Disciple (pt3)

The flock of pilgrims trudged their way to the boarding house run by the monks. Once, the Order would have camped by the roadside or in the streets, humbly sheltering themselves with branches or planks of wood in honor of their mysterious and aloof warsaint. But when Zaji stepped into the house, he found four large rooms of barracks, filled to bursting with bunked cots and pilgrims lying side by side like fish ready for packing. Zaji stopped just inside the door.

Yana turned on him, Walthik stopping as well to see where she would lay down. "What is it?"

"No. Way." Zaji shook his head, looking at the rows of gray robes and sleepless pilgrims and tosses and turnings and scratches and murmurs. "I can't deal with this right now."

Yana made a face. "Don't be a baby. Just six days, then we're back on the road, then one last test."

Zaji shook his head again. "I'm going for a walk."

Walthik put his hand on Yana's shoulder. "Come on."

Zaji stepped back outside and almost ran into a lantern-bearing monk.

"Where are you going?," the monk inquired, lifting a single eyebrow as he readied the Scourge of Guilt with his gaze.

"For a walk. For a little while. I don't know." Zaji started off, averting his eyes and trying not to feel ashamed or worried that he'd be rejected for this.

"Your parents," the monk called, causing him to stop, "entrusted the Order with your safety. It would be wrong for us to let you stroll out naively into the dark at this time of night."

Zaji nodded, tasting acidic contempt on the back of his tongue. "You're right." He walked back to the monk, took the lantern from out of his hand, and walked out of Holmstead.

Once he left the city proper, the night was plenty more agreeable. Gradually, insects replaced the sounds of the streets, and the calls of night birds serenaded grassy hills instead of dusty alleys. He trudged, the weight of his disrespect hanging around his shoulders like a cloak of lead.

He thought about the Order, which was a basic foundation for every House, every province, yet chose to do nothing more than serve as babysitters for the nation's wild youth before they took up the careers they would serve for the rest of their lives. He thought of his father, and of his learning the trade of the butcher, and of negotiating with merchants for palatable prices and decent shipments that could be spiced up so nobody would taste how long the meat had been on the road. He thought about the High Council and the Houses, too rich to really be considered petty, who thought in centuries and played old games with the lives of their people. He thought about pubs that smother their patrons with enough beer and noise to convince them they are actually living life instead of life using them like pack mules.

One day, he would be back home, and he would see a table packed with pilgrims. And he would walk up to them and say "Remind me how the fourth stanza of Hsu-Hsang's Cycle goes. If you do, I'll buy you a beer. I remember it starts 'Your journey is your own. You share with no other. Your footsteps carry only you.'"

The ground gave out beneath him. He dropped, his upper body slamming viciously against the dirt as his lower half slid down the dark hole pulling the rest of him along. The lantern slipped his grasp as he reached out in the darkness, catching himself on relentlessly hard stone. The lantern burst, spewing fire in all directions, lighting his wool robe ablaze. He rolled away and tore the robe off with a frantic, panicked yank, throwing it into the pool of burning oil that massed in the middle of the cave's floor.

He dusted himself off and rubbed at the palms of his hands and at his throbbing knees.

He turned and screamed, the sound unnaturally loud in the small cave, to find two robed figures sitting quietly, gazing at him with empty eyes. He leapt back, almost fell into the puddle of blazing lantern oil, then caught his balance and backed up to the cave wall.

The firelight flickered against smooth stone walls and fell into a natural archway that led to another part of the cave. On either side of this arch sat the mummies, their leathery skin preserved by the stale, dry air. Their thick robes hung over them like spider silk, clinging to their frail, motionless forms with the kind of love and time that made even arranged marriages meaningful.

Zaji knelt, peering at the face of the closest monk, at the starved features and the wilted eyes and the pursed, tight mouth. In spite of himself, he felt peaceful looking on this vigilant corpse. He was being watched, but he was also being welcomed.

He advanced, his footfalls careful to not disturb the quiet of this place that had ruled for uncharted time. He crept to the archway and through it, where only the faintest illumination followed.

Someone wrapped their arms around him. Gently, those arms held him, and hugged him. Shyly, he put his arms around the figure as well and put his head on a leather-clad shoulder. He knew he was alone.