Shards of the Gods

Chapter 3: The Keeper's Secret

The Scrap Market was already bustling when Reksa arrived.

He slipped in through the western side, merging with the flow of scavengers carrying sacks filled with their overnight haul. He had wrapped the black cloth from Bagas around his neck and shoulders, concealing half his face. All around him, merchants shouted, hawking bones, scales, and blood powder. Children ran between the stalls, and the smell of salted fish mingled with sulfur made his stomach churn.

At the market's eastern gate, two Sweeper soldiers stood inspecting everyone who passed. Reksa lowered his head and walked deeper inside.

Don't rush, Wiratma said. A man walking fast in a crowd is a guilty man.

"I am guilty."

Exactly. So walk like you aren't.

Reksa took a breath and slowed his pace. He threaded his way through lane after lane, passing amulet sellers' tents and potmenders' carts, until he finally found a small shop at the end of the narrowest alley, with a weathered wooden sign that read Kemuning Fabrics.

Inside, an old woman sat quietly rolling a bolt of cloth. Her hair was entirely white, tied up in a neat bun, and a pair of copper spectacles perched on her nose. She didn't look up when Reksa entered.

"We're closed."

"I'm Bagas's boy, from Kerak."

The bolt of cloth in the woman's hands stopped rolling. She lowered her spectacles, eyed Reksa from head to toe, then walked to the door, flipped the sign to Closed, and pulled down the blinds.

"Follow me."

The basement behind the shop was larger than Reksa had expected. Wooden shelves stacked with bolts of fabric lined the walls, and in the center stood a long table with an oil lamp. Nyai Kemuning poured tea from a clay teapot without asking if Reksa wanted any.

"Bagas sent word ten years ago," she said. "If a young man came and spoke his name, I was to close the shop and open this door. I never asked why. Bagas wasn't a man who liked being questioned."

"He was arrested by the Sweepers this morning."

"I know. The news reached the market before you did." Her voice was flat, but her fingers gripped her cup a little too tightly. "Officer Dharsa doesn't kill anyone before bleeding them dry. Bagas will be taken to Rakta Fortress. We have time—a week, maybe."

"We?"

"You think I opened this door just to chat?" Nyai Kemuning glared at him sharply. "Show me your hand."

Reksa hesitated for a moment, then extended his right hand. A faint golden vein pulsed beneath his skin before fading away. The old woman studied it for a long time, showing not the slightest hint of surprise.

"How many shards?"

"One."

"A whole one, or a fragment?"

"Whole. The size of a fist."

Her spectacles nearly slipped off her nose. "And you're still alive."

"I didn't burn."

"That's what I've been hearing from Kerak for seventeen years now. The boy from the crater who doesn't burn." She stood up, walked to the back shelf, and cleared away a pile of fabrics. Behind it sat a small iron chest. "The Duchy has been looking for you since the day you were found, boy. And they aren't looking to help you."

She opened the chest. Inside, resting on a cushion of black cloth, lay a shard the size of a mango seed. It was pitch black, with silver veins that were barely visible.

"I bought this from a scavenger ten years ago. No one could touch it without getting hurt, and no one dared to sell it. If you are indeed who they say you are, you should be able to touch it."

Reksa, Wiratma said suddenly, his tone tense. Don't.

"Why?"

Not all shards are glad to see you.

"You were."

I was too small to refuse. That one might not be.

Reksa looked at Nyai Kemuning. The old woman merely raised an eyebrow, waiting.

He had already lost Bagas today. He had run, he had watched his entire village be ransacked, and he needed to know if he could do something—anything—to change things.

He touched the shard.

A searing heat shot from his fingertips to his shoulder. It wasn't the heat of fire, but a heat born of rage. The shard pulsed, its silver veins flaring brightly, and before Reksa could pull his hand away, it dissolved into his palm.

A voice split his skull.

YOU!

Reksa shrieked and fell from his chair. His head felt as if it were being struck by a hammer. The voice wasn't that of a nagging old man like Wiratma. This was a woman's voice—sharp, cold, and dripping with a hatred that had clearly waited too long.

You dare show your face to me! You dare touch me with those same hands!

"Stop!" Reksa clutched his head. "Who are you?!"

Sarnika! The Goddess of Whispers! You don't remember? Of course you don't! Her laughter erupted, bitter and screeching. You silenced us one by one, and now you have forgotten our names!

Reksa's right hand moved on its own.

He watched in horror as his arm rose, his fingers curling like talons, aiming for his own throat. He fought it with what remained of his strength, but the power was too immense. His fingernails dug into the skin of his neck.

"Nyai... help..."

Nyai Kemuning didn't move. She just stood there watching, her face bearing the expression of someone who had expected this all along.

Sarnika! Wiratma's voice boomed inside Reksa's head, far louder than before. Let him go!

Silence, Gatekeeper! You are no better! You know who he is!

I know who he is! And I know he doesn't know who he is right now! Wiratma's roar was followed by a warm pulse in Reksa's chest, pushing back the alien force choking him. This is not the man you hate! Not this one!

Slowly, the hand relaxed. Reksa collapsed to his knees, gasping for breath, blood trickling from the small cuts on his neck.

This isn't over, Sarnika hissed, her voice shrinking and receding like a fire smothered by a shroud. I will remain here. Waiting. If you killed me once, I will find a way to kill you twice.

Then, silence.

Reksa lay on the floor, his chest heaving. Above him, Nyai Kemuning crouched down and offered him a cup of water.

"Drink."

He drank it, his hands shaking. "You knew this would happen."

"I suspected." The old woman helped him sit up. "Bagas once told me: every shard you absorb will speak. Some will take your side. Some will want to kill you. Your task is to learn to tell which is which, before they decide for you."

"Why didn't you warn me?"

"If I had told you, you would have refused." She smiled faintly, without a hint of guilt. "And you needed to know now, not tomorrow, that you are not alone in your own head."

Just as Reksa was about to reply, a sound drifted down from above.

Ting.

Nyai Kemuning froze. She looked up at the ceiling, where fine dust was trickling down from between the floorboards.

Ting. Ting.

"They're sweeping the market," she whispered. "And you just absorbed two shards at once. You're shining like a beacon to those bells."

She moved quickly—far faster than one would expect of a woman her age. From the bottom shelf, she pulled a heavy roll of gray cloth stitched with lead thread, draped it over Reksa's shoulders, and pulled him into the corner. The smell of cold metal stung his nose.

"Don't move. Don't breathe too loud. And whatever happens, do not let your hand glow."

A heavy pounding rattled the shop door above them, followed by a man's voice, deep and impatient.

"Open up! Duchy inspection!"

Nyai Kemuning gave Reksa a single look—one that said trust me—then climbed the stairs with leisurely steps, as if she had just woken up. Reksa heard the door creak open, the sound of heavy boots entering the room, and the chiming of a bell that now sounded incredibly close, separated only by a layer of floorboards from where he huddled.

"The shop is closed, gentlemen," Nyai Kemuning said in the raspy voice of an old woman. "My back is giving me trouble."

"Our bell rang near here."

"Your bells ring everywhere. That's because this market was built on the corpse of a god." A dry chuckle followed. "Would you like some tea? Or would you rather search an old woman's fabrics?"

A tense silence fell. The ringing of the bell moved slowly, circling, as if searching for something. Reksa's palm began to burn. He gritted his teeth, pressed his hand against the floor, and suppressed the pulsing energy with all his might.

Calm, Wiratma whispered. Imagine still water. Don't fight it. Let it sleep.

Reksa closed his eyes and imagined still water. Slowly, the heat receded.

Above, the chiming grew fainter, then moved away.

"Strange," the soldier muttered. "It was definitely ringing just now."

"Probably rats," Nyai Kemuning said. "You may leave if you don't want any tea."

The door closed. The heavy boots shuffled away. Only when everything was completely silent did Nyai Kemuning descend once more, her face a shade paler than before.

"You managed to hold it back," she said. "Good. That is your first lesson, and you just learned it without a teacher."

Reksa couldn't bring himself to answer. His shirt was soaked through with cold sweat.

He wiped the blood from his neck. There was one thing that had been bothering him.

"Bagas. Who is he, really? A common scavenger doesn't have connections like you. A common scavenger doesn't know about talking shards."

Nyai Kemuning fell silent for a long moment.

"Ten years ago, I asked him the very same thing," she said at last. "He told me, 'I'm just a man who was once protected by someone, and now I'm protecting his child.' That was all. He never brought it up again after that."

Reksa stared at her. "Whose child?"

"You should be the one answering that, boy." She looked toward the black cloth still draped over Reksa's shoulders. "You brought something of Bagas's with you, didn't you?"

Reksa unwrapped the cloth slowly and presented the corner of the fabric, showing a pattern of a cracked circle.

Nyai Kemuning's expression completely changed.

For the first time since Reksa had walked in, the woman's composure cracked. She took half a step back, her eyes widening, her hand covering her mouth. She stared at the pattern as if looking at a ghost.

"Hide it," she whispered. "Hide it now. Never show that to anyone in this city. Not to me, not to any merchant. If Dharsa sees it..."

She didn't finish her sentence.

Reksa quickly folded the cloth and hid it away again. The basement was silent. The oil lamp flickered softly.

"We have seven days," Nyai Kemuning said at last, her voice back under control, though her hands still shook. "To save Bagas, you will need more than one shard and more than one voice in your head. You said earlier that you could feel the pulse of other shards?"

"Three to the east," Reksa said quietly. "One to the north. And another... very far away."

"Three to the east." Nyai Kemuning walked to the table and unrolled an old map. "That is the Valley of the Gate. An old battlefield—the quietest, and the one no one dares cross. If you want to learn to control what you have, start there."

The Valley of the Gate, Wiratma murmured softly. That was where I used to be.

Reksa stared at the map, then at his hand, which still felt warm.

From the depths of his mind, very softly, Sarnika's voice whispered once more:

I know why Bagas never wanted you to remember.