The False Martyr

by H. Nathan Wilcox

  The very thought of it was so absurd that Cary nearly laughed. The fact that he, a stable boy and courier, a rotten underfoot little scamp with an incestuous monster of a father, could bring about the death of a prince, the murder of all his nobles and guards, the theft of the whole of the Liandrin Royal Treasury was something for the legends. But it was just the beginning. The Morgs would now invade, and there was no reason to believe they would show the common people of Liandria any more mercy than they had shown their prince. The whole of a country – every man, woman, and child – would suffer because Cary had been played, because he couldn’t help himself. The stable boy who destroyed a nation.

  And yet, despite the way that he had changed the course of history, he felt infinitesimally tiny. Certainly, he had allowed himself to be trapped, but the trap had been so complex, so long in the making, so perfect that it had never been a choice. He had been little more than a mouse who brings the poisoned bread back to his family. There was no way to see the machinations that had gone into creating that tragedy, no way to know what would happen when they ate it. He was the trigger, the one unlucky enough to spring the trap, but the real devil was the one who had put it all into motion.

  Nothing but a mouse, he thought again, with all the world crashing down around me, yet chosen by the Order to survive. And given how the Order had been used to bring him down, he could not believe for a second that his survival was random, that Juhn had awoken him when he did, told him what he had, allowed him to escape, for no reason. No, nothing that sadistic bastard did was without reason. Even in death Juhn – and the five, whoever they were – were not finished with him. Your part in the Tapestry is not complete, he had said. Cary could only imagine what other tortures they had planned for him.

  No one gives a shit if you fell off your horse, his sergeant used to say, they only care if you delivered the satchel. I don’t care if you broke every bone in your miserable body, if you’re still breathing you get back on that horse and complete your run. It was about as much motivation as Cary was likely to get at this point. He embraced it.

  A glance behind showed no one as far as he could see, but he had no doubt that the Morgs were chasing him. How much of a lead would he have by now? He tried to calculate. It was late afternoon, and he had been riding the mountain pony hard since he’d left the lodge. By some miracle, it was the same one he’d abandoned in his final switch before reaching the lodge, and it still wore his saddle. The animal wasn’t fast, but it was sturdy and they’d ridden at a run for hours, slowing only when the animal began to labor and only for long enough for it to catch its breath. But how fast were the men behind him? Legend said that Morgs could outrun horses over a long distance, and Cary did not disbelieve it, but those horses were not being ridden by him. Still, he would need more than a single horse to escape the Morgs and to make it back to Liandria.

  He looked down at the field. He found shapes that must have been horses, but there were not nearly enough of them. The prince and his entourage had been riding. An entire company of knights had accompanied him along with dozens of rangers and personal guards. The prince must have had two hundred horses with him, surely the Morgs had not killed all the animals, so where were they?

  Cary allowed his eyes to drift past the bodies on to the west and found the answer. Supply wagons were lined up a half mile behind the main force. The wagons had been ransacked, the animals pulling them cut loose, the oxen taken, but the horses were still there. A small herd of them were clustered chewing at the grass just past the wagons. He could not be sure from that distance, but it looked like a varied group: huge draft horses, tall thoroughbreds, powerful chargers, and sleek mares. Cary could have his pick.

  Eyes returning to the wagons, he searched for movement, for some indication that the Morgs were still there. Seeing nothing, he eased his horse down the hill toward the caravan. Approaching slowly, he came upon the wagons and maneuvered around them. His head was almost even with that of his horse as he peered around the other side. Feet twitching to drive his spurs into the horse’s haunches, his hands gripped the reins until they hurt. His legs held the saddle like a vice. What he saw nearly unseated him.

  “Noé?” he whispered as he stared at the shape crumpled against the wheel of the first wagon. It was definitely a woman. Her long, golden hair was undone, hanging to the ground in waves that suggested it had been recently unbraided. It obscured her face, but the dress, stretching over her knees to the top of her slim ankles was clear. It was simple wool but a good weave, sturdy and seemingly clean. The sleeves covered only the top half of her arms before ending in a ring of thick, white fur. Her arms were thin, white turning red where the sun had burnt them, purple and black where the bruises lined them, thick rings where strong hands had held them, circles where fist had hit them. It was her.

  You can still have what you want most, Juhn had said. Was this what he meant? Was Noé what he wanted most? As much as he had grown fond of the girl, and even at the height of his desire for her, he would not have said that she was what he wanted most. She was a dalliance, a conquest. She was a deformed, broken girl, nothing more. And she had cost him everything.

  Cary turned his horse to ride away. He was not sure he ever wanted to see Noé again. If she hadn’t allowed herself to be used, hadn’t fallen into Nyel’s trap, none of this would have happened. If she hadn’t reminded him of Allysa . . . . Another broken girl, another reminder of his pain and failure was the last thing he needed.

  Be the man your sister needed. Juhn’s last words came unbidden to Cary’s mind. He dropped his head into the horse’s long mane and cursed. Allysa appeared, but this time she was smiling. She was laughing, teasing him. She had been trying to teach him a game she had learned from the other girls. It was something silly, and they both had ended up laughing until their mother had exiled them from the house, so they sat on the steps, watched the castle on the hill, and talked about their dreams, their plans, their future lives. That night, his father came for her. Four years later, she was dead. Be the man your sister needed.

  Leaping from the horse, Cary walked haltingly to where Noé was curled against the wheel of the wagon. Her head was on her knees, face lost in the cascade of hair. She didn’t move except for the slight shaking of her back. She was crying.

  “Noé,” Cary called, voice gentle.

  She looked up, face full of shock. Cary was nearly as shocked. Though he would never forget how she had looked when he found her that last time, he had not thought she could look worse. Surrounded by black and purple, swollen nearly shut, what little of her eyes shown were almost completely red. The bruises and swelling continued down to a bandage across her, now crooked, nose. Across her cheek, a long cut rose from another purple mound, marked by black threads. Her lips were puffed to twice there size, so large that they could not close to conceal the new gap in her teeth. The split she had been born with in her top lip – the mark that had cost her all this – was mirrored now by another running down from the bottom all the way to her chin. Like her cheek, it has been sewn with black thread but was red and angry nonetheless. Around her neck, a mink almost hid the purple bruises left by the hands that had strangled her – the same mink those hands had given her. The rest of her was concealed by the dress, but Cary remembered the blood the last time he saw her, remembered what Juhn had said about her baby, and realized that these were probably the least of her injuries.

  Her body shook as if she’d been punched again. Her breath caught and her hands rose. She did not say anything; she started sobbing.

  “The Order help us, Noé, I am so sorry,” Cary said as he approached. “I . . . I . . . .” and he realized that he had no idea what to say.

  “Why do you keep coming back?” she filled the gap. The words were a distorted slur, barely recognizable coming from her broken mouth. It did not help that she spoke into her knees, face hidden by her arms. “How many times did I tell you to leave me, but you keep coming back? What more can you possibly do to m
e? What more can you possibly want?”

  “I don’t want anything,” Cary answered and meant it this time. He came to stand before her then kneeled stiffly down to her, placing his hands on her shoulders. She didn’t look at him.

  “I lost everything,” she told her knees. “I lost my daughter. I lost Zhurn. I lost my lodge. You cost me everything. I don’t have anything else for you to take. I am outcast. I am protected by no Mothers or sisters. They could have done whatever they wanted with me. They talked about it, laughed and joked about the ways they would use me, but they couldn’t do it. None of them could even bring themselves to rape me.”

  Cary could not believe what he was hearing. How could anyone ever be that lost?

  “I . . . I want to die,” she continued after a pause. She unwound, lifted her hand and the knife it held. Cary flinched at the sight of the blade, but it was not meant for him. “I keep telling myself that it will be easy, but every time I try,” she laid the blade along her wrist, “I can’t seem to do it.” She looked at him, teeth clenched despite the pain it obviously caused. “Why can’t I just do it? Why can’t the Order just let me die? I was never supposed to be alive, so why can’t It let me die?”

  Cary had no words. He took her hand, pulled the knife from it, and threw it as far away as he could, then he simply wrapped his arms around her and pulled her to him. He held her, firmly but gently, and no matter how she fought him, he did not let her go.

  #

  “Noé, wake up. We need to go.” Cary tried to rouse her while keeping his voice low. The sun was just peeking above the horizon in the cold early morning, but Cary had been up for hours. He had fallen asleep against the wagon wheel with Noé still held in his arms and awoken to shivering cold in the middle of the night. Careful not to wake her, he had laid her on the ground, covered her with the great fur cloak that was still stuffed in his pack, and watched her battered face for a long time in the faint light of the stars. He still had no idea what he was doing, but at least it was the right thing. Holding her had been right. Listening to her cry, feeling her tears soak his shirt, waiting for her to let everything out, just being there was right.

  When he woke, felt her still in his arms, he had known that they were tied together. Yet this was different. He did not want to sleep with her, was not aroused by her. In many ways it was the opposite. He wanted only to protect her, to comfort her, to save her. Be the man that your sister needed.

  “We need to go,” Cary repeated as Noé’s swollen eyes fluttered open. She looked at him for a long time as her emotions seemed to fight – surprise, fear, relief, shame. Cary could not hope to know them all. Finally, she looked at the cloak covering her and back at him. She pulled herself up and back without a word.

  “The men are here,” Cary explained. “They’re looking for me, and they might . . . .” He was going to suggest the threat that they may pose to her but couldn’t bring himself to say it. He didn’t even want those thoughts in her head, did not want her to ever again think that men should be able to hurt her. “I found some horses and supplies, but we need to go. We need to go now.”

  “You want me to come with you?” Noé asked as if she had not heard a word he’d said.

  “Of course,” he responded. He tried to keep his eyes on her though they desperately wanted to go to the sound of voices in the distance.

  “Why?”

  Cary had no idea. The question stopped him dead. “I need you,” he finally said. He wondered if he should tell her that he loved her, but he could not lie to her anymore, and what he felt for her was not love, at least not as he usually thought of it.

  Noé didn’t say anything. She stared at him, swollen, bloodshot eyes locked on his, for what seemed an eternity. Cary could almost feel the men closing on them, but he never allowed his attention to drift. Finally, she nodded. “I . . . I am not sure if I can ride,” she said tentatively and looked down at herself. Cary could not imagine the damage that had been done to her to cause the miscarriage. Would she ever recover from that? he wondered. Then decided it didn’t matter.

  “It’s okay,” Cary said. “I will take care of you.” He hoped that was not a lie. They were going to have to ride fast and it was going to be rough. Cary had been tracking west from Morgvel, wanting to follow the prince’s route to the Fells over the plains, but there were at least twenty men there now and no way to get around them. Their only hope was the mountains.

  “But you still want me to come with you?”

  Cary had never realized that such a simple question could mean so much. It was not much different than what countless girls had asked him on countless mornings like this. Can I come with you? Will you send for me? When will I see you again? He almost kissed her and walked silently away out of simple habit. “I cannot leave without you,” he said instead.

  Noé almost smiled, almost. She took his hand and let him help her to her feet. She walked haltingly to the horses, holding herself as she went, wincing with each step. By the good and holy Order what did that bastard do to her, Cary thought as he watched her grunting and shuffling a full four days after. It was only a few steps to the horses, but as she’d said, she was in no condition to ride and in even less a condition to run.

  Cary abandoned his original plan. Hoping for efficiency over grace or speed, he had planned for her to ride the mountain pony while he rode a small mare that he’d separated from the herd near the wagons. A big charger loaded with what supplies he’d been able to find among the wagons was to complete their group. Noé’s condition changed everything. She’d have to ride with him.

  Fingers fumbling as he tried to be quick, Cary transferred the supplies to the other two horses as silently as possible. The Morgs were close. He could hear their voices on the other side of the wagons. They could clear that final barrier any time, could come striding around it and find exactly what they sought. Finally, when the charger’s enormous saddle was clear, Cary hoisted himself onto it. He felt like he was a hundred feet in the air on the back of the enormous creature, but he simply laid the fur down across the front of the saddle, folding it over several times to create a cushion, then reached for Noé. With some effort, he positioned her in front of him, sitting across the saddle with his arms supporting her on either side as they held the reins. She looped her arms around his neck to steady herself, placing her head on his shoulder so that her breath tickled his throat and her warmth encompassed him.

  A yell from behind, the now familiar call, “Guth abadat!” told Cary that their time was up. He snapped the reins, dug his spurs, and whispered in Noé’s ear, “Don’t be afraid; I won’t let you go.”

  #

  “They won’t stop, you know.”

  Cary looked at Noé as she turned to face him. He had slowed the horse to a walk as they navigated a narrow trail that cut through the surrounding trees with barely enough room for the horse much less its riders. His arms were aching from holding her all day, but he honestly did not want to let her go. They had been riding hard for hours, but the forests that now surrounded them had slowed them to a walk. They had put a lot of distance between themselves and the Morgs, but Cary could almost imagine the big men jogging behind them, slowly, steadily gaining on them as the horses very nearly crawled over the now rough terrain.

  “I know,” he finally responded. “I probably should have left you.” He sighed and ducked beneath a branch, wrapping his body around her. She seemed to relish that, nestling into his chest. “They want me. They’ll probably hurt you for being with me.”

  “There is nothing else that they can do to me.”

  Cary wanted to believe that but knew better. There were tortures that even Noé had never felt, and even if you’ve already experienced every horror known to the Order that didn’t mean you were immune to them when they happened again. “Why did you come with me?”

  “Because you asked. And because no one has ever held me before. Last night, even this, is something I’ve never had. I never knew what it was to have
someone next to me as I slept, to feel arms around me. I know it sounds foolish, but I would take whatever those men can do to me just to have this.”

  Cary felt the lump form in his throat nearly choking him. His eyes stung as he tried to imagine an entire life without ever being held. Not by a parent or a friend or a lover. To have never been loved or even cared for enough to warrant closeness. To have the only contact with other people be the way that Zhurn and undoubtedly the Order Master had used her. It made even her bruises and cuts seem insignificant. They would heal in a few days. This was a lifetime.

  Holding her close despite the trembling exhaustion in his arms, Cary whispered, “We had better make sure they don’t catch us then.”

  Chapter 65

  The 53rd Day of Summer

  The largest bank heist in the history of the world happened on Teaching Day, with armies marching outside, in the middle of the afternoon, in every city, and with the full knowledge and consent of the nation’s sovereign. Given that he had approved it, Ipid was not certain that it could be called a heist, as such. Seizure would have been a better term, but he liked the idea of a heist, and given all the planning and secrecy that had gone into it, the term felt right. The plan had begun on the day of his inauguration when he had required banks to hold individuals’ wealth free-of-charge, ostensibly to discourage looting and theft. With ration papers the new currency of the land, the response had outstripped his wildest expectation, filling the banks with more than enough gold to satisfy Arin. That had solved one problem. Now, it was a matter of getting it to the Darthur without anyone knowing.