CHAPTER ONE
Stairs.
I never thought I would grow to hate stairs before this moment.
I was wrong.
Hate was actually too nice a word. I absolutely despised stairs.
With a sigh, I looked up to my morning’s torture.
Ahead of me, I saw the unforgiving stone steps that silently mocked me with the pain and agony that had become my daily forge.
I looked around the mountain top. The Order of the Sky had built its temples—really one temple complex—divided among several peaks and joined by insane land bridges no one in their right mind would attempt to cross.
This was the sect Master Yat belonged to. They were reclusive, and rarely, if ever, welcomed visitors. Yat had extended us an invitation to torture—he actually called it an opportunity to grow stronger.
I actually believed him…until I saw the stairs.
I knew this was a unique opportunity; I also knew that the only reason it was being extended to us was due to the fact that Master Yat had trained both Monty and me.
There was also the request that Dex had made on our behalf because we were short on time. We had no way of knowing how long Emissary Salya would be trapped on Naxos.
Dex felt we needed the crash course of instruction on pain and power. The emphasis on pain applied powerfully. I know it sounded like I was complaining; I wasn’t. I just wasn’t thrilled that the only way we could get ready for Salya was to undergo this method of training.
By now, I felt that all my training had been conducted under ‘learn this now before something kills you’ conditions. For once, I’d like to take the extended training method, where it took a few years to learn a new technique properly, without the pressure of imminent death looming over me.
I still didn’t know what the Hidden Hand did. Was it an actual Hidden Hand that I could use for more mundane things, like carrying an extra mug of coffee?
That could be handy.
Or was it some philosophical hand that imparted hidden wisdom with a handy slap to my head when I least expected it? The fact that I was up in the mountains with Master Yat had me leaning closer to the second option.
So far no one had explained it to me. All I ever heard when I asked was: Master the stairs first, before asking any questions. Which brought me back to where I was standing now.
In the darkness of the morning, before dawn.
I looked up again.
One hundred and eight steps, followed by a landing which led to—you guessed it—another one hundred and eight steps, which led to one more landing and—because the third time is the charm, one more set of one hundred and eight steps.
I was learning that nine, and its multiples, was very big in the Order of the Sky.
Sacred, even.
I glanced a little higher into the darkness of the sky.
I could just make out the outline of the Stone Temple from where I stood. It didn’t seem like much from down here, just a large shadow, ominous and indistinct in the dark.
When the sun rose and bathed it in golden light, it was truly impressive. Like the steps that currently mocked me, it had been carved out of the mountain I was about to climb. The temple was an architectural wonder, reminding me of Kali’s temple on her plane.
I didn’t know if the Stone Temple was the result of some divine handiwork; it was amazing enough to make me believe some god had influenced its creation. I figured it was created by incredibly skilled monks who could manipulate energy in a way I still hadn’t experienced.
In the two weeks Monty and I had been here, I had only seen two temples, Stone Temple and the Iron Fan Mountain. This didn’t mean there were only two temples, but that we only had access to these two. I was fairly certain there were more, but those other temples were off-limits to us.
According to Master Yat, the Order of the Sky had anchored Stone Temple and Iron Fan Mountain on our plane for our visit. I had no idea what that meant, except that we could only visit those two locations.
Both were located at the top of distinct peaks, connected by a series of smaller mountains and natural bridges.
The bridges were off-limits to me and I wasn’t complaining. They were about two feet wide and soared over chasms where I couldn’t see the bottom. My one and only time over one of them, I nearly lost my footing.
Only having Elder Han there saved me from what would have probably been a fatal fall, which wouldn’t have lasted long due to my curse, but still, I wasn’t actively looking to test the limits of the curse.
That left the smaller hills, which were unforgiving but much safer than crossing the bridges. The hills consisted of a small but extreme course of sheer cliff face climbing with few handholds and plenty of heart-stopping drops.
It was a lesser of two evils sort of situation.
I looked up to the sky again.
The sun hadn’t risen yet.
Yes, I was stalling. The thought of racing up all those stone steps wasn’t one that filled me with much motivation to get started. I jumped up and down to get the blood flowing and generate some body heat.
The air was chill.
The air was always chill up here. Every other morning we would be greeted by snowfall, which probably made for a beautiful scene, if I were here to take pictures, but was horrible for climbing smooth stone steps.
“Not even dawn yet,” I muttered to myself as my hellhound rumbled next to me and looked up into my face. His eyes gave off a subtle red glow which had become the norm lately. “There has to be a rule against this somewhere in the Geneva Convention, I’m sure of it.”
He rumbled again and nudged me forward toward the steps.
<This will make you stronger, bondmate. You must become stronger like me. We must hurry, before the old pebble man comes.>
<I think your strength came with the package. Have you seen who your father is? Strong is kind of expected for you, and there’s no point in hurrying—Elder Han is always nearby.>
I glanced around to make sure Elder Han wasn’t around.
<My sire has been known to destroy his offspring. I, too, must become stronger, but I am mighty. You are not. Are you ready? We must reach the top before the sun, or you know what will happen.>
I knew what would happen, because it had happened enough times to get me up on this mountain in the middle of darkness.
<We get to have this fun all over again.>
<This is not fun. Not even a little, but it will make you stronger.>
At least he agreed with me—this was not my idea of fun. Not even a little.
In the darkness, I made out the first set of one hundred and eight steps. These stone steps were clear, but the edges were covered with overgrowth as a feature and design element. I think the monks left the overgrowth there as an obstacle to overcome. If you weren’t careful, you could easily trip on one of the many plants growing along the steps.
Aside from the added benefit of snow in the early morning, dew covered everything, especially this high up in altitude. I tentatively put one foot—one bare foot—on a step.
We were perpetually in cloud cover. Water on stone steps created a hazard of epic proportions, one that was disregarded by my monk hosts who traveled up and down these steps like goats on a cliffside.
They were oblivious to the obvious danger running up and down wet steps posed. They were oblivious to most dangers all around us.
That seemed to be a trend on Stone Mountain.
It wasn’t just the stairs.
If I only had to face a mountain of stairs, I think I could deal with that. Eventually I would get used to them, get stronger and be able to move faster.
I’m not saying it would be easy, but over time it would be manageable.
It wasn’t the only obstacle I was expected to overcome.
There were other dangers. Dangers I couldn’t avoid, at least not yet. Dangers that made climbing stairs slick with morning dew or snow at least ten times harder.
I had to deal with the pebbles.
The pebbles.
The cursed pebbles that I could swear had some kind of homing-in properties designed into them.
I hated the pebbles almost as much as I hated the stairs.
I know it doesn’t seem like much—climb the steps and occasionally get hit by a pebble. How distracting could that be, really?
When your focus was heightened on the wet steps in front of you, getting thwacked by a pebble every minute or so was nerve-wracking. Add to that, I never knew which direction the pebble was coming from, and it made me overcompensate when I did get hit.
On occasion, my overcompensating maneuvers shifted me right off the step I was standing on. That would lead me to an express trip to the closest landing below me.
To describe bouncing on stone steps as painful was the understatement of the century. Imagine walking in your home at night and slamming your shin into a sturdy, marble table you recently moved.
Take that pain, multiply it by a million and you’re getting close to bouncing down a set of ancient stone steps. It was tiring, not only because of the falling but keeping the constant state of awareness drained me mentally.
Talk about paranoia. I was walking around jumping at every motion I detected. The pebbles would come at me when I least expected and from where I least expected.
Rarely, I would sense the pebble-deploying monk, but most of the time I only sensed him after he had hit me with a smooth stone, usually on the side or back of my head.
The aim was impressive.
Especially during my morning climbs, when it was dark and visibility was poor. To date, I had not experienced a miss from the pebble-firing monk perpetrator.
Every pebble had landed.
I half-considered walking around wearing a helmet, but I knew that would only open up other areas of my body for target practice.
I still couldn’t dodge them, but I was getting there. Monty had told me that sensing monks was the first step.
It meant growth.
To me, it just meant pain.
Daily uncomfortable blossoms of sharp pain.
“Do you plan on contemplating the steps all morning?” a voice asked from behind me. “Time will not wait for you.”
I knew who it was without having to turn.
I didn’t sense him—unless he wanted me to. This monk was the leader of the pebble brigade attack squad.
Sneak Attack Han, not that I would ever call him that out loud. He was always referred to as Elder Han, and happened to be one of the oldest monks on Stone Mountain, if not the oldest.
At some point, I realized I had to get past him in order to make my way and remain on Iron Fan Mountain which was where Master Yat and Monty stayed during our time here.
I still trained there, but every night and every morning I had to climb the stairs. Every day I had to make my way to Iron Fan Mountain by climbing through the gauntlet.
The wet stairs of perpetual pebbles and pain.
I shook my head.
“No, Elder, I’m just contemplating how lucky I am to have to climb the steps this morning,” I said with a groan. “I really look forward to this every morning before the sun rises. Highlight of my day, really.”
The sarcasm was strong this morning.
A pebble thwacked on the side of my head.
“That tone felt inauthentic, Brother Strong,” he said. “Strive for truth in every word. Try again.”
“You want the truth?” I asked, turning to his voice, but not seeing him. “How is climbing these steps supposed to make me stronger? This is an antiquated waste of time. I should be training in fighting, in getting my dawnward stronger, learning whatever this Hidden Hand is, or at the very least, perfecting the battleform with my hellhound. Not climbing these infinite steps of agony.”
Another pebble thwacked the back of my head.
“Respect is the highest form of gratitude, Aspis,” Elder Han said softly. I still didn’t know where he was. All I knew was that he was within striking distance, but there was so much overgrowth on the side of the steps that it was easy for him to hide from sight. “Try again.”
I took a deep breath and re-centered, careful not to take too long, or another pebble would be headed my way.
“I will start now,” I said, trying to strike a respectful tone and putting my hands together as I bowed. “Thank you for returning my awareness to the present.”
“Much better,” he said, stepping into view with a smile. “You can accomplish so much when you put forth effort.”
I nodded, not trusting myself to give an answer that wouldn’t earn me a pebble to the side of the head.
I snuck a glance in his direction as he approached.
He was an impossibly old man.
He was approaching an age where I felt his next phase should be fossilization. He wore a red and white robe—mostly white—with a wide, red sash that draped over one shoulder, and then around his waist. His robe never seemed to collect any of the dust and dirt that formed our everyday on the mountains.
I want to say he walked, but it was more like gliding; he seemed to skim the surface of the earth as he covered territory. His energy signature, when I could read it, was fluid—like trying to catch water. I could never get a precise indicator of how powerful he was.
The few times I managed to get some sense of his level of power, my brain nearly seized. I think that was the reason he masked his energy signature—to protect from melting my brain.
His clean-shaven head caught what little light was available at this hour and gave off a soft gleam. He narrowed his eyes at me and pointed to the steps with his staff.
I involuntarily flinched at the motion. His staff and I weren’t on the best of terms.
The staff of pain and agony.
I hated that staff almost as much as I hated the stairs and pebbles. That staff rounded out the trinity of terror which formed my mornings on the mountain.
I began running up the steps and made it up five, before I lost my footing and slipped, crashing my shin into the stone. A bright flash of pain exploded in my vision. I went down with a groan as Peaches padded over followed by Elder Han.
“Did you break anything?” he asked, looking down at my leg as he patted Peaches. “That looks painful.”
My curse flushed my body with warmth as it dealt with the injury. I was seeing the constellation of agony as the sensation raced up my shin.
I shook my head in response as the pain momentarily robbed me of the power of speech. The thin robes I wore were no protection against the cold, unfeeling stone of the wet mountain steps.
“I have a question,” I asked, rubbing my tender shin. “One relevant to this situation.”
“By all means, please ask.”
I made sure to move some distance away from the reach of his staff. He was worse than Master Yat with that thing.
“Is there any reason I can’t do this when the sun is up and the steps are dry?” I asked, still rubbing my shin slowly. “This is really dangerous. There aren’t any guardrails or anything on these steps, I could fall off the mountain.”
He took a moment to look around and over the steps.
He nodded.
“That is dangerous. You could slip right off the side of the mountain,” he said, peering over the edge. “We should install some safety measures, perhaps a guardrail or two.”
“I agree,” I said, nodding. “At the very least, a handrail.”
“A handrail is an excellent idea,” he said, looking around us. “Of course, we would need to utilize natural resources—we don’t want to spoil the natural beauty of the mountain.”
This conversation was setting off all sorts of alarms.
Those same alarms were sending signals to my brain that instead of asking questions, I should be heading up the steps at this very moment, if I knew what was good for me.
“You know, now that I think of it,” I said, “a guardrail would rob the stairs of their natural beauty. The whole remote mountain temple aesthetic would be lost.”
“No, no, you make a valid point,” he said. “Safety should be our priority, above all.”
Elder Han stepped closer to where I sat. I leaned slightly away reflexively. It was an unconscious defensive maneuver; it wasn’t that I was scared of him or anything.
Well, maybe I was a little wary, but I wasn’t scared.
He smiled at me again, and now I was extra wary.
His smiles were dangerous precursors to pain most of the time. He reached out, placing a hand on my shin, and the pain vanished immediately.
“Still hurts?” he asked, removing his hand from my leg. “Better?”
I nodded.
“Much better,” I said, moving my leg. “What did you do?”
“Nothing. I merely redirected your focus,” he said. “There is another method that works even better.”
“Really?” I asked. “Can you show me?”
I should have known better.
“Of course,” he said, and whacked my bare foot with his staff. A bloom of pain exploded in my foot. “Once again, your focus has been redirected. I’m certain you are not even contemplating your shin in this moment.”
I stared daggers at him, but knew better than to respond. I stood immediately..
“Time flows,” he said, looking up at the lightening sky. “Do wish to climb these steps again this morning?”
“No, Elder,” I said. “Thank you for the focus.”
I took off with Peaches at my side and Elder Han’s laughter following me up the stairs.
We made it to the top of the stairs just as the sun was peeking over the horizon.
Elder Han appeared from behind the entrance columns to the Stone Temple and nodded at me as he approached where I stood.
“You made it in time,” he said, looking at the sunrise. “That is a beautiful dawn, is it not?”
I stood there with my mouth open.
Not because of the dawn—yes, it was spectacular and breathtaking in its splendor. No, I was standing there in awe because he had reached the top of the stairs before me.
Somehow he had managed to climb three hundred and twenty four wet stone steps faster than I could. I looked down the three sets of stairs and back at the Elder, in mild shock.
“How did you get here before me?”
“I have always been here—before you.”
“I just left you way down there,” I said, pointing down the stairs. “How are you here?”
“Simple,” he said, beckoning me closer. “I took the elevator.”
I knew for a fact there was no elevator.
He turned and walked into the Stone Temple. At this point, I was sure he had a twin, or was part of a set of triplets, however unfeasible that sounded.
In my life, I had seen and experienced plenty of things that could be described as impossible, right up until the moment they tried to extinguish you from the face of the earth.
Dealing with Elder Han on a daily basis usually beat all of those experiences. I watched him walk into the Stone Temple with a spring in his step while I remained at the entrance somewhat stunned.
