The Book of Fire (49 page)

T
he God has given her a day to get ready, and she’s been at it since the previous noon. Now it’s getting on toward six in the morning, and Paia sits cross-legged in the middle of her bed, defiant in her sweat suit as she directs the swirl of servants packing and repacking her luggage. It had not occurred to her, as she worked so hard to sell the notion of her Visitation, that her greatest concern would be having nothing to wear.

She hasn’t been past the Temple’s outer gates in fourteen years. Even her ceremonial forays into the open air of the Temple Plaza have been kept as brief as possible, for the sake of her safety and her health. But Paia recalls the elaborate precautions taken whenever she went out as a child. Over the multiple layers of sunblock creams went the long sleeves, the high collars, the thin reflective gloves and hat. All made of the lightest possible materials, but still they were stifling hot. The God always says Paia should daily thank her mother and nannies: to those strict precautions she owes her flawless skin. Even then, going out was rare. Usually she was on her way to some special local event that the landowner’s family was expected to attend, a christening, or a funeral. Leaving the house was less a pleasure than a duty.

But right now, Paia is thrilled by the prospect, even though the sunblock has long since dried up, and all that protective clothing, even if it could still be found, would no longer fit. Even though her extensive wardrobe of revealing Temple garments is woefully inadequate for a trek across the open countryside. Paia has been improvising all night.

And then there’s the issue of something to put it all in.
There hasn’t been a thorough search of the storerooms in a long time. Paia was shocked to discover how much has vanished from those rooms where the locks are disabled. Her immediate response was to storm off to Luco in a rage over this silent and systematic looting. The God would hear of it! The First Son took time to soothe and calm her, but she sensed an unusual impatience beneath his dutiful concern, as if such invasions and inconveniences are only to be expected. She’d pouted. If it didn’t involve the God, he didn’t care about it!

Now, looking over the bits and pieces she’s been able to gather, she’s more intrigued than outraged. They have a motley, rough-and-tumble aspect, laid out on her mother’s fine Turkish carpet: a black nylon duffel, one boxy plastic trunk, two big blue satchels, a silvered metal case, and an ancient but well-preserved mountaineer’s pack in leather. Leather is an absurd luxury, but the pack bears her father’s initials. Paia unearthed it in one of the unransacked storerooms and fell in love with it instantly. That storeroom, keyed open by her palm print, is a virtual time capsule. She could have spent a whole week in there, revisiting her life before the God. But that would have been a lonely exercise. She has no one to share these memories with.

The God is right, she decides. Nostalgia is a useless luxury.

The chambermaid spreads another armload of clothing on the bed. Paia allows her to display each garment for inspection, nodding a yes to this, a no to that. The chambermaid hands off the single yes to a packer, sweeps up the rejects, and goes back for another load. Paia wonders if there is time to have a few more sensible items made up: long-sleeved shirts and pants with handy hidden pockets for the God’s little gun.

Out in the hallway, the red-robed Twelve are gathered in a weepy cluster, mourning her departure from their sight for even a moment. Paia has forbidden them entry. No doubt they’re convinced that this trip is a forced order. Why would anyone leave the Citadel willingly? A contingent of Honor Guard is milling about as well, relieved that their watch hasn’t been chosen for escort duty. The moist chanting and murmuring of the Twelve breaks off briefly as a brace of Luco’s Third Sons shoulder them aside importantly,
bearing through the doorway a shrouded rectangle. Paia has had the mutating landscape brought downstairs, to be hung on the wall opposite her bed, another expression of her newly assumed autonomy, though no one will read it that way but herself and the God. She hopes it will be like having a new window cut into the room, a mystical kind of window where the view changes each time you look out. She’d take the painting with her if she could. She’d like to know that it’s safe. But she suspects that even the suggestion might render Luco, in his present state, apoplectic. Paia waves at the young priests to lean the covered canvas against the wall. What vista would it reveal to this room full of servants? She will wait until she is alone again to unveil it.

Son Luco has been in and out at least twice this morning, in high gear and at the earliest hint of dawn. First he came to remind her of their schedule of departure, then to describe the instantaneously devised ceremony slated for 0800 sharp in the Temple Plaza. He was at his most abrupt and efficient, but beneath the official mask thrummed true eagerness. His bronzed skin was almost luminous, as if lit from within by suppressed anticipation. His subordinates whirled around after him, basking in the glow of his energy. At one point, Paia glanced through her open door to discover him in a one-way consultation of gestures with the chambermaid—whom, as far as she knew, he had never before even noticed. Why should Luco be so charged up, she’d wondered a bit sulkily. He gets to go out all the time.

An unfamiliar kitchen servant hesitates in the doorway, balancing the breakfast tray. Paia bites back an urge to snap her fingers and yell at the girl to hurry. The child’s confusion suggests she’s never ventured so high in the Citadel before. Paia gestures her over to the bed, studying her as she approaches. Paia has resolved to be more observant of those around her, either servant or priest, especially since she’s discovered how hard it is to remember to do so. This girl looks decently fed, but her eyes are dull and she is ghostly pale. Her cheeks have almost a blue cast, no doubt due to a life spent entirely in the Citadel’s subterranean levels. She walks with her shoulders crooked, struggling to hold them straight as she weaves a cautious path across the crowded room to the High Priestess’ bed. Despite
a concealing sleeve, Paia sees that her right arm is withered, just managing to steady the heavy tray. Again Paia controls a tart response. It is the God’s stated policy to forbid deformities within the priesthood and among the Citadel workforce, but even Paia knows exceptions must be made, or the housekeepers would have trouble filling their staff. Only the high frenzy of preparations has brought this child out of the concealment of the kitchens.

Unable to repress her reflexive shudder, Paia reminds herself that she will have to observe much worse when she gets outside. Best to practice ignoring things now. She nods neutrally at the girl, then terrifies her with a brisk thanks when the tray is set down without mishap. The girl bows clumsily and flees back through the crowd.

An hour later, Paia is dressed and fed. The little gun is tucked against the small of her back. The luggage has been fastened and sent downstairs. She has followed Luco’s advice in her choice of a Leave-taking outfit: the softest and most comfortable of the glittery Temple garments underneath a long hooded silk robe that can be worn open for the ritual, then fastened up tight for the road. The chambermaid is offering up for her approval a belt of jewel-studded gold mesh, when a relay of shouted orders echoes down the hallway and the disconsolate mutter of the priestesses goes suddenly silent.

Paia shivers with the usual thrill of fear, but she cannot repress a prideful grin. He is out there, filling the whole length of the corridor with his heat and speed and magnificence. What is he doing here? The God has never accompanied her in any sort of procession. All the rituals dictate that she must come to him. Paia waits. His approach is noiseless. Not a sound but the Honor guard snapping to shocked attention, followed by the soft flopping of twelve terrified young women flattening every possible inch of their bodies against the threadbare rug. The chambermaid has her back to the door and cannot sense the God’s entrance. When he sails through the door, it’s only the shifting of Paia’s eyes that alerts her.

Paia tries not to look at him and fails. He is as tall and broad as the corridor will reasonably allow, and caparisoned in gold and flashing jewels, like a barbarian emperor. His vest shimmers with thousands of tiny sun-disks that
ring like breathy cymbals as he moves. Luco may have seemed to glow, but the God actually gives off light, and he brings with him a hot, crisp scent, as if he’s just charged through a furnace. The chambermaid nearly strangles on her own swallowed squawk and collapses into the tiniest ball she can manage. But even she is sneaking a peek.

Paia bows deeply, as the God expects her to do when the Faithful are about. Their relationship may be evolving all of a sudden, but it would be folly to air the process in public. “You look absolutely splendid today, my lord Fire.”

And he does. He has taken extra care with this manifestation. His nod is faint and lordly. “I have come to grant my priestess the honor of my presence at her Leave-taking.”

In other words, time you got going. Paia bows again, wondering if this gesture was his idea or Luco’s. “A grave honor indeed, my lord.”

His brief ironic glance answers her question. He turns away abruptly, beckoning with a gold-tipped finger, and sweeps grandly out the door. Paia tosses a quick regretful look at the still-shrouded painting leaning against the wall. Something else that will have to wait. She has been summoned and she must follow. The chambermaid scrambles up and scurries after her.

On the stairs, Paia holds herself the ritual five paces behind, but somehow—with a trick he’s never offered before in man-form—the God’s voice is at her right ear, not in her head but just outside it—intimate but noninvasive, like a whisper from inches away. And she is able to answer him in a murmur.

“You have remembered the gun.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Go nowhere without it. You have packed sufficient ammunition?”

What does he consider sufficient? “Yes, my lord.”

“The sun is your deadly enemy, remember. You’ve brought protective garments?”

“Of course.” Paia is not fooled by his rough, clipped tone. The God is anxious. Perhaps he is not so eager to be rid of her after all. “Lord Fire, you are mothering me.”

“You are reckless, my priestess.”

“All in your service, my lord.”

He snorts. “Has it not even occurred to you to wonder about this restlessness of yours, where it has come from all of a sudden?”

Paia cannot think of a clever response. Nor does she know the answer.

Ahead of her, his broad shoulders shift beneath their rich cloth-of-gold. “No matter. Go your way. Perhaps you will lead me to them. Meanwhile, I have ordered the First Son to pack safe food and water to last twelve days. He is charged to bring you back in eight. Not a day past, or his life will be forfeit.”

“His
life
, my lord?”

“I have said so.”

“But some delay might occur that Luco has no control over . . .”

“The First Son has agreed to the terms. Therefore, he will be extra vigilant to prevent such delays. My Word must be enforced, or chaos is upon us.”

Chaos, again. Lately, all the God’s anxieties seem to focus on the potential breakdown of his carefully ordered system. Paia’s childhood history studies included the macabre dance of shifting political structures that played out during her father’s lifetime. Considering that example, Paia thinks the God’s obsession with chaos might be too narrow. For all this paranoia about his enemies, he never seems to allow that the real threat might come from a different brand of order.

The Ceremony of Farewell, hastily invented by one of Luco’s trusted underlings, is held in the Sanctuary and is mercifully brief. It allows the Twelve to weep copiously and publicly beneath their red veils, then dry their eyes for a prayerful dance begging that their beloved priestess be soon returned to them. Paia, who has regarded them with increasing dislike and suspicion since they’ve begun dogging her every footstep, imagines the hot little seeds of hope her departure must be planting in each of them. Such as, perhaps the God is punishing her with this trip for some secret transgression. Perhaps disaster will befall her. Perhaps she will not return. Perhaps the God, in his infinite wisdom, will make one of them High Priestess. It’s just as well, Paia
decides, that she does not know their faces or names. Less need to be civil to them.