by Russ Linton
Kaaliya leaned on the rigging to rest and waited for the strike of a baton. Any reason to ram her knife into her taskmaster's thigh. She'd invited the abuse, yet his reaction had been unwarranted.
The blow never fell, the first mate distracted. One of the drunks had moved from rote muscle memory into a fight with the mainmast whose many ensnaring tentacles had gotten the better of him. She kept busy, following the nearby Ek'kirus' lead.
With dawn breaking, the Night Cutter glided into open waters. Kaaliya focused on the glowing ember of the sun. As it peeled away the night, the glow stopped cold and lifeless in a line parallel to the horizon.
Black, impenetrable, the mountains drifted above the golden sea, obscuring the sun completely. A typical sight if the peaks weren't anchored in the sky. These were the Pamanites. Let the Attarah laugh, she would see the places where gods dwelt.
When the lone ship from Jai's story had been sent to capture a piece of the sun they'd set sail out of reverence for their Attarah. They'd done it as an act of valor. She wasn't here for that either. Risking life and limb for heroism or pride? That was for fools. Fools and men.
CHAPTER XXIII
With the unchanging horizon, Sidge again wondered if they'd truly made any progress.
Marshland had given way to a tangled plain. Their progress since the hilltop had been slowed, first by the damp ground at the base of the hill and then by a gradual thickening of the vegetation. No longer surrounded by reeds which could be batted away, they found themselves pressing into a web of tenacious limbs and thorny vines.
Sidge cringed as Izhar became entangled yet again. "Let me help."
Izhar doubled over cursing, his belly rippling with each pointed phrase. Sidge tried to delicately remove a cluster of thorns. Cuts and welts peppered his mentor's skin. Izhar's fury unwound as an unsteady breath stole his words.
Chuman plowed mindlessly ahead, blood trickling down his arms and legs. The light wounds squirmed closed as fast as they opened.
"Wait," Sidge called after him, but he knew it was useless. "Hold on, I'll have you free soon," he said to Izhar. The frayed robes would need to be cut. With no tools, Sidge had one option. "Forgive me," he said, and he bent to chew the tattered section of robes. He'd snipped many a thread this way, but now it seemed a violation. "There."
Izhar muttered a weary thanks. Their short hike had already taxed the portly master. Then again, it was anyone's guess how long they'd been walking.
In the bizarre moment when the heavens had frozen, they'd all shared the same empty expression. Once the tree had been made whole, the almost human fervor of their guide had funneled back into his relentless pursuit. Sidge and Izhar had wandered after the giant in a stupor.
Half aware of the timeless world where they walked and the one they left behind, Sidge had seen the reeds flicker in the rear portion of his lenses. A motion had rippled out from the hill, and thousands of faceted eyes peered after them.
He thought he saw Gohala's face, pale and drawn, watching accusingly from those same shadows. When he tried to find the face again, it disappeared.
With Chuman somewhere ahead of them, Sidge took the lead, clearing any vines left by the blind charge. For Sidge, the thorns were a nuisance. He paused to examine one between his fingers. The stem was no thicker than the other stalks of grass and scrub, but those wicked thorns lanced out with hooked points.
"Taloned whips scourged their limbs. And I will suffer the wrath of Alshasra'a! For the blood spilt in Kurath's name," recited Sidge. The five thousand five hundred and twenty-seventh of the Rebellion was another mantra steeped in the murky meanings Izhar loved so dearly. Or had loved. If Izhar's faith was to be restored and his own, bolstered, he needed to prove they were on the right path. "I see no reason why the whips couldn't be these hellish things."
"You truly intend to follow this Chuman, wherever he may go?" Izhar asked, catching up to him.
His former Master looked aged. The mud covering the silver in his beard had hardened and flaked away, and the streak shone like a beam of light down his chin, taking the place of his surrendered stole. Exhausted, battered, his disheveled robes hopelessly mangled, an uncharacteristic reluctance weighed in the old heretic's features.
Sidge sighed. "This is the way to truth. Forget Chakor's shortcuts and our brothers who have strayed from the original path."
Izhar's gaze wandered up the empty trail. "As I said, I accept I can no longer protect you. But an old man can still offer advice. Be careful. Prepare yourself. The Truth you seek may not be the Truth you find."
Sidge considered Izhar and tried to understand. "Have a little faith." He wagged his antennae, spread his mandibles joyously and added, "My acolyte."
Izhar smiled a troubled smile and gave a half-bow. "Of course, Master."
As they walked on, Sidge noted the scarlet streaks of Chuman's passing, vivid against the green stalks. Tiny droplets, but he saw them all. Unable to look away, he drew in his mandibles and silently recited the structured mantras of the Forge.
###
Rocks broke the surface of the rolling landscape, and the clawing vines had less and less room to grow. The mountains appeared within reach, and Sidge wondered again how long they'd been walking. On the open terrain, they covered more ground, but Izhar's panting and wheezing was a constant worry.
Chuman blundered in a straight line across boulder and hill, valley and stream. The gap between them grew with Izhar struggling to navigate each obstacle. Soon, Sidge felt forced to take to the air to track them both and communicate a clear path. Without the crushed reeds and bracken, Chuman's trail was indiscernible.
"Over the stream," Sidge shouted to Izhar. He gestured in the direction of a green ribbon of mossy banks.
Instead of crossing, Izhar dropped heavily to his knees and drank. Far in the distance, Chuman stuttered to a stop atop an angled boulder.
"By Vasheru's light, finally," Sidge muttered and swooped down to join Izhar.
Izhar finished a gulp and collapsed on the ground. He groaned and stretched, unleashing a series of pops and grinding creaks. Sidge knelt on the bank next to him and sipped from the stream.
"Kurath have me," gasped Izhar. "I'll follow that creature no more. Tell me, where is he headed?"
"Into the mountains, the Teeth, just as we thought."
"Does he still follow the song?"
He hadn't thought of it since the wounded tree. Sidge swiveled his antennae and tasted the air. The dense aroma of the moss caught him first. A bird cried faraway. Lonely and shrill.
"I don't know."
"What do you mean?"
Sidge stood and explored the air with his antennae. He'd been first drawn into the marsh then driven away by a call from the tree. Always at something else's mercy. Now, nothing. "I no longer hear it."
Izhar struggled to his feet and quirked his head as though he might begin to hear the call himself. "How long?"
"Since the sky stopped."
Sidge flew up, searching. Unable to find it, he left Izhar and traveled to where Chuman waited atop his perch. The Jadugar-forged man's gaze was fixed straight ahead.
"Hello," said Sidge. No response. He hovered at the edge of the boulder beside Chuman and followed his frozen stare. "What do we follow now?"
At the foot of the mountains stretched a valley, a lush expanse of heather broken by smooth boulders and gravel-filled culverts. Beyond this sprouted a line of white-skinned trees similar to those in the marsh, but these did not peer from a mist like gravestones. Instead, they branched out in slanted tiers of green and orange.
Above the mountains, the moon remained balanced on the Teeth of the World. Silver light streamed through the peaks fighting the embers of pre-dawn on the opposite horizon while deep pools of moon shadow cooled the valley.
With his feet planted firmly on the earth, with the heavens in their paralyzed state, Sidge always seemed to be halfway between dawn and night. Always leaving behind what once was and forging ahead into
what would become.
He jumped as a graceful form materialized next to him.
Mercurial fur carried the moon's rays in tight bands. Fragile forelegs pawed the air in the middle of a graceful leap. Hooves too small to appear of any use struck the rocky ledge without the faintest clatter. Powerful hind legs followed and launched the creature upward where it flickered in and out of existence as it galloped through the silver beams issuing between the mountains.
Sidge whirled to see Izhar crossing the rocky terrain.
"Did you see that?" he shouted, but Izhar's focus remained on the uneven ground.
Then, right along the unseen border bisecting a land of light and shadow, the air erupted. Sidge felt his antennae flatten, and saw Izhar's robes whip forward. Moonstriders poured from the invisible horizon on either side.
He spread his mandibles wide, and Izhar called out in amazement. The herd galloped with a calm intensity, striving to keep their leader's pace. They passed within a finger's breadth, unconcerned by the pilgrims in their midst.
Sidge thrust his palms to the sky. "Vasheru!" He cried out, laughing. "Oh, Mighty Dragon! Blessed are we in your sight! Holy is your Wisdom! May you long protect the Attarah!"
Moonstriders. The same mythical beasts which had led the Attarah on his own pilgrimage countless ages ago. Sidge continued to shout praises to the temple, and he saw Izhar fall prostrate behind the retreating forms. He wanted to show the same respect but he couldn't help but shout a joyous taunt.
"You'll never let me hear the end of this, will you?"
If this didn't change Izhar's mind, what would? He didn't need to rein in the old heretic as he'd once thought, nor temper his teachings. Anxiety about the future, about his true nature, melted away with this realization. They could finish their journey together and return to the temple, triumphant, with a new Wisdom.
Already bent low, Izhar slumped and tumbled onto his side.
"Master?" Sidge launched over the thinning herd toward Izhar. Fewer and fewer of the moonstriders soared out of the gap between realms. They left an empty space that flowed around the motionless tangle of robes and matted hair.
Sidge soared faster, devouring the distance. He skidded to a stop at Izhar's side. "Master, please, say something!"
"Don't be so damn dramatic," panted Izhar. His face was flushed, and a wariness blunted any actual excitement. "There's moonstriders about!"
Sidge tried to laugh and helped Izhar sit up. "We've done it," he whispered as the herd disappeared toward the mountains. He watched them and searched the cliff faces for passes or trails. "As I said, we are on the pilgrimage. The pilgrimage."
A weary smile was Izhar's response.
"Is this all one of the dreams? A vision like before?" Sidge asked aloud.
Izhar shook his head and leaned heavily on Sidge to right himself. "Neither of us has called upon the Wisdom or partook of any puffcap. This is no vision or hallucination."
"I'm an excellent tailor," said Sidge.
Izhar regarded him quizzically.
Sidge batted a wing. "Something Janipur's wife said. She was wrong, what she intended by it. I am meant to be part of the temple, but I don't know if I am ready to be the Stormblade. I am barely ready to be a Cloud Born."
The master's brow wrinkled, and he grasped Sidge's shoulder to help clamber to his feet. "You're right."
Such a blunt reply caused Sidge to flatten his antennae and quirk his head. Not that Izhar being blunt was at all strange. This could've been the most normal thing he'd said for the past few days but something in the way he said it felt wrong.
Izhar gave a tired sigh. "Who the hell would be, Sidge?"
"Well, you were," said Sidge and he hopped to his feet. Noting a skeptical look, he added, "Before we set out on this journey."
"There comes a time when a Master is exceeded by his pupil. When all the words and guidance have run their course and the pupil must find his way, alone." A warm smile crossed Izhar's face, and he patted Sidge's arm. "Come, let's see how our relic of the Jadugar fares."
He watched Izhar amble toward the rise, a pained limp in his step and one arm clutched close. Moments before, the valley had been teeming with moonstriders. Moonstriders of all things! Sidge tried his best to hold on to the joy he'd felt.
CHAPTER XXIV
Izhar poked Chuman. "He hasn't moved at all."
The giant was a perfect statue gazing toward the mountains.
"Should you…wake him?" asked Sidge, uncertain.
Izhar twisted his lip and then spoke with finality, "No." He hobbled down the rise to a level spot, slid down the face of a smooth boulder, and closed his eyes.
Confused, Sidge followed. "Why not?"
"Because I could use a break." One eye re-opened. "With your permission, Master."
"A short one then," replied Sidge. In truth, he watched Izhar's haggard appearance with concern and decided he could have all the rest he wanted. Izhar closed his eyes again and groaned contentedly as though the rock he nestled against were a down mattress.
"How is it when we first found Chuman in the marsh that you knew to tell me to strike him with the Fire?" Izhar asked, his mouth twitching as he relaxed.
"What? Wake him?"
Izhar mumbled a half-awake confirmation.
"Back at the…" Sidge let the silence carry his meaning, unable to recount the site of Gohala's massacre. "I saw him stir under the carriage when you called on Vasheru. Then I recalled the first strike outside Stronghold. Chuman had performed a feat of strength after Kaaliya said he bathed in the Fire." Shame curled his antennae as he remembered the jealousy which had prevented him from sharing Chuman's deeds. "Something I…I never mentioned."
Izhar made a satisfied noise. "Well then," he mumbled.
Sidge waited for him to say more, but the sound of heavy breathing followed. He dropped into the lotus and watched his mentor sleep. Raucous snoring ended, replaced by a steady wheeze. The man's troubled look melted away. Sleep. A peace unavailable to a bugman except at the bottom of a bottle of thornsap.
Sidge's wings shredded the air. He needn't dwell on his past mistakes. No Wisdom would come from that. Trapping his unruly limbs against his back, he put his hands on his knees and intoned a deep note.
Vasheru was his guide. The Storm Temple. Nothing else. He couldn't afford to be driven off course ever again. If the marsh had taught him anything, it was how close to disaster he had tread.
Such a fragile grip, he needed greater control. He needed to reach out to the Dragon and prove his worth, for Izhar's sake and the sake of his lost brother, Farsal. Also for the Temple, soon to be without a leader in perilous times. This had gone beyond a matter of succession. It was a matter of leading the others on the proper path. Gripping the pendant at his neck, he recited a simple channeling. The corestone remained cold.
Maybe Izhar's suspicions were right, and he could never call the Fire. Izhar had yet to explain his reasoning fully. Even the brash heretic had run out of answers on their maddening journey. That must be why he'd been desperate enough to conspire with Chakor.
Sidge wished Izhar had shared his inner pain sooner. Maybe he could have helped, found whatever answers needed to salve his master's soul. Yet answers had not been easy for either of them to uncover, only more questions.
Why would Vasheru want this bugman to know the messages of the Wisdom and then deny him the means to call for it? Why had it taken a puffcap-addled Cloud Born to bring him the supposed truth?
Then again, there'd been no puffcap present in the marsh. Or had there? Trolls harvested it deep below the surface along the tips of roots. Perhaps it bloomed under the sleeping tree. Or perhaps whatever passage meant to be opened in Izhar's psyche had already been pulled asunder when he first used it, the spores taken root.
Or maybe puffcap never meant anything at all. That would be just like a troll.
If he couldn't channel holy Fire, perhaps he shouldn't try. What of channeling the Wisdom instead? Pulling Vasheru'
s power into oneself, exposing your inner soul to the Dragon to be judged. Mastery of the Fire always came first, according to the rules.
That day in the vardo, he'd been ready to accept his fate when he reached for Izhar's corestone at the center of Vasheru's blessed light. He'd been ready to give himself completely.
Then, it had been to save Izhar or die in the attempt, or so he'd told himself. He'd had a fleeting desire to encounter the Wisdom. That desire had quickly become a matter of survival. Surely Izhar couldn't go on without his faith. And of himself, he knew if he were not a Cloud Born, not an adherent of the Stormblade Temple, he had but one place.
Sidge held Chuman at the edge of his vision, letting the horizon wrap unbroken around him, night dying on one end and day sprouting on the other. To the north, a vast darkness loomed, and he imagined he could see the storm over the Sheath.
Wind rose on the stagnant air, and his antennae lapped at his forehead and eyes. His wings snapped outward and fluttered.
Leave everything as it is.
How could he? Always, countless images bombarded him. Extra limbs taunted. Antennae flickered across his lenses.
Sidge resolved to recite mantras until Izhar awoke. Given the time, he'd recite all twelve thousand, one hundred and sixty-two, each with perfect pitch and intonation. Such feats had been cast aside as a nuisance long ago when the Trials and parts of the Rebellion had been relegated to indecipherable mystery.
He reached out for the placid calm he'd uncovered in the blackness of a thornsap haze and found it close at hand. With the song silenced, he could tell the frozen world they inhabited teetered on the verge of being, and his mind balanced with it. He imagined the Undying Storm, just over the northern horizon.
Starting with the Trials, he made his way through the Wanderings of Alshasra'a, the Empty Palace, and the War of the First Born. So loaded with metaphor, Izhar had been the last one searching for their meaning. The last one that is until, close to finding it, the Master withdrew. Why?