The Awakened City Page 26

  This time, when Gyalo turned away, only silence followed him.

  After so much darkness, daylight was a blessing. He left the track and began to climb the ridge. On a jut of rock above the caverns, he sat down. Diasarta, slowed by his shortened leg, caught up and sat nearby, panting.

  “She had no right,” he said between breaths. “No right.”

  Gyalo closed his eyes. His scars were throbbing; he pressed his hands together, trying to quell the ache. Anger still turned in him, but the white-hot rage had gone. He saw again how Sundit’s face had changed, the arrogance erased by fear, and felt the strangeness of it—that she, the woman whose presence two and a half years ago would have drawn him reflexively to his knees, whose eyes he would not have dared engage directly in dread he might glimpse within them the arctic alienness of a soul twelve centuries old, should be afraid of him. But she had not seen a man stepping toward her. It was a monster she had seen, the monster of the apostate tales Gyalo had been taught during his Shaper training—mad, corrupt, uncontrollable. This is what it is to be a free Shaper, he thought: to make even the mighty afraid.

  He opened his eyes on the immensity before him—the pale ocean of the steppe, the sun-seared vault of the sky, the braided currents of the wind. He thought of her, the Daughter Sundit—one of the most tolerant of the Brethren in this incarnation, an advocate of advancement and reform. He had known her when he served the Son Utamnos, whose close ally she had been. Unlike some of her spirit-siblings, for whom all mortals, even Shapers, were servants, she had treated him with respect; after he returned from the Burning Land she had seemed to look past his apostasy, as many of her spirit-siblings did not, and hear what he had to say—though he had never had any sense that she was tempted to believe it. In the end, of course, she had chosen with the others to silence him, to send him into exile.

  And now she wanted him to stand with her before the King—he, the apostate, the monster, whose terrible sin threatened to pass its taint to any who drew too close, whose very existence was anathema. There is more at stake here than the Doctrine of Baushpar—she had actually said that, words he would have sworn no Son or Daughter, even the most enlightened, could ever speak.

  She was right, of course. She was right about Santaxma, too. In the King lay the best hope that Râvar and his pilgrim army might be stopped. Could it really be that things had grown so bad between the Brethren and the King that her word alone would not be sufficient to convince him? If Santaxma chose not to act, and Râvar proceeded unopposed, the danger would at some point become apparent. But by then it might be too late.

  He heard her voice: I cannot believe you are indifferent to the fate of the land you live in … Renewed anger clutched him. He was not indifferent. Why else had he let her recognize him; why else had he given warning? She understood Râvar’s power now, knew what was really coming for her and her spirit-siblings, what was really coming for Arsace. He had no further obligation. Especially, he had no obligation to risk his life. If Santaxma would not believe her warning, why would he believe her claim that Gyalo had resubmitted himself to the church?

  Still, she spoke inside his head. The risk you take in facing him will speak more clearly than your words of the urgency of this matter.

  “rata!” he said aloud, making Diasarta jump. Could he actually be thinking of doing as she asked? It was insanity. More than that, it meant abandoning Axane. Abandoning Chokyi, if she lived. Yet all hope aside, what could he do for them if he stayed? Râvar’s golden lifelight rose before his inner eye; he saw Axane climbing after Râvar into the coach, saw the door slamming closed behind her. What chance did he have of breaching that containment? Helplessness swept him. He could follow like a beggar. He could watch from afar. He could die trying to get near them. But that was all. That was all he could do.

  Râvar’s defeat would free them. Santaxma’s victory would free them. Of course, those things might also kill them.

  He bowed his face into his aching hands. The images he tried never to admit into his thoughts overwhelmed him: Axane’s body under Râvar’s. Râvar’s hands on Axane’s dark skin. Chokyi in her true father’s arms. Beneath his clothes, her bracelet seemed to sear his chest. He heard Sundit again: I cannot believe you do not see the duty here, you who did so much for what you believed to be your duty. He heard himself, telling Diasarta: If there is more, then there will be more, as rata wills.

  Would Axane despair when she dreamed him leaving? Would she curse him?

  Some time later, Diasarta said, “Brother. They’re going.”

  Gyalo raised his head. A little procession had appeared below: ten Tapati, Sundit, a woman with a white stole who must be her servant, another with a golden stole—a Shaper, her aide. All had bundles on their backs and containers of various sorts clasped in their arms, even Sundit. How long, Gyalo wondered, had it been since she had had to carry anything for herself?

  At the margin of the stubbled area, she paused and looked back—at the cavern, Gyalo thought, but then her face lifted to the ridge. Her eyes found Gyalo and Diasarta, perched in plain view. Even from that distance Gyalo felt the power of her gaze—not her own power, which he no longer acknowledged even in the hidden corners of his being, but the power of what she had asked of him.

  She turned away. The group resumed its progress. When they were no more than a knot of light upon the grasses, Gyalo rose.

  “You’re going with her,” Diasarta said.

  “I have to.”

  “You don’t owe her anything.” Diasarta’s face was all straight lines: the slash of his mouth, the incision of his scar, the slits of his eyes, narrowed against the sun. “You don’t owe the bloody Brethren anything.”

  “It isn’t for her. If Râvar succeeds …” Gyalo drew a breath. “Santaxma is the only possibility of stopping him.”

  “Suppose the King thinks you need stopping, too?”

  “She said she would tell him I was tethered.”

  “You believe her?”

  “As a matter of fact, I do.”

  “Think the King will?”

  “Do you think this is an easy choice for me? I feel I’m abandoning them. I’m afraid I’m putting them in greater danger. I’m afraid—” He stopped, unable for a moment to go on. “But I couldn’t get them free. Even if I tried. This—this could be their only chance.”

  “It could also get you killed.”

  “rata, Diasarta! What do you want me to do?”

  “I don’t know, Brother. It’s not my job to know those things.”

  “What is your job, then? To argue every decision I make?”

  Diasarta met his gaze. “Maybe.”

  The anger went out of Gyalo all at once. He sank down on his heels and put his head in his hands. “For good or ill, this is what I have to do.” He let his hands fall. “I wish I didn’t. But I can’t see any alternative.”

  Diasarta’s jaw was tight. “All right, Brother. You make your choice. I’ll make mine. I’ll do as we planned. I’ll join the blasphemer’s army.”

  “No, Dasa! There’s no need for that now.”

  “What’ll I do, come to Ninyâser with you to see the King? I’m a deserter, Brother, remember? No. I’ll follow the blasphemer. He’ll be watching out for you, but not for me. Maybe there’ll be something I can do.”

  Gyalo sighed. “I can’t pretend I won’t be glad to know you’re there.”

  “I’m not doing it for you, Brother. I’m doing it for her. She was my companion, too.”

  They returned to their campsite so Diasarta could gather his things, then set off along the track. Where the track curved east, a pattern of disturbance marked the point where Sundit and her party had continued north.

  “This is where we part,” Gyalo said.

  Diasarta nodded. The sun was sinking toward the end of the long summer afternoon, pulling their shadows out beside them.


  “Be careful, Dasa. Don’t take any unnecessary risks.”

  “I’d say the same to you, Brother, except I know it’s useless.”

  “I’ll come back. Once I’m done in Ninyâser, I will come back.”

  “Brother—” Diasarta drew a breath. “What you said about arguing. You were right.”

  Gyalo shook his head. “I was angry.”

  “Yes. But it’s not my place to tell you how to act, or to pass judgment on you either. I’ve never known when to close my mouth. Why should you do what I think is right? What do I know of such things?”

  “You owe me no apologies.”

  “You brought rata’s Blood out of the Burning Land.” Diasarta’s gaze was steady. “You carried his word out of the wilderness. You did those things. No other. Even so, you never asked me to believe. You’ve never really wanted me—you may think I don’t know that, but I do. I understand well enough why you stopped coming round to see me in Ninyâser. No, Brother—don’t look away. I’m not reproaching you. I’m just telling you I understand. You’ve a way to travel, and you travel it how you need. But I have a way as well. You’ll not change that by turning from me, any more than I’ll change you by arguing. D’you see?”

  “Yes.”

  “So you do what you must, and I’ll do the same, and maybe we can find a way not to vex each other so much.”

  In spite of everything, Gyalo could not help laughing.

  “Will you give me your blessing, Brother?”

  “Gladly.”

  Diasarta knelt by the track, where the Awakened City’s passage had broken the grass. Gyalo set his hand on the ex-soldier’s head.

  “Go in light, child of rata,” he said, his tongue falling easily back into the forms of ratist blessing. “May the god grant the blessing of his love. May he hold you in his hand. You are his true servant, a man of purer faith than any I have known. Go in light, child of rata.”

  He began to draw away. Diasarta reached up and seized his hand, and pressed his lips to the scarred palm. “Messenger,” he murmured. And though Gyalo felt the old flinch, the deep instinctive dread, he was able for the first time simply to accept what Diasarta gave him, as a gift.

  Diasarta rose. He gripped Gyalo’s shoulders and pulled him into a rough embrace. Turning, he struck off along the track, limping on his shortened leg. He did not look back.

  14

  Sundit

  I THOUGHT THE astonishments of this day were done, but it seems I must take up my pen to write of more.

  As I was settling to sleep, I heard the sentry’s challenge. A few moments later, Reanu spoke outside my tent.

  “Old One. The apostate has followed us.”

  I wrapped my stole around me and went out into the windy night. The Tapati were all on their feet. The apostate stood at the edge of the area of grass we had flattened for our camp, apparently at ease despite my men’s concentrated attention. He was alone.

  “Well?” I said. Reanu stood by me, tense and ready.

  “I’ll come with you,” he said. “On one condition.”

  Such arrogance! “And what is that?”

  “Your oath as a Daughter of the Brethren that after we’ve spoken with the King, you won’t try to prevent me from leaving.”

  I looked at him. He looked back. Well, what choice did I have? I need him, and he knows it.

  “You have my oath,” I said. “What of your companion?”

  “He did not choose to accompany me.”

  I turned to my people. “This man will travel with us to Ninyâser, and assist me in bearing warning to the King.” I looked at each of them as I spoke, including Drolma, peering fearfully from behind the tent. “He has surrendered to my authority. Though he is apostate, you need not fear him.”

  It occurred to me as I said it that he might dispute me; I know very well that I have no authority over him at all. Yet he is an intelligent man. He said nothing.

  A little later, Rearm came to me.

  “I’ve placed him at the margin of the camp, Old One, and redeployed the men to circle you and Sister Drolma and Sister Ha-tsun. I myself will keep watch tonight.”

  “Thank you, Reanu.”

  He hesitated. “Forgive my presumption, Old One. But in duty I must ask—is this wise?”

  Into my mind came the image I knew must be in his: the apostate, incandescent with fury, turning on me in the caverns. “I need him, Reanu. I need his testimony.”

  “Old One, we don’t know how he came to be in that place, or what his purpose was, or even why he changed his mind. Do you not wonder what scheme of his own he serves by coming with us?”

  “You may be right. Still I believe this is necessary.”

  “I was by you, Old One, when you spoke with him. I know as well as you that he did not surrender to you.”

  “You express yourself very frankly, Reanu.”

  “Old One, in Baushpar, in Ninyâser, in the world you rule, it’s my duty only to obey. But this is a different world. In it, my duty also is different. So I do speak to you frankly, Old One, and hope that you will suffer it.”

  I looked at him in the uncertain light of my candle, sitting back on his heels, his hands braced on his knees in his habitual pose. The crisp calligraphy of his tattoos is blurred by the dark stubble beginning to show on his scalp and face. He smells, like all of us, of old sweat. I thought of how, when the pretender trapped us, he refused to surrender to the inevitability of death, and in pitch-darkness organized his men to pound upon the rock. I thought of how greatly, during this ordeal, I have grown to rely upon his courage and his strength.

  “I acknowledge your concern, Reanu. But he, too, risks much in accompanying us. It makes a balance of sorts. Besides, he set us free. He could have left us, but he set us free.”

  “Old One, he is apostate. A blasphemer. Corrupt, perhaps mad. My men fear him.”

  “I know.” I sighed. “Still, he will come with us. That’s my decision, and it is final.”

  Warrior that he is, he knows when a battle is lost. He bowed and left me.

  Gyalo Amdo Samchen, the apostate. Gyalo Amdo Samchen, who I thought was dead. I remember him well from the time he served Utamnos, for he was my dear spirit-brother’s favorite: brilliant, diligent, and always so correct. Most Shapers, when their manita dose becomes inadequate, either do not perceive it or profess they do not, leaving it to the manita masters in their yearly examinations to decide. But he himself approached Utamnos when he sensed his need had changed. He was no self-righteous prig, however, no narrow-minded zealot—he was intelligent and generous in his faith, and his love of his vocation was shiningly apparent. It shocked me no less than it did Utamnos to learn he had turned apostate in the Burning Land.

  Now here he is, apostate for the second time, proving yet again one of the truths that lie behind the Doctrine of Baushpar: No Shaper, having tasted the freedom of his gift, can ever again be trusted. Nor can I ignore the implications of his honesty with Utamnos. How many Shapers still require adjustment of their manita dosage past their ordination? He must have been near thirty the last time his dose was changed. What does that say about the magnitude of the power he has unbound? I know, as Reanu cannot, that it was only human anger he turned on me in the caverns, not any corruption or insanity. But human anger in an untethered Shaper is no small thing. In that moment, I was terrified.

  And yet … he saved us all from certain body-death. He gave me truths he did not have to give me. He has chosen to follow me.

  Reanu may be right. He may serve some mysterious purpose of his own. Still, I need him with me. I can force Santaxma to receive me, I can force him to hear me, but I cannot force him to heed me. And I greatly fear he will not heed me, not only in his displeasure with the Brethren but also in his particular dislike of me.

  Râvar’s face hangs in my mind. The
hatred in it when he told me who he is. His smile as he shut us in that little place to die, ugly on his beautiful mouth. “My first enemy,” he said. I can still hear it.

  He marches now. But so do we. And we are faster.

  I was too angry last night to make this entry. Anger boiled in me most of this day as well. But now, as I prepare to write, I find my rage has gone, and all I feel is worn, and drained, and very, very tired.

  Supplies have been an anxious concern. The guards who waited with my coach had some food, as did we, and we were able to scavenge grain and other edibles from the Awakened City’s leavings. But it is a very meager store, requiring strict rationing. Even worse is the situation with the water. To our own waterskins we added vessels left behind by the pilgrims, as many as we could find and carry—but nowhere near enough to get us across the steppe. We’ve been trusting that we will find a water source; in the meantime, water is also rationed.

  The apostate approached me on the second evening. “Let me help,” he said. “You need water and food. I can create both.”

  It took me aback—not just that he would offer, but that in worrying about the possible dangers of his power I had not once considered its possible uses. He mistook my silence, I think, for judgment. His expression hardened.

  “I know your opinion of me and what you suppose to be my corruption,” he said. “But be practical. Even if the food you carry is enough to take you across the steppe, the water will be gone in a few days.”

  “I don’t fear corruption. But my staff do. I don’t even know if they would be willing to partake of what you made.”

  “They will if they are thirsty enough.”

  “Be that as it may, I shall continue to hope for a natural source of water.”

  “Well, I’ve no desire to starve. I’ll shape my own supplies.”