by Rj Barker
you think on
your actions
choose well
it means you lose all
we cannot save
you
leave him
we can only tell what we see
see more and trust less
it may not be right
some things are clear
and Rufra falls
your leader falls
the Landsmen rise.
Festival is lost
we are gone
“You do want me to leave him.”
“listen!”
That word—“Listen!”—roared. It was as if the four voices came together, battering my ears and my body. Hedgings danced around me. The sweet smell of dead gods putrefying filled the air and I wanted to hide, to cover my face and pretend not to be here, but the hands of the priest of Xus found my shoulders and steadied me.
“Steel yourself, boy,” he said. “Often the mists are confusing even for the Lords, but for them to practise so near the Sepulchre of the Gods brings danger.” It was as if the room breathed, the walls bowing in and out. “These words are from somewhere else and it is a strange thing for a man to hear.”
If the voices had been confusing before, now they became even more so. A million voices smashed into one. Echoes of words once spoken. Voices I knew and voices I was sure I would know. Voices that sounded like they were being whipped past me on one of Festival’s carousel rides, loud, quiet, loud, quiet. Voices that sounded like I stood at a great height and they fell away from me. Voices that filled me with fear and others that filled me with hope—and all were saying my name, again and again and again. Then, from the cacophony, came words like bells, ringing hard in my head. I covered my ears, trying to shrink in on myself. Curling into a ball to try and hide from the overwhelming noise.
“What should belong to Xus does not. The white trunk lies across the path. What should be is not. What should have been is.”
And it stopped.
Everything stopped.
All that was left was the unpleasant nausea caused by the herb smoke that filled the air. I could barely see for it, whatever acted on my mind also prevented my eyes focusing. Strong hands helped me stand, pulled me from the room. Guided me down the stairs.
“What was that, priest?”
“A true audience with the Festival Lords. Few are ever given one. Only I am usually witness to it.”
“You travel with the Festival?” I turned to the priest. He looked subtly different but I could not place why.
“I travel with everyone, Girton,” he said. Then, as the outside air hit me. I was overcome by nausea. Bile forcing its way up from my stomach, doubling me over as it escaped from my mouth in a stinking, bitter stream. The priest held my head.
“Get it up. Get it all up,” he said. “The smoke does not agree with everyone.”
“What I heard in there.” I coughed up more vomit. “They told me to leave.”
“Aye, it sounded like that,” he said, but he did not sound as if he agreed with me.
“You do not think that is what they said?”
“Often, what is said is not what is said. It is only a guide, and an unreliable one. From what I hear, anyway.”
I rubbed my eyes. “What you hear? You were there …” But when I looked up it was not into the mask of the priest of Xus, it was into the face of Venia, the Festival guard captain.
“There? Girton, I think the smoke has affected you more than you know.”
“But I went in with a priest, and …”
“You went in alone, as all do for an audience.”
“He was with me. He held my head while I threw up.”
“Girton, I found you alone, vomiting into the grass. Maybe you should lie down? I can find you a tent if you wish,” she said as I stood.
“No.” I shook my head, wiped my mouth and spat. “It is all right. I will sleep back at the Low Tower.”
With that I staggered back toward where we stayed, dizzy, confused and unsure of my place in the world.
Chapter 13
My master met me as I entered the Low Tower. I watched her lever herself up from the barrel she had been sitting on and wondered how long she had been there. She did not like to sit still for too long, it pained her damaged body.
“Girton, you look ghost-white.”
“I met with the Festival Lords.”
“Few are so honoured.”
“It did not feel like an honour.”
“What did they want?”
“To tell me to leave.”
Now it was my master’s turn to pale, and her dark skin made her look grey.
“And will you? I would follow you if you did.” Looking at her I realised I had thought the Festival Lords talked of Gusteffa, but my master was also a jester. Before I could speak she carried on. “It is good to remember, Girton, that the Festival Lords have their own agenda, just like every other blessed does.”
“There was magic there, Master.”
“And smoke burners to make the experience seem more real, I bet,” she said.
“But it felt real, and if what they said is true then …”
“You have seen me tell fortunes, Girton, and know it for a trick.” I nodded. “While those whose coin I take?”
“They believe it real. But this was different, Master. I know magic.”
“Aye,” she sat with a sigh, “and that makes it doubly likely what they said is not what it seems.” She leaned in close. “It is always the same with magic, Girton, it is full of low cunning. Think on this, you leave and Rufra falls, Festival will claim they cleared the way and take the credit, getting themselves in the good books of whoever takes power. Who sent you to them?”
“Voniss.”
“She is of them, do not forget that.”
“What if I do not leave?”
“If Rufra dies, they will claim they warned you.”
“And if he lives?”
“They claim they warned you and you acted on it, only you and they were there to say what passed.”
“Maybe,” I said, but she saw there was more to it as I tried to look away. She leant to the side so I could not avoid looking at her.
“You have told me everything?”
A man dressed in black who none saw but I. A god who held me close.
“No, Master.” I paused, the image of the priest of Xus in my mind, but my tongue was unwilling to speak of it. “There was the assassin, again. But they did not attack me.” I told her of the death of the pretender assassin. “The arrow killed Bilnan, the boy who follows Gonan, Heartblade to Marrel ap Marrel.”
“Dark Ungar’s breath,” she hissed.
“An assassin accompanies Leckan ap Syridd.”
“Yes,” she nodded, “but she would be a poor assassin to show herself so obviously.”
“Or a clever one,” I said, and my master laughed quietly.
“Aye, the games we play, eh? We will have to tell Marrel about the death of Bilnan. But make sure you tell Rufra first.”
“That will not be hard, Master. I do not even know where Marrel ap Marrel is quartered.”
“Oh, he is not in his quarters, Girton. He is upstairs with Rufra, and …” She left it hanging, then grabbed my arm pulling me close. “Barin is there also. Do not make Boros’s mistake, Rufra looks bad enough already.”
“I am not a fool, Master,” I said, though she must have felt every muscle in my body tense at the mention of Barin’s name.
“You look like one, Girton.” She smiled and touched my cheek, bringing her finger up in front of my face so I could see the make-up on it.
“How I look and how I am are two different things, Master.”
“I know.” She patted me on the arm. “Be careful up there, Girton. Rufra has had a long day and you know how he is. Do not rush to judgement.”
I nodded and left her, heading into the smoky gloom of the tower and up the stairs into a room full of merriment. Pi
gs roasted in the newly clear firepits and, like in Maniyadoc, some forgotten miracle of the building pulled the smoke up and out of the room. Had there not been smoky torches burning to give light it would have been almost possible to breathe without coughing. Benches and tables had been set out and these were full of men and women, few of whom I knew. Rufra sat on a throne at the front of the room, by him was Celot and behind him I saw Neander, the priest. Also sat on the dais with them was Marrel ap Marrel with his Heartblade and his wife. The two men chatted, sometimes laughing and pointing.
“Girton, have you brought your knives?”
I turned to find Dinay, who headed Rufra’s cavalry.
“Always.”
“You should put them to use.” She pointed with a hand holding a cup of perry at the front benches and my heart skipped a beat, because she pointed at Barin, the Boarlord. Out of the main hall he even flaunted what he was, the head of a boar was worked into his jerkin and it flashed with precious stones as he turned, laughing at something the man by him said. He caught my eye and lifted his cup in my direction in salute. I spat on the floor.
“Coil’s piss, what I would do for a quiet moment alone with him,” I said.
“You won’t get one,” said Dinay.
“He is not recognised by Rufra. I could challenge him to a duel and no wrong would be done.”
“By law,” she said.
“At least he cannot vote. Rufra and Marrel will refuse to recognise him.”
As if we were heard, Rufra stood.
“Barin, who calls himself ap Borlad.” The room went quiet. “Stand and say how you dare show your face in my court.” He did, looking around the room as silence fell. He must have been aware he had few, if any, friends here. “You were brave to come here, Barin ap Loflaar,” said Rufra, using the Boarlord’s original name. “Few have any love for you.”
“And I cannot blame them.” He hung his head as if in shame. Curtains of blond hair hid his handsome face. “None is more ashamed of my actions with the Nonmen than I, King Rufra.” He raised his head. “All know the madness of war, and that madness infected me.” He stared around the room. “Through the guidance of priests,” he said, and the crow nose of Neander’s mask targeted him like a spear about to be thrown, “I have banished the madness, the lust for blood. I have seen the error of my ways. I have felt the pain of all those I wronged.” He pulled up the sleeves of his jerkin to show scars running across his arms and I noticed, with interest, how closely they resembled the scars of the Landsman’s Leash which wheeled and danced around my flesh. He looked around. Surely he was able to feel the waves of resentment that gathered in the room and flowed over him.
“What of Boros?” asked Rufra.
“I have been to see my brother, sat with him, but he cannot forgive.” He sounded genuinely remorseful and when he looked around there was a tear in his eye. “He will undergo the most terrible death, rather than forgive.”
Neander stood.
“There is a lesson here,” he said to the crowd. “A lesson we all must learn.” He used the dead voice of the priesthood and all quietened to hear him. “Who among us has not wronged another with violence?” His bird face moved across the crowd. “None, for you are warriors.” I saw the merchant Leckan ap Syridd, his assassin Heartblade at his shoulder, turn to the man at his left but before he could speak Neander focused on him. “Or who among us has not cheated another in business? Eh? All have some guilt. And all know of the war of the gods, where one death led to another. And all saw Death’s Jester.” He pointed at me and all followed his finger—all except Rufra. “We have seen the jester dance the story of Gwyfher and should heed that lesson, death begets death. And Rufra,” he put a hand on the king’s shoulder, “has changed the way of things, which many priests did not understand. But there is a lesson here too, and it is forgiveness.” The king was bunching his hands into fists so tight his knuckles became white stars in the dark room. “Do you come before us asking forgiveness, Barin ap Borlad?” said Neander.
“I do, Neander,” he said. “And I ask Rufra to recognise me in that spirit.”
“Dark Ungar’s breath,” I said quietly as the king stood. Rufra had been neatly put in a position where he must forgive and recognise Barin or all his talk of new ways and putting aside the past would look like just that, talk. Never mind nuance, never mind right or wrong. Neander had tied together the idea of Rufra’s new ways and the forgiveness of Barin into one package.
“Then,” said Neander, “for the sake of peace you must be forgiven, Barin ap Borlad, forgiven of the depravities you wrought under the name Chirol, the Boarlord.”
My fists were bunched up so tight my nails dug into my palms. I considered the many and painful poisons I could dose Neander with.
“And the priest legitimises a monster,” said Dinay.
“And that gives Barin a vote, which he will use against Rufra.”
“Only if Rufra says the words,” my master, materialising from the gloom by me, “but if he does he sets loose Xus the unseen in Ceadoc, sure as if he declares war.”
“He will say them,” I said.
“I recognise you, Barin ap Borlad, and forgive you.” Rufra said it through gritted teeth. To be outmanoeuvred in his own throne room must infuriate him but, curiously, Marrel ap Marrel, sitting by him and likely to benefit, also seemed equally angry.
“You are great man, Rufra ap Vthyr,” said Barin with a bow.
“Then I can count on your vote?” said the king. Barin bowed his head.
“I regret that you cannot.” A gasp ran around the room. “A priest won my forgiveness, and I cannot turn my back on such a deed.”
“But the priesthood and I support Rufra,” said Neander, and then I saw it, the crack in Barin’s facade, the lie that he was changed at all. His eyes darted to the side.
“It was a priest of a living god that helped me,” he said. And in the darkness at the edge of the hall I saw Danfoth the Meredari, leader of the Children of Arnst, smiling.
“Coil’s piss,” said Dinay, “the Children are playing politics. We’re knee-deep in mount shit now.”
I tried to lose myself that night. I did not drink too much, I had learnt alcohol was a poor way for me to drown my sorrows and one that only ever ended in misery. Whether that misery was something as simple a hangover, or as complex as a death, it was seldom a risk worth taking. I moved through the crowd, drinking sparingly and talking with many. Largely, they were Rufra’s supporters but I was looking to get close to Leckan ap Syridd and his assassin Heartblade. She was small and pretty, older than me, but not by much. I thought she had seen maybe forty yearsbirths at most. She played some game of her own with me, a smile on her face. Every time I approached she managed to steer herself and her charge away from me. There was nothing sinister in it, and the occasional smiles she shot across the room at me were playful. At one point I found myself standing near Rufra and Marrel ap Marrel as they spoke in hushed voices and I could not help listening in. He was a hard man to dislike, Marrel, loud and full of good cheer. When I came upon him he was arguing with Rufra.
“You will bring war,” he said.
“Not with support. If I win will you support me in all I do?”
“Let us decide what I support if you win. It is all well and good bringing change to one corner of the Tired Lands, Rufra, but to push it across them all will cause turmoil and death. It is not the blessed you must worry about, but those who consider themselves above them.”
“I have Festival’s support, Marrel.”
“You really think that? And even if you do, what of the Landsmen? They will never stand with you.”
“They are not all like Fureth.”
“And the Children of Arnst?”
“They owe me.”
“And care nothing for it.”
“Can we have one night without politics?” Marrel’s wife, Berisa, put herself between the two men. She was his second wife—young and beautiful. She was blind in on
e eye and hid its milky-whiteness behind her hair. She lit Marrel up when she was near him. “Come, I was told there would be cymbal bands and you said you would dance with me, husband.” Marrel smiled at his wife and then she said, in a lower tone, “And you promised not to get too drunk so you could not go about the business of making heirs.” She gave him a playful wink and Marrel’s smile increased.
“Very well, one last thing I must say to Rufra and then we shall dance and later go make heirs, wife.”
“It had best just be one,” she grinned. “Do not keep him, Rufra ap Vthyr, you need your rest and Marrel will talk and drink all night if you let him. I do not want to spend the night alone and corpse-cold while he is passed out at your table.”
“Go, woman,” said Marrel, he watched her walk away before leaning in close to Rufra. “Barin—that mess—that was not my doing. I did not ask for his vote or know what he would do. It was wrong, what he did, with the priest. I do not envy you your allies.”
“Neander says he only wished to give me the opportunity to show people the new ways,” said Rufra. He looked miserable.
“Well, maybe we keep the old ways for a reason, eh? But now I must dance.”
Rufra watched him walk away and then glanced at Voniss, who sat with her babe and Anareth.
“I must speak to you,” I said to him, “in private.”
“And I you,” he said. “In private also.”
Behind us a roar went up as music started. Anareth was staring out from Voniss’s trews with wide eyes. I gave her a small wave and she retreated behind the material. A moment later she peeped out and waved back before vanishing. I turned to find Gusteffa by the king, she was juggling apples, taking a bite out of each as it passed her mouth. She let the apples fall as we walked past her and trailed along behind us. Rufra led me from the noisy hall and through a doorway hung with a heavy curtain, into what was his private space. He walked with his hand on his side, in obvious pain, and made straight for a chair by his bed that had been comfortably padded with cushions.
“I did not expect you to be feasting after what happened to Boros,” I said.
“Neither did I.” He moved in his chair, grimacing, and Gusteffa offered him another cushion which he waved away. “It was Marrel’s idea. Thankfully he brought some of the food or we would have struggled. I get the feeling we are not as welcome here as I would like.”