Tathea

by Anne Perry

  The knowledge of defeat was overwhelming. It was only Tugomir’s constant demands and the obligation to answer him that drove the heartsickness from her mind.

  They sailed across the vivid cobalt seas off the coast of Shinabar, then on into the harder, cooler blue waters westward past the mountains and to the north of the wild coast of Tirilis. She remembered all she could of what was written in the Book, explaining it to Tugomir from the beginning. She could recite the first pages as if they were written on her heart. Then she told him of the conversation between God and the Great Enemy, Asmodeus, and how God had answered each argument, showing how the plan met every need of the purpose of life, and how the Adversary still would not accept it.

  “But it does!” Tugomir said eagerly, grasping the essence of the meaning almost before she had said the words. It was as if all his life he had been searching for this, and now that he has found it he could not drink deeply enough of it. “We have it all!”

  They were almost beyond Tirilis, in seas even colder and wilder green before she realized with a surge of surprise how deeply, in teaching him, she had confirmed her own faith. It had begun with her love of the words in the Book, knowing that they were true. Now, standing on the deck in the haze of dawn, watching the arch of heaven pale in the east behind them, spreading light across the face of the water, white on the wave crests, there was a new strength in her heart. Failure lay behind and darkness ahead, and yet her grief lifted. She felt a confidence that had no origin in reason.

  The words rested with a great peace inside her. “I am the beginning and the end. Your name is before My eyes, and I shall not forget you.”

  But the sea was not at peace. The further west they traveled, the more troubled the wind and water became, until as they turned northwards towards the island, the air grew heavy with the presage of storm. By nightfall the captain was pacing the deck, eyes on the sky, his face tight and anxious. The mariners stood together in twos and threes, muttering and then silent. The wind grew more shrill in the rigging till it was a high whine, and with darkness came the first jagged bursts of lightning. The current beneath the ship was fast, the water leaden but still unbroken by spume.

  Tugomir stood on deck, gazing at the gathering violence. In the blue-white glare of the flashes, his face was filled with awe. The fear all around him did not seem to disturb his certainty. He knew the Word of God, and nothing was stronger.

  Tathea understood. Some deep well of memory within her knew of another storm so terrible it threatened an entire people as the forces of destruction combined, the elements of air and water, and chaos of barbarism within men, and the eternal hatred of the Great Enemy, who would corrupt creation itself. And yet with the knowledge came a white pinpoint of certainty, a memory of love that was worth any price, brighter than the darkness of all the spaces between the stars.

  The storm struck them with a fury that hurled the seas in torrents about them, tearing the tight-reefed sails as if they were rags and hurling the ship like a ball thrown at random. They were drenched with water on deck, then bruised by being battered against the wooden walls of the cabin, knocked to the floor again and again. In the darkness they knew nothing of what was happening about them except the tumult and the incessant, deafening noise. They clung together, wrapped in each other’s strength.

  When at last it was over, they were too shaken and exhausted and pressed by the need to mend all that could be salvaged to have time to speak of it.

  They limped into the port of Sylum, grateful to make harbor and set foot on land, any land. It was the following day before they even looked around them to observe its nature. A glance showed it was far newer than the City in the Center of the World, but of the same style of architecture, adapted to suit a cooler clime. Here the stone was more mixed with gray, and most of it was still clean from the mason’s knife.

  There were Camassian warships and merchantmen lying in the harbor, native ships built for rough seas rather than great distances, and graceful skiffs with rust and saffron sails from the Lost Lands. Tathea recognized them, and the pull of memory was sharp. There was something in the movement of light across the water, windstreaked cloud over a vast sky, which brought back snatches of something else, sweeter and further away, but gone again too swiftly to capture.

  “This is a Camassian province now,” Tugomir said with an edge of disgust to his voice. “Conquered about forty years ago, in the time of Baradeus. If Isadorus has been true to his beliefs, they will at least have heard of you. We should make ourselves known to the Governor.”

  Ortelios had indeed heard of Tathea and had some knowledge of the teaching of the Book. He made them most welcome, eager to listen and to learn from the source of his belief. He had become a follower and made his covenants only recently, and knew that his understanding was in its infancy.

  “We have many who inquire after the Book,” he told them earnestly the first evening they sat together around the great hearth where half a tree burned to keep at bay the chill of the spring night. The stone-flagged floors were covered with hides and the walls were hung with tapestries, which at least moderated the worst of the draughts. Several large dogs lay half asleep, close to the fire, and a striped cat washed itself thoroughly.

  Tathea glanced across at Tugomir and saw his clenched hands and fixed gaze. She knew he was cold and frightened. This barbarous culture horrified him. He had given up everything he loved, everything safe and familiar, and he had no idea what lay ahead of him, except that it was dark and seemed always chill, and apart from herself he was alone among strangers. It must have taken all the courage he possessed to endure it, and she loved him for his faith.

  “I hope you will teach many more,” Ortelios was saying, throwing more wood on the fire. One of the dogs stirred and stretched, then went back to sleep again. Outside, the wind was rising, rattling the windows. “But the old belief is strong, especially away from the cities,” he went on with an apologetic smile. “Most of the land is covered in forests, except for the mountains to the west, where the Empire’s armies have never been. And to the north, of course.”

  Tugomir shuddered. Forests were a misery he had not even contemplated. “What brought the Empire here?” he asked incredulously. It was beyond his imagination why anyone should come to such a place of their own volition.

  Ortelios smiled and leaned back in his chair, making himself more comfortable. “It is a very rich land. It has the best timber I’ve seen. One can grow all manner of crops here.”

  “Crops?” Tugomir scowled at the darkness beyond the window.

  “Oh yes,” Ortelios said enthusiastically. “Wheat, rye, barley, oats, all sorts of vegetables because of the regular rains, and of course fruit and some nuts. Also there is always plentiful grass, so the animals are excellent. The wool here is the best in the world.”

  “No doubt it is needed!” Tugomir responded dryly.

  Ortelios smiled. “And cattle and swine,” he added. “And very good horses indeed. We have crossed some of the island breeds with Shinabari, and they are superb.”

  Tugomir gritted his teeth. “Indeed?”

  “And there are other resources as well,” Ortelios continued. “Fish, of course, any amount or variety ...”

  Tugomir showed the first sign of interest. Good food was a part of civilized culture he assumed he had left behind.

  “And pearls,” Ortelios added. “And various metals, especially tin.”

  “Is that why they came?” Tathea asked him.

  “In part.” He turned to her. “The first expedition was largely exploratory, when Baradeus was making his name as a general, before he had aspirations towards the throne of Camassia. It proved a most fruitful investment. To begin with, the conquest was hard fought. Some of the tribes are fine warriors, but of course the Camassians had superior weaponry, and in the end they won. It took ten or twelve years. They began to build cities, roads, and harbors. Many soldiers settled here, my grandfather among them. He married an island
woman.” He said it with pride.

  “And gradually they taught the islanders a new way of government. Peace spread among the tribes that had previously warred with one another more or less all the time. The country began to prosper. Now many islanders are quite proud to have a Camassian heritage. Most of us speak both languages.”

  Tugomir said nothing. Tathea looked across at his somber features in the firelight and knew as plainly as if he had spoken it that he was thinking of the subtlety and beauty he had left behind him, the long philosophical discussions with friends late into the desert night. He would never again wander through great libraries with their tens of thousands of scrolls, where he could choose any at random and explore the great minds of the past, the history and legend, the poetry and the dreams. The loss was marked deep in the lines of his face, and she saw loneliness there, and the fear of the dark and unknown ahead.

  She smiled at him, but he did not see her.

  The following evening Ortelios held a great feast in their honor, welcoming them to Sylum and the island. There were above seventy guests, all powerful by virtue of either office or influence.

  Tathea noticed one man above the others. He sat at the great oak dining table three places to the left of Tugomir. He was of ordinary build and height with a lean face, fair-skinned and faintly freckled, as if he had stood too near when some craftsman had been grinding gold and the dust had settled on him. His eyes were blue, light as clear glass. In his movements and the way he watched before he spoke, there was something faintly vulpine. His name was Nastemah, and he was lord of lands rich in silver and iron ore.

  Next to him was his wife. Her cloud of dark hair framed a face of unusual beauty. Whenever Nastemah spoke, she listened intently, her eyes wide, as though she would memorize every expression of his face and each word would be graven in her mind. When anyone addressed her, she deferred to Nastemah before replying.

  Tathea assumed they were very recently married, and said as much later to Ortelios.

  “Oh no.” He shook his head, and there was a curious regret in his face for which there seemed no cause. “They have been married for many years. Verrani is gentler and more obedient now than she was when I first knew her.”

  “Then she loves him the more,” Tathea deduced.

  Ortelios looked away. “Perhaps.”

  “Does she owe him some debt?” Tathea searched for explanations other than love. “Has her family committed some wrong against him? Or did he rescue them from war or bondage?”

  “Nothing as far as I know” Ortelios answered, but the unhappiness in him lingered. Possibly it was envy. Verrani was not only beautiful, there was a haunting quality to her loveliness, a fragility which was almost childlike. Tathea noticed how several men seemed eager to protect her, to see her smile, as if they wished her safe from some fear or pain.

  Tathea and Tugomir began to teach as many people as wished to learn more deeply of the Book. The foundations had already been laid in words and letters from Camassia. It was a matter of adding, refining and explaining, of answering questions and attempting to instill obedience to the discipline as well as conveying the joy of the promise. To make covenants willingly, even eagerly, was one thing, but again and again they found themselves having to urge the necessity of keeping them, that the penalty for breaking them was harsh and real.

  Tugomir learned as he taught. Tathea watched with ever-increasing pleasure as his mind expanded to grasp the full meaning behind everything she could tell him of the Book’s teachings.

  Spring passed into summer and then into autumn. The glory of it faded in wood smoke, scarlet berries in the hedges, and a sharp, clean light with the tingle of frost. Tathea and Tugomir had been teaching in an outlying area, and the sun was sinking as they drove together in a chariot along one of the few great Camassian-built roads back towards Sylum. Tugomir sat in silence. He had never enjoyed chariot riding, even on the smooth desert roads of home. This rougher vehicle with its unpadded seats and the cold edge of the wind stinging his face was something to be endured with fortitude.

  Tathea gazed with a strange, burning joy at the flaming red of a tree, the late sun gold on a shaved field, stubble gleaming where the scythes had cut the stalks low. She found its beauty almost overwhelming, as if it touched a chord of memory in her of another age too good to bear recalling because its loss was unendurable.

  They were almost at the Avails of Sylum when she spoke.

  “It is time for us to teach in the other regions,” she said, glancing sideways to see his face.

  His body stiffened. “South,” he said immediately. “Perhaps we should start in the south.” There was a tiny thread of hope in his voice, but he did not betray himself by looking at her.

  She smiled. “A good idea,” she said gently. “We can begin at Kyeelan-Iss.” She was referring to the long peninsula to the far southwest, which jutted out towards the Lost Lands, a natural fortress of rock cliffs pounded by seas that stretched to the edge of the last ocean known to man.

  She saw the answering smile on his face before he pulled his cloak up round his ears and nodded.

  They labored hard all through the winter; it was a season unlike anything either of them had ever imagined before, let alone experienced. Driving winds howled in off the sea, carrying torrential rain. Winds screamed on the wings of storms that seemed to tear the ocean off its floor and hurl it at the cliffs. But the hospitality was warm. The harshness of nature seemed to make men cling closer together. Hunger, weariness, cold, even the rain which Tugomir loathed with intensity, did not stop their work. Soaked to the skin, shaking with chill, wind chapped and with a streaming nose, he still spoke, between coughing fits, with an enthusiasm which touched his hearers. Some hated him, but most held him in a kind of awe, whether they believed his words or not.

  They traveled from one town to another, huddled together under blankets and skins, telling each other wry, Shinabari jokes and trying to remember the words of old songs. Sometimes the hills were mantled with snow and the skies bleak and blue, sharp as dawn over the sea. The days were short. At night the blackness seemed solid, as if they were in a pit. Sometimes the dazzling clarity of the stars shed a faint glimmer over the snow. Sunset, flaming wild and splendid across the wash of ice crystals, shone like fire.

  They heard many tales of the other parts of the island. In the far west, beyond the mountains of Horvellyn, was the fortress of Dinath Aurer, where no imperial soldier had ever set foot. Of the last shore to the west, beyond the fortress and the cliffs of Kharkheryll, no man had returned to tell. Nor had any traveled to Lantrif of the River, lying low to the west.

  The great central forest of Hirioth, full of ancient gnarled trees and sudden glades, where the very air seemed green and gold, was the land of the Flamens, the old religion of the island, and no Camassian trespassed into its primeval sanctity.

  Tathea and Tugomir went up the eastern coast to the city of Yba, and beyond to the ruins of Layamon. Eventually perhaps they would even go to the north. Tathea kept that in her heart, treasuring the promises of Iszamber. She would not tell Tugomir yet. He had more than enough to bear with what he already knew. The Waste Lands stretched up towards the last shore before the lands of ice. She heard tales of their beauty, the high, wide moorlands beaten and scoured by mighty winds, bright with secret tarns whose waters reflected the sky and lay peat-dark in hollows of the hills. In autumn the land was covered with purple flowers and bracken the shade of old bronze worn smooth on warriors’ shields.

  The renewal of the year was slow and sweet as they rode east, a season of glancing rainstorms, birdsong so throbbing with ecstasy it seemed as if throats would burst with the sheer, blazing joy of it. Tiny flowers appeared in the shelter of southern hillsides, pale and delicate as a scattering of petals. And as they skirted Sylum and passed the outermost edges of Hirioth, Tathea saw the tree buds swelling and breaking into green one by one, as if the life in them were too delicious to be taken hastily but must be savored eve
ry moment, each translucent leaf carefully unfolded and set against the sun.

  They taught everyone who would listen. By the time the hedges were rich with flowers and the banks danced with gold and misty, fragile blues beneath the ancient woodlands, a thousand people had covenanted to follow the Book, and five thousand more were on the brink.

  The eastern shore was a place of great sand dunes scented with yellow sea lupins, washed by harsh tides and mighty winds, a salt-tasting land of wide skies and crying seabirds. Here too there were people who listened, and Tathea and Tugomir spent much time talking, explaining. Spring became summer, and autumn. They moved north again and spent the winter in the city of Yba, then turned and came back inland past the edges of Hirioth towards the south.

  By high summer when the trees were green, towering over the land, and the apple and plum boughs hung so heavy they leaned to the ground, the teaching had spread through every city, village, and hamlet of the imperial occupation.

  Then it was time to go north. It could no longer be put off. All had been accomplished here, and Tathea felt pulled by the memory of Iszamber’s words about the darkness to come at a time no man knew of, when the only ones to stand would be eleven priests on the western shore, the last stronghold of the light.

  She told Tugomir of it in a quiet garden overhung with plum trees where the sunlight fell through the boughs in half-tones, dappled on the grass.

  “North?” he said warily. He could not refuse anything that served the Book, but she could see in his face the dread of what it would mean. “Further than we’ve been already?”

  “Yes, through the forest.”

  He blanched. “The forest? Are there any people there?”

  “Oh yes, quite a few.”

  He stood silently for several moments in the glancing sunlight. A bird sang in one of the plum trees. A hedgehog ambled through the grass, all spines and black toes.