An Elegy of Heroes

by K. S. Villoso

  She returned to tell her father everything. King Elian’s eyes hardened at her story and without another word sent his men out to scour the city and ride through the countryside. No ship had left the docks since yesterday and no travellers were seen heading out. Jaeth was gone. The men were skeptical. Was she not mistaken? Tiora was close to her brother—he had been hopelessly attached to her skirts when he was younger—and she had been missing him so much. With news of the war between Dageis and Gaspar, perhaps it was only natural that she thought…

  But her father believed her. He returned to Jor’s house with her and went up the stairs, tearing the locked bedroom door open. He uttered a strangled cry, blocking her with his arm before she could run in herself. The walls and floor were covered in black sludge. In the middle of it all was a body, half-decayed. The floor underneath started to collapse. She realized, just as the corpse came crashing to the floor below, that it carried Jor’s face.

  Days turned into weeks. A letter from the Plateau came, confirming Jaeth’s withdrawal from his studies. He had, in fact, left a year and a half ago, and due to the nature of his departure, which remained undisclosed, was barred from ever returning. Elian folded the letter after reading it and stared at the flickering candle beside him. “Leave me,” he murmured, when he realized that Tiora was still standing there.

  “Father…”

  “I said leave!” She dropped her head back and closed the door. As soon as the latch clicked, she heard a low moan, and realized her father—the strong, silent, ever-watchful High King of Gorent—was weeping.

  It was the first letter. It was not the last. A few more weeks came by, and then one of her father’s men, a short, burly soldier named Sorka, who had gone to Dageis in search of her brother, returned with grim news. “He was last seen in Drusgaya,” he said, “trying to peddle dark magics to the Dageian Emperor.”

  “By Ab’s teeth, I hope Cerknar had enough sense to send him packing,” Elian grumbled.

  Sorka dropped his eyes. “He did. That’s not the problem.”

  “What is?” There was a brief silence. Elian got up from his chair and threw a goblet in frustration. It clattered against the wall, the sound of metal on stone. “What did that wretched boy do, now? Tell me, Sorka, or so Ab help me, I’ll strip you off your rank and give your goats to the dock-workers to feast on!”

  “Cerknar had sense,” Sorka intoned. “But his son didn’t. Somehow, Jaeth got word to Prince Ralius and secure a meeting. He...the boy is dead, my lord. Ralius is. They think Jaeth did it.”

  “Oh, Ab,” Elian groaned, in a voice that made Tiora think she heard his heart break.

  Is that why you came home? Because you killed a prince? She withdrew from their presence, wondering what was worse—that a foreign kingdom would accuse her brother of such a thing, or that she, his sister, who loved him more than anything else in the world, believed them.

  She consulted with the servants and made arrangements to leave in secret. She needed to find her brother, to understand why he had done these things. They did not save that money for his education just so he could play around like a fool. If their mother could see this now, why...ah, but Tiora wished with all her heart that she wouldn’t. She might rise from the grave just to yell at them, and as much as Tiora missed her mother that was something she didn’t think she’d ever want to see.

  The severity of Jaeth’s actions did not occur to her until the third letter came. Up until then, she had been brooding over what a disappointment he had been and why he couldn’t even think of sending word to his sister so she wouldn’t worry so much at least. The third letter came from one of their sea-captains, out on his regular patrols along the coasts. It said, in letters that read like they were etched in blood, The Dageians are coming.

  Elian’s eyes hardened. He crumpled the letter and threw it into the fire. He turned to Tiora.

  “Your brother,” he said, “just brought war to our doorstep.” He said it matter-of-factly, like he was announcing the weather. He had been expecting this.

  Tiora swallowed. She understood; peace with the Dageians, at best, had been tumultuous. The kingdom had been expanding its borders for centuries and it was only out of fear of Gorent’s own shiar that it had honoured their trade agreements and kept clear of their waters so far. Or at least that was what they believed. Now, it was clear that Dageis had been acting the part of a lion playing with a mouse. To declare war without a single word when they were already at war against Gaspar…

  “We could ask Hafod for help,” she said. “They’ll come. Baidh, too.”

  “Baidh? What can they do? Set their sheep against the Dageians? As for Hafod, I’d give half of the kingdom to see the day Karthos raises an army for my sake, never mind in the time it takes for those ships to get to our shores. No, my love. I do not think the Dageians are here to talk. I will have to fight.”

  Tiora bent over his seat. “Alone, Father? I can fight, too. Most of your men don’t know half as much about the agan as I do. I could burn the first ship that lands ashore.”

  “I know,” Elian said. He looked at her with an odd expression.

  “What is it, Father?”

  “I should’ve sent you to the Plateau. Not him.”

  “He’s your heir.”

  Elian’s jaw tightened. “You’re my eldest. I should’ve consulted with the elders and changed the law. I could have. I wanted to. The day you were born was the happiest day of my life. But they advised me to stick with tradition, to enjoy raising my daughter and wait for a son.” He dropped his head. As she bent over to embrace it, her chin on his thick, black curls, he glanced up at her and murmured, “Could you ever forgive me for that?”

  “There is nothing to forgive, Father,” she said. “Remember that we love Jaeth, too.”

  “He should be here now, facing this with me.” Elian shook his head. “I need you to guide the civilians to hide in the islands. Disappear in the mountain villages. If the worst happens and we lose the headlands, I will meet you in Sen’senal.”

  Tiora took a deep breath. “I don’t want to leave you, Father.”

  “I can trust no one else with this task. One way or another, our people must survive this.”

  “I know.” She sighed and bent down to kiss his forehead. “If Mother were here…”

  “She would’ve brought Jaeth home, talked to Cerknar, negotiated a treaty, turned those ships around, and still have dinner ready before sundown.” He gave a crooked smile. “Make haste in your preparations. I want you all out of here before daybreak.”

  Hundreds of years later, a little girl stops reading. Her fingers graze the edge of the page, but she does not turn it.

  “Why stop now?” her father asks.

  “I know how it ends,” she says. “This way, I can pretend it has a different ending.”

  There is an amused look on her father’s face, the sort he gets when she is suddenly beyond his comprehension. “That makes no sense. Even if you do that, it doesn’t change the past. Elian, High King of Gorent, was slaughtered at the hands of the Daegians. The Gorenten Headland was lost, the people dispersed into villages in the wilds. It is the same story, every time. You know this...you’ve read enough of them.”

  “But what if we change the rest of it?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It ends at Chapter Ten. The king dies, the princess escapes, the prince is never found again, they lose their kingdom. But what if there is a Chapter Eleven?”

  Her father pauses before giving that same, crooked smile, reminiscent of Elian’s; they have the same mouth, though he doesn’t know it, and the memory flickers from her before she can grasp what it means. “I knew someone who said the same thing, once,” he murmurs. “The exact same thing.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “He…” Her father’s face tightens. She senses all the words he wants to say and cannot. “Go to sleep,” he says at last. “It is late.”

  She closes the book with t
hose last, unread pages, pulls her father’s arm around her, and drifts off into the night.

  ACT ONE

  To My Son, Gorrhen,

  It grieves me to know that you think I have failed you in my duties as a father. I am left with deep regrets over our last meeting in Tilarthan and the anger with which we parted. I said some words that you may have taken the wrong way.

  We will talk when I return, and you will forgive an old man for his outbursts. I face death tomorrow so that you, your brothers, and your sisters may grow old and have children of your own someday. Remember that for you, I would fight until my last breath. For you, I would cleave the whole world apart.

  Your father,

  Agartes

  -Unsent Letters from the First Hafed-Dageian War

  Chapter One

  The smell of feces was not something Sume normally associated with relief, but after two hours of trying to find the grand stadium through the dusty streets of Fuyyu, she almost sang a prayer to Sakku. As she was alone and didn’t want to look like a fool, she didn’t. She took a sip of water from the canteen on her belt, poured a little on her hand, and wiped her face. A streak of dust glistened on her palm.

  “Who are you betting for?” a man behind her called out to someone else.

  Sume heard a snort of laughter, but didn’t hear the response. She snapped the canteen back to her belt and ducked under a strawberry tree to join the line forming at the gate. She dug out a couple of coins from her purse and paid them to the woman as she passed by. “The championship bout starts after noon,” the woman said without looking at her.

  “Who’s in it?” Sume asked.

  The woman gave her a look, as if surprised Sume would answer at all. “Move along,” she grunted. She turned to the next in line. “Ten aekich. The championship bout starts…”

  Sume left the crowd to glance up at the arena. It had been built decades ago, right after the struggle that bought the merchants freedom and their own class. The Kag-style architecture—with its flat roofs made of wooden shingles, round walls that lacked the edges and angles Jin-Sayeng architecture favoured, and a massive, open courtyard—cut a strange figure against the landscape. Such an odd building would’ve been a travesty in the east, something the royals would’ve burnt down within the year. Here in the west, though…

  Years spent in eastern Jin-Sayeng had made her forget how different things were past the city of Bara. Here, in Fuyyu, the gravity of Kag influence was undeniable. One guard at the stadium had yellow hair, and so did two of the priestesses. The vendors were selling dumplings and rice cakes and skewered, roasted bananas, but also meat pies and cheese. Her father would’ve loved it.

  She followed the line streaming into the stadium and picked a seat close to the doors. Craning her head to the side, she caught sight of a woman in the middle of the dirt arena, guiding a grey pony in a circle. The animal was covered in scars. A little girl in the crowd ran down the steps to approach the creature and she felt her muscles tense.

  “Sume…”

  She turned towards the voice and into Tetsung’s beaming face.

  “Tetsung, you’re old!” she laughed, pointing at the grey streaks in his hair.

  Tetsung shook his head. “We don’t talk for years and this is how you greet me? Alas, it’s a family ailment. Better than balding, I find, but…”

  He trailed off as Hana appeared down the steps. Sume’s hands grew cold. She had not heard word from her dead brother’s wife in the last nine years, not even after old Narani took Hana’s son Dai back to her years ago. Tetsung had written to her that Hana was agreeing to this meeting, but Sume never really expected her to show up.

  Hana took the first step towards her, her mouth a thin line. “You left us,” were the first things out of it.

  Sume ignored the twinge that ran through her heart and dropped her head. “I know. I’m sorry, sister, but at the time I couldn’t think of what else to do.”

  “You left us for a man.” Hana’s eyes were narrowed.

  Sume’s next words were muffled by the shorter woman’s embrace. Thoughts of home—of long nights sipping broth with glazed honey pork and coconut milk by the stove while her father told Dai stories of days gone by—returned to her. How could she remember so clearly? She had all but given up those days for gone.

  “Was he at least worth it?” Hana whispered against her ear.

  She almost responded with “Which one?” before checking herself; she didn’t need Hana’s rebuke, not now. “I have a daughter,” she said instead. “I would like you to meet her someday.”

  Hana took her by the hand and they found a seat in the corner benches. They spoke of nothing, at first—of the hot days, the price of rice, and life in Tetsung’s farm. Tetsung joined them. He was followed by a boy that stood as high as his chest.

  “Goen,” Tetsung said, patting the boy’s shoulder. “Meet your Aunt Sume.”

  The boy dropped his head in an awkward bow. In some ways, he resembled Dai, except for his nose. His hair had been shaved off.

  “Dai mentioned you,” Sume said. “You’ve a talent with clay, he wrote.”

  “Apprenticing to a pot-maker in the city next year, if you can believe it,” Tetsung grinned. “Time flies.”

  “So Dai writes to you,” Hana said, a bitter tone in her voice. “How is he doing?”

  Tetsung grew sombre. “That boy…” he began.

  Hana shot him a look. “He would’ve stayed if you didn’t argue with him.”

  “He would’ve stayed if you didn’t glorify his father. No offense to your brother, Sume, but the life he led was not a good example for his son.”

  “I never glorified Oji,” Hana said, her voice even.

  “You never spoke against him. Not how his actions ruined your family, or...curse his heart, Hana, but I never looked at another woman since I married you.”

  “Let us not speak ill of the dead,” quoted Sume, “lest they rise and hurt you.”

  “Lest the words turn and hurt you,” Hana corrected.

  Sume smiled; Hana always hated it when she misquoted the prophet Kibouri, especially on purpose. It was a quirk she inherited from Oji. “Dai is doing well,” she said. “The Boarshind is not what it was. Dai himself is working with their commander, writing his letters and assisting him with other menial tasks. They haven’t even let him touch a sword, or so I was told.”

  Hana’s face tightened. “Why does he talk to you and not to me?”

  “He doesn’t think you would understand.”

  “I don’t,” Tetsung snapped. “I offered him my home, a chance to join my family. He hits manhood and suddenly the farm wasn’t good enough for him. I told him it was the wrong decision. I said he was going to regret—”

  “You spoke with him?” Hana broke in.

  Tetsung turned red. “Yes. The night he left.”

  “You said you didn’t know he would do this.”

  “I thought he would come back.”

  “He did this often as a child. You knew that. What made you think things would be different this time?”

  “As a grown man, I thought he’d have more sense. Why are you angry at me? It’s not like I could have stopped him.” Tetsung drew a deep breath. “Look, maybe this isn’t the best place to talk about this.”

  “This isn’t what I asked you both here for,” Sume said. She glanced at the crowd. “I didn’t know how to explain by letter. Tetsung, your family has strong merchant ties. I need to contact Hirong Sethi.”

  Tetsung stared at her. “What makes you think I know how to?”

  “Your family…”

  They heard a commotion at the other end of the arena. People started to leave their seats to take a closer look.

  Tetsung was chewing on his lip. “I was the youngest son, and until our eldest brother died of the green fever two years ago, I knew little beyond where to buy the hogs’ feed.” He glanced at her. “Why do you need to know?”

  “‘Trust me’ is not a good
enough reason?”

  He seemed hesitant to answer. Tetsung had always been polite. Sume smiled, remembering that about him; life used to be so simple.

  Hana stood up. “Come back to the farm with us, Sume. I don’t know what it is you’ve been doing all these years, but I think we have a lot to talk about. Whatever it is can wait. We’re family. We...I...will try to understand.”

  Sume closed her eyes and cursed her father. Old drunkard, I miss you, but you did nothing to prepare us for this. Hana was still there when she opened them again. “It’s not safe to go back to the farm,” she said in a low voice. “I have a wagon waiting for you in the city. It will take you to the docks. There is a ship bound for Xiaro…”

  “By Sakku’s tits, they were right,” Tetsung muttered. “You’ve been too involved with the royals.”

  “Give me a moment—” Hana began. The first scream drowned her words.

  “No,” Sume gasped. She grabbed Goen’s shoulder. “With me now. Hurry.”

  Enosh had given her a blade. Sume wasn’t sure if it was a sword or a dagger—it was shorter than her arm, with a polished wooden hilt. Half of the blade was double-edged. She had refused it at first, arguing that she had no desire to learn to fight. He retorted with the idea that she could at least stab people with it if she had to.

  She tapped the blade now for comfort. She had not drawn it yet. The weight of the steel made her queasy; a Jin-Sayeng where people kept hidden blades was not the Jin-Sayeng her father had dreamed of, or so she had been told. Was it not why he backed the Ikessars and their promises of peace in the first place? Ichi rok Sagar had disagreed, at least as far as the hidden blades were concerned. He often called Goro an idealistic bastard.