32. [INTERLUDE] His Sister''s Keeper


    Vrata of the Reticent Tribe had lost count of how many days he’d spent in the mountains.


    His sense of time had become as numb as the hardened skin on his fingers—fingers that trembled as they clung to the side of the tallest peak amidst the Bonespires. By now, the ‘Bone Blight’ had well and truly set in—despite the protection offered by his sister’s amulet—and soon, he wouldn’t have to worry about holding onto the rocks for dear life.


    For once he was set in Bone, his body would become a permanent fixture upon the slopes—while his soul would no longer require the anchor of his physical form.


    And as much as he was tempted to release himself from the pains of his undertaking, he couldn’t. Not just yet. Not until he found Meetra. And not until her amulet was safely back in her hands, where it belonged.


    So, even as he was buffeted by harsh winds and pelted by dense clouds of bone dust, and even as his whole body became gradually saturated by Bone Blight, Vrata of the Reticent Tribe climbed on.


    He willed his numb fingers to hold on. He pushed his faltering limbs up the slopes. He didn’t know for how many days he’d been on the mountain, but he’d climb on for as many more days as he needed to—or until he could no longer continue, in body or soul.


    Vrata climbed on, growing number and slower by the minute. Yet, at last, his fingers touched upon something other than the craggy rocks of the Bonespire slopes.


    Or rather, they whiffed upon stale, indoor air. One last push, and he saw it. A crack upon the slopes, one large enough for an emaciated Rakshasa to squeeze through.


    Even though Vrata had been looking for this opening, he couldn’t quite believe that he’d actually found it. It was the stuff of wild speculation and unsubstantiated rumors. It was also the one and only way for an uninvited guest to sneak into the Ossuary—and thereby access the Bone Lord’s inner sanctum.


    Vrata used up some more of his barely remaining strength to clamber onto the ledge and crawl through the crack. He then felt immediate relief, in the form of warmer air that was all but free of bone dust. The relief was so strong that he was nearly tempted to stop and allow himself a moment of rest.


    But no. He had to keep going. His Bone Blight was too far gone, and it’d surely progress even in the absence of fresh dust deposits. Time was of the essence if he had any hope of finding his sister before the last of his strength drained away.


    The ‘entrance’ had led into a small room, roughly conical in shape. Every inch of its walls was lined with desiccated bones of all manner of description: onyx skulls, femurs, pelves, and even some that were much paler in color, so much so that they were nearly white. Which clearly meant that some of these bones hadn’t belonged to Rakshasas.


    Despite the urgency of his mission, Vrata couldn’t help but stand a while and gape at the bizarre architecture. It was rare enough for any soul in Naraka to leave physical remains, but to then have an entire palace built from skeleton parts! It was the kind of madness and genius made only possible by magic as powerful as that of the Bone Lord’s.


    The room itself appeared to serve no discernible purpose, unless you counted displaying ‘trophies’ as one. Indeed, nearly the entirety of its floorspace was filled with statues of Rakshasas in various poses and facial expressions.


    Agony, horror, remorse, relief. These were the emotions felt by these souls in their final moments, to be then encased and immortalized in Bone.


    Unlike with the skeleton walls, Vrata had seen his fair share of these Bone Husks—though never in such numbers and density. He nevertheless used some more of his failing strength to snake through their midst, giving each of the Husks as wide a berth as he could manage, lest he taint their memories with the stains of his own suffering.


    The room contained a seam within its skeleton walls that might’ve passed for a ‘door’. Faint, orange light seeped out of this seam, which was how Vrata could see anything at all. Presently, he limped towards this light source, hurrying to get his search underway, then stopped when he heard a voice.


    “—reports have come in from the Bhootas stationed near the Basin. They claim that someone’s built a bridge over the Fibrinous Canyon.”


    Vrata killed his own breath and listened. The speaker was a woman, but her voice contained the tell-tale roughness of advancing age. Not Meetra.


    “There’s even talk of a new Wayfarer that emerged from the Damnatorium. Two of them, in fact. I normally wouldn’t trouble My Lord with the fanciful ramblings of Bhootas, but this particular story seemed too outlandish even by their standards. I thought it best that you at least—”


    “The Bhootas speak the truth.”


    Vrata swallowed, as quietly as he could. This second speaker was a male, one who possessed a deep, sonorous voice that resounded across the entirety of Vrata’s battered body—and reverberated within the depths of his tired bones.


    It was his first time hearing this voice. His first time in its malevolent presence. Yet, he was certain—instantly and absolutely—to whom this voice belonged.


    “I myself felt the shapes of these so-called Wayfarers,” the Bone Lord continued, “and despite their humble beginnings, I’d venture to say they’ve got a pep in their steps and a bold manner about them that warrant… closer inspection. It is, after all, my duty to take measures of these things.”


    “Then allow me to act as your eyes and ears, My Lord,” a third voice—female, young—chimed in, “as well as your hands, if it should come to that.”


    Vrata squeezed his fist and dug his claws into his numb palm. He then brought the same fist up to his mouth and bit it—violently, until he broke skin. Until he tasted a mixture of blood and Bone.


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    And still, he’d barely contained the gasp that had nearly escaped his throat. Almost no pain was enough to kill his anguish then.


    For this third voice—the one that had so swiftly and eagerly offered aid to the Bone Lord—belonged to none other than Meetra.


    “That won’t be necessary,” the Bone Lord replied. “I’ve a mind to meet these souls myself. A little greeting of sorts… and maybe even some guidance to point them in the right direction.”


    “… Are you certain, my Lord?” Meetra again. Unmistakable. “Know that I’m ever ready to serve your needs, in whatever shape or form you require of me. I’m ready to—”


    “And you shall serve me, maiden, when I have need of eyes, ears, and hands. Do not presume to fret on my behalf. Or do you deem me a poor judge of when and how I should use my tools?”


    “Of course not, My Lord. Forgive me, I misspoke.”


    Vrata was lightheaded, and not just because of his failing health. He staggered and nearly bumped into a Husk behind him, before he managed to stand his ground and force himself to stay present.


    His sister Meetra, formerly of the Reticent Tribe—until she became a Wayfarer and set off on her journey across the Reticence Fields, through the Badlands of central Naraka, and onto the Bonespires to the north.


    Vrata, perhaps more than the other Tribesmen, had been sad to see her go. But he’d also been prouder than anyone else. His little sister. Recognized by the gods above to have what it took to change her lot in the afterlife. To ascend to higher Realms and leave this hell behind.


    To escape the absolute dominion of the Bone Lord himself.


    Hot tears blurred Vrata’s vision and warmed his dusty cheeks. His other hand reached for the amulet around his neck and squeezed it.


    Despite the numbness of his fingers, he knew every curve and groove upon the bloodstone cameo. How could he not? He’d carved it himself, had given it to Meetra as a parting gift. Such that it could be a magical Trinket to protect her on the road. To protect her from the Bone Lord’s omnipresent magic.


    That was also why his pride had turned to fear and desperation one fateful morning, as he found this very Trinket again, abandoned inside one of the many hollows that dotted the central Badlands. Its chain had been severed and its wearer nowhere to be seen. And he knew then what he must do.


    The other Tribesmen tried to stop him, of course. How could he, an Anchored soul with no discernible power to his name, hope to cross the most hellish parts of Naraka alone, when even his Wayfarer sister had succumbed to the dangers on the road? And they were right to stop him, even if it was in vain.


    For his sister was in trouble. That was the only reason Vrata needed to brave an impossible mission. The only reason he’d ever needed to do anything foolish or beyond his means.


    And his foolish, impossible mission had led him all the way here, unto the very chamber where the Bone Lord discussed the latest goings-on in his kingdom with his loyal servants. With his sister—Wayfarer turned servant to the very being she was meant to defy.


    The last of Vrata’s strength was fading, but that wasn’t why he couldn’t take another step. That wasn’t why his frozen hands refused to reach for the seam upon the skeleton wall.


    The voices on the other side of the wall ceased their discussions. Two sets of footsteps could be heard fading into the distance. Which left at least one soul who—


    The skeleton wall suddenly burst open at the seam, flooding orange light into Vrata’s hiding place.


    His vision was first blinded by the light, only to quickly settle on the lone figure that stood at the open door. It was Meetra. Instantly recognizable despite the strangeness of her attire: flowing blood-red robe, flesh-forged armor, and a new amulet around her neck—one of linked skeleton parts rather than a bloodstone cameo.


    Meetra reached for a sword around her waist, then froze. Her eyes—as bright as they’d been on the day she’d set off on her journey—widened in shock as she whispered.


    “Vrata? What… what are you doing here? How did you—?”


    Vrata was lost for words. Or, even if he had words, his throat was too dry to speak them. With a violently trembling hand, he grabbed the chain around his neck and held the amulet out toward its rightful owner.


    Meetra saw the Trinket. Realized what it meant. Then, her face fell.


    “Damn the gods, Vrata,” she cursed under her breath, “you came here… just to give me this? How could you be so—”


    “Meetra?”


    The voice was deep and sonorous, and as loud as if it’d been spoken right next to the Rakshasa siblings’ heads.


    Vrata looked about him in a wild panic. He hadn’t heard footsteps approach, and even now, there was no sign of anyone else nearby. Yet, when the voice spoke again, it shook every bone in Vrata’s body all the same.


    “Meetra,” the Bone Lord repeated. “Who are you speaking to? Did I have a guest I wasn’t made aware of?”


    For a fraught Ksana or two, Meetra didn’t move a single muscle. She still had her back turned to the larger chamber, and her youthful face contorted in something that almost approached pain as she stared at the trembling, silent man before her.


    Then she let out the smallest of sighs—one of decision and resolve.


    “Apologies, My Lord. It appears that a lost soul has wandered into our midst, uninvited and without cause. Do you wish for me to deal with him?”


    Vrata could help it no longer. A muffled whimper escaped through the cracks of his bloodied teeth. He looked to his sister with pleading eyes, and was met only by an impassive mask.


    “Don’t be so rude, my maiden. Show him in, why don’t you? Uninvited or no, any king worth his salt should always make time for his vassals.”


    Meetra relaxed her posture and turned slightly, letting more of the orange light shine upon Vrata and the room-ful of Husks behind him. She then beckoned, with a brief, almost dismissive flick of her chin.


    Vrata turned and ran.


    He blinked away the tears that blurred his vision. He pushed his failing muscles to make one last dash, back toward the hole through which he’d foolishly crawled to his own demise. He bounced against the Bone Husk statues—knocking some of them to the floor as he did—uncaring to whose frozen moments of suffering he joined his own pain, fears, and regrets.


    Through it all, he’d held with one hand the chain around his neck. And it was with this hand that he reached through the hole first, as if—by thrusting the Trinket before him—he could stave off the inevitable. The chain severed then, and the bloodstone cameo dangled in the open air, now buffeted by bone-storm but freed from sharing the fate of its wearer.


    And that was how Vrata of the Reticent Tribe met his end.


    As his pain, fears, and regrets were encased and immortalized in Bone—and as a bloodstone cameo slipped from his lifeless fingers and tumbled down the mountain slopes—the last image he held in his soul was that of a young Rakshasa Wayfarer, setting her bright-eyed sights upon possibilities untested and heights unknown.