The Cydonian Pyramid (28 page)

She was brooding on her parentage one evening when she heard a commotion from outside the convent. Glad for any distraction, she ran to the zocalo doors and saw a crowd gathering at the base of the pyramid. She went outside and approached a fruit vendor who was dragging his cart closer to the crowd.

“What is happening?” she asked.

“The Yars have captured an acolyte.” He pointed up at the frustum, where a hand of figures had gathered near the Gate. She recognized Hidalgo. The others were Yars she did not know and a frightened-looking young man with his hands bound behind his back. Hidalgo was speaking, but Lia was too far away to hear.

“What are they going to do with him?” she asked, even though she knew the answer.

“Whatever they do, it is good for business,” said the fruit vendor, hurrying forward with his cart.

Hidalgo, waving her arms dramatically, continued to address the crowd. People crowded the base of the pyramid, trying to hear her. After a time, she stopped talking and gestured to one of the Yars, who handed her an
arma.
Abruptly, Hidalgo pointed the
arma
at the young man and fired. The man’s face disintegrated into red mist. Without further ceremony, the Yars lifted his headless body and threw it into the Gate.

Lia closed her eyes, but she could still see the red mist.

Yar Jonis was sitting on the floor in the library, her back against an enormous pile of books, reading a particularly thick volume. She looked up at Lia and smiled.

“This is a very good book,” she said, holding it up. The cover had a picture of a gigantic white fish attacking a wooden ship.

“I just saw a man die,” Lia said.

Jonis lowered the book to her lap. “Oh . . . I heard something going on outside. An execution?”

“Yes, an acolyte. He was not much older than me.”

Jonis pursed her lips and shook her head sadly. “I heard they had captured one of them in the south market.”

“I do not see why it is necessary to kill.”

“It is certainly unpleasant.”

“Especially for the young man whose head was vaporized by an
arma.
”

Jonis grimaced. “Must you be so vivid?”

“It was a vivid occasion.”

“Yes, well, it is none of our affair.” Jonis shrugged off real-world events as if they were stories in a book. In a way, Lia envied her that ability. Jonis went back to reading, as if she had forgotten Lia’s presence.

“You’ve only read a few pages,” Lia observed. “How do you know it’s a good book?”

“It has many pages.”

“Not as many as
The Book of September.
”

“That is also a very good book.”

“Is it?” Lia frowned. “I am not sure. Much of it is not true.”

“A book does not have to be true to be good. The very best books are filled with lies.”

“Do you know which parts of
The Book of September
are lies?”

“No.” Jonis smiled. “That is what makes it so good.”

“I think all books should be one or the other.”

“No book is that.” Jonis laughed. “Speaking of
The Book of September,
I recently discovered an ancient document describing the arrest of Father September. It seems that he, at least, was real.”

“What document is this?” Lia asked.

“It is a fragment from what was once called a newspaper.”

The scrap of newspaper was brittle, broken, and yellow, held together with strips of disintegrating tape. Only a few paragraphs were still legible.

Attached to the article was another scrap of newspaper with a black-and-white photograph of Father September and his accomplice being escorted to the county jail. Lia examined the photo. Father September did not look at all like the powerful and vigorous prophet depicted by her old entertainment table. The man in the picture looked elderly, frail, and frightened. Lia stared at the narrow, wizened features, the long jaw, the wide mouth . . .

It was the Reverend Feye. He was older, but it was definitely him.

She examined the image of the man beside him. It was a bit out of focus, but . . . the hairs stood up on the back of her neck.

Master Gheen! Her
father.
In
Hopewell
!

Lia handed the scrap of newsprint back to Jonis and sank onto the bench beside her.

“Are you all right?” Jonis asked.

Lia clasped her hands together to stop them from shaking.

“Do you think it is possible to change the past?” she asked.

Jonis looked at her for a long time, then said, “Why?”

“It’s just a question,” Lia said.

Jonis thought for a moment. “It is a very
good
question. But a better one would be to ask if it is possible to change what is to come.
That
is the question we live to answer. And if the answer is no, then we must ask whether there is truly any difference between the past and the future. If the answer is yes, then every moment of our lives is burdened with accountability.” She swept her arms out to indicate the piles of books surrounding them. “That is why these books were written.”

“
All
of them?”

“Well, some of them.”

“Is that what the book with the white fish on the cover is about?”

“It is not a fish; it is an extinct species of mammal called a sperm whale. But I will not know what the book is about until I have finished it.”

That night, Lia went out onto the zocalo. She bought a limonada from one of the cart vendors, then sat by the fountain and watched the frustum as she sipped her drink. A single torchère was burning. She could see neither of the guards, but she was sure they were up there. After a few minutes, one of the guards appeared near the edge of the frustum, looked down the face of the pyramid, then backed away.

It must be very boring for them up there, Lia thought. She wondered how they passed the time. Did they take turns napping? It seemed likely. How would they respond if she climbed up?

She finished her lemon drink, bought some oranges from the fruit vendor, walked to the base of the pyramid, and climbed. A few of the people on the zocalo noticed, but no one called out or attempted to stop her. She reached the penultimate step and looked out over the frustum. One of the guards, a man she did not know, was sitting with his back against the altar stone. The other one, a woman, sat at the far side near the Gate, her legs hanging over the edge, looking down the side of the pyramid. Lia climbed onto the frustum.

“Hello,” she said.

Both of the guards jumped to their feet, batons at the ready. The one who had been sitting on the edge was Tannis, one of the younger Yars.

“Yar Lia,” said Tannis.

Lia tossed her an orange. “I thought you might be hungry.”

Tannis caught the orange. “You cannot be up here.” The male guard moved to put himself between Lia and the Gate.

“I was curious.” Lia tossed the other orange to the man. He let it bounce off his chest and fall to the stone surface. He would be difficult.

Lia walked over to the block of stone that had once been the altar. The explosion had cracked it in half. The stairwell beneath it was filled with rubble. “The last time I was up here, this stairwell was filled with priests.”

“It still is,” the male guard growled. “On warm nights, their stench rises.”

Lia suppressed a wave of nausea and backed away from the rubble-choked stairwell.

“Your heroics are well known and appreciated,” said Tannis. “But you must leave now.”

“I am leaving,” Lia said. She descended the pyramid.

Severs was sitting with Oro, her only remaining full-time patient. Beetha and Argent had both been released. Oro lay unmoving on the bed.

“He’s no better, is he?” Lia said.

“No,” Severs replied.

“He doesn’t even know you’re here. Why do you sit with him?”

Severs shrugged. They sat for a time, watching Oro. He was so still that Lia could not even see him breathing. Severs took his wrist in her hand and held it.

“Do you still want to return to Mayo?” Lia asked.

“Yes.”

“Sometimes, when you pass through a Gate, there is a long drop on the other side.”

“How far?”

“Once, I fell far enough to break nearly every bone in my body.”

Severs thought for a moment. “I will bring my medical supplies.”

“Will you feel bad about leaving Oro?” Lia asked.

Severs gently released her hold on Oro’s wrist. “Oro has died.”

Lia drew a shaky breath. “Then gather your things. We leave tonight.”

L
IA STOPPED OUTSIDE THE ENTRANCE TO THE DOJO AND
removed her sandals. Yar Song was seated in the lotus position, at the edge of the mat, facing the wall.

“Yar Lia,” she said without turning around.

Lia crossed the mat and sank into the hero pose beside Song. They sat without talking. Lia listened for her heartbeat. At first she could not hear it, then it came — a steady, life-affirming pulse.

“I came to say good-bye,” Lia said.

“You are leaving us?”

“Yes.”

“Does Hidalgo know?”

“No.”

They sat in silence. After a time, Song turned her head to look at Lia.

“I am sorry I did not visit you during your convalescence.”

“It was not necessary.”

“I have withdrawn from the Council.”

“Hidalgo told me.”

“I find politics not to my taste.”

“And the public executions?”

Song made a sour face. “It is what the Council feels it must do.”

“Was that why you resigned?”

“In part. I have no love for the priests, as you know. I do not wish to become as one of them.”

“Nor do I.”

“Where will you go?”

“Into the Gate, and if I am able to find my way, to Hopewell.”

Song turned her head and stared at Lia. “Why?”

“Because I fear for Tucker Feye.”

“Tuckerfeye the prophet?”

“Tucker Feye the
boy,
who appeared on the pyramid at my blood moon.”

“Why do you fear for him? He is dead or he is not.”

“It seems he survived his ordeal on the pyramid, but he will later be killed by his father. He may actually be the Tuckerfeye in
The Book of September,
or perhaps the Book is lies. Either way, I intend to stop him from being killed.”

“You intend to change what is?”

“I already changed it, when I told him to enter the Gate the first time.”

Song shook her head, a faint smile spreading slowly across her face. “I wonder, if you succeed, if every copy of
The Book of September
will suddenly be rewritten. I wonder if the Lah Sept will exist. I wonder if I shall ever be born. Does any of that concern you?”

“I only know that I cannot let Tucker Feye die.”

“I see you are determined. However”— she regarded Lia’s outfit with a frown —“if you intend to alter the universe, you should not do so dressed like a peasant.”

Lia looked down at her drab, earth-colored linens, and the sandals for which she had traded her Nikes so long ago.

“This is all I have. The silk robes of a Pure Girl would be impractical. In any case, I have outgrown them.”

Yar Song stood, her body flowing up from the lotus pose like liquid. “Let us see what we can find.”

There was little variety in Yar Song’s closet. She picked out a pair of black leggings, a long-sleeved black pullover, and a black tunic with a metallic sheen. They fit Lia perfectly.