Jak Koke - The Edge of Chaos

Slanya tried to quiet her mind, but in the recesses of her consciousness a little girl couldn’t stop screaming. She needed the quiet seclusion of the temple to order her mind and regain control over her body. Or perhaps she just needed to surrender to the fire. Maybe she could let chaos overtake her, move inside her.

How good would it feel to give in and let all her control go? Could she abandon her hold on order and still survive? She had no real idea, but the temptation to lose control surged up inside her like never before.

Focusing on the ground in front of her, Slanya knelt down into the dewy grass. Her knees dampened from the moisture, and the heavy smell of grass and earth filled her nostrils.

Grab. Pull. Bag.

The long, translucent, yellow stalks came easily out of the ground, roots and all. Rich dirt clung to the rhizomes as Slanya shoved the grass into the magic bag of holding that Gregor had given her for carrying it. The bag would hold all the plaguegrass they’d need for a long while.

“How much time do we have?” she asked.

Duvan stood and looked out past the edge of the mote-the rim of which dropped off to the shifting ground far, far below. “Not sure,” he said. “The good news is that we seem to be in an eddy of spellplague for the moment. It’s not too strong or too fast.”

“And the bad news?”

“We’re heading away from the border and into the most intense blue fire I’ve ever seen.”

Slanya let that sink in. She fought against the dread welling up inside her. Stronger changelands. Wilder and more chaotic-pulling them toward madness. Slanya was not afraid of death, but she did fear insanity. Accept what comes, she told herself, but the words rang hollow.

Grab. Pull. Bag.

The plaguegrass gave off a sweet smell when the stalks broke, reminding her of the herb garden back at the monastery. She used the smell and the manual labor as an anchor. Focus on the here and now, she reminded herself.

The last rays of the sun dimmed to darkness, and the blanket of night stretched over the sky above them. The high clouds overhead were thickening. Their gray bellies glowed blue and red, flickering with the reflection of the turmoil of the fires below.

Grab. Pull. Bag.

The repetition was calming. Slanya lost herself to the act of harvesting the plaguegrass. There was plenty of light to continue to work, and she was happy to lose herself in the rhythm of the task.

“I need food,” Duvan said suddenly. “Need to figure out a way off this mote.”

The edge in his voice was less than reassuring, but eating was a good idea. They needed energy to keep going.

Grab. Pull. Bag.

As she worked, Duvan gathered up what looked like dried wood and piled it up at the inner edge of the meadow. She wondered at first what he was doing, but it soon became clear that he was building a fire. What do we need a fire for? she wondered. None of the food they’d brought with them needed to be cooked. A campfire was unnecessary-a waste of energy.

After about a half hour, she was finished filling the sack, her knees were soaked through, and her hands were numb and icy cold, covered with tiny scrapes from the sharp edges of the grass. Duvan’s fire didn’t seem so wasteful anymore.

Slanya stood up and brushed dirt and dry grass from her legs. She felt centered and focused for the first time since they’d entered the Plaguewrought Land. And famished.

“Come and eat something,” Duvan said.

“Thank you,” she said, walking over to the fire. She warmed her hands, relishing the tingle as the flames nudged away the chill from her fingers and palms. When they were sufficiently warmed, Slanya helped herself to the dried rations and fruit they’d brought and sat down on the ground across the small blaze from to Duvan. “I think we have enough plaguegrass.”

Duvan nodded. He swallowed his bite, then said, “Good. Unfortunately, I don’t see how we can get off this rock any time soon. Perhaps you should’ve hired a wizard instead of me.”

Laughing, Slanya said, “No, I can see now that you were the clear choice. Despite your inability to magic us back.”

“Well,” he said, his dark eyes soft in the firelight, “we could be stuck on this mote for a long time.”

Sitting there talking to him, the fire a warm glow next to them, Slanya felt herself relax. The searing screech of the heavens and the earth below faded to background, and all that mattered was the here and now. Her mind could contain this moment and make sense of it.

“Do you always assume the worst will happen?” Slanya asked.

Duvan smiled. “Yes, I suppose I do. In my experience the worst is more likely to happen than the best, and it’s far better to be prepared for the worst.”

So cynical, she thought. But there was practicality in that way of thinking.

“For me, being stuck doing nothing is worse than death,” he said.

“There’s not much we can do right now.”

“True, but if we’re stuck up here for hours or days …” Duvan let the idea linger in the air.

There were scars on this man’s soul, Slanya could see that in sharp relief now. But what had happened to him? He kept his past bottled up inside. How could he have turned out so bitter and jaded?

“The clerics and monks of my order sometimes spend tendays doing nothing more than meditation and training,” she said. “Learning how to master oneself.”

“I’m no cleric.”

Slanya laughed. “Clearly,” she said. “But my point was that perhaps you could learn something from me just as I have learned from you.”

“As far as I can tell, I have taught you nothing.”

“Well, you many not think so,” Slanya said, “but your calm has helped me cope with the randomness of the changelands. While you may be a tempest in the city, you’re like a rock in this stormy sea. Just being in here has helped me understand more about chaos-and fear it far more-than I ever have.”

Duvan looked her, the lines of his face bunched in puzzlement. His eyes reflected the fire as the sky continued to darken overhead.

“I am intensely uncomfortable with so much chaos,” Slanya continued. “But with your guidance, I have been able to stay sane in the midst of it. I consider that a gift.”

Duvan seemed to absorb her words, but his face was impassive. His blank expression was neither questioning nor dismissive, as though he merely accepted what she had said, but had no opinion of it. At least not yet.

Slanya stared at this enigmatic man, his strong, dark features limned in the orange glow of the fire. She wanted to heal him if she could, help him heal himself.

“All right,” he said. “Although it feels like a stretch to me. Now, what would you teach me?”

Slanya smiled. “Simple things at first-breathing and meditation. But with those will come mind balance and perhaps the discipline to confront your demons. The ultimate goal is peace with yourself.”

Duvan frowned. “From where I stand, I don’t see the benefit of inner peace.”

She laughed. “Well, it’s liberating. Healing your scars and wounds will help you resolve your past. You are a remarkable person, Duvan, capable of so much. But you are held back by … I’m not sure what-guilt or regret, perhaps? Discipline can emancipate you from that, by resolving issues instead of burying them.”

Duvan’s eyes narrowed. “And why do you care so much?”

It was an appropriate question and one that had already occurred to Slanya. “Balance,” she said. “Because you’ve helped me.”

Duvan seemed to accept that, nodding.

Looking across the fire, its temptation dulled at the moment, Slanya watched Duvan’s dark shape. He was gazing into the glowing orange coals, his expression melancholy.