Dreams of Steel - Part 17

Random thing that happened while looking up a word:  I caught a joke that made it past the censors in The Princess Bride.  https://youtu.be/F56QikTv-6A  Yep, Inigo Montoya basically tells someone to go f*** himself in Spanish.

Also, a friend of mine got confused by a statement I made in a previous post.  I have not skipped over any of the book due to sexual content.  I said that I would do it if anything too graphic happened, but nothing graphic has happened.  If such a thing occurs, it will be clearly marked in [brackets] with a vague description of what transpired.  Any conversation relevant to the story will be kept intact (or mostly intact with said brackets).

Anywho, enjoy!

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The rules of hospitality are universal.  Before questioning a traveller one must let them rest, clean their feet of the dust of the road, sate their hunger and thirst.  If these rules were not observed, Tramórea would be an even more savage place.  It had been many years since Linar had received any guest, but he had not forgotten those standards.  Despite his curiosity to know who this dark and thin young man was that he had saved from the clutches of the corueco, he prepared a meal of bread, cheese, hot broth and water sprinkled with the sap of the Great Old One, the ancient tree that served as his home.

At the sight of the wooden tray covered with food, the boy brightened up.  Linar prepared coffee, one of the scant luxuries he received from the outside world, sat on the floor in front of his visitor and drank it in a clay mug.

"I appreciate your hospitality, Master Linar.  May the warmth of your hearth endure forever."

"Eat.  It will be good for you."

The boy wasn’t slow to polish it all off.  Afterwards, he left the tray to one side and opened the travelling cloak which covered him.  Under the light brown mantle he wore a Ritiona tunic down to his knees and covered his legs with woolen breeches in the northern style.  But what was not revealed by that hybrid clothing was betrayed by his dark complexion and lilting accent, characteristics of a Ritión of the Islands.  He had delicate features, almost feminine.  His eyes were large, dark and moist; hungry eyes, and not just hungry for food, but something more, an essential lack, insatiable, like that of his own...

Had he ever been young?

"You know Yatom.  I want you to tell me more.  But first, my reckless guest, tell me who you are."

"My name is Mikhon Tiq.  I'm from Malirie."

"A beautiful place," Linar responded, with sincerity, as Malirie was called the Pearl of the Sea for the beauty of its white rocks and the transparency of its beaches.

"The best in the world."

His father, explained the young man, was a dealer in purple dyes who had sent him to Uhdanfiún to follow a military career and bring honor to the family.  Mikhon Tiq studied there for a few years, until he left.  The reason, whatever it was, was overlooked.  Upon returning to Malirie, he worked for his father and met Yatom on a trip, aboard a merchant ship.

"He was always restless and fond of travel, old Yatom," Linar nodded.  "Continue."

Yatom must have seen something in Mikhon Tiq; as he decided to adopt him as a disciple.  Linar arched an eyebrow:  taking apprentices was something unusual in a Kalagorinor.

"Yatom knew that his time was short, and did not want his syfrõn to be lost," explained Mikhon Tiq.

Linar leaned his face in and fixed his eyes on his guest.

"What happened to Yatom?"

"He has died, Master Linar."

Only his extreme control prevented Linar from emitting a groan.  The Kalagorinor are not eternal; but for those whose hearts do not beat, the decades pass like years for humans.  Yatom was barely older than him.  He still should have had a lot of time remaining.

Linar put his hand on the boy's forehead.  It was a minor invasion, just a fleeting visit to his mind.  Within that small receptacle which was the head of Mikhon Tiq hid another presence, a huge place unfolded in dimensions unconnected to the normal world.  That little cosmos could only be Yatom’s syfrõn.  Fortunately, the boy had received it before the mage died:  if not, the syfrõn would have collapsed in on itself in a cataclysm that would have destroyed a good part of the forest and perhaps Linar himself.

The boy looked at him with unfocused eyes.  Linar recalled that he had gone through a hard time that night and took pity on him.  Before removing his hand from his forehead, he instilled the warmth of sleep through his skin.  Mikhon Tiq blinked a few times, and soon his breathing became deeper and his head dropped to one side.