by Russ Linton
Sidge held still, dazzled by the power, lidless eyes coruscating with light. He watched the bolt fracture in the Stormblade's grasp and leash the four Cloud Born together in a display of the Wisdom stronger than any he'd ever witnessed. Only the Stormblade had such control, to call the Fire into himself and know the will of Vasheru without being burned to ash. His successor, one of the four chained to him by the whipping arc of energy, would come to know the same power.
One by one, Sidge's lenses faded into a bruised glare until he saw nothing but the bolt of lightning. His robe fell slack and, finally, sightless, he waited for what would come next. A fist of thunder pounded the courtyard and rattled his insides. His antennae rippled in the passing wave.
Blinded, deafened, he continued the chant and reveled in the presence of Vasheru. He'd made it to the blessing. The pilgrimage he'd waited his entire life to embark on would soon begin. There were many obstacles ahead, but the touch of the Mighty Dragon erased all doubt.
As Sidge's vision returned he watched Master Izhar bow to the Stormblade. The two clasped hands and embraced. For all his lack of decorum, Izhar was understood by the head of their order. More signs of hope for both of them. Though when the Stormblade pulled away, he spoke and Izhar's face furrowed in concern and confusion.
Gohala's cold eyes watched the exchange then fell upon Sidge. The sea of gray around him parting, Sidge gave an awkward bow toward the masters atop the stair before following his fellow acolytes to the carriages.
CHAPTER IV
Day after day, Sidge drove the vardo onward. The dirt track leading from the Temple had descended into expanses of tall grass and the occasional farmer's field. Further ahead, tree-covered mountain slopes rose into an unbroken field of blue.
When they'd first left the shadow of the clouded skies, Sidge was amazed by the power of the sun hidden behind the storm. Brighter than even the pillar of Vasheru's flame, it brought life to everything it touched.
He'd never seen the world so vibrant. Tree branches drooped with golden pods, their cinnamon-hued bark visible through leaves tinged by autumn. Flowers of brilliant shades peeked out of endless seas of green. Many of these colors, he couldn't name. His life at the temple had been a palette of black and gray.
He missed gray.
One week into their journey, he'd started to wish for the uniform blackness of the Stormblade Temple and the predictable rhythm of the rotating sky. He missed the bell. The clean smell of the air. Here, so many odors assaulted his antennae that he kept them flat and under his hood. Leaves and grass twitched all around, driven by unpredictable winds. The sun burned overhead relentlessly. Sidge did his best to block out the blazing globe with the hood of his robes.
Night offered the only relief. But it was then that a chorus of unseen creatures floated out of the dense fields and woods. Rhythmic mantras older than the Temple, they could have been joyful calls yet their hidden source unnerved him.
He'd brought his broom. His sewing kit. They provided comforts of home, but not the clarity. He wished he had paid more attention to Master Izhar's lesson about acolytes finding it hard to leave on the journey. How Vasheru was everywhere, even here under a cloudless sky.
Days rumbled by, the grind of the vardo's wheels broken by cool, sleepless nights. For Sidge, only the quiet moments in the gray of twilight brought any peace.
They were two weeks from home and had long since fallen behind the others and lost sight of the caravan. Once distant, the southern mountains loomed on the horizon, higher than Vasheru's Sanctum. As they grew closer to both the mountains and to Cerudell, Sidge began to see more signs of civilization. Farmers working in their fields would occasionally pause and wave. Sidge would wave back, but they never approached. Having already seen the glory of the full caravan ahead of them, he supposed these men had little reason to break from their duties.
Their supplies in the vardo had thinned noticeably. Sidge ate judiciously of his own specially prepared foods. He felt those would last until they reached Stronghold. Master Izhar's food, he wasn't so sure about.
Izhar rode in the cabin of the vardo most days. His mantras resonated in the wooden space for hours on end and when not meditating, he seemed distracted. Sidge could only assume his thoughts lay with the Stormblade and the weighty matter of who would be his successor.
Distracted or not, Izhar acted unconcerned about their supplies or how far they'd fallen behind. "Vasheru will provide," he would say. He assured Sidge they'd rejoin the caravan before long. Exactly how long was currently being determined by their mismatched team.
The Paint had come to a full stop to chew on a stalk of grass that rose shoulder height at the side of the road. Beside him, the Nag could've been asleep in the harness, except for a lazy twitch of her tail. Her most comfortable pace barely differed from her current disposition.
Sidge slapped the reins and the Paint sneered at him. Yes, that's what it did. The creature turned a shaggy head and exposed its teeth before blowing a fine mist of horse spit and grass into the air.
"Loathsome creature," Sidge muttered.
The vardo shifted. "Everything alright?"
"Yes, Master," Sidge replied. "A quick break for the horses, that's all." He kept the frustration from his voice but his wings buzzed beneath his robes.
"I see. Not too long, though. We want to make Cerudell before nightfall." Another jostle as Izhar grumbled inside the vardo. "I'd much prefer a night's rest in a bed."
"Of course, Master." Sidge worked hard to hide the frustration in his voice. He stood on the foot board, waved all four arms and clacked his mandibles. The Nag's drooping head barely budged. One of the Paint's ears twitched and it smacked a mouthful of grass before sauntering forward, leaving his companion no choice but to follow. Sidge dropped onto the bench, cursing. The wheels ground onward and they maintained a steady pace until midday.
Up ahead, two children led a team of oxen with brightly painted horns through an adjacent field. Their oxen dragged a plow, cleaving the dirt into mounds. One of the children pointed as the vardo approached and they raced to the roadside.
Sidge realized he'd never actually seen a small child before. Acolytes were sent by their parents as young men, and never had a traveler brought a child to the barren and dangerous lands around the temple. Oddly, Sidge was the only exception, and Izhar rarely spoke of why or how this came to be. Sidge was perfectly fine with the lack of explanation for the last thing he wanted was to be reminded exactly how different he was.
Watching the shirtless boys approach the road, their bare feet sinking in the freshly plowed earth, Sidge recalled the same carefree attitude of his own childhood. He'd been small enough to ride in Izhar's hood or hide beneath the Master's beard when it used to be a solid color similar to the upturned field. He spread his mandibles joyously.
He wondered what games they played, or if they had much time to do so. No, they probably took to their duties early, much like he had, out of necessity and reverence. That would be proper.
The children waited anxiously at the roadside for the vardo to pass.
Once the squat wagon jostled close enough that Sidge could see the expressions on their faces, he watched the excitement melt. They appeared confused, as though they weren't sure exactly what it was they were seeing.
"Greetings," called Sidge. He waved with his upper right arm. The smaller of the two children squeaked and backed away.
Sidge reined in the Paint and, to his surprise, it pulled to a stop. Mouths agape, the boys looked up.
"A pleasure to meet you. I am Sidge, acolyte of the Stormblade Temple." Sidge placed his palms together and bowed from the driver's seat. They offered no response. "Perhaps you have seen the rest of the caravan?"
The boy closest to the road nodded.
"Is that a mask?" asked the youngest, breathless.
"Oh, no." Sidge parted his mandibles in a smile and wiggled his antennae. Both boys backed away, and he put his palms out. "No, I'm an Ek'kiru. You have seen
one before? Yes?"
The youngest peered over his brother's shoulder. "Do you eat children? That's what my mother says."
Sidge cleared his throat. "I do not."
"We've seen Ek'kiru," said the older boy, elbowing his brother. "They were pulling the big, shiny wagon with a golden roof and lacquered wheels and with the silver face of Vasheru on the side in all his splendor."
Sidge eyed their own vardo as the child spoke and his wings buzzed under his robes. A hideous thought occurred to him and he asked, "Surely they did not try to eat you?"
"No," replied the older boy. "But they were in harness." He gestured to the oxen behind him.
Sidge struggled to find an answer but before he could, the vardo shimmied and he heard Master Izhar's feet on the steps.
"Vasheru protect you!" Izhar called out in greeting as he approached the boys. He held a clay urn in his hands, one of the many packed with soil from the Sheath.
When they saw Izhar approaching, the boys bowed. "Greetings, Cloud Born," said the oldest.
"Are we interrupting your chores?" asked Izhar. He didn't give them a chance to answer. "Good. I'll bet you could use a break, hmm?" The youngest grinned. "May I speak to your father? We're on the pilgrimage, as you know, and would be happy to trade for supplies."
The oldest boy indicated a mud and timber house in the distance.
"Ah, good." Izhar turned to Sidge. "Would you mind watching over the horses?"
Remembering his place, Sidge clambered from the driver's seat and bowed before Izhar. "Of course not, Master."
"Take a break yourself," Izhar called as the two boys led him away. "Have some of those tasty children of yours." Izhar laughed and ruffled the younger one's hair as the boy gasped and turned fearful eyes toward Sidge.
Sidge watched them walk away, and well within his broad view, the Paint grinned.
***
Night fell, and the fields gave way to the dark shadows of trees. The road climbed into the mountains. An almost cloying smell replaced the richness of freshly turned earth, and Sidge knew it was the trees, their branches dripping amber wads of sap on every inch of the vardo. He could hear them strike the metal roof in irregular beats which hastened with the wind. Each shift in the breeze, the narrow trees would sway and crack their tops together to make a sound like bone on bone. Sidge pulled further into his hood.
Above the rattle and chime of the wagon and the spectral knocking, Sidge heard Izhar's snore in the vardo's cabin. He let his antennae inch out and focus on the sound. Once he'd become an acolyte, several floors of the temple separated him from his master, and he no longer slept in the chest at the foot of Izhar's bed. Hearing the labored wheeze again was comforting in its way.
The sound took his mind off the dance of the trees, but it couldn't completely erase his worries. Before they'd begun the ascent, he'd taken the precaution of unpacking the wheel chains so he could lock the wheels for steeper grades. The chains sat on the bench beside him, his hand running through the links and drawing out the sweet scent of oil.
Farsal had taught him all he knew about driving a wagon, which, it turned out, was quite complicated. As with every duty at the temple, Sidge approached this new task with a zeal not often shared by the other acolytes.
"You're a man of many talents," Farsal had told him as Sidge checked the distance on the breeching strap with his foot. Only the Nag was hitched to the vardo that day, and she ignored his awkward motion. His use of a foot had been an afterthought, as his upper hands were occupied with the reins, and his middle hands held the wheel chains which Farsal had promised to show him how to use next.
Sidge had pulled his foot back to the bench quickly. "Trying to be thorough."
"You needn't hold the chains while you sit. They belong on the rear wheels."
"I know." Navigating a steep decline, letting the wagon slip into a controlled slide behind the horses, had been a frightening idea even many months ago, in the flat and level courtyard.
Two more of Gohala's acolytes had approached, brothers Abhay and Mukesh. Farsal hadn't seen them cross the courtyard, but Sidge had watched as he balanced his concerns with the vardo. The two acolytes had spoken into each other's ears and laughed at a private joke. While most of the acolytes were pleasant enough, Farsal was the only one Sidge shared a camaraderie like that with. When they'd gotten to the front of the wagon, Abhay and Mukesh had bowed.
"Brothers," said Farsal.
Abhay had spoken first. "Something seems out of place here." His eyes moved to Sidge and then the open space next to the Nag. "Ah yes, part of your team."
Farsal had blushed, and Sidge remembered trying to offer an explanation. The unruly Paint had simply been too much trouble, especially for any sort of training. Farsal had interrupted Sidge. He'd greeted his brothers and excused himself, walking away with them in a huff.
The whole event had been forgettable, but the feel of the chains under his fingers and the fragrant oil brought the memory back. The memory and a more recent encounter.
Sidge recalled the oxen and the young boys.
But they were in harness.
Sidge withdrew his hood. His grip tightened on the wheel chains and he watched the road ahead. He added the clacking of his mandibles to the clamor of the trees.
CHAPTER V
A stone archway marked the outskirts of the city of Cerudell. Ornate braziers cradled flames at the base of each column. Fire painted the arch with an orange glow lost between light and shadow, but Sidge could see much of the details as the vardo drew closer. He wondered who, if anyone, tended the flame, but couldn't see beyond the wall of darkness made by the trees.
Nearly to the threshold, Sidge pulled the team to a stop. The mountain road had been well-traveled and the incline steady, only leveling out as the arch came into view. Both horses shared a quiet sigh.
Acolytes had brought back countless stories of Cerudell's arch. Sidge had developed a clear picture in his imagination, but facing the relic, he had an odd realization. There was something out of place, he was certain, but he couldn't describe it.
The stone edifice spanned the entire road, wide enough here for four wagons to travel abreast. Each column was carved in the likenesses of men and women standing atop each other's shoulders. They were clad only in red skirts, with skin of alabaster white, but he couldn't tell if this was due to an added pigment or the stone itself.
Among the acolytes' stories, much had been made of the shirtless women. Sidge supposed he understood the attraction, but the cold stone interested him little despite the mastery of the sculptor. The presence of women was odd enough as there were none at the Stormblade Temple and none of note mentioned in the mantras. Women, like children, were another curiosity to him and the Rule explained their societal duty as keepers of the home. Out of necessity the acolytes performed their own chores and he did more than his fair share, so he understood the unspoken value of such work. But why would there be so many women depicted on this relic? Yet as intriguing as the question was, it wasn't what bothered him about the arch. His full attention was drawn by what the columns supported.
Vasheru's serpentine body arched overhead. His mighty tail encircled the left column and on the right, His face peered out from beside grasping hands. Fire danced in His deeply grooved eyes. Fury creased His lips, torn apart in a roar which Sidge had felt rattle the Temple many times before.
On the back of the Mighty Dragon stood the Attarah. Strong and powerful, his countenance was commanding, even in stone carved so long ago. Broken chains dangled from his hands and the terminating ends wound along the side of the Dragon to each column.
Sidge knew he should bow or say a blessing to the likeness of both the Dragon who protected them and the Savior who'd freed them, but he was paralyzed under their flickering gaze.
"Are we there yet?" Izhar emerged from the vardo and limped toward the front, as if attempting to return feeling to his legs.
Sidge muttered a hasty blessing and slid from the benc
h to bow. "Yes, Master. Cerudell lies beyond the arch."
"Rise." Izhar continued past him. "Your first of many beginnings."
Sidge moved to Izhar's side. His mind swam with questions the longer he examined the arch but none of them seemed to be the right one to ask. Then it struck him, like Vasheru's Wisdom, and he understood what bothered him.
At the temple, he'd always been told the Attarah and Vasheru were atop the arch. This was correct in a manner of speaking, yet not the full truth, and looking closely, Sidge knew why no acolyte had given a proper description in the Dragon's house. He struggled for a way to broach the subject with Izhar.
"A question." Sidge waited for Izhar's approval before continuing. "The Trials tells us of the suffering of mankind under Kurath, the Rebellion speaks of the Attarah's flight, the Forge describes the ways of the Temple and the Rule gives guidance for proper governance. Was this arch intended to reflect a particular mantra? From the Rule, perhaps? I only ask because there is no mantra which describes the Attarah riding Vasheru." He couldn't keep the disdain from his voice.
He saw Izhar smile wryly. "Not all images are a perfect reflection of their subject."
"So this image is untrue? Why is it here, at the first stop on our holy pilgrimage?"
"Not untrue. Open to interpretation." Izhar gestured to the arch as he spoke, and his faint grin gave way to the same concern Sidge had seen cross his face during the ceremony. "The Attarah freed humanity from their chains, and the Jadugar, those on the pillars, harnessed the power of the Storm to protect us. But with interpretations come many meanings. With time, many chances for those meanings to be lost." Izhar watched him closely. "Tell me, what are the Four Corners?"
Izhar had shared many theories regarding the Storm Temple's teachings, but Sidge found himself answering the question with the customary Temple teachings. "The corners are the pillars of civilization. They are embodied by the four chosen Cloud Born in the chaining ceremony. Symbolized on the pilgrimage by our main stops in Cerudell, Stronghold, the edge of the desert at Abwoon, and the Storm Temple itself."