The Minders’ home looks the same as Prime’s, so much so that my skin pebbles to goose bumps as we approach. Instead of bones, however, the monks have painted the stones of the ziggurat in bright colors, abstract patterns on the stair-stepped blocks that seem to shift and change as we come closer. A man and a woman, both in the same brown robes Harak had worn, stand watch at the base of the ramp. They straighten up at our approach.
“You want to do the honors?” I ask Zarun.
He makes a sour face, but nods. When he speaks in Jyashtani, I do my best to follow, though the pidgin I’ve learned aboard Soliton is inadequate to the task.
“Greetings!” he says. “We are something from the something.”
I glance at Meroe, pleadingly, and she leans close.
“He says we’re the ambassadors of the newcomers,” she says. Then, as Zarun continues, “He says Harak visited us, and now we’d like to speak to their leader.”
The two guards look at one another, then make a deep bow. The woman speaks, rapid-fire, and Meroe translates, “She says we’re welcome here, and Gragant will be happy to see us.”
“That was easy.” I feel tense, full of nervous energy. “So far, so good, right?”
* * *
The guards lead us inside, through a series of high-ceilinged halls, similar to the building we call home. The Minders have made it their own, however, laying down reed mats to soften the floors and stringing enormous tapestries over the stone walls. These hangings have no pictures, only long lines of text, written in a highly stylized hand with a calligraphy brush. I can’t make heads or tails of it, but I assume it’s religious.
There are more of them than I had guessed, at least a hundred spread throughout the rooms we pass through. In the first chamber, large groups are engaged in some kind of quiet, contemplative activity, either prayer or meditation or both, sitting in ranks with their heads bowed. The second room is given over to more energetic pursuits. The monks, stripped to loincloths—men and women both, I can’t help but note—move in unison through complicated forms that seem half dance, half combat training. Beyond them, a pair are actually fighting, a young man and woman exchanging blows under the careful eye of an older trainer. The boy gets in a few punches solid enough to make me wince, but the girl gets her leg around his and sends him spinning to the floor, then immediately follows him down, her body laid across his and her elbow pressed against his throat. The referee barks something that sounds encouraging.
Our guide speaks, and Meroe raises her eyebrows.
“That’s him,” she says, nodding at the judge now offering the winded boy a hand up. “That’s Gragant.”
I realize that, somehow, I’d been expecting someone older, a white-bearded ancient like the monks in dramas back home. But, of course, Gragant had been put aboard Soliton and accepted by its angels not much more than five years ago—by his own personal time, at least—and so he doesn’t look much more than twenty-five. He isn’t as tall or broad as Harak, and his skin is darker, closer to Meroe’s dark brown than Zarun’s copper. But he has the same chiseled look, muscles toned to a fine definition I’m more used to seeing on heroic statues. He has the same blue eyes as Zarun, and a mop of dark, curly hair above a surprisingly open-looking face.
When he sees us, he sets the boy on his feet, pats him on the shoulder, and gives the girl a word of encouragement. Only then does he come over, accepting the deep bow of our guide with a wave. He speaks in Jyashtani, and then, to my relief, in a more understandable pidgin. It’s not quite the same mix I’m used to from Soliton, but it’s got enough Imperial in it that I can understand.
“You must be our new friends,” he says. “Welcome to the Harbor. I am Gragant of the Minders.” He gives a very slight bow.
“Thank you.” I return the bow, to the same degree. “My name is Gelmei Isoka, sometimes called Deepwalker. These are members of our Council, Meroe hait Gevora Nimara and Zarun.”
“Do you require water? Food?”
I shake my head. “Thank you, no.”
“Straight to business, then.” He smiles slightly. “I assume it’s business that has brought you here. You don’t seem like a seeker of truth. Though I would be delighted to be wrong.” He spreads his hands. “The Divine Being is ever welcoming.”
“Business, for now,” I tell him.
“Though I would be interested in hearing more about your theology,” Meroe pipes up, then adds, at a glance from me, “sometime later.”
“Perhaps we should speak privately?” I say.
Gragant laughs. “I have no secrets from my people, I assure you. But if it would make you more comfortable, by all means. Follow me.”
He leads us out of the training chamber and down a narrow hall, accepting a spare robe from an acolyte on the way. I watch him as he shrugs into it, unable to refrain from a little … aesthetic appreciation of the play of muscles in his broad back. But there’s something about him that unnerves me—he’s too confident, moving with the easy grace of someone absolutely sure of his place in the world. Maybe that’s what faith does for you.
We end up in a small chamber with a high, Jyashtani-style table and simple wooden benches. Robed servants bring in jugs of water and clay mugs, then bow and withdraw. Gragant takes a seat, his posture achingly correct, and I settle myself uncomfortably on the too-hard surface. One thing I’ll never understand about Jyashtani—what’s wrong with a nice soft cushion on the floor?
“I’ve taken the liberty of summoning Harak,” Gragant says. “I hope you don’t mind. I often consult him before making decisions.”
“Of course,” I say.
Then, absurdly, I run out of words. This would be the point where I should start negotiating, which is what I actually came here for, but it seems ridiculous to just present my demands like I’m at the corner grocer. Why would he listen?
Fortunately, I brought Meroe, and she smoothly takes over. She says something in Jyashtani, fast enough that I can’t follow it, and Gragant replies, sounding surprised. They share a laugh, and Meroe shifts back to pidgin.
“I’m curious,” she says, “about the exercises you were overseeing back in the hall. I didn’t know Jyashtani monks were so … martial.”
Gragant laughs again, though I fancy there’s a slight edge to his smile. “We are unusual in that respect, I must admit. Our faith instructs us that closeness to the Divine Being comes from perfection of the self, both the body and the spirit. The techniques we teach are for honing oneself to that ideal.”
That explains all the rippling muscles around here. “Do you also use them for self-defense?” I ask, trying to make a contribution.
“If necessary,” Gragant says. His tone is a teacher fondly correcting an errant pupil. “But that is not their purpose.”
I feel myself bristling, and take a deep breath, striving for calm. This kind of self-confidence has always sat poorly with me. For a moment, I’m back with Kuon Naga, his spectacles aglow with lamplight, carefully peeling oranges with his long fingernails as he narrates how my sister will be kidnapped and raped if I refuse him. My throat goes tight, and I grip the edges of the table.
It’s not the same, I tell myself. I fight the urge to get in Gragant’s face, rattle his cage, unsettle him. Focus, Isoka. Follow Meroe’s lead.
The awkward moment is broken by the arrival of Harak. I’d forgotten the sheer size of the man, a head taller than Gragant and equally well-muscled. Gragant gets to his feet to greet him, and I admit to a moment of surprise when they kiss, briefly but passionately. Zarun catches me staring, and shoots me an amused look.
“Welcome,” Harak says, his pidgin more halting and awkward than Gragant’s. “I hope you have come to join our community, as I offered.”
“Not to join, I’m afraid,” Meroe says. “But we were hoping to work with you. Isoka believes we can help each other.”
“Oh?” Gragant says.
“You knew Silvoa,” I say.
He nods. “I did indeed.”
>
“She believed that if an Eddica adept were able to use the access points at all three great ziggurats, they could take control of the Harbor.”
His eyes narrow. “I’m surprised you’re aware of that.”
“I spoke to Catoria about it.” Silvoa’s spirit had filled in the gaps, too, though I wasn’t about to tell him that.
“Ah, Catoria.” Sadness crosses Gragant’s face. “She still hates me, I assume.”
“She does.”
He sighs. “I pray for the Divine Being to release her from her pain, but I fear she clings to it too closely. She’s told you our sad little history, then.”
“More or less. You must have believed Silvoa’s theory, since you went with her to Prime’s lair.”
“I…” Gragant looks uncharacteristically uncertain. “At the time, I would have believed anything Silvoa believed. She was … unique. Her loss broke us all, I think.”
Harak puts a huge hand on Gragant’s shoulder, says a few words in Jyashtani. Gragant nods, and takes a deep breath.
“I assume,” he says, “if you’re asking me this, then there must be one among your people with the Eddica gift.”
“There is,” I say. “Me.”
For a moment, everything is quiet. Harak looks between me and Gragant, his broad face suddenly unfriendly. Gragant himself has the expression of someone who has just solved a tricky puzzle.
“So,” he says. “You want to use the access points and take control of the city. And then?”
“Destroy Prime, to begin with. I’m sure that would help all of us.”
“Unless you set yourself up in his place,” Gragant says. “You have to understand the danger here. Without the labor of the angels, we would all struggle to feed ourselves. If you were to damage the system, even by accident, it could mean disaster. And, at worst…” He shrugs. “You could starve us with a thought. Or simply send the angels to destroy us.”
Meroe breaks in. “You were willing to help Silvoa try to do the same thing.”
“I trusted Silvoa,” Gragant snaps. “So far, I have no reason to extend the same trust to you. I ask you again—having achieved the power you seek, what would you do with it?”
“Leave,” I say. “I would take Soliton and return to the world. Anyone who wanted to would be welcome to join me. You certainly don’t have to worry about my setting myself up as a tyrant here.”
Harak rumbles something in Jyashtani. Zarun, clearing his throat, translates, “He says that would be against the Divine Being’s plan.”
“Indeed,” Gragant says. “We were delivered here to further pursue our own perfection. How else to explain this place but a miracle?”
“A miracle infested with walking corpses?” I raise my eyebrows. “Are monsters part of the divine plan?”
“That is a matter of some contention,” Gragant says. “Some have said they are intended to prevent us from becoming too complacent, here in the Divine Being’s chosen country. Others assert that they are a trial for us to overcome, to show we truly deserve paradise. Either way, though, they are a problem for those who have proven themselves worthy to attend to.”
“Fine,” I say. My patience is wearing thin. “How do I prove myself worthy?”
Another pause, and a look passes between the two men. Harak bends to Gragant’s ear, and speaks quietly. Gragant shakes his head, then whispers something that makes Harak’s face turn sour.
“It is not right,” the big man says, in halting pigeon. “She is not … of us.”
“Neither were you, once,” Gragant says.
“I saw the truth,” Harak says. “She sees nothing.”
“The Divine Being may use many instruments,” Gragant says. “Even unbelievers, should it suit the divine plan.”
Harak falls silent, but doesn’t look any happier.
“Well?” I prompt.
“I can offer you a chance to prove the righteousness of your cause,” Gragant says. “If you best me in a trial, then we will know the Diving Being looks on you favorably.”
I have to force myself not to grin.
* * *
“I don’t like it,” Meroe says. We’re alone in the room now with Zarun, the two Minders having left to make preparations.
“Don’t like it?” I got up from the awkward bench as soon as Gragant did, and now I find myself pacing the room, stretching my arms and trying to work the ongoing ache of powerburn from my muscles. “It’s the best chance we’re going to get. If I beat him, these mad monks will have to admit their god wants them to help us.”
“We don’t know what Gragant’s Well is,” Zarun says.
“I fought Ahdron in the ring,” I say. “I fought the Butcher. You think he’s likely to be worse?”
“I’m more worried about what happens if you kill him,” Meroe says.
I wave dismissively. “He didn’t say the fight was to the death.”
“That doesn’t mean much,” Meroe says. “We don’t know what we’re getting into.”
“It’s worth the risk.”
“Isoka…”
Catching her expression, I glance at Zarun. “Can you give us a moment?”
Amused, he retreats to the other side of the room. I pull Meroe to the wall and lower my voice. “What’s wrong?”
“You’re doing it again,” she says. “Taking on all the risk.”
“I don’t have a choice. Time—”
“I know time is running out,” Meroe says. “Zarun could fight Gragant, you know.”
“I … I don’t know if the Minders would accept that.”
“Neither do I,” Meroe says. “But it never even occurred to you, did it?”
“No,” I admit. “I don’t want to ask someone else to do my fighting for me.”
“Sometimes you have to.” Meroe runs her fingers through her hair and sighs. “You think I want to be the one who always says ‘wait, stop, it’s too risky’?”
“I’m taking responsibility for the crew,” I say. “That’s what you wanted.”
“Charging headlong into every fight isn’t the same thing as taking responsibility.” Meroe sets her jaw. “Gods know I have selfish reasons to keep you intact, but have you thought about what this plan of yours means? If we need an Eddica adept to use the access points, what are we supposed to do if something happens to you?”
“That’s—” I pause. “I hadn’t thought about that.”
Meroe smiles ruefully. “I know. Just…”
“Be careful?”
“Gods, I’m tired of saying it.” Meroe leans forward, resting her forehead against mine. “You know you can rely on us, when you need to. Me, Zarun, the others.”
“I know.” I kiss her, quickly. “Next time, I promise you get to fight the crazy monk for me.”
“I think our hosts are returning,” Zarun says.
Meroe and I pull apart, and a moment later two robed monks enter. They bow, and one of them says, “If you are ready, we will escort you to the site of the trial.”
“I’m as ready as I’m going to get,” I say. “Lead the way.”
* * *
Questions start to rise in my mind when, after passing through a maze of corridors, we leave the great ziggurat altogether. It’s just past noon, and the sun beats down brutally on the western face of the stone building, though none of the monks seem uncomfortable.
“The trial is outside?” I ask our escort.
She nods. “It is not far. An hour’s walk.”
“An hour?” I look at Meroe, who shrugs and mouths, Don’t ask me.
Wherever we’re going, then, it’s well away from the ziggurat. And apparently we won’t be going alone, either. A good thirty monks fall in behind us, loping across the forest floor in studied silence. I wonder if they’re an honor guard, or watchmen to make sure I don’t change my mind. Maybe both.
We walk almost due west, which surprises me as well. The Minders’ great ziggurat is the westernmost of the three, so we’re headed away from the c
enter of the ancient city. The forest quickly gives way to more fields, then a rocky scrubland. The monks keep up a steady pace, though we’re all sweating in the sun.
Then the light starts to change. At first I’m sure I’m imagining it. Shadows blur, as if the sun were obscured by thick clouds, though it still hangs over us as bright as ever. Ahead, the color of the sky changes, shifting from deep blue to a washed-out gray. And the Eddica currents, ever-present in the Harbor, are closer to the surface here. I can feel them under strain, creaking like the timbers of a house in a windstorm.
In the distance, something gleams bright. I can’t quite wrap my mind around what I’m looking at, but Meroe gets it.
“It’s the ice,” she whispers, sounding awed.
I remember the Harbor, seen from the outside: a gray dome, carved out from a continent of ice and snow. Now we’re approaching the same barrier, from the inside. The monks have brought us to the edge of the world.
Gragant and Harak are waiting only a few yards from the barrier. It’s almost invisible up close, like fog, a translucent gray smear in the air. Just beyond it, the ground is covered in snow, only a few inches right at the border but deepening rapidly. Huge chunks of ice gleam in the sun, jutting out of the soft whiteness like bones poking up through soil. Farther off, great hills rise, then mountains, blued by distance.
For a moment, I find myself shocked into silence. It’s both the scale of the ice—enough ice to bury Kahnzoka a hundred times over—and the corresponding scale of what the ancients have built. I’d thought that Soliton was a wonder, a ship faster than anything afloat and bigger than a mountain, metal-hulled and unstoppable. The Harbor, by contrast, seemed like a city—ancient and strange, obviously, but still something on a mortal scale. Now, for the first time, I realize that of the two, the Harbor is an incomparably more spectacular demonstration of power. To take that blasted arctic wasteland and turn it into a tropical jungle—well, it’s no wonder that the Minders saw the hand of their god in it.
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