The West Is Dying

by David C. Smith

  “What is your business in Erusabad?”

  “I am returning after a long absence.”

  “Are you a priest?”

  “I am alone—siamu. I am an ikbusa, now.”

  “Have you anything to do with the Temple of Bithitu in this city?”

  “I served in it once, but left it.”

  “Have you ever been employed by the Athadian government, retained by it or by any of its offices, either legal or military?”

  He almost laughed out loud. “No, never. Would you mind telling me what—”

  “If you intend to stay in Erusabad for more than three days, you must report back to this office to be given a badge of residence. What is your name?” The official produced a long scroll and unwound it, then reached for his pen and opened his ink gourd.

  “I am called Thameron.”

  “Thay—meronnnn,” he wrote, with some difficulty. “Athadian by birth.”

  “That is correct.”

  “And where will you be staying while you are in Erusabad?”

  “I have no idea.”

  The official regarded him seriously. “You must give us a place of residence.”

  Thameron reflected for a moment. “The temple, then. The Temple of Bithitu. I still have friends there. I can stay there or in one of the hostels nearby.”

  “I’ll mark you down for Lekusa Street.”

  “Thank you,” Thameron said. “Am I free to go now?”

  “Yes. But remember to report back in three days if you’re going to stay. Longer than three days, that is.”

  The official reacted then when he and Thameron were interrupted by a woman’s voice—a moan, actually, perhaps of pain or drunkenness, perhaps of passion. The sound came from the dark stockroom behind the overweight official. A light smile played on Thameron’s lips. He bowed slightly and, as he did, he saw through the open doorway. There were piles of wooden crates in the shadows, full sacks and amphorae—and, on the floor, he glimpsed the naked legs and ample hips of a very large woman.

  “Is she all right?” Thameron asked pleasantly.

  “She is quite all right,” the official assured him.

  “Has she been given a badge of residence, though? That’s my concern.” He grinned.

  “She is fine!” the official replied angrily. “Now you are free to go!”

  Thameron left and began walking slowly toward the inner city.

  So they had finally accomplished the inevitable—taken complete control of the city. It did not surprise him; but surely the empire would not allow this occupation to go unchallenged. Still, he saw no signs of violence or looting, burned buildings, the widespread damage typical of occupying armies. So how had this been done? Was the throne now so compliant? Life in Erusabad was flowing as typically as it ever had.

  He stopped in a small tavern off Kurad Square, ordered a plate of fish and a cup of wine. He was amazed, as he finished his meal, to have the owner of the place—a Salukadian—approach him for payment.

  “I have no money,” Thameron told him.

  The taverner colored with anger. “You come in here and eat my food and you have no money to pay for it? What game is this? Do you want to be arrested? Where is your money?”

  Thameron replied, “Where is your respect?”

  “My what?”

  He reminded the tavern keeper that he was a priest—a wandering priest—and it had ever been public policy in the Holy City to provide free meals to priests, out of respect for their station.

  The owner sighed. He had heard something about this; the rationale calmed him somewhat, but: “I respect you. You’re a priest. But you still have to pay me for the fish. I can’t afford to—”

  Thameron became impatient with him. He said, “I have no intention of deceiving you,” and stood, pushing back his chair. He momentarily adjusted his vest and belt and, as he did this, the sleeve of his robe dropped back. The irate taverner had just a glimpse of the scar burned into the palm of Thameron’s left hand.

  Certain symbols were universal; everyone knew what the circle meant, and the sign of the lamp, and the different kinds of stars. The taverner nodded to Thameron now and began to move away. “I’ve decided,” he explained abruptly, “that it’s all right now. I don’t want to upset you.”

  Thameron stopped talking. What had brought this about? But when he dropped his hand again to his side, he understood.

  A businessman seated at the next table stood and walked over. He asked Thameron, “You Athadian?”

  “That’s correct.”

  The businessman reached into his purse, removed a few coppers, and offered them to the tavern keeper. “Go on, dark meat. Take it and leave him alone. He’s a priest.”

  “Yes, yes.” The owner, still sufficiently shaken not to react to the crude slur, accepted the coins, bowed awkwardly in Thameron’s direction, and moved away.

  “Pig,” grunted the businessman. “All of them.”

  Thameron thanked him for his intervention. “I arrived only an hour ago. I’ve been on a pilgrimage. I had no idea that this had happened here.”

  The businessman’s temper was slanderous. “The bastards moved in three weeks ago. Just marched right in and took us. Dusar sold us out to them. We murdered him for it, and there was some competition for a bit, but Elad gave them the city. What can you say to that? The king tells them, Go ahead, have the whole stinking city. Now anybody who’s Athadian is treated like we got pushed out of the ass end of a horse.” He looked around cautiously and then added, “My brother used to run this shop. He did a fair business. But the dark meat came in and told him his taxes were tripled, just like that. He couldn’t pay. How’s he going to pay? So that son of a pig took it over. I come in here every day. I’m to knife the ugly suck when I get the chance.” He paused, aware that he was somewhat drunk and that he was confiding such feelings to a robe. “Sorry,” he apologized. “But you can’t blame me for feeling this way.”

  Thameron looked him in the eyes. “No,” he replied in quiet voice. “I don’t blame you. It’s understandable. Thank you again for paying for my food.”

  “No trouble at all, brother.”

  He watched as Thameron left the tavern, surprised that so odd a man actually was a priest. He was, wasn’t he? He had he talked so strangely, and he had the damnedest eyes the businessman had ever seen.…

  * * * *

  As he moved down the street in the direction of the temple, Thameron heard, above the sounds of the crowds, the noise of workers at construction—wooden mallets striking metal chisels, saws cutting lengths of wood, chains being drawn over the gears of pulleys. The closer he came to the temple, the more certain he was that the noise came from precisely that section of the city. Walking past the tall Central Authority building—which now had Salukadian flags flying atop it—he saw that the huge golden dome that had capped the Temple of Bithitu was missing.

  Thameron hurried through the crowds, crossed over two streets, and moved quickly down the wide boulevard that led to the huge white gates of the temple grounds. But he could not reach the gates because that stretch of the boulevard had been blocked off with wooden railings. Before these railings sat a loose group of Salukadian soldiers. And beyond them, on scaffolds raised halfway up the sides of the temple, hundreds of workmen were chiseling away the stonework facades and the ornamental sculptures, and plastering the columns in new designs, and erecting new gate doors.…

  Utterly destroying the Temple of Bithitu, which had stood, a monument, unchanged, for nearly two thousand years.

  Thameron grinned in an expression of astonishment. He stared for a long time, not moving, watching the reconstruction work and looking on as passersby flung curses at the soldiers by the railing. Yet there were no large crowds demonstrating against the sacrilege, and—remarkably, as far as Thameron was concerned—there were no priests whatsoever within the vicinity.

  He looked down nearby streets and alleys. Lekusa Street, the official had said? Thameron cross
ed to where Lekusa Street opened upon the square and walked down it.

  It was a long, narrow passage, one of the oldest in the ancient city. Barely passable, Lekusa Street was little more than an extended alley—perhaps, at the beginning of time, it had been no more than a goat trail or hunting path—and it was overshadowed by tall stone buildings, most of them centuries old, some of which predated even the temple. From windows high up on both sides of Lekusa Street leaned tired, haggard faces, Athadian, all of them. Farther down, as he made his way over the tightly packed cobblestones, Thameron saw a newly carved wooden sign hanging above a door well. It had been crudely done, with a lamp depicted inside a circle and upon it the words—

  Omudu d. Bithit’au

  Urebe imdai d. a’llumu

  Temple of Bithitu

  Welcome, Faithful of the Light

  He went in.

  The entrance hall was not long, and at the far end of it was a stairwell, while in rooms off either side, Thameron noticed as he proceeded, were makeshift altars and rude benches. The temple had fallen into this state? He saw no one in any of the rooms; the building might have been entirely vacant for all the indication of life that he saw. He moved to the stairwell and made his way to the second floor. As he ascended, he heard the sounds of people above.

  The stairs continued to the top of the building, but Thameron turned onto the second-floor landing. Looking into the first of the rooms he passed, he glimpsed rows of beds and low cots and saw a group of three young priests gathered in discussion in a corner. Continuing on, toward louder voices that came from an open door halfway down the landing, Thameron drew back as a tall, bald young man moved quickly from the door and almost knocked into him.

  The bald young man, with a thousand emotions in his eyes, asked Thameron impatiently, “What do want here?”

  “I’m looking for someone.”

  “Who?”

  “Hapad.”

  “He’s very sick. It might not be good to disturb him.”

  “Just let me speak with him. Where is he?”

  “Down there. In that room.” The man pointed.

  Thameron bowed his head. “Thank you.”

  But the bald man had already hurried on.

  He made his way to the door of the room, knocked lightly on it, then opened it. The room was dark—the window shutters closed, no oil lamps lit. The only light was the daylight that seeped through oilskin-covered openings high in the wall. Thameron noticed a number of beds and cots in no particular arrangement; he searched the gloom for Hapad. Closing the door, he walked in, and his boots kicked up dust.

  Someone grunted from one of the cots.

  Thameron turned and looked at a pale-faced man on a cot underneath one of the oilskin-shielded windows. He approached, intending to ask where Hapad might be found, but when he looked into the white, damp features of the man, Thameron recognized his old friend.

  “Hapad?”—almost in a whisper.

  “Please…get me a cup of water.”

  “Hapad, open your eyes. I’m Thameron.”

  The eyes opened; the weak arms struggled to push. Hapad, drowsy or feverish, quite ill, managed to prop himself up. His stare was white and wide in the dimness.

  “Thameron?”

  “Yes, my friend.”

  “Name of the prophet!” He coughed. “Where have you been? What has happened?” He was very excited but too ill to do more than strain to hold himself upright.

  “Hapad.” Thameron touched his friend’s cheek and the sweaty brow. The man was on fire. “My friend, what has happened here, Hapad?”

  Hapad grinned without mirth. “The Salukadians came into the city. Took it. They…took the temple. Thameron, they’re—they’re destroying it, rebuilding it. They have their own gods.”

  “I saw them doing it. Did you not fight? Where are Andoparas and Muthulis? Where is everyone?”

  “Dead.”

  “Dead?”

  “They killed themselves,” Hapad admitted. “They called upon the prophet to destroy the infidels, and they begged for some sign from the gods, but the soldiers came here and ordered everyone out. They cordoned the street and, and blocked the windows. We took refuge within the temple, and some of us fought, but not many. The soldiers killed them. Not many. Finally Muthulis and Andoparas drank poison. It all happened in one night. The rest of us—we left. What could we do? The prophet abandoned us, Thameron. All of the gods, they abandoned us. Why did they lie to us? This building—the people here had left, to get out of the city, away from the Sala— The Salukads. Away from them. So we came here, whoever was left.”

  “Hapad, you’re very ill.”

  “The fever. I know. It will kill me. I don’t—I don’t care. I prefer to die now. I’m sorry I ever lived to see this…sacrilege!”

  Thameron leaned forward, urging his old friend to lie back on the wet cot. He pressed his hands gently on his chest. Hapad noticed that Thameron’s fingers were naked of any ornaments.

  “Thameron, where is the ring I gave you?”

  The sorcerer took in a breath.

  “My friend, you have not lost it, have you? I wanted you to keep it with you.”

  “It was not lost, Hapad.” Thameron stood erect, tall in the shadows, and admitted, “Not lost. I destroyed it, Hapad.”

  “Destroyed it? Thameron, why?”

  “Because—” his voice shook “—because I am fallen, my friend. I have changed. And your ring reminded me of things that could never be again. Everything is gone for me now, Hapad.”

  “I don’t understand.” Hapad lurched forward on the cot and looked carefully at Thameron’s gloomy features.

  “I traveled, Hapad. I took a long journey, and I learned more of this life in a month than I ever had in all of my years at the temple. I…despaired. I despaired of humanity. I despaired of myself. I wandered without direction and decided that I must finally kill myself, but then I met a man—Guburus. This was his name. A sorcerer, Hapad.”

  You are become your destiny, O man.

  “Hapad, my friend, I was so weak and disillusioned. I knew that truth must exist somewhere, but all I saw were lies, and I lived in the underbelly of life. How could this be? Are we made to dream and wonder but live only in gutters like animals? What foulness is that? Guburus showed me a way to attain greatness, to reach the heart of wisdom. But—”

  You are the chosen, the vessel, the being, the embodiment of the last days.

  “—I was weak, Hapad. I wanted everything. I strove to know everything, to know all, and I wanted to become everything.… There is an enormity, Hapad, right here, we can reach to it and touch it—”

  “Thameron. No.…”

  “I was visited by a demon. I was challenged, and I answered, Hapad. I answered.”

  Demand that shadows bow before you and mountains bend in praise.

  “I answered, Hapad! And I have become a house of darkness and immense power. All that I have ever desired can be mine now. But…do you know the weight of good, my friend?”

  For you are become your destiny, O man beyond men.

  “Do you know how, as young men, only young men, we struggled with the burden of good? Never certain that we knew the way, that we even saw the lamp, that we knew how to embrace the good?”

  O Prince of Darkness.

  “I know now what good is, Hapad. I know because I’ll never touch it again. Never. Never will I struggle beneath the profound weight of good, because—my friend.…”

  Master of the Hell of Men!

  “Hapad, I struggle beneath an even greater burden—awareness of the All, and the burden of evil. Evil…It is all-powerful and immense, it is human and endless, Hapad—dark, with no lamps.”

  Evil.

  “My friend? Hapad? Please, answer me, Hapad.”

  From the cot, from the shadows, coughing with his fever and frightened, now.…

  “Hapad? My friend?”

  “Do not call me friend.”

  “Hapad, I have stru
ggled, I have journeyed, I have fought!”

  “When have you struggled? When have you fought? What have you fought? What? Yourself? You have damned your own soul! You never struggled! And you damn me by returning to the House of the Prophet! Why? What do you want of me?”

  “Hapad! Please!” He said it in a whisper, in agony. “I have great power, my friend. You’re ill. Let me help you. I know I can cure you of this illness. I’m powerful. Hapad, please, if you don’t let me help you—if you turn me away—I’ll surely be damned. Only you—”

  “Go,” came the voice from the darkened cot. “Do not touch me. Do not call me friend. Do not cure me. Let me die. I wish I already were dead. Go and be damned, then, Thameron.”

  “Hapad!”

  “I wish you to be damned. I damn you. Be damned forever.”

  “Hapad—”

  O Prince of Darkness.

  “Be…damned.…”

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  Princess Salia and her father, the imbur, had returned to Sugat to make preparations for the marriage.

  As excited activity for the wedding took place in the palace in Athad, under the direction of seneschals and their stewards and servants, Elad fell to brooding. He consented several times to speak with Abgarthis, but even that old man who knew everything and had experienced whatever could occur in such a palace—even Abgarthis could not dispel the shadows that had come to hug the man’s heart.

  There was no word from King Nutatharis in Emaria. Elad had insisted, with all deference to another king’s position and authority, that Nutatharis reply immediately to his query regarding the presence of Prince Cyrodian in the Emarian court. That Cyrodian was instrumental in creating or assisting in the troubling events in the Low Provinces seemed quite apparent to Elad. (He had even feared, earlier, that his brother might somehow have been behind the seditious outbreaks in Sulos, until reports came that substantiated the falseness of that concern.) But with no communication forthcoming from Nutatharis, what was Elad to think? He was now more worried than previously that Cyrodian had become a member of Nutatharis’s court.