The False Martyr

by H. Nathan Wilcox

  Eia had joined him a few minutes before and taken a glass of red wine for herself. She swirled the wine and drank it so that the deep red stained her pale lips. The alcohol, even in such small quantities, added a glow to her white cheeks. The great leather chair was far too large for her, and she allowed it to absorb her, tucked into a corner, legs bent under her, bare feet peeking out. In the shadows, her deep burgundy dress blended almost perfectly with the leather of the chair making her bare upper chest, arms, face, and hair seem to be floating. She stared at him with her huge dark eyes but said nothing, a white apparition sitting in judgement.

  “Stully escaped,” Ipid started the conversation when it became clear that Eia had no intention of doing so.

  “Hmm, as you had planned.”

  Ipid sipped his brandy, relishing the sweet, smoky flavor before it ran hot down his throat. This was his second glass, and he’d had Eia’s share of the wine with dinner. His thoughts were slow, mind fuzzy, eyes blurred, body relaxed, joints loose. It was as drunk as he’d allowed himself to be in months. He took another sip and set the glass down on the small circular table to his side. “Except that six guards died. A fire killed all the other prisoners. Lord Stully’s son was shot.” Ipid’s anger rose as he remembered the debacle. So stupid, so unnecessary.

  “Do you still think he will do as you suggested?”

  “Yes,” Ipid growled. “Not because I told him to, but because it’s what he wants. And it will be on his terms, not mine. That is the way he is. He’s a planner. He’ll move, but it will be at his own time, of his making, when he is ready.”

  “But we agree that imprisoning him was for the best?”

  “Yes. Of course, but there was no need for it to happen this way. There was no need for anyone to die, least of all his son.”

  “Is his son dead?”

  “We don’t know,” Ipid barely kept his voice even through his exasperation, “but even if he’s only injured, Allard will be enraged. And none of it was necessary. Do you understand that?”

  “I do, but it sounds like the plan is still in place. I will confirm with Vontel the next time I see him, but I see no reason for all this. There were some complications, but it sounds like he will still do his part. Isn’t that what you wanted? Isn’t that worth the cost?” Eia pulled her legs up closer to her body and cocked her head, smiling slightly.

  “Worth it!” Ipid yelled, rage spiking. “What I wanted!” He gestured wildly, sloshing brandy onto his hand and jacket. “Hilaal’s balls!” he cursed and searched for a rag to wipe up the liquor.

  Eia supplied it, rising smoothly from the chair and taking a cloth from the bar cart behind them. She approached and used it to dab at the damp area along the lapel of his jacket and sleeve. She did not otherwise touch him or speak, but her smell overwhelmed him. Ipid felt his every nerve respond to it even through the haze of alcohol. And she was gone, refilling her glass with wine nearly as dark as her dress. “You were saying?” she asked over the top of her glass.

  Ipid was rattled, had completely lost his train of thought. He remembered what he was going to say. Felt the anger rise at the preventable deaths, the unnecessary complexity, the waste, at Eia’s dismissal of his concerns, at her constantly prodding him to destroy his nation and its people as the only way to save them. He wanted to tell her all those things, to express all his frustration, but she just stared at him, head cocked, mouth quirked around the edge of her glass.

  She doesn’t care, Ipid realized. She sees me as a child crying over a toy as he watches his house burn. With a great sigh, he gave up. “What happened with Belab?” he asked instead, draining his glass. It was a larger amount of the powerful alcohol than he’d planned, and he nearly choked on it.

  “Are you alright?” Eia asked, concern thinly veiling her condescension.

  “I’m fine,” Ipid snapped when he stopped sputtering. He tried glowering at her. She matched it, increasing his irritation.

  “Liano will not be returning.” She took another drink of her wine and set it aside. “He is too distraught over what happened and even more by his near loss of control. You do not know how close that was to being something far more than a mere accident.” She scratched absently at her leg with her free hand, bringing the thin fabric nearly to her knee.

  “How are we supposed to . . . ?”

  “Hush. Let me finish. Another will be sent. The Belab sees that we need someone with more . . . experience. The man he has chosen will bring an apprentice of sorts – though we do not think of it that way. It is one of your people. He is young and would not normally be put in such a situation, but the Belab thinks the workers might respond better to one of their own.”

  Ipid remembered the young men and women being tested in the villages – and the testing that he had authorized the te-am ‘eiruh to continue throughout the Kingdoms – but had not seriously considered any of them returning, had not thought about them using their powers against their own people. So who was it that would be returning? The question spurred another memory in his addled mind. His jaw went slack. “It’s not . . . I mean . . . .”

  A knock sounded at the door. “Lord Chancellor,” the butler’s baritone sounded, soft but steady from the doorway. He had opened the door but not entered or looked around its surface. “Field Marshal Landon is here. He insists that he requires your immediate attention. Shall I . . . .”

  Illich Landon shoved his way into the room before the butler could ask the question. His face sparkled with sweat in the light of the lamps. Beads dripped from the stubble that covered his cheeks and chin. The pale blue of his uniform was dark. Mud was splattered across his arms, face, and chest. A layer of dust covered his boots rising up over his pants, jacket, and hair. Only his stark-white teeth seemed to be untouched by the road, an angry white blur across his face, clenched so hard that every line on his face was etched into his skin. He carried his riding gloves in one hand, smacking them against the other palm, sword bouncing against his leg in time with each of his powerful strides. He came to stand before Ipid and saluted, hand pounding his chest. “Lord Chancellor, Dorington had fallen.”

  Ipid stared at the man, trying to get his eyes to focus. He was clearly agitated. He nearly shook for the way his body was clenched. For his part, Ipid was more surprised to see the marshal than to hear his news. “Did you ride all the way from Aylesford?” he finally asked. He sat back in his chair and drummed his fingers on the arm. Beyond the marshal, Eia remained curled in her chair, seemingly amused at being unnoticed.

  “I did, Lord Chancellor,” the marshal replied with exaggerated formality. “I could not send a courier with such dire news. It had to be delivered personally, and I should hear your response personally so that there is no confusion.”

  Ipid held his gaze then finally took a deep breath and asked the question the man must be expecting. “What happened?” He did not realize until after he had said the words that he probably should imbue them with some surprise, some anger, something other than resignation. But the truth was that Vontel had prepared him for this almost from the beginning. The ambassador did not have much of a network in Dorington, but it was well known that Dorington’s Governor, Tares Bairn, would not sit quietly in a cell. His people were fiercely loyal, and he was, if anything, the opposite of Allard Stully, impulsive, emotional, unpredictable, yet every bit as proud.

  Field Marshal Landon’s face darkened at Ipid’s seeming lack of concern. His voice turned brusque. “The rebels took our men by surprise. They infiltrated the Directorate Hall dressed as servants and struck in the night.” He took a deep breath. “I received word just after noon. A lone survivor made it to Warren, a small town north of Dorington, and sent word to me. I rode here as quickly as the horses beneath me could manage.”

  Ipid sighed. He was in no mood to deal with the commander’s histrionics. “I understand. So beyond the loss of the city, what was the damage?”

  “The entire garrison, Lord Chancellor!” Marshal Landon bellowed, f
inally releasing all the emotion he had been bottling. “Sixty men to start. They hung any that they didn’t kill in their sleep, including Captain Brixley, who was in charge of the city. The message said that mobs were roaming the streets looking for sympathizers. It said they were being hung out their windows – men, women, and children. Whole families. Anyone who aided our men in running the city or collecting the food. There may be hundreds dead by now.” Marshal Landon’s jaw clench, his hand clamped onto the pommel of his sword as if he might crush it.

  Ipid felt all the air leave him. He sat back in his chair, stunned. His entire body seemed to float away as he tried to comprehend the savagery. Though he had expected a revolt, he had never considered it would be so bloody, had never thought that so many might die, that even Tares Bairn was capable of such horrors. His mind swam through the haze of alcohol to make some sense of it. When Captain Brixley had taken the city, his men had not killed a single man. They had arrested Lord Bairn and several others, had imprisoned them when they refused to accept Ipid’s authority, but they had not spilled blood. Why would the response then be so disproportionate, so murderous and cruel?

  “Lord Chancellor,” Marshal Landon was saying, seemingly far away, “I can have my men in position in five days. Bairn will have the men from the local garrison, but I can’t believe he’d remove them from the outposts. I can supplement my knights with the men already gathering in Denton. That will give us several thousand. We’ll . . . .”

  “You will leave them be,” Ipid interrupted, finally regaining enough of his senses to speak. The words came through clenched teeth, a barely audible hiss.

  “Lord Chancellor?” Marshal Landon’s mouth open and closed like a fish. His eyes popped. “We can’t . . . .”

  “We can,” Ipid pounded his hand on the arm of his chair and rose. “And we will.” He closed on the soldier, face stern, eyes locked despite the dizziness that threatened to return him to his seat.

  “But . . . but, Lord Chancellor,” Marshal Landon sputtered, clearly unprepared for this turn. “If you let them . . . if you do not punish this . . . .”

  “I will punish them,” Ipid growled. “Trust me, marshal. I will punish them. It will be swift and sure, and it will wait.” Ipid’s hands were locked in fists. He wanted nothing more than to have Tares Bairn in front of him at that moment, to see the man’s neck stretching in its own noose.

  “Sir . . . you . . .”

  “Enough!” Ipid shouted. “You have your orders. You will make no move against Dorington. Withdraw your men from the area. Increase your grip on the surrounding cities but leave Dorington be. You and your men will not discuss it further except to inform me. I do not think they will dare leave the city, but if any force marches from there, you will let me know immediately. That is all. Do you understand, marshal?”

  “Sir . . . .” Field Marshal Landon licked his thick lips. His eyes shifted. His anger had turned to shock, his confidence to uncertainty. “Sir . . . may I ask . . . .”

  “No, you may not!” Ipid yelled again. “You may carry out your orders. I will speak with you again after the weekly lessons. Since you are here, you will give me a briefing on the status of the military and your readiness to join the Darthur. That is all. The servants will find you a meal and a room.”

  Commander Landon gaped for several heartbeats before finally saluting. “As you command, Lord Chancellor.”

  “You are dismissed!” Ipid pointed to the door. “And do not ever barge in on me before I have called on you again.”

  “Yes, sir. Goodnight, Lord Chancellor.” Commander Landon saluted, looking chastened, then bowed and strode to the door. He opened it and showed himself out with only a single, wide-eyed look back. Ipid caught it and forced it to the ground.

  When the door was closed, Ipid stumbled to his desk. He put his hands on its cool surface and tried to breathe. The entire world seemed to be spinning, and he did not think it was from the brandy. “Why? By the Order, why?” he mumbled to himself as he clawed at the desk.

  A hand appeared on his arm. Small and white against the black sleeve of his jacket, it ran up to his shoulder then onto his face. It was cold despite the warmth of the evening. Ipid gave into it for a second, moving his face into the caress. He slammed his hand down onto the desk making items jump across its surface. He arrested Eia’s hand, clasping her wrist hard.

  “You did this,” he seethed through clenched teeth. “You told me not to move against Bairn, to leave him even though we knew what he would do.” He turned on Eia, holding her hand out away from him. She winced against the pain of his grip. Her wrist was so thin in his hand that he simultaneously wondered how it did not get lost in his palm and how it did not break.

  “Don’t be a child,” Eia snapped back. “You knew the risk, and you knew why we had to take it. Stop crying and lead!”

  Despite the grip he maintained on her wrist, she wormed her way between him and the desk, standing so that she was pressed against him, back to the wood. She sneered at him, face cruel, but her dark eyes held something else. Her head quirked. Her free hand rose to his face.

  Ipid snatched it away. “What do you want?” he demanded. “By the Order, stop playing with me!” His words slurred with the intensity of the emotion and alcohol. “What do you want?” he screamed again when Eia did not answer.

  She just kept staring at him, eyes smoldering, hands held out to her sides, body pressed against him. Her mouth opened slightly. Ipid’s met it. He kissed her hard, pressing his lips to hers until their teeth clicked together, until he tasted blood. He forced her hands down to the desk and abandoned them for her legs. He reached down to the hem of her dress, mouth hard on her neck then breasts despite the silk covering them. He ran his hands up her legs, bringing the dress with them until the fabric pooled around his wrists and his hands rested on her naked hips. His mouth met hers, teeth smashing into hers as they sought to catch her lips or tongue. Her hands worked his pants to free him. His came up, pulled down the top of her dress. He squeezed her until she gasped then found her throat, clasping her chin with all his might to force her face away.

  He lifted her onto the desk. Her legs spread around him, dress thrown back, breast standing out. She tried to wrench her face from his grip. He slammed her hard onto the desk, forcing her face and head into its surface, pressing it down so he would not have to look at her. Her only defense was to arch her back and reach to the far side of the desk to brace herself.

  She did this. She brought you to this. She made you into this. He wanted to hurt her, wanted more than anything to make her feel the pain he was feeling. He pressed his fingers against her face and throat with one hand as the other reached between.

  He entered her as hard and fast as he could, relishing her scream.

  #

  Hileil be merciful, what have I done? Was all Ipid could think when the rage finally left him. It had gone in a single mighty climax like he had never known, so powerful that he had thought he might black out before he collapsed, panting and utterly spent, on top of the woman whose screams had been matched only by his own. Now, he laid on her, unable to even support himself so that he did not smash her small body into the hard surface of the desk, and wondered if he’d ever be able to look at her again, if he’d ever be able to forgive himself, if she’d even give him the chance.

  He had gone too far. He knew that, but in that moment, Eia had personified every emotion he carried. All the pain, all the grief, all the anger and frustration of the last two months had been there before him, and he had wanted to destroy it, had wanted to destroy her. He had heard her cries, her moaning, her gurgling and had known that it was too much, that he had crossed the line, but it had only made him want to thrust harder, to squeeze her face and neck all the more, to press her into the wood until he thought she might break.

  The pictures of himself moments before ran through his mind. Her screams echoed in his ears. Her crying and begging shook his every breath. He was the monster now, the ve
ry creature he had feared to become. How could he ever climb from such a deep pit?

  Hileil be merciful, please let her be alright, he prayed as he started to rise. Already, he struggled for the words to apologize, fumbled for some way to make it better, begged the very Order that she recover, that she forgive him.

  Eia caught him, held him to her with her hands on his shoulders, gripped him with her legs, kissed his ear between pants. “Better,” she whispered. She moaned low and squirmed beneath him. “Definitely better.”

  Chapter 46

  The 39th Day of Summer

  “The words of our savior are clear. His lesson is plain. We need only live it, need only to stop fighting his plan and give ourselves up to the Order. Disorder cannot defeat disorder.” Valati Nommeck delivered a sermon full of fire without so much as a spark. Even as he said the words, his face seemed to dismiss them. His strong voice carried to the crowd but held no enthusiasm for the words he spoke.

  Dasen tried to concentrate on the valati’s words, but they were delivered with such a lack of conviction that they flowed over him like water, passing over in a rush without a drop absorbing. If Lareno was to be believed, the valati hadn’t even written the words he was speaking. Lareno had told them that the lessons were now written by the di valati and delivered by special couriers. If true, it meant that every counselor and valati in the Kingdoms was, at this very moment, saying the same words, extolling their subjects to trust their leaders, to maintain order, to do what they were told. It was not a legitimate lesson, it was the Chancellor’s – his father’s – propaganda, just another way to keep the people compliant while he and the invaders stole the food from their mouths.