Maiere

Maiere


         His words were honey-sweet in her mind, and though she could not see him, she knew she drew close.  The dusty streets of the city drew in closer, the buildings leaning toward one another for safety, shading her path through the older parts of the city.  Here she was inside the original walls, where the tyrant’s men did not patrol.  Here she was protected from the ever-blowing winds by three rings of ever-increasing wall.  Here she was safe from the men of Aspara.  Here she felt the greatest danger.
         His voice whispered to her, as though he stood at her shoulder, a soft breeze blowing the heavy scent of flowers over her.  Her flesh crept, but her mind reveled in the feel.  “Maiere.”
         Seven years ago he had spoken her name, called for her to help him.  His name she did not know.  She had seen him, in the three years past, in her dreams.  Every night he came into her dreams and whispered of breezes and fields where bees wandered, where war did not enter.  A place where even soldiers may rest at ease.  She knew well the place in her dreams, but knew little of the man.  That his eyes were the color of amber and his hair the color of burnished bronze she recalled, but nothing else, naught but the feeling of helplessness.
         For twelve years Maiere had fought in battle, first disguised as a boy, then disguised as a man, then finally as a woman, throwing off her disguises.  No one then argued her right, for she had won acclaim from Aspara’s king, been granted a title and honors from his own hand.  On the day she took her title, she heard the voice.  Every day for a week, then a month, he called to her.  After the month’s end she had taken her leave of friends and gone to hunt him. 
         She went to the king, to beg his indulgence, to ask for her release from his service.  Before she could state her desire, he claimed her as his queen.  A warrior queen befitting a nation who had just settled its wars.  She refused him.  The king had been displeased.
Maiere had fled the capital, taking only what her horse could carry with ease.  The king sent men to retrieve her, his favorite fighter, his would-be queen. 
         The voice had asked for her help.
         For seven years she had roamed as a traveler, searching for him.  Without a name, she had little success.  She fought in the service of many, proving her value, earning her money that she might continue her search.  She turned from sage to seer, to prophet to priest in her search, but none could give her hope.  Only the man’s voice, and the dreams, led her on.  Now the travel and years faded from her mind; they were no longer time wasted, no longer a fool’s quest.
         “Maiere.”
         “I am close now.”  She whispered the words to herself, grateful the Asparan men still trailing her faithfully after the seven years could not hear her.  They should be without the second ring of wall, waiting to be seen by the tyrant.  They were held by convention; she was not.  For seven years she had used it to her advantage, and now it seemed she had won out again.  Only her voice could give her away.  Outwardly she was little different from those about her; the hat and fighting jacket she wore concealed her dark flaxen hair and the single-edged straight sword she carried from Aspara.  It was all she had of the land, save memories, and even those seemed to fade now, in this land of wind and dust.  In all other ways she was like those born to the dust, her face darkened and weathered by the sun.
         A rumble from her stomach reminded her she had not eaten; she paused at a nearby taverne to purchase honey-rolls, of which she had become fond.  She licked her fingers and smiled.  Perhaps she had become overly fond of them, she admitted.  It was all she seemed to eat now.  But in her childhood, sugar had been as rare as meat, and here it was as common as gruel.  Here it was both food and medicine, and people swore that certain honeys would cure a wide variety of ailments.
         She waded back into the flow of people, finally arriving at the market.  All around her the people buzzed with conversation; the tyrant was said to be ill, dying even.  Many sought medicines for him.  Others spoke of a foreign king who sought to take their city.  She smiled; Aspara was not well-met here.  She knew she was ever closer; she had dreamt last night of a building, and now it pulled at her.  She could feel the soft breezes that would greet her, smell the sweetness of the unknown man’s breath.  She shouldered her way through the market, looking about.  When she found it, a squat, rundown building, she hurried to it, then paused to slowly read the name on a small plaque by the door.
         “Eight vila for entrance.”  A young woman spoke to her.
         Maiere frowned, unable to read the sign, and fumbled for coins.  As she did, she loosened the leather ties that bound her single-edged sword tightly in its sheath.  To her eyes the building had the look of a brothel.  “Here.”  She thrust the coins into the girl’s hands.
         Grinning, the girl opened the doors to her.
         “Maiere.”  His voice still sounded in her head, but eager.  He knew she was near.
         As her eyes adjusted, Maiere glanced about.  Dimly lit, the building seemed one giant room.  Wall hangings from all over the lands covered the walls and soft couches littered the floor.  Between were people, browsing displays of people.  Maiere swore softly.  Brothel indeed; here the people were put on display.  Others walked among them, their conversation a soft lulling buzz.
         “You have come seeking something?”  An aging man clad in the colors of a minor clan chief stepped from deeper shadows. 
         “I come seeking a man.”  She flushed and shook her head, hurrying on.  “His hair is the color of sand under a stormcloud, his eyes the color of the evening sun.”  Her tongue spoke without her willing. 
         The man’s face drew together, and he frowned.  “No such man is here.”
         “You lie.”  She slipped back into her native tongue, but the tone conveyed her meaning.  Out of the corner of her eye she caught sight of a familiar uniform.  Asparan soldiery; they had entered the inner city without waiting for permission.  They would only do so if the rumors were true, if the tyrant was ailing, near death.  Aspara’s king did seek to conquer – both her and the city that offered her shelter.  She turned back to the old man in haste.  “He is here.  I have heard his voice.”
         The man’s face lengthened.  “What is your name, woman of another land?”
         “Maiere.”
         “Mai-eer?”
         “Yes.”
         He gestured for her to follow.  “Are you pursued, Mai-eer?”
         “Yes.”  She followed after the man, one hand on her still-concealed sword.  He offered her a cup of wine, which she refused. 
         “In our tongue, your name is a word.  In a hundred years some seven women with similar names have come seeking this man.”
         “And?”
         “You will not go from here?”
         “No.  He needs my help.”
         “Then come.”  He shuffled reluctantly through the room.  She looked about, and her stomach rebelled against the honey-rolls.  Everywhere they walked, the displays were not of prostitutes, but of the dead and the freakish.  A young girl with no legs, but a tail like a fish.  A man’s corpse with eye so fresh they seemed to follow her movement.  A trio of women connected to a single set of legs.
         “A show of….”
         “The wicked and the damned, my lady.”  The man answered her unthought question.  “Including your… voice.”  He bowed.  “I am Caranee.”  She nodded.
         He waved her to a larger display, one set off by heavy curtains.  She glanced about, saw the Asparan scout uniform leaving the building.  The man would come back with reinforcements to take her back to the king.  She would not go willingly.  Her hand tightening on the hilt, but there was no enemy here to strike.  Only the passing of time was her foe, and she had so little distance left to travel.
Caranee pulled aside the heavy dark drapery and ushered her into the darkness beyond.  The conversations in the main room faded, but she could still hear the buzzing from her dreams.  Caranee touched flint to a waiting torch; the display leapt into light.  The draperies, of subdued hues without, were lined with silver and gold, turning the single torch into a hundred.
         “There is your voice.”  He was sad now, and she looked past his shaking hand.  Huge combs of honey dripped from the high ceiling; windows were open high on the walls to allow the bees free range through the city.  A clear glass vat, taller than she could reach, stood on a heavy stone dais.  Bees flitted about the vat’s open top, swarmed on the draperies hung on the wall, their wings making gentle breezes.  In the vat, suspended in pure honey, was a man with hair the color of sand under a stormcloud and open eyes the color of the evening sun.  His very skin was translucent, and his corpse seemed to glow.
         “What is this?”  The smell of honey threatened to overwhelm her.  Distantly she heard voices calling in Asparan. 
         “He is the honey-tongued destroyer,” Caranee answered.  He waved for her to look on; she did, forcing her gaze past the man.  Eight vats were arrayed behind him, each scarcely smaller than his own, and filled with honey.  Seven held women with hair and eyes the color of amber.  The vat nearest him was still empty. 
Maiere drew her sword, but could think of nothing to strike.  The Asparan voices were just inside the building now.  The bees were agitated, buzzing louder.
         “Maiere.”  The honey-soft voice was filled with longing, a lover left too long alone.  “My sweet.”
         Caranee took from her stunned fingers the sword, led her toward the last vat.  “Mai-eer.”  The eyes the old man turned to her were the color of old gold.  “His name is Miehr.”  He removed her hat and outer cloak, took from her the fighting jacket she had worn for several years until its gold had faded to copper.  Her hair, long trapped under the hat, flowed down her back.  “Miehr is the word for ‘honey.’”
         “Honey.”  Her voice was devoid of feeling now. 
         “He calls those who are his queens back to his side.”  Caranee ushered her to the ladder propped up against the last vat.  The bees rose from the surface of the vat, cleared the rim.  Caranee pushed abruptly.  Maiere’s pale eyes cleared as she touched the surface of the honey.  She reached for the rim, fighting to pull herself up to the air.  Bees swarmed over her fingers, stinging.  With no way to pull herself up, she surrendered, sinking slowly through the honey.  “He wants to keep an oath he long ago broke.”
         “Maiere.”  Caranee heard Miehr whisper.  Maiere’s face smoothed out; the magic of honey was working.  Soon she would be honeyed as well, the mellification sped by the power of Miehr’s long-ago oath.  What usually took a century would take days, or perhaps merely hours.
         Caranee slid down the ladder, hurried out of the display, pulling the draperies closed.  Soldiers of Aspara pushed through the people looking at displays.  Caranee shook his head.  The Asparan king thought to take over the lands of the tyrant, hoped the ailing man would die of whatever illness had seized him.  For a moment he turned back to the draperies, settled them into place.  But they did not understand how much the people loved their tyrant, what they would do to save him.
         Honey was a medicine.  Miehr had once been a great warrior, willing to do anything to save his lord.  He had sworn to protect his lord and his land from those who would follow.  He had failed his lord, and the lord had died.  Now, a century after, he would be able to fulfill his vow, with his own queens at his side.  He would heal the country and protect the tyrant.  He was strong medicine.  Caranee had seen to that.
         The Asparans, calling out for their missing prey, pushed Caranee aside in a gabble of voices.  They carried torches into the honey-sweet area, disturbing the bees. 
         At first Caranee thought it was the bees that made the men cry out.  Then the buzzing grew louder; the bees swarmed past him into the great room.  He turned unwillingly back to look at the honey vats.  An Asparan screamed, the shrill sound absorbed by the heavy wall hangings.  A sticky sound ended the scream.  The smell of honey was stronger now.
         He held his torch up in shaking hands.  Nine amber-colored figures stepped away from Asparan bodies.  The tallest, translucent in the torchlight, looked up.
         “Caranee.”  The voice was a mere whisper.
         The old man went to one knee before the warrior.  “Miehr.”
         It had been his choice, his magic, that helped turn Miehr into living medicine.  All his other magics had gone to prolonging his own life.  Now his job was done.  He could go to his rest after a hundred years.  Miehr stopped, laid a hand that should have been sticky on his shoulder.  There was only the smell of honey and the buzz of bees.  “You have done well, my friend.”  Caranee felt the bees settle around him.  They did not sting, but he was suddenly tired, the years catching up to him.  “We will protect the lord and his lands.  We will not fail this time.”
         The nine brushed past him into the great room, the bees following.  The corpse of Caranee collapsed to the floor, bees crawling all over it, obscuring the old man’s face.  Maiere’s sword fell from his hand.  The newest of the mellified stooped, took her sword from the floor.  She brushed honey-colored hair back with a translucent hand, smiled sweetly at the corpse and followed her new lord, reveling in the soft breeze and sweet smells of honey.