Shoreseeker

by Brandon M. Lindsay

  If there was protest before, there was outrage now. Yarid flinched from the wall of noise that swept over him. He was too shocked to scream and spray spit and shake his fist. Was this man declaring his territory’s sovereignty?

  Tharadis crossed his arms and studied the shouting faces, jaw clenched. He was a pillar of stone amidst a boiling sea. The only person in the room who was not thrashing about was Erianna, the proxy. She, too, had her arms crossed and was watching Tharadis intently.

  It would have been an exaggeration to say that Gorun leapt to his feet, but he was standing before Yarid had even noticed him moving. “Order!” he cried. “Order!”

  The tumult finally settled, though there was still the occasional outburst. “Let us make sure there is no confusion on this matter, Tharadis of Naruvieth.” Gorun’s voice was quivering with more than just age. “Are you claiming secession from the Accord?”

  “No,” he answered. “I am claiming there is nothing for us to secede from. We never signed the Accord; we have no reason to now. We have gone over six hundred years without your help … or your interference. And we have done quite well. We are a sovereign nation. I am merely making it official before the Council of the Wall.”

  “He’s justified,” said Sherin Firnaleos, choosing then to jump in. “Legally, anyway. There’s no provision prohibiting the secession of a territory.”

  Pembo Sint leaned so far over the railing he nearly fell out of his balcony. “Just because it isn’t prohibited doesn’t mean it’s allowed!”

  “We are not and never were a territory of the Accord,” said Tharadis.

  “But there is a provision!” Councilor Jacobs had even taken to defending the Council against this line of argument. It seemed he had some loyalty.

  “Yes,” Tharadis said, “but only for local governments that are part of the Accord. Naruvieth is neither local, nor part of the Accord.”

  “This is madness!” cried someone else, Yarid didn’t see who. “Madness! This must be stopped!”

  And so it went for a handful of minutes. After Gorun had apparently had his fill, he pounded the railing with the palm of his hand, though the act brought him some obvious discomfort. Once he had the attention of the Hall, he stared daggers—rusty, weathered daggers, but daggers nonetheless—at Tharadis. “Is this the fourth argument? A renunciation of the Accord?”

  “I won’t argue the meaning of ‘renunciation’ as I believe I’ve made myself clear on this point, but no, it is not the fourth argument. It only lays the groundwork for it.” He scanned the room, and his gaze was just as hard as Gorun’s, with ten times the sharpness. “My fourth argument is the argument of blood and steel. As a sovereign nation, Naruvieth will not tolerate invaders on our lands. If you continue building the Runeway, it will be seen as an act of aggression, and we will put forth the full military strength of our nation to repel you.”

  No protest. No outrage. Just shocked silence.

  Somewhere in the direction of Sherin Firnaleos’s alcove, a sob was heard.

  The twin doors to the Council Hall were thrown open. Soldiers marched into the Pit, side-by-side in lockstep. Each footfall was a chorus of thunder. Polished breastplates and helms reflected the light from the Patterned lamps.

  The Sentinels.

  And not just a pair, as was the most that one normally saw in the Council Hall. First a dozen, then two dozen pushed their way in, though they didn’t need to do much pushing. The lowlies in the Pit did their best to get out of the way, some even climbing up the stairs that divided the alcove wings and taking a seat there.

  The Sentinels made a circle around Tharadis, and as more poured into the Hall, a second and a third circle. Though the whole of their order wouldn’t fit in the Pit, Yarid reckoned a sizable fraction were crowded in here.

  As one, the Sentinels drew their swords and held them high. In the span of a breath, the Pit had turned into the toothy maw of some massive monster.

  The circles of Sentinels parted as another figure made his way to their center. The helm this one wore was plumed with a spray of violet.

  Captain Rannald Firnaleos.

  All of the Sentinels were imposing, but Rannald most of all. With his faceguard lifted, he circled Tharadis, eyeing him up and down. Tharadis returned the study impassively.

  Rannald halted and looked up at his wife’s alcove. She leaned against the railing, staring down. Something silently passed between them. Sherin’s face was cold and getting colder.

  Rannald nodded as if he had been expecting the reaction. He turned and addressed the Council, voice booming. “War with these people is not the only answer.” It seemed that Rannald had been standing outside the doors, listening. Yarid didn’t have time to wonder why.

  “Of course,” said Frandera. “They could respect the rule of law.”

  “The Naruvians do not recognize our laws,” Rannald countered. “That much has been established. I assume that as Warden,” he said, turning back to Tharadis, “you have total authority over military matters.”

  Tharadis seemed to ponder this for a moment. Military matters had never risen their head for Naruvieth, since they had been cut off from the Accord for nearly the entirety of its existence. Until now, there had been no one for them to go to war with. “Yes, I suppose I do.”

  Rannald turned back to the Council. “If things progress on their current course, we will be killing the very people we were hoping to trade with. I wish to put a stop to that before it even begins. I want to prevent this war.”

  Jacobs opened his hands in pleading. “We’re open to suggestions, Captain.”

  Seeing that there were no objections, Rannald continued. “All right. One of the original Articles of the Accord stated that any method of dispute resolution agreed upon by all affected parties could stand in place of governmental action, insofar as it does not violate any of the other Articles of the Accord or the described Rights of Man.”

  There were a few moments of furious paper shuffling down in the Pit, and the head of one of the clerks popped up from behind the circles of Sentinels. “Confirmed.”

  “Further,” said Rannald, “that the affected parties could delegate the means of the resolution to willing participants, even if they were not involved in the original dispute.”

  “Confirmed.”

  “Also, that the government itself could qualify as one of the affected parties in such a situation.”

  “Con … confirmed.” The little clerk who had been so eager to help suddenly looked like a mouse watching a trap slowly descend upon him yet was somehow unable to flee.

  Rannald smiled. He turned back to Tharadis. “If you were to make a military decision, here and now before witnesses, would your people abide by it?”

  The answer was long in coming. “Yes. It would be enforced, but only if written down and signed by me. And they have ways of telling if it was written under duress.”

  “If you told your people to stand down and not defend against the invaders as they completed the Runeway, they would do it?”

  “They would adhere to the law,” said Tharadis, somewhat cautiously. His expression was a more subdued version of the clerk’s. “Anyone who violated the law would be treated as a criminal, just as under any normal circumstances.”

  “This war you’ve promised could end a lot of lives, and ruin many more. Worse, your people would lose. Naruvieth is a small land compared to the Accord, has no standing army, and has no experience in combat. Peaceful though the times may be, those north of the Rift have had some practice killing each other at times.”

  “You underestimate the willpower of those fighting for their homes.”

  “No,” said Rannald, meeting his eyes, “I don’t. I know very well the strength of that force.” He scratched his chin briefly. “And I would hate to see it crushed by the ranks of those who have no such care.”

  “Captain Firnaleos,” boomed Jacobs, “is any of this leading anywhere?”

  “Yes, Councilor.” Rannald be
gan to raise his arm and froze mid-motion. After a moment’s hesitation, he beckoned to one of his men. The other Sentinel dropped to a knee, bowed his head, and in a single deft move, offered the hilt of his sword to his captain.

  Rannald’s head tilted slightly, as if he were about to look up at his wife’s alcove again. He didn’t, though. Instead, he reached out and wrapped his fingers around the sword’s hilt, lifting it from his man’s hands.

  He stared at his own face, reflected in naked steel.

  Yarid knew that sword. The amethyst in the pommel was unmistakable.

  Guiding Light.

  Rannald lowered the sword to his side. “If the Council of the Wall and the acting representative of the Naruvian nation consent, I wish the decision to continue construction to rest upon the outcome of a trial by combat. Between myself, and Tharadis of Naruvieth.”

  Chapter 46: A Presentation of Swords

  Ithink,” said Yarid, stifling the outcries that erupted at Rannald Firnaleos’s suggestion, “that decorum has been sacrificed to emotion.”

  That shut people up.

  “We are the Council of the Wall, after all,” he said. “Not some traders’ guild.” There was some muttering down in the Pit, doubtless from representatives of one of the traders’ guilds. He pressed on. “It is important that we fairly weigh the propositions given to us, especially when the stakes are high. I think that we should give proper, reasoned consideration to Rannald’s proposal. After all,” he added with a smile, “when have the Sentinels involved themselves in politics? Never, as far as I am aware. I think that, in and of itself, should warrant our careful deliberation.”

  Puzzled expressions spread throughout the room, then quickly turned into calculating gazes. What did the Sentinels have to gain from such a proposal? Why now, here? What interest did they have in the Naruvian? The truth was, Yarid only wanted to buy himself some time to think it out. He thrived in chaos; that was his true element. But that was only because he usually was the most unpredictable force in play. He didn’t like that both Tharadis and Rannald had chosen to trump Yarid in that regard. It also didn’t hurt to remind Rannald that the key players in this little drama were the Council. It was their decision, after all.

  Rannald Firnaleos was studying Yarid with interest.

  Yarid ignored him. While the discussion resumed at a more civilized level, Sherin walked out. Yarid watched her go, wondering if Rannald’s decision to take up the sword again would have any effect on their marriage. While they tended to be rather private—and secure against any breaches of privacy, much to Yarid’s chagrin—everyone knew that Sherin’s rigid pacifism and Rannald’s captaincy were a source of conflict within their marriage, and it was always assumed that his unwillingness to hold a sword was some sort of compromise for the sake of their relationship. If it was, then perhaps certain opportunities, previously hanging from the tree, were ripe enough to bear fruit for one watching the ground. And what delicious fruit it would be.

  However, it was just as possible that this could have cemented their relationship by the very fact that Rannald was doing this to stop a war. It could make her feel like a fool, perhaps even change her mind about things. Probably not, though. Pacifists were stubborn, unreasonable creatures by nature, and Sherin more so than most.

  More urgent, however, was the current situation. Before joining the Sentinels and eventually becoming their Captain, Rannald had led a rebellion in Caney Forks, a swampland which had been the last holdout of slavery in the Accord. He hadn’t been a slave himself, but he had convinced them to take up arms and fight their way to freedom. The rebel forces were crushed of course—slaves had no chance against trained soldiers—but the Council had stepped in to ensure Caney Forks ended their practice. It was one of the few times Yarid had failed to sway the Council, and that failure still stung.

  Rannald had survived the war, and for good reason: he had killed every man in his path. He had developed a reputation as an absolute monster on the battlefield—but he was only one man, and couldn’t fight every battle himself. But those where he did fight, he won.

  Of course, Rannald hadn’t touched a sword in years, so his skills could have suffered from neglect. And no one really knew anything about Tharadis. Stories had trickled up from Naruvieth about how he had killed his way into the position of Warden, slaughtering all the men in his way. Some say it was only a dozen deaths between Tharadis and his office, while more preposterous estimates claim it was an army he had butchered. Rumors like that always had the stink of exaggeration about them, but these were rather consistent in that the spilling of blood was involved.

  And there was that strange blue sword. Would that be enough to hand the advantage to even an average swordsman? Even if it wasn’t enough to help him defeat Rannald, it should make the odds a little more interesting.

  After an admonition by Frandera that this sort of decision would be final, a vote was called. Yarid made it clear, with a few subtle gestures and glances, that he would be calling in favors for some of those who seemed to vote opposite the way he wanted. Some of those favors would be wasted, he knew. It was likely for some of them, their show of indecision was simply that—a show, and their “favor” of voting the way Yarid wanted was what they were planning to do anyway. But it was important enough that he would rather waste favors than see anything but an interesting outcome.

  The tally was counted.

  The Council was in favor of Rannald’s solution, trial by combat.

  That meant it was all up to Tharadis.

  Rannald turned to the man and whispered something to him. Councilors leaned forward, but Yarid could tell that they, like he, were unable to hear what was said. None of the functionaries bothered to lean forward; they presumably didn’t want to push their faces through a wall of Sentinels that had their swords drawn.

  Tharadis’s eyes widened briefly, then he nodded.

  Aloud, he said, “I accept the terms.” His eyes met Rannald’s. “Trial by combat for the fate of the Runeway, and of Naruvieth.”

  If tension were a taste in the air, Yarid would be gagging. The two of them squared off. Rannald stood as though the sword in his hand were an unnatural thing one moment, though the next it seemed as if he had reattached a long-lost limb. Tharadis took a deep breath, unsheathed his own sword, and lifted it over his head in that same strange stance as before.

  Rannald saw that and started, as if slapped. Of all the things that could possibly happen next, he begun to chuckle low in his throat, as if something had been confirmed for him.

  This would be the first time that blood would ever have been spilled in the Council Chambers. Many of the Councilors seemed hungry for it.

  Rannald was the first to move.

  It wasn’t a move Yarid—or anyone else, for that matter—could have expected. In much the same way as Rannald’s man had first presented his sword, Rannald dropped to a knee, bowed his head, and offered Tharadis the hilt.

  Tharadis, for his part, tapped the edge of his own sword against Rannald’s shoulder. A muffled clang rose up from his cloaked breastplate and Rannald staggered, as if the weight of such a gentle tap were a burden with the weight of the world.

  Tharadis sheathed his sword and took the one offered. “I declare you vanquished.” He raised the sword. “And the matter of the continued construction of the Runeway, as witnessed and agreed to by all involved parties, is now resolved. You are legally prohibited by the very law upon which your authority rests from resuming construction. Should you choose to continue, you would thus be choosing to violate the Accord, and all claims to office or authority would be henceforth forfeit.”

  Sint stabbed an accusing finger in Tharadis’s direction. “Even though you cheated!”

  Rannald’s jaw tightened as he stood. “There was no cheating here, Councilor. Every aspect of this trial by combat was lawful and binding.” He turned to the crowd of lessers. “Isn’t that correct?”

  That same clerk, sounding much-harassed, said,
“Confirmed.”

  “Besides,” Rannald continued, more calmly, “the Council often declares that it is the citizen’s responsibility to know the law, and that ignorance of the law is no excuse for breaking it.” He cocked his head and blinked innocently. “Does the Council regard itself as above such limitations?”

  “Point taken, Captain,” said Frandera, “though we could all do without the sarcasm.” She sighed as she turned to Erianna, who was still leaning against wall with her arms folded, face empty of expression. “I believe you now have much to tell your mistress, proxy.”

  Erianna straightened and strode to the center of the Pit. “She will not be happy.” For her part, the proxy sounded like she couldn’t care less how her mistress felt about the situation.

  Frandera faked a smile. “Well, once she appears, we will be happy to discuss it with her further. Until then, I believe we may call this session of the Council of the Wall to recess.”

  * * *

  Yarid made himself scarce by ducking into the hallway before anyone else could. He didn’t want anyone to ask him why he made them vote in favor of the trial by combat if it were only to end with Tharadis winning—even if it was by default. He knew that’s what they would think. As if it was Yarid’s fault! Besides, if they were so concerned about it, they should have never gotten themselves indebted to him.

  But honestly, he was less concerned with the other Councilors than he would if they were a cloud of gnats. He was more interested in the outcome. The Runeway, once it was supposed to have been built, would have been a constant, something those of weaker mind and constitution would be able to count on. A man like Yarid, who thrived on constant change, had little to gain from such a thing, despite all of its supposed advantages.