Matabar (Stubbing October 30th)

Chapter 50 - Answers

In the hearth, a little flame danced with a playful, cheerful spirit. Like a red-haired, mischievous boy, it tossed itself around in complex leaps, cracking the dry wood as it moved. With each bow, it tipped an invisible hat, tossing its orange mane of sparks across the hearth, and with the toe of an unseen boot, sent blackened ashes falling to the ground. And in a strange, mesmerizing way, flecks of snow would sometimes rise around it, only to settle back down again as a crisp carpet of ashen frost. Dozens of delighted spectators, stretching out in long shadows, watched the dance.Ardi sat and stared at the letters lying on the floor before him. He’d waited for so long to find all of it out, to hear the words of his father and great-grandfather, but now… Now he wasn’t sure if he had the strength to pick up the envelopes and break their seals.

Outside, the wind howled. Like a persistent hound, it scraped at the window, leaving behind long scratches of white frost that blended into vague silhouettes and shapes.

Ardan closed his eyes, trying to calm his wildly beating heart. It didn’t work. For a moment, he felt as though he couldn’t breathe, and nearly blamed the fireplace, but it was only puffing gently into the wide chimney without spilling a trace of smoke into the room.

“It’s like ripping off a bandage,” he tried to reassure himself. “Just… quick and…”

And then what? What if in there…

No. It was too late now. And honestly, when had it not been too late? Tess had said that Ardan was lucky, that he was free to choose his own fate, but the two envelopes on the floor before him seemed to suggest otherwise.

The first letter he took into his hands was his grandfather’s.

It smelled of snow and an oak, an oak that had once been strong and sturdy, but was now bent and weathered. It hadn’t given in to the weight of beetles or storms, but the relentless march of time, that tireless judge that decided the fates of mountains and seas alike.

Ardan was pretty certain that one of Atta’nha’s poems had spoken of time like this. The Fae loved poems and music, and had gained such mastery over these arts that it was a match for their skill in magic.

“Don’t get distracted,” muttered Ardi, snapping the wax seal.

It crumbled into small, amber fragments. Inside was a single page, written in tiny, tight script nearly identical to Ardan’s own. Only the letters were more ornate, crafted with a flawless calligraphic elegance.

…Here the letter bore smudges from tears, and Ardi tried to hold back his own…

Ardan read the letter several times, then set it aside. He leaned back, resting his head on the edge of the sofa, and stretched his legs out on the carpet, almost touching the stinging sparks.

The firelight flickered across the ceiling. Ardi looked at it, seeing nothing. Salty tears clouded his vision, refusing to fall down his cheeks.

Such a short letter. And yet, there was so much pain and regret there. Ardan didn’t care in the slightest about this Nicholas his great-grandfather had mentioned — the Stranger to him — nor about his bargains with the Fae.

His grandpa had revealed almost nothing in his letter, and yet in that silence, he had said more than any words or tales could. He hadn’t been able to speak of things that now so troubled Ardi. Which meant something had kept him silent.

Something…

Ardan raised a hand and wiped his wet eyes.

It didn’t matter. It was insignificant. He held in his hands the first words his grandfather had ever spoken to him, but by fate’s will, they’d also become the last. And now Ardi was left only with the made-up tales where that old Aean’Hane had hidden echoes of his craft — or maybe, at some point, he had simply come to love telling them to an eager child forever looking toward the horizon.

“Grandpa…” Ardi whispered. “I love you too.”

And his words, slipping from his lips, were carried up by sparks and through the chimney, flying along with the cold wind toward those familiar mountains.

Ardan was already opening the second envelope. Unlike his grandfather’s, this one contained far more pages, all of them written in that fine, tight handwriting. Evidently, it was an inherited trait.

The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

Ardan, pale-faced and with trembling hands, gingerly lifted the yellowed, slightly worn page taken from the travel journal.

The ink was faded, making some parts nearly impossible to read.

The last words were obscured by an old bloodstain, long since turned gray with age.

Ardan felt like he had forgotten how to breathe. Everything blurred before his eyes. His ears rang, and his head throbbed. He no longer understood what was happening. He had no idea where the truth lay, and where the lies ended.

All he could do was set the journal page aside and pick up his father’s letter again.

Those final words were written in the language of the Matabar, but using the Galessian alphabet.

Ardan set the letter aside and closed his eyes. He breathed in the scent of burning wood and listened to the beating of his own heart. It was uneven, pausing at times, then speeding up only to slow once more.

“Mr. Egobar!” A familiar, slightly lisping voice shouted. “I’m so glad I managed to find you! The Grand Princess has already begun to worry! First, you were in some kind of darkness where I couldn’t trace your path, and then you were moving so quickly… I don’t know how to set paths on trains, and now… Mr. Egobar? Are you alright?”

Ardan looked at Poplar. He’d swapped his green autumn tunic for a long, black winter coat, but his snow-white gloves and red boots remained unchanged. And so did his tin medals and Orders, wide belt, scarlet collar, and golden epaulets. Only his pants seemed slightly rumpled, marring the flawless appearance of the warrior from the Warband of Tail and Paws.

“Mr. Egobar… are you crying?”

Ardan shrugged. He honestly didn’t know if he was crying. And he didn’t care to check. He had no strength left to lift his arms.

He just sat and stared at one spot. The very same spot where the shadows from the carefree red-headed boy that the hearth fire seemed to resemble had converged.

Ardan heard the sound of light footsteps, and then something warm and soft settled in beside him and pressed against his side.

“Does it hurt, sir?”

“Very much,” Ardan admitted.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“No… Yes… I don’t know, Poplar… I don’t know.”

Ardan sat beside the talking cat in his family’s home. How ridiculous this all was… Just two floors above, his own brother, mother, half-sister, and stepfather lay. And yet, he couldn’t discuss what he had read with any of them.

His brother didn’t need this burden. His mother… It would hurt her, and the last thing Ardan wanted was to cause pain to Shaia, who had already suffered enough. And as for Kelly and Kena — they simply didn’t need to know.

Boris and Elena… They weren’t his friends. Just good acquaintances, nothing more. Tess… Ardi didn’t understand what role Tess held in his life. And so, in the whole world, there wasn’t anyone with whom Ardan could share his thoughts and this searing, burning pain.

No one but a forest cat — a Vila half-blood in a silly tunic with fake medals adorning it.

“What happened?” The cat asked after a moment.

“I got answers,” Ardan replied after a few seconds of thought, “to questions I’ve been asking myself for so long. And now I don’t know if I really wanted to hear those answers. Or if it only seemed that way at the time. Maybe it would’ve been better to remain ignorant.”

“Ignorance is always easier, sir, but not always better,” Poplar tapped him with his paw. “Trust an old drengr.”

“Yes… you’re probably right… Maybe you’re right, Poplar.”

They sat quietly for a few more minutes.

“What will you do now?”

Ardan shrugged again.

“I don’t know,” he repeated for the umpteenth time. “If I stay here, maybe someday I’ll become an engineer. And if I return to the Metropolis… I don’t know what awaits me there, but it certainly won’t be simple or easy.”

“Does that frighten you?”

“The terror cuts me to the bone.”

“I see…” Poplar murmured, then suddenly leaped to his feet… paws, and gave a ceremonious bow. “I don’t know how it is with the two-legged, but in such dire times, we seek support from our friends, sir.

And I happen to be the liaison between you and your friend — the Grand Princess. And what sort of friend would she be if she weren’t ready to share your pain and hardships?”

Ardan nearly choked on those words.

“I would never tell a little girl-”

The sharp click of a heel interrupted him.

“Not a little girl, Mr. Egobar, but your friend,” Poplar corrected him firmly. “One that has been trapped in a cage since her childhood, and who will one day bear everything that her not-so-simple parents leave behind as her inheritance.”

…” He recalled his grandfather’s words. And his grandfather had been right. In the entire province, there wasn’t anyone who could understand the turmoil of Ardan’s soul.

And in order to find such a person, he’d had to reach the Metropolis.

Perhaps if Ardan had taken the time to rest and think things over carefully, he wouldn’t have even considered sharing his inner struggle in a letter to a thirteen-year-old girl who was also the heir to the throne.

But… he wasn’t in the best state of mind just then. And so, he wrote her a letter.

He wrote it and handed it to Poplar.

“I’ll return shortly, Mr. Egobar,” the cat said with a bow, clicking his heels as he vanished into the darkness.

And Ardan, turning toward the window, gazed at the snowstorm battering the walls and scattering snowflakes everywhere.

Now he knew who he was. Now he knew why his father had done all of those things. He understood why he’d had… such heated conversations with his grandfather. And perhaps his grandfather had done what he’d done for the same reasons as his father.

Hector and Aror. They’d been so different, and yet, in the end, almost the same.

In Ardan’s story, there were no more unspoken truths. Only, as Tess had once called it on the rooftop, a once-inconceivable event that had forced him onto a certain path.

Ardi hadn’t stepped onto it yet, however.

He merely stood at the crossroads, looking at the fork. On one side lay a clear, simple, wide road across a wheat field. On the other, there was a crooked, rough trail lost in a dark forest.

And just like in the prairies, from one side, Mart waved at him cheerfully, while from the other, Yonatan smiled at him with predatory glee.

Perhaps Ardi had faced this choice long ago, after the attack by the Shanti’Ra bandits. Only he hadn’t realized it back then.

“Your letter, Mr. Egobar,” Poplar said as he emerged from the darkness, handing over a small note.

On it, written in neat, perfect handwriting, were the words:

Ardan clenched the note and took a deep breath.

He couldn’t fool himself.

He had already made this accursed choice.

Back then,

in the prairies.

“Shall I deliver anything to the Grand Princess?”

“Yes, Poplar,” Ardan nodded firmly. “Tell her I’ll be back in the capital soon.”