***This chapter has been revised. I am reposting it because the end of the chapter was not as I needed it to be in order to progress in the story. The changes aren't huge; I merely re-wrote a few paragraphs near the end. Doing so has freed my brain to work on the next chapter! So, expect Chapter 5 sometime in the near-future. In the mean-time, if you want to re-read just the last 1/3 of this chapter, I'd appreciate any comments.

<3libby

Chapter 4: Strangers

Having slept from dawn through the heat of day, Ilara awoke several hours before sunset, fully rested and awake. The brief thought of Sam's medicine and its effectiveness entered her thoughts as she stretched and felt no pain, even on her left side. She smiled and pushed away from Anthem, who yawned and rolled over, not willing to arise for his usual nocturnal activity before the fall of dusk.

After a quick breakfast of cooked millet and Drakoberries—sweet and spicy red berries common to mountainsides—Ilara followed her ears to a brook, where she washed herself and her dirty set of clothes and put on her clean set. The water was cold and clear and tasted sweet. It made her dark hair shine and her white fingers whiter. When she had finished hanging her wet clothes, but before donning her dry leggings, she sat on the edge of the brook and let her feet soak in the frigid stream. All the while she stretched her toes between the flowing water she went deeper and deeper into introspection.

What am I doing out here? She wondered and the wind seemed to answer back by lifting and whipping her face with the long wet tendrils of her hair. If Taerith were here I would seek his council . . . but he's not.

Tucking her hair behind her ears, she looked up briefly as if in hopes of seeing Elsu again, but she knew it would be weeks if not months before she received the first reply. What she saw instead was interesting, but not wholly unexpected; lapping streams of smoke rising faintly over the tree tops higher up the mountain. People.

Her feet suddenly realized their state and begged to be warmed, tingling as she pulled them out of the water and pulled on her leggings, losing most pensiveness as she went back to practical activities as she analyzed the smoke sighting.

Her boots were soft and comforting to her shocked feet, and she walked in them in a circle for a few moments, gathering her thoughts. Biting her lip and standing in a position between the way back to the sleeping lion and the wild cliffs of the mountain, Ilara briefly weighed an impulse that had made itself present to her, and which she soon decided she could not deny. Her quiver was full and she had her bow should any danger come upon her.

She would seek the source of the smoke.

An hour's climb led her to a path leading north and east along the upward slope. She took it without hesitation, keen on her surroundings in the early evening light. It was of a brightness she was still unaccustomed to since her months of night-dwelling, now that the days had grown long with the sun's extended presence. The orange glow the trees and rocks took on was fascinating and wonderful. As she passed such luminescent objects, her hands were compelled to brush them to glean some of their magic. Each time she did, the phantom light seemed diffused by her touch, yet she could not stay her hands.

The mountainside smelled sweet with a mixture of crumbling rock and rain and the persistent pines and aspens scattered about. Ilara was immersed in it; so much so, that she nearly followed the trail all the way to the village gate to which it led, forgetting her reasons for taking this path in the first place. If it had not been for the gate attendant's whistling, Ilara would have found herself confusedly in his midst. And if there was one thing she wished always to avoid, it was being caught unaware by another human being.

The human being in question was whistling a strange tune, and very loudly, as if he wished he was a songbird. The sound was so very unlike the gentle song of a bird that it was unmistakably picked out of the other forest sounds by the now sobered and cautious Ilara. Immediately on hearing it, she fell back a few steps and to her left along the wall of the rock face that hugged the path. She was obscured from whatever it was pealing shrill notes into the air with wanton vivacity, and he was equally obscured to her. Slowly, she stepped a little forward, her back tight against the rock face, until she could see through the trees around a curve in the path the pacing, booted feet of a man.

Her hesitance to approach was as well known to her as her own breath, but the reasons why were difficult for her to rationalize as she stood there ambivalently. Stepping back again, Ilara made certain she was not in view of the whistling man and started a smooth, slow descent down the side of the raised trail. The loose earth beneath her feet was difficult not to disturb loudly as she walked, and she quickly improvised her trail by using the trees. It was for her as easy a passage from tree to tree, and silent as the squirrels she learned the maneuver from, as it was to walk below and keep silent. Innately tree-drawn, Ilara moved with ease and her nerves calmed as she came closer to the village while staying hidden in foliage.

When she was at last as close to the man as she could confidently come, she found herself in the uppermost branches of an oak, which provided a view beyond the gate the man guarded to the small village behind it. The gate attendant kept on with his mirth-filled tune and Ilara surveyed what she could while certain he did not sense her.

It was a town made up of about forty small wooden structures presumably for housing, considering the gardens adjacent to most, and the children scurrying in and out of them. Most had rudimentary chimneys with gentle, steady smoke rising through them. A natural spring ran from the cliffs above, through the center of the village, curving near the gate to pour gently down the mantle's edge. There was a simple bridge over its center in relation to the town. It was such a small stream it seemed the bridge was only necessary during the spring months when the waters would presumably swell.

Two larger structures stood at the back of the village, one on each side of the stream. Each was against the ascending mountain slope and facing the other buildings as if addressing a crowd that had formed a sort of circle around its leaders. Ilara saw that one of these buildings was a place of worship; a church or monastery of some sort as evidenced by the carved door depicting an intricate cross. The other building she could not account for.

The whole village was situated in such a way that it was nestled in a place of safety, a place one could equate with the location of an eagle's nest. Its gate connected to a wooden fence that extended to the rock face to its left and the cliff-like slope to its right and around the village, hemming the town into its protective arms. The mantle the buildings were built upon on this side of the mountain was a great height above the lower slopes, yet not so high as to make living here impossible. It was positioned in just such a way as to give the impression of impenetrable security, without the idea that it was impossible to access. And for such a precocious position, it was surprisingly large enough to accommodate a growing community.

Despite the natural aversion she felt toward society in general, Ilara wondered how these villagers had come to settle here. Keeping her attention captive on one person at a time going about their business, she slowly began to weigh her inclinations toward self-preservation as more weighty than her strange interest in the scene. About to return to Anthem, her curiosity was all but slaked when she heard a voice join the whistler below her and her attention was thus directed.

"Good evening, Laith," said the stranger.

"Good evening. I hope your appointment has gone well, Master Sa'Celim?"

"I believe so. Anything to report?"

"No sir, all is well."

"Glad to hear it. Carry on. I'll come to take my post before the end of supper," the stranger said, patting the whistler on the shoulder. He turned to go through the gate but stopped short and turned his head back, holding it there as if listening.

Ilara watched nervously from her perch as the man called Sa'Celim lingered at the gate and looked around and up at the trees. Hugging closely the trunk as much as possible, Ilara waited until the serious face of the man disappeared behind the wooden gate.

~~*~~

Seven days without solitude worked disturbing influence over Xavier Sa'Celim. His men were still in training, and in the state they were in, Xavier's fervent attention was necessary to their improvement. Each day he awoke before dawn and delegated to them as much of his work as would be to their benefit in training and so that he could maintain his foremost duties as Caelta's guardian. He would return in the late afternoon from hunts and trap-setting and conduct grueling—but not cruel—training procedures well past the setting sun.

The past week he had spent another major portion of everyday meeting with the leaders of the triune villages on Mount Renscha's three-sided eastern shelf: Caelta, Reirq, and Sheia. He awaited their decision on a matter that would most likely result in further extensions of his time and efforts, and less likelihood to find solitude from time to time for his own sanity.

Xavier was a quiet man in many regards, and if left alone the only expression he would ever make would be that of poetry or song. His needs for solitude stemmed not out of a desire for escape, but out of his need for introspection and meditation. Much depth and conflict dwelt within him that if ignored, would ultimately drive him insane. The immanence of the approaching breakdown always made itself clear to Xavier well in advance, and thus he had opportunity to evade disaster. In light of the possible promotion which was likely to be forced on him in the coming weeks, Xavier worried his needed time of solitude would become nonexistent.

When the watchmen for the second shift of the night came to relieve Xavier of duty at Caelta's gate, his body begged for sleep. Brushing off his fatigue, Xavier took this, perhaps the last opportunity he would have in weeks, to get away.

The wide cleft between two boulders sitting twenty feet below Mount Renscha's summit and overlooking his village had been Xavier's solitary place since he had come to Caelta some years ago. Taking out some vellum and his quill and ink out of his satchel, Xavier set them beside him on the rocky shelf and looked up at the stars. Their brilliance was not new to him, yet he delighted in them whenever a chance such as this was given him to really take them in. His thoughts were on the magnificence of Deus and his heart soon echoed his thoughts in reverent prayer.

Xavier believed in Deus, the one true God, and in Christus His son, who died and rose again that all men might live. Xavier had clung to this in his trials and lost sight of it in his successes; but he was always driven back by the quality he had been given to see his own failings and need. He confessed even then in his heart to his God, that he feared any more authority given to him in the villages would be too difficult for him to bear righteously. Pride was a threatening temptation he knew he succumbed to too often. He spent an hour in thought and prayer on the subject before a peace settled over him and he took up his pen.

As his writing most often took place at late hours of the night, Xavier often used an odd technique to make light to write by. He kept twigs and brush under a ledge of one of the great boulders on the cliff, thereby kept dry for the purpose of quick flame. Taking the fine fuel to his side, he would light small amounts at a time to burst into short-lived flame, writing one line of poetry per burst. It was a sort of check he had invented for himself so that nothing he wrote would be over-thought, but all from the first profusion of his heart.

It was nearing the death-hour of the night, as the people of the triune villages deemed the hour set exactly between midnight and dawn. It was called such because of the history of numerous deaths by leoptera attacks that had occurred at this time of night. At least two watchmen were always posted at this hour at each gate around the three villages, and all of them well armed and aided by torchlight.

Footfalls and panting entered Xavier's hearing as he read his completed poem over, having just finished and about to go down to his cottage in the village for a few scant hours of sleep. Recognizing the characteristically clumsy sound of Ferran when climbing, Xavier rolled up his parchment and put his satchel over his shoulder, standing casually to wait for his subordinate and friend.

"You're no use to me there," Ferran said with a grunt, his forehead barely showing over the ledge, "while I'm over here . . . trying to get up this cursed mountain." Xavier laughed and offered a hand to Ferran, who took it and allowed himself to be pulled the rest of the way up onto the cliff.

"Why did you follow me up if you hate the climb so much?" Xavier asked with a genial pat on his friend's back.

"Because I worry about you," he replied, catching his breath and dusting himself off. "Were you ever planning on getting some rest?"

"I am more rested now than I would have been in sleep. I know my limits as well as my responsibilities. You know that as well as I, so why did you really come?"

Ferran grinned. "If you hadn't noticed, it's death-hour, and I was mistakenly appointed as watchmen with Mehrk and Sean. They told me they could handle it and that I could go back to sleep, but while I was on my way, I sensed movement down the slope, on the southern cliffs. Can you guess what I saw?" Ferran finished with a bright smile that was clear even in the dark.

"I'm sure you'd rather I let you tell me."

"A dark, magnificent male leoptera, by himself. He was flying above the slope in just such a way as I could make him out with close observation. He was all shiny too. A real beauty. I'd love to go after him myself, but you know me and my . . . uh," he stammered.

"Your horrible lack of skill with an arrow, a spear, or any other projectile? Yes, all too well."

"Master Sa'Celim, if that beasty came right up to the gate on foot, I'd best him in an instant with Shreika here," he said, taking his thus-dubbed sword partially out of it's sheath, just enough to glint faintly in the starlight. "But my moment of glory has yet to arrive. So, are you going to go after him tonight or take the wiser path and get an hour or two of sleep before you begin again tomorrow?"

"What do you think I'll do? What would you do?"

"Is this a test?" Ferran asked, aware that in his position just under Xavier, he would take over as town guardian and militia leader if ever Xavier could not fulfill that duty.

"Just answer."

"Well, I think you're going to go after it tonight, forsaking all sleep because you do not even need it. You're a spirit, some of the men have said. I don't rightly know if they are wrong. But me, I am only human, so I would wait until tomorrow night and be prepared."

"Honest answer. Good. That's why I like you."

"And am I right?"

"Partly, you are. I am going to go after it tonight, yes, but I am not going to forsake sleep, for I am not wholly spirit—my flesh covers most of it. I am delegating the giving of assignments for morning duties to your shoulders. It will give you a chance to flex your leadership skills and me a chance to get a few hours of sleep. Besides, if I get this leoptera tonight, a male no less, it will more than account for skipping my morning announcements and hunt."

"Aye, sir."

"Good. Have you brought my spear?"

"Of course, right next to mine," Ferran replied, reaching for the second spear on the baldric on his back.

"Always prepared, Ferran. Remind me to keep you around."

"Naturally, sir."

Xavier, spear in hand, began the steep slide on his heels down the slope of the cliff down onto the wooded southeastern slope, bent at the knees with one hand feeling the passing rock face to his right for balance.

"Master Sa'Celim!" Ferran cried from the cliff before Xavier was halfway down.

Sliding to a stop by turning on the sides of is boots and grabbing a pine branch jutting out of the rock to his side, Xavier looked back up at his friend. "What is it?"

"How do I get down?"

Xavier laughed. "Figure it out! Think of it as a training exercise!" And with that he continued his slide, gravel loosening and falling with him. When he reached the bottom, he did not stop but ran carefully between trees and boulders down the steady slope and off toward the southern end of Mount Renscha. If he could find the male leoptera and take him down, the night would be a success. He said a quick prayer in his heart for wisdom and skill as he worked his way closer to where he hoped to find a trail, or better yet, the beast itself.

~~*~~

Since the one called Sa'Celim had shown himself, Ilara had found a strangely renewed curiosity for the village. She had stayed in the tree for over an hour simply observing the occupants of the town, especially curious about this Sa'Celim and what his status was here. She had watched him enter one of the small buildings briefly, coming out again and greeting his comrades as he went about many odd tasks.

His place here was difficult to decipher as she followed him with her eyes. He had gone from the large building she hadn't placed yet, seeming to issue orders to a dozen young men as they came out again, and then to one of the smallest houses to fix a door for an elderly woman who smiled and doted on him as he did. Next he had shoed a horse, followed by walking and talking with an older man who seemed dignified and to whom Sa'Celim seemed to be subordinate. He had bowed to the man after their meeting and went on to yet another task. Perhaps Sa'Celim was a teacher or a lesser leader.

As he went from one occupation to the next, Ilara found need to move from tree to tree to keep sight of him. She spent five hours doing so, watching him with earnest interest she could not account for. After he had sat around a fire eating with several others, he had taken up the post of the whistler at the gate and Ilara had cautiously made her way back to her former perch above him.

She watched him less and less avidly as her stomach started to make its needs known and she realized how long she had left Anthem back at camp. She was about to leave when two men approached Sa'Celim to take his place. They lit an extra torch and stood at attention before Sa'Celim as he was about to leave.

"Anything we should know, sir?" one asked.

"As it happens, yes. The night is as dark as the day was bright. If either of you is caught sleeping or inattentively guarding, I'll give the order myself to have you sent back to Luria," He said with a brusque tone. "This is a serious task, and I want to trust that my men take it as such. Understood?"

"Yes, Master Sa'Celim."

"I bid you a quiet watch," their master finished and turned curtly away.

As the one she had been watching with interest for hours passed under the shadows of the village walls, Ilara turned her mind to her own situation. She felt a certain amount of self-reproach in light of the fact that she had been spying on strangers for the better part of her waking hours, too afraid to act on her fascination. The thing she now wondered most was what made it so necessary for this village to be constantly guarded. She assumed she would never get the answer, because she was certain she could not enter the gates and make herself known.

For some reason, the man called Sa’Celim was the barrier she felt most unable to cross. He seemed to bar her from even entertaining the idea of entering the village, no matter how intriguing it was to her. Despite the interest she could not account for, something about Sa’Celim sat ill with her. When she had first seen him—the way he looked at his companions—it was as though his look could cut through to one’s very bones, exposing them to the harshest of scrutiny. Not understanding or accounting for her feelings of vulnerability, she willed herself to leave and put it out of her mind. She looked briefly over the village once more as if to bid it goodbye, and turned to find her way back to Anthem.

As she climbed from branch to branch on the arbor path back to camp, she realized she might not be able to ever be among humans again, at least not as one of them. She could not even attempt to approach these people to sell a river dragon; that seemed a vain endeavor now anyway. Who could buy such an extravagance and vanity, even if they believed she could catch one?

The name 'Luria' came back to her as she went along, the place which Sa'Celim had threatened to send his men. Ilara wondered if this was a large place, a city or kingdom perhaps. The idea of a mass of people still frightened her, but if it was large enough, she could go there fairly inconspicuously, as opposed to if she made herself known to this tiny village.

Perhaps hope still remained that she could find occupation and provision for herself somehow, even if it was simply by hunting and selling her catches to provide shelter for the long winter months. Or perhaps, if this 'Luria' was really a large city, her ambitions to get the bounty for a river dragon could still be pursued.

Possibilities were extensive, and she would try to be brave and not shut herself off entirely to anything before giving it a chance, though the prospect of having to deal with people was a barrier she perceived as impenetrable. The prospect was enough to rub her nerves raw, but she was not even off the mountain yet, so worry would have to be set aside. For now she was decided on only two things: she would leave this mountain with Anthem as soon as was possible and she would try to find this 'Luria.' The rest—whether she would enter that or any city or remain a reclusive vagabond—would have to come later. She could not wander forever; she had to do something. She would face that realty sooner or later, and something in her knew this well enough to force her to act.

Ilara had found her way back to the path when she knew she was far enough from the village not to be heard. She followed it through the dark until she came upon the stream she had bathed in several hours prior. She leapt it easily and was back at the camp within a few minutes, eager to get ready and take flight with her beast. Looking around the clearing, sitting cold and still amidst the rocks and trees, Ilara saw it was empty. The grass where Anthem had lain was trampled and there was an animal carcass beside it. So, one of us has eaten, she thought enviously.

Ilara whistled. Only silence returned to her. She lifted her voice and sang again the first song she had ever sung to him, sure it would draw him. She waited.

Anthem did not come.