The Godless Page 12

  Even though she agreed with what Lady Wagan said, knew intellectually that she was in a rare position to help fight for her home, she resisted saying so. She had to think about herself. She had to get her life reorganized first, and, with the copper taste of resentment for what she began to believe was a mistake—even as the words emerged from her mouth—Ayae told the Lady Wagan that she did not agree.

  11.

  Once, Zaifyr had fasted for seventy-two days. It began as a whim drawn from self-reflection born of lonely travel. In the middle of the dense Gogair Forest, he stripped down, sat and waited. He estimated that he was over seventy years old, though he had not physically aged a day. Yet, he knew men and women who had died not from weapon or disease, but from age, an age he had watched creep over them from their birth until their spirits rose from their broken bodies. As the morning sun rose and fell, and then the midday sun, and the afternoon sun, he realized that it was the experience of exactly that which saw him stop, literally, his life until the gnawing hunger and exhaustion of boredom drove him to his feet, two and a half months later. He could die, he had watched gods die and knew that anything could, but his death would be a difficult one. Lack of food and water would simply not kill him. The immortality and power Jae’le had said was within him was slowly becoming something that he could rationalize in a post-god—

  There was a knock at the door, soft but insistent.

  Zaifyr lifted the brown bottle but found it empty and dry. Outside, the sky was dark but for the stars and the moon. The latter was no more than a thin, broken line. The knocking sounded again and he pushed himself up, shaking off the maudlin emotion that had come across him, the feeling of cobwebs that had fallen over his mind as he had watched the afternoon fade away with his memories. It was not the first time, though it was the first in some time and, as he reached the door, he hoped that it would be the last for a long time. There was a small, gray bearded man lit by a lantern in the doorway.

  “I am Samuel Orlan,” the man said, extending his hand.

  “I know who you are,” Zaifyr replied, accepting the hand. “Is your apprentice fine?”

  “For the moment.” Orlan’s gaze held his, the small man’s blue eyes weathered and ancient. “I must thank you for helping her, though it will perhaps not be the last time you do so. May I come in?”

  Zaifyr stepped back, allowing the cartographer to enter, his lamp illuminating the single bed, small pack and smoke- and ash-stained clothes that marked his room. Closing the door, he watched Orlan hang the lamp on the wall and, without a backward glance, turn around the chair by the window, facing it to the bed before sitting down.

  “What am I to call you these days?” he asked, finally.

  A small smile creased his lips. “Zaifyr.”

  “An old name, that.”

  “Better than others I have been known by,” he said. “But perhaps the old names are the best, wouldn’t you say?”

  Orlan’s smile deepened. “You knew the Seventy-First, yes?”

  He was talking about his ancestors, the other men and women who had shared his name over the centuries. “And another, much earlier. I don’t know which one she was.”

  “The Forty-Third,” Orlan replied easily. “But it was briefly, unlike the Seventy-First, who lived in Asila.”

  “I was a different man, then.” Zaifyr perched on the edge of the bed. “Whatever memories you have, I wouldn’t put much stock in them now.”

  “I don’t have memories of you,” Orlan said. “We share a name, but that is all, and I am glad for that. I doubt I could keep so many lives straight. I would be caught in them all the time and new experiences would pass me by. But, no, I know about you and the Seventy-First because I have studied history and read the books that have been written, either by ourselves or by others.”

  Zaifyr refused to rise to the bait that, given the flood of his own memories, was a fair critique. “I don’t read as much as I used to.”

  “Or write, either. It has been a long time since The Godless.”

  “I thought all copies had been destroyed?”

  “It is hard to destroy everything,” the other man said, shrugging. “This is especially true of books written by a man who once said he was a god.”

  “I don’t believe that now.”

  “Others do.”

  “That has nothing to do with me.”

  “Even when there is an army coming up this mountain in search of gods?”

  “In search of the remains of gods,” Zaifyr corrected. “I talked to the Quor’lo. It was not much of a conversation, I grant you, but the force coming here appears to believe that a part of the gods still exist in the remains. Since you have read the book that I wrote, then you know my thoughts on the subject.”

  “Can these gods be reborn like they want?”

  “You know it’s nonsense, Orlan.” Zaifyr pulled his feet onto the bed, crossing them beneath him. “Why are you here?”

  “My apprentice…”

  “Ayae?”

  “Yes…” For a moment he hesitated, as if he knew he was crossing a boundary, and that his next words would change a part in him. “She is a very angry young woman right now.”

  “I’ve helped her enough.”

  “With the wrong people whispering in her ear, she could believe that she is a god.”

  Zaifyr’s fingers touched a charm beneath his wrist. “She would not be the first,” he said.

  “No, she would not.”

  Against the wall, the lamp sputtered, the fire rising for just a moment. “She seemed like a smart girl. I don’t think she needs me to watch her.”

  “Oh, that I will not disagree with,” Orlan said. “However, I would like to think that her introduction to whatever touch of god is inside her is not done by men who are borderline sociopaths who believe they are reborn gods, or by the priests who ride up this mountain in search of something to make into an idol.”

  “Why not you?”

  The small man’s smile was faint. “I have other plans.”

  “Then why me?”

  “The Seventy-First wrote that you were a man haunted by every man and woman you met, but yet you were a man who believed that the universe was infinite, that fate was our own, that redemption was available to us all. That is why.”

  “I killed him,” Zaifyr said quietly. “He and his family and everyone who lived in Asila. You know that.”

  “As you say, you are a different man, now.”

  IN THE BLOOD

  There were half a dozen gods alive after Sei’s death. The Wanderer fell first and, after, stories rose and fell of men and women who should have died but did not, the most infamous of these being the Siege of the Dead. The truth was much worse than the fictions created, but the stories revealed another trial for the survivors of the gods’ war, in trying to retain truth. Records were tampered with, eyewitness accounts influenced, the institutions of power engaged in a war to remain relevant—a war that they would soon lose to my brothers and sisters, in more ways than one.

  —Qian, The Godless

  1.

  Dark returned on a mule-drawn cart before the moon had risen fully.

  “Well,” Bueralan said, stepping out of the barracks at the sound of the wheel’s clatter on the paved stones. “This takes me back.”

  “We’re not in trouble,” Zean said. “You can see we’re not chained.”

  “If you were, you would be delivered on a tumbril to a gibbet. That’s the way of Lady Wagan’s empire.”

  With a shrug, Zean stepped off the back of the cart lightly, the rest of Dark following. For the first time, Bueralan thought, they looked as if they weren’t carrying the weight of Elar’s death, of the final weeks of the work in Ille. For the first time since leaving that small kingdom, the hardness that had begun to settle into the faces, the borderline cruelty that had come upon them, as if an invisible barrier had been breached, had begun to fade. He could see the relaxed stride of Kae as he dropped off the wa
gon, the casual way Ruk looked around the square they stood in, and the fact that Liaya had left her satchel in the barracks. Approaching the driver, Zean said, “Have you ever noticed how prosaic the memories of your exile are?”

  “Only through hard work,” Bueralan replied.

  Liaya stopped in front of him. “I think the real problem,” she said in mock seriousness, “is that you weren’t exiled for very interesting reasons.”

  “There are no interesting reasons,” he said. “You know that as well as I do.”

  “It is not all about mules, either.”

  As the cart began to turn across the stones before him and the others entered the barracks, Bueralan recalled the nine-day march he had made with fifteen other men, linked together not just by chains that threaded heavily around their feet, but by their failure and disgrace as well. Slouched beneath the weight of that realization, the soon to be exiled Baron of Kein trailed at the back of a line organized by rank, with only two behind him: young men who had not been able to lay claim to land or title yet. Ahead of him, the barons and lords who had been his betters made a long, aging line that began with the fifty-two-year-old prince, Jehinar Meih. Tall and narrow, he looked as if he were made from dried wood that threatened to split in the summer.

  At night, they all sank to the ground and ate the small amount of bread offered, drank the warm water from the pitcher shared between them and listened to the middle-aged prince talk of his plans, of his—of their—return. Bueralan had stopped listening on the second night. He had heard enough, and in the cooling dark when his blistered feet rested against the ground he had no time for the bitter words Jehinar Meih spoke.

  We all stood on that canal wall, Bueralan thought, and we listened to a general tell us how many people would die, how slim our chances were of survival, how we were like the butterflies he saw rise every morning just to die, and you—we—

  We lost our nerve.

  There was no other word for it.

  His mother had taught him when he was young that the high end of politics did not reward those who hesitated. Her words followed him, on the nine nights he lay on the hard ground. By then she had been dead for five years, having died in political isolation after his father’s poisoning in the Queen’s court when he was five. His mother’s political exile was said, by his uncles and aunts, to have revealed a bond deeper and more intimate than any had ever suspected of them. His memories of her—frail and withered in her large bed—had become sharper and more pronounced each night, as if only now, in failure, could he recognize her wisdom.

  In this regard, he was alone.

  Bueralan only had to look at the guards around them to know how futile it was to plot and plan a return. Wearing the golden-edged cloak and golden-edged armor of the First Queen’s Guard, the ten soldiers regarded them with flat gazes and openly laughed at their chained captives when they caught part of their conversations. Captain Pueral, who led the way on her tall gray, was the only one who did not talk. A large, middle-aged career soldier, her casual indifference served only to highlight to Bueralan just how far from relevance they had all fallen.

  And then, in the cold morning of the tenth day, they were led out to the slave trader.

  He was a small man huddled in furs before a fire, neither remarkable in relation to his trade of flesh, nor his appearance, which was of a common quality. The four men who shared his camp with him were similar in their appearance as mercenaries, and none rose as the First Queen’s Guard crossed the invisible line of nations; instead, they watched as the fifteen men were unhooked from the mule-drawn cart that had set their pace and lined in front of the slaver who rose, rubbing his arms for warmth to inspect each one casually before turning to Pueral in low conversation.

  “What is this?” Jehinar Meih demanded. “Captain, you were there when our sentences were read out. We are to be released here, under our own volition, to do this is—”

  “Treason,” Pueral finished. “Have you heard of irony, Meih?”

  The now exiled prince did not respond.

  “The First Queen is the study of a woman who takes deep joy in irony.” She turned her horse around, facing the border and the men in chains. “Often, I find her indulgence of it a fault. The playwrights she employs are a bore. The philosophers unwilling to answer simply and forthrightly. And the children—I will not speak of her flesh and blood, except to say that at times it can be a difficult thing to watch within the palaces. But here today, I do believe I can appreciate what the First Queen sees in irony.”

  She laughed—her first laugh in nine days, loud and good natured—as the chain erupted in complaints. Pueral responded and motioned to the men and women around her and returned across the border, not pausing even when the cruel sound of the whip rang out across the exiled prince’s smooth back.

  None were spared the whip, and Bueralan would bear the scars of the slaver’s demonstration of power for the rest of his life. The small man told them that they would be marched down to the ocean and sold to a galley, the threat real enough by then that the exiled lords and barons promised the trader riches for another outcome. The small man shook his head and chuckled from deep within his furs. Quietly—almost as if he were sympathetic—he said, “You have nothing, gentlemen. Nothing. You’d best understand that soon or you’ll not survive the year.”

  As the afternoon’s sun began to sink, Bueralan had begun to appreciate the full extent of the slave trader’s words. The small man set a quicker pace than the First Queen’s Guard and, exhausted as he sank down to the hard ground, Bueralan listened to the others discuss their fate with an outrage that came from privilege and fear. The latter came from the knowledge that men sold to a galley left their chains only when they died or when their ship was torn apart, breaking the bolts that held them into place. The last often resulted in death, for the heavy weight would drag them down through the black water of Leviathan’s Blood.

  He fell asleep with the first real sense of despair he had felt, and awoke hours later to the chain’s weight being pulled off his raw ankle.

  At first, Bueralan did not know how to react, sure that what was happening was the herald of something worse, of a new trouble, a new violation he was in. But as he turned his gaze upon the camp, he felt his apprehension fall away. For the first time in months he sensed the lifting of a weight he had just become conscious of: all four guards lay on the ground in a neat line, with the slave trader at the head, still in his fur jacket. The morning’s sun was enough to reveal the cut across his throat, the facial wounds that all had received.

  A hand was extended in front of him.

  “When I heard you were going to be on a galley,” a voice said, “I almost considered waiting a month.”

  “That’s just like you, Zean.” Bueralan took the hand, rose. “To make this about my weight.”

  Across from him, the other man’s grip was strong and warm, and he bore the weight of the man he had freed as Bueralan’s blistered feet resisted his rise.

  2.

  From the window of his room, Zaifyr watched Samuel Orlan make his way down the cobbled street, his lamp a single, swaying beacon.

  The old man shared very little in appearance with the Orlan he had known, the Seventy-First. He had been a slender man, olive-skinned and with black hair that had receded and thinned; he was soft spoken and genial. He had come to Asila in the company of his wife after the birth of his first child, wishing to avoid the fame his name provided. It was a time Zaifyr did not remember well, no more than two years before he began the ill-fated walk down the long, winding road from his tower to Asila, and to the destruction he wrought there. But he did remember the arrival of Samuel Orlan and his family.

  He had greeted them in the library, a room dense with literature, with books across the walls and floors to such an extent that the dark, polished wood of his desk was in danger of being lost beneath the spines of books. He could still recall the desk clearly: its decay from order to disarray had later become a
visual metaphor for his state of being. He remembered the changes in it minutely, his mind replaying images of inkwells once clean and stoppered merging into stained, overflown ones, with quills bent and blackened, and books once ordered left open at pages he could recall no reason for being so. It was with the picking up of one such book with his ink-stained hands that Samuel Orlan had forced him to focus his attention.

  “Hello,” he said.

  Zaifyr had responded.

  “My family and I,” said the Seventy-First Samuel Orlan, “are moving into your city. I thought I would introduce myself.”

  He had asked why, his voice hoarse with disuse.

  “I was raised to be polite,” he replied. “It is also somewhat of a ritual. Whenever one of the previous Samuel Orlans arrived in a new city, he introduced himself.”

  “No, not that,” Zaifyr said, slowly. “Why here?”

  The cartographer smiled faintly. “Asila is away from the world. It has always been that. The tribes that lived here would become lost in the mountains and disappear from civilized sight for generations before reappearing again. When they did so, it would often be so by a singular representative, by a man or a woman who emerged from the snow and ice to visit the cities along the coast, or to cross the ocean. When they appeared, they were always adorned by charms made by their family, charms said to keep them safe. I see similar pieces of silver and copper around this library—once worn but no more, I believe.” Behind the cartographer, his wife and child stood silently as he spoke. The daughter resembled her mother greatly, Zaifyr remembered, though her dark hair was longer, and she did not lower her gaze from his in fear, as did the former. “It is for that isolation that my family and I have come. I am not like the men who have come before me. I do not like the fame that follows my name. I do not like the attention it draws to me, or to my family. I only wish to draw the maps that I can, and to ensure that the world is known by them.”