The mist clung to the high terraces of Tawantin like a restless spirit, heavy and cool against the skin. Above the cloud line where the monastery's stone walls merged with the cliff face, three figures burst through the great wooden doors of the San-Zekai Temple, their sandals slapping against the ancient flagstones.
"Bō-Zak!" Casper Saul's nasally voice cut through the fog like a blade. His bowl-cut hair sat perfectly still despite his running—a black helmet of utter discipline atop a man who possessed none. "Get back here, you irresponsible, good-for-nothing, lead-brained—"
Ahead of them, Bō-Zak Kaminosukei leaped from the temple's outer steps onto the Salt-Stair Path, his tattered awayo shawl flapping behind him like a wounded bird. He landed with the careless grace of a man who had spent years perfecting the art of falling exactly where he wanted. The gourd at his hip sloshed merrily.
"Can't hear you, Casper!" he called back, not even breathing hard. "The wind's blowing all your shouting right back into that ridiculous haircut!"
Casper's face went redder than the cinnabar in Bō-Zak's back tattoo. "That's it! When I catch you, I'm going to slap you so hard your grandchildren will feel it!"
Beside him, Trizzy Mo-Sin stumbled over his own feet, his massive frizzy orange hair bouncing like a startled cloud. He windmilled his arms, nearly taking out Rayan Bin-Jahiya, who simply spun sideways on one foot to avoid the collision.
"Careful, Trizzy!" Rayan barked, his high-pitched voice carrying that perpetual note of manic glee. His bald head caught the weak light filtering through the mist, gleaming like a polished stone. "You're throwing off the rhythm!"
"The rhythm of what?" Trizzy squeaked, finally catching his balance. His wide, perpetually surprised eyes fixed on the disappearing figure of Bō-Zak ahead. "He's getting away! He's always getting away! Why does he always get away?"
"Because you three argue like old women at the market!" Bō-Zak's voice floated back to them, accompanied by the sharp tap-tap of his pipe being knocked clean against the stone wall. He didn't even slow down.
The Salt-Stair Path wound downward in a dizzying spiral, carved directly into the cliff face centuries ago by hands that understood stone the way musicians understand melody. Each step was worn smooth by generations of monks, and Bō-Zak danced down them like a man strolling through a garden. He took a long pull from his gourd, the fermented chicha burning warm in his chest, and glanced back over his shoulder.
The three monks had reached the top of the stairs. Casper led the charge, his leather alchemist's tunic creaking with each step. Behind him, Trizzy moved like a man walking through a dream—or a nightmare—his golden-patterned robes already coming untucked. And Rayan—Rayan was doing something with his feet that involved a lot of sideways hopping and high-pitched "woob-woob-woob" sounds.
"You'll never catch me!" Bō-Zak shouted, his smirk widening into something almost boyish. "I'll never submit! You can drag me to that ritual kicking and screaming, and I'll still find a way to slip through your fingers like water through a sieve!"
Casper's feet pounded the stones. "You have a responsibility! You're the only one who can do it! The only one with the Condor's blood!"
The words hit something in Bō-Zak—a small, sharp thing that lived behind his ribs and only hurt when he breathed too deep. His smirk flickered, just for an instant, before settling back into place.
"Never!" he yelled, and this time there was something beneath the teasing, something that sounded almost like fear. "You can chase me to the edge of the world and back, and I'll still say no!"
He rounded a corner where the path narrowed to nothing, squeezing between two outcroppings of rock that gleamed with salt deposits. His fingers found handholds by memory alone—he'd climbed these cliffs a thousand times, usually drunk, always alone.
Behind him, he heard Casper curse. Then Rayan's distinctive "Nyuk-nyuk-nyuk!" echoed off the stone, followed by the sound of something heavy hitting the ground.
"Rayan, get off me!"
"But the centrifugal force—"
"There IS NO centrifugal force on a staircase, you absolute—"
Bō-Zak didn't wait to hear the rest. He dropped from the path onto a narrow ledge, then slid down a natural chute of smooth rock that deposited him in the terraced farming levels below. Potatoes grew in neat rows here, their green leaves dusted with the ever-present mist. An old woman tending her crops looked up, saw him, and simply shook her head.
"Trouble again, Condor-boy?"
"Always, Mama Coya." He flashed her a grin that had charmed harder hearts than hers. "Tell them you saw me heading for the high peaks?"
She snorted and went back to her work. "I'll tell them you went wherever the wind takes you. Same as always."
"Bless you and your potatoes."
He was off again, cutting between stone walls that separated one family's terraces from another, leaping over irrigation channels that carried snowmelt from the peaks down to the thirsty crops. The smells of earth and growing things filled his nose—good smells, honest smells, nothing like the incense and old parchment of the monastery.
Above him, he heard the three monks crashing through the farming levels like bulls in a weaving shop. Casper's voice rose in frustration: "Split up! Trizzy, take the western path! Rayan, circle around through the Keshwa Chaka! I'll cut him off at the port!"
Bō-Zak's heart skipped. The port. Of course Casper would guess—the man was irritatingly smart when he wasn't too busy being irritating. Every escape from the monastery eventually led to the port. It was the only way off the island, and Bō-Zak had no intention of leaving Tawantin today.
But he could hide there. Oh yes, he could hide very well in Willka-Marka.
He changed direction, cutting east through a grove of queñua trees whose twisted red bark peeled away in papery strips. Their branches creaked in the wind, and the sound mingled with the distant crash of waves against the salt pillars far below. The ground sloped downward here, gentler than the cliffs, leading toward the only cove on the island where ships could safely land.
Behind him, Trizzy's melodic voice called out: "Bō-Zak! The ritual needs you! The seals need to be rotated and you're the only one who can—"
"I know what the ritual needs!" Bō-Zak shouted back, not slowing. "I also know what it costs! Ask me again when you're the one turning to stone!"
Silence from the monks. Even Rayan's manic energy dimmed for a moment.
Bō-Zak ran faster.
---
Willka-Marka spread out below him like a child's toy village, its stone buildings huddled together against the cliffs as if seeking warmth. The port itself was a single wooden dock that jutted into the gray-green water, currently occupied by two small fishing boats and one larger trading vessel that had somehow found its way through the mist. Fishermen mended nets on the shore, their wives smoked fish over low fires, and children chased each other through the narrow streets with the endless energy of the young.
Bō-Zak hit the edge of town at a dead sprint, his straw sandals barely making sound on the packed earth. He ducked into an alley between two buildings, pressing his back against the cool stone, and forced his breathing to slow.
The sounds of the port washed over him. Gulls cried overhead, their calls sharp and demanding. Waves lapped against the dock pilings with a soft, rhythmic slosh. Somewhere nearby, a mother called her child in for a meal, her voice carrying that universal tone of exhausted love. The smell of roasting fish and potatoes mingled with the salt air and the faint, ever-present sweetness of chicha fermenting in someone's cellar.
He took a moment to appreciate it—this small pocket of ordinary life in a world that insisted on being extraordinary. These people, going about their days, worrying about nets and children and whether the fish would bite. Not once in their lives had they been asked to stand in a sacred circle and wear those stupid clothes with that ridiculous headdress.
Lucky them.
Footsteps. Multiple sets, approaching fast.
Bō-Zak peered around the corner of the building. Casper had reached the port's main square, his leather tunic gleaming with sweat despite the cool air. His eyes scanned left and right, missing nothing. Behind him, Rayan came hopping sideways into view, his too-small tunic riding up to expose a strip of pale belly.
"Woob-woob-woob! No sign of him in the eastern alleys!"
"Keep looking!" Casper snapped. "He's here somewhere. I can smell that cheap tobacco of his."
Bō-Zak grinned despite himself. Cheap? That's hand-rolled, you heathen.
Trizzy emerged from a different street, his frizzy hair somehow even more chaotic than before, bits of leaf and twig caught in its depths. He looked like a man who had been dragged through a hedge backward—which, knowing Trizzy, he probably had.
"The fishermen haven't seen him," Trizzy reported, his melodic voice breathless. "I asked nicely and everything!"
"Nice doesn't work with Bō-Zak," Casper growled. "Nothing works with Bō-Zak. The man's got the spine of a jellyfish and the loyalty of a tomcat."
Bō-Zak had to cover his mouth to keep from laughing. That's fair. That's completely fair.
Rayan spun in a slow circle, his bald head catching the light. "Maybe he flew away! Condor form! He could be anywhere by now!"
"No." Casper shook his head firmly. "The mist's too thick today. Even his fruit can't punch through this much spiritual weight. He's on foot, and he's close."
The three monks converged in the center of the square, turning slowly as they scanned their surroundings. Bō-Zak pressed deeper into the alley, finding a gap between two barrels of salted fish and a stack of old nets. He slipped into the space, pulling the nets partially over himself, and held absolutely still.
Through the gaps in the netting, he watched them search.
Casper checked every doorway, his hand never far from the massive mortar on his back. Trizzy wandered in circles, occasionally plucking at his own hair as if it might give him answers. And Rayan—Rayan was doing something that involved a lot of spinning and sudden stops, his eyes crossing and uncrossing with each rotation.
"He's not here," Trizzy said finally, his voice carrying a note of defeat. "Maybe he really did—"
"He's here." Casper's voice was flat, certain. "I can feel him. That stubborn, disrespectful, wonderful idiot is here somewhere, laughing at us."
Bō-Zak's chest tightened. Casper's words hadn't been angry anymore. They'd been... something else. Something that sounded almost like affection wrapped in frustration.
Don't think about it. Don't think about any of it.
The three monks stood in silence for a long moment. The port's ordinary sounds filled the space between them—gulls, waves, children, life. Then, slowly, Casper's shoulders sagged.
"Fine," he said, and for once his voice wasn't a bark. "Fine. He wins. This time."
Trizzy's eyes went even wider. "We're giving up?"
"We're regrouping." Casper turned away from the alley, from the hiding spot he'd somehow missed by inches. "The ritual isn't until later. He'll come around. He always does."
"Does he though?" Trizzy asked quietly.
No one answered.
Rayan, for once, didn't spin or bark or make any sound at all. He simply placed one hand on Casper's shoulder and the other on Trizzy's, and the three monks walked back toward the path that led up the cliffs, their figures slowly swallowed by the mist.
Bō-Zak waited.
He counted to five hundred by the beats of his own heart. He watched the shadows lengthen as the hidden sun continued its journey behind the clouds.
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