Blackened soil crunched under Arvand’s boots. The acrid sting of smoke barely registered as his mind struggled to process what his eyes told it.
Where he stood had been the hávarharg, a garden temple reserved for only the holiest and most elite of his people. Its beauty could fill a starving soul. Its protected climate could soothe iced bones and boiling blood alike. Its isolation could engender the deepest meditation.
Yet, all that remained was a smoldering jumble of charred timber and melted stone. What remained of the garden was likely ash scattered as far as the horizon. Perhaps farther.
He was almost certain he had landed where the Gates of Heaven once stood. There was no evidence of the giant golden rings that told the story of the Houses of the Sun. There was no polished granite surface on which to kneel. There was no cube of solid diorite on which to place offerings. Yet it was the highest point in the Garden. That was where the Gates had been… and it still retained some of its feel: the faintest echo of what once was there.
He thought he was walking the Path of Roses, but he could not tell if what his boots struck were the melted remains of the once-gleaming white paving stones. They could just as easily have been vitrified soil.
Arvand reached the edge of the cliff and drew another shuddering breath. For the first time, he allowed himself to see—truly see—the devastation below.
He did nothing, said nothing. He only stood there and stared.
After a time, a quiet crunch told him of soft-padded feet delicately picking their way through the wreckage behind him.
One step, thought Arvand. I could take one more step.
Varniva arrived at the edge of the cliff alongside him. She made no sound. Not a word, not even a simulated breath. She knew he wanted silence and dutifully gave it.
The valley below had been scoured bare. Huge scars told of where great halls, theaters, homes, and universities had been swept away. Massive erratic boulders and piles of mud told of the turbulent force that ripped through it all and carried its remnants to the sea.
“It’s gone,” breathed Arvand. The words came out as almost a whisper. “It’s… it’s all gone.”
Another moment passed in silence. He could not tell if she was really thinking that long—practically an eternity to her—or if she had decided he needed the pause before she responded.
“It is,” she said. “I’m sorry, my lord.”
“Do you know what happened?”
“I’m still getting reports, but it looks like the great northern ice broke when the low star struck it. A small ocean flowed across the land and …” she gestured toward the valley without finishing her thought.
“‘A small ocean,’” Arvand repeated.
“It is consistent with my sisters’ final sendings: a wall of water almost as high as where we now stand, moving at incredible speed.”
If he didn’t know better, Arvand would have thought he heard pride in her voice. They did their duty to the very last in the face of a terrible fate. He did not know everything about a varniva. Perhaps she could be proud of them. He hoped she was.
“What…” The words died in his throat. He cleared his throat and started again. “What is left?”
Varniva pretended to take a deep breath.
Arvand had always thought that odd. Such great care was taken to make the varniva look not-quite-human—just on the feminine side of androgynous, limbs too slender, arms too long. Yet they had been built with artificial mannerisms that served no purpose other than to make them seem more human.
“The andbrunn is gone, obviously,” she gestured toward the valley. “The new one they were building was destroyed, too. According to my remaining sisters, none live with the skills to make another. They plan to convert what is left into a monument and a warning that will stand the—”
“Enough,” Arvand cut in quietly. “I know much was lost. I want to know what remains.”
“Not enough, my lord. Two portable power sources. Your Hunt-Temple to the south. Whatever else you have there. Scattered survivors and enclaves intent on living among the natives or surviving in fortresses.”
“So we still have some power…” Arvand began, but he trailed off in the middle because he could almost guess, word for word, what Varniva would say.
“Not enough to start over, Lord Arvand. You cannot rebuild a civilization with two small portable power sources and nobody who knows how to make more.”
Arvand forced his lungs to pull in a ragged breath. One step is all it would take, he thought.
Arvand straightened his back and shoulders as he set his jaw. His voice became cold, formal.
“Any of the priests?” he asked.
“No. As far as I can tell, you are all that is left of the priesthood.”
Another silence began to stretch. Only one priest left and him a warrior-priest of the lowest rank.
Not enough to rebuild. No one left who could. No one left to lead.
“What comes next, Varniva?”
“We never studied how weather changes. I would have to guess, my lord.”
“Guess,” he said more gruffly than she deserved but less so than he felt.
Incapable of taking offense at his tone, Varniva did as she was commanded.
“It will get cold. There will be rain. Black and possibly poisonous. It will be hard to grow things and hard to find animals in the hunt. The strain of survival will be great—possibly a breaking strain—for hundreds of years. Perhaps more than a thousand.”
Arvand sucked filthy air through his teeth then coughed. Our destruction was not enough, he thought. Our punishment continues.
Varniva’s manner changed. Arvand wasn’t really looking, but he could sense it out of the corner of his eye. Her hand twitched toward him and her normally impassive face—little more than a blur in his peripheral vision—wore a tinge of pain that he could almost feel.
“My lord,” she asked in what sounded like a timid voice.
Arvand turned to look at her and was taken aback. The emotion on her face was genuine. Genuine pain. Genuine loss. Genuine despair.
Why not? Arvand asked himself. She’s lost just as much as I. Another lesson.
“Yes?” he prodded.
“My lord, may I ask…” Varniva broke off. Then she stiffened and began again. “May I ask what you plan to do?”
Turning his gaze back down to the destroyed valley where his people so recently had thrived, he struggled for control. His hands clenched into fists at his sides until his knuckles whitened, then they unclenched, and he worked the muscles in his jaw, grinding his teeth until his hands began to form fists again.
Arvand focused on the river that ran through the valley.
It was a powerful river. Only a few stronger existed on this land mass, and none stronger emptied into the gentle ocean to the west. Yet, next to the destruction it had just wrought and at that great distance, it seemed a mere trickle.
From that vantage, the river seemed such a gentle thing: the water source that had birthed his people. Then, when the world caught fire, it had risen up and swept them into the sea like a pile of dried leaves.
“First, I will take you to the Hunt-Temple. What you carry in your head is too valuable to risk losing. I will travel to those who still live and render aid as I can. Perhaps I can keep some of their machines powered. For a time.”
“And then?” Varniva asked quietly.
“And then, Varniva, I will go to the Hunt-Temple, where I will make it my home and watch the world die.”
