The Way of the Soul

by Stuart Jaffe

  On the horizon, an orange glow pulsed like a morning sun that refused to rise. But it wasn’t morning, and that was no sun. Even under the blazing noon sky, Malja could see that glow for what it was — the Library.

  Tommy would be there now, trying to help contain the magic that grew from the Library in steady waves. Nobody knew what would happen if they allowed it to go loose, and nobody wanted to find out.

  Except maybe Fawbry. “Considering some of the worlds we’ve seen, maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad idea to let that thing loose and let it do whatever it does.”

  Malja grimaced. “But here? Corlin? Penmarvia?”

  “What’s so special about this place? I mean, the monks can’t even choose the next Chief Master when it should obviously be Owl. Why? Politics. Do they let one of the old guard continue to run things even if he is the most qualified? And I’m sure some monks are trying to maneuver themselves into a better position, not for right now, but to be Chief Master in a year or ten years. Nobody seems to actually care about fixing the problems of today. Besides, if we let the Library blow, then I won’t have to visit my family and be pressured into a marriage.”

  Malja chuckled. “Why don’t you just tell them about Hirasa?”

  “What? No. She’s not — that is — we’re —” Fawbry spluttered on for a moment until he finally blushed and grinned.

  Malja patted him on the shoulder. “Whenever you’re ready, she’ll be ready.”

  “You think?”

  “It’s me. I know these things.”

  Now it was Fawbry’s turn to chuckle.

  Malja said, “The thing about the Library is that none of us should have the right to decide which worlds deserve saving and which do not. You’re not Kryssta or even Korstra. I know there are worlds we’ve seen that want to treat me like a god, but I’m not. No matter what Harskill and other Gate say, none of us are gods. The universe has proved that there are no gods.”

  “You can believe that if you want, but I still believe in the Book of Kryssta.”

  “Even after all you’ve seen? All the other worlds with their other religions and gods and all their petty squabbles? All the cruelty we’ve seen? You still believe?”

  “More than ever. The Brother Gods are what keep the world in balance, keep all of us in all our worlds in balance. Without my faith in them, I don’t think I’d have survived any of this. I’d have lost my mind a long time ago.”

  “Oh, don’t worry about that. You definitely lost your mind.”

  Fawbry offered a brotherly smile. Malja turned back to the field. She heard the singsong of birds and the rustling of leaves in the breeze. Even the air smelled peaceful and calm with bursts of flowery fragrances passing over her.

  But then two monks walked into the field. They were quiet but made some noise nonetheless. Malja and Fawbry both understood exactly what these monks were doing — everybody living since the Devastation knew how to scavenge. The surprising part, though — they did not scavenge food or materials for the Order walls.

  Instead, they pulled aside a group of fallen branches to reveal the remnants of an old grounder. The vehicle had only two wheels and required good balance to ride, but this particular grounder would not travel anytime soon. Rust covered the metal and its frame had been bent at wrong angles. The monks made quick work of dismantling several pieces and scurrying back to the Order with their finds.

  “Guess that’s how they found enough parts for their four-wheelers downstairs,” Malja said.

  Fawbry concentrated on the monks until they were out of sight. “I’ve been thinking,” he said. Then quickly added, “Don’t make a joke.”

  She straightened and bit back on her sarcasm. He knew her too well. Then again, sarcastic comments were Fawbry’s reign.

  Fawbry cleared his throat. “Maybe it’s time to stop. We’ve been through a lot, and we’ve done a lot of good, but you can’t save everyone. Like you said — we’re not gods; we’re not immortal. Every time we come out to these worlds and get involved in these fights, we risk our lives. Over and over, we do this. How many times can we win? We can’t go on like that forever.”

  “How can we stop when we know others need our help? When we have the ability and the power to make a difference for them?”

  “There were heroes before you — long before you. And there will be heroes long after you. Somebody will take up the fight. You’ve done your part.”

  “Your girlfriend had a similar thing to say to me. You two trying to collude?”

  “Well, you know me better than that. Besides, I’ve barely had a chance to see her lately, and when I did see her, we didn’t do much talking.”

  Malja frowned. She believed him, and that meant she couldn’t dismiss his words as the result of colluding with Hirasa. She had to consider what he actually said.

  She thought of Chief Master Kee. His death was a direct result of her actions in fighting the Bluesmen. They had fought hard in this land, and she had gone on to fight hard in other lands and other worlds. But who was she actually saving?

  Part of her argued back with the obvious — that she had saved countless people. All those Carsites who had survived the war now lived free of fear. That is, until Harskill returned and devastated that community once again. And why had he done that? To get Malja’s attention. To force her action. Nothing to do with the Carsites. It all rested on her.

  She spit over the wall into the field.

  “Sometimes I feel like doing the same,” a deep voice said.

  Malja whirled around to discover that Fawbry had gone and been replaced by Owl. “Shouldn’t you still be with that council trying to figure out who’ll be the next Chief Master?”

  “If Chief Master Kee rose from the dead and pointed at one of the monks and said, ‘I want him to be the next Chief Master,’ I still don’t think they’d be able to come to an agreement.”

  “Fawbry’s right then. They’re all ignoring the present needs of everyone in favor of grabbing power for themselves or bettering their positions.”

  Owl put his foot on the wall and rested his elbow on his knee. “That’s politicians. Is there any other kind?”

  “In Corlin, there’s pretty much no government, no politicians. Sometimes there were town leaders, but they didn’t have much authority. We did pretty well.”

  “Corlin’s hardly a thriving country.”

  “But nobody’s stabbing you in the back just so they can make rules for everybody else.”

  “Well, I guess anarchy does have its benefits.”

  “To be fair, you had to be strong and good with a sword to survive. It really only worked because we were spread out far from each other.”

  “I wish some of these monks would spread out far from me.” Owl scratched at his chin. “So why did you really come here anyway?”

  Malja saw in Owl’s face remnants of the man she once knew — straight forward, practical warrior with a loyalty to his friends and faith in his own abilities. She thought of the Artisoll’s guardian, Stray. He had died for the Artisoll and other than Owl, he was the truest warrior she had ever encountered.

  “I came here for you. To enlist your help in a battle that’s far greater than fighting for your Order or even Penmarvia.”

  “Corlin, too?”

  “More than that. For everything. It’s a long story, but that battle will wait. There’s no point if we can’t solve the small issues you have here.”

  “That seems backwards. What’s the point in fighting these small battles here if there’s something much larger that’ll wash us all away?”

  Malja gestured around the wall. “Because if you and I leave here, who is capable of leading this fight?”

  A young voice, breathless and scared, called out. “Master Owl! Master Owl!” A moment later, a monk rushed up the stairs with Fawbry close behind. “Master Owl, there’s trouble at the Library. A group of strangers.”

  Malja’s quizzical look brought a nod from Fawbry. “You’re not going to
like this,” he said. “They described one of the men as wearing a black suit like yours.”

  Malja looked from Fawbry to Owl and then back to the pulsing orange glow on the horizon. Her fingers tightened into fists. “Harskill.”

  Chapter 18

  Reon

  Taking a deep breath, Reon gazed down the edge of the gorge. Lord Harskill had informed her that magic had been used to create this crack in the ground wide enough to prevent easy passage across. A flimsy, rope bridge had been strung between the two sides. It looked worn and unreliable. Fields stretched out the rest of the way. A copse of trees hung back behind Reon. Directly across the gap, she saw the ruined building that Lord Harskill called the Library.

  It was an odd sight. An old, wrecked building formed of scavenged ruins — concrete, wood, glass, and pipes — that looked more like a twisted column with a barbed crown than a place for books and learning. This javelin of a building stood upon a wide marble platform. Wider, marble stairs led up from the ground. Dead vines clung to the sides. Reon spotted drainage pipes and what might have been a vent. All remnants of a civilization that once thrived until, so she was told, an abuse of magic ripped an apocalyptic force across this land.

  “Who knows?” Lord Harskill said. “It may have all started right here.”

  It certainly seemed possible. Pulses of energy shot upward into the air like fireworks that never exploded. On the platform, four monks sat cross-legged and meditating — two black and bald, one brown and fat, one pale and wrinkled. Reon looked closer and noticed that they actually floated inches above the marble. In the center of it all, a few feet in front of the Library’s spire, floating a full head above the others, Reon saw a young, blond man. He had lean muscle covered with tattoos and a look of concentration more focused than she had ever seen — even amongst her martial arts masters or Lord Harskill himself.

  Freen kicked a stone down into the gorge, arched his back, and stretched his arms. “Four monks and a boy? That’s it?”

  Lord Harskill said, “That boy could shred you into pieces. Might even be able to do so from all the way over there.”

  Freen checked to see if Lord Harskill was joking, then stepped back several paces.

  Lord Harskill turned around. “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of him. But that young monk who went running off a little bit ago, he’ll be informing others that we’re here. We must be ready. You and Sola need to go do your part. The rest of you are to wait.”

  “Sola’s already on her way. We’ve got that all taken care of.”

  “Good. Because that boy, Tommy — his being here means that Malja’s here, too.”

  From behind, Bell Wake growled. “I knew it. This is all about her.”

  “This is about saving all of the universes. Not some Gate who has refused us on numerous occasions.”

  “She’s only refused you.”

  Malja? But Reon had defeated her by stealing the Soul of the Sun. How could Malja still be a consideration?

  Bell Wake read Reon’s face. “Still think you have a chance to be Queen? Still want to kill me for it? Wouldn’t matter. Old Harskill here has his eyes set on only one woman. It’s been that way for years.”

  “Malja is not my goal,” Lord Harskill said with fury burning out his words. “The Library is all that matters. We gain control of that and we become the ultimate power.”

  Bell crooked an eyebrow towards Reon. “See? He never says he won’t make her Queen. He’s in love with her, and it’s clouding his judgment.”

  Lord Harskill lifted his arm and made a fist. His do-kha swirled around his hand. “Are you no longer interested in helping me?”

  With a nonchalant wave, Bell said, “Relax. I still want the same thing I came here for — to be a god. I just thought your little girl ought to know where she actually stood.”

  Reon watched the sly grin on Bell’s face. Perhaps what she said about Malja had been merely a way to goad Reon. But Lord Harskill’s reaction had too much power behind it, too much passion. Was all this promise of being Queen nothing more than a bribe that he had no intention of fulfilling? Bell Wake seemed to think so.

  Unbeckoned, the memory of sleeping with Lord Harskill flashed in Reon’s head. She wanted to run off into the trees, find a river or lake, and wash off the sullied feeling coating her skin. Why would a god do these things? As the hot sun burned down on the back of her neck, she wondered if Lord Harskill would ever make his intentions clear. Or would she have to wait until everything fell apart around her?

  She shook off her thoughts. Who was she to question her god? He was the powerful one. He was the one who had lifted her out of a mundane life — though, he was also the one who put her there to begin with.

  Reon dropped to the ground and placed her head in her hands.

  “What are you doing?” Bell Wake asked.

  Reon did not bother to look up. “Lord Harskill says we must wait. So, I’ll wait.”

  “But you won’t have to wait long.” Bell looked off to the horizon. Coming up from the west, dust kicked up over a wide area. “See that, little Reon? I’ll bet you anything, good old Malja’s leading that force. You better get ready.”

  Reon stood, keeping her eyes on the moving dust plumes. She would be ready. She had escaped Malja once — it had been her victory but an escape nonetheless. This time, she would not run. This time, she would kill the woman. Then Lord Harskill would have to make her Queen.

  Chapter 19

  Malja

  About halfway up the grass and dirt hill, Malja ordered her troop of young monks to halt. She knew this landscape well. Further on, the land flattened leading toward the Library. She didn’t want Harskill to know the small size of her army or their meager condition. So, she had them spread out while marching and let the dust muddy the air above them.

  But now, they would have to wait out of sight. If needed, they would be able to reach her fast enough. Plus, the young monks needed some time to find their courage. She would rather they had it while running into battle.

  Reading her mind, Fawbry said, “Perhaps I should stay with them. Give them a little moral fortitude to go with the courage they’ll need.” He tapped his copy of the Book of Kryssta. “Besides, I’ve seen enough of Harskill to last a lifetime.”

  Malja didn’t need to answer. Fawbry walked back to the group of monks and got down on one knee. As the young monks circled around him, their faces eager and nervous, he opened his book and read aloud.

  To follow Kryssta is to follow the soul.

  To follow the soul is to stand for Right.

  To stand for Right is to follow Kryssta.

  “Come,” Malja said to Owl. “He can handle this.”

  Malja and Owl marched up the hill and onto the plain. The pulsing Library gave off a loud whomp with each burst of magic. As they walked by, Malja glanced at Tommy but he showed no sign of recognition. She took no offense and felt better knowing his full attention focused on keeping the Library intact.

  The four monks assisting him looked far more stressed. She recognized the two dark-skinned monks — Dravid and Terren, if she remembered correctly. Sweat beaded on their bald heads.

  Owl’s hands tapped over his weapons as if to make sure they were still there. His chin pointed across the flimsy bridge. “That him? Harskill?”

  “And his little whore. Don’t underestimate either of them. I’ve fought them both, and they each are more than they appear.”

  “Don’t worry. I never judge upon appearances.”

  They walked out across the bridge. Despite a slight swaying with the breeze, the bridge held fine. Harskill and Reon approached from the other side. While the woman tried to keep her face stoic and cold, Malja could see the anger twitching beneath the surface. Harskill, on the other hand, looked confident and calm as always. Stopping in the middle of the bridge, he extended his greetings. He turned sideways to Malja and Owl and finished with a slight bow.

  Malja planted her feet wide and crossed her arms. “I do
n’t suppose you would show your appreciation for me by turning around and leaving.”

  Harskill mocked offense. “Why must we start with that kind of thing? Tell me, how are your friends? Tommy and the silly one — Fedry? Fadry?”

  “Fawbry.”

  “Yes. How have they been?”

  “You mean since the last world we met you at, that you tried to destroy, that we had to fight you off with an army?”

  Harskill looked over Malja’s shoulder, eying up Owl’s reaction. “She exaggerates. It’s true we’ve had some squabbles in the various places we’ve been, but our goals are similar. We both want to bring peace to all the worlds.”

  Malja could hear Owl’s disgust as he said, “From what I understand, your idea of peace is a dictatorship.”

  “I see you’re learning etiquette from Malja.” Harskill turned his head slightly toward Reon. “You see? These are the kinds of heathens out there. Offer them something good and solid and secure in their world and all they see is the malicious and the wrong.”

  Reon glared at Malja. “She’s just mad because I bested her.”

  Malja refused the bait. Harskill’s minions could taunt her all day. She didn’t care. What mattered was what Harskill decided to do.

  He watched her for a moment as the bridge creaked. She couldn’t read his face. Perhaps he recalled all their previous battles. Perhaps he remembered that she beat him each time. Perhaps he recalled all his proposals of marriage. Perhaps he remembered all the times she rejected him.

  For a brief moment, a scowl crossed his face. As fast as it formed, he forced his mouth into a broad smile. In a soft tone, he said, “Why is it that we keep meeting on opposite sides, when all I want is to be your friend and ally?”

  “That’s because you keep doing evil things.”

  Reon took one step closer. “Watch what you say.” Her do-kha stretched down over her hands to form the familiar blades.