Way Walkers: Tangled Paths (The Tazu Saga)

by Leigh, J.

  The evening had bloomed into a clear night, with only a faint hint of a winter’s breath in the air. As in times past, the Walkers would take credit for the perfect conditions, having directed followers for weeks beforehand to beseech the Spirit within themselves to create good weather. The belief hinged on the idea that, since everyone was Spirit in part, the more individual souls who focus on wanting the same thing, the more possibility there is for such to become reality. Jathen was typically vexed by the concept, as he could never understand why the Walkers didn’t direct everyone to all wish for something more miraculous than good weather.

  Then again, that’s probably what Talents are for. Following Kyanith’s towering silver head, their mother and Clevelandith after him, Jathen and Thee were third, followed by the rest of the favored nobles or cousins. Jathen caught his breath at the sounds of the crowd. The roar of a thousand voices calling and clapping was not new, but to have it directed at him, even if it was just the spillover from the king and queen, was unlike anything he’d ever experienced. Please don’t let me have turned a bright shade of red, he prayed as they moved across the raised platform.

  Feeling still on display even seated, Jathen was calmer nonetheless, and he looked out over the crowd nearly filling the massive square while the king and queen stood and gave a toast to open the event. Hundreds of loungers for Tazu and tables and chairs for humans had been brought into the space and arranged around the imposing pillars. Another deafening roar indicated the end of the toast, and the meal began. All the clatter of plates and chatter of people were too loud for him to be heard even by Thee sitting right beside him, so Jathen focused on the food, aware it would be the last decadent Tazu meal he’d be having for a long time.

  There were twelve courses: crunchy hot breads, steamed greens with slivers of almonds, peppers stuffed with rice grains and spices, the Monortith twelve-point dragon crest shaped entirely out of cheese, candied fruits, and roasted squash. The main meat course was a parade of roasted oshtan birds with their feathers still attached, the thick orange and yellow tails spilling over the silver trays. Jathen only nibbled, not having the stomach space of a Tazu and wanting to savor everything for memory’s sake. His still three-quarter-full plates gleaned a few reproachful glances from his mother. Pretending not to notice, he took a few larger bites, which seemed to satisfy her, and she returned to speaking with Clevelandith.

  After the tenth course, boredom and being too full prodded at Jathen. Spying Skaniss stationed at the edge of the platform, he took to covertly flicking peas at the back of the Tazu’s head. They were light enough to land amid his ruddy mane without him noticing, and Jathen managed to avoid detection from any of the nobles on their raised dais. Thee saw and joined in, grinned wickedly at the little green beads decorating the Tazu’s red tresses. They nearly exploded with laughter when Skaniss reached up to scratch his head and then stopped himself.

  When the feast ended, the crowd migrated to the edges of the square. Quartered off according to social class, they waited with their peers for the clearing of tables, the rearrangement of chairs, and the construction of the stage for the second half of the event—a play depicting the legend of the First King. Jathen lost Thee to the squeal of half a dozen courtiers, who immediately surrounded her. Full and feeling lightly lazy, he let her go, content to find a quiet side of a pillar to lean on or climb up and watch the absurdity of courtly interactions. Oddly sentimental, he wondered if he’d miss even such a despised aspect of home, only to have such thoughts shredded by a shrill exclamation.

  The voice was immediately recognizable as belonging to the woman dubiously labeled the Grand Meddler. Jathen had conceived of the nickname for Thee’s amusement, but the dubbing so accurately summarized her personality that the title spread throughout court with such resounding success that even Kyanith muttered it under his breath. Jathen quickly ducked behind a pillar.

  Genthelvith Proustith Attieth, Thee’s paternal grandmother, passed by. “I, for one, am counting the moments until the little pest is gone. Perhaps then I shall have a chance to rebuild my relationship with my dear granddaughter, our sweet queen-to-be.” Jathen didn’t need to see her to envision chocolate-scaled arms waving, the heavy jade bracelets she always wore clanking together as her bronze eyes flew wide with emotion. “Spirit knows the damage done by that crass little moot’s brainwashing and sabotage!”

  Peh, the only thing that sabotaged Thee against you was comments like that against me, you meddling, scale-rotted egg-eater. Jathen refrained from bursting into the middle of her crowd of cronies and informing the noblewoman of such, resolved to enjoy his evening. Ignoring the flare of rage in his chest, he altered course and tried to find company that didn’t detest him. Unfortunately, he crossed paths with Bertrandith.

  The noble was clad in a color a shade paler than Petalith’s pearl-green scales, which Jathen had to admit accentuated the man’s eyes nicely. “How are you enjoying the celebration, young Highness?”

  “It’s okay so far,” he responded neutrally, searching for a means of escaping into the crowd. When he saw no openings and it became obvious Bertrandith was intent on having a conversation with him, he elaborated, “I prefer the show, honestly.”

  The Tazu nodded. “Yes, it’s a good legend, a foundational one.”

  Jathen forced a smile, trying to cover his disgust at the use of such an obvious architectural reference. “I suppose. The fights are good.”

  “Yes, an epic battle from the history books,” a familiar voice broke in. “The First King and the first Red Mage.” Hausmannith walked up, much to Jathen’s relief. “Mere mortal pitted against the first immortal, and against all odds, victorious.”

  “Good triumphing over evil.” Bertrandith greeted the yellow-robed Walker with another smile. “As it should be.”

  “But not always how it is,” Hausmannith amended.

  Bertrandith chuckled. “Leave it to Montage’s protégés to point out that fact on a holiday.” He bid farewell to them, called away by another group.

  “Thank you,” Jathen said once the lord was out of earshot. “There is only so much I can take of him, and it was past that about four sentences ago.”

  “Oh?” Hausmannith raised an eye ridge. “He’s not that bad, you know.”

  “So say you and Thee.”

  “So say the only two empathics you’ll listen to.” He smirked. “I’m glad I found you; I have a parting gift for your trip, and I wasn’t certain I’d see you before you left.”

  “A gift?” Jathen blinked as Hausmannith produced a sleek, medium-thick book from his robe pocket. “You didn’t have to.”

  “Oh, but I did.” Hausmannith winked as he pressed the mass-produced hardback into Jathen’s hands. “I was caught between something physically practical or something spiritually practical. In the end, I decided something with a bit of both would be the most appropriate.”

  “Lost in the Landscape,” Jathen read the title as he rotated the book. The crisp block illustration stretched across the cover depicted a wide expanse of pale blue sky and a yellow plain with a slim line of dark green trees slicing the two from each other and the title from the author’s name, Cyaone D. Ja’han. “How is this physically practical?”

  The Walker chuckled. “I read it when I was around your age. It’s required reading in Tar’citadel to pass the fifth-year academic requirements. A very telling and moving tale, written by a woman in the last century. Daughter of a moot, the mostly human Talent was a student in Tar’citadel when she came across a silver mirror and discovered she had a unique reflection.” He winked at Jathen’s raised eyebrows. “I knew I had heard of something similar before; I just couldn’t recall where until recently. This story is an account of her lifelong quest to discover and uncover some of the mystery of the Drannic in the hope of understanding the mystery of herself.”

  “Does she ever
discover why, or… let me guess. I have to read it to find out?”

  “No.” Hausmannith shook his head. “I won’t make you wonder. She disappeared while searching for them, hence the title. The book was compiled afterward from the remnants of her journals and notes.”

  Jathen gazed with a renewed sense of interest at the cover.

  Hausmannith continued. “I was rather moved by her account. She held a unique perspective of our world that I think might benefit you to read. And as a great part of her search and travels move through Zo’den and the Furōrin-Iki, I thought her very detailed descriptions of the wildlife and cultures might prove useful.” He laughed. “That and I couldn’t imagine making such a long journey for myself without at least one good book to see me through the boring parts.”

  “You know, I so rarely just sit and read. I hadn’t even considered that. Thank you.”

  “You are very welcome, Jathen.” Hausmannith bowed. “I look forward to meeting the man you are when you come back to us.”

  Thee came over and clasped Jathen’s arm. “It’s starting! Come on.”

  Jathen waved goodbye to Hausmannith as Thee tugged him to their seats. Putting the book in his robe pocket, Jathen sat and checked their surroundings for friendly faces. They were in one of the higher boxes on the makeshift platform, with a full view of the stage and a line of guardsmen before them. He saw their mother and Lord Grandidieriss a few boxes down on his left. They were center, along with Kyanith and his wife, who looked like a porcelain doll with her white scales and vacant brown eyes. Jathen noted Lord Larsenitiss’s presence in a box behind Rhodonith.

  “Oh, I feel bad for whoever is sitting near them.” Thee pointed as Hatori and Jephue made their squabbling way toward their seats. “They look like they’re having it out.”

  “They’re always having it out.” Jathen shook his head. “And it looks like we might be the ones you pity.”

  His assessment turned out to be correct. The pair greeted Jathen and Thee prettily before taking seats in front of them.

  “It has to be magic,” Jathen commented to Thee on Jephue’s waist-long, multibraided amber hair. “It was short and brown this morning.” The comment got his sister giggling, and he smiled as the lights dimmed, and the square went quiet.

  Darkness covered the stage, and then spotlights illuminated the set. Smoke crept over the barren, rocky artifice, painting the image of the almost alien landscape after the world was destroyed. The backdrop was no cheerier, depicting the stronghold within a mountain where the survivors had hidden—a craggy rock face with simple metal doors.

  Offstage, a disembodied voice narrated. “Eight thousand, six hundred, fifty-eight years in the past, three hundred years after the Great Fall, an old enemy threatened the first city.”

  An evil roar screeched while the light filters switched to red, staining the rolling clouds of dry ice an ominous crimson. The sound was echoed by yelps of surprise and fear as the actor portraying the first Red Mage arose. Dizzyingly tall, he was sheathed in red, his identity hidden beneath a ghastly mask. Carved to depict the scowling face of Prothidian Altar, the single most infamous man in history, the mask would be the fuel for a good share of nightmares. The actor leapt amid more yelps of fear and delighted terror, swinging cables with burning fireballs attached on their ends and hissing at the crowd.

  Thee started in fright, latching almost painfully onto Jathen’s arm.

  Grinning, Jathen whispered, “Memories of Middle Lands stories getting to you?”

  “Oh, shut up,” she hissed, still leaning close. “The fire just surprised me. It’s new this year.”

  “Riiight.” He laughed.

  The doors on the mountain face opened. From them sprang more masked actors in bright colors—the fighting Avatars of the Children who set out to protect the city against Prothidian. They clashed, red dancing with violet and black, amber and orange, white and bronze, blue and gold. Suddenly, Prothidian dealt a death blow to the Avatar of Kubesh, and the citrine warrior wailed, screaming heroically as a ring of flames flared around him. When the fire died, the actor was gone, and the crowd wailed and shrieked in terror and awe, even though most had already seen the show, and everyone knew the story. Soon, all the great Avatars had fallen, their bodies consumed by fire.

  When he’d been much younger, Jathen had sneaked backstage one year to see how such a thing could happen and not violate the Laws of Spirit. What he’d discovered had fascinated him: the pulleys and trapdoor system under the stage where actors would slip on and off. He was even more interested in how such spectacle was undiminished by knowing the truth. His heart still pounded alongside a breath-bated Thee as Prothidian laughed menacingly at center stage, assured of victory.

  Music drummed up, then with a bang of smoke and light and a roar from the crowd, the grandson of the first Avatar of Montage, founder of the Tazu Nation and the hero of the day, arrived onstage. The First King was a Tazu with yellow scales, wearing a costume bejeweled with hundreds of tiny mirrors. With yellow-tinted spotlights on him, he became a glittering beacon of golden light, wielding the ancient Shatari sword above his head. Fitted with just as many little mirrors, the sword also glowed dazzlingly in the spotlights.

  Oddly, Jathen felt his heart sink, watching the First King point the weapon at Prothidian and declare his doom to be at hand. It wouldn’t have been like that. Prothidian would have killed so many, so many of the greatest Talents who had even been. The First King must have felt he was marching to his doom. One more body to fall before the immortal Red Mage had his win.

  Prothidian was “wounded” and fled the stage, vowing revenge as the audience hissed. I wonder how he was really able to defeat him. Perhaps it was all just an accident or luck. Or maybe it was all the sword, supposedly carved from his grandfather’s crystallized heart. Too bad the truth has been lost to time.

  As if privy to his thoughts, Hatori muttered, “He had help you know. Rhean’s son went onto the battlefield with the Culari, the sword carved of his father’s heart. The two of them broke down Prothidian to a stalemate.” He snorted. “Ruddy Tazu and the rest of the short-lived races, always mucking up their history.”

  Jathen suppressed a smirk as Thee sent a purposeful shush in Hatori’s direction.

  With Prothidian’s onstage defeat, the First King held his sword aloft once more, signifying his ascension to the Tazu throne. The crowd cheered wildly as explosions erupted across the stage and streams of fire shot upward, bursting with terrific bangs high above the square again and again. A golden explosion burst and then fell twinkling across the black, a perfect reverse of the mirror Jathen had shattered. Where the fireworks were light splitting across dark, his mirror had been dark lines cleaving light.

  “I’m going to miss you,” Thee said, leaning on him.

  Jathen sighed. “I know.”

  “Promise me you’ll come home before they start badgering me about mating?”

  He laughed. “Aww, Thee, whatever made you think I wouldn’t be? You’re way too young, and I’m not going to be gone anywhere near that long.”

  “I know, it’s just…”

  He followed her gaze to their mother, who sat stiffly beside Dolomith’s father, looking strained and preoccupied. Then Bertrandith said something into her ear. Rhodonith laughed and grinned at him before he slipped away.

  “Sometimes,” Thee whispered, “I think if Mother were to be with whoever she wanted, and not who Kyanith and the court approved of, it would be Bertran.”

  “You know humans would consider that incest.” Jathen’s voice was even tighter, though his ember did not flare at the thought of Kyanith’s son as much as it once had. Perhaps Hausmannith was right, or maybe Jathen was too close to freedom to care.

  Thee snorted, not bothering to remind him that the Tazu definition of incest was limited to immediate family.
Past that, Tazu simply didn’t see the kinds of side effects inbreeding humans would. “You just don’t like him, do you?”

  Jathen said nothing, uncertain of what he felt.

  Thee nudged him. “You know, being an emotional empathic leaves me able to feel stuff from people, and he’s really pretty genuine.”

  “I don’t know, Thee. I just don’t think Kyanith would disapprove. If anything, he’d encourage it, as Bertrandith has a few sons of his own. If they want to be together, why aren’t they?”

  “I’m not sure. That’s why it makes me so sad.”

  “Watch the fireworks. Nothing can be wrong when there are such pretty colors in the sky.”

  A dubious feeling bloomed in Jathen’s stomach, a tiny mote growing into an imminent foreboding. He saw his mother fidget uncomfortably in her seat, as if some deep itch irritated her. She repositioned herself again, brow furrowed. She looked up, and between carved pillars, her eyes met his.

  Simultaneously, he felt a sense of gasping, clasping breath… then numbness, as if the world had gone silent. An instant later he and his mother were both on their feet, Rhodonith speaking soft pleasant excuses, while Jathen barked at Thee, “Something’s wrong.”

  He ran down the platform and through the crowd. His feet seemed to know where to go, taking him through the back of the square behind the temporary platforms. Drawn to the same spot, his mother met him before the front doors, Jathen huffing and Rhodonith’s guards scrambling to catch up.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  He gasped. “Dol!”