by Michael Mood
So he had packed provisions and set off with wild determination to save the woman he loved.
Traveling to the Tree would become a journey that would change him forever.
-5-
Otom began to pack his meager belongings. It was time for him to finish this journey and move on from Pakken because of – and despite - the memories it held.
He stuffed The Book into his pack and stood up on legs that were wearier than he would have liked. It had been both joyous and sad to see the world once more. Joyous because not much seemed to have changed, but sad for the same reason. He checked the positions of the stars and turned slowly where he stood, trying to realign himself to his course. The space he had made here for himself had become a little temporary home in the past week and a half, but the time had come for him to move on.
He extinguished his Fire, telling the flames to cease. Magic still pulsed within him, growing steadily as the power of a Monk always did. As long as he was Sacrificing, the power trickled into him at a steady pace.
And he was always Sacrificing.
His boots crunched in the snow and Otom pulled his fur hood up snugly over his bald head. His hair had started to grow back until he had found that dead soldier's dagger. He had made quick work of it.
He walked east now, traipsing through the bitter and uninhabited north. He stopped when he had to and traveled when he could.
One night, when the snapping of a twig alerted him, he sent out a pulse of Detection that confirmed what he suspected.
He was being followed.
Chapter 18 – Potter
-1-
“Gustus had the sword, and God had the shield,” Domma boomed over the congregation. “And Gustus roared, letting his voice ring through the air. 'Father,' he yelled, 'I have given everything for you and you repay me with treachery!' His words rang off the mountains, causing small stones to tumble down the sides. 'You are nothing more than an unruly child,' God said quietly, sheltering himself behind his shield, ready for what he knew must be coming."
Domma gazed out over the congregation.
“God is not all powerful. Anyone who tries to convince you otherwise is misguided. All things have strengths and weaknesses. The mightiest of oaks can fall to termites. Rock and bone can be smoothed away by persistent sand and water. And so Gustus knew that his cause was not lost, that he could win even if the odds were against him. The Book says he then dimmed the sun, casting his mighty hand to block its light. For Gustus was young, and his sight was better.”
Domma slammed her hand down loudly on top of The Book in front of her. The sound echoed and people jumped.
“Gustus launched himself at his father, sword splitting the air in front of him. They came together with a mighty clang the reverberations of which still ring today in the halls of the universe. Again and again Gustus's sword rained down on his father's shield. 'I should rule by your side!' Gustus shouted as his sword left deep dents in his father's shield. But God knew this was not to be, and he also knew something of the cosmos. As he heard the whoosh of Gustus's sword drawing back he rekindled the sun, flames dancing from its surface.
“The shield which he held had been polished by the winds of aeons and its surface, though dented, was able to harness the light of the bursting sun and direct it into Gustus's face. God heard his son shrieking and said over him, 'You are strong enough to rule, my son. But never by my side.' And as Gustus was reeling and blinded, God banished him.
“Gustus waits somewhere, hoping to prove himself to his father by cultivating his own world." Domma closed The Book slowly. "We're ending with Gustus and God here today,” she said. “There is much more to cover in The Book that is often overlooked, but it has been my pleasure to preach to all of you.”
Domma stepped down from the altar and walked to her room without looking back. She had been distracted through the entire sermon, and her mind had been wandering back to what she had read in the Bibliofero.
She would have no meetings in her study today; the congregation would just have to ask one of the other Clerics.
Today was the day she would go to see Potter and tell him what she had found inside young Ormon's mind, and then, maybe, what was in her own.
-2-
Domma pushed through the heavy front doors of the Sunburst Temple and out into the hot day.
Haroma was unusually robust for a Sunday. Usually the festivities of a Saturday night would have rendered the population hungover and sleepy, but for whatever reason things were not that way today. Domma tugged up the hood of her blue and gold cloak to block the rising sun from burning her scalp.
“Domma!” a familiar voice shouted. It was Metta. The girl was waving from across the market. The young Cleric must have been out among the throng today, working her magics on the crowd in order to draw more of them to the Temple. Domma nodded at Metta, and caught a knowing look from the girl's eyes.
She smiled to herself and she looked at the ground to hide her grin. Talking to Metta the other night had changed the way she had thought about life. Interesting that one so young could change my mind about something so quickly and easily. Domma had essentially told the girl to end her affair, but really she had wanted to congratulate her.
She would tell Potter about the Foglins today and then . . . well, she would see how brave she was. He had already professed his feelings for her, so she knew there would be no trouble there, but her stomach twisted at the thought of what she might do.
Desire burned so strongly in her that she was alternately frightened and exhilarated. One minute she knew she would go through with it, the next minute she knew she would run.
Something tugged at the hole in her memory with a familiar twinge. It was always offputting when it happened because Domma could never be sure what it meant. Am I walking into a situation that I have experienced before? Is the cloud going to be lifted? Is it a warning? She only wished it was possible for her to Delve herself, diving into her own mind the way she had gone into Ormon's, but that wasn't possible, and no one that had ever Delved her had been able to provide any information.
Even God was silent on the topic.
-3-
Domma heard screams once she stepped inside the hospital and Potter rushed past her, running toward the room where the sound was issuing from.
“Do you need me?” Domma shouted after him.
“Best stay there, Domma,” he yelled, not turning around. “Don't worry, don't worry! I'm pretty sure no one's getting killed! Just a routine fit!”
Domma waited patiently as Potter dealt with the situation. There was some wall-slamming and thumps from within the room followed by muffled arguing. After a moment, Potter stumbled out and closed the door quietly behind him. He was a bit disheveled, his brown robe coming off one of his shoulders. It was more muscular than Domma would have thought.
Oh, this is not good, she thought, casting her eyes upward.
Potter tugged up his robe and smoothed it out. He shook his head as he walked over to Domma. “You can't see that one yet,” he said. “He's . . . unstable.”
“I didn't come here on duty,” she said.
“But it's Sunday,” he countered.
“I know. But there's something important that I have to share with you.”
“My office is free,” Potter said. “Funary is no longer sharing it with me. We can walk and talk. Time may be short for us. I fear my new patient may pitch another fit soon.”
“It's about what I found in Ormon's mind,” Domma said as they began walking. “At the time I didn't share it with you, but maybe I should have. What Ormon had on his mind just before he died . . . was Foglins.”
Potter stopped dead in his tracks, a frightened look on his face. “Do we need to evacuate?” he asked. “What am I saying? There's nowhere to go. Domma, are you sure?”
“I am sure. The thought presented itself too strongly for me to think that it was fluff, like a bit of a story he knew or something. He knew – knew for sure –
that what tore up his head that way was a Foglin.”
“Within my walls?”
Domma shrugged and nodded at the same time. She now realized she had been terrified to come here for another reason. The Foglin could still be here.
They reached the office and Potter shut the door behind them.
“I did some research,” Domma continued. “Devotees have access to many records that the world has thought lost, and much information that seems useless, but may actually contain truth. God's hand guided me to a book that told the account of an explorer from a very long time ago.”
Domma repeated the text to Potter verbatim and he listened intently and nervously.
When Domma finished, Potter paced for a bit. The small office was lit by sunbeams that crept through the not-quite-closed shutters, and he interrupted them as he walked back and forth, causing the light to dance and shift.
“What do you think it means?” he asked.
“I have a few theories,” Domma responded. “The explorer – or whatever he was, and now I am sure he was much more than that, but 'explorer' is how I think of him – fell, fracturing his skull. The Foglin left him alone after that, choosing apparently not to pursue him. Devotee magic comes from the brain and is inherently entwined in the mind. I think . . . the Foglins are only interested in magic. This would explain why, in Ormon's case, the Foglin would only attack him after I Mended him.”
“I don't know,” Potter said.
“Why?”
“That's just a lot to assume."
“That doesn't mean it's not true. And listen to this part. This explorer had some kind of power. He was, very likely, a Devotee. Do you think that's coincidental?”
“You're ignoring something obvious and frightening, though,” said Potter. “Something I'm not sure I've heard anyone say before. You said he talked of a town called Fisher? I know of no such town.”
“It was a long time ago, Potter. Geography changes quickly, towns come and go, razed in horrid wars and such.”
“But other types of geography take much longer to change, barring some catastrophic alteration. He mentioned that this town of Fisher was on a fork in the Ein river?”
“That's what the text said.”
“You must not know much of southern geography; admittedly probably very few do. There is no fork in the Ein river. It runs a straight path from Ein lake all the way down until it disappears into the Vapor.”
“What does that mean?” Domma asked.
“What I think it might mean,” Potter said, “and what I think you've ignored, is that the Vapor is slowly, slowly creeping north. Think about it. A river as big as the Ein suddenly losing an entire branch isn't very likely. What's more likely is that the branch has been covered up over time. And the town of Fisher along with it. And if that is the case, one day maybe the Vapor will swallow us all up.”
“What do you think I should do about that?” Domma asked, honestly surprised. “You're saying that the Vapor has been creeping north for all these years and that no one noticed it?”
“I've never heard that theory before,” Potter said. “We've gone from one unsolvable mystery into another. I almost feel ridiculous speculating on these things with you. Domma, we're both logical, religious people, and here we are delving into Foglin lore and ancient southern geography. Ormon had suffered severe cranial trauma. He seemed stable on the outside, but he was a mess on the inside. You know that as well as I do. Sometimes – and perhaps both of our lives should have taught us this by now – things go unsolved. And there's nothing we can do.”
Domma sighed. “I came here worried that you would be dead; that everyone here would be torn to shreds. Whatever or whoever killed Ormon . . . it isn't natural. What can his death mean?”
“What does it mean?” Potter repeated. “I always try to put things into perspective.” He raised his hands up into the air as if explaining things to the wind. “Stars must die every day, Domma, their flames burning for the last time. Worlds collapse in on themselves. Species come and go, never to be seen by man. And yet despite the fantastically massive cosmocity of it all, we go on with our lives. Not everything is a signal; not everything is a sign.”
“I didn't know you thought so deeply about things,” she said.
“There isn't much to do here but think deeply between outbursts,” Potter said. “Is that a new robe? It looks fantastic on you.” His smile was warm and mischievous.
Domma laughed and in a very odd gesture tried to run her hand through her hair, which of course didn't exist. The coziness of the room was getting to her. Her thoughts on Foglins and Ormon were tangled inside her brain now, nothing reconciling or making any sense, so she shoved it all to the back. She would do what she had truly come here to do.
Potter continued speaking before she could say anything. “Would you care for something to drink? There's something about you today that says you would.” He walked over to a tall cabinet.
Domma smiled. “I've always been partial to anything with a cherry flavor,” she said.
“Interesting fact, interesting fact,” said Potter. “But our reserves here are rather limited. Your request would have been much easier to accommodate if you had requested 'something that isn't totally atrocious'.”
“Yes, of course,” Domma said. “I'm sorry. This whole situation has got me flustered.”
“Tragedies can lead people together,” Potter said as he poured two shoddy looking glasses full of a dull liquid. “When I opened up to you the other day,” he began, “well, sometimes things take a while to sink in. I was hoping this would happen. I was hoping, but . . . I didn't want to hope too hard. How inelegant, Potter. I really should work on my language skills.”
Domma walked up behind him as he was talking, and as he turned to serve her drink she let her robe drop to the floor.
“Oh,” Potter said.
-4-
“He turned you down, Domma?” Metta squealed quietly in the night. “It's criminal!”
Domma felt ridiculous, like some idiotic girl swooning over boys. Once evening had fallen she had come straight to Metta. Metta, my partner in crime, she thought. God, if you are watching, please don't judge me too harshly. My heart and mind are both confused.
“He turned me down,” Domma confirmed. “I don't blame him. It was too much too soon.”
“It was brave,” Metta said in awe. “You weren't wearing anything underneath your robe?”
“I had my chest wrap on, and I suppose I was still wearing my boots. Oh, God, I must have looked like a fool. But, he did give me this.” From within a pocket in her sleeve, Domma produced a folded piece of paper. “He wrote this to tell me where to meet him."
Metta brought her hands up to her mouth. "He drew a heart at the bottom of it," she squeaked. “Oh, Domma that is so fantastic. Are you going to go through with it?”
“I was ready to today, wasn't I?” she asked. “I feel so sterile here. I always have. There's always been something inside of me that didn't quite fit with this place.”
“But you're one of the most revered women here. I walk by and nobody notices, but you're hounded sometimes day and night by people – other Clerics, even – wanting advice.”
“And now I am turning to you,” Domma said. “I know how you feel. Your Tristo . . . Have you decided if it is worth it?”
Metta sat taller on the bed, her blond hair bobbing joyously by the light of the candle. “You know I can't truly be the judge of that. God is. In a cosmic sense it doesn't matter what I think. But here, in my body . . . it feels right, Domma. I feel right. Can I be both a woman of God and myself? Does that even make sense?”
Domma nodded and reached up to idly touch the tattoo of the sunburst on her forehead. “I guess that's what I'm trying to find out, too,” she said.
Chapter 19 – The Skull and The Sword
-1-
Things had become quite bad again for Krothair. He and Ti'Shed were back at it with swords in the training field after a
grueling two days of grappling that had left Krothair weak and beaten. It was amazing the amount of power that Ti'Shed possessed in his aged frame, but the techniques and reactions he knew were what made him a terrifying fighter.
Steel rang on steel and Krothair – who had been on the defensive for the past month of training – began to gain the advantage on his drug-addled teacher. He flowed through the Vasebreaker forms that Ti'Shed had taught him and soon had the old man parrying every blow, unable to form his own counter-offensive.
Krothair felt pity for the briefest moment and the emotion betrayed him, causing him to miss the next beat of his attack. Ti'Shed turned then, body whirling, sword seeming to be in all places at once. The sword master had been waiting for any opportunity, and he never missed one when it came. Krothair felt warmth on his cheek and realized his face had been cut. He stumbled backwards, feeling briefly like the untrained boy he had been when he had first come here.
“Congratulations. The top of your head is now gone, crotch-hair,” Ti'Shed said. It was a nickname the old man had taken to calling him on the training field; it barely sounded like Krothair's name at all, and that only infuriated him more.
“You should admit I have gotten better,” the boy said stubbornly.
That only drew a cold stare from Ti'Shed. He looked up into the sky, judging the light while squinting. “We should start doing some night combats I think,” he mused. “Daylight is all well and good, but if you can't fight in the dark you may as well not fight at all.”
Krothair's heart sank. To him that sounded like a terrible idea. He was exhausted, pushed completely beyond his limits, only sheer force of will was keeping him going; or so he liked to think. Or perhaps had to think.