The Manasso Prime led his novices in for the cleansing of their souls when the work day ended.
The Quiamboa priests brought their novices and students in, sang their praises in massed voices to the clang of Adjoa anvils.
Finally he understood what he was born for, his purpose-destroying these unnatural creatures and all the other mocking manifestations of that bitch devil Abeyhamal. Mating the land pure again, gifting it fully to Chumavayal so that the rains would come again, the Land would heal, the earth would grow lush with His blessings.
That was it.
Diyo. That was it.
But not yet.
The day had shown him that.
He must purify himself before he was fit to purify the land.
He walked from the Camuctarr into the hot, dry sunset and went briskly down the Jiko Sagrada. He had to collect his cadre and arrange for their transport up River. He had to meet with the Cheoshim Commander and resign from the Border Guard. And after that was done, he had to confront the High Kasso and renounce all wealth and position. It wouldn’t be easy, but it had to be done.
He was tired and hungry, but he floated as he walked, full of light and joy, all confusion gone.
Goddance. The Eleventh Year
Abeyhamal whirls the fimbo over her head; lightning jags from the point, crashes into the Forge iron, making it shudder and ring. The coals of the Forge Fire shudder with the iron and grey ash creeps across the dying red.
Faan danced on the Jang, studied with the Sibyl, was trapped into surrendering her will to the Honey
Mother and ran a Barrier about the Low City.
Reyna worked and played with equal desperation, labored with Juvalgrim-the high Kasso to feed the growing numbers of the hungry and displaced.
Chumavayal roars, his fiery breath rushes across the coals, waking them to fiercer life, envelops Abeyhamal whose gossamer wings vibrate more furiously, dissipating the heat, and whose face compresses to a scowl at the stench. He brings his sword up in a steel curve across his chest, stamps his feet to one side then the other, slashes at her, pulling yellow and crimson flame-tongues into high leaps from the smoldering coals.
The drought intensified. The River sank lower and lower, life grew hard for everyone, fervor increased in the cities and the farm families began leaving the dry and barren land.
Abeyhamal catches the sword on her fimbo, deflects it, brings the fimbo around in a quick curl and slashes at Chumavayal’s hands, drawing a trickle of blood as the point touches him.
Juvalgrim strangled Giza Kutakich, throwing the Manassoa Order into confusion, making life margin-
ally easier for the humbler castes. Refugees from the Land began resettling the Low City.
Chumavayal howls whir rage, intensifies his dance. The sword blade weaves in complex curves, glittering red and white, sending beams of light flickering about Abeyhamal, never quite touching her.
The PROPHET came from the desert and preached in the streets of Bairroa Pili.
The Verakay Beehouse burned.
Abeyhamal leaps into the air, turning and turning, the fimbo held horizontal above her head. She lands with her back to Chumavayal, cries out in triumph and hate, leaps again before he can touch her, jumping the Forge Iron to land beside him, then somersaulting back, heels over head; she slaps her feet down, drives the fimbo’s point at the center of his back.
Chumavayal wheels, strikes the fimbo away from him, feints at Abeyhamal, then the two of them go round and round and round, neither touching the other, neither truly shaking the other. Not yet.
The GodDance goes on.
Sibyl
The Wheel is turning, the Change sets in
High and Low are caught therein
The Prophet appears, the Scourge without pity
The High Kasso turns apostate
And weaves him a plait from anarchy death and true charity
The Honeychild’s caught
In the goddess’s plot
The Thoglodite I
Watch Ephemerals die
› › ‹ ‹
The Sibyl wrinkles her nose. As things get worse, so does my verse, she says.
She crosses bare feet at the ankles, wiggles her toes. Eleven years gone, she says.
The Land’s drying up and blowing away.
The Lake-That-Never-Fails has fallen from the walls of Gom Corasso, leaving behind a stretch of dead fish and dried mud; the sewer outfalls are visible for the first time in any man’s memory and the city stinks.
The River shrinks, the fishermen net nothing there; they go all the way down to the Koo Bikiyar for their catches these days. They prosper despite this, people still have to eat and fish is about all that’s left that the poor can afford to buy.
Reyna will organize a cadre of Wascrams, women, and Salagaum who carry supplies throughout the Edge, visiting homes, leaving fruit and grain behind.
Juvalgrim will use the gold he wrings from his demon dips to bring in barrels of salt meat, sacks of tubers and grain. He has ordered the Holy Fountain conduits open, the water free to anyone who came to the Cisterns for it. He will work through the Abosoa Order because they live among the people and know the need. The Manassoate will be furious at what they consider a slight; with. Giza Kutakich spurring them on, the Manassoa kassos will spy on Juvalgrim, complain to the Shinda Prefect, protest the waste to Gom Corasso, do everything they can to sabotage his efforts.
Ai-Ai, she says. This never changes, ephemeras are a constant mix of sweet and sour. What does it matter? What DOES it matter? The end comes and the players switch, the game’s the same.
The Sibyl gazes a long time at the bright irregular round of the cave mouth.
She hears a rock go clattering down the slope, the scramble of feet.
It matters this much, she says. I’ve grown fond of two of these emphemerals. Juvalgrim, diyo. And Faan. This angry imp who’s coming up the path to badger me again and entertain me with her nonsense.-
“You taught me to control wind. Why can’t you teach me rain?”
“I can’t, honey.”
“K’lann! I’m TIRED of that stupid sickly name! I’m Faan. Faan!” She fumed a minute, then calmed, shaking her head so the bright red and green patches of waxed and painted hair swayed like grass in a strong wind. “Why can’t you?”
“Listen to me, Fa. Chumavayal controls the rain.” The Sibyl lifted a hand, let it drop back. “You don’t interfere with god-business, little Sorcerie. Even Thk WakKerrcarr and Settsimaksimin wouldn’t take that on and they’re Primes, the best there is.”
The name Settsimaksimin twitched in Faan’s mind. She blinked, but the faint fragrance that might have been a memory was gone. “Gods!” She chewed on her lip, sighed. “Vema. So what do we do?”
“Search.”
“But…”
“Through the demon worlds, not this.”
“Verna. What do I do?”
– The Sibyl lifted her hands, held them curved a foot apart. She spoke a WORD and a Mirror spread between her palms. “Look and tell me what you see.”
Chapter 8. Juvalgrim, The Demon Worlds, And Various Kinds Of Hunger
Reyna groaned awake as Juvalgrim shook him again. “Wha…”
“Come come, wake up, luv.” Juvalgrim’s hair brushed over Reyna’s torso, tickled his face as the High Kasso of Bairroa Pill bent and kissed him, a light brush of lip on lip, tickled him again as Juvalgrim straightened.
“What time is it?”
Juvalgrim finished lighting the lamp, set the candle aside before he answered. “Midwatch. The moon’s down.” His mouth twitched into a brief smile. “No, luv, it’s not time to go yet. I need you, that’s all.”