The Awakened City Read online

  Gaubanita rose also. “Since you’ll be staying here, Timpurin, you can watch the fire and clean the dishes.”

  They departed. Gyalo stacked the bowls and spoons into the empty cooking pot and made his way to the cavern’s western wall, where a fall of water splashed from somewhere overhead into a series of stair-stepped pools, their rims glittering with mineral deposits. He waited while a woman with a rose-colored lifelight filled a jug; she smiled at him as she turned to go, and made the sign of rata.

  By the time he had washed the utensils and brought them back to the settlement and stacked them neatly by the food supplies, he was calmer. There was a mystery, certainly. But it was not his concern. He had not come to worry about the Brethren.

  He took a grass brick from the stack at the settlement’s edge and put it on the fire. From Gaubanita and the others, he had learned that Râvar did indeed live apart, in a series of chambers opening off a passage at the cavern’s rear. The same passage led down to the smaller cave where the daily ceremonies were conducted. Might he conceal himself before the ceremony and steal into Râvar’s quarters when everyone had gone? But there would surely be a guard upon the entrance. Perhaps it would be possible to use his patternsense to find a way through the labyrinth of caves and passages, and come at Râvar’s quarters from a different angle.

  Yes. He got to his feet. It was time to go exploring.

  “You. Timpurin.”

  That rich voice was unmistakable. Ardashir, he of the shadow light and bandaged hands, stood at the perimeter of the settlement. He had two men with him, each with a staff and an armband of plaited grass.

  “I’ve a job for you,” Ardashir said, and beckoned.

  Like the obedient servant Ardashir thought him, Gyalo stepped forward. There were swift footsteps behind him. He began to turn. But he was not fast enough to duck the blow.

  10

  Gyalo

  HE DID NOT quite lose consciousness, though the world grew gray and foggy. He was aware of being borne up under the arms and legs, carried through some long dark place. Then suddenly there was light, and he discovered that he was lying on his belly, his cheek turned against cold stone. There were voices, too soft to understand. The air moved. He felt himself pulled over on his back. Fingers pushed the hair off his face, gripped his chin, turned his head from side to side. It had grown dark again—no, his eyes had fallen closed. He struggled to open them. He saw a face above him, a blur outlined in sharp golden light. It hurt to look at it. He shut his eyes again.

  Perhaps that time he did fall unconscious. When he became aware once more, he was still on his back. His head ached abominably, but his vision had cleared. He was no longer in the cavern. The ceiling above him was low and washed in ruddy light; its patterns were not those of limestone, but of sandstone, polished to water-soft smoothness. There was something very familiar about that glossy surface, those sinuous bands of red and rust and rose. He struggled to remember … Refuge, that was it. It looked like the sandstone of Refuge, like the Shaper-made living spaces he had seen there.

  A flood of icy water seemed to spill inside his chest.

  He rolled his head painfully to the side. He lay before a shallow dais, smooth and gleaming like the ceiling. From it, without any visible seam, rose a massive chair of translucent pink quartz. In the chair sat a young man in a long robe, his lustrous black hair pulled forward across one shoulder and the honey-shaded fire of the Blood of rata pulsing on his chest. His piercing golden aura outlined his body, like the sun blazing around the edges of an eclipse.

  Râvar.

  The world went away for a moment, then returned in a burst of agony that made Gyalo gasp. He lay as it subsided, then, dizzily, struggled to a sitting position, supporting himself with one hand on the floor. Râvar watched. His fine-cut features—older and harder than Gyalo remembered, but no less perfect—were devoid of feeling, but his green eyes never left Gyalo’s face. His hands were buried in the wide sleeves of his robe.

  “Do you recognize me?” It was said so softly that the quiet hardly seemed to break.

  “Yes.”

  “You don’t seem surprised.”

  “Why …” Gyalo’s tongue felt thick. “Why should I be surprised?”

  Râvar regarded him. The silence stretched. Despite his peril, Gyalo was distracted by the rosy illumination of the chamber, which had a strange, fixed quality entirely unlike the unstable living patterns of fire- or candlelight. He raised his eyes to the niches that ran around the walls, and realized with an odd cold shock that what he had thought were lamps were in fact just flames, burning without any apparent source of combustion. He stared, not quite believing it. Any Shaper could call fire, but to keep it alight without fuel …?

  Râvar said, “Would you like to how I knew it was you?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t expect I would have recognized you if you’d come before me in the ordinary way. I remember your face from Refuge—oh yes, I do remember it. But you have a common lifelight. And the beard and the hair make you seem quite different. When I look closely I can see it’s you, but I doubt I would have found any reason to look closely.”

  He paused, possibly waiting for a response. When Gyalo gave him none, he continued.

  “Ardashir came to me before the noon meal, as he does each day, to report on the happenings of my City. He told me of a new arrival, a scribe, who he thought might be useful. He said he’d been called out to inspect this new arrival on suspicion of blasphemy—a man with a Chonggyean name, Timpurin, with thick scars across his palms and fingers. Now, I happen to know that you were working as a scribe in Ninyâser, and that Timpurin is one of the false names you took for yourself. And I remember how you cut your hands in Refuge. I knew you would have scars. I hardly thought it could actually be you, even with so many coincidences, but I don’t leave such things to chance. I sent Ardashir to fetch you. The knock on the head was a precaution.” He shifted his posture, withdrawing his hands from his sleeves—the fingers, Gyalo saw, cruelly bent and twisted—and laying them on the arms of the chair. “And a good thing, too.”

  Gyalo saw that he had been a fool. He had feared Râvar’s power; even so, he had thought he understood it. Had he not seen the works of the unbound Shapers of Refuge? Was he not familiar, from Axane’s eyewitness account, with every detail of the destruction of Thuxra City? Was he not a Shaper himself—a very poor kind of Shaper, but a Shaper nonetheless? But here in Râvar’s presence, with Râvar’s quiet words in his ears and Râvar’s piercing aura in his eyes and around him the great sum of Râvar’s creation, from the slick sandstone of the chambers to the sourceless flames in their wall-niches to the mighty City of enslaved souls beyond, he realized that he had not understood at all. Râvar’s was power beyond any dream of it. He had never had a chance.

  Diasarta spoke inside his head: Did you ever think that maybe you don’t have the right to risk yourself this way?

  Oh, Axane, he thought in anguish. And all at once he realized that she must be here, right now, perhaps only on the other side of the wall. He turned involuntarily to his left, where a square opening gave onto a second artificially sleek, unnaturally illuminated room, and beyond that a third, into which a shaft of daylight seemed improbably to fall. An insane impulse swept him—to leap to his feet, to dash into those gleaming spaces, though he knew he would not get three steps before Râvar struck him down.

  “Tell me,” Râvar said. “Why have you come to my City?”

  Gyalo cleared his throat. His heart was pounding. “You know why.”

  “Some of my followers fear that I can see inside their heads and read their thoughts. I know you know it isn’t true. Tell me why you’ve come.”

  “For Axane. For the child.”

  Râvar went absolutely still. “Why should you imagine they are here?”

  “She was sure you were looking for her. When I foun
d her gone, it was the first thing I thought of.”

  “Ah.” Râvar’s voice was strange, the first obvious emotion he had shown, though Gyalo could not read exactly what that emotion was. “So she did tell you about me.”

  rata, Gyalo thought, what mistake did I just make?

  “Do you know the child is mine?”

  “What does it matter?”

  Râvar raised perfect brows. “It doesn’t matter very much at all. But I’d like to know if you’re aware of my intent. If you know the reason—the real reason”—he swept out an arm in a gesture that encompassed the whole of the Awakened City—“for all this.”

  “I’ve heard what your followers say.”

  “My followers are fools.” Râvar slid his hands along the arms of his chair, leaning forward. “What were you planning to do? Were you going to challenge me? I know you’re free of the tether of manita, but even free, you are not my equal. No Shaper in the world is my equal.” It was said without pride: simply as a fact. “Or maybe you thought you could steal her back through some kind of trickery. Is that it?”

  “What does it matter?” Gyalo said again.

  “I wonder how far you would have gotten, if it hadn’t been for Ardashir. Do you know why we watch for hand scars? It’s not because of me. I care nothing if they are stupid enough to copy my scars. It’s Ardashir. He doesn’t want rivals. Did anyone tell you about his wounds?”

  “Yes.”

  “Look. Look what the Blood did to me.” Râvar thrust out his hands, and Gyalo saw how maimed they really were: the clawed fingers, the welted scars. His own palms burned in sympathy. “Can you imagine what it’s like to live with hands like these? You’re lucky you touched the Blood so lightly when we brought you to the Cavern.”

  His face was suddenly alight with rage. Gyalo was certain the moment had come: a blast of fire, the rock suddenly vanishing from beneath him. But Râvar sat back, folding his arms, hiding his hands again. He regarded Gyalo with slow-blinking eyes. At his throat, the Blood pulsed flame. The crystal was huge—nearly twice as large as the one the Bearer wore.

  “Do you know that your masters the Brethren have come to me? Two of them, anyway.”

  “Yes.”

  “They’ve already all but acknowledged me. They’ll be mine by the time they leave. What do you think of that?”

  Gyalo was silent.

  “Ah, but I forget. You forswore your vows and renounced your church. So perhaps you think it’s fitting that I should claim their souls.”

  “I won’t play this game with you.”

  “Game?”

  “We both know you’re going to kill me.”

  “Kill you? Is that what you think?” The rage was there again, like a fault opening in the earth. “Oh no. That is not my plan at all. I have a better punishment in mind. I want you to know me. I want you to watch me as I march upon Baushpar, as I force the Brethren to bow down and worship me, then bury them beneath the rubble of their city and their temple. I want you to watch as I corrupt your people, as I steal their souls from rata and bind them to myself, so there will be no light left in them to rise into the new primal age. I want you to watch me bring ruin upon your world—you, who brought ruin on mine! I want you to know that you are helpless to prevent it. I want you to grieve, to weep as if there were no end to weeping. I want you to wish for death.” He sat back in his chair, out of which, again, his passion had half pulled him. “But I will not give it to you.”

  There was a long, frozen pause. Gyalo did not dare even to blink. Then Râvar sighed, as if letting something go.

  “What you’ve come for isn’t here.”

  “What?”

  “They’re dead.”

  “… What?”

  “They. Are. Dead. Axane and the child.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “No.”

  “What—what—how?”

  “It happened while they were on their way to me. An accident. She kept trying to escape. She fell down a hill, struck her head on a rock. The baby was on her back. The child was killed at once. She died a few days later.”

  He said it coolly, as if he were speaking of one of his pathetic followers, not a woman he had loved with an obsessive passion, not a child he had gone to enormous effort to steal. Gyalo closed his eyes. Against the darkness of his lids, he saw them: Axane, clothed in the storm of her great light; Chokyi, laughing, small fists waving. The floor under him seemed to tip. He felt himself beginning to slide off the edge of the world.

  “So now you know.” Râvar’s voice seemed to come from very far off. “You came for nothing.” A pause: “Have you nothing to say to me?” Another pause. “Very well.”

  A rustling. The air moved. The sound of footsteps, then silence. The steps returned.

  “Open your eyes,” said Râvar. “Look at me.”

  Gyalo obeyed. Râvar stood before him, his ruined hands hanging by his sides.

  “My men are coming to take you. You are not to try to return. I won’t spare your life a second time. Do you understand?”

  Gyalo stared at him. Râvar crouched down, spoke directly into his face.

  “I know what it means to be a free Shaper in your world. I don’t think there’s much chance that you’ll go to your former masters to warn them about me. But in case I’m mistaken, know this. They will be mine, the two that are here, and I will send them back to the others to announce my divinity. Against that, your words will mean nothing. When I arrive they will be waiting to embrace me. All of them.”

  Less than an arm’s length separated them. Gyalo knew he had no hope against Râvar’s shaping, but against Râvar’s crippled hands … but even as he gathered himself, one of those hands flashed out and struck his chest, with more strength than he would have expected.

  “Don’t think it,” Râvar said softly. “I have skills you can’t imagine. I can harden the air to imprison you. I can make a void around you so you suffocate. I can do any of these things more quickly than you can blink, and without the least effect upon myself. You cannot harm me.” He seized Gyalo’s chin with his twisted fingers, dragging Gyalo’s face within inches of his own. “All the blame is yours,” he whispered. “Remember that, as you watch me pass through your world.”

  He let go. Gyalo tipped forward, catching himself with his hands. Râvar rose and turned. Ardashir stood in the chamber’s entrance, with several men behind him.

  “This man,” Râvar said, “told you his name was Timpurin. That was a lie. His true name is Gyalo Amdo Samchen. He is a Shaper who has abandoned his vows. He sought to conceal his crime in order to join our City, but I perceived the truth. I do not turn away the faithful, no matter how they have sinned against one another; but this man has sinned against my father, whose will it is that Shapers be bound. I therefore repudiate him, and banish him from my presence. You will take him from here alive, but if ever he tries to return, he is to be killed on sight. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, Beloved One,” Ardashir replied.

  “Ardashir, strike him unconscious.”

  Ardashir made a gesture. One of the Twentymen stepped forward, raising his staff. Gyalo turned his face away.

  He returned to awareness by degrees. The pain in his head was so intense it did not really seem like pain at all, but like something separate from himself, a howling tempest of which he was the single focus. His memory was disordered. Where was he? What had happened? It seemed to him he had been dreaming, a terrible dream in which Axane and Chokyi were dead …

  He groaned. Nearby he sensed motion. Something prodded him in the side.

  “Gyalo Amdo Samchen. Are you awake?”

  He knew that voice. With enormous effort he opened his eyes. The face leaning over him was also familiar, dark against the sky. What was the man’s name? He tried to think, but the moving clouds distracted him. How had he got
ten outside?

  “Can you hear me?” The man leaned closer.

  Ardashir. That was it. And all at once Gyalo remembered everything, a flood of understanding that made the storm inside his head seem gentle by comparison. “rata,” he whispered, anguished. “Ah, rata.”

  “It will do you no good to call upon the god,” Ardashir said. “In his mercy, the Messenger has spared your life. I would not have been so kind.”

  Gyalo closed his eyes again. Hands seized the front of his shirt and shook him. He gasped.

  “I heard the last thing he said to you,” Ardashir hissed. “Why should he speak to you so? What have you done?” Another shake. “Who are you?”

  “No one,” Gyalo whispered.

  “What does he blame you for? How have you troubled my Messenger?”

  “Your Messenger … is a fraud.”

  “Blasphemer!”

  “He has … stolen your soul. He’ll burn you … to ashes in the end.”

  Ardashir growled and yanked Gyalo upright. The pain in Gyalo’s head crested; a cold wave of nausea broke across his body. He gagged and vomited, incapable even of turning aside. Ardashir shouted in disgust and leaped away. Gyalo collapsed back onto the ground. A gray veil swam across his vision.

  “Blasphemer. Filthy dog.” The voice seemed to come from a long distance off, as did the kick that accompanied it. Then there was stillness.

  Gyalo’s pain pinned him to the earth. Far more agonizing was the weight of understanding. He lay staring at the sky, longing for unconsciousness, but this time it did not come.

  11

  Râvar

  RVAR WAS STILL sitting on his quartz throne when Ardashir returned. The First Disciple had changed his clothes; the bandages on his hands were fresh.

  “He’s gone, Beloved One,” he said. “I took him down to the steppe as you ordered and left him well along the track.”

  “Good.”

  “I had my men look at his face. They will know him if he comes again.”