Zachary Jernigan - No Return

Churls almost laughed, but the horror of this statement stopped her cold. It all depended on her say-so? A war against Adrash, the awakening of an army of the dead, up to her alone? She could not make that decision now. She might never be able to make that decision.

She struggled to form an adequate response. She did not want Fyra to misinterpret her intentions. To her surprise, she also found she did not want to hurt her daughter’s feelings—or close off the possibility of help entirely.

“I’m not even sure I want to fight, Fyra. I’m not sure I believe in this war. Give me some time to think.”

You’re lying . Fyra’s expression conveyed what she thought of liars. You’ll follow Vedas wherever he goes because you love him.

Churls did not bother to deny this. Love did not solve the problem. It never had.

“I can’t tell the dead what to do, Fyra. You’ll have to decide for yourselves.”

You have to do it. The others aren’t special like me. They won’t break the rules like I do. They want a living person to tell them. They picked you. You just have to talk to Vedas first. He will help you. Promise me you’ll talk to him, and don’t lie to me like you did before.

Too tired to argue anymore, Churls nodded. She would not pretend there was any other way. Events had proceeded far beyond the realm of her understanding. Vedas needed to know. Not because he possessed any more intelligence or knowledge than she, but because she needed someone to share the burden with her.

“Is that all?” she asked.

One more thing. Fyra held out her hand.

Churls took it. It was no more substantial than air, of course, but she could no longer claim to feel nothing at Fyra’s touch. Warmth flowed upward from her wrist, suffusing her body like smoke filling a room.

She stepped onto the flats, and the wind did not bite or suck the moisture from her skin.

I want you to look at the stars with me , Fyra said.

They lay on the parched earth, connected at the hands.

Tell me about her. The way you did when I was little.

Churls recalled with perfect clarity. She had buried the memories, but had never truly forgotten. On clear summer nights, sometimes she and Fyra had slept on the roof of Churls’s house. Listening to the sound of waves crashing against the rocks below, she made up stories for her daughter’s amusement— stories of gods and goddesses waging war across the void, giant ships sailing the oceans of other worlds, and kingdoms spreading their fingers toward the ends of creation.

Now and then, she told the story of a little girl who jumped from star to star, trying to find her way home. Aryf. It took Fyra years to realize the girl’s name was her own spelled backwards.

Do you remember, Mama? Fyra asked.

“Yes,” Churls answered. “Yes, sweetie, I do.”

She blinked, and the tears spilled over. She had not expected them to come, but they came nonetheless.

‡

Vedas stood in the center of the room, staring down at the graven image of Adrash. He had removed his hood, and held his left fist at the base of his neck. Slowly, he inserted a finger between suit and skin and tugged, stretching the elder-cloth ever so slightly. He did not look up when she walked in, though he could not have failed to see her.

Exhaustion loosened her tongue. “How long has it been, Vedas?” He opened his mouth, took a deep breath and exhaled before speaking. “Twenty years. More than half my life.” His eyes roved around the room, landing everywhere but on her before returning to the floor. “It’s odd, but I never used to think of it as odd. I haven’t felt sun or water on my skin for two decades. I haven’t touched anything or anyone in that time.”

This was an exaggeration, Churls thought—surely. Someone, an instructor or a friend, had run their naked fingers through his hair or patted his cheek, offering comfort. Someone had kissed him, an innocent overture between adolescents. He had not abstained from sex completely. He had taken lovers before suffering whatever wound crippled him.

She would be a fool to take his words literally, yet the images failed to resolve in her mind. She could not imagine him receiving or giving affection to anyone.

The man she had grown to love did not dissolve where he stood. He was still the same man. Rather, she realized how greatly her desire blinded her to the reality Fyra had known all along: Vedas spoke the truth. He had not touched another soul in twenty years. He had kept the world at bay with a thin fabric shield.

And yet, surely the suit was inconsequential. With or without it, he would not know how to comfort a crying child or hold the hand of a sick friend. He did not know how to kiss or make love.

Churls considered this, and her desire remained.

“I want to touch you,” she said.

He did not move except to tighten his fist around the fabric at his neck.

Heart pounding at her foolishness, she took two steps toward him. The room was not large. If she took six or seven more steps, she would be standing before him.

“I want to touch you, Vedas. Will you let me?”

Slowly, he unclenched his fist and spread the open hand upon his chest. He still did not look at her, and when he spoke he did so clearly, forming each word carefully, as though he did not want her to misunderstand.

“I have pictured touching you, Churls. I have pictured taking off my suit and making love to you, but you should know that I cannot do it all at once. It won’t...” He shook his head. “It will not be like it is in my head.”

She smiled and took another two steps. “I know that, Vedas.”

He swallowed, and ventured a glance at her face. She noticed for the first time how deep the wrinkles around his eyes had become, how sharp his cheekbones. His lips trembled in the pauses between sentences.

“It is not just my inexperience that makes this difficult. It is the fear of changing into someone I do not know. Perhaps I have already gone too far by disobeying Abse. Maybe I am no longer a Black Suit already. If I love someone outside the order, reason says that I cannot remain in the order. If I choose to do this now, I will be a man without a home.”

His eyes found hers and finally lingered. His hand strayed near the collar of his suit again.

“Churls. You have to understand this above all else. There is no return from this decision.”

“No return,” she agreed, crossing the space between them. “I understand that.”

EPILOGUE

The battle with the outbound mage had left Adrash physically drained, a state he had not experienced in many millennia. He needed time to recover before gathering the spheres.

Secrets had been stolen from his mind. A new god had announced himself. The corners of Adrash’s mouth curved upward. He closed his eyes, but despite his exhaustion could not still his thoughts. A renewed lucidity had come upon him, as though the encounter with Pol Tanz et Som had lifted a veil from before his eyes. He floated above the surface of the moon and let his mind drift through thirty thousand years of being Jeroun’s god, alighting here and there on an event, examining it for its potential. Memories that had become indistinct over the centuries now opened for him, unfolding in his mind with such dizzying, ecstatic clarity that ghosts breathed, extinct species lumbered across plains, and crumbled cities rose from the ocean.

He longed for the heat and chaos of battle, and then he longed for sensual delights. He caused his vision to become a combination of both, displacing events so that they flowed seamlessly into one another. The culminating moments of the Battle of Keyowas led to the orgy he had hosted in Knos Min to celebrate his adopted son Iha’s coronation. The feast of Nwd’al’Kalah, where he had eaten his first tinpan fruit and battled his first hybrid wyrm, resulted in the destruction of The Seven Cities of Omandeias. With a memory as vast as Adrash’s, the permutations were nearly endless. He added flourishes, changing faces, identities, and geographies on a whim. He acted out the parts of hero and villain, or simply observed as events transpired, powerless as any man.