by Rj Barker
“Tell me, Girton.” She fished in her pocket, finding another apple. This one shiny and new looking. Xus opened one eye. “Rufra’s first wife, Areth. She was one of Neander’s, yes?” I nodded. “And she was how old?”
“Of a similar age to me, Master.”
“And Berisa, how old was she?”
“Also of a similar age with me. But Master, why would she fake her death? And if she had been one of Neander’s girls he would have recognised her.” I stared at the straw-covered floor. “He did say he cared for her, but I thought as Marrel’s wife.”
“Maybe you have answered your own question there, Girton?”
I sat in silence, listening to Xus’s breathing and thinking about what she had said while she crunched her way through her apple, core and all. Xus watched with one eye until she finished and then huffed, closing his eyes and pretending to sleep. What my master said made a kind of sense. If Berisa Marrel was an assassin, and thought Neander had recognised her, what better way to vanish than to die? To get in and kill Berisa in the Speartower without being caught was impossible, but for an assassin to fake their own death was a relatively simple act. Few people inspect a corpse too closely.
“What of the priests who took away her body?” I said, but I knew the answer before my master said it.
“The priests took the offerings, no doubt rich ones, and kept quiet when there was no corpse. It would be a professional embarrassment to admit they had lost a corpse, especially one that was in the running to be high queen. And you have seen this place, the Sepulchre of the Gods is drowned. The priesthood must be weak or they would never allow that.” She spat out an apple pip. Xus hissed.
“Dead gods, how do we tell this to Marrel ap Marrel?”
“Oh, we don’t. Or if we have to we shall make something up and find a spare corpse to take the blame. But hopefully events will move ahead of us. Have you seen Rufra yet?”
“No.”
“Then we should hurry. He will want you at his meeting.”
“Meeting?”
“Yes, he returned earlier in a fury, talking of betrayal. You should have told him you were back, Girton. He is worried about you.” A gentle whine from Xus. “And if he does not know you are safe he will not sleep.”
“Very well.” I levered myself up from the floor and it was as if exhaustion was a weight on my limbs, making them doubly heavy. “Where is he?”
“The third floor, in a small room at the back. But you should go to the portcullis and find Aydor first. He has also been waiting for you.”
“I am so tired, Master,” I said, putting my hand against Xus’s warm flank.
“Take from Xus,” she said. “He has life aplenty and will not mind.” The great mount snorted as if in agreement. I had a sudden vision: a similar stable twenty years ago, Xus drained by my lover Drusl to power her magic.
Breath wheezed in and out of his lungs in painful gasps. The great antlers he had always been so proud of were now too heavy for his head and had pulled it to the floor, tilting it to one side and painfully twisting his scrawny neck. Saliva ran from his mouth, around gums that had receded from black and rotten teeth, to pool on the floor.
“No,” I said, patting him on the side. “I will manage.” The mount groaned and I left the comfortable warmth of the animal and went out into the night. Despite the heat I felt a chill, as if a cool breeze played over my skin. The hair on my arms stood up. I shivered.
I walked through the night, avoiding torchlight more by habit than by design. The portcullis gate was still open, the birds long gone. Someone had collected the dead ones, lining up row after row of small burnt corpses along the bottom of the wall. As I watched, another was brought, by Aydor. He shuffled forward, holding a small dead bird cupped in his huge hands and he crouched to lay it gently on the floor by the others. It was so quiet I could hear his leather greaves creaking and the chains on his skirt tinkling like bells.
“Aydor,” I said softly. He turned, his face a picture when he saw me. It twisted, showing me every thought: confusion, recognition, anger, relief. Then he was running, running at me like a charging bull and I was caught up in a massive bear hug, almost overwhelmed by the smell of his sweat as he came close to crushing the life out of me.
“You live! I knew you would live!”
“Aydor.” I croaked the word, barely able to breathe. “You are crushing me.”
“It is that or punch you unconscious,” he said. His grip tightened momentarily, and I thought my ribs would break. “You must come talk to the troops. They must see you.” He was grinning, his face lit up with pleasure.
“I am tired, Aydor,” I said. “It has been a—”
“No,” he said. “You must see them. You don’t understand.” He grabbed me by the top of my arm in a grip that would not be denied. “When the birds came,” he said, pulling me on, “the troops thought the last god had deserted us, that the Children really did speak for Xus. Our men and women are lost, Girton, but I told them the birds were for you.” He pulled me on, then stopped. Took a deep breath to explain himself. “They have to see you, Girton. The Children are taunting them, saying the birds attacked for them and they are only soldiers. Even Benliu is wavering. They think they are alone, so they must see you, do you understand? They need it.” He pulled me on again and grabbed a torch from the wall, lifting it so the torchlight shone on my face as he shouted, “I bring the Chosen of Xus!”
Men and women turned. Past them, out in the night, I could hear Vondire’s voice, shouting about how the god of death supported him: how Danfoth’s sacrifice had brought Xus’s birds, and they had come to bring darkness for those who did not believe. I could feel the way his words pulled on those at the gate—both on the highguard and Rufra’s troops. Vondire was a good speaker, better than Danfoth had been, and backed up by the strange behaviour of the birds it felt like he had some strange power to draw people to him.
“The last god!” he shouted. “The living god! He has received his sacrifice and shown you who he favours!” Triumphal words, words of joy, despite that the man who had led them was dead.
“Yes,” I said quietly. Then I cleared my throat and tapped the life within me to amplify my voice. “Yes, he has,” I said. People turned. Faces slick with sweat were illuminated by torchlight. Men and women whose brows were creased with worry—but on seeing me those creases melted away. I saw in Rufra’s people relief at the choices they had made and I saw their doubt being swept away. I walked through them to stand beneath the portcullis where I could be seen by Vondire and his followers. “Xus has shown his favour,” I said, and my voice carried out into the town, “but it was not for you. Danfoth the Meredari is dead and I live, Vondire.” I raised a hand to point into the darkness. “Xus will bring only death for you!”
Chapter 25
“How does it feel to be the Chosen of a god, Girton?” said Aydor as we walked toward the tower.
“Tiring.” He turned his head, trying to work out if I was serious or not. “I am not the Chosen, Aydor. I am sure Xus does not choose human representatives.”
“He doesn’t send his birds for everyone either.” There was something in his voice that made me uncomfortable, something close to awe and I did not want it.
“Just because they helped me get into the tower does not mean they were sent for me, Aydor. They may well have come for the Children.”
“But they did not,” said Aydor. “I have felt the touch of Xus,” he said. “It was a madness for me and that madness was in the air, it was in the birds. I felt it.”
“Even if I were chosen, Aydor, it is not in any useful way.” I slowed as we approached the tower. “I think Xus does not like the Children, and I made an oath to him, to avenge Feorwic. Maybe the god just wants her death avenged.” I stopped him. “Do not tell Rufra you think Xus has chosen me, Aydor. Do not tell anyone.”
“Why?” His face was childlike with wonder.
“Because, even if it were true, it would be fleetin
g. I do not want to be seen as some sort of prophet.”
“Rufra would not think that. He only really believes in swords.”
“Nevertheless …”
“Oh, very well, but the troops will talk, you know that.”
“But that is all it will be, talk. Please, Aydor?” He shrugged.
“You are a strange one,” he said. “Come. Rufra waits on our pleasure.”
We entered the Low Tower and the bottom room, full of men and women drinking, quietened as we did. Aydor nodded to the woman nearest the door and she nodded back, but her eyes were on me. Everyone’s were. As we walked up the stair I whispered to Aydor.
“Why were they staring? they have seen me before.”
“Not without your make-up.” My hand was at my face before I thought about it, touching skin, such an unfamiliar feeling. The slight rasp of stubble that was in need of shaving; the ridges of scars; the softness around my eyes; and the slicks of grease where I had not removed make-up well enough. The heat of a blush at the feeling of nakedness. “And they all thought you dead. They saw the crowd envelop you as Rufra moved them on.”
“They thought me so easily killed?”
“They thought only it was something they could not escape and then Rufra shut himself away the moment we returned. They have feared the worst.”
“This place,” I said, as a cold breeze snaked down the stair to swirl around my feet. “It makes people think that way.”
Aydor said nothing, only led me up the stair to the third floor and through the door to where Rufra waited. He looked vaguely annoyed when he saw Aydor and for a moment he did not seem to recognise me. Then his eyes widened.
“Girton,” he said.
“You are surprised I live?” I felt peculiarly let down.
“No, not really,” he said. “Just there were so many of them and … Well … I forget how talented you are sometimes.” He walked over to me, raised a hand and almost touched my face. “It is rare to see your skin, to think of you as a man.”
“That is all I am. All I have ever been.”
“You came in under the cover of the birds?” I nodded. “But not straight to me, so I knew you lived?”
“I was tired, hurt, not thinking straight.” He stared into my eyes, then seemed to accept this and, with a curt nod, sat back down. I saw him wince and his hand twitched. He wanted to reach for the wound on his side but stopped himself. Gusteffa brought over a herbal tisane to ease his pain but he shooed her away. Before we could talk any further there was a knock on the door.
“Come,” he shouted. His leaders appeared: Dinay, Vinia from Festival, Neander, and behind them Marrel ap Marrel.
“You have kept me waiting half the night, Rufra. I hope this is worth it,” said Marrel. He sounded drunk and his eyes were red.
“Worth it,” said Rufra. “That implies you may enjoy what I have to say and you will not. None of you will.”
“War then,” said Aydor. “We all saw Fureth stand with Gamelon and Danfoth. I think that answers the question of where the other blessed are giving their allegiance. Torelc the god of time has wrought his changes and none of them are good.”
“It need not be war,” said Marrel. “Though you,” he shot me a fierce look, “have not found my wife’s killer I am still willing to enter into an agreement with Rufra. War will help no one, and Gamelon is a fair-weather man. He gives his allegiance wherever the winds of power blow.”
“Gamelon should be removed,” said Rufra.
“Removed?” Marrel looked confused. “Ceadoc cannot be ruled without Gamelon. His family know its secrets, its laws. Without him—”
“We will all be better off,” said Rufra quietly.
“No,” said Marrel. “We will all be lost and the high kingship will become meaningless. Our family records will be lost, the Tired Lands will dissolve into border wars and …”
“I have lied to you,” said Rufra quietly. “All of you. I have lied about my reasons for being here and it was a mistake. So now I will tell you the truth.” It was as if his words were a souring and they drew all good will from the room. Even Rufra’s own people looked shocked at his admission. “But,” he raised a finger, “that truth must not leave this room.” All eyes turned to Marrel.
“Very well.” He shrugged. “Say what you must. I give my word and you know it is good.”
“I visited Ceadoc before the plague,” he said quietly. “I saw its horrors and I attended a feast put on by Darsese and his sister, Cassadea. They put on fights during the food, sexual acts in the aisles to entertain, exhibits from the menageries were brought out and—”
“This is why you are prepared to fight? Because you are squeamish?” said Marrel.
“No,” said Rufra. He did not look at Marrel. He stared at the floor and the muscles at the sides of his jaw were like hard balls, a sure sign of him holding back his temper. “Darsese killed a man. He did it for our entertainment. A warrior of some renown, I believe. He was also a Landsman.”
“High kings killing people is not new,” said Marrel. “Even the Landsmen must bow to him.”
“Not in all things, Marrel, and not in this. I was talking to one of his courtiers when he did it. He had sat me away from the throne, as an insult, and I heard raised voices. A scream. When I looked over Darsese was standing, his hand held out, and the air was full of a sickly stench, like gone-off honey. The man he killed, his armour was bent, broken. There was silence for a moment, and then Gamelon started to applaud. After a moment the court joined in. Only I did not. Only I was appalled.”
“I do not—” began Marrel.
“When I first met Girton,” he nodded toward me, “there was a sorcerer loose in Castle Maniyadoc and she murdered a man named Heamus using the black hammer. I saw the corpse, how it looked. Darsese used the black hammer that day.”
Inwardly, I winced at the word “murdered” though it was true. What he did not say was that Drusl, the sorcerer, had been our friend and I that had loved her.
“Sorcery? The Landsmen would never …” said Marrel.
“Fureth stood by Darsese while it happened, Marrel. He stood right there by him and applauded.”
“If that were true,” said Marrel, “why would Darsese let you go?”
“Because he could, Marrel,” said Rufra quietly. “Where could I go? What could I do? Who would believe me? I could not go to the Landsmen.”
“That is why you never let them return to Maniyadoc,” said Marrel. “I thought it was their cruelty.”
“The cruelty? Partly, at first, though I believe they do a necessary job. I was near to letting them back, but the hypocrisy? I could not stand it.”
“You should have come to us,” said Marrel.
“Would you have believed me?” He looked up, meeting Marrel’s eye. “Would you?” Marrel stared at him, then shook his head and sat on a bench.
“No,” he said. “I would not. But Darsese is gone now and—”
“The Landsmen remain, Marrel. Gamelon remains, and as they have had truck with magic before what is to stop them doing it again? Can the land cope if another sorcerer rises?”
“No,” said Marrel, “but simply knowing this would be enough. We could topple Fureth with it.” He did not sound convinced. “We can at least use it to bring Gamelon to heel and—”
“Magic is still being used,” said Rufra. “The birds, tonight, that was not natural. Someone is using …” I could almost feel Aydor by me, about to blurt out how it was the god that had done that, and he had done it for me. I stepped forward.
“Darsese lives,” I said.
“What?” I felt Rufra’s attention turn to me. It was like I opened the door to a furnace and all its heat was concentrated on me.
“That is what they say in the town, or they did until the Children of Arnst started hunting down those who believed it.”
“What the living and the thankful squabble about,” said Marrel, “is hardly of concern to those of us who will rule. Dar
sese died of plague and was burnt on the pyre. Those of the town are superstitious fools.”
“They are led by Arketh, the high king’s torturer. She also says the high king lives.”
Now Marrel fixed his gaze on me.
“She is a broken thing. They say she is mad,” he said, but he no longer sounded as sure of himself.
“But it makes sense,” I said. “If Darsese went too far with his magic, what better way to deal with him than by making him vanish under the guise of the forgetting plague? They could not allow it to get out that the high king was a sorcerer without ruining themselves. And if Gamelon or the Landsmen wanted to quiet the rumours of Darsese living they could not do it, it would appear strange. But the Children of Arnst have been given free run of Ceadoc town.” “If High King Darsese lives,” said Marrel, “then why is he not on his throne? If he was a sorcerer, how would they make him vanish? It makes absolutely no sense, magic or not.”
“Magic is power,” said Rufra. “Today, Girton saw a man he was sure should have died of his wounds walking as if he were uninjured. What if, rather than destroying magic, the Landsmen have found a way to control it? By controlling Darsese?” Marrel was leaning forward, one hand on his chin, the other scratching the side of his face.
“It is just words, Rufra. There is no proof.”
“Your wife is dead, Marrel, mine nearly, as well as my children. I think it was an attempt to set the two most powerful in the land at each other’s throats. Only we possess enough men to fight the Landsmen and the highguard.”
“But we are stuck in Ceadoc without our armies.”
“If we can bring together all our blessed and their retinues, together with Festival, we could stop whatever the Landsmen are doing now.” The room was utterly still at those words, silent. Sweat dripped from the nose of every man and woman in there, but it was not because of the heat, it was the tension.
“No.” Marrel shook his head. “It is not enough. Not just words, we must have more.”
“What if we find Darsese?” said Dinay.