The Awakened City

by Victoria Strauss

  “We are hardly defenseless,” Kudrâcari said. “There are two thousand Tapati ordinates in the Evening City.”

  “We tempt the people’s anger if we abandon Baushpar again so soon,” said Martyas. “A substantial portion of the populace already believes we betrayed our duty by fleeing the Caryaxists. If we flee before this threat also, what faith in our leadership can they ever have?”

  Baushtas rose to his feet. His quiet is more commanding than a shout. All voices stilled. All eyes turned to him.

  “Our Brother Vivaniya is rash in his passion,” he said. “But he is correct in one thing. This debate is misguided. Let us cut through all obscurity. rata has risen. No”— he held up his hand—“don’t dispute me. There are very few among us who do not now at least suspect that this is so. We’ve learned much today, some of it ugly, some of it fearful. But I have heard nothing to shake my certainty that the Next Messenger approaches. If anything, I am more certain now than when I walked into this chamber.”

  “Brother, you are a fool,” Kudrâcari said.

  “Why, Sister?” Baushtas smiled. His calm is like glass. It’s not that it is too deep to be stirred, but that it is too hard. “Because you do not believe? When has your voice ever been the one to guide us? Because he locked our Sister Sundit up in stone? But might he not have foreseen the consequences of that act, which allowed him to bring judgment on a faithless King? Because we have learned that this Messenger is a man and not a god? Is this not precisely why we have never taken a firm doctrinal position on the matter—because we knew that rata would create his Messenger as he willed, and not as we desired? Our father Marduspida was a man—and not a man of virtue, either, but a man in love with wealth and with the pleasures of the flesh, who six times rejected rata’s summoning dream. Because this Messenger has cloaked himself in deception? But might this not be a test, a test of our ability to discern the truth? Because this Messenger comes in anger, in vengeance for his lost people? Do we not deserve rata’s anger—yes, even more than Santaxma deserved it, we who turned from word of the god’s rising? And we did not turn from it only once, Brothers and Sisters. Twice we failed our duty. Twice we betrayed our trust—first when the apostate Gyalo Amdo Samchen gave the Blood of rata into our hands, and a second time when two of us, and therefore all of us, closed their eyes to the light of rata’s resting place and decreed the slaughter of those who guarded it—”

  “Brother!” cried Kudrâcari. Okhsa and Dâdar were on their feet. Baushtas raised his voice.

  “These are the end times. The Next Messenger must come. Those who sow darkness shall reap ash, the Darxasa says. This is the Next Messenger we deserve, risen in righteous anger from the ashes of our sin. It is our duty to receive him, to accept the fate he brings us. We have sworn a Covenant to do so. Brothers and Sisters, rejoice!” His voice rang with a fierce joy. “Our long travail on this earth is done. With us, the world’s transformation will begin. What have we lived for all this long time, if not for that?”

  I never really expected him to believe me. But it still horrifies me, how he took my words and twisted them.

  “I’ll hear no more.” Dâdar’s pockmarked face was dark with anger. “For weeks we have been pummeled with this talk of punishment, of sin—by the Blood, I’ve had enough! We’ve committed no sin. We’ve done no more than we have ever done for twelve long centuries, which is to guide the Way of rata as we see fit. No part of our Covenant says we must sit idle while a madman comes to disbody us all! My vote is for flight.”

  I was astonished. I had thought he would follow Kudrâcari.

  “And mine,” said Hysanet.

  “Well, mine certainly is not,” Kudrâcari snapped.

  Taxmârata held up his hands. “No vote has been called,” he said, “nor will one be called today. No, Kudrâcari—say no more. This is not a matter to be decided in a few hours. We will take time to rest and consider. We will come together again tomorrow at noon.”

  He rose from his golden chair and made the sign of rata. “In rata’s name and in the name of our Covenant, I declare this session ended. Great is rata. Great is his Way.”

  “Go in light,” we replied, in a unison that utterly belied our divided state.

  I returned to my chambers, Reanu at my heels. “How much did you hear?” I asked him before my door.

  “Everything. Old One, I stand ready to support you.”

  I touched his stole-draped arm. “I know you do. And I’m sure you will be called to speak. The others, too.”

  “Don’t send me to my quarters, Old One. I’ve been at your side day and night since this began. I’ve shared the risks and the hardship—ash of the Enemy, I’ve even suffered the companionship of an apostate! For that if nothing else, I have the right to remain.”

  “I won’t send you away, Reanu.”

  A little later, one of Hysanet’s servants brought Utamnos. He came running when he saw me; I caught him up, for an instant forgetting everything but his warm arms around my neck and his sweet child smell. He’s heavier than I remember, and taller, too. But then, it has been six months. Six months!

  I fed him supper and told him stories, finding a brief and welcome respite in such familiar activities. But when I retired to my bedchamber all my cares returned. I spent most of the night by my window, watching moonlight swim across the court. Colder than the frost-crisp air were my thoughts of Râvar. I thought also of Ha-tsun, who was so ill when we left her. I wonder if she still lives. I thought of Gyalo. He lives. In some irreducible part of myself I’m certain of it. How could it be otherwise? that part of me asks.

  I’ll spare myself the drudgery of writing a detailed account of the three days of dispute that followed that initial council. Those who have joined me in my call for flight—Hysa, Dâdar, Magabyras, on the second day, and on the third, with clear reluctance, Martyas—are a minority, and not one that looks likely to change. My guards and Drolma have been called to give testimony; with such a weight of witness Kudrâcari and Ariamnes and Okhsa have been forced to admit that shaping might have been involved at Dracâriya, though they remain adamant that it could not have been wholly responsible and refuse to admit that we should flee. They claim the authority of the historical record. Baushtas has not wavered in his dark belief, and it’s clear that Artavâdhi follows him, though she says little. Haminâser also believes, though sometimes I sense doubt. Vimâta vacillates between belief and fear. And Taxmârata, as always, presides in silence, intervening only when the dispute grows too heated. It’s impossible to read his thoughts.

  As for Vivaniya, he has kept his promise. He is sequestered in his rooms. He is visited there by his supporters, and no one else.

  Each day, Râvar draws closer. Yesterday’s Dreams seem to indicate some sort of armed confrontation on the Great South Way below Ninyâser, but the interpreters are still working on the symbols, and we won’t have a final report until tomorrow.

  This morning, unable to bear the thought of another afternoon of fruitless debate, I went to Taxmârata. He was in his library, kneeling at a writing table. He set down his pen when I came in.

  “Well, Sister.” His gaze was somber. “I’ve been wondering when you would visit me.”

  I sat across from him. There was no brazier, for fear of sparks amid all that paper and parchment, and though the window screens were closed, the air was chilly. A pair of standing lamps provided the only light—and the fire of the Blood, flaring on Taxmârata’s breast.

  “Brother,” I said, “if ever you’ve heeded my counsel, heed it now. Veto these proceedings. Make a ruling, as Haminâser did when he was Blood Bearer and the Caryaxists took Ninyâser. Decree that we must flee.”

  He shook his head. “There is too much disagreement, Sunni. Such a ruling might be disobeyed. I don’t want to set a precedent like that.”

  “There was disagreement over the Caryaxists, too. In the end we all obeyed.
”

  “That was a different situation.”

  “Yes, it was different! The danger then was a shadow of the danger now!”

  Lamplight touched the broad planes of his face, the heavy muscles of his undraped arm. “You supported flight then, too.”

  “As did you.”

  “I was wrong. We should not have fled and lived for eighty years in luxury in Rimpang. We should have cast our lot with the faithful. We should have remained and suffered as they did.”

  I’ve suspected before that his thoughts ran in those channels. But he has never said it aloud, to me at least. I felt a premonitory coldness.

  “Mâra, you’ve said almost nothing these past days. I know it’s your way to listen first and speak later. But tell me, for my own peace of mind—where do you stand?”

  He looked down at his half-finished letter. “We stand before a threat.”

  “So you do see it.”

  He looked up again. “The threat I see is the possibility that we may choose wrongly.”

  “As we will if we remain in Baushpar!”

  He shook his head. “Sunni, we Brethren are like the beads of a necklace. I, the Blood Bearer, am like the lock that clasps it. It’s my task to hold you all, to bear you all, as I bear the Blood of rata.” One big hand moved to caress the golden lattice that contained the stone. “To do that I must stand apart. I must consider every side. I see the force of your certainty. I also see the force of Vivaniya’s faith—”

  “Which is born of the force of his guilt! Did you and I not discuss this, the night before my departure? Have I not explained, these past days, how Râvar manipulated him?”

  “I see also the force of Baushtas’s argument—”

  “What, that we have all sinned and therefore deserve disbodiment at Râvar’s hands?”

  “It is my duty to consider it. As it is my duty to consider the word that you have brought.”

  I leaned forward. I spoke with care. “If we remain in Baushpar, Brother, Râvar will destroy us. He will obliterate us, just as he obliterated Santaxma. The Way of rata will be leaderless, just as Arsace is leaderless. If you think that we have failed in any way, Mâra, imagine what a failure that would be.”

  His hand had closed fully round the lattice, so that the crystal’s fire pulsed below his fist. “Santaxma was a blasphemer.”

  “And so his death was justified? Don’t tell me you believe—”

  “This is what I believe, Sunni. Baushtas is correct. Who among us, even Kudrâcari, can now declare with certainty that rata has not risen? I certainly cannot. These are the end times. Much as we may fear it, the Next Messenger is coming. We turned from the truth once before. I cannot allow that to occur again.”

  I said, shocked: “You don’t believe in him!”

  His hand fell from the necklace, to lie open on the table. “I am … uncertain.”

  “Mâra. Mâra, listen to me.” I felt like weeping. I don’t think I realized until that moment how much I had counted on his support. “He will kill us all.”

  He looked at me, a long slow look. “If we are to end,” he said, “does it matter how?”

  I knew then that I had lost. Perhaps it’s really true that he sees all sides and cannot choose—like Hysanet, I would say, but Hysanet has chosen. But the deeper truth, I think, is that he has surrendered to the doubt he confessed to me that night in my moon garden. He will not act to stop this fruitless debate, or not soon enough. And action is required. For between those who believe in Râvar, and those who do not believe in him but cannot accept the reality of his power, there will never be consensus.

  I got to my feet. “I do not accept that. Do you hear me, Mâra? I don’t accept it.”

  “Great is rata,” he said. There was sadness in his face, but also resolve. “Great is his Way.”

  I left him. I’ve never wept easily, in this body or in any other, but I could not stop my tears. I did want his friendship again, the reconciliation he offered six months ago in my moon garden. I know that now. It’s a small thing, compared to all else, but sad, so sad.

  By the time I reached my apartments, I had composed myself. “Come,” I told Reanu. He rose, silent as a dancer, and followed me to my own library.

  “We are leaving,” I told him. “As soon it can be arranged.”

  He showed no surprise. “Yes, Old One.”

  “I don’t yet know the exact composition of the party. But I am estimating there will be ten of us, with our servants and aides. We will need conveyances, supplies, an escort—you know what’s required. How quickly can you accomplish it?”

  “It will take at least a week, Old One, if I am to do it properly.”

  “Too long. But very well. Also, Baushpar must be warned. I’ll write a proclamation and have it copied, and you will see it’s posted throughout the city. I want it done tonight, in secret. By the time my spirit-siblings learn of it, it will be too late to take back the knowledge. Also, to that end, I wish to make as public a departure as possible. A grand procession. If the people see the Brethren leaving, perhaps they will be more inclined to follow.”

  “Rely on me, Old One.” He bowed and left me.

  I summoned Drolma and dictated the text of the proclamation, instructing her to produce one hundred copies, seal each one with my seal, and convey them to Reanu. “You’ll be coming with me,” I told her; she nodded. I could see she was afraid.

  At the appointed time I went to council, where I claimed the floor as soon as Taxmârata opened the session, and announced my intent before them all. I urged them to accompany me. I begged them at least, if they would not come, to send their spirit-wards. There was, of course, a terrible outcry. I did not stay to argue, but left them in full spate. Hysanet rose and followed me. Martyas came that evening—for him, leaving is only the slightly less terrible of two evil choices, and I sense his deep uncertainty. Magabyras arrived this morning to confirm that he will go; Karuva, however, has refused, and nothing Magabyras can say will change his mind. “He’s only a year from taking his place in council,” Magabyras told me. “I can’t give him orders, for all he is my spirit-ward.” Dâdar sent his aide with a note that he and young Ciryas will join us. And to my very great surprise, Vimâta will be coming also, with his little ward Ivaxri. It is a pathetic group, less than half the twenty-four incarnate Brethren. Could I have argued better? Could there have been a different outcome? If so, I am at a loss to know how I could have effected it. Still, I am tormented by a sense of failure. I should have been able to persuade them all.

  But then, that is probably precisely what Vivaniya thinks.

  I may know the true Messenger. Often, in the debates of the past days, those words have risen to my lips. I haven’t said them—not just because I know none of my spirit-siblings would believe me, but because I don’t know if I believe myself. There was a moment, just a moment in Ninyâser, in which I was almost certain … but it passed with Gyalo’s going, and I cannot now recapture the substance of my certainty, or remember why I was so sure.

  I spent the evening deciding what to pack for Utamnos and myself. I will take my journals, although it means I can take little else. Of the riches of my household, only they cannot be replaced. I went to my memory rooms this afternoon, to supervise the packing: four chambers, shelf after shelf of writings, thousands of pages inscribed in as many hands as I have had bodies. My life, in ink and paper. If my memories are destroyed, the greatest part of me goes down into extinction. Perhaps it’s vain, perhaps it is foolish, but I cannot bear to imagine it.

  I put Utamnos to bed—he knows we are making a trip, and I’ve done my best to present it as an exciting adventure—then went to my bedchamber and wrote down most of this account. I grew restless before I finished, and left my room. My steps led me, inevitably, to the antechamber where Reanu, having set in motion all the tasks I gave him, knelt on a mat facing th
e outer door.

  “Old One,” he said when he saw me, and bowed low. “Great is rata. Great is his Way.”

  “Go in light, Reanu.” I sat on one of the benches that stand against the walls. “It’s chilly. Shall I have a brazier brought?”

  “I’m not cold, Old One. But thank you.”

  We sat in silence. He was in profile to me, his arms folded beneath his stole. Apart from an occasional slow blink, he was motionless. I could not even see him breathe.

  “Do you ever sleep, Reanu?”

  He smiled a little; it is a joke between us. “I sleep, Old One. I just do it with my eyes open.”

  “Sometimes I think you are too perfect to be human.”

  “Oh, I’m human, Old One. In all ways.”

  “I’ve split the council.” The way I’ve come to speak to him is scandalous—many of us are not so frank even with our aides. “In all the history of the Brethren, there has never been a schism like the one I’ve made.”

  He turned his head. The light of the wall-lamps sparked in his dark eyes. “They would not flee, Old One. You had no choice.”

  “I don’t even know if there’s any purpose to it.”

  “Survival is its own purpose, Old One.”

  A warrior’s response. On the other hand, it explains everything—everything we have done since Gyalo came out of the Burning Land. All of it, all of it, has centered on survival.

  Something had come into Reanu’s face. I could see it even behind his tattoos.

  “Old One,” he said quietly. “Is rata risen?”

  We have spoken of this before. But I sensed that he was asking for something different this time—not my thought or my belief, not my truth, but the truth, the true nature of the world. He waited for my answer with complete trust; just so did Utamnos look at me earlier, when he asked if we would be happy in the place where we were going. At least to Reanu I did not have to lie.

  “Yes. rata is risen.”

  He nodded, once. “Then all is well.”