Speaking Bones, page 73
Théra ran up to the stretcher and fell upon the lifeless corpse, weeping. Adyulek had been the hardest among the Agon for her to win over, but she had also been her fiercest ally. They had traveled together for thousands of miles, survived countless dangers natural and Lyucu, won an inconceivable victory together. For her to die from a sneak attack by a worthless traitor was beyond unjust.
She turned to regard Volyu. There was no surprise or doubt in her gaze. The longer Volyu had gone on, the greater her unease had grown. Now his confidence throughout his performance made perfect sense. He knew Adyulek would never be able to stand with her, to add her voice to hers.
She staggered to her feet and grabbed a signaling spear. She would point it and bring down vengeance against the despicable killer who had been responsible for the deaths of those dear friends and family in Kiri Valley, who had scattered her sons to who knew where, who had murdered in cold blood the wisest—
“Votan-ru-taasa, votan-sa-taasa!” Volyu screamed, his features fixed in an expression of outrage. “So this is why the Dara witch isn’t afraid that her lies would be shattered by our beloved Adyulek! She murdered our noblest shaman just as she had murdered my dear, dear, foolish Takval. O gods! O gods!”
“You are the killer!” Théra screamed. She pointed her signaling spear at Volyu. “I call upon all Agon to seize this murderous traitor and bring him to justice!”
To her horror, none of the thanes and chiefs around the banquet fire moved to obey. The looks that greeted her were full of contempt, suspicion, even hatred.
“Still lying to the bitter end?” sneered Volyu. “As Afir once said upon uncovering Kikisavo’s betrayal: The one who raises a hue and cry is also most likely the thief herself. All true Agon know that to bury a corpse so that the deceased would be kept away from the Eye of Cudyufin, unable to complete pédiato savaga, is a desecration one wouldn’t even visit upon one’s worst enemies. Only a barbarian from Dara would do such a thing to her victim!”
Théra stared at Volyu. The depth of the man’s cunning and carefully woven plot took her breath away. “But why?” she asked plaintively.
The shouts of the furious thanes and chiefs demanding for her to be seized meant that only Volyu and her own guards could hear her.
“Why are you doing this? Surely you can’t really believe that they’ll make you the pékyu.”
Volyu locked gazes with her, the corners of his mouth curving up in a smile.
Théra pressed, making one last effort at persuasion. “You have no warriors of your own, and the best you can hope for is to become the puppet of another ambitious thane, a figurehead. A far worse fate awaits you because the truth of what you did at Kiri Valley won’t be hidden forever; the Lyucu will reveal who was the traitor.”
Volyu began to laugh, a noise that sounded like the howl of a wolf.
“If you destroy my authority tonight, you’ll do more than bring suffering to the surviving Lyucu,” pleaded Théra. “You’ll be plunging our own people into civil war as they contend for the prize of being the next Pride of the Scrublands. Please, don’t do this, uncle.”
Volyu stopped laughing. “What do I care if I cannot be the pékyu? What do I care what happens to the rest of the Agon?” he hissed, his voice as quiet as hers. “So long as you lose, I will have had my vengeance.”
He dodged out of the way of a furious club swing from Gozofin. “Help me!” he screamed at the top of his lungs. “The murderous foreign witch is trying to silence me for revealing her evil plot against Takval!”
Gozofin ran after Volyu, but Théra cried after him. “Don’t! The more we try to harm him, the more we give weight to his lies!” Reluctantly, Gozofin halted.
“His lies have already become the truth,” observed Çami, her hands balled at her sides helplessly. “How can these people be so foolish as to believe him? And after all you’ve done!”
Like a bolt of lightning piercing through the stormy murk, Çami’s words lit up the confusion in Théra’s heart. The Agon leaders present had all survived the Lyucu conquest while maintaining their hold over their own tribes; they weren’t fools. It was likely that only a few were truly outraged by the lies of Volyu. Most knew, in their hearts, that Théra was telling the truth. But they were happy to join the mob, act the fool, and pretend to believe Volyu because it offered a convenient excuse to maintain the status quo.
Without vengeance against the Lyucu, where would they get the slaves and cattle to reward their own followers and consolidate their own rule? Without incessant warfare against an enemy, how could they justify their own decades of cowardice and continuing privilege? Only by getting rid of her before she had established her authority firmly, before she could impose her will on the scattered tribes, could they maximize their own power, bought at the price of present suffering and future bloodshed.
The “Agon spirit” was a cover for their cynical calculus. She could never have persuaded them. She had nothing to offer them but ideals, and ideals rarely benefited those already in power.
Théra’s mother, Empress Jia, would have berated her for making this simple political mistake. Human nature was unchanging, whether in Dara or Ukyu-Gondé.
As Théra’s heart turned to ashes at this realization, Agon thanes and chiefs rushed forward, swarming around her in a disorderly mob. Behind them, Volyu shrieked and screeched.
“Seize her! Don’t be afraid! The Dara witch has no powers—she admitted as much when she said that she had no magic, but exploited the knowledge and skill of our own warriors in arucuro tocua. The murderer of Takval and Adyulek must not be the pékyu! The foreign seductress who tries to preach mercy, to turn us away from vengeance and justice, to defy the voices of the ancestors, to sap our Agon spirit must not be the pékyu! Agon kyo!”
Volyu’s hysterical cries were taken up by the mob, now completely inflamed by a combination of Volyu’s lies and their own selfish cravings.
“Agon kyo! Avenge Pékyu Takval!”
“The foreign witch must not be the pékyu!”
“Tear her tongue out! She has tried to deceive us!”
Çami, Gozofin, and Théra’s guards, drawn from the rebels who had fought with her against Cudyu and Tovo, formed a barrier around her with their bodies. They would breathe their last before they’d let Théra come to any harm.
Théra was despondent. She could see no way to get the situation under control. Gozofin and Çami had both wanted her to bring more warriors to the banquet, but she had thought such a naked display of her power an ill omen for a celebration intended to bring about peace. Once again, her inclination to mercy, to not shed blood, had placed her friends in danger.
Gods of Gondé, why do you play with us so?
Ear-piercing screeches overhead; the bonfires danced wildly, buffeted by sudden gusts of wind. The mob and Théra’s guards halted, looking up in astonishment, their eyes stung by the wildly swirling smoke.
Five garinafins, crewed by Théra’s loyal warriors, thumped down inside the banquet circle. Giant dogs, directed by Kitos, revered chief among the ice tribes, leapt off their backs and snarled on the ground, forcing the Agon thanes back. Toof, pilot of Ga-al, directed the old bull garinafin to brandish his long neck menacingly. Behind Toof sat Tipo Tho, her son strapped to her back.
A pang convulsed Théra’s heart. At any other time, Tipo would leave Crucru with Adyulek, but now…
Toof leaned down and shouted, “Drop your weapons and step back. Now!”
Relief washed through Théra. The situation could still be saved. If only she could restore order and convince the assembled throng to slice through Volyu’s lies with reason, until even they could no longer persist in willful blindness—
There was no fear on Volyu’s face, only ecstasy. He made himself look as tall as possible and spoke in his booming voice, in the accent of the First Family, in the manner that reminded Théra so much of her Takval.
“Listen to this Lyucu slave’s accent! Look at these who would fight for the Dara witch! Lyucu slaves, ice fleas, Dara idolaters, Agon traitors—she calls on them for aid in her shameless usurpation of the title of Pékyu of the Agon! Now we finally know why she tries to peddle us the defeatist ideas of the tanto-lyu-naro: She has sold us out to our enemies. She is not one of us, never one of us—”
Toof moved.
Théra screamed. “No!”
But it was too late. Ga-al leaned down, snapped his jaws, and spewed a glowing lance of fire at Volyu. Instantly Volyu, and those nearest him, turned into burning pillars.
Screams. Curses. Thanes and chiefs scattered, shouting for their own garinafins to be launched.
“Votan, we must go!” shouted Tipo Tho.
Théra allowed herself to be lifted onto Ga-al, her mind blank.
She is not one of us, never one of us.
Wings flapping, necks craning, the garinafins lifted into the air and headed to the east, leaving behind a panicked Taten, leaving behind the ruin of Théra’s dreams.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR THE WRITING ZITHER
NA THION: THE EIGHTH MONTH OF THE ELEVENTH YEAR OF THE REIGN OF SEASON OF STORMS AND THE REIGN OF AUDACIOUS FREEDOM.
She strode wearily through the narrow streets of the ancient Tiro capital, paved with strips of sandalwood laid across a bed of crushed pumice. Though her face was covered in grime and her dress patchy and ragged, none of the other pedestrians in the street dared to treat her as a mere beggar. The way she carried herself, her gaze steady and spine straight, each step light as the breeze and certain as the fall of a meteor, spoke of inner strength, of self-knowledge, of a nobility of character as obvious as a glowing pearl.
And so would-be thieves left her alone, haughty scholars with swords mutely stepped out of her way, and crowds parted as she approached, though their curious gazes followed her long after she was through.
She stopped in front of the Shrine of King Jizu just outside the city walls, built on the site where the ideal king had immolated himself to save his people.
The shrine was in the form of a simple fishing shack, a large bubbling fountain in front, fed by a natural spring. A steady stream of pilgrims stopped to pray to the spirit of the good king, leaving behind tiny clay figurines in the king’s likeness. The rim of the fountain was covered by rows of these crude figurines, like an army of miniature Jizus waiting to wade into the eternal sea.
The figurines were supposed to repeat the pleas and prayers of the worshippers, amplifying them in the ears of the gods. Unlike the gold and jade statues of the gods molded by master sculptors in grand temples, these humble charms were kneaded by devout peasants and fisherfolk and sold for a few coppers at temple fairs. Even the lowly and the mean could whisper their hopes and fears to King Jizu, who loved his people and who had once been as poor as they. The king would intercede on their behalf with the distant gods. He, unlike the great Lords of Dara, never closed his ears to the pleas of the common people.
She watched the pilgrims, the clay figurines, the bubbling fountain, hoping for a sign, a direction, a hint of where to go.
He liked history, liked stories of heroes. You’re a hero. Do you know where he is?
There was no answer.
Where are you? Where are you?
It had been the same at the Temple of Fithowéo earlier, with the god’s colossal statue looming over her, his face barely discernible through the haze of incense. Lord Fithowéo was blind but could see, and she thought that would make him a better guide than most. But the god, like the king, had given her no guidance.
She had never been particularly pious, but she found the silence in the wake of her prayers oppressive, weighty. Lately, all her prayers had seemed to fall on deaf ears. It was as though the gods had retreated from Dara, leaving the people to fend for themselves.
Wearily, she listened, taking in the hubbub of conversation around her.
“Get your knives sharpened! Get your kettles and pans patched! I can do it all!”
“Have your future told! I can decipher your fate from the logograms in your name….”
“Did you hear? The emperor won a great victory near Crescent Island. The Lyucu may surrender in days!”
“So soon? I was hoping the war would drag on for a few years…. I just put in three hundred silver on ore and sinew futures—”
“Follow the path of Rufizo! The monks will be at the Eastern Gate to collect donations at noon. Be there early to get the best blessings—”
“I told you to wait, didn’t I? You’d better swallow the loss and invest in sorghum futures. I hear they’re starving over there in Rui and Dasu. Once the islands are redeemed, I bet the Prime Minister is going to have to buy lots of grain….”
The young woman frowned but didn’t berate the speakers. She had been away from home often enough and seen enough of the world to be more accepting of human frailties. There would always be those who profited from death and misery, and the sins of these two were lighter than most. Like her, they could do nothing to change the course of the war; they could only pursue goals they found worthwhile, the same as she.
At least Phyro seems all right, and that is some comfort.
He knows who he is. Do I?
A lone wild goose flew high overhead, winging southwest. A few desultory honks; almost gone before they could be heard.
As though sensing something in the air, she turned in the direction the goose was headed in, and walked away from the shrine.
* * *
While war raged in the sea north of the Big Island and the inhabitants of Rui and Dasu were plunged into a new realm of suffering, life in much of the rest of Dara continued as before. Merchants and officials went on hosting lavish banquets at the Splendid Urn; pirate ships, laden with mysterious goods from the Huto clan, braved the dark waves; plays were put on at theaters and indigo houses; storytellers entertained rapt audiences at teahouses; monks and nuns knocked at the doors of the wealthy and asked for donations; scholars expounded upon the wisdom of the Ano sages as well as the mysteries of the universe.
Was it just or unjust, the sign of a golden age or of misrule, that a nation could be so prosperous, so secure, that while some of its sons and daughters died fighting on distant shores, the rest of its citizens could go on to enjoy luxuries, speak of love, compose poetry, scheme and plot for profit, carry on with the grand performance that was civilization?
It was a question that even the Ano sages and the gods could not answer.
* * *
THE TEMPLE OF STILL AND FLOWING WATERS IN THE MOUNTAINS OF RIMA: THE EIGHTH MONTH OF THE ELEVENTH YEAR OF THE REIGN OF SEASON OF STORMS AND THE REIGN OF AUDACIOUS FREEDOM.
An hour before dawn, Brother Thasé-teki got up with the other novices.
There was much to do. The novices had to sweep the yard; dust the shrines, figurines, and prayer instruments; polish the idol of Rufizo Mender; draw water from the well to fill the cisterns; and prepare breakfast for the senior monks and nuns.
Today, Thasé-teki was assigned kitchen duty. Fried “sheep tails” were on the menu. While another novice monk prepared the dipping sauce with herbs cut from the temple’s garden and aged fermented bean curd, Thasé-teki, the sleeves of his robe rolled high up on his arms, mixed and kneaded the dough. To feed hundreds of monks and nuns required a lot of dough, and his face and body were soon covered in a thin film of perspiration. The labor felt satisfying, calming.
After the dough was ready, the two young monks rolled it into thick ropes and pulled off chunks that they pressed by hand into flat ovals. They slapped the cakes in bowls of sesame seeds and dried monkeyberry flakes, making sure both sides were evenly coated.
A large pot with bubbling oil stood ready on the stove. They slid the pastries into the oil bath, as carefully as they would release white-bellied fish back into a pond. Soon, golden-brown cakes floated above the oil lazily, fringed with delicate, crispy fins. With a pair of long eating sticks, Thasé-teki and his fellow cook picked out the puffy pastries, now fat and tender like their namesake, and set them out on a rack to dry.
All meals at the temple had to be prepared without ingredients that required slaughter or the spilling of blood. Some of the older monks and nuns even eschewed eggs, fearful that a fertilized egg might slip through. But following the tenets of Rufizo Mender didn’t mean that the food had to be bland—in fact, Thasé-teki thought the cooking here at the temple some of the best he had ever tasted.
But it wasn’t just the taste of the food that brought him comfort. The work reminded Thasé-teki of the Splendid Urn, and sometimes he hummed the work songs he had learned as a kitchen boy there, wondering how Mati, Lodan, and Grand Mistress Wasu were doing.
And always, he thought of Fara.
Only after breakfast and cleanup did his workday truly begin. He went to the instructional hall first for an hour of prayer and meditation, at which a senior nun recounted Rufizo Mender’s deeds and unraveled their spiritual significance.
Some of the stories and mysteries seemed familiar. He recalled similar plots and tropes from another life, when he had been a child in the dark belly of a city-ship, and his culek nurses had told him secret, forbidden tales about Toryoana Pacific to lull him to sleep.
The tales familiar to him had not all come from Abbot Shattered Axe. Thasé-teki didn’t find this particularly surprising. After all, he and his mother, mere mortals, had journeyed across the ocean to this new land, so who was to say that the gods had not traversed the same expanse in eons past? The desire for peace was universal, he thought, no rarer among the gods than mortals.
He had finally found a place he could call home, though he no longer went by his old names.
The morning lesson over, he reported to the Hall of Snowy Feather. He sat down before his workstation and let out an excited cry as he examined the ancient manuscript laid out on his desk.
After months of tutelage by the other brothers and sisters of the hall, he had been assigned his own grand task: to heal a volume of Ra Oji’s epigrams and acts.
