The Awakened City

by Victoria Strauss

  It required more than four weeks to reach the Dracâriya region—a three-week journey, really, but stretched by the protocols of royal traveling, though we were not a large group by royal standards. I had with me just Reanu and Apui and Omarau and Lopalo; Drolma and the rest of the Tapati remained behind in Ninyâser. Santaxma was accompanied by two secretaries, body servants and attendants, several of his ministers, a majordomo to oversee their entourages and his own, a fleet of grooms and cooks, a train of packhorses and wagons, and fifty soldiers of the King’s Guard, under command of the captain who had received Gyalo and me in the gardens of the Hundred-Domed Palace. There was also a pair of Dreamers to keep track of Râvar’s progress—strong and vigorous, both of them, nothing like the church’s Dreamers, who sleep away their lives and can barely rise from their beds unassisted. Their straightforward reports made me think, with some bitterness, of my unsuccessful struggles to persuade my spirit-siblings that some of our Dreamers should be trained in a less arcane manner, so they could more easily serve this sort of practical duty.

  A portion of the Great South Way follows the dry bed of a river that in ancient times cleaved its way through the Dracâriya hills. Rocky slopes draw in on either side, not high but in some areas quite sheer, and there are many turns and switchbacks. It was here that Santaxma laid his ambush, along a relatively straight stretch of road above which men could he hidden, some with glass globes of manita to drop as Râvar passed beneath, others with crossbows to deal with anyone who might escape the initial assault. Once Râvar had been captured, a trumpet signal would be given, and the cavalry companies waiting in the hills above the encamped pilgrims would sweep down and round them up.

  That was Santaxma’s plan. And it was a good plan, or so it seemed to me then. Gyalo’s warning had troubled me, but I believed him mistaken in his fears. I could not imagine that Râvar, no matter how great his gift, could possibly withstand the massive dose of specially prepared manita Santaxma planned to hurl down on him. He might refuse the trap, in which case Santaxma had other plans—but if he walked into it, he would be caught, and he would be held. There were ten globes of manita. Ten. They could not miss.

  They did not. But I’m outpacing myself.

  The slow travel taxed my patience sorely, but appeared to disturb Santaxma not at all—although in truth I saw him too rarely to draw any firm conclusions about his state of mind. Mindful of observers, he could not entirely ignore me, but he paid me the barest minimum of courtesy he could. He did not want me along at all, of course; he told me so before we left, and I told him I did not care, and there we left it, the most open display of hostility we have ever had. He blames me for Gyalo’s defection, or at least for his escape. Another way, no doubt, in which he believes the Brethren have failed him.

  Râvar, with his great train, was moving even more slowly than we; according to the Dreamers, he and his pilgrims were still two days off when we reached the chosen ambush point. We made camp some distance back, on the road itself. A few miles behind us a contingent of the King’s Guard set up a blockade to bar traffic. Santaxma and the Guard captain and their aides surveyed the terrain, choosing the points where men would be hidden, designating the place where the King himself would wait. The grooms set up an elaborate pavilion, suitable for a royal parley. With typical thoroughness, Santaxma wished to create the perfect illusion.

  When Râvar drew close, Santaxma dispatched his embassy. Expecting that Râvar might come at once, he ordered his soldiers to take up their positions. Obviously I could not remain as part of his entourage—nor, I imagine, would Reanu have allowed it, for it is his duty always to be prepared for the worst. So I and my guards climbed to the top of the cliffs to a place that satisfied Reanu’s caution, where we could conceal ourselves among rocky folds yet observe what passed below. The King ordered his second secretary, Cas, to accompany us, so events could be recorded from a different angle. He is as diligent a record-keeper as we Brethren—except that, being a king, he does not have to write the words himself.

  We waited in the silence of utter tension. After what seemed an interminable amount of time the lookouts jogged back; a few minutes later the emissaries came in sight, alone. I and my company clambered down. Râvar, we learned, intended to consider the King’s invitation. The emissaries were to return before noon tomorrow to receive his answer.

  For caution’s sake Santaxma kept the lookouts at their posts. We passed an anxious night. The next day—that is to say, this morning—the emissaries went off again, and Reanu and Omarau and Lopalo and Apui and Cas and I climbed up to our perch to wait. It was noon and there was no shade; the sun beat directly on our heads. Now and then I noticed that all my muscles had gone rigid and forced them to relax, only to realize a little later that they had knotted up again. I ache in all my limbs now from that unnatural tension.

  Then down the road a man came flying: one of the lookouts. My pulse leaped. I could tell just by the way he ran: Râvar was coming.

  It seemed an eternity before he came in sight along the Way’s uneven course, though it could not have been more than a quarter of an hour. He wore the flowing overrobe in which he had received Vivaniya and me in the caverns, and also some sort of glamour or illusion that made him almost too bright to look upon. The nearest I can come to describing it is to say that he seemed to be encased in a shell of fluid crystal. It was an astonishing sight. Even knowing what I know about him, I could not help but feel a chill of awe. Beside me Cas drew in his breath, forgetting to scribble.

  Ardashir walked at Râvar’s back. After him came an escort of six men, by their staves members of Ardashir’s Band of Twenty. The emissaries brought up the rear—on foot, oddly, leading their horses. Well away on the other side, Santaxma waited by the pavilion with his standard-bearers and his ministers, all of them resplendently clad and jeweled—a rich sight, but nothing to the marvel that approached them. On Râvar came, ever closer to the ambush point. At every moment it seemed that he must guess and turn aside, or guess and attack, or, not guessing, simply take an action that the plan could not accommodate. Beside me Reanu and the others were as still as the rocks among which we crouched; Cas’s pen hung motionless in his fingers. And I … I don’t remember breathing.

  Râvar and his attendants reached the point where the emissaries were to halt and bid him and his people go on alone. Since they were behind him, they simply halted. Ardashir glanced back, but Râvar never paused. Walk, I willed him. Walk. Santaxma, too, had begun to move forward—part of the charade of embassy, the better to persuade Râvar that there was nothing to fear from the empty stretch of road between them.

  I come now to the most difficult part of this account—not only for the horror of what happened, but because it happened so fast. I cannot be entirely certain of the accuracy of my memory. But I’ve spent a good deal of time thinking about it, piecing it together … this is what I think I saw.

  Râvar passed the boundary of the trap, the spot above which the first of the hidden soldiers crouched. Perhaps twenty paces on lay the signal point, where the actual attack would commence. Râvar reached it, stepped beyond it … and the ambushers rose up from their concealment and hurled down their globes. The glass flashed as it fell, catching the sun—I remember it clearly—and I think Ardashir may have looked up. Then the globes struck, behind Râvar, before him, alongside. There was a tremendous sound of shattering. Manita flew up, spreading to form a sparkling cloud, fully enveloping Râvar and his people.

  It was perfectly done. Perfectly. And at first it seemed to have succeeded. Ardashir and his men fell to the ground. Râvar also stumbled to his knees, throwing up his arms as if to shield himself. But there was a wrongness to the tableau, and in the next instant it came to me: They were still. They were not choking, coughing, clawing for breath, as those not habituated to the drug do when they breathe it in. And Râvar … Râvar was still encased in light. In power.

  “rata!” It was Rean
u, understanding even as I did.

  Down the road, Santaxma had halted, not yet recognizing what he saw. Even when Râvar rose to his feet the King did not seem to comprehend; he remained where he was, his ministers behind him. Râvar stood straight as a spear, his shell of crystal brilliance blurred by the dancing haze of manita. My memory—true or false—tells me there was rage on his face, that his ruined hands were fisted at his sides.

  It was then that the archers in the rocks, realizing the manita had failed, loosed a volley of arrows. Râvar should have been pierced, and Ardashir, who was on his feet now also, and Ardashir’s men, most of whom still cowered on the ground. But the shafts fell short—all of them at once, as if they had struck a wall. Ardashir leaped in shock. Râvar did not even flinch.

  I think I saw him lift his hand, though by this time his brilliance was so piercing that it was not easy to tell that there was anything human at its heart. The King had turned to flee, but it was too late—it had always been too late. The air above him rippled like hot oil. On the cliff, or perhaps before it, arced a great and terrible light. There was a concussion that seemed to come from inside my own head, so huge was it. The ground jumped. Then there was a different kind of roaring. I saw the cliff begin to fall.

  I was transfixed. I had utterly forgotten myself; it would not have occurred to me to move. Dimly I heard shouting. I felt myself seized, lifted like a child. My vision blurred; I was being carried. The world lit up behind me. Thunder cracked again, and the earth rose to slam me in the face. A primal terror seized me, like nothing I have ever felt in this life. Beside me someone reached down—Reanu. He grabbed my arm, dragged me to my feet. Hand in hand, we ran.

  At some point I fell again. The noise had stopped. Everything was quiet, a huge and spreading silence, as if all creation held its breath. Reanu and I knelt together, trembling. Reanu’s tattoos were stark against his ashy skin. There seemed to be a veil between us. Dust, I realized—the dust of that huge collapse.

  “Is it over?” I asked. My ears were ringing; I could hardly hear my own words.

  “I don’t know.”

  “The others—”

  “They ran, too.”

  “Where?”

  I tried to rise. He gripped my arms. “Wait here. I’ll go.”

  I obeyed him. We had come to rest in a grassy hollow, with ridges of stone jutting up beyond; I had no idea where we were or how far we had run. My thoughts were too disordered, anyway, for me to do more than wait for Reanu to return. At last he did. He had found the others: Apui and Lopalo and Omarau, their faces so grimed that their tattoos showed only as shadows, and Cas, his lap desk clutched tight against his chest as if it were the only stability in the world.

  Something possessed me, a kind of desperation. I struggled to my feet.

  “Old One,” Reanu said, stepping to intercept me. “It’s dangerous.”

  “I have to see.”

  He shook his head. “There’s nothing to see. Nothing but dust.”

  “I have to see.”

  I pushed past him, stumbling down the slopes we had raced up a little while before. My throat burned; my eyes streamed. The dust grew even thicker. It was hardly past noon, but it might have been twilight. Before me, the ground dipped.

  Iron fingers closed around my arm. I felt myself yanked backward.

  “No farther, Old One,” Reanu said, his voice muffled by the ringing in my ears and the folds of stole he had wound about his nose and mouth. “There’s no more ground. Look.”

  It was true. Beyond what I had thought was an indentation in the slope, there was nothing at all. Dust hung solid there, filling up the emptiness. The place where we had waited was gone. Somewhere below, under all that rock, Santaxma and his people lay crushed.

  I sank to my knees. I could not move or speak. I did not resist when Reanu picked me up again. He carried me back to the little hollow where the others waited. I was too shattered even to think, much less give orders; it was he who got the others on their feet, who got them moving. He carried me on his back. When he tired Omarau took me, then Lopalo.

  The air is clear where we’ve camped. I have placed myself so that I cannot see the dust plume, which is still visible behind us, lit luridly by the last light of sunset. We have not returned to the Great South Way, but are traveling overland; there is a monastery to the east, not too far off if I am correct, where we can obtain supplies and horses. The Tapati have built a fire; they sit round it, silent but for occasional coughing. Cas is curled nearby. We have nothing but the clothes on our backs—and Cas’s writing desk, which has furnished the paper and ink to write this account. I’m grateful. It has eased me, a little, to set it down, to pour my horror and my shock out upon the page.

  Santaxma is dead. I am certain that Râvar is not. He held away the manita, he blocked the arrows; if the hills did fall where he was, I have no doubt he was able to shield himself. He will continue now, and there will be no one to stop him. What will become of Arsace? But I cannot think of that. There is only one thing left for me to do, and that is to return home and persuade my spirit-siblings to flee. Baushpar will fall—our beautiful city, so recently regained. But we will endure, for long enough, at least, to discover if there is any purpose in our survival.

  I wonder if Gyalo saved his family.

  I am not given, as some of my spirit-siblings are, to quoting passages of scripture. But a line from the Book of the Messenger has been running through my mind, the words my father Marduspida cried in awe and terror when rata first appeared to him in the Burning Land: Before I only knew; now I see, and it is terrible, terrible!

  Gyalo told me of Râvar’s power. Most explicitly he told me. So I knew, even though I did not really believe. But today I saw, and it is terrible indeed.

  19

  Râvar

  RVAR DREAMED OF collapse. He heard the thunder of it, cascading waves of sound that beat sickeningly inside his head.

  Slowly he became aware that the thunder was indeed inside his head, a pounding ache that gripped him like a metal cap, tightening and releasing with each surge of his pulse. He groaned. Wet cloth moved against his skin. He reached out, thrust it away.

  “Beloved One.”

  He opened his eyes. Ardashir leaned over him, flickering shadow blue.

  “Beloved One, you’re safe.” The beautiful voice was cracked and rough. “You’re in your tent.”

  My tent. Over Ardashir’s shoulder he saw the familiar fabric at which he lay staring each night before sleep, and to which he woke each morning—the spiky patterns of the grass thread, the rough patterns of its weaving, the dull patterns of the dust and grime accumulated over weeks of travel. The air was dim, hazed with the smoke of the brazier that smoldered nearby. He remembered … He put a hand to his throbbing head. Collapse. The King of this land had tried to kill him. And he … and he …

  “Give me water,” he croaked.

  Ardashir produced a cup and leaned in again, ready to slip an arm beneath Râvar’s shoulders, but Râvar said sharply, “No,” and raised himself, his head surging with new tides of pain. He took the cup and sipped. At the first touch of water his stomach turned; he had to sit motionless, eyes closed, willing himself not to vomit.

  “Tell me what happened,” he said when he could, his eyes still shut. “After.”

  “You fell unconscious, Beloved One, as you did after Thuxra. The protection you placed over us was broken then. The dust was so thick we could barely breathe. It was all we could do to carry you away. You’ve been sleeping since. Such a thing you did, Beloved One. Such judgment you brought down. You crushed the hills! You destroyed them utterly!”

  Râvar opened his eyes. Ardashir’s ugly face wore a revelatory expression.

  “How long … have I been sleeping?”

  “It’s just after sunset now. Beloved One, I would spare you if I could, but there’s
something you must know. The King, curse his blaspheming soul, did not confine his treachery to you. While we were absent, Exile cavalry came upon the rear of the Awakened City. Our people rallied and the Exiles were routed. But many were wounded. And some are dead.”

  “Dead.” Râvar set down the water cup.

  “Forty-three, Beloved One, at last report.”

  Râvar closed his eyes again. He felt out of step, off-balance, as if he had gone to sleep in one skin and woken in another.

  “Beloved One?”

  “Summon a citizen who saw this attack. I want to hear of it firsthand. And then … I’ll visit the wounded.”

  “They will be glad, Beloved One. They are in need of comfort.”

  “Go now. I’ll follow you in a little while.”

  He felt the air move, heard the sound of the tent flap falling. For a moment he was alone with his pain. Then a voice spoke out of the darkness.

  “What have you done?”

  He opened his eyes. Axane crouched on the far side of the tent, a wreathing cloud of sapphire and emerald, cobalt and viridian. Beside her Parvâti lay asleep. Around them both rose the rodlike patterns of the cage of air he had shaped to confine them, invisible to anyone but a Shaper.

  “Râvar.” More urgent this time. “What have you done?”

  “I killed their King.”

  Her mouth came open.

  “Be quiet now. I need to think.”

  He rested his elbows on his drawn-up knees and clasped his hands around his pounding head, feeling in his hair the grit of the fallen hills. In the blackness behind his eyes he could see his pain, a spidering network of red lines.

  I killed their King. It had been instinctive, split seconds of action and reaction. The sun flashing from the vessels they had hurled at him. The heart-stopping sound of shattering. The billowing cloud of manita, whose patterns he had seen once before, in Refuge—a million million deadly particles of it, the only weapon of this world he feared. His defense had held; none of the drug had gotten through, nor had the buzzing flight of arrows that followed. Incandescent rage had seized him then—not just that they would try to murder him, but that he had allowed himself, even momentarily, to be beguiled. He had punched his shaping will into the rock and brought the hillside thundering down. After that, as after Thuxra, all was darkness.