by Ko, John
Around her are her friends. Fate, Monster and Lene have each prepared their own special sauces for the occasion. They’re going around seeing which everyone likes best. It’s close, but in the end she chooses Fate’s. It tastes fresh, making her think of an island, of sun and ocean breezes. Not that she’s ever been, but it isn’t hard to imagine.
This is how life should be. Everyone’s here. Rachel can’t even recognize all the auras. There’s the whole team of course, including Poe, the inn’s regulars, the trio of priests, half the clerks on Tour, and a slew of others drawn to the sounds of a party. A triple celebration at that, in honor of their first victory, Riser’s seventeenth birthday and to everyone’s shock, Fate’s eighteenth, as well.
Poe plays a festive ditty, Sensei accompanies, and Riser and Fate try to teach Monster and Wake a traditional Bae dance. We did it! Wake really did it. I’m so proud of him. I can’t wait to see the Memory.
“Shine, come on, you have to learn this one. We decided it’s our Team Dance,” Fate calls out.
“Alright, but I think I’ll need Riser’s help to make sure I’m doing it right.” She’s ready to make a fool of herself. She’s never ever tried to dance before, but she’s also never ever been in a Flag match, and that turned out just fine.
Chapter 29
MY
[Above the Stewards & Raiders Inn, Greenwood]
The feasting continues late into the night, though those who should be celebrating most have long gone to bed. It’s been a long couple days, and their Captain warned them of the long days of training ahead. Which no one has any complaints about whatsoever.
If anyone could see the top of the roof, they’d find a boy has made his bed up there. Underneath the night sky, he lies there, a knee propped up, hands behind his head, staring up at the stars. He whispers words to someone he thinks will never hear them. The Fate wonders if this is the happiness she spoke of. It wasn’t, but now it really is … I’m so happy for you.
Chapter 30
OLD MAN
[Passage to Imber, Valley of Clouds]
The Old Man walks through the downpour—the rain falling everywhere but on him.
Even on the clearest of days this stretch of mountain road is considered quite treacherous. But to one whose feet never actually touch the mud, there is no fear of slipping on it. A lifetime ago, he gave up all luxury, but some habits are hard to break.
It’s been almost as long since he’s last seen Imber, Valley of Clouds. And even though the rain-cursed valley is his destination, he probably won’t see it again. That would mean opening his eyes, and the Old Man just doesn’t do that anymore.
The outpost is about where he remembered it to be. A little more than halfway up the mountain, the small fort stands guard to the tunnel leading to the valley on the other side.
The two centurions stationed inside are more than surprised at his arrival. New prisoners are rare, and visitors unheard of. The Old Man knows exactly the type to end up at such a post. Not exactly what you’d call elite, but deserving of respect, nevertheless. Even the sorriest centurion could hold his own against a professional Crier. Observing them more closely, he wonders if even that much has changed.
The senior guard salutes him with a thump to his chest. He does it with the side of his fist, which means he originates from Northern Tyrae. Now, just when did I learn that? Yet another clue … That in itself makes the journey worthwhile. He feels the centurions shrink at his expression and bellows in laughter.
“Young man, I find myself in good spirits this fine day. Would you kindly put a kettle on the fire for this old man?” he says, removing his cloak. Underneath is a hard, gray man dressed in spotless white. Besides the peculiar choice of color for a muddy day, his clothing is quite plain, except for the fact that the sleeves have been ripped off.
“This should explain the reason for my visit.” He pulls out a roll of parchment. He can almost see the surprise on their faces as they go over the orders.
“Sir, the documents are in order, but …” the senior centurion begins.
“I realize this must be an unusual request, but I assure you that I have no intention of running off with the prisoner,” the Old Man says. “And please, call me Claw. That is what I go by these days.”
“Yes, sir, Claw. It isn’t that. It’s just that … it’s a dangerous thing that you are asking for. The pulley is old, the guideline even older. Really, the whole setup should have been replaced ages ago. We haven’t sent anything over heavier than a small basket in a very long time,” the guard tries to explain. “And is it really worth it? There’s no telling what you’ll find on the other side.”
“That is fine, I will leap over there if I must,” Claw says. “About him though, tell me what you know. How has he fared?”
“The prisoner is alive is all we know. The clouds keep us from learning much else.” The guard’s face fills with worry and fear. “But no one’s ever lasted this long. There’s no way the prisoner could possibly be sane. He’s been alone on that tiny ledge for near thirteen years.”
The pulley creaks and groans above him. There is no wind whatsoever, but the light rain comes at him from all directions, from above, to his right and his left, and even rising from below. More than a couple of times, the Old Man considers taking flight, but the thick clouds that the valley is known for quickly change his mind. Instead, he sits cross-legged in the large basket and concentrates on making himself as light as possible.
He doesn’t see his destination until coming right upon it. With an inelegant thud, his ride comes to a stop against the far mountain. The Old Man whistles softly and listens. He can make out a tiny ledge just below from the echo, but the troublesome mist swallows up the rest of the sound. Somebody is down there though, and their aura is creeping closer. Did they send me to the wrong ledge? the Old Man wonders, observing the strange aura. Impossible … Could it be he has changed this much?
“Is it that time of the month already?” the voice says. A hand wrapped in bloody bandages reaches into the basket and gropes the Old Man’s leg.
“Oh, they’ve sent some meat. And for once it’s still warm,” the voice says. “Hateyou, we’re in for a treat.”
The Old Man brushes the hand away and leaps down onto the ledge. “Boy, you are still a hundred years too weak to have a taste of this.”
The two stare at each other in silence. The Old Man in all his years has never seen an aura such as this before. Instead of some amorphous blob of Color, it has a true form. Every detail of the raggedy man comes through, down to his single most hair. How can this be? the Old Man wonders, staring at the prisoner’s whiskers. He plucks one with a single, quick tug and stares in wonder as the whisker fade away between his fingertips. Truly remarkable.
“Ow!” the man says, rubbing his chin. “I guess I don’t have to pinch myself now, do I? This isn’t a dream, you really are here … aren’t you, Old Man?”
The man grabs the Old Man’s face and feels it desperately. He begins to sob. “How is Everything?”
“Everything is fine,” the Old Man tells him. “The boy is as hopeless as his mother … and as his father ever were. But he is healthy, happy and just fine.”
“Thank you, thank you,” the man says, wiping away at his face. “But … please, could we not speak of her, please? Not just yet …”
“I see that you are still as weak as ever, Beck Songjinn,” the Old Man says. “Very well, then. I will not … for now.” He pats the ragged man on the head and whistles. The ledge is wide enough for two large men to lay head-to-toe against the mountain’s side. A low stonewall has been erected along its edges and most curiously of all, there is an opening into the side of the mountain. None of which should’ve been there.
Beck sees his surprise and explains, “I’ve done some redecorating. It took awhile, but I managed to find the time.” He laughs as he walks towards the small opening. “Come in, come in. I’ll introduce you to Hateyou and show you what I’ve done with t
he place. And please tell me more of my son.” Hateyou? Who or what could that be? the Old Man wonders. None of this makes any sense. Beck Songjinn was sentenced to spend the rest of his life alone on a small ledge. There are not supposed to be any others to keep him company or even this small cave; just endless days of pelting rain on a small ledge without ever the hope of seeing the sun again. There is time for all of that later. I shall answer his questions first. The fool deserves at least that much, the Old Man decides.
“Your boy talks now. I seem to recall that you were always worried about that,” the Old Man tells him. “But otherwise, he is much the same. I gave him a fine, new name, but he prefers to go by ‘Fate’ these days.”
“Fate … please tell me all about him.”
Chapter 31
BROTHER MONSTER
[Behind the Stewards & Raiders Inn, Greenwood]
The Half-Orc inspects Wake’s arm. It’s healing well.
“How does it feel?” he asks.
“Stiff and a little weak, but the pain is gone, “ Wake answers. “The balm you gave me is working wonders.”
The Half-Orc grunts as he finishes tying the bandage. He probably doesn’t even need it anymore, but one more day of wearing it shouldn’t hurt. “This should be coming off tomorrow. But take it easy on that elbow.”
We should get going. The others are waiting. Monster takes a final gulp of morning tea and helps his teammate to his feet.
Mornings usually start with some light play before they really get into it. Today, Monster and Wake find the others gathered around Poe and Sensei as they act out some sort of battle.
Poe lumbers towards Sensei while growling like some wild beast. Sensei gives a slight nod and says, “Thank you.” He pretends to pull something from his belt and declares, “Vine Clone Art: Stick.”
A vine spouts forth from his right palm. It twists and it turns, growing wildly until he whips it straight into a familiar form—the form of Fate’s own Stick. He attacks Poe, who continues to stomp towards him as if the blows do not matter. When Poe finally attacks, Sensei leaps backwards onto his left hand and says, “Green Imitation: Earth Repel.”
A second vine writhes forth from his left gauntlet and coils into a spring. With its aid, Sensei handsprings back onto his feet, just out of the way of Poe’s menacing mock blow. The others clap and laugh.
“He’s getting good at that,” Wake says.
Monster looks on and although the little clerk is far from matching the speed of their Captain and already out of breath, he does manage to capture the Fate’s spirit. Sensei continues to strike with his imitation Stick, but finally Poe overcomes him with a vicious swipe. The clerk falls to the ground, feigning defeat, only to get up a moment later as a different character.
“How dare you to do that to my Oppa,” Sensei says in a voice both higher and deeper than his own. “Unforgivable!” He crouches down low and unfurls himself with his next leaping attack. “Green Imitation: Sing Ehecthal!”
Sensei flies forward … at a comically slow speed, a half dozen small vines pushing him from behind. Poe cries out and suddenly he appears armless, one of his sleeves flapping in the wind. Sensei places his hands on his hips and cackles.
Even Monster can’t help but chuckle at that one. But Poe suddenly comes back to life, roaring and charging forward. When he reaches Sensei, the bard sticks his hand back out of his sleeve and delivers another fatal blow.
This time Sensei gets up and giggles madly. “Fiend! How dare you attack my friends.”
Poe roars and pounds his chest.
“Green Imitation: Water Falchions,” Sensei says, forming his vines into two large curved swords. “I have figured out you must have regenerating powers, but that will do little good against how my Pure Water attacks work.”
Monster watches closely, surprised by just how well Sensei imitates the way Wake moves. They continue to trade blows until Poe stops and grunts something, which Sensei replies to with, “What? You’re Tear Armor, it’s … it’s over 9,000!” Sensei stops and pretends to do the math in his head. “ That would mean I would have to strike you at least …”
Poe delivers the final blow to fake-Wake as he tries to finish the calculation. Sensei gets up slowly, pretending to hold a fallen friend. “Wake, just hang in there. I can heal you,” the clerk mumbles. But before he can, Poe attacks again.
“Green Imitation: Disciple of the Doubting Palm,” Sense says, turning away each blow with open hand blocks. Monster’s never really seen himself in action before, but the clerk’s movements remind him of Father Arnould’s own. The Half-Orc has always marveled at watching the Master of the Doubting Palm in action.
After the last block, Poe cries out in agony. “Oh, no,” Sensei says, coming over to aid the hurt enemy. “I’m sorry, did I hurt you? It was unintentional …”
But just as the clerk comes within reach, Poe gives him a pretend head-butt, knocking him to the ground. By now the others are rolling in laughter. Well, not really Fate. I don’t think I’ve ever really seen him laugh, the Half-Orc thinks, watching their Captain look on as if mesmerized by it all … with his usual smile.
Sensei stands and says in a lovely voice, “What have you done to my friends?” Poe grunts and reaches for imitation Shine. “Green Imitation: Sun Orb,” Sensei says, forming his vines into a compact ball in his right hand. He grabs his wrist with his left hand and holds it before him defensively.
Poe’s hands are thrown back, but he keeps reaching. Finally, he lets out a long series of grunts.
“What?” pretend-Shine says. “You didn’t really hurt my friends? They’re just sleeping? You don’t want to fight me?”
Poe grunts again.
“You wish to court me?” pretend-Shine asks. Poe nods his head.
“I will never go on a date with someone like you!” pretend-Shine says. “Not because you’re some kind of fiend. I don’t care about that. And not because you hurt my friends … I’m sure they’ll be fine. But because I’m 23 and you’re far too young for me!”
With that, Poe and Sense collapse into laughter with the rest of them. Mornings are pretty fun around here, the Half-Orc admits to himself, clapping his hands in applause. But really … the rest of the day is usually just as good.
Just as in the days before, the Fate leads them through a now familiar routine: stretching, pushing, jumping, and whatever other exercises he deems fit for that day. Only the Fate does more than the Half-Orc. Monster would smile at the look on Riser’s face every time he outdoes the Daughter, but it is not in him to do so. Even the little clerk manages to do more than the day before.
After their first match, Monster gave each a full examination. All of them passed, even Sensei. It’s true that the boy’s heart beat in an uncertain manner, but so long as he did not push himself too hard, there’s little danger to his health. Unlike the beating of his heart, Sensei knows how to pace himself. As long as he keeps it slow, he’ll be fine.
Once they are properly warmed up, the Fate leads them for a run through the forest. They come across a small stream and follow it deeper into the woods. The cold mud feels almost a caress to the Half-Orc’s hardened feet. It feels so good he doesn’t stop running when their fool Captain does. They have to call him back, laughing and asking if he would have run forever if they hadn’t. He grunts something in denial, but they just laugh all the more.
He’s never been fond of laughter, especially directed at him. But he manages not to frown.
“I should’ve guessed you’d be good at running,” the Daughter says between breaths. He’s grown used to her barbs. They are nothing like the whispers and stares he is accustomed to. In some strange way it’s almost refreshing. Her every other breath is a challenge. It’s just the way she is.
The Fate signals for quiet and leads the rest of the way, making no sound. Soon the stream turns into a pool and in the distance a small outcropping appears where the waters fall casting colors into the air.
“I found this
place the other day when I was tracking the boar,” the Fate whispers. He points at the reeds growing in the shallows, where three herons stand tall and unmoving. Every so often, one of them dips its long beak into the waters and comes up with a silvery fish. “See the big one? That one is old and powerful.”
The one in the middle is large and greying. It stares back at them, unflinching. High above, an eagle screeches. And now the herons seem even stiller than before. “Watch the strong one.”
The eagle circles and circles and just as the sun is cloudless behind it, it dives. The two smaller herons scatter, a whirl of feathers and splashing water. Only the old one remains. Ever so slowly, it lowers its lance-like beak, keeping one eye on death from above and the other on them. Rachel lets out a little whelp. It’s just a bird, and this is the natural order, but Monster has no interest in watching this. He turns away.
The Daughter spies him and sneers in contempt. The Fate orders him to watch, so he does.
Just as the eagle dives, claws hungry and cruel, the heron lifts its head and faces it. Sure and steady, the heron stands its ground.
There is a flurry of feathers and the Half-Orc can’t believe what he sees next. There right before him, the eagle is suspended in midair, the heron’s long beak piercing its bloody breast.
The eagle’s claws grasp air, shudder and are still. The old bird shakes its beak free and the eagle floats away, it’s white feathers reddened with its own blood. Why is he showing us this?
Riser cheers and says, “Well played, old bird.”
Monster recites the hunter’s prayer for the dead eagle. Rachel joins him. Wake and Sensei share the same expression of shock and awe. Poe scribbles something into his notebook. Even the chipmunk is squeaking its admiration.