Advent of the Roar

by Benjamin M. Piety

  Down the hall, they approach the ranpart’s staircase, taking the high steps to the upper floor to Wellion’s master. Nico steps to the door, knocks, and they wait for an answer. “Did you have a nice duskmeal, Sur Wells?”

  “I did. Approsh, Nico.”

  Wellion opens the door and smiles at the sight of Sanet. He wipes his doubled nose and waves Nico away. “Come in, dear, come in.”

  Leaving the door open, he steps back into his master, and Sanet walks inside. Nico, conflicted at the minor whether to come in despite Wellion’s motion not to, decides against it, and remains eager and hungry for attention just outside the door. After Sanet steps through, Wellion turns and motions with his hand, closing the door with the gesture.

  “Apory to have interrupted your sleep. I know you’re trying to get rest before you travel tomorrow, but I came across something that I found painfully relevant.”

  The years living in Wellion’s stonetin have been odd. On the one hand, it’s been an engaging and cheerful period. Everyone finds her to be the most enthralling body in the room, always smiling and watching her eagerly, attending to her every whim. Nico, with his pure infatuation, treads a line between honeyed charm and exasperation. And Ethan has become a close friend, someone she’s able to divulge her secret reservations about Wellion to—finding his own run far deeper.

  To her, Wellion is kind and gentle. He has become accustomed to calling her his daughter, which she assumes is due more to his oddity as a ranpart than anything ominous. Ethan once elucidated that ranparts are not common in the Land and not much has been written about them beyond their great awareness of past histories and tricks. In fact, Ethan has only heard of three: Wellion; one living alone atop a tall, narrow pillar in Guloren; and another who left centuries ago, when they labored for the now-exterminated Lion. It’s theorized that their preoccupation with enigmits leads to an unnecessary suspicion of them as some sort of supernatural midfrek, eating and mauling the Land’s bodies. A folk tale.

  Her experience has shown that Wellion is not the devious body one tends to read about. Whenever she returns from long treks, he listens to all her enthralling tales of places she’s seen and freks she’s met, even though she knows they are nothing worth mentioning. Whether it’s true or not, he believes she is foretold for many great things and worries for her safety. He often comments about how lucky he is to have found her, that in some ways she saved him as much as he hoped he had saved her. There is a sweetness to him underneath his cold exterior. When she inquired about becoming a valor, he ensured she had lessons on the right weapons, of which she chose to specialize in using a crossbow with flaming bolts. When she wanted to learn more about the other states, he sent her off to the Tunnels, through Misipit and even to where Ethan studied, a boaler located in Quemon.

  She has been given stacks of records on the many strange freks and bodies of the Land, of tenfooters and protnuks. And even as these studies sometimes run tedious and rarely lead to real-Land engagements, she appreciates learning more and being more prepared for the Land around her, which she believes will be valuable if she is to ascertain her forgotten past.

  Over this past year, her studies and training have shifted in focus to a collection of missing brass fragments. There is a piece in a lost stonetin deep within the Tunnels. Another is rumored to reside alongside other ancient objects inside a lone manor on one of the Misipit plateaus. Others, less known, are hidden in states farther west. She asks on occasion about what they are meant for but is met with much hesitation when given answers. An instrument of some sort is as much as she can get out of either Ethan or Wellion.

  When she heard that Wellion was going to leave with a few of his most trusted guards in search of the fragments, she begged to join him but was met with complete opposition to the idea. In fact, his behavior contradicted how Wellion usually treated her, as he usually seemed pleased with her when she was engaged with his strange and secret curiosities. The mood soured between them after his outright denial, and she began to believe her fate would be to live aimlessly in this lonely stonetin of Salsman.

  That was until a few weeks ago, when she was brought to his master in a manner similar to tonight, and Wellion gave her the task of recovering two of the brass fragments. That night and that discussion were much darker and more serious in tone than any of their previous. He seemed almost defeated by the decision, as if he’d been pushed into it. Which suited her; she’d like to believe it was her tenacity. Since then, she’s taken the opportunity with momentous determination to apply everything within her to ensure the brasses’ safe return.

  Their relationship has shifted since that conversation. Wellion watches Sanet during training sessions and steps in intermediately to correct her posture or decision-making, insulting even the smallest of mistakes. When he does, Sanet controls her temper and concentrates harder. The closer it comes to her leaving, the more he treats her like a valor he barely trusts instead of his innocent daughter. It is vital that she demonstrates she is worthy of the labor.

  Wellion moves across his master to a small table and chair, where he motions for Sanet to sit. She does. “I’m proud of how well you’ve taken to your task. Nico has told me many excellent things about your training, and Ethan says that your studies have also gone satisfactorily.”

  “Approsh,” Sanet says.

  “I know it has been strange over these years to be treated like a child.”

  It is true that she often lashes out at the guards when they treat her like a teenager. It is also true that Sanet doesn’t remember her past or where she came from, her family, or her childhood. Based on some initial studies, blood samples and various marks, they estimated that when they found her, she was around twenty-six, which was seven years ago.

  Her entire life sits in a black shadow, with her unable to remember a single detail about bodies of the past. She can speak. She can read. She can recall basic things about the Land, but big details are lost. She knows there was a Last War, but she doesn’t know of the Three Laws. She knows about cogs, but not about protnuks. And when it comes to an actual body, there is nothing. No curams, not even her own. No relationships. No memories whatsoever.

  “I’ve come across new information about your son,” Wellion continues.

  Sanet’s breath catches. The subject hasn’t been brought up much over the last few years, and whenever it is, there is nothing new to report, no news of where or who her son is. “You have?”

  “Yes, but I’m afraid I was . . . wrong. It’s been made clearer that you, in fact, do not have a son.”

  “What?” Wellion doesn’t answer immediately. She stands, crossing her arms, and paces in front of him. “I don’t understand. I don’t have a son?”

  “I know this may be very frustrating; it is for me as well. But when dealing with the past and the future, things are not always unblemished. What may seem like the shadow of a man when looking to the ground may indeed only be the lifeless limbs of a tree.”

  The news is heartbreaking. Sanet’s only tie to the past, the only thing she knows about her past, is that she has a son. A boy who, somewhere out there in the Land, is hers. At the thought of losing this, Sanet begins to cry.

  “Oh dear, Sanet. I must appize to have to tell you this.” He glides over to her, resting his long fingers across her back. “Let’s step into the fresh air.” He wipes his nose again with a hanker before leading her out to the porch overlooking the city of Salsman. After a major, Sanet calms. Her chest still tight. Her heart still crushed.

  “I believe, however, that this news of your son is not completely unfounded. I think I merely misinterpreted the foretale. That it was not a son that you already had, it was one that you will have. And that is why I asked you to join me here tonight. I am dreadfully afraid that this trek of yours may . . . upset its unfolding.”

  “Finding the brass?”

  “Yes. You see, the father of your son is on the road now, returning from Organsia, and I believe that your time wo
uld be best spent looking for this man instead.”

  “The father? How do you know who’s the father?”

  “In my research to learn more about you and your past, of your son, it appears that what I thought was your son, was in fact not. And that your son hasn’t been chosen yet. That the only one out there now is the father.”

  “But what about the brass fragments?”

  “I have already secured a legion of coinhires to assist me with the brass. I believe history will be best served by this new task. I do not wish for you to seek out the brass.” Sanet wipes her face, her mood shifting from that of heartbreak to insult.

  “You never wanted me to be your valor. You just expect me to be a prisoner. And what? Find someone to choose a child with? What’s the point of that?”

  She feels demoralized. Of all the men in the yard, she is nearly the best shot. Nico himself has commented on how easily she’s taken to archery. Wellion has continually treated her like a glass object, ready to break at the slightest pressure; now he’s found yet another reason to keep her restrained and unlearned.

  “How do I know that you’re right about this? That this isn’t another mistake. Another misinterpreted shadow.”

  “It is my great displeasure that I can never know if I am wholly correct. I can only move in the direction the Land guides me. Like fog in the valley.” His voice seems disappointed at this truth.

  “This still feels like you’re attempting to keep me here. As you have since the beginning. You’re playing with me.”

  “This is no game we play, Sanet.”

  “I know it’s not a game. I’m not trying to insult you. I’m only trying to understand. I want to do what is right. I want to find these brass pieces. Not just for you, but for me. I want to be worth something. I want to have a purpose. And I don’t want it to be me as some,” she pauses, “haynest mother.”

  Wellion ignores her vexation and turns to the cityscape of Salsman before speaking. “In a Land where the ground is firm and the air is thin and never shall the two intertwine, it is easy to believe that this is the way it is in all of time and forever. But since I can remember, I’ve questioned why the Land lives as it does. You believe it’s mad, that I think you serve the Land best by finding this father and not seeking out the fragments. That, in a way, this presses you into a purposeless existence, but in truth, it may be the greatest thing that ever could chance. But suppose we forget this. And you leave to find these fragments on your own, and you find a body on the road. Handsome, kind, sweet, who falls in single souls with you, who you slip with because the road is long and lonely. Together you choose a child. Would that be so strange?”

  “Now? Of course, it would be. Because you’re telling me that’s what I’m supposed to do.”

  “But only because you know it. Meeting someone and raising a child together is strange and odd and beautiful, but it is not mad.”

  “It is if someone foretells you. If it’s not my choice.”

  Wellion takes a deep breath. “At times you have shown great courage and intellect, and yet tonight you’re showing me how little you’ve learned. I believe this foretale is the key to your past. I believe that finding this body, the one who will one day be the father of this boy, could be an answer to everything.”

  The past. Sanet bites her lip, feeling his manipulation. After a pause to contemplate what is clearly important to Wellion, but to her is only flam, she says, “If I seek out this body, perhaps only to bring him back here, I’d still like to uncover the brass.”

  Wellion hesitates to answer. “I’m afraid that both tasks may not coincide. I’ve already sent my legion. There’s no reason for you to seek them. It is already not an easy task to track down someone on the long and empty roads, nor easy to uncover the fragments.”

  “That’s the bargain I offer.” Sanet stands firm, knowing she’s pressing her luck. Wellion watches her a minor, wipes his nose, and then turns away.

  For an extended major, he stares at the cityscape. The few lit torches. The occasional soft echo of laughter and talking. He spins back to her, resigned. “It’s a bargain then. I will send you the details in a note on the morrow, as I am leaving this eve.”

  Sanet smiles to herself. She knows he doesn’t trust her to go on her own with the brass, but she will prove him wrong. Prove to myself he’s wrong. For all the things that Wellion does, there is something about him that feels like good intentions. It’s as if his mind holds so many thoughts and pieces of knowledge that he’s almost incapable of communicating the severity of his tasks. The idea of finding a man to have a child with is mad. Though its purpose she isn’t wholly opposed to learning more of. Who is he? And why? What makes him so unispar to me? And is he the key to my past?

  Though many questions remain unsatisfied, it is clear the conversation has ended. Sanet excuses herself to Wellion, who’s turned back to his overlook without a word. She makes her way back down to her sleeping room, Nico in tow.

  “Is everything wisnok, Sur Wells?”

  “I don’t know. Wellion’s intentions are always covered in oil, and I can’t pin him down on what he’s actually after.”

  “Always the way of ranparts, spending their entire lives in the past and on subjects us ordinary bodies can barely understand. But, by the crest of morn, his passion is for the Land and all of us who inhabit it.”

  “I’ll have to take your word for it, Nico.” When they reach her sleeping room, Nico holds the door for her. “Approsh and grats moon.”

  “Can I get you anything further, Sanet?”

  “No. Just tired.” She nods and grabs the door to close it.

  Nico stands in the way. “Let me make you a bit of steamed tea, perhaps? It always helps me sleep.”

  “I’m wisnok, Nico. Truly.”

  “Of course.”

  Nico steps back as Sanet closes the door. Sometimes he can be odder than Wellion. She turns down the lights in the room and undresses, and slips into bed to close her eyes for the night.

  ❖❖❖

  In the dark, she hears a door open. The sound comes from miles away, across the desert sands, across waters and rain. Then, footsteps echoing across grasslands and through the mists. In the bowels of a raging volcak. Then—a hand across her throat.

  She opens her eyes to see Nico. She tries to call out to him—What are you doing here?—but her throat is being squeezed and she’s barely able to breathe. Sitting up, she attempts to push his arm back. His face looks maddened. She tries to take a deep breath, and with great delight Nico squeezes harder. Sanet starts to cough, making airless spitting noises.

  Then, using every muscle, she spins herself onto the ground. Using the fall’s momentum, she pulls him onto her and, with her legs free, knees him in the crotch. He doubles up but catches her with his other hand on her neck. They roll across the floor, Sanet tossing herself one way, Nico throwing her the other. The room and he go cloudy, and everything slows when suddenly a gasp of air comes to her, and through her faded sight, she sees Nico slam halfway up and against the wall and stay there, flailing his arms.

  As everything comes back into view, coughing and spitting, she looks over her shoulder to see Wellion standing in the room, one hand outstretched and pointing toward Nico while the other is held back, a small glass orb floating in the air inches from his palm. Wellion then clinches his hand aimed at Nico, who emits a high scream and crunch of bone. Sanet turns her head to see Nico folded in on himself, bones of his legs and arms protruding, blood spattered across the wall, dripping below. She covers her mouth as he suddenly flies from the wall and crashes through the window before it all ends in a distant thud. I’m in no kiptale.

  “Are you well, Sanet?” Wellion states, stepping up to her. Near emotionless. As if this already happened and he is running the circuit.

  She turns back to him and finds his outstretched long-fingered hand awaiting her. Taking it and standing, she notes the glass orb has vanished, even as her body shakes and she draws deep,
wild breaths. “Why . . . why did he do that?”

  “He was afraid you were going to leave him, I suppose,” Wellion says.

  Sanet rubs her neck and steps over to the window to see Nico’s crumpled body lying across the lawn below. Other guards have gathered around.

  “Once you are dressed, it’s important that I see you one last time before I depart.”

  “I don’t believe it,” Sanet says. Wellion spins, preparing to leave the room, and before he exits, Sanet calls after him, “Approsh on my life, Wellion.”

  “Of course, Sur Wells. You have an important task ahead of you. I believe the Land requires that you stay alive longer than some unrequited soul.”

  He leaves the room. Around her are spread the ruffled sheets, the upturned rug, the crack in the stonetin wall. Nico has been with me for six years. Why would he decide suddenly to send me left?

  ❖❖❖

  In the morn, she hurries down the ranpart stairwell to find Ethan and Wellion sitting at a table, served mornmeal. While Wellion eats, Ethan’s face pales and quiets.

  “Sanet, join us,” Wellion says, waving her over. She sits at the table as one of the guards serves her a round of food. “Eat, dear, eat. The first day on the road is always exhausting.”

  She looks down at the eggs under and bacon. With her throat still sore, she passes. “I’ll take it to go, I think,” she says to the guard, who nods and reaches for the round.

  “I said eat!” Wellion yells, slamming his hand on the table. Ethan and Sanet remain silent as the ranpart watches them both, narrowing his eyes. “Wisnok, do as you like.” He waves her off.

  The guard, hesitant at first, creeps in and grabs the round.

  Sanet speaks up. “I thought you were leaving last night?”