Fire of Ages (The Powers of Amur Book 6)

by J. S. Bangs

  Bidhra pursed his lips. He paced slowly around the pool of lotuses. Navran followed him. “Did he show anything of the sort in Virnas?”

  “No,” Navran said. Then, a thought he hadn’t formulated before. “I saw no evidence that the Mouth of the Devourer was actually present in Virnas.”

  Bidhra murmured. “Perhaps he is occupied in Jaitha. Maybe he’ll stay there and leave Patakshar alone.”

  “This is not the time for hopeful fantasies,” Navran said.

  Bidhra sighed. “Reluctantly, I agree.”

  “If it comes to a siege,” Navran said, “will we survive?”

  “We already survive as if under a siege,” Bidhra said with a note of chagrin. “The harvest of corn and rice is next to nothing—”

  “You have something, though?”

  Bidhra nodded. “The coasts have gotten a little rain. No monsoon, but some showers rolling in off the sea. Mostly, though, we have fish. The Mouth of the Devourer has not stricken the sea.”

  “The stars upon the waves,” Navran said.

  “The prices of fish are enormous, now,” Bidhra said. “But we have not starved. And if besieged, we could survive for a great while longer.”

  “And your fleet? If we choose to cross the ocean?”

  Bidhra gave him a curious stare. “Why would we cross the ocean?”

  “If the Devoured breach the walls.”

  Bidhra shook his head and tapped his cheek. “The whole point of this conversation is to find a way that the Devoured will not breach the city.”

  “Do you plan to hold them out forever?”

  “Well, long enough, until—”

  “Until what?”

  Bidhra slowed down. “Until another option presents itself. Until your thikratta find something else in their book. Until the Mouth of the Devourer gives up and leaves.”

  “We must prepare for the possibility that those things never happen.”

  Bidhra pursed his lips together into a scowl. “And what is your plan, then?”

  Navran kneaded and touched the tips of fingers lightly together. “We defend the city.”

  “I already said that—”

  “And we prepare to leave.”

  “And go where, Navran-dar? Patakshar must be the last free city in Amur. I haven’t heard anything about Gumadha, but I doubt—”

  “Leave Amur.”

  Now Bidhra seemed surprised. “And where do you suggest we go?”

  Navran waved to the sea to the south and the tops of the dhows in the harbor. “Where do your ships go?”

  “The Ten Thousand Islands,” Bidhra said. “But you can’t imagine we’d go there.”

  “Why not?” Navran said. “Amur is ruined. The Mouth of the Devourer will pursue us wherever we go. But the Ten Thousand Islands would be safe.”

  “Do you think it’s impossible for the Mouth of the Devourer to learn to sail?” Bidhra asked.

  “We take all of the sailors with us—”

  “Then they’ll walk,” Bidhra cut him off. “The Devoured don’t die. They will tie stones to their feet and walk on the seafloor until they rise out of the water on the beaches, covered with kelp and starfish, and take the islands twice as easily as they took Amur.”

  Navran shuddered. He had not thought of that.

  “Which is why I have been insisting,” Bidhra said firmly and slowly, “that we must prepare to hold out here for as long as we possibly can. Because there is nowhere to run. Any flight, whether to the Ten Thousand Isles or to Kalignas or the ends of the earth, will be only a temporary retreat.”

  They were both silent. The sea breeze picked up a little and stirred the sand of the garden, making a soft hissing noise.

  “Fire,” Navran said finally. “They fear being burned. Enough that they’ll avoid an open flame.”

  “That was how you escaped from Virnas,” Bidhra said.

  “It’s not much.”

  “It may help,” Bidhra said. “Everything helps. My engineers are preparing to build a moat around the inner city.”

  “A moat?” Navran said. “How will you do it?”

  “The walls of the inner city meet the sea at both ends. We have conscripted men to dig a channel at the base of the inner wall. Twenty feet wide and six feet deep—the engineers will give the final numbers—deep enough to prevent the Devoured from easily crossing and climbing up the walls. At need we can flood the channel with seawater.”

  “If you think the Devoured can cross the sea with stones tied to their feet, I don’t think a six-foot moat will stop them.”

  “It isn’t meant to stop them. It’s meant to cripple any siege weapons they bring. To prevent them from raising ladders and towers.”

  Navran sighed. “Well enough. May it give us enough time.” Another long pause. Utalni’s face drifted to the front of Navran’s mind. He took a heavy breath. “Where are Daladham and Bhudman? They should have come several days ago.”

  “I’ll have someone show you,” Bidhra said. “Daladham is staying with one of the dhorsha here in the inner city. Bhudman dwells with one of the city’s saghada. There were none in the inner city, though I insisted it would be safer, so he’s a little farther away.”

  “And their book?”

  “Daladham has it.”

  Navran nodded. “He and Bhudman may be our only hope. Before the evacuation, they had read something.”

  “I hope it’s something more useful than the last,” Bidhra said a little bitterly. “While I’m happy to see the saghada and the dhorsha reconciled, it hasn’t helped us contain the Mouth of the Devourer.”

  The name Kushma Ulaur rose from Navran’s memory. He shuddered and blinked away the image of a fanged and blood-spattered Power. “We’ll have to see.”

  Daladham

  The room where Srithi waited for Daladham was a small chamber on the second floor of the tower. Curtains were drawn across the windows and no lamps were lit, rendering the interior dim and quiet. The fabric whispered across the floor as Daladham entered.

  The last of the refugees from Virnas had arrived four days ago, and Daladham had occupied himself with Bhudman in that time. Caupana’s invitation was a surprise. He found the thikratta and Srithi on cushions in the center of their room, where Caupana sat in a perfect Lotus posture, while Srithi’s posture was crooked and haphazard. Her shoulders slumped and shook.

  “Am I…?” Daladham asked as he entered.

  Caupana opened his eyes. “Come in,” he said.

  Daladham folded his crimson bhildu over his knees and sat on the empty cushion that formed the third point of a triangle with Caupana and Srithi. Caupana looked at him with his blank, impassive face, while Srithi’s head was bowed. Her cheeks were wet.

  “I’m sorry,” Daladham said. “You called me, I thought—”

  “I called you,” Caupana said. “I wanted us three to speak.”

  Srithi straightened abruptly. She didn’t look at Daladham but said to Caupana, “I harden my soul as well as my body.”

  Caupana reached out and touched her knee. “Wait.” He gestured to Daladham. “We have been finding the bottom of our grief.”

  A little shock stirred Daladham’s composure. He twisted the end of his beard. “What do you mean?”

  “The three of us have lost to the Mouth of the Devourer.”

  “I think everyone in Amur has lost to the Mouth of the Devourer.”

  Caupana bowed his head. “This is true. But we three are here and bear unique gifts and unique sorrow. For you, Daladham, your nephew was among the first consumed by She Who Devours.”

  Daladham swallowed the heaviness in his chest. He had managed not to think about it for a while. Fleeing from death at the hands of the Devoured gave him little time to mourn. “Yes,” he croaked.

  “And I have suffered the loss of Ternas, and now of Amabhu, my last companion.” He pointed to Srithi. “But my apprentice has suffered worst of all.”

  Srithi shook. She closed her eyes, and fresh tears
began to roll down her cheeks.

  “I’m sorry,” Daladham said. What a colossally stupid thing to say.

  “We walk a hard path,” Caupana said.

  “I know,” Srithi creaked. “Believe me, I know.”

  “Hard path?” Daladham said. His own voice began to tremble. The memory of his nephew, the last of his family, neared the surface of his mind. Not quite forgotten, not quite healed.

  “Even as fasting purifies the body, sorrow purifies the soul,” Caupana said. “This is why we have been afflicted.”

  Daladham snorted. “I’m sorry, honorable thikratta, but that smells like goat piss to me.”

  Caupana smiled. “Pleased to hear you say it.”

  “Pleased? You thikratta make no sense.”

  “To be purified by sorrow one must drink the cup to its dregs.”

  “Drink the cup?” Daladham’s voice rose, and he felt his blood grow hot. “Jairatu… I got to watch him dissolve into black blood and melt before the altar of Am. Don’t tell me his death was part of some plan, that he had to die so I could be afflicted and purified.”

  Srithi was crying harder now, her sobs breaking through Daladham’s speech. Caupana continued to look at Daladham with his infuriating, passive, emotionless expression.

  “And the lady. Watched her mother-in-law, her husband, her daughter go down before the Devoured. For what? So she could become a better thikratta? I don’t want to hear any of it.”

  “Stop,” Caupana said quietly.

  “Why should I stop? I came here because you asked me. I didn’t imagine I was here to rub salt in the wounds of a mourning mother—”

  “Stop,” Caupana said again, raising his hands. “Let me tell you about my grief.”

  “Do you thikratta even know grief? I thought the point of your discipline was that it put you above petty human concerns like mourning and sadness.”

  Caupana frowned, and for the first time his thikratta’s calm seemed to melt into a real human expression. “That would not be drinking the cup to its dregs, would it? No, Daladham, listen to me.” He sighed.

  Daladham closed his mouth. Srithi was still weeping quietly. “I’m listening.”

  “Amabhu and I escaped from Ternas. Did you understand what that means?”

  Daladham shook his head.

  “I went to Ternas as a boy of ten. Youngest child of a dhorsha family. I could have taken a minor position in the local temple, but I wanted to learn, to study the secret things of the Powers which the dhorsha would not teach. It cost me everything—my father never visited me, and no member of my family ever acknowledged me again. So Ternas was my home, the monks my brothers, the lama my father. The Elder Gocam taught me the mastery of farsight, the other monks brought me literature and the wisdom of the Powers and the perception of the elements. I had no home, no comfort, no place other than Ternas. And Ruyam came and burned it.”

  A sharp, black note like a blade of obsidian entered into his voice. “I wanted to face Ruyam’s fire rather than flee with my brothers. But the Lama Padnir commanded me and Amabhu to leave. I could not disobey him. My heart broke that day. When I saw the smoke rising from the hills above Ternas I wept for a three days. My heart still has not healed.”

  Srithi’s weeping was quiet. She watched Caupana with the same seriousness that Daladham felt.

  Caupana went on. “But Amabhu—at least I had Amabhu. One brother saved from the fire with me. One companion who remembered Ternas, who could comfort me in my bereavement. Until the Devoured took him as well. Now I am alone.”

  He didn’t cry. Only the slightest hint of sorrow showed in the shape of his eyes, in the way his brows pulled down and made creases at the corners of his lids. His hand trembled a little.

  “And are you purified?” Daladham said. “Has all of this sadness had its effect?”

  “You have misunderstood the path of the thikratta, Daladham,” Caupana said. “We do not detach from the world and its suffering. Suffering purifies the will. I must take in every drop of my suffering, to harden my will for what is to come. This is why I invited you to come and share your grief with Srithi and me. We three have suffered. It is a hard path.”

  “It is the path we’re all walking,” Srithi whispered. “Whether we want to or not.”

  “And their deaths?” Daladham said. “Our dead families and friends? Are they just the hammers with which the Powers forge our will?”

  “We honor them by drinking the cup of sorrow which they have left us. And by surviving to remember them.”

  Srithi sighed. She leaned forward and rested her elbows on her knees, holding up her drooping head. “I only ever wanted to be a mother and a wife, you know. I remember when Veshta came to my father. It was such a good match for me—even if it was his second marriage. My mother and sister were overjoyed. I was overjoyed. And Veshta was a good husband, kind and generous. A big house full of children—that was my dream.”

  She closed her eyes and took a deep breath that barely suppressed a sob. “But that dream is dead. It died the day the Mouth of the Devourer rose and the amashi first spoke to me. Veshta’s death is simply another step down the road.”

  “You still have Peshdana,” Daladham said.

  “Yes,” Srithi said, and a laugh escaped through her weeping. “I have him, but he will be my only one. No, I have ten thousand children of a different kind to bear. Not here, though.”

  “What about the rest of your family? Your sister you mentioned….”

  “They lived outside Virnas. They did not return to the city before the evacuation. I do not know why. Wherever they are… No. I must assume they’re gone as well. This is all I have.” She heaved a deep sigh and wiped the tears off of her cheeks. She looked at Caupana. “Has that hardened me enough?”

  “I don’t know,” Caupana said. “We’ll see when we are finally called to act. Bhudman is coming.”

  “What?” Daladham said, though a moment later he wondered why he was surprised. The sound of slippered feet in the hallway, then an old, gentle voice at the door.

  “Daladham?” Bhudman called through the curtain.

  “Come in, Bhudman,” Caupana said. “There is nothing hidden here.”

  Bhudman entered the room and bowed briefly to the three of them. He paused at seeing Daladham’s bleary eyes and the tears on Srithi’s cheeks. He murmured a quiet prayer. “Daladham, Navran-dar has requested our presence. If you’re not…”

  Caupana bowed his head to Daladham. “You may go. But come back to us when you have time. The cup is not yet empty.”

  Daladham snickered. “It’s bitter, and I don’t know that I want to keep drinking it.”

  Caupana smiled at him.

  Daladham rose to his feet, stretched his toes for a moment, and followed Bhudman. As they left the room Bhudman gave him a mournful stare, and his mouth opened for a moment at the tip of a question. Then he shook his head.

  “We will be speaking of the Powers,” he said softly to Daladham. “Navran-dar wishes to prepare for the Devoured reaching Patakshar.”

  Daladham understood. “We were too timid in Virnas.”

  “We waited too long to talk to Navran-dar,” Bhudman said with regret. “Let us not make the same mistake twice.”

  They ascended the stairs to the uppermost chamber where the king and queen slept. The curtain over the door to their chamber was open, and in the afternoon light they could see Navran pacing on the balcony. The jumbled domes and white-painted walls of the inner city shone through the door, and the cawing of gulls in the harbor sounded in the air. There was no sign of Utalni.

  “Enter,” Navran-dar said as soon as he saw them. He continued to pace on the balcony.

  Daladham and Bhudman went into the room and out onto the balcony. Navran stopped and tapped the stone railing.

  “They’re coming,” he said. “We had a respite while they consolidated themselves in Virnas, but they’re coming.”

  “Bidhra-dar has seen evidence?” Daladham said.


  “Our watch has seen them moving. We knew it wouldn’t be long. We’ve had a few days. More than we expected.”

  Daladham cursed. Bhudman folded his hands and bowed his head.

  Navran turned sharply and spoke in a low voice. “Now is the time for drastic measures, if there are any measures to be taken. You two spoke to me of Kushma and Ulaur as one in Virnas. How will that save Patakshar?”

  “I will bless the soldiers on the walls in the name of Ulaur,” Bhudman said.

  “Kushma Ulaur,” Daladham whispered.

  “A simple blessing?” Navran spat. “You blessed the stones in Virnas. It helped, but not much. I had hoped for more from you.”

  “Sanctify their weapons with the tincture of sacrificial blood,” Daladham said.

  Navran murmured softly.

  “Sanctified in whose name?” Bhudman asked. “The Mouth of the Devourer fears Kushma.”

  “You said Kushma and Ulaur are one,” Daladham said. “We sacrifice to both names.”

  “And who dares to do so?”

  “You are the Uluriya,” Daladham said. “I tried to bring a sacrifice to Kushma. It was rejected.”

  Bhudman folded his hands and walked slowly to the balcony, his eyes focused into the blue distance where the sea and sky met. “I have performed the sacrifice to Ulaur countless times. If Ulaur and Kushma are one, is that itself not a sacrifice to Kushma?”

  “But you do not use the name of the destroyer.”

  “We do not,” Bhudman agreed.

  “If you wish for the destroyer to heed your sacrifice, perhaps you should invoke him under the name by which he destroys.”

  “But how?” Bhudman asked. His voice quivered. “I should just use the name of Kushma in every place where the name of Ulaur appears in the rites of Ghuptashya?”

  “That might be a start,” Navran said. “Bhudman, you are too cautious. If the traditions of the saghada do not contain the rite which will stir Ulaur to save us, then all your traditions will perish.”

  “Let us see.” Bhudman cleared his throat, traced a pentacle with his hands and bowed his head. “I bow my head to Kushma Ulaur, the light unborn, the word unspoken, the fire of ages, who overthrew the serpent, who drives off the unclean powers, who keeps Manjur and his children in purity and the good.”