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 Gatecrashers

    Gatecrashers

    The barren borderland between the states of Lavradio and Ullidia lay in a mountain pass, a one-kilometer road between the nations'' gated walls. A flag of parlay flew above two men, who met in guarded posture, hands on swords. Their appalons knelt beside the road and searched for grass among the rocks in vain.

    The older man was middle-aged, a general of long experience. His blessed reddish fur and fearsome build lent weight to his command of the Eastern Watch. He wore three cords of braided monster hair, the symbol of a great authority, his sword and shield and spear and thousand men Ullidia''s most trusted fighting force. His armor, like his skin, was marked with use, with newer bronze beside the pitted old.

    Near half his men were at the wall, prepared to stop the exile and his lengthy train. The bulk of them were formed before the gate, behind spiked barricades, while archers lurked beyond the wall with arrows at the ready.

    The other man was not a proper man. His chin was bare. He bore no beast traits. His armor was a breastplate of pure white. No blemish marked the young man''s flesh or gear. The only trace of age was in his sword, its iridescent hilt of bone worn smooth. Perhaps it was his father''s, handed down.

    Behind the youth, a safe distance away, stood a caravan of six trains, three cars each, hitched to shaggy six-legged beasts. Their great height and upswept horns marked them at any distance as mighty gurantors, strong enough to pull trains across the continent.

    "Good morning, General Gustave. I am disciple Phillip the Younger." The youth eyed the few hundred men visible at the Ullidian gate, "I had hoped for a warmer welcome. Or, that you would choose to ignore us."

    "You can''t pass through here, boy. Turn around."

    "That''s not an option for us. If we stay in Lavradio, Enclave will punish the good people there."

    "That''s not my problem," growled the general, "I don''t care where you go, but you can''t stay here."

    "Then it''s fortunate we don''t want to stay. We want to pass through your country quickly and peacefully."

    "It''s not going to happen."

    The boy hooked one thumb into his harness and shifted his stance to something less wary, more conversational.

    "How is the monster situation in Elra? Still clear there?" The boy''s concern looked genuine.

    "Last I heard." Gustave tried not to let his unease show.

    "And the fever in Susa? Is there any word of it spreading?"

    Elra had been threatened by a raid of dangerous ground-dwelling birds called franango until Phillip''s students had shown up without warning and exterminated them. The deadly illness in Elra was beyond a common healer''s ability to cure and needed a disciple''s hand. Enclave had demanded an obscene amount of money to lend them a holy disciple. The villages got lucky and the disease was contained, again by Phillip''s people.

    "You needn''t have bothered, boy. Brother Edos would have taken care of it. He always comes around when we''re in need."

    "Brother Edos has been defrocked," informed the youth, with a glint of silver in his green eyes, "and can''t say a single prayer. He and every other disciple good enough to be of use has been defrocked and now is hunted by the church. That is why you haven''t heard from them. Of all the disciples left in all the world, there''s only Enclave''s stay-at-homes, and mine at Nexus. How much did Enclave want to charge your government for a few disciple days'' of work?"

    Gustave didn''t know the exact number, but he had heard it was extortionary. But that was someone else''s problem. His problem was Brother Phillip and his so-called Nexus. They were heretics according to Enclave but they had become popular in towns and villages in eastern Ullidia. The government had turned a blind eye to Nexus operations because they were desperate, and now they were paying the price.

    Yes, his country owed these people who wanted to cross through to the Kravikas desert on the other side, but orders were orders. If the Nexus heretics tried to cross the border then General Gustav had to turn them back. And, the public couldn''t know the government had exterminated their saviors.

    Fortunately, Gustave had disciples on his side today, borrowed from Enclave. Church leadership guaranteed their disciples were better than Nexus novices. Scripture said divine spirit ran strongest in the First Families, from which all Enclave disciples were drawn. Heritage and superior training would win out over dabblers and amateurs any day.

    "So how does this work?" asked the youth. "I go back to my people and you go back to yours, then we fight?"

    "If you don''t turn those trains around then yes, we fight." Gustave gave the child his most deadly stare. It was for his own good.

    "It''s a shame we have to play this out, General. It''s going to be a lot of blood over nothing."

    Brother Phillip yanked his long spear from the ground, the one with a flag of parlay strapped to it, and turned his back on the general. He swung up easily into his appalon''s saddle and the beast clambered to its feet without any visible prompting. He rode back towards his caravan to where a small knot of five riders waited for him.

    Gustave rode back to his station, past the barricades of sharpened logs and the ranks of four hundred infantry with long spears, to stand in front of the gate. From his mounted vantage point, he could see the field well enough to command it. Young men never listened to fair warnings. There would be blood today.

    The sun continued to climb and yet nobody moved.

    "Why are we just standing here?" Pornache was one of the Enclave disciples assigned to help Gustave take down the troublesome child. She and her guard of six were supposed to be invisible, in hiding, but she had come too close to Gustave to ask foolish questions and now he was within range of her Overlook prayer. If his enemy was watching they would see him disappear. If they were paying attention they knew the rough location of one of Enclave''s disciples.

    Gustave stifled a sigh. The Enclave disciples might be superior in the Spiritual Arts, but this one lacked any tactical sense.

    "You''re out of position, Sister Pornache."

    "And you haven''t answered my question, Gustave." She pointed at the boy urgently. "Why aren''t we going after him? He''s right there!"

    "Because he wants us to," he said curtly, "and he has some trick prepared for when we do. We let him come to us, get hung up on our barricade and our spears. The archers behind the wall will devastate them."

    "But they can''t see the target from back there!"

    Gustave glared at the woman. She had sharp claws and eyes for hunting at night, but he was beginning to doubt her intelligence. "They know the range. We have signal men on the wall to direct their aim. If you''re in such a hurry, why don''t you ride out there and take care of him?"

    Pornache glanced at the riders more than a hundred meters distant, suddenly a lot less sure of herself. A seven-to-six advantage wasn''t enough to make her feel confident. Her guards were enhanced with prayers for strength and speed, and they couldn''t be seen from a distance. The heretic knew the same prayers but he had chosen to remain visible. The boy was baiting them.

    "How do you know he''ll come through?"

    "He doesn''t have a choice," he growled. "He doesn''t want to go back to Lavradio, and he can''t abandon his trains. Sooner or later he has to drive them up."

    Pornache and her entourage returned to their place on the right flank, and the waiting continued. Water and dry rations were passed among the troops. Troops hated the waiting but, in this case, Gustave was glad for it. Every hour of inaction was a plus for him. Either the heretic would turn around and try somewhere else, or he would grow impatient and do something ill-advised.

    A healer by the name of Julius squeezed through the small sally port. "General, can I have a word?"

    Gustave knew this man. He was a healer who worked towns on both sides of the border. He was anointed by the church, the same as disciples, but he lacked their heritage and therefore lacked their power. He could only use the healing-related prayers and a few general-purpose ones, but what he lacked in scope he made up for in skill. Julius had tried to approach him several times, but the disciples kept intercepting him, sending him away. Speaking to the general like this was breaking ranks, but Gustave knew him to be a sensible man.

    "What is it, Brother Julius?"

    "Our disciples can''t keep this up. They''re faltering. I can sense it from back there," he motioned to the area behind the gate, where the archers and support staff were stationed. "They''ll run out of spirit soon, and then they''ll be visible. Nexus will know where to strike."

    "Can you sense Phillip in the same way?"

    It was a brief hope, dashed when Julius said, "he''s too far away, and he''s too efficient. I''ve met him. I healed him, once. Two seasons ago."

    "You know him!?"

    "I do, General. The report Enclave gave you is ˇ­ what I mean is ˇ­"

    "Out with it, Julius! What do I need to know?"

    "Phillip has serious talent, General. I''ve seen him enhance a hundred men while Pornache has to strain to enhance her seven. He can shape metal at will, and conjure a light strong enough to counter cursed monsters."

    "Cursed monsters don''t exist," interrupted Gustave, "not according to your superiors."

    "They must have a reason for saying so, but it isn''t true. Cursed monsters aren''t just ignorant exaggerations by clueless people. I''ve seen one. Darkness and poison surrounded it. Normal weapons couldn''t scratch it, but a weapon blessed by him killed it."

    "Are you claiming everyone in that caravan could be blessed right now, and he can keep it going longer than Enclave disciples? And the weapons he blesses are stronger?"

    "All of that and more. He''s been teaching advanced skills to his students. Some of the work they''ve been doing in Ullidia sounds far-fetched for mere students of the arts. They gained experience during Lavradio''s civil war. They''ve been blooded, unlike the ones Enclave sent you."

    Of all the fool things to keep from the man planning their battles! Time was not on Gustave''s side, but running out. As soon as his disciples'' spirit ran dry and left them vulnerable, the heretics would target them first. Then what would he do? A few dozen enhanced men could cut through his little guard force with ease, and Phillip would have enough fighters left over to guard his trains from any counter-attack.

    Gustave needed a new plan. Something Nexus wouldn''t expect.

    "All companies, stand ready!" His order was relayed up and down the line to the four companies of one hundred infantry each, the company of archers, and his twenty-five appalon cavalry. The men stiffened and raised their arms, ready for orders. He never got to issue the next order, because of the slings.A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

    What terrible weapons! Disciple slings threw ten-kilogram balls of arts-hardened rock at nearly the speed of sound. He heard them tearing the air, on his left flank, just before they collided with his soldiers. Several of the deadly projectiles hit his formation in enfilade and shot among the men''s legs. Each stone skipped along the ground like children''s toys thrown at wooden pins. They careened among the soldiers, bounced off the border wall, tore holes in the barricade, and kicked up sprays of rock and blood. And still, there were no enemy fighters in sight except Phillip and his little guard in the distance.

    Gustave decided to move before the next volley. "Infantry shields left! Protect the gate! Cavalry with me!" The general urged his mount to the right flank, to round the barricade, and then aimed directly for Phillip. He risked a glance at the wall, and found the signalman had picked up his distress flag and was about to wave it. Enemies were already behind the wall! But if Phillip''s men were attacking both the infantry and the archers, there was a chance he was lightly defended.

    Gustave knew his chance of victory was poor, but sitting still was sure defeat. He turned his eyes forward again to learn his foe was nearing him with fearsome speed. They had not enhanced their fighters alone, but their appalons as well! Several of the men around him fell, struck down by javelins from nowhere.

    On Phillip''s right there rode a tall gray pair, and to his left were spike-haired handsome twins. And on their left was one he recognized, a former royal guard of Lavradio. There was no time to call her name to mind because his enemy rode straight for him. Gustave thanked the one god Olyon for his good fortune and set his spear to lance the young man''s face.

    The lad stood in his stirrups, heaved his spear with strength of arm more fit for ancient legends than this remote and peaceful border zone. The general took the hit upon his shield, and nearly died as prayer-blessed tip cut wood and bronze with ease, and nearly his neck. He had to throw his pierced shield aside before the spear''s weight could drag him off his mount. His own spear wavered, appeared indecisive, then firmed in the final moment before contact, pointed low at the heretic''s gut.

    Gustave might as well have tried to lance a mountain. Phillip caught his spear in one hand and kept riding. The older man was thrown away and up, over his mount, tumbling in midair. He could only glimpse the results of his desperate charge against the six adversaries as his world revolved: their appalons ran like wolves through grass, knocking his men aside. Then clouds. One of the spike-haired teens deflected sword blows with her arm guards and her contempt. Blue sky. Phillip wielded the general''s spear as he would a twig, swatting aside anyone in his way. Sun. The gray-skinned guards weren''t even using weapons: they plucked riders off their mounts in passing and dashed them to the ground.

    Gustave hit the dirt hard and lost track of everything for a few seconds as he tumbled among the rough ground. He landed with his cheek in the dirt and his legs in the air.

    Twenty-five of his best against six. Even against disciples, they should have been able to do something. The younger, spike-haired soldiers were putting forth an effort as they fought beside their master. The rest of Phillip''s vanguard were running wild among his men.

    "That''s fifteen meters, at least!" shouted the tall gray-skinned man. He had dismounted while Gustave was tumbling.

    "I can beat that!" The woman, possibly his wife, tossed a fully-armored Ullidian soldier by his arms. The man spun like a thrown saucer as he wailed out in fear. He arced overhead then hit the ground with the noise of bronze hitting rocks. "Twenty!" she shouted, victorious.

    "That one was small!" The man side-stepped a lancer''s charge and plucked the rider from his mount like picking up an errant child. He flipped the man over, seized his feet, and began to twirl around in circles, winding up for a truly epic throw. But, the man''s bootstraps weren''t equal to the task and broke. The soldier slipped out of his boots and spoiled the throw.

    "Bah! Only five meters!" The man tossed aside the empty boots in disgust.

    Gustave nearly surrendered then, until he spotted the white-armored youth. He was clubbing one of the Watch soldiers with their own shield, then he flung the battered device at the legs of a charging appalon. The beast went down but the rider kept his seat until the last moment, then used the mount''s dying momentum to launch himself into the air, his dauntless shield and brave spear aimed at the white figure. Sunlight glinted off the leaping man''s armor, all hope focused on the tip of his spear. It was Ullidian courage at its bold, beautiful best.

    Even Phillip smiled.

    Phillip urged his mount a few rapid steps forward and let the attacker sail over him. With a single hand, he slapped the man''s legs to send him into a tumble, spinning round and round as he completed his helpless arc until he hit the ground much as Gustave had.

    The general righted himself and got to his feet. He wouldn''t surrender, not until he had pitted himself against the young man who had made such a shambles of his forces. If Gustave died, then he at least died on the field.

    The rest of the battle was winding down as Phillip''s guards ran out of opponents. The fight by the gate was ongoing, but a lifetime of battles against men and monsters had taught him sounds of victory, and those of imminent defeat. His men were losing, and losing fast.

    "Disciple Phillip!" he shouted in his best battlefield voice. "I am General Gustave! Face me!" He drew his sword, a leaf-shaped blade of moldonian bronze. Phillip halted his mount next to the former royal guard and seemed to have an argument. The guard must have been persuasive because the lad didn''t seem happy at the end.

    Phillip dropped off his mount and strode towards Gustave, drawing his sword as he came. He did not ask for the general''s surrender. He did not boast or threaten or announce his intention with a pointless, "here I come!"

    "Teach me something, old man," said the youth, and attacked.

    The boy was fast, but he didn''t try to overwhelm Gustave with his otherworldly speed, nor overpower him with his monstrous strength. He tested the older man''s defenses, made sure of his reach, feinted to try and throw him off-balance, and changed up his tempo to mess with Gustave''s timing. He moved well, parried with skill, struck with a heavy hand, and was tireless. Someone had spent a lot of hours teaching the kid how to fight.

    If it weren''t for the boy''s holy enhancements Gustave could have beaten him. Twice, he maneuvered the boy into fatally opening his guard, only to have the advantage stolen by his unnatural speed. The second spoiled chance ended with the disciple''s blade through Gustave''s belly. The blade cut bronze, leather, skin, flesh, and muscle as if all the world was made of smoke. Gustave felt no pain, but his legs went instantly numb.

    Of course, he thought as his knees collapsed under him, he''s a healer. He knows exactly where to strike. He attempted to strike the boy a dying blow only to find his arm in an immovable grip. His other hand found his dagger, a thin and wicked thing, and brought it up under the boy''s legs to pierce him in the crotch. That blow was knocked aside with enough force to break his wrist. The hands that relieved him of his sword were unexpectedly gentle. Though his vision was blurred, Gustave could tell the heretic had knelt to eye level. He truly was very young.

    "Thank you for the lesson. I think I understand what Inez has been trying to teach me. Now surrender, and we will save all your men we can."

    Breathing was hard when run through with bronze. "You would steal my death from me," he whispered, "after I worked so hard for it?" Gustave could feel blood cooling into his fur. He hoped whoever buried him would take the time to wash his body properly. He would hate to meet his afterlife with matted fur.

    "Warriors," the boy huffed, "you''re all so eager to die. Ullidia needs its fighters, do you hear me? Who will defend the East if your five hundred are put to the sword? They can''t afford to lose you right now."

    That was the truth. A series of poor harvests and monster surges had left the country weak. Few people knew about it, but there was talk about consolidating the eastern villages. Privately, Gustave felt the situation was even more dire than his superiors realized.

    They said dying by the sword was too easy for old warriors. Maybe they were right.

    "Fine," he breathed, "I surrender. For Ullidia''s sake."

    "Warriors!" he said, again. He nodded at someone Gustave couldn''t see, and a new shout went out across the battlefield. The noise of metal-on-metal was exchanged for metal-on-stone. Healers in priest robes wearing the seven-pointed star of Olyon appeared all around, some to tend to the cavalry, but most headed to the gate.

    The heretic in white grasped his sword, still lodged in Gustave''s insides. "Breathe in as far as you can and hold it." Gustave inhaled, so painfully that sight and sound left him, then clenched his breath as he felt the bronze slide out of him. The blade felt impossibly long but a warm feeling was left in its wake, like a mother''s touch. For a time, he couldn''t feel anything except that warmth. He wanted to hold on to it, rest in it, but it faded as darkness embraced him.

    When Gustave opened his eyes he discovered he was lying down near the gate, with one of his officers keeping watch over him. Practitioners, dozens of them young and old, worked through his fallen men. Several dead were set aside but the vast majority were alive. They were limping and staggering around like they had spent a night on the town, or lying on the ground waiting for care, but they were alive. Their weapons were in a pile fifty meters away, kept separate from the soldiers but otherwise untouched. It seemed Nexus had no plans to despoil their conquered enemies.

    Gustave managed to stand with some effort and saw to his men. He couldn''t do much for them that wasn''t already being done, but they were glad to see him up.

    "They''re monsters on the field. I''m impressed you lived!"

    "Thank Olyon you''re alive!"

    "We scraped by again, didn''t we?"

    "Another scar for your collection, General?"

    They were awful cheery for a unit that just had their asses handed to them and had to surrender. They had been outrageously outclassed, yet very few had died. They were lucky and they knew it.

    The Enclave disciples were not so fortunate. Apparently, the heretic''s mercy didn''t extend to his more traditional counterparts. Each of their bodies had three of those thin javelins sticking out of them. Each was about 150cm long, with a bodkin point of hardened bronze and stubby vanes at the end. Their blood painted his country''s border wall.

    He came upon Healer Julius arguing with Disciple Phillip. "You can''t go around killing off the first families! How many disciples do you think we''re going to have if you''re constantly killing them all?"

    "There was nothing special about these two," said the boy, dismissively, "you''d make a far better disciple. You should read Beg for Rest, and let me anoint you as a disciple in the Nexus church."

    "After you just killed two disciples? I''ve known them for years!"

    "Oh," said the heretic with mock thoughtfulness, "were they good disciples? Did they have many works listed in The Luminous Histories? Did they mingle with those in need and try to help them, regardless of rank or nation? Did they risk their lives for others, or bring light to those in darkness? Did they give hope to the hopeless?"

    From Julius''s reaction, Gustave inferred the dead disciples had done none of those things.

    Phillip pressed on. "The first family practitioners are not special. Cursed monsters are real, and they kill more people every year. The population in every country is falling. Of all the disciples who worked in the field a year ago, all but one are dead or defrocked. The church lies, Julius, about everything. They''re failing in all their tasks. They won''t listen to reason."

    "I believe in scripture," retorted Julius, "and I believe in my church which bears the holy dictates. I won''t lose faith just because you have."

    "I believe in scripture, too," said the boy in white, "but my scripture ends where Saint Bahram''s Testament begins. I won''t bow to the Five Families, just so they can profit from practitioners."

    Gustave didn''t know much scripture, but he knew Saint Bahram centralized the church''s power and established Enclave. The Five Families were the cornerstone of the modern church, descendants of the first disciples to follow the Chosen One. Their bloodlines provided all the church''s disciples, all the Council of Guardians, and a large portion of its healers.

    If Nexus rejected everything in scripture from Saint Bahram''s Testament onward, they rejected the legitimacy of Enclave. No wonder the church wanted them all dead.

    Julius pointed at the row of still shapes, each one covered by a blanket. "Are you going to kill me if I don''t join you? Am I going to end up like them?"

    The lad looked stricken. "No, Julius," he said softly, "keep healing people. The world needs people like you too much. Just ˇ­ don''t take the field against me and I won''t have to kill you."

    The two men parted bitterly.

    In half an hour the caravan was ready to leave through the now-open gates. During most of that time, Phillip sat in the driver''s seat of the first train, high up where he could watch all the activity. He relayed orders through his subordinates and received reports from whoever had something to offer. About half of the exiles were fighters, former military or civic guards from the looks of them, who had pledged themselves to Nexus. Of the remainder roughly a third were practitioners, another third were young students, and the rest were priests and administrators. It was a larger group than Gustave expected, over a hundred people. There was one passenger car whose door never opened. Messages and conversation flowed through a curtained window. There was at least one passenger they didn''t want him to know about. Gustave would be sure to report it.

    All at once the Nexus people began to pack away their gear and file into their assigned train cars. The gurantors'' harnesses were checked, and Brother Phillip gave up his seat to a driver.

    An old priest stood before the general, dressed in a trim robe with a simple holy symbol made of wood. "My master gives you an order. When you report what happened here, do so through the quickest method you have at your disposal. Emphasize Nexus'' strength, and warn your people not to impede our travel. He can show mercy to those who are caught up by circumstance, but stand against him twice," the aged priest looked meaningfully at the large bloodstains where two Enclave disciples had died.

    "I understand," promised Gustave, "I will tell all our people to give you a wide berth on pain of death."

    "Good. Second, you will read this." The priest handed him a book. It was a thin volume, written on plant-based paper instead of cheap boards or pricey parchment. "It''s a statement of our purpose and reason for separating from the church. He doesn''t demand that you believe any of it, only that you read it."

    "Read a book," Gustave said doubtfully, "I don''t see a problem with that."

    "Good. Brother Phillip bids you farewell, and he will pray for your continued good health." The priest was the last to mount the train and the gurantors began to move. From the way they surged forward the disciples had enhanced the huge animals. They would cross Ullidia in record time, maybe faster than messenger birds.

    Before the last gurantor passed through the gate, Gustave had demanded birds and writing materials. He dictated missives to all the relevant posts he could reach and told them not to interfere with the Nexus caravan. Death surely waited for them if they tried.

    With that done, he began his urgent report to the Senate.

 Lessons Learned

    Lessons Learned

    Taylor''s car was large enough for twenty armed bulwarks, but Nexus materials had half the space. An even share of food for provender, rough smelt for weapons, books for the library, attire for the desert, and indispensable tools for educating disciples was evenly spread across six trains as protection against total loss of any one resource. The car''s free half was taken up by Taylor and some of the people who had known him since before he became Phillip the Younger. The spiny-haired cousins, Milo and Mila, in their zeal to be his shields, sat between him and the windows to either side. Across from him was the former royal guard Inez, beside the austere older priest Mika.

    "Well Young Master, did you learn anything?" Inez was Taylor''s best spear and had the most experience fighting against people. It had been her idea to pit Taylor against the general. It''s not every day one meets a great swordsman on a field of battle, and she had urged him not to waste the opportunity.

    "I learned I have a lot to learn." Taylor tried to look out the window but was blocked by the view of Mila''s yellow spikes. He could feel the gurantors'' six-legged stride accelerating as they took the downward slope of the road beyond the pass, into the long descent towards Ullidia''s interior.

    "Be more specific." Inez wasn''t only a follower, she was also his teacher in martial matters.

    "He didn''t anticipate my moves, he planned them. But, I can''t figure out how he did it. He didn''t have to stop and think about it. It just happened. If we were fighting without the arts I would have lost." Taylor tried to imagine fighting Gustave on equal terms and shivered. "He uses a sword like I do the arts. What a frightening opponent."

    "But what if you did have to fight him again, without the arts?"

    "I would choose to have him on my side."

    "That''s not an option," she said with impatient voice. "He''s your enemy and you have to fight him without prayers. How do you do it?"

    Taylor knew the answer without thinking. "I wouldn''t face him in melee, that''s for sure. I''d use ranged attacks from a height, poison, traps, anything to keep me out of reach of his blade. If I could box him in and pierce him with a hundred spears, that would do the trick. But given the way he saw through all my feints, trapping him would be hard. If we were on flat terrain with no weapon but a sword, I''d run." Taylor nodded to himself, "I could definitely outrun him. I bet his stamina isn''t what it used to be. When he got tired, I''d throw rocks at his head. After he went down I''d keep throwing rocks at him. That man could be half-conscious and still kill with a sword.

    "How did you know about him, anyway?"

    "He''s been a famous swordsman for decades. When I was new in the palace he came with a delegation from Ullidia and took on all challengers. Even then, he was a devious opponent. I fell to him several times." From her wistful expression, Taylor wondered exactly what she meant by "fell" but thought better of asking for a clarification. There were some things he didn''t need to know.

    Inez came back to herself. "There is another thing, Young Master. You are too kind to your enemies."

    "I ordered the disciples to be killed, didn''t I? What more were you hoping for?"

    "I''m talking about Gustave and his men. If Ullidia fights for Enclave, they''ll field men with the most fight. Gustave and his Eastern Watch fit the bill."

    "They''re not our enemies, Inez. They''re just soldiers for a small country getting pushed around by Enclave. When this is over, I want them to remember us as merciful agents and not bloodthirsty savages."

    "You''re leaving dangerous men at our backs."

    "Those men will see their families again because we spared their lives in battle here. They won''t forget."

    "You''re too optimistic. You want to be friends with everyone, but nations only have interests."

    Taylor couldn''t deny that, but after fighting the general he didn''t think Gustave would send his men to certain death without good reason and a method to victory.

    "If we had this fight again tomorrow, do you think that he could win?"

    "Not a chance," she said, "unless we blundered."

    "And don''t you think Gustave knows that? It''s not in Ullidia''s interest to throw away their best soldiers. And they''ve been warned."

    "They won''t take Mika''s warning seriously when you just spared their entire force."

    "According to you, the master knows a man by his sword. If you''re right, he''ll believe me. Perhaps his ministers will listen to him. If not, we''ll harrow soldiers till they surrender. Brother Mika, what''s on your mind?"

    "The same as Inez, Young Master. And also, Francisca Odemira wants to visit, when you''ve read the book she lent you."

    "You mean Anisca," corrected Taylor. "I don''t care for princesses, but since she''s here let''s keep her name a secret. Even among ourselves."

    The volume by Taylor''s side was Living in Morufu''s Hand, by Clintus Odemira, Francisca''s uncle. It was the only book about Calique, exotic people dwelling in the south, penned by a misfit royal of Lavradio. He slipped away from royal life, escaped to live in Kravikas''s arid wastes. The royals found him out in later years and brought him home by use of force and coin, but Clintus always yearned for desert life. He left his memories, and regrets, in Hand.

    <blockquote>

    Sand Castle is well known as a wondrous marketplace, a crossroads for caravans bound from all three regions of the Tenobre continent. Well-known too are the Calique hunters, proud men who patrol the streets in dark-colored skirts to keep the peace. Chief among them is their Maul, not the strongest hunter but the wisest who is able-bodied. Under him are Spears, each of whom leads a band of hunters. There are also Hands, men who do not hunt but are chiefs in brick-making, building, coir-threshing, and other crafting pursuits acceptable to menfolk.This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

    Women also have Hands who take charge of coir weavers, potters, and similar crafts acceptable for women. Among the womenfolk, gardening is the most prestigious profession. You can see them daily in the oasis that dominates Sand Castle, tending to the plants that provide almost everything the people eat, wear, and use. The best among the gardeners may be named Tablas for their wisdom, and chief among the tablas is their Doyenne.

    It comes as a surprise to the uninitiated that the Doyenne and her Tabla Circle govern the Garden (that is what Calique call any settlement). The tablas know the measure of every thing in their village. They know the count of people and animals, the health of water and land, the number of coconuts they will harvest in a season, and how much life their garden can sustain. They apportion goods, approve marriages, and decide which women are permitted to conceive. The men will not go to war without their sanction, and they obey the dictates of the Circle while they reside in the garden.

    Doyennes with their tablas, and mauls with their spears, all command by consent. Women and men rise to their positions with support from below, not above. When compared to the zealous tyranny of Kashmar or the debt-bondage of Hyskos, Calique seem preoccupied with liberty. I believe their strangest traditions arose to give alternatives where the usual laws impinge unduly on a person''s liberty.

    I will give one example here. Adults are permitted to work only in roles acceptable to their sex, a rule that appears at first to be absolute. Yet a woman may be a hunter if she is willing to dress and act the part of a man, and a man may tend the garden if he is willing to dress and act the part of a woman. All the village embraces this fiction so long as the actor maintains their pretense. Surely more than a few of these pretenders are true flexurals settling into their place as they would elsewhere, but a great many act a part to work their desired professions.

    The importance of liberty is exceeded only by the ideal of group care. No person living within the garden''s wall goes hungry, thirsty, or homeless. Whenever liberty clashes irreconcilably with care, care takes priority. This value of collective well-being has its roots in the garden, the source of life itself, and grows outward from there.

    The garden''s green vitality is the greatest good, more important than the lives of mere men. If a population exceeds its garden''s capacity, some number of men are sent away. It is rare for a garden to force anyone to leave, even in dire circumstances, because men will volunteer to make room for a youth or a woman. Many of these "extra men" will join another garden that has space and desire for them. Some will join caravans and experience the world. Still others will live in the desert, with only wind for company.

    It sounds incredible that men would give up their place in town, having weapons at their disposal and the will to use them. But hunters in the garden often say, "A man is freest past the garden wall".

    -- Clintus Odemira. Living in Morufu''s Hand.

    </blockquote>

    The trains moved relentlessly, round switchbacks and over bridges, to rocket by small detachments of soldiers who pretended not to notice their passing. They stopped a few times, briefly, to feed and water the gurantors while teachers drilled students in high-intensity exercises. Classes didn''t stop because they were in exile, they got more serious. Every prayer memorized was a new survival tool. Each new technique could save a life. As soon as gurantors had their fill the trains were loaded (with some teachers switching cars) and they were underway again.

    Taylor read Clintus''s Hand through most of the first day. His original plan had been to arrive in Kravikas, kill the calamitous dark monster that occupied Sand Castle, and thereby gain the friendship of the Calique. He could then settle Nexus somewhere in the desert, maybe in Sand Castle or maybe another oasis, with Calique as his allies. When Enclave inevitably came for them in force he would have distance and difficult terrain on his side. Perhaps, he would have Calique fighters too.

    That was all a pipe dream. Calique didn''t trust outsiders and didn''t let them near the gardens. Sand Castle was the exception, and even there the activities of merchants and other outsiders were closely watched. Clintus lived for years in Sand Castle before he was invited to another garden. And, the gardens were independent. They shared the same culture, and they routinely exchanged people, but they didn''t have a central government. The closest they came was a yearly council in Sand Castle, where issues between gardens were negotiated and settled.

    The trade city itself was a kind of shared enterprise between the gardens. The burden of protecting trade roads, maintaining wells, clearing dangerous animals, collecting taxes, and guarding the city was divided among the gardens, who received specified goods in return. Outside of Sand Castle, Calique rarely had a use for money.

    The monster in Kravikas was exceptionally deadly: it had emptied Sand Castle and killed five Enclave disciples. To kill the monster, Taylor needed information from hunters who faced it and survived. The hunters wouldn''t see him without permission from their doyennes. But Taylor couldn''t talk to the doyennes directly: he needed a woman to speak for him.

    At the last rest stop before sundown, Francisca came aboard with Kasryn. The former was the second princess of Lavradio. The latter was an ex-Enclave prelate and ambassador. Between the two of them, Taylor knew which one he trusted to speak for him.

    "I can''t speak for you," Kasryn said before he could ask, "to any of the doyennes."

    "Why not? Aren''t you a trained diplomat?"

    "I am."

    "Then what''s the problem? Did Anisca promise you something to step aside?"

    Kasryn frowned, while Francisca''s lips turned into a pretty bow, the princess version of the common smirk.

    "It is rude to accuse someone of taking bribes, Brother Phillip, especially to their faces." The prelate sounded like a mother, patiently explaining to her child why they should not rip the wings off butterflies.

    "I''m not accusing. I''m asking. Because bribery would feel at home with all her other unsavory skills."

    "They''re not unsavory," Francisca claimed innocently, "they''re persuasive. I''m only trying my best to be useful to you. I didn''t have to volunteer. This is going to interfere with my research, you know."

    Taylor pretended to ignore Francisca. "Why can''t you do it, Kasryn?"

    "Over a decade ago I was given a post in Sand Castle. It wasn''t my first posting, but it was my first time around people who were so different. I thought they were primitive. I didn''t know anything about their ways, and I didn''t try to learn. Ignorance became arrogance, and I told the doyennes they were fools. To their faces. In public.

    "I would be a poor representative for you, Brother Phillip. People will remember my face and my name. Anisca is your only other choice."

    Taylor suppressed a groan. Francisca was troublesome. She wanted things and tended to go after them without thinking about anyone else. But she wasn''t without her skills. She might be useful if he could keep her pointed at other people.

    "I''ll think about it," he said. "In any case, the old plan is already broken so we need to make a new one."

    Inez produced the large-scale map of Kravikas that Nexus had developed from multiple sources and laid it where everyone could see it. Some aspects of the map made better sense to Taylor now that he had read Clintus''s book. Like how the trade routes avoided oases except for Sand Castle. Or how gardens clustered in certain areas of the desert and avoided others.

    They worked and planned until sundown. Then Taylor had to take his next meeting, on the wind.

 Hunters & Heretics (I)

    Hunters & Heretics (I)

    They ghosted by the edges of a town they barely knew, Ma''Tocha and her guard. The light of Boraz was too dim to see, and Silenz''s silver orb lay shy below the white-capped looming mountains in the east. With one faint moon to light their stealthy way they skirted by the homes unseen, along the muted byways, grief-bound doors shut tight against the recent tragedy.

    In better days she had been welcomed here, to hunt a pack of monstrous hares last spring. For her work she had received a single silver coin. And then, from every humble home, on wide wood platters borne on women''s heads, smelling of all the good things to eat in this part of the world, and with it kegs of ale brought up and broken open, they brought a banquet to lay before Ma''Tocha like a queen. There was no gratitude in all the world more honest than a goodly feast.

    A village was saved, a feast shared, a silver coin given. A true disciple''s joy was made of simple pleasures.

    But now Ma''Tocha and her bulwarks, severed from their holy church and holy powers, were hunted exiles in a hostile land. They had been moving south to join with Nexus and regain her prayers, when they chanced to overhear an evil rumor, whispered at anxious tables over furtive cups: the church had tasked a priest with hunting innocents. He was loose among the farmlands, taking lives.

    In time they found the local burial ground, east and uphill from the sleeping commons. By lantern light, they found two small and freshly piled mounds, topped with straw. It was tradition to plant wildflowers over children''s graves, and seeds needed some protection. There was no marking stone, no name or epitaph. Beside the children''s plot lay another, not fresh but new enough for heartbreak to linger. "Mary. Beloved Wife and Mother." read the headstone.

    She had followed rumors, one hamlet to the next, one bonfire to the next, to arrive in this poor grieving place. She was two days behind the murdering priest. At least.

    Ma heard footsteps, a farmer''s weary plod, kept from sleep by raw and recent loss.

    "Who are you," said the voice behind her, bubbling with anger, "why are you here? Come to look at your handiwork? Are you proud of yourselves? What more can you take from a village that has nothing!"

    "We''re not Enclave," she told him, turning around. She let the lantern show her face. "Not anymore."

    "Heretics," he breathed, "it''s Ma''Tocha!"

    "If Enclave is murdering children, shouldn''t we all be heretics?"

    The farmer gave a bitter laugh but said nothing.

    "Can we join you in your vigil?" Ma produced a wineskin, and her bulwark searched their packs for dried food and cheese. "I''d like to hear about the children. The ones they took from you."

    "Didn''t come up here to weep or talk," said the farmer, "the tears are all used up. Words are empty." He hadn''t washed or slept in days, not since it happened. He motioned at the graves with a blackened clay jug. "I came to join them. What''s a farm, without family? What''s a life worth, lived alone Nothing. That''s what."

    Ma''Tocha sat by the graves and patted the ground next to her. "They''ll wait for you. Time has no meaning where they are. What were their names?"

    The farmer did not move to sit or leave. "Yara and Brynn."

    "How old were they? What were they like?"

    "They were ten and eleven." And then, quieter, "they were a damned handful." He dropped to his knees before the graves, his black jug beside him. "Beautiful girls, like their mother. When they weren''t covered from hair to heel in grime."

    Ma''s three fighters, two men and a woman, sat too and began to pass around the wine and food. The wine was weak stuff, better to quench one''s thirst than get one drunk. The farmer took a long pull and passed it on.

    "The same day Yara learned to walk, she slipped under the fence and escaped. Took us all day to find her, way down at the creek. She was sitting in the shallows trying to catch fish, with those tiny hands! When Brynn learned to walk she followed her big sister everywhere. The pair of them grew up in the hills. I chased those girls, uphill and downriver, for the best years of my life. They were such bright but difficult things. Every night I''d bring them home, dirty as hounds, showing off the game they snared and things they''d gathered. They''d take a bath and be the prettiest little girls for dinner. Mary made dresses for them, when she was with us, and for an evening you could believe they were sweet, polite little girls."

    He paused for a while as he ate without pleasure, his eyes far away as the absent moons.

    "They weren''t farm girls, that''s for sure. My neighbor John tried to troth his son to my Yara. The families had a meet about it and, let me tell you, it went bad. When it was Yara''s turn to give her thoughts, she said it would be all right if she could hunt and fish and walk the hills all day, and didn''t have to do any cleaning or cooking or work on the farm. To which John''s son replied, ''you''ll do as a wife should and make my meals and clean my house and be a good farm wife like my mother.'' And Yara said she wouldn''t, and Brynn said she''d like to see the boy make Yara do those things, and the boy said Brynn should keep her foolish mouth shut."

    "Oh dear," said Ma''Tocha with a laugh, and her bulwark joined in. "What happened next?"

    "Exactly what you think. And worse. First Yara punches the boy in his mouth for calling Brynn a fool, then Brynn punches him in his mouth for trying to make Yara into ''a boring farm wife''. The boy is bleeding and crying, and his mother is furious. She starts calling them animals, so my girls stripped off their dresses, right there in front of everyone, and went running off in their shifts. They headed straight for the hills and didn''t come down for a week.

    "They could have stayed up there forever. They had a little hut up there, I helped them build it. I had to get the village elders'' promise never to force them to marry before my girls would come down. They were prepared to live their lives as wildlings before they''d part over a boy.

    "Oh, but they were sweet in their own way. If you were sick they brought you herbs. If meat was scarce, you would find a fresh rabbit on your doorstep in the evening. If an animal went missing or wouldn''t come home, my girls would fetch it for you. They were wild things, but they were strong and kind too."

    Now came the hard part. Softly, Ma''Tocha asked, "what happened to them?"

    His eyes, already sunk with sleeplessness, grew fearsome and deep. "Soldiers, from Unity City. They had a priest with them, in some fancy robes with a silver cloth around his neck."

    "Did he say his name? What did he look like?"

    "He said his name but I don''t remember it. What did I care about lofty churchmen? He had mousy whiskers, black eyes, a thin tail, kind of fat. He gave a speech about how they were looking for heretics, and if we had nothing to hide then we had nothing to be afraid of. They gathered us in the square and he said a prayer and he held up this thing. It looked like a piece of wood, but it started to shine with a light I''d never seen, waves of silver and other colors. It was beautiful, at first.

    "I turned to my girls, to ask them what they thought, and they were glowing with the same light. I thought it was a miracle. Then soldiers came and grabbed them both. They were afraid and crying. I tried to get to them but other soldiers held me back. The priest said they had to be burned to appease Olyon."

    Ma made an angry grunt.

    "Animals," said one of her bulwark.

    "Savage fuckers," agreed the farmer, "but my girls were fierce. Brynn stole a soldier''s dirk right out of his belt and stuck him with it. The soldiers were so shocked they didn''t see Yara steal the other soldier''s knife and try to kill the priest with it. She almost had him too, but he was wearing brigandine. What kind of priest goes around armored? You should have seen the look of terror on his face, a great man of the church pissing himself because of my little Yara."

    He drank deeply from the wineskin. "Didn''t last, though. Soldiers surrounded them and cut them down with swords. Hacked them to bloody pieces. I shouted myself hoarse, but I couldn''t do anything. Every swing threw blood everywhere. The square was wet with their blood, and I couldn''t do anything. Half the town had my daughters'' blood on them, but nobody did anything. Those monsters killed my children and laughed about it after, and I did nothing!

    "And I thought, the next thing that happens is they kill and burn the whole village, but our elder steps in and thanks the priest for ''cleansing our village of evil''. Fuckers think they did us a favor. They demanded offerings for their ''holy service''. We don''t keep much silver in the village, but our elder gave them the run of the storehouse. They took all they could carry."

    The grieving man spat his words. "They killed my girls and we paid them. Can you believe that? All I could do for them was bury them. What a useless father I turned out to be."

    "Maybe not so useless," Ma''Tocha told him. "You''re here now, to tell their story to someone who can stop those monsters. That''s something. Do you know which way they went?"

    "South," pointed the farmer, "along the hilltop road. You can see the villages from up there. I bet they visit them all." He reached for the jug he had set aside. "Now leave me in peace."

    Ma''Tocha stalled him with a hand on the black jar. "I know what it''s like to yearn for the dead," Ma''Tocha told him, "how they must call to you. But there is something you can do for them, but only while you''re still alive."

    The farmer doubted her. "Is there?"

    "Enclave stripped me of my disciple powers but they can''t take away my skills. I''m going to hunt down these child murderers and take their lives. I''m going to take away their holy relic and give it to someone who will spread light instead of darkness. But I could use a guide, someone who knows the nearby villages and who knows these hills. Who could be better than the man who chased Yara and Brynn, uphill and downriver?"

    Ma''Tocha gave that a moment to sink in, until the farmer''s head lifted. The anger was still in him, would always be in him, but reason was coming back to him.

    "You would have to leave tonight," she told him, "and you might not return for weeks. It''s dangerous and you could die. Are you any good with weapons?"

    "I''m a fair hand with a bow," he said, "and all I have to come back to is right here." He put his hand on the ground between the two mounds of earth. "It won''t matter to anyone living if I don''t return."

    "What''s your name?"

    "Harrence," he said, "husband to Mary, father to Yara and Brynn."

    "What do you say, Harrence? Postpone your final journey. Help us get justice, for Yara and Brynn and all the children they have killed and may yet kill."

    Harrence looked at the three longing graves, head cocked as if listening. "They say I should guide you, to protect the others."

    ? ? ?

    The hilltop road wasn''t a road at all but a firebreak separating the settled lands on Dace''s frontier from wild forests and mountains to the east. Every village kept their section of the road and nearby ground clear with grazing animals and the occasional axe. In summer between the planting and the harvest they hauled whatever materials their local lords gave them uphill and laid it down wherever the dirt was showing or plants were coming through. It was a confusion of river gravel, quarry shards, cut stone, broken brick, and whatever else that was cheap from year to year.

    The firebreak made a poor road for wagons, but traveling by foot or appalon was pleasant enough. East of the road, the central mountains loomed over travelers in their awesome snow-capped heights. To the west, the richest farmlands in Dace fell away in quilted fields and pastures, spaced by stone fences and prairie strips. Two hundred kilometers of road bordered such villages, one after the other, each one spreading its skirts of cultivated land. Seasonal rains often made the more direct low roads suddenly impassable, but the hilltop road was always reliable.

    Harrence knew the paths that paralleled the hilltop road, on the east unpopulated side, where they could travel and not be seen. He knew where to find water, forage, and easy fishing. He directed Ma''Tocha where to climb so she could look down onto a village on the west side.

    Harrence knew these things because Brynn and Yara knew them. Unseen by anyone but him, they raced ahead faster than the appalons, disappeared into tall grass or stands of trees to emerge unexpected, to wave him over to a clear brook or a sheltered nook where the party could rest. Harrence had trod the ground before, usually in winter when the village allowed him a hunt for extra meat, but his silent spectral daughters knew the east woods far better.

    On the third day, Ma''Tocha was on her belly using her little telescope to surveil the latest hamlet. The wondrous device of brass and glass brought far things near. The ex-disciple claimed it was neither an ancient device nor a blessed one, that it was a simple machine. It had been a gift from Dean Garsharp, who had got it from Brother Phillip the Heretic, who had built it using his knowledge about light.

    She had found what they had feared and hoped for: a cluster of small houses splayed around a single main street, under a cloud of nearly white smoke. At the center of the smoke, in a rough-paved courtyard that lay before a tiny chapel whose blue dome had turned to near-black from neglect, there was the black stain of a bonfire spent.

    Ma''Tocha took her time examining the village.

    "They''re celebrating," she said at last. "They''re holed up in the headman''s house. They should be good and drunk by nightfall."

    "Oh man," whined Dash, "not again."

    "Yes, again." Ma was smiling. "This is a job for Trina."

    Dash grunted. He was the bulwark with a puffy tail and long ears. "Trina is so exhausting. Do we have to?"

    "Definitely. We''re outnumbered, and we have no prayers. We need to know who gave their orders, and if any more fragments are in Enclave''s hands. Besides," grinned Ma, "Trina''s fun."Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.

    "Who''s Trina?" Harrence had learned all the fighters'' names, and the names of their appalons, and none of them were Trina.

    "I''m Trina," said Dash morosely.

    "Mystical Songstress," said Marlowe, with more excitement.

    "Such a beautiful singing voice," added Callie.

    "Such a beautiful woman," Ma''Tocha said.

    Harrence took in the thin man''s fine features and graceful arms. "Are you flexural?"

    "No," Dash said through gritted teeth, "but sometimes I pretend. The dresses aren''t so bad, but the attention gets to be too much. Especially from the kinds of people we do this with. Mistress, are you sure we can handle this without prayers? There''s twenty of them and only four of us." Dash had deliberately not counted Harrence.

    "There''s only eight of them," she said, swinging the tube over the village. "They sent the rest ahead to prepare the next villages."

    Harrence remembered the day armed men came to his village and demanded they all gather the next day for a special announcement by a priest from the church. "That''s what they did to us. The priest didn''t want to wait for everyone to come in from the fields."

    Ma''tocha put her eye against the telescope''s lens. "What we need is a place to lay low until evening. Somewhere we can prepare."

    "There''s a place back the way we came," offered Harrence. His girls were already running back that way, their laughter silent, waving to hurry him along.

    The party backtracked until Harrence found a telltale marker, a few stones stacked to knee height painted white, with a barely perceptible foot trail that led east.

    "Was a time people lived on both sides of the hilltop road," he informed his party. "There''s ruins of big houses down here if you know where to look, meant for important people. They made a game of it, finding all these old estates."

    The trail led off the ridge, deep into the shadow of the mountains, among tall pines in a muted world carpeted with needles. The trail crisscrossed with game paths, growing strong and then weak again, until it neared a fine rushing creek. A goodly manor had stood nearby but all that was left was a foundation and a first course of stone. Trees struggled up through the center of the house.

    The space between the creek and house was paved in flagstones sent askew by roots and weather, with a firepit at its center and sawed stumps cast around for chairs. The stumps were in various stages of decay. It was peaceful there, hidden by the forest yet open to the sky, the sounds of the creek ringing against the stones and pines, while appalons knelt on the bank to drink their fill.

    Yara was walking on the ruined wall with her arms held out for balance. Brynn was behind her. Harrence stifled the impulse to yell at them to be careful. They couldn''t be hurt anymore, not when their bodies were so far away.

    "It''s bath time everyone!" Clothes came off and they bathed in the creek, without any modesty whatsoever. Harrence was given his own bar of soap, fine stuff that smelled faintly of honey and flowers, and told to wash twice. The water downstream from him turned a murky brown.

    He could hear his Mary scolding him. "Farmer or not, you don''t have to enjoy your dirt like a futobel!" He washed, then dug the dirt from under his nails and scrubbed all the creases where it liked to hide. Then he washed again, and made sure to work the soap deep into his wild hair and mighty sideburns.

    Marlowe tossed him a towel and bade him to sit on one of the decaying stumps. From her saddlebags, she brought forth tools wrapped in leather cases: scissors and razors and combs, a mirror made of polished silver, a box of little jars of paint along with brushes and sponges of mysterious use and shape.

    Harrence eyed the girl-things with suspicion and a twinge of fear. "You aren''t going to put me in a skirt, are you? I''d make a hideous woman." He sat on the improvised stool wearing naught but a towel over his lap.

    Marlowe laughed and attacked his head with a wide-toothed comb. "I wouldn''t dream of it. You''re more attractive as a man. Or you will be when we''re done." She worked on him, naked under the towel she kept wrapped around herself. Married or not, her clean scent and thriving body should have prompted a reaction from Harrence''s own yet all he could think of was his dead Mary. There was also the matter of his dead girls, who sat on the ground nearby and observed his grooming with fascinated expressions.

    A lot of his hair fell to the ground. Then came the straight razor, which Marlow used to define borders on his facial hair. She worked something astringent into selected parts of his head, then sat near him to wait.

    I''ve come along on this journey, he realized, without knowing the first thing about what''s going on. All because they promised I could get justice for them. I have no skills to offer a disciple except finding this place. What am I even doing here?

    Part of his brain had gotten stuck, like livestock in deep mud, but it was starting to move again.

    "Can I ask some questions?" he said out loud.

    "Of course," said Marlowe, looking to the sky, "we have some time. Ask away."

    "What is a fragment, and why did it make my daughters glow like that? And why did that make them heretics? Why did they have to die even though they never said a word against the church? What did they do wrong?"

    "It''s not because of anything they did, I promise you. Have you ever heard about Nexus, or Phillip the Younger before those men came to your village?" Harrence shook his head. Those names meant nothing to him, except they had something to do with why his girls were buried.

    "A fragment of sun is a holy artifact. Its light can counter the darkness that surrounds the worst monsters. It reveals lies and inspires hope. It also awakens latent talent for the Spiritual Arts. That''s why it made your children glow: it was calling them to become disciples."

    "My girls? We''ve never had anything like that in our families. We''re just ˇ­ farmers." He looked down at Brynn and Yara and remembered their restless escapades. Even dead they weren''t easy to tie down.

    "And that," interrupted Marlowe, "is exactly the problem." She slipped on her undergarments under the towel, then tossed it aside to don a kirtle laced tightly up one side. She was thirty-ish and handsome, and if it weren''t for the tone of her limbs he''d never guess she was a trained warrior.

    "Nations depend on disciples to keep monsters under control. To get disciples, they pay Enclave. Enclave anoints disciples from the First Families. The First Families control all senior posts in the church, including Leadership. And Leadership dispatches disciples to the nations.

    "Then, along comes Brother Phillip. A boy of unknown parentage. Peerless in the arts. Inventive. Likable. And he starts telling everyone disciples can come from anywhere. He sets up a school to recruit and train them. That''s how Nexus started."

    "So this Phillip guy stirred their pot, threatened their power," said Harrence, "threatened their money. This is his fault. If he hadn''t messed with them, the church wouldn''t be on a rampage."

    Ma''Tocha joined them, dressed in kirtle and fine boots, and began to braid Marlowe''s hair with ribbons. "Nexus disciples are out in the world hunting monsters. Enclave is hunting children. That should be enough to tell you who is right and who is wrong."

    "Aren''t you an Enclave disciple, Ma''Tocha? If they''re so bad, why are you one of them?"

    "They threw me out," she said pointedly, "and every other practitioner who wouldn''t put Leadership before their duty to Olyon."

    Marlowe added, "We were on our way to meet up with Brother Phillip so he could restore Ma''s powers, but we couldn''t leave Dace without looking into this. We''re sorry about your girls, but Brother Phillip isn''t the one to blame."

    Later, as the sun neared the horizon, Ma''Tocha sat next to him. "Harrence, if you come with us tonight you will face the men who killed your girls. I need to know you won''t do anything violent or insulting without my permission. All of our lives depend on it. Swear it before the sun."

    She took a short wooden dowel from the inside of one sleeve and gave the ends a twist. From a seam, like peeking through a cracked door to view a room of infinite light, waves came pouring out in silver, white, blue and other colors, filling their camp with a mantle of divine presence. Where the light touched him Harrence felt exposed, like skin was not enough to repel the eternal eyes that surely watched them all.

    If he lied, the light would know. If he wanted to go along with Ma''Tocha and not be left behind to watch the appalons then he had to have resolve. He mustn''t spoil their plans. He would have to trust the ex-disciple''s judgment.

    If those were the conditions for getting justice for his family, then that was what he would have to do. He cast about for his girls but they weren''t in the camp at the moment. Perhaps they''d gone ahead.

    "I''ll do as you say, and not take any action against those men until you tell me to. I''ll be as polite as I know how. I''ll even smile at them if I have to. Just promise me you''ll try to get justice for my family."

    The light remained steady, which everyone took as a sign his promises were true.

    Ma snapped the lantern shut to hide the fragment''s light. "We leave in an hour," she told Marlowe, "see that he''s ready."

    Marlowe had him rinse off in the creek and sat him down again. She selected a fistful of face paints and brushes from her boxes.

    "Wait! I thought you said you weren''t going to make me look like a woman!"

    "Don''t worry," she laughed, "the men in Kashmar wear color on their faces all the time. We want to be sure they can''t recognize you." She spread fine powders over his eyes and touched his lips with a stick daubed in red. He made different faces as she worked, which he learned was something people did when they put on makeup. When she was done with him, she held up the silver mirror so he could see himself.

    "I don''t recognize myself," he said in awe, "who is this fancy man? I don''t know if I can pretend to be Kashmari. I''ve never even met one."

    "You won''t have to pretend. Don''t volunteer anything about yourself. If they ask, tell them the truth: you''re a farmer. We hired you to carry things and watch the animals. We dressed you like a Kashmari because it''s fashionable, and you haven''t yet made peace with it. If they laugh at you it''s a good sign. It means they believe you."

    The thought they might be playing an elaborate joke on him stung his pride. But he had to admit, the fellow in the mirror was quite something to look at. The lines of his side-hairs were clean and dramatic, and the streaks of light color made him look distinguished. The red eyelids were a warning, and Marlowe had done something to thin his lips into a crueler line.

    He scowled into the mirror and his expression barely changed. It was a good face for walking among the enemy.

    "Callie will dress you. Now hurry up!"

    ? ? ?

    By the time the sun touched the west horizon, Mystical Songstress Trina and her crew of four (three sisters and their doubtfully Kashmari hireling) had invited themselves to the soldiers'' celebration. "Trina" (Dash) had a surprisingly high singing voice. She sang and shimmied for the soldiers as they clapped to the music. "Young Sister" (Marlowe) played nickleharp, a stringed instrument she laid across her knees and bowed with one hand while she worked the frets with the other. "Youngest Sister" (Callie) played flute. Both of the younger fighters sang harmonies at times. Ma''Tocha played "Oldest Sister", and kept an eye on the men to ensure they didn''t get too free with her traveling family.

    The act was surprisingly good.

    And Harrence? He had two tiny cymbals, one in each hand. When Trina pointed at him he struck them together with exaggerated motions for tiny ting!, and the soldiers would laugh.

    <blockquote>

    There once was a girl from Morilart,

    Who turned kissing the boys into an art.

    When she was done,

    And had all her fun,

    She kicked the poor lads in their soft parts. [ting!]

    Along came the knight from Molise,

    In armor of bronze and cerise.

    She tried the same trick,

    She gave him the kick,

    And broke her leg bone on his codpiece! [ting!]

    </blockquote>

    Hilarious noise erupted from the room.

    I''m clowning for the people who killed my family, he thought.

    On the way into town, he had seen the blackened skeleton in the square, on its knees amidst a pile of ash and dismally smoking coals, a man who had been lit by the fragment. A man they had burned. A man who had been special and never known until the day soldiers came to his village to kill him for it. Harrence wanted to tie the soldiers down and see them burn.

    When the song was mercifully over Marlowe set a new mood with her nickleharp while the remaining women mixed with the soldiers. The food was whatever the villagers could cook on short notice, the drink was small beer. Mouths ate, drank, and bragged while the locals stayed away in droves. Only the headman was there, seated next to the priest, watching over the assembly with sickened eyes.

    With his mood so dangerous, and so many weapons near the hands of trained soldiers, Harrence didn''t dare interact with the heretic-hunters. He filled jugs and carried plates, and avoided talking to anyone.

    "Defender of Pure Faith!" Callie had seated herself near the priest to flatter him. "That''s a grand title! How long have you been doing that?"

    "Not long." The priest belched politely. "It''s a new, elite position. There are only six of us entrusted with this holy task. We''re blessed to be of service to Olyon."

    Callie sipped beer from a cup she held with two hands. The gesture made her look small. "That doesn''t sound like enough people to protect the whole country."

    "Dace is just the start." The priest''s eyes had wandered from Callie''s face to her chest. "We''ll cleanse all of Tenobre one day. You''ll see, my dear! Leadership knows what they''re doing. They put the most zealous in charge."

    Harrence took the empty pitcher from their table and left Callie to her interrogations. Six teams, all hunting innocents. Six priests with fragments to find potential competitors to Enclave. One hundred twenty soldiers.

    "You! Kashmari! Our pitchers are empty!" Only eight soldiers remained in town, just as Ma''Tocha had counted, so one of the long tables in the headman''s meeting room was enough to seat them all. They didn''t act like horrible people. There was some rough joking but no violence, and there weren''t any bloodthirsty accounts of what they had done that day. They seemed like men anywhere having a drink after a good day''s work.

    Some of them talked about their families. This one had a wife and children of his own. That one had a girl he''d left behind, but he doubted she''d wait for him. Another had a father who was ill.

    Did Ma''Tocha mean to kill them all?

    The doubt had barely formed in Harrence''s mind when, on the table where a centerpiece should be, the Burnt Man from the square appeared with a suddenness that could only be attributed to the otherworldly. His head inched up to face his blackened skull at Harrence, charred flesh crackling like dry leaves. Empty sockets. Black cracked and ragged teeth. No breath. Residual heat bled from its bones into the mugs of beer.

    Harrence''s heart beat once. Then again. He blinked, and the Burned Man was gone. His breath was back, as was all the noise of the room.

    "Kashmari!" It was Ma''Tocha, calling him to the kitchen. He went, carrying all the pitchers.

    The ex-disciple pulled him aside to where the keg was. "May I use this?" She held his little jug in her hand, the one he had kept hidden in his scarce baggage. The bottle that could give him peace. He had pressed the berries as dead Brynn had shown him, mixed the juice with milk of scarlet thistle and rind of bitterest lime, then seasoned it with bark from a rare and valuable spice tree collected illicitly at night. A few pinches of pickling agent catalyzed the drink into deadly poison. A dip would make you drowse. A draft would make you dead.

    Brynn straddled the keg like a horse and smiled at him in approval. Yara rode the barrel behind her and kicked her legs back and forth. The potion wasn''t meant for him. It was for them. Harrence took the jug from Ma''Tocha and broke the waxen seal. He emptied it equally into the three pitchers. One by one, he topped them with beer under the glad eyes of his daughters.

    "I''ll take these," said Ma, "you get the door and take up your post."

    Harrence went out the front double doors and, using a thong of monster leather, tied the handles firmly together. It wouldn''t stop soldiers determined to escape, but it would slow them down while they were forced to break the doors or saw their way through tough leather. He went around to a side door of the gathering room and did the same. That left the kitchen door, which opened to a small herb garden. Harrence hoisted himself to the low roof over the kitchen, where he found his bow and quiver right where he''d left it. The broad points had been replaced with wicked-looking bodkins, hardened by a disciple''s arts but not blessed.

    The music started up again, muted through the kitchen roof, a famous drinking song that required a pull after each verse. Harrence''s heart was beating like anything, harder than hammers, faster than bees'' wings. He knelt on the roof and waited, breathing through the thunder in his chest.

    The change in mood began with a sudden, startled silence. The music stopped. Something made of clay was dashed to the ground and broken. Silence turned to alarm, alarm became panic, panic rushed the doors but was too weak on drugged beer to break them down. One man thought to try the side door, and then the kitchen. The headman stumbled into the garden, fell over his own feet, and cracked his head painfully against the planters. He was of no concern to Harrence. Ma''Tocha said he could live, that he was helpless to stop the hunters as the rest of the village. Harrence stayed his hand.

    The second man to enter the garden was in worse shape than the first. He left the house reeling, tripped over the sprawling headman and sprawled himself out on the garden path with a pained ooph. He was so much like a wounded deer, Harrence didn''t hesitate to fly an arrow at his back. The bronze bodkin point was heavy and the shaft entered him low, at the kidneys, deep enough to bleed him but not enough to run him through. The armor was doing its job. His quarry tried to stand but was too poisoned and wounded to stay on his feet. He fell twice more. Harrence lined up his next arrow more carefully, and this time the shaft nailed the soldier''s head to the ground.

    Nobody else tried to escape that way. Harrence waited until the house was silent and climbed down. Carefully, so as not to disturb the dead any more than necessary, he pulled the arrows from the soldier''s body. Good bronze was costly. Bronze that was hard enough to pierce armor was twice as dear.

    Dash (still dressed as Trina) came through the kitchen door, clapped Harrence on the shoulder to see him in one piece, and gave the dead soldier a quick search. A few small articles found their way into his skirt pockets. Then, all traces of feminine bearing gone, he grabbed headman by his collar and dragged him inside, half-awake, meekly struggling.

    "Bring the appalons around," he told Harrence in passing, "we won''t be staying long. And take theirs while you''re at it."

    It took time to bring the mounts around to the front of the headman''s house. The only mount belonging to the heretic-hunters was the Priest''s, and she didn''t want to come. Harrence had to lure her out with generous offerings of apple. By the time he had them ready to go, Ma''Tocha had the priest tied up like a sack of vegetables, and draped him over the appalon''s back. They put the town behind them to make a straight line for the hilltop road.

    Harrence got one look into the meeting room, a long look. The headman was asleep in the head chair, head lolling and mouth snoring.

    Everyone else in the room was dead.

 Hunters & Heretics (II)

    Hunters & Heretics (II)

    "Where are you taking us, Harrence?"

    Harrence didn''t know. His girls were far ahead of him, casting back and forth like a pair of wolves, merging into the landscape for a while and then popping up again, grinning and waving him in. They were looking for the right spot. It needed either high ground or an expanse of trees. It had to be close to the firebreak, and it needed a good source of dry wood. That''s what Ma''Tocha said she wanted. Harrence''s craft girls would provide.

    The farmer braided as he rode, long stems and rows of tiny Bardiya''s Blossoms. He had a chain of them many meters long now. Yara had pointed them out, and he had set to collecting them ever since, enough miniature trumpet blooms to fill a pillow to bursting.

    "Harrence!" Ma''Tocha was getting impatient.

    "We''re still looking for what you want. Don''t worry! I''m confident we''ll find a place." They were well south of the town where they had seized the priest and killed his soldiers, had passed from its outlying farms into the coppiced wood that separated it from the next township. They would find what they needed here for sure.

    Somewhere behind Harrence and Ma''Tocha, the priest was riding his appalon bound and gagged, eyes by turn begging or threatening. Harrence wondered why they were keeping him alive if they weren''t going to ask him questions. Instead, they hauled him like cargo. Weren''t they supposed to be collecting intelligence?

    There was a new word he had learned, or anyway, an old word put to new use. He had taken in a lot of new words in his few days with the ex-disciple and her followers. They used a language that sounded like Unity but sometimes wasn''t, not the way he knew it. Intelligence. Textual. Mendicant. Moral calculus. Phenomena. Doctrine. And, they knew a lot of scripture. Whole chapters came out of Ma''Tocha word for word as he had heard it in the temple.

    Their conversation was fascinating, but there were times he couldn''t follow. When that happened he only had to remember that Enclave was burning children to death, and the people he was with were trying to prevent children from being burned to death. It was simpler that way. Easier. It was only right to stick with the protectors.

    "This might be your spot," he told Ma''Tocha. Indeed, Brynn was waving at him from the edge of the woods in big sweeps of her arms. To the south were fields belonging to the next town. To the east was a steep climb up to the hilltop road. And next to Brynn, piled high by some industrious farmer who had cleared the local underbrush, was a significant pile of dried wood. Most of it was branches and vines and such, but there were thin logs also, too crooked or dead from summer''s heat to be useful as anything but fuel.

    "Good job," said the ex-disciple. "It''s perfect."

    The sun was well past its zenith when they tied the priest in his place on the pyre. They had cut the central pole themselves with a bronze axe, or Dash had, complaining the whole time about how much harder it was to do chores like that without the benefits of prayer. They got the pole stuck firmly into the ground, the priest tied to the pole, and all the logs, branches, briars, vines, leaves, and weeds stacked tight around him. It wasn''t until then Ma''Tocha pulled the rag from his mouth and gave him his first sip of water. He drank greedily from the leather waterskin, like a baby animal on the teat.

    "Let''s start with your name," she said when he was done, "and where you''re from."

    "Maxum Namalous. I''m a priest from Johnson''s Crossing. You have no idea what you''ve done. I''m a Defender of Pure Faith. I take my orders straight from Leadership, from the president himself! They called me to serve Olyon. Me! And you''re interfering! They''ll hunt you like rats. Burn me and you''ll burn in turn! God''s justice will find you all!"

    "Shut it, or I''ll shut you!" She shook the gag at him. "You''re going to die today, so make your peace with it. If you answer my questions then you''ll die quick. Piss me off, and I''ll burn you alive. I don''t have to tell you how horrible that is, do I? You''ve done it plenty of times to others, so you know how it goes. The pleading. The begging. The screaming pain. That''s what''ll happen to you if you make this difficult."

    "My heart is pure. God will grant me a blissful next life, to reward me for my service in this one!" His words were brave but his body was shaking. Sweat ran down his face to darken the neck of his cassock.

    "Nobody who burns children alive gets to claim righteousness. How many people did you kill?"

    "They were heretics. They deserved to die."

    "How many!" Ma''Tocha signaled Callie, who held a torch close to the brush.

    "Five! Only Five! But that''s my job! Find and eliminate heretics! Leadership commands it!"

    "Whose idea was it to burn them alive?"

    "We were told to make a show of it! Why wouldn''t we burn them? Don''t you understand? I''m helping you people! If we let heretics run around doing whatever they want, they''ll pollute our church! God will turn His back on us! Where would we be then? Put the torch away, please!" He struggled against his ties, but the leather thongs only bit deeper into his skin. His hands were turning purple.

    As pleading wasn''t working, the priest turned to bargaining. "I get it. I do. You only see the killing and you want to get justice for them. That''s admirable. But Enclave would never command something like this if it wasn''t for the greater good. If we don''t root out the heretics now they could take over, like they did in Lavradio." The priest became more desperate as he spoke. "They could ruin the church, steal it from the five families who have guided the continent for hundreds of years. You didn''t know. You thought we were madmen, or soldiers gone to banditry. Let me go, and I''ll forget your face. It''ll be like it never happened. I promise!"

    "Where did you get this?" She held up the mysterious lantern, closed to keep the light inside.

    "You shouldn''t touch that! It''s a holy relic, handed to us by President Phrenos himself!"

    "How many are there?" When the priest didn''t answer, Callie lowered the torch into the dry brush again. "How many!"

    "Six! One for each Defender. They''re dangerous, you know. It can burn you if you aren''t careful."

    "Oh, I know," said Ma''Tocha. "I have one just like it. Where did they come from?"

    "Liar! It''s a relic of the Chosen. He hid them away for times of need." Quieter, he added, "Leadership entrusted them to us."

    "Is that what Leadership told you?" Ma''Tocha looked at the condemned priest with pity. "Are you sure they tell you the truth? About anything?"

    "Doubter! Whisperer of lies! Why would you have one?"

    "You haven''t figured out who I am? I''m the heretic Ma''Tocha, Scourge of Bandits." She showed him her fragment lantern, of a different wood than his but remarkably the same. She opened it briefly as proof of what it was, and let the light spill out brighter than the sun. "Unlike the fools in Enclave, I know what the fragments are for. All of us who do the work know."

    She twisted the lantern closed with a snap and regarded Maxum, the desperate and confused man she intended to kill. She already knew most of what he''d said so far from looking at his journal and other effects, but she didn''t have the information she wanted.

    She held a full waterskin to his mouth and gave him another long drink, as much as he wanted. She waited, and let him threaten her with a variety of violent ends. She waited until the worst of his fury was spent.

    "I know what Leadership saw in you, why they chose you over all the other priests in Dace. You have a reputation for being harsh on unbelievers, and you trust Leadership without condition. You''re so eager, so zealous, so faithful, you wouldn''t question anything they told you. You''ll be faithful to the end.

    "Me, I''m just a defrocked disciple, with no prayers. What do you think would happen if I chased after the other defenders? Do you think I can kill them all?"

    "You''re doomed no matter what you do," said the priest, his face wet. "They''ll hunt you down and kill you. You won''t stand a chance."

    "Probably, but I have to try. I am a heretic, after all. Now, I can go wandering around all over Dace, spreading my heresy wherever I go, until I get lucky and find one of your fellow defenders. Or, you could tell me who they are and where they''ve gone and I''ll head straight for them." The lantern was open again. "Which course do you prefer?"

    The priest smiled. His life would end here, that was certain, but he had a chance to send the dreaded Scourge to her demise. Without her disciple powers, she would be easy to kill and the lost fragments could be recovered. This was good.

    From that point on he answered her questions. Who the other defenders were. Where they had been sent. How they communicated with Leadership. When they were expected to meet up again. Everything she needed for her fruitless pursuit. Her quest would kill her.

    He gladly took Ma''Tocha''s sword into his heart, at peace with knowing he had served Olyon to his last breath. And, he never had to feel the pain of burning.

    ? ? ?

    Harrence stood with the party of the victors and watched Defender Maxum''s final pyre. Its smoky column was a signal flag, a call to Maxum''s twelve remaining spears.

    "I can''t believe he told you everything."

    Ma''Tocha shook her empty waterskin. "Interrogation is a simple task when prisoners are drugged by water flask."

    "A drug that makes them talk," he said, "I never heard of such a potion."

    "The opposite," said Marlowe, "it makes them listen. They''ll believe whatever they''re told provided nothing said is too outlandish or too bold."

    "The trick is to bend their minds a little," added Dash, "without breaking them. Convince them talking is in their interest. Give them enough reasons, and let them reason the rest."

    Brynn and Yara stood near Harrence, close enough to hold his hands if they weren''t specters, and watched the pyre with solemn faces. Five more fragments, and defenders with them. There were many innocents left to save. Yara pointed in the distance (though Harrence had seen them first) to a clump of men quick-marching in the distance.

    "They''re coming," he told his new companions. "Put this on the fire when they get close." He offered up his length of flowers, long enough to coil like rope. "The stems throw out an irritating smoke."

    Dash, the fastest of them all, was bait to pull their foes into the trap. He took the poisonous coil and waited by the fire, while Ma''Tocha and the rest retreated to the wood. Men on foot were slow, but they knew their priest was missing, and here they saw a pyre with a human form inside it. Their pace picked up, and still Dash waited, pretended not to notice them until he knew for sure the soldiers spied him.When they came close he turned and fled, but first he tossed aside the irritating stems into the fire.

    The soldiers chased him, directly into the smoke which made them cough and burned their eyes.

    "Get him!" ordered their leader, "I want him alive!"

    Half-blinded soldiers entered the wood of coppiced trees, their many-fingered branches furling out their summer leaves. Between the unfamiliar forest and their teary smoke-stung eyes, the soldiers never saw the trip-lines until the first few fell. The second rank was met with javelins, thrown with deadly aim and force by atlatl. Three men went down, and then two more from a second round. Ma''Tocha''s team turned tail before the rest could catch them, and ran to where Harrence and his bow were waiting.

    Deeper in the wood there stood a group of trees allowed to flourish, their grander trunks grown wide to yield broad planks and sturdy beams. Harrence had his stand in the first of these, high above the forest floor. As long as Ma''Tocha and her fighters stood, he could safely shoot the enemy. His first shaft flew beyond the leader to strike the man behind him, the next one farther still into the helmet of another. Their armor was good quality and neither man was killed, but both of them lay staggered and half-blinded on the forest floor. Three more javelins took down their leader, one each in leg and chest and neck. The spear against his heart was turned away, and the leg wound was minor, but the point run through his throat was the end of him.

    With odds now four-on-two, Ma''Tocha and her bulwark closed the gap and finished them with sword and shield. Harrence thought his work was done until a motion, barely seen, attracted his attention. An arrow fleeter than his own blurred the air and only reflex saved him. He turned in time to take the broadhead in his arm instead of heart, but the impact threw him from his perch and sent him down and down and down until he hit the earth.

    ? ? ?

    When Harrence woke up he found his legs were tied to keep him in a saddle, badly numbed to sleeping and immobile. His bow arm folded over, held up by a sling of cloth, hurt in ways he''d never felt. The forearm bone was cracked, he was sure of that, the muscle deeply torn. The wound was packed with healing herbs but burning, an infection spreading. Death was in his blood and stalking.

    North. They headed north in darkness, instead of south as planned. Instead of hiding in the eastern wilderness, Ma''Tocha took the Dacian roads, the roads that led to bigger towns. And past those towns lay cities on the coast. She aimed to get them all, every fragment, every priest, prayer or no prayer, help or no help, despite whatever enemy may stalk them. That woman was determined.

    "You bounced," said Marlowe, who rode beside him. "We wouldn''t move you typically but ˇ­"

    "We''re on the run," he said, "I get it. But are you sure that it''s okay when someone''s been unconscious for a day, to have the first words they hear on waking be: you bounced?"

    She laughed but didn''t answer. "This is going to hurt," she warned, and loosened the ropes that held him. New pain came creeping in, a thousand stabbings needle-thin. Several times, he nearly lost his seat but stayed upright atop his appalon by holding fast with his draw hand. Soon his arm was cramped, and his fingers ached. But what was one more pain to him?

    The night was not a desperate one, but they refused to stop for rest. They filled the waterskins while appalons drank from crossing streams, and ate from purloined stores that came from Maxum and his men.

    "They weren''t soldiers," Marlowe filled him in, "but mercenaries. The Hyskos Grand Company, have you heard of them?" Harrence hadn''t, peasant that he was. "Their tattoos gave them away. The families sometimes use them. Bodyguards, caravan protection, and sometimes jobs less savory."

    "Like dressing up as Dacian soldiers."

    "That''s right. And killing unsuspecting citizens."

    "But I don''t understand," he said, "if Enclave has so many mighty bulwarks, why employ a mercenary?"

    "Because they haven''t trained a proper bulwark since Sacred Blade reformed the practice. Heritage disciples hated training with men beneath their station, and worthy men refused to be their meat-shields. When Mobeen gave up his post of lector and ventured back into the field, the classes stopped. That was years ago. And recently, the job of bulwark has had a very poor survival rate."

    "More monsters. Less training."

    Harrence felt his wound was wearing on him, draining all his strength as their mounts plodded on by darkened road. By dawn he was sick and seeing visions, not only of his dead daughters but also his wife, three years now in her grave. They waited for him patiently at every bridge and sudden turning, and by every distance marker. They stood beside the yearning silent landmarks. He kept on riding so he could see them, again and again and again.

    When camp was made he was barely conscious. They laid him down and put some liquid in him, steeped with bitter herbs to fight his fever. He was a burden now, he knew, and not worth keeping.

    "Leave me here. I can''t help you," Harrence begged them, in a moment of full waking, "I''ll slow you down and get you caught or killed."

    Ma''Tocha''s face emerged above him, soft brown eyes so full of care, not at all her fighting self. "We''re safe. You should sleep. Let''s see what evening brings."

    His daughters squatted next to him, their silent chins atop their folded knees, the young one and the old one paired, as they''d always been. He imagined their stolen futures, filled with light and all the blessed disciples'' power, spear and shield and hands that healed, set loose upon the world, the great disciples they could have been if Enclave hadn''t murdered them.

    If he must die then it was good to die for them and others of their kind, to save the ones who might save all the world.Stolen story; please report.

    ? ? ?

    Taylor opened the usual meeting room in his mind, vast but separate from his carefully guarded private spaces. It was a temperate forest dressed in fall''s golden hues, trees talking to each other on a stiff evening wind. Beneath the bright canopy, the wind was reduced to a pleasant breeze rich with scents of soil, leaf decay, over-ripened fruit, and hidden mushrooms. He flopped on his back and rolled about, squirmed back and forth to scratch all the hard-to-reach places grunting out his pleasure all the while.

    In this place, he took the form of a futobel, a six-legged mammal similar to a pig with a short trunk for digging and broad antlers for fending off predators. Futobels were clever beasts, more powerful than their short stature would suggest, and very tasty on account of all the fruit and mushrooms they ate. This particular futobel had four gleaming stars suspended between his antlers, just like Taylor''s personal symbol.

    It was important to have an avatar when speaking on the wind. They allowed for good expression of one''s intent while hiding what one wished to keep private. If an avatar was injured or destroyed the damage to the owner should be minimal. Taylor would only summon friends to this space, but even great friends sometimes brought bad things with them into thoughtspace.

    Futobel-Taylor shook himself clean and chose a patch of sun where his coat and stars would best reflect the light. He sat on his haunches regally, and one by one he called his remote allies to the forest.

    First came Leila in the shape of an antelope with a fawn and black coat, long legs, and two golden spirals of horn on her head.

    Then came Edos, who appeared as an eight-foot-tall giant made of white stone. Taylor doubted the giant''s face was Edos'' own: it looked too much like the young man''s late teacher, Mobeen the Sacred Blade.

    Next was Souzane, a magnificent bird with bright plumage and a cruelly hooked beak.

    Last came the obsidian woman with four arms and four curved swords, Ma''Tocha, Scourge of Bandits.

    Each of them was a defrocked disciple. They had enough control over their spirit to join Taylor if he reached out to them first, but they were barred from the church''s prayers. Currently, they were spread out all over Tenobre and trying to meet up with him to be anointed in the Nexus church. But travel was difficult when one was hunted by the church, and doubly so when one was famous.

    They gathered like this every third sundown to exchange news.

    "You must be running hard west now," said Bird-Souzane, "the hour is later than last time."

    "Did they give you any trouble at the gate?" wondered Giant-Edos.

    "I have an urgent matter I need help with," interrupted Obsidian-Ma, "and some ugly news. Enclave is using a fragment of sun to hunt and kill people with talent." She told them about Harrance''s village and her heist of their fragment.

    "He only joined us to get justice for his family, but now he''s wounded. I''ll leave him behind if I have to, but if there''s anything someone can do to help us ˇ­ "

    "I''m all the way in Gallia," said Edos.

    "Hyskos," said Leila.

    "I''m on the far edge of Kravikas," said Souzane, "but that still puts Brother Phillip closest."

    "If I dispatch a team now, they can be there in ˇ­ maybe four days? Can your new friend hold out that long?"

    "Not if we have to keep moving." Obsidian-Ma''s frustration and sadness burned around her in a writhing red aura. "The infection will spread and he will die unless we amputate. It''ll take months to restore his arm, even with the best healer support. That assumes we aren''t caught and killed."

    The other disciples had suggestions for herbs and poultices that might beat back the infection, but there was nothing better than holy prayers. Futobel-Phillip looked to the sky and tuned out the discussion. To have prayers one had to be anointed. One had to take the Disciple''s Oath in the light of a fragment of sun, be witnessed by three disciples, and be accepted by them.

    Instead of sending one disciple to aid Ma''Tocha''s party and then escort them to the desert, Taylor could send a cadre of three to anoint her. While they were at it they could help her hunt down the rest of the fragments. Enclave could have as many as six in their possession. Well five, now that Ma''Tocha had stolen one of them. They all had to be recovered, to keep Enclave from using them to kill their competition.

    "It''s too bad you can''t anoint her from a distance," said Bird-Souzane, "that would solve her problems instantly. It would solve all our problems." It would, too. With their disciple powers restored it wouldn''t matter how hard Enclave chased them. They would be too strong to be stopped by scouting parties, and too fast to get caught by armies. These weren''t new recruits of uncertain character. All of them except Edos were seasoned professionals, and Edos had been trained and anointed by the greatest monster hunter in recent times.

    The words "anoint from a distance" and "solve all our problems" stuck in Taylor''s head. Why couldn''t they anoint at a distance? They needed a fragment (which Ma had) and three disciple witnesses (which Taylor could produce). They could at least try it.

    No, that wasn''t right. He didn''t have to try. Taylor had written Nexus''s Book of Prayers, to replace the magic origin no longer available to them since the Great Defrocking. He had defined the powers and limits of each prayer for their church. He was the one who decided the rules and he could do anything he thought was right. There were good reasons behind the details of the anointment ceremony and he wasn''t willing to change them, not even to save a valued life. But none of those rules demanded participants be physically present.

    Futobel-Phillip whirled in circles seven times, his six little hooves kicking leaves and dirt high into the air. He stopped suddenly, and spun the other way seven times. He stopped again and snorted happily to see all the dust and leaves get picked up by the wind and carried away. His four stars throbbed with excitement. He didn''t need to change any rules to help his fellow disciples regain their powers. He only needed to push the boundaries a little.

    "I know what to do! Follow me!" he trumpeted and took off running through the forest. The place had grown, both with his frequent visits and the influence of his many visitors. It had become so real it was at times impossible to tell it wasn''t real. The avatars kept pace behind the beast, dodging trees and climbing hills until Phillip ran to where his mental world ended, on a spit of rock that jutted out over the nothingness that was the space beyond. A world of clouds at the edge of his imagination, soft void, gentle chaos, a place of forever falling. (If anyone should step into the vast void beyond they would find themselves against a wall. The infinity beyond was pure imagery, without space, a trompe-l''?il painting.)

    There, on the spit of land that jutted over infinity, the futobel halted and said, "we need a proper temple for this." The beast ran in circles again, this time in very large ones. He grew bigger with every turn, his circles wider. The debris dug up by his heels was hard rock that flew in the air, merged, and came down as blocks on top of other blocks. A mound began to rise, and then benches, and fluted columns, and then a dome perched on top of the columns. The temple had no walls. The stone was ancient, softened only a little by their millennia of solitude over the cloudy realm. The inside of the dome was tiled in brilliant blue lapis, specks of bright pyrite dappling above like stars. Beneath the dome was an ancient altar, and a seven-pointed star of marble rested upon it.

    "Brother Darius, come forth! Thalia and Montague and Hypha, come forth! Mahzad come forth! Brother Mataba come forth! Your witness is required!"

    "All right all right," said a cranky arkto, a massive six-legged ursine creature white as snow. He too sat on his haunches and stuffed his mouth full of berries. Mataba was Taylor''s most experienced healer, re-anointed as a disciple in the Reformed Church of Olyon. "I can''t sleep in these carriages anyway. The younger ones will need a minute."

    Darius, Thalia, Montague, Mahzad, and Hypha all appeared as indistinct clouds, but gradually resolved into their various forms. Darius''s avatar looked exactly like himself. Thalia was an orange and black spotted feline. Hypha was a carving of herself made of living wood and clothed in a short dress made of spring leaves. Montague, Minty to his friends, was a giant sloth as big as Arkto-Mataba. Mazahd had not decided, and so remained a cloud. Taylor had been training them in mental techniques so they were somewhat familiar with the forest he used for meetings, but none of them had seen what lay at the farthest edge.

    The students gazed wonderingly around them. They gathered near the altar with the ex-disciples, stared up at the dome, then around at people they hadn''t met before.

    Minty-Sloth asked, "Why did you build the temple here, and not in the center?"

    "I always think of god as living beyond the edge of human knowledge," Taylor told him, "our protector against unfathomable infinities and chaos. If Olyon lives in the infinite void outside creation, shouldn''t Their temple be on the edge of that void? This is where we are closest to Them."

    The students looked like they were taking his words far too seriously, and were about to ask follow-up questions. Taylor didn''t have time for that now. "Don''t take that as gospel. Concepts of god are very personal by nature. I want you all to meet some people."

    Taylor introduced his students to the defrocked disciples. With the exception of Edos, their works were well-known in Nexus. A disciple''s deeds were recorded in The Luminous Histories, and copies of every year''s deeds were distributed to the major temples. A fraction of Enclave''s disciples were responsible for almost the entirety of Works performed, so these names were well-known to Taylor''s students. He explained their situation and what he was attempting to do.

    "That''s why I called you here, to witness and approve their anointment. You have mastered Speak On The Wind well enough to join us here."

    "Mmmph," grunted Arkto-Mataba around a mouthful of rainbow fruit plucked from the last tree at the edge of Taylor''s forest. "You only need two of us. Can I go?"

    "It''s an historic occasion, Brother Mataba. Nexus gains disciples already in the field and pushes the boundaries of our art. We gain more advantages over Enclave, without them knowing. Stay."

    The beast grumbled. "I''ll just bend reality a little, he says. I''ll plot a new future for the world, if you don''t mind, and crush Enclave and give orders." He wiped his claws onto his fur and ambled over to the temple to take a place near the altar."But I''m not a hierarch, he says, that''s too grand a title for little old me."

    The younger disciples were shocked to hear Arkto-Mataba say such things. Antelope-Leila and Bird-Souzane laughed at him. Obsidian-Ma''Tocha turned even blacker with anger. "Your mockery isn''t welcome here, Brother Mataba. He steers a course for all of Tenobre. If it weren''t for Brother Phillip the world would be torn apart by monsters while Enclave claimed we were all content to be thus eaten."

    The ursine disciple lumbered to its feet, and bowed deeply to the others. "I apologize. Especially to you, Brother Phillip. I didn''t intend to mock anyone. I only meant to complain that our Hierarch won''t admit to what he is. If he sent this old man into a pitched battle, he would go without hesitation. I only wish our leading brother would accept the title that is due to him.

    "Also," he added with a crafty smile, "as long as Phillip the Younger takes that role, it won''t fall on any of us." He scratched at his sides with long claws. "I love the world enough to serve it, but not from that great a height. Let the young chart the world''s future, I say. It will be theirs to inherit."

    Obsidian-Ma stood with both sets of arms crossed, her black anger swept away. "That''s ˇ­ a fair observation, Brother Mataba. The strongest and the most experienced disciples in Nexus are gathered here. Is there any among us who thinks they would be a better hierarch than our brother, Phillip the Younger?"

    Taylor felt a thrill of alarm. Where exactly was this conversation going?

    "Not it," said Antelope-Leila.

    "You know I don''t want it," sang Bird-Souzane.

    "Too lazy," added Arkto-Mataba.

    "Not even close," said Mobeen-Edos.

    Taylor''s anointed students Darius, Mahzad, Thalia, Hypha, and Minty took a step backward, away from the altar, all at the same time. They were clearly not interested.

    Taylor tried to stop them. "That''s not what we''re here for, people."

    Obsidian-Ma raised one hand. "All in favor of elevating Brother Phillip the Younger to Hierarch say aye."

    "Aye!" said the assembly.

    "That''s not a binding vote," Taylor scolded them, "there''s a lot of people who aren''t here."

    Obsidian-Ma smiled. "When the time comes, you will have all our votes. And we''ll sway others to your side. Not that you''ll need it."

    The other disciples nodded their agreement.

    "I appreciate the sentiment. I really do. But we''re here to solve Ma''Tocha''s immediate problem, so let''s focus on that."

    "Yes, Your Holiness!" they said in chorus.

    "I said it wasn''t binding!"

    "Sorry, Your Holiness!" they chorused again.

    "Sister Ma approach the altar!" he commanded, desperate to change the topic of conversation.

    "Yes, Your Holiness," she said, more meekly than she had ever said anything to him. She knelt before the altar and placed her two sets of palms together.

    "In the real world, open your fragment lantern. Let it shine into ˇ­," but he didn''t have to finish the sentence. The fragment''s aurora surrounded her. The avatar faded, and in its place knelt the woman herself, fortyish but strong, dusky skin and orange eyes aglow in the fragment''s light. Near her were three bulwark standing guard, and a fourth lying on the ground.

    Taylor looked around him, and he could see through all their avatars. Many of them were riding in train cars, eyes closed, heads wobbling with the motion of their travel. Mahzad and Thalia were mounted on appalons, surrounded by their bulwarks. They had been on patrol when they were called. Souzane relaxed against a rock, next to a rivulet of water.Leila was in a cave, and Edos had made a camp among evergreens.

    These were his exiles. Whether they were far away or in the next train car, they were Taylor''s people, lit by the divine impulse, trying to do a little good in the world.

    "Our religion is pretty simple," he said on inspiration. "We believe there is a divine god who made everything. We believe our souls never truly die but return to god, who sends us on to our next stage of existence. We believe we are given power to help others. All the rest is details and complications.

    "With that in mind Sister Ma''Tocha, we will hear your oath."

    Sister Ma knew the words by heart. They all did.

    <blockquote>

    I swear to walk in Olyon''s light.

    In witness, I will speak truth.

    In strife, I will stand with the innocent.

    In wealth, I will feed the hungry.

    In divine love, I will know no borders.

    I will shine his light in the dark places and recite prayers for his children.

    Let my life and death nourish his creation.

    </blockquote>

    The transformation to disciple was easy for new practitioners, a release of whatever binds this world put on their powers. For more experienced hands, re-anointment was more intense, an unexpected surge of new life in their blood. Taylor didn''t understand why it felt different. His best theory was that Enclave''s origin limited the maximum spiritual power a disciple could have, so they were feeling the true extent of their abilities for the first time.

    Ma''Tocha had to reach out to one of her bulwark for support.

    Edos was the first to speak. "Are you well, Sister Ma?"

    Ma''Tocha nodded. "I''m more than fine," she whispered, "I''m growing, I think. For years I wondered, had I hit the end? Why couldn''t I get stronger with the arts?" Her voice gained strength. "They kept us chained, didn''t they? They bound us like the healers, and they never told us."

    She turned to her fallen bulwark, the farmer she had picked up in some frontier village, and healed him with a rapid prayer. She unwrapped his wound, washed away the puss and blood with water to reveal new skin, perfect and pink.

    The once-wounded man came out of his stupor. "It doesn''t hurt," he said with wonder. If he could see all the strange avatars in Taylor''s thoughtspace watching him, he would probably faint with wonder.

    "Eat something," Disciple Ma''Tocha commanded her bulwark, "then go back to sleep. I have some things to take care of." She closed her lantern and the double vision disappeared. Once again, it was only avatars in the farthest temple.

    Futobel-Phillip trumpeted his happiness. "Who wants to go next?"

    None of the other ex-disciples could blend their local perceptions with thoughtspace like Ma''Tocha could, but she was a good teacher to them. Patiently, she coached them until each acquired the skill well enough to take their oaths. One by one, Nexus gained new disciples. It was an extraordinary day''s work.

    When they were done Taylor gave them further instructions, then dismissed all except Souzane. The two of them retreated to the forest, where she sat on a high branch and plucked cherries off the trees. For each one the colorful bird ate, she tossed one down to Futobel-Phillip. He caught them in his mouth and popped them with his molars. Sweet juice sprayed into his mouth. It was impressive how real his thoughtspace had become. His private areas were evolving the same way: his library had three floors, display cases full of mineral samples, and books that smelled like real paper.

    "You spent time with the Calique, right? The Histories say you were there for two years."

    "That''s right." She snipped the stems of several cherries with her beak and let them rain onto the futobel''s starry head. "What did you want to know?"

    "Well, I read this book by a nobleman who lived with the Calique for several years. He lived in Sand Castle for three years before they invited him to a different garden. How do I get them to trust me? I don''t think killing their monster will be enough on its own."

    "You''re right." She hop-fluttered to another swaying branch and freed more cherries to fall on him. Then she ate two clusters in a greedy gulp. "You must demonstrate you can work within their culture. I will share a technique with you, one that will put you on the path to greatness in their eyes. For a price."

    "You want to bargain with your hierarch when the future of Nexus hangs in the balance?"

    "Always get something of value for your efforts, no matter how small," quoted Bird-Souzane. "Precious few outsiders have ever been close to the Calique. I promise you this is good stuff. In return, I want you to show me something new. Something you haven''t shown the others yet."

    Taylor rummaged around the forest floor for the fallen cherries, thinking. Souzane was rather famous for her sexual appetite, but she sought intimacy more than simple carnal thrills. She could build earthworks and heal, but her works in The Luminous Histories included de-escalation, peacemaking, hostage negotiation, and ending a blood feud that spanned four generations. Souzane was a people person. She didn''t want some new cryptic prayer or secret knowledge about the world. She wanted a piece of him.

    After a good deal of contemplation, Futobel-Phillip took one of the ripe cherries from the ground and held it aloft in his trunk. With a few moments'' concentration, the fruit turned yellow like the trees around them. Against the shady forest floor, it gleamed.

    The large bird let itself down to the ground to inspect the golden fruit. "What is it?"

    "A memory," said the futobel. "A happy one."

    Bird-Souzane snapped it up in her beak and swallowed it. Then, she disappeared.

    "She should have asked what it was about."

    ? ? ?

    Souzane was on a wide terrace of an impossibly tall building. The terrace wasn''t even at the top of the building, but somewhere in the center. Yet more tower rose above them, glass skin over steel skeletons that could endure high winds and earthquakes. The view was just as amazing. The tower was one among a city of towers. Each one housed thousands of people. The city was a hundred times bigger than any she had seen, stretching for many miles, with clusters of towers (the word "skyscraper" came to her mind) sprouting here and there.

    She must be in Emristar, Phillip''s home.

    No, she reminded herself, he was Taylor DeLanion here. He had a life before my world called him away.

    The terrace had an open cooking area, seats, grass clipped short for children to play in, and trees in pots. The DeLanion family lived in the tower and had taken over this common area for a special occasion. Taylor had passed his exams and been accepted as an intern at a famous hospital, and they had come out to celebrate. He was the second-youngest medical magician in history. His adoptive mother and father were there, and their two adult children. Several family friends had shown up for him. Aunts and uncles had flown in from around the country to attend.

    Flown? Souzane looked to the sky and quickly found the telltale white lines left behind by high-altitude aircraft. She wanted to move close to the edge of the terrace and look down, but she couldn''t move away from Taylor, because it was his memory. He looked even younger than he had when she met him in Enclave.

    The entire family and all of their acquaintances were accomplished. Scientists and economists (new words to Souzane), politicians, engineers, and military officers. They were elites, of the hard-working kind.

    The DeLanions were proud of their adopted son. The father in particular kept a cloth handy to wipe his eyes. Souzane couldn''t understand the language they were speaking but she had no trouble catching their meaning. Congratulations. Good Luck. We''re so proud of you. Don''t get cocky.

    What Souzane didn''t see was any children of Taylor''s age. There were a few toddlers falling over each other on the grass, but nobody to play with the boy of the hour. He stood with the adults, talked to them like he was one of them. There were no games of pretend for this one, or bouts of tag. Perhaps that was because he didn''t play. He studied.

    The DeLanions didn''t know it then but it would be the Last Good Day with their precocious son. They would barely see him once he entered his residency. And then he would disappear, with only a note left behind to thank them for their years of care.

    I''m sorry for your loss, Souzane thought to the DeLanions, but we need him more than you do.

    ? ? ?

    Bird-Souzane was back in Taylor''s forest. Darkness was settling on the place. The brisk wind had died down to gentle brushes of air. Soon the fireflies would come out. She wiped away a single shining tear with her wing.

    "Was it sufficient?"

    "Oh yes, it was plenty," she said. There was more she could say, but she didn''t want to spoil his happy memory by pointing out all the sadness in it. "You have more than earned the secrets of the Calique. When the men challenge you, brag without shame and show them how strong you are. They love the strength of other men and think meekness is weakness.

    "When the women call you into their circle, pay careful attention to what they tell you. Ask questions before you brandish your opinions at them. They want to know you''ll consider your actions'' impact on their people, without needing to scold you like housewives."

    "Prideful with the men, thoughtful with the women. Got it."

    Bird-Souzane cawed merrily and took to the air. She circled him once, weaving among the trees with reckless speed. "The girls in the garden are really going to like you!"

    "That what now?" called Futobel-Phillip, but the bird was gone.

 Lobats Tears (I)

    Lobat''s Tears (I)

    "Anisca" (Princess Francisca, Second Princess of Lavradio)

    "There''s good soil under here." Riculta and her shovel had dug a neat square of ground to half a meter deep. "It needs work and water, but ˇ­ " The horned woman dusted her hands against the brown overalls she wore for work and smiled her hopefulness at Anisca. "Someone cultivated this place for a long time. When they left they must have seeded it with all of this."

    All of this was mischus, many hectares of it. The hardy stuff wasn''t a single plant but several kinds, succulents and thick-leaved shrubs and tall cacti that sprouted limbs without needles. The mixture was grown for appalons and gurantors. Animals grazed on the mischus and left behind droppings that were useful as fertilizer and fuel. It also held the soil in place, retained water, and was home to many small animals. The only attention it required was suppressing undesirable plants and keeping animals from overgrazing any one section. Every calique garden was surrounded by an expanse of mischus.

    Nexus had found Lobat''s Tears, an abandoned garden mentioned in Clintus''s text. The settlement was easy to find thanks to the tall butte standing over it. There were a handful of such massive stone towers in that part of the desert, standing like sentinels in a line ten kilometers long. Nexus sent fast riders to all of them to search for the (possibly apocryphal) lost garden and found what they were looking for in under a day. Mahzad and Riculta had been dispatched to take a closer look at it, while the advanced riders kept advancing. Anisca, unwilling to be left behind while Nexus made use of her personal farmer, insisted on coming along.

    She had endured hours at a jolting pace by appalon. After days of riding pent up in a train car, and now enhanced by the spiritual arts for speed and endurance, her animal was enthusiastic about the excursion. But it had never been trained as a bulwark mount so its stride was a horrible jarring wobbly experience. Brother Mahzad and his two bulwark, her and Riculta''s minders for the trip, rode animals with months of experience handling the enhancements, and they looked quite comfortable, gliding smoothly over the desert without any of the side-to-side pitching. Soon they were deep in the desert while the trains were far behind, resting on the main trade road until they received word from Mahzad that Lobat''s Tears was habitable.

    Now she was too sore and too hot, but at least she wasn''t bored. How could she be, after finding a Calique garden, mysteriously abandoned? Lobat''s Tears had been easy to identify because it was so thoroughly shaped by human hands. The butte was three hundred imposing meters tall. The first hundred meters of rise was a steep slope of scree and fractured sandstone, and above that it was a vertical rise to a hard capstone layer on top. The base of the butte was roughly triangular, the longest side being nearly a thousand meters wide and faced east by south-east into the rising sun. On the sunrise face, the scree slope had been conspicuously carved out, leaving a sheer vertical surface for the entire height of the tower.

    The dwellings of Lobat''s Tears were carved directly into the face of the butte. It was divided into three massive sections, center, east, and west, each one seven stories tall. Apartments, shared kitchens, meeting halls, storehouses, shrines, and who knew what else were piled up in layers. The first two levels were grand facades, carved with palm trees and birds and garden plants and desert animals. The higher levels were plainer, deeply set back into the rock, the rooms smaller, and appeared to be living areas. The three sections were separated by thick boundaries of stone, narrowed at the upper stories to form gigantic arches. The grand lower facades were arch-shaped, as were the progressively smaller colonnades lining the upper walkways. Wherever there were windows, they too were arches. The overall impression was three giant arches, themselves made of progressively smaller arches, with yet more arches set inside them.

    On the desert floor, a tall berm surrounded the area immediately around the town, likely built from all the spoils left over from the town''s excavation. It enclosed the entire area where the oasis had been, nearly a square kilometer butted up against the butte. The mischus grew everywhere, inside the berm, over the berm, and beyond the berm to a distance of nearly two kilometers.

    "They faced their town into the sun," she observed, "didn''t they get hot?"

    "The garden would need full sunlight," said Riculta.

    Mahzad pointed at the upper levels, the ones that looked like apartments. "See how the higher levels are recessed so deeply? It shelters them from the hottest part of the day. They could also hang up cloth to block the sun. In the winter you could take them down to get the full sun. Desert temperature swings are supposed to be huge."

    By unspoken agreement, the group moved towards the base of the butte and the town. There were very few plants there, and sections of bare pavement peeked through the layers of dirt. It looked like a broad avenue once ran along the face of the town with a large square in the center, now covered by several centimeters of blown sand and dirt. The grandest facade in town overlooked the square. Predictably, there was a large well in the center. The low stone wall looked like it had been bored from a single block of gray rock, topped with a cover of the same red sandstone that towered above them. The cover was held down by more rocks, and a thin layer of dirt.

    They cleared the rocks and dirt, and moved the stone, to find a perfectly dry hole six meters deep. The first meter and a half was solid gray stone, an artifact of art, either ancient or disciple. The rest was made of bricks without mortar, slightly spaced apart. The water should have seeped in freely through those cracks, but the only thing at the bottom of the well was little skeletons, remains of animals that had burrowed in or fallen in and died there in the dark. Poor things.

    Mahzad knelt by the well and put his hand flat on the ground. A rapid prayer spilled from his lips but his mind was far away, delving into the earth, spreading outward to sense what was below them. He stayed that way for a few minutes. During that time his bulwark faced away, scanning the mischus that used to be Lobat''s garden, watching for threats.

    The abandoned town offered good soil and ready-made shelter, but what they needed most of all was water. Without it, nothing else was possible. Disciples could pull water out of thin air by condensing what was already there. It looked miraculous, but the amount of air they would have to process would be enormous. Anisca started scratching out numbers in her notebook. Assuming fifteen grams of water per kilogram of air, and an average of three liters per day required per person ˇ­ the numbers kept getting worse the longer she worked on them. She couldn''t assume the condensation process would perfectly extract everything in the air, and Nexus had large animals that needed water. And all of that was just for drinking. Growing crops would require far more water.

    They needed wells. According to Clintus there were aquifers under the desert, fed by snowmelt on distant mountains. Water ran in torrents down the mountainsides and disappeared into underground caverns, or washed out into the desert to sink into the soil. The occasional desert rains would fill wadis to bursting, only for the water to vanish overnight. None of the water was truly lost but moved invisibly underground. Anisca added "desert hydrology" to her long list of fascinating topics for future study.

    Mahzad began to walk in measured steps, his gaze still distant, as he paced the distance to the next nearest well. He stopped a moment there, then carried on, heading further south. Soon, they were deep into the mischus, what used to be the garden proper, and now that she had seen a second well, the slightest rise of grayish stone capped with reddish rock, she saw them everywhere. The garden had enjoyed a plentiful supply. The smaller wells were spaced among the mischus for convenience, so all the garden could be watered. She followed him to the berm''s edge, the bulwark close behind them.This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

    "Brother Phillip," said Mahzad, as he touched the silver cuff resting on the helix of his ear. He waited a while in silence, but then a chip of orange gem, the cuff''s only decoration, winked and sparked in the sunlight. "I know why the wells ran dry. Disciples did it. There''s plenty of water here."

    Now they had to wait, while the slow-revolving sun pricked their skin with rapidly increasing heat. The trains would travel slowly, as disciples had to smooth the ground for carriage wheels and gurantor feet. Riculta was in her element, out of doors in a straw sun hat custom-made for her upturned horns. She had her paper notebook out and drew pictures of the plants, leaf and stem and tangled root. She filled her hole as she had dug it out, each layer in its place, every plant restored. Then she changed locations to find some more. In time she would have them all, every kind of plant that lived within the mischus, and all the creatures too.

    Mahzad''s guards had set an awning in the middle of the town''s square to keep the sun at bay while they waited. They pushed away the dirt and sand to reveal a layer of stone untouched by desert heat and set a roll of carpet down. There was space enough for six to sit, with dried food and warm water to sustain them. She had a book to keep the time, yet Anisca''s eyes had gone astray.

    As a girl, she had explored the rooms beneath her palace in Lavradio. Deeper than most people knew, their contents plundered long ago, their carvings chipped away by Enclave priests too jealous of the ancients to leave their final remnants alone, often made of the same unbroken stone as this abandoned garden''s wells, they had been her finest source of mystery. Gazing at the fractal arches set above her now, she felt that thrill again. How deep into the butte did these chambers go? How were they supplied with air? What goods were left behind by those despondent people, forced to leave their homes when all the wells ran dry? Had they carved their names into the lintels, or scored the walls as children grew? Were records of their lives left behind, lingering in forgotten rooms?

    "I''m going to explore," she said, standing up.

    "No you''re not," said Mahzad.

    "Excuse me?" People didn''t often tell her no, and never in such blunted terms. Yet as an exile, she had heard it often from the mouths of Brother Phillip and his minions.

    "It could be dangerous," he said, "the cautions must be followed."

    The disciple and his bulwark stood and bowed their heads, as he silently prayed over them. Enhancements were built in layers, custom-tuned to each receiver''s need. "Stay here," he said when he was done, "until we know it''s safe. Shout if something happens." They crossed the buried plaza to the smallest door of the western wing, and disappeared into shadow.

    Riculta joined her while she waited, pleased and sweaty from the midday sun. "We need help to do this properly, Miss Anisca. We can grow a crop of barley from the grain we have, with water and disciples'' help. But Calique gardens need different seeds than any we''ve brought with us. And we would greatly benefit from a gardener''s expertise. Until we''ve tested all the crops and every mischus plant, our knowledge won''t be complete."

    Mildly soothed by Riculta''s courtesy, Anisca penciled numbers in neat columns. They needed so much space, disciple-powered light, planters, earth, and water. The sun above was turning hostile, not only in the sense of a fast-advancing desert summer day, but year-by-year spilling magic onto their world, or ''mana'' as Taylor had once named it, the same raw stuff that powered all disciple arts, and the ancients'' arts before them. Several hundred years from now the power of the sun would peak, and then decline, in precisely measured celestial time. From peak to peak, eleven hundred years and nine.

    Riculta and Anisca had discovered plants grew differently when grown by light infused with spirit. Some crops withered until they died, while others mutated until they couldn''t be recognized as members of their own species. Their research would take many years, maybe even all their lives, but the implications were obvious for humanity: adapt with the sun, or die.

    Mahzad returned in time, bulwarks flanking him, his face as grim as gallows. "Not safe," he said and set upon the ground a snake, tail first, coiling, coiling, coiling as he lowered it, all four meters of sand patterned length until the vibrant green head lay still atop the body.

    Anisca stilled her breath and shaped her face to show neither astonishment nor fear. It was a reflex more than anything, the result of years of training, to deny the dread that ran through her.

    "Aaloemon''s Viper." Riculta''s whisper gave voice to Anisca''s fear. The snake was called that because its head was the same shape and shade as the Aaloemon leaf. "Very deadly."

    Mahzad repeated his warning. "Not. Safe. So don''t wander off."

    "Thank you for your diligence, Brother Mahzad. Your efforts are appreciated." Anisca wished for a fan, or a teacup, or anything that could occupy her hands and hide her face, but all she had was her notebook. She stuck her nose in it and didn''t come out for an hour.

    The trains arrived early in the evening, and soon the grateful animals were in the mischus. The appalons were thrilled to be released from their transport cars, but the gurantors were more grateful. The six-legged behemoths gobbled up a large section of mischus, guided by Riculta. She knew which part of the settlement she wanted to farm first and would use the animals to do some of her work.

    The trains were parked on the main avenue beneath the bluff, doors open and awnings spread to give some shade. Teams were sent into the center section to clear rooms and map the town. Taylor stood at the central well, holding hands with Mahzad and two students, so they could work as a cadre to break the hardened stone surrounding the well. Apparently, every well in the garden had been thus capped. But that was just the least of it, according to Mahzad. There was a layer of disciple-altered rock, harder than granite, just above the water table, all through the garden and past the berm, and into the fields of mischus beyond. Several square kilometers of land had been permanently sealed off from water.

    "Mahzad can do the next one," she heard Taylor say, "and teach the students. Focus on the wells for now. We''ll make stone-breaking a regular exercise, and someday the whole layer will be fixed." He could have done it all himself, but he liked his ''teachable moments''. He never did anything himself when he could teach someone else instead.

    Anisca ventured near after the disciples left, and looked down. Water was in the well and rising, cold and tempting. Soon the troughs and buckets would be brought so gurantors could drink their fill.

    Taylor took his reports on the steps of the Great Hall, which is how they dubbed the largest room at the city''s center. He sat upon the highest step, framed by arched doors, framed again by the great arch of the facade, framed again by the arch of the center city. His guards stood to the sides, and Brother Mika stood two steps down to his right. Kasryn the former prelate stood with Mika, and then Vizana the librarian. Farr and his daughter Lilian, his chief fabricators, were on his left. Anisca and Riculta were a step down from them, followed by a clutch of students standing by to run errands.

    "The serpents are the most deadly animals we''ve found so far," said Brother Montague when he reported, "but they''re shy. The scorpions are the biggest nuisance. They gang up on anything warm. It works out for us, though. We can bait traps with warm rocks, and the scorpions fall right in. The scorpions attract the vipers, which makes them easier to catch. We should have the first three center levels cleared by sundown."

    Minty offered Taylor a box of glass. "We kept one for you." Inside was a black scorpion twice as big as Anisca''s hand, claws raised in defiance, tail raised over its head, ready to strike. It dared them all to try something (anything, no matter how small) a gangster arthropod with a chip on its shoulder. It struck at Taylor with its tail, twice, and left a smear of venom on the glass.

    Look at me, it seemed to shout, I will kill you all!

    "It doesn''t seem like a good survival strategy," Taylor thought out loud, "just taking on anything and everything all the time. You''d think they would go extinct."

    "Perhaps they breed quickly," suggested Montague, "anyway, it makes them easy to lure and trap."

    Anisca''s turn was next, and gave her report on the state of the soil and the mischus.

    "You have a week," he said when she was done, "to plant as many crops as you see fit. It''s a high priority, so coordinate with Kasryn for labor."

    "We need to start our research too, Brother Phillip. There are hundreds of plants we need to investigate, and every generation takes time."

    "It could be a few weeks before you can get started. Essentials must come first, and then we have to find or build suitable chambers for you. And, we need those Calique gardeners. You will travel with me when I greet the neighbors and see if you can entice someone away. Riculta should come too, if she thinks we can spare her. Even if your recruitment fails, there''s a lot we can learn from seeing a Calique garden. After all of that''s been settled, then you can start your research. I look forward to your discoveries."

    She bowed to him in the Nexus style, one hand over her heart and a slight dipping of the head, more an acknowledgment than obeisance. On the inside, she was feeling her impatience. Between preparations for this journey, the slow and secret ride from the capital to the border, the rapid charge through all Ullidia, and then today, she had lost weeks of research time. And yet here she stood, one literal step above messenger boys, being told her efforts weren''t a priority.

    It was enough to drive a princess mad.

 Lobats Tears (II)

    Lobat''s Tears (II)

    Anisca

    Nexus spent the first night at Lobat''s Tears sleeping in the Great Hall together, because it was the only room that was both clean and safe. The first thing the cadres did the next morning was clean spaces for the library, administrative offices, and Taylor''s personal workshop. He promptly sealed the workshop with Sanctuary, so nobody but he and his followers could enter, and moved in. His followers went to and fro through the exclusionary zone, but Taylor himself was scarcely seen outside of classes and daily services.

    Taylor saw to his own research facilities, his so-called Black Sanctuary, but didn''t see to hers. Cadres worked to clear the town section by section. Riculta was granted people to help her establish crops over part of the garden, a task for which Anisca was unsuited but which she joined anyway, breaking the ground and digging up mischus until the sun was too hot to bear. Everyone retreated into the cool recess of town to wipe themselves down, eat lunch, and rest until evening.

    In the afternoons she helped Lector Vizana in the library. The librarian was granted rooms adjacent to the Great Hall, on its west side, and all the stories above it. Scriptorium, reading room, stacks, and Vizana''s quarters weren''t nearly enough to fill it all, but her domain was expected to grow. Anisca shelved books and helped students find materials for their classes and organized some of the copying that had to be done, but it was just a way to kill time. It was too early for new research to reach them from Lavradio''s Nature Society, and Taylor himself wasn''t publishing anything at the moment.

    Anisca tried sitting in on afternoon classes. The reading and writing classes were too basic for her and the scripture classes put her to sleep. Governance she had had enough of as a girl. There was a history session that was interesting as it included the western nations of Tenobre, an area she knew nothing about, but that class was only held twice a week.

    The sessions on spirit manipulation and prayer were pointless for her since she lacked the talent, but she watched a few of them out of curiosity. She was surprised to see many of the ex-healers there. As Enclave practitioners their powers had been restricted and there was much they had never been taught. As Nexus disciples they had to catch up with their younger counterparts. They spent just as much time as the youngsters practicing in front of the spirit glasses, mirrors that showed a practitioner''s spirit. They shaped, condensed, diffused, and extended their power until they could sense and handle spirit by second nature. As soon as they graduated from the mirrors there were contests, like finding an enchanted ball of silver buried in a pile of sand, or lighting lamps from a distance.

    Nexus relished its games. Armed bouts between teams of disciples and bulwarks were popular, but the favorite game by far was Monster Hunt. At night, people gathered in clumps in the Great Hall around maps with tokens representing a cadre and the monsters it was hunting. One player was the hunters, the other player was the monsters, and they moved around the map and tried to kill each other. Each player held cards representing their relative strengths and special powers. Conflicts were settled by rolling dice, but the outcomes were largely determined by player decisions. The advanced players used a timer to limit their turns, which made them the most fun to watch because the game never stalled while players pondered their cards.

    On the evening of the fourth day, Anisca felt a surge of hope when she was approached by Kasryn and Rector Mika. "We have good news for you, Anisca," said the priest, "The west side of town will be cleared tomorrow. You may explore it in the afternoon, and let us know which rooms you prefer."

    "That''s excellent news, Rector. I appreciate the cadres'' hard work."

    "I know the wait has been difficult, but soon you''ll be back to your experiments." The old man''s smile was very knowing, like he tracked all her movements and little frustrations over the last few days. "That''s all for tomorrow. For tonight, Brother Phillip wants your opinion on a new game."

    Anisca''s smile reflexively turned from genuine (albeit practiced) to the one she kept on hand for surprises. "He''s been making a new game, all this time?"

    "Not all of it, no. Brother Mataba will you join us?" Mika started picking people as they walked through the Great Hall. "And Sister Thalia and Lector Vizana. Mr and Mrs Tabua! You have not yet had the pleasure, have you? Join us in my lobby." Mika gathered even more players, ten in all including himself.

    They arrived in the Rector''s office to the heavenly scent of brewed jota, a treat. Their precious stores of the herbal drink couldn''t be restored until the trade routes reopened. Everyone was rationing their jota blends, or saving them for special occasions. Anisca has never drunk so much plain water in all her life.

    A map of Tenobre was laid out on a stone table, its several realms depicted in various colors, with stacks of gaming chips nearby. Three piles of thin wooden placards sat to one side. Two more piles waited on a side table. There were twenty-sided dice, slates and chalk, and green porcelain cups ready for the jota that would keep them focused.

    Why did Nexus have to play such complicated games? Monster Hunt could be fun to watch, but Anisca had a bad feeling about this new one.

    "This is Game of Prelates," explained Mika. "Each of you is the head of the church for your country. You begin the game with disciples drawn from this pile, and a set amount of worshipers and gold. You draw an event card," he pointed to the tallest stack of placards, "which affects your country. Some of them are fortuitous, while others are challenges. You may spend your gold to improve your disciples, expand the faith, or help overcome challenges. The blue cards are technologies you can buy to improve various aspects of your realm. You may buy one of the face-up cards, or purchase the unknown card on top of the deck."

    Alice Tabua raised her hand. "How do we win?"

    "You survive. When the green stack of event cards is empty we go on to the yellow, more dangerous stack. The red stack is more difficult still. I will act as referee. If you want to do something not covered by the rules then I''ll consider it, and devise new rules as appropriate."

    The first two rounds took a full hour to play out. Anisca was ready to quit at that point, but Mika insisted the game was important to Brother Phillip so she stayed. At least they had let her play Lavradio, and she had a good starting position: three powerful disciples and a large congregation. She had spent freely to expand the faith in her first turns because more followers meant more gold. More gold meant more disciples. Disciple deeds increased the faith. Faith increased followers.

    She didn''t enjoy the plethora of rules, but the saving grace of the game (for her) was it allowed for bargaining between players: they could exchange disciples, gold, and technologies. Anisca struck deals with neighbor prelates that were fair one-on-one but created unbalancing side effects. Gallia had too many monster-hunting disciples, while Moldonia had too many healers. Ullidia based its defenses primarily on fortifications built up with gold and builder disciples.

    The session''s turning point was triggered when the yellow event stack came into play. A cursed monster was loose in Lavradio, bigger than any they had fought so far and probably too strong for her own disciples.

    "I would like to lure the monster into Gallia."

    "Excuse me?" asked Vizana, who was playing for Gallia.

    "We have already devised rules for luring monsters away from our cities, haven''t we? You have the most hunter disciples, so I am trusting you to deal with this menace for all our sakes."

    "Lend me some of yours, then."

    "I can not, as they will be tapped this turn to lure the monster."

    "I don''t think this is the way the game is supposed to be played," complained the librarian.

    "Nonetheless, there is no rule against it. Is there?" Anisca looked to Mika for confirmation.

    "The Prelate of Lavradio may do as she wishes." Brother Mika''s expression was exceedingly suspicious in its satisfaction, but Anisca put it out of her mind for now. She was entering the tricky middle game that would ensure her victory or doom her to defeat.

    Anisca tallied her cadre''s points, rolled the dice, and moved the carved monster token across the border. "We''re all rooting for you, Gallia."

    Gallia''s turn was next, so there was no time for anyone to send help. Vizana drew a plague for her event and obtained Ullidia''s promise to send healers on its turn. Then, she hurled every hunter she had at the new monster.

    All but one of Gallia''s hunters died. In a single stroke, Anisca eliminated most of the hunter disciples not her own. From that point onward she refused to send help to anyone else. Disciples could only cross one border during a turn and still be able to do anything, so their lopsided distribution hampered players'' attempts to bargain. Populations dwindled as the faithful were eaten. Anisca put everything she had into powering up her disciples and denied help to everyone.

    Anisca entered her endgame as the second stack of event cards grew short. "Gallia, you are no longer strong enough to protect your people. I ask that you resign, and transfer all your people and disciples to Lavradio."

    Vizana was angry, genuinely upset. She was oblivious to how real the scenario had become. Anisca was only acting as any king or emperor would do, by looking out for her own.

    "We wouldn''t be in this position if you had helped us instead of dumping your monster in our backyard."The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

    "The red event stack is coming for us all," said Anisca as if to offer aid, "together we must stand or else we fall apart."

    "I will not," said Vizana, unwisely.

    Anisca dispatched a single super-powered hunter into Gallia to kill off Vizana''s disciples. Mika ruled that all technologies could be transferred to Lavradio that turn, but the populace would immigrate in groups over the next three rounds. Vizana was out, and Anisca grew stronger.

    Ullidia bowed to the inevitable, which was no surprise. Kasryn was a realist and understood that she had lost. It was pointless to pretend otherwise. She negotiated in good humor for a summer house in scenic Dosal Furst, where she could enjoy her retirement. Her people flooded into Lavradio in the next three rounds.

    Moldonia, played by Brother Mataba, chose to stand alone and was pleasantly surprised when Anisca didn''t invade. In fact, she had all the people she could feed. Any more would be a burden.

    Far to the west, in Hyskos and Mialta, Thalia and Alice played a different kind of game. They helped each other freely, sometimes with aid from Kravikas, and suffered none of East Tenobre''s fractious fights. They both grew stronger as a result, but their way had a weakness.

    The final stack of red events were trials, every single one: an unknown plague, crops burned up by a hostile sun, monsters big as mountains, petty would-be kings. Ullidia begged Lavradio for some of its redundant technology but had nothing it could offer in exchange, so Anisca refused. In time, Mataba''s people were eaten by the monsters. Kravikas collapsed to plague and Dace was ravaged by dark arktos.

    The Mialta-Hyskos bond was strong, but they were too spread out. Disciples could not travel fast enough to handle all the problems. First one died, and then another, and then they dropped like flies. The west coast fell, and Mika''s satisfaction grew.

    Lavradio, with its dense population and overpowered disciples, was the last realm standing but even Anisca could not contend with multiple mountainous monsters and three simultaneous plagues for long. She feared her people would crumble like the others until the final card was played and the last event was handled. She ended with a few good disciples and battered people, but Lavradio survived.

    Brandy was served after the game, a welcome token of home watered down a measured for taste. Outside, the silent sky would shine with stars but the interior of Nexus had good lighting thanks to their disciples. Anisca thought it strange nobody praised her play, nor congratulated her win. At first, she thought it was a case of sore sportsmanship but neither did they chide her. Instead, their conversation focused on aspects of the game itself.

    "We need a tech that lets disciples travel faster," Alice said. "I''ve heard him say such things are possible. Mobility is our biggest problem."

    "And a breeding program," her husband added. "I know he''ll be against the notion, but we have to have enough disciples. Without them, nothing else will matter."

    "We need incentives to work together," Kasryn said, as eyes were flicked in Anisca''s direction, "or an institutional directive."

    The jibe was aimed at Anisca, but she didn''t mind. At least they were paying attention. "Directives make a difference till they don''t," she told them. "Bad harvest makes bandits of us all. And where ambition rules, rules are optional."

    The conversation went along until Mika had a stack of slates filled with their suggestions. Eventually, the guests had had enough and said goodnight. As the room was emptied Anisca stayed to ask a question.

    "Is this what Brother Phillip has been working on all this time? A game? Is this the wisest use of his talents and his time?"

    "It''s only one of many things he''s been working on. But don''t think of it as just a game," said the Rector, "but a thought experiment. What choices will the future church face? What kinds of tech will make a difference? How should the church be structured? I''m surprised we haven''t seen you in Governance, where we argue over all these topics endlessly. The largest argument we''ve had to date is whether Nexus should have a lone authority, or if the prelates should be wholly independent. Tonight you made a powerful case for the advantages of central power."

    It sounded much more interesting than the tutors she endured when she was a girl. "It sounds like I''ve been missing the best classes. Thank you for including me tonight." She wasn''t thankful; she was tired. But one did not request a favor on the heels of rudeness (excepting when it helped).

    "In our exploration of the western town tomorrow, could I have the aid of a disciple? Or any practitioner. Just in case we run into snakes or mobs of scorpions."

    "A reasonable precaution. I''ll assign a student who knows Proof Against Poison,"

    ? ? ?

    Anisca''s helper was a student, a girl about nine years old named Chapa. She looked half-asleep on her feet and it was no wonder: students trained in the early mornings with spirit manipulation and physical conditioning, then spent their spirit all day long. Every practitioner exhausted their store of spirit in the morning, recovered what they could in the middle of the day, then used themselves up again. There was plenty of work to spend their spirit on too, jobs like preparing the garden, planting crops, cleaning rooms, and clearing the animals out of town. Somewhere among those chores they also had to attend classes.

    The town''s new map told Anisca about the promising areas. There were long storerooms that hadn''t yet been claimed for any other purpose, and rooms on the first floor ideal for her office. Chapa lit spirit lanterns and prayed Proof Against Poison over them in case they encountered wildlife. Chapa was armed with an arts-hardened dagger of stone, Riculta a staff, and Anisca a thin blade of bronze. Thus equipped, they entered the western part of Lobat''s Tears.

    The ground-level offices were grand enough that Anisca wished she could have had one, but the storerooms on that level were a disappointment, far too narrow. When she asked Chapa if she could merge some of the adjoining storerooms she demurred to the opinion of Mistress Manu, the Lector of Architecture.

    "It might collapse," she said sullenly as if she were being asked for the unreasonable. She aimed her lantern upward and pointed at the arched ceiling. "Mistress Manu says these rooms are arched so the rock above us doesn''t cave in. If you knock out the wall ˇ­"

    "That''s very wise," said Anisca. "Let''s try going up."

    The second level was less grand but more promising. There was more office space, the back storerooms were wider and tall enough for her needs, and the stairs were not too steep. Soil and water had to travel up while plants and waste and other things would travel down. It was a start, but she required twice the space.

    "Can you look into the rock here," she asked Chapa, "and see if it could be excavated?"

    "Um ˇ­ no?"

    Anisca favored the girl with a smile, one that chilled recipients with its displeasure. Chapa cracked almost instantly.

    "I can tell you if it''s weird back there, but I can''t tell you what it''s made of or how strong it is." The displeasure continued until the girl remembered her manners. "Miss Anisca."

    "Anything you can tell me would be useful."

    Chapa put her lantern on the floor to free her hands, which she placed on the wall at the end of the corridor. It was the deepest point of the western wing, but there was lots of bluff beyond it, plenty of room to expand.

    "There''s barely enough air back here," Riculta told her. "If we dig deeper then we have to figure something out. Some kind of fan, maybe, or an air shaft. You could ask Lilian for advice as a fellow researcher, or Lector Manu."

    "We will likely have to consult with both of them." Anisca didn''t mind if there were problems as long as she was allowed to work on them. It was idleness that bothered her, the wasted weeks and days where she couldn''t make any kind of progress, that made her temper flare.

    "Miss Anisca? There''s spirit-hardened stone under her." Chapa was pointing at the wall. "And then a different kind of stone behind that."

    "That qualifies as weird," Riculta mumbled.

    "Can you make a hole through the hardened stone and see what''s under it?"

    "We should tell Brother Phillip. We''re supposed to report anything strange."

    "And we will report it," she assured the student, "but you''re supposed to be helping me today. I need to know what kind of stone is underneath, so we know if we can dig through it or not. That will give us something substantial to report. It could be a very interesting discovery. He''ll be happy to know about it." Taylor was highly respected in Nexus, which was natural since he founded the organization, but the younger students worshiped him. Anisca could get them to do anything in his name.

    Thus assured, Chapa set to work on the stone wall. After a full minute of concentration, there was a sound like a giant cracker getting crushed underfoot. A perfect circle, one meter wide, crumbled and tumbled in tiny bits to a heap on the floor. Chapa sat beside the pile of broken sandstone, sweaty and out of breath. She had broken through thirty centimeters of sandstone and several more of disciple-hardened rock.

    What she revealed was smooth gray stone, very different from the surrounding material, without seam or wrinkle or trace of human hands. Anisca touched the surface, newly exposed and yet familiar to her, the same gray stuff that lined the old abandoned chambers under the royal palace. Scripture said that people lived underground to escape the sun. Enclave claimed they were rejecting god, but Nexus said they were in hiding from the harsh phase of the sun. Nearly every major city had such ruins and Enclave had ransacked them all, carted away anything the ancients left behind, and destroyed all the records. But here was a place that hadn''t been touched in at least a hundred years. If it was sealed before Alignment, when Enclave held the first of many purges, then it would be untouched. It could be a perfectly preserved dwelling of the ancients.

    "When you''ve rested, poke a small hole through this. Just enough for us to shine a light through it."

    Chapa shook her head. "It''s empty past there. I felt it while I was working. There''s a chamber. We have to report it before we do anything."

    "You can''t do it?"

    "I didn''t say that! But we''re supposed to tell someone in charge when we find something that might be dangerous."

    "I am in charge," Anisca reminded her. "Anyway, it''s just a room. I''ve seen others like it." When the child didn''t budge she put on her most confident expression, the one that told people things were a certain way and shouldn''t be questioned. "I take full responsibility. Tonight, we''ll have something amazing to report to Brother Phillip, won''t we?"

    Chapa was unsure, and even Riculta looked worried, but neither of them could say no to her. Riculta because she was employed by Anisca, and Chapa because she lacked the will. Anisca got her way like she was used to. After days of not getting anything she wanted it felt so, so good.

    The student tiredly got to her feet and went to work on the stone. Instead of breaking it all at once, she dug at it with her stone sword. She softened the gray stone a little at a time then pushed her sword point into it, and spun it like a drill. She made good progress until they discovered her sword wasn''t nearly long enough. She had to toss it aside to make a better tool from shattered sandstone, a two-meter-long bar with a diamond cross-section and sharp edges, condensed and hardened until it was a finger wide. After that feat, she had to rest again. Anisca didn''t mind, given the progress the girl had made.

    While they waited for Chapa''s spirit to recover, Anisca handed out ceramic bottles of the amazingly pure water unique to Nexus. She pulled food from her pack, purloined leftovers from breakfast, and handed it around. She lent her linen fan to Riculta, to cool Chapa with. These were no idle acts of generosity: loyalty could be built from little bricks of gratitude.

    Chapa''s new tool made quick work of the ancient wall. (Anisca was certain that was what they had found.) The length was almost perfect, and sunk to the handle just as Chapa broke through the other side. With a twist and a sudden jerk, her bar was free. Cold air blew through the hole she had made, a welcome wind on their sweaty faces. It didn''t smell of anything, and that was good news. Even if it was poisonous, Chapa''s prayer would protect them.

    Chapa sat on the floor again, off to the side, to take another well-deserved rest. Anisca took up her lantern in one shaking hand and shone its beam into the hole Chapa had made, but the hole was too deep to see anything clearly, made more difficult by the air blowing through it. There appeared to be a large open space on the other side, and a surface with bright yellow and orange stripes. The hole needed to be bigger, much bigger. Her breath was heavy with excitement, thrilled with the discovery to come.

    She turned to Chapa, to ask how soon she could expand the peepholeˇ­

 Lobats Tears (III)

    Lobat''s Tears (III)

    "You''re awake."

    Anisca was lying down in a room she didn''t know, part of Lobat''s Tears judging by the red stone walls, while Brother Mataba stood above her. There was a single bureau with adozen drawers in different sizes, the kind of cabinet healers keep their tools in. A built-in shelf held several volumes, mostly made of planes of wood instead of modern paper. One door led to an office; another to a hallway. She must be in the infirmary, run by the senior healer-turned-disciple.

    There were five more sick beds, low palettes with thick mattresses. One of them was occupied by Riculta. The woman and her black horns were sitting up, staring accusations at her.

    "What happened?"

    Mataba gave a healer''s reassuring smile. "You nearly died, that''s what happened."

    "How? Did that student''s prayer fail? She said we were protected from poison."

    "You weren''t poisoned. You suffocated: an altogether different thing. The air that you were breathing was lacking any oxygen."

    Oxygen. She had heard the word or read it in a book, but its source and meaning eluded her.

    "Oxygen is the stuff in the air that you need to breathe," prompted Mataba.

    "Right. Chemistry." It was otherworldly knowledge imported by Taylor and, according to him, a strange and most potent field of study. He had published a small volume about it but, so far, very few people had grasped it. Taylor told her on the journey down he wasn''t sure how to teach it to those who hadn''t grown up with the knowledge all around them.

    Anisca eyed Riculta, her farmer, her only minion in exile. "How are you feeling?"

    "I am well, Miss Anisca."

    That was a cold reply. She would have to speak with her in private to find out what was bothering her. For the moment, Anisca''s head was still at the gray wall, her mind''s eye pressed against the too-narrow peephole. "Has anyone gone inside yet?"

    "It''s been sealed, for now."

    "Please don''t tell me he''s going to cover it up and destroy it like Enclave! He can''t!"

    "There''s a proper way to do these things." Mataba''s voice was gentle but final. "One does not simply open a chamber that has been sealed for centuries: there are many dangers to be considered; it requires planning and preparation. You nearly died today from just one of many dangers lurking underground for the unwary. Everyone else here knows this. There is a chapter in the guidebook called Underground Cautions. Add to the usual dangers everything we don''t know about the ancients, and you have a dicey situation. Brother Phillip is right to be cautious."

    Taylor''s voice came from the office. "Novice Chapa is fine, by the way." He entered, dressed in a black cassock wearing a pale wooden star of Olyon. Behind him stood a shamefaced Chapa, wringing hands clasped before her. "She saved both your lives by dragging you outside when she could have escaped."

    "I would hope so. This mess is her fault for not warning us it was dangerous. Isn''t she supposed to know these things?" Dodge. Deflect. Deny. The confusion of the moment pushed her back to old habits.

    "I did warn you! I said we should tell someone before we went somewhere dangerous. You wouldn''t listen!" Chapa''s eyes were tearing up but Anisca would not give in to her. She could find a way through this while taking minimal blame.

    Or not. Taylor was ahead of her this time.

    "You see? A novice she barely knows means nothing to her. Anisca is with us because she''s a promising researcher, but her research is the only thing she''s responsible for. She''s very good at finding and exploiting people''s weak points to get the things she wants. The whole world could fall apart and she wouldn''t care so long as she obtains her goal."

    It was strange to think he was only a few years older than the student, given how much older he behaved. "Your punishment is to copy Moral Cautions twenty times. Do you understand why?"

    "Yes, Brother Phillip. Because I substituted her poor judgment for my own without good reason."

    "Hey!" Anisca nearly popped out of bed to accost the girl, but Mataba''s hand on her shoulder pinned her in place.

    "That''s right. You should get started soon."

    "Yes, Brother Phillip," said the girl, and slunk away.

    Riculta glared at Anisca then suddenly stood up, and left her sickbed to chase after the girl.

    Mataba called after his patient, "You''re quite well enough to leave!"

    Taylor pointed at two bundles of boards tied with red string, sitting on the floor next to Anisca''s pallet. "Those are for you."

    "What are they?" It was too much to suppose he had brought her gifts.

    "Chapters from Disciple''s Handbook. Underground Cautions, and Moral Cautions. Your punishment is to make twenty copies of each."

    "You can''t punish me more than her!" She surprised herself with that response. On any other day, to anybody else who wasn''t family, she would object that he could punish her at all.

    Taylor''s face, so absurdly naked, so trivial to read, openly considered sending her away. Her value was in doubt; the trouble she had caused him was severe. If he wanted noble women there were plenty more to choose from, while talented disciples were exceeding rare. He liked her kingly brother, but Leo knew his sister was a bother. Likely he could send her home and not cut his ties to Lavradio. Or could this girl (that''s how he thought of her) be salvaged?

    His assessment was he didn''t even care enough to scold her. Why waste words on those who wouldn''t hear them?

    "Do the work, Princess. Or go home."

    He had given up on teaching her. She was on her own, as good as discarded. Why did this not-quite-man, at least ten years her junior, always raise in her such bitter feelings?

    "Anisca, wake up! You''re going to miss it!"

    Someone was shaking her but it was just as well. Her dreams were filled with text in a blocky hand.

    <blockquote>

    Atmosphere is the next most dangerous feature of underground spaces. Of all the kinds of air one may find beneath the earth, breathable air is the rarest. Mines and tunnels require careful planning with vents and fanning mechanisms placed to prevent the occupants from dying. Only by thorough mixing of the outside air with what is underground can an explorer know they are safe.

    Poisonous air is the most common and will make him who breathes it suffer for whatever short remaining days he has left. Explosive air is less common but no less deadly, as an open flame will bring instant catastrophe. Worst of all is dead air, neither poison nor explosive. The one who breathes it may feel nothing at all amiss, but die as suddenly as if struck down by God.

    These atmospheres are often invisible. Some sink to low places, while others rise. Pockets of deadly air can lurk in remote corners where ventilation doesn''t reach. Always beware a void, or any place where deadly atmospheres may collect for many years unmixed with good air.

    Herein are the measures one must take ˇ­

    </blockquote>

    "Get dressed," that shove again, friendly but insistent. Dimly, Anisca recognized the voice as Kasryn''s. Several women had slept here, so close they were nearly in a pile. After the long ride down, Anisca appreciated how nice it was to sleep in a proper group.

    She had to work to find her voice. "What''s happened?"

    "Rustlers in the mischus -- they tried to take a gurantor! They were caught, and Phillip has to judge them." Kasryn sounded excited by it all.

    A brightly colored sari smacked Anisca in the face, a thing Calique tablas were wont to wear. "You might redeem yourself in Phillip''s eyes if you can act the part convincingly."

    "Why would he call on me, the problem child?"

    "He won''t," said Kasryn, "but they might."

    "Who?"

    "The rustlers! You''re smarter than this, Anisca! Keep up!"

    Faces were washed, clothes changed, and makeup was applied in bright hues favored by Calique women. Slowly Anisca understood the object of the exercise: to present themselves as highly-ranking women in a way the men would recognize.

    Other women helped them. Even Riculta lent a hand. Anisca had regained some of her lost trust through a fulsome apology in three acts: allocution, self-blame, and a promise to do better. Then, she had repeated the entire painful play for Chapa''s benefit, with Rector Mika supervising. She had hoped Taylor would attend, but the incident hadn''t made him any more available to her.

    They fairly flew down the moonlit eastern steps, along the avenue, and into center town and stopped to catch their breath. It wouldn''t do to appear rushed no matter how eager they were to attend. The predawn light was glowing rose and yellow under the horizon. Nexus would be up before the sun''s first arc was showing. The heat today would be the smothering kind, heavy, suffocating. Anyone awake could feel it coming. The morning would start early and the mid-day break run long.

    The would-be thieves were being held in the small audience chamber, a second-story room of narrow aspect, tall and arched, with room enough for twenty-five or thirty people to stand comfortably, and a dais at one end. Whoever built Lobat''s Tears had loved their arches dearly because they used them everywhere. Spirit lamps lit the room, their cold and silver orbs gently flickered back the gloom.

    Six men were bound in ropes and knelt before the empty dais. All of them were blessed with natural armor, bony plates that covered them to varying degrees, some just on their heads while others had it over most of their backs and arms. The armor color ranged from nearly black to sandy yellow. They were desert thin, bone and sinew under weathered skin, their faces seamed with dirt. They wore loose sand-colored tunics and trousers, all threadbare, and frayed head scarves that hung loosely around their necks. Their other possessions, weapons, water, food, and jewelry, had all been taken from them. They had even lost their mounts. Their fortunes had been very poor indeed, by the look of them, and grown poorer still by their attempted theft.

    Last night''s watchmen stood on one side, their weapons sheathed or resting. Anisca and Kasryn posted themselves opposite the cadre, to stand on Taylor''s left whenever he arrived. Several others filed in and waited, lectors and disciples who were curious. Rector Mika was the last one to arrive, and took a station on the dais''s right side.

    The spirit lamps went out, all at once, leaving them in silent stony darkness. Just as their eyes began to adjust, when the dimmest shapes could be discerned, the dais flared to life in coruscating waves of blue and silver blinding fire. It touched them like a holy balm, seeped into skin until it found the living truth within their flesh.

    Their eyes had to adjust and as they did, the figure of their hierarch came into focus. What else could he be, when wreathed in such austere glory? His robes of pure white cloth were unadorned except a golden stole and a holy symbol in dark-stained wood. His armor was white also, a cuirass of monster shell, with greaves and armguards to match. His sword was sheathed and gripped in lustrous monster bone. The light that shone above him was mounted on a wooden staff he carried, a fragment of sun fully exposed, sparing no one.You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

    "We meet in the light," he quoted, the standard greeting between disciples.

    "Let''s walk as brothers," replied the room. Even Anisca found herself saying the words, well-known but never uttered by her. Only the prisoners remained silent, awed and frightened by their first exposure to the light.

    "Brother Montague, what has happened?"

    "We spied these men prowling outside the berm, so we chose to watch them. They rode around the perimeter, then came over the berm and saw the animals by moonlight. They came down and inspected the appalons and the gurantors. Our directive was to protect Nexus without harming anyone unduly, so we waited for them to leave or announce their presence. Neither happened. Instead, they tried to take away a gurantor.That''s when a certain personal appalon interfered. He head-butted that one over there." Minty pointed at a hunter who had a huge bruise forming on his forehead. "That''s when we took the rest into custody."

    "Which one is your leader?" Five men looked at the sixth, an older man with graying hair and yellowed claws. He could have cut through normal ropes with those claws, but he hadn''t even tried. Not that it would have mattered, because the ropes were enhanced.

    "What is your name, hunter?"

    "I am Iraj, a Spear of Pashtuk."

    "You''re a long way from your garden, Iraj. My name is Brother Phillip the Younger." Iraj''s eyes widened in surprise. It was a name he recognized.

    "What do you have to say for yourself and your men?"

    "This is all a misunderstanding." The fragment''s light shifted and shadowed Iraj in darkness. The audience was unaffected, still standing in the light.

    "I advise you not to lie, Iraj Spear of Pashtuk. Not even to yourself. The holy fragments can be difficult that way."

    "Labat''s Tears has been abandoned for many years! There weren''t any lights! We didn''t see any guards! We didn''t think there would be any harm in taking them!" The light returned to his countenance, only to shadow him again on his last statement. He had known that taking the gurantors would bring harm to someone.

    "Let''s try a different topic. Tell me why you were so far out from your home."

    "We were hunting, that''s what we were doing!" The light had returned to Iraj. "We were trying to get something to bring back to our people. And there''s these appalons and gurantors just grazing away, nobody watching them. We thought they were unattended! And what''s with turning that beast loose on us, huh? That monster head-butted one of my hunters, almost knocked the brains right out of him!"

    There was low laughter among the audience. That particular beast belonged to Taylor, and its strange propensities were well known.

    "That''s just Ben. It''s a game he likes to play. It isn''t his fault you were unprepared."

    Taylor was considering what he should do with these men, as Ansica observed his expressions avidly. He glanced at Iraj''s neck and wrists as he imagined severing them. As an option it was reasonable: mounts were more than transportation in the desert, they were a lifeline. Not only did they carry men across the desert at speed, but they could be bled for moisture in an emergency. Their milk was nutritious (although Lavradians did not partake) and could be preserved as cheese. Taking one was tantamount to endangering the owner''s life.

    But Taylor didn''t come here to make unnecessary enemies, nor did he count bloody carnage as evidence of victory. Some exchange had to be made, some penalty imposed, or else he could not be counted as protecting Nexus property.

    The prisoners whispered among themselves, but Taylor didn''t try to silence them. Some of the guards had good ears and would report their words later. The whispered conversation grew intense until Iraj sushed his men and addressed Taylor again.

    "Brother Phillip, is there a doyenne we could speak to?"

    "I have trusted advisors who are women, but I am the highest authority here. What can you say to a doyenne that you can''t say to me?"

    "A doyenne would find a way to ˇ­ solve this difficulty without shedding blood."

    Ansica did not step forward. She was pushed by Kasryn, right between the shoulder blades. Suddenly she was standing between the Calique and their judge, the focus of the room. She gave a Nexus bow to Brother Phillip and measured his expression. He doubted she could offer anything, but decided doubt didn''t have to matter. If he didn''t like her proposal he could override her, and thus show his supremacy. If she negotiated something advantageous then all the better. He agreed to her assistance with the barest nod.

    Anisca faced the kneeling hunters. They shifted uncomfortably on the hard stone floor, which must be hurting them. "I am Anisca, and I will hear your plea," she said, by which she meant you may now beg for your lives and limbs.

    "Tabla Anisca!" the leader sounded much relieved. Men were often more concerned about appearing strong than they were with justice, whereas a woman might find a path to leniency. "We convinced ourselves it would be okay to take the animals. I admit we were fools, but it was the foolishness of men desperate to aid their garden in a desperate time. Is there any way we could call this a ˇ­ misunderstanding?"

    Anisca adopted amused expression number three, arch and not too kind. "A misunderstanding? That would be a very generous interpretation on our part."

    "In normal times we might be ransomed," he rushed to explain, "but these are not normal times. All the desert is in disarray. All of us are past our primes, even our mounts. Our labor is worth something, but not enough for a gurantor. And," he added, his voice shrinking, "our garden has no goods to trade."

    If they released these men it was an act of aid, considering what they had done. Disciple''s Guidebook was emphatic about receiving payment, no matter how small. It was a Moral Caution. Taylor had taken all kinds of things as payment in his time as disciple, from fruit preserves to silver ingots and skilled services. She had heard the stories.

    Information was their sorest need after water, and all the desert was in disarray. Anisca glanced at Taylor and received his approving nod in return.

    "Were any of our people hurt?" Anisca asked Montague.

    "No, Miss Anisca."

    "And all our animals are accounted for?"

    "Yes, Miss Anisca."

    "That does make our situation simpler. Perhaps we have an offer for you, Iraj, Spear of Pashtuk. We could pretend the gurantor theft never happened. We could release you, and instead of prisoner you could be our guest. And as a guest, you could tell us all the news, everything Calique hunters know. It''s quite the stroke of luck for you, that our lives in Kravikas have just started. A monumental one in fact." She showed them merchant''s face five, the one that tightened costs like thumbscrews. "Otherwise, you''d have nothing left worth giving, except your hands."

    Iraj accepted, as did his men. What else could they do? They placed their palms together and touched their lips in reverence.

    "Is that acceptable to you, Brother Phillip?"

    "I''ll allow it." His voice was magnanimity itself, but his eyes betrayed relief. Nexus would get something it needed and blood would not be spilled. The princess wasn''t useless after all.

    Truly, they needed to do something about his face.

    As quick as he had come, he was gone again and all the silver flame went with him. Collectively, the room sighed in shared relief. They were released, the fragment''s tireless touch was gone, and they could speak with ease again. A soft pink light of dawn fast filled the void, and day''s first heat crept stealthily behind it.

    ? ? ?

    Iraj, Spear of Pashtuk

    Not only were their bonds removed, but Iraj and his men were given room to rest and water to wash with. Children took their clothes away and returned them only minutes later, as clean as if they had been washed in deep water. All their possessions were returned, and they took the opportunity to fix their faces. Umber on their eyelids, dark gray liner, and on their lips the deepest green. They wrapped their long hair tightly in the laundered cloth and artfully draped their green-and-white patterned scarves. Guests should be presentable.

    They were shown to a different room where Phillip waited, seated on a thin pad with all kinds of food before him. Without the painful light shining in their eyes they could see him properly: brindled hair, brown and gold, fell in waves to his shoulders. He had green eyes that gleamed with curiosity. With him was Tabla Anisca, the woman of the frightening smiles, and the silent older woman, possibly their doyenne. There was a gardener with horns and several fighters, a few of whom were dressed as women. As a guard on many caravans, Iraj has seen their like before: armor over battle skirts; hair shorn short; beautiful faces left unpainted; a man''s arm with a woman''s laugh. To most Calique, they would be icons of confusion. There also was an elder priest, who watched and judged the young maul''s every move. And finally, a woman who would record their meeting, slate and chalk in hand, unmistakably a kind of foreign tabla.

    The food was strange, but the guests were hungry enough not to care. There was flat bread made of wheat instead of native coconut, foreign vegetables preserved and cut into sticks, roasted franango bird, and strangely flavored dips. There was water too, more pure and cold than Iraj had ever tasted. Their host motioned them to wash their hands at nearby basins and sit with him. Many other tables were in the room, where small groups were having breakfast, but none of them were as large as this one. It was the leaders'' table. Iraj and his men washed and sat, and once the young maul had taken his obligatory first bite they all dug in. It was hard not to eat too quickly, for they had been hungry for many days.

    Once the edge was off their appetites, Phillip spoke. "We''re not familiar with Calique customs, so don''t take offense with us too easily. In fact, you could offer suggestions for our improvement if you like. I plan to meet with Dogono soon, to say hello and introduce ourselves as neighbors. I would like to avoid misunderstandings."

    "Dagono? I guess they are the closest." Iraj gulped down a grateful amount of water and helped himself to more from the nearest earthenware pitcher. "But they won''t appreciate guests right now. They''re hosting refugees from Pashtuk, that''s my garden, and the Satomen, and many survivors from Sand Castle. They count every date and taro they pull from the garden these days. They''re doing what they can for us refugees, but they have their own to look out for first."

    "So it''s true, then." The serious young man''s eyes sparked with a glimmer of keen interest. "They made a great mess of it, didn''t they? Tell me, what is the monster like? What kind is it?"

    Of all the things he could have asked, he had to ask the forbidden! It wasn''t worth Iraj''s hands to be exiled from the gardens.

    "I''m sorry Brother Phillip, especially after your generosity, but discussion about that has been forbidden by the doyennes."

    "What, monsters? Or only that particular monster?"

    "The particular one. Your fellow disciples promised to handle our little problem and, what, did I say something wrong?" Phillip had laughed.

    "Only that Enclave is in some fellowship with us. It''s quite the opposite. We are Nexus, the Reformed Church of Olyon. Enclave has been trying to eliminate us for some time now, much to their loss."

    "And yet you are the ones out here, in Morufu''s Hand, the desert of Kravikas. It does not seem to me like you are winning."

    The fighter with the black-tipped spines snarled a warning at Iraj, offended for his maul. Men couldn''t help but probe each other, which was why their women kept the peace, but Brother Phillip settled him with a hunter''s hand sign, be still.

    "No country will host us, not with Enclave threatening to cut them off from the Alignment. Lavradio has a neighbor who would be all too happy to grab some territory if the church were to help them. So we came out here to spare Lavradio. And, we can see the enemy coming from a distance. A very far distance, once we finish a stairway to the top of the mesa. This is a good place for us right now, and we''re more fortified than we look."

    "I do not think you are prepared to live in this place. You should move away, find somewhere else to live before you and your people die here."

    "I know we''re not prepared," the young man laughed openly, undaunted, "but we''re fast learners. And we have a lot of disciples. So," the lad popped a stick of vegetable into his mouth and broke it with a pop. "What happened in Sand Castle?"

    "It fell to a monster attack," said Iraj, skirting the forbidden topic. "Enclave disciples and their mercenaries went hunting, but they couldn''t handle the desert or its monsters. They ran, and they were chased fifty kilometers back to the city. They entered the town without warning anyone of what pursued them. The gates were left open. Hundreds died. I cannot describe it properly, there''s too much that I can''t say, but the city is a monster lair now. There have been attacks on nearby gardens, which are all but abandoned. They''ll be ruined if no one tends them. Survivors are badly burned or have missing limbs. Calique are nothing without their gardens, yet so many of us are homeless now. It might be more merciful to let us die of our injuries instead of slowly starving to death.

    "The caravans have stopped running. That''s less serious for us than it is for merchants, but it means no work for Calique men who guard them. The surviving gardens are full, there are no places for those men. Some will turn to stealing from other gardens to feed themselves."

    "Which could lead to misunderstandings," said Phillip, waving his hand at their general location.

    Iraj blushed, ashamed. The youth was taking this very well. He could have sworn the lad was ready to behead them all just a little while ago, but now he was feeding them and listening to their woes. He felt a rush of gratitude.

    They ate in silence for a while and drank the purified water. Outside the sun was rising, its early light permeating the interior, reflected and diffused by sandstone walls. Soon they would block the terraces with cloth to keep out the mid-day sun and all the heat that came with it.

    When he was nearly sated, Iraj ventured a question of his own. "This place has been without water for a long time. The wells are dry, and there is a layer of hard rock below here, harder than anything a man can dig through. How did you manage it?"

    "I told you, we have a lot of disciples. All the wells are working now. Over time we''ll break up the entire layer, bit by bit, all the way out to the edge of the mischus. It''s a great exercise for the young ones. One day, we''ll be sorry when it''s all gone."

    Iraj didn''t know what to say to that. The legendarily tough rock under Labat''s Tears, an exercise for young ones? Nexus disciples were certainly strong. He recalled how easily his men had been caught, like naughty children playing a naughty game, found out and captured by their fathers. Nexus had strength. There was no doubt about that. Their crops were foreign but they grew with amazing speed. His men had been here only two weeks before, and there was nothing to see except mischus and snakes. Disciples could also heal. And they could hunt monsters if they weren''t as careless as the last group.

    Iraj had acted rashly in trying to take the gurantors, but being indebted to this young man might be his grandest stroke of luck in many years. Owing him allowed Iraj to start a friendship. If he could be close to Nexus, if he could aid them, then Nexus might aid his beloved Pashtuk. They weren''t a Calique garden, to be sure, but they weren''t hostile or arrogant about their differences. Iraj had seen many self-important lordlings in his caravanning days, men and women who believed, with every fiber of their being, that anyone who differed from them was barely human. Phillip''s sensibilities seemed more mercantile (in a good way). Our breadfruit for your blood melons, as his people liked to say, our gardens may be different but our needs are all the same.

    "Brother Phillip, are you serious when you say you want to learn Calique ways?"

    "I''m very serious. We are going to be neighbors for the foreseeable future, and I prefer good relations over hostile ones. We won''t adopt all Calique habits, but we''re willing to learn from them."

    Iraj put on his careful face, the one he used when speaking to his doyenne. "Then allow me to return your generosity in a small way by teaching you our customs. I can tell Dogono you are coming, of your strength and willing spirit. It''s a small thing, but I''m glad to do it if it aids you."

    "I accept," said Phillip with a smile of satisfaction.

    "And before we leave, my hunters and I will teach you about the mischus. A garden''s mischus is the first thing visitors see, and yours needs proper tending."

 Dagonos Gatekeeper

    Dagono''s Gatekeeper

    Taylor

    Taylor''s vanguard was himself, his five guards, Riculta, and Anisca. Taylor needed someone to speak for him and didn''t have a lot of choices when it came to women who were trained diplomats. He wanted Kasryn, the former prelate of Lavradio, but she claimed to have fouled her reputation so memorably with doyennes her face would not be welcome. Indeed, when Taylor asked Iraj if he knew the names of past Enclave ambassadors, Kasryn was the first name on his lips.

    "There was this Kasryn, the worst in twenty years," he said, "typical outsider. She thought her job was to rule over us, but we don''t have outsider kings. If we did, they wouldn''t be like her, insulting our doyennes. The rest were not as bad, but they were all alike." He went on to list several more ambassadors and what they were known for (nothing ever good), an impressive feat of memory that confirmed Kasryn''s story. So he was left with Anisca, a woman whose skills came with a poor personality.

    Taylor had set off in his party of eight, before the predawn hour, mounted on well-rested appalons. They wore their headscarves close to their faces to keep out dust as they rode, and almost they could be mistaken for Calique from a distance. They had dressed themselves in desert robes, turbans, scarves, and even makeup. They had decided on ruby and topaz for women, and brick red and amber for the men. The red was for Red Tower, the new name of Lobat''s Tears, and the yellow colors were for the sun at dawn. Iraj explained Calique often wore their garden''s colors when mixing with other gardens.

    As fighters, Mila and Inez were dressed in men''s clothes, with men''s colors on their faces. Anisca and Riculta were playing doyenne and gardener respectively. Alice would keep notes for them, making her something like a tabla. The three of them could dress as women, but Alice would be a secret bodyguard for the other two. ("Good thing, too," said husband Otavaio, "she would never pass for a man in a thousand years.") She didn''t need a weapon to be dangerous but she kept small blades handy just in case.

    They were confident enough in their map to ride cross-country but stopped in places to make notes. A wadi here, a strange kind of ground there, a sudden fold in the land, or a field of tall cacti. They went far past the sentinels, well beyond what could be seen from trade roads, onto barely sloping ground of bare cracked earth. That gave way to a stretch of fist-sized pebbles, as smooth and closely packed as cobbled road. Some kilometers later they passed into typical red earth again, supporting scattered shrubs and the rare desert animal.

    An hour after sunrise there was a change in all the mounts, starting with Ben. He could smell water on the air and quickened his art-enhanced pace, leading all the others. Their riders gave them leave to speed, as eager as the animals to find the garden. All of them were bulwark-trained and fairly floated over the desert.

    They saw the mischus first, several square kilometers of it. They came over a rocky rise and all the land before them fell downward, a bowl of mischus over three kilometers wide surrounded by a rocky ridge. Perhaps some prehistoric meteor had pulverized the ground, brought it low to near the water table, and meanwhile thrown up a protective barrier of rock. However it had formed it was a welcome sight. Appalons, hundreds of them, grazed in their summer-paled coats.

    An oval wall sat precisely in the middle of the mischus, its long axis aimed east to west, the same color as the ground. The wall was almost featureless, the exceptions being a large gate at the western apex, and a smaller one at the eastern. All of Dagono''s houses were made from local adobe, two or three stories tall, adjoined and facing inward towards the garden. The houses'' backs and roofs made up the garden''s wall, like an armadillo curled up to present its armored back to predators. The inside of the oval was green, too distant to make out details from the ridge, but green as any forest in Lavradio at springtime.

    There were no outposts, no patrols, and no military, but it was impossible to approach and not be seen in that part of the desert. They picked their way through the mischus, watched by a crowd growing on the wall and at the west gate. Most Calique wore simple white robes and scarves on their hair in Dagono''s colors of yellow and green. Women covered their hair where it fell, while men piled it on top of their heads. Hunters wore leather armor under their robes. The gathering grew excited as Taylor and his party came nearer, enough to raise a rumble of words.

    The tallest Calique with the longest spear barked loudly at their party. "I think you''re lost, outsiders. Sand Castle is that way," he pointed southwest with his spear. "Good luck getting a reception there." The hunters on the ground jeered, joined a heartbeat later by the people on the wall.

    Taylor took a relaxed attitude against the man''s hostility, mounted and at ease on Ben''s back. "My name is Phillip the Younger. I heard Sand Castle was empty of people. Did I hear wrongly?"

    "Oh, you heard rightly. If you''re intent on dying, then get on with it! Ride off to Sand Castle and leave us alone. The desert isn''t a place for outsiders."

    "I came to ask about your monster, so we can hunt it."

    "It is too dangerous for religious fatheads. The doyennes have forbidden us from speaking of it."

    "Then let us speak to your doyennes," suggested Taylor, in his most reasonable tone. Some voices on the wall jeered and laughed at him.

    "He''s beyond little children. You think your holy star makes you powerful? You''re nothing to the monster that haunts us. Go home, beardless whelp." More laughter.

    Taylor raised his voice and magically enhanced it. "Does it have an aura of darkness? Is it poisonous to touch? Is it impervious to normal weapons?"

    "If it is, that''s more reason for you to go home, heretic!"

    "I have killed such monsters before. In Lavradio, Gallia, and Dace. The disciples who came before me had no experience and were unprepared. They rushed in like fools and died like fools. I''m not here to repeat their mistakes!"The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

    Another of the Calique spoke up, this one dressed differently in dark leather armor and a headdress in Satoma''s white and purple. "You''re a liar! Three of Enclave''s best couldn''t kill it together. They could only feed it!" Rough laughter arose from his knot of people, but none from the audience. "I''ll send you packing, little rat!"

    The gatekeeper took exception. "This is not your garden to defend, Kourosh."

    "If you won''t, then maybe Dagono should get a maul who will."

    "You are not Dagono. If you don''t like your place here, go back to Satoma where you belong! Or are your beds too cold now that you''ve lost your women?"

    The gatekeeper of Dagono and the Satoman hunter glared at each other and started to exchange insults. (Hothead! Servant of old women!) Taylor groaned with impatience. Whatever their unfinished business was, it had to wait. But Taylor was no good at this bragging and couldn''t keep their attention: he was more adept at showing off than telling off.

    "Since you two girls can''t pay attention properly I''ll show you the strength of Nexus, by fighting you both. At the same time." He knelt Ben down and slid easily off the appalon''s back, bringing his spear and shield with him. He stalked towards the two men. The people around them, suddenly aware that a fight was about to break out and not wanting to find themselves in the center of such a clash, especially when a better view could be had from the wall, cleared a roughly circular space near the gate. The two men looked at him in surprise.

    "Prepare yourselves. You can''t afford to underestimate the disciples of Nexus!" They barely had time to raise their shields before he was on them. Taylor charged the gatekeeper first, because he was ready. The other man, Kourosh, was bigger but he was flat-footed. And something, a tingle in his spine or a raised hair on his arm, told Taylor the gatekeeper was more dangerous than the Satoman hunter.

    Taylor took the man''s spear on his shield and turned it, while his own prayer-enhanced point of mobeen alloy slid easily through his opponent''s shield and into his armor.Taylor kept his momentum going and rammed the gatekeeper with his shoulder. He pushed the bigger man into the gate, and pinned him there with his spear. If he had pierced him right, it should only be a flesh wound. If not ˇ­ Taylor wasn''t a healer for nothing. The gatekeeper dropped his spear and tried to grapple, but the lad batted his attack away.

    "Hang out here for a second, will you?" he asked the older man with a grin, "I''m going to play with the other guy."

    Kourosh wasn''t one to let such an obvious opportunity go to waste. He attacked while Taylor''s back was turned. The disciple left his spear (and the gatekeeper) stuck in the gate, and faced Kourosh with only his shield. He dodged twice and backed away, led him onto more open ground where the gatekeeper wouldn''t get hurt by accident. The audience''s voice rose to a frenzy, urging them to escalate their violence.

    The calique man was even bigger than he had seemed from a distance, towering over the young disciple. He thrust at Taylor with his whole weight but was easily deflected. Kourosh charged at the boy, but the younger man was far too fast and avoided him with ease. As he passed, Taylor spanked the big man on his ass with his free hand. The crowd jeered at the hunter.

    The hunter took some distance, his face furious and red. "You''re nothing, little boy! You wouldn''t be so hot without your arts! Face me on equal terms!"

    "Oh ho, equals terms you say?" The boy crowed. "Will you fight on your knees so we''re the same height? Will you tie one arm behind your back to compensate for my age?" The crowd was clapping and nodding. If Taylor read them right, they didn''t like this Kourosh fellow and would revel in his humiliation. "When I beat Gustave of Ullidia, he didn''t complain about how unfair the fight was. Of course, he had skill. After him, you''re a bit disappointing!"

    Then, Taylor threw away his shield. To the crowd it seemed a daring move, but his enhancements were tuned so high it was neigh impossible for Kourosh to harm him.

    "You''re an arrogant one." Kourosh threw away his shield but kept his spear. His next attacks were staff moves, striking Taylor on both sides from the point and butt of his weapon. Taylor blocked him with his bare arms. Kourosh pivoted, stabbed with a surprising thrust. Rather than back off or dodge, Taylor turned the point aside with the palm of his bare hand. Instead of recovering for another attack, Kourosh advanced enough to grab the young man.

    What Kourosh didn''t know was Taylor had been taught to wrestle by the Tabua family, Alice and Otavio, who were fanatics of the sport. Taylor avoided the grab, got behind the huge man, grasped him by the ankles, and pulled on them hard. The hunter went on his face, with his leg held in a breaking hold. When he tried to rise, Taylor bore down on him until the bones creaked in his grip.

    "Say it!"

    "No! I won''t give up to you, outsider!"

    "Do I really have to break your leg, just so you''ll admit the obvious?"

    "I am a Satoman! No outsider child can beat me." He tried to push up with his arms but didn''t have the leverage. Taylor leaned harder on the man''s leg until the bone began to fracture. Kourosh felt it too, because he yelled with pain.

    "I''m getting sick and tired of people who won''t learn their lessons. Yield now, or I break both of your legs."

    "Get him!" The call didn''t come from Kourosh but from his fellow Satomen. Three of them rushed at Taylor''s back with swords drawn. A wind swept through the nearby spectators, across the impromptu fighting ring, and raised a wall of dust into the Satomen''s faces. It wasn''t prayer, but a messy application of raw spirit. The men charged onward, blinded, angry, but didn''t find their enemy near their leader.

    A dire voice reached out to them from the cloud of dust, which had begun to roil in a miniature storm. The voice thrummed promises of lightning. "Honorless men deserve no honor."

    A red blur shot out from the dust -- a spike of stone pierced the thigh of one interloper. Another one traveled too fast to see and skewered the second man''s thigh. Both men collapsed and groaned in pain. The third one ran away and left Kourosh to stand alone against the enemy. Taylor stilled his roiled spirit and let the dust fall around him, revealing himself. Kourosh and the spectators had gone very still: Taylor counted six silent heartbeats.

    "Attack me, or yield," he told the Satomen hunter, "but stop wasting my time."

    Kourosh mustered a half-hearted sneer. "Tricks for children." He retreated from the fight without admitting defeat, carrying grudges on his shoulders. He also left his wounded men where they were.

    "I can heal them, you know!" Taylor shouted at his back, "but it''ll cost you!" People jeered at Kourosh as he shouldered past them.

    The gatekeeper was still pinned to his gate, his hands pulling futilely at the spear that held him there. A small amount of blood was pooled beneath him.

    "What''s your name, Gatekeeper?"

    "I am Amadis, maul of Dagono."

    "It''s a pleasure to meet you, Amadis. Do I need to make a big show of asking, or ˇ­ "

    "It''s fine," he said with a toothy grin, "I concede this fight. But I won''t underestimate you again."

    "That''s going to be tough when you haven''t seen what I can do."

    Amadis barked a short laugh. "Ha ha! A fine boast! Think you can get me off this thing?"

    Taylor put one hand on the gate and grasped the spear using the other. "Hold still." The spear came out of the door and through the man. "Do I have your permission to heal you?"

    "No! It''s only a flesh wound. I might want to keep this scar." He reached down and ruffled Taylor''s head like he would a child. Taylor didn''t like it, but he didn''t feel any malice in it either. Amadis raised his voice. "He''s a fine hunter indeed! Let him in!" Laughter and applause rose from all around the gate.

    To Taylor he said in a lower voice, "That''s all I can do for you for now, little disciple. Leave your mounts here and carry your saddles inside. The children will make sure your beasts are cared for. Your guide awaits you."

 The Doyennes Circle

    The Doyennes'' Circle

    The gates opened to a wide courtyard paved in bricks the same color as the wall, large enough to entertain the thousand people who lived in Dagono. It was shaded by an awning of loosely woven palm fronds, held up at intervals by thin pillars, each support plastered and painted, some in the gradient colors of sunrise, others in gem tones, while a few bore entire scenes scrolling up their narrow heights. A light wind made the leaf-filtered sunlight dance in the vast space.

    People came down from the wall and headed off to wherever they had to be that day. They gawked at the Nexus party as they passed. There were many children, who held hands as they ran off. Most of the adults barely registered their presence or pretended they did not exist at all. Here in the garden, where temperatures were several degrees cooler than the desert, many dispensed with the typical robe and opted instead for lengths of cloth of simple homespun stuff cheaply dyed, wrapped and draped in myriad ways. Men and women alike favored a skirt-like arrangement, of which there were many inventive kinds. The method varied by age, presented gender, beast trait, and personal preference. Some men chose not to cover their torsos at all. People who embarked on especially dirty jobs donned ponchos made from woven palm fronds, quick to make and easily composted.

    Taylor was so occupied he didn''t notice they had been approached.

    "I am J''anan, honored guests. Welcome to Dagono village." J''anan was a young woman, maybe in her late teens, with dark hair and startling blue eyes. The only hint of a beast trait was her slightly elongated ears and the slight tufts of fur at their tips. Her wrap was made of sturdy-looking material dyed a faint blue that left her shoulders and almost all of one leg bare, tied at the hip. Plant debris lingered at her knees. Taylor saw traces of dirt under her fingernails and hands that looked strong from frequent work. She smelled of clean earth and sun.

    "I am Anisca. Thank you for allowing this visit." Anisca and J''anan touched the fingertips of their right hands together, the Calique greeting between women. She went on to introduce everyone including Taylor, and that left him feeling anxious. He was used to being in the front of these kinds of things, and when he wasn''t he was used to trusting the person in charge, which he didn''t.

    "Come this way. The circle will gather later today. Until then we''ve prepared a place for you to rest." She led them through the plaza to emerge from under the awning, and they got their first close-up view of the settlement''s garden.

    Garden was too small a word for it: Dagono''s interior was practically a jungle. Palms of date and coconut comprised the upper canopy and sheltered smaller plants below. Shorter trees and tall green shrubs grew in the next layer down, most of them of types Taylor didn''t recognize. The summer sun was so intense the double shade was not enough to starve the lowest layer of vegetation in the garden, where herbs and tubers grew. Narrow trails of packed white stone ran through the garden, but even these spaces were put to use by weaving arbors over them, climbed by several types of vines. Taylor spied potatoes, squash, and plants he didn''t recognize. And all of that was just the garden''s edge.

    People moved through the garden, unseen among its abundance, picking and pruning and cutting and pulling, causing all kinds of noise that echoed through the jungle with their hacking, harvesting, digging, piling up, and carting away. It was a huge undertaking, taking the day''s sustenance for a thousand people. A riot of birds complained about the work, sometimes taking flight in small flocks to flash across the air above them in bright greens and blues, only to return minutes later as the workers passed.

    They progressed along the edge of the settlement, past narrow two-story homes arranged around the perimeter, their large windows and doors open to the garden''s scented breezes. The cooking fires were communal to blocks of homes, worked exclusively by men and whichever children had been detailed to help them for the day. A stew simmered in coconut milk and rich spices was spooned over a cooked grain Taylor didn''t know, and handed out as fast as people arrived to eat. The morning meal was quickly eaten and the diners returned to work. Cooking in large batches was an efficient use of fuel, a limited resource.

    Compared to a traditional village, the Calique garden was inside-out. Instead of a town with farms on its outskirts and forest beyond, Dagono built its houses around their forest. Almost everything they needed had to come from there, fiber, food, and fuel. It was no wonder every date was counted.

    At last they arrived at another courtyard on the south side of Dagono, smaller than the grand plaza but still impressive. Young boys came from the forest with baskets on their heads laden with many kinds of goods. These were laid down in sections organized by product, while a trio of women with abacuses kept the count. Taylor, Anisca, and Riculta detoured without asking their guide''s leave, to explore the harvest. They counted twenty-five different products that day: mounds of coconuts, piles of sticky dates, fruits they had never seen, a few types of starchy tubers, berries, tiny nuts, herbs, shaved bark to use as a spice, several kinds of peppers, and more.

    A song came up out of the forest, a working song of simple rhymes and beats, sung in harmony. Taylor strained to catch the words but missed them under the noise of the daily harvest.

    "Come," said J''anan before their eyes had had their fill, "this way." She entered a building by the gathering place, with a grand facade involving stacked arches to three stories. They passed through a cool lobby tiled in bright patterns of green and yellow and blue, then up stairs to a large room, round and domed. The space was bare except for cushions and abacuses stacked neatly by the doors. Small high windows let in enough light to reflect off the silver-gilt walls.

    "This is where the circle convenes when the harvest and the count are finished. Come." She led them to a side room, and up more stairs to another room, this time with a balcony. Taylor rushed to the balcony in awe. From there, he could see the true extent of Garden Dagono: a rough oval a kilometer long, pointed east to west, balanced on the gathering courtyard below them. From this height, he could notice things that had escaped him on the ground, like the wide avenues fanning out from the gathering area, segmenting the forest.

    "How is your garden segmented?" He pointed at a wedge of trees, clearly younger than their neighbors. "You''re doing some kind of rotation, right?"

    The woman smiled at him, amused. "The coconut tree fruits when it is twenty, and declines after sixty. We harvest them for wood when they get old, and replace them with new growth. A gardener will plant their first trees when they are young. They will plant the tree''s nuts into nursery pots about the time they have their own children, and grow them into seedlings. The first trees will be cut down when the gardener approaches old age, and new seedlings will be planted in their place."

    Taylor looked downward to the courtyard below them, joined by Riculta. "All the trees near the gathering area are smaller. None of them are palms."

    "Of course. The zones in the south are shadowed by the wall, especially in winter."

    "I heard singing, earlier. Is all your knowledge passed down by song, or is any of it written down?"

    "Is this why you came, Phillip the Younger, to learn about gardening?"

    "I came," he said, turning into her intense gaze, "to kill your monster." His blood stopped in his veins when he saw those eyes, too close to his own. She had snuck up on him for no reason he could tell. There was a faint floral smell about her in addition to earth and sun, but nothing he could recognize as dangerous. He decided he was nervous because she was pretty, and a little too close.

    "I have a general interest in cultural survival," he added, pointing at Anisca in hopes of distracting the woman, "we both do. How does a culture carry on for centuries, through trial and calamity? How do they pass on what is essential to future generations?" She was still looking at him. Did she think he was lying? Was he saying something foolish?

    "Have I crossed some cultural taboo here? Because you''re looking at me a little too intently."

    "You''re a weird sort of man, aren''t you?"

    Anisca laughed. "You''ve noticed already? I honestly don''t know what to make of him sometimes." Four children entered the room with trays of food and drink and set them down on a low table surrounded by colorful cushions. The mat on the floor was thickly woven plant fiber, soft to the touch.

    Two of Taylor''s bulwark stayed by the door while the rest of their party followed J''anan''s lead and sat around the food. They mostly ate without utensils, so it was important they thoroughly wash their hands before a meal. It was acceptable to examine food before eating it, provided one held it by a stem or shell, but whoever touched an edible surface owned the whole piece. There was no meat in evidence, but there were boiled eggs the size of walnuts. Drinks were dispensed from glazed pitchers. One held mixed fruit juice and coconut water, while the other was warm appalon milk. The milk was more of an acquired taste, fatty and tasting of chlorophyll and appalon.

    J''anan laughed at the face Milo made when he tried it. "Outsiders don''t like it the first time. Don''t worry though, you''ll learn to love it. Everyone does if they stick around."

    At the end of the meal, J''anan rose to leave and was instantly surrounded by a pack of young boys and girls to do her bidding. She had them clear away the food, bring sleeping mats and pillows for the guests, refresh the washing basins, sweep the floors, and other such chores.

    "I must return to my regular work. I''ll get you when it''s time to meet the circle. Until then, I''ll leave some children here to fetch things, if you should need them."

    "Thank you," said Anisca for the group.

    "When do you think they''ll call for us?" Taylor asked. The question didn''t sound impertinent, not to his ears, but J''anan looked perturbed.

    "Phillip doesn''t ask from impatience," Anisca explained while looking at him askance, "he wants to know how much time he has to spend on personal pursuits."

    The two women shared a knowing smile. Men often liked to claim the hobbies they pursued were useful skills in thin disguise.

    "The hour past mid-day, at the earliest. The hour before sundown at the latest."

    After J''anan had left the room Anisca turned on him with a hushed voice. "Doin''t alienate them before we even get started."

    "It was a simple question. It''s not like I had planned to charge down there and interrupt them."

    "I know that you''re accustomed to ruling everyone else''s time, but today you''re living on the doyenne''s clock and by her patience. You''ll have to trust me."

    "Because we''ve had such great affinity before today?" In the months that he had known her Anisca had interfered in his businesses, threatened him with violence by her guards, had hitched a ride into his exile, and nearly killed a student. She had some skills with people and, when she had to (twice with him so far), could make a fine apologetic monologue. Kasryn had taken up the work of running the school with Mika, but what had Anisca done so far except bring him a talented farmer?

    She reached out with her hand and grasped his shoulder. "If you have put your trust in Kasryn, trust the person she has sent you. Please."

    It was the please that did it, the word a princess could not say. She knew that it would get to him, damn her measured smiles!

    Taylor was building a box under the curious eyes of two children J''anan had left behind. He had the boy and girl test-fit the pieces for him without glue, to ensure they assembled properly before he stuck them together permanently. It would be a smooth rectangle when it was finished, without handles or obvious hinges, finished in four different colors. To open the box one had to grasp opposing edges and squeeze gently. The top would spring open to reveal a compartment inside, and two lower drawers would slide out of the lower front. It was one of his cleverer designs. It didn''t hide what it was, but the internal mechanism would be inscrutable when it was finished. He had hardened the bits subject to wearing down, but he could honestly say the entire thing was made from wood.This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

    The children, being in on the project, got a good look at the internal mechanism. The moving parts were powered by tiny leaf springs made of laminated wood. Taylor had hardened the springs and latches with the arts to make them more durable than brass. The girl-child kept talking about all the jewelry and bangles she could keep in a box like that, while the boy said it should be big enough to hold a weapon and whetstones.

    "They''ve paused. They''ll be ready for us soon," whispered Anisca, "you should put that away." She had spent the last two hours near the doorway, listening in on the muted sounds of the circle meeting below. All morning, the sounds of urgent discussions had drifted towards them, punctuated by the rattling of abacuses.

    "Back to your posts, little ones," said Alice, brushing them away, "Don''t let your doyennes find you dawdling. Otavio, put that one down will you?" The children obeyed her without complaint.

    Alice and Otavio had taken to the children, and the children had returned their favor. They didn''t mind Otavio''s craggy face and climbed on him like monkeys. Alice was gorgeous, so of course everyone loved her. Few people would guess how deadly she was in a grapple.

    Taylor cleaned the table he was using as a workspace and let Milo check his appearance. Anisca allowed Mila to do the same for her, even though the cousins were far cries from royal servants. They knew more about fighting, scripture, accounting, and tea than they did valet service, but the party had to make do. Taylor used the spiritual arts to iron out the creases and ensure everyone was as clean as possible.

    "Come," J''anan told them, "they are waiting. You may bring two guards."

    When they reached the round room it was crowded. In addition to the doyenne of Dagono, there was one from Pashtuk (whose refugees were camped on the eastern outskirts) and another from Bitter Spring, their neighbor to the north. Each doyenne was old enough to be a grandmother and had several tabla women with them. Taken all together, there were more than fifty women in the room. A few children had been drafted to fan the gathering with palms in such a way that stale air was pushed out towards the desert-facing windows and pulled new air from the garden.

    The women were arranged in rings, the oldest and the most important in the center, with two additional rings of progressively younger women in the outward rings. Amidst all this, two cushions sat on one edge of the inner ring, with just enough space behind them to accommodate Taylor''s two chosen guards. Anisca had suggested the Tabuas, but Taylor wished he hadn''t brought the large married pair with him. Space was at a premium.

    Anisca and Taylor sat on the cushions, and Anisca spoke. "Greetings, Wise Uzan. I am Anisca and this is Brother Phillip the Younger, of Nexus. Thank you for inviting us at a time when extra work burdens your circle."

    "Of course, of course," said one of the women in the inner circle. "I''m Doyenne Uzan of Dagono. This is Doyenne Yalda of Pashtuk, and Doyenne Azhand of Bitter Spring. The rest are tablas you may get to know in time, should you be allowed to stay."

    As Taylor looked around him, he saw many women wearing body paint, the uttar written of by Clintus Odemira. The colorful substance was daubed in spots and lines to form patterns that flowed over their bodies. He couldn''t detect any pattern in who chose to wear the uttar over those who didn''t, but the designs they chose varied by garden. Vines and birds for Pashtuk, stylized herds of appalons for Dagono, palms and flying insects for Bitter Spring. Were the uttar themes normally so segregated by garden, or did they wear the signature designs because the gardens were mixing? He lost himself in speculation while the women continued their greetings and small talk, an art which eluded him and tried his patience.

    "We call the monster Darkmaw," Uzan said, which got Taylor''s attention. "Why do you smile, young Phillip? Does our tragedy amuse you?"

    "Not at all, Wise Uzan, but Darkmaw is an excellent name for a cursed monster. They travel in a cloak of night and leave no living creature in their wake. I appreciate how apt the name is. A terrible name for a terrifying creature."

    "And how do you propose to kill our aptly-named Darkmaw, when so many others have tried and failed? Not to mention the many calique hunters and our people who have been lost to it? What is your plan, Brother Phillip?"

    "My plan is to question survivors and gather all the information I can about the monster. Then we will observe its behavior, search for weaknesses, probe it without engaging directly. Only then will we make a plan to kill Darkmaw."

    Yalda, the oldest of the doyennes, openly doubted him. "Young hunters are always too cocky. And disciples are an arrogant lot! What makes you think you can survive this endeavor?"

    "There are many reasons we can succeed where Enclave failed. Nexus disciples are more skilled at art than Enclave''s. We have better armor and weapons. We have experience with dark monsters. I have killed three myself, and several more of us killed cursed monsters during an outbreak in Lavradio. And, we have this." Taylor removed a wooden cylinder from his harness and twisted the ends, to expose the light within. Waves of silver-blue light poured from the small lantern to illuminate the gathered women. The slowly coruscating light inspired awe in any who saw it for the first time.

    "This is a fragment of sun. It counters cursed darkness." He held the lantern up as if admiring it. "I offered some to Enclave but their disciples refused them. I don''t share their beloved ''heritage'', so they can''t accept my contributions." Taylor closed the lantern before any of the fragment''s other properties could trigger accidentally.

    "If you''re so superior to Enclave, why are you here?" One of the unnamed tablas waved at Taylor and Anisca as if she could shoo them out of the garden. "Go out and kill the thing already. Bring us its head and we''ll reward you, but don''t take up our valuable time with boasts and lies! Why do you smile, you rude pup?"

    "Because you are so obviously trying to goad me into doing something rash. Save your breath, honored tabla." He tossed a rueful glance at Anisca. "You need to know my levers if you want to push me around." A low laughter of appreciation rose from the circle. Doyennes often moved their mauls by indirect means, and a good maul understood when he was being moved, but moved anyway.

    The nameless crone yielded to Doyenne Uzan. "And what would we owe the hero who kills Darkmaw? You will be disappointed if you want coin: the merchants took their silver with them when they left. In normal times we would offer spices and jacquard, but our gardens are pushed beyond their limits. Sand Castle, Satoma, Saluja, Pashtuk, are all in ruins. There are no riches for you to carry away from here."

    "Nexus will not ask for what the Calique cannot give," said Anisca.

    "But she will ask for something, no doubt," interjected the sour tabla. "She plans to save us, and then run off with all that is dear to our people. We will be worse off than before, and wish for the days we were in thrall to Darkmaw!" Anisca waited out the woman''s vitriol with patience. To her, this was only a negotiating tactic.

    "That will do, Kataneh," said Uzan. "What do the disciples of Nexus demand, as payment for killing Darkmaw?"

    "Nexus doesn''t need wealth or goods. We need good neighbors."

    A ripple of apprehension flowed through the circle. Perhaps Kateneh was correct, and they were asking too much.

    "Consider what it will mean to have disciples living in the desert. We will defend it as our own home, which strengthens the Calique. You will have easier access to healing when you need it. Situations like your current crisis could be aided, too."

    "How many souls are in your Nexus?"

    "One hundred and ten." There were many shaking heads and idle rattling of abacus beads. It was enough to throw their calculations. It was too much for a garden that already had too little.

    "They want us to feed them, of course," said sour Kataneh. "Where are you hiding this hungry horde of yours?"

    Anisca smiled at the jab, endearing and contemptuous in equal measure. "Hiding? Would you rather we rolled our full caravan here, a force of armed bulwarks and disciples as if to make demands? We left them to come talk to you."

    Uzan''s hands shook. "And if we tell you to leave, that we will have no traffic with heretics? What will you do then?"

    "Then we will live apart, at Red Tower. You know it by a different name, Lobat''s Tears."

    "I like this solution," cackled Kataneh, "they will die of thirst and cease to bother us."

    "Enough, Kataneh!" Uzan raised her hand to silence her. "The fact remains there is not enough food for everyone. Our discussions this morning were about how many should be sent to the desert, to make room for those who can live. Which one hundred and ten Calique will you send into the wild, to create room for your people?"

    "We have supplies for now, and will grow our own food in time," replied Anisca, "so there''s no need to send your men away. We''ve come to ask you to release the hunters from their silence so we can learn from them. That is the only price for killing Darkmaw. We also want the opportunity to learn from your gardeners and take some seedlings with us when we leave. For this, we offer a healer''s labor while we''re here."

    "There are eight of you," observed Yalda, who led the Pashtuk refugees. "Which eight of my people will starve to feed you?"

    Taylor nearly jumped at the bait and shouted, none at all! But Ma''Tocha had advised him to ask questions. Kasryn had warned him not to speak out of turn. Ansica had said please. Taylor shifted his hands, in a signal prearranged, telling Anisca he wanted to speak.

    "The disciple has a question. May he speak?"

    "Yes, let''s hear what the young man has to say."

    "Thank you, Wise Uzan. Perhaps there is an opportunity here. Disciples can triple plant growth and therefore harvests. Wouldn''t that give you enough food to feed all the refugees, or is there a factor that I''m missing?"

    "In the short term, it would. But, it would exhaust our soil and inflict long-term damage." Uzan gave a short stream of encoded instructions to her circle, and the abacus beads began to rattle. They began to the left of the guests, in the innermost circle, and progressed rapidly outward and around. As each woman completed her computation, the ones near her would pick up her answers and begin computations of her own. Taylor realized they were working a progression, computing food yields from one week to the next. Soon the whole room was clacking and rattling, a sound which died down as the women immediately to the guests'' right completed the last figures. The tablas held up their computers for all to see, and the doyennes looked through the answers to confirm what they already knew. Yields began strong for a time and then decreased rapidly.

    "When is that point?" said Taylor, pointing at the moment the yields took an obvious turn for the worse. He couldn''t work their abacus, but it was trivial to read the magnitude of numbers they presented.

    Uzan followed his finger. "One season. We cannot renew the soil quickly enough to feed the plants. The garden must itself be fed."

    Anisca nodded in understanding: Lavradio had faced similar problems and used Nexus students to boost yields. "Disciples have prayers to restore the health of the soil."

    "We are aware." Uzan gave another series of instructions. A rush-rush noise filled the room as all the women cleared their abacuses in unison. Then they began the new computation. Again the rattling of beads built to a crescendo, and subsided as they held up their answers. The turning point had moved clockwise along the circle. Fertility prayers prolonged the garden''s productivity but did not solve an underlying problem.

    "Almost three seasons, yet not nearly enough," Doyenne Uzan concluded. "To restore the ruined gardens will require years of work. We only delay the inevitable cruelties by attempting it. Your vaunted fertility prayer is incomplete. It can only take the place of decayed green matter like leaves and fruit. It lacks the qualities of brown matter such as wood and husks."

    "Compost," said Anisca, with a trace of excitement. "You''re saying the real sticking point is compost. Is there a prayer to speed compost, Brother Phillip?"

    "No Anisca, there is not," he said while attempting to constrain his grin, "but there could be. I can make one. Can you tell us, Wise Uzan, how much faster composting would have to be, to sustain the garden enough to feed everyone?"

    Another set of coded instructions, rush-rush, another computation. This time, separate sections of the circle performed the same computation simultaneously, to check each other''s answers. It seemed to take longer, but when the boards were held up all the answers were the same.

    "Almost double, Brother Phillip," said Uzan. "She gave another instruction, a very short one this time, and the rush-rush of clearing abacuses was followed by a careful picking through of multiple problems. Each tabla worked different calculations, across two or three abacuses. It was a noticeably slower process than any of the previous solutions.

    "They work a full accounting," explained Uzan, "water, soil, food, fuel, medicine, clothes, appalons, mischus, birth and death." She and the other doyennes looked around themselves carefully, noting the contents of each board as they were held in the air. "It is not without problems," she said, "but they are problems we can bear. If you provide this new prayer and disciples to speed the plants, then we can feed everyone."

    Dagono Garden didn''t care the disciples were heretics. Aside from a small healer presence in Sand Castle, Enclave had never shown real interest in Calique, and Calique showed little interest in Enclave in return. What they were proposing now would mean a small but permanent presence of disciples in residence at each participating garden, a significant change. If Nexus could help them feed their people, then it was a relationship worth exploring.

    Taylor let Anisca haggle with Uzan. The two skilled negotiators feinted with suggestions and implications, then imprecations. They searched for weakness and took advantage, only to learn they had taken what the other always meant to give. Then, they complained of each other''s wickedness. He hated that kind of bargaining. His way was to loudly state his basic needs, demand the other party''s needs, and walk away if they couldn''t both be satisfied. The game these women played seemed unnecessary to him, yet they relished their combat.

    The deal took shape almost exactly as Taylor could have achieved using his own methods. Taylor would write the crucial prayer. Nexus would be given a dwelling inside the settlement large enough to house a cadre and a small clinic, to be filled by a rotating staff to keep the compost heaps and garden producing at an accelerated rate. Nexus was welcome to trade goods with Dagono on market days, but only by barter. Coins were an outsider habit, hardly ever used within or between gardens. Nexus could inhabit Red Tower but agreed to cap their population at three hundred. In return, the gardens represented by the circle promised not to interfere with Nexus.

    The day declined as the women argued, and most of the circle departed except the three doyennes and one helper each. Records were made on slats of wood, the letters burned into the surface by a wedge of metal heated over a tiny brazier. The doyennes added their marks, a brand each one carried on her person. When it was Nexus''s time to sign Taylor did the honors using the arts: he shaped a perfect quad-diamond mark inside a seven-pointed star into the wood, as clean and smooth as if it had been carved and sanded by a master.

    The contract was good for three years, but Taylor believed the current crises would be solved in less than one. By this time next year, they''d have all new problems to contend with.

    Later, as soon as they were alone, Anisca would confess, "Living with disciples might be too much for them. I''m not sure the doyennes intend to honor this agreement."

    "Neither am I," said Taylor, "but for now it gives us access to a garden."

    "And gardeners," agreed Anisca. "I hope you get everything you need from the hunters here."

 Chapter House

    Chapter House

    "This is the shrine. You may occupy the dwelling next door. Your next-door neighbor is the local cook and will provide your meals."

    J''anan had brought them to a section of the town dominated by a dome-topped building, the only one of its kind. Its meter-thick back wall was part of Dagono''s barrier to the outside, just like all the others, but there were no intervening floors between the ground and the top of the dome. The interior was tall and round, and partly lit by garden-facing windows. The high dome ceiling was a faded blue. An altar made of palm stood in the center, topped by a brass seven-pointed star shining dimly in the shaded space. A single shelf ran along the curved back wall to hold the local copy of scripture, written on thin wooden boards, chapters bound together by string.

    On the other hand, the residence was not in good repair. The door was half off its hinges, the shutters were closed tight, tattered cloth hung where an awning should have been, and debris littered the stoep. Mila and Milo stood in front of Taylor, heads bowed, to receive a stack of silent blessings: sensory acuity, proof against poison, toughness, and a little strength. They entered the house with weapons drawn.

    "That seems extreme," observed J''anan, "sending your guards into a house like that."

    "The tower was full of snakes when we got there," said Inez, "the green-headed kind. Our young master cannot be risked in trivial matters." A family of mice escaped the upper floor through a crack in the shutters and scurried down the rough adobe at speed until they hit the pavement, then charged into the garden. The spike-haired cousins reappeared a minute later looking satisfied. They declared the house empty except for dust.

    Taylor entered next, alone.

    "You should stand over here, dear, away from any openings." Alice pulled J''anan away from doors and windows on the lower floor.

    "Why? What''s he going to do?"

    "You''ve never seen a Nexus disciple at work, have you?" Milo looked smug as he said it.

    The house sneezed. A plume of dust and cobweb expectorated out the door. The shutters blew open with a crack and a clack, and spewed brown poofs of unwanted debris into the street, raining leaves and dust bunnies and mice droppings and all the little things that sneak into a place long thought shut. It stank a little, until a smaller cough exhaled better-smelling air. A whirlwind in miniature danced its way out the door, to evict the last unwanted residues of stains, molds, and scruff that any normal housekeeper would scrape away with tools.

    The party hefted their saddles and their gear, which they had lugged across the garden twice now, and carried it into their temporary home. The furniture was minimal, a few low tables strategically placed, and there was nothing to sit on anywhere.

    "Welcome to our first chapter house," said Taylor. "We can use the front room as a parlor, and the side room for treatments. I''ll take the smallest room upstairs, and the rest of you can divvy up the others and share as you like. There''s room enough for everyone. J''anan, can we get two pallets for the treatment room, one with a thin mattress and the other with something more comfortable, in case we have to watch them overnight? And a privacy screen, or materials to make one? I''ll start seeing people this afternoon."

    "So soon?" J''anan looked dazed, still processing how everything was so suddenly clean.

    "We agreed to pay for room and board and access to your gardeners," Anisca reminded her, "with disciple services."

    "I''ll fetch water," Milo volunteered, grabbed the barrel near the door, and set it on his shoulder. He would fill it up entirely and haul it back, instead of moving buckets back and forth from the well. Strength enhancements were handy.

    "I''ll set up Young Master''s room," said Alice.

    Mila picked books, small boxes, and tightly wrapped bundles from their luggage. "I have the treatment room."

    Inez took a post by the front door, while Otavio hauled the remaining luggage upstairs.

    "We need a first patient, someone who can''t be healed normally. They''ll spread the word for us. Does anyone come to mind?" Taylor aimed the question at J''anan, who stared at him with an open mouth.

    "You can''t. Nobody will come."

    "Why not? I''m a disciple, and I''m here, and the circle agreed to pay with food and shelter. What''s the problem?"

    "In case you haven''t noticed, you''re a man!"

    "And?" Taylor didn''t see the problem.

    "And healing is a woman''s job. Nobody will agree to put themselves into the hands of a man."

    "That''s ridiculous! And anyway, I thought Calique were desperate right now. You''d think that would soften their views a little."

    J''anan pointed to the east, where the Pashtuk camp was said to be, "the refugees are desperate. Dagono isn''t. Nobody here will break tradition for convenience."

    Taylor deflated a little. He had so many disciples around him lately that he seldom got to do any proper work. He had been looking forward to it.

    "Let me try." Anisca had been hoping for a chance to help the disciple personally. It wouldn''t put her in his good graces, exactly, but it might lift her out of the sinkhole she was in. "Give me Alice and Otavio, and the appalons. We''ll ride east to Pashtuk''s camp and find people desperate enough to be healed by a man. I''ll even ferry them back again. People here will see the results. Maybe they''ll accept you as a healer."

    "Pashtuk is destitute," J''anan reminded them, "and they''re not covered by Dagono''s payment. How will they pay you?"

    "With songs," said Alice from the stairs. "He''s a musician you know, so they can pay with music if they have to. Or handicrafts, or housekeeping, or anything at all. The truly poor owe little for his services."

    "The lords all pay in silver bars," Milo said with pride, as he carefully put down the barrel of water. "And he''s turned away gold for jobs he thought were wrong."

    J''anan made a noise of disbelief.

    "Money is necessary," Taylor quoted from Disciple''s Guidebook, "but it isn''t the goal. Go ahead Anisca, but wait for the day to cool a little. Meanwhile, I''ll put up a sign." He went outside and chose a section of the building''s face, at about chin height for someone standing near the door. He smoothed a rectangular area using the arts, which took a while but was worth the effort. Polishing revealed mottled blacks, browns, reds, and oranges, all shot through with streaks of yellow.

    He shaped letters into the polished surface:

    Phillip the Younger, Disciple in Residence

    Afternoons, 2nd to 7th day

    Tools Enhanced

    Monsters Exterminated

    Lost Persons FoundThe author''s narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

    Wounds Healed

    Diseases Cured

    Beneath the letters, he placed a disciple''s mark. His was a futobel drawn in silver lines, a pig-like creature with six legs, a short trunk, and antlers spread wide to encompass four stars to represent the four tenets. It was one of Taylor''s favorite bits of magic in this world: the animal smiled at the world, pranced back and forth across the sign, shook his antlers in challenge to passersby, and raced around the sign when the mood so struck it. Every disciple''s mark was unique. The most powerful ones seemed to take on lives of their own.

    "That''s amazing," said J''anan.

    "The contrast is a little low," worried Taylor. "The letters could be easier to read."

    "They need whitewash or white paint," offered Mila.

    "Or I could fill the letters in with quartz. I''d take a bag of good sand about yay big as payment if someone has it."

    "It''s going to draw a crowd as it is," observed Alice, "we should rest while we can. J''anan, will you be resting with us?"

    "I have something to do, at home. I''ll be back before the gathering hour." She sounded far away as if their association had drained her. She left abruptly with the obligatory wish for their good rest.

    As soon as she was out of earshot Taylor mused, "If we''re going to split the party I should make a set of links. Just in case."

    Most people who visited the first day just stood outside and watched the futobel prance around the sign. Soon the entire garden would know about the "resident disciple". Mila put on Calique women''s clothes and worked the door that afternoon, greeting people, answering questions, and prioritizing potential clients. It put the clientele at ease to be greeted by a woman, in that she lent her authority to the figure in the back room.

    The little work Taylor did that day was fixing or enhancing tools. Calique didn''t smelt or cast metal because the fuel requirements would be ruinous for a garden. With the merchants gone, they could not replace broken tools made of bronze. They also used tools of bone and wood, which wore down quickly and had to be replaced frequently. Dagono denizens brought Taylor their favorites for strengthening, in hopes the enhanced tools would last. One man brought in broken bits of metal to be reformed into a new cooking knife.

    Several people were interested in healing for their family members, but none were willing to let a man do the job. The closest Taylor came to getting a patient was a builder whose six-year-old son had a crooked arm: his radius had broken as an infant but was never properly set. The father paled when Taylor explained the procedure would involve opening the skin, breaking the boy''s arm again, shaving away the bone that had grown crookedly, and then putting it all back together and healing it. Taylor''s assurances the procedure was routine, and that the son would be painlessly asleep for the operation, and he had done it many times before didn''t win over the father. Like all the prospective patients, he said he would be glad for Nexus'' aid just as soon as they sent a "real healer", meaning a woman.

    Anisca''s best efforts among the Pashtuk likewise met with limited success. At length she found a single patient, a woman with a scarred face, who wanted to be healed badly enough to let a man do it. Also, there was one other matter.

    "Taylor," she asked him over the link, "how good are you at finding missing persons?"

    "If I have something that belonged to them that they used all the time? Very good. Distance is practically no object."

    "I saw Iraj today. He says some Pashtuk women are missing, and he wants to know if you can find them. When I asked for details he became very cagey. He says he wants to talk to you about it in person."

    "Missing women sounds like it would be a huge issue for Calique."

    "None of them were hands or tablas. They might have run away to find a better situation. The conditions here are ˇ­ difficult would be a fair way to describe it. It''s orderly, but there isn''t enough food to go around and they''re all living in tents."

    "Do they have water?"

    "There''s a well in the Dagono mischus they use. It''s a long haul."

    "It sounds like they need us more than Dagono does. I could send a cadre for a few days and make their lives a little easier."

    "Well if you do, tell them to bring blank books to write songs in, because that''s all you''ll get for your trouble here. These people have nothing. Even the clothes on their backs are falling apart."

    "Hope to the hopeless," Taylor quoted, "it''s kind of what we''re known for."

    "What about Iraj?"

    "Bring him. Say he''s an escort for the patient you''re bringing to Dagono. And bring articles from the missing women, but don''t let them touch. Keep them separate from each other."

    "We''ll see you in an hour."

    The woman''s name was Soraya, and she had acid burns on her face. The wounds were terrible, about a month old, and she would not say where they were from. Taylor took that to mean they had been caused by the monster Darkmaw. The skin had scarred as it tried to heal and pulled her features cruelly. One eye was pulled almost shut, her lips were twisted in a snarl, and one ear hung lower than the other. The numerous delicate muscles of her face were damaged underneath the scars, but her bones were sound. Healing her would be easier than resetting an arm, but would require her to eat. Her body was too thin to support regenerating muscle.

    Fortunately, his other clients had left baskets of produce as offerings for his help, the circle''s contract notwithstanding. Taylor pressed Soraya to eat before he began, tempting her with roasted tubers slathered in appalon butter from the cook next door. It was supposed to be his portion of the noon meal, but they had plenty of other food to choose from.

    Under the disciple''s hands, her tortured muscles relaxed and reformed, new flesh grew under scars while old skin died and peeled aside in layer after layer, to be captured in a wooden bowl, until pink new growth reached the surface. The new skin needed sun, but it was perfect. When Taylor showed Soraya her new face in a mirror she simultaneously wept with joy and shook from extreme hunger. She took the basket he offered her without question and ate with determination. Entire limbs and organs could be regrown as long as there was food enough to feed new flesh.

    Taylor sent her to the parlor so he could speak privately with Iraj, with Otavio in attendance. He made a show of praying out loud (Shelter us Oh Lord from adversaries'' gaze; Ring us round with walls of blessed silence) so the Pashtuk spear would know their conversation was private. That Taylor kept a guard was reasonable, given they barely knew each other and Iraj had once tried to steal from him.

    "So, what couldn''t you say to Anisca?"

    "This is desert business, men''s business. Women don''t want to know about it. These women who are missing are very young -- the Satomen have stolen them for wives. They don''t follow the proper way to steal wives! You must go and get them back for us!"

    "There''s a proper way to steal a Calique wife? I''m afraid you''ll have to explain that to me Iraj, and remember I''m a foreigner who doesn''t understand everything about your people."

    "Of course, of course. I forget because you wear your garden''s colors so well. You even hold yourself like we do."

    "Flattery isn''t what I need from you right now if you want my help. Tell me about the wife stealing."

    "When a man wants to marry, he meets with women from other gardens. Sometimes this happens in Sand Castle, and sometimes during trade between gardens. Often there is a tabla or a hand who helps. When he finds a woman who accepts him, he moves to her garden and becomes one of them."

    "So a man marries into his wife''s garden."

    "Yes, but not always. Sometimes, the woman does not want to stay in her garden. Perhaps she has no advancement with her own people, or she has trouble with someone there, or she''s grown tired of the same faces every day. When this happens, the man will come in the night, sneak into her house, and carry her away. She kicks and she yells. The family makes a show of trying to stop him, they chase him, but only to the garden wall. They stand on the wall and shout at him as he rides away with her. All the neighbors will join them and throw things. The father will shake his fists. The mother will weep. It''s very special."

    "But the families are in on it. I take it that''s not what the Satomen did?"

    "Satomen are not proper Calique. They dress like us and live in gardens but they are not us. They buy their wives from Hyskos debt-slavers and take them by force. Once they are with child they have no choice but to stay. A woman will cherish a child, even one begotten in violence. If they escape, no other garden wants them because they are not Calique, and they fear Satoma''s strength."

    "Amadis said this morning something about Satoma losing all its women. What''s that about?"

    "Not just the women. All the children, too. The Satomen were out in force, hunting the creature I can not name."

    "Darkmaw. The circle told me its name today, but that''s all."

    "You''re making progress! This is good!" Iraj''s pleasure on Taylor''s behalf seemed real. "The Satomen hoped to kill Darkmaw and take the glory for themselves. Every garden will owe a debt to whoever kills it. They were gone for weeks hunting Darkmaw, with only a small force left behind to defend Satoma. The Kashmari came and overwhelmed them. They killed the men and older boys, then took the women and children away to Kashmar. No one was more surprised than the Satomen. Their garden is the farthest north, closest to Kashmar. In the past, they''ve done Kashmar''s bidding and even paid tribute to their prince. Why would mighty Kashmar turn on their only ally in the desert? No one understands it."

    "And now Satoma is stealing wives from Pashtuk."

    "Yes, but silently. There is no wailing, no shaking fists goodbye to your departing daughter. The sun rises one morning and she is gone."

    "How do you know this is Satoma''s doing? Your situation is pretty rough from what I hear. Maybe the women wanted to leave?"

    "That''s what the Satomen will say! But they are a menace to everyone! Pashtuk is too weak to fight them. Dagono''s doyenne will not allow her men to help us, because a battle with the Satomen would be very costly. She even gives food to the Satomen to keep them sated. Their camp is a threat, to both gardens."

    Iraj had grown more excited during his speech about the Satomen, a people he clearly didn''t love. But, he didn''t know what had happened to the missing women. Not really. Taylor had to proceed with caution here.

    "If you brought me the things I asked for, I''ll find the missing women. But!" Taylor had to stop Iraj in mid-cheer. "We will ask them if they want to return or not. It''s their choice. And we''re not leaving right away. If you''re right, this is night work. We leave after dark."

 Meetings on the Wind (Bonus)

    Meetings on the Wind

    "You are not going to duck out of socializing. If you do, they''ll think you look down on them." Anisca thought the gathering hour was important, while Taylor had other things to do with his time.

    "It can''t be helped. I have disciples in the field who are being hunted. They go to a lot of trouble, just to find somewhere safe enough to meet. Not showing up because I''m partying is not an option."

    Anisca eyed the saddles, food, and water prepared for four people. "Everyone will be there. They will ask where you are. What am I to tell them?"

    "Tell them I''m speaking on the wind. It''s not a secret that disciples can do it. I''ll go to gathering tomorrow night, barring some emergency."

    She narrowed her eyes at him. Anyone afraid of princesses would have shrunk in that glare. "This is important. I can make excuses for you for one night, but not two in a row. You have to be there, or no matter what I say they''ll think poorly of you."

    "If you believe it''s that important, then I promise I''ll be there."

    "I''ll give them your regrets, too. The ones you appear not to have." She stalked out the door with Riculta, Soraya, Otavio, and Alice trailing behind her. Alice stopped to have a word.

    "You''re working too hard. Make some time to enjoy yourself tomorrow." She smoothed his hair as if it were sticking up somewhere, and added, "Try to get enough sleep tonight." She departed in a swoosh of bright cloth. She was always trying to mother Taylor ever since they met, a year ago. It was embarrassing, but he didn''t hate it.

    That left Inez and the cousins, Milo and Mila, and Iraj. While they checked their gear for the night''s excursion, Taylor retreated to his room. From there, he retreated to his forest.

    ? ? ?

    Thoughtspace

    Futobel-Phillip lazed in a patch of sun and let the forest breeze tickle the small hairs on his trunk. His figurative door was open so there was little for him to do besides wait. Just laying on the ground for a minute with nothing to do was bliss. Maybe Alice was right and he was working too hard. He hadn''t played any music, at least not for fun, in weeks. Then again, ever since he had started writing prayer songs in earnest music had become another kind of work. The hymns were incredibly useful: they let a congregation with traces of talent effect small miracles. But the hymns were work. He had an interesting box he was working on, but that was the extent of his recreation for the last month. He sighed heavily and rolled over, to warm the other side of his flanks. All too soon, he had to greet his guests. It wouldn''t do to let them see him lolling in his forest.

    Giant-Edos was the first to arrive, followed by Antilope-Leila, Bird-Souzanne, Obsidian-Ma, and a selection of disciples from Red Tower. It was good to see all their avatars in his thoughtspace, but it was his fielded disciples Taylor worried about. If any of them ran into trouble he was too far away to help.

    There wasn''t much news from Red Tower, as Taylor had only been gone for a day. They had started construction on a stairway to the top of the mesa, under the direction of Lector Manu. She had wanted an architectural masterpiece, but Kasryn had talked her down into doing something functional that could be refined later. So far, she was keeping to that plan.

    Edos and Leila both had acquired recruits. Edos had convinced some healers in Gallia to defect to Nexus. Leila had purchased talent from the gem mines in Hyskos.

    Antilope-Leila''s horns shone proudly. "I''ve been posing as a merchant lately," she explained. "I''m trying to figure out how to break the debt-slavery system here, but it''s so ingrained into everything that getting rid of it won''t be easy. Their whole way of life is set up to push people into debt so the wealthy can make slaves of them. Anyway, I found these three and bought them with silver I stole from other slavers. The most interesting thing about them is, they''re all cousins and half-siblings. They''ve all agreed to train to become disciples. I plan to backtrack to the estate that sold them, and see if there''s more of them."

    "How will we get these new trainees to Red Tower?" In real life Mataba was the distinguished Dean of Healing, while Arkto-Mataba peered longingly at the lowest branches, wishing for fruit. "The trains won''t run until after we kill Darkmaw. But, that will take time. And, the recruits must be protected no matter how they travel."

    "I can deliver mine myself," said Giant-Edos, "but it means leaving Gallia unprotected for a while. There are a lot of monsters coming down from the mountains this year. Can you send someone to meet us on the border?"

    "That''s not a bad idea." Arkto-Mataba scratched his chin with long claws. "His Holiness wants the desert mapped. If we send cadres in both directions, Gallia and Hyskos, they can map parts of the desert and retrieve the recruits."

    "I am not a hierophant," complained the futobel.

    "And yet your own Game of Prelates predicts the necessity for one. Who else will do the job?"

    A half-dozen voices shouted in unison. "Not It!"

    "Brother Phillip will have to do for now." Taylor knew he had to insist or this nonsense would escape from thoughtspace into the real world.

    "What about Eldest Brother Phillip the Younger" suggested Giant-Edos, to approving nods. They seemed to think the incongruity of the title and the name only made it better.

    "You''re going to be very disappointed when we meet, and you find out how much younger I am than you."

    "You were my master''s apprentice before me, which makes you my senior. Eldest Brother is fitting." The avatars made various noises of amusement.

    "Ma''Tocha," trumpeted the futobel, "any progress in Dace?"

    "Yes. We have captured two more fragments of sun." There was some excitement in the circle of disciples'' avatars at that announcement. Having Enclave run around with fragments killing innocent people with talent was wrong on too many levels to ignore. Getting the fragments back under Nexus''s control was a blessing.

    Bird-Souzanne shook her gem-toned wings. "If Enclave doesn''t know you''re hunting fragments, they will soon. They''ll use the fragments as bait to trap and kill you. Be canny in how you proceed from now on."

    "I''m aware. And, they know how I operate," agreed Obsidian-Ma, "it makes things more challenging." Her four stony arms pondered and flexed. "So far we have had an unexpected advantage in Harrence. He knows surprising things, like hidden trails, and the locations of rare herbs along roads he''s never traveled. It''s as if he has comprehensive knowledge about the area around him. Nothing happens near us that he doesn''t know about. It''s like a limited divination, but he''s entirely untrained. Have you heard of anything similar?"

    "He has suffered emotional shocks," mused Arkto-Mataba, "sometimes that can unlock latent talent. Keep a careful eye on him. Try to get him to talk about how he''s feeling, and be supportive. If he''s using a talent, he''ll need people he trusts to talk to about it. Those with hidden talents can suffer feelings of isolation."

    They talked for a while longer about Harrence, but all they decided in the end was to keep a close eye on him and earn his trust.Love what you''re reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on.

    Taylor then shared his day with the disciples, his doubts about the doyennes, and what he was getting up to that night. "This business between the Kashmari and the Satomen is bothering me. Clintus described Satoma as a client of Kashmar, and Iraj said something similar today. Why send a strike force against your one ally in the desert?"

    Obsidian-Ma favored Futobel-Phillip with a grim smile, black lips against black teeth. "When you don''t understand your enemy''s actions, look at the results. What has happened so far? What will likely happen next?"

    "Satoma started taking wives by force. If they go too far, the other gardens will counter-attack to rescue their women. But Satoma is supposed to be pretty strong, so ˇ­ oh." The fighting would kill more hunters, maybe a lot more of them. Possibly, that was what Kashmar wanted. The failure of gardens like Dagono to help their neighbors would also widen any rifts that existed between them.

    "They''re laying the groundwork for their invasion, sapping the Calique''s strength, and ensuring they won''t work together. We knew they would probably invade after Darkmaw is dead, but attacking an ally to weaken a future enemy feels pretty sophisticated."

    Obsidian-Ma nodded approvingly. "They''ve been doing this for centuries. They know the desert and they know their enemies. Twice they have succeeded at taking Sand Castle. When the time comes, you''ll have to find ways to surprise them."

    "I''ll show them things this world has never seen," promised the futobel, "but not until after we''re established here, and we''ve hunted Darkmaw."

    Their last order of business was getting a cadre out to the Pashtuk camp to help them out. Mataba promised to take care of it and, one by one, the avatars vanished.

    When the others had gone, Futobel-Phillip called one more mind to his own. There was a student he had left behind in Lavradio because his noble family didn''t want him in exile. Few people would connect the bright nine-year-old novice in the Nexus school with the young noble currently running around the royal palace.

    "Gonzo. Gonzo. Gonzo. Little guy with whiskers. Where have you gone, little Gonzo? Little guy with gray fur and whiskers, named Gonzo. I am picturing you right now."

    A small bluish cloud appeared in Taylor''s thoughtspace. "Taylor! You did it! I can''t believe you called me from so far away. And, wow! This is too sway! It feels like a real forest!"

    "You''re not in public, are you? I can tell you''re talking out loud."

    "I''m in our palace quarters with Father. He''s looking at me like I have a deadly fever."

    "Give Rodrigo my regards."

    "Taylor says Hello."

    The voice of Baron Monforte of Fringe came back to Taylor through the cloud. "You''re talking to him, right now?"

    "I''m in his head, and it''s awesome! There''s a forest, and he''s a futobel like his mark, stars and everything, and I can hear the leaves in the wind ˇ­"

    "Where is he now?" Baron Rodrigo knew his son, and he''d never get a word in if he let the boy enthuse without restraint.

    "I''m in Dagono right now. Most of Nexus is setting up elsewhere, but I''m here making friends. Or, trying to anyway." Gonzo relayed that information, plus the fact Taylor could hear what was said in the room, to his father.

    "I need a thorough update from him. The dowager will not let me rest if I fail to deliver a sufficient report. Certain other parties will also be interested."

    "Rather than do this piecemeal, why don''t I dictate a letter? I''ll put everything I''m willing to reveal in it. The baron can pass it around to whoever is interested."

    "Father, let me have the writing desk!"

    "I need a minute to finish."

    "While the baron finishes, how are you doing?"

    The cloud pulsed and paled. "I''m bored! It feels like the palace moves in slow motion. I got used to Nexus, where everyone trains like their lives depend on it."

    "Because they do," the futobel reminded the cloud.

    "The kids here don''t take anything seriously. They think I''m weird because I''m ''too dedicated''. James'' training has paid off, though. I can beat everyone my age in the yard."

    "Is the church giving you any trouble?"

    "They have no idea I was a student. All your students went with you into exile, and Gonzo Monforte came to the palace a week later with Baron Fringe. Identity washed! But I''d rather be in Kravikas with the school. " In a whisper, he added, "We argue about it."

    "Don''t give your father a hard time. The situation here is complicated and dangerous. And there''s a certain utility to having you in the palace. Yes?"

    "ˇ­ You want me to be your secret channel to the king, don''t you?"

    "Do you mind?"

    "I guess not. It might make things more interesting."

    "What''s the church doing?"

    "The new prelate is Brother Sera?o, of all people. Remember the guy who tried to kill you in open court? And he tried to tear down the Chapel of Compassionate Light, but nobody would take the job. Even when he offered to pay in silver. He''s been completely blacklisted by the unions. He forbade priests from preaching there, so it''s officially abandoned now. People still show up to worship anyway. Then he tried to shut down what was left of the school, but the city minister arrested him and dragged him in front of King Leonardo. The king reminded him that it wasn''t church property and didn''t have anything to do with the arts anymore. ''Not in your remit,'' he said. The civil service and music schools are running, but they''re forbidden from singing prayer songs. Everyone is. Officially the king supports the ban, but he isn''t exactly hunting down the heretics. I don''t get it. Why would he go along with exiling you, and then be uncooperative with the church after?"

    "If he''s anything like his sister, he''s maintaining a plausible loyalty to both sides until he knows which one will win. I don''t blame him for it. He has to do what''s best for Lavradio, and he can''t exactly fight off a determined invasion right now, can he?"

    "True. I have the desk now."

    Futobel-Phillip sat on his haunches and thought about what he should say. He needed to recount recent events, hide some information, and give his followers uplifting lessons. Scripture offered plenty of templates to choose from.

    "Disciple Phillip the Younger, blessed by divine Olyon and called to his holy Work, greets the fellowship of believers who live in the Four Tenets, who pray together in Olyon''s name, whether they gather in great basilicas, village shrines, at home, or under the open sky. We who are brothers and sisters in faith will always seek truth wherever we are, at home or abroad, safe in our native land or in exile. We are blessed to pursue the Work, and by the Work we are blessed.

    "The old church''s neglect is everywhere. They ignore sickness in Susa, franango in Elra, outbreaks of horned leporine on Gallia''s coast, and more. Does Enclave dispatch a single disciple to heal the sick or battle man-eating monsters? Do the so-called Guardians of Faith protect the faithful? Not one of their disciples was sent to perform their sworn Work. And Enclave calls us heretics.

    "It was Nexus disciples who, outlawed and hunted, risked their lives to appear in these remote places and work the necessary miracles to save Olyon''s people. While they were so engaged, Enclave sent disciples to attack our trains of students, priests, healers, and other believers who dedicate themselves to the body of the church. And Enclave calls us heretics.

    "Enclave has established a new corps of priests, sickeningly named Defenders of Pure Faith, who use fragments of sun to hunt innocents with spiritual talent. They build pyres and burn these unfortunates alive and force their villages to watch. They have found and, through their barbarity, killed innocents throughout Dace in this way. Most of their victims are children. And Enclave calls us heretics.

    "If Enclave is orthodox, shouldn''t we all be heretics?

    "Nexus has arrived in Kravikas, a land beset by a great evil, a monster whose like has not been seen in hundreds of years. They speak of her in hushed voices, this destroyer of gardens, and call her Darkmaw. In its chaotic wake, the tribes are left in upheaval. Refugees stalked by heat and starvation beset the gardens that remain untouched ˇ­ "

    Taylor recounted the work Nexus was doing to protect people from monsters and disease. He spoke a little about their efforts to create a new oasis but purposefully left out the location of Nexu''s new headquarters. Everyone would know where they were eventually, but he wasn''t going to broadcast it while their situation was so fragile. They weren''t exactly prepared to take on visitors. By the time he was done the letter was far longer than planned.

    "Monster hunts, building oases, rescuing people. I can''t believe I''m missing out!"

    "From here it just feels like a lot of work. But it''s good work, so I can''t complain."

    "Father is unhappy with the ending. He''s frowning."

    The baron''s voice was heard in the background, "When can we expect the next installment?"

    Tell him, "When Sand Castle is free."

    "Next week."

    "That''s not what I said!"

    "Just kidding. He says, ''When Sand Castle is free.''"

    "And where is the princess? Is she with you?"

    "She''s here in Dagono, working. She goes by Anisca now. For various reasons I need her to represent us to the Calique women. We''re, um, still learning to work with each other."

    After Gonzo relayed that tidbit to his father, they were treated to his laughter. Futobel-Taylor scratched his back on a tree while they waited for it to subside. It sounded like the baron was familiar with the princess''s difficult personality.

    "Gonzo, I need you to build something for me, an experiment. I would prefer you use the palace craftsmen if you can get permission."

    Futobel-Phillip produced an exemplar from out of nowhere. It was his thoughtspace, so he could have anything he wanted in it. The wooden device was shaped like a bowl with a lid. The lid had a hole in it, and around the hole was a design described in silver wire. A cabochon of orange garnet sat in the design.

    "It looks like the body of a nickleharp or guitar," said Cloud-Gonzo. He had begun to pulse with yellow intensity.

    "It basically is. It''s not too different from a link working in conference mode, powered by a spirit gem. Have your father take you to a gem merchant and pick through their cuttings of garnet and chrysoberyl. Try to find any that will store spirit. You should be able to make do with the smallest, cheapest pieces as long as they can store a little spirit."

    "Why not use links?" asked cloud-Gonzo.

    "I have my reasons," said the futobel with a smile.

 Night Work

    Night Work

    They went south, pulled onward by a string of beaded amethyst enchanted by a prayer of divination, Taylor and his group of four: his three bulwarks and Iraj. The moons had yet to rise but as the night was clear the light of stars was enough to guide them. Heat bled off the ground into their feet and faces.

    When they had passed the mischus and the crater''s edge, Mila took a compass read along the necklace''s heading. She turned and paced a good one hundred meters to the left, read the divination''s pull again, and paced another seven hundred, then read a third time. From degrees of difference and a chart of sines, she estimated twenty-five kilometers.

    "That''s a handy skill," said Iraj, "I know what''s there. A wadi and abandoned mines. It''s a good place to hide."

    Taylor built up layers of enhancements for travel: endurance, speed, protection, starlight vision, and a little strength. These went onto appalons and riders alike. Since Iraj was with them, and he was unaccustomed to the blessings, and his appalon was similarly untrained, Taylor kept the blessings weak. Too much could tear a man to pieces, petrify him, blind him, or shatter organs to cause his death before a healer knew to save him.

    Their trip was eased by Iraj''s skill: he knew the desert in these parts and kept them on the easy ground where appalons could keep good pace. They passed between the cooling ground and coldly gazing stars until the second moon''s first arc peeked up from the east horizon. He stopped beside a row of three gray boulders. "We are getting close now. The land there rises, just a little, and then the wadi is below it. We can ride and come up on them quickly, and hope for the best. Or we can go by foot and maybe see without being seen."

    Mila made her triangle again, confirming they were less than a klick away from the owner of the necklace.

    "Tell me about the mines," commanded Taylor.

    "Where wadis run they sometimes turn a bend around a different kind of rock, harder than what the desert''s made of. Gray stone, thrust up from the world''s bones. There''s good clay between the gray bones and the red earth. And sometimes we find gems there, too. The mines are never deep. They''re dug straight into the riverbank until the clay runs out, and sometimes down, as far as ten meters. We dig out all the clay we can, and any gems we find are sold to merchants. A few mines produced great jewels once, but that was generations past. These days all we find are tiny crystals. There are a few such mines along this stretch of the wadi.

    "We''ll go on foot," decided Taylor, "using Overlook." They had to teach the hunter about the prayer, what it did, and its strictures. Most importantly, he must stay close to his host, and the cadre must not wander too near to the Satomen, should they find some. The appalons were left behind, kneeling in the moonshadow of the rocks.

    They padded forward silently, raising little dust, the five of them in a line with Taylor in the middle. They could see each other but an enemy would only know the footprints left behind them. Iraj stopped them with a hunter''s sign, two men ahead, and where he pointed there appeared to be two rocks lying on the ground. The rocks were at a place where land gave way in a sudden crease, as if the old forgotten god Morufu had run His god-sized fingernail along the desert and carved a narrow trench.

    A second look confirmed the rocks moved restlessly, and whispered to each other.

    "I''m sleepy," said the left head.

    "Don''t sleep," said the right.

    "I won''t! I just said that I was sleepy."

    "I heard you the first time. If you fall asleep on watch again Koroush will bury you."

    "Go get something to eat and bring it back," demanded left-head, "I''ll stay awake if I know food is coming."

    "You''ve had your share and then some. That''s why you''re sleepy, you glutton! I''d get back and find you snoring."

    Iraj drew his knife but Inez stopped him and looked to Taylor for direction.

    Around, he signed. Obediently Iraj turned aside to avoid the sentries. Once they gained some distance from the watchmen they walked along the wadi''s edge to look down on Satoma''s camp. Fifty men were sleeping in the open, without fires, their appalons picketed along one side. The expected mine was at one end of the camp and easily identified, guarded as it was by several men.

    This presented a problem. Overlook had an area of effect, and anyone within it could see each other. He''d have to pass directly by the sentries, with the blessing wrapped around himself as close as clothing. That was the surest way to get inside without a fight.

    Lay down out of sight, Taylor signed, I''ll sneak in to look. He raised all their enhancements to combat level (all except Iraj) and blessed their weapons.

    If they detect you, signed Inez, we''ll draw them off and face them here on higher ground.

    "Let me go with you!" Iraj whispered urgently.

    Be silent, signed the disciple, Be still. If girls are there and want to leave, you will fight. Be content.

    Taylor crept away and disappeared, took his sword and shield with him but left his spear. A careful observer would note the footprints, or a slight disturbance of soil in the dry riverbank before all traces of him completely vanished. The Satomen had been camped a while, and whatever plants and shrubs had grown on the wadi floor were trampled flat or eaten down by their mounts, and only hard-packed ground remained. There was no trace of the disciple''s passing there, not even when he entered the mine.

    It was less a mine and more a cleft, following the contours of a boulder that had, in some past eon, collected layers of clay meters thick before it found itself buried in the sediments of the desert. At first the cleft angled up, until the top of the dig was open to the sky, and then it dove down as diggers followed the seam of clay, into total darkness. Well past the sentries at that point, Taylor traded Overlook for a privacy zone around himself, and used a spirit lamp, a clever housing for a bead of quartz which he blessed with light. It shined with a pleasing whiteness that stopped at the edge of his privacy barrier. If he stumbled on a sentry now he''d have to deal with them quickly. But, he could see again.

    The mine ended all at once, stopping where the clay had ended. The final chamber had insufficient ventilation and the stench of people living with inadequate sanitation. Iraj had said Pashtuk was missing four young women but Taylor counted nine, sleeping heaped together in a tangle of dirty clothes and naked limbs, mottled black and green under his light. Later, he''d be unable to recall precisely what had caused him to abandon his habitual restraint. His clearest memory would be the one girl with leporid ears and golden irises, the first to startle awake in his light. Traces of Pashtuk''s colors rimmed her eyes.

    "Do you want to leave this place, or do you want to stay?"

    Her voice belied her body''s beaten state, "If I said we want to leave, what would be your price?"

    He felt his spirit rising, throbbing in his hands and heart, crowding out all other feelings.

    "The lives of fifty Satomen," he said.

    "You can''t!" another whispered desperately. "They''ll punish us. Just agree to marry one and it''ll all be over!"

    "I''d rather die here," spat the brave one. "Ignore her, she''s afraid. I don''t know your colors. What garden are you from?"

    "Red Tower. You know it as Lobat''s Tears." Taylor put the lantern on the ground, to give them light while he was away. "Say the word, and I''ll take you out of here, return you to your people."

    Several of the forms stirred, but not all of them. Some were underdressed, their clothes falling apart. They had been captive for a long time. He kept his focus on the woman with the tall ears, on her golden eyes undaunted in a room of pain and fear.

    "If you''re strong enough, free us." Several other voices joined her. "Free us," they said, "get us out of here," and "what kind of question is that?"

    He flew as if released from the falconer''s glove. Taylor''s body had no weight but contained all the motion in the world, passing over ground in zigs and zags, blurring the cracked earth beneath him. His shield was made of unyielding will, his sword an edge without mass. The desert came alive in his vision''s silver fire, the sky turned bright to expose every sleeping form and tethered appalon, hearts and nerves shining, lives breathing in and out of them in puffs.

    Sentries first. That was the way. He plotted his body''s course to pass through the mine''s guards, and intercept the few Satomen who moved nearby. In his passing things were severed: armor, limbs, and lives. They made no noises in their dying, but in their falling they were a racket. Enough to wake their fellows, who stirred in bedrolls without yet knowing death was loose among them.

    Somewhere, far away, he heard Inez''s voice trying to call him back, but it was too late. He was a monster hunter, and here there were monsters. Murderers. Marauders. Rapists. This world should have no use for them. Wherever one of them stirred, Taylor moved and severed, moved and severed again. There was no leather that could turn his edge, no bronze plate he couldn''t pierce, no spear he couldn''t shatter.

    Slingstones came down from the wadi''s edge, tearing air and pulverizing flesh, throwing the camp into even greater disarray. Then Inez was near him, and the cousins too, struggling to pace him, to clear his flanks, but they were too slow for the embodiment of velocity he had become. He punched with the rim of his shield, clubbed with the pommel of his sword, crushed knees with his feet, and all the while his sword was severing. As survivors massed together, Taylor thought of Clarion''s Call. Lightning answered him, inhabited his blade, cracked and crackled, split the night in searing violence, and struck a dozen Satomen. Living men became smoking corpses, still balanced on their feet until gravity took over.

    The rage ended as suddenly as it had begun, in a field of shattered corpses. The wadi drank their blood and moisture greedily, leaving them dry. Taylor cleaned his sword with silent prayer and sheathed it.

    There were three survivors, brought cowering before him, no doubt begging for their lives but Taylor could not understand them. All their words were lost in the bestial sounds they made, not human anymore. If they deserved a mercy, it was the mercy shown to monsters. His followers stood near them.

    "Kill them." The voice was not like his own, a dire and condemning thing fit for judges and fearsome kings. Three bloody spears were raised and then descended, ending three unwanted lives.

    The last of his strange glow faded. His blood cooled, and the throbbing in his body stilled. His arms went lax. Cold air soothed his lungs. He had marks on him, places where weapons had touched his armor and he hadn''t minded. There was a scar, brand new, on his leg where he''d been cut and healed himself. He remembered running heedless through a hunter''s spear, so fast the head had bent and the shaft had splintered in the wielder''s hand. Apparently, a disciple could impale himself on the weapons of others if he wasn''t careful. He''d have to remember that.Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

    While Taylor was occupied with his post-adrenal calm, Inez put Iraj and the cousins to work, cleaning the battlefield. Bodies had to be searched and gathered, valuables taken. There was no intelligence to be gained from the dead men, as they couldn''t speak and Calique didn''t carry written orders. Everything of importance was always memorized. Taylor enchanted stones for them to see by, and scattered them around the camp.

    Inez looked at Taylor, and then the cave. "Do you want to talk to them? You can send Mila if you''re not up to it."

    He didn''t want to talk to them. He didn''t want to see their shame or their hopeless faces. But he had a responsibility here. At the very least, they should know they were free to leave.

    "Go gently," Inez reminded him.

    Going into the mine, he encountered the women coming out, led by the gold-eyed one holding his lantern. They were moving slowly, supported by each other.

    "It''s done."

    "I saw," she said.

    "You''re free." He didn''t know what else to say. Instead, he stood there blocking their path. They looked rough, and needed healing. "They have a lot of food just ahead. You should eat, and then I''ll heal you. With your consent. It''ll make the journey a lot easier." He left them without waiting for a response. A man offering to touch them wasn''t welcome.

    When he left the mine he spied Iraj preparing the appalons for travel. A few of the beasts, loyal to their dead masters, refused his hand and ganged up on him, bowled him over, clambered up the bank, and escaped into the moonlit desert. The women mobbed the stack of supplies while Iraj worked on, more concerned with capturing mounts than rescuing women.

    "Young Master, can I have a word?" Inez pulled him aside and he followed her, away from everything, until they were beyond the edge of the camp.

    "Are you about to tell me I shouldn''t have killed all those men?"

    The former royal guard was surprised by his question. "This is our home now, and those men were a stain on it. Everyone is better off without them."

    "What is it, then?"

    "You''re a righteous man, Young Master. It''s why I serve you. But a commander can''t let his emotions drive him, even when his cause is righteous. You can''t afford to lose your head, go berzerk like that. It may be fine for front-line bulwarks whose job it is to fight, but not for you. Soon, you will have hundreds of disciples at your command, and thousands of others who will do your bidding, without question, in a nation that crosses all borders. You have to keep your head, always: even when injustice mocks you; even when your heart cries out righteousness; even when the pain of others hurts you; even when your hand would fly of its own accord. Your head must decide when and how to act, not your heart."

    Taylor, tired as he was from the previous twenty-four hours, didn''t want to have this conversation now. But neither could he find a reason to refute her, and no amount of sleep would change that. He had lost his mind, had killed men in a fury, and left his followers behind. Even if it was righteous, it was still stupid. The Guidebook expressly warned about leaving one''s bulwark behind. It was fine for sneaking in and out, but engagements should only happen with bulwarks at one''s side.

    "This isn''t what I wanted when I became a disciple." His voice sounded dull, even to him. "I just wanted to help some people. Everything''s gotten so out of hand. The fate of everything shouldn''t be on my shoulders."

    "If things were fair, you''d have more time to grow up," Inez agreed, "you''d have more time to make mistakes while stakes were low. But this is where we are."

    "And here we are." Taylor felt wrung out, like all the energies and enthusiasms that kept him going had gone missing. He needed to sleep. "Thank you, Inez. It takes a good follower to tell their disciple something he doesn''t want to hear."

    She knelt before him, took his hand in hers and placed it on her head: an ancient gesture of fealty in this world. "It''s my wish to die in your service, if you''ll have me. I''ll be your fury''s hand when you need it, and I swear I''ll never lie to you."

    She was the second to pledge herself like this. He had half-expected it, but why was she doing this now? Such displays of devotion wore on him, piled new obligations on top of old ones, but they came from people he could trust to carry out his will. Inez had earned her place.

    "I accept your service, Inez of Lavradio. I pledge in turn to be a disciple you can serve in good conscience. My hope is you''ll live a long time yet. Long enough to teach my children as you have me."

    The two of them returned to camp in silence. There they found a woman, the same one who spoke of submission earlier, kicking the corpse of one Satoman in particular. She must have been at it for a while because she was out of breath and she grunted imprecations with every kick. "Liar! Viper! Evil! Shit!" The other women watched from a safe distance.

    Taylor stood next to the gold-eyed Pashtuk woman. "Should I be doing something about this? Should I say something to her?"

    "No. This is women''s work." They watched her kick the corpse several more times. "She liked him. She trusted him. She let him steal her away without telling her parents and he brought her to this ˇ­ place." The kicking woman, finally spent, collapsed on her knees and wept.

    "I''m Dahabia, by the way."

    "Phillip." He pointed at all the various goods the Satomen had laid against the wadi''s bank, and stuffed into the first section of the mine. "What do you make of all of that?"

    "They''ve been plundering the abandoned gardens. They claim they''ve been hunting the monsters so the doyennes will give them food, but they spend more time plundering than hunting. It''s still risky. Some of them have died."

    Taylor took special note of the plural. "What kind of monsters?"

    "It''s forbidden to speak of it." Seeing the frustration on Taylor''s face, Dahabia looked ashamed. "I''m sorry. I don''t understand why the doyennes forbade it, but they did. And being discarded by my own people would be worse than death. You understand, don''t you?"

    Taylor thought of Emristar and the family he would never see again, of the music and the movies and all the food. There were days he ached to hear his native language. And air conditioning. He missed air conditioning every day since coming to the desert.

    "Yes. I understand."

    "What are you going to do with all of this? It doesn''t belong to Pashtuk or Saluja anymore."

    "I guess we''re going to take it, since we have enough animals to carry it. We''ll give some back to Pashtuk, but I want to keep most of the appalons. Water and mischus are the two things we have a lot of right now."

    Someone would have to take an inventory, and then dole out the goods without incurring too many hurt feelings. Taylor didn''t want to think about it. He could, in theory, use the windfall to gather goodwill, but that would take a defter hand than his. Then again ˇ­"

    "You''re smiling, and not in a nice way."

    "I just remembered I have a doyenne who would love this opportunity to gather a little gratitude. It''s going to take forever to pack it all up, though."

    "Also women''s work. You did your share tonight. Let us do ours."

    "We have until Silenz is this high up, and then we have to leave." Taylor pointed with his arm. "Any later, and the sun will catch us traveling."

    After the women were fed and cloaks were found for them among the Satomen''s plunder, food and goods were piled on appalons, and everyone was mounted, Taylor folded the land under the heap of corpses. In moments all the bodies of Satoma''s men were buried. If anyone were to visit the site they''d find an empty camp, hastily abandoned.

    ? ? ?

    "Who''s on the link?"

    "Otavio here. Where are you?"

    "We''re on our way back. We should be there close to sunrise. When Anisca wakes up, I need you to give her a message. You''d better write it down because it''s a lot."

    "Why do you sound so happy?"

    ? ? ?

    The only sleep Taylor had that night was two hours in the saddle. He and Milo slept on their plodding appalons while Inez and Mila kept watch, then switched. The fifty mounts, most of them laden with either people or goods, were enhanced enough to reach Pashtuk''s camp before dawn. That, plus the enhanced bulwark, was enough to keep Taylor drained of spirit. It was good practice for him, but it left him feeling groggy.

    Dahabia had taken leadership of the rescued women and decided none of them should be exposed to Taylor, a strange and violent man from an unknown garden. Most of them fared poorly on the ride, being bruised and aching at the outset, as none had elected to be healed before setting out for home.

    The Satomen''s approach to courting was to starve the stolen women and hit them with riding whips until they chose a husband. One man would dole out the "discipline" while a succession of different men offered the women food and relief from their captivity. The beatings continued until love blossomed, or at least a semblance of it fair enough for the new husband. Their method had always worked so well with women they bought from Hyskos debt-slavers: most chose a man on the first day, and very few held out for more than three.

    "They were so confused," recalled Dahabia with a pained laugh, "they honestly could not understand why they had to beat us so hard." Appalons didn''t mind plodding shoulder-to-shoulder, and she took advantage of that to have a conversation with him. She kept looking at him expectantly, but Taylor didn''t have a clue what she could want from him.

    He caught a sign from Milo in the corner of his eye: Talk to her. Make friends!

    "Dahabia is an interesting name," he reached for the easiest topic, "is it traditional in your garden?"

    "Oh no you don''t!" She laughed at him. "I''m ordinary. You''re the strange one! You don''t get to ask about me without telling me about yourself first. Where are you from?"

    "That''s pretty complicated." He grinned at her. "I''ll trade you one for one, my bizarre origins for your merely exotic ones."

    "You think I''m exotic?"

    "You are to me. I''m not from around here, remember? It''s a fairer trade than you think."

    They talked for an hour, until Dahabia succumbed to exhaustion and fell asleep in her saddle. Her mount kept should-to-shoulder with Ben, which let Taylor keep an eye on her. Not that she needed it: all Calique seemed capable of sleeping on the plod. Taylor''s only intervention in Dahabia''s rest was to put an extra cloak around her in the coldest hour of the night. In Lavradio the temperature would feel balmy, but compared to the day''s brutal heat the night felt too cold to be comfortable.

    Anisca was up before dawn, as was all the garden in that season, and on the link with Taylor as soon as she heard the news from Otavio.

    "You sure know how to make extra work for someone."

    "It wasn''t intentional. We went looking for a few missing persons. That''s all."

    "And you''re coming back with a parade of spoils. Thalia''s cadre is showing up this morning too, at the Pashtuk camp. Can you meet us there?"

    "We''ll be coming from the south, using Overlook. Satoma is camped on the west end of the crater, and I don''t want them to bother us."

    "You surprise me. Why would you be afraid of them after last night?"

    "I''m not, but it''d be hard to protect everyone and fifty mounts with just the three of us. They could harry us, if they were foolish enough. It''s better not to be seen until we''ve arrived. Besides, I''ve killed enough people for one day."

    "I''ll have everyone together a little after dawn. See you then."

    As they came near Dagono the caravan reformed, from a single long line into five lines walking abreast. It was easier for Taylor to use Overlook when they weren''t spread out so far. They plodded like that for the final kilometers, to halt outside the Pashtuk camp just before dawn. They waited there, still hidden, for Anisca''s welcome party.

    Their camp was a century of tents in approximate concentric circles, set against the crater''s base. The dawn had kicked up a fitful breeze and caused the more flimsy ones, shelters made of repurposed awning or whatever material a family could put together, to slack and billow by turns. The sturdier specimens, made of thick felted coir and other insulating layers, ignored the minor dust-up. People stirred in the camp, set out in groups armed with buckets to climb the crater''s wall and down the other side to get water from Dagono''s well. Others went into nearby mischus to collect the driest appalon dung to fuel the cooking fires. They moved without cheer, pushed along by their daily needs.

    The mood changed when Anisca came over the crater wall, following the well-worn road that now connected Pashtuk''s camp with Dagono''s garden. Curious children were the first to encircle her and skip alongside her appalon. Otavio was with her, easy to recognize from a distance. She dismounted near Wise Yalda''s tent and they greeted each other by touching their right hands together. While they spoke, a shout spread through the camp: visitors from the north had come. Thalia''s cadre arrived, three disciples and six bulwark, laden with enough supplies for themselves not to be a burden while they worked to improve Pashtuk''s lot. They had brought some other luggage too, at Taylor''s request.

    One of the bulwark, wearing the all-seeing enchanted goggles made by Nexus, looked their way and practically made eye contact with Taylor. He was grateful the man didn''t point at them, and ruin the surprise. After all the greetings were finished, the doyenne and Anisca and a crowd of other people stood together and looked out at the desert.

    "They really can''t see us, can they?" asked Dahabia.

    "Not usually, no. They could follow our footprints, or track us by the dust we raise, but we''re invisible to them as long as they don''t get too close."

    The link came alive in Taylor''s ear. "He''s bringing your daughters home. Stay here but a minute, and they''ll arrive."

    "Ready everyone," Taylor told his caravan, "it''s time to go home."

    Anisca''s voice was playful, pitched for the children who gathered near her, all of them peering into the desert. "In fact, you should see them. Right. About. Now."

    Taylor dismissed Overlook with relief, and a gasp of astonishment went up from Pashtuk. They were not fifty yards distant. The shock wore off, and family members came running out to them, to welcome their daughters and sisters home. All the caravan knelt at once (almost, Iraj had issues with a few of the pack animals) and dismounted. Tears and kisses surrounded him, but the disciple contented himself with rubbing Ben''s face and feeding him fruit out of his saddlebag. They had both worked hard the last couple of days.

    Dahabia formed up her squad of young women and led them to stand before Anisca. They paid her reverence by pressing their palms together and touching their lips before doing the same for Doyenne Yalda.

    "How do you like those coconuts, Ben? We do all the killing, and Anisca gets the credit." Ben grumbled and groaned in agreement. Or, he wanted more fruit.

    "Get used to it, little maul." Iraj was similarly engaged with his mount, whom he seemed to know very well. "If men used spears for themselves, they''d be Satomen. Or worse, Kashmari. There are reasons we let our women rule us."

    "Still. Just one of them could have said thank you."

 The Gathering Hour

    The Gathering Hour

    Ben was set loose in the mischus, free to eat or snooze in the shadows of the garden''s walls, but Taylor''s day was still going. He yawned as he followed a parade of children to the compost fields. The bigger ones, mostly boys, pushed carts of refuse along the well-worn tracks. Some carts were loaded with green material like leaves and peelings. Others were full of woody stuff like discarded bark, husks, shells, and sticks. The compost parade was an almost daily chore, rotated among all the younger workers and watched over by adult gardeners. Ten carts came out of Dagono that morning, which seemed a small amount for a thousand people. Most brown matter came directly from the garden, while much of the green came from town cooks.

    The last carts in line, directly in front of Taylor, were all night soil. It didn''t smell nice but it wasn''t the choking stench he had expected. Calique lined their chamber pots with coir or similar material and covered their waste after each use. When the pots were collected and emptied, the result was a billet of matter covered in brown fiber that didn''t emit much odor.

    The procession led him on in the early light, eager to be done with this chore before the ground became too hot. The children wore the clothes he now associated with calique labor: protective and compostable garments, quick-made in every household by weaving fronds of date or coconut palm. As Taylor walked alongside Milo and Mila, Ben caught sight of him from the mischus field and followed. The children laughed to see the appalon so attached to his rider.

    J''anan walked on the opposite side of the road, helping supervise the day''s turning. Two other gardener women walked near her, speaking secretly with their hands and giggling. Ben shouldered Taylor hard enough to push him to the center of the cart track, and Taylor pushed the beast back and gave him a good rubbing of the face while they walked. Mila and Milo passed a look between themselves and dropped back several steps. What were they on about?

    J''anan crossed to the middle of the road. "They want to know why you''re in armor. Do you expect us to be attacked? Our hunters keep the beasts at bay."

    Taylor looked down at his white enameled breastplate, with matching armguards and greaves, newly scarred from his raid on the Satomen. "These are my clothes. If I didn''t wear them, I''d be naked."

    "Hmmm." J''anan looked him up and down as if imagining what he looked like without clothes on. Taylor knew better than to take her seriously. He was thin from his ongoing growth spurt, and probably not to most girls'' liking. That, and teasing boys his age was like a sport for Lavradian girls so why not for Calique girls too? He chose to ignore her with a vague smile.

    "You were looked for last night during the gathering hour. People were curious about the outsider Wise Uzan let into the garden, but you were nowhere to be found. Your followers were there, but all they would say is you were busy. Are you shy around Calique girls, Phillip? There''s nothing to be afraid of, you know. Most of the rumors about us are exaggerated."

    More giggles from across the street.

    "There was too much going on last night, and I couldn''t get away. I''ll be there tonight if nothing unusual happens."

    "Duties, at night? Were you fighting monsters in your room, alone in the dark?"

    Taylor felt pricked by her words, hard enough to be difficult to set aside. Hot replies filled his mouth, but their heat died when he felt the cousins behind him bristle. Angry answers were fine among hunters who could cool their tempers with mock battles. Around women and children, a little more care was needed.

    "Actually I was, if chaos counts as a monster. Don''t doyennes ever have to work late to keep their records straight or manage problems that crop up late in the day?"

    "The first hour of darkness is for gathering," J''anan said as if quoting a book, "so a garden may know itself. You should make attendance a habit or else people will think you despise us."

    "I chose that same hour to gather with my own people, mind-to-mind across the wind. It sounds like I should move the hour, so it doesn''t conflict with the Calique gathering."

    "You can''t do that," she laughed, but a look at his face stopped her. "Can you?"

    "You''ve never heard of the prayer Speak on the Wind?" Of course she had heard about it, given the Book of Prayers was public knowledge, but her look told him she didn''t know what it was for. "Disciples can talk to each other over long distances. Few in Enclave can use it, but it''s widespread in Nexus. Yesterday was one of those days when everyone needed attention. It isn''t usually so busy."

    He didn''t tell her he had disciples in five different countries, or that they were hunted by Enclave. Nonetheless, the reminder he held the fate of a hundred people in his hands put her mind on a different track. After a few minutes of thought, she asked, "How does this work, making a new prayer? You write it in a book somewhere, and all the disciples in the world can use it?"

    "In a way, yes."

    "It sounds suspicious to me."

    Taylor grinned at her. "Your explanation is accurate, in the same way it''s true Calique women get together and rattle beads to decide what to plant next season. It skips over all the difficult parts."

    J''anan kept watching him, expectantly. With a sigh, he gave her his usual classroom explanation. "The spiritual arts, at their core, use will and spirit to change some aspect of the world. Smaller changes are easier to make than big ones. Changes you comprehend are easier than complete mysteries. You can think of spirit, skill, knowledge, and ingenuity as levers for moving the world. With me so far?

    "Prayers are like paths practitioners follow on their way to a destination, a bit like this trail we''re walking on. Practitioners who use the path need much less spirit and skill than they would without it. The path is worn deeper and smoother by constant use. If neglected, the path decays. Making a new prayer amounts to cutting a new road through the heavy substance of reality. It''s hard work and you need to know where you''re going and how to get there."

    "And any skilled disciple can do this?"

    "In theory. But, I''m the only living disciple I know of who can make new prayers. There were at least two in scriptural history. I''m sure there have been others."

    They walked in silence as the compost bins came into view. They were long rectangular troughs two meters wide by a meter and a half tall, twenty meters long. Taylor could see five of them and a collection of smaller bins off to one side. They were all made of brick, baked by sunlight until they blended with the landscape.

    Low stone arches over the troughs served a double duty: they suspended canvas tarps to keep out wind and the occasional rainfall, and provided a platform for the children to stand on. Taylor watched, amused, as the smaller children ran for a trough and pulled the tarp off one section. They clambered up onto the arches in pairs while other children handed up the aerating tools. They looked like screws on long poles, with handles radiating from the top. With the approval of one of the gardeners, they screwed the aerator deep into the pile and then lifted it up to disturb the compost. Their supervisor told them which sections to work, and when to stop working. In some places she told them to add water.

    "How do you know which parts to turn," Taylor asked one of the gardeners, "and which parts need water, without touching the compost? Don''t temperature and moisture need to be just right?"

    "Practice," she said, "We can feel heat and moisture on our hands. We know by smell how well the heap is doing."

    The carts found their way into a partially full bin through a gate at one end. The gardeners decided the order of the carts, and how each load was to be layered with the others. Excrement went into a special bin, mixed with generous layers of carbonous matter.

    The troughs had gates at both ends, one side for putting in and the other for taking out. When the carts were all emptied and swept clean, even the night soil carts, they began loading finished product from a finished pile. The dirt was passed through a screen of woven reeds, and the chunks judged too large were chucked into another bin for further decay. Ten full carts went out to the heaps. Five and a half carts returned full of good dirt, while the remainder came home empty. Again the dirt sourced from night soil was kept separate, to be spread over the mischus that fed the animals.Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

    The whole parade of carts, children, gardeners, Taylor, and his two followers marched through the city gates by mid-morning. Finally, Taylor could get some sleep.

    ? ? ?

    Anisca woke him up in time to do some work, mending more tools for the locals. Then she supervised his preparations for the gathering hour, insisting he put the Red Tower colors on his face and leave his armor behind. Calique did not gather in pubs when the sun went down. The men did not sneak off to drink while their women stayed at home with the children. When the day''s heat eased away, all the families came out of their houses or wherever they had sheltered and gathered in the great square by the gate. Some Pashtuk refugees were there too, welcomed with caution but welcomed nonetheless, while the Satomen were conspicuously absent. People brought what drink they wanted and shared it around, while informal bands of musicians took turns playing.

    There was dancing too, groups of women or girls spinning in their long colorful wraps, wrists and hair and ankles aglow with silver and semi-precious stones flashing in the torchlight. When they had shown themselves to such advantage, men of a similar age would group together and dance their turn. Their clothes were no less colorful but in a darker shade. They wore their hair up in turbans, danced shirtless in the dying light, hunters and builders and coir-handlers stomping and turning in synchronous time. The young adults were impressively energetic and aimed their dancing directly at groups of the opposite sex who talked to each other behind their hands.

    The very youngest danced with their families, even if they could barely stand and bob in time with the music. Fathers and mothers held their hands to keep them up as the joys of music and movement overtook their little faces.

    Taylor socialized by enduring the many introductions by his "doyenne" Anisca. But it was the music that enthralled him. For the first time in weeks, his fingers itched for an instrument. He wanted to try those complex percussive phrases and discover what notes would come out of them.

    It was over far too soon. Young people paired off to go walking in the desert or find deep shadows in the buildings'' eaves or in the garden''s shade. Their dalliances were ephemeral, exploratory. Taylor wondered what it would be like to be one of them, kiss a barely-known girl in the dark, hold her lean and breathing form, then let her go and return to his bed. He turned to head back to his allotted house and found himself facing Amadis, Maul of Dagono. The furry beast had snuck up on him.

    "Can I do something for you, Maul Amadis?"

    "Heh, so formal. I''ll call you Phillip if you call me Amadis, all right? Come to my house and drink. Bring your fighters, leave the doyenne."

    Taylor spied Anisca in another section of the plaza practicing dance steps with women of her age. It pleased him to be included in something she was not, but she had to be guarded. "Alice, would you mind?"

    "Naturally," she said, and floated off to join the practicing women.

    "Lead the way, Amadis."

    The huge man strode off, one hand on Taylor''s shoulder to steer him through the dispersing crowd. His house was wider than most and near the plaza, a position of pride. On the inside, it was tiled in patterns evoking a river that flowed beneath palms bowed heavy with fruit. Fish jumped and splashed in the river, a sight Taylor doubted any calique could see without first leaving the desert. About a dozen men filled the ground floor, most of them older than Amadis and most of them scarred. There were no women in sight, but they had left their mark behind in carafes of fermented juice and appalon milk (alcohol was women''s work). The table was laden with tinned platters of lentils and flatbread and tubers served with spicy sauces and fresh fruits.

    "Sit. Sit there in the guest place." Taylor took the cushion that was offered.

    "Tell me if I break any social rules, Amadis. I don''t mean to give offense."

    "But you''ve broken so many taboos already, who can tell if you mean offense or not! I''ve decided to ignore them all!"

    Taylor''s face flushed hot. A dozen worlds and he still couldn''t find his way through a new culture without making a fool of himself. The men laughed at him.

    "I''m joking, I''m joking," said Amadis. He sat next to Taylor and poured him a small cup of fermented milk, then himself, and then others near him. The jug got passed around until everyone had some. "First cup is drunk together, and all at once, all right? What shall we toast to? Some hero of yours, from a far country? A saint you prefer? Anything good is acceptable."

    Taylor was caught off guard, but one name soon came to mind. "To the great monster hunter, and my teacher, Disciple Mobeen. The man himself is gone, but he lives on in his teachings and our students. Mobeen!"

    "Mobeen!" they all said, and drank. The white stuff was thick and sweet and filled with enough cooling spices to cover the taste of poison. Taylor almost spit it out, but instead invoked a silent prayer. The drink was probably fine, but he didn''t like to take chances.

    "We know this name, Mobeen the Sacred Blade," said the oldest hunter, "he was a legend, one of the few men of Enclave we respect. But now you say he''s gone to the next life. What happened to bring a hunter like him to his end?"

    "It was a surprise attack on his carriage, with a ballista. They only hit him because they were lucky. Edos, his last student, was there too and he survived by only this much."Taylor held his palms a few centimeters apart. "He fought and killed the attackers."

    "A ballista," wondered one of the old hunters, "a siege weapon?"

    The men exclaimed in low tones. Of course it would take something ridiculous to kill Sacred Blade. At least it was an interesting way to die, and the man hadn''t suffered.

    Amadis decided to wrench the conversation to a less serious topic. "You do not dance, Brother Phillip. Are you club-footed? Do you keep poor time?" The men clicked their tongues in sympathy.

    "I haven''t learned your dances yet. I don''t know when I''ll have the time." Groans of mock impatience assaulted him.

    "This will not do. You came here with great purpose. I felt it in your spear: you fight for more than your hundred souls in exile. You cannot hide such things from an old hunter."

    Mila and Milo, his youngest bulwarks, smiled to themselves. Inez and Otavio nodded knowingly. The older generation was always claiming things like this, that people revealed themselves intimately in a fight.

    Was that why Inez had pushed him to fight against Gustave? To reveal himself to the general? To what end?

    "No girl will walk with you if you don''t dance or have some kind of craft. The hand that only sheds blood is no better than a spear. The garden could learn to trust a foreign man, but they will never follow a simple spear."

    "When am I going to find time for all of this? I have a church to build, a home to build for it, children and bulwarks to train, prayers to write, and a monster to kill that has been the death of many disciples before me. Amadis! Now I''m supposed to add worrying about what girls want from me? It''s too much already!"

    The maul clicked his tongue and refilled his little cup with the potent milk-wine. The hunters understood the worries of young men. They remembered.

    "Listen to an older hunter, all right? At your age, the passions are very sweet and not so demanding. You have nothing to worry about. The girls want to hold hands with a boy they don''t know too well, maybe kiss him a little, and be held by him. They want to know they are liked."

    The other men at the table nodded at his sage advice.

    "Is that true, Mila?" Taylor considered asking Inez, but she hadn''t been his age in a long time. Mila was only several years older than him.

    "Why are you asking me?" She asked him slyly. "I''m just another young hunter enjoying drinks. Maybe you should listen to these men who have daughters and granddaughters."

    They knocked their knuckles against the table in approval. Inez and Mila had dressed themselves as men to stay near Taylor, and they would be accepted as such as long as they acted the part well.

    "Yes! Listen to those of us with daughters! Keep your hands above the cloth! Do not touch the sacred parts unless you are invited, understand? If the girls are wary of you the circle will not listen to you. The fathers will not help you. All right? Good. Now," he raised his cup, "to youth!" This time the hunters sipped from their cups. A little drink with men was very fine, but drunkenness was frowned upon.

    Then they ate. Spicy lizard on a skewer was Taylor''s favorite dish of the night, with a dipping sauce of yogurt-like substance flavored with herbs. He accepted a second serving of lizard, and then a third.

    The old men talked as they ate, about their days hunting in the desert, tracking strange animals into solitary places, how to detect the lairs of trapdoor spiders and poisonous snakes. Taylor listened, rapt, as the wealth of information flowed around him.

    His contract with the garden said he couldn''t interrogate the hunters until he fixed the garden''s food shortage. But there was nothing that said he couldn''t listen if they felt inclined to talk on their own. Darkmaw was conspicuous by its absence and the way they skirted around recent hunts. At least one man, younger than the others, was missing an arm. The skin on his stump was fresh and pink.

    "I can have healers here the day after I''ve settled my end of the contract, if you want to regrow your arm," he told one man. "It takes time, but it should be possible."

    "You can do that?" exclaimed Amadis. "Enclave healers said it was impossible."

    "Impossible for healers, but not disciples. But their disciples wouldn''t deign to treat a wounded Calique. Nexus sees things differently."

    The talk, food, spice, and alcohol crept up on Taylor. He felt warm and companionable among these men, among these stories. He wanted to hunt the desert, put their lore to the test, suss out Darkmaw and its secrets. How big was it now, after gorging itself on so many men and appalons? How hard was its armor? Could he kill it with a blow, or would he have to get creative?

    Amadis was asking him something, poking his shoulder with a thick finger. "What does the future hold for the young maul when the unkillable creature lies dead? Hmm? What then?" The table fell silent. This was the point of the evening. Anything he said now could be denied later as the excess braggings of milk-wine. In this company, he could "speculate". His words would be carried straight to the circle of women who governed Dagono, but they could not be taken as promises.

    "Nexus is more than a church. It''s a library. It''s a school for disciples, bulwarks, and scholars. It''s a place to pursue new knowledge, create new things, expand the reach of people. Nexus is a garden for civilization. But the desert can''t house a place like Nexus when it gets too big, and that''s good. When we outgrow our home here, we''ll plant a new Nexus in another country. And then another, and another, until there are enough of us to protect the faithful everywhere in Tenobre. And one day we''ll have enough knowledge to rival the ancients."

    Taylor stopped spinning his future long enough to fill the maul''s cup, and then the cups of the older hunters around him. "Before any of that can happen, we must deal with Kashmar. I have read they always invade when they think Calique are weak. After Darkmaw is dead, Kashmar will come. Do you agree?"

    "It''s all but certain," said Amadis. "Will you fight with us, when they come?"

    "Nexus will fight," he said, raising his cup to the hunters, "to protect its home, its friends, and all the innocents who live in the desert. And we''ll win, too."

 All The Little Monsters

    All The Little Monsters

    Two days later Taylor, Mila, and Milo stood around a grid of shallow holes in the ground. Each was a tenth of a cubic meter, filled with compost borrowed from Dagono''s heaps. They were the trial subjects of his compost experiment, and things were not going as expected.

    "Someone''s coming," warned Milo, "a hunting party. Do you want me to send them away?"

    "No," sighed Taylor, "we don''t want to act like we have something to hide."

    Mila sounded ill. "Maybe you should hide this. It''s disgusting."

    Milo sounded more interested than ill. "Did they monstrify?"

    "Are you going hunting, young Phillip?" Amadis and his pack of hunters rode up to him on their appalons. "Morufu''s middle finger! What is that!"

    A few men made gagging sounds and tried not to vomit. Appalons trumpeted in distress.

    "They''re moving!"

    "Monsters!"

    "I''ve never seen anything so horrible!"

    "Burn it all!"

    The process had seemed simple enough. Taylor took samples of Dagono''s compost, at several stages of progress, and put them under a microscope Thalia had brought with her from Red Tower. He had isolated thirty different bacteria onto slides, grouped them, and named them. All his observations went into his paper logbook. When he felt he had a grasp of the "wee beasties" feasting on Dagono''s waste, he had set up his grid of experimental mini-piles of compost.

    There was one control pile and fifteen experimental ones. Each experimental pile had received magical treatment. He had accelerated the bacteria''s growth while using different quantities of spirit. He had used a youngmeter to verify the amount of spirit applied. He had been meticulous.

    Creating magical effects without using a system like the Book of Prayers was hard work, requiring deep levels of concentration, and it took nearly an entire night to do all fifteen sections. Now, on the next morning, it was all a disaster.

    The least-awful sample resembled a pile of grubs the size of his smallest finger, if he didn''t look too closely. On closer inspection, all thirty denizens of the compost were represented. Part of him wanted to scoop them out, sort them, and count to make sure. The rest of him didn''t want to touch it.

    The other sections of the experiment were worse. So much worse.

    There were snaky bacteria as long as a man''s arm covered in waving cilia. Hand-shaped bacteria pulled themselves around by their six fingers and clubbed each other with mace-like thumbs. Others were shaped like wheels but hadn''t learned to stand upright ˇŞ yet. They wobbled on the ground and traveled in irregular ellipses. The round blobby bacteria seemed the least, awful until he saw them spear the neighboring cells with needle-like appendages. A u-shaped type turned itself over and over, escaping the melee into nearby plants, which they began to digest with gusto. Mobs of overgrown bacteria infested the area around his testing site.

    He hadn''t been meticulous enough: he should have found a rocky area devoid of life. He should have dug a pit and lined it with dense rock.

    On the plus side, all the plant material they touched turned into excellent dirt.

    Taylor and Amadis watched in horror as some of the bacteria grew even larger.

    "Uh, I could use your help here, Amadis. Can you round up the ones that escaped? You don''t have to touch them, just use your spears to fling them over here, and we''ll deal with them. Or spear them in the nucleus. That''s the big dark spot inside of them."

    "And you want us to keep this from the women, am I right?" Amadis lept off his mount and slapped Taylor on the back. "You owe us drinks!"

    Taylor used Purify Water to separate water from the bacteria, compost, and soil around the testing site. Hunters gathered dozens of the escaped u-shaped bacteria and dumped them into the dehydration zone, where they shriveled under his magic and went dormant. Some of the monstrified germs resisted him, until Milo speared them.

    After all the abominations had been reduced to dehydrated husks, Taylor had them covered in oil and burned. He took extra care that none survived.

    Anisca

    While Taylor was disposing of his failed experiments, Anisca was in a darkened room kept cool by thick layers of mud-and-coir brick, putting on a show for children. Calique children all attended school in the afternoons, just after the resting period. Theirs was the only culture in Tenobre that had anything resembling universal education, though the lessons were mainly learning songs and not written. The children knew their letters and numbers, but few would learn to read fluently unless they were destined to be tablas or have regular dealings with merchants. Francisca suspected regular classes also gave parents a chance to work without their offspring underfoot.

    "And this is what wood looks like." She replaced the slide on the microscope with another from her neatly organized box. Light came up from beneath the glass slide, through a series of lenses and mirrors, and was projected in a huge circle on the white plastered wall. The children made appreciative noises for her as neat cells of lignin came into focus, stacked like tile work.

    She had caught Taylor using the fantastic device to study the living organisms in compost. He was drawing pictures of them and assigning the most ridiculous names. They were long names with multiple parts, used phonemes that weren''t natural to the Unity language, and were mind-numbingly systematic.

    She had disturbed his work with a hundred questions about what he was doing, all tinged with ire. Of course, she had her own microscope made by the Farrs (Taylor''s personal fabricators) but it was nothing like his. They were supposed to be working together, so why did he keep such wondrous things to himself?

    When the school asked her to speak to students, she used the excuse to purloin the fantastic device and show it off. Every slide brought a new round of exclamations from the room. Even some adults had come to see what the clamor was about.

    "Where did you get it? Is it an ancient device?" asked one excited girl. "Did you find it in a ruin?"

    "Oh no, this is very, very new. Brother Phillip and Sir Farr made it, using natural law and just a little bit of spiritual arts. Who wants to see the animals that live in the compost heap?" A cheer went up from the class. She had told them at the start about the creatures, too tiny to see, who lived inside the heaps and ate all the wood and plants to turn them into dirt. Now they would finally get to see some.

    The first slide revealed a crowd of tubular creatures who formed strands by using their hooked tails (Or perhaps those were their heads, who could tell?) to hold on to a neighbor. A few loose ones squirmed under the light, startling the children. These animals were alive!

    "What should we call these little guys?"

    "Hook trains!"

    "Creepy hooks!"

    "Grabber Grubs!"

    The winning name ''Grabber Grubs'' was selected by popular acclaim.

    "Who wants to draw a picture and put the name on it for me?" Volunteers appeared, and one was given a board and chalk to do their work. Francisca headed off the pouts by promising there were many more animals to come.

    The next slide showed several kinds of microbes, eliciting a range of emotions from her small audience. Not all of the tiny animals were pretty.

    "Rock thumb!" shouted one boy, and it was obvious which one he was talking about. Some of the bacteria looked like six-fingered hands with a swollen, faceted knob where the thumb should be.

    Francisca kept the children working through the afternoon with a skillful combination of praise, snacks, and the unreasonable promise that Brother Phillip would write a song for them. By the gathering hour, she had a stack of thirty boards with pictures and names. Maybe the names weren''t systematic, but people could say them and would remember them.

    One of the newly discovered species was a tiny round thing that clumped in groups forming delicate patterns like snowflakes. The children called that one "Anisca''s Lace," and she was very pleased by that.

    Taylor

    A week after they arrived in Dagono, Taylor debuted his speed-compost art. Circle members from Dagono, Pashtuk, and Bitter Spring rode sedately behind the morning compost parade. Wise Uzan herself was with them, mounted on a rather old appalon plodding peacefully behind the children. Taylor rode next to her on Ben, and Anisca on her other side.

    The children did their usual tasks, but instead of the typical five carts, they pulled ten carts of finished compost from the pile, proof that the compost had been accelerated. After the carts were loaded they stood in pairs on the rims of the pits facing each other, and started their new stick song. The song had been Anisca''s idea. She had picked up on their learning songs from the work in the Pashtuk camp, and discovered the best ones involved clapping each others'' hands in complex rhythms or, even better, clacking sticks together. Thalia had gathered an entire book of the songs as payment for Red Tower''s work, most of it from girls. Anisca had even arranged for the children to demonstrate some songs for Taylor.

    Using a song instead of a prayer was a good idea, in that it marshaled a vastly reduced amount of spirit. It was easy to find people with enough spirit to be song leaders, and the requirements to anoint them were far lower than it was for disciples. If enough gardeners were made into song leaders then there would always be someone to lead the children and accelerate the compost.If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

    The children chanted, "Ready? Go!"

    <blockquote>

    Mari had a bloodvine

    She loved it leaf and stem

    One day it died, Mari cried

    and threw it in the bin.

    Grabby-Grup

    Rock Thumb

    Seven Headed Rope bug

    Hy-dra, Slime Face

    Claw Foot, Annie''s Lace

    The micro-friends had a feast

    and ate up all her friends

    Mari spread ''em ''round the plants

    and life begins again!

    </blockquote>

    Mari, it turned out, had several plant and animal friends, all of whom died in turn and had to be given over to the micro-friends'' feasting. She had enough beloved (if doomed) items to fully enumerate all the critters the children had named. Finally, Mari herself died, was feasted on, and her dirt given to the garden.

    The children beat sticks at each other as they sang, to mark the rhythm of their song. The first version of the song featured clapping, but the stick game was judged more entertaining and more suitable for the slightly older children who pulled the carts. The younger children complained at being excluded but practiced often so they could take a place as soon as possible.

    On the way back to Dagono, Taylor rode next to Doyenne Uzan feeling confident in a job well done. Uzan seemed to think differently, given her silence. He was sure she had been told about the microscope, the bacteria, and the children''s naming of them, so the day''s success wasn''t a surprise. Anisca rode with them, too. The rhyming song was born out of her contact with the children, and Thalia''s discovery of the kinds of songs they liked to sing. Given the Caliques'' use of teaching songs and the need for a low-spirit approach, it was just obvious.

    And yet the doyenne rode silently, almost sullenly, in her thick white robe. It was a hot day already, and her cloak was deployed to catch breezes while fending off the sun. When the sun got high enough, and the air became hotter than skin, she would wrap the cloth around her to insulate herself. But they would be inside Dagono by then, sheltering in the relatively cool garden.

    Anisca realized she would have to take the initiative.

    "I believe that should be satisfactory, Wise Uzan. With the addition of a few disciples, you should be able to double the garden''s harvest without any long-term consequences. The children can handle the compost, but you still need disciples to speed growth in the garden. When may we staff the shrine?"

    For a while she didn''t answer. Taylor began to think the heat was too much for the old woman until she said, "You two bring change. Strange knowledge, strange music, and you would put the temple nearer the center of our lives. We are pious people who know the lay prayers, but we have always kept Enclave at arm''s length, in Sand Castle, where they could not harm the gardens. But now you want to give the children songs of power, teach them your powerful hymns, embrace the young gardeners in your church, and make them song leaders. You heal those who would otherwise die. You give permanent shelter to refugees. You wipe out a third of Satoma''s strength on a whim. The changes you bring can''t be tabulated.

    "The circle does not want you here," finished Uzan.

    "And yet we have a contract," said Taylor. He should have expected something like this. Some of the people had warmed to him. Many others, especially the old, had kept their distance.

    "We assumed you would fail this task and could be sent away quietly. Your efforts are admirable, but you are not wanted here."

    "Darkmaw is wiping out your civilization, and you''re afraid of change?"

    "Ah, well," the old woman looked at Taylor guiltily, "you''re still going to hunt it and kill it, aren''t you? That''s who you are. You can''t leave the beast alone any more than you could ride past the Pashtuk without healing them. But we will not have you live among us, no matter what you do. Perhaps Darkmaw will kill you and the circle''s concerns will be removed that way.

    "Our way of life is hundreds of years old, young Phillip. It has preserved us in times of famine, storms, invasions, and worse. We won''t abandon it over something as transient as a single monster."

    Taylor slowed Ben''s pace to open space between them and the regular compost crew ahead. As soon as there was enough room, he put up a privacy shield. No sound would carry past their little group.

    "Your way of life as you know it is ending. Far greater changes are coming to the gardens than having to live next to disciples and priests."

    "Are you threatening us, now you don''t have what you want?"

    "Are you being serious right now? Is that what you heard?" Taylor''s tongue felt like a knife in his mouth, ready to cut. What had Souzane said? Ask questions? Think beyond the moment? At this moment I want to give her a piece of my mind, he thought.

    "Let''s pretend Nexus leaves today, never to set foot in the desert again. And let''s pretend Darkmaw will wander off and leave you alone. Do you think your gardens will be safe? Kashmar will invade this winter, while you''re weak, but let''s assume you somehow defeat them. How many men will you lose? How many gardens? And what then? Darkmaw isn''t the outlier you think it is. It''s a harbinger, a mere sample of what''s to come. The monsters will get bigger and more dangerous until they reach scriptural proportions. The peak of that cycle isn''t for hundreds of years from now."

    "It is forbidden to speak of such things!" spat the doyenne.

    "How close to the precipice must you get? Is there ever a point at which you would say to Nexus, say to anyone, ''help us. We will do whatever we must to survive as a people!''?" Have you considered the very likely danger that our response will be ''Sorry, our hands are full. Who should die that you may live, you who wouldn''t prepare when you had the chance?''"

    "You must stop this! Someone will hear."

    "I put up a privacy barrier. They can''t hear us."

    The doyenne''s eyes were flint and anger, directed at the young man, barely more than a boy, who would explain such things to her. Didn''t she hold a thousand lives in her hands every day, count out their sustenance and shelter and water and births and deaths? Who was this boy with his one hundred souls, compared to her?

    "It is forbidden to speak of such things."

    "Why is it forbidden? If you''re worried about Enclave punishing you for forbidden knowledge, you won''t have to keep your secrets for much longer. Will you loosen your grip after Enclave is gone?"

    They rode for a while longer, at a slow walk behind the daily work group as Dagono''s wall grew taller. Taylor looked to Anisca, but she made it clear she wasn''t going to talk to the doyenne. He was in this mess by himself. She made a hand sign. Soothe her.

    Taylor couldn''t think of anything soothing to say. He was too angry. When he didn''t talk, Anisca signed again. Say something nice. Well, he could do that much. Probably.

    "When I look at the Calique, I see so much to admire. The way you balance your material lives with what the land can produce. The way you provide for each other and educate the children, no matter what family they''re from. Most of the world isn''t like that. And I''m a little bit in awe of the way your circle can tabulate things.

    "And that leaves me in a very confused place, Wise Uzan. How can a people who see everything so clearly, who understand the web of life that binds us all, not intuit what''s coming and try to plan for it?"

    "Perhaps we are more prepared than you know." Her admission there was something to know was practically a victory by itself.

    "I hope that''s true. I really like your people. I want them to live. I want their grandchildren to live. But I hope you''re not counting on the ancient machines underground to keep you alive." The doyenne''s eyes widened.

    "Before you tell me about what''s forbidden," Taylor headed her off, "I''d like to talk a second about scripture. Surely a priest is not forbidden from talking about scripture. Can we agree on that?"

    The doyenne nodded, and Taylor continued. "The book Chosen says Neuman Battani came up from the ground ''with thousands of people to greet the sun''. They abandoned their old life underground and found themselves in a world full of monsters and intense weather. That''s why he made the Book of Prayers, so people would have the arts to help them survive in a hostile world. But lately, I keep wondering why the ancients came to the surface when they did. If they had waited sixty years or so, the world would have been much easier to live in. But instead, they take their chances with ''monsters taller than the hills who swallow fifty men at a breath''. Why take that chance?

    "But then I read another account from the first generation who came to the surface, and this person said they had problems keeping the old machines working. They knew how to cannibalize parts from one machine to another, but they had no way to make new parts. They had completely lost all ability to remake the old machines, even fairly simple ones.

    "I have also seen recorded memories that indicate the underground fortresses date to at least four thousand years ago. It''s hardly a surprise the machines would break down. To keep them running you would need manuals, knowledge, and a material culture that, frankly, I don''t think anyone in Tenobre possesses. Especially after the church went on a hundred-year book-burning spree."

    They were almost to the gates when Uzan spoke. "A church that embraced such knowledge would be something few of us recognize." She was acting docile, but Taylor didn''t think she was going to bend.

    "Hence my difficulties with Enclave." Taylor shook his head, thinking of the church and how badly it had gone wrong. "Somehow, Enclave got caught up in its rules and hierarchies and power struggles and privileges and forgot that it was created to serve a value system. Leadership threw out the value system and kept everything else. Now we''re stuck with their messes. We''re on the upswing of a thousand-year cycle of destruction, and I don''t think we''re ready for it."

    They arrived at the gate but kept themselves at a distance so they could remain in their protected bubble. They knelt their appalons and dismounted, and turned them loose in the mischus.

    "I hear you, Brother Phillip, but the circle in Dagono will not change its mind any time soon. You must leave."

    "I hope you''re wrong, and they do change their mind. Until then, I''ll follow the old healer''s adage: sometimes healing is a matter of opportunity."

    "Did you catch that?" Taylor asked Anisca as soon as they were back at the chapter house. They didn''t delay but started packing right away. They were going to abandon the place.

    "Not all the gardens agree. Who do you want to talk to?"

    "All of them we can reach. Satoma is out, naturally. The Pashtuk are the first to talk to. We can touch base with Saluja later. And then there''s Bitter Spring." Taylor piled baskets of food by the door. Their clients had given them more than they needed as thanks for their help. Nexus hadn''t brought much, but they had accumulated gifts of baskets and pottery from grateful patients, and a generous quantity of food which they stored in the gifted containers. Some of it could be used to feed the Pashtuk refugees.

    "Phillip, I''m sorry about how this went."

    "We knew it was a possibility. It just means we know who we''re dealing with next time we get involved with them. Most of what we lost was time." He cinched one of his saddlebags closed and started packing the next. "We talked about this when we first met the circle."

    "That was more of a theoretical discussion. I didn''t believe it was likely to happen. I thought she had better control of her circle. I wonder what they have over her?"

    "She''s not a queen; They probably just voted. For whatever reason we weren''t able to convince enough of them we were needed here, and they voted us out. That''s democracy for you." His tools and clothes disappeared into another saddlebag. They still had some Satoma appalons that hadn''t been taken to Red Tower yet, which was fortunate. The animals could carry all the goods they had accumulated.

    Anisca was busy rolling her clothes into bundles. He couldn''t explain why, but it made Taylor smile to see her packing her own things.

    "Were you being honest about ending Enclave, or was that bluster? Because even if you had all the Calique hunters for an army, it wouldn''t be enough to invade Dace."

    "When it comes down to us versus Enclave, we won''t need an army. With a season to finish training the people we have, we can crush Enclave with one hand."

    "You''re overconfident. Enclave is ancient. You''ve said yourself you don''t know enough about them or their true power structure."

    "It''s the politics I can''t predict. I don''t know what the families will do, or if Enclave will stay dead.They could still claim to be the true church even without disciples. When it comes down to an application of disciple power, I can break them and ensure they will never anoint another practitioner. Ever. When people need healing or protection from monsters, Nexus will be their only choice."

    "If you don''t need fighters, why recruit from Pashtuk?"

    "Because they''re starving, and I''d like to save the few of them I can. We can''t hold them all, but for every one we take ˇ­ "

    "The handouts from Dagono will stretch farther." Francisca tossed her head in mock annoyance. "You really have a thing about helping people, don''t you?"

    "It''s not pure philanthropy ˇŞ it''s mutually beneficial. If we can get gardeners, circle-trained women, and hunters to join us, even temporarily, we can build out our facilities. And we haven''t tested any of the Calique for spirit yet. There could be a lot of talent out here that nobody''s thought to tap yet."

    "You''re going to exceed your limit of three hundred at that rate." The idea didn''t seem to bother her.

    "If they break their agreements with us, I don''t feel bad about doing the same to them." Taylor tossed his full saddlebags to the front door. His bulwark were all packed, and Alice and Otavio were scanning the house for anything forgotten.

    His last act as he left the chapter house was to remove his mark from the sign. The happy futobel faded and was gone. He left the polished plaque and its words in place, as a reminder to their neighbors of what should have been. If they wanted to erase him, they''d have to use a chisel.

    Taylor suddenly felt despondent. "It always comes down to power, doesn''t it? The ones who have it do whatever they want. And I''m going to end up being that guy."

 Pashtuk People

    Pashtuk People

    A cadre of disciples, working for nearly a week, had entirely remade the Pashtuk camp. The center was still dominated by spacious round tents made from insulating layers of cloth and rough coir fiber. Those were the homes of Doyenne Yalda and other important figures, meeting spaces, and group work areas. The interior of the circle was a gathering area paved in compressed earth, featuring a new well.

    A sprouting garden surrounded the tents: shade trees with an under-crop of melons and other fast-growing plants that, with encouragement from visiting disciples, would fruit within a few weeks. Here and there among the garden were rounded mounds, the same width as the big tents but only waist high, clustered in groups. The Pashtuk gardeners took advantage of the new contours in the land to vary their plantings, putting sun-hungry types on south-facing slopes, and more shy plants on the north.

    Beneath the humps were living quarters for most of the refugees. Each was the size of the great central tents, lined with stone, and housed a half-dozen people. Clever vents connected to discrete chimneys kept the rooms supplied with fresh air. Entrance to the underground spaces was by a stairwell to a common area shared by three such dwellings, and a shared well. Light was supplied by magic lanterns suspended from the peak of their domed ceilings, each one featuring an orb of quartz that shed soft light into the stone-lined spaces. These were not the spirit lamps so common inside Nexus but inscripted devices, powered by pea-sized spirit stones. One red stone could keep a lamp lit for weeks and could be recharged by a disciple in a few seconds.

    It wasn''t what the Pashtuk were used to, and it wasn''t a proper garden, but they were protected from the elements and had easy access to water. It was a lot better than their lot a week ago.

    Thalia showed Taylor and Anisca the subterranean houses with pride. "Lector Manu already had us experimenting with underground spaces, for Anisca''s growing rooms. Given the issues with tunneling any further into Red Tower, we''ve been building them in the nearby desert." The issue she avoided talking about was the ancient installation buried in the center of their mesa. "We did a few trial runs the first day, talked to local gardeners and builders, and together we came up with this."

    Everywhere they went, people paid their respects to Anisca and Thalia. As far as the Pashtuk were concerned, they were the ranking people of Red Tower. Taylor was glad to see Nexus get some acceptance from Calique, even if it was the most desperate among them, but it irked him to get none of the credit for anything. Iraj and his little band of hunters were the only ones to acknowledge him, silently, by signing their thanks to him when others weren''t looking.

    By the time they headed for the central tents, his mood was soured.

    Just as Dagono wouldn''t face any repercussions for how it dealt with Nexus, Pashtuk was free to strike their own deal with them. The doyenne''s tent was tolerable despite the day''s burgeoning heat. They found Yara inside with two tablas and two children to run errands, leaving generous space for visitors. She looked tired.

    The women touched hands and sat near each other, leaving Taylor to sit quietly next to Anisca, with his guards in the background. He tried to view the proceedings with meditative stillness, as part of the scenery to be observed without letting it snag on his impatience or that other emotion lurking inside of him. (Was it jealousy? Was it grievance?)

    "It''s good to see you again, Wise Yalda," said Anisca, "you''re looking better." Taylor hadn''t known the old woman had been ill.

    "Your healer is quite good. She seems to know these old bones as well as I do. Thank you for sending her along. Now, what can this poor doyenne do for you?"

    "Dagono''s circle won''t honor their promises with us, so we''re moving on. We wanted to check on your situation, and ask your advice; and a favor."

    "Why ask, when you have the power to take whatever you will? I''m just an old woman squatting in the wild. The desert belongs to the strongest, not to those of good council."

    "We must be excessively naive," Anisca responded with a slight smile. "First we thought Dagono would bargain in good faith. Then we assumed a doyenne would care about the fate of her people, no matter where they went, garden or no garden. We are getting quite the education today."

    "Pay this crone no mind, pretty Anisca: we doyenne are a conservative lot. Take away our gardens and we''re nothing. We see our people living in strange homes, under the garden instead of around it, lit by strange lights, and we wish for the flimsiest of tents. We weep to receive our daughters and distrust the hand that freed them. We eat the gifts and begrudge the givers."

    "This place is only temporary," Anisca assured her, "until Darkmaw is killed. Then you can return to your rightful garden. But that project would be done sooner if you lifted the taboo on your hunters. Let them tell us what they know about the creature."

    "You ask for the one thing I cannot do. It was decided by a circle of all the gardens. If the day ever comes when we rest in the shade of our own garden, you are welcome to live with us: keep a chapter house, as you call it, and let your people mingle with ours. This I promise, with my successors as witnesses. But I cannot lift the taboo. To do so would send us the way of Lobat, whose garden you now inhabit. Dissolution. My people would be scattered to other gardens, our wells filled, our walls torn down, our garden burned. I would be exiled. Understand?

    "Please ask me for something else, something I can give. Anything."

    Every garden was responsible for itself above all else, but Pashtuk had been living by charity for months. The disciples'' many gifts had further indebted Yalda beyond all hope of repayment. And then Anisca had added to that debt by the generous way she handled the Satomen''s spoils. Call it pride or call it shame, but Yalda was desperate to return even a small part of that debt.

    Anisca motioned Taylor to speak.

    "Wise Yalda, we would like to borrow some of your people to help us establish Red Tower. This should help us both: we get the help we need, and reducing your numbers will stretch the gifts from Dagono."

    "You have the power to take whatever people you will, little maul. Why come to a useless doyenne without a garden?"

    "We would still like your advice on who to take with us, and your willing cooperation."

    "How do you know our advice is sound? Or friendly?"

    "If you abuse us in these discussions, we''ll know the kind of people who are in Pashtuk''s circle, and we will treat you accordingly in the future. Or not at all." Taylor wouldn''t murder the lot of them wholesale, but he could avoid dealing with them.

    "Goodness!" The doyenne fanned herself vigorously with a triangle of woven leaves, "When this one speaks I feel a knife in my throat!"

    "He''s frustrated today," Anisca explained for him, "and he''s terrible at hiding his emotions. But you can trust his good intentions. We see this as a way to improve our situation at Red Tower while protecting innocent people. Don''t bother to ask why," she said with a sigh, "it''s just the way true disciples are."

    The doyenne grunted and wiped the sweat from her face. "Under the circumstances, I have no choice but to offer whomever you want, young or old, male or female."

    Taylor was annoyed by the doyenne''s recurring claim she had no control over the situation, even while she had a great amount of influence with her people. Yet Anisca let the repetition pass unremarked.

    Taylor continued, "First, we would like to test your people for talent with the spiritual arts. If we find any good candidates, we''ll invite them and their families to live at Red Tower permanently."

    "And if they do not agree to follow you?"

    "Then they don''t follow. We can''t make someone a disciple against their will. Next, we would like at least one woman trained in the circle''s tabulations. We have our own ways of planning, but we''d like to incorporate calique techniques. The next priority is gardeners, followed by hunters who are willing to train as bulwarks. They will be key to killing Darkmaw."

    Yalda looked at him thoughtfully. "You still plan to hunt that creature, even after Dagono''s deception? And without the taboo being lifted?"

    "The Pashtuk need their home back, don''t they? And so do the Salujan. People are suffering, and Nexus is in a position to help. Besides, we have our own reasons to kill it."

    "You want to prove your superiority, and rub Enclave''s nose in it," accused the old woman, pleased to have figured him out, "isn''t that it?"

    "Something like that," he agreed. Indeed, it was exactly that. "We''re willing to take families, provided there are two able bodies for each one too old or young to work. As the garden grows, we can take more people. But our ultimate goal is to kill Darkmaw, return the desert to the Calique, and let the Pashtuk return to Pashtuk."Love what you''re reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on.

    "We don''t have any hunters to spare, just a few spears and their teams for the four hundred of us. Most were lost defending our retreat. Many of our old were lost, too. There might not be enough Pashtuk left alive to restore the garden. But that is our problem. You can do as you like with the people we have."

    Taylor and Anisca spent the rest of the day interviewing people and talking to Red Tower through the administrative link. During a brief lull, while none of the Calique were around, Taylor asked, "Why is she being like that?"

    "Imagine her position. Any garden would do its best to feed Calique from another garden, but none of them would do what you''ve done, risking lives to retrieve a few women and returning pillages spoils. They''re as good as a client state to Nexus now." Anisca looked proud of that accomplishment, and her role in it. "So here you come again, asking for some people, what''s she supposed to say?"

    "She''s supposed to say yes, because it helps both of us?"

    "A garden''s doyenne is supposed to send you away. She''s supposed to reject the outsider''s insane request to borrow Calique to build a garden for people who aren''t even Calique. She''s supposed to turn her back on you and let Nexus brave the desert alone. And someday, if you live to see Sand Castle restored, you might get some minor concessions after the doyenne speaks in your favor. That''s what a garden''s doyenne is supposed to do."

    "But we''re not in a garden," said Taylor, catching on, "and a doyenne without a garden isn''t a doyenne. We''re in the desert, where anything goes. Satomen can capture women, Nexus can re-capture them in a bloody raid. Pashtuk can set up a tent city, or Nexus can build houses underground. Nexus can recruit Calique and nobody can complain because it happens in the desert."

    Anisca held up a warning finger. "She''s also previewing what will happen if this ends badly: She''ll put all the blame on you, for strong-arming her into giving up her people."

    That night a strange procession left the Pashtuk refugee camp, bound for Lobat''s Tears. Taylor and his usual company were followed by Thalia''s cadre and forty people on foot pushing carts or leading appalons laden with their few worldly possessions. A few of them rode the remaining appalons with children too small to walk the distance. Taylor hadn''t found any hunters willing to join him, not even Iraj, as Pashtuk had so few of them left. But he got more tablas and gardeners than expected, and also got some tradespeople.

    But the real prize of the day shared Ben''s saddle with him, held in place by Taylor''s arms: Vafra, an orphan who showed good potential. When light from a fragment of sun touched the boy, he lit up like a signal fire. Darkmaw had killed his father and then his mother had died during the escape from Pashtuk. His brothers were unaccounted for, lost in an attempt to scout the remains of Sand Castle. He was only eight years old, with soft white mouse-like ears that tickled Taylor''s chin as they rode.

    There had been no one to speak for the boy. The other refugees were feeding him enough to keep him on his feet, but little more than that. A boy that young wasn''t large enough to do a man''s work, yet he still had to be fed. If it came down to an unthinkable choice, Pashtuk would starve him to feed the girls.

    To Taylor, he was a gem. A stroke of luck. Not one person in five thousand held so much promise, and many turned down the call. Getting a talented child of seven or eight, orphaned in dire need, was nearly perfect. Vafra''s hunger for food and family made him easy to recruit.

    "If you could be powerful, what would you do?" he had asked Vafra.

    "I would hunt the monsters and I would make lots of food, so nobody had to starve!"

    "I can make that happen. At Nexus we can teach you not only to be strong but to make others strong, so they can fight with you. We can teach you to heal people who are hurt, purify water, and all kinds of other things. It takes a lot of studying and a lot of practice. It''s a different kind of garden than you''re used to, but you will have many brothers and sisters in this new family. Many teachers, too. Are you interested?"

    Before Vafra could answer, Taylor held out a pink and yellow striped melon as big as the young boy''s head. Vafra grabbed the melon and his future with both hands.

    "Sit up straight, and hold Ben with your legs, Vafra."

    "I''m sorry Lector!"

    "You don''t have to apologize, just correct. We will have to repeat this many times before you learn completely. Even I forget sometimes."

    "Do you have a teacher who reminds you?"

    "Magnificent Ben reminds me." The appalon raised its trunk and gave a soft blow when he heard his name.

    "If he doesn''t, I do," added Inez, who rode beside them. "And if he ignores me, I give him a little tap with the stick. Like so." Inez tapped Vafra''s lax thighs with a thin strip of wood, barely hard enough to sting, and the boy gripped Ben tighter. "See?"

    They rode for a while, listening to the soft whump of appalons'' feet, the churn of wheels, and the plod of walkers behind them. Nobody tired because Taylor had given them enhanced endurance for the night''s journey.

    "Something is bothering you Vafra. Speak up!" He jostled the younger boy playfully.

    "There is no water at Lobat''s Tears. What will we drink?"

    "We''ll drink water, of course. We made sure of that as soon as we set foot there, by opening all the wells. It used to be a nice garden, you know. Can you tell me what happened to make the water dry up?"

    "The people who lived there used too much water and the wells dried up. Lobat was maul there, and he got angry with the god Olyon. He demanded more water. He dug and he dug, but all he found was sand. He kept digging and digging until he hit the rock at the bottom of the world. Still no water. Then he cursed at Olyon, who sent fire to burn down the garden. The people of his garden were so mad at him that they left to live in other gardens. The doyennes abandoned him. He was a maul without anything to protect and died in the desert, alone."

    "That''s a very interesting story. It''s different from the one I heard."

    "What did you hear, Lector Phillip?"

    "I heard a disciple of Enclave was sent to hunt bothersome monsters in the area. When they came to the garden, Maul Lobat refused to shelter the disciple and his people. Enclave believes they represent God, so this refusal was taken as a religious insult. They argued, and Maul Lobat attacked the disciple. The disciple won that fight, of course. To punish Lobat, the church sealed his wells. And that was the end of Lobat''s garden."

    "So which one is true?"

    "That''s a good question. They can''t both be completely true. I wonder how we can decide which parts of the stories are probably true, and which ones are probably made up, or just one-sided?" Taylor let the boy chew on the problem.

    There was only one incident during the hike when advance riders spied a large trapdoor spider. "It''s just as Amadis said," Milo told them, "the trap is easy to spot if you know what to look for. It''s two meters wide."

    Otavio was quick to volunteer. "Allow me, Young Master!"

    Taylor barely suppressed his grin. "You just want to wrestle it, don''t you?"

    "And you don''t?"

    In truth, Taylor did not.

    "Go ahead. Alice, you can go with him because I know you want to watch." The woman beamed. "Take a few more bulwark and some Calique with you. I want them to see what bulwarks can do."

    When its lair was surrounded the spider sprang from its hiding place underground, faster than most people could react, expecting to sink its fangs into a juicy human or maybe an appalon, poison it, and drag its prey into its den. It got Otavio instead. The large man seized the monster by a fang in one hand, and a leg in the other and used its momentum to yank it fully out of its hole. He flipped the thing over his head and slammed it onto the ground with a cracking sound. Urged on by Otavio''s heroic feat, the other bulwarks drove their spears into the monster.

    "Maul Phillip!" called one of the Calique, a cook. "Give us time to harvest the spider!"

    "Is there anything useful in it? I''m not familiar with these."

    "The body is too poisonous to eat, but the legs are excellent." He gave a sidelong glance at the marchers, who in turn were eyeing the spider''s plump (albeit hairy) legs. "And the poison is used to make medicine. We don''t have herbalists with us, but you could trade the venom with Dagono."

    "All right," agreed Taylor, "let''s break here. Show me how to break this monster down."

    The cook and a helper skillfully separated the legs from the body, and the meat from the legs. Taylor observed this process, and how they drew poison from the dead creature''s fangs into a glazed jug. They sealed it with wax and stored it carefully as community property.

    Taylor shaped the earth to form a stove. One of the immigrating families had hauled a large copper pot with them, all the way from Pashtuk. They proudly placed it on the stove. The meat went in the pot with herbs, disciple-purified water, and a generous amount of appalon milk fresh from the pack animals.

    After the body was denuded of its useful parts it had to be moved away from the road. Alice took a firm grip on the monster, spun around twice, and flung it more than a hundred meters.

    "Is this the disciple''s power?" asked one Calique.

    "Partly," said Alice with pride, "but it takes skill to use a disciple''s enhancements well. Otavio and I are still new to this. We aren''t nearly as strong as Inez, or the cousins."

    "This is why the maul is so confident he can kill Darkmaw," said another, "it isn''t only the disciple who is strong."

    Alice beamed brighter. "Of course! Any who wants this strength will have to practice so it doesn''t destroy them. Any hunter who survived Darkmaw''s attacks should be eager to learn."

    Soon bowls of hot spider leg chowder were passed around, topped with a pad of appalon butter. Taylor knew from his few days in Dagona what his role was. Once everyone had a bowl in hand he told them, "It smells good. Let''s eat!" The marchers cheered and dug in. Most people got seconds, the children had thirds, and soon the pot was empty. His new villagers talked excitedly after that, and they even took the opportunity to ask him questions.

    Thus cheered, the families picked up their burdens and continued the journey.

    Dahabia came to visit Taylor after Vafra had fallen asleep. She shared her saddle with the cook''s child, a girl who was even younger than Vafra.

    "You carry him like he''s your little brother."

    "He is. Or he will be when his training has reached a certain stage." He could feel the boy breathing, boneless in his arms. "He''s had a tough run lately, and he''s about to be dumped into a strange environment. He deserves his sleep."

    "Do you think us cruel for letting him go hungry?"

    "If there was enough food, would you have fed him?"

    "Of course." Dahabia looked offended that he would even ask. She wasn''t over-fed by any means; none of the Pashtuk were. But the boys and the older men bore the brunt of the food shortage.

    "I''d say your people aren''t cruel, but they had to make cruel choices. Someone had to be singled out. It''s not nice, but sometimes that''s the way things are. Vafra''s part of Nexus now. You don''t have to fear for him."

    Taylor thought of all the things he wouldn''t be able to do for Vafra personally. In the past, he would have been the first to introduce a young student to the room of mirrors where he would learn to sense and control spirit. He would have taught the first exercises and the first prayers. Now there were other people to guide candidates in their early steps. He might not see Vafra again until he was ready to tackle the most difficult prayers or learn advanced techniques.

    "Shall we continue our game?"

    "I don''t know. Last time we played, you fell asleep. It might be too boring to play again."

    "You can''t hold that against me! After the week I had!"

    "I guess you have a good excuse."

    "That''s very big of you. Why don''t you go first, since you''re being so generous."

    Taylor told her about the time he met a strange appalon in the woods, wrestled it and lost, then took it on adventures with him.

 Red Tower

    Red Tower

    They found the tower at dawn. Vafra was newly awake in the saddle, while behind them the Pashtuk refugees sang. It was a good walking song, one that paced them and kept their minds off the monotony of walking. A few minor blessings were all it took to keep their bodies moving faster than normal all night long, but their heads nodded as they moved along the narrow track. The hikers wrapped themselves in extra layers to withstand the early morning chill.

    Their target came into view gradually, first as a dark silhouette against the stars, and then as a towering shadow against the lightening horizon. Finally, the top was lit like a giant red candle that grew downward with the rising sun.

    "It has walls!" shouted some of the mounted travelers, on sighting the berm. "The mischus is thick!" A buzz of relief passed through the line. Good mischus meant food for appalons and good soil. If there was water too, then anything was possible.

    There was no gate, only an opening through the berm guarded by Darius and his bulwark. The migrants turned their mounts loose in the mischus and passed through the opening, where they found a renewed plaza, its surface leveled and smoothed. Most of the school waited for them, with Rector Mika and the deans standing in front, and the rest of Nexus in ranks behind them. Disciples with bulwarks were in one group, disciples without bulwarks (most of them former healers) and priests were in another, and students were in the third.

    "Welcome home, Eldest Brother Phillip!" At least they hadn''t called him His Holiness.

    "Thank you. It feels great to be back."

    Red Tower had changed in the week Taylor had been away. There was light in the ancient windows and the smell of the morning meal being cooked. A stairway climbed the tower in cantilevered flights, but it hadn''t reached the top yet.

    A part of the field was plowed up for grain and vegetables, which were growing at a furious rate under the care of the disciples who constantly pushed them with the arts. A few had pushed too hard, and there were browned areas where the plants had nearly been killed by too much spirit. There was a trick to accelerating growth to such an insane degree, and not every student had learned to be efficient enough to carry it off without burning the crops.

    "It looks like you''ve kept busy while I was away." Muted laughter rippled through the hundred who were gathered. "I look forward to seeing your progress so far. We have some new residents: tablas, gardeners, and craftspeople who can help us find our way in our new home, and their families. Do what you can to make them feel welcome. They''re on loan from Pashtuk, so let''s learn everything we can from them."

    Taylor sent the families off with Kasryn to see their lodgings in the tower. Vafra was given over to the school, where he was instantly surrounded by children older than him, eager to help him pick a bed, get something to eat, and get to his first class. "First lesson is always in the mirror room. You''ll be so swayed! There''s nothing else like it in the world!"

    Anisca and Riculta had taken the gardeners across the plaza into the mischus-covered garden. "The grain crops will come in a few weeks," she was saying, "then you can plant it as you see fit. Until then, there''s the other half of the garden." The gardeners were doing the same as Riculta had done, digging a small hole into the garden to feel around in the soil. Taylor wanted to be with them, listen in on their conversation, but he didn''t have the time. He had one day to rest and take reports, then he and Ben were going out again.

    "You five get some rest," he told his guards, "I''ll be fine here." Taylor left his saddle and most of his things to be put away by others (one of the advantages of being Eldest Brother) but kept a long case for himself. It had an inertia that didn''t match its weight. If it wasn''t for his enhancements, the case would be difficult to move. Once moving, it would be difficult to stop. Rector Mika kept pace with Taylor as he carefully wrangled the awkward object up to his second-floor quarters and workshop.

    "There''s little to report that you haven''t heard on the link," said the old priest. "The new candidates should arrive over the next few days, with a caravan''s worth of supplies. Taking the Satomen''s appalons was a good move."

    "That was mostly Iraj''s work. He''s used to leading long trains of them." They passed through his quarters, and then through a door that was invisible to everyone except Taylor and his followers, rendered secure through the Sanctuary prayer. "I''m pretty sure he instigated the rescue to get his favorite animal back."

    The room was often dubbed the Black Sanctuary, Taylor''s private workshop. His many tools and experiments were there, and long tables to work on. There was a second chamber within, behind a secret door whose seams were disguised as decorative trim. The lock was a complicated affair requiring seven magnets to open, each one precisely placed. The magnets lived across the room, metal disks stacked and stuck together innocuously in a box with other small parts. Only Mika and a few others knew about the double-secret door and how to place the magnets to unlock it. Of course, Taylor could open it with a thought.

    Beyond the secret door was a treasure room. Inset hand pulls hinted at the drawers lining the room from ankle level to chest height. If he were to open them he''d find ingots of precious metals, mobeen alloy, base metals (even a little iron), chunks of abrasive-grade minerals like corundum, and hundreds of precious spirit gems. Ironically the most valuable items, the gemstones, were synthesized from the least valuable abrasive minerals. Purifying such ores, doping them with the correct metals, and then crystallizing them was how Nexus made gems that could hold spirit. If he wanted to, Taylor could make as much money as he wanted by manufacturing and selling conventional gems until the markets crashed.

    Above the ranks of drawers were display shelves fronted with glass. These were his trophies, early samples of everything he had created or "invented" in this world so far: varieties of glass, the first youngmeter, first microscope, first telescope, first link, several types of paper, movable type, inks, porcelain, and first printings of all the treatises on natural law published by Nexus Press so far.

    The treasure room had another secret, hidden behind the blank far wall. Open certain drawers, keep certain others closed, press a secret button, and another secret door would open. Inside was a shallow cabinet containing two items on individual shelves: a book and a titanium ring.

    A system of magic required an origin, a defining grimoire. It held not only the spells (or songs or symbols or specialized language or however the system expressed magic) but also defined the underlying rules of the system. If the body of practitioners grew large enough the origin became redundant. If a magic system died out from a lack of practitioners one could, in theory, resurrect a dead system by finding its origin. In scripture, the Chosen One had destroyed the Unity''s first origin for reasons Taylor still didn''t understand. Enclave created a second one, hundreds of years later, but its precise whereabouts were unknown; probably somewhere on Enclave''s campus. The hierarch probably knew where.

    Taylor opened the case he was carrying and removed the guitar inside (a gift from Lavradio''s king) to hang next to the other two origins. The hidden Book of Prayers was the origin of Nexus''s Spiritual Arts, a literal grimoire. It was the reason why Nexus could anoint disciples without interference from Enclave. Taylor''s "rather nice" guitar was the origin of Prayer Songs like the new Mari''s Friends compost tune.

    The ring was composed of thin layers of concentric titanium, micro-etched with symbols for controlling magic: the Inscription Arts. Since many such schematics were composed in circles, the ring shape seemed appropriate to Taylor when he started. In practice, micro-etching proofs and definitions onto a curved, hyper-realized titanium surface was a lot less convenient than writing in a book or playing a song on a guitar. Of the three systems, the Inscription Arts had the fewest current users but held the most potential to change the world.

    All of the origins were unnaturally present in the world. Their mass had strange inertia, and Taylor doubted they could be destroyed by any conventional means.

    Taylor started closing things. "Do we need anything from the vault?"

    Mika read from a list, "two bars of manganese, one ingot silver, seven class-one gemstones ˇ­," and they counted out metal and gems as he went down the list. The gems were for student or disciple use. The other materials were destined for Farr and his daughter Lilian, Nexus''s only practitioners of Inscription Arts besides Taylor. They packed the goods into shallow trays for carrying, updated records, and closed the vault.

    "You have no other meetings today," Mika told him, "but you should be seen before you take off again. Visit the classrooms, check on people''s work, let them know you appreciate them."

    "Loyalty requires maintenance. You sound like Anisca."

    "Her better aspects must be rubbing off on you," Mika said approvingly.

    "Anisca has no better parts," said Taylor. The jibe was meant to be glib; after he felt remorseful.

    Taylor cleaned himself up and changed clothes. He ditched the heavy armor and went with a simple gambeson, desert robe, and his trusty sword. With the trays of materials under one arm he bounded down the stairs, passed along the warming avenue until he reached the students'' wing, and climbed three flights to the Hall of Mirrors. As he hoped, he found Vafra having his first lesson. The boy stood in front of a mirror which showed him in a different light. His reflection had the same mousy ears and the same small stature but appeared to burn with a red and silver flame.

    "That''s me?" said the astonished candidate.

    "That''s you." Lector Mataba''s lined face broke into a smile. "Now that we''ve awakened your power, you''re going to learn to move it. Ah! Just in time. I''ll take those," Mataba took the tray of spirit stones from Taylor and handed one back to him. "Would you like to do the honors?"

    "This is yours to practice with." Taylor handed Zafra the cabochon of red beryl. Cut and polished, the gem would be valuable, but Nexus left them in a semi-smooth globule state so they were less likely to be stolen. "When you outgrow it, we''ll get you a better one. Now," he stood behind Varfra and put his hands on the boy''s shoulders, "deep breath."

    Taylor ran his hands through Zafra''s fire, visible in the mirror and to Taylor''s senses. Instead of touching him, the boy''s spirit avoided him.

    "I felt that!"

    "Right? I''m pushing your spirit around with my own. You''re feeling the two touching."

    "Why can''t I see your spirit? You can see mine."

    "My control is much better than yours." They did that exercise until Zafra could feel his spirit well enough to move it himself. He could shift it left and right, make it a little bigger or smaller, but not much more.

    "Hold your stone in both hands. Now push, like this." Slowly, Zafra learned to compress his spirit into the red stone. He was able to get a third of his fire stored away before he broke out in a sweat and needed a break. An excited smile looked out at Taylor through the mirror.

    "A good first step." Taylor was seized by an unaccountable urge to hug the younger boy, and maybe kiss him on the forehead. He contented himself with a pat on the shoulder. "Practice every day, and I''ll see you in the advanced classes."

    Thank you, he signed to Mataba.

    Do you see yourself in him? Mabata signed back.

    As he picked up his remaining trays and turned to leave, Zafra asked, "What does your fire look like, Lector? If you let it all go, I mean. Will you show me?"

    "Not in here." Taylor pointed at all the mirrors. "I might break the training hall."

    The boy''s head whipped around to Mataba, who nodded sagely. "He could. Hone your senses, Candidate Zafra, and you will see many wondrous things. Perhaps one of them will be our eldest brother engaged in a major work."Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

    The fabrication workshop was much like Taylor''s own. It was even protected by the Sanctuary prayer, to limit access. Inside he found his two best craftspeople at work.

    "Sir Taylor! Welcome back!"

    "Good morning Madam Lilian. Sir Farr. I come bearing gifts." He hefted the trays full of metal ingots.

    "On the first table, Mister President. Thank you so much!"

    As far as father and daughter were concerned, the Nature Society was still operational within the bounds of their workshop, as were its rules of courtesy. The scientific organization was banned in Lavradio, but these two displayed their framed membership cards with pride. Taylor''s presidential signature graced both cards.

    "Anything interesting today?"

    "We have a mass-producible goggle now." Lilian rushed at him with the device in her hands and strapped it to his face uninvited. The single lens covered both eyes, held in place by a leather chassis with straps of leather and a rim of soft padding. "We''ve solved the Overlook detection problem while keeping the lens perfectly transparent. Sapphire-titanium lens, micro-etched with selectable features: mana-spotting, infrared, starlight vision, dark vision, and magnification. It has integrated mana storage for twelve hours of use or two hours of dark vision. If we have the raw materials, we can make a hundred lenses per day with minimal supervision. You promised the chassis would be someone else''s problem."

    Taylor found himself looking at Lilian''s magnificent whiskers at ten times magnification. He hadn''t realized they were slightly alternating in color. With some initial fumbling, he figured out the controls and set the goggles to heat vision with no magnification. The room and the people in it acquired a whole new aspect.

    "Beautiful. Show me the bill of materials." After a look at the list of raw materials required, Taylor ordered fifty of the lenses for the next week, and four hundred more by the end of the summer. He would have to restock on some ores after they were done with the order, and it might take him a lot longer to get the chassis made, but it was a strategic necessity taken care of.

    "Can I keep this? I''m going out again tonight."

    "You can have two. Now, let''s take a look at your ballista." They moved to a new table where a strange contraption of limbs, cams, and cables mounted on a gunstock waited for them. It was an entirely alien weapon to Tenobre: the compound crossbow.

    "This will fire a one-hundred-gram projectile at one hundred fifty meters per second. Put an enhanced mobeen tip on that projectile, and nothing can stop it. It even cuts through tirun scales."

    "Really?" Taylor''s tirun brigandine had saved his life plenty of times.

    "Like butter."

    "And the new carapace armor I''ve been wearing?"

    "It does a little better. You''d still die, though. These are accurate against a stationary target to eighty meters, with optics. A serious marksman can probably do better."

    "How many people have been testing this?"

    "Lector James, Sister Hypha, and a few hand-picked bulwarks. They''re all sworn to secrecy by the light of a fragment."

    "What are the issues?"

    "The cables rattle. I assume you plan to fire these from inside Overlook, but a silent release would still be better. We can shave a little more weight from the stock if you want us to, but that''ll affect stability. The trigger could be better. The scopes are good, but we''d like to inscribe them for different vision modes, with your permission. And then there''s materials and mana."

    Lilian handed him the bill of materials. There were a lot of little screws, bearings, strings, and so on, in addition to the limbs and body. It was all made of titanium and aluminum alloys. One of the huge advantages of Inscription Arts was the way it could force chemical reactions like reducing ores into metals, and shape those metals into precise forms. But all those shortcuts required mana (what the Spiritual Arts called spirit). The workshop was draining all the stones that students filled up during the day but didn''t use, but it wouldn''t be enough. Taylor wanted to field at least fifty of the crossbows. They would take time to build, require more material than they had, and demand a ton of mana.

    "Do one more iteration and then let''s talk again. Once we''ve opened the trade routes we''ll be able to get the ores we need."

    "Is it my turn yet?" Sir Farr had been waiting patiently.

    "Yes father," smiled the daughter, "but remember not to take up too much of Sir Taylor''s time."

    "Mister President, I have some early reports from the survey teams. Look here!" Farr guided him to a large map with pins in it. "Pools of black flammable substance here. Made by black slimes, you know. White rock in crystalline formations here and here, very lightweight. Copper ore, too low grade for most uses, but perfectly suitable for our refinement system. And those old gem mines in the wadis you told us about? I''m having them all looked at. We should have plenty of new samples by the time you return from ˇ­ where are you going?"

    "Bitter Spring."

    "Hmmm. Teams have crossed through that area but nobody has mentioned anything. Perhaps you''ll have better luck. Look, here''s the new astrolabe. We don''t have a global clock, not yet, but you can still get a reasonable approximation using your portable timepiece. And here are sample vials for liquids: borosilicate glass inscribed to be non-reactive. Lovely little silicone stoppers that plug themselves firmly on the tops. Isn''t chemistry wonderful? You must label your samples, young man: date, time, and position as accurately as you can."

    "I will," laughed Taylor, taking two boxes of vials. "What about the ancient chamber?"

    "Ah, that. Lector Manu hasn''t finished the stairway, as I''m sure you''ve noticed, so we haven''t been able to look for an entrance at the top as you suggested. But we''ve dug around the edge of it, where Chapa first found it. We found what looks like a hatch that can only be opened from the inside. There was writing on it. I made a copy here." He pulled down a sheaf of papers from a shelf and flipped to a drawing of the alleged door.

    "That''s not a way to get in. It''s a way for waste to get out."

    "How do you know?"

    "Because this language is known to my people. It says ''Danger. Emergency Exhaust. Stay Clear.'' Basically, if it opens it might start spewing gas everywhere and kill us all." Farr''s mouth flapped open and stayed that way.

    Taylor felt it was time to leave before Sir Farr''s mouth could engage, and start asking all the questions that were swirling around in his overloaded mind. Taylor had questions too, but they would have to wait. The ancient vessel, or room, or whatever it was, had been there for thousands of years. It could wait until he was ready. It could wait for many years. It could even stay closed forever.

    On his way out Taylor pushed a huge amount of spirit into the lab''s mana stack. The stack was like a spirit gem but a thousand times bigger, made of thick layers of red crystalline plates. Taylor had recovered a similar device from an ancient war machine and learned a lot of interesting things from it. Now they had a powerful mana stack to run their fabrication workshop. All the filled gems students dropped off were placed in the circle inscribed on the top plate of the stack. Their spirit/mana was siphoned into the stack and the stones returned to circulation. When the workshop needed power it drew from the stack, via silver-lined channels running along the walls. The channels ended in sockets. Differently inscribed connectors could pull different amounts of mana from the stack, to feed the workshop''s various needs: smelting ores, creating alloys, shaping materials, analyzing unknown substances, etching, cutting, lathing, and so on.

    "Mister President, how do you know the ancient language?" Farr''s question caught Taylor on the threshold of the lab''s Sanctuary effect. It was too strange an answer to say out loud, and the answer raised too many questions that had even stranger answers.

    "It''s a long story," he said finally and escaped.

    Taylor visited other departments before the mid-day rest, trailed by a thirtyish bulwark with arms covered in wiry brown fur; not as a guard, but as an errand-runner. He had been sent by Mika in case Taylor needed anything, and caught up to him outside the workshop.

    They went on together, from place to place, touching base with almost everyone.

    Taylor learned the Pashtuk gardeners had brought a massive selection of seeds with them and were planting them in Red Tower''s garden. They had opened their precious seed bank for the strangers, and that more than anything convinced him of their gratitude. Anisca had thanked them sincerely (or with her most sincere face, which was as sincere as she could be) and promised Red Tower would replace the seeds when the new plants matured.

    The gate guards were suffering under the blazing sun with nothing but an insufficient awning to shade them. They had trained a comically large set of binoculars (another Nexus "invention") on a distant scalp of desert-colored cloth propped up to shelter a man and his mount. The man was too obscured by shadow and rising desert heat to identify, but the appalon was easier to make out. "I do believe that is Iraj and his favorite animal," Taylor told them. "If it is Iraj, and he comes visiting, let him in to see me after the resting period." Taylor put a blessing on the watch to ease their shift before escaping into the tower''s cooling walls.

    Advanced practitioner classes were going well. Brothers Montague and Mataba had both mastered silent prayer and were teaching the skill to others. Taylor expressed his pleasure at that development and left them to it.

    The tablas were attempting to teach the abacus to a room full of administrators, but they would only speak to the women. The men were left on their own, to learn from nearby female students. Even Rector Mika was there, copying his moves from Kasryn. Taylor observed for a few minutes, smiled in praise for everyone''s hard work, and moved on.

    He climbed stairs to the upper levels, to the deeply recessed suites set aside for families. Fathers were putting their children down early for the mid-day nap. "If we can get them to sit still for a few minutes, they''ll feel how tired they are. But they''re very excited to be in a new place."

    "Do they like music?" he asked the fathers and sent the bulwark to fetch his nickleharp. He hadn''t played in a while, except to engrave a compost song into the fabric of the world, but now his hands were wishing for an instrument.

    They talked while they waited. Most of the men had skills that would be of little use until something came out of the garden. They were weavers, coir threshers, builders, and the like. But they were strong enough to work under the direction of gardeners, and that was useful right now. Two of them had enough spirit to be a song leader, and at least one was willing to train as a bulwark. It wasn''t clear how all of them would fit into Nexus but they were willing to work at anything, and that was enough.

    When the nickleharp arrived Taylor laid it on his lap, tuned it, and ran his bow across the strings in long slow melodies as he imagined the vast red Kravikas desert. The children listened to the first song with rapt attention and crashed into slumber during the second.

    These people had nothing but the clothes on their backs, a few large mattresses, and each other. Their wealth was their children, sleeping in a pile with the larger ones on the outside and the little ones in the middle, boys and girls together.

    That was how most people slept in Tenobre: together. When the fathers laid down they would likely do the same.

    Taylor left to their silent thanks, given by hand signs. On the stairs, he passed the Pashtuk women coming up to join their families. To his surprise, they stepped aside for him. He wished them a good rest as he passed, but on the inside he felt gratified that someone had clued them in about who ran this place. By the time he reached his own level, Taylor felt the shame of his ungracious thoughts. Maybe Anisca was rubbing off on him, just not in a good way.

    He finally found himself alone, staring at his mattress. He liked to sleep in solitude most of the time, but today his narrow mattress for one seemed too pathetic. He rolled it up and went next door, where he found Alice resting her head on Otavio''s shoulder and Milo on his other side. In the room past that, he found Mila and Inez sleeping shoulder to shoulder.

    Inez''s eyes snapped open, took in Taylor and his rolled-up mattress, and patted the bare floor beside her. He put down his mattress next to hers and lay nearby, not quite touching but not alone.

    Eldest Brother and his bulwark woke late, close to the evening meal. While his followers prepared for departure, Taylor went down to the game room. Most of the students were gathered in groups around tables strewn with the maps, counters, cards, and pawns of Monster Hunt. Some of them had gotten creative with their pawns and shaped them into proper figurines of people and monsters rendered in local sandstone. Any day now, Taylor expected to see Tenobre''s first painted figurine. It was inevitable.

    He took a turn around the room to see what scenarios they were playing. Most of the setups were familiar examples, drawn from the library''s extensive store of hunt reports, but one table was a surprise. The scenario was considered such a secret that a screen had been set up. The only people allowed to see the game were the players themselves, and those who had already played the scenario already. Not even Taylor had been told about it, but he let himself in to watch.

    The disciples'' player had a single powerful disciple, no trained bulwarks, no armor, and a hundred base-level fighters and archers. He was staking out a bifurdactica den in a steep ravine. The mission brief said his victory conditions were to kill all the monsters while remaining alive and suffer fewer than ten percent casualties among the soldiers. The typical den had about thirty of the furry snake-like mammals in it. One of those would be a female about four meters long, and the remainder would be males about half as long.

    The scenario''s rules allowed for extensive preparation, and he was spending spirit counters generously to carve long lines of defensive platforms into the mountainside. He wisely put minor enhancements on all his fighters. Overall it looked like a sound plan, but he should have spent the absurd spirit cost required to create a fragment, and put higher-level enhancements on at least a few weapons. He probably assumed that, because a fragment wasn''t in his equipment list and the brief didn''t mention a cursed monster, he wouldn''t need one.

    Khali played for the monsters. Taylor had recruited her directly out of Enclave''s school where her talents had been left to languish, and now she was a sworn disciple. All her cards were face-down and would only be revealed as monsters left their den. It was unusual: Disciples typically knew what they were facing beforehand, thanks to local hunters and survivors. Gathering such information was a regular part of proper preparation. But sometimes, nobody knew what was out there. That was the scenario''s lesson.

    There were three hundred males inside that cave. The female was a shocking fourteen meters long and was cursed. And, given how he had positioned his men, the disciple would lose the scenario regardless of the fight''s outcome. He hadn''t blocked the ravine, leaving an easy escape route for the monsters.

    Taylor knew what was in the den because this was the scenario that had almost killed him in real life.

    Khali was trying hard not to visibly grin in anticipation of the slaughter to come.

    A priest approached him. "Eldest Brother, that Calique spear wants an audience. Iraj."

    "I''ll see him in the admin suite."

    He felt bad about pulling Mika from his game of Prelates until he saw how it was going: everyone was cooperating beautifully. Kasryn was the current Hierarch and it looked like she would guide Tenobre to peace and safety without any issues.

    Boring. Without someone to play the bad guy the game was too stable. It was supposed to be their tool for exploring a vital question: how do you achieve global success in the face of diverse motives? Everyone working happily together was too ˇ­ optimistic.

    On their way out, Taylor and Mika added Lectors James and Mataba. He intentionally invited only men to this meeting with Iraj. He had a feeling that doyennes and their taboos would be unwelcome.

 Iraj Returns

    Iraj Returns

    The senior men of Nexus sat around a table, pretending not to wait for Iraj. Dinner for all of them would be sent up soon, so they had washed their hands and sat on cushions around a low table. They talked about appalons, which could be trained as bulwark mounts and which could not, and drank water from a carafe while they not-waited.

    Iraj arrived in a sweep of robes, with a desert-red night cloak over one shoulder. Thick plates of keratin over his head and back and trumpet-shaped ears made Taylor think of an armadillo.

    "I happened to be in the area." He threw his arms wide. "And I thought, why not visit the little maul? He is always so good to Pashtuk, and to me personally. I still have both of my hands!"

    Taylor showed some teeth in mirth and threat. "So far, Iraj. You have both your hands so far. You might as well sit since we have another place. I''m having the evening meal brought up."

    Iraj detoured to the basin against the wall to wash then sat himself down on the open cushion. From how Iraj eyed the company, Taylor was reassured he was right to exclude women. Iraj was a Calique and, to him, women weren''t welcome when shady business was afoot.

    "It''s lucky you came when you did. Too much later and I would be gone." Taylor tried to prompt him. "What are you doing in the desert, all alone?"

    "Sometimes, a man needs to get away. I love my garden. Very much. But perhaps you''ve heard the saying. A man is freest ˇ­ "

    "ˇ­ past the garden walls," Taylor finished for him.

    "But you seem very free right here! Eating with your spears and hands, while the garden gathers and the women talk. Someone might think you''re up to something."

    "We are up to something. I''m heading out tonight and wanted to discuss things before leaving. I plan to visit Bitter Spring, and speak to hunters there."

    Iraj''s eyes widened in surprise. "Do you think the circle there will be any easier than here?"

    "Who will know, if we don''t try? But hold your thoughts, Iraj. Here is dinner."

    Students brought in a wide platter of food: bulgar and herbs with a smattering of vegetables. Laid on top was a trio of venomous snakes, skinned, spiced, and roasted. Smaller dishes of flatbread and pickles rounded out the meal. The cooks had done their best with what was on hand, but it was far from a healthy garden''s cornucopia. Taylor invited them all to eat and for a while, conversation was held at bay by hands and mouths working eagerly together. Somewhere, the appalons were feeding too. It was going to be a long night.You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

    Iraj lounged on one elbow and sipped his water. His people knew how to keep wells clean and get good water from them, but Iraj had acquired a keen appreciation for disciple-purified stuff. "If it is permitted to ask, how are you getting to Bitter Spring?"

    "I still haven''t decided. We could head north, overland, and take the shortest route. But according to our maps, that might not be the easiest way."

    "Then your maps are good. If it pleases you, I could be your guide. I will not require payment for this service, because you let me keep my hands." He waved the intact appendages at Taylor.

    Meaningful glances passed around the table. Iraj was up to something.

    "And where would you lead our Eldest Brother?" Rector Mika asked suspiciously.

    "Through the southern route, of course! There is broken ground in the north, and hard going for the appalons. Go south, and the Spine is your only obstacle. There are many paths through it, and even ground the rest of the way."

    "And it brings you close to Pashtuk," observed James. The lector of arms was a big man with an impressive physique. He liked taking advantage of Calique dress to show off his extensive body art. He wore tattoos like they were talismans of protection. He was an intimidating specimen. "What do you really want?"

    "Now don''t take offense at a lowly spear of a broken garden," sweated Iraj, "I''m only a little homesick! If I could see my home for a few minutes it would ease my heart. And I have heard, from visiting hunters from other gardens, about parties of explorers in the desert. Perhaps they are your people, learning the land. A good thing, but! You have not sent anyone to Pashtuk."

    "Or to Saluja, or Sand Castle," Mika confirmed. "You know why. Disciples are rare, and though they''re fantastically strong they can be killed. We don''t throw them blindly into danger. "

    "Ehhh." Iraj made a sign of equivocation. "There is danger, and there is epic danger."

    Otavio, who was just as large as James, clenched his fists until his knuckles crackled with ill omens. "Maybe you should pay attention to the danger closest to you right now. You should start making sense."

    "You know the taboo that we''re all under! Have a little mercy! I''m doing what I can!"

    Taylor had an idea. "Hold on. If I said you could be our guide, and that we wanted to pass nearby Sand Castle, what would be your advice?"

    Iraj looked like his apprehension would strangle him. "I would say it was a terrible idea, even for disciples. But I could not tell you why."

    "And if I said we wanted to pass by Pashtuk, or visit the garden itself?"

    "I would say it was ill-advised for normal men. But for disciples? A little care is in order."

    "Someone let it slip there were multiple monsters in Pashtuk," Taylor muttered to himself. "We think Darkmaw is holed up in Sand Castle. What''s in Pashtuk that''s too dangerous for normal hunters but less than ˇ­ oh no."

    Iraj looked desperately hopeful. The other men waited.

    "That could be bad." One big monster in Sand Castle. Multiple smaller monsters in the destroyed gardens. It fit. "Darkmaw has children. That''s what''s changed since Spring. Her children went off on their own. If she''s breeding true and all her offspring are as cursed as she is, the whole desert could be eaten alive in another generation or two."

    "It is taboo for me to speak of it," said Iraj. "But if you insisted on nearing Pashtuk, I would have no choice but to guide you. I owe it to you, and no one can say differently. But listen, little maul. I cannot help you if the danger comes. I will run away and let it have you, to please the doyennes. If you die then they will praise me. If you live, it won''t be my fault."

 Morufus Steeple

    Morufu''s Steeple

    Thirteen appalons with riders tacked southwest against a gathering haboob, not in the caravaner''s single file but in three parts: a center and two wings for skirmishing. A steady southern wind blew in close reach and whipped their cloaks around their speeding forms. Their turbaned hair was safely stowed away, their veils and eyewear made them all the same. The southern stars were obscured by rising dust lifted by winds far south of them, coloring Boraz''s once-green face with age, like parchment yellowed past the point of reading. Silver Silenz touched the west horizon, soon to sleep beyond Morufu''s Steeple.

    That steeple! Taylor read what Clintus wrote but never saw it for himself when last he crossed the desert. He had come up from Gallia at speed and north along Talal Way. He might have seen the spire except his train had passed it in the night and at a greater distance than today. By morning they had flown halfway to the Teeth, the demarcating line between the desert and more temperate northern lands. The monument was in a ruined state which didn''t dim the fascination of its towering height, the slender column rising almost as tall as Red Tower. Once, the top had flared out wider than the rest, the head of a flanged mace belonging to a god. A millennium ago, or maybe three, that section broke and fell, to lay still at the tower''s feet.

    They paused within the monolithic shadow, at a well barely a hundred meters from the tower''s base. Taylor went to get a closer look, followed by a silent Milo, while others drew up water for the animals.

    In the daytime, one would say its walls were black, made of strange and seamless stone unknown. Visitors took souvenirs for ages upon ages, by chipping off a splinter or a shard. Some had tried to quarry blocks from the fallen top without success. The substance, unnatural in almost every way, would spall from sufficient effort, but never crack a deep straight line. One chisel after another was blunted on that eldrich stone until the miners were defeated. Every generation brought its hopefuls, and every generation learned despair: a palace worth of solid and mysterious stone too stubborn to repurpose into something new.

    At night Morufu''s Steeple was a shape against the stars, a blacker night within the night. To a disciple''s senses, it was darker still. The space around it had no spirit, not a drop to speak of anywhere, a void within Tenobre, a world where ambient spirit could be detected almost anywhere. Its looming presence was felt in lowly throbbing notes, just beneath conscious hearing: the wind''s vibration as it fluted through the structure''s massive windows. Up close, within a dozen meters, Taylor felt the sound inside his chest countering the rhythms of his organs.

    A doorway stood empty, barely wide enough for a large man but three times the necessary height, pointed in an arch on top. On the threshold of that doorway, the steeple''s noise was magnified until Taylor could feel it in his teeth. He passed through anyway, molars clenched against the alien vibrations.

    Inside, the tower was too dark for even a disciple''s night-enhanced vision, so Taylor raised a light. The floor was deep with dirt, colonized by hard-working shrubs, all blown in from the outside. Level after level rose above him, connected by a spiraling stair, passing windows of different sizes as it wound up and up to reach the broken circle, where the building''s top had fallen off,pointing at the stars. The tower''s sound was muted on the inside, but strange vibrations kept a constellation of dust motes suspended in the air, slightly vibrating with the steeple''s humming.

    His hand hovered near the steeple''s walls but hesitated. Strange things weren''t safe to touch, and wasn''t this as strange to him as the buried chamber in Red Tower? The stone was nothing natural, or at a minimum not native, placed here (or created) in a single piece. The lack of surrounding spirit should concern him, too. He could not remember any place he''d found so far, except underground, so devoid of spirit. The surface of Tenobre, bathed by its odd sun, was awash in waves of mana in the day and ebbed only a little during the night.

    Taylor considered his own spirit, and that was when he noticed the drain. Something was pulling at him, sneaking sips at his reserves. If he wasn''t in the constant habit of keeping all his energies wrapped tight, to keep himself from leaking mana all the time, the tower would have taken more.He reached for his fragment, the special lantern he kept with him all the time.This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

    What appeared to be a wooden dowel was two halves that came apart when twisted. One could open it a little and expose the smallest sliver of the light, or open it wide. Taylor separated the halves entirely to leave the silver plate fully exposed, to gush out the silver-blue waves of light that normally would fill a space in slow-moving waves of holy light. This did not happen. Instead, strands of light were pulled from the fragment, in all directions and disappeared into the walls, sucked away like mother''s milk into a greedy infant''s mouth. The steeple didn''t change in reply to this nourishment but kept on sucking at the light until Taylor closed his lantern with frightened hands.

    "We''re leaving." When Milo didn''t move he took the bulwark by the arm and led him out, through the foreboding doorway, out into the starlit night, down the steps, and kept on walking towards the well, not looking back. Milo walked automatically, inattentive, unspeaking.

    "What''s happened?" Inez was the first to notice.

    "Milo, sit," commanded Taylor, and pushed the young man down to his knees. Milo complied, which put the black-tipped spines he had instead of hair at Taylor''s waist. With a touch to Milo''s forehead, Taylor''s suspicions were confirmed: all his enhancements had been stripped away, eaten by the hungry stone. His body was intact, and his organs were all working, but his nervous system had gone the way of someone recovering from anesthesia: sluggish and disorganized. The brigandine armor he wore was made of tirun scale crafted from mobeen. Normally, it should be thrumming with enchantments but now it was entirely empty.

    "Morufu''s Steeple absorbs spirit. Milo doesn''t have any sensing or control, so it took all his protections. I think this is just a side-effect." Taylor tried to push some spirit into him, a technique that normally was pointless with anyone who couldn''t use it, but he found the bulwark''s body to be receptive. Milo took a little, the minuscule amount that was typical for laymen, but it was enough.

    Milo''s eyes came into focus and, after a few inquiring glances around him asked, "What happened? Are you all right?"

    "Am I all right?" Taylor gripped the bulwark''s shoulder to steady himself. "Am I all right? It''s you I''m worried about. What do you remember?"

    "We were inside the steeple and then ˇ­ I don''t remember." Milo looked Taylor over for wounds. "You sure you''re fine?"

    "That snake! I''ll kill him!" Mila stomped past the gathered crowd to where Iraj was managing the appalons, pouring well water into a trough for them to drink. The unfortunate Calique, on spotting the infuriated bulwark bearing down on him, wisely dropped his bucket and tried to flee, his robe and cloak flapping wildly in the wind. But a barely-enhanced tourist is no match for a charged-up bulwark and she caught him easily, threw him down then sat on his chest with a dagger of monster bone against his neck. His struggles were futile, a toddler''s strength against a monster.

    "You knew there was something off about that place, didn''t you? Didn''t you!"

    "It''s taboo!"

    "Fuck your taboos! Our master could have been killed because of you! We''re out here trying to help you people, but all we get from you is all the shit you won''t say! Tell me about that fucking tower now, or I swear I''ll cut your thieving head off and bury it right here!" She put her face into his and hissed at him, "Your body will never return to Pashtuk. It''ll rot, in the wilderness, and blow away. You''ll never be part of your garden. Or any garden."

    "Please, I don''t know any more than you do! It''s taboo and that''s all I know."

    Taylor squatted next to them, curious. "Iraj, if nobody talks about taboos then how do you know what''s taboo and what isn''t? Is there a list? It would be useful to have a list."

    "There''s no list, only teaching." A slight increase in pressure from Mila''s blade encouraged him. "When Calique reach a certain age they take a journey. For a year they travel, garden to garden, and learn from different spears and tablas. Sometimes, not many but a few, they bring us to a place like this. We explored the ruin on our own. We asked the adults, who built it and how long has it been here, and they told us it was taboo. That''s how we learn."

    "So if I want to know, I have to be shown."

    "Yes! It''s just an empty building, I swear! You can climb the stairs and look around, but that''s all there is. The fallen part has rooms you can explore, but all you''ll find is dust and small animals. There is nothing to know."

    "He could be lying," Mila said, "what do you want me to do with him?"

    Taylor sighed. "He wouldn''t know about it because he isn''t sensitive. He''s probably telling the truth. Let him go."

    Mila got off the hunter but didn''t offer him a hand up.

    "Know about what?" he asked, still on the ground.

    "It''s disciple business," Taylor said with a vengeful smirk, "you don''t need to know."

 Haboob

    Haboob

    A few hours beyond the steeple the cadre passed through the Spine, a sawtooth formation of bedrock that ran roughly north and south for two hundred kilometers and more. Each section was less than thirty meters thick, and up to four times as tall. Taylor could imagine them as dorsal plates of some biblical monster long deceased, but on close inspection their material was standard granite. Their guide took them through a section that had been quarried for stone, leaving an easy path through. All the while Mila watched him.

    "Really, I feel fine!" Milo had tried to tell her once, in an attempt to ease her worries, but she disregarded him.

    "Of course you''re fine. You''d be all too happy to die in his service."

    "Well, sure," he shrugged, an outlander gesture learned from their outlander master. "Wouldn''t you?"

    "I don''t want anyone to die because that''s not a good outcome! And I don''t trust our so-called guide. He''s shady, he has his own agenda, and it doesn''t matter to him if Taylor dies."

    "I can hear, you know," said Iraj. He scanned the south horizon, which neared them at alarming speed. A red-brown cloud billowed at ground level, while the sky above it was clear and colored by the dawn. "We must hurry. It''s a short ride to the slough, and we can shelter there."If you come across this story on Amazon, it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it.

    "Or we could just take cover in the spine," suggested one of the bulwarks.

    "Sometime rocks fall, and people die," Iraj shot back, "or did you not notice all the rocks on the ground?"

    "Or we could make caves in the spine," said Khali.

    "The slough is full of sand. It''s much easier to dig there. Also, I can teach you the Calique way to sit through the haboob. But we will do as your master decides."

    "The slough," said Taylor without hesitation. "I''d like to make a little more progress before we break."

    In another hour of travel, pushing their mounts much harder than they had at night, they reached an expanse of trackless sand. The red earth they were so used to dropped down in long gouges and the gaps filled in with sand blown in from far-off places. Exactly why it liked to settle there wasn''t clear, a trick of geography and wind, but for twenty kilometers a man could walk, and his feet would touch nothing but sand.

    Iraj showed them how to dig a wide depression, lay down their mounts around the edges, and cover themselves with canvas sheets they lashed together. The storm, when it hit them, blocked all sunlight, leaving them in howling darkness. The canvas above their heads, drawn tight to keep from catching too much wind and blowing away, boomed and vibrated. With cotton in their ears and a pair of spirit lamps they made their shelter bearable. They spoke to each other in sign language. Leaned up against Magnificent Ben, with the animal''s head and trunk in his lap, Taylor slept.

 Contact (I)

    Contact (I)

    The sandstorm lasted most of the day, not letting up until mid-afternoon. The remainder of the day was cooler than the summer norm, but the world was filled with lingering dust that turned the sun and sky into shades of burnt umber. They traveled in that dreary light and into the deeply shrouded night, stopping once at midnight to rest.

    By the pre-dawn hour, the ground had started sloping down and Iraj called a halt. The land was changing form again, from cracked hardpan to gradually accumulating soil. Hearty thick-leaved thorny shrubs that stank of resin scattered themselves in disarray, with plenty of space between them. They were often found beyond the edge of established mischus, so Pashtuk''s garden must be near.

    The sky was nearly clear by then, and there wasn''t a trace of wind. It had all the makings of a hot day. They rested in a line, appalons kneeling, humans sitting on blankets faced downhill, waiting for the sun to rise.

    "This part requires good light. You will see," Iraj promised them. They ate a breakfast of dried dates stuffed with nuts and dried fruit, rolled up in herbaceous leaves then dried again. A few such treats kept a body moving for hours but were best taken with plenty of water. Otherwise, they''d sit in one''s stomach like pebbles.

    The sun rose behind them, touched their heads, and drew their thirteen shadows long into the dark of falling ground before them. When the light first touched the ground it did so far beyond them, in the distance. Whether it was caused by subsidence of the aquifers below, or the path of some great river in ages past, Taylor couldn''t tell, but they were looking into a channel maybe twenty-five or thirty meters deep and several kilometers wide. The course ran north to south, almost exactly, for seventeen kilometers according to his map.

    Gradually, an expanse of mischus was revealed, starting on the far side and working towards them. When sunlight reached the center of the draw they saw it: Pashtuk''s garden. Superficially, it was the same as Dagono: inward-facing houses with their backs to the world, formed a barrier against bandits and the weather. In the interior, the settlement was overgrown with life. There were some differences, however. Pashtuk was bigger than Dagono, large enough to hold several times as many people but in some places, their wall was just a wall: there were no houses attached. About half their garden was very different, a field of grass-like plants he couldn''t make out in the distance.

    Taylor pointed, "What''s that in your garden, Iraj?"

    "Amaranth and millet. Basket reed and flax." He drank in the view with widened eyes like his home would disappear if he dared to blink. "In winter we have lily roots, a delicacy, fried with tiny spicy peppers. But maybe not this year. They need watering and there''s been no one to tend to them. We''ll eat lily roots next winter, I''m sure of it."

    Not only did the sun reveal mischus and the garden, but shadows too. Blotches of darkness squatted in the mischus ˇŞ the cadre counted four of them, scattered almost to opposite ends of the field. With his spirit-sensitive eyes Taylor could see more than shadows of cursed monsters: he could see the spirit emanating from them too. More were in the garden, hiding in the trees and inside dwellings.

    "Switch to mana-spotting," he told the bulwarks wearing inscribed goggles. "Tell me what you see."

    The bulwarks nearly shouted in surprise and passed around the goggles: while wearing them, blue light rimmed around each shadow, and a haze of blue emanated from the trees in Pashtuk''s garden. Everyone agreed there had to be at least a few inside the town but it was hard to be precise. Spirit didn''t penetrate most solids but scattered and diffused through the thick vegetation.

    "Khali, it''s your hunt." The woman was startled and stared at Taylor. "What do we do first?"

    "Are you sure, Eldest Brother?"

    "Lector James says you''re ready, and I''ve seen no reason to doubt him. How do we proceed?"

    "Well, we don''t know what they are so we have to light one up. Carefully. Whatever these things are, they don''t have great eyesight or they would have seen us already. Or, their eyesight is fine but they aren''t pursuit predators. There''s no wind ˇ­ my team will approach that one with Overlook and softened feet," Khali pointed at the nearest zone of darkness, "Mahzad''s team will be on the slope with slings. If we get into more trouble than we can handle, we''ll bring it toward you at a good angle."

    "We''ll aim for center darkness," grinned Mahzad, "and wreck ''em."Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.

    "And what about me," said Taylor hopefully.

    "You can''t be risked," Khali admonished him, "so you stay here where it''s safe. You''ll be the spotter. If everything goes sideways, run."

    "You know that''s not going to happen." Taylor shifted uncomfortably. She had changed from subordinate to cadre leader so thoroughly, she was prepared to lecture him.

    "But it''s the right answer. I''ll let Maestro Inez explain it to you, if you''re unclear on the concept."

    Taylor looked down the line to where his five bulwarks looked back at him. They were entirely on board with keeping him behind.

    "You''re in charge. Go forth and conquer."

    Khali and Mahzad''s teams grouped around their respective disciples for prayer. Rapid syllables escaped the disciples'' mouths, and then they touched each bulwark one by one, adjusting the degree of enhancements for each person''s abilities and role. That process was repeated several times to stack all the protections they might need. There was plenty of time to prepare and not many people to enhance, so there was no need to be stingy.

    Taylor repeated the process for his group, but silently and much faster. To him, a prayer was but a Word, said silently and all at once. He spared a little spirit for Iraj as well, giving him enough speed to hurt himself if he panicked, enough protection to keep from killing himself with the speed, and enough strength to move under the strain of the other prayers.

    Overlook was last, and caused the teams to disappear from normal sight. Mahzad rode to his station on the rim while Khali went downslope on foot. Taylor could still see them as blobs of spirit, but through the magic lenses they were as visible as if they hadn''t used the hiding prayer at all. It was an impressive achievement, the kind one kept secret from one''s enemies.

    Khali''s group approached the shadow gradually, on foot with careful steps. They had no idea how much shadow was just shadow, and how much was filled with monster. Taylor relaxed his breath, released his shoulders, and unclenched his hands. His first dark monster had nearly killed him, and he couldn''t help imagining Khali''s first could kill her in some sudden and horrific way.

    They met in Enclave: She accosted him for stealing work from her. From that encounter, he discovered how badly Enclave taught the arts to most of their students, and resolved to update their practices. Maybe that was where the schism started, with Taylor teaching good techniques to students from improper families. All the promise he''d seen back then, and all the training invested in her so far, had to be tested sooner or later.

    Just breathe, he told himself, she''s been well prepared. Every disciple has to face their first cursed monster.

    Khali''s group halted at a good throwing distance from their target. "Here comes the light," she said on the link. A javelin appeared in mid-air as it left her zone of secrecy, a mere splinter in the distance propelled by the extra leverage of an atlatl, rocketing toward the darkness. It would be the kind with a fragment attached, rigged to open on sharp impact. It plunged into shadow and vanished. A split second later the darkness burned away in shreds, banished in silver light emanating from the fragment. The throw had been a good one, pierced the monster in the center of the darkness, wounding and revealing with a single blow.

    A scorpion, bigger than an appalon, thrashed around trying to dislodge the shaft stuck in its body. Its tail whipped dangerously back and forth, it turned in circles, and massive pincers swept back and forth. Its main eye was a huge black circle on top of its head that flashed violet in reflected sunlight. Taylor wondered what pained it more, the injury or the light. His vision flickered to the other blobs of darkness. All but one of them was moving.

    "They''re moving, Khali. The one to your left will get there first." He resisted the powerful urge to tell her to withdraw. She was a trained disciple. She knew better than to challenge all of them where she stood but, if she did, she probably could.

    "Understood." Parts of the wounded scorpion exploded into shards, and a second later Taylor caught the delayed boom of a ten-kilo slingstone shoving through the air. It was badly lamed now. "Backing off."

    "They''re not following you. They''re going after the wounded one."

    Two of the mischus scorpions converged on their wounded sibling. The first to arrive attacked the wounded one and got a stinger to the eye for its trouble. The pair of them grappled pincer-to-pincer while their tails whipped and parried and stabbed at each other''s bodies. The second to arrive ambushed the injured one from the rear and, with a single grab of its oversized pincer, clipped its tail down to a nub. The two healthy ones disassembled the first into several pieces and commenced to stuffing themselves with the quivering pieces. The fragment''s light was still burning, discarded on the ground as inedible.

    "Three coming over the wall," Taylor informed her. The shadow-shrouded forms hauled themselves above the garden wall to join the feeding frenzy. Khali had retreated, but not so far to be out of range. Her bulwark lobbed more stones at the feeding scorpions. One of them was killed outright, and the other one was wounded. When the three from the garden reached the killing field, they finished off the wounded one and started eating.

    Khali''s voice was on the link, amused. "So, the best bait for giant scorpion is injured giant scorpion. Aren''t we short one monster?"

    "It''s on the far side of the garden," Taylor informed her. "I''ll tell you if it moves."

    There was a long pause while the three monstrous arthropods ate their fill and Khali made more ammunition. Primitive monsters were often hard to kill with javelins or spears. Their nervous systems were more distributed than mammals, so a single penetrating stab to the brain was often not enough. And their hearts were in strange places, tough to locate if one hadn''t memorized their anatomy. Massive damage was better, and that''s what slings provided.

    A few stones later, only two of the monsters were living. One was uninterested in their proceedings, and the other one was feasting.

    "We''re closing in for melee," Khali said, "let''s find out how they fight."

 Contact (II)

    Contact (II)

    Taylor gave his bulwark, and Iraj, Farsight so they could watch the melee properly. It wasn''t the kind of enhancement you normally ran around with: it changed one''s vision so drastically that most people would end up tripping over themselves. But for situations like the present, it was essential. Four small figures accosted the dining monster, whose first response was to shoot poison at them from its tail. Then, it tried to smash them with its oversized pincers. When that didn''t move the annoying humans, it snapped at them with its pincers. Two of Khali''s bulwarks wedged their shields into the monster''s claws. They were dragged back and forth along the ground but refused to let go of their shields.

    "That''s some pretty poor lift strength," noticed Otavio.

    The stinger struck at them several times, but Khali never called for help. Instead she and her smallest bulwark "Sparrow" stabbed at it repeatedly with spears. The scorpion decided it was done with the shields and let them go, then grabbed at Khali instead. Sparrow jumped in front of her, arms spread wide, and found himself suspended in the air by its claws. The monster shook him violently back and forth, and then it tried to tear him apart.

    Iraj gasped. "I do not think this is going well for your people."

    "It''s fine," Taylor told him. Having seen the scorpions in action he no longer feared for his disciple or her bulwarks. "They''re pretty weak for cursed monsters. At this point, we''re just verifying a few things."

    The scorpion tried to bury its stinger into Sparrow about a dozen times, while the rest of Khali''s team did nothing. It looked horrible from a distance, but Taylor couldn''t wait to examine the small bulwark''s armor to find out how well it held up. She must have given an order, because one of the bulwarks threw down his spear and drew his sword. With a single swing, he chopped off the creature''s stingered tail. The monster dropped the man it was holding and spun around in circles, bleeding blue ichor everywhere. Most of it seemed to end up on Sparrow, who scampered away and tried to brush off the foreign juices.If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

    "And it''s still not dead." Taylor could see a slight glow of spirit around the monster. Khali must have sensed it too, because she set her people to hewing it with swords, in the cephalothorax right behind the huge eye. Only once their swords had cleaved deep into the central nerve bundle and diced it into several parts, did the cursed monster finally die.

    Khali took several minutes to check her people, heal them where necessary, and bring them back.

    Taylor spoke into the link. "Mahzad, you''re up. We should have a specimen for study, so I want that last one captured. Come up with a plan and let me know what you need."

    "You''re joking! I mean, Eldest Brother are you sure?"

    "Quite sure. Take your time, we''re having a pleasant rest up here."

    Khali and her guard arrived flushed and happy. She had cleaned them up well enough that Sparrow wasn''t blue anymore, but their clothes all needed mending. Her fragment''s housing had broken under all the abuse, and one of their spears needed a new shaft. Their armor and shields had held up perfectly, but the chassis on their goggles was partially eaten away by digestive fluids that the monster spit at the front liners.

    "They''re so disgusting," complained Khali, "they spray, sting, and salivate."

    "What would you say is the best way to kill them?"

    "Massive damage, without a doubt," she said, "and let them bleed out. Cutting off limbs works well, too. If you have more scorpions, getting them to fight each other seems very effective."

    "How would you describe their behavior?"

    "You saw them, didn''t you? Stupidly aggressive. I doubt we know everything yet. If Saluja''s situation is like this, we should sit back and watch them for a few days. Maybe we''ll learn something useful. Sister Hypha would love that job."

    "You should start drafting your report while everything is fresh. I''m glad that you''re okay." Taylor hadn''t meant to say that last part. But there it was, hanging out in the open.

    "Awwww. Don''t tell me you were worried! We''re Nexus disciples. It takes more than dark monster scorpion babies to scare us!"

    "Hey," he called to her back as she moved to unpack writing tools from her appalon, "what makes you say they''re babies?"

    "The size of their claws, relative to their bodies." She held up her hands and made snapping motions with them. "Juvenile, at best!"

    "I think your spear is right, little maul," Iraj added. "For this kind of scorpion, the claws grow very large for their bodies. But only when they reach mating age."

    Mahzad''s voice was suddenly in his ear. "Eldest brother, we have a scorpion in a pit. What now?"

    "Already?"

    "They are very aggressive."

    "Make sure it can''t dig itself out. These might be the burrowing kind."

    "Oh. Oh crap. I''ll get back to you!"

 Where A Man Is Freest

    Where A Man Is Freest

    "Maybe this wasn''t such a good idea," said a mournful Alice, "it doesn''t feel right to walk all over them."

    The cadre stood at Pashtuk''s open gates, looking toward their gathering space. Bones were everywhere, disarticulated, scattered, and all too human. The smell wasn''t pleasant either.

    "No, it doesn''t," whispered Iraj. His eyes ventured over the remains as if he could recognize the fallen. There were scraps of hair and clothing here and there but mostly what they saw were bones. Some of them were piled in areas discolored by the acidic digestives scorpions used to dissolve flesh so they could suck it up.

    "We will go around," their guide decided. They moved along the wall to a section that was damaged, partially caved in like a siege engine had attacked the wall and punched through it. Rooms could be seen beneath the rubble, the occupants'' few possessions scattered and crushed. Iraj seemed to know the area well, and led them on a climb to the top, then walked along the rooftops, crossing several houses. He stopped them at a roof tiled in mosaics of exotic flowers with a knee wall to prevent the occupants from falling into the desert. Taylor expected a trap door into the house below, but access was by a ladder on the garden side, down to a balcony.

    They left two guards to watch over the appalons, grazing in the mischus, while Iraj invited the rest of them inside. It was his home, and though it was large enough for a family their party of thirteen over-filled it. There were no signs of anyone living there besides Iraj himself: no pictures or obvious keepsakes, hardly any furniture, one bedroom that looked lived in by a single person, and another that seemed untouched: nothing but a bare mattress and a few thin articles of bedding neatly folded.

    Iraj, as host, organized a meal. He set Milo to firing the outdoor oven at the house next door and making tea, while he took a group into the garden. They soon returned, arms laden with a dozen kinds of foodstuff. Together with oil and grain from his cupboards, and with the willing help of two bulwarks, he set to making a small feast for them. Instead of sitting inside the house, the cadre chose to occupy some tables just inside the garden. The heat outside was rising fast, but underneath the garden''s canopy the day would be bearable.

    "The garden is in better shape than I had feared," Iraj said happily, "some damage, but nothing that our gardeners and a few seasons cannot fix."

    Taylor and his two junior disciples accepted tea from Milo, beautifully brewed, in glazed earthenware that might have been imported by Iraj when he was guarding caravans. Otherwise, their table was left alone. Mahzad and Khali were looking confident after their first encounter with cursed monsters. And why shouldn''t they?Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.

    "We could go straight to Sand Castle and tackle Darkmaw," suggested Mahzad, with encouraging nods from Khali. They were eager to build on the day''s success. Their confidence had soared, and the only person nearby to tell them ''no'' was their Eldest Brother.

    "Those were pretty minor, as far as cursed ones go. As monsters get larger, they get tougher at a geometric rate. Imagine a scorpion twice as long: it would absorb maybe eight times as much damage and have a shell that was four times the thickness. Darkmaw might be even bigger than that. Maybe three times as long. Maybe more? Don''t assume we can kill her as easily as we did her children."

    "Do you think she''ll be angry at us?" Khali asked.

    "I doubt she''s that smart. Scorpions carry their children on their backs for a while, to feed and protect them, but I''ve never heard of them keeping a family bond after the juveniles leave. They were quick to turn on each other as soon as one was wounded."

    "We could go to Saluja and clean it," Mahzad suggested. It was appealing, but something about the notion bothered Taylor. They could return the gardens to their respective people, but would it even matter with Darkmaw still alive? As soon as she was hungry enough she might leave her nest in Sand Castle and venture out again. And, if she was as large as Taylor feared, she would travel fast. Even enhanced appalons might not outrun her.

    "Where do you think the father is?" Mahzad''s innocent question brought part of Taylor''s nebulous fears into focus. "If Darkmaw is the mother, is there another super-giant scorpion running around?"

    "She might have a monstrous mate, or even a cursed one. Or, she might be fertilized by normal males. Lots of them. That''s the way bifurdactica do it. Or, and I hate to even think this, she could be fertilizing herself. She might not need sperm at all. She''s the only one of her kind and it''s not unheard of for a species under stress to resort to parthenogenesis, sex changes, or hermaphroditism. It''s rare but ˇ­ in this case, it would be very bad. Usually, cursed monsters devolve when they breed, generation by generation. Or at least they have so far, that we know of. But if our mother of terrors is breeding by herself then she''ll always breed true, probably, and all her children will be as cursed as she is. If we don''t find and kill all the children, we could end up with a desert full of them."

    Taylor was only talking to himself, but he was scaring the other disciples.

    "I know we''re supposed to play nice with the locals but," Khali''s hands formed the sign for ''excuse me'' while she spoke, "shouldn''t you get someone to take a look at her anyway? The doyennes don''t have to know."

    "You know, maybe it doesn''t matter if they know." Taylor was sick of tiptoeing around the unhelpful doyennes. And maybe they were sick of it, too. Publicly they would stick together, but privately they had different agendas. He could never get permission from any of them because they had already made a decision, maybe an irreversible one, but he might be forgiven. Especially if he did his work in the desert. Maybe that''s what doyennes Uzan and Yalda had been trying to tell him.

    "Brother Phillip?" Khali waved her hand in front of his eyes. "Are you okay?"

    "I was thinking. We''ll never be fully accepted by Calique no matter what we do, because we aren''t them. But that doesn''t have to stop us from doing our work. They govern the gardens but beyond their walls, we can do whatever we want."

 Satomen Again

    Satomen Again

    "Satomen are coming."

    Taylor felt like he had just laid down when Alice woke him. His followers'' insistence that he sleep while he could was good advice. He rose from Iraj''s guest pallet, a surprising, springy, comfortable affair made of tightly woven reeds suspended off the floor with a wooden frame. With Alice''s help, he got himself into armor.

    "They''re at the gate. Iraj wants you to send them away."

    "He won''t do it himself?"

    "You''re stronger. They won''t listen to him, but they might listen to you. Karoush is with them."

    "Really?" Karoush, Maul of the rapey Satomen, had come to Pashtuk to pillage the empty garden again. Previously, he''d had to sneak around the deadly scorpions guarding the place. This time he had to deal with Nexus, a far more dangerous foe even if he didn''t know it.

    "I wouldn''t want him in my home either," mused Taylor. "We know the kinds of people they are."

    Taylor reached the gate to find a party of ten Satomen facing off against most of his cadre. He almost laughed: they were in lines facing each other, arms crossed and feet spread wide. There hadn''t been any hostilities yet, but there was no chance a prepared Nexus cadre would lose against an equal number of mundane opponents.

    "It''s pointless Karoush," Taylor said instead of greeting him properly. Iraj stepped aside to give Taylor his place directly across from Satoma''s maul. "You can''t intimidate a cadre with so few people. You''d need a small army. What do you want?"

    "We want to gather from the plants here," said the large man, carefully avoiding the word garden. "My people need to eat."

    "You''ve had plenty of chances to take supplies from here. You''re not getting any more. But you can water your animals at one of the mischus wells. Don''t glare at me like that ˇŞ You know I can kick a hole right through you. And everyone else here is nearly as strong. Go home to your garden. Eat there."

    "You''re an outsider, so maybe you don''t know. This isn''t a garden. It''s desert. We can do what we want."This book is hosted on another platform. Read the official version and support the author''s work.

    Taylor saw a dark cave full of beaten women who refused to marry their captors. "We''re the strong ones here, so we''ll decide what you can do. Mess with us, and you''ll die here. I''ll drag your bodies out to the desert and leave them for scavengers." For once his transparent face came in useful, because Karoush believed him. He signaled his men to leave.

    "And stay away from the pit in the north mischus," Taylor shouted at their backs. To ensure they understood, he pointed north.

    "Why should we do that?"

    Taylor sneered at him. "Because I fucking said so. Now get lost." He was surprised, a little, that Koroush left so willingly.

    Half an hour later, while Taylor prepared for the night''s meetings, Mila delivered some news.

    "Several Satomen looked into the pit. They did something to mess with the scorpion and got sprayed with venom."

    "Suckers." Taylor laughed. It shouldn''t be a laughing matter. Men were blinded. They could die from poison. And, Taylor wasn''t going to help them.

    He imagined a gang of Satomen, standing at the edge of the scorpion''s pit throwing rocks at it, thinking they were safe, and the scorpion shooting streams of venom at them from its stinger. He imagined their cries of pain and surprise. It was at least a little funny.

    That wouldn''t be the end of it, however. "They''ll be back you know, maybe in force. We should ˇ­ "

    "With respect, Young Master," Inez interrupted, "you have your own work to do tonight. Focus on that, and let your disciples handle the Satomen."

    "You think they can? They might bring a lot of people."

    "Think of it as a teachable moment. They''ll have a chance to learn from real conflict. I''ll oversee them, and advise if they need it. It''s an invaluable experience, considering what the future holds for them."

    "This is not what I wanted for them." Humor was forgotten, replaced by bitter fears. When he started teaching disciples he assumed their work would mainly be healing and hunting. Somehow, half their work had turned into fighting people. Inez was right, though. There would be serious fighting in the months to come. Perfectly courageous people froze on their first encounter with a human determined to kill them. Others weren''t meant to be fighters at all. It was better to work out such issues while the stakes were low. "But you''re right. Keep me informed about major developments. I look forward to a full report."

    "Thank you, Young Master." She left to spread the good news to Mahzad and Khali. They were so eager to prove themselves, that they would think he was doing them a favor.

    Milo and Mila stood guard outside while Taylor organized his thoughts. He had taken up a nearly empty neighbor''s house, which had a desk suitable for writing and a surprisingly good chair of woven reed to sit on. Looters must have visited the home because bits of furniture were all that was left. There wasn''t much dust, so the house had only been vacant a short while. He hoped the owner wouldn''t be mad at Iraj for letting Taylor use it.

    That reminded him ˇ­ "Inez!" The veteran''s form reappeared in the doorway. "Make Iraj part of the operation. It''s his home, he should fight for it."

 Irajs Grave

    Iraj''s Grave

    ˇŞIrajˇŞ

    Everyone Iraj had ever loved was right there, all around him, on the north side of the garden where layered canopies gave way to fields of grain. Basket reed grew in narrow rows forming barriers as tall as men. Each new branch, when it reached a certain width, was either cut for weaving or woven live into the living fences. He walked with one hand brushing the narrow leaves, touching all the kin who had gone before him.

    At last, he reached the place he sought and knelt. He gently laid aside new growth to expose a marker made of stone ˇŞ granite quarried from the Spine. Objectively it wasn''t special, just one of many knee-high stelae hidden in the hedges, but this one was his. His mother''s mark was on it, as was her sisters'', and their mother before them. For those with husbands, their marks were next to their wives. Each mark was a life lived in Pashtuk, a life ended in Pashtuk, a body decayed in compost heaps to feed new life in Pashtuk. Their dirt was spread among the hedges and nearby fields.

    Iraj had never married because he couldn''t bear the thought of calling some other garden home. He had seen them all and none could match Pashtuk in his heart. He had seen the world as a caravaner, far more than the average Calique. Much of it was wondrous but none of it was home. It didn''t matter how far he wandered, his feet would always bring him here.

    When one of his sisters had fallen ill, he had walked every centimeter of the surrounding desert to pick the plants to ease her pain. When she met her inevitable end he was the one who spread her body there, all around the family marker, his parents being too distraught to reach deep into the pile, to take hands full of her body''s earth and lay it down. It was Iraj who spent long hours placing her mark on hard stone.

    When his parents passed he did the same for them. It became his role in the family, laying down his aunts and their husbands when their time came. He would do the same for his surviving sisters and their husbands. If tragedy struck, he would do the same for his nieces and their husbands. In his own time, his soil would feed these reeds and these fields, and his mark would be carved in granite beneath the living hedge. Born in Pashtuk but never married, this is where he would live again, in the place he loved more than he could love any woman.

    There was one mark that didn''t belong, not according to the usual customs. It was a tiny star, stamped deeply in the stone. His son.

    In Iraj''s youthful days, the women called him beautiful but much too wild for husbanding. When gardens gathered in the winter, girls would sing to him outside his tent, in groups of five, enticing him to let their chosen in. Their music always pleased him and, following good custom, he took the chosen girl into his bed and planted seed inside her. The second night she came alone, and usually a third night also. He let those strange, sweet women steal a score of children from him never knowing any of their offspring.

    Those children weren''t his: he''d only given seed. He seldom thought of them, stolen as they were, but rarely, while visiting another garden, he caught glimpses of them: A flash of smile just like his mother''s; Eyes that could have been his sisters''; His father''s ears. Still, none of them had mattered to him because they were someone else''s.

    Until Nawaz.

    The boy had shown up suddenly, a child of several years escorted by an uncle on his mother''s side. They came from a garden in the south, a stricter one than Pashtuk, the kind that liked their men a certain way and rid themselves of those who didn''t fit. Or maybe it was something else, a problem with a family member. Sometimes, a woman with a child would marry but her husband suffered jealousy when looking at the one who wasn''t his. It was a primal hate whose only cure was distance. There were other reasons why a child was sent away to foster, but the man who dropped him off didn''t explain.A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

    "This one belongs to the hunter known as Iraj." That''s all the man had said, then turned his appalon south. He left behind a boy with dark curly hair, shining white teeth, and golden eyes.

    Pashtuk wanted more boys at that time, so there was no barrier to keeping him. Iraj took him home and fed him well, then took him to meet his sisters. They sat him on their laps, passing him around, a timid and uncomfortable child who''d just crossed half the world to meet a family he''d never heard of. That was what women did when someone new entered the family: they passed the baby from one female relative to the next until it knew its family. Nawaz, too old for such treatment, escaped to hide behind his father after the first round of lap-sitting.

    He nearly shouted, "Everybody''s had a turn already! I''ll remember who you are, okay?"

    Iraj''s father, long dead by then, would not have loved Nawaz. The old man had believed that hunting was the only manly occupation. Nawaz would never be a hunter: he had a gentle way about him and a tender smile for almost everyone; He couldn''t bear to see a creature hurt, nor would he eat any egg or meat. Iraj never cared if the boy wouldn''t hunt, so long as he learned all the other things a man should know. Nawaz was pretty and lithe and could climb the palm trees like he was born for nothing else. That first year, he set a record among the children for date harvesting. Iraj loved the child''s quick fingers, the way a reed would whip and bend for him as he practiced the local weaver patterns. He was destined to be a hand, and a good one too. Always, his mind was on the garden and its people.

    Sweet Nawaz! What citizen of their garden had not remarked on his kindness or his generosity? The boy remembered everything about everyone, and organized little gatherings as gifts for whoever needed them. There never was a mood so dark that Nawaz couldn''t lighten it with selective company.

    His departure was every bit as unexplained as his arrival. The winter winds were up and he was in the garden, searching for a younger boy who was missing. A heavy branch snapped in the wind, plummeted from upper canopy to the ground, and crushed Nawaz. He died alone, a fact that haunted Iraj to this day, but at least he died in a garden full of family who loved him.

    There was no one to blame, no ill intent, no negligence nor mischief. A thing happened. A boy died and there was no sense to it. A family grieved and there was no cure for it.

    Ever since Iraj had put Nawaz''s body in the compost, and then months later spread his soil around the family stone with bare and trembling hands, he hated leaving home. As a younger man he had loved all his adventures, and traveled around the continent in full confidence his feet would bring him back to Pashtuk. But ever since Nawaz, every day away was ache and anxiety. His life would never be complete until his and Nawaz''s soils were mingled.

    "I''m back," he said aloud to all his aunts and uncles, his mother and father, his grandmother, but mostly to Nawaz. "These are cruel times. I''m almost happy you don''t have to see them. I got your aunts out before things got bad, and all the children too. We lost your uncles Barback and Manuchar because they stayed behind to fight. Their bones are here, somewhere in the garden, so that''s good.

    "This new maul, he''s a strange one for sure. I''ve never seen such strength. He''s very young, younger than you were when ˇ­" No, that didn''t bear talking about.

    "Satoma''s put together a raiding party, and Phillip is sending me out to fight. They promise if I die, I''ll be returned properly. He''s the kind to keep his word, so I''ve decided not to worry. Guess what my job is? I''m supposed to steal their mounts." He could feel the women of his family rolling their eyes ˇŞ more than once he''d brought home strange animals and lied brazenly about their origins. "I know, I know. He caught me trying to steal his animals, just the one time, and now that''s how he thinks of me. Not that I don''t have some experience.

    "Don''t worry about Satoma. They''re nothing compared to Nexus. They''ll be gone, and soon we can bring the people back.

    "I wonder how many appalons the little maul will let me keep? He has to give me one, at least, for helping. Right?"

 Exotic Animals

    Exotic Animals

    ˇŞIrajˇŞ

    They weren''t invisible, exactly. People simply didn''t notice them. Iraj stuck close to Sister Khali and her prayer of Overlook, flanked by two bulwarks. They descended into a crescent depression, the sandy remains of an oxbow lake. There was a picket of appalons nearby, observed by two sleepy sentries. The main camp was further along the dry bed, a few large fires set against the steep cut bank. Karoush was working them into a lather with loud exhortations fueled by date wine. The wine was probably from Pashtuk''s vault, stolen in their previous raids.

    Sister Khali didn''t bother with men''s dress or makeup for this outing, but went as herself, with her armor and weapons mingling with desert clothing. All the Nexus women did this when they weren''t trying to ingratiate themselves with Calique. It was good to see them thus, a throwback to his caravanning days when each person was taken as they were instead of being judged by a garden''s ways. She was a young woman, of good marrying age, and she had the aspect of one who had skirmished but never fought in a pitched battle. Her two bulwarks, on the other hand, were Lavradian war veterans. They were friendly men mere hours ago, but now their eyes were dark and hard as river stones.

    The four of them closed in on the sentries, and Khali gave the go-ahead. The former soldiers stepped out of the prayer''s coverage, knifed the sentries, and dragged their bodies silently into the protected zone. Khali paled at the violence but didn''t falter. This wasn''t like her other encounters, conflicts in broad daylight, fought in self-defense. This time she was the aggressor, attacking preemptively under the cover of night, and her instructions were not to spare the Satomen. Her Eldest Brother had decided they were obstacles, to himself and his hoped-for allies, and he wanted them removed. Tonight was for single-sided, cold-blooded killing.

    The camp never noticed the sentries'' passing, not while they were shouting themselves into a frenzy and blinded by their fires. Still under cover of Khali''s Overlook, Iraj began to gather appalons. There were so many, he had to make two trips. He led the first group up the old cut bank, which Khali had reshaped slightly to conceal and ease their passing. She stayed behind to maintain the magic that prevented Satomen from looking towards their appalons.

    It seemed to take forever, but Iraj knew from experience that he wasn''t gone for that long. He led the animals to the rendezvous, knelt them down, and left them with the lead animal hobbled. He counted thirty-five of them. He ran back to the camp, slunk in while the raiders were too fire-blinded to notice him, and realized he couldn''t find Khali. She had moved, for what reason he didn''t know, and now he couldn''t find her. He was about to call out when a hand, out of nowhere, snatched his wrist and pulled him in.

    Iraj''s voice came out in harsh whispers. "You startled me!"

    "You should have seen your face!" Khali whispered back, "But never mind that. What are those?" Khali pointed to the center of the remaining animals.The author''s content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

    There were four exotic beasts in piebald coats, packed together among the appalons like they were hiding. Their general shape was similar to appalons, but a closer look revealed they were very different animals. Their feet had hooves instead of padded soles, and they had no trunks. They were smaller too, built for better speed but lacking an appalon''s carrying capacity over long plods. The beasts were rare, relegated to the grassy, mostly unbroken land where Kravikas gradually merged into Hyskos highlands. They were highly valued in Hyskos for racing and as individual mounts, but the rest of the world thought of them as little more than curiosities. Appalons were so much more dependable, and not as delicate.

    "Horses," said Iraj lowly, "have you heard of them? If they''ve been trained then I should be able to handle them. Wait here." He left the safety of Overlook and hid himself among the animals, shouldering them aside to reach the horses. He plied the exotic mounts with dates and slices of dried melon, let them smell his hands and face, and patted each in turn. It wasn''t long before he discovered they were hiding a secret: a smaller animal, lurking in their shadow.

    At first, Iraj mistook the smaller creature for a foal but its lines were wrong. He was more deer-like, built for sprinting and jumping, with longer more pointed ears. His coat was dark cream, offset by a white mane and tail. A pair of black spiral horns jutted from his head.

    The creature was called a jimala, something more exotic than horses, and he shouldn''t have been there. It was far too dangerous, for so many reasons.

    "I''m going to get you out of here," said Iraj in calm tones. "Just follow for now, and I''ll release you as soon as we''re away from here." The jimala seemed to understand him, at least well enough to stand and shake itself free of dirt.

    Like before, Iraj gathered up the traces into three lines of ten animals each, and led them away. The horses balked until the jimala grunted at them and nudged the bigger animals into line. This time, Sister Khali and her two soldiers went with him. She made her prayer effect large enough to cover all of them, people and animals, but the strain was showing on her face.

    As soon as they were near the waypoint where all the animals were being kept, she dropped the prayer entirely and collapsed to her knees. Iraj expected her to reach for water, but she pulled an oblong stone from some hidden pocket instead, a lump gleaming orange and fire in reflected moonlight. Somehow, it helped her: soon she was on her feet again and murmuring into her link with Brother Mahzad.

    Iraj had spent enough time around Nexus to understand the earcuffs worn by so many of them were more than a peculiar decoration. At least some of the jewelry was magical, enabling them to talk to each other over great distances. So far, he hadn''t been able to distinguish the magic ones from the normal ones. Each piece, magical or not, was unique. The jewelry style had already spread to Dagono women and Pashtuk refugees. It all seemed too deliberate to be coincidental.

    It was, he decided, very Nexus of them. It wasn''t enough to invent a semi-secret communications device: they disguised it as something else; then they hid the magic pieces among hundreds of mundane ones; and then they exported the new style elsewhere.

    The lines of animals had to be set properly, the leaders hobbled, and traces double-checked. With two extra motions, Iraj released the jimala. "You should stick with us. There''s food and water in Pashtuk. But you''re free to do as you like." He left the beast to its own devices, to fetch his hunting bow and quiver.

    It was time to bleed for his garden.

 Blood for Pashtuk

    Blood for Pashtuk

    ˇŞ Iraj ˇŞ

    "Two-second intervals," commanded Sister Khali, "aim for the highest concentration of people. Iraj, start firing as soon as the first rock is thrown and keep firing until you''re out of arrows. Focus on anyone who picks up a bow. Stay alert. They won''t be able to see us, but they''ll know where we are."

    Khali''s team had taken a position on a section of the curved cut bank, looking down at the Satomen. If they wanted to counter-attack, they''d have to use ranged weapons or charge across the dry riverbed, up the point bar, and around the edge of the dead lake to get to their attackers.

    "I have the first stone," Khali said. For several breaths, she steadied herself. Their scouts had heard Karoush talking about their plans, and how they wanted to kill everyone in Pashtuk. Everyone except the women, who they would keep alive as captive wives. In spite of that, and the way they had treated their ''stolen wives'' from other gardens, she found it hard to throw the first stone.

    "Karoush! The mounts are gone!" The Satomen''s camp was thrown into commotion as some of them rushed to verify the claim.

    The shout of alarm snapped Khali from her hesitation. With a single over-hand heave she slung the first stone so hard it cut the air and left ripples in its wake. The ten-kilo rock hit a Satoma hunter in the chest and punched straight through him. A cone of blood sprayed over several men behind him. Shards of rib and spine exploded from his torso, injuring the bloodied men.

    Iraj already had his target, a hunter who had kept his bow close to hand, even through all the drinking. His first arrow fell short, landing at the man''s feet, but Iraj didn''t let it bother him. He had been warned about the effects of enhanced vision and the other blessing he''d received from Khali. His range was sure now, as sure as his hand putting the next arrow to the string, and drawing back the shaft, his enhanced eyes tracked the enemy''s motion with ease as the doomed man reflexively reached for his weapons. The arrow was aimed at the enemy''s heart but got him in the lung instead, thanks to an unexpected twist. But, the blessed arrow penetrated leather armor with ease, exactly as promised, right up to its fletching. Why aim for unprotected extremities when your arrowheads can''t be stopped? The archer looked mutely down at his chest, at the tail end of the meter-long shaft that ran through him.

    The two-second timing of sling attacks was designed to maximize the mayhem. Every time the Satomen recovered their courage, another rock would obliterate one of their numbers. After the fourth one, they called to each other to spread out instead of massing together. Arrows started flying towards the cadre as more of them picked up their bows. But they were shooting blind into the dark: Few of their missiles came close to hitting anything.If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

    Khali had given Iraj a dozen shafts. He used his remaining ten with a will, picking off the better archers. Between the blessings and the excitement of the fight, Iraj had all the time in the world. Every draw and release was calm. One arrow after the other sailed down at his enemies. A few missed thanks to chance movements, but he struck nine men in twelve shots.

    After the seventh slingstone Karoush urged his men to climb the point bar to exit the lake bed. They charged across as ordered, shouting bravely, spears in hand, up the hill to escape their fate. They thought the way was clear, that all they had to do was climb that gradual rise and they''d be able to reach the enemy. Suddenly, Mahzad and five bulwarks blocked their path, immovable and deadly. A flight of javelins came first, and then the shields came up.

    Iraj was out of arrows. Not that he wanted to shoot into the melee ˇŞ he knew better than that. But there was one more target left behind at the bottom of the riverbed, an archer. He must have been watching where the shafts were coming from because he launched one in reply, directly at Iraj.

    Calmly, easily, Iraj waited while the arrow flew at him, then snatched it from the air.

    And now I''m armed again, he thought.

    The Satoman archer waited for some sign that his arrow had found or missed its mark. Instead, an arrow came to him out of the darkness and struck him in his throat. His last sight was a view of his own fletching protruding from his neck.

    Too high, thought Iraj. This really does take practice.

    The Satomen were ended quickly after that. What could they even do at that point, with a less than three-to-one advantage? The first to clash with Mahzad''s line were speared to death. Those who were supposed to flank them got the sword. Satomen had a reputation for ruthlessness, and that was why gardens fed them instead of sending them away. That reputation worked against them now: the stragglers tried to run, but even they were cut down. Why spare a people who would never do the same for you?

    After the battle came the cleanup. They had to search pockets, count bodies, and look for intelligence. That''s when they noticed Karoush was missing. The disciples and their divinations couldn''t find them, nor could their scouts with magic eyewear see any sign of him. Karoush was gone, as thoroughly as if he had used Overlook.

    On the way home, Iraj warned the cadre about the strange animal that followed them at a distance. "It''s not to hunt, no matter what. Let''s hope it follows us to safety."

    "Is it forbidden to ask about it?" ventured Mahzad.

    "Not to ask, but I am forbidden from answering." Frustrated groans passed through the cadre, but nobody questioned him.

    It took twice as long to return to Pashtuk as it had taken them to leave it, because the disciples couldn''t enhance so many animals to keep up the accelerated pace. Most of the animals were turned loose in the mischus, but the horses and a few favored appalons were brought through the gate. The jimala dithered on the garden''s threshold, too afraid to enter and too curious to leave. After a quarter-hour of indecision, they gave up on the animal and started closing the gate. The jimala dashed through at the last moment, hooves clattering on the paved square. The nimble creature zig-zagged around the plaza, bounded into the garden, then plunged its head into a patch of greens and started eating.

    Iraj was glad to see him safe inside the walls, but now there was a new problem to consider. What would he tell Maul Phillip?

 New Directions

    New Directions

    Taylor had his link set in conference mode, suspended over a bowl shaped from deadwood scavenged from Pashtuk''s garden. Together, they approximated a speakerphone. He had experimented with different materials, but wood imparted warmer tones than hard surfaces like metal or stone. He was meeting with Red Tower on the admin link instead of thoughtspace to include people who weren''t disciples.

    "I thought we had a plan." Anisca sounded miffed, even through the link. "We were going to get them to accept us and then learn from their hunters. Now you want to throw away all the hard work we put in and do whatever you want."

    "We''re not throwing anything away, we''re adjusting to new facts." Taylor tried to reassure her. "I don''t think they''ll lift their taboo, no matter what we do. But the good news here is that Sand Castle is considered desert right now. So are Pashtuk and Saluja. We can do whatever we want in these places. That''s what Yalda was trying to tell us. As long as this ends in Darkmaw''s death, and without destroying any more gardens, they''re going to owe us.

    "You saw what Yalda was like. These people are proud of their communities'' self-sufficiency. They''re ashamed to lose their gardens, asking for help practically kills them, and accepting it creates a debt they need to pay. I think the circles are afraid of the debt they''ll owe to outsiders if we succeed, and that''s partly why they won''t help us."

    "Your theory does hang together," mused Assistant Rector Kasryn, "but it sounds like you want to hunt Darkmaw without getting anything from the local hunters first."

    "Well, we''re pretty sure she''s a scorpion, and we have a good idea of her abilities. That''s most of what we wanted to know. The biggest questions now are, how big is she, and is she carrying a new clutch of eggs?"

    "You want to send a scout party." Mataba''s real voice was different from his avatar''s, higher and more nasal. "You''ll want to observe her for a while, I believe. Get some light on her and learn her habits. Give us two days to prepare, and we''ll dispatch a team with enough supplies for a long watch."

    Taylor guessed the senior healer had turned away from the link to give directions because his voice reduced to a murmur rattling off a list of tasks.

    "Thank you, Brother Mataba. In the meantime, I want to use Pashtuk as an advanced base. It''s the closest garden to Darkmaw, it''ll keep us supplied while we deal with Sand Castle and Saluja, and it''ll piss off whatever''s left of Satoma. By holding it ˇ­ "

    "I''m coming over," blurted Anisca. All conversation stopped, on both ends of the link.

    "What?" was all Taylor could think of to say.

    "Pardon me," said Anisca. She cleared her throat and, for a moment, they all thought she was about to take back what she had said. "What I meant to say was that your strategy of occupying a garden is an excellent one. I am presuming, of course, that you intend to return it to its former inhabitants. However, if you are doing something audacious, you should aim to maximize the effect. Invite leadership from other gardens to witness the end of Darkmaw. Display the powers of Nexus and highlight the benefit of having us as friends. Engage in some diplomacy while you have them all together. Create opportunities for exchanges of all kinds.You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

    "Also, I suspect you want to run off and solve Saluja''s monster problem right away. May I suggest you gain some consideration first, before making their problems vanish? The Guidebook warns us not to be taken for granted, and requiring payment is a moral caution for good reason. You will be too lax with them if you''re on your own. It isn''t only the citizens of Saluja who will benefit: so will the gardens who are sacrificing to house and feed them. They should all assist us. I can help in this regard, leaving you free to awe people and kill monsters.

    "And then there''s the matter of Dagono. They can lie and make false promises to some random outsider, but they need to understand it''s an entirely different matter to mistreat Nexus that way. Doubly so, where its future hierarch is concerned. We must find a way to disadvantage Dagono, for breaking their word to you."

    "Anisca is correct," Kasryn added, "you need her there, at least one full cadre, and some other people. We''ll put together a list."

    "Your generosity is one of your best qualities, Young Master," added Rector Mika, "but I too believe it''s time they contribute fairly. The school needs resources to thrive."

    "You''re the one who made her read the Guidebook," Mataba laughed, "don''t blame us if her arguments are on point."

    Taylor had a sinking feeling, the kind he got when he didn''t like a course of action but knew it was for the best. That feeling was doubled because Anisca was the person who suggested it.

    "I''ll consider it," he said finally. "Make your list and we''ll talk tomorrow after the morning classes." He didn''t wait for anyone to accept or argue. "Is there anything else?"

    "Just a few notices," said Mika. "The new healers from Gallia arrived today. They''ve all read Beg For Rest to give up their Enclave anointments, and they''ve had their first sessions in the mirror room. One of them claims to be your physician. A Healer Ferange. Do you know him?"

    "Ferange! He''s a good guy. He helped me with the aftermath of ˇ­" being poisoned to death by the royal family and buried in a remote grave. "ˇ­ how I left Lavradio last year. I was kind of a mess. It''s good to have him on our side."

    "And, it seems another of your Gallia acquaintances will be visiting soon. Do you remember a Commander Urban?"

    Taylor had to think. He''d nearly forgotten the guy. "I remember a vainglorious and incompetent officer who was swallowed by a giant toad. Why? How many people is he bringing with him?"

    "One thousand foot, and two hundred mounted. The Gallian prelate publicly called for a purge of ''the Nexus heresy''. Urban answered."

    "This sounds like a lot more than a mere notice, Mika."

    "They''re funded by the church in Gallia," added Kasryn. "He has family connections in the Senate, so he''s not without connections, yet his family refuses to support him because of the string of scandals that follow him. The Senate wants nothing to do with Enclave''s crusade, so he''s getting no help from that quarter."

    "Eldest Brother, this is Lector James," said a new voice. "We have good intelligence on Urban thanks to Brother Edos, and we don''t think he''s much to worry about. His force is all volunteers. A few are veterans but the rest are untrained. They''re poorly supplied, don''t know our exact location, and they''ve entered the desert in high summer. So far, they''ve been marching in the daytime. They should be ready to surrender in a few days."

    "Unbelievable."The admin council might be right: this particular force of twelve hundred was probably doomed by their commander''s idiocy. Nexus could end up rescuing them instead of fighting them. "Keep an eye on them and keep me posted."

    "Last item," promised Kasryn. "Game of Prelates has updated rules. We''ll send a set along with Anisca''s detachment."

 Remote Disciples Weigh In

    Thoughtspace

    "If you saw them, you''d understand." Edos was in Taylor''s thoughtspace, wearing Sacred Blade''s face rendered in white stone. All the remote disciples were gathered, as was Mataba from Red Tower.

    Edos continued, "They have a single train to carry water and one old gurantor. Urban thinks he can go north overland, which he can, but it''ll wreck his troops. They don''t even have proper clothing. The whole mission is so slipshod, it''ll never reach Red Tower. I''d feel sorry for them if they weren''t out to kill us."

    "Maybe we can kill Urban and rescue the rest," Taylor mused, "and score some goodwill with Gallia. We''d be doing them two favors, so they''d owe us twice over."

    "What about Prelate Lerudis? He started this crusade. And, he paid for it out of church funds."

    There was silence among the avatars.

    Taylor knew he was in difficult territory. "Morally, I don''t have a problem with killing a civilian leader who organizes and funds an attack on Nexus. That makes him an enemy in my book, and enemies are valid targets. But this guy''s a priest. Do we want to set a precedent that killing priests is okay? Will people see it as justified, or sacrilegious?"

    "They''ve already set a precedent," Obsidian-Ma reminded them all, "when they tried to kill you in Lavradio, and then again at the Ullidian border."

    "But the public never saw any of that," said Antilope-Leila, "and if we told them they''d only have our word for it."The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

    The four-armed obsidian woman wasn''t convinced. "What if he does it again, but better? How many free shots do we let him take at us? Make an example of him, and he won''t have imitators."

    "I won''t condone savagery in the name of religion," said Futobel-Phillip. "If we have to kill someone, we just kill them. No torture or mutilation." He had already spoken to her about her fiery revenge against the one priest they had burned. So far, she had kept her promise to kill cleanly.

    "That said, we can''t let our enemies operate unopposed. We should be keeping tabs on all the prelates and major temples, in every country. I don''t care if they call us heretics, but if they''re organizing crusades, that crosses a line." Taylor hadn''t even thought about building a proper information network until that moment. His fielded disciples all had contacts and relayed any news, but it wasn''t enough.

    Antilope-Leila rubbed her horns against a tree trunk. "We all have friends we can trust to do simple things like report on what the prelates are preaching. What we don''t have is a way for them to send regular reports to Nexus. The usual way is to hide messages in caravan goods, but the caravans aren''t running. This link thing you sent me is wonderful, but it only talks to Red Tower disciples and I only have the one."

    "It would be a bad idea for all the informants to share a channel with disciples. Or even with each other," Obsidian-Ma warned. "They''re safer if they know less about each other."

    Giant-Edos agreed. "Keeping a few ears on the big temples should be easy, and the work itself is safe. It''s the reporting that''s risky."

    "I''ll work on it," Futobel-Phillip promised them. "It''ll take a couple of weeks to get devices out to you, and there will have to be procedures for using them, but these are solvable problems."

    "What about getting our views to the faithful?" asked Leila. "Nexus News was very popular, but it''s going to take a long time to get printing and distribution running again. In the meantime, Enclave is filling people''s ears with lies. We all preach when we can, but it''s not enough."

    The futobel avatar gleamed with pride. "I''m already working on it. Expect a wondrous solution the next time we meet."

 The Sounding Boards

    ˇŞ Gonzo Monforte, Royal Palace, Lavradio ˇŞ

    It was an august gathering, mostly: King Leonardo, Queen Farava, City Minister Marvao, First Prince Estevan, and Baron Monforte. There was also a royal luthier whom Gonzo didn''t know, an older man with a nervous tail and nimble fingers. Finally, there was Gonzo: the third child of a baron with no special office. The company was chosen from people who had known Taylor before he picked up his holy symbol and became Phillip the Younger. They were also people on good terms with him, which wasn''t true of everyone in the royal family. Gonzo didn''t know all the particulars, but there was a reason the Dowager Queen was absent.

    They gathered in a private room of the palace, with only two royal guards in attendance, sitting around a table with a strange device as the centerpiece. It was very much like the body of a stringed instrument, without a neck or strings: flat on top, slightly oblong, and curved along the sides. Several other models were stored in the room, made in different shapes and of various materials.

    Music flowed out of the magical instrument, Our Wild and Beautiful Fringe, filling the room with grand sweeps of longing for high wild places. If Gonzo''s friend Taylor had stuck to beauty products and music instead of entering the church, his life would have been a lot simpler. Then again, Lavradio might be in ruins.

    Gonzo checked the gauge in front of him: Barely any magic radiated from the instrument, even when he held the youngmeter close.

    When the song was finished the King thanked the elder craftsman for his efforts and paid him in gold. The luthier departed with a deep bow, knowing full well he had participated in a revolution. He left the palace with his pocket full of gold and a trembling awe in his heart. Music sent across vast distances, reproduced with near perfection! All the world would want these sounding boards, and soon.

    Gonzo took another device from the bag he used to carry it. It was similar to the large one, but much smaller and more round. He placed it on the table where everyone''s voice could reach it. Unlike the bigger instrument, this device could send and receive. It also used quite a lot more spirit, which Gonzo supplied by adding spirit to the inlaid gem. Taylor''s voice came from it.

    "How was the sound quality?"

    "Superb," said Minister Marvao, "almost as good as having the musician with us."

    "And power usage?"

    "The small ones use about a twentieth of a young," reported Gonzo, "close to nothing. This big one uses a fifth of a young, but the sound is amazing. We should be able to power these with cheap gems, but the gems still have to be refilled."

    "We''ll arrange that on our end," offered the King, "since we have the young Monforte. There is the small matter of disguising his involvement." Gonzo couldn''t use prayer because he wasn''t anointed, but he had plenty spirit and technique to fill the gems.

    "And what about the filaments?" The instrument had engravings around the main sound hole, a design that branched out and encompassed three smaller sound holes which the luthier claimed were strategically located. The magic circles were filled with silver wire flattened into the grooves, to form the inscriptions that made the device work. They had tried a variety of silver alloys across several instruments.

    Gonzo had been keeping score. "The better wire doesn''t do anything for simple instruments but greatly improves the high-end ones. You can go up to sixty percent silver and two point five percent manganese, with copper or zinc as the base metal. Anything purer than that won''t make an audible difference. Not to our friendly craftsman, anyway. I wish you could see this instrument, Taylor. She''s a sway thing."

    "What''s your plan, Outlander?" asked Estevan. He always called Taylor ''Outlander'' when annoyed, or thought he was doing something inscrutable. It was a far more endearing term than Estevan used when they first met: ''ignorant savage''.

    "Hold religious services, broadcast news and education programs, and get our story out there. We can''t let Encalve talk about us without some kind of counter. It''ll feel miraculous to most people, and the music will be good, so they should be popular. Anyone can make one, so they should spread quickly."

    The queen spoke, for the first time since their greetings. "Enclave will ban them, as soon as they find out about them."

    "I''m counting on it," said Taylor. There was wry laughter in the meeting room. Any mayor or monarch knew what happened when something popular was banned.

    "There is still the issue of providing spirit," Marvao reminded him.

    "That''s an issue. Fortunately, we have access to a lot of beryl ore. We''ll sell strings of beads that will store enough spirit for a few hours each. Healers can fill them once they''ve been taught the trick. The thing that worries me is the risk to listeners. When Leadership realizes that banning the devices only makes them more popular they''ll resort to force. They don''t have armies outside of Dace but they might impose on local governments to punish heretics on their behalf. Or worse yet, let the church arm itself within their borders."Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

    "That never ends well," declared the king darkly. "Religious purges are invariably ugly. My counterparts in Ullidia and Moldonia know better but I''m less confident about Gallia. They have something called a prime minister who changes every several years. I don''t know this new woman who just took over."

    "I suspect the Senate is walking the same line Your Majesties are." Taylor told them about the Gallian crusade, and the Senate''s refusal to prevent or support it. They didn''t want to defy Enclave so strenuously that they were targeted, but they didn''t want any part of the crusade either.

    "Twelve hundred," echoed Minister Marvao, alarmed, "you don''t sound concerned."

    "It''s handled." Taylor''s voice was authoritative. Final. A hammer on coffin nails.

    The room went silent. The crusaders didn''t know it yet, but they would live or die as Taylor saw fit. Gonzo shivered. His friend could be scary when he was protecting Nexus.

    "It sounds like the matter is well in hand," said the king. "On another topic, may we speak with our sister?"

    "Of course. In three or four days we should be together, and you can talk to her then."

    Estevan and Leonardo both grimaced. They knew what their sister was like, and how little patience Taylor had for noble privilege. Gonzo didn''t know Princess Francisca, but he''d heard stories. None of them would be surprised if Taylor had sent her away to punish her. On the other hand, if the princess came to harm due to neglect, it would complicate Nexus relations with the royal family.

    It was left to Farava to ask, "Why is she not with you? Is there a problem?"

    "No," said Taylor, a little too casually, "not currently. I''m in the field, and she''s at headquarters. As soon as we catch up to each other, I''ll reach out to Gonzo and make an appointment."

    The meeting closed soon after that, with mutual well-wishes and Taylor''s permission to build the sounding boards right away.

    "Not currently," Estevan repeated, "that doesn''t sound good."

    "But he hasn''t sent her home," the king added, "yet. Gonzo, has he said anything to you about her?"

    "I know they call her Anisca, Your Majesty, to hide that she''s a royal. A couple of weeks ago she did something that made him very angry, but he wouldn''t say what it was. Last week, he complimented her negotiation skills. He hasn''t said anything about her in the last two meetings."

    "What do you two talk about?"

    "He''s been teaching me something called thoughtmancy. It''s like exercises for the mind, to improve memory and computation. I''ll write a report if Your Majesty wishes, but it won''t make a lot of sense."

    "How do these things work?" The king indicated the large sounding board and the smaller two-way link. "I''ve read all of scripture, and there is no prayer for anything like it. Has he used an ancient art?"

    "No, Your Majesty." Gonzo hesitated to say any more. He was a loyal subject of Lavradio, but he didn''t want to give away Nexus secrets: he planned to join them one day. Gonzo didn''t know much but Taylor had, perhaps inadvertently, suggested things. They both tended to get excited when practicing or talking about the arts.

    But King Leonardo wouldn''t let him off so easily. "Then what art powers these devices?"

    Gonzo winced inwardly. Sorry, Taylor, but you left the door open for this.

    "He''s made a new one that he calls Inscription Arts."

    "He made a new art?" Only the queen seemed to grasp what was obvious to Gonzo: that it should have been impossible.

    "It lets practitioners create devices to control natural phenomena. That''s why he''s been revealing Natural Law to our world: so we can use inscriptions. He''s ''arming us to change the world and defy the burning sun.'' His words, Your Majesties."

    "He made a new art," said the queen wonderingly. "No wonder they want him dead."

    The church''s prayers were divinely revealed knowledge handed down by the One God Olyon to Neuman Battani, His Chosen One. Ancient arts were viewed with suspicion precisely because they weren''t scriptural and nobody understood them. But there was an unspoken assumption the Ancient Arts were based on some intrinsic cosmic truth. The idea that someone could make a new art raised all kinds of questions, not least of which was this: where did holy prayers come from? Did God reveal them, or did Battani invent them?

    The king didn''t seem to grasp the problem. He cared about the power the new art represented. "How well do you understand this art, young Gonzo?"

    "I have copied the circles he''s shown to me and learned a few principles, Your Majesty. There is a vast amount I do not know."

    "Do you think he could be convinced to teach you more?

    "I don''t know, Your Majesty. He doesn''t want the world to learn about inscriptions until after Enclave has fallen and Nexus takes its place. He''s holding an advantage right now and he intends to keep it."

    "You''re an especially bright young man, Gonzalez. I see this, the same as Nexus does. How would you feel about focusing your efforts on this new art, and perhaps one day becoming Royal Inscriber?"

    "Your Majesty!" The Baron swelled with pride; what father wouldn''t? Nobody in their right mind would turn aside such an offer, even one contingent on criteria yet to be decided.

    "I am prepared to negotiate with Nexus to obtain the arts before other countries. We need a practitioner to learn them. Someone who understands the workings of spirit. Someone who already has a head start. Someone he trusts."

    This wasn''t how things were supposed to go. Gonzo was supposed to become a priest of Nexus, roam the world, and perform miracles. Not sit in a basement somewhere, squinting at patterns, letting his talents wither. He wanted fieldwork.

    But one did not say no to a king.

    Gonzo walked around the table, approached the king''s chair, and knelt. "Your Majesty. I love Lavradio, and I love our Barony Fringe most of all. But, I believe the best way to protect my home is to become a Nexus disciple. I plan to join them as soon as I reach adulthood. I will gladly work directly for the kingdom until then. I ask Your Majesty to indulge my personal goals when deciding my fate."

    Taylor had known this would happen. He had known the king would want Gonzo for himself, and had prepared that speech for him. One did not say ''no'' to a king. But, one could ask for limits or considerations.

    "Well Baron, your son certainly displays a disciple''s nerve. They say the Fringe never falters, and I believe it. Rise, young Monforte. You''re not in trouble. Let''s discover Nexus''s conditions, and work from there."

    It was reasonable to think the king would be generous with Gonzo. Nexus would be a great power if they overcame their trials. Fair treatment of the future hierarch''s friend could pay good dividends.

 The Jimala

    ˇŞ Iraj ˇŞ

    Iraj was still in the garden looking after the jimala, who was still grazing. The foreign maul found him leaning against a pomegranate whose stems were trained into a thick, strong braid. The plant was over a century old, yet it yielded fruit that was sweet and tart in equal measure. Phillip watched Iraj for a while, breaking open the pods and throwing them where the jimala could get them. He offered a section to the youth, who sucked up the seeds with relish. Following Iraj''s lead, Phillip threw the bits of empty husk into a basket.

    They didn''t speak at first. Iraj''s excitement from the fighting had worn off and Phillip clearly had other things on his mind. For a while, they just watched the jimala eat. Finally, the disciple sent away his ever-present guards. He didn''t speak until they were out of earshot.

    "Well, that''s interesting. First horses. And now this."

    "Please don''t ask. I promise you that, this time, there is good reason for the taboo."

    "I wasn''t going to." The young disciple chuckled. "I just wanted to see it."

    "If I may, little maul. It is customary to reward all those who participate in a raid with spoils. I will forego any appalons or horses if you give me the jimala. This is most appropriate because I am Calique and can take care of him properly."

    "Is that so?" Brother Phillip looked skeptical of Iraj''s idea.

    "Of course. If something were to happen to him because you did something wrong, the doyennes would never support you. In truth, I''m doing you a favor by removing your responsibility in the matter." The hunter grinned, sure of the appeal of his argument.Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit.

    The Nexus maul stared hard at Iraj, then at the jimala, and back to Iraj. At last, he said, "Don''t be so ridiculous. You know that I can''t let you own ˇ­," he waved in the jimala''s general direction, "a person."

    "What?" said Iraj.

    "U-um-mro-o-o?" bellowed the jimala.

    "I''m disappointed, Iraj. Actually, I''m a little offended. Did you think a trained healer couldn''t tell? Did you think the Calique were the only people hiding a two-natured tribe? I admire your people, but you''re not that special."

    Iraj was so surprised that, for a moment, he forgot about the taboo. "What others have you met?"

    "That''s secret disciple business," relished Phillip. After all the taboos Iraj had brandished at him, now he got to return the favor. "But I agree with the taboo in this case. These people aren''t safe as long as Enclave has power. I''ll tell the others that the jimala is off-limits and they shouldn''t bother him. Any matters regarding him will be your responsibility as long as he''s in animal form. I''ll be sure to tell your doyenne how responsible you''ve been."

    Phillip turned to the shapeshifted animal. "May I?"

    The jimala nodded its horned head. With the animal''s apparent permission, the disciple ran his hands over the animal''s neck and flanks. "You should drink something. You''re dehydrated." He patted it twice on the shoulder. "And you have signs of exhaustion. Otherwise, you''re in pretty good shape. You should rest.

    "I''ll keep your secret, without imposing any conditions. You can change to human form or not, it doesn''t matter to me. But listen here." The kind healer was gone, instantly replaced with a maul''s threatening presence. "If you do anything to bring harm to my people, you''re going to ''get lost'' while trying to return home, and your body will never be found. Stomp once if you agree, or twice if you want to leave the garden right now."

    The jimala stomped one hoof on the ground, one time.

    The sense of threat disappeared, replaced by Phillip''s usual good cheer. "Good. Then we''re all friends here. Speaking of friends," he turned to Iraj, "you''re going to tell me everything you know about Sand Castle. Precise location, landmarks, layout, secret ways in and out of the city, everything. Understood?"

    Iraj understood perfectly. There would be no more waiting on the doyennes. Hunting was men''s work, and the men would tend to it.

 A Bulwarks Job

    ˇŞ Harrence ˇŞ

    They ran ahead of him like hunting dogs, all the children Enclave burned in their quest to stamp out Spirit. Some of them were sullen at their sudden violent deaths, seized and bound without warning, set to burning, their lives destroyed before they learned what they''d be missing. Some of them skipped gleefully, their childish joy inspired by the day''s adventures. They flitted among the hedgerows, in and out and through with impunity, sometimes scaring up small animals who could sense them. Who knew that birds were so sensitive to the spirits of the dead? The legends all agreed that birds could see and escort spirits from the living world, but Harrence hadn''t thought the stories real.

    The dead could not forever linger here. A boy with floppy ears, a sullen one, had disappeared, vanished, into the light. And Harrence knew by instinct this was right, that spirits couldn''t stay, and must move on.

    It happened after they had found the man responsible for burning down his town. It seemed the populace objected to Defenders of Pure Faith arresting boys to fuel the wicked pyres of twisted faith. The town revolted, killing several men. Responding to their blasphemous attack Antonio, Defender of Pure Faith, decreed the town be razed and set ablaze, and all the townfolk slaughtered in the name of Olyon, starting with the flop-eared boy.

    When Ma''Tocha''s team arrived they found survivors picking through the wreckage, wailing. Harrence worried they would blame Ma''Tocha and attack her, but they had a peculiar lack of interest in her. Whatever love they had for Enclave lay in ruins with their houses, and they had nothing left to offer to a new church, neither enmity nor loyalty.

    It took Ma''Tocha days to find the murderers and chase them up a wooded hill. The defender and his soldiers thought they''d have advantages on higher ground but all they gained was isolation. They would have lived a little longer if they had sought more company. A fortress or a city would have been a better destination than a simple change in elevation. In a moonless hour of the night, the disciple and her band had made short work of the Enclave murderers, leaving yet another blood-soaked skirmish lodged in Harrence''s memories.

    That was when the nameless boy raised his face and hands to the moonless sky and was bathed in light from nowhere. He signed his thanks to Harrence before departing, but he sulked until the very end. A sudden surge of silent light and the spot was empty, as if the boy had never been.

    "What was that?" Ma''Tocha stared at where the sullen boy had vanished.

    Harrence didn''t know. He couldn''t see his girls right then, and for a moment, he was seized by an awful fear. Had they left him, like the boy, and hadn''t said goodbye? He cast his gaze all around, turning full circle, and couldn''t find them. He knew they couldn''t stay. Deep down, in the pit of things he didn''t like to think about, he knew. They''d have to leave one day, just like the boy, but they couldn''t leave without warning. Not again, like when the soldiers took them. One minute shining with bright promise, another minute dead in violence.

    All this killing wasn''t like him. In all his life, he''d barely raised a fist to anyone. He would kill an animal for food but even then, he preferred to hunt the birds over mammals, and smaller mammals over larger ones. It was impossible for him to kill a person except to save another person. Even then he needed to convince himself his enemies were less than human, were debased by vilest purpose, and deserved to die.This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

    Harrence saw the field of skirmish, felt the atlatl in his hand. His bow had broken, a victim of the overwhelming power of holy prayer, so he had learned to throw the javelins. With a sturdy lever, all his strength was brought to bear. In one affray he pierced three men at once. And, worst of all, he had been proud of it.

    The spirits of the soldiers began to leave. He could see them now: everyone who died. Most were indistinct, mere whispers of the souls now freed from flesh that caged them. They too were struck by light with no apparent source, though very dimly, and departed in the moments after death. Some of them were eager, vanishing before their bodies hit the ground. Others were reluctant, delaying their departure even when the light had come for them, holding on for minutes. Sometimes hours would pass before the stubborn ones would go.

    Then there were the powerful, the spirit-filled: his daughters Brynn and Yara, and all the others Enclaved killed for ''heresy''. Some would follow him for days and wouldn''t leave until their murderers were found and killed. He saw them when they wanted to be seen and never when they didn''t want to be. A pack of five, including Brynn and Yara, still followed him and helped him hunt the hunters.

    And all of them would leave, eventually.

    "Harrence," Ma''Tocha called, "are you all right? What do you see?"

    Antonio, Defender of Pure Faith, must have had some spirit of his own. He wasn''t nearly solid like the other talented, the ones he hunted. But he was lingering beside his corpse, enraged, enrobed with jealous violet flame. How dare the talentless, the heretics, the nobodies, the ignorant, defile the flesh of one ordained to cleanse the world? The malice in that man was tangible, a bow of hatred bent to almost breaking.

    Though Harrence couldn''t see it, he could sense an awful fate was gathered in that darkness aimed directly at Ma''Tocha''s spirit. Injury was sure, the kind that scarred and lamed and made practitioners retire. Antonio sought to force her off the field.

    So Harrence did what bulwarks do: protect. He put himself between the dangerous and righteousness and took the blow for her. The curse (he lacked a word more fitting) pounded Harrence, cracked him open like those rocks that merchants always sold at festival, with promises of possibilities.

    A customer would buy one as a gift, a little box of crystal mysteries. A smaller sum of coin would buy a blow, a hammer strike upon the rock just so, and crack the geode to its sparkling core. The very best were mostly hollow in their cores, surrounded by a nest of amethyst or golden celestine, needle-thin. But some were solid through and through, at first a disappointment, but when sanded smooth with daily efforts in the odd spare hour, in weeks or months the treasure was revealed: a plane of many layers, brightly colored; Or iridescent fire trapped in stone; Or pure carnelian as red as blood. There were a hundred possibilities.

    When Harrence took the hammer blow he cleaved, and all the hidden things inside of him, the secrets only known to his creator, exploded from his flimsy, fleshy self. He battled the defender with a force as alien to him as Spiritual Art. And it was brutally done, protective strength against malevolent intent to kill, without the slightest sign of grace or skill. They hammered at each other, trading blows that wrecked and warped the shape of fighters'' souls. Antonio wouldn''t leave and had to be demolished into violet threads of ire. The final shreds of malice burned in silver flame, a fire not of Harrence''s will.

    Antonio, Defender of Pure Faith, was vanquished, exiled, banished to hereafter.

    And Harrence, hollowed to his hallowed core and harrowed by his recent trials of grief, embraced his long-awaited, fated death. His used-up shell had nothing left to give and, falling to his knees, consigned himself to God.

 Insubstantial

    Insubstantial

    "You''re not dead yet," said Marlowe with a grin and gently stroked his head like she would a sickened child''s. "That''s just depletion telling you to quit."

    Her touch was soothing him, until he lost his thoughts of dying now to ease the pains of losses yesterday and those to come. Her weapon-calloused hands were gentle-strong and slid beneath his shoulders finding all his worries there, his gathered knots of grief, embedded shards of futures unforgotten.

    Although he couldn''t see them now, he knew the boys and girls who''d left him had returned. They''d scattered to avoid Antonio''s attack, and not be banished prematurely.

    Listless and defenseless Harrence lay his copper head in her crossed legs and let her practiced hands untie him, bight and loop, until his ends were slack and running free, ungathered and uncoiled. He slept again.

    "I understand why you would be afraid," Ma''Tocha said when he was mostly awake, "the rarest gifts are often held untold by gifted souls afraid of being shunned. But we''re your friends, and we will understand." She''d come to Harrence after breakfast and a day of floating near the point of sleep. His death had lost some of its pull on him, and hour by hour he gained his will to live.

    "I know you saved me Harrence, don''t deny it. I had a mentor, Lucia. Great disciple. One day, she fought and killed someone, Disciple Juca ˇŞ Nasty piece of work. In Enclave''s book it was a victory, but for her cadre it was something else. When Juca died our Lucia was attacked by something none of us were trained to sense. Though we could not discern the source we felt the curse and what it did to her, the agony and terror it inflicted.

    "Her injury was deep and permanent, and she retired to become a matrix. We lost our mentor, never understanding what it was that crippled her. Today I felt that threat again, but aimed at me. So, thank you. I hope you''ll trust in us one day, enough to talk about what happened, and perhaps, with your consent, begin to train this talent that you have. It''s rare and strange, but that''s okay. We are your friends, you know."

    ? ? ?

    All of that was several days ago and Harrence hadn''t yet explained to them the things that he could see, the bits of soul wandering free (or were they stuck?) to aid them in their hunt for murderous Enclave agents, and scourge the ones who persecuted them, and save the tender lives of hunted children.

    Ma''Tocha turned them south, no explanation, flying over roads like phantoms faint, as hidden to the nearby travelers as the ghostly heretics that followed them. The further south they went, the more he left his other life behind, those ancient times when he had had a proper family. A house, a farm, and neighbors he could name.

    Although he felt a little more alive, as days rode by, he hardly spoke at all. Instead of speaking he preferred to sign. Where signing was unnecessary, silence ruled his day. He focused on the kids, their little joys in finding secret places, animals hiding under rocks, or rabbit warrens in the roots of trees.

    Once, they found a hidden, ancient shrine. It seemed like it was carved from solid stone, unbroken by the cracks or seams he knew from everyday construction. Awed and tired, the cadre rested there and had a meal. It was a single room, surrounded by a forest overwhelmed with kudzu vines.

    "There''s nothing left around that eats this stuff. The singing deer have all been hunted out," Ma''Tocha said, "for skins as soft as silk and antlers made of iridescent bone. The trees will suffocate and die, and leave behind a mass of vines. It''s death by greed."

    They left the shrine behind them, slowed their pace, and well into the nighttime came upon a line of hills, soft and round like breasts. The grassy mounds invited appalons to graze upon their gentle slopes and rest. The ghostly Yara pointed there and signed.If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.

    Allies. Harrence knew the place she meant, how far it was, how many men were there.

    When Harrence passed the information on, Ma''Tocha looked suspiciously well pleased. She took the lead and guided them between the hills and to the camp, and rode through their watch lines without comment. There was a full-strength cadre there, three disciples and twelve bulwarks, thirty appalons picketed nearby, and two handlers for the animals.

    Something good was cooking, roasting meat full of southern spice and other smells that Harrence couldn''t name. The cadre traveled far to get there and brought with them all the foreign places they had been. Camping cold was normal practice in unfriendly territory: A fire''s light would have betrayed them. This new group cooked with heat emanating from a metal box, thin enough to pack away and carry. The miracle device depended on practitioners to power it but there was no doubting its convenience.

    Supposedly they''d never met, and yet Ma''Tocha and the other cadre''s leader, Thalia, exchanged warm greetings. They started with the traditional. "We meet in the light," said one, and the other said, "Let''s walk as sisters." Then they embraced each other like they were family, united after many months apart. They must have met before, On The Wind (as they liked to say), and spent time together that way.

    Thalia was very young, at most a middling twenty-five, yet her command of others was sure: they looked to her for direction, even though most of them were older, soldiers and guardsmen mostly, plus one that might have been Kashmari, judging by the color over his eyes and on his lips. If Harrence had felt like talking he might have blurted something awkward, but his long silence saved him. He soon would learn that confusing a Calique with Kashmari was the gravest insult.

    "And you must be Harrence." Sister Thalia had a bit of a snout and clever pointed ears, strong beast traits marking her for leadership. Harrence offered her the Nexus bow that he had learned, a hand over his heart, a slight tipping from the waist, his eyes never leaving hers.

    "He isn''t speaking much," his disciple told the newcomer. "He''s still recovering from depletion."

    "Then this is a perfect time. I can start with him when the sun is up. Does he know?"

    "Not yet." Ma''Tocha turned to Harrence. "Thalia is here to train you in some basics. You don''t have to, but I think it''s for the best."

    Me? He signed. By which he meant, "did she bring all of this out here just for me?"

    "There''s more than one mission afoot. Nexus isn''t asking you to become a disciple, not unless that''s a path you choose. But whatever you''ve been doing lately, you''re doing with the help of spirit. Training will open doors to new techniques, and strengthen you in preparation to hunt the last defender. Don''t worry," she nearly laughed at him, "it doesn''t hurt. It''s not at all like the weapon drills I put you through."

    "Sensing spirit and controlling it directly used to be very hard, very advanced stuff," Thalia explained, "and only veterans like Ma''Tocha could do it. But Nexus teaches those skills as foundational, with equipment I''ve brought along. What''s his range, now?" The question was aimed at Ma''Tocha.

    "He spotted you eleven kilometers away."

    "Impressive. Let''s try to make it twenty," said Thalia with ambition.

    After dinner cooked on miracle stoves, they had another miracle. Thalia produced a bowl-shaped piece of wood. "It''s just a dress rehearsal," she explained, which was no explanation at all. "Eldest Brother wants the show to run without any problems." The other cadres seemed to know what was coming, as did Ma''Tocha. But Harrence, Dash, Marlowe, and Callie had no clue.

    And then the choir started. Hymns he knew from childhood but sung in ways he''d never heard before, by voices trained for grand basilicas to sing for lords and kings in silken finery, and masses gathered for grand religious holidays in Unity City, issued from the oddly-shaped instrument in front of him. More than music filled him, awe and wonder and something else, a meal he was starved for, craving with a part of himself he hadn''t known existed.

    It wasn''t just the music. There was a sermon about scripture and lessons that could be drawn from it, given by a priest who was a gifted orator. Then, there was more music, followed by news of current events. The reader took them all over Tenobre and everything that Nexus disciples were doing while always being hunted by forces paid (or threatened) by Enclave. Dace was mentioned too, and Enclave''s outrages there.

    Harrence had taken his girls into a larger town a few times for big market days, and to see how other people lived. It had been their idea, not his, but the three of them had been captivated by the staged reviews of groups of entertainers. That''s what this was, but the acts were better, and people would flock to it. Every hamlet would want a sounding board.

    After all the miracles were over Harrence bedded down with Marlowe again, separate from the others, an increasing recurrence. He felt substantial that night, almost real, in a way he hadn''t for a while. It happened while she was making herself comfortable against him, and draped his arm over her shoulder just so: he found his voice.

    "Thank you." They held hands until they fell asleep.

 Begin at the Beginning

    Begin at the Beginning

    "This is you. And the light around you is your spirit." True to her word, Sister Thalia had propped up a half-length mirror of startling clarity and smoothed a place for Harrence to sit cross-legged in front of it. The sister sat behind him, on a wooden stool shaped from green wood which put her head above his.

    The man who looked back at him was almost a total stranger. It wasn''t just the cloud of light surrounding him, shifting with his breath and moods. It was also the leather armor, the muscles shaped by training for a new purpose, his stylish hair kept trim by Marlowe''s comb and shears. Even his face was different, neatly shaved with cultivated sideburns. That was no farmer eyeing him from the glass, but a hardened mercenary in his prime, eyeing folks to see who might cause trouble.

    "Why can''t I see your spirit?" Thalia appeared behind him and above, her head partially cut off by the shortness of the looking glass.

    "I''m holding mine in, of course, so that you can see yours without my interference. The point of this exercise is to learn to feel your spirit and learn to control it. Better control leads to stronger prayers, exacting techniques, and more work with less spirit. Manipulation is an endless road with infinite levels of difficulty, but it begins here. Observe."

    The image of Sister Thalia was haloed by a yellow disk of light behind her, composed of layered blossom petals floating in the air. She held it long enough for him to get one good look, and then it faded. The mirror responded to the sudden lack of spirit by adjusting to show only his ill-defined aura. Harrence briefly felt embarrassed by his slack and lacking light until he remembered Thalia was there to do for his spirit what Ma''Tocha did for his body and his marshal skills: begin to give him basics. He didn''t shine like Brynn and Yara had but if he could learn to use the light he had, then it might help their ghosts (or whatever they were) find the peace they must be looking for.

    Harrence stared into the mirror and willed the light to brighten, or lessen, or simply neaten up its edges into a decent sphere, but nothing happened. The teacher''s lips tipped up in a smile, recognizing his troubles. Ma''Tocha, looking on from one side, guffawed at his face screwed up with effort.

    "Why aren''t you teaching me this?" he asked the more seasoned woman. "Aren''t you the Scourge of Bandits?"

    "I''ve never seen these things. I learned the old-fashioned way: half by years of practice and half by accident. Don''t mind me at all!"

    Thalia silenced them both with a lector''s impatient stare. Stop wasting class time.

    "Be still. Just watch and feel." She waved her hand through his light, and Harrence was startled.

    "I felt that!" He couldn''t say where he felt it, or what he might do about it, or if it was a good feeling or a bad one. But he felt something, akin to moths'' wings beating too close to his skin.

    While Harrence took instruction from Sister Thalia, most of her cadre left with all the extra appalons. The animals were loaded high with lightweight cargo, and he suspected all the bulky parcels were sounding boards. Suddenly, Sister Thalia had a thin stick in her hand and snapped it across his thighs. It stung without hurting much, but he started in surprise.

    "Don''t worry about them. Focus, or we''re just wasting time."

    "If I''m recovering, why is now a good time to learn this?"

    "You''ll be more sensitive right now, while your spirit is low and your feelings are raw. We won''t be doing any heavy work the first day, or maybe two. We''re just learning to feel. Now, let''s try again."

    They attempted several exercises, only a few of which he could actually do. He was surprised to learn that he could sense spirit manipulation with his eyes closed, no matter which direction it came from, up to a meter from his skin. Static spirit was harder, like identifying where a hidden ball enchanted with spirit was. By using breathing exercises, Harrence could influence his glowing nimbus, calming and expanding it. But, that influence was indirect, not the full control they sought.The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

    Sister Thalia ended the session as quickly as it had started. "You''ve had enough for now. Eat and rest. Take a nap if you need to. Then, start reading these."

    She handed him two books, The Disciple''s Handbook and Elements of Art. The first he knew about, having read some aloud to practice his rudimentary reading skills. Ma''Tocha made him practice daily, though it was Dash who often helped him with those lessons. The second book was new to him entirely, and filled with spirit exercises, diagrams, and advice.

    "Is it okay for me to have these?" he asked. He''d never had books of his own, and they seemed too much for him. These weren''t wooden slats, written on with brush and paint and tied together in a stack. The nicer books he''d seen were backed with cloth and fan-folded. What Thalia had handed him was made of paper, thinner and lighter than parchment, bound in simple leather. The letters inside were so even, so the same throughout, it made him wonder how they were made. Ma''Tocha''s Handbook was expensive parchment lettered in multiple hands.

    "It''s more than okay," said his new teacher, "it''s necessary. But if you lose them, you''ll have to pay to replace them. And we''re not making any more until we get more paper. So take good care of them."

    When they started up again, it was afternoon and Harrence had finally put his finger on what was bothering him. Two disciples and a bunch of appalons and bulwarks had left Thalia encamped, with only two guards of her own ˇŞ the minimum, according to the Handbook. She had brought books with her, just for him, and an enchanted mirror. Other missions were happening, ones that Ma''Tocha wasn''t taking part in just so he could learn. But ˇ­ they said they weren''t trying to make a disciple of him.

    He posed the question to both disciples, but it was Thalia who answered. "Ma''Tocha has observed that you''re very well informed about your surroundings. Perfectly informed. And yet you have no training of any kind. You''re obviously using spirit, any Nexus-trained disciple can tell just by being near you. For example, you were doing something just a little while ago, weren''t you? After lunch, when you were brushing down the appalons."

    Harrence had been on the opposite side of camp from Thalia on purpose, so she wouldn''t see the ghosts who gathered around him to convey their findings. There was a highway to the west, and caravans were passing by. A secret wallow between hills nurtured ripe thickets of blackberries. One of the hills was taller than the others and offered splendid views. While he was thus engaged with his ghosts, Sister Thalia had noticed something happening, despite their invisibility.

    "I was checking on the area," he admitted, but that''s all he wanted to say. Seeing ghosts wasn''t something he wanted to admit. If they knew he was seeing his dead daughters, they might think he was crazy or sacrilegious. They might do something to send them away. Harrence knew they had to go someday, but he wasn''t ready yet. He''d decided only recently that he was willing to live.

    "It seems you have talent, a unique one that does not depend on prayer or hymns. There aren''t any other practitioners of this particular art, that we know of. We don''t even know what this is. So ˇ­ what to do? Sister Ma''Tocha says your work as a scout is excellent and she wants your special skills developed, but our senior instructors are wary of tampering with talent they don''t understand. If we just handed you a Book of Prayers and hoped for the best, we could be hurting more than helping.

    "So, my instructions are to start you on the fundamentals of all arts: how to sense and handle spirit. When you''re ready to talk about," Thalia waved her hands at him, "whatever all of this is, Nexus will do whatever we can to help. What we won''t do is try to force you into the same mold as all the other disciples. You can learn the prayers if you want to, but it''s entirely your call."

    "First do no harm," Harrence said, quoting from the Handbook chapter Cautions for Healers.

    "Exactly. Spirit strength and control are just as important to a practitioner as body strength and coordination are to a fighter. It can only help you. And, Ma''Tocha has some other skills to train you in, once you have some time to study properly.

    "Now, if you''re rested, we should begin. And then Ma''Tocha will have you the rest of the afternoon for weapons."

    They went to work again, running through a bunch of exercises not covered in the morning, discovering what he was capable of today. Overall, it both excited and disappointed Harrence. The mirror brought into focus things he''d only glimpsed before, and hinted at such marvelous possibilities. But hints were only hints, and there were many basic things he couldn''t even begin to do. Mastery was far away.

    Interestingly, the children didn''t show up in the mirror, even when they sat near and watched. They weren''t visible by normal light, nor were they constructs of pure spirit.

    If they weren''t made of spirit, then what were they?

 Hidden Treasures

    Hidden Treasures

    ˇŞ Harrence ˇŞ

    Wearing a desert skirt and robe, his face disguised in Red Tower colors (carmine eyes, amber lips), with a long crop in his hand to guide the line of appalons who plodded under bags of grain, purchased from several towns not too far from the cadre''s camp and then repackaged to appear they came from further south, Harrence and the rest of Ma''Tocha''s cadre entered the trade city of Kashpam. The disciple was likewise in disguise, riding lead position side-saddle, dressed in gauzy finery. Marlowe was her attendant, feminine and demure beside her mistress, while Dash and Callie were also made up like Calique hunters. Apparently, Calique didn''t let their women take up weapons, so Callie was disguised not only as another nationality but also as a man. Dash was happy with the new disguise because it was high time for someone else to change their gender.

    That, and the robes were dramatic and impressively comfortable in the summer heat.

    Thalia''s Calique caravaner was with them, a man named Hushang, acting both as lead cargo handler and "spear", the head of a hunter team. The man was dark and thin, with nearly white hair and hard plates along his back. He was in charge of their disguises but, unlike the other "desert men", he made his face with umber and deep green.

    "If the guards try to question you, I will respond. There is a way these things are done, and they will know you aren''t Calique if you speak." Minutes later, Hushang mortified them with belligerence towards a gate guard, calling him a ''red spot upon the skin of Dace'' and ''not worthy to cross spears with desert chickens''. The guard replied in kind, comparing Hushang to withered bark on dead trees, ready to be chopped down for firewood.

    After several such exchanges, Ma''Tocha audibly sighed, impatient with the manly ordeal.

    "I have much to say to you little pup, by my lady has ridden all day in the sun. We''re bringing corn and wheat from Kashmar, and dates from farther south."

    "Dates! Show me!" The guard was visibly enthusiastic and, when shown the load of dense rectangular packages tightly wrapped in leaves, wanted to know where they''d be sold.

    "Public brokerage," said the spear, with meaningful glances toward his mistress. The implication was she was a dilettante, a lesser daughter of some rich family who was trading more for adventure than as a serious merchant. Probably, she was Kashmari, trying to escape the cloistered life imposed on women there. They had seen her like before, many times. Her caravan was too large for selling in a market stall, and too small for contracted work, altogether too in-between for an experienced trader. But the fact that she had dates would open doors. That suggested she was resourceful but not experienced.

    The sentries checked the load to verify their cargo, took a gate fee from Marlowe''s hand, and waved them in.

    The last Defender of Pure Faith was here, Harrence was sure of it. They never let the fragments of sun out of their sight, and the final fragment was in Kashpam. The defender had taken residence in a house beside the local temple, kicking out the priests and healers who were living there. A ghost boy with a wry smile, whose name was Edward when he lived, conveyed these facts to Harrence while standing silently near him. As casually as he knew how, Harrence moved his hand away from his body until it nearly touched the boy, and filled him up with spirit. Not completely of course, their ghostly appetites were bottomless, but Harrence pushed as much into Edward as he could without tiring himself and sent the boy to watch over the parsonage. Once the ghost was gone Harrence put his hand inside his money pouch and felt around for the smooth orange stone he knew was there. Ma''Tocha had filled it for him to draw on. It would have taken days for Harrence to fill the one spirit stone, but she had done it in minutes.

    Harrence had to be discrete because he was supposed to be guarding a door. Ma''Tocha was alone with some rotund merchant, and both parties had left their protection outside to glare at each other. The opposition fingered swords menacingly but to Harrence they looked afraid. Calique hunters had a reputation for wild ferocity, and wearing the full desert ensemble wasn''t exactly putting the merchant guards at ease. The pretend-Calique didn''t even bother to speak to their counterparts but stood in comfortable silence, to make the situation more tense.

    Ma''Tocha''s bulwark wasn''t worried about the merchant guard: they had a stack of prayers and couldn''t be overcome by such a paltry force, not with the numbers so far in their favor: only two Dacian soldiers for each bulwark.

    Finally, after an hour and a half of standing around, the door opened to the sounds of mutual laughter. Whatever deal they had closed was satisfactory to both parties and now they were down to the bureaucratic process of payment. All twelve guards, Ma''Tocha''s four and the merchant''s eight, followed the laughing, chatty pair across the street to an imposing building: Gull House.

    Like nearly all of Kashpam, Gull House was made of well-joined masonry, but it stood two full stories taller than its neighbors and had armed guards at the door. It also had a basement full of gold behind heavy locks, according to Yarra, a fact that explained the bas-reliefs of hanged men all along the building''s facade. It was a warning against theft.

    The group took over a large meeting room, where tea and jota were brought for customers while their armed escorts were pointedly ignored. Soon enough, they were joined by a tidy man in fine but understated clothing, who would arrange for gold and goods to be held in escrow until everything was gathered in one place and verified. The contract was recorded on boards describing the terms of the exchange: All the little caravan''s cargo would be sold for metal blooms (mostly copper) and garnet ore, and a little gold for traveling expenses.If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it.

    The back half of the building was for loading and unloading appalons, and rows of thick doors with heavy locks, concealing storage areas. By the time they got the appalons unloaded and stashed the cargo in their designated cells, the sun had set. Dates, sweet dates, were so valuable right now that the extra security was warranted.

    It would take two days, maybe three, for the transaction to close properly. Counterparties waited on other transactions, with counterparties who in turn depended on upstream deals to be completed, thus releasing funds and merchandise for downstream trades. And for every transaction thus lubricated, both Gull House and the city government took their fractions.

    Harrence had never imagined a place like Gull House. The thought that such an edifice existed just to secure large trades boggled him. The people in Gull House didn''t make anything, nor did they buy and sell like merchants. They didn''t own goods except the building itself and however much of their own gold was sitting in the basement vaults. They sold their services, like a Healer or an animal trainer, but what they ultimately traded in was trust.

    According to Marlowe, Kashpam wasn''t a large city, not when compared to the likes of Kashmar, Lavradio, or Unity City, but it was a very wealthy one for its size. Unity City, Dace''s Capital, wasn''t welcoming to foreigners except those belonging to the church. Kashpam was Dace''s southernmost city, near to Kashmar''s border and far away from the capital. Without the right connections, First Family connections, a merchant who arrived in Unity City with trains full of valuable goods would find themselves unable to unload a single sack of wheat. As a consequence, Kashpam was the farthest north most merchants dared to travel with their goods.

    Unsurprisingly, the First Families all had interests in Kashpam, and took on all the merchandise to sell it at a markup farther north. That was part of how the families grew so rich, by taking on the final, safest leg of trade for nearly everything bound for the magnificence of Unity City, host to Enclave and the heart of the church.

    Gull House was a rarity in that it had no direct association with First Families, a fact that explained its relatively small size. Several larger brokerages existed, but Ma''Tocha''s cargo was too small for them. Also, she wanted to avoid places where she might stumble upon distant relatives and be recognized.

    On their return trip to their inn, Harrence oggled a variety of beast traits on display in Kashpam far exceeding anything he''d ever seen. He''d never met someone with back plates like Hushang, or tails that ended in poufs of fur. All around him, there was skin and fur in colors he''d never seen at home, hues of greens and blues that felt mysterious to him but didn''t raise an eyebrow for anyone else. There were people with eyes like animals and spikes for hair. He''d never known the world was so large, and he was glad his girls got to see some of it before they moved on.

    At the depot where they stabled all their appalons, Marlowe pointed out the trains and the cartmens'' insignia that identified their owners and nationalities. Hyskos, Mialta, Lavradio, Gallia, Ullidia, Moldonia, and Kravikas were all well-represented, but nearly half the cars belonged to Dacian companies. Some of the cars looked recently active, but most of them had been parked for months, unable to make the long journey across the desert. The Calique''s desert sat smack in the middle of the continent, and the presence of a monster there had shut down cross-continental trade. Now everything had to go by ocean ship, a dicey proposition due to storms and giants in the deep, or cross the desert without using long-established highways or Calique escorts. Some Calique had recently taken to raiding caravans, and the route was considered even more dangerous than ocean voyages.

    When Marlowe told him the First Families owned the largest shipping vessels, Harrence wasn''t the least bit surprised.

    "You look strained, Harrence. Are you okay?" Those were the first words Ma''Tocha said as herself all day. The cadre had rented a private suite of rooms for lodging, a typical arrangement for wealthy merchants, and ordered food for twice their numbers. The inn''s kitchen was up to the task and sent them dishes cooked in Dacian and Kashmari styles. The disciple put up a privacy barrier as soon as the staff departed.

    "It''s a lot to take in. But you were right about the training, Sister Ma. It makes a difference. Did you know there are entire rooms full of gems? They aren''t fully cut or polished, but there''s tons of them, stashed away in those locked storage places all over town." Brynn, even less concerned with propriety now that she was dead, had been peeking inside all the cells. The most interesting ones were small and deliberately hard to access, but none had barriers against ghosts.

    "That''s ˇ­ actually very interesting." Ma''Tocha looked intrigued but shook off the tidbit for now. "What about the fragment? Did you find it?"

    "It''s in the parsonage, next to the temple. The defender wears it all the time. He has a handful of guards with him, six right now. So far, no one else has entered or left the house except to clean or deliver food."

    "This one can see through walls?" Hushang nearly yelled.

    "The mirrors have never left the Nexus training rooms, ever, except to bring one here for Harrence to study." Ma''Tocha smiled while she boasted, happy with her lucky find. "It''s a risk, but we have to stop Enclave from killing off so much talent, or there''ll be no one left to train."

    The six of them sat around a low round table and shared the dishes Calique style. They hadn''t had a real meal since leaving camp, so there was a lot of food moving around from the center platters to their plates, and from their plates into their mouths. Harrence loaded his plate quickly to ensure he would get some of everything even though he couldn''t eat it yet. He wasn''t done talking.

    "There are prisoners in the jail, a man and his daughter, kept separate from everyone else. They both have the talent. Hers is stronger than mine, I''m sure. I don''t know why they were arrested but," Harrence let the company fill in the blanks on their own. Two talented people were in jail, while the parsonage was occupied by a Defender of Pure Faith. The conclusion was as obvious as it was upsetting.

    "And there''s a camp of five hundred soldiers not far from here, all of them with mounts," added Harrence. "It looks to me like they''re waiting for something."

    "Yeah. They''re waiting for us to show ourselves," Dash offered to the group. "What''s the plan, boss?"

    "We wait. And we let Harrence do what he does." Ma''Tocha looked as tense as the rest of them felt. They were sitting in enemy territory right now, with the city''s guards plus five hundred cavalry nearby.

    "Tonight''s the first sounding board issue of Nexus News. A few days from now, all those soldiers will ride out and leave us free to act. Then we can finish this."

 The Last Defender

    The Last Defender

    ˇŞ Southern Dace ˇŞ

    All across southern Dace that night, in pubs and bars and mid-week temple services, in wealthy homes and healers'' offices, the sounding boards came alive and worked their miracles of music. The devices had been distributed for free, and the people who received them had been told "the church" (the merchant did not say which one) was spreading them all over Tenobre, starting in Dace. Those who gathered on the first night had little in the way of expectations. They were more curious than excited. More skeptical than hopeful. But when a strange merchant hands you a weird bowl and says that it will make noise at sundown, one must discover if the merchant''s claim is scrap-loaf.

    When the songs began, the little groups were astonished and enthusiastically called out to anyone near. You have to hear this! It''s a miracle from the church! Even the sermon was captivating, far better than the dulling recitations of the local priest. The name of Nexus wasn''t said until the sermon and the closing songs were done. Then came the notices, Nexus News, about all the work they were doing to save the people Enclave had abandoned. Revelations of Enclave''s sins were part of that.

    Some of the sounding boards were summarily destroyed moments after their true origin was revealed. But many people, especially those who''d lost someone to ''purifying fire'', listened avidly: The victims hadn''t died for heresy but to protect Enclave''s dogma of heritage. The so-called church would rather let the world suffer than admit the First Families weren''t special.

    In closing, the audience was told the schedule for future broadcasts, followed by a short selection of secular songs. Champions of Love was the last to play, followed by silence.

    In the hours and days that followed, church officials banned the sounding boards and mapped their known distribution. It didn''t go unnoticed that a certain group of hills lay in the middle of the zone of interest, and small groups of appalons had been seen around the area several times.

    A message was dispatched to Kashpam, and the forces there broke camp the same day.

    ˇŞ Harrence ˇŞ

    With all the transactions cleared, appalons loaded and hooked into a line, merchant and guards mounted, and the sun dipping towards the west horizon, the dilettante merchant and her caravan departed Kashpam by the south gate. When one guard, the youngest and least experienced of six at the gate, noted the odd time of their departure, Hushang scowled at him.

    "We are desert travelers. We plod at night and sleep in our saddles. How new are you, not to know the things that everyone knows?" The other guardsmen laughed at the youth''s red face and waved the caravan through. Harrence, who took up the rear, could hear them laughing still, until the guard who''d been singled out, snapped at them.

    "Why do we have to put up with those savages?"

    "They''re always like that," said their leader, "it''s how they say hello. As long as weapons don''t come out, they''re just messing with you."

    "If they''re too polite, they''re insulting you," said another. There was more talk about Calique as the experienced hands attempted to educate the newcomer, but the caravan left their doubtfully informed conversation behind.

    Ma''Tocha''s line plodded into twilight until the city was out of sight and no other travelers could be seen, and then she used the arts to hide them and drove off the road, circling back around and passing into farmland that surrounded the city. Then Harrence took the lead. They shot along lanes intended for two-wheeled carts. They dove through gaps in hedges made by children as their shortcuts. They wove their way through a wooded border along a muddy stream. Harrence''s crooked path ended at the best hiding place that his insubstantial friends could find: a mostly empty space between two rows of thorny blackberries.

    They had to cut the bushes back to make room enough for appalons to turn around but otherwise, it was an excellent spot. It was off the beaten path, nobody was around at the moment, it shielded them from view, and was practically a stone''s throw from Kashpam. (An enhanced disciple certainly could throw a rock that far.) The entrance to their hide-out was disguised with the cut canes, then sealed with a weak version of Sanctuary. Hushang received an ear cuff link and was instructed not to follow any orders unless the password was given, and told what to do if the mission went poorly.Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings.

    When darkness was well settled, Ma''Tocha and her bulwark ran the short distance to the city, climbed the walls with some help from the arts, and flowed along the streets toward the parsonage where the last Defender of Pure Faith was preparing for bed. They had traded in Calique disguises for their customary clothes and armor in hopes that, should they be seen, no one would connect them to the merchants they''d played that morning.

    The team came up to the parsonage carefully, avoiding groups of people on the streets so Overlook would not be accidentally pierced by strangers wandering too close.

    "Harrence," whispered Ma''Tocha.

    She didn''t need to say more than that. He focused on his ghosts, flush with spirit, filling his awareness with what they knew. The building had two stories with ten rooms, and a little garden in the back between the parsonage and the temple. The reeve of Harrence''s village could fit three of his houses into that manse.

    "Two at the front door. Four in the room beyond. The defender is alone in an office at the back, and he''s wearing the fragment on a chain around his neck. Don''t stumble at the entrance: there''s a huge pile of dishes, all the food they''ve ordered. I guess they didn''t bring a cook with them. Don''t fall all over them. There''s no one else in the house."

    "We''ll go around," decided Ma''Tocha. "In and out. Get the fragment, kill the defender, and leave."

    She led them to the other side of the building until they could see the man himself through the open window. The shutters were thrown wide to let in the cooling evening air. It was weird, observing him so closely without being seen. Harrence had heard the man bragging about the heretics he''d found and killed but from this angle, he was a simple churchman reading scripture peacefully in his spare time.

    What do you find in scripture that justifies your actions? wondered Harrence.

    It was Marlowe who took up her spear, overhand, aimed it carefully, then thrust it through the window with both hands. She pierced the defender''s skull and killed him instantly. She held his body up while Harrence climbed inside through the window, as silent as he knew how, and let the corpse down off her weapon and silently to the ground. He took the chain from around the man''s neck and touched the wooden capsule dangling from it. It was warm, with a heat that pushed against his new spirit senses. Harrence yanked the fragment off the chain and put it in his pocket.

    The room was filled with armed men! He didn''t know how it happened, where they had come from, or how they''d been hiding, but they were everywhere! He fled instead of fighting, dove out the window to tumble on the cobbles outside, only to find himself immobilized. There had to be dozens of them, arms and legs and torsos everywhere, grabbing and pulling and pinning him down, too many even for Ma''Tocha''s enhancements to overcome. He tried to twist out of their grips and speed away, but they were just as fast as him, just as strong as him, and there were so many more of them. Invulnerable armor didn''t help him, not with ten men piled on top of him. He couldn''t even draw his weapon. Before Harrence could form a coherent thought about his situation, he was face-down on the ground with his arms tied behind him. He tried to break the bonds, but the leather thongs cut cruelly into his flesh.

    "Bind the disciple with these!" It was a woman''s voice, followed by the sound of heavy chains of metal. Harrence couldn''t see Ma''Tocha, but he heard her struggling, then groan as the metal restraints took hold of her. It was a noise like Harrence never thought to hear from her: pain, horror, and despair.

    Harrence longed to see his fellow bulwarks, to see if they still lived, to see what harm had come to Ma''Tocha, but he couldn''t see anything with his face shoved in the ground. Slowly, he realized that these people who came from nowhere could have killed his party, but they hadn''t. They had other plans for Ma''Tocha and her bulwark. He wasn''t sure if that was a bad omen or a good one, but he stopped his struggling so he could listen and think. They weren''t dead yet.

    Harrence felt all his enhancements fade away. The men on top of him grew heavier and heavier until he couldn''t breathe. He tensed his core and took shallow breaths, but it still wasn''t enough. He couldn''t get enough air. He felt his face turning colors as he slowly suffocated. His sight darkened around the edges.

    I''m going to die here, with men''s knees on my back, he thought. Suddenly, they hauled him upright and let him breathe. He gasped and silently begged for his vision to clear. After several breaths, breaths which shamed him with gratitude towards his captors, he could make out shapes around him, darker shadows against the night. Rough hands searched him everywhere, took things from him, but Harrence didn''t care.

    He couldn''t see Ma''Tocah! What had they done to her? Where were Marlowe, Dash, and Callie?

    "Let me see her!" It was the woman''s voice again, excited, hopeful. "Ma''Tocha, Scourge of Bandits! We''ve captured Heretic Ma''Tocha!" She laughed, exalting in her achievement with joy and cruelty all at once. "I''ve done it! Oh, this is sweet! A thousand pirates couldn''t do it, but I have Ma''Tocha in chains!"

    The voice giggled, followed by a sigh of deepest satisfaction. "It''s been a long time, Auntie Ma."

 Family Disunion

    Family Disunion

    ˇŞ Harrence ˇŞ

    The prisoners were hauled onto their knees and into a rough line. The bulwarks were tied with leather, but Ma''Tocha''s hands were shackled in a metal Harrence didn''t recognize, heavy, dull gray manacles with a chain between them. She tried to summon her spirit and say a prayer to shape the manacles off of her, but she was met with a backlash of pain. Her hands turned colors: from pink, to red, to almost purple. Finally, she gave in and stopped trying to use spirit.

    "Katerina," Ma''Tocha panted, "you''ve come a long way. In the wrong direction."

    "It''s Dean Katerina now, and I''m on the right side. The winning side. Oh gosh, how many years has it been? Seven, right? Since you stormed out of the family meeting? You never write, you never visit, you just abandon us. And then you show up, running around Dace, killing my Defenders of Pure Faith. I can find plenty more where they came from, but the paperwork ˇ­"

    She laughed again, a little too gleefully to be perfectly sane. The woman who had captured them wore a walking dress of expensive monster hide, tanned and worked until the leather was as soft as wool, then extravagantly tooled with intricate designs. Her round, brown face was decorated by subtle yellow ripples ˇŞ a Korolo family trait that Ma''Tocha apparently lacked. What frightened Harrence, more than the surprise attack or the fact the woman might be mad, was the glow of spirit shining from her. She lacked Ma''Tocha''s delicate control but she was just as powerful as the famous disciple.

    "What you''re doing is monstrous. I thought Enclave had abandoned the Work, but it''s so much worse than that, isn''t it?"

    The Enclave dean dropped her mock concern for spite. "The Work is ensuring Enclave''s preeminence for a thousand years. Spirit should be used on the worthy. The lucky recipients must pay us our due. Your rag-tattered pretend church will never understand that. You''ll be swept away."

    "You always were good at getting paid, Kat. I remember a girl who demanded her allowance on time and then counted the coins to make sure it was all there. You even wrote out receipts. It used to be adorable when you were little. I guess we all should have taken it for a warning."

    "There''s nothing wrong with the righteous getting their due. You know, I''ve never burned a family member but I''m looking forward to it."

    Dean Katerina rummaged through the collection of confiscated articles heaped on the dead cleric''s desk. Ear cuff links, spirit stones, weapons, a small amount of money, and the holy symbol Ma''Tocha normally wore around her neck. "Sticking with the humble wood symbol, I see. So pointless. You can afford a little silver, and a gem or two. Live a little, Auntie.

    "Now, these are interesting." Katerina separated the links that had been taken from Ma''Tocha and Dash. "Have you stooped to practicing the ancient arts? What do these do? How do you use them?"

    "They''re protective devices. But they''re bloodbound. You can''t activate them."

    "Ancient arts and blood magic. You should be ashamed. And these little beauties!" She picked up one of the spirit stones. "No wonder your disciples seem to have so much spirit. You''ve been cheating! Your little Phillip may be low-born, but no one can deny he''s clever. But where are the rest of the fragments?" Only two fragments were in the pile before her, Ma''Tocha''s and the last defender''s, marked by their distinctive wooden capsules.

    "I sent them south already."

    "That''s a lie," said Katerina dismissively to her soldiers, "she''d never leave them too far out of her sight. They must have a camp nearby. Search the outskirts of the city and find it!" The men saluted her and hastened out, leaving two men to handle the prisoners.

    While Katerina had been addressing her men, Ma''Tocha had gone back to testing her restraints. Whatever she was doing was causing her to be punished: her hands were turning purple.

    "They''re effective, aren''t they? The harder you try to get out of them, the more damage they cause. You''re going to die in those restraints. If you''re good, you''ll die a little later. You''ve had a good run, but age makes way for youth. The student overcomes the master."

    "And Enclave," croaked Ma''Tocha through the pain, "it a rotten old thing. It will fall so a true church can rise."

    That was when the ghost of Brynn, Harrence''s older daughter, attached herself to Katerina. It looked like the girl was riding piggyback, with her head resting on the dean''s shoulders, so she could better follow her host''s activities. But there was nothing playful or benign about what she was doing there. She was taking spirit, bleeding the Enclave disciple bit by bit.

    Not too fast, Harrence willed, or else she''ll notice. Yara, Edward, and the two other children (Harrence had never learned their names) were standing around the room or floating in mid-air, watching Brynn gradually gain substance from her sustenance, and slowly turning from wispy and translucent to opaque. How long would Katerina ignore the girl on her back?

    "I''ve always admired that about you, Auntie. You''re so indomitable. I''ll make a deal with you, since we''re family: read Oath of Loyalty and I''ll let you and your bulwark live. I''ll even let you continue ''the Work'', with some new guidelines in place. Someone has to rub shoulders with the destitute and dirt farmers. It sure isn''t going to be me."

    Ma''Tocha decided for all of them, without asking and without pause. "That oath makes people insane. I''d rather die first. I''d rather we all die first." She had stopped her struggling, and her hands were changing back to their normal color. But it must have been painful, because she kept working her fingers to get her circulation going again.

    "If you refuse to turn, then you''ll be purified by fire. All of you. You will die in agony, while people cheer for your death. And after all you''ve done for them, too. Until then," a slim and silver knife appeared in Katerina''s hands, "we have to do something about all your lies about Enclave. We can''t have you spreading them while you''re waiting to die. Hold her!"Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

    One of the soldiers in the room grabbed Ma''Tocha by the head. Her body struggled, but her head was held steady.

    "By all means, fight all you want. It makes this so much better for me. Last chance: turn or burn?"

    All that he had been through recently, the deaths of his girls, traveling with a disciple, being surrounded by ghosts, visiting hamlets wracked with grief, the fighting, the killing, the training, had left its mark on Harrence. The farmer would have cringed fearfully, or worried for Ma''Tocha, but the bulwark knew how tough she was. As long as she didn''t die, almost anything could be healed. They could all be mangled to within an inch of their lives, and they could still be put together. They only had to live.

    Ma''Tocha, once Katerina''s teacher and now her captive, looked the younger woman in the eye. "I should have let you die in Miala."

    "Well. You''ll have just enough time on your hands to regret it, while you wait for your execution date." She grabbed Ma''Tocha''s chin with her empty hand and squeezed with enhanced strength until the jawbone cracked. "Now open up and say ''ah''! One little slice and it''ll all be over."

    Now, thought Harrence, sending every bit of will he had to the ghostly children. The dean might not notice an attack while in the throes of victory.

    Ma''Tocha jerked her head, and the knife slashed Ma''Tocha''s mouth wide open to halfway up her cheek. Blood welled up, Katerina''s hold strengthened, and the knife went into her mouth again. Katerina''s eyes were as keen as her blade, avid witnesses to the woman''s helplessness.

    "I always hated your twisted moralizing. That finally ends today!"

    All the ghosts were on her now, hanging from her limbs, mouths buried in her flesh like leeches.

    "What''s that?" The silver knife withdrew. Katerina released her victim and turned to look behind her, then turned again, seeking what was constantly behind her. Her empty hand snapped out and slapped Ma''Tocha across the face. "Who else is here? Tell me!"

    Ma''Tocha had to spit out a stream of blood to answer, her words slurred by her slashed face. "There''s only us. Are you losing it, Kitty Kat?"

    "Idiot!" Katerina backhanded the older woman across her bloody cheek. Blood misted onto walls and the ceiling from the impact, and Ma''Tocha spit again. "I''ll start killing your followers if you don''t answer!"

    "Test me with the light if you don''t believe me." Ma''Tocha was eerily calm.

    Katerina''s knife hand wavered, and the blade rang against the floor. Her eyes expanded, white and wide and terrified.

    Novice that he was, Harrence didn''t sense what had alarmed the dean so much until the deed was done. Her bulwark''s enhancements drained away, and Katerina herself didn''t shine bright and powerful anymore. At first, he thought it was because the ghosts latched onto her had grown so bright, but no. She was positively dull. Her flesh was pale, and her eyes lost their color.

    Katerina tried to speak, but words froze on her lips. White foam flecked with red filled her mouth and nose. She fell and thrashed wildly, arms and legs everywhere, beating everything. Katerina tried to scream, but it was drowned in a gurgle of bloody slobber.

    The light came for her ˇŞ not sunlight or candlelight, and not the light of the spirit, but that final light that only Harrence and his pack of martyred children could see. The Enclave disciple, their architect of persecution and possible madwoman, never went into that light. The children tore at her with vengeful hands, ripped apart the part of her that should endure beyond her flesh, shredded it into non-existence. There was nothing left of her to pass on.

    Katerina''s body, colorless, limp, legs and arms wide, lay empty on the floor.

    "What the hell is that!" The guard who wasn''t holding Ma''Tocha drew a short sword and brandished it at the nearest ghost. Three of them had taken on the forms they had when they died: hairless, blackened skin, small fists clenched against their chests, eyes like cooked eggs staring.

    "They are your sins," said Harrence. "You helped her burn them alive, and now they want revenge."

    The soldier holding Ma''Tocha let her go so he could draw his weapon. But, there were five dead children for the two of them, and the fighter''s enhancements had died before Katerina did. "Get back! Get away!"

    Harrence allowed himself a smile, just a small one, full of satisfaction. "Swords won''t help you now. You can''t touch them. But they can eat you. You should run now."

    Suddenly, the cadre had the room to themselves.

    ? ? ?

    ˇŞ South of Kashpam ˇŞ

    "The unburnt ones are my girls, Yara and Brynn. The other three were gifted children too. But they left a little after those mercenaries fled. There''ve been others, but mostly they don''t stick around for very long."

    "When you say they left ˇ­ " Ma''Tocha prompted.

    "They moved on like people are supposed to. I''m concerned about my girls still being here," he sighed the sigh of parental love and exasperation, "but they never did follow convention very well. Why would they change now?"

    They rode south, at a normal pace and with the flow of other travelers heading towards Kashmar. Ma''Tocha and Harrence were in the lead together so they could talk, she in her merchant disguise and Harrence dressed as a Calique. Hushang and the pretend-Calique bulwark kept an eye on their plodding caravan of appalons. Their goal was far past Kashmar, in the desert: Nexus.

    "I''m sorry I didn''t tell you. I know you wanted to help but, for a long time, I thought I was going crazy. After the thing with Antonio, I didn''t know how to explain anything. I still don''t know what this is."

    "Soul Sight." Ma''Tocha put a term to his talent. "You can see souls. And you have some influence over them too, or they wouldn''t stick around and do things for you. Your particular talent is beyond rare. I don''t know how to train it, but Phillip says he has ideas. And when Phillip the Younger has ideas, things happen."

    After several minutes of silent riding, Harrence suddenly laughed. "They''re excited right now. They found a creek with big bugs in it. What is yay big, has a hard shell, ten legs, two big pincers, and long antennas out of its head?"

    "Could be river crayfish," smiled the disciple, "you get a lot of them this far south." Another minute later she asked, "They''re delicious. Is it on the way?"

    Getting free and getting away had been easy once the guards had fled. Katerina had been hiding in a large part of the mansion that she shielded with Sanctuary, along with the bulk of her forces. That''s why the cadre didn''t know she was there, although the stack of dirty dishes should have been a clue. Once Ma''Tocha knew to look for it she had little trouble finding the barrier, breaking it, and raiding what was inside. They took the documents, money, and their leave before any of the mercenaries returned.

    On their way out of town, they rescued the father-daughter pair from jail. It had been ridiculously easy. Marlowe used the dean''s stash of official correspondence to create official-looking orders, on Dean Katerina''s authority, to release the captives to the bearer of the letter. The condemned prisoners came listlessly along, following their newest captors into the night. Ten minutes out of Kashpam, Ma''Tocha freed them and invited them to Nexus.

    "So," ventured Harrence, "we can have crayfish for lunch, then head into a desert in the middle of summer. Then what?"

    "The plan is to get these two into training." The disciple looked back at the father/daughter pair, who were pinching each other to prove they weren''t dreaming. "There''s a place for you too, if you want it. At the very least, Phillip wants to thank you personally for all you''ve done. And, since we''re going into the desert, there will be plenty of new things to see. The Calique are fascinating people, and the desert is beautiful in its own way. I think your girls will like it."

    Harrence laughed, "I think they''re going to love it."

 The Nature of Fate

    The Nature of Fate

    ˇŞ Pashtuk Garden ˇŞ

    With only remote meetings to attend and no classes to give, most of Taylor''s time was his. He trained with his bulwarks in the early mornings, followed by breakfast cooked by Iraj, and then a little time watering the garden. The simple work of pulling water up from wells and letting it flow into narrow irrigation channels was physically satisfying and kept the garden from burning up in the hottest part of the year. The garden could survive without the extra water but would benefit from their efforts. Anisca was bringing most of Pashtuk''s people home with her, and Taylor didn''t want their first sight to be himself squatting in a neglected, sun-burned garden.

    With only two other disciples around Taylor could let his spirit unfurl, let it bloom until it covered the entire garden and beyond. Inside the confines of Red Tower, he would have swamped the mirrors with his spirit until the novices couldn''t see their own reflections to train. With hardly anyone else around he could spread out a little, feel the territory around him, manipulate currents of spirit without worrying about how it would affect his trainees.

    Like any good desert dweller, he rested during mid-day hours. Early evenings were for reading Pashtuk''s small library. He found the room full of books, stacks of painted wooden boards, connected to the circle''s meeting room. Most were records of past harvests, weekly summaries lined with small brushes. But some of the rope-bound volumes were histories. Taylor found the oldest of these and made new copies, using the arts to shape deadwood into writing surfaces and paint words on them as fast as he could read the originals.

    Some ancient disciple, an especially talented one who must have hated copying by hand, had created a prayer, a so-called "cryptic" that quoted scripture but didn''t come from Book of Prayers. When Taylor made a new origin for Nexus he kept the Enclave cryptics (he knew them all) and added several of his own. Hunting scripture for the cryptics was a rite of passage for his students, proof that they had learned the basics well enough to seek new prayers on their own. The very best of them were quick to ask how they could make cryptics of their own.

    Taylor could only smile: most of them had so far to go. Practice silent prayer. Learn to pound out tirun armor scales by the hundred. Master instant prayer. Make a fragment of sun. Make a score of fragments. Then the path to mastery will be open. That''s what he told his best students. Strangely, the list of feats did not dissuade them. They knew the heights he spoke about were reachable: hadn''t Phillip the Younger done so already? He had even left them markers along the way.

    At night, after any remote meetings, he worked on the communication system for his informants. The requirements were tricky. Informants could talk to Nexus but not each other, while Nexus had to talk to all of them. The devices had to be discrete, innocuous, and unique. If one was somehow discovered for what it was, the other links couldn''t be compromised. And they had to be reliably powered: that was the trickiest sticking point. It was one thing to power sounding boards with beads of semi-precious stones and cobble together an underground network of healers willing to recharge them (for a nominal fee), but Taylor didn''t want his listening network compromised because the links needed mana.

    The cycle that threatened human life on planet Tenobre was due to mana exuded by the local sun, waxing and waning on a cycle eleven hundred and nine years long. The cycle was on the upswing, causing more and bigger monsters to appear. But all that excess mana could be a source of power, too. The ancients had known this: Taylor had salvaged mana-charging solar panels from an ancient mecha. The giant machine had been a menace but, once defeated, it yielded a treasure trove of materials and ideas.

    With remote collaboration from Sir Farr and Madam Lilian, his artificers, Taylor created miniature versions of the salvaged solar panels. Once he had a working cell and had the hang of making them quickly, he embedded them into all kinds of everyday things. His favorite was a lady''s folding fan, with micro-etching that shimmered in the sun like peacock''s feathers. He made mana-charging panels into picture frames, decorative boxes, brooches, a square stonework vase, and anything else he could think of that could sit quietly in the sun and maybe not be noticed. Tiny baguettes of spirit stones (garnet was convenient for its hardness and commonality) were hidden inside, capable of storing enough mana to power a link for a full day of active use.

    The links themselves were also disguised as common things. Earrings, bracelets, hat pins, buttons, pen knives, and paperweights. Anything small enough to hold against one''s ear would do. When the links ran out of power they were charged by placing them onto the panels to absorb the mana stored within.Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

    The listening station looked like a switchboard, with a wired headset and rows of lights. When a link was activated its corresponding light went on in the console. The operator plugged their headset into a little hole beneath the light and they could talk to the informant. The switchboard was modular and expandable, a concept that excited Farr and Lilian to no end. Taylor had his artificers build the console at Red Tower, and they tested each link as Taylor brought them online.

    It should have been a great week for Taylor, a chance to enjoy his training and crafting mostly unencumbered by the daily headaches of leadership. But he started getting headaches on the fourth day. He was constantly aware of being, not exactly watched, but more like being pointed at. Selected. Fingered. He could not escape the sense of being followed by a dire premonition that grew in strength every day.

    Taylor was being summoned. And summonings were never good things. Never, not once in a century of bouncing between worlds, had Taylor arrived in a new place and thought to himself, "Jackpot! I''m so lucky to be here."

    In a few more years it might not matter, but Nexus was in its infancy. Whatever desperate soul was calling him, whether they be an imperial mage, mad researcher, dying youth, or (most recently) feckless Lavradian king, they''d have to wait. He wasn''t done with Tenobre yet, and he had the means to resist. On the first day the summons started, Taylor gathered his bulwarks and gave them their instructions. Inez, Mila, and Milo had been through this once before, but the Tabuas were new.

    "The last time this happened, you were badly hurt," Mila reminded him, "you need to tell Mahzad and Khali. I know you don''t like to share this with anyone outside our group, but I think you should."

    "That was awful," added Milo, remembering their mad dash by gurantor to the nearest healer. "I am not doing that again. But Sister Khali was there too, remember? You''d just poached her and her two friends from Enclave. So, she already knows. It''s only Mahzad you''re telling."

    Inez agreed. "That''s prudent. Two healers are better than one."

    So Mahzad and Khali were brought into his confidence and took the news in stride. Big magic incoming. Explosions imminent. Emergency healing might be required, so sleep in shifts and keep your stones full. To them, it was another day at Nexus.

    The days of impending doom dragged on for Taylor, gradually pulling more and more of his focus away from crafting and into the summoning that dogged him. Whatever spell his summoner was weaving hadn''t reached him yet: there was no mana present. There was only that finger of fate pointing at him, the leading edge of any summons.

    To summon anything, the summoner first had to choose the thing to be summoned, a major feat all on its own. Not just anyone would do. There were two general cases of summoning. One type was convenience, or looking for the easiest person to summon. Yanking a newly deceased soul from its predefined transit and shoving it inside a mostly intact body was relatively simple when you didn''t care what kind of end product you got. Taylor''s first few summonings had been as good as accidents, plucking him from between lives to carry on the lives that others had given up on. Wrong place, wrong time. What made the summoning so easy was the lack of interference from the physical world: souls that were entangled with physical bodies and events were hard to move, but souls untethered were easy, relatively speaking.

    In other situations, the summoner was looking for a kind of hero, a term that carried different definitions depending on their desires. The divination searched the cosmos looking for some special attribute: magical or martial power, intense charisma, or even the ability to rule. These summonings skewed heavily towards, "I need a powerful fighter who will kill my enemies and not ask too many questions."

    The worst summonings, like the one that brought Taylor to Tenobre, like the one he was facing now, had Fate magic mixed in. The caster made a desired prediction (the prophecy), and their magic would find the person who fit that future best. Fate magic was, in Taylor''s most unhumble opinion, selfishness posing as foresight; A trap disguised as wisdom; A poison chalice best left untouched; The worst cheat in all magic.

    A key component of any Fate magic was in the telling of it. If none of the parties who were directly involved knew about the prophecy, then it wasn''t any likelier to come true than if the prediction had never been made. But when the prophecy was shared, the receivers of that future were thereby entangled with it. Their present states became dependent on the foreseen future: that was the foundational truth of Fate magic.

    Every world has the familiar stories: A man hears a prophecy that he will kill what is most dear to him and sets out on a path to avoid it, only to play directly into the prediction with his actions. It wasn''t a tragedy; it was a trap. Hearing the prophecy entangled the unfortunate receiver with their tragic future selves, and made escape almost impossible.

    So Taylor didn''t look. He didn''t read the reasons written on the wall of his consciousness, or try to pry into why he was being chosen. Whatever predicate was being cast into the cosmos, looking to ensnare his soul, Taylor didn''t want to know. Maybe it would be somebody else''s problem, or maybe it would altogether fail. Maybe the royal wizard of some intolerant king was about to lose his head for ineptitude. Whatever. It wasn''t going to be Taylor''s problem.

    All Taylor had to do was wait for the magic to start, so he could counter it.

    Naturally, it came at a most inconvenient time.

 The Summoning

    The Summoning

    Anisca arrived before dawn, with the entirety of Nexus''s gurantor fleet. All the Pashtuk people who were hosted by Dagono had returned, except those working for Red Tower ˇŞ they had committed for a season and would stay as promised. The beasts would be given a day to rest and let the humans unload cargo, and then trains would turn north. Another thousand Pashtuk were being hosted by Bitter Spring, who would be overjoyed to send them home.

    Nexus forces came with them: two cadres of disciples (mostly former Enclave healers), their bulwarks, and a few priests who doubled as song leaders.

    Taylor hadn''t slept well, but Anisca couldn''t wait to tell him about the arrangements she had made, the deals she had struck, and the important things she had learned. She likely wanted praise. Maybe she deserved it. But Taylor couldn''t listen properly with the throbbing sense of doom hovering over him. They were sitting in an anteroom of the local temple (seldom used by the looks of it) in a room he liked to use for reading because it got just the right amount of sun, drinking a local root-based infusion that allegedly improved one''s vitality, while Anisca''s words were being swallowed up by the adobe walls.

    Something something can''t make Nexus something something won''t partake if something something blurr blurr blurr.

    "It''s starting." Taylor''s voice sounded distant, even to him, but the first threads of mana were unmistakable. Tendrils of spatial interference were reaching out to him.

    The Tabuas were on duty and Otavio had "the box", a rectangular case longer than Taylor''s arm with a strap along one side so he could sling it over his shoulder. Otavio held it out for Taylor to grab in passing. In seconds he was out of the room, over the wall, out of Pashtuk.

    Taylor ran, as fast as he could, through Pashtuk''s mischus while ignoring scattered greetings and warnings not to step on plants. He had kept a stack of suitable enhancements on himself for days, which hadn''t helped his sleep situation but saved him time when it mattered. The summoning spell would take several minutes to assemble fully so he had enough time. He just didn''t have any time to waste.

    Taylor went past the mischus and into the desert proper before he stopped. He laid the box down and opened it to access the four items inside. The first was a sheet of paper with magic circles drawn on it. The second item was a large bag of tiny oblong beads, made of silver alloyed with traces of manganese and other metals. Using the paper as his reference, Taylor drew lines of mana in the empty air and along the ground, then tossed handfuls of silver beads into the design. The beads stuck together end-to-end, forming lines along his mana, transmuting his invisible latticework of protective inscriptions into a wireframe pyramid, tall enough for him to stand in comfortably. When all the faces looked complete and neat, he fused the beads together. In theory, he could do this without a physical element, but why leave anything to chance?

    The third item in his box was his power source: a rod of blood-red emerald, a flawless hexagonal crystal that took up the full length of the box. It was the biggest spirit stone in Taylor''s arsenal, capable of holding eight days'' worth of his spirit. As a gemstone, it was ludicrously valuable: ultra-rare, flawless, and massive. As a spirit stone, it was too large for normal use. He could make more of them of course, from beryl ore and base metals, but the only applications were industrial. It was too large to carry conveniently, and channeling so much power could injure most practitioners. On the other hand, an inscription made from kilograms of high-capacity alloy could handle that much and more.

    Taylor laid the rod down along one edge of the pyramid, inside a rectangle surrounded by glyphs for draining mana. The four stones he normally carried with him, made of sturdy chrysoberyl, were slotted into receptacles at the center of each face of the pyramid. The smaller stones would buffer the mana supply and make the device more responsive to attacks or other kinds of turbulence.

    As Taylor''s inscription filled with spirit, it drove away the spatial magic that was trying to surround him. The opposition''s spellwork crept around his cage, slowly enveloped it, seeking cracks and crevices like a hungry octopus probing coral with its suckered arms, hunting for the hidden fish inside. The divination factors were certain of his location, but the spatial magic couldn''t touch him.

    The last item in the box was a device that converted carbon dioxide into carbon and oxygen. In keeping with the day''s theme, it was a little pyramid about twenty centimeters tall. The trinket needed more work ˇŞ it was supposed to collect the carbon in a bin that made up the majority of its bulk, but it tended to spread the fine particles everywhere. If he was stuck inside the pyramid for long enough, Taylor would come out looking like a coal miner.

    The last time someone had tried to summon him from Tenobre, all he had was a smaller rod full of spirit and raw determination. The blowback had nearly killed him, and his followers had to rush to find help. This time he was prepared, at least in theory, and prayed to Olyon that his hard work would pay off.

    Also unlike last time, he had minutes to spare. Minutes to watch the spellwork surround his space. Minutes to worry if his followers were pulling people into the city, so they wouldn''t get caught in whatever insanity was about to happen. Plenty of time for doubts to creep in. Time enough to wonder if the mage (or mages, more likely) on the other side could tell that something was going wrong and adjust. At the very least, they had to know the mana cost of their spell had quadrupled. Most summonings worked by swapping spaces instead of things, and Taylor had isolated himself in a shape more than four times larger than his body volume. To get him, the spell would need to swap the volume of several young men. Maybe the rise in costs would cause the distant foe to abandon their project. He could only hope.The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

    Taylor felt the lattice of inscriptions fully activate, and the walls of his cage turned colorless. He was truly isolated now. The only air he had to breathe was what he had inside the pyramid. The only light was from a tiny node at the cage''s apex. The only sound was his breath and the thumping heart inside his chest. There was nothing on the other side of the inscription: no earth or sky, no sun or stars, not even the emptiness of deep space. He was imprisoned in a speck of matter, in the great void of nothingness outside all creation. There was no escape now, nor anywhere to escape to.

    Taylor leaned away from maddening thoughts and toward his inscription. He couldn''t see what was happening in Tenobre, but he could read the battle''s progress from his device''s functioning. First, the pyramid stole power from the opposition to help maintain the dimensional effect. When spatial isolation circuits neared their maximum, the pyramid of magic circles began stripping electrons from their nuclei and packed the altered matter into a dense mass, right where Taylor was supposed to be. When the attackers exchanged some of their space for Tenobre''s, they were going to receive a plasma bomb. It probably wouldn''t kill anyone; any decent summoner would have protections in place. But it should wreck their summoning room and serve a warning: try different search parameters next time.

    The opposition had extraordinary resources. Whoever they were, they weren''t giving up. After the replacement space was filled with plasma, the summoning kept coming, kept trying to touch Taylor and bring him through. With the stones and wireframe full of mana, and the exchange space packed with all the plasma it could hold, the glyphs for dumping excess energy switched on. An outside observer would see a cone of light shoot up from the protective shell. It would start out white, but gradually split into all the colors of the rainbow. That last touch was inefficient and entirely unnecessary, but it made Taylor happy. If one must attract attention, one should do a thorough job of it.

    That was when Taylor started to worry. The mana dumping circuits were intended for his re-entry into normal space, to power down the pyramid if all the mana stones were at full capacity and couldn''t absorb any from the wireframe. He''d given fifty-fifty odds that his summoners would exhaust themselves before the isolation circuitry was even full. He never thought, at least not seriously, that they''d fill the plasma replacement space full to bursting. Taylor had only connected the plasma block to the mana-dumping block out of an abundance of caution because the universe was big and held amazing things one has never thought of. Also, the two systems were right next to each other. They were trivial to connect and easy to test.

    Just how much more did these people (it had to be people plural because no one could whip up this much mana alone) have to spend? If he had known they were going to use mana on this scale, Taylor would have taken a different approach. He might have gone full-creationist on the problem, turning pure energy directly into matter. How amusing would that be, turning enemy mana into pure gold?

    Anxiously he re-examined all the circuits, but nothing was changing. The summoners and summonee had reached an equilibrium.

    As much as that development troubled him, Taylor couldn''t stop thinking about his creationist idea. Direct conversion was a brute solution. The elegant way, the easier and more sensible way, was to use natural processes to do most of the work. If the plasma store was surrounded by a gravity field, and then compressed enough, it would ignite into fusion. The free-floating protons could be processed and exchanged until the desired output elements were made. The reaction chains wouldn''t be natural, of course, that''s what the magic was for. But he could make any element he wanted.

    With a notebook in his hand, Taylor started to think: What did he want? Gold was nice, but mostly he used gold to buy other metals. Silver, copper, tin, and manganese were his mainstays. Then again, with an equal mass of gold, he could buy all those other things.

    He tried some reaction sequences that weren''t completely crazy, at least not by his lets-twist-nature-just-a-little standards, but he kept coming up with too many radioactive heavy elements. By giving up his quest for gold, Taylor devised a chain that produced a dozen useful elements, mostly metals, and the equations were almost balanced. To make the numbers perfect he had to accept a bit of uranium-238, a miniscule amount really, small enough to be easily handled, and give up nearly all the gold. But it would work. When the sun burnt itself out it would expand, dissipate a huge amount of helium into the local atmosphere, and leave behind a goodly lump of hot metal.

    Until it died, the reactor would spray the area around it with super-heated elements on a more or less constant basis. That would be an interesting problem to solve: how to collect the valuable stardust without setting people on fire.

    Taylor double-checked all of the chemical, gravimetric, and magical equations, felt satisfaction with their beauty and their balance, and immediately lost interest. He put the notebook away. Tenobre wasn''t ready yet for anything like that. They needed to rebuild their scientific basics almost from scratch, and they only had a few generations until the surface became uninhabitable. Giving these people a miniature sun was like throwing your toddler into a spaceship alone: the baby would escape the immediate problems on your planet, but one could hardly hope for good outcomes.

    Taylor had an insane urge to touch the charged latticework, tap on it like it might be stuck, and see if anything happened. But the thing hadn''t any moving parts, so there wasn''t any point. He just had to wait, and not let boredom drive him into recklessness.

    Half an hour after the isolation circuits fired, they switched off. All three mana-dumping sequences were active: the rainbow lights, the chord in F major (which Taylor called "Extravagant Bong!") loud enough to echo from Pashtuk''s walls, and the hurricane of fire. The hurricane was a last resort, another feature Taylor hadn''t expected to use, but with the stones full of mana, all the power in the latticework had to go somewhere, and a light show wasn''t enough. Hence the firecane.

    The world appeared beyond his prison walls again, with Extravagant Bong rumbling the ground and the last licks of fire dissipating into the rainbow-lit sky. He had passed through the crisis, unsummoned and unharmed. Everything had worked.

    "Yes!" He shouted with his arms held high, "Take that, you interfering bastards!" Taylor shook both fists at the sky. "Complete and total success! Woo!"

 The Silver Fire

    The Silver Fire

    "Complete and total failure!" Tumetu Gambold pounded his desk with each word. He was a broad man, aging but still powerful enough to crack men''s skulls with his hands. He hadn''t taken well to the transition. Two years ago, he had led a Tumen of ten thousand into Zar as part of a conquering force. For his reward, Gambold was granted leadership of the Powzan, the Zar institute of research. The Khagan wanted every interesting thing the institute had to offer, old and new. The Khagan told the Orlok, the Orlok told the Tumetu, and now Tumetu Gambold was in the ravine without a rope.

    "The Orlok will have my skin nailed to his wall! And yours too! How could you let this happen?"

    Mingghan Bartjagaal did not quail before the Tumetu''s threats. The empire didn''t skin anyone alive: their leaders looked down on such barbarities. Mere incompetence warranted a demotion; Negligence, a flogging; Treason, a swift death. At very worst, if you were the vilest kind of traitor, then maybe you would be rolled into a carpet and trampled by horses. But that hardly ever happened.

    "Are you finished, my Tumetu? Shall I give my report, or do you want to continue your rant?"

    "Gha!" The bigger man stood heavily from his chair. "Not here. I can''t think in this ˇ­," he made an angry face at the office with its soft furniture, carpet, and books "ˇ­ this bedroom."

    They exited the administration building together, swords in hand, and took horses from the stables. Fearful Zarians glanced at them and looked away. Not a single family in Zar was untouched by the invasion, and the conquerers liked it that way. Bartjagaal kept his tongue to himself while they rode the shy streets, once washed with Zarian blood, until Gambold''s mood improved. A proper Lomong was most alive astride his horse. The cold, hard air, the pounding of hooves, the grip of a good sword, and the fear of lesser people soon put him right again.

    It was good they had come in person. Some things had to be seen to be understood. A pall of gray dust was settling on the area, cutting vision to under a hundred yards. They had to guide their horses slowly, around rubble and fallen trees, until the grayed-out forms of people were close enough to be seen.

    The summoning complex was dominated by a massive circular building, The Pit, six stories of stone cut and ensorcelled by three hundred mages. Or, it should have been. The once-imposing building was blasted to pieces, its blocks of stone sent flying hundreds of feet, much of it turned into the dust they were trying not to breathe. Most of the support buildings, barracks and library and mathamarium and such, had been wrecked by flying wreckage.

    The second thing they noticed, after the haze and the ruined Pit, was the heat. The destructive force had been so great the area was still hot. People, healers and mages mostly, roaming around looking for signs of life under the rubble, had stripped down to their undershirts.

    "Now Bartjagaal, you can give your report."

    "They were attempting to summon The Silver Fire, so-called because the last time they tried to summon him, the mages got a face full of raw mana. They think it was mostly their own mana, turned back on them."

    Tumetu Gambold smiled wickedly. He wasn''t above using mages, in fact he took good care of his. But they tended to be haughty. It was good for them to get punched in the face, to bleed like soldiers once in a while. "This I know. Tell me what went wrong."

    "What I think went wrong? It was crazy to try and summon him again. I can see why we''d want him, if he can pull a feat like that, but if someone doesn''t want to cross and they have the power to strike back at us, the better course is to leave them alone. Why force the dragon off its hill, when it''s minding its own business?"A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

    "But the Oracle is never wrong,"

    "She was wrong about this. I mean no disrespect to your wife, but I think she was wrong. I won''t bore you with the written list: you came here to look at the place. At least they took precautions this time. They used thirty times the usual mana, and built layers of additional protection. They moved the casting and control to a different building, so the main summoning arena was empty of people. If they hadn''t, the mages would have been annihilated. If you want to look for the good news, that''s it. The Powzan still has a mage corps. Most of one, anyway."

    "The knowledge to conquer all awaits the summoner," quoted Gambold, "call forth the master to obtain the lesson." He shook his head at the costs of rebuilding the complex. The utility buildings were trivial to replace, but the summoning arena would take time and incur massive costs. "The only lesson I see here is not to tickle sleeping dragons."

    "I disagree." A woman approached them, unafraid in spite of being a Zar. She wasn''t beautiful in a conventional way, but the spray of freckles across her face held some powerful fascination for Gambold. She was Bolormaa The Oracle, given to him as spoils for his role in Zar''s conquest. The Orlok would have taken her for himself, but she prophesized that giving her to "the skull crusher of Powzan" would greatly benefit the Khagan. The Orlok had five wives, and his best Tumetu had only one living in a yurt in their far-away homeland. That was how Tumetu Gambold gained a wife for his bed and an oracle for his work.

    She bowed gracefully. "True prophecies are never wrong, nor can they be evaded. From the moment it was revealed, The Silver Fire became entangled in Fate. As did the Khagan, the Orlok, my Tumetu, and all of Zar. You will summon this knowledge and use it. Nothing is over."

    "It looks over to me." Gambold was gruff with his wife, but not insultingly so. Those two had come to know each other well in a short time. Bartjagaal felt a stab of jealousy, at not being the only person he spoke to thus.

    "This time, he didn''t respond in the same way at all," continued Bartjagaal, "he forced the mages to use much more mana than planned, fully depleting the stores, which weakened our defenses. When the summoning completed, the Pit exploded. It wasn''t mana but something else. No sign of the person we think we were trying to summon. Like you said, a complete and total failure."

    "It is not a failure," Oracle Bolormaa said serenely. "Shall we look into the Pit, and see what we''ve caught?"

    They had come this far, so why not? Mages were called over, protective spells cast on the party of three, and they picked their way into the ruined arena. Inside, it truly was a pit, hollowed out down to the second basement. A line of mages followed them, each as eager as the next to see the very center of destruction. Bartjagaal was fluent in the Zar language, but the mages spoke something else entirely. He could tell the mages were impressed, but that was all.

    The building wasn''t just hot: the basement was shining red and silver with a great roaring fire. The curious had to pick their way to the very edge of the hole to look inside.

    "Is that ˇ­?" stammered Gambold.

    "It can''t be," Bartjagaal answered.

    The Zar mages started talking all at once.

    It was a ball of fire, constantly exhaling a hot wind. Fine particles beat against their mage''s shields hot and fast and then, having lost momentum, fell in slowly accumulating lines at their feet. Heat and light beat against their protections. It looked to be spinning, this new sun. Most of the sand was ejected along the sun''s equator, hit the sides of the basement, and fell to the floor where it slowly melted. They couldn''t get closer without specialized protection, so ocular devices were deployed and the phenomenon was examined from a distance. Soon the mages were shouting back and forth, all trying to be heard over each other. Two of them scooped up traces of hot sand at their feet, rubbed the substance between their fingers, and started another round of jabberings.

    "These are all useful metals," Bolormaa translated, "they say this is the fire of creation. Mana and matter are made by it. What is it made of? How does it work? Can we duplicate it? There is much to learn. Now Powzan has many years of great discoveries ahead of it." She listened for a few seconds before continuing. "They want to capture the mana for the Orlok''s armies, but there are challenges. Also, a small part of this dust is gold."

    The oracle allowed herself a vindicated smile. "The lesson has arrived. If we learn all we can from it then your Khagan will have the power he needs to conquer the world. As I have said, dear husband, prophecies are never wrong."

 Reverence

    Reverence

    Taylor had mixed a nickel-tungsten alloy into his silver, for durability, and the stolen magic he''d used to strengthen it had made it impossible to reshape with prayer. He could probably stand a gurantor on the pyramid and it wouldn''t budge. That discovery went straight into his little notebook, but it left him with a problem: His portable anti-summoning kit was no longer portable. He would need a proper forge to break the pyramid of magic circles into its constituent beads.

    The carbon residue from the magic CO2 scrubber was scattered to the wind. Everything except the pyramid was put away. Taylor cleaned himself with prayer and waited: a mob of people had emerged from the garden, with his followers in the lead. Milo was crying, bless his heart. The spike-haired young man was the first to arrive and grabbed Taylor in a spirit-enhanced embrace.

    "I''m fine," he laughed, "better than fine. I''m great! Honestly."

    Mila, Inez, and the Tabuas soon joined them, with the rest of Pashtuk far behind. Magnificent Ben stuck his trunk in Taylor''s pockets to search for treats. The jimala bounded around, sniffed delicately at the cage, then ran circles around the perimeter left behind by the fiery hurricane.

    Alice gave Taylor a hard once-over. "You don''t seem hurt at all. You''re not even mussed." She tidied him anyway. "We were afraid we''d lose you."

    "Stop it," Taylor practically whined, "there''s people watching."

    "Yes. People are definitely watching." Anisca arrived, mounted so she could get ahead of the crowd of Pashtuk. "What was that, and what do you want me to tell the circle?"

    "Personal business," said Milo in his defense, "outsiders can just butt out."

    "Perhaps they would, if someone had been discrete. But no! Someone, I will not name who, while looking at you, Sir Taylor, but someone tossed rainbows into the sky, sounded a note that startled babies awake in their cribs, in their houses," she pointed towards the distant garden, "and then, just in case nobody had noticed him, set the desert on fire!" She stood in her stirrups to get a better view of the ground. "You sintered the ground here! What is this design?"Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

    "It''s supposed to be a flower. Can''t you tell?"

    "That''s not the point," scolded Anisca. "People will need to be told something and personal business is not an answer. It''s an invitation to wild rumors. We need to tell them something more solid. Please, trust me on this."

    "Ah, fair enough! Another world tried to summon me, and I resisted. The light show was because they used so much spirit I couldn''t handle it all. It had to go somewhere." Taylor turned to Inez and the cousins, who had been with him the last time it happened. "It was the same people, but they were serious this time. They used massive amounts of power, really emptied their stones at me. I sent them a plasma bomb. They should get the message."

    "This has happened before? Why didn''t you tell me?"

    "Yes, princess, this has happened before. It happened last winter. I wasn''t prepared, and it nearly killed me." Taylor was assailed by sudden anger. "And it happened the spring before that, when your father had me summoned because he was bored. Did you think that, in a universe with thousands of inhabited worlds, Tenobre was the only one with a summoning room? The blasted things are all over the place, and kings and conquerors think nothing, nothing, of calling people away from their homes, and their families, and the lives they had planned, and stranding them in backward worlds, and then claiming they''ve done you a favor! Of course this has happened before! And it will keep happening until I figure out a way to stop it! Until then, I''ll do whatever it takes to keep from being jerked all over the cosmos. Is that all right with Your Highness?"

    Taylor''s jubilant mood was gone. He didn''t feel bad; he was lighter than he''d been in days, but the excitement was gone. He should probably sleep now that he was able, and tend to work after the day''s heat.

    "I''m getting some real rest. Otavio, let them gawk at it a while, then bring the frame. Find a good place to store it until we can get it to a forge. Anisca, tell them other worlds may try to summon me, but I won''t abandon Tenobre."

    The crowd parted for him as he walked to the garden, the bricktown cousins drafting proudly in his wake. Several of the Pashtuk Calique gave him reverence as he passed, hands pressed together, fingertips pressed against their painted lips. Taylor didn''t know them or what they were revering him for, but the gesture raised a mess of emotions. As they feared him, they wouldn''t cross his purposes. As they admired him, they would aid his endeavors. As they believed in him, they would expect great things. As he disappointed them, they would surely tear him down.

    Taylor wanted their acceptance. He was more hungry for their friendship than he would admit out loud to any of his followers. But if the best he could manage with these people was reverence, then he''d have to work with it.

 Red Tower News

    Red Tower News

    "Pashtuk is going to give you khartang. Between clearing the garden and handling the Satomen, you''ve done more for them than their own hunters. There''ll be a ceremony after the rest arrive from Bitter Spring, so everyone will see you recognized as an honored defender of the garden. Please don''t make me lecture you on the importance of showing up at the ceremony and doing a good job."

    "I get it, Anisca. They can''t treat us like any old outsiders after a public ceremony. You''ve done well. I''ll do my part, too."

    "Oh," she looked surprised. Disappointed, even. "I always had to harry Estevan into compliance. I used to threaten him with vegetables when he was little."

    "If you like, I can show more resistance. But you''ll have a hard time finding anything to threaten me with. I like vegetables."

    "Oh, I didn''t threaten to make him eat them. I threw them at him. He hated that more than anything." Her expression was one of her mischievous ones, pulled from her toolbox and deployed to good effect. She hadn''t disliked her brother, but if she were tasked with making the wayward prince behave, she would get some enjoyment from it.

    Taylor laughed at a vision of young Francisca hunting down her younger brother with an armload of carrots and potatoes. Maybe Vanni had it rougher than Taylor realized, having Francisca for a sister.

    "But that''s not all. Saluja will do the same when their garden is cleared ˇŞ Saluja''s full circle will have to agree, but according to the hands I''ve talked to it won''t be a problem. That''s khartang from two gardens. When Darkmaw is dead, more will follow. And that puts you in line for Pasha when Kashmar attacks, which everyone says they will."

    "They will," Taylor assured her. "Let''s get the disciples in here. Alice, would you?"

    When she opened the door, a stream of disciples and Lector James entered, filling the small room. Anisca got the admin link working in conference mode and mounted it on a sounding board so they could talk to Red Tower.

    Taylor addressed the local disciples first: Mahzad, Khali, Darius, Hypha, who were all Nexus-trained, and a converted healer from Lavradio named Iris, who had come into exile with them. "When the Calique are at their weakest, Kashmar usually attacks. This time, they''ll be egged on by Enclave who wants to use them to get rid of us. So, let''s start preparing the battlefield now. Darius, take your cadre north with the caravan tomorrow. Offer healing to Bitter Spring, but be sure to receive compensation. They''ll only let Iris touch them, but you might get some mending work. When the caravan comes back south, I want you to go north to Satoma. Investigate and report. Depending on what you find, I''ll probably have you seal the wells so Kashmar can''t use them. On the return trip, there are some areas I want you to survey.

    "Mahzad, how are the challenges coming?"

    "Fine." He waved away any concerns. "We''ve all declined to rise to their insults, on the grounds the contests would be unfair, and let them fight Sparrow in our place. He''s undefeated of course, and the hunters are all impressed." As the smallest person among all the disciples and their bulwarks, Sparrow was seen as the easiest person to challenge. He was one of the more skilled bulwarks and with enhancements added, he was practically invulnerable to normal men.

    "Lector James," Taylor turned to the shirtless, tattooed man lounging against the wall, "I''d like you to introduce our Calique friends to the Nexus version of Capture The Flag. Thrash them thoroughly, and then mix the teams on the next night. Let them see the difference between fighting against disciples versus fighting with them."Love this story? Find the genuine version on the author''s preferred platform and support their work!

    "I''ll be sure to whet their appetites for strength, Eldest Brother."

    "Let''s hear from Red Tower."

    "Mataba here. We sent Brother Montague to Sand Castle with a dozen fragments. He''s a good all-rounder, and his team is tight. They''ll reach the city late tonight, so you have that to look forward to.

    "The Gallian force is on their last legs. We tried to parlay with them, but Commander Urban was awful. No surprise there. We removed him yesterday, and the crusaders look ready to give up today. How do you want to handle them?"

    "Wait a day, then give them water and point the way home. Make it easy for them to go back to Gallia. If they''re completely determined, we can let the desert have them and finish off whatever''s left once they''re within sight of the tower. If it gets that far we can keep a few alive to tell about it. What else?"

    Sister Leila''s voice came cheerily from the sounding board. "The Nexus services are popular here in Hyskos. I can make as many sounding boards as people want, but keeping them running is a challenge. We don''t have enough of the cheap spirit beads for everyone. Even if we did, there aren''t enough people to charge them."

    There was a round of agreement that the services could be expanded if the power supply problem could be solved. Nexus had too few disciples to be everywhere, which meant turning to Enclave healers with good spirit control and bad feelings for Enclave. It was a problem without any quick solutions. Nexus could deploy more disciples and recruit more turncoat healers, but it was going to take time.

    "We''ve received the new students from Hyskos," said Rector Mika, "all solid talents, and they know how to read, which is a nice surprise. With the Gallian healers added in, we''re nearing twice the number of disciples Enclave has."

    "You can subtract Katerina from Enclave''s numbers," reported Ma''Tocha, "we recovered the final fragment last night." It was new information for most of those present, and a brief cheer went up. No more bonfires of the innocent. "We learned Katerina was behind the whole operation. We have two more talents for Nexus, plus Harrence if he decides to join. I can meet Darius in Satoma to hand over people and goods if he''ll be there for a couple of days."

    "I need you here, Sister. I want Calique trained to maneuver and fight in coordinated groups, and you''re the only disciple who has commanded anything like an army. We have to start sweating them now. Thalia''s cadre will take your place in Dace."

    "As you command, Eldest Brother."

    "What else from Red Tower?"

    "We''re set for food and water," continued the Rector, "but everything else is running thin. We''re low on mobeen, have very little cloth for desert wear, and no more paper at all. Some of the students can make paper, but it''s not the best use of their time. And you can forget running forges for making tirun scale. We need a train of supplies. Three would be better."

    "Mobeen won''t be a problem when Ma''Tocha''s caravan arrives. After this meeting give Anisca a prioritized list of the rest. We might be able to do something about the shortages."

    The meeting broke up except for Rector Mika and his list, which Anisca dutifully copied out onto a slate.

    "The palace is next," Taylor reminded her. "Ready?"

    "Just a moment." Anisca was using her ''pretend not to be excited'' face. It made Taylor wonder what the point was of having all those faces if people close to her could identify them so easily. Or maybe that was the point ˇŞ to put a line between who was close and who wasn''t. While Taylor pondered the utility of an expression wardrobe, Anisca swapped the link for one that would talk to the royals of Lavradio.

    How long had it been since she had talked to her kin? Five weeks or more. Ever since they left Lavradio in exile, time had moved in fits and starts, with days that felt like weeks, divided by weeks of days numbingly the same. They were into summer''s second quarter, the seasons in Tenobre were quite long, and Kashmar would not attack until mid-autumn at the soonest, when their harvest was mostly secure. Sometimes Kashmar waited until mid-winter, when half the desert''s population was in Sand Castle and the gardens'' defenses thin. It looked like a lot of time, but that time would suddenly run out one day.

    All of those concerns were for another meeting. For this one, Nexus had a list of things they needed and a somewhat friendly country that, Taylor was positive, wanted things from him. He reached out a finger, charged the link with mana, and activated it.

 Sudden Turns

    Sudden Turns

    Lavradio was offering Nexus recurring shipments of all the supplies they needed: paper, cloth, charcoal, grain, and other goods. What they wanted in return was the Inscriptions Arts. And they wanted Gonzo Monforte for their artificer. Their Majesties Leonardo and Farava were in attendance, but Secretary Jorgo was handling the negotiations. Taylor spoke little, preferring to let Anisca handle the unlikeable man. She was, he had to admit, rather good at it.

    The boy was an excellent choice for a scriber, likely the very best choice given his intelligence and his affinity for natural law. And he had existing connections to Nexus and the Nature Society. It was a credit to Their Majesties that they would conceive of such a plan and then look to someone so young (ten years old, later that summer) as the bearer of it.

    Someone, likely First Prince Estevan who was in the room but not speaking much, must have advised the royals to offer what Gonzo was worth instead of massively underbidding. Vanni knew how Taylor liked to operate, and how quickly he could discard a troublesome trading partner. That they hadn''t tried to get the boy too cheaply was a point in their favor.

    But Taylor didn''t want them to have him. Gonzo was supposed to be his, to bring up in the church, in both prayer and (though he had never told anyone) inscriptions. Secretly, among the hopes he didn''t name or talk about, he wanted his friend at his side for the many years to come.

    And then there was the question of Taylor''s many successors. Hierarch would be an elected position with set terms, and Taylor would relinquish it after a term or two, thus setting the example for future hierarchs. That assumed he didn''t die, get summoned away, or otherwise expire while in office. Gonzo could be Hierarch one day, and carry on the work of Phillip the Younger with his enthusiastic blend of wit and compassion.

    All of these hopes were far away and speculative, except the one where Gonzo was his friend and was near him, for a while at least, so Taylor could show him all he needed to know to retool Tenobre for its next age. He had yet to meet a mind as quick to grasp the knowledge he had to share as Gonzo''s. In terms of benefits to the world at large, teaching him the glyphs was more effective than teaching him the prayers. But he could learn faster and do more in Nexus, where they could collaborate. The training mirrors were half Gonzo''s invention, and they had revolutionized spirit training forever. How much more could they accomplish together?

    The royals had a path they wanted for the young Monforte, and Taylor had another. The boy''s obvious talents doomed him to be pulled in different directions at an early age, yet who was to say what he would choose for himself if given free rein? Taylor didn''t want the baron''s youngest son to be boxed in too soon, before he could choose for himself.

    So it came to pass that Lavradio offered to trade in goods for Taylor''s best collaborator and friend, and Taylor had to consider it.

    "I would have conditions," Taylor spoke through the queasiness gathering in his belly. "Your exclusive access to the art will only last until Enclave is destroyed and we''ve established a new Treaty of Alignment. That''ll be at least six months from now, but it could be longer depending on how negotiations go. It doesn''t sound like a long time, but considering how fast the world is about to change, a six-month head start is more like several years. And you''ll have Gonzo working for you. There''s nobody comparable to him in any of the realms. Not yet."

    "Are you saying that when this treaty is signed, all the signatories will have access to inscription arts, the same as Lavradio?"

    "They''ll have some kind of access. I haven''t written limits into the origin yet, but not all practitioners will have equal access to the art. There are glyphs too dangerous to use without proper training and oversight. But, as long as Lavradio remains in good standing and follows the rules that we''ll eventually set into place, I can promise you''ll receive preferential treatment. And remember: having access doesn''t mean they''ll be any good. Other countries don''t know Inscription Arts is a thing. It''ll take them weeks to select people and send them here for training, and few of them will have Gonzo''s comprehension of the underlying principles in natural law."

    "We''ll consider it," said Jorgo. Taylor couldn''t tell from his tone of voice if he was pleased or not. Likely not, given the little Taylor knew of him. He was beyond loyal: He was a zealot about the power of royal blood and the sovereignty of his king.Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.

    "Second, I''ll need him here to train him properly. I can teach a lot by Speaking On The Wind, but some techniques must be given in person. There are other people here to learn from, so his practice won''t be limited by my schedule. I need six months with him if I can get it."

    "Noted. What else?"

    "Third, you can''t chain Gonzo down to Lavradio. When he comes of age, he gets to decide for himself if he should stay in Lavradio, come to the church, or do something else."

    "So we invest this much into him," said the king''s secretary, "and we could still lose him? Unacceptable."

    "He has a little over five years until his majority, correct? You''ll have other practitioners by then. And five years is plenty. By then you''ll be shocked at what''s possible. In ten years, all the things that shocked you will be commonplace. In twenty, you won''t recognize the world you were born into. And even if he''s working for the church, he''ll be scribing and you''ll have preferential access to his designs. There''s a long tail of benefits to Lavradio, even if he moves. He should be free to choose."

    As Taylor understood Lavradian citizenship, most people could travel or move away if they wanted to. They only needed permission if they had sworn an oath of loyalty, and those oaths always came with a title or position: military, nobility, and civic officials were the most typical examples. As a minor, Gonzo couldn''t take an oath without his father''s consent. Under normal circumstances, the king wouldn''t stoop to confining someone in the country, but Gonzo wasn''t normal.

    "You talk about his liberty but you just want the boy for yourself." Jorgo sneered the words as if to imply there was some impropriety between them.

    "Yes. I want Gonzales Monforte for Nexus, and to stand next to me, but only if that''s what he wants. I won''t barter away his free will for cloth and coal."

    "Then you''ll have neither your goods nor your favorite student. The king may make use of his subjects as he sees fit, and dispose of them as he sees fit."

    Dispose. As someone once disposed of by a Lavradian king, Taylor didn''t take the term lightly. It was vague enough to mean anything, but it included the possibility of killing Gonzo to keep someone else from having him. As threats went, it was so thinly veiled as to become suggestive: gauzy lingerie over naked violence.

    Nobody spoke, but the silence was filled with Taylor''s darkest contemplations. If Gonzo needed rescuing, or if he needed avenging, how far would he go? Taylor considered the the distance to Lavradio, how many days there and back again, the likely obstacles, and whether he should be more or less merciful to the lives that stood in his way. A bloody rampage could send a message, but it wasn''t the soldiery''s fault if their king had turned into an ˇ­

    Anisca''s voice broke the silence, with laughter, of all things. High and jolly and, for those who knew her, as Jorgo surely did because he was many years in the same castle while attending her older brother, scalding in its mockery of the secretary.

    "When did you become so brave, Jorgo? Even a modest disciple is nothing to trifle with, and you''re playing brinksmen with the Eldest Brother? Even fearsome Ma''Tocha, Scourge of Bandits, obeys him without question. Well done!"

    An awkward silence dragged through the wake of Anisca''s scorn. Taylor waited, not as a negotiation tactic or a conversational gambit, but because he wanted to know what Jorgo would say. Would he deny his intention and claim ignorance of the many meanings of dispose? Would he increase his wager, and restate the king''s right to the lives of his subjects? Would he take the unexpected route, apologize, and allow negotiations to continue?

    "Oh. Are you of the opinion I''ve said something improper? I only mean that the monarch ˇ­"

    "Scrap-loaf, Jorgo," Taylor interjected. "Is the dowager queen in the room with you?"

    The question caught everyone by surprise.

    "Well? Is she there?" The moment of silence told Taylor that she was, and the silence after that was the group''s sudden understanding that their failure to immediately say no, the dowager queen is not with us had given away the fact she was attending the meeting, quiet and lurking. The further silence was them waiting on their king, and their king deciding on what he should say. Maybe they were debating with each other about what to do, using sign language.

    Privately, in the social graph he kept in his mind, Taylor drew a line through Jorgo''s name. There was no reason to talk to him, ever again.

    "Yes, Lady Diana is here." Leo sounded unconcerned at the conversation''s turn. "Did you have something you wanted to say to her?"

    "No I don''t want to talk to her," said Taylor bitterly, "I just want to confirm that the king threatened a boy, a loyal and useful subject, an innocent, with death, in the presence of his mistress of assassins. We all know she''s not above killing minors."

    If King Leonardo felt any anger or alarm at that statement he didn''t let it show. "We didn''t mean to imply ˇ­"

    "More scrap-loaf! You let your secretary say it, you didn''t correct him, and you let the threat sit there. You know, I keep thinking that Lavradio is a friendly country, or at least wants to be friendly, and Lavradio keeps reminding me that nations only have interests. I should probably thank Your Majesties for all the remedial lessons."

    Prince Estavan cut in, "Taylor, we are your friends."

    "Are you? Because friends don''t threaten to kill each other. And no friend of mine holds a knife to a child''s throat."

    His finger hovered over the link, "This conversation is over." Taylor pulled all the spirit from the link''s stone, so the royals couldn''t call him back.

 Trust Fall

    Trust Fall

    "You catch on fire when you''re angry. Did you know?"

    Taylor breathed deep, opened the part of him that was supposed to hold his spirit, and pressed. He kept pressing until he was bursting at the seams. Even then it wasn''t perfect: a skilled practitioner could tell he was still blooming out, but at least he wasn''t on fire. The tiles on the floor around him had taken on more vibrant colors from the raw spirit, and no longer matched the rest of the house.

    This happened with strong practitioners. Too many breakthrough workings of magic, like crossing the line between life and death, building palaces inside one''s thoughtspace, or pouring spirit like it was water all day long, could cause a practitioner''s spirit to grow wild. Puberty both hurt and helped, by growing the body''s spirit and its capacity to hold it. Add to that the emotional highs and lows of youth and it was common for people in Taylor''s situation to be unbalanced for a while, to have trouble containing themselves.

    But practitioners didn''t blaze with mana for all to see. That shouldn''t ever happen, except maybe when wrangling uncontainable forces. A competent practitioner did not catch on fire with a silver flame that made people shy away from them in fear and wonder. Anisca''s curiosity was in the fore, but there was caution, too, of a different kind than before.

    "You weren''t supposed to see that. I apologize." His bones felt creaky as he resettled himself, his muscles sore, and skin stretched, protesting all that he was asking of them. Hopefully, the strain would encourage his capacity to grow faster. "Nobody is supposed to see that. It''s not supposed to happen."

    "Then we didn''t see anything. Right, Inez?"

    Inez, who guarded the door, wore traces of a smile. "Did something notable happen?"

    "Thank you." Taylor sighed with relief. He didn''t want his fellow practitioners to know he was having problems of such an embarrassing nature. He''d never hear the end of it from the older healers.

    "So let''s talk about our next steps."

    "We can find other suppliers," Taylor declared, "Lavradio was just the most convenient option. The gardens have coir cloth to trade, including some very fine stuff if we want it. There might be metal deposits in the desert or the bordering mountains. We can make paper from almost any kind of fibrous plant, even though it''s not convenient. Charcoal is the biggest problem. We need a lot of tirun scales for armor, and most practitioners aren''t strong enough to make them without a strong fire. And my anti-summoning cage is so strengthened against the arts that even I can''t get it to budge without a true forge. We need literal tons of char, multiple shipments of it. Cutting down thousands of garden trees and desert brush just to burn them is ˇ­," Taylor shivered.

    "Unthinkable," agreed Anisca, "even sacrilegious. The desert couldn''t sustain it and the Calique would turn against us for it. It has to come from somewhere else. Lavradio is the best source by far. Trees are practically weeds there. Some years, we couldn''t cut them fast enough."

    "But I ended the negotiations. On impulse. I''d like to avoid crawling back to Jorgo two minutes after throwing a fit."

    "It wasn''t a fit. It was a rational response to an irrational threat. And you don''t have to crawl anywhere because you didn''t end the negotiations. You said, ''This discussion is over'', not ''These negotiations are over''. And this," she spread her arms to include the two of them and the sounding board between them, "is called a reset. The two sides separate, consider their options, and then meet again. It happens all the time in diplomatic discussions. And that''s what this is: diplomacy. Two world powers building a relationship. You made it clear that Gonzolez Monforte is important to Nexus, and they crossed lines by threatening him. And then you refused their lame excuses. Now Lavradio has to go out of its way to prove its friendly intent towards Nexus. Somehow, your overt honesty keeps working in your favor. I don''t understand it, but I can use it."

    "I''m not talking to Jorgo again. I''ve never had a conversation with him I didn''t hate."

    She laughed again, the same laugh as before but without the scorn. "Leo has a blind spot when it comes to Jorgo. He''s a brilliant administrator, but his contempt for others runs away with him. You touch all his sores: you''re not a noble, you''re not Lavradian, you won''t submit to his king, and yet Leo still likes you. It must gall Jorgo something awful. He''s probably jealous.

    "Leo doesn''t punish him because it''s useful to have someone in your retinue to push boundaries on your behalf, even if they offend. It''s like having a hunting dog: they''re supposed to bark a lot. Jorgo''s done it for my brother for so long that he''s forgotten there are limits, and Leo''s let him run so often that he forgets to yank the leash. And now it''s going to cost them."

    Anisca seemed excited at the prospect of fleecing her older brother. "He''ll kick Jorgo out of the room for causing a disaster. And you will refuse to attend the next round due to the depth of your offense and your doubts that anything good can come from further talks.If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.

    "We have an enormous advantage. They need you to win this fight against Enclave, and they already owe you. It''s time you started collecting on that debt. But to do that effectively, I have to say things to them that would never be tolerated with outsiders present. I need to meet with them alone."

    "Not a chance. All Leo has to do is give you an order, and you''ll turn spy on me. Or worse. Just like the last king. You''re a beautiful woman in a position of trust, put here by the palace to ''help'' me, and you have close ties to the spy-master dowager queen. They might as well send Micas to poison me all over again."

    "Leo wouldn''t do that."

    "Wouldn''t he? Can you honestly tell me that, if something happened that convinced him we were going to lose and Enclave was going to win, he wouldn''t turn on Nexus? How long would it take him to decide to put the knife in my back? And if he ordered you to do the job, could you defy him? Because that would cost you everything: home, family, honor, wealth, all of it gone. You could even become their next target."

    "They would take a more cautious approach because you have me as a hostage."

    "That''s no good. I''m not going to threaten them with your life. I''d only kill you if you did something to deserve it. Vanni knows that about me, which means Leo knows. You have zero value as a hostage."

    Something wry and unexpected crept into the princess''s face. "Oh dear. I don''t know how to feel about any of that."

    "I''m not blind to all you''ve done so far." Taylor crossed his arms and wouldn''t look at her. "We''re out here fumbling around with people we don''t understand, with an old memoir as our only guide, and yet we''re making progress. Pashtuk seems to want us here, for now anyway. I couldn''t have done it alone.

    "But," he said confessionally, "every time we drink together, I check the cups for poison."

    "I know." Her voice was kind. "You''re discrete about it, but I learned from the same taster you did. And I had more time with her." Was she being honest right now, or was this some new change of tactic? Taylor regretted that he couldn''t believe her.

    "It isn''t just my father''s fault, or mother''s for failing to dissuade him. I was awful to you the first time we met. I made other mistakes, too, with Chapa and then Uzan."

    "Uzan doesn''t count. She negotiated in bad faith. And, we learned a circle''s signature isn''t worth much. It was a necessary lesson that you''ve made good use of."

    "Chapa, then. I was terrible to Chapa, and that added to your distrust."

    They sat across from each other, stuck. She was too skilled with guile to take at face value. He was too hurt by betrayal to let down his guard.

    Anisca had tried to get the story firsthand, to learn what wasn''t in the dry recitation she''d received from her mother. She knew Inez had played a role in Taylor''s assassination, but the former royal guard wasn''t talking. The only time Anisca found the courage to ask about it, Inez''s eyes had bored holes into her. "I confessed to Phillip the Younger, and he graced me with mercy and honorable work. Do you think I''d compromise his trust for an Odemira?" No, of course not. Who would serve a royal family that disposed of its friends so easily when they had Phillip the Younger as an alternative?

    King Joaquim''s feckless reign had poisoned more than one young disciple. He''d driven a duke into rebellion, lost the loyalty of people like Inez, let his capital decay, staffed the government with nobles just as feckless as himself, and was ill-regarded by his peers. His one redeeming virtue was laziness. By stirring himself to action for the sake of sport and little else, he was prevented from doing more harm.

    Anisca''s father, being a man of more diversion than imagination, couldn''t have conceived his casual summoning and subsequent assassination of Taylor DeLanion would have such far-reaching consequences. Who would have thought the stripling boy, clothed only in a bathing towel and sandals when he arrived, and who couldn''t speak the Unity language, would bring Tenobre to such a crisis in little more than a year?

    Father, you''ve been dead since Spring, she thought, but we''re still cleaning up your messes. How do I win the trust of someone you betrayed so thoroughly?

    Taylor was lost in thoughts of his own, his pensive fingers touching on the cylinder that held his fragment. Anisca wondered if he was aware of the habit, when struggling with himself, of reaching for the light. The fragments were more revered than the old seven-pointed star, for their powers were tangible and miraculous. They drove away cursed darkness, revealed spiritual talent, and cast liars into shadow.

    "You can''t trust me," she said suddenly, "but you trust your fragment."

    "I do." After a moment''s thought, he unclipped the cylinder from his harness and placed it unopened between them. "Are you willing to make promises in its light?"

    "I am, subject to successful negotiations. For example, I could promise to report any request to betray or spy upon you or Nexus."

    Taylor pulled his slate closer and began to write. "Any ''request, suggestion, or demand''," he amended, "is that acceptable?"

    "It is. I won''t tell you everything we talk about, because I intend to use family secrets against them. But I''ll agree that certain Nexus topics are off-limits."

    "Inventions other than the links and sounding boards we''ve given them, tactical information ˇ­ we need to make a list. Or, it might be easier to list what you''re allowed to talk about."

    "Perhaps we say anything we''ve revealed to the Calique not residing in Red Tower. But I need your promise that the meeting will be secure, that you''ll make a privacy barrier for me and not let anyone, including yourself, listen in."

    "I make no promises about the royals'' room, but this one will be safe."

    "And there are a few specific things I might want to reveal, but only if Leo brings them up."

    Their negotiations continued for some time, and their contract had to be revised twice after the mutual swearing failed. A fragment''s light was fastidious. Its coruscating waves got under the skin and found the cracks in one''s resolve, pried them open, and scooped out all the except ifs and but not whens left unsaid.

    The third attempt succeeded, and when Taylor charged the link it was chiming with royal impatience. He took his fragment, now closed around the discomfiting light, set the privacy barrier for Anisca, and left the matter in her hands.

 Shearing Season

    Shearing Season

    ˇŞ Leonardo Odemira, King of Lavradio ˇŞ

    The outburst was as shocking as the disconnect was abrupt. The meeting had been somewhat informal, but that was no reason for Taylor to think he could click off so rudely.

    Jorgo sneered victoriously. "He''ll be back, and we''ll get improved terms."

    Prince Estevan was pale. Mother had that appraising look she wore when she was judging people. The queen pursed her lips in disapproval.

    "I don''t think he will," said Estevan, "he''s done with us. There''s no reason for him to talk to us now."

    Jorgo straightened the pages in front of him. "Because of one little comment? He shouldn''t take things so personally. It shows how unprepared he is to negotiate at this level."

    "Or it shows how unprepared you are to negotiate with him. He didn''t take you personally; he took you literally. This family already killed him once, and he didn''t stay dead. He''s a powerful disciple. Do these facts not add up to anything for you?"

    "He''ll be back," repeated Jorgo, but less sure this time.

    "You think he''s sitting in a corner, sulking. I promise you he''s not. He''s deciding if he should send the nearest cadre to rescue Gonzo or if he should come here himself. You''ve never seen him when one of his people goes missing. He''s probably debating how much of the palace to tear down when he gets here."

    Leonardo thought his younger brother was too alarmist. Maybe he was too close to the so-called Eldest Brother. "He wouldn''t," he said, "it would damage our future relationship."

    "You''re holding his friend hostage over a few goods. That''s not a good relationship. Why would he want to keep it?"

    "That was Jorgo being difficult."

    "He was speaking for you." Estevan made a sign of impatience. "Why won''t you take this seriously?"

    Why wasn''t he? Jorgo had been with him since they were children, destined from a young age to serve the future king for the rest of his life. He had taken pride in serving a royal. Sometimes, that pride led him to push others down harder than he had to. Occasionally it was a problem, and a correction was required. Sometimes, the problems were expensive to fix. Vanni seemed to think this was one of the expensive times.

    Leo had been king for only half a year, but this scene had become familiar. Jorgo had a special contempt for commoners and merchants, and Leo had fielded complaints about his secretary from all quarters. Recently, the palace had acquired a bevy of noble go-betweens to insulate the king''s ministers from the contemptible mercantile class. These nobles needed payment for their time, and the palace''s costs had risen accordingly. Leo didn''t know the extent of the problem until Estevan had shoved an auditor''s report into his face and made him read it over breakfast. Higher prices. Longer lead times. Other knock-on effects, none of which were good. The only beneficiaries of the new regime were noble middlemen who rented access. And Jorgo, who didn''t have to see his least favorite people swanning around the palace like they belonged there.

    "Our king doesn''t bow to foreign upstarts," said Jorgo with a smile that savored, like he always did, the consummation of an act of petty bullying.

    "Enough, Jorgo. Be quiet and take notes."

    Leonardo tried to think. How worried should he be? "How sure are we he died? How do we know he wasn''t faking it, and Inez let him escape?"

    "Multiple people handled the body," said the dowager queen. "By the time Inez took him away, he was growing cold. And there''s precedent in scripture for disciples coming back from the dead."

    "More recently than scripture," said Queen Farava. As a First Family daughter, she knew her church lore. "This isn''t widely known, but Juca DeSintra had to be killed three times. The second time, they burned her body to be certain, and a month later she was back again. Matrix Lucia defeated her for good, but it cost her. There''s a reason a great disciple like her was retired to a little temple in Lavradio." She sighed wistfully. "I wish I had known her better. We only spoke twice, but she was confident of the young man''s talents. From the little I''ve seen, I have no reason to doubt her. He made the fragments, which no one thought to see again. That alone is proof of his extraordinary ability.

    "And, Nexus has killed several Enclave disciples now. Every contest between them goes poorly for the traditionalists." Farava''s eyes gleamed with memory. "They won''t, as Nexus likes to say, ''learn their lessons''. They grow weak, while Nexus grows strong. Encle will lose because they can''t change."

    Leonardo looked at his mother. After Joaquim abdicated she continued as a royal advisor. To the extent Leo''s uncle had done anything well during his reign, it was by her influence.

    "Someone else would have held Joaquim''s deeds against you or sought vengeance, but he never did. He worked with you. This was a careless way to dispose of so much goodwill, freely given, and I wouldn''t count on getting that back for cheap. He''s never forgiven me, and I was only following orders."

    "Francisca''s going to fleece me for this." Leo rubbed his eyes. It was getting late, and he had started the day early. This wasn''t going to be settled tonight. "Jorgo, you''re excused. Guards, wait at the door. Vanni, how do you turn this thing on?"

    "Your Majesty shouldn''t trouble himself with the troubles of low-born rabble ˇ­ "

    "Enough, Jorgo! I don''t know who or what you think you''re protecting, but it isn''t me. Go to the waiting room at the end of the hall, and wait until I call you."

    They got the link turned on but received only silence. That the other side didn''t answer immediately was of no real concern, but as the minutes dragged by, and jota was served, and jota was consumed, Leonardo began to think he should leave an underling in the room. If Nexus ever answered they could make a proper appointment and not do this at night. Just as he was considering whom to leave in place, Francisca''s voice was in the room with them.

    "I''m back, alone this time. Who''s on the other side?"

    The new conversation started with Francisca''s explanation of her limits and that she had sworn a stack of oaths in a fragment''s light, and Taylor had promised her privacy by the same. She cautioned them not to test the limits of her oaths or she would report their subversion directly to the Eldest Brother. It had taken her an hour to convince him Lavradio was still worth talking to, so they should respect the Nexus boundaries.

    "Before we talk about the Monforte situation, you should hear about something that happened this morning," she began, and relayed to them the startling events just after dawn when another world had tried to summon him and failed, with spectacular effect, and the mark that Taylor had left on the desert floor.

    "Today wasn''t the first time it happened. Other worlds are attempting to summon him to be their hero," she concluded her report. "He walks in firestorms and emerges from them unbothered. He has many followers and admirers but no friends, nobody his age who could ever be his peer, except the youngest son of Baron Fringe. And that is who you casually threatened today."

    "We get it," Leo practically moaned, "Jorgo stepped in it, and now you want to use that to squeeze us."

    "No, Leo, you stepped in it. If you had reprimanded him immediately, Taylor would have overlooked it. But you didn''t, and the threat stuck. Remember that time one of the errand boys got cornered and pummeled half to death by the other children because of things that Jorgo said? He''s always had a nasty streak and vents it on people you like when he thinks they''re unworthy of you.This novel''s true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.

    "Remember Clarise of Miletos, who was tossed out of the palace on her backside when she had legitimate business with you? And that pimply teen who got locked in a basement for a week, who turned out to be a Carregado? Those were costly incidents, and they were instigated by your secretary. He''s been doing it since you were children, and you''re still letting him do it.

    "You always minimize Jorgo''s abuses as spirited hijinx, but this time he antagonized someone who has an army of disciples at his beck and call. He''s a force, Leo. He''s everything you hoped he''d become and more, and you''d better start treating him like it. He saved your kingdom twice, and he''s only ever been punished for it. If you want to be on the right side of Nexus, it''s time to make things right with Taylor DeLanion."

    "That''s a nice speech, Francisca. I''m nearly moved. It''s smart of him to send you here to use family lore against us. But I remember a princess who thought those little tortures were deserved."

    "I grew up," she said, "maybe Jorgo should, too. And Taylor didn''t send me, I had to make the case that it was worth my time. If Nexus didn''t need so much charcoal, I wouldn''t be here giving you a second chance."

    "Excuse me," Estevan wedged himself into the conversation, "when did we hope he''d become a major force? Did I miss something?"

    "That''s for our brother the king to decide."

    Leo crossed the room, opened the door, and ordered the guards to move down the hall. The meeting room was soundproof, but there was no sense in taking chances. A year ago Leo wouldn''t have trusted his youngest brother with this knowledge, but he was much changed since then. It was high time he learned some things.

    "This information doesn''t leave the room, understand Vanni? You know that scripture says ancient people lived underground and then followed the Chosen One to the surface, right? He writes down the prayers that Olyon gives him, and the power of those prayers enables them to survive."

    "That''s not quite what it says, actually," added Vanni.

    "But it''s close enough," said an annoyed Leonardo. "Our ancestors, the Odemiras, along with the Frenzios, Porches, Carregados, and all the other old families, came from an underground city," he pointed at the floor, "directly under the palace."

    Vanni huffed. "Taylor figured that out ages ago. So what? It''s all emptied out from Enclave raids, isn''t it? Whatever they didn''t take, our father and grandfather sold. Like the summoning room. Father got a fat sum for it, and Enclave couldn''t wait to break it into tiny pieces."

    Leo shook his head. "There''s more. Much more. What the church got was just the top layers, the levels that weren''t sealed off. Junk, mostly. There''s a whole city under us, with residences, libraries, machines, tools, and all kinds of things that haven''t been seen in hundreds of years."

    Estevan''s eyes sparked with curiosity. "Amazing, but what does it have to do with Taylor?"

    "It''s all forbidden knowledge. After Bahram reformed the church, his next big move was to bury all ancient knowledge. He forced people to speak only the Unity language, confiscated books, tore down old buildings, and raided caches of ancient tools. Supposedly, he was storing it all away somewhere. His successors instituted Alignment. They didn''t just ban the past; they erased it.

    "But, despite signing the treaty, the kings of Lavradio have kept the city sealed and unspoiled."

    "Wait!" Estevan gestured at Queen Farava. "Should we be talking about this in front of your wife? I mean no disrespect Farava, but you''re from a Unity First Family."

    "This is how we met, discussing the senselessness of Enclave. One day," she reached for her husband''s hand, "I hope we''ll unseal the city together."

    "Just so. Anyway, the kings have passed down a set of books, mostly journals, that tell about the millennial sun cycle, how to open the city, and where to find the libraries and the most important machines. When the time comes, we''ll move as much of our population underground as we can, and hopefully survive the next cycle.

    "But there are major problems. Many machines are broken, and we''ve lost the ability to read ancient text. Great-Uncle Abelaird was the last true custodian, someone who could read and speak the old tongue of Lavradio. We have generations of work ahead of us: first to decipher the old language, and then to fix the machines that support life underground. But as soon as the church finds out we''re messing with the ancient machines, they''ll encourage our neighbors to attack us."

    "We need the church to disappear," understood Vanni. "When you exiled Nexus, you set them free to terrorize Enclave. If Nexus wins, we can study the ancients."

    "Every nation could study them," corrected Leo, "in an open forum like the Nature Society. That''s how we make rapid progress. And Taylor had just saved us again. If they want his head they''ll have to do it themselves. If we''re lucky there will be someone out there who knows the ancient language and is willing to share."

    "It''s a shame you alienated Taylor. He can read at least one of the ancient languages." The room stared, in baffled silence, at the sounding board. "Is that so surprising? He learned Unity in a little over a week, according to Mother''s reports. He''s hunted monsters in five realms. And he has a knack for discovering things, as we all know."

    "So he can read an ancient language," said Leo, cautiously. "Assuming that''s true, how do we know it''s our ancient language?"

    Francisca was using her ''family'' voice, familiar, with traces of concern mixed in. "You don''t. And as things stand right now, you can''t ask him. He''s more than just a little angry, Leo. He didn''t expect this from you, and I think it ˇ­ surprised him. He thought you understood each other, despite everything that''s happened between him and our family. But now he thinks he was a fool, and you''re just another Joaquim.

    "By mid-winter, Nexus will be the only source of healers and disciples. Count on it. It''ll be the center of everything that''s going to change the world: religion, inscriptions, research, everything. Taylor will be Hierarch Phillip, the most influential person in the world. No one else is even in the running.

    "So Lavradio has to decide: does it want to be counted as a friend, to be the first to share in everything that happens in the new order of things? Or does it want to be at the bottom, next to Dace and Kashmar? When this is over I don''t want us wallowing with Dace."

    "Another fine speech, Francisca. But I''m still waiting to hear what you want. I hear a lot of reasons, but no requests. How much is this going to cost? What are you asking for?"

    "I''m asking you to fix this, Leo. Figure out what a friend would do right now, and do that."

    A vision came to Leo unbidden, of a gurantor train overturned on a thickly snowing day. Nunio was missing and Malisa was dying. They needed help, and a brindle-haired boy had appeared out of the falling snow, with a pack and spear and little else, and claimed to be a disciple. Jorgo tried to turn the boy away, and almost he succeded. If Leo had not intervened and called out to him, then Malisa would have died. And maybe Nunio would be dead, too, frozen while unconscious in the snow.

    It must have been soon after he had risen and, thinking back, the boy had marked them for who they were. He knew that Leo was the nephew of the king who killed him and the son of the queen who had managed the deed. And yet he healed Malisa, found Nunio, sheltered them all, and fed them lavishly. Taylor, newly in the guise of Phillip the Younger, had shown exactly who he was that day. Jorgo, damn him, had shown exactly who he was. And who had Leo shown himself to be, then and now?

    "Tell Taylor his friend Gonzo is safe. Jorgo shouldn''t have said what he did, and I shouldn''t have let him. That was my mistake. I''m going to make this up to him."

    Francisca clicked off soon after that, with assurances to their mother that she was safe and fed.

    What would a friend do right now? The answer was as simple as it was frightening.

    But what would a king do? For centuries, the Odemira line had kept the city hidden. But the city was broken. The ancient Lavradians hadn''t left because the surface was safe: they left because the machines had failed. Somewhere in the old library, prominently displayed so it would be easy to find, were instructions on what they had to do to make the city livable again. But if it were easy, his ancestors would have done it themselves. It was meant to be the work of generations.

    Leonardo could keep the city hidden until the fight between two churches was finished. But, what if Nexus lost? Leo often worried that Lavradio''s time had run out already. Without the ancient language they had years of work ahead of them to reach the starting point. And, even if the ancient city could be livable again, it wasn''t large enough to hold everyone. But Taylor had ideas. He was filled with otherworldly knowledge. Nexus was the spirit of invention; of possiblity. Anything could happen as long as he was alive.

    If Nexus lost, then Lavradio wouldn''t have enough time to simply wait for them to fall before embarking on their national project. He''d end up facing the Unity Church, and their rotten First Families, and likely losing.

    A king of Lavradio would seize the best chance his nation had to get free of Enclave. And what made good friends, anyway? Shared purpose. Common goals. Mutual understanding. Mutual support. It was time for the Odemiras to do some things for DeLanion for a change.

    "Vanni, I need letters to the ambassadors of Ullidia and Gallia, summoning them tomorrow for the morning session. Do you know the form?"

    "I remember. Mother made me practice it often enough."

    "You cried so hard, Vanni. ''I''m not gonna be king! I don''t want to call the smelly ambassadors!'' And who was right about it being useful?"

    "Mother, be appropriate! We''re on the king''s business now!"

    "Write the letters," said Leo, laughing, "and bring them here for signing. Leave no tearstains on the paper. But first, have someone find Jorgo and send him here. Mother, Farava, you''re excused. Let''s continue this in the morning''s council."

    "If His Majesty doesn''t mind his mother poking her nose in, what are you doing about Jorgo?"

    "I''m going to fix his loyalty, or I''m going to break it."

    "And the ambassadors are being called because ˇ­ "

    "Because a good friend would take sides, while a great friend would bring more friends."

 Youre Gonna Need A Bigger Word

    You''re Gonna Need A Bigger Word

    ˇŞ Brother Montague ˇŞ

    It wasn''t any cooler a hundred meters in the air than on the ground ˇŞ there was just more wind, a hot wind that cooked them if they didn''t cover themselves head to toe in light-colored cloth. It wasn''t the finest stuff, just loose-woven linen, and if it wasn''t washed every day it quickly took on the same sun-soaking red-brown color as the rest of the desert. The unusual night brought little relief from the day''s suffocating heat. At least the moons were out (except Crevist which was only seen half the year) so they had good vision on the climb.

    The climb. They came up the cliff hand over hand, bare fingers and bare toes clinging to the rock face with the arts. The climbing prayer was a cryptic, but any Nexus disciple found at least a few of them, parked in innocuous places in scripture. This one was Jamiah''s Climb, its words taken from a passage about Saint Jamiah, who scales a mountain face so tall the height could drive a person mad. She performs the feat to reach the quantheki, a giant bird of thunder, to make peace with it and stop its persecution of the people below. (The meeting does not go well, and she battles the monster to their mutual death.)

    Montague had used the prayer once before, to escape a prison tower. Unlike last time, there would be no daring dive into dark water below them. There were no great rivers in Morufu''s Palm but dry and dead ones.

    It felt like leagues to Minty''s three bulwark: they had never climbed before, yet the height was not so great as Red Tower, less than half its three hundred meters. Lynn, Barth, and Fennis had to be coaxed along, slowly convinced the art would hold them against gravity''s pull. Once, they got stuck at an overhang they were too afraid to take while hanging upside down, and Minty had to find an easier path. He scuttled along the cliff face sideways like an insect until he found a hidden chimney where they could brace their hands and knees.

    When they made the top, they lay their hot and sweaty bodies on the hot ground, with the hot wind blowing over them, coating them in dust, and laughed giddily for minutes, too relieved at first to pull from their canteens.

    As soon as the worst of it had passed and they had taken water, they pulled up their supplies. Fennis had trailed a line behind him, nearly thread-like and improbably durable, one of Eldest Brother''s inventions. They used it to pull up a cord, which they hooked over an arm that Minty shaped from the plateau''s rock. The arm was long enough to keep their gear from snagging or banging against rocks and had a smooth groove at the end for the cord to pass over. With considerable care, they hoisted their gear aloft. They had food for several days, sails that would filter water from the air, and other articles they needed for their stay.

    Their appalons would not remain there with them, or else they might become monster food. The attendant they left behind, a Gallian healer turned apprentice disciple, tied each load to their hoisting rope in turn and, once they had pulled the last bundle up, he took the appalons home with him under the cover of Overlook.

    The first package to come up included the most important article of their load: a box of wood, suspiciously heavy for its size. Minty left the others to set up camp and picked his way through wan but tenacious shrubs to the center of the plateau. He laid on his belly, and gazed down.

    Sand Castle''s formation was similar to Red Tower''s except it was a few times wider, and the center was hollowed out by centuries of habitation. Either that, or it had always been a ring of stone and never a solid pilar, but what force of nature would cause such an outcome was a mystery. The center space was more than two kilometers across, with the central garden bounded by a perfect circle of roadway. Like Red Tower, the living spaces were carved into the rock, in the same style of repeated arches, but at Sand Castle the facades all faced inward, to where the garden was supposed to grow.

    All the rock-hewn dwellings faced now was ruin. The center of the city, what should have been one vast garden, tended daily by hundreds, rich enough to feed thousands, was all torn down. The stands of coconut and date palm, second-canopy figs and olives, bowers of berries and legumes, were all torn limb from trunk, trunk from root, root from ground, all laid flat to bake in the bleaching sun.

    Darkness seethed in the heart of the garden''s destruction, a blackness whose baleful tentacles touched all the city, reaching even to the heights where Minty lay, gazing down into the distant city. When he considered how large the garden was, an exact two kilometers across by Iraj''s report, Minty''s belly almost emptied itself of all the water he drank after the climb. There was something wrong with his perceptions: a creature that massive should not exist. Montague had to jerk his eyes away. There might be more than Darkmaw here.

    Just inside the ring of rock-carved spaces were buildings, single-story structures made of the more typical adobe. The ring of buildings was only a few ranks deep and were of different types, rented out to travelers and passing merchants as temporary dwellings and stores. The ring of neat blocks was occasionally interrupted by tiny parks and plazas. The occasional wide avenue demarcated one wedge of the circle from the next, dividing the city into sixteen arcs. The neighborhoods were even called "arcs", and each one had a different name, a desert plant or animal.

    There was enough space for thousands of people in Sand Castle, not a large city by Lavradio standards, but large enough to deserve the designation. Minty didn''t know the tabla''s math, but even he could guess they had to bring in food from outside to keep the Calique, travelers, traders, and sight-seers all fed. Smaller spots of darkness lurked where the exotic shops and markets used to be. Terrors scuttled by the tall facade where the circle used to meet, and swarmed Verdin Arc where the temple was supposed to be. The great gateway lay in shadow but according to Iraj the ancient doors were torn down. There were other ways in and out of the city, smaller ones, and at least two secret paths that Iraj knew and had told of, but it was no use doing down there. Montague and his bulwark would be overwhelmed in moments. That was one of the lessons of Monster Hunt, the card game they played to simulate battles with different kinds of monsters: numbers matter.Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.

    He must have been there for a long while because his bulwark joined him to stare in silence, overawed, barely daring to breathe lest a noise give them away. They couldn''t see Darkmaw through her living cloak of throbbing malice, but they could smell her well enough: red bile and ammonia, meat rotting off the bone, together aged in the wicked skin of spiked durian. Plenty of cursed creatures had fallen to Minty''s team, but those had been mere trivialities, minor pests, petty annoyances by compare. They had never seen darkness; They had never met a monster; Their faith had never been challenged.

    Not even Mobeen had seen anything like her. If he had, it would have killed him for sure.

    Minty fumbled for his light, got his trembling hands on it the wrong way around, and had to change grip thrice to hold it properly. With a twist, it opened it a crack and let the silver-blue blessings drive away the force that held them.

    Lynn heaved an audible breath, reminding them all to breathe. They were in a bubble of safety cast by the fragment, where literal and spiritual darkness was banished. For the first time, Minty found himself questioning the power of fragments of sun. Such tiny things might not be enough to suppress the aura at Darkmaw''s core. Maybe nothing could.

    "Maybe it''s really, really tiny, inside the aura," joked Fennis, "like a midget monster pretending to be big."

    "That would be nice," added Barth, but without much hope in his voice.

    "Everyone, wear a light." Minty opened the box he carried. The inside was lined with bronze plates hammered thin and a cushion of velvet dimpled to fit a dozen fragments, sitting naked, their silver spheres spilling light in sheets and waves that intersected in peaks and troughs, floating outward, spreading like water.

    The darkness below them stopped its seething. It noticed the light, knew it for the enemy it was, hated it. She feared it.

    It was a lot of fragments but Minty couldn''t afford to waste them. He made two of them himself, but the rest had come from Eldest Brother''s hand. Minty had the silver to make more, but they were hard work. So far only Thalia, Mataba, and he had learned the trick of making fragments.Montague was proud to have been the first, learning while his spirit was joined to Phillip''s. What Phillip could do in fifteen minutes, Minty had to do in stages over two days. Even once the trick was learned, it wasn''t easy to teach. Not everyone could understand how solid matter was mostly empty space, that the space they couldn''t see had to be filled with light, packed fuller and fuller until the light ignited into fire.

    He sent Fennis to chop down a woody shrub and bring him the thickest parts, then shaped the wood into three new fragment containers and filled them from his box. That left him with only nine fragments, but his people were protected from Darkmaw''s despair.

    Darkmaw was a kilometer away, too far for what Minty had in mind. But, her species was insanely aggressive. All he had to do was toss a few large rocks down into the city, and Darkmaw and all her children gathered beneath them. He imagined he could feel her through his feet as she pounded her way across the flattened garden, crushed the buildings at the periphery, and leveled the ground where the innocent rock had landed. The brood mother and her many children merged into one pulsating blob of hateful night, none of them discernable individually, at least not by sight, but his practitioner''s senses knew exactly where the evil heart of the nest lay.

    Calique hunters had a trick for running down large prey. They took the fruit of a certain cactus and cooked it in a bed of sand and hot coals until the outside turned brittle. They opened a hole in the fruit with care to expose the clear, sticky goo that formed within and added a glowing fungus to it. The sticky goo dried on the outside, sealing the hole. When thrown with enough force, the fruit shattered and the animal was left with a glowing fungus stuck to its hide. It could run and run but, until the sun rose, it was easy to find.

    Montague put the trick to better use, with fragments instead of mushrooms, and (after a suitable number of trial runs with rocks) used his sling to rain the sticky light bombs onto Darkmaw. The first projectile sailed down into darkness, smaller and smaller until it couldn''t be disappeared. There wasa moment when he feared the shell hadn''t shattered or, far worse, the light had been swallowed up by living darkness. But then the fragment sparked into a glow.

    The first light''s illumination was weak against her aura, showing just enough to hint at her awfulness. It landed next to her eye, a massive lens sitting on top of her thorax, wider than a man was tall, smooth, red-black, as glossy as the rest of her was matte. It could see him, he was sure of it. She could see his spirit and knew him for an enemy: tiny, soft, easily broken. He would fit inside her mouth with room to spare.

    Darkmaw wasn''t tiny. She wasn''t large. Large was too small a word for what she was. Minty tried to think of bigger words. Massive didn''t carry enough weight. The cursed insects he''d battled on the Maricotta Crossing had been massive. Darkmaw was ten times that. Twenty times. Too many times larger to count properly. She was enough times larger that she was something else entirely.

    Minty lost himself staring into that eye and was startled when Lynn grabbed his shoulder to pull him back from the edge.

    Darkmaw made a noise, whatever angy utterance scorpions made when they couldn''t get to their meal, magnified by millions, a scream across all octaves of human and beast-enhanced hearing. She hated the fragment. She hated him.

    "Light her up," Lynn urged him, handing him another sticky bomb. "Let''s see all of her." Once again, Montague was grateful for the veteran''s mettle.

    One by one the brittle fruits fell into the void, then flickered into light. Most of them hit their mark and, bit by bit, Darkmaw was revealed. Her back was a barge for lost souls. Her tail was a battering ram filled. Her stinger dripped with liquid death. Her legs were palm trees. Her claws were scythes for harvesting men. Her pedipalps were greatswords, beckoning helpless bodies into the Mouth That Ended All Things.

    Gargantuan. That was the word.

    Gargantuan and covered with scorpion babies, all of them pale instar copies of herself.

 Little Trades

    Little Trades

    ˇŞ Taylor ˇŞ

    "Hold it!" Octavio shouted. "Keep that stinger under control! And pull those arms apart! Wider!" Bulwarks had the pet scorpion under control, mostly, with ropes and brute strength. The cursed creature (Could he still call it a monster after learning the monstrosity of Darkmaw?) had all its appendages pulled straight out from its body, forcing it to lay down flat. It shrieked and roared, but after half an hour of fighting, they got the beast under control while a fragment kept the darkness at bay.

    Taylor, fully armored and enhanced, put his hand near the featureless eye, above where the massive nerve stem should be. It was the closest thing it had to a brain, and he wanted to test it. Maybe he could force it to sleep. Or, confuse into inaction. Perhaps it could be fooled into thinking food was elsewhere. All morning, Taylor worried at the wires that drove that thing to move and eat and lie still, without the smallest measure of success.

    That wasn''t to say he didn''t learn anything. He found out the scorpion was a gangly puppet strung together with simple goals: to follow movement or vibration, cut living things into pieces, and shove food into its mouth. Not only did it lack consciousness and emotion, it lacked any restraint whatsoever. It didn''t fear. It didn''t learn. It didn''t need motivation. It didn''t sleep. What it did have going for it were hunger and the organs of both sexes. The disgusting thing had a nest of young growing inside of it.

    Simplicity had its virtues. There was not much chance of messing with a mind that wasn''t a mind at all, but a highly effective collection of hard-wired impulses. Was it a wonder that every world seemed to have a variation of the damned things?

    "Put it back in the hole," Taylor said, giving up as the suffocating heat of the day crept into them. "We''ll try other things tomorrow."

    Taylor grumbled to himself as he shoved his body through the wall of heat to Pashtuk. If Darkmaw had been a mammal or one of several birds or cephalopods, it might have been controlled or reasoned with. But Darkmaw''s kin were all mechanism and no anima.

    The other giant scorpions they''d killed at Pashtuk had been preserved with prayer and feasted on when the refugees returned from Bitter Spring. For such a disgusting creature it was delicious when seasoned with a melange of mild spices and served in a sauce made from appalon butter, with fat wedges of a citrus he hadn''t seen before on the side. The returning Pashtuk wept to have their garden back and relished the chance to eat the monsters that drove them out. They didn''t even mind the animals they were eating had fed on their kin: Calique routinely composted their dead and then grew new food with them. The most important thing was to return their dead to the garden.

    Pashtuk had given them a chapter house, similar to Dagono''s, plus a larger residence next door to that. A full cadre was a lot of people to house and feed, but the people here didn''t seem to mind in the least. The temple was in sad shape, so Taylor set himself to setting it right. Most of all it needed cleaning, a new holy symbol, and a fragment to light the little dome. The lapis-inlaid dome was beautiful, but the tiles on the floor had been mined through neglectful years, possibly to furnish people''s homes. With Mila and Milo''s help, Taylor scraped up the scraps of tile and mortar residue until they were down to the hard adobe floor.

    He knew it was best not to obsess over a problem, especially when he was out of ideas. His only workable idea so far was to drop her into a hole. It would need to be a very big hole, and to that end he had Farr working on a way to measure her from a safe distance. But he still had nothing to kill her with. There were weapons he could "invent" that might do the job, like a shaped charge of high explosive, but delivery and detonation were technical problems that would take time to sort out. Even that might not be enough to kill their monster. She needed to be dead in the next few weeks, not the next few months.

    Irritated, Taylor went to the market and made Mila bring along his bag of boxes. They were piling up, and he''d been intending to distribute them for a while. The simpler ones were made absent-mindedly, in a spare thirty minutes when he had to stop his mind from racing. Those were made from scraps of whatever wood was handy, cut with arts-hardened tools, and assembled without nails or glue. The arts were more effective than glue, if one knew about lignin walls and how to fuse them where one piece of wood joined another. He had a pile of the simple boxes, and his people needed minor goods for the chapter house. Included in the bag were a few of his better efforts, made to showcase a wood''s best qualities and given secret compartments.

    Also, trading might be fun. He''d seen it done in Pashtuk but had never taken part. Calique traded small articles all the time: a woven hat became a brooch of bright feathers, became a spool of coir thread, which sewed a doll to be traded for something else. Small decorative items were briefly loved and then traded for something new, so it wasn''t uncommon to see a hairpin travel, girl to girl, week by week. One had to understand Calique culture to know which possessions were valued long-term and which were momentary fancy.

    The market was just getting started when they arrived at a plaza "down the way", which in Pashtuk meant at the end of the garden near the grain fields. It was covered by an impressive bower of trumpet-shaped flowers which lent their heady scent to the proceedings. The sellers sat on the ground or low folding chairs and laid their goods on blankets. Some were collections made for trade: A reed-weaver and his baskets; A potter and his pots; A coir-weaver and her blankets. Other stations were chaotic selections of anything that came to hand.A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

    People greeted each other and exchanged news, but the business was largely done in silence. Sometimes the parties would talk with their mouths while their hands struck deals, the two conversations seeming independent. The older folks were especially good at carrying the two conversations at once.

    Taylor needed uttar for the women, refined oil for makeup, and tea for guests. He set his sights on a local potioner and was greeted with two-handed reverence. Taylor gave the only graceful response he could, a sign for, you''re welcome, although a better translation would be, it''s my pleasure to give.

    He sat before her blanket of goods and produced a variety of boxes from Mila''s bag, while Milo watched on in amusement. The potioner was a woman in her thirties, with thick black hair braided down her back and an expressive black tail.

    "How''s the market today?" Two pots of uttar, for this box?

    "It''s the first market after coming home." Do you have others? "People are at home, with their families."

    Mila produced two more of the mid-tier boxes. Good uttar wasn''t quick to make, after all.

    Any one of these. "Understandable. Things are not quite the same as before. I''m sure it''s hard." He was thinking of all the grieving families.

    "It''s thanks to you we can come home at all." These two, for two pots. "Everyone wants to know when you will kill Darkmaw."

    One of those, and two of these. "I thought she was taboo."

    "The circle says you''ll receive khartang. You''re one of us." This, this, and this, she pointed at her selections. "You even act like us." She eyed Mila, dressed as a man and a hunter. All three of them wore Red Tower''s colors proudly on their faces.

    Deal. "We value similar things to the Calique, so it isn''t that far to travel."

    Two simple boxes and one mid-tear one were transferred to the potioner''s blanket, and she handed him two pots of uttar. "Our breadfruit for your blood melons."

    "Exactly."

    "So what about Darkmaw?"

    Taylor looked around him. All trade around had stopped, and people were openly listening.

    "I got my first look at her last night, without her aura. I''d be lying if I said she doesn''t scare me. She''s bigger than anything anyone has faced in hundreds of years."

    A voice from somewhere in the market shouted, "So what are you going to do?"

    Taylor stood to address them. The truth was he didn''t have anything concrete to tell them. He had a concept of a plan, a plan to make a plan, but they wouldn''t see that as any kind of plan at all. He meant to tell them, ''we''re working on it,'' but that wasn''t what came out of his mouth.

    "I''ll tell you what we''re not going to do. We won''t repeat Enclave''s mistakes. We''re not going to walk up to her with lots of arrogance and no plan. We''re not going to dump her onto another Calique garden. I don''t want even one more person to die to her. She''s taken enough disciples, and she''s taken more than enough Calique." Heads were nodding.

    "But, she''s too big to stick a blade in her. Her armor is too thick and she''s," he spread his arms like a hunter bragging about the animal he killed, then spread them wider, and then as wide as they would go. "Well, she''s just too big. Whose blade would be long enough!" He got wry laughter for that stunt. "Nobody is going to walk up to her and stick with a spear to kill her, not even Nexus disciples. Fortunately, there are many ways to kill something."

    "You don''t know how to kill her, do you?" The heckler was shushed and shouldered around. Hadn''t Nexus killed the monsters that had killed their hunters? Let the young maul speak! What do you know, you''re a builder!

    "Yet!" he said, pointing at the offending man. He looked bitter and thin, his bony shoulders showing through his sand-colored fur. "We don''t know how to kill her yet! But we do know she can be trapped! We can put her in a hole and keep her there for as long as it takes to kill her. Darkmaw doesn''t have to die right away to set Sand Castle free; she only needs to be contained. It doesn''t matter if it takes a week to finish her off or if she starves for a year. It''s all the same to us, as long as she''s in her hole. Right?

    "Now, who has tea to trade!" He''d said too much, and he was eager to change topics. He got the tea and oil he needed, then set out his own blanket with the remainder of his boxes. He took the names of all his visitors and almost any offered trade for the simplest boxes. In return, he received a collection of things from petty to utilitarian, all of them pretty. He traded one box for a kiss, from a girl about as old as he was. He accepted because he was excited and intrigued. How would such an exchange even take place?

    She hauled him up by his hand and pulled him behind the bower, then put his hands where she liked them: around her waist, near her hips, fingertips hooked beneath the edge of her keratin plates. Thus anchored, she proceeded to kiss him greedily until his breath ran out and his head spun. She slipped away from him and ran to her clique of giggling girlfriends, box in hand.

    His best box, the one with hidden compartments that sprang open at a secret touch, bought him a wide tin serving dish with intricately hammered designs of running appalons. He could feed a dozen guests from it without shame.

    Taylor was happy with his haul of wares for the chapter house. They unloaded everything and put them in the built-in cubbies in the storage room. The serving platter was displayed in the main room, as Taylor had seen other families do. Alice and Inez entered for the shift change as he was admiring his acquisition.

    "Someone is happy," said Alice, "did you get a good deal?"

    "He did," Mila informed her, "but that''s not why he''s grinning. It''s all the kissing he was doing."

    "Really? Details!"

    "It wasn''t all the kissing," Taylor groaned, "it was just one girl."

    "Sure," laughed Milo. "But she kissed you a lot. I think she kissed you for as long as it took you to make that box."

    "Mmmmm. He was gone a while." Mila nodded approvingly.

    "Stop it." Taylor realized he was grinning so hard he couldn''t stop, and his face was starting to hurt. "Milo got everything he needed for spiced havendish. And we got the other things from your list. So it was productive."

    "That''s lucky," said Alice cheerfully, "because Anisca has invited doyennes for dinner."

 Shall We Play A Game?

    Shall We Play A Game?

    Doyennes, plural. Taylor wanted to ask how many doyennes, which ones, when will they be here, and why will they come. Alice wouldn''t have all the answers, so he went directly next door to the larger house where Anisca had installed herself.

    "Exactly how many doyennes are coming?"

    "And good morning to you, too. Yalda from Pashtuk, of course, Aygerim from Saluja, and Azhand from Bitter Spring. You will dress for the occasion. I have acquired suitable cloth."

    "Why? Are they here, I mean?"

    "To speak to us. To spend time with you. They want to verify you are not power-hungry or insane before they give you khartang."

    "But I am power hungry," he quipped with a smile, "just not in the way they''re probably worried about."

    She offered up one of her rewarding smiles. "Very nice. Just remember to be courteous, while being yourself. When they arrive I''d like you to be practicing music."

    "Why? If you want a performance, I can do that."

    "I don''t want a concert. I want you in a good mood, and you''ve been very uptight lately. You''re much nicer to be around when you''ve been practicing. And, it''ll be good for them to see you''re more than a glorified sword. That''s important, if you want to be in charge of fighting Kashmar. We must emphasize your good disposition and long-term thinking this evening."

    Anisca lifted up the top of a thick rectangular box and removed a map from inside. "They will be here after the heat loosens its grip. We should talk about the Monforte situation while we have the place to ourselves. Would you mind?"

    Taylor set up a privacy barrier while Anisca rolled out the map from Prelates and set down pawns. Edos in Gallia, Leila in Hyskos, Ma''Tocha just entering the desert, Minty at Sand Castle, Darius''s cadre in Satoma, and Thallia''s in Dace. Then, a thick cluster of disciples and apprentices at Red Tower.

    "Here is our current deployment, as I understand it," she began as Taylor settled himself across from her. "Lavradio is offering tangible support in our fight against Enclave. They''re not in a position to send much in the way of people, as you know, but their food situation is stable thanks to Nexus, and they have plenty of charcoal and other goods to send. They will also be sending the youngest Monforte with the first shipment."

    Taylor had already spoken to Gonzo in thoughtspace and warned him about being the subject of a dispute with the king. Gonzo thought there was nothing to worry about, it was all Jorgo being Jorgo in his mind, but Taylor had cautioned him anyway. He''d also warned the boy about taking any titles or oaths that bound him permanently to the king. Above all, he should retain the right to make his future decisions.

    That Gonzo was coming to Red Tower was a huge relief.

    "You only have him for six months or until the Kashmar situation is settled," warned Anisca, "but that will let you train him properly and he can lend Farr a hand during the war. He''s overworked and will be glad of the help. Afterward, Gonzo will split his time equally between Nexus and Lavradio. That will allow his training to continue while exporting the benefits to Lavradio continuously. When he reaches his majority, he can do as he wishes."

    "That''s," Taylor fumbled for words. "Well done, Anisca. Really."

    She allowed a small but self-satisfied smile. "Save your praise, Eldest Brother, because that is only the beginning. Lavradio is now attempting to create an alliance with Gallia and Ullidia, in favor of Nexus and against Enclave. As far as we know, Enclave has recalled all its disciples and tried to charge enormous sums to field them again."

    "I''d say it''s more like they defrocked all their fielded disciples and haven''t fielded anyone new," Taylor countered, "but go on."

    "Lavradio''s concern is their northern border with Moldonia. The First Families control ocean-bound cargo in and out of Dace and Kashmar, it''s a major source of income for them, but the ships are built in Moldonia."

    "They have a strong connection. Leo''s concerned Enclave might pressure Moldonia to try something. And his northern territory is a mess after the war. We could move Edos north, and give him a full cadre to command." Taylor started moving pieces. "We should be able to deploy some of Lavradio''s former healers to join him. Then we need at least one new cadre to watch over Ullidia and Gallia. Two would be better." The pile in Red Tower grew smaller and dispersed eastward. "They''ll need paying."

    "Lavradio has agreed to one crevist and four large silver per cadre-month, plus whatever donations they receive. Other countries will be happy to pay the same, considering the alternative." It was within the range the admin group wanted: enough to keep a cadre well-supplied, even after a tithe to Red Tower.

    Taylor surveyed the changed map with an emotion bordering on awe. "What did you say to them to cause all this?"

    "Hardly anything at all. Countries are a little like ordinary people: they can get into ruts. Lavradio''s been waiting for Enclave to weaken for ages. All I did was encourage my brother to talk about why it would be in Lavradio''s best interest for Enclave to lose, and he did all of this on his own. The Monforte resolution was partly personal; He wants to set things right with you. But the rest of this," she swept her closed fan over the board, "is Lavradio looking out for itself. There won''t be a better opportunity in time."

    In time for what, Taylor didn''t ask because he knew Anisca couldn''t answer. But he could hazard a few excellent guesses. He set up a link and sounding board on the leadership channel and, after a few minutes wait, got Rector Mika, his second Kasryn, and Dean Mataba. They would choose which pieces to move.

    She was right about his mood. Taylor reached out to Gonzo, who had heard about his imminent departure from the royals already, and convinced him to carry a sounding board to the palace musicians he used to play with. An impromptu session was put together and, fifteen minutes into practice, he felt the sense of gnawing worries ease away. Music time was music time. The other worries would have to wait their designated turns.

    Rafi always pushed him into improv, and that''s what the little band of four were doing when the doyennes arrived next door. They were kicking phrases around, changing and expanding them by turns, when Alice let him know the gathering was ready. And, would he bring the sounding board with him?

    There was to be a concert after all. A tiny one, but a concert nonetheless. He settled himself on a cushion in the room Anisca had taken for the meeting, wrapped in the softest, whitest coir cloth embroidered along the edges with futobel antlers and stars. His hair was up in a manly turban with a brooch of fire opal on the front. His eyes were rimmed in carmine, and his lips were amber. The women wore colors specific to their gardens, and their arms were lined and dotted gracefully with uttar. Taylor greeted them by their titles, Wise Yalda, Wise Aygerim, and Wise Azhand, knowing who was whom by their markings. He explained the sounding board briefly and played three songs for them. One was poetry they would know, set to music. One was a well-traveled song by Bibi. The last was his most famous song, Champions of Love. Then he thanked the palace musicians and clicked off. Three songs were plenty.Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation.

    Azhand was the first to try him, when the clapping was done. "You''re full of surprises, Maul Phillip. You may have missed your true calling."

    "I''m a better disciple than I am a songwriter. But thank you for the compliment. I don''t get to play as often as I used to." You can''t provoke me that easily, old lady.

    "And you''re so beautifully young, too!" Aygerim cackled like a crone. "You should be kissing little girls on garden benches, not leading grown men into deadly battles."

    "Your little girls are a little aggressive," Taylor told them with a crooked smile, "I might prefer facing off against men and monsters. It''s safer, and I understand them."

    The old women laughed uproariously at that. Taylor didn''t understand why they loved to tease boys his age so much: it wasn''t just Calique crones but all of Tenobre was like this. Jokes were the only good response.

    "Don''t neglect our young Saluja ladies," Aygerim teased, "or their fathers will think you look down on them!"

    "And Bitter Spring girls are not bitter at all, I promise you!" added Azhand. "A few winters from now, I see many negotiations for your services." They wanted children from him, stolen ones, and Taylor felt himself blushing furiously. The doyennes laughed again. Oh yes, they had found a button they could press.

    But, Taylor had met with doyennes before. They were only probing him a bit, to find out if he had a temper.

    "Fine, fine, you got me." He covered the lower half of his face with his hand to hide some of the color. "I''m a terror on the battlefield, but shy with girls. I''m working on it, okay?"

    "Yes! Have mercy on our maul, you three! Even he can''t be precocious at everything, can he?"

    "Quite true. I''ve already had my turn at the young man, and he''s not easily angered. If you want to know what he''s like, ask Uzan."

    "Ugh, Uzan." His annoyance at Dagono''s doyenne chased away his embarrassment. "I admit I told her exactly what I thought. I''ll leave her to you, Anisca. Division of labor, and all that."

    "I look forward to it. Now, you all wanted to visit us to learn about Nexus and its goals. I think the best way to do that is to play a game."

    She couldn''t be talking about Monster Hunt; it wouldn''t interest them. She had to be suggesting Prelates. Taylor nearly protested having doyennes play their strategic game, but her idea had merit. It illustrated their goals, and it had layers. They might even enjoy it.

    "That''s a fascinating idea. I''m game if our wise guests are." Taylor unpacked the map and pieces and set up the game while Anisca explained the method of play. Alice was brought in to extend their numbers, and Milo served them all tea and snacks in little dishes.

    "How does one win this game?" asked one of the doyennes.

    "Survive. We''ll play the short version of the game with fewer events, so you''ll only have to endure three calamities." That''s what people had taken to calling the final deck of event cards used at the end of the game. Calamities. The name had stuck the moment it was suggested.

    The doyennes took to play quickly. They readily grasped the probabilities of success and failure of any action and focused on developing their resources in the early game. They voted for Anisca for hierarch repeatedly, but whether that was because they trusted a woman more or just wanted to see if it would irritate him, Taylor couldn''t say. The early game went well enough, with realms sharing resources quite freely. But it all started falling apart in the late mid-game, as expenses and casualties started piling up.

    The Calique reflex, when everything started falling apart, was to turtle up. The doyennes stopped sending tithes to Nexus and all but ceased cooperating with others (even each other). With each of them acting alone, the top tier of technologies was out of reach. Meanwhile, Anisca, Alice, and Taylor gave everything they had to obtain the key ''powered flight'' and ''underground life support'' technologies. The game nearly came to an early end when two consecutive calamities landed on Red Tower, demolishing the only disciple school and research center and knocking Anisca out of the game. Taylor and Alice survived by combining their populations under Alice''s prelate, effectively letting Taylor resign the game with honor. Two of the self-isolated doyennes got eaten alive by monsters, while the third became leader of a nation of zombies. That it was a disease and not a curse made little difference to the outcome.

    "Alice is the only winner," conceded Yalda, "partially by luck."

    "She was the only winner this time. But the game is not quite over." Anisca smiled, as beatific as any saint. "Now we have the after-action report. Taylor can begin."

    "Only having one school is a single point of failure, even if we defend it with everything we have. If that had happened even one turn earlier, nobody would have survived. But I''m concerned about having multiple schools: somehow we have to keep quality high, and keep the culture together."

    "You can rotate teachers," offered Yalda. "We send our tablas around other gardens, especially those we groom as possible doyennes. The annual gathering at Sand Castle is very popular for the young, and for choosing spouses."

    "An annual conclave," Taylor mused. "It''s an interesting idea."

    "It''s not so different from the king''s court in Lavradio." Alice''s husband was a former palace guard. "All the noble families are required to send someone for a season, every year. It''s also why they all know each other. You could do the same for every church region."

    "Red Tower is too small, but that''s an implementation problem. It''s worth bringing this up to the governance committee. That''s my turn."

    Alice went next. "Does flight have to be so mid-game? You keep saying the principles of flight are well-known, so can''t you prioritize it in real life? If we could acquire flight early, it would change everything."

    "If we''re just moving cadres around, then maybe that''s possible. Cadres can use disciples as the power source. If you want mass transit and heavy cargo lifting, then we need a new compact fuel source. That''s a much more difficult problem."

    "Well, I think you should make fast transport and communications top research priorities. It makes everything else go faster." Alice looked to Azhand.

    "Is it my turn now? Very well. You''ve put a great deal of faith in Nexus inventions, but none at all in the ancients. Your game is deliberately designed to push players into cooperation when the best chance of survival is to use the underground cities."

    Yalda winced, just a little. Aygerim stared without blinking. Okay, we''re talking about this. So much for taboos.

    Taylor surprised all the doyennes further by agreeing with Azhand. "That''s true. I''m putting everything on Nexus when maybe I don''t have to. If someone were to show me an underground city with functioning life support systems and prove they knew how to refuel, repair, and rebuild the machines as necessary, I would be quite happy to move that card into the early game."

    Alice grimaced. "It would make the game too easy, but then we have new problems to think about. What happens to all the surface people? Do they resent the undergrounders? Do the cultures diverge and become enemies?"

    Taylor nodded. "We can always make the events harder, and see what happens when we introduce underground prelates. We have to figure out what they would need, though."

    Aygerim narrowed her eyes at Taylor and Anisca. "Are you saying that you change the rules of this game whenever you feel like it?"

    "All the time. This woman here," Taylor pointed an accusing finger at Anisca, "utterly broke an early version. She showed us that a skilled player who interpreted success in an unfortunate way could doom everyone else. She''s the reason we have a hierarch, leadership tokens, and other indicators of success. It gives direction to the ambitious, and makes it easier to punish bad actors who only want to cause chaos."

    Anisca had the good grace not to look too proud of the accomplishment. "Prelates is like your circle of tablas in the way it gives structure to thinking about the future. Instead of hard numbers, the questions are about how people might behave and how governance influences people''s choices. At first, I thought Taylor had wasted his time inventing it, but the governance committee is constantly coming up with alternate rules to try out. This was only the simplest version."

    "And you would be the hierarch of all this at such a young age?" Aygerim gave Taylor a bitter stare. "That''s a long time for anyone to have so much power."

    "Oh, I''m not going to stay hierach." Taylor laughed. "I plan to ditch the job as soon as I can! The position has a term of five years, and a maximum of two consecutive terms. My plan is to escape after a term or two and wander the countryside doing random good deeds. I''d be doing that right now if it weren''t for," he waved his hands to encompass Enclave, Nexus, the world, and the millennial sun cycle, "everything."

    "So you don''t want to rule the Calique, Kashmar, and then the world?"

    "Wise Aygerim, anyone who says that about me doesn''t know me at all. When I look at someone with that kind of ambition, I think, ''What a fool! If they get what they want, they either won''t be happy with it, or be terrible at running it all.''

    "It''s a bit of a poison chalice, isn''t it? Like the way Kashmar keeps coming down here every twenty years or so to ''unify'' Kravikas. They actually succeeded twice, and both times their tyrant died here. And it''s just so pointless; The desert doesn''t have much that Kashmar can use, so risking tens of thousands of lives on it buys them nothing."

    "Pride, young maul," insisted Azhand. "It buys them pride."

 Taking Measure

    Taking Measure

    ˇŞ Taylor, Kravikas Desert ˇŞ

    Crevist rose in the morning as a thin sliver of distant yellow, signaling the equinox. Midsummer had arrived, and Taylor was looking down at Darkmaw''s grave. It might be the biggest hole dug in modern times, a circular pit a little over one hundred meters across: wide enough that she couldn''t touch the opposite sides at the same time when fully stretched out. It was sixty meters deep, with walls that canted slightly inward. Fully half of Red Tower''s disciples and apprentices had been brought out to shape it and harden the interior. It was such a monumental effort that the earth around it had swollen: one had to go uphill to travel to the grave''s edge.

    They had learned a lot from their captive scorpion by reshaping its jail. Their species wasn''t very good at digging through hard rock or climbing smooth surfaces, but they could get over a tall obstacle going sideways if they could reach the top with just one or two legs while balancing their weight on the opposite side. They could spit acidic bile and spray poison, but their vertical range was poor.

    They could also spit rocks, which discovery cost one man his life. The unfortunate had gone out one night, drunk on date and melon brandy, to punish the source of all his losses. He hauled with him the chunks of his broken house and broken life, dragging them behind him in a rough sack that flattened the mischus behind him. Maybe the grieving man would have known better if Taylor hadn''t left the fragment mounted there to counter the creature''s aura. But the light was there, and the wicked thing was plainly visible. Watchmen followed the commotion: first the yelling and the crying, then the violent threats and the sound of rocks bounding off hard scorpion armor. They arrived in time to see half the mourner''s head cave in from below, as the monster spit debris back at him.

    That was why the pit had angled sides: to spoil the range and aim of scorpions spitting rocks.

    Getting the horrid girl''s measurements had turned into a surveyor''s job because nobody could run a knotted string to her and ask politely if she would mind standing still while her girth was taken. Sir Farr and Madam Lilian put together a fine theodolite, a half-meter wide, with finely machined marks at quarter-degree intervals and precision-cut sights. This came attached to a book of sines and tangents and a priestess who excelled in all the math and building courses from Lector Manu. The frightened woman had to be ferried out to Sand Castle by a disciple using Overlook, and then hauled aloft like baggage. It was a trial for her, but once she was on site, she did a beautiful job. Taylor held a poster-sized diagram in his hand with every span and every limb carefully detailed and measured.

    The pit would hold her but they still had to get her into it. She was just as insanely aggressive as her children, and would chase anything that moved. They just needed someone fast enough to outrun her.

    "Are you sure you want to do this?"

    The jimala standing next to Taylor gave him an unmistakable eye-roll. They''d held a race: every disciple and hunter who craved the honor of baiting Darkmaw had run their best mounts. The jimala had joined the race from far behind, surprising everyone, and finished far ahead. Iraj was a distant second, mounted on a horse taken from the Satomen. The remainder of the field barely rated a mention.The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

    "This will help you." He put a chain of linked tirun scales around the jimala''s neck and secured it with straps running under his front legs. "It''ll hold the enhancements longer, and guide you to the path that goes over the pit." Narrow beams of light, one red and the other green, shot out from the center scale. "The green light points at the near end of the path. The red light points at the far end. When they line up, you''re lined up on the path. When the beams of light get very short, so is your distance to safety. We''re going to practice."

    The jimala blew his disdain and stomped a hoof on the ground twice.

    "Don''t be cocky, jimala," Taylor scolded, "you haven''t seen her. You''re going to be running for your life, I promise. If she gets too close, you can use long serpentines to open up distance but it puts you off your line. If she catches you, you die horribly. If you miss the pit and get lost, she''ll exhaust you, and you die horribly. If you miss the safe path over the pit, you fall and die horribly. I set up a training path down there so you can practice until it''s second nature."

    The jimala grumbled. It might be mocking him.

    Iraj chose that moment to climb the hill and join them. "Survive with style, jimala, and you''ll rest your panting head on the soft bosoms of many women! They will lavish you with garlands of flowers, and sing to you on winter nights. Ignore the little maul, and you''ll miss out on all the rewards!"

    The antelope-ish shape-shifter stamped both front hooves at once, impatient to be off.

    "Since you think it''s so easy, we''ll do it at speed." Taylor hit him with the maximum enhancements he could endure. "I''ll be watching. Go!"

    "I never imagined anything so fast." Iraj tracked the tawny blur mainly by the line of rising dust it left behind.

    "For a surface animal, he''s remarkable," agreed Taylor, tracking him with enchanted goggles. "But he''s going to miss the ˇ­ yeah, he missed the path. Cocky four-legs, thinks he doesn''t need anything but speed. I''m trying to save his life here." He handed the goggles to Iraj.

    "He''s a young man. You have to motivate him properly."

    "By volunteering women without their knowledge? What would they say?"

    "Great feats set a young woman''s heart aflame. They''ll compete to dance with him in the gathering hour and ask his doyenne for children. Gardens will want him for a husband. He''s taking it slower now. See? He can learn." Iraj handed back the goggles. They watched the jimala practice his approach from different angles and at increasing speeds.

    "Face me, little maul. I have something serious to say." They faced each other, and Iraj put his hands on Taylor''s shoulders. "As the new maul of Pashtuk, it falls to me to talk to you about your khartang. Khartang is a great honor, not given to most mauls. It says Pashtuk recognizes your uncommon leadership in a time of peril, and speaks to your ability and wisdom. You will receive a symbol of our garden, and you must protect it from loss or harm. It is shameful to lose the khartang. If you cannot protect it, then it is better to return it than lose it. When you die, it cannot be handed down to your children but must be returned to us."

    "I understand, Maul Iraj." The young maul was appropriately solemn, which gave Iraj pride. Their friendship should be long and rewarding.

    "Good." Iraj released him. "For the ceremony, you will need a deed of strength and a deed of heart."

    "Killing Darkmaw doesn''t qualify as a deed of strength?"

    "It does if people witness it. What will you do for your heart?"

    "Music, I suppose. I''m a pretty fair singer."

    "I hope you''re better than fair," Iraj admonished him. "Your heart should be as great as your arm if you''re worthy of khartang."

    "I''ll manage." Taylor was suddenly filled with a new idea and grinned with excitement. "She''s an epic monster. It''ll take an epic song to match her. Oh, Iraj!" Taylor''s laughter bubbled up, long and free, from his belly to the sky, gathering volume. He shouted to the air, "This is going to be epic!"

    Iraj cast a nervous look at the youth''s guard, Inez.

    "You''re the one who encouraged him," she accused, "now you get what you get."

 The Run

    The Run

    ˇŞ Parsa, "The Jimala" ˇŞ

    To anyone with good beastly senses, every hour of the day has its own smell and its own sounds. This time of night, all the little nocturnal creatures had put themselves to bed. The nearly silent wings of predator birds swept to greater heights, returning to their lofty homes. Parsa was in the quiet hour, the cold hour, when the dawn-grackles, sunrise-flowers, and all the early-morning crowd had yet to rise, bloom, or buzz. It was a special time of day to be awake, when he would normally have the entire world to himself. It was a shame the city ruined it.

    The great gates of Sand Castle lay before him, torn down and trampled into wreckage. The stonework that once hung the doors tumbled down in ruin like broken teeth in a broken mouth, leaving the entrance dark and gaping. A horrible smell issued from that hole, the breath of a thousand corpses gone to rot.

    Phillip seemed to step out of some secret doorway hiding in plain sight to appear next to Parsa. It wasn''t just him, but another disciple too. Their type was easy to recognize, now that he''d met a few and had a chance to watch them at work. It wasn''t just the stars of Olyon pinned to their chests. They were all utterly confident and yet a little bookish, even thoughtful. If they wanted ham-fisted antics then they had bulwarks to turn to.

    "Jimala, meet Brother Montague. He''s been keeping an eye on Darkmaw and thinning out her children. He has officially killed more cursed monsters now than anyone in about three hundred years."

    "Not that it means anything these days, with Darkmaw in the world. She sets a new definition for monster." Parsa nodded to the new disciple, making his peytral of tirun scale rattle and ring. "Eldest Brother says you''re the fastest thing alive. We''re counting on you. We''ll be riding on your flanks, keeping up as well as we can. Good luck out there."

    Phillip started praying, each invocation silent and sudden, wrapping Parsa in layers of enhancements carefully tuned to what he needed and what his body could bear. Parsa drank it in until his body quivered with the need to move, to run, to flash over the desert. The tirun scales vibrated slightly with each new prayer.

    Phillip finished with a prayer unlike the others, said aloud and not from scripture. It was more like a personal supplication to the divine. "Our God Olyon, who sees all, watch over this jimala. When he is in darkness, light his way. When he would fall, lift him up. Guard him against despair. Amen."

    "Give us a few minutes to set up," Phillip said. "When she comes, don''t hesitate. Just run for your life."

    Parsa stamped his impatient hooves. The kid liked to prattle on so! He''d given these ''cautions'' before. Don''t freeze up. Don''t hold back unless he was leaving Darkmaw far behind. Keep his courage. Keep his wits. Pray if he needed to. Above all, run for his life.

    What did the kid think he''d been doing all this time?

    The disciples left in opposite directions and promptly vanished, leaving Parsa at the mouth of the dead city. Now he had to wait.

    Parsa hated waiting. He hated being still, and always had. His whole garden was a place of stillness, never moving, never changing. The doyennes were always denying him the chance to run because he might damage something, or he had damaged things in the past and they didn''t want him to continue. He''s been born with a second form, rare and prized yet taboo to talk about. Unlike other jimala children, he never outgrew his need to run and bound and click his hooves in the air. But his need to be in motion was only the beginning of his troubles. He was too small to be a builder, too gentle for a hunter. Shape-shifters couldn''t be caravanners because jimalas were taboo, and the caravans weren''t running anymore anyway. Weaving didn''t want him because he couldn''t sit still. The garden was better for him in theory: at least gardeners got to move around a lot. But only girls could be gardeners, and they never passed the walls except on their daily runs to the compost heap.

    So, Parsa tried to be a hunter in spite of his size and gentle nature. Every child learned basic survival skills, but hunters practiced. They spent days and weeks at a time beyond the walls, practicing, and learning their advanced skills. In the desert, Parsa could run all day and never have someone tell him he was a nuisance. But at the first trial, he had ˇ­ shamed himself. Simple failure would have been forgivable. It was allowed to fail and try again. People could learn and get better. But Parsa had ˇ­ it was better not to dwell on it. That was the day his father stopped talking to him.

    The less said about his father, the better. The great spear of a man was supposed to be the next maul, and he''d wanted a son in his own image. What he got was Parsa. It would have been far better if Parsa had been born an entirely different person, or been born a girl, or would take up a woman''s ways and residence with the unmarried women. But pretending to be a girl didn''t fit him, just like hunting or sitting still or living inside the walls didn''t fit him. Parsa didn''t fit anywhere.

    As the time passed for him to settle on a profession (and for the garden to settle on a place for him) Parsa began to wander. He would leave for days at a time, nobody could stop him after all, and not return until his provisions ran out. Every return felt less and less like a homecoming and more like he was an interloper at a gathering that didn''t know what to do with him. Old friends would greet him but not ask what he''d been up to. His father would scowl at him and then turn away. Parsa would sleep for a few days, raid the ration box, and leave again as soon as Father''s sour looks began to hurt.

    Once, he was gone for three full weeks. He was finally getting the knack of surviving on his own and, for the first time, he returned home with food on his back instead of an empty sack: spring cactus fruit, a rare spice he knew his father liked, tubers from a tiny oasis he''d discovered, and a chunk of prized obsidian he''d dug up from a ruin. He dumped all the food into the ration box and set the obsidian where it would be seen in the morning.

    Parsa crept to his room, intending to sleep, but found someone already there. There was a boy on his sleeping pallet, limp and unconscious to the world. Parsa knew the child to be an orphan from one of the ravaged gardens. He was a chunky lad, muscular, the kind to think with his fists and use his mouth for bragging. A boy in his father''s image.

    Parsa was too proud to take back the gifts he''d given, even though he could have used them. He didn''t even rummage through the food box. He put the empty sack on his back, tightened the straps, and changed to his animal form. He was over the wall in only a few bounds. He hadn''t been back since. What was there to go back to?

    The bombardment started. Heavy round bullets of rock appeared out of thin air and screamed at the ruined gate. The shots went into the darkness and crashed around in the first, great courtyard beyond. There was no doubt when they had Darkmaw''s attention because the city let them know: he could feel her steps trembling the ground beneath him.

    Parsa added his voice to the violence and bellowed his challenge to the unseen monster inside. He would show her speed. He would show them all what a runner could do. When the monster didn''t show herself, the sling stones continued their assault and Parsa bellowed again, a note that started low and rose higher until it passed normal hearing. Come and get your bait, bitch! Nervous now, eager to launch, he turned quick circles on the broken roadway.

    The city screamed at him in return, a thousand trumpet blares adrift of any music, focused through the narrow (for her voice) gate until it slammed into him like the shockwave of a collapsing thunderhead. Rot, bile, and urine smells mingled with something more awful, swamped him in dread malice. His urge to run paused on trembling legs, their high spirits dimmed.

    The rock around the great gate ruptured. Some parts collapsed. Most of it flew at him, a rockslide in flight, its scale so deceptively large that he thought it was all moving unnaturally slow at first, then realized those were boulders arcing through the air at him. The void of the entrance was filled with storm-churned dust.

    Until it wasn''t. The city vomited her up, the deadly parasite grown too large, ejected at any cost to its host. The two pincers came first, tree-reaping scissors held high, and then the arms, then the eight terrible blank eyes above the mouth fully as tall as the city''s gate had once been. And around that mouth, bladed arms longer than a man. The legs came next, and then the tail above her head, the poison barb that killed gurantors by the dozen. Living darkness raged around her, fighting against the holy light from the fragments stuck to her body. She was all chaos and destruction and violence, and there was no power on earth equal to her.The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

    Parsa couldn''t move his legs. The harder he tried, the more they wobbled, and she was coming. He felt her eyes on him, so many eyes, and he couldn''t move. Worse, his knees buckled.

    It was happening again.

    Parsa''s bowels clinched until he cried out, not in the rapid roughs of a warning signal, or the bellow of a challenge, but the high cry of a child in distress, a wounded and terrified animal. He cried, and the pellets came shooting out of him one after another, scattered on the ground in a tumble until his bowels were empty. So many pellets.

    His pain went away with the shit, and Parsa was able to look up at her, at his fate, the fate of all cowards. But, he found he could at least stand on his jellied legs. Maybe someone would remember that he had died on his feet and not lying on the ground. The center of a maelstrom was coming for him and he couldn''t face it, not directly, but he could stand up for it.

    RUN. The impulse shocked him into motion, and he took the first stammering steps of flight. His legs would move if he let them. The winter moon''s yellow arch was blotted out by one of her claws. She wasn''t going to bother snapping at him with the oversized pincers: the mouth-arm-blades would get that gory chore. But he was moving now.

    RUN. The urge was beating at him now. RUN RUN RUN! Parsa was good and truly moving now, fast enough to keep pace with death incarnate, easily enough to outrun the gate of hell that pursued him, the bloody blades that reached for him. As his legs ran, Parsa''s lungs fell into rhythm. As his lungs heaved air into him, his mind cleared. The monster had gorged herself on every meat Calique had to offer, but she wasn''t fast enough for him.

    RUN OR DIE! That''s what the brother should have said, not "Run for your life." He would run or he would die, and Parsa decided he was fine with that. But he was in a tricky place now, between chelicerae the length of greatswords and pincers the size of mountains. They were veering far off-line, which wasn''t a problem yet but would become one soon.

    Parsa did exactly what his father would most disapprove of: he pronked. He arched his back for two strides, hit all four hooves on the ground simultaneously, and sprang into the air like a calf, only higher, far higher than any jimala had ever pronked before. He flew so high he was looking down at the monster''s central eye, the one on top of her head.

    Of all her eyes, she had somewhat too many of them, the big one was the scariest. He felt her hate, or hunger, or whatever it was that made her want to destroy every other living thing that wasn''t a scorpion, emanating from that wide black circle. It was passing under him, but not because she was running faster. He was slowing down because he was airborne for so long.

    But they were two bodies in motion now, and he had the freedom to act. He thought he would land on her back until the stingered tail whipped at him, barb first. Parsa could see the venom sack contracting, readying for the moment her stinger buried itself into warm flesh.

    That''s convenient, thought Parsa, and spun himself around to meet the massive poisoned spine. When it tried to drive into him, Parsa kicked it with all four feet, and sailed still higher and farther forward.

    He was out of her cloud of debris now, shot like a hot comet from the sandstorm raised around her. It didn''t matter that her poison splashed him: he was protected. A claw big enough to wreck a grove of trees came up to rend or beat him, but that too was a convenience. Parsa landed on the moving claw, took one small bound along the edge of its rough, curved surface, and pronked again.

    He was heading toward his line, and he wasn''t just running anymore; he was flying. Just for the sheer joy of it, Parsa clicked his hooves and spread all his legs wide. He called his challenge to the lightening sky, urging on his prey.

    Then he was plummeting down, faster than any jimala had ever plummeted and survived. He took the landing on all fours and bounded twice more, in lower arcs, then broke out into an honest run. Darkmaw had gained some distance while he was managing his great drop from the sky. He had brought her close to the line, but it was already time to turn again.

    He made the course change, not too sharply lest she bowl him over, and Darkmaw turned to follow him. Her many legs had trouble with the (for her) sharp maneuver and gouged trenches in the earth deep enough to bury armies in. Parsa dared to let her close in a little so as not to lose her. Phillip had warned him the monster would be fast: a large monster had to be, just as a matter of scale. On a normal day he wouldn''t have been able to match her.

    But today was not a normal day. Today, Parsa was the fastest living thing. Once he had her securely on the path he opened up a little distance between them. He could see the ground gently sloping up in the distance, the hill that grew as disciples dug their pit. His red line and green line were pointing forward, and they grew shorter.

    Parsa slowed as he climbed the hill, and he lost crucial distance as Darkmaw closed in on him. The terrifying pincers were looming again, but she was too far behind to use them. When his hooves hit the thin dome of rock over the pit, he knew he''d won. The muffled thunk-thunk-thunk of his hooves turned into proper drumbeats, dadalum-dadalum-dadalum, a clear signal of their arrival that would carry for miles. He put on his last burst of speed, to get across the trap before his quarry''s weight collapsed it.

    He called again in victory, head high.

    Desperate to reach her prey, Darkmaw''s mountainous pincers tried to crush him. Their size and weight made them absurd weapons to use against him and she was too far behind to reach, but the impact of those gargantuan claws caved in the dome. All of it, the entire shell of rock that was supporting him, fell away while he was in mid-stride.

    When Parsa''s hooves should have touched the rock they found loose debris and air instead. He was still moving forward, falling with the shattered rubble of dome, and still moving forward. Parsa got his body turned in time to collide sideways against the pit''s curved wall, and fell with the rest of the broken rock into the sixty-meter-deep pit. It bruised him, but he could feel the prayers still working on him.

    Darkmaw''s terrorizing scream whipped him around in time to see her careening to the edge of the pit while trying to backpedal, but it was too late. Two pairs of legs were already over the edge, and her pincers made her too front-heavy to not fall in. The monster tipped forward until she was hanging upside down, with her back two legs still hooked over the lip of the pit. She hung there for quite a long time while Parsa watched her, wondering what he should do. Her darkness still raged against the fragments'' light, warring with each other.

    Don''t celebrate too soon. That was another one of Phillip''s cautions. He had entirely forgotten that one.

    "Hey Jimala, are you all right?" Parsa looked up to see Eldest Brother Phillip''s face peeking over the lip above him. "Can you move?" Parsa trotted in place to show that yes, he could move. "Great! We''re gonna push her in." He disappeared.

    They were going to what? Parsa barked his indignation. This time, both Phillip''s and Montague''s faces showed over the rim.

    Phillip shouted again as if there were some kind of confusion. "Is there a problem?"

    Parsa spread his legs a little wider and tonked at him, several times. With emphasis.

    "What are you going on about?"

    "Yeah," joined Montague, "we just watched you sky-dance all over her. We have faith in you!"

    "Just stand over there," pointed Taylor, "where she isn''t likely to fall on top of you, and then dance on out of there." Then Taylor was gone.

    Parsa grumbled at length at the remaining disciple.

    "Hey, I know it looks bad from your end, but consider ours: we have to touch her with our hands, near her anus!"

    The jimala looked back at Darkmaw, still hanging upside down, nearly in the pit but not quite, obviously trying to back herself up and out. Her legs couldn''t find any purchase on the smooth walls, and they were too hard to punch holes into. Parsa couldn''t see it from this angle, but the monster anus would be about at ground level. Unwilling to completely concede the point, he grumbled a little more. He was the one in the pit, after all.

    "I know, but you can do this. And we''re definitely having drinks after this, okay?" Montague waved encouragement as he left.

    Parsa noticed that Darkmaw''s front pincers didn''t quite reach the ground. If they were only a meter longer or the pit a meter shallower she might have had a chance to get out. Just how closely did they measure this thing? Her tail wasn''t doing anything, probably because if she brought it forward it would tip her over into the pit.

    It wasn''t even a minute later that he heard Montague again, "Here she comes!"

    It would take time for all of her to fall so instead of standing aside, Parsa decided to stand his ground. He would move as she did, and take whatever advantage he could. They pushed her in surges, shoving her by centimeters at each impact until the very tips of her claws were at the edge. With one final heave, they freed her from the rim and she fell.

    It wasn''t a natural motion for a scorpion. She landed on her pincers, which weren''t meant to hold up her body and collapsed. Her face hit the floor of the pit and she screeched. The tail, that terrible tail, stabbed at the ground. No, it stabbed at him. Her huge eye, the one on top of her head, could absolutely see him and she was still trying to kill him. The idiot creature should have been trying to save its own life instead of trying to eat him. She should at least get her face out of the dirt first, and maybe stand upright.

    Parsa dodged the massive stinger twice, backing toward the far end of the pit as he did so. The stinger reached for him without any sense of caution and, sure enough, the whole monster keeled over onto its back in one huge, slow-yet-alarmingly fast sequence of monster segments crashing into the ground. The tail never stopped looking for him the whole time, sweeping back and forth along the floor. But she had no eyes on him now, and Parsa easily put himself to one side where the tail couldn''t reach. It didn''t have a lot of sideways motion and was unable to reach most of the floor. Before she could think of righting herself, Parsa bounded onto the base of her tail, and from there onto her belly. The feet tried to stab at him but they were far too slow: with two jaunty steps and one serious pronk, he was free of her and the pit. He clicked his front hooves to his back ones, just to show those disciples who had the best style on this hunt, and landed on all fours.

    When he called out his victory for the second time, there were a dozen voices to join him. They cheered and rushed him, pulled him away from the edge, patted his shoulders, rubbed his horns for luck, and took other liberties that comrades would be allowed. Phillip cleaned them all with a single prayer, ridding them of Darkmaw''s filth and poison. Parsa was happily lost inside the mass of cheering bodies. They swept him downhill, off the little mount into the shelters, where hot food and milk-wine were waiting.

    For once in his life, Parsa had done something right.

 Full Circle

    Full Circle

    ˇŞ Taylor ˇŞ

    They came from every garden, large and small. Dagono, Pashtuk, Bitter Spring, Emerald Pool, Saluja, Lustrous Voice, Running Phlox, Broken Ode, and Saphir. Those were just the larger gardens. A dozen smaller ones were represented, too. Day after day, new parties arrived from the farthest-flung corners of the desert. They came to see the monster that had caused them all such pain.

    Allowing time for every garden to arrive and gawk at penned-up Darkmaw was Anisca''s idea. To maximize their gain, an audience was needed when he killed her. Until then Taylor kept a vigil at her prison, under a spacious awning inscribed to keep the area beneath as cool as a garden grove. He set a railing along the nearest rim of Darkmaw''s pit to keep the visitors from accidentally falling in. They had expected pilgrims and sight-seers, the vengeful and the curious, doyennes and mauls, but not whatever this was.

    In his days watching over the site, Taylor witnessed some extraordinary behavior. Hunters threw spears at her in vain, yet went away satisfied. Grievers stood at the railing and screamed their pain over the edge, so their anguish might die with her. Men and women cut their long hair short to discard the unwanted tresses in the pit. Others brought boards with written messages on them, set them on fire, and hurled the burning slates at the object of their pain. Several groups arrived with pots of oil to set the monster on fire.

    Darkmaw glowered through it all. Sometimes, she shot venom from her tail but little of it reached the edge. She rammed the sides, but several meters of disciple-hardened stone was too much for her. She spat rocks but couldn''t get enough height. Mostly she rested in the shadiest part of her cell and conserved her energy. Through it all, fragments fought her living darkness.

    She couldn''t leave and she wouldn''t die.

    In the dead of night, disciples showed up and tried a variety of weapons and attacks. Taylor even gave the new crossbow a try, loaded with enchanted bolts. The ammunition was designed to pierce armored men clean through, yet bounced off her naked eye. Nothing affected her.

    The stalemate appeared complete.

    After their exertions, visitors often stopped by his awning to rest. Most of them were reverential, not just to Taylor (and to Anisca, who was often sitting with him) but to the proceedings. When Darkmaw ravaged the city of Sand Castle, she killed people from every garden. Calique might be a federated society, but they were also a distinct people with a shared grief. Nexus offered them pure cold water, a place to rest, and kept female disciples on hand for the wounded and the overcome. Taylor''s awning became a place of quiet rest and reflection.

    All around the base of the prison hill, a city grew. Red Tower built bunkers for itself, arched spaces underground with spirit lamps, and trellises of fruiting vines thanks to Anisca''s farmer, Riculta, who was proving her worth with help from local gardeners. The Calique all brought tents, mostly big round ones that they insulated with layers of cloth, leather, and thick sheets of coir fiber. An especially large one was set aside for circle meetings: all the doyennes, plus one or two tabla attendants each, could fit comfortably inside.

    At first, Taylor thought it strange that Anisca didn''t approach them. If she was done reaching out to them, how could they accommodate each other? When asked, she only smiled and said the doyennes would come to him. And, after every garden had their chance to vent themselves at Darkmaw, the doyennes came. They climbed the hill in slow procession, each one carrying sheaves of palm or grass or some other vegetation, followed by their maul. One by one, they lit the sheaves on fire and threw them into Darkmaw''s pit until there was a decent little bonfire burning. Fragrant smoke rose up, perfumed by precious saps and woody spice. Each maul threw broken weapons into the pit, hurling them at the monster in her jail.

    Then the doyennes, with their mauls, came to Taylor. The Nexus resting station was much expanded to meet the pilgrims'' demands, so they were able to accommodate all the visitors with cushions, water, and fruit. Apprentices did the work, while one ran downhill to fetch specific disciples. The visitors arranged themselves in a layered circle, with the most respected doyennes in the center. Taylor and Anisca were directly opposite of Wise Yalda, who was chosen as their primary speaker likely because she was on the best terms with Nexus. Uzan of Dagono, Taylor noticed, was relegated to the second row and off to one side where she was least likely to catch his attention.

    There was little said while they were settling in, not even greetings. The mood was still a somber one, and Anisca seemed content to let the gardens speak first. To their surprise, it was the mauls who made the first move. By some mutual agreement, they stood as one and paid reverence to Taylor. Not only did they press their palms together and touch their fingers to their lips, but then they touched their foreheads. He hadn''t seen that gesture before, and he wasn''t sure what it meant.

    "The mauls all thank Eldest Brother Phillip of Red Tower for trapping Darkmaw." Iraj spoke for them, but fully half the men were openly sizing up the young maul. Taylor was aware that his disciples had been busy sparring with the visiting hunters, proving their strength, but it looked like he had more work to do in that quarter.A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

    "We are glad we could assist our new neighbors," he replied, with the customary return gesture.

    Iraj gave him a wry smile, "Now how are you going to kill it?"

    "With some difficulty," Taylor chuckled, and the men all nodded with him. Taylor motioned them to sit. "Not even disciple weapons can harm her. We could bury her and let her starve to death, but a normal scorpion can survive a year without food. A monster like this one could take years to die, and who knows what could happen in the meantime? I think we''ll all rest easier if she''s properly dead."

    "That''s true," said the maul from Broken Ode (judging by his colors), "but how will you do it?"

    "First, I have to weaken her. I''ll use the spiritual arts for that, but the specifics are hard to explain to the uninitiated. It''ll take some days to make her vulnerable. Then, I will call upon a higher power to smite her until she dies."

    Their response was a shocked silence. Nobody wanted to say it, especially when he had just trapped the unstoppable terror, but nobody wanted to believe he was about to call down Olyon to kill the monster for him.

    "Little Maul!" Iraj was so surprised that he reverted to his usual form. "You can''t mean ˇ­"

    "You''ll understand exactly what I mean, when it happens." Taylor reassured them. "All you have to do is wait. It could take a couple of weeks, but Darkmaw is going to die."

    There was a considerable amount of cross-talk at that point, with some mauls arguing that Taylor was spouting nonsense and those who countered that there was nothing nonsensical about what he''d done so far. Someone pointed out that Taylor himself hadn''t done anything so far, to which Iraj replied he''d killed fifty Satomen nearly on his own.

    The doyennes had to intervene to settle down their men. Once the meeting was orderly again, Aygerim of Saluja addressed him. "Many gardens are offering you khartang, and others will follow suit if you kill that," she nodded in the pit''s direction. "It would be natural then to consider you for Pasha when the war with Kashmar comes." A few mauls looked hopeful, while several looked angry that they might never be considered for the warlord''s role. But, as a doyenne was speaking they held their tongues. Barely.

    "I regret to say you are behind the times, Wise Aygerim. The war started months ago when Kashmar attacked Satoma and took all their wives. That was a deliberate move to send the Satomen against the gardens, taking new wives by force until open hostilities broke out. The fewer fighters you have, the easier things will be for Kashmar when they come.

    "Since then, they''ve occupied Satoma and started building a fort there. They intend to use it as a staging ground for their invasion."

    Everyone started talking all at once, until the maul from Broken Ode stood. The circle quieted to let him speak. He was an older man and, from the other mauls'' reactions, a respected one. "If you know the enemy''s movements, why haven''t you done anything about them?"

    "Because I am not your Pasha. And even if I was, Nexus won''t fight your battles for you. We''ll only fight with you. Besides, I''d like Kashmar to invest a lot more into their little base before we crush it. It''ll hurt them more that way, especially if we let them stage significant supplies first."

    There was scattered nodding at his idea, but Broken Ode was not so easily pleased. "Young maul, you are very young to command an army. With respect to your accomplishments so far, waging war is something else entirely. It is the most absolute of all endeavors. What makes you think we would entrust the lives of all our people to you?"

    "I have many arguments I could give, but only one you''ll listen to. Let me introduce you to my field commander, Disciple Ma''Tocha." Ma''Tocha entered the covered space, fully looking her part in tirun scale, men''s color on her face, and her hair bound up in cloth. "You may know this one better by the epithet ˇ­ "

    "Scourge of Bandits," said the maul of Broken Ode, "I remember this one well. You were younger back when that name was struck."

    "Speak for yourself, Gohar," retorted the disciple, and offered Nexus bow to the assembly. "I''m still much younger than you are."

    "Ho ho! Now this one I could support for Pasha if Nexus came with him! He drove out the Grand Company and ˇ­"

    "I decline to be Pasha," Ma''Tocha said, and loudly. "I can lead Calique against the tyrant of Kashmar in the field, but the role of Pasha must go to Phillip the Younger."

    "Why?" demanded Broken Ode. "He is barely more than a child."

    Ma''Tocha raked them with a look that told them not to be so dense. Did she have to say the obvious? She pointed an emphatic finger at the pit. "She killed two cadres of disciples; Ravaged Sand Castle; Ate thousands of your people; Spawned children that drove you from your gardens. You ran from her for half a year, but it was Phillip the Younger who put her in her place without losing a single life. That''s what you need in a Pasha.

    "His youth is immaterial. He''s the most powerful disciple in living memory. He''s done things that haven''t been seen since scripture was written. Enclave is terrified of him. But the most important reason is, he makes the impossible possible. This gathering is proof. A full circle of every garden, talking about making an outsider Pasha? Impossible! And yet, here you are."

    "We can fight Kashmar without Nexus," Gohar insisted, "we know how."

    Taylor took that as his cue. "Yes, you do. But at what cost? It will be a calamity, on top of the calamity you''ve already suffered. You would barely have any hunters left, which could make you vulnerable to Hyskos slavers." He watched their faces, counting odds and casualties. If the debt-slavers chose to raid the western gardens outright, they''d take all the women and older children. Who would stop them if there weren''t any hunters left?

    "What Nexus has to offer goes beyond disciple power. We have tools and tactics that will give Calique a strong upper hand, and we''re developing more of them. And, when Kashmar has lost, I intend to ensure they won''t even look south again for a hundred years."

    There was murmuring among the mauls but not the doyennes. "Do you plan on becoming tyrant?" asked Broken Ode.

    "No thanks," said Taylor with some heartfelt revulsion. "My hands are more than full enough with Nexus. Look, instead of me trying to convince you of everything right now, why don''t we meet again after I''ve killed Darkmaw? Then you''ll know I can do the things I say I can."

    "And if you can''t," countered Gohar, "there is nothing to talk about."

 Sidebar

    Sidebar

    "You can do the things you say you can, can''t you little maul?" When all the others had cleared out, Iraj and Yalda had stayed behind for tea.

    "Yes Iraj, I really can. And I suggest you stick around for the ending." Taylor sipped tea and fiddled with his latest project: an inscription version of the electric guitar. "The final act was your idea, after all." His fingers worked through scales, learning the new instrument. It was a beauty, with a lapis lazuli finish that showed off the inlaid silver inscriptions. Pickups, knobs for tone and distortion, power modulation, and more were all intricately inscribed. It felt good in his hands and the notes were all right. The fretting was the most exacting part of the build: they had to be perfectly spaced and perfectly finished, or else the notes would be at the wrong intervals or the strings would fray and break. He''d learned a lot by studying the amazing instrument gifted by Lavradio''s king. But he couldn''t exactly play that one, since it was a magical grimoire. Anything he did on that instrument was likely to become a new song of power.

    "Is that an ancient device?" Yalda narrowed her eyes at the guitar.

    Instead of explaining anything to her, Taylor handed it over.She took it gingerly in her hands, scrutinized the engravings, and handed it back to him. "If this is not an ancient art, where did you get it?"

    And just like that, you''ve told me you can discern an ancient device from something else that''s similar. Thank you, Yalda.

    "I made it." He enjoyed her reaction, as she spun the implications in her head.

    Iraj seemed less impressed. "It''s pretty. But, what use is an instrument that doesn''t make sound?"If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

    "It just needs a little spirit, Iraj." Taylor charged the circuits and laid down some blues, the very oldest style of music he knew, from the very first world he could remember. Back then, music and the clothes on his back were literally the only things he had. He ran the streets with no shoes on and a ratty old guitar, and played for loose change on busy corners. Any money he made went right into his belly or to buy new strings. If he got pinched for loitering, it was a good day: the jail might feed him better than he was eating on the street.

    When he was finished with his song, he put the instrument aside. It was good enough for what he had in mind. "You didn''t stick around for the music. What''s on your mind?"

    "Time, my friend. You''re short on time. The first summer storm will be here any day."

    "That''s fine. I only need a few days, anyway. I know I said two weeks, but ˇ­"

    Yalda interrupted. "There is also an issue with Dagono. They want to offer you khartang like the other gardens, but your doyenne has refused to meet with them."

    "As I understand it, khartang isn''t just an honor. The garden hopes they can turn to their defender when they need help in the future. Or do I have that wrong?"

    "No, you''re not wrong." Yalda looked like she knew exactly what was coming.

    "So it''s a relationship, not just a momentary honor. Perhaps you can explain why I should tie myself to a garden whose circle used me and then refused to keep their word."

    "I don''t believe they realized at the time how powerful you would become."

    "I see." Taylor glanced at Anisca and received an arched eyebrow in return. She could tell exactly how he felt and saw no reason to hold back. "They thought they could lie and cheat and get away with it because we weren''t powerful enough to do anything in response. That doesn''t make it any better. That makes them exactly the kind of people we should avoid.

    "So, no. I won''t be advancing Dagono any more goodwill. I''m not looking to hurt them or get some petty revenge, I just want nothing to do with that circle. If they want ties to Nexus, they''ll have to earn back what they squandered."

    "I told you," Iraj said smugly, "same as Amadis told Uzan. It''s not just her; they''re in this together. Dagono''s sleeping in the mischus now and good luck getting back into the house."

 Solutions

    Solutions

    Taylor sat and applied a measure of his will to the pit. The prayer to purify water had a deeper meaning, a foundational concept that could be put to many uses. A disciple who understood that, which was every Nexus disciple, could separate anything from anything. Living matter was difficult to work with, and solids had to be powdered or melted before they could be purified, but fluids were easy to manipulate this way. A glass of saltwater could be turned into salt and water with ease. A kettle of fine tea could be dehydrated, and the resulting powder stored for later use.

    The same trick worked on air. What was normally a mix of nitrogen, oxygen, and traces of other gasses, could be turned into an atmosphere of pure nitrogen. Anisca had learned what that was like, and now he wanted to do the same to Darkmaw. But filling an enclosed room with nitrogen was fairly simple compared to maintaining a zone of altered air in an open space: fluid liked to flow, and for every liter of oxygen he pulled out of the pit, another liter of mixed air wanted to rush in. He could, in theory, turn the entire pit into a partial vacuum but the power requirements were astounding. The math said so, and Taylor''s faith in math was equal to his faith in magic.

    The most ridiculous aspect of the task was he had to credibly perform it alone. He''d talked himself into that particular corner with the phrase "once I''ve killed Darkmaw" and there was no one else to blame. He spent all his pre-dawn hours trying different ideas, and learned techniques that either wouldn''t work at all or would be impossible to maintain. When inspiration finally arrived it took the usual form: Taylor realized he was being an idiot.

    "Giving up already?" Ma''Tocha had been acting as his guard because Taylor was too occupied to power his own bulwark. She had brought her own people to watch over him, including the intriguing Harrence. The former farmer''s gaze was far afield as if some object had caught his fascination.

    "I''m not giving up. I''m resting until the conditions are more favorable."

    "I hope you know you''ve come up with something properly terrifying." She shook a glass vial full of dead flies. "A quiet death to anything that breathes. I''m impressed."

    "Wait a minute. How did you catch so many flies all of a sudden?"

    "Oh, this? I spent some time in the Bracken Wastes. You either learn to deal with flies, or you learn to live while being covered in them."

    "And? Are you going to share this special knowledge? I showed you how to make glass."

    "And I paid you for it."

    Taylor held up a triangular brass coin: eight bits. "And I''ll pay the same for the flycatching trick."

    "Keep your coin," huffed the storied disciple. "Kill the monster and we''ll call it even."

    "That''s not even." Taylor''s voice rose in mock complaint. "That''s you owing me a ton of bits!"

    People came and went as sunrise neared. They took away the Nexus resting area and replaced it with a smaller shelter for a few people, right at the edge, and stocked it with a few necessities. It would keep the sun off of him during his extended battle with Darkmaw. Taylor stretched and ran through sword drills while he waited for the sun to rise: it might be the last exercise he got for a while. Milo brought breakfast, and Alice and Otavio checked on him in that overly parental manner that he didn''t hate. Taylor killed a couple of hours composing music. The proper time came when the day was properly hot. For the first time since coming to south Kravikas, Taylor wished the day was even hotter, but it was good enough. He put his instrument away while Milo tidied up the space around him.Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site.

    Taylor tried again. He shaped his prayer''s effect in a thick layer across the top of Darkmaw''s jail. His insight was he didn''t need to alter the air inside the trap: he only had to put a filtering layer on top of it. Air could flow freely going up through the barrier, but only nitrogen was permitted to flow down through it. Convection would do the rest of the work for him. The northern wall of the pit, heated by the sun, warmed the nearby air and caused it to rise. That action drew fresh air down through the filter, and the nitrogen content inside the pit steadily increased.

    It took about one one-hundredth the effort of his first attempts, and was the kind of elegant solution he both loved and could feel smug about. Once he had the effect firmly in place, he glanced at Ma''Tocha from the corner of his eye. She wasn''t watching him, but was observing the way he worked his spirit.

    "Very clever, Brother. Do you mind if I speed this up a bit?"

    "Not at all, Sister. Be my guest."

    Ma''Tocha summoned a steady downdraft along the southern edge of the vast hole, a prayer that required considerable strength and was meant to speed up sailing vessels. She invoked it silently, another technique she had learned from Taylor with little effort. Once he taught her instant prayer, there wouldn''t be much left to show her. She was a master in her own right, one whose only limits were some preconceptions inherited from her old church.

    Before the resting hours of the day were over, the monster''s living darkness was snuffed out. The massive creature lay limply, her tail and belly flat on the ground, her legs folded beside her. Despite appearances, she wasn''t dead. Taylor knew it took a week to drown a scorpion (he had experimented) but a monster like Darkmaw might take a month to suffocate to death. Fortunately, Taylor only needed to weaken her.

    A stream of people came up the hill to gawk at her anew, collapsed among the grieving ashes and the angry weapons, and left again in hopeful silence. Nexus people kept space between him and any visitors so his concentration wouldn''t slip. The sun set, and Milo put a blanket around his shoulders. The stars wheeled, and Crevist''s yellow arch climbed the sky, chased by faster Boraz which passed it by. The desert went to sleep and woke again with different life. Disciples and their bulwarks watched over him but didn''t interact except to bring food and water. The nighttime creatures settled in their dens and eries, and Parsa came to visit.

    The jimala was in his human form, thin and long-limbed, with dark cream skin and a head of long white hair. He didn''t speak at all. He sat near Taylor and shared the quiet hour of the night with him, then left after the morning-bird''s first call. Taylor had to stand and work the cold and aches out of his body with slow-motion spear drills. He stood and warmed himself in the sunlight, which cast his giant shadow against the farthest wall.

    Darkmaw wasn''t dead, but he was making progress.

    Mid-morning brought new news. "Harrence says the Satomen are coming," Ma''Tocha warned him, "all of them. Maul Kourosh intends to kill the monster and steal your glory. He thinks the gardens will make him Pasha and he can take as many wives as he wants. He also hates you. A lot."

    "I guess that''s one way to solve a problem. Call up all the Nexus people, but let''s not interfere with them unless they attack us. Also, it would be good to have Calique witnesses for this."

    "That won''t be a problem. Everyone who is anyone is on their way."

    "Good. Good." Taylor rolled his shoulders and checked his filter. Everything was still firmly in place.

    "Who are the Satomen," Ma''Tocha asked him, "and what''s their problem with you?"

    "Ask Inez when she gets here. She has the full story." Taylor had spied them once or twice, just the two of them, hanging out. The subject of the Satomen had never come up between them, which made him wonder just how much they had to talk about. "Oh, and one more thing. When the time comes, there''s no need to offer mercy to the Satomen."

 Kourosh, Glorious Kourosh!

    Kourosh, Glorious Kourosh!

    In an hour, Kourosh and his fighters were climbing up the prison hill, with most of the tent city emptied out behind him. Kourosh himself, tall and muscular, wrapped in fine white cloth belted with jacquard, was in the lead of the grand procession. They left their appalons at the base of the hill, bedecked in silver halters and luxurious saddles. This wasn''t a hunt; it was an ascension.

    Kourosh and his people mounted the top of the hill and looked down into the pit where Darkmaw lay. Anyone could see the gargantuan scorpion had lost its powerful curse and wasn''t moving. He said nothing yet but waited, smirking unbearably, while all the denizens of the tent city below gathered for his display. His men unspooled rope, anchored the ends to a series of stakes they drove into the ground, and tossed the free ends into the pit.

    Kourosh spoke loud enough to be heard by everyone, while the ropes were being prepared. "You still haven''t killed it, little girl? You''ve had days! Are you fighting it, or nursing it?" His hundred men jeered, only stopping when the maul raised his hand. "Stand aside, if you''re afraid to finish it!"

    Taylor matched his volume. "You should be afraid too, Maul Kourosh. If my people can''t stand before it, then neither can yours. Any who enter the pit will die."

    The maul threw a rock into the pit, which arched down for a few seconds, and then bounced off the hard carapace. The scorpion didn''t move. "Looks harmless to me. I''m going to kill it, and end this threat to the gardens of Kravikas right now!" There was some cheering, mainly from his own fighters.

    "Don''t!" Taylor let his alarm show in his voice. "I''m in a battle of wills with her. She looks like she''s sleeping but she''s only biding her time, waiting for me to weaken. She has eaten a thousand men, yet you come to kill her with only a hundred. Even if you rush her with everything you have, she''ll rouse before you can finish her. Just being in her presence will drain your strength. If you go down there, it will be the last thing you do."

    In spite of their preparations, Maul Kourosh hesitated.

    Taylor resorted to politeness. "Please, Kourosh, don''t do this. Go back to whatever camp you just came from and leave this fight to the person who can win it." Kourosh looked willing to hit the much smaller disciple until Inez and the Tabuas shifted their weight behind him. He might be small, but some of his bodyguards were impressively large.

    Taylor saw Kourosh make his fatal decision. If the boy was pleading, then he was afraid the maul might succeed. "I''m going down there. You''d better not get in my way."

    Taylor backed away from the maul, taking all the Nexus personnel with him. He didn''t want to be in their way, after all. Spectators arranged themselves around the pit, careful not to fall in. Amadis, Dagono''s maul, made his way around and approached Taylor, who signaled to let him near.

    "If he kills it, the victory will belong to him," warned Amadis. "Are you sure you don''t want to go down too? Partial victory is better than having the whole stolen from you. I would go with you."

    Taylor turned his back to on the maul, to keep an eye on Kourosh. "My battle of wills with her hasn''t ended. If I stop now to fight physically, I''ll have to start over later."This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source.

    "But Maul Kourosh ˇ­"

    Taylor didn''t trust himself not to give anything away if he said too much. "I will handle this. Don''t do anything, Amadis."

    All at once the Satoma maul and most of his warriors slid down the ropes, abseiling face-first and in a near free-fall, and only slowed their descent when they were nearly at the bottom. It took several seconds for them to hit the ground and prepare for their attack, yet some were already breathing hard. They began to collapse, a few at first, then a dozen at a time. Kourosh never reached his moment of glory: he fell over and died quietly in the pit. The watchers on the rim looked on in silence, not fully understanding what had just happened.

    Most of the men he left on the surface mounted a rescue effort. They died just as pathetically as their fellows.

    A group of thirty Satomen warriors, all that was left of his tribe, intuited Taylor was somehow to blame. They drew their weapons and tried to rush him but they were no match against his people. Ma''Tocha had command of them, and let the Satomen clash against the ready bulwarks. Not a single person was hurt, but the hunters'' charge came to a sudden stop. As one, the Nexus force, disciples and bulwarks together, pushed. Instead of piercing the Satomen with spears or knives, every last attacker was shoved into the pit. They took three and a half seconds to hit the stony floor, with a pattering of gruesome fleshy breaking sounds. Some died from the fall. The rest died by suffocation.

    "Spread the word, Amadis: Thus ends Satoma."

    The maul stood at the pit''s edge and looked down at all the figures that lay unmoving. "What did you do to them?"

    "What I did was warn them." Taylor checked his filter, for what seemed the ten-thousandth time. "People should always heed my warnings, but they almost never do."

    Amadis offered him reverence, but Taylor detected fear in the way his eyes were cast downward. Taylor liked the man, had enjoyed drinking with him and hearing his lore, and the idea that the gregarious maul now feared him ˇ­ he knew there would be more of that, and soon.

    The seeming mob of disciples and bulwarks organized themselves into neat cadres again, arrayed behind Taylor like an honor guard. There was another source of Taylor''s upset, that his students had killed without compunction. That wasn''t why he started a school for disciples. He wanted them to be builders, healers, and monster hunters. Not warfighters. But this world wasn''t about to let them change it without a struggle.

    Amadis turned to go, and Taylor felt an urge to call him back. But, to say what? "Hey, Amadis!" The older man paused and looked over his shoulder. "You''re finally going to see what I can do. There''s no more underestimating me after that."

    His face was puzzled, but it cleared as he remembered their first conversation at Dagono''s gate. "Ha! You and your little boasts! Drinks are at your place next time!" He waved, and marched on to where his garden stood, looking down at the dead Satomen, waiting to see if they would move again.

    "Where is Harrence?" The filter was still set. The former farmer was brought before him, nervous. Taylor realized they hadn''t been properly introduced, and offered him the Nexus greeting. "We haven''t met properly, and that''s my fault."

    "It''s not a problem, my lord. Eldest Brother." Instead of putting his hand over his heart, he wrung them both in front of him. "You have been occupied," his eyes skirted the pit and its horrid contents, "with things."

    "It has been a strange week. An even stranger month for you, hasn''t it? Has everyone been treating you okay?"

    "People have been very welcoming. And, I feel less ridiculous in the eye makeup, with everyone else wearing it and all."

    "It takes some getting used to." Taylor laughed. He checked the filter, and it was still in place. "I''m looking forward to getting to know you, but right now I need something from your girls. Can you have them look to the skies, as far south as they can, and tell me if there are any storm clouds?"

    Harrence''s answer was immediate. "There''s a thunderhead about a hundred and twenty kilometers from here. They''ve been watching it for a while. It''s ˇ­ it''s impressive."

    "Ma''Tocha."

    "Yes, Eldest Brother?"

    "Take away this awning, and have everyone prepare to weather a storm. The Calique probably know, but pass the word anyway." She took the nervous farmer with her as she left. The poor guy was still badly out of his element.

    "Finally," he said to no one in particular, "this is almost over."

 Khartang

    Khartang

    One young man, on the top of a low hill, stood in white desert robes against a slate-dark sky. An instrument was slung across his body while he waited for the thunderheads to overtake him. His garments were tied and belted tight against his body. He wore goggles to protect his eyes, and a cloth wrapped around his face. Where any sane Calique would have worn an outer layer, he went without. The hot wind and scourging sands meant nothing to that disciple.

    The truly great storms wouldn''t come until late fall or early winter, but being caught out in the open wasn''t wise. If the strange maul who put Darkmaw into a pit wanted to stand against that sky without protection then that was his business, but everyone else was digging frantically. A fraction of the improvised town bolted for Sand Castle, and no one blamed them. It was fouled by the horror that had lived there, but it was good shelter nonetheless. The rest of them were too intrigued leave, too invested in the end of that monster. She lay there, almost dead and yet invulnerable, in the pit with a hundred Satomen bodies or more. Good riddance, was the consensus. Let them all be buried together.

    They dug and dug, to make hollows large enough for appalons and people and whatever goods they had the time and energy to protect. The tents were taken down and used as tarps, weighted down from underneath with all the occupants and their contents. Disciples went from place to place, speeding up their work by shaping the ground. Wherever their efforts freed a pair of hands they were urged to help their neighbors, no matter which garden they were from.

    Prepare for a storm. Protect your ears. Not even the disciples seemed to know exactly what would happen, they just passed along the warnings.

    The leading edge blew over them as usual, a rusty darkness that pulled at their shelters while slowly diminishing the sun until it was nothing but a faint circle in the sky. The next stage would be the howling and the scourging. Big storms could last for a day or longer, but the hunters said this one was small, and would pass over them with only a short howl.

    But, the howling never came. A noise, a growling great noise, hit them from the hilltop, rolled over them, trampled their ears like runaway gurantors. It rose in pitch, rose in volume, until it resolved at the top into notes. The notes turned into scales that came down and down, forever going lower yet never hitting the bottom of their hearing. Just as suddenly, the music changed. Clear arpeggios ran amok, changed scales, and ran amok again. There were no measures in this music, only rapid movement. And during all this time, the volume grew until the sound trembled their shelters.

    Then silence. Those who hadn''t already covered their ears rushed to get their hands in place, or find material to protect themselves. An instinctive thrill seized them like a battle set to start at any moment, the warriors leaning forward in anticipation.

    The song they''d been waiting for crashed into them as rhythmic chords that pulsed at them hard enough to swerve their vision. An impossible, screaming, musical, ground-trembling song rushed down the hill at them, anguished and angry.

    Was it the world that made you mad

    Or was it all the incense

    Of the fires burning ''cross the land

    Vomiting the smoke of innocents?

    You say sacrifices must be made

    But it''s always someone else who pays.

    The brothers we were meant to beTaken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

    Never would have gone to war

    For heritage or gnostic dogma

    To curse ourselves forever more

    To hateful breeding hate

    That burns the world until it''s all too late.

    A few verses in, the music changed again into a pounding rhythm of distorted chords that were more noise than musical notes. The wind had calmed down to a stiff breeze, and heads began poking out from the shelters, unburying themselves from the heaps of dirt that settled on them. The storm hadn''t passed them by at all. It was still raging, now stronger than ever because it was contained over Darkmaw''s prison. A lone figure was on the rim, moving, stomping, dancing while he coraled the wind, and focused it into a single towering funnel that reached down from the sky to whirl before him, all its brutish forces captured and at his command.

    The pounding notes slowed but didn''t lessen. They became ominous, a gathering of intent so sharp, so deadly, that most people would have run if they could. But they were caught in his influence now, part of his outrage at the world. They couldn''t run from him because they were him. It was their outrage he was singing, their losses turned to fury. And when the last note was played, and his hand rose to the sky ˇ­

    (Those few who had forgotten, covered their ears in a hurry.)

    The first bolt of lightning struck Phillip directly on his upraised hand. The sound of it ripped the sonic world in half, but that was only the beginning. Lightning struck again, this time into the pit, then struck and struck again. He wasn''t just pulling down the lightning: he was tuning the sky to play with, and when the music started again he had accompaniment in the world-splitting punctuations of lightning that spoke in notes to his liking.

    He danced again, ran back and forth around the pit, brandishing his instrument, and shot deafening music at the crowd that gathered at his feet. They massed together in the cone of tactile sound, and surged with the music bashing their skin, shouting as one, their arms pumping against the sky. When he screamed, they screamed. When he danced, they danced. When he wanted them to sing, they sang the choruses for him.

    It was madness. It was oblivion. It was ecstasy.

    They knew the end was near when the lightning lost its edge. The thunderhead spent its last in a staccato roll of strikes that burned the air, and sputtered out with a dull pop. When the thunderhead collapsed, all the moisture in it fell. The several kilometers near the prison were drenched for over a minute. They put the cloaks over their head while it pounded at them, and the desert received a rare summer drenching. Sheets of water ran off the hill, over and around their feet, and kept running outward. It gathered in the bunkers and the shelters and sank into the ground until the dirt could hold no more. Water puddled up, the puddles joined each other and expanded into a lake. It was an event often seen in the far distance but rarely experienced.

    The cloudburst stopped just as suddenly as it started. Its forces spent and its water spilled, the thunderhead dispersed into remnant shreds of cloud-stuff. Calique from every garden stood together, ankle-deep in a broad lake shimmering in the brightening sun. A distant orb no more, its heat threw off their cloaks. The surface of the desert lake shined the sun''s reflection at them.

    A new song was gifted to them, high and melodic, loud but sweet, with nothing of the former''s fury.

    <blockquote>

    The hand that fought for love

    can be a loving hand

    The eye that witnessed war can

    see beauty once again

    The heart that lost the world

    Will never be the same

    But put your hand in mine

    Dear child

    Sweet child

    And I swear we''ll make it good again

    Rise Sun, Rise

    The days, they are still coming

    Rise Sun, Rise

    As long as we are here

    We''ll meet you in the morning

    Rise Sun, Rise.

    Yesterday is yesterday

    Tomorrow can be anything

    So rise with the sun. Arise

    </blockquote>

    Every time the chorus came around they sang with him, "Rise Sun, Rise," until the final repetition released them from his gravity, casting them adrift in a temporary sea. That was when a few with sharper eyes pointed at the disciple: his arm that was hit by lightning was blackened. He rested it on his instrument and gazed down into the pit. He must have been satisfied with what he saw because he turned and sauntered down the hill. One follower rushed up to meet him, the boy with the black-tipped spikes for hair, to loan him a shoulder to lean on.

    They came down the hill in a silence that felt as deafening as the riotous noise they''d just endured. The crowds shuffled backward, drew away from him, and offered him space, so everyone could witness his composure and the injury he took to end Darkmaw''s life. Not even a saint could kill a being like her and not pay a price, but he bore it like it was a normal part of a disciple''s work. They gave him the reverence he was due, and no one thought to speak to him. Who among them was great enough to approach?

    He walked stately through the crowd, entered the largest Nexus bunker (hurriedly drained and cleaned by disciples), and was not seen again for several hours.

 Examinations

    Examinations

    ˇŞ Iraj ˇŞ

    Iraj was among the first to climb the hill. The world felt smothered in the sudden humidity, and his ears felt like they were full of sand. The few people who kept up with him didn''t speak, or else he didn''t notice them through his damaged hearing. They crested the slippery mount impatiently but, once there, looked down with caution as if something might jump out of them. They didn''t know what they would find.

    Darkmaw was cooked. A thousand bolts of lightning had heated her until she cooked inside her shell and she busted open. Chunks of white flesh were everywhere, mingling with the rainwater next to dead Satomen and the shattered ruins of her shell. For good measure, the young maul had carved her down the middle and split her roughly in half. All her organs were on display, and he''d burned away the main nerve stem. The boy wasn''t taking chances.

    For some reason, people came to Iraj with their questions. Was it safe to go down into the pit now? Was the meat safe to eat? Could they loot the Satomen? Who got all the appalons? They were hard to make out, sounding as they did as if talking through layers of cloth.

    Iraj got a healer''s attention, and she was able to both heal his ears and answer some of the crowd''s questions. Yes, the pit was safe now. Flesh that wasn''t sitting in dead Satomen water should be safe to eat, but present any prospective food to a healer first, in case stinger venom got splashed onto it. She looked repulsed as she said it, but she''d been briefed this might happen. The other questions were all Iraj''s problems to deal with.

    "This victory belongs to Nexus and Maul Phillip and no one else," he told those gathered. "Help gather the loot, and Doyenne Anisca will handle it wisely. Find Kourosh, and bring me his belt." There were things the young maul still didn''t know about being Calique.

    Men went down the ropes, and meat and loot were hauled up. Swords and other articles of bronze, small jewels, the odd coin, and Kourosh''s jacquard belt. It was absurdly wide (the man had aspired to be Pasha) and featured swords and desert eagles. Iraj wondered what had become of the woman who wove it. Was she living inKashmar now, captive to some hook-handed officer? Fingers like hers were wasted on those savages.

    Other mauls kept asking him questions, many of them nonsense, until some fool asked if their daughters were safe around Phillip. Iraj could only glare in return. A fight might have broken out if it weren''t for one woman''s laughter.

    "Phillip the Younger, harm a girl?" It was Dahabia, one of several who had been rescued by him. "When we were prisoners he asked permission to rescue us, in case we were there by choice. And, when I asked him his price for this service, do you know what he said? We would have given anything but he said, ''The lives of fifty Satomen!''" Iraj had heard this story before. It was a brave line and she liked to tell it often."If anything, he''s a bit shy. But if it puts your frail little hearts at ease, I''ll be the first to walk out with him and return unharmed. If that doesn''t put the matter to rest ˇ­ I''ll have him all to myself, I suppose."

    She turned to Iraj. "Tell him I''ll be at the next gathering, and to ask me." She stepped aside to help organize the goods brought up from the pit, and sent a woman to count the appalons. Since Nexus didn''t have tablas in the usual sense, she was volunteering for the role.

    The mauls all gathered together and gazed for a long time at the monster that nearly broke their way of life. Even the "little" ones had been too much for them. If she had kept spawning children, they would have been run out of the desert before much longer.

    "If he can do this, he can fight the Kashmari on his own." It was a most unfortunate comment, made by a maul from one of the smaller gardens. Iraj felt shame for the man. Phillip''s acts were humbling, but that wasn''t cause to abandon their responsibilities. Perhaps, if one were feeling generous, he hadn''t meant they shouldn''t fight alongside him, only that he didn''t need them. But Iraj''s feelings of charity evaporated like so much morning dew when he saw several men, people he''d known as men for years, nod their heads hopefully.

    Perhaps today''s performance had been too humbling.

    Iraj opened his mouth to reason with them but Dahabia returned, and this time she used her woman''s tongue on them without mercy. "Please tell me I did not just see you all agreeing with Bold Water! You want Nexus to do all the fighting when it''s your homes at stake? And who would fight for you, anyway? I would tell him not to bother. First you refuse to recognize him, and now you can''t even look him in the eye! Did you leave your spears at home, next to your brains?

    "Maybe you don''t deserve a Pasha. Maybe you''d be more comfortable with a tyrant, someone to tell you when to wake and when to sleep, someone you can kneel down for, put your forehead to the ground, and kiss his shoes? Maybe you''ve all become Kashmari!"

    The men were already shame-faced, yet she wasn''t done with them.

    "I feel embarrassed that Phillip the Younger came all this way for allies, only to find men too afraid to look him in the eye and too weak to lift their shields. Did he go to Hyskos to hire mercenary slaves? Did he turn to Kashmar for peasant soldiers? Did he ask Gallia for their strutting peacocks? No! He came here, to live among men."

    One of the women sorting loot waved at Dahabia, needing her attention. "I have women''s work to do. I''m sure there''s men''s work to be done, if there are any men in the gardens to do it!"

    She left the clutch of men grasping their battered pride in silence. Running Phlox was the first to speak. "My youngest son will need a wife soon." The group laughed ruefully, even Gohar, the elder maul of Broken Ode. The lashes had hurt, but Dahabia wasn''t wrong. It was immoral to even think of leaving their homes'' defense entirely in another''s hands, no matter how strong he was. They had to share the labor if they wanted to eat the food.Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.

    "He''s proven his arm," said Iraj, "and showed us his heart. Does anyone disagree?" A chorus of noes answered him.

    "Do we need to bother with khartang at all?" asked Amadis. "If every garden wants him, he doesn''t need the symbols for a selection ceremony. We should take his name to the doyennes, and raise him to Pasha."

    "I still have qualms about his youth," complained Maul Gohar from Broken Ode. "I want to hear his mind before we decide."

    "His mind?" Amadis of Dagono sighed. "Yalda says that might be his most dangerous tool."

    The group of them marched down the hill to call on the youngest maul and found him in one of Nexus''s underground bunkers. The room was smaller than where Iraj had first met him, but the layout was the same: a long narrow room with an arched ceiling, lit with spirit lamps, benches along the sides, and Phillip at the far end. He was seated on a wingback chair, stripped to the waist, one leg crossed easily over the other. His right arm was being examined by a healer while he drank water with his left. His injury wasn''t black anymore, but his arm was covered in red complex fern-like patterns from his hand up to his shoulder.

    "Are you sure you want to leave the skin as it is?" Asked the healer. Nexus didn''t mind their healers being men but for some, it was a shock to see a man at such sensitive work.

    "Keep it. I''m going to have it tattooed before it heals. Come in!" Phillip waved them in with his cup and sent someone away to fetch the necessary hospitality. "We''re almost finished here."

    "If you''re going to keep it, I''d like to show it off to the students. Lightning strikes are rare, but they leave distinctive signs. Try not to push your spirit for a few days, until you''ve fully recovered. Let me know if there are any other side effects. You know the drill."

    "Thank you, Brother." Phillip flipped a brass triangle at him, worth a meager eight bits.

    "Always a pleasure, Brother. Walk in the light."

    "You as well, Ferrange." The healer left, and the men arrayed themselves along the benches. Ma''Tocha was in the room along with Inez and the married pair. Her husband and Inez watched them with an experienced eye for trouble. The instrument Phillip used to summon lightning leaned casually against the back wall. Its rich blue color drew their eyes, every now and then, as if to say remember me? I''m still here. He can use me at any time.

    Some of the mauls still wouldn''t look up at him, but pretended to by staring at his chest or chin. Since Iraj was the least uncomfortable he stood first to speak. "You''ve proven your arm and your heart. Most of us would accept you right now but some," he looked at the maul from Broken Ode, "still wish to question you."

    "So? Ask."

    Iraj sat to let Maul Gohar stand. He was the oldest maul, too old according to those who wished he''d step down in favor of someone more physical, but his wisdom wasn''t in doubt. "How would you fight the Kashmari?"

    "That depends on what they do, and how they react to our moves." Goha frowned, as if that was the wrong answer. "Anyone who thinks they can walk through wartime assuming everything will go as planned isn''t competent to lead. The enemy gets a vote. Sometimes they surprise you, even if it''s just by being stupid."

    Phillip smiled as his examiner''s face grew harsher. The old man wanted more. "Generally, this is a classic desert warfare scenario between asymmetric forces. Kashmar will have conscripted peasants with limited training, an elite cavalry corps, and officers who are disciplined and educated. They will almost certainly have help from Enclave. They usually do, even when I''m not here.

    "Our force is much smaller, but it''s all cavalry, and are all decent fighters. Our biggest assets are the desert, disciples, and time: They have a long march through hostile country if they want to take Sand Castle, and it always takes a toll on them. We''ll use hit and run tactics to slow them down until they run out of supplies. They''ll thirst or starve to death, and we''ll finish off the survivors.

    "Our greatest weakness is the static assets we have to protect: the gardens. Kashmar will attack the gardens to lure us into face-to-face fights we can''t win against their numbers."

    "So you''ve studied," said Gohar, "but whichever Kashmar general you''re facing will have studied, too. He''ll know the desert better than you do."

    "First Prince Samir, that''s who they''ve chosen. And yes, he''s well-educated. That''s why we''re going to change the desert," said Phillip with a mischievous smile. "Not drastically, just little changes here and there. They won''t even notice until it''s too late." A week ago, these men would have mocked such a claim. Iraj felt the warming spark of victory when they accepted the idea without comment.

    Gohar wasn''t giving up. "But how many wars have you fought? How many battles? At your age, the answer is none!"

    Phillip chuckled gently to himself. "Typically, Kashmar gets assistance from countries around you. That''s part of how they sap your strength. Only this time, I''ve tied up the Hyskos Grand Company with a budding slave revolt. Gallia and Ullidia will soon stand against Enclave openly. I''ve built an information network that''ll tell us how many men they''ve assembled and how they''re being trained. Enclave is Kashmar''s biggest backer in these invasions, but I''ve put a major crimp on their money supply. Soon, I''m going to starve them. That''s fewer soldiers for Kashmar."

    Phillip stood, bare from the waist up, a hard-muscled youth with a lightning scar and a legend to his name. "You want to know what wars I''ve been in? Here''s my answer: I''ve been fighting this war since spring. What have you been doing?"

    That was the end of any resistance to Pasha Phillip. Even Gohar had to admit they had nobody better suited. It was soon agreed the gardens would rotate their men through Sand Castle in groups so Ma''Tocha could train them. The doyennes were brought in, including Anisca to represent Red Tower, and informed of the men''s choice. The formal ceremony would be held when the main circle chamber in the city was clean enough to host it.

    To mark the moment, milk-wine was poured and cups were raised. Iraj gave the toast: "The gardens are in Phillip the Younger''s hands now. May Olyon have mercy on the souls of his enemies!"

    The gathering didn''t last long but it broke apart hopefully. Every doyenne and maul had their own work to do, and Sand Castle had to be cleaned. Iraj was the last to leave.

    "This is Kourosh''s belt," he told the Pasha-to-be, "and it''s your proof you killed him. Either keep it with your trophies or burn it. Do not wear it unless you intend to take his place."

    "I noticed adults wear these woven belts, but I didn''t realize they had significance. To be honest, I''ve never looked too closely at them."

    "The width indicates station. So many warp threads for people without children, so many for those with children or grandchildren, so many for hands, and more for tablas or spears. Doyennes and mauls have the widest belts. This one is so wide it''s comical, but the craft is beautiful. If we ever find the woman who made it, she should be handled as a treasure."

    "Then I''ll keep it, for art''s sake. I suppose I should have one of my own made."

    "Take your time, little maul. Many men can''t decide on a pattern until late in life. There''s no rush."

    "Thank you, Iraj, for everything. It was a lucky day for me when you tried to steal my animals."

    "It was lucky for me it was your animals I tried to steal. Speaking of ˇ­ "

    The young maul laughed at his friend, amused by his itch to acquire new animals. "You missed out last time, didn''t you? Because of Parsa. After Nexus takes some trainable mounts, you''ll have the next pick. I promise."

 Epilogues

    Epilogues

    ˇŞ A Dwelling in Sand Castle ˇŞ

    "I apologize for any trouble my son has caused you." The massive spear of Broken Ode made his hands into upturned palms, fingers touching, a sign of opening himself to another. "I can''t offer any excuse for him. He''s always been this way, and I''ve never known how to make him better. I''ll take him home right away."

    "Is that why you think you were called here?" Wise Yalda''s words filled the spear with confusion. The Maul and Doyenne of Pashtuk had called him to a place in Pashtuk''s arc of the city, to meet with them and Gohar. Parsa was there, too, sitting quietly to one side. Gohar frowned at him, as he always did whenever Parsa was the subject of conversation.

    Normally, this was the moment when Parsa would interrupt and say something like, "See? He''s always this way." Today he was mercifully silent.

    Gohar spoke. "Parsa will not return to Broken Ode. Pashtuk wants him, and Parsa has agreed to join their garden." The maul motioned to Parsa, who removed his woven belt, the belt handed down by his father, folded it, and placed it before him.

    Parsa''s father was filled with dread. These people didn''t know the boy, how weak and cowardly he was, how irresponsible. What could he do that made him worth keeping? Sooner or later, they would send him back, and this incident would become a whole new source of shame.

    "You can''t leave, Parsa. I won''t allow it."

    "It doesn''t matter what you allow, Father. I went into the desert of my own will and I never came back. I''m not your animal. You don''t own me. It''s my right to leave you. It''s done." His father''s expression darkened into impending violence. That used to cow the boy, but the young man only shook his head ruefully. "I''m the only person who stood with Darkmaw on equal ground and came out alive. Do you think you can scare me, after her?"

    "You''re just a coward who runs."

    "You''ve got it wrong, father. I run because that''s what I''m good at. I''m the fastest living thing. That turns out to be useful to some people."

    Pashtuk''s maul put a hand on Parsa''s shoulder. "We have too many uses for him, in fact. We could use another like him, but Parsa here is one of a kind. He''s popular with the young women, too. He''ll make a happy match when the time comes."

    "The fault is by your own hands, then." The massive hunter took the belt, intending to burn it at the first opportunity. He wouldn''t pass a tainted object to his new apprentice. "You''re welcome to him." He rose to leave lest his temper get the better of him.

    Before he could fully exit the room, his maul''s voice stalled him. "You''ve always had a blind spot," Gohar said to his back, "when it comes to your son. A hunter''s virtues are not the only virtues that matter. Sometimes, they''re even the wrong virtues. A spear who would be maul must learn this."

    ˇŞ Crusaders ˇŞ

    They had come through a burning desert, starvation, and death. Out of twelve hundred, so few remained. Ragged, wasting, they had wandered the desert while dragging their weapons behind them. Commander Urban had been the first to fall, and the only one to die by a weapon. The rest had fallen by the wayside, felled by exhaustion or thirst. There was little to sustain such a force in this desolate environment. Wherever they found plants that held water, they were cut down and stripped bare. Wherever they found a patch of tiny wild potatoes, they dug up the whole area. If someone wanted to know where they were, they could follow the trail of wrecked vegetation and dead Gallians.

    Four score of them had survived the sacred ordeal. Olyon''s Gold, they were calling themselves when they had the moisture to talk. And they had reached their target at last: a high bluff with an earthen boundary on the southern side. It wasn''t much of a defense: anyone could walk over it. They snuck up on their target during the night and then, by silent agreement, stormed up the earthwork hill before the sun rose. They made it about halfway up before exhaustion slowed them. By the time they reached the top they were on their hands and knees, gasping for air. In their weakened state, the berm might as well have been a mountain.

    Their faith and fortitude preserved them, and they reached the top to gaze down at a field of barley and sorghum. Beyond the field were trees, and they could smell water on the breeze. There was food, just out of reach! All thoughts of holy conquest were forgotten as they cheered their great discovery in wheezing voices. After weeks of burning and starving, they would eat under cool eaves and drink water from deep wells! A parched cheer rose from their cracked lips.

    Fighters suddenly appeared, not equal to their numbers but far exceeding them in strength. These instant enemies didn''t bother to draw weapons but shoved them back callously. They tumbled down the embankment until they hit the bottom.

    For most of the crusaders, that was the end. A precious few were made of stronger stuff. They crawled on hands and knees to reach the top again, only to be toppled down. Not a single one of them was strong enough to make a third attempt.

    They wept the bitter tears of men who had started with grand hopes and then suffered for nothing. The prelate told them they were chosen men of Olyon, that they''d find victory against the heretics, and no earthly force could overcome them. What was more earthly than thirst and starvation? Than this mound of dirt they lacked the strength to climb? Or the armored fighters at its crest? One glimpse of paradise. That was all they''d gained, only to be thrown down like chaff at a threshing. They never had a chance.

    There was quiet talk among the defenders. "I know we''re supposed to kill most of them, but look at them. I just can''t."

    "I know what you mean. I''m going with the tenets on this one. Call their ambassador over here, and let''s work something out."

    A Gallian ambassador, here? Something big had changed. The world shifted under them, and the crusaders prepared themselves to beg for mercy.

    Stolen novel; please report.

    ˇŞ Harrence ˇŞ

    For about an hour every day, Harrence took a seat in the rector''s office and drew. The ancient installation filled most of the plateau''s interior and all of it had to be explored. The majority was machinery, with scant living spaces near the top. Here and there, Brynn and Yara found text for him to copy down. Harrence duly copied it and then had Phillip translate it during their occasional sessions in his imaginary forest.

    Most of the text was warnings (Warning: Hot Steam) or directions (Control Center). Bit by bit, Nexus was acquiring a dictionary of words. Not only did Phillip claim to read the ancient language, he could speak it! That raised several questions which the hierarch refused to answer. "Later," was all he''d say, "focus on your training for now. Even these maps are less important than mastering your basics. There''s important work ahead."

    ˇŞ Phillip and Anisca ˇŞ

    "Good morning, Your Holiness." Anisca curtsied deeply when Phillip entered the tiny courtyard.

    "Not funny, Anisca. Now I''ll have to rush back and forth between here and Red Tower for all the ceremonies. Did you know they elected me in secret? The ink isn''t even dry on the Articles, and they hold a secret election. "

    Anisca rose, smiling pleasantly. This was one of her ''I''m having fun'' faces. "There is nothing in the Articles requiring the candidates to be present. All the priests and practitioners voted, so it was hardly a secret. There was an abstention, a most curious one at that. Someone forgot to attend, so your election wasn''t quite unanimous. Nothing''s perfect, I suppose."

    "This courtyard might be perfect." Taylor took in the cheery fountain, trees draped with scented flowers, and tiled mosaic walls designed to mimic windows looking out on scenes from distant environs: snowcapped mountains, an ocean, jungle, and woodlands. As (soon to be) Pasha and his doyenne, they had a group of buildings at their disposal for housing staff and offices. Taken together, the compound was practically a palace. It was dotted with tiny, elegant spaces like the fountain square. It was sheer luck that Darkmaw hadn''t flattened the whole block.

    "It''s too small," judged Anisca. They took seats at a round table with only two chairs and a porcelain tea set filled with Milo''s custom blends, an aged black flavored with garden fruits and spices. Anisca had taken a liking to the blend.

    "I like it for our little meetings," he argued. "These murals, especially."

    "Ignore them. I have a gift for you. Riculta has had some early success with our research." Anisca handed over a stack of boards (they were still conserving paper), and Taylor spent several minutes going through them, turning over each one with a gentle clack, clack, clack. Afterward, he remained silent, thinking.

    "Lavradio''s staple crops mostly wither under increased spirit, but nearly all Calique crops thrive. That can''t be an accident. The doyennes know."

    "That''s my thought, too." Anisca was trying to nod and sip tea at the same time. "And some plants monstrify!"

    "I noticed. Isn''t it fantastic? I can use that. This is fascinating stuff. As it happens, I, too, bring gifts. I wanted to show some appreciation." He signaled Mila, who placed a wooden box in front of the princess, large enough to hold a hat. It was a simple thing of polished blonde wood without adornment, easy to overlook. Anisca lifted the lid and discovered it was hinged to fold out into three layers of trays, each one packed with a different color of pearls: every pearl was perfectly round and identical in size, with a luster that would show well against anything worn by a queen. They were as perfect as Taylor''s skill could make them. Anisca didn''t need to know that particular detail: The fact that he could craft perfect gems from cheap materials was known within the confines of Nexus, but the pearls were new.

    Anisca stared at the little orbs for so long Taylor began to worry she didn''t like them.

    "Mila, I suspect the doyenne doesn''t like her gift," he teased. "Maybe we should remove it and think of something else."

    "That won''t be necessary," Anisca said imperiously, closing the lid so the trays restacked. "I will accept your humble offering. For future reference, you should hint to the recipient when the contents are valuable. Plate the box in silver, perhaps. Or make it from solid silver and then plate it in gold. Otherwise, the gift jumps out at you. It''s very startling."

    "Seriously, if you don''t like them I can take them back and offer something else."

    "It''s too late for giver''s remorse," she said in a rush. She shook her head and her hair ornaments rang softly. She closed the box and pulled it decisively towards her side of the table. "I''m keeping these. Thank you."

    "I''m glad you like them. Here''s the other thing we talked about." He handed over another much smaller box of darker wood with a palm tree inlaid on the top, hinged to open wide. Inside was an ear cuff, intricately tooled from silver. Orange specks of tiny gemstones winked back at Anisca. "There''s a storage stone hidden in the box. If the link is stored there overnight, it''ll recharge. Here''s the matching one. There''s no battery, so don''t mix up the boxes." Taylor handed over a second jewelry box containing an identical link. It lacked the decoration of the first, to make them easy to distinguish.

    "Thank you for trusting me with this," she said with rare earnestness, "and the royal family is grateful too. They want to make amends for the former king''s actions."

    "Your mother lending us one of her ˇ­ assets like this is no small thing."

    The asset in question was one of the dowager queen''s ladies-in-waiting: her spies and, sometimes, assassins. All Taylor was supposed to know was she would be placed in Kashmar society and report directly to Anisca, who would then relay her information to Taylor. There were trust issues here, on all sides. The royals couldn''t have a foreign power directly controlling one of their spies, and wouldn''t take the risk he''d compromise her lightly. Meanwhile, Taylor would have his own resources in Kashmar who could verify at least some of the information provided.

    Trust between powers was provisional and carefully bounded.

    "Now I''d like your opinion on something. Do you remember that letter we worked on the other day with Brother Mika?"

    "Do you mean the manifesto that rebukes the church and challenges the authority of Enclave?"

    "I still think of it as a letter."

    "You''re printing a thousand copies, spreading them all over Tenobre, and reading it aloud on the sounding board. It will go down in history as The Nexus Manifesto."

    "An open letter, then. This morning, I finished engraving it on this."

    Milo entered, bearing a tower shield, slightly convex, of a bright scarlet hue with silver lettering on it. The letters seemed to float beneath the surface, untouchable, radiating a gentle glow. The writing was surmounted by Nexus''s symbol: a lozenge encompassing four stars.

    The princess rose and examined the shield, read the declaration, ran her fingers over the letters and around the edges. She took the shield in hand and hefted it.

    "It''s exceptionally light. Is this Darkmaw shell?"

    "Mmmm. Her shell is made of translucent layers. Thin it out to fewer layers, a very difficult feat, I might add, and you get this great color. The writing is sandwiched between layers so it can''t be removed, and the whole thing is reforged with the arts to be as unbreakable as when she was alive. Not even I could reshape it without taking extreme measures. I''m going to send this to Enclave Leadership. So, what do you think?"

    Her voice was cautious. "I think you''re sending them an infuriating message, written on a surface they can''t destroy, made from the monster they failed to kill. You''re rubbing their faces in it. They won''t just fund Kashmar''s invasion, they''ll send a second army."

    Taylor was pleased with her assessment. "Then the effort wasn''t wasted."

    Just as they rose, the gate horns blew: a caravan had been sighted, the very first since Darkmaw. It was being run by Laura Sabrosa and had come from Lavradio''s capital via Ullidia and Red Tower. All the Black Sanctuary tools and personnel should be on board, along with whatever paper and charcoal they didn''t drop at Red Tower. It also meant ˇ­

    "Gonzo!" Taylor grinned. It had been forever since he''d seen his friend, and there was a pile of crazy ideas they needed to work on. Together, they were about to change everything.

 Sera?os Return

    ˇŞ Brother Sera?o, Lavradio ˇŞ

    His entry into Girona was satisfying beyond words. On Sera?o''s way in, he passed the heretic''s convoy of gurantor trains leaving. He even caught a glimpse of the heretic himself, more grown, staring pensively into empty space, traces of deep worry on his brow. He had plenty to worry about now that he was stateless with a hundred mouths to feed. Sera?o didn''t have the power to touch him, but seeing the boy worry was balm for the soul.

    That child had run him out of his post and had him sent down, an act that culminated in the once-ambassador working in Enclave''s mail room. Him, a scion of a first family, supervising mail sorters! He had even gotten himself arrested at one point for interfering with official messages from Lavradio, but the sentence hadn''t stuck. He was working on secret orders from President Phrenos of the Council of Guardians. All Sera?o had to do was keep his mouth shut, admittedly not the easiest task for him, and in good time he was free.

    Sera?o had been the first to see the boy''s true nature, the threat he represented to the church, and tried to convince King Joaquim to kill the child just days after he emerged from the summoning room. He had gathered his courage in court and denounced the boy and, instead of showing wisdom, the famously feckless monarch had tossed a knife between them and said they should fight it out among themselves. The heretic, violent creature that he was, had been the first to take up the knife and attack. What sort of mad, dangerous child attacks an ambassador? The prelate and a local disciple, both heretic sympathizers, had sent him down for the incident.

    How the world had turned since then! Not only was he free, but he had been reinstated. Now, Sera?o was replacing the heretic in Girona, the capital of Lavradio. The new regime in Unity City understood his value and rewarded him by giving back the post he''d sacrificed for the church and more. He was to be prelate too, and a Defender of the Faith. He was the leader of the priests in the country, and he had the authority to burn heretics wherever he found them.

    Sera?o was here to cleanse Girona. Enclave would handle the heretic and his wayward followers, who would be much easier to kill without royal protection.

    For all the joys of his arrival and his taking possession of the prelate''s elegant quarters in the Basilica of Majestic Light, there were disappointments, too. The new king and queen chose to greet him in the palace''s small audience chamber with only a few ministers and guards in attendance. An ambassador was normally welcomed in a full court. That was his due. There were two ways to interpret the situation: either the king was showing him favor with the more intimate meeting where sensitive matters could be discussed, or he was robbing Sera?o of the open recognition his post deserved.

    King Leonardo, nephew of the previous king Joaquim, reviewed the long parchment handed from Sera?o to a guard, from the guard to an attendant, who examined it carefully for poison, to the prime minister who reviewed the text, before finally handing it to the king himself.

    "It''s all to the usual form, and We recognize you as Enclave''s ambassador. But why you, Brother Sera?o? Lavradio is normally considered a dead end by your Assignment Committee." Left unspoken was how he''d been sent down at the request of Matrix Lucia and Prelate DeGray. How did you wrangle your way back here? And why?

    "I was the first to recognize the heretic''s danger to our beloved Unity. I am best suited to root him out of Lavradio, in Leadership''s considered opinion."

    "The heretic is not in Lavradio," Queen Larava reminded him. "He was exiled. Perhaps you passed his caravan on the way here. Rumor is he''s heading towards the Kravikas desert. You make it sound as if he were still here, when he is somewhere on the road, homeless. What, precisely, is there to root out?"

    "His memory," sniffed Sera?o. "The faithful have transferred their ardor from Unity to the heretic. They sing his songs and read his insipid sermons to each other on holy days. They speak highly of him despite his declarations of heresy. He is present at every toast in his name and every hope your people hold that Enclave will fail and fall."

    "It is quite the puzzle for Enclave, isn''t it?" said the king sympathetically. "The church was not in a position to help the people of Lavradio at a crucial time, and that rascal seized the moment to make a name for himself as a friend of the common people. Now you have to convince people that Enclave loves them more than the Nexus does."

    "A pity Your Majesty chose not to arrest the heretic when told to do so. We might have been rid of him already."

    "Me, arrest the heretic? Have you seen the way he fights? If I had tried to arrest the boy, he would have cut through a thousand of my men. Perhaps you are unaware of our recent troubles, but we do not have a thousand men to spare, Ambassador Sera?o. Even his students are no trifles. I have witnessed them in action against the dark magulo ˇ­"Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.

    Sera?o did something nigh unthinkable, except perhaps by an ambassador of a notable power. He interrupted the king. "There is no such thing as dark or cursed monsters."

    "Pardon me," said the king. The prime minister glared at Sera?o, calculating how long it might take to order his death for such an affront. "I meant the monstrous insects who exude an aura of darkness, are poisonous to the touch, and wear a carapace no weapon can pierce, so similar to the legends of cursed monsters in scripture they would seem identical. The disciples'' might was too great even for them, who posed a special terror among monsters.

    "Phillip the Younger is far beyond the ability of guards and soldiers to apprehend. The best I could manage was a negotiated exile. Your people made him; Your people will have to unmake him."

    That was practically an invitation, and Sera?o grabbed at it. "I humbly request a small group of peacekeepers to aid in the holy work of ridding your capital of his influence."

    "What would you do with such men, were We to give them to you?"

    "Arrest anyone who defies the Unity, Your Majesty."

    "And then what?"

    "That depends on the magnitude of their heresies. Those who repent may be flogged and left in jail for a time. Any who refuse to mend their heretic ways must be executed. Burning is preferred, but hanging is acceptable."

    The queen did not blanch, nor did the king shape his face with anger, but the mood in the room shifted.

    "You wish to impose religious order on Our people, at Our own expense? It seems to Us Enclave should fund its own solution to its own problems."

    "Then allow us to raise a force at the church''s expense. The true faithful need only your permission."

    "Certainly not. The church has always remained unarmed excepting a disciple and their bulwark. No king can allow an alternate force within his borders. An ambassador should know better than to ask."

    "So your Majesty refuses to honor the Treaty of Alignment? It clearly states ˇ­"

    "That no competing religion will be tolerated," Queen Larava interrupted him. She was herself a descendant of the Five Families who provided the core of Enclave''s disciple and leadership castes. She had been educated in the same school as the priests and practitioners, and specially groomed for her place as Lavradio''s queen. She knew the treaty''s text by rote.

    "Nexus does not teach a competing religion. It teaches the Unity religion. There is no difference in doctrine that We can see. The only difference is Brother Phillip''s belief that Enclave could do a better job of defending the faithful by anointing more disciples and deploying them more freely."

    "Will Your Majesties not aid the church in any way?"

    The elderly prime minister consulted some papers in his hands. "You have extensive grounds for your basilica, and you have many temples. Gliebes in major cities are set aside for their support, and you may continue to collect rents on those lands or improve them at your discretion. And there are always the donation boxes."

    "Thank you, Max." King Leonardo drummed his fingers against the arm of his throne for a while, thinking. It was sheer pretense, Sera?o was sure. The man had made up his mind before the meeting began.

    "We see this schism as an internal affair of the church. Just as Enclave did not interfere with our civil war, We will not interfere with Enclave''s internal conflicts. However, We shall offer advice. Brother Phillip showed everyone a church that cared more about the common person than it did its own power. He defended the powerless, healed the sick, and brought hope to the hopeless. If you would surpass him, you won''t succeed with dour sermons and name-calling."

    "Do not forget his singing voice, dear," added the queen.

    "True. We are a people who love music, and even the nobles miss him for his songs. In every way, the young brother was known to personify those attributes Enclave disciples so often claim for themselves. Yet, we see not a one of them here. What are your disciples doing in Enclave, when there is so much need in the world for their abilities?"

    "The blood of the First Families can''t be risked for mere trifles, Your Majesty. If the need is truly great then a disciple may be dispatched, but your offering to the church must reflect the need."

    "So it is true. You''re renting them out. Is there a price list? Or, must I outbid my neighbor?"

    "The line of the First Families ˇ­"

    "Puffery!" Leonardo interrupted. "That is the word you used the other day, isn''t it My Queen?"

    "Yes, My King. To prattle on about one''s special place in the great order of things without any proof to support such claims. Puffery."

    "A commoner term, but an apt one." The king returned his attention to the hapless ambassador. "I will not give you swords to fight your internecine battle against Nexus. If it is truly your wish to eclipse Nexus, then convince Us with deeds that Olyon favors you. If he does, then he will surely grant you victory over the heretics. If you fail then Olyon''s favor truly has shifted, and it is Nexus, not Enclave, who will lead us into the future."

    Sera?o left the audience convinced: Lavradio feared an ascendant Nexus and was hungry for more practitioners from Enclave. When he returned to his palatial quarters in the Basilica and the reports on his desk, part of the new king''s reasons became clear: most of the city''s healers had defected. The ambassador put all the missing healers'' names on a list for immediate ex-communication. He wasn''t going to let the heretic borrow any more of Enclave''s power.

    He would have to meet with the remaining healers one by one to sniff out the spies and sympathizers left behind. And if he couldn''t raise a proper inquisition force then he would have to contact the city''s less savory factions. There was more than one way to skin a futobel.

 General Gustaves Letter

    From: General Gustave, Eastern Frontier, Fort Lean

    To: Primus Javolenus, Military Consul, Androsat

    Javolenus,

    The church leaders in Enclave have stuck it to us again, my friend. They deliberately withheld information about our opponents. We weren''t facing one disciple but over a dozen, plus some capable students. I don''t know what Enclave was thinking when they misled us, but Ullidian soldiers died because of it. This is not some little case of heresy they''ve asked us to clean up for them. They''re dealing with a full-blown schism in the church, and they spent our soldiers'' blood to fight it.

    Disciple Phillip the Younger (a.k.a. Taylor DeLanion) is every bit as young as they say. I don''t buy into his "summoned from another world" claim but as a disciple, he''s the real deal. Don''t let the low casualty numbers fool you. His people kicked us around like we were children, literally tossed us in the air for fun, then healed us and weren''t strained by it. The two disciples Enclave lent us were useless by comparison.

    Apparently, this new kid picks up defrocked healers and anyone he finds with enough spirit, trains them, and anoints them with full disciple powers. (Yes, he can do that. I don''t care how many times the church denies it.) According to Phillip the whole "First Families" thing is a myth. I don''t have to tell you what Enclave thinks about the idea that practitioners could come from anywhere.Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

    Healer Julius'' assessment of Nexus'' disciples is they are stronger than most Enclave ones, even though none carry their much-vaunted "heritage". Julius is the most competent healer I know, and I trust his judgment on matters of the spirit.

    Phillip confirmed the rumor that most of the fielded disciples were defrocked. The way he said it felt like he had personal knowledge, not just reportage. Perhaps that''s why we haven''t heard from Edos or Ma''Tocha in so long, and why the church keeps asking if we know where they are. We can speculate Enclave is desperate to find the ex-disciples before they can join Brother Phillip and recover their powers.

    I had a chance to spar with the pup until he ran me through the guts. He''s a hard worker with good fundamentals, and he adapts to new situations. What his sword lacks is guile, the talent to get inside his adversary''s mind and make them dance. He makes up for that weakness through his skill in the arts. He conquered me with sheer speed. Then the damn whelp convinced me to live, for Ullidia''s sake, and healed me.

    We know he has experienced advisors, but he also has personnel he''s keeping secret. It would be worthwhile to know who else is advising him.

    We must stay out of this conflict, Javolenus. Enclave and Nexus are in a fight to the death and we can''t afford to be caught on the losing side. Even fighting for the winning side could be too costly for us. It''s wiser to let them fight each other, and then make our apologies to the winner.

    Honestly. The things I do for Ullidia.

 Courier Parsa

    ˇŞ Parsa, Morufu''s Hand ˇŞ

    Across the arid landscape, past spine-bearing trees that stood like tall men with arms upraised to the starry skies, past distant towers of bluffs, leaping down into dead dry riverbeds and back out again, then skirting a stretch of dunes that crawled slowly over the land, then swerving among hard-stemmed brush with fleshy spined leaves, his dark cream coat gleaming, white mane and tail streaming, twin horns thrust forward, a jimala raced the three moons. For a while, he slowed to keep pace with a raid of deadly franango while the tall ground-dwelling birds eyed him as potential prey, then he veered away and put on earnest speed again.

    To the few who knew what a jimala was, they were known for being fast. This one wore a peytral of thin bronze scales across his neck and chest that made a slight shing-shing-shing noise as he ran, decorated with an array of small orange gemstones. The armor wasn''t heavy, but it would turn almost any blade, and it kept his enhancements powered. With a Nexus disciple''s blessings, this jimala wasn''t fast. He was the fastest living thing. And he was on a mission.

    Disciples had no need for messengers, ordinarily. They had prayers that let them speak to each other at great distances, so running from place to place wasn''t very useful. If a disciple needed something carried at speed, they turned to enhanced couriers. Mostly, that meant enhancing a bulwark and their mount and sending them off at twice the speed any normal rider could reach, with three times the endurance. But, if the leader of all the disciples needed something carried, then His Holiness Phillip the Younger called on Parsa the Jimala. Parsa the Wanderer. Parsa Monsterbait. Parsa, the fastest living thing. There were no other jimalas to use, as Parsa''s kind were too rare and too uniformly afraid to run freely in the world.

    His next stop was among the dunes. He slowed as he entered the stretch of sand that migrated back and forth across the desert every year, following the wind. He took the dunes aggressively and the troughs more cautiously: there were reports of monsters in that area, and he didn''t want to run headlong into an ambush spider''s lair. He had to follow his navigation beacon for this one, the little line of light that lit up from his peytral when he was ten kilometers from his target, slowly shrinking as he got closer. The disciples who were his typical destination tended to move around, and following a light was easier than searching for them. Exactly how it worked was a mystery that didn''t interest Parsa. He knew his target had some kind of token, and when he got close enough the light would appear to guide him the rest of the way. That was all he needed to know. Parsa''s job was to run, not use the Spiritual Arts.

    The light finally pointed downward as he crested a standing wave of sand. There was a Nexus disciple down there, with the usual bulwark of three fighters, guarding a fifth man who was ill-dressed for the desert. The sand had all been moved away to expose the bare ground beneath their feet, an orange-tinted material. The jimala slid down the dune gracefully and presented himself to the poorly-dressed man.

    "Welcome to Darkmaw''s Cradle!" The outsider spread his arms wide as if the stretch of exposed rock were a wonder to the senses instead of a stretch of hard flat ground, and the man''s tail whipped around excitedly. "The wind must have uncovered the alluvial deposits here, and spirit from the sun soaked into the crystals, probably for years. Some animals like to eat the crystals and pow! Monstrification! It wasn''t just Darkmaw, either. Almost everything around here was monstrified!"

    Parsa grumbled at the man with his animal''s voice and looked towards the passing moons. It wasn''t that the researcher wasn''t interesting, but he would go on for hours if Parsa let him. There were several like him in the desert, some of them disciples and the rest just plain outsiders like this one, and Parsa had met them all. They would talk until morning if he let them.

    Disciples mostly knew Parsa''s secret but kept it to themselves, partly out of respect for his people''s taboos but largely because a healer''s discretion was sacred. The researcher they were guarding, however, thought Parsa was just a cleverly trained animal.

    "Right, samples! Two kilos of spirit-capable ore coming right up!" He opened the courier pouch designated for him and took out what was there, then put leather bags of ore samples in their place and fastened the bag securely.

    "Lavradian brandy and Calique spices! His Holiness knows how to keep a man happy! Lucky horns!" He reached out to grab Parsa''s horns, and that earned him a snort, a violent headshake, and a derisive tail flip.

    "Not like that!" The disciple guarding the researcher scolded him. "Jimalas are proud. You don''t just touch one without permission." It was a disciple Parsa didn''t know by name, but he was grateful for the intervention. "Sorry about that. The man has no manners. Horns for luck?" He held out his dominant fist, and Parsa tapped it twice: once with each horn. Then he was gone.

    Past the moving sands, his gait changed as he hit tricky ground ˇŞ kilometers of round rocks the width of a man''s hand packed together like cobbles. He didn''t have time to contemplate what strange confluence of events conspired to pave this part of Morufu''s Palm with such an awkward surface. His focus was on navigating the obstacle at high speed. Each hoof had to hit the crown of a stone squarely or else he''d turn an ankle, and he wanted to do it fast. His body seemed to float while his legs worked furiously under him in a dancing, stuttering rhythm.

    "Focus on getting there in one piece," Phillip had told him more than once. "Don''t assume anything I give you to carry is worth your life unless I say it is." But Parsa liked going fast. That''s who he was, and the cobbles presented an interesting challenge. Franango would avoid them unless they were chasing prey. Gurantors like to step on them ˇŞ the giants'' padded feet were massaged by the numerous small rocks ˇŞ but wouldn''t run on them because striking the cobbles hard was painful. Even humans didn''t like walking on them. So, if Parsa could cross them at speed then he could use this stretch of desert as a barrier to pursuers.

    Plenty of small creatures made their homes among the cobbles, aelemon''s viper among them, but Parsa paid them no mind. If he was fast enough (and he was) then he was gone before most creatures fully recognized his presence.

    Crossing the stones got him to a new kind of ground, a heavy soil that looked firm from a distance but subtly yielded to his hooves, robbing a fraction of his strength. He knew the winter rains would turn this kind of dirt into dangerous slick clay. Scattered grasses grew in tall clumps.

    He knew his next destination by reputation, and he could find it by stars and landmarks: a large lake of black goop. The pool was night within night, swallowing the light of moons and stars. Parsa''s people knew it as Scavenger Lake or, sometimes, Morufu''s Sore. Creatures came out of it some nights to scour the region for anything dead and drag it back to the lake. Parsa had never seen one of the rumored scavengers, he just knew the lore. Most Calique avoided the place. Once in a while it would catch fire and burn for days, spilling its black ruin into the sky to shroud the land for miles downwind.

    He took a risk and called out in a rising voice. It could attract unwanted attention but, if something wanted to hunt him, they''d find themselves exhausted and hungrier than when they started the chase. After a brief wait, a light flashed on the shore to his right, and Parsa headed that way until he found his destination: a camp for a disciple and three bulwarks. Sister Hypha was best known among the Calique as a healer, but like most disciples she could fight as well.

    "Parsa! I have the samples," she said, as he came to a reluctant stop. There were still hours of night and early morning he could use to run. She took her ration of small luxury items from the bag marked for her and packed several flasks of black lake liquid into his courier bag.

    "Refill?" With Parsa''s consent, she put her hand on the center of his peytral and pushed her spirit at it, adding to the reserves of energy that kept him going at such an unreasonable pace. He had more than enough to carry him to Satoma, but topping off his reserves was always a good idea. One never knew what might happen, or if the next disciple would be so energetic.

    "Horns for luck!" She held out her fist, and Parsa tapped it with each of his horns. Ever since he had lured the world''s deadliest monster into a trap so it could be killed, this had been a thing. He didn''t know how it started, but he couldn''t say he minded the appreciation.

    His next leg took him far to the north, to Satoma. He decided to avoid the roads again and head cross-country over the riverlands. Ocean storms sometimes ran aground in autumn and dropped their water to run in brief wild torrents until the earth swallowed it all up. These events were rare because the desert was ringed by tall mountains, but they left behind deep channels like blood vessels carved into Morufu''s Palm.

    Parsa pronked lazily over the narrow channels of dead rivers whenever he found them, sailing easily, four hooves together, back arched, head down, horns forward. He landed like a spring, took two more little bounds, and another high arch to cross the next ravine. The channels were deep, eight meters or more, and if he were on his own, he would measure each distance before making the leap. With a battery of Nexus enchantments working in him, he didn''t fear coming up short or falling down.

    His trumpet-shaped ears picked up a noise that didn''t belong in the desert: hammering and digging. Parsa slowed and changed course to take him downwind of the commotion. He came to a ravine with guards posted at wide intervals, in pairs, and not Calique. From their pointed helmets and the smell of them, they were Kashmari.

    Preparing the battlefield. That''s what Pasha Phillip called it. Both sides were in the desert, attempting to change the landscape in their favor. There would be a skirmish here soon. Or, Phillip would let them invest their time and energy there and sabotage whatever they were working on before it could be used.

    One of the sentries must have had night vision as a beast trait because he pointed at Parsa and said something to his partner. They probably saw him as some rare desert animal (which he was, after a fashion). It wouldn''t take long for them to decide to spend a few arrows on him. Parsa spun around once to his left, once to his right, and shook his head vigorously, and was rewarded with a soft chime that meant his location had been recorded. He was supposed to do that whenever he encountered something unexpected, but it was the first time he''d used it.

    Parsa dashed away before the soldiers decided they could augment their rations with roasted deer meat. A true hunter might have felt compelled to take a closer look or attack the enemy to prove his courage. Parsa had no such compulsion. He had seen something odd and marked it. He would report it fully in due course. He was a courier, not a scout. His job was to run and deliver.

    Satoma first appeared as a glow of light in the distance, a flicker of red fire behind a wall. By the time he arrived, the garden was engulfed in flames. Above the garden''s walls, he could see hundreds of towering palms on fire, sending up smoke to block out the stars.

    The oases were life, protection, and water. They were intensively cultivated and loved by the Calique who called them home, each with its own symbolic colors and motifs. Calique knew each other instantly by the color on their eyes and lips, the width of their belts, and the callouses on their hands. Gardens were sacred.

    But this was Satoma, and the Satomen had never been fully Calique. Their men purchased their women from Hyskos debt-slavers or captured them from other gardens, and held them like property. They ruled over their women, each man a Tyrant of his own house. The boys were brought up in their fathers'' image, while the girls were sold to the highest bidder.

    The Kashmari had raided the town in force and carried off all the women and children, then turned the town into a fort. They left the Satomen hunters alive to run around the other gardens, snatching away unwary women to be replacement wives. For the affront of carrying off young women and for attempting to interfere in his rise to power, Pasha Phillip had killed the Satomen down to the last man.

    "Parsa!" Iraj, maul of Pashtuk, waved him over. He was easy to recognize from his thick keratin plates of armor over his head and back. They had only known each other for a little while, but Iraj was the first hunter to treat Parsa like anything other than a coward. That alone was enough reason for Parsa to move from Broken Ode to Pashtuk. "It hurts to see this, doesn''t it?"

    Parsa grumbled in response.

    "The disciples capped the wells, so this place is finished as a garden for now. Don''t worry. We brought gardeners to secure the seed vault, and we''ll plant mischus over all of this. If someone wants to bring it back to life they can, like Nexus did with Red Tower."

    Parsa sat on his haunches ˇŞ not a natural pose for a jimala ˇŞ and made signs with his hooves. It was awkward with an animal''s legs and no fingers, but Iraj eventually got the gist of it.

    "I''ll get the location from Phillip and let the disciples know. Here''s your load."

    Iraj emptied his allotted courier bag of its delicacies and replaced them with a stack of writing boards, a few sheets of Nexus paper, and a wide jacquard sash.

    "Some of the women here were Calique and were sold on to traders in the north." He stared longingly at Morufu''s Teeth, the jagged rock formations blocking stars to the north. "Maybe we''ll get a chance to bring them home to proper gardens. Let''s hope our new Pasha doesn''t bloody himself so much he forgets his compassion."

    Parsa tonked, to let his maul know he was leaving.

    "Do you need a refill? I can call a disciple."

    The jimala shook his head, wheeled away, and departed at speed.

    He had a good long run after that, south toward Sand Castle, down into the desert basin proper. He had to follow the guidance light to his next destination, a bend in the widest dead river. The doyennes said the great river continuously flowed with water, back when the ancients ruled the world with magic and machines long since lost. By the time Parsa found the place, the sun was near the horizon, washing out the stars'' light and pushing the first hints of the day''s heat into the world.

    The disciple waiting for him was Brother Montague, or Minty to his friends, standing outside a crevice that was the mouth of an abandoned mine. Minty was the disciple who had camped on Sand Castle''s mesa and picked off Darkmaw''s children for a solid week, and thereby held the distinction of killing more cursed monsters than anyone alive.

    "We found what he''s been looking for," said Minty, after the usual greetings and exchanges. The updated load was too obviously rocks, bulky and uncomfortable. "Do you want to run for Bitter Spring, or rest here?"

    Parsa pointed his horns to the interior of the cave.

    "Sure, come on in. We''ve fixed up a room as living space." Disciples could shape things, and powerful ones could mold earth into pits or hills or habitations in only a few hours. Montague took him to an underground room with good ventilation, cool walls, and a wide futon. The walls had cubbyholes for storage and benches for sitting. Disciples were a powerful group of people, but Minty took pride in serving his guest personally with a big bowl of purified water, porridge heated with his arts, dates, and more water. He even cleaned Parsa with a prayer.The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

    Parsa turned down Minty''s offer to remove his harness, knelt against the wall, and slept. He didn''t normally like being indoors, but this space was soothingly plain. He also knew Minty would protect him while he slept: they shared a kind of bond, an unfamiliar sensation to Parsa but a welcome one. Both of them played important roles in killing Darkmaw. Parsa was confident Minty would protect him, while the disciple would trust him to carry anything, no matter how important.

    Everyone rested during the day''s heat if at all possible. It would be different once the cooler days of middle autumn set in, but that was still weeks away. Calique split their summer sleep between the noon hours and the midnight ones, and Parsa was no exception. He woke to find Minty preparing to send him off by consulting a piece of paper: all his enhancements had to be renewed and the disciple needed to know his ''numbers''.

    "Fifteen speed, are you kidding me? Thirteen endurance, eight body, eight defense, five acuity. Does that sound right?"

    Parsa stretched and nodded. Everyone trained to accept Nexus enhancements had to know their numbers. Otherwise, terrible accidents could occur.

    "I''ve never seen numbers like that for speed or endurance. Okay, here it comes." Montague said his prayers silently, layered enhancements in the correct order to avoid injury, and refilled Parsa''s gems. "Horns for luck," he said, holding out a fist. And then, "Run to the light, Parsa."

    He was nearly out the door when Minty called him back. "If you see anyone strange skulking around, report but don''t interfere. We have a special way of dealing with spies in this case."

    Parsa agreed, and then ran out into the lingering heat of the day with the sun to his right, not quite touching the horizon. The basin was wide and flat, and he cruised over cracked ground studded with fat bulbous cacti and tough shrubs that secreted smelly oils. His main obstacle was the great river, which meandered back and forth and left dry, crescent-shaped lakes on its flanks. He stayed out of the river proper for the obvious reason it was too crooked a line. He took the crescent lakes he knew head-on, charging down to the narrow lakebeds to run on their sandy bottoms and back up again on the other shore. Others, he chose to go around because he didn''t want to spend time finding the climbable banks. Finally, he turned away from the river entirely and struck across the basin for Sand Castle.

    He was just starting to get up a good wind when he found himself in a battlefield. Spears came at him from a long line of hunters on his left. His first instinct was to bound to his right, which he did, but then he resumed his previous course and sprang into a dead run. They wouldn''t get him again! He wouldn''t let them herd him into their fighters.

    Just as he thought he was free, he spied the men ahead of him, lying in wait under camouflage cloaks. The disguises were good enough that anyone not looking for them, or who was unfamiliar with the cloaks, could have walked right by and not noticed. But Parsa had seen it enough times to recognize the mottled reds and browns for what they were: danger. As soon as he saw one, he saw a hundred of them ahead.

    He had a line of enemies he could actually see on his left, so that''s where Parsa went. He took a sudden turn toward them, and then dithered back and forth as if he couldn''t find a line to slip between the mounted men, and slowed dramatically. Spears were hurled at him, but they had led their target by too much and missed him. As soon as the riders tried to close ranks around him, Parsa leaped over them so high and so fast, they didn''t have time to raise their spears or bring bows to bear on him.

    He called grandly, his animal voice rising high and proud. This time, he''d made it through. These days there were always hunters in the desert skulking, ambushing, raiding, and opposing each other in teams hundreds strong. Whenever he ran into the wargamers, Parsa had to brave dulled spears and blunted arrows from all sides. Pasha Phillip had declared that any side could get points for ''killing'' his courier, and he raised the reward every time Parsa survived. The better Parsa got at avoiding their ambushes, the harder they tried.

    Parsa reached the mischus of Sand Castle after the sun''s last arc was below the horizon and all the basin floor was in shadow. Every garden had that wide expanse of mixed plants around it, all hardy and good for appalons and gurantors to eat, tended by hunters and the husbanders. Sand Castle''s mischus spread out in every direction for many kilometers, enough to feed a thousand animals year-round. He could see the grazers now as tiny dots in the distance, mostly appalons with a scattering of horses mixed in and a few big gurantors. To an outsider, it was just more desert: scattered plants, mostly low-lying, dotting the landscape. To the Calique, well-tended mischus was the first sign of a well-tended home.

    Rising up from the center of that vast expanse of mischus was the mesa of Sand Castle, tall enough to still be sunlit, its layers of different colored earth boasting the eons it had stood over the shadowed basin below. Eighty meters high and more than three thousand meters wide, it was large enough to contain a small city, with enough garden to feed it.

    It was impossible to tell from the outside, but the mesa wasn''t solid. It was a ring of rock, a natural defensive wall that had protected the interior city and its garden from hostile humans and howling windstorms for hundreds of years. It was a strange convergence of geography, a perfect Calique garden site in the middle of a desert at the center of their continent. It was a natural crossroad, and since it had reopened, caravans had started running again, making up for lost time, never mind the inconvenient time of year. Every nation had unmet demands for goods, and merchants were eager to oblige.

    Parsa changed course again and slowed to an almost normal pace, to join the wide trade road connecting Sand Castle with all corners of Tenobre. The last of the day''s departures had come out of the gate, a convoy of trains pulled by shaggy gurantors, their six padded feet thumping softly, back-swept horns trailing the banners of their owners. The beasts were plodders of great endurance and their walking speed was deceptively fast. Each one could pull a train of three or four big carriages hitched together. Traffic east and west were unrestricted, but cargo going north to Kashmar and Dace was inspected. Nexus and the Calique didn''t want certain supplies going north, and Kashmar didn''t want the spies who would inevitably come with the trains. If the upper continent wanted restricted goods, they would have to take their chances on the oceans.

    The road was best taken at a leisurely canter to avoid accidents, so the cartmen and their passengers got a good look at the rare animal. They assumed he was the pasha''s pet, a status symbol of some kind, and cleverly trained. As long as doyennes'' taboos held Calique tongues, outsiders wouldn''t know what he was. Excepting healers, of course. Somehow healers always knew, but discretion was as much a part of their creed as the four divine tenents.

    Parsa was spotted by the gatemen as soon as he was clear of the convoy, and they blew a fanfare to announce his arrival. Every drayage company and garden had its tune, and they played Pashtuk for the jimala. It was a welcome sound to one who had long felt out of place.

    The wide gate had been repaired and rehung since Darkmaw''s occupation, and the cliff face around it was reshaped in her likeness. The gate was her mouth, guarded by scything appendages as tall as a man. The subtle warping of rock around the gate hinted at her vastness, and her stingered tail rose above it all. The defeated monster''s two great pincer claws were reassembled and mounted by the entrance, poised to crush invaders and shove them into the gate. It was said Darkmaw ate a thousand Calique, and when she died the Calique ate from her to take back the flesh of their lost people and return them to their gardens. But they had also taken Darkmaw into them, made her part of themselves, and turned her into a terrifying protector of all they loved. Parsa shivered as he passed through the gate. He liked to brag he was the only person who faced her at close range and lived, but it was only worth the bragging because she had been death incarnate. He hurried through so he wouldn''t leave a trail of humiliating pellets behind him.

    Past the gate and tunnel, he found the customary flagman, a member of the Society of Respectable Cartmen who directed incoming caravans and riders. He signaled a right turn for Parsa, which took him toward the stables for rich noble''s appalons and prized horses. Semi-permanent offices for the Cartmen and other international guilds were carved into the cliffs by the main gate. Several blocks of free-standing buildings clustered there, though many were in ruins. An outsider would think this was the center of Sand Castle: the rock rooms and buildings where all the merchants and their supporting industries gathered, the big market plaza covered in awnings of woven palm fronds to keep off the sun, the exchange where bulk commodities were bought and sold, inns and restaurants to house and feed them all. There was brisk trade going in the market stalls despite the ruined buildings around them. But the heart of Sand Castle lay elsewhere.

    The next flagman tried to send him the wrong way, toward buildings meant for outsider mounts. Parsa ignored the misdirection and kept to the main avenue between the mesa facades and the buildings until he found the stable set aside for the pasha and his guard. He strode up the ramp on his own, entered his customary stall, and allowed a Calique stablehand to unburden him and hang the bags and peytral on pegs. Unlike most stalls, his had a tall door to ensure privacy. Parsa allowed the boy to brush him down, which wasn''t unpleasant, but he was glad when the boy left.

    The hardest part of being a courier was the change to human form, and jimalas didn''t like to be seen by non-jimalas while they went through the transformation. It took time for all the bones to shrink and grow again, for the fur to disappear, and hide to turn into skin. It was embarrassing to be seen between forms, but the hardest part for Parsa was the diminished senses at the end. He felt partially deaf and blind when he was human. He could handle being slower: this form liked things slower, but the world seemed so dull.

    When his transformation was done, he put on a simple robe from his courier bag, tied his long cream hair up in cloth, and applied Pashtuk colors on his face (umber for his eyes, forest green for his lips). He lacked a proper woven belt, but so did many men his age, so there was no shame in the green sash he tied around his waist instead. Satisfied, he hefted his gear and left the stall through a secret door, and closed it carefully behind him.

    He felt his way down the hidden passage, a lightless dive deep into rock, to land in a storeroom belonging to Pashtuk, two arcs away from where he''d started. The people there were glad to see him, and the young women greeted him with sweet smiles and brief touches. He had missed the gathering hour, but they made him promise to attend the next day. He stepped outside into a swift descending night and would have been blind if not for the street lanterns kept lit by Nexus practitioners. He struck for the interior, past the two blocks of large buildings, to find the inner avenue running between the garden and the town.

    The garden wasn''t what it used to be. Darkmaw had ravaged most of it, mainly by being too large not to crush everything in her path. What should have been a few hundred hectares of multi-storied forest was a patchwork of standing palms here and there, surrounded by broken stumps and felled logs. The undergrowth was all pulled up and turning brown. The gardeners worked hard every day, harvesting what could be harvested, salvaging what could be salvaged, and deciding how much apparent ruin to leave in place to feed and shelter new growth. The seed vaults were secured deep inside the mesa, and there were enough skilled gardener women to lead the work. With disciples to speed up regrowth and some extra labor from the men, they could have a functioning garden in half a year instead of five or six.

    Maul Iraj had traveled far in his younger days, and he told Parsa something hard to believe: that most cities in the world were inside-out. Other people clustered their buildings together, put a wall around the buildings, and left their farmland outside the wall. They grew a single crop at a time on each plot of land. Ridiculous!

    He took the inner avenue six arcs around at a gentle run, appreciating the gardeners'' progress. Although gardeners were always women (or men willing to pretend to be women), every Calique child grew up doing chores for them and understood the work required to feed a garden''s people. Even as men, they could be called to help with big harvest days or when there was heavy lifting to be done. As children, Calique competed to climb trees the fastest and harvest the most dates and coconuts. As youths, they snuck by pairs into shaded bowers to kiss and touch each other past the gathering hour. As adults, they fed and dressed their families from the garden''s bounty. When they died, their bodies were composted and spread among the trees or mounded carefully around new plants. Everything came from the garden, and everything went back into it.

    The eighth arc of Sand Castle, almost directly opposite the front gate, belonged to the doyennes. Behind the pillared facade was the great round room where they gathered with their tablas, negotiated agreements between gardens, and counted out everything important. Light spilled down the wide stairway and brought with it the rattling of abacuses. In normal times, their work for the day would be done, and each doyenne would be with her people in their home arc. But wartime wasn''t normal, and the pasha needed things from every garden. Camouflage required cloth and dye. Enchanted goggles needed leather fittings. Weapons required bronze. Men and mounts had to be fed. The secret desert refuges had to be stockpiled. Instead of each garden supporting its own hunters, the pasha had decreed that all would help all. If there were spoils to be had, they would be divided according to what each garden gave. Wise Anisca, the pasha''s doyenne, was known as a deft hand at such divisions. No doubt she was with them now, rattling the beads alongside them.

    The ninth arc was home to Bitter Spring and held a rare sight in the city: a few undisturbed blocks of buildings. While the people rested in cliff-hewn rooms, the pasha had these buildings for his home and offices. This pride of place was well-earned by Bitter Spring. Whenever Kashmar invaded, as they seemed inclined to do every twenty years or so, Bitter Spring always paid the highest price. After Satoma, which wasn''t truly Calique and was practically on Kashmar''s doorstep, Bitter Spring was the closest to the invaders. It seemed doubly fitting to install the pasha there.

    Parsa followed his nose to where men were cooking a late dinner for the pasha''s staff, their communal kitchen throwing daytime heat from its windows. The smell of tangy squash, coconut soup spicy enough to make him sweat, herbed grains with vegetables, dates, and honeyed nuts made him furiously hungry. Parsa followed the platters of food almost to the dining area but remembered to tear himself away. He still had a delivery to make. The people here knew him well and directed him towards the pasha without question. It wasn''t until he reached the man''s personal guard that he was examined closely. A young spine-haired bulwark judged his features and inspected his bags, then laid hands on his body to frisk him. This one was a pretender, like so many Nexus bulwarks, women who could fight and therefore dressed as men. They adopted the habit solely in deference to Calique sensibilities. In their home garden of Red Tower, Nexus people did the job they wanted to regardless of their gender and wore whatever clothes they felt were appropriate. Men could train as healers, women could train to fight, and nobody had to pretend. In his short time at Red Tower, Parsa had been shocked by it twice over. The first was when he realized they didn''t separate their jobs by gender. The second came two weeks later when he realized he no longer cared.

    Parsa soon found himself in a big square room that was a scale model of the land. The desert was beneath his feet, under a transparent floor, and people could walk around like God walking on the sky. It had evolved a lot since his last visit, with many new features and some old ones refined. Tablas and apprentice practitioners placed markers around the floor and then updated them as people moved through the desert. Parsa knew at a glance where all the Nexus disciples were deployed, where Kashmari had been spotted, the state of the various gardens, and which gardens were fighting wargames.

    Pasha Phillip the Younger, Maul of Mauls, Defender of Every Garden, Thunderous Doom, Blade in the Night, Dean of Practitioners, Eldest Brother and Hierarch of the Reformed Unity Church, stood near the north end of the map where Parsa had bumped into Kashmari forces, reading a report. He was improbably young ˇŞ barely old enough to be acknowledged as a hunter, hard-muscled but spindly from recent growth. His dark and light brown brindle hair fell down past his shoulders, and his eyes were green today. He wore his cloth wrapped in a skirt, like the Calique men who patrolled the streets and kept the peace, with the loose end thrown over one shoulder to leave his right arm bare. An indigo tattoo of branching complex ferns ran the full length of his exposed arm: the mark left behind when lightning strikes flesh.

    There was little ceremony among Calique, only basic courtesies. Parsa stood near him and waited to be acknowledged.

    "They''re making paths through the river lands, just wide enough for appalons," he said to Parsa''s unasked question. "I''m not sure how much good it would do them, but they have a lot of laborers in the area."

    Parsa signed, What will you do? He seldom used his voice in human form.

    "We have to survey the whole area to make sure there aren''t more roads we don''t know about. After that, I have a few ideas." Parsa hadn''t known Phillip for very long, but he knew that smile, the one that said he''d thought of something devious and deadly for his enemies. Maybe he imagined the killing intent that shone from the younger man''s eyes, but Parsa thought of the hundred Satomen that Phillip baited to their deaths. He seemed to be a young man of extremes, full of love and goodwill for everyone around him until they crossed him hard enough to end up on his bad side.

    Nobody should want to be on Phillip the Younger''s bad side. The chances for survival there were far too slim.

    Phillip took the courier bags from Parsa and moved them to a nearby table to unpack. Every article was of interest and deserved a brief examination. He muttered things like, "I thought so," "Interesting," "I can use that," and "Just what I''ve been looking for." Parsa didn''t doubt that every bit of it somehow fit into his plans to defend the gardens from Kashmar. He even spent time examining the jacquard sash and marveled over its intricate motifs: weeping women led into bondage; men with swords upraised; stolen children.

    I can run again tonight, he signed.

    The disciple scanned him with an invisible will most people couldn''t feel, but Parsa felt it touch him everywhere. The sensation was gone after a moment. "You had a good run today. Rest tonight, and you''ll be faster tomorrow. You must be hungry ˇŞ let''s get something to eat."

    They went to the dining hall together, guards trailing behind them, and just as suddenly as he''d been the planner of mass deaths before, now he was a normal(ish) young man sitting among the hunters and the bulwarks and the disciples, taking in their stories, pulling food from the same platter, and laughing. Parsa even let himself be coaxed into relating his run-in with the wargamers with silent hands and big expressions.

    He had never been with men like this, accepted and at ease, all on the same side. He owed that to Pasha Phillip, and it was just one of his many little miracles.

 Hanzana

    ˇŞ Summaya, Enclave ˇŞ

    "What do you mean there are no receipts from Lavradio?"

    "I mean that no money was sent, Your Excellency." A lesser woman would have quailed beneath the glare of the Council of Guardians, the highest of priests in jewel-studded stoles, all twelve of them. They handled the day-to-day business of the Unity Church''s Enclave, and thereby the spiritual affairs of millions of people. When people complained about Leadership with a capital L, this was the body they were talking about.

    But Summaya was no ordinary person. She was Hanzana, a keeper and mover of large sums of money. Powerful people threatened her all the time. That she held such vast sums was both the cause of the threats and her protection from them. She could make money disappear. Her clients'' trust was inviolable, but her clients didn''t always return that courtesy.

    "That is not to say Lavradio did not have any money coming in," she clarified, "but the amount they could transfer to Enclave may have been below the guild''s minimum for international transfer."

    "So what happened to the church''s gold?" asked another guardian.

    "It is not the Hanzana''s job to watch our finances." Summaya was spared the trial of explaining simple concepts by Guardian Maia, one of the members of actual good sense. "Income and expenses are the church''s problem. The Hanza only moves money when we ask for it. It''s pointless to demand answers from someone who should know not them."

    "Thank you, Guardian Maia." The banker offered the guardian a deep bow. It was always a pleasure to deal with people of intelligence. "I would like to direct your attention to another matter. Ullidia and Gallia are down significantly from last year. They are nearing the minimum transfer amount. Next month, Enclave may not receive their accustomed transfers from those countries." It shouldn''t be her job to set their expectations, but it might save her aggravation later.

    Several council members spoke at once, clacked writing boards onto their desks, looked to the heavens, and otherwise expressed consternation. Neither the president nor Maia joined in these pointless demonstrations, nor did two other guardians. Perhaps those four had read the same signs as Summaya had and understood them. Church transfers were down across the continent and had been decreasing for a long time. Partially, this was due to a slowly declining population. The latest cratering of the church''s income stream was the direct and predictable result of Enclave removing its disciples from the field. They demanded sums the realms couldn''t pay and kept their practitioners at home. No miracles meant waning faith. Waning faith meant fewer donations.

    And then Nexus started fielding their disciples, doing the job Enclave used to do, and better. It wasn''t ecumenical to put it in such terms, but why would people pay more for fewer miracles?

    Summaya''s nose smelled something off, and her full body of black and white fur bristled. There was a puzzle here. At least four of the Council were unsurprised, the same four who formed the Finance Committee. They had seen this coming and yet Enclave''s strategy didn''t change. If the president of the council couldn''t sway the votes he needed to change course, who held the power in Enclave? Everyone knew Her Holiness was Leadership''s puppet. She could issue all the spiritual proclamations she wanted, but it didn''t change church policy. She stood at her balcony on holy days to wave at the gathered faithful and, on the rare occasions when she was outside her residence, traveled under heavy guard at all times. Exactly who was in charge? If not the hierarch nor Leadership''s president, were practitioners pulling the strings? Enclave disciples were entitled brats with obvious talent but little dedication, from what Summaya had seen of them. They lacked the wherewithal to subvert a council of career strivers and climbers.This book is hosted on another platform. Read the official version and support the author''s work.

    "Someone needs to kill that upstart," said one member.

    "And burn Lavradio," said another.

    "These are not germane additions to the topic," President Phrenos told them, canine ears forward in displeasure. "The council wanted to hear from our Hanza representative, and it has done so. Does anyone have appropriate questions for Hanzana Summaya?" There were no takers.

    "You are dismissed with our thanks," said Maia at last. Summaya bowed and departed, collecting her bodyguards from the foyer. She noted the red runner on the floor needed cleaning, and the murals had begun to flake in places. It had been a few months since her last visit, but she knew Enclave well: she had been educated there next to priests and practitioners. The practice was common among foreign nobles and wealthy merchants, but for Summaya, it went beyond that. She had been groomed from an early age to be a Hanzana in Dace, to be Enclave''s Hanzana in particular.

    The campus'' ornate decoration had always outstripped their ability to maintain it all, but the decay had reached their inner sanctums. There were just as many servants and cleaners as ever, discretely going about their business with professional unobtrusiveness that bordered on invisibility. Once she started counting servitors (how she loved to count things!) she learned there were no fewer than when she had been at school here. But there was something wrong here, too. Their dark gray uniforms showed wear, and the people themselves seemed pressed. Thin. Tired. She caught sight of a few of them, hauling something heavy along a side street, glancing at practitioners with guarded resentment. She passed a healer candidate with fresh bruises on her face and arms, head down, crossing a street to avoid disciple apprentices on the other side. When Summaya was a student, the bullies didn''t leave marks.

    She took a seat on a shaded bench and waited for the change-of-class bell to ring, then watched and counted. There were fewer noble children than she''d ever seen at this time of day. There were few practitioner apprentices and even fewer candidates. She saw a single disciple, an older man dressed in lace cuffs and a jeweled star of Olyon, and watched as all the students and servitors scattered before him like startled birds. The longer she looked, the more she realized how shabby and mean it had all become.

    The church had been declining for decades. That wasn''t a secret, least of all to Summaya, but something essential had changed in the last several months. She was visiting a house on a broken foundation, and it was shifting subtly under her feet.

    Enclave might be dying. It was sobering to think she might be the last Hanzana to serve this particular client, one with hundreds of years of history behind it. There were preparations to be made, sureties to be struck. Balances had to be secured in hard coin, and arrangements made for the last-gasp transfers that always accompanied the passing of giants. She had studied the Great Ledger. She knew the patterns and how to prepare for an end she had imagined but never expected to see.

    Coin and flexibility were key. If she exchanged her markers for gold all at once, Hanzana from Unity City to Kashmar and beyond would guess what was happening. That could hasten the end. For her client''s sake, she must proceed slowly at first.

    And then there was the matter of Summaya''s successor. She couldn''t be left with nothing. Another situation would need to be found for her. Or perhaps, one should be made for her.

 The Hierarchs Mandates

    ˇŞ Guardian Maia, Enclave ˇŞ

    The president pushed on to the next agenda item as soon as the door was closed behind Summaya. These meetings tended to devolve if he didn''t force them to stay on track.

    "Last item for today. We''ve received a message from Nexus. Maia, will you please?"

    Maia took hold of the large item leaning against the wall behind her. It was rectangular, slightly curved, and nearly as tall as she was. It was so oddly light that it was no trouble to haul it before the curved table where the council sat.

    The cloth covering the object was easily untied and fell away to reveal a tower shield of a startling scarlet color. It bore writing in softly luminous silver script. A lozenge of four stars of Olyon was at the top, followed by a preamble and a bulleted list of articles. They all knew the text because they had seen it before, printed on papers distributed by the Cartmen''s Guild. In Nexus News, it had shared space with a drawing of the improbable monster Nexus had killed, an article about the defection of Enclave healers, screeds against Enclave''s neglect of the continent, and an installment of A Princess of Silenz. This was the Nexus Manifesto, engraved on something far more sturdy than a piece of paper.

    One member said what the rest of them were thinking. "The Heretic Whelp sent this object to the Council of Guardians? Who does he think he is?"

    But the shield held some fascination in it, some deeper message that the unwary might miss.

    "What is that made of, do we know?" asked another.

    "The courier who brought it claimed it was made of Darkmaw shell," Maia explained. "I had it examined by the deans, and they say it''s safe. The glow is a simple light prayer but, for some reason, they can''t counter it. They say it''s as permanent as a fragment of sun but without the extra effects. The writing is inside the shell, so it can''t be scraped off. No tool we have can harm it. It seems to be indestructible, as far as anyone can tell."

    Guardian Paraskevi''s face contorted with hate. "That''s his message, then. He thinks he can''t be killed. He intends to destroy the first families and take our eternal place as Olyon''s chosen servants! We''ve let this go on for much too long. He must be dealt with soon!"

    "That''s going to be difficult now that he has more disciples than us." Maia almost enjoyed delivering bad news to the council. Their decades of intransigence had created this mess. If they had just agreed to adopt promising talent into the Five Families instead of ignoring it or killing it off, they would have all the practitioners they needed. "I told you the desert wouldn''t kill him and that he''d figure out a way to deal with Darkmaw. We should have recruited him to our side when he was still friendly ˇŞ before someone tried to kill him."

    She wasn''t talking about the first time, when Lavradio ordered the boy''s assassination in exchange for Enclave gold. That was a con job, and the foolish King Joaquim fell for it. She was thinking of the second attempt on the young disciple''s life. The council had voted almost unanimously to defrock disciples of weak loyalty and recall them, and kill off the budding heretic and his followers. Nothing had gone to plan, and now the situation was beyond salvaging.

    Maia and Paraskevi were the lone dissenters, but something had changed in Paraskevi in the weeks after the vote. It wasn''t the death of her nephew: she had always considered Boleslovas a fool and, as a disciple, he was no match for Taylor DeLanion. Or, as he was known now, Phillip the Younger. That Boleslovas died in the attempt on Phillip''s life came as no surprise to anyone who had met them both.

    No, the change had come before her nephew''s death. One day, Paraskevi started shouting Heritage propaganda full of green bile, spewing hate every time Nexus or its young Hierarch was mentioned. Maia didn''t deny they were a threat to Enclave, albeit a threat this council had created, but the rhetoric was pointless. And the Paraskevi she used to know wasn''t given to saying unnecessary things.

    "Enough with the ''I told you so''," said the president. "Just record that the message was received and put the cursed thing aside. Tell the mail room to reject any future communication from Nexus."

    "Mister President, we should think carefully about that." She tried to reason with them, but they shouted her down and voted to ban all messages from Nexus faster than she had seen them handle far more trivial business. They had banned a lot of things lately: soundingboards, Nexus News, prayer songs, and yet all of those things still existed in ever-greater numbers in Unity City. It was getting to the point where Enclave only controlled what happened within its own walls, its segregated section of Unity City. The influence that had kept the continent at peace for hundreds of years was slipping away through their fingers.

    "Maia, do you have anything after the Mandates?" President Phrenos wanted to know after the meeting was adjourned.

    "Just going over foreign reports."

    "Cancel that. Meet me at the depot when the last class bell rings. Bring that." He pointed at the manifesto with the cloth draped over it.

    "Where are we going?"

    "On an excursion. There''s no need to bring anything else, but you should eat an early dinner just in case."

    Maia disliked observing the Mandates. It began as it always did, at the hierarch''s residence. Her rooms were on the second floor of a grand building, above the Warden station and its guards, the kitchens, and the servitor''s quarters. Maia and her attendant were passed through without inspection, and shown to an upstairs parlor where she waited. The wardens hadn''t even bothered to check the large, cloth-covered object they carried with them. Yet, when the hierarch left her residence, they would follow in force.

    The woman herself soon appeared, preceded by her Voice, a tall and greatly horned woman who wore a veil down to just above her lips. The veil was a sign she was speaking for the hierarch and not herself. Behind the Voice was Her Holiness Noora, hierarch of Enclave. Her veil covered everything, even her neck and chest. Not a word or sign would pass her lips or hands. That was one of the Mandates: the Hierarch could only communicate through their Voice. It was a tradition to signify Her Holiness''s spiritual distance above mere mortals, but Maia thought it was cruel. Noora had taken her office when she was ten, and for fifteen years she hadn''t spoken a word to anyone.This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

    Maia and her attendant bowed deeply while Her Holiness situated herself on an ornate chair that was little less than a throne, with her Voice behind her. "You may sit. What news from Leadership?"

    "Nexus sent this to the council," Maia said, and her attendant uncovered the shield for her inspection. She explained what it was and how it came to be in Enclave. Her Holiness was unaware of the Nexus Manifesto and took the time to read it fully.

    "It''s certainly a moral position, but it isn''t practical, is it?" she said at last, through her Voice. "The five families will never let go of their power. Not in my lifetime."

    Her head panned the walls as if looking for a blank space big enough to mount the tower shield, but there was no space available at all. Her parlor was full of paintings, portraits and landscapes from every realm of Tenobre. Or maybe she was comparing it to her existing collection. Some of the pieces were by First Family artists and were displayed more for their political than aesthetic values. Maia noticed some of the worst portraits had come down since her last visit, to be replaced by landscapes. Perhaps Noora felt that, as an outright prisoner in her own home, there was no point in pleasing her jailers.

    "We are ready for today''s Mandate." She rose and strode toward the door. The veiled woman paused for a moment by the threshold and touched one of her smallest paintings, one whose colors shifted as the viewer''s head moved. It was a bird made of fire, rising from glowing embers against a black and violet sky. It wasn''t a master''s work, but the bold lines were expressive of some great hope. The materials were strange, like someone had painted it with opals. Every time she saw the little picture, it hit some nerve of recognition Maia could not place.

    Passing out of the building, they picked up six guards dressed in red and Warden Helen. She wasn''t just a warden, one Enclave''s armed security forces. She was the Warden, who had occupied her position since before Maia''s grandmother''s time at school here. She might be as old as Enclave itself, three hundred years and counting, but she didn''t look a day over a hale forty-five. The Warden walked in front, down the broad main avenue, while the few people on the streets stood aside and knelt with their hands in prayer. Behind the Warden came two guards, the Voice, Her Holiness, Guardian Maia, Maia''s two attendants, followed by four more guards.

    There was a time when these little trips were full-blown processions, with all of Leadership in attendance. Now, they made the walk while classes were in session to avoid as many people as they could. There were four buildings at the end of the avenue, the four original Enclave structures raised by Saint Bahram: The Great Library of Enclave; The Basilica of Saint Bahram; The Grand Auditorium; And the Phrontistery, which the modern church had renamed "Lecture Hall One." Today''s mandate was the library, and their informal procession entered the U-shaped building and took the stairs into the basement, down two turns of corridors which put them under the center of the building, where they found a dean and four apprentices waiting for them with worried faces.

    "Rejoice," said the Voice, "you have been chosen to participate in a holy mandate. Only those of sanctified blood are suited to this task. Take pride in your sacrifice."

    The dean turned white and started to say a prayer but Helen''s sword was at his throat before the second word left his lips. The blade was bronze, but its edge faded into darkness. "Fool! What do you think you''re doing?"

    Dean Galonzo, a thirty-six-year veteran disciple and Lector of the Spiritual Arts, stuttered his answer. Maia thought he was going to wet himself. "I don''t want to die here."

    "Then don''t do anything stupid," the warden retorted.

    "Perhaps you misunderstand." The Voice showed half a smile beneath her veil on behalf of her hierarch. "Only a practitioner of proper Heritage is good enough to donate their spirit to this task. Surely, you didn''t expect the Mandates to require blood magic?"

    "No, Your Holiness." The dean slumped against the wall in relief. The Warden''s sword withdrew a few centimeters but it was not put away. "Of course not. It''s just the Hierarch never required assistance before. I am surprised you need the help."

    "Past hierarchs often had the aid of their disciples, most especially in times of conflict. Do not tell me this isn''t true, Dean Galonzo, for you aided my predecessor when you were an apprentice. Or did you forget?"

    The dean shook his head fearfully, the unsheathed sword still potent in its threat. He opened his mouth to speak, but Her Holiness and her Voice weren''t done with him. "Do not tell me you must save your spirit for other duties. You have no other duties. You have no one to heal, no monsters to fight, no buildings to repair, and precious few students to teach. Your schedule is quite free. I checked."

    The sword was mercifully sheathed, and the apprentices helped their mentor to his feet.

    "Good," said the Voice. "Let''s begin."

    Noora touched the blank wall in front of them, and a door with heavy locks appeared. Warden Helen produced three large keys to open the locks with heavy clanking noises. Past the door was a round white room with a fluted pillar in the center extending from floor to ceiling. It was the central support of the library, both physically and spiritually. It had to be filled with spirit, or else the library''s ability to preserve texts and protect the restricted stacks would be compromised. In severe situations, the building itself could collapse.

    "Everyone may enter. Practitioners will put both hands on the pillar," the Voice commanded them, and the five practitioners stood at the pillar and put their palms against it. "Dean Galonzo, do you remember the Prayer of Offering?" The dean shook his head, still too rattled to speak. "Then I will say the prayer for you. Warden, if they attempt to flee you may hold them by force. Let''s begin."

    In the year that she had been supervising the Mandates, Maia had watched these ceremonies from outside the room, with a barrier of silence between herself and the hierarch. For the first time in fifteen years, Maia heard Her Holiness''s voice. It was only a whisper, hardly audible through her veil, but it was her own voice streaming out the words of an oft-practiced prayer.

    "Great Creator Olyon who turned darkness into light and void into substance hear our prayer. We the children of your chosen families offer up our spirit to you our creator and guiding principle and dedicate ourselves to your service. Humbly we beseech your blessings not for ourselves but for the faithful whom we serve to serve our God."

    It sounded like there was more to the prayer, but that was as far as Her Holiness could get before the dean and his four best students were on their knees, sweating into their silks. The pillar, which had been more of an ivory color when they entered, had lightened several shades to almost white.

    "Enough," she said through her Voice. "After all the recent carping on about Heritage, I had hoped for better. Stand them aside, Helen. I will finish this." Noora put her hands on the pillar but no prayer passed her lips this time. The pillar grew whiter and whiter as they all watched until it nearly shone with pure spirit. Noora stepped back, satisfied.

    "The practitioners are excused," the Voice told them, "but be warned. I will not bear these burdens alone while my disciples grow fat and stupid on their bloated stipends." The veiled head of Her Holiness turned toward them, blank yet menacing. "You will be of use to Enclave, or there is no point in keeping you."

    The practitioners needed help to leave the room and the library, while Warden Helen locked the door and Noora restored the Sanctuary prayer that kept the room hidden and inviolable. Maia was relieved to see her finish a Mandate in such good condition for once, but then the hierarch stumbled and had to lean against the wall. She wanted no help from the guardian, her attendants, or even Helen. She shooed them all away and slumped to her knees right where Galonzo had humiliated himself.

    Only Milara, her Voice, was permitted to approach. She offered the woman a vial of something under her veil, and Her Holiness drank. Potions to restore spirit were rare and expensive, but one didn''t cut corners when it came to their hierarchs. Too much weight rested on their shoulders.

    "What''s wrong with her?" Maia asked. This was why Leadership observed the Mandates: in case something went wrong. She approved of Noora getting help with these onerous jobs, but if she needed the aid because she was sick, then Enclave had yet another serious problem on its hands.

    Milara raised her veil and spoke for herself. "There''s nothing wrong with her. She''s stronger than she''s ever been. There is something wrong with Enclave: it''s taking more from her and we don''t know why."

 Mysteries

    Maia and her attendant, still lugging around the cloth-draped Manifesto Shield, had an early dinner with the weary hierarch. Even though she couldn''t talk directly and had to eat by lifting food behind her veil, Noora seemed to appreciate the company. The hierarch''s dining room was far too large for Noora and Milara alone. From how servants had to rush to clean and set out extra places, Maia guessed it had been a while since anyone joined them.

    It was Maia''s job to oversee the Mandates because she was the newest member of Leadership, and she didn''t know yet what all of them were and had missed some of them while tending to church business in Lavradio. Recently, she''d gone to the Great Library and discovered it was suspiciously barren regarding the hierarch''s duties. Worse, the entire restricted section was smaller than it used to be. When Maia finally cornered a librarian, an unfortunate reference worker named Hector with a nervous tail, he told the guardian to talk to the deans.

    "You have to ask the deans. They''ve been purging things, I don''t know what!" The poor man was practically in tears. "They seal the doors so nobody else can get in, and take away whatever they want. They take the catalog cards, so we don''t know what''s missing."

    Maia sighed in exasperation: another intransigent Enclave denizen too lazy to figure things out on his own. "Don''t you have another list of books somewhere? Compare that to the card catalog, and you''ll know what''s missing."

    "You''re talking about the master list. It''s not here. Dean Katerina took it away months ago. We''re making a new one from scratch, but the missing books are still missing."Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more.

    Maia wanted to grab him by the robes and shake him. "Where do they take the books, Librarian Hector?"

    He was shocked by the question. "Don''t you know? The deans are burning them! You people are burning our history and filling up the empty space with self-serving, First Family crap! What are you the guardian of, anyway?" He really did cry then, and turned his face away in shame.

    Maia didn''t apologize; she just left him there to recover his dignity in peace. She couldn''t apologize to him, anyway. The deans were probably acting on Katerina''s orders at the time, so their actions amounted to official Enclave policy.

    Katerina was dead now, but Maia wondered if the surviving deans were continuing her work. And, what had been her goal?

    Maia didn''t want to inconvenience the hierarch or accidentally demand something forbidden, but with the library missing most of its restricted section, she had to go to the source.

    "Your Holiness, I confess I''m still ignorant about the Mandates. May I trouble you for a list?"

    "Of course," she said through her Voice. "I would have provided one, but I assumed your office had this information already."

    "All we have is a schedule," Maia explained, "with no other information. And the library was no help."

    Noora''s veiled head looked down at her plate while she separated the different components of her meal with a fork, segmenting her food until there was an expanse of clean plate between each type of food. Maia waited for her while the Voice stared straight ahead, ready to transmit her mistress''s thoughts. Noora still hadn''t raised her head when the response came. "I will make a list and send it to you, along with a description of the task and, where known, the purpose of each."

    Where known? Did the hierarch not know the full purpose of her own work? Before Maia could ask, the Voice relayed Her Holiness''s answer. "Some Mandates are mysteries. They''ve been mysteries since before my predecessor''s time."

 Pinnacle (I)

    Maia, her attendant, and the shrouded Manifesto Shield arrived at Enclave''s depot well in time for their "excursion," a nebulous term that reeked more and more of shady intent the longer Maia thought about it. President Phrenos wanted to show the shield to someone but he wouldn''t say who. If Enclave intended to fight Nexus, and Maia could see no way around it, they would need an army. But the only army around here belonged to Dace, which belonged to the First Families. She knew better than to think Dace would spend its own forces on a holy war: there were too many sons of First Families and their various branches in the officer ranks. Some would be eager to distinguish themselves, but the remainder held their positions as sinecures. There was little in the way of professional leadership in the Dacian army, as the ham-fisted policing of the outer provinces demonstrated. If Dace was a normal city, instead of the home of Enclave, they would have been invaded and conquered ages ago.

    That left mercenaries. There were several companies with agents in Unity City: Red Fang, Loyal Cohort, Venerati, Blood Hogs, and a host of smaller operations. The largest and the most frequently used by Enclave was the Hyskos Grand Company. But the Grand Company was expensive, and Enclave didn''t have enough funds in its operating budget for enough men to make a difference in southern Kravikas. Not for the months it would take to prepare and wage that war. Perhaps Phrenos wanted to take out a loan, and they were meeting with a lender, but why bring the shield? It was solid evidence against their chances of taking on Nexus and winning. Nothing about this ''excursion'' made sense.

    A worry burrowed into Maia''s gut and turned there, tense and demanding. She had given much of her life to Enclave. Lately, she didn''t understand anything it did.

    The depot was near Bahram''s four great buildings, and the wide roundabout where trains and carriages could drop and take on passengers had an impressive view of the basilica''s dome. Its ultramarine expanse required tons of lapis lazuli, ground into pigment and added to paint, and then fused with the vast dome''s material using the arts. It was the highest and most visible landmark in all of Unity City ˇŞ laws were in place to ensure it would always remain so. It was visible from the distant foothills where gurantor trains first descended onto Unity City''s floodplain. If any part of the city could be seen, Bahram''s basilica was there to crown it.

    Maia''s view was blocked by a massive gurantor with black shaggy fur, trunk swinging back and forth, pulling a single large car to a stop in front of her. The vehicle was shiny and black, with oversized wheels and advanced suspension for a smooth ride, glass windows imported from Lavradio, and no identifying marks. To the average citizen, its passengers would be run-of-the-mill plutocrats running errands in a ridiculously expensive conveyance.

    Phrenos greeted Maia as he joined her on the outdoor seating. They could have gone inside and been waited on by servitors, but the last summer days in Dace produced gentle afternoons with startling blue sky and kind breezes. Others soon joined them: the irritably zealous Guardian Paraskevi, quiet Guardian Ludo, and the still-recovering Dean Galonzo. The principals and one tightly-wrapped object boarded the car and left all the attendants behind.

    Their exit was smooth, out the main gate through the wall that separated Enclave''s large bubble from the surrounding Unity City. Their gurantor took them north. Each of the First Families held mastery over part of the city and found ways to put their stamp on it: Fortuna, Namalous, Pearlcamp, Donglar, and Karolo. The north side belonged to the Pearlcamps, who insisted that all buildings along main thoroughfares be painted in blues and oranges. The area was most famous for its beautiful residences, largely owned by or rented by high church personnel. Maia''s own home was in the Karolo faction of the city, but veteran deans, healers, prelates, and guardians all had homes in the north quarter.

    The First Families carved up the city''s industries just as they did the geography, with each family enjoying total control over some commercial interest and each commercial interest beholden to a family or one of its smaller branches. The system was kept from spinning into meaningless violence through an intricate network of rents, gifts, and other exchanges of wealth of all kinds. The families were so ingrained in Unity City that the city council had five seats, and every court had five justices.

    Maia despised it. She hated the way it circumscribed people''s lives and forced them to exist in the shadow of someone greater. People with the smallest of ambitions couldn''t manage any amount of success without owing everything to a First Family. Such extensive patronage could deal mysterious setbacks from entrenched interests. Anyone who insisted on following the written rules while ignoring the unwritten ones would be systematically fined into oblivion and, if they persisted, killed and tossed into a dark hole.

    So Maia left the Karolos family to join the church. It got her out of the ugly business of the families and into a realm where her talents mattered more. In the priesthood, Family connections only mattered at the top posts of Guardian, Prelate, or Ambassador. To be considered for those posts, one first had to excel at all the lower echelons by competing on merit alone. Many of the First Families'' brightest opted out of the dirty patronage business to enter the somewhat more meritorious climate of the church. They were often considered quaint by their materially motivated kin, but Nexus priests of Family descent were mostly happy with their choice.

    They passed by a small park, across which Maia could see the ruins of Dean Garsharp''s estate. It was just a brief look, a glimpse across a park and between two other buildings, but it woke the worry eating at her. They had cleared away the burnt rubble and leveled the plot, and something else would be built there, but it was another action she didn''t understand. The Art School''s deans turned on a man who had mentored most of them at some point in their careers, for not reading Vow of Obedience. Defrocking him and taking away his access to prayer wasn''t enough. They had to attack him and his elderly bulwark in their house and bury them in a common plot, all five of them stacked together in the same grave. How many times did that man risk his life for the church and its faithful, only to end up like that? No marker. No honors. Even that wasn''t enough. They burned his house to ensure no heretical books or belongings were left to pollute the world.Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

    When Maia returned from Lavradio and heard how Garsharp had met his end, that was the first time she thought coming back might have been a mistake. That didn''t mean she could join Nexus like her friend Kasryn. Enclave stood over the world. The church bound millions of souls in worship through its network of thousands of churches and priests. It had defended nations from famine, disease, and monsters. It guaranteed the Treaty of Alignment, which had kept international order for a hundred and fifty years.

    Nexus had a lot to offer the church, and it was a shame to toss it aside but, in the final calculation, it was a few buildings and a little over a hundred people. When this conflict was done Maia would salvage whatever was left of Nexus and incorporate it into Enclave. It wasn''t entirely right, but it was the best path left open now that open hostilities had been exchanged.

    Their gurantor made good time once he was through the gate. It had only one car to pull and a fast road to run on. The road was one of Brother Zorda''s, the only disciple in Enclave who still worked outside its walls. Anyone who met him could tell he was impaired. Zorda the Simpleton. Zorda of Idiot of Enclave. They called him worse names, too, but he had more works recorded in the Luminous Histories than any disciple living or dead, and most of them were roads. He commanded a vast quantity of spirit, and he had a knack for moving earth. He could build roads as fast as he could walk. And he walked constantly. At sixty years old, he had crossed the continent several times on foot, building and re-building all the major highways as he went. Riding in an expensive car on a recently-maintained Zorda road was like gliding across a pond on a windless day. The gurantor went on for nearly an hour, and she hardly felt a ripple.

    "Can you tell me now where we''re going?" Maia asked Phrenos.

    "You''ll see. You had to make this trip sooner or later." He tried to ease her with a reassuring smile. "Don''t worry, this is a good thing." That phrase alone was enough to make her worry more.

    When the carriage took a certain turn off the main road, Maia''s worry-worm started eating its way through her stomach. It was the turn she never thought she''d take. She wanted to complain that what they were doing was forbidden, that there could never be a legitimate reason for her to be on that road, except the council president and two other guardians were in the car with her, and they were not surprised at all. This was a regular occurrence.

    Whatever lingering hope Maia held that she might be wrong died when the famous house came into view, sitting on its lone hill, a square building made of white brick, four stories tall, with sharply angled roofs and porticoes.

    The Pinnacle.

    For a place that Maia had never seen and never been to, she knew a lot about it. The Pinnacle was where the heads of the Five Families, the Firsts, met to organize their various business affairs. It was fully staffed at all times but only used for one evening a month, or occasionally more if there was an emergency. It had a security force of renowned fighters, most of them experienced mercenaries and soldiers, who didn''t mind killing the occasional intruder and asking questions afterward.

    The Firsts were not supposed to involve themselves in Enclave affairs. And the church was definitely not supposed to reach out to them ˇŞ for anything. Enclave had its glebes in every major city, and in Unity City it had a little piece of each of the major territories. Spirit ran strong in the Family bloodlines, so all disciples and a portion of the healer cadre came from them. That was supposed to be the extent of Family involvement in Enclave. It was more than tradition, it was cannon. It was in scripture.

    If Phrenos was taking the Manifesto Shield to them, then he was going to explain things to them. Was he going to ask for help? Get permission for something? Just how deep into each other''s business were the Firsts and Enclave?

    Maia glared accusations at her fellow guardians. "How many people know?"

    "In the church?" Phrenos clarified, "just us. And Dean Katerina, of course."

    "Katerina is dead." The other guardians and Dean Golonzo stared at her for several seconds, mouths open, speechless. "Doesn''t anyone read my reports?"

    "You didn''t think to put it on today''s agenda?" choked out the president.

    "It''s a preliminary finding. I thought you would put it on the agenda once more was known about it." They looked at her, uncomprehending. Why did she write the prelims if nobody was going to read them?

    "She set a trap for Ma''Tocha in Kashpam and died. Nexus has all the fragments of sun now. Chalk up another one for Nexus."

    "Impossible!" declared Paraskevi with far more volume than would ever be necessary inside an enclosed coach. "The heretics with their inferior blood and stolen arts could never overcome a disciple with Katerina''s heritage. The mouth that speaks such lies should be split open and filled with salt! How dare ˇ­ "

    "I misspoke!" Maia shouted to cut her off, sick of her mindless zealotry. "Nexus didn''t kill Dean Katerina, just like Phillip didn''t kill Brother Boleslovas."

    "Well, that''s fine, then." Paraskevi relaxed back into her seat and looked out the window as their destination started to loom over them. The sarcastic equivalence of two untrue statements had calmed her. It made no sense.

    As the car glided to the front door, and the building cast its corrupting shadow over them, Maia needed to know one thing. "Why did you bring me into this now? You could have left me in ignorance."

    "You''re the most competent candidate, you don''t have a drop of spirit, and we''ll need at least four to sway enough votes. We haven''t had a fourth since Fastrada."

    Fastrada. There was a sad name. He died in his quarters more than a year ago, an apparent suicide. Maia was elevated to fill his vacancy. She had been given a lot of work the moment she took her position, which prevented her from looking into the man''s death. Given how things were in Enclave, she wouldn''t be surprised if the reports were entirely fabricated.

    "Was Fastrada''s death a genuine suicide?" Maia didn''t bother to hide her suspicion.

    "To all appearances, yes." Phrenos looked as unsatisfied with his answer as Maia felt.

 Pinnacle (II)

    Their arrival and disembarkment were smooth and practiced. Black-clad footmen set step stools, opened doors, ushered them out of the car and into the house, then quietly closed portals behind them. Maids in black dresses poured them drinks in an opulent salon too crammed with elegant things to be called elegant. After a suitable waiting period, far longer than Maia had to wait to see Her Holiness, they were admitted to the legendary chamber where the Firsts held their deliberations and maintained their prominence over Unity City and all of Dace. Every province governor, city mayor, town council, and bureau head was held by strings that led back to that room, to five old spiders on big gilded chairs, set on a dias to look down at the ranks of hard benches before them. They were all old and some were less hale than the others, leaning wearily in their comfortable chairs. But all of them had the clear eyes of merchants and power brokers. Collectively, there had to be over two hundred years of ruling experience sitting on that dias.

    Besides the five Firsts, there were dangerous-looking guards posted at intervals along the walls, each of them dressed in black but in their personal style, with their chosen weapons in hand or within reach. The lingering perfumes spoke of supplicants recently departed, through a door on the far side of the room. The group from Enclave wouldn''t know who else was meeting with the Firsts today, and nobody else would know they were here.

    A variety of articles were hung from the walls, and Maia would have liked to study them if she had the time. They were trophies of every notable adversary the Firsts had crushed through the centuries. Banners of nations disbanded before the Treaty of Alignment, shields bearing the crests of extinguished noble houses, weapons captured from would-be conquerors, flags of independent merchant companies that grew a little too ambitious, and even the masthead from an infamous pirate ship.

    The five guardians and one disciple entered, followed by a Pinnacle attendant carrying the wrapped manifesto. Enclave stood before the Firsts and gave a normal greeting bow, no lower than they gave to any other kings, and Maia had to fight the hopeful feeling in her chest that said maybe this was a meeting of equals and not a report to superiors.

    "Well, well," croaked the Kassra, the First Karolo, "you''ve made it here at last, granddaughter. I always thought you would. I was so pleased when Phrenos put up your name for admittance."

    "Admittance to what, Grandmother?" There were muted chuckles from the other Firsts. Maia knew, but she didn''t want to know. There were rumors, since practically her first day of classes at Enclave. She never wanted to believe it, and now she needed to hear it said aloud to be confirmed.

    "This is the Shadow Council, as you suspect. Don''t make that face, dear. You arrived here all on your own, through skill and hard work. I never lifted a finger for you."

    Maia ran to the church to escape the constant machinations of her family. She should have run a lot farther.

    "But first, we have some housekeeping to do. Dean Golonzo, please administer the vow."

    The dean rose and stood by a lectern stacked with ancient boards: an early copy of the third book of scripture, Disciples, older than the building. They wanted her to read Vow of Obedience, the same vow that all disciples and their apprentices were recently forced to read. It was binding. Sometimes, it was too binding. She glanced at mad Paraskevi, who couldn''t hear a good word about Nexus without foaming at the mouth.

    Maia''s worry-worm was gone, replaced by the sensation of falling into a trap. It was already too late for her. She knew about the Shadow Council. She had to read the vow and join, or they would dispose of her. The men in this room could do the job right now, effortlessly. She would end up in a report somewhere, another accident among Leadership. Or another suicide, one more Guardian who succumbed to the pressures of their heavy burdens.

    You don''t have a drop of spirit in you. That''s what Phrenos had said. Since her encounters with Nexus, Maia had plumbed the library for more esoteric texts about Spiritual Arts, writings that nobody had touched in decades. The vow was technically a curse because it turned a practitioner''s spirit against them. Someone who was already loyal would be unbothered by the vow. Someone without any spirit at all would be wholly unaffected.

    Phrenos was perfectly sane. Was that because he believed in Heritage or because he lacked any spirit for the vow to latch onto? Golonzo believed with his whole heart, which explained why he was normal. But did he truly not understand how the vow worked? Wasn''t he going to warn the Firsts that it would be useless on someone who lacked spirit?

    If Maia refused the vow then she would die. So she took a gamble on a long-dead author who claimed it wouldn''t change her.

    "I am Guardian Maia Karolo," she pledged with one hand on scripture. I believe in the one god whose name is Olyon. Saint Bahram was His final messenger. Enclave is His chosen church. The Five Families are His chosen bloodlines, sanctified to guide the church and enact His will on the world."

    "We raise our voices to you, Great Olyon," intoned Golonzo, "and offer up this woman''s loyalty ˇ­" There was more to the prayer, but Maia didn''t listen. She''d heard it too many times already. She closed her eyes and waited for the change to happen, the twisting of her thoughts against herself.

    To set a mind against its natural inclination, to put a person at war with themselves is a terrible act. No good is great enough to compensate for such an ill deed. Dean Garsharp had written that in the days before he died. The words might even be the reason for his death. The zealots did their best to erase him.

    But the change never came. There was only relief, sneaking in by degrees, loosening the noose around her neck. The prayer couldn''t work on her, and Golonzo didn''t even know.

    She recalled her time with Phillip the Younger during Lavradio''s civil war. He had offended her on several occasions with his contempt for Enclave''s teaching methods and lack of theoretical grounding. "Your people have no idea what prayers are," he''d tell her and then refuse to explain. She had been shocked at his arrogance, but now she was starting to sympathize with him.

    "Isn''t that better?" croaked grandma Kassra. "All those pesky doubts are gone now, aren''t they? Phrenos, you may begin with the financials." The head of the Guardians handed over the boards for the monthly transfers for a routine inspection while Maia groped for her next moves. They had to think she was affected by the vow, or else they''d kill her.

    Phrenos spent some time explaining the missing transfers from Lavradio, and the possibility of an even lower payout next month.

    "Unacceptable, President Phrenos," said Nikola Namalous in his silky voice, "you must demand more from the temples. They have fallen far behind. Have all the temples preach about regular tithing this month. Remind people their souls will suffer if the church does not thrive."

    "That strategy is played out, First Manalous. They resent the church, especially when Nexus services their needs better, albeit through heretical and sinful methods." Maia was sure that the last phrase was inserted to defer any rabid comments from Paraskevi. "We demand money from them but offer nothing in return."

    "We guard their souls," tittered the First Pearlcamp. "Nothing is more precious than that."

    "Do we?" asked Phrenos, which surprised Maia. She would never have marked him as someone capable of defying the Firsts, not even a little. "The commoner who sends us their coin can''t see that, not when Nexus is doing all the work we used to. We need their hearts if we want their coin. Let us deploy disciples."Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

    "The realms have not paid," grumbled the First Donglar.

    "They will never pay." Maia was shocked at her own interruption, but it was too late to take it back. "Lavradio, Gallia, and Ullidia will never pay because they don''t have the sums we''re asking. You''re demanding they ruin their realms with debt or be eaten alive. The other realms will pay eventually because they have the money, but those three will choose death by monster over extortion."

    "Tenobre will be brought to heel," First Donglar demanded, "and bow to the First Families. As Dace belongs to us, so will all the realms. Our Heritage is to rule them all, for Olyon''s sake!"

    "Have you all read the vow?" Maia''s mouth was running ahead of her good judgment, a measure of rattled she was. All five heads nodded in unison.

    First Fortuna practically sang, "We are all loyal to Olyon. We must rule Tenobre as His stewards and for the good of the continent. Only the Five Families are fit to lead the world. Kings and councils will yield to us!"

    There it was, the endless ambition of old spiders, everything she thought she was running from. How stupid had she been, to think the Firsts would keep their fingers out of something so rich and powerful as Enclave? She wanted to ask them how long they had been taking the vow, but her good sense was catching up to her situation, and she thought better of it.

    It was too late to back away now, so Maia pressed forward. "We''ll make no progress in that direction until Nexus is dealt with. They''ve stolen secrets and power from Enclave, and they''ve put those resources to good use. It''ll take more than sermons and insults to dislodge them." To the lone attendant in the room, she said, "Bring the package here."

    Maia loosed the tie that kept the Manifest Shield shrouded and let them have a good, long look at it. She boldly climbed the dias and planted it before them, close enough to read. The articles didn''t say as much but, point by point, they rebuked every part of Bahram''s legacy. They said anywhere the faithful met in prayer was a temple; disciples owed their highest allegiance to Olyon and the Four Tenets; practitioners could come from anywhere, however humble their origins; the Heritage of the First Families was a lie designed to concentrate power in Enclave. There were more articles, and every one of them enraged the Firsts.

    Nikola Namalous was first to speak, in his smooth voice that had disarmed countless opponents. "How do you propose we deal with this upstart?"

    "It''s too late to make deals with him. We should have admitted him when he was friendly, taken all his ideas for ourselves, and then defrocked him. He''s not of first blood, after all."

    "He is talentless!" spat Paraskevi. "He would pollute our ranks with his perversions! He must be killed!"

    "Sit down, Paraskevi," croaked Kassra, "the rest of you join her. I want to hear what our newest member thinks of our situation. Please continue, Maia. Why do we care about this object? We''ve seen this ''manifesto'' in paper broadsheets distributed by cartmen.

    "It''s the material, First Kassra. It is made from the shell of the monster in Kravikas, the one we couldn''t kill. The deans can''t remove the light prayer from its letters. Our workshop can''t damage it."

    "We''ll see about that," said tittering Pearlcamp. "Kadivo, come break this annoyance."

    A fighter, a man larger than perhaps any Maia had seen in her life, two heads taller than her and five times heavier, climbed the dias, took the tower shield to one side, and propped it against the wall. His weapon was a hammer with a haft as long as he was, with two heads: a flat face on one side and a spike on the other. His muscles bulged against his uniform and strained the seams as he hefted it, swung it full circle, and drove the spike into the offending shield.

    The hammer bounded off the shield, which was unharmed.

    Dean Golonzo sighed and rose to his feet. He was still tired from the Mandate and knew how futile the exercise was, but he granted Kadivo a prayer for strength. Maia noted he didn''t offer any other enhancements to counter the possible side effects like a Nexus disciple would. Nor did he ask for the man''s numbers or offer to tailor the prayer for his needs. Galonzo said the prayer and his target got whatever he got. They had to wait a little longer, while he repeated the process on Kadivo''s hammer.

    Kadivo had a reputation to maintain: he had pierced or crushed the shields of over a hundred men who had opposed him. When he wound up for his next swing, his killing intent was so clear the entire room backed away on instinct. This time, the hammer did not spring back but followed through while the wall gave way until the shield''s edges had cut into it. He circled the hammer for another blow, ignoring the calls to wait because it could be dangerous, the wall might come down, and he drove the spike again. The meter-thick wall of brick shook off all the swords, banners, sigils, and badges in a rain of trophies. What was left was a hole with the Manifest Shield embedded deep inside. The thick bronze spike of Kadivo''s hammer lay at the foot of the tower shield, broken.

    "He thinks he''s indestructible! He believes he can replace us! Kill the Heretic." Paraskevi had to be shushed and pushed back into her seat by Guardian Ludo. Nobody was in the mood for her rantings. But, she wasn''t wrong.

    "That''s quite interesting," said the silky First Namalous, "we should leave it there until we kill the heretic. Then we''ll find a suitable space for it, among the rest of the failures."

    First Donglar didn''t care about the wall or the shield. "Fine. But what do we do about this Phillip person?" Five pairs of eyes turned to Maia.

    Maia knew the best they could hope for at this point was a negotiated settlement that let both churches operate without interference. Enclave was the church people knew, and they would stay with Enclave if all other things were equal. But the people in the room with her weren''t open to the idea. So, she did what she usually did to get difficult people to see reason: she suggested something so outrageously expensive, so obviously ruinous, so immoral, they would desperately reach for more sane solutions.

    "Sending disciples won''t be enough. He has too many of his own, however inferior they may be, and they''re multiplying like rats. He''s taking our healers and making them into his version of disciples."

    The Firsts all grunted their agreement that Nexus was like a nest of rats, taking up space in their house, stealing their followers, nibbling away at their cash stream.

    "Nexus has won every disciple-on-disciple contest. Our strongest practitioners have defected, or they''ve been killed at the hands of the heretic. We must respond with more than a few disciples. We must send all of them, all at once, backed by the largest army Tenobre has seen in generations. Empty the vaults to hire the Grand Company, as many men as we can get. Send material aid to Kashmar. Lean on Moldonia for weapons. Raze Nexus to the ground and kill its people. Burn every garden, kill every hunter, and take the rest prisoner. Kashmar can''t complain if we take most of the spoils because they''ll have what they''ve always dreamed of ˇŞ total control of Kravikas, no more north and south.

    "When the war is over, let the debt-slavers ply their trade everywhere in Tenobre. Their society pays us the best returns per capita, so let''s export the practice everywhere. Hyskos can start by selling off the prisoners of war. We''ll take a large cut of the proceeds, and we''ll keep taking percentages as Hyskos expands into countries that were too quick to abandon us. The people who wouldn''t donate to Enclave will serve us another way."

    "Very bold, Guardian Maia!" Kassra''s wide grin of aging teeth was the most approval she''s ever had from the old woman. She had seen through Maia''s ruse, understood the reasons behind it, and would guide the Firsts into a more sane response.

    Maia hadn''t reckoned with the effects of Vow of Obedience.

    First Karolo pounded the arm of her chair as she spoke. "This is the moment to risk everything to gain everything. With Nexus out of the way, Tenobre will be ours for a thousand years. We''ll make everybody who turned their backs on us pay in blood and gold."

    "We can release both contingency funds," added First Pearlcamp, "and the emergency reserve."

    First Fortuna shook a fist. "Phillip the Ratling set himself up as an equal to this body. He''ll learn what we do to the arrogant!"

    "Wipe the Calique from the desert," commanded the First Donglar, "make that a condition of our aid. Not a single garden can be left standing. Punish those backward tribes for siding with Nexus."

    Maia stared at them, unbelieving. They weren''t supposed to like that idea. They were supposed to jump for a less insane solution, something reasonable. It had always worked before.

    "An existential threat deserves the maximum response," Namalous nodded. "Empty Enclave. Throw every disciple we have at the heretic. Only students and some healers should be left behind."

    "And the hierarch," amended Phrenos. "The Holy Mandates must be kept."

    The Five nodded their heads and started discussing particulars while Maia sat down heavily on the benches. She wanted to shout at them, tell them to wait, that tens of thousands would die just to line their pockets. Giving free rein to debt-slavers wasn''t just immoral, it was against scripture and and the Treaty of Alignment. But she had given voice to what they all wanted to hear, and there was no stopping them now.

    Her eyes fell on the shield, buried in the half-ruined wall, its letters glowing hypnotically over the surface of Darkmaw''s shell. She looked at it, and she knew. This was what he wanted. She had discounted the shield as another one of Phillip''s stunts, a chance to show off, but it wasn''t that. There was no reason to lob such an incendiary object at his enemies except to push them into rash action.

    What Maia didn''t understand was why he would want total war against Enclave. Surely, he didn''t think he could win.

 Kissing Time

    Kissing Time

    ˇŞ Taylor ˇŞ

    Taylor DeLanion, variously known as Phillip the Younger, Little Maul, Pasha, His Holiness, and Phillip the Heretic, kissed a short-haired Calique girl beneath a bower of young vines, spots of moonlight dancing over them in the last summer breeze. This was for his own good, or so he''d been told many times by his guards and various other associates whenever he tried to avoid it. They only had his best interests at heart, they told him, and a young man his age should be running around with girls, even when he had a war to plan and a church to build. His personal growth demanded it.

    Almost every culture in Tenobre had this odd feature of not just allowing a certain amount of experimentation among their youth but expecting it. A person wasn''t considered an adult until they had a sufficient collection of such trysts. What passed for chastity in many cultures would make someone unmarriageable in this one. In South Kravikas, among the Calique, running around meant ''walking out'' to the garden with someone during the gathering hour and returning with another garden''s color on your lips. For older teens, it could mean riding appalons into the desert and not returning until sunrise.

    There were limits, of course. Well understood, thoroughly discussed, and promptly enforced limits. Calique girls compared notes about their dates early and often, and any boy who put his hands where they were told not to would find himself without partners for weeks or months at a time. An entire garden of girls could gang up on a repeat offender and freeze him out of every friendship and social association outside his family.

    Conversely, failure to participate could earn the ire and suspicion of the garden. This was especially true if, like Taylor, someone had sent themselves up a leader of all the gardens and the head of a church that aspired to grow continent-wide. Not only was he expected to kiss a lot of girls, he had to kiss them from every garden so none of them felt like he was looking down on them.

    Except Dagono, of course. That garden''s circle had lied to him and failed to keep their promises, so Dagono girls weren''t allowed near him. In Taylor''s case, kissing girls was also political.

    The current girl''s name was Evegine, and she held both his hands in hers, away from her body until only their lips were touching. Her kisses were hard-lipped, but the fact they didn''t know each other gave the event a tinge of thrill.

    Taylor had first seen her at Darkmaw''s grave with a knife, cutting her hair and throwing the loose clumps into the pit, silently weeping. He wanted to ask her who she had lost, if Darkmaw''s death had brought her any solace, and did the rebuilt gate in that monstrous image bother her. But Evegine of Emerald Pool hadn''t come to the bower with him to talk feelings. She wanted to kiss him, lips only, with his hands held far from her body.

    He was curious, too, about her triangular animal ears that broadcast all of her emotions, and the thin line of dark fur that rose from where the cloth was tied around her waist, over her navel, and disappeared again under the cloth that wrapped her breasts. Maybe that was why she held his hands so far away, because the boys before him had been too curious.

    She pulled back from him with a pop, recovered her hands, and giggled, the dappled moonlight glancing against her flushed cheeks. The giggle turned into a laugh, and then she fled from him as fast as her sandled feet could carry her. She was the third runner that week. It hurt, but that was the advantage of them not knowing each other. These little trysts weren''t to be taken seriously. They were a kind of play, and any acquired bruises would heal quickly.

    But it still hurt. He didn''t recall doing anything so awful that a girl had to run away or so ridiculous that she should laugh.

    "So much for Emerald Pool." The voice behind him was wryly dismissive. It didn''t belong to any of his guards because they stood at a discrete distance with their backs turned. It was someone they trusted enough to let through. Taylor turned to find a long-eared girl with gold eyes, wearing Red Tower ruby and gold on her eyes and lips ˇŞ Dahabia, whose eyes followed Evegine as she disappeared into the trees.

    Dahabia, for whom he''d killed fifty Satomen. Dahabia, who had left Pashtuk to join Red Tower to work as a tabla. The same Dahabia who had so scourged the mauls with her tongue they were shamed into accepting Taylor as their Pasha.

    Beautiful Dahabia, who was apparently following him around on his date. And she wasn''t alone, either. Two more girls, from different gardens, were with her. She sent them off with a glance, and they followed Evegine back to where Emerald Pool and Red Tower were mingling for the gathering hour.

    "I didn''t realize Evegine had so many chaperones."The author''s narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

    "It''s not her we''re protecting." She sat on the nearby bench. "There''s a rumor going around that you''re too free with your hands."

    "That''s scrap-loaf. Who would spread a rumor like that?"

    "I have my eye on a certain girl from Dagono. She''s the only one you rejected, and she''s the type to turn that into a problem. She''s known for spreading rumors." Dahabia patted the spot next to her.

    Taylor took the open place and let her arrange them both to her liking, one arm around her shoulders and the other around her waist, under the cloth, skin-to-skin. She leaned into him, almost sitting in his lap.

    "And the other girls were witnesses to my good behavior?"

    "I''ve taken care of everything." She bared her neck for him and pointed, so he kissed the sensitive skin there. The key, he had learned through recent practice, was focus. There was nothing else in the world but the rabbit-eared girl in his arms. When she was sighing happily he offered to kiss the other side and she allowed it, tilting obligingly. He enjoyed the warmth of skin on his lips as he felt her breath quicking under his hand.

    Soon enough, when she was practically melting, he had her firmly in his arms, head back, and took his first taste of her golden lips against his amber ones and tasted bright fruit, bitter citrus, with something complicated and herbal underneath, and the barest touch of durian. It was an exquisite flavor, prepared by someone skilled.

    There was something in the herbal notes he couldn''t place right away, and Taylor drew back in caution. It wasn''t from any of the gardens he knew of. It might not be from the desert at all. Wish-me-wells from Gallia, he decided. Probably not poisonous, he thought to himself.

    "Excuse me?" Dahabia''s eyes went from languidly half-closed to wide open. "Did you just say ''probably not poisonous''?"

    "Was that out loud? It wasn''t supposed to be."

    She was out of his arms and on the far end of their shared bench before he could blink. "You think I''d poison you?"

    His brain had to struggle through the hormones to form words, but he finally managed to say, "It''s not like I singled you out or anything. I check everything for poison. There was a flavor I didn''t recognize right away and I had to think about it. Your lip balm tastes amazing, by the way. Where did you get it?"

    "Oh no, you don''t get to just change subjects on me. You need to explain this. Properly." Her arms were crossed, which was body language for ''kissing time is over''.

    "Have you ever been poisoned?" She shook her head. "It''s terrible, and it leaves a mark. And in my case, it came from the hand of someone close to me. A beautiful young woman I thought I could trust.So ˇ­ now I test everything."

    "All the girls you''ve kissed?"

    "All checked for poison."

    "Even the communal meals?"

    "Even the communal meals."

    "Tea with the doyennes?"

    Tch. "Of course."

    "Jota with Anica?"

    Taylor laughed. "Check for poison." She didn''t need to know it was Anisca''s family who had poisoned him. That would just complicate things between them.

    "Milo''s tea?" She believed she had found a reasonable exception.

    "Someone could tamper with the leaves while he isn''t looking. So ˇ­ "

    "You''re paranoid." She looked stricken, as if she''d just learned her favorite tree would never give fruit, or an appalon she''d received as a foal was unrideable.

    The idea that Dahabia thought he had a serious character flaw bothered Taylor far more than Evegine''s laughter. "There have been seven attempts on my life in the last year," he tried to explain. "Those are just the Enclave-related ones. I''d be a fool to think I''m safe in Sand Castle, where complete strangers can come and go as they please. The constant guard isn''t a status symbol."

    Dahabia relaxed, just a little. Her own experience with the Satomen taught her how quickly a life could be upended by violence. She looked around her, at their little patch of food forest standing at one edge of the far larger ruin of the garden. "Peace can be taken away from us so easily, with just a few weapons and little ill will. It''s just an illusion, isn''t it?"

    "Peace is not an illusion. It''s just fragile. This is why we should enjoy moments like this one, with people we like." He patted the space next to him and she slid over ˇŞ not back into his arms but to where they started. She was going to make him start from the beginning, but Taylor found he didn''t mind. His memories might be old, but his body was young. He was learning there was nothing in the world as sweet as having a woman in his arms.

    "I''ll humor you, but don''t use that word. Like is for little sisters and pretty aunts."

    Between soft kisses on her neck, he murmured, "Then what words should I use?"

    "Say I''m one of your favorites," she breathed into him, while offering her other side.

    "Not my favorite?"

    "N-o-o!" She giggled, "that''s too much like an engagement!" and pulled him to her.

    "How about, ''one of my very favorites''?" He had her face to face, and she was melty again and radiant and had one hand buried in his hair.

    "That''s nice. I''ll allow it." Her gold irises matched her lips, except for the smudge of amber he''d left there, mingled with a touch of Emerald Pool blue.

    He dipped down to get another taste of her exquisite lips.

    "Pasha Phillip! You''re wanted in the message center!" The runner who barged into their bower was a Calique child, long-limbed for his age, with claws his family kept filed down for the garden''s safety. He was still at the age where he could try his hand at anything, and he was currently running errands for the Pasha''s headquarters.

    "You''re joking," he whispered.

    "And you were doing so well, too," Dahabia whispered back.

    "Pahsa! Really! They''re excited about something and sent me to get you right away!"

    Alice, one of Taylor''s guards, came up from behind and placed a heavy hand on the boy''s shoulder. "You''ve said too much, too loud. Remember your discretion."

    "They said you''d want to know right away," he whispered.

    Taylor got to his feet while Dahabia checked her clothes for anything that might have come loose. "Tell them I''ll be right there. And don''t talk to anyone on the way." The boy vanished along the narrow trail that was the only easy way to the bower.

    "Looks like kissing time is over," he joked.

    "Speak for yourself," Dahabia said, "there''s still a little more gathering time left."

 Listening Post

    Listening Post

    The message center was adjacent to the map room, within the heavily guarded intelligence section on the second floor of Taylor''s command headquarters. Before diving into whatever news had stirred up the analysts, he poked his head inside the communications center. Most of the operators were idle, reading or copying reports. Each had headphones, an attached microphone, and a long cord tucked into their belts. Informants all over Tenobre had links, disguised as earcuffs, they could use to talk to operators and pass on potentially useful news. The light for that informant would turn on, and an operator would plug their cord into the hole underneath and talk to them. Everything got written down.

    It was a primitive system, but it was easy to build. The main problem was the space requirements, which grew linearly with the number of informants. One more informant required one more module. It was fine for the moment, but Tenobre wouldn''t have a true communication system until the Black Sanctuary invented a switching system.

    From the operators'' relaxed attitude, the excitement wasn''t coming from routine communications. It was all public information, anyway. Little of what was gathered here would be considered sensitive by anyone, but Nexus received timely information on what the Enclave prelates were preaching, large troop movements, the state of markets in every realm, and rumors of monsters. In a world where the speed of information was measured in gurantor-days, immediate news was a strategic advantage. The market information alone could be worth tons of gold in arbitrage. Any monarch or executive in Tenobre would kill to have something like it.

    Taylor topped off the large spirit gem that kept the place running and pressed on to the message center, where all the news was collated into a picture of Tenobre. Calique tablas excelled at the work, and the gardens of Saphir and Running Phlox had loaned him their best. They sifted and sorted information with efficiency, kept a running account of how things stood in the world, and filed everything away for future reference. Other gardens would have been glad to loan him their tablas, but many were either rebuilding from Darkmaw''s ravages or preparing for further devastation that would accompany a Kashmari invasion.

    He found two tablas in attendance, eyeing a stack of papers held by Sadio, a defected Enclave healer from Gallia. Sadio and a few others had been chosen for duty in the Quiet Room for their exceptional transcription skills.

    "We have something," she said, and her eyes flashed to the tablas.

    "Give us the room," Taylor told them, and the tablas left obediently. Only a handful of people were allowed in the message center, and they were the only ones who knew about the Quiet Room''s existence. Of everyone allowed to enter the message center, only six could enter the mysterious room beyond, sealed with Sanctuary, or knew what went on inside. To most message center workers, the Quiet room was a darkened doorway they couldn''t pass through.

    "Start here. It''s not the beginning, but it''s the most important." Sadio peeled off the bottom half of her stack and put it on the table for Taylor to read. As he flipped through the pages, Taylor couldn''t believe his astounding stroke of good luck. Sure, a lot of the news was bad news, even terrible, but the fact he had it was incredible.

    "The Shadow Council is real," Taylor said in wonder, "and we have ears inside the room. How did this happen?"

    "Short version? When Leadership got the shield, they took it to the Shadow Council to convince them how serious their situation was. There''s a lot more to it, but it''s best if you read for yourself."

    An arm appeared from the sealed chamber, holding a new sheaf of papers. Sadio took them, and the arm withdrew. "They''re still meeting. Do you want to listen in?"

    A quirk of Speak on the Wind was a practitioner could either send a message or have two-way communication, but they couldn''t just listen. When Taylor crafted his indestructible manifesto, he hid a sigil inside that let the shield be targeted with the messaging prayer. An identical sigil, cut from the same section of Darkmaw''s shell, graced a soundingboard inside the Quiet Room. Every surface of the room was covered in sound-dampening material: thin felt on the table and three chairs, thick gurantor felt on the walls and ceiling, and softened coir matting on the floor. A paper banner hung from the wall with "Silence Is Golden" inked in thick black letters. There was no noise in the Quiet Room except what came through the soundingboard.A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

    A pair of tablas were recording the Firsts'' conversation, a duplicate effort but worth it. They made no sound of their own as they brushed words onto paper in tiny quick strokes. Someone had already brought an extra supply of paper and prepared ink so they wouldn''t run out. All they had to do was keep up with the conversation.

    <blockquote>

    Phrenos: Moldonia will want a disciple in exchange for weapons. They claim there''s a sickness in Drumura and their healers can''t keep up.

    First Fortuna: Offer them more healers. You can spare them. We''ll provide the necessary gold to make up the difference.

    First Namalous: This will put a strain on our usual activities. Perhaps it''s time to release a portion of our gem reserves.

    First Donglar: The prices are high enough. I''d like to see them converted into gold in my lifetime, instead of sitting in a Kashpam vault.

    First Korolo: There is no need to hurry. The troubles in Hyskos won''t abate any time soon, and Nexus won''t find anything in the Calique''s dead mines no matter how hard they try. Give it a few more weeks, and then start the process of releasing gems from storage. That gives us ample time to collect our gold before yearly payouts.

    </blockquote>

    Taylor took a full copy of everything recorded so far and retreated to the message center to read, his head spinning. Until now, everything they had heard through the Manifesto Shield had been innocuous. They entrusted it to a renowned merchant who had connections to Enclave, and for two weeks the Quiet Room was treated to the sounds of a moving gurantor train, the caravaners'' conversation, people snoring or, a few times, having sex. Everything changed once the shield arrived in Enclave and the secrets came spilling out.

    The Vow, the Mandates, the Hierarch''s ignorance, the Shadow Council, all of it together painted a new picture for Taylor. He had spent a week at Enclave the previous winter, and he had kept his nose out of Leadership''s business. Maybe he should have stayed longer and looked harder. The papers kept coming for another hour. At most, he''d hoped to capture one conversation from Leadership. Now he had something much more valuable.

    He needed to talk to Mika and Kasryn. They knew Enclave better than anyone else in Nexus, and Kasryn had been Prelate of Lavradio at one point. They might be able to answer some of his new questions. And, he needed to meet with his top disciples. The news about emptying Enclave to attack him was a welcome development, but the second army of mercenaries wasn''t.

    He called out to have someone arrange the meetings he needed, only to realize he was alone. His guards weren''t allowed inside, he had sent the tablas away, and Sadio had returned to the Quiet Room. Taylor slipped inside long enough to return the papers and give a silent but heartfelt thanks for their work.

    We barely did anything, signed Sadio.

    But you did it well when it mattered most, Taylor signed back. You look worried.

    All the disciples, and another army.

    Both scribes were watching their conversation. The Firsts were done with their meeting, and the room was back in waiting mode. The sound of sweeping and picking up came from the soundingboard, as servants removed rubble and swept up debris.

    I planned for the disciples, he assured them, and we''ll deal with these mercenaries, too. You''ll see. Keep doing this, and I will use all of it.

    He praised them again and left them to their work. When he let the analysts reclaim the message center, they entered with new stacks of work: evening reports newly arrived from all over Tenobre.

    "I''m interested in news from Moldonia today," he told them, "especially Drumura."

    "We don''t have many sources in Moldonia," said one, "mostly transient merchants. It hasn''t been a priority."

    "That''s fine, just copy me on everything we get and set aside all the Moldonia reports for the last two weeks. They shouldn''t take long to read if there''s so few of them."

    "Pasha, if you could tell us what you''re looking for, we could find it for you."

    The tablas were getting defensive about their work. They were all women who''d spent decades tabulating things and discerning future dangers from small facts. Nobody liked having their work doubted by outsiders who didn''t understand their job, and having a man question them (a young one at that) went against their culture. Taylor looked to the huge slate board where they kept a running status of Tenobre. He was probably the best-informed executive in the world, but Moldonia''s space was practically empty, and the little that was written amounted to ''everything is normal''.

    "I don''t know exactly what I''m looking for. If it was something I could describe, you would have found it already. Reassess the reports if you like, but I still need to see them."

    More than anything right now, he needed a plan for those mercenaries.

 The Mercenary Problem

    The Mercenary Problem

    Taylor found an empty room to set up a privacy barrier and a sounding board to Red Tower. These days, when most of their capable disciples and bulwarks were in the field, the Nexus garden at Red Tower was mostly a school. It still had a complement of deadly disciples and fighters, but it was Rector Mika and his assistant Kasryn he needed to talk to. The old rector had been married to a famous disciple in his youth, and the two of them lived through history that Enclave had since purged from its books. Kasryn was a former prelate and ambassador for Enclave, and she was a First Family descendant. It took a while to pull them away from other duties and get them together.

    "Is there a place where the Firsts meet regularly?" Taylor asked without preamble.

    Kasryn gave him the name he sought. "You''re thinking of the Pinnacle. There are maybe a hundred people who are allowed inside, not including staff. They meet once a month, but that''s all most people know. It''s always been rumored they had some influence over Leadership, but there''s never any proof."

    "Is there anything else I should know about this Pinnacle place?"

    "Plenty," added Mika, "it has a small corps of defenders, all world-class fighters. There are rumors of underground passages and vaults filled with ancient treasure. The staff dose themselves with poison so they''ll be immune. The rumors get stranger from there."

    "Do either of you know where it is?"

    "I''ll draw you a map," offered Kasryn. "It''s easy enough to find. They''re not exactly hiding. But why this sudden interest in the Five?"

    "I''ve had a lot of strange news today. One of the items is Leadership is meeting with the Firsts."

    "We''ve always assumed there was some crossover, so that''s not a surprise," said Mika. "Are you going to kill them?"

    "If they''re ultimately pulling Enclave''s strings then they''re enemies, and we''re definitely going to kill them. Is there any reason we should not?"

    After a pause, Mika answered. "Not especially, but I don''t see that being enough to get rid of the families. The families are vast enterprises. Each one will appoint someone new to their seat."

    "But maybe the new regime will think twice about warring with us. If not ˇ­," Taylor left the rest unsaid. Nexus could face a century of struggle with the families until one side destroyed the other, or they came to terms. If the Firsts'' successors were more rational than the vow-addled incumbents, maybe there was hope for something better than an eternal feud.

    "New topic. I need to know more about the Enclave Hierarchs. What duties do they have, what ceremonies do they participate in, and so on? Write down anything you can remember and send it to me. I''d like to compare their duties today to what they were in the past. If the duties have changed, when and why? I can''t imagine Bahram wore a veil and used a voice like Noora does. When did that start?"

    "We wouldn''t have anything old enough in our library," Mika warned, "this might not be possible."

    Taylor was all too aware of the limits of their library. Most of it was hunting records, recent treatises on natural law, and copies of scripture. "Not in our library, but maybe one of the defectors knows something, or there''s a friendly priest out there somewhere, holding on to an old book nobody''s read in a while. All major temples have extensive libraries of their own. There has to be something out there."

    "We could put out a call for old books on church history," Kasryn suggested, "anything Alignment-era and before. If we set up a loan program and offered to copy and return the texts in the name of preserving them, I know some temples would defy Enclave and jump at the chance. If we provided a new copy to them in addition to the original, they''d pay us. Those old boards are getting harder to read."

    "That would let us disguise our true reasons," agreed Mika, "and we need the money. We could use disciples to copy them quickly, and prioritize the books Your Holiness wants. Most patrixes won''t look twice at the offer: they''ll just assume we''re in it for the money and the prestige of having a bigger library."

    "It sounds like you two have the seeds of a good plan. This isn''t urgent, but I need to know as much as possible before the fighting with Kashmar ends."

    "You want to march north to finish Enclave." Mika''s voice was hopeful.

    "I didn''t say that, and you didn''t hear anything of the sort," he warned them. "Last item. I''m concerned we''re not doing enough in Hyskos to keep them occupied and out of the fight. Leila has been stealing slaves and silver left and right, but now there''s talk of hiring the Grand Company to help invade us. Do you have any advice, Mika? I know you have a history with the place."

    "I do, but Your Holiness won''t like it. Runaway slaves and theft are the cost of doing business in Hyskos. The principals steal from each other all the time, so Sister Leila is only making an existing problem a few degrees worse. What scares the debt-holders, more than anything else you could think of, is a rebellion of armed slaves. They''d keep all their armies at home for that, no matter the cost."

    "You''re right, Mika. I hate it." An armed slave rebellion was exactly the kind of conflict most likely to spiral into the worst kinds of violence. Slaves had valid grievances; their vengeance was guaranteed to boil over.

    "On the other hand, the current system is immoral and against the Alignment, and the principals don''t mind shedding blood to keep their way of life. It won''t ever end without some kind of violence."

    "It''ll also mire us in Hyskos for the next twenty years," complained Taylor. "We have no plan whatsoever for what happens after a rebellion. But I get your point."

    ˇŞ Thoughtspace ˇŞ

    In a leafy forest that didn''t belong in Morufu''s Palm, rustled by high breezes, their leaves showing the first hints of autumn colors, a futobel sat in a grassy clearing and watched the sky. The six-legged suid had his trunk in the air, sniffing the wind for signs of truffle and ripe fruit. The constellations here were not Tenobre''s but belonged to another world, a world he would never see again. Futobel-Taylor thought he should change it, perhaps, instead of leaving it to constantly remind him of what he''d lost.

    Did he want to go back, or did he want to escape what was coming?

    This was far from Taylor''s first war. In a dozen lives on a dozen worlds he had lived brutal, mainly short, existences. He had dropped onto strange planets from orbit, packed with a hundred other men in ships that were little better than tin cans. He had fought with bows and knives in a primeval forest. He had conjured massively destructive forces with groups of wizards. He had moved battle pieces for the Mi''iri Mind-Hive. He had strangled enemies with his bare hands when all the ammunition was gone. In some of those past lives, he hadn''t cared if he lived or died.

    In this life, Taylor was afraid.

    That was the best and worst of reincarnation: everything done for the first time in a new body was a new experience. The old memories were recalled at arm''s length, like a book or movie that couldn''t be forgotten. But no matter how vivid the recollections were, every first experience seared brand-new pathways through a young brain. The first time he''d killed someone, in a back alley of Girona''s entertainment district, he''d heaved up his dinner afterward. Some of the past Taylors would have walked away like nothing had happened, merged into the crowd, and put casual distance between themselves and the dead man. This Taylor had stumbled out of the district looking for safety and fell into an even deadlier trap.

    First kiss, first kill, first grief, first betrayal, first victory, all the firsts burned bright in a young brain still forming. And now he was going to wage a war.

    He had won a lot of battles, but he had lost more wars than he had won. That wasn''t something Taylor could take the blame for because, in the larger scheme of things, his actions seldom mattered. War was a game played between powerful interests for their own survival, wealth, or self-esteem. Sometimes, the losing executive paid with their own life, but they just as often escaped any serious consequences of failure. Meanwhile, who lived and who died on the field was as much down to chance and circumstance as it was to skill. Even lop-sided battles produced corpses among the victors, an unlucky few. Some battles produced so many dead that the victor became the loser.The author''s narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

    As the lives and wars kept coming, Taylor learned that most wars didn''t matter. They were seldom about good versus evil, freedom versus tyranny, or any other noble-sounding cause claimed by their proponents. Winning or losing a war didn''t make anything better or worse, not in total. More people with hats lived, while more people without hats died. The Blue King got the gold mine instead of the Red Emperor. Compassionate God was worshiped more than Esoteric God, thanks to the bloody deaths of a few million Esoteric worshipers. Wealth, territory, and populations got shuffled around, but what did it matter in the end? At some point, he had started opting out of wars.

    Tenobre was different. Its sun followed a thousand-year cycle, producing raw mana at the apex of the cycle and none at all at the nadir. Plants and animals monstrified, weather patterns changed, and civilizations were crushed. The ancients had used underground cities to survive the cycle, until the machines that supported living underground began breaking down.

    That cycle was on the upswing again, but people had forgotten everything. Only a select minority remembered the sun''s cycle or underground cities, and they kept their knowledge hidden because of Enclave. The supposed spiritual protectors of the world spent the last hundred and fifty years erasing history. They called scientific knowledge heresy and forbade all forms of magic not their own. Humans were in decline, and Enclave was trying to hide it. There could be no progress toward a survivable future while Enclave was in it.

    Taylor didn''t care if the Five Families ran the church for their own benefit or if they lied to the world. It didn''t matter if they were hypocritical and backward. It was of no concern to him if they believed their own lies. None of that mattered to him because Taylor had other options. He could make a fine living doing something else besides working as a practitioner. He could make his own magic systems. He could even let himself be summoned away to another world.

    What Taylor did care about, what mattered most about Enclave, was they were going to get the entire world killed. Enclave had to perish, which meant he had to find and destroy their origin. Even if they didn''t know they had an origin, a likely scenario given how ignorant they were of everything spirit-related, Taylor couldn''t image it would be as easy as walking into Enclave with a hammer and smashing things. Bahram would have built defenses into his home base, something that would last for generations. Getting the Shadow Council to send all their practitioners to him was a major step in the right direction because the last thing Taylor wanted to do was fight Enclave disciples on their home ground. As Enclave would soon discover, it was better not to face an enemy where they were strongest.

    Without any disciples, Enclave couldn''t create new practitioners. Without an origin, they might even lose the few practitioners they had left. The remaining Vows would, hopefully, come undone. Without practitioners or an origin, Enclave could only exist as a church abandoned by Olyon in favor of Nexus. Killing the Firsts wasn''t necessary, at least not in the near term, but they were enemies. If there weren''t consequences for attacking Nexus, they or their heirs might be quick to try again. Taylor wouldn''t be surprised if he had to keep killing off firsts until they got a batch rational enough to realize that opposing Nexus was a quick way to die.

    A presence accepted Taylor''s invitation and steeped softly into his private forest. A giant four-armed woman made of obsidian stood near him, her loins and chest wrapped in gold cloth.

    "That''s a brooding look," said Obsidian-Ma.

    "That would be from all the brooding,"Even the four stars that hovered between Futobel-Taylor''s antlers seemed dim.

    "Your Holiness called me earlier than the others, so something must be on your mind." The giant sat cross-legged on the ground, which set her only a meter taller than the futobel. "Out with it."

    "I''m brooding about the kind of person this war will turn me into. But that''s not why I called you here. There''s news from the Quiet Room." Aside from the listeners who worked there, only Taylor and Ma''Tocha knew what the special room was for. But Ma''Tocha was practicing maneuvers outside the city, hours away by fast appalon, and wouldn''t have access to the transcripts for days.

    When Taylor finished reciting the most important discoveries, the first question Obsidian-Ma asked was, "Are you going to kill the Firsts?"

    "Mika asked the same thing."

    "So you told him about the Quiet Room?" she asked, surprised.

    "No," he barked, "I just told him I received word Leadership allegedly met with them. But he jumped to the same ending you did. Why the intense animosity? It''s not as if anyone believes the families are completely hands-off with Enclave."

    "Because they''re vile," spat Obsidian-Ma, "and pollute everything they touch. Mobeen felt the same way. I know Garsharp and Lucia did, too. Unity City puts on a good front but, for most people, there''s no reward for merit. Patronage is the only thing that matters. You were only a tourist. If you lived there for a while, you''d see how corrupt the place is. Most working disciples turned mendicant to get out of the city and away from the families."

    "I doubt killing the Firsts will change Unity City ˇŞ the families will just appoint new ones. The most we can hope for is they''ll choose a group who isn''t stupidly inclined to pick fights with us."

    "If the new ones give you trouble, you can kill them again," offered Obsidian-Ma with a little too much anticipation.

    "I thought so too," he agreed, "and that''s when the brooding started."

    "You can let your underlings handle these matters in your name, so you don''t have to worry about it. Your hands would be cleaner that way."

    Futobel-Taylor chuckled through his trunk several times in short blasts. "Then I''d be no better than Noora. I prefer brooding and self-knowledge over isolation and ignorance."

    Other disciples began to arrive in their usual avatars. Marble-Edos, Bird-Souzanne, Arkto-Mataba, Antilope-Leila, Thalia-Thalia (she looked just like herself), and the other cadre leaders. What spears were to a maul, cadre leaders were to the hierarch. Each leader commanded two more combat-capable disciples and nine bulwarks, and some had specialized healers or other support staff depending on their mission. These were the people who rode into the wilderness to put their hands on a problem and solve it. Taylor envied them.

    Nexus had thirty-six fully qualified disciples in the field in twelve cadres. That was as many disciples as in all of Enclave, back before they started losing so many. First, they lost some to Darkmaw; then they purged any who wouldn''t read Vow of Obedience; then they lost more trying to kill Taylor. None of Enclave''s disciples had recent field experience that he knew of. In addition to the three dozen, Nexus had a body of support disciples who specialized in roles like healing and building. Many of them were defectors from Enclave, healers who were mainly interested in access to higher-level healing prayers. They didn''t care which church they worked for; they cared about the Work, and that was fine with Taylor.

    "We''ve confirmed Leadership has been meeting with liaisons from the mercenary guilds, and we''ve heard a very large transaction has been authorized." Taylor had Ma''Tocha tell the lie because she was better at it than he was. "The two events could be unrelated, but ˇ­ "

    "They''re hiring the Hyskos Grand Company," Antilope-Leila finished, as they''d hoped. News of the meetings could be put down to watchers on the street, and Enclave grounds were rife with rumors. Taylor felt a twinge of conscience at deceiving his former teacher, but nobody could betray what they didn''t know.

    A shifting unease fell over the gathered avatars. The Grand Company was comprised of professional soldiers, and there were fifty thousand of them. Their entry into the conflict was not a favorable development for Nexus.

    Arkto-Mataba scratched his languid hide. "I don''t suppose we can pay more than Enclave. You can bet your sharpest claw the Families are behind this. They''ve backed Kashmari invasions before now, but they never paid for mercenaries. I wonder what could be motivating them." He cast a sly ursine eye in Taylor''s direction.

    "What would happen if we attacked them now," asked Marble-Edos, "before they''re ready to march?"

    Obsidian-Ma shook her head. For some reason, that small motion required her to flex the muscles in all four arms. "That would mean assaulting their bases, which is a hard job. That''s where their families live, and they''ll protect those places down to the last soldier."

    "We can make it too expensive for Enclave to hire all of them," said the excited Antilope-Leila. "I have a network of hundreds of former slaves, and they want to fight. With another cadre, we could attack several places at once, whenever we want. Every principal will want to hire the Grand Company. Enclave might get a token force, but they won''t be able to buy most of them. You should be able to handle a small force of them in the desert."

    "They''ll fight as well as Kashmar''s elite," added Marble-Edos, "but they won''t fight as hard. Kashmar fights for their god-appointed Tyrant, but the Company fights for money. If you make it too expensive for them, they''ll turn back. Mobeen used to say mercenaries are useful when winning but turn with battle''s tide."

    Futobel-Taylor glowed with purpose. "Before I authorize what will doubtless be a bloodbath followed by years of instability, I need a few things. There must be rules of conduct, and the fighters must understand there will be severe punishments for breaking them. Nexus can''t be a party to atrocities." The specific list was known well enough it didn''t need to be said out loud. "We also need a plan for what happens with freed territory."

    "I don''t think we should free any territory," Antilope-Leila wobbled her head, "not while we''re fighting Kashmar at the same time. Ground taken is ground we must protect, but our best asset is mobility. For now, our goal is to cause mayhem and start a bidding war for the Grand Company. As long as we avoid causing too many deaths among the Grand Company, they''ll be happy to take the principals'' coin until it runs out ˇŞ especially if we make it clear that setting foot in the desert means their deaths. Taking the First Families'' coin becomes too expensive, then. They''ll make the rational choice."

    Obsidian-Ma grinned. "So, we only attack the lands that haven''t hired the Grand Company to guard them. We worry about finishing off the slavers after we''ve settled things with Kashmar and Enclave. That gives us time to consider Hyskos''s future."

    "Then we can defer that problem, but it''s an inevitable one. It can''t be ignored," added Futobel-Taylor. "For now, hostilities with Hyskos have to start soon. They need to feel the threat before the Grand Company receives orders from Unity City. There''s no bidding war if they''re already under contract."

    "You may leave the detailed planning to us, Your Holiness," said Arkto-Mataba. "We''ll have a plan for you to review by mid-morning."

 The Battles of Talal

    The Battles of Talal

    Though it was already dark outside, Taylor''s next stop was the reading room, a rock-hewn fourth-floor chamber in the doyennes'' arc. It was the public face of Sand Castle''s library, and it was the only part of the library Taylor was allowed to enter. Much of the city was dug into the surrounding bluff, but the most important resources were deep inside the stone, in hidden chambers. The seed vault and library both fell into this category and, as a man, he was not allowed to visit either. Doyennes and tablas guarded their work jealously, and the only way Taylor could get inside the most sacred places was to dress convincingly as a woman, learn the abacus, and spend at least a year rattling beads in the Circle. As interesting as all that sounded, Taylor didn''t have a year to spare. The reading room was as far as he was ever likely to get.

    Since he was making people work past daylight hours, the long tables were lit with spirit lamps. Nexus students made copies of several texts he wanted, while two adults scanned through a small mountain of boards to winnow them down to relevant articles for his research. Taylor spent his evening hours being closely watched by Keeper Rigieta, or the Woman of Poison Spines as he liked to think of her. She was the tabla in charge of the library. She also complained, in subtle ways, about every request he made and hovered over him endlessly. She hovered, and she complained, but she also got him everything he needed. As working relationships went, it was both functional and uncomfortable.

    This evening brought a surprise: Rigieta was sitting at a table with Anisca and Vizana, far from where the work was going on, having tea and chatting amiably. Vizana was the Nexus librarian, but Taylor hadn''t asked her to come; he only needed to borrow some of her people for a couple of weeks. Anisca was the equivalent of Taylor''s doyenne and was, semi-secretly, Second Princess Francisca Odemira of Lavradio. Her long stripe of hair ran from her crown to the nape of her neck, its silver-blue shine tied back in rows of complicated knots and ornaments: an Odemira family style.

    Anisca was working, he saw, smoothing over whatever friction he''d accidentally caused between himself and Rigieta. She was wearing one of her "let''s get to know each other" faces and was pointedly focused on what Rigieta was saying instead of meeting his eyes. Taylor left her to her work and went to his accustomed table, where he found everything he needed for the night already in place.

    It was a far cry from how he''d started.

    At their first meeting, things did not go smoothly between Taylor and the library''s Keeper. She hovered over him as he browsed the catalog, flipping through boards at random.

    "If Pasha Phillip would inform his Keeper of his needs, they would be seen to in good order." She was a senior tabla, and the circle''s hand in Sand Castle''s library. She had half a dozen tablas who worked under her, any of whom could have helped him, but she instead chose to stand close enough for the vibrissae on her arms to brush against him when he turned unexpectedly. Taylor didn''t know how other mauls behaved in her library ˇŞ the scant visitors to the reading room all seemed to be women ˇŞ but she behaved like he might deface or destroy her precious boards. Or, worse, put them out of order.

    "What your Pasha needs right now is a good sense of what''s here, before he prioritizes his reading." She continued to hover while he finished his random crawl through the catalog, scanning descriptions of the library''s contents. Most of it was records of circle deliberations and gardener records, all organized by date and bundled into volumes of three weeks each. There was a vast quantity of those records, going back almost three hundred years. If they had truly kept all of it, then there were kilometers of tunnels full of preserved records, somewhere inside the mesa. Maybe the Keeper worried he''d send her off into the deepest, most forgotten reaches of the archives to search for boards that had become unreadable or, worse, disorganized.

    Aside from the logs, there were texts on forest agriculture, herb lore, husbandry, old weaver patterns, maps of the desert as surveyed by past hunters, battle records, and old fables that even the Calique might have forgotten. Like so many collections, the Keeper''s domain only extended to a time a few decades after people emerged from the underground cities to live on the surface. Taylor would bet almost anything they had older records, and he would not be allowed to see them unless he forced his way in. The doyennes tabooed a great many topics, but what most of them had in common was Enclave''s past hostility toward them. The taboos silenced to protect, usually from the excesses of Enclave zeal.

    "Let''s start with the summaries of every Kashmar campaign, working backward."

    "All of them? That''s a lot of reading." For a man, is what she meant.

    "They''re relatively short, and there''s only twenty-five of them. Can I bring people in to make copies?"

    Her surprise was palpable. "For what purpose?"

    "Whenever I find something good, I try to add it to the Nexus library."

    "Any garden is allowed to make copies, using their own materials."

    "Wonderful." He let his smile speak for him, hoping it would warm up the keeper a little. When he had temporarily occupied Pashtuk''s garden, Taylor made free use of their library and noticed they had copied volumes from Sand Castle. It was a tantalizing peek into what might be available.This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

    The stacks of boards started coming to him, borne by tablas, three battles at a time. Each report came in three parts, written by mauls, doyennes, and the Pasha respectively. It didn''t take long to notice the first trend: victories produced reports that mainly agreed with each other, while defeats did the exact opposite.

    The cause of the long-running conflict was simple and oft-recounted in the records. Sand Castle was, to Taylor''s surprise, Old Kashmar. The two peoples used to be one, back when they emerged onto the surface and first settled into the conveniently sheltered oasis. Life in the desert grew increasingly hard, and the majority followed a strongman named Hadith into the north, past Morufu''s Teeth, into a more hospitable climate to brutalize total strangers and take their land. The remainder stayed in the south and adapted. The city-state of Kashmar soon held land amounting to a fifth of the desert''s size but supported twice its population.

    After the split, the divisions grew more distinct as the two groups defined themselves as much in opposition to each other as by their native values. They now had nothing in common except for an affinity for men''s make-up, which was superficial: what Calique men wore to brand themselves with a garden''s identity, Kashmari men wore for fashion.

    Every Tyrant of Kashmar claimed dominion over all of Kravikas. The campaigns to reunite the divided people started less than a century after the emergence, by Taylor''s estimation. Each Tyrant would send their putative heirs to reclaim the desert south and prove their worth to be the next Tyrant. Many of these excursions were more form than substance. A few people would die, some Calique would get captured, goods would be stolen from a garden (usually whichever one was farthest north at the time), and the Tyrant would hold a victory parade for the returning heir. Other campaigns were more determined, and the most successful of these happened just after the Calique had suffered some other blow.

    When he finished all the official summaries, Taylor selected six battles that were of special interest. Three of them were led by Talal, a famous and oft-quoted figure. "I need more information about these six campaigns. Can I get circle deliberations and harvest summaries for these periods? And if the Pasha or the mauls left anything, I''d like those too."

    "Some of these campaigns were failures," Rigieta said doubtfully.

    "True," he agreed, "but each one looks like a different kind of failure. I need more information."

    "Pasha Phillip," admonished the keeper, "you have singlehandedly made more work for me than all other mauls put together."

    "That''s a shame. I''m sorry the mauls don''t see your value." He watched her emotions get buffeted from disgruntled to proud at being recognized to open suspicion of a young man''s flattery. Taylor''s rule in every world was to love one''s librarian. If knowledge was power, then a good librarian was a most potent lever. However, they weren''t always accustomed to open appreciation.

    He pushed onward before she could ponder what he might be up to. "Are there any biographies of Talal?"

    "We are not Kashmari. We don''t glorify a person, except in the stories hunters tell each other around their fires at night. Why would you want such a thing?"

    "I was hoping to get a sense of him, and his thoughts."

    "If you want Talal''s thoughts, why not read them directly? He left a volume, The Battles of Talal."

    Taylor nearly leaped out of his seat. Talal was a name he''d heard from Calique lips more than a few times in passing, and he knew young hunters got a dose of his battle lore as part of their early training. Talal was Pasha on three occasions and promptly gave up the title after each campaign. The little Taylor had heard seemed too mythologized to be useful, which prompted him to look for the true record of Talal''s times as Pasha. If the three-time Pasha bothered to leave a book behind, then it was likely worth reading.

    "Yes, please. Put that at the top of the list."

    By the time he''d spent an hour on Battles, Taylor knew he''d found a superb addition to the Nexus library and a useful text for his students. At his first opportunity, he called Vizana and asked her to send him scribes.

    With Keeper Rigieta at a comfortable distance and a stack of boards waiting for him, Taylor dug into a campaign where Sand Castle fell, the first of only two instances. Talal was popularly remembered as the Pasha who recovered Sand Castle from the occupying Kashmari. What most people didn''t know, or chose not to talk about, was that he was the Pasha who lost Sand Castle. More accurately, he gave it up to invaders. The mauls'' summary excoriated Talal for his failures, while the doyennes'' report lamented the perfidy of mauls in general. Talal''s summary was brief:

    Kashmar has assembled a great host. The winning course is to burn the gardens in their path, but none are willing to sacrifice themselves for a neighbor. So, Kashmar will finally pluck the fruit it has so longed for. May it burn the Tyrant''s tongue and run through him.

    Less than a year after occupying Sand Castle, Kashmar abandoned it. They were chased out of the city, their leader dead, with fewer than a third of their forces remaining. The record offered little explanation on how it happened, only that Talal had commanded the Calique and drove them out. There wasn''t even a summary report on the city''s recapture.

    Obviously, the doyennes tabooed the event and then buried or destroyed the records. Taylor tried to think of what would justify such a notable deletion. Talal could have used secret ways in and out of the city, passages that shouldn''t be in the records. Or, he might have used ancient weapons that Enclave couldn''t learn about. The reason could even be shame, if Talal ran an armed resistance and committed acts people didn''t want to remember. Resistance movements were vicious and often killed fellow countrymen deemed too helpful to the enemy. Doynnes might try to bury the memory of internecine violence in the name of peace. A quick check confirmed the rosters of mauls and doyennes before and after the occupation were almost entirely different.

    Meanwhile, The Battles of Talal offered bloody and considerable advice on insurrectionist warfare. Taylor doubted they were just theoretical musings.

    He mulled over what he had learned as women at the other end of the room talked and drank tea. A lot of valuable information got passed around as casual small talk. Relationships were made or broken. This group''s body language clearly showed a friendly deference toward Anisca. She was so good at this that even Woman of Poison Spines was warming up to her.

    Talal had written, The battles you most need to win are the first you must fight: to earn the trust of your Circle. Despite their rocky beginning, Taylor was glad to have Anisca fighting on his side.

 Secret Weapons

    Secret Weapons

    When Taylor''s guard changed, he knew the night had gone late. The last tabla took away his final stack of boards for the night while he dis-enchanted the spirit lamps, and headed for the top of the mesa. To get there, he had to go down four flights of stairs, one arc over to where Bitter Spring and the Pasha facilities were, and climb enough stairs to reach the eighty-meter-high cap of rock that topped the mesa. It was a lot of steps, and he took them fast enough to wind himself. It was likely to be the only exercise he got that day, so he turned around at the halfway point, went down again, then came all the way up at a near run. The exertion woke him up from his lengthy funk. Now was not the time to wrestle with the past.

    He didn''t know how a ring of hard rock formed on top of softer stone, but it had protected the underlying ground from millions of years of erosion. In more recent millennia, the cap had been shaped and reinforced by the mesa''s occupants.There was enough topsoil to support hardy trees that produced an oily sap useful to healers. There were boulders up there too, huge ones that must have been cast down from mountains in the east and been washed along the desert floor back when it was all ocean. How many hundreds of thousands of years had they been there, an isolated community of foreign rocks, while the rest of the land dropped away from them and their brethren moved on?

    Taylor emerged into an endless sky of stars, with half of Crevist showing on the horizon. He moved to the outside edge of the mesa and, for a minute, he let himself feel small against the heavens above him and the desert below. All this planning and training and scrabbling for a few more years of life seemed laughably trivial against the enormity of all creation. But it was in human nature to scrabble for more life, to pry enough food and safety from the world for the next generation. Anything that lived had to fight, in any way it could, to keep on living.

    The air felt cold against his skin, and he pulled his cloak closed. People from gentler climes would find the breeze bearable, a respite from the day''s heat. To someone accustomed to the desert''s summer months, it was chilly. Soon, the nights would turn cold enough to frost the higher mesas. Then it would be good marching weather on the slightly warmer basin floor. He followed the paths that ran around the mesa-ring, greeting sentries as he went.

    The area above Saluja''s arc was topped by a spire of hard rock, and that''s where the Black Sanctuary had set up its shooting range and surrounded it with a rock wall and sound barriers to keep the place a secret. Once he passed the Nexus sentries and went through the barrier, Taylor was greeted by a soft whoosh of projectiles, followed by loud thunks of impact. The firing line was nearly invisible, even to enhanced eyes. The shooters lay prone on the ground, dressed in shaggy camouflage suits that broke up their outlines and blended with the ground. If it weren''t for the faint glow of spirit that only a practitioner could sense, most people would walk past the shooters without noticing them. They were easier to see when they moved to reload their weapons. Taylor watched a bulwark pull back his weapon''s lever with strength enhanced by prayer, place a bolt against the string, and then settle in with his shoulder pressed against the stock and one eye near the scope. A breath in, a breath out, pause, and suddenly the crossbow''s string was empty. Taylor heard the impact less than a second later and raised a set of enchanted desert goggles to his eyes: the bolt had hit the center of a target the size of a man''s fist, fifty meters away.

    Every disciple and bulwark slated to fight against Kashmar could do the same, or they were learning how. With good equipment and solid technique, most people could do as much. A few talented ones strove for much longer distances, up to a hundred meters. Taylor made sure he was seen by the shooters. To those who were new to the weapon, he offered encouragement and exhortations to keep practicing. For the rest, he didn''t have to say anything. Anisca always complained about how easy he was to read, but that also made it easy to communicate. If his people looked at him, they knew his grim satisfaction with their skill. They were going to kill a lot of people with these weapons.

    But the Pasha hadn''t climbed to Sand Castle''s rooftop just to supervise routine practice. He came for the new stuff at the far end of the firing line, where three figures stood in discussion. Farr and his daughter Lilian were the adults. Farr was a genius with machines and precision crafting, while Lilian had most of her father''s skill, plus an eye for refining designs until they were simple to manufacture. Both had taken well to the new Inscription Arts, making them the first full-time magical artificers of the age. The short one with whiskers and a head of mousy gray fur was a boy named Gonzo, and he had taken to inscriptions like they were made for him. He was holding up a paper pinwheel on a stick and letting it spin.

    Together, the three of them were the heart of Black Sanctuary, the Nexus workshop for invention and inscription. It earned that name from the Sanctuary prayer that kept it secure. It used to be Taylor''s private domain, but those days were long gone. Now, he needed these three engineers and a handful of skilled craftsmen to create weapons and devices for Nexus.

    "It turns wind into mana!"

    "You clever imp!" Farr rubbed the top of the boy''s head. "What''s the mechanism?"

    "You know the glyphs that turn mana into rotation? I reversed the power flow and now, when you pass the motion glyphs over the impeller glyphs fast enough to exceed the ˇ­ "

    "Yes! I get it!" Farr snatched the toy from Gonzo''s hand and reversed it to reveal the glyphs drawn on the back of the paper. He examined the simple inscriptions and the tiny spirit stone embedded in the stick to hold the generated mana.

    "Father, you shouldn''t take away other people''s toys."Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.

    "It''s not a toy, Lilian! It''s a revolution! No pun intended." All three of them laughed at the joke. "With enough sun and wind, we could power the workshop without drawing from His Holiness or any other practitioner! Anything that spins can produce mana!"

    "Even waterwheels," added Taylor, surprising the three of them. "Build a damn, and the saved-up water becomes mana reserves: just let it flow over a waterwheel to convert it."

    "Was that common, in your world?" Lilian asked.

    "Yes. But I''m impressed anyone here thought of it so soon. My people took decades to make that leap. Well done, Gonzo. We now have the basic mechanisms to bring light and heat to everyone. But!" he had to stop Farr''s momentum before it ran out of control, "That''s a revolution for another day."

    Lilian understood. "Here''s a sample of the special bolts. They still don''t fly exactly the same as the regular ones, but they''re close enough in the forty-to-fifty meter range that it won''t make a difference." She held out a shortened arrow in both hands, for Taylor to take and examine.

    The shaft was hollow aluminum tubing with three vanes in the back, canted to impart a stabilizing spin. The tip had two blades, razor-thin, made of an alloy that felt too heavy for its volume. It had to weigh the same as the bronze version, so the metal was thinner, and the blades were a little wider. Micro-etched inscriptions increased the edge''s cutting power and durability, with mana supplied by a fleck of spirit stone. Taylor felt a shiver as he examined the new tip. The normal mobeen tips could pierce any armor, penetrate thin stone walls, and pass clean through thick wooden planks. The only defense was to wear tirun scale, or have a disciple''s enhancements, preferably both. The new tips were designed to be considerably more dangerous.

    "Let''s see it," he said, and the engineers offered him a span of tirun scales sewn onto toughened monster hide. Taylor blessed it, and one of the craftsmen ran downrange to hang it up next to a plate of Darkmaw''s shell. Lilian did the honors. She had to cock her crossbow with a foot stirrup and extra-long lever, optional equipment for the unenhanced shooter, but she shot as well from an off-hand position as most bulwarks did while lying prone. Taylor watched closely through the magnifying goggles as a bolt flew into the center of the armor and disappeared. The double report came back to them an eyeblink later: the clang of enchanted tirun scale breaking, followed by an impact against the rocky spire backstop. Her second bolt hit the slab of Darkmaw shell and made a different noise: the distinct sound of metal deforming at high speed.

    When the line was clear and everyone had stopped firing, the knot of four went to survey the damage. The tirun scale was wrecked. Not only had the struck scale given way, but all the nearby scales were twisted and broken. Tirun was so effective because the enhanced scales shared any nearby impact. The new arrowhead had blasted through them and the underlying monster hide and still had enough force to dig deep into the rock wall beyond.

    The bolt that hit Darkmaw''s shell had stuck to it, just barely. The tip had wedged itself several millimeters deep, but the shaft had buckled and broken.

    "Add a sigil to the engraving," he commanded, "something we can target with a tracking prayer. Keep an accurate count of how many we make. When the fighting is done, I want to recover all of them. No exceptions."

    The three answered in unison, "Yes, Your Holiness."

    "Tell me about the bows." The weapons were so obviously strange, a collection of backward limbs and pulleys made from unrecognizable materials, that most people would assume they were ancient devices. They were compound crossbows crafted from advanced materials refined through the Inscription Arts. Farr was a master of springs, pulleys, and gears. Once Taylor explained the theories behind the crossbow, Farr had no issues creating a prototype. This would be the last iteration: there wasn''t enough time for another. Whatever they had now was what they went to war with.

    "We''ve been adding sound-dampening inscriptions to all the limbs," said Lilian. "The strings make most of the noise, but they can''t be inscribed, so we extend a narrow field from the limbs. We solved the calibration problem on the high-end optics, and the snipers are happy now. The trigger assembly''s been reworked so it''s more tolerant of dirt and sand, which takes care of our number-one reliability problem. We''ll have all the weapons upgraded in two weeks, after the next rotation."

    "How is Little Sun doing?"

    "Terrifying, as always." Lilian hugged herself. "But we got the system tuned the way you wanted it. We''ll have four of them finished in time. Your world has some terrifying weapons."

    "Is there anything in your way that might keep you from hitting your goals?"

    "The material shortage is taken care of, and we have enough people. I think we''re taken care of."

    Taylor sensed some hesitation in the three of them. "What''s your greatest fear right now?"

    The three engineers looked at each other awkwardly until Farr admitted there was something. "An accident. The refiners take up a lot of space, and they''re running all the time, so we''re always working around them. We''d all be safer if we could put some distance between massive chemical reactions and everything else."

    "There''s a lot of empty space in Sand Castle right now," offered Taylor, "let''s find you some."

    "Thank you, Your Holiness." Farr gave him the austere Nexus bow, but even that small gesture was more than Taylor wanted from him. It wasn''t that long ago they had been more like comrades, fellow enthusiasts who pursued the laws of nature and shared their findings with the world.

    "I think that''s it for work today, guys. I''m done." Their postures eased a little, and Taylor stretched. It really was a beautiful night. If he didn''t have to work first thing in the morning, he''d take Magnificent Ben out for a ride until dawn and watch the sunrise.

    "Gonzo, if you don''t have plans you''re welcome to bed down with us."

    "Sway!" the boy said, delighted. He looked at the two adults, who shooed him away. They could take care of cleaning up so he could spend time with his friend, who just happened to be the hierarch.Gonzo followed Taylor and his two bulwarks down the stairs at speed, holding his pinwheel aloft so it would spin and store up a little more spirit.

    This was another adjustment Taylor was making for the sake of his reputation. Tenobrians universally preferred to sleep in groups. When rumors spread that Taylor slept alone most nights, he started making a show of having other people join him. Otherwise, people would think he was some kind of sociopath. Family and friendship networks could be mapped by who slept next to whom and how often. If someone asked their love interest to sleep with them, it was a bid to spend time together, not a request for sex. The only private bedrooms in this world belonged to prison cells and sad widowers.

    "What do you want to talk about tonight?" Invited Taylor.

    Gonzo didn''t hesitate. "Space. What is it really, and how can we make more of it?"

    The hierarch laughed, "Talk about greedy! There are six prerequisites to expanding space, and you only have two of them. But I suppose we have time to talk about one more before bed."

 A Hierarchs Day

    A Hierarch''s Day

    Caravans traveled through the desert at night and arrived at Sand Castle in the pre-dawn hours, or early morning if the trains were heavy. Sheltered way-stations were carefully spaced along the highways to aid the constant flow of travelers and keep them from wandering toward any Calique gardens. Gurantors lumbered through the gates after days of pulling two to four cars each, followed flagmen to their assigned berths, and rested while humans shuffled cargo in and out of cars.

    Sand Castle''s garden was a finite resource even in the best of times, but its current condition mandated changes to how the city did its business. The doyennes imposed severe limits on caravans. They could only stay up to four days, and overstaying triggered hefty fines. Caravans had to bring enough food for their people and animals, which they could use to feed themselves or trade to the Calique for more exotic foodstuffs. Sand Castle sent tablas to the nearest cities in all the surrounding countries, Ullidia, Gallia, Hyskos, and even Kashmar, to arrange quotas and keep the flow manageable. Calique hunters monitored the highways and turned back caravans that were too large, didn''t have enough food, or had a suspiciously large security force. Armed personnel were allowed into the city during the daytime but had to sleep in tents in the mischus at night. If a caravan didn''t have the same number of people check out at night as had checked in during the day, the wayward guards were tracked down with impressive speed, and penalties accrued to the merchants who employed them.

    It might seem strange at first, but trade with Kashmar continued even as both sides prepared to go to war. Any trains passing through Morufu''s Teeth were inspected for contraband food and war materials, while luxury items sailed through. Both sides wanted coin for the coming war, and caravans were a good excuse to insert scouts into the other''s territory. The arcs belonging to Bitter Spring and the doyennes were closed to outsiders, but that didn''t prevent visitors in the merchants'' arcs from asking questions. Tyrants and doyennes had played this game for a long time, and Pasha Phillip received reports on which visitors were most likely working for Kashmar''s Tyrant, and what kind of information they appeared to be after.

    As His Holiness Phillip the Younger, Taylor held the big weekly services in the city''s temple located in garden Saphir''s arc. The sanctuary was typical for the Unity religion: a tall round room under a vivid blue dome, with a central altar that bore a seven-pointed star. It wasn''t as grand as basilicas in the world''s capitals, but it didn''t need grandeur when it had a fragment of sun shining beneath the dome. Worshipers stood wherever they pleased while the officiating priest stood next to the altar. Daily services were short and several and officiated by rotating priests, while eighth-day services were more involved and included a choir and a sermon.

    What Anisca could do with her face, Taylor could do with his voice. He could impart faith, fear, comfort, love, and anguish to an audience. He could draw out calls of ''Olyon Bless Us!'' from the masses. He didn''t write the sermons, a small team at Red Tower did that job better than he ever could, but he performed them with a talent and charisma peculiar to this body. Eighth-day services were packed whenever he gave them, and people gathered around sounding boards all across the continent instead of attending their local temples, depriving Enclave of their attention and their coin.

    The first assassination attempt was surprising for its ineptitude. A wiry man with a half-back of blonde fur positioned himself nervously among the worshipers closest to the hierarch. He drew a dagger and charged at Taylor, hardly a minute into his sermon Love Across Borders. Such clumsy attacks had no hope of success against a priest who gave his sermons while protected by disciple prayers.

    Taylor grasped the deadly daggered hand in a hold long drilled into him by Otavio and forced the man to his knees. The worshipers shouted and stirred, angry. Taylor quelled them with a raised hand.

    "''Olyon welcomes the prayers of any whose hearts are open to <Him>''," he quoted, "conversely, all whose hearts are open are brothers and sisters in the Unity faith. Why do you take up arms against your siblings?"

    The would-be assassin grunted out his answer, unable to break away from the hierarch''s implacable grip. "Because you have defiled God!"

    "God is God," the hierarch answered hotly, "<He> is too great to glorify or defile. He can change us, but we cannot change <Him>. Now sleep." The blonde man''s adrenalin and hate gave him the strength to resist Taylor''s command for a few heartbeats, but then he collapsed into an arts-induced slumber.

    To the bulwarks who took the attacker away, Taylor said, "Be gentle with him. I''d like to talk to him later." The incident was broadcast to the world.This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

    It wasn''t lone assassins, people misguided by fiery rhetoric from their local priest, that worried Taylor. At least, not if they were after his own life. He could handle them. What scared him was the thought of attacks against the faithful, a mass of men who struck out at unarmed civilians but were willing to die themselves. It wasn''t the type of terrorism usually practiced in this world, but how long would it take for someone to invent it?

    Now, when Taylor climbed the steps to Sand Castle''s temple in his white priest robes and gold-embroidered stole, he had to pass through a Zone of Amity. It was a new prayer that threw shadows over people with violent intent. Everyone had to pass through the zone to enter the sanctuary, and any who failed the test were firmly turned away by bulwarks. Taylor had added the new prayer to the canon, a feat that wasn''t lost on the other members of Nexus. Not only was he duplicating the feats of Neuman Battani, the Chosen, who had founded the Unity religion, but Taylor was expanding the prayers.

    The sanctuary was packed with pilgrims. They drew back for him as he passed through to the center, bowing slightly in the Nexus style. Eighth-day mornings were the only time he did "hierarch things," so he tried to do them well. But, today he was distracted by a familiar pair of tall leporid ears that stuck above the crowd. They followed him as he moved and spoke. It was so distracting that he missed one of his cues.

    After the service came the audiences. These were held in a room much like a maul''s meeting chamber: long and narrow with rows of benches along the sides, facing the center aisle. The only difference was the seven-pointed star on the wall over the hierarch''s dais, and the small blue half-dome over his head. Functionaries and healers took some of the bench space while Taylor stood, as pilgrims were escorted in groups, usually with whatever countrymen had arrived on the same train with them. He spoke with each group briefly, blessed them, and they were moved on to make way for the next group. A few had petitions, vetted and discussed with the temple''s priests beforehand. It was a sign of the times that Taylor needed gatekeepers between himself and the people who needed his help.

    But, once in a while, something slipped through or someone didn''t follow procedure. In this case, a cloaked pilgrim rushed forward and prostrated herself on the floor before him.

    "Please, Your Holiness, heal my son! He''s the last of our family line. His father and siblings died in the civil war." Taylor stayed the bulwarks who would have taken her away. "I have nothing to pay with. But you can take him into the church as payment. He''s a good boy and strong like his father."

    The very first pilgrim to find Taylor had done so at Red Tower, just days after his elevation to hierarch. He''d done the exact same thing: thrown himself to the floor. Taylor had raised him up, kissed the old man''s cheek, and blessed him. The fellow had come from Gallia to show gratitude for everything Nexus did for his family, and he went away in bliss. Anisca was ecstatic about the incident and declared they had finally found something useful that Taylor excelled at. For his part, Taylor''s heart went out to anyone who traveled into the summer desert to find someone worthy of such obeisance, only to find his small self.

    "Stand up, Sister," he said, grasping her elbow and helping her up, "let me see you." She was unsteady, and a smell of sickness lingered around her. When he lowered her hood to see her face, the rest of the room drew back, covering their faces. She looked like she hadn''t eaten in weeks, and her hair was reduced to a few sad clumps on a pale bald head. Her cheekbones jutted out, and her eyes were sunk.

    "What''s your name, and where have you come from?"

    "Nada, from Lavradio. The north part."

    "You didn''t come from Sesimbra?" he asked, suspicious. The Duke of Nurr, on the northern side of Lavradio, had rebelled and taken a third of his people into the canyon of Sesimbra. There was an ancient installation in the canyon, and Duke Frenzio was known to play with ancient devices. That could explain what Taylor was seeing.

    "Speak honestly to Hierarch Phillip if you want his help," prompted one of the nearby healers. "You''re already imposing on him."

    She wrung her weakened hands. "Yes," she admitted, "we left Sesimbra. But I didn''t lie! We used to live in Nurr before the duke made us move. After we escaped, I took my son to the capital so healers could treat his infections, but they kept coming back. He gets sick again and again, and he gets weaker every time."

    "Give me your hand, Nada." The woman held her thinning fingers to Taylor, and he touched them. His spirit surged through her, though she couldn''t feel it, probing into her flesh and bones. There was damage everywhere, but the worst of it was in her bones. He was surprised she could remain standing.

    "Tell me about her son."

    The healer answered, "Ali, sixteen years old. He''s had a string of curable illnesses, but we haven''t found an underlying cause. We arranged for them to go to Red Tower and see Dean Mataba, but it seems she wasn''t content with that."

    "What you have is a kind of poisoning," Taylor told Nada. "If your son has the same, then it explains why he never gets better. All the diseases he''s been cured of are just symptoms. The true cause is a million little injuries that are too tiny to be seen. I''ve never seen it in this world, but there''s no mistaking it."

    Taylor turned to the healer, "Get a stretcher for her and take her to the clinic to be near Ali. I''ll see them both this afternoon, and teach you the treatment."

    "We know the prayers for poison, Your Holiness ˇ­"

    "ˇ­ but the poison is gone," he interrupted, "and only the injury is left. There''s a trick to dealing with it, so don''t do anything until I get there unless there''s an emergency."

    Nada wept and collapsed against Taylor. He spent most of his time planning to kill as many people as possible. Today, he''d get to help someone.

 The Pashas Lunch

    The Pasha''s Lunch

    By the time he worked through that week''s pilgrims, the day''s heat had settled heavy on the desert, a late reminder of the summer that just passed. All of Sand Castle fled to the shelter of thick-walled houses or, better yet, the rock-hewn rooms inside the mesa. Taylor and his two guards, the married pair Alice and Otavio, took the inner avenue nearest the garden and waded through the moist and heavy air surrounding new undergrowth and young palms. They headed back to Bitter Spring''s arc, where lunch waited for them.

    Their first stop was the Pasha''s private room, where spike-haired Milo helped Taylor shed his holy vestments down to a layer of purplish-red cloth wrapped close around his torso, groin, and upper legs. The material was experimental, based on Taylor and Gonzo''s investigation of Darkmaw''s shell. It had superb resistance to cuts and became indestructible when paired with a durability prayer, but it was too flexible for proper armor when used alone: it wouldn''t do anything to protect him from a hammer blow. Still, it was a discrete bit of extra protection.

    "We have a length of cloth from Pashtuk that matches our lip color. It''ll compliment the under-wrap nicely." Milo offered him the cloth for inspection, which was a long linen dyed amber.

    "It''s a bit flashy, isn''t it? Is there a special occasion?"

    "It is the Pasha''s luncheon, Young Master. We never know who Anisca might invite."

    "A fair point. Wrap it however you like, but leave the right arm bare. Visitors like to see the lightning mark."

    Taylor had given up on asking Milo to call him by name when they were alone. ''Young Master'' was as informal as he''d go, which was slightly humorous given that Taylor was only a few years younger than him and nearly as tall. He''d met Milo and his cousin Mila in Bricktown, a slum inLavradio''s capital city. Taylor paid to have the cousins tutored, to reward them for their help with a matter of poisoned wells and, perhaps, establish a long-term friendship with the lively duo. He didn''t intend to make them into followers but, as he prepared to leave the city on his first mendicant journey, they had practically begged to become his bulwark.

    Milo enjoyed his double role as bodyguard and valet because it made good use of his peculiar talent. He had a keener aesthetic sense than almost anyone Taylor had met and blended teas in his spare time. It was an expensive hobby, but Taylor paid for it because he got to drink most of the proceeds. The two of them trained their noses and tastebuds together and kept over two hundred vials of sample materials. Taylor''s focus tended toward poisons, while Milo had no focus. He even kept vials of odors most people would count as stenches, like durian and ˇ­

    "You did Dahabia''s lip gloss, didn''t you?"

    "What did you think?" The valet smirked as he tightened the skirt-like arrangement of cloth.

    "I''d like to kiss her again just to taste it. Amazing work."

    Milo doubled the running end, twisted it, and draped it over Taylor''s shoulder. The arrangement displayed segments of red protective under-wrap against the yellow linen. A red woven belt ran through the cloth to hold strategic parts in place. "She likes you, Young Master. When you''re done running around, you two would be a good match." The valet bade Taylor to sit and carefully applied Red Tower carmine to his eyes and amber to his lips. The Nexus Hierarch''s loyalty was to Olyon, and he didn''t wear garden colors. As Pasha, Taylor wore his garden''s colors proudly.

    "Let''s get through this year before we plan the rest of my life."

    The turban came next. It was an elaborate style that layered and twisted the two colors of cloth and had a crowning rim to protect the head from overhand attacks. Milo must have practiced the technique to get all the stripes to turn out so even. The turban was decorated with a cabochon of star sapphire so dark it was nearly black. A wooden star of Olyon and a sword gripped in dark monster bone completed the look, marking him both as a disciple and a garden-dweller.

    Aside from some lengths of fine cloth and a collection of lab-grown gems, the only luxury in Taylor''s room was a full-length mirror. It showed him a resplendent youth. The sword, brooch, star, and intricate fern-like patterns tattooed along his arm set dark counterpoints to the carmine and amber colors of Red Tower. If Taylor met the person in the mirror somewhere, he''d be careful not to cross the fellow without a reason: he looked dangerous.

    "You''re ready, Young Master, for whatever Anisca has planned."

    "Good work, Milo."

    Alice and Otavio followed him to the room Anisca set aside for these events. Calique meals were normally communal affairs, mainly because it was fuel-efficient to cook for large groups. Men ran the kitchens, aided by packs of children of both sexes. The Pasha and his headquarters staff ate separately for safety''s sake. A smaller kitchen was easier to guard, and civilians were far less likely to die by poison meant for Taylor.

    Somebody had tried poisoning a curry from a kitchen in Pashtuk''s arc, one that Taylor was known to visit for certain meals. By the time he showed up and detected poison in his bowl, scores of innocents had eaten from the same pot. The substance was slow-acting but deadly, and Taylor had to call for all the healers in the city and rush to track down diners before serious damage was done. After the curry incident, he made it his well-known policy to eat only from the kitchen in his headquarters. He could imbibe almost anything and still live, but Taylor couldn''t stand the thought of children dying because they ate from the same pot as him.

    Anisca ate from the same kitchen as Taylor when she could but, as a doyenne, she had to move in different circles and frequently ate with different people. Mataba assigned a team of female disciples to follow her around, former healers who were especially quick with the anti-poison prayers.

    Sand Castle was far from its wintertime peak when nobles, the fabulously wealthy, and famous personalities mingled between their destinations. Most visitors these days were sharp-eyed merchants willing to race an impending war to get their wares to distant markets, or stary-eyed pilgrims come to pray for a Nexus victory. Still, the person of occasional interest did pass through, and Anisca collected them to add to her roster of interesting Calique. Taylor bemoaned the extra change of clothes at first but warmed up to the lunches as they proved to be stimulating. He couldn''t quite bring himself to thank Anisca for arranging them, but he stopped complaining about the drain on his time. It was only a couple of hours a week, and it was time well spent. These were not idle hours, after all.

    Taylor entered the dining room last, as usual ˇŞ his insistence on greeting all the pilgrims practically ensured it. Anisca and Dahabia were seated on cushions at the far side of a round table, draped in bright red and gold, the feminine equivalent of the men''s carmine and amber. Near them were seated Wise Aygerim of Saluja in amethyst and white, with her Maul Erkin in purple and gray. On the other side was a Dace merchant Taylor didn''t know, accompanied by a demure-looking female companion. Maul Amadis was after them in his Dagono colors, but his doyenne was conspicuous by her absence. It was Dagono''s circle that had lied to Anisca and Taylor, not the maul, and Wise Uzan''s continued exclusion was intended as a rebuke.

    Nearest to Taylor''s seat were three people he recognized but was surprised to see. One was a graceful woman with limbs a tad too long for her body and a voice to stop men''s hearts, the famous songstress Bibi. The same Bibi who had given Taylor gold coins to fund his music school. That was going to be an interesting conversation. The second was Rolo, a scout for Baron Fringe.

    The third unexpected guest brought a genuine, and perhaps somewhat goofy, smile to his face. "Laura Sabrosa! I knew I recognized those ears!"

    "It''s wonderful to see you again, Taylor. Finally." There was a touch of acid in those words, but Taylor was happy to see her anyway. She had gotten taller in their months apart.

    Everyone but Ansica rose and bowed or curtsied to him according to their various customs. But Taylor''s eyes were reserved for the girl with tall ears and a scut tail who curtsied in a white and blue Lavradian dress trimmed with lace frills. It was nothing spectacular compared to what nobles wore, but her clothes were certainly an odd style choice for the desert. Her jewelry was selected for rarity and value and not, as a Calique might prefer, decorative whimsy. She was the first girl he''d ever kissed, back when he was still new to this world, and a memory of her struck him with startling clarity: Bibi''s Salon during the harvest music festival, the two of them dancing, aglow with magical light from the first prayer song. She fell asleep beside him that night, still glowing and humming happily.You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

    But, she did not look happy now.

    Taylor offered them the expected bow and asked them all to be seated.

    "You know everyone here," said Anisca as people resumed their places, "except for Vimal Donglar and his wife Shanti."

    "I hope you will excuse us being Donglars. One can''t help who one''s families are, eh?" They were both in silks and gems as if they could impress the Pasha with their wealth. A slight aura of spirit lingered around the wife, who settled by her husband in silence.

    "That depends." Taylor found the nearby basin to wash his hands and dried them on a towel offered by Alice. Wife. Spirit. Danger? He signed to Alice while their backs were turned to the table. "Are you here to eat and talk? Or to make an attempt on my life?"

    "Phillip!" Exclaimed Anisca, while she tossed a look at Taylor that told him to behave himself. "I apologize. Every week we spend here, he becomes more like a Calique. And you know how mauls are: always pushing the new person around, trying to set the pecking order."

    "It''s fine," Vimal claimed nervously. "We''re aware there''s been some unfortunate trouble between Nexus and Enclave." It was a stunning understatement for an organization trying to annihilate Nexus, but Taylor let it pass for the moment. Maybe Vimal was from a secondary Donglar branch and didn''t know the true depths of the animosity there.

    "Rolo, how are you?"

    "Oh good, good. You know, we''ve missed our chance to climb the passes to the original Enclave. The Yaegour mountains will be impassable soon." Visiting the scriptural birthplace of the Unity religion had been Taylor''s plan last year, and he was supposed to take Rolo as a guide.

    "I still want to do that. Maybe next year. Bibi, what brings you?" Taylor settled into his appointed cushion, directly opposite from Anisca.

    Bibi was the closest thing this world had to a superstar, but today she looked worn down, like the desert didn''t agree with her. "There is this small matter of a music school in Girona. Someone put my name on it, and now they expect me to show up and teach for part of the year. I thought I had given money to someone responsible who would run the place for me, but the scoundrel ran away. He had some lame excuse about being exiled from the kingdom."

    "That sounds like such a bother," Taylor agreed. He reached for the central platter of food at the same time as Anisca, and they each took what they wanted, signaling the start of the meal. These luncheons were a step up from how they ate most of the time, with more generous spicing and ingredients drawn from other countries. They had pears from Dace, small cold-weather olives from Mialta, a sauce made from Gallian wine, and other treats. But, there was nothing as good as sweet garden dates served stuffed with spicy appalon cheese.

    Taylor had to be cautious when the milk-wine was poured because he knew it marked the end of the meal and the beginning of the real conversation. Up to that point, the talk was mostly about the travelers and what they''d seen or heard most recently while on the road. They had no news to surprise him with. He was already aware of monster sightings, that Kashmar was mustering an army, and the abandoned frontier in Hyskos.

    "Nobody can figure it," Vimal was saying, "the mine slaves disappear, take all the gemstones with them, only to scatter them around the countryside. I''ve heard of farmers finding priceless gems in ditches. Where''s the sense in that, I tell you?"

    "Maybe they know the market for gems has crashed," said a disgruntled Laura. She was from the Sabrosa merchant family and had been plying her trade on her own for less than a year. "Someone has been selling off boxes of gems at absurd prices."

    "That''s what I''m saying!" Vimal finger-tapped the table while his passive wife looked on. The longer Taylor observed her, the more convinced he was that someone else was looking through her eyes. Her head wasn''t keeping up with the conversation and her eyes were late to follow who was talking. And yet, their attention didn''t waver.

    "What''s the point of taking gemstones if you''re not going to sell them? What''s the point of selling gemstones for less than production cost?" Vimal wasn''t asking rhetorically; he was asking Taylor.

    "Diabolical!" Laura was looking at Taylor strangely. Bibi was sipping warm milk-wine with honey, and seemed to be tuning out the conversation. The rest of the table paid rapt attention.

    "Don''t ask me. I don''t involve myself in trading gems," he proclaimed. It was a true statement: Taylor never touched the stones once they left Black Sanctuary''s crystalarium. Calique took raw ores of corundum, topaz, and chrysoberyl from various locations in the desert or nearby mountains, abrasive-class minerals that were easy to dig but useless as gemstones, and stockpiled them at Laggard''s Shaft, a dead mine in the desert. The ores were forwarded to Sand Castle in batches, and refined into gems of startling quality. The Black Sanctuary didn''t cut or polish the gems but left them raw for the cutters.

    Anisca and the doyennes arranged deals with a selection of gem merchants, the less favored kind that normally had to beg for the slimmest of quotas from the Five Families who controlled the flow of precious stones. The doyennes were practically giving the stones away in exchange for promises they''d sell for a third of their usual price. The markets in several countries were forewarned not to overpay for stones because there would be so many of them.

    The trade had only been going on for a few weeks, and none of the lab-grown gems went north to Kashmar or Dace. The Firsts didn''t know their cash cow had been mortally wounded. But Vimal had just come from Gallia, where cheap stones were flooding into the market, and the families would learn all about it just as soon as he turned north and told them.

    "A word to the wise, young Pasha. Leadership uses the church''s power to safeguard First Families'' interests. They won''t stand by and let the market die like this. If there''s something Sand Castle can do to fix it, you should."

    "Enclave has a hard time with facts, lately. I''m surprised anyone still listens to them." Taylor waved the man''s concerns aside with a casual finger.

    "You''re not hearing me, son. You should listen better. They will do something about this."

    "And?" Taylor''s attitude had changed to open defiance. Even Bibi was paying attention now. "And?" he repeated. "What will they do? Be specific: what will they do? Because they''re already doing just about everything they can. Kashmar is building the largest invasion force the desert''s seen in living memory. Do you think we''re fools? That we don''t know Leadership supports these little invasions? I''m losing count of how many times they''ve tried to kill me or my people. So please tell me, what incentive do we have to help them with their problems? Will that make them withdraw their support for Kashmar? Will they accept Nexus and stop trying to kill us?"

    Vimal looked down at the table and, after a moment of thought, he chuckled. "No. I don''t believe it would make any difference."

    "Then what are you going on about?" Taylor gave a languid sign that he wanted his nickleharp. "Enclave is committed to destroying Nexus. Kashmar is coming for the gardens with or without their support. The desert will be watered by men''s blood and, when enough of them have died, the invaders will go home. But the days are still too hot for marching armies, so let''s have some music. Bibi, care to join me?"

    "I would love to, but I''m resting my voice. Kashmar had me singing dirges for the princeps for twelve hours."

    This, too, was old news to Taylor. "So it''s true then, we killed Kashmar''s first prince in Satoma. Too bad it won''t change anything. From what I hear, the Tyrant has plenty of sons to spend." He laid the instrument across his lap and bowed it experimentally, tuning as he went. He wanted to pull the conversation away from all the stuff he couldn''t talk about, especially while a watcher lurked behind Shanti''s eyes. He needed to avoid Hyskos and his post-invasion plans. There were too many things he couldn''t say, and he was a terrible liar. He could manage half-truths all day long but struggled with outright lying.

    Before Vimal could ask another question Taylor wouldn''t answer, he spun into a lively melody set to words from an old Calique poet. Taylor had stumbled on a small volume of Rupka''s works when he occupied Pashtuk''s garden and borrowed liberally from their library. In the weeks since then, he''d put three of her poems to music with help from Lavradio''s royal musicians via sounding board. It was a tune that paced like fast appalons over the desert with their trunks pointed at far azure horizons. He could almost smell the morning blooms and hear the tippi birds awaken.

    "May I have that song?" asked a bold Bibi. "It would make up for your abandonment of our students."

    "I can''t believe you''d hold that against me! I had the kingdom and the church breathing down my neck. I didn''t want to go, and it''s not like I ran off with the money."

    "No, but you did leave. If you allow me to use the song, I''ll teach it to your former students and tell them you still think of them." That was a harder offer to refuse, so Taylor promised to have a transcript made before she left. Dahabia helpfully added it to her ever-changing list of tasks and promised she would see it done.

    Taylor performed one more song and, knowing they were the odd people out at the table, Vimal and Shanti were the first to leave, with Rolo and the tired Bibi close behind. That left Nexus and Calique people, plus Laura Sabrosa.

    "Can I have a minute of your time in private? Or am I too great a threat to you?" Laura''s hurt expression stabbed at Taylor, but he didn''t know what he might have done to deserve it. Maybe her poor mood wasn''t about him.

    "I need a quick word with this lot, and then I''m all yours. Can you wait outside for a minute?"

    With Laura gone, Taylor sat near Anisca and the visiting doyenne and mauls, and set up a sound barrier. "Someone is using an art to watch through Shanti''s eyes. They''re probably not Enclave, but it''s impossible to tell without obviously countering them. Examine everywhere she goes, and make sure she doesn''t drop any strange objects or scratch any symbols anywhere. I don''t want her to leave things behind that could be used as targets for divination. I''ll have disciples sweep the same areas for unexplained spirit use.

    "Second, I encountered a troubling illness today. I can''t be sure yet, but it might touch on matters of special interest to the doyennes." His hands formed the signs for Taboo? "I''m willing to let someone attend when I interview the patients. I hope it''s nothing, but it could be a long-term issue you want to know about."

    "We''ll send J''anan," said Wise Aygerim. "She''s from Dagono but don''t let that be a factor. Such matters transcend inter-garden issues."

 Its Not Me; Its You

    It''s Not Me; It''s You

    Taylor and Laura passed quietly through the stone building, avoiding the intelligence and command areas, into the suite he occupied with his bulwarks. The central room was large enough for several mats, where Mila, Milo, Inez, and Gonzo rested in near darkness. They passed through in polite silence to the side room Taylor kept for himself, where he could dress or read in private. He lit a spirit lamp from across the room without a sound or gesture. The white stone flared into life behind the thin paper shade, a distant sun''s fire diffused into soft white light.

    Alice closed the door and guarded it from outside while Otavio prepared to lay down with the others. Laura spied the narrow mat on the ground, giving Taylor a pitying look. "Are you still sleeping alone?"

    "Not so much, anymore."

    "Help me with my dress." She turned around so he could unbutton her. Underneath the layered blue and white fabric was a span of simple cotton, the same stuff Nexus bought in bulk before embarking on their exile. A wide band was belted around her waist. At first, he thought it was a girdle or corset.

    "And the laces too, please." Taylor pulled the loose ends, making the laces spread and go slack, while the sides of the belt parted. "Thank the heavens!" She breathed. "I''ll never eat in one of these things again!"

    She shucked off the dress and dropped it to her feet. That was followed by the belt, which hit the floor with a heavy thunk. Now, she was properly dressed in a simple lightweight robe that desert-goers often wore beyond the garden walls. It was oddly creased from being worn under the dress, but most people wouldn''t look twice if they weren''t too close. She set aside the dress but kept the heavy money belt and opened it, handing Taylor a letter.

    "Make yourself at home," Taylor told her when he surveyed the pages, "this could take a few minutes." He took the cushion nearest the lamp while Laura idled around the room, touching all of his stuff. There were three sets of armor, his guitar and nickleharp, and a pile of maps and books. Strangely, she avoided the sleeping mat. They had slept together before, but maybe she had plans to bed down with her caravan for the mid-day rest. She could have brought a young man with her on her merchant adventures, but it seemed too soon for her to be involved in any exclusive arrangement.

    Taylor pushed Laura out of his mind and focused on the message. Eleanor, the manager of Penguin Workshop, had sent the yearly financials and his profits. The woman was a gem, an undervalued talent Taylor had been lucky to find. Their first workshop, called Pegasus, was destroyed by Lavradian nobles, then secretly moved to Gallia and started again under the new name of Penguin. Even the product lineup was changed to hide the past connection. Taylor kept Penguin at arm''s length to keep them safe: His main involvement was to leave them with useful product ideas and recipes, mainly cosmetics. Now Eleanor wanted to know if they could make the Pegasus soap again and if she could set up a branch store in Sand Castle.

    While Taylor was reading, Laura made happy little pyramids of silver bars drawn from the money belt until his profits were all stacked up for easy counting. It was an impressive sum for one little workshop in the far north of Gallia, and it was possible because Eleanor had teamed up with the Sabrosa family for distribution.

    "Are you going straight back to Gallia?"

    "And then home to Girona. After my three days here, of course. I have boxes full of Penguin products, and Dacian traders will bid ridiculous sums for them. Do you want me to take a message back to her?"

    Taylor wrote a quick note praising Eleanor. He ended with, "I am sending a bit of jewelry through our mutual friend. Please wear it. I will answer your other queries in due time." He pulled a jewelry box from a nearby chest, checked the ear cuff inside, ensured the hidden spirit stone was full, and then put the folded message inside. If Eleanor did as he asked, they could talk directly.

    "Why didn''t you include me in the gemstone deal? You knew I was interested." Laura took the box from him and dropped it into a bag, then put the folded dress and money belt on top of it. The bag must have been a hidden part of the dress, a clever arrangement. Taylor began to wonder what she''d been up to lately.Love what you''re reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on.

    "Because it''s going to draw Enclave''s attention. When they trace the gems back to you, they might remember the personal connection between us. They''ll use you to get to me."

    "So? Come with me then! Change your name and hair again. You can protect me, and we''ll see the world together."

    "I can''t leave Nexus. You know I can''t."

    She sighed, impatient and worried. "What are you doing here, Taylor? This isn''t you!" Laura motioned at his clothes. "You never cared about all this. You hate power games. You go haring off into the wild and stop writing all your friends for months, and now you''re a cult leader? You''re preaching against Enclave, and challenging them? What''s happened to you?"

    "I was exiled, remember? I had to leave. I don''t know who you''ve been listening to, but they''re giving you a pretty twisted idea of what''s going on. We''re only fighting Enclave because Enclave is trying to kill us. We were perfectly willing to be part of the church until they started raining fire on us."

    "It sounds to me like you do plenty of killing of your own. What''s this I hear about you exterminating a garden? That girl told the story like she was proud of it." Taylor could only assume ''that girl'' was Dahabia.

    "The Satomen were a menace to all the other gardens. They stole girls like you and beat them until they agreed to marry a total stranger. I killed some to free the women. Most of the Satomen died because they did something stupid I warned them not to do, and the rest died because they tried to kill me in retribution." Laura''s expression wasn''t concern for his safety, like he expected, but revulsion. "It''s not like I go around killing people for no reason. What do you want from me here?"

    "I want my Taylor back!" Her arms were crossed, and her eyes swelled with tears. Even her ears wilted forward in distress. "I want the boy who was kind to people, who just wanted to make soap and improve the city. I want the smiling healer, not this cold, vicious nobleman!"

    Taylor thought it would be nice to go back and try something different. Maybe there was another way, and he just failed to find it. But time travel was impossible and speculations like that were less than useless.

    He reached out with a handkerchief and dabbed the corners of her eyes. She let him do it, arms crossed, still angry. "That boy had to fight so he could live. This is what''s left of him."

    "I''ll carry your goods," she said quietly, pushing away the handkerchief, "and we can trade, but I can''t run around with you. I won''t have that kind of violence in my life."

    "Laura ˇ­ "

    "You decided to be at arm''s length," she flung her bag over her shoulder and stood, "so arm''s length is as close as you get."

    She exited the room before he could answer, and had Alice show her the back way out. Laura was gone just as suddenly as she had arrived, leaving Taylor to mull over their conversation and figure out how it had gone so wrong. When they first met, her interest in him had been just as instantaneous as her new disinterest. She hijacked a little piece of his life back then, and now she dropped it on the road.

    Taylor brooded while he packed away the silver bars into one of his hobby boxes. One bar was the same weight as eight silver boraz coins, 100,000 ? per bar. A skilled laborer, such as a mason, could support his family for several months on just one bar. Taylor had fifteen of them and all of it was personal money. A fraction would be tithed to Nexus, but he''d keep the rest. He spent all his coin to prepare Nexus for exile, down to his last brass bit, so it was a relief to have reserves again.

    "Are you okay?" Alice entered without asking and closed the door behind her. She was a tall gray-skinned woman, and every bit as beautiful as her husband was craggy. "Did you two fight?"

    "I''m not sure you could call it a fight. Things just ˇ­ went wrong all of a sudden. She says she doesn''t want to be close anymore because I''m a violent person. I guess that''s true." He fumbled with the cloth wrappings as he failed to find where Milo hid the end of it.

    "That''s a two-person job. Let me help." Alice untucked something, loosened something else, and the cloth started to unwind. She gathered and folded it patiently, as if she had all day to do this one little chore. Alice and Otavio loved nothing more than the chance to parent him and, at times, it annoyed Taylor. He never hated the attention or them for giving it, but it was awkward. His adoptive parents in Emristar had never been so demonstrative.

    "She doesn''t approve of my life choices," Taylor said while Alice worked. "She doesn''t like what I am now."

    Alice put the folded cloth aside and placed the turban on top of it, leaving Taylor in the red under-wrap armor. "Come lay down with your people," she said, and pulled him along by the hand to the other room, "no complaining."

    People shifted, half asleep, to give him room between Otavio and little Gonzo. Alice took up her guard position in silence, leaving Taylor in the mass of warm, breathing bodies. Alice was right: these were his people. The Sabrosas were nice, but they weren''t Nexus or Calique. Laura didn''t understand the precarity of humanity''s future, and she would never know the desert except as something to be passed through.

    Taylor slept, surrounded by his people.

 Healing House

    Healing House

    Taylor slipped into Healing House in simple disciple attire, typical brigandine over a light robe with his bronze sword at his waist and a holy symbol fastened to the breast. It was easier to get around the city without vestments or finery, as people were less inclined to pay homage, ask for blessings, or demand news. He even scrubbed the color from his face, for his patients'' sakes: they wouldn''t mind being treated by a man, unlike most Calique, but they''d feel more comfortable if he didn''t look so thoroughly ''native''.

    Otavio and Milo waited outside the clinic to avoid disrupting the patients. Taylor took over an examination room and summoned the four disciples on duty, all women, plus J''anan, who kept quietly to herself in a corner. Calique were rigid about their gender roles, so Nexus only sent women to heal in the gardens. It felt strange to be in a room with so many Nexus disciples whom he barely knew and hadn''t personally trained. They were all Gallian defectors and even the youngest had several years of healing experience.

    Mother and son were shown inside together. Nada could walk with help, but her son had to be wheeled in on a chair. Ali was as tall as Taylor but was so thinned by his condition he likely weighed half as much. They were nervous to be seen by so many healers at once.

    Taylor made introductions and asked the usual questions. How do you feel? When did it start? Did anything memorable happen before you fell ill the first time? He went down the list of symptoms, and Nada and Ali answered promptly. They had been examined many times before.

    "Give me your hand, Ali. Let''s take a look at you." Taylor took the youth''s hand, as thin as a dying old man''s, and sent his mind questing through his body. Damaged organs, ravaged bone marrow, and intestinal tumors were his most immediate problems. It was a familiar set of symptoms, one he''d many times, in another life: Radiation poisoning. Nada and Ali had probably been dosed over time rather than all at once.

    All the other healers had seen the same thing, but none of them knew of a reasonable cause. They didn''t know about DNA, much less that it could be damaged. Thanks to Taylor''s recent "invention" of the microscope, they knew about cells and had looked at some through a lens as part of their Nexus training. So, they at least had a good starting point.

    "Inside the nucleus of a cell lies instructions for making new cells," Taylor began, "and when a cell multiplies, it makes a copy of the instructions for the new cell. These instructions are called genes, and the study of genetics is a vast field unto itself." Two of the healers took notes on slate tablets, so nothing was lost. Taylor spied J''anan doing the same.

    "Why haven''t you written about this genetics?" asked the senior healer. "You''ve shared other parts of your otherworld knowledge."

    "Dean Garsharp and I were working up to it. That''s one reason I introduced the microscope, as a step in that direction. But then Enclave turned on us. Since then, we''ve been a little preoccupied with other things. Exile, Darkmaw, Kashmar''s army ˇ­ little stuff like that." Grim smiles bloomed around him. Survival came first.

    "One thing to know about genes is they can be damaged. It''s unusual but far from impossible. Our patients today are from Sesimbra, where they were exposed to a type of energy that penetrates the skin, often without visible injury, but damages organs and their genes. There''s a chance that some of these cells will reproduce abnormally and become tumors. The rest will die off over the months or years of their usual lifecycle and ultimately be replaced by healthy cells. If the damage is not too severe, the patient slowly gets better."

    The lead healer''s eyes widened just a little. It wasn''t good practice to show too much surprise in front of the patient. "We''ve been healing the cells with broken genes when we should have been excising them like tumors. Our treatments have encouraged the bad cells to multiply."

    "The cure fosters the disease," murmured another.

    "You''ll join spirit with me one at a time, and I''ll show you how to find and lance the bad cells. You won''t feel anything," Taylor assured his patients, "you''ll just be more tired than usual afterward. We''ll treat you in small stages every few days. In a month, you''ll be begging to leave."

    "About this energy," asked the youngest healer, "is it some kind of light ˇ­"This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

    "That topic is forbidden." J''anan shook her head at the healers. "You must not ask."

    "We''re going to respect the taboo," Taylor told them while staring meaningfully at J''anan, "for now. It''s a topic we''ll have to revisit after Enclave is dealt with." J''anan looked like she wanted to disagree, but kept it to herself.

    For the next hour, Taylor guided them until he was sure they could handle the procedure. Between their former years of experience as healers and their recent Nexus training, they didn''t require much hand-holding. The senior healer made a plan to ensure everyone on her staff would learn the technique before Nada and her son were well enough to leave. Most of the recent defectors seemed well above average, leaving Taylor to wonder if recruit quality would drop as they cut deeper into Enclave''s ranks. For now, Nexus seemed to get the better half of the old church''s practitioner corps.

    With the day''s treatment done, Taylor sent the healers away, leaving just himself and J''anan with the patients.

    "I need you for just a few more minutes, and then you can rest. What we''re going to talk about is forbidden knowledge to Calique and Enclave, so you can''t repeat this conversation to anyone, understand? We wouldn''t even be having this conversation, but we need to make sure there isn''t a threat to the entire region." J''anan''s face paled.

    "I''m going to show you some pictures. They''re not very well done, but look at each one and tell me if you''ve seen something like it, or you''ve heard of something like it. Okay?"

    Mother and son agreed, and Taylor started to show them Harrence''s drawings of the ancient installation hidden inside Red Tower. Harrence had a way of scouting through solid stone, which let him investigate without unsealing the structure. It was the only safe way to peer into it for now, as the interior was filled with inert gas capable of suffocating everyone if it wasn''t vented properly. For now, Nexus was leaving the vessel sealed.

    None of the pictures meant anything to Nada, but Ali picked out a few as being similar to what he''d seen, working deep inside King Frenzio''s base. "This one is exactly like Sesimbra." Ali pulled the image closer to him: a large translucent mass, as tall as three men, with a network of cracks running throughout its body. There was an ovoid shadow in the center. "We called it the Rock. His Highness made us break pieces off of it. It looks like it would break, but it''s incredibly tough. At first, we tried picks, then hammers and chisles. Someone figured out they could use fine-toothed saws covered in abrasives, the kind they use for polishing gems. After that, we would quarry a few pieces every day, about this big." He held up a fist. "I don''t know what happened to the pieces. They all went somewhere else."

    "How deep did you go?"

    "We cut about half of it, eventually. A lot of people were sick by then. Frenzio decided it was that thing''s fault, and he shut down the project. I heard they dumped all the pieces into the pit."

    "Did the area change, as you mined more of the Rock?"

    Ali shook his head. "I don''t understand."

    "Did the room grow noticeably hotter? Or brighter? Were there strange shadows? Did people mysteriously go missing?"

    "No, nothing like that! Can that happen?"

    "What''s at the bottom of the pit, where all the pieces went?"

    "Nothing. It just ends. The ground is different down there, something older than the mountain. That''s what they say, but I never spoke to anyone who was down there."

    "When you went home after work, did you take any precautions?"

    "Precautions?"

    "Did you change clothes, or take a bath?"

    "No. Why would I? I just went home at the end of my shift."

    And spread the dust all over your home, and got your mother sick, thought Taylor.

    "Can I see everything you''ve brought with you? I want to make sure bits of that rock aren''t hiding in your bags. I don''t have to unpack it all. Just show me where it is."

    "Yeah, sure." Taylor summoned attendants to help with Nada and carry Ali''s chair up a flight of stairs with him still in it. The ward was a long room with fifty beds, fewer than half of which were occupied. Most people there were simply resting after a session, and wouldn''t stay longer than a night. A handful were too weak to leave, or they were having limbs regrown and needed frequent attention.

    Ali and his mother had two beds and a partition, with a couple of packs and one rough sack to hold the sum of their possessions. There was no sign of radiation, not from a detection prayer or through the enchanted goggles he''d brought along for the purpose. Taylor pronounced their belongings clean, accepted Ali and Nada''s thanks, and left their care to the healers. Without anything to obviously mark him, Taylor was able to slip in and out of the ward with little more than curious glances from the patients. Today, he was just another disciple.

    "We''re going to see the keepers," J''anan told him while glancing back at Taylor''s guards, who had fallen in behind them, "they can follow, but they have to wait at the door." Her face was set in a blank expression, which told him the tabla was hiding her emotions.

    "I''m just trying to protect people, J''anan. There''s no reason to be so angry."

    "You know things you haven''t shared!" she whispered, not wanting to include passersby in their conversation.

    "How can I, when we''re not allowed to talk about such things?" he whispered back. "Don''t blame me because I followed your rules. Maybe you should have asked. I assume Rigieta is one of these keepers. How many are there?"

    Taylor could practically see the words it is forbidden forming in her head, but she thought better of it. "You will have a chance to ask questions soon."

 Keepers

    Keepers

    Taylor told J''anan he didn''t mind waiting, but he had his own work to do that afternoon. If he didn''t see anyone in half an hour, he would leave and the keepers could make an appointment like everyone else. She showed him to a small room near the library, deep enough into the mesa to lack windows, and left him without a light.

    If that was supposed to be a test or a sign of disrespect, it was too trivial to bother him. He''d give them the half-hour he promised and then leave. Besides, he could make light ˇŞ it was the first prayer any disciple learned. Once he had a pleasant nimbus of glow hovering near the ceiling, Taylor took a good look around. Calique women loved their circular meeting rooms but usually equipped them better. There should be cushions, light, and writing utensils. But if these Keepers dealt in taboos, then it was possible they memorized everything. He wouldn''t put it past them to meet in the dark. He''d seen stranger things from secret societies.

    Taylor circled the room, smaller than the usual chambers used by doyennes, fingers sliding against the stone wall strangely textured in thousands of little divots, his mind questing through the stone. There was a peephole hidden above head height and a watcher beyond it. Taylor ignored them and moved on. A third of the way around the room from the peephole he found a secret door, latched from the other side. He could sense a stairway went up from the other side, but the door was latched from the other side, and hinged to swing inward.

    Was this an initiation chamber, where prospective Keepers were tested? Or were they just being jerks to him? If the secret door had been unlocked he would have gone inside. It was certainly within his power to shape or break the door as he pleased. Instead, he knocked on the door while looking directly at the peephole, and smiled. I see you.

    Instead of forcing his way into the greater secrets beyond the hidden door, Taylor cleaned a section of the floor with prayer and settled in with his copy of Battles of Talal. The book was divided into parts: self-knowledge, politics, and war. The old Pasha had useful things to say about Mauls and their Doyennes but nothing at all about Keepers. Did the keepers come later? Or had Talal avoided writing about them out of respect for the taboos? There weren''t any narrative gaps that he could tell, so the book probably hadn''t been tampered with by past librarians.

    The political section was especially gratifying after Taylor''s own efforts to raise a new church, and had asked many of the same questions he struggled with. How do you direct the ambitious in useful ways? How do you ensure your garden is strong enough to stand but not too rigid to bend when it must? What purpose do rituals serve, and when should you discard or change them?

    Calique culture was still finding its way in Talal''s day, and it was greatly informed by Kashmar''s constant invasions. The gardens were mostly small and days apart by appalon. Without that periodic external pressure, the desert people might have spun away from each other culturally. Every aspect of how gardens related to each other could be traced back to the threat from Kashmar.

    In terms of values, Calique rejected everything Kashmar elevated. Kashmar was always led by a male Tyrant and his Princeps, Calique were governed by councils of women; Kashmar''s people were disposable, Calique cared for everyone in the garden; Kashmar''s princes displayed their wealth to awe the masses, Calique held most resources in common; Kashmar''s towns were dependent of the capital, Calique gardens were self-sufficient; Kashmar buried their dead in elaborate tombs, Calique composted relatives for the garden; Kashmar''s women married into their husbands'' families, Calique men married into other gardens. Kashmar''s traditions were inviolable law, Calique allowed ritualized exceptions.

    Taylor''s goal was to crush Kashmar so badly that they wouldn''t return to the South for a hundred years. But, what would happen to Calique culture in the meantime? Would they fall apart into violent factions without a common enemy to keep them together?

    For that matter, everything was going to change, starting with the ever-intensifying sun. Calique would need to change, with or without Kashmar to pressure them. But how could anyone plan for a radically different future when they couldn''t see it clearly? Talal''s answer was to remember one''s values and let new traditions spring from there. But the Calique Taylor knew weren''t very big on ''new''. They only tolerated him as a leader because of his absurd strength, and because he was willing to act enough like a Calique maul to feel familiar to them.

    Value is expressed by Culture, Talal wrote, with all its rituals and ceremonies. Culture becomes Governance, which the garden-dweller must heed. Governance, if it be true, thus expresses Value. When upheaval comes to set aside old ceremonies the dwellers are lost on trackless ground and fear their Value is forever lost. What then? Preserve the ceremonies or invent them anew, as one must, but never let the ceremonial space lie empty, or else new values will settle in where the old ones used to live.

    Talal would feel at home with Emristar''s cultural philophers.

    The hidden door opened and six women filed in, dressed head to toe in thick, loose robes. All except Rigieta wore masks, which was nearly pointless when Taylor could recognize two of them right away. One was the Keeper of the seed vault, and the other was an older woman he''d seen during gathering hours but never been introduced to. At least two more had visible beast traits he''d be able to pick out from a crowd. The masks were such a poor way to hide their identities, Taylor thought they might serve some other purpose.

    J''anan must be some kind of acolyte of theirs. She was the first Calique woman he had met, and she was his guide in Dagono. She had been present for the debut of the Compost Song in Dagono and Taylor''s elevation to Hierarch at Red Tower. The Keepers hadn''t tried anything so blatant as inserting her into his life, but J''anan''s presence was like a comet with an elliptical orbit, periodically passing close enough to get a good look at him.

    Dahabia, on the other hand, was very much in his inner circle. J''anan could be passing through to collect information from her and the other Calique who lived in Red Tower and be the Keepers'' eyes and ears in Nexus. It was a worrisome insight but not intolerable. So long as they had a common enemy, they were all on the same side. The problems would start when they didn''t need him anymore.

    Taylor rose and offered them the kind of spare head-nod that mauls were prone to offering their doyennes. Equals with different roles, neither of them above the other.If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.

    Rigieta spoke for all of them "Pasha Phillip. J''anan informs us you are in possession of ˇ­ concerning information."

    "I assume we''re talking about the ancient places, but can you be more specific?"

    "We can not. Simply tell us all you know."

    Taylor laughed. He shouldn''t have, but he did.

    "It''s not wise to mock us, Little Pasha, not when you need our support. Or have you misread your Talal?"

    "No, I''m sorry!" He was having a hard time controlling himself, "it''s just ˇ­ all I know? I could spend years ˇ­ look, I was educated at lavish expense by a world that didn''t burn all its history. ''All I know'' is a lot. You''re going to need to be a little more specific."

    "Tell us all about the ancient places."

    "Again, that''s a lot. We have them in the world I''m from, and they''ve been studied for hundreds of years. Ours are about ten thousand years old, and there''s several kinds. There is a common primary written language they all share, but there''s evidence of numerous secondary languages among their artifacts. The prevailing theory is they were made by an alliance of different human societies ˇ­ "

    "Tell us about the danger posed in Sesimbra," she said impatiently.

    "Don''t be so touchy," Taylor shot back. "Ask a general question, get a general answer. Ask a specific question," he dug through the pile of drawings until he found the one he wanted, Ali''s Rock, "and you get a picture worth a thousand words."

    He passed the picture to Rigieta, who examined it under the summoned light and passed it down the line for the other Keepers. The third Keeper to examine it briefly turned her head toward their spokeswoman.

    "Who made this picture, and where?" asked Rigieta.

    "A disciple drew this, in one of the realms where we have disciples. And before you get angry about your taboos, let me say this vessel remains sealed. Until today, only five people had seen these pictures. Considerably more people know about the vessel''s existence, but I''ve forbidden them from opening it. After Enclave has been dealt with, I''ll reconsider the matter, but there''s honestly not enough to learn from a dead facility to be worth much risk."

    Another glance from a veiled Keeper to Rigieta. "Dead, you say?"

    "That," he pointed at the picture being passed from one hand to the next, "is a reactor core. Machines need energy, and the ancient tech runs on mana, or what we call spirit. Reactor cores like this one create energy by fusing atoms together, and ˇ­ I have no idea if you''re following me when I can''t see your faces. The important part here is reactors will run out of fuel and leave behind some very toxic waste products. As they die, they build this shell around them to seal in the toxic substances and radiation. Death doesn''t happen all at once but the cores dwindle over time. When they reach this stage they''re entirely dead."

    "The shadow in the center is the core, and the rock is protective shell. And the danger is in digging out this shell?"

    "Correct. It''s a tempting substance, strong and tough and lightweight, yet it stops a range of dangerous energies. It''s a monster to process but, if you can master it, there are too many uses to ignore. I''m not surprised Frenzio would try to mine it. Either he''s making weapons, or he''s trying to replace components in other machines.

    "The main danger is radiation poisoning: that''s people falling ill from exposure to the shell material and the energy it retains. The outer layers are safe, but the closer you get to the core the more toxic it becomes. If you ignore the radiation long enough to uncover the core and try to open it, things get interesting.

    "Space inside the core is stretched and warped. If you break the continuity of the space fabric surrounding the core ˇ­ well, it''s never good. Sometimes you get an endless labyrinth that fills with monsters and has to be managed in perpetuity. Other times, the core collapses and sucks in a few square kilometers of reality before it disappears forever. One core breach gave birth to a hyper-intellgent entity that predicted the future, but all the predictions were so distant nobody could tell if they were true prophesies or if it was making everything up. Usually, a core just explodes, takes out a few mountains, and poisons the surrounding land for a few hundred years."

    There were multiple veiled glances in Rigieta''s direction, and it took her several seconds to sort them all out. Taylor wondered what bond the Keepers had with each other, to let them communicate so much with so little interaction.

    "So the only safe course is to leave the dead cores be," she said at last.

    "Or, you can send the facilities away." Taylor produced another drawing, of a hard-to-reach room within the Red Tower vessel. There was a wall full of text and the outline of two handprints. He gave the Keepers time to share the picture before he explained. "Those are instructions. Follow those steps, then put both hands on the handprints, and in about an hour the whole facility will be transported somewhere else."

    "Where does it go?"

    "It depends. Either into the sun for disposal, or back to the factory where they were made. This one says it''ll be transported into the local sun. But facilities won''t travel if the cores have been disturbed."

    "You can read this?"

    "Can''t you?" Plenty of worlds had these same relics and had either discovered how to read them or had never forgotten. The language was ideogramic instead of phonetic, so speaking the language wasn''t required to read it. On the other hand, learning the ancient script offered few clues about pronunciation.

    "You know, I have a theory about this mesa. I think there used to be a terraformer here, one of the giant machines that prepare worlds for habitation. They bury themselves into solid rock and run for hundreds of years, unattended, and then send themselves home when their cores are dead. That would explain why there''s an almost perfectly round hole inside a mesa. Is there anything in your hidden libraries about that?"

    "We are asking the questions here," said Rigieta. "You will provide us with a dictionary for the ancient language."

    "It''s called Mi''iri. And I will not at this time." Taylor stepped forward and the Keepers shrank back from him, but not fast enough to prevent him from snatching the pictures away. "It''ll take too long, and I have a war to win."

    "Wars are uncertain. You could die."

    "Then you better make sure I get the support I need. After we''ve won and the gardens are safe from Kashmar, we can revisit the dictionary request."

    "That is not acceptable."

    "Neither is your demand for information with nothing offered in return."

    "The taboos are in place to protect the gardens, which you claim to be a part of. The keepers hold knowledge for future generations. It''s your duty to contribute if you can."

    "And I will, but not unilaterally." That didn''t please the Keepers at all. Taylor didn''t need Rigieta to translate the discontented set of shoulders and heads that turned away from him. "After the war, things might look very different. Let''s get through this and see where we stand after. Who knows? Some of your present concerns might feel antiquated by then."

    "The root of our concerns lay in Enclave''s continued existence ˇŞ in Unity City. But the gardens will not march to Dace for you, no matter how great your victory is against Kashmar."

    Taylor had to ponder what to say. He felt like he needed to reassure the Keepers and thereby the doyennes, but he didn''t want to give away his plans ˇŞ or how much he knew about Enclave''s plans.

    "The old church is mortally wounded," he said finally. "They''re too few, too weak, and they can''t change. When the time comes, I won''t need armies to defeat Enclave."

    He put away the papers and readied himself to leave. "If I encounter more issues like this one, I''ll pass them to you through J''anan. I have no desire to see the safety of my new home compromised. I''ll try to contact Sesimbra to verify what we''ve learned, but let''s not get our hopes up. Moldonia is Sesimbra''s only friend, and I don''t have friends in Moldonia. Also, Frenzio has tried to kill me a few times."

    "How surprising," Rigieta said wryly.

    "There''s nothing special between us. He kills lots of people."

    Before he left, he gave them homage, hands together at his lips. The Keepers were going to be a pain, but they took their responsibilities seriously and didn''t seem crazy. He''d dealt with much worse.

 Managed Ambitions

    "I suspect they''ll go through you in the future since dealing with me directly was a pain for them."

    The fountain in their little courtyard splashed in the background while Anisca leafed through the images, fascinated. Taylor would miss this space when he didn''t live in the Pasha''s quarters anymore. It had a tall tree that spread its branches high above them, and the four walls had landscapes of far-away places painted on them, like windows into far countries. It was the perfect meeting place for two or three people. Some past resident had loved it and kept it pristine.

    "Why are you showing these to me now?"

    "So you''re not surprised when these Keepers approach you. I gave them what I thought they needed to know freely, but then they started making demands and I ˇ­ didn''t react well. I had other questions for them, but they''re not a very sharing bunch."

    "I''m sure they''re not pleased with you, but I think you handled it well enough. What I meant was, why didn''t you show me these pictures before now? You''ve had them for weeks."

    "It wasn''t a trust issue. I don''t want to divert us from winning this war, and none of this is helpful right now. Victory means we can open the vessel and study it for years to come. Defeat means we''re all dead and it won''t matter."

    Anisca stared longingly at the images. "Are you sure there aren''t any weapons?" She was looking for an excuse to open the facility.

    "Not that we can use. There is a weapons locker, here." Taylor pulled one image forward. It showed a square cabinet mounted on a wall, covered with Mi''iri ideograms in red paint. "But it''s too small to hold anything but personal protection weapons, and they''ll be locked so only certain people can use them. Even if we could get them to work, we can''t reproduce the ammunition.

    "The whole facility is like that: intriguing but useless. I''m hoping the logs will fill in some gaps in Tenobre''s history and give us a sense of when people arrived here. But I''m the only person who reads Mi''iri."

    "Then you''d better not die," she demanded. "In fact, I forbid you from dying until you''ve written your Mi''iri dictionary."

    Taylor sipped his jota and grinned. "Not a shred of concern for me personally!"

    "I have priorities." She paged through the images again while she drank, eagerly taking in the scant details left by a poor artist. She yearned to see the inside of the vessel for herself. It was a rare unguarded moment, from a woman who chose her every expression with deliberation.

    "How did it all go so wrong?" she wondered. "We had all this, and forgot about it."

    "My homeworld followed the same pattern. Our oldest cities were built near the ancient habitats, and it appears we used them as shelters from time to time but, eventually, the habitats died. We couldn''t maintain the Mi''iri technology, so we were on our own. I think they do it on purpose. The colonists are meant to find their own way and adapt to the planet."

    "Why? It seems like such a waste to spend all those resources, only to drop people into a place that might kill them. Why not make sure they can survive indefinitely?"

    "People in my homeworld have been asking that question for centuries."

    Reluctantly, Anisca tucked them away in the large envelope. "What are you doing about Frenzio''s problem?"

    "Well, he''s never been a friend. But Nexus can''t stand aside and let thousands of people suffer."

    "We can''t fail our core purpose," she agreed, "but making contact with the rebel duke won''t be easy, and he''ll assume you''re hostile."

    "We''re not going to make contact with him. And we''re not going to send a cadre to help him, either. Enclave is going to send a healer who knows a special technique for treating this new disease, and teach it to the healers in Moldonia. We''ll use one of the Gallian healers, someone who also has a good handle on basic enhancements so they can protect themselves. I don''t like giving Enclave an opening to take credit for our work, but the tenets come first."

    Anisca handed over the latest logistics report. "Supplies are in good shape and your desert bunkers are nearly complete. Dagono just delivered double their allotment, again."

    "Are you satisfied yet, or should we try to get more from them?"

    "I think the lesson has sunk in for everyone. I''ve made arrangements for Red Tower to gather with Dagono tonight. It would be helpful if you could walk out with a Dagono girl."

    "Honestly, I''m feeling dispirited about this random kissing business. Half the girls get hysterical and run away. Sometimes in tears! I''ve tried to improve everything I can think of: how I talk to them, put them at ease, I don''t grab but I''m not too shy, I go unarmed so they''ll feel safe, compliment them without being weird or creepy (I hope), but nothing works. If anything, it''s worse now than when I started. What am I doing wrong?"

    "Have you asked Mila or Alice this question?"

    "They claim I''m doing fine, but that''s an obvious fabrication. If I was doing ''fine'', they wouldn''t run away in droves. I need you to tell me the truth: what am I doing wrong? I know the girls all compare notes. You must have heard something."

    "You are doing fine. Don''t worry about it."

    "Anisca, please!" The moment that plea left his lips, Taylor wished he could take it back. He shouldn''t need to beg anyone for anything, least of all a princess. "You know what? Nevermind. Forget I asked. I''ll have to figure it out on my own." Taylor had his own written agenda and hurriedly found the next item.

    "It''s not you or anything you''ve done. Not exactly." Anisca was wearing an expression Taylor hadn''t seen before. Was that affection? Indulgence? Compassion? Was she laughing? "You''re famous, powerful, and not bad-looking."

    "Thanks, I guess."

    "Girls at this age are prone to certain disturbances. They build up a picture of someone in their heads, it gets wrapped up with a lot of fantasy and emotions, and it all boils over when they''re faced with the real thing. The syndrome presents itself in any number of unseemly ways. They can''t help it. They''re just overwhelmed."Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.

    "That''s what this is?" Taylor hadn''t even considered they were fangirling over him. Tenobre didn''t have mass media or mega-stars, but he''d seen similar behavior in Girona a few times, usually with a noble''s son or a good-looking knight as the focus. If this was just fangirl panic, all he had to do was be nice to the afflicted and wait it out. Most of the girls would grow out of it, eventually. "That''s such a relief! But why wouldn''t anyone tell me?"

    "We debated it, but we didn''t want it to go to your head. Boys who get too full of themselves make bad choices. We were attempting to protect your last few shreds of humility. It was for your own good."

    "Right. It in no way had anything to do with enjoying my struggle."

    "It made you strive to improve, didn''t it?" She was overtly smug. "That''s the important part."

    "Did you ever have someone like that?"

    "Certainly not." She rebuked him with a glare. "I would never be so disturbed, about anything. Princesses are not susceptible to shallow infatuations."

    "Amazing. Your delivery was superb, but three denials in a row ˇ­ and two of them categorical. You definitely swooned over someone. Now I have to know: Who stirred up little Princess Frannie''s fancy?"

    Anisca generously blushed. "That is not on the agenda."

    "I just put it on the agenda. Do you need me to write it down? You''re always telling me that socializing is an exchange like any other. You know all about my little kissing challenges ˇŞ it''s time to reciprocate."

    "Fine. Helene of Mialta, a swordwoman. Father hosted an international competition, and she was phenomenal. I saw one of her early pool bouts and got a tiny bit obsessed about her. I had her followed so I knew where she was at all times, and I arranged to be in places she planned to visit so I could watch her."

    "Did you ever talk to her?"

    "It was a disaster. When I tried to introduce myself, I froze, mouth open like a dead fish. It was awful. My attendant had to introduce me and said I was a fan. Helene was very nice about it and didn''t make fun of me at all, which is something I recommend for you!"

    "You never said anything?"

    "I blurted out, ''I want to be just like you!''" Anisca laughed at her younger self. "I even took lessons for a while, but I have whatever the opposite is of talent for the sword."

    "Did you run, after your declaration?"

    "No. I walked, very briskly."

    Taylor pretended to draw a line through the non-existent entry on his agenda.

    "We need to talk about my source in Kashmar," she said unexpectedly. "They''ve made contact with factions in the palace, but want to know your priorities. They say they''re at a crossroads and need direction if possible."

    By ''they'' Taylor assumed Anisca meant ''she'', as in one of her mother''s ladies-in-waiting. Taylor felt like he had a good grasp of Kashmar''s capabilities. It was hard to hide an army while it mustered for a campaign. What he lacked was information of a more personal sort, exactly the kind a lady-in-waiting could extract. "Our highest priority is the new Princeps, Zaid. What kind of person is he, how was he educated, what''s he like?"

    "You don''t want them to focus on battle plans?"

    "Any plans they have will be ruined from the outset, I''ve seen to that. I need to know about Zaid. Most of these campaigns are for show. They raid one or two gardens, carry away some women and some goods, and hold a parade. This one is supposed to be more determined, but I need to know how seriously he''s taking it. Will he turn around when the cost is too high, or will he spend every life in his command to achieve victory? How capable is he? Will he massacre captured civilians or treat them as his subjects? Or is there even a difference, to him? If I can have anything I want, then I want to know this man."

    "I''ll pass it on. That''s my last item for today."

    Taylor had one more of his own. "We need to talk about where you''ll be during the war. The day is coming when I can''t guarantee your safety anymore. They could send more assassins to kill off leadership or assault the city with a separate detachment. There could be fighting here. You could be captured or killed. If you want, we can send you to Red Tower or home to Lavradio. I''d rather not have to explain to King Leonardo how I lost his sister."

    "What do I get, if I stay?"

    Taylor blinked, several times. "Get?"

    "I''m aware of the dangers of staying, so now is the time to promise rewards. You do want me to stay, don''t you? Your encouragement to leave wasn''t even half-hearted."

    Taylor did want her to stay. Her work in the Greenhouse was beyond impressive: her discoveries about plant monstrification were unexpected and useful. And, he never imagined being able to fight this war without having to scrape by on minimal supplies. Somehow, she was able to get everything he needed from the gardens. Her lunches were interesting. She rarely complained without offering an alternative. She was a useful guide around complex social problems. Most importantly, he needed his link to the doyennes intact while he was fighting in the field.

    Their working relationship wasn''t comfortable, but it was highly effective. She wasn''t asking for money. If that''s what she wanted, she could return home. She wanted a place that would serve her needs. She needed purpose.

    Pasha was a temporary position, so she couldn''t be the doyenne of doyennes much longer. Even her days as the doyenne of Red Tower were numbered, as the next hierarch would want to choose their own. That gave her a maximum of ten years of influence.

    But Anisca hadn''t come with him to play Calique doyenne; She came to do research. Even now, she''d rather be monitoring plants at Red Tower than trading favors for supplies in Sand Castle. She felt the same about her Greenhouse as Taylor did about his Black Sanctuary. If either of them got a day off, research was their favorite way to spend it.

    Talal had observed that talent and ambition required useful direction. Game of Prelates highlighted what happened when the ambitious had nowhere to go.

    Taylor needed long-term help in a critical area. The position required social and organizational skills, established research ability, and a broad view of the sciences. Anisca was the only person he knew who was fit for the job.

    "After the war, I''m going to be very busy as Hierarch. I won''t have time to run The Nature Society properly, which is ironic given its importance to the future. We need to grow it into an international organization with chapters in every country. Between the church, my funding sources, and Nature Society patents in different countries, there will be a lot more money than we need for meetings and a newsletter. I plan to set aside a significant budget for research grants so people with good ideas but no money can get funding. However, someone has to review the proposals and check the results. They will need to build up a staff of capable people to help with that. There''s a lot of work to be done.

    "The Nature Society is the foundation of future technological advancement, so the Chair and Vice-Chair will have tremendous influence." Taylor waved away the future with a casual hand, "but it might be too much of a step down from Second Princess to Wise Anisca to Vice-Chair Francisca. What would your mother say?"

    "Do you mean it? I can allocate research funds?"

    "There has to be a committee, and you can''t self-deal, but you can be in charge of it."

    "And I get to see everything? All the submitted papers?"

    "Everything."

    "And I''ll have a real budget for a staff?"

    "Of course. It should grow handsomely over time."

    "And," her eyes flicked back and forth as she thought about her other desires, "I''ll get the first copy of your Mi''iri dictionary?"

    "It''ll have to be written in stages, but you''ll always have it first. I''ll even let you be the one who delivers the Keepers'' copy to them, so they owe you." Taylor knew details like that were important to her.

    "And you''ll start working on the dictionary as soon as the war is over."

    Taylor laughed at her greed for knowledge. "Only the three hundred most common symbols and a basic grammar guide. I can''t commit to more than that right away, but it''s enough to read signage and a lot of old text. We''ll have to compile the other few thousand symbols as we need them."

    "Very well. In exchange for a vice-chairmanship of The Nature Society with budgetary and research discretion and full access to any Mi''iri language translation materials, I will stay in Sand Castle as your doyenne, at the risk of death or capture."

    They rose to their feet and shook hands on the deal.

 A Prince of Kashmar

    A Prince of Kashmar

    ˇŞ Zaid, in Kashmar ˇŞ

    Zaid''s infantry corps was two thousand strong, all veterans of his campaigns against bandits, brigands, and pirates. His elite Chargers numbered five hundred. To those numbers, he was commanded to add two thousand from his domain.

    In the town of Bodrum, the center of his territory, Zaid had no trouble recruiting men: they were lined up and eager to serve. For the last few years, he''d allowed more village folk to move to Bodrum, looking for excitement and variety in town life. They came to learn skilled trades or eke out some greater measure of the Principality''s goods for themselves. But, these were not people accustomed to plotting their own courses in life. They found the going too hard, too uncertain, and they often longed for the surety of village life. The town''s population grew until crowding made life difficult enough that, when the Tyrant started mustering men for an invasion of South Kravikas, the men of Bodrum were eager to take up arms.

    Despite the bumper crop in Bodrum, the villages had to give their share. The Tyrant''s guidance and protection must be paid for, and collecting the tax of living men brought Zaid to Vanush village, as it did to all villages in his domain. The neat squares of tilled lands, each with its designated harvest, the terraced hillsides of grapes, the nearby coppiced woods where animals grazed tough grasses, the tributary river that added fish and transportation access, all of it working together under Zaid''s hand, pleased him. Vanush was where his education truly started. Lordlings were often given small territories to run, and this one was his first.

    The village gathered in neat rows, organized by family groups, washed and dressed in their eighth-day assembly clothes: Shapeless gray trousers tied at the waist and a colored tunic hung to mid-thigh, cinched in with a wide belt of rough fiber. Farmers wore green tunics, craftsmen wore blue, and the few scholars were in yellow. White was reserved for the alderman and his immediate helpers. Zaid was dressed in lordly black, the pants and gambeson well-fitted to his frame with seams piped bright in red. A shirt of black iron mail was draped over him, a rare and costly armor that had saved him more than once. His cloak was black monster hide with the lining dyed red.

    There was no doubt who the Lord was of Vanush. A large painting of Zaid decorated the shrine next to that of his father, Tyrant Ormaz, their matching ruffs of coarse red hair and prominent canines marking them as descendants of Founder Hadith. When the villagers prayed to Olyon during mandatory weekly services, their Lord''s and Tyrant''s faces looked down on them. Authority flowed directly from their God to their Tyrant to their Lord. Without the oversized image of him hanging in the sacred space, these people would know him from his frequent visits, especially those who moved in when he''d first taken over the village.

    Zaid''s size and strength led him naturally to the Chargers, Kashmar''s elite cavalry. Once he passed the hellish training phase, he was quick to win military honors and gain promotions. When restless Dacian lords probed the border in the north or brigands came ashore to pillage, Kashmari Chargers were deployed to handle them. They showed no mercy to the enemy unless one counted a quick death as merciful.

    Zaid''s Tyrant father made free use of him in those years, yet he ranked twenty-fifth among the princes of Kashmar. His banner, a black manticore against a yellow field, hung in the citadel''s Great Hall, in the back, far away from Tyrant Ormaz''s throne. And there he would have stayed for the remainder of his years, if not for the revolt.

    One of Zaid''s cousins, the eighteenth-ranked Kamran, had so mismanaged Vanush that the town rebelled. Men and women armed themselves with farming tools and killed the alderman, drove away the other administrators, and refused to pay their taxes. The job of pacifying the farmers was given to Zaid and his Chargers, and he set to the job as he would any other. He exterminated the enemy and any family who might seek revenge, down to the smallest babes.

    When Zaid stood before Tyrant Ormaz, with the eyes of assembled princes at his back, his father injured him with faint praise. "That was very effective. At the least, no one will carry a grudge against the divine mandate of <Our> rule."Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

    Then, he addressed the Great Hall. "Listen all to <My> judgment. Kamran is stricken from the line of princes. <I> appoint Prince Zaid as Lord of Vanush, under the tutelage of Prince Gobert, Lord of Bodrum."

    That year, Zaid''s rank fell from twenty-fifth to eightieth, last place. He was Lord of Vanush, a town without people or taxes. So began a decade very different from what Zaid had imagined for himself. Instead of tracking lawless smugglers, he had to find other territories willing to transfer people to him, often at significant cost. He recruited an alderman, found or raised skilled people, deployed capital, and called upon agricultural scholars. His rank didn''t budge for the first three years, but starting from his fourth year as a Lord his rank rose quickly.

    Like the crops they grew, serfs needed the right conditions to thrive in the way Zaid wanted: organized, populous, and obedient. Every serf required enough housing, enough land to keep their hands busy, and the prospect of finding a mate. They required festivals ˇŞ enough days off to feel themselves fortunate. They needed all that and more, but not too much of anything.

    Killing all of Vanush was an expensive mistake, but it yielded many valuable lessons.

    When Prince Gobert was raised to third rank to become Prime Minister, Zaid took his place as Lord of Bodrum and was raised to sixth. He had long been in Gobert''s tutelage and knew the town and the environs better than anyone.

    Zaid could become the next Tyrant. He had the pedigree and was at the right age, nearing forty just as his father passed sixty. He had as much military experience as any high-ranking prince and still rode the borderlands when there was trouble. He had proven he could rule well enough to leave his domain in the hands of others. The campaign against Calique rebels in the south was his last best chance to prove himself to Tyrant Ormaz.

    One of the ten recruits, not a volunteer but chosen by the alderman, had tried to run. Zaid sent a sergeant and his men after the fleeing recruit, and they chased him down on foot. They were supposed to bring him back in one piece, but ˇ­

    "He''s no use to me like this." What should have been an able recruit was returned to Zaid with a broken foot.

    "Do you want me to dispatch him, Your Lordship?" The soldier drew his weapon, a simple bronze sword.

    "And compound the losses? No. This injury should heal." The man hadn''t fallen: his foot had been stomped on by a heavy boot, across the instep. "Alderman, have a healer look over him, and give him the coward''s mark. Someone else will take his place." His eyes were scanning the formation of villagers. "If it needs to be re-set, report the sum to me. I''ll take it out of this man''s pay."

    "Your Lordship! He ran from his duties! I brought him to you as ordered!" The sergeant was on one knee, now that he realized he was in trouble.

    "It was your job to catch him so I could put him in the army. It''s pointless to train him in this condition. Now I''ll need a replacement."

    Zaid scanned the formation of villagers. He wanted young, but not cry-for-mother young. He wanted someone fit and tall enough to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with the other men. He walked along the center aisle, scanning as he went. They were grouped by families. All of them looked straight ahead. The young ones stole glances at him as he passed, then looked away, afraid. They heard what had happened to this village, why it was empty when their parents came here, and that he was responsible.

    "I volunteer!" A young man broke the neat lines by stepping forward. He was a little on the heavy side, but tall and broad in the shoulder. Training would put more muscle in the right places.

    "That''s Tishk," said the nervous alderman, "I doubt Your Lordship will want him."

    "What''s wrong with him?"

    Tishk didn''t wait for the alderman but answered for him. "I like to fight, Your Lordship."

    "He''s a nuisance who picks fights with anyone and everyone. Your Lordship, I''d be happy to be rid of this one but I can''t in good conscience recommend him. He doesn''t take direction well. He thinks anyone who can''t stand against him isn''t worth listening to."

    To Zaid, he sounded like perfect young warrior material. He walked around the farmer, noted the thickened skull and hide-like skin. "Show me your teeth." The youth opened his mouth wide and drew back his lips to show off rows of sharp, pointed teeth. Some commanders looked down on biters, but not Zaid. Teeth were an excellent weapon in a grapple. Zaid had bitten his fair share of enemies.

    "You don''t like it here, in my village?"

    Tishk looked around him as if considering the notion for the first time. "It''s all right for most of them. But I''m not cut out to be a farmer. Your Lordship."

    "In the army, you''ll be taught how to fight in groups. You will fight who and when you''re told to fight, and none other. If that''s a problem for you, I''ll make you wish you had stayed a farmer."

    "As long as there''s fighting, Your Lordship, I''m yours."

    The Lord looked over his nearest serfs. There was no father or brother, but there was a mother who wept silent tears for her departing son. "Be proud, Woman. You have a son fit for service."

    He sent the new men off with the sergeant, who formed them up and set them to marching. As he left the village of Vanush, mounted on his black appalon, there were tears at his back. Let the women cry: it was proof he had been there.

 Princeps

    Princeps

    ˇŞ Prince Zaid, Kashmar ˇŞ

    A summons from Father was rare. Zaid saw him often enough at ceremonies and during regular business. There should have been no need to summon him from Bodrum. Certainly not when he was training new soldiers.

    The new men had finally learned to set their tents, march, set a wall of spears, and perform all those tasks in straight lines. The spear wall was the best and cheapest defense against Calique light cavalry, but spears were no good if they weren''t where the commander needed them. So the men marched up to eighty kilometers in a day while lugging food, tents, bedrolls, and water. All of it together was heavy. Under ideal conditions their gear would be carried by gurantor train, but wars were seldom ideal. So they made fast, heavy marches from field to field, where they pitched their tents in straight lines and practiced maneuvers until they dropped. They were allowed to eat, rest, recover, and then marched to a different field another eighty kilometers distant.

    Tishk wasn''t lying when he said he liked to fight. Most men could fight if you put them shoulder-to-shoulder and made them face an enemy together, but fighting in open melee required someone more accustomed to violence, more eager for the kill, so men like Tishk were tapped by the training sergeants and instructed as more rounded fighters, with extra weapon drills on rest days and numerous practice bouts. Such men were often too eager and had to be cautioned against injuring each other too badly. There wasn''t enough time for serious hurts to heal before the corps moved south. A broken bone was a ticket home, with a shamefully small purse of final pay on the side.

    Besides two thousand men who needed training and supplies, Zaid had a bevy of Lordlings to watch over, low-ranked princes who managed towns under his tutelage. He didn''t want them to fail while he was away fighting rebels. That would only be more work for him in the long run, and endanger his ranking.

    With so much to prepare and regular encounters with Father already guaranteed, Zaid was surprised to receive the Tyrant''s summon. As he passed through Kashmar''s gate, guards handed him a second summons from the Prime Minister, his old tutor Gobert. He wanted to meet on the Princes'' Wall.

    The western battlements of Kashmar''s citadel were a popular gathering spot for the men of Hadith''s Line. The castle occupied a tall hill overlooking the harbor. Six men could march abreast on those battlements with room left to spare. The buildings within the castle''s walls were grand and made of stone. Only the highest-ranking princes, their families, and their servants lived within the castle walls.And the Tyrant, of course, who occupied floors of the citadel.

    From the top of the wall and the steeply carved hillside beneath it, there was a hundred-fifty-meter drop to the city streets below: a dizzying height. From that commanding point a prince could see the harbor district of the city, the ships in their docks, and the Bay of Tyrants beyond. The bay was a little less crowded than a month ago now the land routes were open again. Some older ships, pressed into service when transportation commanded sky-high prices, sat idle or abandoned at anchor. They were too unreliable when safe land routes were available. The far mouth of Tyrants'' Bay was guarded by promontories surmounted by the Horns, twin defensive towers bristling with ballistae. Each horn was topped with a heavy trebuchet capable of sinking warships.

    More of the city spread north and south of the citadel''s hill, spreading wide along the gently sloping land until it met the bounding hills. Grand estates occupied high ground around the city, imitating Kashmar''s keep. The castle overlooked the only easy entrance to the city''s protected valley.

    When Zaid climbed to the battlements and saw what company he was in, he noticed all of the Founding Hadith''s great works were present. First, the princely corps commanders represented the destined blood of Hadith, the line favored by Olyon to rule Kashmar. They stood upon the second Great Work, the castle walls of Kashmar that were never breached. And their view was of the harbor, the third Great Work. A river used to run through the area, but most of it was diverted to the north, with a measured remainder permitted to flow down its old course through the city. The land was reclaimed with hard work and an incalculable amount of imported soil.

    Ten princes greeted each other as they arrived. All of them were commanders of armed corps, from fifteenth-ranked Dino and his five hundred to sixth-ranked Zaid and his four and a half thousand. There were thirty thousand spears represented, the greatest host Kashmar had ever assembled. Half of those troops were recently recruited, minimally trained, and equipped with basic gear. Zaid was gratified to see none of the usual backstabbers. Father normally liked to pit them against each other, watch them form alliances, and observe as those alliances fell apart. He wasn''t playing games, this time. He wanted to reclaim the South and unite Kravikas.

    The Prime Minister joined them, a yellow-clad scholar close behind. "There''s been news from the river lands," he said without preamble. "The construction crew returned. They had to bypass Satoma because the rebels now occupy it, and they aren''t letting anyone near the oasis. We haven''t heard from Princeps Samir or any other advanced forces in weeks, so we must assume the worst. Our Tyrant will decide on a commander to lead the campaign today, and tonight will be a lament for Samir."

    "My gold is on Zaid," said one of the corps commanders, "any takers?"

    "Okber," said another, "but I want good odds." The other princes laughed, even Okber. Zaid might be sixth, but he was ranked higher than any of Ormaz''s other children. Ranks two through five were held by ministers, who were all the Tyrant''s brothers and half-brothers. Zaid had half-expected to serve as one of Princeps Samir''s ministers until he got the bright idea to build an advance base at Satoma and live there part-time. If Zaid were a rebel, he would have attacked Satoma, too.

    Princeps Samir had prepared both Zaid and Okber to take over for him in case the uncertainties of war took his life. This was coming sooner than expected, but it had been planned for. Zaid was ready to lead the campaign.

    "Why the urgency?" ninth-ranked Okber asked. "We haven''t heard from him in weeks, so this isn''t a total surprise. Why call us on a half day''s notice?"

    "An Enclave Guardian is here. She had an audience with the Tyrant. Not even I know what they talked about, but <He> asked her to address the assembly."Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.

    "A woman?" There were mutterings among the top-ranked princes gathered. What was the point of letting a woman speak in the Assembly of Princes?

    "Not just any woman, but Enclave Leadership," the prime minister corrected them. "You''d do well to listen to what she says. Our Tyrant thinks she''s important enough to bring you here."

    A message runner found Zaid as the gathering broke up. He was a lad with Hadith markers, especially the tufted tail. He knelt and offered boards to Zaid and ran off again as soon as they were accepted. If the boy showed uncommon promise, he might earn a rank someday. If he became a problem, he''d be disposed of. A tyrant had to prune weak branches from the family tree to make way for the strong ones.

    The message was from Jaida, Zaid''s lovely concubine. She was done mourning their son and would receive Zaid again. It would take a few days to make time for her, but she was something to look forward to. Both of his wives were political matches, needy females who always demanded things from him. Money. Favors for their families. Better conditions. More clothes. The best tutors for their children. Tickets to the theater. His time. His attention. A pretense of love. Sinecures for their families. Money. It was endless and exhausting.

    Jaida was his escape. He gave her a respectable house in the wealthy merchant''s district near the castle, where she was convenient to visit while remaining out of the way of all the princes'' wives. Her house was his private oasis, where he neededn''t worry about anything. She was the model woman: beautiful, attentive, and undemanding. He would write to her when the Assembly of Princes was finished.

    "Princeps Samir has fallen. He died as he fulfilled his duty to Kashmar and our Tyrant. He will be remembered." The Prime Minister''s voice filled the long Assembly Hall, where most of the seventy-nine current princes gathered. Above their heads hung banners of the first twenty-five of them. The foremost banner was taken down, a field of blue with two white franango. Three victory streamers hung from it to represent Samir''s military successes. The banner was neatly folded, and the square of cloth was handed to Gobert, who transferred it to Tyrant Ormaz. Ormaz kissed the banner of his dead son, the one who, for a time, was his chosen successor, then passed the banner on to a yellow-clad scholar. The banner and a record of Samir''s life would be stored where later princes could visit them and learn. Not many princes spent time down there, but Zaid had visited long enough to locate the banners of famous princes resting atop the boards memorializing their deeds and read them. There were thousands of such banners, almost to the beginning of Kashmar, atop stacks of boards waiting to be read. Being stricken from the Hadith line meant one''s record would not be stored in the archives. To be removed from the family line was to be intentionally erased.

    The Tyrant spoke. "In normal times <I> would let the first rank remain unoccupied until at least the lament was done. But, as Hadith''s line prepares to win back the South for all time, there must be a Princeps to lead <Our> forces, the greatest army Kashmar has ever assembled. Zaid, <My> son, come forward."

    Zaid acted calm, but his heart pounded like he had thrown himself into battle. He knelt before the Tyrant on both knees and placed his head on the lowest step of the dais. This was as close as anyone could come to Father during Assembly unless they were an immediate functionary. But, Zaid could not presume he was gaining the first rank. Sometimes, a Tyrant called a prince forward to take their heads. On such occasions, the Tyrant cut first and explained after.

    "What is the Tyrant''s will?" Zaid intoned. "This son of Blessed Hadith will serve."

    "You are <My> successor. Arise, Princeps Zaid!"

    "Arise!" repeated the Assembly, "Princeps Zaid!"

    With Zaid installed in his new place, standing by the Tyrant, the Enclave Guardian was called forth for her address. Most of the princes didn''t have advance notice they were to hear from a woman and complained restlessly when she appeared. What could a woman have to say to them? It wasn''t entirely unprecedented: foreign nations sometimes sent female ambassadors. Either they did it on purpose, or they could not find a qualified man to represent them. In the church''s case, it was likely meant as a reminder their legitimacy was derived from Bahram''s sanction.

    Zaid''s first act as Princeps was to command the assembled princes to silence. "The Enclave Guardian will be heard." They settled and resigned themselves to the awkwardness.

    Guardian Maia was a stately woman late into her childbearing years and cold-eyed as any old warrior. She began in good form, spending a scarce minute (the time dial turned over only once) thanking the Tyrant for his hospitality and the chance to address them all. She spent another minute reminding them of Kashmar''s shared history with the Enclave, hundreds of years of cooperation and mutual benefit. Of all the great families in the world, only the five First Families of Enclave were more blessed than the Princely line of the Free City. No country had benefitted as much from Kashmari trade as Enclave, and no other country had received more disciple support.

    Her preamble done, the Guardian set to making her argument. "A historic moment is upon us, a time when far-reaching decisions must be made. A pretender rises in the South, one who casts doubt on what we know is true. He claims First Family Heritage is a lie, and therefore Blessed Hadith''s Destiny is a lie. He wants to tear down the pillars that have supported civilization for hundreds of years.

    "I need not remind this august Assembly of its illustrious association with the true Unity Church and our founder, Saint Bahram, who gave Olyon''s blessing to Hadith''s line. Generations later, your three Great Works stand strong. You give proof of Olyon''s blessing through your continued rule. Your great fortress had never fallen. Tyrants'' Bay, which your ancestors carved out from the sea, is the greatest port in the world and brings you riches from the farthest ends of Tenobre.

    "When we speak of the Five Families in Enclave, we speak of our Fate in being chosen by divine Olyon to bear a strong spirit. But when we speak of Hadith''s Line, we speak of Destiny. When Hadith first came North to this fertile but undeveloped land to bring its people under his disciplined reign, that was Destiny.

    "When Hadith''s sons carved the port of Tyrants'' Bay, claiming deep water from the sucking mud, that was Destiny. And when Hadith''s grandchildren raised this mighty fortress to command all of Kashmar, when they set the foundation of a wall that would stand for centuries, rarely besieged and never breached, that was Destiny. Saint Bahram saw your ancestor''s strength, blessed Hadith''s Line, and commanded the Five Families to work jointly with Kashmar. That too was Destiny.

    "But Destiny is not given. It is offered to those strong enough to take it. And now, right now, it is offered once again. The Calique have never been weaker. They are led by a child, a charlatan who pretends to be a saint. He uses tricks and stolen knowledge to deceive his followers, while he secretly perverts the Creator''s will and undermines the futures of all Tenobre''s people. He sabotages alliances, questions long-established doctrines, and diverts the faithful with perverse songs and entertainments.

    "Our enemies have united. Kashmar''s rebels now fight for Enclave''s false saint. The Council of Guardians offers Tyrant Ormaz assistance in the form of twenty-one disciples." The princes stirred at that number. Never had so many disciples been deployed at one time, not even when the church put down their most famous rogue disciple. The few princes who had fought with disciple backing spoke excitedly to their neighbors. One practitioner could change a monster hunt from hopeless to easy. Whatever lingering worries they felt about the strange Pasha in the south were erased.

    Zaid had to calm them again to allow Guardian Maia to continue. "Enclave will not act with half-measures while Kashmar gives its all. Therefore, we have contracted twenty thousand warriors from the Hyskos Grand Company."

    This time, the princes applauded, something they rarely did for a guest. Scholars would later record it was the only time a woman spoke at the Assembly of Princes and received such appreciation. As soon as Zaid got them quiet again, Tyrant Ormaz welcomed Enclave''s contribution.

    As the Assembly broke up, Prime Minister Gobert grabbed Zaid''s arm to pull him into another meeting. His letter to sweet Jaida would need to wait.

 Assessments

    Assessments

    They met in a sunny third-floor room, one of the odder meeting spaces in the Citadel. The style of furniture was two centuries out of date: ornately carved pieces draped in silk brocade in as many bright colors as could be gathered in one place without permanently searing the eyes. Zaid could hardly bear to look at it, but the others pretended not to notice the rioting palette. Refreshments were on the table beside stacks of boards and rolls of parchment. The room was cleared of servants, and the meeting was seated: the Tyrant first, followed by Zaid, Gobert, and Guardian Maia. If Maia hadn''t been present, Father would have excused them all to do as they wished, but instead they had to follow the usual order of these things: who poured tea for whom, and in what order they all drank and then helped themselves to the delicately constructed bites of food. They dispensed with the ritual as quickly as they could without anyone giving or taking offense. At least the woman had good manners and could behave according to her (normally male) position.

    "As you imagine, the mercenaries and disciples are not gifts," said Ormaz. His good pronunciation was the product of a lifetime of hard work. It was difficult to speak clearly through large canines and a beastly snout. "They were offered with conditions, but I have allowed it since they align with our goals. First, all of Nexus must be put to the sword. No exceptions. Second, destroy the gardens with fire ˇŞ all except Sand Castle. As for the rebels, kill every male over five years old and any woman beyond childbearing age. Capture the remainder and hand them over to Hyskos. We will profit when they go on the market. You may ask questions."

    Zaid, who remembered his mistake at Vanush, asked, "Tyrant, there won''t be anything left to rule except some roads. Do <you> have a specific plan for the future?"

    "Hadith''s Line has captured Sand Castle twice and lost it twice. The desert dwellers have proven themselves impossible to rule. So, we won''t rule them. The South will be a new regional authority under the Princeps, with Sand Castle at its center, populated by loyal Northerners. It will be good practice for taking my place."

    Prime Minister Gobert nodded in understanding. "And the rebels can''t return without shelter or men to protect them."

    "And Kashmar will control transportation by land and sea," added Zaid, "which adds to profit. Faith in Hadith''s Line will only increase, once we unify the country." Faith and profit were less obvious sources of power than men under arms, but they were equally crucial.

    "This chance will never come again. Return victorious, my son, or do not return."

    Tyrant Ormaz left to tend to other business.

    "If I may," offered Guardian Maia, with her palm on one of the stacks of boards, "these are official Enclave reports on the heretic and his Nexus. You may find them useful."

    Her tone of voice carried a discordant doubt, live bait for an inquisitive mind like Gobert''s. "What''s wrong with the reports?"

    "It''s fashionable these days to prove one''s loyalty to Enclave with long, unnecessary paeans to Heritage. It can be distracting. You''ll be served best by reading past it."

    "I see. And, what happened to Phillip''s entries in the Luminous Histories? I checked the temple''s archives, and many lines from the last year are blacked out."

    "Recently, doubts were cast over his past deeds. The Histories have been updated." To Zaid''s blank expression, Maia explained, "The Luminous Histories is a record of disciple Works. Copies of that log are promulgated downward each year to the major temples. Lately, the deans have issued waves of corrections. We''ll need to republish the last few years in their entirety."

    Zaid had covered a blunder or two at the Tyrant''s behest. Even when the truth was well-known among princes, sometimes it had to be hidden from the serfs. He had never heard of anyone re-issuing years of public record. "What''s your opinion of the young, heretical Pasha? I take it you''re not in the majority?"

    "Enclave''s official opinion is he''s a peacock, all noise and feathers. It would be treason against my Vow to speak well of him in any way. It''s forbidden to note The Enemy''s strange intelligence and outrageous achievements or to suggest we erred by not bringing him into the fold when we had the chance. My report is at the bottom of the pile. It''s been updated by the deans in light of new events.

    "Do not ask me any more on the subject of Phillip the Younger. A smart ruler has their own sources of intelligence and I suggest you use them to augment our own. My final purpose today is to give you this." She pushed forward a flat, rectangular box made of gray metal. It was surprisingly light when Zaid touched it, and its lid opened easily on silent hinges.

    "An identical box is on its way to Hyskos for your mercenary commander. Put something in the box, a message for example, and close the lid. In time, the contents of the two boxes will be exchanged: what was in your box appears in the distant one, and whatever was in that box will appear in yours. You''ll know when the exchange happens because the box rattles. The timing is somewhat unpredictable. If you haven''t used it in several days, it happens immediately. Otherwise, it can take a while.

    "These are exceedingly rare devices, and they are on loan. We expect them to be returned in good condition."

    She sounded like Zaid''s mother, scolding him over broken stoneware. Normally, he would bristle at such a tone, but his attention was on his wondering fingers as they explored the ancient device. Coordinating forces over long distances was always a gamble. One never knew if the other army would be in place or on time, if they ran into trouble or achieved their objectives. The uncertainties grew rapidly with distance, and Kashmar was more than a gurantor week from Grand Company''s headquarters in Hyskos. A command mechanism like this removed much uncertainty.Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.

    The guardian rose to leave, but Gobert still had questions. "Guardian Maia, will you come to my house for dinner tonight? You haven''t received proper hospitality since your arrival, and I''d like to make up for that lack."

    "The temple is more than adequate, thank you. I return to Enclave first thing in the morning." She left with only the slightest of bows and made good her escape. The minister would have kept at her for hours if she hadn''t.

    "This pile is my latest intelligence," Gobert pointed his chin at a larger stack of boards and a pyramid of rolled-up parchments. "He splits his time between the city and the field, where he runs the rebels through maneuvers. We think they''re practicing specific scenarios, but it''s hard to be sure. Any scout that gets too close disappears. We''ve updated the list of known watering holes."

    Gobert pulled the top board from the pile "One item of note: they''re funding their war efforts with gems. We''ve known for a while he''s had surveyors all over the desert. Now we know what he was looking for. Rebels are selling raw stones in the eastern markets at absurdly low prices."

    Zaid took the offered report and scanned it. "Part of the payment has to be in goods, doesn''t it? Lavradio and its neighbors are paying token amounts. They must be sending him food and bronze."

    "There''s a list in there of caravans that''ve visited and whatever''s known about their cargo. A fair quantity of goods have been offloaded into rebel warehouses instead of the exchange."

    "Aren''t you going to tell the Guardian about the gems?"

    "I would have if she''d stayed and told me more of what Enclave is holding back. We''ll have a location on the mine soon, but it will cost us. We don''t give out that kind of information for free."

    A functioning mine implied nearby water for its workers and a potential hiding place for the enemy. It could be profitable in the future, too. Kashmar''s only involvement with the gem business was providing transport and, sometimes, security. But the Princeps could profit from a mine without digging up the gems. Enclave might lease the land from him or pay him to collapse the mine and erase its existence from living memory.

    They sat together for a while, digging through Enclave''s reports. Maia hadn''t lied about the amount of ink wasted on puffery, but that didn''t change the reporters'' evaluation of Phillip the Younger. He had no Heritage and was insufficiently trained. His ideas about the ''sun cycle'' were outlandish. The training methods he used on his followers were perverse. The young man''s successes were owed to his unusual charisma and low cunning.

    The Prime Minister''s reports described someone who enjoyed the counsel of better, more experienced people. He was constantly guarded, even among the Nexus faithful. When girls played the Calique kissing game with him (foreign women were famously loose, and rebel women doubly so) they only escaped him in tears. He seldom performed any prayers except Benediction, which he gave during eighth-day services.

    His best attribute was a good work ethic: he trained with weapons regularly and made most of his appointments on time. But, disciples were supposed to have prayers and bulwarks to protect them, so why the daily expense of sweating behind a spear?

    "So," prompted Gobert, "what do you think?"

    "I think he''s a puppet, held up by better men. Not the Calique, of course: their men aren''t that clever. But these high-ranking people in Nexus are all defectors. They''re using him to take down Enclave. They must have some collective grudge against their old church."

    "I think he''s a better practitioner than Enclave is telling us." Gobert was starting an argument, and Zaid was supposed to take the other side.

    "Blood is everything. Hadith''s Line rules the Free City because we have the fang and brains for it. The Five Families are blessed with spirit. You can''t have strong practitioners without Heritage."

    "So they claim. What if it isn''t true?" An uncertain silence stretched between them, weighted with implications. The Five Families were recognized by Saint Bahram, the same saint who blessed Hadith''s Line. If Bahram''s foresight was in doubt ˇ­

    "This sounds suspiciously like treason, Uncle."

    "What would happen if, in some unthinkable future generation, the princes of Kashmar took their rule for granted and stopped trying? If your grandchildren didn''t study governance, didn''t arm themselves, didn''t prune the weak from our line, what would happen then?"

    "They would fail Destiny." Zaid''s head bobbled derisively. "They would not be true Hadith."

    "I went to the temple the other day to look up this Phillip character. The priests had just finished blacking out the ex-communicated disciples from the past three years. Do you know what''s left? Most of it is one disciple who does nothing but build roads. They''ve killed or excommunicated their best talent, and now that talent has been anointed by Phillip the Younger."

    "Impossible," Zaid said flatly. "Only Enclave can bestow prayers."

    "And yet Darkmaw is dead," Gobert reminded him, "that''s a tangible, incontrovertible fact. Phillip the Younger killed her with music and lightning." Zaid scoffed, but Gobert continued, "There were hundreds of witnesses. And there was that disturbance in Kashpam a while ago, remember? Enclave tried to cover it up, but my sources say Dean Katerina was killed. And a battalion of Dacian cavalry was decimated by a force they never saw.

    "All of this points to an adversary who is more competent than Enclave wants to admit. Or, they''ve grown so complacent that a below-average disciple of sufficient wit is a threat to them."

    "But they want him dead. They want it badly enough to empty their vaults, send their disciples, and give us this!" Zaid gestured at the metal box. "Why would they lie to us?"

    "It''s not just us they''re trying to convince, is it? Your imaginary, lackluster grandchildren wouldn''t want to think poorly of themselves, would they?"

    Gobert let him think on that a minute, but he wasn''t done. "Then there''s all these new inventions. Paper, mechanical printing, glass, sounding boards, all came from Nexus. We should assume he''s been channeling that talent into warfare."

    Zaid felt the first twinges of worry. If his opponent could use the sounding boards in both directions, his tiny force could scatter and re-form on command.

    "At least he''s a child," Zaid said finally. "He lacks experience."

    "And so do you." Zaid almost gave his uncle a sharp reply. Minister or not, he shouldn''t talk down to someone like that, especially the Princeps. Anyone whose banner hung in the Citadel''s Great Hall deserved some respect, even from the Prime Minister. But, Gobert held out a pacifying hand. "This war you''re undertaking ˇ­ nobody has commanded fifty thousand troops in the field since scripture''s final pages were written. In that sense, it is just as new to you as it is to him."

 Jaidas Villa

    Jaida''s Villa

    His first wife had to be seen first. As his capital wife, Taraneh often brought him information about what the other princes were thinking. She knew all the other capital wives, especially the high-ranking ones living in Citadel, and her role would only increase with his promotion.

    Taraneh was impatient to get another child, so they drank lovers'' herbs and lay together every night. Then, as soon as she had his seed, she was immediately after him about improving their living conditions. They couldn''t get a better home within Citadel because quarters for upper princes were roughly equal. Some dwellings boasted more floor space at the expense of the grounds or had a better view in exchange for less convenience, but there was little to be gained by changing locations. However, the first-ranked prince received first-ranked pay, and Taraneh was ready to spend it all to redecorate in the most sumptuous style she could imagine. In the endless nights Zaid spent with her, he learned she could imagine a lot.

    When he grew tired of her, he caustically said, "You should have married a merchant. You''re greedy enough." He left her bed to sleep alone in a separate room. She could make one of her old handmaidens keep her warm and listen to her complaints.

    Zaid still had work to do in Bodrum to feel secure in handing it over. So he spent part of each week there with his second wife, Negin. She was a working wife, someone with the skills required to help manage his domain, and her needs were very different. She filled his calendar with meetings and work, but everything she wanted benefited both of them.

    He didn''t know what he would do with her when Bodrun was given to another prince, an inevitability now that he was destined to be Tyrant. The Tyrant''s quarters had separate wings for separate wives, but even that much distance might not be enough. Taraneh was greedy and jealous, while Negin was superior and scornful. And, Negin wouldn''t be half as useful to him in the capital as she had been in Bodrum.

    It was possible to hand a wife to another husband. Usually, this happened when a man died without leaving any viable heirs. Sometimes, a wife would be given as part of a territory because she had deep and irreplaceable connections to the area. Very rarely, a wife would get a new husband by consent of all parties involved, but it required some pretext. No prince could be perceived as giving up a wife to someone else because she preferred it. Negin''s youngest child was nearly grown, so it wouldn''t inconvenience her unduly, but would the new Lord of Bodrun be wise enough to take her? None of those difficulties would need to be faced if he could find work for Negin in the capital while keeping her and Taraneh far apart.

    It took weeks to gain a free afternoon to spend with Jaida. When he arrived at her villa in the shadow of Citadel''s mount, she didn''t meet him at the door. Instead, her seven silent handmaidens welcomed him, offered him refreshments, and relieved him of his armor and every other article of clothing, layer by layer, peeling off his duties and concerns. They were pretty things: young without being too young to gaze at; beautiful without being more beautiful than their mistress.

    For him, they were untouchable: their beast traits were too weak or of the wrong sort. Hadith''s line had refined the leonid traits for a century, in a bid to restore the power of shape-shifting. It would be a fourth Great Work when it was accomplished, further proof they were destined to rule. There was little doubt the founder and the two subsequent generations could change from men into animals and back again, but the power was lost long ago by a Tyrant who loved the wrong woman, a lowly woman whose greatest power was to charm him. He died with only her half-breed sons to succeed him. That was when Tyrants started taking more wives and expanding their families until there were hundreds of Hadiths to choose from. They were perfecting the line, and it was pointless to mate with anyone who didn''t share strong leonid traits.

    The untouchable handmaidens soaped him, scrubbed him, and left him in a soaking tub full of hot water. Jaida would come to him after he was sufficiently relaxed and sit with him for a while. That was their ritual, and he blessed her for it every time he came to her house. No meetings, no reports, no training. The space existed purely to help him put aside his duties.

    In all of Taraneh''s decorative imaginings, she never thought of anything he wanted. It was her entertainments, her comfort, and her kitchen to cater to her guests she always thought about. It would not occur to her to install a bath because he liked it. If leisurely bathing ever became fashionable, she''d be the first to install the most ornate, most garish bathing room gold could buy.

    As expected, Jadia appeared just as the day''s concerns were melted into puddles of their former selves. Her full body of red fur, elegant tail, swaying hips, round green eyes, the claws on her toes that clicked along the stony floor, all of her entranced him. It had always been that way with her, ever since they met. She wasn''t high enough status to marry him properly, but her strong traits and second-degree relation to the Line were good enough for an acceptable concubine. He was glad to see her ˇŞ glad enough to smile for the first time in days. She kissed him deeply, their naked bodies barely touching, until the last stubborn vestiges of the day were forgotten. Bed play would come later. For now, they sat next to each other, arms and shoulders touching, not saying anything.

    "This is Vivian. She''s temporary," explained Jaida, "to fill in for Susan when she goes to visit her parents. She''s a treasure. You must try her."

    "She''s not your usual type." Zaid was looking at a dark-haired woman with no discernable beast traits, clothed only in a short robe. She was very healthy and symmetrical, but a little plain and possibly as old as thirty. Jaida usually preferred to surround herself with little sisters, like the girl Susan standing next to her. Zaid usually took Susan, but if Jaida recommended the new girl so strongly, he was willing to try her.This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

    "Vivian it is." Zaid dropped his robe to the floor and nakedly mounted the narrow table. Vivian approached with hands scented by expensive oil and exotic flowers from Mialta. Within minutes, he understood why Jaida had picked her. Whatever massage secrets the woman knew were practically like their own Art. She found every knot and tension still hiding inside him and eased them away until Zaid was floating. Whatever Jaida was paying her new masseuse, it was silver well spent.

    Sometime after the girls left them, Zaid turned his head to Jaida, who lay on a matching table, watching him with bright eyes. "Are you hungry yet?"

    "Starving." He rolled off gently, and they helped each other put on robes. No visitors would disturb them today, so they could dress (or not) however they liked while they dined. As they crossed the villa from the bath to where dinner would be served, they passed Jaida''s family shrine. Princes and their wives didn''t keep such displays ˇŞ they had the archives for honoring their ancestors. But other families kept images of their loved ones, tiny statuettes of forebearers arranged in scenic displays, surrounded by tokens of symbolic importance. He''d seen Jaida''s many times, but now it had a new member: a child of five, traitless, standing with his favorite ball grasped in both hands. He was surrounded by uncles, grandparents, and great-grandparents.

    "I brought an offering," he said. The candle was already by the display. He''d passed it to one of the handmaidens, who knew where it should go without asking. It was a wax taper scaled for a household ancestor display, expensively perfumed with whispering colony trees. He lit the fragrant candle and placed it in a tiny holder to burn in memory of their son.

    After the boy turned five, Zaid took him on an outing during Founder''s Week. He was a curious boy, well-mannered, and excited about his first outing alone with his father. They put on masks and watched the street dancers and puppet shows from a second-floor balcony. When he tired of that, they went among the masked celebrants in the street, close to the hero''s procession, and watched the parade of giant puppets, each one a heroic prince wearing a face like the masks around them and wielding accessories related to their deeds.

    Jaida had done a good job of raising him. He knew the different masks representing the heroic princes and what most of them had done. He asked questions about the few he didn''t know. After the last heroic prince passed them by, they sampled food hawked by vendors on the street. The boy ate well but wasn''t messy about it.

    When the sun was four fingers from the horizon, Zaid took the boy to an Enclave healer who specialized in beast traits. After a brief examination, the healer told Zaid what he already knew: there were no lingering traits waiting to reveal themselves. The boy was smooth-skinned. Zaid paid the Enclave healer according to the usual scale, and they boarded a carriage to their next destination: a magnificent overlook.

    The boy was sleepy by the time they arrived, but Zaid took him in his arms and walked to the edge so they could look west into the sunset. The sea was far below them, a distant churning of white-capped ripples. The vast ocean stretched out before them.

    "Tell me about the cardinal points," prompted Zaid. Every child learned about the directions.

    "North is Order. South is Chaos. East is where souls come from. West is where our souls go when we die. Can we go home now?"

    "In a minute. Are you thirsty?" The boy indicated he was, so Zaid handed him a small stoneware bottle sealed with wax. Inside was milk, and his son drank it down in one pull.

    "I''m sorry Father, that was rude of me. Did you want some, too?"

    Zaid''s heart skipped a beat, then pounded at him painfully. He didn''t anticipate being so affected by this son.

    "No, I''m fine. The sun is almost down, so let''s stay until then. Hold my hand so you don''t fall off."

    The boy put a trusting hand into his larger one, and they stood like that, father and son, as the last wedge of sun disappeared beneath the water. The boy leaned against him heavily and sagged to his knees. Soon, he was softly snoring.

    Zaid took the child in his arms, all limp limbs and lolling head, gathered him up with gentle care and, with a sudden heave, threw him far enough away from the edge so he wouldn''t hit the rocks on his way down. He had a brief glimpse of loose limbs cartwheeling through empty air, falling and falling into darkness, fading into the ocean''s mist and heaving waters. Zaid couldn''t see or hear any sign of him, he just faded away and was gone.

    When he returned to the villa, no handmaidens waited for him. There was Jaida, standing alone at the wide open door. She saw him empty-handed, stared at the void beside him where her son had been, and screamed until her lungs were empty. He''d heard that grief before, a whole chorus of it when he put Vanush to the sword, but this lone woman''s wail slashed at his labored heart more keenly than their hundred voices ever could.

    Jaida fell on her knees and drew a desperate, anguished breath, and screamed again. Zaid tried to approach her, to comfort her. He took one step forward and she slammed her doors on him, grieving loud enough to shake the wood in its frame.

    That was a year ago.

    "Thank you," Jaida said, her voice softer than usual. Zaid wanted to say he was sorry, that he felt a measure of her pain, but how could he? They both knew their duty and understood what having a child of the Hadith Line entailed.

    They ate without speaking, tended by her silent women who walked them through courses of light fare with intense flavors: Thin-sliced vegetables in bright aspic; Fish chowder spiced with coconut milk and hot peppers; Slivers of aged venison served nearly raw with a streak of blood-purple sauce; Polished amaranth cooked in fruit until it was sticky-sweet enough to hold the shape of a rose.

    After dessert, Zaid and Jaida retired to their favorite divan which had seen many passionate hours, and joined together for the first time in over a year. She had the endearing habit, when they were facing each other, of covering his eyes when she neared her climax. That trace of girlish shyness took him back to a hundred blissful afternoons.

    Only later, when they had moved to the bed and she lay across his chest, tickling his sides with her fur, did she ask him anything.

    "Did you get the men you need?"

    "Yes, plenty of men. I barely had to touch the farms."

    "Enough to win?" She looked up at him with a worried glance.

    "I have to win. Father commanded me to conquer the desert or die trying."

    Jaida sat up, alarmed. She knew better than to criticize the Tyrant, so she chose her words carefully. "When Ormaz had his campaign, he raided a single garden and came home. Why would he make you do so much more?"

    "Maybe because they''ll never be this weak again in our lifetimes. Or maybe it''s because Enclave gave us twenty thousand mercenaries. At least manpower isn''t a problem."

    "Twenty thousand! But you''re worried." She smoothed his brow with her palms. "I can tell. It''s not often you worry."

    "If it was just us versus the rebels, this campaign would be easy. But there are disciples in play ˇŞ on both sides. Enclave says the Pasha is just charismatic, but they''re throwing everything they have at him. Gobert thinks he''s going to be a problem. I don''t know what the truth is, but I know Enclave isn''t telling it."

    "So what will you do?"

    "The Tyrant''s command is law. I''ll do what he couldn''t, even if it costs all the blood in my army." He pulled her closer. "We have a ten-to-one advantage, and all the Enclave disciples are on our side. We''re going to win."

 Picnic Lunch

    Picnic Lunch

    ˇŞ Jaida ˇŞ

    When Jaida left her house it was always under guard. Political rivals, jealous wives, and ransom-seeking kidnappers were an ever-present danger. Zaid had complained to her, many times, about her running errands herself, but she enjoyed her trips into the city. Besides, she had to maintain relationships with merchants and craftsmen who could get her the things she wanted.

    She always took a handmaiden into town to consult with, to carry things, and whose company she could enjoy. She took Vivian with her on the day after Zaid''s first visit. She was well-mannered, having picked up Kashmar''s way of doing things almost effortlessly. Any mistakes by the new handmaiden could be put down to her foreign (and therefore exotic) origins. They were dressed to be seen in public today, with Vivian in a bright ribboned dress and closely braided hair, with her silver ear cuff winking its tiny orange jewels at everyone. She shone, but not enough to overshadow her mistress. Jaida had red fur to clothe her, accentuated with shimmering gold cloth that covered the necessary parts, set off by tiny blue stones woven into the fabric. Wives got the best houses. Concubines got daring fashions.

    It was a relief to have a proper companion. The girls she sheltered were lovely, but they could be noisy when Zaid wasn''t around. Their parents paid Jaida to take them in and teach them what a pleasure wife should know. It was a common arrangement, but Jaida liked to think she was a better teacher than most. She started them with cleaning chores, not because they were expected to clean their own houses but because they needed to do the work themselves to understand how it should be done, how hard the work was, and how properly to correct their staff. There was no need to scream or insult, just a few stern words should do. If someone couldn''t learn, they could be dismissed. Jaida set an example for them by being clear in her instruction, tolerating innocent mistakes, and dismissing girls who failed to apply themselves.

    As they progressed, the girls learned how to cook, dress for best effect, comport themselves with grace, set a table, dance, flatter a man without seeming to, be diverting without compromising themselves, and much else besides. Their parents'' money didn''t go to Jaida or her household, she had a generous allowance from Zaid for that, but paid for tutors, clothes, and the odd piece of jewelry. Jaida hosted and attended parties among the lower-ranked princes and wealthy freemen, always with a selection of her handmaidens as chaperones. Those events introduced her nearly-finished students to prospective husbands and their families. Girls could not stay maidens forever, and the young women she saw out into the world became part of her support network.

    Zaid never saw any of that, nor did he fully understand the relationship between Jaida and her girls. That was the Art of it. He only saw demure handmaidens in simple clothes, without adornment, and never heard them speak. He wasn''t curious about them because his anticipation and attention were all for Jaida. He never saw the labor that delivered his passionate afternoons because it would distract from the illusion of effortless peace. He might vaguely understand the atmosphere was a product of effort and skill, but only if he stopped to think about it. Jaida ensured he would never need to.

    The concubine and her companion for the day strolled arm-in-arm along the wide sidewalk of Kashmar''s finest shopping district, trailed by two discretely armed men with thick skin and a good length of fang. Her carriage loitered down the street, close enough to summon at a moment''s notice to hand off packages. The women entered several establishments where they retrieved previous purchases and were shown the plethora of exotic luxuries Kashmar had to offer. Zaid''s promotion to Princeps was sending merchants into a thinly concealed frenzy, and Jaida had to restrain them by gentle remonstration. She would not improve anything in her house until Taraneh had her turn. It would be improper to outshine the extravagant first wife, not to mention dangerous. Jaida knew her place in Kashmar''s order and the price of striving higher than her station.

    When the merchants and tradesmen had all been met, goods loaded into the carriage, and the theater declined (for today''s play was another retelling of the Founders'' Works, and who wanted to sit through three hours of that?) Jaida directed her carriage to the foothills.

    Princes'' Park was just a little plot with a gorgeous view set aside for princes and their families. It was seldom visited anymore due to its small size and outdoor gatherings being out of fashion. It was fenced and gated, which gave the guards peace of mind: they could sweep the grounds and guard the gate, then let their charges take their lunch by the noisy fountain in relative privacy and safety.

    Vivian set out the blanket and delightful dishes prepared by Cook that morning, with the fountain between them and the guards. From there, they could overlook the beds sporting a thousand flowers and beyond, where the land fell down into Kashmar, the Citadel Mount, and Tyrants'' Bay. The canopy of trees just outside the park were dressed in their first fall colors. Soon they''d be dropping leaves by the thousands.

    The fence and guards ensured they would not be disturbed. The fountain''s spray obscured them, and its noise covered their conversation. A sign from Vivian said they were as private as they were likely to get.Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.

    "Enclave promised twenty thousand mercenaries from Hykos and gave him an ancient message box so he can send them orders," Jaida told her, followed by all the information gathered the day before. It wasn''t necessary to ask Zaid for details: she just had to look astounded that such a thing existed, hold that expression long enough, and he told her everything he knew about it. He trusted her as implicitly as she had once trusted him.

    Jaida first saw the Princeps when he was newly reduced to last place for putting Vanush to the sword. She was very young and wore the demure clothes of a handmaiden under the tutelage of his wife, Negin, and was very afraid of him. She didn''t understand at first, but the expression that so frightened her was a mask he wore when his duty was to dirty his hands. It took months to understand there was more to him than bloody-minded punishment. However callous he was to serfs and bandits, he was kind to his family. Jaida was surprised when Negin selected her to be a concubine ˇŞ there are advantages to selecting your husband''s concubine for him ˇŞ but Jaida was willing to take on that role largely because of how reasonable he was at home.

    She used to believe Zaid would protect their little Donis from the Line''s cruel dictates, if necessary, by spiriting the boy away to a lesser family. How many times had he sworn to her that nobody could hurt her or their children without consequences? Instead, he came home with empty hands, wearing the same expression he''d worn after Vanush.

    "That''s my show of good faith," Jaida concluded. "If you want more, you have to prove you can get my children and me out of Kashmar."

    "That''s easily arranged. Nexus has a disciple in Kashmar."

    "Those are just words. I need proof. I have children to think about."

    "Children you''d do anything for," said a new voice. Jaida''s head jerked to where it was coming from and saw a man had joined them. He had walked right up to them and sat down without anyone noticing. Even Vivian looked shocked. "I won''t let the princes take you or your children."

    He was of middle age and didn''t look like a disciple. He was more like one of those lucky freemen who gained a little wealth for themselves but never fit in with their new peers, slightly uncomfortable in his middling-merchant attire and the garish makeup favored by that class.

    "How?" Jaida was done trusting people, especially shady men in cheap eyeliner. She wanted details.

    "The same way I got here, by using Overlook. You''re hidden right now. If you don''t believe me, try to get your guards'' attention. But don''t move from this spot. I''m keeping the prayer small."

    Jaida waved and shouted at her men by the gate, but none of them noticed anything. It was as if she wasn''t there at all. She stood, jumped up and down, and made faces, but the guards went on with their standing lunch, unaware of her existence. When Jaida gave up on them she sat down with new hope her smooth-skinned children would live beyond their fifth birthdays.

    "Getting you out of the city is easy," Vivian said, "but the timing has to be right. It must be after the battle is decided but before competition begins for all the empty seats in the Assembly."

    "Empty seats?"

    "Over thirty princes are marching with the army," the disciple reminded her.

    Vivian added, "When news breaks about the army''s defeat, there will be a rush to fill all the empty spaces."

    Every Hadith of unranked ambition would try to take a seat in the Assembly of Princes. Historically, it was a setup for generous bloodletting up and down the Line. Jaida''s children were too young to be contenders, but jealous Taraneh might use the chaos to hide a few extra murders. Nobody would seek justice for Jaida and her children while all of Kashmar was busy realigning.

    "I''ll help you, but I have a condition. I want him to know. When Zaid loses the war, his rank, his army, his pride ˇ­ he promised consequences for anyone who touched my children. He killed our Donis, and these are the consequences."

    "Phillip will do it," said the disciple.

    Vivian gave the disciple a sour look. "I don''t know you, but I know you can''t make promises for him."

    "It''s more of a prediction. Think about who he is. If there''s a chance, at the end, to deliver that message, do you think he would pass it up?"

    Vivian closed her eyes in consternation. The whole ridiculous notion smacked of dramatic justice, something out of a play. It sounded exactly like Taylor. They were talking about the same youth who accepted twenty-three challenges to duel and fought the entire group simultaneously in front of an audience of two thousand people. If his purposes could be served dramatically, then he was not one to hold back.

    "The guards are coming. My name is Harrence, and I''ll be watching over you." The disciple stood and moved away, and he was suddenly gone. He didn''t exactly disappear. There was no puff of stage smoke or flash of fire. Jaida blinked her eyes and, in the fractionary moment they were closed, she lost track of him.

    "Lady Jaida!" Both guards rounded the fountain and stopped short, surprised to see the two women sitting peaceably amidst the remains of lunch. "We thought ˇ­ "

    "You thought ˇ­," she prompted.

    "ˇ­ You were missing?"

    Vivian stifled a giggle, one tuned to embarrass a man without shaming him.

    Jaida sushed her companion as if she were being naughty. "A trick of the water, perhaps. As you can see, we haven''t moved from this spot. Return to your posts, and we''ll be along when we''re done." The men obediently returned to what they were doing, loitering by the gate and playing dice with the driver while pretending to look for intruders.

    She turned to Vivian, her spying masseuse. "What do you want to know?"

    "I want to know Zaid." Vivian glanced at where the disciple had gone as if she had more to say to him. "The information you gave earlier is excellent, but understanding Zaid is paramount."

    "Then you have the right woman." She drank fruit juice from a copper cup, thinking.

    "Start anywhere," Vivian prodded.

    "Well, maybe the first thing to know about Zaid is he never failed at anything except once, in Vanush, when he killed too many people."

    In the final weeks leading up to the campaign, Jaida told Vivian everything she knew.

 Interregnum

    Interregnum

    ˇŞ South Kravikas (a.k.a. Morufu''s Palm) ˇŞ

    Pashas didn''t hold court; they held councils. Taylor sat at the head of a long arched room with two rows of stone benches facing the center aisle. It was a scaled-down version of the hierarch''s audience chamber without the dome over his head. Twenty mauls sat on the inner rows of benches, and their selected seconds sat behind them. In normal times such a meeting would be held in Sand Castle during winter, and the head seat would be empty.

    But this was a warring time, and Phillip the Younger held the council in one of the many hidden refuges scattered throughout the desert. He occupied the Pasha''s place by virtue of killing Darkmaw, speeding the renewal of damaged gardens, and bringing disciples'' power to their fight. Best of all, according to the older spears who advised the mauls, he had done as much through cleverness as strength. A Pasha could not afford to war by strength alone, not when invaders outnumbered them by ten to one.

    "This battle plan is unacceptable!" spoke the maul of Bitter Spring. "It sacrifices gardens while we retreat."

    "Only three gardens, at the most," responded Taylor, "but every garden north of Sand Castle must be ready to evacuate."

    "Bitter Spring will not allow you to burn it to the ground!"

    "It''s a terrible thing to ask, but you know it''s inevitable. Bitter Spring always falls, anyway. Why let the enemy strengthen themselves on the fruits of your labor? As long as your people live and the seed vault is intact, the garden can be regrown stronger than ever. And this time, you won''t have Kashmar or Satoma threatening you while you''re rebuilding. When this is over, we''re going to break Kashmar and force the Tyrant to abandon the desert permanently. We can rename Calique land to anything we want, and no realm will disagree."

    "You say ''we'', but you just got here. Nexus people aren''t Calique." Masood, the new Maul of Broken Ode, spoke out of turn. "Caliqe should lead the Calique, not some outsider. It''s a foul thing to follow someone who isn''t one of us. It''s our blood at stake, our five thousand spears." Gohar, his aged predecessor, sat behind him as an advisor. The old maul had stepped down because he was too frail to fight in the field with his men.

    All heads turned to Taylor. The meeting was supposed to be loosely scripted, a presentation of the reasons and reasoning that led them to this point before they kissed the Pasha''s war banner. Occasionally some holdouts used the council to demand more spoils, more migrants from other gardens, or a better position in Sand Castle. The doyennes normally dealt with such ambitions, but in wartime the men would settle such things on their own. The mauls and their spears looked perturbed, all except Masood''s second, the elder predecessor he had replaced.

    "It''s true we''re not quite the same, but we are your neighbors. We don''t chase money or possessions for their own sake. We measure our worth by what we can do for others, as Calique do. We don''t put our trust in bloodlines or the order of one''s birth. We put our trust in character and ability, as Calique do. We don''t have a Tyrant who commands all aspects of life. Every person in Nexus enjoys the freedom of their conscience, as Calique do. Who else, in all of Tenobre, is as close to Calique in their values as Nexus?

    "This is our home, now. Our disciples ride with your spears so the five thousand can fight like a hundred thousand. We''ve prepared the desert for this fight. We''ve handed you artifacts that let you coordinate your attacks. You can move through the desert faster than ever before, with our help. You probably can''t win this war without Red Tower, but the Calique can win this war without Broken Ode."

    "I won''t hear this! I won''t kiss the banner of some outsider who sets himself up as a new Talal." Masood stood angrily. He was such a large man that only the largest appalons could carry him. He would ride a gurantor into battle if he could, but the beasts were too gentle for direct violence. Behind him, Gohar still seemed unperturbed.

    "I suppose you want to challenge me now."

    "I am the strongest maul, and I should be Pasha. You''re still learning your way around girls. Maybe you''ll grow some more in time, but not as much as I."

    "Even if you could defeat me," Taylor warned, "that wouldn''t make you Pasha. It would only call a new vote. And you need my vote to have disciples ˇŞ a vote you will never have because you''re not fit to command them."

    "Then let''s take this outside and fight like men, little maul."

    "Let''s fight here," said Taylor, "we need to wrap this up quickly."

    Broken Ode was near the end of the hall, a small and distant garden from Sand Castle. Taylor left his seat at the head and strode down the center aisle while Masood left his bench to meet him. Taylor didn''t give his opponent a chance to free his sword but closed the distance and struck a breaking blow to his wrist, followed by a kick to break the huge man''s shin. Masood grabbed at Taylor as he stumbled on the broken leg, but Taylor seized the big hand in his smaller one and crushed it until the bones broke. There was a lot of fight in the huge man, so Taylor yanked the arm until it dislocated with an audible pop.

    To his credit, Masood never cried out, not even when Taylor broke both his collarbones. Nor did he complain the fight was unfair because the Pasha had used his disciple abilities. He just knelt there, breathing hard and sweating with pain, with his sword still in its sheath and Taylor''s fingers clenched around his windpipe. Masood''s size meant nothing. The boy could crush him without trying.

    "Are we finished?"

    His voice rasped through the Pasha''s fingers. "You win, Outsider." Massod turned his head aside, unable to look Taylor in the eye. He hated to bend to this outlandish Pasha, but he had lost, and that was the end of it for now. "Broken Ode will kiss the Pasha''s banner, and follow his orders."

    "You''d better," he replied ominously, "many lives depend on it."

    Taylor could have healed him, but he sent for female healers out of respect for Calique sensibilities. It took three sets of hands to wrangle the maul''s massive body. The council had to wait for several minutes while they set and mended bones and warned him not to fight for three days.

    "What else was there?" The council had lost its momentum, and the mauls looked back and forth trying to remember whose turn it was.

    Running Flox stood and recited the next objection. "Enclave is Nexus''s enemy, not ours. Why shouldn''t we turn you over to them?" He sounded unconvinced this was a real problem.

    "As if we could," groused another maul to low laughter.

    "Enclave has always backed these invasions by Kashmar. They''re also one of the three pillars that sanctify the Tyrant''s rule. They''ve been your enemy for a long time; they just never sent disciples before. And make no mistake, this would have happened eventually, with or without Nexus. The Five Families have grown ambitious ˇŞ they believe they should rule the world through their proxies, and they do not like your independence."

    "What about Enclave''s disciples?" asked Emerald Pool. "How will you deal with them?"

    "I promise, the Tyrant will never get much use from them." Almost, the mauls demanded to know how. It was on their faces as clearly as the truculence on Massod''s. "Some things will remain secret until they appear on the battlefield. You can''t accidentally betray what you don''t know."

    "Would this have something to do with the loud noises coming from the dunes?"

    The mauls smiled and nodded. Most of them had heard the sudden thunder in the distance, and the rest had heard about it. The consensus was Taylor was at practice with his lightning, the same weapon he used to kill Darkmaw. They were wrong, but it was fine if they wanted to think that.

    "No. That''s a different horrible weapon I have planned for them. You didn''t think I would limit us to one nasty surprise for the Tyrant''s men, did you?" Scattered laughter and expectant smiles told Taylor he''d made his point.

    "Was there anything else? If there are doubts or grievances, now is the last time to air them." A few heads turned to Broken Ode, but no one spoke.

    "Here is our banner for this war. It reminds us of why we fight: not for spoils or for glory, but to protect our people. It was woven by a Calique woman held prisoner in Satoma. We don''t know her name, only that she was sold north to Kashmar. If she''s still alive, we''ll bring her home. This is why we fight."

    Ma''Tocha stepped forward with a wide length of woven cloth and passed it to the first maul, who unfolded it to reveal a scene of half-naked women driven by whips at their backs, their children scattered before them in tears. Calique hunters lay wounded on the ground, some of them in pieces, their broken weapons tossed aside. At the other end of the banner, surviving hunters fled with their heads bowed low, shamed by the loss of their garden. It was long enough that two or three men could examine it at once. Every maul marveled at the jacquard weaver''s skill and, when they had their fill of gazing at it, lifted it to his lips before allowing the banner to continue its journey. It went down the left side of the hall and back up the right, where Taylor was the last to put his lips against it.Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.

    Milo and Ma''Tocha folded the banner and put it away for safekeeping. It would only be seen again for ceremonial purposes, and there weren''t likely to be any of those before the fighting was over.

    "It is done," announced the Pasha. "All gathered here will fight as one against the invaders from Kashmar, Enclave, and Hyskos. Any garden that abandons our cause will be excluded from the circle."

    Taylor surveyed his corps of leaders, who could field five thousand spears. In a head-on, set-piece battle, it was a pittance against Kashmar''s tens of thousands. But he had no intention of fighting on equal ground, not when he''d just spent the last few months making the ground as unequal as possible.

    "You all know where you need to be. I''ll see you in the field."

    The meeting broke into small clumps, as the mauls mingled and said good-bye to each other, and spears gathered to brag at each other about the deeds they would perform.

    Taylor got a copy of The Battles of Talal from Milo and worked his way to Broken Ode''s maul. He greeted mauls and spears as he went until he reached Masood and his predecessor Gohar. The spear was giving advice, while the maul''s eyes said he''d rather be anywhere else right then.

    "Maul Massod." Taylor received a reluctant greeting from the near-giant. "You mentioned Talal. Have you studied him?"

    Masood scoffed. "I am a Calique hunter. I was raised on the stories of his battles."

    "I assumed as much. But have you read Talal, in his own words?" The maul looked like he had never considered the famous three-time Pasha might have written anything down or that he had something to say on his own behalf. "I came across a small book he wrote, while I was reading all the past engagements with Kashmar."

    "All of them?"

    "All there''s records of. This will be the twenty-sixth incursion in three hundred years. Anyway," he held out the paper book to Masood. It had the slight distortions of a well-read volume, but Taylor doubted the other man would recognize that fact. It had been through the hands of multiple students before finding its way to Milo, who was glad to have his own copy instead of borrowing from his Young Master. Now they''d be back to sharing.

    "This is a copy of Talal''s book. I''m giving it to you," he added because Masood wasn''t moving to take it, "because I hope you''ll read it."

    When Masood still didn''t take it, Gohar intervened. "A stronger maul is giving you a gift. You can''t refuse it without a good reason." The reluctant giant took the offered volume.

    "Even the first page is worth reading." Taylor didn''t smile at the maul or try to make the situation better for him. Kindness would only make the situation worse. He left the two men to their work and headed out to the desert.

    After the Pasha was gone, Gohar nudged Masood into opening the book. The first page was graced with a quote:

    <blockquote>

    Strength and courage are everything to a spear.

    To a maul, they are only the beginning.

    ˇŞ Talal

    </blockquote>

    ˇŞ Satoma ˇŞ

    "You told me there was water." Zaid eyed the commander of Sixth Regiment, the vanguard responsible for entering Satoma and stripping it of anything useful. The rebels had burned the garden and planted mischus in its place, a sound move since nobody lived there anymore. Supposedly, they left the wells alone in case they wanted to resettle the site one day, but when the gurantor trains arrived and started to take on water ˇ­

    "There was, Princeps, and the water was deep. But the wells aren''t refilling."

    "The foul heretic capped them with a perversion of the Arts!" Guardian Paraskevi was a member of Zaid''s command staff as Enclave''s representative. It wasn''t possible for her to say a word about Nexus without unnecessary adjectives, spewed with such passionate spite one might think she was unbalanced. And yet, she was perfectly sane when she talked about anything else. "Send for the disciples. They''ll open the wells."

    So Zaid waited. A column of twelve regiments marching eight abreast took up four kilometers of roadway. Riders were sent to stop the column, find the regiment with disciples in it, and have the deans detail a group for the wells. The disciples had to mount appalons, backtrack to the side road leading to Satoma, to finally arrive a full two hours after the regiment was supposed to be filling barrels. Zaid could have let the main column keep marching, but leaving behind the bulk of his water wagons was asking for trouble.

    The disciples prayed over the wells. One by one, they expended themselves and gave up.

    "What''s wrong with them?" Zaid demanded of the Guardian.

    "The charlatans at Nexus had months to seal these wells. They''re trying to sabotage our holy crusade from the start. We''ll wait for Zorda. He will fix this."

    "If he''s so important, why isn''t he here already?"

    "He doesn''t ride. He only walks."

    An older disciple, a hale man of sixty years by Zaid''s best guess, strode into Satoma at a pace that could eat up vast distances. Three mounted figures followed him, of different ages and all well armed. The other disciples looked at him with distaste and refused to greet him. His round face and unfocused eyes paid them no mind as he went to the first well and said the prayer for shaping stone in a rapid string of syllables without pause or punctuation. At the end of it, Zaid felt a crumbling sensation, like hammer blows beneath his feet were crushing rock into rubble. The old disciple went from well to well without saying anything at all, not even to restate his prayer, and crushed the barrier of compressed rock around each well. When his job was finished, Zorda exited the garden without acknowledging the Guardian or the Princeps.

    The garden got busy faster than Zorda could leave it. Gangs of men dipped buckets into the wells and pulled up fresh water for gurantors and the barrels they hauled. With all the wagons loaded and gurantors sated, Zaid and his First Regiment escorted them back to the main column. Regiments Six and Seven didn''t follow but took a southeasterly turn to the Riverlands. Samir had carved a path through that labyrinth of deep crevices and, according to scout reports, the paths were there still, undisturbed. The two regiments added up to more men than all the rebel fighters put together, and Zaid was sending them into the unprotected underbelly of the Calique. They would use the crevices and secret roads as a base from which to harass some lightly protected gardens. The Calique would be forced to either split their thin forces or lose their gardens. The regiments could retreat if they needed to. They were a diversion, not the main force.

    "Tell me about this Brother Zorda." Zaid rode near Paraskevi for part of the way. "He''s stronger than the other disciples, isn''t he? Why don''t they like him?"

    "He''s a simpleton," she answered. "He''s a sweet man, but quite limited. The others aren''t comfortable around him because he''s so far beyond them in the Spiritual Arts. How would you feel if you had an idiot uncle who surpassed you in the one thing you were most proud of?"

    "What does he do?"

    "What does he do, asks the Princeps." Guardian Paraskevi shook her head. "You know the highways that connect all the major cities? Like the one your main column is marching on right now, for example? He builds them."

    "Impressive," nodded Zaid. "Which ones?"

    "All of them." She smiled mockingly at Zaid, daring him to contradict her. "And many smaller roads, too. He''ll do any kind of earthwork, but he loves building roads. He''s done little else for forty years." Zaid noticed she wasn''t spitting deprecations, now that she wasn''t talking about Nexus or its hierarch anymore.

    Thanks to Zorda, they had more than enough water to march to Bitter Spring. Without him, the campaign would have started on the wrong foot. Zaid decided that, simpleton or not, he should get to know the moon-faced disciple

    As they neared the column they met his adjutant Bassel, riding a fast appalon. "A message, Princeps, by special messenger." The phrase ''special messenger'' was their code for the ancient box.

    Zaid took the offered boards and broke the seal. "Prepare to move out." Zaid read while Bassel hurried back to the column. An armed slave revolt in Hyskos was creating a bidding war for the Grand Company''s soldiers. He was receiving five thousand instead of twenty, but they were all elite troops, and they were camped on the desert''s western border ready for orders. It wasn''t what he''d been promised, but Zaid could do a lot of damage with five thousand spears.

    ˇŞ Kashmar ˇŞ

    "What''s going on here?" Healer Lutz barged into his office, his personal office in his home, to find a stranger inside, reading by a spirit lamp. Lutz saw the way its light wavered slightly like a live fire instead of shining steady and knew he had made a mistake. When he sensed a stranger working spirit in his house he should have run or stayed in bed. Enclave didn''t need to send people to him in the middle of the night, and the only other source of practitioners was Nexus.

    The enemy disciple was dressed like a middling merchant, right down to the bad makeup they were so crazy about these days. "You are a killer of children," said the strange disciple. "So much for the oath."

    Lutz tried to run but a hand from beside the door clamped down on his shoulder and stopped him with prayer-enhanced strength. He was moved to a chair involuntarily and forced to sit, with the bulwark remaining behind so he couldn''t see them. He didn''t doubt they were strong enough to crush his head bare-handed.

    "I don''t kill them. That''s on the princes, not me." Lutz had been repeating that phrase to himself for years. It was a lot less convincing when said out loud.

    "They kill the children because you lie to them. You tell them the children have no beast traits when, in fact, they have the potential to change form. It''s exactly what they''ve been after for," the stranger counted the boards from Lutz''s archive, the hidden records that only Lutz and his predecessors knew about, "a very long time. The children die because you lie. The question is, why?"

    Lutz began to shake. He didn''t know why. It was a directive passed down with the post of lead healer for Kashmar''s princes, and it would remain in effect until a countermanding order came down from the hierarch herself. He tried to explain it, but the longer he talked the more angry it made the stranger.

    "Shut up," he said when he''d had enough. "You''re telling me several hierarchs have come and gone, and nobody thought they should check with their current hierarch to make sure it was still okay to murder children?" He flipped through the secret archive of boards until he found the directive, but had a hard time reading its old mode of writing. Maybe he was one of those peasants Lutz had heard about, raised above their station by the unscrupulous Nexus heretics.

    The stranger removed everything else from Lutz''s secret hole in the floor: more records, a money box, some items of jewelry, bottles of spirits Lutz was saving, an official seal, letters from an intemperate youthful affair.

    "How did you find out?" He was desperate to extend his life, even by a little. A few questions could buy him time.

    "Donis told me." The stranger was more focused on packing away all the things he was stealing than he was on Lutz, but the bronze grip never let up. Lutz couldn''t move.

    "How? Donis is supposed to be dead."

    "He is," said the disciple with a nod in his direction, "and so are you."

    Lutz''s head was suddenly wrench around, but he never felt the pain of his snapped neck.

 The Combatants Meet

    The Combatants Meet

    In the oldest stories, the legends before Olyon worship became the only religion, South Kravikas was called Morufu''s Palm. The land was flat, dry, cracked, and hot air was the god''s breath on your neck. Morufu was, fittingly, a god of fire and trials.

    The kilometers-long column marched mostly at night, in twelve regiments, each with its own trains carrying supplies of mostly water. The men carried their food and bedding. The mounted officers and cavalry could travel over the packed and broken ground, but men on foot and gurantor trains traveled much faster on the road. Eight could walk abreast on the highway and leave a lane for mounted messengers.

    Three days past Satoma, at dawn after a long overnight march, just as Zaid was getting impatient for a first encounter with his enemy, the main force encountered a lone rider bearing a flag of parlay, white with a red diagonal stripe. Word went down the line, and in time Princeps Zaid came forward with his guard, some staff, Guardian Paraskevi, and her disciple protection detail. The party of twelve also flew a flag of parlay, to let their adversary know they agreed to meet.

    The rider was a woman, middle-aged but hardened by years of training: a veteran. Her spear was a bronze of unusual color, and her shield was covered in black cloth.

    The general spoke first. He let the woman see his imposing mane and long incisors. "Do you want to surrender already? It seems like a wasted trip!" The people around him laughed, but the messenger refused the bait.

    "My master wants to talk before the fighting begins. Will you?" She gestured, and not one hundred meters away was a large shelter, a polished clamshell of shifting green colors, with several figures taking refuge there from the sun. It hadn''t been there just moments before. There was music coming from the clamshell, reflected by the round surface to reach them so far away. Zaid didn''t recognize the tune.

    "Silica, with native mineral inclusions," recited Zorda in a sing-song voice. "Aventurine. Good work. Good work."

    Paraskevi cut him off. "That''s enough, Zorda. Give us protection."

    Disciple Zorda rattled off the prayer in a fast mechanical way, and one by one they received their blessings of protection. Unlike most disciples, Zorda could say the prayer once and apply the effect multiple times. When he was finished, they followed the lone rider to the shaded audience.

    According to scouts, there were no enemy forces nearby, but with disciples on the field it was impossible to be sure. If they hadn''t seen a four-meter tall green clamshell standing a stone''s throw from the road, what else had they missed?

    The song that greeted them was mournful as if grieving the death to come. Maybe the enemy was attempting some kind of elaborate mental warfare, but his men weren''t about to be deterred by a bit of music. Zaid brought his group to a stop, still mounted on their appalons. A boy sat on a chair in the shelter bowing a nickleharp. He was at the awkward age where children begin to morph into adults, stretched thin by sudden growth. The boy wasn''t alone: he had two guards with him, a young man and woman with orange spikes for hair and easy, alert stances. The brindle hair and purple lenses over his eyes identified the musician as the new Pasha. His armor was scarlet, under layers of cloaks. To Calique, autumn nights felt cold.

    He stopped playing and put away his instrument. "You''re here. Greetings. I am Pasha Phillip the Younger. And you are?"

    The Princeps''s adjutant answered for him. "You stand before Princeps Zaid, whose presence is too great a privilege for the likes of you."

    The purple lenses were aimed at the guardian. "Guardian Paraskevi, it''s been a while."

    "Your courtesies are wasted on me, heretic. We are here to end you, and save Tenobre from your wickedness."

    "And I don''t know you, disciple. Who are you?"

    "Zorda," answered the old disciple, while avoiding eye contact, "Disciple Zorda."

    The Pasha smiled. "I know your work, Brother Zorda. We''re big fans of yours in Nexus."

    "I like your building. The sparkles are called aventurescence." The more he spoke, the more unusual he seemed. He sounded like a child in an aging man''s body.

    "Thank you."

    "Zorda, hush." Paraskevi''s voice was firm.

    "You''re different, aren''t you Zorda? People say you''re broken or defective, but you just see the world differently from the rest of us."

    "Don''t talk to him," the guardian demanded, "you''re here to talk to me."

    "I''m here to talk to the Princeps, but you can have a turn. Did you explain to Zorda that he was entering a war, that he was helping kill people? That he could be killed?"You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

    "No Kill! No kill! You said no kill! You said no kill!" Zorda began to pump his arms up and down, agitated. One of his bulwark guided his appalon away and started to calm the man.

    Zaid''s mouth twisted in distaste. He was uncomfortable with the simpleton and his outbursts, but he''d learned more about the Arts from talking to him than he had from any books in the Citadel.

    "I understand he''s your strongest disciple," Taylor said to Paraskevi, "but he has the emotions of a child. Even if he survives this, he''ll never be the same. Send him home. Let him build his roads and be happy."

    "We don''t let heretics decide how we deploy true disciples." Paraskevi was good at delivering those heretic lines. The spite was tangible, but it was getting tiresome. The Princeps could barely keep from rolling his eyes.

    "That''s one thing I''m not clear on. We believe in the same god," said Taylor reasonably, ticking items off on his fingers, "we say the same prayers, and purport to live by the same tenets. Why can''t we live in peace? Just because we disagree on a few dogmatic details shouldn''t mean we have to fight to the death."

    "You defy the first families, the holy bloodlines revealed by Saint Bahram. You steal the sacred arts and hand them out to commoners and nobodies. You will be purged, for the glory of Olyon. You will ˇ­" but she couldn''t finish over his laughing.

    "Oh! I''m sorry, really! But it''s so funny! The creator of life, the universe, and everything needs you to add to his glory?" He gradually became more scornful. "Do you honestly think the thousands of lives we spill into the dirt has any power to add the merest glimmer to his glory? No, but please, please go on and tell me how we''re going to enhance Olyon by killing each other."

    "Enough mockery," said the Princeps. "Surrender yourself and your disciples, and the free tribes will be spared. They can keep their oases, and I will leave Sand Castle unspoiled."

    "I don''t know you well enough to trust you, and I know Enclave well enough to know their orders are to kill us all. Here is my counteroffer. Take your thirty thousand men home, and let''s not fight at all. Nexus will continue training disciples and ensure Kashmar always has a cadre in residence. That way, whenever you have monster problems or need to fight a plague, help is directly at hand."

    "You want to replace the church," accused the guardian, "you think you can upset the divine order with your foul ways. You will infect the world with your heresy!"

    "I want to help and protect people. I had planned to do that within the church," Taylor insisted, "but you keep trying to kill me. You should be fighting the monsters, instead of fighting the people who tried to help you."

    "You are the monsters," spat the guardian.

    Taylor decided to speak only to the Princeps. "I have heard your offer, Princeps. You have heard mine. I''ll give you until sundown to change your mind."

    "Whelp," shouted Bassel the adjutant, "you think you can give terms, when he is as far above you as the sun is above him?"

    "Please tell me you don''t actually need someone to follow you around to tell everyone how great you are."

    "It is annoying, isn''t it?" rumbled the Princeps. "He can''t help himself. Like most people, he needs someone to look up to. And he doesn''t like his idols being disrespected. Your people look up to you too, from what I hear. I wonder what would happen if we killed you here."

    "If you tried, that would be a great opportunity for me. That''s a fight I''m favored to win, and it lets me kill leadership at the beginning of the war. So make your choice, Princeps Zaid. Ride away from parlay in a respectable manner, or stain your honor to gamble everything on attacking right now."

    The boy looked ready for him. Eager, even. As the young pasha had chosen the time and place for parlay, Zaid had to assume he had planned for treachery. If he could hide a big shining structure in plain sight, he might already have him surrounded and Zaid wouldn''t know.

    Without a word, the Princeps spun his mount and returned to the marching column. His detail followed him in silence, except for the weeping Zorda. The green stone structure was gone by the time they looked back, like it had never been there.

    "Fast prayer," said Zorda, forgetting his sorrows. "Very fast. Good fit. Perfect fit."

    "What are you going on about now?" demanded an impatient Paraskevi.

    One of Zorda''s bulwarks answered. "He''s talking about the pasha''s arts. He''s impressed."

    Paraskevi was reluctant to agree. "A little talent doesn''t mean he can match the true disciples. He lacks everything of consequence."

    Zaid wanted a second opinion. "How about it, Zorda? Who do you think is better with the arts? Those disciples," he pointed at a distant part of the column where most of the disciples rode in a carriage, "or Phillip the Younger."

    "Phillip is better. Much better. Much much better." Zorda said this without looking directly at Zaid. He always avoided eye contact. "I hear his voice. He talks to me."

    Zaid and the others were alarmed. "What does he say?"

    "He says, ''Don''t die here. Use Overlook and get away. Build your roads in peace.'' But I won''t go. Enclave is family! Protect the family!"

    Guardian Paraskevi spoke soothingly to the man-child. "That''s right, Zorda. We''re family, so we protect each other."

    Zorda hugged himself and rocked back and forth out of time with his appalons gait, which made him wobble precariously. "He says, ''Goodbye Zorda. I''m sorry we can''t be friends.'' He''s gone now."

    The Princeps glared at Paraskevi accusingly. "Not many people can use Message. The Luminous Histories say he''s an accomplished monster hunter. Nexus News says he killed the creature that slew your disciples. Zorda says he''s a better disciple than yours. I think you undersold the boy''s threat. Is there anything you want to share?"

    "He''s a child," she said back at him, "with a pack of failed students and low-grade talents for followers. He''s good at puffing himself up, but when the fighting starts the tribes will abandon him. Even a great disciple can''t fight whole armies."

    "You don''t know the tribes like I do," he said, "they''ll follow anyone who can bring them victory. And they''re fighting for their homes."

    The woman, Zaid decided, was an idiot. Even more so than her defective disciple Zorda. Enclave refused to see his obvious talents as a disciple because their pride depended on it. But they were right about his youth, exhibitionism, and lack of experience. A practiced warrior would never allow such a large armed party to get so close: he should have stopped them and demanded a meeting alone with Zaid, or perhaps with one attendant each.

    This was going to be harder than he hoped, but Zaid was certain he would win. Hadith''s Destiny allowed no other outcome.

 Contact

    Contact

    Zaid expected an attack at sundown or maybe during the night, but none came. His men marched their fifty kilometers, rested until the day cooled, and marched again. The new soldiers weren''t good fighters individually, but they could handle the distance and arrive at their destination ready to fight. When it came to basic spearmen, Kashmar spent more money on their shoes than it did on their weapons. Those troops existed for one purpose: to carry their spears from place to place so they could point them at the enemy on command. Calique didn''t deploy masses of archers: wood was too valuable. Rebels rode into battle on their appalons with spears and swords, and the best defense against them was a block of spearmen several ranks deep.

    The second march after the parlay turned strange, with a hot wind blowing dust up into their faces, forcing everyone to cover their mouths. The stars were hidden, and Silenz shone diffuse and brown through the dirty atmosphere. When the lone moon set, the entire column was left in choking hot darkness. Disciples lit polished beads of white stone, but that made their predicament strangely worse. The dusty air reflected the light, blinding them as effectively as darkness but with an added sense of futility.

    Zaid halted the march early. If he let his men get scattered by the weather, they''d be easy targets for the more mobile rebels. The army rested where it was, ate dry rations, and waited for dawn.

    The first sign of the enemy was what Zaid didn''t see: his forward scouts. The small forces sent to cover his flanks and rear all returned safely and reported no sightings of the enemy, but the forward scouts were missing in action. A hundred men were gone without a trace, either swallowed up by the desert or killed when they failed to see the enemy before the enemy saw them. Zaid''s money was on enemy action: they were somewhere in front of him, probably waiting at Bitter Spring.

    That would make sense from the rebel point of view. They hoped their superior disciples would win the day against Enclave, but they would need walls and forces to do it. The tribes wouldn''t stick together once their gardens started burning: each would return to its oasis to defend it, and Zaid could crush them one at a time in easy, bite-sized pieces. To keep his force together, the young Pasha would have to fight him at Bitter Spring.

    "I need a cadre," he told Paraskevi.

    "Are you sure you want to put disciples at risk so early?"

    "All they''re doing right now is riding in cars, keeping themselves safe. If all they can do is protect themselves, what good are they?"

    "They are hardly idle, Princeps. They mend your gear, heal your men, and supplement your water supply. I wouldn''t be so eager to throw them into a fight. Most of them don''t specialize in combat."

    "I don''t need them to fight; I need them to scout. I''d like to know where the enemy is."

    "They''ll need bulwarks."

    "About that ˇ­ why is Zorda the only one who brought people with him?"

    "That''s not quite true. Two of the deans brought valets, and I brought a secretary. Zorda has bulwarks because he lives in the field full-time. A disciple has to support his followers out of their own pocket. Most resident practitioners have little need for a dedicated staff."

    "So, they''re too cheap? Don''t they get paid handsomely for their work?"

    The guardian narrowed her eyes at him. "Most of them find their stipends sufficient for their needs, and only take jobs when they want to."

    "So, they''re lazy." This kept getting better and better.

    "They are the repository of Heritage!" Paraskevi''s voice was rising like it did when she was about to start spitting zealotry.

    "I have thirty princes in this army," he said, heading off another tirade, "and they''re here because they work hard. For every one of them, there are three more who never make rank because they aren''t good enough. If our work ethic was as bad as Enclave''s, the rebels would have overrun us ages ago!"

    Paraskevi fumed. "This is getting us nowhere. I''ll have a disciple selected who can use the relevant prayers. Choose three bulwarks, preferably large young men who have decent fighting skills. Enhancements can overwhelm a small body."

    As dawn burned the dusty sky in reds and browns, Zaid ordered up a battalion of mounted skirmishers, almost a thousand men. They didn''t specialize in mounted combat like elite cavalry, but they were more mobile than regular infantry. It was a large enough force to find trouble and then get out of it while protecting the disciple. For his part, the disciple needed to place vision enhancements on as many soldiers as he could, plus whatever protective prayers he wanted on his assigned bulwark.

    Zaid was surprised to see Tishk, the volunteer from Vanush, as part of the scouting force. He looked leaner and more dangerous than when Zaid picked him up. If he was already promoted to a mounted unit then he was doing well for himself. He had that look Zaid had often seen in young men''s faces, like the world had opened up to them and they were seeing everything for the first time. Even the dust storm seemed exciting, and why shouldn''t it? Kashmar had nothing like this weather. It was hot and stifling, but it was also strange and new.

    The reconnaissance battalion departed an hour after dawn. Shortly after that, Zaid had the drums sound the ready signal. Five minutes later they sounded the march, and a ripple of legs set into motion, traveling to the column''s ends at the speed of sound.

    The second sign of the enemy came half an hour into the march, just as visibility began to improve. Ten-kilogram rocks thrown at howling speed smashed into the water wagons. The crack of breaking planks and the shouts of injured men echoed all along the column. The first few volleys were the worst. Officers didn''t know how to respond to this unseen enemy, so they tried to form shield walls around the wagons. That just gave the rebels more time to sling rocks. Several commanders dispatched large forces in the direction the stones were coming from, into the obscured desert, causing them to flee. A few elite cavalry even managed to bloody their swords on the rebels, though they didn''t report killing anyone.Stolen story; please report.

    "The trick is just to get close to them, as Brother Zorda said," reported one of the officers. "Get inside their zone, and they''re visible. Or," he added, "get downwind of them with a good tracker and follow their nose."

    "So they''re not likely to attack from upwind," concluded Zaid. It was an interesting detail, and tactics were all about the details. "Were you able to follow their trail?"

    "No, Princeps. The hard ground makes tracking difficult to begin with, but they erase all signs as they go. Even their scent doesn''t linger on the ground. Fair warning: the disciples and their bulwarks are insanely tough. Most of them are wearing brigandine, and it''s probably that enhanced tirun we''ve been hearing about. Hitting their armor is useless. Your only chance is to strike an unprotected limb, and wounding one is like chopping wood. It cost me the lives of ten good men just to bloody two of them."

    "They served Kashmar well, commander. This is the most useful tactical information we have."

    "One more thing, Princeps. Their slings are unstoppable head-on, but if you brace a couple of heavy shields at an angle you can redirect the shot."

    "Good work. Bassel, pass that report to all regiments. And see that his men get an extra share of rations when we rest." By ''extra share'' Zaid meant ''good alcohol, but not too much''.

    The next battle casualty was the roads. Less than an hour after the attack on their water supply, the roadbed opened up under the lead gurantor train''s wheels and dropped the front of the wagon into a trench just deep and wide enough to trap it. The driver was thrown, so the gurantor pulled and pulled until it broke the train''s harness and cracked the tongue, then wandered off to stand to the side of the road. Traffic got routed around the stuck train, only to have the same thing happen to another train a hundred meters on.

    Prying the cars free and fixing the road would have been time-consuming and exhausting if it weren''t for Zorda''s help. He could enhance soldiers'' strength faster and better than the other disciples, and he fixed the road while hardly blinking. The ground swelled around him, reorganized itself, and packed itself into the smoothest patch of highway Zaid had ever set foot on.

    "This road is old." Zorda made eye contact with Zaid for the first time, with wide round eyes that shone uncomfortably intense over the cloth that protected the disciple''s face. He stood on the new patch of road, in the hot dirty air, looking as comfortable as Zaid did in his own home. The rivets of his brigandine coat glimmered dimly as if his armor drew its power from bad weather. His three bulwarks stood far enough away from him to be off his work surface, facing outward. The four of them seemed deeply aware of each other without needing to look.

    The Princeps had a troubling thought: that the simpleton embodied the true intent of the Unity church''s founder better than any guardian or resident disciple. He didn''t care about politics, Heritage, or glory. He had his Work, it was useful, and that''s all he wanted. And the only reason Enclave didn''t defrock him was because he was too simple to try and leave them.

    "Can I upgrade the road from here to Sand Castle?"

    Paraskevi appeared and was about to voice some objection, but Zaid stopped her with a glare.

    "Yes, Brother Zorda, but you have to stop when the army rests. We want to make sure you''re protected." Zaid put his one useful disciple in the vanguard, with a force of five thousand men to screen him on every side.

    It was interesting to see Brother Zorda in his element: he walked along briskly, humming a tune as the road before him rose and swelled and the road behind him packed itself into a perfect, smooth highway. He strode atop the moving wave of earth, a master of the ground beneath his feat. At every five-kilometer interval, he disintegrated the old distance markers and put up new ones: polished green obelisks that glittered, one hundred seventy centimeters tall. He only used his hand to engrave the proper number into each marker, then filled the grooves with white quartz he fashioned from sand.

    By mid-afternoon the sky was clear and, though the day was hot, they could breathe free again. The column halted for a six-hour rest, to resume at night when there was a moon to march by. Zaid favored the disciple by having a meal with him. To the Princeps''s mind, the defective old man was more useful than the rest of the church people put together. They sat among the command staff, with a double wall of tower shields braced at an upward angle to guard their flanks while they chewed on jerky and warmed an energizing root tea over a fire fueled by dried gurantor dung. He tried to prompt some conversation.

    "You look happy, Zorda."

    Zorda smiled, a little droopy-eyed from a shift of hard work. "I like roads. Roads are good. People use them."

    "I noticed you put up new markers. Was there something wrong with them?"

    Zorda looked to one side, at something only he could see. "Those markers were old. I made them a long time ago. I can do aventurine now. I saw Phillip do it and now I learned it too. Mistress Manu said, ''roads are a workman''s product, but markers are a chance to show off.'' I want Phillip to see I can make aventurine."

    "How old are you?" The odd man looked over one shoulder and wasn''t inclined to answer.

    "We''re not sure," said one of his bulwarks, a woman of about forty. "We know from the Histories he must be over sixty, but he could be as old as seventy. He''s built or rebuilt every major highway in Tenobre. He''s in great shape for someone his age."

    "Walking is good for you!" chimed the disciple.

    "I can see why Nexus recognizes you," said the Princeps. "You did a lot for us today."

    Zoarda was still looking into the desert. "Perfect fit," said the disciple.

    Zaid felt the stirrings alarm, because the the last time he said those words was after they met with the Pasha. But he never got the chance to ask the old man about it, because he grunted and fell face-first onto the ground. Two short arrows stuck out from his back, at an agle as if they had come from above.

    "Uncle!" The bulwark threw herself over his body, but it was too late. Both shafts ran straight through his armor and into his heart. Zaid knew a dead man when he saw one.

    "To arms!" he yelled in his most commanding voice. "Shield wall left flank! Shooters high!"

    The cry was repeated down the column. A second rank of shields was hoisted above the first, angled to block attacks from falling arrows. Zaid and everyone around him gathered under the shelter, and more shields were held above them.

    The Princeps felt an impact and looked down to see his lower leg was dangling from scraps of skin and tendon. He was in too much shock to feel pain, but the blood loss was sure to kill him. An arrow had passed through his body and lodged in Zorda''s perfect roadway, leaving only the notch exposed above the surface. With all their attention drawn to one flank, they had momentarily forgotten about the other.

    "Behind us!" he tried to shout. Someone was pushing him down and trying to stop the bleeding.

    "Skirmishers!" commanded Bassel. It might be expensive, but they had to overrun the ambushers'' position and drive them off.

    Calls for a healer went out, too. The command section carried four healers, and one of them appeared and began his work while Zaid listened to the sounds of battle. His limbs shook from sudden blood loss, and he might vomit, but he still knew the noise of battle. The skirmishers marched out with spears and shields but didn''t find anything. The enemy had done what they wanted and retreated.

    He must have passed out briefly because, the next thing he knew, his aide was looking down at him. The men were still arranged in a shield wall. The skirmishers hadn''t yet returned.

    "Your leg is healing," said his aide. "Don''t move." Bassel could be intemperate where the Princeps''s honor was concerned, but he was cool when the fighting started. He also had a grand head for logistics.

    "What in Morufu''s burning ass hit me?"

    Bassel shook his head. "Some kind of new bow." Zaid followed Bassel''s gaze and saw the healer who had worked on him, laid out on the highway with a hole clean through his head. A cone of blood spray went out the other side. "They hit like ballista. Runners are still out, but we''ll have casualty reports soon. Don''t move until the bone is strong again." Bassel ran up and down the shield line to check with the officers, keeping his head down the whole time.

 Damage Report

    Damage Report

    The skirmishers never found the enemy, but they found the shooting platforms they used to aim over the shields. Nexus had raised pillars in the desert between fifty and a hundred meters from the column. The platforms were only erected near Zaid''s part of the army and the disciples'' wagons, right under everyone''s noses.

    The casualty reports were dire: all the disciples were dead, as were many healers and three regimental commanders. The army huddled behind its shield wall, knowing the next attack could come at any minute, but nothing happened. The enemy was content to let them sit nervously under the sun. Zaid promoted new commanders to fill the vacant regimental seats and ordered officers to strip their ranks from their uniforms and mingle with the men when they could. If the Pasha wanted to decapitate his army, he would have to work harder at it.

    They always strung up tarps to keep the sun off them during the middle of the day, but now those flimsy spans of cloth counted as an actual defense. Snipers couldn''t snipe what they couldn''t see. Zaid was torn between resting his men and leaving before the enemy could try something else, but he decided on rest. When the army moved again, he wouldn''t stop until they reached Bitter Spring and engaged the enemy there. They had to arrive in good condition, and that meant resting now so they could fight later.

    "This is what hit you," said Bassel, handing him an arrow. It was improbably short, with a thick shaft of wood, three vanes in the rear canted to produce a stabilizing spin, and a wide bronze tip. The proportions were less like a normal arrow and more like a scaled-down ballista bolt. Its trip through his body and into the roadbed had curled the once-sharp edges into dull ridges.

    Bassel handed him another arrow, similar in length and weight but entirely different. "This is what he used on disciples." The new arrow was a marvel. The shaft was light, and the head was surprisingly heavy for something so thin, both made of metals he couldn''t identify. The blades showed no sign they had cut through enhanced monster hide, tirun scale, and killed someone. Flesh and blood didn''t stick to it. It looked brand new, ready to be reloaded and flown again.

    "Every shot hit its mark except you. One arrow, one kill."

    "And Brother Zorda," Zaid corrected him. "He got two arrows. I would have done the same." He tapped the exotic shaft against his palm. The simpleton made others uncomfortable sometimes, but his competence was extraordinary, even among disciples. He was growing to like the peculiar man and his gentle nature. Zaid still saw his face, older than his Tyrant father''s but infinitely more kind, instantly gone slack in death. The Princeps thought of himself as a just man, and the disciple''s undeserved death rankled him. But Hadith''s Destiny ranked higher than justice, so Zaid lived while Zorda died. Fairness was never part of war or destiny.

    "I think our young genius has made a mistake. He should have done this days ago, back at Satoma. That would have crippled us. As it is, we have just enough water to get us to Bitter Spring. Summon Guardian Paraskevi."

    While he was waiting, Zorda''s lead bulwark came to let him know she was leaving with the rest of her team. Their appalons were kneeling beyond the highway, ready to move with Zorda''s shrouded body strapped to one of them. A healer was praying over the body, maybe a blessing for the dead.

    "Aren''t you good fighters, even without prayers?" he asked the woman. "Stay, and get revenge for him."

    "That''s not what he''d want."

    Paraskevi chose that moment to arrive. "What are you saying? You must fulfill your duty to the church and fight the heretic."

    "He was our church!" Cold fury dripped from the bulwark''s words, as she pointed to the shrouded figure of her dead disciple. "We''re his followers, not yours. Our duty is to him and him alone. You people made him take that stupid vow, and it scrambled his head! Good luck rebuilding your church, you stupid cow." The small party was mounted and ready to leave within the minute, and Zaid sent orders to allow them to leave unhindered.

    As they rode east at a fast pace, Zaid turned his attention to Paraskevi. "What did she mean about rebuilding the church?"

    "There are only three disciples left. The Hierarch, the one you sent scouting, and one other."

    "Who''s the other?" When she didn''t answer, Zaid threatened her with a growl. He was tired of these people hiding things from him. "Where are they?"

    "She''s in Sand Castle. She''s supposed to collect information and disrupt things in the rear. But now we have no way of hearing back from her."

    "In all the world, that''s all you have?" The bulwark''s comment about rebuilding was still fresh, and Zaid remembered:it took three disciples to anoint another disciple. "Pasha Phillip killed more than a few disciples today, didn''t he?"

    "He may have killed the whole church. He killed me, too," huffed the guardian. "Nobody in Leadership who fails badly lives for very long. Nobody on the council has ever failed like I have."Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.

    "If you can''t make disciples without having disciples," Bassel wondered, "how does Nexus do it?"

    Paraskevi laughed without humor. "That''s the greatest of his many heresies. Why do you think we risked everything to destroy him? You might as well turn around and go home. This expedition is pointless now. Enclave is broken."

    "No," said the Princeps without pausing, "your mission is pointless but ours continues. We have to subjugate the desert tribes or die trying. That''s our Tyrant''s order. We can still win if we engage them with our full force. If they can bleed then they can die; we know they can bleed."

    "Can''t your Hierarch do something," Bassel asked, "about making new disciples?"

    "Maybe," she conceded. "The Hierarch''s powers are not well documented."

    Bassel grunted. "More secrets."

    Zaid felt the scouting disciple was most likely dead. There was no way a good commander would organize a massacre of disciples and not remember one running loose in the desert. If the Hierarch couldn''t work around the three-disciple requirement, the entire church might be dead.

    "You told me he was some kind of wash-out with a little charisma. But he''s a little more than that, isn''t he? I want to know everything," Zaid demanded. "Where is he from? How was he educated? Who taught him the arts? What kind of person is he? Who does he bed with? And most of all, what else is he capable of?"

    "Most of what we have to go on is a report from Guardian Maia, who was sent to investigate his alleged death last autumn. She also spent time with him during the Nurr campaign."

    "We''ve seen that travesty, haven''t we? Your people blacked half of it out. Please tell me you have a true copy."

    "In the wagon, where most of the disciples died."

    Zaid growled at her. "Well, go get it"

    Paraskevi''s face went red. "I am a Guardian of the Faith! Even you have to show some respect. And the carriage is full of blood. Make someone else do it. It''s probably ruined anyway."

    Zaid''s voice began calm but escalated quickly. "Maybe you didn''t notice, but there was an order to the attack. Zorda first, then the other disciples and me, then commanders. They did not try to kill you. Do you know why? Because Phillip knows you are a fool, and he left you alive to plague me! The only use you have now is to tell me about that Young Fucker, Phillip! I don''t care if that report is floating in a lake of blood, find it and bring it to me, now!"

    Paraskevi rode off alone and didn''t return for an hour. During that time a great many riders came, talked to Zaid or Bassel, and then left. There was still no word from the forward scouting party.

    When she returned, Paraskevi brought one stack of boards with her, and a thin book made of paper. The thin sheets were wonderful to use, but on the expensive side compared to standard boards. Zaid gave them both a thorough read and shared them with Bassel. The first report was about Taylor''s outlandish origins and early months in Tenobre, culminating in his murder and sudden reappearance months later. The paper report, again written by Maia, was about the Nexus school and its developments in the arts and natural law. According to Maia, monsters were increasing while Enclave''s supply of competent disciples was in rapid decline. Her recommendation to Enclave was to accept the Nexus trainees as disciples and incorporate all of their discoveries.

    Most troubling of all was Maia''s description of their training methods: it was glowing. She used words like "superior," "ground-breaking," and, "revolutionary."

    "Where are his teachers, other than Mobeen? Where is this Lucia, for example?"

    "Died. Of old age, I think."

    "Leila?"

    "She was defrocked and joined Nexus"

    "Dean Garsharp?"

    "Defrocked and executed."

    Zaid tried to think of other disciples he had heard of. "What about that huntress who did the giant eagles, out in Mialta? What was her name?"

    "Suzane," sighed Paraskevi, "defrocked. We think she''s joined Nexus."

    "What about the Hermit of Dace? Barak something?"

    "Defrocked. Nobody knows anything about him. That one was never a team player."

    Zaid didn''t need to ask about Ma''Tocha, who was Phillip''s second-in-command. "Sun''s scars, woman," he complained, "you got rid of all the useful ones and kept the trash. What were you people thinking?"

    "We were thinking," she explained, "we needed to recall all our disciples to preserve the sacred bloodlines. Anyone who didn''t agree wasn''t loyal enough to be one of us. The rest are dregs."

    "Those dregs devastated your ranks last night. Do you think that, maybe, you should have accepted them? Or at least not picked a fight with them?"

    "Olyon forbid!" Paraskevi insisted, sickened by the idea. "The first families are the purest repositories of Olyon''s light. The church was given to us for a reason. You wouldn''t elevate someone without Hadith''s blood to be a prince, would you? That''s how we feel about disciples."

    "So this kid supposedly comes from another world and is filled with strange knowledge. He invents some useful stuff, masters the arts in a few months, discovers prayer songs, survives an assassination attempt that everyone swears was successful, hunts dark monsters, plumbs the lost history of the world, sets up a school, and invents a ton more useful stuff, including a weapon that punches through Enclave''s legendary armor. Do I have that about right?"

    Paraskevi answered quietly, "He''s very prolific in his heresies."

    "And then, instead of finding a way to use him, you decide he''s an enemy. And when you get into a fight with him, you don''t bother to relate any of this information to the man planning your battles! Did I forget anything here?"

    "With respect, Princeps," added Bassel, "he killed the unkillable Darkmaw, destroyed the Satomen who were our pawns in the region, and he''s had all summer to invent ways to fight this campaign."

    "I don''t know what''s going on in your head, woman, but you aren''t thinking straight. I knew you were hiding things, but ˇ­ " He sent her away, unable to bear the sight of her.

    As soon as Silenz rose to give some light, they got the column moving again and wouldn''t stop until they reached Bitter Spring. The road was terrible, pitted and trenched in so many places it was faster to stay off of it. Traveling over the desert floor was hard on the train cars, and they broke two axles before the night was done. Some of the load from the immobilized trains was transferred to gurantors and people, while the rest was left behind in the broken vehicles.

    Half of the forward scouting party returned with good news: The enemy was massed outside Bitter Spring. The Calique revealed themselves when they pounced on the scouting party as expected. The survivors also had bad news: the disciple sent with them had been the first to die, shot through the heart with the dreaded mini-ballista.

    Unless Enclave''s Hierarch had a special power no one knew about, they couldn''t anoint new practitioners. Without them, Bahram''s church, the continent''s unifying presence for three centuries, would crumble. It was only a matter of time.

 Bitter Spring

    Bitter Spring

    Fifteen kilometers from Bitter Spring, Zaid arranged his army in full battle array. Blocks of spearmen, cavalry, and skirmishers, all with battle banners flying and signal drummers keeping time, spread out across the basin and marched together to the battleground. They could smell the oasis, the green and wet, and they wanted nothing more than to kill their rebel enemies and take the luscious garden for themselves.

    But, there was nobody in or near Bitter Spring. They marched through the field of mischus and surrounded the city without resistance. Zaid forbade anyone from going inside until the immediate area could be scouted.

    For generations, there had always been a battle at Bitter Spring. Zaid''s father fought there, as did his father before him. The residents always fought for their home with assistance from nearby allies. It was the most contested site in the desert. For Kashmar, it was the first stepping stone to conquest, a base from which to attack the next garden on their way to Sand Castle. For the rebel tribes, it was the best chance to extract blood from the invaders. Defeating the tribes this way was how Kashmar had punished or weakened them in the past.

    But now, the outer wall was unmanned. Zaid''s army, tired and thirsty as they were, wanted to rush into the oasis heedless of any dangers, but their commanders were successful in holding them back. Scouts were sent ahead. It said something about their newfound caution that they avoided the gates entirely. The scout teams entered Bitter Spring by climbing the wall at different points, using rope ladders.

    The initial reports were strange, but encouraging. There were no buildings inside. Other than the outer wall, there weren''t two bricks left standing on top of each other. The houses were torn down to their foundations and left as piles of rubble, so as not to shelter the enemy. Yet, the oasis itself was untouched, lush and fruitful. The first returning scouts came bearing sacks of sticky palm fruit and cool melons. The oasis could feed thousands if they picked it clean, and it could water the entire army.

    It was obvious the Pasha would face Zaid''s army elsewhere. If he had convinced all his tribes to fight together, then he had to avoid any open engagements involving smaller numbers of men. That was a sound strategy, but letting Zaid have the food and water at Bitter Spring for nothing would be a hard price for him to pay. A more ruthless man would have burned the oasis, no matter how sacred these places were to the people who lived there. For some reason, Zaid thought of Zorda with two arrows in his back. He was getting soft if he was mourning dead allies while in the middle of a war. If the old man needed grieving, Zaid would do it after he had his victory.

    Zaid had his trains form a circle around the town and posted guards on the wall. Nobody was to enter the town until scouts returned with buckets of water, and the water could be tested for poison. Before the deployments were even properly underway, he could hear screams and the sounds of, not fighting exactly, but chopping wood.

    "Not for nothing then," he said to himself. Then to Bassel, "form up the Eighth at the north gate, and the Third at the west. Sweep and destroy." Runners soon sprinted for the correct formations of soldiers to find their commanders and relay the order. Drums were sounded and men marched into the gates. Zaid would have deployed more fighters if he could, but the town and oasis were too small to hold his entire army all at once. Four thousand men should easily overrun whoever was hiding there. They looked eager to fight, to do something other than march and take hits from the enemy.

    As soon as it was deemed safe, Zaid took a position on the wall where he could watch the engagement, standing next to Eight''s commander. Third regiment''s commander and his staff were far to their right, near the west gate.

    In the grove of palms, men were hacking at thorny vines with swords and knives. The weapons couldn''t bite deep enough and it took several strikes to cut even a small vine. Wherever a man lost his footing, he was soon dragged away toward the garden''s center, shouting for help. More men would gather and try to rescue him, only to be dragged along and overcome with even more vines. As the commanders watched, the plants grew larger, the vines thicker. The wounded who escaped were white and shaking, covered in deep punctures.

    Eighth commander looked shocked. "It''s a monster."

    "Bloodvine," said Zaid''s lead scout. "The thorns are its fangs. It snares live prey and sucks their blood. But I''ve never seen it like this."

    Zaid let the battle continue. Four thousand men weren''t going to lose against a plant. But as the soldiers labored, the vines kept spreading. There were a hundred hectares of garden before him, and he could spot signs of movement everywhere he looked. At the nearest battlefront, tall green buds were rising, their tightly closed petals just peaking over the top canopy of palms.

    "Sound retreat," the Princeps ordered, "burn it all."

    "Yes, Princeps." Eighth commander ordered his drummer, and the first booming notes sounded for attention. "But what about the food?"

    "We are the food, Eight. Let''s not offer up any more of ourselves."

    The drumming stopped before the retreat was fully sounded, because the drummer fell off the wall, instruments and all, and landed in the ruins with a clatter of breaking wood and bone. When Zaid looked for the third''s commander, his drummer was also gone. Then, the commander himself collapsed. Zaid fell to the ground and shouted for everyone near him to take cover. He heard an arrow fly above his head, passing him too fast to see. He looked behind him to see who else was hit, and Bassel''s fingers groped weakly toward his bleeding chest. Zaid crawled to him to press useless hands against the wound.Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.

    "My Prince," Bassel wheezed, "my destiny ˇ­ departs ˇ­ from yours."

    "Runners!" Zaid shoved his anger aside. Bassel had been with him for decades. They had trained together as recruits in the Chargers. He was supposed to support Zaid when he became Tyrant, but the life bled out of him through Zaid''s fingers. Men died in wars. Except himself, apparently. That was twice he had escaped the deadly snipers. He leaned his head over the outside edge of the wall. "Send messengers to third and eighth. Tell them to get out of there!" Men acknowledged his orders and ran at speed, gifted by their beast traits with long swift strides.

    He didn''t need to order the perimeter swept: other commanders had noticed the latest volleys and were reacting appropriately. Two battalions of Zaid''s own First Regiment were quick-marching over the ground behind a piercing phalanx of bronze. They weren''t likely to hit anything, but the maneuver would force their invisible enemy to move out of range.

    "More buds," pointed the scout. In a dozen locations widely spread throughout the garden, bright buds were stretching towards the sky. The first ones were changing colors now, and less tightly wound. "The pollen is poisonous. If they bloom ˇ­"

    Zaid understood. "Everyone off the wall." He was the first to clamber down the rope ladder, and immediately ordered all units to retreat from the town''s walls to a distance of a hundred meters. The exact distance wasn''t based on anything concrete, he just needed a number that might be far enough away to avoid the worst damage. All of Kashmar''s army put space between itself and the walls of Bitter Spring, pulling what survivors they could from the garden''s deadly grip.

    From a distance and standing atop a train car, Zaid had a good view of the bloodvine''s flowers. He''d never seen a monster like it. The buds turned shades of yellow and orange and unfurled into glorious, impossibly massive blooms that dominated the tiny palms beneath them. It had drunk deep from the well of Kashmari manhood, and there was the result.

    "They look like squash blossoms," observed Zaid.

    "Bloodvine is a gourd," the scout informed him. "Meaty flesh, a lot like young futobel. Fantastic roasted. But don''t plant the seeds unless you know what you''re getting into."

    What was left of Third Regiment came stumbling out the west gate and shut it behind them. Moments later, the gargantuan blossoms sighed and slumped while exhaling a yellow cloud over Bitter Spring. Much of it floated down in a slow-moving wave, drenching the trees in yellow powder. Then, like too much water poured into a cup, the cloud billowed up over the walls and spilled down into the mischus. The prevailing breeze pushed the yellow mist eastward, but Second Regiment was ready for it. They moved out of the way in double time and never panicked.

    "Burn it all," Zaid ordered. His enemy had bled him without giving up anything in return. Well, that wasn''t quite true, was it? It cost the Pasha an entire garden, one that would take a generation to restore properly. Some among the tribes would count it too high a price for only a fraction of Zaid''s army.

    Flaming oil pots arced over the wall, and firelight soon glowed over the oasis while men watched their hopes for fresh food go up in smoke. The impressive petals looming over everything began to blacken.

    Zaid knew the reports'' contents before they arrived. He lost two regimental commanders and over three thousand men. There was water in the wells, but he could assume they were capped like Satoma''s. They could harvest the mischus and scrape moisture out of the hardy plants (rebels did that kind of thing all the time), but some of it was covered in poisonous spores. Any man who inhaled or ate the spores would be sick for longer than it took to finish the campaign.

    As the scattered flames joined into a proper inferno, unbidden words came to Zaid. Leave the invader with nothing. Let him fight the desert.

    "I know what he''s doing," he realized. "This is Talal."

    "He''s using Talal against us." That statement from the Princeps meant something to only some of his commanders. They gathered in a tent around a big map of the desert, with a lot of empty space between points of interest. There were occasional oases and, far to the interior, Sand Castle. A scattering of black dots indicated watering holes, wells without any plant growth around them.

    Zaid explained, "Talal was a powerful Pasha, pre-Alignment. His preferred strategy was to destroy his outer oases and lure his enemy to the deep desert. After the invaders, that''s us by the way, were weakened by thirst and heat, he would attack with fresh troops from secret watering holes."

    It was obvious to everyone that the army was in trouble. They had to cut water rations. Their progress had slowed thanks to sabotaged roads and a complete lack of disciples to fix them. The army could move faster if it left the supply train behind, but that meant troops would arrive in Sand Castle exhausted and starving while the supplies were likely to be captured or destroyed. The army was still in fighting condition, but that wouldn''t last for more than a few days.

    Tenth commander asked the obvious question. "How do we counter Talal?"

    "Normally, with Sanuye," said Zaid. "If you know where those watering holes are and you have good coordination, you can swarm them with reconnaissance in force. Wherever you find the enemy, you mass and attack. They won''t all be at the same place, which makes them easy to overwhelm if you have superior numbers."

    "You said ''normally''," observed Ten.

    "This new pasha is young, but he''s smart. Inventive. And he has disciples. If Phillip has read Talal, then he has also read Sanuye. We have to assume he''s sealed up all the wells between here and Sand Castle. It''s no secret that we''ve scoured the desert for decades, mapping out watering holes. There have been skirmishes over it. But, he has a new watering hole near here, one he''s kept very secret."

    Zaid put his finger on the map, about twenty kilometers east of Bitter Spring. "It''s a mine carved into the banks of the Great River. He doesn''t know we know about it. At worst, we''ll find water there. At best, that''s where he''s hiding the bulk of his forces right now."

    "How do we know about it?" Ninth''s commander sounded doubtful. "It could be a trap."

    "Sapphires," added Zaid''s lead scout. "Quantities of rough-cut gems started showing up in Ullidia and Gallia. The first families tried to buy up the excess supply and went looking for the source. They spent massive amounts of money before they realized the sapphires weren''t passing through the desert trade route; they were coming from the desert. They spent a lot of lives trying to find the source and failed. Our scouts are better than theirs. They found several mines here." The scout placed markers on half a dozen sites along the Great River. "We thought the mines were long dead, but apparently Nexus found ways to get more gems from them. Our scouts were discovered and driven away from every site, except this one. Old records call it Laggard''s Shaft. None of the regiments were briefed because the information was so secret."

    "Circumstances change," added the Princeps, "and now it''s our primary target. We''ll take all the cavalry, mounted skirmishers, and battalions capable of a quick march. The rest of the army will stay in Bitter Spring. Pull whatever water is left from the wells, and dig new ones. We know there''s water near the surface here. We just have to dig for it."

    Soon, orders were streaming out of the command tent as the commanders refined their plans and mobilized their men.