The Legend of Broken

by Caleb Carr

  “That it is, Niksar,” Korsar answers at length, softly and respectfully. “The Bane Horn. A powerful yet lovely sound, to be made by so blasphemous a people, wouldn’t you say? It has a name, I seem to recall. What is it, now …?” His question goes unanswered: the heightening effect of the Horn is such that the soldiers atop the steps scarcely even hear the yantek’s words.

  The few cartographers and soldiers from Broken who have been determined enough, in ages past, to press through Davon Wood and locate the Bane village of Okot have received harsh reward for their courage: either a gutting blade across the throat, a poisoned arrow sunk deep in the flesh, or the rougher hospitality of the Wood’s other predators. Not a soul in the kingdom has ever seen the Great Horn that the Bane elders use in times of crisis to summon their people home. Yet, like the men under his command, Yantek Korsar has heard many outlandish rumors concerning the fabled instrument: of how its great, flaring bell was fashioned from mortar mixed with blood; of how that same bell is large enough to hold half a dozen men; and, above all, of the demons of the air that the Bane have enslaved to produce the powerful bursts necessary for its sounding. He finds such tales as the last absurd, of course; and yet …

  Yet the yantek cannot disguise the admiration he has always felt for the Bane’s having created such an ethereal, and powerful, means of linking their tribe. “It’s been many years since last I heard it,” he continues wistfully. “Do you remember, Arnem? We lost—what was it—two dozen men that night? And caught not one glimpse of the Bane …” The Horn’s mighty cry tapers off, and the men make tentative moves to cross the forecourt and continue on their way to the Sacristy—

  But a mere instant later, the Horn roars to life again.

  “Six calls?” Korsar says, attempting to toy with the already terrified men of Lord Baster-kin’s Guard. “Rare to hear it sound even half so many times,” he muses. “The Bane have always feared that it will aid us in finding their stronghold. Damn me, what do they call the thing, Arnem? Your memory hasn’t been muddled by age, I very much hope.”

  Korsar turns to find that Arnem’s eyes have opened much wider than is their habit, and that he has not heard his commander’s question. The yantek moves closer to his trusted subordinate. “Sixt?” Korsar says, with genuine concern. “Blast it, man, what ails you tonight?”

  Arnem shakes his head. “It’s nothing, Yantek,” he replies. “And I remember the name. They call it ‘the Voice of the Moon.’ Unless I am much mistaken …” Arnem glances at Niksar, who, to judge by his aspect, is coming to much the same realization as his commander, concerning events earlier in the evening. Seeing this, Arnem shakes his head just perceptibly, indicating silence, and Niksar nods quickly.

  As he notes the peculiar looks that pass between his officers, Korsar scrutinizes Arnem yet again, and steps over to Niksar. “Something is eating at the pair of you,” he determines, as the latest blast of the Horn fades. But before the yantek can press his inquiry—

  A seventh droning of the Horn rises from the Wood, this one the loudest and most desperate of all. Yantek Korsar returns to the edge of the Temple forecourt. “Seven?” he says, with genuine incredulity. “What in the name of all that’s holy … I don’t know that anyone has ever heard the Bane Horn speak seven times.”

  “No one has, Yantek,” Arnem says, glad that his commander’s attention has been drawn away. “We heard four calls on the night of which you’ve spoken—when you dispatched my full khotor to pursue a party of Outragers into the Wood. That is the largest number of blasts recorded.”

  “So,” Korsar muses. “Something affects the Bane so mightily that they risk seven soundings of their Horn—even as they are trying to kill our God-King. A remarkable collection of outcasts—eh?”

  But Arnem’s thoughts are fixed, not on what may be behind the calls of the Horn, nor even on the council inside the Sacristy, nor on any other immediate affairs. Rather, the sentek is thinking—and so, plainly, is Niksar—of the earlier warning issued by that agèd, seeming madman in the street:

  “Wait for another voice to sound, this same night—to sound more times than it ever has before …”

  As the Bane Horn’s seventh and final call begins to grow faint, Korsar approaches Arnem, seizes his shoulder, and shakes the younger man. “Arnem!” he murmurs. “Forget the bloody blaring, and listen to me—we’ve far more important matters to attend to, right now.”

  Arnem rouses himself, and tries to give his commander’s words the attention their urgency warrants. “Yantek—I’m not sure I understand.”

  Indicating silence and lowering his voice to a whisper, Korsar leads Arnem aside, and puts his head close to the younger man’s. “All this activity deepens my suspicions. And so, remember what I told you earlier: whatever happens, whatever you may hear or see, you must not take my part—in anything.” Before Arnem can question this command, which is even stranger than those the yantek issued in the Fourth Quarter, Korsar goes on: “I would prepare you, if I thought it would do any good. Simply understand and obey—and by the Moon, get rid of young Niksar. The Horn helps us there—we can dispatch him to learn if the soldiers of the watch have seen any signs of Bane activity, or been able to approximate its location.” Korsar raises his head, his voice regaining its usual gruff power. “Niksar! With us, son—quickly!”

  A few long strides, and the conspiratorial council numbers three. “Back to the wall, Linnet. See what they’ve determined, if anything.”

  Niksar’s face betrays both relief and doubt. “With all respect, Yantek—the orders were specific. I must report to the Sacristy with you.”

  “The responsibility is mine,” Korsar says. “The sounding of the Horn changes the matter; the Layzin and Baster-kin will understand.”

  Niksar looks to Arnem and receives confirmation: “He’s right, Reyne. Get back there and take charge. I’ll join you when the council is adjourned.”

  A few final moments of silent uncertainty, and Niksar puts his fist to his chest. “Sentek. Yantek.” He starts down the Temple steps, finally bringing the members of Lord Baster-kin’s Guard out of their fearful daze. “Linnet!” calls the man who is equal in rank to Niksar, but far different in appearance—to say nothing of experience. “Stop! We were charged—”

  “Your charge has changed, boy,” Yantek Korsar declares. “And, speaking of that, you’d best resume it. Your master has no patience for men who dally gossiping.”

  The men of the Guard mumble among themselves for a moment, before they take up their positions around the commanders once more; and their momentary distraction provides Korsar with enough opportunity to give Arnem a meaningful glare, one that again underlines his last order. The sentek has no time to reply before the Guard have surrounded them, and then set a quick pace into the well-ordered forest of columns that support the portico of the Temple. The linnet of the Guard draws his short-sword and hammers its pommel against one of the massive brass doors. A system of locks are undone from within, and then the door begins to open, pulled back by a pair of straining priests whose heads are shaved smooth.

  Both of the priests wear simple, elegant robes of black silk edged in silver and red, and in unison they beckon the soldiers to follow them down the nave toward the enormous altar that stands in the northern apse of the cavernous Temple. The forty-foot-high interior of the structure is lit only by torches at the entrance, oil lamps along the innermost columns, and, in the apse, dozens of beeswax candles. Dominating this serene yet imposing scene is the distant sound of chanting: over a large chorus of bass and tenor men are layered smaller numbers of children and but a few women, singing, unaccompanied, in the classic Oxian style, which is named for its innovator. In his later years, the Mad King turned to music—among other pursuits—to pass the ever more idle hours of his life; and not a few members of his household were surprised to find that he had a sophisticated understanding of the art, gained how, when, or where, Oxmontrot never said. But the mode of composition he devised was one of his
proudest legacies.

  Arnem falls in next to Korsar, the better to hear any further explanation of his commander’s extraordinary instructions; but the yantek evidently intends no such clarification. Instead, as the men walk northward between the long inner colonnades, Korsar silently enjoys the chanting, which grows in volume, and begins to pull at his beard, puzzling with something playfully.

  “Seven blasts of the Horn,” he suddenly murmurs, as much to himself as to Arnem. “A pity, really. I would have enjoyed being the one to discover their meaning …” He walks further behind the priests, and then pauses as they reach the Temple’s apse. “But the golden god has other plans for me,” the yantek adds, maintaining his strangely detached tone.

  The most ornate feature among many such in the Temple, the altar is the most obvious statement of Kafra’s love of wealth, of indulgence—and of those among his followers who worship him in a corresponding manner. A finely carved platform of various exotic woods supports an octagonal slab of granite, the eight sides of which are carved into reliefs depicting key episodes from the history of Broken. Each of these scenes is laminated in gold. The surface of the altar, by way of contrast, is composed of an almost faultless slab of black marble, quarried in a distant region of Davon Wood by the Bane. To obtain it, the God-King Izairn (father of Saylal, the present ruler) and the Merchants’ Council of his time were forced to offer the Bane not only goods, but something even more precious: knowledge. In particular, the Bane demanded—and Izairn’s increasingly powerful Second Minister, Caliphestros, recommended giving them—building secrets that at least a few of Broken’s merchant leaders and military commanders did not believe the exiles should possess: techniques of leverage and buttressing, of counterweighting and joining.

  But those who sponsored the creation of the altar had not believed the trade dangerous: the Bane would never, they argued, be able to make use of such sophisticated techniques—a prediction that has thus far proved true, so far as anyone in Broken can determine. And few citizens of the kingdom, upon viewing the magnificent new locus of the most important rites of Kafra, would assert that the exchange was not worth the risk. Above the altar, seeming to confirm that the bargain was indeed an appropriate one, has been suspended a most arresting representation of Kafra: a statue, also laminated in gold and suspended in such a manner as to make its supports (a web of delicately wrought iron, painted darkest black) effectively invisible in the candlelight. This apparently miraculous figure depicts the generous god as a victorious young athlete; and on his face, as always, is the smile, that gentle, seductive curl of the full lips, which has ever sparked in his followers sensations that Arnem knows he and Yantek Korsar are intended to feel tonight: benevolence, love, and the delight in life available to the righteous.

  On this occasion, the statue’s serene expression prompts another of the yantek’s grunting, humorless laughs, this one particularly strange: for it is Korsar’s usual custom, at such moments in the Temple, to drink deeply of the beautiful chanting that drifts up from below the altar. So much is this the case that, for an instant, Arnem believes that he must have mistaken the yantek as the author of the caustic sound; but when it is repeated, and when Arnem places it in the context of Korsar’s earlier and more peculiar words and behavior, the sentek is left to wonder anew if his mentor, comrade, and friend—the man Arnem admires more than any in the world—is in fact the simple, honest, and above all pious old soldier for which his protégé has always taken him.

  The pair of silent priests touch Korsar’s and Arnem’s shoulders gently, urging them down the left side of a transept that crosses the nave before the altar and leads to a black marble archway that is the entrance to the Sacristy of the High Temple. The beechwood door below the archway—guarded by still more priests—opens; and in an instant, Arnem and Korsar find themselves within the Sacristy, the penultimate seat of power in the kingdom of Broken.

  The sumptuous main room, off of which are located more intimate chambers, is a repository for those holy instruments—chalices, bowls, plates, and icons—as well as the various knives, axes, halberds, arrows, and spears, that came into use when Oxmontrot’s pragmatic goal of banishing unfit and infirm citizens of Broken to Davon Wood was legitimized by the liturgy of the Kafran faith. The practical then became the sacred, and the tenets that resulted quickly became the unquestioned social and spiritual laws of Broken. Since then the Sacristy has provided at least a nominally accessible location from which religious and civic wisdom can be dispensed to various representatives of the populace. In addition, appeals to Broken’s ever-remote royalty may be made through the Sacristy, provided there is no expectation of gratification or even reply.

  The Sacristy’s trappings reflect this portentous unity of spiritual and secular purpose. The stone walls are finely finished with glittering, durable mortar that has been sand-ground to an alluringly smooth finish, one that, like so many aspects of the Temple and the Sacristy, is nearly irresistible to human touch. Over these walls, between large panels of exquisite tapestries woven by unrivaled artisans, hang the richest fabrics ever brought up the Meloderna by Broken’s intrepid river traders: deep vermilion silks, crisp white and gold cottons, and rich burgundy wools. These drapes conceal no apertures in the building’s walls, for no such openings exist: the concern for secrecy that is the very essence of the Broken’s ruling tradition is too great to allow any such. Instead, the sumptuous draperies frame an astounding series of creations, whose effect is best appreciated during the daylight hours, as well as on nights like this one, when the Moon shines bright: the glowing results of another of the proudest achievements of Broken’s artisans, their preservation of the ancient process of manufacturing glass—glass of almost any color, and, in the case of structures such as the Sacristy, any thickness. Into secure settings of translucent alabaster are mortared thick, rounded blocks of tinted glass, created in the expansive, well-guarded studios of such craftsmen as have disappeared from almost every society that surrounds Broken. The Sacristy is thereby bathed in wondrous light that vividly supports the priests’ claim to the near-divinity of the chamber. Most importantly, this effect is achieved with no reduction of the privacy of the chamber’s business.

  First among the ministers who conduct that business, and second in power only to the God-King and his immediate family, is the Grand Layzin, the human vessel and instrument through whom the will of Kafra and the God-King are made not only known, but comprehensible, to the mortal citizens of Broken. The furnishings within the Sacristy clearly emphasize this: at the northern end of the chamber rises the Layzin’s dais, which runs the width of the Sacristy and is supported by granite arches which lead down into a wide entryway to the catacombs, out of which emerge the ethereal sounds of the Oxian chanters. The almost equally well-appointed furnishings before the dais (provided not only for superior citizens such as the members of the Merchants’ Council, but for anyone who has business with the Layzin) are all oriented toward that superior level, coming to an end in a deep reflecting pool cut into the floor of the Temple: a serene spot which is both protective and intended to heighten the sense of separation between the Layzin and ordinary supplicants.

  Upon the dais itself (the rear wall of which is covered by an enormous curtain), an expansive sofa occupies the left side, its cushions echoing the richness of the room’s draperies and tinted glass. In the center of the space is the elaborately carved gilded chair from which the Layzin casts his serene reflection into the pool below. Two less ostentatious seats are positioned to either side of this near-throne, and are reserved for the First and Second Wives of Kafra, the highest ranking and most beautiful of the priestesses. One of the two is present now, and she sits utterly motionless in her chair, her long legs visible through slits in her black gown and her abundant golden hair falling freely onto her well-formed body. Occupying the remaining space on the right-hand side of the dais are a chair and gilded table covered with books, scrolls, and writing: communications from royal official
s throughout the kingdom. Behind this, at a scribe’s desk, sits a shaved priest, who records all words spoken in the Sacristy.

  As Arnem and Korsar enter, they notice quickly (for both men are very familiar with this chamber) that the collection of messages from outside the city on the Layzin’s table is unusually large. They acknowledge this fact to each other silently, in the manner of soldiers who have often had to communicate without words in the presence of authority, quickly determining that each has drawn the same conclusion from what they see: Something dire troubles this city—indeed, the entire kingdom of Broken—tonight …

  For Arnem, such is far more encouraging a sign than it is, evidently, for Yantek Korsar, whose features have lost even their sardonic skepticism, and now reveal only hard determination to face the matter at hand. But what matter is it? Arnem asks himself; for if the threat to the kingdom is not the Bane, surely the supreme commander of the army will not be disappointed. His mockery of Arnem’s desire for a glorious campaign aside, the yantek would actually relish, Arnem believes, facing an adversary other than the exiles. Why, then, does the yantek’s face grow so ashen …?

  Atop the dais, two men stand at the table on the right, making their way through the reports at a hurried pace, but in hushed tones. The first looms large over the table, and is possessed of considerable strength, to judge by his broad back and shoulders. These last are covered by a cloak of rich brown fur, edged in pure white flecked with black: the seasonal pelt of the hermit stoat, known across the Seksent Straits as “ermine.” The second, seated man is, for the most part, obscured by the first; but Korsar and Arnem can see that his hands are moving papers about on the table with a speed seldom displayed in the contemplative stillness of the Sacristy.