by Jane Baskin
As the officer exchanged his rifle for the more primitive but vicious crossbow, aimed, fired. As the arrow flew straight, found its mark. Right between her eyes.
“Ania!” Ilia-te’s scream, heard throughout the hall, upstairs on the balcony, through the corridors beyond. A scream like Death’s own harpies, swooping down to scoop up another soul.
Ilia-te, rushing to her fallen friend. Gathering the corpse into her arms. Tears flowing like rivers. Her own gifts, obscured by sudden sorrow. The agony of losing her friend. The forgetting … sadly, all too effective at this moment.
Ilia-te’s strong mind: suddenly filled with mud.
Dar-agan, rushing to join her. Knowing nothing, of course. Nothing of the secret she had kept from him all these years. Not knowing she could have saved them; saved her friend; if only she had done what she had sworn never to do.
As the officer raised the crossbow again.
Ilia-te, turning her head to look at him.
Dar-agan, following her gaze.
Taking her hand.
So that it would always be said, that the Lord and Lady of Cha-ning died, as expected, for love.
Southern soldiers, running to the scream. From corridors above, from the courtyard. Hacking their way through defenders. Into the great hall.
Where the man with the crossbow took careful aim, violated his orders to bring them to Darleigh alive, and shot each one in the head, in turn.
Nayan and Zoren-te, arriving just after the soldiers left.
Once the Lord and Lady were dead … no point, really. The expedition commander: calling a retreat. All surviving southern soldiers: back on ganthas; on foot. Away through the meadow, toward the border. Avoiding the train; no time to wait. Making for Sauran City, where they could find transport over the border, over the equator.
Not even bothering to take the heads. In summer – would rot to pieces long before they reached Darleigh. Even on the train.
Not even chased. Just three young people, enraged, following some of the rereating soldiers. A few invaders, falling dead in bizarre fashion, gray matter leaking out of their noses, blood from their eyes.
But the main company of terrorists, just going. No cavalry on their heels. Let them go. Just … go.
Nayan and Zoren-te, racing up on their hard driven ganthas, hours too late. Greeted by wailing for the dead, the moans of the wounded. Nayan, bounding off his gantha before it had even stopped. Racing on foot through the courtyard, through the vestibule. Knowing. Bursting into the great hall like a terrible storm.
No. There.
Seeing Che, Colwen, their father. Others. A few physicians. Gathered in a little knot over three bodies.
The arrows: removed now, thankfully. Now all three, looking peaceful, but for the dark red spots on their foreheads. No doubt: they had faced their executioner. Met him eye to eye.
Ania-te, not angry any more. No longer so troubled. Mother and Father, just sleeping. Almost smiling, as they often did, in their sleep.
Nayan, kneeling beside them. Taking their hands. Holding, then kissing them. Meeting, just for a moment, Che’s eyes. Red, them. Slow tears leaking out of the corners, making little trails down his face.
No words. Not even thoughts.
No need, really.
Then just looking at Mother and Father.
Lying shoulder to shoulder. Soft, now. All over, now.
20. No Other Choice, Right?
Piecing it together, after the fact.
No such viciousness seen in raids … not in hundreds of years. And this: not exactly a raid. Out of season. Out of time.
Out of belief.
Villagers, gathering together to mourn, to bury the dead. The injured, installed in the basement medical clinic. This, now full to bursting. Many injuries: horrific. Physicians making the dying comfortable, until the moment came for them.
Priests, coming from the town. Praying over the dead and dying. Praying over fresh graves.
While Nayan had a line message sent to Noar, still at Aurast. And then sat down in the great hall, just sitting; with the young people left after the misery. Zoren-te, by his side. Line messages already sent to Vel. No answer, of course. She: as yet spared the understanding that she was the last of her line.
Someone – who? – mentioning quietly to Nayan. “You’re the lord, now.”
Nayan, barely listening.
What difference does it make? What difference does it make?
If there were never another Lord of Cha-ning, if Cha-ning itself dropped into the roiling sea beyond its foundation … what difference would it make?
The way of pain: searing so hot one is insensible at first. Nayan, not able to move, to feel, to recognize anything for that first day. Only – here and there – Zoren-te. Her soft hand, on his shoulder; his neck. Her scent brushing his face when she reached across him for a mug of tea. The fall of her hair, swirling copper registering in the back of his mind. Just.
The next day: Noar, roaring over the blood-stained but cleared wooden bridge on a gantha ridden almost to death. Bounding off its back before it was fully stopped. Into the great hall.
Stopping in his tracks, then. At the sight of the castle/village’s residents, in groups around the hall. The young people, gathered in a tight knot near the unused fireplace. At the middle, his brother.
This: really his brother? Noar: had never seen him so. Nayan’s tall frame, bent like an old man in his chair. His head, slumped forward on his chest. His long hair hanging in strings, partly obscuring his face.
Noar, appearing before Nayan. Unnoticed. On impulse, crouching before him. “Nayan. Brother. Nayan.”
Nayan, slowly lifting his head. Meeting Noar’s eyes. Holding the gaze for a few moments, then seeming to snap awake. “Noar.”
“I’m here. What – what in all heavens – ?”
Nayan, unable to shed a tear since finding his parents. Since giving the undertakers permission to carry them away, prepare them for burial. Since seating himself by the empty fireplace, sinking into the heavy wood chair. Since letting out a terrible sigh, then shutting down. Like he was dead. Like his soul had picked up its skirts and danced right out of his body. Blinking, now and then, at Zoren-te’s touch. But otherwise: not speaking. Not eating or drinking. Not even getting up for a piss.
Now, looking into his brother’s darkly blue eyes: something shifting inside of him. Like an earthquake of the spirit. Nayan, coughing at first. Then … breaking. Just cracking, like a wave against rock. One crafty tear, leaking out of his left eye. Then shutting his eyes quickly, putting his hand to them … stopping the tears of course, but the sorrow: not a chance.
Noar, filled in on details later. By Colwen’s father, himself in grief. By hordes of villagers. By the physicians in the clinic.
By the undertaker, when he went to see his parents. “They faced their murderer, Noar. They were shot in the forehead. They were looking him straight in the eye.”
Small comfort, that. “Did they get the killer?”
The undertaker, just shaking his head. “Pick a corpse, there’s plenty of them. A few with crossbows, they still use them, the bastards. Thrill of the kill, I suppose. But we’ll never know which one it was. Maybe he rode away with the others.”
Noar, walking stiffly, out of the undertaker’s establishment. Had only been able to look at his parents for a moment. When the undertaker pulled back the cover from his mother’s face, felt like his air had been cut off. A flash of vertigo. Had to look away.
So pale! Her skin, gray in death. Not that look of a new rose his mother had always shown in her face. Noar, just able to keep himself together long enough to walk outside, mount his gantha, ride to the end of the village road.
Then vomited, all over the gantha’s neck.
Back at Nayan’s rooms: “Do we have any word from Vel? What in all hells happened here?”
Nayan, shaking his head. “No one’s answering from Vel. I have a bad feeling about it. Of course, he knew. Darl
eigh was moving on Vel when we left.”
“Darleigh? Usurping Vel?”
Nayan, motioning for Noar to lower his voice. Indicating with a nod that Zoren-te was sleeping (he hoped) in the bedroom beyond. “Shh. Don’t wake her. She’s so worried the doctor had to give her a sleeping draught. But yes, I think Darleigh moved against Vel. Word is, he’s wanted it for a long time. Vel tried to negotiate some sort of ceasefire down there. Gwildan took advantage of it and attacked Darleigh directly. Sansea too. Darleigh got his family away, but just. Vel captured Gwildan single handedly, and they killed him. But not before Gwildan let them know we healed him and hid him here.”
“Gods alive, Nayan. Darleigh must blame us for Gwildan’s return.”
“He does. He told me so. This … this is Darleigh’s work. I’d stake my life on it. I saw him conferring with a commander at arms back at Vel, just before troops rode out toward the train. That’s how they got here. They came all the way by train.”
“You saw them?”
“I did.”
“All gods, Nayan! Why didn’t you warn our family?”
“Darleigh made his plans carefully, Noar. We tried to get a line message out, but armed guards wouldn’t let us into the room. Even when Zoren tried to pull rank on them. That’s when we knew things weren’t right. When they wouldn’t acknowledge the authority of the Lady of Vel. I knew she was in danger, too. We snuck out in a hurry. Tried to send line messages from the southern train, from Sauran City. But each time, it wasn’t possible. Like … like this was just meant to be.”
Noar, collapsing into a chair heavily. Staring at the empty fireplace, as if it could talk. Shaking his head. “This wasn’t a raid, Nayan. There’s never been a raid like this. This was vengeance.”
Nayan, just nodding. Didn’t have to be told. Knew it.
Silence, for a few moments.
Noar: “Those miserable southern bastards. There aren’t any words for that kind of filth. We try and try to stay out of their gods forsaken wars, and they bring them to us anyway. We beat back their raids, but they keep on coming.”
Noar looked up, straight at Nayan. His stare, piercing. Nayan met his eye.
“Listen to me, Nayan. This can’t go unanswered. Our parents are dead. Colwen’s mother is dead. So many of the villagers … we can’t stay out of their war now.”
Nayan, returning his gaze to the fireplace, but nodding slowly. “You’re right, Noar. I know we’ve had our differences but this time … you’re absolutely right. The South can’t be allowed … I’ll fire every gell field we’ve got, and stuff the ash up their southern asses, before I let this go unanswered.”
So you see, it’s war. This will just go on and on.
I think not. The gene will out. You’ll see.
You’re impossible! This is a C2 civ, nothing more. They will fight and kill and grow and fight and kill until they wipe themselves out.
Except, old friend … except. Except for the gene.
I disagree. The gene isn’t spread widely enough. And look – even those we know have it, have vowed for war!
They have, yes. But all civilizations make war. The ones with the gene … survive it. If they accept it … if they use it correctly. You know this, my old friend. We’ve had our own wars. And the gene brings them to a decisive end.
You really think it’s that widespread.
Throughout the northern cap, yes.
But most of the population lives south of that! The so-called south is the larger region!
There are the northern cities.
But we don’t know about them.
(smile) Have a little faith then, old friend. Have hope.
So much grief; waves of the stuff. Dozens of funerals a day. Dar-agan, Ilia-te and Ania-te buried on the same day. The little village cemetery: had to be expanded. Black flags flying from every roof, the castle turrets. Rags tied onto tree branches. Even the lashigah trees at the forest edge, not protesting the strips of black tied to their elegant branches.
Something dark over the land. Clouds hovering, holding the summer humidity down, a heavy weight on those still breathing. People everywhere sneezing, coughing. Like drawing breath was difficult.
Lords from the other northern provinces, staying at the castle. Cousins and other relatives, coming in from all over the North.
No such time of mourning, in hundreds of years. In millennia.
Almost a week after the attack, word from Sauran City. From a villager’s relative, studying at one of the universities.
As if there could be any more misery.
The South is rampaging. The entire house of Vel has been murdered, including young children. Whereabouts of the youngest daughter unknown. Gwildan’s head is on a pike. Vel’s head is on a pike next to Gwildan’s. The official word is that peasant spies killed Vel and his family in retribution for Gwildan. Armies of Vel and Darleigh responded by wiping out the main force of the peasant army camped between the two keeps.
Zoren-te, advised of the message by Nayan.
Alone, in their rooms. Sat her down by the fireplace. She: knowing what was coming, of course. Faced Nayan bravely. Took the terrible news like a soldier.
“My young nephews?”
“Gone.”
A flash of anger. No peasant spies murdered my family.
I know, love. I know.
Darleigh. That filth.
Yes.
Looked at her feet for a few moments. Then rose. “I’d like to see the sea.”
Standing on the cliffs with Nayan. The sea, as ever, rolling in giant gulps to crash on the rocks, only slightly gentled by summer. Now, a small strip of beach visible at the base of the cliffs. Zoren-te, a wild impulse to jump down there. To spread her arms wide like a sea bird; jump into the air, coast on the currents, land on the shore. Only lasted a minute. Then her head, slumping forward toward her chest.
Nayan, putting his arms around her from behind. His head on her head.
Stood there for quite a while. Long enough for the sea to imbed its harsh music into their heads, their entire bodies.
Eventually, Zoren-te: turning inside his embrace. Burying her head in his chest. Breathing softly; still no tears.
Returned through the too-quiet castle corridors to his rooms. Standing – just standing – in the anteroom, looking at the floor. Why were there no words? No tears? Grief, like a third person in the room; but still: no words. What to say? What language could possibly convey such feelings?
Nayan, moving cat-like into her space. Enveloping her, suddenly, in a tight hug.
Moving them both into the bedroom.
Where their bodies spoke the words their tongues could not find. Where things that live outside of words swept up from their bellies into their mouths, desperately moving onto each other’s mouths, onto their necks. Where their hands roamed flesh, to speak in another voice. Where all sorrow was, for that moment, drowned in passion whose sole mission was to beat back death.
Only when they were spent, did the tears come. Beginning at the moment they exploded into a weird mix of ecstasy and pain, showering them with release that went on until, for fear of drowning, they were granted the ocean of tears; then the mercy of sleep.
Dinner, that night – as all the nights since the attack – a quiet affair. The hall, still full, maybe fuller than ever. Villagers, needing each other’s company, perhaps more than usual. Survivors, constantly checking to be sure they were still alive. Constantly counting their numbers. Counting the missing ones. People coming in from surrounding villages. From Rhymney. From Aurast.
At the long table where Dar-agan and Illia-te used to sit: now the Lords of the North. Nayan, Noar; Zoren-te. Lord Gan and Lady Jiren-te, of Aurast. Lord Augan and Lady Kir-ye of Rhymney; sub-lords of the Clan Chani. And around the hall: other clan members from all over the north. Many members of Clan Aurast. Most of the extended family and remaining aristocrats of the North.
All, wearing the black of mourning.
And afte
r the meal, elders asking to confer with Nayan … as he knew they would.
Meeting in the library. Privately. The necessary words that Nayan still did not want to hear: “You’re the lord, now.”
Wanting to shout that he didn’t feel like a lord. Didn’t want to be a leader, the voice of wisdom, perhaps of restraint. Didn’t want to quash his raw feelings in a cloak of rational thought that would be his constant companion until he, too, gave up the title with his life. Wasn’t ready.
Wasn’t ready.
But Augan, reminding him of that for which he had been bred, had been raised. “You’re the lord now. People are waiting for your opinion.”
Heard his own words before being aware of speaking them. Like somebody else was saying what was in his mind. Like some other person, outside himself. “I move for war.”
See? I told you so.
Wait. Just wait.
Augan and Gan, their ladies: his elders. Technically, leaders of the North. But no voice of caution, now, as one might expect.
Feelings, oh. Running high, underneath the quiet, the hushed voices. Northerners, as wild as their climate, at heart. The tough character that allowed them to survive, unable to allow them to meet war with peace.
Not this time.
Messages arriving in bunches every hour, from Sauran City and other cities in the temperate zones. But even these, … conveying without doubt the need for the guiding opinion of the traditional lords.
If there were some split between city dwellers and the more northern, rural parts of the North … it held its tongue. Because the rural North was the backbone – the very soul – of the three northern provinces. The source of the gell that kept the North alive. The source of the many traditions that kept the North … itself.
So: no great surprise when the lords of the gell fields asked all northerners to prepare – quietly – for an action against the South. And no great surprise, when all agreed.
Munitions, pouring out of factories by the wagonload. Every able back and body into the effort. New factories now, in the cities. These too, belching out horrific instruments of war. And all of it, somehow kept quiet from southern spies.
