The Book of Fire Read online

  The valley seems wider, far more open than she recalls, though Paia doubts that she’s recalling trees from her own memories. Those were already rare enough when she was young. Through the slit in her curtains, she can see a few softening patches across the valley, gray-green, tucked away in the shaded rocky folds of the hills where a bit of dew might regularly collect. She thinks of the shrouded painting in her room, the way it first appeared to her, ripe with foliage and moisture. She hopes the road will lead the caravan through one of those distant greening patches. She would like the chance to walk among real trees, not one or two but a whole gathering, a grove, tall and cooling. There must be a few left out there . . . somewhere. Out on the baking flat, irrigated fields give way to parched wasteland. Paia feels exposed and vulnerable, breathless, as if the very air were being evaporated from her lungs. Her view through the draperies becomes mobile, blurring and dancing with the rising heat. The stained sky looms like a weight, endlessly falling in on top of her. Nausea returns, stirred by agoraphobic panic. Paia shivers and draws the curtains tight.

  It is too soon to be so out of control. As the caravan crawls across the valley floor, she gives herself a stern talking-to inside her hot golden box. She knows how to live with fear. She must now learn to live with discomfort. The heat is so much worse than she’d imagined, and the landscape so much more desolate, even though she has painted it for years. But that was from a distance. She has taken the cooling effects of the Citadel’s bedrock too much for granted. But she has asked for, no, demanded this trip. Therefore she must suffer it gladly, for the honor of the God and the Temple, as well as for her own self-respect. Calling up the meditative state that gets her through the longest and most tedious of the Temple rituals, she settles into a heat-drenched trance.

  This holds her steady until the rhythm of the bearers’ pace alters suddenly, shaking her awake. The chair tilts backward, rising raggedly. Paia bolts upright in her padded seat. She fears they’ve turned around, that they’re fleeing back up the Guard Stair to the Temple. The bright sun on her curtains fades as the chair passes into shadow. A shouted order rings out from up ahead. The caravan straggles to a halt. Paia reaches for the God’s gun. Are they under attack?

  She parts the curtains, and is assailed by clouds of dust. Settling, it reveals a sheer stone face, but no sign of mayhem or panic. The bearers set down the chair, releasing their cramped muscles with exhausted groans. Paia peers ahead. They have entered a narrow defile, barely wide enough for the wagons to pass. Wind-shaped rock walls tower on both sides. Dusty clumps of bushes cling to cracks and spring up between the boulders where landslides have breached the sides of the canyon. The dry, rising ribbon of road is treacherous with loose stones and gravel.

  Dust swirls up again as Son Luco strides toward her along the length of the caravan. He has put off his ceremonial trappings, leaving only the loose white pants and shirt, and a red robe that floats gracefully open behind him. He has, Paia thinks, an odd look on his face, as he checks in with each wagon and contingent, even the servants. Odd, that is, for Luco. He looks . . . relaxed. More at ease out here in the heat and grit than she has ever seen him in the Citadel, as if he has shed a part of himself along with his Temple finery. Disconcerted, Paia withdraws into her protective shade. Luco arrives and peers in at her. She cannot hide the hints of panic in her hooded eyes.

  “Mother Paia. How are you managing?”

  She knows he’s used her title as a reminder to set a good example for the rest of the caravan. As always, his officiousness piques her, which was perhaps intended, for her panic recedes.

  “Less well than yourself, First Son . . . apparently.” Paia coughs as the dust he has brought enters her sanctuary.

  “It’s good to be out and about,” he replies. “In the air.”

  What air? She tries for banter. “Very much the handsome captain, aren’t you now? Is this what it’s like going to war? I think you must have enjoyed it more than you’re willing to admit.”

  He smiles blandly. “Once a soldier, always a soldier.”

  She can feel his concentration diffusing beyond her, up and down the line of wagons and farther, out into the surrounding hills. Alert and listening, even as he converses with her casually. Paia is reminded that every step away from the Citadel leads them farther into danger.

  “We’ll rest here a bit,” he says. “It’s safe enough in the hill shadow. Come out and stretch your legs. Are you drinking your water as advised?”

  “Water. What a good idea.”

  The well-used canteen from her father’s backpack waits on the seat beside her, full to the brim and even a bit cool. Paia downs several gulps, then swings the strap over her head and shoulder as she steps down from the chair. The water hits her stomach hard and threatens to rebound. Her legs have no strength. She staggers, grasping at the doorframe.

  Luco catches her arm and steadies her. He sends the bearers off to refresh themselves. “You haven’t been drinking.”

  “I will from now on,” she murmurs.

  “We’re not tucked away safe anymore.”

  “I know that.” Snapping at him revives her slightly. “You needn’t treat me like an idiot.”

  “Then don’t act like one. For all our sakes, if not for your own. Drink some more. Slowly.”

  She knows he will stand there till she does. The God has charged him with her safety. She is out of the Citadel, but she is still not free. She takes little sips, then wipes her mouth on her sleeve as unceremoniously as possible. “Where are we?”

  Luco looks away, as if toward the valley, but his eyes seem to gaze on a far greater distance. “I fought a great battle here. In the service of the God.”

  “Does the place have a name? Perhaps we should name it after you.”

  After a moment, he says, very quietly, “It already has a name, my priestess.”

  “And what is that, my priest?”

  “Whose answer would you prefer, mine or the God’s?”

  Paia swallows a gasp. Sacrilege from the First Son? “Are they different?”

  His mouth quirks at some private thought. “The God calls it, rather eloquently, I think, The Sunrise Passage. But to me, and those who live around it, this is Cauldwell’s Clove. The only negotiable road out of the valley.”

  She stares at him. “But that’s my name! Or it was.” She has almost forgotten she had a family name. She hasn’t heard it spoken in years. She hesitates even to repeat it, for fear she will burst into tears.

  He looks down at her. “Is that so?”

  The God has outlawed any history of the Citadel or its former owners to all but herself. Still, knowledge persists. “You knew that, didn’t you?”

  Luco’s expression grows odder still, rich with nuance that Paia cannot interpret. Squinting up at him, she is rocked by sudden intuition that she at first denies and then accepts entirely. But it’s not possible! Surely he would have said something, even though it would put him in danger of heresy. For the same reason, she has never thought to ask him.

  “Luco!” she hisses. “Did you know my father?”

  “I did not say . . .”

  “Luco, please? I won’t tell anyone!”

  His face closes. “The God does not permit . . .”

  “Luco! Did you?”

  “This conversation is in violation of the laws of the Temple, my priestess.”

  “Oh, Luco! You started it.”

  He nods, lips pressed tight. “And I greatly regret my lapse.”

  “But we’re out in the middle of nowhere! Who could possibly . . .?”

  He touches her arm in warning, then booms jovially, “Ah, here are your Faithful, come to see to their mistress at last.”

  Instantly, Paia smoothes the urgency from her face. The red-robed Two, still veiled as if at the Temple’s highest ritual, are bearing down with water and food and a damp cloth to bathe their Priestess’ sweated brow. Their postures seem to exclude Luco from this women’s privilege. It occurs to P
aia that the First Daughters might be reporting to someone other than the First Son.

  Luco bows. “Mother Paia, with your permission, I leave you in these devoted hands. See that they find you a good spot in the bushes.”

  You knew my father?

  She cannot call him back, or allow herself to stare after him as he strides briskly away. It would draw undue attention to a conversation the God would not look well upon. And after that, Luco keeps his distance. All during the difficult climb through the rock-strewn gorge, at the many rest stops or in the several places where the twisting path is so precipitous that even the High Priestess must leave the comfort of her chair and proceed on foot, for her own safety, Luco avoids her. Or if he does appear, he comes in the company of at least two of his acolytes. Paia is hurt by his reflex paranoia. Does he really think she would report so minor a heresy to the God? Or even carelessly refer to it, especially when it would mean so much to her to know for sure, to be able to talk to someone who knew her father? And, if he’s so fearful, what moment of weakness brought the name out of him in the first place?

  Late in the day, the upward path levels into a wider sort of road and crosses an open plateau toward a notch between two hills. The road disappears into the notch, but a village nestles at the mouth of it, sunk in afternoon shadow. Paia spots the livestock before she sees the village, tired-looking cattle and thin sheep grazing fitfully among the thornbushes and scrub. They are guarded by small crowds of men armed with knives and spears, plus a few big dogs who stare sullenly at the caravan as it passes. The dogs catch Paia’s interest especially. Her family always kept dogs, but the God banished all animals from the Citadel when he came.

  Along with people’s family names.

  Cauldwell. The sound of it rings in her mind as if Luco had just spoken it. Paia shoves away the thought. These dogs are scruffy and half-feral, and do not waste their energy barking, but still, she’s encouraged. If this village can feed dogs, they must be feeding themselves well enough.

  In the village outskirts, the caravan passes vegetable plots surrounded by stone walls wide enough to walk along, as Paia sees three women doing. They patrol the garden perimeter, using their sharpened poles as walking sticks. They stop and draw together to watch the procession go by. They seem more apprehensive than excited. Paia would like to think they’re simply unaware of who their visitor is, but she cannot help but notice the tallest one’s quick and anxious scanning of the sky.

  Inside the village, a less ambivalent welcome has been prepared. A party of local clergy awaits them at the head of the dusty main street, and the caravan proceeds grandly into town, past several clusters of dilapidated stone houses and barns, to pull up in a semicircle on the flagstones of the central square, which appear to be freshly swept. Paia peeks invisibly through her draperies. She has been set down at one side of the square, facing the Temple Chapter House, so that she has a perfect view of the image laid in reddish lavender stones, crude but recognizable, and dark against the paler gray: the Winged God Rampant.

  She looks about for Luco, hoping for a chance to speak in private. But the local Temple does not wish to be thought lackadaisical or unprepared. The caravan is immediately swept up in a fervent and lengthy Ritual of Welcome. And from there, the evening progresses much as Paia might expect, in fact, more or less as she had envisioned when she came up with the idea of this trip, at least until toward the end. The joyous welcome is led by the head priest of the chapter. There are several priestesses as well, all properly veiled like Paia’s own Temple Daughters, but vested in dark purple, as befits their lower rank. None of the local clergy attempt to converse with the High Priestess, and Paia guesses from their nervous but practiced manner that all are well versed in the appropriate behaviors. They are whole, well fed and healthy, the cream of the village crop. Each has doubtless paid many visits to the Mother Temple and would not wish to appear provincial.

  After the Ritual of Welcome, the High Priestess is formally entreated to walk among the Faithful of the town. This is the part Paia has been dreading. The Faithful must be able to touch her directly. For that, she must remove her protective robe and expose herself in the flimsy Temple garments to the sun and the hot, dusty wind as she has never done before, as well as to whatever disease and impulse toward violence might lurk within the crowd. But this ritual is central to Temple doctrine and must never be denied. The health and physical perfection of the High Priestess is the miraculous proof of the God’s favor. The Rite of Touching, the God himself insists, brings the Faithful closer to him.

  With a grand gesture, Paia tosses back her hood and shrugs the robe back into the waiting hands of her priestesses. An awed murmur rises and falls in the crowd. So far, she has not disappointed.

  As the local priest falls in on one side and Son Luco on the other, Paia processes around the sides of the square, where the townspeople are gathered. They have washed and scrubbed and still they appear soiled, as if stained by their toil in the parched earth and by the awful sun. Some kneel, some do not. It doesn’t matter. Paia is taller than any of them, and Son Luco appears among them as a giant. Their eyes are weary, yet hands reach eagerly for a touch of holy flesh. Paia usually endures the touching rites without response. But here, out in the open, with the sun slanting away toward the hilltops and the smoke from the cook fires tickling her nostrils, she is impelled to a more genuine contact. She stretches out her own hands as she moves down the line, grasping bony fingertips and brown wrists, worn and wrinkled elbows, scarred stumps and twisted limbs. The delighted crowd sighs its gratitude for this unexpected blessing. A step behind her, Son Luco clears his throat, either in disapproval or surprise. Paia does not meet his glance. She doesn’t want to know what the First Son thinks right now. Probably that she is taking too long, and holding up the next stage of the ritual. But she’s enjoying the smiles and wonder that her touch freely offered brings to the faces of these simple people. She is moved by the sense of connection. Perhaps this is how she can preach love of the God to them, not with words but action. Love given must be returned in some fashion, she reasons. If the God cannot love his Faithful, perhaps his High Priestess can do it for him.

  She has completed three sides of her slow progress around the square when Son Luco deflects her with a murmured warning about overexposure.

  “Please behave,” he says, then deftly whisks her into the waiting arms of her red-veiled chaperones. The two priestesses grandly fling her robe about her naked shoulders and use their grasp on its sleeves to maneuver her onward to the Confirmation of the Clergy, where Paia must anoint each priest and priestess of the local chapter with the God’s special blessing. This ceremony is plainly considered to be the more important one, at least by the clergy. After the blessing comes a recitation of the chapter’s history, and the honors bestowed on it by the God. After that, a long presentation by the head priest, detailing the duties of the Faithful in the Last Days of the World. He is not a compelling speaker, but Paia judges him as sincere verging on fanatical when he interprets the total lack of rainfall in so many months as a blessing from the God to hasten the holy End.

  Finally, just at dark, torches are lit and a grand feast is laid in the center of the square. Paia is surprised to find herself ravenous, despite a long day of discomfort, boredom, and nausea. There are not enough tables to offer the High Priestess the honor of a private one without seating the First Son among the locals. This was decided to be the more inappropriate, so Luco sits beside her at the high table, facing the rest of the clergy at a longer table set in front of them, all of them surrounded by the Faithful who must sit on the flagstones. To Paia, it feels too much like the hated Lunch at the Citadel. But at least there is food enough to go around.

  Paia lifts a morsel of stewed rabbit on her fork. “Tastes just like home.” Though of course it doesn’t.

  “It ought to.” Luco smiles graciously as a villager elder bows before them with a platter of fresh radishes. “Did you think we raised our food ours
elves all these years?”

  “Of course not, though it’s no thanks to you that I know any better. Even in my father’s day, our food came from the villages.” She nibbles at the rabbit pensively. “Luco . . .?”

  “No. Don’t ask. I beg you.” He blots his lips and folds his napkin in a precise triangle. “I knew this was a bad idea.”

  He looks more wary and tired than he has all day. Each dish that comes to the table, he tastes himself before allowing Paia a portion. He is in eye contact with each of the six men from her Honor Guard who are currently arrayed at a discreet distance from the table, and Paia catches him polling them regularly. But Paia cannot imagine what the First Son is so worried about. The humble little square is filled with the loyal Faithful, and their attention is mostly on the food. They are probably delighted to be eating better than they have in months. She sips gingerly at the odd wood-scented wine, sorry that the God’s intemperate death threats have kept Luco from enjoying his meal.

  She tries a less sensitive subject. “How inspiring that this town’s deep faith impels them to such great generosity.”

  Luco chews, nodding neutrally.

  “It’s a miracle they can grow anything at all out here. It’s so much drier than I expected. Is it true what the priest said, that there’s been absolutely no rain at all?”

  “None that I know of.”

  “Is this a change, First Son? A sign that conditions are worsening?”

  “It is.”

  “Well, we must ask less of them for the Temple.”

  Luco’s fork hesitates midway, then continues to his mouth. “The God will not agree with you.”