The False Martyr

by H. Nathan Wilcox

  The thought sent Dasen’s eyes to the sides of the temple where an even stranger and more terrifying change had taken hold. Soldiers stood in a row along each of the temple’s outside walls with more at the back. They wore simple helms and chain shirts, but far more significantly, stout spears were clasped in their hands. Weapons of any kind were normally forbidden in the presence of the Order whether that be a temple, a village green, or anywhere a lesson or the judgements that followed were being given. The fact that the governor had brought armed soldiers into the temple in the first place was a sacrilege far more significant and apparent than the false lessons being delivered.

  But the sanctity of this sacred place was clearly the least of the governor’s concerns. His own sword had been in plain sight as he strode up the aisle to take his seat on the first bench. A half-dozen soldiers, armed and liveried as members of the Chancellor’s Own had dislocated a wealthy family in order to sit behind him. Governor Colmar had shown as much concern for them as he had the rightful governor when he’d had him imprisoned so he could take his post. Himself an officer in the Chancellor’s Own, he had a broad build that looked natural in the dress uniform he still wore. His face was a chiseled block with short hair framing a growing bare stretch down the middle. A close-trimmed beard only accentuated the square line of his jaw. His nose was flat as if having been smashed to his face and his eyes were small and dark, shadowed by a dominant brow. His mouth was a stark line, thin lips lost. He had the look of a stern and imposing man, and Dasen understood why the people of Gorin West were hesitant to cross him. As a purportedly important noble, Dasen was seated with Teth and Garth near the front of the temple, only a few rows back and on the other side of the aisle from the governor, so he’d had ample opportunity to study the man, to wonder how he lived with the cruelty he imposed upon the people he ruled.

  At his side, Teth sighed. She looked bored, which Dasen supposed fit her role as a fourteen-year-old boy. In a fine black suit with a white shirt and blue scarf, she certainly looked the part. If she lacked an adolescent’s fuzz and blemishes, it could simply be attributed to a late bloom. If her features seemed a bit too fine, they certainly did not have the softness of a girl. And if she was a bit too tall, a touch too broad for a lad who had not yet reached his growth, it only supported the rumors that the Esthers had crossed with Morgs. And not a single one of those were things that any polite person would ever question.

  Dasen just wished he could wear his disguise with the same ease. It seemed to take Mrs. Tappers an eternity every morning to plaster him with her pastes and powders. Then came the wig and the layers and layers of clothes all which had to be buttoned, tied, and clasped in a thousand ways. The clothes, cut in the most conservative possible styles to hide any hint of masculinity, were stiflingly hot. The makeup made his face itch and break out, and the heavy wig pulled on his own hair so that his head constantly pounded. Beyond the humiliation, it was a daily torture that made him almost long for Kian’s purported revolt so that he could be himself again.

  And defend the city using . . . . Dasen did not even want to think about the powers he’d used outside Thoren. It was why Kian’s plan would never work. Beside the fact that it probably would be soldiers, not monsters that he was using his powers against, he was not sure if he could control those powers, wasn’t sure how he’d done it in the first place. What if the time came and he couldn’t do anything? And more importantly, what if he didn’t want to? What if he couldn’t bring himself to do it? The people here – Dasen looked around the temple packed to bursting with ragged faces – will pay the price. They will be killed. The city will be destroyed. And it will be my fault. Dasen swallowed hard, reconsidering his part in the whole reckless venture.

  “This is the way of the Order,” the valati intoned to bring an end to his lesson. He took a deep breath and looked out over the congregation. The Chancellor had decreed that every person was to eat today. The temple was to provide a special soup line with the additional food that had been released for the occasion, so the building was packed nearly to bursting. Ragged families filled the benches and flooded the back, flowing out the doors to the steps below. The day was hazy and the temple was dim, but it was promising to be hot. Already the air was thick and permeated by the smells of the unwashed so that it was difficult to breath. Dasen was sure it would only get worse.

  The valati spent a long time looking at the people before him, eyes scanning the back of the temple where the ragged had been crammed. He drew the breath to speak the next part of the ceremony but seemed to lose the words. He dropped his hands and gaped at the aisle before him. There was a rustling from the crowd. Dasen found the governor, saw his body shift forward, the guards at his sides began to stir, heads pivoting to the rear. Dasen spun just in time to see a young man break through the crowd to claim a place in the center of the aisle.

  “Dorington has risen!” he yelled. “We reject the Tyrant and have declared ourselves free of his rule. We call on Gorin West to join us, to stand with us against the Exiles and the tyrant that serves them, to rebuild that which never should have been surrendered. The Kingdom of Dor is reborn! Join us brothers, and we shall be free!” The man wore the uniform of a Dorington border guard, but it was ragged and travel-worn. He looked around at the silent crowd, too stunned to react, then to the soldiers who were pushing their way to where he stood. “Down with the Exiles! Down with the Tyrant! Long live Dor!” The man yelled just before the guards reached him. The blunt side of a spear flashed toward his head. He fell without another word as the soldiers surrounded and secured him.

  Murmurs filled the temple, growing in intensity, the words “Dorington” and “revolt” floating time and again to the top of the raucous froth. Dasen searched the crowd expecting to see them rise as one against the governor and his men. This is it, he thought, but he found confusion more than revolution on the faces around him. Every eye looked to the ones around it, searching for someone to follow, someone to tell them what to do, someone to tell them what it all meant. The valati said nothing. He and his counselors looked aghast, but Dasen could not tell if it was at the intruder’s words or the violence used to subdue him – if bringing weapons into a temple was sacrilege, using them was damnation. In the end, it was the governor who provided the leadership that the people sought even more than food.

  “If what that man said is true,” he bellowed as he climbed the steps to the dais, “then the people of Dorington are as good as dead.” He paused to let that sink in and allow the crowd to settle. “I was in Wildern when the invaders attacked. They destroyed a quarter of the city, reduced it to rubble and ash in a matter of hours. Buildings and walls that had stood since the Exile were gone in minutes. Dorington, for all its might, would be dust before the sun reached its height.” Another pause to allow the people here to compare themselves to the Kingdom’s second largest and, in many ways, strongest city.

  “You know me as a member of the Chancellor’s Own,” the governor continued. “I charged the invaders with five hundred of the finest knights these Kingdoms have ever known. In a single second, we were thrown from our saddles, every single man, cast to the earth, and defeated. In a second!” He snapped his fingers to make the point. The crowd flinched. “And the invaders’ losses? To have unseated every knight, to destroy a city, must have required all their armies. They must have fought through every street, scaled every walls, and lost thousands in the process. No! They lost . . . NOT . . . A . . . SINGLE . . . MAN! Do you think the outcome will be any different in Dorington? Do you think their border patrols will fare better than the Chancellor’s Own?” He waited as if someone might actually answer his question. Silence, clear and absolute, was answer enough.

  “To fight is suicide. It is death and destruction with no possible chance of victory. Now, I know you think me cruel. You think me a tyrant, a tool of the invaders, but you should know that my only goal is to keep you alive, to keep this city standing. Soon, the invaders will move on. Our obligati
ons under the treaty signed by the previous Chancellor will be met, but until that time, we do what we must. The alternative is death, a quick and pointless death.”

  The governor looked out over the crowd again. They were stunned, cowed by his very intensity. “The lesson is over,” he announced with a glance at the valati. “Chancellor Ronigan has decreed that food be made available to all who need it this day. It will be here at noon, assuming that there is no more trouble or talk of dissent. This incident did not happen. Now, clear the temple.”

  The guards moved to do just that. They did not lower their spear or draw their swords. The steely resolution on their faces was enough. The people shuffled with barely a word to the doors and out into the light of the day.

  “We should . . .” Garth started to say from beside Dasen.

  “You may stay back, my lady,” the firm voice of the governor interrupted. Dasen turned and saw him standing at the side of their bench, flanked by sharp-eyed guards. “I understand you have asked to help with the food. It is kind of you to contribute to the people of our city.” He studied Dasen then turned to a smaller, older man at his side and whispered in his ear. “Perhaps we can have you for dinner one night,” he offered when his attention returned. I have to say I have not heard of your family or lands and would be most interested to hear how exactly it is that you ended up here.”

  Dasen gathered himself quickly and tried to respond as he thought Deena Esther would, “I am honored, Lord Governor, but I am afraid that I do not have a lady of my family to accompany me.”

  “We need not hold to such conventions, my lady. Your honor is safe with me, and certainly, your brother and bodyguard will be sufficient escorts for a simple dinner.”

  Dasen looked at Garth and Teth but received no assistance. “I would be honored. Please, let me know the night, and I will do everything in my power to attend.”

  “Very well. I will have a message sent to your room at The River Maiden.” The governor bowed. “All the best to you.” He rose a second later and allowed his guards to lead him down the wide central aisle and out the door of the now vacant temple.

  #

  “Why do you think she wears that stuff on her . . . ?”

  A mother’s hand cut off the child’s question. A woman in a fine cotton dress – far from a beggar – looked up at Dasen in embarrassment. “I’m . . . my lady . . . he . . . I don’t.”

  Dasen forced a benevolent smile and handed the child a cake of hard unleavened bread. “It is what ladies do where I am from.” He tried to keep his voice high without straining. “But it is not so hot there.” He smiled and blotted his forehead with an already soaked handkerchief. It was sweltering in the back of the temple where he had been standing since the lessons had ended a few hours before, and he was somewhat amazed that Mrs. Tapper’s pastes were still there to comment on.

  “Thank you, my lady,” the woman bowed before him when she had received her own cake. “Your kindness will never be forgotten.”

  Several men standing to the side mumbled their agreement. They bowed their heads in deference, hands working the hats they held. The men had been standing there, hats in hands, since the first women and children had passed through almost an hour before. The counselors had insisted that the men wait until the women and children had been served, and this group seemed to have assigned themselves the job of ensuring the line was orderly – with the reward of first run when the women were through, Dasen thought. As part of their duty, they had taken it upon themselves to second any thanks or compliment directed toward the Lady Esther.

  Though Dasen appreciated their sentiment, he was beginning to tire of their scrutiny. He already had enough to worry about with a constant progression of staring eyes. He could only imagine his stubble peeking through, his wig slipping off, his hair showing through the soaked fabric of his dress. He was certain that each person would be the one to declare him a fraud. Then it would just be a matter of who got him first: the crowd, the bounty hunters, or the soldiers.

  It was likely an hour past noon now. The Teaching Day lessons had ended a few hours before. The counselors and valati should have been busy with their judgments – hearing disputes and interpreting the Order’s will to resolve them. The people in this line should have been sharing the Teaching Day meal with their families. They should be fishing in the river, playing in the green, napping or visiting, singing songs or telling stories. The invaders had ended that. The Di Valati had relinquished the Church’s right to interpret the Order’s will. The invaders had stolen all the food that would be in those families’ meals, had imposed curfews to keep them from the streets, confiscated their boats and wagons and horses. There was no joy now. There was fear and suspicion. Teaching Day was just like any other, a blur of desperation where nothing but survival seemed to matter.

  Dasen saw it again and again as the women and children streamed past them. Even the finely dressed, those who had the capacity to clean themselves, and put on decent clothes, stood in the line and waited for the barest, meanest meal. Yet they showed no signs of the revolt that Kian hoped to incite. There was no talk that Dasen could hear about the disturbance during the lessons that morning. In fact, the people did not seem to speak to each other at all. Rather, they eyed the soldiers that were everywhere then diverted their gazes if they should happen to draw their attention. They hunched their shoulders, bowed their heads, and made themselves small. The people of Gorin West had no fight in them. Dasen wondered if it had been starved from them or if they had not yet been starved enough to build it.

  Another set of faces appeared before Dasen. These seemed most to want to hide. “Mama, I don’t want . . . .“ The girl’s whine was cut off by a yelp as the mother’s fingers clenched her ear. The girl was perhaps seven. She was short and somehow stout. Her dress was simple and did not fit her correctly, but more, it did not suit her. She looked wrong in that dress. Her older sister and mother were the same. They had fine skin, delicate fingers, shining hair yet wore the clothes of the common folk whose lives were certainly not conducive to those attributes. Then the final, eldest daughter appeared beyond the mother, and everything fell into place.

  The girl, slightly younger than Dasen, was beautiful, full cheeks, pert nose, red lips, round face, glistening black curls falling from her bonnet. Dasen had spent far too much of the Teaching Day lessons staring at the back of her head, at the slight profile of her face, the curve of her back revealed by the arching lace of the gown she had worn. Standing before him now, she was every bit as beautiful even though her silk gown had been replaced with wool. What’s more, it confirmed that this was an important family. These were no workmen or even tradespeople. This was one of the city’s top families, but here they were, standing before him, begging for a meal.

  “Thank you, my lady,” the mother said without meeting Dasen’s eye.

  “It is the least I can do,” Dasen replied as he handed them the bread. The youngest girl, ear still clutched in her mother’s fingers, refused to take hers, so Dasen gave it to the mother.

  “Thems the Carthers,” one of men standing outside the line said to his fellows. “I used ta work fir the ole man. If even they’s ‘ere gettin’ bread, it must be ‘ard times indeed.” He whistled through the gap where his front teeth should be.

  The mother looked at the man in horror and tried to hide in her bonnet. The oldest daughter, who Dasen was just then handing a pieces of bread burst into tears. Dasen felt his temperature rise at the girl’s shame. “It’s alright, my dear,” he assured her with a pat on the arm. “These are hard times for everyone. We all do what we must to survive. There’s no shame in that.”

  The girl stared at him blankly. Dasen watched her, absorbed by her round lips, long lashes, dark brown eyes. Then she seemed to realize how he was staring at her. She froze. Her face filled with shock. Dasen’s heart leapt into his throat – she knows. He could not do anything other than watch the girl and silently pray that she not call him out. Finally, she turne
d abruptly and followed her mother and sisters as quickly as possible to the soup. A backward glance of something between curiosity and disgust was her final goodbye.

  Be the character, Dasen chastised himself. If you’re a girl, you can’t go around ogling other girls. If he was right in reading the girl’s expression, another rumor about the mysterious Lady Esther would soon start to spread: a half-Morg noble woman from the far north who fancies girls. Mr. Tappers would love it – the more ridiculous things you give them to talk about, the less likely they are to see the obvious, he always said. Dasen just hoped they were right.

  He handed out four more small loaves to four more dirty, tired faces, smiling at each. The children aged five to twelve chorused, “Thank you, my lady,” and held the bread to their chests. Their mother took her own loaf with a tear rolling down her cheek. “May the Order protect you,” she whispered. Again the men watching nodded and mumbled their approval. Dasen smiled the same benevolent smile.

  “May I speak with you a moment, my lady?” A hand clasped Dasen’s arm gently, and he jumped despite himself. He turned and found Valati Lareno standing beside him and well below, making him look even more gigantic than he must already seem. He had a kind look on his face, but there was mischief in his eye.

  “Of course, Valati Lareno.” Dasen stepped from the line and walked with the valati up the aisle. A young counselor took his basket of bread and replaced him in the line.

  “Dab your brow,” Valati Lareno said when they had stopped a few paces from the line.

  Dasen looked at him in surprise but did as he suggested, happy to remove some of the sweat that was running toward his eyes.

  “Look at the window behind me. Stare at it.”

  Dasen did so. He stared at the patterned glass at the top of the temple, watched the sun sparkle through it in a scintillating display. He realized that the light from the window was falling directly upon him, outlining him in its rainbow of colors and almost literally cooking his head inside the heavy wig he wore. The lights began to move. They swirled and shifted, blurred.