Everything sped up again. Valentin stepped across to Armand, his face gripped by some kind of desperation. “The prism. Give me the prism.”
Armand brought the prism forth from his bag, and Valentin held it before himself, stepped across the walkway to the Gorgons. “Zelik has failed to pass the test. Hence I stake my claim as Director.” Now he stood before the Gorgon and looked into its face. There was a slight smile twitching on its lips. It seemed to whisper something to him.
“As a gesture of goodwill, I give you the Prism of Alerion.” Valentin passed the Gorgon the object, whose misty insides seemed to burst into excited activity. “Use it wisely. Use it well.”
The Gorgon leaned in to Valentin, smiled. Within seconds the Gorgons were dancing around Valentin, who stood beaming at their center, raising his hand in triumph as the chamber resonated with the chant of his name. “Valentin! Valentin!”
Armand drooped involuntarily to one side. What had just happened? He stumbled to his feet, fell backward to the floor. Valentin had given away the prism—the realization smashed into Armand like a catapult stone.
* * *
Events moved at a strange pace: drawing out like some never-ending dream, then lurching forward crazily like some out-of-control machine. Armand’s mind was a tumult. Like a churning river, thoughts coursed around one another, washed one another away. He found himself staggering along with the rest of the procession, back along the walkway beneath the plaza. Excited discussions seemed to burst into the air around him.
Two helmeted guards grabbed him by the elbows and helped him along. “You’re sick, sir. We’ll bring you back to the Department.”
They left him in Valentin’s office, looking over the plaza, and he tried to assess the scale of Valentin’s betrayal. He rehearsed what he would say, ran over it again and again. And yet, deep down he felt his vulnerability and helplessness. What did he have now that would protect him? At least he was insignificant. There would be little point in punishing him.
When Dominik entered the room, followed once more by guards with the grated helmets, Armand remained still. “Where’s Valentin?”
“I am the new Controller of Benevolence. Valentin is Director, don’t you know?”
The suited men continued to walk toward Armand, who tensed.
“Valentin said to meet him here. Will he be here shortly?” Armand was disturbed by the cruel smile on Dominik’s face.
“I think he just might,” said Dominik.
“I’m here, I’m here,” came Valentin’s voice. When he stepped into view, his face gleamed with victory.
“Valentin…” Armand’s words failed him. He had rehearsed what he would say, but it scattered along with his hope.
Valentin crossed his arms. “Now, Armand, it’s time for a bit of truth, isn’t it? Yes, a good dose of truth. See, Armand, I hated your grandfather.”
“You loved him,” said Armand.
“It was his idea to make the assault on the villa. I told him no. I tried to stop it. It was madness. Of course, workers will kill their hostages. What other power did they have but the power of preemptive revenge? But your grandfather wouldn’t listen. No, he had the arrogance of the elite, you know. He thought he knew better than everyone. But when it went bad, he tried to blame it on me. On me! Where were his precious principles then? Where was the truth and loyalty, Armand?”
In a softer, broken voice, Armand repeated, “You loved him.”
Valentin’s birthmark deepened in color. His handsome face was barely recognizable now. “It didn’t matter. We were both thrown onto the streets. I was exiled from Caeli-Amur, but he was allowed to stay. I kept my thoughts to myself, but I promised one day I’d have my revenge, and now I have, Armand.”
“But why?”
“I considered ruining you from the first, but you gave those little hints about the prism. I sent my guards to raid your hotel, but it wasn’t there, was it? But I bided my time, and now, this. Do you know how sweet revenge is? It’s a return to order. The universe must be brought back into balance, mustn’t it? Yes, it must.”
Armand’s mind was racing. He tried to gather his thoughts, but they rushed at him from all angles, like wasps protecting their nest. Only when the suited men were next to Armand did he realize the terrible extent of events. A second later a hood was over his head. Strong arms grasped him. He was forced into a jacket of some sort, its long sleeves strapped around him, pressing his arms to his side. He didn’t cry out—there was no dignity in that. Instead as he was led away, he was filled with a despair as black as the night. Tight-lipped, he held his nerve, not allowing the bitter emotions to well out of him. Poor Ice, he thought. Left in the stable at the Long Rest. At least you have Tedde to look after you.
ELEVEN
Maximilian watched as Aya bought a sturdy horse, complete with bridle, saddle, and saddlebags. He watched as Aya purchased bags full of spiced bread and dried meats, and he watched as Aya picked out a long knife and scabbard, which he strapped around his waist. He watched Aya buy blankets, then watched as Aya rode south from Caeli-Amur, out past the walls and the scattered slums pushed up against them. Indeed, he could do nothing but watch, a disembodied soul lost in his own body, a body someone else used now. He struggled to hold on to something in there, some control of his functions, but it was like grasping mist. So he lurked in the basement of his own mind, a creature dispossessed and raging. At times he fell into that basement filled with defeat. At other times he schemed to take back his functions, though he wasn’t sure how or when he would. The feeling of powerlessness was complete.
The best he could do was see and hear, and absorb whatever stray thoughts and feelings Aya let drift away. So he knew they were riding southwest, toward the ancient city of Lixus. Once, the Sentinel Tower had been hidden in the mountains to the north of Lixus.
From a low rise, they looked down on the water-parks to their left, their magnificent gardens crisscrossed with canals, dotted with white marble statues rumored to move around at night. The main road headed south to the fishing villages that ran along the coast. Another, more ancient, road ran southwest, into the rolling green hills. Here Aya stopped for a moment, confused.
The old ruined road—that’s the one to Lixus, isn’t it? Aya said.
—You expect me to tell you?
Max remained silent. He sensed Aya dredging through his own memories, but they were fragmented things, and the land had changed.
In frustration, Aya kicked the horse, and they took the southwest road, through the rolling hills and glorious villas overlooking the fields and vineyards below. Greenhouses dotted the land in between lines of olive trees, and laborers worked on orchards. Others moved through the more exotic fields of furnace trees, candle-flowers, and fire-roses, which, clearly at the end of their reproductive cycle, had burst into flame some time earlier, leaving only the blackened remnants of their flowers.
These flora had once been destined for the Arantine, or else exported to the voracious Varenis, the Dyrian coast, or even across the sea to Numeria. Now nothing was heading up to Caeli-Amur, and Max saw the workers piling bags and barrels into storehouses.
Soon enough they came to a barricade built from sturdy logs and broken farm implements. To one side it pressed up against a hedge; to the other, a stone wall. Rough-clothed rural workers milled around, chatting quietly; a small fire burned to one side, thin smoke floating up at an angle, carried by gentle winds. The golden sun glinted off several swords and spears, but most of the workers held pitchforks and rakes. A gap between the barricade through which travelers might pass looked like it could be easily closed. They were prepared for violence, it seemed.
One of the men spat ul-tree root on the ground as Aya approached. “Escaping Caeli-Amur, huh? They starving up there yet?”
“That’s what you’d like, isn’t it?” said Aya.
Several more of the ramshackle force milled around, eyeing Aya suspiciously.
“What I’d like is for them to
pay us for the grain, for the work we do. We used to get at least some recompense, you know, but now—nothing. We need boots, coats—winter is coming, but the factories aren’t producing much back in the city, are they? They sure ain’t sending anything down here. Now, the question is, what do you want, mister?”
“I’m headed south.”
“Ain’t nothing south, mister, unless you plan on heading all the way to the Teeming Cities.” The man took another bite of ul-tree root, which he held in his hand like a stick.
“There’s Lixus.”
“Suppose that’s true. There’s even an Arbor outpost down there, you know, but we ain’t heard nothing from them.” The man laughed and spat out the ul-tree root again, leaving a black stain on the ground. “You wanna pass, it’ll be five florens.”
—That’s highway robbery—said Max.
Aya tossed him the coins and rode through the suspicious group. Farther on, he found a fine roadhouse in which to stay, with polished floors and delicate wines served in grand crystal glasses. The food was cheap, for there was plenty of it here among the villas, and the conversation of the former House agents, who came down from their villas for the evening, revolved around the crisis: How long would Caeli-Amur last before they capitulated? The entire population of the area—rich and poor alike—seemed committed to the blockade.
Seems even the poor are going to betray your seditionists, said Aya.
—Just because you’re poor doesn’t mean you’re on the right side—said Max.
There were plenty back in the city who identified with the Houses, worshipped them. They hung pictures of the Directors on their walls, read gossip about the parties and soirees. It was their little taste of glamour, of a better life.
That’s not what’s happening here. They have real concerns. You heard the man at the barricade. They need boots. They need coats.
—We all have to make sacrifices.
Well, that’s convincing. Aya laughed. I’m sure they’ll be happy to hear that when winter comes in. It’s not long now, is it, before the biting cold.
* * *
The following day the landscape began to change. Fewer and fewer villas dotted the hills or shaded the valleys. In places, rocky ridges had driven up from the ground. They formed yellowish cliffs that blocked any passage. The land became wilder, and copses of ancient wiry trees became more frequent. Great beds of vines covered the ground and crept over decaying walls.
We should be closer to the coast. Have we gone the wrong way? As Aya spoke, a fragment of his memories sank down to Max. The image of Lixus, its towers and minarets packed closely together, formed from gleaming white marble. They rose high into the blue sky, walkways gracefully curving between them. There, white toga-wearing figures promenaded, debating the latest developments of philosophy. The wondrous harbor was packed with silver-sailed boats, some heading out over the whitecaps of the azure sea. The sun was sinking over the western horizon, the sky on fire with streams of crimson and orange and vermillion, bending and wavering. The beauty of it struck Max deeply; he marveled at the world of the ancients once again.
But with the memory came needles of pain, driving into his mind. The headaches became stronger the closer he felt his mind come to Aya’s. He noticed Aya pulling back with the same discomfort.
Remember, this journey is for your own good. We’ll return the Core of the Tower to the Aediles, free you from my body, and we will find happiness in our own way, said Aya.
Aya may have gained control of Max’s body, but he was still an outsider in this country, a fact that gave Max limited power. Max could use it to his advantage, and he hoped the surprises in store would allow him to seize back his body. That was his only option, for the thought of Aya “freeing” Max from his own body wasn’t one he liked contemplating.
By the third day after leaving Caeli-Amur, the villas had been left behind, and the road had become rough and worn. Few people passed this way, if any. The rugged ridges had become more common, and they were covered with wild wiry trees and thick bushes.
In the afternoon they spotted a lonely figure walking with the aid of a staff far along the road. Soon the man came into closer view. He wore a simple blue robe tied at the waist, and a thick bandage wrapped many times around his eyes—a member of the Order of the Sightless. A small bag was thrown over his shoulder, probably containing the barest essentials, for most apocalyptics lived ascetic lives. Material possessions were denials of the coming disaster, which would sweep so much away. By denying themselves such goods, they were saying the apocalypse would make all such concerns obsolete.
Hearing the sound of the approaching hoof falls, the figure stopped and waited. As they drew level, Aya stopped the horse, looked down at the figure curiously.
“I have no valuables, stranger.” The figure stared straight ahead but seemed to be listening closely. “I am a pilgrim, headed for the Teeming Cities.”
“You’ll have to pass through Lixus first. It’s not too far from here,” said Aya.
“Yes, I suppose that’s true.” The Pilgrim’s voice was calm, unruffled.
“Well, we may as well continue on together for a while. The company I’ve had until now has been pretty awful.” Aya kicked the horse, which headed off slowly beside the Pilgrim. “The sooner we arrive, the sooner we can relax in comfort.”
“I guess that’s true. An officiate rules the place: a strong man named Karol,” said the Pilgrim. “I knew him once.”
“Oh, there’s some luck. It’s good to find friends after a long journey. Were you close to this Karol?”
The Pilgrim reached out and placed a hand on the horse’s hide. He seemed to like the warmth, or the feeling of the beast moving. “I worked with him at Arbor, before the overthrow of the Houses. I had been a subofficiate in charge of the gardens. Karol was a star then, on the rise. He was Director Lefebvre’s favorite, so he didn’t bother much with me. Still, he liked to come out into the gardens to think. Sometimes I met him there, because it was my job to water the plants and feed them when necessary. I tended the great theater built from vines and furnace trees too. But my favorites were the blood-orchids, though you’d do well to beware their lashing petiole. Like a whip, it is. They would drag you close, if they could, and suck you of blood and organs. They were planted in their very own garden, behind the palace. When I arrived, they would lean toward me, as if they wanted to step from the earth and greet me. They couldn’t, of course. I loved those plants, you know. You come to know them, and when you speak to them, they respond. Some of them let out little trills. Others are quieter, but they grow under your careful care. When you speak to them, they grow a little more lustrous. They are sensitive creatures, see—like people, in that way. I think Karol understood that. Of course, this was before things changed.”
“Nothing lasts forever, does it?” Aya’s tone was suddenly melancholy.
“You’re right friend, nothing does. Ruination came. When the people stormed the Arbor Palace, they trampled the candle-flowers and tore them from the walls. They stomped on the vines with no care at all. They hacked at the tear-flowers in the garden. They piled the portraits into a bonfire. I begged them not to. I fell to my knees before them, and they struck me down. The apocalyptics had been right: we are at the end of things. Our only hope is to fall prostrate, to recognize our insignificance, to give up our petty interests and desires, to beg forgiveness from the universe. This is the message I will bring to the Teeming Cities. I shall spread word of the coming apocalypse.”
Max felt uncomfortable at the story, which rattled against his convictions, challenged his views. But history wasn’t perfect. People searching for a pure revolt, morally clean, without compromises, were pedants who wanted nothing at all. Still, it was painful to hear.
“You hope to convince them that the world will suffer another cataclysm?” said Aya to the Pilgrim.
“Convince? No. I don’t think they will listen. Like everywhere, in the Teeming Cities people are caught up in
the needs of everyday life, their little affairs. It narrows their vision, like blinkers on a horse.”
The joker god returned. “That’s the spirit.”
The apocalyptic nodded earnestly. “Sometimes you do what you must.”
They continued in silence for a while, the sounds of the horse’s hooves falling on the uneven road, the wind softly brushing Aya’s face, the smell of the wild in the air. Far away, Max thought he heard a sound: a soft booming, carried on the air. But as he strained to hear, the sound drifted away.
“And you?” said the Pilgrim. “Why do you travel south?”
“My love lived there once. Out in the wilderness. I’m going to see her resting place.”
“Brave, to live out in the wild alone.”
“She could take care of herself, believe me,” said Aya.
In a copse of trees nestled in the elbow of two hills, something moved. At first, there was just a flitter in the darkness, then the leaves on a bush rustled, then all was still. Aya seemed unfazed, and the Pilgrim was of course unaware.
—Did you see that?—said Max.
Aya didn’t even bother to answer, and Max’s imagination began to run wild. There were all kinds of animals in these hills: mountain lions and brown bears, and yet more frightening creatures.
—You should offer to take him to Lixus, at least—said Max. —Show him you have a heart. He needs our help, for he cannot see, and it’s not safe out here.
His sufferings are self-imposed. He could take the bandage from his eyes. In any case, his concerns are not mine.
—Is this always the final effect of the use of the prime language then? That you become nothing but selfish?
Aya was silent, and Max knew he had hit home. He caught a glimpse of an entire complex of Aya’s memories and feelings: the increasing distance from life caused by the Art, the slow alienation of the Magi from one another, the resulting wars, the grief at the loss of their perfect world, and, most cruelly, Aya’s increasing distance from Iria: their fragmented conversations, their cross-purposes.
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