ΠΆΝΤΑ ΓΆΡ ΤῸ ΠΥ͂Ρ

ἘΠΕΛΘῸΝ ΚΡΙΝΕΙ͂

ΚΑῚ ΚΑΤΑΛΉΨΕΤΑΙ

I see her dead in the snow. The same stillness without a smile. She’s black from the frost. Ice scrawled across her skin like veins. Her white hair is cut from her head, taken by the wind like a scythe to sheaf. Then, her skin begins to bubble. You would think fire had done it, but it is just the way that mountain cold twists the body.

“Do you force a picture of my failure upon me, mage, or is it my own heart that deludes me?”

I waste precious breath with my protest. The air on the Surlain peaks is as thin as a beak-worn scroll. I must remember that the workings of the known unknown can only move what lies within.

I recall her aura. Clean as the spring sky. Soft as the lift of waltzgrass. Then I find her stillness like an anchor beside me. The Pulse of àṣhẹ that flows through me. The one that she provides me. She still lives.

The illusion of unknown origin fades. Her àṣhẹ moves in my chest again. My grip tightens once more around the root-reins, but it is still a lesser grasp than I have of our progress. I resume leading her on our steed up the pass.

The endless white of the ridges above and ahead marr any attempt at finding our bearings. Time itself has likewise been fleeting. The sun is obscured by frost. It has made our trek one of ever-present dusk. My Seywa and I have weaved low through valleys and up through endless plateaus, avoiding their detection. Now, the white-cloaked mages of the Order of Lamia have found us, and toy with us from afar.

They were clever to have aimed for my boots first. Their spells ripped through the bohrshide enough for the wet to seep in. My feet shift against the leather now as we march. A blister is assured. Their aim may indeed be true. Her and I have long known the odd ends of the white cloaks’ designs. They may want to break my focus or give my mind over to frenzy.

The snow rises to our knees, slowing our steady climb. The damp scent of iron still cuts through the folds of fresh wool. I’d cut the fur from snow-slept beasts. They were made by my hand to fade into the mist of dreams for our warmth. Over their final caress lies my tribe’s hallowed wolf skins. They droop over the nape of each side of my neck, sewing the heat to my body. Their fur flails in the wind as I trudge on.

The flurries of snow meet and then dance up to my cowl. The pattern of travel is more akin to a rope than a river. It is the work of the mage’s unseen hand. It adds crust to my brow. It forces a squint to maintain sight. My feet start to burn. I can't see our pursuers through the thick white. I only know their attacks continue by the effect of their magics. Beside us, impressions thrice the size of summer feast bowls appear with thuds, scarring the earth. I can feel their spells pelt then slide around her aegis. A shield that shines and bends with each volley.

“Seywa, let’s clear the air. We may benefit from attacking now.”

My throat becomes tender from the heave of my cry. I straighten my posture and free the reins to sink into the snow. Our well-trained steed stops, knowing what will happen. I raise my arms forward and wait for Seywa to increase the flow of àṣhẹ. I feel The Pulse, then I dwell on the known unknown. The Stir grows. I can feel the singe on my waist. She means for me to use a wind spell. In a muffled hum so only the gods may hear me…

I recite the poy:

glide, gust, gale

as you lift the child’s kite

or spin down death

stir with my mind

that I might know your form

noumena!

A glee, typical of youth, returns to my heart for a beat. For a moment, I run free through the hills of waltzgrass again. Their blades scraping their spores into my legs, lifting me through the air. I feel the warmth of our Mafath’s nod and embrace. The wind thick with the scent spring-woken fruits.

First pressure.

Then a roar. (Illustration 1) Around us, snow rushes away, revealing earth and unmuddied air. I watch as it continues up the pass, uprooting trees, loosening rocks, and mangling snow-slept creatures. I feel her heart sink for them.

The remaining white cloaks grunt in the distance. I may have cleared most of them but must stay alert. I must end their pursuit. For my Seywa.

I crouch to fetch the reins and approach our steed from its preferred side. I reach to calm our steed but stop my hand at a hover by his neck. The battle startled him. I note the concern by the tremble of his eye. She shifts beneath the bundle of wool on the steed’s back. I check to make sure there’s no opening in the bound of blankets. I find none and feel grateful it remains dry. I mount the steed and wrap her close in one arm. I clench in my heels and we resume our ascent.

The land returns to silence. Wind wailing on. Some way up the pass lies the sorry lot that was trailing us. I dismount. A figure quivers under a veil of fresh powder. Clothed in a silk coat our tribe could never hope to make or afford. There’s a false courage to their choice of garb. They rely solely on magic to keep warm, thinking themselves above the unknown known. I hear a cry from beneath the cloth. I rid him of it, though it’s hard to tell what plea he makes through the chattering of his teeth.

Her àṣhẹ grows from a pulse to a flutter like a fawn watching his father fall to my arrow. She knows what I mean to do. I cusp my hand on his brow. The other flat at the base of his neck. Then, quick and rocking twists. A snap as fluids break from their cases, then a final breath in a gasp. I do the same for the others. From my eyes, her tears stream down my face. They glint dimly as a hurried frazil begins its bite. A sense of regret not my own sinks in my chest. It was a mercy not to be taken by the cold. The firn will weave their fine silks into the pillar of ice. Every season they will sink firmer into the grip of frost. Every fleck of bone and strand of silk will be unmade by the weight. No mind. We must continue up the pass.

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

We reach the next ridge. Still higher peaks sit on both sides, watching us but offering a much needed respite from the wind. Their boughs sway heavily with snow, requesting our silence in return for their own. I move on leading her, ready if more mages find us. My feet now ache with every step. Every lift of leg comes less soon. My knees creak and snap. Our hope for a new life for us carries me on, away from our would-be killers… or captors.

We’d left the village one moon ago and are running low on supplies. It’s been some time since we’ve eaten. I pull the final strip of dried meat from the sack on my waist. She hates Bohr but it will have to do. I rip a piece off and slide it under my cowl and into my mouth. I savor the last taste of the Far Plains spice. Then I grind the strip to a mound of paste between my teeth. I walk to the side of the steed. Spit out the ball of meat into my hand and unveil her.

Seywa’s white tightlocked hair falls to cover her face as I remove the wool. Each bundled strand of hair a deep white color against her bark brown skin. They hang with the same shining allure of the moon to the night sky. It is these dadajata that first drew the interest of the mages to her. She was born with her hair already weaved into locks in our Mafath’s womb. The mages regarded it as a presence of some great power they sought after.

She parts her hair behind her ears. Seywa’s round and angled face greets me. Only twenty-two harvest days had passed for her, but her youth had already been partially spoiled from the touch of wisdom. She's always with a taut and raised brow. Her eyes look through all. She knows the things I can never know about myself.

Her deep-water blue eyes narrow and fix themselves to me. She opens her short lips to speak. Then we both remember. I raise my free hand towards her shoulder to comfort her. She then smiles, denies my comfort, leans down, and hugs me. Her bow and quiver shift on their straps from her back to droop around her waist. I miss her voice. Rare. Certain. Warm. Whenever she’d speak, it’d be short but had a greater depth than the deepwoods itself. She then grabs the ball of meat from my hand. Then sticks out the remaining stub of her tongue in jest before eating.

Beyond these wastes lies the Kingdom of Fuhl, where the mages, our white-cloaked pursuers, reside. Under curses styled as lessons, we learned of the just King Otek. An uncommon man who is said to rule over the land by a Creed at his own expense. The traitorous Meister Immaun spoke of his commitment often. “He is one who governs as if every decision should be a law for all.. a slothful scepter. On the occasion he raises it to announce a decree, his law is wayward and wrathful”. Misguided or not, we must appeal to this King’s justice for the white cloak’s crimes. For their schemes guised as education. For their capture of our tribe. For taking our way of life from us. For the destruction of our people. For Mafath. For robbing my Seywa of her voice. As the last of our kind, we must make them answer.

The snow once more spreads up from my ankles, to shin, to knees. A glaze of frost starts to creep up my shins. The Pulse quickens with her concern. Through it, she asks if I should be warmed. I’d accept, but I must avoid tiring her. I need her source of àṣhẹ to defend us. They may return, so I’ll endure. I stay a shiver that, once started, seldom stops.

Then the peaks increase their favor… or perhaps their pity. Gleaming figures, the shape of royal chandeliers appear in the air. Then, the pelts on my shoulders whisper their word of caution into my ears. "Spirits of Ice" The sprites flicker like a candle. Do they mean us harm? They stop their game and begin to sway over us. Their curiosity then becomes aid. Small lines of clouds began to round them. The air becomes like a spring night. Blood begins to flow through my veins with ease. Their aid remains as we reach a clearing. Then, they form a path ahead with the glow of pyreflies at dusk.

My foot catches against something hard as I slide it forward. It becomes stuck tight underneath something.

I lean down and brush the snow away at my feet. There lies two stone black figures embracing in their final moments. The last scraps of their clothes hang loose, fused to frozen skin.

I recognize the garments as Bohr's hide. Then, I see the tatters of a blood-dyed sash, once red now brown. It hangs from the right one's neck. I know this cloth as The Bloodtrust, a symbol from our tribe of being the second in command. The Chief would use his own blood to soak the cloth as a sign of his trust in them. While he recovered from the blood loss, its bearer would prove their ability to rule in his absence. Upon his return, our tribe would vote on the merit of their rule. If the bearer failed, the Chief would take their life. The white cloaks saw us as mere beasts and painted our rites as savagery. Under their influence, some among us began to abandon tribal rites like the Bloodtrust. Then… these must be the remains of traitors who perished in The Japa.

Two hundred years ago, war came to our people over who would succeed the Chief. The Japa began when some chose to leave behind Shi-jukadi, the rite of ascension through combat. They traded their tridents for talk. Instead of blood, they drew lines. They had been led astray by the promise of what magic could offer our people. Mafath always spoke with a grave resentment of this time in our history. Their hands would quake with rage at how much we had lost. How rumors became what made one fit to lead over strength.

Those who lost their attempt to rule through rumor were banished to the peaks we now wander. Their exile was the means to deny them honor in death, the very way they sought to deny that rite to our leaders. Their bodies serve as rightful monuments to their betrayal; just as much as each mage whose soul I now offer to the mountain.

Then, a light hits my eyes. Two ice sprites descend from their line. They spin down in a dance over me before sinking into the bodies before me. A faint blue glow traces the edge of their corpses.

Whispers begin, their voices ringing out in faint echoes. A mix of battle cries, horrid howls, desperate screams, and muffled pleas meet my ear. I cannot make sense of what the sprites are trying to tell me. I lack the interest to know. Only a channeler’s curse could catch these sounds like seeds to the wind. I have no interest in the final moments of traitors. I stand and regather the root-reins into my hand.

“Seywa, these traitors to our people, our no ancestors of ours. We need-”

Then, a sickness like that from a glut of ale sets in my stomach. A quick fever rises to my brow, drawing out beads of sweat. It is a sickly warmth that is a rare welcome in the cold.

A pulse aches in my head. I am called back to the snow. To my knees. To their bodies.

I should have known her curiosity would overtake my spite.

Her àṣhẹ flows into me like a glass of wine hastily poured. A sear on my thigh as her sigil wakes. A curse needs no poy, so she’ll need neither my speech nor consent. Seywa then opens my ears to hear the echoes of their words. She opens my eyes to see their souls have been chained to the mountain. She opens my heart to know they can’t return to the unknown known. They'll be denied The Return.

At her compassion, I retch like a dog into the snow.

A faint blue glow surrounds me.

Then, a remembrance of death seeps into me.

A fatigue like sleep.

Then, a vision like a dream.