"Is he dead?" Jude murmured to Clem.
He shook his head. "He's holding on."
She didn't have to ask what for. The front door was open, hanging half demolished from its hinges, and through it she could hear the first stroke of midnight from a distant steeple.
"The circle's complete," she said.
"What circle?" Clem asked her.
She didn't reply. What did it matter now? But Celestine had looked up from her meditation on Gentle's face, and the same question was in her eyes as on Clem's lips, so Jude answered them as plainly as she could.
"The Imajica's a circle," she said.
"How do you know?" Clem asked.
"The Goddesses told me."
She was almost at the bottom of the stairs, and now that she was closer to mother and son she could see that Gentle was literally holding on to life, clutching at Celestine's arm and staring up into her face. Only when Jude sank down onto the bottom stair did Gentle's eyes go to her.
"I... never knew," he said.
"I know," she replied, thinking he was speaking of Hapexamendios' plot. "I didn't want to believe it either."
Gentle shook his head. "I mean the circle," he said. "I never knew it was a circle...."
"It was the Goddesses' secret," Jude said.
Now Celestine spoke, her voice as soft as the flames that lit her lips. "Doesn't Hapexamendios know?"
Jude shook her head.
"So whatever fire he sends," Celestine murmured, "will burn its way around the circle."
Jude studied her face, knowing there was some profit in this knowledge but too exhausted to make sense of it. Celestine looked down at Gentle's face.
"Child?" she said.
"Yes, Mama."
"Go to Him," she said. "Take your spirit into the First and find your Father."
The effort of breathing seemed almost too much for Gentle, never mind a journey. But what his body was incapable of, maybe his spirit could achieve. He lifted his fingers towards his mother's face. She caught hold of them.
"What are you going to do?" Gentle said.
"Call His fire," Celestine said.
Jude looked towards Clem to see if this exchange made any more sense to him than it did to her, but he looked completely perplexed. What was the use of inviting death when it was going to come anyway, and all too quickly?
"Delay Him," Celestine was telling Gentle. "Go to Him as a loving son, and hold His attention for as long as you can. Flatter Him. Tell Him how much you want to see His face. Can you do that for me?"
"Of course, Mama."
"Good."
Content that her child would do as he was charged, Celestine laid Gentle's hand back upon his chest, and slid her knees out from beneath his head, lowering it tenderly to the boards. She had one last instruction for him.
"When you go into the First, go through the Dominions. He mustn't know that there's another way, do you understand?"
"Yes, Mama."
"And when you get there, child, listen for the voice. It's in the ground. You'll hear it, if you listen carefully. It says—"
"Nisi Nirvana."
"That's right."
"I remember," Gentle said. "Nisi Nirvana."
As if the name were a blessing and would protect him as he went on his way, he closed his eyes and took his leave.
Celestine didn't indulge in sentiment but rose, pulling the sheet up around her as she crossed to the bottom of the stairs. "Now I have to speak to Sartori."
"That's going to be difficult," Jude said. "The door's locked and guarded."
"He's my son," Celestine replied, looking up the flight. "He'll open it for me."
And so saying, she ascended.
24
Gentle's spirit went from the house, thinking not of the Father that awaited him in the First Dominion but of the mother he was leaving behind. In the hours since his return from the Tabula Rasa's tower they'd shared all too brief a time together. He'd knelt beside her bed for a few minutes while she told the story of Nisi Nirvana. He'd held on to her in the Goddesses' rain, ashamed of the desire he felt but unable to deny it. And finally, moments ago, he'd lain in her arms while the blood seeped out of him. Child; lover; cadaver. There was the arc of a little life there, and they'd have to be content with it.
He didn't entirely comprehend her purpose in sending him from her, but he was too confounded to do anything but obey. She had her reasons, and he had to trust them, now that the work he'd labored to achieve had soured. That too he didn't entirely comprehend. It had happened too fast. One moment he'd been so remote from his body he was almost ready to forget it entirely; the next he was back in the Meditation Room, with Jude's grip earning his screams, and his brother mounting the stairs behind her, his knives gleaming. He'd known then, seeing death in his brother's face, why the mystif had torn itself to shreds in order to make him seek Sartori out. Their Father was there in that face, in that despairing certainty, and had been all along, no doubt. But he'd never seen it. All he'd ever seen was his own beauty, twisted out of true, and told himself how fine it was to be Heaven to his other's Hell. What a mockery that was! He'd been his Father's dupe—His agent, His fool— and he might never have realized it if Jude hadn't dragged him raw from the Ana and showed him in terrible particulars the destroyer in the mirror.
But the recognition had come so late, and he was so ill equipped to undo the damage he'd done. He could only hope that his mother understood better than he where the little hope left to them lay. In pursuit of it, he'd be her agent now and go into the First to do whatever he could at her behest.
He went the long way round, as she'd instructed, his path taking him back over the territories he'd traveled when he'd sought out the Synod, and though he longed to swoop out of the air and pass the time of a new day with the others, he knew he couldn't linger.
He glimpsed them as he went, however, and saw that they'd survived the last hectic minutes in the Ana and were back in their Dominions, beaming with their triumph. On the Mount of Lipper Bayak, Tick Raw was howling to the heavens like a lunatic, waking every sleeper in Vanaeph and stirring the guards in the watchtowers of Patashoqua. In the Kwem, Scopique was clambering up the slope of the Pivot pit where he'd sat to do his part, tears of joy in his eyes as he turned them skyward. In Yzordderrex, Athanasius was on his knees in the street outside the Eurhetemec Kesparate, bathing his hands in a spring that was leaping up at his wounded face like a dog that wanted to lick him well. And on the borders of the First, where Gentle's spirit slowed, Chicka Jackeen was watching the Erasure, waiting for the blank wall to dissolve and give him a glimpse of Hapexa-mendios' Dominion.
His gaze left the sight, however, when he felt Gentle's presence. "Maestro?" he said.
More than any of the others, Gentle wanted to share something of what was afoot with Jackeen, but he dared not. Any exchange this close to the Erasure might be monitored by the God behind it, and he knew he'd not be able to converse with this man, who'd shown him such devotion, without offering some word of warning, so he didn't tempt himself. Instead he commanded his spirit on, hearing Jackeen call his name again as he went. But before the appeal could come a third time he passed through the Erasure and into the Dominion beyond. In the blind moments before the First appeared, his mother's voice echoed in his head.
"She went into a city of iniquities," he heard her saying, "where no ghost was holy, and no flesh was whole."
Then the Erasure was behind him, and he was hovering on the perimeters of the City of God.
No wonder his brother had been an architect, he thought. Here was enough inspiration for a nation of prodigies, a labor of ages, raised by a power for whom an age was the measure of a breath. Its majesty spread in every direction but the one behind, the streets wider than the Patashoquan Highway and so straight they only disappeared at their vanishing point, the buildings so monumental the sky was barely visible between their eaves. But whatever suns or satellites hung in the heavens of this Dominion, the city had no need of their illumination. Cords of light ran through the paving stones, and through the bricks and slabs of the great houses, their ubiquity ensuring that all but the most vapid shadows were banished from the streets and plazas.