by D M Wozniak
“No. We had bigger things to worry about.”
“The villagers.”
Chimeline nods, her hands returning to trace the lace patterns of the dress. “Apparently, this dress is hers, but she will not admit it. It’s seems very expensive. The weaves on it are Xian in design.”
She’s right. From the distance, it seems like any northerner’s, white dress. But close up, the unique, diagonal patterns in the lace are pronounced.
“Don’t you think it’s odd?” I ask.
Her nose wrinkles in a mix of confusion and offense. “My dress?”
“No,” I explain. “The dress suits you. I was speaking about the graycloak.”
“What about her?”
“I just think that it’s strange how she was so concerned about him, yet she can’t even admit that he’s her father. Some sign of ownership or something.”
She nods, squinting up into the rays of color. “She’s more like me than I care to admit. I would give anything to have a father who loved me for who I am. Not because of the role that was destined for me since the time I was born.”
“What role is that? Surely you cannot mean joining the king’s harem.”
She shakes her head but doesn’t answer me.
I watch her, lost in her memories. With the soft, colored light from above, the white dress contrasts her olive skin. She must have washed up a bit too, since her face is clean, the lines from her earlier tears carefully rinsed away. Her hair, too, has been brushed, the dark tendrils wound behind her ears.
A contradictory sort of beauty surrounds her. Something more complex than what her former occupation in the harem would imply. It is difficult to define. It’s a graceful resourcefulness. As if, had I not known any better, she could be a wealthy merchant from the citadel. Or a member of the king’s council.
Yet, despite this grace, her eyes betray knowledge earned at a cost.
The role that was destined for me since the time I was born.
I keep studying her while she’s lost in thought, speculating on what this destiny could possibly be. Perhaps a past that involved tricks like the one she pulled today. But in this past, she must have had no effulgency necklace. I imagine that she had no tools whatsoever, except her instincts, which she used to lasso treasures of a different kind.
Eventually, we both snap out of our separate thoughts as a soft sweeping sound echoes throughout the temple.
Up ahead, past the altar, the door to the back room opens up, and the effulgent enters, followed by the graycloak, who is carrying a glass box in her arms.
I stand, and Chimeline follows suit. The old wooden pew moans in complaint.
I don’t know what to expect. I healed the effulgent with the voidstone, even though he did not want me to. He pleaded with me to let him die. Will he be grateful? Remorseful? Vengeful? A combination of the three?
Am I a fool to still be here?
The effulgent walks slowly across the altar, and then leans upon the stone table, facing us with his head downcast. We’re all the way in the back, with a dozen or so empty pews between us, but the temple is small enough for me to make out most of the details. He wears a new cloak without any traces of blood. The graycloak’s riding gear has been replaced with the same simple, gray cloak that I first saw her in. A white linen runner graces the center of the altar, and the graycloak carefully sets the glass box down upon it. It’s about one foot cubed, and it contains something that catches the diffused sun.
“You may approach,” he says, lifting his head.
“Come on,” I say under my breath, as I take Chimeline’s hand.
We walk down the center aisle, and up the stone steps, until we’re standing at the edge of the altar, directly opposite the effulgent and his daughter, with the glass box directly in-between all of us.
“Do you know what this is, master voider?”
Peering inside the glass box, I lean in to get a better view.
It’s a twisted piece of blue metal.
The sides of the glass cube shimmer subtly as if we’re underwater, caught in an aquamarine reflection. Likely a trick of the light, caused from the sun’s rays pouring through the stained glass far above.
The piece extends only to the size of my hand, and has a few symbols painted on the side in bright red. I do not recognize any of them.
“No,” I answer softly.
“This is a relic. A piece of a ship, long since lost,” he answers. “We are exceedingly blessed to be in the presence of it here.” After a moment of silence, he adds, “Not many outside of the effulgency have ever witnessed such a thing.”
I nod, not quite sure how to answer. It seems as if he is bestowing some sort of honor on me by letting me view this, but I have no idea what it is. “I’ve never heard of an effulgency ship.”
He nods to his daughter, and she picks up the glass case carefully, and slowly returns it to the back room.
“Nor would you. Even your historians have no record of it.”
It seems like he has more to say, so I wait.
“I must be careful,” he says. “For much of our history has been handed down generation to generation, and only within the privacy of the effulgency. But I will say this: it is very old, and it is how the effulgency first sailed across the sea from the land beyond.”
“How old?”
He shakes his head. “As I said, it’s been passed down for generations.”
“Why show it to me?”
He smiles knowingly and looks at me from across the altar. “Because I believe that you are the answer to my prayers, master voider.” He glances to Chimeline by my side. “Perhaps both of you are.”
I shake my head. “I healed you because it was the right thing to do. It wasn’t because the Unnamed told me to do it, nor was it because of your prayers. I was not going to let a man die—”
He shakes his head forcefully, cutting me off. “That is not what I meant. This goes far beyond what happened today. This is about what is yet to come. The Unnamed has much in store for you.”
I exhale, feeling somewhat let down. I have the sudden urge to walk back down the altar steps and leave this place. I am tired and hungry, and have no patience to discuss matters of elusive faith with a man who told me to let him die.
“Did you tell the same thing to Anaxarchis?” I ask him angrily, my voice echoing out. “Did he die helping you as part of some sort of vague prayer?”
The effulgent looks down, his pale skin becoming paler.
“You never told me what happened to him,” I say, my voice barely contained.
“I know. And I suppose this is as good of a time as any to tell you what happened.”
I wait, my eyes narrowing.
“The death of your student was my fault.”
“What did you do?”
He shakes his head. “It was a tragic misunderstanding. We had an altercation,” he says, running a hand across his bald head. “He fell to his death.”
“What misunderstanding?” I say between clenched teeth. My hands grip the edge of the stone altar, and relax when Chimeline lays her own hand over them.
“I was convinced that your student was trying to subvert the village. To turn them against me.”
“Why would you think that?”
“It doesn’t matter now. All that matters is that I overreacted, and things got out of hand. I am sorry.”
The effulgent looks back up at me, meeting my gaze with his dark eyes. “This is what I meant by my prayers. The Unnamed never answers them in the way one thinks. I had asked for a quick resolution to your arrival, to avoid the act of stealing and false imprisonment. To avoid the same situation as what happened with your student. But what I received was a near death sentence, and an act of compassion by the must unlikely person. It was a lesson from the Unnamed. And I believe he is not done with this lesson.”
“What lesson?”
“You were sent here to help us.”
I laugh bitterly.
&nbs
p; I know I am being rude, answering this man’s naked concerns with such frivolity, but I cannot help myself. The man killed Anaxarchis, and he expects me to help him?
“I really didn’t know what to expect from you,” I say. “I saved your life when you asked me not to. I used my voidstone on you when you declared it as evil.”
“It is evil,” he interjects. “But that is part of the lesson.”
“Listen,” I say. “I have my own lessons which I am still reeling from. My wife left me for another man. Another voider—one who is truly evil. A man who has committed horrible crimes in the name of my institution. For years, my service to the king has being twisted for his stupid war. My gifted student Anaxarchis is dead. And you think that my coming here is a sign to help you? I have my own problems to solve.”
He slowly shakes his head. “My wife. My institution. My service. My student. My problems.”
For a long time, I am speechless. I stare him down with eyes that must look like hot coals.
“You're welcome for saving your life,” I finally answer. “But it's time that I go, because there's another thing that's mine. My path. I have my own path to follow.”
Chimeline grabs my hand before I can turn away, and when our eyes meet, she tilts her head to the side, as if saying, “Are you sure?”
But I pull her towards me. “We’re done here.”
We walk down the steps, but before we are halfway down the aisle, the front doors to the temple break open, and a man enters with a child. The sunshine makes them appear as silhouettes, but I can see rope around her neck, the way the man pulls her forward like he would an animal. He yanks it forcefully and she falls upon the floor, crying out in pain as her knees strike the stone.
“We found her, Your Effulgency,” bellows the man. “The one who stabbed you.”
One Does Not Own the Dark
“Why?” the young girl screams at me from the temple’s stone floor. “Why didn’t you help me?”
A thick rope tightens about her neck, forcing it to be craned upwards sharply. She creates slack by lifting her upper body with two outstretched arms, palms on the floor.
“You were supposed to come with me. Not help him.”
“Quiet, you little bitch,” says the man standing next to her. He yanks the rope, and she falls forward. She tries to brace herself with her hands, but she seems caught off-guard. Her face bangs against the stone tiles and she lets out a scream, blood pouring from her nose onto the gray tiles like an upturned glass of wine.
Instead of answering her, I touch my voidstone and sever the thick, coarse rope around her neck. Before anyone can react, I create a wall of pressure to force the older villager back. He flies a few feet through the air, crashes into the half-open doors of the temple, and falls onto the steps outside, unconscious.
“Enough of this!” shouts the effulgent at my back, coming near with his daughter.
The girl from the well cups her hands close to her face to collect the dripping blood. She then looks up at me with a haunted expression. “You weren’t supposed to save him.” Her clenched teeth are more red than white. “You were supposed to come with me.”
I lean back in surprise. This young girl has committed a heinous crime, and is now caught. Her sentence may be death, but incredibly, she doesn’t seem to be scared. Instead, she is full of wrath—the sign of someone who has nothing left to lose.
I stoop down. “I am grateful that you freed me, but what you did was wrong, child. Surely, you know this.”
She looks up at the towering, gleaming effulgent at my side, and uses one of her bloody hands to point at him. “My sister is dying.” She raises her voice and addresses the effulgent directly. “Did you hear what I said? My sister is dying! And you don’t care!”
“Do not speak to His Effulgency in that way,” admonishes the graycloak.
But the father silences both of them with an outstretched hand.
“It is alright,” he says calmly. “She is still learning the way of unwanting.” He turns to his daughter. “Get a bucket of water and rags for this mess. The grout may stain.”
She nods and shuffles away without a word.
The bronzed girl starts to cry now, her anger perhaps washed away by sadness, and the effulgent sits down on a clean section of the stone aisle, crossing his legs underneath his white cloak, and placing his hands gently upon his thighs. Just like he did in my jail cell.
“Look up at the windows, child.” He rifles through his cloak and takes out a spotless white handkerchief, handing it to her. “The blood-flow will stop quicker that way. Here.”
She looks at him suspiciously, but finally snatches the cloth out of his hand and brings it to her face.
“What do you see?”
The young girl lets out a confused groan.
“The pictures in the windows,” he clarifies. “What do you see?”
The rag muffles her childlike voice, but I can still understand her. “Thou shall not own the living. Thou shall not own the dead.”
The man nods. “That is correct. Anger is due to our emotions, which are rooted in ownership. You say your sister, but she is not your slave. You do not own her. You also say that she is dying, but her life is not her own. It is a gift from the Unnamed, and when that gift is destined to be returned, we have no reason for anger. We should be celebrating a gift richly lived. It was never ours to begin with.”
The young girl continues to look up at the picture windows, her forehead creasing in skepticism. It seems that she’s heard these words before, and this additional explanation will not convince her.
“What else do you see?” says the effulgent, his voice calm and silky.
“The light. The dark.”
“Though shall not own the light. Though shall not own the dark. Do you know what that means?”
The girl moans again, turning the rag to a clean section.
“The light is our dreams. Our aspirations. We need to give them up to the Unnamed. We should pursue only what the Unnamed wants of us. If our personal wishes get in the way of that, that is a problem, and we must give them up. You wish for your sister to live—if that is what the Unnamed wants, it will come true. If that is not what the Unnamed wants, then you are trying to own the light. One cannot own the light.”
By now, Chimeline has sat down upon the ground, listening raptly, but I stand back up from my stooped position, arching my back and stretching my arms out at my side. I’ve heard this drivel before, and I am not interested in hearing it again. The only thing which interests me is the bronzed girl and her dying sister. I am biding my time for her nosebleed to stop, before I ask her to take me to her.
The least I can do is repay her for freeing me, before I am on my way.
The young girl has quieted down. Amazingly, this bald man seems to have extinguished her hatred with his calm words. Like some back-alley hypnotist from the citadel.
“Similarly, one does not own the dark,” he continues. “The dark are the things that we want to hide. Our past transgressions. And the transgressions of others we refuse to lose.” He takes a deep breath and looks upwards momentarily to the specific stained-glass piece is he referring to. “What you did to me this morning is forgiven. I do not own any hatred toward you. I do not own the dark.”
She nods awkwardly while keeping her head tilted back.
“Do you own hatred towards me?” he asks.
She shrugs her shoulders.
“What about yourself? Do you forgive yourself for what you have done?”
The bronzed girl flashes a confused expression.
“So many people think that hatred is always directed outward, but I tell you, more people have hatred for themselves than for others. They cling to their darkness as if it is their prized possession.”
“That is true,” says Chimeline.
“You must give it up,” he answers, swiveling to meet both of their gazes. “Give up all the darkness in you.”
“Yes, Your Effulgency,”
they both say in unison.
I shake my head and start pacing, suppressing a bitter laugh. This effulgent belongs in the Grand Bazaar at the citadel. He could sell a worthless rug full of mites for a thousand gold.
The graycloak comes back with a bucket of water and some rags that match the color of her cloak. The group of three stands and disperses to let her in, and the bronzed girl removes the bloody rag from her nose, hesitantly.
“I believe that it has stopped,” says the effulgent.
The girl hands the now-sodden handkerchief back to him, but he directs her to give it to the graycloak.
“Your sister,” I say, turning to the bronzed girl. “Can you take me to her?”
She blinks a few times, as if in a trance. Then, she looks up at the effulgent, and then back to me, as if unsure how to answer.
I step in front of the effulgent and place my hands on her shoulders. She gives a slight jump at this, and I don’t blame her. My black flaxen cloak eclipses the shining whiteness behind me.
“Your sister,” I say, emphasizing my words. “The one you say is dying. Take me to her before it is too late.”
This time, my words seem to take root, since she nods, sniffling and wiping her hand upon her nose as she checks for blood, but there isn’t any there.
“Wait,” says the effulgent, and I spin around to face him.
“Don't mistake my not owning the dark for an endorsement of more dark,” he adds.
I don't understand his statement, and my expression must reflect that.
“I forgave you for using the black arcana to heal me,” he explains. “That doesn't change the fact that it is evil.”
“You forgave me for healing you,” I repeat slowly, emphasizing the absurdity of his words.
“Of course,” he says, with no shame at all in his tone. “It was the will of the Unnamed.”
“But you just told me that the Unnamed sent me here for a reason.”
“Yes, for a lesson.”
“Did it ever cross your mind that maybe me using my voidstone is your confounded lesson?”
He shuts his eyes tightly and keeps them closed, taking a deep breath. It’s as if reason is the light, and he’s trying to shut it out. Or maybe, for the first time in his life, he’s contemplating the wisdom of a voider.