The Power and the Glory

Book 2 Chapter I: Risen

Your dead shall live; their bodies shall rise. You who dwell in the dust, awake and sing for joy! For your dew is a dew of light, and the earth will give birth to the dead. -- Isaiah 26:19, ESV

In his comparatively short life -- compared to other much older immortals, that is -- Irímé had witnessed many festivals, parties, and other social events that did not go according to plan. This was the first time he had seen one go so horribly, catastrophically wrong. Worse, this was the first time he and his friends could find themselves implicated in the sorry mess.

Mayhem reigned in the minutes after the corpse's departure. People had become separated from their companions and screamed their names at the top of their lungs. A group of palace guards belatedly charged into the palace and attempted to regain order. Some of the party-goers stormed out of the building, looking so furious anyone would have thought the whole fiasco was a personal slight aimed at them.

Abihira was nowhere to be seen. She had vanished somewhere in the midst of the crowd. If she had any sense she would get out of the palace quickly before anyone could think to ask awkward questions.

Irímé looked around frantically for anyone he recognised. His mother had left him over an hour ago to talk to her friends and he hadn't seen her since. Kitri had been somewhere near Abihira a while ago. Where she was now he had no idea. In the direction of the main doors he caught a glimpse of someone who might have been Kiriyuki. Trying to approach her would have meant fighting his way through the crowd. In despair Irímé looked back towards the ballroom, praying he would spot at least one familiar face.

He did. Ilaran was fairly easy to spot in any crowd; he was half a head taller than Abihira, who was herself taller than most people Irímé knew, and he was wearing a very odd, very tall pointed headdress. For the first time Irímé was thankful his co-conspirator had such a fondness for, ahem, eccentric clothes.

Ilaran had apparently decided it wasn't worth battling his way through a host of panicked people. Instead he was standing next to the wall, just outside the ballroom doors and away from the thickest crowds. His grim scowl suggested he had seen everything that happened and knew exactly who to blame for it.

Irímé wound his way towards him, in the process narrowly avoiding a collision with several people who weren't looking where they were going. His earlier murder-related disagreement with Ilaran faded into insignificance in the face of this more immediate problem. What he really needed right now was someone else who knew what was going on and might have some suggestions on what to do.

He was thoroughly out of breath by the time he got with speaking distance. That dratted, absurdly long jórnin[1] had nearly tripped him so many times he'd lost count. His headdress had been knocked askew and was now leaning precariously far over one side of his head. The long hairpins meant to hold it in place now tugged painfully on his hair. The gods alone knew what sort of sorry sight he made when he finally reached Ilaran.

It dawned on Irímé now that he hadn't thought beforehand of what to say. So he said the first thing that came into his head.

"Have you seen Abihira?"

Ilaran nodded. His scowl became even more grim. "She left a while ago. Haliran followed her."

Amidst all the chaos all thought of Haliran and her crimes had been driven out of Irímé's mind. For a few seconds he wondered who that was and why just hearing the name made him shudder. Then he remembered. His eyes widened in horror.

"What?"

Under other circumstances such a loud yell would have drawn the attention of everyone within hearing range. As it was plenty of other people were shouting various things, ranging from the understandable like "Where are you?" to the absurd like "The world is ending!", and no one spared Irímé a second glance.