The False Martyr

by H. Nathan Wilcox

  The counselor paused. Cary could imagine him smiling but had no way to confirm or deny the fact. A slat moved half-way up the door revealing a square of pure light. Juhn’s head blocked it as fast as it appeared. “She waits for you.” He stepped to the side and slid the slat back in place. There was a click from low on the wall before them. A door opened.

  Blinding light met them. Cary could see nothing but the white glow that seemed to infuse the doorway. Squinting, arm held up, Ambassador Chulters gathered himself, took a deep breath, and stepped through. Cary followed more cautiously. Somewhat used to fighting through the glare of the sun, he was able to step aside as his superior abruptly stopped in front of him. A table, he realized, with six shadowy shapes sitting on the floor at the farthest end. Their build and clothing suggested women, but Cary could not see their features. He retreated to a corner in search of an escape from the light streaming through a cruel set of open windows – along with a cool breeze and a number of flies – and waited for his eyes to adjust.

  Having expected a throne room, he was decidedly disappointed. The room was small. There was barely enough space for the knee-high table that filled its middle. The walls were milled planks that had been lacquered until they shone. No adornments whatsoever graced the room: no art hung on the walls, no tapestries broke their expanse, no cups or plates or even chairs adorned the bare planks of the table. There was no source of light that Cary could see – lamps, candleholders, braziers were all absent -- meaning the room would be a gloomy place should the glassless windows ever be closed. Even more shocking, there was no fireplace, no chimney. Only a hatch in the low ceiling would allow smoke to escape should someone start a fire. It is already cool in here. What do they possibly do in the winter?

  Still squinting, the ambassador maneuvered around the table to the end farthest from the women. Juhn, seemingly unaffected by the light, followed, closing the door behind him and sitting directly in front of its, now invisible, surface. The door seamlessly matched the panels of the wall, leaving no break in the room beyond the windows. Those showed only a few puffy clouds and the expanse of the plains in the distance.

  Curiosity piqued, Cary searched for what was missing. If the passages were just for counselors, how had the women reached this room? The answer appeared only when one of the women shifted enough to reveal a hole cut into the corner of the floor. The first rung of a ladder was visible for a flash, but the trapdoor looked barely large enough for Cary. No Morg man would even try.

  “Welcome,” a voice at the head of the table said. The word was not a greeting as much as a command that every eye focus on the woman who had said it. Cary complied and found the very model of female assurance. Her face was calm, mouth a loose line, eyes clear but passive, breaths slow and steady. An old woman, her former beauty was still clear beneath the slight sag of her skin, the wrinkles framing her eyes, the spots that blemished her pale skin. Gray hair was swept back from her face, falling into a thick braid that ran nearly to her waist. Her neck was long, the lines of tendon standing out like the supports of a wooden tower rising from the snow of white fox that lined her dress. Sitting on the floor, legs tucked under the table, her spine was as straight as a plank of perfectly planed wood. Her thin arms were bare where they arched in front of her to meet at the table in clasped hands. They framed the golden chain running from her neck to a pendant even larger and more extravagant than the King’s. Crusted entirely with jewels, it depicted a standing bear in jet on an emerald field and sapphire sky under a diamond moon. The pendant stood in stark contrast to the simple undyed brown wool that made the dress below the trim of white fox, like a thoroughbred in a herd of donkeys.

  “My name is Nyel ut Torswauk,” the woman said. Her voice was deep and rich, her accent heavy, tone entirely neutral as were her mouth and eyes. She showed them no warmth, but neither was their scorn. “I am Mother of Torswauk Lodge. It is by my grace that you were allowed to enter.” She allowed that to linger – a threat, a reminder, a simple statement of fact? “This is my true sister, Aarta.” She gestured to an even older woman on her right, then to the progressively younger women on either side. “And these are my daughters, Sachi, Raia, Moira, and Jalena. Please, be seated.” Cary shifted his glance to the women as they were introduced, each nodding to acknowledge her name but doing nothing further to betray her emotions. Daughters? Cary thought. The oldest could have been the woman’s sister, the youngest her granddaughter. And all of them were near copies of their mother, their relative beauty defined more by the differences in their ages than their features.

  But they look like normal women. The thought caught Cary, and he looked over the women again. They were sitting on the floor, legs under the table, spines straight. But for their furs and wool dresses, they could have been Liandrin. They were no larger than their counterparts in any other part of the known world, and they were beautiful: hair long and golden; features strong and sharp; eyes clear, sparkling blue; skin pale, unblemished, and soft.

  Cary’s eyes passed over the women again and stopped on the youngest, farthest from her mother. She was the most beautiful, he decided. Slightly his junior, she had the softest features, round cheeks, wide eyes, full lips. She had a sweetness to her that the others seemed to lack. A girl’s face with a woman’s body -- the tops of her white breasts were nearly bursting from her dress resting on an expanse of swollen belly that kept her from the table. She was with child and due any day by the look of it. The middle daughter was similarly situated, but whereas she made Cary think of a mother, the younger left him thinking of the act that had gotten her there. He watched her nervously as she rubbed her belly and smiled slightly at the life inside. Nearly lost enough to imitate her, he barely diverted his stare to keep her from seeing him as her eyes rose.

  “Thank you, Your Highness,” Ambassador Chulters brought Cary back to the matter at hand. He bowed low. “My name is Sir Regis Chulters of Hensall, honorable representative of His August Majesty King Elpert Risbourg de Nardes, lord and ruler of the most esteemed under the Order nation of Liandria. I am greatly pleased to have received your invitation and stand ready to speak on behalf of the sovereign people of Liandria.” He kept his head low until the introduction was complete then for an uncomfortable moment longer before coming cautiously back to his full height. He tried to smile, but it faltered at a frown from their hostess. He shifted uncomfortably but did not sit. Feeling the ambassadors unease, Cary tried to disappear into his corner. At their side, Juhn had long ago knelt to the table and tucked his crossed legs beneath. He watched the outsiders now with a slightly amused expression, elbows resting on the table before him, bald head reflecting the sun.

  “Be seated,” Nyel said again with clear annoyance.

  Still Ambassador Chulters hesitated, diplomatic protocols fighting for control of his body. He was not of sufficient rank to sit as an equal with a queen even when asked, but there was no way for him to maintain a position below Nyel without laying on the floor.

  “You must sit,” Juhn broke the stalemate. “The table creates separation between you and the women. Your unwillingness to place it between yourself and them can be seen as a lack of respect or even aggression.”

  The ambassador looked like he’d been hit between the eyes. A further downturn in the corners of Nyel’s mouth and hardening of her eyes did not help. “My sincerest apologies.” He just barely managed to keep from stammering as he dropped somewhat awkwardly into a crouch and struggled to get his long legs beneath the table. “I meant no offence. In my country, it would be an insult for me to sit in the presence of someone so esteemed.” The ambassador shot a hard look at Cary, but he was already falling to his knees, though he remained in the corner, away from the table.

  Nyel looked confused and turned to Juhn. He spoke to her in their native tongue, a few sentences said with respect by not reverence. The Mother only nodded when he finished. “Within a lodge, we are a family,” Juhn explained. “Nyel is the mother of this family, so you should
treat her with the same formality that you would treat your mother. No more, no less.”

  Ambassador Chulters smiled at this, puffing up like a child complimented on a drawing. “I am greatly honored,” he said with an awkward cross-legged bow. “We the people of Liandria have often thought of ourselves as one family with the Morgs.”

  The Mother frowned deeply at this. Her hands locked before her, and she turned again to Juhn. The counselor took a deep breath, glared at the ambassador, then spoke again in the Morg language. The conversation was longer this time. Nyel said a few words – a question? The old woman at her side added a remark. Juhn became increasingly exasperated and Ambassador Chulters’ slowly deflated as he realized that he had misstepped. Finally, Nyel ended the discussion with a wave of her hand.

  She glanced at Cary then Juhn with a meaningful scowl that made Cary’s stomach flip – why’s she looking at me? – then turned her attention fully to Ambassador Chulters.

  Cary thought she would speak, but it was Juhn that filled the silence. “Nyel has forgiven your insult. You should understand that you are a guest here and thus allowed to enter and eat, but you are not a part of Torswauk Lodge nor will you ever become one. Morg Mothers take great pride in being able to pick the strongest, most able men to join their daughters and thus become part of the lodge. This is one of the oldest and most important of Morg traditions. To even imply that Nyel would select a non-Morg to join Torswauk is an insult to her and the lodge. Please, remember that the lodge is everything to us and there is fierce pride associated with every aspect of it. Do not mistake your status as guests with the great honor of being part of Torswauk.”

  Ambassador Chulters turned slightly green at this. He took a deep breath and placed his shaking hands on the table before him. “Again I apologize, Nyel ut Torswauk. I meant only to express the common feeling and cause that my people feel with yours. I beg that you forgive my outsiders’ ignorance.” He bowed again almost to the table.

  Cary watched Nyel. Her mouth turned down, and her eyes darted to Juhn. Her daughters did their best to imitate their mother, but their eyes were wary, confused even. This isn’t their meeting, Cary realized as he interpreted the expressions. Nyel has agreed to it but is reluctant. Her daughters have little if any idea why they are here. This is the doing of the counselor.

  “You are not here for diplomatic pleasantries,” Juhn corrected the ambassador again, voice getting sharper – did he misread how this would go? “I should have explained this more clearly. The Mother of a lodge has no role in the world outside her lodge. She could not and would not negotiate with outsiders. Liandria, hundreds of miles away, is of no interest to her. She cares not about the position you hold or what your people have to offer. It is you, not your country that interest her. The only reason you have been invited here is because she believes. . . .”

  Nyel hissed.

  Juhn stopped, nodded toward her, and rephrased. “Rather, because, I have convinced her that you, you personally, may have a role to play in protecting this and every other lodge. The central desire of any Mother is to maintain the safety of her lodge, to protect it, keep it strong, and ensure it grows. It is for that reason alone that you have been allowed to see her. At the same time, you should understand what this means. No outsider has met with the Mother of Torswauk in generations. Your being here is the result of extraordinary circumstances. If Nyel did not . . . .“ another hiss cut the counselor off. “If I saw any other way, you would not be here.”

  “I see,” Ambassador Chulters answered slowly, eyes moving from counselor to Mother. He paused, licked his lips, considering his words carefully. “I . . . we . . . .“ he gestured back to Cary without taking his eyes from Nyel, “. . . are honored beyond words. Anything within my power will be done. However, you must realize that as an ambassador I am bound to represent the King and people of Liandria. I am an extension of them and can act only in their interest. My personal actions and those of my delegation cannot be separated from that obligation. That said, I can see no greater interest of the Liandrin people than a strong and lasting relationship with Torswauk.”

  Nyel just grunted and said a few, probably snide, words to her sister. “Thank you,” Juhn said with fading patience and a sharp look at Nyel. She seemed not to notice. “We would never seek to compromise your obligations to your people.”

  “Listen to the order master,” Nyel commanded – master not keeper, Cary noted. “We have heard enough of your pretty words that mean nothing. Here we speak plainly as a family should, so I tell you plainly that I have agreed to this, but it is not of my making. I seek only the defeat of the Lost Sons. Juhn believes you have a role to play in this. He is the order master now, so I must listen when he tells me the Order’s dictates, but that does not mean I agree.” She glanced at Cary as she finished. Her daughters stared at him. If that didn’t make him nervous enough, he caught the eye of the youngest and couldn’t seem to escape it.

  “Lost Sons?” Ambassador Chulters started then clearly thought better. “I hope we can . . . .”

  “Enough,” Nyel snapped. “Juhn, explain.”

  Juhn nodded to Nyel, drew a deep breath, and gathered himself. “The invaders are Morgs,” he said but did not wait for his guests to process that revelation. “In the time before even the most ancient songs, our ancestors came to this land from across the ice. Soon after, they split and became two people, the Morgs and the Thurs. The Morgs remained in the North. We built lodges and disciplined communities to survive the hard winters. The Thurs continued south to the plains. They were nomads, roaming and splintered, lawless but of our people nonetheless. When the Lawbreakers rose, the Thurs became their allies and the split widened. We, the Morgs, had no choice but to stand against our brothers. We sided with Valatarian and accepted his laws. As you know, the Order eventually prevailed. The Lawbreakers and their allies, including the Thurs, were cast into exile.”

  “They have returned,” Nyel interrupted. Cary had been so captivated that he jumped. “As before, they are allied to chaos, but Valatarian is long gone, and his church is weak. Our only hope is to meet them now as one people.”

  “Then let us meet them,” Ambassador Chulters took up the call with vigor, falling just short of pounding his fist on the table. “Already, Liandria rallies to . . . .”

  Nyel hissed. “Have you heard nothing?”

  “A Mother has no control over anything outside her lodge,” Juhn reminded. “The men will decide when and where and for whom they will fight.”

  “But surely with your support and our gold . . . .”

  “Your gold is worthless,” Nyel snapped, a mother losing her patience.

  “His Majesty has made it clear that he will not be outbid,” Ambassador Chulters responded. “Prince Winslow follows with the entire treasury and the ability to negotiate the trade deals that will allow you to spend it. The Empire could not hope to match us.”

  Juhn looked to Nyel, but she simply shook her head and gestured back to him, seemingly giving up on the proceedings. “I will explain this because if seems you cannot let it go,” Juhn conceded. “Your offer to hire the lodges is already lost. You must pursue it, but you have no chance to succeed.”

  “I . . . I don’t . . . .“ Ambassador Chulters stammered then caught himself. “The Empire is nearly destitute. Even if they empty the palace, they have no goods to offer. The gold would sit cold in your lodges. How can we not succeed?”

  “Because the Emperor doesn’t seek to hire every lodge. He seeks only to divide us, and in that, he has already succeeded. His delegation has already visited the eastern lodges. The Empire has already agreed to terms with them, has hired them as you would say. Your offer to hire all the lodges and the Callik it necessitates is likely all that is keeping them from marching as we speak.”

  “All the lodges east of here?”

  “Pada Por, Okotok, and Inuvik,” Juhn confirmed.

  “So seven remain unclaimed?” Ambassador Chulters was catching his strid
e. Cary had nearly given up on following the discussion and was trying to keep himself from being caught by the youngest of Nyel’s daughters as he explored her. She was far too beautiful and important for him, but he had a thing for pregnant women – often their husbands ignored them, and there was no risk of getting them in trouble – and she was captivating. Who would have thought a Morg woman would look like that? he asked himself over and over. “If we can simply sway the remaining lodges the Callik will . . . .”

  Nyel shook her head. Her eye crept to Cary, but she seemed to think better of it and diverted her stare out the window to her side.

  “Listen,” Juhn sighed. “The Empire need only hire two of the remaining seven to keep the Callik from a majority, and you are dividing your gold among ten lodges – not five – and that by number of men provided. “It is simple math. If the Callik accepts your offer, over half of your gold will go to Torswauk and Mehret because it will be divided by the number of warriors they can provide. That leaves the remaining half to be divided among eight lodges.”

  “By the Order,” Ambassador Chulters cursed as the picture cleared. Cary, never good with his numbers, did not have any idea what they were talking about, but it was clearly not good. He was also worried that Nyel’s daughter had caught him staring at her breasts. No matter how fast he had looked away, he had not missed her scorn. Now, he was afraid that he was further indicting himself with a rush of blood to his head. Seeking an escape and remembering his purpose in the room, he pretended to give the other women equal attention but found only confusion and indifference in varying combinations.