Tears of the Dead (32 page)

“I thought you were asleep.”

“Your singing was too beautiful. I haven’t heard you sing since the day we left for the quest. What made you find your voice?”

She didn’t answer, content to listen to Levidi’s heartbeat mixing with the distant thunder.

“Did they go to sleep alright?”

“E’laa is still afraid to be alone. She’ll probably wake up screaming again.”

“I’ll get up with her tonight.”

Alaya smiled in the darkness and caressed his chest. They tried to bring the children in the boat with them the first night, but E’laa would not come near the raft’s edge. When she woke up screaming, one of them would stay with her until she fell asleep again. Sana, who also slept on the raft, offered to comfort E’laa, but Alaya did not yet fully trust the Scythian girl.

They will be my children, therefore they will be my responsibility.

Toma, however, mourned differently from his sister. He acted out, fought with the other children, and occasionally bit. As if knowing the child needed a strong hand, Levidi spent a great deal of time with him when not attending to his duties as Staff Bearer. Those duties usually meant simply sitting at the Uros’s side.

She traced her finger lightly over her belly, letting her mind drift with the waves. “What does it feel like when you hold the staff...when the Nameless God makes His presence known?

Levidi took a deep breath and placed his arms under his head. She sensed him staring straight up at the canopy only inches above their head.

“Whole.”

She frowned and lifted her head. “And you don’t feel
whole
with me?”

“Not like that...different.” Levidi’s voice wandered, as if he began to drift away. “Like a promise has been fulfilled. As if I’ve come to a place of safety, and all my burdens have been taken from me. When Aizarg places the staff in my hands, I am not afraid. I want to feel that way every moment for the rest of my life, come what may.”

He sighed. “But the longer I am away from the staff, I feel the cold creep back into my mind, into my soul.”

“What is the staff?”

“I can’t put it in words,” he whispered.

“Try,” Alaya said, tracing her belly again.

“An answer to prayer I have yet to utter, a promise to a question I don’t know to ask, let alone
how
to ask. It is...” She heard the frustration in his voice. He brought his hand up, as if trying to grasp an idea fluttering around his head.

“Hope?”

“Yes!” Levidi clenched his fist closed, his tone satisfied. “That is it,
hope
.”

“I watched Atamoda cut another notch in the mast today,” he said. “The mast gives me hope, too. Every scar in the wood is another day we’re alive. She’ll be cutting another notch in only a few hours, so we should get some sleep.”

Levidi kissed her, then closed his eyes and soon filled the boat with light snores.

Alaya listened to the rain, unable to sleep. She didn’t need to count the notches on the Supply Barge’s mast to know how long they’d been at sea. Her body told exactly how much time had passed.

She caressed her belly, excited and terrified by the occasional flutters deep inside her abdomen.

“I’m hungry, Levidi,” she whispered, but he didn’t hear her.

From outside the boat, she heard E’laa’s long, mournful wail. Careful not to wake Levidi, she slid out of the boat and lay down next to the child she needed to call ‘daughter’.

***

Atamoda watched Aizarg once again, unseen in the shadows of the Supply Barge. Her bed remained empty as Aizarg resumed his place on the Köy-lo-hely.

Did I ever truly reach him?

He stared hard at the staff, as if it would bend and break, or buckle under the weight of a thousand questions, a thousand prayers, swimming through his mind. She wished the mysterious red orb would crack open and spill its secrets and tell him what to do.

She sighed
. It would probably tell him to go to sleep.

She needed sleep, too, and started to turn away when she caught a glimpse of a man, spear in hand, approaching Aizarg from the far end of the Köy-lo-hely.

“Father?” the man asked.

Surprised, she looked back at the bed roll to see Bat-or sleeping alone.

What is Kol-ok doing?

Aizarg motioned his oldest son to come forward.

“Father, can you help me make a better spear.” Kol-ok held out the spear; really nothing more than a crooked stick sharpened on one end. A few weeks ago, it looked too big for him. Now it looked too small. “There is plenty of good driftwood, and we have sharp flint.”

Aizarg took the spear, turning it over in his hands. Atamoda looked on, fingernails finding her teeth.

“Yes, you need a new spear. This is a child’s toy, only good for spearing frogs.”

Aizarg handed Kol-ok back the spear. “But I cannot yet help you make a new one.”

Kol-ok nodded, trying to hide his disappointment. But anger swept over Atamoda unchecked.

Now he is pushing Kol-ok away, too.

She began to step through the rain curtain between the Supply Barge and the Köy-lo-hely when Aizarg stood.

“A man needs a proper boat before he can wield a spear. Come, I think there are still enough good reeds on the Supply Barge to craft a boat.”

Leaving the staff behind, Aizarg led a gleeful Kol-ok through the rain curtain, winking playfully as he passed by Atamoda.

“We’ll start small, a craft suitable for a man and his nets. Never start with rope and reed, but with the wood for the center line which will anchor both. We must also find a piece of wood suitable for the mast and mast block.”

Throughout the night and into the morning two Lo men built a fishing boat. They talked and laughed, oblivious to the rain and thunder.

Nearby, Atamoda slept, content in a dreamless sleep.

Life settled into a comfortable routine. I spent the days riding horses with Sunnah or sparring with the Olmec war masters in the gymnasium. When the sun dipped into the haze rising off the quarry, I usually found myself wandering toward the Library.

Quexil eventually abandoned his protests and stayed out of my way. The kitchen slaves grew accustomed to me and no longer gawked as I plied the palaces deep recesses toward the Gray Tower.

Perhaps it is the Library that I will associate most with Poseidon’s Empire. The Library held a special magic, one previously incomprehensible. Now I understand how frustrated the Ice Men must have felt when trying to speak. I have been a deaf mute for thousands of years, and thought myself wise. What a fool I am!

In the short time we had together Amiran seemed almost frantic, trying to transfer as much of his civilization’s collective knowledge to me as he could. I was barely able to decipher the art of writing, so the nights usually started with him reading from a single scroll. Sometimes, we leapt from subject to subject. Other times, we dove deeply into one that struck my fancy. As the evenings progressed, scrolls piled up around us, as did my questions.

For centuries, I taught men how to measure the dimensions of a hut. The Scholars created mathematics, and measured the dimensions of the world. Where I showed a village how to plant wild grain along stream banks, the Scholars bred new plants, resistant to locust and drought, to feed an empire. Amiran flooded my mind with science, engineering, medicine, alchemy, and a thousand other concepts and ideas.

One morning before dawn’s light, I pushed away a scroll on metallurgy the way an engorged man pushes away a half-eaten meal. “Scholar, I am simply overwhelmed. What else is there left to learn? What have you not shown me?”

“The best! This Library is but a seed, cast far from the mother tree in hopes of finding root. This is merely the pitiful collections of two expedition Scholars, the essentials painstakingly shipped to a backwater colony. I’ve only shown you the sciences.”

He scurried up a ladder to the highest shelves near the dome and returned with a velvet bag, richly adorned in golden braid and tassels.

“You’ve not seen our art, heard most of our music, nor have you read our poetry.”

“Poetry?”

He opened the bag and withdrew a thick scroll bound with a golden cord. He unrolled it to arm’s length, his eyes drinking in the tightly packed symbols as if he’d just opened a treasure vault.

“Poetry transcends song or saga. Through poetry, our souls rise above the lowly dust from which we were formed.”

He lovingly laid the scroll on the table. “This poem is called ‘The Song of Atlas’.”

“I thought the Song of Atlas was your language.”

“They are one and the same. This is the first scroll ever written by the hand of man, commissioned by Poseidon at the dawn of time to commemorate Atlas’s birth. Over the centuries it evolved into so much more. It tells our story, our dreams and our nightmares.

“To be even considered to become a Scholar, a child must memorize and recall each of the ten scrolls, verbatim and with exact inflection, before attaining the age of sixteen.”

“That is a daunting feat, even for a god!” I gasped. “You did this?”

He nodded. “At eleven.”

“How many opportunities did you have to pass this test?”

He frowned. “A candidate is only afforded one chance. Fail and he spends the rest of his days as a common slave. Pass and the universe is spread before him like a banquet.”

“How many of these works were penned by the Eleven Princes?” I asked.

“The sciences and arts are below them, they consider it no different than toiling in the fields. The Princes pen their deeds in blood, not ink.”

Throughout the remainder of that night Amiran recited selections from the Song of Atlas. I pictured him as a young boy, far away in that glorious city, nervously facing a panel of wizened scholars. This man must be exceptional among the exceptional.

Gentle reader, know this: everything I have previously said regarding the language of Atlas I fully recant. Through poetry, this wonderful dance of words, their tongue became as beautiful as any to grace my ears.

Surrounded by scrolls and Amiran’s poetry, I smoked, sipped tea, and glimpsed a future without the gods.

***

The next evening the air hung heavy with the promise of rain. Warm firelight flickering through the open library door greeted me. Freshly brewed tea and tobacco smoke blended with parchment’s musty odor to create an aroma I will fondly and forever call ‘Wisdom’s Scent’.

Amiran seemed distracted and somber. He fretted about the coming rain as he closed the dome’s doors using a series of pulleys, gears and chains. That evening we also had company.

Two children, clad only in pure white linen loin cloths, joined us. Both possessed olive skin, flowing black locks, and soulful brown eyes framed by lush lashes. At first, I thought they were twin boys, but soon detected the faintest hint of breasts on one.

I assumed they were kitchen slaves, as they served us platters of fruits, cheeses and bread. But when Amiran doted on them, calling the boy Ercole and the girl Elda, it became apparent he held considerable affection for them, which they returned.

Bent over a dark stained table, chin resting on my fist, I ate and enjoyed a pipe, while Amiran instructed Ercole regarding a scroll’s contents. He set Elda about cleaning the library.

Would they have shared some trace of Amiran’s black skin, I would have entertained that they could be his children. He caught my eye and laughed in that deep, rich way of his.

“No, my lord, they are not my children, though I would be proud to call them son and daughter. Elda and Ercole are Prince Leviathan’s personal slaves. I am their tutor.”

My heart skipped a beat, remembering that night in the throne room and knowing what some of the more vile kings in Cin did with children.

As if sensing my concern, Amiran waved his hand and shook his head. “They are under his protection and will one day serve as craftsmen of sorts. Their small hands are ideally suited for delicate work. Extraordinary work.”

I looked about at the many intricate devices scattered about the library and could understand the need for small, steady fingers. That’s when I noticed several large objects resting on the library’s long center table, each concealed under white linen sheets.

Amiran sat beside me and, with a small dagger, cut a piece of bread, dipped it in the oil, and popped it in his mouth. He slid a single sheet of parchment in front of me, displaying the same world map I saw in the foyer. Donning his spectacles, he used the dagger as a pointer and drew my attention to the coastal area along a continent.

“Ercole and Elda hail from the southern coast of Ereb, a land of emerald waters and white cliffs called Attica.”

“They are fortunate to have a teacher such as you,” I said.

“Perhaps,” he grimaced.

“Are you well?”

“I am.” He looked up at the dome and pointed to the scaffolding beside the dome’s sealed door. There sat a brass tube resting on a tripod. “I intended to show you something tonight, but the coming storm had other plans.”

“What was it you wanted to show me?”

“Truth.” He put his glasses away. “And now that time is past, perhaps never to come again. Other truths await you, God of Names.”

“You act as if a terrible burden weighs upon you.”

“We all have our burdens. You have yours,” he pointed to the children. “And they have theirs.”

“Will they be Scholars?”

He snorted a laugh. “The Eleventh Prince places no value in the Academy or Scholars. However, Ercole might one day wear the white toga, but not Elda. Only men who take a vow of celibacy may study the Song of Atlas.”

“You take such a vow willingly?”

“It’s a small price for enlightenment. Celibacy refines the intellect, forcing the Scholar to channel sexual drives to other pursuits. It’s an easy choice: privilege granted as reward for natural talent; or a life of poverty and servitude, never reaching one’s true potential.” He raised a finger to emphasize his next point. “And Poseidon decrees death by crucifixion for any Scholar sharing the pleasures of a woman or a man.”

“A god’s passion is no less diluted than a mortal’s,” I scoffed. “I do not know how one can so easily dismiss the body’s needs.”

Amiran laughed. “We do not dismiss it easily, trust me. We are encouraged to adopt other diversions.” He tapped the fold in his toga where he stored his pipe.

“If Elda is not to be a Scholar, why are you tutoring her?”

His laughter died. “Her value to Leviathan is singular.” He took a deep breath as if collecting his thoughts, or perhaps preparing to plunge headlong into an unpleasant task. The air seemed suddenly charged, as if I stood on a precipice of a great, yet unseen truth.

“I have listened to your tales of Cin, of your mother the sacred Goddess Nuwa, and of your quests. You have been mankind’s teacher for countless ages, Lord Fu Xi. What I am about to reveal, I do so humbly. I know my place, and harbor no illusions that I am anything more than a speck of dust compared to your glory, or the glory of any immortal. But I beg you indulge me. Allow me to be your teacher, if for only the remainder of this night. Open your mind, and ignore your heart when it begs you to stop listening.”

With a dull echo, distant thunder penetrated the bronze dome.

I’d grown accustomed, numb perhaps, to the ongoing revelations this land had offered. I craved them, eagerly seeking doors to all worlds Amiran opened to me. Yet, now I feared what he might say.

“I have been your student since the moment we met, friend.”

Once again he brought forth his spectacles, breathed on and polished the lenses with his toga’s hem before inspecting them in the candle light.

“You wear the Red Sword Leviathan gave you around your waist tonight,” Amiran remarked.

I shrugged, thinking it an odd observation. “The sword feels natural. What is your point?”

“My point is that before dawn that sword will taste blood. Perhaps even mine. I will not ask you to spare my life. I only ask for your promise to listen to what I am about to divulge before fury overtakes you.”

The children ceased their cleaning and looked on with trepidation.

“Are you mocking me?”

He put away his spectacles and considered me, a hard edge in his voice. “Who do you serve?”

“I serve the Goddess Nuwa.”

“And Lord Leviathan, whom does he serve?”

“The God Poseidon.”

“By the way your heart spills forth the words, you believe them truth. Let me tell you another truth. Leviathan has kept many secrets from you. He wishes to join your quest for dragons. Did you ask him why?”

“To honor me.”

“What do you make of the dragons painted in the rotunda?”

“Glorious. Dragons are sacred. They adorn my mother’s temple as well.”

“Thirty years ago, Prince Gadeirus led an expedition to the frozen waste in far northern Ereb, where the Icelands bear down on the Dark Continent. There, he slew the last dragon seen by man or god.”

I could not mask my horror. “The Sons of Poseidon hunt the sacred beasts?”

“Oh, yes! For both sport and orichalcum. Only firebile can transform iron into the Blood Metal, the lord of all other metals, even steel. Orichalcum is the most precious substance in the world.” He pointed to the sword hanging by my side. “A thousand years ago King Atlas himself slew the bull dragon whose firebile forged your Red Sword.

“The Empire likely played no small role in the demise of the dragons, perhaps even in your lands.”

I tapped the map stiffly. “Cin is far from the lands of Poseidon. I don’t see how this is possible.”

“A doe dragon must travel for hundreds, even thousands of miles to find a mate. Once a bull stakes his territory, there he remains until death or vanquished by another bull. Does are far easier to find and slay than bulls, and countless numbers fell to the Princes over the centuries. I suspect bull dragons in your land could not find mates and died off centuries ago.”

Amiran’s words were like heavy stones.

“Elda, come here.”

The child put down a broom and approached.

“Give me your hand.”

She obeyed, and Amiran held up her fingers.

“Only a child’s fingers are small enough to fit between a dragon’s neck cartilage and remove the delicate firebile bladders. Even in the largest bull, a man’s or woman’s fingers may not fit. The duct running from the gland sac to the throat is small and must be pinched off, sealed before the bile sac can be removed. Do you know what happens when fire bile makes contact with air?”

I nodded, remembering the terrifying heat from my few close calls with the beasts. I could not hide my disgust. “Dragons are sacred, orichalcum be damned.”

Amiran’s demeanor settled into an unfamiliar somberness. He motioned for her and Ercole to leave. The door shut with a hollow thud.

“Judge if you must, but the lamp of mankind’s knowledge is lit with dragon’s blood. Without firebile, the Eleven Princes would not have lifted men from savagery.”