The Narrowing Path (The Narrowing Path Series Book 1)

by David J Normoyle

  The priests took the straps and carried the body to the barge’s edge. One held the feet over the water and the other raised the head. “She goes to a better place,” the fighter-priest intoned. A priest pushed the rock overboard and body slid down over the edge. With a splash, it disappeared beneath the waves.

  The two priests went back for another body. “Ooom-a-ma. Ooom-a-ma.” Bowe heard all their stories: the boy with the cheeky grin who shouldn’t have used it so much on the marshals; the grandmother who had decided to forgo her place in the Refuge and just help her family, but hadn’t allowed herself enough food to survive even that long; the child who always had a smile for her mother even when he fell ill; the man who drank too much but always had a joke on his lips and a smile on his face.

  “Ooom-a-ma. Ooom-a-ma.” They were mourned and they were celebrated. They were all sent to a better place by the fighter-priest, and they splashed into the sea one by one.

  Bowe knew they were just escay, so he clenched his eyes shut and concentrated on hardening those squishy parts within him. It was difficult not to cry, though; he was still raw over the death of Vitarr. The more he hardened himself, the less sad he became, and the more his anger grew. But he wasn’t even sure what he was angry at.

  He thought back to Chalori’s funeral. The heat. The three mourners. The smell of ash and dust. Chalori’s large body had been beautifully dressed and her face had enough makeup that she was barely recognizable. He remembered his anger at Ariastiana, who had come to gloat over another wife she had outlived. There had been no celebration of Chalori’s life.

  As the final escay disappeared, Bowe gripped the fighter-priest’s sleeve. “I’d like my friend—” The words caught in his throat.

  His request was understood. “Are you sure?” Kaitan asked.

  Bowe swallowed and nodded. The fighter-priest gestured to the bearers, and they went back for Vitarr’s body.

  “Ooom-a-ma. Ooom-a-ma,” the mourners chanted.

  Bowe joined in. “Ooom-a-ma. Ooom-a-ma.” He released his pent-up tears.

  “Ooom-a-ma. Ooom-a-ma.” The priests placed Vitarr’s body on the deck.

  “Would one of you like to share a story with us?” Kaitan asked, and Bowe stepped forward. He glanced down at Vitarr’s face, but that was too painful, so he looked out at the horizon as he spoke.

  “I remember finding Vitarr out on a balcony in the middle of a storm,” Bowe said. “The curtains were blowing back, and droplets of rain flew into the room. Vitarr held his arms outstretched embracing the weather. “I love the feel of rain against my skin,” he told me. He could lose himself in a moment, find happiness in the littlest thing. He found joy in life, but knew life would hold no joy for him. He wasn’t made for the ascorim, for the Green Path. He was a better person than that. I think he’d like it here surrounded by water, away from the heat.”

  “He goes to a better place,” Kaitan said. There was a splash, and he was gone.

  The escay dispersed, but Bowe remained there, staring at the horizon. He realized what he was angry at: it was the Path itself. And he understood why he was having trouble accepting it. To be angry at the Path was tantamount to being angry at the core of what it meant to be ascor. Vitarr didn’t deserve to die, but making him walk the Path was a death sentence. Could the Green Path be evil? He shuddered to even think of it.

  The barge was well on its way back to Arcandis by the time Bowe returned to Glil under the awning. Bowe was now prepared to make a decision that he wouldn’t have contemplated at the start of the journey. And he knew that what he was about to ask Glil would make the Lessard Green happy.

  “How do I sell those stolen ruby garnets?”

  Chapter 7

  37 Days Left

  Bowe kept his hat low over his head as he dodged through Drywell Square, with Glil walking beside him. Bowe was worried that the Raine marshals would be after him. His first payment wasn’t due yet, but since he was so low on the lists and didn’t have any way to repay, Alandar could have called it in early. He saw several marshals in Grenier light pink, but none in Raine silver-white, and he hoped it stayed that way. Glil’s mind was elsewhere; Bowe had already pulled him away from a near-collision several times. He wasn’t sure where Glil went when he fazed out like this—perhaps Thardassia.

  He wondered if he could just choose the route of an Elect at this stage of the Path and have a chance. Dulnato, Reyanu, and Zidel had spent months—probably years—readying themselves. Recruiting Defenders, cultivating allies, creating plans. It wasn’t hard to imagine Zidel preparing from inside his mother’s womb. Bowe had only one Defender—a daydreamer who liked to tell children’s stories—and the vaguest of plans.

  Bowe snapped his fingers in front of Glil’s face. “How do you know this Oamir can help us sell ruby garnets?”

  “He probably can’t.”

  “But you told me—”

  “Did I ever tell you about the Thardassian from the red quartz tribe called FrozenFire?”

  “Did I ever tell you that Thardassian stories are annoying?”

  “You didn’t, but others have. They’re wrong, of course. The stories are part of my charm.”

  “Charm? I’m beginning to believe that you didn’t decide to leave. Zidel kicked you out for maddening people beyond the limits of endurance.”

  “When FrozenFire was chiseled into life, he unfortunately could not speak.”

  “‘Chiseled?’”

  “Rock people aren’t born into being like you and me, you know.”

  “So they are made with a hammer and chisel?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Chiseled is just the closest word. I’m not going to describe the rock-people’s reproductive system. You wouldn’t understand, and I don’t want you to judge. FrozenFire was the most intelligent Thardassian to ever be chiseled into life. But he could only answer questions by shaking his leg from side to side for ‘no,’ or moving it up and down for ‘yes.’

  “The other members of the red quartz tribe learned to pose their questions carefully so that they could make use of his knowledge and intelligence.”

  “How nice. However this is Thardassia, so I doubt that’s the end of the story.”

  “I’m afraid not. The red quartz tribe was never the most patient. One of the tribe, in a rage at not getting the answers he was looking for, pushed FrozenFire into a magma lake, where he melted and dissolved into nothingness.”

  Bowe was looking around as he listened, and his gaze fell upon a stall of wooden animal carvings. He drifted toward it. There were many stalls selling similar things, but these were exceptional. They weren’t elaborate, but their artistry made them come to life in a way Bowe had never seen before.

  “You like what you see, young man?” came the croaking voice of the hooded old woman standing behind the stall. She lifted up a carved lion and showed it to him.

  Some memory clicked in his brain, but before it was able to fully form, Glil called out, “Bowe.”

  Bowe turned back to Glil. “Yes, yes. Great story. I’m sure it’ll make sense when it’s too late to help me.”

  “No. Keep your head down.” Glil’s voice was an urgent whisper.

  The warning came too late. Two silver-white-clad marshals stood the next stall over. The nearest of them shouted, shoved aside an escay in front of him, and ran at Bowe. That answered the question about whether the Raine marshals were after him. Bowe turned on his heel and ran.

  He crashed off the first person in front of him, driving him to the ground, and glanced off two others before a space opened before him. He increased his speed, knocking the hats from several escay as he passed. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw both marshals in full pursuit. No sign of Glil—they didn’t want him, so there was no reason to think he’d be in danger. Bowe, still looking behind him, crashed straight into a vegetable seller’s stall.

  It sent him sprawling. He squashed several tomatoes underneath him as he fell. He scrambled to his feet to find the two marshals
almost upon him and darted away, aiming for where the crowd was thickest, leaving a trail of cabbage leaves and celery stalks in his wake. He doubted he could outrun these men, but perhaps he could out-dodge them. Around him, the marketplace quieted—all nearby gazes had turned to watch the chase. At least no one moved to help his pursuers; luckily for him, escay were not in the habit of helping marshals.

  As he charged into the heart of the crowd, some people froze and others dodged, though they moved into his way as often as out of it. Bowe scampered through the sea of arms and torsos, ducking into a gap here, spinning around an old man there. He hoped his small size would allow him to move through the crowd faster than the marshals, and from the shouts and curses behind him, it seemed to be working. Emerging at the far side of the square, Bowe ran down the nearest street and immediately turned down the first alleyway he saw. It was narrow and empty. He was panting heavily now. The slapping footsteps behind him showed that he hadn’t lost his pursuers, although they were now farther back. He turned left down another alleyway, and instantly regretted it. There was barely enough room for one person abreast.

  He had no choice but to keep going. The alleyway swerved to the right, and then Bowe skidded to a halt. A dead end. He looked around frantically, but there was no escape. Had he passed a doorway somewhere? There was no other choice but to go back and hope. Bowe turned around and sprinted.

  A red-faced marshal jogged into view with his companion just behind him. A wide smile spread across his face. “You’re caught now.”

  But the smile disappeared from his face when Bowe didn’t slow down, but kept running full pelt at him. He reached forward, ready to grab. Bowe threw himself to the side at the last moment, diving for a doorway just in front of the marshal. The door crashed open, and Bowe fell through the doorway. A hand grabbed at the back of his neck, but he squirmed out of its grasp and slammed the door shut against it. The marshal let out a roar of pain, and Bowe was off and running again.

  The house he had broken into was dark. He banged off two walls before the marshals pushed open the door behind him, allowing light to stream in. Dust kicked up at every step he made, causing Bowe to sneeze. He found a back entrance, jumped through, and shut the door behind him. He was in another narrow alley. Bowe was sweating heavily now and beginning to pant. He turned to his left and ran to where a rectangle of bright light and a rumble of noise indicated a busy street. To one side, he saw another door, took a quick glance behind him, and seeing that the marshals had not yet emerged, he dived inside. He closed it behind him and slid to the floor, sitting with his back against the door.

  He forced himself to take shallow breaths to lessen the sounds of his panting. Right now, he was regretting his decision to hide rather than keep running. What if one of the marshals had emerged in time to see the door close? What if they decided to search the houses along the alleyway? As he sat, unable to do anything except hope, it seemed like a stupid gamble. He’d nearly gotten away. He should have kept running.

  Glancing up, he realized he wasn’t alone. Slanted windows set high in the roof provided light, which shone down upon an old woman calming stirring a cooking pot. She was watching him, wrinkles crinkling around her eyes. Outside, the marshals were getting closer. The old woman’s gaze flickered toward the sound of the footsteps and back to Bowe. If she called out now, they would have him. It felt ridiculous to have his life in the hands of an escay once more. She has white hair, Bowe realized distantly. White hair was a rarity in Arcandis—generally only ascor lived long enough for their hair to turn white.

  The footsteps increased in volume. Bowe sucked in a long, silent breath and closed his eyes. He waited for them to slow and stop. He waited for the old woman’s cry. Neither happened. The footsteps faded away until Bowe could no longer hear them. Bowe opened his eyes. The old woman had left her pot and now gestured him forward.

  Bowe followed her. She led him to a back entrance. She stuck her head out, looked both ways, then nodded to him. Bowe didn’t know how to thank her. He ducked his head as he passed her. To his surprise, she grabbed his arm. He forced down his repulsion at the touch; he wasn’t that person anymore. She looked him up and down, then grabbed a cloak from where it hung by the door and placed it in his hands. Bowe stiffened. The house he’d walked through didn’t have much: a single pot with watery vegetable broth, the thin bedroll in the corner, empty spaces—no sign of spare clothes. Bowe tried to hand it back to her, but she shoved it into his hands again and pushed him out the door.

  When Bowe turned back, the door had been shut behind him. He stood there for a moment, staring open-mouthed at the closed door. Why had she helped him? She didn’t know him and had nothing to gain from helping him, yet she gave him her only cloak.

  He threw the light gray cloak over his shoulders and pulled it down over him. Thick and old, the cloak was slightly tattered, and rough to the touch. Bowe had lost his hat in the chase, but the cloak had a deep hood that hid his face. Wrapped in this, he was indistinguishable from an escay. He should have been wearing something like this long since, he realized. He moved out of the alleyway into one of the major streets and drifted along with the crowd.

  He’d arranged to meet Glil later that night if something went wrong, but that wasn’t for a while, so with nothing better to do, Bowe continued with his original plan: meeting Oamir.

  Bowe felt a lot more secure wrapped in the cloak, even if it was warmer. He kept his head down when he spotted two silver-white uniforms and managed to pass them without incident. He didn’t dare look at their faces to check if they were the same marshals who’d chased him. After a while, he realized that he couldn’t remember where the old woman’s house had been. He cursed himself. He had wanted to return later to thank her, pay her, or give her something in exchange for the cloak.

  Bowe took a few wrong turns before finding the address Glil had specified. Evening had fallen; gone were the stuffy heat and crowded streets, replaced by long shadows and purple light.

  Bowe pushed the door open and walked in. The interior was dark and dusty, and two candles burnt on a desk against the far wall. The desk was overflowing with papers, and an escay sat hunched over them. There seemed to be more dust on the man than the furniture.

  “I’m looking for a Green by the name of Oamir,” Bowe said to him, throwing the hood back from his face.

  “He’s in the back room.” He pointed through the door. “Are you going to take him off my hands?”

  Bowe frowned. “No, I just want to talk to him.”

  The man nodded rapidly. “I see. A scheme of some sort. The ascorim. No matter; he is useful, if somewhat tiresome.” The man’s eyes narrowed as he examined Bowe more closely. “May I be so bold as to ask your name, young man? No—wait.” He raised a hand in front of his face. “Allow me to guess.” He steepled his fingers in front of his brow. “Oamir’s knowledge would be most useful to an Elect. However, you come dressed as an escay and without Defenders, so you are unlikely to be one of the big three. Maybe you’re a Shadow.”

  Bowe shifted under the man’s examination. He wished he knew how Oamir’s knowledge would be useful. All Glil had told him was the Thardassian story, which didn’t have much to do with selling the Guild’s garnets as far as he could tell.

  “Or else there’s a new Elect on the Path. Unusual to have a new one arriving so late. Let me see.” The man picked up his candle and held it above his head so he could see Bowe better. “Of course. The hooked eagle nose of a Bellanger. Who else could it be?” The man moved back to his desk. “Bowe Bellanger possibly becoming an Elect—now this is news.”

  He dipped a feather into an inkpot and began to scribble on one of his papers. “Are you a newsbard?” Bowe asked.

  The man didn’t stop writing. “No, no, my boy. Used to be in my youth. I don’t have the energy to stand out in the sun all day anymore. I’m a newswriter. I collect the news. The bards come to me for their stories.”

  Bowe went through the door the newswrite
r had indicated. It led to a big, empty room with most of the dim light coming from cracks in the ceiling. In the center, a wide board was balanced across two rocks with a boy sitting cross-legged beneath it. The rocks were uneven in size, causing the board to slope. Papers were piled on top of the board, and many had fallen off onto the low side of the makeshift table. The gaps in the ceiling created a spotlight of hazy purple light that shone down just where the boy was sitting, and evidence of scraping on the floor showed that the boy moved his table as the light moved over the course of the day. This was a bizarre, ramshackle version of the scene in the front room. The boy looked up when Bowe entered. He had wide, small eyes and disheveled brown hair. One of the few Greens—along with Glil—who was smaller than Bowe.

  Oamir beckoned to Bowe. “The two best Harmony players of all time were Zull Lessard and Delnan Bellanger,” he said. “Delnan was the best, of course, though due to the demise of the Bellangers, some Lessards are beginning to dispute that. Now there’s some argument over the third best player, with three strong claimants. I’ve listed out the…” He began to rifle through his papers. “It was here a minute ago.”

  Bowe was surprised to find him so talkative; from Glil’s Thardassian story, he’d expected a mute. On the other hand, he had no idea what Oamir was talking about. Bowe held out his arm, hoping to prevent the lecture from continuing. “My name is Bowe, and I’m hoping you can help me.”

  Oamir looked up, frowned at the outstretched arm, and returned to searching his desk. “I’m leaning toward another Lessard—Fulton—as the third best. But, of course, the Raines hate that idea, and won’t listen to any argument that doesn’t have their man, Gway, as third best ever.” Oamir’s voice had a sleep-inducing, monotonous tone.