The next artists, two acrobats staging a battle, were less entertaining. One had a pair of sabers, the other a poleaxe with rounded edges, covered in ribbons that highlighted its arching movements. The two men wove in and out of the crowd, spectacularly attacking each other while avoiding the onlookers.
“What a shame that Grigán isn’t here,” Rey joked. “He might have been able to teach them a thing or two.”
“Grigán is much better than they are,” said Léti, who had taken Rey seriously.
Bowbaq nodded and said, “I think so too.”
Rey didn’t add anything. He was obviously of the same opinion, but his friends were too distracted to pick up on his joke.
The two last entertainers were shrouded in mystery. One wore a long black robe embroidered with obscure runes, walked with dignity, and carried a gold-filigreed spellbook. The other was a young woman made up to be an imp. She jumped in circles around her “Grand Master” to create space around them.
Closing the procession with these two characters was smart, as it engendered a final burst of curiosity in the crowd. A large number of the crowd joined the heirs, following the troupe to the show.
Many of them stared at Bowbaq and the beautiful, warriorlike Léti, wondering if they too were part of the spectacle. Rey noticed, and he had a few choice words with the ones who ventured too close. Each time, the Rominians walked away, their bodies and eyes indicating great respect. The actor laughed, hard, but refused to translate the exchanges for the other heirs.
The parade stopped in the town’s central square, and the crowd made a circle around the artists, guided by the dwarves and the acrobatic warriors.
Like the others, Yan was ready to see a show, and he let the pleasure of anticipation overtake him without ever wondering what might come next.
The remaining acrobatic troupe member left Lana and Grigán alone so he could personally guard his pillow—a task he did so well that Grigán and the Maz could hear him snoring.
Being alone with Lana made the warrior more nervous than he was willing to admit. He thought he was so different from the priestess that they would have nothing in common to discuss. Ever loyal to his habits, Grigán didn’t say a word but paced vigorously. He circled the camp twice, doing his rounds and instinctively straightening his absent mustache. With nothing more to do, he came back and sat down next to Lana awkwardly.
Up to that point, the Maz had not been loquacious either. At first, she had kept quiet to respect the warrior’s own silence, but soon she was searching for the words that would help the Ramgrith share his burden. It was clear that the warrior was ill at ease, and Lana remembered an old proverb as she watched him struggle: To find a man’s heart, it’s enough to be a woman.
“Grigán, do you believe in a god?” she asked finally, with no other introduction.
The warrior fixed his gaze on her. This was exactly the kind of conversation he wanted to avoid, talking about religion with a Maz!
“What difference does it make? Do gods believe in me?” he responded sharply.
He immediately regretted his aggressive tone. Lana didn’t deserve such an attitude.
“Yes, I believe in gods,” he continued softly. “How could I not, after what we have seen. Usul, the Mog’lur, the portals to Jal’dara, and everything else? I would have to be an idiot not to believe!”
“That’s not what I mean,” Lana explained. “Do you believe in a god? Do you pray?”
“Excuse me, but I find this question to be too personal.”
The Maz didn’t add anything. The worst way to try to ease someone’s conscience was to interrogate them. Tolerance was one of the three virtues for a reason. People always ended up understanding that if the priests kept their silence, they would equally respect their secrets. Perhaps they could help in some way or another. Was not the Maz one of Eurydis’s teachers?
Grigán was no exception. Lana’s silence and her attentive, caring expression did a better job of opening him up than anything else could have.
“I don’t believe . . . I don’t believe in a god, as you mean it,” he continued haltingly. “Formerly, in Griteh, they taught us to pray to Alioss and Lusend Rama. But I was only a child, so what I thought then doesn’t matter. I lost my devotion when I grew up, and I stopped praying completely when I left the Lower Kingdoms.”
Lana didn’t share Grigán’s opinion about the value of a child’s faith, but she said nothing.
“Do you believe in something like . . . nature?” she asked gently. “The forests, seasons, animal spirits . . . something like that?”
“Do you think that’s stupid?” the warrior asked, slightly offended.
“No, of course not. It’s normal that having passed your life on trails in forests, you might find divinity in the rising dawn or in the birth of a fawn more than in the dry leaves of a religious text. It’s a commendable kind of faith, Grigán.”
“Thank you,” the warrior mumbled, still nervous. “But you . . . you aren’t mad at me for . . .”
“For Eurydis?” the priestess finished his sentence. “That only depends on you. How would you take it if you saw all the Maz chanting the praises of nature?”
Grigán thought for a moment, trying to look for the trap he was falling into. He felt like he did when he was losing an argument with Corenn, when he never got the last word. But Lana was not Corenn; the Mother wielded diplomacy to influence political and economic decisions, while the Maz worked with religious conviction. Moreover, their methods were radically different.
“I don’t know,” the warrior confessed. “I suppose it would be nice to see other people respecting my beliefs,” he finished, looking out at the horizon.
“Well, then you are faithful to Eurydis in your own way,” she said. “Don’t worry, I have no intention of interfering with your beliefs. I simply wanted to tell you this: our faiths are similar. Both of us are thinking along the same lines.”
“Which is?”
“The universal quest for the Moral, of course. Knowledge, tolerance, peace. You defend these values, Grigán, even unwittingly. You help humanity progress. It matters very little whether you invoke the name Eurydis, or nature. It’s said that the goddess will come for the third time to this world, to help us take the last steps. Mankind will live in harmony with nature’s creatures and all living things. Over time, men and gods will mix and become a single race of intelligent beings. They will never feel suffering, desire, cruelty, or other flaws of our soul. We call this radiant future the Age of Ys. Don’t you think your beliefs belong in this future as well? Don’t you think that your respect for a tree or stream is something like this future?”
“If you say so,” the warrior agreed, out of his element. “But the cult of Eurydis could, with this explanation, include all the world’s religions. That seems too easy to me.”
“Not all religions, Grigán,” the Maz contradicted him. “All moral religions, yes. But where can you see a place for the Züu in the Age of Ys? What could we do with the followers of Phiras? And Valipondes?”
Lana stopped her sermon, realizing she had let herself go. Eurydis asked for tolerance. The universal quest for the Moral would be a long one, for it would take mankind a long time to forget the black gods. The Maz were patient, but Zuïa’s messengers killed, K’lur’s disciples tortured slaves, and Soltan’s daughters sacrificed themselves, day after day, year after year, for how many more centuries?
Could Maz Achem have been right to ask for a crusade against the demonist cults? What had he seen in Jal’dara?
Lana was troubled. Suddenly, she doubted one of Sage Eurydis’s teachings. What if it all were false, and the Age of Ys would never come?
Grigán noticed her consternation and tried, in his own cumbersome way, to be sympathetic.
“Sometimes we can’t help but feel powerless, you know?”
Lana nodded silently, tears coming to her eyes. She held them back.
The warrior continued, “Rey told me somethin
g earlier . . . that you are a widow. Is it true?”
She nodded again, without looking up. She couldn’t hold herself together much longer.
“I am sorry,” Grigán said as he stood to make another round. When he was at the edge of her vision, he added, “Me too. I lost my wife. But please don’t tell anyone. I only wanted to share with you that time heals everything.”
Alone, Lana let the tears wash over her. But Grigán wondered if he should have lied. Even after twenty years, some of his wounds would never heal.
Rey admitted that the players’ show was one of the best he had ever seen, and his friends agreed. All the artists were masters of their craft, or almost all of them.
The fire-breather went first. She didn’t only vomit flames, but could walk on coals, push needles through her body, and inflict other tortures on herself with no apparent effect.
The amuseur posed in front of the flames during her show, grimacing and exaggerating her pain, and making her seem like a martyr for enduring such torture. This drew both laughter and long silences out of the crowd. The applause and ovations were boisterous, and more onlookers joined the growing mob.
Nakapan the colossus used the moment to harangue the crowd, and Corenn translated for the heirs.
“How many people of the beautiful city of Deshine are ready to pay to see the rest of the show?” he asked in a rhythmic boom. “Our troupe has played for royal courts. Our troupe has played in front of the Great Maz of Odrel. We would be happy to play for you, noble people of Deshine. But art alone will not feed us . . .”
As he spoke, the rest of the players went around collecting coins. Nakapan counted on them to harass the richest-looking individuals, and to sniff out the onlookers who tried to hide or leave during this part of the show, only to return for the next number. Those who did were sure to be the amuseur’s next target.
One of the clowning dwarves brought the bag of coins they had collected to Nakapan, who frowned in disappointment. It was enough to take a risk.
“We have a master of wolves and a master of monkeys,” he shouted to the crowd. “We have a juggler, the best of his kind. We have acrobatic warriors whose battles are legendary. We have one of the most powerful magicians in the known world,” he finished, nodding to the man in the black robe. “Noble people of Deshine, do you want us to play?”
The second collection lasted a few more moments, and it would be renewed throughout the play. For the time being, Nakapan judged the takings sufficient, and the show continued.
Anaël, the master of wolves, or rather, master of a single wolf, had the next number. Merbal gave an excellent performance, letting himself be led through a diverse set of tricks—walking on two feet, playing dead, and, most difficult, catching a particular ball out of many that Anaël threw.
Next came the horsewomen, who showed off all of their talents before leaving the stage to Nakapan. The colossus first bent a few pieces of metal, each one thicker than the one before. Sweat poured from him as he bent one and then the next. He then invited a few volunteers to confront him in a game of tug-of-war, winning each of the matches with ease.
Tonk, the unlikable master of monkeys, was next. He walked to the middle of the courtyard with an arrogant expression that irritated Corenn. His first movement was to crack his whip in the middle of the mimastins, creating a general panic among the chained animals. He had done it only to provoke Bowbaq, and he leveled his gaze at the giant as the whip landed.
Unfortunately for Tonk, his efforts hit the mark too directly, and Bowbaq’s face pulled into a menacing scowl. The giant crossed his imposing arms over his massive chest and waited for the number anxiously.
No number ever really came. Tonk’s exercises were accomplished through fear and whipping. With each crack of the whip, Bowbaq’s arms rose higher upon his chest, as he clenched his fists and breathed heavily. Corenn knew what was going to happen next and tried to pull the giant away, but it was too late. He politely, but firmly, refused.
For the next exercise, the monkeys had to walk across the fire-breather’s still-smoldering bed of coals. The beasts’ cries left little doubt that the fires still burned hot. Still, three mimastins accomplished the task, preferring to burn their paws than to be cut and maimed by the whip.
The last animal was less willing. After a few failed commands, Tonk started to use his weapon, hitting the animal once, twice, a third time, the look on his face exposing how little he cared for the creature. The little monkey could no longer move.
But the sadist had no opportunity to hit him again. Bowbaq stormed across the square like an enraged bull. Tonk, in his cruelty, raised his hand for another strike, but Bowbaq was upon him and blocked the Rominian’s next blow, ripping the whip out of his hand. Tonk, who had been waiting for an excuse to unleash his anger on Bowbaq, punched the Arque in the face. Enraged, Bowbaq angrily threw him to the ground, where the Rominian stayed, checking to make sure that he still had all his teeth.
The heirs gathered around their friend, and the street performers, other than Gallop and Anaël, gathered around the master of monkeys. Léti kept her eyes fixed on the acrobat warriors, who were waiting only for a sign from their chief. Was this the end of their trip together?
“Noble people of Deshine, the show continues!” were the only words to come out of Nakapan’s mouth.
The entertainers relieved Tonk and started a different number. The chief motioned to Tonk and Bowbaq to follow him, fury smeared across his face.
Bowbaq followed him carrying the little mimastin, who seemed to understand the gravity of the situation and clutched the giant tightly with his little hands. Behind, Tonk, mumbling curses at Bowbaq and eyeing Rey, Léti, Yan, and Corenn, dragged the other three monkeys.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Nakapan shouted at Bowbaq. “Are you stupid or something?”
Corenn translated for the giant, not mentioning the insult. It was Corenn, not Bowbaq, who responded next.
“Our friend is erjak,” she explained. “He can’t stand to see people torture animals, it’s as simple as that. Rest assured, it won’t happen again.”
“Wiar!” intervened Tonk, who had lost a few teeth and couldn’t pronounce a few letters through the swelling.
But the excuse had been sufficient for the chief of the troupe. Erjaks were like living legends among the entertainers; the presence of one in their troupe was a promise of success. Nakapan decided to be an exceptionally gracious host with that one.
“He ftook my monfkey!” Tonk shouted, upon seeing Nakapan’s decision.
“It’s true that you are brutal, in any case,” Nakapan responded. “And you are always complaining about that one. You had already decided to sell it!”
“He muss’ pfay!”
“Well, he’ll give him back to you or buy it, what a good deal! Right?”
Corenn asked, “How much do you want for him?”
“Fifthee’ monarchs,” Tonk responded defiantly.
“Fifteen monarchs, agreed,” Corenn said, pulling out the money.
“No! Not fifthee, fifthee!”
“We agree then.”
And the heirs, confident of the chief’s support, walked away, leaving the sum in the Rominian’s hand.
“What’s the monkey’s name?” Yan asked, turning back to Tonk.
The master of monkeys stared at him strangely, as if the young man had just asked him for the name of his hat.
“Ifdiot!”
And so the heirs, after losing Frog in Romine, adopted in Deshine a female mimastin named Ifio.
The show finished relatively shortly after the incident with Bowbaq. This allowed the heirs to return to Grigán and Lana early that night, with plenty of time to heal the injured Ifio. Rey had wanted to stroll through town, maybe visit a few taverns, but he changed his mind and followed his friends. Gallop had also mentioned a certain bottle of liquor in his possession . . .
They found Grigán loyally keeping an eye on the camp, and the warrior wa
s relieved to see them return safe and sound. Corenn told him how Bowbaq had come to have the mimastin, trying to keep the story vague, but the retelling was clear enough that Grigán cursed Tonk and Bowbaq. The giant endured the warrior’s reproach, looking abashed and genuinely sorry. Eventually, Grigán calmed down. After all, compared to what they had already faced, this was not a big problem.
To prevent any act of vengeance from Tonk, or any kind of aggression, the warrior suggested they set up a night guard around their wagons. He would take the first watch. As usual, he wanted only the men of the group to do the chore, but he made an exception for Léti, after she insisted that she do her part. Their plan set, they all got ready for bed. Some slept, another patrolled, one healed an injured monkey, and one savored a liquor made from pure petaya fruit. All settled in for a peaceful night.
Léti and Corenn found Lana in the wagon the women slept in each night. The Maz was nodding off over her prayer book, where her translated poem from the Deep Tower was inserted into the open pages. The priestess had spent a significant part of her night working on it, but she woke as they entered.
“Are you ill?” Corenn asked, seeing Lana’s teary streaks and tired eyes. She had never seen the Maz look so gloomy. It couldn’t have simply been a bad dream.
Lana sat up from her bunk and massaged her face before responding to the Mother, in a serious voice. “I am scared, Corenn. Horribly scared of the things that hunt us. Scared that I won’t be able to handle the truths at the end of our quest. Will we have the same courage as our ancestors?”
“What do you mean?” the Mother asked as she sat next to the priestess. “What truths?”
“I know no more than you do, of course, but I feel . . . I feel they will be a heavy responsibility. Don’t you feel it too?”
Léti nodded, as did Corenn, after a brief hesitation. Having sacrificed their homes, their wealth, and even their lives, the emissaries of the past must have borne the crushing weight of a terrible secret. A secret much more powerful than even the knowledge that Jal’dara existed.
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