60. A Hollow Prophecy (Jovadão)¶
Jovadão awoke with a gasp, as he had every morning since the novitiates had left Rilão. He waited for the fluttering in his diaphragm to subside and the sting of bile to retreat from his throat. The sun hadn’t risen, but he was already sweating. His time in Thelenza had wreaked havoc on his heat tolerance. Or maybe he was just getting old. He scratched at his neck hair, which Ravásie had insisted he grow so the troops would accept him. Beards were a poor excuse for uniforms, but he supposed they were better than nothing.
The Tementeira army sprawled through the streets and plazas adjacent to the Sagradhão, rows of cheap waxed-hemp lean-tos scattered atop on the pavement. Jovadão’s tent was situated on the grassy hillside with the other commanders, making it slightly less uncomfortable than the ones on the street. He squinted as he stirred the ashes of his campfire, searching for enough residual warmth to heat up his tea. Dew still covered every surface, including the faces and beards of the men nearby, still asleep on their bedrolls. To the east, the horizon was already changing to a pearly salmon color. Pretty, if you were into that kind of thing.
His contemplative scratching was interrupted by a messenger in a checkered scarf. “The Ouvintero requires your presence.”
Jovadão nodded glumly and followed the scarf to Ravásie’s tent. It was ostentatiously nondescript, the equivalent of pulling a plow in formal dress. Ravásie went to great lengths to let his army know that he lived among them and commanded from the field, although Jovadão had it on good authority that the man frequently snuck out at night and slept in the cool comfort of the Sagradhão.
The beards of the two burly guards by the entrance resembled furry animals asleep on their chests. Jovadão allowed himself a small chuckle, gratified to see the scowls deepen on their clean-shaven faces.
“Ah, Commander, come in,” said Ravásie. The Ouvintero sat cross-legged in the center of the dimly-lit space, a small writing desk on the floor in front of him. More importantly, he was alone.
The tent smelled like a stale teapot. “Please, sit,” Ravásie said. Jovadão knelt instead, his bad hip popping as he lowered himself. “So, Commander,” the Ouvintero continued, “how are the troops situated? What is morale like? I want an unvarnished opinion, and I know I can trust you to give me that.”
“Morale is high,” said Jovadão. Far too high, in his opinion. The faithful were lining up to die under Ravásie’s banner, and precious few of them understood what they were facing. “They’re eager for a fight, especially the youth. They don’t like being cooped up in the city.”
“Young people never enjoy stillness,” said Ravásie, as if his own beard had a single strand of gray. “And how is the translation coming?”
Jovadão slowed his heart rate. He’d been waiting for an opportunity like this, when Ravásie wasn’t accompanied by Sumidáne. The Silenced Feiçeira had chosen not to betray Jovadão so far, but tensions had grown since Gadarien’s escape, which had been suspiciously close to Jovadão’s arrival. He wouldn’t have put it past the Ouvintero to position Sumidáne just outside the tent where she could listen in. But that was a risk he’d have to take.
“I believe I’ve made a discovery,” he said, weaving harmonics of doubt into his voice as though reluctant to admit what he’d learned. Ravásie didn’t know Sussura, but he’d still subconsciously pick up on the tone. “But I must warn you, Your Harmony, that Anashic texts are known to have many meanings. My interpretation could well be wrong.”
Ravásie leaned forward, his interest piqued. “Understood, Commander. Please continue.”
Jovadão squared his shoulders, frowning. “From what I can discern, the text is a page from the Book of Shedach, one of the ancient Lost Books.” He paused just long enough to add drama. “I believe it refers to an ancient prophecy.”
Ravásie tried to hide his excitement, narrowing his eyes and stroking his beard thoughtfully. The Tementeira, like most religious communities, had a complicated relationship with the Anashi, despising them for their supposed sins while coveting their legendary power. Moreover, they considered themselves the rightful inheritors of that power, which the Deucanta had supposedly wrested from the Anashi to give to the faithful. Anything Anashi was thus imbued with a threatening, mystical significance. If Jovadão had claimed that a dried-out turd was a magical Anashi cookie that would let you kiss the moon, Ravásie would probably have taken a bite.
“Indeed?” said the Ouvintero, pretending only a mild interest. “What prophecy?
Jovadão shook his head as though struggling not to believe the overwhelming evidence. “It speaks of a great battle in the ‘Valley of Song’, which was how the ancient Anashi referred to Cantereia. In this battle, the Children of the Sun—referring to the Sarmalans—arrive with an overwhelming force, destroying the army of the Children of the Song. But despite losing the battle, the prophecy says the Children of the Song come to inherit the world, shaping it in their image. They’re led by a great hero, someone the page refers to as the ‘Cat’s Claw’, or perhaps ‘Brother of the Cat’. I’m not sure what that means.”
He pretended to be absorbed in his own telling, but he could tell from Ravásie’s held breath that the nickname had struck true. The man had earned the childish moniker as a young cutpurse and occasional killer-for-hire on the streets of Tenoava, years before he had heard the Harmonies and begun his startling rise to power. It was a secret he’d kept well hidden, a fact Jovadão couldn’t possibly have known. Unless, of course, it had been uncovered by Sarmalan intelligence two years prior.
“In any case,” Jovadão continued, “the Children of the Song are supposed to be victorious due to this Cat’s Claw’s astute choice of battlefield and timing, at dawn on the new moon. The Anashi held great store by auspicious moon phases.”
“And the battlefield?” Ravásie said.
Jovadão raised his hands apologetically. “I’m not sure, Your Harmony.” He wanted Ravásie to believe he had figured out this part himself. “If I had a bit more time...”
Ravásie permitted himself a tiny smile, the scholar assured of his own cleverness. “No need. When the Book of Shedach was written, Cantereia was much smaller, only a single valley along the Falpassoa, a few days journey southwest of here. The Valley of Song the prophecy refers to is actually a specific valley, now called Oblashada. That is where we will meet them.”
Jovadão leaned forward in alarm and layered a subtle harmonic of awe onto his voice, as though terribly impressed. “But Your Harmony, our army isn’t ready. I’m not even sure if the prophecy—”
Ravásie held up his hand, wearing an insufferable smile of indulgence. “There is a tree that grows in the hills near the Dzharian border,” he intoned. “Locals there call it ujulo, or hollow-bush. You know of it?”
Jovadão choked down his irritation. “I am familiar with them, Your Harmony.”
“But do you know why they’re hollow? It’s the key to their success. You see, they don’t start out hollow. They grow with a soft interior, like a sponge, and a special kind of fungus develops in the heartwood, consuming it from the inside out. As the tree rots, it produces burrs on the inside of its bark, which are only exposed once the meat of the tree has rotted away. Animals seek shelter inside, and the burrs cling to their fur. The individual tree eventually dies, but by then it has spread its seeds.”
Jovadão pursed his lips and remained silent, pretending to be confused by Ravásie’s idiotic metaphor. He doubted the Ouvintero had ever hidden from an angry uncle inside an ujulo, or had to cut the accursed burrs from his own hair, as Jovadão had. But this wasn’t about what was said. With Ravásie, it never was. It was about conversational dominance.
“I see you are not a man for parables,” the Ouvintero went on. “I’ll put it more plainly, then. Have faith, Commander. This is not the first or only sign the Deucanta have given us. Sometimes, before granting us what we ask, they require a sacrifice, proof of our faith. But the reward is everlasting glory. As it was sung, so shall it ring out.”
Jovadão sighed, feeling a genuine sense of misgiving. He had known the man wouldn’t be seduced by a promise of easy victory. A vision of heroic sacrifice, though, leading to the inevitable paradise he believed he deserved, was irresistible. Ravásie really didn’t seem to mind the idea of killing his entire army, so assured was he of his rightness. The least Jovadão could do was try to give the soldiers the dignity of putting up a fight. “Even if that’s true, Your Harmony, the troops are not adequately trained. Faith is important, but it doesn’t stand up to a well-thrown javelin.”
Ravásie broke into a broad grin, then laughed and slapped his knee. “The words of a soldier, rough and ready! That is why I wanted you here.” He leaned forward, revelling in the heroic vision of himself. “I am always happy to listen to your strategic advice, Commander. But you must understand that the Consonance is upon us. And we, its holy chorus, must be the vessel for its song.”
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