The Book of Fire Page 39

  Köthen, leaning in to N’Doch’s quiet running translation, agrees. “More a plain tyrant than a god, it would seem.”

  Luther clears his throat, and though no one actually moves, somehow the others make a respectful space for him, as they have done for Sedou since he appeared among them. “Well, der is doktrin. Summa dem belief it. But I tink mosta dem jes say so cuz dey skeerda da monsta.”

  “What do they believe?” Sedou asks.

  “Ina enda da wold. Any day nah. Say der’s no pint doin’ nuttin fer da future, cuz der won’ be any. Or so dey tink.”

  “I take it you do not share this belief.”

  “Nah.” Luther offers a wan grin. “Das too dak fer me, y’know?”

  Sedou asks, “So what do you believe?”

  For a moment, silence reigns around Ysabel’s fire. Again, it seems that the others, even Stoksie and Ysabel, defer in such matters to Luther. He begins slowly. “Well, summa us see it diffrint. We say it mebbe look like da enda da wold, bud it ain’t.” He pauses as if he would welcome a change of subject, but Sedou waits him out. Finally Luther shrugs and hikes his stooped body and big nose forward, his scarred hands lifting from his sides to talk along with him. “No, it ain’t. Why? Cuz der’s One comin’ ta make it right.”

  “She walks in light,” Ysabel murmurs.

  “Fixit all, y’know?” Luther’s arms pinwheel around him. “Alla it. Den mebbe we liff like umins again.”

  “The One?” the girl breathes. “You mean, Our Savior?”

  “Probably not the one you’re thinking of,” says Sedou gently.

  “You think this fix up’s gonna happen soon?” N’Doch asks, for it sounds like he does. Maybe even tomorrow.

  Luther rocks his head back and forth like a tired bear. “We don’ know dat, nah, cuz y’see, da One gotta big problum. She shuddup inna dark by da Handa Chaos, waitin’ till we figure a way ta ged her out.”

  “She? In the dark?” The words escape Sedou as a sigh. N’Doch is too astounded to speak, and the girl looks thunderstruck.

  “She walks in light,” murmurs Ysabel again, echoed this time by Luis and one of the nameless couples. Stoksie, N’Doch notices, remains silent. The others shift uneasily.

  “Like I sez,” Luther concludes, “Only summa us belief dis.”

  N’Doch feels the deep thrum of dragon energies in the air, in the very ground beneath his feet. He wishes he was like the Tinkers, sitting there unawares. He remembers how, at Lealé’s, when the dragons decided to make their move, things started to pinball with sickening speed. The girl’s still looking stunned, but he knows she’s in furious converse with the big guy back in the woods. Despite the high voltage that Sedou’s generating for those who are plugged in to it, his surface remains calm and merely . . . interested.

  “An imprisoned messiah. It’s a beautiful notion, Luther. Is it yours?”

  Luther looks shocked, then embarrassed. “Na, na. I heerd it frum . . . a frien’. A greyt preecher-man, y’know? I lissen, I jus’ know he got da wold on right.”

  “I’d like to meet this preacher. Does he say where the Hand of Chaos is keeping your awaited One?”

  “We all lookin’ on dat. Ev’ry day, we closer to da ansa.”

  “And what will it take to free her?”

  Luther lowers his elbows to rest on his knees. “We ain’t figurd dat yet neider.”

  “Der’s sum say da One’ll be free whenda monsta is ovahtrone.”

  This is a new voice, one N’Doch doesn’t recognize, and he’s sure he knows all of Blind Rachel’s sounds, if not the names. The speaker is a young woman crouched on the other side of the fire, partly obscured by the flames.

  “Sum say dat,” Luther agrees dubiously.

  She’s got two other strangers with her, one on either side, two guys, youngish and serious-looking. N’Doch is ashamed how they just snuck up out of the night without him noticing. Köthen is already watching them, probably has been for a while. But the Tinkers act like it’s nothing unusual.

  He nudges Stoksie. “Who’s that?”

  “Frum town.”

  “You don’t mind?”

  Stoksie shrugs. “Wild young’uns. Y’know?”

  Luther shoves his hair back, speaking across the fire, “But dem as tink dat got no ideah how dey gonna make it happin.”

  “Sum do,” says the young woman.

  “Sum oughta git bettah ideahs befur dey go preechin’ ’em.”

  And then it looks like that’s all anyone’s willing to say, until Sedou draws a deep and quiet breath. The hot wind that’s been fanning the embers dies back. N’Doch feels his own breath coming shorter now, and he knows for sure that his vacation’s over. Some conjunction of circumstance and subject matter has occurred. The ball is in the slot and the blue dragon’s hand is on the lever. He glances down the line of listeners, sees all the apprehension in her and catches his fellow dragon guide’s eye. He that he’s trying to keep off his own.

  “Here we go,” he mutters to Köthen.

  “Now, Luther, I won’t claim that my ideas are any better, but there’s one I’d like to try out on you anyway.” Sedou looks to Luther for permission.

  “Yer ideahs is always welcum, tallfella.”

  “My thanks. What if I say, then . . .” Sedou gazes around until he holds their attention, even the newcomers across the fire. “What if I point out an amazing coincidence. The friend my companions and I came looking for is also imprisoned in an unknown place. We believe her imprisonment is keeping her—and us—from accomplishing a glorious good. And we believe that he who imprisoned her does not want this great good accomplished.” Sedou glances down, the very image of humble self-doubt. “Do you think, my friends, that it is too much to conclude that this jailer is the same monster god you speak of?”

  Murmurs build around the fire.

  “A moment longer, friends.” Sedou puts out a hand as if smoothing ripples. The murmurs die into edgy silence, and N’Doch senses the lever’s twang. The ball is in motion.

  “What if I say something further, something . . . oh, you who have asked our help, listen well! What if I tell you the help that I bring is far greater than you’ve supposed, and of a . . . different sort. It will shake your faith, but then surely renew it!”

  The Tinkers eye him, some wearily, others with caution, like they expect him to start raving any minute. Maybe he already has. N’Doch guesses it’s like opening a box you had great plans for and finding it empty, or full of the same old garbage.

  But Luther says, “Go on, tallfella.”

  Sedou nods. “It cannot be mere chance that has brought us together. It cannot be! There is a great mystery here that I have not yet been able to penetrate. But I believe our shared knowledge of it will fit together like a key in a lock, that together, we can discover this prison and free my friend . . . and your awaited One.” The dragon/man drops his hand and his voice. The wind dies entirely, as if someone’s switched off the fan, and Sedou’s whisper insinuates itself into every ear. “For, you see, my friends: I believe them to be one and the same being, that is, my sister Air.”

  Luther coughs gently, just once. “Tallfella, we weren’t expectin’ da One to be umin . . . y’know?”

  “Nor is my sister Air.”

  Luther nods, like he’s been waiting for this.

  N’Doch shivers, despite the heat. Well, that certainly lays a lot of our cards on the table. He’s not sure the other Tinkers are ready for it. But maybe they are. He looks around at the stubborn faces still protecting themselves against the rising of hope, eyes narrowing at Sedou, trying to decide exactly how crazy he is . . . or isn’t.

  Because there’s a difference here: these people don’t need to be convinced of the reality of magical creatures. There’s one ravaging their countryside already. What they need is renewed faith and a weapon.

  Well, one has just arrived. No, make that two.

  N’Doch fills Köthen in on what’s gone down, and is unsurprised by the b
aron’s sudden grin of anticipation. As for himself, he’s got nothing against a good fight, but he feels a darkness creeping up on him that he cannot explain.

  Sedou smiles into the uneasy silence, a glow like the full moon rising. There is power in his very calm, as if he knows they will come to believe him and he needs offer nothing but patience while they find this out for themselves.

  Damn dragon arrogance, N’Doch swears, watching the dragon/man morph into something subtly less earthly, without needing a note of his music. He’d be surprised to find a steady hand or slow heart in the house. Finally the townie woman stands. She moves stiffly around the fire until she’s face-to-face with the sitting giant. She has round Asian features and tawny pox-marked skin. N’Doch is sad for her disfigurement. Otherwise, she would be beautiful.

  “Give us a sign.” Her back is rigid and her Tinker accent suddenly flushed from her voice. She’s brave but terrified.

  Sedou laughs. “A sign?”

  “Of this power you speak of. We’ve had our fill of messianic lunatics!”

  “Of course you have.”

  She glances defiantly at Luther. “Some people will believe anything if they want it bad enough.”

  Agreement whispers through the gathering.

  “Who are you?” she demands. “Or . . . what.”

  “My name is Sedou. I am what I am. Who or what are you?”

  “I am Miriam, and I . . .” She bites her lip, glances back at her two young accomplices. Their mouths hang open. Wide-eyed, they nod. “And I . . . stand in opposition to the Winged God of the Apocalypse!” She plants her hands on her hips, glaring at Sedou in challenge.

  “Well, Miriam. Well spoken. So do I. So does everyone here.”

  “I know that.” His gentleness has caught her off guard. “But these Tinkers do nothing about it! They oppose but do not act! Why do you come to them with your magical appearance and your gift of fish?”

  “Word gets around, I see.”

  Young Miriam scoffs. “Easily accomplished! Why should we listen? Why should we believe? Show us a sign that cannot be explained away!”

  Just call in the big guy, thinks N’Doch. That’ll convince ’em. Or it might just send them screaming in the opposite direction, given their current expectations of dragons.

  “A sign.” The dragon/man laughs again, a great booming laugh that tickles a smile or a sheepish grin onto the soberest of disbelieving faces around the fire. He stands, towering over the young woman, but she stands her ground as he spreads his arms wide and throws his head back as if welcoming the surrounding darkness. “So be it, doubting Miriam!”

  And a soft rain begins to fall, a precise zone of cooling relief that stops a step outside the circle around the fire. Miriam catches tiny drops on her outstretched palms until they run with moisture, then presses them to her eyes with a sob.

  “Parlor tricks,” says Sedou sadly.

  But Luther lowers himself onto his bony knees, his rough hands clasped in gratitude. “Welcome, pilgrim! Your search has ended.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Paia spots the odd clouds on the sunset horizon at the end of the third day out, just as she’s decided that nothing out of the ordinary will happen on this trip after all, except a near fatal overexposure to the elements. Another sweltering dusk, another dried-up town clinging to subsistence, another dull evening of ritual and routine to look forward to. Or not. Everything she sees, everyone she meets is so listless and played out. Where are the brave and busy villages she has imagined, energized by faith and the common struggle against the hostile climate?

  Paia is irritable with discomfort, and the constant diet of ceremony. Plus she’s kept as isolated as she ever was in the Citadel. All of it leaves her floaty and disoriented, and vastly disappointed with her Visitation.

  “Why can’t I talk to anyone?” she rails at Luco as he ushers her toward the High Priestess’ lonely seat of honor at the banquet. This particular town is wealthy enough to provide her with a table all of her own, on a raised dais and everything. They’re so proud of the dais, a sordid little box with only one step, that they’ve even painted it the God’s sacred red.

  Luco’s broad shoulders sag, then resettle with new resolution. “You know how the God feels about the importance of maintaining the Temple’s image.”

  “It’ll hurt our image if we talk to the people? The God is the Caretaker of the Faithful. What kind of caretaking is that?”

  “It lowers you to their level, instead of elevating them to yours.”

  “Which they can only manage by prayer, which is inhibited by any sort of normal conversation?” Paia balls her hands into fists and vibrates them in frustration. “I came to walk among them! To preach to them! To inspire them with my love of the God!”

  In fact, Paia isn’t loving the God very much right now. She’s angry with him for destroying her painting. But she can’t explain any of this to Luco.

  “Inspire them?” he growls. “You’ll be lucky if they don’t eat you alive.”

  “What?”

  “I mean, of course, that they’re desperate. They need sustenance, not talk!”

  “Faith is sustenance, First Son! If you aren’t careful, it will be me advising you to hold your tongue. Won’t that be a novelty!”

  Luco’s eyes clench shut briefly. “Your pardon, my priestess.”

  Paia sighs and forces her hands to relax. No more arguing. She must apply her flagging energy to the task of surviving the heat and boredom. She points out the clouds to Luco, to change the subject.

  “Hunh. Look at that.” He finds them more interesting than she does. “In the direction of the Citadel.”

  “Are they rain clouds?”

  “He’d never allow that.”

  “Who?”

  “The God. He’d as soon it never rained.”

  “No, Luco, surely . . .” Paia peered at him closely. Was the heat getting to him, too?

  “In the Chapter House, they’ll be saying it’s a sign.”

  “Of what?”

  “Of whatever they need it to be a sign of.”

  He flicks her a sidelong glance as he seats her at the table. Paia would like to laugh. When officiating, the High Priestess is barely allowed a smile, never mind the belly laugh she’d like to let go of. A great big laugh of pure abandon. It would be so freeing. But the First Son’s joke was not very funny. He’s too distracted by . . . whatever he’s distracted by. With a warning frown, he leaves her struggling. He has not used this trip to ease his insistence on proper Temple protocol, and the subject of her father still shuts him up like a box. But in the brief times they’ve been apart from listening ears, a progressive change has been evident. The more miles put between them and the Temple, the more relaxed is Luco’s tongue. When they do speak together, it is almost a conversation.

  And this has taught Paia something: Son Luco does not see her as a religious icon with God-given mystical power, as would any lesser devout of the Temple. To Luco, she is simply the God’s designate, the Temple figurehead, chosen not as Luco would choose, but for the god’s own inhuman reasons—which the priest is loath to question.

  Happily, Paia agrees with him. She’s glad she’s never pretended with Luco to be something she isn’t. What’s more, she’s always assumed his boundless patience with her tantrums and impulses to be due to his devotion to the God. But new insight suggests that Luco has forgiven her a lot simply because she is her father’s daughter. Someday, she will convince him to tell her the story.

  The ceremonial feast is over early that evening, before the sun has completely set. Perhaps the dull-eyed inhabitants of this village have squandered too many of their scant resources on their silly dais. Nearly stir-crazy with sitting, Paia begs Luco for a walk outside the village, across the fields perhaps, even up that hill on the far side. She would like a better look at the odd pink cloud towers. He agrees to allow it, if proper security precautions are observed. But he begs off accompanying her, claiming Tem
ple business, as he has every evening so far. In a town so meager, Paia wonders how much business there could be. Visits to the outlying homesteads, perhaps, where the Faithful are in need of spiritual advice or even renewal. Though he shines in the formal recitation, it is hard to imagine Son Luco delivering a sermon. Still, Paia has overheard his admiring acolytes tell of his great oratorical prowess during the Wars of Conversion. But there are no sermons in the Temple of the Apocalypse. Only endless litany.

  Before he disappears off to who knows where, Luco gives Paia into the hands of the head of the local Chapter House, a dour, crop-haired woman twice her age. Paia’s heart sinks. Being a full priestess, the woman need not go veiled, which means there is nothing to disguise her reluctance.

  “Mother Gayle.” Impatient to be off on his business, Luco puts on his voice of polite coercion. “Supreme Mother Paia has a need for some exercise before retiring. Would you be willing to oblige her? A viewing of the local geography, perhaps?”

  Paia settles the God’s little gun more firmly against her ribs. She notes the look that passes between Son Luco and the local priestess, but she cannot interpret it. Probably he is begging the woman to take her off his hands, or simply warning Mother Gayle to make sure the High Priestess disports herself in a manner becoming to the Temple.

  Mother Gayle bows. “The God’s servant in all things, my priest.”

  Luco goes briskly off, and Mother Gayle gathers her entire staff, plus the Temple Honor Guard, in the event of a surprise raid by bandits from the hills. She guides Paia onto the main road out of the village, where they walk in silence through the dusk, with half the village trailing after them. Paia notes how her sandaled feet leave little pouch marks in the deep dust. Suddenly it seems sad that no one even talks about it anymore, this drying up of the world. One just acts as if it has always been this way, even though the worst of it has occurred within her own short lifetime. Accept what is. It’s the God’s sort of thinking.

  The procession crosses the arid field in silence, then climbs in silence as well, first within the shadow of the hill, then with the sun’s red ball straight ahead of them, brilliant and blinding, exploding into their eyes. Paia cannot see her feet. Even the ground ahead of her is lost in the dazzle, as if it has fallen away and left her floating. She was already disoriented in her mind, now she is disoriented in her senses as well. She puts out both arms, feeling unbalanced but rather enjoying the novelty.