The Secret Path
[01]

Part One



The sun beat down on the hilly side of the Ilah Province, baking the earth with a soft warmth and scenting the air with a subtle aroma.  The workers were busy at their tasks in the fields, but paused now and then to take in their surroundings and pass around a cool drink of water.  Many of them worked at a leisurely pace, knowing that the greater work for the day had not yet started.  

They were, for the most part, merely keeping busy while they waited for the master of the house.

A warm wind raced up the hill upon which the humble estate rested, flying through the quaking leaves of the surrounding treetops as it passed and mingling with the sharp rustle of the lush, golden grass as it swayed.  Two figures were making their way down a path that parted the grass along the hill; one a tall Sangheili male with a distinguished lope, and the other a child whose head and shoulders were just barely visible as she bobbed energetically along in the grass.

Eto’s toes sank into the rich, dark soil as she trotted alongside her father in an effort to keep up with the pace of his long, powerful strides.

“Papau!” she panted as she skipped and jumped down the path, “What are we doing today?”

Oruo looked down at his daughter as she followed enthusiastically at his side, and smiled.

“Today, Eto, we turn the soil,” he rumbled in a rich voice.

“Will I be able to help?” she asked, skipping over a large stone as she did so.  

Oruo smiled down at her, noting the grass and clumps of dirt that were already clinging to the train of her skirt.

“Of course you will,” he chuckled, “but you’ll need to tie up your skirts, or your mother will have you washing the laundry for the rest of this cycle.”

Eto made little effort to hide her grimace of distaste and hastily began to slap the dirt off of her ivory-colored train.  She bundled up her skirts loosely as she jogged in her father’s wake and tied them to her belt with thin ribbons of cloth, giving little care to how she should properly roll her clothes for work.  She paid little heed to such things.

She looked up to the sound of her father working his jaws in a tsk-tsk of disapproval.

She was ashamed, if only slightly, until her attention was turned by their arrival at the foot of the hill, where a workhouse rested in the shade of a small grove of trees.  A handful of bare-chested, muscular youths had gathered under the great cypri tree just ahead, and turned to greet the master of the house.

Eto grinned and waved to a few that she recognized.  One of them, she hadn’t seen before.   He stepped forward, directing his attention to her father.
“Oruo ’Nariolee?” he asked.  

Oruo gave a swift nod.  “With whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?” he asked.

“Amze ’Rasamee,” the stranger replied, and giving a slight bow, he added, “It is an honor.”

Oruo’s mandibles parted in a smile, and he grasped Amze’s forearm in a friendly gesture.  “ ’Rasamee, from the Daji Province?” he asked.

“Yes.  You know the House of Sam?” Amze asked.

“My wife,” Oruo nodded, “She is a friend to your sister.  You were stationed at the D’nen Outpost?”

Amze gave a sharp nod.  “Yes, I was released on shore leave indefinitely at the end of the last cycle.”  
His face broke into a sly grin. “Apparently, the Covenant is in need of more sires,” he added, at which the whole of the group burst into hearty laughter.

Eto understood very little of what was being said, but she listened intently all the same and smiled at their merriment.  Oruo placed his hands on her shoulders, and held her close, giving a nod to Amze.

“Brother, you will find that having children is one of the greatest gifts our Lords have bestowed upon us.  You have many joys to look forward to,” he said, and squeezed Eto’s shoulders affectionately.

Eto leaned back against her father’s legs and gazed up at the dark leaves that rustled overhead, punctuated by scattered patches of sunlight that bled through.  It was a warm breeze that played at the folds of her blouse; a great day to be out in the field.  

Her gaze dropped to rest upon the youngest of the men who were gathered to assist her father that day.  He sat perched upon a crumbling old wall that rested at the base of the cypri tree, listening intently as Oruo situated Amze further.

“You’re looking for work, then?” she heard her father say.  “Your hand would be much appreciated in the field.  We’re working from the south side all the way to the—”

She didn’t hear the rest of the conversation, because she pulled away from her father to climb up on the wall where the young worker sat.  He watched her scramble up the wall with a clumsy effort, and chuckled at the sight.

“Greetings, little sister,” he said as she crouched beside him on the wall.

“ ‘Ello, Zabsi!” she said brightly as she smiled up at him.  

As always, her eyes were drawn to the curious scars that marked his chest and arms.  Pale splotches ran the breadth of his dark chest and wrapped around his shoulders; like most of the men who helped her father out in the field, Zabsi was a Covenant soldier who was keeping busy in a time of relative quiet.  He was a lower-ranking Sangheili warrior from one of the neighboring provinces, and had most likely been given the suggestion to return home for a short while and start a family.

Eto didn’t remember the last time her father had been gone from them on duty, as she had been too young at the time.  She knew it was real, though.  Her father bore similar scars upon his skin, a testament to a world which she knew almost nothing about.  

For the most part, however, her young mind was rarely troubled by it.

“Where is your brother?” Zabsi asked.

“Oh, he won’t come down today,” Eto said, looking up in the direction of the house.  “He’s studying.”

“Studying?” he commented out of curiosity.

Eto nodded fervently.  “He’s going to see the Elder Master tomorrow, to be evaluated!” she said, looking back to Zabsi.

“Oh, well then,” he grinned, “I’ve no doubt that he will meet the Master’s approval.  How old is Puma now?”

“He turned seven three cycles ago,” Eto said.

“He will do well.  He is late coming, like I was, but he will be stronger than the rest.  I wager he’ll be enrolled in the academy before he can even get his boots on,” Zabsi laughed.  

Eto smiled at this.

“But why the studying?” he asked.  “Have the tests of the Elder Master become less physical?”

Eto gave him a quizzical look and shrugged.  “Amma insisted on it.  She said it would sharpen his mind and make him succeed.”  

Zabsi laughed once more, and leaned forward as he stepped down from the wall.

“Yes, yes of course,” he said as he stood up straight.  “Wise words from your mother.”

He smiled at Eto.  “He will be fine.”

“Thank you, Zabsi,” Eto said, and smiling she gave a courteous bow of her head.

He returned the gesture, and turned at the sound of Oruo’s call to work.

“Let us begin, then,” her father’s voice carried through the grove.

“I will take Zabsi, Amze, and Tanu with me to the south fork; the rest  of you,” he indicated the remaining four men, “start at the knoll henge and work your way in.  We’ll meet in the middle.”

Eto leapt nimbly from her perch and tackled her father’s waist, sending him back a step.  He placed a hand on her head and looked down at her with amusement.

“Are you ready to work, Eto?” he asked.

“Yes, Papau!” she said, and releasing her grip she sprinted to the work house to find the leather jesses and the knapsack full of ground minerals.

Already the sun had climbed high into the clear Sangheil sky, and there was yet much work to be done.





* * *



“Papau?” Eto whispered as she lay comfortably on her back in the tall grass.  It tickled her whenever a warm breeze drifted past, and she scratched a dirtied hoof against her calf.

“Hrm?” Oruo grunted, his eyes closed as he rested against the earth beside his daughter.

It was the hour before dusk, and all the field hands had returned to their homes for the evening.  All was still but for the gentle rustling of the grass and the tentative songs of the night insects that carried on the wind.

Eto turned her head to look at her father.

“Could we practice again?” she asked, and propping herself up on her elbows, she looked at him expectantly.  

Oruo opened one eye to peer at her mischievously.

“Hmm,” he sighed, and closing his eye, he shifted his weight and folded his arms behind his head.

“Eto, I am too tired,” he said.  “It has been a long day.”

To a certain extent, his words rang true.  It had been a long day.  After the soil had been turned and nourished, the men had enjoyed a series of sparring matches against each other.  She had watched in fascination as her father outmatched several of the young warriors.  It was widely know that despite his rank, he was a formidable opponent in battle.

Eto knew, though, that a warrior could not truly tire.  He drew lasting inner strength from the Forerunners themselves, as it said in the Holy Scriptures.

With this though in mind, she cracked a devious grin and pounced upon his bare chest.

Oruo gave out a soft grunt as the air left his lungs; it had been the last thing he was expecting while he was resting.

“Gods, you are getting heavy,” he wheezed under his breath.

Eto laughed and attempted to tickle him, to no avail.

“No, no—won’t do.” He said smugly.  “Can’t feel it anymore.”

She paused, and cocked her head curiously at him.  She brought her face nearer to his and lowered her voice to a whisper, “Really?”

Oruo gave a short bark of laughter, and closed his eyes again.

“No,” he reassured her.

Eto smiled with relief and placed her chin upon her crossed arms as they rested against his chest.  She eyed him intently.

“Please, Papau?” she asked again.

Oruo growled thoughtfully for a moment.  “I’d swear your mother gave me two sons,” he muttered under his breath and got up slowly.

Eto slid off of his stomach and hopped to her feet, her tiny mandibles parting in a wide grin.

“Alright, Eto,” he said as he stood.

The sun sat low on the horizon, silhouetting his figure as he adjusted his belts and synched his sash tightly about his waist.  He stretched for a moment before regarding her quietly.

“What is the first stance?” he rumbled softly.

Eto planted her hooves firmly apart in the soil and lowered her posture by a head, her arms held in a ready position.  

“Good,” Oruo praised, and stepped closer to inspect her posture.

“Widen your stance. . .there, that’s more like it,” he said.  “The Gods blessed you with two toes; you should use them as well,” he added, and scuffed at them gently with his own great feet.  “Spread them wide; dig into the soil so that your stance will be more balanced.  That’s it,” he said, and smiled down at her.  

He stepped back slightly.  

“Strike!” he growled.

Eto lashed out, swinging her small, balled fist with surprising speed, and Oruo caught it with his open hand.

“Good!” he laughed, releasing his hold.  “A firm swing,” he said and lowered himself to her eye level.

“A good stance will give you the advantage in any battle, do you know why?” he asked.

Eto thought back for a moment, and eagerly met his gaze.  “It sets you off on the right foot. . .”

“Mmhmm,”

“. . .and gives you balance and. . .focus,” she finished.  

“Yes,” he said softly, pausing for a moment.  He gazed fondly at her.  “I think you would make a fine warrior if you were my son.”

Eto beamed at such praise, though she did not fully understand the social implications of what he had said.  She searched his face expectantly.  

“What new thing will you show me today?” she asked.

Oruo smiled.  His daughter was impetuous.  

“What are the tools which I have shown you how to use thus far?” he asked as he remained crouched at her level.

“The Unggoy pistol, the Sangheili rifle and needler, and. . . and the cleansing flame,” she said slowly, as if recounting what it felt like to hold each of the weapons in her hands.  

“Yes, and yet, none of these is the greatest,” he said.

Eto pawed the ground with one hoof, imagining what great tool he could be referring to.

“Eto, what is a warrior’s most treasured weapon?  Do you know?” he asked in a low voice.  

She shook her head slowly.  Her father reached beneath a fold of his sash and unhooked something from his belt.

“Hold out your hands,” he said.

Eto did so, and was stunned at the weight of the relatively small object that settled into her open palms.  Her hands had dropped under the weight, but foreseeing this, Oruo had placed his hand beneath hers.  

“It’s heavy,” she said, and peered at the beautifully curved hilt.  

It reflected the vibrant bronze of the sunset as she shifted it in her hands.  Ornate letters were inscribed upon either end of the handle, forming words she did not recognize.

“What does it say?” she asked.  

“This is the blade of our Lords.  The inscription is their Holy Prayer of Supplication,” he spoke softly. “One for strength, and one for honor,” he continued, indicating the respective lines of verse.
“You turn it on,” he said as he rotated the hilt in her hands, “by giving the handle a firm, deliberate squeeze.”

“May I try?” she asked, attempting to disguise the eagerness in her voice.

“I think it is a matter of whether or not you can,” he said, but he nodded his assent.  

With her open palm still resting against his, she gripped the hilt in her right hand and squeezed hard.  Nothing happened.

She tried again, this time focusing all of her strength into squeezing the handle.  She let out a gasp of breath that she had been holding as she failed for a second time.

“Ouch,” she said, shaking her wrist ruefully, “I don’t think I can do it.”

Oruo released a deep, rumbling chuckle, and taking the hilt back in his hand he stood up to his full height.

“Beloved, it is a feat that you would not be able to achieve for many more years, I’m afraid.”  He rolled the hilt expertly in his hand and stepped back from Eto a few paces.  “It takes the strength of a practiced warrior to awaken the blade, and even then, there are many young warriors who do not yet possess strength enough to wield the blade.”

In one swift motion, he flicked his wrist while squeezing the hilt, and the blade hissed to life.  A cold, blue-white glow lit up the circular clearing in which they stood as the twin blades erupted from either end of the handle and arched to their full length.

He lowered himself into a familiar stance and cut the air in a graceful arc, twirling the plasma sword with poised and deadly practice.  

“Ah, yes,” he murmured to himself, “It has been some time.”

Eto watched in utter fascination as her father wielded the blade with expert precision.  He was graceful—like a dancer, she thought.  She was disappointed when the blade retracted with a sharp hiss, and the clearing fell into darkening bronze once more.  

“Do you remember what you saw?” Oruo asked after a quiet moment had passed.  

Eto played out the vision of the dancing blade in her mind’s eye, following its every arc and curve.  She met her father’s steady gaze and nodded fervently.

“Good,” he said as he attached the hilt to his belt, “because your mother approaches.”

Eto looked up to see a tall, lithe figure making its way down the crest of the hill.

“I think it may be time to wash up for supper, though it is a little early, isn’t it?” Oruo said, and smiled at his daughter.   

She was watching as her mother drew steadily nearer to the place where they stood.

“Eto,” he said softly, drawing her attention.  “You must remember what I have always told you about the things that I teach you here.”

He bent down again to lock her eyes in a stern gaze.  

“You must never speak of handling these tools outside of our family, do you understand?”

Eto held his gaze and replied with a sincere nod.  She did not speak it, but Oruo could read the question in her eyes.

“Because,” he said, cupping a hand to her cheek, “most of our kin would not approve of such things,” he added.

“Most will say that it is a matter of tradition, but really,” he smirked, “I think it is an independent and capable female warrior that they fear.”

“Indeed,” came a smooth voice from out of the tall grass.

Eto swiveled on the spot to find her mother standing there with her arms crossed over her chest.  Oruo stood and inclined his head towards his mate.

“Ahmesa, my beloved, could it be time already to go up to the house and wash?” he asked.

“For the young one, it is,” she said, and directed her attention to her daughter.  “Eto, how dirty you’ve let yourself get,” she chided.

“Amma, I was helping Papau turn the soil in the fields today!” Eto protested.

“Yes, well you had better hope that it washes out of your clothes.  Head up to the house and get the water running for your bath; your brother will join you,” she said and folded her hands neatly over the amber fabric of her skirt.  

She watched Eto bound up the hill for a thoughtful moment before turning to face her husband.  She met him with a cool gaze before smiling faintly.

“Raising a second son, are we?” she asked.

Oruo grunted, and brushing the dust and loose grass from his linens, he stepped nearer to her.  She had always reserved a certain amount of unease at Eto’s interest in such things, and the fact that he encouraged it only made her anxious.  It could get Oruo into trouble with the Council, and he knew it; but he wished that it would not trouble her so.

“Ahmesa, it makes her strong,” he rumbled softly.

“Knowledge will become her power in the world she is to live in.  Besides, she will soon have many other things to turn her attention to when the Craftmother takes her under wing,” he said and smiled warmly at her.

“Oruo, you know that I trust your good judgment,” she said, “ and I do not wish to question the matter.”

She regarded him with a growing sadness in her eyes, and Oruo’s smile faded.

“Ahmesa, what is it?” he asked.

She was quiet for a moment.

“I have news,” she said softly.  “A message has arrived from High Charity.”