flesh is what drew her.
The three men—a father, son, and uncle, perhaps?—owned one camel that was tied to a line well away from the fire. When the camel let out a high-pitched bleat, the men stood and drew their daggers. At almost the same moment, Tathagata slipped behind the uncle and drove one of the spears into his back, the point emerging from his chest in a splash of gore. The uncle grunted and fell forward onto the fire.
The father turned just in time to get a glimpse of his assailant before she lunged at him and bit off a chunk of his face. The son attempted to come to his rescue, diving at her and stabbing his short dagger into her skinny thigh. Tathagata turned and pounced upon him, biting the youngest one’s neck. Then she began to chew, slurp, and swallow, making a sound so dreadful that the camel tore away from the line, broke the leather band that hobbled its left front leg, and ran off in a shuffling gait.
The reek of gore and burning flesh—both goat and human—filled the air. Tathagata continued to feed, heedless of anything else. But the injured father still lived, and he hoisted a heavy rock over his head and slammed it onto Tathagata’s back.
She cried out and leapt to her feet, her torso twisted grotesquely. But instead of retaliating, she smiled eerily, drew the dagger out of her leg, and returned to her business. The father, ignoring the pain of his tattered face, grabbed the other spear and drew it from the sand. But then his movements slowed, and he stood motionless for a time, eyes glazed. A short while later, he joined the feast.
Before the sliver of crescent moon rose at midnight, the son had been reduced to bones as efficiently as if a pair of Lyons had devoured him. The uncle was burned too badly to eat; otherwise, he too would have become part of the fare.
The father no longer cared for the son or uncle. He had become Tathagata’s disciple.
She finally stood, her face slathered with blood. The food had done her good. Her broken back had magically healed, and she was taller and not quite so skinny. Tathagata was growing, in more ways than one.
NOT ALL OF Peta’s prophecies were unpleasant. For instance, the ghost-child had foretold that Torg and Laylah would fall in love. And the healings of King Henepola and Queen Rajinii had been inspirational. But her visions of Sister Tathagata were among the most disturbing she had ever endured.
Unlike the Tugars, whose furnace-like metabolisms incinerated infections and poisons before they could cause much harm, the sister’s body had been susceptible to the undines . Most humans infected by the demon incarnations became mindless fiends, less intelligent than cattle and driven by ruthless hunger. The only sure way to kill them was to cut off their heads, though cutting their bodies in half above the navel also was effective.
To her horror, Peta foresaw that Tathagata’s spiritual achievements would work against her. The High Nun’s powerful mind could not be ruined as easily as her body. Instead, a portion of her wisdom and will would survive, making her far more dangerous than any fiend had ever been. To make matters worse, every time Tathagata fed, she would grow larger and stronger. Cutting off her head would not be so simple.
These revelations had thrilled Vedana, of course. The mother of all demons had long despised Sister Tathagata, whom she described as a “lazy goody-goody.” But it was more than the demise of the High Nun that Vedana found tantalizing. She envisioned Tathagata as yet another means to weaken her enemies. And so—unbeknownst to Invictus or even Jākita-Abhinno—she had joined with her most loyal witches and summoned a large batch of undines from the Realm of the Undead. Then she ordered the Warlish whores to dump them into the Ogha River north of Senasana.
Senasana . . . the nearest city to Tējo . . . and Anna.
“I’ll be gone for a few days,” Vedana said to Peta while Rathburt slept. “You
The three men—a father, son, and uncle, perhaps?—owned one camel that was tied to a line well away from the fire. When the camel let out a high-pitched bleat, the men stood and drew their daggers. At almost the same moment, Tathagata slipped behind the uncle and drove one of the spears into his back, the point emerging from his chest in a splash of gore. The uncle grunted and fell forward onto the fire.
The father turned just in time to get a glimpse of his assailant before she lunged at him and bit off a chunk of his face. The son attempted to come to his rescue, diving at her and stabbing his short dagger into her skinny thigh. Tathagata turned and pounced upon him, biting the youngest one’s neck. Then she began to chew, slurp, and swallow, making a sound so dreadful that the camel tore away from the line, broke the leather band that hobbled its left front leg, and ran off in a shuffling gait.
The reek of gore and burning flesh—both goat and human—filled the air. Tathagata continued to feed, heedless of anything else. But the injured father still lived, and he hoisted a heavy rock over his head and slammed it onto Tathagata’s back.
She cried out and leapt to her feet, her torso twisted grotesquely. But instead of retaliating, she smiled eerily, drew the dagger out of her leg, and returned to her business. The father, ignoring the pain of his tattered face, grabbed the other spear and drew it from the sand. But then his movements slowed, and he stood motionless for a time, eyes glazed. A short while later, he joined the feast.
Before the sliver of crescent moon rose at midnight, the son had been reduced to bones as efficiently as if a pair of Lyons had devoured him. The uncle was burned too badly to eat; otherwise, he too would have become part of the fare.
The father no longer cared for the son or uncle. He had become Tathagata’s disciple.
She finally stood, her face slathered with blood. The food had done her good. Her broken back had magically healed, and she was taller and not quite so skinny. Tathagata was growing, in more ways than one.
NOT ALL OF Peta’s prophecies were unpleasant. For instance, the ghost-child had foretold that Torg and Laylah would fall in love. And the healings of King Henepola and Queen Rajinii had been inspirational. But her visions of Sister Tathagata were among the most disturbing she had ever endured.
Unlike the Tugars, whose furnace-like metabolisms incinerated infections and poisons before they could cause much harm, the sister’s body had been susceptible to the undines . Most humans infected by the demon incarnations became mindless fiends, less intelligent than cattle and driven by ruthless hunger. The only sure way to kill them was to cut off their heads, though cutting their bodies in half above the navel also was effective.
To her horror, Peta foresaw that Tathagata’s spiritual achievements would work against her. The High Nun’s powerful mind could not be ruined as easily as her body. Instead, a portion of her wisdom and will would survive, making her far more dangerous than any fiend had ever been. To make matters worse, every time Tathagata fed, she would grow larger and stronger. Cutting off her head would not be so simple.
These revelations had thrilled Vedana, of course. The mother of all demons had long despised Sister Tathagata, whom she described as a “lazy goody-goody.” But it was more than the demise of the High Nun that Vedana found tantalizing. She envisioned Tathagata as yet another means to weaken her enemies. And so—unbeknownst to Invictus or even Jākita-Abhinno—she had joined with her most loyal witches and summoned a large batch of undines from the Realm of the Undead. Then she ordered the Warlish whores to dump them into the Ogha River north of Senasana.
Senasana . . . the nearest city to Tējo . . . and Anna.
“I’ll be gone for a few days,” Vedana said to Peta while Rathburt slept. “You
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