Tome of the Undergates

He roared another word that thundered off the sky, punctuated by a sudden crack of lightning leaping from his digit. She shrieked and collapsed. Only when the echo of thunder passed did she look up at him, his finger angled high and smoking.

‘My name,’ he said, ‘is Dreadaeleon.’

The boy could not recall in what order it happened: his threats, her wailed excuses and pleas, his collapsing, her fleeing into the water to vanish into the sea. He could only sit and stare out over the waves as a tear trickled down his cheek and into his mouth, leaving him with the fading taste of salt.

Thirty-Two

AN UNCARING WING

Denaos poised the hatchet over the wooden block, closed one eye and swung. It split smoothly down the centre, each half flying off to join the two piles of similar semicircular shapes. He smiled at his work momentarily, admiring the even cleave, before sinking the tool into the tree stump that served as a chopping block.

‘Your turn,’ he said.

Lenk looked up through a sweat-stained face, incredulous.

‘What?’ He looked down at the piles, his piles, with Denaos’s addition lying smugly on top like fruits on a dessert. ‘You only chopped one?’

‘I chopped one exquisitely,’ the rogue corrected. ‘If I wanted to beat you in a contest, I could hack circles around you, throwing off so many lacklustre splinters like you did.’ He plucked up his product and one of Lenk’s, holding his up. ‘Look at this: a nice, delicate blow, revealing every tender secret of the wood. Now look at yours. Where’s the heart?’

Lenk mopped his brow, looked down at the piles, then looked back up at his companion.

‘It’s wood.’

‘A true artist never makes excuses.’ The rogue added an insulting sashay to his walk as he turned away from Lenk. ‘Anyway, you’re the one who wanted work ethic and talk. It’s only fair that I get laziness and listening.’ He pulled himself up onto a low-hanging tree branch and lay down. ‘So, go ahead.’

‘Fine,’ the young man said, grunting as he hefted the hatchet and placed a fresh block of wood onto the stump. ‘I’m having some trouble with-’

‘Oh, wait, we’re going to talk about you?’

‘Well. . yeah.’

‘Why can’t we ever talk about me for once?’ the rogue muttered, settling himself further into his boughy sling. ‘Everyone comes to me with their problems. Why can’t I ever get the same treatment?’

‘Because all I know about you is that you’re a coward, a lech, a lush, a brigand, a bigot and a piece of offal masquerading as a man,’ Lenk snarled, bringing the hatchet down in a vicious chop. ‘Did I miss anything?’

‘Yes,’ the rogue replied, ‘I also play the lute.’

‘Fine, then. We’ll talk about you.’ Lenk set a new piece of wood up, glancing at his companion. ‘You never told me what you did before becoming an adventurer. Are you married?’

Denaos sat up at that, lips pursing, regarding Lenk through narrowed eyes.

‘Any children?’ Lenk asked.

‘You know, I think I am in the mood to talk about you.’ With noticeable stiffness, the rogue settled back into his tree branch. ‘So, do go on.’

‘Um. . all right, then.’ Lenk brought the axe down again. ‘I’m having some difficulty understanding women.’

‘Ah, yes.’ Denaos scratched his chin. ‘The eternal question on two legs that only gets more annoying with every passing thought.’ His hand drifted lower, scratched something else. ‘Fortunately for you, I’m something of an expert on the subject.’

‘Yeah?’

‘No doubt,’ the rogue replied. ‘What do you want to know?’

‘I suppose. .’ Lenk’s hum hovered in the air as he leaned on the hatchet’s handle, staring contemplatively out at the forest’s greenery. ‘Why?’

‘The best place to start,’ Denaos said, nodding. ‘Well, to understand women, you must first understand their place in the world. And to that end, you must first know how they came to occupy this world alongside us.’

‘How?’

‘The theories vary from faith to faith, but here’s how it was explained to me.’ He cleared his throat, sitting upright as though he were some scholar. ‘The Gods first created man and gave to him their gifts. From Daeon and Galataur, we received the art of war. From Silf, we received the talent of deception. And from Khetashe, as you know, we received the urge to explore.’

‘Go on.’

‘But there was a difficulty. Mankind lacked purpose. There was no reason to go to war, no reason to lie, no reason to wander far and wide.’

‘And?’

Denaos shrugged and lay back. ‘And then the Gods created women and suddenly everything made sense.’

‘Oh. .’ Lenk scratched his head. ‘Well, how does that help me?’

‘If you haven’t reached that conclusion from that particular story, there’s really nothing I can do to help you.’ The rogue waved a hand dismissively. ‘What do you even care? When we return the tome, you’ll have enough money to buy several whores, make one of them your wife and die a slow, lingering death at the bottom of a tankard like any decent man.’

‘What if I don’t want any of that?’

‘Then give me your share.’

‘I mean,’ Lenk said, setting down another log, ‘well … let me ask you this. Have you ever wanted something desperately, but you knew it just wasn’t meant to be?’

The rogue fell silent, absently scratching his chest. The wind shifted overhead, parting branches that sent shadows dancing over his face, chased by eager fingers of sunlight upon the giggles of a playful breeze. Quietly, he reached up, fingers outstretched as though he sought to grab them.

‘Yeah,’ he replied, ‘I’ve wanted that.’

‘So, what do you do?’

Lenk brought the hatchet down, splitting the log and sending its halves flying off. The echo of the chop lasted an eternity throughout the forest, silencing the laughter of the wind.

‘I suppose,’ Denaos whispered, ‘you ask “why”?’

Taire was her name.

Asper remembered that about her, remembered it the first day she had heard it.

‘Like. . a paper tear?’ she had asked the girl, scrunching up her nose. ‘What kind of name is that?’

‘What kind of name is Asper?’ she had replied with a smile, sticking her tongue out. ‘The name of a slow-witted tree or a snake with a lisp?’

Her tongue was long and pink, never coated. Her eyes were big and blue, not cold like Lenk’s, but vast like the sky. Her hair was long and golden, not dirty like Kataria’s, but glistening like the precious metal.

She was always smiling.

Temple life was hard. Asper had been told that before she ever felt called to join. She learned it in the days that followed, during the dissections of the dead to discover what they had died from, ferrying salves and medicines