The Plains of Kallanash

by Pauline M. Ross

  “Family. Loyalty. Honour. The usual things, Gantor.”

  “And truth? Do you believe in truth?”

  “Of course.”

  “Always? Should you always tell the truth?”

  Hurst had no idea where Gantor was going with this line of questioning, but it was not the first time he and Mia had sparred over some abstract philosophical point, so he smiled to himself and let them carry on.

  Mia was serious, pondering the question. “I think there are times when the absolute truth is – unhelpful, but I also think that any kind of deception is damaging, ultimately. It destroys trust.”

  “Only if it’s found out.”

  “The important things are always found out. And even if not, lies eat away at you from the inside like acid, and tear you apart.”

  “So if someone had lied to you, would you be angry?”

  She turned sharply to face him, snatching at his arm so that he had to stop. “Tell me openly what you mean, don’t dance around the subject,” she said, and Hurst heard real anger in her voice. She was afraid, he realised, afraid of some revelation that would hurt her. He wondered himself what Gantor had in mind. His own conscience was clear, but perhaps it was something about Dethin? Or Jonnor, maybe?

  But Gantor said calmly, “We have all been lied to for many years – for two hundred years, to be precise.”

  “The Slaves? Is that what this is about? You don’t trust them, so I shouldn’t either, is that it?”

  “Mia, all of this,” and he waved his arm to encompass the tunnels, his voice rising a tone, “the barbarians, the border wars, everything we’ve been told is a lie. How can you possibly trust the people who kept such secrets from you?”

  “Keeping secrets is not quite the same thing as telling lies,” she said, although she wouldn’t meet his eyes. “And they must have had a reason…”

  “Oh, of course, it all came from the Gods!” Gantor said impatiently. “Everything that’s been done was because the Gods ordered it, I suppose. And the Slaves are good servants of the Gods, aren’t they? Mia, do you know what life was like before these people first came to Kashinor and the Petty Kingdoms? It wasn’t quite the barbaric realm we hear about now. Yes, there were wars, but there was education, too, and enlightened rule and advancement. Anyone who had the ability could rise to a position of importance, man or woman. There were great buildings, there were roads, almost everyone could read and write. And Kashinor! Kashinor was beautiful, all those towers and spires and great domes and pleasure gardens, open to anyone to admire. It was a place of learning, of contemplation, of art and creativity, of healing. The brightest minds of the Kingdoms were drawn there, and from the tribes beyond as well, to learn each other’s languages and to admire the sculptures and frescoes, the exquisite gardens that bloomed all year round, to see the exotic birds and animals, to enjoy the performances by musicians and dancers, shadow walkers and dramatics. Criminals went there to be rehabilitated and the sick to be restored to health. There was a great university there and many libraries and galleries, and books were not just read, but treasured.

  “But now—! The books vanish, the library is crumbling, the frescoes and sculptures have long gone or are shut away in locked rooms, the gardens are dull or have been built over, the university is just a memory, and farmers can’t even write their own names. It was the swamps that did for the Petty Kingdoms, you know. They never got to grips with the swamps. As soon as they got a farm productive it would be swallowed up again. Well, the Slaves drained the swamps, I’ll give you that, so we gained our lush fields and laden orchards, but we have lost so much… And is that what the Gods want for us? Full bellies and empty minds?”

  He ran out of words then, and with a ‘Pah!’ of disgust, he strode off down the tunnel, and the others had to scamper to catch up.

  Mia was very quiet. Hurst watched her out of the corner of one eye, while pretending to be unconcerned, but she was lost in her own thoughts. He understood what Gantor was trying to do. They needed Mia with them on their journey through the tunnel, and perhaps if she could be turned against the Slaves, she could be persuaded to do it. He wasn’t optimistic. She had always been devout, and her beliefs seemed unaffected even by her own betrayal. Whatever they did, however badly they treated her or anyone else, it must be by the will of the Gods for some mysterious reason of their own. There was no countering faith with reason.

  As they prepared for bed that night, she said, subdued, “Do you agree with Gantor?”

  There was no point in prevaricating or dancing round the question. “Yes.”

  “Do you believe in the Gods, Hurst?”

  “That I don’t know. Maybe. But even if the Gods exist, I don’t believe these people speak for them. I think they use them to keep us all in subjection. You must do it, they say, because the Gods will it. So people bow their heads and submit. But there’s no way of knowing whether that’s true or not.”

  She made no reply. They got into bed, and she curled under his arm and rested her head on his shoulder. Again he regretted the loss of her lovely long hair, which would have spread over the pillow for him to twine his fingers through. It was odd, too, being just the two of them now.

  After a while, he said, “Do you miss him?”

  She rolled onto her elbows. “Dethin? It’s strange without him around. I was just getting used to him.”

  “Do you love him?”

  “No, nothing like that.”

  “But you slept with him…”

  “I had no choice about that.”

  “I thought you said he didn’t rape you?”

  “Hurst, I had to sleep with someone. Either that, or be used by a whole succession of men in the Section House. It’s the same for all the women here. Dethin didn’t force me to sleep with him, but if I hadn’t, he would have sent me back to Bulraney. It was my best option.”

  He thought about that for a moment. “Well, it’s bloody close to rape.”

  “We’ve all been forced to do things we didn’t want to do. You had to go into battle against Skirmishers. I had to sleep with a man I hadn’t chosen. He’s treated me kindly, that’s as much as I could have hoped for.”

  “Ah, but he fell in love with you, didn’t he?”

  “So he says. I’m not sure he really understands the concept. Let’s not talk about him, let’s not talk at all.”

  Hurst had no objection to that idea.

  Later, as they lay still entwined, limbs still glowing, she said, “Did you mean what you said? About Dethin?”

  “What did I say?” he said sleepily.

  “Something about continuing the arrangement, that you’d be happy to carry on with it. Or was that just the sex talking?”

  He chuckled. “It was good, wasn’t it? For all of us, I mean.” He shifted position, fully awake now. “Is that what you want? To carry on, when he gets back? As a regular thing?”

  “Well, it was my idea, remember, to stop the two of you spitting at each other. And I don’t think three days – nights – is quite enough for him to let me go. He’s very – intense. Besides, he’s the warlord. Better to keep him happy, don’t you think?”

  She spoke lightly, but he detected the undercurrent of anxiety in her voice. It was a good point. “Fine by me.”

  “You won’t get jealous of him, or anything? Because with Jonnor…”

  “That was different. Jonnor let me sleep with you, then took you away again. But sharing you? I’ve always been willing to share you. That was never the problem. And this way—” He propped himself up on one elbow. “Mia, can you imagine what it was like for me, lying in my room at night listening to Jonnor with you, knowing that I could never have you myself? It was unbearable. But this… when we’re all together… it’s so different. Cosy. Comfortable. And the sex is amazing.”

  She gurgled with laughter. “So it is. That’s settled, then.”

  ~~~

  The prisoner had been interviewed every day, but no progress had been made. They
had got a name out of him – Dondro – and they had removed his gloves and determined from the tattoos that he was indeed one of Those who Serve the Gods, but nothing further. Now that they could read the signs in the tunnel, there was less urgency to resort to more aggressive forms of interrogation, so they spent an hour or so with him each afternoon, and otherwise left him alone. Tanist, Gantor and Hurst were the regulars but they often took one of the others in with them, in case it sparked any kind of reaction in Dondro. One day, Tanist asked Mia if she wanted to go with them, and to Hurst’s surprise she agreed.

  The interviews took place in one of the less well-used storage rooms, still cluttered around the edges with boxes and bales of cloth. Its sole attraction was a large enough open space to swing a sword, should that become necessary, and a lockable barred metal gate to keep the prisoner secure while allowing guards to keep an eye on proceedings.

  They sat round a battered old table, with a jug of wine to pacify the prisoner. The three Skirmishers were fully armed, and a couple more warriors stationed outside the door in case of trouble. The routine was well-established by now. One after another they asked the Servant a question, and he either sneered abusively at them or ignored them altogether. Mia sat quietly watching the man’s face, saying nothing. Hurst wondered what she was thinking, whether she still thought this man worthy of respect, but her face gave nothing away. If anything, she seemed puzzled.

  When they began to flag, Hurst said, “Mia? Have you anything to say to the prisoner?”

  “I do,” she said. Hurst saw Tanist’s eyebrows rise.

  Dondro laughed inordinately. “Oh, she speaks! Do ask me something, little girl, something more interesting than the incessant whining I get from these peasants.”

  “I should like to ask a favour of you,” she said, and she leaned forward a little, her eyes shining. “There is no temple here, there are no Slaves, no one to perform the proper rituals. But now you are here! Who better to say the chants? Would you mind? It would be a great comfort to me to hear the words direct from one of Those who Serve the Gods.”

  Hurst almost laughed at the astonishment written on the man’s face. But Dondro controlled his features at once, and leaned his elbows on the table, lowering his voice conspiratorially.

  “I am very pleased that not all of you here are heathens. I would love to oblige you, of course, but—” There was a long pause. “It is forbidden.”

  Was it his imagination, or did he have to dream up that excuse on the spot?

  “Forbidden? Why so?”

  “Because—” Again a hesitation. “Because Those who Serve the Gods may only say the chants within the Tower of Reception. That is our function, to perform the proper rituals in the Tower, where we can be receptive to the Gods. We are too – too powerful to do so elsewhere, it might draw the Gods’ attention away, you see. That is why we stay secluded in the Tower and rarely leave, only for essential matters. Elsewhere, the Slaves have that role. I am so sorry.”

  “That is a pity,” said Mia. “But perhaps – would it be presumptuous of me to offer to read the chants to you? I have a Book of the Hours, and I could recite the correct incantation for the hour, if you wish? That would be almost as good, wouldn’t it, if you are here to listen?”

  “Oh, by all means, be my guest,” he said with a grin, leaning back in his chair and emptying the last of the wine into his goblet.

  Mia produced the book, which she had been holding on her lap, and opened it to the marker.

  “We are in Pashinor just now, of course,” she said. “This is the twenty-third day, and it must be about the ninth hour.”

  She began to read. “In the eye of the sun, on the brow of the moon, above the caverns of the earth, below the arch of the sky, within the arms of the wind, we who are most humble see the greatness of the Nine. We see it in the mighty oak of the forest and in the glossy limmer vine of the riverbank. We see it in the feathers of the nettle and in the thorns of the rose. We see it in the golden yellow of the cowslip…”

  Hurst felt himself begin to drift away. The temple always had that effect on him, with the incense and bells and rhythmic rise and fall of the Slaves’ voices. Sometimes, if he had just come back from a particularly energetic skirmish or a hard tournament match, he would fall into real sleep, but mostly he let his mind wander where it would. He’d always imagined that was part of the point of it all – the repetition and the melodic tones were surely designed to encourage thoughtfulness. He had never wanted to learn true meditation, such as Mia practised, but it was pleasant to let his thoughts flit about like night insects. For a while, anyway, until his leg started to protest at sitting still for too long.

  “In the eye of the sun, on the brow of the moon…” Mia went on, beginning the next cycle, only slightly different from the last. Hurst made the gesture, and began to bow his head again when he noticed Gantor, staring fixedly at Dondro. Gantor glanced across at him, and then back to the guide, with an almost imperceptible lift of one eyebrow. Hurst was instantly alert. What had he seen? He looked more closely at Dondro, but nothing struck him as odd. He was simply sitting, arms folded, watching Mia with a smirk on his face – but wait! Why was his head not bowed? He hadn’t even made the gesture, the simple touch of the fingers to the forehead which always accompanied certain phrases. He was a Servant, by the Gods, yet he showed no more attention to the ritual than Gantor – less, in fact, for at least Gantor didn’t have a stupid grin on his face.

  “We see it in the buttercup turning yellow eyes to the rising sun and in the secretive blackcap hiding from the moon. We see it…” She stopped with a choking sound, then snapped the book shut, eyes narrowed. “You’re not really one of Those who Serve the Gods, are you?”

  He laughed at her. “I certainly am, little girl.”

  “No. If you were, you would have known at once that I was reading from the first day of Pashinor, and the first hour. You would have known that the blackcap mushroom is from Gaminor, not Pashinor at all. You would have shown proper reverence for the words. The Servants should be the most devout people on the Karningplain, and you are not devout in the slightest.”

  He laughed even more. “Well, you got that right, at least. Clever little girl. But I assure you, I am a Servant.”

  “But you don’t talk to the Gods,” said Gantor, “if there even are Gods.”

  He leaned forward again, cradling his goblet of wine in cupped hands. He was still smiling insolently. “Oh, there are Gods, all right, and we do talk to them. But this…” He waved a hand towards Mia’s book. “This is all for the gullible and credulous. Like you, little girl. As if the Gods would ever be interested in peasants like you!” And he laughed again.

  Mia stood up. “You’re a disgrace!” she said vehemently, resting her fists on the table so she could hiss in his face. “I don’t believe a single word you say!” She turned to Hurst. “I withdraw my objections. You can do whatever you like with him.”

  “Well, congratulations,” said Hurst, smiling back at Dondro. “You’ve achieved without effort what we have been trying to accomplish with no success. You see, despite everything you people have done to her, Mia still trusted you. She believed everything was done for a good purpose. We tried to persuade her you were a lying, evil bastard, but she wouldn’t have it. And now – you’ve convinced her, and that’s important. Do you know why? Because we need her for our plans. You see, Mia’s the only one who can read those devious signs down in your tunnel.”

  Dondro looked less certain of himself, but the smirk wasn’t quite extinguished. “Well, that’s very nice. But it won’t help you unless you can open all the gates,” he said, looking from one to the other in increasing alarm.

  They all laughed.

  “Oh, we worked that out ages ago,” said Hurst. “We now have everything we need to go all the way to your precious tower.”

  Dondro moved with the suddenness of a predator. One moment he was languidly pretending not to care, the next he had tossed his wine,
goblet and all, in Hurst’s face and lunged for Mia. He managed to grab her sleeve but she leapt backwards with a loud ripping noise. Tanist was on his feet, but it was Gantor who grabbed the flailing arms and pinned Dondro face down on the table.

  Hurst hustled Mia out of the room, past the two men, swords drawn now, who guarded it. Then, wiping wine off his face, he turned to the prisoner, still held in Gantor’s iron grip.

  “Can I hurt him now?” Gantor said. “Please?”

  “No,” said Hurst. “Release him.”

  Gantor looked suspicious, but he obediently released the man’s arms, although so abruptly that his face banged into the table again. Gantor stood aside, and drew his sword with a flourish, but Dondro stood up and, astonishingly, smirked again, straightening his clothing.

  Hurst hit him so hard with his mailed fist that he flew across the room and slammed into a pile of boxes in a corner.

  “It’s my job to hurt him,” Hurst said smugly. Tanist chuckled.

  From the corner came a tiny anguished mewing sound.

  43: Execution (Mia)

  Mia was so angry she could barely speak. She retreated to Mallissa’s private sitting room, where there was little likelihood of being disturbed, and paced up and down, back and forth, sizzling with rage. It was not so much the lies that angered her, for in some way she had always known that the Word of the Gods was not quite the literal case. Any faith, after all, always arrived at hyperbole and rhetoric in the end. Besides, the Slaves had lied to her before, once or twice in small puzzling ways when she was a child, and more recently, when the Karninghold Slave had denied the existence of the tunnels. No, it was her own stupidity which upset her most. All this time she had defended them, had told herself that, however much she herself had suffered, it was all for some greater good. And yet the evidence was there in front of her, had she only opened her mind to the possibility.

  Cristo was the biggest clue. She should have realised he was no Servant. He was too young, for one thing. It took decades to reach that level of eminence – nine years as an acolyte, as the very least, then five as a village Slave, another five training as a Karninghold Slave or Voice, followed by five years in that job. Twenty four years at the absolute minimum before there was the possibility of becoming a Servant. A few started as young as ten, it was true, so Dondro was perhaps just about old enough, but most began at fifteen or more. All the Voices she had ever met were well into middle age, and certainly Cristo, her own guide, could never have passed through all the requisite stages. His face was still vivid in her mind – that smile, the amusement so clear to see! How could anyone, least of all a devout Servant of the Gods, smile as he condemned her to this bizarre world beyond the border?