by Phil Tucker
Annara walked forward. Reached out to brush her fingertips against the stone and found the rock to be textured by the striations, dusty, so that her fingertips came away pale white. White as the sand beneath her sandaled feet, and on impulse, moved by a desire to connect with this divine space more fully, she toed off her sandals and walked forward discalced.
She could never see farther than a half dozen yards before her. The canyon wound forward with subtle intent, shoulders of stone blocking her sight and giving way to new vistas as she reached them, always descending at gentle gradient, so that the canyon walls rose ever higher above her until even that golden-white nullity became remote, and she trod through a rose-colored dream, her footsteps silent, with only the sound of her breath proving to her that she yet lived.
How would death come for her? Need it be painful? No. Annara intuited with complete certainty that death here would be a benediction. A release. A peaceful crossing from the land of the living to that of the dead. Perhaps she would simply and slowly lose the need to breathe, find her flesh giving way to spirit. Perhaps that process had already happened. Perhaps she was already dying.
Annara stopped, inhaling deeply, and closed her eyes. Centered herself. Was she… ? No. Her pulse was rapid but strong. Her aches returned as she focused on them.
Then…? At what point would this trial begin?
She resumed walking forward. The silence was an almost physical presence, pressing in on her on all sides. Would the canyon open up into a chamber? Would she be questioned? Would she emerge into the underworld and meet with Amubastis?
Talakhamani had walked this path himself, a hundred years before. But when she’d put these questions to him, he had but smiled that enigmatic smile of his that precluded any need for words.
Annara studied the sand before her. There were no signs of previous footsteps.
Strength drained from her. Was she doomed to walk an endless canyon? Were there hundreds, thousands of other petitioners lost in here with her, all of them stumbling on, impelled by desperation and a desire to reach some final end point, but doomed to an endless purgatory?
Could she turn around and flee back to the waking world?
Annara sank down to her knees. The sand was fine, cool, and she felt how easy it would be to lie down and close her eyes.
Her exhaustion welled up within her. More than her aches and pains. A spiritual enervation. The weight of her responsibilities. The weight of love. Something she’d only understood when she’d first held Elu in her arms moments after he’d been born. Something Kenu, her husband, had never understood. How love could be a burden, how love could drag you down. Elu had gazed up to her with his bright, unseeing eyes, his small form so delicate, so vulnerable, and she’d felt this horror over the scope of her role, the vastness of it, the charge that was no hers and how she would need to protect him, nurture him, shield him, encourage him to grow.
A charge that was still hers today.
A charge that she sought to expand on. To use as the basis of her right to claim divinity. Was that what it meant to be a goddess? To take the nurturing instincts of a mother and spread them wide over an entire people? To take upon one’s self the frailties and weaknesses of a hundred thousand souls, to feel their pain, to be strong for them, to feel, unfair and wrong as it might be, that their successes were your own, and their failures doubly so?
Tears brimmed in Annara’s eyes. Was her spirit so wide, so deep, so noble that she could take on that mantle?
Her own words returned to her. That divinity was not a difference of kind, but of degree. She thought of Talakhamani and her words rang hollow. Acharsis was all too mortal; all the River City godsblood were. They were not good examples of divinity. Rather, there existed a glimmer of the truth in Talakhamani’s eyes. His demeanor and bearing.
By what right did she deserve to become a goddess?
Annara lowered her head. The right of a mother’s love? Desperation? Her own hubris in walking this Path struck her full force. If she pressed on and came face-to-face with Amubastis, the mother of all lamassu, what would she say to that being? What words would justify her presence here?
None. She would deserve the death that would be hers.
The weight of defeat pressed down on her. She couldn’t walk on. Couldn’t countenance the prospect of sacrificing herself so completely. It was a sacrifice greater than death. Death, she realized, she could face without qualm. But to become a goddess of a nation? To serve each and every soul, to feel that terror and responsibility born of such overwhelming love for a thousand thousand beings?
Tears ran down her dusty cheeks. She had thought herself capable of anything. Of everything for Elu. Yet here, in this silent canyon, she realized her own limitation. She was not capable of such self-sacrifice. Such eternal servitude, an infinitude of sweet torment born of an endless love.
Give me death, then, she thought. I have failed. I am not worthy. My spirit is not so noble that I can make that manner of sacrifice.
And a voice spoke to her, kind as a mother’s hand upon her cheek. No mortal spirit is.
Annara’s head snapped up, her eyes opening wide - and she saw that she knelt before the entrance of the canyon, facing the great crowd that now did murmur and point, shocked and swaying like fields of endless grass bent by the passing of the wind over the Golden Steppe.
Talakhamani stepped toward her, and for the first time since meeting the old man she saw genuine surprise upon his face. Other men and women peeled away from the crowd, and as different as they all were from each other, all had one thing in common: that melancholic combination of wisdom and sadness, strength and gentleness. Talakhamani reached her and dropped to his knees before her and took both of her hands within his own.
“I failed,” whispered Annara, her voice cracked with grief. Tears filled her eyes once more.
The former king’s voice was filled with wonder. “It is the noblest failure. All who survive the Path of Righteousness do so by deeming themselves insufficient.”
Annara blinked through her tears as she sought to make sense of his words. “But…”
“Come. We cannot speak of this here. Come.” He drew her to her feet, and led her through the crowd, brushing away Sennefer’s questions and Wehemka’s demands. Through the great crowd that parted reverently for them both, and to the many tents that had been erected, between their dusty colorful shapes to his own.
“Drink,” he said, handing her a small cup of tea as she settled upon the cushions. The other men and women who had stepped out of the crowd entered the tent one by one, moving to sit on their own cushions, and Talakhamani introduced each in turn; all of them former kings and queens of the Kusuj, now reduced to the roles of tribal chieftains, some even to solitary goatherders.
It was a herbal brew, lightly sweetened with honey and cool upon her tongue. Annara drank deeply, and felt herself come back to life, the tea washing away the dust that seemed to have coated her innards and rendered her inanimate.
Talakhamani sat on the cushions before her, and Annara realized how he had changed; gone was that quiet detachment, and in its place a vital energy that made him seem more alive than a youth half his age.
“I don’t understand,” she said, glancing nervously around at the others.
“That is natural. Such understanding is beyond us mortals.”
“I didn’t succeed. I gave up.”
“As did I.”
“As did we all,” said a wizened older lady, her eyes gleaming kindly.
“Yet you all became kings and queens.”
“Against our wills,” said Talakhamani. “I was not worthy of the title, but saw that by accepting the title I could do the least damage to my people.”
The others bowed their heads in agreement.
“So you are not divine? None of you?”
Talakhamani smiled, again showing his bright white teeth. “Of course not. Merely long lived, by the grace of the lamassu.”
“B
ut… the people, the Kusuj -”
“Our understanding of divinity is far different from yours and that of the River Cities. To you, divinity means direct inheritance through the blood, union of your gods with the rulers of your cities. It means power, it means strength, it means violence and discord.”
“I… yes.”
“But think. What are the most visible symbols of divinity in Magan?”
“The lamassu?”
“And are they violent? Do they gift terrible powers to their pharaohs? Do they rise up in arms when the fortunes of Magan are assailed?”
Annara shook her head slowly. “No, they don’t.”
“Just so. We who survive the Path of Righteousness are not gifted such powers either. We do not become more than our fellows. Stronger, more dangerous, more gifted. If anything, we become less. Aware of our limits. Our failings. Our very mortality.”
“Then why did the lamassu recognize your divinity during your time ruling Magan?” A panicked storm of emotions were rising up within her. “Was it all a farce?”
Talakhamani’s smile widened. “Of course not! Divinity can be found in servitude. The kings and queens of Kusuj become divine through their visceral understanding of this truth. It is the same philosophy of the lamassu. We who survive the Path of Righteousness are deemed by Amubastis to be worthy of life; we are allowed to return so that we may, in all our weakness, serve our brothers and sisters and by doing so improve their lot in life.”
Annara shook her head. “So it is all a ruse.”
Talakhamani’s smile grew sad. “No, Annara. The ruse is your conception of divinity. That one should be elevated above the others. That one is better or more deserving than the rest. This leads only to violence, as it is the nature of humanity to strive for that power. Look at the history of your River Cities. Can you tell me of a period when there was no war, no bloodshed, no violence for more than a score of years?”
Annara stilled. Blinked. “No. Unless you count Irella’s current reign, which has lasted for almost two decades.”
“Ah, yes. But she achieved her power through death. Is death. And now seeks to bring death to the rest of the world. And before her?”
“War,” said Annara. “Invasions. Constant battles between city-states.”
“Whereas we in Kusuj have only gone to war once and regretted it ever since.”
“Why? Why did you invade Magan, then?”
Talakhamani sighed and glanced around at his fellows. “Once the pharaoh’s of Magan followed our philosophy. But power corrupted them, and they began to see themselves as rulers instead of servants. The lamassu, of course, did not interfere. Magan reached out its hand, seeking to conquer new lands, new peoples, and grew too large; it fractured, fell apart, and Kusuj, which had always been the spiritual heart of the empire, broke away so as to preserve its ancient traditions.”
“But you came back,” Annara said. “You conquered Magan for a century.”
“A mistake. We thought to bring peace to Magan. Chaos stalked the land. Bandits were everywhere, made bold by the pharaoh’s weakness. We thought to bring peace and stewardship, but that very act of imposing ourselves brought only more blood.”
Annara pressed her hand to her brow. “But what of the Quickening?”
Talakhamani waved his hand irritably. “An ancient trial that emphasizes the wrong aspects of being a ruler. It should be relegated to the dust heap of history and forgotten.”
“But the lamassu recognize it as a means of selecting the next pharaoh.”
Talakhamani’s smirk became hard. “Which is why we are content to live without them here in Kusuj. Here, we worship Amubastis directly.”
“Ah…” said Annara. Slowly her mind was recovering from her shock. Assembling pieces of the puzzle. “The lamassu didn’t contest your right to rule in Magan, but nor did they rise up to defend you.”
“Such is not their way.”
“And before the Maganian empire split, before it became greedy for new land and people. Did the pharaohs both walk the Path of Righteousness and pass the Quickening?”
Talakhamani’s expression grew hard. “So it is said. But that was a more primitive time.”
“Some might say these times are still primitive.”
“Alas, you are correct. But there are those striving to change that.” Talakhamani inclined his head. “We would welcome you amongst our number.”
“Thank you.” Annara pressed her hand over her heart as she had seen him do, and closed her eyes. “You do my more honor than I deserve. I mean. Truly.”
“But you will not stay.”
It was her turn to smile. “You know that I cannot.”
The old woman smiled. “And now you will seek to convince us to help you.”
Annara couldn’t help but return her smile. “Of course. Do you know what I will ask?”
Talakhamani leaned back on one elbow. “To invade Magan once more? I just finished telling you that the first time was a mistake.”
“No. After what I have been through, I have no desire to set off another war. Not with Irella’s undead host coming at us from the east. Instead, I would ask your help in returning me to the capital. That is all.”
The men and women in the tent exchanged glances. The old lady leaned forward. “And what of the offers you made the Kusuj?”
“They stand,” said Annara with a smile. “Now more than ever. But if I am to effect them, I need to return home before my son is killed.”
The old lady sat back, satisfied. “Then if you wish to return to Magan, you need but enter the Path of Righteousness once more. Follow its course as you think of your destination. It leads into the netherworld, and from there, with Amubastis’ blessing, you shall emerge wherever your heart desires.”
“It’s that easy?”
Chuckles filled the tent.
“No,” said Talakhamani. “It is far from simple, but a miracle that you can now work given your first success. Nobody else would be able to walk it with you.”
Annara bowed her head. “Thank you. I will go, then. Already I am a day past when I said I would return. My son promised to reveal his true identity and marry the daughter of his greatest enemy yesterday. I need to be by his side.”
“Very well.” Talakhamani rose to his feet and extended his hand. “Come, Lady Annara. We shall all escort you back to the Path. May it lead you where your heart desires, and may that desire always remain true to your own inherent divinity.”
Annara took his hand and allowed him to help her rise. “Thank you. All of you. What happened today… I haven’t even begun to understand it. I feel… changed. But above all, blessed. The weights and responsibilities remain the same. My own appreciation for them, however, have changed. I feel ready to tackle them with new vigor. Thank you.”
Talakhamani grinned. “It is a strange thing, is it not? To find joy in subservience? To find pleasure in simplicity? To understand the true nature of wealth, and grasp it with an empty hand? This is true divinity. If only we could communicate it to everyone else. Then each man and woman could bestride this world, a god or goddess in their own right, and make of the four score years we are given a paradise on earth.”
Annara inclined her head. “It is strange. I’ll begin with a much smaller miracle.”
“That is?”
“Saving my son’s life.”
Talakhamani parted the tent flaps, allowing the soft afternoon light to spill in. “Your son is the pharaoh-elect of Magan. If you are able to bring him wisdom, that could change the course of a thousand thousand lives, and even the course of history. I would not call that ‘small’. Come, Lady Annara. Let us help you place your mark on history.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Jarek tried to round his shoulders a little more so as to blend in with the other servants, and failed. He’d never been given reason to regret his imposing frame and presence, but here in the kitchens of Irella’s ziggurat he stood out like a bull amidst a flock of sheep.
Mop in hand, he stepped around a broad table at which five women were maniacally hacking apart ducks, and moved up against the wall, where he paused to take stock. The kitchens were massive. Far bigger than those in his ziggurat in Rekkidu. Three large halls were laid next to each other, connected by many broad archways and so filled with steam and the aroma of cooking soups, roasting meats, the sharp coppery tang of spilled animal blood and the cries and calls of the cooks and servants that Jarek felt as if he were being afforded a glimpse into some perverse battlefield.
Worse, there was a logic here that he’d yet to latch onto. A rhythm and set of expectations that the other cleaners knew how to follow. He felt like a bear who had stumbled into a dance, and now bumped into everyone else, to their horror and dismay. How was he supposed to know the cook had wanted that platter of bones? Or that dumping a bucket of mopping water under the bakery table was such an affront?
Wiping at his brow, Jarek wondered if he could simply find a corner in which to hide till Kish showed up. But there were no unused corners. Everywhere was diligence and activity. The flash of bronze cleavers, the sharp chop on wood, the bubbling and stirring, pots being carried to be scrubbed, sacks of flour being brought in from the lower pantries, the roaring of flames, and everywhere people running to and fro with great urgency.
His stillness was attracting curious gazes. Frowning, Jarek prodded at the ground with his mop, staring intently as if he were working some particularly stubborn stain. He’d work this spot for as long as he could, then cross one of the large halls to find another mystery stain to work on, far from those who might have noticed his previous efforts.
“Jarek?” The voice was filled with mirth and incredulity. Kish. He looked up and saw her clad in the crimson and brown outfit of the top cook. Her hair was plaited and coiled into a bun, her clothing crisp and clean, and still she shone with a wild beauty that stopped his breath and put the lie to her being anything but a warrior born.