Altered Destiny

Ch. 6

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Time passed slowly in Ataraxia, Ingressus noticed. Or maybe it only passed slowly because he was bored. There was less to do than in the mountains– or maybe, less that needed doing. There had always been activity back at the camp: the adults would rotate going hunting or patrolling for signs of enemy clans, and meanwhile the children and remaining adults would train, collect firewood, tend to the camp, prepare what the hunters brought back... the tasks to be done could be tedious at times, but at least there was something going on. Here in Ataraxia, he had to just sit around– or hobble around, at best– and wait for his leg to heal.

Ingressus exhausted every avenue Galleous's cave provided him for ways to occupy himself. He raided Galleous's bookshelf for things to read, eavesdropped on the conversations happening at the cave entrance, and once was so bored he took a cut of raw pork and tried cooking it over the lava basin. Galleous had cocked his head curiously when he saw him, but the only comment he made was "I'd never thought of that." At night Ingressus would sneak out of his room to study Galleous's maps, searching aimlessly for anywhere he might be able to go once his welcome in Ataraxia was overstayed. He designed a handle for his blade, securing a wooden grip to the broken side and sharpening the edge. After watching Galleous repair someone's iron hoe, he borrowed the rust-removing whatever-the-stuff-was, and polished and sharpened the blade until it was like new.

After about a week, he got his chance to search Galleous's room. The Sendaris had left on a trip to the market, telling Ingressus, "if the worst happens and someone finds you, tell them to talk to me." Ingressus watched him leave, gave him a few minutes to return in case he had forgotten something, then went in a last search of Voltar and his father's broadsword. A chest sat near the foot of Galleous's bed and he beelined for it, but try as he might the ice-blasted thing wouldn't open. He tugged and yanked, beat the lid with his fist, even crouched on the floor and tried to shove it open with his shoulder, all to no avail. The only locked chest in the cave had to mean there was something worth hiding, but that knowledge didn't help him if he couldn't get it open.

He slumped over the chest in frustration, then paused, pressing his hands to the wood. There were Songs in the chest, he realized. At least two different orders, probably, flickering and humming faintly away at his Song-sense through the wood. Well, that could be worth hiding. Didn't prove that Voltar wasn't there, though.

He punched the chest again in frustration. Maybe he could get a shovel and break the thing open, but there would be no way of hiding what he'd done. It would be a last resort, he decided. If he was desperate, or there was danger– when he was ready or needed to run. Which he wasn't, yet. He still needed to heal.

Listening in on the Ataraxians' conversations was a strange experience for Ingressus. According to Galleous, the population was mostly Ardoni, but what he heard wasn't... wasn't at all what he would expect the four clans to be like. It was so... ordinary. Sure, they talked about farming and mining instead of hunting and patrols, but it wasn't— they didn't sound cruel, or vengeful, or bloodthirsty. Children would call to their parents, having found something interesting to show them. Passers-by would share gossip, or news about family members. They didn't sound like raiders or Champions. If Ingressus hadn't known better, if the truth didn't hit him in the face with every birdsong, every warm breeze, every hobbling step he took, he might've been able to believe he was back home.

Some evenings, Ingressus would wrap himself in a blanket to hide his glow and walk down to sit on the balcony. He would stare out at the floating islands, dark and still against the moonlit sky, with torches and lanterns capping their peaks in light. Once he heard voices from another island, and looked through the railing to see the Mendoris from the first morning sitting on a balcony, two children with identical markings sitting with him and listening intently. Ingressus couldn't make out the words, but the way the children were leaning forward reminded him of Gyarus's stories, the way you would be dragged in as though you were really there.