Way Walkers: Tangled Paths (The Tazu Saga)

by Leigh, J.

  When the Interpreter finally deemed the task complete, Jathen was relieved, both mentally and physically. They went back out to the campsite, where Jathen gathered his things. Then the Interpreter led him a good distance away from the building.

  The Interpreter raised his hand. A small crackling orb of dark energy bloomed between his fingers. He pitched the ball high, and it arced over the trees and landed in the opening between the two old doors. Jathen heard a hissing sound, followed by a series of resounding booms.

  Smoke and ash poured from the doorway, but the inferno didn’t spread. Jathen watched it burn, cradling the Grand Artifact to his chest.

  “So in the end,” Jathen said, “what was real? How much of anything Mikkal, Hatori, and Ishane told me was true? Or was it all lies?”

  “Let me tell you a story. Some time ago—”

  “By what standard?”

  “Pardon?”

  “You said ‘some time ago,’ but by whose standard of time?” Jathen asked. “Human standards? Tazu? Clan? You all seem to have a different perspective, and I just want to gain a clear one.”

  The hood bobbed. “After A’ron De’contes’s coup, but before the Kidwellith earthquake.”

  “So somewhere in a space of five hundred to thirty years ago. Clan standard, then. Go on.” Shadows danced across the tattered hood, reminding Jathen of the old theatrics from the Feast of the First King.

  “Very well. Some time ago, there was a master who had many students, and though he doted on none, there were those in whom he saw more promise than others. So these he cultivated more thoroughly, and those who were worthy rose, and those who were not were culled from the group. When the dust settled, there was one who had all the qualities which the master had come to require: intelligence, patience, logic, creativity, discipline, fearlessness, and most important, a sense of duty and loyalty to his master and his master’s objectives. What the master failed to see was the lack of passion toward anything. Logical and unattached, the student was loyal because it was the only thing available.”

  “Mikkal.”

  Though he did not confirm, the man in the hood paused for a moment. “This flawed student was given greater and greater responsibilities, until the master had come to rely quite a bit on his student, and trust was born. Enough trust that this student was placed in a long-term assignment, where lying would become a far more common experience, and discovery would mean death.”

  “He joined the Gray Council but was working for you, and”—on instinct, Jathen didn’t try to speculate—“whatever it is you do.”

  Again, he didn’t respond to Jathen’s assumption. “Then there came a day when the student became a master of students. Much the same thing happened, where the student, now the master, saw what needed to be seen and cultivated until only the best were left.”

  “The one you all called Sister. But she betrayed him. And then he betrayed you.”

  “Perhaps. One is uncertain of exact time frames of betrayal at this point. But for the sake of stories, let us just say the second student betrayed her master first. Her master failed to see in her a passion that later grew into obsession. When this happened, a very specific set of rules was broken, and many, many people died.”

  “The Kidwellith earthquake.” Jathen stared at the Artifact in his hands with equal parts hate and awe. “That was true, then. She did build that wicked thing, trying to recreate this.”

  “Yes.” For the first time, coldness filled his tone. “And she used it to try to find what should never be found. When such rules were broken, it fell to her master to discipline her, and the master’s master ordered just that.”

  “So what Mikkal said was true. He was trying to rectify his mistakes with her.”

  “No. When sent to see to his former student, the new master returned to report the student had died, and that”—he waved a hand in the direction of where Jathen had destroyed the false artifact—“was destroyed.”

  “So he has been lying to you for over thirty years now… and to me from the very beginning.”

  “So it would seem.”

  “But why did Mikkal bother to bring me out here?” Jathen shook his head. “Why not just kill me, and have his damn proper Artifact?”

  “Several reasons I can see. The first being an attempt to recruit you.”

  “As an apprentice?” At the hooded man’s nod, Jathen snorted. “To your cause or his?”

  “That I do not know. Though one can speculate, considering his reaction to my presence. The second reason was that he probably hoped to use you as a buffer should I or another of my party arrive. Or Sister, for that matter.”

  “The recruiting I can kind of wrap my mind around, with the possible-heir-to-the-throne thing, but why on the continent would he think I’d be a buffer against you? Unless he meant to use me as some kind of hostage, but considering your lack of qualms over using this thing to bury the lab again no matter if anyone in the village below got killed or not, I somehow doubt that.”

  “A fair assessment.”

  “So then… why?”

  “You really have no idea of what exactly occurred here?”

  The words “non-traditional Talent” raced through his mind, along with all the strange occurrences since he’d left home: the Charmed Wind and the river flood, his deadened senses and strange curving Precognition, even the odd hints that Hatori had been apprenticing him. “I don’t suppose you’ll enlighten me?”

  The hooded head shook from side to side. “You aren’t ready quite yet.”

  Jathen held back a small sob, thinking of the last conversation he’d had with Hatori. “You are almost as bad as a Drannic, you know that?”

  “Some have said I am worse.”

  “I believe it.” Jathen looked down at the Artifact. The star and rings shimmered a little in the firelight but otherwise seemed lifeless. “So what do I do with this Grand Artifact now? Are you going to take it and hide it?”

  He shrugged. “It seems content where it is. Best to leave it with you for the moment. I believe its fate, for better or worse, is meant for you to choose.”

  “Me?” That was the last thing he’d expected after so many trying to take it from him. Though he had to admit he felt as though the assessment was true. The Artifact did feel like his. “Why me?”

  “I learned a long time ago not to meddle when it comes to the disposition of Grand Artifacts. They choose their own.”

  Jathen shivered. “But what about Sister and Mikkal? What about the lives that have been ruined because of the search for this thing?”

  “All the more reason it has chosen to put its trust in you, I wager.” The Interpreter stabbed a bony finger into Jathen’s chest. “You understand the responsibility of having such a power at your disposal. You will not use it idly, if at all.”

  Jathen felt the press of that finger even through the layers of his clothing and coat. “And if I decide to get rid of it?”

  “Then that is your choice. Though remember, this Artifact is a portion of both Bree and Bron, Avatar and Aspect. There has never been a Grand Artifact like this one, and now that it’s whole, it’s likely to have its own ideas of what should and shouldn’t happen to it. Tread carefully.”

  The weight of such a responsibility settled hard on Jathen’s shoulders, making his stomach and chest burn with worry and foreboding. I barely know if I want a kingdom, and now I must be responsible for a thing that could level the continent. I don’t even know what Way I follow, and I’m trusted with keeping the hearts of an Avatar and Aspect. I’ve just lost so many friends, and now I must keep others from taking more lives out of greed over this thing. Oh, Spirit in heaven—Bree, Bron, Montage, Rhean, or whoever thinks this is a good idea—I hope you know what you are doing by entrusting this to me.

  Jathen looked up
at the Interpreter. “Well, at least we destroyed that place. That’s something.”

  “It wasn’t the real lab. There was no evidence of Prothidian’s presence on that crystal.”

  Shock and dread washed over Jathen. “Then why did we just destroy it?”

  “Because the Old World and all its trappings are what, in part, spawned Prothidian. If people such as Mikkal or Sister ever found such a place, they could use the things it contains to mimic the work of that long-gone man of antiquity.”

  “And there can never be another Prothidian. The world could not take being remade again.”

  “Correct.”

  “But this wasn’t his lab, just some offshoot another early Talent of the age happened to ward?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t believe it.” Jathen shook his head, feeling a queasiness growing in his stomach. “After all of that, all those people gone, and it wasn’t even the right place.” A rage so far beyond anything he had ever felt began to swell, growing and growing until he could no longer contain it. He wrapped his hands around the Grand Artifact’s rings tightly enough to draw blood. And for the first time, Jathen let out the anger—all of it.

  Chapter 41

  He smashed the Artifact.

  Jathen slammed the thing on the rocks, again and again, screaming in a terrific release of loss and rage. For Hatori, and Jephue, he smashed it. For his great-uncle and his grandmother, he howled. For the thousands of others lost, for Thee who had to shiver in terror every time she crossed a mass grave, for the Lu’shun and their homes and lives, for his mother and her sorrow, and even for Kyanith, the stubborn king, who had to be strong, always strong because there was no one left he could trust… Jathen screamed and smashed. For all of them, all the known and unknown, the named and the nameless, he screamed and bashed it against the rocks until it was nothing but shiny bits of shattered quartz.

  Then, for Ass’shiri, he ground the broken pieces into the dirt with his heels, wailing and cursing. With a last roar of righteous justice, Jathen knelt in the snow, cold tears running down his face.

  At that moment, within his torn chest, the ember went out. There would be no more ember rage, no more irrational fury. He had gone beyond anger, beyond sorrow, beyond injustice. He had been privy to things far colder and wicked than petty prejudice, and he had no room left in his heart for such self-hating prickliness. There was the calm of finality as well, fueling the change in his soul. The thing that had caused so much unwitting despair in his life was gone, shattered beyond conceivable repair. But he was not without burden. The Artifact was gone, but the thing that inspired its use was still out there somewhere, lurking. Someone, someday, would try to find Prothidian’s lab again.

  “That was dramatic,” the Interpreter commented in a tone as mellow as the falling snow.

  “You said its fate was for me to decide.” Jathen rose, his body weary even as his heart felt lighter. “I decided it was too dangerous to keep. For anyone to keep.”

  “Perhaps it is the correct choice, then, as you were the one meant to make it.” For a moment, Jathen was left with the sense the Interpreter was debating elaborating on something else, but he didn’t. “Come. I believe we have a trek down a mountain to attend to.”

  They parted ways just outside the town. The trip with the Interpreter over the last day had been vastly different from the one with Mikkal. The man had jumped down the mountainside, skipping along to different landings with only a tight grip on Jathen’s upper arm. The fast pace had been exhilarating and a fine reminder that he was still alive.

  It seemed strange to take enjoyment in the world after so many had died, but perhaps if he could still feel, then he would be all right. Never forget, he thought, reflecting on Hatori’s life. But never give up. If you could find happiness again, my friend, so, too, shall I. Someday.

  “I suppose I’m on my own now, with the Artifact gone,” Jathen said.

  Their garments slapped sharply in the frigid wind. The sunset was behind the Interpreter, shrouding him in even more obscuring darkness.

  “If you so choose. My ultimate destination does not include a stop here.”

  “Does that mean I could go with you if I wanted?”

  “Yes.”

  Jathen was surprised. “And that would entail what, exactly?”

  “A great many things, but you could never go home.”

  The bluntness took Jathen aback. “Could you tell me why, or what I’d be doing?”

  “No. Because it would be better if you didn’t. And as for what you’d be doing, well… whatever I tell you to do.”

  “Heh, you are worse than a Drannic.” Jathen shifted his pack, staring toward the town, though he didn’t really see it. He saw instead the bodies, all the bodies of those lost, of those loved and not, and the sound of a roar, a force unexplained. “Would I find out what happened to me up there?”

  “Yes.”

  He considered it as the sun set. He thought of his mother, Thee, and Hausmannith, even Petalith and Bertran. The idea of never seeing them again, never telling them he was well, made his chest tighten.

  He suddenly remembered his sister’s shy friend who had bestowed half a Grand Artifact upon him as a gift. I must talk to Seren again.

  “I can’t,” he said softly. “I just can’t.”

  “I know. For some, knowing is all there is, all that matters, for it changes everything.”

  “But for the better?”

  “That depends entirely upon the person, which is why you aren’t going to come with me.”

  “Yes, I can see that. I just wish I could let my mother and Thee know I’m alive without tipping off Skaniss or whoever else is behind things back there.” He smirked. “That’s certainly a knowing that would matter.”

  “Would you like to send them a letter?”

  Snapping his head around, he asked the shadow, “Really?” Then, he narrowed his eyes. “What’s the price?”

  The man shrugged. “I owe you. Much more than the simple delivery of a single letter would entail.”

  “What would I need to do?”

  “Write what you wish, seal it, and tomorrow someone will arrive to take it to whomever you wish.”

  “‘Someone?’”

  “They’ll find you, and you’ll know them.”

  “Thank you.” Half jesting, Jathen asked, “Don’t suppose you can arrange for someone to teleport me home, too?”

  “That would be a bit much.”

  “I figured.”

  “You have no idea.”

  For some reason, the comment struck Jathen as the most honest reaction the Interpreter had given. Mikkal had said he couldn’t teleport me. I wonder if I’ll ever know. But he’d made his choice. “Thanks for everything. For the offer, too, even though I’m not the type to want to know more than anything else.”

  “You chose those living over learning the what and why about the dead. That is wise of you.”

  “Tell that to the friends I’ve failed.”

  The Interpreter was quiet a moment. “I can say from a vast vault of experience, Jathen, that the ones you love have a tendency to find a way to come back to you. Death does not stop love.”

  “You didn’t strike me as a romantic.”

  “I’m not.” The indigo of the night gathered around him, melding his form so it was almost indistinguishable from the sky. “I’m a realist. With regard to such matters, I speak only fact, a rare enough occurrence in and of itself to be worthy of extra attention paid.” Then he was gone, shuffled away by magic.

  With an oddly lighter heart, Jathen strode down the hill, looking forward to a warm fire and bed, perhaps some food. The local inn, taller than every other building by two stories, was easy enough to find. He was halfway to the bar before he realized
he didn’t have much in the way of money. Quietly cursing the lack of foresight, Jathen detoured to the nearest empty table. He plopped his pack onto its worn surface to rummage through and see what he had.

  I might have to trade something for a room. All I have is Hatori’s sword cane and Ass’shiri’s crossbow, both of which are worth more than a room, but I don’t think I could part with them. There’s always the atlas, but still… His hand clenched around his coin purse, and he pulled it out of the bag. And I’m still going to need supplies to get home. Then he noticed the weight of the bag in his hand. With narrowed eyes and bated breath, he opened it.

  Silver and gold glittered inside, considerably more of the former than the latter, but still more than enough for his needs. Well, that’s certainly more than the value of a letter. He smirked, removing a few silvers to pocket then returning the purse to his pack. Though I wonder if this means we are completely even.

  The innkeeper was a broad human woman with a hard face but kind blue eyes. She spoke very little Tar’cil but Jathen managed to communicate what he required. She showed him to a good room with its own fire pit and a single rope-bed covered in soft animal skins and a heavy coverlet.

  Jathen locked the door then braced it shut with the crossbow. Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they aren’t out to get you. He grinned, thinking of Ass’shiri.

  Sitting in front of the fire, he took off his gloves. What did Ishane and Mikkal mean when they referred to me as a nontraditional Talent? Did you know, Hatori? Was that the truth you were going to tell me the day you died? Who was the shadow up on the ridge? Why did I suddenly see the past instead of the future? Why did the Artifact-device take us to a false lab? Was it simply as Mikkal had said, that it didn’t work correctly without its other half? Or was it something else? He rubbed his warming hands across his face. What really happened up there?