by Leigh, J.
“You’ve got it, Jath. Anchor stones!”
As they drew closer, the protection the towering blocks of weathered stone offered could be seen in action. Groups of travelers funneled down to a slow crawl, filtering through the arched gate so the Tazu guards could easily check papers and, on occasion, search persons and bags.
Jephue sighed. “We’ll be here most of the day at this rate. I don’t remember it being this bad the last time.”
Ahalteke commented on how the Msāfryan had little use for borders, but in order to trade with the Tazu Nation and Aralim, they had to endure the bureaucracy. “My father was Tazu,” he explained in response to Jathen’s query. “What you would call a thin-blood. Other than that, I know very little.”
“So the Msāfryan don’t mind you being only half?”
“Why would they?”
“A child of the tribe belongs to the whole tribe, Jathen,” Jephue said. “No matter who his parents are.”
“That’s very different from the Tazu.”
“As well it should be,” Ahalteke said. “Not to offer insult, my friend, but oftentimes, I find myself thinking the Tazu are cruel to their offspring by putting such import on bloodlines.”
Jathen nodded. “No insult there, Ahalteke. If anything, I agree.”
When they finally reached the front of the line, Jathen immediately brought out his signet ring and discreetly showed it to the guard.
“Ah,” the Tazu guardsman said. “We have something for you.” He went into the guardhouse and returned with a medium-sized envelope.
Leaning over from his place at the front of their cart, Hatori inquired, “What is it?”
Jathen took the package. “Letters.” The expensive linen paper felt warm in his hands, and he smiled, recognizing the familiar looping stokes of his name scribed on the front. “From Mother and Thee.”
“Well, that should lift your spirits a bit.”
While the papers of the rest of the party were checked, Jathen slipped open the envelope. Most interested in Thee’s, he opened her letter first.
Please come home. In the last few letters I’ve gotten, you’ve sounded so sad, and once you are past the border, you won’t be able to get back here easily. Please, please, if you are having such doubts, come home.
Sighing, Jathen gazed up at the megaliths with their swirling glyphs and protective magic. What am I doing all this for, anyway? She’s right. I’ve been miserable. I’m probably going to continue to be miserable. Maybe...
The image of Kyanith flashed through his mind like a thunderclap, scowling and superior. “Home already, little moot? And here I thought you were going to take all the time you could. Or did you simply return to finish off Dol?”
Shivering, Jathen shook his head. He pulled out his monogrammed paper and dashed off a fresh note to be sent home along with the latest of his letters.
I’m sorry, Thee.
I love you.
I have to go.
He handed the note and his letters to the obliging Tazu guardsman, knowing it would be the last time he’d send word home until he reached at least the city of Zo’den.
Chapter 16
Jephue hadn’t lied.
Once Jathen’s party passed the Tazu Nation’s border, the towns completely disappeared. They were forced to travel only with the roving bands of the Msāfryan, taking advantage of their huge campsites for protection from animals and bandits.
The simple brilliance of Msāfryan collapsible habitats set Jathen’s architectural mind awhirl. Called xeyme, the heavy weight of felt and canvas coverings overtop a structure of lattice walls, doorframe, roof poles, and crown held the things together even under the cutting grassland winds. Five of the smaller xeyme could be erected, secured, and have cooking fires pouring from them in under twenty minutes if two people worked on each one. If four worked, they could have it done in less than five.
“Damn it, boy,” Hatori scolded. “Stop staring at your watch to time them and help!”
“I’d just slow them down, and you know it.” Jathen sighed, feeling more and more useless and bored as the days rolled by.
Evenings on the plains were a different experience. Without real walls, the darkness of the wide savannah seemed to creep ever closer, and Jathen forever had the feeling of being watched. However, as much as he hated slinking between the xeyme in the dark, the overhead canvas of the stars was glorious, everything he’d ever imagined and more.
In his dreams, he flew on wings of gold among the blazing balls of light in the limitless cosmos. But the instant he awoke, there was work to be done. One thing that can be said for the Msāfryan, they do know how to break camp at record speeds.
They parted ways with Ahalteke one morning a few weeks after the border crossing. His family was turning south to drive its herds to the more fertile grazing areas. Though not as dear to him as Pallo, Jathen had enjoyed the company of Ahalteke and his family, and he was disappointed to see them go.
“Thābt sfr—steady travel,” Ahalteke said. “And may Bree smile on all your creations, young prince.”
“I don’t know about that.” Clasping wrists with the man, Jathen laughed. “I’m not very creative in the first place.”
“Creativity is in the act of appreciation as well, you know.” Ahalteke regarded him in a way that reminded Jathen of Hausmannith. “Look at you. You look at a xeyme and see brilliance. When most see only a hut. There is value in how you see. What good would all the creativity in the world do if the only ones who could appreciate it were the ones who made it?”
“You’re saying having good taste is a way to evolve my soul?”
“Yes!” He grinned. “Or, at the very least, the act of being observant.”
Jathen heard something over the hustle and bustle of the Msāfryan. There it is again. He kept hearing the sound in periodic intervals, both day and night, the same high-pitched buzzing. “What is that?”
“Bugs,” Ahalteke said. “Cicadas. Some say they speak to the core and stones of the earth, the way their song buzzes and vibrates.”
Jathen smiled and bid their friend farewell. Once Ahalteke was out of earshot, Hatori turned and said, “You didn’t believe a word of it, did you, boy?”
Jathen raised his eyebrows. “Are you telling me bugs are really talking to the rocks?”
“Not that. What he told you about observation and appreciation being one path of the Way of Creativity.”
“Oh.” Jathen shook his head. “No, not really. I mean, it just doesn’t make any sense. Why would anyone value someone looking at something more than, or even equal to, the genius of the person that created it? It’s just not how it’s done.”
“Well, chalk it up to the difference of cultures, then.” Hatori returned to helping Jephue repack the cart. “Since you’re so set on being useless, you can’t take the ruddy compliment.”
Jathen watched Hatori rope together long strings of tools, pans, clothes, and general supplies. Glancing at Ahalteke’s retreating carts, he saw they had done the same, along with the remaining Msāfryan in the caravan. “Why is everyone suddenly tying everything together like that?”
Jephue answered, “Keeps the Native Near-Siders from stealing and moving things.”
Jathen blinked at him. “The what from doing what?”
“Native Near-Siders.” Hatori gave him yet another how-can-you-be-so-ignorant look. “Bah! Boy, isn’t Thee a Medium? Hasn’t she ever seen or sensed any of them on the road before?”
“First, Thee is only an emotional Medium, so she doesn’t see anything. Second, she’s not very high on the power and control scale, so even when she does sense something, she doesn’t always know what it is. Last, I’m still not sure what you are talking about. What road? Thee’s never been on Pilgrims’ Road.”
“Actually you are right. Near-Siders tend toward wilderness, not urban sprawl. Even if she could, she probably wouldn’t have seen one in the limited travel you two have done.”
“What are they?”
“You know there are two sides of the Veil, right?”
“The Veil between the physical world and the spiritual. Corporeal beings on one side, incorporeal beings on the other. I’m not an idiot, Hatori. I even remember your lecture on bending and stacking along the Veil in spatial architecture.”
“Don’t be a smartass. Well, then you know on the spirit side of the Veil, there are two major levels: Near Side and Far Side. The far side of the Veil is the source, where Spirit resides and where all souls come from. It’s where life’s contracts are written, souls are debriefed after each lifetime, and time does not exist at all. Everything occurs at the same time in one eternal moment.”
“Heaven,” Jathen summarized. “Hatori, I was dragged to temple services almost every day of my life. I know.”
“That’s the short answer. Anyway, Far Side doesn’t interact much with the physical side of the Veil, our world. Point of fact, the vast majority of mediums can’t reach it. We know what we know because things like Spirit Guides, Angel Guides, and normal spirits can come and go between the two sides and tell those who can hear them about it.”
“So they don’t live on the Near Side. They just come to that part so some of us can interact with them?”
“Well, they can interact with all of us from the near side, but most of us don’t know it. Essentially, though, yes. They don’t live on the Near Side.”
“But the Native Near-Siders do?”
“Yep.”
“But what are they? And why do they steal stuff?”
“Eh, there are a lot of spirit beings considered Native Near-Siders: fae, imps, elementals, tree spirits, rock spirits. Pixies are a pain in the ass, and you’ve got brownies, gnomes, and all sorts of things. Ghosts are also technically Near-Siders, but they aren’t native. They’re stuck. Demons inhabit Near Side, too, some of the lesser ones. Though their real home is the Pit, of course, where Rhean threw the Red after the Great Fall.”
Jephue added, “The Muilan race over in Lubreean claim to be Native Near-Siders who somehow got pulled into the physical plane during the Great Fall. They can still phase in and out across the Veil.”
“So the Muilan steal pots and pans?” Jathen asked.
Hatori sniffed. “No, the Muilan are too serious for that. Most of the Near-Siders are pretty elusive and don’t phase in fully. Unless you’re a higher-level visual or true Medium, you’ll probably never see anything more of them than an odd shadow, or you might hear a bit of a giggle as they move your things when you aren’t looking.”
Jephue rolled his eyes. “If that much.”
“But why do they do it?” Jathen asked.
Hatori shrugged. “For the fun of it, I imagine.”
“But isn’t it more likely that people just lose or misplace things?” Jathen asked. “Why does it have to be some bored spirit with a weird sense of humor?”
“Half the time, it’s probably one, and half the time, it’s probably the other.”
Still, if it offers an explanation for this sense of feeling watched, I suppose Native Near-Siders might be a better alternative than some.
Most on the road were traders or scholars like the Artifact hunter Dumas, intermixed with mercenaries and escorts for hire. There were four bandit attacks and skirmishes in the first two weeks, all put down easily.
“Never thought I’d miss thieves,” Jathen shouted to Jephue during the third, when they were crouching behind their cart for cover.
Hatori twirled his sword cane. “I could always go out there and finish these dozen-some whelps off just as quick.”
“You will do no such thing,” Jephue squeaked.
Even the beasts of the wild were in greater abundance. Jathen learned quickly not to ride too close to the outer edges of the wagon train, lest he get in the way of the Msāfryan men and their notched longbows when something large and growling lumbered too near.
“Have to say, that was one advantage of living amid a bunch of gem-obsessed reptiles,” Hatori joked as the warriors chased off a hundred-eighty-pound smoke tiger. “There are very few things in the wild that’ll risk antagonizing a tyrn.”
There were, however, a few Tyr’sat willing to antagonize a Clansman. Most offenders gave dirty looks or suspicious glances, but one Tyr’sat muttered, “Khfāsh,” which meant “vampire,” then spit on the ground at Hatori’s feet.
“Shyrh… Clan,” Hatori corrected with a look that could stop a squay-bird’s heart.
They did not encounter that particular Tyr’sat for the rest of their stay in that campsite.
Later, Hatori said, “Remember, Jath, that the best way to make prejudiced Red-tainted cretins lose their nerve is to confront them with the exact opposite of the stereotype. People don’t know what to do with a Clansman who is not clad in black and brooding about his long years of life or spouting on about demons. Same thing with a Tazu who isn’t a snooty, self-righteous slaga’s ass, a Muilan who isn’t neurotically polite, an Annarite who is polite, or a Drannic who doesn’t speak in riddles. And for humans, it’s anyone who doesn’t have a chip on his shoulder or an inferiority complex. We have an old saying in the Clan Lands, and it’s truly something for us to refer to anything as old: Never, ever underestimate a human. Ever.”
Jathen laughed. “I’m not human. I’m a moot.”
“Well, even more so for you, then.”
Chapter 17
They headed west.
The next few weeks were spent with Jathen apologizing to Hatori for saying or doing something stupid, Hatori apologizing to Jephue for whatever silly human flirted with him in the hope of obtaining a Clan lover, and Jephue saying nothing until another infraction caused a new bout of bickering. The cycle of squabbling wore on Jathen’s nerves, and the argument over how much salt should go in the dinner stew was enough to make him walk away from the fire in a bid for solace.
Jathen tucked his hands into his coat pockets and took a stroll along the perimeter of the camp. A warm breeze slapped at his legs. I wonder how much farther we have to go. He scanned the camp’s inhabitants. And how much more I can take. Seeing a rag-tag group of Msāfryan children kicking a ball in the gathering twilight, he headed over, hoping their innocent game might lift his spirits.
Watching the youths was a treat, as they played with the unbridled enthusiasm of those who did not know how burdensome the world was. There were no teams, but simply the continuous batting back and forth of an old ball. Jathen smiled as the tallest boy made an effort to ensure every child of the gaggle got a chance to kick and receive the ball. He was one of the Tyr’sat, his legs holding the easy advantage, and the irony of the “superior” race using his clout to instill fairness was not lost on Jathen.
Sometimes I wish I was a human, then maybe I could just be myself, or at the very least be able to figure out who that is. Spirit knows I’m no closer to that revelation with each bound I put between Kidwellith and myself.
The tall Tyr’sat heaved a strong kick, and the ball soared high, sailing well over all the other children’s heads. They cried out in amazement and then annoyance as it bounced past the perimeter and into the outlaying brush, landing close to some old ruins. The ball rolled until it halted just below the most prominent feature of the stone skeleton.
The ancient shrine had fallen into disrepair, its mystic runes worn or gone completely. Jathen could still discern the twelve-point star at its crown, as well as its arched, alcove shape, denoting it as a true Spirit shrine. The loss of the runes probably rendered the latter ineffective, but the faithful had still placed offerings of incense and flowers on the steps.
Surprised none of
the children moved to fetch the ball, Jathen measured the distance in his head. It wasn’t far, but perhaps they were hesitant to tread outside the camp without an adult.
He offered in Tar’cil, “I’ll get it.” He managed one step forward before there was a bombardment of cries, and then the whole group wound about him.
“No, no,” the kicker said with deep fear in brown eyes. “Blasphemy.”
“What?” Jathen squinted at him, wondering if he’d heard correctly since the boy’s Tar’cil accent was terrible. “It’s just a ball in front of an old shrine. Picking it up isn’t any offense.”
“No, no.” The Tyr’sat shook his head. “Not ball.” He pointed toward the center of an arched alcove, where an effigy of one of the Children had once stood. “That.”
Jathen peered intently at the spot. Crouching within the alcove, in an eerie simile of the Avatar statue it had replaced, a creature of legend was silhouetted against the shadows.
“Drannic,” the boy murmured.
Jathen almost didn’t believe it. A rarest of the rare, a member of the race steeped in more mystery than any other in their world, could not just simply be sitting there. Yet he could make out the shape of wings, perhaps a tail, and even the telltale staff of their shamans, the true keepers of the secrets of the Children. The sight gave him chills. Still, for all of their solemnity and mystery, they weren’t dangerous.
“I see it,” he told the young Msāfryan, sounding more certain than he felt. “But I can still get the ball. I’m sure it won’t disturb him. And if it does, I’m sure he’ll accept an apology.”
“No, no.” The tall boy waved his hands. “Blasphemy. To even disturb Drannic. To speak without being spoken to, for that, Spirit will smite you down.”