Harmalo assumed that there was a commotion among the nobles, but all he heard was the howling of the dogs. They had smelled the bitterness in the air, and somehow they knew what it meant. Meanwhile he stared at the blankness where Orthan had been, and he felt the satisfaction of death.
“What have you done?” he finally heard the king shout. “Where is Orthan?”
The nobles too were shouting and gesticulating. Harmalo ignored them and turned his gaze to the red-faced, terrified king. “What have I done?” he replied calmly. “I have shown what happens to those who defy the power of the empire. Orthan is gone; you are next. Tell me where Affron is.”
“But I do not know!”
“Then ask your nobles, who I think may understand more Latin than they let on.”
Glamys turned and spoke to the nobles, who began babbling in response. They shook their heads; they raised their hands and gestured at ceiling, as if calling on the gods to witness the truth of what they were saying.
And then one of them said something to the king, who nodded in response. They conversed for a moment, and then the king turned back to Harmalo.
“Lord Macver knows something,” he said. “Three people from Roma landed in Flendys this past summer. Two men and a woman. One of them must be the man you seek.”
“Flendys,” Harmalo repeated.
“It is a port town south of here. They stayed there a while, then left in the winter, heading north along the King’s Road. That is all Lord Macver knows about them.”
Lord Macver was a stout man with beady black eyes. He said something more. He seemed eager to please, now that he had seen the gant. Harmalo realized that he was still holding it in his hand.
“You are not the first to come looking for them,” the king went on. “There were three others—again, two men and a woman. A girl, actually. They came to Flendys, then followed the first three north.”
Three others? Was he not the first one Liber had sent in pursuit of Affron? “These others,” Harmalo said. “Were they sent from the empire?”
The king conferred with Lord Macver, and then responded. “It does not seem so. They arrived overland. They spoke Latin but had no papers from Urbis like yours.”
This was puzzling, but it scarcely mattered. One man, or six men and women—they would be no match for Harmalo. “And no one knows where they ended up after they left Flendys?” he asked.
“None of us have any knowledge of this,” the king replied quickly. “The lords of the highlands do not come here often. The journey is long, and they like their freedom.”
Harmalo stared at the sweating, frightened king, and decided that he believed him. “Very well,” he said. “You are to send out word that no one is to impede me in my search for this man.”
The frightened king nodded.
“There will be no sanctuary for him, or for any of his friends.”
The king nodded again.
Harmalo stood. He looked at the dogs, who like the nobles cowered before his gaze. They knew, he thought. How odd. “I leave at first light,” he said. “I thank you for your hospitality.”
And then he strode out of the hall, still clutching the warm gant in his hand.
Nineteen
Feslund
Feslund did not like being summoned to his mother’s chambers. He was no longer a child—he was the ruler of an empire! But the queen saw things differently, of course.
And she knew what was best.
She was sitting in a high-backed chair by the window; his father was seated next to her. As usual, the king looked nervous, uncertain, out of place. He clearly hated Urbis and what was now demanded of him. He had spent his life doing the priests’ bidding, and he was comfortable in that role. He wanted to be back in Gallia, feasting in the great hall, hunting with his friends. Feslund didn’t blame him. He wanted to hunt, too! But here they were. And they had to succeed.
“I wish to speak of two matters,” the queen said.
“Yes, mother.” Feslund sat opposite her. Her dark eyes never failed to frighten him. What had he done wrong? What problem had he failed to foresee? There were so many problems.
“First, the weapons. I have received letters from friends in the provinces. Some people are saying the Gallians defeated the priests by trickery, not with the magical weapons. If there were weapons, the priests would surely have used them against the Gallians. If there were weapons, surely we would be using them now against the treasonous legions and invading tribes.”
“But we do not have enough gants to defeat all our enemies,” Feslund pointed out. “And every time we use the ones they have, they lose some of their power. They cannot be sharpened like a sword.”
“I understand this,” Gretyx snapped. “But the people do not. And we don’t want them to know how limited our ability to use the weapons truly is. This is the problem we need to solve.”
She wouldn’t have raised the problem if she didn’t have a solution. “What do you suggest, mother?” Feslund asked.
“You must demonstrate to the world that we possess the gants and can use them. You must show the world what happens to our enemies.”
“How?”
“First, you must choose a time and a place when the eyes of Terra will be upon you.”
“The Pan-Roman games,” Feslund responded, getting the idea.
“Indeed. After the chariot race. In the past the pontifex has crowned the winner of the race.”
“I know. I was already going to do that myself.”
“Yes, but this year you are going to do more. I have learned that the old pontifex is still being kept prisoner in the palatium. Why, I do not know.”
“His name is Tirelius,” Feslund replied. “Liber hopes he can convince the fellow to help us.”
“That is surely a vain hope,” Gretyx said with a dismissive wave. “But it is good that he is still alive. Because after the chariot race, in the full view of uncounted thousands in the Circus Maximus, you are going to execute him with a gant. If anyone doubts that these weapons are real or that you won’t use them against those who oppose you, they will learn the truth when the old pontifex turns to ashes, as my dear Siglind did.”
Feslund was delighted with the idea. “Execute Tirelius—yes, of course! He deserves it, certainly.”
“Do you not risk making him a martyr?” his father suggested. “I’m sure that many people still feel some fondness for Tirelius, especially if their lives have gotten worse lately. It is only natural.”
“They will not have any fondness for him when they learn of his crimes.”
“But what are his crimes?” Carolus persisted. “Surely it is not right to—”
“We will make up crimes!” Feslund shouted. “What does the truth matter? The people will not know the difference.”
Gretyx nodded. “He did unspeakable things as pontifex. We just need to decide what they were.”
His father’s face reddened with anger, but he did not lose his temper. Instead, he raised another point. “Will this not end forever the chance of finding viators who will cooperate with us?”
“Perhaps they will cooperate if they know they face death otherwise,” his mother replied.
“The priests do not strike me as the kind of people who will respond to fear,” Feslund observed.
His mother turned her terrible gaze upon him. “That is because they have not dealt with me,” she snapped.
At this both Feslund and his father fell silent. It was decided: Tirelius would die.
“Have you explained this to Liber?” Feslund asked finally.
“You can do that,” his mother replied. “Liber has some good ideas, but not enough of them. He and his friend Decius are soft. They wish to placate the people whenever they can. We do not have the time or the inclination to placate people. Anyone who stands in our way—anyone who resists us—must pay the price.”
Feslund liked Liber; Liber had made him a hero. But he wasn’t going to argue with his mother. “Fear,”
he murmured.
“Yes. Fear is how we will survive. Starting now. On to the second matter. We must find you a wife. You have enjoyed yourself without thought of the future these past months. That must come to an end. You must give me grandchildren. You must carry on our royal line. That is your obligation and your highest duty.”
Feslund had been expecting this. A wife was acceptable to him, as long as his mother didn’t require him to give up his other pleasures. “Do you have anyone in mind, mother?”
“The king of Aquitania has offered us his daughter, along with a rich dowry. It is a reasonable alliance for us—and we need the dowry.”
“Do you know anything about the girl?”
“You mean, is she pretty? Her father says that she is, of course. He sent along a portrait I can show you. And she can ride a horse and play the lyre and dance. Perhaps she can even read. But none of that matters. What matters is that she is healthy enough to bear your sons.”
“Yes, of course,” he replied meekly. “I will do whatever you think is best.”
His mother nodded her approval. “That is well said, my son. We will speak more of these things. There is much to be done.”
Feslund realized that he had been dismissed. He bowed to his parents and left the room.
He noticed that his hands were shaking. He thought he had done well enough, although he could not be sure.
It was simple, really. All he had to do was to submit to his mother’s will. She was in charge now, and that meant everything would be all right.
Twenty
Palta
The baby was born just before dawn, after a long night that left Valleia exhausted but determined, while Palta gripped her hand and urged her on and Carmody stood by, fearful and helpless.
It was a boy—small, red-faced, and angry. But he quickly settled down when Palta wrapped him in a blanket and placed him in his mother’s arms. Valleia wept tears of joy and relief, leaning back in Carmody’s arms as Palta cleaned up.
She had never assisted at a birth before. She had urged Valleia to send Gratius to fetch the village midwife, but Valleia refused. She wanted Palta. Palta had been terrified that something would go wrong and she would be responsible for the deaths of Valleia and her baby, but after a night of fear and pain and uncertainty, all appeared well.
Gratius came in later to pay his respects, and then he and Palta went outside to give the new family some privacy. The late-spring morning was cool but cloudless, and the day promised to be beautiful. “I thought he’d never arrive,” Gratius remarked. “You must be exhausted.”
“I’m not,” Palta replied. “I’m just happy that it’s over. Did you take care of the horses?”
“Of course. I’ll be riding to the village in a while. Do you want to join me?”
She shook her head. “I’ll stay here, I think.”
“As you wish. But rest. Valleia will need you.”
“Yes, I’ll rest.”
She sat down under an oak tree, leaned back against the trunk, and closed her eyes. I should wash the dirty clothes in the lake, she thought. I should bring back water. I should tend to the garden.
Instead, she fell asleep. When she opened her eyes, the sun was high in the sky. She got up and went inside. Valleia, Carmody, and the baby were all asleep—Valleia in the crook of Carmody’s arm, the baby nestled against her breasts. Gratius was gone. Palta tore off a hunk of yesterday’s bread and ate it by herself at the small table. The cottage was silent except for the family’s regular breathing.
She thought again about her chores and decided to ignore them; there was nothing that couldn’t wait. Instead she went outside and got on Renni. Palta had ridden many horses since Arminius taught Larry and her to ride in Gallia, but this was her favorite. The purest joy she felt was in riding Renni, just the two of them, wandering through this harsh but beautiful land.
First they took the short path to the lake. She stripped off her clothes, dived in, and paddled gently for a while in the cool water, hoping that Gratius didn’t happen by and see her naked. Not that he would do anything to her; it would just embarrass them both. Her body had grown and filled out in the past year; young men in the village stared at her as she walked by. Attention from men had been part of her life on Gaia, her home world; it would surely be part of her life here on Terra. She assumed it would be part of her life on any world.
Finally she got out of the water, donned her robe and sandals again, and rode away.
Renni knew where to go. They traveled through thin woods, across wide meadows, and stopped at the foot of the hill. Palta dismounted and stroked Renni’s mane. “I won’t be long,” she whispered to him.
Then she scrambled up the side of the hill, as she had so often. It was easier now that the snows had melted and the rainy season was past. It was easier also because she had worn a path amid the rocks and bushes.
At the top, she paused to catch her breath and look out at Scotia. The lake sparkled in the distance. Streams made their way from it through meadows, heading perhaps to the ocean. She saw flocks of sheep. She saw their cottage and the distant village. She saw hawks circling in the cloudless sky.
Palta turned away from it all. She walked over and stared into nothingness. She extended her hands and groped the nothingness. It was here that Larry had disappeared, presumably to follow Affron to another world. I’m coming back, he had promised her. But he had not come back. She had visited this spot almost every day since he left. But why? What he said hadn’t really been a promise. Perhaps he had said it only to soften the blow of his departure. And if he came back, he didn’t need her to be here on this hilltop, waiting for him. He knew where the cottage was. He knew how to find her, if that was what he wanted.
Still, she came. It was beautiful here, especially in spring. Why not climb this hill, stare into the distance, and feel a little closer to him? Was there something more important that she should be doing instead?
She stood on the hilltop for a while, and then she scrambled back down.
Gratius was waiting for her at the bottom. She said nothing to him as she untied Renni.
“Affron and Larry are not coming back, Palta,” Gratius said. “You know that.”
“I like it up there,” she replied. She got onto Renni and started off. Gratius went with her.
She’d had to tell the others about Larry’s disappearance, back when he left her that morning in the winter. They were as baffled as she had been. A portal, on a hilltop in the highlands of Scotia? Where had it come from? Had Affron created it?
And if it was a portal, where was it now?
In any case, there was nothing to be done. The portal—if it had been a portal—was gone, along with Larry. He had come here to find Affron. He had apparently done so, and then followed Affron to another world. Or perhaps he went somewhere else—to his home on Earth. And the rest of them were left behind here on Terra. And that was that.
“I’m leaving, Palta,” Gratius said as they rode side by side back to the cottage.
She looked at him. “What do you mean?”
“Leaving the cottage, leaving Scotia. Travel will be better now that it’s spring. I know nothing of farming or fishing or tending sheep. I have been here for months and learned little. The baby has been born; Valleia and Carmody will be all right. It is time to go.”
Palta had always suspected that Gratius was a little in love with Valleia. It made sense for him to leave, she supposed. It must have been hard seeing her with someone else.
“Where will you go?”
“To a place called Hibernia,” Gratius replied.
“Where is that?”
“It is a small kingdom off the coast of Britannia.”
“Why Hibernia? Is that where you come from?”
Gratius shook his head. “Some priests went there after the Gallians took over Urbis. We burned down the schola so they wouldn’t be able to learn how to use Via from its books. But we didn’t want to lose that knowledge forever—s
omeday the Gallians will be gone, and we will need to start again. So the priests are recreating that knowledge.”
“They are just writing down whatever they know?” Palta asked.
“That was the plan. There and in Alexandria—so if one place is discovered, the other can carry on. It could all have fallen apart by now, I suppose. But if they are still there, I will join them.”
This information saddened Palta. “This is my fault—mine and Larry’s,” she said. “We should have stopped when we met Feslund. We knew he would be a bad ruler.”
“You could come with me,” he pointed out. “You could help us with our task.”
“How?”
He shrugged. “You could be a scribe, perhaps. Write down our knowledge.”
“What makes you think I know how to write?” she murmured.
He looked embarrassed. “Ah, I’m sorry,” he said. “But you are a smart girl. Surely you can learn. And what would you do here? Marry a village boy and bear his children? Stay unmarried and be a servant for Valleia and Carmody? You don’t belong here any more than I do.”
“I am safe here,” she pointed out. “My entire life, I have never felt safe.”
“You have a gant in your pocket, don’t you? That surely gives you a measure of safety. It will give you a future more interesting than this.” He waved at the meadow, the lake, the birds chirping in the trees.
Palta didn’t respond. She realized that she was crying. She hadn’t expected that. She hadn’t cried since Larry left her.
“You don’t have to decide right now,” Gratius said gently. “They will need us for a while yet.”
“Yes, of course.”
They made their way back to the cottage. And they were needed. Carmody and Valleia were both intelligent, self-sufficient people, but even they found caring for a newborn to be a struggle, and they were grateful for any help. So Palta cooked meals, and procured supplies from the village, and washed their clothes, and fished in the lake. And occasionally she just held the sleeping baby in her arms, and she felt a kind of peace she had never felt before. She did not return to the hill.
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