by Erik A Otto
Timothur’s anxiousness returned. Preto’s tone had gone from friendly to stern in a hurry.
Preto continued, “I’m grateful that these two were apprehended, but after many weeks, I grow increasingly concerned about your reluctance to release these lecherous ingrates. And I’m not the only one, General. The monks are incensed, and the Great Defender is disappointed, to say the least, that you haven’t transferred these cretins to the monks for due process. You must understand that without cleansing the realm of these infidels, their stories propagate, and more depraved naustics and blasphemers will take up their cause, thinking there is no consequence. General, the monks are the hand of Matteo that will deliver this consequence for all to see.”
Preto came around the desk and placed his hand on Timothur’s shoulder. “I know it must be hard, with Vanaden’s passing. He was a mighty steward to the faithful of Belidor. But you tread down a path of blasphemy, a path of treason. You must release the infidels to the monks immediately.”
The Conductor’s words inflicted Timothur with a weight of guilt. It was true. He had been flustered and confused ever since Vanaden died. Maybe he hadn’t been making prudent decisions. Perhaps through harboring these infidels he was actually contributing to the pains the realm was experiencing.
Timothur was about to respond, but Preto wasn’t finished. “And with your judgement questioned, you bring a large force in close proximity to the keep. This raises even more questions, General. I doubt these questions have any grounding, yet I’m compelled to mention them because people are asking. People are asking if you are in league with these heathens, believe it or not. So you wanted my counsel, and I shall give it. I suggest you not only release the infidels, but also, if the Great Defender allows you to keep your command, march west, away from the keep. Expunge the vile smell of these infidels from your clothing, and from the ranks of your charges, and return when you have been properly cleansed, when you have Matteo’s proper blessing.”
Timothur could only nod and stare, absorbing the reprimand thoughtfully. He said, “Conductor, I…this perception is false, I assure you. I would never consort with heathens. But there are so many strange coincidences, and their tales are difficult to refute.”
“This is why they are Marked, General,” Preto said, nodding in understanding. “They can make you believe things that aren’t true. This is why their lies and blasphemy spread like a plague. Let us allow the monks to address this. They are the antidote for this poison that has inflicted the realm. Not a general who—while honorable—is not sufficiently savvy in the ways of duplicitous infidels.”
Timothur nodded his head. “Yes…yes, Conductor. I suppose so. Please forgive me.”
There was still one question the Conductor didn’t answer. Timothur felt he had to ask, even though it might seem pointless, even though he already felt obtuse. He asked quietly, almost shamefully, “And the garrison, Conductor? Can I aid you for the festival?”
The Conductor only shook his head patronizingly. “No, General. Think on your question. We cannot allow you and your men who smell of infidel into our holy festival. Please take your leave, and contemplate my words carefully. I’m confident you will take the right action here. After you deliver the infidels, take some time away to get perspective.”
“Yes, Conductor. Thank you, and praise Matteo.”
Timothur sat hunched over in Vanaden’s chair, running his fingers through his hair, staring at the dirt of the tent floor. He’d been sitting this way much of the afternoon since returning from the keep, trying to come to terms with the meeting with the Conductor.
“Get Hella,” he said.
“The Traitor, sir?” the guard inquired.
Timothur sighed. “Yes…the Traitor.”
Once the guard left, Timothur paced. He walked slowly across the room, hoping the slow cadence might help diminish the frenetic velocity of his thoughts. When she arrived, he sat on his desk and allowed himself to stare at her.
Her head was high and her chin was up. She must have been sleeping, for her hair was matted on one side, with several strands sticking out. It was the first time he’d seen her hair out of sorts. It made him smile.
“I hope this means good news, General.”
Timothur immediately felt guilty. “You can call me Timothur.”
She tilted her head at him ponderously.
“Guard, leave us,” he said.
The guard nodded and stepped out.
“Are we not going for a walk today, General?”
Of course she wouldn’t call him Timothur, but it no longer annoyed him when she disobeyed him.
“Not today, Hella, and for what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”
Hella’s face went dark. “So that’s it, then? You’re going to follow the herd into oblivion?”
Timothur couldn’t answer her. Yes, he could give her up for the good of the people, but he couldn’t make himself happy about it. He knew he would always wonder about her innocence. He had a duty…and he had agreed with the Conductor.
Hella watched him carefully. “You don’t seem to have your usual bravado today, General. Is there something that’s troubling you?”
Timothur snorted at the understatement, then just kept staring at her, looking at her up and down, trying to memorize every feature.
“Is it perhaps guilt? Because you know in your heart that what you’re doing is wrong?”
The comment angered Timothur, but he was in no mood to give in to his rage, nor did he feel like engaging in further debate. He just shrugged and absorbed the barb.
Hella was getting frustrated. “Can you at least tell me what happened?”
Timothur nodded. “Yes. I owe you that. I needed to know for sure that this talk of conspiracy was wrong. That’s why I haven’t given you and the Imbecile up. And that’s also why I moved the brigade all this way to the Old Keep. I went to speak to the Conductor today. I confronted him about the Cenarans and asked to garrison the keep with my men.”
Hella’s eyes went wide.
Timothur shook his head. “He told me he knew nothing of Cenaran plotting. He told me that the land is rife with terror and violence because of the infidels. He said that I’m letting the plague of blasphemy propagate by not giving you up. He said, in not so many words, that I would be committing treason if I retained you any longer. He wouldn’t garrison the Old Keep with my men. You see, I’m almost as low as you—contaminated by blasphemy. And then, when I arrived back at camp, I heard from the scouts that the Great Defender is personally coming to the Old Keep. He will be here soon.”
“Why would the Great Defender come?”
“There can only be one reason, Hella. He comes for me. He comes to take the infidels and relieve me of command.”
Her eyes remained wide.
“You should also know that I did send the scout to Ghopal, but he hasn’t returned yet. I fear that he won’t be back before the Internecion.”
“You did?” There was a subtle flicker in her eyes. She shifted on her feet for a moment. “What will you do, then?”
“I will give you to the monks on the morrow, and I will meet with the Great Defender to try to keep my station.”
Timothur expected Hella to anger then, to debate her innocence and the need for action as she usually did, throwing in insult and accusation. But she didn’t. She just looked…sad, profoundly sad.
Timothur had never been good at controlling his emotions. In this case, he couldn’t stop his eyelids from brimming. He couldn’t stop a solitary tear from unraveling down his right cheek. Another found its way from his left eye, and he angrily wiped at his face with his sleeve.
Hella still stood there, speechless, her expression a mixture of sorrow and wonder.
“There’s something else I should tell you, Hella. You…have a likeness to someone that I find overpowering. My late wife, she…you look like her. Your elegance, your grace, and your wit, you share those with her. You aren’t the same, but close. And I hoped tha
t you would have her heart as well, but I don’t know. I will never know. I have so little memory of her, and so I’m sorry, but I drink you up when I see you, so that I can remember what she looked like, every eyelash and curve and texture. Even if what I remember is you, I can see her in you, and that’s enough. I…I’m sorry for this. It’s not right, to look at one so greedily.”
Hella’s expression of wonder hadn’t changed. “What happened to her?” she asked.
Timothur’s face contorted, and his eyes filled again. “She died. She died giving birth to our child, before she even saw our beautiful Penelope…it was only me who saw her, who got to share her for those few precious moments, until she passed as well.” Tears streamed down his cheeks again, but he quickly wiped them away. He closed his eyes, sat up, and clenched his jaw, trying to force out the memory, trying to regain his composure.
When he opened his eyes, Hella was nearer to him. She reached out and felt the contour of his jaw, then touched his cheek where a tear had run its course. “You may be about to cast me out, General, but no matter what you decide, there’s a decent man in there. He hides under plotting and bluster, he is tarnished by the weight of responsibility, but he’s there—a caring, compassionate man. I can see him now, and he’s real.” And she kissed him ever so lightly on his cheek, on the trail of his tear. Then she stepped back and looked to the ground.
He wanted so much to hold her in his arms and kiss her, to take her into his tent for the night. Even just to stay and stare at her for another hour would be more than enough.
But she was an infidel, and no matter what he thought of her, she had to go to the monks for the good of the people. He would do this despite the fact that—in his heart at least—he was certain of her innocence. One could only play games for so long before being outed, and she had stopped playing games a long time ago. She was perhaps deluded, but she was sincere and had probably been framed.
“Hella, I feel the same about you. I hope you understand that I’m bound by my duty to the people. I think you must be innocent, but it’s not for me to decide.”
Hella looked up briefly, then looked down again. “That makes me sad, Timothur. Not just for me, though; for both of us, and for all of Belidor. I may die tomorrow or the next day, but I fear you will be dead not long after.”
Timothur could only nod, understanding, and agreeing to disagree.
“Guard,” he called out while looking at her one more time. She looked back at him, beautiful but despondent.
The guard came in. “Yes, sir?”
“Please take Hella back to her tent.”
“Yes, sir. Sir, you should know we received visitors while you were talking with the Traitor. There is a group of Fringe that have arrived. A man who calls himself Purveyor insists on talking with you immediately.”
A Purveyor? Could this be the man Timothur had mistakenly let go when he captured Hella? If so, what was he doing here?
“Yes, I will speak with him, but let’s keep him under close guard and be wary of him. Is he with another man dressed as Fringe? One with a Jawhari accent? I want him as well.”
The guard looked uncertain. “Sir, I…don’t know. He is with many other Fringe men. I would guess about two hundred, and they are armed.”
“Armed? Two hundred, you say?”
“Yes, sir.”
Timothur thought the Fringe only traveled in twos. What were two hundred armed Fringe men doing here? Was there no end to the string of heathens, naustics, and misfits who assailed him?
After some thought, Timothur said, “Fine. Bring this Purveyor to me, without these other men. Also, alert the First Regiment to prepare a defensive battery against these Fringe. And best get the Imbecile here as well, and let’s leave Hella—the Traitor—to stay for the discussion. Finally, I want all eight of today’s escort brought in to the tent to protect me. I’m not about to trust myself alone with two infidels and a Fringe Purveyor.”
“Yes, sir.” The guard saluted and left.
Timothur gave Hella a suspicious look. She raised her hands and said, “Don’t look at me. If I were to guess, you’re going to hear more about this Cenaran plot you say doesn’t exist before the day is out.”
Timothur had a nagging feeling she was right.
The Fringe man named “the Purveyor” told a story that wove in and out of the narrative of the infidels, and finally he concluded, “General, you must enter the Old Keep and prepare to defend it against the Cenarans.”
Timothur was up and pacing again. “What proof do you have of this supposed incursion? You must admit that stories of Cenaran hoards coming to Belidor sounds, on its face, to be a far-fetched traveler’s tale. I just asked the Conductor about this today, and he doesn’t believe it, so why should I?”
“The Day of Ascendancy sounded whimsical to us Fringe, and many of us didn’t believe it, but then it happened. Don’t you think it strange that many refuse to acknowledge the Internecion, the next of your storied prophecies, especially the Conductor? Like I told you, the Cenarans have landed in Niknak and are in the process of ravaging it. We have barely fled in time before they came with their beasts of war. The Internecion is upon us.”
“Again with these beasts of war, and yet I haven’t seen one. It only makes your story sound less credible. These are claims I cannot verify, and so in the realm of fantasy they will remain. No, Purveyor, I have heard enough stories about Cenarans. What I am asking for is proof.”
The Fringe man said, “You have seen one of these beasts, General. I know you have. Nala Réalla has given me the account.”
Timothur fumed. “What of it? Seeing one gargoyle doesn’t equate to an army of them led by Cenarans. The gargoyle I saw was actually quite docile. It made but a small scratch on the Truthseeker’s arm. I saw none of these other beasts you mention.”
The Fringe man’s shoulders slouched in exasperation. “Well, then, when have you seen two hundred armed Fringe men before? The answer is never. Is it not proof enough to have two hundred armed Fringe men willing to fight with you? This is testament to the desperation of this situation, especially because this is a breach of our Fringe doctrine, something that has been a source of pride for us for hundreds of years. If we don’t stem the Cenaran tide, we will all perish!”
It was so aggravating. Here was another heathen who was making frustratingly good points, but not enough to actually provide concrete proof of this Cenaran invasion. Were all infidels and heathens this way? He could see how people would be led astray.
The Purveyor was frustrated as well. “Why will you not listen? It makes me think…” He looked to Hella and the Imbecile.
Hella shook her head. “No, he’s not one of the traitors, I’m certain of it. He has no children, and I’ve gotten to know him. He wants to do the right thing. He just wants evidence, like he says.”
The Imbecile also said, “He is not his brother.”
Timothur yelled, “I’m right here in front of you! You speak as if I am an apparition. If you want to prattle on about my character, you may be better served by doing it elsewhere.”
The Purveyor said, “At this point, every minute counts, General. We have no time to talk elsewhere or later. We need to take action as soon as possible, and we need your help.”
There was a knock at the tent flap. The guard poked his head in. “Excuse me, General. I thought you should know. We have spotted a large host of cavalry coming out of Albondo toward the keep. It looks to be Pomerian, and it bears the sigil of the High Commander.”
Timothur threw his hands up. “Even more of you? I told that woman she was to never set foot in Belidor! How many?”
“I would estimate five hundred or so, all ahorse.”
Timothur’ pacing accelerated, while the others moved their legs to allow a wider berth for his movement.
“Thank you, guard. I will apprise you of any orders.”
The guard left again.
The Purveyor said, “Well, it seems like the Pomerians understa
nd the threat, General.”
Timothur pointed his finger into the Purveyor’s face, shining the Granth eyes. “Don’t get smart with me, Fringe. I know who drives this band of renegades. It seems all the princesses of Pomeria share the same capacity for delusion. Sometimes a sibling bond is stronger than reason.”
Hella said, “That may be true, sometimes…in sisters or in brothers.”
Timothur gritted his teeth, trying to subdue his rage. “Come now, Hella…I know Vanaden wasn’t the most charitable of commanders, but I can’t believe he was as cruel as you say.” Timothur looked to the Imbecile and feared he would do his mimicry, but he didn’t. Luckily he seemed to be distracted by rearranging himself, his hand grasping at his groin perversely.
The Fringe man said, “General, do you know why Darian grabs himself so? Do you know what your brother did to him?”
“I don’t care! And it won’t change my mind about a Cenaran invasion. Look at the situation we’re in. I’m being asked to defy my country and face charges of treason based on a story about an unlikely enemy. You base your arguments on varied accounts that share themes and, I admit, do concern me, but at the same time that neither I, nor Belidor, can act on without any hard evidence. And who tells me these stories? Who asks me to commit treason? A Marked infidel who killed my own brother, another Marked infidel accused of nearly causing a war with the Jawhari, and another Fringe heathen who I can only guess will be Marked in the days to come. Beyond this, your story about the Cenarans is based in large part on stories from another Marked man who is a notorious liar. What would you do in my place?”
The Purveyor looked chastened, but Hella stepped in. “There is also Nala, whom you forgot to mention, General. She is someone you know whose good heart is open for all to see. There is also my sister Aisha, who you discount simply because I came from the same loins as she did. There is also the Jailor of Kalianca, who, although homicidal, is a loyal servant to Jawhar and intends to influence his nation to take action. There are also Darian’s brothers, who aren’t as crazed as the stories make them out to be, especially because you know Darian is actually quite sane. All of these people, as well as the ones you mentioned, share our concern. Do you really think all these people are mad? Do you really think all of them are so naïve? There are two princesses, a high-level adviser to the Jawhari council, and a Purveyor included in that sum, hardly a slow or uneducated lot. These people have either seen with their own eyes, experienced the treachery directly, or know enough to trust their instincts. So don’t tell me what a Conductor, who knows none of these people, conveys to you. Tell us what you think, General Granth, in your heart. Tell us what you believe.”
