The False Martyr

by H. Nathan Wilcox

  “Good luck, sir,” Jack called as Ipid lost him through the gates. “I know ya’s doing what ya must just like ya did fir us. May the Order guide ya and protect ya.”

  Ipid could not even find words through the lump in his throat to call back an equivalent blessing.

  #

  In a uniquely Darthur style, the grounds around the estate had been transformed into a camp. Two dozen low tents filled the lawn and garden spaced so that each tent had a stretch of ground with a tree, bush, fountain, or statue between it and its neighbors. And looming over those simple tents was a fine villa that surely had enough rooms to house the te-ashüte. Ipid could not help but chuckle as he thought about all those rooms sitting empty, eschewed for the luxury of sewn-leather tents.

  I couldn’t possibly sleep in a bed, he said to himself with the voice of a prissy noblewoman, the feathers would suck the fierceness right out of me. I’d be a wreck at the next battle, would barely be able to kill anyone at all. Can you even imagine? And walls, don’t even get me started on walls. . . .

  Ipid was still chuckling – windows, only a te-adeate could possibly want windows – when he was shown into the ballroom that Arin had transformed into a meeting room. The large circular room had been stripped of the paintings that had graced it – their outlines marked the walls like ghosts. The tall, narrow windows had been thrown open to allow the westerly breeze to swirl through the room. The floor, a great mosaic pattern made of tiny tiles meant to imitate the ancient floors of the Imperial Palace, had been cracked and gouged. Ipid stepped over one long rust-colored stain that could only be dried blood. Obviously, the Darthur were as concerned with housekeeping as they were with comfort. And even the te-ashüte had been keeping their skills fresh with duels and games that required the release of blood as others would release sweat.

  “K’amach-tur Ipid,” Arin called from the center of a line of tables that had been set to stretch across the length of the room. Chairs, nearly twenty in all, surrounded the table for the other members of the Ashüt. None of them was occupied. Arin was the only man in the room, and because Ipid’s escorts had remained outside the house, the number only doubled with Ipid’s arrival. “Your presence brings me honor.” Arin smiled genuinely and motioned to a seat.

  Ipid bowed. “Great teacher,” he greeted in Darthur. “I seek only the honor to serve . . . .”

  “Stop. You are no longer te-adeate. You do not need to make these statements. Approach me as a man of proven honor, not a worm.”

  Ipid rose from his bow and approached. He could not reconcile his relief at not having to worry about being beaten for meeting his master’s eye with his strange desire to once again be nothing more than Arin’s servant. As awful as that life had been, it was in many ways easier than what he faced now – so much easier to be angry at a tyrant for killing your people than to be the tyrant yourself. “You sent for me, va Uhram?”

  “Yes.” Arin remained standing. It was midmorning but a plate still lingered before him, largely untouched. Ipid did not even want to think what the people outside the invaders’ camp would give for the flat bread and beef hash.

  At first, Ipid worried that eschewing his food was a sign of stress in the young leader, but he looked as carefree as Ipid had ever seen him. His face was cleanly shaven, eyes clear and blue as ice, sandy hair pulled back into a nub at the back of his head. His square, chiseled features were sanguine such that he looked like a boy just released from university or recently promoted after his first five years of military service. Though still a young man, Ipid had never thought of Arin that way. He had, after all, conquered a continent and was well on way to capturing a second. Before, he had carried the weight of those accomplishments and their associated burdens, was weighed by them so that he looked like he might actually be old enough to have done them. Now, with the initial victory in his grasp, the burden of leadership seemed to have melted away and taken the years with it.

  “You have done well,” Arin finally interrupted the awkward silence that had grown between them. “My men are the happiest they have been since before we started across the waste. They have seen their wives. Their bellies are full. They have fields to train and play. They have new weapons and saddles and armor. Your people are clearly thankful for their place within the clans, and we are glad that we have been able to accept you.”

  “It is you that honors us. We are simply glad to have met your expectations,” Ipid replied. “It has been hard for our people.”

  “The path of honor always is,” Arin dismissed Ipid’s subtle plea entirely, “especially for those who have not followed it their entire lives. These hardships will make your people stronger. It will teach them how to survive without all these comforts to which they have grown accustom.” Arin gestured to the walls around him with disdain as if its very existence weakened him.

  Ipid knew that there was no point in arguing. The Darthur had won. They had proven that the Kingdoms could not hope to oppose them, and that gave them the ability to force their beliefs on the conquered people – for now. “I am sure that is true,” Ipid conceded. “I fear, however, for the people who . . . serve your camps. They are driven by hunger to dishonor themselves, to beg and . . . dishonor their bodies.” How to talk to the monastic Darthur about sex?

  Arin thought for a moment, clearly trying to unravel the meaning in Ipid’s words. “You mean the women in those houses?”

  “Yes, Great Teacher.”

  “There is no dishonor.” Arin waved off Ipid’s concern. “Women may choose whichever mate they desire. They are k’amach-tur. If they choose to take the power of another k’amach-tur or even du-räsch, that is no business of mine. If it is a problem for your men, then they must convince the women that their own power is better.” Arin used a word that Ipid had translated to be ‘power’, but it clearly meant something more and different here.

  “These women are doing it for food,” Ipid tried again.

  Arin looked confused as if he expected Ipid to say something more. “I don’t understand,” he finally admitted. “Why should a woman not choose her mate based upon what he can add to her herds? That and the power the man brings to her children are the only factors a woman should consider.”

  Ipid knew that he should drop the subject, but he could not seem to let it go. “So if Darthur women were lining up and accepting any man that gave them a round of bread, that would not upset you?”

  “It does not matter if it upset me. I am a man. I cannot control what a woman does. They are the heart of honor. It is only by their grace that we have tents or herds or children. How could I or any man question what they do with their bodies?”

  “And if your wife did that?” Ipid spoke before he thought. He had grown too used to being Chancellor, of saying whatever entered his mind without consequences. He literally reached for the words as he heard them, hoping to shove them back into his mouth. He waited for Arin to explode.

  He laughed. “Why would a woman who is joined to the va Uhram ever take the power of another man? No other man could contribute as much to her herds. No other man could give her more power for her children. No man could ever give her more honor.”

  Arin dismissed the subject with a wave of his hand. “Now, I brought you here to discuss what is to come, not the honor of women. Your people have met our needs so well, that we are becoming restless. We have recovered from our journey across the mountains and now believe that it is time to continue testing the people on this side of the Teeth.” Arin swept his hand across the, now ragged, map that he had found in the inn in Gurney Bluff and motioned Ipid forward. “In seven days we will depart. We will march along these roads to this city.” Arin pointed at Lianne on Alta. “Are there bridges over the river there?”

  Ipid looked at the map, considering. “No. The river there is too wide for bridges. There are ferries, but they are run by the Liandrins. They will surely withdraw them.”

  Arin considered. “That is just as well. We could not cross directly
into the city. The Battle of Testing must take place first.” He considered again. “Your people will provide boats,” he decided. “Enough to ferry all our men and those that you will provide across the river.”

  Ipid calculated. It would require hundreds of boats. “It may take days to get that many men and horses across the river. Even if we use hundreds of boats.”

  Arin looked up, eyes clear and sure. “The crossing will happen a day’s ride north of the city. My warriors will arrive there first. On the full moon, your boats will transport us across. We will hold the crossing in case these people try to stop us. You will have until half the moon has faded to transport the remainder of the army.”

  Ipid tried to remember where the moon was currently in its phases. He remembered seeing the shadow of a crescent proceeding the sun as he departed that morning, so it had to be waning, a few days from new. That meant a little more than two weeks before it was full and another seven to be half again. Three weeks. Two of those without the Darthur army camped outside the city. Ipid could only hope that he could hold things together that long. “It will be as you request, va Uhram,” he said. There was nothing else to say.

  “Very good.” Arin slapped his hand on the table and smiled. “The northern army will be moving as well. As you know, they marched to the far north to test this country.” He gestured to the Morg Fells, and Ipid felt his hope rise at the possibility of the Morgs joining the fight against the invaders. “However, the te-ashüte there tell me that these mountains are too difficult to cross, so they will wait by this lake until the Eroth Amache is complete.” He pointed at Lake Inver, the largest lake on the continent and source of the Alta. “When this country has been tested, they will cross the river, circle the lake, and test these people here.” He pointed at Invermere on the other side of the lake. It was a Darthur term for ‘on Invere’. If Ipid recalled correctly, the lodge there was small, maybe five thousand men of fighting age, but the simple act of crossing into their lands uninvited was a declaration of war to the Morgs. But would it come too late? “Your men in these northern cities shall accompany this force. You will continue to supply them with food, weapons, and equipment. You will ensure that boats are ready to transport them across the river.”

  “It shall be as you request,” Ipid said again though his mind was swimming.

  “Very good. The supplies coming to us now are sufficient to maintain us, but you will increase them in the coming days so that we have supplies to take with us as we march. You will provide all the wagons and animals required to carry those supplies and will keep us replenished. If there is a shortage, we will take what we need from the cities we pass.”

  “It shall be as you request.” Ipid saw dots dancing before his eyes – more food, more supplies, wagons, boats.

  “Very good.” Arin smiled and looked up from the map. “You will turn over control of this country and rejoin me prior to the testing of Liandria. I will require your services in dealing with their leaders. I trust this will not be a problem.”

  “It shall be as you request.”

  “Good. Are my clansmen serving you well?”

  “They are, va Uhram.”

  “And the te-am ‘eiruh? I understand you are using one of them to clear paths to the bridges. This is wise. Though I hear that you have taken the other as a wife? I have never heard of this among them. Are you certain it is wise?”

  “It is a . . .” Ipid struggled for the appropriate Darthur term, “. . . a trick,” he decided. “I use her to read the emotions of those around me, to see if they will do as I ask. I do not want them to know that she is te-am ‘eiruh, so she disguises herself as my wife.”

  “Hmm,” Arin considered. “I did not know that the te-am ‘eiruh could do that, though I would not trust them to advise me on such matters. Better to know that a man will do what you say because he is bound to you by honor. Don’t you think, k’amach-tur Ipid?”

  Ipid almost choked as he remembered how Arin had humiliated his cousin as a means of weakening his opposition. “I do, va Uhram, but my people are just learning the honor of Darthur. I cannot risk that their weakness may disrupt our ability to show our appreciation. As I said before, many of them are hungry and do not understand the wisdom of your judgment.”

  “It is always so,” Arin sighed, a tired parent talking about children who refuse to go to sleep. “They will learn soon enough.”

  “Thank you for your advice, va Uhram. I shall keep it in my heart.”

  “Very good,” Arin said then looked back at his map. “My clan has asked me to side with them in the qubatik. I do not love the game as many of them do, but it has it uses. I must prepare myself. I will call upon you if necessary. Perhaps, I shall visit you as we ride through your city.”

  “It would be my great honor if you would, va Uhram,” Ipid said with a bow. “I will leave you to your preparations. Please pass along my regards to Thorold and the other members of the Ashüt.”

  Arin seemed confused by the last, obviously wondering why anyone would ever ask him to do such a thing. “May you find honor in your day,” he offered finally.

  Ipid provided the same pleasantry and backed from the room. His mind was spinning with the new demands. The thought of village boys and women forced into prostitution were lost in calculations about boats and wagons and yet more food.

  Chapter 41

  The 35th Day of Summer

  It took all the will Dasen could muster to keep walking toward the clump of young men standing in the hallway before him, to keep himself from turning and running back to his room. As it was, he had to pause, take a deep breath, and avoid the eyes that turned immediately and with singular focus to him. You are Lady Esther. He forced himself to picture the image he had seen in the mirror before he left the room, to remember everything that Mrs. Tappers had done to create that image, and to be the girl she had made. As the young men watched – four of them, all of approximately his age – he waved his fan before his face and glided past with eyes diverted. He tried not to think about the fact that he was taller than all of them, that the wig felt like it might fall off at any moment, that a day’s worth of stubble was pushing against the cosmetics that covered it. He was Lady Esther. That is what Mrs. Tappers had told him. As long as you do not give it away, no one will ever know.

  He felt the eyes on him as he passed. The men removed their hats and nodded in deference, uttered unintelligible greetings, then watched him go until he was around the corner to the stairs. Only then, did they erupt into whispers. Dasen released the breath he had been holding and held the railing for support before starting down the stairs on trembling legs. It worked, he told himself, bless the Order, it worked.

  He really shouldn’t have been surprised. Mrs. Tappers was a miracle worker. When he had looked in the mirror, he had barely known who was staring back. Though he would never be mistaken for a beauty, his skin was smooth and hairless from the pastes and powders that covered it. His lips were pink with paint, cheeks shaded, eyes outlined in coal, eyebrows (painfully) shaped to lines. The dress, gloves, and padding covered every hint of masculinity in silk, satin, and lace. And a heavy wig had transformed his hair into a brown pile of braids and curls. The disguise was perfect. But as Mrs. Tappers had told him, her every effort would be lost the moment he forgot to be the woman beneath. “The disguise cannot stop with the cosmetics and lace,” she had said. “It must go through to your bones. It must be you, and you must be it.”

  He had spent three days now in his room trying to make himself into Lady Esther, forcing himself to not scratch at the cosmetics, to ignore the way the wig made his head pound, to not pull at the dress in the hundred places it rubbed and restricted. He knew that he wasn’t even close to ready, but he couldn’t spend another minute alone in that room with nothing more than a few dull books that he had read before. He told himself, that he just needed to move around, to get some air, but he knew that what he really needed was to see Teth, to feed the ache in his gut, to keep his
eyes from constantly watching the door for her return.

  He passed an older couple coming up the stairs as he descended. The man looked up, eyes growing wide as he realized whom he was passing. “Good evening,” Dasen said then cleared his throat as he choked on the words. He had tried to keep his voice high, but it had sounded forced to his ear.

  He watched the couple for a reaction, but the man just tipped his hat. “Ma’am.”

  “My lady,” his wife added. They stopped their progress and bowed slightly, allowing the purported noble to proceed. Dasen could feel their eyes following him.

  “Not much to look at, is she?” the man whispered too loudly when Dasen was passed. “I didn’t believe them about the Morg blood, but . . . .”

  “Quiet, Herm,” the lady scolded in a desperate whisper. “Your ears are so bad, you have no idea how loudly you are talking.” She paused then spoke in a louder voice. “I agree she is a beauty. If only one of our sons remained unjoined, I would insist that Master Tappers arrange an introduction.” Dasen let out another breath as he reached the bottom of the stairs.

  “May I help you, my lady?” a voice said from beside him. Nearly jumping from his skin, Dasen looked to his side and found a serving boy. He carried an empty tray under his arm, was clearly returning from delivering an evening meal. Dasen had picked this time to venture out in the hope that the inn’s other residents would be occupied with their meals, that he could sneak through the halls without being seen. Obviously, in such a crowded inn, that was too much to ask. “My apologies,” the boy gasped. He bowed low. “I didn’t mean to startle you, my lady. I thought you had seen me. Please, forgive me.”

  “It is fine,” Dasen replied, finding that breathlessness made his voice sound more feminine. “I am looking for my . . . brother.” He barely caught himself before saying wife. “He is about your age . . . .”