A Broken Paradise (The Windows of Heaven Book 3)

by Powderly Jr. , K. G.

  “So we’ll overhaul them.” Na’Amiha pulled another trunnel from her satchel.

  “It’s not that easy. Lubrication’s going to be a problem after World-end because there won’t be any great trees left, except for new saplings. We may have to adapt to something like whale oil—which means a whole world of mess. We may not be able maintain them after that, if we can’t find the correct ores quickly or make a new lubricant. We already have all sorts of tooling stored with the manual scrolls on how to use it, but none of it’s any good without the skills and resources.”

  “I can’t imagine a world without trees.” Na’Amiha sighed, as if she had heard nothing but her son’s mention of their disappearance.

  “‘Peti says they should grow to half-size within two hundred years. By the time he and I start to go a little gray around the sides, the forests could even be back to normal. I hope he’s right.”

  “I won’t live to see it.”

  Khumi hung his head. It was the same as with Tiva—he always somehow said the wrong things to the women in his life. Often he thought it safer to say as little as possible. “I’m sorry, Mahm. I should have thought…”

  “No, son, don’t you be sorry. I should be more grateful that I’m going to survive and live out my years.”

  He smiled for her. “It’ll be a different world for all of us.”

  T

  iva and Sutara operated the steam-driven applicator from the port bow scaffolding against the outer hull waterline to lay a thick new layer of kapar cement. Sutara monitored the pressure and flow gauges, while Tiva guided the spread nozzle in long even strokes as her husband had taught her.

  Sutara signaled Tiva, and then killed the pressure to secure the flow valves of the pumiced glakka tar and natron tanks. She vented the excess high-pressure steam through the spread nozzle to clear out the remaining kapar so it did not harden in the line. Tiva held the applicator low, below the scaffolding to keep it from whipping out of her hands and scalding either her or her work partner. Several hired laborers pulled in the line as it went slack.

  “Let’s take our mid-day,” Sutara called down, her dull walnut hair hanging in limp strands over her eyes.

  Tiva gazed up at her, as the breeze parted Sutara’s hair to reveal her face. Pale by Seer Clan norms, Iyapeti’s wife definitely showed her mother’s Khavilak ancestry. Large sad eyes with a petite nose and chin, Sutara’s thin lips did not even bother to maintain a brittle smile anymore, the way she often had before Tiva had thrown in her lot with Khumi’s family. Whether her sister-in-law’s smile had been fake before, or Sutara simply found it harder to smile in the years since her mother’s murder, Tiva didn’t know. She chose to assume the best—that the brittle smile had been genuine, and that Sutara’s grief had changed her somehow.

  Maybe she thinks no feeling means no hurting. If so, I should tell her I’ve tried that, and it doesn’t work. Tiva nodded back to Sutara, and followed her around the drydock to the ramp just off the starboard bow.

  What about my smile? Tiva wondered. I need to decide about what T’Qinna said. I have to make sure. It’ll only get harder if I put it off.

  Tiva said, “Look, ah, I’ve got to do something. Maybe you should find the others, and start eating without me.”

  Sutara dipped her head, and strolled toward the covered pavement where they took their workday meals.

  Tiva climbed to the third deck scaffold, and entered the ship through its huge cargo bay hatch. She knew she would find A’Nu-Ahki inside the bows, putting the last coats of varnish on the shelving in the ship’s library.

  The inside “overhead” already roofed the forward portion of the ship, though the outer covering had yet to be laid on top of it, and the mezzanine above. Tiva looked up, and saw Iyapeti hanging from his elastic vine harness while he rigged the drydock arch lanyards for that work. She moved under the inner covering, and saw that the unfinished forward living quarters needed only their final upholstering, and wiring for the quickfire pearls Khumi and U’Sumi had begun to install.

  When she reached the portal separating the mess deck from the library, she stopped, and peeked inside. Good, he’s alone.

  A’Nu-Ahki leaned over a table, studying some mechanical drawings.

  “My Father,” she announced her presence.

  He looked up. “Yes, Tiva, what can I do for you?”

  “I’m troubled by something you said on the night you took me in.”

  “What is that?”

  “You and I both know that it had to have been that dragon priest who killed Sutara’s mother. I don’t think my old friends really knew what he was doing—they may be many things, but not murderers. Varkun is different, though. He can control things. He can control them.”

  “I consider him the most probable suspect—the only suspect actually,” he said. “Unfortunately, the magistrate could find no direct proof linking him to the crime. But you are right.”

  “You said that E’Yahavah considered my life to be worth the trade of another ‘supremely important life’ after I told you I wasn’t worth dying for.” Tears began to build up behind her eyes. She fought to keep them from washing away her composure.

  “That’s true.”

  She finally spat it out; “Did some dark trade go on? Is E’Yahavah really in some kind of secret agreement with the Basilisk? Are we just here to be playthings for them both? Was Sutara’s mother fed to the Dragon so I could be rescued? You are a man of great power, my Father. I saw you chase away two Watchers! How do I know you don’t have other powers as well?”

  A’Nu-Ahki’s eyes melted as he left his table to stand before her trembling face. “No, child, it’s nothing like that, though I can understand how the Basilisk has been using it to torment you—the timing works in his favor. A lot happened that night. Be assured that Galkuna rests in the Comfort Fields. No Tiva, the life that shall pay for yours has yet to die. His story is written in the Star Signs of the First Heaven, and mentioned originally in Atum-Ra’s tablets—surely your father must have taught it to you?”

  “My father taught me nothing but empty words and ceremonies. We read Seti’s Code, and chanted Q’Enukki’s antiphons, but we knew little of what they really meant.”

  “I see. Did he never teach of the Woman’s Seed?”

  “Yes; the Seed is supposed to come, judge the world with millions of his holy ones in clouds of fire, and then lead us back to Aeden, or something like that. I had to memorize many prayers about him. But they were just a bunch of holy words that made little sense to me.”

  “Well, his judgment is a large part of it, but there’s much more. According to Atum, the Basilisk will bruise the Promised One’s heel. Yet in the end, the Seed shall crush the Dragon’s head—the real Dragon—not some poor beast bred for ritual arena sport, or hunted down in the Haunted Lands by your father’s men.”

  “How?”

  A’Nu-Ahki guided her over to some seat cushions by his water bag. “The constellation of the Ram speaks of the ultimate sacrifice yet to come. Exactly how it will happen, we do not know. Under the Ram is the constellation of the Enthroned Woman, pictured earlier under the Fish as the Chained Woman. The sacrifice of this Ultimate Ram frees the Woman from her bonds. He is that ‘supremely important life’ I mentioned. The Woman represents all those who truly trust in E’Yahavah’s Ram, or at least in what E’Yahavah tells them. Do you see how it tells a story to you in particular?”

  Tiva sat down by him. “I’m not sure I know what you mean.”

  A’Nu-Ahki nodded. “Were you not a woman in the chains of fear all your life? Yet now you are free. Your freedom—all our freedom—will be paid for with a life, yes. But not Galkuna’s. How could Galkuna, who had just as much need to be unchained as yourself, be traded for you?”

  “But Sutara’s mother was good, and kind, and helped you with the Work! I stole away your son and hated E’Yahavah, and mocked you for years! How can you even compare us?”

  “It doesn’t matter. I’
m as much a ‘woman in chains who’s been set free’ as the both of you.”

  Tiva giggled at the image of A’Nu-Ahki dressed up as a woman in chains, but chased the thought from her mind.

  He smiled. “What I mean is that all people are in the same situation. It’s not only the things we do that the sin of our first parents corrupted, but what we are. The Curse affected everything we can see, and we are all part of that. Some go lower in what they do, by nature of what they are, than others. Yet all are born unclean from Atum, and do unclean things because of it—some have one form of unclean desire, another has a different uncleanness—yet all still need the sacrificial Ram foretold in the stars. So now, Woman who was chained to fear, but is set free—shall we call the two women in the sky the constellations of Tiva From-Slave-To-Throne?”

  Tiva nodded through her tears.

  T

  arbet hardly ever slept any more. If not from the incessant noise of rabid anti-war protests outside the palace walls, it came from inside his mind. Every time he closed his eyes, he could still see the shape of the giant fire mushroom imprinted on the back of his eyelids in garish negative purple. It always seemed to have tormented faces woven together into its roiling flames. I have seen what Tubaal-qayin Dumuzi only heard about. What sort of divine visitation consumes islands? No wonder the Emperor went soft in his head at the end. He was a metalsmith—an engineer. Did he somehow comprehend the inner workings? Did his knowledge drive him mad?

  The Archon thrust away his silk sheets, and flew up from the bed. Spulpa’s mountainous form emitted a sleepy groan at his motion, and then settled back to a snoring slumber.

  Outside, the roar of angry mobs muted into background noise.

  He wrapped himself in a robe, and hurried down to his private study, wishing instead that he had the courage to go call on the girl he had given permanent residence in the guest suite. They had become good friends, and Tarbet had hired her as an assistant. But strangely enough, they did not sleep together. Luwinna’s face could still bring out the best in him, even if she could not give him rest on long sleepless nights.

  Could enough of the Fire of the Gods massed together cause a literal World-end? Has A’Nu given man the power to be author of his own judgment and execution? Tarbet resented how this forced him to rethink his position on something so basic this late in life.

  He sat down behind his reading table, and looked for something to divert his mind from the implications. A mountain of reports sat waiting for him. Most of the official courier scrolls came from the various observers he had sent out into his realm to watch for Avarnon-Set’s new movement of spirits. So far, the only signs seemed to be coming out of Akh’Uzan—more World-end fever! All I need is for the radicals in Akh’Uzan to unite with the Orthodox holy war crowd! Wait a minute, what’s this?

  Tarbet lifted one of the report scrolls from Akh’Uzan, and read it more carefully from its center.

  A new thing is happening. Per your instructions, we have not followed too closely the World-end Literalist sects. Many in the youngest generation of near-marrying age have turned from the beliefs of their parents, and even from those of the newer “Lit” sects that still follow the World-end teachings of Q’Enukki, but without the strict moral code imposed by the elders.

  At first, we thought this was just another rash of excess from the small community of conscript refugees known to inhabit the foothills. However, credible witnesses, including me, have seen many divine lights in the area now for a number of years. One of our operatives recently attended a gathering at a place called Grove Hollow, and saw remarkable things.

  His report was not terribly coherent at first. The sect likely subjected him to a mind-altering potion during the proceedings, which appeared to be a cross between an orgy and a religious ceremony similar to those of Far East and Far South primitives, but less formal. It seems that a Watcher, or some other heavenly creature, may have graced this event. The details get fuzzy at this point—lots of lights and flying disks with eyes. My man assures me that it was not all an illusion. The divine being spoke to him, telling him about his mission. It then gave details that only we would know about —some of which were unknown to my operative. I conclude the encounter was genuine.

  The Imperial Sky-lords reported no flights near Akh’Uzan at the time. I already wrote that I too have witnessed heavenly lights over the region.

  My man suggests that we do not make our interest in this new cult known to its adherents at this time, and I concur. The “Hollowers”—as the locals call them—view the archonic hierarchy with suspicion, and contempt almost as strong as what they have for the Lit sects. Only time and maturity will soften this. The divine messenger did not give away my operative’s cover to the others, and did not seem hostile to our intentions, however.

  We can plant members inside the group to facilitate a gradual shift in their attitudes without destroying what attracts the young people of the region to them. We know one girl in particular who is close to one of the informal leaders. She comes from the right background, and even shows signs that she still might hold to some of the archonic traditions. We plan to approach her soon. I will keep you informed of the results.

  Tarbet let the papyrus drop back to the table and roll onto the floor.

  “Well that’s that,” he muttered to himself. “I guess we just give the vine plenty of sunlight and room to grow. Soon we will see what kind of fruit it yields. If only my problems with Samyaza were that simple.”

  T

  iva found the view from the central ziggurat breathtaking—she had never been up to Floodhaven before. Below the stepped pyramid, a series of steep-roofed houses, stone huts, shops, and dormitories lined the North N’Zar crest. Drainage channels grooved the middle of each street, spanned by covered bridges or tunnels; beyond these, far below, stretched the valley of Akh’Uzan in patch quilt greens and hazy golds.

  On her left, southward, rose the ancient altar peak where A’Nu-Ahki made sacrifice with Muhet’Usalaq before receiving the first of his World-end revelations. He had mentioned that Floodhaven’s elder, Nestrigati, had ordered the construction shifted northward to accommodate the holy ground.

  Tiva could not understand the relationship between the two elders. On the one hand, her father-in-law was adamant that World-end would destroy everything that lived on dry land—including Nestrigati’s haven. On the other, A’Nu-Ahki seemed to have only good things to say about the man. It seemed to her that if Nestrigati would not obey the one whom Archon Iyared, Lumekki, and the other seers had prophesied would be the Comforter from E’Yahavah A’Nu then he was no better than her father was.

  Still, A’Nu-Ahki kept visiting him—each time with a friendship gift. This time it was a cart of fresh baked bread. Tiva had volunteered to go along, and tend the quasi-reptilian pack beast. Actually, she and Khumi were fighting again, and she had wanted to get away from the drydock.

  He shouldn’t have been staring at Tsulia that way in the market place! She dresses like such a slut nowadays! Tiva felt herself sinking back into their morning tiff. Then the truth hit her. She dresses as I used to—like Khumi still seems to want me to. Maybe I could when we’re alone. Oh, who am I kidding? He doesn’t even look at me when we’re alone anymore! Maybe I really have let myself go…

  She turned away from the ziggurat’s railing, and scuffed toward the main entrance. She could hear the voices of A’Nu-Ahki and Nestrigati in the midst of some heated debate inside. She tried to resist the temptation to eavesdrop. Yet when her morning’s argument began to replay itself in her mind, she decided that eavesdropping was the lesser of two evils.

  Nestrigati’s voice almost pleaded. “I’ve prayed about it, my old friend. I simply cannot believe that E’Yahavah would destroy us. I mean, what are we to do anyway; build a fleet of ships down in the valley? The drydock alone took you almost as long as the vessel itself did.”

  A’Nu-Ahki sounded grieved rather than angry. “I’ve come this last time because I ow
e you so much, Nestrigati, both for the lives of my father and son, and for standing by me in the Haunted Lands long ago. Henumil and his cronies would have had the clan in violent revolt if not for you. I want you to know that whatever you decide, I will always be grateful…”

  The Floodhaven Elder cut him off. “Then why do you come up here to undermine my work? What have I done to make you hate me so?”

  “I don’t hate you. E’Yahavah said unequivocally that ‘every living thing on dry land shall die.’ That leaves no logical option for a mountain haven. I don’t want to undermine you. Those are simply his exact words. As far as Iyared’s and Lumekki’s prophecies about me go—well, you know them as well as I do.”

  “Nu,” Nestrigati said with a conciliatory chuckle, “even in the Holy Writ there are times when the word ‘every’ does not mean every in the absolute sense. For example, when the heralds of Sa-utar went forth and, ‘read Seti’s Code to every man in the earth’ we know for a fact that they did not include the savage mottled tribes of the Far East, nor the Dragon covens of Zu in the North Mountains…”

  A’Nu-Ahki tried to interject, “Please, I’m begging you…

  Nestrigati spoke over him: “Even the Seers admit as much later when they mention the men who ‘had not heard the reading of the Code, and lived in darkness.’ I believe the prophecies, too. I just don’t think there is anything there that absolutely demands we should all attach ourselves to your household—beyond the established fosterage to Muhet’Usalaq, and other than in friendship—to build ships. You are A’Nu’s Comforter—I have always affirmed this. Yet what does that mean exactly?”