Seed- The Gene Awakens

by Jane Baskin

So. A conversation with Zoren-te.

  “You left this part out, in our conversations. You helped them make guns!”

  “I did. And I’ll continue to do so, once we can get through the forest to the factory. Papa, it was inevitable.”

  “Inevitable! Inevitable! What in all the hells got into that brain of yours?!”

  “They’re not our enemies.”

  “They’ve been our enemies for centuries!”

  Looked him directly in the eye. “Don’t you see, Papa? Not any more.”

  So what she had done, what she had known she was doing all along, was: brought peace to her homeland. Equally armed enemies, assured of mutual destruction, quit fighting. A fact not overlooked by the brilliant young Zoren-te, when she agreed to help arm the North.

  16.A Crack in the Wall; A Shaft of Light

  Lord Vel: “So, you’ll continue to make guns here. My daughter tells me nearly everyone works in the factory, and guns have been shipped to the other northern provinces.”

  Dar-agan: “That’s correct. When the land is fully dried out, Rhymney and Aurast will be putting up munitions factories as well.”

  Lord Vel, wanting to spit. Unable to decide where to put his gaze. “I barely believe this.”

  “Get a grip on yourself, Vel. Did you think the North would never develop advanced weapons? True, it happened a bit faster than it might have, and with more skill and purpose than it might have had on its own. But sooner or later it would have happened. Northerners are very inventive. You can thank us for your flush toilets. And – did you think we’d let the South have superior weaponry, one moment longer than necessary?”

  A growl from Vel. “What did you think we’d do with our superior weaponry?”

  “I think you would have stepped up your raids to full scale invasions. If we didn’t give you the gell you’d simply have taken it. Like you’ve wanted to do for centuries.”

  A smile from Lord Vel. “You don’t think much of us, do you, Cha-ning?”

  Dar-agan, running a hand across his chin. “I have respect on the scale of all the gods for your battle skills. As for the rest … you know what I think of the South, culturally speaking. We’ve discussed it before.”

  Now a laugh. “Discussed? More like shouted it at one another, spitting and drooling, on the battlefield.”

  “While my so-called peasants, free men and women every one, drove your raiders into the dirt. And out of the North.”

  A pause, while Lord Vel smiled into the fire. Finally: “You know, Cha-ning, we’ve never really raided seriously. Just little excursions for us. Hoping to get lucky. Maybe get some free gell.”

  “I’m aware.”

  “But you know that could change.”

  “Of course. We can spill blood in rivers and kill our families and ruin our children. We can murder our futures, kill all our hopes and dreams. Now that we’re evenly armed, we can do real damage.”

  “Yes.”

  “But tell me, Vel. Is that what you want?”

  After three days: no firm agreement. Vel: finally getting Cha-Ning to agree to a reduced price for gell – greatly reduced – in return for an agreement not to raid. Still wanting more. Wanting seeds. Wanting to go into the gell business himself. Cha-ning: not a budge.

  Might have concluded as a draw, but for the appearance of another player.

  Both men, appearing for the evening meal in the great hall. Sitting at the long table near the serving area. Conversing … almost convivial.

  Until Gwildan decided to retake his place at that table.

  Gwildan: had been absent from the great hall since the arrival of Lord Vel. Thought of leaving for home, but decided against. Didn’t want to leave without that convoy of weapons he so desperately wanted.

  But staying away. For safety’s sake. Villagers: coached by Ilia-te and others to keep quiet about his presence. Others (among them Nayan and Zoren-te) the same.

  So, Lord Vel: no idea.

  Gwildan, still a man at war. Always a man at war. Tired of hiding. Bringing his war right to the dinner table.

  When he sat down, Vel dropped the food out of his very mouth. Stared. Came to, wiped his face with a napkin.

  Out of his seat like a sudden storm. Reached his massive bulk over the table, getting his hands around the thin man’s throat before anyone could stop him. “You!”

  Others, rushing to separate them. Gwildan, glaring even as he choked.

  Vel, screaming. “You – you killed my sons! You filth!”

  When his big hands were finally detached from Gwildan’s throat; when Gwildan could draw breath; something between a croak and a growl: “They killed themselves, you old fool.”

  The table, nearly overturned. Food, plates: everywhere. People, panting. Vel, his arms pinned to his sides by Nayan, Che, and Dar-agan. Zoren-te, trying to comfort him.

  Ilia-te: “Sit down, Gwildan.”

  Vel, roaring: “I wouldn’t shit on a table where that man sits!”

  Ilia-te, still maintaining calm: “I’m relieved to hear it, My Lord. Please … sit.”

  “Never.” Shook himself free, strode from the room.

  Pandemonium in the hall. When it finally quieted, Dar-agan: “Gwildan, you idiot. What in all the hells were you thinking?”

  “It’s time I faced him.”

  “Are you insane?”

  Gwildan, shouting now. “I am not insane! Are you, My Lord? Did you think the war would just disappear? Just slide underground like a worm, while you barter your son and whatever else off in some ridiculous marriage contract?”

  Other diners, moving close. The great hall, fixed in anger. People, waiting to hear what Dar-agan would say.

  He, drawing breath. The table, righted by Nayan and Che. Dar-agan, sitting down. Pushing broken plates away from himself. “Listen to me, Gwildan. We’re not at war, here.”

  A female voice, coming closer. “Is that really true, Dar-agan?”

  Oh. There. Ania-te, mother of Che and Colwen. Her smile: gone. Her demeanor: deadly. Walking slowly toward Dar-agan, fixing him eye to eye. “Listen to me. I have not fully recovered from learning of my sister’s death. I doubt I ever will. And the memories … they will never leave me. I was a fool to think a good life here would erase a bad life there. The misery just goes on and on. Whatever relatives I have left are suffering. All these people – ” (gestured, to include all observers) “These people have family and friends in the South. We can’t just forget them. We shouldn’t have to. So yes, we’re at war here, too.”

  Nayan, a quick glance at Che. Remembering that conversation back at the munitions factory that morning …

  So no surprise, when Che, pulling Luisa-te close, also fixed Dar-agan eye to eye. “Dar-agan. My mother’s right. It’s nothing against you, certainly not personally. But many of us … we feel we ought to help the rebels in the South. They’re our people; our families, our friends.”

  There. See? The little festering thing underneath everything, finally rising. Sure to show itself after a hard winter. To rise up from underneath the fading frost; to lie bare and ugly before everyone.

  Dar-agan, passing a hand over his weary face. “So this is what Gwildan has fostered among you.”

  Che: “No, Dar-agan. This was predictable. We didn’t need Gwildan to stir the pot. It was always there. We’re free here, yes. But if our brothers, our sisters – if any of our people aren’t free, then we aren’t truly free either.”

  Dar-agan, thinking: how young Che was. Remembering when he was that young. How he almost looked forward to raiding season, so he could go into battle. Could test his life against fortune. Could ride up to Death and spit in His eye. What fools we are.

  Watched sidelong, as Zoren-te buried her face in Nayan’s chest.

  Ania-te: “They’re dying, Dar-agan. Dying. It’s not just that they’re suffering. They’ve always suffered. But now – this war – they’re dying.”

  Rose abruptly from the table. “I’ll talk to Vel.” Turned his back
on everyone, marched out of the room.

  Hunting Vel down in his quarters. Knocking only once. Then pushing the door open, stomping into the room. “Vel. Get hold of yourself.”

  A flat voice. “I am in control.”

  Dar-agan, sitting down in one of the chairs by the now unused firebox. A long exhalation. “I honestly can’t say I would have told you. If given the choice, I probably wouldn’t have. But at this point, one thing we cannot do is lie to one another.”

  Silence for a few minutes. Then: “How long has he been here?”

  “He came just before winter turned bitter. He was badly injured. At first we had no idea who he was. We thought he was just another refugee. We couldn’t refuse him medical care.”

  “When did you find out who he was?”

  “When he was healed.”

  “You didn’t suspect?”

  “I suspected.”

  Vel, looking away. Silence in the room like heavy stones. But. The one item of strength, blunt honesty … holding firm. When Vel finally turned back to Cha-ning: “You have given comfort to my worst enemy. The man responsible for the death of my sons.”

  A sigh from Dar-agan. A sigh that held most of the sorrows imaginable to humans. A sigh born of battlefields. A sigh that was Death’s firstborn child.

  “Listen to me, Vel. I understand your loathing of Gwildan. Just between us two, I can’t stand him either. He’s a madman, if you ask me. His only love is discord and trouble. He’s done plenty of damage here, too. And yes, I know it’s different for me. I haven’t lost any children in his war – your war. But he’s not the only one responsible for the death of your sons.”

  Vel, enraged. “Is that so, Cha-ning? Tell me then, in your wisdom. Who then is responsible for the death of my children?!”

  Dar-agan, pausing to let him calm down. But only for a moment. “War is responsible for the death of your beloved children! All your beautiful hopes, ashes. Because of their upbringing. They were raised for war. Like my own sons. That’s how we do it. We raise them to fight. Do we honestly believe they can fight and never die?”

  Vel: sitting up straight.

  Then suddenly looking away. Could not – would not – look at Dar-agan.

  Some time passing, before this tableau changed.

  Finally Vel, speaking from beneath his hands: “We raise our children to die. That’s what you think?”

  “I don’t think. I know. And then when it happens, we weep. We blame the enemy. We blame the arrow or the sword or the bullet that brought them down. We blame everyone but ourselves.”

  “I am not to blame for the death of my sons.”

  “Of course you are. Just as I’ll be to blame when the day comes that one of my sons dies on the field – or both of them. We’re both to blame, for keeping our nations in a state of perpetual war.”

  Lord Vel, keeping to his rooms for two whole days. Wanting to kill Cha-ning with his bare hands. But unable to deny his words. Sequestering himself, to allow the storm inside his gut to spend its rage.

  While Gwildan soothed his tender pride by keeping the great hall a lively place. Talking … through mealtimes and in between … about the southern war. This time, even Dar-agan, unable to stop him. To get him to tone down his agitating. Even when he still, out of courtesy – out of respect? Fear? – sat at Dar-agan’s table for meals … talked of nothing but the southern war.

  People of the North, coming to Ania-te’s call. I have lost …

  Gwildan, not a clue that he himself was not the call to battle. Of course, believing it was his doing. That it was his charisma that called others to his fight. That it was his just cause that moved their hearts.

  When in truth, it was just love. Love that was turning to hate, that got people out of their chairs.

  Gwildan, now petitioning openly for a convoy with weapons to make a secret crossing. Dar-agan, wanting to send him to every noxious hell in the universe, but unable to be heard. Too many others, crowding around the table, agitating for exactly what Gwildan asked for – now demanded.

  Arm the southern peasants.

  While the South’s chief representative stewed and fumed upstairs.

  Dar-agan, later; to Ilia-te: “This is driving me insane. I’m caught between two gantha’s pulling in opposite directions. Both of them crazy.”

  “You really believe the peasants’ cause is insane?”

  “No, the effort of people to free themselves from tyranny is never insane. At least, at a distance. But up close, when you’re forced to take part in a war that isn’t yours, and you know whatever you decide will result in more and more deaths … ”

  “Is it that this war is none of our business, or that it’s inconvenient?”

  “What?”

  “We’re trying to negotiate a marriage contract. We want above all, Nayan’s happiness. But we want more than that; admit it. We want an alliance.”

  “With Vel? You’re out of your mind.”

  “I’m not, and you know it. You want it as much as I.”

  A heavy sigh. “Okay okay; you’re right. Which is what I hate about you, just so you know. But an alliance… it’s impossible.”

  “Is it, my love? Is it really? Lord Vel is a powerful leader. Of a rather fragmented culture. They let him lead because no one else wants the job.”

  “Darleigh’s a powerful man.”

  “Second to Vel. Maybe a distant second. He’ll follow where Vel leads.”

  “What are you scheming this time?”

  “What would happen, if you got Vel to see things our way?’

  “I take it back about your being right. You’re crazy.”

  “Maybe not. Look, Vel is very vulnerable right now. So vulnerable he walked out on his home – and his war. Just put away his weapons, walked out the door, took a train to Sauran City to get drunk for who knows how long. Not the actions of a man still committed to his professed way of life. More like the actions of a man with doubts.”

  “He’s lost two children.”

  “And found another, supposedly lost. His favorite, no less. One for whom he will do just about anything.”

  “He drives a hard bargain.”

  “With you. With her, not so much.”

  So, Zoren-te: taking her father on.

  Padding into his rooms, inhaling his rage. Letting his desperation wash over her. Waiting for him.

  Knew that he knew she was there.

  Finally turned to look at her. His face, melting.

  “Papa. This awful man, Gwildan. I’ve been watching him in the great hall. We’ve talked, he and I. He’s very tough. But now I see he’s a madman as well. He’s no different than the lords he despises.”

  “How so?”

  “Papa, listen to me. He’s in love with war. He’s in it not just for revenge, but for the adventure. He’s probably never felt so free. Now he can enjoy the thrill of bullying the people that bullied him. It doesn’t matter to him how many people die for his adventure.”

  Vel, studying his wild, brilliant daughter. “I thought you were all for freeing the peasants.”

  “I am. But not like this.”

  Vel, rising. Going over to the great window that looked out over the meadow. Just looking. Over toward Cha-ning Forest. After a few moments: “That wood over there, that’s where you have your munitions factory, yes?”

  “It’s in an old ruin. The remains of a mansion, they said. Before anyone could remember. Now it’s all overgrown, and there are lions. We thought it would be a good place … to hide.”

  “I suppose you’re right. What did you do about the lions?”

  “A group kept watch. Drove them off with whips, if necessary.”

  “Whips? Why don’t they shoot them?”

  “They regard them as a provincial treasure.”

  Vel, a soft laugh. Shaking his head. “Northerners.” After a few minutes, turned from the window. Faced her. “Why did you do it, Zoren?”

  “Do what?”

  “You
say you don’t like war, but here you are, making weapons for your enemies. Arming them to the teeth.”

  Zoren, crossing over to him. “That’s the point, Papa. Don’t you see? The North was in danger. From you. From the South. For some reason, they had never thought to develop the gunpowder weapons they already had. Maybe they thought you’d never really do it.”

  “Arrogant idiots.”

  “I’m not so sure. They feel … impregnable here. Especially in winter. Still … they were happy enough when I showed them how to make rifles.”

  “So they could make war on us.”

  “So no one could make war on each other. So we could wave our weapons at each other, but not use them. Maybe have the sense … ”

  “But war … is our way.”

  Entirely possible that Vel meant no offense in this statement. That he was merely echoing his own upbringing, and generations back. That he was just telling the truth, as he saw it.

  But Zoren-te, taking offense nonetheless.

  “No, Papa! War is old fashioned, and wrong. It’s wrong! That’s Gwildan’s belief, don’t you see? There has to be a better way. There has to be.”

  A head shake; a sidelong smile. “What do you suggest?”

  “Let me marry Nayan. Set it up as an alliance, between North and South.”

  “My fellow lords will never agree to it.”

  “You can make them agree. They listen to you.”

  “And what about this miserable Gwildan? How do you plan to put a stop to him?”

  “Talk to him. Don’t’ give him the weapons he’s looking for. Send him home empty handed, so he will look a little less glorious to his people. If all else fails, kill him.”

  Of course, no one changes overnight.

  But Zoren-te, knowing her father. Understanding the part of him that had known, long before she was born, that change is the ultimate commandment. Who had been reluctant to have her peasant lover killed. Who detested her old fashioned mother and her old fashioned ideas. Who had known all along, the inevitability of all that had come upon them. Who was jolted, but not surprised.

  Was the lion of Vel becoming, in his middle age, a little bored with war? A little sick of death?