Mortals & Deities (17 page)

‘And the god Bathane looked down on the young Captain Raynith and said, “To die in the service of the Twelve is to die with purpose. Seek ye always your purpose.” Raynith was puzzled, for he had led Bathane’s armies against more than one enemy and had never shied from his duties. Before he could ask the meaning of his god’s words, the God of Darkness raised a hand and fire shot from his fingers, engulfing the young captain. Raynith’s screams were short lived, as the great cleansing heat of the god washed him into the Aftermore.’

Saying the line alone, Elith knew it brought pride—gave determination to the priests even as they faced their death. Thinking of the line as it was told in the story made it seem out of place, as if it did not belong. What purpose could the captain have found in dying at the hands of his master? How did it better the god’s cause? She realized now that it was a worthless death, and could not decide which upset her more—the fact that Bathane had killed without need, or the fact that it bothered her. Why should the death of anyone make her feel—?

A light touch on her shoulder ripped her from her thoughts. Glancing up, she saw the concern in Varin’s face. Concern for what? Certainly not his own life. He was one of those fools eager to step into the Aftermore. Concern for her? She doubted that as well. Then she understood.

The Mah’Sukai.

“Do not fret, Varin. She will find the Mah’Sukai for you to take back to your
master
.” With a sneer, she brushed past him and headed up the stairs into the villa. “She will be a good
tool
for the Father.”

Though, she is no longer certain
she
should return to the Father.

The thought came from nowhere. Never had Elith considered leaving the priests. The thought both excited and horrified her.

Light cut through Arderi Cor’s eyelids and a weak groan escaped his lips. He did not wish to wake yet.

Did I get any sleep at all?

Idly, he wondered if he had stayed awake half the eve again talking with Rinear. When they were together, time sped by without notice. He had no idea how late they had stayed out. Though, try as he might, he could not remember what they had been talking about.

Now that he thought on it, he could not even remember being with her last eve. Nor did he have any memory of going to bed. A splitting ache racked his head. Cracking an eyelid open, he peered around the room. Bright red curtains blew in the gentle, warm breeze that wafted in from the open window. A painting of flowers in a vase hung on the wall opposite his bed. None of this had been in his room when he went to sleep, though he did not find any of it odd. The sounds of horse hooves and wagon wheels on cobblestones echoed in through the open window, and this struck him as odd. Then it came to him.

There are no horses in Bin’Satsu!

Sitting up—and regretting it—Arderi Cor moaned as he tried to understand his surroundings. He lay in a large bed. A chest of drawers sat to one side. Opposite the window above his head, he saw a washstand with pitcher and bowl. The door to the room opened and a large black man entered. Instead of clearing up the confusion that gripped him, seeing Ragnor De’haln only added to it.

Ragnor carried what looked and smelled like a tray of food. “Good morn, Master Cor. I be impressed to see you sitting up. Whenever Master Rillion did return from Bin’Satsu, it did be always near mid-day before he even opened an eye.”

Memories flooded back. The flight off the plateau, the old temple, the Quay’ka’gana.

I have returned to Mocley.

Rubbing the back of his head, he made an attempt to answer the man, yet his mouth would not cooperate. Swallowing, he tried to work some moisture back onto his tongue. “Aye, Master De’haln. Though I regret opening my eyes at all.”

Setting the tray on the chest of drawers, Ragnor picked up a bowl and sat on the edge of the bed. “Here, you will be hungry after the Traveling.”

With a nod, Arderi took the bowl and lifted the spoon to his lips. He swallowed his third spoonful before he even noticed it was porridge. A hint of something fruity laced it as well, though he never slowed down long enough to figure out what it was.

Once Arderi emptied the bowl, Ragnor took it and replaced it with a plate of eggs and some type of fried meat. “Frankly, I do be surprised you returned so fast. Did your training go so well?”

Between bites of eggs, Arderi shook his head. “Nix, Master De’haln. Master Rine sent me back because he thinks—” The fog of his mind had cleared enough that he noticed the feeling. A tingling that cascaded from the base of his skull down his spine. Glancing around the room, he knew. “The Mah’Sukai is in this city!”

Ragnor leaped from his bed and his hand went to his hip, though it found no sword. Looking down, he frowned. “It is no good to jest of such things. Where did you even hear that name?”

The accusing tone in the man’s voice made Arderi nervous and he was thankful the man wore no sword. “Nix, Master De’haln. That is why I was sent back.” Reaching up, he rubbed the back of his head trying to understand where the feeling came from. “I can feel him. He is here.”

The big black man took a step back. “How could you know this?”

With events just prior to using the Quay’ka’gana still fuzzy, he took his time answering. He remembered Master Rine gripping the sides of his head—the cold that had ripped through him. An icy bitterness like he had never felt before. “Master Rine put what he called a
Questing
on me. It is strange, yet I can feel the presence of the Mah’Sukai. He is near, though I am uncertain where.”

Visibly relaxing, Ragnor nodded. “Aye, then. Finish your food and get some sleep. If it do be as you say, and there be a Mah’Sukai in the city, we must locate and destroy the monster before it be too late.”

Grabbing a strip of the fried meat—now that he looked at it, he saw it was bacon—he shoved the entire piece into his mouth. “What do you know of the Mah’Sukai?”

Ragnor sat on the edge of the bed once more. “Little, I be afraid. Clytus spoke of them only a few times. I know they be men who have chosen to embrace the Essence in a way that it be no meant to be embraced. That, if left to grow in their power, they will eventually destroy everything around them. It be the main mission of the Tat’Sujen to stop them. Though as far as I know, there has no ever been one before.”

Arderi continued to eat while Ragnor spoke. Looking down, he realized his plate sat empty. “Aye, that is what Master Rine told me as well. Except the never been one part. He spoke of them as if he had fought them before.” Handing the plate to Ragnor, he laid back down. Doing so relieved some of the pressure from his head. “I will take your advice and get some sleep. I do not think a man was meant to travel by way of the Sending Stones. It is not a pleasant process.”

This earned a laugh from Ragnor. “And I do hope you forgive me for no warning you before your first use. I did no think you would use it if I had.”

Without opening his eyes, Arderi shook his head. “Nix. I would not have.” The last thing he heard before sleep whisked him away from the pains of his body was the door to his room closing.

The Fisherman’s Dock, as Alant Cor came to know the name of the inn he had entered, was not the nicest of places. The common room tended to stay full with rowdy men either drunk or well on their way to becoming so. Bland, and for the most part tasteless, was the best he could hope for from the kitchen. Sometimes the food had an off flavor and he was forced to seek his meal from a street vendor. The room he let, more of a closet, had an old pallet in one corner and nothing else. It was not unbearable, and Alant could afford it. So, after his near capture by Hobbswords the day of his arrival, he decided to stay.

He had nowhere else to go, anyway. The Chandril’elian was closed to him. One time he had summoned up the nerve to return to the side entrance. He convinced himself he could wait outside until he saw Sier Sarlimac leaving and then follow the man to a spot where he could gain his attention. This plan almost ended in a disaster. When he approached the school, Hobbswords milled about the entire area. When he saw them waiting, fear got the better of him and it took all his self-control not to run away screaming, which would have no doubt drawn the attention he wanted to avoid.

For the next few days, he had stayed in his room wallowing in his own self-misery. When the idea finally came to him, it was so obvious he could have kicked himself for not thinking of it sooner and wasting so much time. Rubbing his hands together, he quickened his steps.

Midday had just passed and Alant was heading for the Coliseum. More precisely, he was heading to a fountain that sat between the Coliseum and the Gladiatorial Compound. He had scouted this area several days ago and felt confident it was a perfect location for his plan.

Composing a note, Alant found a woman who worked inside the Chandril’elian as a maid. The woman was not hard to locate. Since the buildings outside of the school were dedicated to such people, he loitered in that area until he saw a likely candidate. His luck shined when he found a woman who not only worked in the Siers living quarters, she also knew Sier Sarlimac personally. Using a story about an old friend of the Sier’s, who in the final days before passing into the Aftermore had written a letter for Sarlimac, he gave her a note to pass along next time she saw him. It appeared personal enough that she would not try and read it, and not an odd enough request that she would question taking it. Most folks grew nervous around Shapers. Dressed in his plain, threadbare country clothing, Alant fit the spitting image of just such a person who would be awestruck by the majesty of the Order. A little shifting of the feet and wringing of the hands as he gave her the letter with a few well timed ‘I am sorry’ and ‘I thank you’, and Alant thought he even managed to make her feel sorry for him.

That was five days gone. The letter had informed the Sier to meet Alant the day after he received the letter, at the fountain an aurn after the sun reached its zenith. Each day Alant went to check to see if the Sier had come. So far, he had been disappointed, though he still felt his plan might work. Alant had chosen this location for several reasons. One, it was a connecting point of many major roads, giving him multiple avenues of escape. Also, there were no shops or stands in the immediate area, so the crowds of people who occupied this spot at any given time were all walking from one destination to another, not standing around. Most importantly, with no buildings along one side of the roadway, he had a wonderful view of the entire fountain. If there were Hobbswords around, he would see them long before they could pick him out of the crowd.

Rounding the Coliseum, Alant started scanning the area. As always, crowds of people walked past the fountain, though no one seemed to be standing about. When he neared the fountain, he caught sight of a blue robe on the far side, and his heart skipped. Forcing himself to pause so he would not rush over in his excitement, he made a second check of the area. Satisfied that he was not walking into an ambush, he headed over to his old Sier.

The man did not look as if he had changed by a whisker. Dark blue robes adorned with the golden starburst on the breast covered his plump frame, which was not unusual as most Shapers wore the same. Golden suns lined both hem and cuff, marking him as a Master Shaper, and a thread-of-gold belt wrapped his protruding belly. A dingy white beard still covered most of his chin, and his hair looked frazzled and wind blown as it always did.

Before he closed the distance, Sarlimac spotted him and a big smile split his face. The old man held out both his hands, which Alant took as they greeted each other. “Alant! It
is
you.”

“Aye, Sier, sir. Well met.” Alant felt like a student once more.

“Well met, indeed! When I learned that you had been seen at your home stead, and all the flimflam that went with that preposterous tale, I told the grand council someone had played a trick on them. When I received your letter, had I not recognized your hand, I would have thought someone was playing a trick on me.” He paused and shook his head, never losing his smile. “I have so many questions for you. How—”

Alant raised a hand. “Please, Sier. Let us go somewhere else to speak.” Glancing around, he realized he had not thought about what he would do once he and his teacher were reunited.

“A wise idea.” Sarlimac’s face took on a serious guise and he too started to glance around the area. He turned and motioned in the direction of the Bazaar. “I know a place where we can get a private eating room. Are you hungry?”

A pang of alarm shot through Alant. There was nothing in the man’s actions to indicate anything was amiss. Still, all his planning had been to ensure that if for some reason people showed up to try and capture him, he would have several avenues of escape. Now his old teacher would lead him to a place of
his
choosing. This did not sit well with Alant.

A puzzled expression came to the Sier. “Is there an issue?” Then his eyes lit up. “Ahh! You think I might lead you into a trap.” Relaxing his face, he reached out and put both his hands on Alant’s shoulders. “Listen to me. I do not now, nor have I ever, meant you any harm.” Licking his lips, he glanced around the area. There was no one near, though he lowered his voice just the same. “When I was informed by the Elmorr’Antiens of your death, it saddened me beyond despair. Seeing you alive and whole…I cannot begin to express what I feel.” He lowered his hands and took a step back. “If you have somewhere else you would like to go and speak, I will follow you instead.”

Alant felt more than stupid. He had practically accused the only man who had ever helped him. “Nix, Sier. I apologize.” Suddenly, he felt the weight of past events pressing down on his shoulders. Letting out a deep sigh, he reached up and rubbed the back of his neck. “I am so tired of running. Of not knowing.”

The old man patted him on the back. “It is fine. Come. Let us get something to eat. I always feel better with a full belly.” In spite of himself, Alant smiled watching the old man rub his ample stomach.

Letting himself be led, Alant walked in silence next to his old instructor. His mind reeled. He did not know who he was anymore. Never before had he lost his temper. Now, the smallest thing threatened to set him off.

The inn they entered sat across from the Coliseum. A nice building with marble floors and carpets, mirrors and paintings, well dressed servers and patrons—basically everything the Fisherman’s Dock lacked.

Walking in, a jolly man with a big round belly that rivaled Sier Sarlimac’s came up to them. The smile on his face brightened the room, as did his gleaming white apron. “Sier Sarlimac, how good it is to see you again.” He held out his hand.

The old Sier inclined his head as he took the offered hand in both of his own. “It has been many moons, Brimell. How is your wife, Aggy?”

“She has been well since the last time she saw you. My thanks for asking. It seems as if you have banished her cough once and for good, thank the gods.” Brimell’s laugh jiggled his belly.

“I am glad to hear it.” Turning, he indicated Alant. “This is one of my students. We have just come from the Crafters District and are in need of halfmeal. May we use one of your private rooms?”

“Of course, of course.” The innkeeper had already turned to lead them down a side hall off the main eating area. “We have lamb and sprouts basted in butter this day. And Aggy has baked some of her honey rolls you like so much.”

“That sounds delightful.” Sarlimac patted the man on the back.

Alant’s stomach grumbled in agreement. It had been a long time since he had had a meal he enjoyed rather than ate for survival. The innkeeper took the two to a small room with a table surrounded by six chairs. Once seated, and Brimell had left to fetch their meal, Sarlimac became serious. “Now. We have plenty of time. Please, tell me how you ended up back at your home.” He laughed. “How it is that you are even alive!”

Interrupted occasionally by Brimell bringing in food or refilling drinks, Alant talked. Starting with his arrival on the isle of Elmorr’eth, he retold everything that happened to him while at the Chandril’elian of Hath’oolan. Of his training and progression, of the other students. How he had grown suspicious of what went on and his confirmation with what had happened to the poor orphan boy, Quiln Garfer. Alant became animated and excited as he retold the events of the island. “It was your Tarsith, of that I am sure.”

Reaching over and picking up his third honey roll, Sarlimac took a bite and swallowed before speaking. “I am afraid I do not understand.”

Alant pulled the sun pendant from beneath his shirt. “Your Tarsith. It is the reason I found all this out. You were correct; it did stop the Elmorians from performing a Chi’tar on me. Yet, it also translated their words for me as well!”

“That
is
astonishing! You understand their native language?” Dipping the roll into the remains of the gravy on his plate, the Sier shoved the last bit into his mouth.

Smiling at the old man’s enthusiasm, Alant nodded. “Aye, Sier. Whenever they spoke, the Tarsith would grow cold. I heard them speak in their own words, yet, somehow I also knew the meanings of what they said. It had to be the Tarsith.”

Sarlimac leaned back in his chair and shook his head. “That is…well it is almost unbelievable! What is this
Chi’tar
you mentioned?”

Tucking the Tarsith back under his shirt, Alant took a drink of water. “Of that, I am not certain. I think it is the name they use for the abilities you told me they have.”

The old Sier put his hands in the form of a steeple and placed the point on the spot of his chin that had no hair. “That makes sense. Chi means
of the Essence
and ‘tar translates loosely into
mind or thought
.” A smile broke from his lips. “You have learned much during your time away, Alant. I am proud of you.”

Even though the praise made Alant feel good, he had to laugh out loud. “I am sorry, Sier. You have not heard the half of it yet.” Before the old man could interrupt, he recounted the story of his trip to the Chi’utlan and all the wonders—and terrors—he had seen.

“So you saw an Essence Node? It is real!” The Sier’s excitement became palpable. “You are not having a jest with me?”

Alant smiled. “Nix, Sier. It is real. I entered it. That is what the Elmorians are using the Human students for. As fodder for some sort of test.”

Sarlimac let out a long whistle. “In all of my time I had never thought to gain proof that Essence Nodes existed. And here you sit telling me you walked into one!” A puzzled look came over him. “Wait. You say this was some type of test? A test for what?”

“I will not tell you I know the motives of the Elmorians, for I do not know. I do know, however, the Chi’utlan…It changed me somehow.” This was the part of the story Alant was loathe to tell. It made him feel dirty, freakish.

A chuckle came from the old man and he reached out and patted Alant’s arm. “You seem the same to me. Are you not feeling well? Would you like me to Meld your Essence?”

The thought of Sarlimac Melding with Alant’s Essence had never occurred to him. What if he could heal whatever the Chi’utlan had done to him?

What if in doing so, I lose the powers I have gained?

He pulled his hand away, then covered the motion by taking another drink. “Nix, Sier. I do not think—”

Sarlimac gasped. His eyes took on the vacant look of one holding the Sight of the Essence as Alant spoke. Now the man recoiled back into his chair. “I cannot see the Essence within you! It is as if you do not even exist!” His seat fell over in his haste to stand.

Rising himself, Alant held out a hand. “Please, Sier. Do not be afraid.”

“Afraid?” The old man’s eyes returned to normal and he blinked a few times. He was visibly shaken. Still, after looking at Alant for a moment, he bent down, up-righted his chair and sat once more. “I…I am sorry for my actions.” Waving a hand, he indicated for Alant to sit. “Other than Ratave, I have never seen…”

Returning to his own seat, Alant nodded. “Aye. Though I fear this will startle you even more.” He let the Sight of the Essence fall upon him.

“By all Twelve Gods!” His instructor’s words came out in a strangled whisper, though this time he did not jump from his seat.