A Broken Paradise (The Windows of Heaven Book 3)

by Powderly Jr. , K. G.

  Tiva didn’t turn. “I’ll be twenty-three,” she said. Maybe he’s just being nice—he often is, you know—when you least expect it.

  “Hardly a little girl anymore; you are almost a ‘tween-ager. I will be sure to bring you a nice present—may the Divine Name smile on you.”

  “Thank you,” she said, and then took off down the hill toward the village as fast as her clumsy ankle-length frock allowed.

  Tiva’s father had built his house connected to the local altar, which had been around long before the shrine. A drab structure of mud brick; it was always the first thing she saw when the hillside trail broke through the trees into a meadow, before the old section of the village. Then she remembered how bad an idea it was to hurry home until she absolutely had to, and slowed her pace. Instantly she regretted it, but not enough to walk fast again. Some things were less unpleasant than others were.

  The meadow flowers split open around her in mad red slashing eruptions. She meandered through them without looking—somehow they always hurt her eyes. Their odor gagged her like cloying perfume on the colorfully dressed dead woman she had once secretly watched her father and mother embalm for funeral rites. Still, it was the lesser unpleasantness.

  Tiva gazed past her home at the newer part of town, to avoid looking at the flowers. She didn’t know why the big pink-red blossoms should bother her more than the sight of the ziggurat beyond the brook; only that they did. The Archonic immigrants built the stepped pyramid only recently, one side to house the new boys’ academy, the other for the girls. Tiva’s first month there had gone poorly. As far as she knew, nothing bad had ever happened to her in the meadow flowers—they just had revolting shapes like open sores.

  She hoped things would get better for her at the new school, once more people discovered who her father was. But that parent-inspired delusion died faster each time she thought it through. Being in charge of the Seer Clan Dragon-slayers was not the same as being big man of the valley. Not anymore, likely not since before Tiva was born. The Immigrant Quarter had grown larger than the old town, and the newcomers care nothing for sacred authority. The war also drove in more refugees every week.

  If the newcomers didn’t care that her father was Chief Dragon-slayer, they must have thought even less of him being Leading Priest of the Seer Clan. Her father had explained to her one night, before the war, how necessity had forced this double duty on him. It had been one of the rare moments of warmth between them, when he had actually seemed to confide something important to her. He had even squeezed her shoulder a little, and smiled briefly. Henumil, son of Karmis almost never smiled.

  The old Archon had recently excommunicated the Seer Clan—Tiva’s tribe—because of their views on the prophesied Divine judgments known as the World-ends.

  “If the regular priests refuse to make offerings for us, then sacrifices in the Clan must continue somehow,” Father had said, meeting her eyes with his in a way that had elated her. “I don’t think it is a coincidence that the Archon died of heart failure only three weeks after what he did to us.”

  Tiva figured her father was right. Why call a Divine judgment a “World-end” if it didn’t really mean that the world would actually end? Of course, there were two of them. She had never quite figured out how the world could end twice—wouldn’t the world ending once be final enough? Still, necessity had confirmed Tiva’s father as Leading Priest only recently.

  As an elder descended from Clan Urugim—one who had obeyed his ancestor’s command and made the famous exodus through the Haunted Lands—local leadership naturally fell to Henumil. Tiva’s family took great pride in this, although she suspected it had more to do with the slaughter of their people at the recent Battle of Balimar Straits than with her father’s actual status. Since his return from the Aztlan War six months ago, who else but Henumil was left of the original settlers?

  The Prime Zaqen’s sons were now all dead. A just punishment for welcoming that white witch daughter of Qayin into our midst, Tiva reasoned—more in imitation of her parents than from any personal malice.

  She held up the back of her hands to her face and thanked the Divine Name for their deep mahogany hue. Her mother had told her that the sons of Qayin were pale because their priests attached blood-sucking vipers to their children until they were old enough to marry.

  Sacrificial tradition said that the life of every living thing was in the blood. Tiva’s parents had taught her that the richer the life in the blood, the more it showed in the depth of reddish-brown in ones skin. The House of Henumil had particularly rich skin tone, even by regional standards. Qayin’s descendants, living far from the presence of E’Yahavah, were no doubt a lifeless lot. The White Witch had a few bastard sons, according to Henumil, but they were too young to serve as clan elders. Thus, the power had come to Tiva’s father, where it doubtless belonged.

  Fortunately for Henumil’s family, after the Seer Clan Regiment had taken such heavy casualties on the far side of the Straits, the tiny garrison left under Henumil’s command north of Ayar Khavil—on the near side—received hardship discharge from the new Archon and came home. The few survivors of Balimar Straits that had evaded capture also returned.

  Many of Tiva’s friends were now fatherless or missing older brothers. Even she understood vaguely how this created a major power shift in valley politics. She had hoped it would improve her school situation, but no luck there. In many ways, it only made things worse.

  Nobody knew Tiva paid any attention to Clan politics. It fascinated her how some men could tell others what to do and actually have them obey without question. Her father sometimes could tell the valley people what to do, but only in things like sacrifices, and among the Dragon-slayers.

  She always liked to listen in on meetings where her father bossed the slayers around—though she barely understood half of what she overheard. Tiva kept her meager awareness to herself, marshaled in her dark mental chambers along with anything else she found interesting or pleasurable. She knew only one thing with any certainty—fun things always got taken away.

  The erupting flowers ended at the edge of town, where she loped through the small garden, into her father’s house.

  Food already sat out on the low stone table.

  Tiva’s mother, a mousy woman with a pinched face, rushed the family through a supper of bread and lentil gruel.

  “No dawdling, now. You know how important it is that your father set a good example in the valley. He can’t be late…”

  Tiva had long ago assigned her mother’s voice the status of background noise. She understood things well enough without listening to the woman prattle for the next half-hour.

  Dragon-slayers, by tradition, could not meet in the altar sanctuary attached to the Leading Priest’s house, since they were technically men of war. Consequently, their lodge sat at the opposite end of town. This had Henumil rushing back and forth in a tizzy countless times a day.

  Tiva never understood this, since no one had seen a dragon on that side of the pass in over twenty-five years. Most of the dangerous kinds didn’t like hill country. Still, once a year, Henumil would lead a party through to the Haunted Lands to slay wurms and “keep up their skills.” Tiva figured that was the reason for tonight’s meeting.

  She had heard the men whispering rumors again around the altar just last week. The migratory shifts in the lower Gihunu River region that had drawn odd kinds of wurm, and other monsters, into the Haunted Lands during the past three hundred years might suddenly spill over into Akh’Uzan. She never could figure why that would happen—especially with the valley under the spiritual protection of the Holy Treasures. Each year it was the same thing, and it never made any sense to her.

  She suspected the men actually wished the creatures would come, just so they could have a reason to meet and joust. After all, didn’t every young groom want to prove to his bride that he really could bring down a gryndel to save the farm? Tiva smiled at that.

  “The boys are to be in bed b
y final twilight,” her mother said, as she made ready to leave with Father.

  Henumil added, “And no visitors outside our immediate family.” His huge dark face glowered, as if he knew that she sometimes signaled for Tsulia to come over and keep her company on meeting nights. The girls could see each other’s narrow windows across the Altar Square. A blue veil on Tiva’s sill meant it was safe to visit.

  Her heart sank.

  When Tsuli came over, the Fear had to stay away—at least until she left. It was a miracle that Father still let her play with the girl at all. Tsulia’s was one of the few Archonic Orthodox immigrant families that Henumil tolerated. They had moved to the Valley long before the more recent wave of “Orthies”—before there even was an Immigrant’s Quarter. Tiva’s father accepted them only because they respected Q’Enukki, and now the Shrine, in their “one humble disagreement” with the old Archon.

  Her parents left, and for a long time she silently watched her brothers play with their clay dragon-fighter figurines by the hearth light. After the mayhem of putting the boys to bed, she waited in silence with her eyes fixed on the dwindling flames in the fireplace.

  Outside the window, evening mists crawled over the ground like blind tormented wraiths searching for hidden passages to Under-world. She didn’t bother to keep the fire up, since it would only advertise her presence. Deep inside, she knew it wouldn’t matter.

  At last, she went into her own tiny bedchamber and slid under the torn goat skin covers to wait.

  She heard Yargat arrive to check in on them not long after. He slipped through the outer door flap like one of the mist wraiths.

  A moment later, he entered her bed alcove, as always, with a clandestine hush. He said nothing—he never says anything! It’s like I’m not even here! It’s a game and I don’t know the rules, or what it’s called! And I can’t ask—the Fear makes it so I can’t talk…

  Her shoulder froze when he touched it.

  T

  iva woke up in fits of hysterical bawling, which brought her parents into her tiny bedchamber.

  “What’s the matter this time, girl?” Her mother yelled, shaking her until she settled into a whimper.

  “I… I…” Tiva tried to explain, but nothing believable came to mind. She broke into more crying, and today could not stop no matter how much her parents threatened and demanded she control herself.

  “I—I’m sorry, Father!” She gulped between diaphragm spasms. Telling him her recurrent nightmares would do no good, since he would only try to interpret them.

  Tiva already knew the interpretation.

  If she claimed not to remember the dream, he would only interrogate her until she either “remembered” a fabrication, or confessed to some minor sin just to stop the inquisition. To speak of Yargat was unthinkable. Yargat is their Son of Promise!

  Henumil said, “You’ll not be caned this time. Clearly, you suffer some demon-spawned affliction. We must root it out if you are to find deliverance. You must go straight from class to the Shrine every day until I say otherwise. Only now, you must ask your brother to admit you to the inner sanctum. There you must read Seti’s Code and pray before the Cask of Atum-Ra. Ask First Father to reveal your uncleanness to you…”

  Tiva started panting until her head began to spin. I have an uncleanness! Does this mean I’ll be sent away, too?

  “…Do this daily until Atum-Ra speaks to your heart. Then report to both your brother and me that we may judge whether you have correctly understood the revelation or if you have made something up as I know you sometimes do. Now go get ready for your classes. Be quick!”

  The spasms slowly subsided after Father left the room. Tiva wanted to howl and shriek, but she suppressed the urge by biting her tongue until it bled into her mouth. She nearly grew sick from swallowing the blood. She wished her father had simply beaten her so she could have the excuse to let it all out. Better that than to kneel before the ancient coffin, with only a shriveled dead man inside for company. Better the welts and bruises than endlessly reading the stele’s boring pictograph warnings, seeking words from a Deity as cold and silent as the stone.

  Tiva dressed, as she settled toward the uncomfortable numbness that allowed her to function outwardly. Her lateness brought her to the breakfast rug after the boys had left. Mother had already begun to clean up.

  Most importantly, they were alone.

  Mother seemed slightly easier to talk to than Father did sometimes.

  Tiva’s mouth hurt. “M-Mother, I have a b-bad thing that happens…”

  “Hurry up and eat your gruel,” her mother cut her off. “I don’t talk to girls your age who still cry for no reason.”

  She flung her bowl down and left for the Girl’s Academy. It was a stupid idea anyway! She let the door skins flap behind her.

  As she walked, Tiva adjusted the puffy veil her parents made her wear; uselessly trying to find some angle where it might look a smad less moronic. Finally, she imagined that one garish tilt of the boxy frame hiding her hair might somehow make her appearance a little less dowdy. Then she scurried through the Altar Square toward the footbridge.

  The Girl’s Academy in the ziggurat on the Orthodox side of the brook had absorbed the old school run by the wife of the local Chief Acolyte. Tiva was still unsure how she felt about the way the Archon’s men had simply ordered her former school closed. On the bright side, she had a few new freedoms and a couple of new friends. The Seer Clan’s Chief Acolyte and his wife had gotten too busy to run the place properly anyway, first with the war, now with building their mountain flood haven against World-end.

  “Lit girl! Lit girl! Straight as a mare in a bit, girl!” came the chant from the Archonic side of the brook.

  On the other hand, Tiva didn’t stick out so much in the Seer Clan school. Nobody wore veils anymore!

  “Lit girl! Lit girl! Holes in her knees from the grit, girl!”

  Tiva reluctantly started across the bridge toward the band of Orthy girls who tormented her each day. Unlike Tsuli, these girls’ families had moved in from Sa-utar recently to escape big city crime or had come from other places nearer to the war. In a way, Tiva didn’t blame them. On some days, she would give anything to live on their side of the bridge.

  “Lit girl! Lit girl! Your pahpo don’t scare us a bit, girl!”

  So much for him being the big Dragon-slayer. Tiva walked into their shoves and took her morning punishment in passive silence.

  “Hey, World-end, what’s with the veil? Yer pahpo shave you fer bein’ out last night?” said one skinny imp who yanked at Tiva’s shawl.

  Tiva wanted to shout, Go on—rip it! Rip it off, and throw it away so I can be free like you! But that would have only made them laugh even more.

  A banshee screech ended their laughter. “Why don’t ya leave her alone, ya little scabs!”

  A lithe upper-classman with golden red hair, her arms resting defiantly on her tightly-wrapped hips barred their path.

  Tiva froze. It’s Farsa! I’m really dead now!

  Something did not add up.

  One of the Orthy girls shot back, “C’mon, Farsa, you’re a Khavilak! Why should you throw in with a Lit? Is she your bynti or something?”

  Tiva began to tremble, and went rigid to make it stop. Wild, popular, can-get- away-with- anything-and- come-out- of-it- smelling-like- a-lily- Farsa just took my side!

  Farsa smiled like a shark, as she sauntered over to the girl who had made the “bynti” comment. Tiva was certain the upper-classman would join the others and make things even worse. That smile proved it!

  “Nice braids, Yssa,” Farsa said to the loudmouth. She grabbed both ropes of hair and pulled Yssa’s face down into her rising knee with the speed of a spring-loaded trap, twisting the girl’s braids to send her flying into the dirt with bloody nose spraying. “Still think she’s my bynti, girls?”

  The others stood quiet. None of them helped Yssa back to her feet.

  Then Farsa pointed at Tiva, and said to t
hem, “Go to! The wench can’t help it her pahp’s the last gas bag of the flaming Lit rag! Do you pus-heads think anyone would dress that way if they had a real choice?”

  The pus-heads shook their braids sullenly.

  “So leave off her, or I’ll unwrap you all and squeeze yer bloody snot from yer noses into your hair too!” The redheaded titan kicked another one of Tiva’s tormentors in an ample rump and sent the rest running.

  Tiva rarely met the unexpected in her regimented life. Her tongue fumbled for the right words.

  Farsa spared her the indignity.

  “Hey bynt; name!”

  “Uh, Tiva. Thanks… I guess I’m not ready for some things…”

  Farsa scowled. “Go to, Uh-tiva, you Lits aren’t ready for nothin’ that has to do with the real world! You’ve hedged yerself off in this valley like the rest of creation’s just gonna quit and leave you be. Well, it won’t! It never does. By the way, are you a Wetter, a Flame Bag, an Earth Mouther, or a Trog?”

  It took Tiva several seconds to decipher the question. “If you mean which kind of World-end I think is coming; my father believes this valley will be protected from whatever it is by the Holy Treasures and the Sacred Casket in the Shrine of Atum-Ra.”

  “Oh yeah? Just what I mean. So, what yer tellin’ me is that some shiny trinkets and a crusty dead guy in a box’ll save ya from the end of the world? Makes perfect sense to me! We haven’t thought up a name for you folks yet. Guess that’s our fault; since you people’ve been around a while.”

  Tiva laughed long and loud. The more she cackled, the more it seemed to please her rescuer.

  “Look, ah, if those silly rags give you any more trouble, let me know,” Farsa mumbled, as she glanced sheepishly up and down the yard. The laughter was starting to draw attention.

  Tiva snorted, then mustered up her courage and asked, “Why d-did you help me? Khavilaks are even more against Lits than Orthies are.”

  The Redhead shrugged. “Khavilaks ain’t against nobody, bynti; it’s bad for business. That’s just a stupid thing people say around here cuz we don’t believe in all their end-of-the-world flap. I just felt sorry for ya, ‘kay! Don’t let them push you around like that!”