And if maybe a very religious people like the Northerners saw another people practicing their beliefs, a little goodwill could be gained. Telo would take all the advantage he could get.
While the Northern soldiers watched, puzzled, the refugees from Aveston broke into scattered applause. Ramiro landed a quick kiss on Teresa’s cheek, and the tiny crowd came forward to clap them on shoulders and backs, the women hugging Teresa, who wore a bemused expression pasted on her face. The round woman gamely grinned and nodded as if she were truly the bride, while the bridegroom looked entirely too tense for a wedding. Ramiro had his eyes zeroed in on the soldiers at the gate, too much calculation and evaluation evident on his face, unable to leave behind his training. The boy would give them away.
Telo poked Ramiro with the book. “Smile,” he whispered. “You’re about to be married.”
Ramiro’s shoulders dropped slightly and a crooked grin spread over his face. The boy would win no awards for acting, but he looked shamefaced enough for a groom at least.
Telo led the way to the gates, tensing when he had to walk between the two priests with their red Diviners posted on either side of the road. Neither of the priests moved, however, and their threesome made it to the soldiers at the gate.
Telo tugged at his triple-rope belt and held the book before him like a shield. In some ways it felt a little like being in the monastery to be among so many beardless men—if it wasn’t for all the light-colored eyes of greens and blues. Sweat slid down his back. “Church,” he proclaimed, knowing the Northerners could understand nothing he said. “Wedding.” He pointed at his companion’s joined hands. “Man and wife. Inside, in a church. You follow me? We go inside.” He tucked the book under his arm to pantomime walking through the gate with his fingers, then pointed to the flowers on his companions. “Inside. I have a wedding to perform.”
The puzzled expression on their beardless faces faded a little as they realized the goal behind the words, and several of the Northerners answered him with words equally incomprehensible. One made a shooing gesture toward the road.
Telo shook back his sleeve and held up both arms, displaying his stump for the first time. Lazy tolerance changed to shock. All the soldiers spoke at once and several pointed. A man went running inside Aveston.
“What is that about, priest?” Ramiro whispered through gritted teeth. “What’s with that reaction?”
“They’ve never seen a dead man walking,” Telo hissed in return, still holding up his arms. “Hurry, before they think about it too much.” He’d counted on the superstitious indecision his stump would create, certain the Northerners had never seen anyone escape their priests’ famous executions as the Northern priests favored cutting off hands and then their victims’ heads. They could only hope the soldiers took missing one hand for having been forgiven, pardoned, and welcomed into the fold as his head was still attached. Telo walked swiftly forward, drawing the other two in his wake. The soldiers’ muttering picked up, their faces showing hesitancy, but no one tried to stop him as he went past them and through the gates, hustling across the threshold of the city.
Then a most commanding voice shouted, “Stop,” as sharply as a sword thrust decisively between the ribs to take the heart.
Telo did a slow turn, still with a smile pasted on his face, to peer past their horses. A new pack of uniformed Northerners had arrived, and one stood ahead of the others. Telo judged him to be their officer: a tall man with his black jacket cut longer and rolled cuffs of yellow on the ends of his sleeves. Of middle age, the green of his eyes was bright enough to pierce the distance between them instead of being a muddied hazel like so many of the other Northerners.
Teresa hissed. “I’ve seen that man. He was with the elite command around Ordoño when we first encountered him. One of their generals, I think.”
The man wore his hair longer than Teresa’s, but something about the command in his face drew Telo to a halt more readily than his barked order. Some part of him recognized to run now would end their quest before it began. Ramiro stirred uneasily at his back and Telo quickly said, “Let me handle this.”
Instead of having them dragged off, the officer came to them, followed by at least twenty men. Telo had his smile ready. “What can we do for you, my son? I commend you on your command of our language.”
“Priest,” the man slurred. “I have seen you around our Lord Ordoño.” He spared a glance for Teresa. “Her also. The game players. That was you?”
“Aye,” Telo admitted. “You have taken Ordoño’s place?” The blasted man gave nothing away on his face and the other Northerners all looked confused. Telo would bet his last extra sandal strap none of them understood a word spoken. One man fingered his weapon and another slapped his hand away. No doubt a tribute to their fear of Dal and desire to avoid bloodshed in the open. However, as Telo understood it, nothing stopped those surrounding them from dragging them inside to end them or from killing them after dark.
The officer spat—apparently a universal gesture—showing the first signs of emotion yet. “The next life comes. The priests say Ordoño was given his prize—no, how do you say—not prize, reward. Yes, that word. No one else wanted this task. Why are you here?”
Telo’s appreciation rose. This man obviously cared too much to let his people fall to chaos. “Following law. Some things must be done in a church. Wedding, you see.” At the man’s frown, Telo tried again, pointing to Ramiro and Teresa, then glanced at the bright sun above them. “Husband and wife. They seek to join their lives together before the . . . next life. Must be done in a church.”
The officer shook his head. “Weeding? I don’t know this word. ‘Church’ I know, but we let no more in. We have laws, too. Food is short. There are enough of your churches outside of this city. Go there. You are a brave man, companion of Ordoño, I let you leave. Go now.” He said something in his own language, and the soldiers shuffled around them, starting to herd them toward the gate.
Thrown out.
Telo set his feet. They’d reached the limits of his ideas. He had no other plans for getting into Aveston and finding Santabe. Ramiro turned toward his horse, saying something quickly, and the beast kicked out with her heels, showing her training as a warhorse and driving the Northern soldiers back. Shouts rang out. Telo sensed Ramiro shuffling under the saddlebags for his sword. Teresa had out a knife from a hidden spot in her clothing.
All around them changed to turmoil in an instant. Flowers fell from discarded wedding adornment.
Whether Dal came or not, they would die here.
Only Telo and the officer had not moved. Something lifted in Telo’s heart as if a curtain had been peeled away. Truth came rushing out, and ever always afterward he would credit what he said into the chaos as the will of their Lord’s hand.
“Wait, my son. We are not here for a wedding. We . . . we come to stop your god.”
Telo had never seen a man choke over his own tongue before. The officer’s face actually turned red. One of his men put out a supporting hand, but he brushed it aside. He shouted out commands in his own language and all went still, quiet returning, though sharp metal blades surrounded them, held back only by Ramiro’s pathetically outnumbered defense.
The officer straightened his coat. “You would say this . . . aloud. But this is . . .”
“Blasphemy,” Telo supplied. “Aye. I guess for you it is.”
Telo stared at the man, into the fierce green of his eyes, trying to weigh what he saw. Instead of an enemy, understanding spread, and their foe turned into a fellow human. Suddenly, Telo fell into the green eyes, slipping past normal defenses and beyond to a world he’d never entered—to peer directly into another man’s soul. He saw the city of Zapata unburned, and the officer wading into the turbulent waves to enjoy the sea for the first time. He experienced with the officer his joy and fear as the shift and ebb of a violent high tide tore at his legs and even drew the sand from under his unstable footing, attempting to drag the man under. Re
alized the man felt the same panicked instability now in being unexpectedly in charge of so many men.
The sharing of emotions went deeper, transferring to Telo the utter unpreparedness of this man to have the nightmare of all the Children of Dal come to life. This man never expected Dal to visit in his lifetime or indeed the lifetime of his children or great-grandchildren. The shock and horror of absorbing that information could never be understated. Despite their talk of a next life, this man only wanted to live and see his family again. He grasped for any savior—no matter in what form.
A name rose up in Telo’s head: Rasdid. Somehow, Telo witnessed Rasdid’s soul and it wanted to live.
The connection shattered into a million sharp shards, like a goblet crashing against stone. Telo reeled, the book of gospel dropping loose from under his clenched arm. The officer’s eyes had gone round like coins.
“What . . . what witchcraft is this?” he stammered. His men muttered and sword points rose. More soldiers from the gate came running in support, weapons drawn.
Teresa shrank down near the horses, but Ramiro stood balanced on his toes like a dancer, sword high. The light in his eyes spoke of one prepared to go down fighting.
Telo waited, unable to answer what he didn’t understand, but his heart said he’d witnessed another miracle. He touched heart, mind, liver and spleen.
The officer swallowed hard. “You can do this—what you said? Stop Dal?” Other soldiers cried out as the name was spoken. Some flinched from the sunlight, while others covered their head with their arms. Swords dropped from men reduced to frightened children with a word.
Telo stooped to recover the book of sermons, letting his determination swell. “For such have we been sent. It is our task to save this world or die trying. Our wrong to set right, Rasdid.”
The mutters of the soldiers took on a sharper tone at this second use of a name—a name they couldn’t have known. Several pulled at their left eye in some unknown gesture.
Rasdid recovered more quickly than his men, jaw setting. He jerked his chin toward the city. “Then go. Stop the sun, if you can.”
Ten Years Ago
Ten Years Ago
Santabe kept her right hand firmly on her Diviner as she strolled through the plaza of the Ninth Sun, clasping the weapon tightly. The shoppers in the market might give her a satisfyingly wide berth, but she had been free to walk without companionship as an Enforcer for only two moon revolutions yet. She did not trust her ability to reach the Diviner before one of the Disgraced. The other priests of Dal would laugh if she admitted her fear of dying to her own Diviner, so she did not tell them. Her training to become a priest had been hard, and she had learned quickly to keep her mouth shut to avoid the strap or worse punishment.
But on patrol, punishment was the least of her worries. She knew firsthand how deceptive a Disgraced could be. They would do anything to save their miserable hides, so frightened of being sent to another life. She wouldn’t put it past them to stalk a searching Enforcer for the chance to kill first by taking their Diviner. She might have patrolled as an apprentice only for one sun revolution, but she had heard the rumors and seen much of the Disgraced’s trickiness. Sadly, one could not spot a Disgraced simply by looking. If that were true, there would be no Enforcers.
The people at a fruit stall moved aside as her stride slowed to look at the melons on display. With Dal high in the sky and hours of walking behind her, the sight of the melons made her mouth water. The man at the stall hastily held out a mango. “For you, Honored One. My gift.” He bowed with an oily smile that made her check him again before taking the mango.
“Walk with the sun on your face,” she snapped testily and the man flinched. His customers suddenly found other places to be. Such cringing still irritated her. How much easier it would be to ferret out the Disgraced for sacrifice if she didn’t need to dress as a priestess. Then the people would speak freely around her and her moon-revolution number of sacrificed would be held in awe. She’d earn her first Sun-Blessed earring in half the time.
Blasphemy, the trained part of her mind shouted.
To hide from Dal was the choice of a Disgraced. Only an Enforcer of the highest level forwent the sheer-white clothing of their calling and only with permission because they hunted. She did not qualify for that honor. The bite of mango in her mouth tasted as dry as dust and she dropped the fruit to the cobblestones. She did not deserve a reward this day. She would confess her faults at the temple when her shift ended and accept the strap with head high.
Even as she turned her back, her eyes tracked furtive movement among the passersby. A child bent as small as a rat slunk for the dropped mango among the many feet. It held an arm outstretched and eyes down. Santabe took a step away, then spun lightning quick, coming up with the child fast in her grip.
“Thief,” she snarled, eyes blazing.
The child sniveled in her hand, not even attempting to escape. Scrawny and underfed, it stared at her with hazel eyes under matted hair.
“Thievery is forbidden. You know this.”
“Yes, Honored One,” it wheezed, spreading its breath upon her hand and arm. She almost dropped it then and there. It probably crawled with fleas as well as being filthy. Its tiny body hadn’t the blood to fuel two Diviners. But the law was clear, she couldn’t wait for this one to grow up and become more of an offense to Dal.
Almost casually, she freed her Diviner from her belt and had mercy on the child, sending it to another life with a touch. All its muscles locked for an instant, the eyes staring at her with shock, and then she let it drop lifeless at her feet.
A shame.
Her act of mercy to spare it from sacrifice meant she couldn’t add this Disgraced soul to her moon-revolution totals. Only a full blood sacrifice of hands and head counted. She would never earn her earring of rank this way. A kick of her foot turned the body so its dead eyes no longer looked her way.
She had no patience with those who pitied the poor. The poor could abide by the laws of Dal the same as everyone else. If they starved, then they should do so lawfully and have the satisfaction of passing to the next life.
On this, the church agreed with her. The priesthood didn’t go so far as to condone that poverty or disease was the hand of Dal casting judgment on a soul and showing them as undeserving—yet. When it did, she would find it much easier to produce sacrifices for the cause.
She nodded at the body. “See that is cleaned up,” she told the owner of the fruit stall.
He knocked his forehead to the ground, and she rolled her eyes. She didn’t remember her mother or aunts being this servile. Most shoppers entering the fruit market turned around and went the other way. Santabe gazed suspiciously at any who did enter as they could be Disgraced trying to appear normal. Then she realized the people not so much rushed from her as toward the fabric market with excited whispers.
She secured her Diviner in her belt and set off that way. Where the people found excitement, there was often a Disgraced waiting to be discovered. High Priest Jemkinbu had recently completed many new Diviners; she would earn much praise if the provided the blood to initiate them.
She followed the crowd through the fabric market, ignoring colorful silks and damasks, having no need for such extravagance anymore. Yet, out of habit, she glanced at the corner where her mother and aunts set up their stall. Empty. Summer was undeniably the best time to travel to the smaller huets without any merchants of their own, and she hadn’t really expected to see her kin. The summer journeys could mean the difference between profit and loss. Her kin could not speak to her first in any case, unless they visited the temple at the celebration of Dal’s Ascension, when the sun stood highest in the sky. No one from her kin had visited in the last two years and she did not expect them at this year’s ceremony, in three weeks’ time. Her family was the priesthood now.
She sniffed. Her kin might travel the roads between the towns of the Children of Dal, meeting new people and seeing new places, but she was t
he one who would please Dal and progress to the next life. So what if all she ever saw was the Ninth Sun market and the inside of the temple? She did her duty.
The crowd increased, though people gave way before her, shuffling back at seeing a priestess holding her Diviner sheathed in her belt. A gap opened, letting her discover the cause of the distraction: a brown man in brown clothing.
Santabe blinked even though she stood in shade. He had skin as brown as if he’d rubbed his flesh with mud. His eyes were of brown, too, cloudy like dirty puddles. Against all law, he let a brown and ratty beard cover his face from Dal. For clothing, he wore not a proper coat, but a long piece of cloth with a hole cut out of the center for his head. Stings of leather crisscrossed his feet, leaving his brown toes exposed like a savage’s. He sat upon the speaker platform reserved for priests and ate a piece of cheese.
For a minute, Santabe ground her teeth. This stranger had been many places that she couldn’t even imagine. Then she realized where he sat for his rude picnic.
Blasphemy.
The foreigner spoke and her anger grew as none of the Children of Dal shouted him down or turned away. His speech was broken and imperfect as a toddler but she could understand a word or two.
“. . . Strong people . . . much fight . . . wealth . . . rich for the taking . . .”
Foreigners were not exactly forbidden among the Children of Dal, but Dal did not welcome them. Sometimes scholars or politicians from other lands approached, seeking benefits or treaties, but the priests always sent them on their way unsatisfied. What did this man want here?
And why had Dal led her to be the first to discover him?
She elbowed her way past two slack-jawed soldiers in black and yellow and strode right up to the stranger, already with her Diviner free of her belt. “You!” Her eyes blazed. “Stand up! That is the speaker platform. It is not for you.” She yanked upon his arm in case he didn’t understand.
Steadfast Page 9
