It’s stable. While it needs a continuous influx of energy, it is a Landscape like any other. Is this the power of the Gods?

- Aqueel, the Inventor. Dated 60 b.f.

Hassin was a tall man with long, black hair that came down all the way to his shoulders. He stood on the stage with a rigid back, his sleek, deep blue tunic hugging his body like a second skin. Hands folded behind his back, he smiled at the crowd as the noise gradually died down. Bit by bit, every patron’s attention was on him until the tavern was so quiet Silas could hear his own breathing.

Hassin spread both arms wide. Two streams of sand sprouted from the large vase in front of him, collecting in swirling orbs of sand near his palms. Letting his gaze roam over the crowd, he clenched his fists. The orbs contracted and shuddered before exploding, creating a thin veil of sand that covered the stage. As if plucking on unseen strings, his fingers moved delicately through the shimmering sand, weaving it into the form of a man and woman that stood opposite each other, connected through a thin thread of sand.

“This is the tale of Emrum and Yasha, whose love knew no bounds.” The woman’s hand reached out to the man, the sand shifting as her fingers caressed Emrum’s cheek.

“Emrum’s past is one shaped by violence and hate. For when he was but a child, his entire village was razed to the grounds.” The man’s visage contorted into a twisted grimace, each grain of sand working in tandem.

Silas was completely engrossed in the show. Never would he have believed that one could portray such detailed faces and people with an Art, let alone make them move. He watched as Hassin showed the man leaning over his parents, swearing vengeance upon those who had wronged him. With a swipe of his hand, the figure vanished, reforming into the lifelike image of a young woman traveling through the desert.

“Yasha was a wandering Artist from a faraway land, searching for illumination when her path crossed that of Emrum. Attracted by her talent for the Arts, he pleaded to accompany her on her travels. With each season passing, their friendship turned into something more, a love so deep that it dared break the darkness filling Emrum’s scarred heart.”

The two figures grew closer, their faces merging into one another as they kissed.

“Yet, fate is a cruel thing. For our dear Emrum was not destined to live a happy, peaceful life. While they say that Emrum loved no one as his dear Yasha, they are wrong. Because no matter how hard Yasha tried to shed light into the abyss of Emrum’s hate, there was nothing that Emrum clung to more than his desire for vengeance.”

The two figures pulled apart again, Emrum’s face twisted in pain.

“As time went on, other people began to notice the boy’s relentless ambition and sought to exploit it for their own warped goals. Unbeknownst to him, their promises were empty, their words laced with poison that only served to stoke his hate.”

A second figure formed from the sand in the air, taking the shape of a reptilian humanoid with a sharp jaw, claws, and a body covered in scales. Kneeling before him, Emrum accepted the outstretched hand, head bowed as the reptilian smiled widely, long fangs protruding from his thin lips.

“Employed as a general by one of the Originals, war changed Emrum into a man that soon knew nothing but violence, transforming him into a husk of his former self.”

The sands showed Emrum leading an army to victory, thousands of small figures following him over a dune as he raised his spear.

“Fearing that she was about to lose the man she had come to love, Yasha confronted Emrum about the deceptive words of the Original to save Emrum from the reptile’s vile scheming.”

“The Original, afraid to lose his general, promised to give Emrum what he desired: justice for the killing of his village. Thus, after decades of simmering hate, Emrum finally saw the one responsible for his misery, trapped in an iron cage. With the Original’s words in his ear, Emrum challenged the murderer to single combat.”

The stage showed Emrum, his face twisted with hate, staring at a kneeling figure before him. The Original stood by his side, whispering in his ear. Silas could have sworn he heard a sound coming from the figure, akin to a soft, barely audible hissing.

“Yasha, seeing the Original’s vile gift for what it was, tried to prevent Emrum from giving in to his hate.”

Hassin thrust one hand forward. More sand streamed out of the vase, taking the shape of Yasha, her outstretched hand reaching to pull Emrum away from the Original.

“Unwilling to see Emrum be poisoned any longer by the Original’s words, Yasha gave Emrum a choice. He could either slay the man who had wronged him and continue as a general, or lay down his hate and take her as his wife.”

Hassin paused, taking in the faces of the crowd as he held his arms outward. The light seemed to gather around him, illuminating the sharp features of his face. His oiled, long black hair reflected the light, swaying lightly as he observed the crowd. “What choice he made, we may not know. But the Original, in the end, was brought low.”

Letting his arms fall, the figures crumbled and the three streams of sand flowed back into the large vase. Adrian was the first to clap. A moment later, the whole tavern joined in. Hassin stepped off the little dais and made a round through the tavern holding out his Yekshi, some of the patrons tossing coins into it. Silas took another sip from his drink, surprised to see it nearly empty. When had that happened? He glanced at Zaya, who was sucking on the straw, intent on slurping up the last of the sugar. It struck an oddly funny picture, and Silas couldn’t help but chuckle. She regarded him from over the top of the glass, narrowing her eyes as she saw him hiding his laugh with one hand. “What?”

Silas shook his head. “Nothing. That was quite a show, wasn’t it?”

She looked at him for a moment, trying to discern the reason for his amusement. “Much impressive. Not think I could do that.”

Silas shrugged. “With a bit of practice, I’m sure you could. You’re pretty good at handling the Art of Stone. Sand shouldn’t be that far off.”

Zaya looked at him, her green eyes peering into his. She opened her mouth to say something but was interrupted as Adrian stood up, pushing his chair back and embracing Hassin in a hug. “You were amazing, Hassin! How long did it take for you to get it all right?”

Hassin blew a bit of air out. “Longer than I care to admit. The people seemed to like it, though.”

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“We loved it.” Silas raised his glass in a toast. “Would you maybe tell us the rest of the story? I’d love to hear what choice Emrum made, in the end.”

Hassin smiled and took a seat down near Adrian. “Even if I knew, I wouldn’t.”

Silas frowned. “Why not?”

“Because as a Weaver, I merely plant the seed for a story. Now, it is up to you to decide how it’s going to end. What choice will Emrum make? That, my friend, is your decision. Your power. It’s much more exciting that way, isn’t it?” Hassin finished with a smile.

Adrian laughed. “Don’t mind my friend, he likes to confuse people with vague answers.” His voice lowered to a whisper as he leaned towards Silas. “Makes him feel important.”

A choked chortle came from Hassin as he shook his head.

“I think it was astutely put,” Nurana chimed in, nodding towards Hassin.

“Thank you. Sorry, my friends, but I have another show shortly, and I need to get going. It was nice to meet all of you,” he excused himself.

Nurana played with her straw in the glass, glancing at Silas and Zaya. “I believe we should head to sleep, we have a busy day tomorrow.”

“But the evening has just begun!” Adrian exclaimed. “Besides, I haven’t had the chance to talk to you properly.”

Nurana met his eyes and took out the straw as she licked the sugar off it. “Well, what do you want to talk about?”

Adrian’s mouth opened, then closed, no words coming out. Nurana laughed, nearly kicking over the glass. Zaya and Silas looked at each other. Seeing two empty stools near the front of the counter, Zaya stood up and tapped Silas on the shoulder. “Look, someone new is going to the stage! Let’s sit by the front.”

Gladly using the excuse, Silas stood up and followed Zaya. She grabbed his hand and dragged him across the tavern to the front, shoving any patrons she bumped into out of her way. Feeling Zaya’s hand grasping his, an oddly tingly sensation bubbled up in his stomach. They came to the bar, Zaya’s fingers slipping away from his as she sat down on the barstool. His hand suddenly felt cold.

While this Weaver wasn’t quite as adept at manipulating the sands as Hassin, it was still mesmerizing to see. Streams of sand spun in circles, creating interlocking patterns that seemed to have neither beginning nor end. Silas glanced towards Nurana who was deeply immersed in a conversation with Adrian. He thought he could detect a slight flush in her cheeks, but it could as well have been a trick of the light. If only Silas were as good at talking as Nurana.

Zaya put both her elbows on the counter, turning her eyes away from the Weaver to look up at Silas. “One more?” She asked with a raised eyebrow.

Silas gave her a smile. He was already quite tipsy but he could hardly let Zaya drink him under the table. “Sure,” he answered.

The drinks came shortly afterwards, this time with a slice of orange garnished on the edge of the glass. A musician carrying a long instrument with four strings walked to the front of the stage to join the Weaver. Her fingers flowed deftly over the strings, creating an upbeat melody that invited many patrons to dance near the stage.

More than two summers ago during the harvest festival in Bildsfell, Silas had last danced. He had still been a boy back then, having just reached fourteen summers. It felt like another lifetime. How simple things had been. For a moment, he saw himself dancing with Zaya on the stage, the two of them whirling about in the crowd, eyes meeting, their fingers interlocking… Silas shook his head to dispel the silly image. Given how much Zaya annoyed him, he doubted she liked him that way.

“Do they have Weavers in the Steppes?” he asked her. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“No, but have better thing. Is called…” Zaya paused, gesturing with her hands as she searched for the right words. “Dancing with Art? I’m much good.” She paused. “But have not danced for a long time.”

“So you use your Art to dance? How does that work?”

“You dance with your Art,” Zaya intoned. “Much difficult. Need much control over Art and body. Be similar to fighting.”

Silas looked at her, trying to imagine what that would look like. “I’d like to see that, some time.”

Zaya turned away from the crowd, her green eyes meeting his. One hand fumbled with the end of her braid, hanging down all the way to her lower back as she leaned against the counter. “Maybe, one day. But be dangerous. Can be hit with stones,” she cautioned with a smile.

Silas chuckled. “I’m used to that by now, I think. How’d you learn that?”

“Mother taught me,” Zaya replied, turning away as she watched the Weaver.

The statement cut off the conversation like a knife through a sheet of paper. Silas cursed himself inwardly. That had been a really stupid question.

“Your parents are impressive, especially Nergui. I’m sure they were able to settle in with the Kila’tor.”

Zaya took a deep breath, nodding. “Yes, probably. But should have done more. Be my fault they not be with tribe. My, how you say? Responsibility.”

“No, it’s not.”

Zaya’s head swivelled towards him, her thin eyebrows drawn together.

“Look, didn’t you tell me your parents chose to abandon their tribe and flee with you, knowing they would never be able to come back? It was their choice, wasn’t it? So stop blaming yourself for it. You did everything you could. I’m sure you’ll see them again, once all of this blows over.”

Zaya gave him an appraising look. “Much wisdom from Nura Kai.”

Silas took another sip from his drink, smirking. “I have my moments.”

Looking out over the bar with the musician playing, the people drinking, laughing, and dancing, the whole scene suddenly seemed surreal to Silas. How could he sit at the bar and drink with all that was happening around him? Creeping dread clenched around his lungs. An executioner’s sword hung over each of their necks, threatening to drop at any given moment. The Empress’ informant needed answers. If Omei decided they weren’t useful enough to warrant the funding, they could count their blessings.

On the other hand, if they moved too fast, the cult was bound to become suspicious. But Silas and especially Gnarly needed the treatment. Should Omei decide to stop providing them with the medicine against the Taint, it would inevitably spread through his Landscape anew. He also had no clue how to heal Gnarly’s Landscape.

The more time he spent pondering over their situation, the less sure he felt about the Empress’ intentions. Was the cult truly as evil as Omei had advocated? Silas knew he couldn’t trust the members of the cult, but the Empress and her agents seemed just as bad. Caught between the two sides, it felt like all they could do was be crushed by one or the other when the two inevitably clashed. Silas sighed in frustration. He hated politics.

Zaya flicked his cheek with one finger. “What you be thinking about?”

Silas frowned at her and rubbed his cheek. That hurt. “Nothing,” he said, shaking his head.

Zaya made a circle with her thumb and index finger, threatening to flick him again. “You spend too much time in there,” she said, giving his forehead a light push. “Need talk more. Not have good head, so not use it too much.” The corners of her mouth twitched. “Can explode like boomball.”

Silas squinted at her, trying to appear more angry than he felt. “I was just thinking about the situation we’re in, and our…condition,” he finished.

Zaya grunted. “Be looking very bad.”

Silas gave a half-hearted laugh. “Thought you’d say something a bit more optimistic.”

Zaya stared out at the people dancing, her eyes unfocused. It took a while before she spoke.

“I saw death coming in Crimson Dunes. Was prepared for it,” she added, her words slightly slurry. She shook her head. “But somehow, your stupid idea save us from Sphinx. Not know if we can do what Empress wants.” Zaya shrugged and sat up straight on her barstool. “But,” she held up a finger and turned towards Silas, her face lighting up, “have seen more than entire tribe in one sun cycle. That already be worthy life. You worry too much, little boy. If medicine from Cor works or not, no matter.” Zaya paused. Silas glanced at her, but seeing that she was about to say more, kept his mouth shut.

“Have shown me that always be other solution, even if solution be stupid. If no be door, can just use your head to make new one.” Zaya smiled. “Be thick enough.”

Silas paused, contemplating her words. “Then why were you so angry at me after the fight with the Sphinx?”

Zaya looked up at him as if she were searching for the answer in his eyes. “Because…” she trailed off, flicking the braid behind her head and turning away. “Nura kai,” she muttered.

Silas shook his head. He just couldn’t figure Zaya out, sometimes. In one moment she was threatening to hit him for doing something, and in the next, she thanked him for doing it.

He raised his glass. “To more stupid ideas.”

Zaya turned away from the crowd, a smile on her lips. “Ha Zhin.”

“What does that mean?”

“To peace.”

“Ha Zhin, then,” Silas repeated.

Even though he doubted they would get any peace in the times to come, at least he could enjoy this evening while it lasted. Just a little bit longer.