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IN THE MOUNTAINS OF FIRE by Dolores J. Nurss
Volume V: Sharing Insanity
Chapter 26
Sunday,
November 15, 2708 (I'm beginning to like Sunday Mass, the songs, the chance to sit
and daydream while the sermon drones on, the sweet incense covering, for the
moment, the odors of the camp. It
temporarily erases rank, caste, gender, and all the other inconveniences of my
career. I can speak frankly with the men
immediately afterwards, get real feedback, and feel out my officers, before
they remember what they are, and what I am, and the whole dreadful formality
closes in again. Religion has its uses
after all!) Church is as good a place
as a pub to meet people of like minds, in the business of killing no less than
any other. Anyone could spot the rebels
at mass if they knew what to look for—the kids without families, sitting close
to the doors, eyes shifting during the sermon, hands straying to odd bulges in
their clothing, not quite safe in sanctuary.
Light from the arched windows stains them like the glass above in lurid
colors; incense barely masks the gunpowder smell. Some reach out to others
with relief in their faces; apparently I'm not the only one who got separated
from their ranks. Some I recognize
immediately. Tanjin's face lights up as
I nod to him from across the aisle; he pounds Dosh's arm in excitement and his
friends can barely keep him in his pew.
Others here I do not know, though their profession scars their every
move, fills each eye and twist of mouth.
But stranger or not, at this point I think I'd better gather together
anyone I can. (How well do I know you,
Reno? Lots, in one sense; you've told me
tons about your childhood, only a little better off than mine, though we joined
different armies to get away from it.
And yet I don't know much at all, not the stuff that really matters.) Sacred words flow over us
like the incense and through us like communion, even unto the heart. Words about the God of Love, the Prince of
Peace, the Messenger of Mercy. So long
as I sit in that pew, bathed in the incense and the rainbow light, I believe
those words with all my heart. Yet even
so, as soon as mass ends we gather outside under the shade of the spreading
churchyard trees, light each other's cigarettes, and in soft voices plan the
business of war. ( What do you feel for me,
really? Pity? Love?
Blind fear looking for someone soft to cling to? What would you think of me if you really knew
me for what I am? And all the words you spill
out to me, words that bleed like wounds made them come out of you—why do you
choose me of all people to share them with?
What are you trying to say, Reno?
How do I know what you mean when you tell me, "Kiril, I can't take it
anymore!") It doesn't take long for
Tanjin to pass from grinning ecstasy that I didn't die as he thought, to cool
professionalism. Too cool perhaps; does
he want to punish me for scaring him like that?
No, the glad side-glances show that he feels nothing towards me but joy
at my survival. It's just that all
emotions freeze under the chill of hatred shared for the Charadocian government. We push to the backs of our minds incidental
distractions like love and joy and the sweetness of God's blood still lingering
in our mouths. (What can't you take? War itself, or your side in it? Or just the burden of living, Reno? And what are you going to do about it,
whatever it is that bothers you? Change
something, maybe even something big? Or
just let it break you?) All the reports come back
the same: the enemy joins many scattered forces towards one common aim; should
we do likewise? Or shall we harry them
from all different directions? If we can
pinpoint one common gathering point, we could unite and swoop down on them like
a great, dark cloud and disintegrate again before they can recoup enough to fight
back, scattering like birds from one flock into many. But for that we need intelligence. (What if change itself
breaks you? I have grown too accustomed
to your warmth beside me on the wagon, to the scent that belongs to you and
nobody else. To your gentle voice with
its slight cracks and trembles that others hear as weakness and I hear as
something trying to break through, the way the soil breaks before a sprout
pushes up. What grows in you, Reno? Can you...dare you let it live?) Much as I dislike it, we
shall have to keep close contact for awhile, until we know more, sending
messengers between bands, at least, though it makes us more vulnerable. If this gathering of troops matters so much,
Purple Mantles will show up, too; we have to stop the whistle-codes right now. (You keep saying that
everything gets better the minute you find me, Reno, that when you're with me
the world makes sense again. Is that
good or bad? Am I waking you up, or putting
you to sleep when that could mean making you dead? Body-dead, soul-dead, I'm not sure. Why should I have to be the one to figure
these things out?) Nayal, and the captain who
"replaced" him only to take on a different band altogether, and all the other
captains, defer to my counsel, regarding me as the oldest, the educated foreigner,
the one with a reputation for taking care of her own (dear Shermio forgive me!)
the one believed to wield accursed powers.
Meanwhile my mind tells off my sins like a clutch of rosary beads; God
in Hir mercy might forgive me everything, but will my ghosts? Oh how I wish I had become the ambassador's
aide that I came here to be! (What'll it be,
friend? Yes, friend. Shall it be breakthrough, or breakdown? If the first, do I have it in me to tend the
sprout before it withers in the war? If
the last, could I or anyone staunch the wound that just keeps spilling words,
and put you back together right? And who
am I to worry about such things, when grown-ups don't even think about these
questions? Oh, how I wish I had stayed a
cabin-kid, fearing fists but not guns, making no decisions, following Cook's
recipes!) * * * I don't want to do it. I want to follow rules from nice, safe places
where I can find honest barristers and a system geared to justice and most of
all time, time, time. I want to weigh
evidence. I want to examine
witnesses. I want hours to think things
through. I want what no revolution ever
really has. ("I wish you wouldn't do
it," I say in a small, tight voice, as we huddle on a landing in the forgotten
stairwell. "Not tonight." "Hush." Jake barely
vocalizes. He cradles between his hands
the magentine orb that he rarely uses, the candle's glow glinting off of it,
sending rose flecks of light a-dancing on his face as he turns it. Visions usually come unsolicited. I know this, and it bothers me.) The information comes
unsolicited. I never really wanted to
ferret out traitors. But that cabin,
over there, houses the scoundrel, so I've heard. Such a peaceful place, plastered in white
that seems to glow in the twilight, while similarly luminous flowers burst out
like explosions of peace all around the windows and the porch against their
dark leaf backdrops, scenting the air with heady promises, and the raindrops on
the fields beyond glint bright with innocence in the fading light, where a calf
nuzzles her mother for milk. How can
crimes happen here? All agree that I shall have to come back
soon, when I know he's home. But I will
not kill him, not immediately. I will
inquire into his guilt or innocence the best I can, under the circumstances. Too many variables could explain the
allegations. I need more information. (Too many variables.
Overlapping spells. Something
like that. We need more information.) (But not, pray God, at his expense! Jake's up to something dangerous; I can feel
it in him. I don't have to be a
telepath, I've known him this long. And
his breath smells like that kusmet-herb concoction. How can he think I wouldn't notice? He must have slipped some in his pocket the
night we took George to the infirmary.) (Not much. Not the whole
damn flask! Just a few swallows, for
congruity. And of course I know that
Randy knows, and that he realizes the pointlessness of saying anything.) I need infor…I need
rest. Why can't I seem to keep my eyes
open anymore? Stupid sluggard! Would it be such a sin to find a little leaf
in the woods, to counteract this weakness that seems to drag me back of
late? People need more than I can give,
otherwise. I start to scan for it in
the nearby woods—the bronzy bush, the tapered leaves, areolate at the
base. But not tonight. Tonight I shall sleep. Turn in early, in fact, save my strength,
maybe beat this persistent drowsiness. I
shall save the greenfire for that night when I'll really need alertness, when I
interrogate the suspect—if indeed a good night's sleep cannot mend me. Tonight I'll just find the leaves, pocket
them, and go to bed. Or whatever. (I look deep into Jake's eyes, but see in them only the flicker of
candlelight.) (I watch the candleflame in the stone's polished surface, bent and
turned upside down, dyed a smoldering ruby.
When it trembles it catches my breath; when it steadies I sigh.) (I fidget and watch.) (There comes a moment when I see the flame pulse. It goes in and out of focus, it marks time
with my heart, and my heart beats faster.
The world slows around me as the trance enhances my awareness of the
Black Clam difference. It feels like no
other trance; it magnifies, enlarges
me, reminding me of hidden powers locked within. The upside-down flame tells me true things. The warp in the image curves like a bid of
seduction. It makes everything plain... "No!" Randy's body crashes
into me, his voice as wild as a frightened child's. "No more!
No! No!" His arm flails the focus from my hand while
the other pulls me to him in a half-despairing hug.) ("Don't, Jake." I sob into
his breast. "Don't. Don't."
I hold close the man I love.
"Don't..." I moan.) (I gasp. My heart stutters,
my body trembles like my skin cringes from me, confusion ragging my mind. The shock of aborted trance sinks teeth into
my soul and worries me like a dog, shaking me past even the thought of anger. "Why?" I manage at last to ask, bewildered to find my arms wrapped
around this man that I stroke by reflex only because any habit stabilizes me. "I don't know. Your
smile–you smiled like Hell's gate, Jake.
I couldn't stand it." I can't reply. I try to
stir up an obligatory wrath, but none wells up.
I feel too weak. I know that
Randy's act will weaken me for days.) I pick myself up off the
ground. I must've passed out right on
the road, in broad sight of any soldier who might have come this way. Idiot! Maybe something's really
wrong. Maybe I'm sick. I don't feel so great. So what? Revolutionaries don't get sick leave. We push forward, by any means necessary. ("...by any means necessary," I murmur, letting go of Randy. "I have to type into archives...but I've
forgotten, Randy! How can I forget
anything as important as the reason why it's absolutely necessary to poison a
whole country?" "A whole country?" he pales before me. "What are you talking about?" "I...I have no idea." I
turn to him, still too stunned for anger.
"You made sure of that.") Time
Uncertain (Horses change under me,
pale ones, dark ones, mottled ones; when they tire past a certain point, they
head for the nearest friendly stable—I had no idea that those little redheads
could set up such a network! And none of
these ranches know about any of the others; they just switch livestock without
asking questions. Who better to create
such a web of secrecy than a pair of mutes? And all these horses will
never, ever see their impish friends again. And they will not know why. The army makes it easy for
me to track their boots and cart-ruts; their paths weave brilliantly in and out
of each other like scarlet lines on an illuminated page. They scar the wild places with their passage,
they crash through villages like the wrath of God. They penetrate the impenetrable. They set fires, they leave trash in their
wake, and many ruined things that people could have used. But how will I ever find Kiril's troop among
so many? I bless the grizzled man
who gave me chaummin—I couldn't ride tireless like a ghost without it—but its
harsh sweetness mixes weirdly on the tongue with the bitter greenfire, and the
mix gets even weirder in the head. The
world becomes vivid and distant all at once, beautiful and dreamy and kind of
off-kilter, dangerous and alluring. I know more than I ever
did, for every book I've read takes flame behind my eyes. Sometimes I read in the saddle, through the
slow parts, whenever refugees choke the road, dragging me down to an amble, for
people trade books with me along the way, the readers in the crowd noticing me
and pushing through bodies for a change of tale. Yet all the books blur together into one
great struggle. Bard-words, all the
beautiful new words, roll through me like giant, glowing waves of honey, but I
have become more than a bard, more than Damien, more than Rashid for all his
healing power, more than Deirdre and her foreign magic, maybe more than Cyran
hirself—I can feel it! I'm not a little
boy anymore. Drowsy excitement trembles
in my soul, mystical energy, something here and not here and suffused all
through me and me alone. I feel no pain,
I can do anything—I have the power to ride forever, no horse can keep up with
me! Perilous freedom vibrates through my
veins and swirls behind my eyes; I feel enormous with it, taller than any of
these poor peasants fleeing at my feet, heavier than the world, a giant made of
molten gold, threatening the stars! Freedom! We do it all for freedom...and I, the God of
Freedom, ride among my people, weeping for their suffering, hot tears turning
cold on my cheeks in the wind, as the dawn leaps up to noon only to fall back
again, swallowed into night, till the sun gains courage once again to seize the
sky once more...) |
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