“You’ve been busy,” the moon-faced owl said.
It hovered on silent wings above Khalim’s head, just out of the reach of his arms, the same wind that stirred the golden grass to either side keeping it aloft. Its shadow fell onto the winding path.
“Not really,” Khalim said. “I was in a forest for a while, and then a great beast tried to eat me. Then I was here.”
The owl gave one shake of its shadowy wings. It might have been laughing at him, low and raspy. “That’s all?”
“I don’t know where I am,” Khalim said, mostly to himself. “I’ve been walking for a long time, and I’m not sure where I’m going. But if something else tries to eat me, I can go somewhere else. It’s easy.”
“It’s not easy for everyone,” said the owl.
Khalim lifted his head, squinting against the low, golden sun. The owl’s face was in shadow, the hollows around its eyes like the shadowed places on the moon—at least, the moon in his memory. He hadn’t seen a moon since before the white city. “It’s easy enough for you. Or did you fly all the way here?”
“What do you think I am, child?” the owl asked.
“Not an owl,” said Khalim. “Just like I’m not a child.”
The path beneath his feet was dust, as fine and pale as ash, and the grass rippled like water. When he reached out a hand to touch it, he sent another ripple flowing across the vast plain, breaking the waves produced by the wind. The air smelled of smoke, but the sky was a flat, flawless blue.
How long had he been walking? He had hoped that this place connected to another, like the forest had lain outside the gates of the citadel, but he had yet to find the end of this path—or the beginning, if that was the way he was going.
I could leave. I could go somewhere else. Nothing is keeping me here.
This isn’t the citadel.
He was free. No one could command him, and nothing could hold him in place—and there was no one to protect him, should he run afoul of another beast that consumed wandering spirits for a living.
He had never been more afraid.
Fear was keeping him to this path, he knew, because it had limits and boundaries. While he kept to its narrow way, he had a direction in which to walk and, somewhere, a destination—and the expectation that whatever rippled the grass in the distance, against the movement of the wind, could not touch him here.
So, he walked, and when courage bolstered his resolve he reached out and ran a hand through the waving grass to see what it was made of and what might be hiding beneath it. When it didn’t, he kept his eyes to the ground and his hands at his sides.
I can’t do this forever. I don’t want to do this forever.
Without thinking, he pressed his hand to his chest. The gesture used to bring him comfort, reminding him that he wasn’t alone. Now, he clenches his fist and returns it stiffly to his side, disgusted with himself. The god that used to dwell inside him is gone, taking with him everything Khalim held dear and everything he’d ever taken for granted. In exchange—for all the years of Khalim’s service and any he might have had left, for the breath of life and the sensation in his hands and the faces of all those he’d loved—that god had taken Khalim to the citadel and left him there alone.
“This is a fine a place as any to spend eternity,” the owl mused, flapping its wings once to stay above Khalim’s head. “A space between, where only the lost and forgotten dwell. Not a place I’d have chosen, but to each his own.”
“Why are you here?” Khalim asked. The words came out with more vitriol than he intended, and the sky turned a shade darker.
The owl ducked into his field of vision and turned one great, black eye to him. “Careful, now. You’re not among the living anymore.”
Khalim didn’t need the reminder. He closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, the sky had regained its original, unchanging color. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Are you following me? I could have used your help in the forest.”
“I was passing through and happened to see a familiar face,” said the owl. “You seem to have done just fine on your own.”
That was true enough. He hadn’t been eaten, and he’d found his way here. If he wanted to, he could travel again, he’s almost certain, but where would he go?
In the distance, the grass shimmered like heat in the desert, but Khalim shivered.
“Where are you going?” he asked the owl. “Since you’re not going to stay here with the forgotten, I suppose.”
“No, I don’t stay anywhere long.” It lifted its wings, pushing itself into the air, and turned a slow circle through the sky. It spiraled lower, its wings dipping into the grass, sending more ripples across the winding path and toward the far horizon.
It wouldn’t be so bad to wander. This place was full of dangers, yes, but there were wonders. The dark forest had a sky full of wheeling stars and trees taller than mountains. With all the time death had granted him, Khalim could see it all. He could traverse the realms of the gods and map the vast reaches of the wilds.
But I don’t want to do that. In his own mind, his voice was that of a child. I want to go home.
“Do you remember how you died, little one?” the owl said, startling him.
“Not really,” Khalim said. “It was dark, I was under the ground, and I spoke but my words weren’t mine. The place smelled of blood. Then there was a flash of light, and a terrible sound.”
He remembered, also, strong arms around him as the underground chamber had collapsed. Eske had tried to save him, even at the cost of his own life. Under the rubble, in the crushing dark, Khalim’s ear had been pressed against Eske’s chest, and the last thing he’d heard in the living world had been the beat of Eske’s heart.
Then he had found himself standing before the blinding, radiant figure of his god, and then there had been nothing—nothing, until the citadel.
Time folded in on itself. Khalim could have been under Phyreios yesterday, or a thousand years ago. Eske might have been dead by now, his body long since turned to dust.
Then he’d be here, wouldn’t he? Somewhere in this strange, vast world, I’d be able to find him.
Eske hadn’t perished in the collapse. He would have gone on to live a full life, then, while Khalim languished in the white city and wandered the spirit wilds. Wherever he was, he could have forgotten Khalim entirely.
Someone remembers you, the owl had said, back there among the sterile columns of pale marble. If anyone remembered Khalim—as himself, and not as a vessel for the god he had carried—it must have been Eske.
The god had said that there was no other way. Khalim had failed to prevent the cataclysm, so he had to go, and the god would take his place and fix everything that had been broken.
He was always meant to carry the god to Phyreios. The dreams only served to remove him from his home and send him across the desert. The gift of healing, the very gift that he had believed would save everyone doomed to die, was nothing but a divine afterthought.
And now he had none of that. He couldn’t heal, and he neither slept nor dreamed. He only walked.
A dark, violet-gray cast spread over the sky. An icy rain fell, bursting when it reached the grass and the dusty path with a shimmering, discordant sound.
“If you’re going to keep doing that,” the owl said, “I’m leaving.”
Khalim put a hand over his eyes. The rain felt like tiny needles against his skin. “I’m not doing anything.”
That was the wrong thing to say. The owl flapped its wings again. “I suppose I should be off, anyway. I’ll see you, or whatever devours you and steals your face, elsewhere.”
Khalim looked at his feet. A peal of thunder split the sky. “Goodbye, then,” he said.
The owl was gone. Khalim was alone again.
He took a breath, or an imitation of one, forcing the sudden burst of anguish in his chest to dissipate. The rain slowed, and the sky lightened, and the endless field returned to what it had always been: bright, gentle, and troubled only by a gentle, late-summer breeze.
This isn’t the world of the living, the owl’s voice said in his shaky, slippery memory. Khalim was only a ghost, in a world of ghosts, haunting this field like the spirits from the tales of his childhood.
“What am I supposed to do now?” he asked aloud.
There was no answer. He hadn’t expected one.
I don’t want this. What good is changing the weather in the world of the dead? I want to go home. I want another chance to help people. I want to see Eske again.
I want the god who betrayed me to look me in the eye.
Well. That was a place to start. All Khalim had to do was imagine the citadel, and there he stood, the marble gates towering above him.
This place belonged to the god. It was part of him, if Khalim’s memory was correct—not a sound proposition, but he had little else to stand on, at the moment. If he was going to find the god, it would be here.
The doors were shut. They’d closed behind him when he left, and he hadn’t intended to return.
He raised one fist and knocked.
Back to Chapter LVII: The Village in the Forest
Forward to Chapter LVIII: King Wulfric’s Frontier
I’ll start editing Journey to the Water next month. In the meantime, I’m writing a guidebook for the Figuratively Speaking Tarot, as well as some other projects.
Thanks for reading! If you have any questions, or would like to yell at me about plot holes, comments are open.
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