by Pete Hautman
Lia had never heard anything so outrageously sacrilegious. She wondered if it could be true.
Song continued. “The destruction of the Gates sent Master Gheen into a rage. He declared it to be the work of the Yars, though we had nothing to do with it. After destroying the maggot, he confronted your tutor, the Lait Pike, accused him of subversion and blasphemy, and struck him with his baton. Pike fell and cracked his head on the steps of the palace. He died.”
“Pike is dead?” Lia’s voice sounded small and distant.
“And many others. The following morning, Master Gheen dispatched a phalanx of deacons to the Palace of the Pure Girls and took all of the older girls to the temple. Yar Yeanu was taken as well.”
Yar Yeanu had been Lia’s music tutor.
“We Yars protested, of course, but we were driven off with batons and armas. Yar Hidalgo and I organized a force of citizens who opposed the rule of the priests. A few days later, we raided the temple in an attempt to free the girls. That was when they activated their Boggsian weaponry. The walls of the temple spit out a great fan of blue flame. You saw the scorched zocalo, but you did not see the piles of burned bodies. Yar Tan was killed, among others.”
Lia stared at Yar Song’s tattooed eyelid, shocked by what she was hearing.
“Why?” she asked.
“Because the priests have gone mad. Now, they cower in their temple. They possess weapons, bodies, and dogma, but we will prevail.”
“What will you do?”
“We will fight. Lives have been lost. Talk has turned to bloody action. The equation is simple: we must destroy them, or be destroyed ourselves.”
It did not seem so simple to Lia. Yar Song was using numbers and talking about killing people. She sounded as mad as the priests.
“Have I answered your questions?” Song said.
Lia had one more question, but she feared the answer.
“The boy . . .” she said, then trailed off.
Song tipped her head and frowned quizzically. “Boy?”
“On the pyramid. When I entered the Gate, there was a boy.”
“Ah. One of the interlopers. He was put to the knife —”
Lia closed her eyes and took a shaky breath. She had sent Tucker Feye — her friend — to his death.
“— and cast into Bitte.”
Lia felt the weight of despair descend upon her shoulders. “Then I have killed him.”
“Why do you say that?”
“I knew him, in a place called Hopewell. I sent him into the Gate.”
Song shrugged. “Many return from Bitte. You may know him again one day.”
“Or I can go back, and try to undo what I have done.”
“You think to change what has already happened?”
“I can try.”
“Perhaps, perhaps not.” Song stood, an effortless uncoiling of her slim, compact body. “In any case, our concern today is for the living. I have answered your questions. Now we must go.”
THE TUNNEL SLOPED UP. SONG HAD TURNED HER Boggsian torch down to a glimmer; Lia could barely make out her shape, even though they were only an arm’s length apart. A yellowish glow appeared ahead. Song shut off the torch. They entered a small chamber lit by a single flickering wall sconce. At the far end of the chamber was an iron ladder.
“Where are we?” Lia asked.
“Beneath a church, of sorts.” Song started up the ladder. Lia followed. They emerged into a long low room decorated with pink and yellow perforated flags and a long bank of red glass jars, each containing a burning candle. Rows of empty mismatched chairs and stools filled the center of the room. At the far end of the space, a tall wooden cross was mounted on the wall behind a fabric-draped altar. Before it stood a wrinkled, stooped man with ashen skin, a fringe of thin, snowy hair, a scraggly white beard, and eyes clouded by cataracts. He looked as spectral as a Klaatu.
In a shaky yet penetrating voice, the old man said, “Welcome to the One True Church of the Holy Word.”
“Good day, Father,” said Song.
“Pray with us, that God may forgive your transgressions.”
“Later, Father.” Song turned to Lia and whispered, “Pay him no mind. He is mad, but he is harmless.”
“Who is he?”
“A Christian. He says he has come to Romelas to do penance for his sins. The priests ignore him. The important thing is, he provides us with a safe entrance to our tunnels.” Song led her through the church.
As they passed near the old man, he spoke. “Lahlia.”
Startled, Lia stopped. “What did you say?”
“Pray with me.”
“Do you know me?”
“God knows you.”
Song tugged at her arm. “We must go.”
A doorway behind the cross led out onto the street. A boy was holding the reins of a swaybacked mule hitched to a hay cart. They climbed into the cart and wedged themselves between the bales. The boy shook the reins, and the cart began to move.
“That old man knew my name,” Lia said.
“Perhaps he is a prophet. More likely, he is mad. He babbles of prayer and forgiveness.”
“How is that mad?”
“It may not be.”
“Where do we go now?”
“La Casa Guterez.”
La Casa Guterez was an estate on the outskirts of Romelas that, according to Song, had recently belonged to a wealthy landowner.
“The farmworkers rose up against their masters at the same time we Yars went to war with the priests. We now control the food supply for Romelas.”
“The Yars or the workers?”
“Both. We have a common cause.”
A woman with a horribly scarred face greeted them at the door.
“Yar Hidalgo,” Lia said.
“Welcome, Yar Lia,” Hidalgo said with a misshapen smile. Years ago, the Pure Girl Hidalgo had been sent through Bitte and had returned as a Yar, with one side of her face a cratered, mottled field of deep purple and angry red. It had been burned nearly to the bone. Lia found it difficult to look at her.
“We were just gathering,” said Hidalgo. She led them down a hallway to an atrium at the center of the house. A large group of men and women — mostly women — were seated on the flagstone patio and on the several low benches surrounding it. Lia recognized Yar Sol and Yar Pika. Yar Satima, the mad Yar, was huddled in the corner, picking aphids from a potted hibiscus and putting them in her mouth. Most of the others were strangers.
Hidalgo climbed onto one of the benches at the far side of the atrium. She waited for everyone’s eyes to find her, then said, “Yeanu has managed to get a message out of the temple. The priests are preparing to move.”
“Move to where?” Yar Song asked.
“They may seek aid from the New Christians to the west. Or the Old Christians, or even the Boggsians.”
“Or they may head downriver,” said a woman sitting near the front. Her hair was the color of dried maize, streaked with gray. “There is an active Lah Sept colony two days’ travel south of here.” Her voice made Lia think of splintering wood.
“Good riddance, I say,” said a man seated near her. “Let them fly.”
Hidalgo shook her head. “If we allow them to leave, they will return, bringing more men and armas. In any case, Yeanu says they are taking the girls with them. That, we cannot permit.”
“How many girls?” asked the maize-haired woman.
“They have seventeen Pure Girls and nine temple girls,” Hidalgo said. No one seemed bothered by her casual use of numbers.
The maize-haired woman stood up. “It is time, then.” She turned to face Song. From the gray in her hair, Lia had expected an older woman, but she was in her prime, stocky and powerful looking, with smooth, sun-darkened skin, dark eyebrows, a hard mouth, and icy blue eyes. “Song? Are we ready?”
“Have we a choice, Inge?”
“Not as I see it.”
“I concur,” said Hidalgo.
A murmur of
agreement passed though the gathering.
“It is decided,” said Hidalgo.
The men and women got up and left the atrium, some heading out the door through which Lia and Song had arrived, others choosing a different exit. Hidalgo and Inge remained behind, along with a short, plump woman carrying a bulky, heavy-looking satchel over her shoulder. Perched on her nose was a pair of thick-lensed eyeglasses. Glasses were unusual in Romelas — such appurtenances were relics of the Digital Age.
Satima, having exhausted her supply of aphids, sat beside the hibiscus, staring vacantly into space.
“I do not like this,” Hidalgo said. “There are too many of them, and the temple is well defended, as we have seen.”
Lia forced herself to look directly at the ruins of Hidalgo’s face. She had suffered nightmares about that face when she was younger.
“Attacking the temple would be suicide,” said Song. “We must wait for them to attempt to leave.” She turned to the plump woman with the glasses. “Jonis?”
Jonis set down her satchel, extracted a folded sheaf of paper, and spread it on a nearby bench. The paper was covered with lines and symbols. Lia recognized it as a map, but unlike the maps she had seen while living with Arnold and Maria, this one was hand drawn. She could see the zocalo near the center, the distinctively shaped Cydonian Pyramid at its heart. From there, a web of colored lines zigzagged and twisted in every direction, intersecting randomly. It’s no wonder I got lost, Lia thought.
“There are three likely routes out of Romelas,” Jonis said, following the lines with her fingertip. “Here, here, and here.”
“I know those roads,” said Inge. “We can set up ambushes at each of them. Their armas cannot overcome the element of surprise.”
“I disagree,” said Song. “You saw what happened on the zocalo. The deacons are well trained, and they possess an unknown number of Boggsian armas, while we make do with slings and arrows.”
“Our archers are accurate,” Inge said. “We can attack from cover.”
“Are you planning to kill them?” Lia asked.
Inge looked at Lia with a grim smile. “Welcome to war.”
Lia decided that she did not like this woman.
Satima, still sitting beside the hibiscus, began to sputter. “B-b-b-b-b,” she said, spittle flying.
Hidalgo said, “Satima? Are you all right?”
“That Yar is as mad as a wet cat,” Inge muttered huskily.
“These are mad days,” said Hidalgo.
“B-b-b-b,” Yar Satima said.
Song squatted before the mad Yar and took her hands.
“Satima? It is Song.”
Satima shook her head violently. Song put her hands on Satima’s cheeks and forced her to look in her eyes. “Do you have something to tell us, Satima?”
Satima closed her eyes, took a deep breath, then shouted, “Bitte!”
Song turned to Hidalgo and Inge. “I think she is saying that the priests are planning to enter the Gate.”
Satima nodded eagerly, and the madness in her eyes seemed momentarily to clear. “Tonight,” she said. She climbed to her feet, plucked a leaf from the hibiscus, put it in her mouth, and walked off, chewing. They watched her leave the atrium.
“She is deranged,” said Inge.
“She is a prophet,” said Song.
Inge shook her head. “The priests send Pure Girls through the Gate to die. Why would they risk it for themselves?”
“Master Gheen has been known to enter the Gates before,” said Hidalgo. “Sadly, he always finds his way back.”
Thinking of the deacon she had seen outside the church in Hopewell, Lia said, “They will use the Gate.”
“How do you know this?” Inge said.
“I have seen them on the other side. In Hopewell.”
“Hopewell!” Jonis exclaimed. “You have been to Hopewell?”
“What is Hopewell?” Inge asked.
“It is the birthplace of the Lah Sept,” Hidalgo said. “Some call it a myth.”
“It is no myth,” Lia said.
Inge looked at Lia intently, her sapphire eyes glittering. She turned to Song and said, “Who is this girl?”
“I am the Yar Lia,” said Lia, a bit nettled.
Inge’s eyes snapped back to Lia and widened.
“That’s right,” Song said to Inge. “She is your daughter.”
LIA STARED AT THE STOLID WOMAN WITH THE HARD face and raspy voice standing before her. This was her mother? Inge looked equally disconcerted. As the seconds stretched out, as Inge’s eyes flicked from one part of her to another, Lia got the sense that her mother did not like what she saw. They had hardly exchanged a word, and already her mother disapproved of her. Lia’s rising storm of emotions clouded into anger.
Inge must have seen it in her face. She shrugged, and her eyes darted to the side. “I did not think to see you again.”
Lia had often fantasized about finding her mother. She had imagined her mother waiting on the other side of a Gate with open arms, imagined her coming in the middle of the night to comfort her. But she had never imagined that it would be so awkward. Or that her mother would be so hard and cold.
Lia heard herself speak. “You may have given birth to me, but you are not my mother. You gave me away.”
Inge raised one dark eyebrow. “Was that so bad? You lived fifteen years surrounded by luxury, you survived your blood moon, and now here you stand, a Yar. As I see it, you have no cause for complaint.” She turned to Hidalgo and Song. “I do not believe the priests will risk the Gate.” She gestured at Satima. “We cannot alter our plans on the word of a madwoman. We must prepare ambushes at all three exits from the city.”
It was as if Inge had completely dismissed Lia from her mind. Song caught Lia’s eye and compressed her lips, then gave her head a quick shake and turned to Hidalgo. “Inge is right. We must cover the roads. But we should cover the Gate as well.”
“That will spread us too thin,” Inge said.
“I agree,” said Hidalgo.
Song said, “If the priests use the tunnels to get to the top of the pyramid, they will be bottlenecked. It will require only a few of us to stop them.”
“If they use the tunnels.”
“They will. They would not risk exposing themselves on the zocalo.”
“It is a waste of time,” Inge muttered.
“How many would you need?” Hidalgo asked.
“A hand, no more. Beetha and her sons. And Jonis, to show us the way.”
Hidalgo nodded. “Jonis, do you have your maps?”
“I do,” said Jonis, patting the side of her satchel.
“Good,” said Song. “You are with me.” She started for the door. Jonis followed her out of the atrium. Lia stood there helplessly, feeling as if she did not exist.
Hidalgo noticed her and gestured toward the door. “Go with Song, Yar Lia. Make yourself useful.”
Lia ran after Song and Jonis, relieved to be away from her mother.
“She is not so uncaring as she seems,” Jonis said when Lia caught up with her. “This is a bad time for reunions. Inge has much on her mind.”
“I don’t care what she has on her mind,” Lia said.
“She did not give you away of her own will, you know.”
“She could not have tried very hard to keep me.”
Jonis shook her head. “Lah Inge was once a girl much like you. Before her blood moon, she was taken by the priests to the temple. The life of a temple girl is not an easy thing — they used her well. When she became pregnant with you, she was confined to the cellars beneath the temple. You were taken from her at birth, and she was sent to the farms as a laborer. She has cause for bitterness.”
“None of that was my fault.”
“Nor hers.” Jonis gave Lia a rueful smile and shifted her satchel from one shoulder to the other. “This must be a difficult time for you,” she said.
“I have been through worse,” Lia said. “How is it I never met yo
u before, when I was a Pure Girl?”
“I don’t often leave the biblioteca.”
“What is a biblioteca?” Lia asked.
“A library,” said Jonis. “A collection of books.”
“Books? You mean old books?”
Yar Jonis nodded, her lips curving up in a teacup-shaped smile that made her cheeks look even plumper.
“I thought all the old books had been destroyed,” Lia said.
“Not all. I protect those few that remain.”
Lia thought of the books in Hopewell.
“Do you have one called A Wrinkle in Time?”
“I have not heard of that book.” Jonis shook her head sadly. “But that is no surprise. There were once many, many books. Rooms and rooms of books. More books than there are people in Romelas. But no more.” She sighed. “Our entire collection fits into this satchel.”
“Your bag is full of books?”
“I could not leave them for the priests.”
Outside the Casa, Song was waiting for them beside the hay cart. With her was a rangy woman with a creased and sun-darkened face, and a pair of young men. Song introduced the woman as Beetha. The men were her sons, Argent and Oro, workers from the farms south of Romelas. Both had the powerful build of laborers. Oro was the bulkier of the pair, with shoulders like cantaloupes and arms as big around as Lia’s thighs. Argent, not much older than Lia, was lankier and slightly taller.
“Beetha and her sons will be with us,” Song said. “If the priests leave tonight, as Satima suggests, we will be on the frustum waiting for them.”
“Just the hand of us?” Jonis said.
Song focused her eye on Lia. “Unless Yar Lia wishes to join us.”
Lia hesitated for only a moment. “What do you want me to do?” she asked.
Song smiled grimly. “I want you to fight.”
“SOME OF THESE PASSAGES DATE BACK TO THE EARLIEST days of the Lah Sept,” said Jonis. “Originally, they were built as escape hatches in the days when the Lah Sept were being persecuted. Right now we are directly beneath the zocalo.”
They had entered the tunnel system at the church, at dusk, and were moving through the passageway in single file — Song, Lia, Jonis, Argent, Oro, and Beetha.