Pilgrim of the Storm

by Russ Linton

  He'd miss that.

  Sidge opened his eyes. Somehow, they'd been closed. He tried to blink away the blinding light, but found his eyes once again lidless. In the afterglow, the shadow of a robed figure drifted above him and faded away. He swam after it.

  Closer to the surface, he could hear a muffled hum. It filled the pool from the bottom upward, becoming louder the further he swam. As he emerged into the air, the hum resolved into a steady mantra, and each of Sidge's facets pieced together his surroundings.

  Narrow peaks spired into an opal sky. The closest edge of the pool rose to a shallow bank, and the opposite fell off through a jagged gap which seemed torn below the base of the mountains. A rolling landscape of scrub and wildflowers spread outward from the water's edge; further down the bank was a tree of immense proportions, large even under the towering height of the fanged peaks. Autumn had claimed the leaves, and empty branches stretched into a sky not quite dawn nor dusk. Thick sap wept from an open wound on the trunk. The tree's roots rose in wavy sheets like hardened flaps of flesh, feeding into broader ridges which spiraled up the tree.

  "Do you like what you see?"

  The question originated from directly in his blind spot. He couldn't place the pitch or inflection, and the words were interspersed with a sound of trickling water. The voice was pleasant, though, so Sidge turned and was surprised at who he saw.

  His master faced the opposite direction, with his robe hitched up to his waist, and Sidge realized the source of the trickling noise. A stream of urine sputtered to a stop, restarted, and faded into a drip. Izhar shook and let his robe drop.

  Finished, his master turned and looked up into the peaks. He swept an arm to indicate the valley. This time, the sound of his voice was familiar. "That's the question, it seems."

  "Master!" Sidge bowed. "You've died as well? I'm so sorry."

  Izhar's beard split with a grin.

  "Mortality can't exist in this Timeless Age," he replied. He waded out of the pool and along the bank. "Well? Do you like what you see?"

  "I guess, Master." He wasn't sure how to appraise the scene. Finger-like peaks clutched the sky and held it. Wind did not howl through their gaps. No calls of birds or animals; no other sounds invaded the serenity save Izhar's question and the deep, earthy mantra filling the air. A simple beauty of stillness encompassed them, like ice on a frozen pond.

  Izhar stopped and looked around. "As do I. But we are not the ones fated to answer."

  Sidge followed, trying to process what Izhar had said. His brain raced through mantras. There was the timeless dream, mentioned in the Four Corners of the Trials. Vague, mysterious; all of this smacked of Izhar's teachings, although Sidge was at a loss as to how he should interpret this lesson, or whether he should even bother.

  They continued along the bank to the tree, which grew so tall Sidge tossed his hood over his head to avoid becoming dizzy. With the upper branches blocked out, he could focus on the wounded trunk, an ugly strip of flesh glistening with deep red sap like the color of the bark. Beside the tree, he noticed a low table.

  Izhar sat. A tea service was laid out in front of him, a black pitcher and two small cups. "Drink?" asked Master Izhar.

  Another sound rolled over Sidge like stampeding horses, distinct from the low, echoing hum which hung over the valley. This new sound reminded him of Vasheru's rage, and he felt afraid and joyful all at once.

  "Do you want any?" Master Izhar repeated, slow and loud.

  Sidge knelt before the table, his exposed lenses scouring the sky. "Yes, of course, Master."

  With a deeply bowed head, Master Izhar poured a cup and slid it across the table. Sidge took it in his hands. Steam trickled from the top.

  "What are we doing here, Master?" Sidge asked.

  Izhar raised his head, and Sidge gasped. His master's face had become the face of Vasheru.

  Sidge scuttled away from the table, knocking the cup to the ground. He flung himself forward. Words he'd hoped to say earlier in the Sheath, flooded his mind. "Vasheru! Oh Mighty Vasheru! Blessed be your wisdom, infinite your wrath!"

  Eyes averted and covered by his robes, Sidge watched a crimson pool spread from the fallen cup. The light changed; he could feel a great shadow envelope him. This close to Vasheru, the air became as thick and earthy as the wind before a storm, and the power built until Sidge could not only feel the Kiss but hear his robes crackle with energy.

  The presence roared a furious response. Sidge waited for the snapping of teeth on his chitin or the crash of thunder, as Vasheru rid himself of the insolent bug. Yes, a bug. Sidge was an insect in Vasheru's gaze.

  "Your will is my desire, Glorious One!" he squeaked.

  Instead of righteous rage, the air settled, and Sidge heard a light clinking, barely audible above the continuous mantra laced in the air. The deep shadow had lifted. Confused, he peered out from under his hood.

  Izhar's face had changed again—transformed into an incomprehensible horror.

  Chitin the color of rust and stone covered his forehead, ending in a single plate above two stout mandibles. Row upon row of polished onyx eyes glared at him. Short, bristled antennae lined the cheeks, his beard lost to a putrid roll of flesh bulging from his collar.

  Izhar stirred the contents of his cup with the tip of a finger speckled in stout, sparse hairs, and more steam rose. A scent wafted under Sidge's hood which reminded him of bacon with an oddly familiar tinge of sweetness, and his stomach growled. Izhar pushed the cup toward him.

  Sidge didn't move. The bestial incarnation of Izhar drummed his rigid fingers impatiently on the table, a sound reminiscent of the horses' hooves striking the mountain trails, and he realized the table wasn't made of wood. It was a great slab of stone. The dark eyes squirmed in their sockets.

  Quivering, Sidge inched toward the table and took the cup with all four hands. It was warm in his palms, and the steam was thick and intoxicating. He raised the brim to his mouth and his shaky breath cleared the steam.

  Deep red liquid filled the cup. A stray thread floated on the surface like a string of cloud in a sunset sky. As Sidge watched the thread, a gray swatch of temple robes broke the surface and bobbed onto its side to reveal a pale, fleshy lump. Under the monstrous glare, he drank. The mantra which had filled the valley stopped, and Sidge's eyes closed.

  CHAPTER XII

  When Sidge came to, a gray mass of clouds clustered around him. A stern, familiar face peered from within the formation. He half-expected the glowering visage of Vasheru or the terrifying bug priest. The reality was perhaps worse—Gohala.

  "It lives." Master Gohala walked away, and the swath of cloud gray robes closed ranks. More familiar faces emerged as Sidge's vision cleared, but one, framed by midnight, drew closer.

  "Kaaliya?" Sidge whispered. He felt her breath and for a moment, could distinguish a fevered prayer on her lips. "Where is Master Izhar? Is he all right?"

  Farsal was close at her shoulder, his eyes full of concern.

  "He's unconscious," said Farsal. "A bit singed, but he'll be fine."

  Kaaliya said nothing.

  Sidge tried to get his bearings. Cool, rutted earth lay beneath his head and the rolling hills of the Paharibhumi rose on all sides. Through gaps between the acolytes, he could see the vardo nearby. Both horses grazed on the opposite side of the road with Chuman holding their leads, mutely unaware the sleeves of his robes were smoking.

  Master Gohala was there, examining the giant. He appeared deep in thought but his head turned at the sound of Sidge and Farsal's conversation, and the ring of acolytes parted as he returned.

  "I require an explanation," said Master Gohala.

  Even though the feeling had returned to his limbs, Sidge struggled to stand. Kaaliya took his arm and helped him to his feet. He sought reassurance in her face as he thanked her, but her eyes were haunted. She maneuvered between him and Gohala, and straightened Sidge's robe casting a meaningful glance toward the vardo.

  Curtain pulled aside, Iz
har lay in the cabin. The inside had been straightened. Things were not as Sidge would like them, but they were at least uncluttered. Most importantly, the vomit, the puffcap, all evidence of the incident had been swept away.

  "I'm waiting." Gohala crossed his arms.

  He couldn't tell Gohala the truth, nor was he even ready to speak with anyone about what had happened. His stomach turned as he recalled the contents of the cup in his vision. No, not a vision. A hallucination. He'd even been convinced he'd died. Effects of the puffcap from the insane troll, no doubt.

  With as much poise as he could muster, he bowed, turning four palms to the sun. "It was my fault, Cloud Born."

  ***

  Sidge wished he could turn and put Gohala's searching eyes into his narrow blind spot. He couldn't. In fact, tuning out anything in the lavish surroundings was impossible. It was no wonder two large Ek'kiru were required to pull the wagon. One of them, the green-shelled behemoth, had watched Sidge enter, his antennae alert and writhing.

  Master Gohala frowned—his customary expression. He sat in the lotus on a blood red pillow with palms at perfect rest atop his knees. Above his alcove was an arch supported by pillars made to look like silver bolts of lightning.

  Two lesser arches flanked Gohala's alcove, each filled with precise geometric patterns repeating in tiny squares. Every wall and shelf shimmered with gold leaf. The bare wood of the floor glowed a deep coffee color, streaked with black grain and the rich contrast made the metallic surfaces burn even brighter.

  Never before had Sidge been called into Cloud Born Gohala's direct presence. He'd only heard of the opulence through others. Like the arch outside Cerudell, the master presented a timeless image Sidge found himself grudgingly respecting. If only Gohala weren't so harsh, though his ways had served him well.

  "Who is this man with you?"

  "Man?" Sidge was prepared to answer questions about the mishap with Izhar and take full responsibility, not talk about their hopefully temporary traveling companion.

  "The one wearing ill-fitting Temple robes."

  "Yes, Cloud Born. His name is Chuman, a name we gave him for he does not speak … much. I know nothing more."

  "How did you meet him?" Gohala asked.

  "On the road. He was a traveler in need, so we took him in."

  "Did he have anything to do with this mishap? This lapse of judgment on Master Izhar's part?" Gohala managed to mention Izhar with surprisingly little malice, his focus on Chuman was so intent.

  "No. The mishap was a training accident. I …"

  "Training?" Gohala's face became more skeptical.

  "Yes, Cloud Born." He'd lied to a Cloud Born. What choice did he have?

  Master Gohala kept his narrowed gaze on Sidge for several more heartbeats. "I should've suspected as much," he growled and his old demeanor returned. "I've warned Izhar about such foolishness. An Ek'kiru harnessing Vasheru's Light? Wielding the Fire?" His face pinched in disgust and then relaxed as he said, "The Stormblade will hear of this."

  "As you say, Cloud Born." From his kneeling position, Sidge bowed, placing his face to the floor. In the process, he neglected to raise his hood and cover the upper portion of his eyes.

  Sidge could tell Gohala believed he was unobserved while he scrutinized the upstart acolyte in his presence. Eyes down meant unseeing to the master, unused to Sidge's unique anatomy. One of the Cloud Born's hands slid absently to his side where he toyed with a thin silver chain coiled on the pillow. As he gathered it into his fist, a pendant swung free. It was Master Izhar's corestone.

  Gohala had no right to take it. Sidge fought the urge to launch himself across the lavish space and snatch the pendant, with or without drawing blood. Strong, like the desire to sever Chuman's hand when he had touched Kaaliya's lips.

  He struggled with the beast, a many-eyed thing clawing at his brain. He was an acolyte. He wasn't a monster. He'd memorized the teachings, performed the rituals, and lived a life of service and duty. He would not abandon that life. Ever.

  "Rise. There is no point in pretending our customs are yours," said Gohala.

  They were. They had to be. Sitting up, Sidge fell again, face to the floor.

  "What's this?" Gohala's meticulous beard collapsed at sinister angles.

  "I rise as commanded but have offended yet again. I offer myself to your compassion once more, Cloud Born." He needed the forgiveness of a master to rise. It was customary.

  Gohala's right eye twitched and Izhar's pendant disappeared into a white-knuckled fist.

  "Farsal!" No sooner had the second syllable of the acolyte's name left Gohala's lips than the door behind Sidge opened.

  "Yes, Master?"

  "Get it out of my sight."

  Farsal nodded and began to take hold of Sidge's arm but seeing the position of supplication, stopped short. Without raising his own face, Farsal asked, "May he rise?"

  The master flattened his palm and sliced the air. "Yes."

  Sidge rose. He retreated in a deep bow. Farsal held the door and Sidge paused midstep, his eyes supposedly averted to the earth.

  "Cloud Born, I noticed Master Izhar's corestone was missing. Perchance someone removed it while he was examined for injuries?"

  Gohala's jaw tightened. "Farsal, tell Master Izhar he may request an audience with us at the palace. We will need to speak with him about this incident." He glared murderously at Sidge's wings. "And see to it this creature's damaged robes are removed."

  "Yes, Master." The acolyte bowed his bald head and tugged on Sidge's robe. Sidge could see the chain of Izhar's pendant dangling from Gohala's hand as the door swung shut.

  "Are you okay?" Farsal whispered, eyeing the walls suspiciously and leading them around the side of the wagon.

  Sidge's antennae wagged. "I am fine. I appreciate your concern."

  The fellow acolyte licked his lips and cast another nervous glance at the palatial transport. "The strike could be seen for leagues. What really happened? Did Master Izhar call upon the Wisdom?" Farsal's concern had been replaced with awe.

  They'd seen the strike? He'd first assumed Cloud Born Gohala's mood was more foul than usual not only because of the accident, but because they'd somehow taken the lead, or even because of the modifications Sidge had made to his robes. But the surly Cloud Born had seen more than those minor annoyances, they all had. If true, he'd made a colossal mistake in telling Gohala the entire incident had been his fault.

  No, Gohala didn't matter. Nothing mattered except Izhar was okay. His master would wake and be able to confirm the blessing of Vasheru's Wisdom. Surely, if the entire display could be seen so far away, it could only be the Wisdom. If so, Sidge would be willing to accept whatever punishment the Temple wished to give for his lie.

  Then again, what if Izhar had seen exactly what Sidge had? Just a puffcap addled dream?

  "Did he?" Farsal quietly repeated.

  "I'm not sure," said Sidge.

  "Hmmm." Farsal sounded unconvinced. His eyes swept Sidge's wings. "I like the new robes. I always believed it was an unnecessary burden for you to wear the standard vestments. I believe with all these outrageous events, I could very well forget to ask you to remove them."

  "Thanks."

  Once again, Farsal was trying to cheer him up. But with the recent vision on his mind, only images of drinking blood like some twisted beast filled his mind and he pulled his wings tighter.

  "We do have a spare set if you'd prefer," said Farsal, noticing Sidge's discomfort.

  Sidge started to say yes, but found his mandibles were facing the vardo, where his broad eyes had caught Kaaliya disappearing behind the curtain.

  "You didn't do it for her, did you?"

  "No," he stammered. Lying. Again. He let Farsal also disappear but into his blind spot. "I simply wanted comfortable robes for such a long journey."

  Farsal's chuckle was interrupted by Master Gohala's stern shout echoing from inside the carriage. The acolyte grimaced and brought his palms together sharply before hurr
ying away.

  Sidge began walking toward the vardo. What was happening to him? Lying, to both acolytes and Cloud Born. Changing his robes. He'd gone too far.

  A clacking sound startled him. The Ek'kiru hitched to the wagon were engaging in a strange display, their antennae waving and their mandibles chattering. He hurried to cross the road.

  "Going to ignore us?" trumpeted the green-shelled hauler.

  "Oh, hello," Sidge called and picked up his pace.

  "See," came another booming call from the other side of the yoke. "I told you there was a Bahadur among them."

  "And by Sli'mir's tongue, you were correct," the first replied.

  Sidge's steps faltered. Sli'mir. Kaaliya had mentioned the name when they'd first met. When she'd spoken about the barbarian Ek'kiru which caused so much confusion among commoners. He hadn't ever asked her for more. Nor was it a discussion he wanted to have. Not with her, anyway.

  "Don't sound so shocked, Yurva. I can be right sometimes."

  "Well, why wouldn't I be shocked? He's in man clothes," said the golden-shelled one named Yurva.

  Sidge steadied himself and returned to stand next to the Ek'kiru.

  "My name is Sidge."

  "Taking a break!" bellowed the green-shelled Ek'kiru, raising to his full height and stretching his upper limbs.

  Yurva shifted and grunted while his partner fumbled with the harness. "Corva! You're going to get us a bad reputation, you lazy slug. We finally get to be near the humans and you're going to blow it."

  Corva ignored the protests. "I am Corva. He is Yurva."

  Sidge watched the monstrous frame descend and thought the beast was performing a bow. Its head appeared small at a distance but was easily the size of Sidge's entire chest. Mandibles, nothing short of scimitars, dipped closer to him.

  "Truly, where are you from?" the looming figure insisted.

  "I live at the Storm Temple," Sidge stammered.

  Corva's whip-like antennae flickered, alternating between Sidge's body and the creature's mouth. Sidge pressed his own antennae to his head and pulled his wings tight. He wished he could crawl further inside his robes as the creature's hot, fetid breath washed over him.