The False Martyr

by H. Nathan Wilcox

  “And what about your son?” Eia’s question cut through Ipid’s thoughts like a bucket of cold water. He shuddered and looked down at the bottom of the list, where he had written his son’s name as one of the likely demands. “Have you thought about where he might be, how we might help him?”

  “I . . . I don’t know.” Ipid shook his head.

  “If you give me some idea of where he is, I can look for him. I could even take you to him. I promise that we do not want to hurt him. A talent such as his is something that must not be wasted. It is our desire to train him before something terrible happens, before he unwittingly uses his powers in some way that cannot be undone, before innocents are killed. And selfishly, before we are blamed.”

  “I can think of a few places,” Ipid mumbled, “but I just don’t know. Are you sure he isn’t still . . . .” Ipid’s voice caught, “. . . still on the field.” He felt his heart shatter at the very thought of his son being added to the mass graves he had seen just a few mornings before.

  “No,” Eia assured. She had somehow come to him without his even noticing. She stood behind him and rubbed his shoulders. “The Belab said that he still sensed him. No, he escaped the battle. Maybe, he came here, swam the river, or found a boat?”

  “I think if he were here, we’d have found him by now.”

  “Not if he knew to hide. If so, he would not come here. It would be too obvious a place to look, so where would he go?”

  “I supposed we could look for him in some of the other houses, but that doesn’t seem like him. He was never an outgoing boy. He never really had many friends here. I supposed he’d do what he must, but . . .”

  “But what?”

  “But any house, any manor or cottage, is as good a hiding place as any other. I can’t imagine him putting others in danger, and if Tethina is still with him, then. . . .”

  “Then what?”

  Ipid sighed, leaned back and looked long at Eia. “Tethina is difficult. I don’t know what happened to her. Part of it was her parents’ death, but the most dramatic change seemed to happen well after that. In any case, she doesn’t trust anyone. She almost certainly would not seek the aid of strangers unless it was her last resort, unless she had some assurance that they would not turn on her.” He sighed again, thinking now about the arc of Tethina’s letters, of the darkness that invaded them around the time she was fourteen. She had always been defiant, but after that she became entirely detached, distant, wary, violent. Ipid had always thought it was just the age, the way children always seemed to go at that time in their lives, but now he wondered if it was something more, something he had missed.

  “What is it?” Eia asked. She moved her hand up to his face and steered it toward her.

  “Nothing. I was just thinking about Tethina.”

  “And what did you think?”

  “Nothing helpful.” Ipid grabbed her hand and pulled it away. He rose from his seat and walked to the window, hoping to gain some relief from the breeze. “Trust me, Eia, I would love nothing more than to find my son. I have seen enough of Arin to fear his wrath. And I saw enough of that battle to believe that Dasen is a threat to himself and those around him. But I have no idea where he is, what he is doing, or where he will go.”

  Eia grumbled something. Ipid stopped pacing, stared out the window, then closed on it as if in a dream. Stepping through on to the small balcony, he gawked. There were boats on the river. The great barges that carried men such as himself from their homes on this side of the river to their work in the city, and a hundred other smaller vessels. And all of them were crammed nearly to floundering with men and horses and wagons. An army was crossing the river. The Darthur were on the move.

  #

  The sun was falling below the horizon, painting the clouds with crimson and pink, as Ipid walked through his garden. Eia’s small hand was held in his – somehow cool despite the heat – and they walked with the familiarity of longtime companions, shoulders nearly touching, strides easily matched so that their bodies swayed together. Their conversation had continued through the previous two days and all of this, but they had resolved little. Despite Eia’s insistence, they were no closer to finding Dasen. And despite his, he was no closer to saving his country.

  Only one thing was certain. The Darthur had not stopped at Thoren. For three days now, the army – just the northern flank, Ipid reminded himself – had been crossing the river and marching to the west. Depending on the road they took from there, they could be in Orinsburg or Mandarb’s Leap in a week or less, in just enough time to punish those cities if their terms went unanswered.

  “What are you thinking about?” Eia asked from his side. She shifted her hip to bump his thigh, squeezed his hand.

  “Nothing,” Ipid smiled down at her. Her dark eyes reflected the glow of the sunset. A few strands of pale hair had escaped the loose tail hanging down her back and fluttered around her face in the breeze.

  “You know that’s not true.” She smiled knowingly and swatted absently at a fly buzzing near her ear. “I thought we were going to forget about all that for a while. I thought we were going to get away from your stuffy room and stuffy thoughts. It was your idea, but I can tell that your mind is still on your schemes.”

  A trickle of sweat escaped her hairline and raced down her cheek then along the line of her chin. She caught it with a finger and flicked it away. It was still blistering hot and desert dry, so hot that they had barely wanted to touch the night before, had made love with as little contact as possible then slept on opposite sides of the bed in their own sodden pools. And today, they had barely left his room, had talked and planned, barely touching except in the cold bath that Eia thought to pump into his tub. But even that had not cooled them for long.

  “I know. I’m sorry.” Ipid pulled at his already loosened collar and looked back across the garden. They were reaching the end of his grounds, climbing a slight hill that overlooked the estates to the north and east, searching for a breeze that did not exist. “At least it’s cooler out here than inside, and it’s so clear. The stars will be out soon, and we should be able to see every one of them. We could stay out here, lie in the grass, and find the constellations.”

  Eia smiled warmly. “I would like that. I have not looked at the stars in a long time.” Ipid returned her smile and allowed her to lead him off the manicured path up the hill. “This would be a lovely place to sit. We should have thought to bring a bottle of wine.”

  Lost again in his thoughts, Ipid watched the ground before him as he crested the hill, panting from the exertion, wiping away his sweat in rivers. When they reached the top, he looked down the other side at a clusters of buildings. Manors surrounded by gardens and outbuildings stretched for the first few miles then gave way to a small village where the local craftsmen kept their shops so as to cater to the wealth around them. Beyond that were fields, long stretches of waving wheat, rows of fruit trees, manicured green expanses leading to more buildings as far as the eye could see. And somewhere, down there, maybe, just maybe, were Dasen and Tethina. Were they hurt? Scared? Trapped? Dead? Ipid felt his guts clench at the thought.

  “There. Lights.” Eia found his hand with one of hers and pointed with the other.

  Ipid followed her finger and saw the windows of a manor illuminated by the flickering light of a torch. It was distant but close enough for him to track the lights moving from room to room. “We should go there,” he said. “They may know something. They may have seen Dasen and Tethina.”

  “No,” Eia said firmly. “Look. Watch.”

  A woman screamed, high voice wailing, soaked in fear. Ipid jumped. His eyes followed the sound to a large window high in the house just in time to see a large figure swat a smaller one then followed it into the room. More shapes flowed into the room, shadows against the torchlight, appearing then disappearing from the window. Another scream was cut short. And that was all. The light remained flickering in the room, a beacon in the gathering darkness, but there was
no more movement, no more screams. Still, Ipid could not tear his eyes away. He prayed that his senses had lied, searched for other explanations, begged the shadows to return and do something to dispel his fears.

  “We have to do something,” he breathed when his prayers went unanswered. “That woman . . . they’re . . . we can’t . . . .”

  “There is nothing we can do.”

  “But you could . . . .”

  “I could what?” Eia snapped. “Transport myself to the house? Use my gift to kill those men? Is that how you see me? As a killer?”

  “No,” Ipid stammered. “Of course not. I’m sorry. I just . . . .”

  “You just what?” Eia seethed then seemed to catch herself. “I am sorry. Not so long ago, mine was an order dedicated to peace. I would never have considered using my gift to harm others. And now, you assume I can kill – what, five, ten men? – without reservation.” She sighed and looked back toward the house where shadows had started to move again. One figure stood before the window with a bag. Another filled it. The others had not emerged.

  “I’m . . . I’m sorry.” Ipid tried to tear his eyes from the scene. “I don’t now what I expected. I just couldn’t stand to . . . . I don’t know. I suppose you’re right.”

  “I am as horrified as you. I will never understand how people can be so cruel to one another, and if I thought there was a way to help that woman, I would do it in any instant. That, at least, is one good thing about the Darthur. They would never attack a woman like that, would never allow one of their vassals to do so. It is their greatest crimes, worse even than murder. I suppose that is what you get in a people ruled by women.”

  Ipid felt numb. Despite all that he had seen, he could somehow not tolerate that he had done nothing. Just one more person you have failed. “You mentioned that you had found looters. Were those. . . ?”

  “No.” Eia was resolute. “I met a family, a man, his wife, their children. They were thieves, but they were not rapists or murderers. Remember, I can read and interpret the emotions of others. I can find a man in a dark room by his feelings alone. I can differentiate the emotions of a room full of people, tell you each of them, without ever stepping into the room, without ever seeing them. Only those who have mastered their emotions completely, who have made themselves a blank slate, can keep what they are feeling from me. If those people had meant me harm, I would have known. That is how I could say with such certainty that they would not bother us.”

  She stopped, looked back at the house, then led him away. “There will be no watching the stars tonight. We must be more careful, must hope that those men do not come this way.

  Chapter 9

  The 19th Day of Summer

  Teth completed another circle of the pentagonal tower. It had only one door, facing directly west toward the river. It was otherwise surrounded by perfectly spaced apple trees, their branches bearing the early signs of the fruit that would no doubt make the mildly fermented cider the Weavers seemed to drink at every meal. Between the trees were rose shrubs, colors carefully selected to create a pattern – red, white, white, pink, yellow, white, red. It matched the pattern of the path – brown, white, white, tan, grey, white, brown – and throughout the compound once she learned to look for it. For the hundredth time, she considered climbing one of the trees, but the only windows within reach were little more than slits. She’d be lucky to get an arm in one.

  Still, she was sure that this was where they were holding Dasen. She had searched every inch of the compound over the past four days, knew its every nook and cranny, had planned a dozen ways to escape, had gathered enough food and water to last for days. This was the only remaining place that she had not been able to enter, the only door with a lock, the only possible place to hold someone against his will. He had to be here, and she had to find him, had to get away before she came completely unhinged.

  Even now, she felt herself unraveling, felt her mind coming uncoiled, betraying her, tricking her, tearing her apart. It had started with the nightmares, every night so bad that she no longer even wanted to sleep. And when she did drift off – either night or day – it was only a matter of minutes before the dead eyes were staring at her, the blood was covering her, the creatures were descending upon her. She would wake screaming, sweat soaked, and trembling as if she had just fought the battle all over again. But being awake was little better. The nightmares found her even then. Her shattered mind transformed the slap of sandals into charging hooves, cabbages into blood-smeared heads, shadow into creatures preparing to pounce, clouds into demons falling from the sky. Any one of those – and just about anything else – could set her off, could make her heart pound, her breath catch, her body shake. Out of nowhere, for no reason, all the fear from the long-concluded battle would rise up and overwhelm her so that she could barely move. And then it would turn out to be a cabbage, a cloud, a shadow, a monk, and she would fall into sobs. In a heartbeat, she would go from fear that took her very breath, to sorrow that ripped through her like a knife. Then she would cry until she talked herself back out of it, until she convinced herself that it was all in her mind. Until the next thing came, and it started all over again.

  If I could just find Dasen. If we could just get away from here. If things could just be like they were. She told herself that time and again, but she did not know what the next part was, could not say what followed the ‘if’. Did she think she could run, could hide, could escape the horrors in her own mind? That Dasen could somehow cure her of them, could somehow expunge what she had seen, what she had done?

  The truth was that the battle had damaged her in ways she could not see, and she could not be sure that she would ever be the same. It was even worse than when those forest masters had found her, had caught her, had . . . . Then she had felt helpless, had felt small and weak and scared and ashamed. She had sworn to herself after – crying and quivering in her bed, dreading that her aunt would come home, would find her, would learn what had happened – that she would never be weak again. Then there had been something to do, a way to vanquish the fear. But that had been nothing in comparison to the battle. Even in the forest with the monsters chasing them, the threats had not seemed real. It was one thing to be chased. It was another to see a creature tear a man apart and know that you were next, to see the blood, hear the screams, smell the death. She had never been so scared, had never been so close to death as she was in that battle, but even more, she had never been responsible for death. Over and over, she had faced it outside Thoren, had participated in it – how many men had she killed that day, not just monsters, but men? She was a killer now, and that was not something that Dasen or anyone else could ever change.

  Teth felt her emotions turning and looked away from the tower. She had given up screaming at it though she wanted to more than anything. She took a deep breath and walked away. She needed a plan, a way to get into that fortress, a way to find Dasen, but she couldn’t think, couldn’t get her heavy thoughts moving through the haze of insomnia and insanity.

  The heat doesn’t help, she thought as she stepped from the shade of the garden and walked toward the river. It had been scorching day and night since she arrived with not a drop of rain, without even dew on the brown, brittle grass. And now it was as hot as she had ever felt. The sun was like a hammer, the air was like a wall, the breeze was the blast of an oven when you open the door to add the wood. The stones of the path were far too hot for her bare feet, so she kept to the grass, but even it felt jagged and hot.

  She had replaced the Weavers’ woolen robe with simple canvas pants and a rough cotton tunic that she had fashioned from various sacks, towels, and scraps that she had pilfered from the compound. She had found a long cloth to wrap her breasts and a pair of sheers to shorten her hair – it was little more than an upside-down bowl hanging on her head, failing to reach her ears or eyes. She kept her face smudged, hands dirty, feet bare (though she had used the sheepskin covers of the Weavers’ books to make shoes). Somewhere in her mind
, she knew that the invaders were coming, that there was no place that was safe, yet she could not leave. As much as she wanted to run, she needed Dasen. She knew that she would lose what shred remained of her sanity without him, without that last shared connection, that one person who understood. So she tried to hide, to make herself into something insignificant, something that was not worth killing.

  She could almost believe that the Weavers had forgotten her given the attention they paid her. Even when she was around them, she might as well have been invisible. They would not look at her, would not talk to her, would walk through her if she happened to be in their way, would not have spit on her if she were on fire. Their routine was easy enough to determine, and it was always the same, so she planned her own days to avoid the compound’s automaton inhabitants. To some extent, she was afraid of what had happened that first afternoon, but even more, the Weavers made her uneasy, made her want to run from this unnatural place, to run and never stop.

  Arriving at the river, Teth walked along it past the fields where the Weavers grew their food. They did not appear to eat any meat, sustaining themselves instead with the vegetables and grains that they grew in their incredibly ordered gardens. Even now, two rows of Weavers worked the soil with hoes, striking in unison at the rich, black earth where not a single weed had existed to hoe away. As they worked, they hummed, a low buzz that was nearly lost to the scratch of metal on earth. Teth watched them for only a second. She had become so accustom now to their patterns, to the exact harmony of their movements that she had lost interest. Like watching the workings of a clock, it was fascinating until you learned how every piece moved and then it was just a clock with the minutes ticking by into hours with nothing to hold you beyond a desire for dinnertime to arrive.