Farlander

Che turned and followed it upwards, leaving the monastery behind him.

Soon he saw it: the little shack of the Seer.

'Hello, Che,' said the Seer, in Trade, squatting in front of the shack.

At least Che's name had been real, while he had lived here, even if he had not been.

He stopped. He looked for weapons on the ancient Seer, or any sign of Rshun lurking inside the hut.

'How are you?' asked the Seer, his tone gentle.

Another whumpf of artillery sounded from below. The ground trembled beneath Che's feet. It shook him to answer though his response was a mere shrug.

Che didn't really know how he was.

The ancient farlander nodded, and patted the grass by his side. Che hesitated, as though the grass itself might contain hidden dangers. Delicately, he sat down beside the old Seer.

Together, they faced the battle below.

'We wondered where you had vanished to,' said the Seer in his thin, weak voice. 'But now we know.'

A tightness in Che's chest. 'It was not of my own choosing,' he said.

'I don't expect that it was. I would have seen it in you, if you had been the type for easy betrayal.'

Che dropped his gaze.

'I do not judge you,' said the Seer, patting his hand. 'We do as we must do. But tell me, please – how have you been, since we last sat and talked like this?'

Che scratched at his neck. He considered what to say to this man he had known so well in another life. For a moment, Che wondered what he was doing here, talking with him like this so casually, like friends. But then he heard the crack of shots fired below, and he remembered why he was here, and not there.

'When I lived here,' he said, 'I would dream, every night, of being a different person. Now I am that person, and every night I dream of being who I once was before. I am split in two by my past. I cannot escape it, however much I might try to flee.'

'You have it wrong, Che,' said the Seer. 'You cannot run from your past.' And the ancient farlander leaned closer, so that Che caught the reek of his breath. 'You can only sit until you are still, and wait for it to leave you.'

'I try.' Che sighed. 'I meditate, as I was taught here, but still I am torn.'

'What of your Chan?' asked the old man, as though that was somehow relevant. 'Is it as strong as I remember it to be?'

'My Chan?' Che's voice was heavy with disgust. 'If I once possessed such a thing, it was long ago squandered by my own hand. I am not who you think I am, old man.'

'I know who you are,' asserted the farlander. He sounded so certain.

'Then tell me,' said Che.

'You are a laughter, from deep within you.'

'I haven't the patience for riddles tonight.'

The corners of the old man's lips twitched. He gazed down on the burning monastery, and his mouth stiffened.

'When you first came here, I did not notice you. I pay no mind to such things, for you young ones are like the butterflies of summer, always coming then going. But I noticed, on certain days, when the air was still or the wind was playing in the right direction, snatches of laughter coming from the grounds of the monastery. Most laughter that I hear from there, it is restrained, you see, or courting an audience. This, though, was not, and it would always catch my ear. It was – how do you say it – so natural, spontaneous. Like a child experiencing joy.' And the Seer nodded as if in agreement with himself.

'So I asked myself… I asked myself who is it that I can hear laughing so well? And I thought of all who were there as Rshun, all who I knew of, and I did not know.

'So I waited. The answer always comes if you wait long enough, have you noticed? And it did. One day, your master brought you to me, so that I would look into your heart and tell him what I saw. Straight away, I knew you for the creator of that laughter. You had a humour in you, Che, that made spite of your demons.'

Flames now sprouted from the roof of the north wing of the monastery. The dining hall was on fire, and Che thought of the thousands of mealtimes he had spent there, chatting or listening to his peers.

Softly, he asked: 'How is my old master?'

'Shebec? He is dead.'

Che stiffened. Felt a cold numbness wash through him.

The fire was spreading fast; sparks flew wild through the air. The stand of jupe trees in the centre of the courtyard caught alight. From here, two men could see their upper branches wreathed in smoke. The trees themselves swayed in the waves of heat.

'Will they win, your people? I cannot see clearly with these poor eyes of mine.'

'You are the one who is the Seer.'

A faint smile passed over the farlander's lips.

'The Rshun,' said Che, 'they are making a fight of it.'

'That is good.'

'Will you not join them?'

'Me? I am too old to fight.'

They fell to silence. With glazed eyes, Che watched the reflections of flames as they were cast against the underbelly of low clouds. He thought: This was home to me once. I think it was truly the only home I have ever known.

'They will kill you, if you stay here,' he warned.

'I know.'

Part of the roof collapsed. The flames leapt higher.

'And my people,' said the Seer. 'They will kill you, if they win through.'

'I would expect so,' replied the young man.

The old Seer chuckled drily to himself. He patted Che's hand once more. 'Then sit with me a while longer,' he said, 'and let us see what happens.'

*

He was too late, and he knew it.

Ash clambered higher, breaking away from the rearmost tier of crowded seats, the highest and furthest from the stadium floor. He climbed a rusty iron ladder bolted into the outer wall of the stadium, passing guano-stained gargoyles and statues of imperial celebrities. Soldiers had been stationed here only moments before, but now they had left to converge on the more troublesome elements of the crowd, as people began throwing missiles and demanding that their calls for mercy be recognized.

He was weak with sickness, and long past the last of his strength. Still he climbed, forced on by the dread of what needed to be done. There was only one thing he could do for the boy now, and the knowledge of it sat like a heavy certainty in his guts.

Nico had fought well, Ash having arrived just in time to witness his fight against the wolves. All the while, he had scanned the stadium for some inspiration to strike him, a way to save his young apprentice. Nothing had come to him.

Hope had flared when Nico, against every expectation, had somehow fought through to win the crowd's approval. But now all that had changed again, reverting to a nightmare once more. The Matriarch had heard of her son's death, that much was clear, and she wished to wreak her vengeance on this boy in front of all. Such was the way of grief, the spoils of violence. It was his own fault, Ash realized. He had brought this fate down upon the boy.

Below, on the stadium floor, they had erected a post atop the pyre, and Nico was being tied to it even now. He seemed oblivious to what they were doing to him, his face tilted to the sky. The ends of three long chains had been looped over the top of the post. Acolytes stood with their hands wrapped in rags, holding the other ends slack. Others doused the pile of wood with oil.

Ash knew how the Mannians did such things. Doused in oil like that, the pyre would catch fire fast, offering little chance for the victim to pass out from the fumes. They would scorch him alive, then drag him out just as he stopped screaming. If timed right – and they considered this a form of art in Q'os, such was the nature of the place – their victim would still be alive, his flesh livid and exposed. He would then be nailed up for public display and left to die pitifully, suffering in agony.

Ash could not allow that to happen.