The cache is a collection of books, knick-knacks, and records that his people had managed to secret away from the ship before the camp ones stole everything to their caves. The small collection is buried in a hole a few miles up one of the mountain trails. The strange assortment’s not used much. The others had already taken most of the books besides a few medical encyclopedias and some lineage histories. As unhelpful as they are, they’re guarded jealously.

Alexai has made it habit over the past few years to check on the collection daily, just to make sure everything’s in order. It’s comforting to him, for some reason, despite the fact that he has never - not once - actually opened any of the books and read them. At least, not until now.

Now he’s sitting crosslegged in front of the bundle, paging through one of the larger medical texts. The words are nearly foreign, barely recognizable as some ancient form of his own language. The medical terms are unknown to him, like gibberish. He’s given up on actually trying to digest any of the information, and is now skimming through, eyeing the faded, old pictures for anything that resembled the rash that has been spreading on Ada’s arm over the past few weeks.

He knows it’s absurd to even hope that he will discover any answer in these old pages, but the ground’s solid beneath him and the harsh wind is blocked by the high cliffs on both sides of him, and so he sits and thumbs through the books and tries to keep his mind from wandering. It’s a useless endeavor though - keeping his mind from wandering - so he eventually places the large book back into the hollow and pulls out a smaller one. It’s a brief history of the major wars and conflicts of earth’s history. He finds himself engrossed. It’s fascinating, from a certain dispassionate level, of course, to see how easily man used to fall into reckless hate and destruction. How easily it was for them to kill and torture on such a massive scale. It’s fascinating and a bit horrifying, if he allows himself to dwell on the strange feeling the descriptions cause to twist up in his chest.

He’s reading about mass graves when he hears the crunch of weight against loose gravel. About 30 feet away, there’s a coyet staring at him, nose raised in curiosity. The coyets are small, doglike animals that, from all guesses, are native to the mountains. In all the centuries his people have been calling the place home, there has been no coyet attacks, no deaths. No one knows what the animals eat, where they live. They’re not social animals, but they’re also non-aggressive. The only thing that could be assumed is that they live somewhere deep in the mountain passes, or perhaps in holes somewhere, apparently at peace with themselves and the rest of the planet. They’re beautiful animals, silver-haired and black-eyed.

Alexai stares back, unalarmed but on alert. The dog sniffs at him, twitches its bushy tail, and then turns and ambles back up the path without a backwards glance. The lack of territorialism is always surprising. How easily the animals adapt to the presence of the humans, how easily they simply go about their lives without any fear, anger, annoyance. He can imagine them, somewhere deep in the planet, a whole civilization of them. He wonders what they thinks of his people. What they think of all the humans, fighting and biting and snarling at each other like feral beasts.

It’s kind of shaming.

He’s going to tell Ademar about Ada today. He trusts the man, and he knows that it’s unlikely the leader of his people will contribute to panic by announcing it to the whole camp. Alexai’s only giving in and confessing because he needs help. He’s not so prideful that he can’t admit this. The suzerain has been around for many, many years - many centuries, in fact - and he may have something in that deep well of memory and experience that he can draw up to help Ada get better. Alexai’s wasting time out here, skimming through old dusty tomes of the past. He’s aware of this, but he’s hesitant. Nervous, even.

He’s not given much more time to stall, though. The very man he’s trying to avoid steps up behind him, hardly disturbing the dust, and says his name. Alexai almost jumps, but manages to catch himself in time. He glances up at the older man towering over him. From this angle, Ademar is set off against the black and gray clouds, imperious and powerful. It’s only because Alexai’s so unused to looking up at anyone, but the sensation is still disorienting. Uncomfortable. But to stand quickly would show that, so he closes the book slowly and arches an eyebrow.

“Been keeping to yourself a lot lately, have you?” Ademar says. There’s no judgment there. As usual. Alexai fights the unseemly urge to scoff at the implication that there’s anything else to do. Everyone keeps to themselves here.

He only responds, “I have had a lot on my mind, as of late.”

“Is that so?” Now there’s some judgment. No worry. No curiosity, even. Just a vague sense of disapproval. Alexai realizes with an internal grimace that he had just admitted, indirectly, to allowing some inner conflict to distract him. He also realizes, with a sudden flare of clarity, that his own confession is no worse that than the reproof he hears in the suzerain’s voice. Why should his weakness matter at all to Ademar?

“I have something I need to speak to you about,” he says, trying to salvage the situation.

The older man doesn’t look particularly surprised. “Indeed?”

Alexai gives him a truncated version of events, from Ada’s arm rash to his meeting by the river. The suzerain remains passive, almost uninterested. Without his conscious deliberation, near the end of his account Alexai hears himself saying, “Perhaps we could use this new development to our favor.”

There’s a flicker in Ademar’s eye, and Alexai takes that as a signal to keep going.

“I could go to them under the pretense of needing help. Ada’s…illness provides us with an opening.”

“And what will we offer them in return?”

“They will have access to her genetic material. We know all too well of their scientific fascination. They will not be able to resist her.” Even as he says it, he feels a stab of guilt at how off-hand he’s being about Ada’s problem, but he understands - deep down where he would never admit it - that his motives for this are anything but unselfish. If anyone can help her, it’s the others.

Ademar doesn’t reply for a great while. Seconds tick by. A minute. Two. Ademar finally swivels, running an idle finger against the black stone of the mountainside. Alexai grows tenser and tenser as the silence stretches on. A part of it is anticipation, but also it is the immensity of the things above, the churning clouds, the electric veins, the stars beyond, the earth out there floating barren and destroyed, that causes his nerves to tighten. He doesn’t know why this is. Why those things so far away would matter to him now, at this specific moment, all pressing down on him. All he knows is that his muscles clench and tremble until finally the older man deigns to speak.

Though all he says is, “I see nothing against this plan. If it’s something you wish to do.”

He deflates. The pressure lifts. Those distant things spiral back up, to their places, and he’s stable again. He’s annoyed, however, at the dismissiveness of the reply.

“You do not seem too concerned about a source of potential information.”

“Concern is a feeling to oft indulged in by the weak.”

Alexai lays his hand flat against the cold cover of the worn textbook. Tries not to sigh. Ademar’s correct, as always.

He makes a few swift calculations and decides on another tack. “Have you ever spoken to one of them before? Have we ever considered negotiation? Or espionage, as I believe it was called?”

The suzerain doesn’t try to conceal his sigh. It rankles a bit. “Alexai,” he begins, voice low and patient,” I believe those creatures out there know many things about this planet we do not. I believe they apparently have things, abilities, at their disposal that we do not. I also believe this about that coyet that was sniffing around you a minute ago. I may even believe it about the trees, the fruit, the sky, the fire. The ground. But I have never tried speaking to the trees, the fruit, the sky, the fire. Because they are not capable of disclosing their secrets to me. They are not capable of complex thought, analysis, of explaining.”

A moment of nothing. Then, “I do not follow your line of thinking, sir.”

Ademar sighs again, this time there’s disappointment there, a man teaching a young child that’s too flighty to understand the meaning of the lessons. “There is no use speaking to them,” he explains. “You say they are a source of potential information - intelligence, I think is the word most fitting to what you are suggesting. But I tell you, there is no use trying to force intelligence from one who has none.”

Alexai thinks of that young girl standing across the water from him. The very faint outline of her reflected against the black water. Her dark eyes narrow and shrewd. Those calm hands, as if he were no threat at all. How easily the words seemed to come to her, words that infuriated and frustrated and confused him. He can’t marry that image to what the older man is saying to him now in this moment.

“So you are saying, essentially, that speaking to one of them as the same as speaking to a rock?”

“Yes.”

He’s not at all eager to attribute something admirable to the cavedwellers. He wishes - with all his soul - that the enemy was just as the older man described them. But he knows they aren’t. Knows that they’re formidable. Worthy. As weak as they’re in many senses, they’re no dumb animals.

“Surely, you see a slight difference-” 

“I do not. Look, the bare truth of the matter is that they’re weak. Physically, but also mentally. They are not capable of foresight - they have too little time to acquire it - and they’re not capable of logic. Even their memories are faulty. They forget easily, especially things they do not wish to face. They color in the cracks of their experiences, recreating history to fit their whims. They are flighty and irrational and have nothing in those feeble minds of theirs to offer us. Their weak minds led them to follow the seers when all wise ones understood the danger. They do not think for themselves. They have to be led.”

The book seems to thrum under his palm. The language of his past scrawled across the pages, out of his reach. So many things they don’t know about earth, about their ancestors. Is that not mental weakness as well?

“Yet you will allow me to proceed if I choose to?”

“It’s not a matter of allowance. I am not in charge of you. You must account for yourself. No one is responsible for your actions except you.” Ademar turns to walk away. Pauses next to the mouth of the trail and gazes up at the sky. Says softly, “Besides, I believe we have time to spare.”

Alexai has nothing to say to this, though the thought rises up unbidden, out of some secret space: no, our time is coming to an end, and he gazes up at the sky as well, trying to peer through the clouds to the wheeling stars that lurk above. Feels something calling to him as from across a distant shore. But there’s only rain and gray mist coiling above him. Only a pale, sickly light blinking down. He pushes down the disgust he feels at himself, at the irrationality he’s been indulging in recent weeks. It’s unbecoming.

When he lowers his gaze, Ademar’s gone and she’s standing there, hair matted and eyes twinkling with some hidden thing, merely a foot away. The smell clinging to her clothes is that of sulphur and brimstone and vibrant spice. He manages not to show the surprise he feels at her sudden appearance.

When he trusts himself to speak, he asks, “What do you want?”

The Lady smiles. Despite her unkempt ways, her teeth are bright and white and nearly blinding. She doesn’t answer, at least not with words. In her smile, though, in her eyes, he can see what she’s thinking and he takes a step back, trying to look annoyed. In truth, the looks she gives him makes him uncomfortable.

She moves with him, though, and he realizes to keep backing away would be too telling, so he stops and lets her approach. 

She’s at his side now, breath blowing against his neck. He tries not to flinch or react, though he could feel his face warming. She presses two fingers to his cheek, as if testing his temperature. Her fingertips are damp, like she had been out doing something, playing in the river, perhaps. The cold sting is startling.

Trying not to show his discomfort, he gently pushes her hand away.

“And where have you been getting into?” he asks, voice as cold and unconcerned as he can manage with her so close.

She smiles. The wrinkles already formed around her dark eyes deepen even more. She looks up at him under her lashes, trying to be coy.

“Far away places,” she answers softly.

He shrugs past her, “Go back to your tent.”

He doesn’t hear her footsteps following him, but he hears her murmur, low enough that he’s not certain whether or not he’s truly meant to hear it, “Where else would I go?”

For some reason, it stops him in his tracks. When he looks at her, she’s staring up the mountain pass, into the distance. She doesn’t seem to be aware of his presence anymore. He hesitates. If left here by herself, she may have become prey to some predator, especially now that what passed for a sun here is setting. He gazes at her for awhile, at her unkempt hair rustling in the wind, at her pale skin marked by her own fingernails and teeth, at her dirty coat and pants, at those hands that have known things he has not, touched things he has not, created things he has not.

He turns and leaves her there.

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Next Chapter: Chapter 8