99. Strangers in a Strange Land

  On only her second day since ascension, Serac already found herself back in familiar territory: prison.

  Having survived the Damnatorium, however, its Pretjordian cousin felt more like a vacation. She and Zacko had been ‘given’ separate cells, likely to curb their efforts to collaborate on an escape plan. In effect, however, it also meant that each Wayfarer had that much more room to stretch out their legs.

  And stretch them out Serac did, taking full advantage of the first real ‘break’ she’d had since arriving in Pretjord. Her cell, like many other buildings upon the Realmtree, was a refurbished tree hollow, giving Serac the chance to experience what it might be like to reincarnate as a squirrel. This particular squirrel had been given a bed of crushed acorns to sleep on and a tree-stump desk for if she ever felt like writing diaries.

  As she lay on an acorn bed and stared up at a sap-stained ceiling, Serac pondered what her next action ought to be. Zacko was no help this time, not only because he was in the next cell over, but also because he could be heard loudly snoring. Which left Trippy as the only companion she could bounce ideas off of.

  What do you reckon, Trips? Think we’ll be stuck here for long?

  Serac had finally taken her next evolution as an artist and shaved one more syllable off a pre-existing nickname. She did so in her inside voice, however, cognizant of the two Yaksha soldiers who stood guard on either side of a door made of braided vines.

  “I should think that depends on you, Wayfarer. It’d be no trouble for you to burn down this door and deal with the soldiers outside.”

  This was true enough. Even with numbers and harpoon guns on their side, the soldiers had stopped short of trying to confiscate Serac’s and Zacko’s Instruments, wary of the violent reprisal that would surely provoke.

  “Keep in mind, however, that killing Anchored souls would incur a Karma deduction for each ‘unsanctioned smite’. It also might not be a savvy move, politically speaking, especially if you wish to remain friendly with the locals for the time being.”

  You know me well enough to know that’s definitely out of the question. Besides, I get the funny feeling the soldiers here know it too. They seem to treat me and Zacko, not with fear, but with caution. It’s like there’s a line where you could push a Wayfarer too far, and they’re careful not to cross it.

  “Reasonable assumption, given the locals here—whether they be Anchored or Wayfaring—adhere strictly to the laws and customs laid down by their king. Which leads me to suspect even your imprisonment is subject to its own set of protocols.”

  I was just thinking the same thing. These guys don’t have real beef with me or Zacko. They’re just acting on orders, and orders can change at any time. I think, at least for now, it’s best to sit tight and see what happens. I know you don’t like being held up, Trippy, and neither do I, but I just don’t think antagonizing the locals is the right play right now.

  “On that count, we can agree,” Trippy said, somewhat surprising Serac with his reasonable promptness. “Play it how you see fit, Serac Edin. But do keep in mind that, here in Pretjord, you’re always on a clock whether you like it or not. I don’t expect the soldiers would want to threaten a pair of Wayfarers with starvation, but we simply know too little to be relying solely on our intuition.”

  On that count, Serac could just as easily agree. With her Satiety in the 20’s now, her [Hunger] had become a palpable nagging sensation. She could only imagine what it might be like for Zacko and his faster metabolism, but if the Manusya man felt relaxed enough to take a nap, there was no reason for her not to follow suit.

  And wouldn’t she know it? Cushioned by a bed of acorn bits, she enjoyed some of the most comfortable sleep she could ever remember, rivaled only by the Wayside Lotus’s foamy futon. Gun to her head, though, she might actually have to side with the acorns. There was just a humble earthiness to it that really spoke to Serac’s increasingly apparent outdoorsy side.

  When she woke from the nap, however, she was forced again to reckon with reality, namely in the form of her dwindling Satiety gauge. Down to 15 now, which was near enough the lowest it’d ever been since arriving in Pretjord. [Hunger]’s nagging had become an angry remonstration, as if Serac’s tummy couldn’t imagine a more serious insult than having its demands ignored for so long.

  Time to start banging on doors, you think?

  “If you must, Wayfarer. After all, even freesouls are thralls to their most basic needs.”

  Chatter from the next cell over made it apparent that Zacko had already started without her.

  “—worried about breaking the Genua Convention? Even the Jailers down in hell would sometimes give us food, you know. Granted, said food was made up mostly of maggots, and the Jailers did it mostly to amuse themselves, but still—”

  Taking her cue from her partner, Serac shuffled over to her cell’s braided-vine door, where a salmon and a halibut stood guard. For one fleeting moment, Zacko’s hanger-fueled ‘joke’ about salted fish crossed her mind. She shook her head vigorously to dispel the (un)savory thought.

  “Hey chief!” Serac defaulted to her general address for souls who could provide or withhold what she wanted. She started with the halibut to her right. “Any chance this prison stay might come with a meal service? You see, we Wayfarers can actually see the state of our [Hunger], and I gotta tell you, I’m getting a bit close to bottoming out. I’m not asking for a feast here. Just a bite to tide me over.”

  The silent treatment. Serac might’ve expected as much. But while the halibut had remained stock-still, the salmon to the left fidgeted slightly—a detail that didn’t escape a [Hungry] Rakshasa’s attention.

  Upon closer inspection, the salmon looked to be younger (and less experienced). If Serac were to choose, he ought to be the one for her to push. After all, there was a line these Anchored souls were nervous about crossing, and young Salmon Lad definitely appeared more nervous than his halibut partner.

  “What about you, chief?” Serac prodded. “Help a girl out, hey? I’ll owe you one, and I don’t mean to brag, but I’m pretty good at returning favors. Just ask any of my friends in Nara—”

  “I’ll thank you, Wayfarer, to not fill my troops’ heads with false promises.”

  The interruption had come courtesy of a third figure. It was the sea bass, he of the facial scars and grizzled veteran vibes. He now approached Serac’s cell, with a ring of keys jangling in his hand.

  At his senior’s arrival, Salmon Lad visibly relaxed, with relief washing over his once nervous countenance. Seeing this, Serac felt a stab of guilt and embarrassment. The young man was just trying to do his job to the best of his ability, and here Serac was, lording her Wayfaring status over him in a thinly veiled attempt at coercion.

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  Power as a form of oppression. If Serac weren’t careful, she’d become the very thing she despised. Yet another pitfall on a journey full of them—and another self-improvement item for her to consider.

  As such, she too was grateful for Captain Sea Bass’s arrival. What was more, on this occasion, the man appeared to have come bearing good news if not gifts.

  “Thank your lucky stars, Wayfarers,” he announced, reluctance and annoyance written plainly upon his scars. “You must’ve done something right in your previous lives, for you to be showered with such goodwill and generosity.”

  The gruff captain’s ‘goodwill and generosity’ consisted of opening the doors and letting both Wayfarers out of their cells. And while Serac was grateful for the gesture, she still waited for the ‘showering’ part of the claim.

  No further explanation was forthcoming from the sea bass himself, however, as he beckoned for the Wayfarers to follow with a flick of his chin. Serac and Zacko obeyed without protest, but not before exchanging a look and a shrug.

  “Enjoy your stay, princess?”

  “Can’t complain. At least it was a short one.”

  The prison had been built into an out-of-the-way grotto—exactly the kind of locale that would’ve been ideal for a Waystation. Serac had no time to ponder the possibility, however, as Captain Sea Bass led the way at a brisk pace.

  Outside the grotto, Serac immediately drew in a breath, startled as she was by the sight that greeted her.

  Soldiers lined a groove upon a root that doubled as a footpath. Which was to be expected, were it not that they had company. For crowds of Yakshas in civilian clothing had gathered to witness the Wayfarers’ emancipation.

  At least Serac had to assume that to be the occasion. They certainly weren’t here for the soldiers, who now turned away from the Wayfarers to instead face the crowds, with their harpoon guns held loosely across their torsos—not quite a threat, but nevertheless ready to be used at a moment’s notice.

  Serac found it more than passing strange. If the civilians risked being shot at to be here, there must’ve been something that they deemed worth the risk. And Serac wasn’t high enough on her Wayfaring horse to think she and Zacko would warrant that kind of response.

  The more she studied the gathered crowd, the more disturbed she was by their presence and appearance. It was plain for even an outrealmer like her to see that these civilians lived in a different world than the Stamgardians she’d met so far.

  For one thing, they looked absolutely miserable—gaunt faces, emaciated bodies, and tattered rags that had more in common with Penitent Rakshasas one Realm below than with their Yaksha neighbors one tree segment above. For another, the fierce, desperate [Hunger] that emanated from all of them gave the air a tangible, oppressive weight—almost a magical ‘aura’ unto itself.

  And if there indeed was magic to the Rotgardians’ collective aura, it certainly had its effects on Serac. She was gripped by a strong urge—even stronger than her own [Hunger]—to drop everything and help these people.

  But she was clear-headed enough to know that she didn’t have anything to offer them. At least not now—not yet. So, she put her head down and followed Captain Sea Bass, all the while allowing herself to stew in a new pot of anger. For she remembered well the fragments of local knowledge she’d gleaned from her time inside the Realm-cave.

  Renate and the Tomasen twins had their differences, but one thing they agreed on was that King Tyr was bad news for the people of Rotgard. I know Zacko and I agreed not to jump to conclusions, but I’m just about ready to declare this Realm’s Immortal as big an asshole as the one we smited in Naraka. And maybe that’s exactly what Pretjord needs? A good ol’ regicide to free the people from oppression by the Realm’s most powerful soul…

  As Serac entertained her increasingly seditious thoughts, it took her a while to notice another change in the air. But when she did, her [Hunger]-ravaged mouth instantly flooded with saliva.

  The aroma of hot food. Nothing overwhelming like the oddities that filled a Palmr Jorgensen’s table, but something far more inviting like a Chef Petey special. Spice, charred meat, and promise of nourishment.

  Suddenly, the presence of the Rotgardian crowds made perfect sense. They’d been drawn here, not by the empty novelty of an outrealmer sighting, but by the real and far more urgent need to eat.

  And how dare these soldiers posture with their weapons to deny their own people this basic need? They’d better be following King Tyr’s orders because that would be the only way Serac could forgive them. It’d also fit nicely with her rapidly deteriorating opinion of the Realm Immortal himself…

  That was when Captain Sea Bass halted and stepped aside, evidently having led the Wayfarers to their prescribed destination.

  Serac and Zacko found themselves in a large, near-circular depression upon the root—almost like the footprint of some enormous creature. And for all the outrealmers knew, that was exactly what it was. Whatever might’ve been its origin, this depression was currently manned by a sizable collection of uniformed Yakshas.

  Soldiers and their harpoon guns lined the circular walls of the crater, taking Serac back to a certain ‘boss arena’ that had featured a very similar arrangement. But instead of an earthenware urn, the massive object that took up the crater’s central space was a dining table, one that looked to have been cobbled together from the same braided-vine material as the prison doors.

  Upon this makeshift table spread a sumptuous feast. There was no other for it. Steaming pots of stew, roast meat that still dripped with fat, and cups overflowing with freshly squeezed fruit juice.

  Serac gulped down a dollop of her own saliva, even as she marveled at the logistics behind such a feast. As far as she could tell, this whole place was nothing but barren wasteland, somber soldiers, and starving civilians—many of whom now peered down from above the walls, eyes bulging at the delicacies that were so close yet so far beyond their reach. In any case, whoever had whipped up this supper was either very rich or very magical or perhaps both.

  Well, at least on the first count, Serac was likely to be proven correct. Presently, the dining table was occupied by exactly two people, both of whom clearly lived in a different world still from the soldiers or the civilians.

  The larger of the two (and by a considerable margin at that) was a Yaksha man of a typing Serac didn’t recognize. In her brief time in Pretjord, she’d seen some big boys, but this latest specimen took the cake, taking up an entire width of the dining table with his enormous bulk. And upon his wide, blocky head of polished basalt sat a crown—a strikingly pretty thing made of glistening green leaves.

  Beside him, in a small corner of the table left behind by the man’s frame, sat a woman. A Rakshasa woman—a realization so shocking it took Serac multiple blinks of her eyes to accept it as fact.

  The woman was ‘handsome’ rather than beautiful in the conventional sense—visibly older than Serac, but not by much, with faint lines around her eyes and mouth that gave her a dignified appearance. Her outfit was an embroidered, form-fitting dress of lush forest green, which had the strange effect of softening the red of her cinnabar skin. She too wore a crown that wrapped neatly around her onyx horns, fashioned from dried coral of various shapes and colors.

  [Designation: LOHA of the Reticent Tribe]

  [Wayfarer Race: RAKSHASA]

  [Karmic Level: 87]

  [Liminal Karma: 52,826 ?]

  [INFERNAL Instrument: DIAPHRAGM]

  [Auxiliary: HEARTHSTONE]

  “Welcome, outrealmers, welcome!” The Yaksha man spread his arms wide and greeted them in a booming voice, as jovial as he was loud. “I can’t tell you how delighted I am to meet you both. By my count, we haven’t had anyone ascend from Naraka in 381 years, you know! Can you even imagine? But where are my manners? Before we dig in, allow me to introduce myself.”

  Yet, here was a man who truly needed no introduction. With enough context clues and just plain common sense, even an outrealmer like Serac knew exactly who this was.

  “I am Tyr Djofulsen, king and warden of the Realmtree and Pretjord’s reigning Realm Immortal. And this here is my wife and loyal partner of 381 years: Queen Loha.”

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