The False Martyr

by H. Nathan Wilcox

  “Lift your arm,” Valati Lareno ordered. Dasen tried, but as it came up, the world fell away from him. The lights swirled to blackness and he collapsed.

  When he woke, Dasen was surrounded by counselors. Valati Lareno was holding his head in his lap and fanning him with his hand. “She’s fainted, that all,” he yelled. “She’s been here all day making the soup, carrying the bread, handing out the food with barely a thought for herself. I don’t even know if she’s eaten.”

  There was a collective murmur from the crowd gathered around the bread line. People mumbled their concern, whispered what they had seen to their neighbors, and hung on the words of the valati. Dasen’s eyes were just starting to focus. His head was pounding. He felt light and heavy all at the same time and just a bit nauseous.

  “Make way,” a voice yelled. It took Dasen a moment to realize it was Garth.

  “What happened?” Teth nearly screamed as she pushed counselors from her path and kneeled by Dasen.

  “Your sister fainted,” Valati Lareno emphasized the words and stared sharply at Teth. “She’ll be alright. She just needs to rest and cool down.”

  “Deena, are you alright?” Teth asked, remembering to use Dasen’s assumed name.

  “She’s trying to do too much,” the valalti answered in a voice far louder than required. “I have told her time and again that killing herself will not help these people. Stethan, perhaps you can convince her to take a break.”

  Teth stared up at the valati confused. He watched her, beseeching. Dasen’s eyes bounced between them, wondering what in the name of the Order’s name was happening. Finally, Teth rolled her eyes. “Come sister,” she said far too loudly. “Please, let the counselors take your place. You have done enough. Valati Lareno, is there someplace she can rest?”

  “Certainly, my child. I will show you.” Valati Lareno turned now to Garth, standing head and shoulders above the brown robes of the surrounding counselors. “Shall we have your man carry you, my lady?” Garth frowned but moved forward. Sweat ran from his face and dripped off his great beard. His shirt was soaked through. Dasen could not imagine being carried by the sweat-soaked Morg, and Garth seemed no more excited about the prospect.

  “I am fine. I can walk.” He waved off the approaching Morg. He came slowly to his feet with the help of Valati Lareno and held the small man’s shoulder as the room seemed to wobble. The crowd gasped as he wavered, but he eventually found his bearings and waved back at them.

  They cheered, a great roar that built as those further back realized what was happening and added their voices. A number of people shouted encouragements, well wishes, and thanks. Dasen could not imagine what he had done to deserve any of it. Valati Lareno pivoted him to face the crowd. The back of the temple was packed beyond capacity with every eye on him. They grew silent as they watched the subject of their interest. He felt himself flush with embarrassment.

  “Say something,” Valati Lareno whispered from beside him.

  Dasen looked out over the crowd. “Thank you all for your concern. I am simply not used to the heat. I am sorry that I cannot do more. We must all do what we can to help and protect each other in this difficult time. Please, do not let this keep you from your meal.” He waved again, not sure where those words had come from. The crowd did not cheer this time. They seemed contemplative and mumbled back and forth. Dasen was not sure how to interpret that, but Valati Lareno wore a big smile when he turned Dasen back around and led him toward the dais.

  “The Order protect ya, my lady,” someone shouted from the crowd as Dasen walked away. The call rose from the people in waves, flowing out of the temple down the steps and into the courtyard.

  Dasen turned halfway down the benches and called, “And to all of you. Help each other and keep your hope. The Order will provide.”

  The crowd bowed their heads as one and mumbled their agreement. Dasen had no idea what was happening or where any of those words had come from. He was by no means a public speaker, unless reading dry treaties somehow counted. He had never been a leader or someone that others looked up to or emulated. Mostly, he had spent his life trying to hide from the attention that his father’s position seemed to convey. The irony was that in his most desperate attempt to hide, he had become the object of profound scrutiny.

  “What was that?” he asked Valati Lareno as they approached a door to the side of the dais. He could still hear the crowd behind them stirring, could not possibly understand how a decidedly ugly, overdressed noblewoman from some unknown region could possibly have created such buzz by doing nothing more noteworthy than fainting. But he had the feeling that this was all part of some larger scheme, that Valati Lareno had meant for this to be the outcome of the day before it ever started.

  “Every movement needs a martyr,” Valati Lareno whispered. He looked at Dasen with a huge smile, yellow buck teeth showing like a rabbit in a carrot patch.

  Dasen stopped cold. “But aren’t martyrs supposed to die?”

  “Worry about that when the time comes,” the valati said. “First, you need to be worthy of martyrdom.”

  #

  So this is where you keep it all,” Garth announced as Valati Lareno led them into a large room beneath the temple. He used the flame from one of the lamps in the hall to ignite a long brand and used that in turn to start two lamps in what appeared to be a storeroom. Dasen followed him into the room and stared at the mountains of food. Wheels of cheese made a series of towers in one corner. In another, barrels of salted meat rose to the ceiling. Walls had been constructed out of burlap sacks that bulged with flour, oats, and barley. Casks of wine and beer, racks of hanging sausages, barrels of oil, crates of potatoes and carrots filed every nook and cranny. But behind all the sacks, crates, and casks, peeking out as if playing hide-and-seek were the images of Valatarian and his disciples.

  “It’s the meditation room,” Dasen mumbled. He had seen one of these rooms at the university. It was where the counselors and valati came to align themselves with the Order. It was a sacred room in any temple, one reserved for the holy men. And this one had been turned into a storeroom.

  “It is the one room that the governor’s soldiers would never enter,” Valati Lareno explained. “It’s cool and contained. When this door is closed, it is practically sealed. And this is not the only store we have.” He looked around the room with obvious pride. “Kian and I had the benefit of foresight. We knew what the invaders were likely to do, so we prepared for it. The Church backs us completely – even coordinating resistance between cities – but we’ve found no way to use the food we’ve gathered.

  “You, my lady,” he nodded with a smile at Dasen, “have helped. We let it be known that you donated a great sum to the temple, and that we used our position to purchase food from Liandria – impossible given that they have closed the border but equally impossible to disprove. Yet even that lie can only carry us so far.”

  Garth grunted from the corner. “Why steal all this food if you cannot use it?”

  “Partially, it is to destabilize the governor,” Lareno answered. “But also to prepare for the day that the people finally overthrow him.”

  “But that announcement today,” Dasen said. He had found a place sitting on a stack of flour sacks. “I mean Dorington is only a hundred miles away. It is the largest city in this part of the Kingdoms, is the original capital of the duchy. Yet the announcement that it was in revolt barely created a stir. I looked at the people. They don’t have any fight in them. I think you’ve misjudged them. They’re not on the verge of overthrowing anything.”

  “What makes sense for Dorington, cannot be said to be true of Gorin,” Lareno answered with a sigh. “Everyone here expected Dorington to revolt, but that does not mean they want to be part of it. The people of Gorin West are not fighters. They are used to hard lives, to depravation, to being under the yoke, and fighting has never gotten them anything but burnt homes and dead sons.

  “Despite being so close, Dorington is another anima
l. It was always one of the strongest cities in the Kingdoms. It was the last holdout against unification. It has a long history of military strength, and the presences of the Sylians has kept it alert while the rest of the Kingdoms became complacent. What’s more, Tares Bairn is a popular and ambitious leader. Many thought him an eventual rival to Kavich. If he capitulated to the tyrant, any hope he had of becoming Chancellor would be gone. By revolting, he will be a hero. Unless your father has him killed, he will be the winner even if the revolt fails, and with the fortresses and fighting men of Dorington on his side, even that outcome is not certain.”

  “So why are we doing this?”

  “These people need something to fight for,” Teth answered. “Food is not enough. They need to feel pride in something then have it taken away. Only when they realize that they have nothing left to live for will they give their lives. That’s why you’re building up Lady Esther, isn’t it?”

  Valati Lareno looked at Teth with surprise that turned into a frown. “I need to get back upstairs,” he said, suddenly nervous. “Recover, Dasen. You did brilliantly, but your day is not over yet. I’ll be back for you in an hour.”

  After the valati departed, silence fell in the storeroom. Dasen watched Teth. She was soaked with sweat, hair plastered to her head in the bowl that Mrs. Tappers had made of it. It ran down her cheeks and dripped from her chin even here in the cool basement. Her cotton dress shirt had turned from white to grey. It was untucked and unbuttoned at the top to show her slim neck and top of her chest well before the wrap that covered her breasts. She still wore a black silk vest to help cover the slight bulge that even the tightest wrap could not completely conceal. Her black pants were expertly tailored, fitting her position as a young noble, but they were also marked with lines of salt from her evaporated sweat and splattered with mud. She looked every bit the wealthy boy set on militancy.

  And Garth looked every bit the teacher of such a boy. “Your wife is starting to show me what Kian saw outside Thoren,” he broke the silence. “Certainly, it is impressive for a woman.”

  Teth snorted at that but was clearly lightened by the compliment. “You can hardly do better. And you’re a Morg. Give me another week, and I’ll have you at everything but the sword.”

  Garth almost smiled. “She is fierce. I sometimes think she really does have the blood of Morgs.”

  Dasen looked at Teth then Garth. They shared half-smiles at their banter, and Dasen felt his blood run cold. It was so easy to forget that Teth was a woman, that she might be attracted to another man, that a Morg – fierce, strong, independent – might be a perfect fit. And if she was falling for her teacher, if that was the reason she had become so distant? Dasen felt his heart breaking at the thought.

  “I think in a couple of weeks she will be ready for real action,” Garth was saying. He looked at Teth protectively. Dasen watched him. There was no guilt in his eyes, no wariness, nothing that suggested anything more toward Teth than a teacher’s pride. He felt his concerns ease until he looked to Teth and saw her eyes dim. Her face fell for an instant, smile gone then replaced with a mask.

  “We should go,” she said to fill the gap. “Are you going to be alright, Dasen?”

  “I’m fine. Just be careful. There is no need to rush into anything.”

  “I have given my word to teach her,” Garth assured. “You need only worry about yourself.”

  Teth turned to follow Garth out the door, then thought better of it. She came to Dasen and put her hand on his arm as she had so many other times when unsure of her feelings. “Be careful, Dasen,” she said. “I . . . .” She looked around the storeroom then seemed to reconsider. She removed her hand and backed away. “I’ll see you tonight,” she said as she walked from the room.

  Chapter 47

  The 39th Day of Summer

  “Time to go, my lady,” Valati Lareno called. “Here, drink this.” He handed Dasen a small metal cup with a dark liquid inside.

  “What is it?” Dasen sat up from the bed of flour bags where he had been napping, pushed aside the plate that had held his lunch, took the cup, and swirled it. The liquid smelled of alcohol and spices, rich and sweet.

  “It’s a restorative. The counselors here distill it. They use it cure everything. I doubt it has much medicinal value, but it will give you some pep.”

  Dasen sipped the dram. Matching its smell, it tasted of warm spices and honey with the underlying bite of strong alcohol. Licking his lips, he raised the glass and drank the remainder. It flowed down his throat easily, warming him the entire way down then seemed to snake its way out to his limbs, flowing with his blood to every corner of his body until he tingled from his toes to his ears. “That is something,” he said, staring at the glass.

  “That was double the usual dose,” Lareno admitted. “I think you’ll need it.”

  “What now?” Dasen moaned and stretched despite the warming of the alcohol. “More bread and soup?”

  “It’s a surprise.” Lareno smiled impishly, “but you’ll probably want one of these.” He held out a wide strip of heavy muslin.

  “What’s this for?” Dasen took the strip of cloth. It was two feet long, a foot wide, and smelled strongly of herbs.

  “You’ll know when we get there. Come on, my lady. It’s been a long day already, but we’re just getting started.”

  Dasen followed the valati up the stairs to the main section of the temple then out the doors nearest the dais into the blazing mid-afternoon sun. A crowd waited. They erupted in cheers when they saw Lady Esther. He waved at them and was greeted by shouts of goodwill. It appeared that the soup line had been completed, but only a fraction of the people had departed. The temple remained surrounded by those that had made it their home over the previous weeks. Dasen knew from experience that they would remain here until the doors were opened again at sunset.

  Lareno led Dasen to a wagon at the front of a line of similar vehicles. A driver there offered him a hand with the steps, and Dasen began to climb. “Would my lady like to sit on the bench with me,” the driver asked, “or would you be more comfortable in the back?”

  Dasen looked back at the bed of the wagon. It was loaded with bags of the simple cakes that he had been handing out in the temple. A half-dozen counselors and acolytes sat among the bags. Each of the men held a muslin cloth similar to Dasen’s. He could smell the herbal tang of them even from the front of the wagon.

  “She’s going to the camp!” someone from the crowd shouted, providing Dasen with all the confirmation his slow mind needed. His eyes grew wide as he looked around. There were four wagons with two donkeys each. Bags of food or barrels of water filled each cart accompanied by counselors, acolytes, and a few other volunteers. Dasen felt his knees grow weak. They were going to the camp. Everyone knew that the camp meant death. It meant disease and starvation. There was no food, no clean water, and no medicine for its residents. Dasen wanted no part of it. He stared down at the cloth in his hand. To protect me from the disease or the smell, he wondered. Probably both. He wanted to faint again.

  “She’s going to the camp.” The phrase had grown nearly to a chant as it was taken up and passed back through the crowd. The people at the front began to cheer. Those at the back joined them. Dasen could only stare in shock.

  “You’re supposed to be demure,” Valati Lareno whispered in his ear. “Look surprised, wave, then sit in the back with the counselors.”

  Without any idea how, Dasen did exactly as instructed. The crowd loved it. They cheered him and the caravan all the way down the hill and into the city.

  In a surprisingly short time, they were rolling past the last of the shanty buildings at the northern outskirts of Gorin West. They had passed through several blocks of quickly built wooden structures with barely a slap of paint to keep the wood from rotting away in the suffocating humidity. The road was a track of mud with dirt gutters running on either side, but those appeared to serve more as garbage pits than drainage. There were few shops here with onl
y the occasional tavern to break the expanse of packed cottages. The streets swarmed with children who had nowhere else to play. They broke their games as the wagons passed, stood to the side and watched them go then resumed in their wake like waves reforming after a ship. And at the front of the houses, the parents and grandparents of those children watched and commented on the finely dressed lady riding among the sacks.

  After the last of the houses faded, they had a long lonely ride to the camp. Dasen realized only then that no guards were accompanying them. He asked Valati Lareno about the lack of protection. “Even the craven bandits around here wouldn’t dare attack a caravan from the temple bringing food to those in most profound need,” he answered from his seat on the bench. “I told the governor that we neither needed nor wanted his soldiers. Besides, there will be more than enough when we reach the camp.”

  They rode in silence through swampy low lands where two the world’s greatest rivers joined. To the east was the expanse of the Alta shimmering in the sun, blocked on its far side by the bluffs of Liandria and spreading lazily beneath the grasses they passed where no cliffs stood to restrain it. On the other side, the Orm was lost from view but had the same effect on the countryside. Everywhere Dasen looked was tall grass standing in stagnant water. The road was raised a few feet above the floodplain, but occasionally dipped far enough to allow the rivers to mingle in expanses of sticky mud. Barely wide enough for two carts to pass, the road was the only passage through the swamp – even if a man managed to wade, he would be instantly lost in the forest of grass standing feet above his head.