The Edge of the Map

W E CONTINUED TO INCH our way through the Eld. Every day began with the hope of finding traces of a trail. Every night ended with disappointment.

The shine was definitely off the apple, and our group was slowly being overtaken by irritation and backbiting. Any fear Dedan once felt for me had worn paper-thin, and he pushed at me constantly. He wanted to buy a bottle of brand using the Maer’s purse. I refused. He thought we didn’t need to keep nightly watches, merely set up a tripline. I disagreed.

Every small battle I won made him resent me more. And his low grumbling steadily increased as our search wore on. It was never anything so bold as a direct confrontation, just a sporadic peppering of snide comments and sulky insubordination.

On the other hand, Tempi and I were slowly moving toward something like friendship. His Aturan was becoming better, and my Ademic had progressed to the point where I could actually be considered inarticulate, as opposed to just confusing.

I continued to mimic Tempi as he performed his dance, and he continued to ignore me. Now that I’d been doing it for a while, I recognized a hint of martial flavor to it. A slow motion with one arm gave the impression of a punch, a glacial raising of the foot resembled a kick. My arms and legs no longer shook from the effort of moving slowly along with him, but I was still irritated by how clumsy I was. I hate nothing so much as doing a thing badly.

For example, there was a portion halfway through that looked easy as breathing. Tempi turned, circled his arms, and took a small step. But whenever I tried to do the same, I inevitably found myself stumbling. I had tried a half-dozen different ways of placing my feet, but nothing made any difference.

But the day after I told my “loose screw” story, as Dedan eventually came to refer to it, Tempi stopped ignoring me. This time after I stumbled, he stopped and faced me. His fingers flicked: Disapproval, irritation . “Go back,” he said settling into the dance position that came before my stumble.

I went into the same position and tried to mimic him. I lost my balance again, and had to shuffle my feet to keep from stumbling. “My feet are stupid,” I muttered in Ademic, curling the fingers on my left hand: Embarrassment .

“No.” Tempi grabbed my hips in his hands and twisted them. Then he pushed my shoulders back, and slapped at my knee, making me bend it. “Yes.”

I tried moving forward again, and felt the difference. I still lost my balance, but only a little.

“No,” he said again. “Watch.” He tapped his shoulder. “This.” He stood directly in front of me, barely a foot away, and repeated the motion. He turned, his hands made a circle to the side, and his shoulder pushed into my chest. It was the same motion you would make if you were trying to push open a door with your shoulder.

Tempi wasn’t moving very quickly, but his shoulder pushed me firmly aside. It wasn’t rough or sudden, but the force of it was irresistible, like when a horse brushes up against you on a crowded street.

I moved through it again, focusing on my shoulder. I didn’t stumble.

Since we were the only ones at the camp, I kept the smile from my face and gestured: Happiness. “Thank you.” Understatement .

Tempi said nothing. His face was blank, his hands still. He merely went back to where he had stood before and began his dance again from the beginning, facing away from me.

I tried to remain stoic about the exchange, but I took this as a great compliment. Had I known more about the Adem, I would have realized it was far more than that.

* * *

Tempi and I came over a rise to find Marten waiting for us. It was too early for lunch, so hope rose in my chest as I thought that finally, after all these long days of searching, he might have caught the bandits’ trail.

“I wanted to show you this,” Marten said, gesturing to a tall, sprawling, fernlike plant that stood a dozen feet away. “A bit of a rare thing. Been years since I’ve seen one.”

“What is it?”

“It’s called An’s blade,” he said proudly, looking it over. “You’ll need to keep an eye out. Not many folk know about them so it might give us a clue if there are any more of them about.”

Marten looked back and forth between us eagerly. “Well?” he said at last.

“What’s so special about it?” I asked dutifully.

Marten smiled. “The An’s blade is interesting because it can’t tolerate folk,” he said. “If any part of it touches your skin, it’ll turn red as fall leaves in a couple hours. Redder than that. Bright as your mercenary reds,” Marten gestured to Tempi. “And then that whole plant will dry up and die.”

“Really?” I asked, no longer having to feign interest.

Marten nodded. “A drop of sweat will kill it just the same. Which means most times it will die just from touching a person’s clothes. Armor too. Or a stick you’ve been holding. Or a sword.” He gestured to Tempi’s hip. “Some people say it will die if you so much as breathe on it,” Marten said. “But I don’t know if that’s the truth.”

Marten turned to lead us away from the An’s blade. “This is an old, old piece of forest. You don’t see the blade anywhere near where folk have settled. We’re off the edge of the map here.”

“We’re hardly on the edge of the map,” I said. “We know exactly where we are.”

Marten snorted. “Maps don’t just have outside edges. They have inside edges. Holes. Folk like to pretend they know everything about the world. Rich folk especially. Maps are great for that. On this side of the line is Baron Taxtwice’s field, on that side is Count Uptemuny’s land.”

Marten spat. “You can’t have blanks on your maps, so the folks who draw them shade in a piece and write, ‘The Eld.’ ” He shook his head. “You might as well burn a hole right through the map for what good that does. This forest is big as Vintas. Nobody owns it. You head off in the wrong direction in here, you’ll walk a hundred miles and never see a road, let alone a house or plowed field. There are places around here that have never felt the press of a man’s foot or heard the sound of his voice.”

I looked around. “It looks the same as most other forests I’ve seen.”

“A wolf looks like a dog,” Marten said simply.“But it’s not. A dog is . . .” He paused. “What’s that word for animals that are around people all the time? Cows and sheep and such.”

“Domesticated?”

“That’s it,” he said, looking around. “A farm is domesticated. A garden. A park. Most forests too. Folks hunt mushrooms, or cut firewood, or take their sweethearts for a little rub and cuddle.”

He shook his head and reached out to touch the rough bark of a nearby tree. The gesture was oddly gentle, almost loving. “Not this place. This place is old and wild. It doesn’t care one thin sliver of a damn about us. If these folk we’re hunting get the jump on us, they won’t even have to bury our bodies. We’ll lie on the ground for a hundred years and no one will come close to stumbling on our bones.”

I turned where I stood, looking at the rise and fall of the land. The worn rocks, the endless ranks of trees. I tried not to think about how the Maer had sent me here, like moving a stone on a tak board. He had sent me to a hole in the map. A place where no one would ever find my bones.

Date: 2015-02-03; view: 712