City of Stairs (The Divine Cities, #1)(66)
Mulaghesh is silent; her cigarillo’s smoke has dwindled to a slow bleed. Sigrud runs his finger along the blade of his black knife.
Shara checks the rice, which has been soaking in chicken broth, and the sauce, which is dark and creamy. This she sniffs, and adds a touch of garlic. “When the Purge came to an end, Jukov finally emerged. He had been hiding, it is said, in a pane of glass in a window—exactly what this means, I can’t say. Again, I only know what history tells us. Jukov sent word to the Kaj directly, asking him to meet. Alone. To the surprise of his lieutenants, the Kaj agreed. But perhaps the Kaj had some foresight, for when he met the last Divinity, it is recorded he saw that Jukov was no threat: the Divinity was weeping uncontrollably, distraught over the death and mayhem that had been wreaked upon the Continent.”
“He should have come to Saypur, then,” says Mulaghesh bitterly. “Then he would have been prepared for such misery.”
“Probably true. The two of them met in an abandoned temple. A ruin, really, though the reports of the Kaj’s lieutenants are unclear as to exactly where this temple is, or was. They were there for most of one night. What the two of them said there, no one knows. When he did not return, the Kaj’s lieutenants feared the worst. But then the Kaj emerged, having personally slain Jukov—yet the Kaj was weeping. Over what, he would not say. But he confirmed that Jukov was dead.” Shara wipes off the knife. “The Kaj became moody and silent after this last, final victory, and took to wine. He died of an infection less than four months later—one of the first deaths of the Plague Years, most likely.”
Sigrud sniffs and rubs his nose. He appears only mildly interested in such stories. Mulaghesh, however, eats up every word. “So Jukov was the last god killed.”
Shara salts the goat meat, then tosses it in with the simmering vegetables. “Yes. The Plague Years came just after, the last bit of Divine protection falling away, so we know for sure that he is gone from this world.”
Mulaghesh thinks. “It feels damn odd,” she says, “to list Divinities as you would suspects for a robbery. As if we could go out and line them up on a wall and have the victim come in and point the criminal out. So, the only confirmed dead gods—or at least, the ones that other people saw die—are Voortya, Taalhavras, Ahanas, and Jukov?”
“That would be a fair estimation,” says Shara.
“Which leaves Olvos and Kolkan.”
“Yes.”
“You haven’t said anything about Kolkan.”
“True. We know quite a bit about his existence. His end, though … That, no one knows. We don’t even think anyone on the Continent ever knew.”
“Did he also leave, like Olvos?” asks Pitry.
Shara washes her hands clean on a rag. “No. He did not. Or at least, we do not think so.”
“Then what happened to him?”
Shara checks the time. Twenty minutes until it’s all ready.
“That,” she says, sitting down, “is a very different story.”
*
“Kolkan, it is said, was a Divinity of judgment, and order. He was the Man of Stone, He of the High Places, the Far Shepherd. He’s depicted in many different aspects, but his most dominant appearance is as a man seated on a mountain, with both hands extended forward, palms up. Waiting to weigh, balance, and judge, you see. He was by far and away the most active Divinity out of the six. Jukov played tricks with his mortal followers, turning them into animals—wolves, sometimes, but most frequently brown starlings—and sometimes even going so far as to impregnate them, regardless of gender, if you can believe it.” Pitry’s mouth falls open, but Shara continues: “Taalhavras and Ahanas, being builders and growers, had larger affairs, and were only broadly concerned with mortal life. Olvos, as you know, was content to leave. And Voortya was quite active in her own right, personally leading war parties and raids. But none of them compare to Kolkan, who was fascinated—if not fixated—on the affairs of mortal creatures.”
Shara gently turns the goat meat over. Fat snaps and sizzles. She withdraws her hand before a gobbet of oil can leap onto her knuckle.
“Kolkan wished for nothing more than for his followers to lead a good and ordered life. After the city of Kolkashtan was established, he told his followers to come to him with any questions, any concerns, and he would be there to answer them, to judge them, and to help them. And they responded quite enthusiastically. There are records of lines of people five, ten, fifteen miles long. Of people fainting, starving, growing sick and infirm as they waited. The historical accounts are vague, but it’s estimated Kolkan listened to however many millions of people, judging day and night, sitting in one place, for over one hundred and sixty years.”
“By the seas,” mutters Mulaghesh.
“Yes,” says Shara. “Historians have agreed that it probably had some effect on Kolkan. Eventually he realized that this process was not efficient. So he ended his period of judgment, emerged from his temple, and began creating edicts based off of what he had learned during his time judging.”
Sigrud pulls a cured ham from the pantry. He sits, carves off a perfect scroll with his black knife, begins chewing it, and absently saws at the rest of the hard flesh.
“Over the space of two years, Kolkan produced twelve hundred edicts. By our modern standards, they were wildly invasive, often arbitrary rules: do not stack this type of stone upon this type; a woman’s hair should not be braided in this manner; these times of days are the appropriate times to speak, and these for silence; these meats can be cured, these cannot … and so on, and so on, and so on. You would think normal people would resist, and try and free themselves . … But the Kolkashtanis did not. They welcomed these rules, all twelve hundred of them. For, after all, if their Divinity said they deserved them, then did they not deserve them?”