Pilgrim of the Storm

by Russ Linton

  Damp, briny wind now sheathed his antennae, and the ground quivered under the vardo's wheels. Hooves hammered the ground, the Paint's ears pinned back and eyes flitting madly at the chaos. Rushing water replaced the mantra, and Sidge tucked his head, snapping the reins. He tried to ignore the cataclysm bearing down behind them—a wall of water consuming the trees, its crest lost in the darkness above.

  For the second time in as many days, Sidge was certain he was going to die.

  "Yah! Yah! Run, you wild fool!"

  The damp, invisible force of an entire ocean rode behind them. Izhar thrashed. The Paint tore the earth into damp clumps. Then the wave caught them.

  Sidge gasped as the vardo overtook the horse, blasted forward by the wall of water. The Paint arced its neck and flashed pearled eyes at Sidge as the swingletree collided with its rear legs. Vardo, horse, and occupants skidded sideways.

  Hands formed on the face of the wave, grasping for the vardo. Watery visages like he'd seen inside the well swept past, their mouths twisted in agony. Sidge recognized the call of the city pouring through their moans. Grasping hands latched on to the carriage, the harness, and the horse, and drew them into the raging sea.

  Urujaav surrounded them. There were hundreds, perhaps thousands. As the vardo passed between them, Sidge could see those farthest away being pulled straight through the trees by the circular current.

  On the vardo twisted, pirouetting through the forest without contacting trunk or branch, held by the Urujaav but not submerged in the water. Cold light came into view. In the dizzying spin, he saw the rigid trunk of the ritual tree still tall among the chaos. Chuman towered there as well, undisturbed by the immense forces. His chant grew deep and rich above the din.

  This one tree, this eye of the storm, they would not escape. They were being drawn toward it along with the current of agonized faces and grasping hands.

  Sidge clung tight as they whipped toward the trunk. Brown, ridged bark filled his vision. He saw the grain. The feathery edges. How he wished he could close his damned eyes. He waited for the crash of the vardo and the screams of the horse.

  Instead of a solid surface he felt water envelop them. He floated away from the bench. Reins slipped from his grip.

  Watery hands fed him upward. He was floating, cold and motionless. He saw nothing. Felt nothing. As though the thornsap coursed through his veins but did not pollute his mind. The same as his first vision in the vardo, when he'd rested in the pool beside the wounded tree. Peace.

  A dim light interrupted the calming blackness. He became aware he was racing toward a round portal with a bulky shape leaning over it. Chuman again, in his gray temple robes. Hadn't he left the giant at the base of the tree?

  Water, yes. They'd been surrounded by it. And above him, Chuman appeared to be gulping, drinking in the water in which Sidge swam.

  The sides of the well came into view, and strange symbols raced by. Not far behind him were Izhar, the vardo, and the Paint. They were small and far away, wrapped in the same velvety darkness Sidge had come from.

  Chuman continued to drink, never stopping for air. Sidge wondered if his upward momentum weren't caused by the man's intake of water. The closing distance became so difficult to judge, Sidge thought he might actually be a lesser insect on the verge of being lodged in the giant's throat.

  Before they collided, Chuman pulled back. Water dripped from his chin and he touched the surface. Deep, bitter longing darkened his features, and he stepped away.

  Sidge shot out through the portal and the light changed. He fell hard onto unforgiving ground, rolled over, and retched clear water onto the pathway of colored stones.

  A tremendous racket filled the tranquil space around him. Wood crashing onto the platform of the city, the contents of the vardo ricocheting inside the cabin, and the crack of hooves striking and scrabbling on wet stone. Water showered the walkway and the Paint belted out an irritated cry. Somewhere, Izhar groaned.

  Deep Night's moon watched from above the trees. They'd left the inn right as the mid-morning horn had sounded but now night had begun. How?

  Sidge scanned the ferns for the troll, daring it to show its face. He'd snap its head clean off if it arrived to spout more riddles.

  On the other hand, perhaps riddles were the only way to understand what had just happened. He had no explanation of his own. The mantras of the Temple offered no insight, either.

  Sidge dragged himself to his feet and turned to examine the vardo. It sat dripping, the Paint still hitched and Izhar tangled again inside the cargo netting with his head lost beneath his collar. There was no more evidence of Vasheru's Fire, or whatever mystical energies Izhar had tapped into. No way to prove any of this had taken place.

  Sidge shook himself and flew up to the bench. Izhar thrashed, squeezing through the collar of his robe. His master smacked his lips, eyes heavy, and slumped against the vardo.

  The courtyard past the garden gates was empty, but the well-lit palace showed signs of the festivities within. Sidge checked the moon again, much too high in the sky for the time they'd been gone. He prayed to Vasheru they weren't too late, and wondered what raksha in their right mind would bother to listen to this incredible tale. For the first time, the Paint looked stunned and compliant. Sidge urged him forward with ease.

  CHAPTER XXIV

  Petals littered the courtyard in a moonlit stream where the procession had already passed into the city. The Moonstrider atop the palace glowed under the Deep Night moon, which appeared to balance on the mystical creature's horns.

  They sloshed toward the palace, shedding water from the vardo in streams. Sidge fought an urge to stop and examine the cabin. The thought of all the contents strewn about and soaked to every fiber, splinter, and pore made his idle hands twitch. But no amount of work could free his mind from the task at hand. He had to face the assembled nobility and the Attarah himself.

  "Leave everything as it is," he chanted.

  He also knew searching the weatherproofed stores on the roof for dry robes would be futile. The only remaining functional vestments had been given to Chuman and Gohala had most likely burned those. They would have to attend the ceremony as they were. He extended an arm and water gushed out of his sleeve.

  "Vasheru, strike us now."

  His earnest prayer went unanswered.

  He glanced at Izhar. The old Cloud Born's mouth hung open, and his damp beard lay plastered to his chest.

  Ahead, palace guards snapped to attention on seeing the vardo. Maybe these were the instruments of his prayer to Vasheru. They might at least detain Sidge and prevent him from bringing such disgrace into the Attarah's house. But he'd come this far; even if he wanted to flee, he had nowhere to go.

  Sidge pulled the vardo to a stop in front of the open palace gate. A trapped pocket of water gurgled from the cabin. He squelched to his feet on the bench and smoothed his robes causing another cascade. The Moonstrider-helmed soldiers' discipline melted into confusion. He couldn't say if either had been among those who'd held him in the gardens.

  "Ride upon Gambora's call. Fifty men for countless souls. Released from Kurath's greed," Sidge recited the ritual mantra, his upper arms sweeping in precise arcs and his palms turned to the heavens. He brought his limbs to rest in a meditative pose and did his best to ignore his leaking. Sounds of the feast within filled the silence, and Sidge was certain he could detect a hint of sura on the guard's breath.

  "If you are wondering if you've had too much to drink, you have," said Sidge. "I promise, this can only get more interesting if you let us enter."

  They shrugged and step aside.

  Sidge exited his pose and gave one final shake of his robe to clear as much of the water as he could. He sat, took up the reins, and entered the inner courtyard under the astonished gaze of the guard.

  An odor of burnt animal flesh rankled his antennae first, along with the rich tang of spices and sura. Heartstone hooded lanterns bathed the open atrium in earthen tones, and music drif
ted from the room's center. Noble guests, their skin the perfect complement to the lighting and their bodies adorned in silk and gold, filled the vast space and balconies.

  On his first visit, he'd entered through the stables. Now he came through the main gate, without burden or harness. Just as the other pilgrims came through, winding their way to the center to present themselves before the Attarah and his dignitaries. They would return here too, once the procession through the city was complete. He was supposed to be here.

  With the solemnity of the opening ceremony long past, nobles and honored guests moved among the atrium in knots of laughter and conversation. They wore garments of rich colors and elaborate designs. Unidentifiable bird feathers plumed their turbans. Finely tailored silks were hemmed and woven with metallic threads, many even dusted with precious stones. Golden bands and delicate chains adorned places where clothing did not—torcs along the bare arms of the men, complicated webs of silver and gold clinging to the midriffs and necks of the women.

  A handful of groomsmen approached, unsuccessfully masking their annoyance. They'd most likely been promised a reprieve while the procession wound through the city. Sidge apologized as they filed in behind the wagon.

  He said an unnecessary prayer that the Paint would be exhausted and unable to bolt through the crowd, and he started toward the center.

  First one group, then another, took note of the creaking, dripping vardo. Eyes turned and the crowd parted. Gasps. Chuckles. Bald laughter.

  "Excuse me. Pardon me," he called from the bench, driving with one pair of hands and repeatedly bowing.

  More and more, only the music filled a spreading silence. The musicians played, heedless to the background song of the city, which Sidge had momentarily lost. Since his emergence from the well, the sound barely tickled his antennae, like a choked breeze.

  The crowd thinned, and he found himself at the end of a long carpet which led to the dais. A low table ran the length of this dais, and the royalty of the Attarah's house lounged behind it on rugs and pillows. Gems and precious stones worn on fingers, ears, necks, and noses, dazzled Sidge's lenses.

  Next to him, Izhar stirred. Sidge froze in anticipation, but the Cloud Born only smacked his lips and settled against the bench. Sidge was unsure what would be better—having Izhar conscious, or secured in the cargo netting. He'd at least tied the rigging behind his unsteady master in the hopes no one would notice. Still exhausted, the Paint trundled to a stop, and Sidge urged it closer to the dais.

  Had someone claimed the Attarah were carved from treestone like the pillars and columns, Sidge would have believed it. The Savior of all Humanity sat arrow straight, clad in a pristine sherwani the white of the moon. The fine coat was stitched with what Sidge knew to be threads of pure silver. He was clean-shaven, though his cheeks bore the outline of a beard that, no matter how fine the razor, could never be scraped away. And though his eyes were small, they maintained a focus Sidge could feel in his chest.

  Sidge had planned to build his courage as he slowly wound through the crowd, deciding what to say about visions and Izhar's channeling of the Wisdom. About Gohala, or whether he should even mention that before Izhar was conscious. But all he'd been concerned about winding through the crowd were the apologies. How out of place and alone he felt here. Sitting in front of the Attarah himself, Sidge had nothing to say.

  The next sight he saw cleansed all concern of the impending disaster from his mind.

  Deep Night was the longest night, when dusk fell quickly and the dawn seemed an eternity away. It could not compete with the midnight flowing across her smooth shoulders.

  Sidge stared at Kaaliya who was dressed in the brightest orange, a bonfire against the muted lighting. Every facet he had was transfixed.

  The music died. Conversation that once filtered airily around the table stopped. All eyes were upon him. In the sea of annoyance and horror, he saw only Kaaliya's astonished gaze. She moved ever so slightly toward a man next to her. The man began to applaud.

  A noble, to be sure, he was the only one beaming with amusement and not shock. He sat relaxed and casual on the silken pillows. Behind him were armored soldiers in bronze and crimson, the same style of uniform which Sidge had seen on those escorting the palanquin the day before. Their intimidating, demonic-faced helmets were removed, though the one closest to the noble had little need of it.

  The living Attarah raised a hand. "Chakor, if you please," he said, irritation grating his words. The applause faded but the noble's smirk did not.

  "Who is this?" demanded the Attarah.

  A once whispered silence became the complete absence of sound. Izhar stirred and mumbled gibberish. Panic set in. Sidge scrambled from the bench and fell prostrate next to the vardo.

  "I am Sidge, a mere acolyte, Your Benevolence, glory be to Vasheru and the Wisdom He favors upon you, the Living Attarah."

  "You are late."

  "A thousand apologies. My tardiness was most … extraordinary."

  "And this?" fingers ringed in silver and gold gestured toward Izhar.

  "My master, oh mighty Attarah. This is Cloud Born Izhar. He is not feeling well. That is in part the reason for our late arrival."

  Sidge watched in horror as Izhar opened his eyes and stared, turning his head at peculiar angles.

  Please, don't speak. Please, don't speak.

  The Attarah's eyes narrowed. "What is wrong with him?"

  "Master Izhar … he …" Sidge fumbled for the words. "He is recovering, Oh Munificent One. Recovering from having channeled what can only be Vasheru's Wisdom."

  A murmur ran through the crowd.

  "This explains the river you have brought into my house, no doubt?"

  Laughter rolled across the court. Sidge flipped his hood over his eyes. Surely people in the city had witnessed the vardo, bathed in light, racing through the streets. Word would reach the palace, though when, he couldn't say.

  "An apology for every turn of the sun in the Timeless Age, mighty Attarah. But, yes. It does." Sidge felt the Attarah's gaze burning through his robe.

  "Who is your raksha?"

  "I'm afraid we—"

  "Silence!" the Attarah boomed. "I speak to Cloud Born Izhar. Ill or not, he can speak, no? Is it fever, or perhaps he's had so much drink his tongue has swollen?"

  More laughter rippled through the crowd. More entertainment for the nobility, the damp little bugman and his drunken master. Not only did they not believe him, even before he'd explained, they simply did not believe.

  He recalled watching the Deep Night celebrations on the streets, and now, the drunken revelry in the palace. This, the night when Stronghold was founded to protect humanity. A night at the heart of a pilgrimage which would end with the adherents of the Storm Temple standing on Kurath's doorstep, showing their strength to keep the slaver at bay. None of this was a joke to him.

  Sidge rose, staying bowed and respectful, all four of his palms pressed together. The Attarah clenched the arms of his chair and his chest expanded. The crowd closed in. Water dripped from the vardo. Izhar squirmed again, splaying his fingers and staring through his hand. None of this could Sidge control. He could only control the words that came next.

  "Glorious Attarah, my master has called on the Wisdom twice on this journey, each time returning to consciousness only after extended rest. My most sincere and humble apology he cannot speak to recount his vision, but I have witnessed it. I have seen what Wisdom has been granted and know this, with all my heart and life, to be true."

  The Attarah held poised to strike. He said again in low tones, "Who is your raksha."

  "I am."

  Sidge swung his mandibles to face the speaker and felt them fall slack on his face. Small eyes of the crowd grew large, pearls set in sandalwood. Mouths fell open.

  Chakor, the noble next to Kaaliya, drummed his fingers on the table. He stared ahead, eyes locked on Sidge. "I am their raksha. My sincere apologies for not mentioning this sooner."

  "I hope we
have entertained you sufficiently, Chakor." His flash of anger vanished and the Attarah relaxed, turning his attention to his plate. He picked at the contents casually and pursed his lips. "Your Cloud Born will return at the conclusion of the ceremony and will be on time."

  Chakor placed his palms together and inclined his head. "Of course, Mighty Attarah, seat of mankind's greatest house." He waved a dismissive hand toward Sidge.

  Sidge waited, unmoving. He felt the Attarah should perhaps acknowledge him first. The lord only ate silently, intent on ignoring the vardo and everything about it.

  "You heard him," repeated Chakor.

  Chakor. His new raksha. The Jadugar of House Attarah. A man with more wealth on a single finger than he and Izhar had to their names.

  Kaaliya tilted her head toward the door and raised her eyebrows.

  "On time, my raksha, yes. Apologies." Sidge dropped onto the bench and fumbled for the reins. Izhar stirred and leaned forward as though to speak and Sidge twisted, pushing him against the vardo. Aware of the eyes of the crowd, he patted and smoothed Izhar's robe and took up the reins.

  The Attarah struck up a conversation with the man on his right, and the gathered nobles slowly unwound. Kaaliya smirked and winked. Sidge's wings fluttered helplessly. He clicked at the Paint and they jolted toward the exit. Guests scattered, providing a broad path.

  "On time! Absolutely." He clicked louder and resumed bowing rapidly, openly offering every manner of benevolence he could to the guests' patience and quietly praising Vasheru's timely grace.

  CHAPTER XXV

  Catching up to the procession had not been nearly as difficult as Sidge had feared. True, the Paint was sluggish from its ordeal and from the awkward load, but the crawling pace of the line of carriages and palanquins was below even the recently-departed Nag's gait.

  Following the trail through the winding streets had been simple as well. The petal-strewn path ran along the stone and wood boulevards, complete with muddied banks where countless wheels, hooves, and feet had trod.