Finding Destiny

by Jean Johnson

  “Yes, the election process. You have an ... unusual method of selecting your kings and queens,” he observed under his breath. “No offense is meant, but it is unusual.”

  “We’d never have gotten everyone behind a single candidate for leadership, otherwise. Guildara survived the chaos of having Mekhana crumble and dissolve because the guilds have a very strong presence here in the southern mountains. Not even the priesthood could penetrate the full depths of our secrets—that’s how people like Gabria survived,” Marta revealed. “We figured out how to hide them and their abilities. But as I was saying, the guilds would never have agreed to a single representative, unless the Gods Themselves decreed it. Which, when I pointed that out, made undeniable sense to everyone.

  “So we agreed each guild would put forth a candidate, who would then petition our chosen Goddess, and let Guildra decide who is the most fit to lead us. And, to make things fair, the petitions would happen once every five years, the same as the term of service for each guildmaster,” Marta told him. “It was just building further on a system that was already there, and thus everyone could grasp how it would all work. Bad leaders could be ousted at the end of their term, and good leaders could be retained.”

  “So your guild put you forward as a candidate, and Guildra selected you?” Zeilas surmised.

  The corner of her mouth quirked up. “Hardly. I was just the idiot child who figured out how we should pick our leader, rather than waste years bickering uselessly from inter-guild politics. I ended up being the event organizer for the great Convocation of Leadership, to prevent that from being turned into another round of endless committee meetings.”

  “Sir Orana pointed out during the Knights’ Convocation just a month ago that most kingdoms cannot be successfully run by a committee,” Zeilas admitted. “She said the only land she knew of that could be run by a committee was both isolated and well protected against invasion, which gave them the leisure to argue matters to death. Most other lands don’t have the luxury of time for endless debate.”

  “Sounds like she was secretly listening in on our inter-guild meetings—I met her once,” Marta added, lifting her hand and examining the pad of her thumb. She tilted it toward Zeilas. “I even signed her petition book with my own blood. Most guilds, we circulated our own books, once our ancestors realized she truly meant to help us. We saved them up for when she’d sneak back in for another visit. It was ten or so years ago that she last came through Durasburg, where I grew up, but I signed it. When she left, I didn’t hold any hope that we’d see the False God removed from power in my lifetime ... but we did. She’s one Arbran Knight everyone in Guildara will trust, for that reason alone. People like Sir Catrine ... well, there’s reason for caution and wariness on both sides.”

  “She’s new to politics. After hearing Envoy Jellis explain why your people wanted instruction in spellcrafting, King Tethek sent her straight from one of our top Mage Academies. She is good at explaining the basics. She’s just ... not trained as an envoy,” Zeilas hedged. “Every Knight undergoes some instruction in things like negotiation and foreign etiquette, but not everyone has an aptitude for diplomacy.”

  “No, they don’t,” Marta agreed. Since they had reached the next set of machines, the platforms balanced on tall, jointed pillars, she gestured at them. “These are the hexaleg troop transports. I understand ‘hex’ means something different in Arbran, something to do with magic, but in Guildaran, it’s just an old word for ‘six.’ Being machines, they weren’t built with spellcasting abilities, obviously. Six legs give them a great deal of stability over a variety of terrain, much more than four. They only have trouble going over swampy or muddy ground, or loose gravel and sand.”

  “I wouldn’t mind seeing them in action one day—in a peaceful demonstration, of course,” Zeilas demurred. For a moment, both sides of her mouth quirked up, then settled back into that one-sided smile. “Anyway, you were telling me how you were chosen to lead?”

  “Yes, well, as I said, I ended up organizing the whole thing. I wasn’t even paying any attention when She Manifested—instead, I was busy encouraging everyone else present to focus on the thought of Guildra, and on the qualities She should consider when selecting our best leader.” Marta shrugged, flicking a hand expressively. “All the candidates were up at the front of the amphitheater, with the expectation She’d Manifest there, select one of them to be the leader, and that would be that. The various guilds would grumble but deal with it, and we’d happily become a kingdom.

  “I was on the upper tiers, encouraging people to concentrate. The next thing I knew, someone tapped me on the shoulder, I turned around, and there She was. She looked at me, said, ‘If you can put this into motion, and make them all agree, you can pull this nation together, and make it strong. Now go do it,’ and then She vanished.” Marta shrugged, spreading her mostly clean hands. “If Her reasons hadn’t been heard by everyone else, if I hadn’t had the crown Manifest on my head the moment She spoke, there might have been trouble. But there it was. Everyone had agreed to the system, they didn’t disagree at Her choice, and so here I am. Consul-in-Chief.”

  “Were you a member of a guild before all of this began?” Zeilas asked, remembering how she hadn’t actually answered that question.

  “I started out in the Clockworks Guild, but then was requested to work for one of our guard captains. He needed someone good at organizing things in Precinct Logistics ... which I’ll admit gives me an advantage of understanding how to protect Guildara, as well as provision her.” She eyed him and quirked the opposite side of her mouth in a half smile more wry than amused. “Which means yes, I was in the Mekhanan military. But not as a soldier. Women weren’t allowed to fight, though we did fill many of the support roles. Particularly if we presented ourselves as gender neutral as possible and deferred to men whenever a priest was around.

  “The False God’s patriarchal egotism took a bad beating from your female Knights over the last two hundred years. Once we were free, the women voted to fight to retain that freedom, right alongside our men. And while we now have mandatory Precinct service for everyone, it’s limited to a set number of days per year, and no one has to be a Guardsman for the rest of his or her life. And no more whippings or hangings if you desert.

  “Nowadays, most of our fines and punishments are money driven. If you can’t pay it, or your family or your guild, you labor for the kingdom for a set period of time,” Marta told him, sweeping her hand out expressively as she talked. “Right now, it’s all indoor work, mostly refurbishing the old, defaced temples into new ones for Guildra, or crafting public artworks and facilities, or working in the hospices to care for the old and the injured. When the weather clears up, it’ll be road-building and major construction work ... including the wings of the palace. We just have the main section up, what we could get done in a year. Your quarters are small compared to what we have planned for next year, but as comfortable as we could make them.”

  “I look forward to seeing them. What are these things for?” Zeilas asked her as they reached the towering iron giant and his equally huge mallet. Behind him in a wing of the motorbarn, the Knight could see smaller versions. Each was still four or five times the size of a flesh-and-blood man, but all were crafted from painted metal. And each one was in some stage of construction, or perhaps reconstruction was a better term for it.

  “Constructive retrofitting,” was her succinct, if mysterious reply. At a glance from him, Marta elaborated. “We’re removing the personnel cannons and replacing them with construction tools. The cannons can be reinstalled in case of war, but we’d rather turn our motorguards into constructor suits. Diggers and pushers, sawers and drillers, everything from mining to lumber work, ditch-digging to frame-lifting. Particularly construction work. One of these larger motormen can lift several tons of stone or steel on its own, and even the little ones can lift half a ton without straining any gears.

  “There are tenement buildings in Heiastowne, the city ju
st beyond the palace grounds, which are literally in danger of falling down, they’re that badly in need of repair. If it didn’t glorify the False God, it wasn’t considered important. Half of all Guildarans live in what other lands would call hovels and slums. We’re changing all of that,” she murmured, the near side of her mouth quirking up with a hint of pride. “The fuel is expensive to process, but it frees up so many people to work on other projects, it’s really made a huge difference in how fast and how far we’ve come.”

  Someone yelled and another chunk of metal dropped with a startling clang, making both of them jump. It had fallen nearby, reminding Zeilas they were indeed in a construction zone. Leading the way across the broad floor, away from further dangers, Marta brought him back to the ranks of motorhorses. Sir Catrine was busy sketching something on one of her miniaturized slateboards, with Gabria nodding and taking notes of her own in a blank-paged book. Both women looked up at their approach.

  “So ... What’s the prognosis on my motorhorse?” Marta asked.

  “We should have it warded and ready for testing by morning,” Gabria stated, lifting the book in her hands. “Catrine’s already given me a dozen ideas on how to fix the problem of shielding the fuel barrel without running into problems from impact-induced overheating.”

  “Good. Thank you, Sir Knight,” Marta added, nodding at the woman on the ground. “I’ll leave you in Gabria’s hands then, and escort Sir Zeilas back to the palace. If you don’t mind us leaving, that is?” she asked Zeilas.

  “Catrine?” he asked.

  She glanced down at her slate, then over at the sub-Consul for the Mage’s Guild. “Milady Gabria learns quickly, and has some good ideas ... but all the mages in Guildara lack certain basic instruction. We could easily be here most of the day, discussing pure theory.”

  “Try to save the pure theory for a classroom,” Marta directed both of them. “Get the fuel shielded, produce results that can be demonstrated to Gabria’s fellow guildmates, and earn their cooperation. The sooner, the better. We know our people are undertrained, but they’ve had too many years of mistrusting outsiders. The sooner you can show that you’re earnest about helping them, the sooner they’ll open up and accept that help.” She paused, then switched to Arbran. Accented and not exactly grammatically correct, but Arbran all the same. “There be a number of our fellows who doubt your sincere self toward peace, all you Arbrans. Sharing your magical secrets to us is proof you will help. Such things build trust. Trust builds peace. Not to abuse it is very good, yes?”

  “... Understood,” Catrine murmured. In Mekhanan. Her accent and grammar were much better. “I’ll see what I can do to help, as you suggest. And I’ll test one of these ... machine-horses personally. Provided my Steed doesn’t object, of course.”

  “He shouldn’t. These aren’t even real horses,” Zeilas pointed out. “Just don’t overwork yourselves trying to get things right.”

  “I’ll have her back in time for supper,” Gabria promised.

  Nodding, Marta gestured for Zeilas to join her in working their way back out of the cavernous, somewhat crowded building. “What was that about her ‘Steed’ objecting?”

  “Some Steeds get offended at the thought of their Knights riding any mount other than themselves,” Zeilas explained. When the far corner of her mouth quirked up in a bemused look, he knew he had lost her. “Our mounts are Goddess-blessed stallions. They are immortal, never born and never aging; they simply appear from the nearest forest when a Squire successfully summons one. You don’t know anything about how Knights are chosen, do you?”

  “Nothing, beyond that your Goddess has a hand in it,” she confessed, shrugging. “Everything we’d heard from the False priesthood involved demonic sacrifices of blood magic and pacts with the Netherhells. Naturally, most of us refused to believe them, since the False God kept claiming to be good, yet clearly was one of them. I am curious, though. How does someone end up as a Knight of Arbra? Are you just declared one, or ... ?”

  “It’s a lengthy process. Boys—and now girls, thanks to Sir Orana’s efforts at getting young women recognized for sponsorship a couple of centuries back—are tested and selected for that sponsorship, either by their family, their village, a noble household, or a local Knight. They go to an Academy for training above and beyond the usual reading and writing and figuring most children struggle to learn before heading off to follow some family trade. After six or so years,” Zeilas added, shifting to the side when he did, so that a pair of women could trundle a wheeled cart loaded with tools past the two of them, “those that wish to become more than a soldier or a bureaucrat can petition the Tree of Swords at the High Temple near High Hold, the capital of Arbra.”

  “Does your Goddess Manifest in person?” she asked.

  “Only rarely. If Arbora judges them worthy, She drops a sword at their feet. If not, they can join the government, or go back home and put their training to some good use. If they do receive a holy sword, then they go on to a Squire’s Academy for an additional year or two of training—more if they’re also a mage, though there are separate Mage Academies for training boys and girls who just want to be mages. But it’s in the Squire’s Academy that the chosen learn the additional skills of a Knight. After the first three months, the Squire sends out a special summons, and their Steed will appear.

  “Even if we have no tangible magic and cannot do so much as light a candle, all Knights are granted just enough power by Arbora to summon our Steeds, and to command horses during times of great need,” he told her. “Others, like Sir Catrine, spend most of their time training in the ways of both Knighthood and magecraft ... and as a consequence, don’t gain a lot of experience in other, more worldly subjects,” he finished wryly as they emerged from the motorbarn.

  The air was bright with early winter sunlight, and crisp with the cold air of the mountainous landscape cupping the broad valley around them. It was a far cry from the shimmering hot shores of Sundara far to the south. There hadn’t been any snow on the journey here, just bitter cold and the occasional chilly rain, but he’d been warned that snow could and would fall in the coldest depths of winter.

  Instead of golden sands and frond-topped palms, he was surrounded by dark evergreens and stone walls. Some of those walls belonged to the palace compound, situated on a slightly higher rise to the west, and some to the Palace Precinct fortress, where the motorbarn was housed. Those walls were necessary, with the northern border being so close, but it made him wonder about the location of their capital.

  “Milady Chief ...”

  “Marta, please. We’re not being formal at the moment,” she demurred.

  “Marta,” he allowed. “Why this valley? Why a spot next to Heiastowne? You said it yourself, this valley is awfully close to the northern border.”

  “Several reasons. It’s a rich town with several strong guilds. There are good quarries and mineral lodes nearby, plus coal mines and forests for lumber, which have made Heiastowne the center for stonecrafts, forgeworks, refineries, and other construction materials.” She gestured at the broad compound around them. Some of its features were little more than stakes and ropes outlining future buildings and paths between them. Others were actual buildings, either completed, or in the process of being completed. “The original fortress belonged to a priest-lord. We razed the main buildings and used the rubble as part of the outer defensive walls, and built up the palace on newly blessed foundations.

  “The promontory on which this palace compound was built is readily defensible, with a natural artesian spring for water, large plots of farmland for pastures and fields, a good sighting distance to detect approaching armies, and plenty of stone for the defensive walls. Heiastowne has similar defensive features, though instead of a spring, the wells pump up water from the underground river which feeds the spring. It’s also located on what passes for a reasonable trade road.

  “We don’t have actual roads connecting us to Sundara, Arbra, Aurul and the like, since your ancestor
s wisely dug them up and made them impassable for anything more than the smallest of caravans.” The near side of her mouth curved up, sharing her wry sense of humor about her country’s checkered past. “At least, not without cooperation on both sides.”

  “Maybe that will change,” Zeilas offered. “Peace offers far more opportunities for prosperity than war.”

  Marta nodded. “We’re hoping to put our knowledge of road-building to good use in reestablishing the old trade routes. Once we do, Heiastowne will become a major trade center, since it’s just about equidistant from our stable neighbors to the east, south, and west. As for the north ... we’re hoping everyone north of us will see how stable and prosperous we are, stop fighting each other, and ask politely to join. As two of the villages to the north have already done.” She wrinkled her nose. “I suspect it will take successfully dealing with this Warlord Durn to show the rest of the northlands that we can fight, and hopefully fight well, but aren’t interested in conquering anyone. That will gain us enthusiastic new citizens, and that’s far better for the kingdom in the long run than gaining a bunch of frightened, cowed subjects.”

  “A wise viewpoint, and a well-considered one. I’ll admit your roads are more level and better drained than ours, with far fewer ruts, too,” Zeilas said. “Our journey east was quite smooth, once we crossed the border and reached the first real road. I found them all the more impressive because you haven’t hired mages to make the work easier. At least, not in the past.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “We’re still trying to get comfortable admitting we have mages among us. I’ve worked hard on it—I have to be comfortable, to set a good example as Consul-in-Chief—but even I sometimes feel like some zealous False priest is going to overhear me say the M word.”

  That particular phrase had a different meaning in Arbra. Without stopping to think about it, Zeilas quipped, “What, marriage?”