The clouds scudded away, letting the sun clear the last traces of rain in the path that they had yet again avoided. It seemed every time they arrived at some land, it was always after it rained and never before.
Even though the heat simmered, the horses tired fast, willing them to pull near a stream. Luckily, the right path truly did seem to be the right one.
The grass was green and soft, the flowers abundant and varied, and they even saw some bunnies trailing by.
There was even that much need to scout and scrape around.
They easily found shaded spots to pause, water to fill their flasks, and beautiful places to meditate.
Even the horses neighed and wandered about, biting into the crunchiest apples that hung from every few trees or so.
Bazil and Salīa indulged in the ripened mandarin oranges while gazing at the clear skies and inhaling the citrus aroma.
After the horses drank from the stream, they nuzzled and nudged them playfully. They cuddled the horses while whispering words of praise, gratitude, and adoration.
It was a ritual they offered about thrice a day, an old Salazāhn custom, for honoring all beings, especially those that act as messengers and transport.
Salīa had grown especially fond of them over the journey and, in hindsight, was grateful she didn't insist on the left path.
While she might have tentatively dared to face whatever hid in its shadows, she couldn't have guaranteed that the horses would've come out unscathed.
Bazil had drifted asleep on his horse, snoring ever so lightly. Salīa smiled as she watched. He seemed so peaceful and childlike.
Of course, she'd seen him sleep plenty as a child, but as he grew older, he was a lot more protective of exposing himself unguarded to anyone.
In the few times he had no choice in the matter as they traveled, he'd almost always be the last to sleep and the first to wake.
Since he was back to rebuffing her, she reasoned this would be a rare moment going forth, in which she'd be able to get close enough to watch him in his slumber.
There wasn't much else to do but to close her eyes and meditate.
Yet her thoughts lingered back to those inchoate fragments of thoughts. All recollections she hoped to bridge, suspicions she wanted to glean through, and questions she needed to ask him.
Her head ached as she tried to piece it all together.
The Protector is the point at which the past, present, and future converge. Secrets of the past and prophecies of the future, both demanding to be uncovered by the present incarnation of the guardian of the realm, who appears during a time of looming darkness.
But how much of the future must I discover, and how much of the past must I uncover?
She tapped the spiritual book, willing herself to open it.
Just read it already. You love reading! Sure, you might prefer fictional books of a fantasy plot, with sprinkles of lascivious indulgence and somewhat sensual, but mostly exquisite art.
But have you ever heard of too much of a good thing?
It's not like you finished your time at the Faraway Forests, so you should be a devout student and take this as another chance to fulfill your spiritual duty.
Magi Inio would rest peacefully knowing you remained his most honored student. What about Magi Rai? He'd might even appear just to celebrate you. And your mother, when you see her again, will never ask you to study the tables again.
In fact, you'll probably cultivate so greatly that even the magi elders will say, 'You've now ascended into a celestial immortal, and now it's us who will look up to you.'
Then everyone will stop scolding you, and you can start scolding them instead. Yes, that's right! It's all about filial piety and stuff.
Feel pleased with herself and ready to unravel all the delicious enigmas she convinced herself this book would solve; she flipped it open. But just then, Hawking flew in through the trees, singing his sweet song to her.
With him, he carried a large, rolled letter in his talon. This was uncommon as most people use blacktree parchment, which can get small in folding and large in unrolling.
There was even blacktree resin in the wax, helping it shrink and stretch alongside the letters. All like the map Prince Naca gave them. While each land has some variation in how it sent out letters, those sent out with birds were usually most convenient this way.
It's of no surprise, then, that one of Salazā's greatest and longstanding trades is that which comes from their abundant blacktrees.
Salīa lifted her arm up, while Hawking flew lower, singing cheerfully. This opened Bazil's eyes, and he jumped up, sourcing the sound.
"Don't worry, you can sleep some more," Salīa reassured him. "It's just Hawking."
Hawking flew down about to hook into her.
Then Bazil whistled and clicked his tongue, calling Hawking to him. As he was about to land, Salīa called him back to her.
Bazil whistled again. Salīa followed.
Their eyes leveled.
"The letter's for me, Līa."
"How are you so sure? He's my messenger, who I let you share during our travels between other messenger posts."
"True. But it's me who's been using him more. It's likely the letter's for me."
Salīa didn't care for his clipped tone. Bazil whistled again. And so did Salīa. Hawking flew between them.
"Even so, I'd like to check. Can't I?"
His eyes narrowed.
"It might be private, my Queen."
His voice stayed deadpan; the honorifics pointed.
"What would be so private that your Queen can't see it?"
"Surely you don't care for what a mother and son might talk about."
"Is that the only person who might send you a letter?" she tested, clicking her tongue, letting Hawking inch closer. "Why not your father? You haven't mentioned anything from him in a while."
She called out to Hawking again, as did Bazil, his face stiff.
"If you let me see, I can let you know if it's from him," he answered.
"Or I can let you know if it's from him."
Bazil cracked his knuckles.
"As a Queen, you shouldn't have to bother with secretarial duties."
"It's no bother at all."
She whistled and clicked before Bazil could counter, then caught the letter as Hawking swept by.
"Līa!"
"When I want to undress for you, you push me away. But as soon as a letter does the same, you can't wait to pull it close.
You show me affection, then try to vanish its traces. But it seems this parchment is treated the same.
So, I wonder, which one of us is the mistress here?" She hoisted the letter up, having Bazil lunge forward. "Stay there."
She ripped the seal, which revealed no trace of where it belonged.
"Stop," he pleaded.
"Ah, if you're begging me like this, then I guess the mistress is not me," she laughed humorlessly. "But it does make me wonder just how deep the wrongs are that you've been enjoying with this mistress to cry out like this."
Bazil ran to her as the letter was made bare, but she shot him a glare that stopped him. Hawking swirled above them, chirping about.
"It's all, 'my Queen' this and, 'my Queen,' that, but is that really how you see me, or just something you say to pacify me?"
"It's not like that. I am your guardian, and I serve you and only—"
"Bazilani! Do you think this is how you should serve me? By lying and keeping secrets? If I am your Queen, do you think I should just let it be? Would my mother, a Queen, do that if it were your father, a guardian, who did this to her?"
He clicked his jaw, unable to speak.
"I would never betray you!" His eyes pricked with tears. "I care about you, I do. I really, really…"
He grabbed his throat as if it ached to push the lingering words through. She felt her heart soften, wanting to embrace him, but froze as he fell to his knees.
With a tear-streaked face, slumped shoulders, and beseeching bow, he softly said, "Please, believe me."
Just what is it that you're hiding from me to make you come undone like this?
"I'll believe you," she said. "So, rise, please."
As he did, she rolled up the letter.
"Thank you for beli—"
Hawking screeched so loudly it shook the trees.
"Ahh!" a figure screamed and thrust his sword at Salīa.
"Move, Līa!"
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