by Russ Linton
"A perfect recital of doctrine, acolyte." Izhar tugged his beard and considered Sidge. "But an artifact built in the times of the Attarah and the Jadugar stands before us which no mantra adequately describes. Perhaps doctrine doesn't always suffice."
Sidge moved closer to the pillar, forcing more of the detail across his lenses. "This is what the Jadugar looked like? I mean, were presumed to look like?"
"There are many secrets yet to learn, Sidge. For both of us." Izhar's voice was drifting away. He'd begun moving back toward the vardo and into Sidge's blind spot. "And I have an errand here to assist us in that." The vardo jangled under Izhar's weight. "Onward to the city," he called from the cabin steps. "There will be a camp outside the gate where the acolytes and teams will rest for the night."
"Yes, Master."
Sidge wanted to dismiss the sculpture as nothing more than an artist's interpretation. Yet the longer he looked at the arch, the more he began to understand Izhar's interest. The Jadugar were depicted in such fine detail, Sidge could almost believe they were more than legends. Perhaps they'd once been many, men and women, whereas now "Jadugar" was only a title held by one man in the Attarah's court. He wondered what other mysteries he might see in Stronghold, where great halls and palaces stood which had been built during the time of the first recitation of the Rule.
"Sidge?" Izhar called.
"Coming!" He hurried back to the vardo and saw the wheel chains strewn across the bench. He realized fear had brought the chains into his hands. A steady climb, unable to see the road ahead; an impending descent which never came but always lurked around the next corner.
Level ground and the light of the braziers calmed his fears. Cerudell marked the highest point of their journey—they'd tackle the descent in the light of day. He stowed the chains in the cabinet where they belonged. When he was done, he guided the horses beneath the arch and bowed his head to Vasheru. The Dragon's fierce countenance glared after him.
***
Sun beat down on the clearing outside the wooden palisade of Cerudell proper. Sidge knelt on the roof of the vardo, scrubbing at droplets of hardened sap with a damp cloth.
Earlier in the morning, when dawn was lingering below the treetops, the light had been a pleasant warmth on his back. As he worked, the morning wore on, the roof warmed, and his insides felt as though they were curdling.
It was autumn, in the mountains. He'd been told the weather would be crisp and cool. At home, the temperature was the same, year round. But this dreaded sun found every crack in his chitin and pooled on his back in burning points.
He leaned over the edge to check on his robes. Before the sun rose, he'd found a nearby stream to clean the sap from them as well. They were only now beginning to dry.
They'd arrived last night, after the acolytes' camp had turned in for the evening. Master Izhar had departed for the comforts of the city where the other Cloud Born rested, and Sidge had turned to the sleeping camp, unsure what to do with himself. He'd secured the vardo, seen to the horses, and settled in for a night of recitation, going back to the Trials, Izhar's favorite. Finally, he'd washed his robe, eaten his breakfast, and begun work on cleaning the vardo while the rest of the camp stirred.
From the roof, he watched the acolytes pack their campsite following a quick meal. Cloud Born were beginning to return from the city where they'd stayed. Yet there was no sign of Izhar.
A woodland outpost, Cerudell had long had a shortage of space to host the yearly pilgrimage's carriages and teams, let alone a small army of young acolytes eager to experience civilization. As tradition dictated, the Masters stayed inside the city, and on the pilgrimage's return trip the acolytes would be allowed in for a feast. By then, having walked in the footsteps of the Attarah, they would have proved their worth.
Sidge wondered what he'd have proved.
Two acolytes approached the vardo and Sidge waved.
"Greetings, Sidge!" called the youngest. Manoj was thin with prominent cheeks supporting eyes that seemed too large and far apart for his head. Partly because of this, he held an expression of perpetual wonder which always made Sidge happy to see him.
Anil walked beside him, reserved, with his arms crossed and hands tucked away into his sleeves. He gave a simple tilt of his head in greeting, but it was not the perfunctory motion of someone like Girish. It was warm and friendly. He was a handsome acolyte with the bearing of a true master.
"Brothers," said Sidge. He placed his palms together and dipped his head, a motion the two below repeated.
"You were not at breakfast," said Manoj. His eyes seemed larger than normal.
"Even outside a dining hall I shouldn't subject you to my fare," replied Sidge.
"But this is a camp for the acolytes only. There are no picky masters to be concerned about," said Manoj. "Besides, you must've caught wind of Master Kamdar's camp. I'd swear, they packed nothing but beans and cabbage for the entire trip." Manoj delivered the joke as an afterthought, his eyes bulging and focused just behind Sidge. "So interesting. The way the light changes."
Anil adopted a similar fixation on the air above Sidge's shoulders. His more composed nature kept him from staring as pointedly as Manoj. Unsure, Sidge twisted his head slightly to scan his blindspot.
"What?"
Anil spoke first. "Your wings. I've … we haven't seen them much before."
Sidge realized the translucent and veined appendages were spread out into the sun behind him and he pulled them in tightly. "I'm sorry."
"No, they're quite interesting. The sun comes right through them like bubbled glass," said Manoj, circling to see them as Sidge pivoted away.
"My robe was covered in sap and I had to clean it. It's probably dry now."
Manoj's path had led him to where Sidge's robes hung from a hook near the vardo's back door. He squeezed the hem of the robes between his fingers, but his eyes stayed firmly on Sidge's wings. "A bit damp yet. Should dry soon enough, with this sun."
Sidge shifted again and tried to change the subject. "Have either of you seen Farsal?"
Anil spoke first. He'd managed to pry his attention away and focus on Sidge's eyes. "You know Cloud Born Gohala, he keeps his acolytes busy. They always have to be first to leave at the head of the caravan."
"Yep. Getting the first trades, the first praise, the first everything. Not sure what he'd do if he weren't in the lead," grumbled Manoj. His fixation was starting to make Sidge feel like he were trapped beneath a glass. "Has Farsal seen your wings? Or are they like parts you don't normally show people? Gohala's Ek'kiru might have wings, but if so they're under those bright shells of theirs. Why don't you have a wing shell?"
Sidge fumbled for an answer.
"Manoj," said Anil, his head tilted toward the din of the camp. "Master Tarak calls."
"We'll see you at the next stop?" asked Manoj as Anil dragged him away.
"Vasheru willing." Sidge half-parted his mandibles then waved, pulling his wings in so tightly he heard them crackle under the strain. Manoj continued to look behind him until Anil's folded arm lashed out and cuffed him, returning to his sleeve as if nothing ever happened.
Sidge had spoken and worked with Manoj many times before at the Temple; never before had he seemed so fascinated by his fellow acolyte. True, his wings were rarely exposed except in the privacy of his room. Only out of necessity were they exposed here. Leaving dried sap on his robes would have been more shameful than exposing the odd sheen of his chitin. Out across the camp, acolytes toiled at packing supplies and readying horses, many with their robes set aside so as not to stain them with sweat. No one bothered them.
Signs of the morning meal had been cleared, and teams were being hitched to their carriages. On the far side, Sidge caught a glimpse of the two Ek'kiru backing into their traces. Did they not sleep either? He wondered where they'd been throughout the night.
Sidge regarded their own horses, tied to a tree not far from the vardo. Both twitched their tails lazily, fanning away the heat and a
cloud of insects. Neither appeared to be interested in the preparations, or ready to be rehitched.
Until Izhar made it back, Sidge wasn't sure it mattered. He could harness the team, and then what? Wait for the unpredictable Paint to begin dragging the wagon back down the mountain before his master returned?
Sidge released his wings with a burst and bent over the roof again. Growing heat had loosened the sap and he scrubbed more vigorously, watching the copper shine in the growing light.
Carriages and wagons began to depart. At the lead was Gohala's resplendent throne room on wheels, with the two vast Ek'kiru scuttling along ahead and a train of banner-wielding acolytes on each side.
Sidge felt a breeze tug against his wings. He thought for a moment that if he gave in, he'd be swept into the sky, and he pulled the wings in closer. They collapsed on the edge of his vision and briefly he saw what had dazzled Manoj, as light traveled the veins in iridescent hues. Like the sun on his metallic blue skin. Like the lightning in the courtyard across the colorful backs of Gohala's team.
Maybe it was best he and Master Izhar traveled behind the others. At least until he could get the sap off the vardo and his robes dried. They were in no state to represent the Temple.
CHAPTER VI
"Hello!"
The greeting caught Sidge by surprise. Hard at work on the back corner of the roof, he hadn't seen anyone approach. This was not the voice of an acolyte, ripened with age or tremulous in youth, nor the smooth baritone of a Cloud Born. But the single exclamation was a melody and he wanted to hear more. He sat up so he could see over the edge.
A broad-brimmed hat first caught his eyes. Draped beneath was a fine silk scarf, dyed the color of deepest night. The scarf seemed out of place with the plain, formless clothing the traveler wore, but it framed and complimented a face as interesting as the voice.
The acolytes were all far enough into their manhood that hair in one degree of thickness or another grew along their cheeks and chins. They cultivated what little they had with great pride. Even Sidge sported his own coarse chin hairs, though they were difficult to see and nothing to be groomed. This traveler's face was smooth, with cheeks like the polished visages on the Cerudell arch.
A young boy? No, that wasn't right. The eyes told him. Like the lips and the cheeks, the eyes appeared sculpted, each corner and line traced perfectly by an artisan's hand. And in their olive-brown depths, there was a mystery and understanding no acolyte or even Cloud Born ever held.
Wind gusted from behind the traveler. What Sidge had first believed to be a scarf separated and feathered across her cheek.
She smiled.
The image of her lips parting filled Sidge's mind, and the rest of the green, sun-drenched, swaying world melted away. A breeze struck the vardo, and his wings, which had unfurled proud and straight, dragged him away from the edge. He allowed the current take him, and tumbled back onto the roof out of sight.
"Are you alright?" he heard her say.
Sidge descended the far side, intending to use the cabinets as footholds, but he found it easier to again let his wings gather the wind and they carried him down. "I'm fine," he cried. "One moment!"
Here he was, half-naked, with a woman standing right on the other side of the vardo. He snatched his robes and pulled his wings tight to struggle into them. "Be right there … Mistress … Miss …"
"Kaaliya," she said from the far side.
Sidge pulled the hood forward and tight across his cheeks. Whether she was a commoner or not, he needed to show respect for his temple. He cleared his throat and crossed his hands into his sleeves—like Anil, earlier. This seemed a proper thing to do.
When he rounded the corner, the same smile greeted him. Her eyes, no, not a man's in any possible way, drank in every inch of his own bulbous eyes and narrow face.
"You're the acolyte I've heard so much about," she said.
"I am Sidge." He bowed.
"Kaaliya." She stuck out her hand. He took it without thinking. This was not the proper way to greet a woman.
Still, Sidge wasn't sure if she was the one who held tight for a moment longer than a hand shake should allow. He tried to gauge her reaction and she didn't appear eager to pull away.
He was only vaguely aware of Master Izhar joining them. "I see you two have met."
She smoothly released his hand.
"Yes, we have, Master," Sidge said with a bow.
Kaaliya's smile thinned but kept every bit of its potency. He felt heat flush his face and his antennae unwound against his hood and toward the sky.
"Never met an Ek'kiru before?" asked Izhar. "Or, perhaps it's the other way around," he muttered.
"I've met plenty of Ek'kiru," she remarked. "Your acolyte just has a very distinct coloration."
"Thank you," stammered Sidge. "As do you." His compliment drew an amused look. He wanted to explain but found he'd lost the words, so he turned to the vardo and pretended to be busy.
With his back to her she gave an exasperated sigh. "And your wings, what happened to your wings?"
Sidge craned his neck, trying to see if the robes had caught and not fully covered them. "Why? Can you see them?"
"Not at all."
Her disappointed tone shocked him, and Sidge busied himself with checking the spokes on the nearest wheel. He'd already had to endure Manoj's slack-jawed stare, but with her, it had been a joyous look of admiration.
"I must remain properly attired in the vestments of my order." He recalled the wheel chains and his encounter with the boys in the fields. "Besides, I don't think the people here see many Ek'kiru. They have strange beliefs."
"What, you'll carry away their children in the night?" Kaaliya scoffed.
Despite himself, he turned. "Yes, exactly."
"If they knew the difference between Sli'mir's brood and the Ek'kiru, they'd know you'd have devoured them in broad daylight."
He started to ask her what she meant and Izhar stepped up beside him, placing his arm across Sidge's back.
"Don't worry, he's harmless. Only an old man's pupil brought along to assist on the pilgrimage." Izhar tugged at his beard. "Mistress Kaaliya will be accompanying us to Stronghold, acolyte."
"Very well, Master." Sidge put his palms together and bowed.
"That I shall," said Kaaliya. "Don't feel you have to hide in your robe for my sake, Acolyte Sidge." She turned to leave and stopped. "And for fuck's sake, if I had those wings, you'd be able to see them from the top of the Pamanites and the bottom of the Nilama Sea."
Suddenly, the robes he'd worn all his life felt tight and constricting across his back. A dead weight pinning down a limb. He felt the sudden need to free them. As she walked away, in the sway of her hips under the lazy cut of her shirt, the spark of an idea fanned.
No, he couldn't.
She was intriguing, but a commoner as evidenced by her profanity and dress. She had mentioned Pamanites, the Nilama; flying mountains and a legendary sea from which all the world's creatures crawled forth. More mysteries. More "workings of the Jadugar." No wonder she'd stumbled across Izhar.
Sidge turned his full attention to the vardo and examined the cabinet he'd absently opened. Another check to make sure everything was secure wouldn't hurt. Food. Cooking gear. His sewing kit.
He withdrew the final item and hinged open the wooden lid.
Izhar had given him the kit when he first showed an aptitude for sewing. Several thimbles sat untarnished and unused in their felt pockets. An assortment of needles for any material were tucked into the interior—some strong enough to stitch leather, though he hadn't much need for those. Even a curved crescent of fine platinum, perfect for piping along hems and upholstery. It was the most thoughtful gift he'd ever been given. The first and only, in fact, aside from his robes.
He'd already been given dispensation for the extra sleeves. Surely nobody would mind.
Of course, his uniform allowance hadn't been universally favored. It'd been Izhar who'd originally blustered and fu
med when the elder Cloud Born requested that if Sidge were to join the Temple, at least his uniform should be the same as all the other acolytes.
Sidge had been happy to comply. He didn't want to be different. He didn't want any special treatment. All he truly wanted was to join with Izhar and his temple brothers.
He tossed the fantasy aside. He wanted to see her look of wonder again, but changing his robes would go too far. They could talk, at least. He could get to know her better and that would suffice.
She hopped onto the driver's bench, and Sidge followed.
***
Sidge took in as much of Cerudell proper as he could and still guide the horses along while maintaining a view of his new passenger. She reclined on the bench, her hat pulled low across her brow, and her breath measured and shallow. Sleeping, perhaps. He supposed there would be plenty more opportunities for conversation.
With their late start and crawling pace, they were once again well behind the rest of the caravan. People busied themselves along the streets, cleaning up from the parade. Women whisked pine boughs across the road to clear flower petals, which had left a crushed trail of ink behind. Merchants packed up their roadside stands, and knots of men in colorful dhotis laughed over half-empty cups.
Every surface of the stone and wood buildings along the road was carved and engraved with figures of men and women engaged in similar, everyday activities. Occasionally in the engravings, he would see the regal face of the Attarah or the fearsome visage of Vasheru. More often though, his lenses fell on the faces of the people of Cerudell.
They stared, perplexed, as the vardo wound along the streets. The dilapidated straggler. One woman's face wrinkled in revulsion. Sidge adjusted his hood and drove on.
Down a side street, he spotted a wooden dome, low to the earth but broader than several houses combined. What at first appeared to be shadows of the forest canopy took shape into gaps between gnarls of root and curved branches and through those gaps one could only see darkness underneath.