Dark of the Sun (19 page)
Authors: Chelsea Quinn Yarbro
Tags: #Fantasy, #Fiction, #General, #Historical, #Horror, #Vampires, #Transylvania (Romania), #Krakatoa (Indonesia), #Volcanic Eruptions
“I will gladly follow you,” said Zangi-Ragozh, doing so. The corridor made another turn, and Zangi-Ragozh found himself facing a shrine that showed Jesus dancing before the brilliant golden disk on which God’s Throne was hammered. “This is new,” he remarked.
“It was made shortly before Apostle Seraphim died, as a sign of his readiness for Paradise. He commissioned it as his last official act.” The old man gestured, urging Zangi-Ragozh to hasten, and took the right branch of the corridor. “The door at the end there is the Apostle’s study. Knock once and enter.”
“I will. Thank you—” He paused, waiting for a name.
“My name in Christ is Ephraem,” said the old man.
“For the poet from Niblisi?” Zangi-Ragozh asked.
“A most pious man,” said Ephraem. “His life is a great example to all of us.”
Zangi-Ragozh nodded and continued down the corridor, leaving Ephraem to go about his other duties. As he reached the door, he knocked as he had been instructed and waited for a response.
“The foreigner, Zangi-Ragozh, is that you?” called a deep, beautiful voice from beyond the door in excellent Chinese.
“It is,” he answered.
“Then enter,” said the voice.
Zangi-Ragozh opened the door and stepped into the study of the Apostle of Kumul. It was much as he remembered it—pale walls with ten recessed windows with iconographic pictures of the life of Christ hung between them. The room was not austere, but it was also far from lavish: its most prominent feature was almost a dozen manuscript crates of lacquered leather on shelves against the north wall. There was a small altar on the east wall, and a writing table against the south wall, facing into the room, where four chairs were set around a table. Just now two of the chairs were occupied, one by the Apostle—a handsome man in his midtwenties in a long robe and shuba; he wore a short beard and his hair was clubbed at the back of his neck—and the other by the Jou‘an-Jou’an magician. This proved to be a woman, probably about the same age as the Apostle, for her angular Hunnic face was relatively unlined and she had all her teeth; she was dressed in the heavy, embroidered shai-dan of her clan and people. Her eyes were light-blue, nearly the color of ice, and her hair, cut as short as a man’s, was almost entirely white.
The Apostle inclined his head in Zangi-Ragozh’s direction. “In the Name of the Savior, I bid you welcome to Holy Trinity at Kumul,” he said in Chiu-Ch’uan dialect.
“You are most gracious,” said Zangi-Ragozh in the same vernacular, closing the door and coming into the room.
“I am Lazarus, son of Seraphim, Apostle of Holy Trinity,” he went on.
“I remember you, but as a very young man, with only the beginning of a beard. You were busy with your studies when I was here the last time, and your father saw great promise in you,” he said, and fitted his hands together in polite greeting, looking from the Apostle Lazarus to his other guest.
“This is Dukkai, of the Jou’an-Jou’an, the clan of the Desert Cats,” the Apostle continued. “She is their magician.”
“It is an honor to meet you, Dukkai of the Desert Cats,” said Zangi-Ragozh with the same respectful gesture.
She regarded him in silence for a short while, then said, in fairly good Chinese, “It is interesting to meet someone from so far away.” She, too, spoke the Chiu-Ch’uan dialect with ease.
“Surely you and your people often encounter travelers from great distances,” said Zangi-Ragozh. “Do not the Jou’an-Jou’an follow the Silk Road in their course from pasture to pasture?”
“From time to time we encounter travelers, but they are not often like you,” she said, and volunteered nothing more. “What do you call this town? Kumul? Ha-mi?”
“Kumul,” said Zangi-Ragozh, “as most of those who live here do.”
Apostle Lazarus indicated one of the empty chairs. “Come. Sit. Talk with us. Your presence is most truly pleasing to us, here in Kumul.”
“Thank you,” said Zangi-Ragozh, and chose the chair that faced the door.
“I must ask you how long you have been traveling, and from where you departed to come here,” the Apostle went on as if resuming a conversation with Zangi-Ragozh rather than beginning one.
Knowing his candor was required, Zangi-Ragozh did his utmost to answer fully and without any appearance of deception or omission. “I left Yang-Chau about three fortnights after the Winter Solstice, on the order of the new Wen Emperor in the West, who summoned me to wait upon him in his new court at Chang’an; as a merchant I had good reason to want cordial arrangements with his court, for many of my caravans traveled through his territory. Since I am a foreigner, I must be punctilious in all my business negotiations, particularly where the good opinion of the court could improve my situation.” He paused to give Apostle Lazarus a chance to change the tenor of his question. When nothing more was ventured, he went on, “I was, in response to the Wen Emperor’s order, bound for that capital, but the weather changed for the worse, some of my men and goods were confiscated, and there was more fighting on the road; it became necessary to abandon those plans, for I could not reach the new Emperor, and there was as much trouble on the road back to Yang-Chau, or so the reports said, so I decided to begin a journey to my homeland. It has been a hard trek.”
“Because of the cold,” said Dukkai.
“And the lack of good food,” said Zangi-Ragozh.
“They say that the south has food in plenty,” said the Apostle.
“Not that I saw,” Zangi-Ragozh said. “Everywhere I passed there were fears of famine, all well-founded. Perhaps much farther to the south there is plenty, but I would doubt it.”
“Why is that?” Dukkai asked.
“Because I saw no travelers from the south bringing food to sell, only a few families who were looking for better farms to work. Given the lack of food in the north, I would expect southerners, if they had any, to make the most of their bounty.” He waited again. “There are more robbers and bandits—that usually means want.”
“You got here safely,” said the Apostle.
“My traveling companion and I have but one wagon and six ponies and three camels.” Zangi-Ragozh shrugged. “We are not worth the risk of stopping.”
“Hardly a caravan,” said Dukkai, and fixed him with her pale eyes. “Or is it better on the other side of the Great Wall, and you are telling us this to protect what they have?”
“Anyone who claims so has not been there recently,” said Zangi-Ragozh, choosing his words carefully. “The market at Holin-Gol was half-empty when I was there.”
“Then you say they lie?” Apostle Lazarus sounded troubled.
“I say they have not been there since last winter. The yellow snow has fallen in many places, and the veil over the sun has been present from near Lo-Yang to this place. It may extend farther, but I have not seen it for myself,” Zangi-Ragozh told them.
“The yellow snow,” said Dukkai, making the words a condemnation. “It has fallen steadily into the summer, not only in the Tien Shan, but on the wastes of the desert, and it still falls.” She fingered her broad, embroidered leather sash. “It is not wholesome.”
“No. It burns the fields and sickens many animals. I have seen whole flocks of birds fall dead from the skies,” said Zangi-Ragozh.
“That has happened here, as well,” said Apostle Lazarus. “It is God’s Hand, laid upon us for our unrepentant behavior.”
“It is the gods contending over the earth,” said Dukkai in a tone of voice that suggested they often debated such things.
“Whatever it is, it is deadly,” said Zangi-Ragozh.
“And many are suffering because of it,” said the Apostle, going on with increasing emotion. “To have so much taken from us at one time can only mean that God wills it.”
“If that is so,” Dukkai countered with the ease of long custom, “why would your God demand so much misery of his worshipers?”
“God gave His Son to be the Light of the World. He allowed His Son to suffer on the Cross, for the sins of all men.” Apostle Lazarus spoke as if to a recalcitrant child.
“If the son paid for the sins of men, why does your God visit more wretchedness on everyone? Was not that son’s expiation sufficient?” Dukkai leaned forward in genuine curiosity as she waited for his answer.
“This is one of the many things that only Christians understand,” said Apostle Lazarus. “I am sure that you must know there is only one Son of God, and He reigns in Paradise with His Father.”
“So you tell me,” said Dukkai, shaking her head slowly. “But that does not explain the travail of the world, not if the son’s sacrifice was acceptable to your God, and of true worth. If it truly did redeem men, then no Christian should have to endure want or pain or loss, yet we see they do.”
“There is the Fallen Angel, who brought Original Sin,” said the Apostle.
“And that should have been discharged by the sacrifice. Are you saying that your God has rivals who are as powerful as he, and who prey upon his people? Why has he not killed them all? Or is it that his power is not without limits, and Fate has sway over him as well as everything else?” Dukkai broke off to take a cup of buttered tea from the table in front of her. She drank half the liquid and put the cup back. “I forgot to tell you this when I arrived last night: I have some tea bricks for you, Apostle Lazarus. Not as many as last year, but not too paltry a gift.”
“You need hardly purchase your reception here,” said Apostle Lazarus. “You are welcome if all you have is the breath in your body.”
“You do credit to your faith to say so, but my gods would not favor me if I neglected the rules of hospitality,” said Dukkai. “My escort will present the bricks to your kitchen-master, and that will please me, and Baru Ksoka, who leads the Desert Cats, will not be dishonored in accepting your hospitality.”
“That is his understanding, not mine,” said Apostle Lazarus with a warm smile. “It is an opportunity to serve God, having you and your escort here at Holy Trinity, and it is fitting that you should permit me to extend my welcome to your people.”
“I believe you, but Baru Ksoka is the Kaigan, and I am obliged to respect his wishes,” said Dukkai.
“After all these years? What is it?—seven years you have been coming here? Surely your Kaigan is aware that I expect no gifts other than your presence?” Apostle Lazarus shook his head again. “Your Kaigan is a stubborn man.”
“And you are not?” Dukkai countered.
“It is fitting that I tell you that I need nothing from your Kaigan, that my hospitality does not depend on his gifts to me, although I will accept them as donations of our faith, for God will render what gifts I may need in this life, and bring me to glory in the next.” He refilled her cup from a large, earthenware pot that sat on a warming plate atop a small butter-stove. “Let us assume that we have had our usual wrangle. I will thank your Kaigan for the bricks of tea and you will not have to insist upon it.”
She laughed, sounding lighthearted. “I will tell him of your high regard for him and your gratitude for his gift, as I always do.”
Zangi-Ragozh felt like an interloper, intruding on old friends, and it made him awkward. “You have had this discussion before, I take it?”
“It is a ritual, almost,” said Dukkai. “I would be disappointed if we could not dispute the Kaigan’s gift.” She drank a little more buttered tea. “Baru Ksoka would not understand our amusement, and he would be troubled by what we say to each other.”
“He will hear nothing from me,” Zangi-Ragozh assured her, understanding her intent. “Why should he? We may never meet.”
“I think you will,” she said. “If you are to remain here for more than a few days, he will come to the compound and will want to know all strangers here.”
“Is that part of his leadership?” Zangi-Ragozh asked.
“He is afraid that being in this place, dangerous teaching may leach away my magic,” said Dukkai.
“You do not seem worried about that,” Zangi-Ragozh observed.
“Magic cannot be taken in that manner. This place is a magical one for Christians, but that does not damage other magic. Few places are so pernicious as to do that.” Dukkai drank down the rest of her tea. “I am expected to maintain the secrets of all the gods, to keep them apart from disbelievers, and to preserve their rites for the clan alone.”
Apostle Lazarus stared at her in amazement. “So stringent a burden for you to carry. I am surprised that you speak to me at all.”
“We share many things in our work,” she said. “You and I have rituals to uphold, and many responsibilities to our people, who are afraid the gods may fail them. Yet you trust in the strength of your God as I trust in the strength of all of mine. It is not something the others understand. You probably do not understand it, Zangi-Ragozh.”
“When I was a very young man, I was initiated into the priesthood of my people,” he said quietly, and not quite comfortably, as it was a part of his past that he usually kept to himself. “It was a long time ago, and my people are disbursed over the earth, but I recall what I was taught in my youth.” That had been two and a half millennia ago, but he had not forgotten that night in the sacred grove, when the god had made him one of his blood.
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