“YOU HAVE LAIN WITH ONE ANOTHER IN JOY.”
A street sweeper, still holding his broom, slowly turns to look up into the sky.
“YOU HAVE BUILT FLOORS OF WHITE STONE.”
The elderly men at the Ghoshtok-Solda Dinner Club stare at one another, then at the bottles of wine and whisky.
“YOU HAVE EATEN BRIGHT FRUITS,” says the voice, “AND ALLOWED THEIR SEEDS TO ROT IN DITCHES.”
In a barbershop beside the Solda, the barber, stunned, has removed most of an old man’s mustache; the old man, just as stunned, has yet to realize.
“AND YOU HAVE WALKED IN THE DAY,” says the voice, “WITH YOUR FLESH EXPOSED. YOU LIVE WITH FLESH OF OTHER FLESH. YOU HAVE LOOKED UPON THE SECRETS OF YOUR FLESH, AND KNOWN THEM, AND FOR THIS I WEEP FOR YOU.”
In the House of Seven Sisters infirmary, Captain Nesrhev, still bound up in many bandages, sets his pipe aside and calls to the nurses: “What the fuck is going on?”
“YOU HAVE FORGOTTEN THE WAY YOU SHOULD BE,” says the voice.
A pause.
“I WILL RESTORE YOU.”
Ochre sunlight washes over Bulikov. The citizens shield their eyes, look away from windows. …
And when they look back they see the view has changed: it is as if all the city blocks have been rearranged, shoved out of the way to make room for …
An old woman at the corner of Saint Ghoshtok and Saint Gyieli falls to her knees in awe and says, “By the gods … By the gods.”
… splendid, beautiful white skyscrapers, lined and tipped with gold. They look like giant white herons wading among the low, gray swamp of modern Bulikov.
“YOU HAVE FORGOTTEN ALL I TAUGHT YOU,” says the voice. “I HAVE RETURNED TO REMIND YOU. YOU WILL BE SCOURGED OF SIN. YOU WILL BE PURIFIED OF TEMPTATION.”
A wind stirs along Saint Vasily Lane. As if in a dream, dozens of pedestrians suddenly walk to the center of the street, stand together shoulder to shoulder, and face the north. They are mothers, fathers, sons, and daughters; none respond to plaintive cries from friends and family asking what’s wrong.
The wind increases. Citizens of Bulikov are forced to raise their hands and turn their faces away. There is a clinking and clanking, as if the wind has somehow blown thousands of metal plates down the street. When the people lower their hands and look back, they are shocked by what they see:
In place of the pedestrians, five hundred armored soldiers now stand in the streets. The armor they wear is huge and thick and gleaming, protecting every inch of their bodies: it is so thick they might not even be soldiers, but animated suits of armor. Their helmets depict the glinting visages of shrieking demons; their swords are immense, nearly six feet in length, and flicker with a cold fire.
Only Shara Komayd, who glances at the soldiers as she sprints to the embassy, recognizes them from somewhere: had she not asked Sigrud to tear that painting off of CD Troonyi’s wall mere weeks ago?
Kolkan’s voice says, “YOU WILL KNOW PAIN, AND THROUGH IT YOU WILL KNOW RIGHTEOUSNESS.”
The soldiers turn to the people on the sidewalk and raise their swords.
*
Mulaghesh sees Shara running toward the fortifications and bellows to her, “What in hells is that voice talking about?”
“It’s Kolkan!” Shara says, panting.
“The god?”
“Yes! He’s talking about his edicts!”
“White stone floors? Eating bright fruits?”
Soldiers help Shara scramble over the fortifications. “Those are his edicts, yes!”
“And where the hells did these white buildings come from?”
“It’s Old Bulikov,” says Shara. “Parts of Bulikov as it was. He must have pulled it all back in and tossed the buildings in with the normal Bulikov!”
“I have …” Mulaghesh searches for words. “I have no fucking idea what you are talking about! Forget all that—what’s he going to do now? What do we do now?”
The sound of tinny screams echoes through the streets. Mulaghesh shades her eyes to look. “There are people running toward us,” she says. “What’s going on?”
“Have you ever seen the painting The Night of the Red Sands? By Rishna?”
“Yeah?”
“Remember the Continental army the Kaj faces in that painting?”
“Yeah, I—” Mulaghesh lowers her hand from her eyes, and turns to stare at Shara in horror.
“Yes,” says Shara. “It seems Rishna was quite accurate in her depiction.”
“How … ? How many?”
“Hundreds,” says Shara. “And Kolkan can make more if he chooses. He is a Divinity, after all. But I may have a weapon he doesn’t know about.”
Shara races upstairs to her office with Mulaghesh. She opens a drawer in her desk and takes out the piece of black lead she had reworked into the point of a bolt. “This,” she says softly.