The Way of the Soul

by Stuart Jaffe

  When she approached the table, her mother gazed up and down — simultaneously an appraisal and an inspection. To the hostess, her mother said, “We’ll both have the ator fish with the sauce on the side, and basselberries, no sugar.”

  The hostess offered her most practiced smile. “I’ll send your waiter over at once for your order.”

  “You can tell the waiter our order. I don’t need to repeat it. Thank you.” As the hostess left, Reon’s mother muttered, “Service in these places keeps getting worse and worse. It’s because they hire all their help from the West. Bunch of lazy, godless idiots.”

  Great, Reon thought. She’s miffed.

  “So, Reon dear, how are your studies?”

  “Fine.” Reon launched into a description of the various courses she took and her recent high marks — applied mathematics, 10th century literature, and physics of magic. She barely heard herself speak and doubted her mother listened much. The entire conversation, beginning to end, every lunch, had become a prepared litany. The same questions, the same answers. The entire reason for the lunch seemed more as a way for her mother to check off Spent Time With Daughter rather than actually spend time with her daughter.

  Reon could not pinpoint the exact moment when they had stopped listening to each other, but she knew exactly when that process had begun — the morning after Lord Harskill had first appeared. Her parents had been sitting at breakfast. Little, seven-year-old Reon hurried to the table, excited because she had met a god.

  Her parents dismissed it as a dream, one that bordered on sacrilege, and suggested she go to church after school and pray for forgiveness. She insisted that it truly had happened which only caused her mother to dig in deeper. They skipped school that day and instead spent five hours kneeling on the uncomfortable prayer blocks at church, begging for forgiveness and praying that Reon had not been possessed by some demon.

  It was during those five hours that Reon decided she would listen to all that the Lord Harskill had said. He wanted her to grow strong. He asked her to study hard, to become bright, and to become a skilled warrior. Because some day, Lord Harskill had promised, he would return and would require her to help save the world.

  Fifteen years had passed, and though he did return once, it was not time for her to serve then — not as a warrior. She buried that wonderful memory of his second visit — it was not something she wanted to think about while her mother prattled on across the table.

  “Well,” her mother said, “promise me, at the least, that you won’t be late to the dinner you’ve been invited to.”

  “What dinner?”

  “Young Brandon Corhickle requested your attendance to a private dinner. I, of course, accepted on your behalf.”

  “Are you seriously setting me up on a blind date?”

  “It’s not a blind date. You’ve known Brandon for years.”

  “When we were kids. Besides, I've no interest in him.”

  “You have no interest in any man. I’m starting to think you might not like men at all.”

  Reon placed her hands under the table and rolled her fingers up into tight fists. “I don’t have any interest in the kind of men you want me to date.”

  “Why? Because Brandon doesn’t swing a sword around and punch pads all day like a simple-minded beast?”

  “There’s nothing simple about martial arts. And it’s part of my ...” Reon wanted to say that it was part of her calling, that the one true Lord Harskill required her to be in peak physical condition, well-trained and ready to fight. But she had learned after that endurance prayer session at seven never to mention Lord Harskill again.

  Luckily, Reon’s mother never listened much. “Brandon may not be muscular or have the physical prowess you seek, but he’s a good man and he goes to our church.”

  There it was. Of all the moneyed, weak-minded fools she could choose, she picked one associated with the church. It wasn’t the first time Reon’s mother had attempted to fix her up with a man that would somehow magically bring her back into the folds of the Dulmulim and it probably wouldn’t be the last time. But it was a wasted effort.

  She had no need for Brandon Corhickle. She had met the Lord Harskill. It had not been a vision or a hallucination or any false experience caused by a fault in the brain. He had stood before her. In the flesh. And she had faith that all of her efforts — her education, her martial arts training, the fact that she prayed to him every night — would not go unheard.

  “Pay attention to me.” Her mother pointed a long-nailed finger. Reon had not noticed when it happened, but her mother’s face had tightened — a bitter, serious look. “You are twenty-two years old and have done nothing. By the time I was your age, I had been married and thrown my first big gala. Successfully. I had joined the church and already had begun to climb the social ladder to the exalted position I now hold, heading the entire women’s group for our faith. You cannot throw your life away like this. You cannot waste the family name and the family money. You are in Gull University now. That’s a name that you have to live up to. You should be finding a husband. You should be gaining a position of notoriety instead of kicking bags and dancing around with swords.”

  Reon had heard this all before. Each time, however, felt like a drop of burning tar on her skin. She had endured the pain enumerable times. She saw herself as a tar-collecting vat which could hold no more.

  Before she could stop herself, she banged the table. “Maybe I don’t want all of that. Maybe I’m not interested in all of your money or your popularity, and I’m certainly not interested in Dulmul.”

  Her mother checked around the room, assessing the possible embarrassment should one of her friends or enemies witness this scene. “What are you going to do? Join the golgol cult, I suppose? That’s what all the rich brats do now. It’s the latest fad, and I know how you like to follow the fads.”

  “No, Mom. I’m not a cultist and I certainly don’t believe in any of the other religions. They’re all false. You know very well the real god. I’ve met him. The Lord Harskill.”

  Reon had never seen her mother so angry. Barely moving her mouth, she said, “Don’t you ever speak that name again. Do you understand me? Never. I thought we were done with that when you were a child.”

  “You were done with it. Not me.”

  “He’s not real.”

  “I met him.”

  “Then he’s a demon trying to snatch your soul from the benevolence of Dulmul.”

  As the waiter delivered the fish, Reon stood. “Thanks for such a wonderfully supportive mother/daughter moment. And you can tell Brandon that if he wanted to date me, he should’ve asked me directly and not gone through my mother.”

  Back in the autocar, Reon punched the seat three times. The autocar chirped up, “This vehicle is property of Tro-new Services. Vandalizing this vehicle is against the law and will result in substantial fines and penalties. Please desist.”

  Reon knelt on the autocar’s floor and lowered her head. She closed her eyes and thought of the Lord Harskill. It had been a difficult fifteen years. Growing up, playing with friends, learning about her world, trying to enjoy life — all of it proved taxing when she knew the Lord waited for her to be ready for some undisclosed moment in time when she would be called upon to fulfill her task. To help save the world. Everything in her life not connected with preparing for that moment seemed frivolous.

  But fifteen years was a long time. Though he did return once, she had no idea nor promise when he would come again. What if he did not return for twenty more years? What if when he returned she was too old to fight for him? Her whole life would have been wasted. But the Lord Harskill had commanded her to do these things — who was she to question him?

  I shouldn’t let my mother get to me like this.

  The autocar dropped her off at the Gull University Student Center with a familiar chime and the usual statement. “I hope you enjoyed my driving. Please tap into Autoreviews and leave a 5-star rating. Have a pleasant day.�
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  She headed back to her apartment. Her stomach gurgled — not from hunger, though. Whenever she had lunch with her mother, the unique brand of tension that woman created left Reon’s stomach in knots.

  She watched the students walking from class to class, building to building, lugging their bags of supplies. It seemed rather mundane now. Her education was important, as part of her preparation for the Lord Harskill, but all these other people — what did they need to learn for? Just so they could make money? They were all such a minuscule piece of a massive universe that cared nothing about what their brains could do.

  Shaking her head around the thought, Reon knew she needed to go punch a bag and spar for an hour. That would clear her mind. After, she would spend the evening praying to Lord Harskill and hope, like she did every night, that he would soon return. But first, she had to deal with her bubbling stomach.

  By the time she entered her apartment, her discomfort had become urgency. She rushed to the bathroom, thrust down her pants, and sat just in time. Even without eating any lunch, her body still found things to evacuate.

  As she cleaned up, she started to laugh softly. Here, more than anything, was proof that Dulmul was a fiction. Dulmul supposedly created everything to a specific and clear design. But Reon often thought that people were poorly designed. She could have done far better.

  “At least, I would’ve made crapping less of a messy business.” The sound of her words echoing in the small bathroom brought another smile to her face. No doubt about it — if Dulmul existed, he failed in the god department. If Reon could figure out that the body was inefficient, then a god should have done so long before he created everything.

  At least, Lord Harskill never claimed to have created the world.

  She flushed the toilet, washed up, and left the bathroom — her state of mind improving as the pain in her stomach receded. But a second later, she wished she could run back to the toilet. Lord Harskill stood in the center of her room.

  Reon fell to her knees and bowed her head.

  “It’s time,” he said.

  Her body shook. Despite all she had learned about controlling her muscles, she could not stop shaking. Then she realized tears flowed from her eyes. She gazed upward.

  Lord Harskill frowned. “Are you hurt?”

  “No,” she said, wiping at her eyes. “I’m full of joy.” Her stomach felt fine, too.

  Chapter 3

  Malja

  The portal closed behind them, and before Malja could take in her surroundings, the groyle scampered away. Fawbry headed after it but stopped when his foot sank in the swampy muck. Heavy foliage and humid air pressed in on them. Without a word, Malja knew Fawbry saw what she saw — they could easily get lost in a place like this.

  “Guess we should stick close together,” he said.

  Malja walked by Fawbry, deeper into the swamp, her focus on the direction the groyle had gone. “Come on. Hopefully that little thing is running someplace useful.”

  “What if it isn’t?”

  “You got any other idea which way to go?”

  Fawbry stepped forward. His foot created a horrible sucking sound as it pulled from the swamp. When he placed it down, he sank to his knees. “Oh, this is going to be a wonderful hike.”

  They pressed onward, the only sounds the sloshing of the swamp and the repetition of Fawbry’s grunts. Malja felt a bit of sympathy for him — he didn’t have a do-kha to keep him dry and warm. In the past, her do-kha would soothe her aches and help heal her injuries. Maybe it no longer could. Maybe that’s why her muscles were sore all the time. Maybe her do-kha was dying.

  She frowned. “Do you think that groyle told the truth?”

  “You thinking Harskill set us up in a trap?”

  “No. Maybe. I wasn’t thinking about him. I was asking because I’ve always thought of my do-kha as a living creature. I never really considered that it could be made somewhere.”

  “Or that it was a female.”

  “That, too.” Malja shuddered.

  Fawbry sneezed into the water. “You should be more concerned about this swamp than whether your do-kha is male or female. Only Kryssta knows what kinds of diseases are in here.”

  “Keep walking. I’m sure we’ll find the groyle soon.”

  “Really? Because I haven’t seen a single clue as to where that thing went. I know you well. You’ll just keep walking until we hit something and then you’ll act like that was your intended target all along. But I’ve been with you long enough. We’re probably lost already and you won’t admit it.”

  “Fawbry —”

  “Don’t try to placate me.” He smacked the water, and when he pulled his hand back, a long weed clung to his fingers. “This world is disgusting. And I keep feeling things bumping into my legs.”

  “I’m sure it will —”

  “Stop it. I don’t need you to tell me how it’ll all work out. What does that even mean now? We’ve been on tons of worlds and all that ever happens is we don’t find Harskill. Accept it — you won’t find him until he wants to be found. And what are you going to do when he shows up? It’s not like you’ve ever actually told me what the point of all this hunting is. I mean, are you really going to kill him? Or is it going to be like all the times before where you want to kill him but you hold back because he’s your only connection to finding other Gate?”

  Malja stomped over to Fawbry. “He had his chances. Many of them. And I’ve met other Gate. I’m not impressed. I don’t need them anymore. I just want to find Harskill and stop him from hurting anybody else.”

  “Does that mean —”

  “Yes. I want to kill him.”

  Malja glared cold and hard — partially to shut Fawbry down, partially to quell her own thoughts. All her concerns over her shaking hands had to be locked away, set aside for calmer days. She would deal with it then — some calmer time in the future.

  Under the pressure of Malja’s intense scrutiny, Fawbry did not back away. Though every day made him braver when confronting her, Malja still found it impressive to see him stand his ground. She could count on him to speak his mind to her.

  She grabbed his face and saw fear fill his eyes. Pulling him close, she kissed the top of his head. “You’re a good friend. But don’t worry. This time, I will finish things.” Walking away, she smirked at the thought of his stunned face.

  He splashed behind her as he raced to catch up. “If we’re really going to face Harskill at some point, I mean if we’re doing more than simply following his crumbs, then shouldn’t we bring Tommy along with us? He’d make this whole thing a lot easier.”

  “He’s done enough.” Malja hoped that would stop Fawbry from pressing further, but he had brought this up before.

  She wanted to say that Tommy was still a boy in her mind, that she had spent so many years protecting him and trying to limit his use of magic that the mere idea of putting him in a dangerous situation revolted her. Though he had proven to be one the most powerful magicians she had ever come across, though he had managed to control his power and appeared not to be losing his mind from using magic, she simply could not accept being the cause of his downfall, should it ever happen.

  “He’s not a child anymore,” Fawbry said. “He’s married now.”

  Malja barely opened her mouth to speak. “I know.”

  “Then stop treating him —”

  “You really think he should abandon his wife to traipse across world after world for us?”

  “Not every world. But we could use his help here. And so what if he’s married? I didn’t mean that as an excuse for him. Heck, Hirasa and I will get married soon.”

  Malja wanted to hold on to her anger, but the mention of Fawbry getting married caused her to stop walking so she could laugh. “You and Hirasa? What’s the hold up?”

  “Why’s that funny?”

  “She’s crazy about you. She would’ve married you the day Tommy and the Artisoll got married. So what’re you waiting on?”


  Fawbry stared at her and uttered a few sounds. “Oh, forget it. Let’s keep walking.”

  As he sloshed by Malja, she burst into more laughter. They moved deeper into the swamp and finally reached a section of semi-dry land. A clear footpath marked the way.

  “We’re getting close,” Malja said.

  “To what?”

  She shrugged and followed the path. Only minutes later, she heard Fawbry yelp. Spinning back, she saw him fall up to his waist in the ground. The spot had looked solid when she walked by it, but when Fawbry stepped across, the area opened up into a soupy, muddy mess.

  “Malja,” he whispered, and she heard the shake in his voice. “Something’s in here with me.”

  Before she could respond, two long roots snaked up his chest, latched onto his shoulders, and yanked Fawbry below the surface. Malja whipped out Viper and leaped to the edge of the muddy pool. She stared at the liquid, searching for any sign of Fawbry or the creature that attacked him. She saw only dirt and leaves and insects crawling across the shifting mud.

  “By Korstra,” she said and hacked a long branch off a nearby tree. Holding the branch at one end, she poked it into the mud near where she saw Fawbry go under. She churned the pool with slow circles of the branch.

  Something tapped against the branch. It tapped again. Then a desperate hand pulled hard. Malja tightened her grip so as not to lose control and dug her feet into the ground. Whatever pulled back refused to yield. Small steps back, little by little. She would not lose. She refused.

  Fawbry’s head broke the surface. He gasped and coughed. His hands clung to the branch even as the creature’s tendrils clung to him.

  Malja wanted to jump forward and cut the tendrils off with Viper, but doing so would require that she let the branch go. She had no doubt that the creature would drag Fawbry back down before she could strike. But her muscles shook as she pulled back even further. Her do-kha tried to sooth her arms but she could only hold on to this stalemate for a little longer.