Troy Denning - The Verdant Passage

Like all serious students of the Way, Agis found that extremes of physical sensation, such as suffering the agony of full exposure to the midday sun, aided his meditations. It was only when he hovered on the edge of unbearable torment or unimaginable pleasure that his body, his mind, and his spirit became one, that he felt the immense power of a physical form and intellect so flawlessly joined that be could not tell where one ended and the other began. It was then he fully appreciated the great truth of being: that the energy and vitality of the body could not exist without the mind to give it form and reality and the spirit to give it all a higher meaning.

It was this simple principle that lay at the heart of all psionic power. The individual who truly understood it could tap the mystical energies that infused his own being and shape them however he wished, giving himself abilities that were as incredible as they were mysterious.

Unfortunately the Way did not yield its gifts easily. It demanded a high price of those who used it, both in devotion and knowledge. For a student of the Way, enlightenment came most often in times of physical extremes, such as during periods of complete exhaustion or terrible distress. Therefore, like most practitioners of the psionic arts, Agis spent several hours a day in considerable discomfort while he contemplated the unity of body, spirit, and mind. Usually, he chose to perform his meditations on the remote shore of his irrigation pond.

On this particular day, his mind’s eye was focused hundreds of miles and more than a decade away, on an oft-remembered place-an oasis that he had visited as a young man. In contrast to the muddy reservoir of his estate, the waters of the oasis pond sparkled blue and clear. It was surrounded by the billowing forms of damson-crowned chiffon trees and creaking canes of black-jointed whip grass. Hanging over the forest were the two golden moons of Athas, Ral and Guthay, secluded from the bloody splendor of the rising sun by a clear expanse of olive sky.

Though he was about to set off across two hundred miles of open desert, Agis was traveling light. Across his back was slung a single waterskin, in his hand he carried a wooden walking staff, and at his waist hung a steel sword with a leather-wrapped hilt. He had just learned from a passing caravan driver that his older sister, the heir to the Asticles family name, had been murdered in Tyr.

Let the spirits of the land guide thee, my love .

The speaker was Durwadala, the druid of the grove. She was not speaking, for she had sworn never to interrupt the music of the wind, but rather waving her four arms through an intricate pattern of gestures that served as a language between her and Agis. She stood nearly seven feet tall, with a tough dun-colored carapace that covered her entire body. Her face was narrow and chitinous, with black, multi-faceted eyes. A pair of small mandibles served as her jaws.

You have taught me well, my lady , Agis answered, moving his arms in a graceless imitation of Durwadala’s speech. Always, your words will be in my heart .

That is a strange place to keep words, Agis , she observed. Better to hold them in thy head, where they will do thee some good .

Agis stifled a laugh, for he knew the sound would upset Durwadala. I will keep them in both my heart and my head , he promised.

The druid studied Agis for several moments, then touched his face with one of her antennae. Walk with the wind , she said, stepping into the forest. Her carapace instantly changed color and pattern to match the black and gold stalks of cane grass. The trees will remember thee .

As Durwadala faded into the underbrush, Agis withdrew from his meditation. There was a serene but hollow feeling in the nexus of his being, that point where the mystic energies of the mind, body, and spirit all converged. The noble blinked his stinging eyes, slowly growing aware of his swollen tongue and the dry, bitter taste of thirst. As always, he felt dizzy and weak from the early effects of heat stroke.

“Caro?” Agis called, bringing the murky waters of his small reservoir back into focus. “I’m ready for my water.”

He turned to look over his shoulder, expecting to see his dwarven manservant standing nearby. Instead of the old servant’s wrinkled face, Agis found a lanky man dressed in the black cassock of a templar. His features were sharp and bony, and his long auburn hair was pulled into a braided tail. There were deep-etched lines in his furrowed brow, and he had thick, puffy lips that made him look as though he were in a constant sulk.

The templar stepped forward, offering Agis the water he had requested. “So, how goes it along the Way, old friend?”

“Tithian?” Agis exclaimed. He blinked twice and shook his head, fearing he had lost himself in meditation and was imagining things. When the high templar’s image remained solid, the noble stood and faced him.

“How did you find me here?” Agis demanded. He glanced over Tithian’s shoulder, expecting to see a handful of embarrassed guards or at least Caro’s flustered face.

Tithian grinned at Agis’s surprise. “Don’t blame your slaves,” he said. “I used my office to find you.”

Agis frowned. Not even Tithian should have been able to sneak up on him unannounced. He would speak to Caro about the lapse at the first chance. “How long have I kept you waiting?”

“Too long,” Tithian replied, squinting at the pale green haze in the sky. “You must be quite adept at traveling the Way. Your concentration is impressive.”

Agis took the water from Tithian’s hand. “One can’t master the mind without first mastering the body.”

The high templar rolled his eyes. “So I remember hearing, over and over again,” he said. “For me, the psionic arts are too much work.” He reached beneath his robe and withdrew a ceramic carafe of wine. “I took the liberty of having your servants supply me with refreshment,” Tithian said. “I hope you don’t mind.”

“Not at all,” Agis answered, studying his guest’s face for some hint as to his mission. Though he and Tithian had known each other since their youth, he was not accustomed to receiving the high templar without notice, especially not during his meditations. “Isn’t it rather hot to be wandering around the countryside, Tithian?”

Ignoring the question, Tithian drank directly from the carafe, then smacked his lips with satisfaction. “I saw the most impressive display of psionics this morning. The king discovered that Those Who Wear the Veil hid a number of amulets in his ziggurat.”

“The Veiled Alliance?” Agis asked. “Were the amulets magical?”

The high teinplar said crossly, “Yes, magical. I suppose they’re intended to slow down work on the ziggurat, though I didn’t see them that closely.”

“Or at least you wouldn’t tell me if you had.”

Tithian continued his story without confirming or denying Agis’s reply. “King Kalak was most angry with Dorjan over the matter.” The templar paused. “He incinerated her from the inside out.”

“That’s not how the Way should be used,” Agis protested.

Tithian smiled. “You tell that to Kalak. I won’t.”

“I’m just a senator,” Agis said, smiling and shaking his head. “It’ll have to be you. You’re the high templar.”

The joke seemed lost on Tithian, who grimaced and replied, “I’m the high templar, as you say. Now I’m not only the High Templar of the Games, but also of the king’s works.”

Agis frowned, confused by Tithian’s unhappiness over what the senator assumed would be regarded as good news. The templars served the king both as bureaucrats and priests. They performed all of Tyr’s civic tasks, such as collecting taxes, policing the streets, supervising public works, and commanding the city guard. They also coerced the populace into venerating Kalak as a deific sorcerer-king, by whose good graces the city was allowed to exist. In return for their worship, the king invested the templars with the ability to use a certain amount of his magic and paid them generous salaries, though they were free to supplement their income through bribery and extortion.