Capítulo 26: The Lull Before - Part 3
Cele made it to the border by dawn. Lake Doley was off to his left, and Simo, dead north. Already, he could feel the chill of the impending snowy kingdom seep into his bones like a final warning - but warnings were only useful for those who had a choice. And because the general didn’t, he found himself half covered in mud, following a rather seedy fellow along a long-abandoned trade route that the Simonese rarely patrolled. Likely because anyone who would take it was an absolute fool.
“You’re sure of this?” Cele asked for what seemed to be the millionth time.
The questionable fellow smirked back at him.
“We just have to get you to Mister Gerald.”
“Is he close?” Cele grumbled. They had left the inn a good hour ago on foot and it didn’t help that winter came earlier in Simo than it did in Ilyos. Cele prepared with a cloak, but even with the wool wrapped tightly around himself, it did little to block the cutting winds that were being swept towards them by the ocean to their left.
With blind faith, he had accepted that this weaselly looking man knew how to smuggle him across the border. Various accounts from sordid ‘merchants’ occupying the darkest corners of the inn all agreed that the one he needed to see was a ‘Mister Gerald’, but only the man scaling the cliff with mountain-goat ease was up for the task of actually delivering him - and for a steep price.
While it was a gamble, Cele knew all he had to do was pull his dagger if he felt he was being led astray, and the man would bend to his will.
“Within the next half mile.” The young man jutted his chin forward, as if Cele would be able to see through the thick brush. “Mister Gerald has a house on the edge of the cliff.”
The incline wasn’t much different from the bluffs of Ilyos that Cele would scale with Vincente in their younger, stupider years, but it seemed that the chill made everything more difficult. All the more reason to make this journey as quick as possible. Not that more of a reason was needed. Time was not on the general’s side.
Not long after, Cele spotted a squat wooden structure.
“Is that it?”
The young man only cackled, and Cele huffed a preparatory breath, grasping for his cloak as a whipping wind spiraled about them, carried from the sea.
As they neared the modest structure, Cele noticed that it was not only squat, but round. It reminded him more of a hermit cave than a home. He wondered-
“Step no further.” Her voice carried with the wind, but Cele saw no figure. He narrowed his eyes, in hopes of discerning it.
“Miss Aisha, it’s me!”
The utter desperation in the man’s voice tugged violently at the general’s instinct to draw his arms, but he didn’t. He knew that name. Aisha.
“Who do you bring with you?”
Her accent was Simonese. It certainly wasn’t born with her.
“He’s an Ilysian traveler looking to visit family!”
Cele winced at his off the dome explanation. He knew none of the blokes in the inn believed it, so he figured it was well enough, but hearing it back made him feel dimwitted. And for a quick but lasting silence, he wondered if he ruined his chances, but then light cracked through as the door of the small house was pushed open. From it emerged a slight man dressed in Simonese winter furs.
“Come on, then,” he said, waving a hand closer.
“Good evening, Mister Gerald.” The young man greeted him, pushing Cele towards the hut.
“Name?” Mister Gerald had a sharp face and a fur hat covering his head and ears. His eyes were dark, steely.
“Philo.”
Cele’s father was a great man, but he was merely a fisherman. No one would know his name like they would know the general of the Ilysian armies.
Mister Gerald regarded him. “Philo. What’s your business in Simo?”
“As this young man said,” Cele replied, his confidence absolutely unfounded. “I’m visiting family.”
“Intermingling with Ilysians is treason,” replied Mister Gerald.
“Hence why I require your mercy.”
Mister Gerald eyed Cele as another appeared in the doorframe. She was short, her skin the color of spices, her hair blacker than coal. Isari, Cele realized. This woman was Isari.
It couldn’t have been a coincidence that the woman Bernardo spoke of - the one granted citizenship by King Ingo - was also of Isari heritage. His heart began to hammer. Was he too far in to back away now? If he did, would there be another opportunity to sneak into Simo unnoticed?
What was her name again? Aisha?
“Allow him in.” Her words, thick with a syrupy accent, cut through his musings - and good for it, as her appraising gaze was awaiting him.
Mister Gerald looked over at her as well, verifying her sincerity, it seemed, before nodding and gesturing for Cele to enter.
“Close the door, Gerald.” Aisha’s commands were severe, and yet left one wanting. Even Cele, in the fleeting moment that they were aware of each other’s existence, could’ve easily formulated many-a fantasy of her for the dead of night.
It was likely why the young guide didn’t put up a fight at all when the door was closed on him.
The interior of the house was sectioned off by intricately dyed cloths – Isari cloths – so that he could see only the entrance and the small kitchen with a crude table holding bowls of spices and glass jars, vials and mixing tools.
“Are you making medicine?” Cele asked, jutting his chin out to the table.
Aisha cocked a brow.
“Philo, you said your name was.”
Cele nodded.
“Your Ilysian accent is strong. You could be crucified in some places if you speak.” She continued. It was a joke, of course. Crucifixion was an Ilysian practice for treason. The Simonese, the general figured, had it much worse, though he supposed their end came quicker. Since the age of nomadic tribes in Simo, they favored a punishment called blood eagle, where the executioner would sever the ribs from the spine and from the gaping hole, pull out their lungs and place them on their back like a bloody pair of wings. Of course, many non-Simonese believed it to be simply a tall tale spun to put terror into their enemies. Lamentably, Cele knew better.
“Are you thirsty?” Mister Gerald asked, grabbing a porcelain cup from a simple pantry and pouring the contents of a wetskin into it. It was an amber color. Mead. Cele nodded.
“Isn’t it that Ilysians prefer the sour taste of wine to the sweet Simonese mead?” Aisha asked. It wasn’t accusatory. It seemed to Cele, as unlikely as it was, that the jab was actually playful.
“I could ask the same,” he began, testing his luck. “About the Isaris preferences.”
She smirked and sat down at the table, clearing away some of the medicinal ingredients so Cele could sit as well.
“Philo. Why Philo?” She asked, taking a cup from Mister Gerald for herself.
“Why did my parents name me Philo?” Cele asked puckishly, pulling out a wooden stool from beneath the table and taking a seat. It creaked beneath him but was built sturdily.
“No, why did you name yourself Philo?” She corrected with a smirk.
Capítulo 27: The Lull Before - Part 4
Cele’s lips flattened into a tight line. He knew it was a last minute, ill-crafted lie, but was it that transparent?
Worst case scenario, there were only two of them - both of which Cele could easily overpower, even without his weapons.
“It was about midmorning,” Aisha sighed, setting her mead on the table in front of her. “When the Ilysian armies at the 91st Battle of Tyton began to overtake the Simonese.”
Midmorning on the fifth day, yes. Cele knew that all too well.
“Desperation was beginning to infect the young men battling alongside the brave king. This king was wise, and while he knew strategians won wars, they were useless without tools of implementation. So, the brave king came to a hired advisor and asked them these questions. ‘What can be done? What can give us the favor of the gods? What can give us the favor of the battle?’ He gave this advisor ten minutes to think – any longer and the tide would be too strong to swim back from. Simonese supplies were low, morale even lower. The advisor struggled for three solid minutes, knowing their decision - and their decision alone - would be the life or death of that brave king, his three sons, and his entire army.”
She settled her piercing gaze onto Cele, stilling every muscle in his body.
"What possibly could have been done? What would you have done, Philo?"
As a soldier from the other side, Cele knew he might’ve been biased. As a general who was far too decorated to hold pride in his militant achievements, he knew only a miracle sent by the gods would have shifted the favor of the battle. Cele couldn’t imagine how many nights of sleep that burden of responsibility had stolen from her.
When she broke her gaze, her eyes fell to her hands, and for a moment, she rested there in silence, as if mourning.
“Well, that adviser never answered. They were not quick enough, nor did they possess the ingenuity, the intrepid acuity, that ultimately bought them more time.” She raised her chin, smiling gently at Cele. “It was a young soldier, the echo of his greenness still resonating as he crossed through the camps. He spoke so boldly, so audaciously to the king that an outsider would fear for the young man’s life. I remember his words precisely. ‘Let a priest curse our arrows.’”
Aisha released a full, jovial laugh, throwing her head back in genuine gaiety.
Though, while she laughed, a pit settled in Cele’s stomach. Curse the arrows? He remembered a few wicked volleys, the panic they incited.
“While spoken enigmatically, the young soldier had the plan already prepared, awaiting the king’s approval. Spice tipped arrows.”
“Spice…” Cele exhaled, brows arched in absolute bewilderment. The arrows he couldn't force himself to forget, even if he tried, caused excruciating pain to those they struck, or even grazed. He himself had not been immune to their terrifying properties. The steel arrowhead that nicked a bare stretch of skin between his neck guard and his helmet caused such excruciating burning sensations that he thought it had been poisoned.
“It caused chaos for the Ilysian troops,” Aisha said, and it was true. The disorder that came about by it, no matter how quickly it passed, was enough to make the Ilysian infantry lose their footing. “Short lived burning and inflammation. That was all it caused. But battle isn’t about strength of the body, it’s about strength of the mind.”
Cele watched her smile, wondering if she relished the sight of the enemy in pandemonium.
“When a man’s skin burns because of a spice, he doesn’t flinch. When a man’s skin burns because of a curse, however…” She flashed her teeth before biting back the joy the memory elicited, composing her expression into something more authoritative. “I tell you this story, Philo, because said adviser would certainly remember the face of the Ilysian general, Celestino Adesso.”
Cele’s muscles went rigid, but he remained calm. Any rash move now would end badly.
“And you,” he directed back at her. “Aisha, were said adviser.”
She smirked. “I was. But relax, general. I have no intention of causing you harm.” She reached over and took a sizable swig of Cele’s mead. “The drinks are clean, the house has no weapons, aside from arrows, but they would be no good in such a cramped area, anyway.”
When this didn’t relax him, she continued.
“I hold no ill-will, as of this moment.”
“No ill-will.” Cele repeated her words with a sharp gaze. “Towards the man who killed your brave king?”
She tutted and sighed. “Yes, well that is disagreeable, indeed, but this worldly life is about the choices we make with the information we have. It is about relativity. We have no use for godly truths if we do not and cannot know them.”
The general remained quiet, not entirely confident he understood what she was saying.
“You are not the worser of two evils at the moment, General Adesso,” Aisha pressed on. “The wicked king that sits on the Simonese throne, on the other hand, I hold a strong distaste for. And I know for a fact that you are here because of Prince Heiko. What I need to know, however, is this - are your intentions to aid him or cause him harm?”
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