The Behemoth roared over their heads. Lava-spittle flew from its volcanic maw as it seared the earth with a hot, sulfur-scented wind. Each step it took with its obsidian feet made pebbles rattle against the ground like a drum. Each swing of its crystal-coated tail cracked the walls of the canyon and sent flakes of sandstone crumbling down.

Arjasoot drew their head back from the cave’s mouth. “It’s not leaving,” they told Varayana.

“Blast,” she cursed, sitting on a stone and tapping the flat of her sword against her knee. “Is it searching for something? Is it hungry or thirsty? Is it drinking the river?”

“None of those, I fear,” Arjasoot replied. They hesitated to speak for a moment––no, they told themselves. No point in being coy to a human of flesh and blood. “I think it’s...well, marking its territory.”

“Ah,” Varayana said.

The two travelers sat in the cave and stewed in awkward silence. Outside, the Behemoth’s roars started to sound strained.

“So!” Arjasoot said loudly. “Lady Vara! You mentioned you had four fathers...or were you saying forefathers…?”

“No, you were right the first time,” Varayana said, holding up and wiggling four of her fingers. She grinned slyly: “It’s a common misunderstanding.”

“Varayana of the Four Fathers,” Arjasoot said, letting out a low whistle. “That must be quite a story.”

“Not much of a story,” Varayana demurred. “But it is a story…”

Arjasoot drew their sword, rammed the into the soft clay of the cave floor, and rested their chin and hands on top of the hilt. "I’m not going anywhere," they said.

#

Varavel, High Priestess of Areia, lay on her back and gasped for breath. The battle was hard-fought, the durance hard endured, but victory was claimed, and the spoils of her conquest lay cradled in her arms.

“Buh,” little Varayana said, chubby fingers tracing arcane patterns in the air. “Buh-buh!”

“It’s okay,” Argus the Sword-Smith said, his calloused fingers gently wrapping the baby in a bundle. “It’s okay: your ma’s right right here!”

He laid the bundled baby in Varavel’s arms to nurse and stepped back, beaming with pride.

“Will you look at that!” He crowed. “Little Vara’s got a nice pair of lungs and a big nostrils...just like her old man!”

“Fah!” Vasura said, gesturing at the children with the tip of his writing stylus. “Don’t try to get smart with me, Argus! The babe’s obviously got my fingers–the digits of a scribe!”

“Those tiny little paws?” Ramides exclaimed, tapping his riding crop against the inner crook of his arm. “How could you possibly tell that?”

“A scholar recognizes their own,” Vasura replied with no small amount of smugness.

“Sophistry from a mere Sophist,” Ramides sneered. “Besides, it’s clear to see that the girl’s got my ears…”

“No,” Zol said, his words soft and sinuous as his elegant dances. “See how her limbs shake to a hidden rhythm...this one is my child. I can feel it in my bones!”

“You feel everything in your bones!” Argus snarled towards Zol. "Is there anything your blasted bones can’t detect...?"

“WOULD YOU FINE GENTLEMAN SHUT YOUR MOUTHS, FOR AREIA’S SAKE?” Varavel roared, raising her head and glaring at her suitors through the gaps in her tangled hair. “YOU’LL FRIGHTEN THE BABY!!”

The suitors fell silent, chastened and ashamed.

On cue, little Varayana began to cry, struggling against the prison of her wrapped shawl.

“Now look what you’ve done!” Priestess Varavel said, rocking her child back and forth. “A fine lot of men you are! Not one hour born, and you’ve made her world a place of terror!”

“I am sorry, ‘Vel,” Argus said, clasping his hands together and bowing slightly. “Our affection for this child had made us lose our way, divided us with jealousy! Be our guide in this matter, I beg you! Settle this quarrel and tell us who Vara’s father is!”

Varavel set her jaw. “I don’t know,” she said.

The faces of the suitors all fell at the same time.

“I am sorry,” Varavel said genuinely, looking down at the babe in her arms with a mixture of love and regret. “When I look at Varayana, I see you all in her. Perhaps a mother’s vanity colors my gaze...but alas, I cannot tell who the father is.”

Vasura, frowning in thought, spoke up. “Then choose the best of us,” he said. “The one who would be the best father for little Varayana.”

Priestess Varavel, ever confident, peerlessly graceful even during the worst of the birthing, lost her composure. “I––” She stammered.

“Let Vasura be the father,” Argus said slowly, lowering his head and stepping back. “He’s well-read and clever. He can give Varayana a peerless education.”

Vasura gave his head a violent shake. “You think too much of me and too little of yourself. You are the master of forging and fighting, beautiful disciplines of destruction and creation. I know letters and treatises...but you could teach her wisdom.”

Argus laughed bitterly: “Me? Wisdom? I’m just a fool who knows how to swing a hammer and melt metal. I’m a fool compared to a scribe like you...and a clumsy oaf compared to this dancer.” The sword-smith gestured towards Zol. “He would give Varayana the gift of grace…”

“...but I cannot feed her with grace alone,” Zol noted with sorrow, veiling his face behind his splayed, ring-clad fingers. “This girl has the strength to better herself: I know it in my heart. She needs someone who can support her endeavors and shower her with wealth.” Zol turned on his heel and faced Ramides. “She needs a merchant father,” he said.

Ramides opened his mouth to object, to extole the parental virtues of his rivals.

“Enough,” Varavel said, rising from her bed and walking stiffly into the midst of her suitors. “I cannot tell whose child she is,” she said, holding Varayan aloft. “And you would all make magnificent fathers! I cannot choose between the four of you...but maybe I do not need to!”

Argus blinked. “Varavel?” He questioned. “What are you planning, my love?"

Priestess Varavel turned in a circle, meeting the eyes of her suitors one by one. “Little Varayana deserves to know her blood father,” she says. “And she deserves the best of rearing.”

Varavel reached out, taking the hands of her lovers and placing them on her newborn daughter’s squirming belly. “There is only one course open to us,” the Priestess said. A wry smile: “Though it may be a tad unorthodox….”

#

Varayana shrugged: "...and so my mother and fathers decided to raise me collectively. Just to be safe."

"My word," Arjasoot said, enraptured by Varayana’s terse account. "...I never knew human families were this complicated!"

"Is that so?" Varyana’s eyebrows rose. "Does that mean that Smoke Spirits families are simpler?"

"Simpler?" Arjasoot frowned. "Sometimes, perhaps. Most of our families are just...normal, you know?"

"...normal?" Varayana said, blinking.

"You know how it goes," Arjasoot said. "A parent wants a child. They carve off a shard of their heart flame and place it in a mold of clay and moss. In time, a lumpy Smoke-Child bursts out of the clay and into their parent’s arms."

"You know," they said with a shrug. "Normal."

"...mmm," Varayana said, a pensive look crossing her face. "I’m not sure how to tell you this, Arjasoot..."

Did I say something wrong, Arjasoot thought? Is it taboo to talk about the mechanics of conception in human culture? Surely she would tell me if I said something wrong––

"Oh!" The Smoke Spirit exclaimed smacking the back of their head. "Silly me! I forgot: humans don’t bake their children in clay kilns!"

Varayana let out a sigh of relief and opened their mouth to say something.

"Human pluck their babies from special fruit trees!" Arjasoot went on to say. "That’s what the Codex on Human Cultivation said, at least!"

Varayana closed their mouth and gave Arjasoot a look.

"It’s not that either?" Arjasoot asked. They closed their eyes and sighed. "Bother. The archives will need reorganizing when I return..."

They didn’t finish their thought.

Off in the distance, the Behemoth let out another earth-shaking roar. Dust and bits of gravel spilled from the roof of the cave, coating Varayana and Arjasoot in a fine layer of grey powder.

“First the Mound Thralls,” Arjasoot grumbled, “then that salt-spawned Esmer, then this gods-blasted Behemoth.” They curled up and hugged their knees.. “It’s almost like somebody doesn’t want us to reach Wedwel Dom.”

“I am sorry,” Varayana said softly.

Arjasoot blinked. "Pardon?" They asked.

“When I invited you to travel with me, I didn’t realize how dangerous things would get," Varayana confessed.

“Think nothing of it,” Arjasoot said, feeling the old familiar guilt well up in their breast. “I nearly got you roped into my affairs, so I have no right to complain.”

"If you have your own affairs to deal with," Varayana retorted, "then that makes me all the more thoughtless." Bitterly: "I should be able to deal with my own problems."

"The Drowning Court will soon be everyone’s problem if something isn’t done," Arjasoot said. "They’re not content with simply ruling the Hearth-Vale. Soon enough, they’ll seek new tributaries to conquer."

“The Foam-Spirits of the Drowning Court,” Varayana mused out loud. “I’m sure they have kind folks among their number...but I haven’t met a member of their ruling caste that I didn’t want to slap silly.”

“Serves them right,” Arjasoot said, their voice hot with passion. “They threatened my parent. I would burn them if I could.”

“...are you sure that’s what your parent would want?” Varayana asked, a soft pity in her eyes.

#

On the slope of a mountain that breathed life-giving fire, at the border between the Hearth Vale and the Wilds, two Smoke Spirits crossed paths.

Arjasoot walked down a road of glass, their bare feet and toes clicking a drum-like rhythm. They wore a fine kilt of woven bark. They carried a finely crafted sword and sheath tied to their waist with a ruby-studded belt. They had tied their ash-white hair back behind their head, in the vain hope that it would make them look more serious.

The other Smoke Spirit, a tall beauty with gemstones braided in their hair, stood on the very cusp of the border, placing themselves in Arjasoot’s way. They carried a small satchel from a strap on their shoulder. The look on their gentle face could not be read.

Arjasoot measured their steps with care. One foot, two foot…

...they stopped two paces away from the Spirit standing in their path. They cleared their throat.

“I’m going,” they said to the Spirit in their path. “I’ve thought about this quite a bit already: I doubt you’ll be able to talk me out of it.”

The Spirit standing in their way said nothing.

“I know I must seem like a selfish wretch,” Arjasoot said. “I know what they’ll say. They’ll call me a traitor, a coward, a person who abandoned their duty.”

“Yes,” the other Spirit said ever so gently. "Yes, they will."

“They’ll think I’m doing this for just myself...” Arjasoot’s voice cracked for a moment. They stared at their toes, a deep, unknowable burden of shame weighing them down. Was this just vanity on their part...?

...No.

NO.

Arjasoot’s blade exploded from their sheath in a flash of light. They brandished their leaf- blade, waving it toward the faceted city of the Hearth-Vale...pointing it towards the stepped Temple of Submission that rose above it all.

“...and they’ll be wrong,” Arjasoot declared. “I’m doing this for them! For all the victims that were sacrificed! For all the victims yet to come! A parade of betrayal that’ll never end unless someone does something…!”

The Smoke Spirit smiled, a grin fill with wryness and no small amount of mirth. “Well, then,” they said to their child. “I suppose you don’t have time to waste!”

They stepped to the side, clearing the path for their offspring march ahead.

Arjasoot’s sword clattered to the ground. “Arjasana…” they said, gaping. “Parent. What are you doing?”

“Save us,” Arjasana told Arjasoot, shrugging the parcel off their shoulder and pressing it into their child’s hands. “Flee this broken city. Go see the wider world, like you’ve always wanted to. Find something new––a treasure or secret we can use to free our land!”

“...why are you helping me?” Arjasoot said, taking the parcel into their arms on pure reflex . They felt dizzy, as if their world had turned upside down: their graceful, proper parent...preaching defiance?

“Why not?” Arjasana said flippantly. “Shouldn’t a parent support the strivings of their child?”

“They might hate you for this,” Arjasoot said.

“Maybe,” Arjasana said, “but I can take it.”

“The Chanters may try to sacrifice you,” Arjasoot, meeting their parent’s gaze.

Arjasana smirked, a playful glint in her warm orange eyes. “Then you’d better come save me before the year’s out,” they said.

Arjasoot groaned softly. “It still feels selfish to me,’ they said. “Pissing off the Temple Chanters and the Foam-Spirits alike, and for what? A little hope…?”

Arjasana chuckled loudly, so loudly, in fact, that Arjasoot fear her guffaws would wake up the neighbors and ruin their escape plan.

“Walk fast,” Arjasana told their child, leaning forward and kissing them on the brow. “Walk hard. Keep your blade loose in its sheath. Make sure to always have some dried moss on hand.” Her loving smile turned sharp and cruel as an axe blade. ”And if you encounter one of the Foam Court’s minions…”

#

Arjasoot drew a slender finger across their ashen throat. “Kill them quick and clean,” they quoted with a smile. "They don’t deserve any more of your time than that."

Varayana smiled: “Your mo-” They corrected themselves: “Your parent sounds like a remarkable spirit.”

“They really are!" Arjasoot said, nodding. “There’s no better spirit in the Hearth-Vale, whether at learning, dancing, dueling or the shaping of glass!” Their smile slipped a moment: “Honestly, it’s enough to make a spirit jealous at someone with so many gifts.”

"Isn’t that how it always is?" Varayana mused. "Parents cast a long shadow on their child. I remember being a child –– awestruck at my mother’s graceful beauty and powerful words and generous giving, but also furious at how clumsy and..."

"...and awkward you felt by comparison," Arjasoot supplied.

"Yes!" Varayana exclaimed. "Exactly that! And let’s not get started on my fathers!" Her round cheeks stretched out in a grimace, eyes rolling into the back of her skull: "Always pestering me to take over their family trades! Night after night of lessons in swordplay and bronze casting and scribing and working an abacus...!"

“Yes!” Arjasoot blurted out. “You love them, of course, but sometimes you just need space to breath!”

“Freedom from their expectations!” Varayana said.

“Space to be your own person!” Arjasoot added.

“The chance to walk your own path!” Varayana emphasized.

“I miss my parent,” Arjasoot said.

“I miss my mother and fathers too,” Varayana said.

“Do you think you will see them again?” Arjasoot whispered.

Varayana gave their question serious thought.

“If my sword arm is quick and and my mind like breeze," she said, "I will reach Wedwel Dom. If the clerics there are merciful and the spring-waters clean, I may get these curses of mine lifted. And then, with luck, I can finally return to home and kin.” Varayana smiled and rested a jeweled hand on the hilt of her curved Rhomphaia: “There is reason to hope, at least.”

The Behemoth outside roared one last time. The human and Smoke-Spirit listened in silence as the creatures slow, earth-shuddering footsteps slowly grew soft and distant.

“...then it falls on me to protect that hope, as your humble servant,” Ajrasoot said, resting a hand on the hilt of their own leaf-blade. They grabbed their brass pot from the ground, and slung its carrying strap over their shoulder. “Shall we?”

"I do believe we shall,” Varayana said, sliding their father’s sword back into its sheath.

Next Chapter: Chapter Seven