Forge of the Jadugar

by Russ Linton

  "Master." Izhar crouched low to the ground behind him.

  "Yes, what is it, Mas…" Sidge cleared his throat, wondering how often he'd make the same mistake. "Izhar?"

  "The wagon is secured. May I speak with you?" Izhar twitched his head away from the fire.

  "Of course," Sidge said. He rose and bowed to the circle before walking away with Izhar. The words of the acolytes weighed heavy on his mind, and he was eager to share his concerns with his old mentor. Once they were out of sight, Izhar rounded on him.

  "You're a Cloud Born. Act like one." Izhar's tone was one he'd not heard since he'd given a lesson on surviving in the open spaces of the Sheath's lightning battered lands.

  "I don't understand."

  "Those are your pupils. Days of gossiping in the kitchens or bantering in the courtyard are over."

  Wounded, Sidge flattened his antennae and shifted so Izhar was on the edge of his field of vision. "You're one to talk about how things should be done."

  "Forgive me, Master," muttered Izhar, bowing then pulling Sidge back into their stroll. "Perhaps I haven't best prepared you for this, but you no longer need to prove yourself to your former peers, or me. You need to prove yourself to them." He waved a plump finger toward the Cloud Born's camp. "When we return to the temple, your ascension will be questioned. You will need allies. That should be your focus on this trip. We can't let Gohala assume the seat of the Stormblade without putting up a fight."

  "As much as I hate to say this, he seems to have the position well within his grasp." Sidge carefully added, "By surrendering your title to me, there is no one left to challenge him."

  Izhar raised an eyebrow but kept his eyes ahead in the dim light. "True, the other Cloud Born are either under Gohala's heel or have shown little aptitude for the unfortunately necessary politics, but Lord Chakor's support and counsel may provide the deciding factor."

  "How can Chakor help?" Sidge bristled at the name. "Whoever can channel the Wisdom will earn the rank, will they not? Gohala most likely can."

  "If he could, he'd have shouted it from the top of Pama's peak," Izhar grunted, stopping to stare out across the silver thread of the Padmini. "Though perhaps an empty seat in the Sanctum means no one will ever channel the Wisdom again."

  "You can," said Sidge, carefully.

  Izhar's response was a slow shake of his wizened head and darting eyes.

  "You did, Izhar. I saw it. So did half the countryside. Even Cloud Born Gohala."

  "And you channeled the Fire in front of every pair of eyes that matters in Stronghold, yet you also refuse to accept it."

  "That was different…"

  "Fine," Izhar mumbled, giving up too easily. "However, only you saw the visions the Wisdom offered, and that is what I've told all who will listen."

  "You haven't told them I summoned the Wisdom outside Stronghold?"

  "I didn't deny it."

  "Isn't Gohala the one who used such tricks?" hissed Sidge.

  "Don't you dare…this is the truth."

  "Do you really think the others will believe you? Most seem barely ready to accept I can summon a meager spark of His power."

  "Whispers of your feat, driving the horses into the canal bathed in Vasheru's light, reached the palace before we left. Add that to your demonstration and Gohala was rattled," Izhar said with a mirthless grin. "He fears being challenged."

  "Wait, then who else does Gohala think would challenge him for the Stormblade's seat?"

  Izhar stared at him for a long moment.

  Genuine laughter trickled out of Sidge's mouth and his antennae wagged. The laughter crescendoed into a lump in his throat, and he swallowed as Izhar's tight-lipped expression remained unchanging.

  His mentor had implied this impossibility once before while they'd waited in the procession line for the palace. At the time, Sidge assumed Izhar was simply trying to get under Gohala's skin.

  "They play politics, and I hate to say it, but so should we for the time being. I've never seen a better exemplar of the temple's path than you." Sidge barely registered the clap of Izhar's thick fingers on his shoulder, or the guidance as Izhar turned him to face the Masters' camp. "Please consider joining the other Cloud Born. They eat better over there anyway." Izhar patted his stomach and walked toward the ring of acolytes where the pupils quietly made room at their fire.

  Sidge examined the corestone dangling from his neck. At the Master's camp, the white stoles were now the only thing visible. He barely felt prepared to share their fire let alone make plans to lead the entire temple.

  He headed for the vardo and climbed inside. Perhaps tomorrow he would follow Izhar's advice and join the other Cloud Born. First, he would practice. Calling forth a spark was a long way from summoning the Wisdom.

  CHAPTER IV

  First light pierced the vardo's drafty walls. All the acolytes would be leaving their meager shelters to attend to their Cloud Born masters. Or nearly all. Sidge continued the recitations which had seen him through the night.

  He peered tentatively through the curtain. Izhar hadn't arrived to begin the day with supplications or straighten his new Master's stole. He couldn't be heard checking on the stores or gathering the crockery to prepare breakfast. It took Sidge some time, processing the empty patch of grass, the parade of gray robes headed to the Master's camp mirroring the loose procession of clouds in the sky before he came to a conclusion.

  His acolyte had likely already gone to the Master's camp to begin his politicking. He'd be regaling his former peers with stories of seeing his stoic acolyte channel Vasheru's Wisdom. Worse, maybe he'd describe the visions themselves which had been so bizarre as to be meaningless.

  Trying not to panic, Sidge smoothed his stole, took the steps, and decided to retrieve his breakfast himself—a duty he'd never expect of his acolyte to begin with. Opening the stores, he discovered their new raksha had been informed of his peculiar diet. "Pickled" meats had been provided in abundance.

  He'd tried to eat the same diet as his brothers but found the burnt meats and fibrous plants unpalatable. Ever since a dining hall fiasco where his base urges had taken over, he'd always taken his meals outside where Vasheru's Kiss blessed the lands of the Sheath with an impermeable storm-charged smell.

  Izhar had raised a fuss then, too, when Sidge had been asked to eat outside. No telling what he was up to over there.

  He hurriedly cracked the lid and plucked a fleshy lobe of meat from the brine, resealing the jar before he'd slurped down his breakfast. Deftly quick, unobserved as intended, he returned the container to the cabinet. He then made his way calmly toward the other camp, searching for happier thoughts than Izhar trying to be "helpful" among the Cloud Born.

  On the way to Stronghold they'd been so far behind the other pilgrims he'd rarely had to worry about offending anyone with the stench of his diet. As always, Kaaliya had been different and even insisted on trying it. He'd been horrified by the proposition but found he could never argue with her and expect to win. They both laughed when her beautiful face transformed into a puckered grimace.

  As Sidge approached the cluster of gilded carriages, he felt his gut clench somewhere in his thorax. Cloud Born moved among the hunched over acolytes with stately confidence or sat in serene contemplation while students pursued their morning routine. Ahead, behind, his lenses never fell upon Izhar's familiar form.

  He stopped, blessedly hidden by the corner of a wagon, the likeness of Vasheru gracing the step rail. The scent of the coming rain filled the air and with the promise of His visit, acolytes practiced their channeling. Blue sparks consumed tinder and hands gripped borrowed corestones or rested palms upturned, calling forth blessings. A brighter flash along the edge of the camp bruised his lenses in a jagged line, and he watched a Master nod in satisfaction at his pupil's command of Vasheru's power.

  The carriage's door swung outward. Startled, Sidge backed away.

  "Cloud Born Sidge!" Arms full, Manoj hurried to find a spot to kneel and place his he
ad upon the steps.

  "Please, acolyte. That is unnecessary."

  "Uh, yes, of course, Cloud Born," Manoj said, pulling a bundle which included a rough sack and an iron kettle to his chest. The acolyte felt his way down the steps as Sidge backed up. "Master Tarak's tea. I forgot it."

  "I'm sure he won't mind the delay," said Sidge.

  Tarak. If Izhar could've been said to have a friend, the kindly, near-sighted Cloud Born would qualify. If he were seeking allies or Izhar, it would be as good a place as any to start. "May I accompany you?"

  "As you wish, Cloud Born."

  They walked into the heart of the camp together. Manoj in his haste forgot to allow his superior to lead the way and instead walked at his side. Sidge didn't bother to correct him nor his habit of staring. Eyes large, the whites brightly highlighted with each sideways glance.

  "Did you sleep well, Cloud Born?" asked Manoj, giving up his pretense of not staring.

  "I had restful contemplation," replied Sidge and Manoj grimaced at his mistake. "Though it's hard to get used to the lack of regular duties outside the Temple."

  "Are you joking?" gasped Manoj, forgetting his place entirely. "I wish we'd not wait on the changing of the moon to go on these. Festivals. Fewer chores. I don't know why we don't just keep walking." His gaze had drifted to the open course of the nearby Padmini and he shook his head. "Forgive me, Cloud Born. I'm happy to follow in the Attarah's footsteps, though sometimes I wonder if we couldn't see more of what the Attarah saw, you know, outside the Temple."

  Sidge chuckled. "Perhaps you should have been Izhar's pupil. He always taught the pilgrimage as revealed in the Trials and not the final doctrine set forth in the Forge."

  Faces began to turn their way as they pushed further into the camp. Blank expressions concealed simmering thoughts. Cold stares concealed little. Some earned reprimands for their lost attention while others encouraged more to follow suit.

  "Master Tarak was just reviewing these older mantras with us," offered Manoj. The admission pulled Sidge's thoughts away from the unwelcome glares. "The Trials are so strange we don't discuss them, only recite. What exactly does Izhar say about them?"

  "Understand, it is not my place to teach you. Izhar says the Attarah's path is partly represented by the current pilgrimage. If one accepts his interpretation, you will find the peaks of Pama and the wake of Alshasra'a. The Sun Palace itself." Sidge faced his mandibles to Manoj. "Commoner's tales, as you may have heard."

  "Well, it's a nice thought," said Manoj. "The Attarah walking in such legendary places."

  "Not legendary. Not for Izhar," said Sidge though he was suddenly unsure of his former Master's convictions. He recalled the dismissive way Izhar had spoken about the importance of the Pilgrimage when he surrendered his corestone. "By the way, have you seen Brother Izhar?"

  "Oh! Yes!" exclaimed Manoj. "He was at camp, still rolled up in his blanket. We tried to wake him but, well, he's a very heavy sleeper as you may know. Many of the acolytes were uncomfortable being too insistent with a Cloud Born, or former Cloud Born."

  Of course. Sleeping. Sidge clacked his mandibles. "I'm sorry acolyte, but I must go retrieve him."

  "Of course, Cloud Born." Manoj bowed, doing his best to touch his fingertips together, and hurried toward where Tarak and Anil waited.

  Weaving back toward the edge of camp, Sidge watched the faces in the crowd transform as they stretched across his periphery and onto his rear lenses. Their glares increased and hardened. Of them all, the Masters watched the closest.

  An acolyte stirred, approaching at the edge of his blind spot, intent on catching him unaware. Sidge turned and tucked his hands into his sleeves as the distance closed.

  "Acolyte Girish."

  Girish managed to appear unsurprised, and he bowed, stiffly. "Master Udai has requested your presence." Another rigid bow and Girish motioned toward where Cloud Born Udai had gathered with his other pupils.

  Old, older than most in the Temple, Udai's wrinkled expression was unreadable. Dark bulges like dried figs hung beneath his eyes, an ever present feature making him look both wearied and annoyed. Tarak could be said to be a friend of Izhar's, perhaps, but there was no amount of flexibility in the definition to include Udai.

  He could either go with Girish or explain the need to locate his disobedient acolyte. Neither sounded appealing.

  "Certainly," Sidge said, making sure to lead, not follow, Girish to his Master.

  "Sidge," Udai said, neglecting the formal title.

  "Cloud Born Udai," Sidge replied, pressing both pairs of his palms together.

  "By Vasheru's grace," began Udai, "the Padmini has seen to the reuniting of our brothers. Even those normally far behind are in attendance. Cloud Born Gohala noted he would be the only one to cross before dark, but he suggested we honor the good fortune of having our brothers so close." He gestured to the clouding sky. "Especially in the face of Vasheru's imminent arrival."

  The elder's words had all the marks of a practiced speech. Sidge could sense a direction, a purpose, and one he should avoid but couldn't find a way to do so.

  "Vasheru's grace." Sidge steeled himself to ask, "What was Cloud Born Gohala's suggestion?"

  "He recommended our newest Cloud Born lead us in the Breaking of the Storm."

  Sidge felt his antennae fall limp and dangle across his lenses. Manoj had mentioned Tarak's review of the Trials earlier. All the activity as he entered the camp hadn't appeared out of place but given a focus, he recalled the movements and the mantras being recited. They'd all been brushing up on the oft-neglected Trials.

  Every one of the Cloud Born stared. Curious or icy, they all waited for his reaction. He searched the exposed faces for Izhar.

  "Well? Is this acceptable?" asked Udai, once again unreadable.

  "Of course."

  No sooner had the words left his mouth, Udai raised a hand, and his acolytes assembled. Across the camp, the other Masters faced their charges and began giving instruction, their words eliciting a flurry of bows and shuffling retreats as acolytes fell into line. Ranks formed, spokes radiating out from the center where the Cloud Born moved to form a loose circle.

  Sidge let himself fall numbly into place. Gohala had chosen a fitting mantra which spoke of the unity of their order and the coming of a storm. Yet, like all the Trials, the words were not without controversy.

  One becomes many.

  Many are one.

  The acolytes circling them had taken up their call. This underlying mantra would underpin the entire ceremony. With each recitation, a single bell rang in the ranks and the wheel of acolytes rotated. Beside Sidge's building suspicions, a familiarity, a shadow of recent memory surfaced as rote teachings took over, and he intoned his response to the student's cries.

  Scour the Sheath with your lamentations.

  Once ridden by Alshasra'a

  We drink of their blessings.

  Mantra begun, the implications became clear. Proud, empowering, the Breaking of the Storm could be interpreted as a testament to the Temple's newfound power, but one given at the expense of their patron. Words would soon be spoken which even he'd argued with Izhar about when he'd first been taught them.

  Yet that wasn't what bothered him most. The sense he'd seen this all before grew stronger.

  Vasheru! Dweller in the storm.

  He spoke, the words automatically forming, still distracted. Light flashed from a Cloud Born nearby, the caller's hands steepled around the corestone against their breast. Vasheru's breath! As a Cloud Born, he'd also have to channel.

  No, even that particular terror couldn't explain the strange itching in his skull. A memory made partly whole by the movements around him, solidifying as acolytes circled the Cloud Born and their intonations heightened. The sky darkened.

  Vasheru! Once Mighty.

  Another flare issued from the next Cloud Born in line. Only Udai remained between Sidge and the last channeler. One more piece of the mantra and he'd be expected to do t
he same. Sidge prepared his own corestone, ready to accept the judgment of Vasheru. Maybe it took a crowd for him to channel. Maybe he thrived under pressure as he had at the festival. Yet even this possible failure paled to his need to understand why this whole moment seemed so familiar.

  On the edge of camp, a figure moved outside the wheel of acolytes. Sidge tried to convince his lenses to ignore it. No more distractions. Whatever the purpose or intent of this rite, this was his time.

  Vasheru! We kneel before Kurath no more.

  Beside him, Udai's corestone flared to life as a single drop of rain fell from the gray sky, crawling down his lenses in a distorted line. It sped onto his cheek, cool and damp. Like a tear.

  That was it! Tears.

  The first vision he had with Chuman, where strange reflections of the giant had ringed the center of the storm and filled a pool with their tears. Gods! If only Izhar were here to help him make sense of it!

  But he wasn't at this ritual. Nor Chuman. He needed to focus.

  Sidge sank further into himself, willing the channeling to the surface, trying to feed from the Kiss of Vasheru radiating from the other Cloud Born.

  All the while his mind, his senses, fought. Fought to decipher the true meaning of the ceremony. Fought to ignore Udai's sideways glance. To ignore the flurry of movement near the wagons.

  Vasheru! Your Fire is ours to command.

  This was it. His turn to call the Fire. He wanted nothing more. Political scheming aside and controversy, the other Cloud Born had channeled. Vasheru had not been displeased. Yes, he simply needed to believe, and the Dragon would see his devotion and reward his inner most desire.

  Before that, whoever was responsible for the incongruent movement outside the steady march of the acolytes needed to find their place!

  A crash interrupted the intonations. Loud. Brittle.

  Sidge pressed his fingers tighter together. Willing the Fire into his palm. I will prove myself.