The emperor whose greater glory they had been offered to was forgotten,
his palaces ruins. The lush forests and jungles of the Empire were
dune-swept. Balasar put his hand on the cool metallic binding of the
first of the volumes.
Killing the man was nothing. Killing the books was more difficult. The
poet, like any man, was horn to die. Moving his transition from flesh to
spirit forward by a few decades was hardly worth considering, and
Balasar was a soldier and a leader of soldiers. Killing men was his
work. It would have been as well to ask a farmer to regret the fate of
his wheat. But to take these words which had lasted longer than the
civilization that created them, to slaughter history was a task best
done by the ignorant. Only a man who did not understand his actions
would be callous enough to destroy these without qualm.
And yet what must be done, must be done. And it was time.
Carefully, Balasar laid the hooks open in the brazier. The pages shifted
in the breeze, scratching one on another like dry hands. He ran his
fingers along one line, translating as best he could, reading the words
for the last time. The lemon candle spilled its wax across his knuckles
as he carried it, and the flame leapt to twice its height. He touched
the open leaves with the burning wick as a priest might give a blessing,
and the books seemed to embrace the fire. He sat, watching the pages
blacken and curl, bits of cinder rise and dance in the air. A pale smoke
filled the air, and Balasar rose, opening the flap of the pavilion to
the wide night air.
The firefly darted past him, glowing. Balasar watched it fly out to
freedom and the company of its fellows until it went dark and vanished.
The cook fires were fewer, the stars hanging in the sky bright and
steady. A strange elation passed through him, as if he had taken off a
burden or been freed himself. He grinned like an idiot at the darkness
and had to fight himself not to dance a little jig. If he'd been certain
that none of his men were near, that no one would see, he would have
allowed himself. But he was a commander and not a child. Dignity had its
price.
When he returned to the brazier, nothing was left but blackened hinges,
split leather, gray ash. Balasar stirred the ruins with a stick, making
sure no text had survived, and then, satisfied, turned to his cot. The
day before him would be long.
As he lay in the darkness, half asleep, he felt the ghosts again. The
men he had left in the desert. The men still alive whom he would leave
in the field. Riaan, hooks cradled in his arms. Balasar's sacrifices
filled the pavilion, and their presence and expectation comforted him
until a small voice came from the hack of his mind.
Kya, it said. Sinja-kya, he called him. Sinja-cha would have been the
proper form, wouldn't it? Kya is used for a lover or a brother. Why
would Riaan have thought of Sinja as a brother?
And then, as if Eustin were seated beside the cot, his voice whispered,
Seemed like he might he trying to keep the poor bastard from saying
something.
LIAT WALKED THROUGH DARKNESS BETWEEN THE KHAI'S PALACES AND THE library