The Instruments of Control

by Schaefer, Craig

  She darted in close, trying to get inside his reach. The second she did, she realized her mistake. The move, drilled into her by endless hours of practice with her fighting batons, was meant to give her an advantage with a pair of short weapons. With nearly four feet of steel in her shaky hand, it was useless.

  Worse than useless. He saw her coming, turned his shoulder, and drove his fist into her stomach. As the air burst from her lungs, Mari staggered back. Then the flat of his blade smashed across the back of her skull.

  The next thing she saw was the ground. Dazed, out of breath, her head and stomach on fire, she landed face-first in the mud at his feet.

  “As I thought,” he said. “Worthless in every conceivable way. We’re done here.”

  “No,” Mari wheezed. She pushed herself to her feet. She picked up the blade.

  He came at her again, not holding back anymore, forcing her to fend off a torrent of blows. Steel clanged again and again, ringing out across the clearing, while she parried his attacks and searched for an opening. Then, as she drove off a low sweeping swing, the unbalanced sword slipped from her sweaty grip. Before she could recover, reaching for the fallen weapon, the flat of his blade lashed across her kidneys.

  She fell to her hands and knees. He took a quick running step and drove his steel-plated boot into her gut with a vicious kick. She collapsed, groaning, curling into a ball and wrapping her arms around her stomach.

  “Do you think I’m testing your spirit?” he demanded, circling her. “I’m not. I’m trying to teach you a valuable lesson. Stay down.”

  Eyes blurry with tears, Mari forced herself to take a deep, shuddering breath and push through the pain.

  She shoved herself to her feet. She picked up the blade.

  “I don’t quit,” she rasped in a low, near-broken whisper, as much to herself as to him. “I don’t quit.”

  He swung. A last-second feint that pulled her off-balance. Then he lunged in and threw a roundhouse punch, smashing his gauntlet into her face. Blood streamed from her nose, her already-blurry vision ghosting, and she slipped down to one knee. He darted around her. His boot slammed into her spine and sent her crashing back to the ground.

  She couldn’t.

  She would have gotten back up ten more times if she could have. A hundred more times. A million. Anything to prove herself. But as she bled there, head spinning and stomach lurching and her lungs choking, her back and her skull and her gut all screaming in pain, she just couldn’t. She pushed against the ground as hard as she could, but all of her strength was gone.

  She heard the knight sheathe his sword. His companion picked the borrowed blade up from where it had fallen, wiping it down with a cloth.

  He crouched beside her. He grabbed her hair in an iron grip and yanked her head up. Droplets of blood drizzled down Mari’s puffy lip and spattered the black loam.

  “Get this through your head,” he growled. “We don’t want you. Nobody wants you, and nobody ever will.”

  He shoved her face into the mud and walked away.

  * * *

  Mari sat, silent and still, at the edge of the riverbank.

  She’d been sitting there for an hour. Cross-legged, holding her brooch in her lap. Running her fingers across the face of the moon.

  Nessa approached from behind, twigs crackling under her feet. Mari didn’t turn around.

  “I’m sorry,” Nessa said.

  Mari didn’t answer. She rocked a little, from side to side, like a reed in the breeze.

  “They were wrong,” Nessa said. “And I was wrong for thinking as highly of them as I did.”

  “They were knights,” Mari whispered, her voice hollow. Shattered. “Real knights.”

  “They were fools.” Nessa put her hands on her hips. “Do I have to be angry for you, Mari?”

  “They were crusaders. Servants of the Lady of Five Hundred Names.”

  “Oh, and did the goddess do anything worth a damn back there? Did she lift one tiny divine finger to help her faithful daughter?”

  Nessa leaned in and yanked the brooch out of Mari’s hands. Startled Mari turned to face her.

  “How much time?” Nessa demanded, waving the brooch in Mari’s face. “How much time did you spend praying over this, hoping over it, dreaming over it? How much of your life have you devoted to this moment? To this moment?”

  Mari let out a humorless little chuckle.

  “I guess…too much,” she said, “since I never had a chance.”

  Nessa tossed the brooch back into her lap. “And if the goddess cared for you as you care for her, if she was worth any of your devotion, would this have just happened?”

  “I thought,” Mari said, confused, “I thought you believed—”

  “The goddess abandoned you. The Autumn Lance rejected you. Are you going to take that from them? From anybody?”

  Mari tightened her hand around the brooch.

  “You’re better than that,” Nessa hissed. “They reject you? Then reject them. You are good enough to be a real knight! Show them your strength!”

  Anger welled up in Mari’s chest, pushing out the grief, the pain. A surge of fury that pulled her arm back, gripping the brooch hard enough to whiten her skin. With a frustrated cry, she hurled it away.

  The brooch landed in the river. It bobbed for a moment, then sank, slipping under the icy black waters.

  Mari froze, realizing what she’d done. Her arm stretched out, fingers trembling as they grasped empty air. From behind her, Nessa’s hands closed over her shoulders. They squeezed gently.

  “Come along,” Nessa whispered in her ear. “We have one more stop to make.”

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  The conclave of the Itrescan Church was an orchestrated pantomime. Behind closed doors, Yates and Rhys met with the clergymen they’d handpicked for the job—ones who had the perfect balance of political savvy and greed—and made the plan clear. Those who supported Livia were guaranteed a cardinalhood. Those who vocally opposed her, instead of politely stepping out of the way, could expect a very unpleasant future.

  It didn’t take long to bring everybody into line.

  Down in the king’s strategy room, Rhys and Livia looked over a sprawling map of Itresca.

  “And here,” Rhys said, sliding a marble weight in the shape of an obelisk across the parchment, “is where we’ll eventually construct your cathedral. Once the Empire starts coughing up their generous tribute, of course.”

  “You’ve done so much for me,” Livia said. “I am truly grateful.”

  “Yes, well.” He gave her a sidelong glance. “There is one thing.”

  She turned to face him. “One thing?”

  “What’s your stance on…inquisitions?”

  Livia gaped at him. “Shameful and unnecessary, as my father always taught. Our purpose is to bring people to the faith by logical argument and compassionate action. An inquisition betrays the dire lack of both.”

  Rhys sighed. He rapped his knuckles on the map, drawing her gaze to the northeastern highlands.

  “House Argall, my wife’s family, holds these lands. Wasn’t always so. Used to be Jernigan land. We had a bit of a brushfire war about two hundred years ago, and they stole it out from under us.”

  “I don’t see what that has to do with anything,” Livia said.

  “Are you familiar with the Tertulliates?”

  She thought for a moment, rubbing her chin, and nodded.

  “Church doctrine holds that the saints pray to the Gardener on our behalf, and he answers those prayers. The Tertulliates argue that saints are empowered to answer prayers themselves, but can only do so in accordance with the Gardener’s will. When you get into the texts…it’s a heresy by definition, any deviation from doctrine is, but it’s like arguing the proper way to tie your bootlaces. Nothing that would put someone’s soul in jeopardy.”

  “The Argall clan,” Rhys said, “they’re Tertulliates.”

  Livia’s eyes widened.

 
“You want me to declare an Order of Inquisition,” she said. “A heretic’s land and property, under law, belong to the Church.”

  “And you’ll sell it back to me for a song.” He gave her an easy smile. “Look, all they have to do is recant their sins and they go free, right? Nobody’s going to get hurt. Nobody has to die. It’s simple. It’s clean.”

  “You can’t know that. What if they’d rather be put to the question? What if they’d rather die before giving up their principles?”

  Rhys snorted. He glanced down at the map. “Then they’re imbeciles. Come near my balls with a hot poker, I’ll tell you anything you want to hear. If they don’t have the sense of self-preservation to do the same, I can’t muster too much pity.”

  “What about the queen?”

  He looked at her, perplexed. “What about her?”

  “There are no exemptions. If she holds to her family’s beliefs, she’ll be arrested as well.”

  “Hmm,” he said. “I suppose she will.”

  Livia stepped away from him, circling the table. She shuddered with revulsion.

  “This is monstrous. No. I won’t do it.”

  “That’s a shame,” Rhys said. “You would have made a good pope.”

  She blinked. “Would have?”

  “The power and influence Yates and I built for you? We can yank it all away.” He snapped his fingers. “Like that. As for you, well…accidents do happen. Understand this, Livia. You can save my people’s souls and flood the world with the Gardener’s love and all that rubbish, but at the end of the day? You work for me. The Itrescan Church is nothing but an instrument of my kingdom’s policies. You will do as I ask.”

  “I…” She cast her gaze to the floor. “…I need to think about it.”

  “Don’t take too long,” Rhys told her. “And come back with the answer I want to hear.”

  * * *

  “No,” Amadeo said. He paced the refugee camp’s supply tent, shaking his head furiously. “Livia, why would you even ask my counsel? You know the answer. What he wants is wrong. Abusing the power of the Church to steal a family’s lands? More than wrong, it’s…evil.”

  Livia winced, rubbing her temples. Her headache had ebbed back at full force after her meeting with the king.

  “And what’s the alternative?”

  “He could be bluffing,” Amadeo offered.

  “He’s not. Trust me.”

  “We should leave,” Amadeo said. “You and I. Just hire a ship and leave. We can stay ahead of Carlo. Just…disappear. Change our names, take up jobs in some sleepy village. He’ll never—”

  “And be nothing?” Livia’s voice was sharp as she threw up her hands, leaning toward him. “I stand to become pope, Amadeo. I should throw that away? Become a washerwoman or a shepherd in some village? Die anonymous and forgotten? And I should be happy with that? Would you be?”

  “I would be happy,” he said slowly, his words calculated, “with not dragging the Church into further corruption.”

  “Carlo did that. And he won’t be stopped unless we stop him. To do that, I have to take the throne. To do that, I have to give Rhys what he wants.”

  “So,” he said, “the end justifies the means, is that it?”

  Livia folded her arms, staring him down.

  “Sometimes,” she replied, “maybe it does. When the stakes are this high. When the cost is that small.”

  “Is it? Livia, have you spoken with the queen at all?”

  She shrugged. “Barely. Why?”

  “I had a lovely chat with her the other day, and I think you would benefit from doing the same. Go to her. Ask how she feels about her family’s ‘heresy.’”

  * * *

  Livia stood beside Queen Eirwen’s throne. Rhys’s great chair sat vacant, the king off meeting with his advisors, and the usual gaggle of courtiers had retreated to a reasonable distance.

  “I had a feeling we’d be having this talk eventually,” the apple-cheeked woman said, smiling indulgently at Livia. “Yes, it’s true. My family does adhere to that tradition, as do I. You know, your father never had a cross word to say about us, at least not that I heard.”

  “No,” Livia said, “that’s right. I only ask because, well, I’m concerned.”

  “Concerned?”

  Livia wrung her hands, fumbling for an excuse.

  “It is a minor heresy, but a heresy still. I’d be remiss if I didn’t talk to you to find out firsthand how devoted your family is to the Tertulliatic creed.”

  “Most of them?” Eirwen chuckled. “In name only. I doubt they could even tell you what it means. For that matter, I doubt they could tell you the last time they’d been to mass. It’s a family tradition, nothing more, held for so long they’ve forgotten why.”

  “So,” Livia said, thinking it out, “if they were offered some small…incentive to renounce their belief and come back into alignment with the Church—”

  Eirwen glanced to both sides, leaning on the arm of her throne with a conspiratorial smile. “I don’t want to speak ill of my cousins, but you could hand most of them a couple of coins and a fresh-plucked chicken and they’d profess any creed you ask.”

  Livia let out a sigh of relief. It didn’t make Rhys’s proposal any less immoral, but if she agreed to his demand—if she did—at least none of the Argalls would be physically hurt.

  “That’s them,” Eirwen added nonchalantly. “As for me, it’s a matter of family honor.”

  “Family honor?”

  Eirwen leaned back in her throne. “My father, rest his soul, was landed gentry, but what he wanted, more than anything, was to leave that all behind and take up the greens. He was passionate about the Church, about its history and doctrines. Spent years devouring every text he could get his hands on and translating old scripture.”

  “But he was a Tertulliate.”

  “And the family creed troubled him,” Eirwen explained. “He delved into our history, looking for a way to reconcile our traditions with the Church. And you know what he found?”

  “What’s that?”

  “An obscure bit of history. Evidence—circumstantial, shallow, but provoking nonetheless—to suggest that the Church originally agreed with us. The current stance on the roles of the saints was a later rewrite. In other words, Livia, you’re the heretic.” She winked. “But don’t worry, my dear, it’s only a minor heresy.”

  “Then why does the Church doctrine say—”

  “That was his question. My father did everything he could to spread his research, but it fell on deaf ears. He died in a state of heresy, though he knew in his heart he was truer to the Gardener’s creed than those who judged him. So you see, Livia, that’s why I’m a Tertulliate. Because my father was right. To renounce that would betray his memory, his work, and everything he stood for.”

  Livia bit her bottom lip. She dreaded the answer to her next question, but she had to ask it.

  “So there’s nothing that would convince you to recant? Nothing at all?”

  Eirwen shook her head, still smiling.

  “In honesty, my dear, I would die first.”

  * * *

  “So that’s the situation,” Livia said. She sat at a small, round table beside the window in Dante’s private chambers. The slit in the stone looked down over green, rolling fields outside Lychwold, a gentle incline leading down to dark and misty waters.

  Dante paced the room, hands clasped behind his back, deep in thought.

  “You’re sure she’s serious?” he asked. “Most people who say they’d die for their convictions swiftly change their tune when the knives come out. Words are cheap.”

  “I looked in her eyes, Dante. I believe her. That’s the long and the short of it. If I give Rhys what he wants, Eirwen will be arrested by the Inquisition. She will be tortured until she recants, and she will die.”

  “And if you don’t do as he asks, well.” He waved a hand in the air. “All of this goes away. We lose everything.”

  “How ca
n he do this? How can Rhys be so callous?”

  “He’s a good king,” Dante said.

  Livia reached for a decanter on the table, pouring a splash of berry-red wine into a pewter goblet. She didn’t drink often, but she needed something for the pounding in her skull. It felt like a dagger jabbing just under her left eyelid.

  “A good king,” she echoed flatly.

  Dante walked over and pulled out the other chair, sitting across from her.

  “Livia, are you familiar with the histories of ancient Khem? In Peroditus’s Chronicle of Sand, he refers to their rulers as ‘the honest kings.’ Do you know why?”

  She shook her head and swallowed down some wine.

  “They were always depicted holding a shepherd’s crook and a coiled whip.” He crossed his arms over his chest, curling his hands. “Like this. Can you guess why?”

  Livia furrowed her brow.

  “Well,” she said, “a good king is the protector of his people. A guide and a leader. The crook is symbolic of steering them in the right direction, like a shepherd with his flock. And the whip, that’s to drive off their enemies and keep them safe.”

  Dante laughed. He poured himself a goblet of wine.

  “You’re delightful, you know that?”

  “Are you mocking me?” Livia asked.

  “Just enthralled by your naiveté. Livia, the purpose of any successful ruler is clear and singular: to perpetuate their rule. Once you hold the reins of power, it’s upon you to keep hold of them by any means necessary. The crook isn’t to guide your people; it’s to control them by means of force. Military force, economic force, and so on. The whip, in the other hand, represents the punishments that can be brought to bear upon dissenters. Imprisonment, torture, pain, and death. Or just the threat of it. Fear, in and of itself, is a powerful weapon. And that is why Peroditus called them the ‘honest kings’: because they told their subjects, in every piece of art, exactly who they were.”

  “Weapons,” Livia said, “should be used against the enemies of your people, not your people themselves.”

  “When you wear a crown, all men are your enemies. And you must endeavor to keep your subjects from ever discovering the great and terrible truth that hides in the heart of every ruler, every king, and every pope.”