Prologue
For Getayu, it was the smell that gave them away. His sister and brother priests had cultivated their own methods, their own “senses” for detecting them. Some saw the subtle bending of light in their presence, how they blurred and distorted the faces of their followers. Others felt the uncanny stillness in the air or noticed how they warped the songs of birds in the area. But for Getayu, when one was nearby, its sunken, sallow stench was palpable enough to taste, lingering in his throat for days after an encounter.
These days, it seemed the odor pervaded the air more often than not.
Getayu continued his winding ascent up the sheer face of the sacred mesa. Like a giant’s hand clawing up out of the ground, the rock mesa that served as Getayu’s home rose high above the dunes below. The rickety wooden planks nailed into the cliff groaned as he stepped on them. The desert wind assailed him, threatening to send him plummeting. Despite having traversed the hallowed paths hundreds of times before, he’d never gotten used to the treacherous walkways around the mesa’s exterior.
A final climb up a rusted iron ladder led him to the flat summit, where his cerulean jacket gleamed in the sunlight. The crevices along the mesa’s top cackled with torchlight shining up from the monastery and villages in the mesa’s excavated interior. Getayu walked slowly, avoiding the pitfalls that spelled doom for careless acolytes and enfeebled superiors alike.
At the summit’s east side, he took his place among a flock of nesting albatrosses and sat in meditation. With every deep inhalation, he smelled the rotten god. The stench threatened to wrest him from his trance, but he held his ground. Like a tiger sniffing out its prey, he followed the creature’s scent, tracing it over the desert, past dozens of encampments to the city on the horizon. Sonanarth, the jewel of the golden goddess, where the harsh desert inexplicably yielded to verdant grassland. Cold sweat ran down his forehead. It was as he feared. Not only were they surfacing at an increasing rate, but their sites of influence were converging around the capital. Now, one had breached the surface, undetected within the holy city’s walls.
The Table of Nine hadn’t taken Getayu’s warnings seriously, but there was no denying it. In a few short years, he saw how the rotten gods had become bolder, stronger, coordinated. If the order couldn’t adapt … no, they had to adapt. The alternative was inconceivable.
There was no time to dwell on what he really wanted to say to his superiors. With righteous hatred rising in his heart, he took hold of a rope, leapt into a nearby crevice, and rappelled down. Landing on one of the monastery’s balconies, he ran inside to his quarters and took his traveling pack, then sprinted to the stables.
Riding atop his camel, Getayu emerged from the mesa and veered east across the desert sands.
Chapter One: The Invitation
Pyoshara Zanesh reached his classroom atop Jadugar Hall just as his teacher summoned a miniature sun overhead. “A new personal best,” he whispered to himself, realizing he’d only missed the opening prayers, and that the morning exercises were just starting. He couldn’t be more than thirty minutes late. It always amused him that his classmates all managed to show up on time. Perhaps it was fear that forced them to awaken at the crack of dawn and rush out the door without any food in their bellies. Fear of falling behind in their studies, of disappointing parents who’d toiled long and hard to send them here, of failing to obtain careers that matched their expectations.
They were all legitimate fears, and Pyoshara might’ve felt them too, were it possible for him to fail. But the temporary sting of embarrassment for turning up late to class every day was a small price to pay for the extra hours of sleep.
He stopped by the golden archway leading to his rooftop classroom and peered in. His eleven classmates sat in a circle around their teacher, Guru Sarhan, their eyes all closed in meditation. Pyoshara almost managed an inconspicuous entrance, but the jasmine incense assailed his nostrils, forcing him to sneeze loudly. Everyone flinched. The miniature sun began to plummet, but Sarhan quickly regained focus and caught it with his mind, elevating it to its original position several feet above them.
“Pyoshara,” Sarhan said, his voice oozing with exasperation, “how blessed we are to bask in your presence. We’ve been praying the dawn meditations in vain till now. With you here, Radiant Mother will surely hear us.” He opened one eye and looked Pyoshara up and down. “Ah, and you’ve decided to forgo the traditional white silks in favor of wrinkled brown trousers and a dhal-stained shirt. Please tell us, what else have we been doing wrong for the past century?”
The others scoffed as Pyoshara sat on the only remaining cushion. Dahven, to Pyoshara’s left, gritted his teeth, his oafish jaw too large for the rest of his face. To Pyoshara’s right, the vein on Vairiya’s temple bulged in anger. He had no problem admitting to himself that he was letting them down, day after day, for months now. First semester was coming to a close, and his negligence was holding everyone back and causing their grades to suffer.
The morning meditations were conducted in groups of thirteen, one teaching priest to lead and twelve students to follow. No more, no less. The formation supposedly made Aurya, the Radiant Mother, happy. The meditations were but one tool in a suite of prayers that ensured the sun would rise and set as expected, and that it would shine strongly enough to grow the harvest, but not so strong as to scorch the world. They were to be performed by all of Aurya’s priests across Sonan to maintain nature’s harmony.
Of course, Pyoshara knew better than to actually believe their prayers kept Kiru spinning on its axis. They were just tools the Marazhen priests wielded to justify their position over the other castes. How convenient that it could never be disproven and that even questioning the idea raised fears that fire would soon rain from the sky.
Pyoshara’s teachers took the rites very seriously, though. Were they impeccable actors, or did they believe in the delusion too? He was trying to trick himself into believing, only because his peers believed, and he was tired of them hating him.
“Let’s refocus,” Sarhan said. Arms resting on crossed legs, the teacher turned his palms upward. As he chanted, rhythmic waves of light coursed through his veins, from forearms to fingers. Fires danced on his fingertips, which he sent upward to the tiny, magic-created sun floating directly above him. The sun grew twice as large and the heat radiating from it twice as strong. “With every rising sun, Aurya tells us that she chooses to remain in our midst. Let us offer her praise in the words she taught us.”
Sarhan’s gentle gestures sent the flame behind him to float above Zafira, who caught it with her power. “Radiant Mother, who first bathed us in the light of reason,” she said, then pushed the flame across the circle to Yinna.
“Warm all Asodhra with your love and compassion.” Yinna sent the flame to Tejo on her right.
“Teach us to shine brighter with each passing day.”
The miniature sun danced about the circle, each priest-in-training receiving it, reciting the next verse, then passing it to a peer of their choosing.
“Protect us from evil.”
“Cast the darkness of ignorance from our hearts.”
“That we may grow into enlightened souls.”
“From the foundation of the cosmos to its dissolution.”
“Reign over us, never desert us.”
“Let the cycle endure forever.”
As the prayer carried on, the students played off one another’s energy, each sensing out who was eager to speak next, then directing the ball of flame with subtle force. Such a collegial, supportive dynamic among priests was highly pleasing to Aurya, the teachers asserted.
But none of Pyoshara’s peers selected him for the next passages. Even Guru Sarhan neglected to send the sun his way. Pyoshara stirred in his seat and raised his hands, sending energy into the circle to signal his readiness. But they continued to ignore him.
Sarhan apprehended the sun, drawing it into his cupped hands. With a snap of his fingers, it dissipated into sparks that flew about the room then fizzled into nothingness. “Excellent,” he said. “Great teamwork. I really sensed the link between all of you.”
Pyoshara waited as the other students picked up their book bags and put on their sandals by the archway. They congratulated one another on the rite’s success, each glowing with delight in their deepening friendships. Only once they left the classroom did he also gather his things. Other students filed out of their classrooms and meditation gardens into the walkway, and everyone ambled toward the courtyard. Pyoshara hung close to the right wall, clutching the banister as careless students nudged him, too embroiled in conversation to notice him. Staring out at the domed roofs of Sonanarth’s Marazhen neighborhoods, he yearned for the day he was gone from this place.
But what was waiting for him at the end? Did he have any reason to expect the next chapter would be any less boring and lonely than the current one?
Hundreds of students, all finishing their morning exercises, converged upon the rooftop courtyard from the maze of gilded walkways and classrooms. Pyoshara grabbed a plate and joined the line, eagerly awaiting breakfast. He was hungry. But he couldn’t imagine how famished everyone who actually obeyed the rules and kept the fast until after morning prayers must’ve felt. The three serving ladies dished out food onto his plate, first chickpea curry, then fried spinach and okra, and finally mushrooms. “Light upon you,” the third woman said with a smile. He ignored her.
Pyoshara’s face flushed as he made a beeline for an exit. There were no loners anymore except him. Friend groups sat down to eat on the open grass beneath the young oak trees or on the rocks by the pond. He couldn’t bear the awkwardness of eating alone among them.
He caught the lift at the hallway’s far end, and the operator pulled the ropes to bring him down to the eleventh floor. From there, he sneaked into the near-deserted library and found a secluded bench nestled between high bookshelves to sit on. After wolfing down his breakfast, he hailed another elevator, rode it to the ground, and left Jadugar Hall.
***
The biggest downside of the highest-tier residence plan was the distance between the lecture buildings and the apartments. Pyoshara had to walk an entire fifteen minutes across campus just to reach home. That left barely enough time to tend to his plants and freshen up before his next set of classes.
He ascended the steps to his private apartment, pushed the heavy mahogany door open, and hurried to the small inner courtyard. The crisp aroma of oleander and rose welcomed and calmed him, so much so that he finally felt the red flush of embarrassment leave his face. Two watering cans had been set out by his servant; he picked one up and gleefully walked the rows, hydrating his beloved flowers. The latticed wood ceiling kept the courtyard cool while still allowing sunlight to peer through its ornate carvings.
The clacking of heels against marble tile broke Pyoshara’s concentration. He swallowed the newly formed lump in his throat and looked up. Encircling him like a shark, a woman in a red-trimmed golden jacket walked around the courtyard. She smiled slyly, a single canine tooth protruding slightly past her lips. Pyoshara scoffed and returned to gardening.
“Is that how you greet your guests?” Requeva said.
“I don’t recall inviting you.”
“Smartass. No wonder you have no friends.”
“Why has Vashayatha ordered you to harass me this time?”
Requeva retrieved an envelope from her jacket pocket and handed it to Pyoshara. It was unsealed. “You’ve been lying to your father and me again,” she said, leaning on the banister between the apartment and courtyard. “You promised to bring up your grades, but they’ve slipped even further.”
Pyoshara unfolded the letter. It was from Sarhan and was addressed to his father, Vashayatha. “An unacceptably high degree of lateness and absenteeism,” Requeva said, as if reciting the letter from memory. “Zero participation in any extracurricular activities. Complete inability to form meaningful friendships with his fellow priests. Apathy toward our Radiant Mother. And worst of all, several students have come forward suggesting he has given himself over to … degenerate appetites, unbefitting a Marazhen priest.”
Pyoshara folded the letter and handed it back to Requeva, eager to return to his gardening. Instead, his father’s secretary snatched him by the wrist, pulled him close, and snarled. “Read it, boy. Just the last paragraph if the whole thing is too difficult for you.”
Failure on Pyoshara’s part to demonstrate immediate, substantial improvement in all areas of concern will leave me no choice but to recommend to the board that he take a remedial year. As repeat years are highly uncommon at this level of schooling, the board may decide to terminate his enrollment at the university altogether.
Pyoshara’s hands trembled as he struggled to tuck the letter back in the envelope. “I’m … facing expulsion?” he asked. Requeva nodded. “C-can’t Father do anything about it?”
Requeva furrowed her brow. “Oh? So, now that you’re in over your head and need Daddy to fix your problems, now you call him Father? There’s only so much he can do to secure your future. He’s a powerful man, but he’s no miracle worker. And you’ve done well to undermine his efforts at every step.” She sat on the banister, swung her legs around to enter the courtyard, and got right up in Pyoshara’s face. “If you fail this year, Vashayatha will have no choice but to cut you out of the family to protect his own name. His rivals will make a play for his office, saying he’s unfit to spiritually lead the nation, let alone his own family. Then you’ll see how easy you’ve had it all along.”
He couldn’t admit his own wrongdoing, not to Requeva. But at the same time, he could barely muster an argument to defend himself. “B-but I’m still passing my classes technically.”
Requeva groaned and rolled her eyes, then raised an open palm. Pyoshara flinched. For a moment, he was nine again, and Requeva was chasing him around the house for speaking out of turn, staying up too late, or not finishing his dinner. She was always at Vashayatha’s side, even back then, working late into the night at the house. Mother was off in her world most evenings, and Father wasn’t interested in disciplining him, but secretary Requeva was all too eager to.
“That’s beside the point now,” Requeva said. “Rumors swell about you, saying you don’t love Mother Aurya, or worse, don’t even believe in her. You show up to prayer late, not having bathed, wearing the wrong outfit, reciting the mantras incorrectly.”
What could he say? She was right.
“It gets worse,” she continued. “You don’t eat with the others. They say you’ve been … eating meat … drinking liquor … sometimes between classes just to get through the day.”
“What?” Pyoshara shuddered and stepped back. “I might be lazy, but I’m not a deviant. That’s why you were here while I was in class, isn’t it? Fine, go ahead and snoop through my cabinets all you like. You won’t find anything.”
“Enough,” Requeva said. “What did you think would happen, honestly? As the archpriest’s son, you knew you’d have a target on your back from day one. And you’ve done everything in your power to alienate yourself from your peers.
“If you plan on keeping the Zanesh name, you’ll drop the spoiled brat attitude and get your act together. Otherwise, look forward to spending your life in the slums, teaching slaves how to read.”
Defeated, Pyoshara hung his head and kept silent.
“Snake got your tongue?” Requeva laughed. “Or maybe you really are looking forward to the slum life.”
Pyoshara’s luck had run out. Even he knew Father’s influence had limits. “I’m sorry, you’re right,” he said finally. Swallowing his pride hurt, but he felt oddly relieved afterward. “How do I fix this?”
Now that he had humbled himself and was willing to play the obedient mentee, Requeva’s hateful scowl morphed into a sharp smile that betrayed only a sliver of malice. “Lucky for you, I’m already two steps ahead.” She reached into her jacket again and produced another envelope. Inside, there was a traditional palm scroll adorned with a calligraphic tree, surrounded by cryptic details about time, place, and what to wear.
“You want me to … go to a party?”
“No special occasion. Your classmates throw one almost every week. But I’m not surprised you’ve never heard about them till now.”
“Shouldn’t I be studying or something?”
“Later. It’s just as important you make friends. Show them you’re not some recluse. That should help clear up the rumors of you eating animal carcasses.”
“But if there’s a party every week, why are they inviting me now, after all this time?” Pyoshara asked. A wry smile crept across Requeva’s face. “You bribed them, didn’t you?”
“I can only open the door,” she said. “Now it’s your turn to walk through.”
Chapter Two: The Long Night
A lonely lantern dangled from the weeping tree whose leaves obscured the park’s entrance. The tree resembled a stooping hermit, his wizened arm barely able to keep the light aloft. Pyoshara furrowed his brow and skimmed the invitation Requeva had given him. He’d skipped his afternoon classes to decipher its riddles and uncover the party’s time, location, and theme.
