by Russ Linton
"A troll hut," mumbled Kaaliya. Her eyes were part open and watching him. She rattled off two more names. "Redburl's Realm. The Wooden Sanctuary."
Only the last sounded familiar. Acolytes had spoken of this—another feature of Cerudell. From his understanding, it predated the town, but wasn't a part of the mantras he knew so well. An idol was rumored to lay inside, but there was no entrance and the townsfolk left it alone. Probably out of fear and superstition.
"Do such creatures even exist? I've never seen a troll," said Sidge.
"We'll remedy that." She tipped her hat back over her eyes.
"Hmm?"
She pushed the brim up with a finger. "Your master didn't say? We have a stop along the way. My fare for the ride."
"No," said Sidge. "No, he didn't say."
Why would he need to? He was the Cloud Born, after all. Izhar didn't answer to his acolyte; he only answered to the Stormblade and the Mighty Dragon.
Still, it would've been nice to know. They were so far behind.
They continued down the avenue in silence. A man approached the vardo, and Sidge ducked further into his robes. People here were understandably put off by the tardy pilgrims' lack of respect for tradition. Would they face this kind of reception at every stop?
Sidge rehearsed an apology but a grin appeared underneath the stranger's bristling mustache. This was more the sort of welcome Sidge had hoped for. He relaxed and put his palms together in a bow as he slowed the horses.
"Not staying another night?" The man ignored Sidge, his eyes fixed on Kaaliya. She didn't answer.
Sidge didn't think she could be sleeping quite yet, but with a prepared apology fresh on his mind he felt the need to explain her silence to the stranger. "I believe Mistress Kaaliya is resting."
Drawn by Sidge's voice, the man's eyes penetrated the depths of the hood and shock crossed his face. He didn't answer and at first, moved away with his hands extended outward.
Wary eyes never leaving Sidge, the stranger moved up to the horses under the rueful eye of the Paint. The man gave the harness an assured tug which brought the vardo to a stop before he crossed to Kaaliya's side. Sidge watched in confusion and wondered if he'd been too quick to dispense with his apology.
With a cautious glance, the man licked his lips and spoke. "I said," his face hardened as the words formed, "are you staying another night?"
Sidge saw the hint of a grimace as Kaaliya sat forward and tilted back her hat.
"For you? No."
Gauging Sidge for a reaction, the man stiffly rested his arm across the foot board. "I can change your mind, maybe?" His other hand tapped a pouch hanging from his waist and Sidge heard the chime of coins. "We didn't get to catch up at the festivities last night."
"There was a reason for that, dear."
Sidge felt a dangerous edge to her reply.
"But that was long ago," protested the man. "Don't you forget such things?"
She reached out with one hand and smoothed his mustache while her other hand strayed toward her boot. Exactly how well did she know this stranger? For that matter, how well did he himself really know her?
"Never." Her response sliced the air.
The man's mustache trembled. He glanced at Sidge, his once shocked face now emboldened, and fumed at Kaaliya. "Taking up with bugmen now? Why would I even bother?"
"You shouldn't."
The two stared at each other. Sidge tilted his head as the stranger's jaw tightened.
Outbursts such as this happened on rare occasions at the Storm Temple. Izhar especially was famous for his short temper. But they were all bluster and rarely came to physical blows. Thunder without the strike. Yet, the look in this man's eyes felt dangerous. Sidge watched as the stranger shifted his weight and his fist dropped. Kaaliya's hand slipped into her boot and he noted the pommel of a dagger.
A dagger?
There was no time to call on Izhar. Even a weak display of Vasheru's Fire could certainly dissuade a fight. A few sparks. Almost any acolyte on the pilgrimage could do this. Except him.
Adrenaline surged and Sidge pointed his mandibles at the stranger, clacking them together in what he hoped was a menacing display.
"I eat children."
Kaaliya and the man turned to stare, eyes large and luminous in their dark-skinned faces.
Sidge rattled his mandibles again for good measure.
He watched the man gape in horror and saw Kaaliya's lips compress, holding back a fit of laughter. The stranger stumbled away, nearly tripping over a roadside cart garlanded with spices. Kaaliya tapped the back end of the hitching shaft with her foot. There was an indignant huff from the Paint, and it and the Nag sauntered down the road.
Sidge let the reins dangle from his fingertips. Had he actually said he ate children? Absurd. He wasn't a beast. An animal. He wasn't even a creature meant to be yoked to a wagon. He was an educated acolyte. A servant of the Attarah, Champion of Vasheru.
Then Kaaliya finally burst. Her voice had been a melody when they first met, and her laughter was a chorus sending shivers down his antennae. It rattled him like the thunder in the Temple courtyard. And like the voice of Vasheru, he felt blessed to hear it.
She wanted to speak but couldn't. Doubled over in fits of laughter, she reached out. Her hand gripped his forearm.
It was a thing more seen than felt—his chitin was hard and unyielding under her hand—but she held him with a firm grip and the longer she held, the more warmth seeped through his rigid shell. Kaaliya clung to his arm without thought or concern until the waves of laughter receded and she'd wiped the tears away.
Sidge forgot their tardiness. Forgot his annoyance at the disastrous scene they'd narrowly avoided. He continued to guide the horses down the street and the magnificent carvings and curious stares were lost to her smile.
That evening, as they camped beside the road under a moonless sky edged by the sharp outline of the forest, Sidge removed his sewing kit from the vardo's cabinet. Exactly as predicted, when he'd asked, Master Izhar hadn't minded. Far behind the rest of the caravan, back to a lonely road and a drizzle of sap, he didn't see why a few small gaps in his robe would matter.
He watched Kaaliya sleep near the fire as he sewed, her hair draped across her pack which she used as an impromptu pillow. He wondered what her reaction might be, and hoped for a smile at the least, but thought mostly of her laughter.
CHAPTER VII
At sunrise, Kaaliya waited patiently next to the vardo, her leather pack held out and a smirk crawling across her face. On a lark, Sidge flitted his wings in the cool morning air. He'd spent the entire night hard at work with needle and thread and was waiting for her reaction. While the smirk was something, he couldn't tell if she'd even noticed.
"Perhaps you could stop staring and take my bag?" She shook her pack but the smile deepened.
"I'm not the one staring," sputtered Sidge and he tried to provide his usual explanation. "My sight encompasses most everything around me. I faced my mandibles in your direction as a courtesy so it might be easier …"
"You're staring," Izhar grunted as he approached from the smoldering fire. Rationed breakfasts were most likely turning his unusually pensive mood, foul. The Paint neighed in a manner which Sidge took as agreement with the other two. "Take her bag and let's get underway." Izhar disappeared behind the vardo and the steps creaked but he leaned briefly around the corner. "The look. It suits you."
"Thank you, Master." Sidge bowed. As he did, Kaaliya draped her pack over his arm. With a pat on his shoulder, she sauntered past and sprang onto the driver's bench.
Not a word about his wings. He'd hoped for more. Briefly, he wondered if he should be offended.
He tested the veined, delicate limbs, letting them flutter, and was surprised at how easily he rose off the ground. As a child, before the robes, before the order, he'd flown some. It was the only way to keep from underfoot or to look Izhar in the eye. But the idea of trying it outside the Temple, so near the Storm, had a
lways frightened him, even in the relatively calm courtyard.
Sidge took a crooked flight to the top of the vardo to tie down Kaaliya's pack on the rails. Awkward, but it was nice not to have to climb the cabinets along the side. Once the bag was secure, he floated to the driver's bench, the wary eye of the Paint following his every move. The Nag, half-blind, chewed pointlessly at the dirt road.
Kaaliya leaned against the cabin and tilted the broad brim of her hat. The frustration made his wings shudder with one last burst. She didn't look his way but her mouth remained upturned.
From inside, Master Izhar rapped on the wooden wall. Making a mental check of their preparations and definitely not staring at the lengths of ebony hair spilling across Kaaliya's chest, Sidge cracked the reins.
Their descent on the other side of Cerudell was less worrisome than he'd feared; Sidge wondered if the chains would be necessary before they arrived at the valley surrounding Stronghold. Cobble and flagstone paved the road much as they had in the city. The path was well-tended, and the horses put aside their uneven temperaments to settle into a steady crawl.
By afternoon, the road's condition degraded. In several places, thick roots wrenched the stones from the earth, and the wagon jolted as they crossed each one.
"Didn't even the tree roots obey the first Attarah and keep clear of the road?" Kaaliya muttered after a particularly vicious bump.
"There's nothing like that in the mantras." More of her commoner's understandings perhaps, but Sidge didn't want to offend her. "Of course, much of the mantras are guidance for the spirit."
"It's part of an old tale." Kaaliya's eyes lit up. "You've never heard it?"
"I've heard something similar. My master is fond of old folklore, the more mysterious passages of the Trials in particular. But our focus at the Stormblade Temple is on truth." Sidge quickly corrected himself. "Not that there isn't wisdom in common teachings." He considered the words and tried to make amends. "I mean—"
She interrupted him with a hand on his forearm and a laugh. He shivered involuntarily, and her touch ended all too quickly this time. "If I were offended you'd know."
"Good, I had no intention of offense." He recalled the knife hidden in her boot. "The folklore is fascinating, but Vasheru's disciples simply seek enlightenment by other means."
"But, 'Wisdom often chooses the house in which it dwells'," she recited.
"You know the Forge?"
"I know a bit of everything."
He examined her again through each and every lens when she said this. So different from himself. All the acolytes he'd grown up with shared his same gray vestments, the same mannerisms, the same duty to Vasheru. She, she was a mystery. A woman dressed more like a man, traveling without father, husband, or brother and who carried a dagger, cited the Forge, and spoke of commoner's tales.
"Where are you from?" he asked, unable to restrain himself.
"Here and there." Her eyes wandered to the trees flanking the road. "I was born at the Pit."
"A cave-dweller then?" He'd heard of the place; an enormous sinkhole, honeycombed by cliff dwellings and tunnels. With her smooth, unblemished skin and beautiful teeth, he had least expected this to be her answer. Ancient priests of a lost cult had made their home there long ago. Now it was a refuge for people without villages, families, or trades. A place for the lost and wretched to try and eek out survival in a world which had forgotten them. If folklore was to be believed, the Pit's depths had no end and some of the tunnels extended all the way beneath the Sea of Cantarra and northward to the land of the trolls.
"For a while," she replied. "My mother passed away when I was young, and after she died all I could think about was escape."
"I'm sorry to hear about your mother." Sidge's curiosity had gotten the best of him and he ignored the growing distance in her eyes. "What of your father?"
"Fathers are a luxury in the caves. Women care for the little ones. All the fathers do is make them." Her eyes still unfocused, she added, "Most of the time."
Her smile was gone completely now and he wanted to see if it would return. He turned his mandibles to the road and flicked the reins. "The Deep Night Festival should be glorious. Is that why you're going back to Stronghold? To celebrate the pilgrimage?"
"And business." She folded her arms.
"What sort of business?"
"The only one I know." Her lips shifted into a mirthless grin. "My father taught me."
He fell silent. He thought of the man in Cerudell and the almost bloody encounter. Unsure how to lighten the mood, he sank into his hood, out of the sun and the weeping trees. Before he could decide what else to say, Kaaliya's attention drifted to the side of the road.
"We'll need to take a trail on the right. Keep your eyes out, the path might be a bit overgrown."
"What trail? Why?"
The vardo bounced again and she balanced effortlessly. "That stop your master wishes to make."
He joined her in scanning the roadside. With his entire night spent sewing, he'd forgotten to ask Izhar about the details of their next delay. "There?"
Kaaliya remained focused and shook her head. "No, that's more of a game trail."
They continued watching the patchwork wall of green and shadow rolling by, but if anything the vegetation only grew denser. They were lower on the mountainside, where the pines were threaded among broad-leafed trees and thick undergrowth. So dense, even if a trail did exist, navigating the vardo through it would be impossible. He was about to ask if she was sure about the trail, when a mass of leaves and thorny vines quivered then parted.
He gasped.
Kaaliya's smile returned, and he drew in the reins. The Nag swayed to a stop, but the Paint trudged forward and dragged the other weary horse down the trail.
Sidge snapped his mandibles. "Stop, you brute!"
Kaaliya chuckled and slid close enough her soft thighs pressed against the bony chitin of his own. He shouldn't have felt much, but he did: a charge, like Vasheru's gift.
"You're challenging not leading," she said. She took his hands in hers and lightly pushed forward. "An animal that size will always win a show of strength. Ease up."
He followed the motions, and felt neither he nor the Paint had any choice but to let her delicate hands guide. Delicate, yet he'd felt the strength in her grip before on his arm. This close to her, Sidge could only see what her hat allowed. Her smooth and sculpted jaw was relaxed, and her lips … he struggled to understand the feeling they gave him.
The vardo lumbered to a stop. She released his hands and asked, "Got it?"
He nodded weakly. She playfully arched her eyebrows and leapt to the ground. He watched her a moment, poking into the brush, before he could find his voice.
Sidge called out to Izhar, loud enough to be heard inside the cabin. Axles creaked and the vardo jostled as Izhar stirred.
Kaaliya wandered toward the part in the undergrowth and stopped on the edge, sizing up the space. She spoke loudly, as though she were shouting to the trees.
"This won't work for the—" And she was gone.
Antennae casting wildly and his mandibles frozen wide open, Sidge sprung into the air and hovered near the spot where Kaaliya had disappeared. He peered desperately into the foliage and the wall of greenery rattled in the light breeze stealing his frantic attention with each twist and shiver.
"She's gone!"
"Hmmm?" Izhar wandered toward the front of the vardo.
"Mistress Kaaliya! She disappeared!"
Izhar's path began to take him dangerously close to the trail that had claimed Kaaliya. "I don't see how …"
Leaves twitched. Vines uncurled. Sidge dove toward Izhar, hoping to grab hold before the plants took him, too. He reached his master's side in time to see the patchwork of green knit closed behind them. Then, darkness.
***
Light returned in tiny whispers. Glowing strands floated through the air, both descending and rising on their own paths, yet never out of time with their closes
t neighbor. One lit near Sidge's face and he saw the shape of a bulb with dangling hairs. Riding atop this bulb was a fragile spider. Tentatively, he tried to pluck one from the air, and the mote jetted away against the unseen push of his hand.
One moment, he'd been on the Cerudell road trying to find Kaaliya, who'd disappeared into the grasping trees, and the next he sat in muted light. A domed roof vaulted above him woven from roots and patched with stone.
"If you knew yourself, they might know you," a gravelly voice grunted. The tiny motes began to collect and squirm into a solid sheet outlining an arm which pulled close to a face.
It was a squat creature dressed in bark—or perhaps the bark was its skin, Sidge wasn't certain. A green cloak of moss sprouted from the shoulders. Eyes, amber like droplets of sap, peered down at him. Sidge scooted away on his feet and palms until the hard edge of the dome was at his back.
A snort rushed from beneath the sheet of bark which hid the face. The creature stalked forward and his hands enveloped Sidge's arm and dragged him to his feet.
"Are you a troll?" Sidge asked shakily.
"At least one of us knows what we are," rumbled the troll.
"I … I am an acolyte of the Stormblade Temple," said Sidge.
"Only Truth is spoken here." The troll creaked past, and the sweet tang of damp wood struck Sidge's antennae. He watched the joints of the wooden plates on the troll and saw them stretch like seamless, fine cloth.
Holding a glowing arm aloft, the troll led Sidge out of the dome to enter a smoothly-bored dirt tunnel. Several branches diverted from the main route, but the troll wound its way purposefully past each. Soon, Izhar's voice could be heard in the distance.
"Master! I'm here, Master," called Sidge, pushing his way past his squat guide.
He found himself in another chamber much like the first, but smaller, and with a dampness to the air that pulled heavily on his antennae. Inside, Izhar knelt at a central pool whose source was a steady drip from the ceiling and which was bordered by roots sprouting bulbous clusters of fungus.