Tathea

by Anne Perry

  Then she moved to Habi’s small, far plainer sarcophagus, unadorned with the gold symbols and insignia of the Isarchs. There was only goodness and hope to remember here, and she allowed herself to weep again until a deep peace settled over her, a warmth that came from within.

  When she left, the tomb was no longer a place of death, simply one of many remembrances, and the least important.

  Before she could begin to teach the Book to anyone in Shinabar she must restore peace and make her authority sure. Camassian soldiers should not patrol the streets longer than necessary for her immediate safety. Every passing day she was here by their military strength and not by her own right or power, she was undermining the future.

  It was Ra-Nufis who pointed this out to her most forcefully. They were in the blue lily courtyard again. It was mid-afternoon, and the winter sun was already low at this hour, hazy and gold in the air, glittering on the water falling over the wall.

  “Majesty, you should not hesitate longer.” He was speaking increasingly bluntly to her as urgency and the volume of matters he brought to her mounted. There was no time for the prevarications of courtly language.

  “Hesitate?” she asked.

  “You must take the throne,” he answered frankly. “Only the mantle of Isarch will give you the strength to bring peace to Shinabar and set the foundations upon which we can teach the Book to the people and begin the rebirth.”

  Isarch? She had thought of it, of course she had, but to hear it in words from another’s lips was still momentous, a leap of power she had only played with at the edge of her mind. From a Camassian it might have been rooted in a failure to understand Shinabar’s ancient law of heritage and the weight of prejudice it embodied. But from Ra-Nufis it was different; he knew the law as well as she did.

  “Isarch.” She tasted the word without meeting his eyes, a flutter of nervousness inside her, amazement at her own temerity, and then a surge of excitement like a shiver of music.

  “Of course,” Ra-Nufis replied steadily. “It has to be.”

  “There has never been a woman Isarch in all our history.” She kept it at bay a few moments longer, but she was already past the point of refusing.

  “There is no man left.” He smiled very slightly, a flash of humor in his eyes as well as on his lips. “And the Isarch must be seen to love the Book above all things, to know and understand it, to be the leader of the people in keeping its commandments.”

  She said nothing. The magnitude of the thought was already settling in her mind. It was true. The Book was the reason for it all, and whatever served the ends of teaching it must be right.

  “Isarch!” The High Priest Tugomir stared at her with a mixture of derision and incredulity. He was dressed in the magnificent robes of his office, a floor-length tabard of turquoise embroidered with gold, overskirts of white silk and gold muslin. He was a small, lean man with narrow shoulders who walked ungracefully. His long face with its square-cut beard was fierce, and he had a crooked mouth and dark, brilliant eyes.

  “Yes.” Tathea had made her decision and no one was now going to dissuade her. She had asked to see the High Priest in order to inform him, not to persuade him.

  “There has never been a woman Isarch!” he protested.

  “Then I shall be the first,” she replied smoothly. “There are going to be a lot of new beginnings.”

  His expression hardened, his body was rigid with barely suppressed anger. He was the religious leader of the nation. He was passionate, ascetic, a man full of burning conviction and the courage to fight anyone who blasphemed his faith. There was no self-doubt in him and, unfortunately, little humor.

  “We have a great deal to learn,” she continued briskly. “Much that we have allowed ourselves to believe recently must be done away with and truth put in its place.”

  “From this ... creation of yours?” he asked with ill-concealed sarcasm. “This ... Book?” He said the word with scalding disdain.

  “It is not a creation of mine or anyone else’s,” she said sharply. “It is the Word of God. I brought it here, I did not write it.”

  “From where?” he asked. His voice was grating, ugly, and yet commanding. It remained in the memory—like his face. She did not know him—he had been appointed since the coup—and yet there was something about him that was familiar, an echo in the mind.

  “From the Lost Lands,” she answered. “From a region of the spirit, and life before this, where we all chose our paths ...” She stopped, startled at what she had said. It had come from some depth of her mind below conscious level, as if seeing Tugomir had recalled it. “Just as there is resurrection after death,” she went on more slowly, “so there was a life in the spirit before birth, but we have forgotten it.”

  “All except you, it would seem!” he said trenchantly.

  “I have forgotten it too. I simply know it exists.”

  “It makes no sense.” He was looking at her now with contempt. “If we have forgotten it, what was its purpose? If we learned anything, it is all gone. Your god is a fool!”

  “It is not wasted,” she said with calm certainty. “Then we could see the choice, and the good evil was clearer, and the worth of the prize was understood.”

  “So why forget?” he demanded, his mouth twisted. “Now we have nothing. Why should we obey this god of yours if we have forgotten the reason?”

  Again the answer was swift to her lips. “There is no worth in virtue practiced for reward. In the end it is not what you do but what you are.”

  “Sophistry!” he spat. “What is a man except the accumulation of what he has done?”

  “What he feels, what he wishes,” she said. “Your soul must become as God’s, not for fear or reward, or even obedience, but because you have understood, and above all because you love.”

  His eyes widened. His voice sank to a whisper, shivering with rage. “You think to become as God is? That is blasphemy! That is the supreme arrogance—and absurdity.”

  She did not waver. “I don’t want it just for me, I want it for everyone.”

  The blood was dark in his face. “Then it is hardly an exclusive prize! All gods? You and the court jester, the cook, the vagabond, and the thief? You are depraved. I will have no part in it, and I shall fight you every step of the way.” His narrow chest swelled. “As long as I have breath in my body, you will not lead the people down into the darkness of your insanity.”

  “I will not lead anyone,” she rejoined. “I shall tell them the truth, and those who will may accept it. It is here for everyone, every man and woman who ever lived, or will live. How many will climb to the height of heaven I don’t know. Perhaps only a few. The reward will be the light or the darkness in their souls when they face God and see themselves as they are.”

  “And hell?” he asked gratingly. “The fires of damnation for the wicked?”

  “Would not the knowledge of chances lost burn inside you forever? To know what you could have been and were not! Is that not hell enough?”

  “If it were true, yes.” His face was pinched tight, his eyes blazing. “But it is lies. You deny all the old virtues, the things our forefathers have believed from the beginning and which made us great.” There was a panic of horror in him. “You promise magic, forgiveness for sin, power no man has the right or virtue to hold. Your ideas are born of arrogance, and in the end you will reap the dust.” He slashed his hand in the air furiously. “I care not if you eat ashes to eternity, but I weep for the innocent you will take with you!”

  “I can’t make you see the vision of what is in the Book,” she said quietly. “I wish I could, although perhaps I shouldn’t.”

  He looked startled.

  She laughed. “No one can make you believe. Even God can’t do that for you, only grieve for you if you choose the dark.”

  He turned on his heel and strode out. Only the High Priest would have dared leave her in such a way. Tugomir feared nothing except evil of the soul. She had heard it said of him. Now she
believed it.

  Tathea was crowned Isarch of Shinabar with all the ancient power and splendor of a hundred generations of kings before her. She walked alone, wearing the blue and white robes and the golden helmet, carrying the sword and the staff of the first Isarch, now crusted with gold and gems, but still symbols of the warrior who protects and the shepherd who leads. Behind her, courtiers carried the shield set with red jasper, symbolizing blood shed for sacrifice, her life for her people’s. Then they brought the cup containing water, the source of life for all things: man, bird, beast, and plant, all things that fly or crawl or grow, the unity of all the earth.

  She proclaimed her sacred oath of office in a steady, clear voice. She promised to guide and defend her people, to place their well-being before all else. She could not speak the names of her Shinabari ancestors as if they were deities, nor allow it to be believed of her that she did. She had covenanted with the God of time and eternity to serve Him and none else.

  She gave her word simply, without embellishment of any kind.

  The trumpets shrilled out a single, high note, splitting the air. The copper cymbals clashed in a shimmering collision all down the solemn rows of priests and courtiers, a hundred men long, fifty men deep. Everyone bowed their heads, except Tathea. The copper crown with its single carved jewel must never be lowered.

  Five thousand throats hailed her as Isarch. The noise swirled around her like a roaring sea, a blue and white sea of linen and lapis and purple dye, dark faces ... her own people.

  She had stood behind Mon-Allat when he was crowned, a few yards from where she stood now. It had been overwhelming then, giddy, stupendous. Today she was Isarch, supreme ruler of a fading nation, a people stumbling into the dark, and she held the only light. She must hold it high. Nothing must bar her way from sharing it. It was the trust for which she had been born.

  As the weeks became months and winter passed into spring, a kind of peace settled over Shinabar. Alexius commanded the army over the entire country. Ra-Nufis’s network of allies and informants were a strong foundation. Many courtiers returned from the places to which they had fled at Mon-Allat’s murder, seven years earlier. They were keen to claim old loyalties, and Tathea knew the wisdom of forgetting as well as of remembering. Sufficient justice had been done in Tiyo-Mah’s punishment of the assassins, and Hem-Shash could not come back. Word came occasionally of Hem-Shash’s exile and then, in the summer, of his death. Such resistance as existed was sporadic, disorganized, and met with little support. There was no heart for war and greater loss.

  The only voice raised against Tathea was from the High Priest Tugomir, and that was directed at the blasphemous teachings of the new religion, not the Isarch in person.

  She rewarded Ra-Nufis as he merited and she needed, by making him her first minister. His knowledge far exceeded her own, and his love of the Book made him trustworthy as no other Shinabari could be.

  A new peace treaty was signed with Camassia. Eight Camassian legions were to remain in Shinabari, the rest of the army would withdraw. A new commander, Beel-Habak, was appointed to lead and reinspire the Shinabari army. He was from the southern outposts, a desert man, as Tathea’s father had been. He had fought the barbarian, and he knew battle and hardship; his courage was tested. He understood the reality of the danger which ever threatened the idle and the unwatchful. Tathea had no need to warn him of the price of internal disunity.

  It was time for her to turn her mind to teaching the words of the Book to her own people. Politically and militarily, it was also time for Alexius to return to the City in the Center of the World. Tathea had toyed with the idea of asking him to remain in Shinabar, but it was only a dream, a desire she lingered over in the hours of the night when she lay awake and stared at the bright square of moonlight in the window.

  She must teach the Book. She could not keep Alexius here. His task was completed. If she indulged in loneliness or wishes, imagination of what might have been or could be, she had but to place her hand on the warm gold of the Book, not even to open its pages, and she knew the price would be terrible and eternal. She looked in the glass and saw not her own face but Eleni’s.

  She received Alexius in the blue court of the lilies. She wanted it to be there. Then she could remember him every time she was here alone. It was ten days since she had seen him last, and that had been in Beel-Habak’s company as he reported on the latest military situation.

  As always he wore a Camassian uniform and his old leather armor. He kept his red cloak, even in the heat, but no helmet. The servant withdrew and left them alone.

  He stood just inside the entrance, respectfully. He was the general of a vast army but she was Empress of Shinabar. Could she force herself to preserve that barrier between them? To her they would always be a man and a woman; everything else was superficial, temporary. Eternity would wash away such differences.

  “Thank you for coming,” she began. How could she express herself so that he understood all she meant without saying the words which should never be spoken between them?

  He said nothing, standing to attention and looking at her.

  “You have done all that was needful,” she said quietly. Her voice was a little husky, as though her mouth were dry. It was terribly difficult to look at him, and worse to look away. “And you have done it with courage and honor, as I knew you would. Neither my people nor I can repay you, except by using well the gift you have given us. I shall never cease from striving to teach the Book to every man and woman who will listen.”

  “It was my privilege to serve, Majesty,” he replied. “The cause is mine as well as yours.” His words were stiff and formal, a general answering a queen. His eyes were tender, wrought with pain, and his lips were touched with grief.

  There were no tears in her eyes, no tightness in her throat. She would weep later. She would have years in which to weep.

  “You return to your own country with honor and with our gratitude. We shall not forget.” She swallowed. “I shall not forget ...” she added. “Not anything.”

  He stood silently, spinning out the moment. His next words would be their last, and they both knew it. There would be nothing more to add. She looked at him intently. She could never forget his eyes, the light on the slant of his cheeks, the curve of his nose, his lips. She would see his brow, the way his hair grew, every time she closed her eyes, years from now.

  He was staring at her with the same fierce intensity, making this moment live forever.

  “Nor I,” he said at last. Then he bowed and turned and walked out, not looking back, and the door closed behind him.

  Chapter XV

  TATHEA THREW HERSELF INTO teaching the Book with all her strength, but nothing could dull the sharp stab of knowing that Alexius had gone back to Camassia and a life she knew so well. She could picture him at any time of the day, knowing what he would be doing, knowing the places, the people, hearing their voices in her mind. Even when he returned to the barbarian frontiers, she could now be with him in spirit better than Eleni or Xanthica could, better than anyone who had not fought, marched, and kept the still watches of the night or wept for the slain as the carrion birds wheeled.

  And yet she missed Eleni also. There was no one in Shinabar to whom she could turn for that same warm, generous friendship, with whom to laugh and share beautiful things, as they had in the past, to speak openly of her feelings, to joke about the trivial or ridiculous.

  She was surrounded by serving women, courtiers, the wives of nobles, but she was Isarch, and there was always a gulf between them. She would see them together, at ease with one another, and then when they noticed her their behavior changed. They were respectful; they muted their voices. They waited for her to speak first. They laughed at her jokes, but politely. She never knew if they were genuinely amused or not. In fact, she never knew if they were sincere about anything. Everyone said what they thought she wished to hear. It was like living in a hall of mirrors, each distorting a fraction, according to its own
perspective.

  Only Ra-Nufis was honest, but he spent almost every waking hour working to spread the teachings of the Book. A hall full of scribes copied the original, and each copy was read by four people to make certain it was exact, letter for letter. It began in Thoth-Moara, but two by two those who believed the Book were sent out to begin teaching others, a body of adventurers of the heart and pilgrims of the spirit. Every inquiry, whether made with good will or ill, was met with an answer. The labor was immense.

  Tathea had much else to demand her attention. She was Isarch. She must meet foreign emissaries and ambassadors. She must consult with ministers and stewards about every aspect of the nation’s well-being. To sow the seeds of the rebirth of a new morality was an all-consuming labor. There was little sign that the ground was fertile and no way of knowing whether the seeds would grow, let alone yield a harvest.

  Tathea kept the day of remembrance for her mother, as she always did, and for Habi. The summer passed. She found the heat difficult to bear—she had grown unused to it in Camassia. And all the time the voice of the High Priest Tugomir praised honesty and diligence and cursed the Book and all who touched it.

  Tathea thought often of the City in the Center of the World. She stood in the courts and gardens of Thoth-Moara in the blistering late-summer sun and thought of rain with a sense of longing, as for some remembered dream.

  She also thought of Barsymet and Tissarel, and as she did so her mind turned to Mon-Allat and Arimaspis. She had made no inquiry about what had happened to her husband’s mistress, not even whether she had survived the assassinations. Now suddenly it was important to her.

  It took three days to find her. She was living in a small house in the old quarter of the city, and Tathea chose to go to her rather than send for her to come to the palace. Such a move might be unwise for many reasons. Arimaspis might fear vengeance and disappear, and it would seem to others that she was the victim of a jealous woman who harbored betrayals long and fatally.