by Tom Lloyd
‘I can see the train of your thoughts now: We are in troubled times, my lord needs a general he can trust; I cannot shake my doubts. What value has there been in all these years of fighting? Have I made a difference? Here I am, a scarred man getting past his prime with nothing but a flawed reputation to show for it. Could this be my chance to do something more worthwhile, to prove to myself that this life and talent weren’t wasted? Could this give me the strength I think I’ve lost, replace the innocence that died on one or other of a hundred battlefields?’
Vesna was frozen to his seat, unable to move as the hare turned on the hound. To hear his thoughts spoken aloud undermined his resolve entirely and he sat helpless as Tila continued, her face still unreadable, her voice giving just as little away.
‘And so to the real problem, the words that have been running around your head for days: how can I refuse a God when he offers everything I’ve hoped for? But how then could I then still marry Tila?’ She took a step forwards and Vesna felt himself lean away instinctively, sensing her growing anger.
‘Well, my love,’ she growled, ‘as our great and currently steaming-drunk lord would put it; “I couldn’t give a damn, you don’t get the choice.”’ She took a deep breath, as though daring Vesna to interrupt before she had finished.
‘Do you hear me? No choice whatsoever. Whatever argument you had worked out, don’t you dare even voice it because I will clout you round the head. Forget whatever idiotic ideas of nobility and sacrifice you might have for even suggesting such a thing - and dear Gods if you deny that I swear to Kantay I’ll claw your eyes out with my nails for being half the man I think you are.’
He heard her voice waver there, but only for a moment as Tila bit back the threatening tears and continued, ‘None of you damned soldiers have got the brains of a mayfly, so don’t ever try to argue with me; your job is to obey and that’s the way it’s going to continue. Do you honestly think I’m going to meekly submit? Curtsey and be on my way?
‘The look on your face shows that you can’t be trusted with thinking, so here’s what’s going to happen. We are going to be married, as planned, and after that you might, on occasion, be permitted to think for yourself over the next few years, but that will only happen with my permission until you prove to me you’re not the iron-brained grunt you’ve just demonstrated here today.
‘And by the way, no you don’t get a choice in that either. I love you and I know you love me too, so there’s nothing to discuss. I’m going to marry you to save you from your own idiocy. Whether you accept Karkarn’s offer is something to be decided later, but Mortal-Aspect, immortal, whatever you become, you’ll be a married one.
‘And if you thought for a moment that I couldn’t make you marry me, then just you wait, and you’ll find out what a campaign truly looks like. I’ll make your life a bloody misery in a whole host of ways you’ve never even considered, and the longer you squirm, the more allies I’ll draw into the fight, starting with Isak, the Chief Steward, Xeliath, the witch of Llehden, Mihn, and even the entire Palace Guard if necessary. You’ll be out-flanked, alone and crying for mercy by the time I’m finished, so be a good boy and just do what you’re told.’
Tila took a long breath.
Vesna tried to do likewise, but found himself still paralysed. Without warning, she stepped forward and kissed him on the forehead before heading back towards the door. As she opened it, she called over her shoulder, ‘Now, get some sleep and think about what you almost did.’
CHAPTER 20
High Priest Antil waited until the sound of footsteps receded. He was standing in a tiny, dimly lit corridor, looking down the cramped spiral stair, holding his breath as he strained to hear anything below. Out of habit he mouthed a silent prayer to Shotir. Hale had become a frightening place of late, and even if the God of Healing heard his servant’s prayer, Antil still feared for his charge’s safety. There were limits, it seemed, even to a God’s blessing. Next time there might be no priest of Death to stop penitents searching the temple.
Fortunately for Legana, the only way to reach the consecrated hospital, kitchen and dormitories that occupied most of the temple’s space was through the shrine room. Thus far, the soldiers had balked at marching through, but Antil didn’t expect that to last much longer. Since the Ruby Tower massacre there was a whisper of betrayal on the wind, and the remaining militants were looking for anyone to blame.
Antil scratched his neck before abruptly pulling his hand away again. It was a nervous habit of his and these days he was sporting a patch of permanently raw skin there. The stairway remained dead quiet; the temple’s priests were all busy as the hospital room remained full despite their best efforts. Legana’s presence was a secret Antil had divulged to only one other, an amiable junior priest known as Fat Lonei, and for safety’s sake Antil intended to keep it that way.
Father Lonei was entirely lacking in magic; his obesity was purely a product of gluttony. He had been banished as a danger from the hospital room, but he was a good worker in the kitchen and had been Antil’s faithful helper for years. For all Lonei’s simple nature, Antil knew he could trust the man to have relieved the priest attending the shrine downstairs and have checked the way was clear.
Antil retreated to his room. It was as dim as the corridor, yet Legana still squinted when she looked in the direction of the window. Her eyesight was terribly poor now - she was trapped in a blur of grey, barely able to make out shapes or colour. She reacted mainly to movement, and now she flinched as he crossed the room towards her, her hands moving within the folds of the robe he’d given her.
‘It’s only me,’ he said softly as he stopped and slowly waved his right arm in front of his face. He wasn’t sure how well she could hear him, so he kept the movement going until he saw her nod in acknowledgement. Despite his best efforts, Legana had managed to find at least one of her long daggers and he had no intention of startling a woman who could move as fast as she did, half-blind or not.
The shadowy hand-print on her throat remained and Antil was sure her voice was ruined beyond repair, but the rest of her body had healed supernaturally quickly, considering the broken bones and inevitable internal damage.
Legana gave a raspy whisper and fumbled for the slate he’d found for her. On the slate she scribbled three words.—It is time.
‘Give Lonei a few more minutes; we’re in no rush,’ Antil said in reply.
- We go now, she wrote and started to manoeuvre herself off the bed.
Antil reached out automatically to help her, but she pushed him away. She was as tall as him, and while she lacked his build, she was stronger, however unsteady at times. Her grey-and copper-streaked hair was inexpertly cropped short by Antil; he’d tied it back out of her face, but once she was standing she pulled the scraps of ribbon out so her hair fell over her face, partly concealing her startling eyes. Her face had recovered now, and except for the mark on her throat, her skin was perfect, unblemished by cuts or bruises.
‘Why now?’ he asked with a pantomime shrug.
- Twilight.
Antil frowned and repeated his gesture. ‘You fear the Gods are hunting you?’
She cocked her head to one side for a moment, straining to catch his words before realising his meaning and shaking her head. With her sleeve she erased the word on the slate.
- Distraction. I feel it, like a spider-web moving.
Antil wondered at this. Spider-web? Gods, what sort of spider walks Hale that she can feel it?
There was obviously no point arguing; her mind was made up, so he walked ahead of her to pull the door open. He reached out a hand for Legana to take and reluctantly she did - he could see she hated to be reliant on someone else. Her shining green eyes wide open, she shuffled along the wooden floor until they reached the stair, sliding her free hand along the wall.
The robe Antil had given her was a little short, enough to stop her tripping over the hem. Antil was often called away to tend those unable to leave their homes,
so with luck, no one would bother a priest and novice of Shotir.
The pair encountered no one until they reached the shrine room where Fat Lonei hovered, peering anxiously around the yellow-painted door.
‘Father, I can see soldiers,’ he hissed when he noticed them.
Antil gestured for Legana to stay and hurried to Lonei’s side. ‘What’re they doing?’
Lonei shook his head, fear showing in his eyes. Antil stepped past him into the street, noting they were far from alone: monks, novices, priests and laymen - everyone he could see was staring down the street at a company of Ruby Tower Guards, marching past the crossroads in two neat columns, followed by a less orderly band wearing the grey-and-white of the Byoran Guard that served in Hale.
As Antil watched he saw more than a few people taking flight at the sight of the soldiers. Shotir’s temple hadn’t been the only one called upon to deal with the victims of the troops’ savage reclamation of control. But far from matters calming down, the violence was escalating, with the activities of the previous night as shocking as anything Antil had heard of in peace-time. Some of the Byoran Guard had vented their anger at the Temple of Etesia, then moved on to Triena and Kantay as well. They had dragged priests and novices of both genders out into the courtyard between the linked temples and raped one after the other, butchering any who put up a fight. All except one of the eunuchs had been killed; the lucky - if you could call it that - survivor had been bound to one of the temple archways with the entrails of Etesia’s high priestess. The soldiers had cut off one of her breasts and jammed it in the eunuch’s mouth, cutting off a finger every time he spat it out. Antil had heard the brutal story in silence, only the greyness of his skin betraying his horror.
And now it looked as if it was starting again.
‘Where are they going, Father?’ Lonei asked anxiously.
‘I don’t know,’ Antil replied, his sense of foreboding growing. He looked up at the sky. ‘Whatever they intend, they’re doing it at twilight, when the Gods rest.’
The breeze tugged at his yellow robes, like a child urging him on, and brought the scent of burnt spices from the Temple of Tsatach upwind of them. The fires were still burning there, but he saw none of the usual bustle on the sacred ground itself.
‘So the Gods cannot see what they do?’ Lonei almost gibbered at the thought. ‘Are they going to desecrate another temple?’
Antil scowled. ‘I don’t know, but whatever they plan will lead to more deaths - of that I’m sure.’
Following the troops of the Byoran Guard were two carts, each piled high with wood. As the carts jerked and bounced over the stony ground, a long plank slipped from the back of one and crashed to the ground.
‘It looks like they’re going to build a barricade. I wonder where?’
He felt the touch of a hand on his back and flinched until he realised it was Legana standing behind him. Her eyes were screwed up, though in truth it was anything but bright.
‘Yes, it is time to leave,’ he said.
He thanked Lonei and ushered him back inside, promising to return as soon as he could, and warning him again to say only that he was visiting the sick.
Legana walked with him in silence through the open streets of Hale, not objecting to the firm grip he maintained on her arm. When he looked at her face Antil felt more and more confused: that the girl was terrified at her vulnerability was plain, but there was also an air of wonder about her - as the breeze touched her cheek or as a horse passed by close enough that she could feel the vibrations of its falling hooves. Following Hale’s gentle downward slope the pair eventually came to the Pigeon Gate leading into Breakale. There was only one guard on the gate, a young man with long dirty hair and pinched cheeks. His face brightened when he saw inside Legana’s raised hood, but when he realised her eyes were almost entirely closed he scowled in disgust.
‘Permit,’ he announced in a flat voice.
‘Excuse me?’ said Antil, confused.
The youth held out a hand. ‘Permit,’ he repeated, his eyes dull and unblinking like a fish.
‘I need a permit to leave Hale?’
‘You’re a priest, ain’t you?’
‘When was this law passed?’ Antil asked in dismay.
‘Three days ago. Proclamation was put up all over the bloody place.’ The guard took a pace forward. ‘You ain’t going nowhere without a permit.’ He carried a halberd, which he leaned on as he peered at Antil.
‘I’m sorry,’ Antil said, keeping his voice gentle. ‘I’ve been attending to patients for the last few days. How do I get one? I need to get this woman back to her family in Breakale.’
A lopsided smile crept onto the guard’s face. ‘Well then, we can’t have you failing in your duty, can we?’ he declared and jabbed a thumb towards the small guardhouse set into the stone wall. ‘Take the young lady in there and I’ll sort you out.’
Antil laid a protective hand on Legana’s arm. ‘No, I think perhaps we should just return to the temple.’
‘Oh you reckon, do you? Well how about I decide you’re traitors? Maybe saw you running from the Ruby Tower after all your mates got killed?’
‘No!’ Antil said, his voice betraying his fear.
The guard lowered his pike-head to shoulder height. ‘Then get in the guardroom and we’ll see about that permit,’ he growled.
Flustered, Antil allowed himself to be herded into a dark room thick with the smell of tobacco and sweat. Aside from a weapons-rack on the far wall, the only furniture was a square table and a pair of stools. As soon as he was inside the guard gave him a rough shove and sent him stumbling over one of the stools onto the floor.
‘Just you stay there,’ the young guard warned, setting his pike against one wall but patting the pommel of his currently sheathed short-sword as he gave Antil a meaningful look.
As the priest started to climb to his feet the guard kicked the door shut with his heel and shoved Legana back against the table. Legana gasped in shock as the guard ran his hand up her body and closed about her right breast. He hardly saw her left hand move as she grabbed his wrist between thumb and forefinger, twisting it away effortlessly. The guard gave a strangled yelp as something snapped, but his scream was cut off when Legana pulled her dagger from her sleeve and slammed it into the guard’s throat so hard she pinned him to the wall. She kept her hand on the blade for a moment before gripping his jaw and pulling the knife out again. The corpse fell to the floor and she bent over it to wipe her blade clean on his uniform.
Antil hadn’t had time to react at all, so fast had Legana moved. Now she turned to him, her eyes wide again and her hands reaching, hands out like those of a lost child. She opened her mouth wide enough to scream, but only a dry croak came. Antil looked down at the guard, then, his mouth too dry to speak, he gave a jerky wave to attract Legana’s attention. She fumbled for the slate hanging from her belt and wrote: - Wine merchant. Beristole.
‘The Beristole?’ Antil wondered aloud. ‘I know where that is - off the main highway to Wheel - but I’m going to take you to a friend’s, where you’ll be safe.’
The smile fell from Legana’s face. - Friend, she added to the slate, rapping it with two quick taps to emphasise her point.
He didn’t bother arguing. Legana, even as near death as a person could be and still remain conscious, had proved to be as stubborn as a mule. ‘Very well, the Beristole it is.’
Her smile returned.
The streets in Breakale were narrower than in Hale, the buildings taller and more regular. They found a walking rhythm soon enough, shuffling along with their eyes fixed on the ground ahead. For the main part passers-by gave the pair pitying looks, but from time to time Antil found himself jostled; fear of being caught stopped him from commenting. The first woman to do it had continued without even a glance back as Antil stumbled, and only Legana’s strength had stopped him from falling in a sprawl into the street.
It didn’t take him long to realise that the anger emanating fro
m the temples, both in sermons and proclamations, was reaping the only crop it deserved. The fact that he wore the yellow robes of Shotir, God of Healing and Forgiveness, seemed to make no difference.
Can I blame them? Antil wondered as he was elbowed in the ribs by a man whose face was bruised yellow and purple all down one cheek. Where were my exhortations for calm? When Death’s priests were baying for the blood of sinners, my objections were too softly spoken.
The wind picked up as the sun dropped to the horizon and light from windows started to glow into the street. When they paused at a crossroads for Antil to recall the way, he felt suddenly exposed. Since becoming high priest he had left Hale only rarely, and then usually for Eight Towers; calls for ministration from Wheel and Burn - the ramshackle shantytowns of workshops, tanneries and every other sort of physical labour - were attended by younger priests. Even before the recent tensions, these had not been safe places for a high priest to walk without escort.
He looked around, getting his bearings. Left would take him into the heart of Wheel, bisected by the two swift rivers that drove many of the district’s water-wheels. Beyond were the miles of cultivated fields running towards the treacherous fens. In the place of temples and statues the buildings in Wheel tended to be haylofts, water-wheels and warehouses.
Burn, to the right, was a cramped and squalid imitation of Breakale. It straddled a deep fissure in the ground from which, every year or so, a great gout of gas and flame would erupt, killing anyone up to a hundred yards downslope. The hot springs dotting the area meant folk had to pretty much ignore the danger.
Criminals ran both districts. Byora’s rulers had long ago realised that as long as poverty remained rife there, their control would only ever be tenuous. An unofficial but well-known accommodation had proved cheaper and easier for all involved.
Legana gave his arm a tug as he stood still, the urgency plain on her face.
There was a statue in the centre of the crossroads around which the crowds hurried, presumably representing a God or Aspect since its arms and head had been broken off and filth smeared down one side. That wasn’t why he’d stopped.
