The Stars Askew (15 page)

—We all have to make sacrifices.

Well, that's convincing.
Aya laughed.
I'm sure they'll be happy to hear that when winter comes in. It's not long now, is it, before the biting cold.

*   *   *

The following day the landscape began to change. Fewer and fewer villas dotted the hills or shaded the valleys. In places, rocky ridges had driven up from the ground. They formed yellowish cliffs that blocked any passage. The land became wilder, and copses of ancient wiry trees became more frequent. Great beds of vines covered the ground and crept over decaying walls.

We should be closer to the coast. Have we gone the wrong way?
As Aya spoke, a fragment of his memories sank down to Max. The image of Lixus, its towers and minarets packed closely together, formed from gleaming white marble. They rose high into the blue sky, walkways gracefully curving between them. There, white toga-wearing figures promenaded, debating the latest developments of philosophy. The wondrous harbor was packed with silver-sailed boats, some heading out over the whitecaps of the azure sea. The sun was sinking over the western horizon, the sky on fire with streams of crimson and orange and vermillion, bending and wavering. The beauty of it struck Max deeply; he marveled at the world of the ancients once again.

But with the memory came needles of pain, driving into his mind. The headaches became stronger the closer he felt his mind come to Aya's. He noticed Aya pulling back with the same discomfort.

Remember, this journey is for your own good. We'll return the Core of the Tower to the Aediles, free you from my body, and we will find happiness in our own way,
said Aya.

Aya may have gained control of Max's body, but he was still an outsider in this country, a fact that gave Max limited power. Max could use it to his advantage, and he hoped the surprises in store would allow him to seize back his body. That was his only option, for the thought of Aya “freeing” Max from his own body wasn't one he liked contemplating.

By the third day after leaving Caeli-Amur, the villas had been left behind, and the road had become rough and worn. Few people passed this way, if any. The rugged ridges had become more common, and they were covered with wild wiry trees and thick bushes.

In the afternoon they spotted a lonely figure walking with the aid of a staff far along the road. Soon the man came into closer view. He wore a simple blue robe tied at the waist, and a thick bandage wrapped many times around his eyes—a member of the Order of the Sightless. A small bag was thrown over his shoulder, probably containing the barest essentials, for most apocalyptics lived ascetic lives. Material possessions were denials of the coming disaster, which would sweep so much away. By denying themselves such goods, they were saying the apocalypse would make all such concerns obsolete.

Hearing the sound of the approaching hoof falls, the figure stopped and waited. As they drew level, Aya stopped the horse, looked down at the figure curiously.

“I have no valuables, stranger.” The figure stared straight ahead but seemed to be listening closely. “I am a pilgrim, headed for the Teeming Cities.”

“You'll have to pass through Lixus first. It's not too far from here,” said Aya.

“Yes, I suppose that's true.” The Pilgrim's voice was calm, unruffled.

“Well, we may as well continue on together for a while. The company I've had until now has been pretty awful.” Aya kicked the horse, which headed off slowly beside the Pilgrim. “The sooner we arrive, the sooner we can relax in comfort.”

“I guess that's true. An officiate rules the place: a strong man named Karol,” said the Pilgrim. “I knew him once.”

“Oh, there's some luck. It's good to find friends after a long journey. Were you close to this Karol?”

The Pilgrim reached out and placed a hand on the horse's hide. He seemed to like the warmth, or the feeling of the beast moving. “I worked with him at Arbor, before the overthrow of the Houses. I had been a subofficiate in charge of the gardens. Karol was a star then, on the rise. He was Director Lefebvre's favorite, so he didn't bother much with me. Still, he liked to come out into the gardens to think. Sometimes I met him there, because it was my job to water the plants and feed them when necessary. I tended the great theater built from vines and furnace trees too. But my favorites were the blood-orchids, though you'd do well to beware their lashing petiole. Like a whip, it is. They would drag you close, if they could, and suck you of blood and organs. They were planted in their very own garden, behind the palace. When I arrived, they would lean toward me, as if they wanted to step from the earth and greet me. They couldn't, of course. I loved those plants, you know. You come to know them, and when you speak to them, they respond. Some of them let out little trills. Others are quieter, but they grow under your careful care. When you speak to them, they grow a little more lustrous. They are sensitive creatures, see—like people, in that way. I think Karol understood that. Of course, this was before things changed.”

“Nothing lasts forever, does it?” Aya's tone was suddenly melancholy.

“You're right friend, nothing does. Ruination came. When the people stormed the Arbor Palace, they trampled the candle-flowers and tore them from the walls. They stomped on the vines with no care at all. They hacked at the tear-flowers in the garden. They piled the portraits into a bonfire. I begged them not to. I fell to my knees before them, and they struck me down. The apocalyptics had been right: we are at the end of things. Our only hope is to fall prostrate, to recognize our insignificance, to give up our petty interests and desires, to beg forgiveness from the universe. This is the message I will bring to the Teeming Cities. I shall spread word of the coming apocalypse.”

Max felt uncomfortable at the story, which rattled against his convictions, challenged his views. But history wasn't perfect. People searching for a pure revolt, morally clean, without compromises, were pedants who wanted nothing at all. Still, it was painful to hear.

“You hope to convince them that the world will suffer another cataclysm?” said Aya to the Pilgrim.

“Convince? No. I don't think they will listen. Like everywhere, in the Teeming Cities people are caught up in the needs of everyday life, their little affairs. It narrows their vision, like blinkers on a horse.”

The joker god returned. “That's the spirit.”

The apocalyptic nodded earnestly. “Sometimes you do what you must.”

They continued in silence for a while, the sounds of the horse's hooves falling on the uneven road, the wind softly brushing Aya's face, the smell of the wild in the air. Far away, Max thought he heard a sound: a soft booming, carried on the air. But as he strained to hear, the sound drifted away.

“And you?” said the Pilgrim. “Why do you travel south?”

“My love lived there once. Out in the wilderness. I'm going to see her resting place.”

“Brave, to live out in the wild alone.”

“She could take care of herself, believe me,” said Aya.

In a copse of trees nestled in the elbow of two hills, something moved. At first, there was just a flitter in the darkness, then the leaves on a bush rustled, then all was still. Aya seemed unfazed, and the Pilgrim was of course unaware.

—Did you see that?—said Max.

Aya didn't even bother to answer, and Max's imagination began to run wild. There were all kinds of animals in these hills: mountain lions and brown bears, and yet more frightening creatures.

—You should offer to take him to Lixus, at least—said Max. —Show him you have a heart. He needs our help, for he cannot see, and it's not safe out here.

His sufferings are self-imposed. He could take the bandage from his eyes. In any case, his concerns are not mine.

—Is this always the final effect of the use of the prime language then? That you become nothing but selfish?

Aya was silent, and Max knew he had hit home. He caught a glimpse of an entire complex of Aya's memories and feelings: the increasing distance from life caused by the Art, the slow alienation of the Magi from one another, the resulting wars, the grief at the loss of their perfect world, and, most cruelly, Aya's increasing distance from Iria: their fragmented conversations, their cross-purposes.

You're not much fun, you know,
said Aya.

This time Max didn't respond. He preferred to let his words settle into Aya, and the mage retreated into himself, processing Max's accusations slowly. Max sensed Aya was conflicted about his attitude toward the world, like someone who had lost something important that they barely recall.

Finally Aya said, “Pilgrim, won't you ride behind me? We'll reach Lixus together a little quicker.”

—So you have a heart after all—said Max.

A moment later the Pilgrim tilted his head up toward Aya, as if looking at him. Dried blood ran like thick tear trails down his cheeks. Beneath the bandages, the blood was brighter, still glistening softly.

“Pilgrim, your eyes.” Aya stared in shock.

“Burned out, but somehow they were not properly cauterized. They are infected, I fear.”

“That's barbaric, to deprive someone of their sight,” said Aya.

“No, you misunderstand. I did it to myself. One must show one holds to one's ideas with certainty and commitment.”

The horse and the Pilgrim both halted once more, as if some understanding had passed between them. After staring a little more, Aya stepped down to the dusty ground and helped the Pilgrim into the saddle. “Let me ride behind you. That would be best.”

When the horse began to walk again, Max thought he saw movement in another copse of trees. Something was watching them.

 

TWELVE

Evening was falling, casting long rays of gold over the rugged hills. Shadows deepened between the copses of trees. Stringy trees curled up over the road, like ancient twisted men reaching for the sky. Thick bushes clumped together on the slopes around them, blocking much of their view. But Max knew something was out there. He'd seen it several times from the corner of his eye, first in the scrub to the left of them, then flitting through trees to their right. They were just glimpses, for Aya still controlled his head and eyes. Max was uncertain of what to do. He needed to launch an assault on Aya, to take back control of his body, and the creature in the woods might provide an opportunity. But it would be no use if the thing tore his body to shreds.

 —There's something out there—said Max.—Did you see it in those bushes on the hill?

Aya glanced to his right.
You're a worrier. Did you know that?

The Pilgrim halted suddenly, and Aya brought the horse to a standstill.

“Did you hear something?” the Pilgrim said.

Aya pulled on the horse's reins, looked over his shoulder. “No.”

Then it came again, echoing between the hills, a rumbling report. It might have been thunder, or it might have been a rockfall. That was it: the sound drifting on the wind that Max had heard earlier. It seemed closer now.

“I think it was an explosion. There, to the north.” The Pilgrim gestured past the ridges and hills, toward the Etolian range, which rose up, snow still capping its highest peaks.

At that moment a creature burst into view, its powerful legs driving toward them, one of its three horrid dog's heads raising up, fixing them with a stare from the corner of one mad eye. The central head jutted forward, baring its yellow teeth, drool dripping as it ran. Meanwhile, the third head was lowered to the ground, as if following a scent. For an instant Max took in the horror of the beast in stunned silence, for there was an otherworldliness to it, as if it had been summoned from the gates of the underworld itself. Each head possessed not two but four eyes, the second two above and behind the first. It seemed like a bear-sized dog, but no dog Max had ever seen: its fangs were too long and cruel. There was something of a lizard to it; its fur gave way to gray scales as its powerful tail tapered off.

—Gods!—cried Max. —It's a Cerberus. Ride! Ride!

The horse reared up, and the Pilgrim slid back against Aya, who crashed to the ground behind it. Pain drove up Aya's back. The Pilgrim came down on top of them as the horse galloped off, its hooves throwing dust into the air.

By the time the Pilgrim and Aya dragged themselves to their feet, the thing was almost on them, its body a ball of terrifying muscle.

The Pilgrim held his staff out in front of him, but it would be no match for the savage creature. The knife in Aya's hand felt tiny and ineffectual.

With mesmerizing power, the Cerberus leaped into the air. In an instant the monster would crash onto them, rend them with its terrible claws, tear at them with its slavering teeth.

Then there was a burst of sounds, somewhere between the
ffft
of an arrow and the striking of wood on wood. In rapid fire, one after another, bolts plunged into the side of the Cerberus, even as it slammed down on Aya. One of the heads howled in pain, twisted around to look at the five figures rushing out of the bushes behind it. A second head lunged down at Aya, who dropped his knife and grasped the powerful neck, holding the head only inches away. The third head, growling fearfully, twisted and snapped at the blows from the Pilgrim's staff.

Then Max was aware of nothing but the yellow fangs, the red gums, the terrible smell of death coming from the creature's gaping mouth. Reverberations from thudding bolts ran through the Cerberus's body and into Aya's arms. He looked up into the four eyes of the dog's head. The front two stared straight into his. The others—above and behind the first pair—fixed his from an angle, giving the thing a monstrously insane air.

Aya struggled for equations, but he couldn't grasp them; they were driven away by terror.

The Cerberus's head gave a final thrust, spittle striking Aya's face. The jaws snapped out. Hot breath warmed his face. Inch by inch the creature came closer, then a milkiness clouded the four eyes. The back two lost focus, rotated up and away from Aya. More thudding reverberations, a sudden warmth on his legs, and the Cerberus collapsed onto him, its strength drained.