by Jim Melvin
The second night after leaving Kamupadana, the pair camped by a noisy bend that gushed into one of the river’s steep chutes. Millions of sesters of water blasted around the bend and thundered down the steep slide, roaring like an army of dragons. To Laylah, it sounded like sweet music.
On the first day of summer, beneath the setting gibbous moon, they ate cheese, salted beef, and wild blackberries and then drank all that remained of their wine, permitting themselves to become pleasantly inebriated. With Torg sitting wide-eyed on a blanket, Laylah removed her clothing and began to dance around him, bending, stretching, and gyrating in an erotic series of motions.
Torg finally stood and cast off his clothes. Then he lifted Laylah in his arms and—to her amazement—strode into the shallow rapids. Any ordinary being would have been blown down the chute, but Torg was strong enough to reach a flat rock that rose like a stubby spire from the center of the tumult. There he laid the sorceress upon her back and then mounted her with great ferocity. Again it amazed Laylah that there was no pain, so soon after giving birth. But Torg had healed her, and now it was as if the birth had never occurred, so lusciously did her body welcome his entrance.
As was typical of their lovemaking, they climaxed together—and the resultant explosion was so powerful it split the rock in two, creating a new and spirited rivulet. Still inside her, Torg stood beside the broken stone and cradled her body against his own, her legs wrapped tightly around his waist. The river crashed around them. When they finished kissing, Laylah laughed. And Torg laughed.
Laughed until they cried.
Mist blended with their tears, and the two became one.
75
THE NEXT NIGHT, they came upon Avici. Though they did not fear confrontation, they still gave the great stone city a wide berth, skirting it to the west. Laylah feigned disinterest, but Torg understood that her memories of a lifetime of imprisonment could not be erased in a matter of days. Only the inexorable passage of time could dilute them to the point of tolerability.
A while later they ran into the ancient road of Iddhi-Pada, and now they had a choice to make: continue south along the river to Senasana, or veer west along the road to Nissaya.
“Do we go to the fortress to lend support and lighten hearts?” Torg said. “This will lengthen our journey to Anna by several weeks. What say you, my love?”
“Nissaya needs you . . . needs us,” she said to Torg. “But sometimes even kings have to be selfish. One day soon we will return to the dark fortress . . . but not now, not yet.”
Torg smiled. “Agreed.”
76
WHEN TORG HAD been Mala’s prisoner the previous summer, it had taken the Chain Man’s army thirty-eight days to march from Senasana to Avici. But that march had been deliberately slow and ponderous, in order to give Mala plenty of time to show off his great prize to the thousands who lived on the banks of the river. This time, Torg and Laylah—unimpeded by anything but their desire to relish each other’s company—made a similar-length journey in ten days, which still was by no means a record. They also chose to skirt Senasana, not wanting to re-enter a scene of such horror just yet. Eventually, they were forced to cross the Ogha a few leagues north of where it spilled into Lake Keo. The river became less angry as it neared its final resting place, and Torg and Laylah were able to swim leisurely across the now-wide expanse.
When they reached the far bank, Torg knelt amid a tangle of stone, dipped his hand into a pool of water, and then motioned to Laylah. Lying motionless on the palm of his hand were several black worms, small yet bloated and hideous in appearance.
“Undines,” Torg said. “All dead—though in truth, they were never really alive. It must be that their time in the Realm of the Living came with limits, and that their essence has either been destroyed or has returned to the demon world. The waters of the Ogha and Lake Keo are once again safe to drink—for everyone.”
“Are you certain?” Laylah said.
Torg smiled. “You know that I rarely answer that question with a yes. But I trust my instincts.”
Laylah also smiled. “As do I.”
From there, they navigated the difficult terrain that led to Dibbu-Loka, and the following night the enchanted city came into view. Beneath a half-moon, Torg and Laylah made their way toward the northwestern wall, crossing over the moat on an arched walkway that had seen better days but still was sturdy enough to bear their weight. A small door in the eight-cubit-tall wall had been left ajar, and the pair entered a dusty stone courtyard that smelled almost putrid. They soon discovered why. A rattlesnake had choked to death on an oversized rat, and the gruesome pair lay rotting together on a cobblestone walkway. Without the noble ones to attend to its upkeep, Dibbu-Loka already looked disheveled, though it had been less than a year since the monks and nuns had been forced to abandon the enchanted city.
Using Obhasa like a torch, Torg and Laylah walked hand in hand through the maze-like pattern of paved causeways. Their boots made slapping sounds that seemed to wander off into the darkness of their own accord. Without the ivory staff, it would have been as dark as Undeath. But Torg knew the way. Even walking blind, he was in no danger of becoming lost.
“When will they return?” Laylah said, breaking the silence. Her voice echoed and she giggled. That echoed too. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to say that so loud.”
Torg grinned. “It’s not you, it’s the emptiness. Dibbu-Loka is like a room without furnishings. I have to admit that I had hoped they would have already come back. Things happened so fast at Anna, I never had the chance to tell Asēkha-Aya my intentions. I suppose they are keeping the monks and nuns in the Tent City until I return.”
They walked in silence for a while before Laylah broke it again. “Why are we here, beloved?”
“Before I can truly rest, I must satisfy my suspicions. Before meeting her doom, Vedana said more than she intended.”
Finally they approached the northwest side of Bakheng, the towering three-tiered pyramid that served as the central shrine of Dibbu-Loka. Ten steps led to an opening guarded by a pair of stone lyons. The chamber led downward to a well that supplied most of the city’s drinking water. But the chamber was wide and varied and contained many passageways that wound into deep darkness.
They had a visitor.
Sitting atop one of the lyon’s massive heads, her skinny legs dangling over each round eye, was Sister Tathagata—or at least, the incarnation she had become. The High Nun glowed like phosphorescence, and her radiance filled Torg with serenity.
“Dear one, beyond hope, you have returned to me,” Torg said. “I never expected to see you again. I am so sorry for the suffering you were forced to endure before your passing.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Torgon,” Tathagata said. “Suffering is inevitable. As for seeing me again, this will occur once you achieve enlightenment.”
“Is that a given?” Torg said in a hopeful tone.
This caused Tathagata to burst into laughter. Torg and Laylah joined her, unable to resist its contagious lure.
“Torgon . . . Torgon . . . you are a child. But such a lovely child. Now is not the time to concern yourself with ‘givens.’ Live your life with nobility. The rest will take care of itself.”
“Are you an angel?” Laylah said.
At this, Tathagata did not laugh. Instead, her expression grew pensive. “I am high among the low, but low among the high,” she said.
“Why are you here . . . now?” Torg said. “You could have come to me before this.”
Tathagata slapped her knee with the palm of her hand. It made no sound.
“An excellent question, Torgon. Perhaps you are not such a child, after all. A teenager, maybe?” Then she laughed so uproariously that she appeared to almost fall off the statue. “Why am I here? Now? Why do you think, young man?”
Torg arched an eyebro
w. “Because it is the appropriate moment.”
The glow surrounding the apparition intensified. “Ah, child . . . you are full of surprises. The only thing that can stop you is yourself. Your father says you are too smart for your own good. He is correct.” Only it was not Tathagata’s voice that spoke these last words, but the voice of Dēsaka, his Vasi master dead for many centuries.
“You were not there,” Torg said, mystified. “How can you know?”
“How can I not?” Tathagata said.
Torg started up the steps. “Though I am pleased by your presence, I am not in need of assistance.”
“No?”
“I figured this out on my own.”
“Did you, now?”
Torg stopped just beneath her. “What do you mean by that?”
In the interior of the chamber, a glow appeared. Torg looked up and saw that the High Nun was no longer on the lyon’s head. Now she waved to them from deep inside the passageway.
Torg and Laylah followed the apparition down a steep decline into the bowels of the pyramid. Tathagata’s radiance provided enough illumination for them to see clearly for about a dozen paces. They passed the well, a circle of stone ten cubits in diameter. Then they continued down a passageway as narrow as a Duccaritan alley. Torg sensed his newfound claustrophobia attempting to take its insidious hold, but he fought down the sensation of panic that ensued. He owed his father more than that.
“You owe him nothing but love,” the apparition said, reading his thoughts.
“Then my debts already are paid tenfold,” Torg responded.
“What did you say, beloved?” Laylah asked. She had not heard Tathagata’s comment.
“I loved my father,” Torg said.
“Aaaaah . . . me too. I loved both my fathers.”
The apparition interrupted. “This is the place.”
This time, Laylah did hear. “This is where we’ll find Jhana’s remains?”
Torg grunted. “Vedana took him here, to the last place any of us would have ever looked. There must be a hidden chamber of which not even the noble ones are aware.”
“Child . . .” Tathagata scolded.
“What?” Torg said, suddenly irritated.
Again in Dēsaka’s voice: “Your sword is sharp, but your mind is dull. You can see beyond the dunes, but you cannot see what is in front of your eyes.”
“Dear one, you are beyond me,” Torg said.
“Yes,” the apparition said, “but this will not be so forever.”
Then Tathagata waved a bony hand. The stone walls seemed to dissolve, revealing an inky-black abyss as dense as hopelessness.
“It would be convenient if Peta were here, wouldn’t it?” Tathagata said lightheartedly. “Who better to guide you? Certainly not Laylah . . . at least on this journey.”
“Why not?” Laylah said sharply, but Torg quieted her by caressing her lovely cheek.
“My love . . . I must enter the darkness alone. Please wait for me here.”
“I’ll do no such thing,” Laylah said. “I thought we were safe. Are you telling me I might lose you now?”
Tathagata shrugged. “Lose him now . . . or lose him later. What does it matter? All things are impermanent.”
“That’s easy for you to say.”
“Yes . . . very easy.”
“Laylah, trust me,” Torg said. “I am not in danger. Not this time. I have gone this way before.”
Tears spilled from Laylah’s eyes, but she lowered her defiance. “I trust you,” she whispered. “But I love you, too.”
“I’ll be back,” he said, “and when I return . . .”
At that moment, the room went black. Tathagata had vanished.
Laylah used Obhasa to provide light. “She’s gone,” Laylah said. “Without even a goodbye.”
Torg sighed. “Life is for the living.” Then he drew the Silver Sword from its scabbard. “I’ll need this, though not for the reasons you might think.”
“Beloved. If you don’t return to me, what shall I do?”
“I will return.”
Then he turned and strode into the yawning abyss.
77
RATHER THAN FADE into darkness, it appeared to Laylah that a vertical pool of black water swallowed Torg. Instantly her heart began to pound, and she found herself whimpering. The person she loved most in the world was gone, leaving her alone in the bowels of Bakheng.
Laylah had no idea how long she stood there. To her it felt like days, but in the darkness there was no telling if day had come or gone. Perhaps it was only a few short moments, and her mind was just playing tricks. Regardless, she continued to whimper.
Once, she stuck her arm into the blackness to see what it felt like, but something oily and strong grasped her hand, causing Laylah to yank it back out. Her fingers were covered with a sticky substance that seemed to wiggle. She incinerated it with white magic. Then she tried to stab Obhasa into the mysterious shadows, but the ivory staff balked and would not enter, twisting out of her hand and tumbling onto the stone floor. When this happened, the glow went out, and Laylah was engulfed in suffocating darkness. She shrieked again and dropped to her hands and knees. It seemed like forever before she was able to find the staff and hug it to her chest. Obhasa glowed again, and she could see. But the black abyss was unfazed.
Just then, there was a delicate touch on her shoulder, and she spun around with a yelp. A thin man wearing white robes stood next to her.
“Laylah,” the man said. “We meet again, under more pleasant circumstances, I hope.”
“I don’t know you.”
“I am Dammawansha, High Monk of Dibbu-Loka. When I first saw you in Anna, you were not well. Many days have passed since then, and the noble ones have just now returned to the enchanted city. When we arrived, we came first to Bakheng to get water from the well, and thus found you here in the depths of the holy shrine.”
Another man, carrying an ordinary torch, stepped into Obhasa’s glow. He was almost as tall as Torg and similar in appearance. There were other torches and voices farther back in the chamber.
“My queen, I am pleased to see that you are well,” Chieftain-Podhana said. “The Tugars perceived our king’s call, which led us to presume that you and The Torgon were successful in your quest.”
“We were successful,” Laylah said.
“Where is The Torgon?” Podhana said.
Laylah gestured toward the wall of blackness. “He entered . . . and has not yet returned.”
“Then I must follow.”
“I would not,” Laylah said. “Tathagata said that only Torg should enter. It is beyond the rest of us.”
“I am Asēkha,” Podhana said.
“Chieftain, did you not comprehend her words?” Dammawansha said, his voice now incredulous. “Sister Tathagata has been here.” Then he turned his gaze on Laylah. “If only I had witnessed her presence. You have been blessed beyond blessing.”
Laylah did not debate his words. But Podhana seemed unimpressed. “Nonetheless, I must try,” the chieftain said. “I am sworn to protect my king.”
Laylah stepped aside and pressed her back against the stone wall. “I will not thwart you. Enter the darkness, if you dare.”
Podhana moved forward but then froze in his tracks.
The need to enter had expired.
The abyss began to wobble.
And Torg emerged.
In his muscular arms, he carried a large bundle.
78
THE SILENT DARKNESS was as Torg remembered from his previous visit to the Realm of Undeath, except for one exception. When he had accompanied Peta into Vedana’s world almost seven centuries before, he had not wielded the Silver Sword. This time the moment he entered the abyss the sword glowed as
if set afire, illuminating the darkest of realms with a torrent of effulgence. To say that what he saw stunned the wizard would have been a titanic understatement. But though amazed, he was not afraid. While the Silver Sword remained in his grasp, he was beyond anything in this realm, especially now that Vedana was no longer.
Countless black blobs—some as large as houses, others as tiny as bumblebees—shied from the light. When physically incarnated into the Realm of Life, demons could tolerate radiance, but the larger portion of their essence that remained in the Realm of Undeath scattered before this supernal light like misshapen rats.
All except one.
“Hello, Father,” came a voice that was so familiar. Torg wasn’t sure if he heard it out loud or in his mind.
“Peta, I thought I would find you here. Tathagata hinted as much. But everyone . . . even Vedana . . . believed you were gone.”
“As I am, Father . . . in some ways. But when I permitted my karma to enter Vedana’s unborn child, a part of me was trapped here. Until I am released”—she nodded toward the Silver Sword—“the full extent of my karma will not move on to its next existence.”
“So you’re saying that I have to kill you . . . again?”
“You cannot kill what does not live. I need only be released. There will be no pain, this time.”
“You have been my guide since we first met,” Torg said. “Is this your task, one last time?”
