70. [INTERLUDE] The Exile and His Tea

  The last time Zacarias Borges-Juventus passed through the Wayside Lotus, its famous teahouse had been packed to the brim with freshly ascended Tidereigners. They’d been a rowdy group, contrary to their Realm’s reputation for puritanical asceticism. But he supposed that was just what happened when you set loose a bunch of teetotalers on a diverse catalog of intoxicants—both of the liquid and gaseous variety—sourced from up and down the slopes of Mount Meru.

  In fact, the last time he was here, he could barely breathe, let alone find a seat at which to drown out his sorrows. Today, however, the place was all but empty—no songs, no smoke, no flying cups. Which was rather ironic, given that his cravings too had been much suppressed.

  For a mobile ‘Lotic space’ that fluxed across the transitional planes between Realms, the Wayside was surprisingly solid in appearance and cozy in atmosphere. The teahouse in particular was of a rustic bamboo construction, with its monochromatic frame and furnishings enlivened by a dense ensemble of bottles, pipes, and knick-knacks.

  Zacarias, who’d skipped through Tidereign and Pretjord in his fall from grace, was unfamiliar with a majority of the items on display. There was, of course, the muted television behind the counter, which even now showed a black-and-white film from way before his time. Even from the little he’d interacted with outrealmers, he knew TV to be Manesfera’s most popular export—and by a fair margin at that.

  On this occasion, his eyes also fell upon a raw mineral specimen that served as a centerpiece on one of the tables. A distinctive base of gray, green, and pale-blue, all of it streaked and splashed with a lurid dark-red. Bloodstone. So, Naraka was represented here as well—something the Manusya had no way of recognizing on his previous visit.

  Zacarias had strolled into the teahouse by his lonesome, after helping Serac get settled into the rest of the Wayside Lotus. Presently, the only other ‘guest’—if one could even call him that—was a dreary-looking fellow who was slumped over the counter, an empty cup in one hand and his own face buried in the other. Though his facial features were hidden, the man’s willowy build, the scales on his exposed wrist, and the dorsal fin that poked out of the back of his tunic clearly marked him out as a Yaksha.

  A Pretjordian, then, on his way down to Naraka. That would make him another exile, though his fall wouldn’t be nearly as precipitous as the Manesferan’s.

  It would also explain the man’s apparent demeanor; Zacarias himself would’ve looked very similar this time several months ago, had he been allowed a seat at the table. He did his best to give the poor Yaksha the space he needed, choosing to sit on the far end of the counter.

  The bar itself was attended by a lone, middle-aged man. Tall and slender, with a thick graying beard. A fellow Manusya, Zacarias wanted to say, though the man’s wide-brimmed hat and bulky leather jacket made it difficult to rule out Asura. Heck, even Rakshasa wasn’t out of the question; Zacarias had certainly seen stranger things of late.

  Whatever the proprietor’s origin might be, he lacked a Pathsighted label with which to announce it to the Wayfaring populace. As such, Zacarias was forced into the whole awkward thing of combining hand gestures with a vague address to get himself served.

  “Uh… barkeep? Tea… master? Any chance I could get a rundown of your menu?”

  The teamaster made no reply, nor so much as a movement in response. Indeed, he’d remained perfectly still since the moment his latest patron had walked in, with his bushy eyes pointed straight forward.

  Zacarias tried to follow the other man’s gaze, only to find himself staring back at the interdimensional barrier that separated the Wayside from the physical realm. As far as he could tell, the teamaster wasn’t busy with anything, which seemed to suggest that he was simply ignoring him.

  Oh well. Zacarias shrugged. Kind of a weird way to treat a paying customer, but who am I to judge? Certainly seen stranger things of late.

  Momentarily bereft of a better way to occupy himself, the Manusya turned his attention back to his fellow patron—the Yaksha who, quite literally, was misery incarnate. His first instinct had been to leave the man well enough alone, and the Zacarias of even a few months ago would’ve followed that instinct to the bitter end. But the Zacarias of today had met Serac Edin and all that followed, and as such, he knew there was more than one way to keep misery’s company.

  “Tough day at the office, eh?”

  No response. Not so much as a twitch of a muscle. Zacarias was starting to detect a theme, but he persisted.

  “I don’t blame ya. Gods know this shit can really get you down sometimes. But if it’s any consolation, it does get better. And I’m not just saying that. I’ve been there myself.”

  Still nothing. Zacarias shrugged again, though with a somewhat heavier heart. He gave it his best shot, as he knew a certain gunslinger might. But he also knew that not every soul could—

  “Appreciate the effort, sir, but I’m afraid this fellow may indeed be a lost cause.”

  Zacarias looked up with a start, and found the teamaster’s bushy gaze on himself. The older man, hitherto frozen in inaction, now moved and talked like a normal soul being—almost like an automaton whose internal mechanisms had kicked into gear. Of all the strange things Zacarias had witnessed of late, this might indeed have been the eeriest.

  “I’d say that’s a bit harsh, but I suppose you’ve seen a lot of his sort come and go,” he spoke with deliberate softness, trying to hide his own startlement. “Got any tips on how to tell if one exile might be more irredeemable than another?”

  “Look closer. I believe you can see it for yourself.”

  Zacarias did, and was startled again to see exactly what the teamaster meant. On closer inspection, it became clear that the Yaksha was ‘not all there’. Mentally too, probably, but the observation was of a decidedly physical nature.

  The ‘edges’ of the man’s bodily frame had been blurred and effaced, as if he were a watercolor with a little too much water and not enough color. This effect was most prominent on his otherwise impressive dorsal fin, the bulk of which had thinned until it was nearly transparent. Zacarias could look through his fellow patron and at the latticed wall on the other side.

  “What the hell is”—the answer came to him even before he finished the question—“happening…?”

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  “He’s fading into Souldust,” the teamaster confirmed Zacarias’s hunch, “but perhaps at a much more gradual rate than what you might be accustomed to seeing.”

  “Does that mean he’s… dead? Dying?” Zacarias couldn’t take his eyes off the fading Yaksha. “And where would he—what would happen to him after…”

  “Death is one description for it, I suppose,” the teamaster said, then began to busy himself behind the counter, pulling out a bamboo tea tray full of clay pots and cups. “Extinguishment would be another. And once this fire burns out, I’m afraid there will be no relighting it.”

  “How long has this been going on?” Zacarias was surprised by the hoarseness of his own voice.

  The teamaster didn’t answer right away, though his hands continued to rearrange the tea set. Then, after a pause that was long enough for Zacarias to wonder if he was being ignored again: “It’s hard to keep track of time from inside the Wayside Lotus. By your count, I’d say… close to a century now. But it’s only in the last decade or so that he’s begun to fade in earnest.”

  Zacarias was aghast. “A century? That’s how long this guy hasn’t moved from his spot?”

  “Correct. And I hope you don’t take this the wrong way, sir, but I daresay that’s long enough for whatever brought him here in the first place to have… worked itself out. Not that it’d make a difference at this point.”

  The Manusya turned his open-mouthed expression back onto the teamaster. The older man did not return the gesture, instead focusing on his task. Besides the brief disclaimer, there was no indication that the man had knowingly said anything callous or untoward. He’d simply stated an observation—and a rather reasonable one at that.

  Zacarias shook his head, marveling at all the creative ways an unkillable Wayfarer could, in fact, die for good. Just in Naraka, he’d witnessed a Shriving and survived an attempted Enlistment. Even before that—he realized now with a slight shudder—he himself had been at risk of a self-inflicted ‘extinguishment’—if it hadn’t been for a certain prison riot that had shaken him out of his rut.

  “Oh, and sir, please forgive my earlier… disconnect,” the teamaster suddenly said without looking up. His bushy eyes were now pointed to a teapot with which he poured steaming water into a clay cup. “I have to be in five different places at once, you see. Sometimes, it can get to be a bit much.”

  “I understand. No offense taken.” Zacarias meant it. He’d seen first-hand just how busy the Wayside could get in some of the ‘other locations’.

  “But you’ve got me all to yourself now.” With that, the teamaster finished pouring and set down the cup in front of his one conscious patron. He used two hands to do so, and even adorned the gesture with a ritualistic bow that rather ill-matched his leathery attire. “And here’s your order. Thank you for your patience.”

  “Uh, but I haven’t ordered yet.”

  “No, but a good teamaster should always know what his customer needs.”

  Needs—not wants, huh? Zacarias peered down at his steaming cup of red liquid. That color… and the smell. What is that, hibiscus tea?

  “How much do I owe you?” he asked out loud, switching over to Pathsight for a gander at his Liminal Karma—thankfully still in the positive.

  “Don’t trouble yourself, sir,” the teamaster said with a subtle shake of the head. “This one’s on the house.”

  Zacarias hesitated, but only for a moment. He took one sip, burnt his tongue, then took another. Tart and bitter, with just a hint of sweetness to remind you of what’s around the corner. It’s even way overhot—just like how mama used to make it…

  He looked up at the teamaster with a nod of approval, lips curled in a lopsided smile. The older man maintained his stoic mask of a face, but gave another slight bow in acknowledgment.

  Zacarias took another sip, then remarked, “You know, before I sat down, I thought I was in the mood for something stronger. But this… this is right. This is as it should be.”

  “I’m glad you like it, sir.”

  “Name’s Zacarias, by the way. Though, apparently, I sometimes go by Zacko now. You are…?”

  “Ebenezer Yama, at your service.”

  Ebenezer. Eben. The name did ring a bell, which made Zacarias recall that he’d previously been acquainted with the proprietor of the Wayside Lotus. He quickly shook off a pang of embarrassment, knowing he’d been in no state to remember much of anything on his last visit.

  “Will your companion be joining you, sir?”

  The question caught Zacarias off guard, as he didn’t realize that Eben already knew of Serac’s arrival. But he supposed a good Lotus-keeper should always know who and where his guests were.

  “I dunno, maybe? She sort of… dances to the beat of her own drums. Besides, she’s with your Seersmith now, so that should keep her busy for some time.”

  “And why have you, sir, not made use of Beatrice’s service?”

  Zacarias paused the hand with which he’d brought the cup to his lips. He then took his next sip more slowly.

  “Can’t,” he said with forced lightness. “In case you couldn’t tell, I’m an exile myself. Which means my VISAGE is already three Instrument levels higher than it should be. Well, I guess two now, once I move onto Pretjord.”

  “Ah, I apologize for the careless question,” Ebenezer Yama said, with nary a sign of apology, “but perhaps you’ll indulge me another. How long?”

  This time, Zacarias set down his cup entirely. He eyed the inquisitive teamaster with another lopsided smile.

  “How long what?”

  “How long until whatever brought you here in the first place… works itself out?”

  “Are you serving me tea, Eben, or are you poking holes in my story?”

  “A good teamaster should always know what his customer needs.”

  Zacarias sat motionless for some time, letting the teamaster’s careless question steep in silence. His frozen smile was as a carved mask as he gave his answer.

  “Never. Unless I go and fix it myself. Is that what you want to hear?”

  “Is that what you want to believe?”

  At this, Zacarias let out a laugh, harsh and brief. He then reached for his teacup—with a mind to down the whole thing in one gulp, burnt throat be damned—when something flashed in the corner of his eye. The picture on the TV had undergone a dramatic shift—from a grainy, plodding black-and-white to a dynamic dance number with vibrant colors.

  As a Manesferan born and bred, he readily recognized the phenomenon—a commercial break, the tried and tested method of getting souls everywhere to part with their hard-earned currency. As Zacarias Borges-Juventus, he also recognized the ad itself—just from its opening frames.

  And he realized immediately that was all he needed—wanted—to see today.

  He tore his eyes away from the TV, before the rest of the ad could play—before the camera could change its angle and zoom in on the dancers themselves. He then shot to his feet, with his eyes swimming over his own reddened reflection in hibiscus.

  “Problem with your tea, sir?”

  “No.” Zacarias shook his head, voice hoarse. “No, the tea was perfect. Exactly what I needed.”

  He turned abruptly and left, with nary a second glance at either the teamaster or his fellow patron.

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