by Pearl North
“What kinds of strange thoughts?”
Clauda studied her plate. She looked about the room. She seemed to be searching for some way out of admitting whatever it was to Haly. This made Haly more determined than ever to wrest the truth from her.
“You’re keeping me waiting.”
“Forgive me, Holy One. Sometimes, when I fly the wing, I think that things were very different, not long ago. You and I … we were friends, not master and servant. And … Ilysies … Empress Thela … we did not look upon her as the wise benefactor that she is.” Clauda laughed, but it sounded forced. “It must be the altitude, that makes such ridiculous notions seem real.”
A little shiver crept up Haly’s spine. She stood and closed the shutter on the window to block the draft. “Obviously. Don’t trouble yourself over such things. Put them firmly from your mind and focus on doing your duty.”
As they stepped out of Haly’s chamber, they encountered a Nod huddling against the wall on the other side of the hallway. It was the first one Haly had seen in days, and it looked ill. Its skin, normally a robust red, was pink, with alarming patches of gray here and there. It trembled, as if from weakness or fever. “What does she say?” it croaked.
Concerned, Haly got to her knees and examined the creature more closely. Its eyes were rheumy, the whites yellow. “What’s wrong, Nod?”
“The more it writes, the weaker we become.”
“The more what writes, Nod?” Haly was confused. “I thought you wanted more people to write.”
“Not with that pen.”
Haly glanced up at Clauda, who shook her head. “I don’t understand, Nod. What can we do to help?”
“Give Nod the pen.”
“What pen?”
“The pen of the Makers.”
Haly sat back on her heels.
“Do you know what he’s talking about?” asked Clauda.
“No. Do you?”
“Makers means the Ancients, right?”
Haly nodded. “I think so.”
“Have you ever heard of a pen the Ancients used? Maybe one with special properties?”
“No,” said Haly. She picked the Nod up. “Why don’t you come with us today, Nod. Maybe Empress Thela can help.”
The creature shrieked. “She’s the one doing this! She’ll destroy us!” The Nod struggled feebly in Haly’s grip.
“I’m sure you’re mistaken, Nod,” said Haly. “Empress Thela is wise and good. She would never hurt you.”
“No! She takes Nod’s job away!”
Haly sighed. “Come on. You’ll see.” She tucked the Nod in the crook of her arm and turned to Clauda. “Let’s go.”
* * *
Po peered through the curtain of the litter that bore him along the parade route. Directly ahead of him was the platform where Empress Thela sat in state, accepting the accolades of the crowds that surrounded them. They were still in the city of Ilysies but many people from the countryside had come into town in the past day or so to see the spectacle from its outset. They would follow along as the procession left the city, wound up through the mountains, and then continued out onto the plain.
Thela sat on a throne even grander than the Lit King’s had been. Jolaz sat at Thela’s right hand, soberly nodding, and on the whole, looking rather embarrassed by all the fuss. Po had only met her briefly. He had gotten the impression she was not at all pleased with recent events.
Selene sat at Thela’s left side, and her gaze was for her mother alone. It gave Po a very funny feeling, the way the princess doted on her mother. It wasn’t right. Though, of course, Thela was worthy of admiration from one and all, the blind love in Selene’s face when she greeted her mother didn’t fit with the former Libyrarian’s personality. For that matter, it was unlike her to relinquish her post as a Libyrarian and agree to serve her mother’s interests in the Corvariate Citadel.
Po searched the crowds, hoping against hope for some glimpse of Ayma, Haly, Clauda, or even, Mother help him, Siblea. But of course it was a pointless pursuit. The chances that he would spot them, even if they were still alive, were miniscule. He chided himself for even entertaining the idea that any of them still lived, except that he could not rule out the possibility that Thela might have lied in order to destroy his hope and make him more biddable.
Only it had not had the effect she might have hoped for. Despite everything, he found himself often imagining a life with Hilloa that was entirely unlike anything he’d ever known. That time that they’d spent together in the citadel, terrifying as it had been, had also been unique. Once they had gotten past their expectations of each other they had been as equals, neither asking of the other anything they themselves were not ready to give. He was glad he’d had a chance to experience that.
The first stop on the procession was traditionally the Barley King’s hometown, and they did not deviate from that custom. After a long day traveling up into the foothills of the Lian Mountains, they reached his village at dusk.
The gentle rays of the setting sun cast the little town in golden tones of nostalgia. There was the big olive tree in the center square, with the spring beside it marked out with white stones. The small houses scattered about the hillside were made of the same stone, which glowed amber in the sunset.
It seemed like the whole town came out to meet them, led by Po’s mother, his aunt Minerva, and Magistrate Malinas. It was strange to see them again. They looked so much older, and smaller.
The procession came to a halt beneath the spreading branches of the big olive tree and Empress Thela descended from her litter. Po’s mother dipped a cup of water from the spring and offered it to Thela. “These waters feed the Ilysi River; may they nourish you as well, my queen.”
“As one mother to another, I gratefully accept your gift, and am renewed by it, as the land will accept and be renewed by the gift of the fruit of your womb. Today you are a mother, tomorrow you will be the mother of all Ilysies.”
Thela drank, and the whole town erupted in cheering.
Wine was brought forth and lanterns were hung in the trees. Drums began to play. Po was escorted down from his litter by his mother and his aunt. “I’m so proud of you!” said Minerva, beaming.
His mother grabbed him and hugged him hard. She pulled his head down to her shoulder. Po felt like he was a little boy again. All around them people were celebrating, but she held him so tight he could barely breathe. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered in his ear. “I never would have sent you to the palace if I’d known this would happen.” He heard her stifle a sob.
“The queen is waiting for us to drink with her, Philomena, and all the village women will want to dance with Po tonight,” said Minerva. “Come.”
Po’s mother crushed him to her once more and then released him, standing back, forcing a smile through her tears. “Wait!” Po grabbed for her hand, but Minerva drew her away with a firm arm around her shoulders and a determined smile. Meanwhile, more women were gathering around Po.
“Will the Barley King honor me with the first dance?” asked Magistrate Malinas.
Po had never been the center of so much attention in his life. Women of all ages, shapes, and sizes waited for their chance to dance with him. They plied him with cups of wine and morsels of food. He quickly got drunk, which made it easier to forget that he was going to die the next day, and that made it easier to enjoy the party.
He didn’t see his mother again that day.
* * *
Po awoke in his litter, his head pounding. The procession was already leaving town and the lurching of his platform made his stomach roil. He thrust open the curtain and leaned over the edge of the platform and was sick.
The morning sun was harsh in his eyes, sharpening his headache to a piercing agony. The sun that had been so gentle the evening before now cast the village in a harsh light. Blinking, Po took in the cast-off cups stained with wine, the scattered bones of roast fowl, and greasy papers that had held fried dough sticks.
Most of the village fol
lowed them. Po pulled his head back inside. He thought of looking out the back to see if he could spot his mother, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to. There was nothing she could do for him. Seeing her would just make more pain for both of them.
In another hour or two, they would be at the place where the ceremony would occur. Soon he would walk to the chopping block and face the Destroyer. He did not want to. He thought of all the times he had offered up his life, in mortification, in guilt and fear and desperation. He’d had no idea what he was really talking about. He did not want to die. He missed his life already. His village, his mother and his aunt and his cousins. His life at the palace and at the Libyrinth. Adept Ykobos, Myr, Haly, Burke, Ock, Zam. He wanted all of it back. He did not want this honor. He wanted the chance to find out who he might become, if he could ever put to use the lesson of the Redemption.
As if in response to his thoughts, the sky turned black and the ground glowed white. People screamed. Po felt a tearing sensation, not so much inside as all around and through him. Did the others feel that as well? In the next breath, everything was back to normal again. He looked up ahead, and saw Thela writing in Endymion’s journal with the pen. What was she doing now?
Po had the now-familiar sensation of something slipping from his consciousness. It was a fine, clear day, and had been since morning.
The Plain of Ayor was not flat like the Great Plains on Old Earth’s North America. It undulated. The procession wound up and down low, gently sloping hills and valleys. It was a perfect day.
* * *
It was early afternoon by the time they reached the place where the ceremony would take place. It was a large, shallow depression similar to the one in which the Libyrinth was situated. It was almost perfectly round, and in its center was a flat slab of rock. Po could not seem to take his eyes off of that rock. He imagined his blood spilling over it.
He remembered what he’d written with the pen that night before Plata challenged Thela: “Queen Thela will know Redemption,” and “The story Kip told Po in the vegetable garden at Minerva’s house in the town of Nikos is true.”
Kip’s tale. An old goat’s beard about how men’s tears and blood make plants grow. Would there be a lush jungle here, this evening?
Wind fluttered the canopy of Po’s litter and on the other side of the valley, the wing came to rest. Po’s heart pounded harder as he saw Haly and Clauda disembark, along with Siblea and several others.
Empress Thela’s procession came to a halt and attendants scurried about, setting up a long table and laying out a feast. Selene came to Po’s litter and waited while he disembarked. She looked at him as if she were lost. He thought perhaps he looked the same way. Neither of them said a word as Thela summoned them to meet the delegation from the Libyrinth.
Haly smiled and embraced him. Po closed his eyes, breathing in her smell and remembering the day she had confided in him that she was not sure the community would make it. “Oh, Po, we’re all so proud of you,” she said.
At her words, Po’s last hope died. She embraced the ritual. She had hated it before. He remembered how angry she’d been when he’d suggested it all those weeks ago, after Thela had tricked him and set fire to the Libyrinth’s crop. But now, everything was different. Everyone was different.
Clauda, too, embraced him. She said little. Like Selene, she seemed to be perpetually slightly confused, as if she sensed something was wrong but could not put a name to it. Haly had with her a Nod, a poor, sickly one. As Thela approached them it screeched and launched itself at her. “She must give it back!”
Thela backed up and one of her guards stepped in front of her. The guard seized the Nod by the neck.
“Stop!” said Haly. “I apologize, Empress.” She bowed low. “But please, restrain your woman from harming the Nod. It is sacred to us.”
Thela’s eyes narrowed as she stared at the creature struggling in the guard’s grip. “Odd custom.”
Po had a feeling a note would be made, and soon, regarding the Nods, or the lack thereof.
Thela nodded, and Clauda retrieved the Nod from the guard. “I will put it where it cannot disturb us,” she said.
They all sat down, Po in the place of honor between Haly and Thela. Across from them sat his mother, his aunt, and Magistrate Malinas. After one lone, doleful stare, Po and his mother didn’t look at each other again. He could not eat, could not concentrate on the conversation around him. Down in the valley, near the flat rock which would be the last thing he’d see, the musicians were setting up. Already he felt the pulse of the drums in his bloodstream, marking out the remaining beats of his heart. His mouth was dry. He wanted to get up and run. But he couldn’t do that.
He looked up and down the table. Everyone was eating and talking and laughing. How could they do that? How could they carry on as if everything was fine when his life was about to end? He wanted to cry out, to beg for help. But he couldn’t do that, either.
The sky went black. Everything that was light colored went dark. Everything that was dark colored went light. It was as if the whole world became its opposite. It didn’t go away immediately this time. In the space between two wagons on the far side of the valley, Po saw four figures in robes.
“What is this?” said Haly, and she turned to Thela. “What have you done?”
Clauda stood and hastened in the direction of the wing. “She’s doing it all, somehow. Making us think these things.”
Haly was on her feet and confronting Queen Thela. “What have you done?”
The world snapped back to its regular appearance. For a moment everyone stared about in silence. Clauda, already several paces away, stood very still. Haly looked at Thela and then at Po as if wondering how and why she was standing there, leaning toward the empress in this confrontational way. Then she straightened and took her seat. Clauda returned to the table. Everyone resumed eating again. Po looked back to where he’d seen the robed figures, but they were gone.
From nearby, Po heard thumping and muffled shrieks. A crate that had been used to store dishes was shaking. Clauda kept glancing that way, though everyone else ignored it. Po caught Clauda’s eye. She mouthed one word: Nod.
The meal ended. As servants began clearing away the dishes, Po wished he had the pen so he could bring time to a stop.
Jolaz and Selene led him to a tent where he was dressed in the ceremonial tunic and anointed with verbena oil. The crown of barley was placed upon his head. Each of the women embraced him. He clung to Selene. “I don’t want this,” he whispered.
“Shh,” she said. “My mother is wise. Your sacrifice will make the land fertile.”
“It already is fertile.”
“Po, it must be done.”
“You didn’t used to be like this. You hated this.”
“Now, now. That’s enough, Po. You’re imagining things.”
Jolaz took Po’s hand, very gently, and drew it away from Selene. She could squeeze it if she wished. Po took a deep breath against the tears that threatened to spill from his eyes and he let himself be drawn away. Still he stared at Selene, willing her to remember.
Selene held open the tent flap and Po stepped through. People lined up on either side of the opening, creating a human corridor down which he must walk. The drums beat. He took the first step. The observers threw rose petals upon him and in his path. Po tasted bile at the back of his throat, a sharp contrast to the sweet smell of the blossoms.
He had wanted this, many times, and now he had it. There was no escape. The best he could hope for was that what he had written with the pen would come to pass. Po exhaled and took the next step.
It was both ages and an instant, that he walked the corridor of celebrants amid blossoms. It wound around the rim of the valley and spiraled down. The drums were an echo of the blood pounding in his ears. At every turn of the corridor, he expected to see her: the Destroyer, with her scythe.
The faces of the people glowed. They beamed at him, grateful for his gift. He was barefoot. T
he drums were like the heartbeat of the world; he felt it as a living thing beneath his feet, and as he walked to his death, he breathed with it.
Kinesthetic trance came over him as smoothly and effortlessly as a wave of water. One step, and he was Po, walking between rows of people, and when his next step landed, he was with the whole world.
This world was broken and had been broken many times before. His shattered hands ached with the pain of it. Each time the pen was used, another bone was broken. Human bones mended in time, and so did these, though neither would ever be the same shape again. But he was just a person. The world had to hold up all of them, and since the pen had been discovered, it had been wielded far too many times. The forces that gave their world structure were crumbling.
Po dropped to his knees. “I will crawl the rest of the way,” he announced. He had heard of Barley Kings doing such things and it being remarked upon as a sign of special devotion. He strongly suspected it was just a delaying tactic. In his case, it was going to be painful. He breathed deeply and stayed with the pain of the world. When he went down on his elbows and wrists, it still hurt like hell. But now he could use his hands. He pressed them against the ground, heedless of the pain, the tears and sweat that rolled from him in beads. He closed his eyes, forced himself to keep crawling, keep breathing.
He expected that if a visualization came, it would be something organic, a tree or a flower or a forest. Those were the forms his mind usually used to represent the energies he experienced in kinesthetic trance. But this time, what came was a memory.
He was in the Great Hall at the Libyrinth, that day after lunch when he’d argued with Siblea for the first time. Hilloa was showing them all her sticks-and-bag model of the universe. “The sticks can be anything,” she said, and her words floated in the air between them, letters made out of tiny sticks. Po crawled along the winding length of one of those sticks and it, too, was made of letters, winding and twining around one another.
Now he was back on the ground, on his way to the sacrificial altar. The people on either side of him were dense collections of words, each a story unto itself, as was every grain of soil beneath him.