City of Stairs (The Divine Cities, #1)(130)

Volka grins. “It is so strange to hear a creature like you say such things! It’s like seeing a bird talk.”

“Are you suggesting,” Shara asks, “that by torturing us, you will better us?”

“I will not torture you. At least, not any more than I’ve had done to my little brother here. But it would better you, yes. You would know shame. It would remove that prideful gleam from your eye. Do you even know what you speak of?”

“I am willing to bet you think Kolkan is alive,” says Shara.

Volka’s smile is completely gone now.

“Where have you been, Mr. Votrov?” she asks. “How did you survive? I was told you died.”

“Oh, but I did die, little ash girl,” says Volka. “I died upon a mountain, far to the north. And was reborn anew.”

He turns his hand over: the inside of his palm flickers with candlelight, though Shara can see no flame. “The old miracles still live, in me.” He clutches the invisible flame, and the light dies. “It was a trial of spirit. Yet that is why we went to the monastery of Kovashta in the first place: to try ourselves. Everyone else died during our pilgrimage. All the men, much older than me. More experienced. Stronger. They starved to death or froze to death or fell ill and perished. Only I trudged on. Only I was worthy. Only I fought through the wind and the snow and the teeth of the mountains to find that place, Kovashta, the last monastery, the forgotten dwelling place of our Father Kolkan, where he dreamt up his holy edicts and set the world to rights. I spent almost three decades of my life there, alone in those walls, living off of scraps, drinking melting snow … and reading. I learned many things.” He reaches out with his index finger and touches something: it is as if there’s a pane of glass in the doorway, and he runs his finger down its middle, the tip of his index white and flat, pressed against an invisible barrier. “The Butterfly’s Bell. One of Kolkan’s oldest miracles. It was originally used to force people to confess their sins—air, you see, cannot get in or out, and only on the brink of death are we ever really truthful. … But don’t be concerned. That is not your fate.” He looks at Shara. “You failed, do you know? You and your people.”

Shara is silent.

“Do you know?”

“No,” says Shara. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Of course you wouldn’t. Primitive thing … Because there, you see, I found him.” He reaches into his wrap and holds out a charm around his neck: the scale of Kolkan. “I meditated for years, hearing nothing. And finally, one day, I decided to meditate until I died, until I heard his whispering, for death was better than that bitter silence. … I almost starved to death. Maybe I did starve to death. But then I heard him, whispering in Bulikov. I heard Father Kolkan! He had never died! He had never been gone from this world! He had never been … been touched by your Kaj!” This last word is a savage growl: Shara glimpses yellow-and-brown teeth. “I had a vision: there was a whole part of Bulikov—the true Bulikov, the Divine City—that was free of your influence! Hidden from you, from everyone! And that was when I knew there was still hope for my people. There was light amidst the storm, salvation waiting for the holy and the dutiful. I could return, and free us all from captivity. It was just a matter of getting to him, of finding him, and freeing him. … Our father. Our lost father.”

“Just like old times,” says Vohannes. “Running to Daddy …”

Volka’s beatific joy vanishes. “Shut up!” he snarls. “Shut up! Shut your filthy traitor mouth!”

Vohannes is silent.

Volka watches him, trembling. “Your … Your tainted mouth! What has your mouth touched, you filthy whelp? What flesh has it touched? Women’s? Men’s? Children’s?”

Vohannes rolls his eyes. “How distasteful.”

“You knew you were malformed,” says Volka. “You always were, little Vo. There was always something wrong with you—a strain of imperfection that should have been weeded out.”

Vohannes, disinterested, sniffs and wipes his nose.

“Have you no excuse for yourself?”

“I was not aware,” says Vohannes, “that I needed any.”

“Father agreed with me. Did you know that? He once told me he wished you and Mother had died in your birth! He said it would have unburdened him of a weak-hearted wife and a weakling son.”

Vohannes swallows impassively. “This revelation,” he says, “does not surprise me in the least. Such a tender man, Daddy was.”

“You slight our father’s name just to make me hate you more, as if that could be possible.”

“I shit,” snaps Vohannes, “upon Father’s name, upon the Votrov name, and upon Kolkan’s name! And I am glad the Kaj never killed Kolkan, for now when the Saypuris slaughter him like all the other gods, I shall have a chance to climb up on his chin and shit inside his mouth!”

Volka stares at him, briefly taken aback. “You will not get that chance,” he whispers. “I will keep you alive, you and her, so Kolkan himself can come and judge you both, and lay down his edicts. You don’t even know, do you? He has been here, in Bulikov, tallying the sins of this place. He has been watching you. He has been waiting. He knows what you have done. I will raise the Seat of the World from its tomb. And when he emerges, you will know pain, little brother.”