Wheel of the Infinite (9 page)

“Farmers in the outer reaches bury their dead this way, giving the body to the earth spirits after the soul is fled to the Infinite. This boy’s soul was long gone before his body stopped living, and this just might protect it from being used again.” She stopped to look around at the surface of the muddy roadway briefly, as if expecting to see something appear on it. “Earth spirits usually accept the offerings gradually, over time, but then the ritual is usually performed by laymen and not consecrated Voices.”

“So it’s better to bury him,” Rian muttered, trying not to think about demons living in the dirt under his feet.
If I learn any more about the Koshan view of the world, I’m going to be afraid to touch anything, water, dirt, trees
. They kept digging, Maskelle reminding him, “It doesn’t have to be deep, just enough that we can cover him completely.” Rian nodded; he could hear branches and palms thrashing somewhere in the brush and thought,
It’s close
.

Finally, Maskelle said, “All right, that should do it,” and sat back on her heels, breathing hard.

Rian tossed the shovel aside and ran for the body, dragging it in the sling back toward the hole. Maskelle helped him bundle it in. He grabbed the shovel again, but she held up a hand. “Not yet.”

He hesitated, glancing toward the trees and the heavy brush. The thrashing was closer, as the intruder in the jungle fought its way toward them. What it was fighting, he had no idea, except that it was obviously fighting something. Rian dropped the shovel and drew his sword, putting himself between Maskelle and the edge of the trees. Whatever she was going to do, he didn’t want it interrupted. “What else is out there?”

“The trees, the rocks, the moss, the birds, everything in the jungle. The spirits that live there resist the intrusion.”

Maskelle spoke hurriedly, clawing through the pile of dirt. She had dropped her staff beside the pit, and in their haste they had buried it.

Maskelle uncovered the staff and scrambled to her feet. Rian could hear her whispering something, not in Kushorit, but some language that sounded very like it.

The thrashing came to the very edge of the brush, just within the deep shadow. Rian tensed and one of the oxen lowed in alarm. But the noise abruptly ceased. The ground grew warm, a heat Rian could feel through his worn boots. He risked a glance over his shoulder and saw a low ground mist creeping over the open pit. It was swirling around his feet. He swore under his breath, tried to ignore the prickle of unease crawling up his spine, and faced the dark trees again.

The smell of rot came up from the pit, heavy and sickly sweet in the damp air. Maskelle stepped back from it. “Now we can cover him up.”

Rian watched the edge of the trees, wary for a trick. “It won’t try something else?”

She shrugged, looking around for the shovel. “It might. I’ve never seen a dark water spirit so strong before. Whatever cursed the boy’s body must have done something to it.” She paused and added, “But for now it’s going back to the river.”

Rian waited another moment then shook his head, sheathed the siri, and took the shovel away from her. It didn’t take long to cover the pit, and soon they had the wagon moving again.

Illsat Keo wasn’t visible from the road, but Maskelle had described the marker at the head of the track that led to it to Rastim and all he and the others had to do was follow the short trail through the trees to the temple’s gate. When she and Rian reached the marker, she could tell they had been here by the deep ruts in the mud, which told a story of a wagon wheel sunk deep and freed by hard labor. “Looks like they made it all right,” she said, then noticed Rian was looking up at the marker post.

It was a round pillar, the stone stained by moss and wrapped about by a few vines. At the top was a carved image of a gashwing, the largest of the flighted birds in the central lands and a carrion-eater. The gashwing was one of the Adversary’s incarnations and a common symbol for it. She said, “Let’s go,” wondering if Rian would comment, but he said nothing, just guided the wagon off the road, turning it to avoid the spot where the Ariaden’s wheel had come to grief.

The clouds had cleared enough that the moon was visible, making it easier to drive the wagon. It was a short track through the jungle and soon the lamps on either side of the temple gate were visible. The wall around the temple compound was so low a tall man could easily see over it. There were three small shrines inside, the tallest of their delicate towers barely thirty-three feet high. There was also a library and quarters for the handful of monks and nuns who lived here, a low series of buildings on the opposite side of the compound from the shrines. The Ariaden’s wagons were drawn up outside next to the low wall, near the stone-paved edge of the little canal that watered the temple. There was no room for wagons inside, but they wouldn’t have fit through the narrow gate, anyway.

There were more lamps burning inside the compound, and as Rian drew their wagon up to the others, Maskelle swung down from the box. A blue-robed nun was coming out of the gates, carrying a handlamp. She lifted the lamp, revealing a wrinkled face and the faded designs of her rank on her shaven skull. She said, “Ah, Sister, your friends said to expect you. We haven’t much hospitality to share, as most travellers don’t stop here, but we welcome the company—”

Maskelle held the hair back from her face in a lank tangled handful, and said, “Barime, it’s me.”

The older woman stopped, staring, screwing up her eyes to see, as if she had to read the remains of Maskelle’s rank design, barely visible at the edge of her hairline. “My child, it is you,” she said finally. She put the lamp down with a shaky hand and came forward to embrace her.

Maskelle managed not to hug her too hard, feeling her eyes prick with foolish tears and annoyed at herself for it; the old woman felt as light and fragile as a dry wisp of grass. She said, “I had to come here, Barime. It wasn’t safe on the road.” She laughed, though it wasn’t funny. “Do you think He’ll mind?”

Barime drew back, smiling and shaking her head. “If He does, that would be Answering us at least, one way or the other.” Rian was unharnessing the oxen and she waved at him, the gesture taking in the others already in the compound. “Your companions are all most welcome.”

Old Mali appeared in the gates and hurried toward them, taking the lead oxen and the harness away from Rian and batting at him when he tried to help her. Barime took Maskelle’s hand and led her to the temple.

The compound was awash in light, the stone lamps set on the pillars and the edges of the shrines’ platforms all lit now, revealing the pinkish gray tint of the stone and chasing shadows through the filigree of carvings. Parrots and tigers and female figures wove through the three-tiered pediments and the heavy decoration around the doors. A group of seated figures that managed to combine the grotesque with the whimsical—men with the heads of monkeys, another one of the Adversary’s incarnations—guarded the small open court in the center, life-sized and lifelike in the flicker of flame. On the packed dirt of the open space in front of the monastic quarters, Firac was giving an impromptu demonstration of Ariaden theater with one of the small string puppets, a curious group of monks and nuns gathered around him. Maskelle saw with relief that most of them were too young to remember her. They didn’t look at all upset at having their rest disturbed, but then Koshans were used to going without sleep when the rites required it. Killia was sitting on one of the low walls, her daughter in her lap. The little girl looked much improved, and curious about the men and women with their shaven heads and colorful tattoos and vivid blue robes.

“You’re tired,” Barime said, looking up at her. “There’s time to talk in the morning.” She looked at the group around Firac. “I’ll send them back to bed. It’s not often we get visitors, and never foreigners with such interesting toys. Will you take vigil in the shrine?”

“Yes.” Maskelle sighed. “For all the good it will do.”

Barime embraced her again and went to chase the others back into their quarters. Rastim came up to her, his face drawn from exhaustion but his expression holding nothing but relief. “It went well, then, getting rid of the you-know-what?” he asked.

“Yes, it went fine.” She saw Rastim glance suspiciously at Rian. who was standing a short distance away and looking around at the compound. She said, “You’re wrong about him, you know. He doesn’t mean me any harm.”

Rastim gave her a doubtful look, but said, “Maybe so.” The temple’s inhabitants were retiring to their quarters, the Ariaden straggling back out to the wagons. He added, “You were right, we should have come here and not stopped at the post. Gisar stopped his knocking as soon as we got past that bird thing out on the road.”

“Was it your wagon that was stuck?” she asked.

“Yes, why?”

“No reason.” She was glad she had sent them on. If Gisar had had enough power outside his box to trap the wagon wheel in the mud, then they had gotten here none too soon. But Gisar was only a minor creature and would have no wish to draw the attention of the Adversary. “We’ll be in the city tomorrow. You should get some sleep.”

“So should you. You look tired to death.” Rastim patted her shoulder and followed the others.

“Thank you,” she called after him.
I didn‘t need that
. Not that there was really time to do more than nap; it couldn’t be more than two hours until dawn.

Barime returned as the Ariaden went back to their wagons. She said, “It was time you were back. I’m only glad that I was here to see it.” She gave Maskelle the full bow that was due her rank, then turned to Rian and gave him the courtesy bow due to honored strangers. Rian seemed startled at having his presence acknowledged, but managed to return the gesture.

Barime embraced Maskelle again and then went back to the temple living quarters. Rian stepped up beside Maskelle, watching Barime leave, and asked, “Can all the Koshans do magic?”

She rubbed the back of her neck and let out her breath. “Yes and no. The closer you come to a full understanding of the Infinite, the more your ability to manipulate the spirits of earth, water, and air increases.” She leaned on her staff, looking up at the temple platform. The lamps had been left lit for courtesy to the visitors and the three shrines looked larger without the people to lend perspective. “And the less your need becomes to use that ability.” She shook her head. “It has nothing to do with rank. There are monks and nuns, living as hermits in the deep jungle, who are more powerful than the Priest of the Sare or any of the higher ranks.”

Rian regarded her, suspicion in those green-gold eyes. “So Koshans don’t use their magic.”

“Not the way you think of it, no.”

“Except you.”

“Except the Voice of the Adversary.” Maskelle went up the steps to the central shrine, past the guardian monkey men, and stood in the open doorway. The interior was dark, the intricate carving of the Adversary’s various incarnations lost to shadow.

It was not very spacious or lavish, but no Koshan temples were. The sizes and shapes of the buildings were important, the heights of the towers and the doors, the curves in the carving, the number of paving stones in the floor, that invoked the spirits of the Infinite, not what was inside. This one was empty except for the niches in the walls for offerings of fruit and flowers, brought by the villagers and farmers in the surrounding countryside. It smelled of damp stone and must and the moss that grew on everything during the rainy season despite the constant efforts to scrub it off.

Rian was standing at the bottom of the steps. Patiently, as if prepared to wait all night. For someone who could be as sarcastic as he was, it was a little surprising. She leaned in the doorway, the rough stone cool against her back, and said, “What were you in the Sintane?”

He shifted from one foot to the other, eyed her warily, then said, “I was a
kjardin
for the Holder Lord of Markand.”

“What’s that?”

“A retainer, a personal guard. There aren’t the right words in Kushorit.”

She motioned for him to come up and he hesitated. “Why is there a demon carved above the door?”

“It’s the aspect of the Adversary that eats evil.” She shook her head. “The Adversary isn’t a demon. The Adversary eats demons for dinner.” She turned and moved into the little shrine. There was nothing here, just so much empty stone.
You expected something else
? she asked herself. The shrine was as empty of any spirit presence as the jungle and the river were crowded, but Maskelle could sense it was a recent vacancy. The temple had the feel of a room warmed by a living presence who had just stepped out the far door, just before she had stepped in the near one.

Rian had climbed the steps behind her and she glanced back at him. She couldn’t see his expression in the dark, but he was looking up at the shadows where the ceiling extended up into the tower. She said, “The word in our language for ‘Adversary’ translates to the word for demon in some of the outlying provinces. That’s where those stories come from. The Adversary is the only Ancestor, the only humanlike spirit, that never lived in this world as a human. Before the rise of the Koshan temples, it was thought to be the god of luck, both good and bad. But that’s a misunderstanding of its purpose.”

“So what’s its purpose?”

“To destroy evil.” Maskelle moved to the open doorway at the back of the shrine.

There were steps here too, leading up to a round stone platform at the back of the temple. It was within the boundary of the low walls, but high enough to be awash in moonlight and screened by the thick green of the treetops, cut off from the light of the court and compound by the stepped tower of the shrine. The breeze had died and the night was quiet except for the calls of nightbirds. She sat down on the smooth stone, still warm from the day’s sunny intervals. She heard Rian step onto the platform behind her and said, “This is a moon-viewing platform. It’s important to some of the rituals to know the exact shape of the shadow patterns on the moon.”

He moved up beside her, looking up at the full moon. There was a mottled pattern of dark and light across its surface tonight. Without referring to the texts that recorded all the permutations and their meanings, Maskelle could only translate it as far as “portentous events.” With the approach of the rainy season Equinox and the culmination of the Hundred Years Rite, that was only to be expected. Rian sat down next to her and relaxed into a sprawl.