[The Twining] 25. Shevenar

One of the merchant wagons had a small partition dedicated for cleanliness—specifically, a small tub that went up to Isen’s knees and a pail of water. A block of soap and a sponge lay on a stone plate with a thick rim.

“It won’t run dry,” Talis insisted. “At least, it’ll refill itself in a few hours.” The guard perched on the back of the wagon, his head poking through drawn flaps of cloth.

Isen gave him a look. “Can’t I get cleaned in town?”

“You could, but you’d attract more scrutiny at the gates. We’ll all need to present ourselves for inspection.”

Isen knew Talis was right, and he wanted to get clean—he felt filthy—but he wasn’t confident he could do a good enough job with the limited resources in the wagon. He felt like nothing less than half an hour under endless shower water would be enough to strip away all the grime.

You’re still spoiled by the sanctum, he chastised himself. How long had it been since he’d lost access to its incredible bathroom? A month?

Suddenly, Talis withdrew and exchanged a few words in elvish. When he returned, it was to place a towel, a simple shirt, and a pair of dark trousers on top of a locked chest. “For when you’re a touch cleaner.”

Isen couldn’t respond. He felt this sickening sense of shame. Because of the sixth sense, he was reasonably sure that these people didn’t have ulterior motives. They were genuinely trying to help a lost teen who was out of his depth.

In a dreary place like Goldbounty, people didn’t usually deserve such consideration. Hardship and the lure of greed weighed on everyone. People weren’t kind, but at least they were honest about what they wanted. They certainly didn’t pity children who needed to scrape by through any means necessary.

During his time with Ros, he’d been comfortable because the beast hadn’t picked him up out of pity or some bizarre impulse to save a defenseless child. It genuinely had needed him to navigate. And with Lady Jin…

Talis disappeared, and Isen drew the small partition, then peeled off the red shirt and stripped off his ragged, discolored pants. He placed his belt and the sheath on top of his pack and kept the Shard of Erasmus with him in the tub.

He cleaned himself methodically, trying to make the best use of the limited water. Before the sanctum, he might’ve been more surprised by the presence of the self-filling bucket. Now, while it seemed remarkable that a simple merchant caravan possessed such a useful item, he wasn’t shocked.

Why shouldn’t a merchant caravan possess a simple self-filling bucket when the entire race of elves are natural mages, and half-elves are trained from childhood to be cultivators? The implications of what Talis had told him still hadn’t fully sunk in.

Isen stared down at the water reaching his ankles; it was putrid. He wished he could throw it out now but didn’t want to open the flaps in the caravan to toss the dirty water. While modesty was a concern—who knew how elven society would take to a human boy with only a towel wrapped around his waist?—he just… didn’t want anyone to see him.

His body was covered in scars. Mostly those that healed too quickly by the radiant lake, but many others, too, that he’d sustained over the course of the past year. The divine bear’s blood had potent healing properties, but severe wounds still tended to leave marks.

You’re also at that awkward time between boy and man, he thought ruefully, cheeks reddening slightly. You’re just shy. His mind conjured the image of Druinala, her bow strung and pointed his way, full of cold ferocity.

Isen wished for a more abrasive substance to help get the worst of the buildup, but with persistent rubbing he was finally satisfied. He stepped out of the tub, then used the last of the water to clean each leg, held up over the basin.

He relished the feel of the towel. The last time he’d used one was at Lady Jin’s. For all that the sanctum was incredible, it had lacked most basics. This towel felt even softer than what she’d had, thicker and more absorbent.

Isen stared at the red tunic, then looked at the clean shirt. He was tempted to wear the red shirt because it offered some protection, but it was so filthy. He decided to store it in his pack for now until he could clean it within the town.

The shirt fabric was some of the softest he’d ever felt, and once more he found himself making comparisons to what he’d worn with Lady Jin. The garments weren’t designed like luxury items, and Isen doubted that the merchants had given him anything valuable. To these people, they were just normal clothes.

He almost laughed to himself. Just how prosperous were these magic-blessed people? Was the whole world like this, filled with elves, and he’d had the poor luck to be born in the forgotten corner with talentless humans?

You’re making a lot of assumptions off only a few observations and the words of one guard, Isen chided himself. One thing was clear: there was so much he didn’t know about the world, so much that he didn’t even know he didn’t know. The revelations of the past few hours left him mentally exhausted.

Isen massaged his cheeks, then fixed his hair as best he could. He grabbed his pack, then hoisted the full tub out of the wagon, landing adeptly on the road. He walked a few steps, then dumped the basin out on the grass before returning it to the cleaning partition.

He looked up and suddenly realized that they were nearly to the gates, maybe five minutes away. It had taken him longer to get clean than he’d thought.

Most of the merchants had decided to walk with the wagons if they hadn’t been already, clearly enthused by their imminent arrival. Isen wished he could understand what they were saying. They seemed to be actively ignoring him.

Was it because he was human? Because of how he’d approached the caravan and his former wild appearance? Because he was a cultivator who could hold his own against Talis? Isen’s mind raced through the possibilities explaining his exclusion. He tried to tell himself that it didn’t matter, because it didn’t. But he still wanted to understand.

He heard a sigh by his ear and whipped around. The elven scout from before flashed him a small smile. Her bow was strung over her back and she appeared relaxed, probably because the gate guards were in sight.

She made a sweeping gesture over his body and spoke in stilted common. “Much better.”

He snorted a laugh. “Thank you.” He looked into her green eyes; she didn’t look away. He wondered suddenly if she was a mage. If elves were ageless like Talis had said, then she could theoretically do whatever she wanted. Maybe she was a mage grandmaster masquerading as a normal scout for a simple merchant caravan. After all, he planned to do similarly once he got strong enough. It sounded fun.

She pointed disapprovingly at his bare feet; no words were necessary. That was when Talis came over. “You look much better. As for the shoes, it’s a problem to solve on the other side.”

Isen cleared his throat. “I’ve been meaning to ask… what’s creating the smoke above Shevenar? Is it a smithy?”

Talis gave him a considering look, then turned to Druinala and spoke in elvish. She shook her head. “Bit of a large smoke cloud for that. We’re not sure what it is, either. For us, this is just one stop of many.”

“Where are you headed?”

“Eldrassin City, the capital of this kingdom. We’re around two weeks out—nearly there.”

“Are there any humans in the capital?” Isen asked.

Talis shrugged. “Definitely in the capital. As for Shevenar? There may be some humans in this town, though likely not many. Humans don’t often live well in elven lands. When nearly everyone is a cultivator or mage, being mundane is… well, you can imagine.”

Druinala said something, her face expressionless. Talis sighed and turned back to Isen. “She wants to know who taught you to cultivate— But, that will need to wait for later.”

They’d reached the gate. To Isen’s surprise, the guards didn’t linger too long on him, mostly focusing on Talis and two of the merchants, ostensibly authority figures on the caravan. The mood seemed to take a turn for the worst, the gate guards grimacing while gesturing to the smoke. After a terse exchange, the arrivals were waved through.

The merchants all spoke amongst one another as the wagons streamed past the gate, with their leader launching into a speech once everyone was through. It sounded like a routine set of instructions and reminders. The overall mood was despondent as the merchants broke up the wagon chain to better maneuver in the streets. The two horses took a wagon each, while the merchants extended ropes tucked away under the other wagons and pulled them manually, four people to each wagon.

The guards shared a few words, then split. Talis and Druinala remained, sharing a concerned look.

Despite the negative atmosphere, Isen almost couldn’t tear his eyes away from Shevenar’s interior. This was his second ever settlement—at a glance, everything seemed different and new. But lingering in the sky above it all was the dark smoke. He wondered suddenly if the town was burning bodies because of some infectious disease, but immediately discarded the idea. If that were true, they wouldn’t have been permitted entrance.

“Talis,” Isen began, “did you find out what the smoke was?”

His head whipped around. “It’s from a funeral pyre,” he said, his voice low. “The queen of Eldrassin has fallen. It’s going to mean poor trade for the caravan, here and along the route. The capital is probably in tumult. Sorina—the leader of the merchants—might decide to cancel the rest of the trip altogether. It’s too early to say.”

The two warriors took Isen deeper into the city, first to a cobbler, then to buy a cloak.

The town of Shevenar felt significantly smaller than Goldbounty. Its streets were clean and crisp, and rather than jutting up like crooked teeth, the buildings all looked either new or at least well kept. They were uniform in their coloration, as though the whole town had been designed as one project, and the roofs had elegant, sloping curves that seemed almost organic. They were made of dark tiles that glistened in the sun. Most remarkable of all was a distinct lack of foul odor within the walls.

It was impossible to miss how empty the streets were, though. They only saw a handful of elves out on errands. Isen wondered if any of the shops would even be open.

“I don’t have money,” he protested as they led him along.

“That’s fine—you have monster materials in your pack,” Talis said. “We’ll bring you somewhere to sell them. Only sell the minimum, though—the prices will be better in Eldrassin.”

Isen had no idea how much a pair of shoes and a cloak would cost. Hopefully his escorts would offer their opinions.

The first two shops they checked were closed, but the third was open. Only when they entered did Isen finally realize that he recognized the sigil-like writing system he’d seen on the different signs around Shevenar. They were stylized differently, less ornate than what he recalled, but he was sure—at least one of the books in the library was written in this script.

Talis had mentioned at some point that there were multiple elven tongues, and Isen didn’t know if they all used the same writing system. It was possible that the book in the sanctum was written in an archaic elven dialect that no one present would understand.

Still, it was an exciting find. He felt one step closer to unraveling the second largest mystery he’d encountered in the depths.