“Not too much farther,” Dyathne’s soft voice startled Math.

  Again, they had been walking without words. Both of them had been replaying their conversation on a loop for hours.

  “At least it’s not dark yet,” he observed. “Yet.”

  “Little more than an hour or so,” she murmured, glancing upward where the sun should have been. “Plenty of time to make camp and even eat before we lose the light. And then the fun begins,” her sarcasm was apparent.

  “Can you tell me about the Rite?” Math said at last.

  Dyathne hesitated, the mechanics of it were multiple and specific. Years and years spent practicing, and clearly she still hadn’t mastered it. But the general idea? That was slightly clearer.

  “A citizen will summon us, they’ll call for the Siro,” she said slowly. “The Rite begins between the citizen and the Siro pair. We,” she grasped for the word, “absorb their pain. Just temporarily.”

  “Human sponges,” he mused. She couldn’t see his eyes clearly but knew he was frowning.

  “What’s a sponge?” She asked.

  He was speechless. He had no idea how to explain a sponge to someone.

  “It’s a little sea creature about this big,” he held up his hands, as if grasping a ball. “We dry them out and then use them to clean stuff. They absorb water well, and you can wring them out,” he made a wringing motion. “Almost indefinitely.”

  “Oh,” she said shortly. It was clear she didn’t quite grasp the concept. “Your people do strange things with animals.”

  “No matter,” he rushed. “I can tell you about sponges another time. Please, go on. The Rite.”

  “Siro come here, on an Ashwalk to the Sear, to release what we carry for the citizenry,” she smiled under her mask as she continued, playing with his analogy. “We wring it out and send it back.”

  “Back to the person? The citizen?”

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  “No, back to its source.”

  “Isn’t the source the person who needed the Siro?”

  “No, the source of all pain,” she scowled. “The source of all suffering. The origin of it.”

  “Source of all suffering?” He sounded skeptical. “The human condition is suffering. What do you mean the source?” He asked, but he was afraid he already knew the answer.

  “The Jaws of the Sear,” she confirmed. “Siro close the Rite at the Jaws and return,” she glanced at the compass, correcting their course just a hair. “That way, the citizen can live, or in many cases, die, well.”

  Math didn’t know which of his infinite questions to ask first.

  “This Ashwalk is for my Nother,” Dyathne offered. “He died a week ago. The old man’s heart gave out.”

  “So he’s already dead,” Math was surprised at his own tactlessness.

  “Mm,” Dyathne nodded, unfazed. “I’ve been carrying his,” she searched again for a gentle word “burdens since then.”

  “You said you took people’s pain,” he didn’t understand.

  “Pain comes in many forms, does it not, Curastis?”

  He didn’t reply, but understood. Curastis could heal injury and illness with ease, but matters of the mind and heart were almost always beyond their capabilities. He thought suddenly of Ariane.

  “You mentioned your parents,” she cut through his daydream. “You have family?”

  “Yes,” he thought especially of his mother, a bit plump now in her sixth decade, but just as bustling and full of energy as he was. “My mother, father, and a younger brother, Gideon.”

  His tone and eyes were soft. He loved them. He missed them. They probably missed him. Dyathne’s chest caught, a roiling mix of jealousy and grief; she had never had the luxury of being missed.

  “You?” He asked.

  “No,” she studied her hands. “Iphan was the closest thing I had to family and he’s…” she hugged her arm across her body, grasping her right bicep. “Well, he’s with me on his last Ashwalk,” she said quickly, walling off the emotions threatening to overwhelm her.

  “I’m sorry,” his sympathy was so genuine her stomach churned. It felt like she’d eaten too much cake.

  “Ashwalkers don’t come from families,” she wasn’t sure why she was explaining this to him, but she couldn’t help herself. “We tend to be orphans, or the product of…” tact was never her strong suit, but she was really trying with Math. “unadvisable unions. Unwed mothers. Sex workers. Teens,” she blurted. “I have no idea who my parents are. Or were.”

  Math fought the urge to place a sympathetic hand on her shoulder.

  “It doesn’t happen a lot,” she continued quickly. “The Republic tries to ensure children are carefully planned. Carefully timed. Properly parented. But it does happen, every so often. There was a boy a bit older than I in the same situation,” she turned away from him as she spoke. “We were raised together. I guess he was kind of like a brother?”

  The relationship with Paul had definitively not been that of siblings. She wasn’t sure why she had said it. But there wasn’t time to ruminate; they had arrived.

  “Dyathne,” Math grabbed her jacketed arm. Her skin buzzed in spite of the coat. It felt… nice.

  She saw what had caused him to stop.

  “Probably should have warned you about this,” she said guiltily.

  Before them, there was a gaping void in the fog, like the space around the Venemon, only much, much larger.

  A huge dome of open space rose from the black ground, free from fog. The gray clouds pushed in on it, swirling slightly in a way he’d never seen them, but were held back by some unseen force.

  Smoke against glass.

  Their feet touched the edge ever so slightly.

  “Come,” she finally stepped into the dome. “We’re here.”