by Pemry Janes
The other guard sighed. “I told you not to drink so much.” He turned his attention to Eurik. “And you, get lost.”
Eurik wanted to argue, wanted to force his way through. But that was Rise of the Mountain, the Way of earth. He could do it, but angering these people would not get him what he wanted. Letting go of earth, he took a step back. Eurik would follow Dance of the Whirlwind. Give way and come at your target from a different direction.
Come back with Misthell and hopefully meet a pair guards who were willing to listen.
Chapter 12
Judgment
They had to wait a few hours the next morning before someone from the shamans came to collect Eurik. Silver Fang came with him and together they made their way through Chappenuioc once more.
However, they didn’t end up in the same place as last time. This was a more open area in between two buildings. There was an awning above their heads, giving some shade. Fifteen people sitting in chairs, each one wearing the shawl and bronze rod of a shaman, awaited them. Each of the chairs had a carving of an animal’s head at the top of its backrest, one that matched the head of the rod of the person sitting in that chair.
There’s a shaman from each of the tribes here. Leraine was right. This is more than just a decision on whether I can compete in a game. He only recognized the one who had interrogated him. She was sitting to his left, four seats from that end of the half circle.
Eurik bowed to them. “You’ve made a decision?”
The one sitting in the center wasn’t the one to speak. Instead, a shaman two seats over on the right leaned forward. Above him, a sort of massive dolphin bared its teeth. “Not quite. We have debated the matter, but agreement is hard to come by. Only one of us saw any evidence and while none here would doubt her word,” the shaman said, one person seated to his left shifting in their seat as the speaker paused.
He spread his hands. “We need to see the evidence for ourselves. I’ll volunteer my vipaen for the demonstration.” He held up his rod. The figure on top wasn’t simply a head, but the full body of the creature. It was some sort of massive dolphin, a killer whale if Eurik recalled right. It had been years since he read Lollandros’ bestiary.
“And what will that prove?” Another shaman gave Eurik a glance, but her attention was mostly on the one who had volunteered. An elk’s head decorated her chair. “Magic can take many forms. Horse people, people-eaters, sun-people, short-people, dragons. All have their own type of magic, but none are like the blessings the spirits provide us.”
“That’s not entirely true,” someone else said. “The dragons, for one—”
“There is no need to repeat this discussion,” the original speaker said with a loud voice. Then he spoke more softly and gestured toward Eurik. “Especially with an audience that is waiting on our decision.”
“Perhaps a different demonstration is in order,” Eurik said, thoughts racing.
The one in the elk chair regarded him. “And what would that prove?”
“You wish proof that I am connected to the world. But the world is not just the earth we stand on. It is the wind around us, the waters of the rivers and oceans, the fire that brings us light and life. As I said, I am a student, I don’t know all the Ways.” He would likely never be a master. It took more than a human’s lifetime to learn enough. Zasashi had told him not even a master knew everything.
But Eurik had learned a thing or two since leaving the island. He moved his arms. Up here, the wind had room to move and whatever dampened the wind chiri on the Road wasn’t present here in Chappenuioc itself. The air stirred, the canopy fluttering rhythmically in time with the motion of his quickening limbs.
“But I can rise as the mountain, I can dance with the wind.” A maelstrom of wind formed between Eurik and the seated shamans, faster and faster. Eurik felt his hair ruffling, the shamans had to put a hand on their shawls to keep them from getting plucked right off their heads.
He drew the chiri into himself and spun around. He danced with the small tornado. His heart beat fast, a laugh on his lips as the freedom gave him wings.
“Enough!”
He noticed Silver Fang first, holding herself upright by digging her fingers into one of the supports of the building next to this open area. The shamans likewise had ducked into their chairs and were holding on tight to both their shawls and their seating.
Getting a hold of himself, Eurik slowed down. He at least knew better than to just stop and let the built-up chiri go wherever. Most of it he blasted off into the wide open sky in between the rings.
“You may decide that what I do is not proof of a world spirit,” he said in the sudden calm. “But as I have told Silver Fang, what I do is not magic.”
The shamans looked at each other, and the one in the elk chair stopped rearranging her shawl. “I don’t know what that was, but I’m reluctant to tie it to a spirit. Still, if he can use it within Chappenuioc . . .”
The tallest among them—sitting in a chair decorated with a bear—extended his hand to her. “What else can work here?”
“What I would like to know is if he can affect the stone of Chappenuioc.” The words of the woman in the wolf chair caused all discussion to die as the gathered shamans looked at Eurik.
He shook his head. “No. Whatever the Inza used, it’s not of this world.”
Everyone leaned back in their chairs, except the one in the elk one. “You say that, but how do we—”
“Enough, Sharp Prong,” the woman seated across from her said. Her chair had a horned sheep on it. “We’ve discussed this more than enough. We even had the loretellers here to recount nearly forgotten tales of the plant-people. I’m satisfied that there is evidence of a world spirit. Perhaps this is not a great spirit, but if it is strong enough to grant power like this to someone, it doesn’t matter.” She turned her attention to Eurik. “Though I must urge for a stipulation that this competitor is not allowed to use this spirit’s power externally. If he uses the wind to blow his competition away, he’s out of the games.”
Sharp Prong looked around and sat back herself, her arms crossed. “Very well. We have spent enough time on this.”
“Good.” The voice was threadbare, barely a croak. The person in the center chair had wrinkled hands, and long, stringy gray hair spilled out from under her shawl. She was the oldest here by far, had to be. On top of her chair, the long head of a crocodile leered at everybody. “I’m relieved to hear we can finally vote. Those in favor of recognizing a world spirit, of whatever status?”
Many held up their rods. Sharp Prong was not among them, neither were four others. But apparently it wasn’t enough, for the old shaman merely nodded. “The existence of a world spirit has been accepted. And on the matter of whether this competitor may use his spirit’s power to affect others in the competition?”
Not a single rod went up. “I thought so,” the Crocodile shaman said. “This is the judgment of this tidaechanek. You may compete, young man. But your spirit may only aid you, not hinder others. You can tell Bitten Fin here which events you wish to compete in. This tidaechanek is dissolved.”
Nearly all got up and left, the old shaman requiring the help of a young man who had stood off to the side. Bitten Fin turned out to be the one in the killer whale chair. He approached them, with a noticeable hitch in his step.
“I just realized,” Bitten Fin said. “We didn’t actually ask if this world spirit of yours can affect you rather than the world around you. All the great spirits can, yes, but we’d never heard of a world spirit before.”
“There is no issue there. Using the Ways to enhance one’s own body is one of the simpler techniques.” Though using earth chiri was going to be difficult within the rings. He’d have to rely on wind instead.
“Good, good. Well, come on. I understand you were looking to compete in the unarmed combat event?” He headed down the walkway, his limp barely slowing him down.
“You go,” Silver
Fang said. “I have something to discuss with the shamans here.”
Eurik waited a moment longer, but she gave no sign that she was going to tell him what it was about. “All right. Uh, I will meet you back in Snake’s Quarter then.”
He only needed to jog a little to catch up to Bitten Fin. The killer whale shaman hadn’t slowed down and only gave him a brief glance when Eurik came up to him. “So yes, I would like to fight in the unarmed event. But I would also like to compete in the Three Games.”
“Excellent. Too many these days only have eyes for the games where there’s a chance blood will flow. But the Three Games is what the Conclave Games started with. They were even their own individual events, back then.”
“I did not know that.”
Bitten Fin shrugged. “History now. They’ve been relegated to the first day of the Games. The other four are now solely dedicated to fighting. Ah, what am I complaining? Better they do it here to celebrate what binds us than out there breaking the Great Truce.”
The shaman turned his head to follow two Mochedan wearing something like armor. Though the leather wasn’t boiled and the metal on it was too thin to offer much protection. Eurik had seen more and more of that style since he’d arrived in Chappenuioc. Garments that resembled armor, or basically were armor.
“If only it were enough.” Bitten Fin jerked his head. “Enough. Come, we’ll get you written up. I’m sure you will want to prepare yourself.”
***
Leraine took a deep breath and followed the Snake shaman. She was in a discussion with some of her fellows, so Leraine stayed back at a respectful distance and waited for an opportunity. It came when the shaman bid the others goodbye and turned around with her arms crossed. The lines of her face deepened with disapproval.
“Well? You’ve been hounding my steps long enough. Spit it out.”
Leraine averted her gaze. “I apologize. I didn’t wish to disturb.”
“So instead you waste more of my time.”
She bit down on another apology. “I wish to dedicate a trophy to the spirits.”
The shaman regarded her. Leraine wished she knew who this was. Probably not Urumoy or she would have had to have gone to Chappenuioc before Leraine’s time. The shaman’s vipaen would offer no clue and shamans didn’t have draen. They belonged less to the tribe and more to the Great Spirit. Supposed to, anyway.
“Ah, yes, the girl who slew a greater demon. Silver Fang.” Her nail traced the head of her vipaen. “Fine. Let’s get this over with.” She muttered some more things after she’d turned away, too low for Leraine to catch.
As Leraine followed, doubt beset her again. Was this the right course? Certainly, White Gale and Flashing Reed had spurned the offering but they might still reconsider. Eventually, at some point in time.
Except they had shunned her. Their door had remained closed when she’d come by, and none of them had come to the festival. No, any reconciliation would be long in waiting, if it ever came.
They passed into the inner sanctum, the center of Chappenuioc. High above, beams and planks made from ancient Rott Ruus trees formed a pointed roof. And filling much of the floor were the sacred statues of the Great Spirits. Those that still had tribes to take care of them were adorned with gold and silver jewelry, sparkling with jewels of every color. Their wood shone, polished daily.
Those statues that represented lost tribes, like Hawk, Turtle, Mouse, and Rabbit were not neglected. But they lacked the rich adornments and they only had one small altar each.
The shaman, who had still not told Leraine her name, ignited an oil lamp and led her down a winding set of stairs to the ground level.
The smell changed. The acrid smell of wood polish disappeared, so did the fragrance of wood dust. The aroma of the burning oil couldn’t hide a moldy scent mixed with the sharp smell of rust. The smell thickened as they shuffled into the dark, cluttered chamber that had been divided up like a cake.
“Now let’s see. It has been a long time since someone wanted to dedicate a demon’s parts to the spirits. That thing went out of fashion with the Rift War. Good thing too, something foul clings to them still. Those horse people can’t stop fooling with things they can’t control.”
“I’m not here for that.”
The shaman whirled around. “What? Then why did you have me go down all the way to here? And you told me you wanted to dedicate a trophy to the spirits,” she said, pointing a long finger at Leraine.
“Yes, the tooth of a blooddrinker. He killed my teacher and I avenged her death. But her daughters—”
Squinting, the shaman looked her up and down before nodding. “Right. Well, that’s better.” She turned away. The light playing over rusted weapons and rotting shields. Pitted armor buried under a thick carpet of spiderwebs reflected the light weakly. Gold and silver shone in the light of the lamp, gems glittered.
“There are demon hearts here, then?”
“Yes. This place holds trophies from every conflict. Elven knives, spurs from when the horse people first arrived, banners captured when the soulless first came to our shores. Many of those have fallen down since. And over there a mirror captured from the Traitor-Mage himself,” the shaman said, pointing at one of the rooms. “Two Fang herself brought that one in. In truth, half of what’s here is because it’s the safest place to keep it. Which honors the spirits in another way, for they love the world as much as we do, or more.”
The shaman approached one of the doors, blew dust off of a plaque stained nearly completely green, then moved on. “Ah, here’s the one. Show me the tooth, girl, and tell me how it was obtained. Who did it belong to?”
“It belonged to a blooddrinker called Rik. No, his name was Sharverik. He worked for a Bone Lord called Merin. He wanted a living sword and tasked Rik with acquiring it. We happened to be there when the blooddrinker made his move. He killed Irelith.”
“And you killed him in turn?”
Leraine shook her head. “No. I . . . I used the owner of the sword as bait. But instead, I got captured. I escaped and, together with Rock, we took on Rik and this bone construct of Merin.” The flickering flame and darkness hid the shaman’s face. If she’d noticed Rock’s name in the tale, Leraine couldn’t see it.
“He let me borrow Misthell, the living sword, and I took on Rik. But in the end,” Leraine said, bearing her silver tooth, “I killed him with this. Rik was arrogant and thought nothing of the lives of others. Only his own fun.” She spat the last word out. “Irelith was worth a thousand of him. But all I can offer is this.” Leraine retrieved the fang from her pouch and held it up.
The shaman raised her right hand, waving her fingers over the fang as she softly chanted. Even before she announced it, Leraine could tell it had worked. The fang shivered in the palm of her hand, though not in a way that she could see.
“It has been accepted.” The shaman walked over to a shelf and picked up another clay oil lamp. She lit it using her own and offered it to Leraine. “It will show you its proper place. Go.”
Leraine looked around, then at the fang in her hand. The glimpse of the shaman’s expression put a stop to any thought of asking her for a direction. “Right.”
Walking around her, Leraine looked around for a clue. The level had been divided up into a number of rooms arranged around a central chamber. That chamber itself had piles of stuff lying all around. Some of the doors were closed, others weren’t. Through the cracks, she saw more dust and spiderwebs with ancient relics buried underneath. Shelves bowed with age and weight.
The fang in her palm kept shivering, but she noted that the intensity grew and waned. She retraced her steps, the shivering grew. She stepped back, it slackened. The shaman did tell me it would show me its proper place.
The shivering led her to a shut door. Opening it wasn’t easy. The hinges had not been oiled in a long time, the door itself barely fitting in the frame. Not until she set down her lamp and pulled with both hands and her full w
eight did it shoot open.
Leraine glanced at the shaman, but she hadn’t paid attention to her struggles. The shaman instead was examining a nearby chamber. Relieved, Leraine picked up her lamp and took a step inside.
Her steps kicked up dust, a spiderweb tangled itself into her short hair. Nobody had been in here in some time; months, years even. But there was a path through the clutter, an old trail through the dust on the floor and the webs.
She passed a chest with one half of its lid caved in. Within, dull daggers and rusty axe-heads lay in a jumble. On a shelf, a helmet with a crest rested right next to a skull nearly twice its size. Broad, with large tusks, it took Leraine a moment to place it. A troll’s skull, unusually large.
Leraine wondered about the story behind that one. Did anybody still remember it? It would have been an impressive hunt, a fierce struggle. But why had it been dedicated to the spirits?
The fang jumped in her hand, but when Leraine looked at it the fang laid perfectly still. Yet it felt like it was dancing on her palm. She extended her hand and slowly moved it about, only to jump herself when something crashed. It hadn’t been in this room.
“Everything all right?”
There was no reply. “Shaman? Can you hear me?”
“Yes! Just some mice.”
Leraine had a hard time hearing the reply between her own coughing. She’d inhaled some dust with that last shout. “I see.”
The shaman didn’t ask if she was all right. Breathing through her nose, Leraine struggled to focus on the fang. On the way it felt in her hand. It led her to a shelf in the back, a little box in between a shriveled hand and a flute she recognized. She’d seen them only from afar, but the bone flutes of the elves had left an impression.
Leraine nearly put the oil lamp on the shelf, then gave it a closer look and thought better. Setting it on the floor, she worked in deep shadow to lift the lid of the box open. There were a lot of teeth within, yellowed with age. Some had fading blood stains.