Thousand Tongue Mage

Chapter 86 - Kethra or Kethra



There was a saying in the far northern Hellfire Caldera Front: 'the night before war is always at its most absolute'.

Well, the pavilion's silence was as thick as cloth. For a good while, all Zora and Enki did was stare down at the ground that'd been their elevator just moments ago. It was almost inconceivable that the entrance to the secret laboratory was right under their noses the entire time—or five paces away from their dorm room—but here they were, now they were, and there was nothing for them to do but walk their separate ways.

Zora went left. Enki went right. Both of them took their seats on two benches along the pavilion railings, and just like that, Zora leaned back against the railings, breathing slow.

For another long moment, the world was reduced to two heartbeats—because for how machinelike the Worm Mage may be, he was still human.

Then came the scrape of claws against dirt beneath the two of them.

Zora turned his head slightly, ears following the subtle shift of air as the panel in the centre of the pavilion gave way. A scrape, a faint clatter, the sound of nails dragging against grain as someone heaved upward—Eria eventually managed to crawl out of the chute, her breaths shallow and laboured.

She emerged dirty, of course, reeking faintly of damp stone and iron dust. She may have changed out of her bloody uniform for a new set, but she couldn't hide that scent.

… At least fifty metres of climbing, all by her own power.

It's no wonder she's always been dirty and grimy whenever we find her outside in the middle of the night.

It was a wonder, though, how she was able to pack so much strength in a form that looked so frail. Perhaps that was the nature of a 'Grafting Bug'.

While her small hands fumbled at the panel—trying to seal it shut—Vantari's words lingered in his head, clinging like dirty smoke.

'Drastic moves, drastic means'.

Zora couldn't deny the man his logic. Humanity had never advanced by restraint, and he wasn't so naive as to not see history for what it had really been. The Great Makers, over fifty years ago, had built the first systems on the broken backs of countless dead, grinding human lives into blueprints and schematics until something stable could hold. They must've experimented on tens of thousands of people as well. Hell, he was sure even the Magicicada Mages of Amadeus Academy—the old men and ladies he called 'grandfather' and 'grandmother'—had done their fair share of murdering to create and perfect the Magicicada Class.

Historically speaking, weapons demanded sacrifice. They always had.

So what made Vantari's work different?

If the man could turn a child like Eria—timid and untrained—into a warrior who could cleave through ten Mutant-Classes, was that not a path forward? If he could stabilize the warriors and replicate them in mass… the Swarm might just be pushed back systematically for the first time in decades. It could be tens of millions of lives saved. Cities spared. Children never orphaned.

Sacrifice a few to save the rest.

Is that not how a war is won?

… Yet his head turned instinctively as Eria straightened. She brushed the grime off her uniform with uncertain little pats, and then she froze under the weight of two stares.

Zora and Enki, unmoving, fixed upon her, and her silence was louder than any confession.

Her small breaths came quickly as if she were caught between fleeing and speaking. He could hear the faint wetness gathering at the corner of her eyes, and he could hear the tiny break in her voice when she almost spoke, but swallowed it back down.

Again her mouth shifted, lips parting, but no words came.

Her thoughts tangled themselves before they could reach her tongue.

Zora knew this well. He'd seen it in hundreds of children in Amadeus Academy. They were children who carried more grief than language, and whose minds outran their voices. Her thoughts tangled themselves before they could reach her tongue, so it'd always been his duty to help them untangle them.

So he considered saying something—just enough to untangle the knot in her throat—but then he heard something else nearby.

He tilted his head. His ear twitched like a hunter's hound. Beyond the pavilion, past the crickets and the night-breathing leaves, there came… footsteps.

A moment later, the faint creak of hinges stirred the silence. Far to the left, the dormitory door opened, and the night air shifted ever so slightly as someone poked their head out of the crack.

Kita.

"... Eria?" she called, her voice pitched in worry as she squinted out into the garden night.

Then the soft tread of bare feet on polished wood became the gentle pad of steps over grass. Kita's nightgown brushed faintly against her knees as she came forward, slower at first—cautious while her eyes adjusted to the night—then quicker as recognition struck her. She saw the grime streaked across Eria's uniform, and she started sprinting, vaulting over the dorm railings to dash across the garden.

In an instant, she was at the pavilion. Her hands fluttered over Eria, her touches quick and worried, half-panicked as they turned the girl about.

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"What happened? What were you doing out here?"

And Eria's response came in shudders. Her frame seized once, then folded, and all atonce—she broke.

Her tears came suddenly and loudly as she pressed her face into Kita's waist

"I… I'm sorry—" she stammered, words breaking apart between hiccups, "I couldn't… tell… couldn't. I-It's because I'm… like this... that…"

Her apology spiraled into fragments. She rambled about how she liked forging Swarmsteel because of 'what she was', about how it was because she 'couldn't be anything else', and about how she couldn't tell because 'she was told not to'. Her words tumbled out incoherently, each thought tripping over the next until the sound was nothing but wet grief against Kita's gown.

Kita froze at first, arms stiff at her side. The sudden weight of the crying child seemed to stagger her more than the sprint had.

Then she snapped her head at Zora. He felt the befuddled glare. He could hear it in the silence she pressed against him. It was obvious she understood nothing of what Eria was saying, but she knew very well he and Enki knew.

But he didn't answer.

He merely tilted his head back at the dorm room as he let her stare burn into his mask.

Kita lingered in the glare for another heartbeat before she softened, her voice smoothing into silk.

"It's okay," she whispered, taking Eria's hand in her own. "Hush now. Let's get you washed up first, and then we can go to bed."

The sobbing did not stop, but Eria let herself be led. Her small footsteps stumbled beside Kita's sure, guiding stride as the two girls trudged back towards the dorm.

A while later, the front door shut behind them with a muted thud, and silence reknit itself across the garden.

Zora shifted his head to the opposite side, listening to Enki on the other side of the bench. The Worm Mage's posture was rigid as ever, but now, his head was tilted up towards the sky.

It'd be difficult for Zora to deny the Worm Mage didn't strike any similarities with the moon he was looking up at. They were both cold and distant, yet tonight, of all nights… less so.

For a time, neither of them spoke.

Then Zora perked up as he finally recalled the story he wanted to tell.

"... There is a story I used to tell my children in Amadeus Academy, though I favour a particular variation of it," he started. "Have you, perhaps, heard of The Earthen Princess?"

Enki didn't reply. That was fine. Zora spoke to the garden itself.

"Once upon a time, in the Thaana Region, there was a curse placed upon the land itself," he said. "Every week, the rain would fall, and with it would come the flood. The waters poured down the cliffs, sweeping through the village of the valley, pulling up crops by the root and tearing down every home. The villagers, of course, prayed to the divine and begged the sky to take pity—but their voices were drowned, year after year, beneath the roar of the flood."

His head turned slightly, following the faint brush of wind against Enki's mask. It may not seem like it, but the boy was listening. He knew at least that much after having spent so much time together.

"And once upon a time, in that valley, lived a girl," Zora went on. "She bore scars across her skin, lines and ridges like the cracks in dried earth. The villagers whispered she was the cause of the curse. They called her the Child of Ill Omens, and they said it was her presence that summoned the flood. The children mocked her, and the elders averted their eyes. Yet she did not bow her head. When they cursed her name, she smiled. When they told her to hide, she stood taller. The river could come as often as it pleased; she would not cower."

Zora paused for a moment to recall how the story went again. Kita's version was the freshest one in his head, but… that wasn't the one he'd always read to his students.

"One day, when the rains broke heavy upon the mountains—the heaviest it had been in decades—the girl did not run for shelter," he said. "She walked to the river's edge. The villagers watched from their windows as the waters rose and churned. They thought she would drown, but she did not resist. She lay herself down in the mud. The flood swallowed her whole, and when the waves struck the village, they struck something greater—for where she had lay, her body returned to the lands, a wall of earth rose high and held the torrent back."

He drew his hand along his bench, mapping the story in gesture.

"The village was spared that week. The homes stood. The fields were saved. The people marveled when the earthen wall turned back into the girl, though bruised, bloodied, and battered, for that was her blessing to sink into the soil and become an earthen wall. When the rains returned the following week, the girl was gone again. The villagers found her footprints at the river's edge, and when the flood came, the wall rose once more. Each week, she gave herself to the waters. Each week, she became the barrier that kept the village safe, and each week, she sacrificed her body for a village that saw her as nothing more than a tool."

With that, Zora tilted his head once more at Enki.

"Kethra or kethra?" he asked, which was the same question he asked his children every time he told the story. "Which would you choose to protect?"

Enki's lips barely moved, though Zora heard them moving.

"Those two words sound the same to me," Enki said plainly. "What is the difference?"

Zora shrugged. "In Old Thaanic, kethra with emphasis on 'k' means 'wall', while kethra with emphasis on 'thra' means 'woman'. They share only a breath between them." Then he grinned, crossing his arms behind his head as he leaned back against the railings. "But you are like my students. They, too, always tell me the two words sound exactly the same."

It was an oddly calming realization for Zora, too.

If he hadn't said his version of The Earthen Princess out loud, he may still be troubled by Vantari and Eria—but now he wasn't.

He knew what he had to do tomorrow at the award ceremony, and he was sure Enki knew, too.

"... And we did learn a bit of Old Thaanic from Professor Arquin in 'Lecture on Morphology' a week ago, so you should've known the difference," Zora said teasingly, wagging a finger. "I suppose you weren't paying attention?"

Enki grunted. "Useless knowledge. What is the point in learning a tongue that no longer exists?"

Zora gave Enki a ghost of a smile. "Then fortune favours you. After tomorrow, you will most likely never set foot in another classroom ever again. As a former teacher, I would like to know: what did you think about this academy?"

Enki thought about it for a long time.

Eventually, said:

"I have been taught before."

Zora raised a brow. "Oh?"

"She was a better teacher than any of the professors here."


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