No one answered. At one point, the pole no longer touched the lake’s bottom. Anand felt a light wind and hoped it was pushing the boat north. Was that voices he heard in the distance, or just the murmur of water?
Terraclon and a squad of flyers surveyed the decimated weeds outside Palzhad’s borders. The refugees from Hulkren had stopped growing, but they were still an innumerable mass. Perhaps some had died, perhaps some had gone back to Hulkren, but the hundreds of thousands that remained had to be hungry and suffering. Their camps had become a strange patchwork of tiny nations surrounded by makeshift fences. He sighed. Nothing we can do for them now.
The squad turned east to make aerial inspections of each of the Bee-Jorites’ border positions, where they had established counterfeints to the Seed Eaters’ feints. The counterfeint armies had raised new and impressive watchtowers, and paraded decorated sentry ants atop the border walls. The Bee-Jorite patrolmen flaunted the gaudy ceremonial armor of the old Slopeish army, as well as their ant-shaped banners from a pole attached to the saddle. As they had been instructed, Terraclon heard the defenders shout-singing war prayers to Mantis near the border walls, a revival of a Slopeish intimidation tradition. Some of the bravest or most foolish Bee-Jorites dressed in sand-and-leaf camouflage to venture as sham-scouts into the Barley Lands, and then scamper back home in an obvious way.
On the way back to Cajoria, the squad flew over the fields of daturas, which had been turned from lush plants into skeletal twigs. Nearby, in the star-shaped clearing of open sand, Terraclon saw sun-kilns and masked and goggled workers as they roasted and dried the daturas’ flowers and leaves. Next to these were sturdy, windowless huts where the poisonous weed was powdered with mortars and pestles and sifted into containers of baked and hollowed aphid corpses. As they got closer to Cajoria, he was heartened to see the vast spread of defenders from all over Bee-Jor who had heeded Polexima’s call to arms.
The squad approached what had been Cajoria’s royal riding field. Set between the old course obstacles were countless cages that were stacked and crowded. Their inhabitants had been deprived of water, to transform the green grasshopper nymphs into flyable blue locusts. Beyond these cages, new pilots were practicing circular flights. Further south, the Entrevean and Plep clans had combined in a single camp, where they had been gorging their roaches with piles of amaranth. Inside the roach pens, women were at work with rags to extract the roaches’ grease. The Britasyte men set to the making and repairing of bows and arrows and blowguns.
We just might be ready, Terraclon thought as he circled back and signaled his squad to land.
After returning his locust to a cage attendant, he walked with his pilots past an area in the riding fields where new defenders from Cajoria were being trained in the shield-locking technique, as well as the use of a blowgun through a slit in the shield. Among those aiming at targets were Keel, Tal, and the rest of his lunky sons. Terraclon halted and stared at them as they filled a straw dummy with the darts, skillfully pulling the loaded cartridge through the blowguns’ chamber for repeated shootings; they were good at it. When they were out of darts, they turned to each other, dizzy from exhaling, and laughed in the guttural way of their family. Tal noticed Terraclon was studying them, and he lowered his gun and sneered. “Your Worshipfulness,” he said, and curtsied. Terraclon felt a faint shock, and then an old fear of the boy who had made his life so miserable.
“Well,” Terraclon said, puffing his chest and clasping his arms behind him to display what had been Sahdrin’s armor. “I’m surprised,” he said, using the voice of his new authority.
“By what?” asked Tal.
“That you’ve joined the war effort.”
“Not our first time,” said Tal, returning to his harsher tones. “Like we was trying to tell you a while back. We’re good Bee-Jorites. Willing to sacrifice our lives, we are.”
“Indeedy, yes, Your Piety,” said Keel as his thick body curtsied. “We wants our own house above the flats. We’ll kill as many Seed Eaters as it takes to do it. And don’t you look just terrifying in your darling little war get-up.”
Terraclon felt as if he had just woken from a bad dream on a frozen morning; he was at a loss for words, and wanted to shout something crude about cutting off their balls to hang from their noses. Say nothing to them now, he thought while turning his back. I’ll ask their squad leader to keep an eye on them. Who knows what they’re up to.
When the pilots reached the main artery, they caught an ant train up to the palace. Its conductor and its other riders smiled and saluted Terraclon with a slap to the heart and a bow of the head, but he was still fixated on his treatment by Keel and Tal. They’ve mocked me as they’ve always mocked me—still trying to keep me in place! A blinding anger overwhelmed him, and he gritted his teeth and clenched his fists. He imagined coming upon them in the midden, their backs turned to him. He would shout, “Hey!” before they faced him to have their fat cheeks filled with venom darts, to send them falling and squirming on the ground. Then while they had no use of their limbs, he would kick them in the ears to deafen them with their own blood. He would keep on kicking until their neck bones snapped and their ugly, lipless faces went very, very still.
Terraclon noticed the other pilots were staring at him sideways as he got lost in his rage. He shook himself out of his imaginings and realized they were halfway to the palaces. The Cajorites of all castes were coming out of their shelters to see him, and they stood at the edge of the route with reverent faces. He watched as they clasped their hands and bowed to him before raising palms to the sky as an appeal for the gods’ protection. All of it felt like a dream—like someone else’s dream—to go from being mocked one moment and worshipped in the next. All I ever hoped for was a chance to sew, he thought. And now I’m a warrior-priest—in charge of a flying army.
He entered the ballroom and found it cleared of all furniture. Defenders from all over Bee-Jor stood and talked among themselves. They quieted when Terraclon passed, and pulled aside with slaps to the heart and bows of the head. He reminded himself to walk in an erect way, as he felt the thick pads he had placed inside his boots to make himself even taller. Polexima and Nuvao were at the end of the ballroom, standing atop a platform where they discussed their plans while drawing in a dust-box. Behind them, on a stilted board, was a map of northern Bee-Jor and what was known of the Barley Lands to its east. On the left and right of the platform were altars that featured Cricket, Locust, and Madricanth. Polexima looked up at Terraclon, smiled in relief, and clasped his hands.
“Thank Cricket you’re here,” she said.
“Majesty,” he said, and bowed. He turned to Pious Nuvao. “Pious, all blessings upon you. How was your trip north?”
“A blessing,” he said, and smiled to reveal his even teeth, as white and lustrous as a daisy’s petal. “Which is to say it was uneventful.”
Terraclon had a hard time looking away from Nuvao. He possessed the easy confidence of the uppermost caste, and the man was just too pretty. His face was that spellbinding mix of high cheekbones, a prominent and dimpled jaw, and then the small, fine nose and long-lashed eyes of a beautiful girl. Terraclon had to remind himself to look away from Nuvao every so often as he spoke. That was impossible to do when he smiled, something he did too frequently, and it was just too beautiful not to be looked at. To distract himself, Terraclon looked out at the gathered defenders.
Each of Bee-Jor’s fifty mounds had been asked to send four men who were celebrated veterans of the Hulkrish war, leaders who were “smart, brave, and capable with the traits of a good foreman.” A good number of the leaders looked like Nuvao, with light skin and fair hair. They were young men who had broken from their castes to follow Anand and help him defeat the Hulkrites. Other leaders looked to be people of mixed blood from the castes of common merchants and craftsmen. The darker-skinned representatives were men of imposing physical size who were working-caste foremen.
Polexima struck the floor with her staff thr
ee times. The room came to order, with all taking seats on the floor so that everyone could see the presentation. Terraclon raised his chin, and reminded himself to push out his rib cage to look more authoritative. Polexima’s Cricket priestesses walked in with their great false legs rising and falling behind them, to set platters of mushrooms, sweets, and cut grass before the altars as they chanted “Creet-creet” to summon the goddess.
“Defender of Peace,” Polexima shouted to the ceiling. “Queen of the Night. Bless this gathering and offer Your guidance, so that this war may end as soon as it begins. Hail Cricket.”
“Hail Cricket,” shouted the crowd in turn. Polexima nodded towards Terraclon. He took several deep breaths to steady his nerves, then stepped forward to speak.
“Brave and loyal Bee-Jorites,” he shouted as his voice reverberated around the crystal walls of the ballroom. “From above we have sighted the Seed Eaters completing the excavation of their pits, which they will fill with human beings as sacrifices to their bloodthirsty war god. They will attack our nation on the morning following this gruesome ritual. That day is near, so we . . .”
From the back of the ballroom, Terraclon saw several palace servants squeezing through the cloth flap. The women made their way through the crowd, stepping over or through the defenders, heading towards Polexima with crying bundles in their hands. One of them carried a small nutshell chest, and another held the hand of a crying toddler dressed in a garment of woven straw.
Polexima jolted, coming to the edge of the platform.
“What’s this about?” she shouted, staring at the toddler.
“Excuse us, Majesty,” said an old servant with a great overbite of cracked teeth. “Some locust riders with yellow skin and a funny way of speaking dropped these off for you. They said they was fulfilling a promise and it was time for you to fulfill yours.”
Polexima burst into tears. “Pareesha!” she said, and fell off the platform as she ran to meet the daughter she had left in Dneep. Terraclon and Nuvao looked at each other. The babies in bundles were handed to Nuvao and the little nut chest was handed to Terraclon. He lifted up its lid it to see a tiny skeleton inside, glued to the bottom to retain its shape. The sight was disturbing and saddening, and set off new worries as the words “it was time for you to fulfill yours” echoed in his head.
“Don’t look in here,” he said to Polexima as he closed the lid. “We’ll say good-bye to this little one later.”
Chapter 39
The Prophetess of Palzhad
Trellana beamed to find a richness of lights as she entered the Grand Cathedral of Venaris. A torch was set in the hand of each of the arm-shaped sconces, to illuminate the chapels of the eastern and western walls, with their altars to the minor gods. At the main altar, kettles of fungus lights tilted upward to shine on the deities. This night they had a glittering, dizzying beauty, as they had been smothered in gold chains, ropes, and cables that obscured all but their faces and hands. At the idols’ feet were puddles and piles of earrings, nose rings, bangles, and jewels.
She had to look away from the altars’ beauty, which hurt her in a pleasant way, like the jiggling of a loose tooth. She thrust her hands into the spacious pockets of her gown and looked up at the dangling lighting fixtures. These held fresh fungus torches that revealed the ceiling’s elaborate frescoes, which had their own penetrating beauty. On the ceiling’s south side was a richly painted rendering of the day sky in turquoise blue. Crawling over the swirls of the bright white clouds were cunning depictions of leaf-cutter ants holding little mushrooms in their mandibles, or multicolored leaf chards. At the center of the clouds was a portrait of the fierce Sun God, extending His thousand arms of light atop His mount, Yellow Flower Spider.
Trellana looked for relief from the beauty, and wandered under the ceiling’s north side to take in the fresco of the night sky, which was darker but no less gorgeous. In the middle of the indigo vault was the Sun God’s grandmother, Glowing Mushroom, in Her full aspect, with pockmarks and wrinkles and a halo of a hundred spinning powder moths. Surrounding Her were the constellations of Sprouting Acorn, Lightning Split Tree, and Double Boots, as well as Scorpion and his prey, Long Worm, who squirmed between Great Brush and Little Brush. At the very end of the ceiling was a painting of her favorite constellation and her namesake, Trellana of Calladeck. She was the beautiful mortal princess murdered by Ant Queen in a jealous rage and transformed by her lover, the grieving Grasshopper, into a cluster of stars to sparkle in eternal beauty. Trellana sighed in awe and resumed her duties. Why hadn’t she ever thrilled to the beauty of a cathedral before? The gods have opened my eyes, she thought.
Before approaching the main altar, Trellana visited each of the chapels of the cathedral’s east side. She prayed before each of the altars dedicated to lesser gods, like Mite, Gnat, and Green Treehopper, as well as the elemental deities of Rain, Dew, and the puff-cheeked Goddesses of the Four Winds. Each of these deities, no matter how small, received some blood from her pricked thumb as an offering. She scraped her thumb to leave a smudge of red on the edge of the sacrificial bowls, then reset them before the idols’ feet.
As she made her sacrifices, the cathedral filled with the princesses and queens of the eastern country—or that place her fallen mother and the Dranverite called “Bee-Jor,” in all their arrogance. As each of these royal women entered, they searched for Trellana, then greeted her with a true reverence. The attention thrilled her and she understood that this was what had always been missing from her life. The smile that stretched her face felt unfamiliar, but she knew it was the thing that had finally completed her, that had remedied the flaws of her beauty. Some who knew her as a close relative gave her warm hugs she could really feel, as they had all dressed, like her, in a single gown of dark gossamer that allowed their skins to touch. When her aunt Omathaza entered the cathedral, the two almost ran to each other—something they could do in the plain and comfortable walking boots they had worn for the occasion.
“Darling Trellana,” said Omathaza, trembling as she tucked her niece’s undone hair behind her ears. “It is a most happy night.”
“And the beginning of happier days,” said Trellana. As the two embraced, she rested her head on the comforting warmth of her aunt’s full bosom and felt a blissful peace, as if she were a baby rocking in her nurse’s arms.
“Shall we make a sacrifice together, Auntie?”
“We shall, dear.”
The two walked up the stairs to the main altar and stood before Grasshopper and Ant Queen. Jutting from the gold chains that drowned Them were the idols’ fifth and sixth hands, in the open position for the bestowing of boons. Trellana removed a thorn pin from her gown’s shoulder strap and pricked her aunt’s thumb before the two knelt and scraped their blood on the sacrificial bowl of carved amber that floated atop the loose jewels. When the aunt and niece completed their offering, they turned to see the cathedral’s pews had filled to capacity with their fellow royal women. All of them glowed with piety and excitement.
The entry opened again, and princesses holding drumming clubs and plectrums went to the orchestra pit before the main altar. Those with plectrums took seats behind gourd instruments strung with human intestines, while those with clubs went to carillons of differently sized human leg bones. A few of the musicians with thicker clubs stood at upright drums of stitched human leather and began their somber beating. A choir entered, and dance-walked down the aisle to join the orchestra and commence the first of the Ant Queen hymns, “Praise Her Odors,” followed by “Tireless Is Her Womb.” Next were some sacred songs to Grasshopper including “The Jumper’s Blessings Fall Like Rain” and “Nourishing Are His Sons and Daughters.”
The flaps of the cathedral were pulled open, and the first and only male entered, His Ultimate Holy Pious Dolgeeno. He wore a simple pocketed cassock and loose trousers of the same dark gossamer as the women. His only real adornment was his blue miter, which featured a gold rendering of Grasshopper and Ant Queen as the E
ternal Couple afloat in the sky. The priest looked thinner, and strolled up the aisle with a sprightliness Trellana had never seen. He easily took the steps up the altar, and bowed to the deities before turning to greet the gathered women with a raising of his left hand.
The flaps of the entry opened again, and four male carriers entered with the palanquin of the Infertile Princess of Venaris on their shoulders. She had brought a hundred little grooming ants that swarmed over the palanquin’s roof and the cloth that pushed out its windows. The carriers look around furtively, and were shamed by the stares and silence of the female congregation, and departed quickly. Once the males were gone, the palanquin’s door opened and a mass of dark cloth pushed out. The Infertile Princess rose up from out of the cloth and shed it to reveal a pocketed gown. She walked not to the altar, but to a pew in the back. Her grooming ants worked their way out of the cloth, and crawled over the laps and heads of the other royals to gather on the Infertile’s head and dress. Some of them crawled over her hair and to the ends of her antennae, where they dropped into her lap to repeat the cycle. The music came to an end when Dolgeeno held up his right palm, dusted with golden pyrite.
“Welcome, Queens and Princesses of the Lost Country,” sang-shouted Pious Dolgeeno. “The gods bless this gathering and thank you for your bravery in traveling to Venaris.” He nodded towards Trellana, and stepped back as she stepped forward. In silence, she turned her new and irrepressible smile on the crowd, beaming it from east to west like the day’s journey of the Sun. It ignited a thousand other smiles, and she opened her arms as if she might embrace them all.
“Daughters of Ant Queen,” she began, feeling a godly strength that rose from her bowels through her lungs and then her throat as her voice filled the cathedral. “We come here tonight, not to observe the ritual marriage of the Infertile Princess of Venaris to Grasshopper. That will wait for another time. At this time we have an even higher purpose.” Trellana nodded to Omathaza, who stepped forward and locked her arm in her niece’s.
The Prophet of the Termite God Page 36