Way Walkers: Tangled Paths (The Tazu Saga)

by Leigh, J.

  “It’s true! Why do you think races like the Tazu and the Clan are so bent upon keeping their emotions at bay, making it such a strong staple of our social order? Lu’shun don’t press such a standard, nor humans or Nijū-Iki. It’s because we know what we are in the end—some darker, more feral aspect of humanity. We were the beasts in the dark, and mine and yours struggle every day to keep that nature from clawing its way back to the surface.”

  Jathen thought about the ember of rage always sparking in his chest. I wonder if others feel this same sting, if Kyanith has to bite down on his fury to keep from breaking façade and just tearing me to bits. The memory of Skaniss’s metallic orange eyes sprang to mind. “Why did you stay so long after the ’quake?”

  “Your great-grandmother was very fond of Cowriss, and later of Jeph. She and Jeph were such gossipmongers.” He smirked down at Jephue in his lap. “She was touched by my completing his unfinished work gratis and made certain I had plenty of new commissions to pay the bills. After a time, the old work was done, but the new commissions kept coming, and we just stayed. When she passed, we’d been there for over thirteen years and were fairly happy.” He shrugged. “So we stayed.”

  And now you’ve left. There was something a touch too simple about the whole affair, despite the backdrop of earthquakes and death. “Thank you, Hatori Chann. And I’m sorry it took me so long to ask.”

  “I’m Clan, Jathen.” He stared out a window. “Two human lifetimes could have sped past, and it wouldn’t have been too long to ask. Hell, two Tazu lifetimes. I have the time.”

  Jathen leaned on the window’s edge. I’m not Clan, though. I won’t have the time, and this might be the last time I fly.

  Chapter 14

  Farewells were said.

  They had put down in Grafith, a large city on Pilgrims’ Road, the longest stretch of thoroughfare circling the continent. It was the main road to and from Tar’citadel, and though it allowed for far more supplies to pass through Grafith than most cities, there were no replacement parts to be found for the charm-engines, and the two parties were forced to part ways.

  Lubreean One and Two gave Jathen formal handshakes and nods. The interchangeable Dirk and Cale did the same, though they also wished him luck while he patted their dragons goodbye. Saying farewell to Pallo was harder in some ways than it had been with even his mother or Thee. Jathen could not shake the sense he’d most likely never see the carefree fellow moot again. Pallotos had always been too fluid to liken to a form of architecture. He was more a subtle force of nature, easy and free, like Charmed Wind.

  Pallo grinned, ruffling Jathen’s hair. “We’ll miss ya, Highness. But we’ll be back around. You’ll see.”

  Grafith’s placement also made it one of the first towns for a while to have large inns, electricity, and indoor bathrooms, though those had to be shared. Jathen was happy to have his own room again, and Jephue was beyond delighted to be permanently on the ground. Hatori was another matter, having learned shortly upon arrival their next choice of transport was not due to arrive for another two days.

  “What do you mean the circuit carriage left? Your own wall plaque states it’s scheduled to leave in two hours, not twenty minutes ago!” Hatori seemed to loom over the counter of the travel station’s ticketing window. The oddity of Hatori looming over a Tazu was comical, given that the Tazu was at least a head and a scale taller. “At this rate, we are ruddy well never going to get to Antqāl Mdynh!”

  The skinny Tazu attendant girl’s lime-colored eyes began to glisten with tears. “I’ll go get my supervisor, sir.” She scampered off, sage-green scales looking pale.

  “Ant-quail Mm-di-nuh?” Jathen flipped through Kyanith’s atlas. “Is that even near the Lu’shun Republic?”

  “No, Antqāl Mdynh is the native name for Zo’den City, and it is our halfway point, which is my point!” Hatori leaned far enough over the window ledge to shout into the back. “If it takes us forever to get halfway, we’ll be the other half of eternity getting to the Lu’shun Republic!”

  Scanning the pages of the handheld world, Jathen finally found Zo’den/Antqāl Mdynh amid the stretching expanse of Zo’den Desert. The placement unfortunately only compounded his befuddlement.

  Jathen tugged on Hatori’s sleeve. “Why on the continent are we going so far out of our way to go to this, Aun-t-qual… er… Zo’den City?”

  “What?” Hatori looked down at the atlas. “No, no, no.” He turned to the next page. “There.” He thrust a finger at a city marker much further below the desert, between where a river forked into two. Situated right in the path of Pilgrims’ Road, it too held the name Zo’den City/Antqāl Mdynh.

  “There are two of them?”

  “Ugh! Boy, I don’t have the time!” Hatori returned to shouting at the back.

  Jathen was left wanting and irritated until it occurred to him to seek out Jephue. Sitting on a wayside bench amid the luggage, Jephue was flipping through a copy of the Continental Courier.

  “Jephue, do you know why there are two Zo’den Cities on my map?”

  “Zo’den is one city, a tent city,” Jephue responded. “In the winter, during the rains, they make camp at the source of the Nhr River, where the lake sits within Zo’den Desert. In the spring, they move south to where the river forks, and then stay until fall, when they go north to the desert again.”

  “The whole city just moves? There are no buildings?” Jathen tried to wrap his mind around the idea. “How can an entire civilization exist and not have any permanent architecture?”

  “That’s Bree’s people in general, Jathen. The Msāfryan are roamers. Remember, there are no cities between Zo’den and the Lu’shun Republic on Pilgrims’ Road.”

  “Not even in Furōrin-Iki?”

  “Not on the road, no. When we get to Furōrin-Iki, we’ll see little rest stops for travelers, but that will be it. ’Tis the way of the Nijū-Iki and the Msāfryan. They live with the land, move with the land, and leave nothing behind. At least, not for any foreigners to see.”

  “Is that why Master Hatori’s in such a tizzy? Because he’s worried we’ll ‘miss’ the tent city before it moves and be stuck without any extra supplies until the Lu’shun Republic? He seems a bit antsy beyond wanting to beat the rains.”

  “Damned if I know.” Jephue sighed, turning a page. “It would be terrible from a supply point of view if we were to miss Zo’den City, but I don’t think our timing is that dire, as it isn’t even spring yet. They don’t make the move overnight, and truthfully, all this rushing is more likely to have us beating them there.” He flipped another page and gasped. “More Middle Lands raids on Aralim and the Nation! One would think Red followers would learn.”

  Concern rippled through Jathen. “The Annarites attacked our northern border again?”

  “Minor scuffles but enough to make a headline.” Frowning, Jephue lowered the paper then folded it. “Sometimes I wonder what the benefit is of having a network of Telepathic Talents all over the continent to ensure a reasonably updated newspaper if all they do is write the same ruddy stories over and over again.”

  Hatori walked over to them. “The stories do not repeat, only the stupidity of all these poor souls who keep reincarnating again and again and never learn anything new for all of it.” He looked placated if not fully contented, his amber-topped cane once more tucked under his arm. “There is nothing these idiots can do about the delay, but we’ve a guaranteed space on the next coach and a modest discount to offset the expense of our wait.” He swung the first of the bags onto his shoulder. “Come. We’ve a decent place to spend the time.”

  Time, Jathen wrote to Thee a few weeks later, is an accursed thing.

  The new year had come and gone, passing without celebration, along with Jathen’s twentieth birthday. Both were spent either squashed inside a tiny ox-drawn carriage with five hum
ans and luggage or inside a station’s lodging house. Jathen wasn’t certain, as all the days seemed to run together in one monotonous limbo of accursed time.

  Putting down his pen, he read what he’d written. I sound like I’m miserable. He considered tearing up the page and starting anew. Then again, I am sort of miserable. Tapping his fingers on Seren’s unsolved box, he lamented the fact that he couldn’t even make sense of a silly puzzle, let alone his life.

  He eyed the lunch crowd meandering about the dingy bar room. Of the two dozen humans and a few scattered Tazu, several returned the scrutiny with a mix of pity or uncertainty. Jathen ducked his head, feigning preoccupation with the elusive box. Past lodge encounters had taught him that his party’s trio of fair skin was a draw for curious glances, but he was all too aware of what could happen the moment his draconic eyes were recognized. Given the speed of the rumor mill, Jathen didn’t savor his chances at not causing a stir. Rather than court another moot-fury incident, he’d consistently chosen solitude whenever his two companions were occupied. At least when I was flying I was happy. The box turned under his fingers.

  Hitting it particularly hard, he glared as the puzzle spun madly, the swirls blurring together. A clack, clack, clack sound emanated from it, then a light pop. Jathen carefully plucked the box from the table. The lid was slightly ajar. I see now. There are weights inside the lid that keep it locked. When you spin the box on a hard, flat surface, the force slides the weights apart, which then allows the lid to open.

  “Pardon me.”

  Looking up, Jathen saw a round-faced human with small, gleaming black eyes. Head sheathed in a brown turban, he had the look of a traveling scholar, with ink-stained hands and beige, dust-tainted robes.

  “You are a companion to the charm master in attendance here, correct?”

  Replacing the lid but not locking it, Jathen pulled the box down onto his lap. “Excuse me?”

  “Begging your pardon.” The man smiled, and the corners of his eyes pinched slightly. “I overheard chatter from the serving staff that there was a charm master in the inn. I would most certainly like to make his acquaintance, but alas, he’s gone and cloistered himself upstairs.”

  “Oh.” Jathen bit back an exasperated sigh. There were always people looking to enlist a charm master’s services. “He’ll be back down after a bit. He keeps Clan hours.”

  “Really?” Instead of being deterred at the mention of Hatori’s Clan heritage, the man lit up with delight, his small eyes pinching even more. “Oh, so the whisperings I heard were true. He is Clan! Oh, how wonderful! I am even more eager to meet him now! Do you know how old he is? If perhaps he was acquainted with the famous Charm Master Yvette Ashton?”

  “He’s mentioned her, but I don’t know if they ever met. May I ask why such an interest? Are you a charm master as well?”

  “Oh, no, nothing so majestic as that!” He smoothly slid into the seat beside Jathen, who was suddenly assaulted with the overpowering odors of ink and sweat as the nuisance made himself comfortable. “My name is Samad Dumas, graduate of the University of Tarshishum in Aralim.” He rattled off a long script of awards and published works. After what seemed like an impossible length to carry on in a single breath, Dumas summarized, “I am merely an academic. Well, a field academic, as it were, not quite so stuffy as a Featorian bookworm. Truth be told, I am an Artifact hunter.”

  “Artifacts?” Jathen asked. “Like the bits of stone and cloth the vendors outside the road shrines sell?”

  “Spirit, no!” From a pack swung around off his back, Dumas produced a large leather-bound tome and cracked it open. “No, no, I search for real Artifacts, actual items of extreme magical and historical value, forged from the bodies of the Avatars themselves.”

  Begrudgingly curious, Jathen looked down at the ancient etching-plate illustrations surrounded by tiny print.

  “My interest in a Clan charm master is, of course, any possible connection to Yvette, as she was one of the few known creators of some of the Grand Artifacts, as well as one of the premier charm masters on the continent. Any information I can glean, even secondary, about Yvette or her process in creating such things—oh, from an academic vantage! I’ve been working on my book for years, compiling pictures, stories, and even rumors. You’d be amazed by how much a single thread of a rumor can alter one’s perception on things. Look at us now, having such a nice chat all because of a whisper.”

  “I suppose.” Jathen surreptitiously slipped the puzzle box into his pack beneath the table then began folding his letter to Thee. “You ever find any of these Artifacts?”

  “Oh, yes! At least, some lesser ones.” He turned some pages and held up a black-and-white rendering of what looked like a half-charred lump of coal. “Of the Grand Artifacts, what some scholars refer to as the only true Artifacts, I have merely had the short pleasure of viewing what sits in the Tar’citadel Museum of Historical and Spiritual Heritage and Evolution.

  “But oh, to find one of the missing Grand Artifacts. My, that would be something, wouldn’t it? Every Artifact hunter’s dream! Alas, I have not heard even the shiver of a rumor, other than a half jest about a few Clansmen who found them all several millennia ago and have hoarded them somewhere.” Patting his large waistline, he chuckled. “Not that I’m implying your friend would be complicit in any such a thing. I simply find it a funny image.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Indeed. Now, to the lesser Artifacts, I’ve had a bit of success. More’s the pity, I can’t claim any to my own name, but I can happily say I’ve made sketches and taken notes on over three dozen lesser Artifacts of every single one of the Twelve, even a few Aspects. Save for the Red, of course.”

  “Too timid to chase after Red followers in pursuit of his Artifacts?”

  “Oh, my!” He laughed again. “Oh, I’m lucky not to have come across that situation. But I meant, my boy, that there are no lesser Artifacts of the Red, and only the single Grand Artifact, though many scholars argue that it’s not technically an Artifact by our standard rule of classification.”

  “There is a difference?”

  “Of course! In the simplest terms, lesser Artifacts are components: bits of the Children’s hair, bone, blood, or the coveted gemstone tears that they left us when their Incarnations Ascended to Avatars. The Grand Artifacts are the prizes, the ones created when crafted from said components by a master, the most prolific of which was Yvette Ashton.”

  Bored, Jathen closed the book, hoping Dumas would take his leave.

  But the scholar prattled on. “The Red is lacking in such lesser artifacts because of his not being incarnated due to his permanent incarceration in the Pit, thanks to our good Protector Rhean—Spirit keep the Child. While the only supposed Red Grand Artifact is a dagger that was made to emulate the historical Artifact Swords of Montage and Rhean, it’s never been proven to have any actual physical remnants of the only actual Incarnation of the original Red as part of its structure, and so, it is technically not an Artifact, Greater or otherwise. Though, it is so powerful it has been recorded to have killed many an Avatar over the years. It holds a high status amid the Red culture, and the mainstream too, to be true.”

  Checking the time, Jathen realized it was twenty minutes past when Hatori usually awoke. “Well, as fascinating as this all is”—he rose and began to gather his things—“I really must be getting upstairs.”

  “Oh, yes, yes. I wouldn’t want to keep you! Do tell your charm master companion I’d be delighted to make his acquaintance and have a chat, if he is so inclined.”

  “Sure, yeah. I’ll tell him.” He nodded and hurried away before the man could say more.

  In the second-floor hallway, Jathen heard muffled yelling. He had barely reached the door to their room when Jephue stormed out in a huff. “Another ‘he’s a bastard’ moment, Jeph?” Seeing the threat of tears shiverin
g in Jephue’s pale blue eyes, Jathen asked in a more serious tone, “You all right?”

  “I’ll manage,” Jephue said with a sniff. “I just need to… to… do something that gets me away from here for a bit.” He moved to the stairs. “Insert whatever excuse you please.”

  “Okay,” Jathen muttered, continuing to the room.

  Inside, Hatori stood shirtless before the washbasin and mirror, a towel draped loosely over his shoulders.

  Jathen gaped at him. “Are you dyeing your hair?”

  “I always have.” Hatori tapped a bone comb on the side of the basin. “I would think you’d have realized that.”

  “I’ve always noticed Jephue’s hair, not yours. If you dye it, then why leave the silver in at the temples?”

  “Boy, you are denser than a diamond at times.” He shot Jathen a narrowed silver-green glare in the mirror. “The silver is the dyed part. Clan don’t go gray naturally.”

  “But why dye it then?”

  “If you haven’t noticed, I’ve got the face of a thirty-year-old. All too often I’m treated like a ruddy child. The gray adds some distinction and gives the ignorant a visual cue that I’m older than I look.”

  Depositing his pack beside the bed atop his bedroll, Jathen raised an eyebrow. “I’m hoping that wasn’t what the fight was about.”

  “No.” Lips grim, he tapped the comb on the ceramic rim again. “It wasn’t.”

  Jathen sat on the edge of the bed. “The two of you are arguing a lot more than normal.”

  “The man is cranky about the flying, and I’m cranky about having to go slower.” He shrugged. “The road does this to people.”

  “You two were fighting well before we started on the road, and it’s been eons since we last flew.” Jathen asked tentatively, “Jephue didn’t want to come on this trip, did he?”