“But you are being cele—”
“I don’t want to hear it. They don’t know what it means. They should be mourning.” It might have been mostly Continentals who died, yes. It might have been Continentals who—confused, misled—freed their Continental god and asked it to attack us. But I was asked many times if we could help the Continent in any way before this catastrophe. I think it was already too late when I heard those pleas. But I was warned that this would happen, and I chose to listen to policy instead.”
“Noor is committed to helping the survivors, Chief Diplomat. Saypur will help Bulikov survive.”
“Survive,” says Shara, sinking down. “Survive and do what?”
Water fills her ears and washes over her face, yet among the sloshing and bubbles she imagines she hears the voice of Efrem Pangyui—one death among thousands, yes, but one she feels will plague her until her last days.
*
Three days later Shara tours the recovery efforts with General Noor’s executive committee. The armored car bustles and bangs over the broken roads of the city, not helping Shara’s headache, which has only faintly receded. She is forced to wear dark glasses, as the sight of sunlight still pains her—doctors have informed her that this damage may be permanent. She finds this somehow quite easy to accept: I have looked upon things not meant to be seen, and I have not escaped unscathed.
“I assure you, this is not necessary,” says General Noor, bristling with disapproval. “We have matters well in hand. And you should be in recovery, Chief Diplomat Komayd.”
“It is my duty as chief diplomat of Bulikov,” she says, “to concern myself with the welfare of my assigned city. I will go where I wish. And I have some personal matters to attend to.”
What she sees wounds her heart: parents and children covered in bandages, field clinics packed to bursting with patients, shanty houses, rows and rows of wooden coffins, some of them very small. …
If I had discovered Volka sooner, thinks Shara, this might have never happened.
“It’s like the Blink,” she says. “It’s like how things were after the Blink.”
“We did tell you,” says Noor quietly at one field tent, “that you would not like what you saw.”
“I knew I would not like what I saw,” says Shara. “But it is my responsibility to see it.”
“It is not all gloom. We have had some local help,” Noor gestures to a section of a field clinic staffed by bald, barefoot Continentals in pale orange robes. “These people have swarmed our offices, and more or less taken over in some cases. They are an invaluable gift, I must say. They relieve us as we await more aid from Ghaladesh.”
One of the Olvoshtani monks—a short, thickset woman—turns to Shara and bows deeply.
Shara bows back. She finds that she is weeping.
“Chief Diplomat,” says Noor, startled. “Are you … ? Would you like us to take you back?”
“No, no,” says Shara. “No, it’s quite all right.” She walks to the Olvoshtani monk, bows again, and says, “Thank you so much for all you do.”
“It is nothing,” says the monk. She smiles kindly. Her eyes are wide and strangely red-brown, the color of an ember. “Please don’t weep. Why do you weep so?”
“I just … It is so good of you come unasked-for.”
“But we were asked,” says the monk. “Suffering asks for us. We have to come. Please, don’t cry so.” She takes Shara’s hand.
Something dry and square brushes up against Shara’s palm: A note?
“Thank you anyway,” says Shara. “Thank you so much.”
The monk bows again, and Shara rejoins Noor’s staff in her tour. When she is alone, she quickly reaches into her pocket and takes out the note the monk gave her:
I KNOW A FRIEND OF EFREM PANGYUI.
MEET ME OUTSIDE THE GOVERNOR’S QUARTERS’ GATES TONIGHT AT 9:00, AND I WILL TAKE YOU TO THEM.
Shara walks to a fire burning in a campsite and sets the note alight.
*
The air in the countryside outside of Bulikov is cold, but it is not as cold as it was. Shara watches as her breath makes only a small cloud of frost, and she realizes spring is coming. The seasons ignore even the death of a Divinity.
The hills beyond the walls of the governor’s quarters are given soft shape by the stars above. The moon is a white smudge behind the clouds; the road, a bone-colored ribbon.
There is a footfall from the darkness. Shara looks up and confirms no guards are posted. “Are you there?” she asks.
An answering whisper: “This way.” At the edge of the forest, a gleam of candlelight flickers and is quickly hidden.
Shara walks toward where she saw the candlelight. Someone throws back a hood, revealing the sheen of a bald pate. As she nears she can make out the face of the female monk from the clinic.
“Who are you?” asks Shara.
“A friend,” the monk says. She gestures to Shara to come closer. “Thank you for coming. Are you alone?”