“What door did we come through?” she asks quickly.
“Servants’ entrance.” Adamek shrugs. “Let’s take a walk.”
They trek along a deserted stone path overlooking the ravine. The snow has stopped falling, leaving only a light, crunching dust. Adamek leads them away from Shizar, away from civilization, and into the wilderness. Nazirah blows into her frozen hands. “How’s your arm?”
“Fine.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Where are we going?”
Adamek sighs. “Patience is a virtue, Nation.”
“So is honesty.”
“So is silence.”
Adamek finally stops. He turns around, smirking. Nazirah peeks over his shoulder, peering curiously behind him. “You’re joking,” she says.
“Come on, Nation.” Adamek takes an effortless step backwards onto the narrow hanging bridge. The ropes gently give, swaying over the abyss. Wooden planks groan under his weight. He smiles, completely at ease, wind ruffling his hair.
Nazirah wipes her hands, sweaty palms on blue jeans. “No way, Morgen!” she squeals. “I’m not into suicide.”
Adamek takes another step backwards. “Where’s that Eridian, cliff-diving courage?” he teases.
“Back in Eridies,” she answers seriously.
“You’ll be fine.”
“What if I fall?”
“I’ll catch you.”
“What if you miss?”
“I never miss,” he says, extending a hand to her.
Nazirah looks at it, hesitating. It’s his hand all right. The same long fingers, trim nails, calloused knuckles, bruised from last night. The same black scratches, prominent as ever. This hand traced the lines of her face, laced through her fingers. It helped her fight, saved Cayu. It killed Riva, Kasimir, and countless others. A hand of life and death. A hand that gives and takes. And it waits for her to decide, steady, unshaken.
She grabs it.
The air crackles. Adamek pulls her onto the rickety bridge. With knees knocking, Nazirah clutches the ropes. Adamek holds her waist securely, making sure she doesn’t lose her footing. They begin walking across. “You do this for fun or something?” she asks, shaking.
“Not exactly,” he replies. “It’s better not to look down.”
Nazirah looks at him. “Where does this lead?”
“You’ll find out.”
“If you won’t answer any of my questions,” she huffs, “why bring me along?”
Adamek steps onto solid ground, shrugging. “Because everyone should experience snow,” he says, “at least once.”
“And we couldn’t do that by the manor?” she grumbles, hopping onto the ground beside him. There is a huge monastery before her. It is carved entirely into the face of the mountain. The setting sun, peeking through receding storm clouds, bathes the monastery in orange and golden light, giving it the illusion of being aflame. Nazirah knows immediately where they are. “This is where you trained?” she asks, astonished.
“Who said anything about training?” he says sharply.
Nazirah swallows hard. “It’s pretty obvious,” she mumbles. “Luka said you stayed in Shizar, and you have the dusza.…”
“It’s not that obvious,” he says, “unless you already knew.”
“Fine,” she admits. “I asked Solomon about it, okay? I was curious.”
“And what else did Solomon tell you?” he asks, eyes flashing. “I’m … curious.”
“N-Nothing,” Nazirah stammers.
They walk towards the monastery, stopping at the entrance. “You’re too nosy for your own good,” he says. “You know that, right?”
“Yes.”
He sighs. “I shouldn’t be taking you here.”
“Why not?”
“The zimbaba don’t ordinarily let civilians enter,” he says. “It’s a holy place.”
“Are Luka’s guards waiting behind the door or something?”
“No,” he says. “Even she’s not allowed in here.”
“And you are?”
“Don’t sound so surprised,” he replies, chuckling a little. “It’s just another reason she hates me. They agreed to train me, a foreigner, but not her. She’s still pretty bitter about it.”
“Do you want me to wait here?”
Adamek is silent then, staring at the heavy doors. They are engraved with the same strange characters as his dusza. “Screw it,” he says, pulling them open. “It’s not like I followed the rest of their rules.”
It’s tranquil inside, still and quiet. Hundreds of statues, honoring unfamiliar gods, line the walls. They are hewn directly into the rock, calling followers to worship. Wax pillars light the floor, the windows, spilling prophecies.
Nazirah follows Adamek through several connected chambers. He onerously searches the face of every zimbaba they pass. They chant and pray, kneeling prostrate before their gods. Several stare, expressions ranging from outrage to apathy. Adamek finally walks into an isolated room, stops. He pulls off his coat entirely. The room is empty, save for two zimbaba speaking in a corner, lighting candles. One is extremely elderly, with a round face and protruding ears. The other is slightly younger and much paunchier.
Adamek hands Nazirah his coat. “Stay here.”
Nazirah sits on the nearest chair, watching curiously as Adamek approaches the two men. The potbellied zimbaba recognizes him first, his shocked eyes narrowing. “You would dare show your face here, animal?” he demands.
“Nice as it is to see you too, Monk Ji,” Adamek says coldly. “I’ve come to speak with my master.” Monk Ji moves to strike Adamek, who doesn’t flinch. The second, older zimbaba lightly touches Monk Ji’s shoulder, halting his hand midair.
“Young Adamek,” this zimbaba says, “you still have much to learn. The riddle is not if you shall speak with your master. It is if your master shall speak with you.”
Adamek bows his head. “Please, master,” he says, “I’m in desperate need of guidance.”
“Brother Yi?” Monk Ji snaps. “Shall I remove him?”
The elderly zimbaba gently pulls up Adamek’s chin, staring into his eyes. He shakes his head. “Brother Ji,” he commands, “give us a moment.”
A queer feeling overcomes Nazirah as she stares at two pairs of gloved hands. Monk Ji scoffs, snarling at Adamek before stalking out of the room. Only the elderly zimbaba remains. And with his large ears and kind face, this Monk Yi is the spitting image of a primate.
Of a monkey.
Nazirah’s jaw drops to the floor.
This is the monkey? This small, ancient, unassuming bald man? This is who taught Adamek how to fight? How to kill?
“Please excuse Monk Ji,” the monkey says to Adamek. “Lately, he has struggled to follow the virtues we teach.” He looks at Nazirah. “Like forgiveness.”
“You knew I was coming?”
The monkey nods. “We zimbaba have eyes and ears all over the country,” he says. “I needed only open mine to know. Yet I prefer to hear it in person. Why have you traveled here, my wayward son?”
“I have dishonored you –”
“You have dishonored yourself,” the monkey corrects. “That is more important. But, continue.”
“I’ve joined the southern rebellion,” Adamek persists. “We grow stronger every day, but we’re not strong enough. I have come to ask for your alliance.”
The monkey is thoughtful. “Young Adamek,” he says, “the brotherhood of monks here is more than simple zimbaba, whose fate rise and fall with the tides of Zima. We have been neutral our entire existence. We train and teach in order to carry on our legacy, the skills and knowledge we have honed over the centuries. But we never take sides.”
“Maybe it’s time you started,” Adamek says.
“Our numbers would make little impact,” the monkey replies. “We could not train the rebels to fight like us in a thousand years, nor would we want to. And you know well, we use violence only as a last resort, not as a weapon of destruction. We kill when we must to protect ourselves, our loved ones, and our honor. We do not kill as a means of fear, suppression, or power.”
“I know this,” Adamek snaps.
“I know you do,” the monkey says, nodding. “So tell me, what is the real reason you have come?”