The Song the Ogre Sang

by Peter Fane

  “Eressa,” Susan said. “Obviously.” She turned and looked up at the Great Sisters in the stained-glass window behind her uncle.

  “Good.” Lord Garen nodded. “Now the Pendants.”

  Lady Susan sighed with mock exacerbation and rolled her eyes, looking from Ponj to Colj then back to Ponj again. Colj was happy to see that Ponj refused to indulge her, giving no response. His son understood the value of training.

  Lord Garen unlocked the drawer of his desk. From it, he withdrew a thin case of pale korom’s wood. The young lord said a few words, the case whispered open, and he took forth a small amulet of high silver on a high silver chain. It was a High Pendant, Colj saw. It gleamed in the window’s blue light, a flawless object, a series of seamless arabesques, spiraled curls wrapped and woven into each other with a precision that embodied the mathematical perfection of the Realm.

  “Who made this?” Lord Garen asked, hanging the Pendant on its stand.

  Lady Susan sighed. “Eressa.”

  “How do you know?”

  “‘Cause it’s her style.”

  “How many High Pendants are associated with each of the Realm’s duchies?”

  Lady Susan looked at him for a moment. Then her eyes went narrow. “Are you punishing me ‘cause I shouted at Colj when he came in?”

  “No,” Lord Garen said.

  “Then why’re you asking me questions I already know? Anyway, it’s Tarlen’s turn.”

  Lord Garen didn’t answer.

  Lady Susan didn’t say anything either.

  The silence continued for a long moment.

  “We do need to proceed, Susan,” Lord Garen said. “Much to do today. How many Pendants were given to the first High Houses?”

  “Five,” Lady Susan said. “Five each.”

  “Who bestowed them?”

  “The Great Sisters. Or their emissaries.”

  “Why?” Lord Garen asked.

  “Signs of their authority,” Lady Susan droned, rolling her eyes. “So they could travel without using Gates. If you travel by Gate, the Gate’s adepts have to sing the Gate open, sing the right song so you can get where you wanna go, and that takes time, and you need adepts and permission, and then everybody will know when and where you went. But if you travel by Pendant, you can do it on your own, any time, fast, using your own memory and nothing else.”

  “Good.” Lord Garen nodded. “Now, your best estimate: How many High Pendants are extant?”

  “Lots.” Lady Susan smiled.

  “What does ‘lots’ mean?”

  Susan took an apple out of her pocket and began to eat, looking back at the stained-glass window, swinging her feet. The window’s blue light made her eyes seem dark.

  “How many, Susan?” Lord Garen asked.

  “Four hundred and eighty something,” she said while she ate. “Lots are missing, too. Obviously.”

  “How do you explain the preservation of these artifacts over the millennia?”

  Lady Susan paused; her mouth was full of apple. “Well, they’re made of high silver, so they can’t be crushed or melted or anything like that.”

  “They can still be lost.” Lord Garen steepled his fingers. “We live at the edge of the single longest cultural continuum in human history. Over ten thousand years. A cultural epoch of that length could barely be conceived in ancient times—.”

  Lady Susan interrupted him with a bite of her apple. “They’re the most precious heirlooms we have, Uncle. It’s not something you leave in the sofa cushions. The High Pendants are guarded. You don’t just lose them.”

  “How do they work alongside the High Cups?”

  “I think you’re punishing me.” Lady Susan munched her apple.

  “Please, answer.”

  “Fine.” She bit into her apple and talked around it. “With a Pendant, you can only travel to a place you remember, a place you’ve actually been, using your own memory. But High Cups hold other people’s memories. So when you drink from a High Cup, you experience the memory it has and that memory becomes yours. Since the memory in the Cup is now your memory, you can use a High Pendant to travel where the memory in the Cup took place. With the right Cup and a Pendant, you can travel anywhere in the Realm. Alright?”

  “Good.” Lord Garen nodded seriously. “For tonight’s work, you’ll draft a list—from memory—that gives a brief description of each world that the Sisters visited. You will list them alphabetically. You’ll use no more than three dozen words for each description. I’d also like you to give the name of the world’s current ruling house as well as their colors and coat of arms. If the duchy is contested, you may simply note that along with other details. You may draw the coats of arms, if you like.”

  Lady Susan moaned. “Can’t I just tell you now? That’s a hundred and four worlds! I don’t want to draw them all, write them all down. It’s a lot.” Then she grinned mischievously. “Besides, one or two sentences for each duchy seems a little superficial. You can’t summarize a planet in a sentence.”

  “Would you like to write more?”

  “No.” She swallowed a big bite of apple and coughed. “But it’s still a lot.”

  “Indeed, it is. You will also give the exact number of High Gates that the Founding Sisters established on each world and the Founding Year in which each world entered the Kingdom as a duchy. This is your last exam on the basic structure of the Realm. If you can demonstrate knowledge and retention now, I won’t ask you to repeat it. You are seven years old, Susan; it’s time to move forward to more complex subjects.”

  “Ugh,” Lady Susan grunted and took another bite of apple. “I hate memorizing.”

  “Memory is a skill.” Lord Garen looked at her closely. “And the mind is a muscle. A complex muscle with many parts to be trained. Any fool can open a book, find what is needed. That is not knowledge. Memory is how you build knowledge, knowledge of your own. Knowledge is the basis of everything else, tactics, art, philosophy—and more. Remember: Clear thinking, clear memory, and clear writing—.”

  “Clear writing, clear memory, and clear thinking,” Susan droned. “Yes, Uncle.” She sat back in her chair, scowling. Then she turned, grinned impishly, took another bite of her apple, and winked at Colj. Without thinking, Colj found himself wanting to wink back at her, but he stopped short. Like her uncle, Lady Susan was exceptionally intelligent for her seven years and very charismatic. In any other family, it would have been uncanny, but she was a Dallanar. Regardless, it would be inappropriate to encourage lack of discipline.

  Lord Garen nodded, took the High Pendant from its stand, lay it back in its korom’s wood case, and put the case back into the drawer. Then Lord Garen turned to Lord Tarlen and pulled from beneath his desk a withered branch of dark wood. But it was not a branch, Colj realized. It was a long arm. Fossilized and black, malformed and strange. The elbow was bent backwards and several of the fingers seemed twice their proper length. The middle finger was longer than a dagger and just as sharp.

  Lord Garen looked at Lord Tarlen. “What is this?” He set the thing on the worktable.

  “The arm of a voidfiend,” Lord Tarlen said, lifting the thing for inspection. “A kalaban, in the ancient tongue.”

  “Explain this arm’s appearance.”

  “It was probably caught and killed in the middle of transformation.”

  Lord Garen cocked his head. “Transformation?”

  Lord Tarlen nodded. “A kalaban can take the form of a tall humanoid or a large bird or a combination of both—a sort of hybrid. They can also sort of curl up into a kind of ball, too. Very small. To rest and hide.”

  “Hide?” Lord Garen raised an eyebrow.

  “They’re stealth units. Assassins and infiltrators. Not front-line fighters.”

  Lord Garen pointed at the strange, blade-like finger of the hand. “What of this?”

  “Part of its sword,” Lord Tarlen said. “Like I said, it was probably caught in the middle of transformation. Their blades are a part of them,
built into their templates. In battle, it will appear as a weapon held in hand, but it can’t really be ‘disarmed,’ at least not as we’d use that word.” Lord Tarlen looked closely at the dark fossil, clearly fascinated. “If I remember the shape of this particular arm correctly, this kalaban was discovered and killed by Poder Jarlen, on Wenevron during the sixth year of the Founding War, the last year of the siege of that duchy. Mother showed me this two years ago, told me the story.”

  Colj nodded to himself. Only weeks past his eleventh birthday, and the son was already very much like the father. Young Lord Tarlen’s forehead was broad, like Lord Garen’s. But that’s where the resemblance ended. His hands and gestures were sure and smooth, his shoulders already broad, his blue eyes sharp, all as his father’s, Lord Tomas, had been. When Lord Tarlen spoke, Colj noticed how Ponj looked at the young lord with admiration, his son’s eyes bright with interest. The young ogre and Lord Tarlen were fast friends, an alliance that would be priceless for Jallow in the future. In the present, Ponj enjoyed the trust, the company, and the education of the most well-trained children in the Realm.

  “Eíra told you that, eh?” Lord Garen inclined his head. “What’s the story? What does it teach?”

  Lord Tarlen nodded. “Jarlen had liberated the duchy in early winter following the voidfolk’s retreat. They left nothing behind—except hundreds of sleeping kalaban.” He gestured at the arm. “This thing was hidden in a basket with a false bottom, then placed in the closet of the largest bedchamber of Wenevron’s High Keep. It was left to nest, to wait, and then to wake and kill Jarlen, if it could. To murder him in his sleep.”

  Lady Kyla had been quiet hitherto. But now she stared at Lord Tarlen. Her face was composed, but her hands clenched in her lap; she seemed distressed. Her skin was pale, the dark circles under her eyes more pronounced than ever. Colj had never seen her like this. Indeed, it was very rare for a Dallanar High Lord or Lady to display anything but the most careful training, even in private. Lord Garen had noticed her discomfort as well, but he ignored it.

  “But Poder Jarlen knew it was there,” Lord Tarlen continued. “He caught the thing. Tried to tame it. But it didn’t work. So, he killed it.”

  “And the lesson?” Lord Garen asked.

  “There are many,” Lord Tarlen said. “One is that high houses must expect and prepare for all types of incursion. Subterfuge can be more deadly than naked aggression. A single traitor or spy behind your lines can pose a greater threat than ten thousand charging soldiers at your front. The enemy can take many forms, some of them familiar. Be aware of your surroundings at all times; allow trained consciousness to unfold into every space, into every situation.”

  Lady Kyla looked at her brother and said, “Sleep with one eye open?”

  “Yes.” Lord Tarlen returned her gaze with a friendly nod. “That’s right.”

  Lady Kyla made to speak again, but Lord Garen stopped her with a raised hand and turned back to Lord Tarlen. “Can you outline for me the deployment pattern of the last kalaban infiltrators at the end of the Founding War, after the retreat of the voidfolk from Golladus?”

  “Of course.” Lord Tarlen nodded. “The enemy sent thousands of kalaban into the Kingdom, like pollen. Since our forces could respond instantly to aggression on any duchy by way of the High Gates, the enemy’s counter was to ‘sow’ the Kingdom with fiends and attempt to reach unprotected duchies at random. Against an unprepared world, against unarmed civilians, a single voidfiend could be devastating. But it was a useless strategy. If ‘strategy’ is the word that you’d want to use.”

  “Why do you say that?” Lord Garen asked. “What’s the problem with the vocabulary?”

  “Even at incredible speeds—and before you say it, I know our understanding of their navigational lore is limited—it would take a kalaban thousands of years to reach our outermost duchies. At the same time, we could cross to that same world instantly by Gate. It’s the core strength of the Realm, the brilliance of Acasius’s imperial vision. Then, as now, our troops can respond anywhere in the Kingdom in moments. Theirs was an archaic model, rooted in ancient modes of star-faring. Like the space sailors of Póntokos, for example.” He paused, then opened his hands and shrugged. “It’s just too slow, Uncle. Too slow and too random to be considered a real threat. Imperial ambition, in the sense that Acasius and the Sisters teach, must be sustained by three pillars: consistently fast communication, consistently fast travel, and the disciplined will to combine that speed with force to maintain order, commerce, and culture. Without these, the Realm as we know it can’t be preserved. The voidfolk were desperate. They knew we’d won. It wasn’t a tactical move. It wasn’t ‘strategy.’ It was desperation, nothing more. So, they launched countless kalaban into the stars.” He gestured at the withered, black arm. “A final, futile gambit.”

  “You seem quite certain,” Garen mused.

  “Should we be otherwise?” Lord Tarlen asked. “Thousands of years have passed. The archaeology is clear. As is the history. What evidence exists to the contrary? I am certain.”

  “Nonsense,” Lady Kyla said.

  She had regained her composure and now glanced from Lord Tarlen to Lord Garen, then back to Lord Tarlen. Her back was straight.

  “Nonsense,” she said again.

  “Nonsense what?” Lord Tarlen looked at her with genuine curiosity. “Which part?”

  Lady Kyla ignored his question. “What would the great Poder Jarlen say about ‘certainty,’ Tarlen? What would Mother and Father have said about ‘certainty?’”

  Lord Garen looked at Lady Kyla for a long moment. He took off his spectacles, peered through, polished them, and put them back on. He turned to Lord Tarlen, waiting for the boy to answer.

  “If they were here,” Lord Tarlen said slowly, “they’d say ‘certainty is the succor of fools’—something wise like that.”

  “Indeed.” Lady Kyla arched an eyebrow.

  “But you can’t just—,” Lord Tarlen began.

  Lady Kyla interrupted him, gestured at the twisted, dark arm. Her voice was calm, trained, and confident. “How long do these things live, Tarlen? How long? Susan? You have any idea?”

  Lady Susan shrugged. “I dunno.” Lady Susan had been watching Bruno twitch in his sleep as she finished up the last of her apple, not really paying attention to the discussion.

  “Well,” Tarlen began carefully, as if looking for a trap. “There isn’t much known about their biological cycles. But all the evidence suggests a very long lifespan. Millennia, almost certainly.”

  “And it would have to be that long, wouldn’t it?” Kyla continued. “If these things were ‘sown into the stars?’ Is that not true? By your own reckoning, their journeys would be thousands of years or more.”

  “What’s your point, Ky?” Lord Tarlen asked. He was not frustrated, Colj saw. He was honestly interested.

  “My point, brother, is that they need not to have been ‘launched’ at all in order to be a sustained threat—as your own story proves. How many more of these things have been hidden, left to be found by some unsuspecting traveler, farmer, or child? The nightmare of the Founding War left no duchy untouched; this is common knowledge. But what of the Plague Years? Nearly ten millennia of chaos, a time of incomparable pettiness and cruelty. Don’t you find it strange that there are more ‘plague years’ than ‘years of peace’ in the Realm’s ‘great and glorious history’? I do. ‘Continuum’ they call it? Ha! I can’t—.”

  “What does that have to do with anything?” Lady Susan piped in, wiping her fingers on her shirt. She shook her head and looked at the dark fossil. “That’s not what Tarlen’s question was about. I’m hungry. I’m bored.”

  “These things.” Lady Kyla gestured at the black arm. “Could be anywhere. Not spread like pollen but planted like seeds. Left to wait, to wait with patience—invincible patience—the patience of the hunter, the hunter who knows it’s just a matter of time.”

  Lord Tarlen shrugged amicably. “That’s
not really a counter to my answer, Ky. The question was about the strategic value of the voidfolk’s last days and moves. I’m sure that we—.”

  “You’re sure?” Lady Kyla shook her head. “Look what happens now, right now.” She gestured out at the blue stained-glass window. Colj saw her hand shake slightly before she put it back in her lap. “Outside these very walls, our people kill each other while we debate the ‘tactical merits’ of our enemy’s final moments? It’s absurd. We are the enemy, Tarlen. The voidfolk—if they’re still there—don’t need to attack. Nor do they need to defend. All they need to do is wait. Wait while we cut our own throats, while we destroy our own people, kill our own family. Wait until they can quietly step over our corpses, into the fertile ashes that remain.”

  10

  THE WORDS POURED out of her, almost of their own accord.

  And Kyla Dallanar was glad to have said them. She lifted her chin and looked from Tarlen to Garen.

  They were in private.

  They were with family.

  And the words were true.

  Tarlen gazed at her, curious and friendly, not at all offended by her ideas. Susan frowned—half listening, but distracted, too—digging in her pockets for another snack. Colj and Ponj looked at her quietly, their calm stoicism the hallmark of all ogres of Jallow. Colj’s huge head tilted with attention, as it always was when he was listening intently. Garen nodded thoughtfully, a typical response, neither studied nor judgmental.

  And then Garen said, almost out of nowhere, “Good.” He gestured at the withered kalaban arm in front of him. “Tarlen, for tonight, I want you to take this back to your quarters, create a scale drawing. Three-to-one should be fine, so long as relevant details are recorded and studied. Or you can make a model, if you prefer.”

  “I’ll draw it, Garen,” Tarlen said.

  Garen nodded. “You’ll also write an essay, a full summary of what is known regarding kalaban tactics, dispersal, and combat metrics. I’d like to see emphasis on the evidence provided by the archaeological material that we have in our collections here. You’ll also compile all accounts of Poder Jarlen’s attempt to ‘tame’ his kalaban, distill them into a short precis, and attach it to your essay as an appendix.”