“We will be ready for them,” said Afsan, his voice uncharacteristically hard.
Toroca’s tail moved nervously. “That’s what I came to speak to you about.”
Afsan waited.
“This whole thing, Afsan: it’s our fault. We were the aggressors.”
“So your missive indicated.” Afsan scrunched his muzzle. “But there’s nothing to be done about that now.”
“I can’t agree with that,” said Toroca. “I feel an obligation to try to prevent the coming battle.”
Afsan tilted his head. “Is that possible?”
“I can interact with the Others, Afsan. My—my lack of territoriality, I guess… it lets me be with them. But so far, I’m the only one they’ve had direct contact with.”
“If I understand this correctly, you’re the only one they could have contact with.”
“I don’t think that’s completely true, Afsan. It’s not pheromones that trigger the violent response; when Keenir and I first encountered an Other, she was downwind of us. No, it’s a reaction to the appearance of the Others. The appearance doesn’t affect me, because of the way I am. And, good Afsan, you are blind: it could not affect you.”
Afsan was quiet for a time, digesting this. At last he spoke. “Come over here, so you are downwind of me.” Toroca obeyed. “There are not many people I can say such things to, but come closer. Come stand right by me.”
Toroca moved nearer. “Yes?”
Afsan turned his muzzle to face his son, then lifted his eyelids.
“My… God,” said Toroca. “Are they—are they glass?”
Afsan clicked his teeth lightly at the unexpected suggestion. “No. No, they’re real.”
“But eyes don’t regenerate, and… and, anyway, it’s been ages since you were blinded.”
“I had an accident while you were away. I was kicked in the head by a hornface. There was substantial tissue damage. Healer Dar-Mondark thinks that may have something to do with it.”
Toroca nodded. “Miraculous. I’m sorry; forgive me, Afsan. I should be jubilant for you. It’s just that I was sure that if you could talk to the Others, you could help me prevent a slaughter. With the world coming to an end, there are more important matters than fighting. But now that you can see again…”
Afsan’s voice was soft. “I cannot see, Toroca.”
“But your eyes…”
“Do not work.”
“That’s… that’s…”
“The phrase ‘that’s a kick in the head’ comes to mind,” said Afsan gently. “Unfortunately, the particular kick I got seemed to do only half a job.”
“I assume there’s something wrong with the way they regenerated, no?” Toroca stared intently into Afsan’s dark orbs, as if trying to see their inner workings. “It has been such a long time, after all.”
“No. As far as Dar-Mondark can tell, they regenerated perfectly. The problem, he suspects, is in my mind.”
“Is there nothing that can be done?”
“I am, ah, undergoing therapy. There’s a chance my sight will return.”
“How long has this therapy been going on?”
“Forever, it seems.”
“What are the chances of the therapy being successful in the next five days?”
“We’ve had, ah, a major breakthrough. But I still cannot see.”
“Then perhaps you will risk coming with me to try to meet with the Others.”
“What could I do?”
“Your whole life has been devoted to championing reason over emotion. It is irrational for us to be at war. There is an old proverb: only a fool fights in a building that’s on fire. By working with the Others, we can perhaps save both our peoples. I have some vague ideas about how some of their technology could be adapted to spaceflight. But by wasting time on a conflict with them, none of us may get off this world. If they see that more Quintaglios than just myself want peace, perhaps we can convince them to turn back.”
“And you think these… these Others will be receptive to an envoy of peace?”
“I don’t know for sure. There is one Other who would be—Jawn is his name—but I’m not even sure if he’s on board one of the boats coming this way. I thought I caught a glimpse of him once through your far-seer, but I can’t be sure.”
“And what will happen to us if the Others are not receptive?”
Toroca’s voice did not waver. “They may kill us.”
“You have never had much stomach for killing, my son,” said Afsan. “I, on the other hand, have been revered as a great hunter.”
“Of animals, Afsan. The Others are not animals.”
“I suppose not.”
“I can’t believe you don’t share my view that peace is the way. Dolgar said it: ‘The intelligent person must abhor violence.’ If there’s any chance for peace, I must pursue it.”
Afsan was quiet for a time. “What do you propose?”
Toroca’s tail swished. “That we take a small boat out to meet the Others. If my friend Jawn is among them, he will come to talk with us. I know it.”
“The chances of success are slim,” said Afsan.
“I know that, too. But I must pursue the possibility.”
“Nav-Mokleb, the savant helping me with my therapy, believes that anyone who did not undergo the culling of the bloodpriests might be able to interact with Others without falling into dagamant. That would mean your siblings, as well as the Emperor, and his sister Spenress, could have contact with them, too.”
“What?” said Toroca. Then: “Hmm, an interesting suggestion. But we can’t risk testing it aboard a boat. I’m positive you will be immune because you are blind. And besides, none of those people you mentioned could convince the Others of the danger facing the world. You’ve convinced the Quintaglio population of this; surely you can convince them, too.”
“All right,” said Afsan slowly. “All right. I will go with you.”
Toroca had an urge to surge forward and touch Afsan. “Thank you,” he said. “Thank you, Father.”
*27*
After his meeting with Toroca, Afsan went to find Pal-Cadool, who, much to Afsan’s surprise, was just returning from his own meeting with Emperor Dybo. Afsan asked Cadool to take him to the Hall of Worship.
“You? To the Hall of Worship?” Cadool was incredulous.
“Yes,” said Afsan. “I, ah, have need of a priest.”
It was quite a distance to the Holy Quarter, and Afsan, as always, walked slowly, feeling his way with his stick. At last they entered the small antechamber of the temple, Gork waiting outside.
Det-Bogkash, the old Master of the Faith, had been fired by Dy-Dybo in 7128: as part of restoring order after the scandal involving the bloodpriests, Dybo had dismissed all senior clergy serving in the capital. Standing in the antechamber, Afsan called out the name of Bogkash’s successor. “Edklark! Det-Edklark!”
A heavy, jovial priest, clad in plain white robes, came through a small doorway to greet them. “Do my eyes deceive me,” said Edklark, “or has a miracle occurred right here in my Hall? Has Afsan come to church?”
Afsan ignored that. “Twenty kilodays ago,” he said, “when I was held prisoner in the palace basement, I was visited by Det-Yenalb, who was Master of the Faith back then.”
Edklark still seemed bemused. “Yes?”
“He strongly implied something that shocked me, something I’d never suspected.”
“And what was that?” said Edklark.
“Yenalb implied that some priests, including himself, could lie in the light of day—that their muzzles did not flush blue with the liar’s tint.”
Edklark looked startled. “Yenalb said that?”
“Not in so many words, but, yes, he did imply it. I still remember exactly what he said: ‘Not every person can be a priest. It takes a special disposition, special talents, special ways.’ ”