In the Ruins

Page 204

It had not been so, not exactly like this, in the days before exile. According to Eldest Uncle, the priests who wielded the blood knives had in those days wielded more power than they ought, and it seemed that their time in the shadows had not changed their outlook. They were not bold enough to tear the cloak off her shoulders, but it was obvious they had only been biding their time.
The day lengthened, although the sun never grew hard and bright as it was said to have done in the days before. It was traditional to fast, although she could drink sap wine and spring water.
The stone reaches of the northern avenue and a segment of the western road remained for the most part deserted. No one wanted to walk where the hand of time lay starkly, just as no person wished to sleep beside the skeletons of her forebears. Better they be sealed away behind the brilliant paint of life. Wind teased along the deserted avenue, moaning faintly in the stones, causing a thin veil of grit to rise and, then, settle. The wind spread among the assembly. It rippled through feathers, tugged at the ends of capes and tunics, and tangled in children’s unruly hair.
She tasted the sour burned smell of the lands to the northwest where molten fire had destroyed a wide swathe of land and everything that lived there. Through this wasteland their enemies would have to ride to reach them; through this wasteland their soldiers would have to journey to strike humankind. The country itself shielded them, or caged them. Marching straight inland, it was as yet impassable, and it was barely manageable going right along the shore.
The voting lasted all day and through the night, lit by torchlight. Her legs ached. At intervals she sat. On occasion she dozed.
Dawn blossomed, a new day. In the days before, the ceremony had normally lasted three days, but by midmorning the presiding elders raised their staffs to declare the vote finished.
Twenty baskets had been set out for each color, and now the contents of all must be consolidated into a few and any stray stones of the wrong color removed. She knew what the outcome would be, but she waited along with everyone else.
Close by the steps she saw Rain, the artisan who had fathered her twin daughters although not her son. He was a slender man, not at all impressive in the width of his shoulders; he had no belligerent lift to his chin. He had trained with weapons as all children must but followed a different path, and if one had clear sight one might see the humor that twisted up his lips and the intensity of intelligence in his gaze and the wiry strength of his arms and the clever skill in his hands. He was holding one of the infants, lashed in a sling against his body. From this distance she could not, in fact, tell which one it was, the elder or the younger, and she could not recall who had the other child. Any one of ten or twenty aunts or uncles might have claimed the precious bundle. In the six moons since their birth, she thought it possible that they had never once been set down.
Rain was speaking to one of the refugees, the newcomers, as she thought of them, although they were so old that across the duration of their shadowy exile the stones of the city had been scoured clean of the bright murals that gave the city its vigor. For an instant, seeing it was a young woman, a mask warrior, she felt the sting of jealousy. Then he happened to look up at her and, seeing her head turned his way, made a gesture with his free hand to show he was with her in spirit. The young woman turned and addressed a remark to a person who had up to this time been hidden behind a cluster of onlookers, and she saw it was her son. He was an upright boy, respectful and clever, but one look at his face told her that it was he who had a hankering to speak to this mysterious newcomer. He smiled and flirted in the manner of youths caught in a fever they did not yet understand and were not quite yet old enough to act on.
He was growing up. In this matter, at least, the world did not change.
She looked sideways, at last, to examine her rival. The Impatient One had her eyes closed, but her right foot tapped the stone to a brisk rhythm, like a racing heart.
The baskets were dragged out and set on the lowest step of the pyramid. Three baskets held white stones close to the brim with a fourth for the overflow. Only one black basket was lifted out, and it was not even half full.
No announcement was made. They all knew, even those who had, despite everything, cast their vote for her rule, that had sufficed for a rule in exile, but sufficed no more.
The Impatient One opened her eyes and lifted a hand to point toward the height of the pyramid. Feather Cloak pressed the back of her hand to her forehead, for strength, and without replying began the ascent.
It was an exhausting climb. The steps were narrow, and the risers high, and when the platform that crowned the height opened at last before them she was dizzied. Clouds piled into stormy risers to the east. She thought she heard the growl of thunder, but it faded. The Impatient One, with a frown and a lift of the elbow, waited for her to begin the ritual.