5: The Holy Road (10 page)

Alidas laughed and then explained the joke to Wah’roa. He seemed to appreciate it.

The soft yellow glow of firelight radiated down from above them. The movement of the cage began to slow. John could hear the low murmur of men’s voices. Then, at last, the cage came to a jerky stop beneath an archway of girders, chains, and pulleys. The air felt refreshing and cool as it brushed over John.

They exited the lift and stepped out into a wide courtyard lined by stone barracks. Looking out, John could not only see the terraces of Vundomu spilling out beneath him, but the moonlit ribbon of the distant Samsira River.

A group of eighty or more men awaited them. Like Wah’roa, they looked hard and lean and carried rifles. All of them bore red Prayerscars on their brows. Scarlet moons decorated the cuffs and collars of their black uniforms, and when they called out a salutation to Wah’roa, John couldn’t help but note the flash of so very many sharp white teeth.

Though, he also noted that these men, like the guards on the terraces below, addressed Wah’roa with the formal honorifics normally reserved for the holiest of the ushman’im.

Back in Rathal’pesha, Ushman Nuritam would not have been pleased with that. Yet the kahlirash’im presented such an intimidating presence that John couldn’t imagine anyone reprimanding them in person.

“I’m afraid we have to part here,” Alidas told John quietly.

“Where are you going?” John wished the words hadn’t come out sounding so startled; there was something about all those polished guns and sharp teeth that unnerved him. Alidas grinned as he’d been paid a compliment.

“It’s where you’re going that matters,” Alidas replied. “I’m not ordained, so sadly I can’t enter the heart of the kahlirash’im sanctum along with you.”

“Oh, I see.” And he did, at least enough to realize that it pained Alidas not to be counted among the kahlirash’im. “Well, you’ll just have to take some consolation at the feast that’s taking place, I suppose.”

“That I will.” Alidas appeared to cheer up at the thought. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow,” John agreed.

With that, Alidas stepped away and the kahlirash’im fell into two tight formations on either side of John.

He and the rank and file of the kahlirash’im marched after Wah’roa. They passed beneath a raised portcullis and followed a narrow, paved lane towards the black silhouette of a strangely bristling building. It reminded John of a huge spruce pinecone in the way its edged scales seemed to armor the graceful symmetry of its curves. As they drew closer John saw that torches illuminated the brilliant red tiles that encased the entire surface of the massive structure. The doors, too, were red, though the steps leading up to them shone like gold.

Their entire procession drew to a halt at the foot of the stairs.

Wah’roa quickly stepped between John and the door, then turned to face him. He raised his hands to his forehead, touching his Prayerscar, and then briefly placed one callused finger to John’s brow.

“Attendant, this night you are one of us. Raise your voice with us, so that our revered Kahlil may journey through the Palace of the Day to the Kingdom of the Night and return to us the divine destroyer. Pray with us for the cleansing wrath that will at last free his house of corruption and make us once again deserving of his blessings.” Wah’roa spoke sternly, all traces of ease and warmth drained from his countenance. He stared into John’s face with expectant intensity. In the silence, John realized that he was expected to respond.

“The honor would be mine,” John managed. “Ah, thank you.”

John caught Wah’roa’s brief look of amusement at his awkward reply. Then Wah’roa’s harsh expression returned.

“Then come into the sanctum of the most holy incarnation and kneel with us in brotherhood.” Wah’roa turned to the large doors and pushed them open.

The entryway was cramped and dark. Then Wah’roa pushed through another set of doors and led John into the vast central chamber of a wide, circular chapel. Except for a black statue at the altar, the chapel was completely empty. Only a few oil lamps hung from the ceiling, but the light reflected and gleamed off the gold-inlaid walls. Where the light caught, the sweeping curves of script blazed, as if the gold plating were turning molten. The floor had been tiled a deep, glassy red. It gleamed almost as if it were wet.

John followed Wah’roa across the chamber to the foot of the huge, black iron statue. Looking up, John expected to meet Parfir’s benevolent gaze. Instead he found himself looking into wide eyes, an open screaming mouth, and barred black teeth.

The pose was wrong for Parfir as well.

This figure was arched forward, arms thrown out. The hair swirled out around the enraged face as if caught in a storm wind. At the statue’s feet, the tiles were cracked with black seams.

“This is the Rifter,” John whispered.

“Parfir’s most holy incarnation,” Wah’roa said softly. “The divine destroyer. God’s will given form.”

John could hear the other kahlirash’im filing into the chamber behind him. They filled the space with the scent of tanned leather, veru oil, and sweat. The warmth of their bodies added a living heat to the blaze of the golden walls.

Wah’roa bowed down and lowered his head in prayer. Slowly, John knelt down as well. He closed his eyes, listening to the prayers that whispered and rolled through the chamber. They called on the Rifter to lend them strength, to make them fearless, to defend their world. A pang shot through John as he realized that he was the god they so softly called upon and he could offer them nothing.

John bowed his head, mumbling empty prayers in his own temple.

They departed from Vundomu the next day, and after six more days of train travel, the trio finally reached Nurjima. The sun was just setting. Common men and women greeted their friends and relatives at the station. Work crews unloaded goods and animals. A party of Bousim rashan’im had arrived and one man waved through the crowd at Alidas. John found it odd, particularly after the huge display at Vundomu, that no one came to greet Ravishan. Not even a single lowly ushvun awaited his arrival.

Noting this, Alidas drew a simple map of the streets to take to reach the Black Tower. He assured them that the Black Tower could be seen from any point in the city, so they couldn’t get too lost. But it was a long walk, so he suggested that they really ought to take a carriage. When Ravishan asked if carriage drivers preferred blessed stones or wooden coins as pay, Alidas seemed deeply concerned.

“Prayer stones won’t get you anything in Nurjima,” Alidas said. “Don’t you have any money?”

“None,” John said, so that Ravishan would not have to.

“Here, take this. It isn’t much, but it will get you to the Black Tower.” Alidas offered John his coin purse.

“We can’t take your money,” John objected, but Alidas simply thrust the leather purse into his hand.

“It’s the least I can do. And I’ll have pay waiting for me at the Bousim barrack. Please take it as my offering to your pilgrimage.”

“Thank you,” Ravishan said. “Bless you.”

“It was an honor meeting you—both of you.” He hefted his pack up onto his shoulder as two rashan’im in Bousim green came striding up. Noting their approach, he said, “Here’s my escort.”

John and Ravishan both wished him well. None of them spoke of meeting again. Alidas departed with his fellow rashan’im.

John hired a battered brown carriage, drawn by two surprisingly plump tahldi. The driver looked like he shared living quarters with his animals, but the interior of the carriage was clean, if cramped.

They rode through the winding twilit streets, now and then glimpsing streetlamps and catching snatches of wild music. John felt the Black Tower long before he saw it. His empty stomach tightened. When they stepped out of the carriage, John looked past the massive stone wall that surrounded the grounds up to the black, corded height of the tower. He felt a familiar repulsion, which he suppressed immediately.

Instead, he and Ravishan walked side by side to the massive, wrought iron gates of the entry. There, two ushvun’im, who had apparently been waiting for Ravishan to arrive, informed them that the Usho and several of his highest-ranking ushman’im had contracted some kind of sickness. Fai’daum witchcraft was suspected. The ushman’im throughout Nurjima were performing intense rituals of cleansing and healing as well as exorcisms. Whatever the cause, no one wanted to run the risk of exposing the future Kahlil to the illness.

The men explained that the Usho’s greatest wish was for the Kahlil to remain in good health. They apologized profusely, bowing so low and for so long that their faces went red.

“For the sake of your safety, the Usho begs that you do not enter the Black Tower,” the younger of the two ushvun’im mumbled into the knees of his cassock.

“Of course I’ll do as His Holiness wishes,” Ravishan replied. “Can you direct us to the nearest church hostel?”

The older of the two ushvun’im looked pained.

“I’m afraid that we must ask you to consider other accommodations. As we said, the Usho has fears that a Fai’daum witch has discovered that the Kahlil is making his pilgrimage. If she were to cast out a curse, it would likely be over a church hostel where the Kahlil would be expected to stay.”

“I see,” Ravishan said, frowning. John knew what was troubling him and also knew that Ravishan was too proud to bring up a subject like money.

“The Kahlil,” John cut in quickly, “doesn’t possess any secular monies, only blessed stones. How is he to pay for this accommodation?”

The younger of the ushvun’im seemed baffled. “You have no money at all?”

“None. We do not use it in Rathal’pesha,” John replied firmly. He knew Ravishan had to be exhausted. He had spent half the night pacing the through the train car, reciting his prayers and preparing to meet the Usho. Neither of them had eaten since early afternoon. John glowered down at the two ushvun’im. What did they imagine he and Ravishan were supposed to do for food and shelter for a week?

“We are obviously dressed in the clothes of priests from Rathal’pesha.” John held out his arms so that the two ushvun’im could take in the rough wool of his coat and cassock. The only difference between his clothes and Ravishan’s were the silver moons pinned to Ravishan’s collar. Not even the lowest ushvun’im of Nurjima seemed to dress in such a rough, provincial fashion.

Even these two ushvun’im with novice braids wore cassocks of brushed silk and suede shoes.

“Turning the Kahlil out onto the street with no money and dressed in these clothes is hardly going to hide him from notice.” John drew himself up to his full height. “If you’re going to send him away, then at least you could provide us with money and clothes.”

The two ushvun’im gaped at him. John stepped closer to the older of the two, forcing the other man to crane his neck to look up at him. “Don’t you think that’s the least you could do?”

The man blanched and retreated toward the gate.

“Yes, certainly,” the ushvun said quickly. Then he turned to his younger companion. “Tell Ushman Serahn of the Kahlil’s request at once.”

The young ushvun bolted back inside the tower grounds. The older ushvun smiled faintly at John, his pale lips seeming to wilt with each passing minute.

“I’m sure it won’t be long,” the ushvun said.

John didn’t respond. He simply stood his ground. Ravishan remained a little behind him, looking both displeased and aloof. In truth, John guessed that he was simply exhausted and hungry.

At last the young ushvun returned. He brought an intricately embroidered moneybag and several pieces of paper. Immediately he offered the bag of coins to John.

“Ushman Serahn will make arrangements for his personal tailors and cobblers to clothe you.” He handed John several papers. They had addresses written on them. “They should be able to see you tomorrow. He has also written the names of a number of lodgings, which would be appropriate for the Kahlil. He sent for a runner to summon a carriage.”

John accepted the papers and scanned through the list of names and addresses. They meant next to nothing to him. He held them out to Ravishan, who only shook his head.

“Wherever you choose,” Ravishan said. “Just so long as we get something to eat.”

“How long will we have to wait for this carriage?” John demanded. He was a little surprised at himself. It wasn’t like him to be such a bully. But Ravishan deserved to be treated better. At Vundomu a thousand priests had gathered at the train station to cheer him. Here, two underlings had been sent to the front gate to tell him to come back in a week.

“A carriage should arrive before the seventh bell.” The younger of the two bowed his head down as if expecting John to strike him. A sheen of nervous sweat was beginning to show on the forehead of the older ushvun. They knew this was the wrong way to treat the Kahlil.

“In the meantime, don’t you think that you ought to offer the Kahlil some food?” John asked.

“Yes, I’m sorry,” the older ushvun replied. He bumped the younger ushvun’s leg with his foot. “Go get something from the kitchen.”

“Yes, sir.” The young ushvun rushed off again.

John and Ravishan waited in silence. The ushvun didn’t attempt to make any kind of conversation. He just stood in front of the gate with his head bowed as if caught up in a deep and sorrowful contemplation of his shoes.