“And of the one he spoke, the one with the strange weapon?”
They all turned to the eldest, the wrinkled matron, for though they were all Whisperers, she was counted the wisest of their number, the one who—despite her milky, rheumy eyes—was best able to see past the mists of uncertainty and fear to the truth where it lay hidden. “He is an instrument, a tool whose purpose is the spilling of blood and that only. Worse, he knows this, has found a peace within that simplicity. He will leave none alive.”
The youngest shifted anxiously, and though she did not speak, she might as well have, for all turned to look at her, knowing the direction of her thoughts. Death came for them, for their people, and if that death could not be conquered, what choice was left to them?
“We must gather the women and children,” the eldest said finally, “and we must send them south, deep into the desert. The other tribes will help, and these men who come, though they might be the workmen of death, sent out to reap its harvest, they know little of our ways. Even their lust for destruction will not sustain them should they venture into the deep parts of the wilderness.”
“But why?” the girl asked. “Why have they come?”
“It is no use,” the eldest said, her voice not unkind, “to ask why death comes in the shape it chooses, for come it will, always and without fail. Now, go,” she said to the girl. “Go and gather the others—what preparations can be made must be made, but waste no more time than is necessary, lest you do not make it out of this storm.”
The girl hesitated, wincing, a look of shame on her face. “I…but I shouldn’t leave—”
“There is no shame in living, girl,” the old matron said. “But there is great shame in throwing your life away to no purpose. Now go and live—the Palietkun will have need of your wisdom in the coming days.”
“But…what of you?” the youth asked, glancing at the other four.
“We are too old,” the matron said simply. “We cannot make the trip, not in haste, and trying to do so would only slow the rest down.”
“But…surely, there must be—”
“Hope is a good thing,” the matron interrupted, “a blade grasped in defense of yourself, of others, but a blade can cut the one who wields it as easily as it can that it defends against—false hope, is what such wounding is called, girl, and we have not the time for it. We thank you for your compassion, but here it serves no purpose. Go, now, and take the others with you. Protect them. If you can.”
The girl’s face trembled, as if she might break into tears at any moment, but she did not. Instead, she rose, nodding to each of them in turn, then left the tent. Once she was gone, one of the Whisperers turned to the matron, saying, “Do you believe they will be alright?”
The matron considered the question for several seconds before she answered. “I believe that what can be done has been. Now,” she said, slowly rising, the aches and pains of her aged body making themselves known, “will you come with me, brothers and sister? Our death comes, our ending comes, and I would meet it with you at my side.”
The others rose, grasping hands, and as they walked out of the tent toward what would ultimately be their deaths, it was not fear that suffused their faces, but peace.
***
The Broken led those men he had been given toward the encampment. Strangers, they were, that walked behind him, and strangers in front as well, but he thought nothing of that. For many years, since he had seen the truth of the world and its workings, he had been a stranger, an exile from the facade of civilization which men built around them. Truth, real truth—not the hopeful, pitiable ramblings of priests and scholars who thought the world might change should they only claim it so—made strangers of all men. For how can one, knowing that, in the end, he was alone and would always be alone, knowing that life was but the name given to the march to death, ever feel as if he knew anyone? How could such a man as that know even himself?
The fires blazed in a circle around the encampment, wreathing it in flame. But what caught the Broken’s attention was not the masses of tents, their thick fabric seemingly frozen in the still night air. Instead, it was the formation of spear-wielding warriors spread out in front of the camp, nearly a hundred, if he was any judge, and the four elders standing before them.
He waved the red-cloaked men to a stop and walked forward, stopping feet away from the four elders. “Why have you come?” one asked, a squat, old woman whose rheumy eyes and wrinkled face showed no fear.
“You know why, Mother,” the Broken said, something about the woman, about the clear knowledge in her eyes, making him use the title given only to those Ekirani women who were most revered.
“Yes. But do you?”
Something about the way she said it, so casually, without fear or anger, without despair, slipped past the defenses—walls built of apathy and loss—that the Broken had erected around himself. Just the slightest touch, like a blade sliding between the joints in a man’s armor, not enough to kill, but enough to draw blood. Enough to wound. His mouth worked and, for a time, he could think of nothing else to say, still mentally reeling from the unexpected barb of her words.
“You think yourself no more than an instrument, a weapon,” the woman went on, “with no more emotion, no more burden of choice, than belongs to a sword or a dagger when it does its bloody work. But you’re wrong.”
He saw something then—not in her face, for hers was like stone, her eyes twin needles piercing his mind—but in the others around her, those three elders who looked to her for guidance, sought to follow her example. Yet for all their want, for all their seeking, they fell short, and what he saw in their eyes was hope. He felt his armor raise again, an almost tangible thing, as he noted that hope, and when he looked back at her he saw that she recognized the change. “Perhaps,” he said, “but it does not matter.”
She did show an expression then, a slight, nearly imperceptible crinkling of one side of her mouth in a smile that held no joy but sadness, not for herself, but for him. The walls of his own dedication to his task shook under the weight of knowledge that brought, but in the end, they held firm. “There is nothing that matters more,” she answered. “Only the dead feel nothing, and by doing what you have come to do, you will become worse than they—a revenant of flesh and bone who would feel nothing and yet feels everything instead. A creature of hate, not just for the world, but for yourself.”
He noticed that she did not say “if” but “when,” for she knew the truth of how the thing would go, how it must go, and he found that he was humbled. His tutors, long ago, when he had still been of the Ekirani and little more than a child, had told him that wisdom was the ability to see the truth and not shy away from it. That it was to understand that the truth is not a thing that might be changed to suit the needs of those who saw it, but was immutable and inarguable, the foundation on which the world was built. This woman saw it in its fullness, more clearly than any he had ever met, and her faith came not in the belief that the truth would save her, but in the knowledge that it would exist, would remain long after she was gone.
He glanced at the weapon in his hand, gifted him by a god, the God of Conflict and War, and for the first time in a very long time, the Broken felt doubt. “There is more than one truth, Mother,” he said finally, his voice little more than a whisper.
“No. There is only one,” she said. “There has only ever been one.”
“And that is?”
“You know it. But, knowing, you would strike yourself blind instead.”
Silence in the clearing then for several moments. The Broken could feel the eagerness, the need, of the men behind him. Could feel, also, the knowledge in the Ferinan before him, those desert warriors who studied him, their spears at the ready. The three elders who had not spoken, who had chosen to tie their wills, their hopes—no matter how false and unwanted—to this old woman standing before him. And she carrying that burden without complaint, fighting for it without seeming to fight for anything.
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He thought of his wife, of his child, and of truth. It could be that the woman was right, that there was only one singular truth connecting all things, an invisible thread that ran through every living soul. But such truths were of the living, for the living, and they had no business with him. For the dead had truths of their own. In those blank, lifeless orbs, they had shown him, with the stale air that lingered in their chests, unmoving, never to move again, they had whispered these truths to him.
“You are wise,” he said. “I want you to know…I take no pleasure in it.”
“And that, perhaps,” she said, “is the saddest thing of all. A man should find some pleasure, some joy in the tasks he sets himself.”
His mind refused to acknowledge those words, his thoughts skirting around them like rats fleeing before a deluge of rainwater. “There is no pleasure left in the world, Mother. It is a dark and cruel place, and what is given is only given so that it might, in time, be taken away.”
“No, Exile,” she said, and he tensed as he realized that she knew. She, alone of all those he had met, knew the truth of the tattoos on his skin, saw the difference in those he bore and the others carried by those men and women who had once been his brethren. “You are wrong in that nothing is given, ever. Joy, happiness, peace. Anger and hate. They are only borrowed. Who, I wonder, are you borrowing from?”
The Broken found himself short of breath, her words ringing in his mind. “You…you would take my hate, and in doing make of me a shadow.”
“No, poor man,” she said, giving a slow, sad sigh. “You are a shadow already, and it is you who have made yourself thus. The emotion you feel now, the confusion, is not your own, but no more than a fleeting memory you have stolen, which rightfully belongs to the man you once were, the man who you killed long before you ever picked up that,” she said, nodding to the weapon.
Silence again, as the Ekirani listened to her voice and then, when she had finished, silence as he listened to those other voices, those that he had heard since finding his family, as he listened to their whispers, their dark promises. “Forgive me, Mother, but I am what I am. You are wise and powerful in your wisdom, but you have not changed that.”
“No,” she said, “but then, you are wrong in thinking that I have tried, Exile. Even if I had, my efforts would have been wasted. The living change. The dead only remain.”
He nodded, hefting the weapon. “Go in peace, Mother.”
“Peace?” she said, and this time her smile was more genuine. “That would be nice, I think.”
The slice was smooth, clean, as smooth and clean as he could make it, and whether the doing of it was a mercy for her or for himself, he could not have said. She fell to the ground. Perhaps, the look on her face was one of peace, but he couldn’t know, would not have recognized it even if it were. He motioned to those behind him and it began in truth. The fight was long and brutal, as he had known it would be, and in the end, the others did not go smooth. Did not go clean. But they went just the same.
Chapter Seventeen
Kale crumpled the letter in a white-knuckled fist and, with a snarl, threw it into the fireplace. It caught instantly in the tall blaze and in moments it was nothing but blackened ash. If only other problems could be dealt with so easily, he thought angrily.
“Chosen?”
Kale laughed, but there was no humor in it. Once, he had wanted nothing more than to be called by such a title, to be given the respect that had once been Chosen Olliman’s. He had yearned for it, lusted after it, for he was no commoner, but the son of a great house, the richest in all Ilrika. He deserved such respect, such…worship.
But now that he had it, he found that all the bows, all the kneeling, seemed somehow empty, somehow false, and he was growing more and more sure that the same guards and nobles who called him “Chosen” and “Bright One” laughed and mocked behind his back. The man was still looking at him, waiting for an answer.
“What?” Kale snapped.
The guard shuffled, as if afraid, and though his expression was servile, Kale couldn’t help but think he saw amusement dancing in the man’s eyes, and it was all he could do to keep from lashing out. “Forgive me, Bright One,” the messenger said, “but…do you wish to send a reply?”
Kale stared at the man for several seconds. “Get out.”
The messenger complied, hurrying to the door and closing it behind him. But had that been a smile on the man’s face, the moment before he turned away? He considered calling the man back, demanding what he’d meant by it, but dismissed the idea. Such a thing would make him look weak.
Instead, he stepped closer to the fireplace, holding out his hands. Each morning, he had a servant light a blazing fire in his quarters, and each night he slept under several thick, warm blankets. Yet always, Kale was cold. It was a cold that pervaded him, ran through him on the inside as much as the outside, and so no amount of coverlets or clothes or fires touched it. It had not always been so—this much he knew—only since he had taken over as Chosen. And, perhaps he imagined it, but it seemed to him that the cold was growing a little more pronounced, a little more prominent with each passing day.
You are imagining it, he told himself for what must have been the thousandth time. You must be. It is only your nerves, your worries that’s all. And it wasn’t as if there wasn’t enough to worry about, that much at least could not be denied. Alesh and his companions had not only escaped their execution, but continued to avoid capture despite Tesharna’s efforts. Alesh, the one man who knew the truth of what had happened, of what Kale had done, and Tesharna had had him in her grasp only to let him slip through her fingers.
But as bad as that was, it was not his only concern. The riots in the street were growing worse. Nothing terrible, not yet, little more than half a dozen merchants complaining about how they were going bankrupt since Ilrika’s Lightbringers had vanished, and they could no longer hire them for safe passage to other cities to ply their wares. Hardly riots at all, in truth. More like angry speeches, and though such men never dared blame the city’s woes on Kale directly, the meaning of the words—at least such words as were related to him—were clear enough. Damned merchants and their damned complaints, he thought, rubbing his hands together in a vain effort to bring some warmth to his chilled flesh.
But it wasn’t just the merchants anymore, was it? No, it was the commoners too, complaining of food shortages, of lack of essentials such as clothing and oil for their lamps, and why not? After all, the regular stream of merchants that had once carried such materials to Ilrika had ceased since Olliman’s death, those who had once come apparently deciding not to risk the journey to a city they viewed as unstable. Fools all and not just fools but cowards.
Recently, even the nobles had begun to grow restless. After all, many of them owned shares in one merchant’s ventures or another, and as weeks passed, they were losing small fortunes. Oh, they did not come outright and say so—direct confrontation was rarely the weapon of well-born men and women—but they were restless just the same, and the reports of Kale’s spies told of whispers. Whispers of discontent, that something must be done. None whispered of rebellion—not yet—but it was only a matter of time. Kale would kill the first to utter such treasonous words, but if they continued after that? He could not put the entire city to the sword. After all, what purpose in all of this, in everything that he had suffered, if he ended up ruling nothing but a pile of rubble and corpses?
“Something troubles you, Chosen.”
Kale started, having forgotten the man was there, so still and silent had he been, and his own surprise, his own fear, made him angry. He spun to scowl at the man standing at one side of the room. “Of course it does,” he snapped. “Everything is falling apart.”
The man hesitated, and Kale squinted his eyes, trying to see if there was an amused smile on his face, one he felt sure was there. But, as always shadows seemed to gather about the man wherever he walked or stood, and Kale could make out nothing specific. Th
e hint of a nose, of wide-cheek bones, no more than that. “Everything is well in hand,” the man said, and Kale made a disgusted sound at the words, the same words he’d been hearing since the man had first appeared. “My mistress will see to it.”
There was no need to ask who that “mistress” was. The man had shown up days after Kale had taken the city, soon after the…celebrations, as the city abandoned their fruitless worship of Amedan, choosing to honor Shira instead. He had been waiting for Kale in his quarters despite the guards stationed outside the door and had introduced himself by the title of Shira’s Proof. Whatever that meant. Kale had nearly called his guards to cut the intruder down, but the stranger had known things, things that no one should know—could know—not unless they had been there. Or if someone told them. Someone like the Goddess of the Wilds herself.
“‘Well in hand,’” Kale muttered. “You have said as much before, yet the riots continue, and the city continues to whisper behind my back. My own guardsmen—”
“Are loyal, Chosen,” the Proof interrupted. “They serve their purpose and will continue to do so.”
Kale stared at the man, gritting his teeth that this…this stranger should think to interrupt him. But for all his anger, what he felt now, more than anything, was fear. And cold. Always cold. “She promised me power,” he said, and he did not like the desperate plea in his voice. “She promised me.”
“Yes,” the Proof answered. “And our mistress is faithful to those who serve her, Chosen Leandrian. Has she not kept her pact with you? After all, you have what you wanted—you are the Chosen of Ilrika, have supplanted Olliman himself, once most revered of all the Six. The men and women of the city adore you, worship you nearly as if you were a god yourself.”
“They laugh at me,” Kale hissed. “They plot and scheme behind my back. They think I do not know, but I do. I know.”
“Then perhaps,” the stranger said, “you should show them the truth, Chosen. Perhaps, they need reminding of your true power.”
The Truth of Shadows Page 20
