The Awakened City Read online

  Already I could hear noise from the cavern beyond: the faithful, returning to their settlements. Drolma and Reanu and the others made haste, yet they seemed impossibly slow. At last they were done. Reanu organized us: himself and Omarau in front, then me, then Drolma and Ha-tsun with my paper cases in their arms, and Lopalo and Apui at the rear with the bags of books bound to their backs. The Tapati had redraped their stoles to leave both arms bare.

  “Stay close,” Reanu instructed. “Don’t pause, no matter what. Just walk.”

  They stopped us halfway to the entrance—all twenty of Ardashir’s aides, and Ardashir. I knew it was hopeless. Even so, I stepped forward.

  “Let us pass.”

  Ardashir fixed me with his metallic gaze. “Surely you are not leaving us so soon.”

  “Let us pass,” I repeated.

  “I cannot!” Ardashir shook his head, as if in regret. “The Next Messenger has invited you to remain in our City as his guest. He has sent me to make sure his invitation is received.”

  I looked past him, at the men who followed him. “You know who I am. In rata’s name, stand aside.”

  They held their ground, though some of them could not meet my eyes.

  “Come.” Ardashir gestured with one bandaged hand toward the cavern from which we had come. “I will see you back to your quarters.”

  “Old One, what shall I do?” Reanu said to me, low.

  Well, what could we do? The Tapati are trained to be deadly, even weaponless, but we were too greatly outnumbered. So I obeyed, and took my people back to the cavern, now explicitly our prison.

  “If there is anything you require for your comfort, you have only to ask.” Ardashir was all silky courtesy once he had the upper hand. “My men will remain, just outside. It’s my Messenger’s wish that you be comfortable.”

  “Get out,” I said. “Begone, you odious man!”

  A beat; then, very slowly, he smiled. It was one of the most malignant smiles I have ever seen. His eyes are dark, but in that instant I swear that they flared red.

  “As you wish, Old One.”

  The way he spoke my title was a blasphemy. I heard Reanu draw in his breath. I reached out and closed my fingers on his wrist; I don’t know, otherwise, what he might have done.

  Ardashir turned on his heel and departed. Ten of the men he had brought with him ranged themselves across the entrance.

  “The dog,” Reanu said quietly.

  “Yes. He is loathsome.”

  “What are your orders, Old One?”

  “I don’t know, Reanu. I must think.”

  I sat in my tent with Drolma and Ha-tsun. Ha-tsun brewed tea over our little brazier and we drank it in silence. I felt their fear, but could not gather myself to soothe it. This cave is not so deep within the ridge as the ceremonial cavern, and I had not previously been troubled by a sense of oppression. But I felt it then—I feel it now. Those walls, close around us. Those men outside, impassable as rock.

  Some time later there were footsteps. It was Vivaniya, with Amchila and Mur and Karamsuu.

  “Pack my things,” he ordered Yailin. “Amchila, see to my papers. You two”—to the Tapati—“take down the tent.”

  “Brother,” I said, approaching him. “What is this?”

  But I already knew. Of course I knew.

  “I’m leaving.” He stooped to roll up a mat. He could not look at me. “It has to be this way. I cannot have you speaking against me when I reach Baushpar.”

  I could hardly breathe for sadness and rage. “You have given me up to be his hostage.”

  The blood rushed into his downturned face. “You will be his guest, Sister! When they leave the Awakened City, you’ll be free to go.”

  “Ah, Brother. Did he promise you that?”

  “I’ll leave you Reanu and Omarau and Lopalo and Apui, and six of the Tapati who wait beyond the checkpoint, and your carriage and horses, so you may travel in safety when you leave.”

  “Vanyi.” I knew it was pointless, but once again I could not help myself. “You came to me for guidance in Baushpar. Please, be guided by me now. This man is false—a charlatan, an apostate Shaper. I saw it tonight, as clear as I see you. Turn away from him. I beg you, turn away.”

  He pushed the mat aside. He got to his feet. He turned his back. “Goodbye, Sundit.”

  I said no more and went back to my tent. Drolma and Ha-tsun, who of course had heard everything, looked at me in fearful silence. We sat listening to the noise of preparation outside, then to the sound of retreating footsteps. I admit I wept, when silence returned. Drolma sat rigid, horrified at my lapse of dignity, my display of raw humanity. They do not wonder at our anger, our mortal servants; why should they wonder at our grief? But Ha-tsun, rata bless her, came and put her arms around me.

  “Shhh,” she whispered, as she used to when I was a child in this body. “Shhh.”

  They are asleep, as are the Tapati, except for Reanu who stands watch. It comforts me to know he is with me, wakeful and faithful. I know he would give his life for me. I pray he will not have to. I do not fear for myself—I cannot believe that even this mad, arrogant boy would dare harm one of the Brethren. But I fear for my people.

  Ah, Vivaniya. All this, from the guilt of a single deed. In a life span of twelve centuries, how can one deed loom so large? Why is it, as the pretender said to me today, that twelve hundred years of living is sometimes not enough to make us wise? Of course, we live those centuries one life at a time. We live them through the medium of the human vessels that bear us through the ages, whose nature it is constantly to distract us with their physicality, with the experience of our senses. Our human guises limit us. They drive us into shame and error. So with Vivaniya, whose actions in this matter have been so wholly human—the measured wisdom that I know is in him, which should have tempered the storms of his mortal heart, apparently entirely blotted out. All of us have fallen in this way, some of us more than once—though few with such disastrous consequences.

  Yet even as I condemn him I am aware that it could not be otherwise. The very humanity that clouds our judgment, that tyrannizes our understanding, is the source of our enduring strength. Without it, we could not bear the years. We would grow weary and jaded and uncaring, distant from the human world it is our charge to guide. From the earliest days of our Covenant, we have cherished our humanity. We have never tried to diminish or disguise it, to abandon or transcend it, even to tame it through physical and mental discipline—though periodically one or another of us will argue that we should. Instead, we strive to strike a balance between our humanness and our immortality, between the fiery needs of a single life and the cool certainties of a perpetual one.

  And if we sometimes fail …

  I cannot deny that we seem to fail more often of late. The bitter struggle two hundred years ago between Karuva and Vimâta for the Bearer’s necklace. Our flight from Baushpar when the Voice of Caryax took Ninyâser—like the others, I believed we had no choice, but in light of the anger born of our abandonment I am no longer so sure. The disagreements and betrayals of our time in Rimpang … Taxmârata’s election, which seemed to offer so much hope, but in fact has led to such dissension … the way we fell into factions after Gyalo Amdo Samchen came. Though of course that could not have occurred if the divisions were not already there—which, in a way, is even worse.

  We must do better in the time to come. If there is a time to come. This is the insight I have gained, at the end of this terrible day. I know he is no Messenger, this beautiful, cruel boy who names himself so. Yet if I can now dismiss the question that dispatched us here, I can’t dismiss the one that preceded it. I can’t dismiss Vivaniya’s and Dâdar’s lie.

  And if Gyalo Amdo Samchen told the truth … if rata is awake … if this boy is not the Next Messenger … who is?

  Part III

  THE BLASPHEMER KING />
  13

  Gyalo

  GYALO WOKE FROM a sleep that for once contained no dreams. He lay a moment, looking up at the sky, which was the perfect, gilded blue that comes just after sunrise. Then he kicked out of his blankets and went over to Diasarta, who was leaning against one of the boulders that concealed their campsite.

  “Morning, Brother.”

  “Anything new?” Gyalo yawned and ran his hands through his hair, wincing as his fingers caught the knot at the back of his head, still hard and painful even after so many days.

  “Yes, for once. Some men came down last night and took those monks up to the caves.”

  “Really?” Gyalo peered over the boulder, down at the tawny expanse of stubble that spread below the Awakened City. Sure enough, the Tapati were gone. The horses were staked out as usual, and beside the coach—only one coach now; the other had been gone when the companions arrived—the Tapatis’ bedrolls lay around their cook fire, whose embers still emitted heat. Gyalo could just see the patterns from that distance. “The other Brethren must be leaving.”

  “Well, wake me if anything happens,” Diasarta said. “I’m going to get some sleep.”

  He headed for the blankets, which they shared now, one sleeping while the other watched, Gyalo’s pack and equipment having been left behind in the Awakened City.

  He had lain through the night after Ardashir departed, passing in and out of consciousness. Every time he woke, the terrible weight of understanding fell on him anew. Day came; the sun rose, burning down on his exposed skin. He could not summon the will even to lift his arm to cover his eyes.

  At some point there was the sound of voices. The air moved; fingers touched his throat. “He’s alive.”

  “Isn’t that the pilgrim who passed through before we left Fashir?”

  “Yes—yes, I think you’re right.” A hand gripped his shoulder. “Pilgrim. Pilgrim, what’s happened to you? Where’s your companion?”

  Gyalo turned his face away. “Leave me alone,” he whispered.

  “You need help. Let us—”

  “Leave me alone.”

  The hand withdrew. “Suit yourself.”

  They moved on. Gyalo tried to return to his half-conscious state. But his body demanded his attention: His bladder was full, and he was terribly thirsty. Slowly, pausing to allow fits of dizziness to pass, he got to his knees and dealt with the first, then shaped his cupped hands full of water to satisfy the second. His mouth tasted foul; dried blood and vomit crusted his beard. He shaped more water, cleaning himself as best he could. Gingerly, he felt his scalp. There was an enormous welt, and more dried blood. His ribs were bruised where Ardashir had kicked him.

  The pain in his head and side made it difficult to breathe, and the dizziness and blurred vision made it hard to walk. Still he was able, by an act of will, to put one foot before the other. Ardashir had left him only a little way from the point where he had joined the track the day before, but in his confused state he missed the mark he had made, and blundered on for some distance before he realized he needed to turn back. It was near dark when he reached the camp. Diasarta came limping down the slope to meet him, glinting green against the dusk.

  “rata’s Blood! What happened?”

  Gyalo sank down on the ground and told him, in flat, exhausted phrases.

  “Dead?” Diasarta said, appalled, when Gyalo reached that part of the story.

  “I think … I hope … he was lying.” That hope had come to him over the course of the long day, as he labored through the grass. “To keep me from coming back, or maybe just to torment me. He knew I worked as a scribe, and that I used the name Timpurin. The men he sent to steal her might have discovered her husband’s name and work, but why should he connect those things with me, unless she told him? So she can’t have died along the way, as he said. She must have gotten to the Awakened City. She may still be alive. Chokyi may still be alive.”

  “Pray rata it’s so.”

  “But I don’t know, Dasa. I don’t know.”

  “It’s a hope, at least. Something to hold on to.” Diasarta frowned. “Why would he let you go, though? Why wouldn’t he just kill you?”

  “I’m no threat to him. Besides, he wants to punish me. He wants me to watch him march across Arsace, he wants me to understand what he’s doing and why he’s doing it. He wants me to be a witness.”

  He heard Râvar’s voice, speaking the words that Ardashir had overheard: All the blame is yours. In a way it was true. Grief spasmed in his chest, far more solid than the small hope that had woken in him this afternoon.

  “You can say it now, Dasa.”

  “What?”

  “ ‘I told you so.’ What I saw in that place … the power I felt in him … You were right. I never had a chance.”

  For a long moment Diasarta was silent, fingering his scar as he did when he was thinking. Full night had fallen; stars massed the blackness of the sky, and the moon tipped low above the shimmering steppe. “You weren’t to know about the scars,” he said finally. “Neither of us thought of those.”

  “I have to stay. If there’s any chance they’re still alive—”

  “I know, Brother. I know.”

  Diasarta assisted Gyalo up to their campsite. By the little stream, he removed Gyalo’s filthy shirt and washed Gyalo’s face and chest. Gently, he cleaned the knot at the back of Gyalo’s head. Gyalo sat like a child under these ministrations; will, not strength, had carried him there, and he could hardly keep upright. At last Diasarta laid out his own bedding and helped Gyalo to lie down.

  “You sleep now, Brother.” He drew the blankets up under Gyalo’s chin. “I’ll keep watch.”

  Pain accompanied Gyalo into sleep, but also the sight of Diasarta’s broad back, haloed in his familiar lifelight. The whole world was dizzily in motion—the wind, the grasses, the circling stars—but Diasarta was still, like a stake fixed in the earth. Gyalo found his immobility deeply comforting.

  They remained where they were for two days, to allow Gyalo to recover some of his strength, then moved west along the ridge, in search of a place from which they could spy upon the Awakened City. Amid an area of tumbled boulders they made camp and settled in to watch. Apart from the sweep of night and day across the steppe, there was not much to see—the small, moving figures of the horses and the Tapati, bands of pilgrims cutting grass, occasional groups of gatherers and hunters. Diasarta bore the tedium with his usual equanimity; the anger he had released on the night Gyalo left him seemed to have gone back into its hiding place. Gyalo coped much less well. With his head he knew he would not see anything to tell him whether Axane and Chokyi still lived; with his heart, he waited constantly for a sign. Sometimes hope blazed up in him, so strong he could not doubt that Râvar had lied; sometimes despair possessed him utterly, and he was certain he would never see them again in this life. In his lowest moments he prayed for their lives as he had not for their safety, desperate pleas launched into silence—useless pleas, for if they lived, no prayers were needed, and if they were dead, no prayers would help.

  The companions had been watching for nine days.

  The caverns lay beneath and to the right of Gyalo’s high vantage point. The entrance and the checkpoint were hidden by the configurations of the ridge, but he had a good view of the empty track. The hours wore on. The wind breathed in Gyalo’s ears and plucked at his clothes. His eyes burned from the glare, and from the immensity below, whose vast and not-quite-graspable patterns he found difficult to contemplate for very long. He closed them for a moment, resting.

  When he looked down again, a group of men had appeared midway along the track. They reached the bottom of the ridge and headed for the coach. They untethered the horses, leading two to the coach for harnessing, saddling and bridling the rest. Whoever they were, they were not Tapati; it was too far to see whether they were tattooed, but their he
ads were not shaven, and none wore ratist red.

  One man opened the coach’s door and unfolded the steps, then climbed to the driver’s platform. The rest stood to the side, holding the horses. Above, there was movement on the track: another group of men, led by one whom Gyalo recognized by his lack of luster as Ardashir. They descended to the steppe, and mounted the prepared horses. Ardashir raised his arm in some sort of signal.

  For a moment nothing happened. Then a company of pilgrims walked out from behind the ridge fold, ranked four abreast, as ordered as a column of Exile soldiers. They carried bags and bundles in their arms and on their backs; some held infants, or led children by the hand, or supported the elderly and infirm. Their voices rose: They were singing, a song with solemn cadences like a hymn, though it was not any hymn Gyalo knew.

  He felt as if his entire body had come alight. “Dasa,” he called urgently. “Dasa! Come here!”

  Diasarta roused at once. There was a scatter of small rocks as the ex-soldier hurried to stand beside him.

  “rata! They’re leaving.”

  “Yes.”

  The last rank of pilgrims reached the foot of the ridge. Another company emerged, as ordered as the first, and then another. Company by company, the Awakened City marched down to the steppe and tramped away across the grasses. It seemed to take an enormously long time. Gyalo counted: ten companies, fifteen, eighteen. The sound of their singing rose and fell, rose and fell, as the wind snatched it away and gave it back.

  The twenty-first company descended. No more appeared. The singing died as the procession drew away, leaving only the voice of the wind. Still Ardashir sat his horse, his companions at his side.

  “They’re waiting for him,” Diasarta said.

  “Yes.” Gyalo could hardly speak, his heart was racing so.

  Moment followed moment. The track remained empty. Then all at once, between one blink and the next, Râvar was there, mantled in his unmistakable golden aura, and by his side—