The Legend of Broken

And so, we withdrew into our cave, and left you to wonder at all the mysterious circumstances you had encountered. And, let me only say that I owe you great gratitude, for had you not so decently taken the pouch to my acolytes, I could not have survived these many years.”

Heldo-Bah thrusts an elbow into Veloc’s side. “There, you see? I told you, did I not, that delivering those things without informing the Groba would be both profitable and decent, just as he says?”

Returning his friend’s sharp blow in kind, Veloc whispers, “Save that the word ‘decent’ never crossed your lying lips!”

Caliphestros sees Keera lift her head for but an instant to steal a peek at the panther, then lower her eyes again in deference; and the old man nods in true appreciation, which is augmented when he hears that Stasi has begun to purr. “It would seem that my companion also recognizes her debt to you: she has remembered your scent, and particularly wishes you to feel at your ease, Keera — you should feel honored, for she not only does not trust humans, as a rule, but nearly always sets out to kill any with whom she crosses paths.”

“Indeed I do feel honored, lord,” Keera says, still with great humility. “For she is famed among all our tribe as the most righteous and powerful of woodland spirits — a noble soul with a mighty heart. One of our fellow foragers claims to this day to have seen her kill nearly every member of a Broken hunting party, long ago.”

Caliphestros studies the young Bane woman further. “Your homage is well stated, young lady. I have long known of the deference your people show the great cats of the Wood: but in you there is something else — something more than mere fear or deference.”

“Yes, my lord,” Keera answers with a quick nod. “If my agreement is not unacceptably vain.”

“It is not. You are a woman who exhibits graceful strength, integrity, deep knowledge, and compassion. Do not ever apologize for such qualities, Keera, for in the vicious, mendacious world of men, they are the finest and most powerful gifts that anyone can hope to possess.” Caliphestros leans forward, stroking his grey beard and suddenly realizing just how long the thing has become, and how much of that length is no longer grey, but white. “And so, please, bring your eyes up, if you can bear the sight of the deteriorating, mutilated man before you, that we may converse the easier. As for Stasi — if your friends do not hold her gaze for too long, until she has grown as tolerant of their scents as she is pleased by yours, she shall not strike at them. Not so long as you are present, at any rate.”

Keera, eagerly but nonetheless slowly, turns upward, letting her eyes run the length of the panther and then settle on the green jewels that are set into her proud face; and for an instant, she feels a deep chill of mournful recognition. “I — it is said, in our village, that she is so fearsome because she sprang from the loins of the Moon itself, which gave her such color, brilliance, and almighty power …”

“I have heard this tale.” Caliphestros lifts his head, ever more intrigued by this small woman of great wisdom. “But you think otherwise …”

“I — with all respect, my lord, I believe I know otherwise.”

“Indeed? And you may simply call me Caliphestros, Keera. It was my name, when there were other humans to use it, and so I suppose it must become such again.” A thought occurs to him. “Do you know the meaning of your own name, by any chance?”

Keera quickly shakes her head. “No. Caliphestros.”

Watching this extraordinary scene, Heldo-Bah begins to moan, his upper body rocking back and forth. “She has called actually him by his name alone — without his title. We are dead men, dead, dead, dead …”

“Stop it,” Veloc hisses, cuffing his friend a quick blow to the head.

“You two will be silent,” Caliphestros says, more forcefully than angrily — but his tone is nonetheless stern enough that the panther punctuates his remark by eyeing the two small men and letting out the short, low growl that such creatures employ as a warning call to those immediately about them. The old man reaches down to stroke her haunch as his gaze returns to Heldo-Bah and Veloc. “Do not suppose that my gratitude is infinite,” he says, “for I know that foraging, while vital to your people’s survival, is also employed as punishment, on occasion. And at first blush, the pair of you have the sort of habitually contrite expressions that would mark Bane who have undertaken their foraging under precisely such disgraced circumstances.” Caliphestros deliberately softens his aspect and voice, once more, as he looks again to Keera. “Yours is a name from far to the south,” he continues. “From the Sassanid empire, which some call Persia. Do you know of it?”

Keera shakes her head modestly. “No, Cali—” Her voice falters. “I beg your pardon, but may I not call you ‘my lord,’ for now? I find that I feel impertinent, doing otherwise. Perhaps, with time, this will change …”

“Wiser and wiser,” replies Caliphestros, as he slowly nods once or twice. “Very well, Keera. It is a beautiful, indeed a fine name, intended for those who are gifted with sight: to see far and truly — in all ways. Which, I suspect, you do.”

“She does that, my lord,” Veloc says, putting one hand to his chest and holding the other arm out before him, assuming his best historian’s pose. He then declaims further, and just as clownishly: “There is no greater tracker in our tribe, nor a wiser head—”

“If you wish to keep your head, boy,” Caliphestros interrupts, “and the throat beneath it, then mind your tongue until your opinion is requested.” He gives Keera a rather conspiratorial glance. “Your brother, eh? I heard you mention as much, during your argument — and it would more readily explain why one of your character keeps such questionable company as his.”

“Yes, my lord,” Keera replies. “But he is not as great a fool as he sometimes sounds. A good man, in fact, but he has long had the ambition to be the historian of our tribe, which ofttimes causes him to take on airs.”

“Historian, eh?” Caliphestros echoes. “Indeed? And to what school of history do you belong, Veloc?”

Again assuming the absurd pose of the orator, Veloc asks, “My lord? I fear I do not understand you — what school of history?”

“Yes,” Caliphestros says, plainly entertained. “History is, among many other things, a long war, Veloc — a war between factions, each of which is as fanatical as any army. So — are you an annalist, for example, like the great Tacitus? Or perchance you seek moral lessons in the lives of great men, as did Plutarch.” Reading utter consternation in the handsome Bane’s features, the old man tries not to laugh aloud, and queries further, “No? Perhaps you admire the books of the estimable Bede, from across the Seksent Straits. He was once a friend of mine — although I do not know if he yet lives.”†

“I know none of these names, lord.” Veloc’s mask of pride, now undercut by confusion, grows naught but sillier. “And I must ask — what has history to do with books?”

“Ah,” noises Caliphestros. “So you speak the tales of history, do you, Veloc?”

The handsome Bane shrugs. “What else should a true historian do, my lord? Were history to be recorded in books, why … How should we know who put it there? Or where it originated, and what part is fact, what legend, and what mere myth? Only spoken knowledge, handed down through the generations from wise man to pupil, over and over, can offer us such integrity — should any of our number speak lies, his fellows will likely catch him at it, whereas the lies of a man who writes books will long outlive him, with no one left to tell of his deceptions!”

Stroking his beard slowly, Caliphestros studies Veloc for a few silent moments. “He is either more intelligent than he sounds and appears,” the old man muses quietly, “or wholly unaware that he has grazed a deep truth. And I am not certain which I find the more disconcerting …” Coming out of this reverie, Caliphestros fixes his grey gaze on Keera again. “And so, my sharp-eyed girl — you saw something in Stasi’s face, before we were interrupted. I believe so, at any rate.”

“I may be wrong, of course, lord,” Keera carefully murmurs. “But — it is a thing, I have noticed, a thing that certain animals, even though they be as different as man to panther, can sense in each other. The loss — the death — of a loved one. Loved ones.”

Caliphestros’s brow ripples suddenly with profound sorrow. “You have lost children?”

“Not — yet,” Keera answers softly. “But … my husband. The only man I have ever loved.” She nods quickly, without turning, in the direction of her companions. “Loved, that is, as a wife should — with affection, admiration, and—”

There follows a pause, which Caliphestros fills for the modest Keera: “And desire, my girl. Eh?” At a quick nod from her, the old man elaborates: “There is no shame in it, Keera, nor embarrassment, save for those who have never known such love. Was it the illness that has struck your people?”