Healed by Hope (28 page)

78

THE SILENT DARKNESS was as Torg remembered from his previous visit to the Realm of Undeath, except for one exception. When he had accompanied Peta into Vedana’s world almost seven centuries before, he had not wielded the Silver Sword. This time the moment he entered the abyss the sword glowed as if set afire, illuminating the darkest of realms with a torrent of effulgence. To say that what he saw stunned the wizard would have been a titanic understatement. But though amazed, he was not afraid. While the Silver Sword remained in his grasp, he was beyond anything in this realm, especially now that Vedana was no longer.

Countless black blobs—some as large as houses, others as tiny as bumblebees—shied from the light. When physically incarnated into the Realm of Life, demons could tolerate radiance, but the larger portion of their essence that remained in the Realm of Undeath scattered before this supernal light like misshapen rats.

All except one.

“Hello, Father,” came a voice that was so familiar. Torg wasn’t sure if he heard it out loud or in his mind.

“Peta, I thought I would find you here. Tathagata hinted as much. But everyone . . . even Vedana . . . believed you were gone.”

“As I am, Father . . . in some ways. But when I permitted my karma to enter Vedana’s unborn child, a part of me was trapped here. Until I am released”—she nodded toward the Silver Sword—“the full extent of my karma will not move on to its next existence.”

“So you’re saying that I have to kill you . . . again?”

“You cannot kill what does not live. I need only be released. There will be no pain, this time.”

“You have been my guide since we first met,” Torg said. “Is this your task, one last time?”

The small black blob wobbled. “It is . . . but you must be strong.”

“When have I ever not been strong?” Torg said. “Lead me, then. I am ready.”

In response, Peta appeared before him in her ghost-child incarnation. Then she took his hand and guided Torg farther into the Realm of the Undead. They turned this way and that as they ascended and descended, as if wandering through a house with many floors and even more mysteries. But never were they in total darkness. The Silver Sword saw to that.

“They don’t like the blade,” she said, gesturing toward the demons.

“That is obvious. But why do they fear it so much?”

“It is older than they. Its substance is from the original creation.”

“How do you know these things?”

“I can see.”

“You sound like Tathagata.”

Peta smiled. “What a marvelous thing to say.” Then her expression grew serious. “We’re almost there. Are you ready?”

“I am.”

When Torg saw his father, he almost swooned. Jhana lay motionless on a silky carpet of darkness, his eyes clamped shut. Peta and Torg knelt before him.

“Is he—”

“Still alive?” Peta said. “Yes.”

“It’s been centuries.”

“Centuries in your realm, but not here. To Jhana, it has felt like just a short while.”

“He’s not breathing.”

“Father, don’t be silly . . . you don’t need to breathe in here.”

Torg reached down and tenderly brushed his father’s brow with his left hand. Jhana’s face was beautiful. “Why does he not respond?”

“He will awaken . . . when he is returned to the light.”

“What should I do?”

“First, give me the sword.”

Torg felt a hint of distrust rise within him, but he fought it back and then did as he was told. Though she was small, Peta hefted the weapon with little effort.

“Now, pick him up and follow me.”

Again Torg did as he was told. Jhana felt heavy, but no heavier than any large Tugar. The walk out seemed shorter than the walk in. Before long, they were near the portal that led to the bowels of Bakheng.

“Laylah awaits you, Father. Please tell her goodbye for me.”

“Must it be like this?”

“You once rescued me from terrible pain. Now you must free me from this terrible place. If you don’t, I will linger here for eons. Would you wish such a fate upon me?”

“No . . . for you, I wish only joy.”

Torg lay Jhana down on the black floor.

Peta smiled and then passed the Silver Sword back to him. “Do not despair, Father. I will feel nothing except the sweetness of freedom.”

“It seems I am always losing you.”

“Such is life. You know that as well as I.”

“It hurts . . . nonetheless.”

“Yes. But it need not be so.”

Torg nodded. Then he raised the glowing blade above his head. “Ready . . . little daughter?”

She smiled her beautiful smile. “Never have I been more ready.”

“Is this the last time I’ll have to do this?”

“The last time . . . as far as I know.”

Torg sighed. Then he swept the blade down with his powerful arms. The Silver Sword took her head. Black essence spewed from the base of her neck. Her small body sizzled, then vanished. This time, Peta was truly gone.

Saddened and yet relieved, Torg slid the sword into the scabbard on his back. The illumination lessened, but not so much that he couldn’t see. Again he lifted his father’s body in his arms. The portal was only a few steps away.

Torg could see Laylah and Obhasa in the passageway beyond. It was as if he were looking at her from underwater. There were figures beside her, but he feared not for her safety. Few in Triken were powerful enough to threaten her now.

When he stepped through the portal, Laylah’s face brightened. Torg also recognized Dammawansha and Podhana—and beyond those three were more Tugars. Laylah approached him timidly, her face especially pale.

“Jhana?” she said, looking down at the motionless body.

“Yes.”

Podhana gasped and then knelt. The other Tugars near enough to hear did the same. Still kneeling, the chieftain raised his head. His voice was filled with awe. “
Pitā vinattho upaladdho
(The lost father has been found.)”

“Is he alive?” Laylah said.

“Indeed,” Torg said.

“But I thought . . .”

“In the Realm of Undeath, time passes more slowly. Apparently, Vedana held him in her kingdom—as a slave . . . or trophy.” Then he smiled at Laylah tenderly. “Yet in the end, joy arises from sorrow. My queen, will you follow me to the surface?”

“I will follow you anywhere, my king.”

“Ema
 . . .
Ema
 . . .
”
Podhana and several other Tugars chanted.

Dammawansha nodded. “I will see to it that a place is prepared.” Then the High Monk raced away with surprising nimbleness.

Torg started forward. The passageway was so narrow he had to turn sideways so as not to scrape Jhana’s scalp against the stone. After taking a couple of steps, he heard Laylah gasp, and he twisted around to see what was the matter. Laylah was pointing toward where the portal had been. Now it was gone. Torg doubted it would ever open again—at least in this place.

When he strode between the massive stone lyons, it amazed Torg to see that it was midmorning in the Realm of Life. Before him stood more than a thousand men and women, most of whom were Tugars but some of whom were noble ones, their shaved heads beaded with sweat beneath the hot summer sun. A nun rushed forward and knelt in front of the Death-Knower then raised her head and stared into his face. Her eyes were filled with tears.

“Nimm is gone,” she said. It was not a question.

Torg recognized her. The nun was Ura, the woman who had taken Nimm under her wing.

“She is gone, but there was no pain,” Torg said. Then he added, “You have chosen well.”

Ura smiled proudly. “The High Monk ordained me.”

“May you be well, peaceful, and happy,” Torg said.

On the northeast side of Bakheng, two hundred steps led to a balcony near the pinnacle of the three-tiered pyramid. Though Jhana weighed more than twenty stones, Torg carried him effortlessly up the harrowingly steep ascent. Laylah followed immediately behind. Then came Podhana, several other Asēkhas, and several score Tugars and noble ones. Dammawansha already was on the balcony, and upon it he had laid a heavy rug, white as a snow giant’s mane. Torg knew that he had taken it from the meditative shrine at the top of the stairs. Only the senior monks and nuns were permitted to sit upon it.

“I am honored,” Torg said to the High Monk.

“The honor belongs to us,” Dammawansha responded.

Torg laid his father on the blanket. Podhana, Rati, and Vikkama encircled Jhana, using their massive bodies to shield him from the sun.

But their king had other ideas. “Step back. For too long has he been forced to slumber in darkness.”

“As you command,
Maranavidu
,” they said in unison.

When they moved away, bright sunlight bathed Jhana’s handsome face, and his eyes, though still closed, squinted. It was the first movement of any kind Torg had witnessed since first seeing him. There was an audible gasp from the nearest Tugars, and Torg realized that he too had gasped.

“I see where you got your good looks,” Laylah said, in an attempt to lighten the mood.

It worked.

The Tugars laughed loudly.

And Jhana opened his eyes.

Torg knelt. “Father! Can you hear me?” Then he placed his hands behind Jhana’s head and shoulders and lifted him into a sitting position.

“My son? Where am I?”

“Father,” Torg said. And then despite his best efforts to remain strong, the greatest Death-Knower to ever live pressed his face against Jhana’s chest and burst into tears. “Father . . . Father . . .” was all he could say.

“Torg? What’s wrong? Why are you crying?” Then he looked around, perplexed. “Who are these people? I see Tugars . . . Asēkhas . . . but I don’t know their names.”

Torg looked up—and when he did, Jhana tenderly wiped the tears from his cheeks. Torg took his father’s trembling fingers in his hand and kissed them.

Then he said, “I have much to tell.”

“You always have much to tell.”

This was greeted by robust laughter from all who stood nearby.

Torg helped Jhana to his feet and then gazed into his face. “I have
much
to tell,” he repeated. “Not all care to listen.”

“I will listen, my son.”

“Excellent!” Torg said, his face suddenly ablaze with joy. “But first, there is someone I’d like you to meet.”

79

IT WAS MIDSUMMER by the time Torg, Laylah, and Jhana reached the outskirts of Anna. The Simōōn had been lowered and would never be raised again, as far as Torg was concerned. Beneath the glory of a full moon, the Tugars, warriors, and ordinary citizens greeted their king and queen en masse. With them came tens of thousands of other desert dwellers, including Beydoos, Kurfs, and even the wily Kalliks. For good or bad, the Tent City had been opened to the world.

Torg greeted them all. Elu also came forth, and then—to Torg’s delight—Burly Boulogne, who had magically survived his fall off the dragon and found his way back to Anna. The Taikos sounded their arrival, and there was feasting for many days and nights. During this long celebration, Torg went from Tugar to Tugar and healed those who had been blinded during the battle with Tathagata. There was great joy.

For long stretches, Torg and Jhana sat alone on the soft sands and talked. Blessedly, his father seemed to have little memory of Vedana’s assault or of the centuries he had spent in the Realm of Undeath. At least, that was Jhana’s version of things. But Torg often saw pain in the squeezed crevices of his father’s now-lined face.

When he wasn’t with Jhana, Torg spent long, luscious moments with Laylah. They wandered among the dunes, making love whenever and wherever they could find the privacy—and necessary space—to do so. Their bond grew even stronger, if that were possible.

On the same night that Tugarian elders announced that plans for a great wedding were in the works, Laylah came to Torg and uttered two fateful words. The sorceress had said them before, but this time they filled Torg with joy.

“I’m pregnant.”

“Is it mine?”

She playfully slapped his face. “It’s yours, all right.”

“What should we name him?”

“Her,” she said.

Torg smiled. “What should we name
her
?”

Laylah giggled. “I’m just kidding . . . as if you didn’t know. It’s a boy. And I think we should name him—”

Torg pressed a thick finger against her lips.

“Shhhhh, my love. Not now. Let’s think about it . . . for a while. There’s no hurry.”

“Yes, beloved. No hurry.”

For the long-lived, such luxuries exist.

Torg and Laylah sat together on the crest of a dune and gazed at the moon. Warm desert breezes swept the hair from their brows.

Obhasa glowed playfully.

The Silver Sword lay on the sand, as disinterested as ever.

Then, when a star fell from the sky . . . and winked out . . . the sword also glowed.

Despite all this . . .

Life went on.

Every . . .
where
.

Every . . .
place.

Every . . .
time
.

Nam icikicchasi
? (Do you doubt it?)

Please . . .

Do not.