Now! Teacher shot from the bottom of the river. His long arm reared back, ready to release – Slap! Slap! Teacher’s face rocked back, hit by double handfuls of mud. His arm, so powerful, nearly in motion, fell back. Isaac ignited some of the magic stored in his tank. He ducked back down, grabbed another handful of mud, and then came up from the water as Teacher’s eyes grew wide.
The promise of victory danced before him, the sole thing that could remove the ever-growing sense of loneliness that had crept over him throughout the day. His arm moved, and he burned more magic. The arm moved faster, faster, faster –
He cut the magic. The hand that held the mud stopped, and then fell into the water. Teacher, his arms crossed over his head, peeked through the opening left between his biceps. “Truce.” Isaac said.
He spent another few minutes in the water, enjoying the time with Teacher, but the smell of cooking food called him, and together, they walked out of the tributary, toward the roar of the fire, Isaac weary but with a smile on his face, his hand on Teacher’s back.
Isaac seated himself near the flames, palms out, and gratefully accepted a bowl of lumpy stew from Slate, leaves and other green things amalgamated in it. Slate handed it over with an eye fixated on Teacher, and Isaac nodded his thanks. The bowl’s heat registered on his lips, and he watched the others blow on theirs, but Isaac slurped without care. Alocar and Crymson struck up a conversation, and Slate and Teacher busied their hands with lines in the earth, interconnecting drawings to create new, unique representations of whatever struck their fancies.
Fifth wheel. Like always. Isaac’s body felt weak, perhaps a reaction to the sudden expenditure of energy in the water. He scooted closer to the fire, wanting to bask in its warmth, but still he felt chill, and realized with a small groan that the fever had come back with vengeance.
“You okay?” Slate didn’t look up from his and Teacher’s drawing.
Isaac responded with a voice directed into the dirt, hating himself for admitting weakness but not brave enough to stifle its desire to tear free from his chest. “No. This is pretty rough for me. It’s not something I’ve ever done.”
“What’s it like?” asked Slate, his hands on his knees. Teacher continued drawing. “The magic, I mean. I’ve heard tales of it my entire life, even seen a bit of it a few times.”
“I don’t really know how to explain it. It’s more of a feeling. Sometimes, it’s amazing, like standing atop a mountain, looking down at all the others in the world, knowing you’re different, you’re special.”
“But other times, it’s like I’m in a deep pit, and the dirt is crumbling in around me, slowly filling up. I can see people walking around the hole, but nobody stoops to lend a hand, knowing that it’s only a matter of time before I’m covered, buried, and can be forgotten.” Isaac paused. He felt the others staring at him.
“So what can you actually do?”
Isaac frowned into the fire. A tremor shook him. A Slate that asked real questions and seemed to care about the answers?
“It depends on the day, as well as much power I have stored.”
“You’re avoiding the answer.”
Isaac shrugged. Truthfully, He didn’t know the breadth of his power, what he could actually do, but half-truths were still truths, right? “Like I said, it depends. On a normal day, I can do that beam of light a bunch of times. You know, the one you saw a few weeks ago. I can manipulate heat in almost any form, but it takes a lot out of me. That night you saw those dead men at the theater, though, that was more of an anomaly than anything else. They . . . surprised me. Emotion messes with the way the magic works, at least it does mine, and I never know in what way. That time, it just kind of, I don’t know, exploded out from me, like a ring that snatched up everything in its path. If you guys had been in there . . . ”
To his surprise, nobody leveled any suspicious stares at him. “So is that all you can do?”
Despite his bemused feelings toward Slate’s questions, Isaac wanted to defend his power. “That’s really about it. I mean, the manipulation of heat can be pretty devastating if I use it right. I’m not even sure how big of an eruption I can create at full power. Other than that, uh,” Isaac put his bowl near the fire, “I’m as much of a mystery to myself as I am to you.”
“Are you going to be able to keep it together?” This came from Alocar, seated closer to the fire than even Isaac. Must be his old bones.
“Yeah, but it’s going to be soon that you’ll have to keep an eye on me. Like I said, this isn’t just dangerous to me, but to all of you as well.”
Alocar nodded. “Think it’s time for me to get some shut-eye.” He walked to the edge of the fire line they’d dug and burrowed into his bedroll. Crymson, the line in her forehead deeper, stood as well. “I think I’m going to follow.”
Isaac started and looked down. A bowl of soup floated near his elbow. He looked up and into Teacher’s big brown eyes. “Soup,” said Teacher with a voice like falling thunder. “Soup for sickness.”
Isaac looked more closely at him, and then at Slate. “What?” Slate asked. “I never said he couldn’t talk. You just assumed that.”
Chagrined, Isaac took the bowl from Teacher’s hands. “Thank you,” he said to the big man, who simply nodded and turned to pack away the rest of the cooking supplies.
Slate stood, seeming taller than normal. “He’s a good man. Better than the lot of us.” He looked down. “Night.”
With that, he walked to the edge of the darkness and left Isaac alone at the fire, in a labyrinth of his own creation. Had he found friends, or was he nothing more than a means to their ends? He felt colder than ever, that night.
Fayne:
“Is man merely a mistake of God’s? Or God merely a mistake of man?”
Friedrich Nietzsche
Crymson
God, but she hated the fact that her feet again scraped Fayne’s ground, a city in the form of a gigantic circle, a piece of Prolifia in name only, governed by the Cao Fen. Crymson felt that she’d never left, like destiny had fated her to relive all her mistakes in Fayne, a botched dream crushed beneath the wreckage of her worst failure.
The horses pulled at their bits, sensing kindred spirits and a comforting rest. As a city of the Cao Fen, it was only appropriate that most the people passing their way walked with downward eyes, exuding humility and other false virtues. The majority of the clothes were drab browns, greys, and blacks, brighter colors reserved for the Cao Fen’s ranks, and Crymson’s blue dress, which she’d changed into a few miles back, stood out from the crowd.
The first two inns they visited had no room to spare, but the latter referred them to the Blue Moon, an inn Crymson had never bothered visiting, as she’d lived within the cathedral itself, another reminder of her failure. Still, Crymson counted their group fortunate: some of the larger retinues that arrived late to town slept outside in tents, or, if lucky, were taken in by Fayne’s residents, people either sincere in their kindness or hoping to garner favor.
Pitted and warped, the outside of the Blue Moon, didn’t live up to the expectations set by the first two, but the glow from within and the smell of cooked food applied salve to her sensibilities. Unlike the others, the inn stood only one-story, stretched longer horizontally than its competition, more like a two houses shoved together than an inn at all. A man with muscled arms and a soft gut manned the entrance, his eyes scanning a small book mostly hidden in his palms, reading glasses high on his nose, though Crymson could see the rims lacked lenses even from this distance. He saw them approaching and folded the glasses into his pocket, placing the book aside to rest on a small stool.
“I can help you?”
Crymson half raised her eyebrows. “Are you asking me?”
The man crossed his arms, and Alocar coughed discreetly behind her.
“Just a pair of rooms,” Crymson said. “We’ve a long trip behind us and a longer one in front, and I’ve been told this is the best place to recuperate.” Third best, a
ctually.
“We’re full up for the night. I might can squeeze a few out, make room for a Priestess, but I’d be incurring some hurt feelings.”
Crymson resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “We’ll pay your asking price times a half.”
“Done. Find your way inside. Guy with the beard. And don’t try any shortchanging because I’ll talk to him later.”
This time, Crymson did roll her eyes. Guy with a beard? Half the men in Prolifia had a beard. Why – she stopped, and Alocar almost bumped into her, Slate and Teacher bringing up the rear, Isaac hanging limply between them.
Oh. The man the doorkeeper had pointed her to was obvious, his beard flowing far past his chest and branching out like the roots of a grey tree, concealing his mouth, chin, and jawline.
“Man outside said we could have two rooms. Time and a half the asking price.”
The beard turned toward her, almost like a living thing, wearing the man behind it instead of the reverse. “You’ll have to give me a minute to tidy up.”
“Done,” Crymson said. He named his price and she handed over the money, too weary to barter further, the miles dragging at her eyelids. The beard stretched and walked to the rear of the room, pulling open the door and disappearing.
“He’s readying them,” she told the others.
“Two rooms?” Slate readjusted his grip on Isaac.
“Yes. I’m going to have to take one by myself, to keep up appearances.” Here it comes . . . but either a generous mood had taken him or Slate was more tired than he appeared because he offered no argument.
The bearded innkeeper opened the door in the back and waved his arm at them. “The one behind me is yours, fellas. Seventh to the right. Yours is the sixth, Priestess.”
Crymson managed only a small nod before she dropped her belongings onto the floor and fell onto the bed.
“Names Newnam, if you need anything.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” However unlikely it may be.
Forgetting her hunger pains, Crymson’s head hit a long-sought pillow, and sleep carried her off, away from Fayne, away from the place she’d hoped never to see again.
She awoke with a headache, feeling like she’d merged and become one with the mattress overnight. In an effort of sheer will, Crymson extricated herself from the bed’s embrace, though she wanted nothing more than to let the sheets envelop her. Beatty should have let her die in the streets. At least then she would’ve gotten some rest.
A bucket of water sat near her bed, which she used to splash her face. A knock sounded at the door. “Hold on a minute!”
The knock came again. She threw her shoe, smacking the door and making the person on the other side say a few choice words.
Dress back around her waist, she yanked open the door and admitted a smirking Slate and a slightly less jovial Teacher. “Come on. Breakfast is served, and you’re the last one up.”
“I have more to take care of than you do,” said Crymson, her nose in the air.
They found Alocar downstairs, poached eggs and what smelled like bacon wafting from his plate. Her mouth watered, reminding her that she’d neglected to eat last night. “Where’s Isaac?”
“He can barely move,” Alocar said in between bites of what Crymson confirmed was bacon. “I don’t know how much longer he can hold onto what he’s got.”
Crymson sighed. “You’re right. Let me go talk to Newnam.”
She found the innkeeper in the same place as the night before, stuffed behind a bar likely made for a skinnier man, his beard overflowing onto its wood, picking at his own plate of bacon and eggs.
“Need a service.”
He pressed a fork to his beard, aiming at what she could only assume was his mouth. “Gonna’ cost you.”
“It isn’t anything big. We have a sick man with us, one who needs some bed rest. We’re going to be up and moving most of the day, so I’d like you to keep an eye on him, keep the door locked. He won’t be leaving.”
“It’s not the plague, is it?” Newnam eyed her, as if the disease resided in her skin, waiting to reach out and throttle him.
“No, nothing like that. Just caught a summer cold from a dunking near the Indranian.”
“K’. I’ll bring him some food later. We’ll leave this one on the house, though. You seem a decent sort, for a Priestess.”
“Excuse me?”
The beard jerked, like he’d forgotten to whom he was speaking. “I, uh, didn’t mean nothing by that. Just you’re asking and not demanding. That’s pretty rare around these parts.”
Interesting. “Not all Cao Fen think God’s light shines directly upon us at all hours of the day, but thanks. We’ll be back later tonight.”
She snatched the last piece of bacon from Alocar’s plate once she’d returned to the table. “Newnam said he’d keep an eye on Isaac and bring him a plate of food later. Were either of you able to catch a glimpse of the cathedral last night?”
Alocar shook his head, and Slate snorted, muttering something about old men’s eyes. Teacher ignored her question in favor of slathering a piece of toast with butter.
“Magnificent place,” she continued. “Probably some of the most beautiful designs on the eastern board. I wish we had time to see it.”
“Actually, we have a few days to play with.” Alocar sopped up the remnants of his egg with a piece of dry bread. “We still need to stock up and wait for Isaac to come down off his high, get a semblance of balance before we push on, even if we have to take him out of Fayne to do it. I don’t like the idea of moving him in his condition any more than we have to. Probably won’t be out of here until Sunday at the earliest.”
“Don’t you think we need to push forward? He said it only gets worse the more magic he takes on.”
“Just so, but maybe he can stop filling for now and find his equilibrium, get adjusted to his new magic levels and be coherent enough to continue on. We’re making good time as it is, regardless.”
“Think so? Well, then I’m going to the cathedral. Would either of you like to accompany me?” Crymson glanced between the two of them, half hoping for somebody to keep her mind off the city.
“Just what I need, a bunch of holy rollers breathing down my neck and proselytizing about my lack of faith while they bed every wench in the city. No thanks. Teach and I will go exploring, check out the weapon shops.”
“I’ll go.” Alocar pushed his plate to the middle of the table. “Besides, you said it yourself: you’re a Priestess, which means you need a guard on hand anyway.”
“Good. Meet back this evening?” Slate nodded and Crymson walked out the door and to the left, a few more pieces of apprehended bacon in her hand, memory for guidance. Even from this point, she could see the cathedral, towering above every other manmade structure, enforced by decree that none would rise higher. Alocar walked slightly in front, his eyes hooded and his hand held close to the scabbard riding at his belt, modeling himself after a proper bodyguard.
Hundreds of feet of empty space surrounded the foundation of the cathedral, and no shops other than those owned by priests sold within three hundred. Built to house Prolifia’s most important religious personalities, the cathedral personified wealth: vast numbers of expertly designed and brilliantly colored stained-glass windows served as a reminded of the Cao Fen’s power and as an architectural detail meant to hide the upper floors from prying eyes. Crymson always marveled that the thing hadn’t yet collapsed in on itself, so numerous were the cutouts. One huge door, rather than two, dominated the entrance, a strange addition that somehow added to the cathedral’s mightiness.
“Why’s it so bloody tall?”
“To reach the heavens.” And to intimidate the populace. Close as they were now, she could no longer see the top.
The door loomed twenty feet above her head at its highest; one person had great difficulty in opening it, and two still didn’t have it much easier. Thankfully, the Cao Fen had realized this flaw and added a smaller, more accessible do
or off to the side, hidden in the rest of the cathedral’s majesty. Crymson nudged Alocar in the direction of the door, and he held it open for her.
Walking inside, she let the grandness of the cathedral’s interior wash over her. The air hummed with unrestrained spirituality, something she could feel in the cathedral’s very floor. Alocar shifted next to her, his hand caressing his sword.
Fifty steps brought them out of the greeting room’s shadow and into the service area. Pews stretched in all directions, hard wooden things with kneelers attached to the bottoms. Near the front, little signs were attached to the pews’ ends, reading, “Reserved.”
Crymson directed her gaze toward the altar, where sat a single pulpit at which the priest or priestesses could speak. Closer, perhaps midway to the center of the church, extended wooden platforms hung over the crowd, posts known unofficially known as criers, clergy who took the priest’s message and dispersed it to the other half of the cathedral to make up for the discordant acoustics.
"Sister Crymson!” A man strode toward them, clad in a Priest’s traditional robes, red where Crymson’s were blue, but otherwise very similar in nature, especially in their simplicity. Only upon closer examination did the robe reveal its splendor: stitched of the finest material, it had likely cost the same amount as what most common folk made in a year. Guards flanked him on either side, four in all and dressed in identical blacks. They smelled oddly earthy.
“Archbishop Quintel,” she nodded shallowly, “it is good to see you.”
“You as well,” he said, and then grinned broadly, his white teeth gleaming in a black beard lining even whiter skin.
“It looks as if you haven’t been out in the sun for quite a while, although I know a man such as yourself would never neglect his duties. Perhaps a sickness has overtaken you as of late? A weakness of the body?”
“Oh, never fear, Sister. For some of us, our tasks remain inside, while humble Priests and Priestesses such as yourself take care the more mundane responsibilities. Truly, I am in your debt, for without good followers, I would never be a good leader. Oh, and I’m in the prime of health, but thank you for your concern.”
Fallen Victors Page 19
