Sabien's Quest: The Light, vol. 1

CHAPTER I: ENCOUNTER

CHAPTER II: FOUND

CHAPTER III: LOST

CHAPTER IV: WHERE THERE’S SMOKE

CHAPTER V: FIRE WITH FIRE

CHAPTER VI: BETROTHAL

CHAPTER VII: BEFORE

CHAPTER VIII: ADVERSARY

CHAPTER IX: PATH OF THE ADVERSARY

CHAPTER X: COURAGE

CHAPTER XI: THE THIEF

CHAPTER XII: SAVAGES

CHAPTER XIII: KHO’TERIE

CHAPTER XIV: PARTY

CHAPTER XV: LEGION

CHAPTER XVI: FALLOUT

CHAPTER XVII: AMBUSH

CHAPTER XVIII: UNDERNEATH

CHAPTER XIX: LONE WOLF & SHRUB

CHAPTER XX: THE ARMS OF THE DELIVERER

CHAPTER XXI: WITHIN ANRO

CHAPTER XXII: NIGHT TERRORS

CHAPTER XXIII: BY THE RIVER

CHAPTER XXIV: BENEATH THE RIVER

CHAPTER XXV: UNINVITED

CHAPTER XXVI: ESQUILIA

CHAPTER XXVII: PALAVER

CHAPTER XXVIII: COMPANY

CHAPTER XXIX: INTO THE WOODS

CHAPTER XXX: SAFE HOUSE

CHAPTER XXXI: DEFENSE

CHAPTER XXXII: OF COURSE

CHAPTER XXXIII: DETOUR

CHAPTER XXXIV: HEAD ABOVE WATER

CHAPTER XXXV: DEMEANOR

CHAPTER XXXVI: VISITING HOURS

CHAPTER XXXVII: CITY OF BLISS

CHAPTER XXXVIII: BEHOLD DELIGHT

CHAPTER XXXIX: DEVASTATED

CHAPTER XL: THE EASTERN SHORE

PRONUNCIATION GUIDE

FROM THE AUTHOR

THE BEGINNING

I am the last son of those once known as the Everlasting. My name is Jacen Wornsole, and for as many grains of sand that fill the shores of this continent so are the number of stories I have collected.

I will share with you the greatest.

A great story you must understand is known for many things some might deem trivial. A story is called Tale if it instructs on morals. It is named Legend when the adventure within spans the fantastic. But the oldest and wisest of us know story by its first name, Truth. We did not hear them over campfire or in classroom; we stood in the midst of their happening and marveled.

This is the tale of the Monk Made King; the legend of the Scorched Warrior; the truth of a Boy Chosen to Bring Light.

And as with so many things, this story begins with a mother…

The heavens wept icy tears the night Zatella ran. Rain soaked through her cloak, making her clothes heavy and her steps slow. A blast of wind ripped the hood from her head and left her dark face to the mercy of the elements.

As she ran onward she could no longer discern if it were the tears of the sky that clouded her vision, or her own. A blink pushed away the waters of sorrow. Keeping a keen eye was paramount to her survival; there was no time for the distraction of self-pity. Overlooking the smallest landmark would spell her end and she knew worry at the thought of it. Each dwelling of the humble town was the same: squat log-crafted homes, some with tall stone chimneys, and some with short. She feared she was already lost.

As scared as she was, the woman found comfort glancing at the thatch roofs, remembering a childhood full of hayrides with her parents and friends; peaceful times, long before any tragedy would befall her. Amid the echo of the thunder’s song, she thought she heard mingled in a wolf’s howl. As danger stalked her, she hurried on.

Reduced to mud and rocks by the downpour, the dirt road she travelled played tricks on her bare feet; her next step might slide out from under her, or sink into the mud. When she jammed her toe into a stone hidden in the road she bit her lip to fight back a scream. All it would take was one stray noise and the soldiers were sure to know her location.

For days she outran the king’s warriors. Her escape from the palace was not easy, but the reward of her journey’s end was near. Soon she would be at the steps of her father’s church, the Temple of the Creator. Within she would claim Safe Haven and be rid of the constant panic in her heart. Danger was at her heels so long, her body ached for solace.

In fleeing the palace she left all her things behind, save that which was most precious to her. Cradled in her wet arms was her darling son, almost two years of age. His crying was swallowed by the noise of the storm. Longing for his safety above hers, she ventured on as fast as she was able.

Soon the worst of the storm passed, the downpour became a drizzle, and the moon slipped out from behind the clouds. Realizing it was not the torrent wind, she recognized a wolf’s call. Frantic, she picked up speed, her eyes locked on the night sky. Her son quieted and amid the newfound silence she heard rustling feathers.

Perched upon the eaves of a nearby home, watching her was a great horned owl. It was the same shade of blue as a clear noonday sky and three times as large as any she saw in her youth. Hoot. Her worries faded as it lured her with its call, and she crossed the street into an alley, to get a closer look.

Within that dark lane between houses, it was then that she heard him. Zatella! He called for her, with a voice like grinding stone. He was close, too close. Breaking her gaze from the owl, she spotted his feral silhouette coming up the street, and backed away deeper into the alley. Its end was two houses long behind her, and forked at a T. She remembered how labyrinthine the alleyways were from her days as a girl playing hide-and-find. Nearby was a rain barrel filled to the brim. The girl in her remembered what a great hiding spot an empty barrel was.

Hoot. The owl spread its wings and lifted into the night air. Watching it ascend she longed to do as much.

Her son cried again, ignoring her no matter how loud she hushed him. Zatella cried too, understanding that both their lives would end soon. But she had come so far. Could she run back to the street and beg for mercy? Would the soldiers spare her son if she pleaded hard enough?

Hoot. She heard its call from a distance and when she spotted it again, she witnessed a miracle. The owl’s new perch was a statue of a dove resting on a shepherd’s crook high atop a steeple,. With a start, she recognized the holy symbol of the Creator. The church, she whispered, finally knowing her way home.

As she cradled him closer, her son grew quiet, sharing in the comfort of his mother’s renewed hope. The Temple of the Creator was a good distance away. Prayers that she could somehow escape her pursuer drifted from her lips.

She heard padded footsteps clapping against the mud and hid behind the barrel. Crouched low, her boy pressed against her, she prayed to the Creator that the top of her cloak was not showing above the barrel’s rim. To listen for him she held her breath.

Mud squished and burped under his feet. His pants were a muffled roar, though loud enough for her to know he was close. Then there was silence for a moment. Then she heard him sniffing.

This man seeking her was a Kaynai and thus possessed the feral form and heightened senses of his kind. Their greatest ability was known as Shifting. It allowed them to take the sapien form of a man, or of a wolf, or even the dire form of something in-between. They were known through the kingdom as fierce warriors, more animal than man. This one was a royal soldier, having sworn allegiance to the crown, an oath that superseded all others. An awesome instrument of destruction, Kolim would not hesitate to slash through both her and her child.

It was then that she dared to peek around the barrel. And there he was steps away from her alley, searching the air for her scent. For now his back was to her, his bushy tail black as soot mopping the road, his hirsute figure eclipsing her nearest exit.

Through the snout of his dire form he spoke to her. I smell you, Zatella. Watching him turn to face her, she jerked back into her hiding spot. Come out. End this. For her sake.

Her sake? Zatella screamed at him from behind the barrel. K’Tasha would be ashamed of you!

Not for hers, he said in rumbling words. Jacquie’s. Her life for yours, and Kriz-tien’s.

Zatella held her son tighter, shaking her head and clenching her eyes shut to push away tears.

You brought this down on all our heads! Have the courage to face your crimes. If you do, Jacquie still has a chance.

Paralyzed by the choice before her, she was speechless. Her grip on her son loosened, and all she could do was think a prayer to the Creator, that He might deliver her son to safety.

Above her the owl landed, crunching the wood of its new perch with its talons.

I’ll make it quick, Kolim promised. For K’Tasha’s sake.

Hoot.

The man-wolf charged forward down the alley, the strike of his feet against the mud was like hearing glass shatter. Zatella bolted for the T-split at the other end. The child in her arms screaming again, she glanced behind to see that her pursuer closed the distance between them in two great leaps. Claws black as the night reached for her.

So silent was the sky-blue savior that came to her aid that Kaynai ears could not have prepared him for what came next. Kolim yowled like a newborn as the owl’s talons raked his face. He stumbled sideways as it pecked at him, flailing, and crashed into the water barrel. It exploded under his weight, and for an instant Zatella’s old hiding place was consumed in a wet spray of feathers and bloodied fur. She dashed right and continued towards safety.

The storm regained its fury as she ran through alleys, past closed shops and the town’s school. After a few more streets passed, she was in the town’s plaza. Standing tall and mighty was the Temple of the Creator a few strides away. Faint from travel, she stumbled. When was her last meal? How much farther could she go?

A little more, she whispered, urging herself to carry on past the stone well at the plaza’s center and up the weathered steps of the church.

A low growl echoed off the wooden doors ahead of her. She looked back, much to her regret, and saw Kolim, now in his wolf form, a gray owl carcass in his jaws. Shivering from the rain that soaked her to the bone, weak and panting, she climbed the steps of the church. Behind her Kaynai feet splashing through mud.

---

Inside the front room of the Temple of the Creator, called the main sanctuary, Father Ryos knelt at the Shepherd’s Altar. Head bowed, he was deep in prayer despite the incessant scratching of his dog, Sheila, at the church doors. She whined, tearing at them as if she wanted to be let out. Sheila, stop that! Father Ryos snapped, Brother Wren already let you out after supper. Then he heard curious thunder. Against the church windows was the rain, but he saw no lightning to accompany it.

His knees creaked as he stood and then walked down the main aisle toward his dog. The thunder came again, but he recognized it as a knock. He hurried down the aisle as Sheila continued whining. She barked when he arrived and made no fuss as he pushed her away from the door with his leg. A moment, he shouted, gripping the large brass ring that served as the door’s handle. The knocking stopped as he opened the door. Rain and wind pelted the Father and soaked the rugs beneath him that lined the aisle.

His jaded eyes widened upon sight of the wolf charging up the steps. Its mangled face was a nightmare, seeping blood from a large gash that crossed from the high corner of its forehead to the center of its upper lip, with its right eye askew. He felt a hand on his foot and looked down at the cloaked stranger reaching out to him.

Safe Haven, she pleaded.

He took hold of her arm and pulled her limp body across the threshold, one eye on the advancing wolf as he did so. It Shifted into sapien form, shedding its black fur as its limbs reshaped. Fingers formed from paws and it rose to stand on two legs. All that remained of the Kaynai’s black coat was the hair on its arms and legs, as well as the wild mane cascading from its head and running the length of its back. The Kaynai took the dead owl from its mouth and tucked it beneath an arm.

With the stranger pulled into the temple, Ryos put his weight against the door to shut it, but Kolim was already there. He towered over the old man and kept the door open with a single hand, his claw-like nails digging into the wood. He looked over the old man and the fallen woman with his remaining eye. Pink ooze slid down from behind the hand covering his other socket. Give me the woman.

No, she has claimed Safe Haven here.

I am General Kolim of His Majesty’s Royal Army. That woman is an enemy of the crown. She will come with me.

She is not going anywhere with you.

Move. Kolim barked, shoving his full weight against the door, pushing it open.

The old man stumbled back from the force of the intrusion, but reclaimed his footing. With a swiftness, Father Ryos bashed Kolim’s shielded eye with the heel of his open hand. Kolim’s anguished bark rattled the windows of the main sanctuary. Ryos watched him stagger back from the doorway. Good night, he dismissed him and closed the temple door.

His task at the door complete, the Father walked down the aisle past several pews to the stranger. He is gone now, friend. You are safe.

Father, he heard the woman whisper, a moment before she crumbled.

Sisters! Brothers! To the sanctuary, quickly! His shouting dwarfed the cries of her baby as he took it in his arms. Kneeling at her side, he removed the woman’s hood and lost the capacity to speak, whispering her name in his mind. Zatella?

Nuns and monks spilled out from the hallway beside the Shepherd’s Altar and pulpit, still in their sleeping clothes. Father Ryos called orders to them. Brothers, come and lift my daughter into this pew. Sister Beck, take the child. Dry him and make him warm. Sister Marjorie, fetch the bandages from the kitchen cupboard. Sister Okela, fix a poultice for her. You know which herbs to use. Sister Ghikala, reheat the broth from dinner and bring a bowl of it, and some bread. Hurry now.

Though elderly, his congregation was quick to carry out his orders and see to their new charges. Brothers Wren, Xavier, and Quinn reached Father Ryos and helped him rest his daughter into a pew near the door. Not long after, the Sisters returned from their tasks. Only Sister Reko was idle. Sheila lay down beside her at the steps leading up to the pulpit, and yowled in pain.

Sister? Father Ryos inquired from across the room.

Father, she is in labor, Sister Reko called back to him.

Labor? But how can she be pregnant?

That would explain her demeanor lately, Brother Xavier offered.

But there are no other dogs in the village! Father Ryos headed up the aisle towards Sister Reko.

Ryos, Sister Beck whispered to him as he passed by where she sat with the baby. He turned his head and she beckoned him toward her.

What is it, Beck? Approaching her, he saw that she laid out a cloth for the baby. He lay naked on his stomach, gurgling. A strange lump of amber membrane grew across the child’s upper back, filled with liquid. What manner of sore is that? Ryos pressed his finger against the growth and felt something thin and hard within it. The child erupted into a wailing fit.

There, there. Hush now. Sister Beck comforted the child, lifting him to her shoulder and bouncing him. She shrugged at the old holy man, his dark gaze boring into the growth on his grandson’s back.

---

Zatella awoke bathed in sunlight. Lying on a hay-stuffed mattress, she looked about the monastic cell. It was as simple as she remembered; the only furniture was the bed upon which she laid, a table and basin for washing, and a slender wardrobe.

She sat up and yawned. Realizing her arms were empty, she shouted, Kriz-tien! She leapt from the bed to the door. She winced as she opened it; the sores of travel were still with her. The monastery adjoined to the church was just as she remembered it, one long hallway of doors leading from the rear exit to the main sanctuary.

Smells of biscuits and jam tickled her nostrils as she passed the kitchen. When she knocked on the door of her father’s study and there was no answer she grew even more alarmed. Where was her son? A child’s scream echoed down the hallway and she feared the worst. Racing, she came upon the main sanctuary.

Coming out from beside the Shepherd’s Altar and pulpit, she spotted the aged members of the congregation gathered along the first pew. A Sister cradled and rocked her son, with the rest of them fawning over him. She recognized that one of the congregation was not a Keeper of the Nite like the rest, but a Person of Light.

His people were the ruling class of both the Kingdom Beaujin and the empire across the ocean. Their visage was unmistakable – white skin, blonde hair, and piercing blue eyes. Great white wings like a falcon’s grew from their backs, patterned in such a way that they could trace their family lineage. How the patterns were read was a secret held by the Persons of Light. She wondered what one of them was doing in Esquilia, and practicing in this temple, instead of one dedicated to Cylos.

A nun was suddenly beside her. The town was a gossip mill when Brother Xavier first arrived. Zatella jumped, but the woman calmed her with a hand. Never polite to stare, dear.

Yes, of course, Zatella apologized. I only wondered why he was here.

He’s a friend of your father’s. They met during Ryos’ crusade. The nun walked on to join her fellows and play with the cooing baby.

The main sanctuary seemed larger than she remembered, but still cozy. Standing there she knew comfort for the first time in weeks. But then she caught sight of her father, keeping away from the rest of the holy folk, his gray brows knit.

When he found her attention upon him his stern demeanor lessened, but did not vanish. Zatella. You are looking well, he proclaimed as he approached. He embraced her but the gesture felt empty. They found a pew far from the altar and sat down. For a moment neither of them spoke.

Momma’s gone, isn’t she? Her eyes stung threatening to tear as she rested against her father’s shoulder, rubbing her cheek against the soft wool of his habit.

Draping an arm across her shoulders he answered her, She walks in Paradise now, basking in the Almighty.

Again they sat in silence.

Watching his grandson play, Father Ryos asked, Tell me his name?

Answering as if it were a secret, she whispered, Kriz-tien.

Interesting. Are you sure he is worthy of a name with such a divine meaning?

Before she could express her anger, yipping filled the room. Her eyes bulged as she watched the green puppy lumber down the steps of the pulpit towards the congregation. By His Word! It was three times bigger than any newborn pup she ever saw.

Kriz-tien bounced on the knee of one of the holy Brothers. Propping its front paws onto the Brother’s leg, the green puppy stared into the eyes of Zatella’s son. For a moment baby and pup locked eyes, and before anyone could decide whether the strange gleam in the puppy’s gaze was one of danger, it jutted its snout forward and licked Kriz-tien’s face. Exploding with laughter, the child fought until the Brother’s set him on the floor to play with his new friend.

After a while one of the Sisters brought Kriz-tien to his mother, and the puppy followed. Zatella set him in her lap, his new green friend content to rest at her feet.

What is that growth on his back? Ryos asked her.

In your study, she suggested. Before he could agree, she gathered up her child and headed towards the monastery hall. When they arrived at his study, he unlocked the door with a key from his pocket and showed her inside. Having followed them from the sanctuary, the green puppy yipped at Ryos as he scooted it out into the hallway with his foot. He shut the door and ignored the puppy’s whining.

Inside, Zatella sat Kriz-tien on the edge of her father’s desk. As he picked at old candle drippings with wonder, she sat in the chair opposite the desk. Ryos sank into his tall armchair, then folded his hands and awaited his daughter’s explanation.

I see that you’ve taken on a full staff.

Yes, I shall introduce you to them properly this afternoon.

That would be lovely.

His patience waned. Zatella.

I don’t know what that is growing on his back, but I have an idea.

And his eyes seem dark like ours, but in the sunlight just now I saw that they were actually deep blue. Do you know why that is?

She cleared her throat. Not exactly, but I have an idea.

Who is his father? Ryos asked. When his daughter did not answer, he said to her, I see no wedding band on your finger. To bear a child out of wedlock is—.

Against the Laws of the Creator. Yes, I know, father. She hated the courage within her for being so small. Another pause between them seemed to stretch for days. Why don’t you ask what happened to me? Tell me which holy laws you recited when you left me out there alone.

Left you? You ran away!

And what did you do to—?

What did we do? We prayed for you. Every night she begged for your return.

And what is prayer without action? Your words, father.

I see. So you forgot the score of times when I did leave these walls to come and find you. I told you that night daughter; I would not continue to play your games. Tell me, which friend of yours took you in this time? Which friend hid you from us for ten years? And more importantly, why have you decided to return? Did you run out of places to stay or were your whereabouts unsuitable place for a child?

The rush of his questions swirling in her mind stifled her tongue.

You were always prone to trouble, Zatella, but an enemy of the crown? Do I even want to know why? And who is his father? Why are his eyes like that? Whisking a finger to point at his grandson, he demanded, "And what is that thing growing on his back?"

I don’t—.

I do, Ryos shouted. It is a curse set down by the Creator. That boy is an abomination, a sabien.

Zatella’s worry snapped into resolve, the blood in her veins igniting as she saw the judgmental gaze of her father. On her feet, she shouted, Be quiet! She snatched Kriz-tien into her arms. You will not speak of my son that way! He is no abomination. He is mine and I will cherish him all the days I walk this realm, and I will seek him whenever he is lost.

Ryos groaned.

I will tell you where I have been father: all across this kingdom! Know where I have rested my head: in the halls of the royal palace. My son’s father is the King of Beaujin himself!

So then have you returned to me as Queen or as a concubine?

I hate you! The words burned her lips.

If what you say is true, then he is a cross between our kind and the Persons of Light. That makes him a sabien.

Speechless, she left her father’s presence, tripping over the puppy outside the door. Heading towards the backdoor of the monastery hall, she met one of the nuns exiting the kitchen.

Hello again, dear.

Good morning, Sister… She had no idea what the woman’s name was.

Sister Beck, dear. And how is the little one this morning? You are a cute one, yes you are. The woman cooed at the child, tapping his nose.

The thought dawning on her, Zatella responded, Hungry I suppose. I haven’t fed him this morning.

Dear, you look a little flustered. Is everything all right?

Well, I was headed outside for some fresh air, but he needs—.

Oh, think nothing of it, dear. I will take him into the kitchen. I am sure a few spoons of jam and some bread will fill his wittle tummy.

Thank you very much. Zatella handed her son to the holy woman and kissed his forehead before leaving.

Outside the monastery was a small vegetable garden and, beyond it, a meadow. Bordering that quaint spot, as it bordered all of Esquilia, was the massive southern forest called Fringewood. Zatella paced, walking from the garden to the tree line. All the while she muttered about her father.

Hoot.

The owl’s call turned her head to the forest. Perched high in a tree was the sky-blue owl from the night before. Up a bit early, aren’t we?

Hoot. Spreading its wings, it flew off into the forest.

For the moment she saw it, comfort and relief were hers again. But before she could turn her back on the abandoned perch, her sky-blue savior returned, and this time when it flapped away into the forest she followed.

Sunlight streamed through the canopy, lighting her way. At times the owl would wait on a tree limb for her to close the distance between them. When she came near, it would lift off and continue leading her only the Creator knew where. Then she reached her destination.

At first the forest appeared as if it would go on forever but with one more step she found herself at the edge of a wide glade. Behind her was the forest but ahead of her were more animals than she had ever seen in her life. Creatures of all types: rabbits and dogs, bears and deer, chipmunks and lions; they all milled about the glade chewing on its lush grass and flowers, lapping at its shimmering pool. Natural enemies went unnoticed to one another, and none seemed to notice her. Amid this serenity was a gargantuan tree.

Zatella gasped, startled as a black and white bear moseyed by. Before she could turn away to run, a voice drifted down to her. Do not fear, Zatella. She looked at the tree, allowing her gaze to rise high and take in its greatness. We are not here to harm, only help. It is within this place that we wait. Welcome.

Above her, standing on a low branch the width of her father’s desk was a giant of a woman: tall and slender, with sky-blue skin. Zatella tilted her head back to take in the full height of the tree, never to forget the way its top disappeared into the clouds. All over its branches, some sitting and some standing, were giants, each a different color. They represented every bend of the rainbow, yet some were colors Zatella could not name. Their faces were like tiny suns. She felt that as they looked down on her they did so smiling.

Delirium wrapped her mind like a blanket, and she wondered if this were a dream.

Focus, Zatella! There is not much time.

Her eyes on the sky-blue woman, Zatella asked, What is this place?

And the woman’s voice was a song that touched Zatella’s mind in a way that puzzled her; did she hear these words, or feel them? This place has no name. You are simply in the presence of the Savior’s Tree. I am Cinnus, Second Made.

Zatella ignored the fawn sniffing at her hand. Why am I here?

Because He wills it, and in your wisdom, you allow it. Because like all who come here you are to receive a message. Because like some who come here you are to receive a gift.

A message?

Yes, your place in His Plan is a great one and for your service thus far He offers you thanks and above all the knowledge that He is proud of you.

He who? At her question the giants of the tree giggled, their laughter was a breeze that warmed her skin. She too laughed at her question, realizing its answer. I wish my father would say as much.

Do not worry over such a thing. Understand only that he loves you above all else and prayed many days and long into the night for your return, short lived though it may be.

Yes, I should be heading back towards the monastery. I miss my son. And, yes, even in that place of wonderment she ached to feel Kriz-tien in her arms.

It is time for you to go.

The animals of the meadow stopped their grazing and set their attention on the forest behind Zatella. Ears twitching, they listened to the threatening howl that pierced the calm. To Zatella the howl was distant, lengths away, years even. Eyes fixed on Cinnus, she saw the woman dig her fingers into the bark of the Savior’s Tree. A solid tug pulled free a chunk of it, revealing gold flesh underneath, bright as the dawn.

Eat of this tree and be well, Cinnus said to her, and then tossed her the chunk of bark.

Zatella caught the bark in her hands. It smelled to her like bread fresh from the oven, and Zatella found that she was starving. She sank her teeth into the radiant flesh and found it juicy and sweet, like a peach.

Somehow it felt as if she swallowed sunlight. The gift was the crisp refreshment of lemonade on a hot afternoon, yet it wrapped her in a cotton sheet just unpinned from the clothesline. Her soreness and bruises and scrapes, all the signs of her journey, were mended and forgotten.

Joy filled her spirit as the healing energy of the Savior’s Tree flourished and worked within her. She expected light to burst forth from her skin. Ignoring another howl she laughed harder than before, tears trickling down her cheeks. The fawn beside her, nudged her back into the forest.

Crossing from the glade into Fringewood, her joy simmered. When the last of it left her, a dream giving way to reality, she realized she was standing alone under the trees. Evening light dappled the trees. Holding her forehead she wondered everything and then nothing. How did she get so far from home? The flutter of wings made her search the trees for her owl, but she saw only leaves.

Again came howling and panic settled back down into her heart. With the evening light to guide her she found her way out of the forest. Sweating she made her way back into town, Kolim’s howl ringing in her ears. For a moment she lost her bearing, but a little boy with cornrows was playing soccer nearby and pointed her in the right direction. With a quick thanks, she headed home.

Panic was unseated when Zatella’s eyes met the open doors of the Temple of the Creator. She saw a Sister outside sweeping the steps. Delighted to see Zatella returned, she waved, but then screamed and dropped her broom.

You will not escape me! Kolim’s words shoved Zatella into a mad dash for those opened doors. Sister Ghikala screamed for Father Ryos and hurried inside. Padded steps again were in Zatella ears, even over her harried breath. She swore to never set foot outside the church again, if only she could reach it. Then her father was at the temple doors holding her son, behind him Sister Ghikala.

His gray brows jumped to his hairline upon sight of his daughter and her pursuer. The Father of the Creator’s Holy Order handed off his grandson and retrieved the broom lying along the steps. Ryos stampeded forward, broom held high. Their paths crossed at the bottom of the church steps. Their eyes never met, his fixed on the threat to his daughter’s safety, and Zatella’s focused on the crying babe in the Sister’s arms.

Unfazed by the struggle behind her, she scaled the steps and reached for her child. Kriz-tien, she whispered his name in broken pants. Hush, darling boy. She knew the weight of him in her arms again. Hush. For a moment relief and comfort returned, delivered by her son’s eyes. Zatella shrieked. Black claws were seeded in her heart and lungs. From them bloomed crimson agony.

With a mighty howl Kolim lifted her from the steps and by a sweeping thrust of his large hand, let her crash back to them.

He snatched the wailing child from her lifeless arms and saw the damage he wrought. The membrane lump on his back was punctured. Clear liquid, the consistency of egg yolk, spilled from the gash, and Kolim saw the pair of bird-like wings that incubated inside.

The pitch of Kriz-tien’s wail stung his ears. He dropped him into Sister Ghikala’s trembling arms. Both hands then free, he plucked the dead woman from the bloodstained steps and slung her over his shoulder. With nothing but his snarl, he drove the nun back across the threshold of the church. Now, he is beyond my reach. With no words left to speak, he turned his back on her and descended the steps, walking over the defeated old man and his splintered broomstick.

---

When Ryos awoke the back of his skull throbbed. He groaned as he sat up in bed. Seated at his bedside was Sister Beck, smiling as she rocked his grandson. Her eyes were red from worry. How are you feeling?

As though a Kaynai cracked my head with a broom.

Not. Funny.

He nodded in apology, massaging his skull.

You are not a young man anymore. Bravery then is stupidity now.

The old man grumbled. Where is my daughter?

He took her.

The wound on his head was nothing to the crack in his heart. Before he managed to speak, he noticed his grandson, and the freshly exposed wings on his back. But he remains.

Thinking it would cheer him up, Sister Beck offered him the boy.

No.

Ryos, I remember how you were after Leyla passed on. Why lose yourself to grief again? Be here for him. Be blessed by this new life, whatever his name may be. Zatella never did say.

Eyes lingering on the abomination growing from Kriz-tien’s back, Ryos muttered, Sabien.

Leaning in she asked, What was that?

Sabien, Sister Beck. The child’s name is Sabien.

CHAPTER I: ENCOUNTER

In the Shining Kingdom called Beaujin were deserts, mountains, and forests. Of those deserts, the Ashes of Scion was the most desolate. Of those mountains, the Jaw of Moashrr rose the highest. Of those forests, Fringewood was the greatest. More ancient than the Kaynai hunting grounds, it consumed the southern edge of the kingdom. It swallowed more than one wanderer and stories were known throughout the realm of the mysteries that dwelled therein.

With no thought as to his safety, he crossed the meadow between his village and that forest of mysteries. For more than a week he made his way through Fringewood, but that morning, with the dawn of Cylos, First Sun, he experienced a state of being he never knew before. Sabien, the hunchback monk of Esquilia, was lost.

He wandered the forest calling the name of his lost dog. Cupping his hands around his mouth he shouted, Rahld! But, just as the last half-dozen times he called, there was no reply. No bark. No crashing through the trees. Nothing. All quiet save the chirps of baby birds hungry for breakfast, and the soft crunch of flora underfoot.

Sabien awoke that morning in the same way that he had for over a week: first, securing his bedroll to the back of his dog, then stepping away to go make water before he and Rahld travelled onward. But that day he returned to an empty campsite.

For all fifteen years of Sabien’s life, Rahld was never farther than earshot, but for some reason within the depths of Fringewood he chose to abandon the monk. Without another thought, the monk did as always when faced with an obstacle: kneeling with hands clasped and head bowed, he closed his eyes and prayed.

Almighty Creator, please protect Rahld. Keep him safe from the vile Hedge. Lead him back to me, and guide my steps so that I may find him.

Rising from the forest floor, Sabien heard a trumpet’s call, then seconds later something crashed through the forest, snapping twigs and stomping earth. Knowing that his prayer was answered, he looked from one side of the forest to the other, and spotted a pair of riders headed in his direction.

Sabien’s arms were over his head in an instant, flagging them down. He could tell by the royal emblem on their tunics and the broadswords on their backs that they were of His Majesty’s army. They were known as the Just, and Sabien recognized them from his History lessons. Unlike the print Brother Xavier showed him during a lesson, the chain mail covering their arms was not grey but black, glimmering like a clear night sky even beneath the heavy forest shade.

He realized too that the king’s emblem was changed. Where there should have been a white falcon with a golden beak and talons bearing the sun Cylos as a crown, there was a black falcon with a red beak and talons. But the creatures they rode were swyphs, six-legged horses that only noblemen and royalty could afford.

He cupped his hands around his mouth. Have you seen my dog? The men galloped closer on their six-legged mounts but did not answer. They were coming so fast that he felt nervous, standing there in the middle of their path. He sucked in breath to shout again.

Have you seen my dog? As they drew near, the back of his neck tingled. A lump formed in his throat, growing thicker the faster his heart beat. They did not seem to be reining in their swyphs, but in fact appeared to be gaining speed. Sabien knew that these soldiers would stop to aid him, even though their ice blue eyes were fixed on a distant point. Behind the armor covering their long faces, the mounted swyphs too seemed to be looking past the monk.

Have you seen—? Sabien didn’t finish before the soldiers were almost a step away from him and his life flashed before his eyes—the monastery, Rahld, the holy Brothers and Sisters who had raised him, his grandfather. Whatever mercy was in the hearts of the Just was expended as they curved the path of their swyphs to just barely swipe past the monk.

Eyes shut and palms pressed flat against his ears, Sabien did his best to block the thunderous hoof beats and ear-splitting whinnies. He stood still while being pelted by clods of wet mulch kicked up by the passing storm. One soldier’s hanging foot clipped his elbow and sent him spiraling into the opposite soldier’s mount, off of which he bounced and landed flat on the ground, face in the overturned earth.

Once the whinnying and snorts of the storm passed he lifted his face, watching the Just fade into the trees. Sabien rose from the ground and sighed, wiping away the mud and wet leaves. He did a masterful job of keeping his robe clean during his time in the forest. Though at this point he had no choice but to further stain his clothes, using the wide sleeve of his robe to mop the mud from his face.

Looking at the mud on his hands, he thanked the Creator that he decided not to wear the gloves he received for his birthday. He wiped his palms against the bark of a nearby tree to clean them. From his dreadlocks, he picked out a handful of leaves and a very long twig. He tapped his feet against a tree to knock the fresh mud from his sandals. Before moving on, he spoke a prayer of humility to the Almighty Creator, and then found it within himself to forgive the soldiers their transgressions.

No less lost than before, he picked a direction at random and started walking. Rahld! Still there was no answer.

The day grew warm, but a breeze cooled the forest, whispering ancient words through the leaves. By the rise and fall of the sun, he divined cardinal directions. But with Cylos sitting high on his midday throne and no Rahld to lead him, Sabien worried that he was walking in circles.

At the start of his journey, Fringewood was dark and barren. On the ground were dry leaves and exposed tree roots. Surrounding him now was the chorus of life: squirrels chattering, birds singing. Shafts of light split the darkness. The farther he went the more he witnessed the change.

Newest of all were the clumps of strange grass, a hand in diameter and spaced around the base of the trees. Sister Ghikala gave him lessons on vegetation; he knew which plants to gather for seasoning or for healing, and which plants to avoid. Sabien did not recognize these.

After so much