Artwork by Omar Seitisleam

image [https://i.imgur.com/sgmh2JB.jpeg]

There was a formal summons for Dorja to appear on the Scales, at a place called the Raised Dais. This summons came in the form of an elaborate post on the Forum, which was itself a highly-trafficked community message board on the Weave. When Dorja awoke that morning, Kirek was waiting just outside her door, omni-pad in hand. She could tell by his face that it was time. He told her that it was apparently the time of “Sun Peek,” a time when the World Serpent’s head had moved enough (by slow orbital dynamics) to a side of Mago that was badly dented and smashed—presumably where the World Serpent had grazed or collided with the moon when it first came to settle here. The sun came shining over the top of Porhl, the planet that Mago orbited, and parts of Wyrmdov became intensely lit.

This alignment of events, which permitted a blinding bit of sunlight to pour down on the atmosphere-less moon, often challenged even the tinting screens of Wyrmdov’s dome. And so, apparently, during Sun Peek, most people remained either indoors or followed the ever-shifting shadows when they walked. Occasionally, pieces of the World Serpent’s body, which had come loose and shed into space and orbited it, would provide some temporary shade and respite.

Dorja gathered Kirek and Turtle in the galley the day the Argument was to be held. Joshua and Newpik stood silently near the door, watching.

“Dorja does not know what these people want,” she told them, pulling on a formal robe, one made of black aethersilk and embroidered with gold. It was heavy. Heavy because it had thin compristeel plates sewn between layers. She wore it over her armor, along with her mother’s bird-skull necklace and the bone earrings her grandmother had given her to someday wear when she gave birth. She made sure all was in order, sleeves slightly rolled up and tight, to give her room to maneuver. “Dorja isn’t even sure what this Argument will be. But she must go if she wishes to retrieve Senjelica. Kirek says Dorja’s status as Maluri’tuhk will protect her. So I must go.”

She lifted her glaive in her right weeping-hand.

“You’re leaving us?” Turtle said.

“No,” Dorja said. “You misunderstand. You both are coming with Dorja.”

Kirek nodded. “Damn right we are.”

“Dorja would not trust you to be safe inside this ship. Even if you locked yourselves inside, if they came for you, they would have tools break in, and…it’s better if you come with Dorja.”

“I’ll get my bokken!”

“No, leave it.”

“But I’ve been practicing—”

“This is not a game, Turtle. If Dorja tells you to run, you must run. Does Turtle understand?” She lifted a stern brow. “Does she?”

“She does,” Turtle murmured.

“What do you want me to do?” Kirek said.

“You have your blades?”

He brandished eight slim shuriken, each delicately tucked between his fingers, and a single kerambit gripped in his right fist. “Never leave home without them.”

“Follow close to Dorja, every step of the way. Keep Turtle between you and Dorja. Turtle’s safety is priority.”

“Understood.”

“It is Dorja’s understanding that if we make our Argument strong enough, Lullock will be forced to release Senjelica to us, and we will finally be permitted to leave this wretched place.”

“They’ll have something up their sleeves. No way they risk letting you make a fool out of them twice.”

“Dorja knows.” She shifted the glaive from her weeping-hand into both her reaching-hands, and headed for the cargo ramp. “Dorja is going to do one last check around the ship, make sure security alarms are all set, and that the seals on the airlock and loading door are secure. Kirek, if you need to eat or drink or visit the fresher, now is the time. Turtle, come with Dorja.”

“Where are we going?”

“To the cargo bay.”

“What’s in the cargo bay?”

“Your armor?”

Turtle’s eyes went wide as saucers. “My what?”

* * *

The armored robes that Dorja once wore as a girl were still wrapped in the wooden chest, itself placed inside a compristeel crate and tucked in the far corner of Veringulf’s cargo bay. Dorja approached that crate, which had been untouched for probably a decade or more. The Blademaster was watching her. Master Korvix’s hologram was shimmering, but otherwise in good resolution. He said nothing. She opened the crate and at once the smell of cedar and pine hit her. The wooden chest inside had a simple combination lock, which she still remembered. Opening it, she removed the black-and-red robes.

“Wow!” Turtle whispered when Dorja held them up. “Am I really going to wear those?”

“Do not get too excited, they will be heavier than any other clothes you’ve worn,” Dorja said, laying the robes out on the ground. “They are lined with flexisteel and absorption padding. Dorja should have started you wearing them while training, but she didn’t think you would need them so soon. She was nearsighted. She won’t be again. She swears it upon the Candle. Here, I’ll show you how to put them on. There is a specific way…”

Dorja showed her how the inner harness worked, and the adjustable straps which helped keep everything snug. Even the robe’s length was adjustable, owing to the same fashion-lyyt tech that made the tall collars on slashcoats extendable and retractable. Once upon a time, all bladesmen wore such robes, it was de rigueur to have the flowing hems hiding any number of blades. But Dorja had grown too tall even for the adjustable straps to keep up, and so these days she mostly wore the composite Maaerv-III armor set.

Turtle stood patiently with arms outstretched, allowing Dorja to cinch her up, while Master Korvix slowly paced around. Here and there, Dorja would struggle with Turtle’s small legs, and have to rework the straps so that the hem didn’t drag on the floor.

At some point, Master Korvix said, “Take me with you.”

Dorja glanced over her shoulder at him, then continued tightening the straps. “What are you talking about?”

“Put the essence box in your pocket, and bring me with you to this Argument.”

“Dorja doesn’t know what good it would do for a hologram to be there.”

“Ow!” Turtle said.

“Hold still.”

“I am holding still—”

“You’re wiggling.”

“I’m not wiggling—”

“With you gone, the people who tried to kill you may come here, to Veringulf,” Korvix was saying. “If they do that, they will ransack this place. The essence box may be taken. I will be taken. And then you and I will never get to finish our work.”

“ ‘Our work,’” Dorja snorted. “Your words make it sound as though we are building a cathedral. What is it you think we are doing, besides practicing?”

“Is it not art, what we are doing? Returning a lost martial art to the galaxy. Rebirthing the study of chi to a soulless, breathless galaxy, where only despair lives now.”

“Why do you care about chi when you can no longer experience it?”

“I do experience it.”

“How can that be?”

“What do you think charges this essence box?” Korvix said, gesturing to the thing on the floor. “A hamster on a wheel?”

Dorja paused. Turned to him. Turtle waited patiently, arms out to her side. “Chi powers your essence box?”

“Chi powers everything, in one form or another. But it is only those with breath who can conduct it. As they conducted it ages ago.” He walked around the room, hands clasped him, musing philosophically. “Some called it oromos, others called it femtotech. Most laymen called it chitech.”

Dorja gave Turtle one more appraising look, then nodded in satisfaction and stood up. “Dorja has never heard of chitech before.”

“That’s because it was only a burgeoning technology during my time, but one with much promise, and which could have changed the face of the galaxy.”

“Why didn’t it?”

Korvix nodded slowly. “Yes. Why didn’t it? That’s what I’d like to find out.”

“What do you mean?”

“Something must’ve happened. Was it the Doom, this Brood you’re all running from? What happened to the chitech my colleagues and I were working on? What happened to all the qi’tsoc devices? These priestesses of Inzytt…I’ve heard you and Kirek describing their ‘Graber nodes’ beneath their skin, grafted to their bones. This sounds like what Skarbar and I were working on before—” He stopped suddenly.

“Before what?”

“I cannot say. Presumably I died. But how can I say?” He shrugged. “After all, how can I know what happened to me—to the real Master Korvix—after he imprinted himself onto this essence box?” He paced some more, then paused. “So much is concealed from me. I have as much to learn as you, perhaps even more.” He sighed, then looked at her quizzically. “Have we had this conversation before? It feels like we have.”

Dorja shook her head. “No.”

“Hm. Perhaps we will talk about this much more. I may only be feeling the ripples of those conversations, echoes traveling backwards through time. It happens.” Korvix shrugged distractedly, and paced some more. “In any case, I think I should go with you. Not just because I’m worried about having the box taken and our work coming to an end when it’s only just starting, but because I think I can be a great asset to you.”

“How?”

“If these priestesses are present at the Argument, and if their Graber nodes are exposed, I might be able to scan them.”

Dorja tilted her head. “Scan them?”

“Yes.”

“Scan them for what?”

Korvix winced, and made a face like that was the stupidest thing he’d ever heard come from her mouth. “So that we can recreate them, and graft them onto you, of course.”

“Graft them…to Dorja?”

“Yes.”

The mere idea made her recoil in disgust. Dorja had had it drilled into her that she ought to keep her body sacred, use it only as a temple, deriving all spiritual and physical power from within. Eat only the best foods, Master Jerrod had impressed upon her. As often as you can, eat only the most nutritious meals. And exercise at least twice daily, no exceptions. Space travel had forced her to break the first tenet a lot—MREs were not always the healthiest things to eat. So, she’d only defied that one order. And, though she exercised, her routines had become stagnant, the same forms repeated over and over again.

Until she met Korvix.

So, she hadn’t exactly kept herself all that “pure” as Master Jerrod would have preferred.

But grafting some strange nodes to her bones? Running subcutaneous actuators under her flesh? She had followed up on her conversation with Kirek concerning the women of the local fane, who worshipped someone named Inzytt, Mother of Void, and it seemed Inzytt’s followers ran a tiny synthware weave throughout their bodies, like microscopic threads that transferred energy from an unknown power source.

That sounded like Black Science to her, and she wanted no part of it. Unless, of course, it only amplified chi…

“I can see the conflict written on your face,” Korvix said, walking over to her. The sound of his robes swishing stalled out, crackled, and returned to normal. “But if you really want to keep yourself safe—if you want to keep your new apprentice safe,” he added, glancing over at Turtle, who, Dorja noted, was glaring at the hologram mistrustfully, “then you’ll do whatever it takes to train fully in my Ten Exalted Fists. This would help you immensely.”

She eyed the hologram’s dark visage, one of the eyes hidden underneath the artificial shadow of his hood. “Dorja will always protect Turtle.”

“I understand. And I know you will. Which is why I know you will take my offer seriously.”

“Dorja also knows an AI left alone to think for itself for too long is dangerous. She knows you would like to corral her emotions, guide them to your own ends. Dorja is on to you, Master Korvix. She listens to you, she appreciates your teachings, but you do not govern her.”

Korvix smiled. “My dear pupil, I would never wish to govern you. Only guide you.”

Dorja glanced over at Turtle and said, “Go find Kirek. It’s time to go.” When the girl had gone, Dorja turned to leave the cargo bay. She paused beside the essence box sitting on the floor. She knelt and picked it up. She looked over at Master Korvix, but just then the hologram winked out of existence. She considered the silent room. Looked at the onyx-black box in her hand, wondering at the mind it contained.

She thought about it for three seconds, then slipped the box inside the bag of charms she kept strapped to her hip, and concealed it with her robe.

* * *

“When you last came to me,” said the Anymyst, shuffling forward, glaring down at Zellana, “you spoke of this blue, four-armed freak. You decided to take matters into your own hands. I see, by your current state, that you did just that, and that she prevailed.” The yellow-and-blue nodes that glowed beneath her gray, wrinkled synthflesh momentarily outlined her inner skeletal structure. The snake-like wires that wound from the walls and bit into that wrinkled flesh occasionally pulsed with the nutrient slush and chi-channeled water that prolonged her life.

Zellana, battered and broken, prostrated herself before the Anymyst. Several other of her sisters of the House of Red were knelt beside her, and all of them stood with a gesture from the Anymyst, who was the most senior of them all.

Zellana stood waveringly to her feet, body bruised and bandaged, a few nanite-infused gel salves plastered to her flesh. “When last I came to you,” Zellana said, hating that her voice was sounding more and more like that of a chastised child, “you said you would defend me against my sisters if they chose to admonish me for any actions I took to defend our connection with the Hekkites—”

“I said no such thing,” the Anymyst snapped.

Zellana went cold. Had she heard wrong? Had the Anymyst misspoke? “With respect, Elder One, you did. You said you would—”

“You dare cast lies about me!” the Anymyst growled. And the old crone eyed her with suspicion. And with something else…

Fear. She’s afraid.

Rapidly it fell into place, like tumbles in a lock, and Zellana realized in a sudden gust of horror that she had overstepped her bounds. Somehow, her actions against the one called Dorja had brought such shame to their fane that not even the Anymyst could save her now, and the crone must be viewed as one who does not make mistakes. She cannot side with me, not now, now with such a blunder as this. With Lullock defeated and in hospital, and rumors that Dorja the Blade has defeated a priestess of Inzytt, the sisters all around me are furious.

And the Anymyst cannot be viewed as having made such a blunder as supporting me. She has to call me liar. She has no other choice if she doesn’t want her judgment called into question.

Zellana swallowed. She now knew full-well that she could not challenge the Anymyst openly. She had to be very careful here. Her life was on the line. She cleared her throat, and said, “Forgive me, Anymyst. I must have misunderstood before when you said—”

“Your misunderstandings are manifold!” the Anymyst roared. “Your careless actions have exposed us! Made us appear weak and without control! Bad enough the common rabble is beginning to suspect we are running out of regins! They know we are no longer immortal, and now no longer invincible!”

The old woman started forward, but did not have enough slack in her feeder wires, which snapped her back and nearly made her fall over. She took a moment to compose herself, huffing. Her authoritative words belied her beleaguered state.

“We’ve kept control by one guiding principle: that we maintain an aura of both mystery and superlative power. That we are matchless, utterly without peer. Now, there is a dent in our armor.”

“The people love us,” said Zellana. “They enjoy the safety that we bring through prayer.”

“Prayer.” She spat the word out like venom.

Zellana was shocked by that. Some of the others gasped. “With respect, Elder One, our prayers to Inzytt have kept Wyrmdov safe from the Brood. We have avoided the Doom for centuries, while other worlds crumble—”

“And it was because Inzytt favors us! Mother of Void, protect me from this kind of ignorance,” said the Anymyst, gesturing at Zellana, who was mortified in that moment, humiliated and feeling like a person thrown out an airlock without a vac-suit. The Anymyst knelt on crackling knees, leaning towards Zellana, her fuming breath smelling of death and rotting trees, and the failing synthfless around her left eye spasmed like an electrical current was going through it. “It’s not Inzytt I fear right now, Zellana. Nor the Brood. Inzytt protects us from the Brood and we have her favor, you are right about that much. But if the people don’t believe it, if they don’t believe that Inzytt acts through us as conduits, then we shall have chaos!”

“I seek your wisdom, Anymyst,” Zellana blubbered, tears falling. The Anymyst’s harsh words hurt more than the bite of a whip, worse than what Dorja the Blade had done to her. “Please, tell me how we can rectify this.”

The Anymyst sighed, and her stinking breath came out rattling, like a stone in an empty can. Her Graber nodes flared, first yellow, then blue. She sighed, “What is the status of Lullock?”

“His body is strong, anything broken can be replaced by cyberware or synthware, both of which we’ve received large loads of from the Capeter III coming in from Harahal—”

“I’m not concerned about Lullock’s physical body! We all know how strong he is! I’m talking about his ego. Has it been damaged? And do his followers still respect him after watching his embarrassing defeat on live holopane?”

Zellana glanced over her shoulder at Anel, who was the youngest of their fane. The girl’s even green eyes looked out through her hood. “We’ve set the Algorithm to censor search results for any vids showing Lullock’s defeat, and to suppress any gross outpouring of sympathies for Dorja. We’re also deleting any mention of Maluri’tuhk.”

“Well, that’s a blessing, at least.”

“At present, the Weave is settling down. I believe we are slowly retaking control of public sentiment. But there are reports of people sharing vids of the fight between Dorja and Lullock on their share-nets, from omni-pad to omni-pad. That we cannot control.”

“Why not?” said the Anymyst. “It was my understanding that we have edgeware and malcode that prevents omni-pads from working unless they’re on the Weave.”

Anel said stiffly, respectfully, “New people arrive every day fleeing the Doom, Elder One. They bring their own omni-pads with them, their own tech. We try to check for them at Customs, but these things slip through.”

“So, you’re telling me that we don’t have—” The Anymyst suddenly broke off, lashing out against the wires flowing from her body, tearing at them like they were snakes, ripping some of them out of the wall and flinging them. The nutrient wash splashed across the faces of Zellana and her fellow priestesses. All of them were stunned, they had never seen the Anymyst behave this way before. But, then, Zellana had never known such a humiliating event to be broadcast over the Weave.

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And it had only happened because Lullock had wanted it to be broadcast. He’d blown the low horn, he’d wanted people to help him locate the alien interloper and then watch him demolish her. Only that wasn’t what happened. Now, they were in damage control.

“Do you witches not know,” said the Anymyst, once she was done lashing out, “that at any given moment, in any given civilization, there are people who crave disorder? Do you not know that many, many malcontents exist at any given time, men and women and xenos who relish the idea of living in a completely lawless universe? Well, you just gave those people a victory, and I can guarantee you that your performance today at the Argument, upon the Raised Dais, had better be flawless. Because if it isn’t,” she added, sagging into a wicker chair against the wall, “we could be looking at the beginning of something.”

Zellana looked up at the Anymyst, desperate to seek her wisdom and her love once more. “Beginning of what, Elder One?”

“I do not know,” the Anymyst said. Slowly, the wires and tubes slithered back over to her, biting into her synthflesh and resuming their feed. To Zellana, the effect always looked like eels seeking out the crone’s flesh. “But we must do whatever we can to ensure this blue witch does not leave with the girl—what was her name?”

“Senjelica,” Zellana provided. “Dorja has said she came all this way for Senjelica.”

The Anymyst ruminated, her eyes flashing from yellow to blue, back to yellow.

“And there’s something else,” Zellana added reluctantly.

The Anymyst looked at her. “What else?”

“Lullock and his people…when they were aboard the ship Veringulf, when they took the girl hostage and confronted Dorja, they claim they saw something strange. A hologram. A little glitchy, but mostly clear.”

The crone’s eyes narrowed. “A hologram?”

“Yes.”

“Broadcasting from elsewhere?”

“Lullock had his people jamming the hangar bay, so I don’t see how. He also said that this hologram was of a hooded man who introduced himself as a Blademaster. He gave a name— Alterrio Korvix. He mentioned many titles. Emerald Assassin, Reclaimant of the Zetheros Spear, Blademaster Augur and Advisor to Suzerain Forrest MaKhall, co-author of the Book of Eleven Killers, et cetera—”

“A Blademaster…in holographic form?”

“Yes, Anymyst.”

“You’re telling me that Dorja the Blade has access to a damned essence box?”

“It is only conjecture, Elder One. But it may be worth looking into.”

For a long, long moment, the crone went silent. Her eyes turned away from Zellana and gazed up at the ceiling. She finally whispered, “This changes matters.” Then she went silent again, and Zellana and all the priestesses stood in for a time, waiting as they always did for the Anymyst to give them some kind of guidance. But an hour had soon crept by, and she could take it no longer.

“Anymyst?” said Zellana hopefully. “What shall we do? We beseech your wisdom and lean on your experience.”

The crone ran her black, wet tongue over her dried, cracked lips. “This changes things,” she said again. “So, we will do the last thing Dorja expects.”

* * *

Dorja took the lead. Kirek brought up the rear, wearing goggles that came equipped with Scene-It software, highlighting things in his field of vision that were of interest, or possible threats. Between them walked Turtle, hood pulled up over her head.

Dorja carried her glaive across her shoulders, balanced there by her reaching-hands. She wanted everyone to see it. There were people lining the streets, watching them. Most were human, a few were xenos she’d never seen before, and almost all of them bore signs of the bioluminescent fungus that grew on everything.

The people in the crowd said little, keeping to the shadows to stay out of direct sunlight. Dorja followed the shadows, too. Each time the shadows shifted, they almost seemed to follow the natural lines of the street, as if the light was gobbled up behind her and the shadows led the way around one city block and up the Scales. She couldn’t tell if this was deliberate or coincidental, but whenever she looked up through the clear dome, she saw odd bits of wyrm scales drifting in void, blocking the sun at just the right moment.

Is there a schedule for such colossal debris? she wondered. Have the Wyrmdovians figured it out mathematically? Have they worked out the orbital dynamics of all that debris? Or do they control it somehow, perhaps with thrusters attached to the larger bits?

The crowds grew larger.

It had started out as dozens of people, but now hundreds hugged the shadowy sidewalks, watching the three of them marching their way towards the Raised Dais. The Dais was easy to find because so many neon signs pointed the way. Kirek had tried looking at a map of the city on the Weave, but the streets of Wyrmdov were such a confused and tangled mess, some of which wove underground (underscale?) into the inner workings of the World Serpent itself.

Only a handful of wyrms flew overhead, their wings expanding to sail on updrafts. There were virtually no skyrakes in the air. It was eerie, Dorja thought, walking through a city that felt like a tomb filled with silent ghosts at the moment.

The path led them below “ground,” underneath the titanic scales and into the hollowed-out Meat Caves, which had presumably been bored by mining machinery. Turtle held her nose, and gagged once or twice. They ascended corrugated metal stairs, reemerging onto a street filled with humans and Tekleks and a few Gower. A human woman shouted, “Maluri’tuhk!” and Dorja glanced in her direction, half expecting an attack.

Others took up the call. “Maluri’tuhk! Maluri’tuhk! Maluri’tuhk!”

“Why are they saying that?” Turtle asked.

“Just keep walking,” said Kirek, turning around, walking backwards for a bit, hand on the sheathed knife on his thigh. He scanned the rooftops built upon the Upper Scales, then searched the crowd. “It just means they like Dorja. Keep walking, sweetheart.”

“Do as Kirek says,” Dorja said. “Everything will be fine.”

A crowd of thousands had squeezed onto a main thoroughfare that was ensconced in the shadow of two tall buildings, and they all started shouting “Maluri’tuhk!” as soon as they saw her. They started following her, a loud procession of people hailing the Maluri’tuhk, and their cheers turned to booming thunder when Dorja and the others finally reached the main square, and the Raised Dais in the middle of it.

The Dais was carved into a huge pillar, itself leaning against one of the World Serpent’s enormous black scales. The Dais was squared, about ten meters on each side, elevated thirty feet in the air by metal pylons, each of them with powerlines running through them—it seemed many things in Wyrmdov had to serve multiple purposes. Dead scales were turned into roofing, for example, and that roofing had pink grass and shaggy, fruit-bearing vines growing from it, and bridges wound from rooftop to rooftop, acting as overstreet paths.

The Raised Dais was no different, with rope bridges hanging from it, each bridge sagging between buildings, almost like the clotheslines of a giant. A dozen priestesses crossed those bridges from neighboring rooftops in order to reach the top of the Dais.

Dorja scanned them, but saw no sign of the priestess that had attacked her.

Sunlight came through the surrounding buildings in gigantic beams, striking the windows of partially collapsed tenements close by. The sun’s beams hit those windows and were split in many different parts, like glowing blades that winked in and out of existence as the World Serpent’s head, a hundred miles away, occasionally occluded the sun.

A young, fungus-faced priestess stood atop the Raised Dais. She was at the forefront of the others, looking down at Dorja, who began the slow ascent up the metal stairs. Kirek and Turtle followed. The mob roared. Someone had started a bonfire abruptly, and people were throwing furniture into it. It looked like a riot was about to start, yet was somehow barely being contained.

One of Dorja’s weeping-hands went inside her robe, reflexively touching the one of the sheathed daggers she had on her belt. She patted her other side, checking to make sure the essence box was still there, then she began the climb up the stairs.

At the top of the Raised Dais, she stood and looked across the slab at the dozen red-robed women, some as young as teenagers, others old and bent. Some of them had the slight green-pallid color that came from the overuse of tainted regens.

Dorja walked close to the Dais’s edge, and looked down at the assembled crowd. More fires had been started, so far only in the middle of the streets, no shops had been destroyed or looted.

She looked back as one of the priestesses, the young fungus-faced one, approached with hands held high. In front of her, a mic-bot floated. No bigger than a clenched fist, the round black bot hovered by tiny propellers, directly in front of the priestess’s mouth.

Dorja prepared herself for any deception. Glanced at Kirek, who stood in front of Turtle protectively. He already had a knife drawn, and held it lazily in his right hand. A silent threat to anyone who was having funny thoughts.

When the priestess spoke, her voice was amplified by the mic-bot: “Good evening, brothers and sisters of Wyrmdov, and my dear, dear children of Inzytt.” Her mellifluous voice cut like a spear through the roar of the rabble, and Dorja thought she had never heard a crowd so swiftly silenced. Not even a child cried, nor did any animal stir. She knew at once she was going to be outclassed in whatever this Argument was meant to be. “It is good that you have come here today, upon Sun Peek, most auspicious of days, and that you have lit the fires to cast away the darkness and summon the Mother of Void’s gaze.”

Dorja looked down at the bonfires. So that’s what those are for?

“And it is good that so many of you have come to recognize and celebrate a long tradition of our storied community.” The priestess went silent, her last words echoing throughout the streets. Then she raised a hand and pointed to Dorja. “Maluri’tuhk.”

“MALURI’TUHK!” the people roared. “MALURI’TUHK! MALURI’TUHK!”

“The Mother of Void has long been known to send her agents in the guise of strangers. Sometimes even in the guise of enemies. This oftentimes is how her mysterious will is unraveled for those chosen to see. It has ever been our goal to seek out her will.” The priestess smiled lovingly at Dorja. Dorja mistrusted the smile at once. “Ages ago, our fane began a tradition of recognizing the agents of Inzytt, and of setting out trials to ensure that they were indeed agents of the Mother of Void.

“Sometimes, that will is hard to discern, and we seek others to help us test these agents. Lullock, a man you all know to be a good man and true, was given just such a difficult task. We are glad to say, that Lullock did as we asked him, and tested this woman to the limits of her abilities. And we are glad to say, she passed Inzytt’s test!”

A murmur passed through the crowd. A bit of confusion. A few people took up the cheers. Dorja looked into the crowd and spied a few people at the back who were jumping up and down, pumping their fists in the air. She couldn’t hear all of it, but a few words reached her ears, such as, “Inzytt! Inzytt’s blessings are upon us!”

Dorja winced. She wasn’t gifted at speech or managing crowds or arguing her own points. Philosophy was not her strength, but she had seen Master Jerrod manipulate enough crowds in her time with him, and had witnessed the behavior of the anti-xenos cults on Rodama-VII.2, and she had a pretty good idea of when someone was…How did Master Jerrod put it? Putting a spin on a story?

The priestess was spinning a defeat as victory. And, unless she was mistaken, those few people cheering, and who were now gaining support from others in the crowd, were paid advocates. Shills. Probably Hekkites meant to help sway the masses towards supporting the priestesses. Dorja saw it happening in real time and could do nothing about it.

“This woman,” the priestess went on, shaking her head in appreciation for Dorja, “has come to us with a message. And we of the fane welcome her, and ask for her friendship. And to help quell both her fury and Inzytt’s, to show them both that we understand we are in the presence of a shift in Wyrmdov’s destiny, we present to her the gift that Inzytt herself came seeking.”

The priestess turned, and with a gesture, the other priestesses parted, and from their number stepped the green-and-red garbed priestess who attacked Dorja before. She moved slowly, achingly, but she met Dorja’s gaze with a warm smile. Because she came bearing a gift. Shuffling slowly in front of her was a small girl, perhaps a little older than Turtle, one with a bewildered expression, perhaps slightly frightened by the crowd that now looked up at her. Across her forehead was the glowing fungal rhizome, etching a narrow pink-and-purple line in her brow.

Cam drones hovered about, zooming in on the girl’s round face and chubby cheeks, and that vid was broadcast onto holopanes that emitted from the walls all around the square.

“Senjelica,” said the green-and-red priestess. “This is who we were telling you about, the woman who came all the way from Herenov to see to you. A protective angel who has come to take you into her care and see to your safety.”

Dorja’s heart was clenched by an invisible fist. She knew what this was, and knew at once she had manifestly underestimated these witches. They were more dangerous than she had realized, because, as she now listened to a cheer passing through the crowd, the urging of the people, all of them yelling at Senjelica “Go to her! Go to the blue angel!”, Dorja understood she was being played. They all were, Senjelica as much as anyone.

And Dorja’s heart broke for the girl, for she wanted to run to her. But she also felt a smooth, silken rage boiling up inside her, and it was all she could do to keep her face expressionless.

“There will be no need of an Argument today!” said the young priestess, rejoicing along with the crowd, most of whom seemed overjoyed by this turn of events. “Inzytt has blessed us by testing us, and in so doing, weaving her web to reunite these two lost souls!”

Dorja was conflicted. This was what she had come for. She ought to be glad. But they are playing with Senjelica’s life like it’s a gambling chit, or a pawn they are willing to sacrifice to claim their checkmate. They seek to reclaim the moral high ground, and keep anyone from seeing them the way that Dorja sees them. A glance back at Kirek showed that he understood this, too, his knowing look unmistakable.

What do you care, Dorja? she asked herself. As long as you take this girl from a life of slavery, or else sacrificed for the sake of these witches’ immortality?

Dorja looked back at the green-and-red priestess. The woman that had tried to kill her gave her a soft, welcoming smile. But beneath it, there was a look that said, Take this win, accept this gift, go along with this charade, and then get the hell out of our city.

“What say you, Dorja Blade-Swan?” said the young priestess. She held up her hands to silence the rabble. “What say you to Inzytt’s blessing? Do you accept her assessment of you, and do you claim your reward for your trials, your commitment, your devotion to the Mother of Void?”

The crowd died down. The people were watching. Dorja felt thousands of eyes upon her and she nearly buckled from it. Never had so many sets of eyes bore down on her at once. Once, when she asked Master Jerrod how he managed to fight multiple opponents at once, and how he kept his composure whenever speaking in front of crowds, he told her, “There is no difference in swimming in a lake or an ocean. Once you are in the water, all you can do is swim the same way you always have.”

Dorja swallowed, and stepped forward. The crowd started cheering as soon as she moved. She gestured for Kirek to follow her over, and he did, bringing Turtle with him. They knelt in front of Senjelica. Dorja looked into the girl’s deep brown eyes, and said, “Are you Senjelica?”

The girl stared blankly ahead.

“Senjelica?” Dorja said. “Is that your name?”

“I’m afraid the wee girl is deaf,” said the green-and-red priestess. “And mute.”

Dorja looked up into the face of her enemy. The priestess smiled serenely back, as though she had no notion of any past conflict between the two of them. Dorja glanced over at Turtle. “You said you were kept in the cave along with Vash’tik and the bladesman while Senjelica was briefly there. Turtle, tell Dorja true, is this the girl you remember seeing in the cave?”

Turtle gazed at her. “It…it looks like her, yes. But the hair’s much longer, a little more curly. And the fungus…it looks like it’s making her face swell up. And it was dark in the cave—”

“Did she talk? Could she hear?”

“Yes.”

She looked back at Kirek. “Is this Senjelica?”

He shrugged. “I never saw her before. I only heard the castellan’s agents describe her, and…this does look like who they described.”

“Dorja was never told that she was deaf and mute.”

“Neither was I.”

“That seems like something we would’ve been told.”

“Yes, indeed.”

“We believe it is shock,” said the green-and-red priestess. “From all the trauma she’s endured.”

“Trauma?” Dorja bit, and shot to her feet.

“We were working with her to help her overcome her—”

“Trauma?”

“Easy, Dorja,” Kirek whispered at her side. “Easy—”

“Do you mean the trauma inflicted by being taken from her homeworld by the Hekkites—”

“Herenov is destroyed. It is a Doomed world, yes? The Brood saw to that. You claimed that yourself when you first came to port in Wyrmdov. The Kennisons told everyone.” The priestess stared innocently back as the crowd watched on silently. Dorja was aware her face was being broadcast from holopanes all throughout the square, everyone could see every microexpression she made. “By the hand of the Hekkites alone was this girl spared the Doom, you must see the truth in that.”

“Dorja,” Kirek murmured. “Take the win, and let’s go.”

“The Hekkites did not take her out of any altruistic motive—”

He touched her elbow. “Take. The. Win.” He tried to keep a smile. “Look down at her, Dorja. Gods below, just look at the girl! Whoever she is, do you honestly think she isn’t better off with us?”

“We don’t know if it’s Senjelica. If it isn’t, she may still be in trouble.”

“But we’re saving this girl,” Kirek said. “That has to count for something. Isn’t that what the Candle wants?”

“Don’t tell Dorja how the Candle works!”

“Um, Dorja?” Turtle said.

“If Senjelica is still held prisoner by these monsters—”

“Dorja,” Turtle whispered. “It’s her.”

“What? How can you be—”

Dorja stopped talking when she looked down, and saw that the round-faced girl had reached out and taken Turtle’s hand, and was squeezing it. Eyes wide and watering, the round-faced girl was staring over at Turtle with an expression of eagerness and desperation. An expression of recognition. And Turtle now took both of the girl’s hands in hers, and looked up at Dorja, teary-eyed, and said, “It’s her.”

Dorja felt a small weight lifted from her shoulders.

“There, you see?” said Kirek. “It’s her. Now can we go?”

Dorja remained staring at the priestesses.

“Dorja,” he hissed. “People are watching. They see us as heroes now, but if we turn down an offering from their goddess, they may see us as heretics.”

“Listen to your friend, Dorja,” said one of the other priestesses. It was a matronly woman, gray hair spilling out from underneath her hood in elaborate braids, which looped around her neck several times like a noose. “Take this gift of Inzytt’s.”

“You mean this peace offering.”

The matronly woman gave a shrug, one that was glacially slow and confident. “Call it what you like.”

“You want Dorja to take this small victory so she doesn’t keep prodding you for the others. And you do have others, don’t you?” Dorja took a deep, slow breath, trying to keep her calm. “How many? Where are they?”

The priestesses all smiled back serenely.

“Dorja,” Kirek said. “Think for a second. Take a few more breaths and think.”

Dorja looked down at the two girls. Turtle and Senjelica clasped one another’s hands and stared into each other’s eyes, almost smiling, sharing tears. Dorja had seen that look of shared trauma before. Once, on the seas of Abersharr, Master Jerrod found a man floating on a piece of driftwood, close to drowning. He saved the man, who told the story that he and his sister lived in a coastal town. A terrible tsunami had carried them out to sea. They had both been floating on a fishing boat for days, slowly starving, praying to Maah for deliverance until a storm knocked him out of the boat. Days after the Master fed and watered the man, they found his sister, still adrift in her fishing boat and close to death’s door. When the sibling survivors were reunited, they just held each other for hours, never wanting to be apart, sometimes spilling tears without making a sound.

That’s what she saw now. And if Turtle was convinced, Dorja was convinced. She looked up at the priestesses, smiled politely, and said, “This isn’t over.”

“My great blue wonder,” said the green-and-red priestess, her words honeyed poison. “We don’t expect it to be.”

“You have these people under some spell, but it is one of darkness. But Dorja can dispel that.”

“Oh? How so?”

“With her Candle.”

The priestess’s smile lost a little of its confidence, and now she seemed curious, as if Dorja were speaking of some secret weapon. “What Candle is that?”

“Dorja will show you.” She stepped closer to the priestess, putting on a smile so that Wyrmdov’s citizens wouldn’t suspect animosity. “As long as Dorja draws breath, help is coming.”

“I’m sure you can find people in need in other places besides Wyrmdov.”

“The ghosts of this planet will devour your goddess,” she whispered. “And Dorja will help them.”

The priestess’s smile remained plastered where it was…but it might have wavered a bit.

Dorja gestured for Turtle and Senjelica to follow her. Kirek remained a moment longer, staring at the priestesses, perhaps waiting for a surprise attack. The seething masses cried, “MALURI’TUHK! MALURI’TUHK!” But as they descended the stairs to the wild cheers of the crowd, Dorja felt sick. It ought to feel like a victory, and yet somehow she felt outplayed.

Some victories are incomplete, she could hear Master Jerrod saying. Like an incomplete book, you simply put a bookmark in that chapter of your life, and make a note to return to it later, when you have a better mind for it.

They walked through the streets, taking the exact same route as before, keeping to the shadows whenever possible. The crowds were thinning out a bit, but still plenty of fungus-covered Wyrmdovians cheered them on as they returned to Veringulf. Dorja was still stewing, still glancing over her shoulder, looking for an ambush that never came, when a familiar voice spoke from seemingly everywhere:

“I got it,” said Master Korvix.

As Dorja approached the spaceport, the door swished open for her. “Got what?” she whispered.

Kirek overheard her and said, “Sorry? You say something?”

“You got me close enough to the priestesses,” Korvix muttered. “I was able to map out their Graber nodes, the synthware architecture, all of it. I even got a baseline for the wavelength of the energy output and aktules from each of those ladies. I know the frequency to search for now.”

“Search for what?”

“Their imtech manufacturers and integrators,” he said, referring to implant technology. “If you want the Ten Exalted Fists to reach their ultimate potential, you’ll need a body fit to conduct—”

“Wait a minute,” Dorja said. “What is that?”

An alarm had suddenly gone off all throughout the spaceport. In fact, she saw people looking around in consternation. A Gower went scuttling down a corridor, pushing other people offloading from a starship out of its way. Dorja turned and looked at Kirek, who was also looking around in confusion. Turtle and Senjelica stood close to one another, holding hands.

“That isn’t the low horn,” Kirek said.

“No,” Dorja said.

“Dorja?” Turtle said, clasping both of Senjelica’s hands tighter. Senjelica, who it turned out had been made deaf somehow, and so couldn’t hear the alarms blaring. “Dorja, what’s going on?”

Kirek took his omni-pad out from his inner jacket pocket, booted it up, and started scrolling through updates on the Weave. “Uh, we may have a slight problem.”

“What is it?” Dorja said. “The priestesses? The Hekkites?”

“Uh, no, nothing to do with them. Or us. It’s an, uh…”

“A what?”

“An incoming armada.”

“A what?”

Kirek ran over to a window. Dorja and the others to follow him. Together, the four of them stood at a window facing the Scales, and with a view of the clear dome that encased the entire city. The spaceport was on the moon-facing side of the World Serpent, and just now, this part of the World Serpent had orbited to the back side of Mago, casting the city in darkness. But, high above them, and moving slowly towards the dome with brilliant flashes of their landing lights, were three dreadnoughts, seven or eight assault cruisers, and a sprinkling of starfighters that were only noticeable at this distance because of their running lights. They looked like little fireflies flitting about in space.

“Dorja, what is that?” asked Turtle.

“Dorja does not know, little one,” she said, gazing out the window.

“That,” Kirek sighed, resting a hand against the glass, “is the Itinerant Fleet. The last vestiges of the Kingdom’s 918th Standing Suzerain Armada. And they only stop by backwater colonies like these for one reason: resupply.” He looked at Dorja. “By force, usually.”

“By force?” Turtle said.

Kirek looked down at her. “They call it a tax. Most places were taxed and expected to house and feed the Kingdom’s military whenever they passed by in need. But there’s no Kingdom now, not really, so them stopping by a place like this and demanding resupply…it’s a bit like…well…”

“Pirates?” said Turtle.

He snorted and chuckled. “Yeah. You could say that.” He looked over at Dorja. “Were you planning on leaving straightaway? Because we could be delayed a little while. Whenever the Itinerant Fleet shows up, they take command of Space Traffic Control Centers. You can bet they’ll call a halt to all traffic, on- or off-world, until they’re done taking care of business.”

“Why would they halt space traffic?” Turtle said. Beside her, Senjelica was tugging at her robe, gesturing at her ears, indicating she didn’t know what was going on.

“Because not everyone is a fan of theirs,” Kirek said. “And some people might take shots at them, given the chance.” He looked back at Dorja. “Lady Dorja? What are you thinking? Try to leave before they cordon off airspace?”

Dorja watched the boxy, white, blunt-nosed dreadnoughts hover closer to the dome. She looked down at poor Senjelica, her chubby cheeks and swollen forehead, the glowing fungus on her face. Then she looked back up at the incoming Itinerant Fleet. If it isn’t one thing it’s another. She had heard of the 918th, of course, but only in conversational snippets. She knew very little about galactic politics, military affairs, or the history of the Kingdom before she left her homeworld and entered into a life as a traveling bladeswoman. “Master Jerrod had run-ins with them. Never with Dorja.”

“So, what do we do? If we leave, we may be tractor-beamed and boarded. May have our supplies ‘commandeered in the name of the ongoing battle against the Brood.’ If we stay, we give those witches time to come up with a plan to take us out, with or without their followers’ consent.”

“You can’t leave, Dorja,” said Master Korvix, his voice deep within her ear, a whisper so quiet she was sure none of them could hear it. “The equipment we need to realize your full potential in the Exalted Fists is here on Wyrmdov. The Fane of Inzytt has it, and I can lead you to it, I can trace its energy signal from here.”

Dorja gritted her teeth. But if we stay, we continue to put Turtle and Senjelica at risk.

“Dorja?” Kirek said.

“What do you we do, Dorja?” Turtle asked.

“It’s your call,” Kirek said. “But we gotta make a decision. Now.”

Dorja looked down at Senjelica, the girl she had climbed the Amon’tha for, and now had in her custody. And Turtle, her ward. Veringulf was waiting for them.

She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and tried to imagine what Master Jerrod would do. Ten seconds later, she opened her eyes again, and made her decision.

image [https://i.imgur.com/f6fHUfp.jpg]