Wound of the Sky

Bringer of Silence

For hours we traced the overgrown paths, picking through the brambles and the wash-outs. Hours seemed to pass, so that I was sure the sun would set on us before we could arrive. Somehow, though, the sky never darkened. The air took on a sour, acrid smell, and the soil and stones of the plains gave way to a bristling patchwork of poisonous metals, with spurs and cracks that seemed to spread like weeds. The Wound's peak bent jaggedly into the clouds, as if it were the stump of a beam that had once held a roof over the world. The storm had vanished, and I saw that, in this place, even the sky was the wrong color; it was bleach-pale and sallow, so that even the heavens looked down on us with the empty gaze of a corpse.

As we entered the shadow of that wicked place, Silver Peak went nearly silent. Though he walked in front, I noticed how he cocked his head ever so slightly, so as to keep one wary eye on me. Just as the path became steep, he raised a hand and motioned me to stop.

"Before we undertake this dangerous task," he said, "let us pray." Though he glared at me as darkly as ever, I could see in his eyes that we shared the same fear.

Silver Peak recited a blessing, and we knelt to pray. The moment we bowed our heads, the wind rose, and a hundred-thousand twisting passages hidden within the mountain began to howl. The sound swelled, impossibly loud, until even my bones seemed to ring. Silver Peak and I both clasped our hands to our heads, and bent over in agony. Just as it seemed that the horrible resonance would rattle me apart, the wordless cry resolved itself into a voice, and all around us the mountain itself seemed to speak:

"Come, I will take your life's breath, and add it to my own, and we shall howl together, one voice, without end."

The winds went still, and the mountain silent. I opened my eyes. Silver Peak rose unsteadily from where he huddled. He looked deathly pale, and his whole body seemed to tremble as if the Wound's voice still rang within him. He turned, and for a long time, looked back the way we had come. I could hear him once more muttering sutras to himself. When at last he stopped trembling, he turned to me, and glared.

"Broken Storm," he snarled, "your bad song has done this too. I should leave you here and go on alone."

I shook my head and signed desperately that I did not want to be left behind. I thought of the master running headlong into the lashing winds and rains, for our friends and neighbors, for Silver Peak, and for me. The thought of turning back now filled me with shame.

Silver Peak frowned at me dourly. He unslung his bag, removed the book he had taken from Master Winding Path's room, and opened it. He took special care to keep its pages turned away from me.

"Look away," he said severely.

I did as he asked. Silver Peak muttered quietly to himself for a long time, and at last, I heard the book shut, and go back into his bag. Coming up beside me, he took me by the arm, and began to lead me up the slopes.

"Broken Storm," he began to lecture, "you are still strange to the Way. There are many things you do not know. It may be that the forces that bind you to evil are great, but in our teacher's school, forces are known that are even greater."

Silver Peak gave my arm a sharp jerk that brought me to him, eye to eye. He stared long into my face, and once he seemed satisfied that I was listening, he went on:

"I tell you now, as your elder brother on the Path, because we must call upon these forces if we are to prevail. I have now consulted the master's own texts on their workings, and stand ready to bring forth all their power. Perhaps the master is already planning to do so. At any rate, we must be ready to carry her plan forward if she should fail."

He jerked my arm again, roughly, and demanded:

"Nod if you understand."

I nodded.