Dust-smeared work teams cleared the rubble at God’s Barricade. They dragged splintered timbers from the gate, used levers and ropes to load the debris into carts that were hauled away by weary-looking ponies. Grim volunteers, including Tierrans, retrieved the bodies of those killed in the explosion or slain by the long-range Alamont bows. Every worker wrapped a cloth around his nose and mouth as a meager defense against the increasing stench.
After much discussion and argument, followed by grudging acquiescence, the men did not separate the corpses into Aidenist or Urecari piles. One large funeral pyre would suffice for all the dead.
When the workers uncovered Kel Unwar’s body under the stone blocks, they called Soldan-Shah Omra. He tugged the end of his olba over his face and stood looking down at the corpse. Unwar had been a faithful servant who accomplished great things because his soldan-shah demanded it, and now it tore at Omra’s heart to think that the kel had died with the taste of failure on his lips. The last thing Unwar had seen was his wall crashing down and the enemy army surging into the holy city.
Omra stared down at the poor man, shaking his head. “I’m sorry, my friend. I am not disappointed in you. Your canal and this wall are worthy monuments that only history can measure. You proved that my people can indeed achieve anything.” He lowered his voice. “You give me hope that I can accomplish something even more difficult—keeping peace with the Aidenists. Now that I think about it, your job might have been easier than mine.”
The flames of the large funeral pyre rose high and bright as a signal to departing Ondun that both sides had agreed to do at least this one thing together. Fresh breezes blew the smoke and stench out to sea.
However, Omra did not consider the pyre appropriate for Kel Unwar. He stepped away and shouted an order to his uniformed men. “This was his wall. Bury him here and stack the stones high, so he will always be part of it.”
A soldier rushed up, his face ruddy and flushed. “Soldan-Shah, we found another body—you will want to see it.”
Omra had already seen enough bodies as he inspected the city, but something about the soldier’s expression made him decide to follow. Farther down the wall, he saw a dark-robed figure sprawled among the tumbled stone blocks, and he felt an instinctive chill of fear. “Is it…?”
The soldier moved the hood aside to reveal the polished but now dented silver mask that had struck terror into the hearts of so many ra’vir trainees. Omra knelt down.
The enigma of this frightening and mysterious man had filled his mind for two decades, ever since Unwar and the disguised stranger had approached him with the suggestion of turning impressionable Tierran children into saboteurs. Even Omra had never seen the Teacher’s face; he wasn’t sure he wanted to know. The silver mask was slightly askew on the corpse.
Not wishing the soldiers to notice his hesitation, Omra plucked off the silver mask and gazed into the dead face of a Uraban man with a cleft chin and a swollen lip; a mole stood out high on his left cheek, just below the eye. His shaggy hair needed to be cut.
Omra had no idea who he was.
He straightened. “Take away the mask and robe and destroy them, then add the body to the funeral pyre, just like any other soldier. The Teacher is no more. That is all we need to know.”
She entered the main church through the imposing open gates, passed into the worship chamber that had recently held representatives of all factions in the convocation where Ondun had imposed peace.
Alisi could not understand why He had not demanded retribution for the numerous crimes that had been committed upon Uraba. If Ondun was so powerful, if He watched over all humankind, why had He done nothing after she was kidnapped as a young girl, raped, and beaten?
When she fought the Aidenists, she had always known her place. When she unleashed her ra’virs to murder and destroy anything the Tierrans loved, she felt satisfied, confident that Ondun would approve. And now…
Alisi did not know how to be wrong, but she had given a promise to her brother as his life faded. She could think of only one thing to do.
She had carefully re-dressed the arrow wound in her chest, binding it so that it could heal. There were so many injured in Ishalem that her wounds would draw no attention. She posed as a middle-aged woman who had lost her husband—and Alisi was a widow, in the sense that everything she cared about had died. She needed something else.
So she entered the now-empty Urecari church. People would come back to the faith soon enough, searching for how to accept this new reality that redefined their beliefs. When she asked an acolyte if she could speak to Ur-Sikara Kuari, the willowy girl led her to the anteroom.
Alisi bowed for the leader of what remained of the church. “Ur-Sikara, thank you for seeing me. I have a request.”
Kuari studied her features and measured her up and down with an even gaze while Alisi averted her eyes out of respect. “All are welcome here in the church. How might I help you?”
“I am lost, and the path of Urec will guide me. I want to become a sikara.”
“It is no longer just the path of Urec.” Kuari pursed her lips. “Since so many priestesses left the church after Ondun came, I’d be happy to accept you among our recruits for the church of Ondun. But the Golden Fern is a spiral—are you so sure it will take you where you need to go?”
When Alisi straightened, the arrow wound gave her a jolt of pain, but she did not show the twinge. “I am completely convinced, Ur-Sikara. This is exactly what I need to do.”