by D M Wozniak
This seems to take her off guard. “I don’t understand.”
“The Unnamed has plans for me,” he says, giving me an ever so brief glance. “It appears that he is leading me away from Fiscarlo.”
She lets go of the shovel and stands straighter. “But my place is by your side.”
“No,” he responds. “Your place is where you already are—with the ones who will listen to the teachings. You make me proud. You are ready.”
For a moment, all the daughter does is stare at her father, as a strong breeze rips though the camp. The tall bamboo trees sway noticeably.
“You’re leaving,” she says, incredulously. It is not a question.
Instead of replying, the effulgent picks up the shovel and begins filling in the grave again.
“You’re leaving me?” the daughter repeats, but this time her voice is much louder.
“It is the will of the Unnamed.”
She hesitates only a moment, a rapid conflict of emotions crossing her pale face. Then she takes a step toward him and says, “But you can't leave!”
The effulgent slams the edge of the shovel into the dirt, and looks up at her.
And then something very strange happens.
They begin conversing in another tongue.
I see their mouths moving, but I hear whispered sounds, almost like the wind. I look up to the treetops, momentarily confused, thinking that another strong breeze has made its way through the clearing, but the bamboo is currently motionless.
No. It’s coming from the two in front of me.
I’ve heard this language before, but I can’t remember where.
Then, suddenly, they both turn to me and go silent, as if they know that I’ve witnessed something private.
“We will talk about this later,” says the effulgent, back in the northern tongue. “After I am done here.”
The daughter’s lips quiver as she wipes a tear from her eye. She keeps it at bay, breathing in and out a few times before testing out a smile to no one. Only then does she walk back to the children and Chimeline, though I see her hands are balled into fists.
The effulgent puts his hand on the upright shovel, but he’s clearly overcome, both physically and emotionally. As he stares at the ground, a strange feeling stirs in me.
My former vindication is gone. It’s been buried with Anaxarchis’ body. Now, I feel guilt, as I sit idly by while the effulgent toils. If I am honest with myself, I am just as much to blame for Anaxarchis’ death as he is. I sent him here, alone. A student, unprepared.
I get up, silently take the shovel from the effulgent, and begin to fill the remainder of the grave.
As the layers of soil grow, I hope that we are burying more than just a body. I hope that this dirt covers our fears and prejudices, too. As if every shovelful marks a small step towards reconciliation, a common ground between faith and reason.
I’ve heard the effulgency talk about miracles, acts from their supposed Unnamed.
It just might take one of them for this to come true.
Anaxarchis’ grave is filled by midday.
The effulgent is adamant that we come back to the temple before departing. So after we say our goodbyes to Yisla and Yerla, Chimeline and I reluctantly return.
I remind him that I need horses. At least one large one for myself and Chimeline. Preferably two, to carry each of us individually. And some gold. It was stupid of me not to bring any, but I never planned for this journey. So I offer to sign a promissory note, which he could bring to the citadel for repayment.
He will have none of it. He says that beasts of burden are creatures of the dirt. And like the dirt, they are not to be bought and sold. He therefore freely gives me as many horses and gold as I need for my journey, which I graciously accept.
He also says there is one more thing I apparently need to take with me. He won’t say what it is, only that he needs to retrieve it from the temple.
And so, we wait.
Chimeline and I sit on a decorative iron bench within the temple’s shaded, stone-walled garden. Fragrant, flowering vines in shades of blue and lavender crawl up the walls. Birds chirp from a gnarled tree above.
It’s so beautiful here, so full of cavalier life, that I can almost forget that my student is dead.
Chimeline is preoccupied with the pond. She dips her feet in the clear water and laughs as goldfish nibble at her toes. But when she looks at me, her smile dissipates, like the ripples below.
“What’s wrong?” she asks.
I hunch my shoulders and feel a different sort of guilt—the last thing I want to do is unnecessarily drag her into the mire of my thoughts. “It’s nothing.”
She bites her lip. “No, something is wrong. Tell me.”
After a pause, I give a hesitant nod. “I was just thinking about Anaxarchis. That’s all.”
“It was not your fault.”
“Actually, it was. Partially, at least.”
She kicks her feet out repeatedly, letting the water droplets fly away, but her face is all seriousness. “Why do you say that?”
“He was an excellent student. But he wasn’t made for war. That’s why I picked him to come here, to save him from the king’s idiotic draft. To save him from harm.” I shake my head. “Anaxarchis was five feet tall. One hundred and thirty pounds. He was so timid, but he had the biggest of hearts.”
She puts her hand on mine.
“Sometimes all you can do is point people in the right direction.”
I smile at her kind words, but they don’t help.
“He gave me a gift, when he graduated. It’s in my office, hanging upon the wall.”
“A painting?”
I shake my head. “Anaxarchis came from a family of wainwrights. So, he carved for me a wheel made of millionescent wood.”
She wrinkles her nose. “A wheel?”
“It’s meant to be displayed, not used. There are four inscriptions on it. Not done with voidance, but with a chisel. Happiness, Loss, Suffering, and Hope. Those are what he called life’s four stages.”
With my free hand, I gesture in mid-air, drawing a circle in front of us. “Just as a wheel continually turns, our lives continually change. If we find ourselves caught up in love or overwhelming happiness, it will not last. Just like nothing done with voidance lasts. The world moves on.”
I move my finger a quarter’s way down the wheel.
“Love eventually leaves, happiness wanes.”
“That’s horrible, Dem.”
I nod. “I know. But from my experience, it’s true.”
I move my finger to the bottom of the wheel. “Then, when we think it’s as bad as it can get, it gets worse. We suffer. Sometimes greatly.”
I keep moving my finger through the air until it’s on the other side, almost near the top. “But we are strong, and we rise out of our suffering, wrapped in hope. Elusive happiness is out there, to be found again. The wheel continues to turn.”
I withdraw my hand and wipe my eyes with it.
Chimeline squeezes the other. “It sounds like a beautiful gift from a student who cherished their teacher.”
I nod. “Yes, it was.” I take a large breath to help push away the thought. “So, anyway, that is what I was thinking about. I was thinking about Anaxarchis’ wheel. I was wondering if it was still turning.”
Shortly past twelvebell, the effulgent finally steps out of the temple and into the small garden. He’s cleaned himself up, and wears a striking change of clothes. Gone is the white effulgency cloak. Instead of this, he’s dressed as a graycloak—a putty-colored, burlap cloak over his gray shirt, a braided belt, and a slightly darker pair of pants. He also wears dark brown boots made for riding.
As I look upon him in shock, he raises his cloak’s thick hood around his bald head, hiding most of his face in shadow.
“Are you ready?” he asks me.
I nod and look back at Chimeline. She’s standing now, strapping her new sandals on and grabbing the Book of Unw
anting from a nearby stone pedestal.
As recently as this morning, I would have wagered that Chimeline would stay here in Fiscarlo. She is obviously taken with the ways of the effulgency. And regardless of the reason, I would have been fine with her decision to stay. She is a graceful, resourceful woman, but my path forward is not going to be easy. I warned her of this before—danger lies ahead. Far more danger than drinking from the wrong well.
But here she is, seemingly as eager as I am to leave.
“The horses are waiting outside,” the effulgent adds.
He leads us through a side door of the temple, into the soft, colored light of the main room, and then back outside, via the wide front doors. There, at the bottom of the steps, a wrinkled villager holds the reins of three horses. I immediately recognize him as the one who brought Yerla to the temple on a leash. He glares at me.
The graycloak stands there too, but she looks remarkably different. She wears a blindingly white cloak which goes all the way to the dirt and contrasts her dark skin. She takes a few steps to meet us, and as she moves, the ripples in the fabric reflect the sun so effectively that I have to look away.
When I turn back, I see her hug her father tightly, tears falling down her smooth face.
Sensing that the father and daughter need privacy, I turn to Chimeline and motion to the waiting horses. We walk over together, and I pick out the smaller, tan one for her. She pats the side of its muzzle in greeting and the horse seems to study her with its massive eyes. I’m about to help Chimeline up when she gathers her white lace dress around her hips and climbs into the saddle with surprising ease.
With far less grace, I mount my black and white spotted horse. It shakes its head, braying, as I gather the reins from the villager. I have already settled into the saddle when the effulgent pulls away from his daughter. He climbs atop the third horse, a black mare that flicks its tail as if in impatience.
“I wager it’s pointless to ask you to stay,” I say.
He nods. “I have made my decision.”
“Even though the lesson has ended, and your village needs you more than I.”
He turns his shadowed hood to me. “You are wrong. The lesson is not yet finished.”
I shake my head in annoyance. I had been looking forward to leaving this impoverished village behind me. I had been looking forward to a brisk, afternoon ride southward with Chimeline. Whatever awaits us on this journey cannot be stranger than what has transpired here. But this effulgent tagging along—he’s going to be a constant reminder of this lunacy. Wherever we go, a small piece of Fiscarlo will be with me as well.
My horse whinnies, dragging me from my thoughts.
I let out a small, sardonic laugh. “That’s the final thing, isn’t it?”
He looks at me from beneath his gray hood.
“You said that I needed to take one more thing with me on my journey. Something that you needed to retrieve. You meant yourself.”
“Ah. No,” he says as he begins to pad his thigh pockets. “I have something for Chimeline.”
I am surprised that he used her name. Perhaps he is acclimating to reason.
He guides his horse over to ours and extends his upturned palm to Chimeline. On it rests a clear, glass vial containing a grayish-clear liquid. “This was on the black robe you were wearing, when you crashed. It seemed important.”
“What is that?” I ask.
Chimeline ignores me, takes the vial carefully between her thumb and forefinger, and places it in a small compartment in her saddlebag. Only then does she flash a fake smile and thank the effulgent.
“What is that?” I repeat.
“The extract of jasmine leaves,” she says quickly. “From the archipelago. It’s something of a good luck charm.”
She does not look at me as she talks, but I see the effulgent studying her intently within the darkness of his hood.
Part of me is intrigued by this peculiar interaction, but the overwhelming part of me that wishes to flee this village wins out.
“Alright then,” I say impatiently, alternating my gaze between them both. “Let’s go.”
I squeeze my legs and gently direct my horse down the path, away from the temple and through a row of at least a hundred slender palms. Looking up, the high sun shines between the trunks, but it’s already started to fall into the west. It’s situated to the right of me, which means that I am headed in the correct direction.
South, and away from this cursed place.
But before we’ve passed a dozen trees, the graycloak yells out behind us, and I stop, cursing while I turn my horse a bit.
She’s running down the length of the road, her dress causing rays of reflected sun to flicker in the half-shade. But before she approaches us, she stops suddenly in place, at least twenty feet away, as if she’s afraid to come any closer.
The effulgent pulls back his hood, but stays perched upon his horse.
“It was me,” she yells out to her father, and then she meets my gaze briefly, before turning back to him. “I was the one who burnt down the voider’s house.”
She stands straighter, steeling herself for her father’s reaction. Her gown shimmers in the wind.
The effulgent does not say a word.
“I wanted you to know, so that I would no longer own this secret. I do not own the dark.”
Everyone looks at the effulgent now, waiting for his reaction. He doesn’t nod, nor does he shake his head. He doesn’t even look at his daughter, who begins to tear up. He simply pulls up his hood once again, slaps the reins, and continues south, down the dirt road.
“Don’t you have anything to say?” she calls out to his back.
“Be nothing,” he finally says, almost flippantly. His voice is weak, and he barely turns his head to the side.
“Be nothing? I did it for you!” she yells. And then much softer, she says, almost to herself, “I did it for you, father.”
Father.
I turn in place, and for a long time, I watch the man on horseback head down the length of the road. I keep wondering if he will turn back to glance at his daughter one last time. Some parting gesture of intimacy. Some final words besides the common salutation.
But he doesn’t turn back. His body seems lifeless. As the beast moves, its burden seems to sway side to side, as if it is only governed by the forces of the external world and nothing else. A heavy sack of grain. Not once does the effulgent adjust his position on the saddle. He remains motionless, with his head cast slightly downward, even after he has become only a gray shape in the distance.
He was telling the truth the entire time.
“I should go and talk to her,” Chimeline says.
I turn to her and nod. “Perhaps you should stay here in Fiscarlo. It will certainly be the safer option.”
“I want to go with you.”
“If you’re coming with me, we leave now.”
Chimeline looks back empathetically at the woman, obviously conflicted. The daughter has dropped to her knees, and both of her hands cover her face.
I surprise myself by studying Chimeline, as a different sort of conflict arises within me.
I want her to come with me more than I care to admit.
“Alright.”
I feel a tremble of relief.
“She is a strong woman,” Chimeline adds. “She’ll get over it. Just like I did.”
I open my mouth to ask her what she means, but I sense that this is not the right time or place.
So we turn our horses south and follow the effulgent, who is now but a dot on the hilltop. As we catch up, the shouts and laughter of two distant children are carried over on the breeze. They’re running full through the tall grasses, but they cannot match the pace of our horses.
It’s Yisla and Yerla, waving goodbye.
PART THREE
The Skullman
The Winds of Gales
During the first day and night, the three of us barely speak to one another.
The effulgent is even more distant than usual. Despite the sunshine, he keeps his gray hood pulled up around his head, as if he wants to shut out the entire world. The only thing the two of us speak about is navigation.
Fiscarlo is a remote town. It’s an entire day’s journey on horseback to Xi Bay Road, which is one of the thoroughfares that cut through the Northern Kingdom. Running parallel to the River Xi, the road extends all way to Xi Bay. We agree that we’ll make better progress on a well-maintained, level road than uneven paths full of boulders, rain-washed gullies, and dead-ends.
Chimeline spends most of the day lost in thought. As the sun begins to fall, she asks us to stop so that she can find her blanket in the saddlebag. As she tugs the blanket free, her glass vial of jasmine extract falls upon the rocky ground, and she breathes in quickly. I turn at the sound, but luckily, it doesn’t shatter, and she stuffs it back inside the bag without a word.
It seems I am the only one who content with our journey, knowing that I am on my way south again toward Marine and the veiled man.
But I keep even this optimism guarded.
I desperately need a sign. Some evidence that I am on the right path. Yes, I am headed south, but I still have no idea where the two are headed. The airship could've taken them anywhere by now, although it's a safe bet they didn't cross into the Southern Kingdom. We’re at war. Any airship flying south of the border would be shot down by Xian flamebowmen or voiders. Which means that their destination is probably somewhere between me and Xi Bay.
Destination.
I keep wondering if they were being pushed or pulled. Four nights ago, when they left in a rush, were they fleeing the king’s wrath or some other danger? What if the veiled man was a Xian spy, his cover blown? Is it possible that they have no destination at all, and are simply trying to run away as far and as fast as they can?
Still, I doubt it. There must be something drawing them south.
The rogue lab that Chimeline and I stumbled across never strays far from my thoughts. It was filled with sick military applications of voidance. The harem girls were sent there for tests, with three shallow graves their only repayment. And Chimeline said that the king knew.
