“Succinctly put,” Jason said, “but Mena does make a point. All peoples think of themselves first. First, central, and foremost, yes? I should show you a map from Talay sometime. They draw the world quite differently. And why wouldn’t they think themselves the center of the world? They are a great nation also—”
Aliver guffawed. “Be serious! The men and women walk around half naked down there. They hunt with spears and worship gods that look like animals. They still use small tribal governments—chiefs and all that. They are no better than the squabbling Mein.”
“And it’s too hot there,” Corinn added. “They say the earth dries to powder for half the year. They have to drink from holes dug in the ground.”
Jason conceded that the Talayan climate was harsh, especially in the far south. And he knew they would always think of their ways as inferior to Acacian customs. There was a reason Acacia held sway over the entire Known World. He said, “We are a gifted people. But we are also a benevolent people. We should not disdain Talayans or any other—”
“I didn’t say I disdained them. They have their ways and when I am king I will try to respect them. Now, why is this map out? Do you have something to teach us or not?”
Jason, noting the flare of impatience in Aliver’s tone, nodded. He smiled his agreement and let the topic drop. He was a teacher, yes, but he never forgot that he was also a servant. Sometimes that seemed unfortunate to Mena. How were they to truly learn about the world if they could silence their tutors just by raising the pitch of their voices?
The lesson resumed, all of them listening to Jason without further interruption. But they were not at it long. A few minutes later their father, King Leodan, pushed through the doorway and breathed in the morning air. His face had the texture of tanned leather. A dusting of white hair spread around his temples, highlighting his otherwise dark hair, betraying both his age and his kingly burdens. He took in his children, nodded at the tutor, and then looked out across the panoramic view of his island. He said, “Jason, I am going to interrupt your teaching this morning. With the delegation from Aushenia arriving shortly I will not have all the time I would like for my children in the coming weeks. I awoke with a desire to run the horses. I’m inclined to indulge it. If my children wish to accompany me the matter would be decided….”
The children were so inclined, and within the hour they galloped out through one of the small side gates of the palace. All the children had ridden since their fourth or fifth year, and all were more than competent, even Dariel. A guard of ten horsemen followed them at a discreet distance. Nobody could imagine the king to be at risk while on Acacia, but as a monarch he was quite often made to bend to traditions from more perilous times.
They rode briskly out along the high road to the west. The narrow track at times traversed such thin ridges that one could look at a vista on either side that dropped down juniper-covered slopes, careening all the way to the sea. The thorny crowns of acacia trees occasionally broke through the thin-webbed canopy. It was these, of course, that gave the island its name and the Akaran dynasty its informal title. They were a distinguishing feature of the landscape, unique among the other islands of the Inner Sea, none of which had acacias.
Up close, the trees had frightened Mena when she was younger. They were gnarled and thorny, so still and yet always having about them the threat of latent life, an intelligence within that she suspected they chose to keep hidden for their own reasons. She had grown comfortable near them only lately. An aged, sanded, and tamed specimen had been transplanted to Dariel’s room as a frame to climb about on, a plaything. This had done much to ease her apprehensions. They could be cut and moved and shaped into toys for children; hardly things to fear.
The riders dropped down to the rugged beach of the southern coastline, a stretch of shore left in its natural state, with views across the bay at cliffs thriving with bird life. For a while they rode in a loose group, around and between great limbs of sun-bleached driftwood or out into the glass-green water, the horses kicking through the froth. Dismounted, Aliver tossed seashells out at the waves. Corinn stood on the decaying trunk of an enormous tree, her arms out to either side and her face pointed into the chilly breeze. Dariel chased fiddler crabs across the sand.
Mena chose to stand at her father’s right hand as he walked from one to the other of them, interested in all, laughing, for so many things seemed to amuse him when he was with his children. She held a twig of driftwood in her fingers, running her fingertips over the weathered grain of it. This was exactly the way life was supposed to be. She did not question whether such a thing—a king cavorting with his children—was unusual. It was simply the way it always had been. She could imagine no other possibility. She did wonder, though, if anyone but her saw the strain behind their father’s façade. His joy was sincere, but it was not without effort. It was painful in some measure because of the one who was absent.
That evening, back once more in the warm hive of the palace, Mena and Dariel curled up on her bed to hear their father tell a story. Like all rooms in the palace, Mena’s was large, wide, and tall, with floors of polished white marble. It was not a room on which Mena had exerted any of her own influence, unlike Corinn in her lacy, brightly colored and variously cushioned nest. The furniture was uniformly ancient, pieces made of gnarled hardwood, with upholstery that tickled the skin. Tapestries depicting figures from Acacian history hung on the walls. She could name the deeds of only a few of them, but she felt their presence in the room as a protective force. They were watching over her. They were, after all, her father’s people. Her own.
Leodan sat on a stool beside them. “So,” he said, “I think we have reached the point where I must tell you the story of the Two Brothers and how the great friction began between them. It’s a shame that Corinn and Aliver are too old for stories; they once liked this one, even though it’s sad.”
The king explained that there was once a time in the far past when the two brothers, Bashar and Cashen, were so close they could not be separated. A knife blade could not be slipped between them, such was their love for each other and joy at being in each other’s company. At least this was true until the day that a delegation from a nearby village came to them and said that since the two of them were such good and noble brothers they prayed that one of them would become something called a “king.” They had been told by a dreamer prophet that if they had a king, they would find prosperity. This they sorely needed, for they had suffered famine and discord for years. None of them could decide who among them should be king, so they implored one of the brothers to step into the role.
The two brothers asked if they could both be kings, but the villagers said that was not possible. Only one man can be the king of a place, they said. That was what the prophet had told them. But still the brothers liked the idea of being royal. They said that the villagers could choose between them and that the unchosen one would abide by the decision. In secret they made a pact that after a hundred years they would switch roles, and he who had not been king would then become it.
Cashen was chosen and made king. For a hundred years he ruled without incident. The people thrived. Bashar was always at his side. But on the first day of the hundred and first year Bashar asked that Cashen hand over the crown. Cashen looked at him coldly. He had grown used to being king, fond of the power he wielded. Bashar reminded him of their agreement, but Cashen claimed that no such words had ever passed between them. Hearing this, Bashar was filled with anger. He grappled with his brother. Cashen threw him off and, feeling a sudden fear and shame, ran from the village up into the hills. He drained himself of all loving thought for his brother and filled himself with bitterness instead. Bashar chased him through the hills and into the mountains. Storm clouds gathered and bolts of lightning illumed the sky and rain poured down on them.
Dariel tapped his father on the wrist with a finger. “Is this true?”
Leaning toward him, Leodan whispered, “Every word of it.”
“They should’ve taken turns,” Dariel said, his voice edged with fatigue.
“When Bashar reached his brother, he cracked him over the head with his staff. Cashen went weak-kneed for a moment, but then he shook off the blow and came at Bashar again. This time Bashar swung his staff around and caught his brother at the knees, spilling him onto his back. He tossed his staff away and grabbed his brother, hefted him up, and walked with him above his head toward the precipice. The wind battered and howled at him, but still he managed to reach the edge, where he tossed his brother over into the void.
“But Cashen did not perish. He bounced and rolled and tumbled down the slope. He regained his footing and began to run. He bounded across the valley floor and came up on the other side. As he rose to the crest of the far mountain, a lightning bolt ripped through the sky. The light was blinding and Bashar had to cover his eyes against it. When he could see again, Bashar realized that Cashen had been struck. But instead of dropping to the ground dead, his body quivered and tingled with energy. Blue light fanned out across his skin and over his charred flesh. He did not perish, though. He began to run once more, and now he was swifter than before. He took enormous steps and climbed to the peak of the far mountain and jumped over it without so much as a backward glance at his brother.”
Mena let the silence after this linger for a moment, then asked, “Is that the end?”
Leodan shushed her and nodded toward Dariel, indicating that he had fallen asleep. “No,” he said, beginning to slide his arms under the boy, “that is not all, but it’s the end of this night’s story. Bashar realized that some god had reached down and blessed his brother. He knew then that they were to be foes in a long and difficult battle. Truth be known, they still are fighting.” Leodan pushed himself upright, Dariel draped over his arms, in the dead weight of slumber. “Sometimes, if you listen carefully, you can hear them throwing stones at each other in the mountains.”
Watching her father’s back as he passed through the open portal, turned toward the glare of yellow light from the hall lamp and stepped out of view, Mena fought back the sudden urge to call out. It came to her like a gasp for air, as if she had been holding her breath unwittingly. It was the sudden, dreadful certainty that her father would vanish into that corridor, never to be seen again. When she was younger she often called him back time and again, for comfort, stories, and promises, until his patience wore thin or until she dropped senseless from fatigue. But lately she had grown embarrassed by whatever emotion choked her at parting from him. It was her burden to bear, and bear it she did.
She realized that she had clenched her bedsheets tight in her two fists. She tried to loosen her fingers and spread calm up from them and through the rest of her. It was fear without substance, she told herself. Leodan had told her as much many times. He would never leave her. He promised it with complete, undeniable parental certainty. Why could she not just believe him? And why did the wish that she believed him feel like a slight to her dead mother? She knew that many children her age had never suffered the loss of a parent. Even sleeping Dariel could not remember their mother enough to miss her. He knew nothing of what had been lost. Such a kind thing, that ignorance. If only she had been born the youngest instead of Dariel. She was not sure if this was a mean thought, unkind to her brother, but she was a long time thinking about it.
Chapter Three
Thaddeus Clegg could see from the moment he entered his chamber that the woman was about to collapse from exhaustion. She stood in the center of the torch-lit room, facing the far wall, cast in silhouette by the orange glow from the fireplace. She swayed from side to side with the awkward, off-kilter movements of the truly fatigued. Her garments were as soiled and bedraggled as a peasant’s, but beneath the caked dirt and grime Thaddeus could make out the glint of her chain-mail vest. The tight-fitting skullcap of her helmet was distinctive enough with its single tuft of yellow horsehair at the peak.
“Messenger,” Thaddeus said, “my apologies that you had to wait for me standing. My servants hold to formality even in the face of reason.”
The woman’s eyes flashed up. “Why have I been kept here, chancellor? My message is for King Leodan, by orders of General Leeka Alain of the Northern Guard.”
Thaddeus turned to his servant, who had shadowed him as he entered the room, and instructed him to bring the messenger a plate of food. As the servant shuffled out of the room, Thaddeus motioned for the woman to sit on one of the couches just behind him. It took some convincing, but when he lowered himself, the messenger followed his example. He explained that she was there before him precisely because her message was for the king. As chancellor he received all communications first. “Certainly you know this,” he said, the slightest suggestion of reprimand in the purse of his lips.
At fifty-six years of age Thaddeus had left behind the handsome appearance of his youth. The invariable sun of Acacian summers had carved deep creases in his skin, lines that seemed to sprout anew each time he gazed at himself in a hand mirror. Still, sitting upright within the reach of the wavering firelight, with his arms folded in his lap and the dark red satin of his winter cloak around him, the chancellor looked every bit at home in his station as confidant to the ruler of the largest empire in the Known World. He had been born just months after Leodan Akaran, to a family nearly as royal, but he had been told early that his role was to serve the future king, not aspire to such heights himself. He was a constant confidant, the first ear for any secret, the eyes that saw the monarch as only those of his immediate family were allowed. He had been assigned his role and status at birth, as had been the case with each of the twenty-two generations of chancellors before him.
The servant returned, bearing a tray spread with plates of smoked oysters and anchovies, grapes, and two carafes, one of lime water and one of wine. Thaddeus motioned that the woman should help herself. “Let there be no discord between us,” he said. “I can see that you are an earnest soldier, and from the look of your clothes you have had a harsh journey. The Mein must be an icy misery this time of the year. Drink. Take a breath. Remember that you are within the walls of Acacia. And then tell me what you have to.”
“General Alain sends—”
“Yes, you said that Leeka sent you. You were not sent by the governor?”
“This message comes from General Alain,” the messenger said. “He sends his most devoted praise and affection to the king and to his four children. May they live long. He swears his loyalty now as ever, and he asks that the king listen to his words with care. They are all true, even if his message will seem incredible.”
Thaddeus glanced at his servant. After he left the room the chancellor said, “The king listens through me.”
“Hanish Mein is planning a war against Acacia.”
Thaddeus smiled. “Not likely. The Meins are not fools. Their numbers are small. The Acacian Empire would crush them like ants underfoot. When did Leeka become such a—”
“Sir, forgive me, but I have not finished my report.” The messenger seemed saddened by this fact. For a moment she rubbed at the bags beneath her eyes. “It is not just the Mein we must contend with. Hanish Mein has struck some alliance with people from beyond the Ice Fields. They have come over the roof of the world and south into the Mein.”
The chancellor’s smile faded. “That is not possible.”
“Sir, I swear by my right arm that they come south by the thousands. We believe they do so at the call of Hanish Mein.”
“He has gone out of the Known World?”
“Scouts have seen them coming. They are a strange people, barbaric and fierce—”
“Foreign people are always thought to be barbaric and fierce.”
“They are taller than normal men by more than a head. They ride atop woolly creatures, horned things that trample men underfoot. They come not just with soldiers but with women and children and the elderly, with great carts like moving cities, pulled by rows of hundreds and hundreds of beasts like none I have
heard described before. It is said they wheel siege towers and other strange weapons with them, and manage great herds of livestock….”
“You describe wandering nomads. These are figments of some liar’s fancy.”
“If these be nomads they are like none our world has ever seen. They sacked a town called Vedus in the far north. I say sacked, but in truth they simply rolled over it. They left nothing behind, but grasped up everything of value and carried it with them.”
“How do you know Hanish Mein has anything to do with this?”
The messenger fixed the chancellor in her gaze. She could have been no older than twenty-five, but there was more than that length of suffering and perseverance in her face. Thaddeus had often believed this to be true of female soldiers. They were, by and large, cast of finer steel than average men. She knew what she was talking about, and he should acknowledge it.
Thaddeus rose and motioned the woman toward a large chart of the empire on the far wall. “Show me these things on the map. Tell me all you can.”
For the next hour the two talked: one asking questions with ever-increasing gravity, the other answering with conviction. Running his eyes over the chart, Thaddeus could not help but imagine the howling wildness of the place they discussed. No other region of the Known World was as troublesome as the Mein Satrapy. It was a harsh northern plateau region, a land of nine-month winters and of a blond-haired race of people who managed to survive there. The plateau bore the name of the people who inhabited it, but the Mein were not native to the region. They had once been a Mainland clan from the eastern foothills of the Senivalian Mountains, not all that different from the early Acacians. After an earlier displacement—at the hands of the Old Akarans—they had settled there and been forced to call it their home for twenty-two generations, just as the Akarans had made Acacia their base for the same amount of time.
Acacia, The War with the Mein Page 2
