City of Stairs (The Divine Cities, #1)(148)

“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?”

“I am.”

“Good. I will take you the rest of the way. Please, follow me closely. Very few have taken this road; it can be somewhat dangerous.”

“Who are you taking me to?”

“To another friend. There are still many questions you have—I could see it in you. I know someone who might be able to answer some of them.” She turns and leads Shara into the forest.

Spokes of moonlight slide over the monk’s shoulders as they walk. “Can you tell me anything more?”

“I could tell you much more,” says the monk. “But it would do you no good.”

Shara, irritated, contents herself to follow.

The road bends and winds and turns. She questions the wisdom of meeting outside the governor’s quarters; then she notes that she never noticed the forest here was quite so large. …

The terrain slopes up. Shara and the monk make a careful passage across rocky trenches, white stone creek beds, through copses of pines.

Shara thinks, When did they plant pines out here?

Her labored breath creates huge clouds of frost. They crest a stony hill, and she looks out on a snow-laden, ivory landscape. But I thought it was getting warmer. … “What is this place?”

The monk gestures forward without looking back. Her bare feet make tiny tracks in the snow.

They tread down over the frozen hills, across a frozen river. The world is alabaster, colorless, curls and slashes of moonlight and ice on a background of black. But ahead, a bright red fire flickers in a copse of pine trees.

I know this, Shara thinks. I’ve read about this.

They enter the copse of trees. Logs are laid by the bonfire to serve as seats, and a stone shelf leans against the trunk of a tree, bearing small stone cups and a crude tin kettle. Shara expects someone to greet them, perhaps stepping out from behind a tree, but there is no one.

“Where are they?” asks Shara. “Where is the friend you brought me to meet?”

The monk walks to the stone shelf and pours two cups.

“Are they not here yet?” asks Shara.

“They are here,” says the monk. She takes off her robe. Her back is naked: below her robe she wears nothing but a skirt of furs.

She turns and hands Shara one of the cups: it is warm, as if it has been sitting on an open flame. But it was only ever held in her hand, thinks Shara.

“Drink,” says the monk. “Warm yourself.”

Shara does not. She stares at the woman suspiciously.

“Do you not trust me?” asks the monk.

“I don’t know you.”

The monk smiles. “Are you so sure?” The firelight catches her eyes, which glint like bright orange jewels. Even when she steps away from the fire, her face appears lit by a warm, fluttering light.

A light in the dark.

No, thinks Shara. No. No, it can’t be.

“Olvos?” she whispers.

“Such a wise girl,” the monk says, and sits.

*

“How … ?” says Shara. “How … ?”

“You still have not drunk,” says Olvos. “You should try it. It’s good.”

Shara, mystified, drinks from the stone cup and finds the Divinity is correct: the concoction is warm and spicy and feels like it puts a small, soft ember in her belly. Then she realizes it’s familiar: “Wait. … Is this tea?”