Far-Seer

Afsan stretched out on the floor, trying to relax. Keenir and Cadool insisted on having him examined top to bottom by Mar-Biltog, who, although no healer, was at least trained in emergency procedures. It was clear, Biltog said, that the lower portion of Afsan’s tail would have to be removed so that the crushed bones could grow back whole. They’d wait until his strength was up, and until they got to a proper hospital, before they did that. He was given water and bowls of blood, and he heard someone drawing the leather curtain across the cabin’s porthole, but that, of course, was an unnecessary gesture.

At last, they left him alone.

Afsan slept.

Later, he did not know when, he was awakened by a sound at the door to his cabin.

Muifled by the wood, a familiar voice said, “Permission to enter your territory?”

“Dybo?” said Afsan, groggy and still weak. “Hahat dan.”

The door swung open on squeaky hinges and Afsan could hear the footfalls of the Emperor crossing to the part of the floor on which Afsan lay.

Afsan tried to lift his head, but his strength had not returned. His chest still hurt.

“How are you, Afsan?” said Dybo.

“Tired. In pain. How would you expect me to be?” Afsan was surprised at the anger in his own tone.

“No different than that, I suppose,” said Dybo. “I’m sorry.”

“Are you?”

Afsan heard the boards creak as Dybo’s weight shifted. He assumed the Emperor had crouched down to better see him. “Yes.”

“What about Capital City?”

“Heavy damage, of course. But some buildings are still standing.”

“The palace?”

Dybo was quiet for a moment. “It was leveled.”

“Then what becomes of your government?”

Afsan thought he heard Dybo’s teeth click together. “Governments endure. My power was not vested in a building.”

“No. It was vested in a lie.”

Dybo’s tone was surprisingly gentle. “Was it? My ancestor, Larsk, was the first to sail halfway around the world. He was indeed the first to stare upon the Face of God. If it hadn’t been for him, you wouldn’t have made your voyage, wouldn’t have discovered the things you discovered. You say the world is doomed—”

“It is.”

“Well, if that is so, it is knowledge we owe at least in part to Larsk.” Dybo’s teeth clicked again. “Governments endure,” he repeated simply.

“No,” said Afsan. “No, they don’t. Or at least yours won’t.”

“Won’t it?”

“It can’t. Nothing will endure. The world is doomed.”

“You persist in that?”

“You saw what happened today.”

“The land shook. Volcanoes erupted. That has happened before.”

“It’s going to happen again and again and again and it will get progressively worse until this world cracks like an egg.”

“Do you really believe that?”

“Yes, Dybo. I really do.” Afsan paused. “Saleed knew the truth. Before he died, he knew.”

“Well, what would you have me do?”

“Do whatever must be done. You’ve got the power.”

“Perhaps. The Lubalites came close to taking Capital City today.”

“You would have taken it back eventually. You were unprepared, but the other provinces would send aid to restore you.”

“Yes,” Dybo said slowly. “I imagine they would.”

“After all, aren’t the provincial governors your mother’s brothers and sisters?”

“What?”

“Aren’t they?” said Afsan.

“No, they’re not.”

“Perhaps. Being blind is a two-way street. I can’t see whether you’re lying. But, then again, I don’t have to take everything I hear at face value, so to speak.”

“You’ve become a lot more sophisticated, Afsan.”

“I have. It’s part of growing up.”

Dybo’s voice was soft. “Yes, it is.”

“In any event,” said Afsan, “all that matters is that the governors of the other provinces are loyal to you. Only five hundred Lubalites could be mustered from all of Land. That few couldn’t have held power long.”

“In that, you’re right,” said Dybo.

“I’m right in all of it,” said Afsan.

“Are you?”

“You know I am.”

Dybo’s voice came back differently; he must have turned away from Afsan. “I know you believe you are right. But I have to be sure. What you’re asking for requires enormous resources, enormous changes in every facet of our lives. I have to know that it’s really, absolutely true.”

Afsan rolled onto his side, trying to find a posture in which his chest didn’t hurt so much. “You’ll find my notes in my quarters back in the Capital. Even if the building was destroyed, sift through the rubble for them. Have Novato, or any learned person, take you through the equations, show you the inevitability of it all. It’s more than just what I believe, Dybo. It’s true. It’s demonstrably true.”

“It’s all so hard to grasp,” said the Emperor.

Afsan wondered again if he was right, if Dybo really was the slowest and dullest of the eight children of Lends. If that were so, would he be up to the task? Could Dybo lead his people in the direction they needed to go? Now, more than ever, the Quintaglios required a true guiding force, someone who could take them into the future.

“I have faith in you, friend Dybo,” Afsan said at last. “You’ll see, you’ll understand, and you’ll do what is necessary.”

The timbers creaked again: Dybo shifting his weight.