Chương 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.
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