X
Old Orbits are Overturned

Taláni released the knife from Wolkári’s skull, letting the body fall like an empty sack. The crowd sat in shocked silence as Taláni’s party let out a long ululating howl. Then, noise exploded everywhere.

There were still the two champions to contend with. The squat warrior swung but Taláni danced close, grabbed the club arm, and pivoted the man over his hip, spinning him into the Giant. The two collapsed in a heap. Taláni stomped the big man’s wrist, jerked his axe free, brained the squat warrior with it then sunk it in the giant’s chest as though splitting a log.

Everyone rushed the ring, Wokári’s entourage first, followed by the crowd. One after another they dropped, felled by arrows flying thwip, thwip from the tree line.

Did they think I spent my time inside their borders sightseeing? That I wouldn’t stir up discontent along the way? That I wouldn’t have my loyalists sneaking through the forests and along the ridge lines behind me?

Surprised, the remaining guards stopped their advance and held back the crowds.

“Stop!” Taláni commanded everyone, still panting from exertion. “The criminal Wolkári lies dead. The spirits and the law have judged in my favor.” He turned and swept his arms around the shallow arena. “Will you greet your new ruler with love and respect, or will you resist and die?”

Everyone held as though suspended mid-breath, as though only Taláni were permitted to move. A loon called in the distance. The warm summer breeze tousled the lazy treetops.

The sound of grass crunching underfoot floated into the arena. Everyone turned toward the sound.

His mother crested the hill, the long flame-colored streamers radiating from a golden headdress appearing first, followed by her mask, a neutral visage of white ceramic, and finally the scarlet of her robes, billowing and snapping in the breeze.

In her wake marched an entourage of eunuchs, bare-chested, bald-headed, wearing long skirts of scarlet, blank red banners streaming behind like rivers of blood.

“Behold!” Taláni shouted. “Our mother arrives!”

She was a vision of glory, the embodied sun.

Once in full sight of the crowds, the eunuchs closest to Melíksi produced small clay spheres, each with a wick that they lighted and threw into the arena. Flames spread from each impact. His mother had never taught him this magic, but he knew it was dangerous.

Melíksi raised her arms.

Most fell to their faces without hesitation; anyone else was picked off by the archers.

Taláni took his mother’s hand as the eunuchs made a way before them, dragging away dead bodies, stomping the backs of prostrate lowlanders flat. Taláni and his mother walked over the backs of Wolkári’s subjects to seat him on Wokári’s throne.

With his mother standing beside him, Taláni commanded the crowds to rise so he could address them.

“How long, children of Waliwali-wolkári-ya, have you lived in this valley, crouched in the shadow of these mountains, eating berries and pinecones, watching your infants and old women freeze in the winter? How long?” He let the question hang. “Too long.”

Arm extended toward Wolkári’s tall house, he asked, “How long has this house stood in the shadow of these cliffs? How long has it been a house of criminality, of compromise, of corruption?” Again he paused. “Too long.”

The crowd was silent, terrified, but he continued as if they were cheering him on. “This house speaks, do you hear it? ‘We can stay here,’ it says. ‘We are safe,’ it says. ‘We will be left alone, cowering in the cracks of the earth,’ it says. ‘We belong here, and no place else.’ ”

He raised his hands and signaled the eunuchs and warriors to bring the people to their feet. They went through the crowd, tearing down robes and stripping sleeves, exposing the various tattoos and familial marks of the people.

“You bear the marks of many families,” he intoned. “Many loyalties. How long have we been divided? How long have we been called Narála and Pik-Pik, Skiptéli and Lilíngiwit, woodlanders, midlanders, lowlanders, marsh-landers? How long have we been called Silgatháltha, dwellers-in-the-forest? Too long. Today, we become one family, and I give you one name, Kwensitáni, the good people. And I give you one home, Kwelitánsit, the good land.”

The eunuchs started splitting the people into two groups, those who had the mark of Wolkári’s family, and the rest. Those who were marked were marched into the tall house, doors closed and bolted behind them.

“My mark is no mark. The family of my people is no family. The border of my territory is no border. The division of my government is no division. There are no more marks, no more dynasties, no more wekári but one. We are one, we are Kwensitáni, clothed in glory, drenched in power.”

Two eunuchs brought a large copper vessel and sat it in front of him, then all of them paraded by, each cutting their own palm with a stone flake hung around their neck, dribbling it in then moving off to the side. Once the eunuchs had taken their turn, his mother did the same. Finally, Taláni stretched out his arms in front of him, cut both his palms with the black knife, then dipped into the laver up to his elbows to draw out a crimson pool in his cupped hands and drink.

He directed the eunuchs to go through the crowd and serve them all with long ladles. Those who wouldn’t drink were sent over to the longhouse. Once the last person had been sorted, he ordered his archers to set the house ablaze with flame-tipped arrows. Black smoke billowed out from beneath the rafters as the cedar beams whined and crackled.

Standing on his throne, Taláni commanded the remaining crowd to cheer along with his warriors. Kwensitáni, Kwensitáni!

Framed by a wall of fire behind them, blazing like the sun itself, he and his mother led the crowd in a rousing chorus:

The sun is a mountain of fire

Which towers over darkness;

A living thing is a river of blood

Which flows until its death.

It didn’t matter if they truly believed or not, only that they raised their voices together. Every individual would believe they were alone, the only infidel in a crowd of zealots newly converted.

Selolo’s sleep was disturbed by swirling images: babies with animal faces, women with no faces, people with legs for arms and trees for legs, a black beast that devoured both sun and moon.

A river roars so loud I can’t hear. I’m not in the river but floating above it. Along the banks, tall figures dressed in many-colored robes dip their fingers in vats of blood, then dribble it into the river. When a drop hits the water, a person sprouts up, streaming light behind.

Suddenly, a tall spirit appears beside me, dressed in red. Its hands are bear claws and its face is like an owl’s. Its voice sounds like scraping stones. It directs me to look upriver, where the river runs into the night sky. There at the headwaters, the ancestral stars shine bright, but where I am the streams are thin and dark. Beneath me, there is a stream with no swimmer, where I have been plucked out.

The spirit turns me around. The river ahead is dark red — no water, no swimmers, only blood. Terrified, I ask what this means. It says, “There will be signs in the earth, and signs in the heavens. When you get there, you will know.”

Selolo awoke soaked with sweat, afraid she might be dying.

“We’re almost there,” Táripel said to her softly, mopping her brow. “You had a fever, but it’s broken now.”

The sledge scraped over the ground, sending loose stones clattering along the path as they went. Selolo shifted position in the hammock, carefully because of Tári’s leg, which was still bound but starting to seep through.

Barlas saw her moving and patted Shen on the shoulder and said something she understood to mean they were stopping. He came around and gave her a skin of water then helped her out of the sledge. It felt good to stretch her legs.

“How far?” she asked.

Instead of answering, he directed her to turn around with a sweep of his hand. Down the slope ahead, a huge round hut sat on a little hillock, topped with a conical bent-wood roof, ringed about by similarly-constructed but much smaller huts. Smoke wafted from some of the strange peaks.

Beyond that, the land sloped further down toward more water than she could ever have imagined, laid out flat like a wrinkled sheet and stretching along the horizon as far as she could see. Little sunbeams danced on the wrinkles.

“Your place?” she asked.

“Hay-hay,” he said. “Big water.”

“Big water,” she repeated.

Nearby, the sisters rested beside the path, snacking, stretching, shaking stones out of their shoes.

“You’re alive, then?” Kilími asked, offering her a bit of meat.

“Mostly.”

“Well, I’m glad. I’ve been hoping you would be awake when we got there — here.” When Selolo gave her a warm look, Kilími quickly added, “You speak jargon the best.”

“It’s rocky here.” Selolo waved her hands overhead. “And much too … open.”

Kilími motioned downhill. “I hope you like water.”

“I’m not sure. It’s amazing, though, isn’t it?”

“Yes, terrifying.”

They decided that she and Táripel were able to walk, so Barlas unloaded the sledge and distributed the gear to everyone.

Selolo bowed in front of the great bear and fed her some berries, which Shen snuffled out of her hand gently with huge black lips and wiggling whiskers. As Barlas unhooked the sledge, Selolo whispered to the beast in Silgath, “Thank you bear-mother. I owe you my life.” She patted her belly. “Two lives.”

Shen trilled in what Selolo thought must be understanding. Perhaps the giant she-bear was a mother once, too.

Selolo wrapped her arms around the bear’s neck and buried her face in her fur. Soon the other sisters joined her, each grabbing a parcel of fur until she chirped and snuffled then loped off into the scrub.

Rounding the wall of the large central hut, they first encountered a group of old women reclining beneath the shady eaves. Some were picking at nets or clothes, others were pounding out some kind of seed in stone grinders. All of them were gabbing in the same toothy, wheezing speech as Barlas and Atnan.

One of the old women leaped up and embraced Barlas as soon as she saw him, followed by several others who began tugging at his sleeves and ears, pestering him with what might have been scolding or affection, she couldn’t tell which. Barlas had been right: Whatever his village might lack, aunties wasn’t one of them.

Selolo stepped forward and signaled the other sisters to join her. She bowed down and touched her forehead to the gravel, beaten smooth by many years of walking. She spoke to them in halting jargon, “Great mothers, in … big water town. Blessing! This man is good. This man saved us all.”

Barlas repeated her message, expanding on it a bit it seemed to her — unless their language required more words than most. Then he signaled to them to stand up.

More exposition poured out of Barlas followed by more interrogation from the aunties. The only words she caught were names: Atnan, Maur, Shen, and Gwetlak. Beyond that, only mystery.

This was a mistake. We have no plan for this visit and neither do they! All we need is some place to sleep and beyond that, we can stay out of the way. Be quiet. Be small. They won’t even know —

Mid-thought she was interrupted by knobby hands feeling around her belly, testing her cheeks and neck, touching her hair.

She might have been frightened if not for all the motherly clucking, the concerned looks, the sing-song things they said that had no meaning to her but were nonetheless reassuring. Selolo kept trying to speak to them in jargon, but they shushed her every time, laughing among themselves.

Whatever was happening, they seemed to be enjoying it. She hoped she would, too.

One of the old women — who might bear some resemblance to Atnan — clapped her hands and a sort of sling woven out of canes slipped in behind her.

Startled, she was whisked off her feet, and carried by four or five old women into one of the houses. Barlas skipped alongside, doing his best to translate what the aunties were chattering about — wash, sleep, fire, something about eating, something about the “little one inside.”

Barlas followed inside one of the huts and was promptly chased away. He shouted from outside the door, “All good. Wait here, good.”

They deposited her on a pile of blankets by the fire, followed by Gwahália.

“Where are the others?” she asked.

“All taken to different huts, a few here, a few there. That’s all I saw,” Gwahália said. “I think they haven’t had any visitors here in — ” She was interrupted by a woman who gave her a bowl, which she took, bowing as she accepted it. She drank. “Oh, this is good. Ya bamba.”

The aunties wrapped them all in blankets, pulled off their shoes and massaged their feet with oil, pulled the knots from their hair with bone combs, and wiped their hands and faces with warm wet cloths. They lit long pipes filled with sweet-smelling leaves and blew the smoke all over them — which made Selolo sneeze, to the aunties’ great delight — then gave them warm tea that tasted like clover and honey and steaming broth that smelled like fish and old moss but tasted mostly like salt.

All the while they sang bouncy songs and asked every kind of question, all pure nonsense. A few of them made jargon signs, or tried to say a word or two, mostly “Hay-hay” and “bamba.”

Before long, Selolo slipped into a dreamless sleep, her first since leaving Lolo.

Atnan lingered in Maur another night, in part to gather food but also from reluctance. To distract himself, he read the scrolls by firelight, tracing his fingers over the characters. What were they? What did they say?

His finger rested on a tree bearing two oversized fruits. They could be sun and moon, like Selolo’s story. It seemed far-fetched, the idea these foreigners might be connected to the scrolls. Yet what connection should anyone have to them, not least himself?

He traced the tree again. What if the characters in the scrolls were like fruits, and he had been examining them without knowledge of what kind of tree they grew on or where it was planted? Wouldn’t that matter? The symbol for a “fishhook” could just as easily be a threshing knife, a bent arm, or something he had not yet imagined — or couldn’t.

I met this text as a stranger, the same way I met Selolo and her sisters. How vast the world is! Such a tiny pebble falls within my grasp, and every stranger holds a different pebble from a different side of the mountain.

He realized that during his time in Maur, everyone communicated with sign, at least some of the time. How odd it was, not to be the only one grunting and poking at the air!

It’s not surprising that understanding is difficult, but that it ever happens at all.

This was true of the scrolls as well. They certainly couldn’t point and sign. There was no jargon they could speak to him. What common ground did he have with these dusty old things? What shared context? All his reading and studying and he was still ill-equipped for the task. And why not? How can you pack for a journey when you don’t know where you’re going?

That convinced him: He needed to take the scrolls to the authorities and be done with them forever. If the Five wanted more than that, they had chosen the wrong person.

Atnan entered Gwetlak. Nestled beside a deep inlet dotted with fishing boats, it reminded him of Del, but larger, with houses arranged in rows around a central plaza, not scattered by careless fishermen.

Barlas had been right about the snail festival. Everywhere, multicolored streamers and orange banners bore the image of a white sea snail. Hawkers and jugglers filled the central pavements along with little bands of musicians and dancers. Everything was too loud and too colorful.

He used one of the copper bits from his money bag to buy a skewer of smoked snails. It was different, but he wasn’t sure it was any good. He enjoyed the opportunity to listen to the merchant speak imperial, which was good because he needed the practice. Reading a foreign language and hearing it spoken turned out to be two very different things.

After some inquiry, Atnan found his way to the imperial official, a drowsy-faced man who agreed to see him for one of the coins in his purse.

“Who are you and what’s your business? On a feast day, no less!”

Atnan bowed and laid the satchel in front of the man, indicating the note he had attached:

I am Atnan, Scribe of Del. I am mute, but I can make signs of the trade jargon. I found these artifacts, which I believe are imperial property.

Annoyed, the official muttered to himself as he handed the note over to a subordinate to read aloud. At the end, he scoffed. “Last I heard, the scribe of Del was a fellow named Omrik — not dead is he?”

Atnan signed in the negative followed by the sign for father.

“I don’t know what that means.” The official waved his hands mockingly. “Well, if Omrik isn’t dead, he sent you. More’s the pity for him, stuck out on that rock pile.” The man waved toward the satchel. “Artifacts?” he huffed. “I saw you on the chance you were early to bring tribute — or late.” He hesitated, expectant.

Atnan bowed and tried to look respectful.

“Back to the rock pile, then!” The man kicked the satchel in his direction and followed it with, “Fyreans, dumb as they are ugly!”

Thoughts in disarray, Atnan retrieved the satchel then slouched away to the sound of lazy jeering from some nearby soldiers.

What now? I’m not allowed at the ‘rock pile’! Is there work here for a mute scribe? I could press on, to Nepsilam. Might the Academy of Mek take these? Then what? Are they worth anything? A reward? Either way, I could spend my days in the archives, reading — assuming they’ll allow it. I haven’t much money — I wonder how much a guide costs? Oh, Barlas would know!

He decided not to linger. He scrawled a note on his last sheet of leaf:

No deposit in Gwetlak — onward to Nepsilam — Atnan.

If anyone was on their way to Del, they might take it with them from the local post, but there was no guarantee. He was about to fold it to address it to his father when the rune scar on his hand started throbbing. After rubbing it for a moment, he crumpled the note and threw it into a nearby fire.

On the way to Nepsilam, Atnan grew more comfortable with outdoor living, gathering food and firewood, sleeping beside the road under the stars. The time alone afforded him time to savor his thoughts without having to form them in the air for the benefit of others.

This freedom was as much a curse as a blessing. Unimpeded, he moved without a structure to move within. He had never realized how important routine was to him. Now that he had time, he had to waste too much of it thinking about what to do next.

He missed Barlas, his grandmother, and a few others — even his father, sometimes.

The road sloped gently upward most of the way, and the countryside became less deserted. A few days’ travel from the city, he encountered shepherds and goat herders, then as he got closer, farms: millet, lentils, beans, roots, vegetables, flowers.

Men, women, and children worked the fields beside the road, planting, weeding, plowing, plucking, all barefoot and up to their ankles in muck, many balancing unwieldy baskets on their heads or slung across their backs. They sang as they worked, a grim, unhappy sound, it seemed to him.

The nearer he got to the city, the less damaged the road became. Now the stones were level and well-fitted. Other travelers came and went, but he was not in a mood to meet anyone. He found that if he walked slowly enough, they would simply pass him by.

As he was once again rethinking his decision to visit the city, Kindhir’s tower peeked above the crest of a rolling hill. The thrill recalled a text to mind:

Kindhir built towers in every city, the greatest of all in Nepsilam. Thirty years he labored. Whitestone quarried in Pelnu floated down the Lesser River on barges. Skyward it rose, an everlasting monument to peace, fraternity, and the unity of the Seven Cities.

Atop each tower, he placed a bell of bronze; and along every road, to raise the alarm during times of attack, every city no longer enemy but neighbor and ally.

The text failed to capture the reality. The bell rose over the horizon first, a cylinder of bronze supported on massive beams spanning the forked spires of the tower.

Four hundred years, and it’s never been rung. I wonder what it sounds like.

Beneath the long neck of the tower, pointed domes and lesser towers glittered in the sun, their banners dancing in the breeze.     

As he trudged up the road, more of the city rose into view, rising building by building out of the ground like shoots of grass. The central mound of the city consisted of layer upon layer of buildings, packed in close like the spines of a sea urchin. How could so many people live together so closely, right on top of one another? There seemed to be no ordering principle, except to pack in as tight as possible.

Finally, he reached the walls, built of cream-colored stones, each one bigger than himself, stacked eight levels tall. An official at the gate stained his right hand with beet juice to mark him as a visitor and a dot just below his lower lip to mark him as a mute.

It is a big city — I may not be the only one here.

He was granted entry through a tall pointed archway, then a dark tunnel, and a series of gates and doors, all open but guarded by soldiers who wanted to see his hand and ask his business.

Blinking in the bright sunlight, he emerged into a sprawling marketplace that lined a broad avenue leading deeper into the city, a river of people — more than he had ever seen in one place before.

So I’ve arrived, but without my guide. I need a place to stay, and I need to find out how to contact the archivists — but first, I need something to eat.

Mekvat felt ill-prepared for his audience with Limiya, ruler of Shiriwak. Their conversation during the solstice ceremony had been brief. She was young. Unmarried. Poised. Reserved to the edge of mystery. Mostly impervious to flattery.

Several days passed between his entreaty and her reply. He was to arrive during evening mealtime; her courier assured him that he was not invited to dine, only to speak, and that no one would be present but Limiya herself.

Alone? Then there will be no one for me to play against her, no outside interests to appeal to. No witnesses. She may be cunning or insecure or both.

As he walked through the tall blue and gold doors set in a white stone portico, he chided himself.

I had Luto go for the hardest stone when all this softer stuff is lying around. They could have built ten monuments by now! Who is more at fault? Me for insisting or him for not convincing me?

Limiya sat cross-legged on a rug laid in the middle of a large empty room. Tapestries and banners adorned the walls and lampstands cast an orange glow around the perimeter, but the room was otherwise devoid of furnishings. A small array of pottery vessels lay in front of her on a round wooden tray that sat on the polished stone floor. Her dress was undyed linen and her black hair was tied back with a simple scarf. Except that she was eating in a palace, she might have been a peasant.

Her only remarkable feature was her left arm, missing from elbow to hand and replaced by a prosthesis of wood and silver filigree that rested in her lap. There were several stories of how this came to be, none of which could possibly be true. In any event, he dared not speak of it.

Why an unfurnished room? Does she not mean to impress me? Or is that the point, that I am not worth impressing? In any event, she is seated on the floor, which means I must slither on my belly like a worm.

Painfully, he began to crouch down on his knees to begin his grovel, but his escort, a wild-eyed young man, stopped him with a hand on his arm. “She left instructions: You are not to approach like a dog, but a man.”

Mekvat straightened and smoothed the front of his garment. “Your mistress is gracious and kind.”

“She is decent and just. Step quickly, now. You have already imposed on her mealtime. Do not also impose on her patience.”

Mekvat shuffled through the long dining room, a bit slower than he might have.

That little speech was obviously prepared in advance.

When he was about halfway across the room, Limiya held her next bite suspended in mid-air. “Why did I agree to name an island after you?” Her voice echoed off the stone.

He continued on his way without answering. When he arrived at a respectful speaking distance, he kneeled. “I bow eleven times before the Lady of Shiriwak.” He touched his forehead to the floor awkwardly.

“Khet Manak. Isle of Cormorants, so-called as long as anyone can remember. You would have us change it to — what is it? — Isle of the Servant of Mek, Khet Mekvat. Seems somewhat  … referential.”

“Apologies, glorious lady, but … Khet Mekvat-al, servants of Mek, plural.” Mekvat noted that her meal was simple, local fish and vegetables, all steamed. “All our monuments are so named. My given name is Farrut, and ‘Mekvat’ was assigned to me when I became Sage … mere coincidence, I assure you.”

She let him wait while she took another bite.

Dainty, but not too small. And she chews exactly twelve times. Everything just so.

She was shorter than he was, and he had to slouch to keep his eyes below hers.

“Is this project not a means to secure yourself a legacy?” She continued, not allowing him time to answer, “My legacy is this city. All my ancestors have lived in this palace, back to the days of the Old Order. Were you aware that my family is Jalit? We founded Shiriwak and before that, Kalparaana, and before that, the great cities over the mountains, where the spirits still roam. We were here long before Kindhir. Other cities were ‘reformed’ — that is, their governments were replaced — but not here.”

“I don’t understand, most refulgent — ”

“No more adjectives! You will exhaust your vocabulary and with it my evening. Call me Heptarch, and I will call you Minister. We do things differently here than in the capital, you will find.”

“Oh, I have, Heptarch!” He detected a subtle brightening of her expression.

Aha! She thinks of herself as competent, rather than privileged. She wants to be respected, not flattered. She wants Shiriwak’s place — her place — among the seven cities recognized.

He displayed his most obsequious smile. “This city is a glittering jewel, and your rule is both judicious and efficient. Surely your legacy will never be in question?”

“Kindhir says: Everyone is a fool, but the wise know it. You sent that contractor of yours to entreat my favor, to flatter me and to extract promises; in return, he assured me the honor of a magnificent monument. Yet it is apparent that you lack any genuine affection for our city and its history — and its ruler.”

Mekvat bowed. “Not at all, heptarch! I am guilty of excessive delegation and misplaced trust. It won’t happen again.”

“I knew the Sage Prime would be a wise man! Let me educate him further: I said my family is well-established. I did not say ‘secure’. Certain  elements wish to precipitate my downfall and will see any failure as an opportunity.”

If she wants to see me in distress, very well.

“By Mek’s eyes, Heptarch! You have your throne! I have only my reputation — I cannot afford to fail.”

“You have failed already. Are the workers not dismissed?”

“Not dismissed, Heptarch, so much as waiting to be paid. Luto is dismissed. That is to say, when I confronted him with the failures to keep the schedule, he dismissed himself.”

“No small matter.”

“A mere twist in the rope, Heptarch, easily untangled. Indeed, with the primary instigator removed, we may see that many problems simply solve themselves! Not to presume, but with your continued support, slightly … enhanced, we may start up again. The workers are still here. I am still here.”

“So you are, for now.” She waved him away in a manner that he took to mean she would make the necessary arrangements.

Once he had backed his way into the hallway, he smoothed his rumpled garments.

Keep Reading >