Vedas considered the possibility that his heart and mind had never been in accord.
‡
Another restless night and fourteen hours of stiff-legged walking brought two facts into focus: He could not continue on his path without confronting his doubts, and one more day of traveling in strained silence would drive him mad.
The solution to both was simple, if not easy: he would have to seek counsel with Churls and Berun. The sooner he reestablished a sense of fellowship with them, no matter how fragile or slight, the better able he would be to name the problem that had so far eluded his waking mind.
Nonetheless, their arrival at the edge of the tenth Step came too soon. He prepared dinner slowly, trying to order his thoughts into a coherent pattern. An apology, a justification, or simply an explanation for himself. He suspected neither Churls nor Berun would accept an apology or fail to see through his justification.
An explanation, then. If he could make them understand the nature of his order, the specific reasons for his joining, they might help reorient him to his original purpose.
He had no intention of broaching the issue of intimacy with Churls—the thought of doing so horrified him—but he wondered if they might be able to reset their relationship, return it to its beginning. Dreaming of a physical encounter, ludicrous though the idea was, had distracted him from the memory of Julit Umeda.
Thus resolved to speak of his order, of camaraderie and shared purpose, it came as a surprise when he found himself recounting the events of the morning after the Thirteenth’s battle with the Soldiers of the Appropriate Desire. His walk to Querus, Golna’s only Tomen neighborhood. The smell of black pepper, cumin, and fennel. The hostile stares of dusky, redheaded men. His own stertorous breath and tightly clenched fists.
“Julit had been cremated at dawn,” he said, enunciating with great care, betraying no emotion. “Her father held her skull in his hands while we talked. He pointed to the skulls above the hearth. Julit’s brother, he told me. Julit’s uncle and grandmother and great grandmother. He spoke softly, and his wife never made a sound. I wouldn’t have known they were crying if the room wasn’t so bright. They had placed lit candles on every surface, like they were trying to chase a ghost away.
“They asked me to assist in the funerary rites. According to Abse, spreading ashes is an unclean but necessary ritual in Toma, appropriate for a stranger—or even an enemy—to perform. I fit the definition of both, I suppose. Nonetheless, the request surprised me. I hadn’t really expected them to ask. In Knos Ulom, a person’s remains are sacred.
“They told me her favorite spot in the city was just under the Physickers’ Bridge, on the Quarriton side. I used to go there as a child, too. It felt removed from the city somehow, like someone had set it aside for children. Even the homeless avoided it. The way down was tricky, dangerous for drunk feet.”
Berun and Churls stared at the fire. Neither seemed inclined to speak. Vedas let the silence stretch while he remembered. He had rolled drunks once, a lifetime ago, under the illusion of punishing Adrashi for their false piety. His gang of eleven children, not one above the age of ten, had enjoyed the implicit patronage of the city’s Black Suits, who provided information: This is how you identify an Adrashi, and the like. The orders had armed the children and informed their rude faith, made them dangerous.
Gave them the confidence to push homeless men from bridges.
Vedas now recognized the evil of this arrangement. He counted among his blessings the fact that Abse had rescued him. Among Golna’s orders, only the Thirteenth abstained from supporting the youth gangs. His brothers and sisters conformed to a code of ethics running deeper than mere doctrine. They watched over their recruits, educated and fed them, offered something better than a life on the streets. Even those who still lived at home were allowed to stay in the dormitories—a safe haven for many who would otherwise suffer abuse at the hands of their parents and siblings.
“Faith,” Vedas said, angling his eyes to the sky, pressing fingertips to the horns of his hood. The Needle and the moon had risen above the Steps, illuminating the plain with cold light. “Her parents couldn’t understand my faith, even though we were both Anadrashi. They had no idea their daughter had become involved with our order. It seemed to disgust them. We’re devout, the father told me. His wife held her sickle-moon pendant before her, as though she thought it would protect her from me.”
Churls cleared her throat. “You took off your suit?”
“No,” he said. No, of course not. He considered telling her that he had not taken his suit off in over two decades, that he would not do so for something as minor as his visit to Julit Umeda’s home.
But it had not been minor, had it? On the route to Nbena, he had replayed the meeting over and over again. Even with the distraction Churls provided, the event continued to haunt his sleep. On one mortifying occasion, he dreamt of Julit Umeda surviving the hellhound attack. Instead of informing her parents of her death, he went to congratulate them on her accomplishment, to welcome her into the order. He had woken from the dream, suffused with warmth, only to have the cold realization seize him again.
“Vedas,” Churls said. She leaned forward, one hand raised from her knee as if she wanted to touch him but could not make herself do it. In the glow of the fire, the tattoos seemed to dance on her arm. A bear lunged, spreading its forelegs. A falcon dived, wings pressed tight against its sides. “Did you spread the girl’s ashes under the bridge?”
“Yes,” Berun said. “Tell us. Did you do it?”
Vedas’s mouth was very dry. He moved his tongue around, but no moisture came. “I did,” he finally croaked. “I took her ashes to the Physickers’ Bridge. I slipped down the hill and located a spot to sit under the bridge—a place I used to go. The tide was low, so I hopped rocks out into the center of the river and smashed the urn. Her parents offered no directions, but that is the ritual among Knosi. We let water or wind carry the ashes away.”
“And still you felt nothing?” Churls asked. “No release?”
Vedas breathed deeply into his stomach. He held the air for a moment, and then let it rush out. “No. I don’t know what I expected to feel. I’ve commanded men and women not much older than Julit Umeda. Many times. A few have died. I never felt responsible. I did all that I could to insure their safety. I tried so hard to...”
His head dropped forward. His fingers curled into fists in his lap.
“No, that’s a lie. If I tried as hard as I could to insure their safety, they would still be alive. I shouldn’t try to convince myself otherwise. Millar Abo, Kelt Abbenajer, Amy Luethr, Somses Xu, Sara and Zeb Jol, Vakim Woril, Samual Honesth, Pylar Romane, Edard Hsui, Julit Umeda—I sent each of them to their deaths. I carry their memories. I can’t let them go, even though wisdom says I should.”
“Whose wisdom?” Churls asked.
Vedas’s features twisted into a scowl. He had expected the question, but the anger it provoked took him by surprise. “Don’t,” he said. His lips puckered, on the verge of shaping words.
“Don’t what?” she said. She held up her hand, silencing any response. “I’ve tried so hard not to offend you, Vedas, but that’s coming to an end, right here: We match honesty with honesty. I see you trying to defend your faith when you and I both know it requires no defending. Adrash exists, and you believe he should be opposed. You believe mankind should dictate its own course. Fine. As far as convictions go, it’s not a bad one. But that’s not what we’re talking about. We’re talking about what a man does in the name of his faith.”