Tandar Visits Marantas
by Karin S. Heigl
part 1
Tandar ran to the High Stables, flew past magnificent steeds, their scents earthy, sandy... endlessly enticing. Yet he paid them no heed. He could already smell Mistfoot. Tandar could already see him in his mind.
His heart thumped in the silence of the morning, only here and there a swooshing sound, muffled stomping, scratching. At the far end of the Stables, he now glimpsed Mistfoot’s glorious shape in the twilight. Mistfoot stood still as a marble statue, ears pricked, head held high. His neck was tilted proudly in the way of the sand steeds.
Tandar slowed and bowed his head as he drew nearer to his old friend, but he was still out of breath and, when he unfolded his fists, his hands trembled. He breathed in and out, and the familiar scent calmed him. He raised his hands and offered his bare palms for inspection; only then did he look up into eyes glimmering darkly in the first light of day.
Tandar felt his heart leap. After all these years, the depth of Mistfoot’s eyes was still overwhelming, as if he were looking into wells of faraway wisdom. He tried to see past them, tried to find his friend, but Mistfoot’s gaze was so vast and so dark that he soon got lost in it. He was just preparing to withdraw when something stirred. It startled Tandar, and he could not look away. Mistfoot turned and slowly focused on him, eyed his face, his hands.
Tandar held his breath. If only... only this time...
Several heartbeats passed where Mistfoot’s hot breath flickered over Tandar’s cheeks and palms. Then the stallion’s proud posture fell and he bowed his head to nuzzle Tandar’s palms with sensitive velvet nostrils.
Tandar suppressed a sigh when relief flooded him, and he closed his eyes. One could never be certain with those sand steeds, and especially Mistfoot, the eldest of all. Warmth spread in Tandar’s chest, evoking images of old times, adventures long gone. It felt good.
He opened his eyes again and straightened his back. No. He could not get lost in memories again, not now. They had to leave. The task that lay ahead was unpleasant enough. Even though time no longer mattered to Tandar, something now urged him to rush, a vague uneasiness squirming in his guts.
He nodded to himself and glided onto Mistfoot’s back, lithe as a cat from the Gardens. He could almost forget his age in this young body. Tandar sensed the old stallion’s muscles tense long before they moved; then Mistfoot threw back his head and snorted heartily. He stomped, and snorted again, laid back his ears and sent his tail hissing through the air like a sand dragon. Dust danced around them. Tandar patted his friend’s neck gratefully and whispered quiet words. And then they were flying.
As they sped out of the Stables and left the High House on its hill, the first light of day crept over the Golden Market shining beneath them. The light caught in Mistfoot’s white hair and, for an instant, he shimmered like a pearl, truly being a child of the Eternal City. Tandar lay a hand upon Mistfoot’s neck, and it felt like silk and velvet. Mistfoot slowed and stopped. For a long moment they looked down in companionship while the City’s marble beauty awakened in tender shades of rose, blue, green and violet.
A cool silence covered the City like a veil. When they finally descended the Stairs and traversed the Market, Mistfoot’s footfall, soft as rain, rang like thunder in Tandar’s ears. His heart thumped in his chest and he shot glances all around him. No Watch, no Guard. No one who would make them halt.
Tandar held his breath for a few heartbeats, then relaxed. Who would stop him anyway? He was the leader of the City after all. The last thought made him dizzy; or maybe it was the growing heat. He did not appreciate the temperatures here, even after decades of service. Usually he did not leave his quarters until after sunset.
Sunset... The Gardens at sunset... the two of them in the green Dales... their hair smelling of grass...
Beside him a sudden stir, scattering grains of sand. Tandar turned around swiftly; his eyes caught sight of wings that reflected the early morning light. A flock of desert doves took to the air and vanished into the growing heat of the day. His heart raced, and the pleasant green dissolved. He looked around and saw the sun reaching for the street; he must have fallen into a doze.
Tandar sighed and noticed his mouth was dry. He would drink later. He stroked Mistfoot once more, felt his soothing body warmth, and pressed his thighs lightly to the stallion’s flanks. Mistfoot did him the favor and quickened his pace.
The City around them was so lovely, so beguiling in its pearl-like beauty, that Tandar dared not look back. He and Mistfoot rode out of the Last Gate into the silent morning.
* * *
Tandar fixed his eyes on the road before them. He did not look back as they rode out through the Gate, nor when they passed the Seven Howling Holes. Mistfoot was still a strong steed, and he swiftly took them to the Old Desert Path. Yet still Tandar did not look back.
He only looked back when the sun stood highest and the Eternal City had long disappeared over the horizon. They had arrived where the foot of the mighty Rock Mountains met the sea, far to the east. Tandar’s gray silken cloak hung heavily on him, damp with perspiration. The rest of his clothes stuck to his skin. On the inside, however, he felt crusty and dry and when he swallowed, it was as if sand were chafing his throat.
He wiped his brow, slid from Mistfoot’s back, and took several sips from his waterskin. The fluid did not seem to reach his stomach; his gullet seemed to suck up all the water on its way down. Even his tongue seemed to swell back to normal size. It felt odd. While he drank and listened to his throat crackle in delight, he shadowed his eyes and his gaze followed the coastline to where it dissolved into the light reflected by the sea.
He looked up at the sun. Yes. Right on time. The coastline began to shimmer in a sudden, bright beauty: first, it seemed blue, then a dazzling white flared up. It blinded Tandar and filled him to his bones. For a precious heartbeat, Tandar felt as if vanished from this world, sucked in by the powerful, cold light; he did not feel his body anymore, as if it were pure light.
Then the white was gone, and so was the lightness. The weight of his body returned. Yet, a strange feeling had settled upon him, lucid and pale blue. It clad his heart in a harness of ease, and for once, he was without sorrow. He felt the breeze coming from the sea, smelled the sand, the wet stones and, far away, the rocks. He felt he was emerging out of deep, clear waters. A moment longer his gaze lingered, but now he saw only coast, and sand, and sea. I should come here more often, he thought.
He remembered Mistfoot by his side and, without thinking, lay his hand on his friend’s back. Mistfoot’s hair felt as smooth as pearl beneath his fingers, and he felt glad.
“Mistfoot,” he said, surprised to hear laughter dance in his own voice. For a moment it lingered in the air like a foreign melody. Then he remembered the waterskin in his hand, corked it up and stowed it away. In one motion, Tandar remounted. “My old friend, let us get this over with.”
* * *
Mistfoot answered by falling into an easy canter, and they turned to face the Rock Mountains. When they left the coast and moved into the shadows cast by peaks and slopes, Tandar’s ears rang with warnings older than himself. They went where no man walks, and as they neared, the ease began to vanish and his heart pounded heavily in his chest.
The swift ride of the morning had left clear signs on him, and he sensed brown, ugly streaks deep within his mind. This young body could not defy his age, and he felt guilty. But he did not do it for himself, no.
In spite of the temperatures, his hands now felt cold, and he hid them in Mistfoot’s mane that shone with the heat of the day. Tandar’s gaze wandered down to Mistfoot’s strong neck, where the muscles moved beneath the skin, but there was no drop of sweat; and back to his head, his ears... Tandar froze at the sight. Mistfoot’s ears had started to move to all sides, and his neck tilted in a graceful, alert bow. The stallion’s breath now came out in defiant snorts.
Tandar took in his surroundings. Sandstone cliffs of reddish brown reached up to the sheer blue sky. He put his head far back to grasp their full height. At their feet, slopes of gray and brown rock seemed to tumble towards him. Rocks of a man’s height, yet tiny compared to the cliffs. And sand, sand everywhere, sand turned into stone, sand on the ground, sand that whirled around Mistfoot’s feet as if greeting him with a subtle welcome dance.
Tandar sensed into the silence. Mistfoot was right. It was time. Marantas waited. Tandar felt his presence in the stones, the wind, the air that burned on his tongue. Marantas was here and he was more powerful than ever.
Heaviness descended upon Tandar like a raven carrying dark tidings. Tandar sighed, there was no use in delaying. He lifted his head and nudged Mistfoot. The stallion snorted softly; hot breath from his nostrils shimmered up his neck and brushed Tandar’s skin where it peeked out between sleeve and mane. The feeling calmed Tandar’s troubled spirits, he touched his friend’s neck and breathed in the surprisingly cool air. It smelled of mountains.
And together they began their ascent into the long Dale of the Whispering Winds.
* * *
When Tandar and Mistfoot set foot in that valley, a soothing stillness greeted them, a tranquility as old as the world. And a mighty shadow towered at the end of the Dale.
Marantas’ gaze lay heavy upon Tandar. He felt it weigh on his chest, push down his heart and spirit. Out of the corners of his eyes, Tandar saw his cloak shift to a darker gray, sucking in the shadows of the rocks around them as Tandar’s desire to melt into the stones grew.
Tandar looked down, lifted one arm to bring the silk closer to his eyes. It shimmered and slid down his arm with a silvery murmur that almost sounded like the laughter of hidden Sandlings teasing him.
Heat flared up in his bowels and made his temples ache. The sudden anger surprised him. For the split of a heartbeat, he was beguiled by the flame within him. It sang to him from pride, from fear and great strength. It spoke to him the names of beloved ones long forgotten. It whispered to him of the one beauty he had long sought and never again set eyes on.
The sighing of the eternal winds in the sand rocks awakened him. What was he doing? He looked around, straightened himself and lifted his head. No. He would not hide, and he would not flinch. He was Tandar, Stadtholder of the centuries. Keeper of the Burden for so long. Brother of Dragons. Teacher of the Mighty. No. He had survived them all. All but one.
Marantas would help him. He was strong, and terrible, but Tandar knew him. He knew him. The thought rang mournfully and wrongly in his mind.
Tandar stretched, bade Mistfoot softly to halt, and slid down, trying to ignore the powerful presence that filled the valley. He landed on his bad foot and staggered, for the shortest of instants. He straightened again and hoped that this small weakness had escaped his old apprentice’s eye. But he knew it was in vain.
Undecided whether he should admire or fear him for that matter, Tandar raised his eyes, met Marantas’ gaze... and froze. The forgotten beauty struck him completely without warning.
Marantas’ eyes were powerful, dark and quiet as a lake at night... deep as a pool... No. A danger hid in them. A moor pond. They were moor eyes, almond-shaped even in his dragon form; and in them green sparks danced to a slow, silent melody.
How could he ever have forgotten? How in the world...
Tandar could not bear it. He looked away and forced himself to breathe calmly. From behind came a nudging and scattered horse scent. But it was distant. It did not matter. Nothing mattered but Marantas.
And with this resolution in mind, he straightened himself, gathered his cloak and strode forward to where Marantas stood; never leaving his eyes. But the gaze was heavy to carry. So heavy.
His old apprentice had become mighty. Pride and uneasiness grew within Tandar. Was it his doing? Or simply Marantas’ heritage? In secret he had apprenticed Marantas, fed him knowledge, the lore of old, taught him all he needed to know, cherished and nurtured him, unbeloved bastard that he had been, but...
“Be greeted, Master.” The unspoken question beneath did not escape Tandar’s attention, but he ignored it.
Marantas’ voice was deep and full at the edges and boomed off the rocky slopes and cliffs around them. But there was something elusive at its core: a controlled, golden stillness that seemed to be waiting... Still deeper, there was something else that dismayed Tandar. He could not put his finger on it, not yet.
Some part of him bristled against his will. “Marantas,” he replied, carefully keeping all unwanted color out of his voice, and opened his arms. He avoided looking at his claws, but still he saw them clearly out of the corner of his eye.
“Mighty you have become,” he said, and looked him in the eye. He meant it. But the moment he heard his own words, he remembered how little his apprentice had cared for flattery and instantly regretted it. Yet he meant them and would not take them back. They were honest words.
Marantas did not answer. He only looked at him, unblinking.
Tandar listened to the sand winds moaning softly around the rocks, somewhere up on the high fells. More clearly than he would have liked, he felt Marantas’ presence heavy in the air; it echoed from every stone in the valley. It had grown and become darker, more decisive, heavier... strong. It seemed to carry a dark tune from the mountains to the Eternal Seas.
Mighty you have become, it echoed within Tandar. Mighty you have become. What did it mean?
Tandar watched Marantas closely; read every wrinkle in his face, the tiniest of movements of his wings. No response. Nothing. He just looked at Tandar with his dark eyes. The green glowed deep within them. Silent. Wise. Old.
After a while Tandar’s arms grew heavy, and he let them drop to his side while his mind started to wander. His apprentice had never been a cheerful nature, but Tandar had never seen him so somber even in his most difficult days... Then it dawned on Tandar. This body was new to Marantas. But in his heart he knew that was not the true reason.
He sighed and pondered his next move. Should he retreat? Should he approach him? Should he simply say what he wanted? Then something happened. The silence began to stir, as if the Dale had awakened, as if it were now drawing air in generous, silent breaths. Air wafted around him, gentle at first, then stronger. Sand blew into his eyes, making them itch and burn.
From the walls, the sound of sandy winds swept over Tandar. He also heard, beneath the winds, grains of sand rolling; idle whirls formed before his inner eye; up on the high fells, grains chased each other in an eternal game of endlessness. Oblivious, not knowing the pains of this world.
Tandar felt envious, a short sharp pang in his heart. Then it was gone. The moment had distracted Tandar. He had lost control, if only for the slightest of instants, but he had again been idle. By the time his mind drifted back to Marantas, his old apprentice had already begun to shroud, was covered in a foggy swirl of gray, white, and green; and began to flicker and blur.
Then Marantas shrank slowly, his dark wings withdrew, and his legs became shorter. Tandar’s gaze sprang involuntarily to Marantas’ feet, where he glimpsed two scrawny paws. Pain shot through Tandar’s chest. They seemed meager and withered, mismatched with the rest of this magnificent dragon body, the broad chest of a green so dark that it appeared black, the thickly muscled yet agile legs, the tender wings thinner than a violet’s petals; wings that must measure ten feet each and must shine wondrously in the starlight.
Copyright © 2022 by Karin S. Heigl
