03 - The Eternal Rose

by Gail Dayton

  "Then leave." Elder Cori's voice boomed over the arena.

  Old Sothi shot her a poisonous glare and stomped away, out the side door near that end.

  Obed handed Elder Cori the staff and she raised her voice. “We will not decide today who will take Sothi's place as elder, merely who will sit with us for this deciding. Do I have names?"

  In a quick, rough-and-tumble session, someone was selected to share the bench with the two town elders, a male metalsmith from the village. Finally, Obed received the staff back and the investigation into the slaughter at the skola began. Ruel and the injured with him spoke first.

  They had been awakened in the night by the grand master screaming with rage, demanding everyone get up and assemble with weapons, as they were. Those who took time to dress became the particular focus of his anger. He ordered them to pair off, begin fighting in the flickering torchlight at the practice arena, spurring them on despite the danger.

  The other masters began to join in, and some of the dedicats and champions, shouting at the younglings, beating them with the flats of their swords if they did not show sufficient enthusiasm for the combat.

  Anyone who protested was immediately set upon by those encouraging the mêlée.

  Then Grand Master Murat came upon Ruel. Until this point, no one had been seriously injured. A few scratches, some sprains, bruises and such from stumbling in the dark, but no real injuries. But when Murat saw Ruel, it was as if a spark caught in gunpowder.

  Murat attacked, screaming that Ruel should have died, that he had disgraced himself losing to a woman, allowing himself to be mauled in public—on and on. Ruel fought hard, but Murat's frenzy seemed to give him strength. Ruel fell, mortally wounded.

  His blood spilling black in the torchlight seemed to set loose the bloodlust, according to others who took up the tale. Murat ran for the infirmary, screaming Athen's name, while those who had joined his madness began to lay about them with sharp edges, rather than the flats of their swords.

  Yanith, the dedicat who had lost in the arena to Torchay in the last combat yesterday, best against best, managed to send the brand new skints out of the skola. With some of the others, he had organized a group to defend the fuzzheads at the dining hall, though it was too late for many of the boys.

  As the wounded champions spoke, they pointed out those they had seen among the men gathered on the arena floor, the ones who had participated in the slaughter and those who had fought to stop it. The mist stayed white.

  After a time, Elder Cori raised a hand, asking a turn to speak. “May we not speak judgment for some of these now?"

  Obed glanced at Kallista, who shrugged. This was no Adaran trial. The three justiciars were in charge. “That is your choice,” he said. “I act only as investigator. Kallista Naitan—Nathain Kallista is only truthsayer.” He handed over the staff.

  Cori conferred with the other two for a moment before speaking again. “Dedicat Yanith, did you defend those who could not defend themselves, sending the younglings to safety?"

  Yanith stepped forward a few paces from the group on his side of the arena. The dedicats and champions in the arena had sorted themselves, some joining Yanith, some Murat, a few others loitering in the center. “Yes, Elder Cori, I did."

  “Did you kill or injure anyone who was not attacking you or those you defended?"

  “No, I did not.” The mist remained the same pearly white.

  “What say you?” Cori addressed the crowd. “Shall we bring him out among us?"

  “Aye,” thundered back from half a thousand throats.

  Kallista freed Yanith from the magic that bound him, save that which prevented attack. She wasn't sure of his actions toward Murat and his cronies.

  As Yanith trudged across the arena to join Ruel and the other champions at the back of the chamber, Elder Cori asked the same questions of the others who had been named as defenders, and one by one they were released from the arena.

  Cori handed the staff to Obed and seated herself again. “Proceed."

  Obed seated the heel of the staff on the deck, braced it against his foot and looked out over the arena. Heartsick and weary, he considered the next step in the hearing of the night's events. Best to leave Murat and his associates to the end.

  “You.” Obed spun the staff and pointed it at one of the lingerers in the middle, a man whose name he could not remember, if he had ever known it. “Tell us your name and your tale."

  “My name is Farrin Chosida-sa, and I have no tale.” But he did. Farrin told of how he had run away, had pretended to be on first this side and then that, protecting only himself.

  Obed concentrated on maintaining his dedicat's mask. He was out of practice, his discipline weak, and he liked it that way. Obed had never wanted to be a man who could look at death and feel nothing. The killing had always felt like a stain on his soul. Obed had perfected his self-discipline in the years he had spent here under the old man's authority. Murat had always somehow sensed the disgust Obed had for him and his teaching, but once Obed had learned not to show it openly, Murat could do nothing. The punishment had stopped. Obed's only true defiance had been his success. And his continuing life.

  Kallista had taught Obed to feel again, and he never wanted to go back to what he had once been. The memories existed, but they could no longer hurt him. Still, playing the role of investigator as he did, he had to hide his reactions. He remembered Farrin now and the others with him. They should never have been sent to the skola, were unsuited to a champion's life. But they had survived. Perhaps they did know something of value. Or perhaps not. It was not his place to judge.

  When all those with Farrin had spoken, Elder Cori asked that they be held in the arena, apart from those still remaining. She reserved the village's judgment on them.

  Now, at last, it was time for those accused of the killing.

  The sun was rising high, and Elder Cori called a break for refreshments. Villagers worked with the skola's servants—the few left alive—and the skints and fuzzheads to brew cha, bring out cakes and biscuits, and water for the injured. They refused to return to the infirmary, so pallets were brought and places made for them to lie down. Water was left on the arena sands for those held there. After half a chime or so, when most of the people had returned to their places, the elders signaled Obed and he pounded his staff on the deck to call everyone to order.

  Obed twirled the staff as he considered whom to question next, scarcely aware of the hum it made as it spun faster and faster. Better to start with the leader, he decided, but how? He had clashed with Murat a thousand times, almost from the moment he had walked through those gates, a scared and scrawny twelve-year-old. Perhaps it would be better for someone else to question him. But no one else had the nine marks, and certainly no one had his ten.

  The staff slapped against his hand as Obed caught it, pointed it at the old man. Spattered and streaked with blood, Murat stood defiantly at the forefront of the men now in the center of the arena. “Grand Master Murat,” Obed said. “I call you to answer for your crimes."

  * * *

  Chapter Twenty

  The old man spat in the sand. “They were not crimes. They were justice. I righted a wrong."

  The mist, which had stayed white since the fuzzheads’ testing, churned as it turned a dark red-brown. Everyone in the arena gasped and stepped back from the sand at the sight.

  "Lies," Kallista called out, acting as official truthsayer, though everyone could see.

  “Murat.” Obed gripped the staff tightly, pinning it between arm and body in an attempt to hold back his anger. “Did you attack the champion Ruel Dobruk-sa and give him mortal injury?"

  “He is here, is he not? How could it have been a mortal wound?"

  “Evasion,” Kallista said, though anyone could know that.

  “Did you cut open the leg of Ruel Dobruk-sa and sever his artery?” Obed gave the staff a slow twirl as he dropped the end onto the decking. He wanted to crack Murat's head open with it
.

  “Yes.” Finally, with Murat's answer, the mist cleared back to white.

  Kallista pronounced it truth.

  “Did you intend his death?"

  “Yes."

  Obed wanted to ask why, but it wasn't important now. “Did you then proceed to the infirmary with the intent of killing Athen im-Nuredi, and did you kill the medics who tried to stop you?” Obed read their names from the list he had been given.

  “Athen still lives,” Murat said.

  “I did not ask whether you killed Athen. I asked whether you killed these others.” Obed took pride in the level tone of his voice. He did not even clench his teeth—while he spoke. He ground away layers when Murat answered.

  The old man shrugged, unconcerned. “I may have. If they got in my way. I do not know these names."

  “They were medics. Healers in the service of your skola, and you do not know their names?” The metalsmith spoke without asking permission.

  Obed turned the staff quickly his way, giving leave. Then he spun it back for the answer.

  Murat shrugged again. “There are many in service to the skola. I can't be expected to know all their names. Medics should not be needed in a skola. You live.” He made a chopping motion with his hand. “Or you die. There is no in between."

  A horrified buzz went around the arena as the mist whirled ominously and darkened to a purple-brown-maroon color.

  Murat shook his fist at the mist. “It is truth!"

  “Murat believes it to be truth,” Kallista said. “But the One declares it a lie."

  “May I speak, Nine-marked?” Yanith walked carefully along the step around the arena, balancing between the crowd above on the deck and the sand below. “May I ask my questions?"

  Obed sent the staff spinning across the arena to the six-marked dedicat who snatched it out of the air and twirled it to point at Murat.

  “You have said you intended Ruel's death,” Yanith said. “Did you also intend the death of Athen im-Nuredi?"

  “You know I did,” Murat snarled. The mist faded to white.

  "Why?"

  “Because their failure demands death."

  Back to maroon again. Kallista pronounced the lie.

  “If their failure demands death...” Yanith looked around, as if puzzled. “Why are they not dead? Why has the One declared this a lie?"

  Murat growled but did not speak, for Yanith had spun the staff away. Kallista must have tied her silencing magic to the staff. Obed took the chance, now the arena's attention was on Yanith, to move next to Kallista, lay his hand on her shoulder, draw comfort from her, offer her his strength.

  The staff halted, pointing at Athen with his bandaged torso and head. “Athen,” Yanith called. “Why are you not dead? You were stabbed through the heart, were you not?"

  Athen stood to answer, a bandage round his head as well as his torso. He'd fought in the night's mêlée despite his injury. “I was. The Chosen One, the Godstruck healed me."

  “How did you come to be so injured?” Yanith asked.

  “I lost my match, against a blind man. Instead of conceding defeat by piercing my skin, I conceded by piercing my heart. I thought I deserved death. That is what we have been taught. Great failure requires great payment."

  Athen struggled to stand straighter. “But I no longer believe this. The One provided healing so I could live. Life is demanded of us, and service, not death. I will leave my life in the hands of the One and not snatch it into my own."

  “And you—” Yanith aimed the staff at Ruel. “How did you live?"

  “The Chosen One, Nathain Kallista healed me.” Ruel's voice rang out, but quickly lost its strength. “The Nine-marked Obed told me to live. I—” He glanced at Genista. “I had just found love. How could I leave her?” The mist continued to glow its perfect white.

  “So.” Yanith twirled the staff slowly, pacing in the small space that had opened up around him. “The One does not seem to demand death for their failure. Why then, Murat, do you?"

  The staff slapped into Yanith's palm, pointing at the grand master. Murat remained stubbornly silent.

  "Answer me!" Yanith shouted.

  Murat flinched but pressed his lips tighter together. Yanith started to step into the arena sands, but stumbled over something that was not there, and fell. Murat charged, and tangled in the same invisible something that tumbled him head over toes and left him lying with his face buried in the sand.

  “You cannot attack each other.” Kallista stood and beckoned for the staff. A dozen hands took it gently from Yanith as they helped him up and passed it hand over hand to her. Obed could see how she struggled not to lean on it, but before he could offer his support, Torchay was there. Again.

  “The magic will not allow it,” she said when the staff reached her. “This is a public hearing so that we can all hear the truth, not a combat trial to see who is stronger or more skilled.” She paused, pointed the staff at the men on the arena floor. “One of you, help Murat before he smothers in the sand."

  Reluctantly, a few of the bloodiest began to move, eyeing each other as if willing someone else to take action so they wouldn't have to. Then they jumped, as if Kallista had goosed them with the magic, and hurried to flip the old man over, clear his mouth of sand.

  “Where was I?” Kallista muttered.

  Obed gave her a worried glance. Was she too tired for this? She had been hauling magic around for hours. Magic she claimed was more difficult to use without Stone's contribution.

  “Oh yes.” Kallista lifted her head and spoke to the assembly. “I will not use magic to force Murat to speak. If anyone does speak, their words will submit to truth testing. But they may remain silent if that is their wish. We do not need him to speak. These others have spoken truth. We know what he did. We do not have to know why."

  “But I want him to say it!” Yanith howled out his anger and grief as he fell to his knees on the decking. “I want to hear him admit what he is."

  Murat snarled, his mouth working as if he attempted speech. Obed took the staff from Kallista and pointed it at the terrible old man. He wanted to hear Murat say it too.

  “I am a dealer in death,” Murat shouted. “Is that what you want me to say? Then I say it. I deal out death. I teach death. How to kill. How to die. It is the way of the champion, of the dedicat. To win. To kill and watch death flow out into the arena sands, watch it creep up into the eyes and steal away their brightness, and to glory in the beauty of that death. Yes, I take pleasure in watching death. It is our way!"

  “It is not my way, old man.” Yanith removed his kilt and cast it aside, standing naked in the arena. “Never mine again."

  “Nor mine.” Athen cast off his clothing.

  Moments later, the arena was filled with more than a hundred naked men and boys.

  It took considerable effort for Obed to hide his laughter at Kallista's wide-eyed stare. He had to clear his throat several times before he could speak without laughing. “Gather them up to burn,” he said, stripping off his overrobe and offering it to the nearest naked boy.

  The villagers followed his example and soon everyone was more-or-less clothed again, though some wore only blankets shared out from the injured.

  Elder Cori gestured for the staff and Obed handed it over. One by one, she questioned the men standing with Murat, getting confirmation that they had participated in the slaughter. One by one, the assembly pronounced them guilty of the crimes.

  When it was done, the three justiciars put their heads together, discussing their judgment. Finally, the metalsmith accepted the staff from Cori, as all three of them stood.

  “Farrin Chosidi-sa.” The smith went on to name all those who had avoided the carnage. “It is the judgment of this court—"

  Obed smiled. They had named themselves a court. The change had already begun, away from justice by combat back to the old ways. Back to the ways of Daryath before the Troubles, before the Tyrant. Back to the ways the dedicats and champions had longed for and
discussed in the rare moments of leisure they had together. This was a court where truth determined justice rather than strength. Pray the One the change would spread from here.

  “—That while you did not kill anyone yourselves here last night, neither did you try to stop the killing or help protect those who needed your protection. You do not deserve the name of champion. Your marks will be barred and your names stricken from the list.” The smith exchanged a look with the other justiciars. “You're all welcome to stay in Edabi village while you figure out just what it is you are suited to do."

  That was unexpected. Most who had the crisscrossing bars tattooed over their champion's skola marks were shunned, cast from their Lines and forced into whoring or crime for lack of any other work. The elders showed unexpected mercy.

  “Nathain Kallista.” The smith bowed to Kallista, clearing his throat nervously. “Your mate has said that your magic comes from all points of the One's compass."

  “Yes, this is true.” Kallista struggled to her feet again, assisted by Fox and Torchay.

  “Tales say that in the Before, West magic could sentence criminals to suffer the crimes they committed. Can you do this?"

  Obed watched Kallista's eyes grow distant as she searched her magic.

  “I have never done such a thing,” she said after a moment. “But I think that I can.” She gave a crooked smile. “I have recently done many things I never tried before."

  In a corner of the arena, Obed noticed a small section of the mist turning a muddy purplish-gray and called Kallista's attention to it. Immediately, she dissolved the mist.

  “My truthsaying is for serious matters,” she called out. “Not for questioning your wife as to whether she truly met with grain sellers last night.” Kallista paused. “She did not, as the mist verified. But she did not meet with a lover. She visited your son. You should mend that quarrel."

  The crowd's laughter faded quickly as Kallista turned back to the justiciars with an apology.

  “Then that is our sentence.” The metalsmith-justiciar pounded the staff three times on the deck. “The crimes you have done will be turned back on you, Grand Master Murat Konethi-ti, Master Koben..."