Ten more days on the road had brought Lida, Sekant, and Dayanik, with Ket and Biriki faithfully considered part of the group, to the town of Pyk. They had been days of tranquil, silent travel, with little depth in their conversations as they had fallen quieter and quieter, with more comfort between them. Dayanik had tried to do his best to get more out of Sekant but had found that silence might be the best way to get him to eventually share more.
Pyk lay as the last populated town south of the greater Erenamune outskirts, with vast expanses of desert separating the town from the great capital city. As it was situated nearly ten days north of the main Merchant’s Road that curved west around the great desert, it relied heavily on its monthly shipments of support from the capital: the town’s location along scrubby chapparal borderlands prevented any serious farmlands from sprouting up or sticking around. The town had never been a bustling metropolis, however, it had for hundreds of years served as an important way station for the earliest adopters of Amune as the chosen god of light to make their pilgrimage to Erenamune and the heart of his power, as those of great religious zeal had sought to traverse the dangers of the Amaranth Expanse in order to more quickly reach the holiest city in Dunyasik.
Every ramshackle home and building in Pyk look as though they were about to crumble upon a stiff breeze, as if perilously held up by stilts, ready to collapse at a moment’s notice. The local church, however, gleamed in the cloudless sunlight, a fresh coat of pearly white paint evidence of consistent upkeep. It was the only building taller than a single story, with a large spire and a fiery eye of golden ornamentation atop the central spire of the building, which reached nearly two additional stories. Nearly every other building, beside the church, appeared to be abandoned, and yet, it felt as if a thousand eyes bore holes in the backs of the traveling company. Dayanik felt a shiver crawl up his spine as he felt leering, hateful stares all upon him. Some windows drew shadows of residents hiding, sheltering from these strange travelers. He tucked at the collar of his white shirt and ran his fingers through his hair anxiously. Biriki slumped himself over Dayanik’s shoulder, his eyes lazily half-closed with an obvious disdain for the hot, dry weather. Ket, too, sagged a bit under the heat of the blazing suns, both set high in the sky.
“Let’s split up,” Sekant threw out lazily as he got off his horse and tied it to a post. He grabbed a bucket of water and hung it against the post, the horse lapping the water up gratefully. “I know my way around this town well enough from my last visit. We need to fill up our food packs before we cross, but we don’t have much time to spare, our pace has been too slow.”
“You’re the one who keeps sleeping in every morning,” Lida shot back, half in jest.
Sekant rolled his eyes, walking straight ahead without waiting for any more complaint, his path leading him straight to what appeared to be a rundown bar. Lida and Dayanik smiled at each other, enjoying how good she had grown at needling their guide on this journey. Dayanik followed Sekant’s example, grabbing another pail of water for Ket and Biriki to drink from, Biriki preferring to submerge himself entirely in the well water, and Lida followed shortly after.
“I suppose I should head to the church and see if the local priest has anything that they can spare us,” Dayanik said.
“Be careful, Day,” Lida said, patting him on the shoulder.
Dayanik laughed, “it’s running an errand, Lida, I can’t get in any harm.”
She sucked her teeth, clearly remembering an instance that would have proved him wrong, but she held her tongue.
“Perhaps I’ll grab us better supplies to handle the desert,” she said finally. She turned abruptly and headed off in the opposite direction as Sekant, though it didn’t seem to be toward any specific building.
After she left, Dayanik smiled to himself, turning to pet Ket. “I’m glad those two seem to have grown fond of each other,” he said to the horse. Ket snorted between large gulps of water in a disagreeing way, so Dayanik laughed and headed toward the church, the central spire his guide through the abandoned maze of buildings.
Pyk didn’t seem to have any type of general supply store, at least not any that was open anymore. Lida eyed the building with Goods and Supplies emblazoned on it up and down, but as she inspected closely, she realized it would be a pointless search. Each window was broken, the roof was half caved-in, and if there had ever been any paint on the building, it had weathered away a decade ago. “Tch,” Lida clicked her tongue to herself in annoyance. “It would end up being just my luck to get stuck with the hard job.”
A clanging of what sounded like pots and pans from inside the building, no, behind the building, snapped her back into focus. She walked around the back, keeping a careful eye out. Behind the decrepit, decaying supply store, a small smithing shop, somehow more rundown than the abandoned store, stood, a crooked-backed man rifling through things in front of it. The store had been the last building in this area of town, and behind the smith the land began its desertification as it slowly transitioned into a full-blown basin of hot sand stretching endlessly for miles north.
The man wore brown leather smithing covers and was covered in grime and smokey residues, his skin was darkened to a matching leathery color by the hot sun. His hair jutted out in wild white tufts, as if hit with a bolt of static electricity, held in place in semi-permanence. He wore no shirt under the leather apron, so it seemed to blend into his tanned skin.
“Good afternoon, sir!” Lida yelled, almost militaristically.
The man shot straight up from his hunched over posture, nearly dropping the random scraps of sheet metal he carried.
“W-who are you!” he yelled at her in response.
“My name is Lida, I’m trave-” she started.
“I don’t know any girls named Lida!”
She paused a moment in confusion. “I…I know that. I’m just traveling through Pyk, my friends and I are on our way to Erenamune.”
“Ah,” he nodded, seemingly relieved, “just a bunch of fanatics.”
“Wait, what?”
“You’re one of those pilgrims, right? Making your way to that damned holiest of cities?”
“Well, yes, but…no, it’s not like that.”
“Oh? Why are you coming this way then lass?” he resumed gathering scraps of metal. The metal itself looked like it was on the cusp of rusting to the point of uselessness, and Lida wondered what purpose the man had to gather it like that. Was he going to remove the surface layer of the rust and use it for reforging?
“I…we, are on an important mission to the capital. We are to speak with the Council of Seven,” she said, officiously as she could manage.
The grayed man tossed a few more scraps into his growing pile. He scratched at his face, stubbly and just as leathery looking as the rest of his skin, eying her skeptically. “Is that so, eh? Yer a bunch of important folks on a mission? Pfft,” he waved her away.
“Wait, please, sir! We needed supplies.” Her eyes shifted to her feet, becoming less confident. “Do you know of any supplies store?”
He paused, looking back at her with some restrained disdain, but then paused, looking down. “Name’s Jol,” he muttered; then he waved her into the smithing shack, beckoning her to follow as he disappeared into it.
Dayanik found the church with little issue, the great eye of Amune atop the spire guiding him through the ghost town. He was proud of himself for having only yelped in fright twice at creaking doors and one tumbleweed passing by in the corner of his vision. The church itself clashed when juxtaposed in the center of the town, with abandoned and decrepit buildings flanking the gargantuan building in a manner that appeared as if all potential paint, wood, and ornamentation had been stripped from each smaller building to keep up appearances for the church. A fresh coat of pure white paint kept the church looking dazzling under the beating sun, reflecting the bright lights that made one look at it need to squint to adjust their sight at it. The golden eye, intricately detailed in a gold leaf-covered bronze statuette, sat atop the roughly sixty-foot-high spire.
The inside was just as gaudy looking, with gold latticework festooned upon the walls, interspersed with yellow and sky-blue brocade curtains that blocked out much of the natural sunlight. In place of the natural light, three gargantuan chandeliers hung from the highest points of the vaulted ceiling. As was the case with most churches, the central da?s stood in the center of the room, a platform raised above the cushioned benches that encircled it. Diligently writing like a training scribe, a woman cloaked in formal gray and yellow robes, a pallium of golden linked orbs completing her regalia, stood hunched over the lectern in the center of the room. Her brow was furrowed deeply, her face buried deep within the scroll she scribbled upon. “Be with you in a moment,” she said loudly as he approached her, not breaking her stroke or looking up at him.
“Hello, m-my name is Dayanik,” he said, waving his hand gently, too anxious to fully grasp at her attention.
She held up her non-writing hand to signal him to shut up.
Dayanik’s lips pursed, and he began to sweat. This is a high priest. Not a gubernatorial priest or a member of the Council, but she’s still the head priest of a whole town. His nervousness betrayed him, and he nearly stumbled as he slowed his approach. He finally reached an appropriate distance to show reverence and respect for her station, though she still seemed to fail to fully notice him.
Finally, after what felt like a further fifteen minutes, she placed her quill down and eyed him quizzically. After inspecting him, she saw his potona tucked under his traveling jacket and raised one eyebrow skeptically, “ah, so you are seminarian, or…” she spotted his young features, “perhaps not even graduated from an acolyte’s position?”
“Wh-what? No, I, well, that is to say…I-I have received my full potona and s-spoken the words.” He held up the palm of his hand proudly to show off the tattoo of Amune’s ever-seeing eye.
Both of her eyebrows now raised in surprise: “they let children walk around as full-fledged priests now? Lights, I must have truly been away from the capital for too long.”
“I’m sixteen!”
“You’ve not convinced me with that voice break that you are anything more than a child, Dayanik,” she picked up her quill to continue writing on the scroll, though it appeared to be nearly completed. “But, as you have spoken the holy words and received your mark, I shall hear what questions you have for me.”
“H-how did you know I had questions?”
“Why else would you come to this place all men and even the gods have all forsaken?”
Dayanik looked around for a nervous moment. It was unusual for a priest of Amune to reference the workings of the other gods, as they were supposed to view Amune as the god who rose above all others, who had blessed Dunyasik. Pyk was deserted, and by how desiccated the dirt in the town seemed, clearly drought and good fortunes had reduced the former populous area into a difficult home to keep. But in this church, Dayanik felt as if in an oasis, shaded from the suns high above. The shades drawn to keep out the light, the golden statuettes and richly painted wood carvings or portraits hung of glorious battles long ago, he took it all into consideration for a moment.
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“So, you worry this fella you’re traveling with ain’t a good influence on your brother?” Jol asked.
“He’s not my brother, but…yes,” Lida said, her confident face uncharacteristically twisted in a moment of hesitation in her indescribable feelings.
“Because he’s dangerous.”
“He’s a murderer!”
“Sounds to me like he saved your friend at the tavern,” he said contemplating as he rubbed the stubble under his chin. They had navigated the smithing shop, mostly scrap metal pieces that had been scrubbed and reforged into…more scrap metal, by the look of it. Lida got the impression that Jol was a smith for the remaining townsfolk more by necessity than due to his skill.
She paused again, her eyes again shifting down as her mind raced through the possibilities. “I…know, it’s just…the way she described it. He killed without thought or mercy, like it was something he’s done before.”
“And if he has?”
“I…don’t know. Day is a good person, he wouldn’t hurt anyone, let alone kill someone. But he seems to admire Sekant. Even though we don’t know the first thing about him.”
“Hmm,” Jol considered for a moment, as if recalling a memory, though he shook off whatever thought crossed his mind. “It sounds to me like your friend is finding his way in the world. When a young fella doesn’t know his path, he looks for a guide, for someone to show him the right way.”
“Killing can’t be the right way!”
Jol raised his eyebrows at this statement. “You telling me you wouldn’t kill to defend your own skin, or save your friend’s skin?”
She said nothing in response; she knew she would, in a heartbeat, do whatever it took to protect the life of her precious friend.
Jol nodded, satisfied at the lack of an answer and knowing what it meant. “You don’t know everything about your friend. Let him learn his own way of doing things. He might use this Sekant fella as a guide, might use you as a guide. Either way,” the old man shrugged, “you’re going somewhere dangerous. So dangerous is what you need,” and he plopped down two short swords on the table in between them. “Maybe this Sekant fella being dangerous is what will get you to where you need to go. Then maybe your friend will find his own path after that.”
The fact that the words echoed Sekant’s own sentiments from a few days before helped them resonate a bit more deeply. Lida was torn at the thought of Sekant’s dangerous, hidden nature corrupting Dayanik’s pure soul. But Jol was right: if they hoped to survive on this dangerous of a journey, to cast aside the help of someone who was capable of battling against the Darkness would be foolish. She could only hope that she could shield Dayanik from any of the Darkness that seemed to emanate from Sekant himself, to keep him of the Light and as the good young man she knew he was.
“Now…how you paying for this?” Jol finally broke the silence.
“Mistress…” Dayanik started nervously.
“Syth, Ferri Syth,” she finished for him. She plucked a grape from a stem and ate it daintily. They had retired to her private chambers, Dayanik eager to prod her with questions about the original pilgrimages north through the Amaranth Expanse, a holy desert once revered for its place in Amune’s journey. His mind, however, had drifted as they came to her personal office. Inside it, expecting either the stark, bare rooms of an acolyte he knew so well or even the lavish decorations rumored to adorn the private chambers across the Seven Towers in Amune, Dayanik found himself surprised to see…crates. Crates upon crates of fresh food. Barrels of fresh water and wines, smaller casks of ales and whiskey, and mountainous amounts of food. Dried salt pork, smoky and greasy despite their hardy shelf life; they were preferred as a cheap source of protein by the sailors who needed to make the long journey from the northern shores making a wide berth of the pirates to trade in Donenoledur. Starblush, slightly overripe so that many of the star-shaped speckles were folded over by sagging fruit flesh. Tack bread, with accompanying wedges of hard Thornrind Reserve cheese, a favorite cheese in the capital favored for its sharp flavor and crumbly texture. The sheer amount of food would be more than enough to feast upon for a small party, or a town that needs supplemental provisions for weeks, let alone for one priest alone in the church.
“Mistress Syth…I must ask, do you have no volunteers to help you?” Dayanik asked, a mounting concern growing in his trembling voice.
“Volunteers…do you mean acolytes? Why? No one in their right mind would wish to be stationed at Pyk,” she bemoaned. “Light knows I wish they hadn’t put me here,” she added, under her breath.
“How do you plan to distribute this food to the people of the town?”
“Excuse me?” her tone suggested genuine confusion mixed with offense.
“This food,” he gestured at the surrounding crates and barrels. “How can it be distributed amongst the people if you have nobody to help you?”
She scoffed as she plucked another grape from its stem and ate it. “Why would I do that? I’m the one who is stuck in this hellish place. I can’t outright let myself starve, can I?” she wagged a finger at him.
“But…” he found himself entirely confused. The woman didn’t even show signs of overeating or obesity. “It’s more than you can eat by yourself.”
“I need it. We can’t grow food here anymore; the droughts have hit us hard during the summer. We have not seen a drop of rain in this place since Sa’ana of last year.” She again plucked at her fruit, annoyance and bitterness in her words. “We rely solely on provisions from the capital.”
Though he acknowledged to himself that going fifteen months without any rain was worrisome, he still could not see past her thought process. “But, what about the people?”
“What people?” she asked, her annoyance bubbling to frustration. “The people can rot, for all I care. They can leave. I can’t.”
“They’re leaving because you starve them unnecessarily!” Dayanik’s voice was beyond trembling now, growing into his own level of frustration.
She scoffed at him, waving a hand aimlessly as she resumed focusing on her feast.
“Your job is to help the people of the town. To give them a guiding light to look to! How can that happen if you fail to see how selfish you have become in your frustration with your station?”
“I will not be harangued by some whelp of an acolyte who knows nothing of the world!” she pushed herself up from her desk chair, dropping the remaining grapes to the ground which sent some flying as they broke from the stem. “You will not lecture me, child. This is my town and if I wish to let it crumble around me, I will. I will die here, unless I’m willing to renounce my oath and be forced to live in exile. And believe me, I have considered that life before.”
Dayanik paused a moment to consider the look in her eyes before responding. Her behavior disgusted him, but he knew that he too feared a lifetime station, with no movement or chance to escape.
“The people of this town have already left, died, or have lost all faith. And I do not blame them, but I do not need to offer myself or my church as shelter in the darkness. This is my station to do with as I see fit. And I have seen fit to let myself at least live a comfortable life until I die here.”
Dayanik could finally see the age on her face more clearly than before. The hot suns had worn her down and she had shrunk under the beating heat. She had retreated into this dark place under the guise of light. “When did you come to be stationed here, Ferri?” he asked, forsaking all formality or pretense of respect for her station.
Her eyes grew glassy, as if the thought pained her to this day. “Eleven years…and it’s been seven years since we last saw any travelers, merchant…any signs of life really.” Her eyes sunk down to the ground as her voice grew faint. “I thanked my fortunes, when I first heard I would be stationed here. I joined the church as an older acolyte…that gave me little hope of rising amongst the brothers and sisters I studied with. I joined because I felt lost, and even as I spoke the words, received my mark and became a priest, I didn’t have a clue where I belonged. So…I didn’t choose my station, I waited for assignment.” She sank back into her chair, the exhaustion sapping her anger and energy.
“Pyk, the last stop before crossing the Expanse; as holy a town or place as one could hope for outside of the capital. I wondered why I had been chosen; I never stood out or excelled amongst my peers. When I came here, I held hope for a year. But it isn’t simply the droughts that dried this place up. War had torn all of Dunyasik apart, even the parts that saw no battle. Some troops siphoned through here on their way to fight against the Ginlesi in the Iron Wars, but all that it left us was without food and water. What pilgrim would stop in a town that has no food or water?” she asked herself, shaking her head. She placed her head in her hands, as if in disbelief. “I used to cry every night, until it felt as if the drought had taken my tears too.” She looked at him, her eyes watering now, too. “Do you have the strength to carry on when your tears can’t wash away the pain? We had no trade, we couldn’t grow our own foods, and we became a town that existed to simply beg for help in. So…they left. Most, anyways. Outside of that damned blacksmith and some families with nowhere else to go. But,” she gestured at the food around them, “the capital has not yet deigned our town worthy of caring enough to check whether or not we even need this many supplies, so I don’t stop them.”
“But, what of the families you speak of?” Dayanik spoke, his voice croaking.
“Pfft,” she waved a hand. “I leave them what they need to survive,” she chuckled. “I’m not evil, I’m simply someone who is making the best of a terrible situation for myself. They get a crate or two. And that damned tavern gets its alcohol, though the barkeeper simply drinks it all himself.”
“Why did you let me think you were starving the people?”
“Hells, I am. Or at least, I’m not giving them all the food. I really do keep most of it.”
Dayanik’s mouth contorted into a face of obvious confusion, so she continued.
“If we ever receive traders again, we must be prepared. I’ve resigned myself to die in this place,” she explained, her expression staid and distant. “But I can’t let any opportunity pass by in this place. Accepting death and one’s station in life is not the same thing as preventing anything from getting better.”
Dayanik shook his head, but his anger had receded. He still reeled from the notion that this priest was corruptible enough to let food go to waste in the hope of traders traveling through, when that food could go to feeding the few families still here better or even be kept for the beggars of Erenamune, but he couldn’t hate her for it. She had the air of someone who had given up on her life about her, but he felt some small flame within her still flickering with hope that things could get better, no matter how much she seemed to not care either way. Her outward apathy had not devolved into antipathy for goodness and hope. So, he had to hope that Ferri could become better, that she could begin to see more hope, perhaps even in his being there giving her hope of people returning to this land, and that this town could see better, lighter days ahead. “Thank you,” he said quietly, a smile beginning to return to his face, though he wasn’t sure if he was truly thanking Ferri or someone else.
Dayanik returned to the posts that had tied up the horses at, Ket having masterfully found a small sliver of shade for them all as the suns arced to changing positions, shifting the shadows in a way that was advantageous to keep away the heat. Lida was waiting there, eating a yellow apple as she fiddled with her pack.
“I trust that your search went well?” he asked.
Without saying anything, she handed him a small scabbard, the hilt of a short sword jutting from it. She shook it as he stared, confused. “Take it!”
“Wh-why?”
“Look, we’re about to travel through the Expanse, there’s no time for us to have any one of us to be slowed down without having proper tools. If we get attacked by an Amaranth Matron, all of us will need to handle ourselves.”
He took the blade, though he dreaded the way in which she casually mentioned danger as if in an inevitability.
“Thank you,” he said. She nodded her head.
“Just…don’t forget yourself, Day,” Lida said, her voice soft.
“What?” he almost laughed in confusion.
She shook her head this time, as if shaking away tears for some reason. “Promise me, you won’t lose yourself, no matter what.”
“O-okay, I promise I won’t?” he wasn’t sure what else to say in the moment, so he put the scabbard in his belt, and she turned to adjust her horse’s saddle, so there fell a moment of silence between the two of them.
“Find what you needed?” a voice asked behind them, a slightly tipsy lilt to the words. Sekant carried a large green glass bottle in his left hand, his pack clanging, full of more glass bottles, on his back.
Lida wiped at her face, though she didn’t appear to have actually cried. “Looks like you found all that you needed. You know, you should really consider a healthier habit than just drinking.”
He took a pull from the bottle, which was half empty. “If I got everything I needed, I’d be rid of you brats already. But sadly,” he gestured at them facetiously, “you are still here. That being said,” he added as he reached into his pouch. He pulled out a pastry that appeared to be glazed with a melted sugary icing and filled with bluish jam, taking a ravenous bite. “That being said, I did not just find drinks for the next few nights, I found us provisions. And seeing as how you seemed to come back empty-handed, I think that means you can stop complaining.”
“I found what I needed,” she said, nodding to Dayanik and patting at her own pack.
Sekant’s eyelids hung groggily, and he scratched at his mop of silvery hair as he polished off the pastry.
“I managed to get a bit of supplies too,” Dayanik said cheerfully, opening his pouch to reveal the tack bread, hard cheese, and salt pork from the church. He beamed with pride, considering he was the only one who seemed to actually get any real supplies for their journey. They would get no respite for the next week or so as they crossed the Expanse.
Sekant put a hand on Dayanik’s shoulder as he walked past to the horses. “Not bad,” he said, and Dayanik struggled to contain his proud smile. The vagabond grabbed a hunk of cheese and bread as he went past, belching loudly as he climbed atop the horse. “Let’s head out.”
