“We spoke before about the names of your children,” said Mokleb, “but didn’t really get into your relationship with them. This is a unique area; I’d like to explore it.”
The sun was sliding down the western sky toward the Ch’mar volcanoes. Two pale moons—one crescent, one almost full—were visible despite the glare. A few silvery-white clouds twisted their way across the purple bowl of the sky.
Afsan’s face showed a mixture of emotions. “My children,” he said softly, adjusting his position on his rock. “And Novato’s, too, of course.” He shook his head slightly. “There were eight of them to begin with.”
“Yes.”
“One died in childhood. Helbark was his name. He succumbed to fever.” Afsan’s voice was full of sadness. “I was devastated when he died. It seemed so unfair. Like all of my children, Helbark had been spared the culling of the bloodpriest. It was as though God had given him the gift of life, but then snatched it away. Helbark died before ever saying his first word.” Afsan’s tail moved left and right. “You know, Mokleb, I’ve never seen any of my children; I was blinded before they came to Capital City. I felt I knew the other seven because I knew the tones they used, knew what caused their voices to sing with joy and what caused their words to tremble with anger or outrage. But Helbark… if there is an afterlife, Mokleb, I sometimes wonder if I would recognize him there. Or whether he would recognize me.”
Mokleb made a small sound, noncommittal. Afsan went on. “After Helbark died, Pal-Cadool and I had gone to the site of that kill everyone keeps talking about—the place where I helped bring down that giant thunderbeast. We found a stone there and took it back to the mountain of stones upon which the Hunter’s Shrine is built. You know the old legend? That each of the original five hunters had brought one stone there for every kill they’d made during their lives? Well, I wanted to bring a stone from one of my kills. Poor Helbark was far too young to have acquired a hunt or pilgrimage tattoo. I thought that maybe if a kill was consecrated in his name, it might help his passage into heaven. Pal-Cadool helped me climb the cairn so that my stone could be placed right at the summit, inside the Shrine—the structure made out of past hunt leaders’ bones. Most people don’t know about it, but on the far side of the stone cairn, there’s a hidden stairway leading to the summit. I couldn’t have made it otherwise.”
“A priest advised you to do this?”
Afsan shifted uncomfortably. “I rarely speak to priests,” he said.
“Of course, of course,” said Mokleb. A topic for another time. “But Helbark isn’t the only one of your children to have passed on, is he?”
Quietly: “No.”
“There was Haldan and Yabool.” A pause. “And Drawtood.”
Still quiet: “Yes.”
“How do you feel about what happened to them?”
Afsan’s tone was bitter. “How would you expect me to feel?”
“I have no expectations at all, Afsan. That’s why I ask.”
Afsan nodded, and then, “They say I’m gifted when it comes to solving puzzles, Mokleb.” He fell silent, perhaps reluctant to continue.
Mokleb waited patiently for several beats, then, as a gentle prod, she agreed: “Yes, that’s what they say.”
“Well, most puzzles don’t count for anything. Whether you solve them or not doesn’t really matter. But that one…” He fell silent again. Mokleb waited. “That one mattered. That one was for real. Once Haldan had been murdered“—the word, so rarely spoken, sounded funny, archaic—”once she had been murdered, the puzzle was to figure out who was responsible.”
“And you did,” said Mokleb.
“But not in time!” Afsan’s voice was full of anguish now. “Not in time. Don’t you see? It wasn’t until Drawtood killed again, taking the life of my son Yabool, that I figured it out.”
“Murder is such an uncommon crime,” said Mokleb. “You can’t blame yourself for needing more data.”
“More data,” repeated Afsan. He made a snorting sound. “More data. Another body, you mean. Another dead child of mine.”
Mokleb was silent.
“Forgive me,” Afsan said after a time. “I find these memories difficult to deal with.”
Mokleb nodded.
“It’s just that, well…”
“Well what?”
“Nothing.” Afsan’s blind face turned toward the crumbling edge of the cliff.
“No, you had a thought. Please express it.”
Afsan nodded and apparently rallied some inner strength. “It’s just that I always wonder why Drawtood committed those murders.”
“You were with him when he passed away.”
“Yes.”
“It’s commonly believed that he confessed to you before swallowing the poison that killed him.”
“I’ve never discussed the specifics of that night,” said Afsan.
Mokleb waited.
“Yes,” said Afsan at last, “Drawtood did speak of his reasons. He… he did not trust his siblings. He was afraid of them.”
“Having siblings is unheard-of, Afsan. Who knows how one is supposed to react?”
“Exactly. But if having siblings is unknown, so is, is—let me coin a word: so is parenting.”
“Parenting?”
Afsan clicked his teeth. “Saleed would have scowled fiercely at me for turning a noun into a verb. He hated neologisms. But, yes, parenting: the job of being a parent. And I mean ‘being a parent’ far beyond just having been involved in fertilizing or laying eggs. I knew who my children were, had daily contact with them, was in part responsible for their teaching and upbringing.”
“Parenting,” said Mokleb again. The word was strange indeed.
“That’s the worst of it,” said Afsan. “I was Drawtood’s parent, his father. All children have something in common with their parents; studies in plant and animal heredity make that clear. But my role in Drawtood’s composition was greater than that. I knew him! And yet he ended up a killer.”
“I don’t see your point,” said Mokleb.
“Don’t you? Maybe some responsibility goes along with being a parent. Maybe I failed in some way at what I should have done.”
Mokleb shrugged. “There’s so little data in this area.”
“Data again,” said Afsan. “Perhaps if I’d seen my children more as children and less as data, things would have been different.”
“But most children have no parents, not in the sense that you’re using the word.”
“That’s true,” said Afsan, although he didn’t sound mollified. “Still, it’s something to think about: the relationship between parent and child.”
Mokleb stared out over the precipice at the choppy waters beyond. “It is indeed,” she said at last.
The four ladders finally stopped growing; no new rungs emerged from the apex of the pyramid. The ladders stood silent, stark against the harsh gray sky of stormy Fra’toolar, rising up and up until they faded into invisibility. The whole pyramid seemed dead: nothing was happening at all. Still, Novato waited a full day before she, Garios, and Delplas finally entered. The openings in the centers of each of the pyramid’s sides were fourteen paces wide: wide enough that three of them could walk abreast with a minimally acceptable seven paces between each other. The sounds of their toeclaws echoed loudly as they made their way down the long blue tunnel, a tunnel that was miraculously lit with dim red light from panels in the ceiling. The floor, although made of the obdurate blue stuff, was roughened to provide traction, as if inviting people to walk down this terrifying path into the very heart of the structure.