Sorrowing Vengeance

by David C. Smith

  Galvus and Abgarthis quietly moved toward empty chairs and seated themselves at a table below Elad’s throne dais.

  “And I further want it understood that I will brook absolutely no interference in this matter from the military. Lord Eslis? Lord Arego?”

  “Our…interpretation,” breathed Lord Arego, a heavyset man whose bulk was barely contained by the chair that supported him, “is that the military’s opinion of Prince Cyrodian’s…exploits…has altered substantially since the facts of the conspira­cy came to light. Yes.”

  “Lord Eslis?” Elad watched that one carefully.

  The councilor, a skull-faced man with close-cropped hair and many military decorations, bowed his head. “The army’s attitude has indeed been amended, your crown. You must remember that the spontaneous outburst on the part of some of the officers and cadets when Cyrodian was originally arrested was due more to sentiment than anything else.”

  Elad sneered. “They threatened me with a civil conflict if I did not bow to their demands to exile Cyrodian. That, to you, is sentiment? I’d better have our vocabularies amended.”

  Eslis motioned with his thin fingers. “Men of weapons,” he explained, “have passionate hearts.”

  “And quick tempers. The sword is hardly a scale of justice.”

  But as no one commented on this observation, Elad glanced at the others seated before him and allowed, “Are there any objections, then, to my signing the decree?”

  A few coughed. Several guilty pairs of eyes studied Prince Galvus. But no one rose to argue in Prince Cyrodian’s behalf.

  “The decree is already written. Scribe!” Elad called.

  The secretary seated on the stool to the right looked up from his wooden tablet.

  “Date the decree—” Elad gave it a moment’s thought “—for tomorrow. Twenty-six Sath.”

  The young man produced the document from the shelf beneath his seat, uncurled it and, with blue ink, scratched in the date.

  “Hand me the decree.” Elad held out his hand.

  The scribe leaned forward and passed the scroll to his king. Elad cleared his throat, held the parchment open, and read aloud to the men in the chamber, and to his nephew, his edict ordering the execution of his brother, the prince-general.

  “…by me, Elad sollos don Athadia, on this date, twenty-six Sath, in the Age of the Birth of Our Prophet 1879.” He looked up and stared into Galvus’s eyes. “If—there are no objections, I will now sign this document and pass it to Lord Vemo—” a nod “—and order it sealed, copied out, and fulfilled.”

  Silence.

  Elad turned his attention to his lap, studied the document a last time, then stepped down from his throne and moved to a table. He laid the scroll beside Captain Uvars and, borrowing a blue-inked pen from his secretary, signed his name to it.

  Scratching sounds.

  The scribe melted a stick of yellow wax and dripped a circle onto the bottom of the parchment; King Elad pressed the hot wax with the heavy silver imprimatur of the Imperial Throne.

  Then he straightened, rolled the parchment, and handed it across the table to Lord Vemo. The king’s eyes were cold.

  “It is done,” he whispered. “May the gods have mercy on us.…”

  * * * *

  When Elad left the council chamber and, alone, made his way across the tiled hall to his private office—where a hundred documents awaited his notice—he was in no mood for the imbur of Gaegosh’s pretentious interference into Athadian affairs of state. Ogodis, who had felt it his duty to stay on in Athad after the assassination attempt, had not yet returned to Sugat. But Elad knew that his father-in-law must go home soon: a bureaucracy will fester like a boil unless its nominal chief lances it occasionally, and Sugat’s government offices had become an unmanageable sprawl, as had Athadia’s own.

  It was with a look of impatience, then, that the king greeted Salia’s father when he stepped through the tall, tapestried antechamber of his office and saw the imbur waiting for him.

  “If you have a moment, Elad.”

  He could not continually dismiss him as though Ogodis were a pesky minister or bribetender. “Yes,” he sighed. “But only for a moment, Father. I am very occupied.”

  Ogodis nodded. “As I understand. May we speak in your office?”

  Elad opened the doors and led the way inside. He sat down behind a wide marble table while the imbur settled himself in a chair across from it. Servants entered with trays and vanished again quietly through curtained arches. Elad saw that the room was gloomy; he wished that one of them had opened his windows.

  “Is the matter pressing?” he asked. “As you can see—” he gestured to the piles of papers and the many scrolls crowding his table top “—I have much to attend to.”

  “I will take but a moment. But I do wish to speak with you regarding your brother. If I may.”

  Elad took in a breath. “I’ve just signed the decree for his immediate execution, Ogodis. What more is there to be said?”

  The imbur smiled. “Allow me to speak frankly,” he suggested. “Son…vengeance has a way of burning like Arimu’s torch—it burns clearly, but its light shows only false doors, false avenues.”

  Elad was astounded. This was a most unusual sentiment to come from so autocratic and unyielding a personality as the imbur’s. But he took offense. “Who spoke of vengeance?” Elad asked.

  Ogodis clasped his hands in his lap. “Of course, for the crimes he has committed against Athadia, Cyrodian must be dealt with summarily. That is understood. But I wonder if there is not a scent of vengeance in it all?”

  “I will become angry with you, Ogodis, if you persist. What are you saying?”

  “Only this. That pride is a dangerous thing. And I suspect that you feel a public execution is the only visible method by which to shame Cyrodian and cleanse yourself of his crimes in a wholly satisfactory way.”

  “Are you arguing that he should be reprieved? I cannot—”

  “I am a soldier,” Ogodis reminded Elad. “Now…I am that no longer, it’s true, but my own father placed me in the military service when I was a boy, and I spent twelve years in the fields and in the barracks. Gaegosh, of course, has not been involved in an armed conflict in quite some time; nevertheless, our attitude of preparedness is the same as your empire’s, and the military is the backbone of our country.”

  “Please, Ogodis, get to the point.”

  “Soldiers,” the imbur continued, “have a mentality of pride that can seem as duplicitous as a serpent’s mentality to an outsider—to a king, if I may say it, or to a bureaucrat. Warriors serve an ideal higher than most men admit to, although I also know that most men see warriors as unfortunate encumbrances to the true goal of civilization.”

  “Ogodis, my brother’s ‘high ideals’ took a low form.”

  “Nevertheless, until one has spent time with the military and learned to appreciate its values—they are as old as humanity, King Elad, and they are not false values—unless one has done this, one cannot—”

  Elad was losing his temper “I remind you again, imbur, that I am very busy.”

  Ogodis nodded, got to his feet, clasped his hands behind his back, and stalked to the opposite wall, then turned with a thoughtful eye. “Your military resented the call for Cyrodian’s execution last summer, did they not?”

  “What has that to do with anything?”

  “Resentment in the nation’s armed forces is not a good thing. You can achieve your ambition by ridding yourself of Cyrodian and recognizing the military’s own code of principles if you will allow your brother to take his own life.”

  Elad winced. “Impossible.”

  “Give the matter some thought. When a man of the badge and armor has done a disservice—less to his country than to his own code—he prefers to face death honorably and fall upon his sword.”

  The king shook his head. “Cyrodian’s crimes against Athadia were not accomplished within a military context. He did what he did, not by virt
ue of his rank or caste, but in total disregard of everything our law holds valuable.”

  “Maybe so. But I think you ought to allow him his choice.”

  “I would shame the military,” Elad countered, “if I were to allow Cyrodian to commit asinmu as though he were still an honorable member of the army.”

  “I do not think so,” Ogodis replied. Then he held out his hands. “I intended to take only a moment of your time—to suggest this, and to explain my reasons for my feelings. I am not here to interfere with you, my son, but only to lend you…advice. From one leader with a few years of experience to another.”

  “I appreciate the sentiment, Ogodis, but I cannot concur.”

  “Very well.” He turned to make his way to the door.

  Elad kept his eyes on him; then his sight fell to the scrolls on his desk top. As the imbur opened the doors: “Ogodis.”

  He turned. “Yes?”

  “What did you mean when you made the comment about ‘the true goal of civilization’? What do you believe that goal to be?”

  Ogodis answered him quietly. “Peace,” he replied. “Peace—and nations committed to the highest ideals men are capable of imagining. This is what I was taught. All civilized people are.”

  Elad reached for one of the parchment scrolls. “And you are sincere when you tell me that you do not wish to interfere with me, but only to give me advice?”

  The imbur bowed his head. “Our two great nations are now joined in a common accord,” he professed. “I am very glad for it. We have become partners…friends. And we have done it without resorting to force. An example for the world.”

  Elad told him, “I’m most pleased to hear you say that because I have no intention of compromising our friendship.” He held up the scroll in one hand. “I had not intended to speak with you of this right now, but the moment seems opportune. Will you be so good as to read this?”

  Ogodis stepped forward and took the scroll. “And what is it?”

  “A letter to me from Lord Thomo, my emissary to Erusabad.”

  Ogodis unfurled the parchment and read. When he had done: “An…intriguing proposal, isn’t it?” He rolled it up.

  “I must admit that I consider Thomo’s suggestion a very good one, and I intend to follow through with it.”

  Ogodis placed the scroll on the table top. “Indeed? And whom do you think would be best entrusted with traveling to the other end of the world to pay our respects to the corpse of a barbarian conqueror?”

  Elad suppressed a smile. “I, too,” he allowed, “believe that the goal of civilization is to attain the highest ideals we can manage. But the choice of a strong candidate to deliver that message to the Salukadian Empire perplexed me for some time, until the matter resolved itself splendidly right before me.”

  Ogodis was thoughtful; his busy eyes betrayed his working mind. He lifted a jeweled finger to his bearded chin. “And what man,” he inquired, “in your government has the abilities to open this door but not have it slammed again in his face?”

  Elad regarded the imbur deliberately. “My choice is Queen Salia.”

  Ogodis’s reaction to this decision was not in the least surprising.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  That evening, Adred sat on the balcony of his apartment, sipping tea and enjoying a cool breeze as he went through some of the papers on which he and Galvus had been working. Daylight was fading early; Adred noticed storm clouds moving in off the ocean. He meant to finish what he was doing before the first drops fell.

  Footsteps behind him interrupted his concentration. Thinking it to be a servant come to clean his supper tray, Adred paid no attention until the soft footfalls fell quiet directly behind him. He looked around to see that it was Omos.

  “What is it?” Adred asked, setting down his pen. “Anything wrong?”

  “Oh, no, no.” Omos walked onto the balcony; Adred saw that the young man carried a small brown packet in one hand. Omos leaned on the rail, stretching until his shoulders popped; then he turned around, glanced at Adred, and remembered what he was carrying. “This is for you. Abgarthis just gave it to me.” He dropped the packet atop some of the papers on the table.

  Adred smiled at him. “Thank you.” He picked it up, saw that it was a letter and that the front of the packet was stamped with the seal of a commercial merchanter: Sulos, 24 Sath 1879 D.P., and the scrawled signature of whoever had signed aboard parcels and deliveries.

  Omos sat in the chair opposite Adred.

  “I’m having tea,” Adred told him. “There are some cups inside.”

  “No. Thank you.” Omos was absently curling the corners of some papers with thumb and forefinger “No. I don’t feel like having any tea.”

  “Where’s Galvus gone?” Adred asked. “Down to the cell?”

  “Yes.” The young man didn’t look at him.

  “Well—nothing’s wrong, is there?”

  “No, nothing’s wrong. It’s just that—everything is happening so quickly.”

  Adred smiled at him. “Yes, that’s one of the problems with life, Omos. You’ll find that out. Either nothing happens day after day or, then, everything happens too fast for you. Excuse me—do you mind if I read this?”

  “No, please.”

  Adred already suspected what it might be. He broke the packet’s seal and took out the square of parchment inside, ripped the bit of wax that secured it, and unfolded it.

  Adred—A few lines. I realize that it’s been just a short while since you left, but it seems longer. You might tell Galvus that everything here is fine, just as he left it. So he doesn’t need to feel worried about that. But I think I could write this more easily than I could tell you face-to-face—especially that day out in the fields, on the farmhouse porch. It was difficult for me to say good-bye to you, even though I tried not to show it. I never meant to hurt you in anything I ever said or did—I want you to know that. Now that I’m on my own again, I find myself thinking about the first time we met, in Bessara, when I was talking to the people and you gave us all that money. It seems so long ago! And I find myself wondering about what it is that draws people together, whatever it is that makes people happen to one another, even for a short time. I am glad that we knew one another and were able to spend those months together last winter. I understand now how impor­tant that was for me, and how much I depended on you. I respect you, and I admire you, and I want you to take care of yourself always, because the world needs people like you. As I said, this would be difficult for me to tell you in person, because you know how I am. But I want you to know this. I think every person has her or his own very strong impulse, and for some people that impulse is love, and for other people it’s other things. Maybe I’m wrong. But what brought you and me together for even a short time was an important purpose, and if we were able to make that into some kind of love for a while, I appreciate that. But I respect you, I admire you, I will always remember you and the lessons you helped me learn about myself. We must believe in the best things we can because that’s the only way we can achieve them. Please take care of yourself, Adred, and think of me sometimes, and if we meet again, I hope you’ll remember that you have a friend in me, and someone who believes in you. I don’t know how else to say this.

  Rhia

  He set the letter on the table and looked out at the sky. He was very quiet. The first drops of rain began to fall; Adred felt them sting his face. He closed the letter, refolded it along its creases, and slipped it inside its packet.

  “Is it okay?” Omos asked him, concerned.

  With his emotions showing on his face, Adred whispered to him: “Yes. It’s okay.” And because Omos was still watching him: “From Rhia. The woman in Sulos?”

  “Yes, I remember her.”

  Adred nodded. “She sent me a letter.”

  Omos smiled at him.

  Adred began to collect the papers that were strewn on the table. He stood as he shuffled them together and stacked them and slid them inside their folders.
“We’d better get in,” he remarked. “It’s going to start storming.”

  Omos helped him carry the papers inside. Adred didn’t bother closing the doors of the balcony because the fresh air and the smell of the new rain felt so good. He dropped into a chair, sipped his wine, and mulled things over in his mind.

  After a while, Omos excused himself and left to return to his room.

  Adred took Rhia’s letter from the pile of papers, opened it, and reread it. Outside, thunder boomed, and curtains of driving rain danced in splashes on the balcony floor, the stone table, the chairs. Once he had refolded the letter, Adred walked to a small bookcase and placed it in the special leather satchel he carried, to keep Rhia’s letter among the few books that were particularly important to him, along with his father’s letters and diaries.

  * * * *

  He had nothing to say to them.

  They stood, his wife and his son, just beyond his reach on the other side of the tall iron bars. Stood—watching him as though he were a kind of exotic or pathetic animal brought from the wilds for their sport. A vicious creature, untamed—a strange hybrid of strength and evil with a passing resemblance to a man.…

  Orain, when she had stood there last time, staring at the husband who had almost slain her in his rage, had trembled and begged him to understand. This time, she did not tremble, and she did not beg. She was not fierce with him, neither was she haughty or angry. But she said to him, “No matter what you’ve done, Cyrodian, I don’t think you deserve death. You tortured and killed the man I truly loved, and you were responsible for the death of a woman I truly loved. But it is for the gods alone to decide death. Your execution won’t answer the screams of those I loved, and killing you won’t cleanse any of the blood that’s already fallen.”

  He sneered at her—and found words to speak, at last. “Still pious, aren’t you? Still protected from the world.”

  Orain shook her head. “It’s not piety, Cyrodian. And I know all about the world. I know all about men like you, now.”

  “Do you?” He stared at her, then looked at his son. “What about you? Do you know all about men like me?”