The Three Lands Omnibus (2011 Edition)

by Dusk Peterson

  "Do you have questions of your own?" Wystan asked. "I know that Carle is well qualified to answer questions you have about the patrol, but if you have any general questions about the army, I would be glad to answer them."

  I frantically searched my mind for an appropriate question. Fortunately, the sun shone forth at that moment, and a shaft of light travelled through the tent gap, onto Wystan. His neck-brooch shone like a reflection of the sun.

  "I was wondering about the brooches, sir," I said, with my eye on the gold brooch before me. "Most of the patrol guards wear iron brooches, but a few of them – including Sublieutenant Carle – wear copper brooches, and Lieutenant Quentin wears a silver brooch. I asked Sublieutenant Carle about this, but he didn't seem to want to talk about it."

  "I am hardly surprised," said Wystan. "Your sublieutenant is a modest man." He rose to his feet, and after a moment I realized that I ought to do the same, and so I jumped up and watched as Wystan walked over to close the gap in the tent covering. As he did so, he said, "The brooches are awarded by the subcommander of the Emorian Army for honor and courage. The copper brooch is for great honor, and if a soldier should distinguish himself a second time, he is presented with a silver brooch for greater honor."

  "And the gold brooch is for greatest honor," I said, keeping my gaze fixed on Wystan's brooch.

  Wystan laughed then as he tossed dirt onto the brazier to douse the flames. "Do not assume that my brooch is higher in honor than Sublieutenant Carle's. Each unit in the Emorian Army establishes its own criteria for what constitutes honor, and the brooches are presented accordingly. I received my brooch in the regular army, which has lower standards than the special divisions – that is to say, the vanguard, the Border Division, and the Division of Disclosure. The highest standards of all exist in the border mountain patrol, with good reason. If we awarded brooches to patrol guards on the same basis that other soldiers are honored, every patrol guard would be awarded a gold brooch before the end of his first year. Those who were still alive, that is." His gaze slid over to me.

  I recognized what he was telling me – not only that the honor of being a patrol guard was the greatest, but also that the danger was the greatest. I did my best to straighten my back and look like the type of man who fearlessly faces death. The results must have been amusing, because a smile flickered across Wystan's face, quickly suppressed.

  I abandoned the effort and asked, "What type of act brings such an award in the patrol, sir?"

  "Acts that are in the tradition of the patrol," he replied promptly, seating himself once more. "That is to say, acts which no man with the slightest amount of sanity would perform. If you were to fling yourself unarmed onto a blade-wielding breacher, without the faintest hope that you would survive the encounter, that might earn you an honor brooch. I say 'might,' because your act would need to have been witnessed by at least two other guards, while at least two-thirds of the patrol – including one of its officials – would need to have agreed that your act was a model for other patrol guards." He smiled as I reseated myself on a stool. "Even so, the border mountain patrol is the most heavily honored unit in the Chara's armies. The patrol shields its honor jealously, and it admits no man to its ranks unless the patrol believes that he will match the honor of past guards."

  I thought of my broken vow; and of Fowler, lying wounded in the city physicians' house; and of myself, standing trial for my crime; and I felt the darkness of the day lower itself upon me. I was still trying to figure out how to save Wystan the words he must say next when he added softly, "Which is why I consider it one of my greatest privileges to welcome to the Emorian army those men whom the patrol believes meet those standards. Here is your own brooch, which, I assure you, shines more brightly in the eyes of the world than my own." And he placed into my hand an army brooch of dull iron.

  So then he called Carle back into the tent to be witness, and I gave my oath of loyalty to the Chara by way of Wystan, and afterwards I couldn't remember why I had felt disappointed at the beginning of the visit.

  o—o—o

  The twenty-fifth day of October in the 940th year a.g.l.

  Today I, Soldier Adrian of the Border Mountain Patrol of the Emorian Army of the Chara's Imperial Armies, was fitted for a uniform.

  Actually, it doesn't look much different from the lesser free-man's tunic I was wearing before. I was also fitted for boots, and afterwards Carle took me to the armory so that I could select my blades.

  "You have your choice," explained Carle, handing me a sword. "Have you ever had a close look at an Emorian-style blade?"

  I examined carefully the sword. It was heavier than any I'd held before, and the hilt was guarded by curving metal that was evidently meant to protect the hand.

  "I like this better than Koretian-style swords," I said, moving the sword from side to side to check its balance.

  Carle nodded. "I thought you might. I prefer Koretian swords myself, because of their lighter weight. I suppose you've never fought with a sword before."

  Actually, I had. Hamar used to let me borrow his sword, and he'd borrow Father's, and we'd practice together. But of course I couldn't tell Carle that, so I said carefully, "I have on a few occasions. The baron's son in our village was generous about loaning out his sword."

  "Ah, yes; the baron's son in my village was the same way. Now, then—" Carle unsheathed his sword in a move that dazzled the eye, and held it in readiness. In the next moment, I had my new sword poised, and we began to fight.

  The armorer watched us with a mirthful smile. We were in the cramped space of his tent, along with other soldiers who had taken shelter from the never-ending drizzle of rain. This is the third time it has rained since we arrived in Emor, and I'm beginning to wonder whether I'll ever see the sun again.

  I concentrated my initial efforts on not killing accidentally any of the men standing nearby. Within a short time, my efforts were focussed on staying alive. The best bladesman I ever knew was my cousin Emlyn, but if he had met Carle, I think he would have hesitated before challenging Carle to a duel. Carle's sword sliced through my barriers as though he were cutting soft cheese, his blade-tip always withdrawing before it touched flesh. Obviously he was aiming for disarming rather than first blood, so I clenched my teeth and tried to follow suit. After three sweaty minutes, I finally succeeded in flicking my blade upward at the very moment that Carle's was sliding past.

  His sword went flying, nearly decapitating a bottom-ranked soldier who was leaning forward to watch better. The soldiers had been chatting lightly with one another throughout the fight; now silence fell like a corpse upon the crowd. The armorer was no longer smiling.

  The tip of my blade was touching Carle's throat. I hastily withdrew it and sheathed my sword, saying, "I'm sorry – did I use a forbidden move?"

  Carle was breathing heavily from the fight; his eyes were unfocussed. Several seconds passed before he smiled and said, "Don't ask that question to a Koretian breacher. He'd geld you in order to teach you the meaning of 'forbidden moves' in Koretia."

  Several of the men laughed, and everyone turned their attention away from us as Carle scooped his sword off the dirt floor. "I won't have to worry about whether you can guard my back," he said. "I should have guessed you'd be skilled. I suppose you received your first blade when you were seven or eight years old?"

  "Six," I replied. "My cousin Emlyn gave me my first dagger as a gift when he moved south."

  "I received my first blade when I was fifteen," said Carle; then he laughed as I struggled to control my expression. "It's the custom in Emor – and the main reason why so many patrol guards die in their first year. We're ill-trained in comparison to Koretian bladesmen, though fear of imminent death is an effective incentive to improve our skills." He reached under the edge of his tunic, and when his hand came into sight again, he was holding a sliver of metal. "This is one area where you'll need training," he said.

  And so he explained to me how to hold a thigh-dagger and how
to wield it in combat, and I listened impatiently until he handed me the dagger, and then we had to wait for the armorer to hunt up a bowl of water and strips of cloth, and after Carle had washed and bandaged my hand he told me again how to hold a thigh-dagger, and I managed to do it properly the second time.

  The other soldiers were very amused.

  o—o—o

  The twenty-sixth day of October in the 940th year a.g.l.

  This is our last day in Emor. We spent most of today doing tasks for Quentin that were easier accomplished by messenger than by message. Carle went over to the city physicians' house briefly, in order to check on Fowler and to confirm that he will recover within a month's time. At the end of the day – a day when it miraculously did not rain – we sat with our backs against the exterior of the inner palace wall.

  From where we sat, we could see the sweep of the army headquarters just below us, nestled at the northern foot of Palace Hill: tents and banners and horses and milling men, squeezed tight together yet spreading, it seemed, halfway to the horizon. It's hard to believe that the headquarters houses only the Home Division and the vanguard, and that the greater part of the Chara's armies is scattered throughout the empire.

  I looked over at Carle, but his head was tilted back, and I saw that his gaze was directed further toward the horizon. From where we sat, the line of the horizon was blocked by a series of low mountains – foothills, really – that interrupted the rolling fields of lower Southern Emor. One low mountain stood out from the rest, being slightly forward of the others, and I could see that immediately behind it was another mountain, slightly higher, and still another mountain behind them, though this was almost hidden by the haze at the horizon. The flattened peaks looked like the knobby spine of an animal.

  "Those are signal-fire mountains," Carle said, seeing where my gaze was now fixed. "When a fire is lit on one of them, it can be seen on the next mountain in the chain. The signal-fire mountains reach all of the way up to the Central Provinces."

  "Why are the fires lit?" I asked. "To warn of war?"

  "On rare occasions," said Carle. "Tell me, what do you think it will be like patrolling the mountains when the snows come?"

  I was unsettled by the rapid change of subject. A moment later, I was even more unsettled as I began to think my answer through. I've actually seen snow before; in the borderland, it snows occasionally, so I've witnessed the feather-fall of moist flakes from the sky. It always seemed quite peaceful on our side of the mountain.

  On the other side, it was different. The mountain winds, howling almost ceaselessly through the mountain passes, whirled a wall of blinding whiteness against any passersby. Father had forbidden Hamar and me from visiting the northern side of our mountain when it snowed, and after one numbing, panic-raising visit, Hamar and I had complied with this order.

  Carle had been watching my face carefully. Now he gave a short laugh. "Don't worry, our sacrifices to the Chara aren't that high. So few breachers try to cross the border during the winter that keeping us in the mountains isn't worth the number of patrol guards who would die if we were forced to remain there. The patrol is withdrawn during the snow season. The trouble is in predicting when that season begins."

  As he spoke, the light wind continued to buffet our face. Above us, dark clouds rolled in endless waves across the skies. The shadow of one such cloud thundered silently past us, faster than a galloping horse.

  I understood then. "So the signal fires are to warn that the snow is coming?"

  Carle nodded. "The signal fires are the only messages that can move faster than the storm clouds; even the Chara's messengers aren't that quick. Of course, sometimes the storms halt before reaching the mountains, but Captain Wystan can't take that chance. As soon as he receives word through the signal fires of the storm's approach, he sends a sealed message to Quentin. Sometimes the warning arrives a few days ahead of the storm, and sometimes it arrives only a few hours ahead."

  "Why a sealed message?" I asked.

  One side of Carle's mouth twisted upward into a wry smile. "Because our lieutenant has the unenviable task of deciding when to withdraw us from the mountains. Late autumn is the time of year when any Koretian who knows what he's doing tries to breach the border, so we stay in the mountains until the final moment possible, in order that we can catch any Koretian making a last-minute trip. When to leave is the lieutenant's decision, and while he has never miscalculated our withdrawal, I don't envy him his job."

  I considered this, stretching my legs out onto the damp grass and feeling the shadows of the grey clouds scurry over my body. The stones behind me were grey with old age, but new mortar kept them firmly in place. Everything below us looked newborn: the bright weapons, the attentive guards at the camp's perimeter, the crisp orders being shouted by a subcaptain. Yet all that I saw and heard was a thousand years old.

  "Carle, why did you become a mountain patrol guard?" I heard myself ask.

  Carle took the wine flask from my hand and sipped from it before saying, "Because of the Law of Vengeance, I suppose."

  "The Law of Vengeance?" I felt my heartbeat increase. I've resigned myself to the fact that the law seems to have the same effect on me as a rich meal does on a glutton, or as a beautiful woman does on a lecher. "You mentioned that law once. What is it about?"

  After a moment, I turned my head and found that Carle was gazing upon me with the sort of expression I might wear if he had asked me the names of the seven gods and goddesses of Koretia. His voice was matter-of-fact, though, as he said, "The Law of Vengeance concerns the third of the Great Three crimes that can be committed against the Chara – the crimes that the Chara alone may judge. The other two crimes are described in the Law of Grave Iniquity and the Law of Bloodshed. Some day soon I'll recite to you the Justification of the Law of Vengeance; the Justification is the portion of a law that describes why the law exists. That Justification's passage on the burdens of the Chara is one that every schoolboy in Emor is required to learn. Less well known, though, is the sixth division . . ."

  "Wait," I said. "You told me yesterday that Emorian laws are divided into five parts."

  "All except the Great Three." Carle's gaze was fixed on the nearest of the signal-mountains. He had not raised the wine flask to his lips for several minutes. His voice was soft as he said, "The Great Three are the oldest laws in this land, so they retain a division that all of the older laws must have included at one time: the sacrifice division, allowing any man to offer up his body or life in exchange for that of a condemned prisoner. The chronicles say that this division was treated with great seriousness on the few occasions when it was invoked. Not only was the man punished in the appropriate manner, but he took on all of the guilt and dishonor that rightfully belonged to the prisoner. The prisoner was freed of his pain, his death, and his shame. The other man bore all of this for the prisoner's sake."

  The wind continued to buffet us with its hand; the black clouds hovered over us, low and heavy with rain. From the city walls to the mountains lay fields filled with sheep and horses, lazy under the patchy sunlight.

  "You said that the division 'was' invoked," I said finally. "It's not used any more? No one today offers up their life that way?"

  Carle smiled, saying nothing. Beyond the army camp, beyond the outer palace wall, lay the buildings of the capital city of Emor: law houses, market stalls, community halls, and homes. And beyond our sight, hidden by the palace that threw its shadow over the whole eastern portion of the city, lay the city physicians' house, where a patrol guard lay drugged, suffering from the pain of a blade inflicted by a law-breaking Koretian.

  "I see." My voice was low. I was struggling with the knowledge of a burden taken on – the knowledge of how far the Chara's mercy extended, and who took on the weight of seeing that his mercy was carried out. I should have known, I thought, from the moment that Quentin bloodied his hand in his effort to save my life.

  We sat a while longer, until it grew too dark to see the cloud
s hiding the stars above, and then we walked back to Neville's house as the rain began to fall on the green and golden fields.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The twenty-seventh day of October in the 940th year a.g.l.

  I am now a patrol guard. Oh, I know that I've been a guard since the moment I gave my oath of loyalty, but I didn't really feel it until this morning, when Carle and I arrived back at the patrol hut, and everyone ignored me.

  We arrived shortly before dawn, when the day patrol was finishing breaking its fast. One or two of the other guards broke off their conversations to greet Carle, but no one said anything to me. I felt cold all through, wondering whether, in the time I'd been gone, the others had changed their minds about wanting me as a fellow guard. Carle, though, seemed cheerfully unaware of what was happening. He went over to chat with Iain while I spooned bean porridge from the pot and tried to pretend that everything was fine.

  The night patrol arrived soon afterwards, all of the guards weary in body and face except for the lieutenant, who always looks quietly alert. None of them greeted me, not even Quentin. Instead, Quentin went over to talk to the day patrol while the rest of the night patrol gathered round Carle and started teasing him about the ladies they suggested he must have spent his time courting during his visit to the city. I was just beginning to wonder whether the porridge had been poisoned, for I felt quite sick to my stomach, when Carle glanced at the violet-pink sky and announced, "Time for work, I would say." Casually, as though he'd done it a thousand times before, he unsheathed his sword and passed its blade over the flames before sheathing it and walking slowly toward the tunnel that leads out of the hollow. He had not looked my way since our arrival back.