The Day's Wake

by Erik A Otto

  There was a sinking feeling in Baldric’s chest.

  “I withheld the information, even though they…did things to me.” Darian felt at his crotch again, the way he did sometimes.

  This was bad. Granth was arriving tomorrow and the monks the day after. They would interrogate everyone, the relationship between Darian and Sebastian would be exposed, and Darian would be caught in the lie. Darian would be reprimanded, court-martialed, or worse for withholding information about a Marked Man.

  Darian continued speaking while Baldric’s heart continued to sink, “I want to turn myself in, first thing tomorrow morning.” Then his voice changed to one more calming and authoritarian. He seemed to be emulating Baldric. “For the good of the house,” he said.

  Did he finally realize he needed to do the honorable thing? The impact of what he was saying was so significant that it made Baldric feel light-headed. But if Darian turned himself in, what would happen to him? What would become of his brother?

  Baldric was the eldest and, as such, had a responsibility. He couldn’t show any sentimentality, especially right now. No, he needed to reinforce the appropriate behavior for the good of the family. “I think that’s best, Darian. That’s the honorable thing to do. I…I will go with you first thing.”

  Darian nodded to Baldric without emotion, then stood up and left the tent as if it had been just another casual conversation.

  The repercussions of the calamitous development washed over Baldric. The Bronté name would be tarnished, but at least Darian would limit the damage by turning himself in. Maybe this was for the best. Maybe Darian would end up in a menial job that he enjoyed after being discharged. Darian wasn’t cut out for being in the league, that’s for sure. And Baldric certainly wouldn’t be able to mold him in his father’s image, not after this. Father would excuse Baldric once he explained it all to him.

  All of this swirled in his mind, but other thoughts splintered his rationale. Thoughts of what Granth might do to Darian assailed him, as well as shock at Darian’s sacrifice for the family.

  Then Baldric did something he hadn’t done in a long time—years in fact.

  He cried. He didn’t quite understand why, at first. Yet the tears flowed, and wouldn’t stop.

  Eventually his mind caught up with his emotion, and he began to understand.

  Darian had always been in thrall to his disorder, but Baldric had held out hope that he would find his passion, his place in the world, just like Radley had done. He hoped there was some way Darian would find a way to make the family proud. Now that day would never come. Discharge from the league was the best-case scenario. In fact, Darian might never recover. His delicate mind would be overwhelmed by the psychological trauma of it all. And Baldric dared not envision other possibilities, other outcomes he knew Granth might have in mind for such a transgression.

  Baldric cocooned himself in his military-grade sheets to shield the world from his tears. He cried because although Darian was doing the honorable thing, Baldric knew that whoever Darian was, or whoever Darian aspired to be, would be forever lost in the aftermath of the meeting with Granth in the morning.

  Darian woke Baldric early, well before dawn, strangely eager to get on with it. He insisted on confronting the general in the prison tent, knowing that Granth would be there to inspect the prisoners. There would be less prying eyes than the command tent, so Baldric didn’t object.

  In the prison tent were two skinny young jailors. Baldric couldn’t remember their names, probably because they were always on night duty. One of them was more than relieved to have Darian and Baldric join them so he could return to his tent and resume his slumber.

  Two Fringe—a lanky man with bushy eyebrows and a spiky-haired girl—were in the corner speaking whispers with the Truthseeker, and two other cells were occupied with what looked like more Fringe; a dark-eyed man with a bandaged leg and a stiff-backed woman. Those two looked at Baldric and Darian probingly.

  They pulled up chairs to the jailor’s desk and waited for Granth to arrive. Darian seemed remarkably calm for what he was about to do. No whispers of mimicry escaped his lips. Baldric, on the other hand, didn’t feel calm at all, not after the last time he had witnessed Granth’s hostility. He rehearsed what he would say to Granth under his breath.

  The jailor raised an eyebrow at Baldric. He must sound like Darian, whispering to himself. He stopped rehearsing.

  The Fringe woman spoke, addressing Baldric. “Sir, I plead with you, I’m a princess in Pomeria, and I have been unjustly taken. If you would hear—”

  The skinny jailor ran over and batted at the bars with a staff, forcing her to step back. “I said no more talking, Traitor. Shut it, or I’ll shut it for you.”

  After that there was silence. Suspicious glances were cast between the captives, visitors, and jailor. The air seemed thick with a sort of quiet desperation.

  Vanaden Granth arrived.

  He came in with his girlish hair bouncing in step, and a young squire in tow. Heads turned to see his blue-green eyes flash about, assessing the scene. His gaze latched on to Sebastian, and he smiled. “Ah, the Truthseeker! I’ve been searching long and hard for you. I had to show remarkable restraint to wait until maneuvers were over before coming to see you. I’m finally here so don’t let me down.”

  Sebastian stood up and said, “I’m not here to perform for you. I’m under arrest, against my will. And since I’m under arrest by your hand, then you must be my steward; you must judge me with Matteo as your guide. Please be sure to not let Matteo down.”

  Granth seemed pleased, smiling. “Excellent. That’s what I mean. You have the right man, I think.” Granth nodded to the jailor, Baldric, and Darian. He didn’t seem to recognize Darian.

  Granth’s attention moved to the woman in the middle cell. He looked her up and down with a smirk on his face. She stood up and stuck her chin out.

  “And on top of the Truthseeker, I get the Pomerian princess! It seems like such a long time since our little dinner together, doesn’t it, Traitor?” And he spat in her face.

  The Traitor seemed unfazed by the drool dripping off her nose. “I seem to attract spittle from all sorts of colorful men,” she said, “but I must say I didn’t expect it from a nobleman of the Granth family. Shouldn’t we parlay to discuss these misunderstood events before I am so judged, or are you resigned to forever sully your name?”

  He paused, nodding his head thoughtfully, then laughed. “Ha. No, Princess. I don’t think so. Once you’re Marked, that’s it. Judgment is cast. No weaseling out of this one, Traitor.”

  Granth seemed happy. Perhaps this was a good time to interject. Baldric cleared his throat. “Ah hem…sir?”

  Granth stayed in front of the cells but looked over at him. “What is it, jailor?”

  “Sir, apologies, but I’m not a jailor. I’m Private First Class Baldric Bronté of the Thelonian army, and I…we have come to you on a solemn matter.”

  Granth walked closer. His blue-green eyes bored into Baldric, unsettling his speech. “This is my brother, Darian, sir, and he has…come to you to express forgiveness for his actions. He knew more about the Marked Man Sebastian Harvellian before the Day, but didn’t speak of it then. His actions are inexcusable, sir, and he asks for forgiveness.”

  Vanaden frowned and looked at Darian for a moment. Eventually his eyes lit up. “Yes, it is you. I remember now. I can’t believe it. The brainsick one, right?” He looked at Baldric for confirmation. Baldric nodded slowly, internally nauseated at the label cast on his brother.

  Granth continued, “Well, D-D-D-Darian, how does it feel to come clean? I’m not sure how you had the balls to do this.” Then Vanaden laughed uproariously. He doubled over during the outburst and wiped the tears from his eyes. All the while Darian looked strangely placid. His chest was out, like it was when he emulated Reniger. He said nothing, his mouth maintaining a firm straight line.

  Vanaden seemed displeased with the lack of reaction. He grabbed at Darian’s g
roin area. “How does it feel, Bronté? Do you get girlish thoughts? Do you have trouble peeing? I’ve seen the Porcupine at work many times, and I know you weren’t one of the lucky ones.”

  A rush of confusion washed over Baldric. The Porcupine?

  Was this why he held his groin? Was this why he limped? Baldric couldn’t help himself from gawking in horror.

  Darian was unmoved by Vanaden’s hand on his groin. “Not all of us are tools,” he said. He spoke confidently, in Reniger’s voice.

  A subtle flicker of anger showed on Vanaden’s face.

  And that was it. That’s when it happened.

  Baldric remembered that flicker of emotion on Granth’s face long after that day, because everything changed then. Darian changed, Baldric changed, the world changed. Everything.

  In hindsight he should have seen it coming, but he was set aback by the realization that Darian, that one of his brothers, had been so perversely mutilated. This preoccupied his faculties, and his reaction time was dulled. And yes, maybe this moment was in the making long before that flicker of emotion on Granth’s face. He should have listened to Darian instead of lecturing him. He should have suspected something when Darian had agreed to give up. Darian was tortured and strange, yes, but he wasn’t stupid.

  And so it made some sense, in hindsight.

  In one sweeping motion, Darian unsheathed his sword and cut fiercely upward with his backhand. A massive gash opened across Vanaden’s face, bisecting both lips and his right cheek. Vanaden went to grab at his face as Darian kicked him back and slashed even harder with his forehand, this time cutting a thick ravine into his side. Vanaden screamed inhumanly and fell to his knees before Darian removed the sword and thrust it deep into his chest in a final blow, arresting his cry as his lungs deflated.

  The skewered body toppled to the floor.

  All eyes watched in astonishment. Everyone was frozen in shock by the audacious move.

  Baldric finally reacted. He knocked the sword out of Darian’s hand and secured his arms from behind his back.

  “Go and get help!” he said to the general’s squire. “And you! Help me restrain him,” he said to the jailor. The jailor jumped to his side and held one of Darian’s arms.

  The sentry entered the tent. “Guard, you go with the squire,” Baldric said. “Get a medic. Get help!” The sentry and the squire left the tent together while the jailor assisted Baldric with Darian.

  “He is mad,” the jailor said in astonishment as they manhandled Darian.

  “Let’s put him in a cell. Put him in with the woman,” Baldric said. The jailor promptly unlocked the door, and they threw Darian in the cell.

  Then Baldric sat on a chair at the jailor’s desk and held his head, trying to make sense of the situation. He cast an unbelieving glance at the general’s corpse.

  Soon a few men came back and tended to the general’s body. They yelled out urgent commands about how to hold Granth, and how to check his breathing. They pounded on his chest. He was long dead, though. There was no hope for him.

  Despite this hopelessness, they did their job. They put the ruined body on a stretcher and left the tent. The sentry escorted them and yelled back to Baldric, “Everything under control here?”

  “Yes,” said Baldric reflexively, even though he wasn’t so sure.

  The sentry nodded and departed.

  Still holding his head in his hands, Baldric looked around. The room was quiet. The two free Fringe in the corner were crouching down, watching the whole ordeal in silence, surely wishing they’d chosen another time to visit the prison tent. All the prisoners were also quiet, and even the jailor was like a statue. The eyes of all these people stared at him. He was the one in charge, they must think, since he had apprehended Darian. Plus he had rank.

  But it wasn’t their eyes that bothered him; it was Darian’s. He knew those eyes were staring at him as well, but he couldn’t face them. He heard his brother speak. “If you intend to leave me here, please kill me,” Darian said.

  The words fell on him like a hammer. Baldric could understand the request, knowing what he’d gone through. Tears formed in his eyes despite his attempt to hold them back. He kept his hands on his head, rubbed them over his face, then covered his eyes. Shutting out all the others, and especially Darian, he tried to again grapple with what had just happened.

  “Ha, maybe we should. I mean, he deserves it, right?” the jailor said.

  Everything was unraveling. The Bronté name wasn’t just slighted; it was covered in feces. And would they blame Baldric as well? Would they name him an accomplice? “Why, Darian? Why did you do this?” Baldric asked the ground in front of him through his hands.

  It was rhetorical, but Darian answered it anyway. And when the answer came, it wasn’t what he’d expected. It could have been sheer hatred for using the Porcupine. It could have been the fact that Granth was such an animal. Those were the simple, rational answers, but instead Darian said, “Granth has sons in bondage. He is conspiring with the Cenarans to destroy us all.”

  More about the Cenarans? It only added another layer of confusion.

  Then, of all people, Clyve ran into the tent. He was probably the person Baldric wanted to see least in the world. “Is it true, then?” Clyve said, stopping to survey the scene.

  Baldric let the bloody scene explain itself. But then, how had Clyve gotten here so fast? He should have been halfway across camp.

  Clyve appeared gleeful at first, then he had an insidious look. “Baldric, we can’t let them take Darian.”

  The jailor awoke from his reverie to glance worriedly between Clyve and Baldric. “You’re kidding, right?” he asked nervously.

  Baldric immediately tried to reassure the jailor. “Yes, I’m sure he is. An ill-conceived quip. Come now, Clyve. Darian has murdered the general in cold blood. This is no time for jokes.”

  Clyve said, “This whole thing is a bone chucker’s breakfast, for sure, but am I joking? You have to know what the scout said is true. I would even trust this crazy Truthseeker above our so-called general. Darian explained everything to me last night. The Cenarans are coming, and we need to prepare ourselves. The general was a traitor, diverting resources away from the real attacks to come. He deserved to die. You must see this, Baldric.”

  Baldric noticed the jailor was holding on to the pommel of his sword nervously. One thing was for sure: he needed to defuse the situation quickly. He stood up and addressed Clyve forcefully. “You need to calm down, Clyve, and be careful what you’re saying.”

  Baldric then rubbed his head even harder, hoping it would somehow usher out more clarity of thought.

  Clyve had expressed his reservations about the general before, but Baldric had tried to deflect his concerns. Certainly there was something wrong with his strategy. Moving away from Ghopal was highly questionable, as was killing of the scout and children. And after knowing what he’d done to Darian…but that didn’t make murdering a superior officer in any way acceptable. It didn’t make mutiny acceptable. Didn’t Clyve know that it could be perceived as treason just to suggest it?

  Clyve seemed oblivious. He continued to pace the tent as the jailor fidgeted. The prisoners and Fringe watched the unfolding scene but were so inanimate as to be barely noticeable.

  Baldric could tell that Clyve was getting that look in his eye. It was the mischievous look he’d seen too many times, the worst being when they had tied Radley to the stake on the Day of Ascendancy.

  “Calm down, Clyve,” Baldric warned. “Let’s not do anything stupid, half-brother.” He rested his hand on the pommel of his sword.

  The half-brother comment didn’t work to quell his brother this time. The look on Clyve’s face didn’t dissipate; it only became more pronounced. He said, “I don’t give a rat’s ass about Father’s trust, and I can’t let another brother die on my watch. I would rather not be a Bronté at all.” It was Clyve’s turn to let his hand stray to the pommel of his sword.

  What was he thinking
? Clyve was always immature, always impetuous, but he wasn’t stupid either. How could both he and Darian think this was some sort of conspiracy? How could they believe that…mutiny was acceptable?

  And if Clyve pulled his sword, what would Baldric do? Would Baldric kill him? Or would Baldric force him into a cell as well, for him to be killed by the monks on the morrow with Darian and the rest?

  If Clyve pulled his sword, then there was no coming back. With Clyve also mutinous, even Baldric would be perceived as complicit in the general’s death. They would be shunned and shamed, all three of them. All the remaining Bronté sons would be infidels except for Myron. Their name could never be redeemed.

  While Baldric weighed the situation, Clyve’s eyes gleamed, and his fingers danced on the pommel of his sword threateningly. Baldric knew that look. He knew that he would do it. Mother used to say Clyve’s head was as hard as a hearthstone, and it was true. He was more stubborn than Darian even and more belligerent.

  Ultimately, what choice did Baldric have? His brothers might be crazed, but maybe there was a germ of virtue to their notions. Maybe they were right about the general, and maybe Darian was even right about the priest. In the end, what mattered most was one thing: he couldn’t bear to lose two more brothers. Not if he could stop it. Not after what had happened to Radley.

  Baldric sighed, slowly turned on the jailor and drew his sword. “Sorry, Father,” he said.

  Clyve understood immediately. He unsheathed as well and turned to the jailor. Meanwhile, the jailor scrambled toward the tent flap in fear.

  He never managed to make it.

  Chapter 26

  The Jailor

  The Thelonian brothers who freed Zahir and Hella rounded up horses before they left the camp. They were mostly old Fringe horses the army had acquired for labor and pulling carts, as the military breeds weren’t accessible nearby. The whole lot of them then darted through the forest on horseback. Much of the vegetation in this part of the forest was yellowish and dying, as if some blight had taken hold. As a result their path was relatively unimpeded.