CHAPTER 1

Those Who Listen

Beneath an arbor of fig trees they lay at sundown, discreet as any other pair oflovers. Above their tender exertions starlight kissed leaf and blossom. Theinterplay of lean arms and legs mimicked the woven branches of the trees. Anage-old dance of heat and flame, stoked by the friction of supple bodies.

How many eons had passed since they learned the glorious secret ofjoining without subsiding, giving without loss, sharingwithout weakening? Nations had risen and fallen and risen again since thegaining of that mortal skill. A savage continent had grown into a bright empiresince that primeval day when they took on fleshly bodies and learned to sharethem.

Only the stars themselves were more ancient, blinking above the gnarledbranches, casting no judgments on the lovers. During such rare moments theyrecalled for a time the ancient truth of those stars and the freedom of the darkgulfs between them.

Sungui had taken her female aspect this evening, knowing that Mahaavar scornedits opposite. From lips to breasts to hips, even to the tips of her toes, hepraised her womanhood with kisses and soft caresses. As a male she could onlyhave been his comrade, a fellow philosopher, and perhaps a drinking companion.There were many who felt a keen desire for Sungui's male aspect; yet themasculine form did not lend itself to intimacy in the same way.

So many of the Seraphim did not understand this: To assume any form wasto endure its intrinsic vitality, to the point where form and purpose might beblended beyond all hope of separation.

So had the Old Breed been Diminished.

The lure of the world was strong. The temptation to join the realm of flesh andstone and soil was what had brought them here so long ago. It drew themdownward, welcoming them into its deep folds and valleys, the churning depths ofits seas, the rolling emerald of its forests, the pristine wastes of its desertlands. The beauty and power of the world itself had Diminished them all.

Zyung the Almighty had not been mastered by the earth. Instead, he had masteredit. Or so most of her kind believed, and his Living Empire proved it. Thegreatest among them had avoided the snare of the earth and its wonders. Zyungdid not assimilate, he conquered.

Yet the empire that he built–that all of them helped him tobuild–even now drew him into itself, calcifying his existence, his veryidentity, like nothing else ever could.

Zyung was his empire; the Living Empire was Zyung. On the altar of his supremacyshe had found the black shard of hope that was her deadliest weapon. She kept ithidden for generations, like a dagger tucked into the robe of a patient yetambitious slave. No one else had seen the dark glimmer of its blade.

Soon she would show it to them.

The Garden of Twenty-Seven Delights lay in an obscure corner of the temple-palace complex, a labyrinth of trellised walls, sculpted avenues, and fountainedwalks. Orchards, arboretums, vineyards, and cloistered parks surrounded thegarden. A white tower of five sides rose above the sparkling domes to block theview of the temple-palace proper.

The Holy Mountain, the faithful called it. Yet the citadel was not carved fromany existing mountain; it was built by the hands of Men to stand as high andmagnificent as any natural peak. The work of a million slaves, their tiny,broken lives scattered across the centuries. The stones of the soaring wallswere mortared with their blood and bones.

Sungui recalled them swarming like ants across the unfinished ramparts of theflat-topped pyramid, swinging like a clutch of spiders from ropes as theysculpted the gargantuan face of Zyung on its southernmost façade. The last stonehad been set, the last chisel laid down, more than five hundred years ago, yetthe vision lived as clearly in her mind as if seen only yesterday. She avoidedlooking at that titanic face, both in the light of day and in the silver gloomof night.

In the same way that she avoided the carven face, she had learned to avoid thetrue face of the Almighty when it suited her purposes. The trick was to focushis attention elsewhere, as it had been for centuries now. The Almighty dreamedof the ripe, untamed lands beyond the Outer Sea. His growing obsession with theexpansion of the Living Empire gave her the opportunity she had awaited sincethe City of Celestial Truth had been a mud-walled village alongside a stinkingriver.

Sungui arose from a carpet of grass and petals, donning a robe of iridescentsilver. Mahaavar did the same, brushing purple blossoms from his shoulders. Hisshimmering vestment was identical in every way to her own. There were nodistinctions among the High Seraphim. Another way in which Zyung reinforcedtheir Diminishing: Making them equal.

All save himself.

None were equal to the Almighty.

She smirked at the moon, which the earth's shadow had divided precisely in half.Could there be an omen in that particular astronomic event? She had notconsulted the moon charts when planning tonight's gathering.

They did not need to speak, Mahaavar and she. Their bodies had expressedeverything in the ciphers of touch and sensation. The earthly manifestations oftheir eternal spirits. The complimentary nature of their bodies was their mosteffective communication. Mahaavar kissed her lips once again before leaving thegarden; his were still hot and tasted of cinnamon.

Along the Path of Contemplation they walked, two silver-robes strolling in theunhurried way common to those in power. Slaves tending the nightflowers scurriedfrom the path, prostrating themselves; the clacking of shears resumed as theypassed. Guards in hawk-faced visors stiffened as the two High Seraphim walked bytheir stations upon garden walls and bridges. A nightingale sang sweetly amongthe clustered vines that hemmed the pathway. Sungui's bare feet on the polishedmarble made no sound; Mahaavar moved as quietly as she.

They passed through an arch of jade carved into a parade of winged children, andso came into the Grotto of Sighing Flowers. A breeze stirred the hems of theirgarments, the naked breath of great, pulsing blossoms. At the nearest of theInner Walls, they paused while an alabaster gate rose to admit them. Theyentered the courtyard of the Thirty-Ninth Tower and crossed a lawn where white-barked trees harbored flocks of nesting doves. Only here, away from the ears ofpassing slaves and functionaries, did Mahaavar speak to her.

"How many do you expect?" he whispered.

"It does not matter," she said.

"Will they listen?"

"They have always listened," she said.

He said nothing, stifling his confusion.

"Yet they never—"

"Not yet," she said. "Such things take time. Longer than you could guess." Shestopped in the middle of the courtyard, where the sound of cooing birds filledthe branches. "Do you even remember how long it took to build the Holy Mountain?Do you remember–truly remember–how old you are?"

Mahaavar looked at the shadows swimming about the tree roots. A holy vipercrawled through the grass, its white scales speckled with a pattern of scarletdiamonds.

"Sometimes," he said. "Sometimes I recall ... another life ... or lives."

She smiled and caressed his cheek. "They were all you, Beautiful Mahaavar."

Sungui turned and the pace resumed. Through a second gate of whitewashed oak andiron they entered a narrow corridor with recessed candles lining the walls. Aslave carrying a bundle...