by Jane Baskin
Would I?
Nayan and Zoren-te, slumped in their seats. A tiny spot of drool at the corner of Nayan’s mouth. His brow, furrowed. She, her head lolling alarmingly. Passengers, noticing.
Che. Listen to us. Come to us. Che. Sound the alarm, Che. Danger. Danger, Che! You’re all in danger.
There! Do you see?
Of course I see.
He’s desperate.
But so powerful!
We have always surmised that emotion – when guided – increases the gene’s power.
Maybe … and I can barely believe I’m saying this … we have to help.
Oh don’t be so prissy. I’ve told you over and over … this is no ordinary observation. I understand. If his family is killed, the seed may die with it.
Yes. But (weakly) it’s seeded … in many places.
Yes, but all seeds need to sprout. He’s the agent, so to speak.
(Smile) If you say so. I’ll help, then. Tell the others.
A trainmaster, called to look at the peculiar couple that appeared to have lost consciousness, in the first class car. Trying to get their attention. Calling to them. Finally shaking Nayan. Harder and harder, until he woke up.
But not before: Che! Listen to us! All gods, Che! Answer!
And then, unbelievably. Could not be, but was.
Che, returning: Nayan? What?
Finally, the battle: over.
A few moans or cries here or there, as soldiers armed with pistols mopped up the dead, killed the dying. Vel, just watching. Wondering idly: what are we going to do with all the corpses?What an ungodly mess. I’ve seen many battles, but this …
After dark, flames rising higher than the trees. Sparks threatening to set alight anything that hadn’t yet burned. The stench of burning flesh rising on air currents, flowing outward for miles. Making people gag in their beds in neighboring provinces.
I guess that’s one way to do it.
Burn the evidence. Pray for rain. Pray to whatever gods will dare show their heads after such carnage, that all the heavens will wash away this memory.
The night, taking its time. Vel, not sleeping at all. Not pacing either. Just sitting in his comfortable chair before the cold fireplace. As if he were made of stone.
Exactly where Darleigh found him, the next mid-morning. Barely looked up, when Darleigh strode into the room.
“Have you had breakfast, Vel?”
Seemed to shock him awake. Vel: “Huh?”
“I asked if you had had breakfast.”
“Uh … no. No, I don’t believe I have.”
“Well come down, then. I believe they’re still serving.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Come, Vel. We need to talk.”
A sigh. Out of his chair. Okay. Knowing. Did I think this day would never come? Men like me don’t die in their beds.
In the luxurious dining hall: there. See them. His wife, his two daughters. Looking – what? Frightened. Vel, looking at them as if trying to recognize them. Then wheeling on Darleigh. “Where’s Zoren-te?!”
Darleigh: “We don’t know. Do you?”
Something flooding through Vel, then. A great river of relief. Huh? Knowing suddenly, as surely as he knew he was standing in the room: this danger is not for Zoren-te. Like a bolt of bright light inside his head. A soft smile. Yes, mercy comes. I don’t deserve it, but thank you, gods.
Darleigh: “We can’t find her or the young northern lord. I don’t suppose you’d know where they’ve gone?”
“I didn’t know they went anywhere.” Turned to face Darleigh, eye to eye. “But I’m glad they aren’t here.”
“Is that so, Vel? And why is that?”
His voice, a growl, now. “Because – you murderous bastard – I know why you’ve brought my family here. And it gives me more pleasure in this moment, than you will ever know in your entire life, that you will miss Zoren-te.”
Vel, leaning slightly forward when he spoke. Into Darleigh’s space. Causing the other lord to take a step back. This important action: drowned out by the screams and cries of the Lady of Vel and her daughters.
The two men: just staring one another down. Darleigh, of course, losing such a contest. The stare of the lion of Vel: impossible to counter.
While the women wept and pounded the table.
And armed soldiers moved into the room like ghosts.
Vel: “This is how you’ll do it, then? Like the coward you are? Round us up like barn animals and slaughter us?”
“You slaughtered Sansea! And attacked my keep!”
“I did none of those things.”
“You were the cause.”
“No, Darleigh, you were the cause.”
Darleigh, spitting, turning away. Fury, even in the set of his back. “You neglected to mention that Gwildan was nursed to health in the North, and you kept company with him! You neglected to confirm that he was still alive, and had returned to the South. Had you told us, we might have prepared. But no … you got us to lower our guard. Lower it! While the beast returned to the wood, unchained!”
“I had no idea where Gwildan was. And I did not keep company with him. I refused to be anywhere near him. I knew nothing of his presence until a few days before I returned home. As a matter of fact, the day I saw him, I rose from my seat at table and tried to kill him. I would have succeeded, if not hauled back by Cha-ning and his people.”
“Why didn’t you tell us?”
Suddenly a sigh from Vel. A great out-letting of breath, leaving him standing but just a little bit slumped. “I honestly don’t know, Darleigh. They sent him home without arms, without help of any kind. I thought he might return in disgrace. Or perhaps I just hoped it.”
“You hoped? You hoped?”
“I did. I hoped that Gwildan might die crossing the equator on gantha-back in summer.” Vel, a light laugh. “I actually thought … he would.”
“You crossed the equator on gantha-back yourself, you old fool.”
“On roads, Darleigh. On roads. In a train, for pity’s sake. With water stops and shade structures for rest. In the air conditioned car. With servants cooling our animals with water and burleigh fans. Gwildan had to go through the jungle. I knew that. I prayed it would take him. I thought it would. No one survives the summer jungle.”
Darleigh, whirling away from Vel. Running a hand over his eyes. Keeping his back to him. Knowing how much sense the story made. Knowing how true it was. Knowing – even – he would have thought the same.
But committed to his course. All the planning, the secrecy; all the hard work. He could finally eliminate his only real rival, and blame it on the nearby peasant army. Such an opportunity … would never present again, he knew.
Che, running for the lords’ rooms. Entering, breathless. “Dar-agan! Ilia-te!
The lord and lady, rousing themselves from a summer afternoon nap. Stumbling into the room at the sound of urgency. Dar-agan: “What – what is it, Che?”
“We have to sound the alarm! There’s a force of southern soldiers on their way to attack Cha-ning!”
Ilia-te: “Shh. Calm down, Che. There. Tell me. How do you know this?”
“Nayan told me.”
“But Nayan’s away, at Vel.”
“He’s on his way home, with Zoren-te. Everything’s gone to all hells.”
“On his way – Che, how did you get word from Nayan if he’s on his way home?”
Sudeenly Che, looking at the floor. No words coming.
Dar-agan: “Spit it out, boy. Did he send a line message?”
“No.” Immediately, cursing himself. Should have lied. Should have!
“What, then?”
Ilia-te: “You can tell us, Che.”
Finally looking up at them. Meeting their eyes. “He … he thought it to me.”
Silence.
Then Dar-agan: “I beg your pardon?”
“Nayan and I – we sometimes exchange thoughts. When one or both of us is in high temper about somet
hing. He’s panicked.”
More silence. This one, lasting a while. Just silence, fraught.
Suddenly cracked open by Ilia-te’s trilling laugh. Like a flock of little birds had just flown through the open window. “Che! How ridiculous!”
All that followed, a strange tableau. Dar-agan, leaning forward, with a look of incomprehension on his face that held every moment of density known to humans. Che, desperately trying to convince. And Ilia-te, laughing on, bordering on hysteria. Not thinking about Nayan raising an ale mug with his mind. Not thinking about her own relatives and their secret “gifts.” Not thinking about her own sister, telling her secrets – with her mind – when they were small.
Not thinking about her lineage. Not thinking about the possibility that what most people thought of as magic … might be, especially at moments of intensity, as real as the stone floor upon which she stood.
Darleigh, struggling mightily to evict truth from his mind. Few people survived the jungle at any time of year, much less summer. The equatorial summer: known to claim nearly every life audacious – or desperate – enough to try its patience. Gwildan’s survival: almost miraculous.
Still. “Vel, you should have told us.”
“Yes, Darleigh. I probably should have.”
Silence for a while. Even the women, shushing their wailing. Waiting. For what? The storm in Darleigh’s soul to subside? The murder in his heart? For Darleigh to return the rightful leadership of the keep to Vel? To see himself as the usurper he was?
To simply back down?
But such a thing: hard for a southern lord. Most likely, impossible.
Especially for a jealous lord, seeing the opportunity he had always longed for, that he knew would never come again.
Darleigh, whirling back to face Vel. Vel, having plenty of time to dodge the blow. But stood straight, his hands at his sides. Even, a light smile. “When is it enough, Darleigh?”
“Now.” Darleigh, summoning courage he barely had. Moving in on the lion of Vel. The long knife in his hand. Plunging it into Vel’s stomach, raising it through flesh to his heart. Pushing it home.
Vel, standing still for just a moment. Long enough for that awful stare to pierce Darleigh’s eyes. To imprint itself on his soul so deeply that it would be, when the time came, the last thing Darleigh ever saw or remembered of this life.
As Vel slumped to the floor, shrieks from his wife and daughters.
Quickly cut short by the rifles of the soldiers in the room.
The House of Vel, wiped out that day. The two small children sired by his married sons: also murdered, along with their mothers.
Vel’s head on a pike, next to that of Gwildan.
Some people swearing that the eyes continued their terrible stare so long that even the murderer himself wanted the head taken down. And burned, so the eyes could see no more.
At Cha-ning, a surprise attack. Exactly as Che had predicted.
A long freight train, having come to the end of the line hours before. A long off loading. Of ganthas, and riders. Armed riders.
Armed foot soldiers, debarking from the few passenger cars.
The whole train, in fact, having been commandeered by lords of the South.
Not a big army, this. But big enough. Big enough to slaughter the few surprised onlookers in the village, and make for the castle itself. Big enough to thunder out of the summer meadow, over the wooden bridge into the courtyard.
Big enough so that inside, surprising the villagers at lunch, they were able to shoot most of the diners.
Survivors, escaping to their rooms. Sounding the alarm to others. People in the line message center, bolting the doors, sending desperate messages.
Ania-te, surprised in the kitchen by soldiers. Picking up – with her mind – a huge pot of boiling water, throwing it into their faces. Slicing their necks as they writhed on the floor … until the kitchens were quiet again.
Che and Colwen, along with other young men and women: already armed. Met the invaders in force.
But not enough of them.
Still. Northerners.
Resourceful, mad dog fighters. Anyone who can survive a northern winter: ferocious on the field. And … accustomed to the South’s predation. Arms in every room. Rifles in every closet.
Soon the hallways, running red.
And the villagers: knowing the castle intimately. Southern soldiers: not prepared for the manner in which the castle had been chopped and divided. Where they expected wide corridors: encountering sudden stops, turns. An apartment in the middle of a hall. At the end. On the side. All of them belching fighters. Young and old, male and female.
Maybe a tougher fight than they expected.
But their orders: find the Lords.
Soldiers, sneaking around every corner. Peering into every crevice, behind every curtain. Knowing the visage of the bear of Cha-ning. Everyone on the planet, knowing the visage of the bear of Cha-ning. Searching. Every soldier who fell, replaced by another who searched.
Dar-agan and Ilia-te, retreating to the castle roof. Where they positioned their elegant long rifles – specially designed for accuracy by Zoren-te – in wall notches, taking careful aim. Where the two of them together brought down so many mounted soldiers that the wooden bridge became impassable.
The two of them, exchanging a wink and a hug. Dar-agan: “Nice work, my love. Now let’s get downstairs.”
He and Ilia-te, heading down the attic stairs. Emerging into a corridor clear of invaders. Good. Weaving their way through a friend’s apartment, out the back way to some narrow stairs. Just after a soldier passed by the apartment door.
Meeting another raider at the bottom of the stair. This man: looking up, recognizing the Lord of Cha-ning immediately. Bringing up a sidearm.
Ilia-te: “Stop!” Her shrill call, echoing in the staircase. Bouncing off the stone tunnel walls like a shriek from all the hells. Startling both her husband and the invading soldier. Buying her just enough time to position her rifle on her mate’s shoulder, then bring the soldier down with a shot to the head.
Did I make that echo? Forget forget forget
Dar-agan: “Nice shot.”
“Thanks.” (already forgotten)
Down and out the staircase door. Across a small workroom. To another stair. This stair: very old. Worn and slippery. Dar-agan, falling near the bottom. Sliding out the stairway into the library annex where a group of invaders was assembled. Knocking the first shocked soldier into a table that slid across the room; knocked down three more. Ilia-te, firing a barrage into the group. Dar-agan, quick to get on his feet, firing on anyone left.
Another grin, a hug. “We’re pretty good, my love.”
“So we are.” Wink.
Underneath this banter: Dar-agan’s rage. In my house? MY house?
Not in my house, bastards.
Finally into the great hall … just in time to mourn the dead. Now stopping in their tracks. Ilia-te: a small cry escaping her. Strewn over the floor, the tables: her friends and neighbors. And there. Look. Ania-te, emerging from the kitchen carrying a rifle and a carving knife covered in blood. Her jaw, set. Walking as if she were dead on her feet. Blinking when she saw them, as if trying to determine whether or not they were real.
“Thank all the gods. You’re alive. Have you seen my sons? My husband?”
Ilia-te: “No. But I’m sure they’re fine. They know how to fight.”
Ania-te, suddenly raising the rifle, firing at a lone southern soldier stumbling into the room. Missing the shot. Dar-agan, whirling and shooting the man in the chest. He, already wounded. Down, quick.
Dar-agan: moving toward the front vestibule. Seeing at once: the courtyard. Pandemonium. Southern soldiers and northern defenders: about evenly matched. Oh, there. So many dead. Who?
Many fighters, out of ammunition for firearms. Gone to swords and knives. One man, swinging a huge chain. Southern heads bursting like berries before him.
Dar-agan: “Ilia. I have to go out t
here.”
“Don’t. You’re the one they’re looking for.”
“How do you know that?”
“I just do.” Of course. Not laughing any more. Hysterically or otherwise. Knowing. Unable to stop it. All gods, let me forget …
Ania-te: “She may be right, Dar-agan. One of the raiders told me – before I slit his throat – he asked me where you’d be hiding.”
“Hiding? Me?”
“Damn your silly pride, Dar-agan! What’s going on here? It’s not gell season. It’s not raiding season. This is all wrong.”
Ilia-te, a sudden bottoming out of her stomach. As if it had fallen into her knees. The knees, starting to tremble. Again, knowing. “Gods alive. This is personal.”
Find the Lords.
Darleigh’s orders. Find the bastards who gave comfort to our worst enemy. Who made sure Gwildan lived to kill more of us in the South. Bring them to me. Bring them alive.
Dar-agan: “What are you saying, Ania?”
No time to answer. Half a dozen southern elites, now entering the hall. Led by an officer. The moment he registered who he was seeing … oh. Slowing right down. Approaching now … at a walk. A slow walk. Like he was the new lord of the keep. A wicked smile forming on his face. “My Lord.” The traditional bow from the neck. Exaggerated. A travesty of respect.
Ania-te, a swift storm erupting in her stomach. A demon’s voice in her head. Bring him down. Bring the bastard down. Knew she could do it. Like the pot of boiling water. But that was just a reflex. I had no time to think about it. If I had … Like the heated ale … like the time she – and that other time –
But no. You’re not supposed to. Your mother died for it. You almost followed her. They knew. They knew. Witchcraft, you old biddy.
And that other voice. Oh. That one. The one that had guided her all her life. That made her worry frantically for her older son. That made her choose helplessness over strength, no matter the rage. The voice that told her, beyond all doubt: No one should have such power.
So she stood. Like she had turned to stone. Watched it come. Like some weird kind of slow motion. Like time decided to retard itself. Watched Death tiptoe across the room, come up to her, kiss her on the mouth.