Closed Tales (Kit)

[Wrenmae]

If he noticed her tremble, if he felt the slight tremor in her voice, or the disease that swam in her muscles, he did not make conscious note of it. Again he was the somewhat awkward man she remembered from Alvadas. He didn't know how to talk to her, he never did. She was all fire and color, a silver-bellied minnow dancing nimbly from stream to stream along a brook...taunting and tantalizing. Maybe a butterfly was more apt?

No, not unless butterflies could bite.

He put a hand to his forehead and let it slide over his features, grinning, then shook his head and slumped his body forward enough to allow his elbows to rest on his knees. "Very well, very well...you'd think the seasons away would give me some manner of immunity to your lessons and jibes...but I see I am as easy to pick on as ever."

There was something about Kit...maybe the memories of home or maybe the way worries seemed to fall off her shoulders like dew from a leaf, but he just couldn't stay unhappy around her. There was a light and airy quality to her movement, the freedom in her steps. The darkness of before was banished into a corner of his mind, the part no longer on the conversation.

He would address that later. For now it was time to be who he was...

As she continued to speak, he found he only concentrated on how her mouth shaped the words, the smile between sentences and the motion of snake-quick tongue behind her teeth.

He almost missed her final question, staring at her for a moment too long and then blinking, laughing nervously, and straightening up to rub the back of his head with one hand.

"My, curious, aren't we...as always." Shaking his head, his shoulders rose then sagged, "I could ask the same of you...how did you-" He paused, remembering her face when he had found her like that...the moments of vulnerability, the raw pain there.

Do not question the songbird about its time in the cage. All it knows is to sing and fly in freedom...even thinking about the cage is to put bars around it.

Instead he stopped, blew out the remainder of his breath, took another and spoke.

"I traveled from Nyka with a goods caravan," He lied at last, "I had heard Ravok was a beautiful city from the merchants, rich in history. At the time I wasn't sure what I'd find here." He shrugged helplessly, "I'm not sure how long I'll stay...probably only enough to time to get the money to leave...but there are stories besides Rhysol's here...one just has to get around his praise every other sentence and there are plenty of interesting tales."

[Kit Rowan]

A coldness ran through Kit's face as her uncle reminded her why she was here. "I already told you that story," she said. And she had, really, in its most basic form. Without the details or the highlights. But it wasn't important. It was background, it did not matter, Kit told herself, one hand clenching into a fist. The story they told about her would not have the days fearful under the lash or the tearful moments on the walk. They'd tell about her escape. That was all anyone ever needed to know, family or no.

"Beautiful, huh?" The mirth in her voice had bled away. She turned her head to face the city, and though her expression was hidden the wry, wary confidence of her posture told its own story. "It is a bit." A soft sound in the back of her throat; the beginning of a laugh. Ravok's beauty was one that cared not for the engine that made it. Its song might have even seduced her, except that one mistake could drag her down again and render her one more tortured soul doomed to buoy up the fortunes of Ravok and it's thrice damned god.

Kit reached up and scratched at her left shoulder, felt the odd way the pressure felt against her brand. It was like a charm now, to remind her of what Ravok was.

"You can find other stories, huh?" Kit turned back around to face her uncle. She was grinning still but her eyes were hard, screaming this city can't keep me down in the language of the body. "You're right on that, there's one; the story of how I got out of here." It wasn't a boast. It was a statement of fact. "I won't be starving anytime soon, and I've a place to sleep. Season's end, I'll have more to work with. Right now, I've just enough to keep going. Still figuring it'll be a warm day in the Void before I find someone willing to take me . . ." To Syliras, she thought, but simply shrugged instead. "I may need to take the long way."

[Wrenmae]

He had erred. It was written in the tautness of her muscles, the cold glimmer of her eyes. Sometimes he had to remember that darkness lay in all, not just himself. His own stature was diminished when she turned back on him, bent over, his spin curved in an almost penitent bow. There was no apology on his lips, his fingers found each other and entwined. Slavery would not leave her for lack of speaking, nor would it vanquish for its opposite. Stories like that were best left to their owner...to share or warp as they pleased.

Part of him wanted to sit the girl down and explain that this, like all things, was transient, that it would pass. She was strong, certainly more so than some of the doe-eyed slaves in Ravok. Even the nobles, kowtowing to Rhysol for the glory of their easy existence paled in comparison to the lessons wrought in her flesh.

Vayt would be proud of her.

"Ravok sometimes trades with Nyka," he said to her with a grim smile, "I would recommend seeking out employment among the merchants for the journey. Nyka is a place of violence and dogma, stay no longer than you have to."

Wren found himself rubbing the back of his neck again, where blood had dried over the scab where a dagger had pierced him. It was a cold reminder of where he was and what he risked by associating with her. He could not see, but more felt the eyes along his shoulders and the back of his head. Paranoia, or perhaps more...it scarcely mattered.

He stood sharply, walking past Kit toward the market place.

"I have something for you that I received in my travels," He called back to her, "Let your Uncle give you something for your journey, at least, even if-" I cannot accompany you, he thought "I cannot give you the mizas to simply travel there yourself." He actually said.

[Kit Rowan]

"Huh. Surprised they could get a wagon to run safe without a road." Kit shrugged the little lie aside, not catching or not wanting to acknowledge her uncle was lying to her. "If there's more dogma there than here, I'll eat my shoe." Kit said. "I'll be fine."

She took a moment of focus to reinforce her false face, breathing slow and deep as she drew up another image of the . This is what his eyes looked like, this is his shape. And just like that, Kit's illusion was safe for another few bells. She closed her eyes in silent thanks to the Trickster.

"What do you think would be the fastest way from . . . Nyka? Do they have a dock? Are they on a road?" In Alvadas had been a town for trade where Isurian goods and more were shipped out by boat where it could reach the rest of civilized Mizahar. Ravok was in the middle of nowhere. No roads, no seaside docks . . . No nothing! Ionu had given her an intimidating trial to overcome in escaping Ravok, no mistake.

When her uncle marched past Kit she allowed it with a raised brow. She tapped a finger against her thigh for a few ticks, watching Wrenmae go before she allowed herself to be led, falling along beside him. "This isn't some three-copper drama," Kit teased. "You don't have to keep a gift secret till the last chime."

[Wrenmae]

"Those three copper dramas got me through some rough times," Wren teased with a wink, "I never had much scratch from slinging tales and I always found new ones from those rube performers...not to compare you, of course. If you wrote a street show, I'm sure it would have much more substance."

They passed through the crowded Ravok walkways and dappled squares till they had traveled to the edge of the merchant district. Wren had her wait while he went upstairs to the small apartment he'd rented and returned with a bundle of cloth under his arm. Although Zan had asked, Wrenmae had decided not to bring the little creature along.

With his luck, one revelation would embolden the familiar to do it again...and juggling both Kit and Zan was one act he did not relish performing.

After the apartment, he took a seat with her on a bench overlooking the square. People moved with the ease of confidence, secure under the watchful eyes of the black-armored Ebonstrfe. As always, the Black Temple dominated the skyline of Ravok and Wrenmae moved the cloth to his lap.

He noticed, but did not comment on the fact Kit chose the farthest seat from her Uncle. It was such a small gesture, but the gulf between them was a discordant note of distrust that drew a wince from the mage before he hid it in grimace at the sun, as if criticizing its perfect amount of light.

"The road from Ravok to Nyka is perilous...there aren't many merchants who do trade, but once you get to Nyka, it shouldn't be far to the Kabrin road...which you can take to Syliras and the port to Alvadas or further inland to Sunberth or Zeltiva." He rubbed his chin and smiled, remembering.

"Or take the port of Nyka to Sahova or Zeltiva...that's the route I took, but someone like you should never go to Sahova...or Sunberth. Perhaps it's best if you go towards Syliras and then back across the Suvan to Alvadas."

Where you belong. But he didn't say that. Instead he smiled.

"It will be a difficult road, and your ability to disguise yourself may not be enough for all the dangers out there." He took the cloak he had folded up and handed it to her. "Out in Nature, among the trees, if you stand still this cloak will camouflage you from danger, at least so long as you do not move. Perhaps it is a small gesture, but I earned this cloak in Sahova and I wanted to pass it to you."

He winked.

"Never let it be said that your Uncle never got your anything."

[Kit Rowan]

Kit's knowledge of Sahova was scant at the very best, informed by dramatic theater and sailor's tall-tales and little else. Some measured it as a city of great and terrible magic, some as an island inhabited by restless revenants of uldr that feasted on the flesh of the living whenever they wandered close. Kit knew enough of stories to doubt them both, but what she'd heard hadn't exactly left her eager to explore the city.

"I'd go the straight route if I could," Kit said, shy around the word 'Sylir' in a city full to the brim with Rhysol-worshippers. "But I won't make it on my own, and finding someone who will take me here is its own issue." In the city of evil Kit doubted that there was much need or want for travel to the city of peace. Even asking around for it could be suspicious, and Kit did not want to be suspicious.

Kit waited impatiently in the street while Wrenmae found his gift and humored him a while longer as he did his best to find a suitable spot for the scene in the three-copper drama of his life.

Rhysol's den of worship loomed like a shadow in the distance, just one more reminder of his undisputed reign over the city while the lemmings wandered through the streets, looking ahead always, never to the side and never up; never daring doubt. She leaned forward on the bench and stared out over them, clasping her hands together, taking careful measure of her breathing. This city was her enemy. Kit swallowed once and sighed.

Kit turned her eyes from the city as Wrenmae finally picked his moment. He pulled out a gray cloth and set it down between them. As he explained its properties, Kit reached out and ran a hand across the fabric. Soft, she thought, comfortable to wear. She pulled at it; it held firm, woven to last. "It's magic?" Kit murmured, pulling it into her own lap and running fingers over it. Magical items were a staple of stories. Swords, rings, cloaks . . . "Can I turn it off, or if I want to stay seen do I have to keep fidgeting?"

[Wrenmae]

"I haven't had much cause to use it," Wrenmae admitted with a shrug, "But the times I have, it only became visible when I moved. Although I suppose it can be used for ordinary comfort, I would advise using it only when necessary." He put both hands behind him on the bench, wrapping them over the edge and staring out over the people, to the Cathedral, farther still...to the unmolested horizon, or the bits he could see.

Kit's journey would be hard. There were not many caravans that left Ravok for anywhere...some that came from Nyka to offer trade, mostly their beautiful gems, but Kit was right...it would be the trial of finding someone to travel with out of Ravok that would be the trick.

"I may be able to find folk leaving Ravok," he said at last, chewing his bottom lip, struggling with thought, "But I cannot say whether or not yet. Give me time to speak to a few of the contacts I've made while in Ravok and I'll tell you again in ten days time."

He smiled at her, and there was ungaurded warmth there. She would soon be out of his life again, perhaps for good this time...and since he'd never expected to see her again at all, these precious moments were worth an inexplicable amount to him.

He would never say it to her, but she was precious to him. There was no other family. Philomena was dead and he had left Alric in a coma in Zeltiva. She was the last of those close to him that had not suffered some terrible fate...or...he corrected the thought, the last that was handling the hand fate had dealt.

If he could have spirited her from Ravok to wherever she wanted, he would have.

For now, he could only offer help.

"Perhaps I will make something for you before you leave," he said quietly, then smiled, "I have some skill in an art called Legacy, the crafting of magical items from the remains of animals...grisly, but...it may help you in your travels."

He shook his head, "But we can talk about that later. I want to hear what you've been doing with yourself...anything in Ravok worth remembering well, or has the overcast of the god it worships diminished any beauty here?"

[Kit Rowan]

Kit nodded slightly as she unfolded the cloak. If it changed in the wilderness, she couldn't dare wear it except when needful. It wouldn't do to wear it just in case, unless she traveled alone, and she was not insane enough to risk travel alone. Still, it was a useful thing. If she could mask her scent with Ionu's gift to her and hide her form with this cloak, she doubted that there was a predator in the wilderness that could find her.

The girl hiding behind a boy's face stood up and laid the cloak across her shoulders, pulling the hood up over her face. It may have been just right on Wrenmae but on he had maybe eight inches on her, and it looked loose and big draped over her shoulders. She pulled the hood over her face, drew the cloak around her body and cut her illusion short. When Kit smiled at her uncle this time it was with her own face, with familiar coppery red locks framing it. "Thank you."

Kit took her seat again while her uncle talked, bit her lip when her mentioned 'the remains of dead animals.' It reminded her of a story she had read in the Treval Codex once, about a woman who wore the bones of a legendary warrior to gain their strength against a rival. Her hands toyed with the inside of the cloak, pulling and tugging this way and that. He had charmed a monster to himself with magic. He could take the dead and build marvels from their flesh with magic. She could think of nothing to call her uncle but a wizard, and wizards went mad, always. "Ah," she said instead. "That's good. I need all the help I can get."

But she gave him a frank look at his last question. She frowned, stared out over the courtyard and chewed on it. "Well it's pretty," she Kit admitted. "But look at them." She didn't gesture, didn't indicate because what she meant was all of them. The children laughing, the stern ebonstryfe patrolling the men and women average in every day going about their business. "Who out there wouldn't turn me in, if they knew?" She asked, knowing the answer to be no one. "Would that 'diminish the beauty' for you?"

[Wrenmae]

Wren whistled through his teeth, pursing his lips. She had a point. For him, this city was a welcome cradle. It would welcome him as he had welcomed Rhysol. But Kit? She had been a slave once, and only by the grace of Ionu had she managed her escape. Now she played a dangerous game, perhaps too dangerous.

But Wren could not see her behind bars, could not see her in pain, could not see her hampered at all by the situation. In younger days, her antics had left him believing her divinity. She was the girl who could not be touched by consequences, who held a smile even in rainstorms, because of rainstorms. Instead he found himself smiling like a drunk, staring out into the city and only seeing their memories in Alvadas in the wake of every shadow.

"Kit," the word was not a statement nor a question, it lingered on his tongue before diving off, even before he'd fully thought of what he needed to say. "I'm not the best Uncle in the world...we aren't even related by blood. And maybe it's the wrong time...this city, these people, this place..." He turned and smiled at her, and it was genuine, wide and beautiful like the sunset over the Suvan.

"I'm proud of you, really proud. You've grown up so much since I've known you...and although you've had your share of difficulties, your trials, your tortures...you can still sit here and smile, you can joke, you can set your eyes on the horizon and continue the show." His head swung in pendulous incredulity. "I don't know how you do it, but Ionu chose a worthy soul in you. Gods, I wish I could travel with you...see what you'll become," He put out a hand toward her and she flinched from it, more instinct and rumor than knowledge, but the response was immediate. His hand hovered there, midway between them and then he withdrew it, clasping his palms together and looking at them with the eyes of something wounded. The air changed between them, souring slightly.

"Look," he continued, "I can give you a little money, nothing that you couldn't get on your own, but maybe a little to help you get out of here. I won't be staying long myself, but I'd hate to keep you a prisoner here...you're too free for that."

He wasn't crying. There were no tears. He lived like a coiled viper, perpetually treated as if he'd strike. Why should it hurt him now? Reaching into his pouch he pulled out a handful of the gold rimmed coins and dropped them, one by one, onto her lap where the cloak was. There were almost thirty of them.

"Anyways, enjoy your gift," He swallowed something that felt like bitterness and stood, "I'm glad we got a chance to talk."

He turned his back to her...and walked.

[Kit Rowan]

"Wrong place?" Kit tilted her head to the side. "Don't be stupid. I could be dead tomorrow." She drew a finger across her throat and made a gagging sound. "Say it while you got the chance."

Was that how Wrenmae saw her? Untouched, unshaken, unbroken? Perhaps that, not her ongoing existence as fictional 'Shy Carsma,' was her greatest illusion since her escape. Kit refused to kill the magic. She offered an enigmatic smile instead of denial; let him believe what he wanted. Let him believe her strong, collected, happy. Other people believing a thing was as close to it being true that the difference often did not matter.

"Oooh!" Kit said, the corners of her mouth curling up in a smile. Nothing killed pride quite like need, and since their last meeting need had pressed Kit from all sides. She cupped her hands in her lap as Wrenmae dropped, dropped gold into her hands. How much? Oh . . . Plenty. Nearly half of what she had earned so far this season. "I'll gladly take your money."

"Be well, Wren." She said, watching him walk away. "And get out of this hive while you've the chance." Wait a moment, he didn't know where she lived. Didn't know what face she'd adopted! Oh well. Probably didn't really matter. If she ever wanted, Kit knew exactly where to find her uncle.

Kit slipped into another illusory guise, removed her hood and marched in the opposite direction to find some quiet place to become Shy again.