Pilgrim of the Storm

by Russ Linton

  A Stormblade? Surely Master Gohala wasn't already laying claim to the position. Sidge watched Gohala's smug expression broaden as Izhar sputtered in confusion.

  "Recklessness?"

  "As your so-called acolyte reports, you allowed a bugman to channel. You were injured in the process," said Gohala. He entwined his fingers and his eyes went between student and master.

  "Sidge!" Izhar beckoned, his anger barely restrained.

  "Yes, Master." Sidge stumbled to his feet. He rushed to Izhar's side and bowed. Several times.

  "What is the meaning of this?"

  Sidge twisted his head from place to place, unable to simply stare at the ground and avoid Izhar. Too far to the right and Chuman watched him blankly. The left, and the dragon's wrathful eyes stared through him. "My apologies, Master. The morning we were found I told Cloud Born Gohala we'd been practicing. You were not yet awake. I didn't know what else to say."

  Izhar's lips tightened.

  Master Gohala rose and called out, "Acolytes!"

  Farsal sprang to his feet and crossed the room, while seven more gray-robed apprentices filed in through doorways flanking the dais. They arranged themselves neatly to either side of their master and bowed.

  Izhar said nothing; a look was all, and Sidge felt crushed. Never had he seen disappointment in his master's face. He never wanted to see it again. He bowed lower and tossed his hood over his head.

  Izhar cleared his throat and addressed Gohala, his voice quiet. "What happened hardly matters. I hear you've taken credit for the event, is that not true?"

  Gohala placed a hand on his chest. "I was at the lead of the caravan, far ahead of the rest. Certain assumptions were made. By our fellow pilgrims, the guard, whom I also approached ahead of you. However, I made no claim. Let them gossip. No doubt the Stormblade will settle this. If he is able."

  If the Stormblade was able? Sidge shivered at the words. What was Gohala's intent? He swung his mandibles toward his master.

  "Oh. You haven't told it?" Amused, Gohala propped an elbow on his knee, eyes flaring at Sidge. "There will likely be no Stormblade when we return to the Temple. That is what he said to us after the blessing. That was his Wisdom before the pilgrimage." He sat upright again, folding his hands in satisfaction. "My acolytes are aware of this."

  Sidge took in the faces of the gray robed contingent across from him. Since he'd left the temple, it was as though a veil had been lifted. Many of the small eyes there held the glint of the sadistic guards. Abhay and Mukesh nurtured a cruel malice behind their stone-faced masks, exactly like they had the day Farsal taught him about the wheel chains.

  Farsal. His friend was the only one who showed any shame or pain.

  Izhar said nothing. Silence from his master scared Sidge more than his typical red-faced tirade. Gohala continued his rant.

  "What you do and don't share with your acolyte is surely no business of mine," said Gohala, staring at the ends of his fingers as though disinterested. "And what may or may not have happened prior to my arrival at Stronghold is also not of my concern. It's amazing what sort of gossip people will accept. Even if I were to say otherwise, what do you think people will believe? That the Cloud Born whose raksha is the living Attarah summoned Vasheru's Wisdom? Or a heathen old fool and his bugman did, leaving themselves incapacitated under the care of a whore and a novice?"

  Whore. Of all the vitriol Gohala spewed, the word struck Sidge like the butt of the spear, only he would not lie there and abide an insult to her. He turned his face upward and clacked his mandibles. His wings tore at the air.

  "You will not call her a whore."

  The words exploded from his mouth. True surprise crossed Gohala's face. Farsal's mouth dropped open and the smug acolytes around him cast fearful eyes on their master. Chuman tilted his head and seemed to be waiting for more to come from Sidge.

  Mute shock transformed into outright anger and Izhar's face flushed. He shouted a spit-flecked reprimand. "Silence, acolyte!"

  Sidge fell to the floor and burrowed into his hood.

  Izhar whirled, then advanced toward the dais where Cloud Born Gohala jumped to his feet to tower above the portly master.

  "And you teach it your disrespect—"

  "Enough! Do not dare speak to my pupil as if he were a beast. I will correct him and I will do so as an acolyte. He is mine to teach. A member of this order, like all of us!"

  "Teaching? Is that what you call this?" Gohala stabbed a hand at Sidge. "Wisdom, Izhar. I provide true Wisdom and demand respect in return." Gohala swept his arm toward his acolytes and his voice raised, his hand trembled. "They come seeking Wisdom and I provide. A raksha. I provide. Regular pilgrimage. I provide. Answer me this, acolyte," the word hissed from his lips as he changed the target of his fury to Sidge, "how many pilgrimages have you made?"

  Sidge waited for Izhar to speak, to defend him again, though he knew he didn't deserve it, and no words came.

  "How many?" demanded Gohala.

  "I seek my first, Cloud Born."

  Gohala whirled on Farsal. "You are of the same time at the temple. How many pilgrimages have you made?"

  Farsal stared straight ahead and answered, his eyes lighting briefly upon Sidge. "Three, Master."

  "And how many acolytes have you seen ascend to the ranks of Cloud Born under my tutelage?"

  "Fifteen, Master."

  "And you will soon walk into the Stormblade Sheath and claim your corestone, will you not?"

  Farsal swallowed. "Yes. I will, Master. I am ready this time."

  Chin high, the groomed tip of Gohala's beard pointed like a deadly spear. He waded into Izhar's murderous glare and turned his head, focusing one stony eye. Extending a hand, he loosed his fingers.

  Izhar's corestone spooled out.

  "Do you question my seniority, now? Do you still question who will take the seat in Vasheru's Sanctum?" His triumphant eyes flashed.

  Veins bulged along Izhar's neck and forehead. His fists were balls of feverish skin. Sidge felt the air squeezing his robes tight to his chitin. Fear swept through the assembled acolytes.

  Lightning trickled up Izhar's sleeves and wreathed his head in a halo of energy. Gohala stared as the corestone dangled between them. Chuman's eyes drifted toward the tangle of light, and a weird hunger shone in their muddy depths.

  "And you forget—the corestone is merely a focus." Izhar snarled, his words tearing through the dense curtain of air that sheathed him.

  A grin crept across Gohala's face and he whispered, "Here? In the palace of our forefathers? Would you call upon Vasheru to smite me?"

  Horrified, Sidge waited. Eyes of the Mighty Dragon in the arch surveyed the room. He waited for lightning to flash. The clouds to descend. Fear flooded him mixed with overwhelming exhilaration. It violated every precept of the Temple, yet he longed to see Gohala struck down. Longed to watch him burn in the fires of Vasheru's holy light.

  But Izhar slumped. Vasheru's Kiss began to fade releasing the hold on Sidge's robes. Gohala let the corestone pendant reel link by link from his grip. When the last bit of chain cascaded from the Cloud Born's fingers, Izhar snatched it.

  "No one will ever seek your tutelage, Master Izhar. No raksha will dare dirty his house with you and your filth. And you will never sit in the place of the Stormblade. Your heresy ends here, along with your failed attempt to walk in the Attarah's footsteps."

  "Sidge," Izhar whispered. Head bowed, he walked toward the hall.

  Sidge left his crouch slow and wary. The acolytes facing him stood in varying degrees of readiness, some with mantras of Fire on their lips. Farsal's face was drained and spectral.

  "Return to the Temple. Pack your things. For I will not abide such insolence when I am the Stormblade," Gohala roared.

  Chuman tilted his head, oblivious to Gohala's fury, and examined Sidge. "You won't be going west?"

  "They won't. They can't," said Gohala. "But I will."

  "I … we …" Sidge faltered and stared dumbstruck at
the giant.

  Gohala, his attention fixed on Chuman, was already ignoring the bugman in his presence. With a bow in the direction of the line of acolytes, Sidge backpedaled. He struck the hallway and hurried to catch Izhar.

  "Master!" Izhar's head bobbed loosely at the call. "I'm so sorry, I didn't know what else to say after the incident in the vardo. I was trying to protect you."

  Izhar continued to trudge down the hall on leaden feet and Sidge followed closely. Neither sympathy nor reprimand came to Izhar's lips, as he focused on the corestone in his hands. He'd rather Izhar turned his fierce anger on him again than say nothing.

  "And I was late, I know. A troll grabbed hold of me in the garden. A strange thing, like I imagine they all are, and he seemed to know your friend in Cerudell."

  "Troll in the garden you say." Izhar said absently. Sidge tried to think of something else which would help erase Gohala's humiliation.

  "The troll doesn't matter," said Sidge. "What matters is, I think I had another vision. Or perhaps even saw a real Urujaav." The mention of the ancient legendary beings had little impact. "Like from the Trials. Your most favorite of mantras. This must have meaning, right?"

  Finally, Izhar stopped. He placed a palm on Sidge's chest but focused where his pudgy hand rested, seeing past it. "There was no vision, Sidge."

  "No, truly, there was!"

  "Your drunken imaginings?"

  Sidge's wings rattled. "No. No, sir. It happened before I'd even had a drop of thornsap. In the wagon. And now at the well."

  "I don't need any more of your help." Izhar spoke the words plainly, without spite, but they wounded Sidge all the same. "I've been seeking Wisdom for weeks to no avail. Anything to prove the Stormblade wrong, that there would be a rightful successor. Trolls and their puffcap …" Izhar sighed. "It was the wishful thinking of an old fool."

  "I saw something. I thought maybe it was a hallucination, but then again, how would I know? The troll says the puffcap doesn't even work on me. You were there!" Sidge knifed two hands in the direction of Gohala's chamber. "They all saw! It could be seen in Stronghold. And there's Chuman. He was in the vision and Kaaliya says he wielded, or at least survived, the Fire."

  Sidge realized the hulking form was no longer with them. He'd stayed behind. To remove the borrowed robes no doubt. Or did Gohala have other plans?

  Again, Izhar's gaze slipped away. "Not now. I'll meet you at the inn."

  Stunned, Sidge watched Izhar disappear down the hall.

  CHAPTER XX

  Sidge wandered the balconies and halls, losing himself in the palace. He grew tired of bowing repeatedly under mistrustful eyes. Servants approached, trying to guide him away to the stables or, the few that took closer note of his robes, to Gohala's suite. Nobles stared. He offered courteous replies and profuse apologies, all the while watching for a glimpse of Kaaliya's ebony tresses. Not once did he see her, although he did stumble across a door flanked by the crimson guards who'd escorted the palanquin.

  Heat rising into his throat, he considered approaching and making an excuse. Perhaps they'd summoned an acolyte for a blessing or counsel. Before long, the guards began to fidget with their swords while watching Sidge pace. It reminded him of the palace guard in the gardens, and he shivered. He quickly made his way to the same side passage where he'd entered the palace. In the stables, the Ek'kiru were gone. Corva and Yurva as well.

  The sun hung low in the sky, leaving the city a darkened outline scattered with burning embers. Sidge drew his hood and headed to the gardens on foot, giving the main gate a wide berth. He'd hoped to be mistaken for a human, but his wings, having recovered from their crushed state, were impossible to hide. He walked briskly, mandibles straight ahead, until he was surrounded by the tall ferns and trees.

  Earlier, Izhar had said he'd meet him here, but Sidge knew it was no use now; Izhar was most likely back at the inn. He hoped his master had calmed down enough so they could speak. Sidge needed Izhar, but his master had every right to refuse to hear the words of a liar. A failure.

  If Gohala was right, he should've told everyone Izhar had channeled the Wisdom. Told them his master had indeed been granted a vision. Of course, Izhar wouldn't have agreed to such a plan. His master didn't seem to recall anything about the strike in the vardo—he would never lay claim to what he had not seen nor pretend he'd received Wisdom when all that had happened was an impressive display of Vasheru's power. Lying was Gohala's way.

  Then there was the news of the Stormblade. If he were dead or incapacitated when they returned, there would be no clear way to complete the chaining ritual. Gohala would be a favorite to lead the temple. It was why Izhar had been so intent on summoning the Wisdom before they'd completed the journey.

  There was a rustle from the ferns, and Sidge fought the urge to fly. Hedgedweller emerged.

  "Have you come for more already?" the troll called.

  "More what? Drowning? Assault?" Sidge clacked, his mandibles chewing.

  "Puffcap."

  "Of course not."

  "Fine. Tell your Master Izhar he only has to return here and I have more. Always more."

  "Return? You met my master?"

  The troll turned, its amber eyes dull in the fading light. "I have met many masters, and you have met the Master of them all. But the one named Izhar was right here before the vault of stars opened, in the face of the retreating sun."

  "He was?"

  "Yes, Crooked Tree. He came here. As he met my kind in Cerudell, so did he here. For puffcap."

  Sidge cursed and buzzed into the sky.

  ***

  "Master, open your door." Sidge leaned on the frame and knocked again. A shout of warning came from the innkeeper downstairs but he only knocked louder. "Master, please."

  A step squeaked and Janipur called up the stairwell. "I said make it quick. You're disturbing my guests."

  Janipur's Inn had approximately two guests Sidge was aware of. Approximately, because only one was allowed a room and fed in the common area. The other had been assigned to the stables.

  Sidge leaned toward the crack between the door and the frame, allowing his antennae to scour the space for any sign of life while he whispered, "Master, please, open the door."

  Feet stomped up the stairs. Sidge slumped, his head resting against a forearm and his eyes watching the stairwell. His antennae tasted Izhar's sweat, heard whispered mantras, and detected an earthy hint of puffcap on the air.

  Before long, Janipur stepped into view.

  The innkeeper was a balding man past his prime and carried his age in his eyes, ringed with dark, loose skin. An attempt had been made at grooming, perhaps weeks ago, but the smooth edges around his beard were speckled with errant hairs. His brightly-colored shirt flared against the stark white towel he wrung between his hands.

  "You'll need to go outside now. You can speak to the Cloud Born in the morning."

  Speak, that was all he wanted. This human held a key to the room which he would undoubtedly refuse to share.

  Hatred twitched beneath the man's bravado like an angry boil. It reminded Sidge of the guards at the palace, but minus the confidence of experience and training. Minus the sharpened spears and crushing mauls. Whatever fantasy Sidge entertained here, he could make happen.

  The song of Stronghold hummed in the awkward silence.

  With a growl and buzzing wings, Sidge shoved off the wall, pushing past Janipur and striding down the stairs. The innkeeper swatted at Sidge's passing with his towel. "Your master will hear of this!"

  "Fine! Tell him I am waiting in the stables," Sidge shouted and a mantra from the Rule came to mind which he couldn't help but recite the opening of. It was proper to teach the ignorant, was it not? "And hospitality to the pilgrim is weighed between Vasheru's teeth!"

  He drifted through the common room, his wings carrying him on a current of buzzing anger. Once in the cool night air, he'd hoped to clear his mind, but outside, the song was powerful and pleading. Sidge grabbed his antenna
e and pulled them tight to his cheeks, his mandibles chattering.

  A passing woman, balancing a copper jug on her head, stared in horror. Her pace quickened and water sloshed out of the jug with the hurried sway of her hips.

  Sidge released his antennae and shook his hands to release the tension. Even at night, under the dim lamps, the city streets remained busy. Eyes wandered his way: the same masks of confusion and disapproval which he'd met all along his journey.

  "Sit down. Make yourself useful."

  The innkeeper's wife was on the porch next to the door. She wore a bright green sari trimmed with saffron thread. When he'd arrived, he'd noticed her sitting on a blanket, her hands occupied with an intricate task. He'd bowed and stiffly said his pleasantries to which she'd grunted and kept her eyes on her work.

  "Pardon me?" His wings vibrated.

  "Sit." The woman tapped the blanket next to her and the bracelets on her wrist jangled. In front of her sat a large earthen bowl, and to her right, several sheets of silvery foil. Her dark eyes fell on him and she patted again.

  Sidge sat.

  He watched as the woman slid a piece of foil off the stack and started folding. Palms lighter than her dark skin, they were dry and cracked. She worked with mindless efficiency, and Sidge studied each fold as the foil became first one leg, then another, beneath a long body. A narrow neck twisted into view, and the flare of foil above it became an angular face with two pointed horns. He'd seen the transformation before, but that had been from a silver egg.

  She tossed the completed Moonstrider into the bowl and grabbed another sheet.

  "What are they for?" he asked, his anger forgotten.

  "The festival. Children mostly. They all get their own."

  Her hands continued deftly folding and Sidge continued to memorize each tiny crease. As he did, his anger subsided. The woman's fingers were nimble and though practice surely only came when Deep Night fell, the evidence of a life of routine was obvious. An urge to follow her lead and bring order to the flat, lifeless sheets overtook him. Bend them to purpose and be lost in the simple process.