Ashok was immune to disease, and in that moment, he was very thankful for that fact. But the presence of his obligation in this plague-ridden place filled him with unease. Even Ashok’s hardened heart ached at the sight of children lying there, too weak to move, with flies crawling on their faces and drinking the moisture from their open eyes, but despite his pity he wanted nothing more than to whisk Thera away and set fire to the place to protect the rest of Lok from this scourge.
Thera hesitated, the fear and revulsion plain upon her face. Because the Law so thoroughly addressed matters of cleanliness and sanitation, outbreaks such as this were relatively rare, but everyone knew just how dangerous they could be. There was no more ignominious way to go into the great nothing than rotting away in your own decaying filth.
When they had first met, Thera had portrayed herself as a mercenary creature who cared only for her own well-being and to the oceans with everyone else. Ashok understood now that had been an act—so convincing that she had even believed it herself—but those times were over. She was putting herself in great peril to help others. It was as selfless an act as any he’d ever seen. As her protector, he found it vexing.
Thera gathered up her courage and walked into the hospital.
Keta was there, moving between the mats, offering his people sips of water ladled from a bucket he carried. He looked up as they entered. For a moment the exhausted Keeper was dumbfounded, but then a giant smile split his face. “Thera! I knew you would come!”
All the suffering people looked her way, though for many it was a struggle just to turn their heads. Those who could rise, did. Most did not. But there was hope on their faces, the ones who were still coherent at least.
“I’m here,” Thera said. “How can I help?”
Chapter 26
Though he was not very good at such things, Ashok spent the next few days tending to the sick and afflicted. Even though the resilience granted unto him by the Heart of the Mountain should have made him ideal for such duties, sadly, it came as a shock to no one that the man known far and wide as the Black Heart was much better at harming than healing. However, as long as Thera served in the hospital then he would not stray far from his obligation’s side. Since Ashok could not abide sloth he might as well make himself useful.
This duty should not have been so difficult. He was born casteless, but the memories of those squalid times had been stripped from him. He’d been raised instead as a member of the highest caste, except those years had been spent in the austere environment of the Hall of Protectors, rather than the pampered palaces of Lok’s highborn. Ashok was very familiar with suffering and pain. He should have been better at dealing with the agony of others, yet he was not.
He did not know how to offer comfort. He followed Keta’s example, providing food when they were hungry, changing wrappings once they became filthy and blood crusted, and giving water when they were thirsty, but each time they looked up at Ashok with simple, pleading eyes, to ask him if they were getting better, he was unable to lie to them, so he remained silent.
Each time felt like a betrayal. He did not understand why, but it did. Keta had told these people about him, building him up to be some kind of mighty hero sent by the gods to aid them.
Ashok did not feel much the hero.
Thera was much better at such things, but he could see that she was becoming attached—hugging and calming every sick child, speaking at length with every adult about their hopes and fears and dreams—but since the gods had not given into her demands yet, she suffered greatly each time one of them died.
So he offered his services in other ways. Ashok was good at digging graves. He’d learned that on a beach in Gujara what seemed an eternity ago—though really it had not been that long at all—only there would be no graves dug for those who died of the Blood Eye. Some diseases liked to linger in the soil. The Law was clear on this matter for good reason, and even rebels would not argue with something as sensible as the command to burn contagious bodies to ash.
So each day Ashok gathered wood from the surrounding mountains, made a pyre, and carried the fresh bodies to it. Man, woman, and child, the bodies all seemed far too light and empty. He would wait until dark so that the cloud of rising smoke wouldn’t attract the eyes of the Protectors who were searching for them. Then Ashok would burn them and tend the fires while wondering what he would do if Thera herself ended up in the pyre.
One sundown he was joined at the corpse pile by a man named Javed.
Ashok had seen him a few times around the Cove. Javed was of the worker caste—a merchant of some kind—and something of a hero to these people, having saved Keta and the fanatics they’d met on the road to Haradas from a wizard assassin who had hunted them in the snow. Keta had spoken highly of Javed, praising his work ethic, intelligence, and faith. Ashok had no use for the last one, but the first two were valuable traits. Javed was also one of the healthier men left in the Cove, so he had taken on a great deal of the Keeper’s responsibilities in managing the place.
“Good evening, honored guest.” Javed gave him a low and respectful bow. “Please accept my humble offering of veneration.”
“You’re a northerner?” Ashok asked, since the greeting would have been the most appropriate one to a newcomer of extremely high status in Vadal lands.
“I was not so fortunate, sir,” Javed said as he raised his head. “I’m from Zarger, caravan born. I just traveled the bounteous north extensively in my time as a rice trader.”
“I see.” The nomadic caravan people were probably the only group in Lok who got around more than the Protectors. “There is no need to give me deference. I’m merely another criminal.”
“Ah, of course. Old habits die hard. As the Keeper has declared, this is a new society without castes, your only status is what you build for yourself, and we are all equals below the gods. Forgive me. I am Javed.”
The former merchant was taller than most men, but not nearly as physically imposing as Ashok. He must have obtained some status in his life, because despite currently wearing the filthy clothes of a field hand Javed still carried himself like a man of importance.
“I am Ashok,” he said because it was polite, rather than because there was any doubt to his identity. “Keta has spoken highly of you.”
Javed waved away that compliment. “I am merely happy to serve.”
“I was told this place would’ve fallen apart without you this spring. According to Keta, you are the man who kept the crops growing while many of the laborers had become too ill to tend them.”
“The Keeper is too kind. All I did was take over the management of the terraces. It is simply because my old position required a great deal of organizational skill, which is something this place lacked…I mean no offense to the faithful by saying that. They are brave and strong.”
“Yet not always wise. It is fine. I always appreciate hearing the truth.”
“As one should. I have come to love Keta as a brother, but sometimes I worry that if there is a problem he can’t immediately solve he’d prefer to leave it to the gods to handle. Myself, I prefer to do the best I can and then hope the gods make up the difference.”
Even though it was only them and several corpses in the area, such illegal religious talk out in the open still made Ashok uncomfortable. “What can I do for you, Merchant?”
“Nothing, General. It was I who came to offer my services to you. Do you need any help here?”
It was a grisly business, avoided by most. The dead’s loved ones weren’t even present because they were too sick to walk from the hospital to the burn pit…or they’d already gone in it. Ashok would not turn down the assistance. It took a lot of fuel to render a body down to ash. “Grab an axe.”
It took a while to gather that much wood, especially since it was quite the hike from the rim of the crater to the slopes where trees grew above. If the Cove had been functioning properly they would have whole teams of men out cutting logs to prepare for the next winte
r, but the plague was ruining everything.
The two of them searched out fallen trees and dried branches. Ashok carried the heavy things. Javed, the light. The merchant was by no means a weak man—he was far stronger than most of the fanatics—but nearly everyone was frail when compared to Ashok.
“This should be enough for tonight,” he told Javed as he dropped an armful of tree limbs onto the pile. The impact caused a great cloud of buzzing flies to leap off the bodies. Such was the indignity of death. “Hopefully this duty will not be required tomorrow.”
“I pray that’s true.” Javed piled up the last of the kindling, and then wiped the sweat from his brow. “Gods willing.”
It took Ashok several tries to get the leaves smoldering with his fire starter. He had brought no oil to help it along, but a few minutes later the branches had caught. It quickly spread to the clothing. Even the Black Heart had to look away as the bodies caught. He would tend this as long as necessary to make sure the job was done, but he would take no pleasure from it.
The burn pit had been placed on a terrace some distance from where most of the fanatics had settled, but in the distance Ashok could see a great number of faces turning their way as the fire grew and the light caught their eyes…But then the people went about their affairs. They all knew what the light meant, but death had become so common here that they were barely fazed by it.
As the two men walked away from the blaze so as to not be caught in the oily smoke, Ashok told Javed, “You are fortunate to have not fallen ill as well.”
“Some of us have been lucky so far. My father was warrior caste—well, supposedly he was. I never met the man. My mother said he was a caravan guard. I must have inherited my robust constitution from him.”
“My casteless father cremated bodies.” It had been a while since Ashok had thought of that, but right now the parallels were grimly amusing. His next father had been a fabrication, but he’d spent most of his life believing that the man had perished in a fire, and the man who had been like his father in the Protector Order had taught him how to make the corpse piles grow. Ashok did not believe in such concepts as destiny, but it appeared he was never meant to escape the horrible smell of burning flesh.
“If I may ask, General. What do you intend to do about the extermination of the casteless?”
“So you have heard…”
“The prophet told Keta, Keta told his trusted men. Most of them can’t keep a secret like I can, so I give it a day at most before this entire settlement knows about what’s going on out there.”
“One can either die serving the Law or die resisting it. Either way the Law will go on.”
“But the Sons of the Black Sword defeated ten times their number with hardly a loss and captured two cities.”
“An exaggeration, and the reality was only made possible by surprise, fortunate timing, and a gang of idiots sacrificing themselves because of their pride. Even if these people were not wasting away, they are nothing compared to the combined might of the warriors of Akershan and the forces of the Capitol. I do not have the answer. Whatever the prophet orders me to do, it will be done.”
“Ah, Keta told me that your devotion was to her rather than the rebellion…I do not fault you for this. She is a chosen of the gods and we are but dregs who follow her about. But what if she catches the plague? What will you do then?”
Ashok scowled at the fire. “Maybe it is as you said, Merchant. I will do my best and you can hope your gods make up the difference.”
Chapter 27
Thera wept in private.
While working in the hospital she forced a constant smile upon her face. False cheer was better than nothing. She held the swollen hands of dying children and told them they were going to be fine, even while their eyes filled with blood and their lungs stopped working. A hard woman by nature, she swallowed her pride, tried to give comfort, and showed no pain. They really truly believed that as their prophet she would have the power to heal them. She’d thought so too maybe, at first. But the Forgotten had remained silent.
She did this all day and all night, covered in sweat, and flies, and dried blood, and vomit. When the Voice had told her and Keta to leave the Cove to go find Ashok, this had been a hopeful place, bright and vibrant, everything that Ratul had hoped for. Now it was dying, a sickness in its bones.
Keta had found her a quiet place to sleep, away from the hacking coughs. The buildings the Ancients had carved from the sides of the crater were massive things, with a multitude of rooms, all of them empty, their original purposes a mystery. The growing rebellion had made its home here since Ratul had discovered the place and they still hadn’t mapped the whole thing. She could have had her own palace—albeit an empty one—but instead she had asked for a space in the hospital. Even with as many sick as they had, there were still plenty of rooms.
Thera went to her quarters only to sleep and to rage at the gods.
The bed was made of an old blanket upon a pile of straw, and Thera sat on it, staring at her hands. A little girl had died while holding onto those hands not ten minutes ago, her tiny fingers a memory on the scar tissue of her palms…One second they had been talking, the next she was gone, blank red eyes looking off into the endless nothing. The little girl hadn’t even been scared, just tired of being in pain, and she’d told Thera she was happy the prophet had finally come to take her pain away. Then she’d just…died.
That one had almost broken her. Thera couldn’t keep up her mask. So she’d stood up, told Keta she needed a moment to rest, and then she’d retreated to her quarters.
“Why won’t you help them?” Thera asked the thing in her head, bitterly.
Even though the Voice had been with her since she was a child, she rarely tried to talk to it. It was an unwelcome companion. If she could get rid of it, she would. If Sikasso had kept his word she would have gladly given it to the House of Assassins to be rid of the thing. It used her, got her in trouble, and never, ever gave anything back.
She hated the Voice. Tonight she let her hate be heard.
“I’ve asked you for nothing. Now I’m begging you for this. Show me how to cure this plague.”
The silence was deafening.
“You taught me how to make magic in the graveyard of demons, but that wasn’t to save me, it was to save yourself.” She grabbed a fistful of her dirty shirt and tugged at it. “Look at this filth. Surely, I’ve caught the disease by now too. Good! I’ll probably die, and then you’ll be homeless. Just like all the casteless camped outside because they were stupid enough to listen to your promises.”
Thera stood up and shouted at the ceiling. The bolt had come from the heavens so it made sense gods lived in the sky.
“You selfish bastards! I thought I was selfish. I tried to care about nobody, but it’s only because I had to be, to protect you! You’ve cost me my house, my father, everyone who has ever listened to your promises has died, and yet you do nothing! You told them to rebel, and they obeyed. Now you’ve abandoned them! They’ll die, your rebellion will die, the Law will live forever, and you’ll remain forgotten as you deserve!”
She waited. Nothing.
Thera let out a scream of rage and frustration, clenched her damaged fists, and stormed from the room and down the hall.
“If you will not do it for me, then do it for them. If the useless Voice will not act, then I will. We are not the same! I’ll keep comforting them until my lungs stop working and my eyes fill with blood, and with my dying breath I will curse you for the fraud you are!”
As she made her way down the winding stairs, Thera dried her eyes and tried to compose herself. Though she’d lost all hope, she couldn’t let the people see that. It would kill them. They needed her to be strong. As she got close to the hospital she heard the coughing and smelled the corruption, and her heart broke all over again.
She stopped there on the stairs, unable to go forward. All this was too much. All those people counting on her outside, their lives were in her h
ands. They’d followed her, and when they were caught it would be her fault. Plague on one side, Protectors on the other.
But a child of Vane never backed down from anything. So Thera forced her legs to work, and she continued down toward the hospital.
Apparently, it had been listening to her demands though. Normally, the Voice didn’t really speak to her, it spoke through her. This time was different than before. An odd sensation came over her, almost as if the invader that lived inside her skull was borrowing her brain. Thera’s vision became blurred. Her head began to ache.
Searching.
The Voice found what it was looking for, and then it offered her a choice. She didn’t know how she knew, but the knowledge was clear as day. The answer was available, but granting it might harm her physically, and afterward the Voice would be unavailable until she was fully recovered. Such ancient knowledge was not given easily. Somehow, she understood the old patterns were encoded, and the Forgotten would only grant her so many keys to decipher them. It could either help her with this problem now, or she could save this blessing for something more important later. The offer came with a warning. Choose wisely. She could not have both.
That choice was not difficult at all. Her decision was immediate.
The door was unlocked. That was when the pattern appeared before her eyes, glowing lines crisp, every particle moving into the exact place, just as it had in the Graveyard of Demons. Only this time the pattern wasn’t designed to kill, but rather to save.
The light vanished, as quick as it had come, leaving her stunned and dizzy. Thera slipped and tumbled down the rest of the stairs, sprawling face-first onto the stone floor. She scraped her elbows and split her lip.
Keta saw her fall, dropped his water bucket, and rushed to her side to help. “Thera!” He took hold of her arm, gentle and firm, surely thinking another seizure had come upon her. The water from his bucket sloshed past her legs. “Are you all right?”
Destroyer of Worlds Page 24
