Fire Emblem Fan Fiction ❯ Fire Emblem Tellius Saga: Book 2 ❯ CHAPTER 55: ZUNANMA ( Chapter 24 )

[ Y - Young Adult: Not suitable for readers under 16 ]

The Greil Mercenaries had decided long ago that they would cross through the Grann Desert on their way north, and in doing so, visit the laguz living there. Soren remembered this basin of sand all too well. The last time he’d been here, they’d been sent by Sanaki and they’d been armed to the teeth. Last time, they’d fought (and in many cases killed) the ex-slaves who lived here. But now they came as friends, bearing exotic foods and other gifts they’d bought from the merchants. They wore smiles and pushed forward with eager steps.

Red pennants sagged flat against their poles in the sky, marking a road where the shifting sands would never let one be laid. These towers were made of sturdy wood and stone, and every sixth post had a horizontal pole sticking off of the top: a landing strip for bird laguz. They’d seen such contraptions in Phoenicis as well.

The mercenaries followed the flagged path until familiar ruins emerged in the haze. But these hardly deserved the name ‘ruin’ anymore, having been dug out and built up since last they were here. Scaffolding wrapped around the old stone buildings like exoskeletons, and it was clear most had already seen serious repair. Brand new buildings had been erected as well, with paths paved between them and colored awnings stretched above. Hundreds of laguz and beorc workers crawled over the scaffolding and scurried along the roads.

“Incredible,” Ike said, “But how can they even do this? How can they build a city in the desert?”

Whether or not it was a rhetorical question, Soren decided to answer. He pointed to the raised, rocky ground on either side of the settlement. “Those hills offer protection from sandstorms,” he explained. “And the ruins delve deep underground—stone tunnels where they can access fresh water and find respite in the shade.” He paused to assess the scene again. “Beorc built this place thousands of years ago, but it was abandoned. The laguz just found it.”

“Well laguz and beorc are working together to build it now,” Ike observed contentedly.

“Look closer. The laguz are doing the heavy lifting. The beorc just bring the supplies and oversee the work. This is no different than the slave labor forced on these same laguz not long ago.”

Ike frowned. “It is different. They are choosing to do the work, and they’re building homes for themselves, not for someone else.”

Soren just shrugged. “Until beorc decide once again that they want the city in the sands.”

Ike growled in frustration. “That is not going to happen. You’re too negative.”

Soren sighed. Ike might be right, but he considered it his prerogative to think of the worst possible scenario. That was what made him a capable tactician.

The company now arrived in front of the main building—the place where Mia had struck down Muarim and where Tormod had stood angrily between the mercenaries and his adopted father. Soren saw the ghosts of battle and wondered if the others saw them too, because they seemed suddenly subdued.

“Tormod!” Ike called, making every nearby worker jump in surprise. “Muarim!” A couple flicks of his fingers ordered Titania and Oscar to wait with the laden horses. “Tormod! Muarim!” he continued to call as he pushed open the large wooden doors. Inside, his voice echoed through the cavernous stone halls: “Tormoood! Muuuaaarim!”

The last time they’d been here, this place had been crumbling in on itself, the light dim, the air close. It had been filled with nearly a hundred injured laguz, and it had smelled of blood, sweat, human offal, and fear. But now the air was clear, and the space well-lit with smokeless lanterns. The walls and ceiling had been completely repaired. The passage sloped underground, and doors smelling of freshly cut wood led into additional passages. The trickle of water echoed in the deep.

“Tormoood! Muuuaaarim!” Ike called again, this time cupping his mouth to amplify the sound and directing it down the length of the main tunnel.

“Would you please stop shouting!” One of the doors flew open, and a wiry cat laguz with frizzy, gray-streaked hair practically fell into the entrance chamber. His skin was lined with the scars of battle and bondage, but there was a clumsy liveliness in his step. “We are in a meeting!”

“Hi,” Ike said brightly. “Er, sorry.”

Ike’s smile seemed to win him over, and he reopened the door that had slammed shut behind him. “Well, come in then.”

The mercenaries filed into a large meeting room with a vaulted glass ceiling. Red and gold cloth hung in hammock-like billows beneath the glass, allowing only occasional streams of light to cascade into the room and across the large wooden table at its center.

Muarim and Tormod sat at the far end—or rather, Muarim sat. He was slouched forward as if deep in thought, but his face and ears perked up at the sight of the mercenaries. Tormod, on the other hand, was standing, the chair behind him abandoned. He’d never been one to sit still.

A young raven laguz was seated at Tormod’s right. Next to her was a green-haired tiger laguz, next to her a blue-haired cat laguz, next to him a red-haired laguz with no distinguishing wings or tail. Soren had to assume he was a dragon, but this was surprising. Soren would certainly have remembered seeing a dragon if there’d been one here last time.

On the other side of the table sat four beorc: a middle-aged woman, an elderly man, a young man, and a young woman. They were all well-dressed but not as eccentrically as the people of Sienne, so Soren supposed they must be nobles of middling means who were investing in the desert city.

On the table itself was a large, detailed map of Daein, of all things. Various overlapping papers were laid out and held open by stone weights, but their curling edges made them impossible to read. Soren crept closer. He’d expected to see a map of the city and plans for construction. He wondered what their interest was in Daein.

The elderly cat laguz stood by an empty chair opposite Muarim, but he did not sit. He seemed hesitant, as if instinct told him the meeting was all but adjourned. Meanwhile, Tormod’s face lit up at the sight of Greil Mercenaries. “General Ike!” He saluted proudly. “What are you doing here?”

Ike laughed. “Paying a visit is all. If you’ll have us?”

“Of course!” Tormod was positively skipping as he made his way around the table. “Everyone,” he announced, “This is General Ike and the Greil Mercenaries. We fought together in the war, and General Ike was the one who led us to victory. He slayed King Ashnard himself!” The laguz and beorc all bowed their heads politely. “And he led the assault on Gritnea Tower too. He might be able to help us!”

Ike was clearly confused; the mission to rescue Leanne had been one of the war’s more minor battles. But Soren was beginning to understand.

“I’ll help if I can,” Ike said uncertainly. “What’s the problem?”

Muarim stood now. “It is a long story. Shall we break for lunch?” This last part he addressed to the table.

“I don’t see how any more work is going to get done with all these interruptions,” the old beorc man grumbled.

“It is agreed then,” said one of the beorc women, placing a consoling hand on his shoulder. “Shall we meet again in two hours’ time?”

Everyone nodded, and the room erupted in the sounds of chair legs grating against the stone floor and rustling papers as scrolls were rebound. Tormod gestured that the mercenaries should head out the way they’d come.

“Lunch? Or a tour of the city?” he offered cheerily.

“I’d take both if we have the time,” Ike answered.

 Tormod saluted again, apparently ready to accept the challenge.

They met Titania and Oscar outside, and Muarim joined them shortly. “It is good to see you again, General,” he purred.

Tormod and Muarim then led the mercenaries to a freshly-constructed stable where ten horses and a handful of mules and donkeys were already boarded. The stable was built in a circle around a large well surrounded by a circular basin full of fresh water. Titania’s stallion, Oscar’s mare, and the company’s packhorse immediately bent their necks to drink. Two beorc stable hands emerged from the shade of an awning, straw-covered and dusty with sand. They helped the mercenaries unload the horses and saw the beasts stabled.

The mercenaries then carried their possessions to a closely-laid community of small, round buildings. The clay houses were tiny: a single circular room with space enough for one person to live. They didn’t even have doors; only brightly-patterned rugs hung in the thresholds. “A lot of the beorc workers live here when they come on contract,” Tormod explained, “The laguz live farther in, in the stone buildings. And the nobles stay in the underground suites—the few we’ve restored so far. There are lots of empty spaces here, though. You can each have your own if you want.” 

The last time Soren had had a room of his own was back at their old fort in Crimea, and he looked forward to the privacy. Each of the mercenaries chose their own hut and stowed their supplies. Within the round walls was a straw mattress raised off the ground by a thin bedframe, a chest with a lock and key, a small table, and a chair. All the furniture was newly made but rough-hewn. Soren found he liked it—perfectly serviceable, nothing fancy.

Once the mercenaries emerged from their eleven consecutive domes, Tormod and Muarim led them back to the ruins’ main building. This time, instead of heading into the meeting room, Tormod led them to a spiral staircase and pranced all the way to the top. As it was the tallest ruin in the city, this was a considerable distance. Soren’s calves were aching when they reached top. From here a door opened onto a newly-restored balcony, and he could tell it was newly-restored because some of the wooden scaffolding was still in place and an area in the back was still roped off for safety.

Ike (his dislike of heights evident) pressed himself to the wall and tried to look appreciative of the view. Soren and the others, however, braved the edge to take in the full vista. The city of ruins unfolded below them, churning with activity. The awnings looked like a river of color branching through the city, and from here, the tiny clay houses on the outskirts looked more like mole hills. Beyond them the desert stretching blindingly. Soren squinted to see the red flags leading back to civilization. They were hardly more than dots.

After allowing the mercenaries a few moments of appreciation, Tormod stepped fearlessly to the edge and flung his arms wide. “Welcome to Zunanma!”

Titania, Mist, and Rolf offered an awkward applause.

“Amazing isn’t it? This city has been rebuilt at least three times in the history of Begnion—even before the history of Begnion!” he amended. “The ruins underground go on forever. It could be the oldest city in all of Tellius! People just keep building a new city on top of the old one! Isn’t that cool?”

“Very cool.” Shinon rolled his eyes

“Neato!” Mia agreed, much more genuinely.

“It is a true marvel,” agreed Titania.

“Can we get the full story a bit closer to the ground?” asked Ike.

Muarim chuckled. “I did not think the great general feared a thing.”

Ike shot him an affronted look. “Whatever gave you that idea?”

Everyone laughed, but Tormod conceded and led them back downstairs. They didn’t have much time left until he and Muarim had to return to their meeting, so the pair set the mercenaries up in the workers’ mess hall and promised to come back later. The mercenaries were left to their own devices, but as hungry and thirsty as they were after this morning’s trek, they were easily contented by the kitchen’s offerings.

 

“Muarim and I split our time pretty evenly between Sienne and Zunanma,” Tormod explained that evening. Everyone was lounging around a stone patio furnished with fountains, potted plants, and climbing vines. A river of stars lit up the sky, unmarred by clouds. “We have to fight hard for everything we’ve got here. Most of the senators hate us, but Sanaki is on our side, even if she can’t always seem like she is,” he continued to chatter away. “We’re citizens now though, so we have rights. And the theocracy’s been cracking down on illegal slaveholding. There’ve been a lot of raids. A bunch of nobles were killing and dumping their slaves before they could get caught with them. But that’s mostly passed now. We got a lot of new laguz coming to us in the first year, but not many anymore.”

“Did some of the laguz come from Daein?” Soren asked, recalling the map. 

“Well, yeah actually,” Tormod answered, sounding uncharacteristically somber. “They were being held for experiments. Some we couldn’t save… They were poisoned and tortured and made to go insane so they could be used as weapons. You all remember, we sure faced enough of them in battle.”

“That’s why you asked about Gritnea Tower…” Ike asked.

“Yeah,” Tormod sighed.

Muarim was stretched out in his shifted form, eyes closed and paws crossed, between some ferns. In the flickering firelight, it was hard to distinguish his mossy coat from the tendrils of leaves. Lifting his eyelids, he said, “We are trying to track down the monster responsible. We believe he escaped the battle at Gritnea, and we believe he returned to Daein unscathed.”

“He’s still out there,” Tormod growled, fists clenched.

“I thought Begnion rounded up all the Daein military personnel?” Titania asked.

“But he wasn’t military,” Tormod answered sharply. “He’s a scholar. He’s out there completely free to continue his experiments!”

In the moment of silence that followed, Soren recalled the basement at Gritnea Tower. There were some days he still couldn’t get the stink of that place out of his head. He understood their desire for justice.

“The theocracy is no help at all. They don’t care that this monster is out there. They don’t care about the experiments. They don’t care about laguz!” Tormod scuffed the floor with his sandal and plunged his hands into his pockets.

“So,” Titania said in a calming tone, “these laguz from Daein—have you discovered a way to cure their madness?”

Tormod shook his head. “The mad ones don’t come to us. They die from their condition, or starvation, or they’re killed by Begnion soldiers when they’re discovered.”

“Sometimes the sane ones are killed too,” Muarim added from his shadowy corner.

“Yeah…”

“I’m so sorry,” Ike said quietly. “How can we help?”

“Do any of you remember anything from Gritnea Tower?” Tormod asked hopefully. “Something the soldiers might have said? Documents about their experiments? Do you remember seeing a man sneaking away?”

Everyone shook their heads.

“If I saw someone sneaking off, I would’ve captured him or shot him right there!” Rolf assured.

“All I remember from that day was the horror of that tower,” Titania muttered gravely.

“Have you tried contacting Queen Elincia?” Rhys offered. “I am sure she sent men to clear out the tower after the war ended.”

“Oh yeah, of course we did. Jill carried a message for us—she’s doing a delivery service now, if you didn’t know.” (They nodded that they did.) “But Elincia said it was all already gone. Everything was cleared out or burned up…” Tormod hesitated a second, glancing quickly at Ike. “The Begnion soldiers were still there. The prisoners in the cages. But they’d all been burned to a crisp.”

Ike frowned but said nothing.

“Any ideas who did it?” Oscar asked.

Tormod shrugged. “Isn’t it obvious? It’s this guy covering his tracks.”

“What about King Tibarn or Naesala? Perhaps Princess Leanne remembers something? Have you tried to contact them?” Titania suggested.

Tormod nodded. “We’re waiting to hear back.”

“I hope they turn up something,” Ike said finally. “Is there anything we can do in the meantime? We’ve been planning to head up to Daein. Any places we should check out?”

Muarim yawned and pulled himself onto all fours. He plodded over to the fire and transformed back into his human shape. This cut off whatever Tormod was going to say. “We will search ourselves, if the need arises,” he said firmly. “We cannot ask you to investigate for us, and we do not have the funds to hire you. But, as your friends, we do ask that you keep your eyes and ears out. If you notice anything, please send a letter.”

Tormod swallowed and nodded. “And if you meet any laguz along the way,” he said, “tell them where they can find us.”

“Of course,” Ike replied.

“Now, I am sure you are tired. Should we guide you back to your lodgings?” Muarim offered.

“We can find the way,” Ike answered with a shake of his head. “Thanks.”

“Hey, tomorrow I should show you the underground pools,” Tormod proposed, his usual bubbly excitement returning to his voice. “We’ve restored seven already!”

  

On the fourth night, the mercenaries returned from the underground hot springs among a herd of sore, tired workers. This was a nightly ritual for most people in the city, laguz and beorc alike, and the Greil Mercenaries had been quick to join.

Soren may have disliked the proximity of so many half-naked strangers in an enclosed space—the eyes of whom stared at his scars as often as his Brand, but the social discomfort was far outweighed by the physical comfort. Soren relished the chance to remove the dust and dirt that accumulated on his skin each day, not to mention the opportunity to languish in a warm pool with Ike. He never left early like he had at Astrid’s.

But now he was eager to return to his own bed in his own little hut. Tiredness slowed his steps and sleepy moisture accumulated in the outer corners of his eyes.

But then he felt a prick in the back of his mind, like a burr catching and refusing to let go. Something wasn’t right. He fended off his sleepiness and glanced around, feeling he was being watched. Honing in on the source, he stopped in his tracks. Someone was indeed watching him—someone in a brown cloak nearly invisible against the sand beyond the clay village. And this person was Branded.

“Soren?” Ike asked, glancing back.

“Coming.” He started walking again and resisted the urge to glance back at the interloper. He supposed he shouldn’t be completely surprised; he knew Stefan and his people lived in the Grann too. But that didn’t explain why this one had appeared so close to the city.

Once back in his hut, he grabbed his wind tome and its harness. Then, as soon as all the workers and mercenaries had returned to their domes, he made a beeline out of town. The Branded was in the same spot, as if waiting for him. Soren approached cautiously, even if there was no sneaking up on them, and slowed to a stop several yards away. “Who are you?” he asked.

The person pushed down their hood to expose spiky purple hair, a woman’s tan face, and intense eyes. She closed the distance between them, but Soren didn’t retreat. He noticed a matching pair of curved blades crisscrossed on her back. The handles gleamed on either side of her neck, and the tips were visible under each elbow. “You must be Soren?” she asked.

“Yes.”

She extended her hand, where a folded letter was clamped between her fingertips.

“What is that?” He didn’t reach for it.

“A girl of our kind came to us months ago. But she did not stay. Like you, she felt she still owed something to the world of beorc and laguz…or perhaps that it owed her something. Her name was Koure.”

Soren snatched the letter out of her hand as quickly as he could and wedged it into his tome’s holster. He wouldn’t read it here, as much as he wanted to. “How could she have known to leave me a letter with you?”

“Stefan said you would come to us one day. The letter was just in case.”

Soren scowled. “I’ve not ‘come to you.’ My company is just passing through.”

“Of course. But I came to give you the letter anyway. Aren’t I kind?”

Soren said nothing.

She sighed. “My name is Andarra, by the way. In answer to your first question.”

“How many of you are there?”

Andarra shrugged. “In the desert? I’ve never counted. Less than two hundred, I think. Perhaps more. We live as nomads, travelling in small groups to avoid notice.”

“Why don’t you live in Zunanma with the freed slaves?” Soren asked, although he suspected he already knew the answer.

Andarra released an exasperated breath. “The beorc may not know what we are, but the laguz certainly do. ‘Parentless,’ they call us. They ignore us, as they always have. But surely they would grow less tolerant if we tried to cozy in among them.”

“I expected as much,” Soren said, oddly satisfied that both laguz and beorc were just as bigoted as they’d always been, even if they were restraining themselves enough to work together.

“Besides, that city should belong to us by right,” Andarra added. “If we were to take it back, we wouldn’t share it with people who despise us.”

Soren could tell she was baiting him. She wanted him to ask why the city belonged her people. He gave in: “Why?”

In answer, she continued her tirade: “’Zunanma’? That is what they’re calling it? Fools!” Andarra glared at the city rising over Soren’s head.

“That is what I was told.”

“That is our name. It is the name of the first people: neither laguz nor beorc. If anyone has a right to that city, it is us.”

“Well, I don’t see the Branded digging it out of the sand,” Soren said pointedly.

Andarra glared at him. But then she gave this up and continued to glare at the city instead. “Never let them convince you that you’re corrupted. Our kind is purer than either beorc or laguz. We are Ashunera’s chosen.”

‘Ashunera’ was an archaic name for Ashera. Soren hadn’t heard it in years. In fact, he had never actually heard it at all, merely read it occasionally in books. “Well, it doesn’t look like Ashera is digging the city out for you either,” he said.

“It’s not about the damned city!” Andarra burst. “If only you would join us, you could learn our ways, our history, our destiny.”

Soren forced a laugh. “Do you even hear yourself? I think you’ve spent too long in the hot sun.”

Andarra shook her head, but taking a deep breath, she seemed to calm herself.

“How long have you been here?” Soren dared ask.

“I left the world of laguz and beorc over forty years past,” she answered.

Soren wasn’t surprised by her incongruous age and appearance; she was Branded, after all. But he could hardly imagine spending so many years isolated in this desert. No wonder she seemed insane. “Doesn’t it bother you?” he eventually asked, “That you’re giving them exactly what they want? They drove you away. You live on scraps, surviving in the middle of nowhere. No one even knows you’re here. You don’t even exist.”

Andarra narrowed her eyes. “And do you ‘exist’? Do your friends even know what you are?”

Soren scowled. “The world is out there,” he said, with a sharp gesture at the horizon. “At least I am a part of-”

“And why does it deserve you?” she cut him off.

Soren couldn’t think of a response to that, so he just snorted insultingly. In truth, he was stunned. No one had ever said anything like that to him before, let alone a standoffish stranger. 

Her expression softened. “We are cautious around new people, even our own kind. But do not make the mistake of thinking I dislike you. I am your friend. You have friends here. Friends who would stand between you and a blade or claw at your throat. We want only that you realize the truth and join us in the desert…before the world ‘out there’ breaks you with its cruelty.”

Soren released his scowl but tried to keep his face impassive. “I do not need your baseless friendship.”

She sighed. “Well, Stefan did say you were adamant.”

“And Koure…you failed to convert her too?”

Andarra shifted her stance. “Of course we did. We wanted her to stay, but…she has a particular love for people—all people. She trusts others without cause and sees goodness in them because she wants to. She is looking for answers, thinking the outside world with provide them. She is…innocent. When the time comes, the world of beorc and laguz will break her, and she will fall hard.”

Soren recalled how Koure had latched onto him at Temple Asic, seeing something in him worth befriending when there’d been nothing there. He remembered her declaring her decision not to kill, her refusal to fight in the war. Andarra was right; she was innocent.

“Perhaps you and I will meet again, Soren. We will be here,” Andarra said, extending her hand.

Soren accepted it, shook it once, then dropped it. Strangers usually shied away from having to touch him, but among other Branded, he would be considered normal. It was an appealing idea. But Andarra’s promise that they would always be here was exactly why Soren would never seek them out. Living his long life removed from the world, waiting away the years in the desert, making himself small and invisible—he couldn’t imagine a worse fate. Turning back to the rows of clay domes, Soren considered the fact that he would always be an outsider, but at least he would be a part of the world.

Once he reached his own hut, he lit a candle and slit open the letter:

 

Soren, the Branded here said they know you, so I am leaving this letter in hopes that it finds you well. I am writing you in the summer of the year 645 in the Grann Desert of Begnion. I suppose I just want to tell you that I am safe. I stayed in Crimea long enough after the battle to hear that you survived and were okay. Then I went to Daein. The Begnion occupation is pretty bad. I saw horrible things done to the people I traveled with. But I had Crimean papers: tax waivers from Queen Elincia for all of the workers who helped with the war effort. They probably saved my life. But like I said, I’m safe now. My search for my parents met a dead end, with so many records lost in the war, but I am going to keep searching. Daein isn’t safe now, so I will stay in Begnion until I can return. I hope I will see you again someday. Yours, Koure

 

Soren was glad to hear she was well and a bit relieved she hadn’t made her way to Palmeni Temple (as of last year, at least). Recalling Andarra’s assessment of Koure, Soren wondered how finding out the truth might hurt her. Then again, if someone could tell Soren the truth of his parentage, wouldn’t he want to know no matter how terrible the story? Koure wasn’t weak, even if she was hopeful. He knew she could handle it. And yet Soren wanted her to remain hopeful, even if that meant keeping a secret from her. Shaking his head, Soren reminded himself that these were pointless musings. There was no way to send a return letter, and even if he could, he didn’t know for certain that she was Lillia’s child.

 

The mercenaries were planning to spend two weeks in Zunanma. As the days rolled by, Ike insisted on inserting himself into Tormod and Muarim’s work. That meant crashing meetings, helping carry wooden beams, hoisting buckets of supplies, and running any errand he could convince someone to give him. Perhaps urban planning and construction truly fascinated Ike, but Soren suspected there was something else going on.

Since he wasn’t being paid for the work, Soren advised he stop. When it became clear that that Tormod and Muarim were uncomfortable with his help and that Ike often made things more complicated with his involvement, Soren strongly advised he stop. Naturally, Ike ignored him.

“Help me hide these!” he said one day, pushing a mess of papers into Soren’s arms.

He recognized them in an instant. “You stole their diagrams?”

“Borrowed,” Ike corrected.

These were the master plans for the organization of the city’s districts. Soren knew Tormod had been trying to keep them away from Ike’s prying eyes for the past forty-eight hours. But he was nothing if not tenacious.

He pushed Soren and the diagrams out of the corridor and into an empty meeting room. Sandals slapped and paws pounded past the door, followed by a beastly snarl of frustration.

“They’ll sniff you out in a moment,” Soren whispered.

But Ike had already taken the largest of the maps and laid it out on the table at the center of the room. Soren watched his expression grow angrier as his eyes flew over it. Wondering what could be frustrating him like this, he stepped up to examine the map himself. 

He didn’t have time, however, because the door burst open and Tormod, Muarim, and the red-furred tiger laguz they’d come to know as Razan poured into the room. Razan was in her shifted form, but Muarim (and Tormod of course) were bipedal.

“I knew it!” Ike exclaimed before any of them could release an angry shout. “You’re building laguz homes and businesses on one side of the city and beorc on the other!”

Soren raised an eyebrow at Ike. So that’s what’s been upsetting him, he thought but said nothing. He wanted to stay out of it. 

Tormod looked like he’d just been scolded by a parent. “You don’t understand…”

“It is the only way,” Muarim cut in.

Razan reverted her form. “Why do you care, mercenary?”

Ike bristled. “What’s the point of building a city where beorc and laguz can live in peace if you’re just going to keep them separate from the start?”

“We admire your idealism, Ike,” Muarim rumbled, “But we must act practically. Most of these laguz are former slaves. Many fear and distrust the beorc just as the beorc fear and distrust them.”

“And how does this help?” Ike gestured at the map behind him.

“It allows all residents of this city to sleep more comfortably at night,” Razan answered. “Everyone here knows what they’re building and are content with it.”

Ike growled under his breath.

Soren was content to stand to the side and be ignored, so he emptied his arms of the other diagrams Ike had stolen, letting them spill onto the table. He wanted no part of this.

“Why is the only school on the beorc side?” Ike turned and jammed an accusing finger on a square sketched into the east side of the city.

Muarim came closer and began collecting the scrolls and scraps of paper. “For a long while, there will only be beorc children in Zunanma. We laguz live far longer than beorc and so bear offspring far more rarely.”

“Really?” Ike looked like that thought had never occurred to him.

Muarim tugged at the corner of the full city map, and Ike reluctantly lifted his hand. “The differences between beorc and laguz cannot be ignored,” Muarim said gently. “They pose logistical problems.”

Razan huffed under her breath.

Tormod was uncharacteristically subdued, as if Ike’s rage still stung him.

“The differences aren’t that big,” Ike muttered, but no one replied.   

“Enjoy your stay in Zunanma,” Muarim finished. “Do not trouble yourself with these matters.”

Ike looked frustrated, but his passion was ebbing. Razan left the room, and Muarim was close behind her. Tormod, however, was lingering. “Are we still on for tonight?” he asked, referring to the drunken merry-making shared between the mercenaries and Tormod’s young friends (beorc and laguz) almost every night.

With visible effort, Ike cocked his head and smiled (although it looked more like a wince). “Of course we are.”

Clearly relieved, Tormod nodded and joined Muarim and Razan in the hall. 

Ike sighed and turned to Soren as if to say something, but whatever it was died on his lips. An idea seemed to strike him, and he turned back to Tormod and Muarim. “Wait! What if a beorc and a laguz resident get married, which district would they live in?”

The outrageous question was enough to make Soren’s jaw drop and snap shut again. Tormod, Muarim, and Razan all looked equally stunned. “Disgusting,” she spat.

Tormod and Muarim looked more uncomfortable than disgusted. “I don’t even think that’s legal in Begnion…or anywhere,” Tormod offered, but his voice sounded like he’d never actually considered the possibility and now wasn’t quite sure what he thought.

“It isn’t done,” Muarim said with grim finality. “It is disastrous for beorc and laguz to mate.”

“Disastrous?” Ike repeated incredulously.

Soren could feel the sweat pooling under his armpits and in his palms. He silently cursed Ike while simultaneously thanking him for not looking at him and praying he would continue to ignore him. He was similarly grateful that the tigers’ eyes didn’t stray toward him. He never quite knew how much any individual laguz could sense about him.

“It does not matter,” Muarim explained, shaking his head. “Beorc relationships—the beorc idea of love—is different than the love of laguz. It is impossible for them to want to marry. Beorc and laguz can be strong allies and friends—as we are friends—but that is all.”

“I couldn’t have said it better myself,” Razan agreed.

“Is that what you believe too?” Ike turned to Tormod.

The young mage didn’t seem certain, but he nodded anyway. “Even though I’m beorc, I’ve grown up among laguz as long as I can remember. That’s what I have always been taught.”

Ike sighed in dissatisfaction. “Fine.”

Tormod, Muarim, and Razan left. Ike stared at the floor as if deep in thought. Soren wondered if he’d actually forgotten he was there. He stepped toward the door, but Ike stopped him.

“What do you think all of this?”

“I don’t care about Zunanma,” he answered honestly. “But I do care that you brought me into it. Did you think I wanted to hear that?” He couldn’t keep the anger from his voice.

Ike looked apologetic. “They didn’t necessarily say anything bad about the Branded…”

Soren’s skin prickled at the word. “And what exactly do you think Muarim was referring to when he said ‘disastrous’?” Ike didn’t answer. He seemed like a deflated version of himself, which Soren hated to see. “It’s fine. It doesn’t matter.” He made to leave again.

“Do you think they’re right? Do you think laguz and beorc are so different that they can never love one another?”

Soren’s answer came quick and cold: “Love doesn’t exist.” Leaving it at that, he exited the room before Ike could stop him again. His answer may have been a lie, but getting into a philosophical discussion about love was not something he wanted to do, especially with Ike. He had the power to make Soren spill secrets without meaning to.

 

After the confrontation over the diagrams, Ike stopped trying to involve himself in matters of city planning. He joined the rest of mercenaries for hours of relaxation, care-free games, and plenty of celebratory drinking at night. Soren watched his comrades always making toasts to one thing or another, but he still didn’t quite understand what they were celebrating.

During the day, many of the mercenaries explored the deeper ruins (with a laguz guide of course). Soren enjoyed these excursions, which led farther underground than he’d ever been, and being able to see the relics the beorc archeologists unearthed, which sometimes bore writing in a dialect of the ancient language no one could read.

The mercenaries also enjoyed themselves by sampling the local cuisine. This could mean a traditional Begnion dish made from plants and animals native to the desert, or a dish from Gallia, Phoenicis, or Kilvas (Goldoans, it seemed, didn’t cook). In these cases, the recipe came to Begnion in the mind of a kidnapped laguz, where it was then adapted to available ingredients.

Each night, of course, the Greil Mercenaries visited the subterranean hot springs, often before engaging in the evening’s festivities. These were a simple and pleasant two weeks, and by the end, a significant portion of each mercenary’s earnings from the past six months had disappeared. (Except for Soren, of course, who deposited the majority of his pay in his Begnion account and Rhys who sent his earnings back to his ailing parents in Crimea.)

 

Their last night in Zunanma was a special occasion. Tormod (who apparently wanted to please Ike) served them the closest thing to a feast he could muster in the grandest hall that had yet been restored. Dozens of laguz and beorc joined them, although they mostly kept to opposite sides of the room. There was music and dancing, and sometimes raucous singing. Imported Daein mead and local Begnion wine poured from open taps. There was also a suspiciously sharp-smelling liquor distilled from a local cactus making its rounds through the room.

Never one to jeopardize his reason, Soren kept his tongue dry, and there were a few others keeping sober with him. Muarim kept an eye on Tormod, forbidding him to drink anything, and Oscar watched Rolf, who managed to steal a few sips anyway. Ike, meanwhile, left Mist to watch over herself. A respectable and reasonable young woman, she knew better than to indulge in anything she didn’t understand. Rhys drank a cup of wine and immediately fell into a stupor, much like he had in Melior.

The others, however, threw themselves wholeheartedly into the drinking games being played at every table. Ike was one of the first to elect to try the cactus beverage, and he sought out the cask on five more occasions throughout the night.

Soren participated in some of the games at first, but they were too easy when his opponents were booze-addled and careless. No one could pay attention for more than a few minutes at a time, and it quickly grew frustrating. Despite his boredom, Soren stayed at the party if for no other reason than to keep an eye on Ike. He was drunker than he’d ever seen him, and he wondered if it was an accident or if something had driven him to this.

 

As the night drew on, Soren eventually left the party. Ike was dancing with Mia and Boyd. They looked like clumsy fools, not the graceful warriors Soren knew them to be. Tormod’s friends were here too, and a young beorc woman was dancing close to Ike. She kept getting between him and Mia, marking him as her own. But he was either too drunk or too oblivious to notice how her hands and body kept brushing his. Soren couldn’t stand to watch anymore. He returned to his domed hut for the last time.

Before turning in for bed, he withdrew a piece of paper, a quill, and ink. Between yawns, he penned his customary letter to Bastian about where they were headed next. Sealing it and leaving it unlabeled, he tucked it into his bag, which he’d already packed for tomorrow.

Since the hut had no protection from the elements other than a thick drape for a door, Soren had learned not to take his sandals off until he was in bed. Otherwise, his bare feet would carry an incredible amount of sand into his blankets. Shaking them off, he pulled his legs under the covers and snuggled down. He would miss this privacy when they moved on, but Soren was glad to be leaving Zunanma and the Grann Desert behind.

  

He didn’t know how long he’d been sleeping, but it was still night when he was woken by the sound of someone entering his room. A dark form lurched inward from the threshold, the curtain door flapping closed behind them. They filled the dark space with their mass, cutting out the starlight coming through the cracks around the curtain.

Soren panicked for a moment and scrambled out of his covers, crouching on the bed with his back against the sloped wall. But then reason intervened, he awoke fully, and he determined with all his senses that the person before him was none other than a very drunk Ike.

As Soren’s eyes awoke to the darkness, he determined that Ike’s own eyes were heavy-lidded and half-closed. He was stumbling, feeling his way across the room with his hands. He was mumbling something incoherently under his breath.

Reaching the bedpost against the wall, Ike smiled and made half of the motions necessary for someone to get into a bed. However, half of the motions were neglected, and he only succeeded in driving his shin into the frame and the side of his face into the post, flopping half onto the mattress, and sliding off. Now he had one leg splayed, one leg tucked under himself as if kneeling, one arm at his side, and one arm up on the bed. His fingers curled around the blankets, dragging them a few inches. His head lolled again the mattress, and he hardly seemed to register any pain at having hit it against the rough wood. In fact, he looked at peace, as if he’d be content to fall asleep like that.

Soren could only stare. Did Ike think he was in his own hut? Or had he come here on purpose? Soren quickly shook the second thought away. Of course it’s just a mistake, he told himself, Look at the state he’s in.

Soren scrambled off the bed, which involved climbing over Ike’s leg. His bare feet hit the sandy floor, but there was nothing he could do about it—Ike was kneeling on one of his sandals and had managed to kick the other under the bed.

Incorrigible oaf, Soren thought, but what he said was, “Ike? Commander Ike? Ike!”

He blinked blearily. “Sssoren, yer awake… Good…”

“You need to go.” Soren crossed his arms.

Ike yawned and stood, teetering. “Nah…”

Soren uncrossed his arms and instinctively took a step forward, as if he could somehow catch Ike if he fell. “I gotto talkto yuh,” he said disjointedly.

“I am sure it can wait until tomorrow, when you’re sober.”

He yawned again, after which he leaned forward, caught himself on the bed, and dragged himself fully onto it this time.

“Oh no you don’t,” Soren said in frustration. “Go find your own bed.” But there wasn’t much he could do. Ike was now lying on his stomach with the blankets in a knot under his neck and chest. His cheek was at the foot of the bed, his left leg was kicked up with his foot hooked on the headboard, and his right leg was still dangling off the side. Ike managed to make it look comfortable.

Soren could hardly believe the ridiculousness of the situation and wondered idly if this was a dream. But he trusted himself and his senses, so he trusted he was awake and this was real. “Ike, get out.”

He grumbled something incomprehensible.

“What?” Soren snapped.

Ike turned his head, propping it up on an arm, so he could speak more clearly. “I gotto talkto you.”

“Okay, what is it then?”

“You’ll, hic, think it’s dumb…”

“You’re probably right,” Soren agreed.

“But, yer my advisor, so, hic, you gotto advise me.” His whole body had convulsed with the last hiccup.

“I advise you to return to your own hut and sleep this off,” Soren grumbled dryly. He didn’t know if Ike heard or understood him.

“It’s about- It’s about…” Ike began. He turned his face away and into the blankets, so the next word was muffled: “Roark.”

“What?” Soren snapped, more loudly than intended. He was suddenly very awake, and the situation was no longer entertaining in the least. He didn’t want to hear what Ike had to say; he wanted him gone. And yet, a small part of him was intensely curious and desperately needed to know what Ike was trying to tell him. For better or worse, he kept his mouth shut and his ears open.

“He liked me, but I didn’t… Not like that…” Ike mumbled into the blankets. He turned his face outward again but didn’t look at Soren. “He kissed me, but…” The confirmation of Soren’s fears was like an electric shock. “Tha’s not good, is it? For a, hic, mercenary commander… I messed up… But still… I’m not, hic, not mad at him… I’m not…” Ike said nothing more for a long time.

Soren wondered if he’d fallen asleep. “So?” he prompted, finally finding his tongue. He tried (unsuccessfully) to keep the anger and jealousy out of his voice.

Ike opened his eyes again. “Whashould I do?” he slurred, as if it were obviously what he meant. “I think I, hic, hurt his feelings…”

“You came to me for a question about feelings?” Soren released a hollow laugh. “You really are drunk.”

Ike didn’t say anything. His face slackened slightly.

Sighing, Soren pulled the chair away from the table and sat down. “Sleep this off, Ike,” he said with as much dignity as he could muster. “That is my advice. You must not do this again, and you mustn’t let the rest of the company see you like this. This is what is unbefitting of a mercenary commander.”

Once again, he didn’t know if Ike heard or understood. His eyes drifted closed, and in a minute, he was snoring.

Soren watched him sleep (and drool) for another minute more before tearing his eyes away. Sleeping like this, Ike was completely vulnerable and relaxed—hard edges but soft surfaces. He seemed to radiate warmth, and Soren was seized by the temptation to slide in next to him without waking him, to take that sleeping body, its beauty, its scent, and its heat as his own, just for a moment, when no one, not even Ike, would notice.

But he had no right. And if Ike woke up, there would be no explaining his actions. So Soren crossed his arms on the table and lowered his head onto them. He willed his body to ignore the uncomfortable position and willed his brain to let go of its distracting thoughts.

He tried to sleep, but his mind turned to Elincia again. He wondered if Ike would rather be with her now, if she weren’t a queen. He wondered if Ike would rather be with Roark, discussing their relationship and stitching wounded feelings, rather than merely confessing his confusion to Soren in a drunken stupor. The answers were obvious: of course he would. Ike may not have returned Roark’s feelings, but he obviously still cared in some way or he wouldn’t be in this state now.

Although he tried to tell himself none of this had anything to do with him, it was enough to make Soren want to scream. Or perhaps that was the very reason he felt like screaming—because it had nothing to do with him. Roark clearly distressed Ike in a way Soren never could.

Eventually he successfully convinced himself that everything would be back to normal tomorrow. Ike and the others would be nursing hangovers while they marched into the desert, and none of them would be proud of the things they’d done the night before.

  

When he awoke in the morning, his arms and back were stiff and his feet were numb, but he had a blanket over his shoulders that hadn’t been there when he’d fallen asleep. Ike was gone, and Soren found himself hoping he’d left before dawn. He preferred if none of the other mercenaries knew what had happened.

Retrieving and attaching his sandals, Soren yawned and stretched. Shouldering his pack and sliding his tome into its holster, he exited his hut to check on preparations for departure. He was determined that this be just another day.

Titania informed him that Ike was still fast asleep in his own bed, which Soren was glad to hear. “Let’s leave him until the last minute,” she suggested. “According to Gatrie, he had a rough night last night.” Soren feigned ignorance and agreed.

 

Ike trudged out of his hut just before it was time to leave. Shinon, Mia, and Boyd were similarly late risers, emerging only a few minutes before him. They stretched, yawned, and grumbled about the sun being too bright and too hot. Boyd had what appeared to be dried vomit on his shirtfront. Ike said nothing about the previous night to Soren or anyone else.

Rolf saw the late risers fed and watered, attempting to cheer them up with jokes and optimistic observations about the desert scenery. When they couldn’t delay any longer, the Greil Mercenaries took the north road out of Zunanma with Tormod and Muarim waving them off. This route was marked with flag posts, just as the south road had been, but they would have twice as much distance to cover to reach the mountains and fertile land beyond.

Fortunately, Tormod and Muarim had seen them well-supplied to deal with the harsh terrain, or they never would have survived the hard march. Eventually they reached green land again, exhausted but relieved. They all had sunburnt skin, sand rashes, blistered lips, and dust in every crevasse. They were parched from having to ration water, and they were starved for something fresh to eat. Soren wondered how the Branded colony could possibly choose to live in such a place. The only solution he could think of was that they were all insane after all.

Crossing the desert had dampened Soren’s interest in just about everything. All subjects ranging from the survival of the Branded hermits to the delicate social balance Zunanma, from Ike’s romantic entanglements to the rumored politics of New Daein—they all seemed the dull off-brown of sand. And Soren was sick of looking at sand.