by Kage Baker
Quickfire took up the model, resting it in the crook of his arm. The simulacrum placed its hand on his shoulder and leaned forward, as though whispering in his ear. He pointed the model at an obelisk, carved with the names of past council heads, that stood in the center of the yard.
There was no sound; there was no flare of light. The obelisk merely sparkled and dissolved into red sand that fell in a heap and smoked where it lay. “Gods below,” said the council head.
“Hardly,” said the simulacrum with pride.
“Doubt me now?” said Duke Salting, grinning at the council head. “I didn’t think you would. What about a little cooperation?”
The council head reached out distractedly and caught the sleeve of one of his subordinates. “Go. Run to the storehouse and have them open it to the duke’s men. No paperwork; the army can take what they like.”
The subordinate turned and ran as he was bid. Fear lent such wings to his heels that he easily passed the duke’s armorer, who was strolling to a certain tavern on the edge of town.
Bettimer found the place easily enough, for it was exactly as it had been described to him. He arrived at its door and paused to examine the bill of fare posted outside, noting the tiny green mark, like a diagonal pen stroke, in the upper right-hand corner of the menu. A moment he stood there, with the package he carried still under his arm; then he went inside.
He ordered bread, wine, and olives and was placidly eating when Mr. Bolt walked in. “Cousin!” said Mr. Bolt with a slight quaver in his voice. “Well, what a surprise. I was coming to visit you in Port Blackrock next month.”
“And instead I’ve come to you,” said Bettimer. “Just as well; I’ve got that present for Cousin Bullion. You’re likely to see him before I do.” He pushed the package across the table to Mr. Bolt.
“So I am,” said Mr. Bolt, unwrapping the package. He withdrew a throwing ax, beautifully ornamented, the polished steel head incised with a pattern of stars that continued down in brass inlay along the wooden handle, terminating in a starred cap of ivory and brass. “Nice!”
“Bread?” Bettimer pushed the loaf toward him too. Mr. Bolt saw spidery words there, punched into the crust with a knife tip: 3 LEFT TURNS OF CAP, THEN PRESS IN THIRD STAR.
“Yes, thank you,” said Mr. Bolt. He put his finger on what he took to be the third star and looked at Bettimer with raised eyebrows. Bettimer nodded almost imperceptibly and handed him his knife. Mr. Bolt cut away the message and ate it. He helped himself to olives too. He rewrapped the ax and ordered a cup of wine.
They chatted about the weather until Mr. Bolt finished his wine. Then he excused himself and, tucking the package under his arm, walked out.
When he passed through the northern gate, he began to hurry.
In a high meadow on the mountain, long ago, an oak tree had grown, not tall but immensely wide, stout, gnarled by seasons of howling wind and driving rain. Its low-hung canopy had spread out over most of an acre. Generations of little creatures lived out their histories in its shelter. Its roots broke rock; it dug in under winter’s wrath and endured and had seemed as though it would always be there.
Then one summer evening in thunder weather, the fire of heaven had flickered down and touched it with the heat of the sun’s face, and it had exploded. Shards of wood hard as flaming iron shot out and buried themselves in the mountainside, or in the trunks of other trees. A whole world died in an instant.
Briefly, there had been fire, before the hot rain came and washed scattered leaves and ash down the mountain. Red coals smoldered on, blinking through the darkness of night like red eyes. Even they died at last. Morning revealed the shattered stump still feebly smoking, hollow. Years of winters bleached it silver, wore its raw edges down. The wide meadow, cleared by wooden shrapnel, remained open to the sky.
Gard stood there now, regarding it somberly. “This will do well enough. Clean it, and set the pavilions up.”
His guard moved across the meadow with rakes and shovels. Some leveled and filled as best they could; others grunted with effort, pulling fragments of old wood out from where they had been driven into the earth like teeth.
“What about the stump, sir?” Arkholoth rapped it with his knuckles, and it rang like steel.
Gard eyed it. “Let it alone. Let it remind them that everything changes.”
The Saint looked up at the waxing moon, faint as though chalked in on the blue of the afternoon sky. She felt the baby kicking and rested her hands on her waxing belly. On either side of her, guards stood by her chair, ready to carry her back up through the postern gate before nightfall.
Her disciples moved across the meadow, setting up tables and mats in each pavilion, sweeping, decorating with pots of sweet herbs, watering the earth to encourage a quick greening. Already little spear-blades of grass had shot up.
Dnuill looked sadly at the stump of the oak, rising implacable against the sky. “We could tie streamers to it. Or train a creeper over it. There’s one in a big planter in the eastern courtyard. That would make it prettier.”
“No,” said the Saint. “Let it serve as a reminder that some things are final and will not change.”
Three days more and the meadow was green, the dozen pavilions shone white in the sun, and the Saint sat under a sunshade by the broken tree, gazing down the mountain. “I don’t trust them,” said Gard, pacing beside her. He wore a plain green tunic, and no barbaric ornaments at all.
“I do,” she replied.
“Wouldn’t we look more like a happily married man and wife if I sat beside you?”
“We would. And later on, we will. But today it would only provoke their anger.”
“I thought holy folk weren’t supposed to get angry.”
“I get angry,” said the Saint. “If I lose my temper, how can I demand that they keep theirs? They will be unhappy enough with what I have to say to them, without adding more fuel to the fire.”
Gard growled, but he knelt before her and kissed her hand. “I’ll go, then, and sit out of sight, like a child being punished. Only for love of you.”
To his astonishment, she put her arms around his neck and drew him close, leaning awkwardly to kiss him. “I love you more than my duty.”
Startled, he drew back a little and looked into her eyes. “You never lie about anything.”
“Never. I love you more than a peaceful life, or reason, or hope. I love you selfishly. Greedily,” she said sadly, stroking back his hair. “All I want in this world is to live with you, in quiet, here; but nothing comes without consequence.
“I could close my eyes and pretend my people weren’t afraid, I could tell myself the trevanion were as good and wise as the Star himself and never act out of pride or spite or prudery. It would be a lie. My duty is to speak the truth to their faces. Do you understand, now, why I must meet them here?”
Gard nodded, not trusting himself to speak. He got to his feet, bending to kiss her again; then he turned and walked off quickly, to the black pavilion pitched at the far edge of the meadow. He went inside and drew the curtain and sat peering out at her through a gap in the fabric.
The trevani Faala was the first to arrive, escorted between Kdwyr and Stedrakh. She ran from between them when she glimpsed the Saint and fell to her knees before her. Smiling, the Saint rose and took her hands.
“Child! Oh, Child, how I’ve prayed for this hour, to see you alive and well!”
“Please, don’t kneel. May I offer you a cup of water?”
“But are you truly all right?”
“You can see that for yourself,” said the Saint. “I am a wife and a mother. This is my home, and no prison.”
“But it looks like a prison,” said Faala, peering distrustfully upward at the black battlements of Gard’s house.
“The skull decorations are for show,” said the Saint firmly. “It doesn’t look like that inside. Sit down, now, and drink.”
She had more or less the same conversation a dozen times, over the next seve
ral hours. One by one the trevanion came up the mountain. Some came fearfully, some came wrathfully. The fearful she calmed and the wrathful she placated, and each of them she presented with a cup of water. Gard rose inside his pavilion and began to pace again, maddened with impatience; jealous, in a puzzled kind of way, that she should give so much of her attention to something so boring.
“Young Mother,” said Jish, embracing the Saint.
“Trevani,” said the Saint. “I’m glad you came.”
“It’s true, then,” said Jish, looking down at the Saint’s waist. “You bear a second child. He will be the one who balances!”
“I beg your pardon?”
“It is my understanding you bore a demon to your husband. This boy will be your own child, and do your work in the world! At which we rejoice.”
The Saint thought of Eyrdway. He had wept and held out his arms to her when she had kissed him good-bye that morning, before Balnshik had distracted him with a jeweled bangle. “Both my sons are my children,” she said, controlling her temper with effort. “And the children of my husband.”
“Of course,” agreed Jish quickly. Looking into her eyes, the Saint saw the tide of whispered rumor that could never be stopped now, the fantasies, the half-truths, the willful misinterpretation, the unjustified opinions or outright lies that would become articles of faith. For a moment she felt her strength would fail her.
And all I can do is speak the truth, she thought. She glanced involuntarily at the black pavilion and wished Gard were at her side.
“Lendreth is coming too, you know,” said Jish.
“I bid him come.”
“Not, I imagine, in the style in which he travels. He goes nowhere, now, without a bodyguard of Mowers. He has trained them in Songs, as though they were trevanion, did you know? But he has made new Songs for them, for fighting, for silent movement, for striking, for concealment. There are no women among them. In fact, they pledge themselves to refrain from love.”
“Why?” asked the Saint, shocked.
“Why, the old story: to give them greater powers of concentration.” Jish actually bared her teeth. “It’s an abomination!”
“It’s wrong. And you are too angry about the things Lendreth does, Jish. I must hear what he has to say.”
“You won’t wait long. I saw him below, starting up the trail as I ascended. Alone, for once; but I saw one of his bullies sneaking along through in the forest behind him.”
Yet Lendreth alone was escorted up to the meadow, striding along with his staff.
He was smiling as he greeted the Saint. “Child.” Surveying her, he added, “And Mother indeed. You seem well and happy! This is excellent. Now I can speak the truth to any fool who still imagines you are languishing in a prison. I can say, ‘I have seen her with my own eyes, and all is well.’ “
“I am glad to know you accept my choice,” said the Saint warily, for he was avoiding looking her in the eye.
“It must be accepted. It is your will. And, to speak truth, it is the natural progress of your destiny. You were sent to free us from our long sorrow. Now that we are free, how can we deny you your own freedom? You deserve the simple happiness all women desire, in a husband and children. That you have them at last delights my heart, and I wish you well.”
“Thank you,” said the Saint. “I wanted to ask you if you’d heard anything of Seni.”
“Seni?” Lendreth looked surprised. “No.”
“I was told she went to Hlinjerith, by the river.”
“Did she? Well, she never could bear change; may she be happy there, with her memories. But we are all here!” Lendreth looked around at the pavilions. “All the trevanion, in one place. How many years has it been since we were all together? You have my congratulations; they’d only have done this for you. May I be permitted to make an opening address?”
“If you wish,” said the Saint, thinking that he had no heart at all.
The last of the trevanion were brought up. Stedrakh and Arkholoth went to stand at attention before the black pavilion, unobtrusively as they were able. Kdwyr went round the pavilions with a basket of codices, each sturdily bound between wooden covers, and the yellow pages within were closely written in a firm, clear hand. He gave one to each of the trevanion.
The Saint rose from her pavilion and stood by the trunk of the shattered oak.
“Brothers and sisters,” she said. “Thank you for making this journey, and coming so bravely to a place so many of you have feared. You can see, now, that it is only a mountain, and that fearful-looking house only my husband’s house. What you cannot see, from the world below, are the gardens he has made for me, the fair bright rooms painted with flowers; but I hope that in time you will see them, as you come to accept my choice.
“The Star taught us to use power in the service of Compassion, to ease suffering. He and I together led you from that valley where our people sorrowed. You know that I have sent trevanion among the Children of the Sun, to heal the sick. Now I have come to live with Gard, among demons, and Compassion again guides me: for your sake, that he might leave you in peace, but also for his sake and the sake of our children.
“Yet I know well the dissension this has caused among you. Let this meeting bring us into agreement, and peace. Kdwyr has given you all copies of my letter; when we have discussed it here, I ask that you take them to all communities where our people live and read them aloud, in order that there should be no misunderstanding of my will.
“Brother Lendreth has asked to address you, before we begin. Let us hear him.” She returned to her pavilion, and Lendreth stood and walked to the shattered oak.
He turned, regarding them all, smiling. “Brothers and sisters, how my heart rejoices, to see this day.
“I remember well the horror of the past. We were once beaten and terrified children, ignorant, helpless. You remember, you trevanion, what it was like. Those who have come since can never know the unrelieved darkness of those days.
“And then, one night, hope came to us.
“I remember climbing that mountain, to hear that glorious music that promised so much. Do you? I remember my first sight of the Star in his high place. Those remarkable eyes! And I remember the way our poor people moaned and begged him to return us to our past, when we had been as unborn children dreaming in the world’s womb.
“What did he say then, our Star? ‘Your old ways are lost. I can never sing back the child into the womb, the leaf into the bud.’
“Do you remember? Consider what the Beloved said to us. Consider what it implies: that Life is never unchanging, and one must grow. What else did he say?
“ ‘No more scattered in lurking isolation, no more slaves slaughtered and forsaken. Learn what I have learned! Come and let me teach you, and you will walk, as I walk, unfearing in the light.’ What a glorious challenge! I remember how those words went straight into my heart.
“I remember too how an impatient young man rose to dispute him, one of a pair of brothers. You all know what followed. One brother strove to follow the Beloved’s teachings, and dared to try to set us all free. All praise to Blessed Ranwyr!
“And yet, brothers and sisters, I must ask you: have we perhaps judged that other young man too harshly? Wasn’t his desire, in its essence, the same as Blessed Ranwyr’s? He wished to fight for our freedom. That he was demon-born was none of his choosing; that he fought the Riders in the only way of which he was capable, being demon-born, is even praiseworthy. That he quarreled with his brother and brought a tragic fate upon them both is to be lamented, certainly.”
An outraged murmur had been growing among the other trevanion, but Lendreth’s smile never faded. He held up his hand.
“If you please, brothers and sisters. I was there that day, I remember exactly what the Beloved said. Teliva cursed her foster son, in the understandable rage of her heart, but the Beloved admonished her! He said, ‘Teliva, for the sake of lost Ranwyr, cry down no death upon your foster son.’ And he doomed Gard to
nothing worse than exile.
“Yet who can blame our sons, raised upon legends of Cursed Gard, if they attacked him when his path crossed ours again? And who can blame him, demon as he is, for striking back at them? Brothers and sisters, it is time to turn our backs on the sorrows of the past. Our Child, who brought us forth from that valley of lamentation, has in her wisdom chosen to forgive Gard. Must we not do the same?”
Gard sat listening in his black pavilion, scowling in disbelief. From her white pavilion, the Saint watched Lendreth and thought, I wonder what he will want, in return for this? And he has not won them over, even now.
“Brothers and sisters!” Lendreth raised his voice. “I call for an end to childhood! Our Child has become a wife and mother. When will we too follow our destiny as a nation?
“We stand today at a crossroads, brothers and sisters. One way leads back into the past, into the darkness of legend, into stagnation in the habits of our infancy, into mindless obedience to tradition, into passivity and death.
“Will we go that way, or will we take the other path and fulfill our potential greatness? Will we strive to change and adapt to this world of limitless possibilities? Consider the Children of the Sun! They are dirty and quarrelsome, they are stupid, but look at the magnificence of their civilization! How might we not surpass them, we who are blessed with knowledge and wisdom?
“Our Star showed us the way, brothers and sisters, in almost the first words he ever spoke to us. ‘No more scattered in lurking isolation!’ We must call our people together, lest they remain a handful of forest tribes, accomplishing nothing. We must rebuild the villages. We must farm the meadows and learn the skills of the Children of the Sun.
“We must train our young men in the practice of arms, that they might defend us if we are attacked, and so make certain we will never be slaves again. You will tell me, this was once forbidden! But consider that a child is, rightly, forbidden to play with knives; a man must learn to use them.