Earthborn (Homecoming) (40 page)

“I’ll tell Father what you said.”

“Good.”

“But I’ll also wager you right now, any stakes you say, that within a year you yourself will be the direct cause of more persecution of the Kept.”

“You never knew me, if you think that’s even possible.”

“Oh, you’ll have a lot of high-sounding reasons why people’s suffering isn’t
your
doing, because you’ve already proven your ability to deceive yourself without limit. But within a year, Akma, families will be weeping because of you.”

“My family, probably, since they mourn for me as if I were dead,” said Akma. He laughed, as if this were a joke.

“They aren’t the only ones,” said Edhadeya.

“I’m not dead,” said Akma. “I have compassion, regardless of what you choose to believe about me. I remember my own suffering, I remember the suffering of others. I also remember that I loved you.”

“I wish you’d forget it,” said Edhadeya. “If it was ever true, you spoiled it long ago.”

“I still do,” he said. “I love you as much as I can love anyone. I think of you all the time, of the joy it would bring me if just once I could have you stand by
my side the way Mother stands beside Father in all he does.”

“She can do that, because what he does is good.”

Akma nodded. “I know. Just don’t pretend it’s because of
my
beliefs that we aren’t together. You’re as stubborn as I am.”

“No, Akma,” she said. “I’m not stubborn. I’m just honest. I can’t deny what I know.”

“But you can
hide
what you know,” said Akma, with a bitter smile.

“What does
that
mean?”

“In this whole conversation, you never bothered to mention to me that my sister is going to marry the most loathsome human being I ever knew.”

“I assumed that your family had told you.”

“I had to hear about it from Khimin.”

“I’m sorry. That was Luet’s choice. I’m sure. Perhaps she wanted not to cause you pain.”

“She’s dead to me now,” said Akma. “She has given herself to the torturers and rejected me. As far as I’m concerned, you’re doing the same.”

“It’s
you
that have given yourself to the torturers, Akma, and rejected
me.
Didul is no torturer. He is the man you should have been. What Luet loves in him is what she used to love in you. But it isn’t there anymore.”

Graciously, he allowed her the last word, staring off into space as she left the room.

A few minutes later, Bego and Mon heard terrible noises of crashing and breaking and rushed into the library, where they found Akma smashing stools against the table, splintering them. He was weeping, wordlessly sobbing, and they watched in horror as he roared like an animal and shattered every stick of small furniture in the room.

Mon noticed, though, that before his tirade began, he had carefully placed on a shelf all the barks he had been working on. Akma might have given himself over to rage, but he hadn’t forgotten himself so completely as to waste the day’s study.

Later, Akma offered a short and surly explanation. His sister was marrying one of the torturers. He wouldn’t utter the name, but Mon knew that Luet had been in Bodika for the past few weeks and it wasn’t hard to guess. Didul meant nothing to Mon. What hit him, hard, was the news that Luet was marrying at all. He had thought . . . he had meant to . . . when all this was over. When things were settled. When he wasn’t ashamed to face her anymore. That was it, he realized now. That’s why he was waiting. Because he couldn’t talk to her, couldn’t tell her how he felt, not when he had denied his truthsense. Not when every word he uttered was tainted by lies.

Not lies. They aren’t
lies;
the things Akma and I believe are true. This feeling I have is an illusion, I know it is. I just couldn’t bring myself to face Luet when I still had this feeling that I was a fraud. I just needed more time, more strength. More courage.

Now it doesn’t matter. Now my conscience can be clear as I attack Akmaro’s religion. When Father decrees that all religions are equal, that all assemblies have the protection of law, then we will go out in the open and everything will be clear. It’s good that I don’t have any bonds of affection to complicate matters. It’s good that I go into this side by side with my brothers, with my friend, not dragged down by a woman who can’t rise above that inner voice she has been trained to think of as the Keeper of Earth. Luet would have been wrong for me. I would have been wrong for her.

I would have been wrong for her. It was when that thought crossed his mind that finally the truthsense within him gave him a sense of calm. He was right, finally, in the eyes of the Keeper.

This was the most devastating realization of all: If the Keeper turned out to exist after all, he had judged Mon and found him unworthy to have the love of the woman he once wanted. But Mon couldn’t escape the nagging doubt that if he hadn’t been caught up in these plans of Akma’s, things might have worked out
differently. Would it have been so terrible to keep believing in the Keeper and to have Luet as my wife and live on in peace? Why couldn’t Akma just leave me alone?

He drove these disloyal thoughts out of his mind, and said nothing of his feelings to anyone.

Akma looked for Bego all morning, but couldn’t find him. He needed Bego’s advice; the king had summoned him, and Akma had no idea what he might face. If he were to be charged with a crime, would Motiak call him into his private chamber like this? Akma needed counsel, and the only ones who could give it knew less than he did. Well, Aronha actually knew more about the running of the kingdom—knew more than anybody, since he had been training his whole life for it. But all Aronha could tell him was that he didn’t think Akma was in any danger. “Father isn’t the kind to bring you into chambers to charge you with a crime. He does things like that in the open, using normal process. It’s got to be about the decree you suggested to Edhadeya last night.”

“I didn’t need you to tell me
that,”
said Akma. “I hoped I wouldn’t have to go in cold and deal with something.”

“Oh, just admit it that you’re scared,” said Khimin. “You know you’ve been bad, and the king has got to
be angry enough to tear you to bits if he weren’t such a kind benevolent despot.” In recent weeks, Khimin had discovered in the ancient records that the city of Basilica had been governed by an elected council, and now he was constantly suggesting that the monarchy be abolished. No one paid any attention to him.

“Nothing is going to stop us from speaking tonight, is it?” asked Ominer. Since he had been trying to get them to go public for the past several months, during the worst of the persecution when it would have looked truly terrible to come out against the Kept, it was only natural that Ominer would now be worried that once again Akma might be talked into delaying.

“You’ll be able to give your speech,” said Akma. “As it’s written, remember. Nobody is to start making things up on the wing.” Ominer rolled his eyes.

Akma turned to Mon.
“You’ve
been quiet.”

Mon looked up, startled out of his reverie. “Just thinking. We’ve been a long time waiting. Now we’re going ahead. That’s fine. It’s a relief, don’t you think?”

“What about my interview with your father today?” asked Akma.

“You’ll do fine,” said Mon. “You always do. They’ll try to talk you out of this. You’ll be polite and decline to change your mind. Simple. I’m only disappointed they didn’t invite us along to watch.” He smiled.

Akma heard Mon’s speech. There was nothing obviously wrong with anything he said. But something still bothered him. There was something wrong with Mon himself. Had he become unreliable? What if tonight Mon got up and stated that he was standing with his father? A division among the sons of Motiak would destroy everything—everyone would assume that the loyal son would become the heir and that Akmaro’s reforms would be permanent. That the Kept would always have the inside track in the government. Therefore it would be good business to be one of the Kept, and Akmaro’s religion would remain dominant. Akma had no illusions—the doctrine he was going to be
teaching, starting tonight, was not the sort of ideology that would stir souls; no one would die for this religion. It would only attract converts by promising a return to old tradition and by seeming to be the religion of the future—specifically, when Aronha became king. They were sure to become the dominant religion almost immediately, as far as sheer numbers were concerned. More important, the leadership of the new assembly would be the core of the future government. Akma could see to it that once Aronha became king, the only advice he would hear would be to carry war to the Elemaki. No more defensive posture—the Elemaki would be routed out of their hiding places in the high mountains. The land of Nafai would be redeemed in digger blood, and the place where Akma had been in bondage would now be a place where digger slaves toiled under the Nafari lash. Then Akma’s triumph would be complete. His father’s weakness in the face of persecution would be redeemed by Akma’s courage.

It begins today. And Mon will stand with us. He’s a true friend. Maybe he’s so morose because he still harbored some hope of ending up with Luet. Well, that was the one good thing about Luet’s decision to marry. It would free Mon to concentrate on the work at hand. More than any of the others, Mon had the skill to speak with as much fire and charm as Akma. More, really, because Akma knew he sounded like a scholar; Mon had the common touch, a boyish style of speech, a kind of energy that would speak to people at a deeper level than anything Akma could manage. Not that Akma didn’t expect to do well. Despite his weaknesses as a speaker, he knew that people pretty much ended up in his bag by the end of a talk. He would look people in the eye as he was speaking and it felt almost as if a cord tied them together, and he had only to draw it in and he would own the person he spoke to, at least for the hour, for the night.

Almost like the powers of a raveler, as the ancient records described them. Only ravelers were always
women, and besides, all that raveler business was superstition. The cords Akma imagined were only a metaphor, an unconscious visualization of his skill at establishing rapport with strangers.

It wouldn’t work on the king, though. Akma knew that from experience. Whatever skill he had at influencing people only worked on those who were at least marginally receptive. Motiak never gave Akma the opportunity to work on him.

“Are you going to sit there moping all morning?” asked Ominer. “Father’s waiting for you now—you’re late.”

“Yes,” said Akma. “I was just thinking. Try it sometime, Ominer. It’s almost as fun as swallowing air so you can belch. Something that I hope you won’t be doing tonight.”

“Give me some credit,” said Ominer disgustedly.

Akma slapped him on the shoulder to show that he was teasing and they were still friends. Then he left, striding boldly through the rooms that separated the library from the king’s private chamber.

He was the last to arrive; he had rather hoped to be. Motiak was there, of course, and, as Akma had expected, so were Father and Mother. Not Edhadeya, gratefully; but . . . Bego? Why was Bego there, with his otherself, bGo, sitting behind him and looking miserable? And this old man? Who was he?

“You know everyone,” Motiak said. “Except perhaps Khideo. He knew you when you were a baby, but I don’t think you’ve seen each other since then. Khideo used to be governor of the land that bears his name.”

Akma saluted him and, at a wave from the king, sat down at the table. He kept his eyes on Motiak, though of course he couldn’t help but wonder why Khideo was there. And Bego. Why were Bego and his brother there? Why had Bego avoided his gaze?

“Akma, you spend most of your time in my house, but I never see you,” said Motiak.

“I’m a scholar,” said Akma. “I’m grateful that you’ve given me such free access to your library.”

“It’s a shame that with all your study, you’ve come out knowing less than you did when you began.” Motiak smiled sadly.

“Yes,” said Akma. “It seems that the more I learn, the less I know. While the ignorant remain absolutely certain of their convictions.”

Motiak’s smile faded. “I thought you’d want to know that I’m issuing the decree that you suggested to Edhadeya. It seems to be a solution to the immediate problem. As you suggested.”

“I’m grateful that I could be of service,” said Akma. “I was . . . very unhappy with the way things were going.”

“I can imagine,” said Motiak. “Sometimes the things we set in motion don’t work out as we planned. Do they, Akma?”

Akma recognized that the king was digging at him again, blaming him for the persecutions. He wasn’t going to sit still for it. “I learned that lesson already, several times over,” said Akma. “For instance, your religious reform of thirteen years ago hasn’t had the effect you planned. Tragic, seeing now where it has led.”

Motiak smiled again, only this time he was showing more of his real feelings: The smile was feral, the eyes dancing with rage. “I want you to know, Akma, that I’m not such a fool as you must think. I know what you’ve been doing, how you’ve been maneuvering around me. I watched as you won over my sons, and I did nothing, because I trusted them to have some sense. You bested me there—I overestimated them.”

“I think not, sir,” said Akma. “I think you underestimated them.”

“I know what you think, Akma, and don’t interrupt and contradict me again. Even though your entire strategy is based on the fact that someday I will die and someone will be king after me, please remember that I’m not dead yet and I
am
the king.”

Akma nodded. He had to be careful. Let the king play out his little drama. Tonight Akma would have the last word.

“Your father and mother and I talked over the terrible things you went through as a child, and tried to figure out why the experience turned everyone else toward the Keeper of Earth, and turned you away. Your father was very apologetic, of course. He kept expressing his regret that his mistakes as a father should be causing innocent people to suffer.”