Chapter 6: Gold and Leaf
- Location
- The Lower 48
- Pronouns
- He/Him/His
(Thank you to MetalDragon and Sunny for the edits.)
9 Saven, 997 NE
Cold Rocks Hold, Taardad Aiel, Aiel Waste
Chareen to Goshien to Tomanelle, Shaarad to Taardad to Miagoma, including even the generally despised Shaido, we were all Aiel, the people of the Threefold Land. Across clan borders and sept divisions, above society membership and craft brotherhood, we remained one nation and one people, united by Ji'e'toh, the efforts of the Wise Ones, and Rhuidean. Despite raids and rivalries, blood-feuds and water oaths, we were all one.
We were all Aiel. We looked broadly the same, with each clan as redhaired and pale beneath our cadin'sor as the rest. Across lines of clan and craft, virtually every Aielman wore their hair in the same ear-length cut and all women wore their hair loose and long, save for young girls, who wore their hair in pigtails, and Maidens, who tied theirs back into a braid.
Considering the sheer size of the Threefold Land and the great distances between the holds of even the same clan, it was an almost incredible degree of uniformity. Every Aiel I had encountered, from the Chareen of my home Jarra Sept to the Goshien war party I had met on the Rhuidean road to my hosts of the Nine Valleys Taardad, were unmistakably one people despite their differing affiliations.
Up to this point in my third life, I had hardly so much as seen anybody who was not Aiel. In large part, this was a result of my home sept's location amid the foothills rising to the Dragonwall. Distant from the routes that ran across the Threefold Land from the water-rich Wetlands to the Shaaran trading posts on the Cliffs of Dawn, Shende Hold rarely had visitors from clans other than the Chareen, much less any visitors from outside the Aiel completely.
Indeed, in all my memories of childhood, outsiders had only come to Shende Hold once, when I was ten. Three years before I ever approached Salin and requested his consideration for an apprenticeship.
When the brightly painted wagons, pulled by sturdy short-legged ponies, arrived on the stony plain outside of the Hold, I along with Gharadin and all of the other children were instructed to turn our faces away and ignore them. This was an order that I had disregarded, resolving that I would pay off the toh I incurred for my defiance later.
Insatiable curiosity had burned within me. The Lost Ones had barely been mentioned in my ancestor's lessons, but I knew that they had once, long and long ago, been part of us, had been Aiel.
But no longer.
Had they also seen the death march of our people? I'd wondered, watching the doors on those little wagons open and women and children exit, the men stepping down from the driver's benches. Could their defiance have a reason? Perhaps I could escape to them instead of taking up the spear?
As Rheaba, the Roofmistress, rejected their request for shade and shelter, I continued to watch from the perch I had found atop the roof of Shende Hold. Though I had been told that these were Aiel who had lost their way, I could see nothing of my adopted people in the short man and woman who approached Rheaba on behalf of their convoy. While their steps were as light as the feet of the Algai'd'siswai, they possessed none of the predatory grace of the Dancers of the Spear. Instead, they walked as if they were always a step away from dancing, moving to an unseen tune. Their hair was dark, their skin olive; a far cry from the bright hair and, below the clothes, pale skins of the Aiel. Instead of the greys and duns of the closely-fitted cadin'sor, the Lost Ones wore loose garments of vermillion, sapphire, and emerald.
Most notably, not a single one of the Tinkers bore anything like a weapon. None of the men had so much as a belt knife between them, and the vast pack of mastiffs that had flooded out from the open wagons gamboled happily with the little children, all of whom wore equally colorful clothing as their parents.
If they were Aiel once, I had thought, dismayed, they are far, far gone now. Do they not understand the Threefold Land is dangerous, full of deadly beasts and, to the north, roving bands of Shadowspawn?
"Yes, child, they know."
Carefully, I had turned away as Rheaba gave the Lost Ones permission to refill their water barrels and to replenish their food before sending them back out into the desert. Sorilea stood beside and behind me, looking out over the Tinkers. Her features were flat, almost expressionless, and I could not read any part of my ancestor's thoughts upon her face.
"The Lost Ones are not ignorant of the world," Sorilea had continued, voice bleak, "only of the foolhardiness of their own mission. They are lost to us by choice, Taric, not by ignorance." Her lips, always thin, tightened. "They are cowards and shirkers, too weak to carry the burden placed upon us all by our ancient failures, and too weak to defend themselves. Weakness," she added, "comes in many forms. What use is a strong arm and a quick hand, if you will not take up a spear?"
What use indeed? I wondered, mulling the rhetorical question over. So the Lost Ones choose not to take up weapons?
"The Gai'shain do not take up weapons, Wise One," I had stated plainly. "Yet they till the fields and cut the stone for the walls."
"Cheeky," Sorilea had admonished, not turning to look at me, "but not wrong, great-son. Yet a Gai'shain, once putting off the white, will pick up his weapons again if he was Algai'd'siswai. While an Aiel may never pick up a sword, the Lost Ones will refuse to touch any weapon or raise a hand against any living being. If they are attacked, they will run and hide, and if pursued the men will block blows aimed at their wives with their bodies, and the wives their children. Only in this way are the Lost Ones still our kin."
Absolute pacifists, in the most extreme sense. It had been difficult to even wrap my mind around such a concept. Even before I had been a soldier in my second life, back in the law-abiding society of my first life, violence was still justifiable in self-defense. In my second life, killing had not only been justified by the time and society and circumstances but glorified, promoted as the greatest service a soldier or mage could provide their homeland. Violence was of course illogical, the outcome of a failed negotiation, but…
To not even defend yourself or your family… Gorge had risen in my throat. To have the capacity to struggle, to fight, to resist, and to willfully deprive yourself of those means… Yes, I understand why they are lost to us. The Aiel are a weapon, keenly honed to fight an apocalyptic war. That road leads to insanity and death, but just exposing our bellies would be no less fatal.
"...Wise One," I had asked again, taking full advantage of this opportunity to press for answers, for explanations, "why do the Lost Ones say that they left us?"
"What they have to say on the matter is beyond my knowledge, child," Sorilea had admitted, lips flattening again in displeasure. Perhaps at having to admit as much, perhaps at the prospect of exchanging more than a sentence or two with the Lost Ones. "After all of these centuries, it is entirely possible that they no longer remember. They are lost, and they have no path back home any longer."
We had stood in silence, watching the Lost Ones prepare to leave us again, until the last wagon had slipped from sight. Afterwards, I admitted my toh, confessing my defiance but not apologizing for my curiosity. Sorilea had tasked me with the onerous task of hauling the droppings from the goatpens to the fields, a punishment that I had discharged without complaint.
It had been one of the few times in my childhood that I had spent any time alone with my ancestor, and the information I had gained in the exchange had been well worth the minor dishonor.
Seven years later, I again watched as wagons clustered outside the entrance of a hold. Unlike the vibrantly colored wagons of the Lost Ones, these were unpainted and utilitarian, mere haulers of freight – and the owners of said freight – rather than family homes. With their raised canvas roofs and the teams of massive broad-horned oxen that had pulled them to a rest outside of Cold Rocks Hold's protective mesa, the newly arrived wagons reminded me of pictures I had seen of American pioneers guiding vaguely similar vehicles onwards.
More interesting to me than the wagons and their covered cargo were their occupants. Eleven outsiders stood in the afternoon shadow of the mesa wall, Wetlanders from beyond the Dragonwall, three of them women and the rest men. Most of these stood uneasily, shifting from foot to foot as they stared at the gap in the mesa's walls, the corridor to Cold Rocks Hold, and at the woman who stood seemingly alone in the mouth of that gap.
I wonder if they've spotted any of the Spears surrounding them?
Crouching in the low folds of the land and behind boulders long-since crumbled from the mesa, Algai'd'siswai circled, a dozen each of the Brothers of the Eagle and Maidens of the Spear, Far Aldazar Din and Far Dareis Mai, ready to dance at a moment's notice, veils already raised below their shoufa in anticipation of treachery from the dark-haired wetlanders.
"Oh Roofmistress of the Cold Rocks," one of the men called out, his voice carrying easily despite the distance, roughened by road-work and accustomed to bellowing orders. He stepped forwards, his hands turned up and raised to shoulder height in supplication. From my perch above, I couldn't see the dancers of the two societies tense at the movement, but I could imagine hands tightening on spears, bowstrings vibrating under tension. "I am Admira Mulales, a trader out of Tear, under the sponsorship of House Belcelona! I request your permission to step below your roof and to trade with your sept, as I have done these past two years!"
"I see you, Admira Mulares, peddler from Tear," Lian acknowledged, her voice equally carrying for all its light timber. She inclined her head a slight degree, showing respect without taking her eyes away from Admira's eyes or hands. "You are known to us. Water will be provided for you, for your wife, for your teamsters and their wives, and for your oxen for as long as you stay beneath my roof. Your wagons and oxen will come no closer to the Hold. You may choose to stay with your wagons or you may find shelter below my roof. You have leave to trade here."
"Thank you, honored Roofmistress," the wetlander answered, lowering his hands to fold them over his chest and bowing low before the impassive Lian. "If it pleases you, we will remain before your hold for two nights while we trade and make repairs to the wagons. I would ask that half of my party be permitted shelter under your roof the first night and the other half shelter the second night."
"As you wish," Lian acceded, her tone somewhat cool. For all that she was fulfilling her duties as a roofmistress and honoring the responsibilities of a host towards her guests, where the peddlers decided to bed down was of little interest to her.
Which, considering the unlikelihood that anybody would try to steal from an Aiel sept in the middle of the Threefold Land, is understandable. Particularly since this trader is apparently a reliable partner; were he not, she would not have permitted him the shelter of her roof.
As the Tearan peddler turned back to his convoy and began assigning his teamsters to all of the myriad tasks apparently necessary to get the oxen tended to and the trade goods unloaded in preparation of tomorrow's trading, I watched as the Spears began to creep away. Their return to the Hold was just as stealthily executed as their advance had been, and left the traders just as unnoticing of their absence as they had been of their presence. A handful of Brothers and Maidens remained, scattered out across the desert, but most of these had turned their backs on the caravan to look out across the deceptively flat expanse of the Threefold Land instead.
After all, the Threefold Land had always been the testing ground of our people, and in the resource-bare expanse of the land, few baits could be more tempting than a trade caravan sheltering under the auspices of another clan. If a Shaido raiding party, or worse yet, a band of Shadowspawn down from the Blight, somehow penetrated into the heart of Taardad power, that handful of Spears would buy time with their dance for the remainder of the sept's warriors to join the struggle. The peddlers, if they had any sense at all, would take that time to flee as best they could, for their lives would surely be forfeit should a dance begin in earnest.
"All of the best wood for hilts comes from Shara," Garlvan, who had been standing next to me, observed. "As those wagons hail from the wrong side of the Dragonwall, I doubt their beds will contain much of interest for us."
"Perhaps nothing that would serve our forges," I said in half-agreement with my forge-brother, "but I have been told that the peddlers often carry books in their crates. I would learn more of the world outside the Threefold Land, if I could."
"Just ask any of the Spears who hunted down the Treekiller," Garlvan suggested, running a hand over his thin beard as he turned away from the wagons. "Their stories should tell you anything you care to know about the Wetlands, at least as far as the Shining Walls. Besides," he added, frowning at me, "what use would a book be to you, Taric? Can you read?"
"Barely," I stoically admitted, displeased by that hole in my education.
Aiel children were taught to read and write the script of the Wetlanders, as the Aiel apparently lacked any written tradition of our own, but it was not a subject that was greatly emphasized or prized. In Shende Hold, isolated from the trade routes crossing the Threefold Land, my cohort had been taught from the faded pages of a single dog-eared book. A printed book, which came as a surprise, but only the one, which meant that each student barely had the opportunity to practice. As a consequence, I could only muddle my way through.
"But," I countered smoothly, seeing doubt flicker in his eyes, "I could barely swing a hammer when I approached Salin as well. As with Salin, I have sought out an instructor; Lea has already promised to assist my efforts."
"Did she?" Garlvan Wire-Arm inquired, just the slightest hint of a smirk touching his lips as we began to walk back towards the narrow path down the interior wall of the mesa, back to the uppermost tier of sloping houses. "She honors you greatly, brother." The barely concealed smirk ripened into a knowing smile. "I imagine you must excel on the hunt, with your prowess in the pursuit."
"She has honored me indeed," I replied, voice serious as I kept pace. It had been a very generous offer on Lea's part, all the moreso for her refusal to accept even a favor in exchange for it. "A man's mind is a spear to be sharpened. It must be honed and maintained to a keen edge, and only a fool ignores an offer of a grindstone in such circumstances."
"True, true," Garlvan replied, clearly amused. He allowed a moment to pass, and then, speaking soberly, said, "Be warned, brother – books are only to be bought dearly. There are never enough on the wagons, and so the peddlers can command any price they care to name. If you do not have enough to meet their price, then treat the contents of my forge as your own."
We walked in silence for a time, our shadows lengthening before us.
I could not say what thoughts occupied Garlvan during that time, but for my part I was wondering at this astonishing generosity. While Garlvan did have some obligations to me as a fellow smith and a fellow resident of Cold Rocks Hold, this sort of offer, particularly from a man concerned with laying aside extra with an eye for his future family, went far beyond the bounds of those obligations. In saying that I could treat the contents of his forge as my own, he was placing practically all of his material wealth into my hands, to be used at my discretion.
It was, in short, the sort of generosity I would expect to see between first-brothers, bound by a shared mother, or near-brothers, bound by ties deeper than blood.
It was the sort of generosity I would be expected to extend to Gharadin, should he ever need it. Both by our sept and clan, and by my own sense of Ji'e'toh.
And it had been extended to me by a man with whom I had almost no connection to beyond the professional.
Of course, I considered, carefully avoiding a loose stone, he could simply believe that I will indeed treat his forge as my own, and so carefully husband his resources and not indulge overly much on his hospitality.
That will be my understanding, I decided. Just extending the offer, however it was intended, merits Garlvan ji, and I would be shamed if I exploited his honorable gesture.
Besides, it wasn't like I actually intended to take more than a token item from his forge anyway. Enough to cement the gesture and to put me in his debt by a favor. That debt would prompt him to come to me to collect, providing me an opportunity to garner ji myself while enhancing the bond between us.
"Thank you, brother," I replied aloud, breaking the comfortable quiet just as we entered the Hold proper again. "You honor me. I will treat your forge as my own."
"Just be sure to tidy up the clinkers," Garlvan returned with an easy smile. "Stay wary; the peddlers might bandy sweet words, but even a Shaido would master them in ways of honor. They have the tongues of vipers. Do not trust what they say, nor accept their first offer."
"Do not trouble yourself, Garlvan Wire-Arm," I replied with a reassuring smile. "If the merchants seek to dance, they will find that I can bandy words just as easily as I can swing a hammer."
For some reason, the other smith did not look particularly reassured.
Morning came and went, and took with it my daily obligation to Nine Valleys Sept. As the sun began to climb back down from its apex, I carefully banked my forge, wiped the grease from my hands, and lifted the pack Salin had given me onto my back.
Not so heavy this time, I noted as I made my way through the well-ordered paths of Cold Rocks Hold, nodding greetings to those of my neighbors I had come to recognize. My path is not so long this time either. I still wonder where Salin found a Tinker-made pack. There must be a story behind its acquisition…
A matter for another time.
I found the peddler sitting upon a stone and gazing at the oasis that sprang from the rocks that gave the Hold its name. He was frowning, just slightly, his nervous fingers toying with his narrow beard as he looked at the heart of Cold Rocks Hold, the liquid treasure of the Nine Valleys Sept.
"It is stunning," I said, coming to a halt a respectful three armspans away. "It still inspires me to marvel, even now. I see you, Admira Mulares."
A strangled half-squawk escaped from the trader's thin lips as he jolted to his feet. Whirling, he glared at my chest, and then looked up.
Drawing on old reflexes honed in arenas just as deadly as the Threefold Land for the first time in years, I met the traveling merchant's gaze squarely, though not impassively. My smile, its familiar lines uncomfortable on the contours of my third face, was stretched into place. My shoulders were rolled back and my arms held just slightly out, projecting a commanding firmness sure to overawe any competition once it all came down to the dickering.
Even as I loomed, I tried not to stare like a yokel. It was difficult to hold myself back, though.
Glimpsing the wetlanders from the remove of the mesa top had been one thing, but staring into Admira Mulares' olive face from only two spear-lengths away was another completely.
He is so small! I marveled, seeing that his head only rose to the midpoint of my chest. Soft too. No smith this one, nor a soldier or even a farmer. Dark hair, dark eyes, skin that doesn't require the harsh sun for color…
After so long among the pale, tall, and leaned muscled Aiel, the contrast seemed almost absurd in its totality. The differences went beyond just his build: He wore a goatee and mustache, for one, a sharp contrast to the normally clean-shaven Aiel. His body language was hesitant and lurching, lacking the awareness of our bodies with which all Aiel walked, the product of training for the dance from a young age. Emotions paraded across his face in such overwhelming clarity that, could I connect those emotions to stimuli and reactions, I felt I could read his thoughts without issue, so bald were their nakedness.
And of course, he did not wear the greys and browns of the cadin'sor. No shofar hung around his neck, though a flat hat of felt-backed grass warded the sun away from his balding pate. Instead, loose pants of a heavy, hard-wearing fabric were belted about his waist, below a tightly cut shirt of an eye-catching red whose telltale shimmer betrayed its material to be silk.
Expensive clothes, I thought, but perhaps less expensive for a man directly involved with the Sharan trade. Perhaps he collects his fee in a percentage of the cargo?
"Your pardon, Aielman," the peddler said, voice only slightly pinched by his lingering shock, an odd stiffness I assumed he used to introduce a level of dignity into his voice while trading slowly mounting as he held my eyes, his composure firming, "I did not hear you creeping up on me. Your people walk so silently."
"Yes," I agreed, remembering lessons disguised as games, of crawling on bellies and padding forward on moccasined feet to try and lay hand upon first a peer, then a teacher, a blooded Algai'd'siswai with a veil strung about his neck.
"...Well, I guess I 'see you' now, eh?" The peddler's uneasy chuckle died a wretched and lonely death. After a moment, the wetlander asked, somewhat waspishly, "Well, what were you looking for, Aielman?"
"To trade," I answered, pointing out the obvious. "That is why you are here, is it not?"
"Ah, of course!" A smile shocking in its familiarity eased onto the trader's face, proving the customer service grimace is universal in its application. "Come, Aielman, let us go to my wagons and see what marvels are contained therein."
"Taric," I corrected as I began walking towards the Hold's stone corridor gate to the lands outside the mesa. I had to adjust my pace to match the wetlander's ridiculously short steps, "of the Chareen Aiel."
"Eh?" the Tairen squinted up at me. "What was that?"
"My name," I explained patiently. "Taric son of Leiran, of the Jarra Sept of the Chareen Aiel."
"Oh," Admira blinked, and then puffed his chest out. "I am Admira Mulares, trader of Tear under the sponsorship of the most noble House Belcelona!"
"Yes," I agreed, wondering if he had forgotten that he had announced his name before the entrance of the Hold, in front of the Roofmistress.
"Oh…"
The resulting silence lasted until we stepped into the camp centered amidst the circled wagons. Most of the other wetlanders were present, some sitting on light stools by a low-burning dung fire while others tended to a miscellany of maintenance tasks and chores, though I noticed a man lying in the shady patch below a wagon, a blanket pillowed under his head.
The night shift, I assumed.
Also present were a few Taardad, who poked at a variety of trade goods laid out for perusal on the hinged tongues of several wagons, laid flat and pressed into service as impromptu tables. These Aiel, who by their cadin'sor were mostly craftsmen save for a representative of Far Dareis Mai also in attendance, spears sheathed in her bow-case, were supervised by a smiling woman, whose smile dipped a small but noticeable degree when she spotted Admira.
"Ah, husband," she cooed, voice thick with sickly sweet poison, "you return at last to do business! How diligent of you to finally set your hands to the task, now that the day is half-over!"
Grimacing, Admira Mulares turned his back on his presumed wife to favor me with another forced smile. "So, Master Taric, what are you in search for? Surely not water!"
I waited until the peddler ceased his limping chuckle to respond. "What books do you carry?"
"Ah, the other great commodity for the Waste!" Admira clapped his hands, full of forced cheer.
I noticed that his wife was still glaring at him, to the blatant amusement of the Maiden, who had ceased any pretension towards browsing to instead grin at the household drama unfolding before her .
"I have plenty of books in my wagons, Master Taric," the peddler continued, stepping towards one such wagon and, with a nimble hop, climbing up into the covered bed. "History, philosophy, tales of great heroes ancient and new, manuals on herblore, tactics, and decorum… I even have a copy of The Way of the Light, which I would be happy to throw in as a bonus should you trade for two other books!"
"No," I firmly declined. I could already hear Being X's whining in the title; it smacked of religion, something my third life had been blessedly free from save for the firm Aiel belief in Sightblinder. "Tell me more about the histories."
"Plenty there, plenty there," said the voice from within the wagon. I suspected the peddler was taking the fullness of the opportunity to shelter from the glares of both sun and wife. "Not as many as there were earlier, though. Your chief and his women have already picked over my selection quite thoroughly."
A moment later, Admira emerged from the wagon and jumped back down, smile still firmly tacked into place and three books tucked under his arm. These he spread across the lowered back-board of the wagon. "Here, Master Taric, is what I have left. There is also the question of what you have to offer…"
Tearing my eyes away from the trio of volumes, I swung my pack off my back, loosened the drawstring, and withdrew six parcels, wrapped in the simple cotton homespun common across the Threefold Land. I had bartered a few extra hours of my time to Neiralla in exchange for a bountiful supply of the stuff, and now the home of my woken forge-brother's family had a fresh roof, benefitting all who dwelled below it.
Of the freshly withdrawn parcels, five were small, each barely half the length of my hand. The last was almost four times that length and, unlike the smaller items, its wrapping was tied firmly in place by three strips of rawhide.
"Here," I said, shouldering the pack again and thrusting one of the parcels into Admira's rough hands, "open it."
Cautiously, the peddler did as I had bidden, glancing up at me as he unfolded the cloth. As the last fold fell away, I heard his breath hitch for a moment, before his professionalism reasserted itself and smothered the brief surprise.
There was a great deal of wetlander coinage in the Threefold Land, most of it old war booty seized during the hunt for the Treekiller almost two decades ago. Of all of the treasure taken back across the Dragonwall in the packs of Spears and Maidens, the coins were generally the least regarded in the internal Aiel economy. They lacked the artistry and aesthetic appeal of captured jewelry and tapestries, many were cast from inferior alloys, and gifting them for courting or friendship purposes indicated a certain lack of reflection on the part of the giver and shallowness on the part of the receiver if the gift was accepted.
For this reason, once I had made it known that I would happily trade an hour or two of work time in exchange for unwanted coin, my reserve of wetlander currency quickly swelled.
I had no more use for the coins' intended purpose than the rest of the population of Cold Rocks Hold. Precious metals had no intrinsic value and nor did mint marks; in the Threefold Land, these were not currency. What they represented to me instead was a commodity.
A new set of tools and a few days' worth of my personal time had purchased lessons on introductory silversmithing. A few days of further work had left me with a set of rough but functional molds and a set of silversmith's tools all my own.
"Burn me…" Admira murmured, turning the broach in his hands over to examine the clasp, before flipping it back over to stare at the face of the broach. "That's the Flame…"
"Indeed," I agreed. The Flame of Tar Valon was still clearly visible in multiple places across the broach, whose piece I had cast from no fewer than five half-melted coins. "Its silver was the purest by far."
"Burn me!" the peddler repeated, and this time I realized that he was cursing. "You melted down the witches' money…"
Lurking in the background, I saw his irritated wife peer in for a closer look, whatever had provoked the domestic disagreement temporarily forgotten.
"The other four are similar," I announced, holding up the stack for inspection. "A book for each."
Truthfully, I didn't know if that was a good or bad bargain in the peddler's eyes. I just knew that the broaches I had made were crude. The Hold's silversmith would have called them unacceptable even for apprentice work, had I tried to boast about them in his hearing. Compared to her own work or the floating sea of wetlander jewelry, they were worthless as anything more than instruction pieces on how I could elevate my craft to better succeed with the next batch.
But Admira Mulares was not an Aiel; he was an outsider, and more specifically, an outsider who made the dangerous and uncomfortable trip into the Threefold Land to bring back foreign goods for his backers. I was certain a man of that particular disposition could find a buyer interested in "foreign art" without any great difficulty.
So, per my own subjective value, a book for a broach is an excellent trade. Something for nothing I would dare trade here in the Hold where I live.
"What…" Admira forced himself to look away from the broach and back up at me. "What about the last one? The big one, in your other hand?"
"This?" I hefted the tied-off parcel. "See for yourself."
Admira accepted the parcel and almost dropped it, bowing forwards under the sudden weight. Fumbling slightly with the broach and its wrapping, he quickly set both down atop one of the books and stuck his other hand under the large parcel before it could fall to the ground. He fumbled again as he picked at the knot, but after a few seconds the cotton slithered away.
Brilliant under the sun, the carefully etched disc gleamed with a luster owned only by gold. Fat as a finger and fully two and a half feet in diameter, the great circle almost seemed to ignite in Admira's hands, the shallow engravings of spears and bows surrounding the central profile of a flat-faced hammer leaping out of the otherwise flat surface of its face.
"You made that, Taric?"
It was the Maiden from earlier, stepping up beside me, her eyes fixed firmly on the oversized medallion. The work had likewise captivated the eyes of every other person present, saving only my own and the still-sleeping wagoner.
"This is the work of your hands?" She sounded almost disbelieving. "I have never seen the like."
"It is," I affirmed, turning to face the dancer directly. She had a lean face, her cheekbones and nose wind-chapped and blistered, with ghostly sprigs of near insubstantial pale hair escaping the band of her shoufa. She was probably in her early forties, though it was somewhat difficult to tell. "It is also not as impressive as you seem to believe."
"...Eh?" Admira looked almost concussed. "Wha… What do you mean, Aielman? I mean, Master Taric?"
"Just Taric," I corrected again, weary of the honorific. It clashed with my name. "It is not wholly gold. It is mostly copper."
"...Eh?"
It was a simple application of the silversmith's art, executed on a scale singularly un-Aiellike in its gaudiness. Gold, unlike silver, was almost entirely inert, making it very easy to work with.
Again, the silversmith who had tutored me would have snorted at my work.
Although, credit where it is due, that is mostly a factor of the crudeness of my engravings. The actual metallurgy of the piece is entirely sound.
"Most of the gold coins circulating in the Wetlands are badly debased with copper," I informed the peddler, though I was certain he already knew. Any merchant worth his salt kept a close eye on the valuation of currencies, after all. "Securing a large supply was easy, as was melting the heap down into a mass of mingled copper and gold. Gold ignores acid, but copper is vulnerable. After I molded the disc, I flattened and polished it, then made the engravings."
Which had taken an embarrassingly long time to get right. Artistry, as it turned out, was not necessarily a strong suit of mine, and I'd been forced to reheat the disc several times to wipe away previous iterations of my scratchings.
Not that the peddler needs to know as much.
"Once the lines were clean," I explained, more to the Maiden than to Admira. She, at least, looked interested in the process instead of just infatuated with the shiny gold, "I bathed the disc in brine, whose salt leached away some of the copper. I polished the surface to smooth out the pits left behind, and then repeated the process until I accomplished the shine I had hoped for."
"I see," she nodded, glancing unconcernedly at the disc for a moment before looking back at me. "I think the coin-broaches were better. You should save one for your apprentice Wise One."
"She is neither mine, nor a Wise One of any sort," I replied, remembering Lea's description of how how her mother had tried to flee from her own fate, and how Far Dareis Mai had helped to ensure she would follow the path chosen for her to the gates of Rhuidean. "She has not chosen her path. I suspect she would resent hearing that it has been chosen for her by the Maidens."
"...As you say, Taric of the Smoke-Caught Steel," the Maiden conceded, and then inclined her head. "I have toh."
"Not to me," I said, agreeing with her. "The broaches do not meet the standard I have set for any gifts I would give. That is all."
I cursed myself as soon as I said that, both because of how the contrition on the Maiden's face fell away in favor of a teasing smile, and because I had said something honest in front of a merchant before we closed our deal.
When in doubt, attack.
"Your choice, Admira Mulares, factor of House Belcelona," I announced, turning back to the trader, who now stood shoulder to shoulder with his wife, both staring down at the polished face of my handiwork with naked avarice stamped across their faces. "A book for a broach, or every book remaining in your caravan in exchange for the disc."
Again, so long as I came away with at least a book or two under my arms, I would count myself the winner. The broaches were too cheap to give as gifts and the disc was too gaudy and unwieldy to tr-
"Done," the two Tairens spoke as one. "You can have the books," Admira continued, hands tightening around the disc. "We'll… take this off your hands, Ma- er, Taric."
"Done," I agreed, reapplying my customer service smile as I beamed at the two fools.
Who knew wetlanders were so bad at bargaining?
Then, inspiration struck.
"Maiden," I said, wheeling to face the woman, "if you wish to please Lea, daughter of Rhuarc, go to her house now and tell her that Taric has called for her." This time, when I smiled, it felt far more natural. "Tell her I have a gift for her, and then come back. Bring a few of your sisters if you can too."
Her eyes widened with curiosity as she looked up from the disc to me and then to the books resting on the wagon-board, but then the Maiden smiled, realizing what I had in mind. "As you say, Blacksmith," she acknowledged, and turned her heels, vanishing in heartbeats, leaving only a ring of laughter behind her.
What to give to an Aiel who wanted to find a path forwards she could call her own? Not a spear, a bauble or a bracelet, but rather knowledge of a world outside her own. A world alien to any Aiel in its lush dampness and excess and variety.
I would give her a library all her own.
Not a bad barter for a few handfuls of meager coin.
9 Saven, 997 NE
Cold Rocks Hold, Taardad Aiel, Aiel Waste
Chareen to Goshien to Tomanelle, Shaarad to Taardad to Miagoma, including even the generally despised Shaido, we were all Aiel, the people of the Threefold Land. Across clan borders and sept divisions, above society membership and craft brotherhood, we remained one nation and one people, united by Ji'e'toh, the efforts of the Wise Ones, and Rhuidean. Despite raids and rivalries, blood-feuds and water oaths, we were all one.
We were all Aiel. We looked broadly the same, with each clan as redhaired and pale beneath our cadin'sor as the rest. Across lines of clan and craft, virtually every Aielman wore their hair in the same ear-length cut and all women wore their hair loose and long, save for young girls, who wore their hair in pigtails, and Maidens, who tied theirs back into a braid.
Considering the sheer size of the Threefold Land and the great distances between the holds of even the same clan, it was an almost incredible degree of uniformity. Every Aiel I had encountered, from the Chareen of my home Jarra Sept to the Goshien war party I had met on the Rhuidean road to my hosts of the Nine Valleys Taardad, were unmistakably one people despite their differing affiliations.
Up to this point in my third life, I had hardly so much as seen anybody who was not Aiel. In large part, this was a result of my home sept's location amid the foothills rising to the Dragonwall. Distant from the routes that ran across the Threefold Land from the water-rich Wetlands to the Shaaran trading posts on the Cliffs of Dawn, Shende Hold rarely had visitors from clans other than the Chareen, much less any visitors from outside the Aiel completely.
Indeed, in all my memories of childhood, outsiders had only come to Shende Hold once, when I was ten. Three years before I ever approached Salin and requested his consideration for an apprenticeship.
When the brightly painted wagons, pulled by sturdy short-legged ponies, arrived on the stony plain outside of the Hold, I along with Gharadin and all of the other children were instructed to turn our faces away and ignore them. This was an order that I had disregarded, resolving that I would pay off the toh I incurred for my defiance later.
Insatiable curiosity had burned within me. The Lost Ones had barely been mentioned in my ancestor's lessons, but I knew that they had once, long and long ago, been part of us, had been Aiel.
But no longer.
Had they also seen the death march of our people? I'd wondered, watching the doors on those little wagons open and women and children exit, the men stepping down from the driver's benches. Could their defiance have a reason? Perhaps I could escape to them instead of taking up the spear?
As Rheaba, the Roofmistress, rejected their request for shade and shelter, I continued to watch from the perch I had found atop the roof of Shende Hold. Though I had been told that these were Aiel who had lost their way, I could see nothing of my adopted people in the short man and woman who approached Rheaba on behalf of their convoy. While their steps were as light as the feet of the Algai'd'siswai, they possessed none of the predatory grace of the Dancers of the Spear. Instead, they walked as if they were always a step away from dancing, moving to an unseen tune. Their hair was dark, their skin olive; a far cry from the bright hair and, below the clothes, pale skins of the Aiel. Instead of the greys and duns of the closely-fitted cadin'sor, the Lost Ones wore loose garments of vermillion, sapphire, and emerald.
Most notably, not a single one of the Tinkers bore anything like a weapon. None of the men had so much as a belt knife between them, and the vast pack of mastiffs that had flooded out from the open wagons gamboled happily with the little children, all of whom wore equally colorful clothing as their parents.
If they were Aiel once, I had thought, dismayed, they are far, far gone now. Do they not understand the Threefold Land is dangerous, full of deadly beasts and, to the north, roving bands of Shadowspawn?
"Yes, child, they know."
Carefully, I had turned away as Rheaba gave the Lost Ones permission to refill their water barrels and to replenish their food before sending them back out into the desert. Sorilea stood beside and behind me, looking out over the Tinkers. Her features were flat, almost expressionless, and I could not read any part of my ancestor's thoughts upon her face.
"The Lost Ones are not ignorant of the world," Sorilea had continued, voice bleak, "only of the foolhardiness of their own mission. They are lost to us by choice, Taric, not by ignorance." Her lips, always thin, tightened. "They are cowards and shirkers, too weak to carry the burden placed upon us all by our ancient failures, and too weak to defend themselves. Weakness," she added, "comes in many forms. What use is a strong arm and a quick hand, if you will not take up a spear?"
What use indeed? I wondered, mulling the rhetorical question over. So the Lost Ones choose not to take up weapons?
"The Gai'shain do not take up weapons, Wise One," I had stated plainly. "Yet they till the fields and cut the stone for the walls."
"Cheeky," Sorilea had admonished, not turning to look at me, "but not wrong, great-son. Yet a Gai'shain, once putting off the white, will pick up his weapons again if he was Algai'd'siswai. While an Aiel may never pick up a sword, the Lost Ones will refuse to touch any weapon or raise a hand against any living being. If they are attacked, they will run and hide, and if pursued the men will block blows aimed at their wives with their bodies, and the wives their children. Only in this way are the Lost Ones still our kin."
Absolute pacifists, in the most extreme sense. It had been difficult to even wrap my mind around such a concept. Even before I had been a soldier in my second life, back in the law-abiding society of my first life, violence was still justifiable in self-defense. In my second life, killing had not only been justified by the time and society and circumstances but glorified, promoted as the greatest service a soldier or mage could provide their homeland. Violence was of course illogical, the outcome of a failed negotiation, but…
To not even defend yourself or your family… Gorge had risen in my throat. To have the capacity to struggle, to fight, to resist, and to willfully deprive yourself of those means… Yes, I understand why they are lost to us. The Aiel are a weapon, keenly honed to fight an apocalyptic war. That road leads to insanity and death, but just exposing our bellies would be no less fatal.
"...Wise One," I had asked again, taking full advantage of this opportunity to press for answers, for explanations, "why do the Lost Ones say that they left us?"
"What they have to say on the matter is beyond my knowledge, child," Sorilea had admitted, lips flattening again in displeasure. Perhaps at having to admit as much, perhaps at the prospect of exchanging more than a sentence or two with the Lost Ones. "After all of these centuries, it is entirely possible that they no longer remember. They are lost, and they have no path back home any longer."
We had stood in silence, watching the Lost Ones prepare to leave us again, until the last wagon had slipped from sight. Afterwards, I admitted my toh, confessing my defiance but not apologizing for my curiosity. Sorilea had tasked me with the onerous task of hauling the droppings from the goatpens to the fields, a punishment that I had discharged without complaint.
It had been one of the few times in my childhood that I had spent any time alone with my ancestor, and the information I had gained in the exchange had been well worth the minor dishonor.
Seven years later, I again watched as wagons clustered outside the entrance of a hold. Unlike the vibrantly colored wagons of the Lost Ones, these were unpainted and utilitarian, mere haulers of freight – and the owners of said freight – rather than family homes. With their raised canvas roofs and the teams of massive broad-horned oxen that had pulled them to a rest outside of Cold Rocks Hold's protective mesa, the newly arrived wagons reminded me of pictures I had seen of American pioneers guiding vaguely similar vehicles onwards.
More interesting to me than the wagons and their covered cargo were their occupants. Eleven outsiders stood in the afternoon shadow of the mesa wall, Wetlanders from beyond the Dragonwall, three of them women and the rest men. Most of these stood uneasily, shifting from foot to foot as they stared at the gap in the mesa's walls, the corridor to Cold Rocks Hold, and at the woman who stood seemingly alone in the mouth of that gap.
I wonder if they've spotted any of the Spears surrounding them?
Crouching in the low folds of the land and behind boulders long-since crumbled from the mesa, Algai'd'siswai circled, a dozen each of the Brothers of the Eagle and Maidens of the Spear, Far Aldazar Din and Far Dareis Mai, ready to dance at a moment's notice, veils already raised below their shoufa in anticipation of treachery from the dark-haired wetlanders.
"Oh Roofmistress of the Cold Rocks," one of the men called out, his voice carrying easily despite the distance, roughened by road-work and accustomed to bellowing orders. He stepped forwards, his hands turned up and raised to shoulder height in supplication. From my perch above, I couldn't see the dancers of the two societies tense at the movement, but I could imagine hands tightening on spears, bowstrings vibrating under tension. "I am Admira Mulales, a trader out of Tear, under the sponsorship of House Belcelona! I request your permission to step below your roof and to trade with your sept, as I have done these past two years!"
"I see you, Admira Mulares, peddler from Tear," Lian acknowledged, her voice equally carrying for all its light timber. She inclined her head a slight degree, showing respect without taking her eyes away from Admira's eyes or hands. "You are known to us. Water will be provided for you, for your wife, for your teamsters and their wives, and for your oxen for as long as you stay beneath my roof. Your wagons and oxen will come no closer to the Hold. You may choose to stay with your wagons or you may find shelter below my roof. You have leave to trade here."
"Thank you, honored Roofmistress," the wetlander answered, lowering his hands to fold them over his chest and bowing low before the impassive Lian. "If it pleases you, we will remain before your hold for two nights while we trade and make repairs to the wagons. I would ask that half of my party be permitted shelter under your roof the first night and the other half shelter the second night."
"As you wish," Lian acceded, her tone somewhat cool. For all that she was fulfilling her duties as a roofmistress and honoring the responsibilities of a host towards her guests, where the peddlers decided to bed down was of little interest to her.
Which, considering the unlikelihood that anybody would try to steal from an Aiel sept in the middle of the Threefold Land, is understandable. Particularly since this trader is apparently a reliable partner; were he not, she would not have permitted him the shelter of her roof.
As the Tearan peddler turned back to his convoy and began assigning his teamsters to all of the myriad tasks apparently necessary to get the oxen tended to and the trade goods unloaded in preparation of tomorrow's trading, I watched as the Spears began to creep away. Their return to the Hold was just as stealthily executed as their advance had been, and left the traders just as unnoticing of their absence as they had been of their presence. A handful of Brothers and Maidens remained, scattered out across the desert, but most of these had turned their backs on the caravan to look out across the deceptively flat expanse of the Threefold Land instead.
After all, the Threefold Land had always been the testing ground of our people, and in the resource-bare expanse of the land, few baits could be more tempting than a trade caravan sheltering under the auspices of another clan. If a Shaido raiding party, or worse yet, a band of Shadowspawn down from the Blight, somehow penetrated into the heart of Taardad power, that handful of Spears would buy time with their dance for the remainder of the sept's warriors to join the struggle. The peddlers, if they had any sense at all, would take that time to flee as best they could, for their lives would surely be forfeit should a dance begin in earnest.
"All of the best wood for hilts comes from Shara," Garlvan, who had been standing next to me, observed. "As those wagons hail from the wrong side of the Dragonwall, I doubt their beds will contain much of interest for us."
"Perhaps nothing that would serve our forges," I said in half-agreement with my forge-brother, "but I have been told that the peddlers often carry books in their crates. I would learn more of the world outside the Threefold Land, if I could."
"Just ask any of the Spears who hunted down the Treekiller," Garlvan suggested, running a hand over his thin beard as he turned away from the wagons. "Their stories should tell you anything you care to know about the Wetlands, at least as far as the Shining Walls. Besides," he added, frowning at me, "what use would a book be to you, Taric? Can you read?"
"Barely," I stoically admitted, displeased by that hole in my education.
Aiel children were taught to read and write the script of the Wetlanders, as the Aiel apparently lacked any written tradition of our own, but it was not a subject that was greatly emphasized or prized. In Shende Hold, isolated from the trade routes crossing the Threefold Land, my cohort had been taught from the faded pages of a single dog-eared book. A printed book, which came as a surprise, but only the one, which meant that each student barely had the opportunity to practice. As a consequence, I could only muddle my way through.
"But," I countered smoothly, seeing doubt flicker in his eyes, "I could barely swing a hammer when I approached Salin as well. As with Salin, I have sought out an instructor; Lea has already promised to assist my efforts."
"Did she?" Garlvan Wire-Arm inquired, just the slightest hint of a smirk touching his lips as we began to walk back towards the narrow path down the interior wall of the mesa, back to the uppermost tier of sloping houses. "She honors you greatly, brother." The barely concealed smirk ripened into a knowing smile. "I imagine you must excel on the hunt, with your prowess in the pursuit."
"She has honored me indeed," I replied, voice serious as I kept pace. It had been a very generous offer on Lea's part, all the moreso for her refusal to accept even a favor in exchange for it. "A man's mind is a spear to be sharpened. It must be honed and maintained to a keen edge, and only a fool ignores an offer of a grindstone in such circumstances."
"True, true," Garlvan replied, clearly amused. He allowed a moment to pass, and then, speaking soberly, said, "Be warned, brother – books are only to be bought dearly. There are never enough on the wagons, and so the peddlers can command any price they care to name. If you do not have enough to meet their price, then treat the contents of my forge as your own."
We walked in silence for a time, our shadows lengthening before us.
I could not say what thoughts occupied Garlvan during that time, but for my part I was wondering at this astonishing generosity. While Garlvan did have some obligations to me as a fellow smith and a fellow resident of Cold Rocks Hold, this sort of offer, particularly from a man concerned with laying aside extra with an eye for his future family, went far beyond the bounds of those obligations. In saying that I could treat the contents of his forge as my own, he was placing practically all of his material wealth into my hands, to be used at my discretion.
It was, in short, the sort of generosity I would expect to see between first-brothers, bound by a shared mother, or near-brothers, bound by ties deeper than blood.
It was the sort of generosity I would be expected to extend to Gharadin, should he ever need it. Both by our sept and clan, and by my own sense of Ji'e'toh.
And it had been extended to me by a man with whom I had almost no connection to beyond the professional.
Of course, I considered, carefully avoiding a loose stone, he could simply believe that I will indeed treat his forge as my own, and so carefully husband his resources and not indulge overly much on his hospitality.
That will be my understanding, I decided. Just extending the offer, however it was intended, merits Garlvan ji, and I would be shamed if I exploited his honorable gesture.
Besides, it wasn't like I actually intended to take more than a token item from his forge anyway. Enough to cement the gesture and to put me in his debt by a favor. That debt would prompt him to come to me to collect, providing me an opportunity to garner ji myself while enhancing the bond between us.
"Thank you, brother," I replied aloud, breaking the comfortable quiet just as we entered the Hold proper again. "You honor me. I will treat your forge as my own."
"Just be sure to tidy up the clinkers," Garlvan returned with an easy smile. "Stay wary; the peddlers might bandy sweet words, but even a Shaido would master them in ways of honor. They have the tongues of vipers. Do not trust what they say, nor accept their first offer."
"Do not trouble yourself, Garlvan Wire-Arm," I replied with a reassuring smile. "If the merchants seek to dance, they will find that I can bandy words just as easily as I can swing a hammer."
For some reason, the other smith did not look particularly reassured.
Morning came and went, and took with it my daily obligation to Nine Valleys Sept. As the sun began to climb back down from its apex, I carefully banked my forge, wiped the grease from my hands, and lifted the pack Salin had given me onto my back.
Not so heavy this time, I noted as I made my way through the well-ordered paths of Cold Rocks Hold, nodding greetings to those of my neighbors I had come to recognize. My path is not so long this time either. I still wonder where Salin found a Tinker-made pack. There must be a story behind its acquisition…
A matter for another time.
I found the peddler sitting upon a stone and gazing at the oasis that sprang from the rocks that gave the Hold its name. He was frowning, just slightly, his nervous fingers toying with his narrow beard as he looked at the heart of Cold Rocks Hold, the liquid treasure of the Nine Valleys Sept.
"It is stunning," I said, coming to a halt a respectful three armspans away. "It still inspires me to marvel, even now. I see you, Admira Mulares."
A strangled half-squawk escaped from the trader's thin lips as he jolted to his feet. Whirling, he glared at my chest, and then looked up.
Drawing on old reflexes honed in arenas just as deadly as the Threefold Land for the first time in years, I met the traveling merchant's gaze squarely, though not impassively. My smile, its familiar lines uncomfortable on the contours of my third face, was stretched into place. My shoulders were rolled back and my arms held just slightly out, projecting a commanding firmness sure to overawe any competition once it all came down to the dickering.
Even as I loomed, I tried not to stare like a yokel. It was difficult to hold myself back, though.
Glimpsing the wetlanders from the remove of the mesa top had been one thing, but staring into Admira Mulares' olive face from only two spear-lengths away was another completely.
He is so small! I marveled, seeing that his head only rose to the midpoint of my chest. Soft too. No smith this one, nor a soldier or even a farmer. Dark hair, dark eyes, skin that doesn't require the harsh sun for color…
After so long among the pale, tall, and leaned muscled Aiel, the contrast seemed almost absurd in its totality. The differences went beyond just his build: He wore a goatee and mustache, for one, a sharp contrast to the normally clean-shaven Aiel. His body language was hesitant and lurching, lacking the awareness of our bodies with which all Aiel walked, the product of training for the dance from a young age. Emotions paraded across his face in such overwhelming clarity that, could I connect those emotions to stimuli and reactions, I felt I could read his thoughts without issue, so bald were their nakedness.
And of course, he did not wear the greys and browns of the cadin'sor. No shofar hung around his neck, though a flat hat of felt-backed grass warded the sun away from his balding pate. Instead, loose pants of a heavy, hard-wearing fabric were belted about his waist, below a tightly cut shirt of an eye-catching red whose telltale shimmer betrayed its material to be silk.
Expensive clothes, I thought, but perhaps less expensive for a man directly involved with the Sharan trade. Perhaps he collects his fee in a percentage of the cargo?
"Your pardon, Aielman," the peddler said, voice only slightly pinched by his lingering shock, an odd stiffness I assumed he used to introduce a level of dignity into his voice while trading slowly mounting as he held my eyes, his composure firming, "I did not hear you creeping up on me. Your people walk so silently."
"Yes," I agreed, remembering lessons disguised as games, of crawling on bellies and padding forward on moccasined feet to try and lay hand upon first a peer, then a teacher, a blooded Algai'd'siswai with a veil strung about his neck.
"...Well, I guess I 'see you' now, eh?" The peddler's uneasy chuckle died a wretched and lonely death. After a moment, the wetlander asked, somewhat waspishly, "Well, what were you looking for, Aielman?"
"To trade," I answered, pointing out the obvious. "That is why you are here, is it not?"
"Ah, of course!" A smile shocking in its familiarity eased onto the trader's face, proving the customer service grimace is universal in its application. "Come, Aielman, let us go to my wagons and see what marvels are contained therein."
"Taric," I corrected as I began walking towards the Hold's stone corridor gate to the lands outside the mesa. I had to adjust my pace to match the wetlander's ridiculously short steps, "of the Chareen Aiel."
"Eh?" the Tairen squinted up at me. "What was that?"
"My name," I explained patiently. "Taric son of Leiran, of the Jarra Sept of the Chareen Aiel."
"Oh," Admira blinked, and then puffed his chest out. "I am Admira Mulares, trader of Tear under the sponsorship of the most noble House Belcelona!"
"Yes," I agreed, wondering if he had forgotten that he had announced his name before the entrance of the Hold, in front of the Roofmistress.
"Oh…"
The resulting silence lasted until we stepped into the camp centered amidst the circled wagons. Most of the other wetlanders were present, some sitting on light stools by a low-burning dung fire while others tended to a miscellany of maintenance tasks and chores, though I noticed a man lying in the shady patch below a wagon, a blanket pillowed under his head.
The night shift, I assumed.
Also present were a few Taardad, who poked at a variety of trade goods laid out for perusal on the hinged tongues of several wagons, laid flat and pressed into service as impromptu tables. These Aiel, who by their cadin'sor were mostly craftsmen save for a representative of Far Dareis Mai also in attendance, spears sheathed in her bow-case, were supervised by a smiling woman, whose smile dipped a small but noticeable degree when she spotted Admira.
"Ah, husband," she cooed, voice thick with sickly sweet poison, "you return at last to do business! How diligent of you to finally set your hands to the task, now that the day is half-over!"
Grimacing, Admira Mulares turned his back on his presumed wife to favor me with another forced smile. "So, Master Taric, what are you in search for? Surely not water!"
I waited until the peddler ceased his limping chuckle to respond. "What books do you carry?"
"Ah, the other great commodity for the Waste!" Admira clapped his hands, full of forced cheer.
I noticed that his wife was still glaring at him, to the blatant amusement of the Maiden, who had ceased any pretension towards browsing to instead grin at the household drama unfolding before her .
"I have plenty of books in my wagons, Master Taric," the peddler continued, stepping towards one such wagon and, with a nimble hop, climbing up into the covered bed. "History, philosophy, tales of great heroes ancient and new, manuals on herblore, tactics, and decorum… I even have a copy of The Way of the Light, which I would be happy to throw in as a bonus should you trade for two other books!"
"No," I firmly declined. I could already hear Being X's whining in the title; it smacked of religion, something my third life had been blessedly free from save for the firm Aiel belief in Sightblinder. "Tell me more about the histories."
"Plenty there, plenty there," said the voice from within the wagon. I suspected the peddler was taking the fullness of the opportunity to shelter from the glares of both sun and wife. "Not as many as there were earlier, though. Your chief and his women have already picked over my selection quite thoroughly."
A moment later, Admira emerged from the wagon and jumped back down, smile still firmly tacked into place and three books tucked under his arm. These he spread across the lowered back-board of the wagon. "Here, Master Taric, is what I have left. There is also the question of what you have to offer…"
Tearing my eyes away from the trio of volumes, I swung my pack off my back, loosened the drawstring, and withdrew six parcels, wrapped in the simple cotton homespun common across the Threefold Land. I had bartered a few extra hours of my time to Neiralla in exchange for a bountiful supply of the stuff, and now the home of my woken forge-brother's family had a fresh roof, benefitting all who dwelled below it.
Of the freshly withdrawn parcels, five were small, each barely half the length of my hand. The last was almost four times that length and, unlike the smaller items, its wrapping was tied firmly in place by three strips of rawhide.
"Here," I said, shouldering the pack again and thrusting one of the parcels into Admira's rough hands, "open it."
Cautiously, the peddler did as I had bidden, glancing up at me as he unfolded the cloth. As the last fold fell away, I heard his breath hitch for a moment, before his professionalism reasserted itself and smothered the brief surprise.
There was a great deal of wetlander coinage in the Threefold Land, most of it old war booty seized during the hunt for the Treekiller almost two decades ago. Of all of the treasure taken back across the Dragonwall in the packs of Spears and Maidens, the coins were generally the least regarded in the internal Aiel economy. They lacked the artistry and aesthetic appeal of captured jewelry and tapestries, many were cast from inferior alloys, and gifting them for courting or friendship purposes indicated a certain lack of reflection on the part of the giver and shallowness on the part of the receiver if the gift was accepted.
For this reason, once I had made it known that I would happily trade an hour or two of work time in exchange for unwanted coin, my reserve of wetlander currency quickly swelled.
I had no more use for the coins' intended purpose than the rest of the population of Cold Rocks Hold. Precious metals had no intrinsic value and nor did mint marks; in the Threefold Land, these were not currency. What they represented to me instead was a commodity.
A new set of tools and a few days' worth of my personal time had purchased lessons on introductory silversmithing. A few days of further work had left me with a set of rough but functional molds and a set of silversmith's tools all my own.
"Burn me…" Admira murmured, turning the broach in his hands over to examine the clasp, before flipping it back over to stare at the face of the broach. "That's the Flame…"
"Indeed," I agreed. The Flame of Tar Valon was still clearly visible in multiple places across the broach, whose piece I had cast from no fewer than five half-melted coins. "Its silver was the purest by far."
"Burn me!" the peddler repeated, and this time I realized that he was cursing. "You melted down the witches' money…"
Lurking in the background, I saw his irritated wife peer in for a closer look, whatever had provoked the domestic disagreement temporarily forgotten.
"The other four are similar," I announced, holding up the stack for inspection. "A book for each."
Truthfully, I didn't know if that was a good or bad bargain in the peddler's eyes. I just knew that the broaches I had made were crude. The Hold's silversmith would have called them unacceptable even for apprentice work, had I tried to boast about them in his hearing. Compared to her own work or the floating sea of wetlander jewelry, they were worthless as anything more than instruction pieces on how I could elevate my craft to better succeed with the next batch.
But Admira Mulares was not an Aiel; he was an outsider, and more specifically, an outsider who made the dangerous and uncomfortable trip into the Threefold Land to bring back foreign goods for his backers. I was certain a man of that particular disposition could find a buyer interested in "foreign art" without any great difficulty.
So, per my own subjective value, a book for a broach is an excellent trade. Something for nothing I would dare trade here in the Hold where I live.
"What…" Admira forced himself to look away from the broach and back up at me. "What about the last one? The big one, in your other hand?"
"This?" I hefted the tied-off parcel. "See for yourself."
Admira accepted the parcel and almost dropped it, bowing forwards under the sudden weight. Fumbling slightly with the broach and its wrapping, he quickly set both down atop one of the books and stuck his other hand under the large parcel before it could fall to the ground. He fumbled again as he picked at the knot, but after a few seconds the cotton slithered away.
Brilliant under the sun, the carefully etched disc gleamed with a luster owned only by gold. Fat as a finger and fully two and a half feet in diameter, the great circle almost seemed to ignite in Admira's hands, the shallow engravings of spears and bows surrounding the central profile of a flat-faced hammer leaping out of the otherwise flat surface of its face.
"You made that, Taric?"
It was the Maiden from earlier, stepping up beside me, her eyes fixed firmly on the oversized medallion. The work had likewise captivated the eyes of every other person present, saving only my own and the still-sleeping wagoner.
"This is the work of your hands?" She sounded almost disbelieving. "I have never seen the like."
"It is," I affirmed, turning to face the dancer directly. She had a lean face, her cheekbones and nose wind-chapped and blistered, with ghostly sprigs of near insubstantial pale hair escaping the band of her shoufa. She was probably in her early forties, though it was somewhat difficult to tell. "It is also not as impressive as you seem to believe."
"...Eh?" Admira looked almost concussed. "Wha… What do you mean, Aielman? I mean, Master Taric?"
"Just Taric," I corrected again, weary of the honorific. It clashed with my name. "It is not wholly gold. It is mostly copper."
"...Eh?"
It was a simple application of the silversmith's art, executed on a scale singularly un-Aiellike in its gaudiness. Gold, unlike silver, was almost entirely inert, making it very easy to work with.
Again, the silversmith who had tutored me would have snorted at my work.
Although, credit where it is due, that is mostly a factor of the crudeness of my engravings. The actual metallurgy of the piece is entirely sound.
"Most of the gold coins circulating in the Wetlands are badly debased with copper," I informed the peddler, though I was certain he already knew. Any merchant worth his salt kept a close eye on the valuation of currencies, after all. "Securing a large supply was easy, as was melting the heap down into a mass of mingled copper and gold. Gold ignores acid, but copper is vulnerable. After I molded the disc, I flattened and polished it, then made the engravings."
Which had taken an embarrassingly long time to get right. Artistry, as it turned out, was not necessarily a strong suit of mine, and I'd been forced to reheat the disc several times to wipe away previous iterations of my scratchings.
Not that the peddler needs to know as much.
"Once the lines were clean," I explained, more to the Maiden than to Admira. She, at least, looked interested in the process instead of just infatuated with the shiny gold, "I bathed the disc in brine, whose salt leached away some of the copper. I polished the surface to smooth out the pits left behind, and then repeated the process until I accomplished the shine I had hoped for."
"I see," she nodded, glancing unconcernedly at the disc for a moment before looking back at me. "I think the coin-broaches were better. You should save one for your apprentice Wise One."
"She is neither mine, nor a Wise One of any sort," I replied, remembering Lea's description of how how her mother had tried to flee from her own fate, and how Far Dareis Mai had helped to ensure she would follow the path chosen for her to the gates of Rhuidean. "She has not chosen her path. I suspect she would resent hearing that it has been chosen for her by the Maidens."
"...As you say, Taric of the Smoke-Caught Steel," the Maiden conceded, and then inclined her head. "I have toh."
"Not to me," I said, agreeing with her. "The broaches do not meet the standard I have set for any gifts I would give. That is all."
I cursed myself as soon as I said that, both because of how the contrition on the Maiden's face fell away in favor of a teasing smile, and because I had said something honest in front of a merchant before we closed our deal.
When in doubt, attack.
"Your choice, Admira Mulares, factor of House Belcelona," I announced, turning back to the trader, who now stood shoulder to shoulder with his wife, both staring down at the polished face of my handiwork with naked avarice stamped across their faces. "A book for a broach, or every book remaining in your caravan in exchange for the disc."
Again, so long as I came away with at least a book or two under my arms, I would count myself the winner. The broaches were too cheap to give as gifts and the disc was too gaudy and unwieldy to tr-
"Done," the two Tairens spoke as one. "You can have the books," Admira continued, hands tightening around the disc. "We'll… take this off your hands, Ma- er, Taric."
"Done," I agreed, reapplying my customer service smile as I beamed at the two fools.
Who knew wetlanders were so bad at bargaining?
Then, inspiration struck.
"Maiden," I said, wheeling to face the woman, "if you wish to please Lea, daughter of Rhuarc, go to her house now and tell her that Taric has called for her." This time, when I smiled, it felt far more natural. "Tell her I have a gift for her, and then come back. Bring a few of your sisters if you can too."
Her eyes widened with curiosity as she looked up from the disc to me and then to the books resting on the wagon-board, but then the Maiden smiled, realizing what I had in mind. "As you say, Blacksmith," she acknowledged, and turned her heels, vanishing in heartbeats, leaving only a ring of laughter behind her.
What to give to an Aiel who wanted to find a path forwards she could call her own? Not a spear, a bauble or a bracelet, but rather knowledge of a world outside her own. A world alien to any Aiel in its lush dampness and excess and variety.
I would give her a library all her own.
Not a bad barter for a few handfuls of meager coin.