She moved her shoulders impatiently. “From what you say, he wouldn’t be interested.”
“Chumvey! He will be if he knows what’s good for him.” He tapped his hand on the sill and glared out the window.
“You want a wife for him, ask one of those whores you’ve been tupping for years; she might know which girl’s not yours, I’m sure I don’t. Unless you find some titillation in the thought of the boy wedding a half-sister.” She looked at him stonefaced as he swung round and took a step toward her. “If you beat me, I’ll kill you and him, too.”
“Unnatural woman, he’s your child, born of your body.”
“And I nearly died of him. Unnatural child, tearing his mother in his gieed to be born.” She smiled at him, her hands clasped loosely in her lap.
“Tchah! If I hadn’t been besotted, I’d have repudiated you when I found you not virgin.”
“Besotted with power. Don’t you think I knew that? Don’t you think I know what this rant of yours is really about? As for the virginity, ask my brother. He might even tell you the truth, if he’s drunk enough. But be sure you’re tired of living because drunk or not he’ll slit your throat.”
‘Me Amrapake…”
“Oh, Famtoche wasn’t the first either, my father had that honor. I think I was four at the time. By my eighth birthday, I was too old for him, so he passed me on to my brother. And Famtoche pushed me off on you. And you took me and kept your mouth shut about my… shall we say imperfections… because you were ambitious. You’ve been paid well for your silence and your complicity, my dear husband. Get out of here. I want to see you again as little as you want me.”
He licked his lips, not daring to look at her. After a moment he swung around and stalked out.
Penhari let her eyelids droop shut a moment, then she shook herself and went back to her tapestry.
› › ‹ ‹
The Quiambo Prime Walim Korongo stepped back and let the General precede him into the workroom.
A tall boy, all bone and skin, Faharmoy was bent over the Holy Thxts, copying a page with meticulous care, adding his own embellishments•to the plain text. He’d already illuminated the first letter with an elaborate interlacing of angular lines and forms, Chumavayal’s Hammer and Anvil predominating, overlaying the black lines with brilliant color and a touch of gilding; now he was working on the columns of glyphs. His fingers trembled between strokes but were iron-steady when he was laying down the lines of ink. He was concentrating so furiously on making the page perfect he was unaware of the men standing beside him, looking down at his work.
Wenyarum Taleza reached toward his son, started to speak, but the Quiambo Prime caught his arm. “Wait,” the old kasso murmured.
Wenyarum shrugged, let his hand drop. Because he couldn’t bear to watch his son’s finicking work, he moved across the room to one of the windows and stared out through the bubbled glass into the inner court with its sacred Fountain.
He came back to the table when he heard the Quiambo Prime speak to the boy.
“That’s fine work, Mal Faharmoy,” the Quiambo said. “We will miss you here at the Camuctarr.”
“Miss me? Heshim Korongo?”-
“Your father has come for you, Mal Faharmoy. Your life will take another direction after this. I hope you will not forget the things you have learned here.” The old man’s hand closed hard on the boy’s shoulder, a silent warning.
Faharmoy stood silent, contained, his confusion and anger constrained by years of discipline.
Wenyarum Taleza stared at his son with concentrated dislike, jerked his thumb at the door, and went out. Faharmoy followed him.
› › ‹ ‹
So long ago their names were lost to memory and myth, the builders raised Gom Corasso’s Camuctarr on a black basalt cliff high above the inland sea they called the Lake-That-Never-Fails. They built the Great Wall about Gom Corasso with the blocks of stone they quarried from the side of the firemountain Choromalin when they leveled the space for the Temple and chiseled the road down to the water.
Gom Corasso. A gold and black city of towers and gardens, she sits inside a star-patterned wall with four gates and twenty towers. The shattered sapphire freshwater sea washes against her. Blue and lavender mountain ranges cup round her to merge just beyond Fireheart Choromal in
Faharmoy stood blinking in the blinding sunlight of the Suppliant’s Court, watching his father stamp around muttering curses as the minutes passed and the chair didn’t come.
He slid his hand across his mouth to hide his smile, enjoying the sight of his father thwarted.
Everyone had to wait here, even the Amrapake. The mighty brought low, equal in Chumavayal’s sight with the sorriest of beggars.
The bearers quick-trotted across the court, their tanned hides slick with sweat.
Wenyarum Taleza settled himself in the chair, closed the door with a snap. “Walk beside me.”
Silently Faharmoy took his place.
His father slapped his hand on the door and the bearers started forward, walking a few steps, then breaking into a trot. Faharmoy loped along beside them, blessing Chumavayal that his road was down not up.
He brooded as he ran. Why now? Since he emerged from his mother’s womb, his sire hadn’t bothered with him beyond the yearly ceremonies of his birth, and he had to come to those or risk rumors about his son’s legitimacy.
Rumors…
Ah! It’s true, then. Famtoche’s making me his heir. He sneaked a quick look at his father, but there was nothing to read in that somber profile. What’s he up to? What’s he mean by this?
By the time the chair reached level ground and approached the Temple Gate, he was exhausted and panting, but he’d lost his fear; he was too angry any longer to care what happened to him.
Goddance. The Ninth Year
Abeyhamal buzzes in place, wings vibrating., larynx vibrating, bee eyes on the black old man. Abruptly she flips the fimbo up and over, holds it away from her body, parallel to the Forge Floor. She bends her knees, turns her feet out and hop-shuffles at a slant to the Forge Fire. When she is even with the fire, she stops, glides backward to her starting point, her feet moving, the rest of her quite still, then she hop-shuffles at an opposite slant, pas de vee.
Faan began to find her strength, studying with the Sibyl; she ran the ways and wynds of the Edge with her friends, a hard bite to their play.
Chumavayal surges up from the stool, stamps the Forge Floor with feet turned out until the stone booms with the weight of the blows. With his left hand he brings the iron Hammer curling up over his head; with his right he snatches the Tongs from the Anvil and brings that curling up over his head. He clashes them together. Sparks fly.
The spring rains were late in Zam Fadogur, hot winds blew eternally from the western deserts, dried the earth to dust and blew it away.
Faharmoy Taleza na Banadah encounters Reyna and from the shock the Prophet is born.
The GodDance goes on.
Sibyl
The Wheel is turning, the Change is near
One by one the signs come clear.
Drought spreads as days warm
There’s death in the street
Honeychild storms
Rebellion is sweet
Magic goes freeform
And blooms in the heat
› › ‹ ‹
Honeychild. Itvelve now. Just tipped over puberty.
What a handful. She waxes her hair till it stands up in spikes. And she paints it green and orange and whatever color strikes her fancy-except for one long limber plait she wears falling across her face. Luck’s forelock, she says. My tribute to old Tungjii and hisser bald head, she says.