Way Walkers: Tangled Paths (The Tazu Saga)

by Leigh, J.

  Jathen burst into laughter, shocked by the extent of their superstition. “Oh, come on now. It might be a Talent, it might be a Way Walker and a Drannic, but it’s still just a person. Seriously, I’ll show you.”

  They began yelling again, rallying to stop him.

  “Really, I’ll just get the ball and come back. It will be fine.” Breaking away, he strode through the tall grass and ancient ruins to reach the ball and the living myth.

  Jathen crept forward, and reaching for the ball, he kept one eye on the figure. He plucked the ball from the debris then retreated a few steps. The Drannic remained unmoving. Jathen let out a breath and tossed the ragged sphere back to the gawking children. They cheered then made hurrying motions at him. He started to obey, but a small rustle from behind made him hesitate. There was nothing out of place or different, but the crouching stillness of the Drannic beckoned like a theory needing to be proven.

  Ja’han searched so long and found so little. Perhaps this is a chance, maybe a sign, as mother would think. Ignoring the terrified squeaks, he stepped closer to the shrine then cleared his throat. No reaction from the Drannic. Well, if I’m going to do it, I might as well do it.

  “Hello,” Jathen said in Tazu.

  When he received no response, he tried the Msāfryan “Maraba,” doing his best to sound affable and respectful.

  Nothing.

  He attempted the universal Tar’cil pleasantry meaning hello, goodbye, thank you, and a variety of other niceties. “Cor’mon?”

  Stirring, the Tazu-like creature seemed to lean in Jathen’s direction, though its lids did not flutter.

  Jathen continued in Tar’cil. “Is it true it’s blasphemy to speak to a Drannic?”

  “No.”

  Jathen blinked, feeling unexpectedly gratified. No small bit relieved, he asked, “I’m not bothering you, am I? Because I’ll leave you be if it’s irritating to have me talking to you.”

  “Not irritating.”

  “Thank you.” Glancing back at the camp, he grinned in the children’s direction. “To be honest, I just marched over here to prove you weren’t going to smite me for addressing you.”

  “I know.”

  “Ah.” Jathen examined the creature. “Um… I suppose most are awed or afraid of you.”

  “You’re here.”

  “Yeah, I guess I’m special like that, always making unusual friends.” Jathen rolled his eyes, feeling like a dolt. “I didn’t expect you to respond, as most say you wouldn’t. Not that you are saying all that much as it is. So what are you doing up there?”

  “Waiting.”

  Heh, and Hatori said Drannics only spoke in riddles. “Are you waiting for anything in particular?”

  “Yes.”

  “What would that be?”

  “Person.”

  Jathen snorted, bemused by what was starting to feel like a game. “What kind of person?”

  “Special person.”

  The graver tone made Jathen falter. Suddenly, he was reminded of the purpose and power of the Drannic race, who sought out the Incarnations of the Children reborn. “Talented special or…” He swallowed the lump in his throat. “Something else?”

  “Person with greater destiny being lived. All live a destiny chosen. Only some, their destiny affects the many. Chosen not by them, but by Spirit, and to it, they agree.” The Drannic turned and opened his eyes. “Special.”

  Those eyes were not of the mundane world, holding something cosmic in their eternal depths. The iris color was indeterminable, but the pupil’s blackness contained a speckled universe of stars.

  Jathen sputtered in awe. “Special like an Avatar?”

  “Yes.”

  A deep shiver ran through Jathen’s body. No matter what he believed, the Children were real documented beings, born souls harboring extraordinary power in their subconscious, waiting only to be Awakened. The prospect of a near god on the same road he traveled was humbling and moderately terrifying. “Is that who you are waiting to spot up there?” He needed to confirm it for his own sanity. “An Avatar or Aspect?”

  “No.”

  Relief spread through Jathen faster than cold water on a hot day. The possibility of being near, or even being, an Avatar or Aspect had been enough to take years off of his life. “Who then, if not one of the Children or their Aspects? Who has such a great destiny?”

  “The Interpreter.”

  Screwing up his face at the first really strange answer so far, Jathen asked, “Interpreter of what?”

  “What has been seen.”

  He stifled a laugh. “Does that mean there is a ‘one who sees,’ too?”

  “Yes.”

  Jathen smiled. “Are you waiting for that one, too?”

  “No.”

  Jathen sighed. Eyes fully adjusted to the dark, he saw the Drannic wasn’t very intimidating after all. Boasting a tattered shirt and simple loincloth, the Drannic’s lean physique was more akin to that of a beggar than a mystic, leading Jathen to feel an unexpected stab of pity. “How long have you been up there… waiting?”

  “Long time.”

  “Did this person tell you when he was going to meet you here?”

  “Interpreter does not see. Does not know I wait.”

  “How do you know if he’s going to show?”

  The Drannic shook his stick a bit at Jathen. The clinking of the stones and shells adorning its end sounded abnormally loud in the gathering dark. “Dragon Walker knows.”

  So he is one of their shamans. How interesting. “You know what this guy looks like too, I suppose?”

  “Yes. Have met him before. Not this body, but before.”

  “All right.” Out of questions and thoroughly confused, he said, “Well, I’m going to head back over to the camp now. Nice to chat with you. It will please my mother to hear the story.”

  After a beat, the Drannic said, “A favor, I can ask of you?”

  Jathen stopped midturn. “Depends on the favor.”

  The Drannic sniffed the air, seeming to savor the brisk current carrying the scent of a dozen different dinners. “That is Clan food at your fire, yes?” His tail thumped slightly. “Red spice and leeks in soup? With durmat meat?”

  “Yeah, I think that’s what Master Hatori threw into it.” Jathen shrugged, amazed the Drannic was able to isolate a singular thread of aroma among so many cooking fires—and tell which fire was his. “I’ll trust your nose as to what’s in it. I’ve not really eaten much ethnic food before. To be true, I was sort of afraid to ask.”

  The strange creature sighed and closed its eyes, its tail flicking. “Nothing like Clan food. Not too spicy, not too salty, not too sweet, never bitter, always savory, warm. Good.” The eyes popped open with a hopeful gaze of stardust. “A bowl might I partake? Have not eaten in a time.”

  “Well, I can ask, but it’s not my soup. If Master Hatori decides to part with some, I’ll be glad to bring it over.”

  “Obliged.”

  Jathen returned to be greeted by the gaggle of wide-eyed children.

  “You talked to it?” the tall Tyr’sat asked.

  “Yes,” Jathen replied, mimicking the Drannic for his personal amusement.

  “What did it say?”

  “He wants soup.” Jathen headed back to the camp. Smiling, he made his way back to Hatori to inquire if they could spare a bowl of fare for a Drannic.

  “What, he can’t get his own meals?” Hatori sniffed. Eyeing Jathen over stirring the pot, he slurped delicately from the spoon. “Jephue, can you postpone your moping for five seconds and bring me the salt?”

  A fury of loud curses and bangs came from within their xeyme, followed by the rather ineffectual hurtling of the salt jar out the door flap. “Choke on it!” Jephue y
elped.

  “Oh, by the eight Originals!” Hatori picked up the cracked jar. “I was agreeing with you, you puerile little—”

  Jathen cut him off, not wanting to spend another night listening to Jephue whimper and cry. “Hatori, is there enough to share with the Drannic, or no? He did say there was nothing as good as Clan food.”

  “Pah, fine!” Hatori waved at the dinnerware. “Take the mystic lizard some. But get the bowl back.”

  Jathen grabbed the ladle. “Right, right.” After filling a bowl, he scampered back to the ruins. Jathen offered the food to the Drannic with an amused, “Here you go.”

  “Ah.” Claws clicked around the ceramic bowl with eager reverence, as if paying homage to a soup spirit. Raising the bowl, the Drannic drank eagerly, somehow managing not to slurp. “Good.” It nodded. “Very obliged.”

  “Glad you approve.” Jathen grinned, feeling quite accomplished for having assisted one of the most revered beings of their world, and without a lick of Ability or Tazu-shifting. “Well, I’m going to get my own helping, if you don’t mind.” He saluted the Drannic playfully. “I’ll be back for the bowl.”

  “Thanks I owe. Repayment I must give.”

  “It’s no trouble—”

  “Must be given.”

  “Well, I could ask Hatori. It was his soup and—”

  “No. Thanks, I owe to you, Jathen Monortith. To you, I repay.”

  Jathen stopped in his tracks. Granted, it was a Drannic, and Jathen wasn’t a Talent to block his thoughts, but it was still impressive to be called by name without having given it. “What kind of repayment?”

  “Your destiny. Do you wish to know?”

  Jathen snorted, speaking his first thought. “I’d rather know if Kyanith is really willing to believe I’d almost murder my brother for the sake of the throne.”

  “Yes.”

  The reply both staggered and yet did not surprise him. “That was rather blunt. I thought your race spun riddles when answering such things.”

  “Quick answers always come when the answer you already know.”

  “Yeah, well, thank you.” He turned to go again. “I suppose.”

  “So confused are you, yet ask not after your own destiny?”

  “From what little I’ve learned of my bastard Ability, I think it’s usually better not to know.” All the unpreventable deaths of baby siblings fluttered across Jathen’s memory, coupled with the accusation of harming the only one he’d saved. The pain was sharp, a white-hot slash through the already burning ember in his chest. “Things just get more confusing.”

  “Wise for one so young. This is good. Very good.”

  “Heh, maybe I’d have made a good Dragon Walker then,” he teased. “If anyone but a Drannic could be one.”

  “Do you know how much a Talent one must be for Dragon Walker?”

  “Apparently not enough to get your own soup.”

  Tail thumping, the mystic let out a hissing snicker. “Tell you this.” He regarded Jathen with eternal eyes. “All of us have a destiny to be walked. Special ones are only a very few. Yet, between the special and the majority lies a scattered some who affect not the many, but a greater most.” His staff dipped over Jathen’s head, the talismans on the end clicking together once more. “This is you.”

  “So I’m not special, but I’m not normal, either?”

  “You choose. Always your paths you choose between what destiny has lain. Some have great paths meant to affect the world. Most, their choices affect the immediate people in their lives and a little further. Your path will pass along something between.”

  Jathen eyed him doubtfully. “I’m starting to believe in that riddle thing now.”

  “Not believe?”

  “Tell me this, if you know so much about me. How can I choose a path that will affect many people if I’m not allowed to rule? That is what you are talking about, isn’t it?”

  “You ask a how. How is not up to Spirit or destiny. How is up to you, your choices. Life contract speaks of potential, not what will be. It is what you have to choose from, not what you will pick, not the how.”

  “Somehow, I doubt it’s going to be as easy as marching up to Kyanith and telling him I’m choosing to rule.”

  The Drannic tilted his head. “Choose what to believe. That, too, is a choice. Most important choice of all.”

  “Yeah, yeah. ‘Respect the Ways and find a place amongst them,’” Jathen quoted. Remembering Lost in the Landscape, he inquired, “Is that why I look like a Drannic in silver mirrors? This ‘not normal paths’ thing?”

  Squinting, the Drannic leaned very close. Jathen squeaked as, with astounding deftness, two clawed fingers pinched the flesh of his ear, pulling Jathen’s face closer.

  “This is so of you?”

  “Um… yes?”

  The Drannic seemed surprised for a split second then pulled away, releasing Jathen. “Answer to that, not my place to give.”

  Jathen massaged his throbbing right ear. “And whose place is it?”

  Shifting his weight on the perch, the Drannic pulled its wings and tail tightly around its body. “Cannot say. But I will relay it to them. If they decide, you will know.”

  “Now that’s a nice riddle for me, I suppose.”

  “Less than you think.”

  Reaching down to pick up the bowl, Jathen did his best to continue to sound affable. “Well, goodnight, then.”

  “Yes. A good night.” The Drannic’s eyelids closed. As Jathen turned to go, the Drannic added, “And good luck, little Tazu.”

  Chapter 18

  The river flowed slowly.

  The Nhr seemed to stretch for bounds, the opposite bank appearing more like a distant imagining in a dream than a tangible location. A series of reed boats was pulled across the surface by the men using a hand-over-hand method upon a series of knotted ropes stretched the width of the massive waterway.

  Climbing aboard after Jephue, Jathen slapped at a wayward bug. Apparently, they found moot blood juicy enough to ignore all types of repellent. Buzz, smack.

  “Why don’t they just build a bridge?” Jathen asked.

  “Can’t,” Hatori said, placing his large leather bag on Jathen’s lap then climbing aboard. “Water’s too wide and deep.”

  “Oh.” The luggage felt like a stone slab on his lap. “What is in this thing?”

  “Sword cane and the few baubles of inventory I could not bear to part with. Keep it close.”

  “Sure.” Buzz, smack. Frustrated, Jathen ran his hands through his dusty hair. His gold tresses were getting longer and longer, and he toyed with the ends, wondering if he should ask Jephue to trim it or if he should let it grow until he could make a proper Tazu braid again.

  They set up camp that night on the opposite side of the river. The buzzing began anew when he started rummaging through his pack.

  The loud burst was beside Jathen’s left ear, and turning, he discovered the source. “Hatori, my watch is buzzing.”

  “Buzzing?” Narrowing his silver-green eyes, Hatori said, “Give it here.” When Jathen handed it over, Hatori fiddled and prodded, turning the cuff this way and that. “It’s in your head.” He returned the piece. “There’s nothing wrong with it.”

  Taking it back, Jathen was chagrined by the watch’s silence. “My luck, I’m going mad.”

  “More like all the rattling from those damn coaches damaged your eardrums.” Hatori turned to study the tree line.

  “Ha, right,” Jathen swiveled his head to follow the other man’s gaze. Campfire flames cast shadows that played on the tree trunks. “Native Near-Siders again?”

  “Maybe,” the Clansman murmured.

  Once Jathen returned his watch to his wrist, it buzzed again. “Hey, it’s doing it ag—” />
  A yell rang out, and Jathen was shoved onto the ground, his face smashed onto the sharp rocks and chalky dirt. He heard shouting and felt some sort of vibration and a quick whistling sound. Jathen tried to move, but a tremendous weight was pressing down on him, leaving him breathing in the odors of soil, sweat, smoke, and blood.

  After a few minutes, the weight slowly shifted off of him. He rolled onto his back, away from the fire. The world was a blur of shadows and flickering light. His cheek throbbed, and he reached up to touch it. When he pulled his hand away, his fingers were smeared with blood. I’ve been cut. Better get up.

  Rising up on his elbows, Jathen looked about, trying to make sense of the madness. Msāfryan men ran with weapons in hand, shouting as they headed for the trees. The ground around the campfire was peppered with red-tipped arrows. Hatori was nearby, lying against the large pile of firewood.

  He’d been shot through the back. Two of the arrows’ barbs protruded from Hatori’s chest, while the third was still hidden within flesh. A part of Jathen cataloged the organs hit: lungs definitely, perhaps the heart.

  Hatori reached out and snatched his wrist, squeezing with a firmness that seemed uncanny given the man’s wounds. “Help pull out.” The words sounded like a death sigh.

  “I-I c-can’t. I mean… are you sure?”

  “Die soon otherwise. Bleed out.”

  A normal person would have had a slow blooming of blood around the arrow shafts. The holes in Hatori’s chest almost gushed. His shirt was awash in a sanguine stain that shimmered in the firelight. The Clansman’s naturally pallid complexion became even paler, his skin almost seeming transparent.

  Grimacing, Hatori grasped the first barb in his shaking white hand. “You… can do it, boy.”

  Yes, just like when I helped with Dolomith. I can do it. Jathen shuffled forward. “What do I do?”

  “I break, then you pull.”

  Feeling sick, but steeling himself with the memory of Petalith’s scolding “not to be such a soft-shell,” Jathen moved around to crouch behind Hatori. He wrapped both hands around the first arrow shaft, doing his best to ignore the still-flowing blood.