The Thousand Stories by herenortherenearnorfar

Tabeat and How The Moon Was Carved Of Silver

1718 SA. Finally, some largely uncomplicated fluff.

It was unfair that Tabeat of the Adal be so very pleasant when she clearly wasn’t going to stay. 

Not that it was her fault. The many nomadic peoples, who populated the less arable lands actually outnumbered the populations of the small cities and kingdoms that squatted by coasts and rivers. Amid heat and mountains a lifestyle of herding and sparse agriculture worked much better than urban society, and though many of the wanderers spent time on land claimed by one lesser king or another, they were largely independent. Most bore more allegiance to their own, small circles of kinship and greater farflung cultures than to any palace dwelling priest or ruler. And when you added up the many enclaves scattered across the south and east, the number of herders, wainriders, shepherds, traders, and horsemen grew quite high. 

Though the inland kingdoms as far south as Ilat and as deep east as Nalivarsha now swore enthusiastic allegiance to the brilliance of their lord, the wanderers were more recalcitrant with their loyalty. Winning it would not be as simple as a war either, though Cytise knew some of the others itched for one— it having been more than a decade and a half since the defeat of the viperous elves. Decentralized as they were, there was no good way to subdue them that didn’t involve throwing army after army at the inhospitable wilds. This meant diplomacy was being employed instead, much to Cytise’s delight. 

Quite a few of the more venerable members of those communities had been invited to visit a while in the great tower and witness the magnanimity and power of their master. The fact that such a visit definitionally exposed them to the might of the dark land’s armies was a bonus. 

Most of the visitors were cagey elders or leaders of warbands, solemn men and women with hard faces who kept their tongues still. 

Tabeat was different. She was quiet, yes. It was normal to be quiet when faced with such a show of force. More important was how her face did not show signs of dismay or fear when faced with the busy industry of the tower and the creatures who served its whims. She did not flinch back or turn away in sorrow (and to their credit, neither did any of the others with her). Her stony determination and rare laughter made her a pillar of the coalition of travelers, while her style of dress— fine and adorned with silver where the others had come suited for war— shone bright amid the ash and shadow of the ever clouded plain. 

For as little as they’d gotten to interact over the course of the visit, she and Cytise had gotten along quite well. One day, as the more martially inclined indulged in a show of wrestling, they sat together and fell to talking easily, barely paying any mind to the grease covered warriors struggling on the courtyard stone. 

By tacit mutual agreement, the topics of conversation were uncomplicated. They spoke of the lands of their youth, which were not that far from each other compared to the distance they had traveled to Mordor, of flatbread and coffee, and the bone-warming sunlight left behind.

As they spoke a few rays of pale, weak light poked through the heavy smog that always surrounded the industrial landscape. This was a rare treat and they both let the conversation die peacefully so they could enjoy the attenuated light. Tabeat leaned back on her hands, turned her face up, and closed her eyes. 

In such repose she seemed peaceful, yet the moving chiaroscuro kept the image in motion. Reflections jumped off the shiny silver of her ornaments, making every coin-shaped disk and molded charm light up. 

Beneath the outer layer of her front clasped robes Cytise glimpsed a palm sized circle of silver, dimpled like a face. It seemed to be securing an inner belt. Most inner clothing did not bear such delicate adornment, making the sight of the hidden treasure (at least five days wage for a city worker in material alone) intriguing. More than that, the uneven geometric design of dents and chased circles was strikingly intentional but not stylized like the usual metalwork of herder-jewelers. 

“You’ve stolen the moon from the sky and wear it below your ribs,” Cytise said as the image finally clicked in her head. Tabeat adjusted the lay of her dress, though whether to expose more of the silver face or hide it away it was hard to tell.

“Yes. A present from a supplicant long ago. I have always loved silver.”

It was a superstitious, well-adored metal, surrounded by mysticism and magic. Gold was common in its beauty and longevity but silver, which tarnished dark as it soaked up evil, was special. 

“It suits you well. You have the moon’s face; full of light.”

Dark flush climbed up Tabeat’s long neck. “The moon was made by craftsmen of the finest caliber— I was made by one woman alone.”

“Then a fine craftswoman she was!” Cytise paused. “You say the moon was made? It is not a drinking vessel or a necklace hung in the sky.”

The sun was passing now, retreating back behind the dense darkness. Tabeat sighed. “No. It is a mirror of silver, polished smooth then carved to reflect the face of the star-maker. I know others have stories; drinking men and cows horns. I stand by this one though. We know silver very well.”

Cytise reached out a flicked one of her earrings, a crescent shape with small bells on the end. “That you do. I do not know how such a work of metal would end up in the sky though.”

“A foolish hunter brought it up as he chased the sun, and dropped it in the firmament. Obviously.” A cry went up from the wrestlers at the noise Tabeat startled, then settled again, body curling next to Cytise’s own. 

“And why would they leave something so precious in the sky, hmm?” Her jewelry really was lovely. Up close the swirls and crosses detailing every line seemed all the more intricate. 

“Once such beauty had been seen by all it would have been cruel to take it away. Everyone knows that you must share that which is most wonderful, or it will grow hot and heavy in your hand. The star-maker knew this most of all, so she let us keep seeing her face in her looking mirror.”

“I am glad. There is not much beauty here.” Power, yes, but delicate works or art were few and far between.

Tabeat looked back up at the sky. “No. Even the moon is hidden. I do not think you see it very much at all.”

Later, in Cytise’s room, they unclasped the belt together, admired the workmanship, and then moved on to the rest of the hooks and brooches. With her finery cast aside Tabeat was still wonderful, her face as round and golden as an autumn evening. 

“I do not think you should be here,” Tabeat whispered as she left— for the wandering people were not powerful enough to be kept permanently. They were allowed to leave. “It is dark. No man or woman should have to live without light of sun, stars, or moon.”

“I’ll try to remember your face,” Cytise said cheerily, and bid her friend farewell.