The Chosen (The Compendium of Raath, Book 1) (26 page)

Haroma was unusually robust for a Sunday.
Usually the festivities of a Saturday night would have rendered the
population hungover and sleepy, but for whatever reason things were
not that way today. Domma tugged up the hood of her blue and gold
cloak to block the rising sun from burning her scalp.

“Domma!” a familiar voice shouted. It was
Metta. The girl was waving from across the market. The young Cleric
must have been out among the throng today, working her magics on
the crowd in order to draw more of them to the Temple. Domma nodded
at Metta, and caught a knowing look from the girl's eyes.

She smiled to herself and
she looked at the ground to hide her grin. Talking to Metta the
other night had changed the way she had thought about life.
Interesting that one so young could change my
mind about something so quickly and easily.
Domma had essentially told the girl to end her affair, but
really she had wanted to congratulate her.

She would tell Potter about the Foglins
today and then . . . well, she would see how brave she was. He had
already professed his feelings for her, so she knew there would be
no trouble there, but her stomach twisted at the thought of what
she might do.

Desire burned so strongly in her that she
was alternately frightened and exhilarated. One minute she knew she
would go through with it, the next minute she knew she would
run.

Something tugged at the
hole in her memory with a familiar twinge. It was always offputting
when it happened because Domma could never be sure what it
meant.
Am I walking into a situation that
I have experienced before? Is the cloud going to be lifted? Is it a
warning?
She only wished it was possible
for her to Delve herself, diving into her own mind the way she had
gone into Ormon's, but that wasn't possible, and no one that had
ever Delved her had been able to provide any
information.

Even God was silent on the topic.

D
omma heard screams once she stepped inside the hospital and
Potter rushed past her, running toward the room where the sound was
issuing from.

“Do you need me?” Domma shouted after
him.

“Best stay there, Domma,” he yelled, not
turning around. “Don't worry, don't worry! I'm pretty sure no one's
getting killed! Just a routine fit!”

Domma waited patiently as Potter dealt with
the situation. There was some wall-slamming and thumps from within
the room followed by muffled arguing. After a moment, Potter
stumbled out and closed the door quietly behind him. He was a bit
disheveled, his brown robe coming off one of his shoulders. It was
more muscular than Domma would have thought.

Oh, this is not
good
, she thought, casting her eyes
upward.

Potter tugged up his robe and smoothed it
out. He shook his head as he walked over to Domma. “You can't see
that one yet,” he said. “He's . . . unstable.”

“I didn't come here on duty,” she said.

“But it's Sunday,” he countered.

“I know. But there's something important
that I have to share with you.”

“My office is free,” Potter said. “Funary is
no longer sharing it with me. We can walk and talk. Time may be
short for us. I fear my new patient may pitch another fit
soon.”

“It's about what I found in Ormon's mind,”
Domma said as they began walking. “At the time I didn't share it
with you, but maybe I should have. What Ormon had on his mind just
before he died . . . was Foglins.”

Potter stopped dead in his tracks, a
frightened look on his face. “Do we need to evacuate?” he asked.
“What am I saying? There's nowhere to go. Domma, are you sure?”

“I am sure. The thought presented itself too
strongly for me to think that it was fluff, like a bit of a story
he knew or something. He knew – knew for sure – that what tore up
his head that way was a Foglin.”

“Within my walls?”

Domma shrugged and nodded
at the same time. She now realized she had been terrified to come
here for another reason.
The Foglin could
still be here.

They reached the office and Potter shut the
door behind them.

“I did some research,” Domma continued.
“Devotees have access to many records that the world has thought
lost, and much information that seems useless, but may actually
contain truth. God's hand guided me to a book that told the account
of an explorer from a very long time ago.”

Domma repeated the text to Potter verbatim
and he listened intently and nervously.

When Domma finished, Potter paced for a bit.
The small office was lit by sunbeams that crept through the
not-quite-closed shutters, and he interrupted them as he walked
back and forth, causing the light to dance and shift.

“What do you think it means?” he asked.

“I have a few theories,” Domma responded.
“The explorer – or whatever he was, and now I am sure he was much
more than that, but 'explorer' is how I think of him – fell,
fracturing his skull. The Foglin left him alone after that,
choosing apparently not to pursue him. Devotee magic comes from the
brain and is inherently entwined in the mind. I think . . . the
Foglins are only interested in magic. This would explain why, in
Ormon's case, the Foglin would only attack him after I Mended
him.”
“I don't know,” Potter said.

“Why?”

“That's just a lot to assume."

“That doesn't mean it's not true. And listen
to this part. This explorer had some kind of power. He was, very
likely, a Devotee. Do you think that's coincidental?”

“You're ignoring something obvious and
frightening, though,” said Potter. “Something I'm not sure I've
heard anyone say before. You said he talked of a town called
Fisher? I know of no such town.”

“It was a long time ago, Potter. Geography
changes quickly, towns come and go, razed in horrid wars and
such.”

“But other types of geography take much
longer to change, barring some catastrophic alteration. He
mentioned that this town of Fisher was on a fork in the Ein
river?”

“That's what the text said.”

“You must not know much of southern
geography; admittedly probably very few do. There is no fork in the
Ein river. It runs a straight path from Ein lake all the way down
until it disappears into the Vapor.”

“What does that mean?” Domma asked.

“What I think it might mean,” Potter said,
“and what I think you've ignored, is that the Vapor is slowly,
slowly creeping north. Think about it. A river as big as the Ein
suddenly losing an entire branch isn't very likely. What's more
likely is that the branch has been covered up over time. And the
town of Fisher along with it. And if that is the case, one day
maybe the Vapor will swallow us all up.”

“What do you think I should do about that?”
Domma asked, honestly surprised. “You're saying that the Vapor has
been creeping north for all these years and that no one noticed
it?”

“I've never heard that theory before,”
Potter said. “We've gone from one unsolvable mystery into another.
I almost feel ridiculous speculating on these things with you.
Domma, we're both logical, religious people, and here we are
delving into Foglin lore and ancient southern geography. Ormon had
suffered severe cranial trauma. He seemed stable on the outside,
but he was a mess on the inside. You know that as well as I do.
Sometimes – and perhaps both of our lives should have taught us
this by now – things go unsolved. And there's nothing we can
do.”

Domma sighed. “I came here worried that you
would be dead; that everyone here would be torn to shreds. Whatever
or whoever killed Ormon . . . it isn't natural. What can his death
mean?”

“What does it mean?” Potter repeated. “I
always try to put things into perspective.” He raised his hands up
into the air as if explaining things to the wind. “Stars must die
every day, Domma, their flames burning for the last time. Worlds
collapse in on themselves. Species come and go, never to be seen by
man. And yet despite the fantastically massive cosmocity of it all,
we go on with our lives. Not everything is a signal; not everything
is a sign.”

“I didn't know you thought so deeply about
things,” she said.

“There isn't much to do here but think
deeply between outbursts,” Potter said. “Is that a new robe? It
looks fantastic on you.” His smile was warm and mischievous.

Domma laughed and in a very odd gesture
tried to run her hand through her hair, which of course didn't
exist. The coziness of the room was getting to her. Her thoughts on
Foglins and Ormon were tangled inside her brain now, nothing
reconciling or making any sense, so she shoved it all to the back.
She would do what she had truly come here to do.

Potter continued speaking before she could
say anything. “Would you care for something to drink? There's
something about you today that says you would.” He walked over to a
tall cabinet.

Domma smiled. “I've always been partial to
anything with a cherry flavor,” she said.

“Interesting fact, interesting fact,” said
Potter. “But our reserves here are rather limited. Your request
would have been much easier to accommodate if you had requested
'something that isn't totally atrocious'.”

“Yes, of course,” Domma said. “I'm sorry.
This whole situation has got me flustered.”

“Tragedies can lead people together,” Potter
said as he poured two shoddy looking glasses full of a dull liquid.
“When I opened up to you the other day,” he began, “well, sometimes
things take a while to sink in. I was hoping this would happen. I
was hoping, but . . . I didn't want to hope too hard. How
inelegant, Potter. I really should work on my language skills.”

Domma walked up behind him as he was
talking, and as he turned to serve her drink she let her robe drop
to the floor.

“Oh,” Potter said.

“H
e turned you
down
, Domma?” Metta squealed quietly in the night. “It's
criminal!”

Domma felt ridiculous, like
some idiotic girl swooning over boys. Once evening had fallen she
had come straight to Metta.
Metta, my
partner in crime
, she thought.
God, if you are watching, please don't judge me
too harshly. My heart and mind are both confused.

“He turned me down,” Domma confirmed. “I
don't blame him. It was too much too soon.”

“It was brave,” Metta said in awe. “You
weren't wearing anything underneath your robe?”

“I had my chest wrap on, and I suppose I was
still wearing my boots. Oh, God, I must have looked like a fool.
But, he did give me this.” From within a pocket in her sleeve,
Domma produced a folded piece of paper. “He wrote this to tell me
where to meet him."

Metta brought her hands up to her mouth. "He
drew a heart at the bottom of it," she squeaked. “Oh, Domma that is
so fantastic. Are you going to go through with it?”

“I was ready to today, wasn't I?” she asked.
“I feel so sterile here. I always have. There's always been
something inside of me that didn't quite fit with this place.”

“But you're one of the most revered women
here. I walk by and nobody notices, but you're hounded sometimes
day and night by people – other Clerics, even – wanting
advice.”

“And now I am turning to you,” Domma said.
“I know how you feel. Your Tristo . . . Have you decided if it is
worth it?”

Metta sat taller on the bed, her blond hair
bobbing joyously by the light of the candle. “You know I can't
truly be the judge of that. God is. In a cosmic sense it doesn't
matter what I think. But here, in my body . . . it feels right,
Domma. I feel right. Can I be both a woman of God and myself? Does
that even make sense?”

Domma nodded and reached up to idly touch
the tattoo of the sunburst on her forehead. “I guess that's what
I'm trying to find out, too,” she said.

T
hings had become quite bad again for Krothair. He and Ti'Shed
were back at it with swords in the training field after a grueling
two days of grappling that had left Krothair weak and beaten. It
was amazing the amount of power that Ti'Shed possessed in his aged
frame, but the techniques and reactions he knew were what made him
a terrifying fighter.

Steel rang on steel and Krothair – who had
been on the defensive for the past month of training – began to
gain the advantage on his drug-addled teacher. He flowed through
the Vasebreaker forms that Ti'Shed had taught him and soon had the
old man parrying every blow, unable to form his own
counter-offensive.

Krothair felt pity for the briefest moment
and the emotion betrayed him, causing him to miss the next beat of
his attack. Ti'Shed turned then, body whirling, sword seeming to be
in all places at once. The sword master had been waiting for any
opportunity, and he never missed one when it came. Krothair felt
warmth on his cheek and realized his face had been cut. He stumbled
backwards, feeling briefly like the untrained boy he had been when
he had first come here.

“Congratulations. The top of your head is
now gone, crotch-hair,” Ti'Shed said. It was a nickname the old man
had taken to calling him on the training field; it barely sounded
like Krothair's name at all, and that only infuriated him more.

“You should admit I have gotten better,” the
boy said stubbornly.

That only drew a cold stare from Ti'Shed. He
looked up into the sky, judging the light while squinting. “We
should start doing some night combats I think,” he mused. “Daylight
is all well and good, but if you can't fight in the dark you may as
well not fight at all.”