The Great Defense of Layosah

by Peter Orullian

  Layosah listened, horrified. Still, something had to be done. In a soft but urgent voice, she spoke again.

  “Women do little more than breed more bodies to fill your suits of armor; men and boys bond over the thought of dying together; and widows and young girls are left to empty homes, porridge, and unsavory acts to earn a coin or else starve.” She looked intently at him. “You must do better.”

  Silence followed her outburst. Neither the general nor Sheason seemed ready to speak. The silence was broken by the loud clap of boots approaching from behind.

  “The rest are mounted, General. We are ready,” said a young man in untarnished raiment.

  “Then it is time,” General Stallworth replied, his gaze still locked with Layosah’s. “I go to join young Aelon,” he said. A profound sadness and weariness deepened the lines in his face. “There is nothing more to be done, Anais. It is over.”

  He walked past her, and the rest of the men in the great war room followed. Shortly, she heard the thunder of countless hooves fade into the distance . Layosah regretted some of what she’d said. Not all. But some. The man, Stallworth, rode to his death—had planned to, even before she’d implored him to take action.

  She was now alone with the Sheason, who watched her closely. After a time, he showed her a faint smile. Looking at him, she recalled tales of these renderers of the Will and their ability to restore life. She looked down at Audra.

  Better to die in innocence and never know despair,she thought. And if you save the lives of an entire people in doing so . . .

  She turned a hard stare on the Sheason. “I need to speak with you.”

  That evening, Layosah sat before the Sheason’s hearth, which burned bright and warm with cedar logs. Audra slept cradled in her left arm, her face peaceful in the firelight. Layosah held in her free hand a small goblet of warmed wine, dusted with cinnamon. The soothing warmth of the fire and drink eased her after a long day in which memories of Aelon, her other boys, and her husband had threatened to haunt her.

  But now, at rest in a deep leather-covered chair offered her by Sheason Nolaus in his neat and well-ordered house, the revenants began to return. She drank from her wine again, alone, as the Sheason had excused himself. With each passing moment, she became more certain that he’d left her by herself precisely so that she would be plagued by her dark thoughts.

  She had seen in the renderer’s eyes a keen and dangerous intelligence. Yet, he made her feel safe somehow. And even just being in his home gave her a bit of comfort.

  Comfort enough that she opened herself up again to her memories, those revenants of the past, and recalled the day Eddock had returned from that first march . . . without Maalen.

  He’d come into their home with two swords, and Layosah had known in her heart immediately what news he meant to share. No special messenger that first time. Instead, a father bearing his son’s blade back to the boy’s mother.

  Eddock had stood before her, a broken man. “I tried to get to him, Layosah. He was too far . . .”

  She’d said nothing, sure if she moved her knees would forsake her and drop her to the floor.

  “We were separated in battle,” Eddock said through tears he tried in vain to wipe away. “I fought back toward him. I fought . . .”

  Layosah found some strength at last and moved to Eddock’s side. Together they slumped to the floor of their small home. She wanted desperately to say something, but words failed her. She held his broad shoulders and felt him tremble.

  “He was my son. I could not save him. I was a stone’s throw away and they killed him as I rushed to help.” Eddock lifted Maalen’s sword up between them.

  They knew the tradition of hanging the swords of the fallen on the walls of the family home. It was meant to serve as a reminder of the honor and sacrifice of the one who laid down his life for the good of his countrymen. But kneeling together on the floor of their home, where Maalen had taken his first steps, had run and laughed as children do, they could find little more in the sacrifice beyond their own grief. The child that had begun for them with a tease about milk had gone to his earth scarcely a man.

  And Layosah had watched as her beloved tortured himself with blame for not having been able to save him.

  In the years ahead, it would get no easier for either of them. The small lives that began with such joy ended prematurely, bringing sorrow and confusion and pain. Layosah could say of Eddock that at least his had ended in those same distant marches.

  Now, with Aelon dead, they were all gone. All save Audra.

  Layosah gazed upon her babe and forced herself to put the past away and feel content, if briefly, in being warm, with the taste of wine in her mouth, and thoughts of tomorrow distant enough not to be burdensome.

  When her peace was nearly full, the Sheason returned, and sat with her near the fire. “What then, my dear woman, can I do for you?” He smiled as though he already knew the answer.

  Layosah sipped her wine before answering. She had the feeling she would need to be careful with her words. “Your oath, Sheason. What is your oath?”

  Nolaus folded his hands together in his lap. “What do you really wish to ask me, Anais Reyal? Are you asking if I am bound by my word to help you? If at any cost and in any circumstance my authority to command the Will must serve your need?” He did not smile as he said it, but neither was there rancor in his voice.

  She stared back at him. That was what she wanted to know. But hearing it from the Sheason made her realize how selfish a question it was. Still, she nodded. She had to know.

  Several moments passed. Finally, he nodded. “The answer is mostly yes. My calling is to use the gifts I bear to ease the suffering of those I can help.” He paused, smiling again, but a touch more wanly. “But I cannot help all those who need help.”

  Layosah put down her goblet of wine and balled her fingers into a fist. “When a life hangs in the balance, will you wish to help? I need to know, Sheason. I need to know if there are limits to your favor.”

  A touch of severity lit the man’s eyes. “Aye, Anais. There are.” The stern look on the man’s face remained for several moments; then, as though he was suddenly himself again, his wan smile returned. “Forgive me. My anger is not directed at you or even at your question. It is . . . that I must answer as I do.”

  Layosah gave him a questioning stare.

  The Sheason looked back with appraising eyes. “You mean to do something unnatural, Anais. And you want my assurance that I can undo this thing, whatever it is. . . .”

  She said nothing, her silence demanding an answer to her question.

  “Very well,” the man said. “I am bound, my good woman. That I can render the Will to aid and defend those who need my help is a gift I cherish. But it is not a power that should be used to arrogate godhood. And some things must not be done . . . or undone.”

  “You speak in riddles,” she said sharply. “It is no wonder people are wary of your kind.”

  The man smiled, this time more fully, so that she could see his age in the wrinkles around his eyes. “People are wary of us, are they?” He chuckled softly. “Well, we shall have to endeavor to change such a perception.”

  “Then start now,” she said, persistent. “You’ve said nothing that convinces me that there are limits to your favor. It sounds like a tradition steeped in myth. Arrogate godhood? Next you will tell me that the Charter itself binds you.”

  The Sheason’s face drew taut with a grave expression. “Anais Reyal, these are not things to trifle with. What you speak of is part of the fabric of our world. You ask me what I will do when a life hangs in the balance, if I will wish to help. It is not as simple as you make it sound. I caution you. If there is a bloody deed in your heart, let it go. Don’t seek from my gift . . . permission . . . to do harm.”

  And there it was. The Sheason had looked past her veiled questions to the heart of what she had come to ask. Layosah looked down at Audra, who slept soundly in her arms, and she began to cry.
The losses of all those she loved seemed to pile upon her. She was alone now with this babe, and didn’t believe she could support the weight of it all.

  No. Something must be done.

  Perhaps it would take a woman who had seen as many skies as she; and perhaps the despair in her heart would give rise to courage she could not otherwise summon.

  In either case—and without the assurance she’d hoped to have from the Sheason—she had decided. She wondered if this was how it felt to walk upon the gallows without offering a struggle.

  She stood and reached out her hand. The Sheason took it, and she wrapped her first finger around his thumb in token of both gratitude and apology. Nolaus cupped their clasped hands with his other palm and looked intently into her eyes.

  “It does not mean I cannot help. It means I won’t know until . . .”

  Layosah found the strength to smile. “Put it out of your mind. You have helped me find my courage. That alone is help enough.”

  “Anais?”

  “There is one thing more I would ask of you. The king. I should like to speak with him. You advise his general, so surely if I were with you he would listen to me. I know he walks the courtyard at dawn. Will you meet me there?”

  The Sheason looked down at the child in her arms, a pained expression in his eyes. “It is what sets us apart, isn’t it?” he said.

  “What is that?”

  But the Sheason did not reply, leaving the question for Layosah to answer. He only squeezed her hand and escorted her to the door. “I will meet you there,” he said.

  She tucked Audra close to her bosom and made her way home.

  Tomorrow, she thought, tomorrow. . . .

  Her arms full, Layosah walked slowly toward Solath Mahnus. The great seat of power—which housed the king, his council, and the court of judicature—rose up like a man-made mountain at the heart of Recityv. Parapets and spires stood high against a clear morning sky, lending to the place a grandeur that spoke of permanence and strength. She hoped her king possessed these same qualities.

  When she arrived at the Wall of Remembrance, where the old stories had been carved in relief upon its surface, Sheason Nolaus awaited her. He nodded in greeting, and together they passed the gate guards, who nodded deferentially to the Sheason.

  Beyond the wall, in the outer courtyard, the sun shone strong, lighting the wide stone stair at the east entrance. Dew on the steps glistened, steam rising as the sun warmed the stone.

  King Baellor paced in the shadows to the left of the great stairs. Layosah shared a grave look with the Sheason and they moved toward their sovereign, their footfalls loud in the courtyard. As they approached, several men appeared as if from nowhere, preventing them from drawing too close. When the king looked up, he saw the Sheason and waved his men back.

  The king’s eyes were heavy with sleeplessness. “You do not often walk with me in the morning, Nolaus. To what do I owe the pleasure today?”

  The Sheason raised a hand toward her. “I would ask that you give this woman a moment of your time, Your Majesty. I believe she has earned it.”

  King Baellor looked at Layosah. “I trust Nolaus’s judgment. What would you speak with me about?”

  She did not hesitate. “Yesterday I received the sword of my fifth son to die in your army’s failed war.” She raised the five swords of her five dead sons.

  “Dear woman—”

  “I don’t seek your sympathy, my king,” Layosah said quickly. She lowered the blades. “I seek your leadership. Your general tells me that efforts to find allies have failed in the past. It is troubling—”

  “Indeed—”

  “Troubling that you have failed to gain their support.” Layosah spoke as if she were scolding one of her children.

  The king looked at the Sheason. “Is this what you thought I should hear this morning, Nolaus? After yesterday?” Baellor then turned an intimidating stare on Layosah. “I regret the sacrifice you have made, Anais, but this is not the time to upbraid your king. Yesterday we sent every last man into the far country to meet those descending out of the Pall. I would remind you that many have made such sacrifices . . . are about to make such a sacrifice.”

  “That is precisely why I come this morning, my lord. Someone must speak for the blood of all those sent to die by foolish men. Someone with clear vision must show a king how to prevent more of his people from going early to their final earth.” She spared a look at Audra, feelings of hope and despair vying in her heart when she considered the child’s future.

  “And your vision is clear?” The king’s face was edged with impatience. “Dear woman, I do truly regret the loss of the sons you are asked to grieve for. It is no pleasure to me to send them to war.”

  His words were like a death sentence, leaving no room for argument, no room for compromise or collaboration. She had, then, the clearest thought she could remember ever having. Stallworth had said the war was bigger than Recityv. . . .

  A great council. One to represent all the kingdoms of men.

  “Then call them all at once,” Layosah suggested, feeling some excitement at the simple notion.

  Baellor’s brow furrowed. “What? Who?”

  “Send word to each of them, every king, every council, every nation, all at once. Let them know they are all being asked to come. That a seat awaits them. That it will be evident which seats remain vacant when you commence a great assembly of rulers to decide how to fight this war.”

  The king studied her face.

  “Kings before you have sought allies and failed. And some nations, so it is said, secretly conspire with the enemy.” Disgust filled her. “And some play politics while your people die. By the Skies, Your Majesty, if their conscience doesn’t tell them the right choice, shame them into it!”

  Her sovereign looked past her at the Sheason, a weary expression reclaiming his face. He appeared as though he might say something more, but instead he gently put a hand on Audra’s head, offered a defeated smile, and started away toward an enclosed hallway that seemed to burrow into Solath Mahnus. Partway across the courtyard he stopped. She thought she heard him say, with his back still toward her, “It is not so simple.” Then he moved on, his Emerit guard trailing him, until he vanished into Solath Mahnus.

  When he had disappeared inside his sanctuary, Layosah frowned at the realization of what she must do next. Her heart ached as she walked slowly to the base of the broad stairs and looked up at the ceremonial entrance to this hall of kings.

  She paused to kiss her last child. “I love you, little one,” she said softly.

  Then she mounted the first few steps to Solath Mahnus and, as violently as she could, she threw down upon the hard stone the five blades, five markers of the dead. The sixth blade—Eddock’s own—she wore beneath her overcloak. The steel clattered loudly in the courtyard, drawing the attention of the handful of guards and some courtiers who were about their business early. In the broad court of stone also walked a few members of the Reconciliation clergy, deep in their robes and in their thoughts, softly talking into the morn.

  All these, and a few whose purpose she could not determine, stopped and turned toward her. Just the attention she’d sought.

  “It must end today!” she cried. “Please, hear me. I beg of you. We cannot suffer this war another year, another day, another hour.”

  The king’s guards started toward her, their intention clear. The wall guards came, too, running from their post. Several courtiers stared, and the robed prelates began moving toward her.

  They think I am mad or else that I am a zealot, and that I need their healing hands . . . perhaps, today, they are right. . . .

  “Five children have I lost to this war! And my husband, besides. I am not the first to send my family to die. During centuries of ongoing battle, your women have been mere wombs, producing soldiers whose lives amount to nothing as they are slain by an enemy we cannot defeat; or daughters whose own wombs will be used to bear more of these ill-fated soldiers!”r />
  The guards were close now, a few drawing their swords. Tears welled up as she thought of what she meant to do next. Forgive me, Audra. But in the depths of her anger and despair, she had decided, and she lifted her child high over her head.

  “The war must stop! Or I will dash the child against the stone, and her blood will be upon your hands for not heeding my words!”

  Everyone in the courtyard immediately stopped. Gasps rose in the silence, followed by a soft coo from her babe. She caught a look from the Sheason, his countenance drawn heavily with understanding.

  “My lady,” the closest guard said. “You needn’t threaten the life of the child. We will hear what you have to say. Please, lower the infant.”

  Layosah laughed maniacally through her tears. “You think me a fool. Or mad. Or both. But we should all be so foolish and mad!”

  Passersby from beyond the Wall of Remembrance began to come into the courtyard. Soon, a crowd had gathered, drawn by the spectacle of her grief. Good.

  Still holding her baby high against the pale morning sky, she called, “This is my sixth child. All my sons went to war to defend us. All have perished. It has to stop!”

  A low muttering of agreement rose from the crowd, even as more people streamed into the courtyard.

  “My lady,” the nearest guard said, “please. We needn’t worry our fellow citizens unnecessarily. Come, let us go in. Perhaps we can speak with the king.”

  “I have spoken with the king,” she said. “He is paralyzed by fear and outwitted by other sovereigns who better practice their statecraft.”

  The man-at-arms shook his head. “Be careful, my lady.”

  “No, sir,” she replied softly, “Not anymore.”

  She looked out on the multitude, many of whom stared with rapt attention at Audra, who’d begun to fidget in Layosah’s upraised hands.