5: The Holy Road (8 page)

“Who knows if he would even remember me? It’s probably best just left alone.” Alidas turned away, clearly uncomfortable discussing the subject any further.

Ravishan didn’t pursue it. The three of them fell silent. Only the noise and deep rhythm of the train engine surrounded them.

Ravishan stretched his arms experimentally. He was careful with his right arm. The cuts had healed, but the scars were still tender. John watched the trees whipping past.

He never would have broached such a private subject with Alidas. In part, because he wouldn’t want to discover that he liked Alidas or that they could become friends. His fate was already too weighed down by the friends that Laurie and Bill had made. He didn’t need or want to feel responsible for yet another person’s happiness.

John found it strange that Ravishan seemed to have no such inhibition. In a month, they would be leaving. In all likelihood, Ravishan would never see Alidas or even Basawar again. Befriending Alidas would do Ravishan no good. At best, it would just give him someone to miss. But Ravishan was innately outgoing and he obviously enjoyed his newfound freedom to commune with whomever he pleased.

John supposed that it was that same trait that had allowed Ravishan to befriend him when he had been nothing more than a ragged stranger out in the frozen wastes.

“You know,” Alidas suddenly looked to John, “I still have your book.”

John frowned. “My book?”

“The southern plains songs. You let me read from it the night you quarreled with Tashtu.”

“Oh, yes.” John remembered now. Hann’yu had purchased the book for him. So many other things had happened that night that he’d forgotten it completely. “Was it a good read?”

“Lovely,” Alidas replied. “Though it made me homesick. But just a little. It made me miss the south as the poems captured it but not the way I lived in it, if that makes any sense.”

John nodded. “It captured an ideal of your home.”

“Yes, exactly,” Alidas replied. “
Pale as stars caught in dark branches, apple blossoms shine even in the black night
.”

“That’s the kind of poetry that makes you think the life of an apple picker must be wonderful.” Ravishan glanced to Alidas. “They write the same sorts of things about the golden taye of the north. As a rule, they don’t mention all the goat shit in the fields and streets.”

“They really don’t,” Alidas said, laughing.

“I suppose the song loses something if you praise the golden fields and then advise visitors to bring a second pair of boots for days when they get a little too golden,” Ravishan added.

“I would have appreciated the warning at least,” Alidas replied. He then turned to John. “What about you? What do they sing about your home?”

“Shun’sira?” John asked. He’d seen drawings and read descriptions. As far as he could tell the place was a collision of barren rock faces, sink holes, thorn forests and bogs. References to clouds of biting black flies and parasitic worms appeared as a common theme in all the literature.

“Most of the songs are something like, ‘I’m so glad to be leaving the mudslides of Shun’sira,’” John hummed. “Or else, ‘Shun’sira, mountainous hell-hole, I hope you fall into the sea.’”

“The honest songs of a bitter people.” Alidas laughed and Ravishan smiled at John as if he’d done something truly charming. John felt a ridiculous pleasure in having amused both of them. He’d almost forgotten what it felt like to just relax in comfortable company.

Minutes later, Vundomu came clearly into view. Dark banners decorated with scarlet moons hung from the walls. As the train approached, huge gates at the base of the fortress slowly rolled open. Plumes of steam and smoke shot up from the machines that powered the movement of the gates. Beyond them John thought he could pick out the silhouettes of hundreds of people and still more banners.

“That’s quite a crowd waiting for the train,” John commented.

Both Alidas and Ravishan studied the faint forms gathered in the shadows of the massive black gates. Hundreds of men stood in tight lines just beyond the train platform. Their uniforms looked like Alidas’ but instead of being green they were dyed black and gray—the colors of the Payshmura. They, like Ravishan and himself, wore their hair back in priest’s braids.

For an irrational moment, John had thought the procession had gathered to welcome Alidas. Immediately, he realized his mistake. One or two friends might be expected to do that. But this was a gathering of hundreds, perhaps more. John couldn’t see where their ranks ended deep within the fortress.

“I don’t see any—” Alidas frowned as the train continued forward. “Good eyes.”

“I think they’re rashan’im,” Ravishan said.

“They’ve come to greet you,” Alidas said to Ravishan.
    
“I hope you’ve prepared a speech.”

Ravishan paled and said nothing.

Living so close to the ushiri’im, knowing them as friends, John had forgotten how sacred they were to the rest of Basawar. The Kahlil was far more rare and of even greater sanctity. It was difficult for John to recognize that when he looked at Ravishan. To him, Ravishan was a human being, a man he cared for but not an object of worship.

Now, even over the noise of the train engine, John could hear bells ringing and voices rising from Vundomu. He recognized the words of prayers as the gathered rashan’im chanted in unison. It had to be a thousand men, John thought as he caught sight of more ranks of rashan’im. Many of them were mounted on armored tahldi. Even at this distance, John could see the polished gleam of their boots and gloves. He became suddenly aware of how grungy he, Alidas, and Ravishan looked. It had been a week since their last opportunity to bathe. They’d worn the same clothes for days. All of them probably reeked of tahldi hide and coal steam.

At the last two stops the train had made, there had been drink sellers and food vendors, ragged women with babies in their arms, and beggars all gathered at the sides of the tracks. John’s own comparative cleanliness had kept him from really noticing how bedraggled he’d become. Nothing like that was in evidence at Vundomu. Nothing at all. John squinted at the precise files of clean men in black uniforms.

“Aren’t there any women?” John asked.

“No,” Ravishan said.

“Of course there are,” Alidas replied in the same moment. He gave Ravishan a slight shake of his head. “Most of the craftsmen and servants have wives and families. They keep their homes on the eastern hills. Many of the rashan’im of Vundomu have mothers and sisters there as well. The women raise crops and keep the livestock that feed Vundomu.”

“I never saw any when I was there.” Ravishan scowled. He wasn’t used to being wrong, John thought.

“You probably only kept company with the holy kahlirash’im. Women aren’t allowed inside their temple, but you can see one of the common villages up there.” Alidas pointed to the eastern slope. “My friend, Wah’roa, grew up on that mountainside.”

A stone wall enclosed a cluster of thatched houses. John peered up at them. The rocks of the walls and weathered wood of the buildings hardly stood out from the surrounding trees.

Glancing from the hillside to Vundomu, John was struck again by the massive presence of the fortress. It was a mountain itself. How could anyone think of attacking such a place? The black iron walls rose like huge plates of armor. A veritable sea of armed men seemed to flow from its huge, spiked gates.

John couldn’t imagine an army overpowering such a stronghold. What threat could the underfed peasants of the Fai’daum possibly pose against a fortification of this scale? And if the Payshmura priests commanded such a fortress as well as the powers of the ushiri’im and ushman’im, why did they believe they would still need the Rifter?

“Who could even challenge this place?” John wondered under his breath. The metallic screech of the train’s wheels braking against the track easily drowned out his undervoiced question. They had nearly reached the gates. The deep rumble of hundreds of men chanting rose over even the noise of the train.

“We should get our packs,” Alidas called as the train slowed.

Ravishan and Alidas both turned back to the doors of the passenger car, though John couldn’t help but note the disparity between their movements—Ravishan striding with speed and assurance, while Alidas took his steps with careful precision. John followed the two of them into the passenger car. They had packed lightly and had already devoured most of their provisions. They would need to get more water and food at Vundomu. John swung his own pack onto his back and then hefted Ravishan’s onto his shoulder as well.

At this, Ravishan regarded John questioningly.

“I believe the attendant gets the baggage,” John said.

“Mine as well?” Alidas asked coyly.

“As soon as you’re Kahlil I’ll be glad to.”

“I’m not Kahlil yet,” Ravishan commented.

The train had slowed and the chanting of the gathered rashan’im thundered through the passenger car.

“RAVISHAN’HIR YA KAHLIL! RAVISHAN’HIR YA KAHLIL! RAVISHAN’HIR YA KAHLIL!” Thousands of men’s voices pounded through the air in unison, proudly proclaiming Ravishan their Kahlil. The words rolled out again and again. “RAVISHAN’HIR YA KAHLIL! RAVISHAN’HIR YA KAHLIL! RAVISHAN’HIR YA KAHLIL!”

“Everyone here seems pretty sure you will be,” John shouted his reply.

Ravishan flushed, seeming both embarrassed and proud. The assembled rashan’im all knew his name, all called out to him as if he were their savior. John couldn’t imagine what he would think if so many people were so moved by his mere presence. Most likely, he’d pretend to be someone else.

The train came to a complete stop. Outside, the thousands of rashan’im standing in organized lines fell silent.

“You should probably go first,” Alidas told Ravishan. “I think Jahn or I would be something of a disappointment.”

Ravishan glanced to John and, for an instant, he looked uncertain. Then, just as quickly, the expression was gone. Ravishan squared his shoulders, pushed open the doors, and stepped out onto the stairs leading down to the train platform. A deafening cheer exploded from the rashan’im.

Alidas said something, but John couldn’t make out the words. Alidas just shoved him forward towards the doors.

Ravishan had already descended the stairs. The rashan’im parted before him. Once again they began their chant, their voices pounding the air like thunder.

“RAVISHAN’HIR YA KAHLIL! RAVISHAN’HIR YA KAHLIL! RAVISHAN’HIR YA KAHLIL!”

John disembarked with less fanfare. He stopped on the platform to wait for Alidas and found himself, instead, gawking at the fortress like the provincial peasant he claimed to be.

The scale of Vundomu astounded him.

Huge iron torches jutted from the walls, illuminating the wide street to afternoon brilliance. Columns of rashan’im stretched back as far as John could see. Countless other men gazed down from the towering black walls above. Nothing in Rathal’pesha had prepared him for this. He had grown so used to half-abandoned halls and wilderness that he had come to think of Basawar as a world devoid of populace and technology.

Here the streets were not made from packed dirt but paved with iron tiles. The black walls gleamed like polished glass. John couldn’t see a single stain of rust or any corner where a weed had gained a foothold. The air churned with steam and smelled of pungent veru oil, used to lubricate guns, pistons, axles, and engines alike.

It was like being swallowed by a huge machine. Only the distant, darkening sky reminded John that he was still outside at all.

Ahead of John, a group of mounted rashan’im rode to meet them. One of them dismounted, led his tahldi to Ravishan, and dropped to the ground before him. John saw the man’s mouth move. Ravishan inclined his head slightly, then took the reins of the tahldi and mounted. As he rode forward, mounted rashan’im closed in behind him and followed him up the road. Then the ranks of rashan’im on foot also joined the procession.

John stayed put. It would have been pointless to attempt to push his way through the crowd of rashan’im. And he could tell from the smooth organization of their departure that he wouldn’t have too long to wait for a clear path. Perfectly spaced columns of men poured smoothly up the road and through a second gate. There had to be ten times the number of people who had been at the Amura’taye Harvest Fair and yet the street stood half empty in just a few minutes. John supposed such efficiency was the defining difference between the chaos of a crowd and the discipline of an army.

Alidas stepped up next to him and scanned the sea of uniformed men. More than half of them had already gone. The street suddenly seemed cavernous. John could see where other train tracks formed a junction with the ones they were on. Far to his left, he made out a variety of boxcars as well as the thick cables and awkward arms of primitive cranes. There were workmen there and animals. Now that the chants of the rashan’im had grown more distant, John could hear the sounds of sheep and goats coming from the boxcars.

The few rashan’im who remained appeared to be on guard duty. One, a slim man with black hair drawn back in a multitude of warrior’s braids, led two saddled tahldi towards them. There was some kind of mark on his forehead—a Prayerscar, John realized, as the man drew closer. The red, crescent moon curved upward on his brow like a set of horns. John recalled that the kahlirash’im wore a scarlet moon as a symbol of their sect.