THANISSARA
Soft green twilight seeps through the air.
I halt at the mouth of the cave and wait for the five elder Dog Soldiers to gather around me. Only the young Sticks does not stand with us. It’s a strange feeling, for our sacred stories tell us that Dog Soldiers have stood together for over one thousand summers. This split has been coming for a long time—since Vice Admiral Jorgensen’s mysterious appearance.
On the other hand, Sticks is young and spiritually inexperienced. If he did see Jorgensen change from a wolf into a man, it was a grand moment of religious ecstasy. He witnessed a god come to life before his eyes. At that instant everything else became paltry in comparison. Including Dog Soldiers.
I gaze down the slope to where Sticks gazes worshipfully at the last Jemen to walk the earth. Jorgensen leans against the stone wall with his arms crossed and a smile on his lips. His hair has gone entirely white and wrinkles cover his lean face. It’s a shocking change.
Elder Homara quietly walks to stand close beside me. “Immortality is fickle, isn’t it?”
“How so?” I glance at him. He’s tied his long gray hair behind his head, but strands flutter over his dark face.
“It seems his life is tied to the device’s life. As it dies, he dies. I find that interesting.”
Smoothing a hand over my chin, I reply, “As I do, but what does it mean?”
“Unknown. If they are indeed tied together, you’d think he’d be doing everything he could to keep the device alive.”
“Yet,” Elder Pyara whispers as he moves closer to us, “her death apparently gives him hope.”
We three stare at one another. Pyara’s broad nose spreads across the middle of his face, and long, black-streaked gray locks hang over his cheeks.
I say, “The only logical conclusion is that by tearing Quancee apart he hopes to build a life raft.”
“I’m not sure I understand,” Pyara replies.
“I’m not sure I do either.”
The ocean shimmers with green fire as the zyme brightens, and the drifting clouds go from the lavender of dusk to the luminous green of night. The sound of waves carries to me on the cold breeze.
I study the lines of Rust People carrying torches up the trails through the forest. Everyone wants to be here when the legendary holy man of the Sealion People faces death. Already strange tales travel the villages. Many expect Lynx to clap his hands, transform into a ball of light, and soar to the campfires of the dead like one of the Meteor People.
“If you are right about the life raft”—Homara’s head dips in a subtle nod—“should we stop it?”
“Can we stop it?” Pyara asks.
My gaze moves from one Dog Soldier to another, assessing their opinions from their nods or uncertain shrugs.
“I have spoken with Elder Ganmor about what to do with the Blessed Lynx if he survives the battle, but I did not wish to discuss Jorgensen with him.”
As darkness intensifies, light filters up from the vast paleo-ocean inside the caverns and turns the opening into a flickering blue square. Hundreds of people have climbed the slope and array themselves in a semicircle. A few have already built campfires to wait through the night if necessary. Here and there, children laugh, and their breath condenses into small glistening clouds and glides across the zyme-lit face of the mountain.
When a ragged roar erupts from the caverns, accompanied by the angry shouts of warriors, the mountainside goes quiet, then people surge forward with torches.
“It’s over.” Homara exhales the words. “We must decide.”
“Yes,” I answer.
Jorgensen straightens up where he stands beside Sticks. As he flips up his lion-hide hood to fend off the cold wind, he shifts to stare directly at me. Inside, where his face should be, I only see glowing blue eyes floating in darkness. I pull myself up to my full height and narrow my eyes to gaze back.
For a timeless moment, I cannot move. The feeling of threat is overwhelming.
Homara whispers, “Don’t look away.”
“Not about to.”
Jorgensen says something to Sticks, and hobbles forward so stiffly he resembles an ancient wraith in dark rags. He waits a few paces from the entry.
Another hoarse roar echoes up the throat of the caverns as two warriors drag Lynx through the blue glow and into the gleam of countless torches. Blood streaks his chest, arms, and legs from a number of spear wounds. Despite his injuries, his face is a mask of defiance as he struggles against his muscular captors.
“Homara,” I say, “please find Elder Ganmor and inform him the Blessed Teacher is badly wounded and no longer a threat. As we discussed, he should simply be escorted to Sky Ice Village, where his own people can care for him.”
“What if the rest of council intervenes and demands death?”
“We’ll face that if the time comes.”
“Yes, Thanissara.” Homara bows and sprints down the slope through the crowd.
Down along the seashore, seven buffalo walk into view, four cows and three calves. As though they’ve absorbed the zyme light, their woolly coats glitter and their horns shine as though made from polished jade. Some of our oldest story fragments say that long-horned buffalo are the guardians of the dead. Sometimes, especially after a battle or a long illness, the souls of the dead become confused. They wander around lost and weeping, unable to find the Road of Light that leads to the afterworld. When the buffalo see them, they thunder down, surround the soul, and herd it into the sky where the soul can at last clearly see the villages of the ancestors. I wonder if they’ve come for the Blessed Teacher Lynx.
“Release me, you fools!” Lynx rages. “Let me go!”
Two more warriors stagger out of the cavern behind him, clutching belly wounds.
“He must have fought like an enraged short-faced bear,” Pyara says.
“I only hope the struggle didn’t destroy the crystal chamber.”
In a powerful voice, Lynx shouts, “You’re killing our future! Can’t you see that? Jorgensen is not a god! He’s a liar. If you allow him to tear Quancee apart, we’re all dead!”
“Do you believe him?” Pyara leans sideways to ask.
Across the slope, heads shift to peer at Jorgensen. The last Jemen looks faintly amused, which sends an eddy of whispers through the crowd. Jorgensen and Sticks boldly walk into the cavern and disappear into the flickering blue depths.
“I do.” I motion to the four Dog Soldiers behind me, and we climb as one to meet the warriors before they can drag Lynx in front of the crowd that eagerly awaits the miracle that will accompany his death.
“War Leader Menash, please release the prisoner and back away.”
Menash frowns in confusion. “But Blessed Thanissara, my orders from the council—”
“Elder Ganmor is on his way here. You’ll receive new orders when he arrives. I’ll take responsibility for releasing the prisoner.”
“Yes, Blessed Thanissara.” Menash bows respectfully and turns to his warriors. “Release the prisoner and step away.”
The warriors blink, grumble in low voices, but obey.
When they release Lynx’s arms, he staggers and almost topples before he manages to steady his shaking knees. Clutching the wound in his side, which is pouring blood down his right leg, he gives me a pleading look. “You must hurry. Hurry.”
The words are like stones placed upon the grave of the dead. Each has a final thump to it.
Softly, I answer, “There is neither life nor death, slayer nor slain. Isn’t that what Quancee taught you?”
The lines at the corners of his dark eyes tighten. “Yes.”
Motioning to War Leader Menash, I say, “Order your warriors to escort the Blessed Teacher to a fire where he can stay warm and guard him until Elder Ganmor arrives.”
“Of course, Blessed Thanissara.” Menash bows again, then gestures to two warriors. “Escort him to a fire. Give him a hide to keep him warm.”
Menash remains standing beside the entry while his warriors grip Lynx’s arms and support him down the mountain to the closest fire. Lynx keeps turning around to stare pleadingly at me.
All along his path, people gather to whisper in awed voices as he passes. A few disbelievers pelt him with rocks or chunks of ice.
The Dog Soldiers close the circle around me and, one by one, I give each a questioning look. None speaks while he mulls the issue.
Then Pyara says, “I do not believe we have a choice.”
Nods go around the circle.
My head dips in the barely discernible nod that seals the decision. “Then let us proceed.”
I gesture to Menash. “War Leader, please escort us.”
“Of course, elder. Where are we going?”
“I will lead the way,” I answer.
Following in Jorgensen’s tracks, I resolutely march deeper into the glowing blue caverns with the other Dog Soldiers in single file behind me. Menash brings up the rear, but he doesn’t look happy about it.