“Etenia is ready to bring me home, dearest,” she had told Wyat when he asked the two young men to go summon an herbalist who also served as healer in Swanford. “She’s blessed me with a loving husband, two beautiful sons, and a happy home.”
Taren felt a fierce love for the woman when he heard her words, a sudden warmth amid the chill of his worry and sorrow. Shenai summoned each of them to her side in turn to speak her final words.
“I’m proud to be able to call you son, Taren.” She ran her thin fingers lightly down his cheek, and her sad smile broke his heart. “Stay true to your values as you walk the path of manhood. I know in my heart you shall do great deeds.”
Taren kissed her cheek then stepped away with tears streaming down his cheeks to let Wyat sit with her once more.
Shenai had fallen into a deep sleep shortly after, on the morning of the third day since her resurgent illness struck, and did not wake again.
Wyat cleared his throat, drawing Taren’s attention back to the present. He could almost make out the pale features of his aunt’s face beneath the wet shroud, nearly soaked through as it was.
“Etenia, I’ve not asked you for anything in prayer before, but my dear Shenai always favored you, as is her family’s way,” Wyat said.
Taren knew many farmers and people who lived off the land favored the goddess of nature. He wasn’t particularly devout himself, but on the rare occasion he sent up a prayer, he favored Sabyl, the deity of the night, luck, and rogues. That was only because his mother was a daughter of the goddess, if Wyat’s tales could be believed. He could scarcely believe such a claim that he had a goddess as his grandmother. Surely, Wyat had misunderstood his mother’s claims. Yet he dared not disbelieve, in the event it was true. He hoped, if he was indeed Sabyl’s grandson, that she’d favor him with some of her legendary luck.
“Anhur, who I’ve held faith in, mostly in my youth, isn’t known as a merciful god,” Wyat continued. “So I humbly entreat you, gracious Etenia, to ease my beloved Shenai’s way to the afterlife, across the green pastures and unto the welcome hearth of your home. I shall miss her dearly yet look forward to the day we shall be reunited.”
His words made Taren want to weep anew even though he’d already shed enough tears that day. I must be strong, for it is even harder on the two of them. Elyas was as crushed by his mother’s loss as Wyat, his outer shell of bravado missing for once, revealing a vulnerable young man within.
Sabyl… Grandmother… please let Aunt Shenai be at peace in the afterlife, and soothe the hearts of Uncle Wyat and Elyas. Grant us strength to get through this difficult time.
With the words being said, each took turns shoveling dirt onto the grave, the damp soil swiftly covering Aunt Shenai’s shrouded form. Once they finished, they gathered stones and built a cairn atop her grave.
The foul weather improved as abruptly as it had arrived, the next day dawning warm and sunny, well on the way to summer once more. Wyat sat at the table, staring blankly into the kitchen, Elyas refusing to even get out of bed. Taren gathered some fresh eggs from the henhouse and went about frying them up for breakfast along with making some porridge.
Wyat grunted thanks when Taren placed the food in front of him, eating mechanically. Elyas eventually joined them, picking at his food. Taren was shocked and saddened at the dramatic change, for with Shenai’s passing, all of the warmth had gone out of the home. Its loving heart had stopped beating.
As the days passed and summer neared, their moods generally improved though Wyat seemed to have aged several years in just the past few weeks. Elyas decided to postpone his enlistment again to help out around the farm, worrying about his father’s melancholy. Wyat didn’t try to talk him out of it, simply telling him he shouldn’t set his life aside just because of him. Taren didn’t try to dissuade Elyas either though he thought Elyas should travel and join the army to face new challenges and keep his mind off Shenai’s passing. He supposed they each harbored an unspoken fear of breaking up the family even more.
The approach of Midsummer Festival was on everyone’s lips next time they went into town, and Taren was relieved to see Elyas’s growing enthusiasm about the festival. He’d apparently renewed his interest in whatever lass he was seeing, which Taren took for a good sign. He himself certainly looked forward to seeing all the vendors with their exotic goods, the entertaining street performers, and especially Gradnik’s promised pyrotechnic show.
Beyond all that, though, the loss of one mother stoked Taren’s desire to meet his true mother, a journey that would lead to another plane altogether. That sojourn would require a passage into manhood and, with it, the realization that childhood was forever lost to him. That was a step that seemed terrifying at the time even though the promise of adventure stirred his soul.
During those next few trying weeks, he maintained an uneven balance, caught between youth and manhood. For the time being, he felt no rush to leave and had plenty to keep him busy around the farm.
Chapter 5
Snowflakes swirled in the small courtyard of the monastery. A stiff northern wind roared out of the heights of the Giantspear Mountains, whipping up a maelstrom of snowflakes, dried leaves, and grit nearly strong enough to sting any exposed skin. Despite the flurries and wind, the sun shone brightly, still low in the sky even as winter retreated reluctantly and spring bloomed. At the White Monastery, in the far northern reaches of Easilon and high in the mountains, spring was a pale imitation of what it was farther south.
Miralei was paying little heed to the effects of the elements around her. She sat with eyes closed, cross-legged on the cold stones of the courtyard, hands resting comfortably on her thighs. The sun shone on her tanned face while the wind tugged at her rough-spun clothes, pulling them taut across her wiry frame. She wore neither coat nor gloves, for discomforts caused by the cold had not had the power to trouble her for several years. Through mental discipline and expenditure of her ki energy, she was able to fortify her body against the effects of the cold. Hence, her exposed skin felt neither cutting wind nor stinging snowflakes.
Nevertheless, frustration was threatening to creep into Mira’s meditative state. Try as she might, she wasn’t yet able to embrace the Weave of Fate and, by doing so, witness the tendrils tying all the multiverse together. The Weave bound all things, and her duty was to maintain the Balance above all. Without being able to discern the Weave’s pattern, she couldn’t ascend to higher levels of enlightenment within the Order of the Illuminated Path.
Breathe in… Hold… Breathe out. Maintain awareness of my body as I still my thoughts. Mira started at the beginning again with the simple mantras any novice learned during early training in meditative techniques. She focused on the flow of her ki from within her and the gentle expenditure to her extremities to ward off the cold. Next, she visualized her ki flowing through her mind and emanating outward, connected to the Weave all around her. She strove to enhance her focus, trying to expand her senses outward and see the world without use of her eyes, yet her efforts were fruitless. After a long time, during which she made no headway, she became frustrated and tried to force her ki outward in order to see beyond herself.
Something shifted within her, and a soft light bloomed in her inner vision. A moment of dizziness followed, then she could clearly see the courtyard. Leaves swirled and blew around as the wind gusted. The sun was nearing its apex low in the southern sky.
Almost time for devotions. I’ll have to tell Brother Cerador I’ve failed yet again.
Smallfoot, the furry gray squirrel that lived in the tree in the courtyard, watched her curiously from a high bough. A trio of young novices chatted as they were washing pots and pans out behind the kitchen on the other side of the building, yet nowhere was the Weave visible, described to her by others as a glowing web of light interlacing all things, wondrous to behold.
As her perspective rose, Mira saw herself, sitting frozen in place in her meditative posture. She seemed to float above her still form. A moment
of unease threatened to upset her focus. The wind gusted, and she felt herself, light as air, caught up by the wind. It threatened to hurl her away, dispersing her into nothingness like a wisp of smoke from a candle and leaving an empty shell of her body behind. She clung to the image of her body below, noting a thin, silvery filament linking her spirit to her body. She reached for it yet had no hands or arms, nor any manner with which to reel herself back toward her earthly shell.
Panic gripped the edges of her mental calm, striving to tear it away. Her mind raced, trying to puzzle out how she could return to her body. Just then, another gust of wind swept her up and over the low roof of the monastery. Beneath her were the sheer cliffs of the Giantspears and the mainland far, far below.
A familiar figure strode out into the courtyard, approaching her still body. The senior monk of the White Monastery and Mira’s mentor, Brother Cerador, walked with the smooth, confident gait of a mountain lion. The man’s patch of hair atop his shaved head had turned silver over the past years, yet his body remained lean and fit.
Relief flooded through Mira at the sight of Cerador. “Brother Cerador! Please aid me!” She had no mouth with which to voice her plea, only her mind.
Brother Cerador looked around curiously for a moment as if he had heard her then returned his focus to her seated form. He sat down before her, mirroring her meditative posture.
“I can’t return to my body!” she cried.
Cerador frowned, studying her face as if sensing something amiss. After a moment, he reached out and placed both hands upon her temples, then he closed his eyes.
Mira lost sight of him. The wind swept her weightless form over the edge of the monastery roof, and she gained momentum as the wind roared down the steep cliffs. She cried out again, a wordless shriek of fright as what remained of her focus shattered. Her spirit would be lost to her body, and without her spirit maintaining the flow of ki, her body could freeze to death in the courtyard.
As she tumbled down the steep mountainside, she noticed a red hawk streaking down toward her, diving faster than even the mighty wind could blow. The hawk caught up to her within moments. It glided beside her and regarded her with dark eyes. Its beak opened, and a shriek issued forth, yet she understood it nonetheless, recognizing the spirit form of her mentor.
“You’ve become detached from your body, Miralei.”
“I know—I’m sorry! Please help me.”
“You must help yourself. But allow me to guide you.” The reassuring voice filled her mind as the bird of prey cried out to the mountains below.
“I’m without substance! I can’t resist the wind!”
“But you can. With your spirit, you can become anything you wish. Reestablish your focus. Imagine yourself a bird, your powerful wings feeling the air pushing against them, tickling the feathers…”
His soothing voice calmed her nerves. As she focused on the shape of her nebulous form, one edge shifted into the form of a wing. Blocking out everything save her spirit form, she narrowed her focus and transformed the rest of her airy shape into one of the small, nimble black-capped birds that she enjoyed feeding in the summertime while listening to their cheerful songs. Soon, she could feel the wind stirring her feathers.
“Good. Now, with strokes of your wings, halt your descent, and fly back to the monastery.” Cerador’s red hawk banked sharply and circled back, his powerful wings propelling him swiftly up toward the monastery.
Mira did the same. The strong wind buffeted her tiny form, pushing her around, yet she was quick and nimble and flittered along, following the swift hawk. After a couple minutes, she swooped over the roof and into the courtyard.
“Follow your lifeline back to your body.” Cerador’s spirit hawk blurred and seemed to pour back into his body, then his eyes opened.
Mira focused on the silver thread and flew back to her body. A moment of disorientation followed, then she reawakened with a shudder.
Immediately, the cold seized her as if she’d leaped into one of the frigid pools of snowmelt near the monastery. Her teeth chattered, and she shivered uncontrollably. Muscles clenched of their own accord, and she felt frozen in place. She tried to sense her ki, to stoke the flame and warm herself, but she was too cold, too drained after her harrowing mistake.
Brother Cerador’s strong hands gripped her shoulders, then he was lifting her to her feet. She stumbled and would’ve fallen had he not picked her up in his strong arms as he would an infant.
“I-I’m s-s-sorry…” she stuttered, trying to string together a coherent sentence. “I—”
“Hush, there’s nothing to apologize for. The fault was mine, thinking you ready to embrace the Weave.” They passed into the warmth of the monastery, and he set her down before the blazing hearth on a quilted rug. A moment later, he dropped a thick woolen blanket across her shoulders and wrapped her in it.
“Afna! Bring us a pot of tea, would you?” Cerador called.
He sat down beside her in front of the hearth. “Tell me what happened, Miralei.” His voice was as calm as always. Cerador never got angry, but he did get disappointed with her progress, as he had been of late. However, she sensed none of that now, only curiosity.
Mira sighed. Her numb fingers were achy as warmth seeped back into them. Without her spirit channeling ki to resist the cold, nothing was keeping her body from succumbing to it. I could’ve died had he not come along when he did.
“I was trying to embrace the Weave yet again. I grew frustrated at my inability to perform such a feat, and I tried forcing my senses outward. Somehow, I dislodged my spirit from my body.” She shivered.
Cerador was silent a long time, and Afna appeared with a pot of tea. Her pretty hazel eyes held concern when she saw Mira, but she didn’t interrupt the two of them. She poured Mira a cup and offered it to her.
Mira thanked her friend and gratefully drank the tea, relishing the hot liquid warming her belly. Afna squeezed her shoulder briefly before silently departing.
“You cannot force the Weave to reveal itself,” Cerador said finally. “You must open your spirit to the Weave. Welcome it into your heart, Miralei. Do not be dismayed at yourself—only those most experienced in our Order can discern the Weave in our lives.”
“I know, Brother, yet I feel I should be able to succeed by now. I’ve trained so hard, yet it eludes me.”
Cerador smiled gently. “I had hoped so as well, for you are a promising student, yet unfortunately our time here has come to an end.”
Mira gasped. “Truly?” She was filled with a sense of foreboding, for her path, which had been alluded to since she was a young girl and first began training with the monks, was finally about to be revealed. A sense of excitement quickly followed.
“Yes. Master Dagun has summoned us. We must leave this very afternoon, for he is not long for this world and has wisdom to impart to you before he Ascends.”
She remembered well the long journey she’d undertaken to reach the White Monastery, the training ground for the Crimson Fist, the militant arm of the Order of the Illuminated Path. Seven years prior, she’d been sent north to train there with Brother Cerador and the others, a trek that took months of travel.
Master Dagun, the kindly head of the Order, raised her almost as his granddaughter. She feared if he was in ill health, he might not live long enough to see them arrive. Ascension was nothing to feel sorrowful over, for it only meant Master Dagun was prepared to move on to a higher plane of existence and continue his journey.
She stared into the dancing flames in the hearth for a time. “Won’t the long trip…?”
“It might. That is why we shall take a shortcut, one that should bring us to the Illuminated Path Monastery in but a week.”
Curiosity swelled in her, yet she knew better than to ask a bunch of silly questions. All would be revealed in its proper time.
“I shall pack at once,” she said.
Cerador patted her on the arm. “There is yet time. We shall speak more on the road, but
for now, warm yourself until you are feeling well again.” He rose and left her before the hearth.
Mira stared into the flames, wondering what was to come. She idly touched the simple necklace she wore, the only clue to her parentage and, more importantly, a link to her. It was a simple thing, a poor birthright in truth, yet she prized it as the only link to her past. A braided strand of horsehair was strung with some glass and wooden beads of varying colors, carved pieces of wood, and a small piece of silver worked into the shape of a leaping fish.
Just then, Afna sat down beside her, regarding her with concern. “Are you well, Mira?”
Afna was nearly twenty years Mira’s senior, yet her friend was almost like an older sister to her. She had a youthful energy that made her look and act as if she was only a few years older than Mira.
“Brother Cerador just informed me we’ll be leaving this afternoon for the Illuminated Path Monastery. Master Dagun summons us. He is preparing to Ascend.”
Afna gripped her hand and squeezed it hard. “Your Balance Quest! This is what you’ve always dreamed about. Are you excited?”
“I am, but… I’m afraid I’m not ready. I tried to see the Weave and failed yet again. To make matters worse, I somehow loosed my spirit from my body. Brother Cerador had to save me.” She flushed from embarrassment.
Afna looked at her with a mixture of surprise and amusement. “That is something I’ve barely managed, and I’ve been training more than thirty years now! To spirit walk is a feat only the furthest-advanced monks can learn. How did it happen?”
Mira shrugged. “I tried to force my senses outward to sense the Weave, and then… that happened. I might’ve frozen to death in a few more minutes had he not come along.”
The older monk put an arm around her shoulders and hugged her. “The Weave works in mysterious ways. I’ll miss you, Mira.”
Scions of Nexus Page 5
