The Path to the Sun (The Fallen Shadows Trilogy)

by Kimberli Bindschatel

  Kiran nodded. “Yes, on the edge, sir—” he caught himself. “I mean, yes, on the sea.”

  The Scholar seemed perplexed. “But you… how did you get here?”

  “I walked,” Kiran said, matter of fact. “Well, mostly I floated on a raft. I have traveled now ten moons and—”

  “Would you excuse me a moment?” He turned away without waiting for an answer and hobbled through the doorway, taking the Pyletar with him.

  Kiran leaped from his chair, his head swimming. “Do you think he is the wise man? Do you think he is the Voice? He knows things…about the world. Maybe it’s him. What do you think? I mean, his house here, we are on the top of a hill. A peak. Yes, it could be him. Artus, what do you think?”

  “I think you need to simmer down.” Artus folded his hands in his lap.

  Kiran paced the floor, holding the doll in his hands. The fly circled the ceiling. Bizz-buzz, bizz-buzz. Kiran thought the old man would never return. Finally, he heard the clip-clop of the Scholar’s cane. “Would you care to join me for tea?”

  Kiran’s eyes lit up and his head bobbed up and down. He shoved the doll in his pocket.

  Artus rose to his feet and gave Kiran a wink. They followed the Scholar through the doorway. An entire wall was lined with shelves stacked with books, hundreds of leather-bound tomes, full of knowledge. A thick codex lay open on the Scholar’s desk.

  The old man pointed to a couple chairs. Artus moved a pile of books from one and plopped down in it.

  “Please,” the Scholar said, gesturing for Kiran to take a seat. “Let’s start at the beginning, shall we? Tell me about this pilgrimage. What is it you are seeking?”

  “The Voice of the Father. He dwells somewhere here, on this edge. I mean…” Kiran thought a moment. “Perhaps I’ve, uh, misinterpreted it.”

  “Misinterpreted what?”

  Kiran paused. “I have a scroll, part of the Script of the Legend. It has been my guide.”

  The man’s eyes lit up. “You have this scroll with you? Here?”

  Kiran took the scroll from his pack and presented it to him.

  A sparkle of delight came to his eyes, like one who has found a long sought-after treasure. “May I?” he asked, gesturing to remove the mantle. Kiran nodded, then waited as the man unrolled the scroll and read every line. Finally, he looked up, his eyes assessing Kiran. “So, you made your way here by following the description in this scroll?”

  Kiran felt uneasy, though he wasn’t sure why. “Yes. I was sent by the Elders.”

  “Hm…” The Scholar reached for a piece of paper on his desk and scribbled something on it. “So you were chosen?”

  “Yes, seven of us. But, well, there is only me now.” He thought of the seven puppets, twirling round the golden throne. “I think maybe—”

  “Seven you say?” he pondered this a moment, as if it had great significance. “Tell me about these Elders and the temple. How is it run? The structure of leadership?”

  “There are six elders. Aldwyn is the Eldest.”

  “Six you say?”

  Kiran nodded.

  The Scholar leaned forward on his desk and thumbed through the pages of the book. “Not seven?”

  “Well, there is the Seventh Elder. Of the prophecy.”

  The Scholar looked up. “The prophecy?”

  “We await the Coming of the Seventh Elder.”

  “Interesting.” The Scholar flipped through more pages, then landed on one, his finger trailing across the page as he read.

  “What is it?” Kiran asked.

  “Huh?” The Scholar looked up at Kiran, his eyes slowly trying to focus. “Oh, yes, yes. We’ll come back to that.”

  Kiran glanced at the page of the book the Scholar held open and recognized the words. Then he remembered—the Scholar had read the Script when he handed it to him. “You can read the Tongue of the Father.”

  “The Tongue of the Father?”

  “The Script. It is written in the Tongue of the Father. It is the divine language. For Elders only. How is it that you read it?”

  “Your Script was written in Skarta, the ancient language of the Mriti.”

  “Skarta? The Mriti?” Kiran said, confused.

  “Yes, the Mriti were an island culture, the birthplace of the Toran religion.” He paused, raising an eyebrow. “So, the Script is interpreted and the Way governed by the Elders. Is that it?”

  Kiran stared at the Scholar for a long moment.

  “Let’s move on. So the Elders must have given you directions then?”

  “Well, actually, they didn’t.” Kiran tried to focus, but he couldn’t shake an uneasy feeling. “See, before they could explain, Javinians attacked. We escaped, but—”

  “Javinians?”

  “Wicked heathens who live in the forest.” As the words left his lips, they didn’t feel right. He thought of Kalindria and how she had tried to help, of Manu-amatu and how Deke had called him a heathen.

  “Hm. We have no record of natives in that area. You call them Javinians?” He scribbled on his paper again.

  “Natives?”

  “You said they live in the forest.” His eyes were fixed on Kiran as though he meant to extract every drop of information. “Do you interact with them? Trade things?”

  “Do you mean since the Time of Dissension?”

  The Scholar raised his eyebrows. “The Time of Dissension?”

  Kiran sat back. “Yes, when the Javinians rebelled.”

  “Ah. What happened exactly?”

  “Well, it was generations ago.”

  “But you know the story?”

  Kiran nodded. “Elder Javin spoke out against the Way. He…” Kiran paused.

  “He what?” the Scholar urged.

  “He made the most blasphemous claim.”

  The Scholar leaned forward, his eyes wide. “And what was that?”

  “He denounced the Seventh Elder, saying He would never come.” Kiran thought a moment. “But he had the Script of the Prophecy, the stolen scroll. Wait, that doesn’t make sense.”

  The Scholar shrugged. “Go on.”

  “He encouraged the people to withhold tithes. He said the Elders could work their own farms, like everyone else.”

  The Scholar sat back and crossed his fingers under his chin. “I imagine the Elders didn’t like that very much. What happened next?”

  “A fury of flying demons blocked out the sky.”

  “And you witnessed this?”

  “Well, no. I wasn’t born yet. I told you. It was many generations ago”

  “Yes, yes. But you describe it as though it is fact.”

  Kiran paused.

  “Is that what you believe?”

  “Well, the Javinians brought about the wrath—”

  “I understand that is what the Torans believe. But what do you believe?”

  “Well…I…”

  “Have you ever seen such a thing? With your own eyes?”

  He stared at the Scholar for a long moment. He had seen a flock of birds so large it blocked out the sky.

  “Go on. What happened next?”

  “Javin and his followers were banished from the Temple.”

  “They were banished because the demons appeared? Or because the Elders didn’t like to be questioned?”

  Kiran shifted in his seat, feeling like a butterfly pinned to a board. Why was he asking these questions? He looked to Artus. “Artus said you could help me.”

  “Yes, yes.” He sat back in his chair. “I think I can. But first, I want to be sure I understand a few things. I don’t want to give you bad advice, you see. So, tell me about the journey to get here.”

  Kiran let out his breath. “As I said, there were seven of us. Bhau was killed a few days after we left, in the meadow beyond the forest, by a Mawgh—” He paused. “I mean, he fell in a hunter’s pit. That’s when we met the Lendhi clan.”

  “The nomads of the flatlands? Tell me about them. I’m told they are without religion.”
>
  “I thought so too, at first. But they understood things about the land, as though, I don’t know, they lived as though the land itself was sacred.”

  “They worshipped the land?”

  “No. I think they loved the Great Father, just as we do, only called Him by a different name. It was as though they felt His spirit lived among them, as trees, as the animals, as the wind. I’d never thought of it that way. It was quite…profound.”

  “It sounds as if you respected them.”

  Kiran looked the Scholar in the eyes. “If you met them, I’m sure you’d see—”

  “I’m impressed. Most people hold on tightly to their beliefs, seeing any other views as an affront to their own.”

  “Aldwyn says wisdom comes with humility.”

  “This Aldwyn is very wise.”

  Kiran nodded and had to look away. He missed Aldwyn so much he had to fight back tears.

  “But you continued on?”

  Kiran told him of their time with the Kotari.

  “I’ve heard of this Guardian. He preys on people and their need to believe.”

  Kiran paused. “Did you say need to believe?”

  “All men suffer from it. Religions come and go. The deep-seated need to believe is what remains. Some men are excellent at exploiting it, masters of telling people what they want to hear, guiding them to see what they want to see.”

  Is that what the Guardian had done? Kiran wondered. Told them what they wanted to hear? Shown them what they wanted to see? “No. We were under some kind of magic spell.”

  “Magic spell?”

  Kiran cringed, flushed with memories of the night with Bria. He drew in a breath. “It was the drink!”

  “Drink?”

  “Oh no! I helped Kalindria make it.”

  The Scholar sat up in his chair, his eyes wide.

  “But I didn’t realize—”

  “You know how the drink is made?”

  “Yes.” Kiran took his codex from his pack and thumbed through the pages. “I wrote it down.” He found the page. “Here it is,” he said, pointing at the recipe.

  The Scholar reached for the codex. “May I?”

  “I suppose it would be all right,” Kiran said, handing the book to him.

  The Scholar immediately called for someone from the next room. A man came in—the same man who had greeted him earlier—and set down a tray with cups of tea. The Scholar whispered to him and he took the codex in hand and went to sit at the table across the room. “He’s going to copy the recipe, if that’s all right with you?” the Scholar said.

  “I suppose,” Kiran muttered.

  “Please continue.”

  Kiran told him of their escape, their time on the river, and how they came to a crossroads. “Pel warned us that it was dangerous. But we had to follow the Script.” Kiran paused, that feeling back again. “That’s where we were chased by headhunters.”

  “Headhunters? Were you in the territory of the Widhu?”

  “Yes, that’s what Pel called them. How’d you know?”

  “The Brotherhood has tried to build a relationship with the Widhu, but it’s been tenuous. The natives of that region have the best medicines in the world. Their knowledge of the local plants is extraordinary. They have many concoctions to cure life-threatening illnesses and we want to learn them.”

  Kiran felt a stabbing sensation in his stomach. “They could have cured Deke?”

  “It’s possible. If they didn’t kill you first.”

  Kiran exhaled a long breath. “We tried to make contact with them. We came to a settlement. But it had been abandoned.”

  “It wasn’t abandoned. They hide when they fear outsiders. They were probably in the bushes nearby, watching you. Had you been hearing drums?”

  “Yes, drums, yes.”

  “They use drums to communicate over long distances. It’s quite fascinating, actually.” He looked back to Kiran. “But you said you were chased?”

  “Yes, we tried again to meet them. But this time, we accidentally surprised them during some sort of bloody ritual. They had heads on stakes. People’s heads!”

  The old man scratched his chin, gazing off into space. “Perhaps they thought they had already killed the intruders.”

  “We fled. Then went over a waterfall and were captured by slavers. But we got away.” He thought of Roh, running into the jungle. Suddenly he didn’t want to talk anymore. “Can’t you just tell me what you know about the Voice of the Father?”

  The Scholar leaned back in his chair and stared at Kiran for a long time before answering. “Yes, about that.” He drummed his fingers on the book. “When you first mentioned this voice, I thought it was some kind of message or the name for the messenger. I didn’t recognize your symbol either. But when you told me that you’re a Toran, well, then I remembered.”

  Kiran sat upright in the chair.

  “There was a Toran temple here, in the city. The seat of the patriarch. Other temples were built in the outer regions, at trade outposts and—”

  “Well, then,” Kiran pushed himself up and out of his chair. “That must be the dwelling place. That’s it! That’s where I need to go.”

  “I said it was here. The building still stands. But it is no longer a Toran Temple. It is now owned by the Brotherhood.”

  Kiran stared. “What are you saying? The dwelling place is no longer here?”

  “Let me explain and I believe it will become clear.” He gestured for Kiran to sit back down. “You see, each of the rural temples had six Elders. The seventh was likely a representative sent from the main temple. He probably carried messages from the patriarch, hence the voice. That’s commonly how it is done.”

  “So, you’re saying…?”

  “Your village was an outpost for some form of trade, I presume.”

  Kiran sank back in the chair. “Salt. Aldwyn said we traded salt.”

  “Ah yes. Salt deposits were found in the ground just south of here many, many years ago and the trade ceased. The elder probably no longer had a way to get passage. Perhaps all those years ago, your forefathers were told to expect him. All this time, they’ve awaited the seventh elder.”

  “So, the Coming of the Seventh Elder…the prophecy?”

  “The stuff of legends,” the old man said, then cleared his throat.

  “But how?”

  “Time,” he said, as though it were obvious.

  Kiran shook his head.

  “These things don’t happen all at once. It’s a culmination of little changes with each retelling. The truth gets washed away.”

  “Like a river over rock,” Kiran whispered. “How do you know all this?” he asked, his breath ragged. “Is it in that book?”

  “Go ahead. Have a look,” the man said. Kiran rose from his chair, went to the man’s desk, and looked down at the open page. It read: A History of the Toran Religion. He drew in a breath and looked up at the Scholar who was easing back into his chair. “We thought you were all long gone. Your village is the last of the Torans.” The old man’s voice sounded musty, as if it rose from the pages of the book.

  “But here in the city, all these people…”

  “There are many different ways to experience the world, different views of reality, different religions. Everyone is just trying to make sense of the mysteries of the world, to understand the unknown. The world in which you were born is just one way of being, one way of understanding what is.” He leaned forward, engaging Kiran with his eyes. “But you already knew that.”

  Kiran held his gaze, his hand shaking. Hadn’t these ideas crossed his mind? Hadn’t he thought these same thoughts, somewhere deep in the shadows of his mind?

  “Go on,” the man nodded.

  Kiran turned to the first page, then the next, then the next. The Verses were there, the Songs, the stories Aldwyn had taught him. He flipped through the pages to the end. “Is that it?” he asked. “All I see here that I haven’t read before is this page outlining the hierarchy o
f the Temple. But there is nothing about the prophecy, the seven chosen I mean. There was a reason the seven of us were chosen. I thought maybe…”

  “What? You thought what?”

  Kiran looked up at the Scholar. “I thought it would be here, in your book. When Javin rebelled, he stole a scroll from the Temple. Since he had claimed the Seventh Elder would never come, I assumed there was some evidence in that scroll. But then today, I saw a puppet show. Do you think the scroll he took was the moral of the seven virtues? And the prophecy is just—”

  “Could be. Time has a way of twisting the truth.”

  Kiran flipped to the page with the Script of the Legend. “But the Voice. The Script is here, word for word as in the scroll. I understand how your explanation of the Seventh Elder could be… true. But the Voice. The Script clearly states—”

  “Yes, yes. This Script you’ve been following.” He cocked his head to the side. “Well, I don’t know how to tell you this. You see, it’s like the parable of the seven virtues. It’s not meant to be taken literally. It’s an allegory.”

  “A what?” Kiran took a deep breath, trying to get his thoughts in order.

  “It’s not uncommon in religious texts.” He paused as though giving Kiran time to consider what he was telling him. “Allegory communicates an idea by means of symbolism. It’s about the imagery, the message, not the literal words that are used.” The Scholar pointed to Kiran’s pocket. “Like the doll you carry. I assume it represents someone you love. You don’t love the doll. It is a symbol of her. Does that make sense?”

  “I suppose,” he breathed. His shaking hand went to his neck where the Pyletar had hung.

  The Scholar handed it back to him. “This is a symbol as well. A pyramid and a sphere. Something you can see, you can touch, representing an idea.”

  “Yes,” Kiran said, his voice a whisper. “The Sanctuary on the Mount with the moon above at the Time of the Coming of…”

  The Scholar was nodding his head, his fingers tapping on the edge of his desk.

  Thoughts cascaded through Kiran’s mind like sand sliding down a hillside. “So the Script…the path and the river…the sun…?” His mind went wobbly. “But the Voice?” The heat of the room seemed to rise. His stomach twisted into a knotted tangle of his worst fears.