The Crypts beneath the Church of the Moon
Nkemi had come across a holy man once in Thul Ka, who knelt in the fountain squares in Windward Market, during one of the months when the fountain ran dry for want of want.
What is mercy?
Nkemi had been returning to her duty station from a long day; she had been caked in dust, every inch of her feed made pale by it, even beneath the straps of her sandals. She wore her goggles, and a scarf wrapped around her face, and in the midst of the driving winds and scraping sands he had sat, undaunted, facing the fountain, and more than a few had gathered close.
He had taken a waterskin from his pocket, and poured the last of his water into his hands; he had spilled it free into the dry, dusty earth, and let it drink greedily from him, as he recited the words of the Haras’turga. Nkemi had knelt, too, around him, and bowed her head to listen.
What is mercy? He asked.
He told the story of a man who wanders in the desert, who comes across a barrel of water uncovered by a sandstorm, still sealed tight, who drinks greedy deep and swells himself up, and dies. He bowed his head, then; he scraped up the dust made wet on the ground, and let the muddy water drip from his fingers, and gave them no answers.
Nkemi, looking at the once-Everine, thought of all this and more. Her gaze shifted to Ezrah, as well, to her fingers intertwined with his, and to his other hand where it held surrounded by darkness.
There were many who did not know Hulali’s mercy, even those who had drank deep of its waters; there were many who cursed the Circle, or defied them, or ignored them. There were many who had known disappointments, injustice, cruelties, who had reached out with open palms again and again and never had one drop of water, or else had too many, a barrel-full, and did not know how to drink of it.
“Mercy cannot be a truth or a lie,” Nkemi said, her voice as firm and even as ever. Her fingers tightened lightly on Ezrah’s; her other hand still held the candle. “It is a choosing.”
Nkemi followed Ezrah down and through; a rusted lock hung from an open gate, still in its dangling. Nkemi glanced around, watching the pale light of the candle glance off the shadows, the places where the carvings on the floor trapped the darkness amidst them; they were hinted at by the light, not revealed, and in time Nkemi lifted her gaze again, watching the walls once more.
“Water,” Nkemi said, wide-eyed, listening over the rasp of her breath, the pounding of her heart, the scraping of small feet, over the darkness and the fluttering fear in her chest. She looked at Ezrah, and then lifted her gaze to the once-Everone. “Guide us, honored one,” Nkemi said, quietly, for wrong beliefs did not mean one was not deserving of honor. “Show us the way.”
Water, Nkemi thought; it tumbled over stones, steady and even, Hulali’s mercy and Bash’s patience mingled together. Mercy would win out, Nkemi knew, in time.
They went. The Cycle is broken, Ezrah said, easily, as if he knew it to be true. Nkemi looked at him, at the folds of clothing which caught the light, watching the straight line of his back. She did not understand; she did not ask, thinking of the blur of darkness in front of her, and the swirling steady upkeep of the spell in her mind. Every step weighed a bit more than the last, but the spell held.
Nkemi’s forehead wrinkled in another small frown. She looked at the plaques; this was not only the erosion of time, not only Alioe’s work in forgotten places. The passages of the candles showed scratches and marks, gouges; Nkemi felt a shivering down her spine, and lifted her gaze to Ezrah and the spirit which had reached out to them. She thought of the shuddering pool of ink in her map; she thought of the wash of loneliness and fear, the reek of it, and the cold which she felt ever in Ezrah’s other hand.
“Let me,” Nkemi said, evenly, looking at the gate. She held the candle closer; it was rusted, through. The Thul’Amat trained prefect took a step back, breathing deep, and thought of her options, careful and even.
She shifted, and she kicked out with a booted foot, firm, at the rusted latch. The rusted metal creaked beneath her foot and the latch came loose, shattering open. Nkemi pressed the shoulder of Ezrah’s coat against it, and the gate came open the rest of the way, easily enough.
The staticmaner glanced back at Ezrah, a tiny hint of her old grin on her face. “A prefect has many tools,” Nkemi said with the tiniest of shrugs. “Let us see, honored one,” she said to the once-Everine, her face settling prefect-solemn once more, and stepped through, descending further into mercy.