Many more will be coming now, though. Once word spreads. And of course they will look for the physical embodiment of what they are searching for. For Lek, daughter of their goddess.
She would have to begin teaching her soon.
* * *
He came in the night amid a burgeoning silver glow that suffused the temple grounds until all was lit as if by a lamp of white light. The youth, Ripan, led the way, piping an eerie and high energetic tune that sounded almost celebratory. Saeng sat waiting on a step. She held Pon-lor’s head cradled on her lap.
Old Man Moon entered the grounds and bowed before Saeng. ‘Congratulations, High Priestess.’
She snorted her embarrassment. ‘High Priestess of what?’
The old man opened his hands. ‘That is for you to shape. You are the priestess.’
She dropped her gaze, nodding. ‘I see.’
‘What would you have of me?’
‘Can you heal him?’
The old man knelt on his skinny shanks, just as any village elder would. He studied Pon-lor. ‘Hmmm. He has sustained ferocious damage to his skull and brain. And there is infection, swelling and fever. Normally such a mind would lie beyond recovery. However, the Thaumaturg mental training has served him well. He has managed to retain much of himself hidden away in disparate corners of his mind – so to speak.’ His gaze rose to her and she was startled to see a silvery glow in the pupils of his eyes. ‘And of course you are lucky in that this happens to be a particular speciality of mine.’
And though she knew the answer already, she asked: ‘What is your price?’
His sly teasing smile told her his answer. He turned his head. ‘Ripan. Start a fire.’
The youth’s shoulders dropped. ‘Must I?’ he whined.
‘A fire, Ripan.’
The youth slouched off, muttering and twirling his pipe.
Moon laid a hand on Pon-lor’s forehead. ‘Rest,’ he murmured. ‘Gather yourself … and remember.’ He sat back, his lean arms akimbo on his knees. ‘Now I shall collect the necessary ingredients.’ He stood.
‘Where … this time?’ Saeng asked, dreading the answer.
Old Man Moon grinned down at her. ‘Why – where you left off, of course.’ He walked off, stiffly, like an elder.
I do believe he enjoys it far too much, she grumbled to herself.
Later, Old Man Moon returned to carry Pon-lor to a square of flat dressed paving stones, all brushed clean of dust and litter. A fire burned nearby. Ripan sat at it, looking bored and unhappy, his chin in one fist. A set of crude earthenware bowls lay next to the fire. Each possessed a stick that might have once been an offering. Indeed, all the objects struck Saeng as having been salvaged from the various nearby temple niches, shrines and altars. She wondered what effect this would have upon the procedure. All to increase its potency, no doubt.
She quickly looked away as Moon unceremoniously pulled at his ragged loin wrap. When he had lain down she looked back, forcing herself to eye his skinny shrunken buttocks – one half tattooed. ‘I am to finish the job, am I?’ she asked dryly.
‘Indeed.’
The glow emanating from the being had changed, inverted itself. Now, as before, the countless bands of pricked-out stars in their constellations glowed with their liquid silvery light while his flesh seemed to absorb light in a black night-dark background. The star field that was his back gently turned before her eyes, mimicking, she knew, the very sky above. She felt that if she pitched forward over him she would fall for ever as if into nothingness.
She shook herself and realized that she had been staring, fascinated. ‘As before?’ she asked.
‘If you would.’ Lying on his stomach, his arms under his chin, he reached out and sketched with a fingertip. The lines he drew glowed with a cold limpid light on the stone. ‘The blue ink, please.’
Saeng nodded and selected the roughly formed earthenware bowl that held a shimmering unearthly blue fluid. It gleamed like the sapphire light of some stars. She picked up a prayer stick, studied its sharpened end, then daubed it in the ink.
Crouching down over him, she set to work.
*
Murk returned to the treetops that night. He found that he now enjoyed sitting high up with his back against a trunk, his legs straight out, ankles crossed, on a fat branch. He watched the bright star field peeping through the intermittent cloud cover and the flashes of lightning from a rainstorm to the north. Bats swooped before his vision, chasing insects. The swollen head of the bright sky-spanning arch that was the Visitor was diminishing – passing beyond. Returning whence it came. The full moon shone down, reclaiming its rightful place as ruler of the night. To the west, the thick dark clouds were dispersing, drifting off. The leaves around him, however, still held their pale layer of ash.
So, it was over. Tomorrow the Enchantress would send them on to wherever they wished. Yusen had held firm in his insistence on a slow cautious approach to this news of imperial pardon. The troop would request to be sent to some minor frontier outpost where they’d test the truth of it.
What, then, of him and Sour? They’d completed their term of service, mustered out. Yet civilian life hadn’t panned out as they’d wished. To tell the truth, he hadn’t felt comfortable sitting around with nothing to do. And this lot was badly in need of someone to hold their hands.
Besides, if what the Enchantress claimed was true, Yusen might be up for some kind of commendation and promotion. He might make sub-Fist in Seven Cities. Cadre mage to a sub-Fist in Aren would be a pretty soft posting.
And he had to admit that he wouldn’t mind getting to know Burastan better. There was something there, he was sure. Unless it was all just wishful thinking …
A gathering deep jade glow interrupted his consideration of strong shapely limbs. He glanced over, frowning, and was surprised to see a wavering image coming into existence here with him.
‘Celeste? That you?’ he asked, astonished.
The image solidified into the familiar shape of the girl and she smiled. ‘Greetings, Murken Warrow.’
‘Celeste? I thought you were gone. You know, melding or uniting, or whichever.’
‘Yes. I am. This is merely one last fading remnant left behind to say goodbye.’
‘Ah. I see. Well … thank you. You sound like you met with success, or satisfaction, or whatever.’
‘Yes. We are all gone now. All my brothers and sisters. Far to the west the Shattered God has been sent onward – allowed to translate into another existence – however you wish to put it. As have I.’
Murk’s brows rose in wonder. Really? Something happening in the west? ‘Well, as I said before, I wish you luck with Ardata.’
The girl tilted her head, puzzled. ‘Ardata?’
‘Yeah. You know – this entity you chose.’
The girl laughed, a hand going to her mouth. ‘Oh, Murk! Not her. She is as nothing next to that which I have reached out to. She would be a trickling stream compared to the ocean I have found here.’
Murk stared, his brows furrowed. An ocean? Here? Whatever could she mean? ‘I’m sorry … I don’t …’
Celeste extended her arms outwards as if to encompass their entire surroundings. ‘I’m sorry, I keep forgetting your human biases and preconceptions. I speak not of any one individual being as you would know it, Murk. I speak of all this. Everything about us. I speak of what you name Himatan itself.’
Murk’s brows now rose in earnest. ‘Oh. Oh … That’s … amazing, Celeste.’
She was nodding her agreement. ‘Amazing, yes. Fascinating. Infinitely absorbing. The complexity. The interrelationships. It will perhaps take a millennium just to fully comprehend one part of it. And in its own way it is aware, Murken. It responds. It takes steps to assure its continued existence. It is an entity in those regards – no different from any lower-order being, such as yourself.’
Lower-order being? ‘Ah, well, I see. I think. Then, you are not gone? Not faded away?’
A soft smile
answered that question. ‘No, Murken. Thank you for your concern. No. It was your advice that saved me. Your encouragement gave me the strength to take that irreversible step before the greater part of myself was sent onward – towards dissipation, or who knows what. I remain now as part of that which you name Himatan. Thanks to you.’ She clasped her hands before her and bowed. ‘So, farewell, Murken Warrow. May you find acceptance and belonging, as I have.’
Murk bowed his head in answer as Celeste’s presence faded from view.
He returned his gaze to the infinite night sky. Acceptance and belonging. Some, he knew, would sneer at such sentiment. Yet humans were social beings. Perhaps it was these simple qualities that everyone sought, though they masked them with other, loftier sounding names: ambition, domination or glory.
Acceptance and belonging. He decided then that he’d tag along with Yusen’s crew. They could use a cadre mage. And if he was going, chances were Sour would follow. He’s come along, that fellow. Shown some real potential. He just better not start getting any ideas about who’s in charge, that’s all.
*
The Crimson Guard camped together, Avowed and Disavowed – though Disavowed no longer. From where she sat on a root Shimmer scanned the crowd. Crowd. Who would have thought I could ever use that word again regarding the Avowed? Yet crowd it seemed to her: she had become used to gatherings of mere handfuls.
For some, she knew, this change in circumstances would be harder than for others. Her gaze found fierce Mara sitting aside, alone, hugging herself. She had given much to Skinner, Shimmer knew. And now he was gone. Though she knew she would see him again among the Brethren, should he ever choose to come to the living. She scanned the group and found the broad towering figure of Petal sitting at one fire. She caught his gaze and directed it to Mara. He pursed his heavy lips thoughtfully, then rose, smoothed his torn and frayed robes down his wide front, and crossed to sit next to her.
She now searched for K’azz. She saw him nowhere and she threw herself to her feet. Damn the fool! The very night he ought to be among us! Our first evening together. Where is he? I have a few words for him! She set off to track him down.
After searching among the woods she found him standing alone, arms crossed, peering up at the clear night sky. It was a cold night and she’d been shivering. Somewhere, a hunting cat roared.
‘K’azz!’ she called sharply.
He turned, looking rather bemused. ‘Yes? You are upset?’
‘Yes, I’m upset! Here you are off alone. You should be with us. You should be reassuring everyone with your presence.’
He turned away, his gaze falling. ‘Shimmer, I am not blind. My presence is far from reassuring. I can see that I make everyone uncomfortable … even you. And I understand.’
Oh, K’azz!
She spoke, surprising herself with the strength of the emotion in her voice: ‘You are still our commander. We still follow. We still need you.’ She closed one hesitant step. ‘K’azz … something is worrying you. Something you know. Some secret. What is it? Tell me. Share it. We will all carry it with you.’
For some reason, that only made him flinch as if pained. He would not meet her entreating gaze. ‘No. It is something I suspect … nothing more. It mustn’t be spoken of. Not yet.’
‘But in Assail …’
He let out a long tormented breath. ‘Yes. Assail. Of all places. Assail.’
‘I heard the Enchantress. The answer lies there.’
‘If it can be found, yes.’
‘I heard Cowl. He claims to know.’
K’azz gave a sad shake of his head. ‘Shimmer … I doubt the man’s sanity. He thinks he knows. And perhaps he has grasped some strange idea – the gods alone know what it might be.’
She crossed her arms, raised her gaze to the stars. At least he is talking now. Perhaps I may persuade him to return. She indicated the night sky. ‘Whenever I look up I feel so alone and so small. I like the idea of each light up there being a campfire. It makes me feel … part of a tribe.’
‘You are part of a tribe, Shimmer,’ he answered.
She slid her eyes aside to see him also peering up. ‘Yes. Our tribe. The Guard. Will you not rejoin it?’
The muscles on his jaw bunched as he clamped his teeth. He dropped his gaze to her. ‘A good try, Shimmer.’
‘Not a try. A timely reminder.’ She motioned to the camp. ‘Now, return with me. Yes?’ Now or never, Shimmer lass. She took a step, inviting him to fall in with her. ‘You have seen Petal, yes?’ She glanced back to him expectantly.
A half-smile climbed his lips and he took one slow step. ‘Yes …’ he answered, guardedly.
‘I do believe he is even bigger than when he left us.’
The smile climbed even higher. ‘I do not see how, given that everyone else has lost weight here in this damned jungle.’
Shimmer continued her slow walking pace. ‘Even so. It always amused me. Whenever we met some hulking swordsman who was too full of himself we would introduce him to Petal – the largest man alive and a crushingly shy mage to boot.’
K’azz smiled in remembrance.
‘He and Mara seem to be getting along now.’
‘No!’ K’azz stepped up even with her. ‘But she was so scornful of him. It made me wince. I worked to keep them apart. I knew why she joined with Skinner, of course. But I could never understand why he did.’ He shook his head. ‘That was always a mystery to me.’
Now Shimmer shook her head as she walked along back to camp. ‘K’azz …’ she sighed. ‘You need to mix more.’
EPILOGUE
After having lived among these tribes for many years now I have formed the considered opinion that but for all the differing ritual, accoutrements, myths and attributes of their religious practices, we both seek answers to the same profound questions universal to the human condition: Who are we? Where do we come from? Where are we going?
Whelhen Mariner
Narrative of a Shipwreck and Captivity
within a Mythical Land
IT WAS MOVEMENT that betrayed the presence of their quarry to Jatal. Movement where there had been none for the last two days. Jatal had got used to the only change being the dust and ash sifting down within the blasted vista of blanketed fallen tree trunks. He was coughing all the time now, a cloth across his mouth and nose. He hawked up bloodied phlegm. His breath was coming short, perhaps from exhaustion and malnourishment, or perhaps from the unsettling bubbling and fullness that choked his chest.
Movement far off immediately caught his eye. At first he thought it an animal; a wounded survivor of the blast, a deer perhaps. Yet amid its struggles the figure straightened to two legs and staggered onward a pace or two before collapsing once again.
Jatal stopped to peer back to Scarza. Flakes of ash dusted the half-Trell from head to foot. They even rested on his eyelashes. Scarza’s gaze was steady on the distant figure. Without a word, Jatal changed direction to follow the survivor.
As they drew close, some noise or instinct alerted the figure and it spun, straightening, to confront them. Jatal looked upon a horrifyingly wounded Warleader who was, he now knew, the demon out of his own legendary past: the self-proclaimed High King, Kallor himself. The man weaved drunkenly, a hand on the grip of the bastard sword still at his side. His coat of mail hung from him in torn and blackened tatters of metal links. The flesh beneath oozed, blistered and raw. His beard had been half burned away, as had his hair, leaving seared livid skin behind. One eye was swollen closed, weeping a clear fluid. Dried mud and ash caked him.
Recognition gleamed in his one good eye and he snorted and waved his contempt. ‘You cannot kill me,’ he grated. His voice was so hoarse as to be almost inaudible.
‘I see that now,’ Jatal answered, just as hoarse and breathless. ‘I see that all the ancient curses heaped upon you still hold.’
Kallor growled deep in his throat at that, hawked up a mouthful of catarrh, and spat aside. ‘I will break them yet.’
Merciless gods! All because of you and your damned curses … ‘You thought them gone, didn’t you?’ Jatal opened his arms to indicate the blasted surroundings. ‘All this because you wished to end it. Is that not so?’
The High King actually shrugged. ‘It seemed a good bet. The sword Draconus swore upon is broken. Sister of Cold Nights is broken. Those who cursed me are all slipping away – as they should have long ago.’
‘Damn you,’ Jatal breathed, utterly overcome with horror.
Kallor laughed a dry hack, wiped his mouth, his hand coming away gleaming with blood. ‘So, you too would add to my burden. Is that it? You are quite done then?’
‘Almost.’
‘Oh? You cannot kill me. You curse me. We are done, I should think.’
‘Yes,’ Jatal answered wearily. He felt so tired of it all. So ready to throw it all aside. ‘We will leave you crawling in the dust, Kallor. Which is where you belong, curse or no curse. But first I would have one boon from you.’
The High King raised his flame-scarred head to better examine him. His one good eye gleamed as if touched by madness. ‘A boon? In truth? And what can I grant you?’
Scarza edged forward to touch Jatal’s elbow. ‘Lad …’ he urged, ‘don’t.’
Jatal gently shook his touch away. ‘What you lack the courage to grant yourself … release.’
Kallor lurched forward. His livid features darkened even further in fury. He raised a fist to Jatal. ‘You think I have not tried? You think I meekly …’ He cut himself off, choking. He straightened. His gaze eased back into its familiar condescension. ‘They will not be the end of me. I will break them, or go of my own choosing.’
Jatal nodded his understanding. ‘I agree, High King. That is why I am here. I ask that you release me. My love awaits.’
Kallor’s breath hissed from him in a long slow exhalation of amazement, and he flinched back a step. ‘Well done, Prince Jatal of the Hafinaj. You win your way and in so doing you succeed where I am cursed to fail. Well done.’ He drew his bastard sword and held it upright before him in salute.
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