by Adam Corby
‘As sure as I am of my own heart.’
‘We will see. Come.’
* * *
How it had begun, no man might have said. There had been the usual hunger, the usual misery, the usual grumbling on the grounds, but not to excess. Only their quality seemed strained this pass. Perhaps it was the thought of the entertainments given on the rooftop for the delectation of the high ones, perhaps it was the influence of Him in whose honor this pass was named. But all at once a woman whose child had perished of the fever two weeks earlier rose and cried in a fearsome wail, ‘Is it a feast-pass, and is there to be no more food for us?’
And from all quarters a hundred arose and began striding toward the Palace, perhaps with no other intention than of begging for more bread. But five hundred more rose on their heels, and then the whole encampment was afoot. And they went not humbly, but with a growing rage. For were they not the last survivors of the City Over the World, so how was it they must suffer and perish in filth worse than any barbarian’s?
They swarmed past the gateways and filled the inner courtyards. They lifted their faces against the rain, to the balconies and windows behind which the rich and noble dwelt in comfort. And then they came upon the broad stone steps leading to the ancient colonnade and the doorless entrance to the Imperial Hall of Justice.
The foremost halted.
Then they surged forward again.
The steps vanished beneath them. The low roof of the colonnade echoed to their passing. Thousands of them filled the hollow of the gloomy, ancient Hall; thousands more milled and thronged without.
But the guardsmen had not stood idle. They saw the movement of the Tarendahardilites and told Ullerath. The Eglandic lieutenant called the men off duty and marched them to meet the mob. Seeing them by the Hall of Justice, Ullerath guessed their goal, though not their purpose, and at double step led his men through another gateway and down the corridors in time to take a stand at the doors to the lower Hall before the mob broke into the Palace itself.
The Tarendahardilites, unsure in their own hearts just what they wanted, halted before the King’s Light where, throughout the centuries, Emperors had given justice to their people. Something of awe entered the inflamed hearts of the foremost of the Tarendahardilites, so that their voices stilled. Their eyes ran round the walls, set with busts of all the Emperors to Elna.
It was then that Ullerath, having dispatched one man to summon more men from the Gates and Riad to the roof for the guidance of the captains and the Queen, made a mis-step. He ordered the inner doors opened and told his men to lower their lances to cow the mob.
There were six entrances into the Hall: one through the colonnade, two portals that broke the long wall in thirds on the level of the stone-worked floor, and two other portals above, leading from the upper level of the Palace to the galleries, where of old the noblest houses had set their names and devices in brass upon the backs of long benches. There was also a small, little-known way, which led to a low, close chamber hidden behind the dais. The guardsmen stood at the ground portals; above, all was as yet obscure.
So, when of a sudden the only two doorways to be seen were opened to reveal the guards in full armor, lances ready, the Tarendahardilites felt caught in a trap. Fear rose in them, and indignation. Were those lances now trained upon them, as if they were no better than barbarians? Were they to be slaughtered for some bread?
Ullerath stood forward. The Eglander was tall and lean. His eyes cut deep beneath his upswept brow, and his pupils seemed fashioned for looking out across the immense spaces of the plains of his home. He held his lance aloft and demanded of the filthy, rain-sodden mob,
‘Why you have broken like robbers into the house of our Queen? You have come where you do not belong. Return where you belong, or I shall see that you regret it!’
He spoke harshly, for Ullerath feared for the safety of Kiva, the lady he loved in rivalry with Berowne. So he spoke without thought, and said more than he wished.
The outcome was immediate and unfortunate. The Tarendahardilites were prisoners within the Citadel. Wretchedly as unwanted hounds or stepchildren had they been treated before, when they had come as suppliants to the refuge of their sovereign; now, having offended, what lot could they hope to be accorded?
From the depths of the crowd a voice shouted, ‘Bread! Give us bread!’
They began to move forward.
Another cried, ‘Shelter for our children!’
‘Soup for our bellies!’
‘Fresh clothes for our backs!’
‘Cups that are clean!’
‘And wine!’
‘And cloaks!’
‘And winter loras!’
‘And tent-cloths to put over us!’
‘And wood to burn!’
‘Death or hard knocks is all that you’ll get if you do not give way now!’ Ullerath bellowed. He knew than he had mistaken; he saw it in the eyes of his own men.
The crowd surged forward. The foremost crowded the portals. The guardsmen gave back half a step. Their eyes went to Ullerath for some way not to kill, but Ullerath was new-come from the plains, and had never commanded men against city rioters. It was long years since the granaries had last run empty and riots broke out of the Thieves’ Quarter – not since two years before Dornan Ural had been named High Regent.
The crowd sensed the indecision of the guardsmen, and shoved forward once more.
Now they were at the very threshold of the portals, and stained with their dark grasping hands the delicate friezes round the door frames.
The guardsmen gave back again, a full step. The lances wavered and clattered against one another. Another step and the portals would be cleared.
Then suddenly the mob receded back into the Hall. They pushed back against the far wall, leaving space before the guardsmen. The mob raised their heads toward the upper reaches of the Hall.
There Allissál stood with the remnants of her court.
To her right was Berowne, to her left Haspeth. Some servants held lamps, and the oil-fed flames cast lurid crowns behind the black cowl, and gleamed like lightning off the golden mask.
Seeing the Divine One so near, the mob hushed. She waited until the moment it must break, then spoke and said,
‘So, my people, you have sought me here into the Hall of Justice, as is your right. What then do you require of me, a woman who has lost her son, her land, and her city?’
There were murmurs but no answer to her words. The refugees within the Hall seemed shamed and sullen, though the thousands out in the yard still grumbled.
Then a woman cried out from the back of the Hall.
‘Give us shelter!’
Allissál turned to Berowne and said softly, ‘Captain, go below and take counsel with your lieutenant and see how the men fare.’
‘Ay, your reverence,’ he said, giving her the military salute. The nobles in their fineries stepped forward to take his place: four stood where he had been, three charanti and one young chara whose eyes glowed darkly in the lamplight. There were dried flowers in her loosened hair and her lora was rumpled about the skirts.
The masses saw the drunken highborn, and their fury and despair awoke again. And the woman’s voice rose up, a howl as from some beast-bitch that has lost her brood to a hunter’s wiles: ‘Give us shelter!’
And a man shouted, ‘Give us food!’
And at that the cries went up from all sides of the crowd: not the cries of suppliants but of men who demand that which has long been promised them:
‘Give us wood to burn!’ – ‘Give us lamps to light our hearts!’ – ‘Give us tent-cloth!’ – ‘Give us bread without worms!’ – ‘Give us herbs to cure our children!’
The cries went on, growing in ferocity. Even the sacred person of the Queen but served further to inflame them. She had failed them. They had starved and perished while she reclined in opulence and commanded players to amuse her. In their suffering they had called upon her – she had done nothing.
The crowd surged forward. Even the Vapionil nobles paled. And still the cries went on.
‘Give us water to wash our clothing!’ – ‘Give us peace from the barbarians!’ – ‘Give us beds, linens, roofs for our children!’ – ‘Give us respite from this winter that destroys us slowly, one by one!’
‘No!’
The cry was sudden, unlooked-for: the voice thunderous and stern as dark God’s own. In its wake the mob was struck silent and fearful. They turned to seek out the source of the voice. It had come not from above but from the empty stone dais – from the King’s Light where the high throne of Elna stood massive and immovable.
A single man stood there.
He was tall, lean, garbed in a green hunting tunic and cloak. He bore no weapons, and his hair and garb were fully as rain-sodden as the rags of the Tarendahardilites.
He stood in the center of the King’s Light. The sky had lightened, and Goddess shone upon the dais, and upon the face of the Charan Ennius Kandi, as if he had been cut out of stone, one with the busts along the walls.
He pointed down at the Tarendahardilites, accusingly. The crowd fell back some paces, more fearful of that stabbing finger than they had been of the guardsmen’s lances.
‘What do you here, what do you seek?’ His voice seemed to take on the harshness and solidity of the age-old stones themselves. ‘Do you come to draw our defenders from the walls, and make it easier for the enemy to kill us all? Will you eat up what grain we have, empty the cisterns of their abundance? Have you now no greater foresight than children? “Give, give, give!” you cry – but what will you give, what have you ever given? You receive the bounty of these walls, of the lives of loyal guardsmen, of grain and water: what have any of you ever done to repay these priceless gifts?
‘By dark God, were I your ruler, I would give you all you ask and curse you to the Knife-Edged Border, and then open the Iron Gate and see how much better you enjoy slavery to the barbarians to the sanctuary of the Bordakasha! Is it for you that I go upon the lance-tower at the risk of my life? Is it for you that I have seen the black battlements run with the blood of loyal guardsmen? Is it for this I have gone among you and seen to your children, and sought out lost relatives on the far side of the camp, and seen to the peace of the quarrels that break out among you as often as squabbles between spoiled children? Is this how I receive my payment for all my pains?’
The mob bowed their heads. But he went on, relentless.
‘Well, you may have your wishes, all of them – I grant you all! Guardsmen, Captains, lay your lances on the floor. As for me, I carry no weapon. Come kill me first, and let Him for whom this pass is sacred curse and harry you to the last of your wretched lives!’
They stood amazed and fearful at his rage even more than his words. Never had they seen him thus: before them he had ever appeared kindly, humble, even loving. They had never known such strength in him. They had come to worship him as their only bulwark against the hordes of Ara-Karn. Bereft of him they should have been harmless as babes against those ravening thousands. Their hearts quailed; and as if commanded by some greater, unseen power, they went down on their knees before him, regardless that such an act was blasphemy in the presence of the Empress.
‘Well?’ he cried, more wrathful than before. ‘What play-acting is this? Come on!’
‘We cannot!’ came a woeful voice.
‘You must!’ he stormed. ‘There is no going back for you now. What a man begins this pass, he must end – is that not the saying of the Pass of God? Do you think that I would go upon the battlements to defend you, after this? How could I be sure that you would not fall back on these tricks, storming the Palace and putting to death innocent slaves and helpless nobles for a few loaves of moldy bread?’
‘We will give you oaths, we will swear it before the Couple!’ they cried.
‘What good are the vows of children? No, it must be better than that.’
An awkward silence fell athwart the Hall. Beyond the lower portals the guardsmen stood unarmed above their weapons, awed at the sight of this one man’s fury cowing the desperation of thousands. Even the drunken nobles stood rapt by the performance.
The silence grew. The Tarendahardilites glanced back out toward the grounds, but crowded thus on their knees there was no easy way they might depart. Then, reedy and thin, an old man’s voice sounded from someplace in the thick of the mass amongst the roof-pillars.
‘I will gladly be called a child, if you will be my father,’ he said humbly.
The Charan Ennius Kandi lowered his arm. He seemed to consider for several dreadful moments. Then he said, ‘If I am to be called father, then I will look for naught but blind obedience from you, no matter what I demand.’
‘You will have it!’ cried a woman.
‘I will have no grumblings, no more games like this.’
‘No, no!’
‘You will call me Father, and be obedient in all things. And in turn I will see to your needs in the way of any father for the children of his body. But hold it fast in your minds always, that this thing must be bound as by blood between us on this very pass. And God Himself shall hold this relation sacred, and woe betide any who trespass it!’
‘So be it!’ they cried, with one voice. ‘We swear it, by the Dark One!’
‘And so I swear likewise.’ His voice was more human now. Something of the greatness of his presence seemed lost, as if it had taken all his strength to cast down the will of those thousands and make of it a thing to leap and dance to his.
‘And now, Father Ennius?’ they cried out. ‘What will be our lot now? What may we hope for?’
‘You may expect a punishment for having dirtied this Hall and put the life of her majesty in danger,’ he said. ‘Return to whence you came, and sit through the fifth meal without a drop of water or a crumb of bread. This is my decision.’
Sullen silence answered him. Some hundreds of them rose up angrily and dismayed.
‘Well?’ He had turned as if to vanish again as mysteriously as he had appeared; now he turned back. ‘Why do you wait? Do you want my permission to beg forgiveness from her majesty, whose house you so rudely broke into? Very well, then: you have it.’
His voice was like a rod of bronze. Penitently then, on their knees again, the Tarendahardilites begged pardon from the woman in black above them. Silently she inclined the gold mask and blessed them with the Sign of Goddess.
‘And now,’ the man on the dais said, ‘my children, you have my leave to go.’
They pushed back out of the hall. They had accepted his punishment. There would be no further trouble this pass.
Berowne breathed a great sigh of thanksgiving. The guardsmen gathered up their arms and saluted the man who had once again proved their salvation.
Above, the many nobles also departed. Soon only the slaves, Haspeth, and the Empress remained before the benches.
‘Your majesty,’ the Rukorian said, ‘now that this matter is ended, thanks to the Charan, what of the traitor?’
‘There is no traitor, captain,’ she said. She still gazed down at the King’s Light, though the man who had stood in it had gone. ‘I only wished to test your loyalty. Now I see no sovereign could find finer men to serve her.’
‘Your majesty, we did little. It is the Charan who holds the debt of all our thanks.’
‘Captain, need I teach you yet again, how to address me?’
He bowed his head. ‘Yes, your reverence.’
She turned to go. And she thought to herself, bleakly as a condemned prisoner whom the world has made its puppet, It is too late. I waited too long. I dare not unmask him now.
* * *
The rain fell again on the stone field of the Palace roof. The streams ran culverts to drains down which they fell to the black caverns beneath the Palace, where brick-lined cisterns had been constructed centuries before.
Alongside one culvert a solitary figure crossed the roof-field toward the Imperial tent, the last left f
acing the performers’ tent. The man halted before the tent, rainwater streaming from his wrists and cloak.
The Empress Allissál raised her head silently. Before her the gilded wine cup lay upon its side. An empty amphora stood beyond.
‘You have something to say to me, I think,’ he said.
The mask remained as unreadable as the metal from which it had been forged.
‘Not yet?’ he asked. ‘When your maidens so readily allowed me to enter your presence, it raised my hopes.’
He straddled the stool. He looked at her in such a way that she knew that, despite her robes, she sat nude before him. She saw drops of rainwater glistening in his beard, and remembered once how, after they had sported together in her bath, she had seen fragile droplets caught in the hairs about his sex, so that they gleamed like diamonds.
‘I liked you better clean-shaven,’ she said.
‘I liked you better in the role of Dhalki,’ he remarked. ‘Do you remember? That winter when we hunted game in the snowy mountains above the castle of your childhood, and you took a thorsa by yourself.’
‘I remember.’
‘It was in remembrance of that sojourn that I wore this garb this pass. The entertainments you offered were quite enjoyable while they lasted.’
‘Thank you.’
‘It was on the Pass of God,’ he said, ‘that you brought down your thorsa and told me of your childhood. And yet that time seems so far away, farther even than the Pass of God I was offered a barbarian maiden who shared your likeness – all but the eyes – or the Pass of God when we slept together on the edge of the Desert and swam beneath Goddess in a lake blue-white with salt. And yet none of those times is as far away from us as now.’
‘I never swam in a lake at the edge of the Desert.’
‘Allissál did not, perhaps. But Gold did.’
‘Will you bait me forever, or will you speak of it?’
He smiled. ‘Very well. You meant to have me put to death this pass.’
‘It was decided and arranged.’
‘You meant to give your people a great entertainment upon this Pass of God: the death of Ara-Karn. You would have hung my body on the Iron Gate and let the word run from city to city that the dreaded Enemy was no more. So you hoped my warriors would lose heart and decamp; so the Southrons would take hope and cast out the invaders.’