by A J Burns
Brenton had said that when the magistrate was killed, the sheriff would succeed her, and the revolution would begin. This sheriff, Evoru, had informed them about the girl whose name Kron had now forgotten and about how her father would be a “perfect candidate.” Kron had followed Brenton around for months, doing things that would only presently be coming to fruition. He had fostered some doubts, and at this moment they all returned.
As he began to speak, he stuttered and became silent. “To hell with you,” he said. “You hit like a woman anyhow.” Another beating he endured.
He awoke from a nightmare and tried to nestle himself back to sleep, but then he heard the clashing of steel and a call for help. Chains clanged against the door. As it opened, he saw the silhouette of a friend.
“Brother,” said Brenton, stepping forward. “Brother, you’re alive.” He crouched beside Kron and grabbed his hand. “Speak to me.”
“Hey….” Kron turned his head away from the light.
Brenton wrapped his other arm around him. “I feared I’d never see you again.”
“How long?”
“A month.” He fumbled with the cap of his canteen. Gripping Kron by the shoulder, he tilted him backwards and placed it to his lips.
“What about my family?” asked Kron, referring to his wife and kids.
“We’ve taken care of them. They’re waiting for you at home.”
This time Kron awoke to rays of sunlight beaming across his face. He attempted to lift himself, but his arms collapsed beneath him.
Brenton was sitting on a chair beside the bed. “No need to be hasty.”
“You again.” He intended for his to voice carry a hint of irony, but it sounded dull and inexpressive. “What is this place?”
“An inn on the north side,” said Brenton. He crossed his arms, glancing outwards as dust spewed around the lawn and glided back down. “We found Auron in a different chamber, bruised but only scarcely. The wretch had given in within the day, and by the fortnight, Surkin’s guards had swarmed the palace. They demanded Evoru’s surrender.”
“Guessing they didn’t get it.”
“The imperialists returned to the capital in a crate—their heads anyway.” Brenton continued to glance outside the window, moving his horn-shaped medallion through the gaps of his fingers. “As soon as you ran up the stairs, he went off searching for his daughter. I couldn’t keep up with him.”
“I told you we couldn’t trust Auron.”
Brenton grinned. “Yes, it worked out quite perfectly, didn’t it?”
According to the sheriff, the plan was to make Alena’s death seem a crime of passion: that Auron, of his own accord, had killed her to rescue his daughter; the sheriff had hoped that it would enable him to fight the congregation’s corruption from within. Brenton, however, had persuaded Kron that a more forceful approach was necessary.
Kron grunted. “I still don’t understand how Evoru thought the congregation would believe a lone parmos managed to slay the entire court.”
“He’s a figurehead—nothing more.” Brenton had a stance from which anxiety could be discerned, as if he couldn’t wait to launch a monologue.
“Go ahead,” said Kron. “Sing of your praises.”
“Evoru was promoted just as he should’ve been following Alena’s death. Auron spoke only of some lanky man and some fat man—he sounded like a lunatic…. But it was all they needed. Chancellor Surkin accused Evoru of involvement in a cabal, and that’s when he sent the guards. Riots broke throughout the city. A Mesallian tumult had stormed the center. That’s why we couldn’t rescue you. Our brothers were up in arms, Kron. It was an amazing feeling as we took charge of the streets. We forced them to flee in every direction. And that brings us to now.” The enthusiasm had left his tone. “Evoru placed bounties on the heads of every Mesal—and Noconyx. They fled to Soten and Rofynen and sought refuge from the Rofynaurs. They’ve gotten sanctuary. And Enk Arqua marches with us in his sight.”
Kron waited a moment. “How many?”
“Let’s just say we don’t have enough to oppose him.”
“Why are they sending some peasant army after us and not the imperial regiments?”
“Well, that’s for us to find out.” Brenton uncrossed his arms and laid one hand on each knee. “The clan chiefs are meeting, or so it’s rumored.”
“Don’t look at me like that. Yeah, that.”
Kron’s father was the chief of Vykten: a southern province on the shores of Melavo. The congregation had agreed that if the clans didn’t oppose the congregation, they could retain most of their cultures and customs; but their hierarchies weren’t much more than titular and their laws not much more than guidelines. The clergy had supreme control over every aspect of every life in Vehymen.
“He’d sooner listen to a blade of grass,” said Kron.
“Then I’ll pluck one for you.”
Kron tilted his head and rubbed his hand through his hair. “Get me a horse—and not one of those public-stable mixed-breeds.”
“We’ll get it on your way home.”
“No. I can’t see them—not until my scars are gone.” Kron so missed his wife and children that he wished not to see them, in the same way that a hungry man eventually becomes disgusted at the thought of food. “I can’t let my wife see me like this.”
“As you wish.” Brenton stood and started to leave. “Now get some rest. I’ll wake you in the morning.”
Kron scoffed at the notion: A former Soten drug-lord, Enk Arqua, was now commanding the vanguard in this nation’s civil war. Enk had risen to prominence roughly twenty years ago when he was still reviled by the empire. Kron remembered the speeches of the heralds and how Enk went from a portrayal of malevolence to one of benevolence.
Soten was cruel and perverse, the center of all defilement, a hub to opium-dealers, smugglers, murderers, thieves, rapists, pirates, blackmailers, and whores: a place so harsh that only the wicked dared call it their home. Men of good reputation were thrown down, their faces bashed in and hearts torn out; women endured unspoken horrors. It had no prisons because there were no laws, and hence no criminals, but still there existed heresy and the enforcement against it. Occasionally perpetrators were only beheaded or immolated; but most often they were cut into one-thousand pieces, a torture designed to epitomize suffering. Designed very well it was.
The seaport was largely abandoned; ships would come and go, but now it served as a haven for undesirables. Even traffickers avoided Soten. The city had one export, besides humans and drugs, and that was metals: gold, copper, and iron. These were turned into weapons that were then imported back into Soten. The wealthiest residents were the smugglers. They abducted Raurs to be sacrificed at the shrine of Nerrigal. He was a god: the harbinger, the bringer, and the benefactor of death. “When his disciples failed to shed the blood of others, he released locusts upon their fields, starving them like they had starved him.” He was the most merciful among their gods.
The sun now shined in the northern sky. Kron took his crossbow, quiver, and whatever bolts he had. A palfrey was led from the stables and given to him.
He sailed across the Hilorian Sea, having boarded a carrack for two iron and thirteen gold coins. The expanse of blue stretched to the horizon, blemished with patches of light and dark. Whitecaps hit the starboard bow and splashed upon the deck. Brazen beams jutted into clouds above, and as the boat moved forward, he could see they were perched atop the head of a brazen statue. Seriatim its features appeared: neck, shoulders, and the tip of its spear. Sunlight glimmered on the headdress, and it seemed aflame. Ships moved hither and thither, and Kron could now see the marina he remembered so vividly from childhood.
He thought it a bastion of hope, unchanged by the volatile world around it. Merchants cast him curious glances, and although a stranger, they waved and greeted him with a kindness he had forgotten. Kron adjusted the saddle on his horse and rode southward until he reached the province’s capital city. Its castle was situate
d in the center of a lake. Guards raised the portcullis as he crossed the bridge, a cerulean flag flapping in the breeze. His father and brother were inside the library.
“Splendid! You’re home. I can die happy—happily…? Happy,” said Tefvon. “Nonetheless, take a seat. I wouldn’t want you sweating over there like a steward—speaking of which, Maisi, get us some whiskey please and some tar-sugar for myself. I thank you—now off you go.”
“Thought you nicked the habit,” said Kron.
“Yes—and your sister told me you were…,” he said as he looked him up and down, “healthy. But as you can clearly see, that is just not true. It’d be a pity to outlive my son.”
“But that would make me heir,” Gevon said. His locks of hair gave the impression of bouncing as he moved his head up and down.
“Right you are. It wouldn’t be so bad then, I suppose. Now if Gevon died, well, gods have mercy.” Maisi arrived with his order. “Now I must ask: Why are you here?”
“Your Majesty, you asked—”
“No, not you Maisi, you twit. I was speaking to my son just like I was before you left. Unless my speech starts with ‘get,’ it’s safe to assume it’s not for you. I thank you—now off you go.”
“It’s amazing she hasn’t poisoned you,” said Kron in the same jocular tone that his father loathed.
“Yes, well, we don’t keep any of that in the house…. In case you’re baffled, that question was directed at you.”
“The northwest is about to implode and—”
“You’re getting none of our support. I don’t dare ask how you’re involved in this.” He rubbed the tar-sugar against his gums, releasing a fulsome odor as he chewed it apart.
“I killed the magistrate—”
“I don’t dare listen either. I will know nothing of your treason in the same vein I knew nothing of your ‘delinquency.’” Tefvon breathed onto his glasses and wiped the fog.
“You’re one of them, aren’t you?” asked Gevon. “You’re a conspirator. They say Grofven is spewing with your kind, but I never thought it, that my own brother would be a fool.”
“You don’t even know what it’s like in the outside world,” said Kron. “Who are you to dictate us?”
“Enough. I will not have my two sons bickering over who’s hairier.” Tefvon rose and began to walk away. “I have more pertinent matters at hand. Do say hello to your sister when you leave.”
The brothers sat in silence. “I’m donning the blue and the white,” said Gevon abruptly. He grabbed a snifter from the tray.
“You’re joking?” Kron still considered Gevon to be a boy: beardless, bony, and without a callus on him. “Little brother, I think you’re confused; those are imperial colors.”
Gevon idly poured the whiskey into his snifter. “Don’t condescend to me. Our lands were peaceful before your kind started to stir. They say Evoru threw the magistrate’s remains into boiling tar.”
“So, tell me: Is peacetime worth your freedom?”
“What kind of slave serves in the National Assembly and owns land?” Much to his family’s chagrin, Gevon had sided with the imperialists since he was old enough to comprehend the politics; “an adolescent revolt,” their father had called it.
“An angry slave is a troublesome slave.”
“I’m a free man, as are you.” Gevon moved the cup around his chin.
“Then hurry down to the capital, stand before the palace and shout your disdain,” Kron said. “Surely there must be something you disagree with. Maybe it’s their policies—or maybe you just don’t like what they’re serving for breakfast. They’d slit your throat just like they’d slit mine.”
“Yeah, because that would happen.”
“Hyperbole, you jackass.” Kron couldn’t refrain from showing signs of a smile. “You always were gullible.”
“And you were ‘never wrong.’”
“Most of the time I wasn’t…. Remember that time I fed you those capsules out of Maisi’s cabinet and told you they were candy? Must’ve swallowed a dozen of those things.”
“Just about killed me.” Gevon returned the smile. “You always were an ass.”
Kron observed Maisi as she tidied up the other end of the room. She was a Mesallian parmos who had been employed by Tefvon decades ago. Her presence was considered disgraceful by almost everybody in the province, but Tefvon never did base his choices on what others considered appropriate.
She had come to be admired by the family, and Kron in particular viewed her as a sister.
“I’ve seen the congregation firsthand, brother,” Kron said, turning away his sight from Maisi. “Have you even seen a Noconyx or been to a common province…? No, you haven’t. You’ve confused the Noconyx with the Mesals, brother, but even though they fight with each other, they are not the same. This isn’t a war against Maisi’s people—not them alone. And just like you confuse Noconyx and Mesal, you confuse Maisi with the rest of her people. Don’t let your love of her affect your loyalty to your own flesh and blood.”
“It’s not about her…. It’s about us—about the clans. I’ve made my decision. I don’t even ask that you respect it, just that….” Gevon made the beginning motions of speech but left his thought unfinished.
Kron clutched him by the hand and pulled him closer. “Pledge to me that we never draw our weapons on one another.”
“Shall the heavens strike us down if we do.”
He knew that whether right or wrong, his brother was too obstinate to be argued with. “Don’t let Father find out.” He used the armrest to pull himself upright. “I’m going to check on the girl.”
“You’re telling her?”
“I’ll let our lovely father take care of that one,” Kron said, not entirely sure what had been asked.
The nostalgia of this castle made it difficult for him to visit, and seldom had he been seen here over the past eight years. Heraldry of an elk on a blue background was positioned within an inch of where it had always been. The drapes and linens were yet to change: an obvious choice of his father.
Emowyn’s bedroom was in the center of the eastern hallway, which was being patrolled by Alko Beritta, a member of Tefvon’s Royal Guardsmen. Kron had remembered him as always reeking of booze, and now the stench seemed to be spilling from his pores.
“Welcome back!” Alko said as he passed Kron.
“Long time no see. How have your brothers been doing?”
“All serving happily on the senate.”
“Glad to hear it.” Kron leaned against the wall and knocked twice.
“Come in.” Emowyn was writing in her diary when he entered. She threw it down and ran to him. “Where have you been?” She wrapped her arms around his neck in a dramatic embrace.
“You know, retaining my sanity and what not.”
“Father’s harmless fun.” She straightened her dress and sat on the bed. “How are my niece and nephew?”
“They’re doing well,” he said, guessing.
“Kron,” she said in feigned astonishment. “How long since you’ve seen them?”
He had difficulty maintaining eye-contact, feeling compelled to answer to her. “It’s been a while.”
“How can you go so long without seeing them?”
“There’s a lot on my plate right now.” He rubbed his hand through his hair and sat beside her.
“I can see that,” she said, slapping his stomach and exaggerating the bounce. “You are going to make it to my wedding, right?”
“I … don’t think I’ll be able.”
“How come?”
“Things I must attend to.”
She rolled her eyes. “There’s always something you must ‘attend to.’” Looking at him with her nose pointed upwards, she said: “Can’t you make an exception, just this one time?”
“The rest of the family will be there.” He might have meant that. “I would if I could; you know that.”
“Actually, I don’t.”
“You know I love y
ou though, don’t you?”
“I suppose.” She grinned. “I suppose.”
He wrapped an arm around her shoulder. “If I could, I would wish it away.”
3
Susyn Helore
Raurian Commoner
The walls here had been mounted with ivory columns that stood thirty-feet high and tapered off in the roof’s center.
Men were sitting on balconies that protruded from the walls. Their faces were powdered and their outfits flamboyant, contrasting with the plain room in which they sat. Although the room was scantily decorated, the furnishings that did exist were exquisite. The chandeliers were golden, and the silk that clung to the walls was of a dark-yellow pigment that reflected the scene before it.
“What’s your name, sweetie?” asked a pale man who was taller than the others. He stood directly in front of her, hunching slightly so that she could hear him. His purple cope had been embroidered with black flowers and the six vines that connected them.
“Susyn,” said the girl. Her head was tilted downwards, but she could still see the man beyond her brow.
“Are you scared, Susyn?”
“Where am I?”
The lawmen had taken her from the courthouse and loaded her onto the back of a wagon. They tightened the fetters around her ankles so securely that their indentations were still visible on her skin. She had held a diary at all times, having refused to leave it aside for more than a few minutes. She wrote of the land as they ventured from the city, passing through the steppes and climbing the hills that rose beyond them. Her escorts had sought shelter in a fishing village below, and they stayed there for two weeks until some other man arrived.
His name was Ritek, and Susyn believed him to be a nice man. He had given her much to eat and had taken her for a tour of the village; but the men would talk secretively, and when they did, he seemed almost angry at her. He would slam the door whenever she caused his sight to drift from the other men, would whisper when she was near them, and would exit abruptly without saying goodbye.
