

PILGRIM OF THE STORM
Get Russ Linton's Starter Library

FOR FREE

Sign up for the no-spam newsletter and receive Russ Linton's starter library for free!

Details can be found at the end of Pilgrim of the Storm.

CHAPTER I

The two Ek'kiru in the courtyard below barely looked humanoid.

Some of Sidge's temple brethren called these creatures bugmen. He could see it now. Only by their upright stance could he tell they weren't anything other than enormous insects. Among the swirling robes and soft, mahogany skin of the acolytes bustling about the courtyard, the cart-sized beings didn't seem real.

Sidge let his sweeping taper off and he clutched his broom in two hands. He leaned against the windowsill on his second pair of arms to get a closer look.

The Ek'kiru were massive, much larger than Sidge had imagined they would be. He'd never seen another one but had been told of the different variations in size, color, and shape. Witnessing precisely how different astonished him.

Their deep black underbellies melted into the polished obsidian wall behind them. Heads, impossibly small for their enormous bodies, sat atop their broad chests. Each one's forehead sported a single onyx horn the size of a man's thigh.

When the creatures turned, he could see the shells across their backs were iridescent; one a shade of green and the other gold. Lightning from the Storm reflected off them in a prismatic curve, mirrored on the metallic blue chitin of Sidge's own forearm resting on the windowsill. He tugged the sleeve of his temple vestments so it lay evenly across his wrist.

Sidge was certain the only way these creatures could pull the palatial carriage that they loomed over was by scuttling along on their hands and feet; exactly like bugs.

He felt a shiver along his antennae.

The rest of the courtyard writhed with activity. Gray-robed acolytes formed rhythmic chains, passing crates from the storehouses toward an armada of gilded carriages. The armada's patchwork of metallic roofs sat dull and lifeless under the clouded sky, but flared brightly with each arc of lightning. Fading waves of thunder rolled over the dark, seamless walls of the Temple. Beyond them lay an empty landscape where the sky spiraled in black troughs, circling like a hungry raptor around a brilliant white eye.

Sidge stepped away and let the chaos of the courtyard slip out of sight. His many lenses continued to marvel at the storm and the dazzling display of fire that took place there. Each pulse of light called to him—Vasheru called him. In the weeks ahead, he could not fail. Not only for his beloved master, but for a life spent beneath the Undying Storm, their pilgrimage had to be a success.

Through a sleepless night he'd packed his and his master's belongings; all that remained to be ready for the journey was to hitch the two horses—a mismatched pair in both health and temperament, but the best their meager funds could afford. He wondered if the team would make the long journey.

Of course, the journey itself was not his toughest challenge.

"Do you have my robe ready?" A voice at the door interrupted Sidge's thoughts, though it did not surprise him. While Sidge faced the window, his compound eyes ensured the door, behind him and to his right, was well within his field of view. Acolyte Girish stood in the doorway with his two arms folded across his chest.

Sidge turned, unconsciously making sure his mandibles faced the human acolyte. He set the broom against his wall, placed his four palms together and bowed. He walked to a hook by the door where a gray robe, much like the one he wore, hung. As he pulled it down he ran the hem through his fingers. Silk, and a fine grade. The stitching had been done by a master tailor's hand, but had recently come unraveled. Sidge had been pleased his repair had turned out nearly identical to the original.

"You can still see the transition to the repair if you know where to look, but it is the best I could do with what I had to work with. The temple stores had no silken thread."

Girish snatched the robe and held it so the light from the window fell upon it. The repaired section dangled somewhere below his hands. His thin, severe features were absolutely gaunt in the flickering light of the Storm and the scattering of dark whiskers along his cheeks, barely noticeable. "I'll have it properly sewn when the pilgrimage arrives in Stronghold."

"Yes, you've been before," said Sidge, his excitement getting the best of him. "You must know many wonderful tailors there."

"Know tailors?" Girish was already turning toward the hall. "Master Udai arranges for such things through our raksha. I don't know any commoners."

"Oh, of course," said Sidge.

Girish paused in the hallway long enough to bow toward the sound of approaching footsteps. "Acolyte Farsal."

"Girish," replied a familiar voice.

Girish disappeared into the hall and Farsal stepped into view. The smiling acolyte rolled his eyes. Such a simple gesture, Sidge felt a twinge of jealousy that his eyes couldn't do the same. Yet he also understood the curt nature of the display to be unacceptable and decided it was best to quirk his mandibles in displeasure, but Farsal's smile only deepened. They exchanged bows and Sidge retreated into his room.

Farsal entered and moved to the window, teeth shining into the storm outside, white like the ferocious tempest's eye, whiter against the dark lips and thin beard surrounding them. His smile disappeared as he chewed his lip in thought.

"I don't know why you bother," muttered Farsal. "Girish doesn't even like you."

"We are all brothers. Beneath the Undying Storm. Unyielding before the terrible might of Kurath," recited Sidge.

"You have more wisdom than I."

"Not me. The Attarah's words, his wisdom, so the Forge tells us."

Farsal bowed deeply and his smile returned. "As always, you're correct. Your recall of the mantras is flawless." His eyes lit up and he focused on Sidge. "You'll make an excellent Cloud Born."

Sidge spread his mandibles and felt his antennae splay under the sincerity of Farsal's words. "I thank you, brother. I can only hope our horses can make—"

Lightning exploded just beyond the wall. The landscape seemed to shatter and be made whole along the path of the strike. So much power to be wielded. No, the toughest challenge was definitely not the journey.

He pretended to wait for the thunder to pass so he could respond but he couldn't regain the confidence Farsal's praise had instilled. When he finally spoke, uncertainty crept into his words.

"You know the pilgrimage is only one part of my potential ascension. And we travel without a raksha. Without such a sponsor, I don't know when or if we'll be able to afford another trip, let alone complete this one." He only said more because he knew Farsal would lend a sympathetic ear. "And there are other obstacles I have yet to overcome."

Farsal's face twisted in concern. "Channeling? Still?"

Sidge nodded.

"Don't worry." Farsal placed a hand where Sidge's shoulder would be had his wings, tucked beneath his robes, not been in the way. "Master Izhar will help you."

Sidge turned to the window but couldn't push his friend's face into his narrow blindspot without being rude and turning his back entirely. The hectic motion of the courtyard did much to distract him, but Farsal's pity maintained a corner of his vision. He wanted to draw the hood of his robe over his head to close his lidless eyes.

Farsal must've sensed his discomfort. "You're making us all look bad again." He laughed and grabbed the broom next to the window. "I noticed your vardo in the courtyard is all packed, and now you have extra time for chores?"

"Doing some last minute tidying, is all. You know I have plenty of spare time." He motioned to the empty bed frame against the far wall of his room.

"Of course, of course. I've always wondered if that's a fair trade—sleep for chores."

"Not chores. Duties. And there is no trade. I simply have more time than the others."

Farsal laughed and returned the broom to the wall. "Speaking of which, I should be going, brother. Master Gohala's carriage won't fill itself." He headed for the hall and with another bow he was gone.

Yes, Master Gohala's carriage, the one next to the behemoth Ek'kiru. It glinted as another seam of lightning opened the sky.

Even viewed from several floors up, the carriage was clearly the largest among the dozens arrayed there. Its wheels stood as tall as a man, their spokes gilded and polished. On the sides hung the face of the mighty Storm Dragon, Vasheru, in a gleaming silver relief. The roof rose into a golden dome crowned by a silver sword wreathed in lightning: the symbol of the Stormblade Temple.

Apparently there were certain perks if your raksha was the living Attarah himself. Savior of all humanity, a title handed down across the centuries like the twelve thousand one hundred and sixty-two mantras of the Temple.

Sidge sighed.

His and Master Izhar's vardo slumped at the other end of his vision, the beaten-copper roof dull and lifeless. A collection of crystals and foil streamers jangled from the upper rails. Green stains streaked beneath the roof, adding a dilapidated appearance to the already weathered wood of the cabin. A white image of the temple's symbolic sword burned starkly on the graying walls.

The symbol, at least, had been freshly painted. Sidge had insisted, even when Master Izhar balked at the cost. "Vanity was not the concern of the holy," Master Izhar had said, in an odd paraphrasing of the ninety-seventh verse of the Rule. When Sidge had corrected him, he'd relented.

Sidge examined his room one last time. A bed he didn't use, a chest whose contents he'd loaded in the vardo long before the sun had risen, a hook on the wall for his robe; until now, this had been all he'd ever needed.

But with the pilgrimage came his chance to ascend to the rank of Cloud Born. To make his master proud. To put to the test a life's worth of rigorous memorization, study, and meditation. Rather, attempts at meditation. Sidge rattled his wings. He wanted to believe it was possible. Vasheru willing, it would be.

An errant gray thread on the dark stone of the floor caught his eye. He knelt and plucked it off the ground. Holding it in front of him, he twisted it between his fingers and examined the rest of the floor from his new vantage point. Remnants of his late night work? Or perhaps fallen off Farsal's robe. The fine silken thread wasn't from his own. Satisfied the strand was the only one, he returned to the window.

He let the storm wind carry the thread out of his hand and shuttered the window as it drifted away. Grabbing his broom, he swept a path to the hallway and closed the door behind him.

CHAPTER II

Sidge knelt with his face to the floor outside his master's chamber. Each of their quarters was furnished with a bed and chest, but Izhar's bed had a down mattress and the chest was iron-bound with a sturdy lock. The room was only mildly more apportioned than an acolyte's. Most of the other masters lived more lavishly.

The open chest which Izhar hunched over, Sidge knew well. He'd lain there as a child. He never slept, even then, but too often he'd startled a Cloud Born while underfoot in the middle of the night, so the open chest became his bed. Now there seemed little room inside for a squirming babe—and certainly no room for Izhar's head and shoulders.

Izhar burrowed through the contents, tossing items onto the floor: a bent twig, a scrap of an old robe. Next came an implement Sidge didn't recognize—a chisel with an oddly rounded edge. Sidge tracked the wayward path of each as they joined a growing pile, and his mandibles clacked together with every new addition.

"Where's my flute?" Izhar mumbled.

Tradition held that an acolyte would supplicate himself in his master's presence and wait to be acknowledged. Izhar wasn't much for tradition but here, on the Cloud Borns' floor, right below the inner sanctum, violating protocol was a dicey proposition. What if another master heard him speak before being addressed? But the urge to stem the tide of clutter was quickly overpowering his adherence to temple protocol.

Sidge kept the edges of his mandibles pressed to the floor. Something else skidded toward him. Was that a dead bird? He tossed his hood over his eyes.

"By the Dragon's lightning shrouded..." Izhar courted anger and blasphemy with his outburst.

"I have packed it, Master," Sidge blurted.

Furious digging stopped and Sidge risked a peek down both sides of the hall, tenting the hem of his hood with his upper hands. They were, as far as he could see, alone.

"Sidge! Come in! Enter! Bows and apologies and all that."

"Yes, Master." Sidge rose and straightened his robes.

Across the room, Master Izhar stood amid a pile of the odd keepsakes. A flush of frustration receded across his coppery cheeks. A deep chestnut beard, bisected by a streak of white, hung stiffly above his naked chest. His trousers, wrinkled beyond any sense of fashion, sagged under a belly sprouted with coarse hair.

"You got everything?" Izhar asked.

Sidge went through the three-hundred-ninety-six-item list in his head. "Yes, Master."

Izhar stroked his beard and squinted an eye as though he might test him, but he broke into a grin instead. "Wonderful! Now, if I could only find my robes." His eyes drifted to the cluttered floor.

Sidge spied a crumpled patch of thunderhead-gray cloth peeking from the tangle of linens on his Master's bed and rushed to rescue it.

"I still don't understand why we need everything," said Sidge as he snatched the robe and shook off the blankets. "The soil? Sure. Farmers and commoners value the earth touched by Vasheru's Fire." He snapped the robes in the air and handed them to Izhar, who began the process of wriggling inside.

Izhar's head popped through the collar. "The Kiss of Vasheru is a wondrous thing, but do not forget all has been touched by the divine."

"Yes, the Wandering of the Formless." Sidge moved forward to guide his Master's arms into the sleeves. This way he could appear focused on a task and not disinterested in what was being discussed.

Izhar's fascination with the first cryptic verses of the Temple's mantras was the subject of quiet derision among many of the other Cloud Born. Most members of their order preferred the structured verses of the Forge, which covered the founding of the Stormblade Temple, as opposed to the mysticism of the earlier Trials. Sidge quietly counted himself among them. He didn't find Izhar's interpretations offensive, just... messy. But his master's unorthodox views had other problematic consequences, which concerned him more.

Sidge scanned the room for the jagged white stole which would complete his master's robes of office. "I don't suppose you've received word from any potential rakshas?" he asked, doing his best to sound unconcerned.

"You worry too much, Sidge." Izhar crouched by the bed and one arm disappeared under the down-filled mattress. Eyes lit up and he withdrew the stole. Sidge swallowed a gasp of horror at the crumpled mass. "Vasheru provides, my pupil." Izhar waved the white cloth triumphantly and draped it over his shoulders. "Excited about our journey?"

Somehow Izhar always managed to be both irksome and infectious. "Absolutely!" Sidge replied, adding a quick, "Master."

"We walk in the footsteps of the Attarah at last. We'll greet the Four Corners and follow the Moonstrider."

"Isn't it correct that the Moonstriders are only symbols of the Attarah's glorious lineage, Master?" He asked this in the most deferential way he could manage. Normally he wouldn't bother, for he knew Izhar's answer, yet the condition of the room was stretching his patience thin.

"And you," continued Izhar, ignoring the question, "you shall ascend to the rank of Cloud Born. And I, the seat of the Stormblade."

Sidge had long grown used to Izhar's bluntness, but felt it prudent to add, "By Vasheru's will."

Izhar feigned an apologetic gesture. "Naturally. I only say it with such certainty for if I'm not the one seated in Vasheru's Sanctum, it will be that lout, Gohala."

"But there are two other—"

"Udai and Tarak?" Izhar grunted. "Tarak has no desire, and Udai would wash Gohala's feet and drink the water if he asked."

Sidge's antennae sprang upward, alert, and he checked the empty hallway. "Master!"

"Oh, fine." Izhar bent and examined the ceiling. "Apologies, Mighty Dragon, for naming the wolves in your fold."

Sidge reeled and waited nervously to be struck by a bolt through the stone walls of the temple. This, too, was a common feeling around Izhar, but not the kind he'd ever gotten used to.

"As a wise mentor once said to me, 'The present moment is the only moment'" Sidge said, using one of Izhar's unorthodox sayings which he actually did like. "Whether you ascend to Stormblade or not will only be determined when we return and the chaining ritual is completed. Though I do have faith Vasheru will choose you over Gohala."

Izhar closed the chest and sat down, staring into his hands. "Truth be told, I have little desire for the office myself, but I'll be damned if this temple comes under that vile man's thumb." He exhaled and seemed to relax. An inexplicable joy crept across his face and his eyes indicated behind Sidge. "One more piece remains of my vestments."

Dangling from the robe hook next to the door was a pendant no larger than Sidge's fist: a corestone.

Izhar raised his eyebrows and impatiently gestured, his lips parting in a smile. Sidge crossed the room to retrieve the pendant under the glow of his master's expression. He slipped the silver chain from the hook and draped the stone across his palm.

Robes were one thing, a symbolic lightning-shaped stole another, but the corestone represented true mastery. All Cloud Born wore a corestone, an artifact of Vasheru's will left by the lightning which battered the Stormblade Sheath surrounding the temple. Izhar's stone was a fused clump of black earth with a smooth, cylindrical cavity, the whole of which was set into a thin copper cage. Not purely a symbol, the corestone served as a focus for the divine power of the Storm.

As Sidge held it, he felt the invisible push against his fingers—the Kiss of the Mighty Dragon, Vasheru, champion of the Attarah. Fire for their foes. Wisdom for the worthy. For him, always only a slight whisper of power. An unanswered promise which he desperately wished to hear.

When they returned from the pilgrimage, Sidge would be given the honor of retrieving his own corestone. Before this could happen, however, he'd need to demonstrate channeling. Proper technique, following in the Attarah's footsteps, and a perfect recall of the mantras, this was all it took according to the teachings. That, and a meditative mind given to the glory of Vasheru. Focused. Like the power within the stone.

Izhar cleared his throat.

Sidge approached his master with the pendant's chain draped across two hands and pressed his middle palms together. He undid the clasp and Izhar stayed him with a gesture.

"No. Sit."

His master meant for him to practice. Sidge was eager at first, but he froze halfway to a crouch as he searched for a clear spot on the floor. If only he could arrange things even a little. A grouping based on materials perhaps or whatever hidden power Izhar ascribed to the item in question.

Everywhere his lenses fell, curiosity and chaos occupied them. That had indeed been a dead bird. And there was that stick and a dried, shriveled bit of... something.

Izhar swept his foot in an arc to clear a space. "Sit."

Nodding in rapid bursts, Sidge folded into the lotus. His fingers ran nervously across the surface of the pendant. Izhar situated himself on the chest. With a chorus of grunts and creaks, the rotund master folded his legs beneath him, then placed upturned hands upon his knees.

"Focus. Feel Vasheru in your palm. He travels through the wheeling sky above the Sheath..."

Sidge tried to focus on Izhar's words. He envisioned the restless sky. Immense power at the Cloud Born's call. Fire and perhaps one day, visions, granted by the Mighty Dragon and his Wisdom. To know Vasheru's will and to burn the trash scattered haphazardly in all corners of the room.

No. That was wrong.

"... gales in the wind across the broken plain. He circles in the sanctuary, right here, above our very heads." Izhar's voice droned on, assuming the monotone aspect of the mantras. His words told the story of the Attarah's own path and the stops they would make along their journey.

They would leave the Stormblade Temple to arrive in Stronghold before the Deep Night festival. Stronghold, the first settlement of resistance to the Children of Kurath. Where men were made free. Brought to safety and truth, following the path of the Moonstrider beneath the swollen pearl of the longest night.

At Stronghold, the living Attarah would celebrate both the pilgrims' arrival and their departure the following morning. They would then travel west, to the edge of the desert, and call out in challenge to Kurath, enslaver of mankind, before returning home on the same path.

All of these rites and tenets Sidge knew by heart and his mind continued to wander, a castaway in the sea of clutter. Izhar went on to describe the rolling hills of the Paharibhumi and its mounds of dead birds. Broken sticks raining down from the forest of Cerudell, pelting the vardo and littering the roads. A sandstorm on the edge of the desert, bursting through the door of his freshly-swept chamber. How could the Stormblade Temple ever protect mankind with so much work to be done?

Izhar had fallen silent and stared expectantly. Sidge became aware he'd missed something. He drew his antennae tight to his head and shrugged.

"The first mantra of the Forge?" asked Izhar.

"Of course, Master." Did he need to recite it? He knew it well. And the eleven hundred and twenty-five mantras of the Trials. The five thousand five hundred and thirty-eight of the Rebellion. The three thousand and ninety-nine of the Forge. The fifteen hundred of the Rule. Before he could begin, Izhar unwound from his perch atop the chest.

"Never mind. We'd best be headed to the courtyard. We'll practice more on the journey." Izhar rose and took the corestone from Sidge's open hand.

Sidge's heart sank as the charged air around the stone withdrew. "I'm sorry, Master."

"Don't be. Here is what I meant to teach—the pilgrimage can be disconcerting. For many acolytes, leaving the Temple after having been here so long is a difficult adjustment. Often an acolyte requires a reminder that Vasheru is everywhere. Even as far away from the Storm as we plan to travel."

"I understand, Master. Every utterance of the mantras assures us of this." Sidge sat forward as another idea occurred to him. "He is even with us through all time, handed down in these words of the Temple."

"Time, eh?" Izhar donned the pendant and stooped to begin rooting through the junk on the floor. The corestone peeked in and out of his beard as he searched and Sidge recalled the power in his palms.

"I'm just not sure He's with me," whispered Sidge.

Izhar appeared not to hear him and continued his search. Soon, his master rose with a satisfied grunt. Turning, he placed the broken stick in Sidge's hand.

"Put this with the stores on the wagon." Izhar patted him on the shoulder and headed for the hallway. Before Sidge could ask why, Izhar added, "For your second lesson, leave the rest exactly where it is."

"Master?"

Sidge sat frozen among the odd assortment of what he could only see as junk. His antennae twitched. He didn't dare move.

CHAPTER III

Escaping Izhar's lesson had taken Sidge longer than planned. A few of the scattered odds and ends had found their way back into the chest. Well, if he were being honest, most. Maybe all of them.

Sidge walked the empty halls of the Cloud Born's floor. The other masters were likely all preparing their acolytes for the ceremony in the courtyard. He headed down the stairs at a brisk pace, unsure precisely how late his failed lesson had made him.

He lit upon a landing and paused, his antennae twitching.

Distant chanting filled the hallway emanating from the foyer outside the main doors. Using those doors would place him directly behind the Cloud Born preparing to begin the ceremony. If he descended all the way to the bottom floor to use the acolyte's gate, he would be delayed further as he twisted his way through the warrens of the storehouse.

Neither would do. He'd have to approach from the ramparts. He left the landing and headed for the side passage that would take him there.

Smaller and lighter than his fellow acolytes, Sidge made a point to avoid the walls. In fact, it was rare that Temple business brought any of them to the ramparts. Above the protected courtyard, the open heights were constantly battered by the wind. Even so, Izhar had made it a point to take him there as a child in a lesson long ago.

"They used to hold drills here," Izhar had shouted above the wind, his then solid-colored beard pressed against his throat, his stole whipping about with loud snaps like a hoisted banner. "Kurath will return, just as the mantras say." Izhar's gaze had floated out over the wall and Sidge had struggled to hear his words. "But the last drills were held long before I arrived."

Sidge had imagined acolytes wielding Vasheru's Fire from the battlements. They may not necessarily face Kurath here, but the exercise seemed prudent. Channeling the Fire was still required to ascend though few were asked to demonstrate the level of control needed to fell an enemy or cast long distances from fortified walls.

He hadn't considered this when he was younger for he'd been too distracted by the view. He'd run his hand along the wall, not quite tall enough to peer over the edge into the Sheath. But from his vantage point, he'd gotten his first truly unobstructed view of the temple grounds.

The cliff housing the structure was an oddity which jutted up from the barren and scoured landscape. Scooped out of the black, glassy rock of the obsidian face was a domed alcove hundreds of feet high which sheltered the Stormblade Temple. Straight lines and functional grooves ran along the towering heights, designed to slice the winds and divert their centuries-old assault. At the top sat Vasheru's Sanctum, the pommel of a mighty black blade, a wonder of ebony and platinum open to the raging tempest.

The whole of it had been breathtaking, but as he'd run his hand along the smooth surface, a youthful curiosity occurred to him.

"Mister Izhar," Sidge had asked, for he was not officially a pupil, "the Temple, the wall, they all appear to be one piece of stone. It runs forever with no seams." He'd paused and added in a serious tone, "I've examined the floors for them."

Izhar had regarded him patiently and replied, "The workings of the Jadugar."

He would learn later the adage was almost a joke. Uneducated commoners often recited it. Anything unexplained could be assigned to "the Jadugar" and what few mantras referred to these ancient sorcerers were strange and inscrutable.

Of course, Izhar had not been joking.

"By some accounts," Izhar had said, "it was the Jadugar who advised the Attarah on how to call upon Vasheru's power."

Izhar's story went well beyond the holy mantras recited by each and every acolyte and master. By his telling, the Jadugar were ancient sorcerers in service of the savior of humanity who carved out the Stormblade Temple, raised the walls from the earth, and created the city of Stronghold in defiance of Kurath. It was they who uncovered the paths of the Moonstrider while searching the four corners of all the known world. They who had spoken with the Urujaav, followers of the Formless—more mystical beings from a lost age.

Now, Sidge understood the title of Jadugar to be an honorary one given to the Attarah's advisor. Yet in his youth, he had listened, fascinated by Izhar's tale. He'd returned to the temple barely aware of Izhar's tight grip on his small hand so the winds wouldn't carry him away. When they'd finally wrestled open the door, Master Gohala had been standing there. Sidge had stared up at the statuesque Cloud Born in awe. Deeply lined and weathered even then, Gohala's stern guise came so naturally Sidge assumed he'd perfected it at birth. This expression was hemmed between thick eyebrows and a combed beard, trimmed with a precision he required of his many acolytes.

Hanging from Gohala's neck was a corestone the size of a fighting dagger. So substantial, looped in gold and platinum, it had the gravity of the obsidian cliff face in miniature. His robes, spotless. His stole, blinding white.

"The walls are dangerous," Gohala had said once the door closed behind them.

"Perhaps, but they're the only place for this lesson." Master Izhar was already trying to make his way down the hall, dragging Sidge.

"Lesson? What would you teach it?"

The venom in Gohala's voice had stopped Izhar in his tracks. His hand cinched tighter around Sidge's. "We start at the beginning. Where all mantras start. The Trials, the Jadugar..."

Gohala laughed and Izhar's grip became a solid pressure. Sidge felt little pain but wondered if his chitin would collapse or dent.

"No harm in teaching fairy tales," Gohala said. "But giving lessons? Presumptuous, don't you think? The Stormblade has not spoken on the matter of its inclusion."

"He will. He'll see things my way."

"Our charitable leader does seem to have a weak spot for your ramblings. Best we set things straight in case you are correct." Gohala knelt, eye to eye with Sidge. "Only Vasheru and the Attarah matter here. The one who protects us, and the one who freed humanity."

Izhar's face had turned several shades of red through his brown skin. His unruly beard flared around his jaw.

Sidge didn't understand, then or now, why Izhar had dragged him down the hall muttering curses. Gohala had always been an aloof sort of master. Besides, the Stormblade had sided with Izhar and approved Sidge's induction into the order. Though Sidge couldn't help but wonder if such dispensations could be revoked, say, if Gohala became the Stormblade.

His thoughts were interrupted by a deep reverberation along his antennae. A constant note which grew closer and faded as though it came from inside the perpetual rotation of the Storm. Sidge knew the precise rhythm and carefully measured strikes necessary to make the sound but thanked Vasheru he wasn't assigned to tend the bell today for it meant he was late.

The Stormcaller mantra merged with the bell and swelled through the dark corridor, a thing of its own, living on the breath of the hundreds of acolytes gathered in the courtyard. Sidge's feet slapped furiously on the smooth floor.

Mighty dragon

Dweller in the storm

Grant us Fire, grant us Wisdom

As the bell tone receded, the voices of the Cloud Born layered atop the acolytes' chanting.

Freedom for all time

Empty is the Sun Palace

Empty are the chains

He broke into a run.

The masters' voices sounded deep and stretched, an echo across a cosmic void. At the peak, their chants drowned out the acolytes who continued their own mantra with an unbroken rhythm. Sidge tried to control his breathing as he raced toward a sturdy oak door at the end of the hall.

He skidded into the door and steadied himself with four palms on the handle. With a prayer to Vasheru, he pushed and the wind tore the handle from his grip, nearly throwing him outside.

He pulled his wings in tight beneath his robes, then crouched and stepped into the gale. Chanting from the courtyard was lost to the roaring wind. He struggled to close the door, pushing with all four arms and heavy steps. When he finally managed to force the door to a point where the wind slammed it shut, he flattened himself against it to catch his breath.

Another quiet prayer, and he fought his way into the wind. His robes cracked against his chitin as he angled for an open stair descending into the shelter of the courtyard.

Crossing the ramparts, Sidge couldn't help but be awed once again by the commanding view of the Stormblade Sheath he'd first seen so many years ago, and lately only saw through the narrow, recessed windows of his room. He was tall enough now to see over the battlements, and his expansive sight allowed him to take in the vast spectacle framed by the temple cliff.

Winds carried a haze of fine dust across the Sheath, and lightning forked in mesmerizing arcs. Far to the north, a pillar of light pierced the earth, the great axle around which the storm spun.

Normally Sidge loved nothing more than to watch this display of Vasheru's power. Even with the pilgrimage blessing underway, even with his tardiness, he fought the urge. But today, more than the sky sought his attention.

Far in the distance, a lone figure moved across the Sheath. It crawled along the lip of a deep gully. He couldn't make out details, but by the gait and profile, it was a man.

Strange. All the acolytes and Cloud Born would be at the ceremony and none of them would be out seeking a corestone. Rarely, an adventurer would try to approach the center of the Storm. They were often turned back and those foolish enough to press too far without a channeler from the Temple were not heard from again.

Sidge offered a prayer to Vasheru for the man before starting his descent down the narrow open stairs into the courtyard. Acolytes huddled at the base of the temple like stones in a black river, their collective mantra washing over them and breaking on the fortifications.

The temple's grand stair was flanked by platinum likenesses of Vasheru, running up to an open portico. On each step knelt a row of Cloud Born. At the top landing, the Stormblade himself faced the gathered acolytes, the age of his many years blurred by the distance.

Surrounding the head of their order were four Cloud Born; those chosen for the chaining ritual to carry the elder's Wisdom, Vasheru's gift, on the pilgrimage. Masters Udai and Tarak stood in front of and behind the Stormblade with the meticulously groomed Master Gohala to his right. To his left, stood Master Izhar, whose wrinkled robes could not be masked by any amount of distance.

Sidge's steps faltered and he nearly tripped as he fixated on the creases of his master's robes made plain in the light of day. He slowed his pace to avoid drawing attention as he descended the stair and to keep his distracted state from causing him to tumble from the dangerous height. For such an auspicious occasion, they should've at least worked more on his Master's appearance.

Surely if he were ever asked to stand in such an honored place, he'd have cleaned, repaired and smoothed his robes to the best of his ability. He would stand proud in defiance of their ancient enemy, Kurath. Chant the Masters' mantras with perfect precision and pitch. Wave happily at his pupils as they tried to furtively enter the courtyard.

Wave?

Was Izhar waving at him?

"Vasheru's Beard!" Sidge muttered.

Master Gohala flinched.

Sidge tried to make himself as small as possible as he scampered down the last few steps. Gray robes on a polished black field, he was every bit as conspicuous as the single thread he'd plucked from the floor of his room. He found himself wishing Vasheru's clawed hand had plucked him from the wall before anyone noticed.

He approached the back ranks of acolytes, their eyes fixed on the heavens and arms outstretched. He joined in their chant and spread his four arms to the sky. Above, the storm roiled, and the four Cloud Born surrounding the Stormblade raised their corestones. His voice like thunder, the Stormblade recited the mantra of the Four Corners.

Fire in the clouds

Knowledge in the Earth

Life in the waters

Shelter in the stone

Mighty Dragon, Child, Father and Mother

Blessed are the four corners

Farthest reaches of all creation

Freed are we from stone upon stone

Go forth

Seek the corners

Where the Worldblood pooled

In timeless dream

Sidge's robes cinched around his body. Air fell heavy on his antennae and they pressed to his head. He breathed in the cleansing scent of knowledge and power as light tore open the sky.

It lasted the briefest of moments and shuddered again, a vein of energy connecting the heavens and the Stormblade. The rest stood with their eyes closed, their robes grasping at their limbs like funeral wrappings.

Sidge held still, dazzled by the power, lidless eyes coruscating with light. He watched the bolt fracture in the Stormblade's grasp and leash the four Cloud Born together in a display of the Wisdom stronger than any he'd ever witnessed. Only the Stormblade had such control, to call the Fire into himself and know the will of Vasheru without being burned to ash. His successor, one of the four chained to him by the whipping arc of energy, would come to know the same power.

One by one, Sidge's lenses faded into a bruised glare until he saw nothing but the bolt of lightning. His robe fell slack and, finally, sightless, he waited for what would come next. A fist of thunder pounded the courtyard and rattled his insides. His antennae rippled in the passing wave.

Blinded, deafened, he continued the chant and reveled in the presence of Vasheru. He'd made it to the blessing. The pilgrimage he'd waited his entire life to embark on would soon begin. There were many obstacles ahead, but the touch of the Mighty Dragon erased all doubt.

As Sidge's vision returned he watched Master Izhar bow to the Stormblade. The two clasped hands and embraced. For all his lack of decorum, Izhar was understood by the head of their order. More signs of hope for both of them. Though when the Stormblade pulled away, he spoke and Izhar's face furrowed in concern and confusion.

Gohala's cold eyes watched the exchange then fell upon Sidge. The sea of gray around him parting, Sidge gave an awkward bow toward the masters atop the stair before following his fellow acolytes to the carriages.

CHAPTER IV

Day after day, Sidge drove the vardo onward. The dirt track leading from the Temple had descended into expanses of tall grass and the occasional farmer's field. Further ahead, tree-covered mountain slopes rose into an unbroken field of blue.

When they'd first left the shadow of the clouded skies, Sidge was amazed by the power of the sun hidden behind the storm. Brighter than even the pillar of Vasheru's flame, it brought life to everything it touched.

He'd never seen the world so vibrant. Tree branches drooped with golden pods, their cinnamon-hued bark visible through leaves tinged by autumn. Flowers of brilliant shades peeked out of endless seas of green. Many of these colors, he couldn't name. His life at the temple had been a palette of black and gray.

He missed gray.

One week into their journey, he'd started to wish for the uniform blackness of the Stormblade Temple and the predictable rhythm of the rotating sky. He missed the bell. The clean smell of the air. Here, so many odors assaulted his antennae that he kept them flat and under his hood. Leaves and grass twitched all around, driven by unpredictable winds. The sun burned overhead relentlessly. Sidge did his best to block out the blazing globe with the hood of his robes.

Night offered the only relief. But it was then that a chorus of unseen creatures floated out of the dense fields and woods. Rhythmic mantras older than the Temple, they could have been joyful calls yet their hidden source unnerved him.

He'd brought his broom. His sewing kit. They provided comforts of home, but not the clarity. He wished he had paid more attention to Master Izhar's lesson about acolytes finding it hard to leave on the journey. How Vasheru was everywhere, even here under a cloudless sky.

Days rumbled by, the grind of the vardo's wheels broken by cool, sleepless nights. For Sidge, only the quiet moments in the gray of twilight brought any peace.

They were two weeks from home and had long since fallen behind the others and lost sight of the caravan. Once distant, the southern mountains loomed on the horizon, higher than Vasheru's Sanctum. As they grew closer to both the mountains and to Cerudell, Sidge began to see more signs of civilization. Farmers working in their fields would occasionally pause and wave. Sidge would wave back, but they never approached. Having already seen the glory of the full caravan ahead of them, he supposed these men had little reason to break from their duties.

Their supplies in the vardo had thinned noticeably. Sidge ate judiciously of his own specially prepared foods. He felt those would last until they reached Stronghold. Master Izhar's food, he wasn't so sure about.

Izhar rode in the cabin of the vardo most days. His mantras resonated in the wooden space for hours on end and when not meditating, he seemed distracted. Sidge could only assume his thoughts lay with the Stormblade and the weighty matter of who would be his successor.

Distracted or not, Izhar acted unconcerned about their supplies or how far they'd fallen behind. "Vasheru will provide," he would say. He assured Sidge they'd rejoin the caravan before long. Exactly how long was currently being determined by their mismatched team.

The Paint had come to a full stop to chew on a stalk of grass that rose shoulder height at the side of the road. Beside him, the Nag could've been asleep in the harness, except for a lazy twitch of her tail. Her most comfortable pace barely differed from her current disposition.

Sidge slapped the reins and the Paint sneered at him. Yes, that's what it did. The creature turned a shaggy head and exposed its teeth before blowing a fine mist of horse spit and grass into the air.

"Loathsome creature," Sidge muttered.

The vardo shifted. "Everything alright?"

"Yes, Master," Sidge replied. "A quick break for the horses, that's all." He kept the frustration from his voice but his wings buzzed beneath his robes.

"I see. Not too long, though. We want to make Cerudell before nightfall." Another jostle as Izhar grumbled inside the vardo. "I'd much prefer a night's rest in a bed."

"Of course, Master." Sidge worked hard to hide the frustration in his voice. He stood on the foot board, waved all four arms and clacked his mandibles. The Nag's drooping head barely budged. One of the Paint's ears twitched and it smacked a mouthful of grass before sauntering forward, leaving his companion no choice but to follow. Sidge dropped onto the bench, cursing. The wheels ground onward and they maintained a steady pace until midday.

Up ahead, two children led a team of oxen with brightly painted horns through an adjacent field. Their oxen dragged a plow, cleaving the dirt into mounds. One of the children pointed as the vardo approached and they raced to the roadside.

Sidge realized he'd never actually seen a small child before. Acolytes were sent by their parents as young men, and never had a traveler brought a child to the barren and dangerous lands around the temple. Oddly, Sidge was the only exception, and Izhar rarely spoke of why or how this came to be. Sidge was perfectly fine with the lack of explanation for the last thing he wanted was to be reminded exactly how different he was.

Watching the shirtless boys approach the road, their bare feet sinking in the freshly plowed earth, Sidge recalled the same carefree attitude of his own childhood. He'd been small enough to ride in Izhar's hood or hide beneath the Master's beard when it used to be a solid color similar to the upturned field. He spread his mandibles joyously.

He wondered what games they played, or if they had much time to do so. No, they probably took to their duties early, much like he had, out of necessity and reverence. That would be proper.

The children waited anxiously at the roadside for the vardo to pass.

Once the squat wagon jostled close enough that Sidge could see the expressions on their faces, he watched the excitement melt. They appeared confused, as though they weren't sure exactly what it was they were seeing.

"Greetings," called Sidge. He waved with his upper right arm. The smaller of the two children squeaked and backed away.

Sidge reined in the Paint and, to his surprise, it pulled to a stop. Mouths agape, the boys looked up.

"A pleasure to meet you. I am Sidge, acolyte of the Stormblade Temple." Sidge placed his palms together and bowed from the driver's seat. They offered no response. "Perhaps you have seen the rest of the caravan?"

The boy closest to the road nodded.

"Is that a mask?" asked the youngest, breathless.

"Oh, no." Sidge parted his mandibles in a smile and wiggled his antennae. Both boys backed away, and he put his palms out. "No, I'm an Ek'kiru. You have seen one before? Yes?"

The youngest peered over his brother's shoulder. "Do you eat children? That's what my mother says."

Sidge cleared his throat. "I do not."

"We've seen Ek'kiru," said the older boy, elbowing his brother. "They were pulling the big, shiny wagon with a golden roof and lacquered wheels and with the silver face of Vasheru on the side in all his splendor."

Sidge eyed their own vardo as the child spoke and his wings buzzed under his robes. A hideous thought occurred to him and he asked, "Surely they did not try to eat you?"

"No," replied the older boy. "But they were in harness." He gestured to the oxen behind him.

Sidge struggled to find an answer but before he could, the vardo shimmied and he heard Master Izhar's feet on the steps.

"Vasheru protect you!" Izhar called out in greeting as he approached the boys. He held a clay urn in his hands, one of the many packed with soil from the Sheath.

When they saw Izhar approaching, the boys bowed. "Greetings, Cloud Born," said the oldest.

"Are we interrupting your chores?" asked Izhar. He didn't give them a chance to answer. "Good. I'll bet you could use a break, hmm?" The youngest grinned. "May I speak to your father? We're on the pilgrimage, as you know, and would be happy to trade for supplies."

The oldest boy indicated a mud and timber house in the distance.

"Ah, good." Izhar turned to Sidge. "Would you mind watching over the horses?"

Remembering his place, Sidge clambered from the driver's seat and bowed before Izhar. "Of course not, Master."

"Take a break yourself," Izhar called as the two boys led him away. "Have some of those tasty children of yours." Izhar laughed and ruffled the younger one's hair as the boy gasped and turned fearful eyes toward Sidge.

Sidge watched them walk away, and well within his broad view, the Paint grinned.

***

Night fell, and the fields gave way to the dark shadows of trees. The road climbed into the mountains. An almost cloying smell replaced the richness of freshly turned earth, and Sidge knew it was the trees, their branches dripping amber wads of sap on every inch of the vardo. He could hear them strike the metal roof in irregular beats which hastened with the wind. Each shift in the breeze, the narrow trees would sway and crack their tops together to make a sound like bone on bone. Sidge pulled further into his hood.

Above the rattle and chime of the wagon and the spectral knocking, Sidge heard Izhar's snore in the vardo's cabin. He let his antennae inch out and focus on the sound. Once he'd become an acolyte, several floors of the temple separated him from his master, and he no longer slept in the chest at the foot of Izhar's bed. Hearing the labored wheeze again was comforting in its way.

The sound took his mind off the dance of the trees, but it couldn't completely erase his worries. Before they'd begun the ascent, he'd taken the precaution of unpacking the wheel chains so he could lock the wheels for steeper grades. The chains sat on the bench beside him, his hand running through the links and drawing out the sweet scent of oil.

Farsal had taught him all he knew about driving a wagon, which, it turned out, was quite complicated. As with every duty at the temple, Sidge approached this new task with a zeal not often shared by the other acolytes.

"You're a man of many talents," Farsal had told him as Sidge checked the distance on the breeching strap with his foot. Only the Nag was hitched to the vardo that day, and she ignored his awkward motion. His use of a foot had been an afterthought, as his upper hands were occupied with the reins, and his middle hands held the wheel chains which Farsal had promised to show him how to use next.

Sidge had pulled his foot back to the bench quickly. "Trying to be thorough."

"You needn't hold the chains while you sit. They belong on the rear wheels."

"I know." Navigating a steep decline, letting the wagon slip into a controlled slide behind the horses, had been a frightening idea even many months ago, in the flat and level courtyard.

Two more of Gohala's acolytes had approached, brothers Abhay and Mukesh. Farsal hadn't seen them cross the courtyard, but Sidge had watched as he balanced his concerns with the vardo. The two acolytes had spoken into each other's ears and laughed at a private joke. While most of the acolytes were pleasant enough, Farsal was the only one Sidge shared a camaraderie like that with. When they'd gotten to the front of the wagon, Abhay and Mukesh had bowed.

"Brothers," said Farsal.

Abhay had spoken first. "Something seems out of place here." His eyes moved to Sidge and then the open space next to the Nag. "Ah yes, part of your team."

Farsal had blushed, and Sidge remembered trying to offer an explanation. The unruly Paint had simply been too much trouble, especially for any sort of training. Farsal had interrupted Sidge. He'd greeted his brothers and excused himself, walking away with them in a huff.

The whole event had been forgettable, but the feel of the chains under his fingers and the fragrant oil brought the memory back. The memory and a more recent encounter.

Sidge recalled the oxen and the young boys.

But they were in harness.

Sidge withdrew his hood. His grip tightened on the wheel chains and he watched the road ahead. He added the clacking of his mandibles to the clamor of the trees.

CHAPTER V

A stone archway marked the outskirts of the city of Cerudell. Ornate braziers cradled flames at the base of each column. Fire painted the arch with an orange glow lost between light and shadow, but Sidge could see much of the details as the vardo drew closer. He wondered who, if anyone, tended the flame, but couldn't see beyond the wall of darkness made by the trees.

Nearly to the threshold, Sidge pulled the team to a stop. The mountain road had been well-traveled and the incline steady, only leveling out as the arch came into view. Both horses shared a quiet sigh.

Acolytes had brought back countless stories of Cerudell's arch. Sidge had developed a clear picture in his imagination, but facing the relic, he had an odd realization. There was something out of place, he was certain, but he couldn't describe it.

The stone edifice spanned the entire road, wide enough here for four wagons to travel abreast. Each column was carved in the likenesses of men and women standing atop each other's shoulders. They were clad only in red skirts, with skin of alabaster white, but he couldn't tell if this was due to an added pigment or the stone itself.

Among the acolytes' stories, much had been made of the shirtless women. Sidge supposed he understood the attraction, but the cold stone interested him little despite the mastery of the sculptor. The presence of women was odd enough as there were none at the Stormblade Temple and none of note mentioned in the mantras. Women, like children, were another curiosity to him and the Rule explained their societal duty as keepers of the home. Out of necessity the acolytes performed their own chores and he did more than his fair share, so he understood the unspoken value of such work. But why would there be so many women depicted on this relic? Yet as intriguing as the question was, it wasn't what bothered him about the arch. His full attention was drawn by what the columns supported.

Vasheru's serpentine body arched overhead. His mighty tail encircled the left column and on the right, His face peered out from beside grasping hands. Fire danced in His deeply grooved eyes. Fury creased His lips, torn apart in a roar which Sidge had felt rattle the Temple many times before.

On the back of the Mighty Dragon stood the Attarah. Strong and powerful, his countenance was commanding, even in stone carved so long ago. Broken chains dangled from his hands and the terminating ends wound along the side of the Dragon to each column.

Sidge knew he should bow or say a blessing to the likeness of both the Dragon who protected them and the Savior who'd freed them, but he was paralyzed under their flickering gaze.

"Are we there yet?" Izhar emerged from the vardo and limped toward the front, as if attempting to return feeling to his legs.

Sidge muttered a hasty blessing and slid from the bench to bow. "Yes, Master. Cerudell lies beyond the arch."

"Rise." Izhar continued past him. "Your first of many beginnings."

Sidge moved to Izhar's side. His mind swam with questions the longer he examined the arch but none of them seemed to be the right one to ask. Then it struck him, like Vasheru's Wisdom, and he understood what bothered him.

At the temple, he'd always been told the Attarah and Vasheru were atop the arch. This was correct in a manner of speaking, yet not the full truth, and looking closely, Sidge knew why no acolyte had given a proper description in the Dragon's house. He struggled for a way to broach the subject with Izhar.

"A question." Sidge waited for Izhar's approval before continuing. "The Trials tells us of the suffering of mankind under Kurath, the Rebellion speaks of the Attarah's flight, the Forge describes the ways of the Temple and the Rule gives guidance for proper governance. Was this arch intended to reflect a particular mantra? From the Rule, perhaps? I only ask because there is no mantra which describes the Attarah riding Vasheru." He couldn't keep the disdain from his voice.

He saw Izhar smile wryly. "Not all images are a perfect reflection of their subject."

"So this image is untrue? Why is it here, at the first stop on our holy pilgrimage?"

"Not untrue. Open to interpretation." Izhar gestured to the arch as he spoke, and his faint grin gave way to the same concern Sidge had seen cross his face during the ceremony. "The Attarah freed humanity from their chains, and the Jadugar, those on the pillars, harnessed the power of the Storm to protect us. But with interpretations come many meanings. With time, many chances for those meanings to be lost." Izhar watched him closely. "Tell me, what are the Four Corners?"

Izhar had shared many theories regarding the Storm Temple's teachings, but Sidge found himself answering the question with the customary Temple teachings. "The corners are the pillars of civilization. They are embodied by the four chosen Cloud Born in the chaining ceremony. Symbolized on the pilgrimage by our main stops in Cerudell, Stronghold, the edge of the desert at Abwoon, and the Storm Temple itself."

"A perfect recital of doctrine, acolyte." Izhar tugged his beard and considered Sidge. "But an artifact built in the times of the Attarah and the Jadugar stands before us which no mantra adequately describes. Perhaps doctrine doesn't always suffice."

Sidge moved closer to the pillar, forcing more of the detail across his lenses. "This is what the Jadugar looked like? I mean, were presumed to look like?"

"There are many secrets yet to learn, Sidge. For both of us." Izhar's voice was drifting away. He'd begun moving back toward the vardo and into Sidge's blind spot. "And I have an errand here to assist us in that." The vardo jangled under Izhar's weight. "Onward to the city," he called from the cabin steps. "There will be a camp outside the gate where the acolytes and teams will rest for the night."

"Yes, Master."

Sidge wanted to dismiss the sculpture as nothing more than an artist's interpretation. Yet the longer he looked at the arch, the more he began to understand Izhar's interest. The Jadugar were depicted in such fine detail, Sidge could almost believe they were more than legends. Perhaps they'd once been many, men and women, whereas now "Jadugar" was only a title held by one man in the Attarah's court. He wondered what other mysteries he might see in Stronghold, where great halls and palaces stood which had been built during the time of the first recitation of the Rule.

"Sidge?" Izhar called.

"Coming!" He hurried back to the vardo and saw the wheel chains strewn across the bench. He realized fear had brought the chains into his hands. A steady climb, unable to see the road ahead; an impending descent which never came but always lurked around the next corner.

Level ground and the light of the braziers calmed his fears. Cerudell marked the highest point of their journey—they'd tackle the descent in the light of day. He stowed the chains in the cabinet where they belonged. When he was done, he guided the horses beneath the arch and bowed his head to Vasheru. The Dragon's fierce countenance glared after him.

***

Sun beat down on the clearing outside the wooden palisade of Cerudell proper. Sidge knelt on the roof of the vardo, scrubbing at droplets of hardened sap with a damp cloth.

Earlier in the morning, when dawn was lingering below the treetops, the light had been a pleasant warmth on his back. As he worked, the morning wore on, the roof warmed, and his insides felt as though they were curdling.

It was autumn, in the mountains. He'd been told the weather would be crisp and cool. At home, the temperature was the same, year round. But this dreaded sun found every crack in his chitin and pooled on his back in burning points.

He leaned over the edge to check on his robes. Before the sun rose, he'd found a nearby stream to clean the sap from them as well. They were only now beginning to dry.

They'd arrived last night, after the acolytes' camp had turned in for the evening. Master Izhar had departed for the comforts of the city where the other Cloud Born rested, and Sidge had turned to the sleeping camp, unsure what to do with himself. He'd secured the vardo, seen to the horses, and settled in for a night of recitation, going back to the Trials, Izhar's favorite. Finally, he'd washed his robe, eaten his breakfast, and begun work on cleaning the vardo while the rest of the camp stirred.

From the roof, he watched the acolytes pack their campsite following a quick meal. Cloud Born were beginning to return from the city where they'd stayed. Yet there was no sign of Izhar.

A woodland outpost, Cerudell had long had a shortage of space to host the yearly pilgrimage's carriages and teams, let alone a small army of young acolytes eager to experience civilization. As tradition dictated, the Masters stayed inside the city, and on the pilgrimage's return trip the acolytes would be allowed in for a feast. By then, having walked in the footsteps of the Attarah, they would have proved their worth.

Sidge wondered what he'd have proved.

Two acolytes approached the vardo and Sidge waved.

"Greetings, Sidge!" called the youngest. Manoj was thin with prominent cheeks supporting eyes that seemed too large and far apart for his head. Partly because of this, he held an expression of perpetual wonder which always made Sidge happy to see him.

Anil walked beside him, reserved, with his arms crossed and hands tucked away into his sleeves. He gave a simple tilt of his head in greeting, but it was not the perfunctory motion of someone like Girish. It was warm and friendly. He was a handsome acolyte with the bearing of a true master.

"Brothers," said Sidge. He placed his palms together and dipped his head, a motion the two below repeated.

"You were not at breakfast," said Manoj. His eyes seemed larger than normal.

"Even outside a dining hall I shouldn't subject you to my fare," replied Sidge.

"But this is a camp for the acolytes only. There are no picky masters to be concerned about," said Manoj. "Besides, you must've caught wind of Master Kamdar's camp. I'd swear, they packed nothing but beans and cabbage for the entire trip." Manoj delivered the joke as an afterthought, his eyes bulging and focused just behind Sidge. "So interesting. The way the light changes."

Anil adopted a similar fixation on the air above Sidge's shoulders. His more composed nature kept him from staring as pointedly as Manoj. Unsure, Sidge twisted his head slightly to scan his blindspot.

"What?"

Anil spoke first. "Your wings. I've... we haven't seen them much before."

Sidge realized the translucent and veined appendages were spread out into the sun behind him and he pulled them in tightly. "I'm sorry."

"No, they're quite interesting. The sun comes right through them like bubbled glass," said Manoj, circling to see them as Sidge pivoted away.

"My robe was covered in sap and I had to clean it. It's probably dry now."

Manoj's path had led him to where Sidge's robes hung from a hook near the vardo's back door. He squeezed the hem of the robes between his fingers, but his eyes stayed firmly on Sidge's wings. "A bit damp yet. Should dry soon enough, with this sun."

Sidge shifted again and tried to change the subject. "Have either of you seen Farsal?"

Anil spoke first. He'd managed to pry his attention away and focus on Sidge's eyes. "You know Cloud Born Gohala, he keeps his acolytes busy. They always have to be first to leave at the head of the caravan."

"Yep. Getting the first trades, the first praise, the first everything. Not sure what he'd do if he weren't in the lead," grumbled Manoj. His fixation was starting to make Sidge feel like he were trapped beneath a glass. "Has Farsal seen your wings? Or are they like parts you don't normally show people? Gohala's Ek'kiru might have wings, but if so they're under those bright shells of theirs. Why don't you have a wing shell?"

Sidge fumbled for an answer.

"Manoj," said Anil, his head tilted toward the din of the camp. "Master Tarak calls."

"We'll see you at the next stop?" asked Manoj as Anil dragged him away.

"Vasheru willing." Sidge half-parted his mandibles then waved, pulling his wings in so tightly he heard them crackle under the strain. Manoj continued to look behind him until Anil's folded arm lashed out and cuffed him, returning to his sleeve as if nothing ever happened.

Sidge had spoken and worked with Manoj many times before at the Temple; never before had he seemed so fascinated by his fellow acolyte. True, his wings were rarely exposed except in the privacy of his room. Only out of necessity were they exposed here. Leaving dried sap on his robes would have been more shameful than exposing the odd sheen of his chitin. Out across the camp, acolytes toiled at packing supplies and readying horses, many with their robes set aside so as not to stain them with sweat. No one bothered them.

Signs of the morning meal had been cleared, and teams were being hitched to their carriages. On the far side, Sidge caught a glimpse of the two Ek'kiru backing into their traces. Did they not sleep either? He wondered where they'd been throughout the night.

Sidge regarded their own horses, tied to a tree not far from the vardo. Both twitched their tails lazily, fanning away the heat and a cloud of insects. Neither appeared to be interested in the preparations, or ready to be rehitched.

Until Izhar made it back, Sidge wasn't sure it mattered. He could harness the team, and then what? Wait for the unpredictable Paint to begin dragging the wagon back down the mountain before his master returned?

Sidge released his wings with a burst and bent over the roof again. Growing heat had loosened the sap and he scrubbed more vigorously, watching the copper shine in the growing light.

Carriages and wagons began to depart. At the lead was Gohala's resplendent throne room on wheels, with the two vast Ek'kiru scuttling along ahead and a train of banner-wielding acolytes on each side.

Sidge felt a breeze tug against his wings. He thought for a moment that if he gave in, he'd be swept into the sky, and he pulled the wings in closer. They collapsed on the edge of his vision and briefly he saw what had dazzled Manoj, as light traveled the veins in iridescent hues. Like the sun on his metallic blue skin. Like the lightning in the courtyard across the colorful backs of Gohala's team.

Maybe it was best he and Master Izhar traveled behind the others. At least until he could get the sap off the vardo and his robes dried. They were in no state to represent the Temple.

CHAPTER VI

"Hello!"

The greeting caught Sidge by surprise. Hard at work on the back corner of the roof, he hadn't seen anyone approach. This was not the voice of an acolyte, ripened with age or tremulous in youth, nor the smooth baritone of a Cloud Born. But the single exclamation was a melody and he wanted to hear more. He sat up so he could see over the edge.

A broad-brimmed hat first caught his eyes. Draped beneath was a fine silk scarf, dyed the color of deepest night. The scarf seemed out of place with the plain, formless clothing the traveler wore, but it framed and complimented a face as interesting as the voice.

The acolytes were all far enough into their manhood that hair in one degree of thickness or another grew along their cheeks and chins. They cultivated what little they had with great pride. Even Sidge sported his own coarse chin hairs, though they were difficult to see and nothing to be groomed. This traveler's face was smooth, with cheeks like the polished visages on the Cerudell arch.

A young boy? No, that wasn't right. The eyes told him. Like the lips and the cheeks, the eyes appeared sculpted, each corner and line traced perfectly by an artisan's hand. And in their olive-brown depths, there was a mystery and understanding no acolyte or even Cloud Born ever held.

Wind gusted from behind the traveler. What Sidge had first believed to be a scarf separated and feathered across her cheek.

She smiled.

The image of her lips parting filled Sidge's mind, and the rest of the green, sun-drenched, swaying world melted away. A breeze struck the vardo, and his wings, which had unfurled proud and straight, dragged him away from the edge. He allowed the current take him, and tumbled back onto the roof out of sight.

"Are you alright?" he heard her say.

Sidge descended the far side, intending to use the cabinets as footholds, but he found it easier to again let his wings gather the wind and they carried him down. "I'm fine," he cried. "One moment!"

Here he was, half-naked, with a woman standing right on the other side of the vardo. He snatched his robes and pulled his wings tight to struggle into them. "Be right there... Mistress... Miss..."

"Kaaliya," she said from the far side.

Sidge pulled the hood forward and tight across his cheeks. Whether she was a commoner or not, he needed to show respect for his temple. He cleared his throat and crossed his hands into his sleeves—like Anil, earlier. This seemed a proper thing to do.

When he rounded the corner, the same smile greeted him. Her eyes, no, not a man's in any possible way, drank in every inch of his own bulbous eyes and narrow face.

"You're the acolyte I've heard so much about," she said.

"I am Sidge." He bowed.

"Kaaliya." She stuck out her hand. He took it without thinking. This was not the proper way to greet a woman.

Still, Sidge wasn't sure if she was the one who held tight for a moment longer than a hand shake should allow. He tried to gauge her reaction and she didn't appear eager to pull away.

He was only vaguely aware of Master Izhar joining them. "I see you two have met."

She smoothly released his hand.

"Yes, we have, Master," Sidge said with a bow.

Kaaliya's smile thinned but kept every bit of its potency. He felt heat flush his face and his antennae unwound against his hood and toward the sky.

"Never met an Ek'kiru before?" asked Izhar. "Or, perhaps it's the other way around," he muttered.

"I've met plenty of Ek'kiru," she remarked. "Your acolyte just has a very distinct coloration."

"Thank you," stammered Sidge. "As do you." His compliment drew an amused look. He wanted to explain but found he'd lost the words, so he turned to the vardo and pretended to be busy.

With his back to her she gave an exasperated sigh. "And your wings, what happened to your wings?"

Sidge craned his neck, trying to see if the robes had caught and not fully covered them. "Why? Can you see them?"

"Not at all."

Her disappointed tone shocked him, and Sidge busied himself with checking the spokes on the nearest wheel. He'd already had to endure Manoj's slack-jawed stare, but with her, it had been a joyous look of admiration.

"I must remain properly attired in the vestments of my order." He recalled the wheel chains and his encounter with the boys in the fields. "Besides, I don't think the people here see many Ek'kiru. They have strange beliefs."

"What, you'll carry away their children in the night?" Kaaliya scoffed.

Despite himself, he turned. "Yes, exactly."

"If they knew the difference between Sli'mir's brood and the Ek'kiru, they'd know you'd have devoured them in broad daylight."

He started to ask her what she meant and Izhar stepped up beside him, placing his arm across Sidge's back.

"Don't worry, he's harmless. Only an old man's pupil brought along to assist on the pilgrimage." Izhar tugged at his beard. "Mistress Kaaliya will be accompanying us to Stronghold, acolyte."

"Very well, Master." Sidge put his palms together and bowed.

"That I shall," said Kaaliya. "Don't feel you have to hide in your robe for my sake, Acolyte Sidge." She turned to leave and stopped. "And for fuck's sake, if I had those wings, you'd be able to see them from the top of the Pamanites and the bottom of the Nilama Sea."

Suddenly, the robes he'd worn all his life felt tight and constricting across his back. A dead weight pinning down a limb. He felt the sudden need to free them. As she walked away, in the sway of her hips under the lazy cut of her shirt, the spark of an idea fanned.

No, he couldn't.

She was intriguing, but a commoner as evidenced by her profanity and dress. She had mentioned Pamanites, the Nilama; flying mountains and a legendary sea from which all the world's creatures crawled forth. More mysteries. More "workings of the Jadugar." No wonder she'd stumbled across Izhar.

Sidge turned his full attention to the vardo and examined the cabinet he'd absently opened. Another check to make sure everything was secure wouldn't hurt. Food. Cooking gear. His sewing kit.

He withdrew the final item and hinged open the wooden lid.

Izhar had given him the kit when he first showed an aptitude for sewing. Several thimbles sat untarnished and unused in their felt pockets. An assortment of needles for any material were tucked into the interior—some strong enough to stitch leather, though he hadn't much need for those. Even a curved crescent of fine platinum, perfect for piping along hems and upholstery. It was the most thoughtful gift he'd ever been given. The first and only, in fact, aside from his robes.

He'd already been given dispensation for the extra sleeves. Surely nobody would mind.

Of course, his uniform allowance hadn't been universally favored. It'd been Izhar who'd originally blustered and fumed when the elder Cloud Born requested that if Sidge were to join the Temple, at least his uniform should be the same as all the other acolytes.

Sidge had been happy to comply. He didn't want to be different. He didn't want any special treatment. All he truly wanted was to join with Izhar and his temple brothers.

He tossed the fantasy aside. He wanted to see her look of wonder again, but changing his robes would go too far. They could talk, at least. He could get to know her better and that would suffice.

She hopped onto the driver's bench, and Sidge followed.

***

Sidge took in as much of Cerudell proper as he could and still guide the horses along while maintaining a view of his new passenger. She reclined on the bench, her hat pulled low across her brow, and her breath measured and shallow. Sleeping, perhaps. He supposed there would be plenty more opportunities for conversation.

With their late start and crawling pace, they were once again well behind the rest of the caravan. People busied themselves along the streets, cleaning up from the parade. Women whisked pine boughs across the road to clear flower petals, which had left a crushed trail of ink behind. Merchants packed up their roadside stands, and knots of men in colorful dhotis laughed over half-empty cups.

Every surface of the stone and wood buildings along the road was carved and engraved with figures of men and women engaged in similar, everyday activities. Occasionally in the engravings, he would see the regal face of the Attarah or the fearsome visage of Vasheru. More often though, his lenses fell on the faces of the people of Cerudell.

They stared, perplexed, as the vardo wound along the streets. The dilapidated straggler. One woman's face wrinkled in revulsion. Sidge adjusted his hood and drove on.

Down a side street, he spotted a wooden dome, low to the earth but broader than several houses combined. What at first appeared to be shadows of the forest canopy took shape into gaps between gnarls of root and curved branches and through those gaps one could only see darkness underneath.

"A troll hut," mumbled Kaaliya. Her eyes were part open and watching him. She rattled off two more names. "Redburl's Realm. The Wooden Sanctuary."

Only the last sounded familiar. Acolytes had spoken of this—another feature of Cerudell. From his understanding, it predated the town, but wasn't a part of the mantras he knew so well. An idol was rumored to lay inside, but there was no entrance and the townsfolk left it alone. Probably out of fear and superstition.

"Do such creatures even exist? I've never seen a troll," said Sidge.

"We'll remedy that." She tipped her hat back over her eyes.

"Hmm?"

She pushed the brim up with a finger. "Your master didn't say? We have a stop along the way. My fare for the ride."

"No," said Sidge. "No, he didn't say."

Why would he need to? He was the Cloud Born, after all. Izhar didn't answer to his acolyte; he only answered to the Stormblade and the Mighty Dragon.

Still, it would've been nice to know. They were so far behind.

They continued down the avenue in silence. A man approached the vardo, and Sidge ducked further into his robes. People here were understandably put off by the tardy pilgrims' lack of respect for tradition. Would they face this kind of reception at every stop?

Sidge rehearsed an apology but a grin appeared underneath the stranger's bristling mustache. This was more the sort of welcome Sidge had hoped for. He relaxed and put his palms together in a bow as he slowed the horses.

"Not staying another night?" The man ignored Sidge, his eyes fixed on Kaaliya. She didn't answer.

Sidge didn't think she could be sleeping quite yet, but with a prepared apology fresh on his mind he felt the need to explain her silence to the stranger. "I believe Mistress Kaaliya is resting."

Drawn by Sidge's voice, the man's eyes penetrated the depths of the hood and shock crossed his face. He didn't answer and at first, moved away with his hands extended outward.

Wary eyes never leaving Sidge, the stranger moved up to the horses under the rueful eye of the Paint. The man gave the harness an assured tug which brought the vardo to a stop before he crossed to Kaaliya's side. Sidge watched in confusion and wondered if he'd been too quick to dispense with his apology.

With a cautious glance, the man licked his lips and spoke. "I said," his face hardened as the words formed, "are you staying another night?"

Sidge saw the hint of a grimace as Kaaliya sat forward and tilted back her hat.

"For you? No."

Gauging Sidge for a reaction, the man stiffly rested his arm across the foot board. "I can change your mind, maybe?" His other hand tapped a pouch hanging from his waist and Sidge heard the chime of coins. "We didn't get to catch up at the festivities last night."

"There was a reason for that, dear."

Sidge felt a dangerous edge to her reply.

"But that was long ago," protested the man. "Don't you forget such things?"

She reached out with one hand and smoothed his mustache while her other hand strayed toward her boot. Exactly how well did she know this stranger? For that matter, how well did he himself really know her?

"Never." Her response sliced the air.

The man's mustache trembled. He glanced at Sidge, his once shocked face now emboldened, and fumed at Kaaliya. "Taking up with bugmen now? Why would I even bother?"

"You shouldn't."

The two stared at each other. Sidge tilted his head as the stranger's jaw tightened.

Outbursts such as this happened on rare occasions at the Storm Temple. Izhar especially was famous for his short temper. But they were all bluster and rarely came to physical blows. Thunder without the strike. Yet, the look in this man's eyes felt dangerous. Sidge watched as the stranger shifted his weight and his fist dropped. Kaaliya's hand slipped into her boot and he noted the pommel of a dagger.

A dagger?

There was no time to call on Izhar. Even a weak display of Vasheru's Fire could certainly dissuade a fight. A few sparks. Almost any acolyte on the pilgrimage could do this. Except him.

Adrenaline surged and Sidge pointed his mandibles at the stranger, clacking them together in what he hoped was a menacing display.

"I eat children."

Kaaliya and the man turned to stare, eyes large and luminous in their dark-skinned faces.

Sidge rattled his mandibles again for good measure.

He watched the man gape in horror and saw Kaaliya's lips compress, holding back a fit of laughter. The stranger stumbled away, nearly tripping over a roadside cart garlanded with spices. Kaaliya tapped the back end of the hitching shaft with her foot. There was an indignant huff from the Paint, and it and the Nag sauntered down the road.

Sidge let the reins dangle from his fingertips. Had he actually said he ate children? Absurd. He wasn't a beast. An animal. He wasn't even a creature meant to be yoked to a wagon. He was an educated acolyte. A servant of the Attarah, Champion of Vasheru.

Then Kaaliya finally burst. Her voice had been a melody when they first met, and her laughter was a chorus sending shivers down his antennae. It rattled him like the thunder in the Temple courtyard. And like the voice of Vasheru, he felt blessed to hear it.

She wanted to speak but couldn't. Doubled over in fits of laughter, she reached out. Her hand gripped his forearm.

It was a thing more seen than felt—his chitin was hard and unyielding under her hand—but she held him with a firm grip and the longer she held, the more warmth seeped through his rigid shell. Kaaliya clung to his arm without thought or concern until the waves of laughter receded and she'd wiped the tears away.

Sidge forgot their tardiness. Forgot his annoyance at the disastrous scene they'd narrowly avoided. He continued to guide the horses down the street and the magnificent carvings and curious stares were lost to her smile.

That evening, as they camped beside the road under a moonless sky edged by the sharp outline of the forest, Sidge removed his sewing kit from the vardo's cabinet. Exactly as predicted, when he'd asked, Master Izhar hadn't minded. Far behind the rest of the caravan, back to a lonely road and a drizzle of sap, he didn't see why a few small gaps in his robe would matter.

He watched Kaaliya sleep near the fire as he sewed, her hair draped across her pack which she used as an impromptu pillow. He wondered what her reaction might be, and hoped for a smile at the least, but thought mostly of her laughter.

CHAPTER VII

At sunrise, Kaaliya waited patiently next to the vardo, her leather pack held out and a smirk crawling across her face. On a lark, Sidge flitted his wings in the cool morning air. He'd spent the entire night hard at work with needle and thread and was waiting for her reaction. While the smirk was something, he couldn't tell if she'd even noticed.

"Perhaps you could stop staring and take my bag?" She shook her pack but the smile deepened.

"I'm not the one staring," sputtered Sidge and he tried to provide his usual explanation. "My sight encompasses most everything around me. I faced my mandibles in your direction as a courtesy so it might be easier..."

"You're staring," Izhar grunted as he approached from the smoldering fire. Rationed breakfasts were most likely turning his unusually pensive mood, foul. The Paint neighed in a manner which Sidge took as agreement with the other two. "Take her bag and let's get underway." Izhar disappeared behind the vardo and the steps creaked but he leaned briefly around the corner. "The look. It suits you."

"Thank you, Master." Sidge bowed. As he did, Kaaliya draped her pack over his arm. With a pat on his shoulder, she sauntered past and sprang onto the driver's bench.

Not a word about his wings. He'd hoped for more. Briefly, he wondered if he should be offended.

He tested the veined, delicate limbs, letting them flutter, and was surprised at how easily he rose off the ground. As a child, before the robes, before the order, he'd flown some. It was the only way to keep from underfoot or to look Izhar in the eye. But the idea of trying it outside the Temple, so near the Storm, had always frightened him, even in the relatively calm courtyard.

Sidge took a crooked flight to the top of the vardo to tie down Kaaliya's pack on the rails. Awkward, but it was nice not to have to climb the cabinets along the side. Once the bag was secure, he floated to the driver's bench, the wary eye of the Paint following his every move. The Nag, half-blind, chewed pointlessly at the dirt road.

Kaaliya leaned against the cabin and tilted the broad brim of her hat. The frustration made his wings shudder with one last burst. She didn't look his way but her mouth remained upturned.

From inside, Master Izhar rapped on the wooden wall. Making a mental check of their preparations and definitely not staring at the lengths of ebony hair spilling across Kaaliya's chest, Sidge cracked the reins.

Their descent on the other side of Cerudell was less worrisome than he'd feared; Sidge wondered if the chains would be necessary before they arrived at the valley surrounding Stronghold. Cobble and flagstone paved the road much as they had in the city. The path was well-tended, and the horses put aside their uneven temperaments to settle into a steady crawl.

By afternoon, the road's condition degraded. In several places, thick roots wrenched the stones from the earth, and the wagon jolted as they crossed each one.

"Didn't even the tree roots obey the first Attarah and keep clear of the road?" Kaaliya muttered after a particularly vicious bump.

"There's nothing like that in the mantras." More of her commoner's understandings perhaps, but Sidge didn't want to offend her. "Of course, much of the mantras are guidance for the spirit."

"It's part of an old tale." Kaaliya's eyes lit up. "You've never heard it?"

"I've heard something similar. My master is fond of old folklore, the more mysterious passages of the Trials in particular. But our focus at the Stormblade Temple is on truth." Sidge quickly corrected himself. "Not that there isn't wisdom in common teachings." He considered the words and tried to make amends. "I mean—"

She interrupted him with a hand on his forearm and a laugh. He shivered involuntarily, and her touch ended all too quickly this time. "If I were offended you'd know."

"Good, I had no intention of offense." He recalled the knife hidden in her boot. "The folklore is fascinating, but Vasheru's disciples simply seek enlightenment by other means."

"But, 'Wisdom often chooses the house in which it dwells'," she recited.

"You know the Forge?"

"I know a bit of everything."

He examined her again through each and every lens when she said this. So different from himself. All the acolytes he'd grown up with shared his same gray vestments, the same mannerisms, the same duty to Vasheru. She, she was a mystery. A woman dressed more like a man, traveling without father, husband, or brother and who carried a dagger, cited the Forge, and spoke of commoner's tales.

"Where are you from?" he asked, unable to restrain himself.

"Here and there." Her eyes wandered to the trees flanking the road. "I was born at the Pit."

"A cave-dweller then?" He'd heard of the place; an enormous sinkhole, honeycombed by cliff dwellings and tunnels. With her smooth, unblemished skin and beautiful teeth, he had least expected this to be her answer. Ancient priests of a lost cult had made their home there long ago. Now it was a refuge for people without villages, families, or trades. A place for the lost and wretched to try and eek out survival in a world which had forgotten them. If folklore was to be believed, the Pit's depths had no end and some of the tunnels extended all the way beneath the Sea of Cantarra and northward to the land of the trolls.

"For a while," she replied. "My mother passed away when I was young, and after she died all I could think about was escape."

"I'm sorry to hear about your mother." Sidge's curiosity had gotten the best of him and he ignored the growing distance in her eyes. "What of your father?"

"Fathers are a luxury in the caves. Women care for the little ones. All the fathers do is make them." Her eyes still unfocused, she added, "Most of the time."

Her smile was gone completely now and he wanted to see if it would return. He turned his mandibles to the road and flicked the reins. "The Deep Night Festival should be glorious. Is that why you're going back to Stronghold? To celebrate the pilgrimage?"

"And business." She folded her arms.

"What sort of business?"

"The only one I know." Her lips shifted into a mirthless grin. "My father taught me."

He fell silent. He thought of the man in Cerudell and the almost bloody encounter. Unsure how to lighten the mood, he sank into his hood, out of the sun and the weeping trees. Before he could decide what else to say, Kaaliya's attention drifted to the side of the road.

"We'll need to take a trail on the right. Keep your eyes out, the path might be a bit overgrown."

"What trail? Why?"

The vardo bounced again and she balanced effortlessly. "That stop your master wishes to make."

He joined her in scanning the roadside. With his entire night spent sewing, he'd forgotten to ask Izhar about the details of their next delay. "There?"

Kaaliya remained focused and shook her head. "No, that's more of a game trail."

They continued watching the patchwork wall of green and shadow rolling by, but if anything the vegetation only grew denser. They were lower on the mountainside, where the pines were threaded among broad-leafed trees and thick undergrowth. So dense, even if a trail did exist, navigating the vardo through it would be impossible. He was about to ask if she was sure about the trail, when a mass of leaves and thorny vines quivered then parted.

He gasped.

Kaaliya's smile returned, and he drew in the reins. The Nag swayed to a stop, but the Paint trudged forward and dragged the other weary horse down the trail.

Sidge snapped his mandibles. "Stop, you brute!"

Kaaliya chuckled and slid close enough her soft thighs pressed against the bony chitin of his own. He shouldn't have felt much, but he did: a charge, like Vasheru's gift.

"You're challenging not leading," she said. She took his hands in hers and lightly pushed forward. "An animal that size will always win a show of strength. Ease up."

He followed the motions, and felt neither he nor the Paint had any choice but to let her delicate hands guide. Delicate, yet he'd felt the strength in her grip before on his arm. This close to her, Sidge could only see what her hat allowed. Her smooth and sculpted jaw was relaxed, and her lips... he struggled to understand the feeling they gave him.

The vardo lumbered to a stop. She released his hands and asked, "Got it?"

He nodded weakly. She playfully arched her eyebrows and leapt to the ground. He watched her a moment, poking into the brush, before he could find his voice.

Sidge called out to Izhar, loud enough to be heard inside the cabin. Axles creaked and the vardo jostled as Izhar stirred.

Kaaliya wandered toward the part in the undergrowth and stopped on the edge, sizing up the space. She spoke loudly, as though she were shouting to the trees.

"This won't work for the—" And she was gone.

Antennae casting wildly and his mandibles frozen wide open, Sidge sprung into the air and hovered near the spot where Kaaliya had disappeared. He peered desperately into the foliage and the wall of greenery rattled in the light breeze stealing his frantic attention with each twist and shiver.

"She's gone!"

"Hmmm?" Izhar wandered toward the front of the vardo.

"Mistress Kaaliya! She disappeared!"

Izhar's path began to take him dangerously close to the trail that had claimed Kaaliya. "I don't see how..."

Leaves twitched. Vines uncurled. Sidge dove toward Izhar, hoping to grab hold before the plants took him, too. He reached his master's side in time to see the patchwork of green knit closed behind them. Then, darkness.

***

Light returned in tiny whispers. Glowing strands floated through the air, both descending and rising on their own paths, yet never out of time with their closest neighbor. One lit near Sidge's face and he saw the shape of a bulb with dangling hairs. Riding atop this bulb was a fragile spider. Tentatively, he tried to pluck one from the air, and the mote jetted away against the unseen push of his hand.

One moment, he'd been on the Cerudell road trying to find Kaaliya, who'd disappeared into the grasping trees, and the next he sat in muted light. A domed roof vaulted above him woven from roots and patched with stone.

"If you knew yourself, they might know you," a gravelly voice grunted. The tiny motes began to collect and squirm into a solid sheet outlining an arm which pulled close to a face.

It was a squat creature dressed in bark—or perhaps the bark was its skin, Sidge wasn't certain. A green cloak of moss sprouted from the shoulders. Eyes, amber like droplets of sap, peered down at him. Sidge scooted away on his feet and palms until the hard edge of the dome was at his back.

A snort rushed from beneath the sheet of bark which hid the face. The creature stalked forward and his hands enveloped Sidge's arm and dragged him to his feet.

"Are you a troll?" Sidge asked shakily.

"At least one of us knows what we are," rumbled the troll.

"I... I am an acolyte of the Stormblade Temple," said Sidge.

"Only Truth is spoken here." The troll creaked past, and the sweet tang of damp wood struck Sidge's antennae. He watched the joints of the wooden plates on the troll and saw them stretch like seamless, fine cloth.

Holding a glowing arm aloft, the troll led Sidge out of the dome to enter a smoothly-bored dirt tunnel. Several branches diverted from the main route, but the troll wound its way purposefully past each. Soon, Izhar's voice could be heard in the distance.

"Master! I'm here, Master," called Sidge, pushing his way past his squat guide.

He found himself in another chamber much like the first, but smaller, and with a dampness to the air that pulled heavily on his antennae. Inside, Izhar knelt at a central pool whose source was a steady drip from the ceiling and which was bordered by roots sprouting bulbous clusters of fungus.

While Sidge was relieved to see no harm had come to Izhar, his attention was quickly drawn to Kaaliya. She reclined next to his master, propped up on one elbow. Her travelling hat had been tossed aside and the same glowing spiders wielded by the troll crowned her dark hair. Light from their bodies streamed down her hair in frozen rivers. He'd never seen anything so beautiful.

"Ahhh, Sidge. Glad you could join us." Izhar had hitched his robe to his knees to form a fold where he cradled several of the white fungi. "I was worried, acolyte, but they assured me you would be along."

"Glory to Vasheru that you are in good health, Master." Sidge placed his palms together and made a rapid bow, his gaze never leaving Kaaliya. "But how is it you were here longer than I? We both were eaten by the forest at the same time."

The troll spoke first. "Between life and death is only Truth. You shed the Lie."

"What does that mean?" Sidge buzzed his wings in irritation. "Any of this? Please, Master, why are we here? How?"

"Relax, Sidge. Our host simply has an odd way of sending out an invitation," replied Izhar, as he carefully plucked a spongy bulb and added it to his collection.

"But I never saw him... her along the road," Sidge mused, turning to the troll. "How did you even know we'd arrived? Hey!"

The troll kicked Sidge squarely in the shin and reeled back a knotty foot and kicked again.

"Stop it!"

"Can you tell I'm here?" came the troll's throaty reply.

"Yes, of course." Sidge snapped and stepped away.

"He's new, go easy on him." Kaaliya gave Sidge a look begging for patience.

"Hardly new," said the troll. "He's traveled with us before."

"I'm sorry, I'm afraid I—"

Kaaliya stood and brushed the dirt from her pants. Despite the uncomfortable proximity of the troll, Sidge's lenses fought to chase the movement of her hands first across her thigh then her backside. Simple movements. He could let himself be entranced by them.

"Oakworm," Kaaliya started to address the troll but was quickly interrupted.

"Call me whatever name you will, cave daughter, but your words ring hollow like the fallen tree," said Oakworm.

Sidge shook his head at the absurd rambling.

"Trolls speak in riddles," said Kaaliya. She quickly recanted as Oakworm growled. "Truth. A truth hard for us to fathom."

"His kind sleeps on the edge of endless dream," said Oakworm, turning to face Sidge. "He should understand more."

Sidge huffed. He understood everything he needed. The word of the Attarah and the divine inspiration of Vasheru were all anyone needed.

Oakworm growled again and thrust its wedged chin toward Izhar. "Have you enough?"

Izhar nodded and braced a hand on the ground while Sidge raced to his master's side to help him stand. The extra attention only caused Izhar to juggle the spores gathered in his robes.

"Thank you, acolyte, but I can manage," Izhar groused.

"Yes, Master." Sidge retreated with a bow.

Oakworm ignored the back and forth, his amber-filled eyes staying squarely centered on Sidge. Eyelids from underneath the bark shell snapped open then closed in the wrong direction sending an involuntary shudder up Sidge's chitin.

"How many feet do you have?" asked Oakworm.

"Two," stammered Sidge and Oakworm grumbled in disagreement. Sidge ignored him. "Why are we here again, Master?"

"These." Izhar indicated the bundle of fungus.

"Truth which your master will not understand," said Oakworm.

Sidge ignored Oakworm's stare and spoke before the creature could release more inane babble. "Well, I still don't understand either, Master."

"These are puffcaps," said Izhar. At a loss, Sidge scratched his forehead with one antenna and shrugged. Izhar continued. "The trolls have their own visions, much like Vasheru's Wisdom."

"I can only imagine," Sidge scoffed. He stepped away expecting another kick from Oakworm but the creature only kept staring with those bizarre eyes.

"They do not call upon the mighty Dragon, but upon their brothers instead."

"How does a fungus do this?" asked Sidge.

"More folktales, I'm afraid," answered Kaaliya. "The trolls are brothers with the plants. Trees and grasses which grew long before humans or even trolls. Seeds left by the passing of the Formless."

"But, these are more mysteries which the mantras do not speak of," said Sidge.

"You are absolutely right, acolyte," said Izhar. "However, the Forge does say, 'Wisdom often chooses the house in which it dwells', does it not?"

Sidge saw Kaaliya give a mischievous grin. Which of them had recited the line first? Had she inspired this strange diversion, or his master? If so, he could see how that could happen. Mistress Kaaliya inspired many things, but this was a step removed from a fascination with commoner's tales. He wanted to ask how this could possibly help Izhar's ascension to the Stormblade's seat but regardless how he felt about Kaaliya, he was reluctant to discuss temple matters in front of her and her friend.

"Master," Sidge bowed deeper and shuffled forward. "You have taught me all I know, and often you pursue a path which the other Cloud Born do not appreciate. But this..." Sidge waited to see if Izhar's cheeks colored or his eyes narrowed, but the master remained poised. "This seems highly irregular."

"Don't worry so much, Sidge. A little experiment. If it doesn't work, it doesn't work. Humor a commoner's son, eh?"

Izhar's call to his own past was a common appeal which often led Sidge to set aside his questions. Yet normally, Izhar mentioned these commoner's tales not as doctrine or practice, but merely as an aside or as a moment for teaching where he let Sidge draw his own conclusions. It was easy for a pupil to humor his master in those cases and his experience on seeing the Cerudell arch had piqued his own curiosity. But seeking wisdom from Trolls for a path to the Wisdom seemed to be a step too far. Sidge was becoming less sure he could humor these ideas if he wished to himself be a Cloud Born one day.

He bowed as Izhar turned to Kaaliya and said, "We're ready."

Kaaliya faced Oakworm and, she spread her arms out, fingers curled to the sky. All sense of her playful demeanor disappeared and she addressed the troll with courtly grace. "Grow under the light of Truth, Oakworm."

"Hidden in the depths of the earth, cave daughter," its resonant tone matched Kaaliya's formality.

Their host raised his glowing arm. Thousands of the tiny spiders took to the air in a glowing swarm; their light spread across the ceiling, bleeding into dark crevices between root and stone. Kaaliya closed her eyes and her jaw clenched. Izhar took note and did the same.

Roots above them squirmed to life and wove their way toward them and all Sidge could do was watch. He wanted to scream for the creature to stop its sorcery, but the grasping tendrils ignored him entirely. They encircled Kaaliya and Izhar, and soon they were both gone. Sidge cast wildly about before centering his focus on Oakworm.

"You are of old blood. Decide where you belong," growled Oakworm. "This age or the Timeless."

The roots unwound where Sidge's companions once waited and their furry tips pointed at him, feeling their way through the air, blind horrors seeking him. With his friends gone and the menacing look in the troll's eyes, he imagined roots binding his body and crushing his chitin like a raw egg. He struggled to pull his hood over his enormous eyes.

As he became entwined, fear released him. Not only fear, but everything. He was drifting in darkness. He was floating in a well, bathed in gentle touches and song.

At peace.

CHAPTER VIII

When he first emerged from Oakworm's realm, Sidge couldn't understand what his compound eyes saw. Forest still surrounded him, but the trees were spaced farther apart and their heavy limbs drooped with vines and tendriled branches. The mountains were a distant shadow against the sky. Izhar and Kaaliya lounged by the vardo while the horses grazed idly.

His companions rose as though nothing had happened—Sidge later learned they'd already had their moment of confusion and had been waiting for him to arrive for the better part of the afternoon. They'd sympathetically let Sidge stammer and puzzle over the predicament. Izhar had been concerned but Kaaliya had assured him the trolls meant no harm. They'd puzzled out they were several days further south along the road to Stronghold. Neither of them could explain how the trolls had managed the feat, though Kaaliya appeared unsurprised.

Sidge gladly left the bizarre experience behind. They rode for another week, encountering many empty miles and small villages along the way. Where exactly they'd ended up, or any further strange looks from villagers and farmers, didn't matter anymore to Sidge. Kaaliya rode next to him.

They spoke, or rather, Sidge spoke. Kaaliya was endlessly curious about the temple, one of the few places apparently in the known world she'd never been. He told stories of the acolytes and his life there. When pressed, she'd tell him about her childhood, but only with short, cryptic lines. Mostly, she told fantastic tales of her travels and the sights and people she'd seen.

Kaaliya had been to the Ek'kiru's gateless walled city of Abwoon, where the pilgrimage would face the desert and begin their return trip. He listened closely as she described the carefully patterned streets of the city and buildings of dried mud that clustered around a single massive dome. How she'd scaled the gateless wall to see inside but been politely turned away when she climbed down to explore. Humans were required to keep to the trading settlement outside the wall. She'd been so exhilarated by the flight back in the arms of a large Ek'kiru, she'd nearly climbed the wall again.

Sidge had already sized her, a tailor's habit. They were about the same. He could probably lift her if he tried, though he wasn't sure enough of his wings to do so yet.

She even spoke of having spent time among the Ksijaav, warriors of the Skypainter Peaks. To reach those far off lands, she'd bartered passage with a trader around the northern shore of the Attarah's realm and seen the Undying Storm from the open sea. He'd only ever seen his home from the walls of the Temple and the lone dirt path which they'd embarked on at the start of the pilgrimage.

Izhar rode in the cabin on most days. His chanting became a noise like the grinding of the vardo's wheels. He would emerge for meals, for Sidge's channeling lessons, or occasionally to trade with the villages, but recently, he'd stopped appearing at all. Sidge had to take him his meager supper, and be mindful of his meditation—which no acolyte would dare interrupt.

He would've worried, had it not meant more time alone with Kaaliya. But Sidge could feel those moments drawing to an end, the closer they got to Stronghold.

One morning, at a roadside camp on the edge of the Paharibhumi, he and Kaaliya were resting by the coals of the previous night's fire. The world was waking around them and the sun crept over the grassy hills. Trails of smoke trickled skyward, the only sign of the tiny villages nestled beyond the ridges.

Kaaliya often didn't sleep, like him in a way. In those darkened moments, they'd grown closer and she would lie with her head in Sidge's lap, staring at the stars. He, too, would stare.

"What's it like?" Sidge mused as he ran a combed forearm through Kaaliya's hair. If midnight could flow like water, that's what her hair would be.

"Hmmm?" murmured Kaaliya, only half a step out of the world of sleep.

"Hair. What's it like to have hair?" Sidge asked as he continued to comb. This was a ritual he'd fallen into several days ago. She hadn't asked him to, he'd just done it, the knife in her boot be damned, and she'd sighed blissfully.

Kaaliya stirred but her eyes remained closed. "Blocks your vision in bad weather, and draws coin in the good."

Sidge considered and accepted the typically evasive answer.

"How much longer?" Kaaliya murmured, her eyes closed.

"Until we make Stronghold? Didn't you say half a day?"

"No, I mean until the puffer rises. We've been here for the better part of two days. Haven't we?"

"The horses needed a rest," Sidge lied. "And I cannot disturb Master Izhar's meditation."

"Meditation. Sure," said Kaaliya.

He stopped combing and wagged his head. "The puffcap deepens the mediation. Promotes the flow of energies and aligns them with the will of Vasheru."

Or so Izhar had reassured him along with his steady references to trolls and their kinship with plants and trees and the wanderings of the Formless. More Trials mysticism.

"Uh-huh," Kaaliya mumbled and touched Sidge's forearm lightly. His arm resumed the sweeping motions. "For all the people I've taken to gather puffcap, religious enlightenment was never a consideration. For them, escaping their life in whatever hallucination the plants offered was enough."

Hallucination. When she spoke the word, he knew this sounded closer to what a troll might offer, especially after having met Oakworm. But Sidge could only take Izhar at his word. He owed him that.

"I can't say I wish Izhar weren't more orthodox, but he is my master, nonetheless," he said. "Besides, I thought you weren't in a rush."

"I'm not," Kaaliya replied and took in a deep, relaxing breath. "But we all need to be there before Deep Night."

"I know."

After their unscheduled stops, he would normally have shared her anxiety. But they'd learned from commoners as they traveled that the pilgrimage hadn't yet passed through. Their encounter with the troll had placed them far ahead of the caravan. Even with their temperamental team of horses, they'd maintained the lead.

Master Gohala would be furious.

The wagon rattled and Izhar bellowed from inside, "Sidge! Sidge!"

Unsure if he wanted to ask her to move, Sidge was relieved when Kaaliya sat up and arched her back in a lazy stretch.

"Finally." She yawned, gathering her hair into a tight band and reaching for her hat. Sidge slowly got to his feet and watched her tuck away the last bit of the night.

"Sidge!"

"Coming, Master," he called while floating into the air on thrumming wings. The horses eyed him warily from their post at the front of the vardo. After many days of practicing flight, Sidge hoped they would've adjusted to the sound, but the Paint huffed indignantly as he grew closer. He made it to the rear of the vardo in time to see the curtain flung aside.

"Where are we?" Izhar asked, leaning out to examine the countryside. His corestone embedded in the hairs of his naked chest; his eyes were red-rimmed and wild.

Sidge backed away slightly and bowed. "Mistress Kaaliya believes we're a half-day's ride from Stronghold, Master."

"We've gone so far in such a short time?" Izhar sounded confused.

"The trolls. Remember?"

"Yes, yes of course," said Izhar.

He looked to be in contemplation when he spoke, and Sidge expected maybe his master had news. "How go your meditations? Received any sparks of Vasheru's Wisdom?"

"None." A pained look flashed on his face. "You'll know when I do."

There was a darkness behind Izhar's eyes Sidge had never seen. Jovial and at times fiery, the Cloud Born rarely let either extreme of temperament drag him into prolonged worry. It had been many days, though, since he'd reminded Sidge "Vasheru will provide." Sidge had even tried to engage him once with questions about the Trials, but had only worsened Izhar's mood.

Izhar swept behind the curtain with a clatter. He emerged again, wriggling into his thunderhead-gray robes and slipping into the jagged white stole. A healthy layer of trail dust and other more permanent stains had accumulated on the vestments and Sidge cringed.

Izhar's eyes flicked toward the campsite while he fussed with his robes. "You two have gotten quite close, hmm?"

Sidge followed the glance and saw Kaaliya stretching. Back arched, even in her formless shirt the tips of her breasts were visible in the chill morning air. He moved quickly to place her in his blindspot.

"She's a friend." He struggled with the rest of the words.

"Friends, eh?" Izhar ran a hand down his robes and peered at Sidge through his eyebrows. "Be careful, my acolyte."

Sidge nodded, though he wasn't sure why. The gesture seemed to placate Izhar's concern and the Master extended his hand. Sidge took hold and helped him down the steps.

"What about breakfast? Hmm? Let's get a fire going." His dark mood seemingly forgotten, Izhar grinned and patted the corestone beneath his robes. Time for Sidge to practice his own channeling.

"Yes, Master."

Sidge hummed to the lower cabinets. There, packed in a thin layer of meal, he dug out the last two slices of bacon and several eggs which they'd traded a farmer for in the last village. Aside from this, they had two more days of food, at most, and little left to barter with. His own stash of pickled pig flesh could only last another week. He'd stopped mentioning their dwindling supply to Izhar.

If they failed to secure a raksha in Stronghold, he wasn't sure where their next meal would come from, or even how they'd return to the Temple.

Floating to the roof to unpack their cast-iron pan, he tweaked an antenna toward the fire pit where Izhar was headed to join Kaaliya.

"Ahhh, Mistress Kaaliya, I trust you slept well?"

"Well enough, Cloud Born," Kaaliya replied. Sidge watched her perform a slight bow with a bent knee and upturned palms, exactly as a visitor to the Stormblade Temple might. This was the first time he'd seen her give the greeting and was surprised, what with all the questions she'd had regarding the place. Playful mocking glittered in her eyes and Sidge chuckled despite himself.

Even Izhar gave a satisfied laugh. "What do you know of Stronghold, Mistress?"

"You mean to ask whom I know in Stronghold," Kaaliya's direct reply forced Izhar to put his hands up in surrender. "You should have little trouble finding a raksha. You know as well as I do, every member of the nobility claims to trace their lineage back to the Trials."

"True, but I doubt I know them nearly as well as you do." Izhar's emphasis was lost on Sidge and Kaaliya only rolled her eyes.

She approached the vardo and grabbed a bundle of wood from under the cabin. Sidge cursed his four fully loaded arms. Wings humming, he glided to the ground with their breakfast supplies and followed her to where Izhar knelt by the fire pit.

"I don't suppose you could introduce me to any of these noblemen friends of yours?" Izhar asked.

She'd never mentioned such acquaintances. How much more did Izhar know about her? Sidge was nearly to her side when Kaaliya dumped the bundle of wood in the pit, sending a fine cloud of ash into Izhar's face.

As Izhar sputtered, she replied, "While I've appreciated your company on this journey, I'd prefer to keep my contacts private, Cloud Born."

Izhar swatted at the dust and eyed the scattered pile of fuel. "I can hardly start a fire that way."

"Exactly." Kaaliya winked at Sidge. Any indignation he felt at her treatment of his master was erased.

"Let me take care of it," Sidge offered as he set down the pan along with his master's breakfast. He squatted near the pit to neatly arrange the firewood. He wanted whatever small spark he might create with the corestone to catch. And there was simply a proper way to arrange and space each timber, according to size, shape, and density.

While Sidge worked, Izhar brushed at his robes, only succeeding in creating gray plumes of dust. The plumes bothered Sidge more than the layered ash. Aside from the white stole—no, especially the white stole—the uniform layer had actually improved Izhar's appearance. Despite this, Sidge finished with the firewood and began beating at Izhar's robes to help clear them.

"I'm fine." Izhar waved him away. "Here," he said, removing his corestone and handing it to Sidge.

Sidge felt the invisible push against his palm. He inhaled, searching for the crisp air of home and found a gritty mouthful of ash instead.

"Sit. Focus." Sidge knelt as instructed and Izhar placed a hand on his shoulder. "Feel Vasheru in your palm. Your arm. He exists in the spaces between what is. Draw him from the air."

Sidge fought to clear his mind.

"Now, recite the first mantra," said Izhar.

The world fought back.

He first noticed the firewood in the pit, perhaps spaced a little unevenly for an optimum fire. He then saw Izhar's unkempt beard quiver under his breath. The netting on the vardo flapped in a light morning breeze. Birds swooped across the sky, that damned, empty blue expanse, their formation lopsided. A fly landed in the pan, rubbing tiny arms in anticipation of a taste of the last of the travelers' food. All around them, tall grasses swayed and taunted. Kaaliya stared innocently into the distance, but Sidge could tell she was wondering if this time he'd be able to do it.

Izhar grabbed the hood of Sidge's robe and tossed it over his eyes. "The mantra."

Eyes partially covered, Sidge began intoning the first mantra of Fire. He visualized himself finally succeeding after years of practice and recitation. He imagined a tiny spark building in the center of the hollow pendant. From there, the energy would curl along the copper cage and feed into his palm. Next, a gentle turn of his hand and the brilliant spark would leap into the fire pit, igniting the tinder.

A simple twist of the hand.

A gentle turn.

Another twist.

He restarted the mantra.

Izhar's reassuring voice came muffled to his crushed antennae. "Calm. Calm in the storm, acolyte. Calm in the storm."

He tried again. One more time. Another. Another.

Sidge's antennae drooped.

It was no use. With an angry snort he tossed back the hood. "I can't concentrate here. Perhaps Cloud Born Gohala is right."

Kaaliya, who no longer stared off into the hills, shook her head sympathetically.

"Gohala? That loudmouthed bastard?" Red plumed along Izhar's cheeks. He cast a sidelong glance at Sidge and exhaled deeply. The hand which Sidge could feel on his shoulder patted and withdrew. "You'll get it. Soon enough. Don't worry."

Izhar sat, took the stone, and held it between his fingers so Sidge could see. He upturned his other palm and pressed the fingertips together for channeling. Each time, he waited until Sidge reproduced the motion to his satisfaction.

Soon, the mantra rolled from Izhar's lips in a deep baritone. His eyes disappeared into his skull. Maybe this was the secret, mused Sidge, defeated. He had to look into his own head, an action he couldn't possibly replicate.

There was a sharp snap and Kaaliya yelped. Her mouth dropped open in protest, as she rubbed at her backside where a tiny blue spark had struck.

"Misfire," Izhar said.

"Master!" Sidge gasped.

Kaaliya scowled, though her eyes shone with amusement and Izhar returned his attention to the fire pit. Another snap, and the kindling burst into flames. Izhar recited the sheathing to end the channeling, waiting for Sidge to accompany him.

Fire lit, Sidge prepared breakfast. He watched both Kaaliya and Izhar who'd settled on opposite sides of the ring.

"How goes the meditation, Cloud Born?" Kaaliya asked before Sidge could interrupt. He waved one hand to warn her, but dropped it as Izhar's eyes sought him.

His Master sighed. "My meditations have been so brief it's difficult to say."

Kaaliya cast Sidge a knowing glance.

Izhar continued, his eyes locked on the waving flames. "I'm close to it, I'm sure." He thumbed his corestone. "I have to be. Like the silvery shadow of the swine above the pan."

Sidge wished he too had eyebrows to raise along with Kaaliya. Perhaps his master had taken this whole puffcap thing too far.

Before he could press about whatever truth or absurdity lurked in Izhar's observation about their bacon, a movement on the edge of camp caught his attention. Kaaliya had seen it as well. Already, she'd removed the slender knife from her boot and was focused on the same spot, as the tall grass began to part.

Knife held out of view, Kaaliya's eyes measured the disturbance speculatively if not appreciatively. Izhar, meanwhile, continued to stare into the fire.

A naked man had wandered into the campsite.

CHAPTER IX

Sidge supposed the man's form was well-defined. Tall, bulging chest, thick arms, and corded thighs—every muscle was present in chiseled detail.

The stranger's long, dark hair naturally swept back, and waves of deep reddish-brown glowed where the sun struck. His face wore an expression which Sidge took for curiosity. And, unfortunately, he seemed unconcerned about his nudity, which only became more and more obvious as he emerged from the tall grass.

No, more than unconcerned. He was oblivious to his state of undress. Perhaps wherever he came from this was their custom?

Sidge waited for Izhar to address the newcomer, but his master's gaze stayed lost in the fire. Kaaliya's eyes were wary yet wandering. He had to do something. Quickly.

"Hello, fellow traveler," Sidge called, louder than intended. He positioned himself protectively in the center of Kaaliya's view.

Much to his chagrin, she sidestepped. She held her knife loosely and moved closer to Izhar. The stranger wandered near the horses who continued to chew their grass with utter indifference.

"Hello," came the stranger's slow and deep reply, his words directed at the horses. Even the Paint seemed unimpressed.

Sidge was relieved by the growing uncertainty spreading across Kaaliya's face. In their many days of travel, he'd never known her to be at a loss for words or action. The knife twirled idly in her hand.

"We may have some spare robes." Sizing the man up with a tailor's precision, Sidge was pretty sure, as much as he wanted to clothe the man, it would be hard to make good on the offer. They did, however, keep at least one spare set.

The naked man wandered along the side of the vardo, feeling the weathered surface with his palm and tracing the white symbol painted on the side. Next to the familiar carriage it became clear just how big the man was. His arms easily reached the upper rails, and he ran his hands through the dangling assortment of metal chimes and crystals, quirking an ear to each sound. When he got to the rear of the wagon, he began to explore the curtain.

Sidge hummed into flight, positive he didn't want the already disordered contents of the vardo any more ransacked.

Izhar finally stirred. "Hmm? Is the bacon ready?"

"We've got a guest, Cloud Born," replied Kaaliya. Standing over the seated master, she palmed the pate of his head and guided his eyes toward the man. Izhar grunted in surprise.

Sidge landed right outside of their visitor's reach. Instead of trying to climb the steps, the man seemed content to run the vardo's curtains through his thick fingers.

"He wandered into camp, Master." Sidge explained, noting the flow of lost thoughts returning to Izhar's face. "From the far side. Perhaps you didn't notice."

"How could you miss him?" Kaaliya smirked.

"The robes are not inside there, sir" Sidge said, though only after he'd appraised the curtains to see if they could be used for such a purpose. Kaaliya's stare. The man's brazen disrespect. Sidge rattled his wings. "If you would only step—" He began to pull the wandering hands away and froze as dark eyes fell upon him.

Curiosity indeed burned there, but it flickered deep beneath a cold and empty stare. Far from the expressive human faces Sidge reveled in, this man's could've been carved from a solid lump of wax.

Sidge's antennae tickled, nudged by a sudden and inexplicable vibration in the air. Light caught in the man's eyes, living and brilliant, then faded. Sidge backed away and found both Kaaliya and Izhar standing behind him.

"Hello?" the man replied, in a tone as empty as his eyes.

Kaaliya's expression transitioned from uncertainty to concern and Izhar raked his hand through his beard.

"Are you from Stronghold, good man?" asked Izhar.

"I am from the water," came the man's reply, slow and steady. He raised a finger to the south, where the sea was many days' journey away.

"Curious," said Izhar and he grinned, polite yet playful. "You don't appear to be an Urujaav."

His master. Never far from a world of legends. Urujaav were water spirits, referred to in a handful of mantras from the Trials (and by Izhar's teaching, one hundred and seven indirect references). Taken literally, one of these beings had led the Attarah and his Jadugar to safety through the Labyrinth around Kurath's Sun Palace, and later assisted in building the city of Stronghold.

Most Cloud Born taught a more figurative lesson: the Attarah had followed an ancient river out of the maze-like desert canyons. And at Stronghold, ingenuity and raw power, not water spirits, had constructed the moat and underlying channels making up the city's unique canals and defenses.

Whether they existed in the times of the Trials or not, these water spirits hadn't been seen in recent memory. Besides, the obscure reference could only serve to confuse their obviously dim-witted visitor. As if to confirm this, the man's square head turned sideways.

"Urujaav," he stated, his face a frozen mask. "Do you know where they are?"

Without thinking, Sidge answered. "My master only jests. He has a fondness for commoner's tales." Izhar pursed his lips. Realizing his mistake, Sidge bowed. "Pardon me, Master. I did not mean to speak for you."

"Quite alright, Sidge. You're right, it was a bit of fun. No need to burden our guest with questions." Izhar gestured toward the fire. "You're welcome to sit and relax, traveler."

Without a word of thanks, the stranger blundered toward them. Sidge took several steps back with an arm again spread in front of Kaaliya. Like when he'd protected her from the aggressive man in Cerudell, he would protect her now as well. No need for knives and putting herself in danger. Izhar intercepted the big man, unconcerned, and led him to the fireside.

"A shame," whispered Kaaliya, twirling the knife and slipping it into her boot. "For a man like that to be so... broken."

Like that. This was one of those rare times when Sidge knew exactly what she was saying.

"Those robes, if you please, Sidge," called Izhar.

Sidge was already flying to the top of the wagon.

A bundle of oiled canvas tied to the upper racks held their spare fabric and robes. Sidge's fingers worked fast across the bindings. On the far side of his vision, Kaaliya continued to examine the stranger, who knelt in front of the fire.

Had it been necessary to be so careful securing the ties? When he'd finally fumbled his way through the twist of knots, Sidge hastily dug through the contents, lifting each folded piece between his palms and stacking them on the roof neatly beside him. Most everything in the bundle could best be described as rags.

Faced with the battered scraps, Sidge eyed his own robes. They'd traveled hundreds of miles south from the Stormblade Sheath. Their wagon, the cantankerous horses, and especially their vestments showed every sticky, soggy, branch-snagging, rock-sliding mile.

For the first time in many days, Sidge realized how much it wounded him to travel in such a bedraggled state. True, they didn't have the money for decent cloth and thread, but he could've made a few passable attempts at repairs along the way with what little they had. Of course, he hadn't exactly been productive on his sleepless nights. He watched as Kaaliya moved closer to where Izhar and the man sat. Her knife put away, she listened carefully as Izhar continued to try and strike up a conversation. Sidge dug faster.

At the bottom of the pile, he found Izhar's old robes, which, despite repeated alterations, had clung to his master like the skin of a python freshly gorged on a fawn. Sidge had stashed them away, hoping they would be of use. Naked giants had not been part of his speculation but the old robes were all he had to offer. He yanked them free and heard a clatter.

A small, bent stick skittered on the copper roof. There were no overhanging trees on the grassy hillsides, so the stick must have tumbled out of the pile of cloth. Then he recalled the lesson in Izhar's chambers. This was one of the oddities he'd been asked to pack and bring with them.

Sidge picked the stick up and held it. Small and roughly textured, he noticed the insides were a strange pearly color. Not wanting to waste any more time, he shoved it in his pocket, gathered the old robes, and floated down from the roof to the fire.

"Ah yes, those will do nicely." Izhar turned to their guest and motioned to the gray bundle in Sidge's arms.

The man ignored the offer, fixated on the fire. Before anyone could act, he snatched the skillet, cradling it in his giant hands. The pan hissed against his skin. Sidge's antennae sprang upward and he started to reach for the skillet. "Sir, that must be quite hot."

Izhar grabbed Sidge's arm, watching the man intently.

The naked man ignored the bacon and ran a finger through the grease, bringing it close to his face and staring as though his hand had recently sprouted there. He tested the still clear grease on his lips and brought the skillet to his face.

Sidge detected a hint of the bacon grease on the air and watched it drip to the ground. Another odor, acrid and sweet, mingled with the bacon, and he noticed he wasn't the only one holding his breath, waiting for the man to react.

A moment later, the wooden face, speckled with crumbs, peered over the rim. Bacon hissed in the skillet, dry and removed from the heat. Where his hands and mouth had touched the hot pan, his skin had an angry red appearance.

Izhar forced a smile and released his grip on Sidge's arm. Kaaliya watched with wide eyes.

Sidge snatched the skillet, his thick skin allowing him to grab the iron handle unharmed. The handle was warm to the touch and he tapped a finger on the bottom of the pan only to be rewarded with a sharp bite from the heat.

"Hungry, I suppose," Izhar muttered. Kaaliya shook her head in wonder.

Izhar took a corner of the robe and dabbed at the angry red trail on the man's chin where hot grease had dribbled. He winced sympathetically, but still gained no reaction. When he was done, he shook the robes out and draped them over the man's head.

The stranger offered no resistance. Nor assistance. Beneath the robe, he made slow motions, feeling his way about in the darkness. Izhar struggled to guide thick, errant arms through the sleeves.

Setting the pan down, Sidge buzzed forward and peered into the robe's empty neck. Arms above his head at awkward angles, the man gazed up as though at the bottom of a well and calmly measuring the means of ascent.

"Boys," Kaaliya called.

Both Izhar and Sidge met her gaze and stepped aside. She strode toward the hulking form and the squirming beneath the robes stopped. The stranger might've been nothing more than a block of granite settled deep into the earth. Kaaliya looked tiny and fragile next to him.

Sidge watched with awe as her light touch drew the massive form to his feet. He'd seen bolts of lightning dance across the sky and splinter into countless rivers of light. He'd seen the Stormblade wield the power of the heavens. But the ease with which Kaaliya drew this monument from the ground was more potent, more real than any of those things.

She spoke softly as she pulled first one arm through and then the other. "Apparently these fellows have never dressed another man before." She tugged lightly on the lapel. Strands of dark hair sprung through the neck. A second pull, and his head popped out, eyes already locked with hers. Standing on the tips of her toes she smoothed the collar then stepped away.

"I suppose it will have to do," she said.

"That it will," Izhar said.

As Sidge had figured, the robes were much too short, hanging right above the sculpted calves, and the seams strained in a new place—at the shoulders, while the midsection hung loose and wrinkled. And was it him or had the burns on the man's face already begun to recede?

"I suppose," Sidge added. "He looks like he's molting. Don't you think?"

Neither Izhar nor Kaaliya answered, both unable to take their eyes off this man. This intruder. Sidge buzzed his wings.

CHAPTER X

Sidge found travel through the lower Paharibhumi boring. Winding between the hillocks, the flagstone-walled road was well-traveled and free of holes or washouts, which was good. But there was little to see besides grass. Waving, flickering grass. Blocking it out meant putting up his hood and being unable to see up and to his left, where Kaaliya had been forced to sit.

Their new passenger sat on the driver's bench next to Sidge. This had crowded out his original bench mate, who now rode above, her feet dangling from the roof.

Sidge twitched his head to angle more of his lenses in her direction, and she acknowledged him from her perch with a tilt of her chin. He waved his antennae in response, glad to see she was in good spirits despite the new seating arrangements.

As they traveled throughout the day, many small villages appeared along the route. Eyes narrowed as they jostled down the lanes, and the typical excitement at seeing the first of the pilgrimage's wagons again melted into horror and confusion when they saw the driver. Forget the giant beast of a man next to him or the cantankerous horse. Never mind the stunningly beautiful woman sitting with courtly grace atop the wagon like a goddess descended from the heavens on her chariot to greet her subjects.

He hadn't realized how much having Kaaliya at his side had shielded him from these awkward reactions. Or maybe distracted him, he wasn't sure which. His new bench mate never asked about the Temple. Never placed a hand on Sidge's knee. Never shouted at the gawkers to breed with themselves, an image he found quite amusing.

Up until now, Kaaliya had made his first trip outside the Temple walls bearable. The commoners were unlearned, uncouth, he told himself. She was an exception. A most amazing exception.

She deserved the bench seat, but the once naked man, now called Chuman for Kaaliya had named him, had only stared as Sidge pantomimed a climb to the roof from the bench. Anxious and irritable, Izhar had taken to shouting for them to depart through the gaps in the cabin wall. As the noise increased and Sidge's wings beat more furiously, the horses grew restless, with the Nag making repeated attempts to lie in the grass while harnessed—a motion that caused the top-heavy vardo to strain dangerously against the hitching shaft. In the end, Kaaliya had hauled herself to the roof. Apologizing profusely, Sidge had flown her a saddle blanket on which to sit.

And that was why he rode with the strange man beside him. Mostly mute and largely motionless, Chuman could've been forgotten in the grinding miles. A piece of luggage, or an oddity among Izhar's possessions. Yet even the man's stillness was unnerving to Sidge.

Sidge reined in the horses aggressively. He was sure they'd been traveling so slowly a stray stone under the vardo's wheel might've threatened their progress. The beasts plodded to a stop, and the Paint swung its shaggy head, watching Sidge through one white-rimmed eye.

They rested several spans away from the crest of a steep embankment. The road ribboned down the side in a series of hairpin turns descending sharply into the valley. Inside the vardo's cabin, Izhar's meditations sounded in unbroken tones.

Sidge clambered from the bench and set his mind to the task of unpacking the wheel chains and locking the rear wheels. Work, not meditation, would relax him, but he wasn't entirely sure he wanted to focus on the particular task ahead.

Kaaliya stretched out across the roof and watched him from above. "Everything all right?"

"Why do you ask?"

"Your wings. They buzz like a nest full of hornets when you're upset."

He consciously slowed their cadence. "Nobody has ever told me this before."

Kaaliya shrugged. "Most of the time, people look at someone's face for a cue. You speak with your wings, your antennae."

With those limbs only recently freed from his robes, it was no wonder nobody else had ever noticed. Sidge returned to fitting the chains to the wagon and grumbled, "Rigors of the journey."

"Stop a minute and take a look." Kaaliya climbed down from the roof with ease and walked up the road where it disappeared into the bowl-shaped valley.

Sidge set down the chains and joined her. Below stretched a flat plain, surrounded by undulating hills which brought to Sidge's mind the serpentine spine of the Great Dragon, Vasheru. Only here, the backbone doubled and tripled and piled upon itself as more and more hills snaked out to the horizon, where they met a restless sea.

Between the sea and the plain stood the walls of Stronghold. The rough wooden trunks of the wall, each larger around than the horses and wagon combined, shot high into the sky. A silvery moat surrounded the city wall and in the reflection, the gigantic timbers drew outward so they became stilts buried in a cloud-laden sky.

Beating his wings at a calm pace as he took in the valley, his antennae tickled with a distant hum. A uniform droning in which he began to feel he could lose himself. Shut out his current world of impending descent, judgmental glares, disobedient beasts, and unwanted passengers.

Air shifted, and he thought he'd been drawn closer to the sound. Instead, the sound had come to them. He wondered if it was Izhar's chanting, but noticed Chuman had begun to hum. Kaaliya scrunched her nose and gave Sidge a bewildered look. She returned to the vardo to stare as Chuman matched the sound on the wind.

When she climbed on to the driver's bench, Sidge flew to her side.

Chuman continued humming, oblivious to Kaaliya's presence. Sidge hovered above the team, earning a swat from a horse's tail which he ignored.

"What's he doing?" Sidge asked.

"I don't know. His pitch is true," Kaaliya said. "Did he say anything to you along the way?"

"Not so much as a cough, or a whimper. He sat right there as though carved from stone. I'd venture to guess the villagers were more unnerved by him than myself." That last part didn't sound too convincing.

Kaaliya flashed a sympathetic expression before tapping Chuman on the arm. His humming continued. She shrugged and began to hum, matching the pitch effortlessly.

Sidge wished more than ever that he was capable of rolling his eyes. "Don't encourage him."

Responding with a playful wave, Kaaliya's hand froze mid-way as Chuman's humming ceased. She continued to hum, and the silenced man pivoted his head with a slow, cumbersome motion which reminded Sidge of the labored turn of a millstone. Slowly, Chuman brought his hand up toward Kaaliya. Her frozen, playful swipe became an open palm in Sidge's face, warding him away.

Sidge had been unaware he'd closed in, his wings buzzing furiously. He had an urge to grapple with the giant of a man. Then Chuman's fingers touched Kaaliya's lips, and more than grappling, he wished to sever the hand at the wrist with his mandibles, but a steady palm kept him at bay.

"What is this sound?" Chuman spoke with a sleepy, dreamlike quality to his dull voice.

"The city," said Kaaliya. "Wards placed by the Urujaav when the humans fled the slavery of Kurath's Children. So long as the call is heard, the city will not rot or burn, and the water will rise up against invaders like a many-taloned beast." She guided Chuman's hand to the bench between them.

"As the commoners say," interrupted Sidge. The closeness of Chuman to Kaaliya continued to agitate him. "The more educated know it was the Attarah... and perhaps," Sidge added with a sigh, "the powerful sorcerers of the Jadugar who did this."

Kaaliya, who could effortlessly roll her eyes, did so. "And neither are here to lay claim to their work, so one explanation is as good as the other."

Sidge wanted to reply but was cut off by more rumbling from Chuman. "I feel this sound."

He didn't want to admit it, but Chuman's simple statement made sense. The feeling was inexplicable, an inner calling or pull which radiated down his antennae like a properly intoned mantra.

"What of you, Kaaliya?" Sidge asked. "Do you feel the sound?"

Kaaliya closed her eyes as if searching for an answer. "No. I hear it. I can't say I feel it. But every place, like a person, has its own voice. They speak to us in different ways. Sadness. Regret." She opened her eyes and a crooked grin replaced the tense lines which had formed along her jaw. "Like some speak with their wings and antennae, hmm?"

He had an urge to move closer to her and he did. Chuman was again an insignificant piece of the scenery. A gray, motionless rock. The blue, open sky no longer a distraction. The sun a feeble light compared to her.

Kaaliya's brow furrowed and her mouth quirked as Sidge moved closer. Words were on her lips, but she was forced to steady herself on the bench as the whole vardo jumped. An odd gurgle from the cabin broke the melody like a rock thrown into the placid moat around the city.

"Master?" Sidge tore away from Kaaliya and flew to the rear of the wagon.

Another sound came, this time a wet retching, and he felt the air charge. Trails of lightning arced from the roof and leapt toward the ground along the cargo netting. Sidge heard a popping noise and smelled all at once the rancid odor of vomit and the similar, vinegary tang of his personal food supplies.

Had his master actually tapped into the Wisdom? Was he controlling this?

He tossed the curtain aside.

Izhar knelt in the center of the cabin, his robes and a collection of undyed pillows crumpled beneath him on the travel chest. Contents of the shelves scattered, a cacophony of odds and ends fought for Sidge's attention. An earthen pot tumbled and rich soil fanned across the floorboards.

And leave everything where it is.

His master's eyes were white points and his shaggy belly was speckled with vomit as he continued the mantra. Empty shells of puffcap littered a sticky pool in Izhar's lap. The chain of the corestone pendant formed a taut "V" below his neck, with the stone itself disappearing into his meaty fist. Sparks of energy wove between the links of the chain and ricocheted off the walls and shelves.

Sidge knew the mantra well, and he'd been hearing the call for Wisdom intoned inside the cabin for weeks. This time something was horribly wrong.

"What's going on?" Kaaliya was at Sidge's side. She leaned toward the opening and he blocked her view.

"I'll handle this." He slipped into the cabin and pulled the curtain behind him.

Sidge examined Izhar's face, a stark contradiction to his meditative pose. Jaw steeled, the Words of storm and power trickled from his lips. A thin finger of lightning shot from Izhar, and an ivory handled bell tumbled from a shelf to join the chaos.

The curtain rustled again.

"Kaaliya." Sidge didn't bother turning his head as she peeked inside. He tried his best to sound brave. "Take Chuman. Move away from here." The small gap framing her eyes snapped shut. Soon, he heard her voice at the front of the vardo, urging Chuman down.

Izhar's mantra rose, the whispered words now a deadly conversation. Sidge could no longer decipher what was being said. These were not the teachings of the Temple. Stray bolts began to knit together into a single vein, feeding into the roof.

"Master?" Sidge swallowed his fear and moved to Izhar's side. His acolyte robes pressed tight against his shell as Vasheru's Kiss engulfed him. The cramped air of the vardo writhed with familiar power. At the Temple, in the courtyard, the feeling had been a herald of enlightenment. Here it was a terrible warning.

Sidge folded his legs carefully beneath him, ignoring the scattered trinkets pressed under his robes and shell. The vardo quaked and the incongruent assortment of odds and ends skittered across the floor. Soil sifted through the crevices between the boards, the clean odor of home disappearing with it. Wrestling with his hood, he placed both pairs of arms on his knees and turned palms to the heavens. He grasped his upper hands to stop them from shaking.

He couldn't even channel the Fire, let alone the Wisdom. Nothing would stop Vasheru's mighty power from consuming them both. He had no idea what to do.

Izhar sat unmoving, while the shelves continued emptying. With a hollow thump, the shaking paused and the vardo leaned. He heard a deep grunt outside and then Kaaliya, calling desperately for Chuman.

"Master, we will recite the sheathing now. Are you ready?" Sidge spoke the words patiently as he'd often heard Izhar say them, and fought to keep his voice steady. His master's eyes remained distant as he began. "Bloodied the blade. Rent the earth."

With those words, the Cloud Born's lashes fluttered. Knuckles white around the corestone, the call of the storm rose louder. Sidge swallowed. The vein of light feeding into the roof became a towering arc and Sidge's hood slithered from his head, borne away by an unseen current. White-hot energy swarmed across the littered cabin.

He felt the searching tendrils of energy, licking the walls of the wagon, stealing color from the air. He heard Kaaliya shout again outside, unintelligible. She didn't sound far enough away. He focused harder on the sheathing.

"My enemies fall to ash. My enemies fall to dust..." Sidge stuttered.

Izhar twitched and his countenance shifted. Sounds of the sheathing or any of the known mantras were not what escape his lips. Deep and primal utterances slurred thick on his tongue, mystery from beyond the Trials. Pure light leaked between his fingers.

There was no controlling this.

Sidge reached out, the light a solitary focus for the flickering prisms of his eyes. It burned away the chaos in the cabin. Control? Kindle? Fan the flame? He didn't care. If Izhar were to die here, he would die too. And in their deaths, perhaps he would finally know the radiance of Vasheru's Wisdom.

"He is close," spoke Izhar, pure energy dripping from his mouth.

Sidge closed his hand around his master's. Darkness replaced the light.

CHAPTER XI

Sidge was home.

The sharp odor of burning metal in the air told him as much. It was a clean smell. Nothing ever lingered with it. The pristine smell of a universe before being befouled by creation.

A wall of cloud stretched from horizon to horizon. Lightning fractured the monotone landscape, and Vasheru's Kiss rippled across an unseen ocean of pressure, pulsing with each strike. There was no sign of the vardo. He was alone.

He crouched low, as he'd been taught. The barren wastes of the Stormblade Sheath were not a place to stand exposed. Too tall and you became a focal point for Vasheru's Fire. Without the proper knowledge of channeling, you would be reduced to ash.

Sidge recalled the lone figure he'd seen from the ramparts, right before the chaining ceremony, and wondered if they'd survived. Acolytes would come here alone, to claim their corestone—but only an acolyte who had mastered channeling. Sidge never had. He would most likely die like the lone man.

But wasn't he already dead? How had he been taken from the vardo? How could he possibly have survived the wild energies unleashed in there? Was this more troll magic?

Sidge heard the thunder fade into another, deeper, richer song: Izhar's chanting. Creeping on his feet and middle palms, beaded sand crunching under his weight, he followed the sound.

A blinding bolt of lightning exploded nearby, and the concussive force tossed Sidge across the soil like a rock skipping on a pond. When he stopped, he stayed there, quivering in fear, waiting for the next assault. When it did not come, he shook his head free of the dirt and saw, not his master, but someone else.

Chuman sat naked at the edge of a crater, a clay cup in his hands. Tears streamed down his cheeks and shook free into the cup as he intoned the same deep, mysterious mantra Izhar had last spoken in the vardo.

The sky churned, and Sidge realized it hadn't been spiraling before like it should, like it was now, the clouds twisting around their invisible axle. Above the crater, clouds flexed like a pupil and Sidge became aware of being at the center of the great Storm. In the incredible brilliance, a face formed.

Vasheru.

A layered frill wreathed the Dragon's head and stretched outward like rays of the sun escaping the parting clouds. Gleaming and resplendent, His face was polished to a mirrored sheen. His broad, almost-human nose, flared in feral rage and below this His mouth hinged open in a mighty roar exposing fangs so immense Sidge could only imagine they were designed to devour worlds. But it was the Dragon's sunken eyes shrouded by a brow of sculpted flame that drew Sidge past the overwhelming majesty and into their fathomless pits.

Sidge's heart hammered. He kept trying to command his limbs to bend and kneel, bury his face before the Dragon, but they stayed rigid and frozen. All he could do was stare upward in awe. The sky shattered, and all hope of pulling his eyes downward was lost.

Lightning flashed, and the afterimage showed an arc streaming toward Chuman, then pulled into the crater. The naked man rose, but as he walked away, his seated body remained. The second Chuman paced the lip of the crater. A third emerged and a fourth, moving to opposing sides. The man's chanting layered with each new form, and bolts of lightning swarmed, funneling into a single, brilliant vein.

Inside the depression, the earth shifted and began to spin, counter to the clouds above. A pillar of light cascaded from the heavens, taking all sight with it. Only the chanting and Sidge's pulse broke the silence.

Another roar erupted, and Sidge's insides sloshed against his chitin as the force of it rolled through him. The chanting multiplied into a throng of syllables, more than four throats could voice.

When Sidge could see again, a legion of the naked men ringed the entire pit, each one emptying his clay cup into the crater. One by one, they dove into the searing light.

Fear replaced awe. Sidge could no longer see Vasheru, yet his terrible roar shook the earth. The sands of the crater glowed in an unbroken sheet then splintered.

Flight. Fast and as far away as he could go. That was the only thing to do.

No, he couldn't flee, if the world were to be torn asunder, he deserved to go with it. He'd failed his master in the vardo. And only moments ago, he'd remained upright in the face of Vasheru. Not knelt or even bowed.

Sidge launched himself into the crater.

Cold light filled the crater, freezing beyond the point where ice should form. He didn't care. He was dead or needed to be, this was the only way he could atone. He'd probably been consumed in the vardo, this visit to his home a final test of his spirit. A test he'd failed.

But drifting in the current, Sidge wondered if he'd ever even lived. He felt as if he'd become the song, the mantra, and as long as a voice called, he would be content. He would drift here, outside of everything for the rest of time, and be at peace.

Nothing to mend. Nothing to clean. No festivals to attend or patrons to impress. No gawking commoners. No more combing silken hair, soft as the light under a waning moon.

He'd miss that.

Sidge opened his eyes. Somehow, they'd been closed. He tried to blink away the blinding light, but found his eyes once again lidless. In the afterglow, the shadow of a robed figure drifted above him and faded away. He swam after it.

Closer to the surface, he could hear a muffled hum. It filled the pool from the bottom upward, becoming louder the further he swam. As he emerged into the air, the hum resolved into a steady mantra, and each of Sidge's facets pieced together his surroundings.

Narrow peaks spired into an opal sky. The closest edge of the pool rose to a shallow bank, and the opposite fell off through a jagged gap which seemed torn below the base of the mountains. A rolling landscape of scrub and wildflowers spread outward from the water's edge; further down the bank was a tree of immense proportions, large even under the towering height of the fanged peaks. Autumn had claimed the leaves, and empty branches stretched into a sky not quite dawn nor dusk. Thick sap wept from an open wound on the trunk. The tree's roots rose in wavy sheets like hardened flaps of flesh, feeding into broader ridges which spiraled up the tree.

"Do you like what you see?"

The question originated from directly in his blind spot. He couldn't place the pitch or inflection, and the words were interspersed with a sound of trickling water. The voice was pleasant, though, so Sidge turned and was surprised at who he saw.

His master faced the opposite direction, with his robe hitched up to his waist, and Sidge realized the source of the trickling noise. A stream of urine sputtered to a stop, restarted, and faded into a drip. Izhar shook and let his robe drop.

Finished, his master turned and looked up into the peaks. He swept an arm to indicate the valley. This time, the sound of his voice was familiar. "That's the question, it seems."

"Master!" Sidge bowed. "You've died as well? I'm so sorry."

Izhar's beard split with a grin.

"Mortality can't exist in this Timeless Age," he replied. He waded out of the pool and along the bank. "Well? Do you like what you see?"

"I guess, Master." He wasn't sure how to appraise the scene. Finger-like peaks clutched the sky and held it. Wind did not howl through their gaps. No calls of birds or animals; no other sounds invaded the serenity save Izhar's question and the deep, earthy mantra filling the air. A simple beauty of stillness encompassed them, like ice on a frozen pond.

Izhar stopped and looked around. "As do I. But we are not the ones fated to answer."

Sidge followed, trying to process what Izhar had said. His brain raced through mantras. There was the timeless dream, mentioned in the Four Corners of the Trials. Vague, mysterious; all of this smacked of Izhar's teachings, although Sidge was at a loss as to how he should interpret this lesson, or whether he should even bother.

They continued along the bank to the tree, which grew so tall Sidge tossed his hood over his head to avoid becoming dizzy. With the upper branches blocked out, he could focus on the wounded trunk, an ugly strip of flesh glistening with deep red sap like the color of the bark. Beside the tree, he noticed a low table.

Izhar sat. A tea service was laid out in front of him, a black pitcher and two small cups. "Drink?" asked Master Izhar.

Another sound rolled over Sidge like stampeding horses, distinct from the low, echoing hum which hung over the valley. This new sound reminded him of Vasheru's rage, and he felt afraid and joyful all at once.

"Do you want any?" Master Izhar repeated, slow and loud.

Sidge knelt before the table, his exposed lenses scouring the sky. "Yes, of course, Master."

With a deeply bowed head, Master Izhar poured a cup and slid it across the table. Sidge took it in his hands. Steam trickled from the top.

"What are we doing here, Master?" Sidge asked.

Izhar raised his head, and Sidge gasped. His master's face had become the face of Vasheru.

Sidge scuttled away from the table, knocking the cup to the ground. He flung himself forward. Words he'd hoped to say earlier in the Sheath, flooded his mind. "Vasheru! Oh Mighty Vasheru! Blessed be your wisdom, infinite your wrath!"

Eyes averted and covered by his robes, Sidge watched a crimson pool spread from the fallen cup. The light changed; he could feel a great shadow envelope him. This close to Vasheru, the air became as thick and earthy as the wind before a storm, and the power built until Sidge could not only feel the Kiss but hear his robes crackle with energy.

The presence roared a furious response. Sidge waited for the snapping of teeth on his chitin or the crash of thunder, as Vasheru rid himself of the insolent bug. Yes, a bug. Sidge was an insect in Vasheru's gaze.

"Your will is my desire, Glorious One!" he squeaked.

Instead of righteous rage, the air settled, and Sidge heard a light clinking, barely audible above the continuous mantra laced in the air. The deep shadow had lifted. Confused, he peered out from under his hood.

Izhar's face had changed again—transformed into an incomprehensible horror.

Chitin the color of rust and stone covered his forehead, ending in a single plate above two stout mandibles. Row upon row of polished onyx eyes glared at him. Short, bristled antennae lined the cheeks, his beard lost to a putrid roll of flesh bulging from his collar.

Izhar stirred the contents of his cup with the tip of a finger speckled in stout, sparse hairs, and more steam rose. A scent wafted under Sidge's hood which reminded him of bacon with an oddly familiar tinge of sweetness, and his stomach growled. Izhar pushed the cup toward him.

Sidge didn't move. The bestial incarnation of Izhar drummed his rigid fingers impatiently on the table, a sound reminiscent of the horses' hooves striking the mountain trails, and he realized the table wasn't made of wood. It was a great slab of stone. The dark eyes squirmed in their sockets.

Quivering, Sidge inched toward the table and took the cup with all four hands. It was warm in his palms, and the steam was thick and intoxicating. He raised the brim to his mouth and his shaky breath cleared the steam.

Deep red liquid filled the cup. A stray thread floated on the surface like a string of cloud in a sunset sky. As Sidge watched the thread, a gray swatch of temple robes broke the surface and bobbed onto its side to reveal a pale, fleshy lump. Under the monstrous glare, he drank. The mantra which had filled the valley stopped, and Sidge's eyes closed.

CHAPTER XII

When Sidge came to, a gray mass of clouds clustered around him. A stern, familiar face peered from within the formation. He half-expected the glowering visage of Vasheru or the terrifying bug priest. The reality was perhaps worse—Gohala.

"It lives." Master Gohala walked away, and the swath of cloud gray robes closed ranks. More familiar faces emerged as Sidge's vision cleared, but one, framed by midnight, drew closer.

"Kaaliya?" Sidge whispered. He felt her breath and for a moment, could distinguish a fevered prayer on her lips. "Where is Master Izhar? Is he all right?"

Farsal was close at her shoulder, his eyes full of concern.

"He's unconscious," said Farsal. "A bit singed, but he'll be fine."

Kaaliya said nothing.

Sidge tried to get his bearings. Cool, rutted earth lay beneath his head and the rolling hills of the Paharibhumi rose on all sides. Through gaps between the acolytes, he could see the vardo nearby. Both horses grazed on the opposite side of the road with Chuman holding their leads, mutely unaware the sleeves of his robes were smoking.

Master Gohala was there, examining the giant. He appeared deep in thought but his head turned at the sound of Sidge and Farsal's conversation, and the ring of acolytes parted as he returned.

"I require an explanation," said Master Gohala.

Even though the feeling had returned to his limbs, Sidge struggled to stand. Kaaliya took his arm and helped him to his feet. He sought reassurance in her face as he thanked her, but her eyes were haunted. She maneuvered between him and Gohala, and straightened Sidge's robe casting a meaningful glance toward the vardo.

Curtain pulled aside, Izhar lay in the cabin. The inside had been straightened. Things were not as Sidge would like them, but they were at least uncluttered. Most importantly, the vomit, the puffcap, all evidence of the incident had been swept away.

"I'm waiting." Gohala crossed his arms.

He couldn't tell Gohala the truth, nor was he even ready to speak with anyone about what had happened. His stomach turned as he recalled the contents of the cup in his vision. No, not a vision. A hallucination. He'd even been convinced he'd died. Effects of the puffcap from the insane troll, no doubt.

With as much poise as he could muster, he bowed, turning four palms to the sun. "It was my fault, Cloud Born."

***

Sidge wished he could turn and put Gohala's searching eyes into his narrow blind spot. He couldn't. In fact, tuning out anything in the lavish surroundings was impossible. It was no wonder two large Ek'kiru were required to pull the wagon. One of them, the green-shelled behemoth, had watched Sidge enter, his antennae alert and writhing.

Master Gohala frowned—his customary expression. He sat in the lotus on a blood red pillow with palms at perfect rest atop his knees. Above his alcove was an arch supported by pillars made to look like silver bolts of lightning.

Two lesser arches flanked Gohala's alcove, each filled with precise geometric patterns repeating in tiny squares. Every wall and shelf shimmered with gold leaf. The bare wood of the floor glowed a deep coffee color, streaked with black grain and the rich contrast made the metallic surfaces burn even brighter.

Never before had Sidge been called into Cloud Born Gohala's direct presence. He'd only heard of the opulence through others. Like the arch outside Cerudell, the master presented a timeless image Sidge found himself grudgingly respecting. If only Gohala weren't so harsh, though his ways had served him well.

"Who is this man with you?"

"Man?" Sidge was prepared to answer questions about the mishap with Izhar and take full responsibility, not talk about their hopefully temporary traveling companion.

"The one wearing ill-fitting Temple robes."

"Yes, Cloud Born. His name is Chuman, a name we gave him for he does not speak... much. I know nothing more."

"How did you meet him?" Gohala asked.

"On the road. He was a traveler in need, so we took him in."

"Did he have anything to do with this mishap? This lapse of judgment on Master Izhar's part?" Gohala managed to mention Izhar with surprisingly little malice, his focus on Chuman was so intent.

"No. The mishap was a training accident. I..."

"Training?" Gohala's face became more skeptical.

"Yes, Cloud Born." He'd lied to a Cloud Born. What choice did he have?

Master Gohala kept his narrowed gaze on Sidge for several more heartbeats. "I should've suspected as much," he growled and his old demeanor returned. "I've warned Izhar about such foolishness. An Ek'kiru harnessing Vasheru's Light? Wielding the Fire?" His face pinched in disgust and then relaxed as he said, "The Stormblade will hear of this."

"As you say, Cloud Born." From his kneeling position, Sidge bowed, placing his face to the floor. In the process, he neglected to raise his hood and cover the upper portion of his eyes.

Sidge could tell Gohala believed he was unobserved while he scrutinized the upstart acolyte in his presence. Eyes down meant unseeing to the master, unused to Sidge's unique anatomy. One of the Cloud Born's hands slid absently to his side where he toyed with a thin silver chain coiled on the pillow. As he gathered it into his fist, a pendant swung free. It was Master Izhar's corestone.

Gohala had no right to take it. Sidge fought the urge to launch himself across the lavish space and snatch the pendant, with or without drawing blood. Strong, like the desire to sever Chuman's hand when he had touched Kaaliya's lips.

He struggled with the beast, a many-eyed thing clawing at his brain. He was an acolyte. He wasn't a monster. He'd memorized the teachings, performed the rituals, and lived a life of service and duty. He would not abandon that life. Ever.

"Rise. There is no point in pretending our customs are yours," said Gohala.

They were. They had to be. Sitting up, Sidge fell again, face to the floor.

"What's this?" Gohala's meticulous beard collapsed at sinister angles.

"I rise as commanded but have offended yet again. I offer myself to your compassion once more, Cloud Born." He needed the forgiveness of a master to rise. It was customary.

Gohala's right eye twitched and Izhar's pendant disappeared into a white-knuckled fist.

"Farsal!" No sooner had the second syllable of the acolyte's name left Gohala's lips than the door behind Sidge opened.

"Yes, Master?"

"Get it out of my sight."

Farsal nodded and began to take hold of Sidge's arm but seeing the position of supplication, stopped short. Without raising his own face, Farsal asked, "May he rise?"

The master flattened his palm and sliced the air. "Yes."

Sidge rose. He retreated in a deep bow. Farsal held the door and Sidge paused midstep, his eyes supposedly averted to the earth.

"Cloud Born, I noticed Master Izhar's corestone was missing. Perchance someone removed it while he was examined for injuries?"

Gohala's jaw tightened. "Farsal, tell Master Izhar he may request an audience with us at the palace. We will need to speak with him about this incident." He glared murderously at Sidge's wings. "And see to it this creature's damaged robes are removed."

"Yes, Master." The acolyte bowed his bald head and tugged on Sidge's robe. Sidge could see the chain of Izhar's pendant dangling from Gohala's hand as the door swung shut.

"Are you okay?" Farsal whispered, eyeing the walls suspiciously and leading them around the side of the wagon.

Sidge's antennae wagged. "I am fine. I appreciate your concern."

The fellow acolyte licked his lips and cast another nervous glance at the palatial transport. "The strike could be seen for leagues. What really happened? Did Master Izhar call upon the Wisdom?" Farsal's concern had been replaced with awe.

They'd seen the strike? He'd first assumed Cloud Born Gohala's mood was more foul than usual not only because of the accident, but because they'd somehow taken the lead, or even because of the modifications Sidge had made to his robes. But the surly Cloud Born had seen more than those minor annoyances, they all had. If true, he'd made a colossal mistake in telling Gohala the entire incident had been his fault.

No, Gohala didn't matter. Nothing mattered except Izhar was okay. His master would wake and be able to confirm the blessing of Vasheru's Wisdom. Surely, if the entire display could be seen so far away, it could only be the Wisdom. If so, Sidge would be willing to accept whatever punishment the Temple wished to give for his lie.

Then again, what if Izhar had seen exactly what Sidge had? Just a puffcap addled dream?

"Did he?" Farsal quietly repeated.

"I'm not sure," said Sidge.

"Hmmm." Farsal sounded unconvinced. His eyes swept Sidge's wings. "I like the new robes. I always believed it was an unnecessary burden for you to wear the standard vestments. I believe with all these outrageous events, I could very well forget to ask you to remove them."

"Thanks."

Once again, Farsal was trying to cheer him up. But with the recent vision on his mind, only images of drinking blood like some twisted beast filled his mind and he pulled his wings tighter.

"We do have a spare set if you'd prefer," said Farsal, noticing Sidge's discomfort.

Sidge started to say yes, but found his mandibles were facing the vardo, where his broad eyes had caught Kaaliya disappearing behind the curtain.

"You didn't do it for her, did you?"

"No," he stammered. Lying. Again. He let Farsal also disappear but into his blind spot. "I simply wanted comfortable robes for such a long journey."

Farsal's chuckle was interrupted by Master Gohala's stern shout echoing from inside the carriage. The acolyte grimaced and brought his palms together sharply before hurrying away.

Sidge began walking toward the vardo. What was happening to him? Lying, to both acolytes and Cloud Born. Changing his robes. He'd gone too far.

A clacking sound startled him. The Ek'kiru hitched to the wagon were engaging in a strange display, their antennae waving and their mandibles chattering. He hurried to cross the road.

"Going to ignore us?" trumpeted the green-shelled hauler.

"Oh, hello," Sidge called and picked up his pace.

"See," came another booming call from the other side of the yoke. "I told you there was a Bahadur among them."

"And by Sli'mir's tongue, you were correct," the first replied.

Sidge's steps faltered. Sli'mir. Kaaliya had mentioned the name when they'd first met. When she'd spoken about the barbarian Ek'kiru which caused so much confusion among commoners. He hadn't ever asked her for more. Nor was it a discussion he wanted to have. Not with her, anyway.

"Don't sound so shocked, Yurva. I can be right sometimes."

"Well, why wouldn't I be shocked? He's in man clothes," said the golden-shelled one named Yurva.

Sidge steadied himself and returned to stand next to the Ek'kiru.

"My name is Sidge."

"Taking a break!" bellowed the green-shelled Ek'kiru, raising to his full height and stretching his upper limbs.

Yurva shifted and grunted while his partner fumbled with the harness. "Corva! You're going to get us a bad reputation, you lazy slug. We finally get to be near the humans and you're going to blow it."

Corva ignored the protests. "I am Corva. He is Yurva."

Sidge watched the monstrous frame descend and thought the beast was performing a bow. Its head appeared small at a distance but was easily the size of Sidge's entire chest. Mandibles, nothing short of scimitars, dipped closer to him.

"Truly, where are you from?" the looming figure insisted.

"I live at the Storm Temple," Sidge stammered.

Corva's whip-like antennae flickered, alternating between Sidge's body and the creature's mouth. Sidge pressed his own antennae to his head and pulled his wings tight. He wished he could crawl further inside his robes as the creature's hot, fetid breath washed over him.

A final whisk of Corva's antennae dragged through its fleshy mouth and the great beast boomed, "You're not from Abwoon?" He turned to his golden-shelled friend. "Nor Sli'mir's realm either!"

"Eh?" It was Yurva's turn to shuffle out of the yoke. He slipped off the padded hooks and when he scuttled forward, the front end lurched. Blunted shouts of protest echoed within the gilded wagon.

"What an interesting way to discover the humans. Wearing their robes, their scent," said Yurva.

"I told you, I'm from the Storm Temple," choked Sidge. He regretted returning to speak with the haulers.

"Bah, you wouldn't have come from the swamp anyway," Corva chuckled, a deep grating sound. "Not with those tasty morsels driving your wagon."

Yurva crowded next to Corva, forming a black segmented wall with their underbellies. More antennae lashed out, batting against Sidge's chitin and even slipping under his collar. Sidge shivered and swatted them away.

"Most interesting. You have lived among the humans for a long time. How long?"

"Yes! Yes, tell us about them!" cried Corva. "Why is it they burn their food?"

"Is it true they carry their eggs in their belly and burst when their brood are grown?" asked Yurva.

"I must be going. My master, he needs me."

"Master?" Both swung enormous heads, their horns colliding with a crack neither seemed to notice.

Yurva turned first, tilting his head to the side. "Are you a full member of this hive?"

Corva scratched his horn with his antennae.

"Yes. I am an acolyte. I have... I have duties. My master is injured." Pressing his upper palms together, Sidge let his wings loose and took off toward the vardo. Behind him, he watched the two beasts stand in stunned silence, even as Master Gohala emerged, shouting at them to return to their harness.

CHAPTER XIII

Izhar lay on a makeshift bed consisting of two traveling chests pushed together, piled with robes and saddle blankets. Eyes closed, face drawn, he gave no sign of his normal, jovial appearance. His breathing was steady and the coursing energy of Vasheru's Wisdom had left no marks, although it seemed to Sidge the silver streak in his beard had grown wider.

Izhar's relics had been reshelved to appear organized, but they were not. It would take Sidge an hour at least to rearrange the incense again, alphabetically, by scent. Meditation chimes originally sorted first by material, then by note in ascending scale, had been hastily piled in an open drawer. Several vials had broken, and while the evidence was gone, Sidge knew the mess should be cleaned before the wood soaked in the more pungent oils assaulting his senses.

Kaaliya sat at Izhar's side, one booted foot on the edge of the chest, the other tucked beneath her. Sidge recalled her haunted look earlier and was relieved to see she appeared more relaxed.

Sidge started to ask her what had been wrong, but it struck him how foolish he would sound. The whole situation was wrong. Horrifyingly wrong. And, not to be forgotten, their day had started with a visit from a naked mute. He quietly prayed the man had wandered off.

"Chuman," whispered Kaaliya, as if finishing Sidge's thought.

"What about him?" Sidge pulled the curtain tight to the frame behind him and snatched up his broom.

"When you told me to clear out, I went to unhitch the horses. They were mad with fear and about to drag you and Izhar downhill. Chuman followed, like a puppy. At first, he stood there and watched while I fumbled with the tack. Then he practically dragged the horses to the side of the road. Held both their leads while they fought."

"Okay, so he's big. Strong." Sidge huffed.

"That's not it." Absently, Kaaliya shook her head. "I went to help. He handed me the reins and..." Her distant gaze found his. "What is the Wisdom like? Is it truly lightning?"

The sudden change of subject startled him but he answered as best he could. "The Wisdom is a great mystery. It is knowledge and, at the same time, the fiery bolts of the tempest that scour the Stormblade Sheath." Sidge spoke slowly as the vivid dream returned to his mind. "Only the Stormblade can call the Wisdom into himself and survive and it is not called upon outside the rituals of the temple." Sidge recited a passage from the Forge, "Where death meets life. Where the beginning ends. Where the end begins."

"But it would otherwise kill?"

Sidge nodded, unsure where she was going with her questions. "If not mastered, it would consume the wielder who called upon it."

She stared at the boards above them. "Chuman climbed on top of the wagon. I shouted at him to get down but he ignored me. I was wrestling with the horses and couldn't see much, but he stepped into the center. Right where the bolt snaked down from the sky."

Sidge scooted forward, his mandibles open. "Then what?"

"It stopped."

In all the confusion, Sidge had hoped he'd mysteriously brought the wild channeling under control himself, or perhaps Master Izhar had broken free enough to release the building power. He'd been in no mood to ask, but it even crossed his mind Gohala could've contained the power and set things right. No; Gohala would've taken the chance to gloat.

But Chuman? Channeling?

Shouts and a chant rose up outside. Sidge poked his head through the curtain. The Ek'kiru rumbled past, their sparkling shells pale in front of the gilded carriage. Pristine acolytes flanked the mobile shrine wielding silken banners, rippling in waves of silver and slate. The procession disappeared over the hill.

As the trail dust cleared, Sidge saw Chuman, standing in the same spot, the horses' reins in his hands. He was quite sure the man hadn't moved.

***

They packed the shelves in silence, Sidge biting back instructions for proper arrangement and furiously buzzing his wings as he worked. Kaaliya seemed to sense he didn't want to speak. He ignored her looks of concern and only grudgingly accepted help. Outside, he could hear the rest of the caravan rumbling by on Gohala's heels.

Every so often, Sidge would peek out the curtain and see Chuman standing in the same spot roadside. The Nag was content; as far as she was concerned, she'd found the perfect handler. The Paint was restless. His ears twitched constantly and he kept the lead stretched tight.

As quiet as he was, Sidge wanted to speak. To rage. But burdening Kaaliya with his worries, or with Master Gohala's theft, felt wrong. He needed Izhar.

He peered at his master's troubled form. "Will you ride with Izhar? The descent into the valley may be a bit rough."

He was aware of Kaaliya's look of concern and turned his head further so he could avoid her. It didn't help. All he could see now was the inside of the cabin and a reminder there wasn't enough time to completely correct the mindless rush to stow things.

"We could wait for him to wake," Sidge added, "but I'd like to be in Stronghold before nightfall."

"Of course," Kaaliya said. "They'll likely bar the gates at dark. No sense in sleeping out under the stars another night."

Another night beneath the stars, with her... and their new friend. He shook his head. "Let me know if anything changes," he said, before squeezing past her and out the curtain.

He approached Chuman and took the horses. The Paint gladly followed, and while the Nag was slower to react, she came along with a quiet sigh.

Sidge hitched the team without trouble, Chuman maintaining his roadside vigil. He retrieved the chains, so he could lock the wheels for the steep descent ahead. This precise descent was why Farsal had spent so much time with him at the temple. By now, there was no sign of Gohala's carriage on the road. The two powerful Ek'kiru must have made the harrowing descent with relative ease, under Farsal's capable hands.

When he was done, Sidge climbed onto the bench.

"Are we going to the song?" asked Chuman.

Sidge had forgotten about the melody. The song of Stronghold tickled the air even still. Ancient magics, Jadugar, or Urujaav. Trolls and bloody images. Sidge didn't care. He wanted to be in the city so Izhar could wake there. So they could progress on this pilgrimage, and stay true to the Attarah's path. Regardless what Master Gohala said, these were his traditions.

"Yes we are."

Chuman crossed the road and hauled himself onto the bench. Wheels creaked under his weight. Sidge buzzed his wings. The Paint whipped its mane and the horses set off toward the drop.

Sidge let the glorious view of the valley sweep away his concerns. Countless trails wound their way out of the hills, speckled with travelers. Clouds of white sheep floated on the hillsides, driven ahead of the people, all funneling toward the city walls. Deep Night, when the pilgrimage would be received at the Attarah's palace, was only two nights away; the festival would draw everyone from across the countryside. Apparently, just not down this particular road where the pilgrims tread. The reason soon became obvious.

The pastoral scene pitched like a storm-ridden ocean. Sidge gripped the bench with two palms. Chuman's expression stayed flat, as always, and he leaned back to compensate for the extreme angle.

The horses' hooves skittered along the trail and the wagon groaned. Sidge drew in the reins as the horses tested their footing on the ancient road. It was free of wash-outs and bumps, but the grade was even more alarming than Sidge had imagined. He kept watch on the vardo behind him, waiting for it to flip end over end.

A loud thump echoed inside, accompanied by Kaaliya's curses. Sidge apologized, even as the wagon skidded, and the horses' hooves increased their pace despite his clutch on the reins. Eager to be on level ground, the willful Paint had begun to canter, jerking the wagon awkwardly to one side as a sharp curve approached. Sidge visualized the vardo breaking free of the tongue and rolling into the valley, while the horses dragged him down the rocky road.

"Whoa!"

Both horses tried to stop. They skidded along stones with wide eyes and toothy cries. Foam flecked at the old Nag's lips and Sidge pulled harder. Beneath him, the solid wooden tongues of the shaft issued stuttered pangs. He'd rather be staring into the face of Vasheru again than navigating this hill.

"Whoa there!"

There was a sliding noise followed by a collision inside the cabin, and the vardo lurched to one side.

"For fuck's sake!" Kaaliya shouted, loud and clear.

Sidge swallowed his apology as the horses took the next corner as though they'd only just seen it. With a sharp crack, the vardo jaunted to one side, two wheels off the ground. Sidge clenched his mandibles together, waiting to feel the weight of everything atop him.

Gray robes fluttered and Chuman slipped to the ground. Without losing his stride, the silent man grabbed the front wheel, teetering wildly in the air, and yanked it down to the ground.

With a fierce jolt, the wheels returned to the road in a cacophony of rattled jars, clattering chimes, and loose baggage. There was no cursing this time, but a cry of dismay and Sidge worried what had happened.

They were past the curve now, and the horses were building speed. Chuman jogged beside the vardo with one hand on the front wall.

"Are you insane?" Sidge shouted.

From within the vardo came a wounded reply. "Apparently!"

"Not you!" Sidge stayed trained on Chuman and slapped the empty bench beside him. "But by Vasheru, Kaaliya! I'm so glad you're—"

"Focus on the damn horses!"

Despite the locked wheels, the Paint was happy to let the grade determine his speed, ignoring Sidge's desperate commands. Eyes on the bottom and neck bent, its hooves pounded the earth. Beside him, the Nag's gait became uneven, her legs striking in off-beat bursts. It wouldn't be long before she lost her footing entirely and the vardo toppled over.

Chuman ran faster. With his hands on the footboard, he slipped behind the Paint and dug in. Muscles rippled along his shoulders and tightened into swollen masses against the ill-fitting robes. Seams strained. Wood creaked. Metal groaned and panged, like the strings of an instrument wound too tightly.

The larger animal fought for freedom; the smaller won.

Trembling, the horses returned to their slower trot, even the Paint huffing with exertion. Chuman stayed fixed with the footboard in his grip and the lower frame of the vardo pressed against the small of his back, forcing the horses into a steady pace. When they made it to the bottom, Sidge had no need to guide the horses off the road; they gladly sought the level patch of earth.

For a long time, Sidge couldn't move. The reins hung limp between his fingers.

"What are you?" he asked. Aside from gaping seams along the shoulders of the robes and a spray of dust and horse spit, Chuman showed no signs of exertion.

A crease formed on his flat brow and he spoke. "I am broken."

Sidge quirked his head.

A groan came from inside the cabin. Dropping the reins, he flew to the rear and threw aside the curtain.

The inside was less of a disaster than he'd expected. Several precautions he'd taken to secure the contents had paid off, while others hadn't. At the same time, he focused on Kaaliya's frazzled face and Izhar's pressed form.

Kaaliya was wedged between the two chests that had originally supported Izhar, her back braced against one and her feet against the other. Sidge's master lay beneath her, squeezed into the gap between the chests, protected.

Sidge rushed to help push the chests apart and scrambled to draw Kaaliya to her feet.

"I'm so sorry. So sorry."

"Knock it off. Nothing to be sorry about, but I'm not going to be doing that again anytime soon."

"Are you hurt?"

"No, I'm fine. He's fine. Maybe a bit bruised, but nothing more. What the hell happened out there?"

Sidge couldn't think of where to start. Chuman's feat was fresh on his mind. He saw Kaaliya's expectant face and Izhar's motionless form. He cleared his throat. "I had trouble controlling the horses, but I remembered what you said."

Kaaliya stared at him for a moment. "Well, I for one am glad you did."

"No. No." Guilt of his lie opened a fresh wound. He kept digging himself deeper. "I should have secured the chests, made a better place for both of you to sit. I was distracted. I cannot afford to be distracted."

He'd spent his earlier attentions on making sure everything was secure but his companions. He needed to be in the present, focused. To learn to leave the unimportant things where they were. He pushed the chests further apart and knelt at Izhar's side.

"Really, it's fine." Kaaliya said. She was lifting her shirt, inspecting her skin. Peeling the tight leather breeches down her leg and checking her thigh. Sidge patted blindly at Master Izhar while she moved.

Focused. Right. He fumbled for words. "Have you ever entered the valley that way?"

"What? Riding on top of a fat priest and a pile of blankets?" Kaaliya scoffed. "I imagine I might if the price is right."

Sidge found it hard to laugh as he simultaneously examined Master Izhar for injuries and watched Kaaliya's inspection. "No, I meant, have you ever entered the valley on that road."

Kaaliya buttoned the breeches with a satisfied sigh. "The port usually sees more business than the road. Tradition took you and your gray robes along that devil's ride. Safer, so the Children of Kurath won't get you, or some nonsense."

"You don't believe?"

Weeks of traveling together, and Sidge realized he'd never asked her opinion of Temple doctrine. She'd quoted mantras and even commoner's lore, so her stance was never clear. Maybe it would be easier if she didn't believe. He could seek solace in her heathen ways. Have a new mystery to turn to.

"I believe whatever gets me through the day, Sidge. No offense."

"None taken." At all. If only things were that simple for him.

Kaaliya hopped from the vardo and held the curtain open. "Come on. Let's get to Stronghold. I'll ride on the roof this time. If Izhar slept through our descent, he'll survive the road ahead."

His master's face no longer had the drawn look of a patient, but the soft cast of true sleep. One final inspection and Sidge found no injuries. He tucked the extra blankets and cloth around Izhar, and his master's steady breathing slipped into the comforting rasp of a snore.

Sidge let his wings relax and stepped out to catch up to Kaaliya. He made it to the corner in time to see Chuman hefting her into the air. Alarmed, he started toward them. He should be the one to fly her to bench and let her relive the exhilarating ride she'd been given in Abwoon. But he faltered as she squealed, clearly entertained.

Effortlessly, the monument of a man raised her above his head toward the roof. When even his impressive arm span missed the roof of the vardo, she grabbed the edge to start to swing herself over, but with one hand he repositioned her backside in his palm and placed her there himself.

Outrageous. Sidge waited to see the knife flash. Kaaliya only raised an eyebrow, and the smile he'd thought was his graced her lips.

CHAPTER XIV

Darkness came to the valley, the sun setting behind the surrounding hills. Kaaliya rode on her stomach with her head propped in her hands. She seemed to be staring out toward the sea on the far side of the city, where the rising moon crawled out from a pool of growing light.

They hadn't spoken since the descent, which was fine. Both he and Kaaliya were exhausted, preoccupied. He wasn't sure what to make of Chuman. The giant should've been unconscious. Or more likely, dead.

They rattled along toward the lights of the city, a flickering host floating in the spreading blackness. The hum of Stronghold's song grew louder. Beside the road ahead, two lanterns reflected off the glassy surface of the moat creating a blue-green nimbus. He'd never seen light quite like it. No flame. No brilliance of Vasheru's power.

"What are those?" he asked.

Kaaliya chuckled. "Workings of the Jadugar."

Sidge noticed the two guards standing beneath the posts in the rippling light. By their duty, the members of the Stormblade Temple would wield Vasheru's Fire in the Attarah's name to defeat Kurath when he returned. This, Sidge had been taught his entire life and the mantras foretold. Yet, as powerful a weapon as Vasheru's Fire was, the intimidating appearance of the armor-clad guards could not be underestimated.

Both guards wore conical helms and shirts of woven mail. They held spears with needle-like points perfect for skewering chinks in armor—or between plates of chitin. At their belts hung stout-headed gadas; scepters of solid iron which Sidge imagined could shatter him like a shard of pottery.

One of the guards approached and Sidge drew the horses to a stop. The sentry came to attention, stomping his foot and angling the spear across the road. His companion shuffled forward next, mirroring the actions only with less urgency.

With a flick of their wrists, thin banners unfurled from the points of each spear, colors swimming beneath the lantern light. Each banner displayed the silver silhouette of an equine beast with spiral horns. These were the Moonstriders that, according to the Rebellion, led the Attarah to safety as the humans fled Kurath's Sun Palace.

The first guard scanned the driver's seat. Watchful eyes passed over Sidge then stopped on Chuman; the guard spoke in a deep, commanding tone, "What business do you have in Stronghold?"

Chuman stared straight ahead.

Sidge could see Kaaliya stir on the roof, her feet swinging down between him and his bench mate. She nudged Sidge with her boot and began digging through her pack. What was he to say? Shouldn't their business be obvious?

"We are pilgrims," said Sidge. "We come from the Stormblade Temple so we may follow in the footsteps of the mighty Attarah."

"A bugman Cloud Born? Nonsense," said the other guard.

"Pardon me, but I am no Cloud Born. I am an acolyte. My master rests in the wagon, for we have had a long and eventful journey," said Sidge.

Kaaliya continued to rummage through her pack, offering no assistance.

"What have you to say?" The unconvinced guard tilted his spear toward Chuman. "Are those even your robes?"

The giant remained silent as his eyes tracked the fluttering banner at the end of the spear.

"Well?" The guard jabbed at Chuman, the deadly point stopping far enough away to clearly show the intent wasn't injury. Yet when the guard withdrew his weapon, the banner unfurled, caught in the giant's hands.

Chuman studied the symbol intently. Shocked, the guard yanked on the spear and the banner drew taut between them.

"How dare you lay hands on the Attarah's charge!"

The second spear lowered to train on Sidge while the guard struggled to twist the banner free. For Chuman, the motion appeared to be a minor annoyance as he turned his head back and forth, watching the banner dance.

"I know this creature," Chuman said.

"Unhand it or I'll run you through!"

Sidge rose, his palms wringing furiously. "Please, we—" The second spear pressed dangerously to his chest. He fell back against the cabin, as Kaaliya slipped onto the bench from the roof.

Her hand touched Chuman's. She smiled at the dull-eyed man and Sidge tensed.

Sidge would never forgive himself if he allowed her fascination with their clearly dangerous companion to place her in danger. Maybe he could pull her away and leave the dolt to his fate. Sidge scooted forward on the seat, pressing against the spear point, preparing to act. He felt the tension in his limbs relax as the banner slipped from Chuman's grasp.

Kaaliya turned her attention to the guards. "Peace be upon you." Poised between driver and passenger, she performed the pilgrim's bow on the narrow bench. "I am here as a guest of the Royal House."

This was new information. She'd said she knew nobles, though that wasn't necessarily the Attarah's house. She bent further, her head tucked low, and she presented a small, silver egg to the guards.

The egg shifted, and at first the eerie lamplight playing on the surface seemed to be the source. Veins of light turned into dark seams and those seams expanded, clicking into place. Four legs sprouted, and a head, followed by a horn which flicked up from the crown. When it came to rest Kaaliya held a perfect miniature of the Moonstrider symbol on the banner.

The spear against his chest fell away and the first guard retreated. "My apologies. You've missed the normal festival crowd. The gates are closed at nightfall by the Attarah's order. I believe we can make an exception."

Chuman slid closer to Kaaliya and hunched over the figure like a man seeking warmth from a fire. He extended a blunt finger. Kaaliya watched with amusement. The tip of his finger grew closer and closer and the giant rose into a crouch, pulled on an invisible thread, muddy eyes squinting. The bench popped under the shift of his weight. He touched the figurine, so lightly it wasn't clear any contact had even been made, and it collapsed into a seamless egg again.

The skeptical guard kept his spear leveled. He shook his head. "How do we know that isn't stolen, too?"

Kaaliya pulled off her hat, her silken hair spilling over her shoulders, alive in the play of the lanterns. She stood, transformed, more than removing the hat should allow. No longer a dusty traveler, she was a radiant princess addressing her subjects.

"Very well. I can wait until the morning when the gates open. I shall report to Lord Chakor that you have accused his courtesan of thievery. Perhaps you can have words with the Captain of his guard."

The sentry closest to Sidge shot his compatriot a murderous glare.

"That will be unnecessary. Please." His spear again at his side, he spun the weapon, point down and moved to the roadside, gesturing toward the gate with the spear tip and lowering his head. "Seek refuge in the Urujaav's song, gift of the Attarah. May you be protected from the terror of Kurath forever and all time."

Finally words and actions Sidge understood. It was a recitation of the six hundred and ninth mantra of the Rule. He rose and bowed and Kaaliya did the same.

The second guard spat, loped to the opposite side and waved them on. Sidge urged the horses toward the bridge while Kaaliya settled in beside him, pressed close due to Chuman's bulk.

As the vardo rolled past, the more amenable of the two guards leaned forward. "I don't suppose you saw Master Gohala call the Wisdom? Did he tell you what he saw?"

Sidge stared, dumbstruck, as the horses clomped onto the bridge.

No. He'd not seen Gohala do anything of the sort.

They weren't on the bridge long when Kaaliya grabbed his hands and flicked the reins. She was guiding the horses, away from where the Paint had meandered close to the rail, pulling the docile Nag with him. "Wake up. Can't let that one guide the cart."

Sidge nodded vacantly, the guard's claim echoing in his head, and under a snort of protest from the Paint, he brought the vardo true to the center of the bridge.

"Did you hear what the guard next to me said?"

"Him? What about the ass he was working with?" Kaaliya propped on the rail and she bent forward, digging in her boot. "I want to warn you, Sidge. People are going to treat you differently here. Don't put up with their shit." She drew the knife and appraised the blade.

"Hold on," he replied, drawn from his shock by the dagger's glint. "Violence will not be necessary."

Kaaliya pouted then wiggled her eyebrows. "I suppose not." She tossed the knife over the bridge and it struck the moat with the sound of a bursting bubble. Water ringed outward where it sank; with each ripple, Sidge heard the song of the city answer.

"Why did you do that?"

"There was a toll to enter the city once, to guarantee protection inside the walls. Travelers tossed spare weapons into the moat. I suppose it kept the peace," replied Kaaliya. "Though all those unsophisticated commoners also say the water might rise to defend the city. Best if it's armed."

Sidge peered into the moat. Even at night, the glassy surface reflected the pin-pricked fabric of the sky in perfect detail. Seeing the bottom would be impossible.

"I thought you didn't believe in those things. Temple teachings or commoner's tales," Sidge said, as he returned to his seat.

"Wrong," said Kaaliya. She held up the silver egg. "I said I believe in what gets me through the day. Protection, that's a useful thing. Hopefully I won't need it."

"Speaking of legends and such, what of the silver egg you have? What sort of magic?" asked Sidge.

As though reminded by Sidge's words, Chuman reached for the silver egg with his enormous hand and Kaaliya pushed him away with ease. She tucked it in her knapsack. "Keep all those eyes on the bridge. I'll show you later."

Sidge leaned against the cabin. "They did mention the Urujaav. I never knew that was part of the gate ritual."

"You and your fungus-snorting master make quite the pair. You'll find there's always another side to things, Sidge." Her playful guise faded. "And I'm serious about what I said. Don't let anyone push you around here, got it?"

He quirked his antennae and nodded.

They neared the end of the bridge, and the gates groaned open. As impressive as the walls were from a distance, the sprawling city within was even more so.

A wooden boulevard stretched ahead. Unlike the rough-cut trunks of the outer wall, the boards in the street had been planed and polished. Lanterns hung everywhere, their mysterious sources casting dappled shadows that crawled across the buildings. With the eerie light, Sidge imagined himself floating deep beneath an inhabited sea. Banners, washed in tones of pale blue and green, lined the boulevard.

On all sides, buildings rose into the night, their details lost in the dimness. Façades glowed with candlelight through oddly opaque windows. Rooftops stair-stepped upward to flat peaks, where many of the grander houses supported open porches beneath columned domes .

As they passed beyond the gatehouse, a chain as thick as a man's chest and nicked with age reeled into a hidden recess. A soft patter accompanied the metallic clank. His antennae detected an odd familiarity in the sound and he let them focus there, searching for a source. Unable to find it, with the vardo pressing on through the gates, his senses were soon lost to the city.

Music and laughter drifted from a nearby hall, mingling with a gentle lapping of water beneath the streets. Compared to the persistent song, however, the merriment sounded far away. This was a current which pulled him forward, toward the heart of the city and he nearly released the reins to let his wings carry him there.

The gates ground to a close, and the aftershock rumbled through the planks under the vardo. Kaaliya had taken the reins out of Sidge's limp hands again and drew the vardo to a stop.

"Beautiful? Amazing? Marvelous?" she laughed.

"Inspiring."

A shout came from inside the vardo. "Have we arrived?"

"Master!" Sidge tumbled from the driver's bench and sped toward the back.

The wagon shook and Izhar hopped down to the street in front of him. "Good, I'm famished!"

"Oh, Master!"

He examined Izhar thoroughly. The Cloud Born appeared well-rested. No injuries. Nothing out of place. Nothing except the corestone, which should have rested beneath his matted beard. So far, he didn't seem to know it was gone. That would not be a pleasant conversation.

Izhar gave a quizzical look under the scrutiny. Sidge continued to examine his master, wondering when it had become inappropriate to hug him. Burrow in the matted beard. It was so good to see him unharmed.

Sidge dropped into a bow. "We need to talk, Master."

"We eat and talk, acolyte." Izhar dragged him to his feet. He jangled a small pouch. "I've been saving a bit for this auspicious occasion." He smacked his lips. "And tea. When did we have char leaf? Can't get the taste out of my mouth."

Izhar crossed the street toward the public hall. An aroma of spices and roasted meats wrapped the din of conversation drifting from the building. The smell was intoxicating, but the wagon sat unattended in the street. Sidge saw Chuman dismount and carefully lower Kaaliya to the ground in his powerful arms. She patted his muscular forearm and slung her bag over her shoulder, turning toward the city.

"Wait!" Sidge yelped.

"Ah yes, the wagon. See that it's squared away," Izhar called, continuing toward the hall. "And make sure Mistress Kaaliya joins us," he shouted, loud enough for her to hear. "A drink to the journey ahead and behind!"

"Of course," said Sidge. He started for the vardo and called out to Kaaliya, "You will join us, right?"

"I'm expected elsewhere. And between here and there, a long stop at a bathhouse."

The Nag shifted in the harness and let out a soft moan. The poor creature was in dire need of rest. Even the Paint stared anxiously toward the stables. Chuman, in the shadow of the vardo, barely registered. Conversations with Izhar and tending to the horses and stowing the vardo, there was so much to do, but he couldn't let Kaaliya slip away.

"I could join you." Sidge watched her eyebrows raise over a wicked grin that made his insides flutter faster than his wings ever could. "I mean, I could escort you. Or a ride. Yes. You'd need a ride. I'll put away the horses later. And you promised you'd show me the figurine. Yes. You promised."

She looked at her feet, and walked to the front of the vardo. Sidge waited, two of his hands wringing beneath his robes. She took hold of the harness. Obediently, the horses and Chuman fell in behind as she walked toward the stable yard. "I don't suppose a drink would hurt."

"Not at all. One drink." Sidge agreed.

CHAPTER XV

They sat on pillows around a low table in the dining hall. Izhar lounged across from him and Chuman occupied the end. The giant man was like a screen, blocking off the rest of the dining hall. Sidge could appreciate the privacy, for Kaaliya had chosen to sit right beside him. Still, the night wasn't going entirely as he'd hoped.

He'd told Izhar about the stolen corestone first. After that, his tight-lipped, flushed master had begun tapping his finger on the table in furious silence, an action which terrified Sidge more than it should given his earlier vision. Kaaliya had suggested a game, and Sidge wholeheartedly agreed. Izhar hadn't so much agreed as declined to say otherwise. While her idea had improved the mood at the table, Sidge was regretting the decision as he tried to describe the vision to Izhar.

"And I turned and it was you, Master, urinating in the pond!" Sidge slammed the porcelain cup on the table with one of his eight arms. Maybe nine. He wasn't sure why he'd grown so many. But this was nothing compared to Kaaliya's four breasts. His fellow acolytes who'd been so taken by the carved images on the arch of Cerudell would be quite pleased.

"Again, you're staring." Kaaliya filled his empty cup. "Drink."

"By Vasheru's urine-tainted waters, glorious be their golden shores! How do you do that?" Most of his arms shot outward with his proclamation and a few more fumbled for the cup. Kaaliya's crooked grin was the only thing not kaleidoscoping in the facets of his eyes. He also wasn't sure if the few patrons he could see past Chuman's broad shoulders were looking his way or if it was one angry-looking man, repeated, like a chain of mirrors.

Izhar choked off an explosion of laughter, his belly jiggling over crossed legs. "Sidge," he managed to stammer, "Decorum."

Both of them burst into a drunken guffaw and he remembered why he'd agreed to the game in the first place. He'd wanted to change Izhar's dark mood after he'd told him what had happened to his corestone. Also, it had meant Kaaliya would stay longer.

Kaaliya chuckled noiselessly. "Quite a story, Sidge."

"Not a story," Sidge slurred. He spread his upper arms to try and encompass the scope of everything he'd seen. With his middle arms, he maneuvered the cup to his mouth, drained the contents, and grasped it between his mandibles. Leaning over the table, he tried to set the cup down without using his hands. He bumped the pitcher as he struggled and Kaaliya snatched it before the tarry liquid sloshed out.

Sidge ignored the near-disaster and waved his cup in Chuman's face. "Take it! Cry in it so I can swim! I'll show you all!"

Chuman peered deep into the hollow space but didn't cry.

"Alright," Izhar said, wiping tears from his eyes. Sidge let him take the cup from his mandibles and upturn it on the table. "You've had your fun." His master gave Kaaliya a look.

"I like him this way!" protested Kaaliya. "He's much more relaxed. And his storytelling is vastly improved."

Sidge's antennae drooped. This was not how he envisioned this conversation. Not at all. With a series of sharp breaths, he tried to clear his mind. He threw his hood over his head, huffing in a steady rhythm.

He felt the over-sized pillow they were sitting on shift. Kaaliya placed a hand on his forearm and scooted closer. He let loose a much too audible sigh.

"Are you meditating?" she asked.

With her so close, he let his antennae swim in her presence. She had mentioned a bath and she did smell of trail dust and even a faint, bitter tinge of weathered copper—a smell he'd grown familiar with while trying to remove the sap from the roof. A hint of the sap was there, too, but under all these subtle scents was an aura distinctly hers.

He tried to lean into her and fell backward on the pillow as the whole room spun.

"Why did you do this to me?" Sidge groaned.

"Me?" Her reply dripped with feigned innocence.

Izhar tottered to his feet. "Perhaps it's time for tea," he said and wandered into the hall.

"No! No tea!" Sidge shouted, again, much louder than he intended. "I won't drink that bloody swill!"

"Shhh," said Kaaliya. She pulled him upright and slid her arm between his wings and back. He let his head drop to her shoulder.

"Don't worry, the tea here is fabulous," she reassured him.

"Blood. Flesh. In a cup." For a moment he was sure he would vomit. Kaaliya kept her arm around him but scooted away and swiped an empty bowl from the table. The feeling passed and she hesitantly put the bowl in his lap.

"What are you talking about?" she asked. "Your vision?"

"No!" Sidge flung back his hood and scooted away. No longer doused in solely her presence, the air felt sticky and volatile on his antennae. "Nothing. And it wasn't a vision. He was there!" Sidge pointed at Chuman, whom he'd nearly forgotten was at their table. "This strange naked man was there! If I had a vision, why would he be there?"

The muddy eyes left the empty cup. "I am no longer naked."

"Praise Vasheru!" Sidge's wings rattled.

Kaaliya touched his face. "Calm down."

Her touch sobered him. Sidge used the moment of clarity and tried to think backwards through the vision. It was too confusing. All nonsense, but he still needed to tell the tale. If by chance Izhar had shared any of this experience with him, then perhaps it had been real. They'd maybe be able to find a way to confront Gohala with proof Vasheru had smiled upon his master.

Izhar stumbled back to the table with a pot of tea. He filled each cup, ignoring the not-insubstantial amount of liquor remaining in his own. "What's this you were saying about visions?"

Sidge lurched forward and Kaaliya swiped the cup before he steeped his robe in it. "Thank you," he slurred and turned his attention to Izhar. "Vasheru, oh glorious His... really long tail... He spoke to me. While you were Him and drinking tea with Him."

He paused to review the last thing he'd said. Izhar wasn't fazed by it. "And?"

Sidge brought four hands to his face and created a tunnel around his mouth pointed at Izhar. But his voice failed him. Looking into his master's eyes, Izhar's eyes, he couldn't force himself to say more. Sidge had submitted to Vasheru's will, and Vasheru had become a hideous beast and offered a cup of gore. Like he too was a monster.

Master Izhar's red-rimmed eyes narrowed over the top of his cup. He sipped, leaving a scatter of droplets on his beard. Cradling the cup, he breathed in the steam and Sidge felt squeamish again.

Kaaliya tapped the bowl in his lap and Sidge huddled over it. "What about Chuman? Would he have seen anything?" she asked.

Sidge wanted to argue, but his stomach lurched.

"Why not," grumbled Izhar. "You too, Mistress Kaaliya, while we're at it. Who else has seen Vasheru's Wisdom? Apparently Gohala. My acolyte. Who else? Anyone?" His voice rose until he too was calling out to the entire hall.

"Cloud Born, if you please," said Kaaliya patiently, eyeing the room. "I asked because Chuman stood atop the vardo. Directly in the bolt from the sky."

"He did?" Izhar nearly dropped his tea.

Straight to the point. All this talk, and Sidge realized he'd neglected to mention Chuman's feat. He'd secretly hoped it wouldn't have come up at all.

Only Kaaliya had seen it happen. Sidge could never accuse her of lying, and any doubt he had regarding her account was erased by the man's wrestling of the vardo as they entered the valley. This was something else Sidge didn't want to offer. He couldn't exactly avoid Izhar's searching gaze, so he pulled close enough to the bowl that his mandibles clinked against the bottom.

"What of this, Chuman?" Izhar was staring intently at the giant, differently than he had before.

Kaaliya watched their silent companion as well and her face had an expression that didn't fit her knowing eyes. As part of their drinking game she'd brought up the day Sidge had altered his robes and how she'd known he was staring. She could read him, unlike most humans. Even those he'd lived with his entire life, with the exception of Izhar or maybe Farsal, had difficulty. Sidge was getting to understand how to read her, too.

She seemed puzzled. Intrigued. Chuman was her mystery.

Sidge pulled his face out of the bowl and his wings drooped.

"I saw light." The giant's stiff brow knotted, a dense motion like spreading mud, and his eyes fixed elsewhere. For a long time, he didn't move or speak.

Sidge found his antennae snaking toward the man. They left Kaaliya's aura and passed Izhar's own chaotic assortment of smells, as varied as the contents of the vardo. In Chuman's direction, the air grew crisp and empty with a steady hum. Home.

Chuman shifted the flat gaze toward him, and Sidge reeled in his antennae. "The song called. I was broken. By Vasheru's will, I pursue the song."

Even as Sidge saw a strange light in the man's eyes, he watched Izhar and Kaaliya, rapt by the man's words. Their unquestioning fixation formed a knot in his chest that displaced the sour need to vomit.

"Song?" Sidge swiped his hand dismissively. "Who's the drunken one, hmm?"

Kaaliya and Izhar exchanged a glance.

"Remind me, no more spirits for you," said Izhar.

Sidge's wings buzzed angrily, and he felt himself rise off the ground. "Maybe I did have a vision. Why is my vision drunken ramblings, and his utter nonsense so intriguing?"

Kaaliya's eyes flicked toward the other patrons of the dining hall and she leapt to her feet. She grabbed his arm. "Wonderful idea. I could use a bit of fresh air myself."

"Fine," Sidge said. "Master, if I may be excused?" He crouched in midair, though he wasn't sure all his limbs made it to the right place.

"By all means." Izhar peered into his tea, sullen.

Sidge tried to float away, holding the position of surrender an acolyte was meant to present to his master. He careened into a nearby wall and stumbled as he dropped to his feet. Kaaliya guided him toward the door and into the cool night air.

He shrugged away from her. Tangled in his robe, he started to fall but fought it with his wings. Up, down, it was all the same. He smashed face-first into the wooden boulevard.

He groaned and rolled to his back. Kaaliya knelt over him, her hair blending with the night sky. The impact had displaced all of his feelings, except the shame.

"I should be drinking."

"Trust me, you're done."

"But I'm staring." He ran his fingers through her dangling hair. "You need stars. A crown, made with all these stars. Like in the troll place." At least he hoped that was what he said. Saying anything was getting harder with the way his tongue rolled limply in his mouth.

"We'll get you to the vardo." She hauled him to his feet. "I guess it would be better if you could sleep this off."

"Sleep. I like the sound of that," Sidge replied. If everything went black, if he could float in the pool, and if the world would stop spinning, he'd be fine.

Before long, they were at the vardo, with Kaaliya doing her best to help him through the curtain. He felt flying might help the process, but after ricocheting off the door frame several times, he gave up. Wings frozen, he dropped to the ground, bouncing his face off the steps with a sharp crack.

"You're going to feel that one tomorrow." Kaaliya grabbed him under his upper arms and dragged him up the steps.

"Don't bruise. My skin's an armor I can't peel off."

Darkness. He couldn't see and wondered when his hood had fallen across his eyes. They became a web of limbs and sweat as Kaaliya struggled to drag him to the makeshift bed. Her smell was more powerful than the tarry substance addling his brain. He might have gnawed on a clump of her hair at one point. He hoped he hadn't.

As the lightness of his head started to radiate across his limbs, the incessant hum of the city became more substantial. He heard the boards of the vardo creak.

"Wait!" He sat up and flung his hood back. "You promised! The Moonstrider."

She laughed and shook her head. She walked toward him and retrieved the figurine from her pocket. It was once again a small silver egg.

He scooted to the side of the chest with extreme care as the floor beneath him continued to spin and shift. He sat up, rigid, and patted next to him with clumsy slaps. She sat and handed him the egg.

"What does it do? What sort of magic?" He turned it over in his hands.

Kaaliya touched the surface, and the Moonstrider's limbs and head crept out.

"Sorcery!" Sidge clacked his mandibles and quirked his head, wondering if he could find a sober lens to show him what was really going on.

She took the Moonstrider and placed her finger on a spot along the figurine's breast and pressed. The extremities collapsed and she left her finger in place as they withdrew. She repeated this and the transformation took place anew.

"A trick, nothing more." She handed Sidge the egg and guided his own finger to the same spot. He felt the surface give under his touch, followed by a slight vibration against his hand as the egg became a Moonstrider. "It's priceless. An artifact of the Jadugar, or so Lord Chakor tells me. Members of the royal house keep such things on their persons as status symbols."

He watched her face as he performed the transformation several more times. He wanted to talk to her. Words weren't coming to his muddled mind.

"Stay."

"I can't." Kaaliya stood outlined by the restless light of lanterns in the street. "These past few weeks... it's been good to relax. You've been a charitable host. A friend."

"Then come with us!" Sidge wanted to stand but didn't trust the ground.

"What? And be a wandering pilgrim? Spread the light of Vasheru?" She laughed, devoid of humor. "Not sure I'd help your cause."

"I'm not sure Master Izhar helps our cause," Sidge groaned. He cradled his head with all four hands as pain pulsed through it. With each surge, his sight dimmed. Unable to resist, he collapsed on the travel chests. "I'm not sure what this will be like without you."

Darkness. Sidge felt a hand brush his foot. Heard her speak. "You'll be fine, Sidge. You're a better man than, well, most men."

He wanted to delay her as he heard the curtain part. By the time the pain subsided, she was gone. He lay there. Unable to move. Letting the strange cry of the city envelop him along with the blackness.

Sidge slept.

CHAPTER XVI

Sidge raised his antennae as high as he could above the odor of horse manure and sawdust in the alley. Fortunately, Master Izhar refused to entertain his groveling any longer.

"For the last time, get up," said Izhar.

Grateful, Sidge rose and brushed the filth off his robes with his free hands. "I am truly sorry for my behavior last night, Master."

Izhar grinned and his eyes sparkled. "Hard to understand moderation without knowing your limits, eh? We may've found your poison."

"Poison?"

"Your drink. The thornsap."

Sidge suppressed a violent turn in his abdomen. "Please, let's not discuss it."

"As you wish." Izhar waved a hand. "You, too. Come on, up."

Behind them, Chuman was prostrate on the ground, clogging the narrow alley with his bulk.

The dim-eyed man was an idiot. Literally, a simpleton, Sidge reminded himself. He needed to show more patience toward their... follower? Ward? Whatever Chuman was, Izhar had insisted the giant accompany them. That being the case, they needed to find clothes for him other than the ill-fitting robes. The shrunken vestments looked foolish and it would do them no favors for this bizarre stranger to be mistaken for an acolyte.

Izhar continued toward the street ahead, and Sidge pulled Chuman after him.

The open boulevard of the city gate had been exchanged for a maze of bridges, canals, and catwalks. Tightly-packed buildings rose in great spires, their shapes offering little cohesive architecture save the carved colonnades decorating the rooftop patios.

Sidge had spent so much time dropping to the ground in supplication, hood over his head, that he hadn't kept track of where they were. He recalled the sights and smells of their walk through the city in broken shards. Most of the details were lost to the molten ball the thornsap had formed in his stomach, and to his fixation on the shame of the previous night.

They'd found an inn, he recalled that much. It was in a rundown part of the city that reeked of stagnant water, offal from the butchers' shops, and urine. The proprietor seemed unenthusiastic about Sidge's presence. A heated conversation had ensued, and Izhar had haggled for several minutes while the innkeeper maintained a disapproving glare.

Sidge knew it was his fault. The whole evening. No doubt the innkeeper had been worried the drunken Ek'kiru, smothered in the pungent blanket of smells, was on the verge of varnishing the floor with the contents of his stomach.

"He sleeps outside," was all the innkeeper said.

He'd bowed, palms to the sky, and walked out the door, leaving Izhar to fume and Chuman to stare after him.

It wasn't like he slept anyway.

But then again, he had.

At least he didn't remember anything between when Kaaliya had left and being woken at the inn. Even the background buzz of the city's song had quieted during the stretch of lost time. And once Sidge had gotten out to the inn's stables and climbed unsteadily into the vardo, the blackness had descended again.

Terrifying. Yet, he longed for it. Especially when faced with the scene they were approaching at the end of the alley.

People streamed by the intersection. More than Sidge had ever seen in the courtyard of the Stormblade Temple, or the quiet streets of Cerudell. Their clothing lacked any uniformity, and their momentum was an unpredictable surge of swinging limbs and colliding paths. The chaos rooted him to his spot while Izhar dove into a fray of bows and acknowledgments.

"Good day to you, Cloud Born!"

"Vasheru smile upon you, Cloud Born!"

He watched as the master never slowed his pace and the bubble of bowing citizens that formed at Izhar's passing, collapsed. No open pathway left behind, no clear space; only a squirming wall of cloth, skin, and hair.

Sidge forced down a second wave of nausea.

When he and Chuman stepped from the alley, another bubble formed, this one different from the fluid space that had greeted Izhar; an empty cavity trapped in amber, where the lesser insects met their doom. He started to bow in acknowledgment as Izhar had, but received no reception, only stares and open mouths.

"Pardon me." He forged ahead, offering apologies.

Chuman followed. A head taller than the tallest man, he would invite the gawking stares from a block away. But Sidge knew he couldn't ignore his own contribution—his wings. He tried to draw them closer. Free from his robes, however, they had a mind of their own and they sought the breeze to tease them further out.

Why had he ever altered his robes? The decision plagued him as he threaded through the crowd. He cringed at each crunch of a wing against passersby, like dry grass. Dry, yet the air was humid with the sweat of so many people. Too many.

By the time Sidge got to the railing on the far side, he was jogging. He stumbled against the rail and leaned out over a bustling canal, unsure if his vomit would worsen the odor. With deep, regular breaths, he staved off the sickness.

Hundreds of boats of all shapes and sizes clogged the canal. More buildings lined each side. Salted, sweat-laden air and the odor of gutted fish left to bake in the sun wrapped Sidge's antennae in an oily film. Behind him, Chuman lumbered through the still gawking crowd, and the boards of the street maintained a constant tremor underfoot.

The motion, the smell and thornsap rose in Sidge's throat yet again, a constant surge. He spotted Izhar waiting on a dock at the bottom of a short flight of stairs. He shrank into his hood and desperately waved Chuman in that direction. Chuman scanned the horizon, peering at a point in the distance, then took the steps to the canal level.

Sidge felt the stares of the crowd piercing the back of his robes. He wanted to shout. Maybe tell them, too, that he ate children. His head ached and throbbed.

He grabbed the top of his hood, yanked it completely over his eyes, and exhaled into the darkness.

He'd become weak-willed along the way. Let this new, noisy, color-soaked, cloying world weigh too heavily on him. He should've left things as they were and been an island of calm among the chaos. Instead, he'd chased delusions and fanciful desires. The Temple. His life's work. This was why he was here.

Sidge tore back the hood and faced the crowd with his mandibles. The gawking had spread several people deep, causing traffic on his side to grind to a standstill. He placed his four hands together and bowed.

"May Vasheru protect you," he said, before descending to join Izhar and Chuman.

"I was wondering what happened to you," said Izhar.

"Getting my bearings, Master. What are we doing?"

"Trying to cross the canal and give my legs a much needed rest. There are bridges, but they're crowded this time of day and a boat ride should prove much faster." Master Izhar called out to a passing boat covered in neatly stacked bolts of cloth, "A ride, good sir?"

The pilot pretended to not see them over his load.

"Light of Vasheru guide you!" Izhar called, adding a muttered, "Into the eternal tempest."

"To be fair, Master, that boat was too full."

Izhar said nothing and shouted again to a passing barge. And again. Sidge wasn't sure how this could be faster, but avoiding crowds seemed like a good plan.

"Many of the decks are full." Sidge eyed a battered junk, its sails collapsed and driven by long poles manned by half a dozen Ek'kiru standing on deck. They were small but without wings and they gripped the oars with their four hands. Piles of freshly caught fish twitched on the deck among crates and urns. "Perhaps festival preparations are the only things on their minds?"

Izhar grunted and continued his persistent hails. As the wait grew, Sidge moved into the shade provided by the street above. Out of the sun, his stomach began to calm, and he turned to examine the space underneath the city streets.

Massive pilings formed the foundation of Stronghold, some many spans wider than the vardo was long. He'd consider it a marvel of engineering, like the Storm Temple, but the placement of the supports was anything but symmetrical. It appeared a maddened builder had scattered stones and erected the pilings wherever one happened to land.

By their appearance they were the same type of trees that composed the city wall. In the daylight, a variety of colors were visible in the bark. Rust to ocher and even turquoise spotted the surface. He touched the bark and found it was hard as stone.

He remembered the tall tree with the open wound. Those monstrous talons clicking on the surface of the table. He started to ask Izhar about the trees when he noticed a boat approaching.

Low and flat, the skiff left gentle ripples in its wake. A bench was mounted at the stern and brightly colored garlands decorated the railing. Unlike the others, this boat had no cargo and appeared to be made specifically for passengers. The driver balanced at the rear on a narrow perch.

"Hello there!" Izhar shouted.

The boatman waved and swung toward the dock using the pole, his wiry arms and legs flexing with the motion. "Greetings! A ride, Cloud Born?"

"It would be appreciated. Palace of the Attarah, if you please."

Stained teeth peered from under the driver's mustache. "For the two..." Sidge stepped out of the shadows and the driver eyed him, "... the three of you?"

Izhar nodded curtly.

"Five silver horns."

Izhar choked. "Could you not spare a ride today for the work of the Temple, my friend?"

"Ah, Vasheru, blessed be His bounty, may He forever hold Kurath at bay." The driver dipped his head. "But even for a dignitary such as yourself and your most interesting colleagues, my standard fees are necessary."

"Standard? Your fee could secure each of us a skiff for an afternoon."

"You could wait and see, I suppose," replied the boatman.

Sidge couldn't see Izhar's face, but his master's beard quivered.

He remembered Kaaliya had said people would treat him differently here. She'd specifically said he wasn't supposed to take any of their droppings, of which he had no intention. However, Kaaliya could've charmed the greedy boatman with her beauty or even threatened with her knife. Possibly dazzled the man with a priceless trinket from her bag. What could he do?

"Master, I could always meet you at the palace," he said.

"In which case," added the driver, "the fee would be one silver horn." He looked Chuman up and down. "Maybe two."

Izhar's jaw flexed making his sideburns flare outward like a lion's mane. Beads of sweat formed on his pate. None of this was a good sign.

"I'd rather walk, you—"

Sidge bowed toward the boatman, placed his middle palms together, and used a third hand to draw Izhar away from the boat. "Master, it's no trouble. Plus, it saves what's left of our funds."

"Nonsense. Why should I satisfy this heathen swindler?" Izhar said, much too loudly. The boatman gave an unapologetic shrug, the pleasantness never leaving his face. "Besides, how would you find the palace?"

The sensation of the crowded streets and the crush of people still hadn't left him. The nausea started to return and he shivered. "I suppose I could fly. A clear view from above should lead me to the grandest building in all Stronghold."

"You could probably spot Master Gohala's swollen head," Izhar muttered. "No. I'll walk, we'll get there together."

"There is no need for that, Master. The canal is surely the shortest route, and the day only grows later."

Izhar's expression softened. Genuine concern creased his brow. "It could be dangerous."

The people of Stronghold were unwelcoming and rude. Dangerous? Maybe, but the thought of Gohala's hand around Izhar's corestone and the guard's mistaken claim regarding the Wisdom only added to Sidge's conviction. "Please, Master, I do not want to delay your meeting with Cloud Born Gohala any longer. I know you wish to have words with him."

"Indeed." Fire burned in his Master's cheeks as though he'd had the same mental image. Izhar dug his nearly flattened money pouch from his robes, held it limply and sighed. "If you have trouble, you can find your way back to the inn?"

"Of course," Sidge said. He hesitated before asking, "What was the name?"

Izhar eyed him suspiciously. "Janipur's. Look, there are gardens outside the Palace. If we don't cross paths for the meeting, I'll wait for you at the garden gate when I'm done. My purse will be too light to suffer another insult such as this. We can walk back to the inn tonight. Together."

"As you wish, Master." Sidge bowed, palms upturned.

Izhar strode to the boat and fished a coin from his pouch. "Your fee."

The boatman stepped off his perch and accepted the coin. "Take no offense, Cloud Born, but your colleague's presence may dissuade my regular fares." He stooped to help Izhar board but the master only grunted and slapped his hands away.

Chuman set his eyes on Sidge, then stared down the boatman with an unnerving glare. "He follows the song as well."

The once unflappable driver fumbled for a response, and Sidge grabbed Chuman's sleeve to direct him toward the boat. He worried at first that the horse-wrestling giant would resist. But fortunately he guided and Chuman followed to the edge of the dock. Once at the edge, the man planted his feet.

Sidge sliced at the air with his mandibles. Why they couldn't leave the infuriating giant here, he didn't understand. He'd gladly invite the wrath of Izhar's lost, wandering god to be rid of their burden.

"How will you get there?" rumbled Chuman.

"I've got my own transportation." Sidge fluttered his wings.

The dull man seemed to understand and stepped over the gap between boat and dock. When his foot struck the deck, the skiff dipped low, water sloshing over the side, and the driver stabbed his pole against the dock. Izhar, seated on the lone bench, threw his hands out for balance. "To the center, please. Hurry!" shouted the boatman. Another precarious surge, and Chuman flopped onto the seat beside Izhar leaving the boat to bob restlessly.

Izhar stared straight ahead as the driver joined the traffic. His master had become more distant on their journey, and Sidge worried what might happen in the confrontation with Gohala. He worried too about the man at Izhar's side, where an acolyte should be. Chuman's vacant eyes regarded him until the skiff was lost among the hulls of the larger ships.

Sidge examined the skies. Clear, the late autumn sun was rapidly approaching its peak. While he'd come to dislike the constant glare, recalling the chaotic press of bodies in the streets drove him upward.

He rose from the canal, and the once-malignant sun burned away the humid film clinging to him. For one brief moment he thought he might follow the boat, but the higher he rose, the freer he felt.

The sounds far below formed a single buzz of activity. Under the buzz, Sidge detected the persistent call of mystical energy from the city's song. Chuman's obsession. His antennae easily latched onto the source.

Sidge followed for a time, eyeing the twisting walks and canals below. Squat, wooden buildings with shingled or thatched roofs peppered the spaces between taller structures, their open-air patios crowning the tops like the Temple sanctum. The place where only the Stormblade entered. Where one was closest to the Mighty Vasheru.

Buildings changed as he flew onward, the façades carved from the same type of trees which supported the city. They rose higher into the sky, capped with polished white, jade, ocher, and crimson stone. Larger slabs of this stone replaced shuttered windows. On these, carved murals depicted the Attarah's flight from the Children of Kurath. The Savior's trek across plains of razor-sharp thorns. The harrowing ascent up the Winding Stair where the Attarah and company tread on sky and stone. The founding of Stronghold. Deeper Sidge flew into the reaches of time, the buildings magnified in age and grandeur.

Growing up, he had immersed himself in the tales, the sayings, the history, through rigorous days of chanting and reflection. Every word, every syllable, of every mantra had passed from master to pupil in an unbroken chain leading back to the Attarah himself. Theirs had always been a spoken legacy. Seeing the mantras depicted in the murals, those unsettling questions brought about by the ancient archway of Cerudell started to simmer.

Sidge found himself hovering before the scene of a woman's lithe form stretched in a pose of both rest and surrender. Behind her sat a man, his two hands cupping her breasts. Three other women lay at his feet. He was a noble, perhaps even the Attarah himself, for as the Rule stated, only the nobility were allowed many wives.

Shortest of the collections, the Rule's fifteen hundred mantras codified how society should function for commoners and nobles alike. Roles were defined for men and women, a distinction he'd only recently seen firsthand despite countless recitations. There were even mantras about the treatment of pilgrims from the Temple. A Rule for humanity to live by so that, in the glory of Vasheru, they would triumph when Kurath returned. Humanity would triumph.

Even in the polished stone, the carved faces shone with joy. Lips curved back, teeth glistening. Their small eyes were closed and eyebrows arched upward in expressions of bliss. Sidge touched his own mouth, caged behind hooked mandibles.

He flew on, and felt the weight of the small eyes upon him.

CHAPTER XVII

Sidge soon discovered he'd been correct; the palace of the Attarah was easy to spot from the skies, for everything the Stormblade Temple was, the palace was not. Each face and pillar of his home had been carved with utility in mind first, veneration second, and aesthetics somewhere beneath. This building had been made to impress, perhaps, even the gods themselves.

The main structure vaulted high above the rest of the cityscape, each tier slightly smaller than the one beneath. Above a central regal gate, the surrounding pillars and entablatures repeated in a slowly diminishing scale. From the ground, Sidge imagined this architectural trick would give the building a sense it climbed even higher than it actually did.

Colorful dyes added garish realism to the army of carved figures assembled along each tier. Interspersed between the figures were window panes formed from rectangular slabs of the milky white, jade, and ocher stone, but cut so thin, Sidge swore he could see shadowy figures moving within.

The roof tapered into a peak. On a ridgeline made of one of the stone timbers danced the graceful curves of a silver-plated Moonstrider. Sidge hovered in awe at the sheer size of it.

Despite the grandeur, what had led him here was the song. He could sense the source, a single clarion note, coming from the gardens immediately outside the palace courtyard. Drawn by the music, he drifted down through the bladed leaves.

Palms grew in the garden like the pilings below the city; wild, and not the ordered lines he would have employed as a groundskeeper. They formed a striped canopy over walkways paved with chips of polished stone. Smaller ferns and clusters of flowers flanked the path.

The plants grew inside knee-high, concentric rings encased in stony bark like the walls and pilings. From what he could see, these rings were supports from below the city platform, extending through the street and hollowed out for use as planters. The heart of these trees was the source of the ubiquitous earthy-colored stone.

One mystery solved, he took up the pursuit of the song. The pathways wound in many directions, branching into spirals and secluded groves. Sidge ignored these and followed only the continued refrain. Doing so led him along a wide boulevard lined with lanterns, dormant in the scattered daylight.

Trees fanned out, surrounding another hollowed ring, larger than the rest. No plants grew in the ring, but instead, beyond the pearly white lip, a skin of water ran from edge to edge. He walked around the well, testing the vibrations in the air with his antennae. This was definitely the source.

Yet another mystery not mentioned in the mantras. He was certain Izhar would have an answer: Jadugar, Urujaav, yet his master had never mentioned the well either. Kaaliya had seemed unable to feel the pull, so maybe others didn't know the source, was here. For them the song was the sound of an entire city.

He bent over the pool and looked in. The placid surface appeared frozen and he extended a finger.

"Crooked tree." A rasping voice called out, like a reed in the wind.

Spinning toward the call, Sidge searched the ferns. His lenses detected a slight flicker of movement.

"Hello?" he called.

A narrow, mouthless face pushed out of the brush, its green skin banded with dark stripes melding perfectly with the surrounding leaves. Yellowed eyes inspected him and the thin slits of its nose twitched. Mossy hair trailed down its cheeks, the rest collected into a top-knot bound by a vine.

A troll. What could it possibly be doing here? Sidge prayed to Vasheru to protect his shins.

"I'm afraid I have an appointment at the palace," he said and circled to the far side of the well.

"You have come for more spores?" the troll asked.

Sidge stopped. "What makes you believe I want spores?"

"We have given them to you before," the whistling voice stated.

He considered arguing, but getting lost in the troll's riddles would be a waste of time. How could this one possibly know they'd collected puffcap? But he remembered the strange way they had been transported, vardo and all, across a great distance and wondered aloud.

"Oakworm?"

The troll bounded forward with startling speed. Sidge leapt for the open air but the creature grabbed his arm. Panicked, he pulled, but the troll's iron grip held fast like ancient roots bound deep into the soil.

"Call me with the howling wind and drops of life from pregnant clouds." The hand engulfing Sidge's forearm relaxed but did not release him.

"Seems a bit long for a name," said Sidge nervously while he continued to free his arm.

"Hedgedweller, if you must."

It released him and let its hands, the size of cooking pots, drop. Broad as it was tall, Sidge could tell the troll easily outweighed him even though it only came up to his chest. It wore no clothes, but the mixture of leaves and moss that grew from it gave an appearance of modesty. And he was certain the vine binding its topknot grew straight out of its back.

"I am Sidge. And I must be going."

"No, you do not yet know what to call yourself." Amber eyes, flecked with green and gold, narrowed at him. "You cannot hear it. You have not listened." Hedgedweller raised a blunted finger in the air and his head turned at an awkward angle. Awkward for most. Physically, Sidge was capable of the same motion, but he'd not made it since scaring his fellow acolytes as a child. "You hear the call of this place, I know. Now hear mine. I am the monsoon wind serrated by leaf of palm, bent low but not broken."

Hedgedweller tossed its head back and under his chin, Sidge saw three sinewy bands vibrating inside a knotted hollow. From inside the space issued a sound like a vortex of air pulled through a vast, empty hall.

Sidge backed away. "Wait. You know I can hear the well? So you hear it, too?"

Hedgedweller shook its head. "The call is for the Timeless, not me. I am rooted here. I will die here and feed the tree where countless others will grow."

More nonsense. "So what brought you to the Attarah's garden?"

It happened too fast. He'd misjudged the length of the ropy arms. One shot forward and grabbed him again.

"To bring life to a dead place." More round than oval, the troll blinked its eyes, its lids sliding upward from the bottom. "Truth has fled here. What does she say to you?"

"I must go." He strained against the troll's grip but the creature dragged him to the side of the well.

"What must you do? Return to your masters?" The troll raised its free hand and a white boil pushed outward from its palm, bursting through the moss and stretching into a glistening mass. "Hmm?"

"No, thank you," he said, pulling as far away as he could and bringing two hands to his face. "I've had my share of hallucinations."

Hedgedweller leaned into him, chortling, and shoved him against the well.

"For your master, then." Hedgedweller's scattered pupils flexed. "To bring him closer to truth. It won't work for you."

"What do you mean?" The need to escape, forgotten, Sidge stared at his own reflection in the amber eyes.

"Puffcap." Hedgedweller brought the swollen lump to its face and the fungus disappeared beneath its protruding chin in a hazy cloud the color of a mottled pear. "Only for those who can't know truth themselves."

"You are speaking gibberish. I saw things and I can't even channel." Sidge felt numb. Images of a cup of gore filled his mind.

"You can never channel, no; only truth for you, Old Blood." Hedgedweller's massive hand engulfed Sidge's back above his forewings and gently turned him to face the well.

"It is a long journey," Sidge mumbled, without knowing what he was saying or why. "We travel to the deserts and then back to the Temple. Surely I will have mastered channeling in that time. I must—"

An odd noise issued from the troll, a bird's trill deep within the earth. "Is yours the face of a thief?"

There Sidge was, staring back from a skin of mercury. His eyes were entirely too large for his face: bulging, watery blisters on the verge of bursting. Much too large. That he could see the surrounding garden, the cloudless sky, the troll at his side, the gate behind him, all while being confronted by the image of himself, only confirmed this fact.

Never channel. Yes, that sounded right. How would he ever focus enough to wield the power of Vasheru, when the whole world spun and twitched relentlessly around him?

And despite his impressive field of vision, he'd often ignored how badly his vestments had fared on the journey. They were impossible to ignore in the crystalline reflection. Frayed. Speckled with dark spots from the tree sap; he'd washed them vigorously fifteen times, and could always see those same spots.

He'd had no respect for his robes anyway; this was why they would not come clean. He pulled his wings as far as he could below his shoulders. Clamped his mouth behind his mandibles.

This troll, this Hedgedweller, it wasn't dealing in riddles. Truth. Mirrored on the pool, the gangly arm behind him crept up toward his head.

"What does she say?" the troll whispered.

Sidge felt himself being plunged into the well. Wings tore at the air but the troll's strength in its willowy arms was inescapable. He thrashed, his robes quickly drinking in the water and weighing him down.

Kicking and squirming, his vision ran in blurry streams, merging each lens. He held his breath and planted all six limbs on the lip of the well to fight the ferocious grip.

The song carried in the water, more like chimes on a crisp autumn day than the pervasive hum in the city. On the air of the world above, it had sounded natural, ambivalent. Delicate and urgent in the confines of the well, Sidge could tell these were mournful sounds.

Shapes formed. Phantoms in the currents. Faces devoid of features.

They parted and one came forward, distinct or the same, neither was clear. Humanoid in shape, the body was a swirl of water suggesting a female's curves. Transparent tendrils of hair swam around her face.

She grew closer, her nose nearly touching his mandibles. She reached behind him where the mossy fingers of the troll spanned his eyes and immediately, Hedgedweller withdrew. Sidge felt his air should be dwindling yet he perched on the lip of the well and kept his head beneath the water.

Placing a finger on his mandible, her lips formed a word.

Mercy.

Sidge staggered away from the well, gasping, and fell to the ground. Water on his eyes transformed the garden into a blur of green and blue. He lay there, panting. On his mandibles, the cool touch lingered. The touch of an Urujaav.

CHAPTER XVIII

Water streaked Sidge's lenses. A blurry shape closed in and something, a branch maybe, rapped on his chest. The troll. He had no more patience for those walking topiaries.

"Leave me be!" Swatting at the branch, he sat up, trying as fast as he could to get to his feet.

The branch smashed into his chin. His head collided with the stone path and water sprayed from his face in a fine mist. The earlier headache born of thornsap returned in a vengeful explosion of white-hot bursts. More shapes closed in. The focused point, too solid, too smooth to be a branch, ground into his throat. He tried to grab it only to find his arms pinned.

More water shed from his eyes as he thrashed.

Four armored men surrounded him. The butt of a spear crushed his throat. Two more spear shafts, flat to the ground with guards kneeling atop them, held his arms. Wicked, curved knives shone in their hands. A fourth held his gada at the ready.

An unyielding gaze from the spear wielder at his throat challenged Sidge through a visor designed to mimic the face of a Moonstrider. The spear pressed harder. "Why were you flying above the palace grounds?"

Sidge tried to speak and only a gritty rasp escaped. Like the pile of fish he'd seen on the deck of the junk, he could only squirm. Captured. Waiting on fate.

The pressure eased.

He gasped for air, a motion that had him spreading his mandibles. Knives readied in the hands of the kneeling guards.

"Forgive me," coughed Sidge. Words poured out amid strangled gasps. "I am an acolyte of the Stormblade Temple... here at Master Izhar's request."

This information didn't seem to impress the guard.

"An Ek'kiru Storm Priest?"

"I am the only Ek'kiru at the temple," Sidge forced out the words.

The guard who was doing the talking, gestured. With the haste of an eager acolyte, the gada wielder hooked the iron maul to his belt and fell to a knee, rifling through Sidge's robes. The guard produced the small bent twig which he tossed to the side. Mouth twisted in disgust, he dug under Sidge's collar and groped the lining of the robes down along the part in the front. When he was done, he walked to the well and shoved his hands in the water.

"Nothing. No weapons."

"So you say," said the other kneeling man. He edged the hooked knife toward Sidge's mandibles. "Shall I disarm him, commander?"

Desperate, Sidge started to cry out when the butt of the spear slammed into his throat.

The leader raised a finger and the knife withdrew. "Where is your master?" Pressure on the spear relaxed again.

Sidge gulped air and spoke as fast as his constricted throat would allow. "Master Izhar took a skiff to the palace docks. Please, let me find him and he will explain."

The commander's small eyes bored through him, a weapon in their own right. Sidge tried to remind himself this, the Palace of the Living Attarah, was the guards' house. This was their duty. It was even reasonable that a flying intruder had alarmed them. Even an intruder in temple robes. Even though their actions violated every mantra of the Rule that governed how pilgrims were to be received.

He struggled to stay calm, but indignation hollowed out his will. Indignation followed by his earlier shame. In the past few days he'd likely lost his right to be called an acolyte. Maybe these guards could sense the shame, like the stains on his robes only he could see.

But if he wasn't an acolyte, what was he? An "Old Blood", as the trolls had said? And what had the Ek'kiru yoked to Gohala's wagon called him? Bahadur? Hedgedweller had even made up a name: Crooked Tree. Everyone seemed to have an idea about what he was or was not.

He was Sidge.

Or maybe he was just another filthy bugman.

He examined the kneeling guards and allowed himself to feel the crushing pressure of the spear shafts on his limbs. They were right, his mandibles could be a weapon. He was close enough he could snap the spear in two. And if they carved the bony protrusions from his face, would he even care? He'd have a mouth, uncaged by terror. If they couldn't make good on their threats, he'd spill their blood and collect it in a cup.

Seasoned veterans, the men kneeling beside him picked up on the possibility of violence like the subtle density of the air before a calling of the Fire. Their knives came to the ready and their eyes darted to their leader.

Vasheru's beard!

He was losing his composure. This was not a battle he either wanted or could win. He fought the anger.

Even if the troll was right, an inability to channel would only prevent him from ascending to Cloud Born. He could always return to the temple and tend to his duties at home, in peace.

"A thousand apologies, sir," he said, composed and sincere, as if he'd been the one who'd pinned the man to the ground, helpless and twitching. "If you wish to summon Master Izhar, I will gladly wait in the company of your guard. He is most likely in the presence of Cloud Born Gohala."

He hated that he had to speak Gohala's name to get any kind of reaction, but the spear pulled away. Those hard eyes narrowed, blending with the shadow of the helm and the leader turned to his men.

"You, to the palace. Find out from Master Gohala if he is expecting this creature." The gada-wielding guard snapped to attention and hustled through the gate. "You two, you're here with me."

A look of disappointment crossed the face of the guard who'd suggested dismembering him. Sidge wanted to be further away from that one. "Pardon me sir, may I sit up? I do not wish to cause further trouble for you or your men but perhaps I could meditate on the will of Vasheru until your companion returns."

Satisfied with the deferential attitude, the leader ordered his men to stand. They sheathed their knives and gathered their spears, taking up positions beside him.

Sidge sat up slowly, hands open. His wings crackled, one place he didn't feel pain but he dare not test them to see if they were damaged. He gave a half-bow to the commander. "Vasheru guide you, kind sir."

In a cumbersome, calculated manner devoid of sudden movements, he pulled his legs into the lotus. He settled his hood over his head. Damp weight pressed against his skull and the edges of his eyes. Antennae muffled and vision tunneled, he tried to meditate as the two spear points hovered nearby.

Soreness burned in his throat. Joints ached where the spears had crushed them against the ground. And when he tried to drive the pain and glinting weapons from his thoughts, they wandered to teacups full of blood. The song. The water spirit's touch.

It wasn't long before a familiar face approached the gate and Sidge nearly cried out.

Farsal walked briskly with hands clasped behind him and back straight. He wore a mask of contemplation for the guards yet Sidge could see the alarm in his eyes.

Sidge hung his head and placed his palms together. Slow. Deliberate.

"Good to see you again, brother!" Farsal said, emphasizing the final word. He extended a hand and warily eyed the guards. "Come, I've been sent to bring you inside at our masters' insistence."

The commander made no sign or gesture but watched them skeptically.

Rather than stand on his own, Sidge allowed Farsal to help him to his feet and he bowed. The greeting was returned. "Has Master Izhar spoken to Cloud Born Gohala yet?"

"Soon," Farsal said. He gestured to the gate which led into the palace grounds and gave a pleading look to the commander.

The commander's answering twitch of approval was on the verge of imperceptible. Sidge didn't want to go at first and only did so under Farsal's insistence.

Once they were moving, Sidge kept pace even as everything inside told him to run. Run and not return. The guards watched, intense and quiet, hungry. Any excuse for their feral instincts to take over.

As they passed into the courtyard, Farsal whispered, "What happened?"

"A misunderstanding," Sidge replied. Farsal waited for more and Sidge couldn't summon the will to explain. Movement across the courtyard spared him the awkward silence.

The palace gate began to rise, surrounded by more of the Moonstrider-helmed guards. For a moment, Sidge foolishly believed the grand gate opened solely for the approaching acolytes. Misunderstandings sorted out, they were to be greeted honorably as the Rule required. Soon, however, he spotted the true reason.

A magnificent palanquin entered the courtyard through a separate arch. The gilded and finely-carved litter reminded him of the splendor of Master Gohala's wagon. Deep red curtains shaded the interior below a pointed roof. Symbols lined the trim and drew much of his attention, for he thought he recognized these same symbols from inside the well. An armored escort walked ahead of the palanquin, clad in bronze helms visored with demonic faces.

Most interesting were the four Ek'kiru who bore the poles of the palanquin. They were not much different in size than Sidge and were small compared to their burden. Four limbs scurried along the ground while two more locked the poles against their shoulders. Their carapaces were the color of rusted iron and their eyes were onyx bulbs. Crimson clothes, which he wouldn't quite call robes, draped their bodies.

Farsal had stopped with Sidge to watch. "A noble of Stronghold," he offered.

"Which one?"

"The Attarah's advisor, Lord Chakor, his honorary Jadugar. You may meet him at the feast," said Farsal, moving across the courtyard to the other side of the palace. "Come, we enter over here."

"Jadugar?" Visions of Izhar's stories filled his mind. Though the name, Lord Chakor, had never been mentioned, something about it sounded so familiar.

Sidge followed Farsal but continued to watch the main gate. A brief display of ceremony from the armored escort, and the palace guard snapped to attention. As the palanquin started forward, the curtains stirred and twilight peeked between the crimson folds.

"Kaaliya?" He whispered, coming to a full stop.

Farsal, who'd kept walking, glanced back with a laugh. "Come! I assure you, the inside is more fascinating than a nobleman's carriage." Sidge let his brother grab his sleeve and drag him onward as the procession disappeared inside and the gates closed.

Wait, Chakor. Kaaliya had mentioned the name to the guard's outside the gate and in connection with the token she carried. He was certain it was her riding in the palanquin. Hair combing through his forearm while they rested under a half-dreaming sky and her reassuring touch as they rode through gawking villages, all came rushing back to him. He knew he could talk to her about what had happened with the guards, about everything.

"Over there." Farsal pointed.

After a long walk, lost in thought, they'd made their way to the north face of the palace. A wide ramp descended into the city platform and underneath the palace walls. Near the ramp was a covered stone patio and a trough. There, in the shade, lounged Yurva and Corva, the great beasts of Gohala's team. More distractions.

The two large Ek'kiru sat against the trough facing into the courtyard. Sidge remembered their smaller beady eyes, set deep into craggy faces. He was pretty sure those eyes couldn't see behind them. Determined to escape notice, he silently pointed to the ramp and Farsal nodded.

Without turning, Corva waved and smacked Yurva while he struggled to his feet.

"Sidge! Hullo there!" Yurva trumpeted.

Sidge gave an exasperated click and took a few steps toward the patio. He stopped outside the range of either of their whip-like antennae and bowed. "Greetings."

Corva stooped under the patio into the sun and mimiced the bow. "Greetings." With an eager step he asked, "Did I do that right?"

Sidge retreated. "Very well done."

Yurva rocked to his feet and elbowed past Corva. "Don't mind Corva. He finds these customs fascinating. But I think it only shows how blind they are," he said as he licked the end of his drooping antennae.

"You are wrong, Yurva! Every step is a dance." Corva dipped toward Sidge, putting his hands on his knees. "You must've learned so many things while living among them."

"They are my brothers. We learn much at the Temple." Seeing Corva's spindly limbs rub eagerly together, he added, "I'm afraid I have an appointment and must be going."

"Are you," said Corva, his antennae testing the space between them, "going inside?"

Sidge regarded Farsal. "Why yes. You?"

Yurva tromped forward. "They don't make doors for us, Acolyte Sidge."

Corva placed an arm around his brother. "Don't listen to him. We'll get to use the main gates for the ceremony."

Farsal's pleasant smile shrank to a thin line and he headed for the palace. "We must be going. Master Izhar and Master Gohala shouldn't be kept waiting."

"Of course." Sidge performed his four-palmed bow and Corva eagerly mimicked the motion. "A pleasure."

"A pleasure, Bahadur."

Sidge stopped. "What does Bahadur mean?"

"Oh!" Corva leapt forward and Sidge shrank from his excited charge. He looked conspiratorily to where Farsal stood by the ramp. "You teach me, I can teach you! Bahadur is like us." He whispered and tapped his green chitin, sparkling in the sun. "The skin of a warrior, of Sli'mir's Brood." Before Sidge could rattle his mandibles and flatten his antennae in distress at the name, Corva was shaking his hands to ward off the panic. "But you are born civilized, to the Ek'kiru. Smart and good-looking!" Corva thrust out his chest and unhinged the green plates on his back toward the sky.

The separated sections blotted out the sun and the veined shadow of wings flitted in the gaps. Dwarfed by the towering Ek'kiru, Sidge knew the guards' earlier fear. If Corva were truly a warrior, it would take more than four guards to pin and disarm him.

Farsal's call from the top of the ramp shook Sidge from his awe. He bowed, which Corva eagerly returned, and rushed after the fellow acolyte.

They descended into the interior of an immense treestone pillar that formed part of the base of the palace. Halfway down, the pungent smell of horse excrement and stale grass rose around them. Sidge swallowed a gag, hoping his sensitive stomach from earlier didn't return.

"Is this the way to the dock entrance Master Izhar used?"

Farsal shook his head and kept moving.

"Why are we here?"

"Master Gohala's demand," Farsal mumbled.

At the bottom of the ramp, a single lantern hung in the upper rafters and lit the spacious chamber. Dozens of stalls lined the walls, each occupied by horses and mules. Four figures crowded a table in the center.

These were the rust colored Ek'kiru that had carried Lord Chakor's palanquin. Their robes pooled from the backs of their chairs onto the grass-strewn and smeared floor. In their hands, they held small stones, several of which were patterned on the table before them.

Their onyx eyes regarded Sidge in unison. Horses breathed tired sighs and stomped in their stalls. Sidge cleared his throat in the dense air.

He bowed awkwardly as he moved through the room close behind Farsal. Their game at the table seemingly forgotten, the Ek'kiru held still, their antennae tracking him as he and his fellow acolyte approached a sturdy door on the far side. Clean, cool air drifted in as Farsal opened the door.

"Come on, now, hurry through."

They entered the palace at one end of a bare, sloping corridor. On the opposite end of the short hallway stood two pillars entwined by graceful human figures. The figures peered outward, their backsides turned to the door. Sidge followed Farsal to the end of the hall and gasped.

The interior of the palace was the inverse of what was visible outside. An atrium rose high above, the balconies of each level supported by row upon row of carved columns. At the apex hung the moon; a sheet of turquoise heartstone enveloping an ivory circle that glowed with muted sunlight. Beneath it all, a long dais sat in the middle of the inner courtyard, the centerpiece of a meticulously placed pattern of heartstone tiles no bigger than his thumb which filled the expansive space.

"Welcome to the palace," Farsal beamed.

"Indeed," Sidge said.

CHAPTER XIX

Sidge and Farsal knelt outside the chambers of the palace Cloud Born. For this Deep Night festival and for a score before, the living Attarah had always sponsored the same man—Gohala.

The arch under which they knelt was the most lavish decoration Sidge had seen at the palace. Both pillars supporting the arch were granite priests crouched below an obsidian cloud. White marble enameled their stoles and lapis sparkled in their eyes. Between their heads and the cloud were silver bolts of lightning.

Sidge and Farsal kowtowed, faces averted, as they waited to be recognized. Gohala had seen them approach, but he'd said nothing. Only one set of eyes was on them: Vasheru's face peered out of the cloud, proud and ferocious, an element of the archway Farsal would be spared as he faced the floor. More and more, Sidge didn't understand what the Mighty Dragon wanted.

Inside the room, Cloud Born Gohala sat on a raised platform in a low wooden chair, the legs and arms carved to resemble the limbs of a dragon. The rest of the antechamber was filled with rich carpets and gilded frescoes which made Gohala's carriage look quaint.

Izhar marred the center, his worn robes a cloud on a glorious sunrise. Chuman loomed next to him, although Sidge noted his robes had been replaced with new ones that nearly fit his massive frame. Most likely Gohala's doing, before he'd allow them to enter his presence.

Izhar steadily raised his voice. "You have no right."

"With all due respect, brother," Gohala's use of the informal title made Sidge cringe. "I have every right."

Izhar clenched his fists. "Are you suggesting you have some form of seniority? Only the Stormblade stands above us."

"For how long?" Gohala asked. "We may be equal now, but your behavior suggests a recklessness which could see you released from your duties. A matter for a Stormblade to consider, no?"

A Stormblade? Surely Master Gohala wasn't already laying claim to the position. Sidge watched Gohala's smug expression broaden as Izhar sputtered in confusion.

"Recklessness?"

"As your so-called acolyte reports, you allowed a bugman to channel. You were injured in the process," said Gohala. He entwined his fingers and his eyes went between student and master.

"Sidge!" Izhar beckoned, his anger barely restrained.

"Yes, Master." Sidge stumbled to his feet. He rushed to Izhar's side and bowed. Several times.

"What is the meaning of this?"

Sidge twisted his head from place to place, unable to simply stare at the ground and avoid Izhar. Too far to the right and Chuman watched him blankly. The left, and the dragon's wrathful eyes stared through him. "My apologies, Master. The morning we were found I told Cloud Born Gohala we'd been practicing. You were not yet awake. I didn't know what else to say."

Izhar's lips tightened.

Master Gohala rose and called out, "Acolytes!"

Farsal sprang to his feet and crossed the room, while seven more gray-robed apprentices filed in through doorways flanking the dais. They arranged themselves neatly to either side of their master and bowed.

Izhar said nothing; a look was all, and Sidge felt crushed. Never had he seen disappointment in his master's face. He never wanted to see it again. He bowed lower and tossed his hood over his head.

Izhar cleared his throat and addressed Gohala, his voice quiet. "What happened hardly matters. I hear you've taken credit for the event, is that not true?"

Gohala placed a hand on his chest. "I was at the lead of the caravan, far ahead of the rest. Certain assumptions were made. By our fellow pilgrims, the guard, whom I also approached ahead of you. However, I made no claim. Let them gossip. No doubt the Stormblade will settle this. If he is able."

If the Stormblade was able? Sidge shivered at the words. What was Gohala's intent? He swung his mandibles toward his master.

"Oh. You haven't told it?" Amused, Gohala propped an elbow on his knee, eyes flaring at Sidge. "There will likely be no Stormblade when we return to the Temple. That is what he said to us after the blessing. That was his Wisdom before the pilgrimage." He sat upright again, folding his hands in satisfaction. "My acolytes are aware of this."

Sidge took in the faces of the gray robed contingent across from him. Since he'd left the temple, it was as though a veil had been lifted. Many of the small eyes there held the glint of the sadistic guards. Abhay and Mukesh nurtured a cruel malice behind their stone-faced masks, exactly like they had the day Farsal taught him about the wheel chains.

Farsal. His friend was the only one who showed any shame or pain.

Izhar said nothing. Silence from his master scared Sidge more than his typical red-faced tirade. Gohala continued his rant.

"What you do and don't share with your acolyte is surely no business of mine," said Gohala, staring at the ends of his fingers as though disinterested. "And what may or may not have happened prior to my arrival at Stronghold is also not of my concern. It's amazing what sort of gossip people will accept. Even if I were to say otherwise, what do you think people will believe? That the Cloud Born whose raksha is the living Attarah summoned Vasheru's Wisdom? Or a heathen old fool and his bugman did, leaving themselves incapacitated under the care of a whore and a novice?"

Whore. Of all the vitriol Gohala spewed, the word struck Sidge like the butt of the spear, only he would not lie there and abide an insult to her. He turned his face upward and clacked his mandibles. His wings tore at the air.

"You will not call her a whore."

The words exploded from his mouth. True surprise crossed Gohala's face. Farsal's mouth dropped open and the smug acolytes around him cast fearful eyes on their master. Chuman tilted his head and seemed to be waiting for more to come from Sidge.

Mute shock transformed into outright anger and Izhar's face flushed. He shouted a spit-flecked reprimand. "Silence, acolyte!"

Sidge fell to the floor and burrowed into his hood.

Izhar whirled, then advanced toward the dais where Cloud Born Gohala jumped to his feet to tower above the portly master.

"And you teach it your disrespect—"

"Enough! Do not dare speak to my pupil as if he were a beast. I will correct him and I will do so as an acolyte. He is mine to teach. A member of this order, like all of us!"

"Teaching? Is that what you call this?" Gohala stabbed a hand at Sidge. "Wisdom, Izhar. I provide true Wisdom and demand respect in return." Gohala swept his arm toward his acolytes and his voice raised, his hand trembled. "They come seeking Wisdom and I provide. A raksha. I provide. Regular pilgrimage. I provide. Answer me this, acolyte," the word hissed from his lips as he changed the target of his fury to Sidge, "how many pilgrimages have you made?"

Sidge waited for Izhar to speak, to defend him again, though he knew he didn't deserve it, and no words came.

"How many?" demanded Gohala.

"I seek my first, Cloud Born."

Gohala whirled on Farsal. "You are of the same time at the temple. How many pilgrimages have you made?"

Farsal stared straight ahead and answered, his eyes lighting briefly upon Sidge. "Three, Master."

"And how many acolytes have you seen ascend to the ranks of Cloud Born under my tutelage?"

"Fifteen, Master."

"And you will soon walk into the Stormblade Sheath and claim your corestone, will you not?"

Farsal swallowed. "Yes. I will, Master. I am ready this time."

Chin high, the groomed tip of Gohala's beard pointed like a deadly spear. He waded into Izhar's murderous glare and turned his head, focusing one stony eye. Extending a hand, he loosed his fingers.

Izhar's corestone spooled out.

"Do you question my seniority, now? Do you still question who will take the seat in Vasheru's Sanctum?" His triumphant eyes flashed.

Veins bulged along Izhar's neck and forehead. His fists were balls of feverish skin. Sidge felt the air squeezing his robes tight to his chitin. Fear swept through the assembled acolytes.

Lightning trickled up Izhar's sleeves and wreathed his head in a halo of energy. Gohala stared as the corestone dangled between them. Chuman's eyes drifted toward the tangle of light, and a weird hunger shone in their muddy depths.

"And you forget—the corestone is merely a focus." Izhar snarled, his words tearing through the dense curtain of air that sheathed him.

A grin crept across Gohala's face and he whispered, "Here? In the palace of our forefathers? Would you call upon Vasheru to smite me?"

Horrified, Sidge waited. Eyes of the Mighty Dragon in the arch surveyed the room. He waited for lightning to flash. The clouds to descend. Fear flooded him mixed with overwhelming exhilaration. It violated every precept of the Temple, yet he longed to see Gohala struck down. Longed to watch him burn in the fires of Vasheru's holy light.

But Izhar slumped. Vasheru's Kiss began to fade releasing the hold on Sidge's robes. Gohala let the corestone pendant reel link by link from his grip. When the last bit of chain cascaded from the Cloud Born's fingers, Izhar snatched it.

"No one will ever seek your tutelage, Master Izhar. No raksha will dare dirty his house with you and your filth. And you will never sit in the place of the Stormblade. Your heresy ends here, along with your failed attempt to walk in the Attarah's footsteps."

"Sidge," Izhar whispered. Head bowed, he walked toward the hall.

Sidge left his crouch slow and wary. The acolytes facing him stood in varying degrees of readiness, some with mantras of Fire on their lips. Farsal's face was drained and spectral.

"Return to the Temple. Pack your things. For I will not abide such insolence when I am the Stormblade," Gohala roared.

Chuman tilted his head, oblivious to Gohala's fury, and examined Sidge. "You won't be going west?"

"They won't. They can't," said Gohala. "But I will."

"I... we..." Sidge faltered and stared dumbstruck at the giant.

Gohala, his attention fixed on Chuman, was already ignoring the bugman in his presence. With a bow in the direction of the line of acolytes, Sidge backpedaled. He struck the hallway and hurried to catch Izhar.

"Master!" Izhar's head bobbed loosely at the call. "I'm so sorry, I didn't know what else to say after the incident in the vardo. I was trying to protect you."

Izhar continued to trudge down the hall on leaden feet and Sidge followed closely. Neither sympathy nor reprimand came to Izhar's lips, as he focused on the corestone in his hands. He'd rather Izhar turned his fierce anger on him again than say nothing.

"And I was late, I know. A troll grabbed hold of me in the garden. A strange thing, like I imagine they all are, and he seemed to know your friend in Cerudell."

"Troll in the garden you say." Izhar said absently. Sidge tried to think of something else which would help erase Gohala's humiliation.

"The troll doesn't matter," said Sidge. "What matters is, I think I had another vision. Or perhaps even saw a real Urujaav." The mention of the ancient legendary beings had little impact. "Like from the Trials. Your most favorite of mantras. This must have meaning, right?"

Finally, Izhar stopped. He placed a palm on Sidge's chest but focused where his pudgy hand rested, seeing past it. "There was no vision, Sidge."

"No, truly, there was!"

"Your drunken imaginings?"

Sidge's wings rattled. "No. No, sir. It happened before I'd even had a drop of thornsap. In the wagon. And now at the well."

"I don't need any more of your help." Izhar spoke the words plainly, without spite, but they wounded Sidge all the same. "I've been seeking Wisdom for weeks to no avail. Anything to prove the Stormblade wrong, that there would be a rightful successor. Trolls and their puffcap..." Izhar sighed. "It was the wishful thinking of an old fool."

"I saw something. I thought maybe it was a hallucination, but then again, how would I know? The troll says the puffcap doesn't even work on me. You were there!" Sidge knifed two hands in the direction of Gohala's chamber. "They all saw! It could be seen in Stronghold. And there's Chuman. He was in the vision and Kaaliya says he wielded, or at least survived, the Fire."

Sidge realized the hulking form was no longer with them. He'd stayed behind. To remove the borrowed robes no doubt. Or did Gohala have other plans?

Again, Izhar's gaze slipped away. "Not now. I'll meet you at the inn."

Stunned, Sidge watched Izhar disappear down the hall.

CHAPTER XX

Sidge wandered the balconies and halls, losing himself in the palace. He grew tired of bowing repeatedly under mistrustful eyes. Servants approached, trying to guide him away to the stables or, the few that took closer note of his robes, to Gohala's suite. Nobles stared. He offered courteous replies and profuse apologies, all the while watching for a glimpse of Kaaliya's ebony tresses. Not once did he see her, although he did stumble across a door flanked by the crimson guards who'd escorted the palanquin.

Heat rising into his throat, he considered approaching and making an excuse. Perhaps they'd summoned an acolyte for a blessing or counsel. Before long, the guards began to fidget with their swords while watching Sidge pace. It reminded him of the palace guard in the gardens, and he shivered. He quickly made his way to the same side passage where he'd entered the palace. In the stables, the Ek'kiru were gone. Corva and Yurva as well.

The sun hung low in the sky, leaving the city a darkened outline scattered with burning embers. Sidge drew his hood and headed to the gardens on foot, giving the main gate a wide berth. He'd hoped to be mistaken for a human, but his wings, having recovered from their crushed state, were impossible to hide. He walked briskly, mandibles straight ahead, until he was surrounded by the tall ferns and trees.

Earlier, Izhar had said he'd meet him here, but Sidge knew it was no use now; Izhar was most likely back at the inn. He hoped his master had calmed down enough so they could speak. Sidge needed Izhar, but his master had every right to refuse to hear the words of a liar. A failure.

If Gohala was right, he should've told everyone Izhar had channeled the Wisdom. Told them his master had indeed been granted a vision. Of course, Izhar wouldn't have agreed to such a plan. His master didn't seem to recall anything about the strike in the vardo—he would never lay claim to what he had not seen nor pretend he'd received Wisdom when all that had happened was an impressive display of Vasheru's power. Lying was Gohala's way.

Then there was the news of the Stormblade. If he were dead or incapacitated when they returned, there would be no clear way to complete the chaining ritual. Gohala would be a favorite to lead the temple. It was why Izhar had been so intent on summoning the Wisdom before they'd completed the journey.

There was a rustle from the ferns, and Sidge fought the urge to fly. Hedgedweller emerged.

"Have you come for more already?" the troll called.

"More what? Drowning? Assault?" Sidge clacked, his mandibles chewing.

"Puffcap."

"Of course not."

"Fine. Tell your Master Izhar he only has to return here and I have more. Always more."

"Return? You met my master?"

The troll turned, its amber eyes dull in the fading light. "I have met many masters, and you have met the Master of them all. But the one named Izhar was right here before the vault of stars opened, in the face of the retreating sun."

"He was?"

"Yes, Crooked Tree. He came here. As he met my kind in Cerudell, so did he here. For puffcap."

Sidge cursed and buzzed into the sky.

***

"Master, open your door." Sidge leaned on the frame and knocked again. A shout of warning came from the innkeeper downstairs but he only knocked louder. "Master, please."

A step squeaked and Janipur called up the stairwell. "I said make it quick. You're disturbing my guests."

Janipur's Inn had approximately two guests Sidge was aware of. Approximately, because only one was allowed a room and fed in the common area. The other had been assigned to the stables.

Sidge leaned toward the crack between the door and the frame, allowing his antennae to scour the space for any sign of life while he whispered, "Master, please, open the door."

Feet stomped up the stairs. Sidge slumped, his head resting against a forearm and his eyes watching the stairwell. His antennae tasted Izhar's sweat, heard whispered mantras, and detected an earthy hint of puffcap on the air.

Before long, Janipur stepped into view.

The innkeeper was a balding man past his prime and carried his age in his eyes, ringed with dark, loose skin. An attempt had been made at grooming, perhaps weeks ago, but the smooth edges around his beard were speckled with errant hairs. His brightly-colored shirt flared against the stark white towel he wrung between his hands.

"You'll need to go outside now. You can speak to the Cloud Born in the morning."

Speak, that was all he wanted. This human held a key to the room which he would undoubtedly refuse to share.

Hatred twitched beneath the man's bravado like an angry boil. It reminded Sidge of the guards at the palace, but minus the confidence of experience and training. Minus the sharpened spears and crushing mauls. Whatever fantasy Sidge entertained here, he could make happen.

The song of Stronghold hummed in the awkward silence.

With a growl and buzzing wings, Sidge shoved off the wall, pushing past Janipur and striding down the stairs. The innkeeper swatted at Sidge's passing with his towel. "Your master will hear of this!"

"Fine! Tell him I am waiting in the stables," Sidge shouted and a mantra from the Rule came to mind which he couldn't help but recite the opening of. It was proper to teach the ignorant, was it not? "And hospitality to the pilgrim is weighed between Vasheru's teeth!"

He drifted through the common room, his wings carrying him on a current of buzzing anger. Once in the cool night air, he'd hoped to clear his mind, but outside, the song was powerful and pleading. Sidge grabbed his antennae and pulled them tight to his cheeks, his mandibles chattering.

A passing woman, balancing a copper jug on her head, stared in horror. Her pace quickened and water sloshed out of the jug with the hurried sway of her hips.

Sidge released his antennae and shook his hands to release the tension. Even at night, under the dim lamps, the city streets remained busy. Eyes wandered his way: the same masks of confusion and disapproval which he'd met all along his journey.

"Sit down. Make yourself useful."

The innkeeper's wife was on the porch next to the door. She wore a bright green sari trimmed with saffron thread. When he'd arrived, he'd noticed her sitting on a blanket, her hands occupied with an intricate task. He'd bowed and stiffly said his pleasantries to which she'd grunted and kept her eyes on her work.

"Pardon me?" His wings vibrated.

"Sit." The woman tapped the blanket next to her and the bracelets on her wrist jangled. In front of her sat a large earthen bowl, and to her right, several sheets of silvery foil. Her dark eyes fell on him and she patted again.

Sidge sat.

He watched as the woman slid a piece of foil off the stack and started folding. Palms lighter than her dark skin, they were dry and cracked. She worked with mindless efficiency, and Sidge studied each fold as the foil became first one leg, then another, beneath a long body. A narrow neck twisted into view, and the flare of foil above it became an angular face with two pointed horns. He'd seen the transformation before, but that had been from a silver egg.

She tossed the completed Moonstrider into the bowl and grabbed another sheet.

"What are they for?" he asked, his anger forgotten.

"The festival. Children mostly. They all get their own."

Her hands continued deftly folding and Sidge continued to memorize each tiny crease. As he did, his anger subsided. The woman's fingers were nimble and though practice surely only came when Deep Night fell, the evidence of a life of routine was obvious. An urge to follow her lead and bring order to the flat, lifeless sheets overtook him. Bend them to purpose and be lost in the simple process.

"Why do you think my husband yells at you?"

The blunt question caught him off guard. While he considered it, she thrust a sheet of foil into his lap. He continued to watch her hands, folding a new Moonstrider and moving on to the next. She glanced at him impatiently as she took a third sheet.

"I don't know."

She tapped the sheet in his lap and folded slowly this time. Sidge held up the foil and followed her lead, mimicking the movements. They began to work sheet after sheet into the delicate forms, all while his eyes kept watch on the street.

Even beneath the blue-green light, a rich variation in shades and tones of clothing were discernable. So much color, like the innkeeper's wife's rich sari; he became aware the faded gray of his acolyte's robes must glow among the crowds in the day. He'd always thought the robes were so plain for simplicity and a decided lack of attention, but it was the other way around—that which was different, stood out.

"You're very good." Janipur's wife said as he folded two sheets at once between four hands.

"Oh, this is nothing compared to memorizing the mantras," he said. "And you should see me sew."

Janipur's wife answered without raising her eyes. "I'm sure you're an excellent tailor."

"Perhaps, but I am an acolyte," he mused, continuing to fill the bowl.

Many days had passed since he felt this relaxed. Time spent with Kaaliya had been close but a certain tension always existed under the surface, even during the darkest of nights when she slept with her head in his lap. Especially then. Rigors of the road had prevented the maintenance of the vardo and the horses from being an enjoyable task and there was the continuous worry about their supplies. Between that and his less than charitable reception at nearly every stop, he'd had little time to simply lose himself in either recitation or repetition as he so often could at the Temple. Peace of mind in work, there were mantras for such peace, specifically in the Forge.

Those simple household duties gave a direction to his days he didn't have on the pilgrimage. All those duties, which other acolytes frequently complained about and which he took up without resentment, had meaning. As the Forge stated, no chore was beneath an acolyte. Never meant to find wives to run their households, they couldn't refuse lest they let the temple fall into ruin.

Of course the Forge and the Rule codified how the temple and society at large were run. The wisdom of the Attarah spoke of the duties of acolytes and Cloud Born along with the place of nobles, commoners, and women – even if the first one of those he'd met remained a mystery who satisfied no mantra of which he was aware. But what mantras did he himself satisfy?

"An Ek'kiru acolyte is an odd thing," Sidge wondered aloud.

"Hmm?" Another sheet of foil rustled.

"Why your husband disapproves. Why people stare."

"Are they staring now?" asked Janipur's wife, reinforcing a crease with a swipe of her thumb.

People bustled by, none so much as glancing his way.

"No."

The last Moonstrider dropped into the bowl and the innkeeper's wife rose, gathered the container between her bent arm and hip, and dusted her knee with her free hand. She reached for the door and paused, frowning. Carefully selecting a Moonstrider from the bowl, she offered it to him.

He held the tiny figure up for inspection. It wasn't immediately obvious, but he knew it to be one of his. Then he saw why: the head was slightly too large, and the horns... the horns were too thin.

Sidge stared at the light reflecting off the silvery animal for a long time. More and more, the imperfections began to bother him. Only a poor fold; perhaps he could fix it? But the thought of unraveling the foil was equally unpleasant. Exposing all the wrinkled surfaces, trying to smooth them before he started yet again.

He headed for the stables where he would be spending his sleepless night. It was a prospect softened by his busied hands, now idle. Once he'd made it to the yard, he clambered into the wagon and dropped into the lotus. Meditation could perhaps help pass the evening.

As soon as he began, the arcane hum of the well became a vicious itch he couldn't scratch. On the hills overlooking the city, the song had drawn him in. Now he felt trapped and pinned beneath it. He jerked the hood of his robe over his head, and tucked it tightly around his mandibles.

Outside, the cargo netting thumped against the sides of the wagon. The collection of crystals and earthbound items Master Izhar felt to be imbued with the touch of the Formless jangled incessantly. With every breeze, the aging wagon creaked. He missed the seclusion of his temple room.

But as he knew, their current supplies wouldn't see them back to the temple, let alone to Abwoon on the edge of the desert. Keeping the horses off the wagon for a day could spare some of the feed, give him and Izhar time to plan and face the reality of their situation.

Thinking about their predicament was not how he could pass an entire night. He needed to find a way to distract his racing mind.

Sidge removed his hood and pulled the Moonstrider from his pocket. The silver emblem glowed in a vein of moonlight that flowed between drafty slats of the vardo. This was how these creatures would be seen, according to the Trials—only by the light of the Deep Night moon.

Carefully, he peeled back each layer, doing his best not to unnecessarily wrinkle the foil. When he was done, he lay the sheet flat and tried to smooth out the creases. They were a labyrinth of unnavigable lines, and the more he pressed, the more he dragged the heel of his palm across them, the more prominent the creases became.

He pounded his fist on the foil and leaned back, staring through the gaps in the curtain. The song outside called. If only he could close his eyes and sleep.

He rose and headed for Janipur's. At the back door, the one which led into the kitchens, he knocked lightly. When no answer came, he eased the door open and peered into the gap.

The room was dark, and the only sensations that drifted along his antennae were the smells of the food stores and the lingering, bittersweet aroma of burnt wood and incense. He let his antennae work their way around the doorframe, testing the air, searching for one specific odor.

What was he doing? Sidge chewed his mandibles, letting his antennae continue to probe the still air. A familiar, sharp bite found them and his stomach churned at the memory.

Thornsap. The larder contained thornsap.

The door had been unlocked. And he'd hardly been shown hospitality as per the mantras of the Rule. Any other guest would expect nothing more. And what of Izhar? If he could pass the night in a stupor, why couldn't his failure of an acolyte do the same?

Beyond, the kitchens, the well incessantly called.

Sidge stepped inside.

CHAPTER XXI

Darkness. A low braying. Maybe the stupid Paint. Sidge tried to ignore it.

Next, he heard a noise like a blast of storm wind. As if he'd been walking the inner hall of the Temple and passed by a room with an open window. The noise came again and again. Walking the halls of his one true home. Past the small cells where the acolytes stayed, thick walls muffling the Storm between each doorway.

The muffled sound was followed not by the bray of an inconsiderate horse, but by the blare of a great horn. And the winds weren't winds at all. People. Hundreds, thousands, crying out in celebration.

Mantras flowed freely through Sidge's memory, and he recalled only one horn, the Horn of Gambora. Gambora, who selflessly led the revolt which allowed the first Attarah and his followers to flee the cruelty of Kurath. A necessary sacrifice.

The same clarion note came again to mark the beginning stages of the Deep Night festival.

Sidge bolted upright and his head swam. The space behind his eyes pounded, and soothing blackness melted away in violent pulses. He felt the burning lump of thornsap form in his thorax between his stomach and throat.

With a groan, he tumbled through the curtain and into the morning air. They would be late for the preparations, exactly like this pilgrimage had started. But were they even going?

Sidge dropped onto the wooden steps of the vardo, looking out into the streets. The sun was a hazy disk in the sky, midway between the horizon and the tallest spires of the city. Festival preparations were in their final stages. Vendors guided carts full of downy petals through the streets. Everywhere, buildings wore silver streamers twisting in a light breeze.

He'd wanted this for so long. The pilgrimage. His own ascension in the ranks. Yet it had never truly been possible. Whether the words of Hedgedweller were lies or not didn't matter. Despite constant practice, he'd never been able to channel. Watching the street teem with festivalgoers and merchants, hearing the song of the city and the crash of distant cheers, continuously distracted by the chaos of the world, a world beyond his control, Sidge knew in his heart he'd never summon the Mighty Dragon's Fire on his own.

Even what he'd originally assumed was an opportunity for his master to ascend hadn't been. Gohala had humiliated Izhar and at the same time made a move for the Stormblade's seat. And Sidge couldn't escape the fact that he was at fault.

Recalling Izhar's disappointed face made his throat clench, his gut twist.

Sidge had lied. In doing so, he'd tacitly supported Gohala's wild plans. If Gohala was right, and the Stormblade's seat was empty when they returned, nothing would stop the ambitious, ruthless Cloud Born from taking his place in Vasheru's Sanctum. Once Gohala was in charge, Sidge would no longer be welcome at his only home.

Though perhaps he'd never been?

Surely he had no place on the outside. A simple life as a tailor or a beast of burden. Living in filthy stalls. Places his broom could never clean.

In the street, a man in a burlap suit, his face hidden beneath a clay mask, roared at a group of children who gleefully scurried away. The man was dressed as one of the Children of Kurath. An imitation, like the foil Moonstrider, or the egg.

For countless Deep Nights, humanity had feared the return of their slavers. The Rebellion, the Forge, the Rule: they all prophesied a time when Kurath would cross the desert and bury humanity beneath the sands.

Sidge watched the children play. The man laughed under his mask. The crowd celebrated. They danced and drank and imagined monsters, but there was no fear. None of them truly believed.

He did.

Every last one of the twelve thousand, one hundred and sixty-two mantras. Even the inscrutable Trials, the ones Izhar insisted bore hidden truth, he believed. The lips of an Urujaav had touched him. Vasheru's power was a gift, trolls be damned. Gohala be damned.

Gambora's Horn sounded again.

Sidge stumbled hurriedly toward the stables.

The first series of horns was for the procession to begin forming in the palace courtyard and present itself to the current head of House Attarah. The process would take until nightfall. It should give them plenty of time. Though if they were too late, he wasn't sure if they'd even be allowed past the gate.

Sidge stopped in the doorway to the stables. First, he'd need to convince Izhar to refute Gohala's claim. Lie about visions if he must. They had witnesses. Chuman. Kaaliya. Gohala was waiting for everything to fall into his lap and they needed to call his bluff. Surely the Cloud Born would not persist in his quiet lie before the Attarah himself.

As the third sounding of the horn retreated, the call from the well took up the empty space left behind.

No, horses first. He would have time to convince Izhar along the way. Their situation wasn't hopeless.

Sidge burst around the corner into the stalls, nearly tripping on his robes. The Paint peered at him with a sideways look.

"Not now," grumbled Sidge, flattening his wings and making a conscious effort to keep them steady. The Paint whickered and stomped a hoof anyway.

Grabbing the tack, Sidge readied the restless animal. After wrestling with the straps and the churning in his stomach, he managed to get the beast mostly prepared. He turned his attention to the stall beside them, where the Nag's head had yet to peek over the low wall.

"All right, your turn." Sidge moved to the front of the stall and saw the Nag lying atop the hay. "Up!" Unable to whistle, he shredded the air with his wings. The Paint reared angrily. There was no reaction from the Nag.

Her tail stayed stiff and unmoving, her eyes sunken. Knobby legs were stretched out rigid, hooves pressed against the dividing wall. Her massive pink tongue lolled from a toothy grimace.

"Light of Vasheru!" Sidge hissed. A pang of sympathy shot through him, followed by another gurgle in his stomach and he fought down bile. He'd always joked of eating the wretched animals. Now he knew he'd miss the more docile half of their team.

More cheers erupted from the crowds, a sound carried all the way from the distant palace. Sidge cursed. He removed the Nag's saddle blanket and draped it over her head.

"Peace find you," he muttered. The Paint watched the ritual with disinterest.

Sidge yanked on the reins and guided his only horse to the stable yard, where the vardo squatted. He'd once dreamed of modifications to allow a single horse to draw the vardo. Maybe he could have made the changes then on those long lonely stretches between farms and frontier, time wasn't in such short supply. Nor was the Paint that solitary horse.

He rushed through the hitching, adjusting the chains to distribute the load. With four wheels, he felt the vardo should remain steady but navigating turns would be difficult. All of this assumed the horse was even capable of such a feat.

As if the Paint could sense the intention of Sidge's fussing, it followed a whinny of protest with a well-timed expulsion from its hindquarters. Sidge gagged as the stench washed over him and threatened control of his queasy stomach.

"Foul creature!" He scrubbed at a spot on his robe where damp manure had struck and he tore into the air. Furious, Sidge sought the beast's eyes, big bulging beads peering from the sides of its head. He grabbed the bridle and forced the Paint eye to eyes. "No more trouble until I get back, or I'll be dragging two horses to the butcher!"

The answer was a loose-jawed smack.

Sidge tied the horse and soared upward to the second floor of Janipur's. Outside the shade of the alley, the sun was blinding, and the pounding tension behind his eyes returned. A quick count of the windows, and he hovered beside what should've been Izhar's room. He ran his antennae along the sill to be sure.

Izhar's snores rose and fell out of rhythm with the city's song. Like the sun, the song seemed amplified in the open air. Sunlight pierced the shutters and striped the bare floor beyond.

"Master," Sidge hissed.

Izhar continued to snore.

"Master!" Sidge knocked on the shutters with first one hand, then two and three. No response.

A door opened in the alley below.

"What are you doing?" Janipur shouted.

"Annoying your guests," Sidge shouted. He rapped again, this time louder.

"Well, stop," Janipur called.

"My apologies, but we need to leave for the festival and Master Izhar still sleeps."

Janipur looked up and down the alley. "Get down from there. I'll fetch Master Izhar. Now, shoo!"

As Janipur disappeared inside, the aftereffects of the thornsap were displaced by raw indignation. He was not a common fly. Not a "bug" to be shooed away.

He allowed himself to rekindle the desire to snap the guard's spear, to assault Janipur for the key, to act on hearing Gohala's word for Kaaliya. Twisting his head to the side, he jammed his mandibles between the window shutters and bit down. Wood snapped. The thin rod barring the shutters clattered to the ground, and Sidge burst through the window.

Izhar lay on the bed. Empty puffcap casings littered a rickety nightstand. He had fallen asleep in his robes, which were tangled beneath him and drawn tight across his belly. The gray mass of his body quivered with each beard-twitching snore.

"Wake up!" Sidge strode to the bedside and grabbed Izhar, shaking him violently. Never had he placed hands on his master in such a way. Never would he have dreamed of this insult. But the surge of anger coursed strong through his veins. He raised his hand and struck Izhar soundly across the cheek.

Feet shuffled in the hall.

Izhar's snoring sputtered and the master raised a meaty palm to his face. Pawing at the reddened spot, he rolled to his side and snorted.

A rattle of frustration vibrated through Sidge's body from the tips of his wings to the bottoms of his feet. The anger he'd allowed to seep into his thoughts, poisoned him better than a bottle of thornsap ever could. He gathered Izhar's robe in four fists and took flight, flinging the sleeping master from his bed. Right as Izhar thumped to the floor, the door opened.

Janipur gasped, his hand gripping the door and his saggy eyes bulging.

Sidge canted his head sideways and chattered his mandibles. Janipur shrank away. At that moment, Izhar's face popped up from the far side of the bed. His eyes glazed and his mouth slack, he squinted and looked around the room.

"Cloud Born, are you all right?" Janipur called from where he cowered in the hall.

Sidge dropped next to Izhar. "Master, we must go. The ceremony has begun."

"Water," Izhar groaned. His eyes rolled toward the ceiling.

"What?" Sidge asked.

"Water."

"You heard him," Sidge righted his head and leaned menacingly toward the doorway. "Get some water! Now!"

Janipur skidded backward. With a fearful nod, he disappeared into the hall and thumped down the stairs.

"Speaking. The water, speaking in brilliant hues." Izhar mumbled.

Sidge dragged his master to his feet. "We must go. Can you walk?"

"Tread the Timeless Paths?"

"By Vasheru, you sound like a troll," said Sidge as he led Izhar toward the doorway. Hurried stomping from the stairwell signaled Janipur's return. They met at the top of the stairs and Sidge shuffled past with Izhar, avoiding the innkeeper's gaze.

"Water! I have the Cloud Born's water!" called Janipur as Sidge took the first step.

"It will not be needed," Sidge huffed as he maneuvered Izhar's listless form down the stairs. "He is not well, we have medicines... in the wagon. And water. Our own water."

"Yes. Caught inside the gilded cage. Drowning in the flesh prison," mumbled Izhar.

Sidge listened for Janipur's steps, but stunned silence remained until they'd left through the kitchen door. They would never return here. Soon, he and Izhar may have nowhere to go. But at least Sidge would've done everything possible to make sure all of Stronghold knew he belonged under the Eternal Storm, in the clean, black halls of the Temple.

CHAPTER XXII

Sidge hobbled toward the vardo with Izhar. By Vasheru's grace, the Paint had stayed put. The back curtain hung open, and he tried to ignore the mess within. The stolen jug of thornsap sat in a sticky pool with the unfolded foil crumpled beneath. He was headed for the driver's bench, but he limped to the door with his awkward burden so he could snap the curtain shut.

"Leave everything where it is," he told himself. Over and over, a new mantra, as he made his way to the front. "Climb up, Master," he said, placing Izhar's palms on the bench.

"Up? Up! Into the Eternal Storm! Come to the firmament in a rain of fire, or dance in the sky between islands of stone."

"Yes, whatever, just get..." Sidge knelt and grasped Izhar under his arms, "... onto the..." He stooped lower, four hands planted along his master's back and buttocks then beat his wings, "... bench!"

A final heave, and the gray-cloaked Cloud Born thrashed onto the seat.

Sidge breathed a sigh of relief and clambered up beside Izhar. He fought with the Cloud Born to sit him upright, and succeeded, but his master's body went limp. An outstretched arm kept Izhar from tumbling forward. The Paint pulled taut against the hitch.

"Whoa," Sidge called, but the horse only twitched an ear and surged forward.

The vardo rumbled onto the boulevard, bouncing over each timber in tiny hops which posed little threat except for Izhar's listless body. Wheels ground slowly at first. But the Paint, sensing the absence of his lazy companion, dug his hooves deeper with each step, eyes wild with freedom.

Frantic, Sidge buried two hands into his master's robes and groped wildly for the reins. He found them with his feet and struggled to draw them in. Unable to slow the horse with a solid pull, he gave up holding Izhar and yanked on the cargo netting above. With his free hands, he began to knit Izhar's stole into the net.

"Watch out!" Sidge shouted as they plowed into a market square. People scattered as the vardo lumbered into the crowd. Angry shouts followed as they cleared the far end.

"Sorry," Sidge cried. He placed two palms together and half-bowed while his other two hands finished knotting Izhar's stole and his feet tugged awkwardly at the reins.

Tied down, Izhar slumped against the cabin wall. Drool formed a slug-like trail in his beard. With each bump, his head sounded on the wood. Despite the jostling, the makeshift restraint appeared to be working, and Sidge scrambled to pass the reins into his lower palms. The Paint forged on.

A man called from above, "You're going the wrong way!"

Laughter cascaded from a second floor balcony and handfuls of silver Moonstriders dusted the street behind the wagon. "Follow the Moonstrider!" someone else called and raucous cheers rained down with more of the silver emblems.

Sidge waved, his wings buzzing. Here, the streets were much too narrow to turn the wagon around. He flicked the reins, intent on circling back as soon as possible. The Paint eagerly interpreted this as a request for greater speed, and soon they were barreling down the street, carried along on a wave of jeers from storefronts and balconies.

The street became a narrow alley, the Paint more reckless. Sidge tugged at the reins, but the stubborn horse barreled onward with a pent-up, wild energy he'd only seen once—on the descent into the valley. Careening around a corner, the alley broke to either side. Sidge thrashed the reins to the left and the Paint obeyed, foam flying from gritted teeth. As they skidded onto the adjacent street, he heard a crack and felt the vardo shudder.

"Vasheru! Save us!" he screamed.

Izhar's hand gripped his arm, and Sidge turned. He stared, astonished, into a trail of burning energy leaking from the Cloud Born's eye sockets and washing into the current of air around the speeding vardo.

It was the thornsap. It had cooked Sidge's brain with its infernal heat. Or maybe he'd gotten puffcap on himself. He beat furiously at his robes with one hand, the others conducting the combined disaster of holding Izhar, the reins, the bench.

His master began to chant.

The tone was immediately recognizable. The same note infused the city and called to Sidge from deep within. Robbed him of restful nights and summoned a desire he could not fathom. He felt the song take hold and watched as his master turned his face into the wind.

"Follow the call, Old Blood."

Ribbons of light continued to streak from Izhar's face. Energy entwined the netting and crawled across the copper roof. Sidge felt the Kiss of Vasheru, and his antennae tingled in the thickening air. The hum became a chorus, a mantra of a thousand voices, and Sidge felt a moment of clarity he'd never before known. He understood everything, but could explain nothing. Nor could he fight the call any longer.

This was no hallucination. This wasn't even a vision. It was more than either of those things.

If they were to burst into the palace wreathed in this power, Izhar's place would be undeniable. Gohala's lazy claim, disputed. Sidge gripped the reins and flattened his wings, striking the Paint's rump with his foot.

Faster they raced down the streets. At each turn, Sidge drank in the energy spilling from the well and Izhar's own mantra. The power led him on an invisible leash. He surrendered entirely; let the call be his master.

The Paint's muscles rippled beneath thick hide. Each hoof striking the wooden causeway in one pulsing beat. Its eyes were wild and alive, relishing his chance to embrace his unbridled nature.

Both guided and free, the vardo tore from the quiet streets and onto a main thoroughfare.

Spectators lined this new promenade, waiting for the festivities to begin, with their eyes toward the way from the palace. Their heads whipped the other direction, and a gasp rolled through the crowd as the vardo roared by, streaming fingers of arcane power.

"Make way!" Sidge cried. "Make way!"

Ahead, a vibrant throng of festivalgoers celebrated in the streets. Like petals on a sudden breeze, they cleared amid Sidge's frantic screams and the thunder of hooves. At the center, a man with a lobed harp rolled to the side, cradling his instrument as the vardo narrowly missed him. His rug thrashed beneath the wheels and fluttered in the wake.

Nearly trampling the man barely registered in Sidge's consciousness. His mind and every thought flooded with the call. The collision was both an event he knew would happen and which would never come to pass. In either case, the greater flow of the universe made the possibility inconsequential. Only the path mattered.

"Yah!" Sidge cried, standing on the bench and whipping the reins. They barreled along the boulevard, their presence announced by the cacophonous grind of the vardo's axle and the Paint's drumming hooves.

Far ahead, Sidge saw confused festivalgoers looking first to the sky for signs of a storm; then, feeling the street quake beneath their feet, seeking shelter against the buildings as the vardo exploded into view.

Sidge rode triumphant atop the bench, his robes trailing behind him, white streaks of energy multiplied across the surface of his eyes. His hood tossed back, there was no hiding his Ek'kiru nature. Izhar bobbled along beside him, his burning eyes fixed straight ahead.

Crowds parted in silent awe, the vardo too fast for them to gasp or shout. As they fanned apart, Sidge saw the street ahead ended at a railing. Empty space overlooking the canal several levels below.

He should have been afraid, he knew, but fear could not penetrate the call.

Splintered wood flew beneath the Paint's hooves. The sturdy railing shattered and the vardo followed the mindless charge.

Sidge urged the beast into the empty air. Izhar's beard flared and writhed. The air was not filled with the briny odor of drying fish, but the clean, crisp atmosphere of home.

The vardo struck the water behind the horse and they stayed aloft, racing toward a brightly decorated barge. Shouts of surprise issued from a deck crammed with spectators, but the cries were cut short and left in the distance as the vardo wheeled aft of the slow-moving boat and plunged into the forest of pilings that held the city.

Sidge felt Vasheru's Kiss tighten; his robes clung to his body, wet with the invisible force.

Mighty trunks raced toward them at impossible speeds, but the wild-eyed Paint threaded between them. Arcane energy lapped at each piling they passed, and though his mind was not wholly his own, Sidge could see their stone surfaces melt into reddish browns under the eerie light. Branches sprung out, heavy with green needles, only to fade into darkness as the light died. Hooves thundered not on water but on sodden ground.

Sidge felt the vardo slow and his focus return. Sides heaving, the Paint had dropped into a labored trot. Unable to see the city above, broad trees surrounded them and disappeared into the blackness of a solid canopy. Sidge marveled at the trees, the damp bed of needles which the vardo glided through, and the absolute silence. He took in everything, with no way to tell if what he was seeing was even real.

"Master?"

Izhar's hood had fallen across his face. The Cloud Born tried to sit forward but the entangled stole pulled him into the wall of the vardo. A growl issued from within his master's hood and hammered Sidge's antennae like the crash of an endless sea.

He knew the suffocating presence beside him from the day in the vardo, when he'd tried to stop Izhar's channeling. He slid to the far end of the bench and planted his face against the wood. He attempted to toss his hood over his eyes, but the grasp of energy kept it plastered to his back.

Remembered sensations of the blood of the cup filled his mouth. Warm, with a consistency of phlegm, he'd drunk at the Dragon's silent command. It sickened him that the sweet taste had been agreeable.

He'd drink again if he were asked.

He believed. In the Temple. The mantras. Vasheru.

Mouth dry, he stammered, "What is your wish, oh Glorious Dragon, Cleanser of the Blasted Lands, Crafter of—"

Another low growl. Izhar turned and the draconic visage of Vasheru stared back. He indicated the netting which Sidge had used to hold Izhar in place. Hurriedly, Sidge unbound the Dragon. Or the Dragon that was Izhar.

When the webbing was cast aside, Vasheru closed his eyes and inhaled deeply of air damp with dirt and fallen needles. Sidge watched Izhar's chest expand, and nostrils, those of Vasheru, flare. He sat down cautiously, first finding the bench with his hands.

"An apology for every day of the Timeless Age, Mighty Dragon." Sidge whispered. "You, Master Izhar rather, needed to be restrained."

Vasheru laughed, low and deadly.

Sidge sensed the Presence beside him. It dwarfed the vardo, even as it inhabited Izhar's stout form. He could feel the space where the massive body rose into a deep shadow under the twilight of the canopy. Vasheru raised a taloned finger and pointed deeper into the woods.

Sidge clasped and unclasped his hands in supplication and fished the reins from beneath the bench. A gentle flick and the Paint lumbered forward.

Light from the vardo bathed the area in an irregular circle. The enormous tree trunks were black and empty against a graying darkness.

Sidge barely watched the path ahead, letting the Paint wind its way among trees many lengths wider than the vardo. He felt alive, awake. So real and lifelike, he began to doubt any hallucination could bring these sensations about. He'd heard of visions and even dreams as well from acolytes and Cloud Born, but they always sounded so insubstantial, like smoke from a bundle of incense—full of rich fragrance but easy to disperse.

Here was different. Sidge was sure if he stuck out a hand, he'd feel the trees or if he jumped off the bench, be able to burrow his feet in the carpet of needles. Smells and sounds were distinct.

Izhar's hood had slithered back and there was the Cloud Born's face, his beard now strangely overtaken by the silver streak. His master had again fallen into a trance, no sign of the deity inside. Any trace of Vasheru's Kiss had left them. The forest remained dark. But ahead, Sidge could see a cold light seeping around the black trunks of the trees.

"Master?"

Izhar's eyes maintained their distant look.

Sidge strained to see the source of the light. He stopped the exhausted Paint and with a final look at Izhar, he took to the air.

CHAPTER XXIII

Sidge flew toward the light in the forest. Bright and silver, the glow provided a perfect beacon under a canopy through which neither sun nor star could navigate. As he grew closer, he could see an area lit around the base of a tree. The hue cast was lifeless, like the colors had been painted long ago and left to gradually fade. Sidge flattened his wings and glided to a branch overlooking the tree.

A man's form marred the cold brightness. He held the source of the light in front of him, creating a pillar of shadow which fanned out into the darkness. With the light so close, the man's body was almost featureless, yet Sidge recognized the overly broad form as Chuman.

Chuman was clad only in a bundle of red cloth bound around his hips. Ash or white paint coated his skin, reflecting the eerie light. He held what appeared to be an empty vial in his hands, and though no light issued from within the vial, Sidge was certain it was the source of the illumination.

Sidge swooped toward him. "What are you doing here?"

Muddy eyes, pits in the light, watched him. "I have seen you before."

"Of course you have. We traveled together for several days, and you left us for Gohala." Sidge couldn't hide his displeasure.

"You are one of Sli'mir's brood. Why are you here?"

While the giant's eyes were as dead as always, his voice was not. For the first time, Sidge felt he was speaking to a man and not a particularly verbose rock. It was unfortunate he'd immediately steered toward insults.

"Sli'mir's brood? I am not a barbarian. In fact, we were the ones who gave you our robes after we found you wandering, naked in the wild. I am civilized, even more than most Ek'kiru."

Chuman considered this and shook his head. "Whatever you are, you should go. The ritual is about to begin."

"What ritual?"

"The one I start now."

When Chuman opened his mouth next the sounds were an unintelligible chant. These were not the droning incantations of the Wisdom. These were the low, unceasing calls of that which lay deep below the surface of all things. Sounds which had slurred thick on Izhar's lips. The powerful mantra filled the forest and Sidge heard it taken up beyond the trees.

He launched into the canopy. As he wove higher into the branches, the mantra did not fade. Up he flew, until the pale light of the ritual became needled darkness and the chant persisted.

Twilight smoldered in the sky above the canopy. Stars appeared along the undulating ridge of the valley, trapped close to the ground in a semi-circle.

The ridge was where the continued mantra rose from. Others were gathered there, surrounding the valley, calling out in the mantras of a deep, forgotten time. The broken line to the east of the half-circle of lights marked the ocean. There lay nothing but a dark line where the moon rested on the waters, made whole by its reflection.

A faded roar rose from the ocean. For a moment, the sounds melded together as one note, but the rushing sound overtook the chant. A gust of salted breeze tickled Sidge's antennae. The ocean horizon rose, higher than the ridge of the valley, and the roar became an earthshaking concussion which bowed the ancient trees.

The ocean had come alive and the entire valley would soon be consumed.

A shout died on Sidge's mouth. He darted into the trees, plummeting toward the forest floor. The vardo, Master Izhar, he had to find him.

Branches groaned and snapped around him. Several times, the stubby limbs threatened to lace him in, but he skirted between them, snagging and ripping his robe.

"Master!" Sidge cried as he neared the ground. In the distance, the angry whinny of the Paint rose above the roar. Trees bent, their tortured cries filling the air with splinters and the perfumed musk of their sap. He skimmed past where Chuman remained, lost in his mantra. A swirling, golden fog drew into the container held in his hands.

The trees continued to bend at impossible angles. They bowed to the earth like supplicants, all twisted toward the tree bound in light, which remained tall and rigid. Needles on the ground danced and then scattered as Sidge skimmed by.

He heard the Paint snort wildly. "I'm coming, damn you! Don't you dare bolt! Don't you bolt!" Sidge yelled.

He skidded around a tree, the vardo in sight, as the ground buckled upward to meet him. Exposed roots hooked his robes and he tumbled across the forest floor. Covered in damp dirt and needles, he tried to roll to his feet, and his eyes caught the edge of a horse's flailing hoof. He threw himself to the side and the Paint's hoof swatted his antennae as its forelegs came crashing to the ground.

"Whoa! By Vasheru's Light, whoa!"

The Paint reared against the hitching shaft again, and the vardo tilted. Sidge saw Izhar flailing in the driver's bench where he'd become further entangled in the netting, his robes pulled above his head.

"Sidge? Is that you? My bed! It tries to devour me! Sidge!"

"Master, hold on!" Launching to the bench, he groped for the reins and planted himself in the only place he could—on top of Izhar.

Laughter clinging to the edge of sanity came from within Izhar's robes. "Is this my fate? Eaten by sleep? Sleeping in the maw of a transmogrified beast?"

Ignoring the drugged cries, Sidge pressed down, pinning Izhar amid more protests. "A thousand apologies, Master!"

Again, the Paint reared and he slapped the reins with a shout. They surged forward and, throwing his body into the turn, Sidge steered the terrified beast in the opposite direction.

Damp, briny wind now sheathed his antennae, and the ground quivered under the vardo's wheels. Hooves hammered the ground, the Paint's ears pinned back and eyes flitting madly at the chaos. Rushing water replaced the mantra, and Sidge tucked his head, snapping the reins. He tried to ignore the cataclysm bearing down behind them—a wall of water consuming the trees, its crest lost in the darkness above.

For the second time in as many days, Sidge was certain he was going to die.

"Yah! Yah! Run, you wild fool!"

The damp, invisible force of an entire ocean rode behind them. Izhar thrashed. The Paint tore the earth into damp clumps. Then the wave caught them.

Sidge gasped as the vardo overtook the horse, blasted forward by the wall of water. The Paint arced its neck and flashed pearled eyes at Sidge as the swingletree collided with its rear legs. Vardo, horse, and occupants skidded sideways.

Hands formed on the face of the wave, grasping for the vardo. Watery visages like he'd seen inside the well swept past, their mouths twisted in agony. Sidge recognized the call of the city pouring through their moans. Grasping hands latched on to the carriage, the harness, and the horse, and drew them into the raging sea.

Urujaav surrounded them. There were hundreds, perhaps thousands. As the vardo passed between them, Sidge could see those farthest away being pulled straight through the trees by the circular current.

On the vardo twisted, pirouetting through the forest without contacting trunk or branch, held by the Urujaav but not submerged in the water. Cold light came into view. In the dizzying spin, he saw the rigid trunk of the ritual tree still tall among the chaos. Chuman towered there as well, undisturbed by the immense forces. His chant grew deep and rich above the din.

This one tree, this eye of the storm, they would not escape. They were being drawn toward it along with the current of agonized faces and grasping hands.

Sidge clung tight as they whipped toward the trunk. Brown, ridged bark filled his vision. He saw the grain. The feathery edges. How he wished he could close his damned eyes. He waited for the crash of the vardo and the screams of the horse.

Instead of a solid surface he felt water envelop them. He floated away from the bench. Reins slipped from his grip.

Watery hands fed him upward. He was floating, cold and motionless. He saw nothing. Felt nothing. As though the thornsap coursed through his veins but did not pollute his mind. The same as his first vision in the vardo, when he'd rested in the pool beside the wounded tree. Peace.

A dim light interrupted the calming blackness. He became aware he was racing toward a round portal with a bulky shape leaning over it. Chuman again, in his gray temple robes. Hadn't he left the giant at the base of the tree?

Water, yes. They'd been surrounded by it. And above him, Chuman appeared to be gulping, drinking in the water in which Sidge swam.

The sides of the well came into view, and strange symbols raced by. Not far behind him were Izhar, the vardo, and the Paint. They were small and far away, wrapped in the same velvety darkness Sidge had come from.

Chuman continued to drink, never stopping for air. Sidge wondered if his upward momentum weren't caused by the man's intake of water. The closing distance became so difficult to judge, Sidge thought he might actually be a lesser insect on the verge of being lodged in the giant's throat.

Before they collided, Chuman pulled back. Water dripped from his chin and he touched the surface. Deep, bitter longing darkened his features, and he stepped away.

Sidge shot out through the portal and the light changed. He fell hard onto unforgiving ground, rolled over, and retched clear water onto the pathway of colored stones.

A tremendous racket filled the tranquil space around him. Wood crashing onto the platform of the city, the contents of the vardo ricocheting inside the cabin, and the crack of hooves striking and scrabbling on wet stone. Water showered the walkway and the Paint belted out an irritated cry. Somewhere, Izhar groaned.

Deep Night's moon watched from above the trees. They'd left the inn right as the mid-morning horn had sounded but now night had begun. How?

Sidge scanned the ferns for the troll, daring it to show its face. He'd snap its head clean off if it arrived to spout more riddles.

On the other hand, perhaps riddles were the only way to understand what had just happened. He had no explanation of his own. The mantras of the Temple offered no insight, either.

Sidge dragged himself to his feet and turned to examine the vardo. It sat dripping, the Paint still hitched and Izhar tangled again inside the cargo netting with his head lost beneath his collar. There was no more evidence of Vasheru's Fire, or whatever mystical energies Izhar had tapped into. No way to prove any of this had taken place.

Sidge shook himself and flew up to the bench. Izhar thrashed, squeezing through the collar of his robe. His master smacked his lips, eyes heavy, and slumped against the vardo.

The courtyard past the garden gates was empty, but the well-lit palace showed signs of the festivities within. Sidge checked the moon again, much too high in the sky for the time they'd been gone. He prayed to Vasheru they weren't too late, and wondered what raksha in their right mind would bother to listen to this incredible tale. For the first time, the Paint looked stunned and compliant. Sidge urged him forward with ease.

CHAPTER XXIV

Petals littered the courtyard in a moonlit stream where the procession had already passed into the city. The Moonstrider atop the palace glowed under the Deep Night moon, which appeared to balance on the mystical creature's horns.

They sloshed toward the palace, shedding water from the vardo in streams. Sidge fought an urge to stop and examine the cabin. The thought of all the contents strewn about and soaked to every fiber, splinter, and pore made his idle hands twitch. But no amount of work could free his mind from the task at hand. He had to face the assembled nobility and the Attarah himself.

"Leave everything as it is," he chanted.

He also knew searching the weatherproofed stores on the roof for dry robes would be futile. The only remaining functional vestments had been given to Chuman and Gohala had most likely burned those. They would have to attend the ceremony as they were. He extended an arm and water gushed out of his sleeve.

"Vasheru, strike us now."

His earnest prayer went unanswered.

He glanced at Izhar. The old Cloud Born's mouth hung open, and his damp beard lay plastered to his chest.

Ahead, palace guards snapped to attention on seeing the vardo. Maybe these were the instruments of his prayer to Vasheru. They might at least detain Sidge and prevent him from bringing such disgrace into the Attarah's house. But he'd come this far; even if he wanted to flee, he had nowhere to go.

Sidge pulled the vardo to a stop in front of the open palace gate. A trapped pocket of water gurgled from the cabin. He squelched to his feet on the bench and smoothed his robes causing another cascade. The Moonstrider-helmed soldiers' discipline melted into confusion. He couldn't say if either had been among those who'd held him in the gardens.

"Ride upon Gambora's call. Fifty men for countless souls. Released from Kurath's greed," Sidge recited the ritual mantra, his upper arms sweeping in precise arcs and his palms turned to the heavens. He brought his limbs to rest in a meditative pose and did his best to ignore his leaking. Sounds of the feast within filled the silence, and Sidge was certain he could detect a hint of sura on the guard's breath.

"If you are wondering if you've had too much to drink, you have," said Sidge. "I promise, this can only get more interesting if you let us enter."

They shrugged and stepped aside.

Sidge exited his pose and gave one final shake of his robe to clear as much of the water as he could. He sat, took up the reins, and entered the inner courtyard under the astonished gaze of the guard.

An odor of burnt animal flesh rankled his antennae first, along with the rich tang of spices and sura. Heartstone hooded lanterns bathed the open atrium in earthen tones, and music drifted from the room's center. Noble guests, their skin the perfect complement to the lighting and their bodies adorned in silk and gold, filled the vast space and balconies.

On his first visit, he'd entered through the stables. Now he came through the main gate, without burden or harness. Just as the other pilgrims came through, winding their way to the center to present themselves before the Attarah and his dignitaries. They would return here too, once the procession through the city was complete. He was supposed to be here.

With the solemnity of the opening ceremony long past, nobles and honored guests moved among the atrium in knots of laughter and conversation. They wore garments of rich colors and elaborate designs. Unidentifiable bird feathers plumed their turbans. Finely tailored silks were hemmed and woven with metallic threads, many even dusted with precious stones. Golden bands and delicate chains adorned places where clothing did not—torcs along the bare arms of the men, complicated webs of silver and gold clinging to the midriffs and necks of the women.

A handful of groomsmen approached, unsuccessfully masking their annoyance. They'd most likely been promised a reprieve while the procession wound through the city. Sidge apologized as they filed in behind the wagon.

He said an unnecessary prayer that the Paint would be exhausted and unable to bolt through the crowd, and he started toward the center.

First one group, then another, took note of the creaking, dripping vardo. Eyes turned and the crowd parted. Gasps. Chuckles. Bald laughter.

"Excuse me. Pardon me," he called from the bench, driving with one pair of hands and repeatedly bowing.

More and more, only the music filled a spreading silence. The musicians played, heedless to the background song of the city, which Sidge had momentarily lost. Since his emergence from the well, the sound barely tickled his antennae, like a choked breeze.

The crowd thinned, and he found himself at the end of a long carpet which led to the dais. A low table ran the length of this dais, and the royalty of the Attarah's house lounged behind it on rugs and pillows. Gems and precious stones worn on fingers, ears, necks, and noses, dazzled Sidge's lenses.

Next to him, Izhar stirred. Sidge froze in anticipation, but the Cloud Born only smacked his lips and settled against the bench. Sidge was unsure what would be better—having Izhar conscious, or secured in the cargo netting. He'd at least tied the rigging behind his unsteady master in the hopes no one would notice. Still exhausted, the Paint trundled to a stop, and Sidge urged it closer to the dais.

Had someone claimed the Attarah were carved from treestone like the pillars and columns, Sidge would have believed it. The Savior of all Humanity sat arrow straight, clad in a pristine sherwani the white of the moon. The fine coat was stitched with what Sidge knew to be threads of pure silver. He was clean-shaven, though his cheeks bore the outline of a beard that, no matter how fine the razor, could never be scraped away. And though his eyes were small, they maintained a focus Sidge could feel in his chest.

Sidge had planned to build his courage as he slowly wound through the crowd, deciding what to say about visions and Izhar's channeling of the Wisdom. About Gohala, or whether he should even mention that before Izhar was conscious. But all he'd been concerned about winding through the crowd were the apologies. How out of place and alone he felt here. Sitting in front of the Attarah himself, Sidge had nothing to say.

The next sight he saw cleansed all concern of the impending disaster from his mind.

Deep Night was the longest night, when dusk fell quickly and the dawn seemed an eternity away. It could not compete with the midnight flowing across her smooth shoulders.

Sidge stared at Kaaliya who was dressed in the brightest orange, a bonfire against the muted lighting. Every facet he had was transfixed.

The music died. Conversation that once filtered airily around the table stopped. All eyes were upon him. In the sea of annoyance and horror, he saw only Kaaliya's astonished gaze. She moved ever so slightly toward a man next to her. The man began to applaud.

A noble, to be sure, he was the only one beaming with amusement and not shock. He sat relaxed and casual on the silken pillows. Behind him were armored soldiers in bronze and crimson, the same style of uniform which Sidge had seen on those escorting the palanquin the day before. Their intimidating, demonic-faced helmets were removed, though the one closest to the noble had little need of it.

The living Attarah raised a hand. "Chakor, if you please," he said, irritation grating his words. The applause faded but the noble's smirk did not.

"Who is this?" demanded the Attarah.

A once whispered silence became the complete absence of sound. Izhar stirred and mumbled gibberish. Panic set in. Sidge scrambled from the bench and fell prostrate next to the vardo.

"I am Sidge, a mere acolyte, Your Benevolence, glory be to Vasheru and the Wisdom He favors upon you, the Living Attarah."

"You are late."

"A thousand apologies. My tardiness was most... extraordinary."

"And this?" fingers ringed in silver and gold gestured toward Izhar.

"My master, oh mighty Attarah. This is Cloud Born Izhar. He is not feeling well. That is in part the reason for our late arrival."

Sidge watched in horror as Izhar opened his eyes and stared, turning his head at peculiar angles.

Please, don't speak. Please, don't speak.

The Attarah's eyes narrowed. "What is wrong with him?"

"Master Izhar... he..." Sidge fumbled for the words. "He is recovering, Oh Munificent One. Recovering from having channeled what can only be Vasheru's Wisdom."

A murmur ran through the crowd.

"This explains the river you have brought into my house, no doubt?"

Laughter rolled across the court. Sidge flipped his hood over his eyes. Surely people in the city had witnessed the vardo, bathed in light, racing through the streets. Word would reach the palace, though when, he couldn't say.

"An apology for every turn of the sun in the Timeless Age, mighty Attarah. But, yes. It does." Sidge felt the Attarah's gaze burning through his robe.

"Who is your raksha?"

"I'm afraid we—"

"Silence!" the Attarah boomed. "I speak to Cloud Born Izhar. Ill or not, he can speak, no? Is it fever, or perhaps he's had so much drink his tongue has swollen?"

More laughter rippled through the crowd. More entertainment for the nobility, the damp little bugman and his drunken master. Not only did they not believe him, even before he'd explained, they simply did not believe.

He recalled watching the Deep Night celebrations on the streets, and now, the drunken revelry in the palace. This, the night when Stronghold was founded to protect humanity. A night at the heart of a pilgrimage which would end with the adherents of the Storm Temple standing on Kurath's doorstep, showing their strength to keep the slaver at bay. None of this was a joke to him.

Sidge rose, staying bowed and respectful, all four of his palms pressed together. The Attarah clenched the arms of his chair and his chest expanded. The crowd closed in. Water dripped from the vardo. Izhar squirmed again, splaying his fingers and staring through his hand. None of this could Sidge control. He could only control the words that came next.

"Glorious Attarah, my master has called on the Wisdom twice on this journey, each time returning to consciousness only after extended rest. My most sincere and humble apology he cannot speak to recount his vision, but I have witnessed it. I have seen what Wisdom has been granted and know this, with all my heart and life, to be true."

The Attarah held poised to strike. He said again in low tones, "Who is your raksha."

"I am."

Sidge swung his mandibles to face the speaker and felt them fall slack on his face. Small eyes of the crowd grew large, pearls set in sandalwood. Mouths fell open.

Chakor, the noble next to Kaaliya, drummed his fingers on the table. He stared ahead, eyes locked on Sidge. "I am their raksha. My sincere apologies for not mentioning this sooner."

"I hope we have entertained you sufficiently, Chakor." His flash of anger vanished and the Attarah relaxed, turning his attention to his plate. He picked at the contents casually and pursed his lips. "Your Cloud Born will return at the conclusion of the ceremony and will be on time."

Chakor placed his palms together and inclined his head. "Of course, Mighty Attarah, seat of mankind's greatest house." He waved a dismissive hand toward Sidge.

Sidge waited, unmoving. He felt the Attarah should perhaps acknowledge him first. The lord only ate silently, intent on ignoring the vardo and everything about it.

"You heard him," repeated Chakor.

Chakor. His new raksha. The Jadugar of House Attarah. A man with more wealth on a single finger than he and Izhar had to their names.

Kaaliya tilted her head toward the door and raised her eyebrows.

"On time, my raksha, yes. Apologies." Sidge dropped onto the bench and fumbled for the reins. Izhar stirred and leaned forward as though to speak and Sidge twisted, pushing him against the vardo. Aware of the eyes of the crowd, he patted and smoothed Izhar's robe and took up the reins.

The Attarah struck up a conversation with the man on his right, and the gathered nobles slowly unwound. Kaaliya smirked and winked. Sidge's wings fluttered helplessly. He clicked at the Paint and they jolted toward the exit. Guests scattered, providing a broad path.

"On time! Absolutely." He clicked louder and resumed bowing rapidly, openly offering every manner of benevolence he could to the guests' patience and quietly praising Vasheru's timely grace.

CHAPTER XXV

Catching up to the procession had not been nearly as difficult as Sidge had feared. True, the Paint was sluggish from its ordeal and from the awkward load, but the crawling pace of the line of carriages and palanquins was below even the recently-departed Nag's gait.

Following the trail through the winding streets had been simple as well. The petal-strewn path ran along the stone and wood boulevards, complete with muddied banks where countless wheels, hooves, and feet had trod.

The caravan had also been forced to make frequent stops to navigate tricky corners and accept alms from the crowds. By the time the festivalgoers finally saw Sidge's ragged vardo coming into view, all that usually remained to offer was polite praise. It was as if they'd begun the pilgrimage anew, yet this time, they had a sponsor. A powerful one.

Izhar had come to his senses not long after they reached the city streets. Sidge had told him what had happened and been surprised at how angry retelling the tale made him, especially being left to present himself to the Attarah alone. He drew his hood around his face to avoid Izhar's gaze.

"So, I neglected to address the Living Attarah?" Izhar asked. He sounded more curious than ashamed, as Sidge thought he should.

"Yes, Master," Sidge replied.

"What happened?"

"Puffcap," Sidge answered. "Puffcap happened."

A small child ran up to the vardo and broke the silence. He tossed a handful of folded Moonstriders and cried, "Vasheru be with you! Vasheru be with you! Follow the path, the one and true!" as he raced beside them.

Sidge plucked a Moonstrider from his lap, examined it, while pressing his lower palms together. The child caught sight of Sidge's bulbous eyes and froze, drifting away with the crowd.

"Sidge, I know you may disagree, but there is truth in what the trolls say. A truth I can't decipher. The Formless, the elder races, the tales of commoners." Izhar struggled to explain and though Sidge understood his master's frustration, the confusion only infuriated him. "I had nothing before. Meditating with the puffcap, in those moments I feel I am right between the Wisdom and the real. Truth, there for the taking."

"Really?" Sidge lashed out, raising his voice. "Well, I have seen plenty of visions, Master. More than mere hallucinations, I've been nearly drowned in them—twice, no, three times! I've laid eyes on the face of Vasheru, done his bidding..." Sidge fumbled over the words and flicked his head at an awkward angle. His wings tore at the air. "We've seen visions. And because you're a babbling mess every time, I'm the one left to explain."

Izhar's mouth twisted and Sidge wished he'd left his hood drawn. Maybe pulled it down entirely over his eyes. Dragged into darkness. Sleep. A thornsap blackness would be a good thing right about now.

"Are you quite done, acolyte?"

"My apologies, Master." Sidge struggled to speak calmly and evenly.

"Master," Izhar huffed mirthlessly.

Jubilant cries on the street washed over the stillness between them. Banners fluttered in the mystical light of the city. The wagons ahead slowed as they crept around a tight corner, and the crowds ducked into porches and alleyways, reaching out to touch the members of the procession. Hands stroked Izhar's feet, and a few even touched the hem of Sidge's robe.

"I'm sorry, Sidge." Izhar's words barely registered above the crowd. "Perhaps this has all been a fool's errand." Izhar shook his head. "Please, tell me again, what have you seen?"

Sidge was overcome by relief. This was the first time either of them had been in any state to discuss the visions, the strange encounters with trolls, and other nonsense. Sidge launched into a careful recitation of everything he'd witnessed. Izhar listened, his eyes staying keenly focused in the dim light. His master only raised a hand to dam the torrent of words when citizens approached, bearing blessings or boons which he accepted with an oddly formal grace.

"And then, we were before the Attarah finding sponsorship under Kaaliya's... friend."

"Mistress Kaaliya." Izhar twirled a finger through his matted beard. "We'll have to thank her when we see her again."

"Do you think we will?" The question left Sidge's mandibles before he knew how foolish he sounded. Of course they would see her. The parade would return to the palace to join the feasting and they would need to speak with their new raksha.

Izhar cast a pained smile at Sidge. "But these visions, they are far different from any I've ever heard of."

"I know." Sidge squirmed.

"Forgive me, Sidge, for not giving more consideration to you that first night. What you described sounded like drunken imaginings. Maybe it was even difficult for me to accept." Izhar started to say more but cut himself short.

"Difficult for even me to believe," Sidge sighed. "An acolyte who can't channel, sharing in your calls for the Wisdom. It makes no sense. Nowhere in the mantras is there a precedent, yet I know this is what happened."

Those words seemed to shake Izhar from his lament. "Never doubt yourself. Never. If there is one thing I hope to have taught you, it is that."

Sidge noted a particular kindness in Izhar's expression he'd never noticed, though he realized now it had always been there. Through his master's relentless support and patient training. Through Izhar's contentious relationship with the other Cloud Born.

"You have certainly taught me well, my Master. But I am not a worthy pupil."

"No?"

"I have done terrible things. I have grown distracted from the ways of the Temple. And all the years you patiently tutored me, I..." Sidge swallowed. "I doubted in you. Your talk of the Trials and their mysteries, I dismissed like so many of my brothers. Yet now we are steeped in those same mysteries. I can only turn to you, Master, and humbly ask your wisdom as to what this all means, though I do not deserve it."

Sidge curled forward and did his best to present himself in complete supplication. Izhar placed a hand on Sidge's head, between his large eyes, the Cloud Born's sleeve blotting out the road ahead. He wished it covered more. He wanted his master's face to be the only thing he saw. A singular point of focus in the waving crowds, the tumbling Moonstriders, beneath the swollen herald of the night high above.

Izhar looked away and cleared his throat before speaking.

"Our fellow priests have been sequestered in their cliffside fortress, cut off from the world by an unforgiving land for too long. They emerge only when the moon is right and only for a brief excursion. These pilgrimages don't often give one enough time to see through the bullshit." His eyes sought Sidge again. "I was from here you know."

Sidge sat up and shook his head. He knew little of Izhar's past. He'd always seen him in his gray robes, surrounded by the vaulted halls of the Stormblade Temple. The idea of Izhar doing or being anything or anywhere else was hard to fathom.

Sidge had grown up on the man's knee—that was the kindness which had filled Izhar's gaze only moments ago. When Izhar had meditated, Sidge meditated. When Izhar had wandered among the acolytes, Sidge followed. He still clung to vague memories of riding in Izhar's hood as a young child and gripping the wiry beard. He recalled the day he was given his robes, and Izhar's beaming face. The other assembled priests, all of which Sidge could see, had expressed a mixture of forced neutrality and traces of disgust.

Never had any of those things mattered to him—because it hadn't mattered to Izhar.

Izhar continued, examining an ornate storefront built around one of the city's mighty supports. "My father was a carpenter. He built and repaired houses. Even learned to work with treestone. Stuff's dense, but delicate. He could carve a sheet so thin, the edge would take your finger right off." Izhar wagged his own finger and chuckled. "But I lacked the patience. Imagine that."

Izhar's father. Family. Sidge had never asked about this, either. Deep down, he didn't want to know. He wanted to think they were both lost souls, and together, they had been made whole. He stroked his antennae and contemplated tucking them beneath his hood.

"While I had no patience for carpentry, I did find interest in the process. I rode with my father to building sites. New construction. Repairs of old or damaged houses. The Old City near the palace was the best. I marveled at our history, and eschewed the saw and the chisel for the tales of the Attarah carved into the walls. But another thing I saw troubled me. The work yards were full of Ek'kiru. And you know, not a damned one was carved on those walls."

Yes, Sidge knew.

Another offering found its way into Sidge's limp hands. A young woman, her pregnant belly cradled in her arm, handed him a garland of flowers. He weakly placed his upper hands together and she made a quick bow. With a hesitant gesture she motioned toward Izhar and rejoined the crowd. Sidge set the garland on the bench, unwilling to interrupt his master.

"When I arrived at the Temple, I was seeking answers. The world was confusing to a brash young man who questioned everything. I was fortunate the Stormblade didn't turn me away. He saw something important in what I could only call my impudence." He cast Sidge a cheerful glance. "Much like I later saw something important in you."

Sidge began to feel a fragile but necessary wall between them was being taken down, brick by brick. He again wanted to shut out the words, but at the same time couldn't stop listening.

"Why now? Why are you telling me this now?"

"Because, you need to know why I did these things."

"Why?"

"Because I was a foolish young man who believed he could change the world. When your egg came into the Temple's hands, I accepted it. Without asking my own master. Without discussing the matter with the Stormblade. I did it to force a change. Foolish delusions of youth. Selfish. But as you grew, I knew I had another reason."

"What?" Sidge whispered, the crowd, the festivities, finally forgotten.

"For you. I did it for you."

Sidge floated in the stunned silence, each bump under the vardo's wheels causing him to teeter on the seat until he was forced to grab the bench. This was not revelation. Not a strike of Wisdom. There was no mystery. These were things Sidge had always known, from his earliest memories to this very night. Things left unspoken. Left unspoken for a reason: because life was easier in the silence. Easier for Sidge to ignore the implications and overlook the controversy of his presence at the Temple. Easier for Izhar to take the brunt of the attacks, carry them on his air of eccentricity and slice through them with his short temper, shielding Sidge from the worst of it.

A man approached and Izhar bent against the outer rail of the bench to greet him. "Blessings to you!" Placing the offering of a corked bottle on the foot board, Izhar chuckled and picked up the reins which were about to slip away behind the horse. Sidge couldn't recall when he'd dropped them.

They were nearing the canal, the procession squeezing over one of the narrow bridges. Lamps here illuminated the bridge brightly, creating ripples on Sidge's exposed skin. When they reached its foot, a commotion on the water brought their progress to an end as the acolytes ahead of them slowed to look over into the canal.

"There he is!" came a shout from the water. "The bugman priest! He didn't drown!"

More cries came from the decks of ships where spectators crowded the rails.

"Blessed by Vasheru!"

"There, in the gray carriage! So befitting of the Sheath!"

"A bugman? Vasheru's own lightning bug!"

Sidge prayed that last one wouldn't stick.

The cries of astonishment continued and the crowd closed in, everyone wanting to see the odd acolyte. Manoj's face popped up over the carriage ahead of them.

"Sidge!" The younger acolyte cried, waving wildly. "What are they saying? Why are they so exci—" A gray robed arm, most likely Anil's, dragged him down.

Izhar eyed Sidge, his face in a thoughtful frown as more people crowded them before the vardo could draw on to the bridge. Sidge did his best to greet and bow to the throngs of curious people. Small offerings found their way on to the footboard and bench. Hands stroked the hem of his robe. Izhar waited, giving the crowd their fill before he eased the Paint on to the narrow bridge.

Sidge waved meekly at the onlookers, some following along behind the vardo. Their praise and recognition astounded him; however, it was Izhar's expression, both amused and contemplative, that made him feel the most self-conscious.

With the reins in one hand, Izhar reached up to his collar with the other. Sidge became dimly aware of Izhar fussing with something, cursing while he fought against his beard and hood. Moonlight glinted in his hand when the old Cloud Born finally stopped struggling.

"You've earned the right," Izhar said, speaking into his palm. "Few know the mantras better, the rituals. By the Formless, you've seen the face of Vasheru himself! Secured a raksha on your own. What's left? A romp through the Stormblade Sheath? Bah!"

The silver chain and dark stone tumbled through the air.

Sidge felt like he was back in the well, submerged, watching the stone wheel end over end, the image caressing each lens as it came closer, the odd street light swimming on all sides. Cheering crowds were muted. The song of the city called out.

He could swim away, avoid the strike. But Izhar watched with a fiery pride filling his eyes. That particular kindness one only sees in the eyes of a parent, a father.

Sidge snatched the pendant.

Vasheru's Kiss. The prickly sensation traveled up through his arm, his shoulders, his neck, and over his bulbous eyes to linger on the minute hairs of his antennae. He stared at both the pendant and Izhar in shock.

"I'll get another," Izhar grumbled. "Besides, I can't touch it without thinking of Gohala's oily hands."

"I can't—"

"Shut up, Sidge. You can. You will. It may have been my corestone which called the Wisdom, but those were your visions. Everything I'd hoped to have. Mine were fleeting hallucinations and about as clear as the Stormblade Temple's sky. More of the same. Not what our Order needs now, nor can even expect to have ever again."

"But me? I mean, I haven't faced the Stormblade Sheath. Collected a corestone. I can't even call forth a spark of the Fire."

"Forget the Sheath. A trip to that burning hell is overrated and the corestone is symbolic. A focus."

Sidge parsed through mantras in his head and struggled to counter Izhar's proclamation. Nothing prescribed this small piece of rock as necessary. In fact, the first priest had not held a stone at all. He had called on the Wisdom and given it to his four acolytes.

"Shouldn't I at least complete the pilgrimage?"

"Of course you will, but for what?" Izhar's face wrinkled as if he'd caught wind of a foul stench. "We'll stop at the edge of the desert, nowhere near the fabled lands of Kurath where the Attarah's flight began. We'll cross the mountains close to the coast through the Merchant's Pass, a damn sight easier than the trek made by the Attarah. Following Him isn't so damn literal. If it were, why, none of us has earned the right."

"This will not be an interpretation others would accept."

"No. Much like inducting you into the Temple."

Sidge had no response.

"True, this is a question for the Stormblade to decide but by his own words, we won't see him when we return. There may be nothing even to return to."

Sidge stared, yes stared, at the corestone in his hand.

CHAPTER XXVI

Sidge rode into the outer courtyard astride the vardo's bench, his idle hands feeling strange and detached. He'd kept throwing arguments at Izhar as to why he should return the corestone, even as he fidgeted with the setting. Izhar kept silencing him with apologetic demands, Sorry but not now, Master, all while awkwardly steering the Paint and irritating the exhausted animal.

Currently, they sat in a line of carriages outside the palace, waiting their turn to present themselves and their offerings. The first to emerge was Gohala's wheeled throne room, his path taking him down the long line of pilgrims.

Gohala perched on a seat above the driver's bench. The Cloud Born waved with regal deference at his Temple brethren as he paraded by the line. Practicing, no doubt, for his seat in the Sanctum. Farsal sat beneath him at the reins behind Yurva and Corva.

"Sidge!" Corva's green chitin separated and he fluttered his wings.

Ahead, the line had ground to a stop at the palace gate. Gohala raised his hand and the banner-bearing acolytes flanking his carriage came to a synchronized stop. Izhar sniffed and draped the reins across his lap. He bit his lip and studied the sky.

Much to Sidge's surprise, Chuman was among the acolytes. He'd assumed Gohala would have stripped the "simpleton" of his robes and tossed him onto the streets. But as odd as the man seemed, he'd had no difficulty with the sudden change in momentum brought on by Gohala's signal. A good sense of timing, utter lack of communication skills—maybe he was Gohala's ideal pupil after all.

Sidge placed his four palms together and bowed, starting with Master Gohala but not neglecting the two haulers. On his third bow, the bench railing snagged his robe. The corestone tumbled out from his collar.

Farsal's mouth dropped open. Gohala's face drained of color, even in the monochromatic light. Corva lurched and stretched out his antennae, closing on the vardo, while Yurva grumbled and tried to counterbalance his friend's sudden movements.

"You have a pretty pebble," called Corva as he strained at the harness.

Acolytes on both sides peered out of their lines. Never had Sidge seen Gohala shocked, but the dark-skinned Master's face remained wooden, like his newest acolyte. Sidge stuffed the pendant into his robes.

"Where did it get that?" Gohala demanded.

"You will speak to my master with respect, Cloud Born Gohala," answered Izhar, still avoiding eye contact.

Sidge cringed.

"I don't know what sort of game you're playing, Izhar, but I thought we'd heard the last of your mockery yesterday."

"Mockery?" Izhar snorted. "Master Sidge has been granted the Wisdom—"

"Preposterous!" Gohala spat. "It can't even channel. Nor has it gone to the Sheath. This is more of your heresy!"

"I have no reason to doubt his claims. Neither should you." Izhar's eyes narrowed. "Besides, haven't you established precedent for claiming another's call to the Wisdom?"

Gohala's lips split into a malicious grin. "You are the last one to lecture me on precedent and tradition."

"Tradition? Shall we test your ability to teach, perhaps?" Izhar motioned toward Farsal. Sidge saw the poor acolyte shrink lower on the bench. "Acolyte Farsal, can you point out where tradition dictates a Cloud Born must retrieve his corestone from the Stormblade Sheath?"

His eyes glued to Sidge's neck, Farsal struggled to form the words. "Well, Cloud Born Izhar, err, Brother Izhar. The first Stormblade recited the Four Corners and shared his Wisdom with the Cloud Born gathered there. The four. And... well..." Realization dawned on Farsal's face as he came to the same conclusion Sidge had earlier. "The Trials are unclear about whether or not the first Stormblade possessed a stone."

Gohala glared down at his acolyte. "Do not speak to this heathen unless you too wish to suffer judgment. And you!" He pointed a shaking finger at Izhar. "Are you mad? You truly think a bugman will sit in Vasheru's Sanctum?"

The possibility hadn't even occurred to Sidge. He was hardly ready for his new status as a Cloud Born, let alone the office of Stormblade. But he now possessed Izhar's corestone so there were certain implications.

"I may be." Izhar stared down Gohala and Sidge felt the amulet tug around his neck. "Only yesterday you declared me unfit to wear this symbol. Perhaps I now agree. Passing any duties I had been given on to my pupil would be expected."

"Save your absurd arguments for the Attarah, charlatan! We will speak with him shortly." Gohala rose above the driver's bench and pointed ahead. "Move, you lumbering beasts! Move!"

Farsal snapped the reins after Gohala's booted foot contacted his shoulder. Leather cracked harmlessly on Yurva and Corva's shells and Corva flitted his wings. Yurva bellowed and the two trudged forward.

Sidge held motionless as though he could remain unseen as the palatial wagon continued past them. Each of the flanking acolytes' eyes followed Gohala's imperious gaze on the path ahead.

But in the rhythmic flow of banners and robes, one face turned toward him. Chuman watched; expressionless and heedless of his course, he maintained a perfect distance in the marching order. Sidge tested the air between them with his antennae.

The grind of axles and wheels on the cobbled courtyard, the tread of the many-legged Ek'kiru, and the clomp of horse hooves gave a percussive beat to the ever-present call of the city. But an almost imperceptible click and a whir swam in the sea of sound, and he was certain Chuman was the source.

***

Sidge was the last to re-enter the palace. He and Izhar had presented their meager offerings in front of the Attarah, and he'd dismissed them without so much as a glance while he carried on a conversation with a nobleman. Izhar's anger at Gohala had kept his mouth clamped shut and the distracted Attarah barely noticed Sidge had greeted him instead of Izhar. Sidge had let Kaaliya's smile fill the room as much as he could, and they drove quickly out again toward the stables.

Against Izhar's protests, Sidge spent time rubbing down the Paint, who was for once grateful for the attention. Izhar made him promise it would be the last time he did such things. This was the work of an acolyte, Izhar had proudly said. Sidge cringed, and wondered if he'd ever be able to find the numerous pieces of tack and harness again.

Gray robes mingled with the oranges, reds and deep purples covering the nobility. The attendees danced and laughed, welcoming the newly-arrived priests to the culmination of the night's festivities.

Music rang lively and infectious throughout the shimmering atrium. Pangs of a bowed lute accompanied the rapid beat of fingertips on tabla drums. The instruments fell silent and the crowd applauded as the drummer trilled a rhythm with his tongue.

A pocket of curious stares formed around Sidge but he paid little attention. He headed straight for the dais at the center, where Kaaliya sat. He wanted to thank her, or have an excuse to say anything. His antennae slumped as he saw her companion, his new raksha, lounging next to her. She popped a piece of fruit into Lord Chakor's mouth and left her finger pressed to his lips.

Sidge's wings rattled but her crooked smile turned toward him, dampening his jealousy. She waved with her free hand as her fingertip became a palm on the noble's face, playfully and insistently, pushing him away.

Sidge hovered along the ground toward her. Drunken gasps and scattered applause followed. He ignored the attention.

"Sidge! So nice to see you." Kaaliya leaned across the table and propped up on her elbows. She pulled away briefly to swat at Chakor's wandering hands, the joyous light still in her eyes. Chakor laughed and grabbed a goblet from the table. He raised the cup toward Sidge before taking a swig. Sidge gave a perfunctory nod.

"Continuing on your pilgrimage tomorrow, I see?" Kaaliya purred.

He spread his mandibles and his antennae wriggled joyously. "Yes, much thanks to you, Mistress Kaaliya. And..." He quirked his head toward the nobleman, who was waving his empty cup at a tray-bearing servant—one of the red Ek'kiru he'd seen in the stables. "Your friend."

Kaaliya half-laughed and moved closer, her hand cupping Sidge's antennae as she whispered. "Don't thank me yet." Without looking, she batted away another wandering hand and raised her eyebrows as if to say See what I mean?

This close, Sidge could feel her breath on the tiny hairs of his antennae. Her slender form bent at the perfect angle. Her olive eyes rivalled the purest cut of treestone. He almost didn't blame Chakor's boorishness. Almost.

Kaaliya's eyes widened. Her hand shot toward Sidge, and for an instant, he recalled the man and woman carved into the relief on the building, their lips pressed close. He wished he could close his eyes and savor the moment. Instead, she shoved a hand into his collar and drew the corestone from his robes.

"How?" she asked, amazed. "I saw you were the one to present to the Attarah when you returned, but Izhar still looked out of sorts, so I didn't think much of it."

Sidge found he couldn't speak. He was aware of more small eyes on them now. The once-curious stares confused and unsettled.

"Tell me, Sidge!"

Chakor crawled across the table, scattering plates. His eyes fixed on the stone. "Oh my," he said, grabbing for the pendant and yanking Sidge close in his drunken grasp. "Can this get any better?"

Kaaliya rolled her eyes. She peeled Chakor's hand off the pendant and asked, "Wait, is this Master Izhar's?"

"Yes. Well, I guess it is mine. He gave it to me."

Kaaliya giggled, rose, and performed the pilgrim's bow. "Master Sidge."

His mouth open in silent laughter, Chakor glanced between them and clambered atop the low table, attempting to mimic the motions. More eyes turned their way, and Sidge was relieved when Kaaliya dragged the noble down.

"Behave, or this night will not get nearly as interesting as promised."

A raised eyebrow and the noble's eyes flashed. "You wouldn't dare."

"Oh? You don't think?" Kaaliya laughed and Chakor grabbed her waist, pulling her toward him. Sidge's antennae curled as the two fell to the pillows laughing.

"There you are." Izhar pushed his way through the crowd. "I see you've found our raksha."

"Yes, yes I have." Sidge mumbled, his mandibles still facing the table where Kaaliya and Chakor wrestled. The display wasn't any more raucous than the rest of the festivities, but the good spirits everyone else seemed to embrace were not finding their way into his chitin.

"Good." Izhar gave Sidge a firm shake. "We'll need to speak with him about supplying for the rest of the journey."

"Master Izhar!" Kaaliya disentangled herself from Chakor. She reached across the table and grabbed the corestone around Sidge's neck. "Why didn't you say anything about this? You just sat there, brooding."

"Mistress Kaaliya. Raksha." Izhar partially bowed to each. "You know, my dear, the second presentation everyone is always too drunk to care. Plus, I'd recently spoken with Master Gohala and wasn't in the mood for pleasantries."

"Why, this has gotten better," said Chakor. "A pleasure to meet you Master, or, if I am reading this correctly, Acolyte Izhar. I'm most honored to meet another person so enchanted by my cousin."

"Cousin?" asked Izhar.

"Yes. The arrogant ass shares some relationship to me along a branch of the family I'd rather see pruned."

His former master and his new raksha shook hands vigorously.

"No reason to draw too much attention," added Sidge. He remembered Gohala's fury and scanned the room for him. First in, Gohala and his acolytes had arrayed themselves as close to the Attarah as possible and joined in the feast.

"Nonsense," Chakor laughed, his bronze irises even more prominent in their bloodshot settings. "Cloud Born, let's go greet the Attarah, shall we?"

Kaaliya raised an eyebrow. Izhar's gaze wandered toward the Attarah's raised chair.

"But whom to take?" Chakor purred with delight, seeing the indecision on their faces.

"I'll go first," said Izhar. "An explanation may be required. Plus we'll need to speak about supplies." He turned to Sidge. "If my new master agrees."

"Of course," Sidge said. He knew if he were truly a Cloud Born, he should protest, but he found his courage waning and appreciated Izhar's offer. And Chakor's departure could not happen soon enough.

"As for supplies, name it and it is done," said Chakor. Their raksha rose, unsteady. "And don't wander far, Master Sidge. You're next to greet the Attarah."

Kaaliya sighed as the two wandered toward the royal seat. "Two peas in a very strange pod." Sidge's insides melted at a sudden flirtatious tilt of her head. "Care to dance?"

As much as he wanted to, he couldn't say no.

CHAPTER XXVII

Every disparaging look from within the crowd struck Sidge's lenses as Kaaliya guided him toward the minstrels. He kept a close watch on Izhar and Chakor, who approached the Attarah's seat in deep discussion. For the first time it was difficult to focus on just Kaaliya.

Sidge saw her lips move but the words didn't register.

"What?"

"You aren't staring," she repeated.

"Oh, yes."

"Relax." Kaaliya took his hand and pulled him closer. "Let them talk. We dance."

Music enveloped them, and the rhythms of bodies began to match the pang of the drums. In the Temple, Sidge had only ever heard the bell and Izhar's occasional mangling of his small wooden flute. Given the mastery of the flutist in this group, Sidge vowed to never correct his master's self-deprecating commentary again. Accompanied by fast-fingered drumming and dexterous play on a graceful arched harp, the three musicians worked in perfect synchronicity, their faces drifting between otherworldly concentration and blissful acknowledgment of their companions' skill.

Kaaliya swept away, then returned as Sidge's arm reached full extension. He reeled at the odd motion and flailed with his free hands. Seeing his struggle, she stepped back and let her arms and hands run free, twisting and writhing into measured poses. He reproduced the motions as best as he was able. Knees, feet, hands and even her eyes became a part of the dance and Sidge felt like a tangle of too many limbs. Unable to keep up, he moved closer.

"How well do you know this noble? This Chakor?"

Kaaliya paused and scanned the crowd. She dipped away with the beat as she responded, not making eye contact. "He's an old friend."

"And? Why do you sound worried?"

Kaaliya pushed off, her palms flat against his and prancing lightly on the balls of her feet.

"He and Izhar together create a whole new definition of trouble." She spoke even as the rhythm heightened and her movement followed. "It's why I was reluctant to introduce them when Izhar first asked. But when I saw you sitting there before the Attarah, soaked to your shell, I had to do something."

"So you convinced your acquaintance to be our raksha?"

"No, you did that."

"Me?"

"You sealed the deal when he saw you speak back to the Living Attarah. I only made the suggestion."

Sidge closed his grip on her palms and kept her from gliding away. "Why do you think this Lord Chakor could be trouble?"

She danced close, ignoring the stares. "He has his secrets. While all the nobles trace their lineage back to the days of the Attarah," her eyes swept the room, "only one is chosen as the Living Attarah's advisor. A Jadugar. He uses that air of mystery to great effect."

"So I've heard," said Sidge. Kaaliya took the opportunity to turn and dance a tight circle. Before he could figure out if he was supposed to follow her, she was facing him again. "Is that why the Attarah put up with his insolence?"

Kaaliya laughed. "They have a thing. Sort of like Gohala and Izhar."

"A rivalry?"

"Yes. Chakor is the only man richer than the Attarah."

"Richer?"

At this point, Sidge was staring but at the dais, not his dance partner. Izhar bowed deeply before the Attarah while Chakor spoke with grand gestures. They had been joined by Gohala, who watched the nobleman's theater with a withering gaze.

"Wait. They're cousins. Does this mean Gohala can trace his lineage to the Jadugar?" asked Sidge. Kaaliya's rhythmic form moved to block his view and she shrugged.

In all the structure and law set down by the mantras of the Rule, none were ever clear about the Jadugar and their continued role. Izhar had of course been the only Cloud Born to posit this as a possible sign of the ancient sorcerers' significance along with the other mysteries. Those were indeed troublesome ideas if Izhar hoped to see his former acolyte as the Stormblade.

Sidge felt a sinking feeling in his gut. As a new Master, he would need to decide which teachings to promote - his mentor's or those of the rest of the Temple. While he'd seen many signs Izhar's beliefs held truth, the new revelations could fracture the peace in his only home.

"Do you believe the title of Jadugar is more than honorary?" he asked, mostly out of desperation.

"Whatever gets you through the day." She smirked and took his upper hands.

In the crowd, each moving body drew the attention of an admirer or two. As Kaaliya gyrated and the music rose, she began to draw more and more. The feeling in his gut began to imitate his limbs, a knotted tension anchoring to the uncertainty he now felt. Kaaliya's glib answer to his predicament hadn't helped and watching her sway in front of him while the others stared only cinched the cord tighter.

"What does he get from you? This interesting night you mentioned, while we were at the table."

"Nothing he wouldn't have already gotten. But when you speak a thing, it has a certain power."

She raised her arms and carried Sidge's resisting limbs above their heads. A sultry smile crossed her lips and Sidge placed his lower palms about her waist, not as part of the dance but to trap her, hold her close. Her hips twitched with the beat while she steadily brought her hands down.

"And this thing you speak is?"

"Sidge." Kaaliya's arms fell limp but she kept her fingers entwined with his. "I know you've been living in a monastery your entire life, but is the situation really that unclear?"

"No." Even though he'd only just begun to understand Kaaliya's choice of profession, the admission made him feel foolish. Embarrassment and resignation unwound the building tension and he let her go. "All these bizarre gifts today. Izhar handing me his corestone. You providing a raksha. Things I never asked for but hoped to earn. You didn't need to do that for me."

With a shrug, Kaaliya fell back in step with the music. "You give yourself far too little credit. I told you, Chakor chose you; I only planted the seed."

Unlacing their fingers, she pressed flat palms to his and bowed. She backpedaled and the crowd cleared around her. Her hips kept pace with the furious drumming. Bare midriff flexing with each twist, she slowly turned and watched Sidge over her shoulder, the veil of twilight rolling along the fiery cloth of her sari. In her movements were the engraved images of the mantras, one statuesque pose flowing into another as she leapt and bounded with feet turned outward. A story unfolded of love, betrayal, pain and joy and though he didn't move with her, she made him feel as if he were a part of each coy look and forlorn glide. He'd never imagined he could live a lifetime in the space of a song.

With the single pluck of the harp, the music rolled to a halt, and they faced each other amid a roar of applause from the men in the audience, their female companions clapping formally and exchanging glances. He'd barely moved yet she'd left him struggling for air.

"Brother Acolyte." A dull voice broke the spell, and Chuman towered behind him. "The Attarah would see you."

Sidge bowed in greeting, though Chuman had already turned and begun walking away. Behind him, Kaaliya was pulled deeper into the crowd and a new, energetic refrain from the musicians closed the once open space between them. She gave Sidge a resigned look amid snaking limbs and joined the dance.

Catching up with Chuman wasn't difficult. The giant was ramrod straight, plowing through the crowd carelessly. Sidge offered apologies as they moved back to the dais.

A sudden urge crossed Sidge's mind. He searched the air with his antennae, placing it on Chuman's back. He had no idea where the compulsion came from. His first instinct was it had been a result of Yurva and Corva's introduction via their whipping appendages. The image alone made him shiver, and he began to retract his antennae.

Until he sensed something.

A persistent purr tickled the tiny hairs. A catch in the man's lung perhaps. A wheeze or rattle. But the whirring never wavered. Every so often, a discordant click marred the steady vibration, and beneath this, a slosh of water, as though he'd already swallowed too much wine.

Along with this peculiarity, the man had no odor. Living in close quarters with acolytes, Sidge had grown accustomed to the stink a human body would produce, always being reminded of it when he entered the Temple from the clean, storm-tinged air of the courtyard.

Perhaps he'd recently bathed. No perfumes or oils, only a heated tub of water. That might explain it. But the strange clicking. It was so familiar. Lost in thought, Sidge careened into Chuman's back.

"Pardon me."

Chuman looked down with dull eyes and bobbed his head.

"The one they call Gohala will be waiting."

"Best be careful, Brother." If he were to survive under Gohala, Chuman needed to know Temple etiquette better than most. "He is Master Gohala to you. Cloud Born Gohala to myself and those acolytes not under his tutelage."

Chuman bobbed his head again. "He spoke the same words of you. The same inflection on the word Cloud Born." Sidge heard a fair mimicry of abject spite as Chuman repeated the title. "Is this how it is said?"

"Oh, no! This way," Sidge repeated the title as neutrally as he could. "Master."

"Master," said Chuman.

"Good. Good."

Chuman swept his arm toward the Attarah's seat. Sidge pinned his antennae flat to his head and Izhar beckoned him to approach. Master Gohala refused to make eye contact and the imperious stare of the Living Attarah gave nothing but. Farsal stood close by and managed a furtive smile.

Head bowed, Sidge approached and started to drop prostrate before the gathering of elders. Izhar's hand caught him, and his former master performed the same bow before him, placing his forehead to the polished stone. Gohala sneered.

"So, you presented to me at the start of this night as an acolyte, yet you leave for the pilgrimage a master?" asked the Attarah.

"Yes, Mighty Attarah."

Gohala held a white-knuckled grip and glared at the ceiling. The Attarah raised a hand to his chin and scratched at the stubble. Golden rings flashed, jewels glinted.

"What am I to make of this? Master Gohala insists the arrangement is farcical and is intended to mock our traditions. Yet, Acolyte Izhar has formally renounced his own position in your favor. And here we are, many leagues from the Temple where the true judge of such matters, the Stormblade, resides."

No answer came.

"Is this, in fact, a mockery?" The Attarah pierced Sidge with a stare and he struggled to keep his mandibles pointed in the correct direction.

"I'd never involve myself in such a disgrace," said Chakor, without losing his impish grin.

"Silence, cousin," said Gohala. "I believe the Attarah was asking this new Cloud Born for an answer."

Sidge started at Gohala's curt demand and waited for a reaction from the honorary Jadugar. Chakor was unperturbed. Izhar stayed close to the ground. The Attarah drummed his fingers impatiently on the arm of his chair.

"This is no mockery, Mighty Attarah. Please, I am a devout follower of Vasheru, oh glorious be his draconic form which swirls in the endless maelstrom."

"And your former master." The jeweled hand indicated Izhar. "He claims you've been granted Wisdom?"

Sidge noticed Gohala's jaw clench tighter. He wondered if Izhar had spoken of Gohala's false claims. Or at least, his inability to discourage such false claims.

"I shared a vision, Attarah. I shared a vision with Master Izhar, outside of Stronghold. And in the gardens, right before I first appeared before you."

"Two, then?" asked the Attarah.

"It is true, Attarah," said Chakor. "I have heard word from those in the streets who reported a carriage wreathed in lightning, racing through the streets after the call of Gambora's Horn."

So news had finally reached the palace.

The Attarah's brow quirked. "Is this possible?" He turned to Master Gohala for confirmation.

"Absolutely not. One doesn't share visions. Such a thing is unheard of."

Sidge saw the top of Izhar's scalp redden, but he remained silent. Playing the role of obedient acolyte was going to be taxing for his mentor. Though, as a master himself, couldn't he simply ask his acolyte to rise and ask for an opinion? But how would such a request make him look? Sidge searched his facets for Kaaliya.

"This thing can't even channel the Fire, the first step in any acolyte's ascension. How could it be granted a vision?" demanded Gohala.

Sidge's insides collapsed under the accusation. He knew it would come to this.

"Is this true?" An eagerness filled the Attarah's voice, which drew the surrounding nobles closer, all of whom had been content to view the exchange from a polite distance. Sidge tried to answer but the words stuck in his throat.

"It never has and never will be able to, Mighty Attarah, most esteemed leader of men." Gohala announced triumphantly.

"A sufficient test, Master Gohala." The Attarah turned his piercing eyes on Sidge "Prove you can channel the Fire, and I shall accept your claims. Then the Stormblade can sort this out upon your return to the Temple." Fingers laced together, the Attarah watched him expectantly.

The Attarah didn't know about the Stormblade's own prophecy. Or maybe he did. Yes, of course he did. He was Gohala's raksha. Gohala, the first Cloud Born here, had probably already proposed this test. Anything to humiliate the bugman of the Temple and secure his own claim. Why had Izhar ever given him the corestone?

All around the atrium, the festivities died. Kaaliya's face appeared as she strained to see through the crowd, her brow knitted in concern. Chakor watched and chewed his lip in thought. The music tapered into a dull pulse and died.

Sidge reached into his robe and withdrew the corestone. He felt the pull of the mystic power of Vasheru, a pull he had yet to shape. There was no reason why it should be any different this time, but under the weight of the small eyes he could not admit his weakness.

Without being asked, Izhar struggled to his feet and placed a hand on Sidge's shoulder.

"Focus, Sidge. You can do this."

Gohala rolled his eyes. "Get on with it."

Sidge drew his hood, slowly, so Kaaliya disappeared behind the cloud-gray fabric last. He held the corestone low, only his hands and the mosaic floor were visible. He muttered a prayer to Vasheru and began the first mantra of Fire. Gohala gave a loud sigh of disdain, no doubt unimpressed by the simple calling.

Sidge repeated the mantra, droning with perfect inflection and posture. The corestone grew heavy in his palm. His fingers began to tremble.

Nothing happened.

He tilted his head upward and raised a finger to beg for patience. Silence. To delay the inevitable. Head bowed again, he restarted the mantra.

Even with his vision tunneled around the corestone, Sidge could feel the pressure of the space. In the hush of the atrium, clothing rustled. Whispered conversations carried though his hood. Footsteps approached, quietly, near the table. The strange rattle in Chuman carried on. He could place it now. The tiny silver Moonstrider Kaaliya had let him hold in his palm, that was where he'd felt the whirring before.

What could that mean?

No, he had to focus. Leave out the distractions. Ignore the scattered mess of visions and ebony hair and strange giants surrounding him. And the song. The song of Stronghold which became a trumpet call in the deathly silence. Desperation and sadness filling the notes.

It was all too much.

No one here expected him to succeed. Even Izhar must have his doubts after so much wasted practice. So much failure. Staring Gohala in the face and admitting defeat was the easiest thing to do. He raised his head.

Released to the air, his antennae detected a hint of smoke, so faint, he wasn't sure if he'd imagined it. It was as if the fire had shifted in the kitchens a room away, or the breeze outside stirred and brought in the wood smoke from the hearths of the city. Yet the acrid tang that wafted into his hood and fell on his sensitive antennae was no mere wood fire.

Of those he was ready to declare defeat to, not a single one showed any sign they'd noticed the same smell. Gohala reveled, ready to declare the test finished. The Attarah watched with barely restrained satisfaction.

A flash burst from the corestone, bright and blinding.

Sidge released the stone in shock. Gohala's face underwent an instant transformation. Even the officious Attarah raised his eyebrows. Izhar grabbed Sidge's upper arms and shook fiercely.

Sidge turned down his hood to take in the awestruck faces of the room. Chuman's bland expression showed a hint of surprise. A fire burned in Kaaliya's eyes and she cried, "Vasheru be praised!" Farsal took up the cry next, right below his reeling master. As they called out, more voices in the room repeated the glorification in stunned tones.

The odd smell lingered and the normal press of Vasheru's Kiss that accompanied Izhar's channelings had been absent, but he'd made a spark. Close by, Chakor began to applaud, and the room erupted in chaos. Sidge drank in the praise, reveled in the horror on Gohala's face, and the adulation of Izhar, Farsal, and Kaaliya.

He had channeled. At least, so it appeared. He was a Cloud Born at last. And for this night, the longest of nights, he would not question Vasheru's gift. Not tonight. Tonight, he would sleep.

SNEAK PEEK - FORGE OF THE JADUGAR

Kaaliya stared into the shifting radiance of the lamp. She thought she could see a difference between the depth of shadows, or the brilliance of the core, but she wasn't sure. She looked down Stronghold's main boulevard once again. Lamps on tall posts flanked the roadside. Their blueish cast remained calm and soothing, but watching the crawling, dappled shadows only convinced her of the difference in light between the one above her and the rest.

"That one, Firetongue," she said, pointing to the lamp and using her companion's human name. She'd requested the Ek'kiru's true name, and while it had been a lovely combination of clicks and motions, she knew she couldn't do it justice.

"Very astute," replied the Ek'kiru and her antennae arched in surprise. "How is it you know?"

"I'm not sure," Kaaliya shrugged. "How can you tell the difference?"

The Ek'kiru quirked her mandibles. "I don't tell anything. They tell me. They dance out of cadence with the others. It's quite infuriating."

Kaaliya watched more closely, and the same intuition came to her, but she couldn't quite see it.

"I'll take your word for it."

Firetongue adjusted the leather satchel slung across her body and grabbed hold of the wooden lamppost. The carved base and elaborate etchings provided solid hand and footholds, and Kaaliya mapped out the path she might take. But the Ek'kiru transitioned to the vertical surface as though she'd simply turned a corner and walked to the top.

"I thought I was a spider," Kaaliya muttered.

Firetongue shivered as she reached into her pouch. "Nasty little creatures."

Kaaliya laughed. Firetongue was a new addition to Lord Chakor's personal retinue, and she'd liked her immediately. This one asked pointed questions, never wasting time with pleasantries or attempting to mimic human etiquette. If she could, she'd try to keep the novice servant this way. Keep her from acclimating.

On this evening, the Ek'kiru servant had a very specific task which Kaaliya had asked to accompany her on—ensuring that the lights of Stronghold's main thoroughfare did not need repair.

Apparently, this one did.

Kaaliya had been to Stronghold countless times. It wasn't her first trip at Chakor's request. Yet most of her experiences here had been outside the sprawling palace grounds, and while Chakor wasn't shy by any means, he maintained as much of an air of mystery as he could about his position as the sole Jadugar.

Artifacts of a lost time like the lamps which lit the streets, the hidden mechanisms that controlled the gates, and even the waters that surrounded and flowed beneath the streets were under his purview. In their time of need, when the Children of Kurath returned, those waters would rise up and destroy the invaders, or so legend said. Rise up to keep them safe from a foe who hadn't stirred in a countless age.

The Jadugar kept these secrets of the city, and Chakor reveled in them. In truth, the office owed as much to his showmanship as anything. He'd begun to let her in on some of the minor tricks. More closely guarded were the rumors regarding the source of his wealth, his power to turn lumps of earth into gold and gems. She could care less about money aside from the freedom it bought, but those secrets he held close lest he lose the awe of commoners and nobles alike.

Secrets, she could respect. She had her own, and for those who requested her services, she often guaranteed discretion. Men tended to make themselves vulnerable around her, and she enjoyed the feeling of control. However, something had happened at the Deep Night festival which piqued her interest in the wealthy Jadugar's hidden knowledge and overrode her normal sense of propriety.

When Sidge had channeled Vasheru's Fire at the festival, something happened. He'd given fervent mantras, they'd all witnessed a flash of power—no reason to doubt he'd succeeded. Yet she knew both Chakor and Sidge well enough to read them amid the excitement. The way Sidge splayed his antennae and parted his mandibles, she knew he was shocked. Then, the same inner intuition told her to look to Chakor. She'd seen cats with feathers between their teeth appear less smug.

At the top of the pole, Firetongue produced a metal cylinder from her satchel. Her middle hand moved quickly, cradling the object close while her upper hands reached for the suspended light. Her feet, hidden under the crimson tabard she wore, clung effortlessly to the pole.

Kaaliya moved to the side and craned her neck, trying to see. Firetongue noticed, canted her mandibles and shrugged. She held the cylinder lower for Kaaliya to examine while her upper hands worked near the light.

No longer than a dagger and no thicker than her wrist, the dark metal tube was capped with bronze. Both ends were ringed with symbols and runes which Kaaliya had seen on artifacts dating to the true Attarah's time, though no one had ever offered her a suitable explanation of their purpose. She held her questions as Firetongue worked.

The Ek'kiru's antennae went rigid, and she tilted her head forward. Hands worked in cautious motions as she simultaneously opened one end of the cylinder, removed a similar cap from the hanging lantern, and slid the ends together. In the brief moment it took for the two to connect, a bright orange fire seeped out like a forge stoked in a shuttered room. She quickly re-capped the lantern, and the light returned to a calming blue hue. In her haste, the cap to the cylinder fell to the wooden boardwalk.

Kaaliya picked it up. The metal was hot on her skin, and she nearly dropped it in surprise. She quickly found the heat to be right on the edge of comfort. She ran her fingers along the deep grooves. The symbols were angular and crude compared to the elaborate metalwork and carvings of skilled artisans.

"What are these?" she asked.

Firetongue stood beside her with one hand extended. Kaaliya surrendered the cap.

"Lord Chakor has only shown me how to make the repairs. He doesn't explain much, only that these are called emberseeds."

Kaaliya brought a finger to her lip. Typical Chakor.

Even without his enigmatic role, his wealth alone would sustain his seat at the Attarah's table. She added the bit of information to her questions about the festival and wondered how she could ply more details from him.

"You conspire," said Firetongue, her tone friendly.

Kaaliya raised an eyebrow and smiled. "That obvious?"

"I may not be human, but I understand when a woman plans to lay a new trail for a man."

"Any recommendations?" asked Kaaliya as they started up the boulevard.

"From what I have seen, you don't need any help with Lord Chakor," Firetongue replied. "But is your conspiracy why you came with me on this menial task?"

Kaaliya watched the orange Ek'kiru for any sign of displeasure at the idea she'd accompanied her just to gather information. She found herself focusing on her own reflection in the single glossy eye facing her.

"Partly, I'll admit. I also wanted some peace."

Firetongue nodded her ruddy head. "You do not care for the festivities."

"The festivities are fine. The company, usually not. I find it hard to maintain my ladylike disguise."

"Is this why you never stay in Stronghold long?"

Kaaliya smirked again. She'd come and gone and often found herself spending more time with Chakor's staff than his guests, playing hive stones with the Ek'kiru in the stables or even heckling Chakor's guard on early mornings while they trained and their master slept off whatever bottle of spirits he'd consumed.

"I leave when I'm bored. Chakor is interesting, but all men bore me eventually."

"Even Ek'kiru men?"

Kaaliya smiled, impressed. The question would have been ridiculous if not for the mocking way in which Firetongue spoke it. It was tricky enough for them to replicate human speech. Adding such precise inflection was uncommon, except for perhaps one other unique Ek'kiru she'd met recently.

"Well, look who's been keeping their antennae toward the gossip."

Firetongue clicked with laughter. "I listen. Most humans assume I'm unable to comprehend their speech. Even so, I know my own anatomy well enough to understand complete nonsense when it is spoken."

Kaaliya's eyes widened. "It's gone that far, has it? One dance and now I'm whoring to Ek'kiru?"

"Well, some spoke such. Though I approve of your taste. A bahadur is quite a catch."

"Sidge? Attractive?"

"Oh yes," said Firetongue, her lenses gleaming under the line of street lights. "His coloration is rare. It indicates his family line is unmuddied from our first hive, in Sli'mir's realm."

"Don't your people object to the ways of those marsh dwellers?"

"Those barbarians wallow in their essences like lesser beasts. They never learn to control their instinct." Firetongue shuddered. "Bahadur only look the part. A dangerous exterior with a cultured mind." Firetongue's antennae waved in alternating patterns, and she tilted her head back in a gesture Kaaliya had no trouble reading. "Surely you have such men among humans?"

"I suppose." Kaaliya chewed thoughtfully on her lip, lost in memories of her own. They'd walked past several more emberseed lamps before everything Firetongue had said registered. She burst out laughing. "Sidge? Dangerous? Cute, I'll give you. But dangerous?"

A satisfied growl issued from the Ek'kiru's throat. "Let me say aside from the anatomical issues, the other reason I know this mating never happened was you still have your head."

Rarely was Kaaliya surprised by anything she heard. In her travels, she'd seen much. She'd communed with the trolls more times than she could count. Sailed with a Ksijaav through seas of ice. Even been to Abwoon, the Ek'kiru city state, and briefly explored the ordered streets of a city with no gates where outsiders weren't allowed.

As a general rule, the Ek'kiru didn't discuss their culture and rites. Beyond their gateless city, a temporary settlement for visitors had sprung up to assist with trade and Ek'kiru more predisposed to human contact dwelt there. These inhabitants immersed themselves deeply into human culture, agreeing to menial roles with a docile acceptance which bordered on strange. Yet they regarded their own ways as too plain and banal to merit discussion with outsiders. Firetongue's announcement was the first she'd heard of their mating rituals.

Kaaliya came to a full stop at the foot of a bridge across the central canal and grabbed Firetongue's closest arm. "You kill each other while mating?"

Firetongue issued a series of clicks. "Hardly. It wouldn't be nearly as satisfying if we did. Your form is probably too fragile for the process." She ran an antennae along Kaaliya's neck and clipped her mandibles shut. "So be careful which man's trail you choose to alter." She then sauntered onto the bridge.

"I wasn't trying to...alter anyone's trail." Kaaliya stumbled with the Ek'kiru saying as she rushed to catch up to Firetongue. "Though I'll give you, there were a few awkward moments." She recalled sitting on the bench of the vardo and Sidge pushing his mandibles toward her face or the drunken night he'd asked her to stay.

"He was a confused one. His maturity had ripened far outside the presence of his own kind. Your intentions may have been misunderstood," replied Firetongue continuing to walk coolly across the bridge.

"Oh?"

"Dear, it was obvious. Much as the condition of these lights is obvious to me." Firetongue stopped beneath another lamp mounted on the bridge railing and raced up the pole leaving Kaaliya speechless.

Kaaliya had often been accused of being flirtatious. In more common circles, where she'd practiced her craft in the early days, those skills had always remained on display. With her current clientele, she'd found a more refined approach necessary. Perhaps on her trip through the countryside she'd slipped into old habits, a mistake she couldn't afford in the Attarah's court.

He had been an Ek'kiru raised entirely by humans. At the time, a novelty, however, the source of the confusion became clearer the more she thought about his situation.

A brief flash from the release of the emberseed pulled her attention back to Firetongue, and she watched the illumination fade on the Ek'kiru's chitin. Without regard for the imposing height above the glassy canal, Firetongue skillfully descended and leapt to the bridge, continuing her stroll.

Confidence in her every move and those direct statements, Kaaliya knew she'd misjudged her companion. She'd thought this new house servant young because she'd never seen her before.

If being direct was part of this conversation, Kaaliya knew she could keep pace. She caught up to Firetongue as they descended the far side of the arched bridge.

"How old are you?"

"I will tell you," she said, without breaking stride. "If you tell me why you think you can see the difference in these lights while other humans cannot."

An unexpected question. She'd assumed Chakor left his Ek'kiru servants to these tasks because he'd prioritized his drinking time.

"None can?"

Firetongue shook her head using an exaggerated motion. It was the first time she'd bothered to mimic human body language.

They had walked several more blocks before an answer came to her. More lamps repaired, and the massive timbers of the city gate loomed across the bannered square. Here, she'd given in to Sidge's harmless request for a drink. He'd been so shy and timid, the empty shadow of the recessed gate behind him, framing the last time she thought they'd meet. Such a strange Ek'kiru but she'd met stranger beings.

"I'm not sure why the lights make sense to me, but I met a troll once who could probably explain," Kaaliya finally said. "Trouble is, trolls aren't known for their conversation skills."

Firetongue stopped in the center of the square surveying the lamps. Other more natural lights flickered behind opaque shutters of treestone heartwood in the windows of the establishments and homes surrounding the square. Satisfied, the Ek'kiru started back down the boulevard.

"Tell me the story about this troll then."

"First, tell me how old you are."

Firetongue gave one loud clack. "Four hundred and seventy-five of your festivals."

Not the first time this evening, Kaaliya found herself speechless. She followed in silence, trying to come to grips with everything she'd learned and positive her "dangerous" friend, Sidge, would have been equally surprised.
Continue the Pilgrimage with Sidge

Forge of the Jadugar, book two of the Stormblade Saga is now available!
Enjoy this book? You can make a big difference.

If you enjoyed Pilgrim of the Storm, please consider adding an honest review. It'll take less than five minutes and only needs to be a line or two. It makes a massive difference for me, as an author, to get feedback and for the book gods to know there are brave souls out there treading the pathways of my imagination. Plus, reviews of my books help spread the word to other readers.

Thank you!
Get your FREE Starter Library!

Lost sagas about bugman monks on holy pilgrimages. A world of weaponized humans where powerless civilians are caught in the crossfire. Fantastic worlds of fantasy and science fiction explored through unexpected perspectives.

The best thing about writing is being able to share the worlds I create with others. I want to connect with my readers, hear their ideas, and get to know them. I occasionally send out a newsletter with details about new releases, special offers, and other news about the destinations I have in store. These dreams of mine wouldn't happen without you and I'll do my best to make the trip worthwhile.

Sign up for news and updates and you'll get two books FREE:

Stormblade Saga

Pilgrim of the Storm

Crimson Son Universe

Empty Quiver: Tales from the Crimson Son Universe

Both books are yours by simply signing up at

http://hyperurl.co/p46jlx
ALSO BY RUSS LINTON

Have you read them all?

In the Crimson Son Universe

Empty Quiver

They were never designed to be heroes. Hurricane. Ember. Aurora. Danger. State-sponsored superhumans known as Augments. Weapons created to end a war.

Empty Quiver takes a dark dive into the Crimson Son universe. Not your typical superhero tales, this short collection pulls no punches as it examines the clandestine program that changed Spencer's world.

Free to Download

Crimson Son

Can the powerless son of a superhero do what his father couldn't?

With no superpowers of his own, Spencer stumbles through a web of conspiracies and top secret facilities armed only with his multi-tool and an arsenal of weapons grade smart-assery. Along the way he rallies a team of everyday people and cast-off Augments, but soon discovers that his father's nemesis, the Black Beetle, isn't his only enemy or even his worst.

Purchase

Crimson Son 2

Spencer's back! All he really wanted was a normal life. College, a degree, maybe even a dissertation which culminated in finding a way to free his mother from the psychic snow globe where he last saw her. Okay, so maybe normal is too much to ask for.

He's soon sucked back into his father's world of weaponized humans by his best friend, Eric, and the Crimson Mask himself. The battle this time isn't with a psychotic robot builder, but with an enemy whose vision of the future is as infectious as the computerized plague set to deliver it.

Coming June 2017

In the Stormblade Saga

Pilgrim of the Storm

Long forgotten gods have passed judgment on the Age of Man. Sidge, a pious orphan, must unravel a lost past to understand their divine will. But first, he needs humanity to see him as more than a slave.

Pilgrim of the Storm is the first book in a unique epic fantasy trilogy from Russ Linton. If you like character-driven plots, intricate world building, and want a refreshing spin on the typical genre conventions, then you'll love all three books of the Stormblade Saga.

Purchase

Forge of the Jadugar

The Jadugar is scheming. Kaaliya knows the look in his eyes. When he proclaims himself Sidge's sponsor for the pilgrimage, the royal court is in an uproar - a bugman elevated to the ranks of Cloud Born?

Sidge and Izhar follow the mysterious Chuman into the lost reaches of creation. Deep in the marshes, Sidge must face the terrifying truth about his true nature and confront a lie buried at the very foundations of the temple. In Stronghold, Kaaliya delves into the Jadugar's carefully held secrets. But when commoner's tales and legends grace the sky, she embarks on her own journey only to find the past she is running from has finally caught up to her.

Will they find a way to appease the gods before it is too late?

Purchase

Wake of Alshasra'a

The thrilling conclusion to the Stormblade Saga!

Betrayed by everything he once considered holy, Sidge struggles to arrange the pieces of his broken life. Trapped where no mortal is meant to tread, Kaaliya begins her training as one of the Jadugar.

The warnings are clear: Battle lines are drawn. Gods roam free. The Age of Man is nearing an end. A courtesan and a bugman slave are their only hope, but who, in the end, do they serve?

Purchase
Abwoon \- The Ek'kiru city west of Stronghold on the edge of Kurath's Desert.

Alshasra'a \- The Formless. The Wanderer. After Pama, the first god to have roamed creation. Often described as a water spirit.

Anil \- Eldest acolyte of Cloud Born Tarak, well regarded among his peers.

The Attarah \- Savior of Humanity and the one who freed his people from Kurath's prison. The current Attarah is often referred to as the "Living Attarah" and maintains the title.

Bahadur \- An Ek'kiru born with the metallic coloration of Sli'mir's Brood.

Cerudell – Human city in the mountains on the northern edge of the inhabited realms, south of the Sheath.

Chakor \- The Jadugar to the current living Attarah and a noble from a large family which includes his cousin, Cloud Born Gohala.

The Child \- Focal point of the Ek'kiru's Hive and the city of Abwoon. The Child is an avatar of Sli'mir and the progenitor of the Ek'kiru which was created to explore the Age of Man.

Chuman \- Mysterious stranger discovered by Sidge, Izhar, and Kaaliya on the road outside Stronghold.

Cloud Born – Highest rank of priest at the Stormblade Temple. Allowed to accept pupils and train acolytes.

Commoner's Tales \- A collection of myths and legends of dubious origin shared by those outside the educated, noble classes.

Deep Night \- A once sacred festival held on the longest night of the year.

Ek'Kiru \- Race of civilized, humanoid bugs which live in Abwoon and are used as a source of labor by humanity.

Farsal \- Gohala's head acolyte and close friend of Sidge.

Firetongue \- A former Hive Guard of the Ek'kiru, exiled for breaking taboo.

Gada – A heavy iron mace.

Gambora \- Thought to be a warrior who sacrificed his life at the Sun Palace to delay the pursuit of Kurath's armies.

Girish \- Head acolyte to Cloud Born Udai. Haughty, vicious.

Gohala \- Severe and strict Cloud Born believed to be second only to the Stormblade himself or perhaps, Izhar.

Hedgedweller \- Troll which inhabits the Attarah's gardens.

The Hive \- The hub of Ek'kiru society at the center of Abwoon. Sidge likens it to a temple, but admits such a description is inadequate.

Hollow One \- Troll which inhabits the lower reaches of the Pit.

Izhar \- Master to Sidge. A Cloud Born thought by many to be heretical and uncouth for his study of Commoner's Tales alongside temple teachings.

Jadugar – Both a formal title for the Living Attarah's adviser and a group of legendary sorcerers who assisted the original Attarah.

Kaaliya \- Courtesan in the household of Lord Chakor. Strong willed and inquisitive.

Kurath – The First Named. Consort of Alshasra'a. Born on the desert winds, Kurath is said to have once enslaved all humanity.

Manoj \- Inquisitive, younger acolyte of Cloud Born Tarak.

Moonstrider – A mythical creature which led the first Attarah and his people to salvation. A mercurial gazelle-like beast which treads on moonlight.

Mutri \- A lost group of priests or cult who once inhabited the Pit.

Nightsong \- An Ek'kiru silk farmer who befriends Sidge.

Nilama Sea \- Legendary sea where the world's lesser animals boiled forth.

Oakworm \- A Troll who inhabits the forests around Cerudell.

Padmini \- Major river west of Stronghold.

Paharibhumi \- The hilly grazing lands immediately north of Stronghold.

Pama \- A legendary flying mountain that features prominently in Commoner's Tales and parts of the early Stormblade Temple teachings. Said to be sentient.

Pamanites \- The greater range of the former.

The Pit \- A bottomless depression inhabited by the dregs of humanity, many forced their against their will. Once home to a mysterious cult known as the Mutri.

Puffcap \- Mushrooms known for their psychedelic properties.

Raksha \- Patron for the individual groups of priests who travel on the pilgrimage.

Sidge \- An orphaned Ek'kiru raised by Izhar in the Stormblade Temple. Formal, fastidious and maintains an unequaled recall of the mantras.

Sli'mir's Brood \- Feral or barbaric insectoid race relegated to the wild marshes.

Stormblade Temple \- The temple dedicated to protecting mankind from the return of the slaver, Kurath.

Stronghold \- Seat of power of the Attarah's Realm.

Sun Palace – A legendary city built by Kurath "one grain of sand at a time" which was used as a prison for humanity.

Tarak \- Kindly, elder Cloud Born who is friends with Izhar.

The Paint and the Nag – The two mismatched horses which pull Sidge and Izhar's vardo or carriage.

The Trials, the Rebellion, the Forge, the Rule — These are the twelve thousand, one hundred and sixty-two spoken mantras of the Stormblade Temple. There is no system of writing so each must be mastered and memorized in complex chants.

Trolls \- Genderless plant-like creatures of unknown origins who live beneath the earth and speak in riddles.

Thornsap \- In human lands, an alcoholic drink. Used by the Ek'kiru as a solvent.

Timeless Age – A mythical age wherein the gods roamed and men were prisoners.

Udai \- Cloud Born elder who is a staunch supporter of Gohala.

Urujaav – Water spirits said to have been the children of Alshasra'a.

Urumi \- A long, thin length of sharpened metal used as a deadly, razor-like whip.

Vadda Chakkar \- The bladed wheel, a complex weapon with individual chain spokes connected to a central ring and bladed at each end.

Vasheru – The dragon of the Undying Storm whom the Cloud Born call upon for power and Wisdom.

Wisdom, Vasheru's Gift \- The ability to channel Vasheru's power in the form of lightning. It is believed to grant prophecy to those who can control it and also used as a weapon against the Temple's foes.

Yurva and Corva \- Two Ek'kiru haulers of large size used to pull Gohala's palatial wagon.

This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialog are drawn from the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Pilgrim of the Storm. Copyright 2015 by Russ Linton. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used without written permission except in case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

ISBN: 978-0-9903169-4-7

Edited by - Heather Bungard-Janney

Cover Art - Jeff Brown

Design - Russ Linton

## **Contents**

 PILGRIM OF THE STORM

FREE STARTER LIBRARY

 CHAPTER I

 CHAPTER II

 CHAPTER III

 CHAPTER IV

 CHAPTER V

 CHAPTER VI

 CHAPTER VII

 CHAPTER VIII

 CHAPTER IX

 CHAPTER X

 CHAPTER XI

 CHAPTER XII

 CHAPTER XIII

 CHAPTER XIV

 CHAPTER XV

 CHAPTER XVI

 CHAPTER XVII

 CHAPTER XVIII

 CHAPTER XIX

 CHAPTER XX

 CHAPTER XXI

 CHAPTER XXII

 CHAPTER XXIII

 CHAPTER XXIV

 CHAPTER XXV

 CHAPTER XXVI

 CHAPTER XXVII

 SNEAK PEEK - FORGE OF THE JADUGAR

CONTINUE THE PILGRIMAGE

IF YOU ENJOYED THIS BOOK

GET YOUR FREE STARTER LIBRARY

ALSO BY RUSS LINTON

GLOSSARY

COPYRIGHT
