Word of Truth

by Rhett C. Bruno

  She considered sitting, then chose instead to fold her arms against her chest. Finally, she resolved to just standing there, arms at her sides. She took a deep breath, let it out, then tried to find her voice.

  “What do you say to a father you never knew? Did you…” Her words got caught in her throat, and she felt stupid. What did she care if a dead man she’d never even met heard her words? Like he could hear anyway. She glanced over her shoulder and didn’t see Whitney. At least knowing he wasn’t listening in made it a tad easier.

  Sora cleared her throat and continued. “Did you… did you miss me? Did you even care that I was alive somewhere and being raised to be the very thing you lived to destroy? You tried to keep me from embarrassing you. Is that it? A King waging war against mystics, only to create a child with the most powerful mystic in Pantego. What a legacy to leave. A stain.”

  Sora heard Nesilia’s sing-song voice in her ear, taunting her. Forgotten…

  “But I wasn’t,” Sora continued. “I wasn’t a stain. I was a child. A baby. Full of potential and possibilities. But you couldn’t be bothered to ruin your reputation, so you got rid of me. Sent me to a crazy old man… a crazy old man who loved me more than you ever could have, but had no idea how to show it.”

  The thought of Wetzel, dead like the many corpses around her, shook her more than she expected it could. It was like knowing who her father was, really seeing him before her for the first time, made her appreciate the excuse for one she was given.

  “But now he’s dead, too,” she said. “Because of you. Because of your stupid wars over stupid gods who don’t give two shogs about us. All they care about is themselves. Their names. Just like you.”

  She wiped away a tear, then laughed. “Stupid,” she whispered. “This is so stupid. I’m just here to say…” She drew a deep, trembling breath. “I forgive you. For whatever that’s worth. I don’t know why, but I forgive you. I wound up right where I was meant to be.”

  She placed her palm against the glass and left it there a moment. Only then did she notice the embers floating around them. She couldn’t control it, and for once, she didn’t try to. She let her be herself. The glass crackled, and the reflection around her hand warped and fractured.

  “Torsten, you’re being ridiculous!” Whitney shouted.

  The outburst startled her, and Sora spun to see the two of them, Torsten, with his claymore half-drawn and Whitney chasing after him.

  “Torsten, stop,” he said. “Just let me explain.”

  “There’s nothing to explain,” Torsten said. “I trusted you, and now I find you down here… doing what?”

  Before she even realized it, Sora was backing away from the charging, towering man. She’d seen him angry, but this was something else.

  “Get away from that casket!” he roared. He was now right before her. She saw pain in his eyes as he grabbed her arms, one after the other, turning them one way and then another as if inspecting them. That was when Sora realized what he was doing.

  “Get your hands off her!” Whitney shouted.

  “No, Whit, it’s okay,” Sora said.

  “It—what?”

  “Torsten, it’s not what you think,” Sora said, taking inspiration from Mahraveh in how to appear impossibly calm at all times.

  “Says every criminal who has ever been locked up in that dungeon.”

  “And this time, it’s true,” she said.

  “I saw the flame. Is that why you were sent here? To possess these preserved bodies of kings and queen more worthy than any of us? To turn our very heroes against us?”

  “No, that’s not it.”

  “Then what are you doing down here?” Torsten demanded. “Tell me. Show me that I wasn’t a fool to, once again, stake our entire existence on a blood mage and a thief.”

  “I’m just here…” Sora really didn’t know how to answer the question. Part of her didn’t even know.

  For longer than she could remember, Sora wanted—needed—to know who her birth parents were. She’d never been told Wetzel was… of that, he’d always been honest. Besides, it wouldn’t have been long before she realized her skin color, ears, and so many other things were different from the old man.

  She could remember long nights, lying in bed, or out behind Wetzel’s shed, staring at the stars, wondering who her parents were and why they’d abandoned her. Now that she knew…

  “To pay my respects,” Sora said.

  “To a King you never knew?” Torsten retorted. “Tell the truth.”

  “Torsten, old pal, you’re making a mistake,” Whitney said.

  Torsten turned on Whitney. “You made the mistake. Coming back here. Bringing her.” He jabbed a finger toward Sora.

  “She is our best hope at beating Nesilia,” Whitney argued.

  “And how do I know we didn’t just invite Nesilia right into the castle?” Torsten said. “That’s the whole plan, isn’t it?”

  “You’re out of your mind,” Whitney said.

  “How do I know she’s really gone?”

  “Torsten, would I lie to you?” Whitney asked.

  Both Torsten and Sora answered at the same time, “Yes.”

  Torsten turned to appraise Sora, and she raised her hands in a display of surrender.

  “Look, no magic, okay?” she said. “I’m not down here, cursing the Kingdom or anything. I just needed to see him.”

  She pointed to Liam, sure there was no way to get out of this without being honest.

  “That doesn’t make sense,” Torsten said. “What business could you possibly have with King Liam?”

  Sora exchanged a look with Whitney and let out a sigh. As she considered the ways she could possibly explain, Whitney blurted, “She’s his daughter. Well… bastard I guess? Can a girl be a bastard?”

  Torsten stood, mouth agape as if he were about to speak, head turning from Sora to Whitney and back again.

  “Preposterous,” he said. Then, he seized Sora by the arm again. This time, he wasn’t merely inspecting. “We don’t have time for Whitney’s games.”

  Sora had tried to do this calmly. It probably would’ve worked if Whitney hadn’t blabbed his mouth like usual. This time, at least, he was just trying to protect her, as if she needed protection. She focused on the blood flowing through her veins, through the arm Torsten held. She didn’t call forth flame, but she let it burn on the inside.

  He pulled away and yelped. Though his hand blistered instantly, he still used it to draw his sword, but he couldn’t lift it high. “Lying witch! I trusted you both like a fool. You’re worse than Rand.”

  “And you thought he’d changed,” Sora said to Whitney. Then she reached out, waved her hand over Torsten’s, and after a puff of blue smoke appeared, Torsten’s hand restored itself. He stared down at it in disbelief, all while hoisting the blade higher.

  “It’s just a misunderstanding,” Whitney said. “Please, Torsten, listen to us. It’s true. I saw it myself in the Well of Wisdom.”

  Torsten’s face went slack, like he was speechless.

  “I didn’t believe it either,” Sora said. “But I saw it, too. My mother, the Ancient One before Aihara Na, and Liam. They had a child.”

  “Not just a child. You,” Whitney clarified.

  “My mother didn’t die in the war. She died giving birth to me, and Liam knew how it would look after dedicating the entire Kingdom to wiping out the Mystic Order. So, he smuggled me away, pretended I never existed, and then sickness stole the memory.”

  Torsten staggered back, his sword slipping loose and clattering loudly on the stone. His eyes darted between Sora and the casket behind her.

  “Sora… you…” he stuttered. “No…”

  “A part of me wishes it weren’t true,” Sora said. “But it is. It’s what drew Nesilia to me, but it’s what I now realize makes us different. I wasn’t forgotten. They hid me, sacrificed their love for me, to protect me. Liam destroyed the entire Mystic Order even after their surrender… to protect me.�
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  “And yet I get in trouble every time I tell the tiniest fib,” Whitney remarked, earning a scowl from Sora, which shut him right up.

  “No… No. He did it in the name of Iam,” Torsten said, shaking his head.

  “He did it for Liam,” Sora said, “as he did everything. For his love, for his first daughter, and the first woman he ever truly cared for.”

  “This is…” Torsten said. “This is not possible.”

  “You know that’s not true,” spoke a voice from across the crypt. Everyone whipped around to face an older man wearing leather overalls. Sora recognized him from the war meeting.

  “Iam’s shog, what is this—a party now?” Whitney said. “We try to get a moment alone.”

  “Hovom,” Torsten said. “What are you doing here?”

  “You were there, as I was,” Hovom said, striding into the crypt. His gait was wary, cautious, as if he knew Torsten could be unpredictable in this state. “In Panping, after the war, didn’t you find it curious why Liam himself remained there for so long after it ended when any other general would have sufficed?”

  “He was plotting the transition of power to Governor Nantby. Planning the succession. Unraveling the mess the mystics had left. Like any great leader.”

  “You can’t be so naïve, Torsten.” Hovom stopped a meter or two from them. His hand wasn’t on his blade, but Sora got the distinct feeling that it could have been in the span of a heartbeat. But the man was old—not frail or fragile, but old enough. And if the stories were true, even in Torsten’s handicapped state, he was amongst the greatest fighters in Pantego.

  “Liam was a great leader,” Hovom said, “but he wasn’t a great man.”

  “Watch your tongue, Hovom.”

  “The Ancient One during the Third Panping War. What was her name?”

  “No,” Torsten said, shaking his head even harder this time.

  “Sora Sumati,” Hovom said.

  “I won’t believe it.”

  “You think that a coincidence?” Hovom asked.

  “It’s simple, Torsty. Older Sora and Liam had a baby,” Whitney added, motioning toward Sora.

  “Then Liam didn’t know!” Torsten barked, spinning on Whitney.

  Sora stepped in front of Whitney, who had been standing between her and Torsten like a shield. “Do you think so little of my kind that you believe that if he knew of me, I wouldn’t be here any longer?” Sora asked. Then leaving no room for argument, she said, “He knew.”

  Sora turned to face Liam’s casket.

  “He knew and chose to protect me,” she said. “Now, I understand why. Men like you would have had me killed just to preserve Liam’s legacy as Iam’s champion.”

  “We are not murderers,” Torsten said.

  “Another lie,” Hovom said. Then, when Torsten turned on him, the blacksmith raised his hands placatingly. “I don’t mean you. I mean all of us. We’ve spent so many years doing ‘the work of Iam’ that I fear we failed to stop and ask Iam Himself if we were doing his will at all.”

  “Iam wishes all to experience His light and love—“

  “By slaughtering them if they refuse?” Sora asked.

  “Look, Sir Unger. I know this is hard to grasp, but I believe her,” Hovom said. “I may not have ever been a fighter, but I repaired Liam’s armor, Uriah’s armor—anyone of importance. The blacksmith in a war camp hears all. King Liam had many dalliances. Uriah knew it, too. And no visits with Yaolin officials went longer than his with the Ancient One. Even as Uriah questioned why she and the surviving mystics were kept around so long.”

  Sora watched as Torsten’s features darkened with realization. He said nothing, but it was there. Only, she couldn’t tell if the news had broken him or set him free from a lifetime of adulation for an imperfect man.

  “We were close friends, Uriah and I. Shared stories many would be ashamed of while I repaired his armor or shared a drink. When we returned from the war after the Mystic Order had finally been eradicated, Liam was torn, broken. Now, I understand why.”

  “My mother showed him their value, but they would have never let the daughter of the Ancient One go,” Sora said.

  “I believe it was the beginning of the end for him,” Hovom said. “Uriah and I didn’t see him for many weeks, after that, and even when we did, he wasn’t the same. He spent most of his days in the stables with that Whitehair he brought back for Oleander.”

  Hovom’s eyes went wide as if he had a sudden realization. “He named the horse Sora too, right?”

  Torsten shook his head again though his face confirmed that it was true.

  “That sure sounds like a guy who was lovestruck,” Whitney said.

  “It’s true, Torsten,” Sora said, stepping forward and placing her hand on Torsten’s arm. “We don’t need to tell anyone. I don’t want anything, I swear it on my life. But down here, surrounded by the kings you vowed to protect, you deserve the truth.”

  Sora stared him straight in the eyes, making sure he would see the amber there, the source of which Sora had discovered after so long. She may have been given every other feature by her mother, but her eyes… those belonged to Liam.

  Torsten silently stared back for a few long seconds, then yanked his arm away. He stammered for words, but none came. Instead, he shoved by Hovom and left the crypt, failing even to retrieve his dropped sword.

  A deep hush followed him, as if his leaving sucked all their words until, as usual, Whitney broke the quiet.

  “That went well,” he said.

  XXXVIII

  The Knight

  Torsten quietly roamed Yarrington’s streets like he used to before things became so confused and confusing. Celeste and Loutis hung high above, but it didn’t feel like night. Not with all the activity. It barely felt like the city where he’d spent nearly all his life.

  Lines wrapped every street corner, people waiting for rations. Poor, nobles, soldiers, and conscripts—all had to wait their turn. The siege hadn’t even begun, and they were treating things like it had.

  And Torsten knew things would get ugly. People cursed and scuffled in alleys, some even out in the open, yanked each other out of the queue. The soldiers posted to keep the peace were equally starved and irritable, which didn’t help. Yarrington was a big city, but not this big, especially with South Corner being evacuated. You couldn’t walk more than a few feet without bumping elbows. The rats in the sewers had more space.

  Torsten looked right. The city’s defense catapults were being set up along the eastern fortifications. Spare blacksmiths and carpenters hammered on the joints. Carts rolled in arrows by the thousands, along with tar and rocks to be dumped upon invaders from the ramparts above. Some even looked to be stones chipped off the Glass Castle itself.

  Nothing was sacred any longer, and rightly so.

  The soldiers were too busy to even acknowledge Torsten. Sir Mulliner was up over the gate, barking orders to conscripts who barely knew how to wield a sword, let alone dig proper trenches around the city.

  Torsten kept walking, the protests and complaints from confused Glassmen like a dull roar from every direction. He’d told the truth of what was coming, but he barely believed it, let alone humble villagers from the countryside. They’d understand when they saw Nesilia’s horde. Until then, Yarrington would suffer.

  There weren’t enough beds. Families had to share single bedrolls in some homes. Barely enough food and water. Not even buckets for shog. The streets stunk. Closets became bedrooms. Women and Children cried as soldiers went door-to-door, recruiting able-bodied men to serve in the defense. Those who hid were punished, publicly. It was the only way.

  Torsten rounded into the Northern Mason’s district, another area having its inhabitants removed, forcefully and otherwise. A dwarven mason crew on scaffolding worked by a small span of wall, hacking and whittling to purposefully weaken it. That was where they’d let Freydis think she broke through.

  It led into a small square, surrounded on all s
ides by workshops and homes with plenty of windows. Spiked barricades blocked all roads leading out. Unlike Dockside, nearly all was stone here, so fire wouldn’t spread. But they piled hay and tinder where they could, and gave every archer arrows and torches. The smoke and chaos would provide Sora her opening to take Freydis down.

  Torsten didn’t feel good about surrendering yet another portion of the city. After all the initial bedlam of the ambushes, the lower city would be completely breached. And if their plan to kill Freydis and draw Nesilia out failed, a full retreat to the castle would be their last hope.

  They’d die fast instead of slow. At least there was that.

  Torsten shook his head to dispel the negative thought.

  The plan will work. He repeated those words in his head, but the notion didn’t stick. For it to work, he had to rely on Sora. To trust her. After what she’d just told him, he wasn’t sure what to think.

  Either she really was the bastard daughter of Liam Nothhelm and had inherited his ability for unorthodox strategy, which allowed him to conquer more than half the known world. Or, she was as much a liar as the thief she loved. A servant of the Buried Goddess to sow doubt in Torsten’s mind.

  He found himself climbing the steps to the Yarrington Cathedral without even realizing it. From the high ground, he could see just how busy the city was. Torches marched like tiny ants in every direction, around every corner of Yarrington.

  Behind him, the Grand Plaza of Old Yarrington itself—some called it Yarrington Square, and some Cathedral Square—was most crowded. Tents coated the stone like snow. Thousands of refugees from South Corner, Dockside, and Northern Yarrington were packed into them. The stench reminded Torsten of Valin Tehr’s dungeon.

  The mansions along the Royal Avenue were crammed as well. Shadows lurked behind every single window.

  Torsten had never seen anything like it. With Liam, they were always on the offensive. Yarrington was always at peace. He wondered if this is what Yaolin looked like when Glass armies surrounded it and let the mystics drive their subjects to starvation. Living like cattle stuffed in muddy pens, soldiers, like farmers, keeping them herded.