by Doug Kelly
With a kind of desperation, heedless of what might be the result, Davin called loudly for food, and after a short while, he heard the sound of heavy footsteps. Someone was coming. He did not think that they would starve him to death, so he had yelled to get the attention of someone with authority. He was a political prisoner, and they always had public executions for that special class of convicts. Sometimes a public execution is what it took to calm civil unrest, a warning to the masses that they should obey or die; the message was simple.
He was starving, and he desperately needed food to calm his growling stomach. Surely, they would not leave him here to die of starvation. Oh, how intently he listened to every sound of the falling footsteps, indicative of the advancing approach of whomever it was coming to his prison cell. He heard the door’s lock move, and a guard let down the heavy beam of wood from his door, which caused a clanging sound in the hallway.
“Food!” he cried again, because he feared that whoever it was might go away again, after already coming so close to entering his room.
A prison guard flung open the cell door, and Davin’s first indication that someone had heard his cries, consisted of a lash with a whip, which if it had struck him as fully as the guard had intended to do, would have done him serious injury.
“So, do you want it again?” asked the same voice that he had heard before, yelling at the singing woman.
“Oh, no. I’m hungry. Please feed me something,” pleaded Davin.
“Oh, that’s all you want? Let me tell you how it is around here: if we have any more disturbances with you, this is the persuader to silence that we always use to quiet you.” The guard cracked the whip, and Davin felt a quick breeze beside his cheek when the tip of the leather whip snapped near his face. “What do you think about that, eh?” asked the guard. “So, do you feel like asking for anything else?” As he spoke, the cruel man gave the whip a loud crack in the air, and confirmed the truth of the argument by reducing Davin to absolute silence.
“Well, my prisoner,” added the guard, “I think that we understand each other.” The man closed the door as he hummed a vivacious melody, as if he enjoyed his work.
The sudden exit of the guard was unexpected by Davin, who at least thought it was customary to feed people, even if they were confined to such a place as this. The unceremonious departure of the keeper, without mentioning anything about mealtime, began to make Davin think that the plan by which Trahan would get rid of him was starvation. Why do that if they want me dead? It would be easy to kill me immediately if they felt disposed to do so. Davin churned his fate repeatedly in his mind. “Oh, no, no,” he mumbled to himself. “Surely they will not starve me to death.” As he uttered these words, he heard the insane woman’s singing commence again. He could not help thinking that it sounded like some requiem for those who were close to death, and that it was a sort of signal that his remaining time alive was limited. Despair again began to take possession of him, and despite the savage threats of the guard, he almost called loudly for help, but he had already heard footsteps approaching.
By listening most intently, he heard a number of doors opened and shut, and sometimes when one opened, there was a shriek, and the sound of a lashing whip, which very soon succeeded in drowning all other noises. It occurred to Davin that this was the daily routine for the inmates of that most horrible abode, who were living like trapped, wild beasts, fed in cages. Then he thought how strange it was that even for a small amount of money, men with wealth and power would get human beings to do the work of such an establishment. By the time Davin had made this wise reflection to himself, his door opened upon its rusty hinges again.
There was the flash of lamp light, and then a man came in with a hollow gourd of water in his hand. The gourd’s neck functioned like a spout, and the guard placed it near Davin’s mouth. Fearing that if he did not drink, he might be a long time without water, he drank from the gourd and it tasted like water from a ditch. The guard threw a coarse, brown-looking, hard loaf of bread at his prisoner’s feet.
Davin, Treva, and Briand survived day by day under these harsh circumstances, separated from each other’s company for months, not knowing the others’ fates, enduring the cruelest conditions that this dungeon had to offer.
When Aton learned that the warlord’s prison guards had snatched his father, mother, and cousin from the fields, as they harvested last autumn’s crops with the other slaves, and that a corrupt system of justice had sentenced the three of them to the darkness of solitary confinement and possibly death, his heart became just as heavy with sadness as their repulsive prison cells were damp and gloomy.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
The last day of the festival arrived, so it was now the day of the wedding. It was time for Aton to initiate some type of action, anything to put an end to the madness of tyrants. Aton had sensed the vexed mood of the people, and he suspected that the empire, which Olar had bequeathed to Lanzo, was starting to crumble on its weak foundation. All Aton needed to do was to give the frail kingdom a push. Then, he could watch the domain that his father had helped create, and all the clans that the beloved Davin Matin had risked his life in battle to unify, shatter into fragments, and let the little bits and pieces of what remained fall between Trahan’s and Lanzo’s greedy fingers.
Just as Hauk had predicted, the guards of the estate and the soldiers providing security in the crowd were lax in discipline, full of revelry, and intoxicated with drink. The enemy’s reaction to an uprising would be slow, and their response to an armed revolt would be uncoordinated, too. He hoped anyone loyal to the Brills would surrender quickly, to avoid unnecessary bloodshed.
The uprising tiers of benches filled early on the festival’s final day, and the joyous conversations of the people went abroad like the hum of bees in a hive. After the archery competition, ritual horns blew from the guard tower. Aton’s heart sank. He knew that the wedding ceremony was going to begin, and he had done nothing yet to stop it or to get his family from behind the dungeon’s thick stone walls. He occasionally caught the anxious eyes of one of his men looking at him. Not in a judgmental way, but just a casual glance that reaffirmed his sense of their loyalty. All that his men needed was a command, but Aton had none yet to give. The village of Tarply had as much at stake as Aton. Many lives depended on the outcome of today’s events. They needed to cut the head from this venomous snake, or maybe, if tyranny were stronger than the desire for freedom, they would fall under Lanzo’s control and be at his bidding, while simultaneously losing the youth from their community for the new warlord’s imperial conquests. Oberlin, the heart of this region’s domain, was also suffering. The relentless executions needed to stop, but the common villagers were too afraid to do anything about their new ruler.
The ceremonial horns blew several times, beckoning the wedding party, but the bride and groom had not yet made their appearance, so the crowd was content to hide its impatience by exchanging taunts from one section to another, proclaiming the superiority of their clan over that of any rival. In and out among the seats went people from different clans and villages, carrying small pennants to correspond with the communities from which they had come. Food vendors also did a prosperous business, because many people had been so impulsively eager to get good seats that they had rushed away to the stands without first eating their breakfast.
Suddenly, the tall gates of the enclosure opened wide, and two men with trumpets emerged from behind the doors. Mounted upon a black horse, the standard-bearer went trotting through the open gate, preceding Esina and Lanzo. Two guards blew into their horns to herald the entry of the betrothed couple approaching on two magnificent horses. A wave of silence overcame the jubilant horde of clans. The revelry had disappeared much like when a cold winter breeze snuffs the flame from a blazing candle that had brought light into a dark and cold room. Lanzo Brill entered the grounds, mounted on a beautiful white stallion, and he wore finely tailored clothes made from the most stylish textiles. The fringe along
his jacket sleeve waved in the slight breeze and bounced with each step of his horse. His hat bore a long white plume from a colorful bird, and he lifted his cap arrogantly, expecting the people to reply with cheers, but they answered with continued silence. With some difficulty, but while still appearing majestic and romantically intriguing in her elaborate wedding dress, Esina Regalyon had mounted a horse equally as magnificent, and as white as a cloud. She rode reluctantly by his side. Trahan, who was dressed as extravagantly as his son, appeared immediately behind the couple.
Esina’s mother was absent. She was still too distraught from the loss of her husband, which had been a slow, agonizing death by poison. With soft down pillows over her ears, she hid in the seclusion of her dark bedroom and cried until she had no more tears. Trahan had lost his wife years ago, under circumstances that were just as similar and mysterious as Olar’s death, because Trahan had poisoned her, too.
Esina lifted her chin and tried to smile happily at the crowd. When she raised her hand and waved, the crowd responded with a compassionate cheer. The people’s response to Esina had been more from sympathy for her rather than joy. After the crowd jubilantly responded to the bride’s friendly wave, Lanzo jealously frowned at the slowly increasing throng of attendees. He was becoming angry.
The horses of the wedding procession moved at a leisurely pace across the field as the couple went beside the elevated stands, and countless eyes stared down at their next warlord and wondered what dark future was waiting for their clans. The couple’s horses trotted so slowly that their swarm of servants, who were on foot, overtook them and were already on and around the ceremonial platform, which carpenters from Oberlin and the surrounding area had specially built for the wedding ceremony. In return for the ornate stage, the volunteer woodworkers hoped to gain favor with the new warlord for their respective clans.
At the raised wedding platform, the reluctant bride and her groom dismounted from their steeds, ascended the steps of the matrimonial stage, and seated themselves upon two chairs, which appeared as thrones covered with exotic upholstery, embroidered with brightly colored thread. Because of his arthritic knees, Trahan slowly ascended the steps of the platform, and he walked at a snail’s pace behind the unhappy couple as he caught his breath from the climb. Esina went to the left, near a table of wedding gifts. Lanzo stood near the right corner of the stage, reviewing the gathering audience, most of whom had come to see the week’s final event. As Trahan passed beside his son to go to Esina, who was standing near the gift table, he patted Lanzo on the back, smiled, and waved to the slowly expanding horde gathering below the level of the elevated stage. No one cheered or waved back to the tax collector.
Trahan put his gloved hand onto his hip, looked at the bride while tilting his head to the side, and as he pointed to the spread of gifts on the table, he said to Esina, “All of this is for you.” He grinned mischievously.
Esina gave him a cold and silent reply. She said nothing as she turned away, crossed her arms, and cupped her elbows with the palms of her hands.
“Oh, Esina, you look so beautiful. Don’t act like this and ruin your special day.” He put his hand over his heart. The black leather glove was as dark as his soul. “Wouldn’t you want to make your father proud?”
Her head quickly snapped back to defiantly face him. He flinched as she stared into his startled eyes. She growled, “My father is dead.”
He bowed his head and put both hands over his heart. “Yes, it’s a tragedy, but it wasn’t a surprise. I’m sorry that he had to suffer for so long. It’s just a shame when it happens that way…the painful agony of a prolonged death. At least you were there for his last moments.” He raised his eyes to gauge her reaction. She was still glaring.
She threw her hand straight forward and pointed to the gallows. “Maybe that’s the stage you really want me on.”
Trahan straightened his spine as much as he could, trying to stand a little taller, but his posture was as crooked as his morals. “Don’t be absurd.” Trahan could see that her angry disposition was attracting unfavorable attention from the crowd. He thought it might be best to leave, because he did have one more surprise before the ceremony, but he wanted to change her mood if possible, and leave the crowd with a charade of happiness, however weak it was, when he vacated the stage.
Defiantly facing him, she angrily crossed her arms and checked the table with her hip. With a sharp whisper, like the hiss of a snake, and raised eyebrows, she asked, “Are you going to poison me, too? Will one of these gifts send me slowly to my grave?”
“Stop it,” he warned her sternly. “I’ll hear no more of that talk. Not today.”
He rapped the table as loudly as he could with the knuckles of his small hands. On its uneven legs, the table wobbled and so did the gifts. Then he remembered that he had forgotten to place onto the table the present from the man at Tarply who had called himself, “Nota.” It was the gift of silver coins in a leather purse, which Aton had won during the archery competition at the prior year’s spring festival. Esina’s handwritten note was still inside it. He removed the jingling leather pouch quickly from his pocket, and he tossed it to her.
“Another one for you,” said Trahan.
“From whom? An assassin?”
“From someone who understands the power and influence of Lanzo and myself.”
“You don’t inspire people. You intimidate or kill them.” She looked at the leather purse curiously, as if it were familiar to her. “It’s probably just a bribe from somebody that doesn’t want a trip to gallows. You can’t kill everyone, Trahan.”
“I’d never met the young man before the day that he handed me that pouch. He told me to give it to you, and he promised to deliver a herd of one thousand grazing animals as a wedding present.”
“What could I do with a herd of dirty beasts?” asked Esina.
“Let your servants worry about that, but you could buy something with what is in that pouch. He said that there are silver coins in it. Go buy yourself a lovely dress.” After a moment of silence, he added, “You could at least show a little gratitude.”
“I’m not going to thank you.”
“I’m not asking you to thank me.”
“Then…who should I thank?”
“The man that gave you that present, but I forgot his name. I’m sure he’s here, lurking somewhere…I think he’s been hiding from me.”
“Do I know him?”
“No, of course not. He’s from someplace far away. Nitam…or someplace that sounds like that.”
“Nitam? I have never heard of it.”
“Neither have I. If I remember his name, I’ll tell you what it is.” He tilted his head back and drummed the back of his hand against the bottom of his chin, and he forced a thin, fake grin to appear on his face. “Smile, dear. The crowd expects you to be happy.” He turned, and then after only taking a single step away, spun back around. “Oh, I remember his name. The young man’s name is Nota. Nota from Nitam.”
With a nod and a glance at the stranger’s gift, she acknowledged the name of the man and village.
Trahan went to the other side of the stage to discuss with his son a surprise execution, something to set the tone of the new warlord’s style of leadership.
For the gathering, Esina tried to wear a thin veneer of fake happiness, but it did not work. Her swelling sadness tore through it. She dropped heavily onto the deep cushion of one of the magnificent chairs on the stage. She reposed her right elbow on the armrest and leaned her chin onto her palm. On her lap, the other hand restlessly fumbled with the enigmatic leather pouch from the mysterious stranger. Someone named Nota from the village of Nitam. Who was that? Neither his name nor the name of the town seemed familiar to her. Looking into the eyes of the people who made up the swarming throng, she saw the reflection of her sadness in the crowd’s expression, pure grief.
“Are you ready, my boy?” Trahan asked his son, using a term of endearment that he had not said in years.
/> “I’m ready to be through with it,” he grumbled.
“It’s just a means to an end. At least act like you’re happy.”
“I’m not. Just look into that crowd. They don’t respect me.”
“Nonsense!” exclaimed Trahan. “It’ll just take them some time to get used to you. Regalyon men have been warlords for generations, but now the esteemed name will be Brill for many future generations.”
“They mock me.”
“You can’t hear what they’re saying in the crowd. It’s just drunken banter, gibberish among the common people.”
“But I know what they’re thinking. I’ve heard the rumors.”
“Well, my boy, don’t worry about it. If they don’t respect you now, they soon will. First, we’ll make them fear you. I think it’s time for another round of executions.”
Trahan and Lanzo had special plans for three of their jail’s distinguished guests. The condemned trio’s executions, just prior to the wedding ceremony, would be the unannounced entertainment, a shock and complete surprise for the crowd.
“Just get it over with so we can have the ceremony,” moaned Lanzo.
He flippantly turned away from his father and plopped onto the thick cushion of his chair. Lanzo was on one end of the stage and Esina was on the other. They were as far apart from each other as if they were on opposite sides of the world, separated by a frigid sea of hate.
Trahan exited the stage and hobbled down the steps. At the bottom, he commanded three guards to take him to the jail, which was more like a dungeon, a dark abyss in the midst of a manmade hell. The three sentries helped him onto a horse-drawn cart, and they led it through the crowd and out the main gate to get to the dark prison, which was hiding behind the stockade walls. The dungeon was windowless, and although it was not underground, it was just as gloomy as a cave. Trahan had it built especially for political rivals, dissidents who might get in the way of his son’s rise to power. Any adversaries who had not died under mysterious circumstances had found it their new home, a fate worse than death, which usually came after a period of prolonged agony and starvation.
