by Russ Linton
"Why do you think my husband yells at you?"
The blunt question caught him off guard. While he considered it, she thrust a sheet of foil into his lap. He continued to watch her hands, folding a new Moonstrider and moving on to the next. She glanced at him impatiently as she took a third sheet.
"I don't know."
She tapped the sheet in his lap and folded slowly this time. Sidge held up the foil and followed her lead, mimicking the movements. They began to work sheet after sheet into the delicate forms, all while his eyes kept watch on the street.
Even beneath the blue-green light, a rich variation in shades and tones of clothing were discernable. So much color, like the innkeeper's wife's rich sari; he became aware the faded gray of his acolyte's robes must glow among the crowds in the day. He'd always thought the robes were so plain for simplicity and a decided lack of attention, but it was the other way around—that which was different, stood out.
"You're very good." Janipur's wife said as he folded two sheets at once between four hands.
"Oh, this is nothing compared to memorizing the mantras," he said. "And you should see me sew."
Janipur's wife answered without raising her eyes. "I'm sure you're an excellent tailor."
"Perhaps, but I am an acolyte," he mused, continuing to fill the bowl.
Many days had passed since he felt this relaxed. Time spent with Kaaliya had been close but a certain tension always existed under the surface, even during the darkest of nights when she slept with her head in his lap. Especially then. Rigors of the road had prevented the maintenance of the vardo and the horses from being an enjoyable task and there was the continuous worry about their supplies. Between that and his less than charitable reception at nearly every stop, he'd had little time to simply lose himself in either recitation or repetition as he so often could at the Temple. Peace of mind in work, there were mantras for such peace, specifically in the Forge.
Those simple household duties gave a direction to his days he didn't have on the pilgrimage. All those duties, which other acolytes frequently complained about and which he took up without resentment, had meaning. As the Forge stated, no chore was beneath an acolyte. Never meant to find wives to run their households, they couldn't refuse lest they let the temple fall into ruin.
Of course the Forge and the Rule codified how the temple and society at large were run. The wisdom of the Attarah spoke of the duties of acolytes and Cloud Born along with the place of nobles, commoners, and women – even if the first one of those he'd met remained a mystery who satisfied no mantra of which he was aware. But what mantras did he himself satisfy?
"An Ek'kiru acolyte is an odd thing," Sidge wondered aloud.
"Hmm?" Another sheet of foil rustled.
"Why your husband disapproves. Why people stare."
"Are they staring now?" asked Janipur's wife, reinforcing a crease with a swipe of her thumb.
People bustled by, none so much as glancing his way.
"No."
The last Moonstrider dropped into the bowl and the innkeeper's wife rose, gathered the container between her bent arm and hip, and dusted her knee with her free hand. She reached for the door and paused, frowning. Carefully selecting a Moonstrider from the bowl, she offered it to him.
He held the tiny figure up for inspection. It wasn't immediately obvious, but he knew it to be one of his. Then he saw why: the head was slightly too large, and the horns … the horns were too thin.
Sidge stared at the light reflecting off the silvery animal for a long time. More and more, the imperfections began to bother him. Only a poor fold; perhaps he could fix it? But the thought of unraveling the foil was equally unpleasant. Exposing all the wrinkled surfaces, trying to smooth them before he started yet again.
He headed for the stables where he would be spending his sleepless night. It was a prospect softened by his busied hands, now idle. Once he'd made it to the yard, he clambered into the wagon and dropped into the lotus. Meditation could perhaps help pass the evening.
As soon as he began, the arcane hum of the well became a vicious itch he couldn't scratch. On the hills overlooking the city, the song had drawn him in. Now he felt trapped and pinned beneath it. He jerked the hood of his robe over his head, and tucked it tightly around his mandibles.
Outside, the cargo netting thumped against the sides of the wagon. The collection of crystals and earthbound items Master Izhar felt to be imbued with the touch of the Formless jangled incessantly. With every breeze, the aging wagon creaked. He missed the seclusion of his temple room.
But as he knew, their current supplies wouldn't see them back to the temple, let alone to Abwoon on the edge of the desert. Keeping the horses off the wagon for a day could spare some of the feed, give him and Izhar time to plan and face the reality of their situation.
Thinking about their predicament was not how he could pass an entire night. He needed to find a way to distract his racing mind.
Sidge removed his hood and pulled the Moonstrider from his pocket. The silver emblem glowed in a vein of moonlight that flowed between drafty slats of the vardo. This was how these creatures would be seen, according to the Trials—only by the light of the Deep Night moon.
Carefully, he peeled back each layer, doing his best not to unnecessarily wrinkle the foil. When he was done, he lay the sheet flat and tried to smooth out the creases. They were a labyrinth of unnavigable lines, and the more he pressed, the more he dragged the heel of his palm across them, the more prominent the creases became.
He pounded his fist on the foil and leaned back, staring through the gaps in the curtain. The song outside called. If only he could close his eyes and sleep.
He rose and headed for Janipur's. At the back door, the one which led into the kitchens, he knocked lightly. When no answer came, he eased the door open and peered into the gap.
The room was dark, and the only sensations that drifted along his antennae were the smells of the food stores and the lingering, bittersweet aroma of burnt wood and incense. He let his antennae work their way around the doorframe, testing the air, searching for one specific odor.
What was he doing? Sidge chewed his mandibles, letting his antennae continue to probe the still air. A familiar, sharp bite found them and his stomach churned at the memory.
Thornsap. The larder contained thornsap.
The door had been unlocked. And he'd hardly been shown hospitality as per the mantras of the Rule. Any other guest would expect nothing more. And what of Izhar? If he could pass the night in a stupor, why couldn't his failure of an acolyte do the same?
Beyond, the kitchens, the well incessantly called.
Sidge stepped inside.
CHAPTER XXI
Darkness. A low braying. Maybe the stupid Paint. Sidge tried to ignore it.
Next, he heard a noise like a blast of storm wind. As if he'd been walking the inner hall of the Temple and passed by a room with an open window. The noise came again and again. Walking the halls of his one true home. Past the small cells where the acolytes stayed, thick walls muffling the Storm between each doorway.
The muffled sound was followed not by the bray of an inconsiderate horse, but by the blare of a great horn. And the winds weren't winds at all. People. Hundreds, thousands, crying out in celebration.
Mantras flowed freely through Sidge's memory, and he recalled only one horn, the Horn of Gambora. Gambora, who selflessly led the revolt which allowed the first Attarah and his followers to flee the cruelty of Kurath. A necessary sacrifice.
The same clarion note came again to mark the beginning stages of the Deep Night festival.
Sidge bolted upright and his head swam. The space behind his eyes pounded, and soothing blackness melted away in violent pulses. He felt the burning lump of thornsap form in his thorax between his stomach and throat.
With a groan, he tumbled through the curtain and into the morning air. They would be late for the preparations, exactly like this pilgrimage had started. But were they e
ven going?
Sidge dropped onto the wooden steps of the vardo, looking out into the streets. The sun was a hazy disk in the sky, midway between the horizon and the tallest spires of the city. Festival preparations were in their final stages. Vendors guided carts full of downy petals through the streets. Everywhere, buildings wore silver streamers twisting in a light breeze.
He'd wanted this for so long. The pilgrimage. His own ascension in the ranks. Yet it had never truly been possible. Whether the words of Hedgedweller were lies or not didn't matter. Despite constant practice, he'd never been able to channel. Watching the street teem with festivalgoers and merchants, hearing the song of the city and the crash of distant cheers, continuously distracted by the chaos of the world, a world beyond his control, Sidge knew in his heart he'd never summon the Mighty Dragon's Fire on his own.
Even what he'd originally assumed was an opportunity for his master to ascend hadn't been. Gohala had humiliated Izhar and at the same time made a move for the Stormblade's seat. And Sidge couldn't escape the fact that he was at fault.
Recalling Izhar's disappointed face made his throat clench, his gut twist.
Sidge had lied. In doing so, he'd tacitly supported Gohala's wild plans. If Gohala was right, and the Stormblade's seat was empty when they returned, nothing would stop the ambitious, ruthless Cloud Born from taking his place in Vasheru's Sanctum. Once Gohala was in charge, Sidge would no longer be welcome at his only home.
Though perhaps he'd never been?
Surely he had no place on the outside. A simple life as a tailor or a beast of burden. Living in filthy stalls. Places his broom could never clean.
In the street, a man in a burlap suit, his face hidden beneath a clay mask, roared at a group of children who gleefully scurried away. The man was dressed as one of the Children of Kurath. An imitation, like the foil Moonstrider, or the egg.
For countless Deep Nights, humanity had feared the return of their slavers. The Rebellion, the Forge, the Rule: they all prophesied a time when Kurath would cross the desert and bury humanity beneath the sands.
Sidge watched the children play. The man laughed under his mask. The crowd celebrated. They danced and drank and imagined monsters, but there was no fear. None of them truly believed.
He did.
Every last one of the twelve thousand, one hundred and sixty-two mantras. Even the inscrutable Trials, the ones Izhar insisted bore hidden truth, he believed. The lips of an Urujaav had touched him. Vasheru's power was a gift, trolls be damned. Gohala be damned.
Gambora's Horn sounded again.
Sidge stumbled hurriedly toward the stables.
The first series of horns was for the procession to begin forming in the palace courtyard and present itself to the current head of House Attarah. The process would take until nightfall. It should give them plenty of time. Though if they were too late, he wasn't sure if they'd even be allowed past the gate.
Sidge stopped in the doorway to the stables. First, he'd need to convince Izhar to refute Gohala's claim. Lie about visions if he must. They had witnesses. Chuman. Kaaliya. Gohala was waiting for everything to fall into his lap and they needed to call his bluff. Surely the Cloud Born would not persist in his quiet lie before the Attarah himself.
As the third sounding of the horn retreated, the call from the well took up the empty space left behind.
No, horses first. He would have time to convince Izhar along the way. Their situation wasn't hopeless.
Sidge burst around the corner into the stalls, nearly tripping on his robes. The Paint peered at him with a sideways look.
"Not now," grumbled Sidge, flattening his wings and making a conscious effort to keep them steady. The Paint whickered and stomped a hoof anyway.
Grabbing the tack, Sidge readied the restless animal. After wrestling with the straps and the churning in his stomach, he managed to get the beast mostly prepared. He turned his attention to the stall beside them, where the Nag's head had yet to peek over the low wall.
"All right, your turn." Sidge moved to the front of the stall and saw the Nag lying atop the hay. "Up!" Unable to whistle, he shredded the air with his wings. The Paint reared angrily. There was no reaction from the Nag.
Her tail stayed stiff and unmoving, her eyes sunken. Knobby legs were stretched out rigid, hooves pressed against the dividing wall. Her massive pink tongue lolled from a toothy grimace.
"Light of Vasheru!" Sidge hissed. A pang of sympathy shot through him, followed by another gurgle in his stomach and he fought down bile. He'd always joked of eating the wretched animals. Now he knew he'd miss the more docile half of their team.
More cheers erupted from the crowds, a sound carried all the way from the distant palace. Sidge cursed. He removed the Nag's saddle blanket and draped it over her head.
"Peace find you," he muttered. The Paint watched the ritual with disinterest.
Sidge yanked on the reins and guided his only horse to the stable yard, where the vardo squatted. He'd once dreamed of modifications to allow a single horse to draw the vardo. Maybe he could have made the changes then on those long lonely stretches between farms and frontier, time wasn't in such short supply. Nor was the Paint that solitary horse.
He rushed through the hitching, adjusting the chains to distribute the load. With four wheels, he felt the vardo should remain steady but navigating turns would be difficult. All of this assumed the horse was even capable of such a feat.
As if the Paint could sense the intention of Sidge's fussing, it followed a whinny of protest with a well-timed expulsion from its hindquarters. Sidge gagged as the stench washed over him and threatened control of his queasy stomach.
"Foul creature!" He scrubbed at a spot on his robe where damp manure had struck and he tore into the air. Furious, Sidge sought the beast's eyes, big bulging beads peering from the sides of its head. He grabbed the bridle and forced the Paint eye to eyes. "No more trouble until I get back, or I'll be dragging two horses to the butcher!"
The answer was a loose-jawed smack.
Sidge tied the horse and soared upward to the second floor of Janipur's. Outside the shade of the alley, the sun was blinding, and the pounding tension behind his eyes returned. A quick count of the windows, and he hovered beside what should've been Izhar's room. He ran his antennae along the sill to be sure.
Izhar's snores rose and fell out of rhythm with the city's song. Like the sun, the song seemed amplified in the open air. Sunlight pierced the shutters and striped the bare floor beyond.
"Master," Sidge hissed.
Izhar continued to snore.
"Master!" Sidge knocked on the shutters with first one hand, then two and three. No response.
A door opened in the alley below.
"What are you doing?" Janipur shouted.
"Annoying your guests," Sidge shouted. He rapped again, this time louder.
"Well, stop," Janipur called.
"My apologies, but we need to leave for the festival and Master Izhar still sleeps."
Janipur looked up and down the alley. "Get down from there. I'll fetch Master Izhar. Now, shoo!"
As Janipur disappeared inside, the aftereffects of the thornsap were displaced by raw indignation. He was not a common fly. Not a "bug" to be shooed away.
He allowed himself to rekindle the desire to snap the guard's spear, to assault Janipur for the key, to act on hearing Gohala's word for Kaaliya. Twisting his head to the side, he jammed his mandibles between the window shutters and bit down. Wood snapped. The thin rod barring the shutters clattered to the ground, and Sidge burst through the window.
Izhar lay on the bed. Empty puffcap casings littered a rickety nightstand. He had fallen asleep in his robes, which were tangled beneath him and drawn tight across his belly. The gray mass of his body quivered with each beard-twitching snore.
"Wake up!" Sidge strode to the bedside and grabbed Izhar, shaking him violently. Never had he placed hands on his master in such a way. Never would he have dreamed of this insul
t. But the surge of anger coursed strong through his veins. He raised his hand and struck Izhar soundly across the cheek.
Feet shuffled in the hall.
Izhar's snoring sputtered and the master raised a meaty palm to his face. Pawing at the reddened spot, he rolled to his side and snorted.
A rattle of frustration vibrated through Sidge's body from the tips of his wings to the bottoms of his feet. The anger he'd allowed to seep into his thoughts, poisoned him better than a bottle of thornsap ever could. He gathered Izhar's robe in four fists and took flight, flinging the sleeping master from his bed. Right as Izhar thumped to the floor, the door opened.
Janipur gasped, his hand gripping the door and his saggy eyes bulging.
Sidge canted his head sideways and chattered his mandibles. Janipur shrank away. At that moment, Izhar's face popped up from the far side of the bed. His eyes glazed and his mouth slack, he squinted and looked around the room.
"Cloud Born, are you all right?" Janipur called from where he cowered in the hall.
Sidge dropped next to Izhar. "Master, we must go. The ceremony has begun."
"Water," Izhar groaned. His eyes rolled toward the ceiling.
"What?" Sidge asked.
"Water."
"You heard him," Sidge righted his head and leaned menacingly toward the doorway. "Get some water! Now!"
Janipur skidded backward. With a fearful nod, he disappeared into the hall and thumped down the stairs.
"Speaking. The water, speaking in brilliant hues." Izhar mumbled.
Sidge dragged his master to his feet. "We must go. Can you walk?"
"Tread the Timeless Paths?"
"By Vasheru, you sound like a troll," said Sidge as he led Izhar toward the doorway. Hurried stomping from the stairwell signaled Janipur's return. They met at the top of the stairs and Sidge shuffled past with Izhar, avoiding the innkeeper's gaze.
"Water! I have the Cloud Born's water!" called Janipur as Sidge took the first step.