***

The trail steepened as they reached the foot of the lonely mountain. They only had “a lil’ more t’ go” according to Dhanur who had hobbled to her feet at midday. She was nibbling on a bite of bread smeared with a crude paste of the flower petals and stringy ginger root.

Janurana hadn’t protested at letting Dhanur take the lead as her meager meal’s energy was wearing off, but she wasn’t happy about it. On the other hand, she didn't know if the path would suddenly split half way up the mountain. Dhanur’s eyes were darker, almost gaunt and her face paler than last night. She was keeping down her food, which was an improvement. But she had pulled up her hood when she noticed the off put way Janurana was looking at her.

While Dhanur was silent, focused only on the next step of the winding path, Janurana continued to look out as they ascended the mountain path, watching more and more come into relief. She panned over the charred remains of the land, the canyon they had crossed, the pocket forests and plains, and the mountains on the far horizon somehow getting bigger as she could see more of them. It was a calming vision and distraction from Dhanur being sick, and how that was all her fault. She bit her lip as she thought that if she had not come into Dhanur’s life the warrior would be warm in her home. She shook her head and averted her gaze back to the mountains. They were beautiful. Further up their own mountain the few vines and more plush mosses than on the trails were another welcome sight for both Dhanur and Janurana as they took in their soft feel. Dhanur had removed her gloves to handle them with rare grace. She gently squeezed the vines and chuckled at how plush they were compared to the tough ones they used in the canyon.

Finally, when the greenery had overtaken the amber brown rock of the mountain completely, they arrived at the peak. Janurana took in the temple carved into the stone itself. Its majesty lay locked within the mountain and anchored to the flow of the world. Towers at the fore crumbled near their peaks, or stood unfinished, icons to the limitations of the hands that carved them. The front leading into the temple belonged to the agents of earth, the flora.

Janurana thought it was because they were closer to the sun that the plants could grow, as even before the Scorching neither the Outside of the south in the rainy season bloom or the Borderlands grew so lush.

“Or maybe we’re so close to the jungle,” she thought aloud.

Vines strangled the temple like a net. Shrubs, full sheets of green grass, and islands of flowers graced its front. A path of steps carved into the stone led the way through the greenery. Janurana and Dhanur, with Dekha in tow, paused at the edge of the different world and took in the environment.

Janurana turned to the overwhelming expanse of land from the mountain’s peak. The eastern mountains which descended to the sloping Borderlands’ rolling hills, the canyons cutting their way along the plateau, the decrepit forests peppering it, the whole of the south itself, the whole of the Borderlands, and the northern jungle all seemed to bow to where they stood and not just because some were on the slope down from the plateau. They all made room for the sacred area, and from it the temple rose. She strained her vision and spied the walled Capital along with a few other cities, or what remained of them if their walls weren’t made of mudbrick, then circled north to see the much closer Vatram, gate through the jungle into Uttara. It wasn’t more than a half day away. Its walls were less imposing than the Capital, except for the forest behind it. The brilliant green of the jungle behind Vatram was awe inspiring, but still only a bit less jarring than the sacred garden in front of the temple. Steam oozed from the jungle’s canopy, disappearing into the air along its length. It ran from end to end of the horizon, bending with the curve of the land, spreading out with salients at certain points, opening for the canyons to pour through at others. The gradient between it and the Borderlands was practically invisible as the thickening foliage leading to it exploded up into the fully grown jungle trees that made the Capital’s Keep’s towers look like saplings.

She stared into the infinity, spinning to look at everything, forgetting Dhanur. It was truly as though they had crossed a plane and traveled to another world.

Dhanur released a heavy sigh, procured her bow from the saddlebags, smacked her wound, and turned to the imposing stone entrance. The chants of the devoted blew from inside and through the full leaves of the single tree off to the side. They mingled rhythmically with the rustle of the wind, and the swinging of the target that hung from its lower branch still peppered with the remains of crude training arrows. Her hands dug into the well–worn but well maintained leather grip of her bow as the tree was soon flanked by nearly tangible visions of her childish hands peeling the arrow from its center and seeing her father praising her accuracy. As she took a deep breath, a bird swooped past her, eliciting a yelp. She glanced quickly at Janurana, who was all too busy enjoying the view.

Dhanur rolled her eyes at herself for being worried, before they fell and locked on her bow.

But she couldn’t quite look up. Her gaze traveled from side to side, taking in the extruding rocks and bushes popping out of the dirt. Every crack in them was still etched into her muscles’ memory, though from when she was much smaller. The bushes too seemed so much bigger then as she hid in them so often for hide and seek.

She trudged up the stone stairway, muscle memory taking over. Only at the last step did she trip as her adult legs were so much longer. It snapped Janurana to attention who jogged to catch up with her parasol aloft. But Dhanur insisted she was okay as she hobbled forward.

The ivied temple doors, smaller than the Capital’s gates, were somehow more imposing. She raised her trembling hand for the moss spackled rope dangling amongst the hanging greenery. As she pulled it firmly the connected string inside clattered with shards of pottery and shells. The chorus and the chanting slowly ceased. It was a long while and the silence grew thick and ominous to both women as Janurana jogged up to the door.

“Now, who pulled that string?” demanded an older man sporting a deep, graying brown, and almost comically large mustache in an orange–yellow robe. Only his hooded head was visible through a small square hole near the top of the door, which his mustache did its best to hide. He was easily in his fifties, old enough to be the temple’s Guru.

“I did!” Dhanur straightened up.

“We did!” Janurana said an octave higher and simultaneously.

“Can you not read the notice?” the man demanded, smacking the door as if a sign were there. Then he nursed his hand as the pair scanned the door, so they wouldn’t see.

“What notice?” Dhanur curled her eyebrows in confusion.

“Well, it’s not my fault if you can’t read,” he said with a huff.

Dhanur was taken aback, clenching her jaw in embarrassment before squinting, reviewing his face in her mind. His voice was familiar but older than any she remembered. She mentally removed a few wrinkles and gray hairs. She scratched her head, knocking some of her hair loose from her hood. “Did you always have that mustache?”

The doorman rested on his elbow, sliding his fingers along the length of his mustache. “It’s coming in quite well. Who is it who asks?”

“… Abbaji?”

He froze. His hands grasped the edges of the panel as he leaned forward and focused on Dhanur’s lock of red hair. He motioned across his head. Dhanur copied, sliding her hood back, and revealing her red mane in its entirety.

“Zirisa?!”

Dhanur’s father turned, frantic as he leapt from view. The door opened, scraping the ground with the vines over the temple following along. Guru Brachen ran through the waterfalls of dust to slam his arms around Dhanur. For the first time since Janurana had met her, Dhanur truly smiled wide, even though she looked embarrassed.

She tried to bow, as if that was an appropriate response, but Brachen’s exaggerated frown erupted into a laugh as he slapped her bronze clad shoulder, luckily her unwounded one. Being taller than him, it was odd for Janurana seeing Dhanur buckle from it when she had endured her wound and infection last night. Brachen pulled her down to kiss her cheeks as she hugged him back. Despite her shoulder, she was able to lift him up which surprised him.

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Even still, her red hair made her tower over him even more. She looked like a spot of fire next to a veteran ember.

Janurana gripped her parasol, trying to relax again, while also holding fast against the growing mountain top wind. She wasn’t a part of it, but she couldn’t help but smile at the welcoming display, after putting the image of her own family out of her mind.

The father and daughter eventually stopped their hugs, and took in each other’s faces, solemnly. Dhanur poked her father’s mustache and the new wrinkles behind it. She barely recognized the elder before her. He still had his lively vigor, but the twelve years away had clearly taken their toll.

“You hit old,” she said.

But Guru Brachen’s face fell as he looked into Dhanur’s bloodshot eyes and finally noticed her pallor. “Zirisa. Are you okay?”

Dhanur collapsed into his arms.

Her limp body nearly made her father fall over, like a bear cub trying to catch its mother, and he brought her to the ground.

“Zirisa! Virala Zirisa!” He felt her neck for her pulse and breathing, then shot his attention to Janurana who had knelt down beside them. “What happened to her?”

“She got into a fight, vetalas, one clipped her shoulder and the wound festered!” Janurana spoke quickly, unsure of what to do. “I gave her some—”

“Where??”

“Her shoulder!”

He patted both, saw Dhanur wince involuntarily from her bow arm, and hovered his hand over it.

“I don’t remember the name of the root I ga—” Janurana recoiled, fighting to silence a hiss of pain as Brachen wreathed his hands in golden light like a ray of the sun itself wrapped around his fingers.

It surged from his veins, emanating from within to lance through Dhanur’s armor and snake into her. The exposed skin glowed as her own veins lit up with an unearthly radiance.

Four more Ascetics of the Light ran out of the temple to Dhanur’s side.

“Guru! Is she okay?” a younger northern Ascetic, Diktala, asked, kneeling and trying to see past the glowing light.

“Sick. Jura. Come. Neesha, Diktala, soma. Make me some, I need to heal her,” he spoke briskly to his disciples, hauling Dhanur up while Jura, a large, southern, young man, took her other shoulder.

Diktala ran inside, followed by the southerner Neesha.

Janurana reached out a hand, wanting to help the motionless Dhanur, wanting to say or add anything, but she was left behind. Except for a frail northern boy, flustering and wringing his hands.

“Guru Brachen?” Chahua called.

“Not now, Chahua!” he yelled back, still spreading his light over Dhanur’s wound as Jura carried most of her weight over his shoulder.

“Uh. Uhm,” Chahua stammered, then leapt in fright as Dekha snorted and shook his head with uncharacteristic but obvious anxiety.

“Sh, sh.” Janurana patted his head, then patted off the flecks of skin from her fingers. “Your master will be fine. I promise.”

Dekha’s eyes stared forward, as they always did. But Janurana thought she saw a hint of movement inside them. She picked her cuticles and sucked her teeth, unsure of how to comfort the animal if he was worried about Dhanur. She turned to Chahua, who hadn’t budged and was refusing to look at her or Dekha.

“If I may,” she began, but again, the young man jumped in surprise. Janurana stifled a pained eye roll at his ineptitude. “I won’t bite. I am Janurana,” she introduced herself solemnly.

“Ch-Chahua.” He bowed dutifully.

“Yes, I heard her father, Guru Brachen was his name? He said so. Is there anything I can do?”

The Ascetic was barely as tall as Janurana, a fact she found disquieting. Before he could stammer a useless answer, Brachen called him to assist and he ran off inside.

Janurana didn’t follow. She picked at her cuticles, knowing Dhanur only needed healed because she was trying to help, because she insisted on escorting her to the safe house. Janurana couldn’t deny the place was safe. It had a commanding view of the world around, anyone would have to climb up a path that could be blocked with less than a day’s worth of moving rocks, and the stone doors looked heavy enough to be barred against whatever made its way up. With Light Ascetic, her mother would surely have trouble. She remembered another companion, an Ascetic of the Light, in her hip pouch. A fragment of her hair was all Janurana could find. Her mother had somehow caught up during the day and was sent back with a wall of Light.

‘It was much like Dekha’s’ Janurana remembered. The Ascetic’s name started with a K, or a Kam. She couldn’t remember that.

But night came, as it always did, and it was hours before she could recharge with the sun again.

She forced her memories into the darker recess of her past and returned to the painful present.

“Is there anything I can do?” Janurana called from the entrance, her voice echoing through the stone temple.

Jura and Neesha were adding their Light to Dhanur’s stomach and head, while Diktala had run off to make more soma after bringing the first steeping pot with the piles of soma sticks. Chahua poured Brachen a cup. His brow was slightly damp, but his pupils were dilated as he took a swig. A pause as Brachen looked out, past the beds that lined the halls branching out from the entrance. He didn’t see Janurana. Confused, he nodded for Chahua to go get her.

Janurana was nervously wringing her parasol handle as the Ascetic panted, having run no more than a dozen cart lengths. She wanted to chastise him for his frailty, but he wheezed unnaturally, not weakly. He waved her in, hobbling back. But Janurana couldn’t follow.

“I wouldn’t be intruding?” she asked, curling her lips.

“N-No.” Chahua paused.

“I want to help! Just not get in the way.”

“What? You won’t be.”

“Get her in here!” Brachen boomed.

But Janurana still stood at the doorway.

“Come on!” Chahua spun, nearly bumping into Diktala with another stewing pot of soma.

That was enough permission for Janurana to cross the threshold into the temple. Rather than take it in, she hurried over to Dhanur’s side. She stayed behind her father and the other disciples, half out of respect, and half because the Light still stung. Brachen looked over his shoulder to her, running his gaze up her tattered clothes and parasol that was still open. He watched her recoil as he pretended to readjust himself and allowed for the Light to show.

“Needed to be invited in?” he asked, matter-of-factly. When Janurana had no response but for her knuckles to turn white on the parasol, he scoffed and said “Quite noble manners there. What happened to her?”

Dhanur let out a slow, pained groan on her simple bed. The walls behind it were a massive relief of a bow wielding warrior painted blue.

“She was helping me get here, Guru.” Janurana looked down as all four of the younger Ascetics took a step back from her, realizing what Brachen was implying. “Like I said. A vetala clipped her shoulder.”

“Show up with a pressing distraction for us to heal and then you drink our blood from behind before feasting on your final, cured victim here. What a wonderful plan.” Brachen had his back to her.

“You’re a gwomoni??” Jura yelled, leaping back.

“No!” Janurana began, but Chahua yelped in fear when she spoke, jumping behind Brachen. The other Ascetics backed up more as well. Brachen silenced them all by turning again, letting his glowing hand shine fully, making Janurana hiss.

“But not a well calculated one.” He eyed the younger Ascetics. “Whoever needs help, the Light shines upon. Were the vetala’s rotted? Were the axes green? Or broken stone?” Brachen didn’t even look at her.

“N-No, Guru.” Janurana sucked in a breath. “They—” She tried to regain her composure, rubbing her reddening knuckles. “They looked fairly fresh.”

“And did you partake of them?” he half mimicked her measured tone.

Janurana opened her mouth to answer but bit her lip and looked away.

“Then perhaps the infection isn’t fatal.” He still didn’t look at her and instead focused his furrowed eyebrows and frown on his girl, lying unconscious. “To be leading you here, Zirisa must have trusted you, or thought you needed sanctuary enough. Go find a bed. There’s nothing you can do now.”

Janurana backed out, bowing so low her hair touched the floor.

“I’m sorry,” she muttered, but was sure Guru Brachen didn’t care to hear it.

As Janurana slunk to the opposite hall and into the darkest corner bed, Brachen took another sip of soma. He sighed as its warmth spread to his fingers in a pleasant tingle and directed the others to take sips as well. Only occasionally he took a break to run a hand over Dhanur’s tested armor. He knew what it meant that she wore a full tunic of bronze, but he wondered what she’d done to gather all the nicks and gouges along the metal. Rather than have all the scales replaced, Dhanur had left a few bare their marks proudly. A sharp thought rattled him. She might not ever have come home at all if one of those scratches hit a few inches further left or right. At one point he leaned back to catch his breath, letting the soma return the color to his face. He stretched his hands, then held the old bow they’d made together. He preferred the warmth of that memory to the metal's cold premonitions.