The Bell Tolls for Me 76: In the Cradle

“I can’t believe that you would ask her to do something like this,” Arthur complained, crossing his arms as he paced around the small room that had been allotted to them.

Valerio said nothing in response, probably because he was thinking the same thing that Arthur was saying. He stood there silently and received the rebuke.

“Just leave it be.” Isabella’s voice was weak. She did wonder about how persuasive she could be when she looked as though she might fall over at any moment and her voice couldn’t project beyond the room. “I anticipated that something like this might happen. This is the treasured power of a foreign culture, and they can’t give it away recklessly. I knew all of this long before arriving.”

Silence fell in the room upon her acquiescence. The first one to speak up was Roderick.

“Many of the people in the Lómethar have learned your tongue, but I’ll be accompanying you to translate for those who haven’t,” he explained. “I would advise that you visit with Taryon first. He speaks your tongue, and he’s a relatively straightforward person with great regard for Valerio. He’ll give you the lay of the land, though… he tends to speak in obtuse ways.”

Isabella glanced at Valerio, and he gave a nod of affirmation. “Taryon, then,” she said. She made to stand, and Valerio moved toward her. She waved his help away. “You need to stay here,” she said. “This is about proving my worth independently of you, correct?”

“Stay here?” Valerio repeated incredulously. “You have to be joking.”

“Is it dangerous?” she asked, rising to her feet unsupported. “Will these people harm me?”

“After what I’ve said? Not a chance.” Valerio shook his head. “But…”

“Let me come to know these people on my own, as you once did,” Isabella insisted, then walked toward the door.

“Roderick stabbed me in the ribs with a spear because he thought I was a demon from the sea,” Valerio said dryly. “I don’t think that’s something that you want.”

Isabella pursed her lips. “Still.”

***

Isabella walked carefully into Taryon’s chambers leaning heavily upon her cane, subtly supported by Roderick. The aged elf sat in his chair, making no indication he intended to offer help. He gestured toward an empty chair across from him.

“Have a seat, Isabella,” he said.

Isabella felt strange to be called her name by someone who wasn’t an intimate relation, but she certainly wasn’t going to press the issue. She sat down in the chair and said breathily, “Thank you.”

“How have you settled in? You must find our culture very foreign,” Taryon said.

Isabella felt somewhat embarrassed saying this, but she answered honestly, “I’ve been far too focused on putting one foot in front of another to observe much of your people. And…”

“And you likely think there’s not much to see. These are buildings from your home, after all. Techniques lifted from your way of life, and carried here directly.” Taryon entwined his hands. “Am I right?”

Isabella looked up at him, studying him truly. He did have foreign features—longer, thinner limbs, and far more angular features. But in those features was someone that she felt she could recognize and reason with. Would her instincts be as useful here as they were elsewhere? Were these people the same as those back home? If she read this man right… he wouldn’t prefer flattery.

“I’ve never had bugs thrown at me,” she said bluntly. “That stands out.”

Taryon smiled. “Valerio calls our culture ‘newborn.’ He says that, in time, we’ll develop traditions—a civilization to be proud of. What do you think of that notion?”

Isabella thought. “That sounds… infantilizing.”

Taryon furrowed his brows, and looked to Roderick. Roderick translated the word, and Taryon laughed.

“Yes… yes, it is. Though the young among us drink it up like grinuol,” Taryon said ponderously. “They feel as though they’re part of something greater. An entirely new generation.”

Isabella glanced at Roderick, and he explained briefly, “Grinuol is like honey, yet more fruity.”

Isabella nodded, then focused on the elf elder. “Valerio thought I might ask you about those I need to convince I’ll be of value to your people,” she said, deciding to get right to the heart of the matter. “That’s why I’ve come here, today.”

“Yes. I was getting there.” Taryon nodded. “You have your work cut out for you. The young are the most enthusiastic for Valerio’s reforms. But the Lómethar is formed up of the old guard, and they remember what it was like before.”

“Before?” Isabella repeated.

“Before Valerio arrived,” Taryon clarified. “We remember as it was. Would you permit me a short tale, as example?” Isabella nodded when he gestured at her. “I had a son, many decades ago. He was quite young. He had seen eleven springs. As you do now, he struggled to walk. His was from an injury—his leg fell into a burrow, twisted, during his final spring. We carried him all through summer, the time of prosperity… yet time did not fully heal his leg. He couldn’t run.”

Isabella swallowed, noting the word ‘had.’ “What happened to him?” she pressed.

Taryon clenched his hand into a fist and looked away as he said, “Winter was coming—winter, that damnable time of death, of suffering. Starvation was always a concern. Always. A young boy that cannot hunt… suffice to say when the time came, the tribe voted him unfit. So… we gave him a knife, and bid him to go into the forest.”

“Alone?”

“Alone.” Taryon looked back at her, where she tried to act neutral. “From our perspective, then, it was wholly reasonable. We’ve survived in this land for thousands of winters. Every meal that my son ate might’ve led a more able hunter to go without. And when the Lómethar see you, they see a cripple. And a cripple is not fit to become a Thalvassë.”

Isabella opened her mouth, but Taryon raised a finger. “I know what you’re thinking—and it’s right. Had we learned to work the land, learned to tame animals… my son might still be with us. He could work in the workshops, or in the fields, perhaps. Every time I see this place, built up around us, I wonder… why couldn’t this have come sooner? Perhaps Valerio is right, and we are as newborns. But you’re fighting against old sentiments, Isabella. You are dealing with people that might not see the merit of what you intend to offer. It took a long time for them to accept Valerio.”

Isabella paused, thinking deeply. “Roderick said you spoke obtusely, but...” Taryon laughed, and Isabella was pleased to see that humor was quite the same here. Her mind wandered back to the story that Taryon brought up. “Could a Thalvassë not have hunted on your son’s behalf?” Isabella asked, ignorant. “Is that not their purpose—to provide for their people?”

“The Thalvassë are slaves,” Taryon corrected. “We are not their people. They are ours.”

Isabella narrowed her eyes. “They have no prestige, no respect, no rights?”

“Even a Thalvassë needs his tribe to hunt the animals in this land successfully. But you touch upon another point of concern,” Taryon said. “The majority among us know about your system. That you swear fealty to one man, who decides the fate of all beneath him. That he is succeeded by his son, not the most able person after himself.” Taryon shook his head. “We believe that utterly incomprehensible, and they know that you’re the issue of one such ruler. Many of them already fear that you intend to impose that methodology here. Valerio wields too much influence among the new generation. Even if you can prove your merit, you must mitigate that fear.” He leaned back in his chair and held his arms out. “There are a few settlements you might make to curb it directly.”

“And those are?” Isabella pressed.

“Convince Valerio to marry an elven woman,” Taryon said, and Isabella felt a pang of unease within. “If that won’t work, convince him to remain here. And if both of those two are insufficient… remain here long enough to have a child, and leave that child with us.”

Isabella thought for a few moments. “You would possess both of our lives in your hand. Is that not sufficient guarantee?”

“We now walk toward the unknown. Our futures were all entwined before Valerio came, and so the guarantee of having a soul in our hands was sufficient. Yet now… the future will not be as it was. More than merit, what we need is a guarantee that your future includes us. As we see this city take shape… many of us are terrified. Terrified that all we are—centuries of tradition, of being, will be washed away.”

Isabella’s eyes went distant. “If I’m understanding you correctly… this is about preserving your institutions. Ensuring the continuance of the Lómethar.”

Taryon flourished, which seemed to be an agreement with her words.

“What reason do the next generation have to heed the Lómethar when Valerio is the source of all advancement?” Roderick asked her rhetorically. “They believe the power over the clan is shifting away from them. To empower you without concession, in their eyes, would be tantamount to coronating you alongside Valerio.”

“My cousin said it well.” Taryon gestured toward him. “This language is new to me, but I’ve done my best to convey my point.”

“You wield it masterfully,” Isabella said genuinely. “All of your adeptness at speaking it astonishes me, frankly.”

“And perhaps you see our concern through that,” Taryon finished. “Do you know the most common name, now? Valerio.”

Isabella smiled and nodded. “Thank you for giving me the time, Taryon. I had a few question about the specific personalities involved, if you don’t mind…”

***

As Isabella walked out with Roderick, her mind was elsewhere.

These people are political amateurs, she realized. She’d had some inklings from the very beginning of the conversation, but all that followed clarified it.

Taryon had explicitly told her the Lómethar was in an incredibly precarious position. A few words to the people around, especially from Valerio, and they could be overthrown. It would be effortless. It could be bloodless, even. All of the Thalvassë besides Valerio supported him before the Lómethar. A few words in the right ear, a single rallying point… and it would fold like nothing.

Valerio is right to call them newborn, Isabella thought grimly. Taryon just gave me the plan to overthrow them. He handed me their vulnerabilities on a silver platter. And I can tell that it’s no trap—they simply aren’t used to political games like this. It would be as killing a baby in a cradle.

She had been worried, but the route to success seemed overwhelmingly easy. The young generation—huge, pliable—was convinced their elders were misguided, and that what Valerio offered was the future. They could be king and queen by nightfall, and from there, the role of Thalvassë could transform to become that of kings and nobility, not of slaves to the people.

And even if she chose not to take that route, she was certain she could placate the others in the Lómethar. Words were easy to give. These people were too trusting, too forthcoming. Their institutions were fragile, and betrayals and liars an uncommon thing. It would certainly be more moral to make big promises, and then simply do her best for the people here. Yet…

“I can take you to any of the Lómethar whenever you’re ready,” Roderick said.

Isabella looked at him. “I think I’d like to see the city, first.” She looked out. “I think I’d like to meet the people.”

 She had no doubt she could do it. But what should she do?

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