Zenír walked slowly down the long, evenly spaced rows of trees in the Haven's sprawling orchards. A soft breeze stirred the autumn leaves, making them rustle and whisper among themselves, while the scents of dry earth and overripe apples spiced the air. The sunlight warmed his skin with the last heat of a season passed, and the cool shade held the promise of colder times to come.
Using the long, slender staff of carved wood he'd been gifted upon arriving here, he swept the ground for obstacles and listened to the satisfying crunch of dried leaves beneath the soles of his soft boots. Though he could not see it, he knew from what the others had described that the full fire of fall color surrounded him as the leaves of the fruit and nut trees turned yellow and orange and a deep, vibrant red.
He remembered the beauty of such seasonal displays, though he had not properly appreciated them when he was able; and though he no longer mourned the loss of his sight, he felt a pang of regret that he could not see it now.
It was but a small pang, and among the many other pleasant sensations of the afternoon, quickly passed and was forgotten.
The quiet peace that had come to rest in his heart since arriving in this place was deep and still, and not easily disturbed. He could not recall a time when he had felt as safe as he did here — able to truly let down his guard.
He was far from helpless, and could defend himself well enough, but the world favored the sighted. Cities were built for those who could see, and even his closest friends sometimes forgot, in casual conversation or the heat of action, that he could not perceive things as they did.
Here, though, in the sheltered valley of the Haven, he could live at his own pace, go for walks without fear of getting lost, and rest easy in the knowledge he would not be preyed upon for his disadvantages.
Finding a pleasant spot to sit in the shade at the base of a tree, Zenír began to hum softly under his breath and then to sing. He'd had little call to use his voice for several months, and it felt good to give it a bit of exercise. He sang the first short ballad that came to mind — one with a pleasant, if sorrowful melody.
I lost my love in Orneon,
At Kyrnis by the sea.
His ship was foundered in the waves;
He ne'er came back to me.
By Fate's kind hand he did not drown,
But made his way to shore,
And there he met a maiden fair,
Of me to think no more.
To Orneon I traveled far;
To Kyrnis by the sea.
And so it was I saw him there,
As happy as could be.
With broken heart and broken steps
I left him there to stay;
In Orneon to live and dwell,
But I shall not away.
I lost my love in Orneon,
At Kyrnis by the sea;
My heart shall lie there evermore
And waves shall bury me.
As he sang, he became aware he was no longer alone, and smiled when Iksthanis's deep tones broke in upon the silence that followed the final note.
"That's a damned depressing tune," said he. "Don't you know any happy ones?"
"The original is worse," Zenír said, tilting his face up in Iksthanis's direction. "The scorned lover murders the unfaithful man in a fit of jealous rage and then buries herself at sea."
"Or himself," Iksthanis said mildly. "Personally, I can't imagine hurting the one I loved, even in a fit of rage."
"That's why it's called 'insanity.' It makes you do things you would never do while sane."
YOU ARE READING
Healer of Sakkara
Fantasy17-year-old Galen lives with his adoptive father in a small province called Thryn. He doesn't look like the other people there, and the only clue he has to his true origins is a silver pendant that belonged to his mother. One day, while gathering h...
