The Witness for the Dead

by Katherine Addison

  I found the cache finally by tripping over it—a short, square pillar with a hollowed-out top. The tokens were square glazed tiles painted with the sigil of Ulis in his aspect as the god of dreams, which I found perhaps inappropriately gentle for this grim hilltop. I chose a tile and put it carefully in my inside waistcoat pocket.

  Now all I had to do was to get through the rest of the night without going mad.

  * * *

  When I reached the gate at dawn, the canon was not the only one waiting for me. The newspapermen were there, Goronezh, Thurizar, and the new man, and not only was I in my shirtsleeves, but I was also muddy from head to foot and, having lost its ribbon sometime in the night, my braid had completely unraveled. I looked, no doubt, like the Wood Man’s Child from Ischanhadra.

  Canon Varlenin opened the gate, wide-eyed.

  “Good morning, canon,” I said wearily.

  “Good morning, othala,” she said. “These gentlemen wish to hear about your experiences on the Hill of Werewolves.”

  No doubt they did. I said, “Gentlemen, we regret to disoblige you, but we must speak to the Amal’othala before we speak to anyone else.”

  “That’s Othala Celehar for you,” Thurizar said to the new man. “You’ll never meet better court manners, not even from Prince Orchenis.”

  That was a lie, but Thurizar was an inveterate exaggerator, always the man to go to if you wanted a story twisted away from the truth. I did not trust the things I read in the Evening Standard.

  “Can’t you tell us anything?” Goronezh said plaintively. “We got up at the very breaking point of dawn for you, othala.”

  “We cannot prevent you from doing foolish things, Mer Goronezh,” I said, and surprised all three of them into a yelp of laughter.

  “Othala Celehar,” said the third man, “my name is Vicenalar, from the Herald of Amalo. Is it true that there are ghosts on the Hill of Werewolves?”

  I was sorely tempted to say yes, but the Amal’othala was already annoyed enough with me. I said, “We cannot speak to you now,” and followed Canon Varlenin to the two-wheeler.

  As we rattled away in the carriage, Canon Varlenin said, “A messenger came just before midnight, summoning us to the palace.”

  “Us?” I said, for she had used the plural.

  “We are your witness,” she said. “Do you have a token?”

  I showed her the tile I had chosen. She smiled, her ears tilting up, and said, “Very good, othala. Thank you.”

  And then, on a belated thought, I said, “We are hardly presentable for the palace.”

  “It matters not,” said Canon Varlenin.

  Rather desperately, I finger-combed my hair, finding twigs and dried bits of mud. The Wood Man’s Child, indeed. Without a ribbon, there was no use in braiding my hair, but at least I only looked like a madman, not like a frenzied cstheneisa.

  When we got out of the two-wheeler in one of the palace’s small side yards, Canon Varlenin helped me brush the dried mud off my trousers and held my coat of office so that I could put it on.

  She knew her way around the Amal’theileian and led me swiftly and surely to the Azalea Room, where aside from Prince Orchenis and his secretary, the Amal’othala, two canons, Dach’othala Vernezar, Othalo Zanarin, and several members of the House Duhalada were waiting. I very nearly balked on the threshold. I had expected to report to the Amal’othala; I had been resigned to report to Prince Orchenis as well. And I supposed it was reasonable to report to Vernezar. But the Duhalada were another matter entirely.

  It was already too late; Prince Orchenis had seen me. I followed Canon Varlenin into the Azalea Room, bowed to the Amal’othala, bowed to Vernezar, bowed to Prince Orchenis, tried to pretend the Duhalada weren’t there.

  “Well, Celehar,” the Amal’othala said. He sounded irritated; I could only hope it wasn’t at me—or at least wasn’t especially at me.

  I took the tile out of my pocket and handed it to one of the canons, who gave it to the Amal’othala. He examined it closely, probably enjoying the tension in the room, then gave it to the canon, who handed it back to me. The Amal’othala said, “It is sufficient. Othala Celehar has passed the trial.”

  I felt my ears lift fractionally and only then realized how flat they’d been.

  There wasn’t anything as loud as a murmur from the Duhalada, only a sort of whisper of breath. Prince Orchenis said, “We hope you are at last satisfied, Mer Duhalar. Or will you now accuse the Amal’othala of fraud?”

  The man addressed, who I thought was Nepevis Duhalar’s eldest son, said, “No, of course not. We see that we were wrong. We apologize to Othala Celehar.”

  I wanted, very badly, to lose my temper.

  I wanted to scream at them for doing something so thoughtlessly malicious. I wanted to howl about the invasion of my private life. Above all, I wanted to tell them exactly what I’d gone through, both in Tanvero and in Amalo, as a result.

  I said levelly, “The apology is accepted.”

  Prince Orchenis’s ears seemed dubious, but he said, “Then we trust this will settle the matter. Furthermore, now that it has been ascertained that Othala Celehar is not a fraud, we expect Nepevis Duhalar to present himself to the Judiciary for judgment. Tomorrow.”

  The Duhaladeise spokesman winced, but said, “Of course, Your Highness.”

  “Very well.” Prince Orchenis stood, said, “Celehar, we would speak to you in private,” and swept out of the room.

  I followed him obediently. In truth, I was grateful to get away from the Amal’othala, who still looked like irritation searching for a target. And I had no wish to speak to Vernezar or Zanarin.

  I followed with his secretary in Prince Orchenis’s wake to the Cinnabar Room, where the prince sat and said, “Be seated, Celehar. You look exhausted.”

  I sat down and wondered what I’d do when I had to stand up again. “It was not a restful night, Your Highness.”

  “Then it is true that the Hill of Werewolves is a place of ghosts?”

  “Very true.”

  “Is there anything to be done? Can they be quieted as ghouls are quieted?”

  I was surprised that the prince was asking—rather than, for instance, the Amal’othala—but could only tell the truth: “There’s nothing to quiet. They aren’t spirits, or even remnants of spirits. They’re just…” I struggled to find the right word, remembering my own unreasoning horror of them. “… they’re memories. Terrible memories.”

  “But who is doing the remembering?” said Prince Orchenis.

  I shook my head. “The land? The clouds? We do not know.”

  Prince Orchenis sighed. “We had hoped that you, as a Witness for the Dead, would have some insight that had eluded us.”

  Many people had hoped the same. I had disappointed most of them.

  “We regret that we do not. But we know of nothing that can be done to clear a place of ghosts.”

  “Ah well,” said Prince Orchenis. “The massacre of the Wolves of Anmura will just have to continue to play out. The city’s nightmare, we suppose.”

  “Is that what’s happening?”

  “Yes. One of our ancestors’ less creditable moments. When the mysteries of Anmura were proscribed two thousand years ago, the Warlord of Amalo used it as an excuse to loot and burn the Wolves’ compound on the Hill of Werewolves, then killed everyone they found.”

  I reflexively made a warding gesture I had learned as a child. No wonder it had been so difficult to tell one side from the other.

  I knew the mysteries of Anmura had been proscribed for good reason. They had become greedy and corrupt, arrogantly assuming themselves above the rule of the emperor, above the rule of the Archprelate. And there were darker stories, as there always were in such cases. When the Archprelate Vinvedris revoked his protection, the Amaleise prince was not the only one who had responded with violence. The Anmureisei had been filling up that ledger book for decades.

  But still I thought of the Ulineise prelate being dragged
to what was surely his death, and shuddered.

  Prince Orchenis said, “We have kept you too long, Othala Celehar. You must be exhausted.”

  I could hardly deny it.

  “Our driver will take you to your apartment,” said Prince Orchenis.

  The prince’s carriage would stand out in my neighborhood like a black horse in the snow, but I wanted to go home too badly to care. I said, “Thank you, Your Highness,” and the interview was over.

  But Vernezar and Zanarin were waiting for me in the hall with Canon Varlenin.

  “Let us walk with you,” said Vernezar, falling in beside me. “You need not stay, Varlenin.”

  She hesitated, but he outranked her. She bowed and left; I hoped the Amal’othala wouldn’t be too angry at her.

  “How may we serve you, dach’othala?” I said wearily.

  “It’s interesting that you ask that question now, Othala Celehar,” said Vernezar. “Shouldn’t you have asked it several days ago?”

  I offered up a brief hopeless prayer to Osreian, goddess of earthquakes. “We were not aware that we had to get permission from you to leave the city.”

  The silence was ugly. Zanarin said, “Do you claim that you outrank the Ulisothala?”

  “We make no such claim, Othalo Zanarin,” I said. “But our mandate is from the Archprelate, not—”

  “Not Prince Orchenis,” Vernezar said.

  “We did not think we had the right to refuse the Prince of Thu-Athamar,” I said.

  “And you did not think to consult us?”

  “Would you have advised us to defy the prince?”

  Of course, Vernezar wouldn’t have. We all three knew that.

  Zanarin said, “It would have been a welcome gesture of respect.”

  “But surely our comings and goings are of no interest to you, dach’othala,” I said. “It has never been our impression that we are much in your thoughts.”

  There was a pause, while Vernezar failed to deny the indifference bordering on hostility with which the Ulistheileian had greeted my arrival in Amalo. “We would have liked some warning,” he said thinly, and I thought we were finally coming to the heart of the matter, “before the Amal’othala demanded to know what you were doing to upset the Duhalada so greatly.”

  That was a completely different matter. “That has nothing to do with the Ulistheileian,” I said. “We accepted a valid petition from a valid petitioner, as is our calling and our purpose. You have no authority over our work as a Witness for the Dead.”

  Zanarin’s breath hissed in.

  “Well,” Vernezar said with the briskness of anger. “We suppose that answers the question of your rank quite definitively.”

  “It can only mean you have none,” said Zanarin.

  “You are not a member of our hierarchy,” Vernezar said, “and we will tell the Amal’othala so.” He turned and stalked off.

  Zanarin lingered only long enough to say, “We hope you do not regret this,” before she followed him, but I knew she was lying. That was exactly what she hoped, and if she could make it happen, she would.

  * * *

  I changed my mind. Instead of going straight home, I had the driver take me to Ulvanensee so that I could talk to Anora. He was pleased to see me but said, “Thou lookst dreadful, Thara. What hast thou been doing?”

  I gave him the best summary I could, which made him scowl. “The Amal’othala should know better. Thou’rt no fraud, with no need of proving it. No fraud could do what thou dost.”

  “It’s better this way,” I said, although his defense warmed me. “No arguing.”

  “The House Duhalada should not be arguing with the Amalomeire,” said Anora. “I am surprised at the Amal’othala for countenancing it.”

  “To support me, he would have to have believed me innocent,” I said, more bitterly than I intended.

  Anora looked at me over his spectacles. “Perhaps I am old-fashioned to feel that it is the duty of an othas’ala to support his prelates until such time as there is evidence of their guilt brought to him. And, no, rumors bruited about by a man with every reason to wish thee discredited do not constitute evidence. They constitute gossip.”

  “Thou’rt fierce,” I said.

  “I, too, am one of the Amal’othala’s prelates,” said Anora. “His treatment of thee is surely a presagement of how I may expect to be treated.”

  “Thou art no vexation to him,” I said.

  “Is that how we are to measure probity?” Anora said in great mock-surprise.

  “Thou know’st that was not my meaning.”

  “No, thy meaning was that there is no reason the Amal’othala should defend thee,” Anora said. “But thou hast done nothing wrong, Thara. Thou shouldst be able to have confidence that thine othas’ala will champion thee.”

  “But the Amal’othala—”

  “Is thine othas’ala, even if he seems disposed to forget it.”

  I said nothing.

  “But I do not mean to browbeat thee,” said Anora. “For it remains no fault of thine. And I am glad thou’rt safe.”

  “I thank thee,” I said. I had no one else to be grateful for my safety.

  “I admit, I am not surprised that Vernezar turned on thee,” he said.

  “I have been a burr under his saddle since I came here,” I agreed. “It is in some ways a relief to be cast out of the Ulistheileian once and for all.”

  “It leaves thee woefully unprotected.”

  “Vernezar was no protection,” I said. “No, though I would not have wished it, I do not regret it, either.”

  “And what wilt thou do now? Wilt finally write to the Archprelate? He will champion thee.”

  “No,” I said. “This is nothing to trouble the Archprelate with.”

  Anora gave me a dubious look. “Someday thou wilt judge something worth troubling the Archprelate. I only hope thou wilt not be dead first—eaten by ghouls, for example.”

  I said nothing. We’d had this argument before, and neither of us enjoyed it.

  “I said I would not browbeat thee,” Anora said apologetically. “May I suggest that thou shouldst get some sleep?”

  * * *

  It was a good suggestion, but ill-timed. I knew that if I slept now, I would find it all the harder to sleep tonight, and would wake the next morning in even greater exhaustion. I had followed that cycle before and knew better than to follow it again. That day I walked.

  I walked south for several blocks before my mind cleared enough to tell me what I wanted to do. I had been on one pilgrimage in the night; let me make another pilgrimage in the day.

  South and west of the city, along the River Road, there was a sanctuary of Orshan, where they kept a corn maze in the old way, with a great procession to celebrate when they harvested the corn, which then went to the city’s poor. It was too late in the season for corn, of course, but the maze was marked out by the weight of thousands and thousands of feet, plodding, dancing, marching, and it was permissible to walk the corn maze even when the corn was not there.

  I followed the River Road out of the city, walking through quiet bourgeois neighborhoods, rows of shops, a strip of competing dance halls and gambling houses, though nothing to compare with the Zheimela, and then more houses, poorer, shabbier, and then out into the farmers’ fields.

  The Sanctuary of Orshan was not far out of the city, not anymore, as the city slyly edged closer every year, but it was still peaceful, a low rambling building, always looking surprised when it produced a second story. The man at the door was sitting on the porch steps, whittling a block of wood into an Orshalvero, a doll given to farmers’ daughters to hold them close to Orshan as they grew.

  He looked up, a thickset middle-aged man at least half goblin, and smiled at me. “Can I be of help, othala?”

  I’d begged a ribbon for my hair from Anora, so that at least I looked marginally respectable again. I said, “I wish to walk the corn maze in search of the blessing of Orshan’s wisdom.”

&nbs
p; “Of course,” he said, getting up. The block of wood he left where it was; the knife he put carefully into a sheath at his belt. “I am Brother Cenethis.”

  All of Orshan’s prelates named themselves in this way, renouncing their houses for the family they made for themselves, or some such rhetoric. It always made me slightly uncomfortable.

  I said, “I am Thara Celehar, a Witness for the Dead.”

  The friendliness of his expression did not change at all. He said, “Be welcome here, Othala Celehar. You know, of course, that the maze currently has only the memory of corn.”

  “Yes,” I said, though I knew my ears flicked at the word “memory.”

  He led me through the sanctuary—itself a maze of white-walled rooms with braided rugs—and out onto another porch that looked out over the cornfields in the sanctuary’s care. “Follow the path,” he said, and surely it was only my tiredness that made the connection with the path of the night before. “You are welcome to spend as long in the maze as you like, though we would ask that you come back by sundown.”

  “Of course,” I said.

  “And you will be welcome to share our evening meal,” Brother Cenethis said.

  “You are very kind,” I said.

  He smiled at me. “To Orshan, we are all brothers. I hope the maze brings you what you seek.”

  He went back into the building—and I was thankful that he wasn’t disposed to watch—and I followed the path, a slow, lovely meandering trail that brought me eventually to the edge of a cornfield, where it became the path marked out in pebbles of the corn maze itself.

  I had walked Ulineise mazes, but I knew the corn maze was a different thing. Outside under the vivid blue sky, for one—Ulineise mazes were always underground. And in an Orshaneise maze, no one could become lost, which was even more unlike the Ulineise mazes. Novices got lost all the time; frequently a junior prelate had to be sent in to get them out again. My ears burned at the memory of some of the things those junior prelates had said.