A Chimerical Hope

Suspicions and Sermons

The first impression one has at finally arriving in Wisterun is… disappointment. The few dozen towering mantis homes upthrust from the creekside look like the entirety of a tiny village.

The gates of Wisterun are slabs of smoked conk held together with hard mud. As the slabs close behind them, they start forward onto rock​-​studded dirt from which weeds arise. The towers are placed with all the logic of trees in an old growth forest — an image completed by the catwalks stretching between them, suggested a parallel canopy of bridge​-​streets. Below them, the streets weave around, winding, width waxing and waning abruptly.

These streets pulse with intermittent activity, yet the townspace is more absence than presence. Still, groups abound: mantids, most wearing only metathoractic shirts and abdomen sheaths dyed earthy shades, while at their feet roaches scurry, wearing hats and boots. Ants march, some in their familiar swaddling, yet those often lead larger ants that look naked in comparison. One heavy, horned beetle tugs a carts behind them. And so on throughout the space visible from entering the gate — which was at least a quarter of the town.

Awelah is looking around. “Is this it? Where’s the rest of the town?”

“The sign said ‘welcome to Wisterun’, so…” Ooliri, at least, shares her bemusement.

“My clan’s compound was bigger than this.”

“Including the training grounds?”

“Yes. Fine. Maybe there weren’t as many houses but… this is tiny.”

“I hatched in a village not much larger than this,” Makuja murmurs from behind them. “Home to a mine; the mine is barren.”

Looking back, Awelah lifts a skeptical antennae. “What did Unodha want with it?”

“Hunting legends of lost treasure. I told her where to find it.”

A single nod. “Ah, so that’s why a real vesperbane would bother with you.”

For a second, Makuja halts. Before that thread of conversation could continue, Yanseno cuts in from the front:

“Heartening to know I’m not alone in being used to the real cities. But your intuition is on point, Awelah. Wisterun has a few roaches, some mantids — but it’s an ant town. And why would spinners build a town you could see? Not even just ants living down below. You’re in perhaps one of the larger towns in the prefecture, if you look underneath.”

As they walked, streets felt even emptier in practice; they never worried about running into anyone; mantids would look up and glance at their antennae​-​bands and clear a path. (Though roaches and ants often cleared way for mantids as a matter of course). The nymphs wore bands too, but not real ones.

(There had been an argument about it. “It’s fraud,” had been Boleheva’s insistence when wearing the Windborne bands was suggested. “It’s practical,” was Yanseno’s rebuttal. The compromise was cloth painted with blood: where an official band would have a insignia plate, there’s had a twisted, linear shape (symbolic of a vesper), inside of a sphere (like new moon Tenebra, or a soul kernel), and branching filaments around it (like veins or roots). It suffices to identify them as vesperbanes — an impression Ooliri’s bandaged arm and Awelah’s masked face only underscore.)

A few buildings behind them, they see the first evidence Yanseno was right: a hole digging into the ground, rounded conk slab acting as the lid. They’d seen other lidded holes before, but this time an ant is moving the cover out of the way; the fact that it’s a hole clicks.

“Are we going underground?” Ooliri pokes at the ground with the exposed toes of his sandaled feet. “Where are we going?”

Yanseno glances to the big yellow bane beside him. “The syndics were kind enough to hand this one a whole office right in town hall. Big fancy desk and everything. Doesn’t even know how to use one.”

“I can stand on my desk just fine, don’t shade me.”

A golden antennae lifts, then a glance back to see that the ranger is smiling. “Was that a joke?”

“Course it was. Am I stupid? Course I know a desk is where you sink yer blade when yer not using it.” The smile turns to a laugh now.

“This isn’t time for jokes,” Awelah says. “Answer the question. Where are we going? Where is town hall?”

“Who are ye to be ruling the talk? I’ll joke as I please.”

“Town hall is in northside,” Yanseno says. “But we might be stopping by a tavern, first. There’s one at the edge of gateside. Drop off your bags and such — you’ll be here a few days, won’t you?”

“Yeah, probably,” Ooliri says.

“No. We need to get Boleheva’s report out of the way as soon as we can, no use stopping along the way.”

“Easy for you to say,” Makuja says. “You aren’t carrying anything.”

“I carried plenty, before you—”

“There’s six of us,” Ooliri says. “Maybe we could split? Leave someone to handle the bags?”

Quessa looks up. “I can do it. I’d be happy to.”

“You’d probably forget half of them,” Awelah says.

“But I don’t forget important things!”

A violet antennae arches.

Before that continues, Makuja clicks her mandibles. With a glance to the burgundy maverick, she asks, “You mentioned northside and gateside. Those are districts?”

“Entcreek splits this town in half, pretty much, going southeast, and the incline that the river is riding means one end is up higher than the other. This is gateside, we’re west of the river and at the low end. Northside is east of the river, higher up. Main way into northside is the big bridge just over the little tiered waterfall. To get there, we need to dip into hillside before crossing over.”

“What’s the other quarter?”

“Mudside. Where most of the roach burrows sit,” Yanseno said. At Awelah’s frown, he adds, “There’s a ladder up to northside, but a roach isn’t much of a climber, and the south bridge is rickety, in disrepair or slumping ’neath the waters more often than not, so getting in or out of mudside typically means wading through the earthy shallows. ’Swhere the name comes from.”

“Why not do something?” Awelah asks with some indignation. “Why make them swim through mud.”

“If you ask the administration, the roaches like the mud.” Yanseno bites a labial palp, teeth combing through the fluff its little beard. “Probably can’t even afford it, between the Stewartry, the Pantheca and the grand colony all taking a cut.”

“Speaking of burrows,” Boleheva says, “you see there any runners around? Need to let Ruby know I’ll be by the hall. She’s got the key.” Her eyes roam over the throngs of people milling throughout the down. “Ah, you! Yeah, you!”

Her dactyl singles out to a lone roach, pale green chitin like some newborn plant. Antennae jolting upward, the bug looks around, left and right, before realizing it must be them the ranger has singled out. Glancing up at the vesperbane ranger, eyes staring at the bloodiron plate of her antennae band, the bug’s legs bend downward into a slight bow.

“Run a message for me, kindly? Ye find Ruby of Redbane, ye tell her I’m back. That’s all.”

The roach’s voice is a halting song. “Madam, is there someone else you could ask? I don’t know—”

“Just ask around, should find someone who knows her pretty quick.”

Ooliri watches the exchange with a frown, but as the roach asks for a description, he feels a hand on his shoulder. That small — it must be Makuja. He jumps, a small yelp from his spiracles. When he turns to see mere inquisitiveness on Makuja’s face, his frown takes on a tinge of the apologetic.

“There was a question I asked you earlier,” she says, and the loudness suggesting the words aren’t just for Ooliri’s sake. She steps back, expectant gaze implying Ooliri would follow.

When he does, she’s asking, “Is this about the myxokora? Sorry again that I didn’t know what you needed.”

“I figured it out on my own. It’s all I needed.” Makuja’s voice is low, but Ooliri’s doesn’t reciprocate.

“You could ask Boleheva about it! I saw her using myxokora of her own yesterday.”

“No, that’s what I needed to speak with you about. I’m not sure if I trust Boleheva. Not when her harness nearly killed me.”

“I thought it was an accident?”

“I’m wary. Now that I know the ants were just fools, there by coincidence, and Awelah assured me Boleheva let nothing slip in her time with her, I am considering if it is just shadows I’m seeing. But I didn’t survive by lowering my guard once it’s been raised. There are those who seek to kill us.” Even Vilja is among them, now. “Now that we know the zipline takes us right outside of town, I wonder why we had to stay overnight in the tower. It means there was time to set this up, if needed. The ranger was even the first awake. This could all be coincidence — but if they wanted to take us out, I would be the one they’d start with, and by making it look like an accident, they would have all the doubt if they fail, in addition to attacking from an unexpected angle, one we aren’t prepared for.”

“It’s not… well, I don’t want to say we expected it, because we didn’t, but Yanseno was warning us before we got on, right? I was worried I would fall the whole way.” Ooliri curls up his antennae, looks away and then looks back. “I’m not… I hear you when you say that people want to hurt us, and this is something it makes sense for them to try. But Boleheva? I don’t see it, I’m sorry.”

“Why not?”

“We know the sort of bane who’s out for Awelah — your master was a maverick from the Bloodweb Stronghold. Boleheva is a warden for the Windborne Stronghold. And she’s… I can’t see her scheming like this.”

“Yanseno, then. My other suspect, and a maverick.”

“Maybe. Umbracogs are kind of spooky. But… maybe you’re thinking too narrowly? Yanseno mentioned other bugs are responsible for maintaining the watchtower. Could it have been them? A third party… maybe they weren’t even targeting you! If Windhold won’t cooperate with the mercenaries, then killing or crippling one of them would be a win, too. And no matter who fell, there’s little enough trust that they might blame us. And if we’re fighting among ourselves, then we’re distracted from them— you could be playing right into their plans with your suspicions!” When he shakes his head, his longer antennae swing widely. “I don’t know what’s going on. But I think the Wisterun banes are on our side — and if someone out there is behind this, well, they’ll have a next move, won’t they? I hope we’re ready.”

“As Brillen returned from afar, she wept, for the lands she had known as a nymph had been turned to naught but ash! All of the houses, all of the fields, all of the blessed possessions, but ash! Her family her friends, all whom she knew, but husks! You don’t know desolation like that. None of us do. And imagine! For Brillen, the mother of the blaze itself, she then knew that if not for her work, none of this could happened. It could have been prevented. So she thinks to herself, it should have been prevented. For if not for her, none of this tragedy. And it could happened very well anew — did she not have a duty to prevent that? So she contemplates.

“But while she still lived, the spirit of the ancestors beyond arose to speak to her, scolded her of that foolishness. She could not give up, they exclaimed it to her! But why shouldn’t she, if she had lost everything? She asks this, begs for an answer. But the ancestors were silent, then, quite silent. I’m sure you’re all familiar with that. But Brillen listened. She had faith! And thus she persisted.

“Imagine. Months of living, surviving without shelter, with all plants around turned to ash, prey frightened away. It was torment! But Brillen persisted. Her spirit burned with determination, and at the change of the season, she was graced once more with the presence of ancestral spirit. They spoke to her…”

It is a thin road, blocked on once side by a sheer slope that ferns clung to with exposed, eroded roots. Before that wall, A mantis with silken blue robes and a pointy hat, wide​-​brimmed with tassels, gesticulates to a crowd of mostly other mantids, about twelve of them, with three roaches scattered amongst, huddling by the legs of mantids.

“What’s the hold up?” Awelah asks. The imagos were leading them, slowing as they approached the crowd.

“Seems like a street hierophant, peddling welkinist flyshit by the sound of it,” Yanseno says. “I wonder how many more sentences she can go before the politics comes in.”

“…and Brillen demanded to know why the ancestors had ignored her plea for counsel, why subject her to such a fate alone, so terribly alone! Their response? Do you know what they said? Why this burden was hers alone to bear? Just as great heat hardens our weapons, sloughs them of slag — just as the sculptor’s violence reveals the beauty within — this great privation of Brillen was needed to grant her exalted purity. Today we call her Brillen Fire​-​starter, the mother of blazes, we have remembered her for centuries. She lives for​-​ever, and do you think that immortality would be hers if we were weak? If she had given up? If a season in a scorched wilderness all alone was too much for her?”

The speaker goes quiet now, raptorials folded up as her eyes survey the gathered mantids. She begins nodding. “No. She suffered, and she was pure, and she was rewarded. None of you have lost everything — none of you have endured such hardship. Your burden, no matter how your back sags in carrying it, is a load you are well​-​equipped to carry. Bear it proudly! Bear it with strength! The ancestors would not want to see their children weak. The fires of welkin are for those with dignity. Foul oblivion awaits those who shrug away their duty.”

By now the banes are a few steps from the edge of the crowd. It’s a semicircle around the speaker, but skirting around its perimeter is not enough to get through, when the other edge of the street is the back of a building.

Awelah says, “Are we going to stand here and listen to all of this?”

“Eh, it sounded like she was windin down,” Boleheva says. “That one hates bein interrupted.” The confident stride of the ranger’s voice had a hint of some subdued quality to it now.

She continues: “This world is a challenge, a proving grounds. We are diamantids, each of us E’yama’s children! All this world thrusts upon us — wispstorms, anteaters — are nothing we cannot overcome. But that’s not what we do, is it? We seek the foulest of assistance!”

(“Here it comes,” Yanseno says, scratching a bearded palp. “Credit at least, took a full minute longer than I expected.”)

“Vesperbanes. They abduct our children and call it tribute! Use them as pawn when they don’t kill them outright! Dazzle us with their weapons and war games, call it protection. We tell ourselves they are necessary, the price we pay for safety. No! Vesperbane kill mantids just by existing, and their apologetics are no more than a jeweled wasp leading a roach into the tip of its ovipositor.” A tarsus goes up to adjust the hat, and the brim lifts. The mantid’s eyes go up, and at last catch sight of Boleheva and Yanseno. “Here they come now. And there’s more of them! Missus Boleheva,” she drags out each of the four syllables like a mother scolding, “have you attained permission to bring more of them from the council? No you have not — I would know if you had.” The angle of her head lowers, addressing the crowd again. “Tell me: will you allow our dear ranger to taint the purity of this town with more of her kind, or will we stop this?”

Boleheva speaks simultaneous with a sigh exhaled. “Tempit, yer council will get yer report as soon as Solaroch does and no sooner. These ain’t recruits. Let us through, kindly, we have business to attend to.”

“Ha!” This artificial stridulated laugher is Tempit’s response. “A vesperbane’s word is worth less than nothing.”

“I can swear it on my true name, if ye like.”

“You and your minions will take yourselves no further. Good people of Wisterun, show her that our will is not something she can so flagrantly ignore!” She throws her arms out, and it’s the signal the crown in front of her has to move. It’s not unanimous, and it’s not coordinated. A few of them regard the vesperbane with something — not sympathy, none of them are sympathetic — indicated only by a frown and folded antennae, the exact tenor of this consideration perhaps unique to each onlooker. But those objectors are moments later obscured by the advance of those who heeded Tempit’s urging. Facing them now is a chitinous wall of bodies, whose frowns are so much clearer in their meaning.

Yanseno lifts his labrum, mandibles visible. “Did you burn out all your wits sitting in front of a welkinfire, Tempit? Preaching survival, yet not realizing that standing against six vesperbanes is giving up on life more than anything else.”

“Oh? And you seem not to realize how hard your stewartry wants to keep its image of amicability. Flagrant assault on a laymant is not something it’ll look past. But I suppose that copper headplate says all that needs to be said about your regard for the law, doesn’t it?”

“Look, look. Yanny was just speaking hypothetically, we ain’t here to menace you.”

“Then turn around and show your pawns to the gate!”

“I need them in my office for a statement. If you knew what we’re dealing with, you’d know I didn’t have time to let the council give one of the infamously swift decisions.”

“You can get their statement outside the gates while you wait for that decision. I’m sure we’ll look kindly on your trying to circumvent—” The tirade, short or brief as it would be, is cut off:

A gunshot rings out, resounding off the walls around the road. A plume of dark smoke announces the source — and Yanseno is handlessly opening an arquebus to load more bullets and powder. He says:

“I’m not kind enough to make empty threats, or waste more bullets. The next shot’s going in a mantis if I’m still standing here in ten seconds. Clear a path.”

Dark, implacable determination wells in the brown eyes of Tempit — but the hierophant is not the target. This demonstration sparks fear in the gathered mantids, and it spreads faster than fire. They scatter, more than half of them bolting away in the next seconds, and the another quarter backing up slowly. Determined or not, one mantis is not sufficient to block their advance.

“You’ll be hearing from me later. This will not stand.”

“Assuming in the meanwhile you don’t try to stare down something else that tops you on the food chain. Stay safe, Tempit.” There’s nothing pleasant about Yanseno’s smug smirk.

Mantids had already been avoiding them due to the antennae​-​bands, but the gunshot cleared the streets. Except for one dark green mantis drawn over by the sound, who only runs faster when their eyes catch the headbands. Over their thorax, they wear a vest of thick cloth gambison and they have a musket strapped to their back.

“Boleheva, madam!” The mantis raises a raptorial and outstretches it in salute. “The constab sent me to run for more watchbugs, but you can help us too, can’t you?”

“Spit it out, darling. Town pays me enough that any little mess the watch could handle won’t cost much extra.”

“There’s trouble at the tavern by the creek,” they say. “Get there quick — there will be blood.”