Category Archives: The Brother Enlightened
He kissed the ribbon she used to wear in her hair before putting it gently back on the altar. “Lady Winter,” Zain whispered, tracing the holy sign over the base of his throat. “Give her my best regards. Thank you for showing her mercy, and kindness.”
Zain waited, listening to the steady drip-drip-drip of the pool before the Lady Winter’s altar. The water flowed freely for most of the year, and only when it had frozen entirely were supplicants allowed to walk across and touch the statue of the Lady Winter.
“I miss you, Nonna,” said Zain, eventually. “We all miss you. Roan is as he is ever, mucking about with his animals, dreaming of better days. Janwye will return later tonight, to prepare for Ladies know what. I feel she has lost sight of what we were trained to do. She thinks only of the good of her people, not the good of us all. She is not ready for the sacrifices we were trained to make.”
He stopped, and listened to the drip-drip-drip.
“Of the sacrifice you made,” he added, quietly. Zain sighed. “I serve your Lady as diligently as ever. I am coming to understand why you all loved her so much in that chilly fortress of yours so far north, and while I might never see with eyes of an iceman I am beginning think like one. And I…I…”
Zain stuttered to a halt. He closed his eyes and cursed himself, under his breath. Even when she was dead, he was still too coward to say it.
“I miss you, Nonna,” he finished, quietly, and rose, sweeping the dust off of his robes. He traced the tattoos on his neck and chest again, and sighed, the memory of their etching lingering in his brain. No matter how much draught of the poppy they had given him, the tattoos had hurt.
Then again, Zain reasoned, they had not hurt nearly as much as her passing, and that was what the draught of the poppy had really been trying to mask.
He rubbed his swollen eyes, trying to block out the dull buzz in his ears as he walked up the winding staircase of his house of the Ladies. Mosaic windows glittered past him, each depicting the Lady Winter in some shape or form: her face kindly, her pose always gentle, the owl wings behind her back curled as if in embrace.
The Keeper of the Broken, the scriptures called her. The Mother Loving. And, Zain had to remind himself, The Shadow of Death.
The touch of the Lady Winter was the touch of mercy, of kindness, of generosity. It was an end to pain, a respite from a cruel world, a brief rest before one’s essence entered the game of worlds once more. Zain had come to peace with this long ago.
All the same, it felt selfish to leave the living with all the burdens of the dead.
The pontiff ascended to his private chambers. He didn’t use it often; perhaps the richly furnished bed, with its thick blankets and fall goose-feather pillows, would have suited the proud pontiffs of spring, but Zain preferred his hard slab of a sleeping table in his run-down, poor tenement. It kept him closer to his people, and his faith.
Zain sat heavily at his pontiff’s desk, reaching for his wax writing tablet. It had been sitting over the fire as he prayed, and now he smoothed it out with a flat stone, wiping the slate clean.
He set to work carving the letters in with his copper stylus, tongue poking out between his teeth as he wrote. It was tortuous work. He envied the scribes in the Seat of the King with their inks and their pens and their parchment. Those were the inventions of the modern world, while Temple Moscoleon puttered around in the dust of the other great cities: Jhidnu-by-the-Sea, Irontower, even sleepy Shira Hay had outpaced them.
But, alas, Keep Tlai enjoyed the trappings of an older age, and so the Temple obeyed. Zain scratched the glyphs into the clay, brow furrowed as he tried to think of an argument that would sway the conservative Keep. Moscoleon was a historical ally of Alswell; audience would be granted on that factor alone. But to truly convince her, who had practically cut the Temple off from the outside ever since Ironhide had taken the throne all those years ago?
Setting his stylus aside, Zain steeped his fingers together and thought. He had to think every word through before he wrote even one more down.
It would have been easier, a rebellious little voice in the back of his head whispered, if the Keep was a Walker as well, but even the brotherhood could not hope to have such far reaching power. Zain had even entertained fantasies of bidding for the Keep in his younger years, but joining one house of the Ladies had been hard enough. Joining all four, and then inheriting the divine declamation would have been near impossible.
Not if the post had been meant for him, Zain reminded himself. If the post had truly been his, then the Ladies would have guided him down the path the whole way. It was the Ladies’ will that Tlai should be Keep, and that was that. The wisdom of their decision would be proven eventually.
He shook his head and set back to work. It did not do to dwell on the past.
“Let the dead rest,” Zain muttered, under his breath, as he worked. The path to reach Keep Tlai was clear to him now. His would be a supplication: firm, but showing respect, appealing to the memories of Keeps past. To aid Alswell was solemn duty—nay, tradition, despite any tensions that had risen since the No-Hand War.
If only, if only, the words let him be so eloquent. Zain had limited space on the tablet, and had to carve cramped, tight letters into the wax, more a proposal than poetry. It irked him.
The motion was so rote and automatic that Zain’s mind began to wander again. He thought of the girl, Jova, and Roan. Would sending them to Alswell work? It was a way to get the girl out of the city, but more than that, it was a way to get Roan moving. Zain’s friend had grown restless in the Temple, and even now Zain squirmed at his false piety. It had been no fault of his; Zain did not doubt Roan’s honest intentions when he came to the peninsula and changed his name. But when his faith had not yet reaped its rewards…
No, it was better to send Roan out. Janwye would keep an eye on him, even while giving him the space to be Rho Hat Pan again. It was…healthy.
Zain’s hand was shaking too much to continue using the stylus. He put the utensil down, breathing deeply through his nostrils. It was the right decision to make, because it was the decision he had made. There was no point in regretting it now.
He could only hope that Albumere would be kind to Roan on this latest journey, the journey Zain had sent him on. The pontiff did not think he could live with causing the death of another friend.
As Zain began to write again, he found himself wondering whether perhaps Roan’s faith had been rewarded. It had taken years—countless years—but eventually he had found her. The blind girl. It had filled Roan with purpose again, with life.
More than that, said Zain’s practical side, it had brought fresh blood into the ranks. The last generation of the brotherhood was growing old. Zain traced the crescent moons embroidered on his cuffs, contemplative. The time was coming to pass the secrets of the Dream Walkers onto the youth.
His thoughts were jarred by a sudden clattering downstairs. Zain shifted, reaching for the trove of tabula hidden under his desk immediately. Gifts and taxes from hunters who foraged the wild jungles: Zain did not know what the amber was bound to, but each disk promised strength.
“Zain!” screamed a voice, female. “Pontiff Zain! I know you’re here! Get out!”
Something crashed at the foot of the stairs, and Zain’s heart quickened. The mosaics of the Lady Winter were precious works of art that he would not have vandalized. More than that, he had left Nonna’s ribbon on the altar below…
He rose and swept across the room quickly, concealing three tabula, chosen at random, in his sleeve. It was always good to have options.
“Anjan, show respect,” hissed another voice, one that Zain was more familiar with. Anjan was usually so withdrawn, so quiet, so reverent, that he had not recognized that angry, desperate scream. Ell still had the presence of mind to sound like himself, though. “He’s not going to-.”
Something snapped and barked, the harsh, jagged, animal sound echoing around the chambers of the house. Zain began to take the steps two at a time.
“How dare you, Ell? She’s gone. Jova is gone and you want to spend time dancing around with your- your civilized etiquette and your fucking manners and proper behaviors and-.”
“Anjan! She’s my daughter, too.”
Zain froze. He sucked in a sharp breath. So it was true? The couple’s behavior had always been suspicious, and Roan would never stop with his conspiracies and ancient prophecies, but if these two had truly kept a daughter so long after the Fallow…
“Lady Winter, what did you do?” he whispered, clutching the walls of the staircase, almost at the bottom. He took a moment to compose himself, before taking the last few steps and striding out the door of the stairwell, imperious, in command.
He nearly bolted when he saw the wild woman standing in front of the altar. Her long hair was in disarray, loose strands dangling around her face, and blood coated her cheeks, her chin, her forearms, her clothes. Her unwashed clothes only added to her frenzied appearance, and she stank of the scent of the jungle. Zain took a step back, realizing for the first time in three years just how much taller Anjan was than him.
One of the woodcut offerings to the Lady lay in pieces on the ground in front of her, shattered splinters of wood littering the stone floor. The woman’s weaseldog snarled and snapped beside her, the burn scars on its face stark and livid. Behind her, Ell stood, his face passive, his stance neutral, but his knife drawn: cold death in capable hands.
“Where is she?” hissed Anjan, and her voice sounded more like a demon of the deep than anything mortal.
Zain hesitated. Which would help more, the blunt truth or the comfortable lie? What lie might he even tell?
He had spent too long thinking. Anjan grabbed the back of his neck and bashed his head against the side of the altar; a little dribble of red began to diffuse into the pool, as Zain slumped, his vision flashing white.
“If you think I wouldn’t kill you because you’re a pontiff, you are wrong,” snarled Anjan, putting a knee on his chest. “I wouldn’t hesitate.”
“Like mother, like daughter,” mumbled Zain, before he could stop himself, head rolling, thoughts swimming.
Before he had the time to blink, a knife was at his throat, and Ell asked, very calmly, “What did you just say, Zain?”
His fingers touched the tabula in his sleeve. Was it worth it? Two strong hunter’s beasts would have been enough to take both of them down. Zain’s eyes flickered from hateful Anjan to cruel Ell. It would have been easy.
“I said that Jova has left the city,” said Zain. He had to tilt his chin up as the knife pressed a little harder, right over his tattoos as a pontiff of winter. “This city can no longer shelter her. She is with friends. Safe, as safe as she can be.”
“She’s not with us,” said Anjan, and the weaseldog barked as if in agreement. “If she’s not with us, then she’s in danger.”
Ell turned the knife up, the barest pressure cutting a thin red line on Zain’s throat. “Where? With who?”
“North, to Jhidnu,” said Zain, immediately. Lady Fall bless him, a lie was required here. He would not have this bloodthirsty pair hunting down Roan, not when the man had important work left to do. “I remembered that was where she came from. I felt she would be most comfortable there.”
“Why not here?” screamed Anjan, face red. “Why wouldn’t she be comfortable here? Why did you drive her out, Zain?”
It was no use trying to placate her. Zain closed his eyes, ready for the worst. He had done all he could for himself, now. It was up to the Lady Winter to decide his fate, all a matter of mercy and cruelty.
The blade left his throat, and Zain coughed, covering the cut with his hands and breathing deeply. “Come on, Anjan,” he heard Ell say. “We move fast, we can catch them before they get too far onto the road.”
Anjan did not even bother to reply; she ran out the door, the weaseldog bounding behind her. Ell gave Zain one last disgusted look before running behind them, knife still in hand.
Zain let the three tabula in his sleeve slip away, and massaged his throat, chest heaving. He watched the door, considering what retribution he might call on the couple for attacking a pontiff in his own house.
Finally, he decided against it. Mercy for mercy. There was no point in pursuing them. He had led them astray; he had done what he had to do.
Even then, it would have reflected poorly on him if he had forgiven Copo’s murderer but had persecuted some mere assailants. He clasped his hands together and sighed. Lady Winter forgive him for his responsibilities, but sometimes the brotherhood came first.
He looked up, to his chambers and his work, and told himself that he had to finish the supplication to the Keep before Janwye returned. For some reason, though, he could not find the strength in his legs to get up.
It was beginning to dawn on him, as blood oozed around the cut on his throat, that he had been seconds away from dying. As much as he had told himself he had come to peace with his death…
Zain bit his hand to try and stop it from shaking. He hadn’t been made for the frontlines. Brave Nonna, stalwart Roan, headstrong Janwye: they were all warriors and soldiers. But Zain, cowardly Zain, had always made his decisions from behind the shelter of his friends, and whenever he made an error they were the ones who suffered the consequences.
He could only hope that he bought Roan enough time with his lie. Things had become drastic indeed if a pontiff had to tell falsehoods in a house of the Ladies.
Step by tortuous step, Zain rose to his feet. He had strength enough for this.
But when he was about to walk away, he heard something behind him. Zain twitched, turning around, hand reaching for his throat again. Had they returned? Would he have to defend himself?
Silence. There was nothing.
Zain turned slowly, keeping his head down while he kept his eyes trained behind him. To any outsider, it would have looked as if he was looking at the altar, perhaps praying…
And he saw movement out of the corner of his eye. Something small, fast, nimble, moving too quick to get a good look. It had emerged from behind the benches that rang the house’s outer chamber, where the layman worshippers would sit, and was making for the door when Zain turned around and shouted, “Stop!”
The something was a wild child boy, small, scruffy, dirty, and the moment he heard Zain he sprinted for the exit. Zain ran to follow, his sandals slapping on the stones, his gut already twisting from the effort and pain. Zain breathed deeply, puffing out his cheeks as he ran, and cursed the day becoming a pontiff had made a sedentary life for him.
Whoever the boy was, though, he was no Shira Hay racer. He stumbled and tripped outside, bouncing across the street, and was only just recovering when Zain pressed his foot on the boy’s back.
“Identify yourself, boy,” snarled Zain, pushing down on the struggling child. For the second time today, he appreciated the Ladies’ foresight; weight was something he could make an advantage.
Some pilgrims and passersby stopped and stared, but upon seeing the tattoos on Zain’s neck they kept walking quickly. Whatever a pontiff did became Temple business, and no one wanted to interfere with Temple business.
The boy stopped squirming, and lay flat on the ground. He mumbled something into the ground.
“Identify yourself!” Zain said, louder, his voice booming. It was his authoritative voice: the voice of the pontiff, the voice of the commander.
“Arim!” said the boy, spitting dirt out of his mouth. “My name is Arim.”
“And what were you doing sneaking around in my house, Arim?” said Zain, pressing harder. The boy said nothing, and Zain dragged him up, holding tightly onto the boy’s dirty collar. “Come, then. Perhaps your tongue will be loosened on the altar of the Ladies.”
The boy screamed, struggling for all he was worth as Zain pulled him back towards the house.
When they stepped inside, Zain threw him onto the ground, and then turned and pulled the wooden sliding doors shut behind him, letting the heavy plank fall into the lock. On the back of the doors was another carving of the Lady Winter, her wings extended, her expression stern.
The boy called Arim looked up, and quailed under Zain’s glare.
Zain looked at the boy for several seconds, and then sighed. He sat down on the supplicant’s bench and looked at the boy, leaving the door unguarded. It would still take him time to lift the bar holding it closed, but Zain wasn’t going to stop him.
“Arim, you said? That’s a slave name,” said Zain.
“A freed name,” said Arim, quickly, backing away. He sat on the ground, tense and jittery.
Zain nodded, smiling encouragingly. “I was a slave once, too, a long time ago. Being free makes all the difference in the world, doesn’t it?”
Arim’s gaze flickered to the altar at the center of the house, at the steady drip-drip-drip of water into the pool. “Are you going to sacrifice me for the Ladies now?” he asked, quietly, not looking at Zain.
“Sacrifice is only for those worthy of it,” said Zain. “It is an honor, not a punishment.” Arim looked so confused that Zain asked, “Are you truly a templechild, boy?”
“Yes,” said Arim, immediately. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“I see many pilgrims, every day,” said Zain. “From many places far away. I see many more who are not pilgrims but nonetheless come from places far away. They, too, do not understand that sacrifice in the name of the Ladies is a privilege.”
The boy looked towards the door again, and licked his lips. “Are any of these people coming to see you today?”
“Not today,” said Zain. “Not on a holy day. The houses of the pontiffs are closed but for official ceremony on holy days, which is why I was wondering why you were in here…”
“It didn’t stop them,” said Arim, and then immediately he bit his lip.
Zain raised an eyebrow. “The couple? What did you want with them?”
Drip-drip-drip went the pool at the altar. The boy looked at the floor, tracing a dirty fingernail along the stone. “I knew the girl they were talking about.”
“As did I.”
“Is it true that she’s going to Jhidnu?” asked Arim, suddenly. He looked up, and his face was earnest.
Zain’s voice was even. “Do you intend on following her?”
The boy looked back down again and resumed his inspection of the floor. “No,” he muttered. “And good riddance. I just wanted to know.” His words were vindictive, but his head hung and his back slumped.
The pontiff of winter didn’t say anything. Sometimes, these people just needed the silence to open up long enough for them to talk.
He looks like me, realized Zain, with a start. Former slave, now freed, templechild. This Arim looked like Zain had before he had met Nonna, before Marion had taken him under his wing, before Roan and Janwye and the Walkers.
He looked like a coward, in need of saving.
“They really do act like real parents, don’t they?” said Arim, finally. “So concerned for her. They looked like…like they were going to tear this whole place apart for her. Like a real mother and father.”
“And how,” said Zain, slowly, “Do you know what a real mother and father are?”
Arim opened his mouth, a little surprised. He furrowed his eyebrows. “I don’t…I don’t know.” There was real confusion in his face as he stared at Zain, questioningly. “I don’t know. I just felt like…that was the way a mother and father should act.”
Zain felt the embroidered crescent moons on the cuff of his robes. They needed fresh blood in the ranks. Roan had already taken his apprentice. If Nonna were still here, she would have already taken three.
Perhaps it was Zain’s time, as well.
“You do not know, Arim, who was once a slave,” said Zain, slowly. “You remember.”
The confusion only seemed to grow. “From before the Fallow, you mean?”
“From before the Fallow ever existed. Before these,” said Zain, and he pulled the tabula out from his sleeves. He rose, and he could see Arim shrink away at once—just like he had, when Marion had first found him in that ditch on the side of the road.
“Do you have anywhere to go, Arim?” asked Zain. “Truly, honestly: do you have anyone waiting for you beside some cobbled-together wild crew? Do you have any reason to live, other than the fear of death?” Zain hadn’t. He had lived for nothing until Nonna, and when she was gone he had lived for her sacrifice.
Arim looked on the verge of saying an indignant yes, but then he looked up around him, at the hundred images of the Lady Winter, all staring sternly down at him. He closed his eyes, and shook his head no.
“Then please come with me,” said Zain, holding out his hand. “I have an offer that might interest you.”
Arim stared at his hand, but did not take it. “I don’t understand. Is this a job?”
“In a way. Not for the Temple, though.”
Still Arim did not take his hand. “Why me?”
“Why anyone?” said Zain. “I am not giving you the crown and kingdom, Arim. I am just giving you a trial. To see, perhaps, if you are ready to be part of something greater. You will not know what you are part of until it is well and truly over, and the road will be fraught with doubt…but it will give you something to live for.”
Hesitantly, Arim took Zain’s hand: the boy’s palms were cold and clammy. Zain pulled him up with a grunt, and put a steadying hand on the boy’s shoulder as he stood.
“What kind of work will I have to do?” asked Arim. “I’ve done cleaning for some pontiffs before. And a little cooking. And I’m stronger than I look, I can lift-.”
“None of that,” said Zain. “There won’t be much work in the beginning. It’s just listening to stories, mostly.”
“What kinds of stories?” asked Arim, his face splitting into the first smile Zain had seen on the child’s face.
“Stories about mothers and fathers,” said Zain. “Stories about how you can remember without knowing. Stories about who we are.”
The child fell into silence after that, contemplative if not confused.
I miss you, Nonna, thought Zain, as he led Arim past the altar, past the lonely ribbon lying across it. All this, I have done for you.
“Up here, go on,” said Zain, opening the door to the stairwell. “What story shall we start with, I wonder…?”
“Are there any stories with you in them?” asked Arim. “I want to know more about you, pontiff sir.”
Zain grinned. “Alright, then. We shall begin with a story about some very courageous people and one very cowardly one. It starts with an elderly marbleman named Marion, and how he found a fieldgirl named Janwye with a temper like you’ve never seen, and a crooked sandchild who called himself Rho Hat Pan, and an icegirl named Nonna who was as kind as the Lady Winter herself…”