City of Stairs (The Divine Cities, #1)(65)
“I didn’t know they fought,” says Mulaghesh. “I thought they were allies.”
Shara’s knife makes a seam on the onion’s skin; she plucks at it, peels it back, and tosses the glossy outer layer away. “They were, eventually. But at first they fought like mad, for territory, followers, anything. But sometime in the early 700s they chose to stop fighting, and unite. Shortly after, they chose to expand. Rapidly expand. This would be the beginning of the Continental Golden Age, and the beginning of Saypur’s slavery to the Continent. Of which we know much, of course, though we would prefer otherwise.” She pulls out a cutting board, tests its flex, and slaps it on the counter. “But imagine the Continent like a pie—for it is roughly circular—with six pieces cut. And there, at the center, the spoke of the wheel …”
“Bulikov,” says Sigrud. The word is a wad of smoke from his lips.
“Yes,” says Shara. She splits the onion, slaps one half down on the cutting board, and grips it hard enough that its tiny veins bleed white. The knife makes a staccato clattering; there is a wave of white blocks, and the onion appears to disintegrate. “The Seat of the World. No one’s city, and everyone’s city, established when they chose to unite. After all, each Divinity had their own city. Kolkashtan for Kolkan, Taalvashtan for Taalhavras, Ahanashtan for Ahanas, Jukoshtan for Jukov, and Voortyashtan for Voortya. So Bulikov was meant to belong to everyone.”
“But you only listed five,” says Pitry from behind a small mountain of celery.
“That’s true. Olvos did have a city, once. But she abandoned the Continent just after the Divinities opted to unite. And when she left, her followers deserted her city. They left it to be claimed, one historian recorded, by ash and dust. No one even knows where it was.”
“Why did she leave?” asks Mulaghesh.
“No one quite knows. Maybe she just wasn’t a sociable Divinity. Maybe she disagreed with something. Maybe she did not wish to take part in the Great Expansion, when the Continent would conquer almost all the known world. Whatever the reason, she has faded from history: the last time anyone saw or spoke to Olvos was in 775.”
“Wait, wait,” says Mulaghesh. “So everyone’s known for all these years that one of the Divinities might still exist? I thought the Kaj killed all of them!”
“Yes, but which ones have you been told he killed, specifically? In specific instances?” Shara counts off on her fingers: “Voortya he killed in Saypur, in the Night of the Red Sands. Taalhavras and Ahanas he killed when his army first landed on the Continent’s shore. And Jukov he killed in Bulikov just after capturing it. When, exactly, have you been told the definitive account of the assassination of Olvos? Or Kolkan, for that matter.”
“But … But everyone agrees history grew murky after the Kaj invaded,” says Mulaghesh. “No one’s entirely sure what happened. He could have killed Olvos or, or Kolkan then, right?”
“Somewhat true. We only know what the scraps of history tell us. We know the Kaj used his weapon on the Divinities—whatever it was—and they vanished. But that does not necessarily mean they are gone from the present altogether. Some miracles still work. The Divine have not completely left the Continent, despite our efforts and wishes. Our texts are even inaccurate about how the Kaj killed the ones we know he killed—Jukov, for example, he killed three years after capturing Bulikov, something that is never mentioned in conventional texts.”
“I didn’t know that,” says Pitry. “I thought Jukov was executed in the Great Purge. That’s what they taught us in school.”
“That is because Jukov’s evasion is not a popular subject,” says Shara. “It makes the Kaj look weak. Jukov didn’t attack or confront the Kaj’s forces—he only hid from them. Yet the Kaj moved on, or perhaps he knew that sometimes you must defeat your enemy’s spirit before you can defeat their body. Which was why he started the Purge.”
Shara crushes garlic with her knife, dices it, and tosses it in with the onions. “The Great Purge was not the righteous act that’s often depicted in Saypuri history books. The Kaj did not use his weaponry to bloodlessly eliminate all the Divine creatures of the Continent at once. Nor did he drive them back into heaven, or into the seas.”
“Then what?” says Pitry.
“They were dragged from their homes, into the streets,” says Shara. She turns the knife over in her hands. The handle is slick and oily. “They were corralled and driven like animals, and slaughtered much in the same way. Unlike their creators, minor Divine creatures may be killed via conventional means.” Sigrud grins nastily, relishing some vicious, treasured memory. “Bulikov, for example, is host to several mass graves,” continues Shara. “Who knows what sort of bones we would find if we dug them up? The delicate wings of a gityr, Ahanas’s winged ponies? The finger bones of a hovtarik, the twenty-fingered harpist from the courts of Taalhavras? The marred bones of a mhovost, the knuckle-men, Jukov’s pet horror? Presuming, of course, that the Kaj and his army did not destroy them beyond recognition … which, quite frankly, I think is probably the case. Perhaps they felt justified. Had not every Saypuri lived their lives under the boot heel of these creatures? Were they not dangerous monsters? But one soldier wrote of screams of pain coming from the fires, and how some of these creatures had the appearance and demeanor of children, and begged for mercy. Of which they received none.”