The Divine Cities Trilogy: City of Stairs, City of Blades, and City of Miracles, With an Excerpt From Foundryside

by Robert Jackson Bennett

  And then there were the reports that the black tower, along with the famous walls of Bulikov, had simply disappeared. As if none of this had ever happened.

  At first they were relieved. But then all the other reports came flooding in.

  The prime minister’s aide rattles off the latest flurry: “…a woman in Ahanashtan can read poetry to wooden fences and make them rearrange themselves; one child, male, in Jukoshtan, leaves flower petals in his wake when he runs very fast; an elderly gentleman in Brost can make glass directly from sand just by having an argument with it; and now there are two or possibly even three—this is rather unconfirmed—women in Ahanashtan who can heal injuries of all types simply by holding the injured person in their arms and taking a long nap with them.” Her aide checks the figures once more. “In total, this is seventy-three reports in the last two hours.”

  “And those are the ones we know,” says General Noor, ancient and gray but still wielding his steely stare. “There must be countless ones we don’t know about. Either because these people have hidden themselves away, or their…abilities function in an unseen manner.”

  Prime Minister Gadkari considers this. She is known for being a quiet contemplator, not the sort of prime minister to rock the boat—a great contrast to Komayd and, after her, Gawali. “So,” she says eventually. “These are…miracles.”

  “They would be, Prime Minister,” says General Noor. “Yet these are happening everywhere. Most miracles were restricted to the Continent.”

  “And none of these people were known to have these miraculous qualities before,” says General Sakthi. “They’ve just…come from nowhere.”

  There’s a snort from the back of the room. Everyone along the table slowly turns to look at Minister Mulaghesh, who is absently peeling a cigarillo.

  “Do you have something you wish to say, Minister?” asks Gadkari.

  “I am cursed,” says Mulaghesh, “with an abundance of things I wish to say, as we are well aware, Prime Minister.”

  General Noor studiously looks away, as if trying to hide a smile.

  Gadkari glares at Mulaghesh, who is minority leader of the opposition party and an eternal pain in her ass. It is only due to decorum that Mulaghesh is a part of any such cabinet meetings, though Gadkari has found that Mulaghesh does more talking than nearly all the people who actually have a right to be here.

  “Do you, Mulaghesh,” says Gadkari icily, “have any opinions on the matter at hand? You do have some experience in…these matters.”

  “ ‘These matters,’ ” snorts Mulaghesh. “By which you mean these insane horrors.” She sucks her teeth. “Komayd once said that the Divine might have been like any other energy—there’s a fixed amount of it, all being used by various…I don’t know, machinations.”

  “Miracles,” says Noor. “Gods.”

  “Yes,” says Mulaghesh. “Things like that.”

  “Would this have been Komayd the elder?” asks Gadkari’s aide. “Or Komayd the younger?”

  “I mean the one who wasn’t a scheming fucking bitch,” says Mulaghesh.

  “Kindly cut to the point, Mulaghesh!” snaps Gadkari.

  “The walls of Bulikov, the biggest miraculous thing ever, are now gone. That big black Divine thing that appeared out of nowhere, that’s gone too. All those things were using that Divine energy. And now maybe it’s just…dispersed. Like a plume of gas from a refinery flare.”

  There’s a long silence as the room understands what she means.

  “Dispersed,” says Sakthi, stunned. “You mean…Everyone, everywhere…could be a god?”

  “Probably not,” says Mulaghesh. “These are just little things, little miracles, in comparison to what a Divinity can do. But they can still do them, apparently.”

  “But…But you are saying that average, everyday people can now shape reality,” says Gadkari. “You are saying that anyone, anywhere, can take the world around them and make it what they want!”

  Mulaghesh shrugs. “Somewhat. Sure. But at least it’s not just the Continent sitting on this. It’s everywhere. Now people everywhere can do it.”

  Another long silence.

  Noor turns to the prime minister. “I suspect we will need to set up some kind of an organization,” he says, “responsible for identifying and regulating such peoples.”

  Gadkari, still bewildered, blinks. “I’m sorry?”

  “Some kind of…temporary police bureau,” says Noor. “An emergency agency of some kind.”

  “And if these effects are not temporary?” asks Sakthi.

  “Then…perhaps a Ministry of its own,” says Noor.

  Someone at the end of the table laughs bitterly. “A Ministry of Miracles,” they say. “What a nightmare!”

  “The real question,” says Sakthi, “is who shall spearhead this effort?”

  “True,” says Noor. “Ever since Komayd died—and it sounds like she’s actually dead this time—we have very few people in government with any experience with the Divine.”

  Another silence. Then, for the second time, all the heads in the room slowly turn to look at Minister Mulaghesh.

  Mulaghesh’s brow wrinkles as she realizes she’s the center of attention. She drops the cigarillo in shock. Then she sighs and says, “Ah, shit.”

  * * *

  —

  Somewhere deep within Sigrud’s mind, sentience slowly blossoms.

  He is alive. He is aware. And he is in terrible pain.

  Everything hurts. Everything. It’s unimaginable how his body could hurt so much. Just thinking about drawing breath pains him, let alone actually drawing breath.

  His mouth is dry. He moans.

  Someone nearby says, “He’s awake. He’s alive!”

  He opens his mouth. Someone dribbles water into it. The water is a blessing and a curse: his body hungers for it, yet it’s so difficult to swallow. He manages to do it once, twice, but can’t handle a third.

  He cracks open his eye—this barest of gestures is like lifting two hundred pounds—and sees he’s in an opulent bedchamber, probably Ivanya’s. He trembles and looks to his right. Ivanya is sitting on the bed next to him with a bowl of water and a rag. His right shoulder is a huge mass of bandages. She looks tired, like she’s been working on him all day, if not all night.

  She smiles at him sadly. “Can you hear me? Are you all in there?”

  He exhales softly through his nostrils.

  “Good. That’s good!”

  He can’t speak the question, so he tries to use his eye to communicate it.

  “You’re been out for three days,” she says. “I didn’t believe you’d make it. But you did. Barely.” She blinks rapidly. Sigrud realizes she’s trying very hard to hold her bedside manner together, which means his condition might look as bad as it feels.

  He tries to speak, but he can’t get further than, “T-T-”

  “Taty. Yes. She’s…Well.” Ivanya steps back.

  Another person walks into view. A girl.

  It is not quite Malwina, not quite Tatyana. She is a mix of the two: she has Taty’s wide, soulful eyes, and Malwina’s truculent mouth—and, oddly, the way she carries herself still reminds him of Shara. Unlike Ivanya, she doesn’t bother trying to smile. Her eyes look haunted and hollow and miserable.

  Again, Sigrud tries to use his eye to communicate what he wishes to say.

  “Hello,” says the girl. She takes a moment, wondering what to say. “We’ve…I’ve asked everyone to call me Tatyana. I guess because Taty had Shara in her memories. More of her, at least. And I wanted to keep that.” She tries to smile. “I couldn’t go back to being two people. Not after everything I did. Some things…Some things you can’t take back.”

  Though Sigrud doesn’t have the strength to lift his hand, he crooks a finger. She sees it and crouches beside his bed, holding her
ear up to his cracked lips.

  “Weren’t you a god?” asks Sigrud, his voice a rattling whisper.

  “I was,” she says. “I was…powerful. Quite powerful. Powerful enough to give it all away.”

  He frowns at her.

  “I gave it to anyone,” she says. She waves at the ceiling. “Anything. Random, perhaps. It wasn’t right for me to make such decisions about reality. It wasn’t right for me to make decisions about who should make such decisions. So I just…scattered it, sent it to wherever it all wanted to go.”

  “A lot has changed since you’ve been out,” says Ivanya. “People are showing some…unusual talents as a by-product of what Taty here did, to say the least.”

  He frowns at her, confused.

  “Miraculous talents,” Ivanya says. “Everyone. Everywhere. The Ministry’s in an uproar. Everything everywhere is in an uproar. It’s a new world overnight.”

  Sigrud crooks his finger again. The girl—Taty, he supposes—leans close.

  “Why am I alive?” he whispers.

  She sits up and smiles weakly at him. “I gave it away, but I couldn’t give it all away. I can’t change what I am. I am still a creature of the Divine, still the daughter of time—just not as strong as I used to be. But I could still snatch that miracle living inside you, and break it open, and use all the time it’d stored up. Specifically, I…I used it on your wound.”

  “Your shoulder’s knitted faster than anyone’s should, from what happened to you,” says Ivanya. “You should have died within minutes of pulling that spear out.”

  He shuts his eye, deflated.

  “What’s wrong?” asks Taty. She leans close.

  “I was ready to die,” he whispers. “You should have let me die.”

  She sits up. She looks at him, her dark eyes large and sorrowful. “You’re all I have left,” she says. “You’re the only person who was there when I needed you. You’re all I have left now.”

  Sigrud shuts his eye and sleeps.

  * * *

  —

  He awakes in the night. He coughs and someone is again there beside him with the water, the rag, the drops in his mouth. Again he struggles to swallow.

  “There, there,” says Ivanya’s voice. “There, there.”

  When he opens his eye he sees she’s watching him with that curious, strained light in her eyes again, like she’s struggling to keep smiling.

  He finds he can speak—but just barely. “Is Taty here?”

  “No. Something’s wrong with her. She’s been having terrible headaches, and has nearly been as bedridden as you a—”

  Sigrud shakes his head. “We have to get her off the Continent.”

  “Why?”

  “The Divine…it is shaped by the beliefs of the people around it. She’s still Divine, still being affected by the Continent. Olvos was terrified of it. Terrified of belief changing her.”

  “You really think that’s what’s happening?”

  “Olvos stayed cloistered away for fear of it happening to her,” he whispers. “She couldn’t even stop the torture of her own son.”

  “But what can we do?” asks Ivanya. “Where can we send her? Saypur’s in a state of disarray, but I don’t think she could last there, not with the Ministry trying to make lists of everyone miraculous.”

  Sigrud coughs. The movement sends daggers shooting into his chest. “The Dreyling Shores,” he says. “We never had gods, never had the Divine. I can take her there.”

  “What! You? You’re not in a state to sit up, let alone take a voyage by boat!”

  “I must speak to my wife. To Hild. She can make arrangements for me.”

  “Your…Your wife?” Ivanya’s sidelong glance speaks volumes.

  “She was my wife the last I saw her. That was thirteen years ago. I believe she has remarried since.”

  “This is the only way to save Taty?”

  “I think so.” He coughs. “Shara asked me to protect Taty. I will do so until I am certain she is safe. Even from a bed.”

  “I’ll make the arrangements,” she says. She tries to smile again, but it doesn’t quite meet her eyes.

  “There is something you’re not telling me,” says Sigrud.

  “What?”

  “When you look at me. You see something. What is it?”

  She hesitates.

  “Is it my injury?” he asks.

  “No. Not just that.”

  “Then what?”

  She looks at him, cringing, then goes to her vanity and fetches a mirror. She holds it up to his face for him to see.

  The face of an old Dreyling man looks back at him. It takes him a moment to realize it’s his own. His face is lined with wrinkles, he has faint brown spots at his temples, and veins riddle the edges of his nose. His hair and beard are silver-gray. His eye is faded, no longer the bright, glacial blue he’s used to seeing.

  “She said she pulled the miracle out of you,” says Ivanya, “and all the time it had stored up. But it seems it had…stored up quite a bit of time. And when she put it back into you…”

  Sigrud chuckles weakly. “Oh, goodness me. Goodness me.”

  “You seem to be taking this well.”

  “It would be foolish of me,” says Sigrud, “to dance with time itself and expect to come away unscathed. I thought I would be dead now. But I live on to help deliver Taty from danger. I hold no grudge against this.”

  “I do,” says Ivanya sadly. “A little.”

  He looks at her and smiles. “It was good while we had it,” he says.

  “One evening,” says Ivanya, “does not seem to be enough, Sigrud je Harkvaldsson.”

  “Yet it was what we got,” says Sigrud. “Will you help me, Ivanya? Will you help bring Taty to my homeland?”

  She bends down and kisses him on the forehead. “Of course. Of course, of course, of course.”

  * * *

  —

  Ivanya hires an ambulance for their procession to the Solda River the next day. Between Sigrud, who still looks ravaged, and Tatyana, who leans up against Ivanya with her face pale and sweating, they look like a bunch of plague victims being shipped off to quarantine.

  Sigrud is only half-conscious, but no one bothers to glance at any of them. Mostly, it seems, because Bulikov has gone insane.

  A woman builds a staircase out of a low cloud in the sky. A man passes by riding what appears to be a deer made of vines, laughing delightedly. A child sitting on a staircase draws something on the wall with his finger. A small, round door appears. The child opens it, steps inside, and shuts the door, which promptly vanishes.

  This is the world we have made? This is what Shara and Taty and Malwina and I made with all our striving?

  They finally make their way down to the Solda. Their vessel proves to be a dingy old yacht, and their captain a shifty-looking Saypuri man who quickly states his desire to get the living hells out of Bulikov at full haste, since it’s gone mad. “But the whole world’s mad now,” he says hollowly. “The whole world’s gone mad.”

  “Get us to the Dreyling Shores quickly,” says Ivanya, “no questions asked, and you can buy a little piece of the world that hasn’t gone mad.”

  They help Sigrud and Taty get stowed away in the passenger cabin. Ivanya quickly sets up shop beside their beds, unpacking boxes and boxes of medical equipment. Sigrud can tell already that it will be a difficult journey for him: this is much, much less comfortable than Ivanya’s beds.

  He stares up at the ceiling, trying to remain conscious. He fails, and falls asleep again.

  * * *

  —

  One day passes, then another. It’s a drifting world for Sigrud. Each time he sleeps it feels like an eternity. Sometimes it’s a handful of minutes. Other times it’s more than a day. His breath is shallow and quick now, always wh
eezing. He’s not sure if he’ll ever regain full use of both lungs.

  Once he awakes to hear someone weeping in the night. He turns his head and finds Taty lying on her berth, eyes wet with tears.

  “What is wrong?” he asks.

  “I miss her,” she says. “I just miss her. That’s all.”

  He isn’t sure if she means Shara or Tavaan. Perhaps it’s both. Perhaps it doesn’t matter.

  He looks out the porthole. They’re well north of Bulikov now, passing through the western arm of the Tarsils. Snowflakes twirl down from the moonlit skies.

  “Does it get any better?” asks Taty. “Does it?”

  “Eventually,” he says. “Yes.”

  She looks at him, her eyes burning. “Don’t you leave me too. Not you. Not after all this.”

  He tries to smile at her. “Close your eyes. I’ll be here in the morning.”

  She frowns at him, suspicious.

  “I’ll be here for a while,” he says.

  She rolls over and falls back to sleep.

  * * *

  —

  As Sigrud, Ivanya, and Tatyana continue their long, slow journey northwest along the Solda, the greater world begins its own journey into strange new lands.

  In Taalvashtan, all those with the ability to produce or manipulate raw materials—iron, wood, stone, sand—begin to gather and meet every other night. They’re crafters, they’ve decided, workers and laborers, so perhaps it’d be wise for them to join forces. Create a guild or association of some kind. Make what they like, for a fee.

  The next morning they start on their work, just to see if they can do it.

  By evening, they’ve built a third of a skyscraper.

  By the next day, word will spread of what they can do, and others will carry on the idea.

  By the week after that, global real-estate markets will begin to collapse.

  And by the end of the month, the finance markets will begin to do the same—just after the newly formed Alchemists Guild of Ahanashtan officially opens for business.