Chapter 26: Agency

“Did you like my armadillo stew?”

The old man grinned at him, mischief glittering in his green eyes.

No, it was horrible. It kind of tasted like stewed armadillo.

“Yes, sir, it was delicious,” Larean replied.

Joas laughed. “I thought you’d say that. But you shouldn’t lie, son. The Word forbids it.”

The word? What word? He didn’t understand. And how could it be forbidden? Wasn’t lying one of the eleven sacraments? At least he thought so, though he wasn’t exactly devout and might be misremembering. But he was fairly certain the gods took pleasure in deception.

The old hermit looked at him, still smiling.

“The stew was pretty horrendous, wasn’t it? I know. I wish I could say it’s an acquired taste, but after sixty years, I still loathe it. Sadly, most days it’s the best I can do around here.”

Larean couldn’t stop himself from breaking into laughter.

“Yes, sir. It really was horrible. Can I have some more, please?”

“Sorry, son, I’m all out of that delicacy, at least until the next batch is ready tomorrow. But if you stick around, I might be able to scrounge some pickled rats for you.”

For a few minutes, the two men—separated by half a century of experiences—simply enjoyed each other’s company. During the brief moment of levity, Larean could forget the dread he’d been feeling lately. His initial rapport with Soria seemed to have faded. On the surface, everything was fine, but he could feel something was missing now.

At first, he’d thought it was Pelam’s presence that had caused it, like trying to ride a three-humped camel. And it was true that they had traded barbs since the red-haired Agerian joined them, but this felt different. Ever since the incident with the pig, Larean hadn’t been entirely comfortable around her.

Joas and Larean kept trading jokes for a while, but eventually, the old hermit grew serious.

“Have you considered what I suggested before?” he asked. “About turning around, I mean. Finding a better way.”

“It’s really Pelam and Soria who make those decisions for us,” Larean replied, somewhat reluctantly. “Pelam knows the way.”

Joas looked at him, concern in his eyes. “Are you sure he does?”

The old man’s question, innocent as it sounded, made the Nimean pause. Were they still talking about the literal road?

“You know something, don’t you? What’s going to happen in there?” he asked, indicating the ruined city with his head.

The hermit sat down on a makeshift stool he’d made for his shed from old pieces of wood he had found among the ruins. As he did so, he let out a heavy sigh.

“That’s not for me to say,” he told the young thief.

Larean found an old chest and sat down on it, facing Joas. He leaned forward, clasping his hands.

“Who are you, really?” he asked.

The hermit smiled. “I’m a Whisperer of the Word. But who I am is not important. Only He is.”

There’s that word again. The “word”.

No. The Word’s not a word. It’s a name. Someone Joas reveres. Would that be the god of grammar and spelling, then?

For a moment, he felt ashamed of his internal joke, fearful that it was blasphemous. But then he decided he’d never worship any god who didn’t understand his sense of humor, anyway.

Which, given what he knew of the gods of the world, made the list of candidates exceptionally short. Empty, in fact.

Out loud, he asked, “Who is he? I’ve never heard that name before.”

At first, Joas didn’t respond. For a moment, he looked to the side, as if he were listening to a voice Larean couldn’t hear.

“You know, son,” he finally said, “the Word sends me to whisper His message into the ears of those who are ready to listen. Sometimes, they don’t even know they are.”

The hermit paused for a moment, then continued.

“There are times when a single word is enough. Other times, He gives me the privilege to talk freely about Him for hours. He knows what every person needs, and when they need to hear it.”

Larean’s heart sank. He understood where this was going.

“I’m one of those who just gets to hear a single word, right?”

Joas chuckled lightly. “If that were the case, I’m already far beyond my allotted quota!”

Great! Now let’s hear it, old man!

“The truth is,” the hermit continued, “that I’ve been given a special privilege today. While I’m not to talk to you about Him anymore, He has actually given me a direct message for you.”

Really? I’ve never even heard of him before, but he knows me? That’s some impressive divining right there.

Idly, he wondered if even the gods of the world knew that much about him.

“Thus says the Word: When the rooster crows, you can choose to say ‘no.’”

I’m supposed to say no to a rooster? That makes no sense whatsoever.

“I don’t understand,” he said. “What does it mean?”

Joas smiled. “I don’t know. But the Word does. That’s all that matters. And in time, you will, too.”

* * *

The next morning, the three of them woke up early to get ready for crossing into Omanavar. From within his little shed, they could hear Joas still snoring. Larean was careful not to wake the old man, at least not until they were ready to leave.

“Finally,” Soria said. “I can’t wait to get out of here. The geezer’s been delaying us long enough. The sooner we get to Terynia, the sooner we can find Cairn.”

Pelam voiced his agreement. “Yeah, the old man creeps me out. There’s something about him that almost makes me nauseous.”

She nodded. “I know what you mean. I don’t want to stay here longer than necessary. But he knew things about the Old Ones I’ve never heard before. That made him worth listening to. Though I think we’ve gotten all we’re going to get out of him on that subject.”

Larean didn’t say a word. He seemed uncharacteristically silent, Soria thought.

“What’s the matter, Larean?”

“Nothing,” the Nimean replied. “I just think… Look, Joas has been nothing but kind to us. There’s no need to talk that way about him behind his back.”

Pelam grunted. “Alright, let’s get going.”

“Just one more thing before you leave,” a dry voice rasped from the doorway of the shed.

The three turned to see the old hermit standing there, fresh out of his bed and holding a travel pouch, which he tossed lightly into the air. Larean stepped forward to catch it—and almost missed. Mildly embarrassed, he wondered how much of the conversation Joas had heard.

Fumbling a little, he opened the pouch, removed the stopper, and sniffed carefully at its contents.

A smile flashed across his face.

“Fresh armadillo soup!” he exclaimed. “Why, thank you, Master Chef!”

The old hermit laughed, his eyes glinting. “Just something for the road. It’s been slow-boiling the whole night. Take care, kids. I’ll pray for you.”

Ahead of them loomed the ruined city of the Old Ones, its decay speaking to them of strife and conflicts from ages so ancient they had long been erased from the collective memory of man.

Standing among the remains of its buildings, the city was much less conspicuous than it had been when they first saw it from the hilltops. Down here, you almost couldn’t tell you were in the middle of what once must have been a sprawling metropolis, Soria thought. It was less preserved than she had hoped, much more like the deterioration she was used to back in the jungles of Derimar than she had first realized. Most of the buildings were reduced to only their foundations, broken and eroded by millennia of wind and rain. And everywhere they looked, the ground was covered in shards of warm ice.

Much of the time, she couldn’t even tell if the rocks she saw around them were natural or man-made. But now and then, they passed a boulder with angles too perfect, shaped not by nature and time, but as if the Old Ones had poured liquid stone into a mold, like a metalworker casting bronze.

They walked for hours along the ancient streets, some wide, some narrow, all straight as lines and hard as rock. Yet despite the unnaturally dense material they were made from, the surfaces were cracked as if they had been hit by a hammer of the gods. Sometimes entire sections of the road were missing, forcing them to climb over neighboring ruins to get around the destruction.

She and Pelam kept a close eye on their surroundings, watching intently for the Soul Sick the old hermit had warned them about. But of the deranged men there was no sign. As for Larean, she wasn’t sure what he was doing. For the past few hours, he hadn’t been his usual jovial self. He seemed to be brooding over something she wasn’t privy to.

It was midafternoon, and Soria was starting to feel pretty good about their choice to cross through Omanavar. Granted, the terrain was horrendous, but the dangers they had expected to find here had not materialized.

That’s when they came upon the pool.

Age and debris made it impossible to tell what it had once been. There was a rectangular depression in the ground, its walls and bottom lined with fragments of flat, perfectly square stones that probably had once been white but were now covered in gray silt. The hole in the ground was filled with rainwater, muddied by soil and dust gathered over millennia of downpour as it flowed downhill into the cavity.

And in its murky water, something was stirring.

The silvery tendrils frizzing the surface looked much like those of the water spirits they had previously seen patrolling the river, but this one was larger, more energetic. And somehow, Soria thought, more random in its jerky movements.

Suddenly, the water crested and began to slosh within the confines of the pool. In its center, the surface rose and formed a bud that slowly took on the rough shape of a human face.

“Hello, little ones,” it whispered, soft and murmuring, like water quietly lapping against the sides of a pig’s trough.

Pelam held up his closed fist to motion them to stop.

Larean protested. “No, let’s find another way.”

“Have you come to seek the wisdom of the Old Ones?” the spirit asked, its voice gurgling.

The question piqued Soria’s interest. Surely, she thought, a spirit who had lived here for eons would know even more than the old hermit had.

“What can you tell us of them?” she asked. “Were you here to witness the Fires?”

“Ah, the Fires,” it replied, sounding almost like it was smacking its lips, as if savoring the taste of a memory. “What a shame. We had so much fun.”

“Still, something new rose from the ashes,” it continued. “A virgin land, filled with empty hearts for us to rule as we saw fit once more, just as was our right, per our contract with the first of your race.”

“Let’s go,” Larean said, tugging at her arm. She brushed him off.

Suddenly, what appeared to be the head of the spirit jerked to the side to look straight into Soria’s eyes.

“Soria Tolmar,” it whispered to her, “We know who you are.”

She leaned forward, equally shocked and intrigued by the spirit’s recognition of her.

“And we know who your brother was. I hear his end was exquisite. I’m told she was quite the craftswoman, that Dark Flame.”

Soria felt like her heart had suddenly stopped. The fear she experienced was like physical fingers of ice, playing along her spine and telling her all her efforts had been for naught.

“He’s… dead?” she asked, despite knowing in her soul what the spirit's answer would be. “Cairn is dead?”

“Oh, yes, little one,” the water spirit replied. “His terror as he passed was a most pleasant fragrance in our noses, they say. Most wonderful.”

Fear turned to anger inside Soria’s heart. Her quest hadn’t been entirely for nothing. Even though Cairn was gone, she could still exact revenge on his killers.

Larean tugged at her again. “Don’t listen to it. Let’s go.”

Annoyed, she slapped him, forcing him to let go of her.

“What happened? Who did it?”

“Wouldn’t you rather learn the secrets of the Old Ones?” the spirit’s soft, wheezing voice tempted her. “I was there at the end, you know. If you pledge your soul to me, I could give you knowledge that would make even the wisest of teachers in Palangea envy you.”

Yes!

No, she reminded herself. She needed to know about Cairn.

“Yes, yes, I know,” the spirit said suddenly, to no one in particular. “I will.”

It turned to Soria again. “Let’s talk about your brother instead. She threatens me with the abyss if we don’t. How rude.”

She who? Is there someone here with us we can’t see?

“Her name is Dina, the Dark Flame who made your brother suffer. I hear she’s most eager to meet you,” the spirit continued. “Do you want to meet her, too? You will, little one. You will. We’ll make sure of that. And what will you do then, I wonder? It was all her idea, you know.”

Pelam put his arm around her shoulders. “Whatever you need, we’re there for you. You know that. Together, we’ll find her. We’ll avenge Cairn.”

Soria nodded.

Gods, why did you let that woman kill my brother?

In the span of a minute, her entire world had turned to ash. She just wanted to scream.

“Why?” she cried. “Gods help me. I will make her feel the same pain she caused my brother. I will make her fear an offering to you.”

She dropped to her knees, lightheaded, the back of her head throbbing, grief and anger crashing over her like a wave.

For a short moment, she thought she had heard the sound of gleeful laughter. But no one was there, and none of her companions seemed to have noticed it.

Author's Note

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