It was gone in an instant.
After dinner came to an end, everyone satisfied and feeling better than they had in days, Jarden pulled out his pipes and started to play a desert jig. It was a rough tune, made awkward considering the man only had one hand to move the wood across his lips, but nevertheless it wasn’t long before little Barna had pulled her cousin Kâtyn in the circle to dance. The two girls hooted and yelled, twirling around the cooking fire as the blaze burned purple and green and red. Soon they were joined by Iriso and Achtel, Surah and Ishmal, and a number of other odd couples, laughing and kicking sand in all directions with their twisting feet. Their shadows jumped and dashed across the canvas tents around them, and the music grew louder and faster after Achtel’s sons pulled skin drums from their wagon to pound a beat along to the pipes.
It was a celebration worthy of both the living and the dead.
From his place on the perimeter between Agais and Jarden, Raz looked on in wonder. His lips were pulled back and his mouth hung half open in his strange alien smile. Side to side he bobbed his head unevenly to the music. After a time, though, his smile faded, and he looked around. He leaned forward, trying to see past the clanmaster, sniffing the air.
Then he opened his mouth.
“Grrrr… Grrrree…rrrreeraaah… Grreerrrahh…?”
Jarden stopped playing so abruptly the pipes might have burned his lips.
It only took a second for the dancers to stop their furious circling of the fire. When the music died, they looked around curiously.
“Wh-what was that?” Jarden demanded, dumbstruck.
Agais gaped at the boy sitting beside him. Raz turned to the man, nudging his arm with his reptilian snout and looking up questioningly.
“Grreerrrahh?” the lizard-babe asked again.
“Her Stars,” Agais whispered in shock. “Grea. He wants to know where Grea is.”
In its entirety, down to even Anges, the youngest among them, the clan gawked at Raz. Then not a few amongst them smiled.
Agais stood up, took Raz carefully by the hand, and walked him to the tent where Grea still rested.
When the atherian finally arrived from the Crags a week later, bearing with them carved-bone instruments, dried meat, and shiny stones and gems to trade, the Arros avoided them at all cost.
None among them were about to abandon one of their own to an uncertain future.
XII
“Laor may not be accepted in the hearts of all, but Laor holds all close to his heart. Only the most wicked of men will be kept from returning to earth after death. In this way, the Lifegiver weeds out the vile from the constant cycle of life.”
—Eret Ta’hir, High Priest of Cyurgi’ Di
Damn these stairs.
The harsh winds of the Veitalis Range pulled at Talo Brahnt’s white cloak and fur-lined cowl. Snow whipped into the Priest’s face, and he hunched over, one gloved hand tugging the worn fringe of his hood down over his brow. His blue eyes, still sharp despite his forty years, kept a close watch on the treacherous path beneath his feet. The carved-stone stairway stretched upward into the white oblivion that was the storm, disappearing barely a dozen yards above his head.
Still, there it was, a silhouette looming like some great beast against the clouds.
“Nearly home, little one!” he called out, pulling gently on the small hand he had clasped in his free one. Glancing back, he couldn’t even see the girl’s face, so large was the oversized hood that covered it. Talo had had to hurriedly design a makeshift cloak for her from one of his own spares and—considering she was several times smaller than he—the results were questionable.
Carro, you will always be the better seamstress, Talo thought with a smirk that loosened some of the snow caked in his beard. Shifting his pack more comfortably on his shoulders, the man turned his eyes back upward through the storm.
It wasn’t long before the stairs finally reached their finish, flattening out as the mountain itself seemed to plateau. A great semicircular platform of leveled stone gave their aching feet respite, but the child didn’t appear relieved. Instead she squeaked and hid behind Talo’s leg, her pink eyes wide, taking in the sight before them.
Cyurgi’ Di, the High Citadel, was Laor’s most northern temple. It towered above the pair, utterly dwarfing their forms, the weathered granite bastions on either side of them soaring into the storm. Nestled in this small nook of the wall that was the temple’s only entrance, Talo pulled his hood back, letting fall the long brown ponytail that hung just above his waist. He smiled a little now that the snows abated enough to see by.
The Citadel was a massive structure, carved long winters ago into the side of the mountain, the cut stone mortared and shaped into a massive circular wall that hung partially suspended over the cliffs on two sides. Arrow slits leered down on them like eyes, but it had been centuries since they’d been put to any real use. The Laorin had few restrictions, but the one cardinal rule of their faith insisted that no life could ever be taken by a Priest or Priestess’ hand, even in self-defense. The slits now served as little more than a good means of getting fresh air into the halls.
Although it did get a little breezy during the harsher blizzards such as this…
Gently tugging the child along with him, Talo approached the temple gateway, a massive vaulted tunnel that cut through the breadth of the wall. The snow finally ceased altogether when they entered the arched way, their damp footsteps echoing loudly across the dry stone. For a few seconds they were free of the storm, free of the battering winds that had almost knocked them clear from the steps more than once. Too soon, though, they cleared the tunnel, and the flurries kicked at their faces once again, mocking the high walls that rose to encircle them.
“Nearly there, Syrah,” Talo promised anew, starting across the wide bailey and cutting a path through the three or four inches of undisturbed powder blanketing the brick. It wasn’t long before Talo was banging against the tall temple gates, set in the wall at an angle from the tunnel.
A muffled voice picked up from the other side, barely audible against the wind. Abruptly a small slot in the door slid open just around chest level. A pair of blue eyes similar to Talo’s blinked at them for a second, then disappeared, and the clambering from the other side of the gates grew exponentially louder. There was a clang, and with the screech of poorly oiled iron hinges one of the massive timber doors swung inward.
“Talo!” a cheery voice greeted them when they stepped inside. “It’s been a long time! Thank the Lifegiver you made it through this horrible weather we’re having. Wouldn’t have chanced that, not me, no sir. I would have—”
“Hello, Dolt,” the Priest said with a smile, cutting off the speaker, a portly young acolyte with a patch of curly brown hair atop his head. Talo ruffled it affectionately. “Missed you too. Is Eret awake?”
“Think so, might be,” Dolt Avonair muttered, thumbing his bald chin. “He was just sitting for supper with a few of the elder Priests a half hour ago when my watch came up, so he might still be there. Lamb tonight. Very nice. And the potatoes! Absolutely—Hello, who’s this?”
The acolyte bent low, peering around Talo’s leg. The girl had peeked out of her hiding place once the door clanged shut behind them.
“Our newest addition,” the Priest informed him, patting Syrah’s head. Passing his pack off to Dolt, he reached down and lifted the girl up, resting her awkwardly on his hip. He was a bear of a man, but this apparently didn’t bother the six-year-old too much. She clung to his thick neck and buried her face into his shoulder, her head still covered by the hood, hiding once more.
“Have my things brought to my quarters, please. I’ve business with the High Priest.”
Dolt nodded, and was about to say something more when Talo raised his free hand.
“Now, Dolt,” he said firmly. The acolyte shut his mouth and bowed, then took off sp
rinting down the hall, pack in tow. Talo smiled, watching him go before turning and heading in the opposite direction.
A fine boy. Just a little loose of the lips.
The halls of Cyurgi’ Di—in sharp contrast to the temple’s outside façade—were well lit and warm. Copper pipes in the floors and ceiling channeled fresh air and heated steam from furnaces in the deeper chambers of the temple. Oil lamps glowed from their iron brackets every few paces along the walls, supplemented by torches and tall candles that burned white and blue. Rough-hewn tunnels and corridors branched off the main way, some level, some with stairs or slopes that led up or down. Talo smiled again, remembering the early period of his faith just after his conversion. The Citadel was a veritable labyrinth, and in those first few years he’d gotten lost and turned around more times than he could count.
Now, though, he knew the place as well as any man could know his home.
It wasn’t long before more and more people started to appear, crossing paths with him in the hall and nodding, or else looking up from their private studies when he passed by open doors. Priests, Priestesses, acolytes—further into the mountain more and more of them appeared, right up until Cyurgi’ Di became a bustling hive of life. As the day closed, many of the Laorin were still about, some on duty, cleaning or patrolling, some taking advantage of the idler hours to pursue private thoughts. Talo even passed one room where a group of first-year Priests and Priestesses were practicing self-defense techniques, twirling about the heavy steel staffs they’d received at their consecrations.
Talo rarely carried his, despite a bad knee that was getting worse with every passing year. Even a staff seemed too much like a weapon and—with his old life a trailing shadow that never seemed to let go—a weapon was the last thing he wanted to be near. The few times he had been forced to defend himself, his boulder-like fists and quick reflexes always proved more than enough.
It was nice, sometimes, to know that some parts of a former self could still survive with you.
Soon the smell of hot food wafted through the air, thickening with the approaching clatter of the dining hall. It wasn’t long before the Priest and his companion stood at the opening of a massive chamber, tall and broad and big enough to fit a thousand people with room to spare. More lanterns hung from the walls, and hundreds of mismatched candles lit the eight long tables that took up the floor. High above them, lining the apex of the vaulted roof, the two rows of stained-glass clerestory windows were darkened by the storm. In the light of the next clear day, though, they would be bright, illuminating the entire chamber with blues and greens and golds that hung in the dusty air.
A smattering of early diners formed little pockets on the benches as they ate and conversed. There was no head table, no raised platform for the elders. Laor saw all living things as equals, after all. The men ate with the women, the old with the young, the converts with those born into the faith. Even those of highest rank shared tables with the acolytes in their first days of training.
Still, it wasn’t hard to pick out the High Priest, with the single thick stripe of black that ran down the back of his cloak. He was sitting with a group of the older Priests, picking at a chunk of bread and listening to their discussion.
Talo started making his way through the tables. Syrah, smelling food, peeked from over his shoulder, her eyes hungry, following each unfinished plate they passed. Her stomach growled, betraying her, and Talo chuckled.
He must have laughed louder than he thought, because the High Priest broke off his listening and looked around. Catching sight of the pair, he got up quickly, or as quickly as a man of his age could manage.
“Talo,” he greeted the Priest warmly, spreading his arms wide and stepping over the bench. “My young apprentice, how are you?”
“No longer young, Eret,” Talo told the old man with a laugh, accepting the embrace carefully. He was sicker, Talo could tell. Eret’s fatherly hug was even weaker this time, and as he pulled away Talo could see the toll the years were having on his former Priest-Mentor. The High Priest’s eyes were dimming, the crinkles in his face deeper, and his white hair no longer even hinted of the pale golden-blonde it had been twenty years ago when they’d first met.
“And this must be the young lady you spoke of in your letters?” Eret asked pointedly, turning his attention to the small form that was huddled against the Priest’s broad chest.
“Syrah,” Talo said with a nod, reaching up and attempting to pull down the hood of the child’s oversized coat. Syrah wouldn’t let him. She clung to the cowl crossly, hiding her face from view. Eret smiled, amused.
“Come now, child,” he said kindly. “There’s no need to fear anything here. Are you hungry? Jerrom, my plate, if you would be so kind.”
One of the elders got up and brought the High Priest the metal dish with his dinner. The food, Talo noticed worriedly, was nearly untouched. Jerrom seemed to be thinking along the same lines, because he handed Eret the plate almost hopefully, as though thinking the old man might take something for himself.
Accepting the dish, however, the High Priest held it up and passed his free hand over it. There was a bare glimmer of white light, and suddenly the spiced lamb, potatoes, and sprouts steamed with heat. Syrah jumped at the magic, but didn’t slacken her grip from the edge of the hood.
“I’m afraid you’ll have to let go of that if you want to eat,” Eret said with a chuckle, putting the plate back on the table beside them. “Talo, let her down. Lazura child, make room for our newest guest, please.”
Talo did as he was told, depositing Syrah gently on the ground and smiling when she immediately clambered onto the bench beside the little blonde girl Eret had addressed. He chuckled as, with barely a pause to roll up the oversized sleeves of her robes, Syrah dug into the plate of food with her bare hands.
“Her family?” Eret inquired quietly after a moment, not taking his eyes off the girl.
“Alive and well, actually,” Talo said with a sad smile. “One of the few lucky enough to be. Drangstek was a charred ruin when I passed it on the way to Stullens. Most of the town was burned to the ground.”
“How many children did they have?”
“Her parents?” Talo asked, glancing at Eret, who nodded. “Five. Two boys and three girls.”
“Too many mouths to feed when there isn’t even a roof over your head to shield you from the freeze. They made a wise choice.”
“It was that or the orphanage in Stullens,” Talo added. “Barely more than an old house filled with children who lost their parents to earlier attacks. The oldest children might have fared decently, but I doubt Syrah would have done so well.”
“Your reasons?” Eret asked. In response, Talo reached out carefully, pinching the top of the girl’s hood, and slowly pulled it back. She didn’t fight this time, more concerned with the food that still steamed on the plate in front of her.
Straight white hair, as white as the snow outside and even whiter than Eret’s, fell just past her shoulders. Her skin was pale even for a Northerner, almost chalky. She glanced back at them curiously, and the High Priest got a good look at her eyes, those pink orbs that gazed with a mixture of innocence and old grief.
“Ahhhh,” Eret breathed, realizing. “Yes… Children can be cruel, can’t they? The orphanage would have been a poor place for this one.”
Talo nodded. The old man continued to watch the girl for a time, almost contemplating. Then he moved to sit beside her, leaning against the table, his eyes following the food she was shoveling into her mouth at an imposing rate. After a moment he held up a hand, palm up. There was another glimmer of light, a small flash, and suddenly a tiny glowing white flame danced across the air, coming to a halt and hovering inches above Syrah’s plate. The girl stopped eating at last and stared. With wondrous fascination she took in the little bit of fire glimmering like a tiny star barely six inches from her nose. It lit up her face in
a wash of light, and her pale eyes shined as she watched the glimmering dance.
“A gift, child,” Eret said with a smile, dropping his hand as he, too, watched the tiny flame. “One of many given to us by our creator, Laor, the Lifegiver. I hope you will find some measure of comfort living amongst us, or at least find that our love will fill a little bit of that void you feel now. Welcome to Cyurgi’ Di, Syrah. Welcome to the faith.”
PART II
855 V.S.
I
“… v.S.—or ver Syul—is broadly known as the Common Age, or the Age of Sands here in the South. There are discrepancies as to what marked the start of the period, but general belief is that year 1 v.S. was the first year the sand plains of the southern lands—previously called the Tura i’Syul, or “Land of the Sun” translated from old desert—grew to such proportions that special trade routes had to be developed to cross it safely. The plains were retitled as a desert, and the name was changed to the Cienbal, which has no direct translation that we know of.”
—Kosen Arro, concerning the Common Age
The dune scorpion was a vicious thing. Hissing wildly, it spun to and fro, snapping massive pincers at anything that came within reach. Sand flew everywhere, thickening the early end-summer air as the creature scuttled over the desert back and forth in an impatient dance. Worn black carapace shone in the hot Sun while Raz toed a deadly circle around it, poking and prodding with the bronze-tipped whitewood stave he held in one hand, looking for an opening. His wings—all fifteen feet of them—flickered in warning, his crest edging up along the back of his head and neck. The scorpion, too dull a being to realize the danger of its situation, didn’t draw back.
Raz dodged another snap of the claws, leaping back then forward again, landing a heavy blow on one of the beast’s six legs. It buckled, snapping with a sickening pop, and the scorpion shrieked, scurrying backwards slightly lopsided. Raz didn’t drop his guard, his amber eyes following the giant arachnid’s movements, waiting.
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