Mortals & Deities (7 page)

This sent a shiver down Elith’s spine. “Why has she needed to be hidden?”

Her question made the Highest grin. “Have you ever seen anyone with your skin color, child? Gray, like the ash from a fire?” He did not wait for her to answer. “The Father says you are unique. One of a kind like that Shadow Cloak.” His eyes roved up and down her thin frame. “He has not seen fit to inform me of your origins, yet I have often inquired.”

“Her origins? She was brought here as a babe.”

The priest’s grin grew while he stared at her. “Of course.” Retrieving his goblet from his little
girl-table
, he took a long drink before setting it back down. “I was referring to where you came from before you arrived here in Komar.” Standing, he held out a hand indicating for Elith to rise. “Come, you have a long journey ahead of you, child.”

Her heart skipped. She had so many questions she hoped to get answers to from the Highest. Now it seemed as if he had dismissed her. “Where is she going? How will she find this Mah’Sukai?” Standing, she slipped her staff into its holding pouch at the small of her back and tucked the Shadow Cloak under her arm.

“My dear child. Where has this uncertainty come from?” He stopped and regarded her with a concerned look. “You have all the training you need.” Reaching out, he extended a finger, almost touching the side of her head. “The Father gave you a Questing. He knows the Mah’Sukai is southeast, mayhaps in Mocley. Or as far away as Velvithia or Orlis, yet no further, he is sure. Everything you need—coin, provisions, documentation to give to the priests in those cities—everything has already been gathered for you. A ship and crew wait in the harbor, as they have for over fifty winters now. The captain will sail you to Mocley, then wait to see if you have further need of him. You know all this. You have always had this at your disposal.”

She did know all this.

How could she forget? She has all that and more. Guards and servants to attend her. A villa in each city. Horses and supplies and food and support.

Reaching up, Elith rubbed her temples. Memories of her training, of sitting and memorizing the names and maps of places she had never been, yet knew as well as if she had been raised there came flooding back. Lists of names of those stationed around the Plane. Their descriptions. Cultures and mannerisms. Political structures. She had learned them all—studied them for more aurns than she cared to recall. How could any of that have slipped her mind? She felt dizzy and confused—lost. Looking around, she did not recognize the man who stood in front of her. He seemed familiar, though she could not say why. He was fat, with a concerned look on his face. Concern for what? Her?

“Elith?”

The man called out a word she did not know the meaning of.

“Elith!”

Wait. She did know that word. It was how she was called. The man in front of her—he seemed familiar. He was saying her name.

Yes. He is the Highest.

“Elith, child. You have gone almost bone-white.” The man sounded genuinely upset. “Are you well?”

Then it was over. Like a dam breaking, all her memories flooded into her. The fear, the unknowing, the feeling of helplessness, all vanished. As if they had never been. “Of course, Highest.” She gave him the smile she found that most Humans took for reassurance. “She is fine. She is…excited to seek the Mah’Sukai.” She even knew the names of the priests who would accompany her when she left the island. “Is there something else you wish to tell her?”

The priest blinked at her a few times before answering. “Nix, you have all you need. Are you sure you are well?” When she did not answer, the Highest frowned. “Very well, child. If you are sure.” She read uncertainty in his voice. “May the enlightenment of the enlightened Twelve guide your steps.”

Elith bowed her head when he said the words of parting. “And open her eyes to the wonders of the Plane.” She gave the correct response—knew it was correct!

With her head bowed, she slipped past the Highest and into the hall. Keeping a brisk pace, she headed for the main entrance of the Temple. She had no need to return to her room. She owned nothing save her staff. She shifted the Shadow Cloak under her arm. Once out of the Temple, she would wind through the city to the docks. To the boat that waited for her.

The boat that always waits for her to sail at a moment’s notice!

The fact that she had forgotten it even existed clung to her like a bloodbug. For the first time in her life, fear stalked her. A fear she could not see. A fear she could not escape.

A fear that she is losing her mind.

—— ——

As the door clicked shut, Samlin Vilt, the High Priest of Fatint—the Highest—felt something he had not felt in a long time. He felt the prick of worry. Turning back to the sitting area, he spoke to the man in gold-trimmed white robes standing with his hands clasped behind his back. “Is there a problem with the Shikalu, Father?”

The Revered Father stood in front of the fireplace, where he had stood during the entire conversation with Elith. It no longer disturbed Samlin that the Father could control who saw him and who could not. He stared at the painting that hung there, as he often did when he visited Samlin’s chambers.
‘The Fall of Maja’Kasta’
. The painting showed Maja’Kasta on his knees, his mighty white wings stretched out to either side, held there by Bathane. The God of Deception had one boot planted between Maja’Kasta’s shoulders. Blood trickled down the exposed ribs of the God of Protection and Peace as his rival god ripped his wings off.

When the Father turned, a thin smile graced his lips. As always, the man’s face was unreadable. “It is time for her to have a new binding. That vessel weakens, degrades. It is losing its ability to hold what she is.”

Samlin nodded in understanding, though he had to admit most of what the Father said went beyond his comprehension. And what the Shikalu was, beyond a thin, white-haired, gray-skinned killing machine, was one of the many things that Samlin did not understand. “Is it wise then to send her out after the Mah’Sukai?”

Before speaking, the Father frowned down at the little girl who still knelt next to Samlin’s vacant chair like an end table. The Father had never chastised Samlin about his
little treasures
. Still, Samlin knew the Father did not share his
taste
for the pleasures of the flesh. “Time is of the essence.” A small smile sprang to his lips as if he had spoken a joke, and shockingly, he looked as if he was about to laugh. “There are many that still live who will want this Mah’Sukai for their own purposes. Some even who will want him dead. I will deny them those privileges. Two thousand turns of the seasons is a long time to wait. A few of my peers have fallen during that time, and a good riddance to them. Still, there are many alive on this Plane. Hiding. Sulking in their defeat.” Abruptly, the Father flinched, as if realizing he spoke his thoughts aloud. It was not the first time the man had rambled in front of Samlin, though the majority of what the Father said still sounded like the ranting of a lunatic. Although, each time the Father did so, it gave Samlin a window to look through—to gain a bit more knowledge of the power and glory he could achieve if he stayed close to the Revered Father. Insane or not.

The Father looked up from the girl and locked eyes with Samlin. “No. There is no time. I must have this Mah’Sukai! It has been too long since I wielded true power over the Essence. I have grown weary of being weak!” Holding out his hand palm up, he gripped the air as if grasping an invisible ball. Wisps of lightning, thin as hairs, danced between his fingers. This spectacle was one of the things that separated the Father from mere mortals. Samlin knew of none other with the power to create such energy. The fact that the Father considered this weak…Samlin shuddered at the thought of what power the Father had lost. And at the power he meant to gain.

Gasping, the Father dropped his arm to his side. His shoulders slumped and for the first time in Samlin’s presence, the man looked tired. Old. “I grow weary of hiding. Sulking in
my
defeat.” He laughed once, without mirth. Taking a deep breath, he straightened his shoulders. “Do not fret, Vilt. The Shikalu will last long enough to fulfill her task. And once I have this Mah’Sukai—have drained his power from him—there will be no one on this Plane who can match me. I will be a true god among men once more. All will quake at my name!” As he spoke, he seemed to grow in size and bearing. “I will no longer be forced to hide on these accursed islands! I will seek out those who are left, those who opposed me so long ago! And with their deaths, the secrets they hold will die with them. Their deaths will ensure that
none
will match me! None will attain the
true
power ever again!” The Revered Father’s scream bounced off the marble walls, and all of Samlin’s
little treasures
fell, prostrating themselves upon the floor. Samlin himself thought of falling before the might and rage of this man who stood before him.

For the second time in a long time, Samlin felt the prick of worry.

And what of me? Will I gain power in your shadow? Or will your shadow crush me?

Though the trip through the main gate was uneventful—well, as uneventful as it could be with the return of someone reported dead—Alant Cor found the act of arriving at the home he grew up in a bit more intense than he expected.

The wail that ripped from his mother’s lungs still haunted him. She had been in the kitchen, as was her custom, and had dropped a clay baking pan of cheesed potatoes in her haste to reach him. It was a testament of her pure joy that she did not even fuss over the mess it created.

That eve saw a grand feast in the dining hall. All his siblings were there—except Arderi, of course. Alant learned his younger brother had run away for a time, returned without notice, then left again the following day. Headed to Mocley of all places, on some undertaking no one quite understood. Siln was still Siln. Living at home and barely doing his duties. His sisters Baith and Tary, the gangly little girls he had left behind, were growing full into womanhood. Even little Rik, a mere babe in swaddling clothes when he left, now toddled around, forcing everyone to keep him out of harm’s way. It seemed like folks from many houses attended lastmeal at his parent’s public house to hear the tale of how their boy—their man—once a common fielder like themselves, now a Shaper, had found his way home after so many winters.

At least, that is what they expected.

Alant had not been so forthcoming. He avoided as many questions as he could and ignored those he could not. For the most part, it seemed to him that they were satisfied with the answers they received. It was painful at times, uncomfortable at others.

Still, I am home! I am really home.

That was almost a tenday gone.

And thank the gods it is over!

Now he sat in his old room. About the same size as the rooms he occupied during his training at both the Chandril’elians he had attended, and near as sparse of furniture as well. A bed, washstand complete with washbowl and bubbled mirror, and a small chest to store his clothes in were all the room contained. It felt as empty as he himself did.

The events of the past three turns of the seasons—two winters studying at the Chandril’elian in Mocley, the voyage to Elmorr’eth, and the near season spent at the Chandril’elian of Hath’oolan—

Not to mention my near-death experience at the hands of Prince Aritian!

—had left him shaken to say the least. He still had no idea what had happened to him, how he had
Traveled
home, nor any idea of what to do next. His thoughts lingered long on Shaith, alone and at the mercy of the Prince and his
experiments
. He hoped she was well. Yet, what could he do? He thought of his old instructor, Sier Sarlimac, though he was unsure if he could trust him. Or any Shaper for that matter. He avoided going to the Magistra here in Hild’alan. He even wondered if he should seek out Arderi. His brother had not gone to study with the Shapers, of that he was now certain. Still, to search all of Mocley? The city had a hundred, hundred, thousand people in it! What hope to find his brother in all that?

The one thing I am certain of is I cannot stay here moping. I need to understand what has happened to me! I will find no answers here.

Without thought, the Sight of the Essence—this strange new Sight that was so unlike what he had learned while training—dropped on him. The strange swirls—Strands, he had come to call them—danced around the room. He still saw Spectals inside of everything, though he now had the power to interact with them differently. He pulled in a Strand that twitched—the ones he now associated with
energy
. ‘Pull in’ was the only way he could describe what he did with it, for that is what it felt like he did—pull the Strands into himself. He smiled, making a spark of lightning dance between his fingertips. It tickled. Glancing into the mirror, he saw what he now expected—his eyes glowing red as they had the eve he Traveled home. Every time he let the Sight drop upon him now, his eyes blazed. Letting the Sight slip from him, feeling the power leave his mind, he stared into the mirror at his red eyes while they faded and returned to their normal shade of hazel. The display no longer made him feel uneasy.

With his eyes back to normal, he stood and went down for firstmeal. The rest of the menfolk would be gone to the fields by now and he would have the dining hall to himself. The first few morns he had risen and eaten with the rest of the fielders. The talk was merry. Everyone seemed glad he was alive. Still, there was a distance between them now that felt almost palpable. When he spoke to his papa about working in the fields, Tanin had laughed, thinking he jested. An uneasy silence soon filled the lull in the conversation and Alant never again broached that subject.

When he arrived at the dining hall, he noticed a plate of fried eggs and ham waiting for him at his usual seat. Walking over to it, he sat. Younger girls, his youngest sister, Tary, among them, scurried about cleaning up after the other men. It felt odd sitting in the dining hall alone. For seventeen winters he had eaten every firstmeal in this room surrounded by the other men who worked the fields around Hild’alan. They had all gone off to work, as was their duty, yet here he sat. Eating eggs. As if he was more than they. Better.

This feeling of distance grew with each passing day he stayed in his parent’s public house. No one ever said anything—that would be rude. Still, everyone viewed Alant with the reserve they would any outsider. Not a stranger. More like a herder, who for some reason was forced to move in with the fielders. No one would treat the herder bad. Yet, they would not be treated as family either.

It is just one more reason nagging me to leave.

Lost in thought, Alant did not notice that the cleaning girls had all fallen silent and still. He did not even notice the man in the dark blue robes standing next to him until the golden starburst of the Shaper’s Order drew his eye. Looking up, he was struck by the impression of a bird hovering over him, and recognized the man who had Tested him so long ago.

“Good morn, Alant. It is good to see you again after so many winters.” Sier Witlan Singe, Hon’nar to Grand Master Grintan, appeared even more the common man to Alant than he had in the past. It might have been his beak-like nose or his plain brown eyes that sat too close together—both common in folks from this area. It might have been his short-cropped brown hair, also common. Or, the way the man carried himself. Still, Alant did not feel impressed as he had the first and only time the two had met.

A smile sprang to Alant’s face, and at first he did not understand. Thinking about it, he came to the realization that he did not see this man as a superior. Alant was not even sure if he saw the man as an equal. “And good morn to you, Witlan.” A momentary look of shock passed over Singe’s features when he realized he had not been addressed with any honorific. This made Alant smile all the more. “I hope you are well?”

The Sier cleared his throat and adjusted his robes. “Aye. Aye, I am well. And you?”

Movement past the Sier caught Alant’s eye and he noticed two Hobbswords standing a few paces away. Anger welled up in him at the thought of once again being forced into something, and he frowned at them. “I have been better. Or, mayhaps it is closer to the truth to say that I have never felt so good. I am undecided.” Returning his attention to his plate, he forked a slice of ham and shoveled it into his mouth while keeping an eye on the Hobbswords.

Shifting his feet, Sier Singe cleared his throat once more. “Aye. Well. I…I am glad to hear that.” He placed a hand upon Alant’s shoulder. “Now, son. The Grand Master wants to see you. There are a great many questions surrounding you. Not the least of which is how you came to be here so soon after word arrived from Mocley that you had died in Hath’oolan.”

The anger that Alant felt roared into an inferno at the man’s touch. Memories of two Gralets marching him down the hall at the behest of their master—marching him to his doom—fueled this fire. He would never again be someone’s puppet! Letting the Sight of the Essence fall upon him, he cut his eyes at Singe. “Remove. Your. Hand.” Each word was said individually through clenched teeth.

And remove it, the Sier did. Jerked it away would be a more precise description. The man stumbled back, a look of outright terror filling him, and he nearly fell over his own robes in his haste to distance himself from Alant. A gasp escaped one of the Hobbswords—the younger of the two, Alant assumed, since the man recoiled away toward the door. The older one stepped forward, drawing his sword.

Alant did not react, or at least he did not think of reacting. However, as he leapt to his feet, a thin, blue-white arc of lightning leapt from his hand and struck the sword of the Shaper’s Guard. The lightning did not hold a lot of energy—Alant had only a moment to pull any in—still, it was enough to cause the man to yelp out in pain, his sword clanging as it hit the wooden floor.

There was a moment of silence before the younger Hobbsword screamed at the top of his lungs and ran out the main door. This was followed by the screams of the young girls behind Alant—though their screams seemed very similar to that of the young Hobbsword. The clatter of feet and the door to the kitchen banging open quickly followed. Looking over his shoulder, he saw girls pushing and shoving each other in their haste to vacate the room.

He jabbed a finger at the remaining Hobbsword when the man made a move to retrieve his blade. “You will leave
that
where it is!” The man froze. Turning back to Singe, Alant let the Sight fall from him, though he knew his eyes would still glow for several moments. “I do not think I wish to speak with the Grand Master at this time. Or any Shaper. Now, go!”

“What…What has happened to you?” Fear lay thick on the Sier’s tongue. “How did you—”

“I said, GO!”

Neither man needed anymore encouragement. The Hobbsword waited just long enough at the door to allow the Sier to catch him up. Then both men were gone. A shuddering breath escaped Alant’s lungs and his shoulders drooped.

“That is not the manners I taught my boys.”

His mother’s voice made Alant flinch. It held the same tone it had when she caught him and Siln with the redberry pie behind the house when he was seven. Turning, he was relieved to find that she stood alone. They looked at each other for what seemed like an eternity. Finally, unexpectedly, Alant began to cry. Before he could collapse back onto the bench, his mother embraced him. She held him close as he sobbed into her chest. “Shh. It will be all right.” She stroked his hair until he regained control of himself once more.

Pulling away to arms length, he gave her a weak smile. “I think I have to leave now. I cannot stay here any longer.”

She did not look convinced. “Where will you go?”

“Mocley. I need to see Sier Sarlimac, my old instructor.” He had not realized he had made the decision. Yet, it made sense. If he could trust anyone, it was Sarlimac. He could not stay here now, that was certain. Singe would tell the other Shapers what had happened and they would be back in greater numbers. They would force him to go with them and he was in no mood to be forced into anything ever again.

His mother eyed him for several more moments. “First one son, now the other. Your papa will not be pleased if you leave without saying goodbye. Stay for lastmeal. You can leave on the morrow.”

Letting his eyes wander to the sword that still lay on the floor, he shook his head. “Nix, Ma. I am afraid that if I do not leave now, I may not be able to leave at all.” He let out another long breath, though this one felt stronger. “I will go and grab a few things from my room. I can see Papa on my way out.”

His mother nodded before releasing him. “I will gather enough food to see you to Mocley. See me in the kitchen when you are ready.” With that, she turned and left.

With one last glance at the sword lying on the floor, Alant ran out of the dining hall and up the stairs to his bedroom. Throwing the lid of the chest open, he grabbed his old shoulder sack and thrust all his clothes into it. His hunting knife and waterskin followed, as well as an extra pair of work boots. Basically, everything he had left behind when he headed for Mocley the first time. On his initial trip, the Shaper’s Order had provided everything he needed, including new clothes in the form of Initiate robes. This trip would not start with as much fanfare as the last. He hoped he could get outside of the stead gates before they raised the alarm.

Throwing the pack over his shoulder, Alant glanced around the room. There was nothing else. He had lived in this room for seventeen winters and all he had to show for it was slung over his back.

It really is life one step above slavery.

A pang of guilt hit him at the thought of how his family lived. Yet, that was life on a stead. You grew up, worked your duty, lived out your final winters surrounded by your family and loved ones, then passed into the Aftermore. A small part of him wanted to walk such a simple path once more. Another part realized he would never have the opportunity again. He wished things were different.