(First of two parts.)
SKIRTING THE AZURE VOID IS not for the timid, and while Prosatio Silban did not possess that trait in great measure he did on occasion come close to experiencing it.
“Easy, Onward,” he clucked to his buopoth, as the quaint dray-beast lumbered its way along the vast crater’s narrow rim-road. Not for the first time, the cook wondered how the hulking animal could plod with such careful agility between extreme height and utter depth. He murmured a grateful prayer to Piedrolo, God of Surefooted Ambling, as his galleywagon bounced over rocks and across potholes.
Unique among the Exilic Lands’ fantastic geographies, the Azure Void was so-called by the refugees who founded the Uulian Commonwell more than eight centuries ago. As with most matters Uulian, the designation was a nod to their poetic practice of naming that which none had ever before seen: in this case an unnatural, many dayrides-wide emptiness shrouded in an air of perpetual twilight.
Aside from the snoat-breeders of Ixtachet and their singular economics, few dared to live within the Void’s adjacency.
Aside from the snoat-breeders of Ixtachet and their singular economics, few dared to live within the Void’s adjacency. The sole reason for Prosatio Silban traveling its eastern edge was that it directly connected two of his favorite villages: Kissing Bridge in the south and Hightower in the north. Also, the journey scratched his irresistible itch for the seldom-beheld and remarkable.
Craning his eyes westward, the beefy cook could almost make out the distant crags on the Void’s all-but-invisible floor. Though said to be haunted, details regarding any astral inhabitants were sketchy and few. Anything out of the ordinary may as well be haunted, Prosatio Silban thought, so long as no one can be troubled to investigate it.
Onward’s rattling hoot cut through his reverie. Just ahead on the right was a squat but imposing slate structure, its angular grey bulk pocked by rough holes and painted with jagged glyphs. The building had no roof or crater-side wall; its shadowy interior seemed uninhabited, and he was about to pass by with a shrug when a hoarse voice croaked at him out of the darkness.
“Welcome, traveler,” it said in a thick but familiar accent.
The cook reined his dray-beast to a halt. ‘In ambiguity, react with boldness,’ ran the old Uulian proverb, so he made his voice both brave and firm.
“Who are you?” he asked the unseen speaker.
“I am Kishu, the sentinel of this place. And you?”
“Prosatio Silban, the Cook For Any Price. What do you want of me?”
“I would converse with you. Pray take your rest here.”
“I do not take rest with those I cannot see.”
“A point well taken.” A bright candle kindled inside the gloom, revealing a wiry old man with short grey hair, clad in the motley tunic typical of an Aydnzmir minstrel. He was sitting at a makeshift slate table, on the other side of which was another quartz-boulder seat; on the table sat the candle and a trio of small dark spheres.
”Is this not more welcoming?” asked Kishu.
”Is this not more welcoming?” asked Kishu.
“Not by very much,” Prosatio Silban said. “What do you do here?”
“I keep watch over the Azure Void and engage with all who pass my way.”
“Why does the Void require watching?”
“Because one never knows.” Kishu smiled and swept his hand above the tabletop. “Do you enjoy games of chance?”
“Of a sort. What do you propose?”
“It is a variation on the pastime you know as ‘middles.’ We of the Singing City call it ‘manaka-no,’ and employ dice rather than Uulian gambling-cards. Are you intrigued?”
The cook thought for a moment. It has been a long day, and Onward should rest his strength for further travel on this difficult road. What harm could come from one middles-match?
“You have your challenger,” Prosatio Silban said, and dismounted from the driver’s-bench. He unharnessed Onward, fed the buopoth a fragrant maroon fatberry-cake, and sat down across from Kishu. The three dark spheres were actually multifaceted gems. Each triangular face bore a number from 1 to 20.
“The mechanics may be strange to you, but the principle is the same,” said the sentinel.
“For what shall we play?” asked the cook.
“In truth, I have no items of value with which to bet. Let us instead play … for time.”
“How would that work?”
“As the host, I will serve as dealer for ten throws, then we will switch roles.” Kishu cast on the table two of the icosahedra. “Eight and sixteen,” he said. “An auspicious beginning, perhaps.”
Prosatio Silban rolled the third die. “Fourteen. An auspicious beginning indeed. At least, for me.”
“Shall we roll again?”
“Please.”
Kishu did so. “A six and a ten.”
So saying, the cook rolled a seven, and a peculiar lightness surged through his chest and arms.
“For some reason, I feel lucky.” So saying, the cook rolled a seven, and a peculiar lightness surged through his chest and arms. Was that a new seam on Kishu’s brow, or a mere trick of the dim light? He rubbed his eyes.
Another cast by the host: one and fifteen. Prosatio Silban rattled the third die in one confident hand, and let it fall to the table.
“Sixteen,” Kishu said. “An unfortunate roll.”
Three more casts; the cook lost each one. Now he was certain that Kishu’s face had changed – was it smoother? He felt his own heightened energy dissipate, as though gravity had increased. He glanced at his hands, saw liver spots on wrinkled skin, and gasped.
“What is happening to me?” he exclaimed.
“I told you. We are playing for time. When one wins a cast, he grows younger. When one loses …”
Prosatio Silban stood up, gripping the table for assistance. “I do not wish to play anymore,” he said, his voice creaking.
The black-haired sentinel grinned. “With four rolls to go? And you now a much older man than you were! How much time will you retain if you leave before the game is over?”
“How much time will I retain if I continue to lose?”
“That is why this is called a game of chance.” Kishu cast the dice, producing twelve and fifteen. He smiled a predator’s smile. “Your roll.”
A rattling hoot sounded. Onward extended what might have been a trunk and knocked over the table; he wrapped a similar appendage around the sentinel’s waist.
Kishu stood up, snarled at the dray-beast, and his dice-hand glowed with sudden red flame. Before he could point the fiery limb at the loyal buopoth, Onward lifted the sentinel from the ground and hurled him toward the Azure Void; the flaming hand traced a meteor’s trail as Kishu receded into the blue depths.
Prosatio Silban closed his eyes, sat back, and sighed. His heart was going like mad, and it took him some moments to relax and breathe himself into calm.
Whole again, he thought, and raised his age-spotted hands. Ancient, to be sure – but otherwise whole.
He turned to Onward, two of whose eyes were regarding him with warm concern.
“Thank, you, old friend,” the gaunt cook wheezed, and rose up on shaky legs. “You have saved my life, and not for the first time. I suppose now … we should find a healer.”
(If you’re new to these tales, here are the preface and introduction. And if you want another 85 of them (so far) in one easy-to-read package, here’s the e-book!)