The Chosen (The Compendium of Raath, Book 1) (38 page)

Otom knelt and traced his name in the snow:
O T O M.

“Otom?” Raven said, scrunching up her face.
“That just couldn't be worse. Your name's going to have to fall at
the beginning or middle of lines, I suppose, because that just
doesn't rhyme well at all.”

Otom shrugged.
Sorry
.

“Every life has trials, Otom. I will simply
have to make do.”

Raven had proven a powerful distraction and
an ample companion. Otom was starting to feel that the end of this
quest was in sight. As the two helped each other along, he began to
wonder what he was doing. Somewhere inside of himself he longed to
simply abandon this madness and take Raven somewhere. But he knew
that desires like that were best left in check.

Like Raven had said, Otom had a quest. He
would not come this far – especially after enduring the memories
his travel had unearthed – and stop now.

“You know, Otom,” Raven said, holding his
arm for support, “sometimes the choices we make are rather odd. I
could have had a husband, but I hated the idea. My family had one
all picked out for me, but the man they chose was a stifling idiot.
He was a blacksmith, you know. Strong arms and all that, but he was
so insufferably boring! Even though you don't speak, you're a
hundred-fold as interesting as he was. I think that says something
about your character. There's a depth in your eyes that he
lacked.”

Otom smiled.

“I mean it, Otom. There are volumes there. I
know there are. You will tell them to me in your own way over time.
You may think a man is an island. A closed book. But we are the sum
of the scars that we carry, Otom. You have a few that I can see.
Your build and wounds make me think you were a fighter at one
point. Don't look so surprised. I knew an archer once who trained
so much and so often with the bow that his spine was crooked from
the weight of drawing the damn thing. One learns to recognize these
signs if one looks for them long enough. My fingertips. My
fingertips are calloused and you would recognize the pattern as
that of a harpist, Otom, if it was your gift to do so. How does one
hear a life if its owner cannot speak? It is simpler than you might
think. We are the sum of our scars, Otom. Never forget that.”

The wisdom in Raven's speech shook Otom. If
he had had any notion that this quest could heal him it would be in
vain.

Scars aren't meant to be
healed,
he thought.
Merely carried for all to see.

O
tom was paging through The Book by firelight. Raven watched
over his shoulder, her bright eyes intent.

“The Monk reads his Book by his own Fire,”
Raven said. “This magic is incredible, Otom.”

Otom pointed up to the heavens.

“From God? I don't know. I don't know how to
break it to you, but I've never had much use for God.”

Otom shrugged and continued reading.

“I like to see people get more credit than
that. If great things happen it's always God this, God that. When
bad things happen it's the fault of man. Doesn't seem fair does it?
I give credit on both ends, you know?”

Otom closed The Book slowly and stowed it in
his pack. He laid back and unexpectedly Raven's face was right near
his. Her breath made fog in the cold air. Her bright eyes were open
wide like they always were, staring directly at him. She panted
lightly, and swallowed hard, coming closer.

Otom shook his head, though he found that he
did burn for her. He gripped her by the shoulders and gently rolled
her back to where she belonged with a finality that he hoped she
understood. He would never break his Vows for her. How could he
tell her that there was only one woman he would ever break them
for?

“I'm not hurt,” she said in the night air.
“I don't know what I was thinking. I am sorry, Otom. I could have
written about the massiveness of your manhood though, you know. Oh,
it was two feet long and it writhed like a snake,” she sang. “It
was almost more than I could take, uh huh!”

Otom smiled and rolled over, his back to
Raven. She sang a few more bawdy versus, but he could tell she was
starting to drift off. He closed his eyes and fell asleep.

T
hey ate roasted rabbit for the next few days and just as Otom
became weary of his journey the landscape changed. They were on a
plateau and the sky was as radiant a blue as Otom had ever
seen.

He looked down at the glowing symbol on his
forearm. The brown and orange salmon had gained a bit of brightness
over the past few months.

“Is that your compass?” Raven asked.

Otom shrugged.
Not sure.

“If it is, tell it to point quickly and
true. I'll stay with you to the end, Otom, you know that I've
promised that, but even bardesses get bored.”

There was a large cluster of trees in front
of them, almost oddly out of place.

“That seems like something!” Raven said.
“I'd bet my stake on the Icehall land that you're going in
there.”

Otom nodded in agreement, and began walking
again. He and Raven wandered through the trees. The branches held
needles that were dusted with snow. There was a commotion to their
side and Otom turned to look, pulsing his Detection. A tiny white
foal ran swiftly through the trees and there, chasing it, was a
brown-haired gril. Her arms were horribly bloody, her eyes full of
exhilaration.

“Finally! Something!” Raven said excitedly.
The woman took off at a run after the brown-haired girl and her
foal. Otom had no choice but to follow her. He ran through the
woods, following Raven's shock of black hair in front of him.

The air whooshed past him, cold over his
shaven skull.

A building loomed large in front of him. He
recognized that the architecture was similar to that of his
Monastery. He pulled up short. The brown-haired girl had finally
caught up to the foal and had been joined by an old woman and a
myriad of other animals.

“Hi,” Raven was saying to
them, addressing the strange group as a whole. “I'm Raven Icehall.
Who are you? Have you met my friend Otom? He's a legend around
these parts. Alright, I'll be fair. He's nearly the
only
one around these
parts!”

Otom Aldenburg stood and smiled at the
scene. He knew his journey to Sin'ra was at a close.

“Domma.”

“Domma.”

The voice persisted, fluttering against her
mind like a moth. Domma opened her eyes, or at least she thought
she did. Reality was becoming blurred down here. She was tied up on
the floor now. Potter had at least done that much for her. She lay
on her side, blood all around her, but none of it her own.

“Domma.”

She could hear the Foglins moving still
within the skulls of her sisters, and she wanted to cover her ears,
but couldn't. She could get one of them pressed to the ground, but
the maddening sounds droned in the other.

“Domma.”

“Domma.”

All the emotions had been wrung from her.
Had she been lying here for days? For weeks? It had become very
hard to tell. Sometimes Potter was here, and then he was gone.
Sometimes Tristo was here. Sometimes he was gone.

“Domma.”

“Domma.”

“Domma.”

“What!” she finally screamed in reply. But
suddenly she wasn't sure if she was awake or asleep; using her own
voice or something else entirely.

“Do not --- startled. We haven't much time.
Domma the --- mark. The one that ---.”

“Something's wrong,” said Domma. “I can't
understand. I don't understand.” The voice was cutting in and out,
her hearing fuzzing over certain words.

“LISTEN!” the voice commanded. “Temple of
Sin'ra. You must ---. I have Chosen you, Domma. I know you have
---. You --- you have strayed. Come back to me. At the Temple of
Sin'ra.”

“You want me to go somewhere? God? Is it . .
. is it you? That feels so stupid to say. I've gone insane haven't
I?”

The voice didn't respond.

Domma woke up.

Then she woke up again.

She gasped. This was definitely reality now.
Her body ached everywhere and it was beginning to itch as well.
That was, surprisingly, the more horrible of the two sensations.
Her mouth was so dry that her tongue was stuck to the roof of her
mouth. She tried to swallow, but found that task to be only mildly
successful.

“Sin'ra,” she said to herself. She winced
and rolled onto her back to stare up at the ceiling. “Like in The
Book. Is that where I'm to go, Lord?” She coughed weakly. “You're
gonna have to send someone for me then. Cuz I'm not getting out of
this one alone.”

Domma heard a new sickening sound coming
from within the skulls of her sisters. She looked up at Metta. The
blood had long dried on her face, but now wriggling black legs were
protruding from her empty eye socket.

“No!” Domma screamed. “Potter!” She began to
wriggle furiously, not wanting to be here when the thing emerged.
“Potter!” she screamed, her throat ragged.

The Foglin crawled down Metta and unfurled
itself on the ground, slow and weak like a newborn.

“Oh God and Gustus!” Domma shrieked, her
emotions running away from her for the first time since she had
been down here. Her shoulder cracked in a flash of pain as she
pulled furiously at her restraints.

She could hear the other three Foglins
crawling out of their hosts as well.

Domma began to inch across the floor, but it
was incredibly difficult as her arms and legs were tied together in
some kind of complicated knots. When she moved, a rope around her
neck tightened and she began to strangle, putting a stop to her
escape.

The skittering of tiny legs came closer and
closer.

She felt a tug at her robe and shuddered,
imagining the tiny, alien claws that had snagged it.

Suddenly the room was filled with noise.
Boots struck the ground near her, crunching a Foglin beneath them.
A sword swished by her head and cleaved another one of the
creatures neatly in half, its black blood oozing out. A dagger
impaled another creature, driving through its chest. It screamed an
all-too-human scream and died.

The sword swung through her bonds, the heavy
rope parting easily in its wake.

Then she was being lifted.

“Careful,” she managed to say. She was
dizzy.

“Nice kill, Hal,” said a man's voice.

“Holy shit,” said the man who must have been
Hal. “What the-” But he didn't finish and began retching.

“You'll have time to tell us your story,
Cleric,” said the first man. “Very probably you'll want to be
leaving here quickly.”

From her vantage point in the man's arms,
Domma recognized the colors of the Kingsguard. That narrowed down
this man's identity to one in twelve. The other man, Hal, was
overweight and badly disheveled. He wore dirty, stained clothing
and had a good ragged growth of beard going, his long brown hair
hanging lank and wild.

“There's something on her arm,” Hal said in
between coughs.

“Well I'll be,” said the Kingsguardian.
“I've heard this sort of thing talked about . . .” He held Domma's
arm in a powerful hand, inspecting. “Who are you?” he asked
cautiously.

“I'm a Sunburst Cleric,” she said weakly.
“The symbol . . . I need to get to the Temple of Sin'ra.” She began
shuddering then, feeling incredibly cold.

Hal took off his cloak and laid it over her
as she rested in the Kingsguardian's arms. “You can keep it,” he
said, concern in his eyes.

A new light entered the room and Domma's
heart jumped. She feared it was Potter or one of the others
bringing a torch down here. Maybe they were just late in responding
to her cries.

But the light was coming from Hal. The man's
face contorted as he tried to back away from his own arm. He pulled
his glove off and threw it to the ground. His hand was a mottled
mess of disease, black patterns running up and down. The light
started just above his wrist. A glowing black and white coin
adorned his arm.

“Trance!” he yelled.

So that's who this
Kingsguardian is: Trance Raynman.

“Don't look at me!” Trance said, obviously
surprised. “What am I supposed to do with you two glowing
fools?”

“You want to flee this place, too,” Domma
said. “Take us both to the Temple. There is important work to be
done there.”

“My brother,” Hal said. “We have to find
Tell! What the hell is wrong with my arm?!”

“Listen,” said Trance. “Just because your
brother wasn't where you left him doesn't mean he's down here. He
could be off dealing with business elsewhere.”

“But there's tunnels under this whole place!
Connecting multiple hospitals! The whole thing is a sick scheme,
Trance! I've seen things like this before. Okay, not exactly like
this. But I mean interconnected plots and a greater plan to it all.
I'm not making any sense.” Hal was waving his arm about a little
frantically.

Domma gasped. “It's that bad?” she asked.
“Does the king know?”

Trance nodded. “We just sent Kelin
Lightbearer to tell him. Hal here was insistent that we try and
find his brother down here, but as you can see we failed in that.
We found you instead. Tell me, woman of God, should we truly do as
you say?”

“I don't know. I just had a vision. I think
from God. I don't think that's ever happened to me before. He told
me to go to the Temple of Sin'ra.”

“Another journey?” Hal asked. “No. No. Get
this thing off my arm, Trance. Just cut the whole damn limb off!
I'm sick of all of this. Some of us have lives to live, lady!”