The Book of Fire (51 page)

Here also, along the barren main street, villagers are lined up to greet their High Priestess. They pray aloud for her safe journey and swift return. One woman calls out a
fervent wish that the Last Days not come upon them while the Priestess is away from the Temple. Paia sees several soldiers of the Temple moving roughly among them. She would like to believe that the villagers’ good wishes are genuine, but she can’t help but notice that where the soldiers are, there also is the crowd’s most passionate response. She considers her rash promise to the God. How will she speak of loving to these desperate folk who are taught only fear?

She is glad that, because these Faithful have daily access to the Temple, the procession does not stop for a formal Visitation. She is not yet ready to face them directly. Soon her chair has passed down the main street and is headed out across the valley floor.

Once, before even her father’s time, this was fertile bottom land. There was water in the riverbed and trees along its banks and rain enough to grow grain, to pasture livestock without irrigation. Current agricultural information would never be offered to the High Priestess, but in the Citadel, Paia habitually eavesdrops. She has learned from her Honor Guard how the fields are now sized by how much water can be spared from the village’s shrinking wells, and then by how far that water can be transported without being stolen. Even pipes can be surreptitiously rerouted, and the best-armed parties ambushed.

Leaving the last group of hovels behind, the procession passes among the high stockade fences surrounding the vegetable plots. The livestock are similarly contained. Paia hears chickens and goats and the occasional sheep, but sees nothing but walls of weathered timber patched with bits of sun-brittled plastic. Soon, even that is behind them and there is only untilled, uninhabited ground ahead. Overhead, the God executes a final glittering omega over the line of wagons. His cry shakes the ground like the thunder of an avalanche, but Paia hears his farewell inside her head, terse, resentful, full of longing. Could he not just come with her, and delight the villages with the honor? She sighs. Surely there has never been a more complex being than the God.

The valley seems wider, far more open than she recalls, though Paia doubts that she’s recalling trees from her own memories. Those were already rare enough when she was young. Through the slit in her curtains, she can see a few
softening patches across the valley, gray-green, tucked away in the shaded rocky folds of the hills where a bit of dew might regularly collect. She thinks of the shrouded painting in her room, the way it first appeared to her, ripe with foliage and moisture. She hopes the road will lead the caravan through one of those distant greening patches. She would like the chance to walk among real trees, not one or two but a whole gathering, a grove, tall and cooling. There must be a few left out there . . . somewhere. Out on the baking flat, irrigated fields give way to parched wasteland. Paia feels exposed and vulnerable, breathless, as if the very air were being evaporated from her lungs. Her view through the draperies becomes mobile, blurring and dancing with the rising heat. The stained sky looms like a weight, endlessly falling in on top of her. Nausea returns, stirred by agoraphobic panic. Paia shivers and draws the curtains tight.

It is too soon to be so out of control. As the caravan crawls across the valley floor, she gives herself a stern talking-to inside her hot golden box. She knows how to live with fear. She must now learn to live with discomfort. The heat is so much worse than she’d imagined, and the landscape so much more desolate, even though she has painted it for years. But that was from a distance. She has taken the cooling effects of the Citadel’s bedrock too much for granted. But she has asked for, no,
demanded
this trip. Therefore she must suffer it gladly, for the honor of the God and the Temple, as well as for her own self-respect. Calling up the meditative state that gets her through the longest and most tedious of the Temple rituals, she settles into a heat-drenched trance.

This holds her steady until the rhythm of the bearers’ pace alters suddenly, shaking her awake. The chair tilts backward, rising raggedly. Paia bolts upright in her padded seat. She fears they’ve turned around, that they’re fleeing back up the Guard Stair to the Temple. The bright sun on her curtains fades as the chair passes into shadow. A shouted order rings out from up ahead. The caravan straggles to a halt. Paia reaches for the God’s gun. Are they under attack?

She parts the curtains, and is assailed by clouds of dust. Settling, it reveals a sheer stone face, but no sign of mayhem
or panic. The bearers set down the chair, releasing their cramped muscles with exhausted groans. Paia peers ahead. They have entered a narrow defile, barely wide enough for the wagons to pass. Wind-shaped rock walls tower on both sides. Dusty clumps of bushes cling to cracks and spring up between the boulders where landslides have breached the sides of the canyon. The dry, rising ribbon of road is treacherous with loose stones and gravel.

Dust swirls up again as Son Luco strides toward her along the length of the caravan. He has put off his ceremonial trappings, leaving only the loose white pants and shirt, and a red robe that floats gracefully open behind him. He has, Paia thinks, an odd look on his face, as he checks in with each wagon and contingent, even the servants. Odd, that is, for Luco. He looks . . . relaxed. More at ease out here in the heat and grit than she has ever seen him in the Citadel, as if he has shed a part of himself along with his Temple finery. Disconcerted, Paia withdraws into her protective shade. Luco arrives and peers in at her. She cannot hide the hints of panic in her hooded eyes.

“Mother Paia. How are you managing?”

She knows he’s used her title as a reminder to set a good example for the rest of the caravan. As always, his officiousness piques her, which was perhaps intended, for her panic recedes.

“Less well than yourself, First Son . . . apparently.” Paia coughs as the dust he has brought enters her sanctuary.

“It’s good to be out and about,” he replies. “In the air.”

What air? She tries for banter. “Very much the handsome captain, aren’t you now? Is this what it’s like going to war? I think you must have enjoyed it more than you’re willing to admit.”

He smiles blandly. “Once a soldier, always a soldier.”

She can feel his concentration diffusing beyond her, up and down the line of wagons and farther, out into the surrounding hills. Alert and listening, even as he converses with her casually. Paia is reminded that every step away from the Citadel leads them farther into danger.

“We’ll rest here a bit,” he says. “It’s safe enough in the hill shadow. Come out and stretch your legs. Are you drinking your water as advised?”

“Water. What a good idea.”

The well-used canteen from her father’s backpack waits on the seat beside her, full to the brim and even a bit cool. Paia downs several gulps, then swings the strap over her head and shoulder as she steps down from the chair. The water hits her stomach hard and threatens to rebound. Her legs have no strength. She staggers, grasping at the doorframe.

Luco catches her arm and steadies her. He sends the bearers off to refresh themselves. “You haven’t been drinking.”

“I will from now on,” she murmurs.

“We’re not tucked away safe anymore.”

“I know that.” Snapping at him revives her slightly. “You needn’t treat me like an idiot.”

“Then don’t act like one. For all our sakes, if not for your own. Drink some more. Slowly.”

She knows he will stand there till she does. The God has charged him with her safety. She is out of the Citadel, but she is still not free. She takes little sips, then wipes her mouth on her sleeve as unceremoniously as possible. “Where are we?”

Luco looks away, as if toward the valley, but his eyes seem to gaze on a far greater distance. “I fought a great battle here. In the service of the God.”

“Does the place have a name? Perhaps we should name it after you.”

After a moment, he says, very quietly, “It already has a name, my priestess.”

“And what is that, my priest?”

“Whose answer would you prefer, mine or the God’s?”

Paia swallows a gasp. Sacrilege from the First Son? “Are they different?”

His mouth quirks at some private thought. “The God calls it, rather eloquently, I think, The Sunrise Passage. But to me, and those who live around it, this is Cauldwell’s Clove. The only negotiable road out of the valley.”

She stares at him. “But that’s my name! Or it was.” She has almost forgotten she had a family name. She hasn’t heard it spoken in years. She hesitates even to repeat it, for fear she will burst into tears.

He looks down at her. “Is that so?”

The God has outlawed any history of the Citadel or its
former owners to all but herself. Still, knowledge persists. “You knew that, didn’t you?”

Luco’s expression grows odder still, rich with nuance that Paia cannot interpret. Squinting up at him, she is rocked by sudden intuition that she at first denies and then accepts entirely. But it’s not possible! Surely he would have said something, even though it would put him in danger of heresy. For the same reason, she has never thought to ask him.

“Luco!” she hisses. “Did you
know
my father?”

“I did not say . . .”

“Luco, please? I won’t tell anyone!”

His face closes. “The God does not permit . . .”

“Luco! Did you?”

“This conversation is in violation of the laws of the Temple, my priestess.”

“Oh, Luco! You started it.”

He nods, lips pressed tight. “And I greatly regret my lapse.”

“But we’re out in the middle of nowhere! Who could possibly . . .?”

He touches her arm in warning, then booms jovially, “Ah, here are your Faithful, come to see to their mistress at last.”

Instantly, Paia smoothes the urgency from her face. The red-robed Two, still veiled as if at the Temple’s highest ritual, are bearing down with water and food and a damp cloth to bathe their Priestess’ sweated brow. Their postures seem to exclude Luco from this women’s privilege. It occurs to Paia that the First Daughters might be reporting to someone other than the First Son.

Luco bows. “Mother Paia, with your permission, I leave you in these devoted hands. See that they find you a good spot in the bushes.”

You knew my father?

She cannot call him back, or allow herself to stare after him as he strides briskly away. It would draw undue attention to a conversation the God would not look well upon. And after that, Luco keeps his distance. All during the difficult climb through the rock-strewn gorge, at the many rest stops or in the several places where the twisting path is so precipitous that even the High Priestess must leave the comfort of her chair and proceed on foot, for her own
safety, Luco avoids her. Or if he does appear, he comes in the company of at least two of his acolytes. Paia is hurt by his reflex paranoia. Does he really think she would report so minor a heresy to the God? Or even carelessly refer to it, especially when it would mean so much to her to know for sure, to be able to talk to someone who knew her father? And, if he’s so fearful, what moment of weakness brought the name out of him in the first place?

Late in the day, the upward path levels into a wider sort of road and crosses an open plateau toward a notch between two hills. The road disappears into the notch, but a village nestles at the mouth of it, sunk in afternoon shadow. Paia spots the livestock before she sees the village, tired-looking cattle and thin sheep grazing fitfully among the thornbushes and scrub. They are guarded by small crowds of men armed with knives and spears, plus a few big dogs who stare sullenly at the caravan as it passes. The dogs catch Paia’s interest especially. Her family always kept dogs, but the God banished all animals from the Citadel when he came.

Along with people’s family names.

Cauldwell. The sound of it rings in her mind as if Luco had just spoken it. Paia shoves away the thought. These dogs are scruffy and half-feral, and do not waste their energy barking, but still, she’s encouraged. If this village can feed dogs, they must be feeding themselves well enough.

In the village outskirts, the caravan passes vegetable plots surrounded by stone walls wide enough to walk along, as Paia sees three women doing. They patrol the garden perimeter, using their sharpened poles as walking sticks. They stop and draw together to watch the procession go by. They seem more apprehensive than excited. Paia would like to think they’re simply unaware of who their visitor is, but she cannot help but notice the tallest one’s quick and anxious scanning of the sky.

Inside the village, a less ambivalent welcome has been prepared. A party of local clergy awaits them at the head of the dusty main street, and the caravan proceeds grandly into town, past several clusters of dilapidated stone houses and barns, to pull up in a semicircle on the flagstones of the central square, which appear to be freshly swept. Paia peeks invisibly through her draperies. She has been set
down at one side of the square, facing the Temple Chapter House, so that she has a perfect view of the image laid in reddish lavender stones, crude but recognizable, and dark against the paler gray: the Winged God Rampant.

She looks about for Luco, hoping for a chance to speak in private. But the local Temple does not wish to be thought lackadaisical or unprepared. The caravan is immediately swept up in a fervent and lengthy Ritual of Welcome. And from there, the evening progresses much as Paia might expect, in fact, more or less as she had envisioned when she came up with the idea of this trip, at least until toward the end. The joyous welcome is led by the head priest of the chapter. There are several priestesses as well, all properly veiled like Paia’s own Temple Daughters, but vested in dark purple, as befits their lower rank. None of the local clergy attempt to converse with the High Priestess, and Paia guesses from their nervous but practiced manner that all are well versed in the appropriate behaviors. They are whole, well fed and healthy, the cream of the village crop. Each has doubtless paid many visits to the Mother Temple and would not wish to appear provincial.