Blinded by Power: 5 (The Death Wizard Chronicles) (18 page)

JUST BEFORE DAWN on the third day of Mala’s march toward Jivita, a thin man with a shaved head sat cross-legged in a tent and meditated. Dammawansha, the newly crowned High Monk of Dibbu-Loka, began each day in this manner, without exception. In the past thousand years, he had missed this ritual only one time: the morning when the infected noble ones had begun to transform. The memory of that terrible day still caused him considerable discomfort. But he saw this unease as an impermanent emotion.

He inhaled.

He exhaled.

His heart beat slowly.

His body was as still as a statue, but his mind was fantastically alert.

Dammawansha both felt and watched the invisible molecules of air pass in and out of his nostrils. This experience caused neither craving nor aversion. Instead, it simply served to confirm his observations regarding impermanence. Each breath had a beginning, middle, and ending. But that was just the simplest extent of his understanding. In the past millennium, Dammawansha had watched, with mindfulness, more than forty million unique inhales and exhales. Each of those also had contained a beginning, middle, and end—to him, proof of impermanence.

Breath was impermanent. So too was pleasure and pain, joy and sorrow, bravery and cowardice. He knew this not only because he watched his breath, but because he watched these other things as well—over and over and over and over again.

To the awakened mind, all things had a beginning, middle, and end—a revelation that rendered craving and aversion impotent.

And yet
 . . .

This session of meditation was not going well. He had slept poorly during the night, and now he was too sleepy to maintain proper concentration, his wooziness causing his mind to wander. Before he knew it, he uncharacteristically fell asleep sitting up.

And he dreamed of the
The Torgon.

The Death-Knower wizard stood on a smoky plain, holding a glistening sword and an ivory staff. At his feet lay a dead body, and when Dammawansha’s vision widened, the monk saw that there were many corpses—thousands and thousands—sprawled on the charred grass as far as the eye could see. Torg was shouting. And sobbing. Then a yellow light, as bright as the sun, enveloped the wizard in its blinding might.

The vision staggered Dammawansha, and he cried out. But no sound came from his lips. Instead, there was darkness for a time
 . . .
and then light again. Now Torg stood on an island of mud in a fetid swamp. Ghostly essence swirled around him like a whirlwind. Three others were with him, human in form but otherwise obscured. Without warning, Torg dropped to his knees, crawled to the island’s edge, and submerged his face in the inky water, as if so distraught over his predicament that his only choice was to drown himself. Then the three others fell upon him and held his head beneath the water. Afterward, there was only darkness, as deep as nothingness.

Dammawansha screamed so loudly it hurt his own ears. He continued to scream as monks, nuns, and Tugars rushed to his aid, his cacophonic eruption startling them. When the monk came fully awake, he was inhaling and exhaling many times faster than he had been just a short time before.

Even then, each breath had a beginning, middle, and end.

AT NOON OF THE same day, Asēkhas Rati and Aya began the supervision of the regeneration of the Simōōn. Seven hundred Tugars formed a broad circle around the oasis, each spinning on his toes right to left with blurring rapidity. Wisps of swirling dust already were beginning to form, but with so few warriors available for the task, it would take at least five days for the Simōōn to re-grow. Though five score already had come back to Anna, three hundred warriors still roamed the desert in search of fiends, and many might not return for a week or more. It was up to those now gathered in the Tent City to complete the magical barrier.

The Asēkhas walked from Tugar to Tugar, shouting instructions in the sweltering heat. In the midst of it all, the High Monk of Dibbu-Loka shuffled up to Rati, his face bearing an uncharacteristically grim expression.

“Asēkha,” he called. “Might I have a word?”

Rati shook his head. “I mean no offense, High Monk, but as you can see, I’m very busy. Mudu is in charge of Anna in my absence. If you have problems or concerns, please speak with him. The Vasi are more than capable of lending aid in whatever form you desire.”

Dammawansha frowned. “I desire nothing. But there is something I need to tell
you
, not Mudu.”

Rati recognized the monk’s urgency and gave him his full attention. After Dammawansha departed, Rati went to Aya, who was amazed by Rati’s words. “You’re going to leave Anna because of a dream?” Aya said.

“Not just any dream
 . . .
nor any dreamer,” Rati said. “If Dammawansha believes it’s important, then I must consider it so.”

“We are already weakened. Your absence will make it even worse. The mission you propose is madness.”

“You are more than capable of commanding Anna,” Rati said. “Besides, the mission will require only a small company. I will take just nineteen warriors—to symbolize
Viisati
(The Twenty). Where I go, large numbers would be a hindrance. But if Dammawansha’s vision is more than just a dream, our king will need my aid.”

“It is dangerous to act on such visions. How do you know your appearance won’t somehow worsen his plight?”

“We shall see what we shall see,” Rati said.

RATHBURT SAT alone on a fallen trunk, the extent of the darkness amazing him. Even this close to its border, the dense canopy of the forest named Dhutanga shut out moonlight and starlight. The Death-Knower could barely see his hand in front of his face, but that didn’t stop him from enjoying the balsamic fragrance of a blooming poplar.

These days, joy was not typical of his routine. The doom that hung over him was darker than the forest. Even the simple pleasures of life were blunted. Eating, drinking, and sleeping offered little respite from the anxiety and depression that haunted his every moment. His dreams became nightmares, sinister reminders of what was to come. His destiny made him bitter.

But the cravenly portion of his mind—quite large in comparison to the rest—still hoped that the looming horror could be avoided. The more time he spent with Peta, the more convinced he became that her soothsaying was not without flaws.

Could she be wrong about this? Perhaps he wielded the power to make her wrong. But Rathburt knew in his heart that it would take a supreme act of cowardice to break the web of fate that wove his ruin. He would have to abandon not just a friend, but an entire generation of living beings. Even worse, he might be dooming more than just Triken.
All
life might be imperiled. And the scariest thing? This was one of the rare times when he wasn’t being overly dramatic.

Was it possible he was enough of a coward to doom thousands of living beings—or perhaps thousands of thousands—just so that he could avoid a painful death? Rathburt had been placed in position to play a pivotal role in the elimination of one of the great scourges of cosmic history. All he had to do was be brave.

But there was bravery.

And there was
bravery
.

There was death by illness, fire, or sword.

And there was death so painful that the mind could not accept it.

To make matters more excruciating, Rathburt’s vision at the waterfall had made him aware of his torturous ending long before it would occur. He hadn’t even been permitted the blessedness of ignorance.

Regardless, he knew the truth: it all boiled down to cowardice. And of that, Rathburt had plenty. He had managed to overcome it a few times in his life. But whatever courage he contained seemed to have been used up.

“I’m sorry,
Torgon
,” he said out loud. “I’m not you. I’m not even an ordinary Tugar. I’m just Rathburt, the gardener.”

Then he stood, grabbed his staff.

And ran.

Rathburt had spent most of his long life running from one thing or another, and now he was doing it again. Through the night, the day, and into the following evening, he had scrambled, stumbled, and crawled as if his greatest fears pursued him. Even this far south, Dhutanga was dark and foreboding, exaggerating every sound and movement. The ordinary oaks and pines seemed as dangerous as the black trees of the inner forest. As the coward fled, his inner demons were eager to tag along.

Eventually, he came to Cariya. The river blocked his path with frothy ferocity. Ironically, where he now stood was not more than a stone’s throw from where the canoe had overturned almost three weeks before. It felt like months.

Rathburt could not cross, which left him with three choices: go north even deeper into the forest, where he would face untold dangers; go south to the Green Plains, where the white horsemen might confront him; or turn around and go back. None of these felt right.

A small but eager part of him knew there was a fourth choice. Cast himself into the angry river and leave this lifetime behind. He would avoid so much pain, if he did just that. “Or would I?”

Rathburt realized, with a start, that he had said those words out loud. And then even more startling, there came an answer, clearly audible despite the roar of the rapids.

“There is only one way for a living being to avoid pain.”

Rathburt yelped and looked about. At first he saw nothing. But then he noticed a spire of rock in the middle of the river, and upon it sat a petite woman, her body aglow.

“You there!” Rathburt said. “Are you speaking to me?”

There was no response.

Puzzled, Rathburt said, “How did you get on that rock?” Then, “Do you need help?”

The woman laughed. “Rathburt
 . . .
Rathburt
 . . .
You ask me how I came to be here, but the better question is, how came you to this place? You are a gentle soul
 . . .
and deserve better than all this torment, though I suppose the same could have been said of me.”

“Deserve’s got nothing to do with it,” Rathburt said.

There was more laughter. “Not so, my friend
 . . .
not so at all.”

“Who are you?” Rathburt called. “Are you a demon? One of Vedana’s kin come to torment me?”

“Ha! I am no demon, though I’ve been called worse. Am I related to Vedana?
Certainly
not.”

Rathburt could hear her as clearly as if she were standing a pace away, but she was difficult to see clearly, as if blurred by mist. “Whoever you are, I just want you to leave me alone. I have enough problems as it is.” He tried his best to sound brave. “I am not defenseless. If you threaten me, I will retaliate.”

“Retaliate? Against a skinny old woman?”

Rathburt sighed, a sudden realization come upon him. “I know you.”

“Yes, you do
 . . .
though it’s been a long time since we last spoke.”

“Torg said you were at the havens south of Dibbu-Loka. How is it possible that you are here now? Are you dead? Are you a ghost?”

The woman laughed even louder, slapping her knee with a bony hand. It took her quite some time to regain her composure. Finally, she said, “I am neither dead nor a ghost. I am awake.”

Rathburt took a step back. “If that is so, then why are you here?”

The glow around the woman intensified. “I am high among the low, but low among the high. A favor has been asked of me from those above. They have concerns.”

“Why tell
me
this?”

“You know full well.”

Rathburt sneered. “As usual, you speak in vagaries.”

“It’s an old habit of mine, I admit. It saves me from having to explain the same concepts over and over. Anyway, as much as I’m enjoying our tête-à-tête, it will soon be time for me to go.”

“Good.”

“So listen to me carefully. What I have to say is of extreme importance. Rathburt, you
must
perform the task that has been set before you. If you do not,
you
will suffer immeasurably.”

“Are you threatening me?”

“
Tccch!
I am beyond such pettiness. This has nothing to do with anything I might or might not do. I am just a messenger.”

Rathburt pounded the tail of his staff onto the ground. “I have no desire to hear your message.”

The woman smiled. “In a way, I can’t blame you. If I had known in advance what my future held, I too would have fled
 . . .
far, far away. Very well, I will trouble you no further. Only, will you listen to one final thing before I depart?”

“If it means that you’ll leave me alone, I’d be delighted.”

The woman laughed one last time. “Heed my words, Rathburt, and heed them well. If you do the brave thing, you’ll have your garden. You’ll have
many
gardens. If you don’t, all you’ll
ever
have is pain.”

Then the glow dissolved and she was gone.

Rathburt stood frozen in place.

“LOOK AT HER!” Vedana shouted. “Even dead, Tathagata is skinny as a starving mouse.”

“As you know full well, she isn’t dead,” Peta said. “And she
chooses
to appear this way. She has always been humble.”

“Tathagata? Humble? Ha! That shows what little you know. No one who talks as much as she does should ever be described as humble.”

“She doesn’t just talk. She
teaches
. And she
learns
. She is enlightened, Mother
 . . .
something you will never be.”

“Why would I want to be enlightened? I love being me,” Vedana said, sounding as if she were crooning. “I want to
stay
me, not enter into Blissville with a bunch of ancient cronies. All this talk about suffering and impermanence puts me to sleep. What could possibly be more boring? I want rape, murder, mayhem! The more the merrier, as the Vasi masters like to say. You’ll see
 . . .
when I’m in charge of the world, it will be a far more interesting place in which to live.”

“As I’ve said countless times before, I
won’t
see,” Peta said. “By the time you’re ‘in charge,’ as you put it, I will be no longer, and my karma will have proceeded to a better place than this.”

“Yeah? By better, you mean more boring. Well, good riddance to you and to all your goody-goody friends! I hope the whole lot of you goes to a ‘better place than this.’ In fact, when I’m in control, I’ll be sure to help you on your way with swift kicks in the arse!”

Peta sighed. “Overconfidence is dangerous. The potential still exists for Rathburt to fail.”

“If Rathburt fails, I will be sure to take him with me—in the most painful way possible. In fact, I think what I’ll do is trap him inside my realm, where he’ll be forced to spend eternity. I’ve done this to others, far more important than that slump-shouldered coward. If The Torgon only knew . . . ha!” Vedana paused, then added, “If I’m going to be stuck there, so is Rathburt.”

“Then you had better hope that Tathagata said enough to sway him.”

“If Sis didn’t convince him, I won’t be the only one doomed by my grandson’s power.”

“But you’ll be the only one
you
care about. In that regard, you’re more of a narcissist than Bhayatupa.”

“True! And I’m proud of it.”

Afterward the demon and the ghost-child grew silent. Peta sat in the darkness and allowed her thoughts to drift. But eventually she spoke again. “You know, one day I will join Tathagata in perfect blessedness. Not in this lifetime
 . . .
but one day.”

“You’ve foreseen this too?”

“No
 . . .
but unlike you, I have potential.”

RATHBURT WASN’T THE only one in pain. Anguish also wracked another being. She sat on a ledge near the peak of a towering mountain, six others of her kind surrounding her. Tonight the snow giants had lost a treasured kinsman, sensing Utu’s demise in psychic unison.

“
Jiivitam maranam anugacchati
! (Death follows life!)” Bhari chanted through her tears.

The others repeated her words.

Utu’s wife then said, “
Maranam jivitam anugacchati
! (Life follows death!)”

These words were also repeated.

Afterward Bhari stood and screamed—her pain as immense as the mountain on which she stood. “Utu! Why?” Bhari’s voice echoed among a dozen peaks. But her fallen mate was no longer among the living of her world.

And could not hear.