“All forces withdrawn,” the dreamer said. “Groups one, two, three, five, eight confirmed safe. Recovering to secured positions. Awaiting orders.”
“That’s the last of them,” Chimalli said. “We’re done here.”
“You may go,” the King in Red replied. “If you wish. I want to see how this plays out.”
“We’ll have options for tomorrow’s assault on your desk by four in the morning.”
The skeleton peered into the vision well. “Temoc’s carrying the Major to the prayer mats.”
“That doesn’t make sense,” Chimalli said. “The Major’s shown no religious inclination before.”
The King in Red did not respond.
“I’m in favor of the stun option myself,” Chimalli ventured. “There are health risks, but we can neutralize the crowd with minimal risk to our people. And it’s memorable. Everyone in Chakal Square will know that if they work within the system they’ll be protected, and if they try to fight, they’ll just look foolish. They’ll realize protest is a gift we allow them, not a power they hold. And we’ll foster a reputation for resolving dangerous situations gently.” No response. He kept going, in hope. “We could let most of the people go—jail the leaders, try them. Everyone else wakes up at home in bed.”
“Captain,” the King in Red replied. “Please shut up. And watch.”
“Sir?”
One skeletal finger pointed down into the water. Chimalli knew he must have been mistaken, too much coffee, too long in that dim foul-smelling room, but he thought he saw the finger shake. “They are making our decision for us.”
* * *
Temoc lay the Major upon the makeshift altar.
Smoke rose and fire burned. Heat bloomed on his skin. He was not a weapon now. Only a priest, with a job to do.
The thousands gathered to watch. Wounded, seared, broken, blind with exhaustion, they knelt on the grass mats, or nearby.
Not all came. Some manned barricades, some doused fires, rebuilt the shattered camp. But many. Chel stood beside him. The altar strained beneath the Major’s weight, of armor and flesh.
The Major had not spoken since Temoc set him down. His breath came faster.
Temoc spoke the gods’ words.
“Qet Sea-Lord, Ixchitli Sun-Shaper
The Twins gave of themselves when the sun their father died
Yes, they gave of themselves—suckled serpents on their blood
Suckling serpents they became the world
Becoming the world they became a bridge
A bridge—between man and god
A bridge—between our world and the next
Two united, each informing each
Blood for blood, hunger for hunger,
Thirst for thirst repaid.”
And on the litany rolled, words first heard in youth and spoken so many times since, words that came easy to his lips yet fell heavily from them to strike the air like an immense bell’s clapper.
The people watched. He felt their faith, their fear, saw it even when he closed his eyes, a sea of green he could inhale, make part of himself, and offer as he offered this sacrifice, this willing human being, to the powers that made them all.
The Major’s terror grew as he faced death. No matter that he had begged for it. He was still afraid, and Temoc was still the man who held the knife.
He lifted it: not the black glass blade reserved for sacrifice on Quechaltan and for the making of new Eagle Knights. He had found a blade of simple steel. It would serve. This was no great altar, sanctified by generations, but each altar took its first blood sometime.
He’d denied that truth for so long.
Few in the audience could understand the High Quechal prayer. Few ever had, even in the old days, when hundreds of thousands gathered to see the death that made the sun live again.
“The gods ask us all to give according to our strengths,” he said in Kathic. “And we fortunate few are called to give our hearts.”
He bent over the Major, who lay prone and still. Unconscious, Temoc thought, until he heard the man’s voice: “Don’t let them see me.”
“I will not,” he replied.
Temoc gripped the Major’s breastplate and tore the steel. The gods gave him strength. The armor opened for him like flower petals, rising to obscure the Major’s body.
She wore a thick leather shirt under the makeshift armor, but that could not hide her as the metal had. Temoc said nothing—only hesitated as he cut the leather out of the way. But the Major caught him again by the hand, strong in her, his, last breath. “Do it.”
He raised the knife.
He heard Chel breathe beside him, heard nothing else in the silence. His arm trembled above his head. He shifted grip on the knife, pommel down.
He struck fast. The breastbone broke, as needed. There was no scream. Muscles in the Major’s throat corded, strangling his cry.
Gods stirred. Faces pressed through the world’s gauze, endless eyes watching him. Mouths, open, hungry. He knew their names, he knew each tooth. They waited for their child to offer them a gift. No matter that he was an unworthy priest, that the gift itself could not match their radiance. Time was a single scream, a single breath. Gods and men trembled on the edge of a knife, a single drop now tumbling toward eternity as the blade swept down, and blood wept, and divine eyes opened, and the whole world sighed at once and was, as ever, saved.
The Major’s heart was slick in his hand.
His people cried rapture as he held it high.
And the gods were in and with them all.
Skies opened. Artificial clouds boiled away. Throughout the Skittersill, ghostlights died and fires failed. Night fell upon their faces, and above them all the stars shone.
The Major lay beneath, a husk.
* * *
The vision well blazed and died. Water rolled against stolen rock.
“What the hells,” Chimalli said.
The King in Red looked up. Before, though Chimalli would never have said this aloud, his boss had seemed angry, petulant—a boy genius thwarted.
No more.
His eyes burned, as always, but hotter now, the darkness around them deep.
The King in Red was ancient, unbowed, no longer human. More, and less. He was a mind of cold blades that threshed the world from its chaff.
He had slept.
Now, he woke.
“Tomorrow,” Kopil said. “Tell Elayne.”