(A sequel to the preceding story.)
SOMETIMES, NOTHING CAN MAKE ONE feel younger than a good quest.
“It is called the Wellspring of Lost Years,” said the Siddis with a characteristic smirk. “And one sip from its dancing waters will restore your own.”
The Siddis, dressed in sand-colored burnoose, robe, and veil, was sitting with Prosatio Silban in the ale-garden of the village inn at Hightower. They were not far from the Azure Void’s northeastern edge, and although that enigmatic wasteland was hidden behind a line of low hills, its proximity filled the now-aged cook’s heart with pounding unease.
“How do I reach this ‘wellspring?’” he asked in a high and reedy voice.
“How do I reach this ‘wellspring?’” he asked in a high and reedy voice. “And what, I must ask, will you ask in exchange for this important-to-me information?”
The Siddis laughed, bent forward, and spoke in muted tones. “Only that you provide for a companion’s food and shelter; it is long since these eyes have looked upon home. The way is challenging, though not so dangerous, and will require some outlay of coin. As these hands do not touch ‘peasant chips,’ the acquisition falls upon you. But you will be well-tended – something which a man of your advanced years will certainly need.”
Prosatio Silban thought about the half-empty coin jar in his galleywagon, and contemplated the half-full glass of white duliac in his withered hand. Had he not accepted the Sentinel’s innocent-seeming challenge to a game of “middles,” he would be elsewhere and elsewhen instead of here and now. However, that was not how matters had worked out.
“Very well,” he creaked. “I will proceed as needed, with a critical eye toward provisions. When shall we set out? and how long is the journey?”
* * *
The Sobering Desolation earned its name not due to its vast and arid emptiness alone, but also its eerie rock formations – some resembling people frozen in various states of terrified distress. In order to reach it, the questers had traveled east within the Uulian Commonwell, across part of the Emerald Incessance, and through two mountain passes; each of these natural features holding its own attendant and yet-to-be-told adventures.
By the third day since they had entered the searing desert, Prosatio Silban was already suffering from elders’ maladies: weariness, muscle-aches, and a troubling sense of immanent doom. He had chosen their provender with care, but still fretted that their food and water (and Onward’s fatberry-cakes) wouldn’t last the entire projected trek; before the party had set out, the metamorphic dray-beast had taken the form of an enormous she-camel and drunk enough to last for weeks. At least he’s well-supplied, the cook-errant thought. The way didn’t seem this long when the Siddis described it. May the All-Mother’s merciful attentions sustain us.
The company stopped to rest in the shade of a jagged cliff, and Prosatio Silban asked the Siddis to fetch some water from one of three barrels lashed to the galleywagon’s undercarriage. His guide returned after a moment, black eyes revealing fearful concern.
“One barrel is gone,” the Siddis said.
“One barrel is gone,” the Siddis said.
A cold bolt lanced the cook’s belly. “What do you mean … ‘gone?’”
“Just that. It seems to have somehow unlashed itself. There is no sign that the straps were either cut or parted from wear.”
Prosatio Silban sighed. “Do we have enough water remaining for us to reach the Wellspring?”
“Uncertain.”
“What about to return to the Commonwell?”
“Also uncertain.”
“Well. I suppose there is only one way to know. We may as well press on. Agreed?”
“Agreed.”
* * *
“We have been eating rather well,” said Prosatio Silban on the sixth day. “And now, we must so do rather less well.”
* * *
On the ninth day, Prosatio Silban continued to suck a smooth pebble and pretend it was a small chunk of melting ice. By Foldero, Goddess of Humbling Misfortune, I have never been so thirsty, he thought as they wandered out of one canyon and into the next. I would be hard-put to stand this as a younger man, let alone one of such artificial elderhood. How much longer must we –
“There!” exclaimed the Siddis. “We have arrived.”
The cook twitched the galleywagon’s plaited yak-hair reins, and Onward-the-camel came to an immediate halt. Before them loomed a great dome of golden sandstone, with a man-sized opening cut into the side facing the travelers. An overtowering grey mantis sporting a woman’s upper torso and head blocked their way, her/its red eyes boring down into theirs.
“Stay yourselves!” the apparition bellowed in a bass vibrato. “Only the worthy may advance, and answer the questions which admit of passage to the Wellspring of Lost Years.”
With slow and careful movements, Prosatio Silban descended from the driver’s bench to the rocky desert floor. “What are the questions?” he asked.
“First: Who are you?”
“I am Prosatio Silban, the Cook For Any Price.”
“Next: Why are you here?”
“I seek the rightful return of the years stolen from me by one of evil intent.”
“I seek the rightful return of the years stolen from me by one of evil intent.”
“Last: What are your virtues?”
“My ‘virtues?’ What do you mean?” The cook scowled. “I am too old to waste my time with such foolish games. What are your virtues?”
The guardian smiled as if sharing a treasured secret.
“In countless millennia, none have ever asked me that,” she/it said. “You may indeed pass.”
“Thank you,” said Prosatio Silban. He nodded to the Siddis and entered the cave.
The cool and damp interior flickered with reflected sunlight. A tall fountain of water in the cave’s exact center filled a shallow pool which almost touched the encircling wall. The cook knelt, lowered his cupped hands into the chill liquid, and brought them up to his open lips. The water tasted clean and icy. Prosatio Silban drank, drank again, and examined the backs of his age-spotted hands.
No change was apparent.
The effect must take some time, no pun intended, he thought with eagerness, and waited.
Sixty heartbeats stretched into one hundred-twenty.
Then three hundred.
Nothing, other than a slaked thirst, continued to happen.
Oh no. No. NO!
Black despair bowed the cook’s shoulders, and he shut tight his eyes to keep the tears from leaking. I have been misled, he thought. After all that, it seems I am still closer to death than before the Sentinel robbed me of my lifespan. Damn. Damn it all to the demons’ dark domain.
He stood on shaking legs, steadied himself, and exited.
He stood on shaking legs, steadied himself, and exited. The Siddis raised inquiring eyes, and Prosatio Silban shook his head. “The Wellspring does indeed restore one’s vigor, but only that beaten out by the Sobering Desolation’s merciless sun and wind,” he said in a low voice. “Let us replenish our depleted barrels and return to the Commonwell – or die trying.”
* * *
Later that night, still in the desert but long miles from the Wellspring of Lost Years, a disappointed and depressed Prosatio Silban climbed into his galleywagon’s sleeping berth. The Siddis lay snoring on the ornate braided rug, and the cook labored in vain to raise his own spirits.
Tomorrow will bring yet another day of potential and possibility, he thought, then frowned. Or, for me at least, another day nearer the end. If only … if only … bah. What a waste of a life.
He raised one hand to extinguish the overhead fatberry-oil lamp, then stopped in mid-gesture.
What –? he thought.
He lifted its mate in disbelief. Both were the hands of a younger man: smooth, strong, and unspotted. He turned them this way and that, clenching and unclenching, reveling in the vitality and suppleness of his rejuvenated muscles. He closed his eyes and smiled in grateful acquiescence.
Thank you, All-Mother, Prosatio Silban thought with a quiet sob. Thank you for my renewed life.
(If you’re new to these tales, here are the preface and introduction. And if you want another 85 of them (so far) in one easy-to-read package, here’s the e-book!)