Kaya frowned. “What are you meant to be, a shaman?”

“I am a Priest. A Priest of the Order of Jez, at your service.” The old man bowed again. Kaya wasn’t sure what this weird old coot and his pointy hat were up to. “You don’t want me in your—whatever it is, old man. I’m not the kinda gal that likes playing dress-up. You’d better go yammer at someone else.”

“On the contrary,” said the old man “You, miss, are perfect for a follower of Jez! Jez is a patron to all the downtrodden. His first oath is kindness—kindness unto all his followers; he delivers them from the shadows of tyrants!” He was huffing and puffing a storm. “Power to the weak! That is the promise of Jez.”

‘Downtrodden? Weak?’ Kaya bristled. Was that really how she seemed? “I’m doing fine, actually. Just fine,” she snapped, folding her arms. “I damn sure don’t need your help or anyone else’s!”

“Forgiveness,” said the old man, bowing and smoothing back his few wispy straggles of hair. “I mean my words out of kindness. I see that your soul is the furthest thing from weak. It is a pity, though, how the body often lags behind the soul…”

With his knobby left hand he drew up his other sleeve, and Kaya sucked in a breath. There was no right hand—only a withered black stump, lined with ashy veins like dead roots.

“Before I found Jez, I was called Zhu Rong. I was the butcher’s son in the Outskirts,” he said softly. “But what good’s a butcher’s son with only one hand? Can’t hold a wriggling sandwolf with one hand. Can’t catch or skin a Spirit fish.” He sighed. “I was burdened with another curse too. As a boy I was soft, thin, with a good face. I caught all sorts of the wrong kind of attention.” He licked his cracked lips. “Bad men had their way with me. Often. As the saying goes—it is the right of the strong to do as they wish; it is the burden of the weak to bear it.”

Was this the custom around here, to blather upsetting stories to strangers on the street? Kaya had half a mind to tell him to shove off. She wasn’t sure what to say.

“I was so very mad, all the time,” he said, giving her a wan smile. “I joined the Sand-Devils. That made me strong, after a fashion. I hunted my tormentors to the last man. I tormented them in turn. Curious thing, fingernails. With acid-tipped needles and the right use of force, screams extracted through them can rival those of dismemberment. Curious, too, how hurting these men did not make me whole, as I’d hoped.”

Now that Kaya got a good look at him, she saw thick bands of muscle resting beneath those loose robes. Short the man might’ve been, but he was built like a brick wall. She edged a step away from him, eyeing his hands. “Er…”

“Then I heard of a new temple,” he whispered. “The Order of Jez, arrived from the lands of the deep South. And I thought, ‘here’s some fresh fools to trample.’”

Chuckling, he lifted his good arm. Clasped in his hand was a metallic card. Etched onto it was the same gold infinity stitched on his robes. Where had she seen it before? She bit her lip. Wasn’t this the mark on the forehead of that weird Pearl boy?

The old man kept yammering. He cast out his arm, sweeping the crowds on the street. “Ah, look at them! Pressed in such a hurry, shoving each other aside as they go. This city is a great joust for power. The weak are booted out and trampled. The strong are vicious, fearful of losing their positions. The struggle is no less savage on the Outside. Haven’t you felt, deep in here—“ He touched his chest—“that there must be more to life?”

He was expecting an answer, she realized. “I…guess?”

The old man nodded. “As I walked into the temple that day, I thought I sought violence. I’d never admit it, but in truth I sought what all men and women want most of all: to love, and be loved!”

Was that what Kaya wanted? Kaya frowned. She knew she wanted more yummy blue fruit and maybe a big fluffy hounds from one of those kennels she saw earlier, but she wasn’t sure of much else. And who gave this old coot the right to tell me what I want?

Still, his voice had a hypnotic cadence, rising to shining highs and falling to arresting lows. Kaya felt it sinking its hooks into her. It was disturbing.

“Jez spoke to me, and I was reborn. He showed me that man is capable of kindness. Jez’s realm is a realm of Love. Jez sees the senseless violence and greed which plagues all realms, and knows there is a better way! It is Jez who lifted me from my despair; Jez is the Finder of all lost souls. He will help you too, if you let him.”

Before Kaya could react, he’d pressed the card to her palm. “Those who open their hearts to Jez gain a share of his powers,” he said, eyes glimmering. “I understand. To you, I seem a cracked old fool blathering in the streets. I don’t dare hope you’ll convert on the spot, miss. I only ask that you listen. If Jez calls out to you, it may behoove you to answer.”

“Uh-huh.”

“May you have a blessed day.” With one last bow, the old man tottered off.

That was strange. Kaya wasn’t sure what to make of it. He’d told a decent tale, she supposed, if peppered with a few too many feel-good scraps. Another Kaya—a younger, dumber, Kaya—might’ve been taken in by it. But now-Kaya knew that these Oasis folk weren’t like normal people. With these Oasis dwellers, you never knew what was going on behind their faces. Even one as nice seeming as this old man’s. She wouldn’t be surprised if it was all gears and click-clacking under his skin.

She slid the card into her robes, feeling dumb. It couldn’t hurt to take it and poke at it, right? Still, she had a hunch no-one around here gave anything away for free.

“Who was that?”

She flinched and spun on her heel. There was Io, looking amused.

“Some old beggar,” she muttered. “No-one worth thinking about.”

He stared at her, frowning, and she squirmed. “What?”

“I see,” he said. Then he broke into a grin. “Say, how about we visit the snack street? They’ve got all sorts of neat Spirit-Ice flavors! I’ll treat you.”

As they ambled down the busy street, she thumbed the metal card. There was something nice and cool about it. It fit well in the palm of her hand. Almost too well.

***

By the afternoon they were back at camp, sweets eaten. When Io heard of her liking stone-carving, he bought her a small kit to play with and her own Interspatial Ring. She returned floating on warm, happy clouds.

Then he had to go. “There’s still some daylight yet. I’d better go check out the Alchemists—I’m sure I’ve got a few concoctions they’ll fancy.” He paused. “Will you be alright on your own?”

She nodded, feeling suddenly tender. He really cares… “‘Course! Y’know, I’m getting used to being my own company. It’s growing on me,” she lied, trying for a grin.

He gave her a skeptical look but didn’t press. He simply smiled and left; then it was like all the light had gone out of the room.

She gave thought to practicing her forms again, but the idea of going outside, kicking up a fuss, drawing eyes to herself under all that glaring sunlight made her skin crawl.

***

She stayed in, swallowed a handful of the pills Io had given her, and meditated, polishing up on her [Peerless Yang Sutra]. Lately it felt maddeningly slow, even with the pills’ boosts. Qi flowed through her in the barest of trickles; it’d be ages yet before she reached peak Vigor, where Io was. But the Tournament was mere days away.

She tried not to think on the odds; her thoughts drifted there anyways. Sometimes she felt like a wounded Vordor, spasming on the sands as Hunters loomed over her. What would become of her if she was knocked out of the Tournament? What if she never caught up to Io? What if she was stuck out in this hell-shrine, blistering hot in the day and freezing at night, stranded in this rot, this awful smell, swamped by perverts and crones and brutes with hate in their eyes, weak, helpless, all the while battered by that damned all-consuming clanking, ringing in her ears forever and ever? What then?

The old man’s card was in her hands. She hadn’t even realized she’d grabbed it. It felt reassuringly solid. She squeezed it ‘till her palm ached. A low hum of panic was settling into her.

Then came that quieter worry, one she often chewed on late at night as she felt the darkness seeping through her skin. She was worried she might be lonely forever.

Everyone she met in the Oasis rubbed her wrong. She had Io—wasn’t that enough? But then she thought all her old friends from Rust Tribe, and how she missed them with all her torn-up heart, even the ones who’d hurt her, and how empty the nights felt without friends to share them with. The days were even worse.

Her feelings were like a poorly-healed wound; a prick at the scab and they all leaked out of her. She felt it happening; she felt herself unraveling. Suddenly the smallness of the tent struck her, looming around her, its dark drakeskin folds smothering her from all sides. The ground was unsteady beneath her feet.

Swallowing, in a rush and with trembling fingers, she drew out her new stone-carving kit, fumbled with the chisel and the hammer. She had to get away. She tried whittling away at a big slab of stone, tried to stop thinking. Tap-tap-tap went the hammer. Tap-tap-tap. The rhythm of chisel on stone filled the tent. At first her hands were shaking, slipping on the chisel, but the more she tapped, the steadier they got. There was a soothing tone to the repetition. She lost herself in it. Tap-tap-tap. She didn’t know what she was carving. But bit by it, it started to take shape. Breath by breath that tightness in her chest started to unwind. The ground slowly settled down. The shadows receded; the air was breathable again.

At first the shapes she carved were mysteries. She thought they might’ve been senseless. But soon she knew what she was carving. It choked her up all over again.

It was the old tent she used to live in, a big lump of rough canvas thick with braided cords. She was nine. Io was six. They were playing in the sands outside. There was mother and father, little mounds of essence, and they were alive; father was clad in his Hunter’s garb, mother was back after a long day’s gathering. Kaya carved happy little smiles on all their faces.

She was carving home.

Even as her eyes wet with tears she swore to herself she wouldn’t cry. Not on her new stone-carving kit, not after she’d just gotten it!

She wished more than anything else to go home. But home wasn’t a place. It wasn’t a people, either. Maybe it was an idea, or a feeling she could never return to.

She wondered how long it’d take her to feel at home in this awful place. She swallowed, forcing down the lump in her throat. She wondered if she’d ever feel at home again.

Tap-tap-tap. Tap-tap-tap.

She wiped the wetness off her chisel as she carved.

***

Hours later, she heard a new, high-pitched sound trickling in from outside. It was weirdly familiar, but she couldn’t quite place it. She donned her full-body cloak and stepped out with a frown.

The sun quivered a deep orange, half-sunk over the horizon. The temperature was dipping down. Where had the hours gone? She followed the noise ‘till she came across a peculiar sight.

Before the sunset, huddled around a fire, was a big horde of Tribesmen. She blinked. This wasn’t any one Tribe; this was all of them, mingled. A girl in Zhaopai silks held hands with a burly Yalta boy. A circle of Narong played cards with a few Misfits. There was that strange sound. Laughter. Unrestrained, tinkling laughter. The fire crackled, big and warm and lively atop a bed of dry kelp.

She was dumbfounded. Weren’t these Tribes in fierce rivalries? Weren’t they at each other’s throats mere weeks ago? She’d seen Young Master Narong threaten to cut Young Master Yalta’s eyes out. Now they shared a sitting-stone, warming their hands by the fire side-by-side.

Narong beckoned to her as she approached.

“Come, miss Rust,” he said, a tired smile on his coldly handsome face. “Join us.”

She blinked again. This boy had been too proud to so much as shoot her a look at the Festival! She vaguely recalled coming onto him—when she was drunk she had a bad habit of throwing herself at anything pretty—only for him to shove her away with a sneer. It was all very hazy in her mind; most of what she remembered was the sharp spike of embarrassment.

“Why?” she croaked.

“Why not?” the rumble came from Yalta. He looked cross. Then again, it was hard not to with his thick brutish features.

Try as she might, Kaya couldn’t come up with an answer.

“Sit,” said Narong. Gentleness looked strange on a face made of harsh angles. Feeling awkward, she did. One of his hands was bound up in bandages soaked through with blood. He offered her a strip of a dark-yellow something with his good hand. “Would you like one? It is fried dough. A wonderful Azcan invention, I think.”

“Thank you,” she said. She nibbled at it and watched them both warily out of the corners of her eyes.

Yalta looked at ease. She got the sense he could’ve sat there the rest of his life and felt perfectly fine; he could’ve ben a stone. He was in no rush to speak. Narong chewed slowly on his strip, his eyes flickering this way and that. Kaya didn’t know what to say. The fire cackled softly between them.

At last, just as the awkwardness grew unbearable, Narong broke the silence. “How have you and your brother found the Oasis?”

“Fine enough, I guess,” she said, looking at the ground. She kept nibbling.

“Lie.” It came from Yalta. “You hate it here. We all do.” Yalta grabbed a stick of fried dough and started tearing chunks off with thick wedge-teeth. “The smell sucks. The noise sucks. The weather sucks. Most of all—the people here fucking suck.”

“I’m inclined to agree,” said Narong dryly. “It’s not to my taste.”

“‘It’s not to my taste’? That’s it?” Yalta tore off the last of the dough-strip as he snorted. “I could force Vordor droppings down your throat and all you’d say is ‘It’s not to my taste.’”

“You couldn’t do that,” said Narong amiably. “But in an alternate reality in which you’re capable of overpowering me, perhaps you have a point.”

“I was not the one doing the screaming last night. In this ‘alternate reality,’ do you have two working hands?”

Silence.

Yalta looked down. “…Sorry.”

“It’s alright,” sighed Narong. He turned to Kaya. “Our quibbling aside, Master Yalta made good sense last night. All of our realities have changed; there is little point to our divisions any longer. We of the Tribes ought to stick together. We ought to support one another. We only have each other left, when all is done. If you and your brother are sympathetic…we should like to have you too.”

Then he paused. She saw his jaw tighten; his face twitched. She saw him force a smile. One syllable slipped out between unmoving lips. “Please.”

He looked so weary. Defeated. Yalta, too, had the hunched posture of a beaten soldier. She felt a new note in this gathering tonight—it wasn’t a celebration; it felt more like a final supper of doomed men. Mixed in with the joys were haggard looks, haunted eyes, fidgeting hands. There was a strong feeling of melancholy.

It was nice, sitting around the fire, being with people like her—even if they weren’t her friends. She felt kind-of warm. Sort-of not-alone. She liked it. She liked it a lot. It was a feeling she could lose herself in. It certainly beat crying out the hours by herself.

But one thought still gnawed at her.

Is this all there is? Clinging onto one another in this awful muck ‘till the end? She could see it in Narong’s eyes, in Yalta’s. None of them really thought they could win—at the Tournament or at anything else in the Oasis. This was a bid for survival.

If they all lost in the Tournament—when they all lost—Kaya could imagine all the Tribesmen bunching together into their own gang here. Maybe then they’d eke out a mean existence under the shadow of the Mischief and the Sand-Devils and the city itself. Maybe they’d be swallowed whole. Maybe they’d trudge back out and wander the Desert once more.

It would be so easy to fall into this shadow-life. She could see herself devoting herself to the Tribes, scraping together a living here. In time she’d make new friends. She might even find herself a new lover. A vision flashed before her eyes—her tangled up with Narong, bearing his children, acting out the good, devoted wife around sputtering fires.

A small, mean life.

Is this all there is?

Is this really home?

A sharp twinge went through her.

She wasn’t the happy, posed girl who’d charged headfirst into the Festival anymore. She wasn't sure what she was, but she knew one thing for damn sure. She was tired of being small.

Deep within her, buried under a fog of fear and hurt, a little girl bared her teeth.

No.

Absently she twirled Jez’s card between her fingers. It warmed her hands. Slicked by firelight, twirling and catching it at odd angles, the infinity almost seemed to glow.