Shevan waited until the old man had moved to the southern window. Here he fell silent, his grey eyes spanning a distance no rule could measure. “It could have been so beautiful. No diseases, no hunger, no death.”
“We have conquered these things, sir,” Shevan pointed out.
“Yes, we have. We five hundred. Much of the world shivers under a blanket of ice, thousands starve, millions die prematurely. But we five hundred hold the keys to immortality’s gates. And we guard our knowledge so well.”
“We have no choice,” said Shevan. “The barbarians are not ready for such knowledge.”
The old man chuckled and sat down in a wide leather chair. “Not ready? Indeed they are not. But then we make sure they are not. We have made no effort to prepare them for the journey. Quite the reverse. We encourage them to believe in our divine right to eternity.”
“Is that not also a truth?” asked Shevan. “Are we not divinely chosen?”
“Perhaps,” agreed Anu. “As perhaps the race before us was chosen. I do not know. What is certain is that I am the oldest living man on this world. Next year will be my two thousandth. What do you think of that?”
“I thank the Source for it, sir.”
Anu shook his head. “Sometimes I don’t know whether to thank the Source or curse it.” Leaning forward he laid the crystals on a narrow desk, where they glittered in the fading light. “What do you see?” he asked the slim younger man.
Shevan moved to a chair opposite the desk and sat down, his blue eyes staring hard at the white, blue and green crystals. “I see that the blue is down to less than half-power, but that the white and green are almost fully charged,” he said. “What should I be seeing, sir?”
“Lost souls and the mathematics of eternity,” said Anu, sadly.
“I do not understand, sir,” said Shevan. “What has mathematics to do with souls?”
“The universe is based on mathematics,” answered the old man. “Perfection in apparent chaos. But this is no time for lessons, Shevan. Leave me, for I must become young again.”
• • •
Viruk had no doubts concerning the holiness of Questor Anu. The One God had spoken to the man, warning him of the terrors to come. He had preached the word at the Temple in Parapolis. The seventeen-year-old Viruk had watched him being jeered and mocked. When Questor Anu concluded his address and walked back down the temple steps Viruk had run to intercept him.
“How did he speak to you?” asked Viruk. Anu had stopped and turned to scrutinize the young man.
“Through mathematics,” he said. Viruk had been disappointed, for he too had heard the voice of the Source, and he knew it to be soft and sibilant.
“I don’t understand,” he said.
“Walk with me,” said Anu, and together they had strolled through the deer park. Anu had explained that ancient records spoke of a great disaster, during which the stars would move in the sky and the sun rise in the west. “It is a cycle,” said Anu. “And it will happen again very soon. Some time during the summer. The mathematical formula has taken me two centuries, but I now believe I have calculated the time of the event down to within a few weeks.”
“If the world is going to topple, then how can you survive?” asked Viruk.
“I believe our colony in the far north will escape the worst of the cataclysm. I hope to lead a thousand of our brethren to the sanctuary of the Luan River.”
“God speaks to me also,” the young Viruk told him.
“Then ask him what your course should be.”
“He doesn’t listen to me,” said Viruk. “He merely tells me to do things. I know nothing of the northern colony. What is there?”
“Hostile savages. But think carefully before committing yourself. The way will be hard, young man. And, I fear, violent and full of many dangers. We will face attack from tribes, and peril from ferocious animals.”
“I will come,” said Viruk instantly.
He had been one of the 200 and, as Anu had predicted, the journey was hazardous. Viruk had enjoyed it immensely. Three times they had been attacked, and on each occasion Viruk had killed many, watching their bodies writhe. He had been disappointed when the attacks ceased. Word moved among the tribes to let the Avatars pass, for they were fearsome warriors and their weapons were terrifying.
They had reached the first of the five cities on the fourteenth day of summer.
Then the world fell, and Questor Anu became the Holy One.
Two prophecies had come true. Questor Anu had predicted the cataclysm, and Viruk learned that the Source was true to his word. For his inner voice had told him that killing would prove the ultimate pleasure. Kill for me, it said, and know joy.
During the past seventy years Viruk had known enormous joy. He felt bonded to Questor Anu, for they were both committed to the work of the Supreme Being.
Viruk felt at peace as he rode from the village of Pacepta. Ignoring the villagers who bowed low as he passed, he cantered the horse through the gates and headed northeast, towards the border of the Mud People. He hoped to discover more raiders, to deliver more souls into the flaming maw of the Source.
He knew no fear as he rode. He felt immortal. Invincible.
It is good to be holy, he thought.
Sofarita had come to believe herself a good judge of human nature. She had observed the curious posturing of the village men during courtships, and the occasional violent displays that followed heavy drinking in the village hall. She had witnessed outpourings of grief, and moments of great joy. She thought she understood how men’s minds worked.
Now she knew differently.
She had run from the house to where her father and mother were waiting in the small home of her Aunt Kiaru. The whole family was sitting in the main dining area as she entered. Kiaru, as always, was beside the hearth, making yet another rug. Her husband, a short, slender man, round-shouldered and worn out by years of work, was standing by the window, leaning on the ledge. Bekar and her mother were sitting at the table. Three small children were playing on the floor.
“He healed me!” said Sofarita, happily. “He said I had a cancer and would die, and he held a crystal to my breast and he healed me. I am going to live.” The sheer joy of knowing she would live radiated from her, and in the blindness of its glow she failed to see the stiffness leach into the faces of her family.
No one spoke for a moment. Then Bekar glanced up. “You should be in your home,” he said coldly. “Not running through the village trumpeting your shame.”
Sofarita stood very still. “Shame?” she enquired. “What shame? I did what you told me.”
“A decent woman would have crept away to hide,” he said, not looking at her. “Not … not danced through the streets like a whore!”
A sense of unreality settled on her, as if she was walking through a dream. She could make no sense of the reaction. Instinctively she ran his words through her mind, seeking understanding. Then she realized. He had called her a whore. A cold anger settled on Sofarita. Bekar had always been a hard man, but until now he had been a fair one. “A whore, am I?” she said, her voice trembling. “You come to my home. You beg me to rut with him. You plead about the safety of the village. And when I reluctantly agree, and do this vile thing, you call me a whore? Well, what does that make you, father? The whoremaster. The pimp! The procurer!”
With a savage roar he surged to his feet. Sofarita stood her ground and his fist cracked into her cheekbone, hurling her back into the wall. She hit hard, and struggled to regain her balance. But dizziness swamped her and she slid to the floor, unconscious.
When she opened her eyes the men had gone. She was lying on Aunt Kiaru’s bed. Her head throbbed with pain. “There, there, child,” said Kiaru, her fat face, normally so jolly, looking drawn and worried. She was dabbing Sofarita’s face with a wet cloth. “There, there!” she cooed.
Sofarita groaned as she sat up. Instantly her mother rose from a nearby chair and moved to her side. “How are you fe
eling, Tia?” she asked. “Is there much pain?”
Sofarita shook her head. Who could describe the pain she was feeling inside? Bekar was a cold man sometimes, but he had never before struck her, or any of his children. Swinging her legs over the side of the bed Sofarita tried to stand. Giddiness made her stumble, and she sat down swiftly.
“It’ll pass,” said Kiaru soothingly. “All this anger will pass and then your father will forgive you.”
“He will forgive me?” said Sofarita, the tone hard-edged. Kiaru did not seem to notice.
“Of course he will, dear, of course he will. Everything will be all right.”
Sofarita turned to her mother. “He made me do it,” she said. “How could he insult me so?”
“You weren’t expected to enjoy it, Tia. That’s what hurt him.”
Sofarita looked into her mother’s careworn face, seeking some secret sign that would say: I don’t mean it the way it sounded, but I have to say it. There was none.
Sofarita struggled to her feet once more. The giddiness had passed and she moved slowly to the bedside chest, upon which was a small oval mirror. Lifting it she looked at her face. Her right eye was bruised and swollen shut and her cheek showed two purple bruises where Bekar’s knuckles had struck her. Replacing the mirror she walked into the main room and then out onto the street, crossing it swiftly to the small home she had made with Veris.
From a chest at the back of the bedroom she took her savings. Twenty-six silver pieces in a canvas pouch. She hung it around her neck, hiding it in the folds of her white dress. From a cupboard she took a small shoulder sack and stuffed her second dress into it. Veris had owned a black pony and it was stabled behind the house. Sofarita filled a sack with what food she had to hand: a fresh-baked loaf, a chunk of honey-roasted ham and a wedge of cheese wrapped in muslin. Then she walked to the stable and saddled the pony. It took her some time to ease the bridle bit into place, but at last she managed it.
It was a 30-mile ride to the city of Egaru. She would not make it before dark.
Moving back to the kitchen she found Veris’ hunting knife, a long curved blade set in a hilt of deer horn. Belting the sheath at her waist she threw a black hooded cloak around her shoulders and returned to the pony.
Veris had taught her to ride and she mounted smoothly. Then she rode along the side of the house and out into the main street, heading for the gate.
Bekar came running from his new house, shouting for her to wait. Sofarita swung the pony.
“Where do you think you are going?” he thundered. A crowd began to gather.
“I am going where no decent woman is ever forced to rut with strangers,” she said, her voice loud, almost strident. “I am going to a place where fathers do not give their daughters to every swordsman who happens by.”
His fat face reddened. “Get off that pony now,” he ordered her, “or I will drag you from it.”
Without haste she drew the hunting knife from its sheath. “Come near me again and I will kill you,” she told him. He stood, blinking in the fading light, the eyes of the villagers upon him. She felt no pity for him.
He stood very still, his huge arms falling to his side. All the strength seemed to flow from him. “I am sorry, Tia,” he said at last, his voice breaking.
“So am I,” she told him.
“Stay with us. I will make it up to you. We will be friends again.”
“We will never be friends,” she said coldly. “For I never intend to see you again.”
With that she rode the pony out through the gate, heading west toward the setting sun.
Viruk followed the line of the Luan River for several hours, hoping for sign of more raiders. But there was none, and he was growing bored. Across the wide river he could see Mud People settlements, huts of mud-caked wattle, and poorly constructed paddocks. The tribes bred like lice and if Viruk had his way he would bring an army down on them, wiping them from the face of the earth. There were just too many people now in this land and a cull was needed.
The Questors spoke of the migration of the tribes, caused by the ice and floods that now covered more than half the planet. To survive, the northern tribes moved south to this fertile land, while the tribes far to the south were pushing north.
Soon there would not be enough corn to feed them all.
Viruk’s pony was tiring as dusk approached and he stumbled as Viruk forced him up the last hill before the old stone bridge. The river narrowed here. Viruk dismounted and gazed down at the crossing. This had been his last hope of making a good kill. But there were no soldiers to be seen.
An old man came into sight, leading two oxen pulling a heavily laden wagon. A small golden-haired child sat upon the wagon. Viruk heard the rumbling of the wheels on the stone of the bridge. There would be little satisfaction in killing the man, he knew, but then a little satisfaction was better than nothing. Mounting his weary pony Viruk rode down the hillside.
The old man did not see him at first, and when he did he waved and gave a cheerful smile.
“Good evening, lord,” he said.
“Good evening to you,” said Viruk. The old man was dressed in a long robe of dark blue velvet, and his white hair was drawn back from his brow by a circlet of gold studded with amber. “Be so kind as to tell me,” said Viruk pleasantly, “why you are encroaching upon Avatar land.”
“Not encroaching, lord, trading,” said the man. “I have ten barrels of fine wine for the Questor General, and a note, with his personal seal, giving me authority to bring them to his home. I must say I am pleased to see you for I feared making this journey. These are troubled times.”
Viruk dismounted. “Show me this paper,” he said. The man drew a parchment from within his robe. Viruk scanned it. It was irritatingly correct in every detail.
“Your pony is very tired, lord,” pointed out the old man. “Perhaps you would like to travel for a while upon the wagon? The seats are not uncomfortable, and I have a flagon of wine beneath it. I am sure you will find it to your taste.”
Viruk gazed at the man and pictured his smile freezing as a dagger opened his scrawny throat. He toyed with the idea of butchering the trader, but held back. If he killed him then he would be forced to drive the wagon all the way to the city, sitting behind the large arses of two oxen. Even as the thought occurred to him one of the beasts defecated. The stench was appalling.
“Move on,” said Viruk. Taking the reins the old man led the team along the road. Viruk tied his pony’s reins to the rear of the wagon and climbed aboard. The golden-haired child, a girl of around seven, smiled at him as he sat alongside her.
“Your hair is turning blue,” she said.
“Annoy me, child, and I shall tear off your leg and beat you to death with the wet end.”
She laughed happily. “That’s a terrible thing to say,” she chided him. Viruk leaned down and found the flagon of wine.
“There are some copper goblets in the box beside the seat,” the old man called back.
Viruk found one, broke the wax seal on the clay flagon and poured the wine. He was expecting little, and was pleasantly surprised to find the taste rich and mellow. His mood lightened.
“Why is your hair blue?” asked the child.
“Because I am a god,” he said.
“Are you? Truly?”
“Truly.”
“Can you do miracles? Can you make a blind man see? Can you bring the dead to life? Do you know why the ox doesn’t need to clean its bottom?”
Viruk drained his wine and refilled the goblet. The old man scrambled up to the driving seat beside the child. “Have to lead them over the bridge, lord,” he said. “They don’t like the sound of the water.”
“He says he’s a god, father,” said the child. “But he doesn’t know about oxes’ bottoms.”
“Hush, child, the lord does not need to hear you prattling.”
“I give up,” said Viruk. “Why does an ox not need to clean its bottom?”
“It ha
s two bowels,” said the girl. “One inner, one outer. The inner one pushes out and … and …”
“Deposits,” said the old man.
“Yes, that’s it. Deposits the droppings. Then it draws back inside. So there is no mess.”
“A fact I shall carry with me to eternity,” said Viruk.
“So,” continued the child, “can you bring the dead to life?”
“My talent is rather the reverse,” he said, sipping the wine, and enjoying the taste upon his tongue.
“What is reverse, father?” she asked.
“The lord is a warrior, Shori. He protects us from bad people,” said the old man. “And it is best you stay quiet now. Climb into the back of the wagon and play with your toys.” The child scrambled over the back of the seat.
“Aren’t you a little old to be siring children?” Viruk asked the old man.
“It would certainly appear so, lord,” replied the man.
“Where have you travelled from?” asked Viruk.
“Ren-el-gan, lord. My vineyards are close by.”
“I have heard of the place. Which tribe are you?”
“Banis-baya, lord. There are not many of us left now. Perhaps fifty. But we are no longer persecuted. The Avatar Lords have forgiven us, I think.”
Tribal history had never been of interest to Viruk. The sub-humans were always warring on one another. And the wine was making him drowsy. Climbing to the rear of the wagon he pushed aside the child’s dolls and lay down.
The sun was setting and, as he fell asleep, he felt the girl’s warm body snuggle down alongside him.
Children liked him. They always had. Which was strange, considering he loathed them.
Chapter Ten
With the sun setting, Boru angled the wagon down a shallow slope and hauled the team to a halt beside a narrow stream which flowed into the Luan River. Kicking the brake into position he climbed into the back of the wagon and gazed down on the sleeping Avatar.
How easy it would be to cut your throat, he thought.
His daughter Shori was cuddled in close to the Avatar and she was sleeping deeply, her right thumb in her mouth. Had the Avatar been alone Boru would have killed him, but he was frightened that Shori would wake, and then the blood nightmares would begin again. Taking a blanket he covered Shori. This meant covering also the hated man who slept beside her. Boru swallowed back his hatred and moved past the sleepers, gathering two feed sacks of grain. These he took to the oxen and fed them.