“Why?” G’rkyr asked. The anguish in his voice as he said that one word gave Dierá hope. Jurin were not beasts. They could feel. She gave herself to him then, and not because he wanted her to but because she wanted to. Pain and joy were two sides of the same coin, as were hate and love.
Later that night, when she spoke to her father in dream, she told him of the hope she felt in her heart. Though she still dared not tell him of G’rkyr or the Jurin, she told him of other things.
“There is hope, father,” she said. “He loves me as I love him. I feel it as surely as I feel that I will see Eldri soon.”
Her father took her hand and walked with her. “You have done well. Our people will live in your deeds. Élvemere will be once more.”
Dierá stopped midstride, turned to regard her father. “I believe because you believe.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
Martin and Gerhold traveled in silence. The thick-limbed Gerhold led.
A toll passed. They walked along wide corridors, up stairs, through many turnings and through many doors. The air began to smell sweet, fresh, almost of flowers and grass. Strange smells for the Phatidh but Martin was certain that they were in no other quarter of the city.
He wondered at the other’s stamina. He was drenched in sweat and yet Gerhold, who towered over Martin and wore heavy leathers, was dry. Perhaps Trykathians did not sweat like men. Still, it seemed to Martin that Gerhold should share his weariness. The path from the Wuntrus to the Phatidh was a long one by tunnel or by stair and hall.
Martin paused to rest in a secluded courtyard and shared the foodstuffs in his satchel. A loaf of heavy black bread. A smoked silver fish. Gerhold seemed to enjoy both. Handfuls of water from a cascading fountain helped to wash it down.
They came to stand before a doorway guarded by two S’h’dith. The guards, clad in spiked helms and heavy chainmail marked with red, carried spears with long wide blades running halfway down their length and short thrusting swords. Both weapons had blades that were quadrisected and meant for impaling.
Gerhold bunched his brows and looked to Martin. Instinctively, Martin held out the scrap of vellum.
The guards opened the doors, revealing a grand garden the likes of which was new to Martin, for there were no flowers, shrubs, or trees. Instead there were strange rocks jutting up from beds of smaller rocks. Some of the jutting rocks were cut at odd angles; others had a more natural look, almost as it they had grown out of the earth below. They were of all colors and sizes. A few were of such impossible size that they seemed to scrape the outer circle of domes high above. Beneath the central inner dome was a fountain, but it ran with fire and not water.
Martin reached out and gripped Gerhold’s arm. He held out the vellum scrap, twisted it so the mark showed clearly.
Gerhold said, “Put that away until asked for.”
“You say that you are marked. Are all of the Protectorate marked? Is that what the mark is for?”
“The mark is as it is. It is a good thing,” Gerhold said firmly, but the firmness seemed appended as if to reassure himself as much as Martin.
“The Protectorate—”
“—serves.”
Gerhold looked suddenly uneasy.
Martin asked, “Is something wrong?”
Gerhold shrugged. “A feeling is all. Likely nothing, but everything seems wrong. Out of place.”
“And what is out of place?”
Gerhold pointed up the path that dissected the garden. Martin followed with his eyes, saw a long line of those who held a scrap of vellum. “There’s more,” he said, pointing to other paths dissecting the garden, each with their own lines.
“Do you know what any of this means?” Martin asked as he studied those in the lines. They seemed to be of all peoples. He saw scaly Gnogs, bug-eyed Begreths, wiry Alvs, stocky Dwelmish, scrawny Erlanders, thick-limbed Trykaths, and raven-haired Kingdomers.
“I thought I did,” Gerhold admitted. “But this? This is more. I go now.”
Martin got in line behind a rather hairy Dwelm, began to thank Gerhold for his help, but saw that Gerhold was not going anywhere. The great doors behind them closed and no one was there to open them. Suddenly he longed for the solace of his hearth duties, and wished he had told Tandy how he felt about her. He touched the book in his breast pocket and felt a pang in his heart.
Gerhold seemed to have his own regrets, and it was with much apprehension that Martin met the other’s iron stare. “I’m a damned fool. The more I think I know the less it seems I actually do.”
“To know all is to be a master,” Gerhold replied, and the wisdom of that simple phrasing made Martin rethink what he thought he knew about Trykaths.
The line moved slowly forward, toward the center of the garden. Martin’s eyes roamed the strange stone plots and the deportment of those in the lines. He talked absently with Gerhold, mostly of things of no consequence. He asked about the Protectorate and about how Gerhold had come to serve. He talked with great warmth of Tandy and her kitchens. He lamented his hearths and bemoaned visits beyond the stone walls.
“All as nothing to one who carries the mark. Marked are no longer things to have or not have. Marked serve.”
“Dubious distinction,” Martin muttered half to himself as he searched the lines with his eyes, failing to see the difference between slave and servant. If that indeed was the distinction Gerhold was trying to make.
Gerhold quietly said, “Great Mother Beqheth, what have I done?” It was a statement as much as it was a question. The Trykath’s concerned eyes and general anxiety told Martin that the other was coming to a decision about something. Martin assumed it was whether to walk away and leave Martin to his own ends, or stay and help even if there were unanticipated consequences.
Martin thumped the book in his pocket, spoke before the other could decide. “No Wërg or Dwëorg. No Jurin. No masters. Only us who serve and toil.”
“In that you are wrong,” Gerhold said, pointing. Martin stepped around the hulking Trykath, followed the other’s gaze. He saw what the other saw and it could be no other than the Great One, Makhatar. The throng that surrounded her seemed to confirm this, as did the S’h’dith warriors clad in golden armor. Gerhold seemed to confirm this too by averting his eyes while praising the glory of the heavens.
Until this day Martin had never seen the ageless king, but now he had seen both Zephyres, King of Kings, and Makhatar, King’s Consort. But seen was not exactly the right word, and Martin knew it. He had not seen Zephyres. He had not dared look, but as for Makhatar, he found he could not look away.
If it were possible for a Drakón to be beautiful, Makhatar was. She was not like the grave, winged behemoths that were her kin. She was as unlike them as Martin was unlike Gerhold. Her back was a brilliant copper and her underparts were barred with silver and blue, save for a golden band across her upper chest. Her wings were barbed but she had no horns. Her tawny brown head was crowned with a double crest and her great, round eyes had golden irises and jet black pupils. It gave her a somewhat owl-like appearance, but a blunted muzzle with savage jaws spoiled the effect.
Martin started to say something when Gerhold struck him a blow that knocked him to his knees. Martin gasped, started to speak. Gerhold struck him a blow that left him flat. From this position, he found himself in her presence. “The Great One?” Martin asked, the words escaping his lips even as he sought to stop himself.
One and the same, came the voice into his mind. You are a rare one, Martin of Voethe. I felt your presence the moment you entered the recreatory. You may look up, so that I may know you.
Gerhold nearly took Martin’s head off as Martin started to look up, but Makhatar stopped Gerhold with her eyes. “Protector, blame him not. He could do no other than speak. I compelled it from him. I wanted to know him.”
Gerhold kneeled, bowed his head. At her touch, Gerhold nearly lost himself to convulsions and tears. Martin was unsure which would win out until the other succumbed to quiet sob
s.
Makhatar motioned for Martin to stand. When he did, he noticed that he and Gerhold were surrounded by Makhatar, her entourage, and her soldiers. She put a clawed index finger under his chin and raised his gaze to hers. Have you no fear, Martin of Voethe? My gaze, my touch, brings ease and not distress. Why is this?
Martin dared not speak but he held her gaze. All thoughts save one emptied from his mind and that thought was of her beauty. Makhatar reflected an apportionment of her thoughts to him as she took in his dark hair, hazel eyes, and frail humanness. The one word she passed to him in thought was in regard to his build. Scrawny.
“Who are you, Martin of Voethe?” It was a question but not a question. Martin was not expected to answer. He understood this and remained silent.
Makhatar worked in this silence, ripping rivers of thoughts from his mind. Against his will, Martin clasped his hands over his face and cried out in agony. To keep himself, he focused on Tandy and his affection for her, but this only seemed to enrage Makhatar. “Who has taught you this?” she bellowed.
Martin’s focus went beyond Tandy to her kitchens. He thought of the kitchen aromas. The sweet smell of baking breads. The savory smell of roasting meats. The pungent herbs hanging from the rafters.
Perhaps this will teach you fear, she told him in thought while saying aloud, “What a seditious thing you are. How subversive your thoughts.”
This caused murmurs and gasps. It all seemed like theater, like he was the day’s entertainment. He was certain Makhatar spoke of the things he dared not think of. It drove his focus. He imagined himself together with Tandy in the kitchens as it had been that morning, but that line of thought was a mistake.
With a clawed finger and thumb, Makhatar ripped the book from his pocket and dropped it to the ground. He braced himself for what Makhatar must surely deliver, feeling only sorrow for involving Gerhold in such a thing. Gerhold would die, though he was as blameless as any others Martin would be compelled to implicate.
His thoughts went to Yarr, and suddenly Martin was gravely certain Yarr too would die. He cursed himself. He should have burned the book. He should have burned all the books.
His thoughts of Yarr brought a sudden change to Makhatar. She seemed to be seeing Martin for the first time. Her thoughts reflecting back on him showed her standing in a room adorned with living tapestries, and upon each measures of his life played out.
In one, Martin saw himself as a boy of seven taking lessons from his father’s sage. It was a sad day, a sad moment in the small hours after his mother’s death. The lessons were of the Circle and the Path, of how his mother would live on in his memories.
In another, Martin saw himself as a boy of ten running down a cobbled street as buildings burned around him. It was the Reckoning day. The terror in his eyes was for his father, his brothers and his sisters, and not for himself. After finding his father dead, slaughtered on the steps of the chapel house, he led his brothers and sisters to safety in the mountains.
In one more, Martin saw himself as a boy of twelve leading a small group of other boys. The Jurin camp at the base of the mountains was the objective. Neither he nor any of his companions were what he considered soldiers, so he directed the mission as one of stealth and sabotage. It was the first of many such missions.
There was one of his capture the following summer. One of his descent into bondage. One of his betrayal to the pits. One of his first encounter with Yarr, followed by a steady succession of those showing his interactions with Yarr. These seemed a special focus, more so than his struggles to stay alive in the colosseum, more so than his passage out of the pits, but there was interest in how Yarr had convinced the Trojk Master of Keys to help get Martin into hearth service.
Then suddenly Makhatar said, her voice booming across the garden like thunder in the air, “Death to all.” On her command, her soldiers rush out in all directions. Their spears prepared to impale; their swords to rend.
Martin steeled himself, intending to stand his ground. He had known better than to believe a mark made him special. He stepped protectively in front of an irrational and still Gerhold. He dared not speak, but he held Makhatar’s gaze.
His stance made Makhatar roar loudly. “Filled with rue and shame,” she said as she reached out and picked up Martin.
Knowing his death was imminent, Martin did not hold his tongue. He played the role it seemed Makhatar wanted him to play. “I am subversive and seditious. I deserve death, but let the others live. Gerhold is blameless. Doubtless all are blameless.”
“My, you are the one, aren’t you?” Makhatar waved the soldiers back. “Do you know who I am? What they call me? I am the Sorter. King’s Consort. I deal with whispers by finding the whisperers. I sort. I alone decide who lives and who dies. Death when I give it is eternal.”
She turned Martin upside down, shook loose the things in his pockets. She looked to the satchel next, ripping it apart and clawing at the foodstuffs it contained.
Careful, lest you cease to amuse and interest. Makhatar told Martin in thought.
Martin ignored her, spoke anyway while she dangled him upside down, unable to keep passion from his voice. “We amuse you. We are your playthings. But you will never truly break us no matter what you make us do.”
Makhatar’s entourage fell to discord and shouts. “His death will be too good for him.” “Skin him.” “Roast him.” “Death for all.”
Now I must appease them. Makhatar whispered to him. She pointed to one of the soldiers, said, “Protector, step forward.”
The other stepped forward. Makhatar dropped Martin.
“Your spear, give it to this one.” She indicated Martin. Martin refused the spear, but Makhatar, with the barest thrust of her will into his thoughts, compelled him to take it.
From that point on, Martin became little more than her puppet. With her thoughts, she ordered him to ready the weapon. He refused; she compelled it. She ordered him to turn. He refused; she compelled it. She ordered him to run Gerhold through. He fell upon the spear instead, and ran himself through.
Raucous laughter was the last thing Martin expected to hear, but it was what he heard.
“Your death comes when I command it, and not a heartbeat before.” Makhatar pulled the spear from his hands, used it to split his stomach and spill his entrails onto the dark stones. She thrust the spear back into his hands. “Kill that one and live.”
Martin smiled. Blood trickled out of his mouth, but he made no other move. Discord and disbelief returned. “He is damned.” “His death will deliver us.” “Free him of his life.” “Punishment above all else.”
Makhatar silenced all with a swing of her great tail. She looked to Martin, said with ice in her voice, “You and the Soulless One are two halves of the same whole. You are indeed the one. Live now because it is my will.”
Martin’s entrails curled in on themselves and returned to his chest cavity. The gaping hole in his chest closed and then was no more. The all-consuming pain left last, lingering for many steady beats of his heart as if by Makhatar’s will.
Makhatar hooked a clawed finger under his chin, used this hold to lift him into the air. “You have been sorted, Martin of Voethe. From this day forth, unless I command otherwise, you are my executioner, willing or not.”
She dropped him. Compelled him to pick up the spear. Compelled him to kill. He ran Gerhold through because her hold on him did not allow him to do otherwise. He attacked her when she released him, swinging the spear but missing. This action brought every blade and claw within reach. They skewered him, ripped him apart limb by limb.
Death did not follow. Makhatar refused it by putting him back together. She brought Gerhold back next. Martin was certain she would make him kill Gerhold again, but she did not. Instead she said, “You have been sorted, Gerhold of the Stone Mountains. From this day forth, unless I command otherwise, you are the executioner’s assistant, willing or not.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
“Return soon,�
� Nostik told Dierá. Tears were in the yellow-skinned, bug-eyed luven’s eyes. Dierá could not honestly say that she would miss the luven homeworld. In truth, sight of the luvens with their protruding eyes and thick thorax covered in long hair-like fur unsettled her more than that of the worst of the Drakón. She had to steel herself whenever Nostik touched her. But she knew in her heart she would miss Nostik. He was attentive, honest, and loyal, and that was as much as she could ask of anyone under the current circumstances.
On the far side of the expansive platform, Zanük marshaled great 1,000-member columns. Fhurjurin stood alongside Empyrjurin. Styrjurin with Monsjurin and Hylljurin. Notably missing were the sæjurin, as they were allied with the ageless.
G’rkyr watched the columns pass in review. His right hand was balled into a fist and pressed against the apex of his chest. He was clad in the ceremonial battle regalia of his enclave: a massive græsteel helm crowned with steel thorns, spiked armor with golden bands intertwined with blue chains, chain leggings trimmed in spikes and barbs, and græsteel boots of such fine steel weaves that they kissed the feet of the wearer.
Dierá looked on from the floating circle several chains away. Her pink chiffon dress floated on the breeze. She did not begrudge G’rkyr this honor. Regardless of whether G’rkyr ever convinced Nük T’nyr to assault Cyvair openly, the support of the Jurin armies was vital to her plans. The many decisive victories under G’rkyr’s command in this remote place meant something to Jurin who esteemed strength, decisiveness, and success above all else. In G’rkyr’s absence, Zanük would serve as adjunct commander. The ceremony marked the change of command.
In each column, two Empyrjurin were marked with blue. After passing in review, these members of the columns broke ranks and formed up to G’rkyr’s left. These few were Morkurhedwa—a chosen few who had vowed to become a living testament to their appellation. Among Empyrjurin, becoming Morkurhedwa was a great honor.
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