Julan felt the lump on his neck, felt how tender and swollen it was. He remembered the Widow’s bite. He remembered what felt now like a dream. He also remembered that he’d been bitten before, on the nights of his dreams of Kalissa and the dark dread fortress in the Abandoned Lands.
“You should have shown yourself to me earlier, Widow.”
Julan wasn’t sure that he believed that. He couldn’t change the past; nor, despite the turmoil he felt now, did he really want to. He had loved Kalissa dearly and would not have changed that bit for all the world.
Yet there was one thing he would have changed, perhaps, if given the chance, but there was none. All he had to work with was the future, if there was to be one. Julan rolled up his blanket. He no longer thought of guides and help; he knew the way. Despite that, Julan wasn’t terribly surprised to see the spider waiting, looking at him from the rocks.
Julan sighed. “I thought the voice was familiar. You were speaking though the spider all along, weren’t you?”
“Which is only one of the things you would have realized much sooner, had you been paying attention. You really are a dolt, you know.”
“Perhaps, but I am learning. I know what your venom can do, Widow. Did I dream it all? My return to your fortress, everything?”
“It’s not my responsibility to tell you what’s real and what isn’t, Julan. You have to decide that for yourself; it’s part of growing up.”
“I’m not a child, Widow. At least, not now.”
The spider shrugged. “As you say. So . . . questing again?”
Julan shook his head. “Not this time. More like traveling to a place I need to be.”
“You’re bringing your sword,” she said.
He nodded, affably. “I may need that, too.”
The spider clicked her mandibles. “I guarantee you will. So. What will you do this time? Rescue your Death? Mine? Both? Neither?”
Now Julan smiled. “You have all the answers, Lady — answer that one. Better yet, answer this one: not that it makes any difference, but I suppose I’ll have to deal with the Guardian this time around? Will her fangs be as sharp? Her visage as terrible?”
“Oh, yes.” The spider’s eyes glittered. “Whatever you think, whatever you intend or believe, I won’t make it easy for you. Just so you know—You’re going to pay for making me wait.”
He smiled at her. “Fair enough.”
For fifty years all the folk of the known world had called Julan a hero. Now, so long after his greatest adventure supposedly ended, Julan the Lucky thought perhaps it was time to see if they were right.
Courting the Lady Scythe
Jassa son of Noban was a handsome young man of limited ambition, which was to say he had only one—to woo and to win the girl called Lady Scythe. It was a frustrating ambition, to say the very least.
It was noon on Culling Day and the crowd along the Aversan Way was barely a crowd at all, by the standards of the city. Most citizens kept off the streets of Thornall during this time if they could. Those who didn’t were either the unfortunates who had friends and relatives given to Lady Scythe or the unfortunates with business that could not be delayed or the triply unfortunate with lives so wretched they enjoyed the spectacle of any sorrow they did not share. Whatever their reasons, they made way quickly for the Watchers, the traditional Guardians of the Emperor’s Justice.
Jassa sat in a niche high up on the remnants of an ancient wall along the equally ancient street. Hardly anyone remembered why the Aversan Way had been named for a purely mythical creature or why there had once been a massive wall running alongside it. Jassa didn’t know, any more than he knew the tale of how Lady Scythe’s family had become the hereditary Executioners of the Emperor’s Pleasure in Thornall. Nor did Jassa care. All that mattered was that Lady Scythe—whose proper name, rumor had it, was Aserafel—had outlived her father to become the sole descendent of her noble house. All its rights and burdens now fell to her, and today that meant he’d get to see her.
Jassa sighed a lover’s sigh, and the thought returned like a revenant in a particularly stubborn haunting. If only I could speak to her . . .
It was not possible. The only time Aserafel left her family’s holdings was on Culling Day and, by ancient decree, only representatives of the Emperor himself could approach her then. All others risked instant death. It was for her own protection, Jassa realized, but it certainly did complicate matters. As for appearing at the lady’s door to present his suit, that was unthinkable.
Which is not to say Jassa didn’t try it. The doorkeeper had looked Jassa up and down, made the only judgment possible, and sent him away. Now he sat and waited. Just to see her. It was all he could do.
“Make way!” shouted a Watcher, but his command wasn’t really needed. The street was almost clear now. Most people left had moved off the road and now ringed the ancient common. The Watchers took up their positions at the four corners, gleaming in steel and bronze. Then came the Device, pulled by a matched team of black geldings along the Aversan Way and then into the center of the common by the monumental statue of Somna the Dreamer.
Jassa didn’t have his blacksmith father’s genius for iron and steel, but he had a fair eye for the practical applications of metalwork. The Device consisted of a platform raised to about shoulder height, with a smooth steel framework mounted just beneath a circular opening in the center. The mechanism itself was spring-loaded, though most of the actual working parts were hidden inside the platform itself. The mechanism was armed by a crank mounted on top of the platform near the driver. The victim placed his head within the metal frame underneath the opening and, when the mechanism was triggered, the unfortunate’s neck would be at once stretched to its full length and then neatly severed at the base by a hidden blade. Painless, or at least so quick that it probably didn’t matter. Not that anyone had been able to complain.
Not as clumsy as an axe nor requiring the skill of a swordsman. Consistent. Practical. The same for all who suffered the Emperor’s Justice at Thornall, high or low born alike. The one thing you could say about a machine that you could say about almost nothing else—it was fair.
The condemned arrived first. Three today, two young and one old. That was two more than usual; the troubles in the coastal province at Darsa had raised the level of death across the entire Empire. All of the condemned had been stripped to their breeks, their arms bound behind them. They were paraded through the crowd by a contingent of four more Watchers, who brought them to the base of the Device and left them there, then took up their positions about the execution machine. The prisoners stood blinking in the sunlight, pale and frightened to a man, but they did not try to run. There was nowhere to go.
Jassa’s breath caught in his throat. Lady Scythe.
She arrived riding a bone white stallion, her one nod to tradition. Jassa was old enough to remember her father making his entrance in a costume that matched the color of his mount, bearing a scythe of polished silver and wearing a death’s-head mask and a crown of thornwood. None of this for Lady Scythe. Her hair was red gold and unbound; she was dressed in a plain flowing skirt and a laced bodice. A less discerning eye could have mistaken her for a barmaid, if it wasn’t for the chain of gold about her neck and the fine leather boots and gilt spurs she wore as well.
She could make her work more of a spectacle, as her father did. I wonder why she does not.
Such trappings weren’t required, but, when he thought of it, Jassa could see their value. Any ruler would take heads when the need arose. Do it too often—even at need—and discontent could follow. Wrap such in enough legal form, plus a little mystery and ritual and your subjects could almost forget that the real point of this show was to end the lives of three men. But when Lady Scythe was at work, there was no question of why the three wretches in question were present.
She drew rein on the common and said, in a clear sweet voice. “The Emperor has commanded. All will obey.”
No one else spoke or made any more noise than
a must. The occasional cough, or a shifting of feet, or, here and there, muted sobs. The three condemned men turned to face her as she climbed down from her mount. A Watcher took the reins.
Aserafel’s face was unreadable. She did not speak again. She walked briskly to the side of the machine and removed a small cloth that covered the trigger. A Watcher gave the command: “Set!”
The driver turned the crank until it would turn no more. Lady Scythe nodded at a Watcher and he led the first young man to the harness. The condemned man placed his head into the harness; the harness itself was mounted in such a way that the condemned looked full into the eyes of his executioner.
Will it happen?
It did, just as the mystery had occurred with all other executions he had seen his love perform. Just before she pulled the lever, Lady Scythe said something. Jassa did not hear; he could only see her lips move. He wondered if anyone did hear, except the condemned. Jassa was too far away to be sure, but he could almost swore that the man looked, well, astonished. Then Lady Scythe pulled the lever and the man’s headless torso fell on the green. The twitched once and was still. There was a low moan from the crowd. A young girl fell into the arms of an older woman, who stared with silent grief at the dead man.
“Set!”
Again the preparation was made, again the younger man was taken first, as was the custom. Lady Scythe’s whisper, and then the second man’s fell alongside the first.
“Set!”
The old man had stood perfectly still all this time, but when the Watcher came for him, he did not move. The Watcher tugged at his arm and the old man pulled away. He stared at the machine, his eyes wild, and he would not take a step farther. The Watcher motioned to two of his comrades and they hurried forward, grabbing the old man from either side.
“No! I’m not ready!”
Jassa shook his head. Do not resist, Old Man. It will only mean more pain for you and might cause my lady grief.
The old man didn’t seem to consider Lady Scythe’s feelings. He was still attached to life and meant to stay that way. He struggled with more and more desperation as the guards pulled him closer and closer to death. He almost broke free, and one guard raised a mailed fist over the poor man’s head.
“Stop!”
The fist halted in mid-strike. Even the condemned man ceased struggling. He watched with the others as Lady Scythe walked up to him and held out her slim hand. The Watchers glanced at each other, then at her, and they let go of the old man and stepped back.
The old man looked confused. He stood unmoving for a moment, then he took her hand and she stood on tiptoe to whisper something in his ear. He drew himself up to his full height; for a moment the years seemed to fall away and Jassa could imagine what he must have been like once. The old man smiled then and let the girl lead him very slowly to the machine. In a moment he was in the harness, stoic and patient as a stone. In another moment he was dead.
Lady Scythe climbed the steps to the top of the machine and the driver bowed low. She reached down and, one after another, lifted the severed heads and held them high for the crowd to see. Then all was done. She climbed down and reclaimed her mount and soon she had disappeared back down the Aversan Way with her execution machine and the Watchers following in her wake.
It was only then that the lamentations began, as the relatives and lovers and friends came to claim the bodies.
“I want what I can never have. It’s foolish.”
Jassa found himself wandering down the Aversan Way in the opposite direction from his love, out toward the ruins of the city walls, out toward the Weslan Gate. He was thinking, what little could be called thinking amidst the brooding, that he would take a long walk in the countryside to clear his head and his mood. It had been some time since Jassa had passed this way; he had quite forgotten about the Storytellers.
No one knew for how long the men and women who called themselves Storytellers had been meeting by the Weslan Gate. Idlers they were called by many, beggars by those who did not know them. In the late afternoon they would leave their homes and shops and forges and sit in groups on the grass by the ruined stone arch and tell stories. They did not ask for money; they did not ask for anything except time and attention. Needless to say, such were not in abundance. When listeners were scarce, as they often were, the Storytellers would form in circles and tell stories to each other.
They were not necessarily the kindest of listeners.
“Fah! You call that a tale, Lata?” An older man looked with disdain upon a young girl while the others of their circle, men and women, young and old, watched and smiled.
“I serve Somna as best I can, Tobas.” The young girl spread her hands in supplication. There was a twinkle in her eye and she showed no signs of anger.
“You serve the goddess’s aspect of bringer of sleep and ease,” returned the man called Tobas. “A worthy goal, but personally I prefer my listeners to be awake.”
“When was the last time you had a listener, Tobas?” Lata asked sweetly. Laughter all around. Tobas looked outraged, but it was clear that none of them meant a word.
Liars, of a sort. Jassa started to walk by.
“I have a listener now, friends,” Tobas said. He looked right at Jassa. “Hello, young man. Have a seat.”
Jassa blinked. “Ah . . . no, thank you. I was just out for a walk.”
“But you were listening, at least for a bit.” He smiled at Jassa. “So as long as you’re here, I’d like you to help me settle a difference I’m having with this talentless lot—” he indicated the circle with a wave of his hand. “They say that no one appreciates stories anymore. What say you?”
“Well . . . I used to,” Jassa answered frankly. “It’s been some time.”
“And why did you stop? Too busy? Too mature? Too much involved with the day to day burden of living your life?”
“All of that,” Jassa said. “And the fact that they were almost never true.”
“They’re almost always true,” Tobas corrected. “They just may not have actually happened. But there are true stories. If you would hear a story, you would rather it be a factual one?”
“Of course.”
“Then let me grant your wish. Sit down.”
Maybe because he really had nothing better to do, or maybe because there was no good reason not to, Jassa sat down. “May I choose the story, then?” he asked. He was feeling a little mischievous himself. Tobas nodded, and Jassa went on. “I want to know how the Aversan Way got its name.”
“Well then—if the story will come to me, then I will tell it,” Tobas said, and Jassa just smiled. Tobas returned that smile. “What troubles you, friend? The fact that no one alive knows that particular story?” Jassa nodded, and the girl shook her head. “You’re wrong. Somna does.”
“And does Somna speak to the Storytellers?” Jassa asked.
“Somna speaks to all,” Tobas said. “But sometimes she speaks most clearly through us. Now be silent for a moment. I must see if there is a story for this young man.”
Tobas closed his eyes while the murmur of voices from his circle quieted. Jassa watched, noting that Tobas’s lips were moving.
Doubtless practicing the first lie . . . Jassa was ashamed of the thought from the moment it was born, for it was clear that Tobas wasn’t trying on words for effect—he was praying. The other members of the circle, eyes closed, heads down, were doing the same. Jassa didn’t move for several long moments from pure astonishment, and by the time it occurred to him to try and slip away, it was too late. Tobas opened his eyes.
“There is a story for you, young sir. A short one, but no less a thing for all that.”
Jassa licked his lips, suddenly dry. “I would like to hear it.”
Tobas nodded. “It was the dawn of the Third Age,” he said, in a tone subtly different from his normal speech. “At this time, men and the Firstborn of Somna, the special ones that we call Aversa, were still sharing the world, although uneasily. Our ancestors’ hate and
fear of the Aversa had already begun to show itself, but together one of the Firstborn and those who were our distant fathers raised the stones that were to become Thornall.”
“Why?” asked Lata.
“Because the Aversa knew that harmony is pleasing to Somna,” Tobas replied. “She sought to serve. Our ancestors were content to let her.”
“Why?” asked an old man across the circle.
“Because men knew that the powers of the Aversa would make their work go more quickly,” Tobas said. “Then as now, they sought their advantage.”
Jassa could see the stony expressions of the others in the circle and knew that whatever had touched that one storyteller had grasped them all. He spoke carefully. “Why did our people hate and fear the Aversa?”
“Because every one of them had more power than all of our distant fathers combined. Because there was nothing of them that was part of our fathers, save for Somna who created both. While Somna dreams she creates our world. The Aversa share a bit of that sleep, as well as the dream. Any one of them could remake the world, up to a point, and no one of our fathers knew what that point might be. Uncertainty breeds fear like cattle.”
“What happened?”
“The walls were finished. The Temple of Somna was finished. Our distant fathers tried to slay the Aversa as soon as this was done. They failed. With a word she broke the temple and then walked out of the city, along the path still called the Aversan Way, through the Weslan gate. When she stood beneath it, the walls fell. All except the Weslan gate, where we gather to this very day.”
“Where did the Aversa go?”
“To Loga’s Well, at the foot the Gralat Mountains, which some call Gahan’s Spine—” Tobas shook himself, and his features relaxed. The others in the circle followed him as if on cue. Perhaps it was planned that way. Jassa did not think so.
“Did I go too far?” Tobas asked the others. He seemed to have forgotten about Jassa.
“The lad’s question was unforeseen and ill-timed,” said the old man who had spoken before. “but, if you were not meant to speak the answer, it would not have been spoken.”
On the Banks of the River of Heaven Page 19