Chapter 24

He had no idea of how he arrived, but Borner found himself in the rotunda of the Urutu Temple. The late afternoon sun still gleamed through the windows in the dome, creating dapples of light and shadow across the room. With his juntu staff in his hand he traced a circle around the altar as if he were searching for something. He was mildly interested by the stairs carved into the base of the stone monstrosity that allowed the priest to appear from behind and over the lip of the altar. He had only seen them from above and behind. He climbed and stepped onto the slightly curved surface. The body was gone. The human blood had dried up and was disguised amid the ashes and stains of previous sacrifices.

He had gone straight to the apartments just as he had said. In his present state of mind, Borner could handle one task with a single focus, ignoring any other thoughts in his head or all surroundings he passed. He told himself that he was doing well until he glanced in the dressing mirror that Andela used. He gaped at his face, and he knew why the Void had gone silent. It was staring back at him in the glass using his own eyes. He fled with his staff.

He stretched out his arms and bent his head backwards, seeking the rays of light in the late afternoon sun. “This is the entrance to death,” he declared to no one.

Standing straight again, he closed his eyes, trying to blot out the images of the prone priest pierced through his abdomen. Images of dead bodies in the temple, in the passageway and in the halls of the temple flitted through his memory. The soldier pinned to the door outside Salomet’s locked door imposed itself. Borner hung his head, knowing that he had added to the deaths in this walled city. He had called for these deaths in the belief that these sacrifices would be enough, and no more would follow. He had accepted a terrible calculus and hundreds of people had paid the cost. He never sought to find out who he had thumped on the head in the headlong rush to the throne room.

There was no god to offer him absolution, either.

He did not need the Void because he, Borner, Rememberer of Andamathea and last Master of Arimas, had embraced its mission. He had welcomed the pursuit of bloodthirsty madness, lightheartedly walking up the Avenue of the Gods. No god would punish him, but Borner saw no need for such a device. He could torture himself for his transgressions quite well without any outside intervention.

Tears dripped down his face. His arrogance galled him and his weakness for puffery when this fatuous royal provoked him made him want to retch. He was neither a thief nor a righteous man. He had joked that he was either an oracle or a charlatan, but he knew the truth now; even if he was an oracle, he was a naïve man playing a dangerous game with other people’s lives.

For what gain was he participating in these games? Andamathea and all her sister cities were gone. Their people were dead with none to remember them. Even their executioners were dead. He would never find consolation or satisfaction in revenge. The Mystery, the scrolls, the followers, the bystanders, and their slayers were all deceased, and, twenty years later, the only memory was one of wholesale slaughter on a new, greater scale. Did the butchery of hundreds justify the saving of tens of thousands more, many of whom could die of winter’s starvation in the next months? Borner saw no bright line of truth, only poor choices and meager wisdom.

Tonight, the queen would celebrate in a modest fashion that the recent events dictate must be somewhat somber. Her father’s reign was ruined by murder and her reign could only begin in the same manner. Why did Borner bloody his hands with their troubles? He had proven to himself that he could foment the death of hundreds but in the aftermath, he knew he could go further, making the Cormoran look like amateurs. He could destroy kingdoms and crowns, leaving the land fallow for the creatures of the wood. The madness of his life twisted his gut and had him bent over in pain, leaning on his staff.

Nivanir had the sword and shield, but Borner had a greater weapon: knowledge tied to a tongue. He could incite a murderous mob that no mortal could control. He could sweep away history, replacing the random swords with his own madness. Such weapons were not meant to exist.

If he did not destroy himself, then his life would be a long dreadful wait. He was one of the only people in the world who knew how he would die, with a burning in his bones that would not be assuaged. He would expire in agony. He could save the world and save himself at the same time if he threw himself off the cliff behind the temple, just out the back door and past the rickety tables.

He hardly finished his argument with himself when the burning in his bones began anew. He could not clench his hands, for his fingers were frozen in place. The first wave of scorching pain was enough to sear his fingernails. Borner brought his hands up to his eyes, letting his staff clang on the altar top. The fingers looked stiff and intact. Then his ribcage began to constrict as his flanks contracted in fiery distress. He fell to his knees.

Concentrating only on breathing, Borner waited to see if he were to die or to live. He was not sure which was more desirable, but the decision was not in doubt. He was not done. He had forgotten to do something and the covenant with Tzewerda-Arka was not complete. The pain lessened a bit.

The Bodi script lit his imagination. The flowing lines were glowing with power as the peculiar long loops of letters slid across pages of torn manuscripts. The letters winked in and out the closer he drew near.

“The journal,” he croaked. “Salomet must read the journal. We were wrong.”

Borner took a deep breath and followed up with another just to confirm that he could breathe without excruciating pain. The light was fading from the room and Borner relaxed his shoulders. Carefully he picked up his staff, using it to steady himself as he stood on wobbly legs. His lips felt cracked.

Wrapped in a caricature of a Master’s robes, the blue material was edged with black braiding, neither of which would show the dried leavings where he had been kneeling. He adjusted the philosopher’s cap and looked for the stairs in the darkening shadows.

He made his way to Andela’s side in the public throne room with only minutes to spare. There were daggers in her eyes that he returned with a shrug and a crooked little grin. The goddess of love was a stunning apparition of white silk that accentuated her womanly curves with the slightest gesture. Her painted lips were slightly parted, and the pink tip of her tongue would appear, making Borner gasp every time.

Every high priest of the pantheon laid a hand upon the crown and uttered a quick blessing, one by one. The ceremony stopped, which confused Borner until he felt a jab in the back. Someone may have mentioned his role in the coronation, but he had not been paying attention. He stepped forward and placed his hand upon the crown and muttered a few choice words that had little to do with grace or faith. He looked up at Salomet who was staring back at him with great intensity.

“Are you sure?” he whispered to her.

She shook her head from side to side slightly with tears in her eyes. Her jaw was clenched. Two servants picked up the pillow cradling the crown and brought it to her throne. She stood and allowed the High Priestess of Denarah to place the crown on her head. The room filled with cheers and shouts of acclamation. She waved to her court and gathered guests before she stepped down to the aisle. With recognizable grace she walked to the greeting hall where the wealthy merchants and professionals waited, and onward to the main doors of the palace where she presented herself to the people of Gemma. Thunderous applause echoed within the greeting hall of the palace.

Borner felt the cold autumnal winds sweep down the hall. They felt good against his aching body. Andela turned to him with a look he took to be warming up for a rebuke. He had abandoned her for all intents and purposes when he fled in the afternoon.

“We were wrong,” he said softly to Andela, avoiding any eavesdroppers. “I was stricken with another oracle for the queen when I left you. For the sake of the kingdom, she must hear it tonight. Do you still have the key to the red door?”

Andela nodded warily.

“If she does not hear it by sunrise, I will be inflicted with unbearable pain again. You must tell her she has to read the book.”

“You must translate for her,” Andela said with dismay. “Bodi script.”

Borner shuddered at the thought of digging into that blood drenched text again. He nodded and turned to find Derry, their only guide in those dark recesses. He had to make sure that the boy did not leave or disappear for other duties.

Somehow, he maintained his demeanor through courses of the feast and the speeches. He drank sparingly of the wine and the brandies that appeared every time he looked up. He tried dancing because it was better than sitting still and waiting for time to pass. No one said that prophets could dance as well as sing.