Of course, none of this changes the immutable truth that nothing ever happens in Sjan Saal. This is not hyperbole, but a fact I have confirmed through long and exhaustive empirical research. The town is too mired in its own infamous mud to play host to an event of any importance. Even on what was arguably its most significant day events flowed through the town rather than occurring in it, and only once well and truly clear of Sjan Saal’s impenetrable normalcy were things free to become interesting.

Tasjadre Ra Novo, Jesa Sagoja: Zhetam Asade

There was a long pause following Gusje’s pronouncement. Mark tapped his fingers nervously on the steering wheel while they waited, various worst-case scenarios spinning through his head. The too-clean lines of the wall and gatehouse were prickling the fine hairs on his neck.

A bright seam appeared as the doors slid open soundlessly. The view beyond the gate was staggeringly different than the scrubland they had just traversed - instead, the humble dirt road cut its way through verdant, well-kept fields and the valley beyond was capped with a thick blanket of clouds that cast the land in comforting shade.

“What the shit,” Mark grumbled. “That goddamn rabbit hole. Lands us out in the desert. Hot as shit. No food, no water. Sand. Sand lizards. Sand bandits. Sand zombies.” He jabbed his thumb irritably at the starter and the truck rumbled to life as Gusje hopped back up to her seat. “Couldn’t have dropped us off here, no sir. Fuckin’ picturesque Sound of Music-lookin’ magically-fortified beachfront bullshit,” he spat.

Gusje gave him a curious look, unable to parse the torrent of foreign invective. “Problem?”, she asked.

“...’s nothing,” Mark grunted, shifting grudgingly back to Ceiqa. The local language had no name, they had discovered, since apparently there were no others to distinguish it against. For convenience their contingent had branded the language Ceiqa - its word for ‘speech.’ Gusje remained unconvinced of the need for a name despite numerous attempts to explain their rationale, stubbornly insisting that there was no need to make so strong a distinction between words she did and did not yet know.

Slowly they rolled forward, passing underneath the imposing stone archway to the green lands beyond. Even inside the cab there was a noticeable change in the air as they emerged on the other side. Humidity snaked its way into the cabin along with the vegetal bouquet of mud and wet grass.

“Remarkable,” Arjun breathed. “It’s like the effect from the cerein only orders of magnitude more intense.”

Jackie leaned forward in her seat unhappily, swiping a hand across her forehead. “The one thing we had going for us was the lack of humidity,” she groused. “God, this feels like Houston.”

“Company,” Jesse observed, pointing to the side. They had pulled into a small cobbled plaza just inside the gate. To the left there was a long, low building with a clay-tile roof that had a utilitarian bulk to it - both soldiers would have immediately flagged it as a barracks even without the small contingent of armed men exiting it to stand in a neat line along its side.

The men wore leather armor with medallions set into it, similar to the chestpiece Mosidhu had worn. Each carried a polearm with a broad, convex bladed head atop a dark wooden shaft. An officer stood in front of them, clad instead in a finely-made metallic lamellar tunic and carrying a familiar-looking sword.

The officer stepped forward smartly as the truck whined to a stop, looking expectantly at the vehicle’s door while its occupants exchanged a look. Gusje noted the hesitation and raised an eyebrow at the group. “Is something wrong?”, she asked.

“No,” Mark replied slowly. “It’s just strange. They don’t know us, but I feel like they’re giving us special treatment. Do they always welcome visitors like this?”

Gusje gave him a flat look. “You’re driving a chariot,” she pointed out. “Father says there are only a handful of them in all Tinem Sjocel, and only a few not owned by the royal family. Most of them have probably never seen one before. They probably think you’re the king of far Gadhun Draat or something.” She smiled at her own joke, then blinked and looked thoughtfully around at the others.

“Maybe if we were shorter,” Arjun noted wryly.

“Let’s not keep the man waiting,” Mark admonished. “He looks like he’s cooking in that armor.”

They opened the doors to the truck and walked over to stand in front of the waiting soldiers. The line of troops didn’t precisely flinch when the travelers revealed their massive size, but a few were staring unabashedly wide-eyed from beneath the lip of their leather helmets.

“Sasetim Rys,” the officer called out, his voice clipped and monotone. “Welcome to the Gate of the Sea. You stand in Tinem Sjocel under the grace of Citsuje Di Sazhocel La and the blessings of Maja. Before you travel further my duty requires that I obtain your name and your purpose.”

The officer had addressed his terse greeting to Mark and particularly to Jesse, either for their height or their military bearing. The two exchanged a look, then both glanced over at Gusje. A flash of uncertainty crossed her face before she schooled it into a neutral expression.

“I am Gusje,” she replied, raising her voice so it carried across the plaza, “daughter to Tesvaji Ma Meguzha who is the Madi at Ademen Tacen.”

The officer looked nonplussed for only a moment before reorienting to face her, dipping his head slightly in acknowledgement. “I welcome you, Gusje Mas,” he said. “Ademen Tacen is known to us.” The line of soldiers relaxed perceptibly as he spoke, although several were still goggling at the truck with poleaxed expressions. “It is my honor to be Tizhodhu Qa Gozho,” the officer said. “I am charged with guarding the Gate of the Sea. Further conversation would be more comfortable in my office.” His tone made this last a direction rather than a request.

Gusje nodded, and Tizhodhu beckoned that they should follow him into a building set beside the barracks. Their party trailed along with Gusje in the lead, although Mark hung back a half-step to whisper at the others. “She told me they were a ‘little stiff and formal’ here,” he hissed quietly in English. “A little.”

Jackie snorted, but Arjun shook his head. “It’s the truck,” he murmured. “Vehicles seem to be limited to the powerful, and since he doesn’t know who exactly we are he’s being cautious.”

“Tesvaji, you bastard,” Mark chuckled. “He as much as told us this would happen when he asked us to go. Now I know what he was laughing about.”

“We should be cautious too,” Jesse said quietly. “Drawing a lot of attention. We could get in over our heads.”

They walked the rest of the way to Tizhodhu’s office in silence, Mark and Jesse forced to duck through low doorways in order to enter. The office was spacious and high-ceilinged, but even so it took on a cramped air with all six of them crammed inside. An aide slipped in to pour them water in tall, narrow cups before retreating to leave them alone with the leader of the gatehouse.

After some further pleasantries and introductions that carefully skated around the subject of the travelers’ size and appearance, Tizhodhu leaned back in his chair and gave them an appraising look. “Water and shelter, Gusje Mas. It is rare for one of the venerable Cereinem to come here,” he said. “Your companionship and transport are rarer still.” He leaned forward, steepling his fingers and looking across the desk with focus. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”, he asked.

Gusje’s thoughts froze for a second as she contemplated where to begin. “It concerns the draam je qaraivat,” she said, choosing her words carefully.

Tizhodhu’s mouth pressed into a thin line, his eyes narrowing. “Go on,” he rasped. His face was noticeably pale, and Mark fixed him with an accusing look.

“You already know,” he said, drawing a surprised look from Gusje. “You know exactly why we’ve come.”

“Not until Gusje Mas mentioned the stones, but I had my suspicions,” Tizhodhu replied, taking a shaky drink of water and wiping his mouth. “It was not deception, Mark Rys. I had only heard the stories from Idran Saal. Until now I had hoped we would be spared, that the blight would not spread to this side of Asu Saqarid. Now...” He trailed off, looking helpless. “How far has it advanced?”

“We saw a stone crumble about a few days’ walk from Ademen Tacen, along the old road that heads to Sun’s Birth,” Gusje replied. “That was about twenty days ago. I don’t know how fast it moves.”

Tizhodhu sagged in his chair, although some of the color returned to his face. “Not fast, if the stories from Idran Saal can be believed. We have some time, by Maja's grace. Your people, though…” He looked at her apologetically. “Gusje Mas, they should leave immediately.”

“No,” Gusje breathed, disbelief on her face. “Tizhodhu Qa, we came here to seek help, to defend our home. The cerein has sheltered Ademen Tacen since it was young. Are you suggesting that we abandon it without a fight?”

The gatehouse captain gave her a resigned look, reaching into his desk to withdraw a twist-necked bottle that he used to refill his glass. He proffered it to the others before slumping back in his seat once more. “I won’t tell you not to fight,” he said. “It is a choice I cannot make for you and your people, nor would I presume to. I have not seen the like of your friends before, so perhaps they can turn the decay back - and I wish you good fortune, I truly do.”

He leaned towards them again, his face hardening into a grim mask. “I wished the same good fortune for Tinem Aesvai, before it fell,” he grated. The four travelers exchanged a blank look, but Gusje’s face paled. “I wished good fortune to the refugees who fled to us through the Vidim Vai, and your kinsmen there who fought to defend their cereimyn. Even now I wish good fortune to those few who survived, and to my brothers who venture forth from Idran Saal to fortify Sjatel against what is coming.”

He drained his glass and shakily refilled it, glaring at them over his desk. “It is not enough,” he spat. “The Emperor of Ash is no longer content to sit idly in Asu Saqarid, or perhaps he never was. Men die and the very bones of the earth crumble before him.” He drank his second glass and set it down with shaking hands. “I am no coward, so when the time comes I will fight. Perhaps some good fortune will remain for me and my men,” he said ruefully, “but I doubt it.”

Tasja was bored. Oh, it wasn’t as if there were a shortage of things to do - quite the contrary, actually. And it wasn’t as though he particularly detested his work. Considering that nearly all of the young men his age were out in the damp heat tending crops, fishboats, tari and sajhavasja he was quite lucky to have his clerkship at the Governor’s office. For months he had thought of little else, counting down the days until he would be working alongside the most important men in Sjan Saal, shoulder to shoulder with those who determined the fate of their valley.

And yet.

He let out a long, listless sigh as one of the twinplates in his office rattled to life, its movements mirroring that of its bonded half in… Setimen? He rolled his eyes. Wonderful. More shipping manifests. The bronze hand of the twinplate swung from its inkpot to rotate around the disc, pausing to tap several numerical glyphs as its stylus spiraled outward.

The hand had scarcely returned to rest in the inkwell before Tasja tore the marked sheet of paper from its sheaf, leaving a fresh page exposed. Rifling through his massive codebook with inkstained and paper-scarred fingers, he searched for the proper translation. “Twelve, twenty,” he muttered to himself. “Shipment on private vessel, twenty days out. Forty-seven, sixty-two… board-cut lumber.” The standard weight and lot numbers followed, traced neatly below the code transcription and finished with his personal seal.

Tasja put it in the pile for delivery to the dockmaster and let his head thunk to the desk disconsolately. Dreams of listening in on the intrigue of Tinem Sjocel had gone by the wayside after the first day or so of endless manifests, payment receipts and purchase orders. “Better than working in the mud,” he muttered, although he was becoming less convinced with every incoming message.

Another rattle pulled his head reluctantly upward. The noise wasn’t coming from the five large city-linked twinplates, but from the latter of the rickety pair that linked to the Gates of Stone and Sea. Tasja frowned, feeling a prickly wariness settle over him. It was unusual for either gatehouse to send messages via plate, given their proximity to Sjan Saal and the garrison’s lack of a dedicated clerk. Indeed, he could read the unpracticed motions of whatever soldier was operating the plate in the slow, hesitant sweep of its hand.

He brought out the special codebook used for the garrison, following along as it tapped out its message.

“One, sixteen. Arrival, unscheduled,” he murmured. “Five, one, seventeen. Five, four, sixty. Hm.” He leafed through a lengthy table of descriptors, tracing with a finger. “One… huh, Cereinem? Four… unknown origin?”

He straightened up, suddenly feeling quite awake as he hurriedly transcribed the messages. When he was done, he held the paper up with trembling hands, not quite believing what his own pen had written. He tore off a new sheaf, moving back through the ink smudges on the original to double-check his work - but the transcript was precisely the same:

Arrival, unscheduled. Visitor, one Cereinem. Visitor, four of unknown origin. Transport, one chariot. Incoming, Sjan Saal, immediate. Request briefing, governor.

Report to follow, courier, sensitive.

He read it once more, then bolted from the room with papers in hand.

Inhale, hold. One, two, three. Exhale, slowly. Feel the heart slow, the muscles relax. With an effort, Jesse unclenched his fist and rested his hand lightly on his thigh - but no, that was awkward. It looked stilted, unnatural. He shifted again, crossing both arms over his chest and slouching, although the bench seat did not have a back to lean against.

The governor’s office had chairs in a relatively normal format, but of their group only Jackie and Gusje could fit in them comfortably. A hastily relocated long bench replaced the ornate seats on their side of the table, groaning under the weight of the three men. Mark and Arjun were deep in study of some local map while Jackie was assaulting Gusje with her horrendous attempts at Ceiqa. A functionary of some sort came over to ask Mark a question but received only polite confusion in response.

That had been their response since leaving the gatehouse. Tizhodhu’s reaction to their story had been severe; both Mark and Arjun had cautioned against being too forward until they had a chance to assess the people in town. They couldn’t rely on everyone they met being so cool-headed, though even the stoic Tizhodhu seemed like he was barely holding together after their conversation. The gatehouse captain had apologetically explained that he could let the city know they were coming but that they would have to relate their story over again in full - whatever means he had of communicating ahead apparently did not allow for much detail.

It was presented as an inconvenience but it would let them keep some cards up their sleeve until the full report could be sent from the gatehouse. Creating a panic would complicate their objectives of securing aid and seeking information, so when they reached the rough stone walls surrounding Sjan Saal they had jabbered cheerfully at the guard in English and broken Ceiqa until an exasperated-seeming Gusje walked forward to explain that she had enlisted the aid of some foreign travelers and was desperately seeking an audience with the governor.

The deception was a calculated gamble on their part. Gusje was a known quantity for the Sjocelym, the least-threatening member of their party in a variety of ways. Giving her the reins would help to minimize the threat profile of four giant foreigners in a chariot while they presented their bad news, hopefully allowing the locals to concentrate on the crisis rather than their apparently wealthy guests.

Inhale, hold. That theory didn’t consider the stress of maintaining a pretense. His fists were clenched, his heart pounding in his chest once more. He should be helping Mark. The Sjocelym spoke differently than the Cereinem, fast with a flat tone that made the flood of syllables blend together confusingly. He could see that Mark wasn’t just acting - he was truly struggling to understand the functionary. Jesse could piece it together. This was - ah, wait. Exhale, slowly. This was ridiculous. He would simply get up and sit closer to the others. He didn’t have to talk, after all, just be close enough to translate for Mark. That was enough.

One more slow breath to steady himself, and then he’d get up. Slow the heart, don’t fall into the trap of anticipation. There was only one stranger, it wasn’t as if he was standing in front of a group - but more would come, surely. With the Governor there would be aides, and there were quite a few empty seats left. Perhaps one more breath, or two.

His palms were still sweaty. How many breaths had it been since he promised himself it would be only one? Five? Six? He hadn’t moved - at all, he realized. Was he sitting too still? It was strange to keep his arms crossed like this for so long. He let his arm dangle - but no, that felt odd. Inhale, hold, rest the hand on his thigh.

“Com Saset Rys ran tel sjete sisum?”, a voice asked, the question and a soft touch on the shoulder startling Jesse out of his introspection. He managed to avoid flinching, slowly turning his head to look at the speaker. A girl in a plain white linen dress was standing next to him, regarding him with an amused smile. Her strikingly bright, pale eyes flicked to the tray in her hands, on which sat a pitcher of water and several small crystal glasses.

Ah, of course. Jesse hadn’t understood at first, she was inflecting several words strangely. A dialect? No, formal speech? They used all those cumbersome honorifics here, or at least he thought they were mostly honorifics. Perhaps ranks. He - shit, he hadn’t replied yet. The girl was still staring at him, her lips quirked in a half-smile.

“Please,” Jesse managed, the Ceiqa word slipping out in a dry whisper. He sat awkwardly as the girl poured water for him, feeling as though he was being evaluated even as her attention was on the glass.

“You must be from very far away,” she commented, her speech more understandable now that he was expecting the odd intonation. “I have never seen anyone like you come through the Gates.”

“Yes,” Jesse replied hoarsely. Part of him wanted desperately to drink the water, but when he contemplated moving his hand he saw only nightmares - him choking, slipping, spilling the water down his front. Best to wait.

“Very far,” he added. Awkward, but it fed into the act.

“I thought as much,” she mused, pouring glasses for the others and sliding them down the table towards their seats. The others were engrossed in the conversation Mark was carefully derailing, however, and did not notice the refreshments. “I was curious what brought you here, over such a long distance.”

Jesse hesitated, unsure of how much to say in response. Strictly speaking, he wasn’t supposed to understand as much as he’d been letting on. He also didn’t want to share too much before they had a chance to size up the governor. What they knew could start a panic, or see them categorized as the to-be-shot variety of messenger. “We have news from the desert,” he said eventually, picking over his words at a labored pace. “And something we’re looking for.” He still couldn’t quite figure out where to place his hands.

The girl’s smile broadened, showing a brief flash of teeth. “Would that you find it here,” she said, “but there is a pattern to be observed. Usually something stands between seeker and sought, else the seeker would have it already.”

Jesse didn’t know quite how to respond to that. Was it some sort of idiom? A reference to a fable? He nodded back to her, hoping the look on his face was not too befuddled. “I, ah,” he muttered. “I’m sure we’ll find our way through.” Shit, too fluent. His heart rate was up again. Inhale, hold.

“The hope of the seeker,” the girl replied, setting the pitcher on the table and tucking the empty tray against her side. “The fear of the sought. The barred door can be both obstacle and protection. Open them with care, Jesse.”

She flashed another wry smile and slipped out the door behind him before he had fully grasped what she said. He felt a spike of adrenaline flash through him to settle uneasily in his stomach. She had known his name and spoken it without a trace of the local accent. Had anyone else heard that? He stared at the open doorway, then back at his companions - but they were all engrossed elsewhere. None of them had noticed the girl, even though Mark was casually sipping on his glass of water.

Jesse touched his own glass, wetting his finger to see if it was real.

Someone came through the door the girl had just used, making Jesse whip his head around to stare - but it was just a harried clerk, a young boy with inkstains on his fingers bearing a pitcher and glasses on a tray. He goggled at Jesse, taken aback by the larger man’s intense focus on him, then looked confusedly at the pitcher and glasses already present on the table.

Behind the clerk a rotund older man in verdant green robes swaggered into the room, clapping a hand roughly on the boy’s shoulder to intercept him. He directed the bemused clerk to set the tray outside before turning to survey the room. The man’s gaze was piercing, and not a bit friendly as it roved between the visitors to settle unpleasantly on Mark holding his glass of water with studied nonchalance. The newcomer gave an irritated snort before dismissing the clerk with a gesture and drawing his lips into a broad smile. Jesse felt lightheaded. Too much was happening at once, and he felt the panic rising hot against his ribs.

Inhale, he thought desperately. One, two, three.

Gusje had been only half-listening to the increasingly frustrated functionary, but she drew herself upright to pay attention as several men walked in through the doorway. A bewildered younger boy carrying a tray of guest-cups was followed by a large, opulently-dressed man and several others who were obviously the former’s retinue. All attention turned to the newcomers as they took their seats around the table.

The Sjocelym were strangely-dressed to her eyes, but they were obviously men of great means. Their cloth was fine and they wore copious jewelry on their hands, arms and necks. The one leading them had particularly fine clothing, dyed a vivid green that seemed to echo the verdant fields outside. Her eyes widened fractionally as she tallied the effort their clothing represented, the labor of dozens pooled to craft a singular result.

She had always known that Tinem Sjocel was wealthier than her people, but the idea had lacked heft in her mind. Even the walls and blocky stone buildings they had passed didn’t really register, strange as they were compared to the longhouse of her family. It was the same with the eerily slick garments of the travelers, so fine they did not seem like real cloth. This man’s tunic, though - she could see how it had been made. She knew the endless tedium of weaving and tanning, the intense focus of beadmaking, the careful motions of carving bone. She could work for a thousand days and not make something half as well-wrought as that.

It spoke of wealth and power. Power enough to help her people, perhaps. For the first time since the gatehouse she felt a little flicker of hope.

“Hm. Water and shelter,” the man said coolly. Gusje noted with surprise that someone had slipped her a cup, which she hurriedly took a sip from in acknowledgement. He did not seem particularly pleased to be offering guest-right despite his unctuous tone, but her father had always joked that the sweetest water came from bitter hosts. “I am Vimodi Ma Nasa, governor under the king and Maja’s blessing,” he continued. “I hear you come recently from the high desert with news of some import.”

Once again the comments were directed to Mark and Jesse, and once again they looked to her. She stood from her seat to address them and tried not to think of the entire room staring at her. “Vimodi Ma,” she replied politely. “I am grateful for the chance to speak. I am Gusje, of Ademen Tacen where my father is Madi.” She paused to catch her breath before the reveal, looking at Arjun and receiving a slight nod in response. “We came to Sjan Saal to bring a warning: the draam je qaraivat in the high desert have begun to break,” she said.

Mutters sprang up around the room as she spoke, and Vimodi motioned for silence. “We have heard no other reports of this,” he rumbled. “The Emperor’s blight has fallen solely on the coasts between the Vidim Vai and Tinem Aesvai. If he was to range this far to Sun’s Height surely you would not be the only one of your kin at our gates.” Nods of agreement spread among the locals at the table, and Vimodi turned a politely inquisitive gaze on her.

She swallowed, darting her eyes back towards the others. Arjun and Jackie had polite, uncomprehending smiles - but oddly so did Mark and Jesse, despite the latter’s obvious disquiet. Were they not past the pretense, now that she had revealed their purpose? She put it out of her mind, forcing her attention back to Vimodi.

“I have not heard of it reaching so far as the other cereimyn,” she said. “We traveled far from Ademen Tacen before we saw a broken stone. Only the Aedrem knew before we did, and we heard of it only as a dying man’s mockery.”

“Hmm,” Vimodi mused, pacing with deliberate slowness and a downcast gaze. “Troubling news indeed. And how do your unusual companions figure into this?”

“Vimodi Ma?”, Gusje asked uncertainly. After the gatehouse she had expected more of a response to their claim about the warding stones, but Vimodi barely seemed to care.

The governor stopped pacing and turned to face her. “Your companions,” he said briskly. “Jaa tseve, girl, did you fail to notice that you arrived in a chariot with four babbling giants? We’re waiting to hear how rumors from the lips of dying bandits end with these four sitting in my chambers. Who are they, what are they and where are they from?”

She felt a flush of heat rise to her face as she looked back over at her companions. They still wore polite expressions of interest, as if they didn’t understand anything Vimodi was saying. She felt her heart beat faster: if Mark and Jesse were still deceiving the governor it was because they viewed him as a potential threat. Asking for help directly was no longer the plan. She would fall back on their false story.

“Ah, well,” she said slowly, her mind racing to find the right words in the moments it bought her. “It’s been difficult to learn anything about them because they’re from-” She coughed, realizing she didn’t know. “-Gadhun Draat,” she lied, watching Vimodi’s eyebrows rise at the fantastical claim. “Their people speak using different words, strange as it sounds. They’ve been slow at learning ours.” She shot Mark a nettled glance. “I’m honestly surprised they survived crossing the desert.” Jesse’s pained expression didn’t change, but Mark developed a sudden fit of coughing and grabbed for his water. He took a deep drink, then seemed to think for a moment before remembering to swallow. A thin trickle of water dribbled down his chin as he focused intently on his glass.

“A pity,” Vimodi replied flatly, although he could not quite mask the delighted glint in his eyes. “It must have been a hard journey indeed. But all is well now, Gusje Mas. You’ve done exactly the right thing by bringing them here.” He sat down in his chair with a satisfied sigh, lacing his fingers in front of him. “Now, from the beginning - tell me everything that happened.”