by Anne Perry
Also Tathea wanted to keep their meeting unknown to those in the palace, and certainly to the public. She had to be very careful of her reputation, not only as the first woman in four thousand years of history to dare ascend the throne, but as the bearer of the Book. Any personal sin, however small or understandable, would stain her.
She dressed in a plain brown tabard and white trousers and took a single guard, Yattu-Shia, whom she had learned to trust. They traveled into the old quarter of the city to the narrow, rose-red stone building where Arimaspis now lived. Tathea climbed the stairs, and Yattu-Shia knocked with his sword hilt on the weathered door.
It was answered by a woman in a plain sea-blue tabard and trousers which were faded to gentle tones and clung to her body. The very simplicity of her clothes was beautiful. Her hair was russet fair, unlike any Shinabari, and her eyes were blue. She was lovelier than Tathea had ever been, and it was not a face without strength or character. The hardships of the years since her fall from favor had marked her features softly. Even searching, Tathea could see no bitterness reflected in her.
Arimaspis might have recognized Tathea had they met in the palace. They had seen each other in Mon-Allat’s time, even if seldom and by accident. But the last thing she expected was the Isarch on her doorstep here in this shabby area, as simply dressed as she was herself, and accompanied by only one man.
“Yes?” she said curiously. “Are you looking for someone? The jeweler lives below and the spice merchant opposite.”
“Arimaspis?”
“Yes?” Her face paled and she took a step backward. Tathea’s voice was distinctive; it had a timbre unlike anyone else’s. The sound of it had awoken memory. Arimaspis swallowed, fear in her eyes. “Majesty?”
“May I come in?”
Refusal was impossible. Arimaspis, white-lipped, led her inside. The place was cramped and sparsely decorated, but there was a simplicity to it which was restful, and the bleached cotton rugs were beautiful, their colors the washed tones of sand and sky. There was a single scroll on the wall, a painting of marsh birds at dawn. A water lily bloomed in a green earthen bowl. The noise of the street outside was calmed by the steady drip of water into the bowl. It would be hard work and heavy carrying the pails of water to refill the cistern, but obviously it mattered to Arimaspis. Tathea knew instantly she would have done the same.
Yattu-Shia, ever tactful, waited outside the door.
Arimaspis said nothing. One did not speak before the Isarch.
This was not how Tathea would have wished it. She would rather they had met as equals, but in Shinabar she had no equal. It was one of the prices of power.
“I am glad you were not killed,” she began, coming further in but not sitting.
A flicker of pain crossed Arimaspis’s face. Tathea had wondered if she had loved Mon-Allat. Could she have seen in him what Tissarel had seen in Isadorus? Had she brought out in him a better man than she herself had? After all, Barsymet had shriveled all that was best in Isadorus.
Tathea needed to be rid of the ghosts of doubt that haunted her, but she could hardly ask if they had loved one another.
“I have no wine,” Arimaspis said tentatively. “But I have good water and honey cakes.”
Tathea accepted and sat down on one of the wide, low seats.
Arimaspis disappeared and returned a few minutes later with the water in a blue jug and the cakes on a dish.
It was an absurd situation. Tathea must break it. Arimaspis could not. All the things she had planned to say were cast aside. There was a dignity in this woman which made old rivalries or resentments a pettiness she did not want. She began obliquely.
“Much has changed in Shinabar in the last seven years. I thought at first it was sudden, but now on deeper consideration I think perhaps it was happening for a long time. I simply did not see it.
Arimaspis understood her. “I used to live by the sea,” she responded. “The waves gather far out in the ocean, but they only break when they reach the shore. It seems sudden, but that is an illusion.” She was watching Tathea as she spoke.
Tathea chose her next words very carefully. “I lived in the court of Camassia for several years, most of the time I was away. I came to know Emperor Isadorus quite well.”
Arimaspis was silent.
“Have you heard of the Book? I taught him many of its precepts. He learned quickly and believed. He was a man of great strength and integrity.” She looked at Arimaspis, searching her eyes for emotion, understanding, and was not certain what she saw—passion, intelligence ... “To accept it cost him very dearly,” she continued, “because he had a mistress he loved. I don’t think he realized how much until after he had told her to leave him so that he might live according to the laws of purity of both heart and body.”
The color burned slowly up Arimaspis’s cheeks, but she did not look away.
“She understood,” Tathea went on. “I think she was a more generous woman than his wife. She certainly loved him more truly.”
“Did his wife not love him?” Arimaspis asked, her voice hesitant. She knew what she was asking.
Tathea was momentarily confounded. Should she answer for Barsymet or for herself? For herself. That was what mattered. Arimaspis knew nothing of Camassia; it was irrelevant.
“After a manner,” she said softly. “She was loyal to him. But she did not laugh with him or share his dreams.”
“Perhaps he did not bring out the best in her,” Arimaspis answered equally carefully. Her fingers were knotted together in her lap, knuckles white. “He may not have seen in her the courage or passion she possessed. He may even have been a little afraid of her. After all, she was almost his equal in rank, whereas a mistress could never challenge him. She would always know her place. That was in a way more comfortable ...”
“He was ... more ... at ease with her?” Tathea was fumbling towards light, and it was painful.
Arimaspis smiled. “No, not as you are saying. I mean perhaps his wife had a vision he had not, even a strength he guessed at but did not understand. One can be afraid of having to stretch, to meet the expectations of someone who will not lower their beliefs.”
“Do you think that was the case?” Tathea was surprised. Was this woman really prepared to tell her such a thing? She hurried on before Arimaspis could answer her. “Or was it simply that his mistress was kinder?”
“She could hardly afford to be anything else,” Arimaspis pointed out. Then she bit her lip. “But I dare say she did love him, even if she could sometimes see his flaws.”
“Then she was a good woman,” Tathea answered gravely. “I hope things go well with her, even though she is no longer at court.”
Arimaspis looked down at the wheaten honey cakes on the table. “Did the mistress accept the teaching of the Book also?”
“Yes.”
“And it did not matter that she was—had been—a courtesan?”
“Not at all. She was more honest than the Empress.”
“What?” Arimaspis was startled, her blue eyes wide with disbelief.
“Than Empress Barsymet,” Tathea said quietly.
“Oh ... of course.”
“Would you like to study the Book?” It was an impulsive question, and the last thing Tathea had intended to do when she came.
“Yes,” Arimaspis said in a low, clear voice. “I would.”
“Then Yattu-Shia will bring you a copy,” Tathea promised, wondering what she had done and yet knowing it was right.
Half an hour later, with a lighter step and a sweetness inside her, she found herself smiling as she walked through the narrow streets and out into the burning sun of the wide and spacious squares.
But Arimaspis was one of the very few to desire the Book. As the summer passed into autumn and the dark blue skies and desert winds of winter approached, Tathea began to realize how deep was the malaise in Shinabar. Again and again Ra-Nufis returned with stories of excuses why the leaders of other cities would not teach the Book or
espouse its precepts themselves.
“It’s everywhere!” he said exasperatedly, pacing back and forth in the blue lily courtyard, his fists clenched at his sides. He was wearing a long, pale desert cloak and riding boots scuffed at the heels and abraded by sand. “One governor told me he could not teach mastery of the appetites because at least half his lieutenants had mistresses, or might have in the future. He would lose their loyalty. Some would be offended because he would be criticizing their way of life.” He turned and stared furiously at Tathea, his brows drawn down, his eyes blazing.
“Can you believe it? He even said that if he were to give up his mistress, she would tell his wife, and since her father is a banker to whom he owes money, he could not possibly do that.” His voice was harsh with contempt. “Excuses—always some reason why the way of God is too difficult. Not now, not here, not me!” He flung his arms out. “My brother would object! My father would object! My children will not love me if I curtail their freedom! They will think I am pompous, no fun. I will crush their spirit if I tell them this or that is wrong!” His face twisted with the pain of his own disgust and the loss he could taste for them.
“It is always someone else’s fault. We must not ask too much of them because of the famine, the occupation! He is old! He is young! He has just got married! His father died! He witnessed an accident, a riot, an execution!” He slashed the air again. “He has a stomachache, a headache, someone was rude to him! Nobody is willing to take responsibility for anything. They fear man more than God!” He stared at Tathea with desperation in his face, the softness of youth already gone. “I have tried everything I know to show them the beauty of the truth, but they lie! Lying to me doesn’t matter, but lying to themselves is death!”
She could see the weariness in his face, but it was due to anger, not discouragement. There was nothing in him which allowed defeat.
“It is worse than that,” she said quietly, looking at him as he stopped pacing and faced her, listening. “Tugomir’s enmity to the Book is absolute.”
“Tugomir!” he exploded, his body clenching tight again, his shoulders rigid under the sweep of his cloak. “If only we could silence him, how they might listen then. That man does more harm in one day than any other hundred you could name!” He stood motionless, his eyes dark. “Is he an emissary of the Great Enemy?”
“I don’t know,” she said honestly, but there was a coldness inside her. Tugomir seemed to her inexplicably familiar, as if she had known him in some time before memory. “But I know he hates the Book and all it teaches,” she said with a deep shudder. “And he is taking with him many good people who would be honest enough to try the teachings had not Tugomir convinced them that they are blasphemers against the old faith and are betraying their ancestors even to open the Book.”
“That’s not the reason!” Ra-Nufis snapped. “He is a high priest, and the more people turn to the truth, the fewer disciples he will have. He will lose power, and he knows it!”
As autumn passed and the relative coolness of winter descended on Shinabar, Tathea found herself drawn more to Arimaspis, who had accepted the Book wholeheartedly and before witnesses made her covenants with God. Their past relationship was not mentioned again. Neither spoke of Mon-Allat, even obliquely, and Tathea felt at ease in Arimaspis’s company. They shared a similar amusement at the absurd and sometimes burst into laughter until they gasped for breath and the tears were wet on their faces. Sometimes the same trifles made them angry, or impatient. It was good to be with another woman. There were so many things Arimaspis understood without the need for explanations; a glance, a meeting of eyes, and the knowledge was there.
“Tugomir was preaching again in the great square,” Arimaspis said as they sat together in one of the outer courts of the palace, a quiet tree-shaded place of falling pools, green water into blue. “Hundreds of people were listening to him.”
“I know.” Tathea sighed. “But I can’t stop him or I deny my own beliefs. And he would be the first to point that out.”
“And he can win, can’t he?” Arimaspis asked, frowning. She had read the Book many times, and she understood much of the nature of light and darkness. “He can deceive people, even the most elect.”
“Yes.” It was a truth Tathea struggled with and found hard to accept. “If they permit it. But I am not sure that he is an evil man ... I don’t know.” She pictured the High Priest’s ugly, passionate face, trying to be subjective and dismiss from her mind the uneasy sense that she had seen him before. “I think that he truly believes the old faith. And there is much good in it, honor and courage, devotion to duty and care for the poor in body and heart. There is a reverence for all that is beautiful or of use, for learning and labor.” The growing oppression inside her clarified as she tried to frame it in words. “In the old way there was not the superstition there is now. That is recent, an escape from responsibility for one’s own decisions and mistakes. If you can believe in fate, the stars, or the sands, then it excuses you from trying. Why rail against destiny? Only a fool wastes his energy and substance on that. It is the easiest escape of all.”
“Then to teach it is evil!” Arimaspis said fiercely.
“Tugomir doesn’t teach it.” Tathea stared at the light rippling on the water. She did not find it as restful as she once had. “He is a man of fantastic energy who is blind to the truth in the Book. I never listened to anyone with less of the hypocrite in him, or of the coward. The mass of people reject the Book because it demands sacrifice, obedience, and the acceptance of responsibility. Ultimately you must become the keeper, and the lover, of all things. It also demands that you learn how to make your own decisions, but it is so much easier to be told exactly what to do and what not to do. You can obey and feel justified. It is measurable.” She smiled bitterly. “You can even establish a hierarchy of righteousness and feel proud and safe.”
There was silence but for the water and the lazy humming of bees in the flowers. A gardener walked by carrying a hoe and a knife for pruning. His feet made no sound on the stone.
“Tugomir sees the Book as a force which will overthrow the order which once made Shinabar great,” Tathea went on gravely. “He sees it as death, not life. He thinks it is magic, an offer of escape from this world’s realities. He sees the growth of superstition, and its corruption terrifies him. It is a rejection of work, justice, even order. It springs from chaos and would lead us back into it. The whole concept is irredeemably corrupt. It makes nonsense of the nature of choice and of growth, which is the core of good and evil. He should hate it, and he is right to be afraid.”
Arimaspis moved closer to Tathea. She did not touch her—that would have been impertinence—but her closeness held the warmth of friendship, her silence and her smile conveyed her understanding.
Tathea turned to her and smiled back.
Tathea returned from a long ride in the desert with no one but Yattu-Shia beside her, and the Household Guard at a distance. She dismounted in the same yard from which nearly eight years ago Kol-Shamisha had helped her escape the assassins. She had barely set her foot inside the stables when she became aware of a presence other than the horses and her own men, who were dispersing.
She looked around. At first she saw no one. Then as she became used to the shadows, she found him: a dwarf, squat, and powerful, huge-headed. The dim light caught on his glittering, diamond-patterned tunic, and his white hands fluttered as if picking at the air. His eyes were brilliant amber with black slit pupils, like a goat’s. He looked at Tathea with recognition as ancient as time, and she felt a cold fear crowd her heart. Without thought her hand moved to her dagger, then dropped again. This battle was of the spirit.
“Who are you?” she asked him, touching her horse’s neck to still it, feeling it shake with fear—did it sense her own? Or was this its own innate recognition of evil?
“My name is Azrub, Majesty.” He bowed, the gesture intended as mockery.
“What do you want?” she asked.
&
nbsp; Azrub was smiling. “No, Majesty, what do you want?”
“Nothing from you!” she said tartly. She was more unnerved by him than she could mask. It startled her.
“Ah, but you do not know what I can give you.” His voice was curiously sibilant, very soft, but it penetrated as if he could lay his white fingers on her mind. “I have power you cannot imagine.”
She wanted to move, to leave the stable and get out into the sunlight, but he was standing in the doorway, and she would have to brush past him. She might even touch him, and the thought made her skin crawl. Her horse was beginning to sweat; its eyes were rolling.
“You have nothing I could want,” she repeated, but her voice trembled.
“Look down, Majesty,” he whispered, licking his lips.
“What?”
“Look down,” he repeated. “Look at the dust by your feet. Tell me what you see.”
She did not mean to obey him, but against her will her gaze dropped. A flurry of wind blew in through the open door, and the dust shifted. Gradually it took a distinct form, a picture, people, faces. She could see a man holding the Book in his arms, opening it and beginning to preach. There was a transfiguring beauty in his narrow features, and everyone who heard his voice believed because of the passion of his conviction. It was the High Priest Tugomir.
If only it could be!
The wind blew again, covering the scene, and as it moved it formed a spreading map of Shinabar, as if she were watching the light of faith cover the entire country.
The breeze stirred again, and she saw herself on the lapis throne, surrounded by a sea of faces alight with joy, all turned towards her in gratitude. A deep peace had spread over them. Man, woman, and child alike shone with an inner knowledge. She looked up to the golden goat eyes of the dwarf.
He pursed his lips and blew the faintest of breaths. The picture in the dust vanished.
“It can be yours, Majesty.” The words slid over his tongue, close to silence, but they were imprinted on her heart as if carved by fire.