Uma drifted in and out of consciousness for … she didn’t know how long, exactly. Being struck in the head by an immortal blacksmith’s hammer will do that to a woman. When she finally recovered her wits enough to take stock of her situation, she realized that her situation was not in her favor. She had vague recollections of someone pouring broth down her throat, and cleaning her after she had soiled the bed repeatedly.
At least her captors wanted her alive. She never would have awoken, otherwise. Her mission had failed, her daughter yet lived, and she was captive of the enemy once again. Not the Law, this time, but the enemy itself. She had little expectation of surviving the encounter. She drifted back into unconsciousness sooner than she’d intended to.
She awoke again, choking to the taste of beef broth. “Stop,” she protested. “How long?”
“You’re awake? Thank the divine,” a familiar voice said.
“Roz? Is that you?” Uma asked.
“Yes, Uma, it’s me. The mission was – the mission was a complete fuck up, Uma. We were overpowered like children. You were the only one seriously injured, the others have all healed up. We were worried that you weren’t going to wake up, or that you’d be simpleminded or something. You’re not, are you?”
“I feel like someone dosed me with oralta oil and ritrogol,” she admitted. “How long have I been out?”
“It’s been weeks,” her friend admitted, “But the reason you feel drugged is because you have been. They fractured your skull putting you down, and their healer said it would be better to keep you in a coma for a while.”
“And you just let them?” Uma demanded. “What have you been doing all this time?”
“Being held prisoner, Uma. I told you, they’re stronger than us. I don’t know where you got your information, but aside from the kids they are training and the actual children, the weakest member of this village is of the fifth Reformation. I think there are some who are beyond the seventh.”
“There is no beyond the seventh,” Uma objected. “I’m not even convinced that there’s a beyond the sixth. Immortals don’t exist.”
“So you say, but it’s harder to argue that when you’ve seen someone flying for real,” Roz said calmly. “Thought I’d been dosed with your ritrogol by mistake, but the others saw her too. She just stepped outside the door and popped up into the air, flying off towards the east.”
“Roz, they probably did dose you with ritrogol. Dosed you all and gave you the same prompt so that you remembered the same thing. That’s how ritrogol works, it’s why we use it. At the right dose it inserts hallucinations as false memories.”
Roz shook her head. “I thought that too at first. But there’s more to it than that. You’ll understand once you meet them. Now drink up, you need this broth. You’ve been immobile for weeks. Once you’ve finished it, I’ll see what I can do about getting you some time to exercise before the atrophy gets any worse. You’ve probably lost pounds of muscle already.”
Uma frowned, but she couldn’t argue with her friend’s logic, nor could she drink the broth without Roz’s aid. Not with her hands and feet cuffed to the cot.
And she could tell that her body really did need the nutrients in the thick broth the moment it touched her tongue. It was delicious, even if it was laced with drugs. She was quite certain that she was about to be returned to unconsciousness, but she was still awake when Roz returned with one of her captors.
“Finally awake? Congratulations. Can’t say that I would be sorry to seen an attempted filicide die, even if it’s not what the powers that be want.” The voice and the figure were female, unfamiliar, and ageless.
“What do you want from us? Why are you keeping us hostage?” Uma demanded.
“Might have something to do with you ambushing our village and trying to kill a young girl under our protection. Your own daughter if I’m not mistaken,” the stranger said impatiently.
“We are justified. She’s a traitor,” Uma said. “It gives me no pleasure, but--”
“Sorry, I’m not interested. Look, we’re just waiting for Qiste to return so that she can do the geas. After that you’re free to go,” the stranger said. “We shouldn’t have given you the sight to see through the wards to begin with, if you ask me. But she was always a soft one for mother-daughter relationships. And now anyone who’s seen that damn letter can walk right into our village. Good thing it was in your pocket when we captured you. I’d ask who all has seen it, but I’m quite certain the answer will be a lie.”
“You’re talking nonsense,” Uma accused.
“Believe what you will. Once Qiste returns, you’ll be her problem. Fortunately she knows how to place a geas, and then whether you like it or not you’ll be gone. Now, unless you enjoy wasting away, it’s time for you to get up and walk,” the woman said impatiently.
The ageless woman quickly helped Uma to sit up. A wave of nausea washed through her, but she pushed the feeling down and forced herself to try to stand. She almost fell on her face. She’d never felt so weak in her life; she was forced to rely upon both Roz and the stranger in order to walk across the room. Even worse, she desperately needed to use the privy, and she doubted her ability to do so alone.
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She realized that it would take her weeks, perhaps months, to regain her strength. Cultivation would help reduce the time of her recovery, but the damage was significant. It was more than just a weakness of her muscles; her control over them, once so deft and masterful, had somehow lessened. She felt as unsteady as a newborn colt.
She had a sudden, terrible fear that her career as she knew it was over. So was her quest for leadership. Who would follow a crippled spy?
~~~~~~~~~
The monk’s devotion was impressive indeed, for he continued to pray through the evening and into the night. He did not even stop when Gyre placed a bowl of their stew in front of him, and when they awoke the next morning the monk continued to pray.
“I guess we know now why the sword took so long to fall,” Baturya said, sighing. “The gods were telling us we were going to be stuck here for a while.”
“Or they were telling us to be patient,” Gyre suggested. “It’s never wise to interrupt a mendicant while they’re praying.”
“Whatever. I’m going to cultivate while we wait.”
Shaji paled at his master’s warning and quickly began moving the animals away from the younger boy, who crossed his legs before the fire with complete disregard to the effect that his actions would have upon the beasts. Fortunately they were already hobbled a short distance away, and Shaji was adept at their care by now. By the time the whirlwind of malevolence that always surrounded Baturya during his meditations had picked up, Shaji had gotten them far enough away to that they only nickered in displeasure.
Jazirqe, who had never felt the aura of an unorthodox cultivator so closely before, was taken by surprise as she was forced to push back his aura with her own.
“Yes, that is the way to do it,” Ita agreed. “It is good practice, in case you ever meet someone stronger with you who actually intends to hurt you. Of course, if they are this much stronger, then it is wiser to run than to stay and fight. But practicing near this sort of killing intent will keep you from losing your mind from fear.”
Jaz frowned, and then shrugged slightly as she too began to cultivate. Only Gyre noticed that the monk had stopped praying, and that his eyes were focused upon Baturya with a dangerous expression.
“Baty, I think you should stop,” he said. “You’ve disturbed our friend.”
“Disturbed? Yes. You have all disturbed me greatly. Have you no respect for the gods?” the monk said, his speaking voice much different from the deep monotone he had used for his prayers. He returned his beads to his neck and ran a hand over his shaved head in frustration. “And you! You! You of the unorthodox path, you demon! You dare to cultivate with your twisted methods in the presence of the divine?”
“I am no demon! Do not speak of things you don’t know,” Baturya objected. “It was not my choice to--”
“Silence! I will not listen to the excuses of one who steps off the Path for power. And you, you are his teacher, no? That is why you wear the same robes? Was it you who sent him down this route?” the monk demanded.
“I played my role in the misfortune. One of inaction and silence when I could have intervened and prevented a tragedy,” Gyre admitted. “But the boy is correct, you speak of what you do not know. Baturya became unorthodox in order to survive a terrible wound, not in a quest for power. He is seeking to return to Orthodoxy, that is--”
“Once you have stepped so far off the path there is no way back,” the monk interrupted. “I do not care for the reasons or justification. Prepare yourself, Demon, for today you face judgment!”
With that, a brilliant aura swept through the crossroads, and Gyre came to a terrible realization. The aura was not ki, although it flowed out of the monk like a thick mist off the ocean. It was a type of spiritual energy. The monk was an immortal, and if Gyre’s guess was accurate, one who was three or four stages beyond the seventh reformation. Perhaps beyond even Qikobi and Tara, the only other immortals he had met.
“Please, there has been a misunderstanding,” Gyre begged. “Allow us to explain.”
The monk wasn’t listening, however, as he charged forward, defying gravity and physics with his speed. Gyre tried to intervene, but the sheer intensity of the aura coming off of the monk pushed him backwards. Somehow, Baturya withstood the pressure, standing to face his attacker with defiance. It shouldn’t be possible, Gyre thought, but try as he might he couldn’t get close.
“I am no demon,” Baturya protested as he traded blows with the monk. He received more than he gave, and the few that he landed were blocked or glancing. The monk was not of significant stature, only slightly taller than Baturya himself, but he was as skilled in unarmed combat as any Master. “I may be unorthodox, but I am no demon! I only did what I must to survive.”
“I don’t care for your petty justifications,” the monk spat back. “You have stepped of the Orthodox path and shall face my judgment! You shall face the judgment of the divine!”
Unable to push through the fog of energy surrounding the combatants, Gyre could only watch as his student was beaten by the monk. Baturya continued to meet the attacks valiantly, but even while suppressing Gyre and the others in the party with pure aura the monk was more than a match for the boy.
“You may speak to the gods,” Baturya panted, drawing his blade, “but you do not speak for them!”
The monk responded to the boy arming himself by reaching out and, with a flare of power, summoning his staff from where it had fallen. The fight became even more one-sided, as the reach of the staff outstripped the sword, and the monk’s skill to use his weapon outstripped the boy’s ability to wield his. Blows rained down upon Baturya, few of which he was able to parry or deflect.
Baturya screamed in anger and frustration, but he was as powerless now as he had been facing Ryt two years ago. For Gyre, the helplessness was worse, as the spiritual wall that enclosed the combatants was impenetrable--
A sudden ‘Thwip!’ interrupted the battle. The monk let up his attack to pull a dart out of his ass. He turned to look at Jazirqe, who was smiling at him with a blowgun still held to her lips. The monk wavered, collapsing a moment later, along with the spiritual energy that had been encircling him.
“We have about ten minutes before he gets up,” Jaz said. “I suggest we start riding, hard.”
“We’ll never escape him if he gives pursuit,” Gyre said. “A horse cannot outrun a hawk, and there is no doubt in my mind that he is able to fly like one when he so desires. Our best hope is to explain Baturya’s circumstance. He can hear us, can’t he?”
“The paralysis affects the body, but leaves the mind clear,” Jaz agreed. “But I’d get to explaining if that’s what we’re going to do, because the dose is intended for fifth Reformation Masters, not … whatever stage he’s at.”
Nodding, Gyre approached the monk and arranged the paralyzed man into a more dignified position. Then he began to talk, explaining the story of how Baturya had not stepped off of the Orthodox path, but been pushed.