Jeff Salyards - Veil of the Deserters

She didn’t look disoriented, which was odd, and she turned to head back to our small camp and saw me standing there watching, she jumped back, hands coming up, either to defend herself or to work some awful Memoridon magic on me.

I said, “Skeelana, it’s me! It’s Arki!” in something between a hiss and a whisper-a hissper.

She lowered her hands, though slowly, as if she wasn’t sure whether to believe me, or was possibly still considering working some invisible spell. “Damn you! What are you doing out here?”

Skeelana sounded flustered, or embarrassed, or both.

“I’m sorry, I needed to, uh, empty… anyway, what are you doing out here?”

Skeelana crossed her arms in front of her chest, though whether to ward off the chill or because she was adopting that staunchly offended posture only women have mastered, I couldn’t say. “That’s actually no business of yours.”

Well, that answered the arms question. “I didn’t mean to startle you, or, uh… I’m sorry.”

“You didn’t startle me. You-” she snapped. But after a moment, forced herself to soften the edge, if only a little. “You did, actually. A little. I’m mostly mad at myself for not being more careful. You did nothing wrong. In fact, you’ve been nothing but kind, actually. Which I find a little unnerving, to be frank.” She looked around, hearing something small rustling in the brush nearby. “We really do need to stop meeting in the dark alone like this. It might set people to talking.”

She was making light, but there was actually some truth to that. I tried imagining what Mulldoos would say if he caught me out here with a Memoridon. It wouldn’t be pretty.

I wanted to excuse myself, in part because my bladder was full to bursting, in part, because it was the smart thing to do, but I stayed. “You said it was no business of mine, and I respect that. I do.”

“Do you?” There was some amusement there, though whether it was tinged with flirtation or irritation, it was impossible to say.

“I do indeed. But tell me this one thing, please. You weren’t night-walking, were you? Or meditating? And you obviously weren’t relieving yourself. What were you doing, exactly?”

“For someone allegedly respectful of boundaries, and wanting to know one thing only, you do ask far too many questions.”

I expected that, and nodded. “That’s fair. Well, then, I should-”

“I was sending a message,” she said quickly, as if she was revealing far more than she should have. “If you must know.”

I pulled the blanket tighter to ward off a cold breeze, and then wondered if not offering it to her was rude, or if offering it would be impudent and rude for different reasons. I opted for the second rudeness. When she declined the blanket, I couldn’t help asking, “A message? To another Memoridon, I take it.”

“Exceptionally clever.” I wasn’t sure, but it seemed like she was smiling.

“You can… what? Pass thoughts to each other? Read minds?” The question didn’t sound as ridiculous as I expected it to. Hearing of such things before meeting Lloi and now the Memoridons, I dismissed them as uneducated superstition or at least exaggeration. Now, I was almost prepared to believe everything.

“No,” she replied. “Not exactly. Not like you think, anyway. We can’t pass along long complex thoughts, or communicate the way you and I are now, rapid exchanges and questions and nuance and so forth. We transfer memories to each other.”

“Memories? I don’t understand. Memories of what? What you’ve seen recently? Heard?”

Skeelana shook her head. “No. That is, the most gifted and experienced can do something like that, provided they are much closer to each other. But at this distance, the only thing we can reliably pass to one another are small bits of image and sound that we’ve all memorized before.”

That sounded incredible, but again, having seen what I had, not entirely improbable. “Like a code, you mean? What kind of memories?”

She replied, “Something like that. A code, that is. Small, short, simple memories are the easiest. A fish swimming in circles in clear water means one thing. A hawk diving for its prey another. Something active, distinct, but still brief. String them together, and you can convey a great deal.”

It was foreign, and sounded marvelous, really. But everything she said led to more questions. “Why not just memorize an alphabet then? Transmit one letter after another, like writing, with your mind? Wouldn’t that be the simplest way?”

“It might. Well, it would. But there are two things that prohibit that from working. Again, when we are separated by great distances, even the most talented can only convey a few images at any one time. No one I’ve ever met could maintain the focus and concentration long enough to make… mind-writing like you described work. Or effectively anyway.”

“And the second thing?”

She took a step closer and said, “I will take that blanket, now.”

It took me a moment to comprehend, but after I handed it to her, she wrapped it around her shoulders. “The other is, something lively, colorful, dynamic-that’s easier to recall, receive, pass along. I can’t tell you why, precisely. But all of the memories in our language, our code, are meaningful. They are rarely static, and they are the kind of thing you would attach emotion to. That’s what makes a memory powerful. Here. Let me show you.”

Before I had a chance to decline, she closed her eyes and then I suddenly smelled an unexpected and potent odor: ginger. It bit at the nostrils so hard I could nearly taste it, and my stomach grumbled. The smell grew more powerful, and then faded away immediately as if it never existed at all. Immediately, another odor hit, equally out of place in the forest-bananas, overripe but not having spoiled completely. I’d only smelled them a few times, as they weren’t native to Anjuria, but there was no confusing the smell with anything else.

This disappeared as quickly as it came, though, replaced by a pungent perfume that swirled with vanilla and lavender and hints of some other cloying thing I couldn’t place. Followed immediately by the stinging brine and dead fish of the sea.

I would have suspected I was losing my mind if I hadn’t known it was merely being played with.

When the final odor disappeared, leaving the night air somehow flat and almost destitute, I said, “That’s amazing. Those are all yours? Memories of smells?”

“No. Those are shared memories. From early training, actually. Memories of smells are easier to transfer than images for some reason. I suppose emotions get caught up in them more? Not sure. Anyway, those are some of the first we learn to pick up and pass on.”

Now that I had her talking, I figured it was time to circle back to my original question. “So, what was the message?”

“Hmm?”

“The message you sent to someone back at Sunwrack.”

She suddenly handed the blanket back. “I’ve already blathered more than I should. And your bladder will pop soon. Get some rest, Arki.”

And just as she had the night before, she melted into the darkness and was gone, leaving me standing there, cursing myself for being so clumsy. And also a bit in awe.

Sleep would be even more difficult prey now, but I knew I had to try.

A hand shook my shoulder, and it was rough enough that I guessed I must have fallen into a deep sleep, despite the cold, the damp, and the uneven ground only slightly more comfortable than sleeping on broken glass.

I tried to orient myself. It was still dark, and the hand was still shaking me. I sat up and told whoever it was I was awake.

The hand withdrew. “Thought you might have died or something,” Vendurro said. “Weren’t even snoring, just curled up like some stone gargoyle.”