“The unlearned say so, or the foolish.” Pluvius stood again, with no intention of sitting and listening to the blasphemous words coming from this northern ass. “The anchor may be lost, but another will be found. The temple may be broken, but stones and sweat will rebuild it. What you ask us to do would damn every life taken to eternal searching.”
“What care you for Ambarran lives, boy?”
Pluvius held Régusto’s gaze. “I care for them as deeply as I care for yours.”
Régusto shrugged, perhaps pretending this was a trifle he wasn’t sure he was still interested in. “Think on it. Sing and you regain your anchor. Leave and you cast it to the winds of fate. It matters little to me.”
“I will never sing the Lays of Night, and neither will Anatoli.”
Régusto smiled wickedly. “Don’t be so sure about that, young soprano.”
As Pluvius stared, confused over what he could have meant by those words, Regusto’s smile widened and then he began to laugh. A sickening feeling formed in the middle of Pluvius’s chest, though he knew not why. He turned and began to run toward the edge of the encampment, toward Anatoli.
Anatoli lay on a bedroll near the glowing remains of a small fire. They were well within the borders of the camp, a not-so-subtle sign that leaving in the dark of the night would not be an option.
Pluvius laid out his bedroll and sat down on it. The directionless anxiety within him had ebbed, but he still felt very uncomfortable with the boy who was his one remaining tie to his previous life. He felt as distant from Anatoli as he could ever remember. They had never been close, but they had always been cordial, and Pluvius had been the closest thing Anatoli had to a friend in Oltomaño.
“Régusto wants me to sing the Lays of Night.” He was hoping that Anatoli would answer his unspoken question and reveal the meaning behind Régusto’s words, but in this he was disappointed—Anatoli, his face ruddy from the embers of the fire, contented himself by poking the ashes with a stick. “I wonder why he didn’t ask you...”
Anatoli didn’t answer.
“Toli?”
“You should go,” he said finally.
“Go where?”
“Take up with the playwright and his troupe.”
Pluvius felt his face flush. He hadn’t said a word to Anatoli about it, and he had covered his tracks well when they’d stayed in the city overnight—at least, he’d thought he had.
“How did you know?”
“You spoke to them months ago, the last time we went to Brenna, and when the bard came through the temple four months ago, there was hardly anything that could take your eyes from him. It’s why I asked Master Callia for you to join me.”
“You asked?”
Anatoli nodded. “He was going to send Volastus, but I said he had a wandering eye, and perhaps it would be better to send someone with a better head on his shoulders.”
“You wanted me to leave the temple?”
Anatoli shrugged, finally meeting his eye. “No, I didn’t want you to, but it was something you desired, wasn’t it?” It felt strange having a boy two years his junior pulling the strings of the masters to arrange for his departure, but Anatoli, ever since his arrival at the temple five years ago, had been Master Callia’s favorite. He had always sent Anatoli to Brenna with letters and to trade for goods, while Pluvius, despite his secret desire to find a way out of the temple, was rarely granted the opportunity. “So go, Pluvius. Go to Brenna and find your voice. Leave this war behind.”
It was clear that Anatoli meant for Pluvius to go alone, a possibility that made Pluvius wholly uncomfortable. “Come with me, Toli. There’s nothing for us here.”
“There is for me.”
“Because of Régusto? He asked you to sing, didn’t he?”
Anatoli clenched his hands in a sudden fit of rage. “Pluvius, there was no need to ask. It was understood. I was meant to sing the Lays of Night from the day I was sent to the temple.”
It took long moments for the meaning behind those words to register, but when they did the implications sent a cold sliver of ice deep within Pluvius’s heart. “You were sent to the temple?”
“I am the son of Régusto’s cousin. They knew I had the knack to become a soprano”—Anatoli shrugged, a gesture not so dissimilar from Régusto’s a short while ago—“but the only way to gain the knowledge was to come south.”
The pieces of the puzzle, so long hidden, were falling into place at an alarming rate. “And Master Callia?”
“My mother’s uncle.”
Pluvius’s head was swimming. There had been several children from the north who had come and trained at the temple in the years he had lived there. “How many like you have there been?”
“Over the years?” Anatoli shrugged. “Dozens.”
“How many recently?”
“It doesn’t matter, Pluvius. They’re all dead now. Dead or gone.”
“But they were sent to learn the forbidden lays.” Oltomaño never taught the songs directly, but it was no secret that the Lays of Night were only shades different from the Lays of Light.
“If the need ever arose,” Anatoli replied solemnly.
“Master Callia knew Sypria would fall?”
Anatoli looked at him as if he were being thick. “Of course it would fall. Sypria’s fate has been sealed for decades.”
“Anatoli, this is madness. You cannot join them. You’ll regret it until your dying day.”
Suddenly Anatoli seemed unable to meet his gaze. “You don’t understand, Pluvius. My fate was sealed the moment my family’s priest learned of my abilities. There was no going back then, and there’s no going back now.”
“We could leave... They’ll never find us in the madness of the war.”
“And where will we go? South? The southern provinces will be little better than barbarian lands for years, and in the north—were I to flee—my description would be spread far and wide. They’d find me, Pluvius. For me there is no running.”
“After a few months, they won’t bother to—”
“Stop it!” Anatoli’s face was rigid with anger. “I don’t want to go. I want to help them fight the Ambarri.”
“You would kill for them?”
“It is nothing less than the Ambarri would do to us were they given the chance. They must be driven south, and in time, they will learn to accept Taleneo as their one true god.”
“But—”
“Enough...” Anatoli turned over, his back to the fire. And to Pluvius. “Go to sleep. Think about your life with the playwright. Leave the war behind while you can.”
Leave him behind was what he was saying. But his tone of voice spoke differently. There was a note of sadness that made it seem like he wanted to be saved.
As Anatoli lay there, facing away, Pluvius realized there was nothing he could do about it tonight. In the days to come, after Anatoli’s anger had had a chance to subside, he would speak with him again, and he would convince him to leave the path of war behind.
They continued west over rolling hills occupied largely by tall, swaying grasses. They crossed the occasional stream, even forded a large river, and then the landscape grew harsher. The random stands of cypress or fir were replaced with small forests, and the ground gave way to rocky outcroppings and colossal hills. Evidence of the Ambarri presented itself in the form of two burned villages. A few dozen survivors remained in each, mostly old women and girls. Régusto drove his men hard, hoping to catch the force that had razed Oltomaño before they could join up with some larger contingent.
Pluvius’s attempts to speak with Anatoli over the next few days were fruitless. More than that. They were infinitely frustrating, because Pluvius could tell that Anatoli was considering his words. He had been taught the ways of the One True God in Oltomaño for years, and some of it, despite his urge to deny the truth, must have sunk in.
But then, on the third day out from Oltomaño, Régusto pulled his horse alongside Pluvius’s. “So, good soprano,” he
said, over the sound of clopping hooves, “have you considered my offer?”
“I can heal,” Pluvius replied, “but I cannot go to war.”
Régusto nodded as if he’d expected to hear those words. “Then it would be best if you leave young Anatoli to his thoughts. The lays take time to practice, and it wouldn’t do to have his mind burdened unnecessarily.”
With that Régusto pulled away, and from then on, Anatoli rode at the front of the train while Pluvius was forced to the rear, and at night Anatoli slept in Régusto’s tent while Pluvius slept under the stars. Pluvius felt powerless, and his thoughts were turning more and more to the playwright. He couldn’t force Anatoli to his way of thinking, and his efforts were certainly doomed if he wasn’t even allowed to speak with him. He should leave the train, leave and head toward Brenna on his own.
But then, on his fifth day with the horse lords, while the train was heading southwest along a sparsely wooded trail, Pluvius saw Napo. He was riding his bay mare, speaking to a grizzled old warrior with a sour smile and a foul mouth. As he watched, Pluvius realized that perhaps the road that led to Anatoli’s heart was not a direct one. Sometimes, the hidden path was the easiest.
He matched his horse’s pace to that of Napo’s. “Might I speak with you awhile,” he asked, “in private?”
With one eyebrow raised, Napo glanced over at the old warrior, who was ignoring them both. “This is as private as it gets, my son.”
Pluvius paused, uncomfortable speaking where so many could hear, but there was nothing for it. “Do you train boys in your church?” he asked.
“To sing?”
“Yes.”
“We do,” Napo allowed, “though for most it is only to sing the hymnals. As I’ve said, most lack your talent.”
“Even so, there are some, aren’t there?”
“Of course.”
“Do you ever teach them the forbidden lays?”
Napo tried to hide a grin. “Forbidden to whom?” he asked.
“To those that follow the ways of Taleneo.”
Napo was silent for a time, and Pluvius was sure he’d insulted the northern priest, but there could be no two ways about it. Besides, it was better to know where he stood before speaking of Anatoli.
“The word of Taleneo is not so clear as you might think, Pluvius.”
“There’s little room for interpretation.”
“If you believe what your masters taught you, yes. But living in a place like Oltomaño, particularly for a boy who’s never traveled beyond Brenna... It has a way of placing blinders on you.”
“I don’t have to travel the world to know what Anatoli is planning to do is wrong.”
“Anatoli will be saving lives,” Napo countered easily.
“Saving lives?” Pluvius asked.
“The sooner the Ambarri understand that the north is beyond their reach, the better it will be for them and us.”
“How can you call yourself a priest? He’ll be destroying souls. You may not sing in the north, but I know you take sacrament so the dead will reach the House of Taleneo.” Molbredo and the other northern kingdoms had not been shined upon as Sypria had—they had anchors, but they were weak.
Napo’s gaunt face reddened, and for the first time since Pluvius had met him, he seemed truly angry. The silence between them lengthened as the jingle of tack and the clank of armor filled the air. “Yes, we guide souls,” Napo finally said. “And yes, I will be saddened by the losses, even of Ambarri, but there is little to be done about it now.”
“But there is! You can talk to Régusto. You can convince him to send Anatoli away. In his heart, I know Anatoli doesn’t want to do this.”
“Even had I wished it, it would do little good. Like it or not, Anatoli is an instrument of war now, and Régusto will not allow such a weapon to be taken from him.”
Pluvius looked up at the sounds of galloping horses. Two scouts sped up the thin road toward the front of the host. In seconds, the entire mood of the line shifted. Men stood up straighter in their saddles, watching the scouts with keen eyes; even the horses brimmed with nervous energy.
A short halt was called, but minutes later, the word was passed along the line: the Ambarri were several hours ahead in an old Syprian fort, and they had begun digging in to wait for Molbredo’s best. The order was given to speed forward before they had a chance to entrench themselves too deeply.
Napo and Pluvius pulled their horses to the side of the road as the main contingent cantered past.
“Please, Napo. I pray that you will speak to Régusto about it.”
Napo smiled wanly and glanced at the fighting men. As he urged his horse forward, he nodded once. “It will do little good.”
They rode for two more hours, at which point a rest was called to spell the horses. Pluvius wanted to talk to Anatoli, but he was standing on a grassy hillock speaking with Régusto, and the guards at its base wouldn’t allow Pluvius to join them.
At least Napo was there. Perhaps there was some hope.
The contingent mounted and rode south while Régusto spoke with Anatoli, Napo, and several of his advisors. Only after the last of the men had ridden by did those on the hillock hike down and rejoin their waiting horses. Régusto rode his piebald stallion to where Pluvius stood. Anatoli, Napo, and a stocky man with a black beard rode behind him.
“I’ve heard disturbing news, good Pluvius,” Régusto said.
“Disturbing?” Pluvius asked, looking at Anatoli.
Anatoli stared back impassively. The only hint of emotion was a stiff swallow. How strange to have a friend like Anatoli feel so foreign, a boy he had known for a third of his life, a boy he’d eaten meal after meal with, had learned and grown with.
“I probably should have sent you away days ago, but I make this mistake no longer.”
The heavy barrel-chested man rode beyond Pluvius and waited there.
“I’ll go only if Anatoli joins me,” Pluvius said, knowing he’d already lost every last crumb of leverage.
Régusto smiled and turned in his saddle to look at Anatoli. “Anatoli is no slave, good soprano, yours or mine. He goes where he will, and if he wishes to help our cause, then I’ll not turn him away.”
Anatoli stared down at Pluvius with a look of regret, but he said nothing.
Pluvius said, “Anatoli—”
“Enough!” Régusto said. He jutted his chin northward as his eyes met the guard’s. And with that he and the others reined their horses over and headed after the rest of the host.
Pluvius lowered his head, embarrassed, feeling defeated. How could he have allowed things to have gone this way? The guard kicked his horse into action and, after Pluvius mounted, led his small mare along the trail. Pluvius struggled to think of a way out of this. He had to get to Anatoli, and for that to happen, he had to get away from this one fat guard.
They rode for nearly an hour, and Pluvius talked the whole way, telling the Molbredan soldier details of Oltomaño, and how he would rebuild it, stone for stone. He left out no detail, and soon, Pluvius saw him rolling his eyes and muttering beneath his breath. Here was a man sick to death of hearing someone else’s chatter.
When they exited the woods, they both dismounted, and Pluvius promised to head north and never look back.
“You promise?” the guard said, taking the reins of Pluvius’s horse from him. He was clearly relieved to have this chore done with.
“Yes, of course.”
Then Pluvius saw the man’s fist rushing toward his face, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. It connected, and Pluvius fell backward. The wind exploded from his lungs as he impacted the dry earth. Panic broke out as he fought for breath. Nothing he did would make it come back. Stars danced in his vision.
Finally, a blessed mouthful of air entered his lungs, and another, until he’d sucked in a rasping gutful of it. Then the coughing started. A dull pain throbbed along his cheek, and he noticed that blood was trickling from his chin onto the trampled grass.
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“Régusto said you were a talker, boy, but I had no idea.” The horse walked slowly around Pluvius, both of them now facing south. “Now I’ll promise you something. I find you walking along this trail again, you’ll wish you were back here with nothing but a fist in your face to show for it.”
The man kicked his horse into action. Pluvius rolled sideways to avoid being trampled by the trailing mare. When the thudding of hooves had receded, Pluvius stood with great care. One tender touch to his cheek sent pain flaring along the entire left side of his face. Blood flowed freely. How could he have been so stupid? He should have known what the man was about to do.
Pluvius stared at the trail leading north, the direction of Brenna. He should go and find the playwright as he had planned. He should join his troupe and never look back. He was no son of war. He was just a boy with a passable voice, and the sooner he came to grips with that, the easier his life was going to be, especially considering how rapidly the world was changing around him.
Then he turned south, the image of Oltomaño’s great pillar occupying his mind. One by one, even now, the spectra were drifting away, never to know the skies of Taleneo. The same would happen to the souls on the battlefield in the upcoming hours. He couldn’t stand by as his religion was wrestled from him like this and twisted into something so foul.
And he couldn’t abandon Anatoli.
Before he knew it, he had taken two halting steps along the trail.
And then he pushed himself into a steady jog.
Pluvius crawled to the lip of the ridge until he could see the battlefield below. The clash of steel and the shout of men filled the air.
Upon a squat hill sat a Syprian fort—little more than a palisade surrounding a barracks, granary, and temple. The Ambarran forces manned the walls, sending volleys of arrows into the heavily armored masses of Régusto’s cavalry. Pluvius guessed the Ambarri were half again as numerous as the Molbredans in the field.
But they would not be expecting Anatoli, which was just what Régusto would be counting on. They would have to control the Ambarri closely, for as soon as they heard Anatoli’s voice, they would fight like demons to reach him and stick a sword through his gut.
Lest Our Passage Be Forgotten & Other Stories Page 18