel’s trauma was only to be expected, given all that they’d been through. In light of that, she could little argue with Denze and Mesel’s sharing a room yet again.
“Very well then. Just ensure that your door is locked.”
“As usual.”
“Fluctuate your seras frequency if you need me.”
“Or I’ll just knock...”
“Do not forget to set the clock’s alarm for 7:30.”
“Goodnight, mom,” he said emphatically as he closed the door.
Losha’s room was right across the hallway. She entered there, but rather than going to bed immediately she rummaged through her backpack. A moment later she pulled out a book that bore no title. It was leather-bound, dark brown, and consisted of some 150 pages. Taking this book over to the room’s desk, she opened the draw and looked about. As a convenience and service to the guest, there sat a stack of stationary paper, a bottle of ink, and a pen. Losha sought out only the latter two, however. After a few seconds spent setting these items up on the desk, she placed the book beside them and opened it up. Most of its pages remained entirely blank, but the first few segments contained her writings.
Although the library in Palostrol had held many bits of information about serialization, all of it had been scattered across numerous, seemingly random documents. Though she had joyfully spent hours of her time back in Palostrol cataloging that data, only now did she realize that it had painfully left them without a single authoritative source regarding the complex art. As students, they had never learned from a textbook, rather they had always gained their knowledge directly from Master Eltin or else through his chosen mentors. With Eltin gone, and she the only one of his mentors left, it seemed of utmost importance to preserve all that she could in a single, compact volume. Were something to happen to her, the art could live on, at least in some sense. However, the very creation of such a book challenged her, forcing her to confront the unsettling mantle set forth before her path.
The book, once complete, would be an effective tool in teaching others to serialize. Thanks to Gandian printing technology, books could formally be copied and published widely, cheaply. Did she truly accept the role King had placed upon her? What else did the book serve, if not to spread the knowledge of serialization to those who would hear her? She wanted no part in King’s grand experiment to see if the world were worthy of the soul’s natural power, yet her hands betrayed that motive with every word she wrote.
On the opposing side of her mind, she felt as if she really had not planned anything else for her life but to teach the ways of serialization. She’d given no thought to any other occupation save that of a scholar in this field. Wouldn’t Master Eltin have wanted to see the art reach as far as it could, touch as many people as it might? Hadn’t that been his dream in the school he’d founded. Losha wanted as much, but she simply abhorred King’s ways of thinking, that the Continent should be rid of serialization entirely if its usage failed to meet his moral standards. How one walked between these two conflicting forces was something beyond her current insight though.
She finished up a key segment, but with the weight of such questions upon her, and with answers ever elusive, she could not advance the project, not tonight. The road ahead of herself simply wasn’t clear enough. Perhaps once she had returned home after all of these years, things would become a bit easier to see.
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