Chapter Seven Tazkar, of Stone and Earth
CHAPTER SEVEN
TAZKAR, OF STONE AND EARTH
T HE DATE OF their second match came racing in on the heels of Calaro, the final month of a bright spring.
“Your insignias, please,” Master Dothilos said briskly, ready to jot their answers onto a scrap of parchment. “Who are your wardens?”
“Kilinor,” Lythlet answered. She was sitting on the bench in the armory, fist clenched tightly around her polearm.
“Fits you perfectly,” the match-master guffawed, stealing a look at her, pale blue eyes eerie in the light. “Daughter of the warden of grief and mourners.”
“And hope,” Desil added, juggling a bag of slingstones he’d picked from the arsenal.
“A nonsensical combination, if you ask me. Ought to be his twin sister governing over hope instead. Ashentoth’s the one presiding over the dawning sun and revelry and all that hogwash—hope would be a logical extension.
Yet we’re meant to believe Kilinor, that gloomy little ghoul watching over the setting sun, is the one in charge of hope? ”
“But it makes perfect sense,” Desil argued.
“Hope in times of happiness isn’t hope—it’s expectation.
It’s only when things are at their bleakest that you find hope unadulterated.
That’s what Kilinor and his setting sun is meant to remind you.
As it says in the Poetics: ‘ for hope begotten under a dawning sun is a spineless creature. A dawning sun may bring relief that the terrors of the night have ended, but hark! a setting sun shall sunder thy joy, and ye of weak minds shall return to despair once more. But thou whose hope gestates under times of grief and lamentation, know that Kilinor stands before thee. Thy gray grief weighs upon him; he shall illuminate it. Thy woeful lamentations are heard; he shall quiet them. Let his gentle hand kindle in thyself the audacity to hope for better times even when the world strives against you. ’”
Lythlet never knew how he could recite all that off the top of his head and mean every single word, but she had always admired him for his conviction.
Evidently Master Dothilos did not share the same sentiment, staring at Desil contemptuously. “Pious, aren’t you? Haven’t heard a sermon like that in years. Can’t say I care for the drivel from the Poetics.”
“Do you doubt the existence of the divine unknown?” said Desil, a touch surprised. “Even after seeing Lythlet harness the powers of the cosmoscape in the last match?”
“I don’t go to the extent of the divine-denier cults, if that’s what you suspect.
It’s not the existence of the immortal divine I question, but rather their relevance to my life.
Call me a heretic, but I’m of the mind that in their traversal of the universe, they discovered our little planet and decided to populate it with us silly mortals to entertain them.
They then established an arbitrary infrastructure that allowed some of us to interface with the elemental meridian networks through bloodrights or divine touchstones—not so much as an act of mercy as written in the Poetics, but more out of perverse curiosity to see what we’d do with it—and they’ve since collectively decided to bugger off out of boredom and leave us to fend for ourselves.
“I’m not in the habit of wasting my precious time worshipping those who’ve abandoned me, so no, I care very little for the Poetics and the mysteries of the universe.
Honestly, all that fickle old magic nonsense of saying the right prayer at the right time and place or whatnot doesn’t appeal to me, and individual bloodright powers have never even been a possibility for us in this part of the world—but the solid science of tempering baltascar into reliably harnessing the powers of the meridian networks is the way of the future by my reckoning.
We’re on the cusp of a scientific revolution, mark my words, and the old ways will rot into obsolescence within generations. ”
Lythlet listened in quiet fascination and observed Desil visibly decide to hold his tongue—strong were his convictions, but stronger yet was his ability to discern when a discussion would only devolve into fruitless argument.
The awkward silence glanced off Master Dothilos, who glibly resumed his prior line of questioning, this time targeted toward Desil.
“You’re a ward of Tazkar, I recall from our interview—hah, of course you are.
Big, handsome bloke who’d rather pray at a shrine than knuckle another bloody?
I can almost picture you standing poised like a Tazkar effigy, hammer in one hand, hista flower in the other.
But let me find a way to put some bite in your history.
I don’t want the spectators to come away thinking you’re some spineless craven-heart.
I wonder,” he said, a strange glint entering his eyes, “if you’ve truly always kept to the path of peacekeeping in your heart, O darling of the brawlers’ square. ”
Desil paled, lowering the bag of slingstones and looking away uncomfortably.
Rude of the match-master to provoke Desil, when he knows he’s ashamed of his brawling past , Lythlet thought with ire. She intervened with a distraction: “Why do you want to know our insignias?”
“Today’s match is dedicated to Tazkar. It’d be charming to mention Desil’s a ward of his, wouldn’t it? I’ll keep your insignia in mind for the Kilinor match—if you last that long. Now, I’ll be on my way. The match is about to begin, so head down to the gate.”
He left without so much as a farewell.
As they made their way down the corridor, Lythlet nudged Desil’s side. “You really have the Poetics down by heart.”
He smiled sheepishly. “Not all of it. Only bits and pieces. Those verses just now were some I took comfort in recently.”
Desil had always been devout, but he’d doubled his fervor the past year once he quit brawling.
His shrine visits had multiplied, and she would stumble across him praying at home every so often, drawing the rite of forgiveness into the air.
She had told him before she didn’t think he needed to apologize so much for brawling, that surely the divine could make an exception for debt-ridden slumdogs with no other alternatives, but he hadn’t agreed, nor had he stopped.
She gave a wan smile, then noticed the gray smudges staining his forehead. “You still have prayer ash on your face.”
“Do I?” Desil rubbed his skin, checking his fingers for dusty residue. His thank you was knifed through by the match-master’s booming voice.
“— Desil Demothi and Lythlet Tairel! ”
Lythlet reached over with her sleeve to swipe at the last dot of ash, and with no more time to spare, they marched forth into the sun-bright arena, polearm and sword raised in the harsh light.
Steady, Lythlet told herself as her nerves came rearing back to life at the sight of the crowd. It had doubled from the last match, more seats filled than ever. Two men caught her gaze: Ilden and Shunvi seated up the back, waving at her eagerly. She returned a shy wave of her own.
“Today, in honor of Tazkar, He of Stone and Earth, they will embark upon a fight to the death—”
A cheer erupted from the stands. “ Hoo-rah, hoo-rah, hoo-rah! ”
“—and we shall watch these proud Ederi children prove their quality!” The match-master’s roaring voice gave way to silence, and he bowed his head, reciting the Prayer of the Peacemakers:
O Mighty Tazkar
Make me an instrument of thy discerning strength
To live ever-wielding the duality of mankind in the name of righteous goodness
In the ensuing twenty-four seconds of silent prayer, Desil tapped the lone colored rune bead on his wrist, a jade-green one bearing Tazkar’s insignia: a loop spiraling inwards before abruptly hooking out.
“Now, spectators,” said the match-master into his speaking-trumpet, ending the silent prayer, “Desil Demothi, our champion brawler who graduated from the brawling square in search of greater challenges, is a ward of none other than Tazkar!”
As the match-master continued his spiel about Desil’s brawling history, Lythlet turned to Desil with a wry look. “He’s not even introducing me.”
“He might not know what to say,” Desil reasoned gently. “He doesn’t know very much about you, after all.”
“I suppose it’s better to be ignored than be the subject of his puffery,” she comforted herself.
Echoes of the match-master’s baritone sliced her thoughts in half. “By the blood of your ancestors, do you proud Ederi children vow to salt the earth with the blood of the demons that once gave death upon your ancestors?”
“Witness me, upon the blood of my ancestors!” Desil roared, fingers crossed in oath-swearing.
Lythlet, knowing her response didn’t matter, whiffled out a string of utterly incomprehensible gibberish, hands held forth and fingers crossed perfunctorily.
Either he hadn’t heard her, or he simply didn’t care, for Master Dothilos gave a grand smile, casting his eyes to the eager spectators surrounding him. “Then,” he articulated precisely, elegantly, coyly, “shall we bring out the beast?”
The portcullis began to grind upwards.
Putting aside her wounded ego, Lythlet snapped to attention, trepidation rising in tempo with the gates.
Forth from the black abyss lolloped the strangest creature Lythlet could have ever imagined in all her years.
It had an equine physique, but bloated abnormally with muscles.
The thin layer of gray fur covering it didn’t do much to soften its menacing appearance—especially not where two necks erupted from its form.
The long faces attached to either end were an exercise in wild contrast. One stared out through bulging black eyes that darted from one end of the arena to the other in fractions of a second. A thick glistening strand of yellow-tinged saliva dripped from its open maw.
The other head was turned a semicircle away, and it arced back to face them at a maddeningly slow pace. Solemn blue eyes were etched deep into an angled skull, glazed as though looking without seeing.