by Pearl North
The leaves of the tree were withered, the bark dry and flaking. Po carried water from the stream and poured it over the roots of the parched silverleaf tree. Then he had a better idea. He summoned a shovel, and he dug a trench from the bank of the stream to the tree, supplying it with a steady stream of refreshment.
Po opened his eyes and removed his hands from the pulse points at Ock’s knees. He had been among the first to discover the fire, and in his desperate efforts to vanquish the blaze, he’d been badly burned. He lay in the infirmary, dosed with Ease to keep the worst of the pain at bay, his burns coated with salve and bandaged. Po hoped that his efforts would bolster his body’s ability to heal the damage, but no matter what he did, there would be scars, and it was unlikely that his hair would ever grow back.
Po stood, and was about to turn to Burke to see what he could do next when someone grabbed him by the arm and bent it behind his back. Pain lanced up his shoulder and at the same time, he felt hot breath in his ear. “Traitor, you’re coming with me,” said Siblea.
For a moment, it was all so sudden that Po had no reaction at all. He heard Burke at the other end of the tent say, “Siblea? What—?”
Then, Po realized what must have happened. Somehow, Siblea had learned of his relationship with Thela. Po stamped his foot down on Siblea’s instep and jammed his free elbow into Siblea’s solar plexus. The older man groaned and his grip loosened. Po freed himself and spun around to face him. “I haven’t done anything wrong. She had every right to be here.”
Bent at the waist, his arm to his chest, Siblea panted and glared. “She? Who are you talking about?”
Uncertainty made Po blink. By now, Burke had hurried over to them. “Siblea, what are you doing?”
Siblea straightened and pointed a long finger at Po. “He set the fire.”
“What?” Po shook his head in confusion. “What are you talking about?”
Others in the infirmary had heard the exchange. Ock said, “Po?” in a tone of disbelief. Other murmurs and questions could be heard, some of them bewildered, others angry. Burke looked between Po and Siblea and shook her head. “No. There’s some mistake.” She looked at Po. “Don’t worry, dear, we’ll get to the bottom of this.”
“Yes, we will,” said Siblea. “Who were you talking about just now, Po? Who has every right to be here?”
Po’s mouth went dry. Burke and Siblea both stared at him and the rest of the tent went silent. Everyone was waiting for his answer. He couldn’t say it. “That’s none of your business, Siblea. Why are you accusing me of setting the fire?”
A low murmur of suspicion ran through the tent at Po’s nonanswer. Burke was watching him very carefully, her eyes narrowed. Siblea bared his teeth in a rictus grin. “I’m going to make it my business. Now come with me.”
Po shook his head and folded his arms. “I don’t have to go anywhere with you.”
“Po, perhaps you should—” Burke began, but before she could finish, Siblea shot his arm out and made a grab for Po’s ear.
Po stepped inside the old man’s reach and threw a punch. His fist connected with the side of Siblea’s face with a smack and a sting in his knuckles.
Siblea made a low, growling sound and tackled Po to the ground. Po grunted under the man’s surprising weight. He threw his head forward, hitting Siblea in the nose with his forehead. “Gah!” the old man yelled.
“Po! Siblea! Stop this at once!” said Burke.
Po knew Siblea would not listen to her. He took advantage of the other man’s pain to roll them both. Now he was on top of Siblea, straddling his waist and pinning his arms to the ground. They glared at each other, chests heaving.
“Po!” It was Burke, and she was angry. He looked up to see her staring at him as if he were something entirely alien to her. “Whatever this is about, you are not helping. Siblea, your use of force is unacceptable. Now whatever you think Po has done, you are not entitled to push him about like an unruly goat.”
“He is a traitor.”
“I doubt it, but you will have your opportunity to make your case before the Redeemer.”
“I have proof—in the boys’ dormitory,” said Siblea.
Rossiter had materialized at Burke’s side sometime during the fight. He stared at Po with open suspicion.
“Rossiter, go and fetch the Redeemer,” said Burke. “Po, get off Siblea. Siblea, do not attempt to lay hands on Po again. I will escort both of you to the boys’ dorm and we will see what this is all about.”
Po looked down at Siblea, who stared back at him, utterly undaunted, implacable. Whatever the outcome of Burke’s intercession, they were enemies now. Nothing would change that until one had succeeded in killing the other. Po never broke their mutual gaze as he slowly got off of Siblea and stood up.
Burke took him by the hand, squeezing it tight. She took Siblea’s arm in her other hand, and the three of them walked out of the infirmary tent and headed for the boys’ dorm.
A crowd surrounded it. As they approached, someone spotted them. “There he is!” Others shouted, “The traitor!” and, “He set the fire!” The crowd began to break away from the tent and sweep toward them.
Burke’s hand tightened on his. He couldn’t let her wind up in the middle of this. “Wait!” said Po. He released Burke’s hand. “Please, Libyrarian, go help Rossiter look for the Redeemer,” he told her, and then he turned to Siblea. “Show me what you’ve found.”
He permitted the old Singer to grab him by the arm. Despite Siblea’s age, his grip was like iron. He pushed Po through the angry mob and into the tent, where more people milled about. Jan stood between his cot and Po’s. The look he gave Po as they approached was one of baffled betrayal.
A tight, hot knot grew in Po’s gut. “Show him,” said Siblea.
Jan tilted Po’s cot onto its side to reveal a long, narrow box made of woven silverleaf twigs. He opened the lid.
Empty pots, the kind used to hold cooking oil, filled the box, as well as numerous fragments of barley stalk. In one corner, resting on top of one jar, sat a flint and iron.
Po stared at the box, trying to make sense of it. Since Thela had gone, he’d been sleeping on his cot again, but he’d not seen this here. The coverlet would hide it, he supposed. “How long has that been here?” he asked Jan.
Jan shook his head in disbelief. “Suck a goat, Po.”
Siblea’s grip on his arm tightened. “How dare you?”
The tent was packed with angry people—Ayorites, Libyrarians, Singers, and Ilysians. They gathered close. The air in the tent was hot, and thick with impending violence. Po wanted to protest his innocence, but so many of those accusatory looks and menacing stances came from other males. He would not justify himself to them. He said nothing.
The crowd parted, and Haly, Burke, and Selene approached them. At the sight of them, Po fell to his knees. “Holy One!”
She looked from the box to Po to Siblea. “What is this?”
“He set the fire, Holy One,” said Siblea. “Here is the proof.”
Haly looked at Po. “Is this true?”
Po shook his head. “No! I don’t know where these came from. I didn’t put them here. I didn’t set the fire!”
Haly shut the lid of the box and stood on top of it. Speaking directly to Siblea, but loud enough for all to hear, Haly said, “I wish you would have brought your concerns to me before taking matters into your own hands, Siblea.” She looked out over the gathered throng. “However the fire happened, this kind of witch hunt can only make our already dire situation worse. We all have work to do. Rest assured that I will get to the bottom of this, and when I do, everyone will know what I’ve learned. But no matter what is discovered, there will be no mob justice in this community. That is worse than fire, and worse than famine. The first two will merely kill us. Vengeance betrays our souls.”
Po had never really seen Haly angry before. He was guessing most of the others here had not, either. The tent was silent.
“Go back
to work now,” said Haly.
The crowd dispersed. Many appeared shamefaced, but a few cast backward glances at Po, clearly wishful of revenge despite the Redeemer’s words. Haly looked at Po and Siblea. “Take your hands off him.”
Siblea released him.
“I would like both of you to come with me now, and you as well, Jan. Burke, Selene—I’d appreciate your presence also.”
They formed a little procession from the boys’ dorm tent to Haly’s office in the Libyrinth. As they passed, most people stopped what they were doing and watched. Po read speculation on some of those faces, suspicion on others, and hatred on a great many.
Who did you speak of when you said, ‘She had every right to be here?’” Siblea demanded the instant the door was shut behind them.
Po felt as if the fire had followed them inside. The air was hot and dense; it pressed in upon him from every side.
They were all staring at him, waiting for his answer.
“Ithalia?” said Jan.
Po opened his mouth, hoping words would come. None did.
“Where did she go?” Jan demanded. “I thought you made her up. I never met her.”
“She left,” said Po. “But that was over a week ago. This has nothing to do with her.”
“Left? For where? If she’s Ilysian, she can’t go back home,” said Selene.
Po stared at her, at a loss.
“When I called you traitor, the first thing you said was, ‘She had every right to be here,’” Siblea persisted. “Why did you say that? Who is she, and why would her right to be here be in question?”
Po swallowed. He looked to Haly, his eyes pleading. “The community is for anyone, right?”
“Yes,” said Haly, a question in her voice.
“She just wanted to see what it was like, that was all. She…she missed the Redemption, but she saw it happen and she wanted to see how it was here for herself. That’s all, and it was long before the fire. It couldn’t…She couldn’t have…”
Selene stared at him fixedly. “Who, Po? Just tell us.”
Pressure at the back of his throat and behind his eyes made it difficult for him to speak. He longed to keep the words inside. He knew that the moment he let them out, everything would change. He knew that once spoken, they would reveal truths he did not wish to know, and shatter dreams that he cherished. But Haly, Selene, and Burke were waiting. “The woman I thought to be a soldier named Ithalia was really Queen Thela in disguise.”
Selene’s eyes flashed. Haly’s shoulders drooped. Burke tried to stifle a gasp. Po felt as if he had run for days across a rocky plain. The admission left him exhausted, his heart flayed. “I only learned of it on her last day in the community,” he added.
“Her last day? When was that?” said Haly, her tone clipped. She was struggling for control.
“Nine days ago.”
“Well before the fire,” noted Burke.
Selene shook her head. “That means nothing. She may have just hidden away somewhere.”
“So you think she set the fire?” asked Haly.
Selene looked at Po, and then at Haly and Burke. “Do you really think he did it?”
They both shook their heads. Po thought that would make him feel better, but it didn’t, not really. If Thela set the fire, he could have prevented it by telling someone about her.
“It could have been someone besides Thela,” said Burke.
“Possible, but highly unlikely,” said Siblea. “If she was here…”
Haly turned to Po. “Why, in the name of all we hold dear, did you not tell someone that Thela was here, Po? Why?”
Po sought for words. “I…She was leaving…I didn’t think it mattered, and I knew that it would just stir up trouble. I knew no one would trust me if they knew of it.”
Burke and Haly looked heartbroken. Selene stared at him shrewdly, and Siblea’s gaze was full of open hostility. Po turned to Selene. “Libyrarian, do you really think she set the fire?”
“And framed you for it, Po. Yes. You were her consort for a few weeks, but I have been her daughter all my life. This is perfectly within her capabilities, and very much her style. She betrayed you, and counted on your naiveté and your lack of confidence to keep her secret, and to give her time to destroy the crop.”
“But you don’t understand! She wasn’t here to harm us! She told me that she rescinded aid and forbid Ilysians from returning for our own good. She wants us to succeed!”
Selene’s disappointment was withering. “Oh, Po.”
He shook his head. “That’s why I didn’t tell anyone that she’d been here. I knew it would cause a big uproar, and that…that no one would trust me ever again if they knew I’d been her consort.”
“Don’t you see—she used you,” said Selene. “She perceived you as the weak link in the community and she seduced you so she could frame you for the fire that she set. That way, our crop is destroyed and we are torn by conflict over what to do about you. It’s perfect. She has not lost her touch.”
Po swallowed against the heaviness in his chest and stomach. Was it true? Had she just been using him? “She said she wanted me to come back to her once the community was on its feet.” His voice was weak, pathetic. Even he did not believe those words now.
“I wish you had told me,” said Burke.
The fact that he had disappointed Burke was even worse than Selene’s confidence of Thela’s betrayal. He wished he could die, right now. He got to his knees.
“Po, don’t—” Haly began.
“In Ilysies, a male is sacrificed every year for the fertility of the fields. Please, Holy One, I beg you. Make me your sacrifice. I don’t deserve the honor, but at least let my blood bring forth the plants. Let me be of some use.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Haly said, sounding angrier now than he’d ever heard her before. “We will never resort to such misguided barbarity here. If we do, we have truly failed. Now stand up, please.”
Po obeyed her, and she took him by the shoulders. She embraced him and then held him out at arm’s length, looking on him with kindness, with pity. It made him feel lower than low. “I’m sending you out with the Chorus of the Word,” she said. “For your safety, as well as for the good of the community.”
Numb, Po nodded.
“Do you understand? You can’t stay here now. Another incident like today’s is bound to happen. You could be killed and the community would tear itself apart. No matter who believes what, your position here is intolerable to them. Either you set the fire, or you colluded with Queen Thela. You see?”
“Yes.” Po glanced at Siblea, whose mouth was set in a grim line. He’d been looking at Haly in dismay at her decision, but when he noticed Po looking at him, he glared back. Going away with the chorus meant being under the direct supervision of Siblea. Po looked back at Haly.
“You may not have noticed yet, Po, but life almost never gives you what you expect or what you think you want. The key is in what you do with the things that do come your way. That is something we must all learn, if we are to survive.”
Perhaps, if he helped them find the bloom…“When do we go?”
“Tomorrow morning, at dawn.”
13
The Chorus of the Word
The Chorus of the Word was small, its numbers denuded by the needs of the Libyrinth community. For instance, Burke and Rossiter could not be spared from the infirmary tent, especially with Po now departing, and several of the other members elected to stay behind and help with getting the next crop in. That left six of them in all: Po, Jan, Selene, Siblea, Hilloa, and Baris.
They traveled north and east, along a route that would take them to a number of villages before reaching the Corvariate Citadel. It was harsh terrain and the days were long. At night they slept on blankets on the ground and Po lost consciousness the moment his head hit his rolled-up robe. In the morning he seemed to crawl up from sleep as if through a tunnel filled with gray wool. During the day, he felt as if that numbness
surrounded him like a barrier. He welcomed it. It was enough to shield him from the glares of the males, but it could not dull the sting of Selene’s pity or the ache of Hilloa’s reproach. No one spoke to him unless it was necessary, but it was in their eyes. He avoided looking at anyone.
They walked for a week, the land gradually sloping upward to a high, rocky mesa where even silverleaf bushes became scarce.
Late in the afternoon of the eighth day, Po spotted some small humps in the distance. As the group neared, the humps resolved into stone dwellings, none of them larger than a tent back at the community, and many of them much smaller than that. There were fields under cultivation, the land grudgingly giving up meager crops of pulse, onions, and barley. And there were goat paddocks, the animals grazing on the scrawny silverleaf shrubs that everywhere dotted the plain. A girl not much younger than he was, who could have been the legendary Goat Girl personified, herded her flock into a paddock, shut the gate, and came running toward them.
“Are you Singers?” she asked.
“We are the Chorus of the Word, young lady,” said Siblea, and Po winced at the condescension in his tone. “Many of us were once Singers, before the Redemption, but now we are all brothers and sisters of song and book. We bear tidings of the Redemption for you and your family, for your whole village, and we bring knowledge from the Libyrinth.”
The girl’s eyes went wide. “The Redemption?”
It was a remote village of ten or twelve dwellings, a few meager fields, and a herd of about thirty skinny goats. She stared until Po thought her eyes would roll from her head. Then she hopped twice, turned, and pelted for the cluster of stone huts. “Ma! Ma!”
At this time of day, no one was in the huts. They were all out in the fields except for one lone woman, tending a fire in a pit in the middle of the village. She looked up as the girl ran to her. A brief conversation ensued and Po saw the girl pointing excitedly in their direction. The woman stared, shielding her eyes against the glare of the sun behind them. She said something else to her daughter, who ran full tilt toward a work crew that was clearing stones from a field. The woman gave her fire a desultory poke and then, wiping her hands on her skirt, approached them.