by C S Vass
“Then, the village will be safe?”
“Safe enough, thanks to the protection we receive from Lord Raejo, among other things.”
The mention of the provincial lord snapped Fiona back to reality in a most unpleasant way.
“Then, Greythor is still going through with his plan?”
Harken’s face whitened, but he didn’t look away. “Fiona, Jet is my only son. I love him with all my heart. But love comes in many ways. I have a duty as a father to love my son. But I also have a duty as a member of this village to love Barrowbog. I have a duty to love Greythor. In all my life this is the hardest thing he has ever asked of me. But, I love Greythor. He is my leader. It is—no, listen, it is not out of love for Greythor that I consent to his wishes. It is out of understanding that he is the one who can act impartially in the interest of Barrowbog, not me. Custom dictates that he have final say here, and I will not spit on the customs of my people.”
Harken’s face was very white, but he spoke firmly.
“Then, you’re going to let them kill Jet? You’re really just going to turn your son over?” She couldn’t believe it.
“I can’t do that,” Harken said. “Jet is out of my grasp. I don’t know where he is, but it is my sincerest hope that by sundown he return here to submit himself to the justice of our leader. To do otherwise would be to disgrace himself in the eyes of us all. I think I know my son better than that. I hope I do.”
Fiona could hardly believe what Harken was saying. Suddenly the room seemed to grow colder, and the food smelled much less appealing.
“Fiona.” It was Geoff that spoke. “Harken has told me of the events that have occurred since I’ve been ill. This is Morrordraed, not Tellos. It is a different way of life. They have different customs, different threats, different experiences. Beyond that, Harken has opened his home to us when he did not have to. We must not disrespect him. It is not our place to interfere with the wishes of this village, or of Lord Raejo for that matter.”
Fiona found herself angered rather than pacified by Geoff’s words. “I thought you of all people would understand,” she said. “How can you sit here and talk about respecting honor and tradition? You were a major leader in a rebellion that—”
“You will not speak of that now!” The sudden ferocity of Geoff’s voice left Fiona speechless. “Not here, Fiona. You do not know my history with this land, or my history with Duke Redfire, and I will thank you not to bring it up now. We are here for you, not me, and we will respect the customs of our host while we remain in this land.”
Fiona sat down feeling dejected.
“You must be soaked to the bone and freezing, Fiona,” Harken said. “In that back room you’ll find some spare clothes of mine. They’ll be loose fitting, but take them and I’ll hang your garments up to dry out back.”
“Harken…” Fiona could hardly find the words. The kindness of this odd villager was seemingly endless. In the face of his own child’s execution he was still thinking of the two strangers he had let into his house.
“Fiona, it’s all right.” Harken knelt next to her. “I don’t know what it’s like on Tellos. But here, life and death, it just doesn’t mean so much. Of course I’ll be devastated to lose my son. But my sense of purpose, my sense of service to my community is intact. Why else am I, why else is anyone else for that matter, alive, unless it is to be in service to the people? Do not grieve for me. This is all just a test, and as Greythor says, we must never forget that nothing we experience in this life lasts forever.”
An odd smile came to the villager’s face.
“I never told anyone this,” he went on. “But that’s actually what I said to my own parents long ago when they threatened to turn me out.”
“Why would they do that?”
“I did something that was seen as young and foolish in their eyes,” Harken said with a wink.
“What?”
He rolled up his sleeve. Somebody had engraved into his arm a scar… a beautiful, complicated, bizarre scar. Fiona had never seen anything like it. It appeared to be a series of geometric shapes, but as he tilted his arm this way and that, the shapes she thought she was seeing transformed into something else. All of that done by the point of some needle or cut by a very sharp knife. Fiona couldn’t be sure.
“That… I’ve heard of tattoos but I’ve never, what is that?”
“Tattoos are Tellosian. Here in Morrordraed we have what is called scar art. I’ve always found it to be quite beautiful. My parents thought I had desecrated my body. I told them, don’t worry, it’s not permanent. When I said that they grew even more concerned, thinking I planned to use some kind of magic to make it disappear. I laughed and said, why, it will disappear as soon as the worms consume my flesh.”
He laughed at his own witticism, but Fiona was too caught up in the beauty of the odd artwork. She had never seen anything like it in her entire life.
“The hand that cut you was skilled,” Geoff said. “Bring it here, Master Harken, so I might have a closer look.”
“Master, he calls me,” Harken laughed. “Like I’m some kind of king. Fiona, you had best get changed before a chill descends into your bones and you find yourself bedside in Geoff’s place.” He laughed merrily.
It was all Fiona could do to stand up with a sense of awe. Everything that was happening, and Harken seemed to be so far removed from it, only… not removed. Just at peace. Was it possible that Greythor’s strange philosophy really meant something deeper? Something that she didn’t quite fully understand…
Perhaps, but to Fiona the cost was too high. She decided she would rather embrace all the pain of loss than float above it, immune to the human emotions it would stir. But at the same time, she couldn’t fault Harken. Everyone handles their own struggles differently, and after all she was only a guest in his house.
Pushing the events of this odd day out of her mind she changed into some loose-fitting garments that Harken had in his room and gave him her own clothes to dry. While he was hanging them by the fire a trumpet sounded from off in the distance. At its ring Harken’s face turned white.
“That’s it,” he said. “They have him. That’s the summons. There’s going to be an execution.”
Chapter Eight
The village gathered like a cloud of ghosts. Sunset was upon them, sending dirty red rays of light through the wet treetops. They gathered in the same field that they had assembled in earlier when it was time to announce Jet’s doom.
Fiona found time to do some soul-searching as she walked over with Harken (Geoff, they determined, was still not well enough to leave the house). Several soldiers from the provincial lord were standing next to Greythor at the head of the crowd. Fiona noticed how at peace Greythor appeared to be. Again, she resented the old man’s willingness to sacrifice one of his own people.
Jet was alongside them. She didn’t know if he came back willingly as Harken wanted, or if he had been dragged back against his will. She suspected the latter because it appeared his hands were bound with thick ropes. He wore a haggard expression and looked meaner than anything she had ever laid eyes on.
“I’m here with you,” Fiona said to Harken. She took the villager’s hand in her own and squeezed it. She had promised him on the way over that no matter what happened, she would not interfere. It was a promise that she intended to keep. Perhaps she was just tired, or perhaps it had finally started to sink in that this was not her land nor her place to go against the wishes of the people, but Fiona knew that when they struck Jet’s head from his shoulders, she would not do so much as raise a finger.
“Well, we all know why we’re here,” Greythor shouted matter-of-factly. “The times we live in are turbulent. It is during such difficult times that dogs of the street bare their teeth to fight each other over bones long stripped of meat only to find themselves bleeding as well as hungry.”
A silence descended over the crowd. This was not a Tellosian execution where criminals were paraded through the
street to have rotting fruits and vegetables hurled at them. She had seen plenty of those disturbing affairs in the two years she spent traveling the continent. This was something different. A somber occasion.
“It is the job of a leader,” Greythor went on, “to guide his people through such tumultuous times. To ensure that whatever we face during a crisis, we make it through to the other side unscathed by physical injury and untouched by insidious corruption of the mind.
“Therefore, I have always sought to prevent bloodshed. I have always tried to show you, my people, that one cannot deal in death and then walk among the living without bearing those invisible scars. But even the best of leaders cannot protect their people from the world, and I admit that I am far less than the best of leaders.”
A loud cough from the armed soldier next to him drew the attention of the crowd.
“Very well,” Greythor said. “We are here, because of several reasons. We are here because the principles of non-violence have not been abided by. As the pyromaniac who lights a building on fire must breathe in the smoke and ash that results, we too must deal with the harvest that grow from seeds of violence. But that is not the only reason we are here. This is not a mere matter of provincial justice. It is to be a referendum for all of Barrowbog. A great task will befall you all, and you must decide. Who are you? Who are you going to be? When the world comes knocking and you want to bury your sleepy heads under the pillow only to hear that the wolves have kicked in your front door, what will you do then? Will you—”
“Enough old man,” a provincial soldier growled. “We have business to attend to. Amends must be made!”
Fiona felt a sense of hopelessness wash over the village as Greythor nodded. She wanted nothing so much as to be able to go to Jet’s side and drive away Lord Raejo’s wicked men, but for once she would have to accept that this was not her fight. Greythor was the leader of Barrowbog. His people accepted it, and so must she.
Next to her silent tears rolled down Harken’s cheeks. She felt her heart twist as the kindly man prepared to watch his only son die.
“Blood has been shed, and honor demands that the one responsible be held accountable.” Whatever regrets the old man might have had about his decision, there was no sign of weakness in his voice. He appeared to be absolutely committed to what he was about to do. “I will not shirk from this unpleasant truth, but neither will I allow you men of Lord Raejo to harm a youth of Barrowbog.”
A great murmur went through the crowd like a still pond that a rock was thrown into. Lord Raejo’s men began to protest, drawing their weapons and cursing at Greythor. Fiona reached for her sword as well, but Harken held her back.
She turned to him and his face was white as bone. “Foolish old man,” he said under his breath. Fiona was about to tell him they should prepare to fight, but something about the deadly serious look in his eye gave her pause.
“A liar and a craven!” one of Lord Raejo’s men shouted. “You bring us here under false pretenses and promises of justice just to make jape of the entire affair? We’re not backwoods peasants to sit and gape as you stutter your way out of the verdict of our provincial lord!” The fat-faced guard’s cheeks had turned red, and he was panting like a dog.
“Your tongue leads you like an unruly mutt tugging its master by the leash,” Greythor chided. Then, turning his attention to the rest of the village he looked at the faces that had gathered around, seeming to take time to look into each one. A shadow passed as the last glint of red sunlight spilled from the horizon with the setting sun.
Greythor raised a simple ceramic cup to his people. “Remember well this day. The debt is paid.” He tilted the cup back and drained its contents. Fiona’s entire body was jittering with anticipation. She didn’t know what exactly was about to happen, but she suspected that there might be a fight.
Of all the confused and startled faces only Greythor’s seemed serene. A drip of blood formed in the corner of his mouth.
“Enough of your nonsense, old fool,” one of Lord Raejo’s men spat. “The boy must die.”
Greythor collapsed.
A woman in the crowd screamed as confusion broke out.
“He really did it,” Harken said to himself. Fiona observed the villager and somehow suspected that he was not entirely surprised.
“Why?” Fiona asked.
“At ease! At ease!” Lord Raejo’s men commanded as they desperately tried to get control over the crowd.
“Murderers! Killers!” someone shouted. From somewhere in the mass of people a rock flew forward striking one of the guards in the head.
“Silence, you ignorant backwood’s fools! We’ve killed nobody as you can plainly see. Though we will not be denied our justice by the theatrics of a crazy old man with a death wish.”
“The debt has been paid,” Jet growled from the front of the crowd. There was a wolfish look about his eyes as he glared at Lord Raejo’s soldiers. “He sacrificed himself for me.”
“I don’t care if he birthed you! A man can’t sit in for another’s punishment. That’s not the way—”
“Leave him be.” To Fiona’s surprise the one who spoke was another of Lord Raejo’s soldiers. Placing a hand on his comrade’s shoulder he said, “It is within his right. Greythor swore to give us the one responsible and claimed responsibility himself.”
“But, but—”
“Get the fuck out of our village,” Jet said. His eyes shimmered with forlorn rage. Fiona wondered what he must be feeling, to have the village elder sacrifice himself so that he might still live, despite all the arguments they’d had.
“Boy, guilty or not you speak to me like that again it’ll be your last words.”
“It’s time for you all to leave.” This time it was Harken who spoke. He walked steadily, head held high, towards the front of the crowd. “Elder Greythor claimed responsibility for the incident. He was our leader, and the burden of our crimes falls upon him should he choose to accept that. Having done so the blood debt is settled. That is our way. Now leave.”
“Why you insulant—”
“Come on, Tred,” the soldier who had acknowledged Greythor’s sacrifice interrupted. “There is no point in staying. Lord Raejo will need to hear about this.”
“That he will,” Tred spat. His face was an alarming shade of red. “When he does don’t think he’ll let this ridiculous debacle pass. I’ll drink your lifeblood from your skull before I let a backwoods peasant spit in the face of justice again.”
Jet held his silence, but the look he gave the soldiers sent a chill down Fiona’s spine. Cursing, Lord Raejo’s men simply turned their backs and walked from Barrowbog.
* * *
After Lord Raejo’s soldiers departed the villagers were left to mourn. Greythor’s body was taken by the wise women of the village to be purged of the poison he consumed, blessed with scented oils, and prepared for a great pyre.
Upon hearing this Fiona couldn’t help but draw a connection to the poisons in her own body, though she was certain that no mere women of the village could purge it from her, wise though they might be. Her first days since Rodrick stole the power of the manjeko from her she couldn’t much tell. There was only an aching emptiness inside of her, nothing more. But since arriving on Morrordraed she had began to notice more and more that something was not right.
The feeling was hard to describe, and besides, who could she describe it to, anyway? The villager’s had their own troubles and Geoff was still too ill for her to concern him. But she knew that not all was well. She felt thin and hollow. Something inside her was missing. With a shudder she thought that perhaps that it was the feeling an expectant mother might have upon birthing a baby dead on arrival.
At first she was determined to ignore it, but the feeling had grown as she felt her own energies wane. How could she be of use to anybody in the condition that she was in? How could she help Jet, or the village, or Geoff, when she felt as though she might simply vanish into thin air?
Even
the wounds she had received when battling the necromancers felt odd. She should have been in more pain. The blast of lightning that had taken her in the chest might not have been powerful enough to kill her, but her body didn’t even feel sore anymore. It was as if there was nothing inside of her to hurt.
“Fiona.”
Fiona turned her attention to Jet. The villagers had dispersed while she was lost in her own uncertain thoughts.
“I’m glad you’re okay,” she said to him. “I’m sorry about Greythor. Did you know—”
“No.” Jet’s face was completely stoic. “I didn’t want it to happen like this. But it was Greythor’s choice. He died because of what I did. Despite all the arguments that we’ve had he still chose to try to save me. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to forgive myself for allowing him to perish.”
“Jet, it’s not your fault. You didn’t ask Raejo’s men to come here. They’re clearly the ones who started this fight.”
“I know, and they certainly aren’t going to stop now. Anyone who can’t see that is blind. But still, I can’t understand it. Why was Greythor so stubborn? When I thought he was just a coward scared to fight and die, he proved undeniably to be braver than any ordinary man, going willingly to a death he easily could have left for me. Did he know something that I don’t? It doesn’t add up.”
Fiona frowned. Jet looked more troubled than she had ever seen him, and that was truly worrying. “He had his way,” Fiona said. “He was never a coward. He just didn’t believe in fighting. That’s all there is to it. Just because he vowed not to pick up a sword doesn’t mean that he couldn’t defend his people, defend you.”
Jet shook his head. “I don’t know. I just… I don’t know. But what I do know is that there is more trouble to come. How in good conscience can I prepare to defend Barrowbog from Lord Raejo’s men when Elder Greythor sacrificed himself in the name of preventing bloodshed? There is something that he wanted me to understand, I’m sure of it, but—”
