by Alec Hutson
Absently Keilan rubbed his side. “Really? It knocked the wind from me, but I barely feel anything now.”
Xin stepped forward and gently touched the same spot, pressing on the boy’s ribs. “Nothing, truly?”
Keilan pulled up his tunic, revealing a second shirt beneath. It was made from some strange silvery fabric, almost like silk, the threads so fine it appeared seamless. “Oh, I guess it’s this. Vhelan told me it’s special, from the old Mosaic Cities. He said it would be like wearing steel, yet the shirt’s so light I usually forget I have it on.”
Xin cocked an eyebrow. His instincts had been right: these three companions were far more than simple travelers.
Nel winked at Keilan. “So next time I’ll be sure to rap you on the head.”
“This one thinks our little evening lessons would quickly come to an end if I brought the boy back to camp unconscious.”
“Speaking of getting back to camp,” Nel said, glancing up at the darkening sky, “we should probably return soon.”
“This one agrees,” Xin said, taking back the wooden practice swords. Was it just his imagination, or did Nel’s fingers linger on his hand when she passed him her blade? He felt a small shiver at her touch, and that surprised him. He had taken lovers before, of course – it was encouraged in the pits, to pass along strong bloodlines – but he had never felt the same tingle of excitement as when he brushed against Nel, or caught her looking at him.
She was not a great beauty like what was described in song or the ghee-poems of the Fettered – she was not tall, nor did she have many soft curves – but her teardrop face, with its large eyes, high cheekbones, and short, boyish hair, had started worming its way into his daydreams while he marched beside the seeker’s wagon. His brothers had noticed this, of course, and he had suffered a fair amount of good-natured abuse over the last few days.
Xin was used to it. He had always been the curious brother, the one most likely to try the sour and spicy camel soup of Kesh, or to let the fluttering hands of a Lyrish courtesan administer the Ceremony of a Hundred Needles upon his aching muscles after a long day of training. This trait often brought rippling waves of exasperation from his more conservative brothers, but always this feeling was shot through with affection. They were a Fist of Gryx, bound together forever, different facets of the same soul.
Keilan led them through the sparse forest, back toward where the caravan had circled for the night in a small field just off the Wending. Before they had pushed their way through the last of the stunted trees, though, the boy suddenly stopped, listening intently. After a moment, Xin heard it as well, the ghostly sound of strings being plucked somewhere nearby. Each note hung quivering in the air for several moments before fading away, like the rolling of distant thunder across the blood-dark sea; this was not the hurried strumming of a lute or harp, but something new, something different. He almost felt like he could gain some insight into the soul of the musician just by listening to his playing.
Keilan glanced back at them, and Xin could see from his expression that he wanted to find the source of this haunting melody.
“It’s coming from that way,” Nel said, peering between the tangled branches.
“The Shan,” Keilan whispered, and Xin could hear the excitement in his voice. “He likes to set up camp a little ways off from the rest of the wagons.”
“Probably so he can eat his spiders in peace,” Nel said, winking at Xin. “Otherwise he might have to share.”
Keilan stuck out his tongue in disgust. “Do the Shan really eat spiders?”
“This one knows they do,” Xin replied. “Two years ago this one and his brothers accompanied our old master to Tsai Yin. Along the big roads in that city vendors sell all manner of barbecued vermin impaled on little wooden sticks – spiders, scorpions, snakes. This one tried a spider as big as a man’s hand. Truly, it was not bad. Crunchy, though sometimes the goo inside spurted out. And they have these spicy dipping sauces – ”
Nel waved at him to stop talking. “Gah. Quiet, or I won’t be able to eat later.”
“I want to see him,” Keilan suddenly said.
Xin shrugged. “If you wish.”
The music paused before they had gone very much farther, and a moment later Xin glimpsed the shadowy bulk of the Shan’s wagon through the trees.
“He has good hearing,” Nel said, with a hint of admiration.
“You make more noise than a drunkard stumbling around in the dark,” Xin replied, shaking his head.
Nel snorted. “I’m a city girl. I hate the woods.”
The trees thinned, and then they emerged into the clearing where the Shan had set up camp. A small fire had already been kindled, and a pitcher with a long spout hung suspended over the flames by some clever contraption of interlocking metal rods. Their mysterious traveling companion sat cross-legged in the grass wearing a robe of shimmering green, behind a strange instrument that looked like a small, narrow table carved with an intricate flowing design showing birds in flight among shreds of clouds. A half-dozen strings ran the length of its surface, and the Shan plucked at one as he watched them stumble from the woods. When the ethereal note faded, he bowed his head in welcome.
“Greetings,” he said, in the same accent Xin remembered from his journey south of the Broken Sea. “I welcome you.”
Xin pressed his palms together. “Nel soon, Xi Xu” he said, hoping he remembered the proper honorific.
Nel and Keilan turned back to stare at him like he had grown a second head.
The Shan quirked a smile. “You know a little of my language. Please, be welcome and sit. I will prepare some tea.” He rose smoothly and vanished through the black curtain that hung in the doorway to his wagon. Xin had watched his old master during several of these ceremonial introductions, so he knew vaguely what was expected of them: he sat, folding his legs like the Shan had been sitting, and motioned for Nel and Keilan to join him. Moments later the Shan returned, carrying a tray with four small green cups of glazed clay, and then filled each with a steaming liquid from the pitcher hanging over the fire. Finally, with a flourish, he placed the tray between them and sat, gesturing for them to take a cup.
“To new friends,” the Shan said, lifting his drink high, “may the East Wind always blow upon our backs.”
They mirrored the Shan by holding up their cups. “There’s a purple flower in my water,” Nel whispered out of the corner of her mouth.
“It’s supposed to be there,” Xin hissed back. “Now drink.”
“Drink the flower? What kind of man drinks flowers?”
Xin tried his best to keep his voice low. “No. Drink around the flower.”
“What kind of man drinks flower-flavored water?”
The Shan had sipped from his cup and put it down, and was now staring off into the forest, as if politely trying to ignore their mutterings.
“The kind of man who comes from the Empire of Swords and Flowers. Just be glad we’re not drinking sword-flavored water!”
Nel snorted again and sipped her tea. Then she smacked her lips loudly. “Hm. Not bad. A little bitter.”
“I’m Keilan Ferrisorn,” the boy suddenly blurted, leaning forward, his eyes bright with interest.
The Shan nodded slowly. “Well met, Keilan son of Ferris. I am Cho Yuan, first son of Cho Han.”
Xin shifted, watching their host carefully. Keilan had skipped a few steps of the ceremony and jumped straight to the formal introductions, but the Shan did not seem upset.
“This one is Xin, third son of Delemachus.”
The Shan inclined his head, smiling faintly. Then he turned to Nel. She didn’t seem to notice, instead studying something floating in her cup. Xin discreetly elbowed her, and she jerked her head up.
“Ah? Oh. I’m Nel, one of probably many daughters of someone who frequented the Silk District, but who fortunately didn
’t stay around long enough to introduce himself.”
Xin chewed the inside of his cheek, certain the Shan was going to take offense at Nel’s flippancy. But the Shan’s slight smile deepened, and to Xin’s surprise he bowed his head even to her.
“I bid you all welcome to my fire. It is good to meet my fellow travelers.”
“Are you going to Vis?”
The Shan shook his head at Keilan’s question. “I am not. My path leads to Herath.”
“You’re a silk merchant?” Nel asked, her finger in her cup as she tried to fish something out of her tea.
Again the Shan shook his head. “I am looking for something that was stolen.”
“Stolen from Shan?” Keilan asked.
“Yes. I found traces of it in the Kingdoms. But there the trail went cold. I have heard that the queen in Dymoria collects such things as I am looking for. So I have decided to travel west, to her kingdom.”
“And what will you do if you find it?”
Something flickered in the Shan’s eyes, an emotion Xin could not quite understand. “If I find what I am looking for, young Keilan, I will destroy it.”
The old man was talking to himself again.
Keilan moved closer to where the scholar crouched at the bridge’s edge, but the fierce wind whipping down from the north carried away most of what Seeker Garmond was saying, and the little Keilan could hear sounded almost like another language. A perfect parabola . . . where is . . . keystone? Sorcery . . . or geometry? The scholar was fiddling with some small silver instrument he had set on the bridge beside himself, minutely adjusting a set of scales and then scribbling down the results in a tattered black book. The wind suddenly gusted, plucking the scholar’s gray pointed cap from his head and sending it fluttering out into empty air. The old man patted his head distractedly with the hand not holding his quill, but appeared otherwise unconcerned by his loss. Keilan watched the cap spiral down, down, down, until the scrap of gray was swallowed by the frothing river far below.
Keilan glanced at the bridge’s far end, where the other wagons had already reached and now waited. There seemed to be an argument ensuing: Halan was gesticulating wildly back at where the scholar’s wagon was perched, unmoving, upon the center of the arching bridge. Next to him stood Delon, another of Xin’s Fist, his arms folded, apparently absorbing the Dymorian caravan master’s abuse with stoic detachment. Delon had gone ahead with the rest of the caravan to ensure that they would not leave them behind after the scholar had halted their wagon halfway across the curved ribbon of stone. Keilan sighed and stepped closer to the scholar and the bridge’s edge, careful to avoid staring at the distant river below and its tumbling, white-flecked rapids. He wondered again why whoever had built this bridge hadn’t also put up some kind of railing.
“Seeker Garmond,” said Xin respectfully, “we should hurry. The others are waiting.”
The scholar paused in his manipulation of the silver instrument and turned his head toward Xin. Despite his lined face and bushy gray eyebrows his expression looked to Keilan to be full of almost childlike wonderment.
“My dear lads, have either of you ever seen a bridge such as this?”
Xin shifted his feet and shook his head. “This one has not.”
The scholar traced the nearly invisible seams where the stones were joined. “At least a thousand years old, yet it appears as solid as if it had been built only yesterday. And barely weathered, despite the cold winds and snow flailing down from the Frostlands. Remarkable. If I’d known there were such wonders along the Wending, I would not have had us sail the Broken Sea to get to the Kingdoms in the first place.”
Garmond gestured for Keilan to lean closer, a strange smile on his lips, and after a moment’s hesitation Keilan crouched beside the old man.
“Here is the most amazing thing,” the scholar whispered, tapping the pages of his opened notebook, “I think there might be no sorcery involved in its construction!” The scholar drew back a bit and raised his eyebrows.
Xin squinted at the very natural looking stone beneath his feet. “Sorcery, sir?”
Garmond made a cutting gesture with his hand. “None! Obviously I need to check my calculations, but if the mathematics hold true then we would know it is possible to raise such a wonder in a post-sorcerous age!” The scholar thrust his notebook towards Xin. “Here, lad. Read my notes. Of course, you probably lack the numeracy background to check my figures . . .” The scholar paused, blinking. “Ah, please don’t be insulted, I shouldn’t make such assumptions. Perhaps you are an amateur student of the perfect art – math, that is – anyway, I’ve jotted down my findings, here they are, it would be good to get a second set of eyes on them.”
Seeker Garmond continued babbling as Xin took the proffered book. Keilan, straightening up and standing beside the Fist warrior, also glanced at the jumbled numbers and tiny, crabbed writing.
“Well, what do you think?”
Xin snapped the notebook shut and handed it back to the scholar. “This one cannot read, sir. Our masters in Gryx discourage such knowledge among the Fettered. But I’m sure your findings are most interesting.”
Keilan smiled at the scholar’s horrified expression, and had to cover his mouth with his hand.
Seeker Garmond shook his head, the shocked horror in his eyes slowly softening to sympathy. “Ah, poor lad. Of course, of course. Tragic failures in your upbringing are the reason the Reliquary does not usually employ the Fettered, despite the excellent reputation of the Fists. A reputation, I should add, which I’ve found to be well-earned on our journey together.” The scholar gathered up his instruments, secreting strange objects in the folds of his voluminous gray robe, then gripped Xin’s elbow and slowly pushed himself to his feet with a pained grunt. “Eh, these old knees. Not so spry as I once was. You know, in my youth the Light of the Lore used to call upon me to retrieve books from the archives because I could take those thousand steps faster than any other apprentice.” The scholar staggered slightly, and Xin helped steady him before he could tumble off the bridge.
“Careful, sir.”
Seeker Garmond nodded thanks, and then his face broke into a puzzled frown. “Why are my ears so cold? Wait, where’s my cap?”
“It blew off while you were doing your examinations,” Xin said as the scholar glanced around the bridge.
“It fell into the river,” Keilan added.
Seeker Garmond leaned closer to the edge, and Keilan had to restrain himself from yanking the old man back. Instead he tensed, prepared to grab a handful of the scholar’s loose robes if he needed to be pulled to safety.
“By the Pen, that was my favorite cap. Gift from Seeker Merriam upon my publication of The Codex Arcanum. Mink lining, quite warm. A terrible shame.” The scholar thrust his hand into the inner recesses of his robe and pulled forth another gray cap, an apparent twin of the one that now was floating down the river.
As the old man settled the new cap on his head Xin subtly began to steer the scholar back towards his waiting wagon. Keilan gave the crowd waiting on the far side of the bridge a quick wave. Even from this distance he could tell Nel’s annoyance from her stance and crossed arms.
The old man twisted around as Xin was helping him up into the wagon, laying a hand on the Fist warrior’s shoulder. “We must teach you how to read.” Garmond stared past Xin, focusing on Keilan.
“You there, lad. You know how to read, yes?”
“Y-yes,” stammered Keilan, meeting the scholar’s guileless blue eyes.
“Excellent! I know Xin here has been teaching you in the evenings how to swing a lump of iron around so that one day you could split open some poor fellow’s head like an overripe fruit . . . I think it would be a fair trade if you in turn taught our good Xin here how to pull meaning from those magical little squiggles.”
Xin opened his mouth to say something – to refuse, Keilan
thought from the look on his face – but the seeker waved away his words before he could speak.
“No, no – no thanks necessary. We Are Candles In The Dark, that’s what’s carved above the entrance to the great library at the Reliquary, looked at it for nearly sixty years. Illuminating dark corners, that’s what we scholars do . . .” The old man’s eyes widened again, and he quickly shook his head. “Wait, no, that came out wrong. You’re no dark corner, Xin – a bright one, I can tell, I’ve had plenty of dullard apprentices, my goodness you should have met Ogden, or Ox, as we fondly called him – ”
Xin gently guided the scholar inside and drew shut the heavy curtain. Seeker Garmond’s voice faded as Keilan and the Fist warrior walked over to the pair of mules harnessed to the front of the wagon. Xin slapped the beasts lightly on their flanks to get them moving, and the wagon lurched forward.
The Fist warrior sighed. “The caravan master is not the only one unhappy with the delay. Your friends are complaining as well.”
“How do you know that?”
Xin glanced at Keilan and tapped his head.
“Can you really hear them in your mind?”
“No. We brothers cannot whisper like that. It is not words that echo inside us. But we know, nonetheless, what each is thinking. This one can always feel them. We are different reflections of the same man, this one told you this already.”
“And right now they’re telling you to hurry?”
Xin chuckled. “No. Truly this one’s brothers do not care if the scholar wastes time upon the bridge. We like the old man. He is kind to us, kinder than most masters.”
The cold wind gusted, and Keilan drew the hood of the cloak down to shield his face. “Where did you meet him?”
“In Ver Anath. We traveled there as guardians for our old master’s son, who told his father he had pressing business in the scholar’s city. Pressing business was dealing in artifacts of the lost Imperium – this son knew that the thief prince of Ver Anath was an avid collector. But he did not know that the artifacts had in fact previously been stolen from this same thief, the man they call the Sorrow. He gave my old master’s son a choice: give over our Fist to him, or the Sorrow would take both his hands and his feet and feed them to the wraithfins in the bay. So we worked for the thief for a year. A bloody year, this one did not enjoy it. Finally we were sold to the Reliquary as payment for some debt. And now here we are.”
