Elements of Fate

Icy wind howls through the pass, kicking up fine snow that cuts like daggers. It’s nearing sunset and I mutter a curse, pulling my cloak tighter and picking the pace. The wind bites at the exposed skin around my eyes but I know if I don’t hurry, I will miss my chance. Each step is calculated, if I guess wrong I’ll surely plummet to my death. The steep mountain path is dangerous and unstable in some places which has caused many a pilgrim to lose their lives on the jagged cliffs.

This particular route is known as the Path of the Seeing which is the loose translation from a mostly forgotten language. No mortal knows how it got that name for the people who named it are extinct. The Izari civilization, the ancestors of my people, all but vanished, leaving only scraps of history and their strange language but they recognized this pass and its summit for what it was: a place of divinity. The home of a powerful being, not god nor demon, but more than both.

My footsteps quicken, crunching through the snow while the fabric of the cloak snaps in the wind. I hurry along while sticking close to the sheer cliff wall. I’m almost there. Prophet’s Gate. A sanctum for a powerful being but one not widely-worshipped anymore. Those who seek an audience must bring an offering of great value and I hope what I bring is enough.

Anxiety over what awaits me inside mixes in with what I’ve been feeling since I left my village a few days ago. This journey has been treacherous.—wracked with guilt, fraught with worry. I viciously force down those emotions that don’t serve me, yet some still bubble to the surface, lingering like a wound that won’t heal. How could I leave them like that? I already know the answer: desperation. A frantic effort to stem the tide of disease and, ultimately, extinction.

As one of the higher-ranking Seekers, I was assigned to this task, as the Elders said, but sending me to seek a being that no one has seen in centuries seems a fool’s errand. What choice do we have? My race is well known for our strength and longevity, among other things, and yet we have been falling to illness in droves. We need help.

The sun is halfway dipping behind the horizon when I finally face the giant circular stone door. Decaying offerings of food, incense, and trinkets litter the base of the door, the newest looking centuries old. Complex runes and inscriptions are carved along the outer edge in a language few can read. My hands shift under my cloak, rising to the sky. I feel my power saturate the air and the wind dies to a whisper.

Strange words that even I don’t understand, are spoken in a chant, echoing across the surrounding peaks. The symbols etched into the stone start to glow a deep purple hue. It makes for an ethereal sight: the deep orange of the setting sun, the icy blues of the snow, and preternatural light emanating from stone.

The words of power vibrate through my being as I chant. I can feel my skin warm, my ancestral tattoos pulse. My chant rises to fever pitch, booming through the mountains, shifting the snow-capped peaks. As quick as it began, it ceases, leaving an almost painful silence behind. Until a groan. A deep rumbling of stone grinding against stone. The Prophet’s Gate is opening.

I steel myself. If this being still exists in this realm, they are not one to approach lightly or with doubt in my heart.

My footsteps barely make a sound as I make my way through the tunnel. I don’t know if the being I seek awaits me inside and a prickle of unease sits in my stomach. Caution and desperate need drive me forward. I can’t go back. There’s too much at stake.

The tunnel opens abruptly to a cavern. Curved walls climb higher and higher into darkness. But I don’t linger on what’s above. There, in the center, is a stone dais. A simple throne is the only thing that occupies its surface. Made of sturdy wood, it looks new, lacking any signs of use and not a speck of dust sits upon it. I stop in front of the dais, my head cocked to the side in confusion.

My gloved fingers emerge from the folds of my cloak and grasp the hood, pulling it to my shoulders. Low, dusty light hits my face as I step closer to the dais and examine the throne, one hand reaching to touch.

“Aaaaah..... Seeeker,” a voice, no, many voices whisper in unison. “Child of the Lady of Spirits.”

I jump back, my hand flying to my belt where the blade of an ornate dagger flashes in the gloom.

A thousand voices laugh as one as a figure forms in the throne. Transparent at first, but it becomes more solid by the second until an elderly woman with long silver hair cascading over her shoulder is perched at the edge of the wooden seat.

“I wondered when you would present yourself to me,” all the voices say through the old woman’s mouth in slow, careful words.

I drop to my knees, falling forward in reverence.

“Do you know who I am, child?”

“The Mother Weaver,” I whisper.

“My real name, child, do you dare speak it?”

I rise, boldly meeting the milky white eyes staring at me.

“Haska,” I declare. “Mistress of Fate.”

The booming laughter of many shakes the walls of the cavern, knocking pebbles and dust down around us.

“Not many have spoken my name aloud in a long, long time. You are more than you appear, child, more than you believe.”

“I seek your aid,” I say, ignoring the words of Mother Weaver. “A strange illness has swept through my tribe. No medicines can cure it. It is a sickness born of magic that our healers cannot fight. I seek the guidance of the Weaver to save my people.”

“Yes... many have been lost, I see.”

Haska shifts in her seat, leaning back into the throne. A long, skeletal finger taps her wrinkled chin as her eyes stare unseeing into the darkness above.

“You wish for my guidance... interesting. Yes,” Mother Weaver whispers to herself before turning back to me. “Are you prepared to pay the price?”

I step forward eagerly. “Myself. I offer myself as your agent.”

“Yourself?”

I nod with determination. “Yes.”

She examines me a moment then tilts her head to the side, milky eyes seeming to stare right through me.

“Step forward, receive my gift.”

I move to kneel before her, bowing my head in respect. The Weaver’s hands rise slowly from her lap as she whispers hissing words. Her hands close over my head like claws. As soon as she touches me, needles stab through my mind and my wrists burn as if submerged in flame but I grit my teeth until I fear they will shatter. Slicing pain radiates through me but I do not cry out. The whispers stop and the hands release me. My lungs feel tight, my breath wheezing as a wracking cough sounds from my chest and I lurch forward on my hands and knees.

“You will serve me, as my right hand; the hand that strikes. Resolve a matter of great import and I will help you save your people,” she says, her voice ringing clearer as she speaks. “Rise, Chiron, Seeker of Kuuri People,” the Weaver commands, her voice now booming, and I obey. “From this day forth, you shall serve me as my chosen, Fate’s Chosen. Gather the four elements and bind them as one. Only then you will have what you seek and bring salvation to your people and all mortalkind.”

I stand tall, meeting the gaze of the Weaver. I have questions swirling in my mind but I wait for the Weaver to speak next.

“Go to the city Damanse to the Northeast. Seek out a monk, Brother Ortenato, show him the symbols I have carved on your wrists. He will provide you the information you need.”

Wind whips through the cavern, swirling my cloak around me.

“Go now. There is no time to waste.”

The wind seems to grab for me, wrapping shivering tendrils around my ankles and tugging. Suddenly, I am airborne, the dark cave fading out of focus until it blinks out completely.