Echoes of the Great Song (12 page)

Anu shook his head. “The answers were always there, in the mathematics. But you still do not grasp what I am saying, Rael. My mental powers have
increased
since I stopped using the crystals. It is mortality itself that gives us the desire to learn, to adapt, to forge new paths into the future. Without that we become locked in place, desiring only more of the same. Now, will you grant me a chest?”

“I will. But why have you changed your mind? What vision have you experienced?”

“Ask me again when two moons appear in the night sky.”

Rael took that to mean Anu was unwilling to discuss his reasons. He considered the offer, and found that his mouth was dry. What the Holy One was suggesting was almost frightening. For it meant the rebirth of hope, and the consequent fear of despair.

“How long will it take?” he asked, knowing the answer would be in decades, and wondering how they could survive in the meantime.

“Six months.”

The answer was a shock. Rael sighed. Was the old man senile after all? “You taught me mathematics, Anu. Now, if I remember correctly there were a million blocks in the White Pyramid …”

“One million, one hundred and seventy thousand,” the old man corrected him.

“Very well. If I divide that number by the number of days in a year I find you will need to quarry, cut, move and place two thousand nine hundred blocks a day—blocks weighing more than thirty tons.”

“Three thousand four hundred and twenty-two,” said Anu. “That is why I need the chest.”

“With a hundred chests you could not do it!” snapped Rael. “You are limited by the speed of your workmen.”

“Not at all,” said Anu softly. “I am limited only by time. How long have you been here, Rael?”

“Half an hour, perhaps a few minutes longer. Why?”

“You arrived, as requested, at noon. Now you may draw the curtains.”

Rael strode across the room and dragged back the heavy velvet cloth. Beyond the window it was night, the stars bright in the sky. Rael blinked, stared at the pale moon, then swung back to the old man. “An illusion?” he asked.

“No. You have been here for ten hours. Time is also part of the Music, Rael. You are quite correct. Even by dismantling the four failed pyramids, and using some of their blocks it would take six hundred skilled workers more than twenty years to complete. We do not have twenty years. We have—at best—six months. I shall use the Music to make time dance for me. Here in this room I have slowed time. In the Valley of the Stone Lion I shall—with the power of the chest—increase it twentyfold.”

“But you have done this here
without
crystals? It is hard to believe.”

“The crystals merely enhance our powers. The true strength comes from within.
That
is the knowledge we have lost.” He paused, and fixed Rael with a searching gaze. “Now, there is something else you will need to consider, Questor General—and it is a revolutionary thought.”

“And that is?”

“My six hundred workers.”

“What about them?”

“They will age at twenty times the normal rate. Many of them would not see out the year.”

“I will find you more.”

Anu shook his head. “You do not understand, Rael. The timing is vital. Six months. Not a day more. I cannot
achieve this if my workforce is aging and dying around me. Every day that passes, within the Dance, they will become more skillful, increasing the speed of the project. This too has been used in my calculations. As has the slowing of the Dance every five of
your
days to allow three months’ supplies to be brought through to us.”

Realization struck Rael. “You think to use crystals on Vagars? By Heavens, man, the Council will never allow it.”

“Then don’t tell them.”

“I have no choice.”

“It is a military decision, Rael. And that means it is yours to make alone.”

“The pyramid is not a weapon, nor are we under attack.”

“I do not lie, Rael. It is a military decision. As to the Vagars, they will not know they are crystal-fed. All they will be told is that we are using great magic. The men I hire will be told a part of the truth—that twenty years will pass in the Valley of the Stone Lion, while only two seasons will touch the world beyond. I will also promise them that, because of the magic, they will not age. And each man will receive a wage totalling thirty years of service. Each of them will be rich when he returns.”

“You are asking for a lot of trust,” said Rael. “Both from me—and from the men who will toil for twenty years.”

“Much could go wrong,” admitted the old man. “But I must not fail, my friend. You have no idea how important this is.”

“I am sure you will tell me in your own good time, my friend,” said Rael, rising to leave. “By the way, Mirani sends her love.”

Anu relaxed and smiled. “She is a good woman—too good for you, I fear.”

“Who could disagree,” replied Rael, returning the smile. “She will not return to the Council. She spends her time now crafting pots and painting them.”

“There will still be potters when we are a fading memory,” said Anu.

The following morning Anu, with the aid of his favorite acolyte Shevan, made his slow way up three flights of stairs to the tower rooms. High arched windows had been set into the four walls, and Anu moved to the eastern window. Sunlight was glittering on the estuary of the Luan River, and from here, on the opposite coast, he could see the marble towers of Pagaru.

“Do you regret your decision, sir?” Shevan asked him.

“I regret many things,” said Anu, his gaze scanning the city on the opposite shore. “Built too fast,” he said softly.

“What was too fast, sir?” asked Shevan.

“Pagaru was the foothold city, the fortress. When we first came here six hundred years ago the tribes were all at war and we needed to build fast, before they perceived the threat we posed. The walls were in place within two weeks. Too fast. They are not as strong as they might be, nor as aesthetically pleasing. A hundred years later we built Egaru. Far stronger. The others followed, strung out like pearls along the shoreline. Boria was my favorite city for a long time. Many artists and poets lived there, gentle men. Aye, and philosophers. I spent many a happy evening sitting upon the white beach debating the meaning of life. Have you been to Boria?”

“Of course, sir. I was trained there.”

“Ah yes. I had forgotten. Did you know it was the last city built with the Music?”

“Yes, sir. You have told me. Many times.”

“I have never visited Pejkan and Caval. I am told they are ugly and squalid.”

“They are merchant cities, sir, and few Avatars live there. But, yes, they are not attractive.”

Moving to the western window Anu squinted against the setting sun, which turned the sea to blood. “That is where the future lies, Shevan,” he said. “The unknown hinterlands of the western continent. We charted the coastlines, but never ventured far inland. It was a mistake, I fear.” He sighed. “We have made so many mistakes.”

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.”