Way of Gods

by Rhett C. Bruno

  Gentry told the truth on all accounts. Whitney stood before a camp of about a dozen tents and three covered wagons, and he’d not heard a thing the boy had said to him since he’d begun thinking about Sora and the events that had unfolded since their unfortunate separation. He could see his tiny abode in the distance on the other side of the fire.

  “Sorry, I just…” Whitney said.

  “Don’t sweat it, Mister Fierstown,” Gentry said. “You hungry? Let’s eat.”

  They passed tents, some bigger than others, but all made of the same worn canvas. A few bales of hay—food for the horses— acted as benches and circled a blazing fire above which Francesca absolutely did not disappoint. The smell of roast pheasant with garlic and onions permeated the countryside from the pot hanging above it.

  Francesca was a pretty woman with the face of a girl. She wore her hair like many of the Glintish women did, pulled up on top of her head like a tall tower. From her ears, a series of medallions hung, jittering and clattering as she moved about.

  Whitney went to take a seat.

  “No time for sitting tonight,” Francesca said. “Here’s a dish.” She handed him a tin bowl. “And a bit of bread for the lizard. Just don’t go telling the Pompares. Go get ready for the storm.”

  Whitney grabbed the chunk and tossed it up to Aquira who gobbled it up in one bite.

  Whitney looked at the darkening sky again. He’d weathered far worse, but not without solid walls and at least a thatch roof. Maybe she was right. “Thanks, Franny,” he said. “It smells wonderful.”

  “Off you go.”

  Whitney turned to Gentry and tossed his hand up. Gentry returned the gesture as he grabbed his own plate and headed toward his tent in the opposite direction.

  Plodding forward, Whitney took a bite of pheasant and moaned. “Yig and shog, that’s good,” he said to himself since no one else was around. “Reminds me of mother’s…” He didn’t finish, as the first vision to pop into his head was one from Elsewhere’s version of his childhood home.

  Whitney absentmindedly kicked a small stone around the camp as he ate. Aquira screeched and took flight. Whitney watched as she made a straight line for their tent.

  “Goodbye, then!” Whitney called, then shook his head and laughed. “Mind of its own, that one. Just like her master.”

  He continued walking at a reasonably slow pace, enjoying his meal when he heard music emanating from one of the larger tents. Inside, he could imagine Lucindur the bard playing her odd Glintish salfio, a sort of percussive lute instrument he’d never seen before.

  She was always the main attraction at any town they’d passed through so far. The Glinthaven bards weren’t like the other types Whitney had seen throughout Pantego. Glinthaven was said to be the birthplace of the bard, and within their songs were untold magics. Though, he was sure it was all merely a trick or illusion. Otherwise, Lucindur would be doing something far grander than traveling with some amateur troupe.

  Before he knew it, he found himself drawn before the tent by the melody. As he stretched out his hand toward the flap, it fluttered open and Talwyn, Lucindur’s daughter—also known as the half-naked dancer—stepped out.

  She was not half-naked then. She was fully clothed, and even still, Whitney couldn’t deny her beauty. Her long, raven-dark hair, so much like Sora’s, fell well below her shoulders. Her eyes, spread wide on her face, were a unique shade of green.

  “I’m so sorry!” she said, startled.

  “No, it was my fault, “I—”

  “Don’t worry about it. We were both clumsy.”

  Whitney laughed. “Yes, I guess we were. We haven’t officially met, have we?”

  They’d been traveling together since Yarrington, but it seemed as soon as her performances were complete, she was gone, into her tent without a word. Whitney never even spotted her eating Francesca’s fabulous meals.

  “Talwyn,” she said, extending her hand. “I’m afraid that’s my fault. I prefer to keep to myself between towns. Helps me perform better.”

  “So what brings you out tonight then?” Whitney asked, shaking her hand.

  “I—I dunno. I guess whatever Francesca’s cooking smelled too good to pass up.” She looked down.

  When she didn’t say anything more, Whitney spoke up. “Whitney Fierstown, “World’s Grea—” He cleared his throat. His rehearsed introduction had started without even a thought. “Whitney Fierstown.”

  “I’ve caught glimpse of your performances.,” Talwyn said. “Quite talented with your hands.” Although the words themselves sounded flirtatious, the way she said them did not. She was beautiful, indeed. But there was an innocence about her that was far more appealing. Again, like Sora.

  “I should be going,” Whitney said.

  “Were you coming to see my mother?” Talwyn asked. “I was just leaving. She’s inside.”

  “Ah, yes. Thanks.”

  “See you around, Whitney Fierstown.”

  He watched as she left, her lithe frame swaying as she ambled toward Francesca and the delicious pheasant. When Whitney turned his head back, he was staring into the face of a man. Well, he was staring at the spot a face would be on a normal-sized man.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Conmonoc was three hundred pounds of muscle and about a quarter-pound of brains. The perfect combination for entertaining beleaguered townsfolk with feats of impossible strength.

  “Thought I was enjoying a bite of pheasant and a sunset stroll before the storm came in,” Whitney said. “But suddenly, I’ve lost my appetite. Do you smell something?” Whitney leaned toward Conmonoc and sniffed the air. “Oh, yes. That’s you. Hope there’s plenty of rain, and perhaps a bar of soap.”

  “Think you’re funny?”

  Whitney shrugged.

  “I saw you talking to my girl,” Conmonoc said.

  “Ah, you are as stupid as you look,” Whitney said. Conmonoc just tilted his head. “If by talking you mean we ran into each other in this rather small tent community, then yes. However, I’m not sure she would rather like the sentiment of being called my girl by such an execrable brute as yourself.”

  Conmonoc grabbed Whitney by his cloak with one hand and reared his other back, ready to strike. Even with the strength he gained working in Elsewhere, Whitney couldn’t do anything about it.

  “I don’t know what that word means, but I’m sure you ought to take it back,” Conmonoc growled.

  Whitney reached out to the air, grasping frantically. “I’m so sorry. It doesn’t seem I can grab hold of them.”

  “Boys,” said a matronly voice from just behind Conmonoc. “Everything okay?”

  “Splendid, I’d say,” Whitney answered.

  Lucindur stepped out from behind the big man’s shadow and said, “Conmonoc, why don’t you let Whitney go before we have to mend his cloak or your skin.”

  “Huh?”

  “She is implying that you are out of your league, zhulong breath,” Whitney said.

  Conmonoc gave Whitney a shove and grunted, “Stay away from her,” as he took a step away.

  “I hope you are not referring to my daughter, Conmonoc,” Lucindur said. “We have both made it very clear you are out of your league in that regard, as well.”

  Conmonoc practically roared and stomped away. Once he was out of sight, Whitney turned to regard Lucindur.

  “You know he would have smashed you to ground beans, right?” she asked him.

  “Oh, without any doubt,” Whitney said with a bow. “My gratitude is yours.”

  “Come inside; the wind is getting a bit nippy.”

  They pushed their way into the tent and Whitney was amazed. They’d only just settled into the countryside near Grambling that morning, and where Whitney’s little tent was a drab beige bit of canvas propped up on sticks, hers was an indubitable palace. Rainbow colored streamers cascaded down the walls, and multi-hued bean cushions covered the floors.

  “I love what you’ve done with the place,” Whit
ney said.

  “What can I do for you, Mr. Fierstown?” Lucindur strolled across the tent and lit two candles, then shook out the match.

  “Straight to business, then? Fine. I hear you have a special talent.”

  “We all do, Mr. Fierstown. Otherwise, we would not be in a troupe.” She sat down on one of the cushions in the middle of the room.

  “I’m sure you know what the rumors say. Are you truly one of them?” Whitney asked.

  “There is a storm coming. We do not have time for such mysteries. Speak plainly or go.”

  “Are you a lightmancer?”

  Lucindur looked at him, unblinking.

  “Too plain?” Whitney asked.

  “No,” she said. “But I have not heard that word for some time. Where did you hear that?”

  “I heard a couple of the boys chatting by the fire last night,” Whitney said. “Asked Gentry about it and he didn’t say no or yes, and you know that boy can’t tell a lie.”

  “All too well.” The woman’s eyes narrowed, creases forming at the corners. She drew a deep breath. “That gift has been long-forgotten by most, especially after Glinthaven became part of the Glass. Tell me, what do you think a lightmancer does?”

  “Here I thought we were short on time?” Whitney said, edging further into the tent.

  “If you would rather leave…”

  “Fine. Fine,” Whitney said. “May I sit?”

  Lucindur motioned to one of the cushions, and Whitney plopped down, crossing his legs.

  “When I was in Glinthaven a while back,” he said, “I heard rumors of bards that weren’t normal bards. Bards whose music commanded light like it was a dog. Some even said they didn’t just create illusions, but could transform light into something… physical. Tangible. The rumors say lightmancers can show you people or places far away. It’s no secret, your performance is the star of the show around here, and I don’t think its just because of your daughter’s beauty.”

  “Ah, so you think Talwyn beautiful?”

  Whitney smiled. “That is what you took from this?”

  “It might be true, Whitney Fierstown, this kind of magic did exist. But it is long in the past. Ever since Glinthaven found itself a part of the Glass Kingdom, magic has retreated into the depths of history for fear of retribution like that which was faced at Yaolin City or Latiapur. So, no, I do not possess such a gift.”

  “Do you think I am a knight of the King’s Shield?” Whitney said. “Biding my time for you to slip up and drag you to the dungeons? Or maybe you think I’ll burn you at a stake?”

  “Knight or no,” she said, “there’s nothing here but an old woman and her salfio.”

  “Lucindur, please—”

  “You must go now, Whitney Fierstown. Prepare for the storm.”

  Lucindur stood and showed him the exit.

  On his way out, Talwyn pushed through the tent flap, soaked to the core. What was previously a modest gown was now transparent and left nothing to Whitney’s imagination. She didn’t seem to care.

  What the yig goes on in Glinthaven? He wondered, and also how he’d missed it in his travels there.

  “Sorry,” Talwyn said, smiling.

  Whitney stumbled over a response before continuing past her and out onto the plain. The sky neared black, whether from the night or the storm. Celeste and Loutis couldn’t be seen but for a faint glow behind a storm cloud. Rain came down in buckets. Whitney lowered his head and pushed his way toward Modera and Fadra’s covered wagon.

  As he drew closer, he heard the shouts coming from within. Modera was always shouting. When he was right outside, he could tell they were disciplining Gentry.

  “This is the last time you come up short!” Modera yelled.

  “There was not enough to go around,” Gentry argued.

  Whitney heard the unmistakable sound of flesh against flesh. Abandoning caution, he entered the wagon. It was tall enough inside for even Torsten to stand upright. It made Lucindur’s tent look like Whitney’s in comparison. They lived in luxury—feather mattresses and pillows, warm blankets, solid floors, and half-walls—while the rest of them mudded it.

  Gentry was on the floor, tears streaming down his cheeks.

  “Gentry,” Whitney interrupted.

  Modera Pompare was a woman whose dark face was hard, but the rest of her was soft as a sponge. Fadra wasn’t much different. Big, bushy eyebrows grew like weeds above eyes, wide-set like a frog. The man never said much, but Whitney was sure it was his hand that disciplined poor Gentry. Both Pompares wore exquisite clothes and even more exceptional jewelry. Gold and silver dangled from both their ears and jingled like chainmail.

  Whitney didn’t hate them for it; this was their business, and everyone who traveled with them was free to leave whenever they pleased—but striking a boy for not earning crossed a line.

  They all spun toward Whitney and regarded him as if he wore a negligee as see-through as Talwyn’s sodden dress.

  “How dare you enter unannounced,” Modera snapped.

  “I’m sorry, Modera Pompare,” Whitney said, bowing slightly. Then he turned to Fadra and said, “Fadra. It’s just that Gentry dropped this back at the campfire and I wanted to make sure he got it.”

  As Gentry climbed to his feet, Whitney tossed the boy the coins he’d collected from his juggling act. It wasn’t much, but he was sure it would pay Gentry’s dues when added to what the boy already had.

  Gentry gaped down at it, his eyes lighting up. “I wish I could take credit, but—”

  “You did a fine job out there today,” Whitney interrupted. He cocked his head to the side ever so discreetly and narrowed his eyes, a warning to Gentry to accept the gift and ask questions later.

  “Why didn’t you tell us you had more, you fool boy?” Modera said, reaching out and snatching the coin purse. She dumped it into her hand, counted it and added the contents to Gentry’s small stack.

  “Fine,” she said. “You can go. Next time, bring it all at once, you hear?”

  “This isn’t—” Gentry began.

  “I’ll get him in line next time. Sorry, Modera.” Whitney clutched the back of Gentry’s shirt and pulled him out of the room before he could get himself into any more trouble.

  Whitney turned to leave as well, but a strong hand on his shoulder stopped him.

  He turned to see Fadra, tall and wide. He wore a thick goatee, mostly gray but the few dark brown hairs told of an earlier time when the man was probably better looking.

  “And where is yours?” Fadra asked.

  “I left it in my tent,” Whitney lied. “So, sorry. The rain must have me confused. I’ll go get it now.”

  Both troupe leaders eyed him charily but said nothing. Technically, he still had hours left to pay his dues before they could call them late. They didn’t need to know he’d just given Gentry the only coins he had to his name.

  “A storm is coming,” Modera Pompare said, “You’d better make it quick.”

  “Surely. I wouldn’t want to get wet now, would I?” Whitney said, flicking a bit of water from the brim of his hood as he drew it up.

  “Maybe you should tell jokes instead of playing juggler with that lizard? Maybe then you could pay your dues on time. I’m sure plenty would love to take your place, Fierstown.”

  “Yes,” Whitney said enthusiastically. “Listen to them beating down the door! Oh wait, that’s thunder.”

  Fadra took a hard step forward, and Whitney fled without another word. The rain fell harder now, in blankets instead of buckets, making it difficult to see very far in front of him.

  From within the gray, Gentry approached.

  “You didn’t have to do that!” he said.

  “It’s no sweat, kid, really. You’d have done the same for me.”

  “But now you don’t have a single coin. If you don’t pay them double in the next town, they’ll leave you behind. They don’t get it, there’s just no money here.”

  “Over-fat lords and ladies rarely
understand the plight of the worker ants,” Whitney said. “Anyway, it’s getting pretty late, and this storm is going to be bad, I can tell. You should get inside before you blow away.”

  “Yeah…” Gentry said, eyeing his little tent. It was even smaller than Whitney’s and probably repelled even less water.

  Whitney lifted his face into the rain. Cold water pelted him, and he shivered. Then, he turned his head back to Gentry said, “Say, kid… you ever stayed at an inn?”

  II

  THE MYSTIC

  Sora’s eyes snapped open. Her head felt foggy like it was stuffed with enough thoughts to burst. Her chest heaved, sweat-soaked like the rest of her. She’d woken from nightmares before, but none like this. Blood and screams flashed through her mind. And that voice. That deep, airless voice speaking for her. Speaking from her own mouth, through her own lips.

  She squeezed her eyelids to drive it all away, then opened them again. A creaking wooden ceiling greeted her. She was on her back on a bed so soft it made those in the Red Tower seem like stone—the softest bed she’d ever felt. Red, silk sheets with golden trim covered her. The bed of a king.

  She looked to her left and the sight nearly startled her off the mattress. It was a King’s bed indeed. Grisham “Gold Grin” Gale, king of the pirates and scourge of the seas, lay eyes closed and facing her. Half the Glass Crown rest crooked atop his head and the stray hairs above his lip wavered as he snored. Sora’s gaze tracked down in horror as she realized that none of the blankets covered him. He was on his stomach, completely nude, all the disgusting hair on his back matted with sweat.

  Sora swallowed hard, but still nearly vomited. She lifted the blanket slowly and saw that she too wore nothing. Scars stared back at her from her chest where the bar guai once was, and from her arms, earned from calling upon Elsewhere’s power to open the door to the Well of Wisdom. If seeing Gold Grin didn’t rouse her out of bed, the sight of her own naked body next to him did.

  She hit the floor, slipped, and scrambled back against the wall. Gold Grin muttered something in his sleep, then rolled over and pulled a bundle of blankets close like a child clutching a doll. Sora got a good look at more of the pirate king than she’d ever wanted and forced her eyes shut. Trying to steady her breathing, she thought back to why she was there. More blood burned through her thoughts, then a cackling, loud and sharp. A wicked, unnatural laugh so like the one she’d heard from Bliss in the Webbed Woods.