The False Martyr

by H. Nathan Wilcox

  Unable to make sense of any of it, Ipid looked up. His heart stopped. A warrior and eight horses were nearly on top of him. He had no hope of moving from their path. And even worse, his eyes met those of the warrior. He’d be lucky to be alive long enough to be trampled. He waited for the beating, the blade that would finish him, the hooves that would crush him. They didn’t come.

  His eyes rose. Again, he caught the warrior’s eye. The man nodded. He turned, adjusted his course, and led the horses around with only the slightest look of annoyance. Stunned, Ipid watched the other warriors do the same. They did not bow or defer to him, but they recognized him, treated him like a fellow human being rather than a rat. He watched as warrior after warrior, huge men clad in leather with strips of red to mark their wounds, moved around him, led their horses from his path, acknowledged him, who a day before they would have just as likely killed.

  One day, one battle, one judgment, Ipid thought, and everything has changed. As fast as that, we are people again, we are worthy of their recognition and respect. In the Darthur social hierarchy, the recently completed Battle of Testing had elevated the people of the Unified Kingdoms from te-adeate, ‘those to be taught’, who are treated as less than slaves, to k’amach-tur, ‘those who battle with honor’, who are respected as near equals to the Darthur. It was a miraculous, instantaneous transformation in the prejudices of an entire people. Ipid could not imagine how it was possible.

  “Come with me. You are not safe here” broke the deadlock of Ipid’s thoughts. A hand clenched his elbow and pulled him away. His face spun. He saw no one. He could feel the hand on his elbow, the chill of it through his sleeve. He had heard a voice, could sense a presence, but no one was there.

  “Do not look at me!” Eia demanded. “If someone follows your eyes and looks directly at me while you are, my spell will be broken. If you must look at something, look to your left.”

  Somehow, Ipid managed to turn his eyes from the invisible woman at his side. He looked left and saw Arin’s cousin, Üluth. Ten paces away, the warrior was staring at him with purest loathing. Clearly, he had not forgotten Ipid’s unintentional role in his humiliation two weeks prior. He watched the remaining warriors disperse, gripped the blade of a knife at his side, and followed.

  “He will kill you,” Eia said from beside him and increased their pace. “Now that Arin is not here to protect you, he will get you alone or simply make an excuse. No one will doubt his word. He is still a te-ashüte. And though you are now k’amach-tur, do not think that will protect you.”

  Eia led Ipid toward the buildings of the village at as fast a pace as he could manage. A glance behind, showed Üluth keeping his distance but following nonetheless. He was just waiting for his chance, waiting for Ipid to be alone, out of the view of prying eyes. Then with an easy slash, he would have his revenge on Ipid and, to some small extent, his cousin.

  “Shouldn’t we stay around people?” Ipid whispered to his companion as they reached the first buildings. The streets were abandoned. The Darthur were tending their horses. The other men had not yet returned from their ceremonies. This was Üluth’s chance. Ipid would be perfectly positioned, and Eia was leading him into the trap. He tried to pull his arm away, to change his course back to the warriors who were about to disappear behind the walls of the buildings.

  “Trust me!” Eia held his arm in her, somehow, iron grip. “You cannot stay away from him for seven days. I am your only chance.”

  Eia led Ipid around a building. The streets were abandoned, close-spaced houses empty. They turned into an alley. It was the perfect place for Üluth to do his work – it would be days before anyone even found his body. Ipid looked back to see the knife that would end him, stumbled, and felt bone-numbing cold followed by skin-charring heat. He was torn apart, piece-by-piece, only to feel the pieces slam back together. He fell. His hands hit the ground but rather than the alley’s stones, they came down on grass.

  Rolling over, he found Eia, now visible, at his side. Her hood was pulled down over her face so that only her delicate hands showed the robe to have a human occupant. And past her, covering the whole of Ipid’s vision was a house. It stood three stories, stretched a hundred paces to either side, shining marble, sparkling granite, dark wood, and brown brick. It was his home.

  Ipid stared at the granite columns, the marble steps, the brick façade, the large cut-glass windows, the great oak doors in disbelief. His eyes turned to the surrounding gardens, the rose bushes, lilies, carefully trimmed hedges, benches, manicured lawns, fruit trees. He shook his head. There was no doubting it. He was home. How was that even possible? But the answer was no farther than the tiny figure standing above him.

  Eia looked down at him then threw back her hood to reveal pale skin, dainty features, liquid black eyes, and frizzy translucent hair. She smiled, thin pink lips spreading to show perfect teeth. “I told you that the sie-eium taloru gets easier. You remained conscious this time. I’d say that’s progress.” Ipid was not so sure. His head and stomach swirled. He was fighting to keep his breakfast down. “Now that we are here, are you not going to invite me in? I have long wanted to see how a lord lives in this land.”

  “But how did . . . how are we . . . how is it still . . . ?”

  “Lord Ronigan, you have seen the sie-eium taloru too many times to not know what it is or how it works. I have transported you here, because it is here that you will be safe.”

  “But I need to be with my people. I need to help . . . .”

  “And how do you think that would go? I am sorry for what happened and more so for the part my people played in it, but I am charged with protecting you. I know that you were betrayed more than any other, but your people won’t see it that way. Rather, you will be seen as an extension of the Darthur. But without their swords, armor, and skill to protect you, they would have their vengeance even if it is a tiny consolation. The Belab thinks you have an important part to play in defeating the Darthur and does not want to see your life wasted. You will be of little use from one of those great pits, so I cannot allow you to take that risk.”

  Ipid had considered that same possibility as he sat on the hill watching his countrymen dig the graves that would hold their fellows, but he had hoped that he could show them through his effort that he was not a traitor, that he could prove his loyalty with his sweat and tears. Reality was with Eia. The wounds were too fresh. The village boys might vouch for him, but the city folk would be desperate to vent their rage. They would beat him, hang him, quarter him, gut him and throw him into the pit to die slow. It appeared that Eia had saved him twice this day: once from Üluth and once from himself.

  But could he forgive what she had done, the part her people had played in the destruction of his city, slaughter of his people, and betrayal for which he would be blamed? Belab had said that the apology he had received from Arin was worth the cost, but how? And what about Dasen? Could he trust the te-am ‘eiruh with his son? And if he didn’t, if the Darthur caught him, killed him, or he used his powers to kill thousands of innocents? Beyond the deaths, Dasen would be devastated. Could Belab spare him that? Or was it all another of his machinations? In the end, it was all too much. Ipid could not hope to sort it out now. But what then to do with Eia? You need her, a voice advised. You need information. You need allies. But that does not mean you have to trust her. Keep her close, take what she gives but remember what needs to be done. Only a fool throws out a hammer because it smashed his thumb. Ipid could almost hear his friend, Oban Markovim, Thoren’s governor, giving the advice, capping it with one of his favorite adages.

  He looked up at Eia standing above him, at her slight smile, her warm eyes, and he matched her expression. He held his hand out to her. Her smile grew as she helped him to his feet. Was he overreacting to think that her smile was a bit too familiar, that she stood a bit too close, that her soft fingers moved on his in a way that was a bit too intimate, that her eyes stared into his in a way that made his heart beat just a bit too fast?
For a moment, they stood like that, looking at each other. Then Ipid cleared his throat, turned toward the doors of his house, and held out his arm. Eia wrapped hers through it. “It appears you have saved me yet again,” he said. “Welcome to my home.”

  As he led her to the door, the voice sounded again in his head, Of course, not everyone was meant to be a carpenter. And only a bigger fool keeps hitting himself without seeing that. The remainder of Oban’s advice was lost in the mire of Ipid’s distracted, overwrought mind.

  Chapter 3

  The 14th Day of Summer

  Teth remembered the river. She remembered being wet and tired, remembered clinging to that shield, hanging on the quarrels stuck through it as if anchored to a cliff. Dasen had been there. He’d told her to kick, to escape from what they’d seen, what they’d done. Then he’d told her to sleep and she had.

  Everything after that was a blur: there were robed figures lifting her from the water, the bouncing images of being carried up winding steps, of being stripped from her soaked clothes without the energy to fight or even fear the consequences, of mumbling her protests as her pants were pulled away and expecting something terrible she could not hope to stop.

  But there had been nothing terrible – at least not that she could remember or feel now. She laid in a small room, on a straw mattress, covered by a single wool blanket that made her naked body itch in a million places. She hurt everywhere – her toes were sore; her fingers throbbed. And she knew that moving would only make it worse. So she stared at the stone ceiling a suffocating distance away, traced the lines of mortar between the smooth stones, and tried to remember. She hoped that remembering might tell her whether she should muster the energy required for fear – though she was not even sure if she had it in her, as if even that secret store of energy had been consumed by the battle.

  Slowly, she considered each part of her body. Lying on her back in the bed, feeling her limbs like lead sinking into the mattress beneath her, she considered that she might be paralyzed. Could she move? Certainly, she could feel her limbs burning, aching. But Himmel Burch had said the same thing after the falling tree broke his back. Teth had been there with her aunt, had heard him complain about the aching in his legs even as they laid there lifeless.

  As a sort of test, she moved her thumbs, made them shake the blanket that covered her. Cramps consumed her hands, curling them into balls. She gasped, fighting to stretch her fingers back, but that only gave her arms and shoulders their own reasons to protest. Grunting, she grew still and searched for something to occupy her. Her eyes stood open, her ears searched for some indication of place, her swollen tongue searched for moisture in her desert of a mouth. And her body ached, itched, and sagged into the mattress as if she had been buried in it.

  Turning her head slowly, painfully to the side, she found a small desk and a wooden chair, the rooms only other furnishings. With the bed, those items would barely leave enough room for the wooden door to open. The floor below was bare, stones worn smooth by what must have been eons of feet pacing across them. The ceiling was low, rising only as high as the door. Light filled the room from a single, small window set at the top of the wall above the bed. Teth had just enough of an angle to see a sliver of blue. A slight breeze stirred the air, unconstrained by the open shutters, but it was a hot, dry breeze that only seemed to drive more moisture from her mouth and deposit it on her damp, itching skin. A mere arm’s length away sat a neatly folded brown robe, a pitcher, and a plate. Running a swollen tongue over cracked lips, listening to her stomach rumble, feeling her exposed skin above them all, she tried to muster the will to fulfill her needs, but even those discomforts could not spur anything more than the tiniest, throbbing bend of a knee.

  A new sound replaced the silence of the room, the distinctive slap of sandals hitting stones. Teth’s heart echoed their pounding – fear was within her grasp. The steps approached her room. She felt her nudity as if the blanket were gone, had no idea where she was, who held her, what they meant to do with her. And lying there helpless was all the invitation her captors likely needed, and all she needed to convinced her body to respond.

  Grunting, gasping, struggling, she forced her recalcitrant muscles to obey. She barely won the battle. Cramps claimed her legs, her neck and back spasmed, her head pounded, and her stomach churned. She pulled herself to sitting, reached with clawed hand to the robe, and forced it over her head.

  Tears were running down her cheeks. Her limbs were splayed like a fully extended mannequin as the rough wool fell around her, replacing the scratches of the blanket with an all-encompassing alternative. The steps were just outside. She stared toward the door, waited for it to fly open, wondered what she hoped to do if it did.

  The steps continued on. They did not so much as pause at her door, and soon, they were gone.

  Releasing a breath, Teth worked the cramps from her legs, leaned forward, rested her elbows on her knees, allowed her head to hang between her shoulders, and tried to stretch the spasms from her back. She brought a hand to her forehead and squeezed her temples to alleviate the pounding behind her eyes. When her miseries had faded enough that she could unclench her teeth, she reached across the desk to the brown earthenware pitcher. She poured water into a cup that looked like something a child would make with mud and drank. Cup after cup of the warm water followed, and she swore that it tasted better than any honey. Only when the pitcher was nearly empty did she consider that the water might be drugged. Overcome by fear, she nearly made herself sick before she realized the futility of it – why drug someone who’s already helpless? That did not stop her from sniffing the stale bread and crusty mash of beans on the plate. Finding nothing out of place, she ate with little more caution than she had afforded the water. When the food was gone, she licked her fingers, wishing for more. A last cup of water finished the jug, so she leaned against the wall behind her and stared at the door.

  The food and water were already having the desired effect. She could feel her headache easing, the quivering in her arms and legs lessening, her strength returning. Eventually, boredom overcame caution, and she forced herself up. Her legs trembled, every muscle, even the tiniest, most insignificant, ached. The robe fell to the floor, pooling around her bare feet. She reached slowly and pushed a strand of damp hair behind her ear then pulled the hood of the robe up over her head. She took a few shuffling steps toward the door, extended her hand, and realized it did not have a handle. It consisted of nothing more than four wooden planks that had been slotted together. Metal pins extending from the ceiling and floor to hold it in place and allow it to pivot. The door had no adornment, no latch, no handle, no bolt or bar. Teth reached a hand toward it and pushed. It swung out. It did not move easily, but nothing barred her way, so she held the door open, leaned forward, and peeked down a long hall.

  There was nothing to see. To either side were fifty feet of bare stone. The only thing disturbing the smooth blocks were doors spaced every ten feet on either side. The only light came from windows at either end. There were no lamps or braziers, not even brackets to attach such devices. There was no indication of how the hall was lit when the sun was not up to fill the need. Groaning, grunting, and cursing under her breath, she shuffled to the first door and stopped to listen. She heard nothing. The next door and next were equally silent, yet the stones beneath her feet were worn down the middle so that the floor was the shape of shallow bowl. That bowl was spotless, held not a stray rock, smear of mud, or speck of dust. Thousands of feet had walked these halls, but there was no sign of them now.

  Teth reached the end of the hall and looked out the window at a wide river running just outside. Past it was prairie. The grass grew wild and long. No cottages marred it, no fields tamed it. She was up three stories, and the day was clear. Her view was disturbed only by the shimmer of heat rising off the grass, but she found no sign of a landmark until her eyes stretched far to the right. Nearly falling from the window, she followed the flow of the swollen river until it
disappeared into a grey thread. At the end of that thread was smoke. So far off as to be barely distinguishable from the shimmer of heat, it could have been a single cloud on the blue horizon, but having seen the fires that created it, she knew the truth. White from this distance, it drifted slowly up to form the only wisps in the sky.

  It was Thoren. And it burned.

  Turning her eyes from the fire to the sun, Teth took a moment to orient herself. The sun was half-way to the horizon. She had to remind herself that Thoren was to the north. She stared at the sun again, shook her head, then thought better of it. The yellow ball was approaching the western horizon. It was late afternoon. She had slept an entire day.

  When there was no more information to be gained from the window, Teth looked with dread at the narrow stairs to her side. She had worked her muscles to stiffness enough times to know that there was nothing worse than walking down stairs with sore legs. Still, she had to find out where she was, who had rescued her, what they intended to do with her, and where they were keeping Dasen. So it was with grinding teeth, she tottered – almost falling as her knees switched between locking and buckling – down the stairs.

  It took an eternity to reach the first landing. Breathless from even that simple effort, she looked down the hall and saw a line of doors identical to the one she had left behind. She sighed then stared at the steps leading to what should be the ground. Offering her eternal soul for a simple railing, she hobbled down another flight in a procession of grunts and quiet curses.

  Doors waited to either side of the steps, bordering another long hall. Dripping sweat and cursing the hot, scratchy robe that was already rubbing her most sensitive areas raw, she chose the door to the south. Like the door to her room, it had no latch or lock. It simply swung open to reveal a stone path through a carefully manicured garden. Teth stepped from the door and blinked against a pounding sun that not only blinded her but made the robe feel like it was about to catch fire with her inside.