by Russ Linton
The underlying chants began to sputter. Dry retching rolled through the acolytes like a wave.
Small scrutinizing eyes left him. Mantras became shocked whispers. A smell which made his stomach gurgle washed over him behind the wave of chaos. Acolytes broke their ranks, and the spokes split apart. Admonitions from their Cloud Born faded as the Masters succumbed to the odor.
Izhar stood at the edge of the ring of carriages, soaked in brine and ankle-deep in a gelatinous pile of meat and clay shards.
"A thousand apologies, Master. I was late with your breakfast."
CHAPTER V
From the opposite bank of the Padmini, its waters dotted with lotus blossoms cupped to drink the coming rain, the pilgrims headed west. The land flattened into a hazy band against the horizon and a wall of storm clouds towered above. Lightning arced between two thunderheads. As distant rumbling tickled his antennae, Sidge imagined the Great Dragon bellowing on his ride across the sky.
Bellowing with rage. Maybe a touch of spite. At the very least, annoyance.
Sidge hadn't spoken to Izhar since the incident that morning. The unconfined smell of his food had disrupted the ceremony and sent acolytes and masters into a choking frenzy as they tried to hide their faces in their hoods and hastily break camp. But the embarrassment bothered him less than the betrayal.
All the thoughts buzzing around his mind, all these new ideas and responsibilities to wrestle, and he'd been ready to submit himself to Vasheru's judgment. He'd taken Izhar's earlier advice to heart, and he could only think his mentor had sabotaged all of that with his blundering.
"Could be in for a rough ride," Izhar muttered, his eyes on the approaching storm.
Their silence couldn't last forever.
"He heralds us of his passing. Yet no mortal can prepare for the rake of his silver talon. No Firmament withstand the timbre of his voice."
Izhar nodded. "Mantra of the Stormbelly. Can you recite it in first form?"
"I could. However, then I'd be your pupil," Sidge replied. Even so, he couldn't keep from beginning the form in his head: Heheralds, heraldshe, heheralds, heraldsus…
Izhar snorted. "True."
Ahead, Sidge could see Master Tarak's wagon shuddering down the road, dwarfed by the menacing cloud wall. The flat horizon wrapped his full field of view in an arc of storm feeding into a patched sky behind them. He'd grown up under the Eternal Storm, but the contrast gave testament to the sheer volume of the incoming clouds. He stared, trying to calculate when they might fully break upon the earth.
"His work is a wonder," said Sidge.
"Wait until we're ass deep in that," replied Izhar. "Then you'll cease your wonderings."
###
They lost sight of Master Tarak's wagon between sheets of rain. Lightning splintered the sky. Vasheru's roar followed, rolling across the bent grass.
"I'd be riding inside," Izhar shouted above the pang of pebble-sized drops bombarding the vardo's copper roof. "No sense in both of us getting soaked."
Sidge wiped his hand across his eyes, and the world went from streaked to smeared. The rain had dampened his earlier anger. "I'm fine." Izhar squinted through a stream of water and started to speak, but Sidge interrupted. "We've seen worse."
Another bolt lit the gray haze, and the ground shook. The Paint cocked its head and flared its nostrils, but the complaint was a mere whisper above the storm.
More light arced across the sky. The soupy world made it difficult for Sidge to see the individual forks of lightning. They coalesced and flared around a single spot further west and to the north.
"Others are wielding the Fire up ahead," shouted Izhar, his earlier transgression seemingly forgotten. His mouth drew into a worried scowl as the flares intensified. "Quite the show."
Tracking their progress became impossible. They had only the space immediately around them which consisted of the saturated prairie grass and the muddy road. Everything else was a curtain of storm.
Unable to see or maintain a conversation, Sidge retreated into his hood and drew his arms inside his robes. He toyed with the corestone as they followed in the ruts of the caravan. Mantras of Fire ran through his mind, and he tried to at least draw forth Vasheru's Kiss, but the pendant remained cold and lifeless.
The storm raged on. Their narrow window tightened into pelting water and rumbling sky. Because of this, or perhaps in spite of it, Sidge's antennae twitched when a change rippled through the air. A delicate humming. A song. The song.
He peeled his hood off his eyes. Izhar remained huddled in his robes, his wild beard bursting from the space where he'd tucked it away. Sidge couldn't see his face, but he appeared to be drowsing, reins slack as the Paint trudged wearily along.
Sidge snaked an antennae out from under his hood. A mixture of necessity and repulsion flowed through him.
"Do you hear that?"
Izhar started. "What?"
"The song, like at Stronghold."
Izhar cocked his head, squinting. "I hear rain. Lots of rain."
Sidge tossed his hood back and a stream of water washed into the collar. Rivulets settled between the joints in his chitin, and he shivered. He craned his antennae in all directions—the song was there—he was sure of it.
"Have we circled around somehow?" Sidge shouted.
"And swam the Padmini? Despite the look of our robes, I'd say, no."
Sidge focused, a task made easier by the monotony of the storm; the tempest an old friend. He let the notes infect his mind, like when he'd chased the refrain to the palace well.
"I still don't hear…"
Sidge cut off his acolyte with a raised finger. He could see Izhar's mouth tighten and his dark skin flush in the colorless atmosphere. "I need to concentrate."
Izhar bowed his head and placed his palms together. Seeing his former mentor provide such supplications was never going to feel right, though Izhar deserved it after the incident in camp. He brushed aside the awkwardness and continued to focus on the song.
He kept his lenses pointed to the ground as much as possible and scoured the air with his antennae. Persistent and mournful, the tone sounded different from the well. Same mantra, but while the other had been an alluring pull, this voice clenched his insides and dragged.
The call drifted north of the road. He wondered whether to tell Izhar and how they could follow when he saw rutted tracks veering from their well-worn path. He grabbed Izhar's sleeve and pointed.
With a nod, Izhar steered the Paint to follow the new trail. The horse whinnied in protest, and the wagon tilted as one wheel dipped into the ruts and the other missed entirely. There was almost a full axle's length difference.
Izhar turned his head and scowled. "Gohala. Big cart for a big head."
They continued along the new path and fought their way further into the plains. At first, they kept their attention straight ahead, waiting to see Gohala's palatial carriage materialize out of the slackening rain. Then it became an empty horizon where with every crest or behind every stray copse of trees they expected to see the wayward Cloud Born's camp.
Instead, the tracks forged deeper. Izhar grew restless, his gaze flicking toward his master. Sidge ignored him.
"Where could he be going?" asked Sidge, not expecting an answer.
"We're getting far from the road. We should turn back before this stubborn beast strands us here."
Sidge said nothing—the song remained strong.
The grasses changed. They grew taller, some with stout reeds, and the earth was wet beyond what the deluge had provided. A rich smell of plant life being slowly digested by the wet earth settled over them.
Giving up on his furtive glances, Izhar reined in the horse, and they slid to a stop. "We must be close to the edge of Sli'mir's Marsh. Surely they wouldn't go traipsing around in there."
Sidge didn't need to ask. He'd heard the stories about the savage Ek'kiru who lived here, barbaric bugmen known as Sli'mir's Brood. They ate children, grown men, each other. So the co
mmoner's tales said.
Ek'kiru weren't beasts. He'd seen many in the city of Stronghold. Common laborers, true, but civilized enough. Though presumably all of those had come from Abwoon where the Ek'kiru had founded a city long ago.
He'd spoken with two of them: Yurva and Corva, the massive haulers yoked to Cloud Born Gohala's wagon somewhere ahead of them. They had called him a fellow bahadur. As far as Sidge could tell, this was an absurdity based on appearances. He shared with them a metallic chitin, his blue, theirs yellow and green. They said this coloration was a reminder of all Ek'kirus' long lost lineage to these lowland swamps and marshes.
None of this applied to him. He'd been raised in the Temple and given more of an education than your typical superstitious commoner or laborer would be allowed. In fact, he'd wager they were wrong about Sli'mir's Brood. Surely even they weren't the monsters of legend. Who'd ever seen them outside the marsh? Did they even exist?
Sidge listened. Song wove between the chirps of tiny frogs hidden in the bog. He recalled Chuman's similar attraction to the mystic notes. Everyone could hear it, but none could feel it like they did.
"I know you counseled me to ignore the rumors of the acolytes, but they had intriguing news regarding Chuman."
Izhar fidgeted with the reins. "Oh?"
"They said Gohala had taken a great interest in his newest acolyte. Maybe he's following him."
"Gohala follow someone?" Izhar blew a derisive breath into his beard. "That'd be new. Whatever the reason, we need to take advantage of his absence." Izhar shifted as though to examine the ruts through the plains behind them. "Head back to the caravan and try to make progress with the other Cloud Born."
"Are you joking?" Sidge spat, his wings vibrating madly and his long, formal silence on Izhar's blundering at the ritual suddenly shattered. Anger shot through him, rawer than he'd felt before. "I tried to take my place among the Cloud Born this morning, and you destroyed any chance of credibility I might have gained!"
"Bullshit," grumbled Izhar.
"Acolyte," warned Sidge.
"They were setting you up! Gohala picked the mantra, Breaking of the Storm. Yes, he suggested it, but he'd have twisted things later and made it seem like it was your idea and that you were a heretical old fool lost in the Trials like your former teacher."
"How would my support of your teachings have been a failure? I know I doubted you at one time, but we've seen much on this journey to suggest you were right all along."
Underneath his beard, Izhar's cheeks flexed. "Gaining the seat in the Vasheru's Sanctum is a game and there are rules. Ways to win which we have been granted through your hard work."
"The Temple is not a game."
"Well, it is to him!" Izhar shouted, his head snapping up and hand stabbing northward toward the tracks. "Games. Politics. And the son of a bitch is winning. If I have to renounce my belief in the meaning of the Trials, I will. I'll do whatever it takes."
"You cannot abandon your life's work because of him."
"Sidge, my life's work has been misguided. The ancient mysteries created by the Jadugar and harnessed to forge the temple are all based on lies."
"How can you say that?"
Izhar stroked his beard then clenched it in a fist before tearing his hand away. "The Jadugar himself told me."
The only living Jadugar. Advisor to the Attarah's court. Lord Chakor.
"Please don't tell me you listened to a word that drunkard had to say."
Sidge stood on the bench enough so he could swivel and force Izhar into his blind spot. The anger continuing to build inside him felt out of place, and he wanted to find somewhere else to direct it. He tried to stare into the clouds and fought the urge to soar upward, shouting Vasheru's name, loud enough, high enough that he could escape his infuriating circumstance. And that song. The damn song burrowing into his mind.
"Chakor has access to the Jadugar's Forge. He gave many interesting insights into–"
"Don't mention our raksha's name again," Sidge hissed, his chitin rattling as he fought to keep his mandibles still. He wanted to chew, tear.
"Look," Izhar pleaded, "I know…our raksha…did all this for his own reasons. He can't play me for a fool. If we can just make sure you become the next Stormblade, then we can keep the Temple in reasonable hands and worry about guiding our brothers back to the proper path later."
"But why would Gohala be out here? You've said yourself he was scheming. What secret advantage does he wish to gain? Should we not find out?"
"Gohala was a cousin of our raksha and also had ambitions outside the Temple at one time."
"Oh?" Sidge turned. This curiosity overcame his anger. He'd never known Gohala to want anything else.
"He apprenticed alongside Chakor, in the service of Jadugar Taj."
Anger slipping further away, Sidge lowered himself back to the bench. "Gohala trained to be a Jadugar?"
Izhar nodded. "He did, but obviously, he was not chosen nor did he ever see what our raksha has seen."
"Oh," Sidge said quietly. With the strange burst of fury gone and the song buzzing along his antennae, he struggled to understand how this piece of information fit in with Izhar's attitude, the Temple, unending mysteries…
"Gohala recently put aside his differences with the Jadugar and went to him for counsel, right after he took on Chuman as an acolyte."
"I see." That was a day Sidge would not soon forget. The experience had been humiliating for them both and appeared to have a profound effect on Izhar, leading ultimately to his surrendering his corestone to his pupil. He absently fingered the pendant while Izhar continued.
"As you suggest, Gohala believed he'd discovered something special about Chuman. The Jadugar agreed with him, only our raksha hadn't set aside his differences. He simply told Gohala what he wanted to hear."
"So you are suggesting Gohala follows Chuman because of a lie?"
Izhar pursed his lips and nodded.
"Advice of a liar whom you chose to believe as well?"
The skin on Izhar's scruffy cheeks went livid then pale, paler than the browns baked upon it by an upbringing as a commoner's son laboring under the open sky. A response simmered on his lips, and Sidge could see Izhar fight to reel in his own anger. His eyes darted to Sidge and then fell away. His response came out in sharp bursts. "We cannot go into the marsh. There is no need to go. Gohala chases ghosts. We can–"
"Drive onward, acolyte," said Sidge, pointing his mandibles along Gohala's path. "Or would you undermine the command you begged me to assume for a second time today?"
The words hurt Sidge to say, even as angry as he'd been earlier. Izhar sat, unmoving, before finally issuing a quiet, "Yes, Master."
Motionless for so long, the vardo had trouble breaking free from the soft ground. Izhar focused his frustration on the Paint, who balked at the added strain.
Sidge faced forward, watching Izhar, the horse, a good section of the vardo and the tall grass bristling at a sullen sky. This is what it took to be a Master, he told himself. He had to be decisive. Gohala clearly understood this, and somehow, the demanding Cloud Born also knew there was something different about Chuman. Soon Izhar would see that as well, and the firebrand would be free of whatever lies Chakor had given him.
CHAPTER VI
Kaaliya returned to the palace grounds alone. Once there, she lingered in the garden, a unique place even beyond the wooden platforms and treestone facades.
Spindly ferns crouched under towering trees. Devoid of branches, the trees soared over the garden walls, their trunks blossoming into crowns of serrated leaves. Flowers, colorful and bold even under the night sky, sprouted from stalks and vines climbing the trunks.
Plants of exotic beauty grew here, and nowhere else. In all her travels through the Attarah's realm, from the boundless, mighty desert to the unending sea, she'd never seen their equal. The garden required a caretaker's specialized hand. The palace claimed no such person. Mysteries of the Jadugar kept the place in bloom.
As per her bargain, she'd told Firetongue about the first troll she'd ever met—a troll and a boy who, now she reflected on it, reminded her of Sidge. A boy she'd once known and lost in the Pit where she grew up.
Trolls. Jadugar. Lost men. She plucked a flower and tucked it behind her ear, eyeing the shadows for a response.
It wasn't a story she'd ever told anyone and she'd only given the briefest account to the shrewd Ek'kiru matron, Firetongue. In Stronghold, Kaaliya maintained her past as her own secret. A Pit dweller wandering the Attarah's halls would be unthinkable.
The women of the court tended to distrust courtesans to begin with. They stole the attentions of their men, and since public decorum required they keep their opinions to themselves, they were left to express their distaste in the shadows of their husbands. She didn't blame them for their ire, nor did she speak with them.
Surely some had their suspicions about the new courtesan's origins.
Home. The Pit. Her lost childhood friend. Way down, in the black, at the bottom of an endless oblivion.
The cryptic wisdom of trolls; that's what she needed at this moment. They'd been the ones to help her escape. Far from the typical frustration or fear, their presence soothed her. And Firetongue's question stuck in her head-why could she tell the difference in the lights? Perhaps the lights knew her as others had.
She continued her walk through the palace gardens to a crystal pool at the center. Water filled an enormous treestone stump rising thigh-high from the platform. The stump's interior was a milky white, burning under the swollen moon. The water inside rested perfectly level with the lip and never seemed to move.
With the stolen flower behind her ear and memories buzzing in her head, she hiked her sari up and sat. She twisted and dipped her legs into the well. Cool water enveloped her feet and calves yet barely rippled as she pierced the surface.
