“Yes, she told me all that. But she said it was all your fault. I don’t understand. . . . What did she mean, Garpaban?”
“I do not know what she meant,” Jehan said. He could not finally bring himself to lay it all bare for the boy, it would be cruel to place the guilt on his shoulders. Someday perhaps he would come to understand the whole strange story. “Your mother just went mad,” Jehan said, “that’s all, she just went mad.”
Reluctantly, Jehandai nodded in acceptance. “She said something else to me, that morning afterward. She said again that you are really my father, not my grandfather. She’d been saying that for years, but I never knew what she meant. Why did she say that?”
“Your mother is mad,” the Emperor said softly. “Jehandai, your mother has been mad for a long time. She believed what she told you; but it was not true.”
“Then who was my father? No one has ever told me, except Maban’s saying it was you. Who was it then, really? Was it that farmer we lived with when I was little?”
“No. It was not Gadour Pasny.”
The boy felt at a loss. Why was this such a mystery? “Garpaban, do you know who my father was?”
“Yes, I do know.”
“Then please tell me. Whatever the truth is, please tell me, I’m old enough now to know, aren’t I?”
“Are you so sure you want to know? Once I tell you, Jehandai, the words can never be erased. You will have to live with them for the rest of your life.”
“I want the truth.”
“All right. I know who your father was. I’ve always known. I can never forget your father, and his face. His face I can see clearly stamped on yours, Jehandai.
“Your father was the man who tortured me in the dungeons of Ksiritsa. Your father was Nimajneb Grebzreh.”
Jehandai ran back to his own room, threw himself on his bed and gave himself over to uncontrollable tears. He was not even clear why he was crying, there was so much to cry about. How could everything have turned so bad so very suddenly? What would become of him now? His mother was gone, Golana was gone, and even his grandfather was cut off from him as surely as if he were dead. They were both so very much alone now. Jehandai cried for his grandfather, and cried for himself.
And Jehan began to know that Golana was dead and gone forever.
15
ON THE DAY that the news of the tragedy struck them, the stunned members of the Assembly had convened only to pass a resolution of mourning, and then hastily adjourned. Golana, a Tnemghadi after all, had never been a beloved figure to them. Scarcely did any of them realize that the Assembly itself had been born in that woman’s fertile mind. Nevertheless, the murder of the Empress and newborn heir shocked them near to bewilderment; and their compassion for Jehan was quite heartfelt.
That awful morning the Assemblymen had neglected to set the time when they would reconvene. Indeed, now they were in a quandary whether to resume their sessions at all. They still possessed a powerful sense that they had no authority save what Jehan vouchsafed, and with the Emperor so crushed by tragedy, who knew what his attitude might be? Certainly President Taddhai was reluctant to call the Assembly back together on his own, lest it infuriate Jehan. Many of the members were considering quietly departing for their homes, and not disturbing the poor ruler in his time of misery.
For five days following Golana’s funeral, the Assembly members bided their time in Naddeghomra, wondering what, if anything, they ought to do. And then, on the sixth day, proclamations were to be seen posted throughout the city: Upon the order of Jehan himself, the Assembly was to reconvene at once.
Trepidatiously they obeyed; and when they returned to their benches on The Maal’s plaza, there was the Emperor Jehan, occupying his usual seat to observe the deliberations.
He sat as always, his hand pensively upon his chin, saying nothing, only watching and listening closely. To all appearances, nothing had changed; it was impossible to ever guess what thoughts were concealed behind his mutilated mask of a face.
The debate resumed just where it had left off, albeit without its previous jaunty verve. Decorum reigned as never before. Those who did open their mouths spoke in somber tones, careful to introduce not the slightest note of levity. No one dared mention the Emperor’s name, nor dared to look openly in his direction. But more than ever, he was the brooding omnipresence shadowing every word of the debate. Out of the comers of their eyes, all of the delegates watched him anxiously. They watched him as though he were a capricious god upon whose sufferance they existed shakily, as though he would sweep them away at any moment.
Little did these peasants and shopmen imagine that at this moment, there was nothing in the world more precious to Jehan than their Assembly. Indeed, but for this Assembly, there was little in the world giving him cause to remain in it.
What he had held most dear was demolished; yet the Assembly was a living piece of Golana that had escaped the bloody knife. Their son, Golan, was destroyed, but their child, the Assembly, survived.
Quietly, from his shaded chair, Jehan Henghmani watched the delegates debate. More faithfully now than ever, he attended the sessions. Nothing, not the most pressing matters, could draw him away. In order to attend the Assembly from morning to dusk, it was necessary to devote half the night and more to all the other tasks required of him, and Jehan slept little. The regimen suited him well. By day he allowed the Assembly to absorb him, and by night, the work of rulership. Never did he permit himself a free moment, never did he allow his mind to wander; and when he staggered to his bed in a stupor of exhaustion, he would sleep as though drugged, and would endure no nightmares. Only in this way could he manage to live outside of his own tragedy; only in this way could he manage to live at all.
Sitting quietly, Jehan watched the delegates debate with an unstinting dedication that amazed them. This was his vigil of mourning: a vigil to honor the memory of great Golana, whose loss he could not dare allow his mind to dwell upon, and yet whose loss consumed his every waking moment—and it was a vigil too of honor for the great child she had left behind.
It soon became evident that the six months which Jehan had originally allotted to the Assembly’s session was quite inadequate. As the half year neared a close, the delegates had only begun to hammer out the laws, but they were becoming increasingly exhausted and homesick. President Taddhai proposed that the Assembly adjourn, so that its members could return home and report back to the people. Then, in another half year, they would reassemble to continue their work.
Taddhai’s proposal met with immediate approval; but one of the members rose to suggest that the people be given an opportunity to elect new delegates if they wished. After some debate, this motion was carried overwhelmingly. The delegates also voted that the elections be made permanently annual, and that henceforward, the Assembly would meet every year at Naddeghomra on the twentieth of Elalbatar.
On the final day of the session, President Taddhai turned the podium over to the Emperor. As promised, Jehan had scrupulously refrained from injecting himself into the Assembly’s debates throughout the six months. He had attended the meetings only as an observer, and had worked closely with Taddhai in making useful suggestions. Now at the Assembly’s close he allowed himself to take the platform a second time to address the delegates. His speech was brief and to the point:
“I thank you, and the people who sent you here thank you for your mighty labors over these last six months. The hopes and expectations embodied in the Decree of the Twenty-fourth of Okhudzhava have been more than fulfilled. And the hopes of the people who sent you have been more than fulfilled.
“Your work here was done for the everlasting good of the people of Urhemma, and for people everywhere throughout the world, now and for as long as people may inhabit this earth. What you have done will stand as one of the great milestones in Mankind’s history—as one of the most triumphant steps forward in Mankind’s never-
ending struggle for freedom and for dignity—yarushkadharra.
“You can be justly proud of these six months. All our people can take pride in them, and Sainted Urhem would take pride in this Assembly as his true legacy. The code of laws that you have written, guaranteeing the rights of the people against tyranny and oppression, is a monument to the sanctity of human life.
“You have labored long and well; but your decision to reconvene this Assembly is a wise one. For there are more laws to be written, more rights to be secured, more injustices to be corrected. The liberty of our people remains threatened by forces both within and without, and it will require ever-tenacious vigilance to safeguard that precious liberty.
“You have made a great, bold start; may the challenge that you have taken up be never again laid down!”
The second Urhemmedhin National Assembly convened at Naddeghomra on the twentieth of Elalbatar, 1189. But in contrast to the jubilation that attended the commencement of the first Assembly, the newly elected delegates gathered here under a dark cloud of agitation and apprehension.
As Jehan had obliquely noted in his last address, and as many of his ministers had argued all along, the Tnemghadi threat had never been neutralized. The Emperor Sarbat was still intent upon someday reconquering the South, and the past few years had been marked by a continual sniping at Urhemma’s frontiers. Battles continued to be fought, and Urhemmedhin soldiers continued to lose their lives.
In the month of Dorotbt, 1189, a sizable Tnemghadi force entered Diorromeh Province and soon chalked up a victory, killing or capturing most of a two-thousand-man Urhemmedhin division. Those taken prisoner were bound hand and foot, and thrown into a river to drown. Then the invaders headed straight for Anda Lusis.
This, despite being traditionally the provincial capital, was not a great city. It had no wall and was not particularly well defended. The Tnemghadi army struck Anda Lusis like a brigand gang pillaging a country town.
And yet, they were ruthlessly methodical about it. Once the town was under their control, they systematically rounded up all the adult males they could find, and massed them in the public square. Finally, these unarmed civilians were set upon by the Tnemghadi troops and butchered, almost as though for sport. The death toll from this single atrocity alone was more than three thousand.
And thousands more lost their lives in the sacking and burning of the town.
Intending only a quick raid, the Tnemghadi headed swiftly back to their northern sanctuary; on their way, they stopped long enough, however, to destroy two small villages. By the time the Urhemmedhin army was able to mobilize against the threat, the raiders had fallen back across the border.
Anda Lusis was still in flames as the second Assembly met on the twentieth of Elalbatar. It was with a somber unanimity that the delegates reelected Razhak Taddhai to the presidency; Taddhai was a native of the afflicted province.
As one dispatch from the North followed another, each detailing more vividly the horrible extent of the raid, it became the Assembly’s sole topic of discussion. That the invaders had quickly retreated was scant comfort; nor was the incident viewed as an isolated one. It seemed clear that the Bergharran Empire would never permit Urhemma to exist in peace.
Gaffar Mussopo, the Minister of War and Foreign Affairs, was renewing his agitation for a northern invasion. Only by subjugating the Tnemghadi, he argued, could Urhemma be safe, and the other ministers in The Maal were virtually unanimous in supporting him. Jehan found himself besieged with advocates of war; scarcely could he confer with any official without being implored to take up arms against the Tnemghadi.
The Assembly too was a hotbed of sword-rattling. Razhak Taddhai preached calm and moderation, and tried to return the delegates to their legislative agenda. But it was no use. Speaker after speaker rose to excoriate the Tnemghadi and call for a bloodbath of reprisal. A small minority followed Taddhai in holding out against the warhawks, and the debate entered a bitterly divisive phase.
These developments were anathema to Jehan. More opposed to invasion than ever, he violently said so whenever the subject was raised. He believed that full-scale war would be a tragic mistake, and he had no stomach for it. Instead, what he wanted dearly was to see the Assembly one day complete the law code.
But the Assembly itself was no longer interested in making laws, and was moving swiftly toward making war. And Jehan pondered: should he stop it?
Day and night he wrestled with his conscience, agonizing over this decision. Deeply as he loathed the prospect of war, he had sworn an oath to uphold the integrity of the Assembly. Never had he interfered with its acts, and he had deliberately allowed the Assembly to take ultimate political authority into its hands. It was Golana’s memorial: an assembly of the people, freely chosen and governing free of autocracy’s specter.
But now it was screaming for blood, for the subjugation of another people. Jehan wept at the perversion that was gripping his child, the Assembly.
But should he intervene? He realized the war-hawks were not completely without sense. The rape of Anda Lusis was a ghastly outrage, and it would not be the last. Moreover, the Tnemghadi were overripe for conquest. So deeply had their fortunes plummeted that unless the Urhemmedhins took over, quite possibly the Akfakh would instead. Weighing too in the balance was the possibility that the Assembly’s hysteria could not be quenched even by Jehan. To intercede and fail would be a humiliating repudiation.
Yet he knew in his heart they were wrong! Jehan, who had unleashed so much war and violence, felt powerfully compelled to make up for it now by holding tight the rein on peace.
Endlessly he paced through the hallways of The Maal, assailed with indecision. What would Golana have counseled? If only she were here! Jehan went on his knees before the statue of humble Urhem in the great tower, but received no sign here either. Then Jephos Kirdahi burst in upon him with the news:
The Assembly had just voted war.
By an overwhelming majority the resolution had passed, mandating an army of two hundred thousand to conquer the North, with conscription to be used if volunteers were insufficient. In addition, the Assembly was specifically calling upon the Emperor Jehan Henghmani to lead the march.
All Naddeghomra was churning with exultation at the Assembly’s act. Spontaneous public meetings gathered to applaud it, and young men were already stepping forward by the hundreds to join the army. Inside The Maal, Mussopo and the other ministers were jubilant.
Only one man, it seemed, was plunged into gloom: Jehan Henghmani.
His face ashen, his shoulders slumped, he walked with a labored shuffle up the winding stairway into his tower sanctuary, there to meditate upon the grave situation and upon his own course. With him he brought only a tattered copy of the Book of Urhem. Locking the door behind him, he would see no one and refused even food. Not a word would pass that locked door for a night and a day, while at the foot of the stairs the leaders of the nation waited.
For a night and a day, Jehan Henghmani remained locked in the tower, alone with his thoughts.
Then, finally, the door opened, and the Emperor advanced down the steps. He was wearing his armor, his helmet, and his sword.
Several months were necessarily consumed in recruiting the army and making preparations. Raising the two hundred thousand troops prescribed by the Assembly proved to be no stumbling block. People who had been unwilling to volunteer to guard their borders and keep the peace rushed to join the army of invasion. It was more than liberty that danced in their eyes now. After centuries of knuckling under to the Tnemghadi, they burned to turn the tables and make those same Tnemghadi taste the bitterness of subjugation.
All of the ministers of the government insisted upon accompanying the invasionary army. In addition, more than fifty of the Assembly delegates left their seats to take up the sword. Even Prince Jehandai begged for permission to go along, but this the Emperor refused.
Jehandai went then to Gaffar Mussopo, asking to join the army as a water-boy if necessary. Gaffar was reluctant to cross the Emperor, but decided it might be wise to gain the favor of the heir to the throne. “You may come along,” he said, “but on one condition. If—or rather, when—your grandfather finds out, you must tell him that I had no knowledge of it.” Jehandai readily agreed to this stipulation and joined Mussopo’s entourage, disguising his identity.
In the month of Sutarappa, 1190, the march began.
Like a weary but dutiful old soldier, Jehan Henghmani climbed painfully into the saddle once again. Only the Assembly’s express command had persuaded him grudgingly to do this. He hoped fervently that this campaign would be a short one—and his last.
Northward through Khrasanna they marched, stopping at prearranged points to assimilate more and more thousands of new recruits. They marched in a steady northward path, bypassing the cities of Ourkesh and Bebjella; then up through Nitupsar, with a brief respite for resupply at Jamarra; then by barges across the River Qurwa into Taroloweh, with a final provisioning at Arbadakhar; and then on northward, farther north than Jehan’s armies had ever penetrated.
On the seventeenth of Okhudzhava, Jehan Henghmani crossed through the Usrefif Mountains and entered the Province of Kholandra.
Its terrain was not much different from Taroloweh’s. The softly sloping Jaraghari hills were very like the hills where he had been a bandit once. Jehan had to remind himself that this was Tnemghadi territory.
He kept away from the populated areas, avoiding all contact with the enemy. The plan was not to mutilate the Tnemghadi lands, not to flail away at the limbs of the dragon. Instead, Jehan would strike a dagger at its heart.
Book Five
Ksiritsa
1
Children of the Dragon Page 35
