Pilgrim of the Storm

by Russ Linton

  The caravan had also been forced to make frequent stops to navigate tricky corners and accept alms from the crowds. By the time the festivalgoers finally saw Sidge's ragged vardo coming into view, all that usually remained to offer was polite praise. It was as if they'd begun the pilgrimage anew, yet this time, they had a sponsor. A powerful one.

  Izhar had come to his senses not long after they reached the city streets. Sidge had told him what had happened and been surprised at how angry retelling the tale made him, especially being left to present himself to the Attarah alone. He drew his hood around his face to avoid Izhar's gaze.

  "So, I neglected to address the Living Attarah?" Izhar asked. He sounded more curious than ashamed, as Sidge thought he should.

  "Yes, Master," Sidge replied.

  "What happened?"

  "Puffcap," Sidge answered. "Puffcap happened."

  A small child ran up to the vardo and broke the silence. He tossed a handful of folded Moonstriders and cried, "Vasheru be with you! Vasheru be with you! Follow the path, the one and true!" as he raced beside them.

  Sidge plucked a Moonstrider from his lap, examined it, while pressing his lower palms together. The child caught sight of Sidge's bulbous eyes and froze, drifting away with the crowd.

  "Sidge, I know you may disagree, but there is truth in what the trolls say. A truth I can't decipher. The Formless, the elder races, the tales of commoners." Izhar struggled to explain and though Sidge understood his master's frustration, the confusion only infuriated him. "I had nothing before. Meditating with the puffcap, in those moments I feel I am right between the Wisdom and the real. Truth, there for the taking."

  "Really?" Sidge lashed out, raising his voice. "Well, I have seen plenty of visions, Master. More than mere hallucinations, I've been nearly drowned in them—twice, no, three times! I've laid eyes on the face of Vasheru, done his bidding …" Sidge fumbled over the words and flicked his head at an awkward angle. His wings tore at the air. "We've seen visions. And because you're a babbling mess every time, I'm the one left to explain."

  Izhar's mouth twisted and Sidge wished he'd left his hood drawn. Maybe pulled it down entirely over his eyes. Dragged into darkness. Sleep. A thornsap blackness would be a good thing right about now.

  "Are you quite done, acolyte?"

  "My apologies, Master." Sidge struggled to speak calmly and evenly.

  "Master," Izhar huffed mirthlessly.

  Jubilant cries on the street washed over the stillness between them. Banners fluttered in the mystical light of the city. The wagons ahead slowed as they crept around a tight corner, and the crowds ducked into porches and alleyways, reaching out to touch the members of the procession. Hands stroked Izhar's feet, and a few even touched the hem of Sidge's robe.

  "I'm sorry, Sidge." Izhar's words barely registered above the crowd. "Perhaps this has all been a fool's errand." Izhar shook his head. "Please, tell me again, what have you seen?"

  Sidge was overcome by relief. This was the first time either of them had been in any state to discuss the visions, the strange encounters with trolls, and other nonsense. Sidge launched into a careful recitation of everything he'd witnessed. Izhar listened, his eyes staying keenly focused in the dim light. His master only raised a hand to dam the torrent of words when citizens approached, bearing blessings or boons which he accepted with an oddly formal grace.

  "And then, we were before the Attarah finding sponsorship under Kaaliya's … friend."

  "Mistress Kaaliya." Izhar twirled a finger through his matted beard. "We'll have to thank her when we see her again."

  "Do you think we will?" The question left Sidge's mandibles before he knew how foolish he sounded. Of course they would see her. The parade would return to the palace to join the feasting and they would need to speak with their new raksha.

  Izhar cast a pained smile at Sidge. "But these visions, they are far different from any I've ever heard of."

  "I know." Sidge squirmed.

  "Forgive me, Sidge, for not giving more consideration to you that first night. What you described sounded like drunken imaginings. Maybe it was even difficult for me to accept." Izhar started to say more but cut himself short.

  "Difficult for even me to believe," Sidge sighed. "An acolyte who can't channel, sharing in your calls for the Wisdom. It makes no sense. Nowhere in the mantras is there a precedent, yet I know this is what happened."

  Those words seemed to shake Izhar from his lament. "Never doubt yourself. Never. If there is one thing I hope to have taught you, it is that."

  Sidge noted a particular kindness in Izhar's expression he'd never noticed, though he realized now it had always been there. Through his master's relentless support and patient training. Through Izhar's contentious relationship with the other Cloud Born.

  "You have certainly taught me well, my Master. But I am not a worthy pupil."

  "No?"

  "I have done terrible things. I have grown distracted from the ways of the Temple. And all the years you patiently tutored me, I …" Sidge swallowed. "I doubted in you. Your talk of the Trials and their mysteries, I dismissed like so many of my brothers. Yet now we are steeped in those same mysteries. I can only turn to you, Master, and humbly ask your wisdom as to what this all means, though I do not deserve it."

  Sidge curled forward and did his best to present himself in complete supplication. Izhar placed a hand on Sidge's head, between his large eyes, the Cloud Born's sleeve blotting out the road ahead. He wished it covered more. He wanted his master's face to be the only thing he saw. A singular point of focus in the waving crowds, the tumbling Moonstriders, beneath the swollen herald of the night high above.

  Izhar looked away and cleared his throat before speaking.

  "Our fellow priests have been sequestered in their cliffside fortress, cut off from the world by an unforgiving land for too long. They emerge only when the moon is right and only for a brief excursion. These pilgrimages don't often give one enough time to see through the bullshit." His eyes sought Sidge again. "I was from here you know."

  Sidge sat up and shook his head. He knew little of Izhar's past. He'd always seen him in his gray robes, surrounded by the vaulted halls of the Stormblade Temple. The idea of Izhar doing or being anything or anywhere else was hard to fathom.

  Sidge had grown up on the man's knee—that was the kindness which had filled Izhar's gaze only moments ago. When Izhar had meditated, Sidge meditated. When Izhar had wandered among the acolytes, Sidge followed. He still clung to vague memories of riding in Izhar's hood as a young child and gripping the wiry beard. He recalled the day he was given his robes, and Izhar's beaming face. The other assembled priests, all of which Sidge could see, had expressed a mixture of forced neutrality and traces of disgust.

  Never had any of those things mattered to him—because it hadn't mattered to Izhar.

  Izhar continued, examining an ornate storefront built around one of the city's mighty supports. "My father was a carpenter. He built and repaired houses. Even learned to work with treestone. Stuff's dense, but delicate. He could carve a sheet so thin, the edge would take your finger right off." Izhar wagged his own finger and chuckled. "But I lacked the patience. Imagine that."

  Izhar's father. Family. Sidge had never asked about this, either. Deep down, he didn't want to know. He wanted to think they were both lost souls, and together, they had been made whole. He stroked his antennae and contemplated tucking them beneath his hood.

  "While I had no patience for carpentry, I did find interest in the process. I rode with my father to building sites. New construction. Repairs of old or damaged houses. The Old City near the palace was the best. I marveled at our history, and eschewed the saw and the chisel for the tales of the Attarah carved into the walls. But another thing I saw troubled me. The work yards were full of Ek'kiru. And you know, not a damned one was carved on those walls."

  Yes, Sidge knew.

  Another offering found its way into Sidge's limp hands. A young woman, her pregn
ant belly cradled in her arm, handed him a garland of flowers. He weakly placed his upper hands together and she made a quick bow. With a hesitant gesture she motioned toward Izhar and rejoined the crowd. Sidge set the garland on the bench, unwilling to interrupt his master.

  "When I arrived at the Temple, I was seeking answers. The world was confusing to a brash young man who questioned everything. I was fortunate the Stormblade didn't turn me away. He saw something important in what I could only call my impudence." He cast Sidge a cheerful glance. "Much like I later saw something important in you."

  Sidge began to feel a fragile but necessary wall between them was being taken down, brick by brick. He again wanted to shut out the words, but at the same time couldn't stop listening.

  "Why now? Why are you telling me this now?"

  "Because, you need to know why I did these things."

  "Why?"

  "Because I was a foolish young man who believed he could change the world. When your egg came into the Temple's hands, I accepted it. Without asking my own master. Without discussing the matter with the Stormblade. I did it to force a change. Foolish delusions of youth. Selfish. But as you grew, I knew I had another reason."

  "What?" Sidge whispered, the crowd, the festivities, finally forgotten.

  "For you. I did it for you."

  Sidge floated in the stunned silence, each bump under the vardo's wheels causing him to teeter on the seat until he was forced to grab the bench. This was not revelation. Not a strike of Wisdom. There was no mystery. These were things Sidge had always known, from his earliest memories to this very night. Things left unspoken. Left unspoken for a reason: because life was easier in the silence. Easier for Sidge to ignore the implications and overlook the controversy of his presence at the Temple. Easier for Izhar to take the brunt of the attacks, carry them on his air of eccentricity and slice through them with his short temper, shielding Sidge from the worst of it.

  A man approached and Izhar bent against the outer rail of the bench to greet him. "Blessings to you!" Placing the offering of a corked bottle on the foot board, Izhar chuckled and picked up the reins which were about to slip away behind the horse. Sidge couldn't recall when he'd dropped them.

  They were nearing the canal, the procession squeezing over one of the narrow bridges. Lamps here illuminated the bridge brightly, creating ripples on Sidge's exposed skin. When they reached its foot, a commotion on the water brought their progress to an end as the acolytes ahead of them slowed to look over into the canal.

  "There he is!" came a shout from the water. "The bugman priest! He didn't drown!"

  More cries came from the decks of ships where spectators crowded the rails.

  "Blessed by Vasheru!"

  "There, in the gray carriage! So befitting of the Sheath!"

  "A bugman? Vasheru's own lightning bug!"

  Sidge prayed that last one wouldn't stick.

  The cries of astonishment continued and the crowd closed in, everyone wanting to see the odd acolyte. Manoj's face popped up over the carriage ahead of them.

  "Sidge!" The younger acolyte cried, waving wildly. "What are they saying? Why are they so exci—" A gray robed arm, most likely Anil's, dragged him down.

  Izhar eyed Sidge, his face in a thoughtful frown as more people crowded them before the vardo could draw on to the bridge. Sidge did his best to greet and bow to the throngs of curious people. Small offerings found their way on to the footboard and bench. Hands stroked the hem of his robe. Izhar waited, giving the crowd their fill before he eased the Paint on to the narrow bridge.

  Sidge waved meekly at the onlookers, some following along behind the vardo. Their praise and recognition astounded him; however, it was Izhar's expression, both amused and contemplative, that made him feel the most self-conscious.

  With the reins in one hand, Izhar reached up to his collar with the other. Sidge became dimly aware of Izhar fussing with something, cursing while he fought against his beard and hood. Moonlight glinted in his hand when the old Cloud Born finally stopped struggling.

  "You've earned the right," Izhar said, speaking into his palm. "Few know the mantras better, the rituals. By the Formless, you've seen the face of Vasheru himself! Secured a raksha on your own. What's left? A romp through the Stormblade Sheath? Bah!"

  The silver chain and dark stone tumbled through the air.

  Sidge felt like he was back in the well, submerged, watching the stone wheel end over end, the image caressing each lens as it came closer, the odd street light swimming on all sides. Cheering crowds were muted. The song of the city called out.

  He could swim away, avoid the strike. But Izhar watched with a fiery pride filling his eyes. That particular kindness one only sees in the eyes of a parent, a father.

  Sidge snatched the pendant.

  Vasheru's Kiss. The prickly sensation traveled up through his arm, his shoulders, his neck, and over his bulbous eyes to linger on the minute hairs of his antennae. He stared at both the pendant and Izhar in shock.

  "I'll get another," Izhar grumbled. "Besides, I can't touch it without thinking of Gohala's oily hands."

  "I can't—"

  "Shut up, Sidge. You can. You will. It may have been my corestone which called the Wisdom, but those were your visions. Everything I'd hoped to have. Mine were fleeting hallucinations and about as clear as the Stormblade Temple's sky. More of the same. Not what our Order needs now, nor can even expect to have ever again."

  "But me? I mean, I haven't faced the Stormblade Sheath. Collected a corestone. I can't even call forth a spark of the Fire."

  "Forget the Sheath. A trip to that burning hell is overrated and the corestone is symbolic. A focus."

  Sidge parsed through mantras in his head and struggled to counter Izhar's proclamation. Nothing prescribed this small piece of rock as necessary. In fact, the first priest had not held a stone at all. He had called on the Wisdom and given it to his four acolytes.

  "Shouldn't I at least complete the pilgrimage?"

  "Of course you will, but for what?" Izhar's face wrinkled as if he'd caught wind of a foul stench. "We'll stop at the edge of the desert, nowhere near the fabled lands of Kurath where the Attarah's flight began. We'll cross the mountains close to the coast through the Merchant's Pass, a damn sight easier than the trek made by the Attarah. Following Him isn't so damn literal. If it were, why, none of us has earned the right."

  "This will not be an interpretation others would accept."

  "No. Much like inducting you into the Temple."

  Sidge had no response.

  "True, this is a question for the Stormblade to decide but by his own words, we won't see him when we return. There may be nothing even to return to."

  Sidge stared, yes stared, at the corestone in his hand.

  CHAPTER XXVI

  Sidge rode into the outer courtyard astride the vardo's bench, his idle hands feeling strange and detached. He'd kept throwing arguments at Izhar as to why he should return the corestone, even as he fidgeted with the setting. Izhar kept silencing him with apologetic demands, Sorry but not now, Master, all while awkwardly steering the Paint and irritating the exhausted animal.

  Currently, they sat in a line of carriages outside the palace, waiting their turn to present themselves and their offerings. The first to emerge was Gohala's wheeled throne room, his path taking him down the long line of pilgrims.

  Gohala perched on a seat above the driver's bench. The Cloud Born waved with regal deference at his Temple brethren as he paraded by the line. Practicing, no doubt, for his seat in the Sanctum. Farsal sat beneath him at the reins behind Yurva and Corva.

  "Sidge!" Corva's green chitin separated and he fluttered his wings.

  Ahead, the line had ground to a stop at the palace gate. Gohala raised his hand and the banner-bearing acolytes flanking his carriage came to a synchronized stop. Izhar sniffed and draped the reins across his lap. He bit his lip and studied the sky.

  Much to Sidge's surprise, Chuman was among the acolyt
es. He'd assumed Gohala would have stripped the "simpleton" of his robes and tossed him onto the streets. But as odd as the man seemed, he'd had no difficulty with the sudden change in momentum brought on by Gohala's signal. A good sense of timing, utter lack of communication skills—maybe he was Gohala's ideal pupil after all.

  Sidge placed his four palms together and bowed, starting with Master Gohala but not neglecting the two haulers. On his third bow, the bench railing snagged his robe. The corestone tumbled out from his collar.

  Farsal's mouth dropped open. Gohala's face drained of color, even in the monochromatic light. Corva lurched and stretched out his antennae, closing on the vardo, while Yurva grumbled and tried to counterbalance his friend's sudden movements.

  "You have a pretty pebble," called Corva as he strained at the harness.

  Acolytes on both sides peered out of their lines. Never had Sidge seen Gohala shocked, but the dark-skinned Master's face remained wooden, like his newest acolyte. Sidge stuffed the pendant into his robes.

  "Where did it get that?" Gohala demanded.

  "You will speak to my master with respect, Cloud Born Gohala," answered Izhar, still avoiding eye contact.

  Sidge cringed.

  "I don't know what sort of game you're playing, Izhar, but I thought we'd heard the last of your mockery yesterday."

  "Mockery?" Izhar snorted. "Master Sidge has been granted the Wisdom—"

  "Preposterous!" Gohala spat. "It can't even channel. Nor has it gone to the Sheath. This is more of your heresy!"

  "I have no reason to doubt his claims. Neither should you." Izhar's eyes narrowed. "Besides, haven't you established precedent for claiming another's call to the Wisdom?"

  Gohala's lips split into a malicious grin. "You are the last one to lecture me on precedent and tradition."

  "Tradition? Shall we test your ability to teach, perhaps?" Izhar motioned toward Farsal. Sidge saw the poor acolyte shrink lower on the bench. "Acolyte Farsal, can you point out where tradition dictates a Cloud Born must retrieve his corestone from the Stormblade Sheath?"