Miro saw the flicker of firelight. "I'm not sure if we should make our presence known," he said.
Amber rounded on her husband. "It's dark, I'm tired, and we need directions. You seemed happy to use that sword earlier in the day." She set off in the direction of the trees. "Follow my lead."
30
A GROUP of twelve men sat in a circle around the low embers of a cooking fire. A heavy metal pan rested on the coals, and the scent of mushrooms and toasting nuts wafted through the warm night air.
One of the men walked forward and squatted near the fire, stirring the pan with a wooden spoon. The sound of sizzling was accompanied by the melodic notes of a plucked instrument, and Miro saw one of the men held a large gourd between his knees, fitted with dozens of thin strings. He plucked at one string and then another in a haphazard fashion, creating a discordant yet not unpleasant tune, seemingly without structure, yet perhaps Miro simply didn't know how to find it.
All the men wore smocks of sky blue and had beards of varying lengths. One older man's beard reached nearly to his waist.
As Miro assessed the men, Amber stepped forward from the trees. "Greetings!"
Miro came forward to stand beside her, keeping his hand on the hilt of his sword.
None of the men jumped, nor looked at the two newcomers with surprise. Three of the closest turned to regard the couple, while the man stirring the pan brought the spoon to his lips and blew on it, tasting the contents before making a sound of appreciation. The music continued without faltering.
The man with the long beard was one of those closest. "Welcome, strangers," he finally said, as if not used to speaking.
"We're travellers, far from home, and we were hoping to share your fire," Amber said. "We can pay…"
"Sit," the long-bearded man interrupted, indicating a space close to both him and the fire. "Make yourselves warm."
Miro met Amber's eyes and she shrugged imperceptibly. They both walked to where indicated and seated themselves. Miro sighed, pleased to be off his feet.
The twelve men looked at them curiously, but none of them spoke.
"Thank you for letting us join your fire," Miro said.
"Hmm," the long-bearded man said.
The strange melody danced in the air, and the man with the spoon again squatted near the fire and tasted the food, frowning and then sprinkling some seasoning from a pouch into the pan.
The long-bearded man suddenly spoke. "Don't mind my brothers. They've never spoken, and don't know how. I joined the Order late, so I still remember."
"You don't speak?" Amber said.
"Why would we need to?"
Amber looked at a loss for words. "To communicate…"
"There are many ways to communicate. Speech is imperfect, and my brothers and I prefer to speak with our souls. My soul is still impure, I must confess, for I still crave and enjoy speaking with ones such as yourselves."
Miro realised they'd come across members of a priesthood.
"You said you were travellers," the long-bearded man said. "Where is your destination?"
Miro opened his mouth, wondering what to say, when Amber spoke for him.
"We're going to Wengwai," she said. "We need to find the Alchemists' Guild. There's a poison we need to find a cure for."
"Not for someone close to you, I hope?"
Amber's throat caught. "My son."
The long-bearded man turned sorrowful eyes on Amber. "I am sorry. I hope you find what you are looking for."
"Where are you bound?" Miro asked.
"Wengwai, of course," the long-bearded man said, as if it was obvious.
"Why… why are you going to Wengwai?" Amber asked.
"You don't know who we are, do you?"
"We come from lands far from here," Miro said hurriedly.
"We are members of the Order of Flowing Water. We are healers and helpers, musicians and madmen, or so the common people say. We do not take vows of silence, but we prefer not to speak. We do not eat meat, but we are lovers of food. We do not dance, but we are lovers of music. More than anything, we treat wounds and heal sickness. They say a great darkness is on its way to Wengwai, and many will die. We go wherever we are needed, and perhaps we are needed there."
The long-bearded man seemed to run out of breath after his long speech. His brothers accompanied his words with nods and smiles, but none said a word.
Miro saw the healer with the large spoon filling wooden bowls. Another brother handed out the bowls, and gave one to Miro with a smile. The scent made his mouth water, redolent with herbs and onion, mushroom and nuts. Amber also held a bowl and two spoons, giving one to Miro with a smile.
Miro began to eat, unable to stop himself. He looked up at the healers, hoping he hadn't caused offence, but even the man with the gourd had stopped playing his instrument, and all twelve men were eating with gusto.
Amber swallowed, and then turned to the long bearded healer. "Can we travel with you to Wengwai?"
"That depends," he said. "Can you cook?"
Miro saw Amber's eyes light up.