by Russ Linton
As Sidge held it, he felt the invisible push against his fingers—the Kiss of the Mighty Dragon, Vasheru, champion of the Attarah. Fire for their foes. Wisdom for the worthy. For him, always only a slight whisper of power. An unanswered promise which he desperately wished to hear.
When they returned from the pilgrimage, Sidge would be given the honor of retrieving his own corestone. Before this could happen, however, he'd need to demonstrate channeling. Proper technique, following in the Attarah's footsteps, and a perfect recall of the mantras, this was all it took according to the teachings. That, and a meditative mind given to the glory of Vasheru. Focused. Like the power within the stone.
Izhar cleared his throat.
Sidge approached his master with the pendant's chain draped across two hands and pressed his middle palms together. He undid the clasp and Izhar stayed him with a gesture.
"No. Sit."
His master meant for him to practice. Sidge was eager at first, but he froze halfway to a crouch as he searched for a clear spot on the floor. If only he could arrange things even a little. A grouping based on materials perhaps or whatever hidden power Izhar ascribed to the item in question.
Everywhere his lenses fell, curiosity and chaos occupied them. That had indeed been a dead bird. And there was that stick and a dried, shriveled bit of … something.
Izhar swept his foot in an arc to clear a space. "Sit."
Nodding in rapid bursts, Sidge folded into the lotus. His fingers ran nervously across the surface of the pendant. Izhar situated himself on the chest. With a chorus of grunts and creaks, the rotund master folded his legs beneath him, then placed upturned hands upon his knees.
"Focus. Feel Vasheru in your palm. He travels through the wheeling sky above the Sheath …"
Sidge tried to focus on Izhar's words. He envisioned the restless sky. Immense power at the Cloud Born's call. Fire and perhaps one day, visions, granted by the Mighty Dragon and his Wisdom. To know Vasheru's will and to burn the trash scattered haphazardly in all corners of the room.
No. That was wrong.
"… gales in the wind across the broken plain. He circles in the sanctuary, right here, above our very heads." Izhar's voice droned on, assuming the monotone aspect of the mantras. His words told the story of the Attarah's own path and the stops they would make along their journey.
They would leave the Stormblade Temple to arrive in Stronghold before the Deep Night festival. Stronghold, the first settlement of resistance to the Children of Kurath. Where men were made free. Brought to safety and truth, following the path of the Moonstrider beneath the swollen pearl of the longest night.
At Stronghold, the living Attarah would celebrate both the pilgrims' arrival and their departure the following morning. They would then travel west, to the edge of the desert, and call out in challenge to Kurath, enslaver of mankind, before returning home on the same path.
All of these rites and tenets Sidge knew by heart and his mind continued to wander, a castaway in the sea of clutter. Izhar went on to describe the rolling hills of the Paharibhumi and its mounds of dead birds. Broken sticks raining down from the forest of Cerudell, pelting the vardo and littering the roads. A sandstorm on the edge of the desert, bursting through the door of his freshly-swept chamber. How could the Stormblade Temple ever protect mankind with so much work to be done?
Izhar had fallen silent and stared expectantly. Sidge became aware he'd missed something. He drew his antennae tight to his head and shrugged.
"The first mantra of the Forge?" asked Izhar.
"Of course, Master." Did he need to recite it? He knew it well. And the eleven hundred and twenty-five mantras of the Trials. The five thousand five hundred and thirty-eight of the Rebellion. The three thousand and ninety-nine of the Forge. The fifteen hundred of the Rule. Before he could begin, Izhar unwound from his perch atop the chest.
"Never mind. We'd best be headed to the courtyard. We'll practice more on the journey." Izhar rose and took the corestone from Sidge's open hand.
Sidge's heart sank as the charged air around the stone withdrew. "I'm sorry, Master."
"Don't be. Here is what I meant to teach—the pilgrimage can be disconcerting. For many acolytes, leaving the Temple after having been here so long is a difficult adjustment. Often an acolyte requires a reminder that Vasheru is everywhere. Even as far away from the Storm as we plan to travel."
"I understand, Master. Every utterance of the mantras assures us of this." Sidge sat forward as another idea occurred to him. "He is even with us through all time, handed down in these words of the Temple."
"Time, eh?" Izhar donned the pendant and stooped to begin rooting through the junk on the floor. The corestone peeked in and out of his beard as he searched and Sidge recalled the power in his palms.
"I'm just not sure He's with me," whispered Sidge.
Izhar appeared not to hear him and continued his search. Soon, his master rose with a satisfied grunt. Turning, he placed the broken stick in Sidge's hand.
"Put this with the stores on the wagon." Izhar patted him on the shoulder and headed for the hallway. Before Sidge could ask why, Izhar added, "For your second lesson, leave the rest exactly where it is."
"Master?"
Sidge sat frozen among the odd assortment of what he could only see as junk. His antennae twitched. He didn't dare move.
CHAPTER III
Escaping Izhar's lesson had taken Sidge longer than planned. A few of the scattered odds and ends had found their way back into the chest. Well, if he were being honest, most. Maybe all of them.
Sidge walked the empty halls of the Cloud Born's floor. The other masters were likely all preparing their acolytes for the ceremony in the courtyard. He headed down the stairs at a brisk pace, unsure precisely how late his failed lesson had made him.
He lit upon a landing and paused, his antennae twitching.
Distant chanting filled the hallway emanating from the foyer outside the main doors. Using those doors would place him directly behind the Cloud Born preparing to begin the ceremony. If he descended all the way to the bottom floor to use the acolyte's gate, he would be delayed further as he twisted his way through the warrens of the storehouse.
Neither would do. He'd have to approach from the ramparts. He left the landing and headed for the side passage that would take him there.
Smaller and lighter than his fellow acolytes, Sidge made a point to avoid the walls. In fact, it was rare that Temple business brought any of them to the ramparts. Above the protected courtyard, the open heights were constantly battered by the wind. Even so, Izhar had made it a point to take him there as a child in a lesson long ago.
"They used to hold drills here," Izhar had shouted above the wind, his then solid-colored beard pressed against his throat, his stole whipping about with loud snaps like a hoisted banner. "Kurath will return, just as the mantras say." Izhar's gaze had floated out over the wall and Sidge had struggled to hear his words. "But the last drills were held long before I arrived."
Sidge had imagined acolytes wielding Vasheru's Fire from the battlements. They may not necessarily face Kurath here, but the exercise seemed prudent. Channeling the Fire was still required to ascend though few were asked to demonstrate the level of control needed to fell an enemy or cast long distances from fortified walls.
He hadn't considered this when he was younger for he'd been too distracted by the view. He'd run his hand along the wall, not quite tall enough to peer over the edge into the Sheath. But from his vantage point, he'd gotten his first truly unobstructed view of the temple grounds.
The cliff housing the structure was an oddity which jutted up from the barren and scoured landscape. Scooped out of the black, glassy rock of the obsidian face was a domed alcove hundreds of feet high which sheltered the Stormblade Temple. Straight lines and functional grooves ran along the towering heights, designed to slice the winds and divert their centuries-old assault. At the top sat Vasheru's Sanctum, the pommel of a mighty black blade, a w
onder of ebony and platinum open to the raging tempest.
The whole of it had been breathtaking, but as he'd ran his hand along the smooth surface, a youthful, curiosity occurred to him.
"Mister Izhar," Sidge had asked, for he was not officially a pupil, "the Temple, the wall, they all appear to be one piece of stone. It runs forever with no seams." He'd paused and added in a serious tone, "I've examined the floors for them."
Izhar had regarded him patiently and replied, "The workings of the Jadugar."
He would learn later the adage was almost a joke. Uneducated commoners often recited it. Anything unexplained could be assigned to "the Jadugar" and what few mantras referred to these ancient sorcerers were strange and inscrutable.
Of course, Izhar had not been joking.
"By some accounts," Izhar had said, "it was the Jadugar who advised the Attarah on how to call upon Vasheru's power."
Izhar's story went well beyond the holy mantras recited by each and every acolyte and master. By his telling, the Jadugar were ancient sorcerers in service of the savior of humanity who carved out the Stormblade Temple, raised the walls from the earth, and created the city of Stronghold in defiance of Kurath. It was they who uncovered the paths of the Moonstrider while searching the four corners of all the known world. They who had spoken with the Urujaav, followers of the Formless—more mystical beings from a lost age.
Now, Sidge understood the title of Jadugar to be an honorary one given to the Attarah's advisor. Yet in his youth, he had listened, fascinated by Izhar's tale. He'd returned to the temple barely aware of Izhar's tight grip on his small hand so the winds wouldn't carry him away. When they'd finally wrestled open the door, Master Gohala had been standing there. Sidge had stared up at the statuesque Cloud Born in awe. Deeply lined and weathered even then, Gohala's stern guise came so naturally Sidge assumed he'd perfected it at birth. This expression was hemmed between thick eyebrows and a combed beard, trimmed with a precision he required of his many acolytes.
Hanging from Gohala's neck was a corestone the size of a fighting dagger. So substantial, looped in gold and platinum, it had the gravity of the obsidian cliff face in miniature. His robes, spotless. His stole, blinding white.
"The walls are dangerous," Gohala had said once the door closed behind them.
"Perhaps, but they're the only place for this lesson." Master Izhar was already trying to make his way down the hall, dragging Sidge.
"Lesson? What would you teach it?"
The venom in Gohala's voice had stopped Izhar in his tracks. His hand cinched tighter around Sidge's. "We start at the beginning. Where all mantras start. The Trials, the Jadugar …"
Gohala laughed and Izhar's grip became a solid pressure. Sidge felt little pain but wondered if his chitin would collapse or dent.
"No harm in teaching fairy tales," Gohala said. "But giving lessons? Presumptuous, don't you think? The Stormblade has not spoken on the matter of its inclusion."
"He will. He'll see things my way."
"Our charitable leader does seem to have a weak spot for your ramblings. Best we set things straight in case you are correct." Gohala knelt, eye to eye with Sidge. "Only Vasheru and the Attarah matter here. The one who protects us, and the one who freed humanity."
Izhar's face had turned several shades of red through his brown skin. His unruly beard flared around his jaw.
Sidge didn't understand, then or now, why Izhar had dragged him down the hall muttering curses. Gohala had always been an aloof sort of master. Besides, the Stormblade had sided with Izhar and approved Sidge's induction into the order. Though Sidge couldn't help but wonder if such dispensations could be revoked, say, if Gohala became the Stormblade.
His thoughts were interrupted by a deep reverberation along his antennae. A constant note which grew closer and faded as though it came from inside the perpetual rotation of the Storm. Sidge knew the precise rhythm and carefully measured strikes necessary to make the sound but thanked Vasheru he wasn't assigned to tend the bell today for it meant he was late.
The Stormcaller mantra merged with the bell and swelled through the dark corridor, a thing of its own, living on the breath of the hundreds of acolytes gathered in the courtyard. Sidge's feet slapped furiously on the smooth floor.
Mighty dragon
Dweller in the storm
Grant us Fire, grant us Wisdom
As the bell tone receded, the voices of the Cloud Born layered atop the acolytes' chanting.
Freedom for all time
Empty is the Sun Palace
Empty are the chains
He broke into a run.
The masters' voices sounded deep and stretched, an echo across a cosmic void. At the peak, their chants drowned out the acolytes who continued their own mantra with an unbroken rhythm. Sidge tried to control his breathing as he raced toward a sturdy oak door at the end of the hall.
He skidded into the door and steadied himself with four palms on the handle. With a prayer to Vasheru, he pushed and the wind tore the handle from his grip, nearly throwing him outside.
He pulled his wings in tight beneath his robes, then crouched and stepped into the gale. Chanting from the courtyard was lost to the roaring wind. He struggled to close the door, pushing with all four arms and heavy steps. When he finally managed to force the door to a point where the wind slammed it shut, he flattened himself against it to catch his breath.
Another quiet prayer, and he fought his way into the wind. His robes cracked against his chitin as he angled for an open stair descending into the shelter of the courtyard.
Crossing the ramparts, Sidge couldn't help but be awed once again by the commanding view of the Stormblade Sheath he'd first seen so many years ago, and lately only saw through the narrow, recessed windows of his room. He was tall enough now to see over the battlements, and his expansive sight allowed him to take in the vast spectacle framed by the temple cliff.
Winds carried a haze of fine dust across the Sheath, and lightning forked in mesmerizing arcs. Far to the north, a pillar of light pierced the earth, the great axle around which the storm spun.
Normally Sidge loved nothing more than to watch this display of Vasheru's power. Even with the pilgrimage blessing underway, even with his tardiness, he fought the urge. But today, more than the sky sought his attention.
Far in the distance, a lone figure moved across the Sheath. It crawled along the lip of a deep gully. He couldn't make out details, but by the gait and profile, it was a man.
Strange. All the acolytes and Cloud Born would be at the ceremony and none of them would be out seeking a corestone. Rarely, an adventurer would try to approach the center of the Storm. They were often turned back and those foolish enough to press too far without a channeler from the Temple were not heard from again.
Sidge offered a prayer to Vasheru for the man before starting his descent down the narrow open stairs into the courtyard. Acolytes huddled at the base of the temple like stones in a black river, their collective mantra washing over them and breaking on the foritfications.
The temple's grand stair was flanked by platinum likenesses of Vasheru, running up to an open portico. On each step knelt a row of Cloud Born. At the top landing, the Stormblade himself faced the gathered acolytes, the age of his many years blurred by the distance.
Surrounding the head of their order were four Cloud Born; those chosen for the chaining ritual to carry the elder's Wisdom, Vasheru's gift, on the pilgrimage. Masters Udai and Tarak stood in front of and behind the Stormblade with the meticulously groomed Master Gohala to his right. To his left, stood Master Izhar, whose wrinkled robes could not be masked by any amount of distance.
Sidge's steps faltered and he nearly tripped as he fixated on the creases of his master's robes made plain in the light of day. He slowed his pace to avoid drawing attention as he descended the stair and to keep his distracted state from causing him to tumble from the dangerous height. For such an auspicious occasion, they should've at least worked more on his
Master's appearance.
Surely if he were ever asked to stand in such an honored place, he'd have cleaned, repaired and smoothed his robes to the best of his ability. He would stand proud in defiance of their ancient enemy, Kurath. Chant the Masters' mantras with perfect precision and pitch. Wave happily at his pupils as they tried to furtively enter the courtyard.
Wave?
Was Izhar waving at him?
"Vasheru's Beard!" Sidge muttered.
Master Gohala flinched.
Sidge tried to make himself as small as possible as he scampered down the last few steps. Gray robes on a polished black field, he was every bit as conspicuous as the single thread he'd plucked from the floor of his room. He found himself wishing Vasheru's clawed hand had plucked him from the wall before anyone noticed.
He approached the back ranks of acolytes, their eyes fixed on the heavens and arms outstretched. He joined in their chant and spread his four arms to the sky. Above, the storm roiled, and the four Cloud Born surrounding the Stormblade raised their corestones. His voice like thunder, the Stormblade recited the mantra of the Four Corners.
Fire in the clouds
Knowledge in the Earth
Life in the waters
Shelter in the stone
Mighty Dragon, Child, Father and Mother
Blessed are the four corners
Farthest reaches of all creation
Freed are we from stone upon stone
Go forth
Seek the corners
Where the Worldblood pooled
In timeless dream
Sidge's robes cinched around his body. Air fell heavy on his antennae and they pressed to his head. He breathed in the cleansing scent of knowledge and power as light tore open the sky.
It lasted the briefest of moments and shuddered again, a vein of energy connecting the heavens and the Stormblade. The rest stood with their eyes closed, their robes grasping at their limbs like funeral wrappings.