Far-Seer

“They are worse now than in the ancient past,” said someone from the middle of the crowd. Palsab stared at the speaker. “Sorry,” he said with a shrug, “but we’re not all unable to read.”

She turned, fuming, looking now neither at Afsan nor the fellow who had spoken of the history of landquakes.

“So you claim we are doomed,” said another voice, female, sounding frightened.

This was the chance, Afsan realized, the opportunity to test the reception Saleed’s ideas would have.

“No,” said Afsan. “I claim only that our world is doomed.”

“What’s the difference?” said the girl whom he’d spoken with earlier. “If the world crumbles beneath us, then surely we will die.”

“Not necessarily.”

“What do you mean?” demanded Palsab’s friend.

“Well, consider. We now build ships to ply the River—”

“You said it was not a River,” said Palsab.

“No, it is not; it’s more like a vast lake. But the name ‘River’ will endure, I’m sure, just as we still refer to the Fifty Packs, when there are many more than that number.”

She nodded, conceding Afsan at least this much of his story.

“Well, we build ships for travel in water,” continued Afsan. “We know travel by air is possible—”

“What?” said Palsab.

“Wingfingers do it,” said Afsan simply. “So do many insects. There’s no reason we cannot.”

“They have wings, fool.”

“Of course, of course. But we could build vessels to fly, like those toys children play with that float upon the air.”

“And if we did so?” said a female from the middle of the crowd.

“Why, we could fly from this world to another. One of the other moons, perhaps. Or a moon around a different planet. Or maybe somewhere else entirely.”

Afsan cringed at the sound of clicking teeth. “What nonsense!” said Palsab. A flash of lightning lit the group.

“No,” said another voice. “I’ve read tales of such voyages. The fantasies of Gat-Tagleeb.”

“Children’s stories,” sneered Palsab. “Worthless.”

But the fan of Tagleeb spoke again. “I’d like to hear more of what this fellow has to say.”

“And I’d love to tell more,” said Afsan. The rain was growing heavier. He tipped his muzzle up at the clouds. “But this is not the time, I fear. Tomorrow, I’ll be in the central square at noon. All those who wish to discuss this more, please join me there.” As an afterthought, he did not know why, he added, “I have a friend named Pal-Cadool in the palace butchery. I’ll arrange for a haunch of meat to be available.”

This seemed to satisfy most of the crowd, although Palsab glowered at Afsan before moving on. Lightning jagged across the sky, and the people hurried to get out of the rain.

Afsan tried to catch Yenalb’s attention, wanting to thank him for helping arrange his passage on the Dasheter, but he had already left.

Oh, well, thought Afsan, I’m sure I’ll be seeing him again soon.

High Priest Det-Yenalb returned to the Hall of Worship, his claws flexing in agitation. What had gotten into the boy? Afsan hadn’t been like this before his pilgrimage.

Before his time with Var-Keenir.

Yenalb slapped his tail.

He should have heeded the stories about that one. Yes, there were still Lubalites scattered throughout the eight provinces, but Yenalb had dismissed the grumblings about Keenir. Idle gossip, he’d thought, the kind you hear about any public figure, the kind that even circulated about himself.

But the boy’s mind had been corrupted. He was talking heresy, blasphemy.

That could not be allowed. It could not.

Yenalb entered the main part of the Hall. Most of the lamps were off now, conserving thunderbeast oil. But in the flickering flames of those that were lit, he took stock of the room: circular, so that the domed roof could represent the Face of God, swirling and banded.

Yenalb had seen the Face many times, taken the pilgrimage over and over again, gone there with Empress Lends and her predecessor, Empress Sardon, would go there with the new Emperor, Dybo, on his next pilgrimage.

He had seen the Face, felt the rapture, heard the voice.

It was no lie. It could not be.

Shifting his weight onto his tail, he looked down the mock river, that channel of water between the planks through which the sinners walked. It was half empty, much of the water from the last service having evaporated.

But this was only a model. There was a real River, and Land did float down it, and the Face of God did look down upon the way ahead, to make sure it was safe.

It was true.

It must be.

It was his way of life.

It was the way of life for all the people.

He stared at the sinners’ river for a long time. And, at last, Yenalb felt a calm come over him. The tranquillity of the room entered him, the peace that comes with faith relaxed him, comforted him, assured him.

He knew what he must do.

*29*

Afsan had expected his reunion with Dybo to be a private affair. After all, he’d once met on his own with Dybo’s mother, the late Empress Lends. Surely Dybo himself—Dy-Dybo, as he was apparently called now—would make time for his returning friend.