The Weight of a Name, The Price of a Binding

Malakor moved in the woman’s wake as she navigated the narrow pathways of the tiny settlement, and Jianna trailed a few paces behind him. The woman guided them toward one of the huts in particular, a sturdy-looking structure fashioned from a combination of solid wood and packed mud. With a simple gesture, she indicated they should enter first, then reached to pull aside a heavy flap of what looked to be cured animal hide that served as a door.

As Jianna ducked through the opening, a gasp of surprise escaped her. The interior of the hut was deceptively spacious, far larger than its external dimensions had suggested. Another great, dark-pelted skin was stretched across the packed-dirt floor, lending a surprising softness underfoot. Arranged neatly along the circular walls were carefully stacked bundles of woven goods, an assortment of utensils, and bunches of dried herbs that filled the air with a faint, pleasant aroma. A warm, flickering radiance began to fill the space as the woman moved with a practiced, fluid grace, igniting a series of small basins where wicks of moss now floated in pools of melted animal fat.

The moment the woman let the heavy flap drop behind her, the ambient sounds of the village became a muffled, distant murmur.

“I’ll send someone with something to eat,” she said, the words tinged with a hint of weariness. “I’d bring it myself, but I have to make sure my idiot husband spends more of his time working than bragging.” A long-suffering sigh, heavy with unspoken history, punctuated her statement. “The two of you are welcome to the hospitality of this lodge for the night. The man who lives here won’t be back from his scouting trip for another two days.”

“Thank you for the use of his home,” Malakor offered, his voice crisp and steady, devoid of its usual regional cadence.

She made a dismissive gesture with her hand. “Don’t trouble yourself over it. I ask only that you leave the place tidy. We will gather for the evening meal later.” With that, she was gone, the flap of hide swaying gently in the space she had just occupied.

Jianna released a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding and collapsed onto the soft floor covering. “Man, it feels so good to finally sit down.”

A short, derisive sound, almost a snort, came from Malakor before he followed her example, though his descent to the floor was a far more measured and elegant motion. “Outrealmers… We ‘aven’t been walkin’ for that long. I think you should do it more often.”

Too exhausted to muster a proper protest, she just sighed. “Anything you say. Hey, what happened to your accent back there?”

“My accent?” He shifted his position on the floor. “Oh,” he murmured, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. “We’re in the South Lands. They aren’t overly fond of Northners like me.”

“Why not?”

Malakor shrugged, a mask of deliberate boredom settling over his features. “I don’t truly know. Whatever happened, it happened many years ago.”

“I believe it has something to do with the northern monarchies deciding to wage war upon the southern ones, slaughtering peasants like us and our children in the process.” The voice that spoke was aged and raspy, emerging from the threshold of the hut. They both looked up in unison to see another woman standing there, her presence quiet but firm. Long, greasy hair hung in silvery-grey strands around a face that was a roadmap of deep wrinkles, each one a testament to a long and arduous life. A twisted, toothless smile graced her lips. She held a steaming bowl in each of her gnarled hands. With movements made slow and stiff by arthritis, she set the bowls down before them and then lowered herself to the ground.

“My name is Hestra,” the woman said, bowing her head slightly. “And it is my honor to meet you.”

For reasons she couldn’t articulate, Jianna felt an immediate sense of peace in the old woman’s company; a kind of wise gentleness radiated from her. “It’s good to meet you, Hestra. My name is Jianna, and I—”

“Girl!” Malakor snapped, his eyes flashing a stark warning.

But it was too late. Jianna realized her mistake as a chilly knot of dread tightened in the pit of her stomach. Her hand flew to her mouth, her eyes wide with horrified understanding.

The old woman let out a strange, rattling, and dry chuckle. “Do not worry yourself, Lady. I would not use your name against you, even if I could. But this is not the Out-Realm. You would do well to be more cautious with whom you share your name.”

“You… you know I’m from the Out-Realm?” Jianna asked, her voice barely a whisper.

Hestra nodded slowly. “Your speech and your dress are like none I have ever known. And I remember seeing an Outrealmer once, when I was just a small child. He wore shoes very much like yours.” She pointed a bony finger at Jianna’s running sneakers.

With the immediate formality passed, Malakor’s northern accent had fully returned. “Well, thank ye fer yer kindness,” he said.

“Yes, thank you,” Jianna echoed, her gaze drawn to the large bowl Hestra had brought. The stew looked substantial, with hearty chunks of meat and root vegetables swimming in a rich, fragrant broth. There was no spoon, but when Jianna glanced at Malakor to see how he would manage, he had already lifted the bowl to his lips and was sipping directly from the rim. Mirroring his action, Jianna found the stew was far more delicious than she could have ever anticipated.

“This is really good!” Jianna exclaimed after a long, satisfying gulp. “Thank you so much!”

Hestra chuckled again, that same dry, rattling sound. “It was no trouble,” she said. “My hands ache too much for most work these days, but I do so enjoy speaking with travelers. Would you mind terribly if I sat and spoke with you for a while?”

“I don’t mind at all,” Jianna answered without a moment’s hesitation. “Do you, Malakor?”

Malakor crossed his two main arms over his chest, fixing Jianna with a stern look. “I wouldn’ mind a bit o’ intelligent conversation, meself, fer once,” he grumbled.

“Hey, that was mean,” she retorted, sticking her tongue out at him.

“That’s why I said it.”

In Hestra’s captivating company, time seemed to melt away. Before they knew it, the slivers of light peeking around the edges of the doorway had faded into the deep indigo of night. Soon after, Kaelen, the woman they had met earlier, reappeared. They learned she was the clan’s headwoman, with the somewhat dimwitted Torvin serving as headman. This time, she carried a large wooden platter laden with roasted meat, steamed vegetables, and a small selection of fruit.

She set the platter in the center of their small circle. “Please, help yourselves.” Jianna accepted the wooden plate offered to her and selected a large, aromatic piece of meat. The portions were generous, so she added only a few vegetables. As Kaelen poured her a cup of water from a waterskin that looked uncannily like an animal’s stomach, Jianna saw Malakor’s gaze drift to the platter. She caught a fleeting glint of want in his eyes, a flicker of longing that he instantly masked. He already had a generous helping of fruit and vegetables on his own plate, but she noted with a pang of curiosity that it was conspicuously bare of any meat.