He was Sath Firedrake, and in search of a title those men newly free began to call him “the Firedrake,” as if it were a title, and so it became one.
Zain flourished, and the land round about Zain, as shume flourishes in an untended field.
A full two years passed before the emperor sallied forth against Sath, and it is said that he led the armies only because his lords and generals would not otherwise march, and by then they were more powerful than he. What a display was there! Carven helmets and plumes nodding all bright-coloured above ferocious war-masks, carved and painted; ornate armour all aflash and aglitter, and waving pennons all of a single colour: blue, for this was a display of imperial power as well as a conquering force. Battle was joined with a clangor and a shouting of men that rose amid dust into the skies and chased the clouds.
The conquering force did not conquer. The conquering force was conquered.
The Emperor of All Men was defeated, and was slain ignobly and ignominiously by one of his own concubines, who hoped for favour with the conqueror and of course held hopes for her offspring by the emperor; the emperor she slew in hopes of currying favour. With tears on his face Sath Firedrake, all running with sweat and the blood of others and the wound to his sword-arm, saw her deprived of son and life. He wept over the corpse of the emperor, and honoured those of his sons who remained living. And the eldest he called by the title Emperor.
By this, many were horrified and angered. They said that the Firedrake should rule. They said it loudly and often. Sath Firedrake, Emperor of All Men by the Choice of All Men!
No, Sath said. No one would rule over the continent. No one could! Furthermore no one should try, ever. The descendants of MaSarlis would be first among the lords of Sij, and no more.
This the young SharSarlis accepted, and agreements were signed and proclaimed far and wide. And that too was on the ninth Sarloj, for it was the Year of Two Calendars.
SharSarlis went so far as to change his name to Shardanis.
Then Sath called Firedrake of Gunnda, Conqueror and Liberator, surprised everyone still further. He doffed his armour and, in sight of many, broke his sword. He removed his yellow sash with the two tails and donned one of dull black, with a ragged edge. In mourning, he said, for all those who had died in his company and in his behalf. He vowed, swearing by his Honour and the scar on his sword-arm wrist, never to wear colour; only black. He had ever said that it was the god Ashah who guided him, and now he founded the first temple of Ashah and, two years later, that holy order which he called merely “the Sons of Ashah”.
There are other orders now, but none is like unto that founded by Sath, for he was both a man of religion and of arms: a monk and a knight. So are we who choose to follow his Way. The Sons of Ashah is the oldest order, and thus is the Order Most Old. It is that, for an Order of Ashanites had existed previously, but had been disbanded by imperial decree.
“That was two hundred years ago, and nineteen years more,” Falc told Jinnery and the others. “Out of chaos came firm government to bring order, and that led to empire. Perhap it was necessary. The First Civilization left only wreckage and useless machines in a world depleted of the fuels to drive them — and worse! For you know of the Burning Lands, and that such creatures as dargs used to be as small as fergs, and other things. Nor is there anything natural about Drearmist, whose jar-sealed lichen glows for many years and is poison besides. It is a Thing that arose from the destruction of the Mechanists of the First Civilization, and in the temples of Ashah Upholder we use no such.
“Out of Empire Sath Firedrake created the autonomous citystates. In them Holders grew up to fill the vacuum left behind by the emperor’s dead and enslaved lords and ‘lords.’ No one rules over all, or can, for the Holders would not stand for it.”
Falc sipped barley beer, and shifted his buttocks.
“And thus the world. Gunnda holds to its strange rule still, and it is tolerated because citystates are free each of the others. You have your Arlord and his Militarate of Zain, because ninety years ago a greedy Holder sought to add this land to his. He was destroyed and is one with MaSarlis. I know that his name is not spoken in Zain, and I will not speak it. The emperor does not rule; the emperor now is... a symbol. A reminder of the past, a sort of unifying figurehead. A symbol of a continent at peace, united through disunity, if that is what lack of supreme rule means. For unity means rule by one man, and is Not To Be Sought. The Holders rule, and such as your Arlord and a few others on their estate-keeps; ardoms, independent of cities. Because they are well apart in citystates or ardoms such as Lord Daviloran’s or Lord Synaven’s up the road, they are competitive and mistrustful. We of the Order founded by Sath Fire-drake form the unifying bond among all the Holders, all the cities and ardoms. And thus, of Sij. Ashah guide us!”
Falc sipped again with the air of a man who had done with his talking, and Querry spoke almost excitedly.
“Thank you, Sir Falc! Never have I seen it all so clearly, felt so the sweep of history and our heritage. I am glad that my son has heard it — and from one who is in a way a descendant of Sath Firedrake.”
“Wak!”
“And now,” Jinnery said tiredly, speaking as though she did not want to but could not help it, “Shalderanis is emperor. That... boy.”
“Yes,” Falc said, “now Shalderanis is called emperor. His older brother died and, five years ago his father the emperor died, though he was not old. Emperor Shalderanis is only twenty-six. Some have said that he is arrogant and dreams of the world as it was before Sath Firedrake. But that is silly and I cannot give it credence. No man can take all Sij, now. No emperor may truly rule and thus no empire can exist. We see to that, by providing a sort of unity of knowledge, a linkage through communication among the independent Holders.”
“What do you think of Shalderanis, Sir Falc?”
“I have never met him, Chalis.”
“That’s not what I mean — oohh... but what do you think, then?”
“Ashah has said that rumors are weeds that grow without purpose or need, and that he who believes rumors without knowledge is an eater of weeds and thus one with beasts.”
“Never met him,” Chalis said, while his father closed his eyes, concentrating on remembering the aphorism. “I thought you had been everywhere.”
Falc’s face easily took on kindly lines. “There are many places I have not been, Chalis. I don’t even know the names of some.”
“I am going to step outside and increase the rainfall,” Querry said, “and take me to my bed. Chalis —”
“Oh! But tomorrow S’r Falc will leave! Let him tell just one story — a story of war and banners and brave weapon-men in battle!”
The eyes of the two men met. Falc blinked in a way that Querry recognised as a nod of acquiescence and reassurance... subject to Querry’s approval.
“One story,” Querry said, and showed his own interest by postponing his necessary trek outdoors.
“A bloody one!” the boy urged.
“No, Chalis; but a brave one that I love. At the battle of the Plain of Tinjurrah, the great Sath Firedrake was set upon by a certain lord’s high champion. His name was Bazarga Redstar.”
“Bazz-z-zar-r-ga Red-star-r-r,” Chalis said, tasting the sound of the words and liking their flavour.
“Yes. A man with unusually long arms and a blood-red war-mask, who used a weapon of his own devising. This he called his ‘red claw.’ A horrid claw-like weapon mounted on a pole about the length of your father’s pitchfork handle. Bazarga used it in the same way another man would wield a sword. Can you visualize that? This long red-painted handle and on its end a hand-sized claw, like this, of red iron. A horrible thing.”
“Horrible!” Chalis echoed dutifully, while his bright blue eyes shone.
“With it, Bazarga Redstar maimed and slew many men and good war-dargs. And with it, Bazarga Redstar actually struck Sath Firedrake in the head,” Falc said ominously, watching Chalis’s shock and horror.
/> “Oh!”
“Yes, for he was still out of reach of Sath’s sword. But Sath was of course wearing his helmet, and by chance the claws bit into that black helm and held fast.”
“Oh.”
“You may assume that Bazarga Redstar was not too ired by this; he had only to drag the great hero headfirst off his darg and slay him by the time he hit the ground.”
Chalis was not breathing. Querry was following the story nearly as tensely, and intently. Falc was sure that he had Jinnery’s attention as well, though she kept up her hostile pose of disinterest. What soared within her, that she showed him such dislike?
He went on with the story, which was true:
“But! Before the attacker could drag the hero off his mount, Sath Firedrake twisted in the saddle and with his sword swinging upward — this way, you see, when a man cannot put as much force behind it — no ordinary man, at any rate. His edge clove right through the bird-claw’s staff! Although the claw remained lodged in Sath’s helm, Bazarga held now only a shortened wooden stave. It was the jaws of Sath’s well-trained darg that put a sanguinary end to Bazarga Redstar’s career, for a one-armed warrior is rare. Sath meanwhile completed the Battle of Tinjurrah with that ugly thing standing forth from his helmet like an obscene decoration. Or a trophy, which it was, to the further embarrassment of Bazarga and his lord. Sath Firedrake’s force won that day, and the helmet is now in the Firedrake Room of the Mon Ashah-re.”
“The High Temple! Oh! How wonderful! I can just see it!” The boy looked ready to wet himself in his delight; his father smiled with pleasure. Abruptly Chalis said, his eyes bright as gemstones, “Will you teach me the use of arms, S’r Falc? Will you?”
“No.”
“But... why…”
“Anyone can use arms, Chalis Querry son. Anyone can maim and kill, and too many do. Bazarga Redstar devised a more evil means of maiming his opponents or bringing them within reach of his long, long dagger. Anyone can do these things and too many do. Don’t forget what became of Bazarga Redstar... can you imagine what he was later called?”
“Bazarga One-arm!”
“You are right. What the world needs, Chalis, is farmers. For the world must eat. Farmers and Holders and warriors alike must eat.”
Jinnery spoke. “You are not proud of what you do, Sir Deatbknight?”
“Name’s Falc, Jinnery. An omo. Falc. Of Risskor, a far southern land where farmers are respected and I am not. I assure you that I respect me and am proud of what I do. No omo is more dedicated than I, or more competent.” He looked away. “Many are more humble, though.”
Querry smiled.
“Competent at killing,” Jinnery said, pretending it was a question.
“At many things, Jinnery. Combat is among them.” He gazed directly into the repulsion she was at pains to show on her face.
“Jinn...” Querry began.
“How many men have you killed, Falc?” Chalis’s voice was bright, unwavering, as he merely expressed curiosity about that which he thought of as the most exciting and romantic: killing.
“How many weeds have you pulled and hoed, Chalis?” Falc returned, in the same equable tone and manner with which he had answered Jinnery.
Chalis’s eyes went huge as he thought he understood: “So Many!”
“No. I asked you a silly question with no meaning or purpose.”
Chalis looked at him, blinking, frowning a little. The oil lamp was low and its light had become a wan yellow.
“Falc means,” Jinnery said, “that your question was a rude and silly one with no meaning, Chalis, and asked to no purpose.”
“Oh I did not mean to be rude! I just —”
“You pull weeds, son,” Querry said, “and you farm. Sir Falc... does what he does.”
“Which is mostly ride and ride in all weather, carrying messages and advice,” Falc said in a quiet monotone. “Listen, Chalis. Listen. Bad men are as weeds, to choke and spoil the crop of good men. But the sword may cut only one weed at a time, while the hoe cuts many. Praise be to those who wield hoes!”
“Is that from your Order Most Old, Falc?” That from Jinnery.
“It is from an old man I once met down on the Plain of Radd, near Ryar. He was dying, sworded and robbed and left. He would not tell me who had done it or describe the monster to me. Those were his words I repeated. He did not tell me his name and would not have me avenge him. Perhaps it was Ashah Himself, come to teach and test me. Perhaps it is unseemly personal arrogance for me even to consider that. This comes from the Order, from the Firedrake — the Master of the Order — before this one: ‘Do not make value judgements,’ he taught. ‘The darg is a gentle and hard-working creature who serves men and kills only to eat. Is a darg then better than a man?’”
“I believe yes, they are,” Jinnery said, in that unfeminine voice of brass, and Falc regarded her mildly. She averted her overcooked almonds of eyes. So much bitterness corked up in that slim and so-young woman with the voice of a pubescent boy!
“What is a — I don’t know what a val-you judgment is,” Chalis said rather plaintively.
“Today it would have been easy for us to say ‘Rain is bad!’ That would be a value judgment and it would have been wrong. Truth is that ‘Today rain is bad for me because it is going to spoil part of this crop.’ There are those who dislike a particular kind of food or music or people from a certain place, and say ‘That is awful; this is rotten; they are bad.’ The words ‘I think’ or ‘I believe’ and ‘to me’ are important ones, Chalis... and your lids are drooping.”
“It is past time, Falc,” Querry said. “The trouble is that none of us wants to go to bed and end it. We are not lonely here, but we are alone, and all this is wonderful, like strong wine to us. We will long savour its flavour.”
“Your father is both a farmer and a poet, Chalis. An important man indeed!” Falc said. Suddenly he looked at Jinnery, catching her staring all bright-eyed at him.
She said, “I hear paradoxes coming from your mouth, Sir Deathknight.”
Falc nodded. “You do! All is paradox, and I can’t avoid it, because I am a part of all just as you are. The faith of Markcun Deathslayer teaches that ‘Bad’ is subject only to a subjective definition, as is Good. Pink, however — the mix of the blood-red of ‘Bad’ and the white of ‘Good’ — is the true hue of the universe. In our lives, we can only do what we can to be as pale as the shadeflower in the deepest glen of the forest; and seek ever the pure white of Good as our goal.”
“Wait,” Querry said, frowning mightily. “Even in that there is a paradox, for what is good?”
Falc shook his head. “That which is not bad.” A whimsical smile considered playing tag with his eyes, but gave it up. He gestured helplessly. “I don’t have all the answers, friend Querry... nor have I managed to turn myself white.”
“Beautiful flowers rise from rot,” Jinnery said with an air of having stated something of import, though Falc considered the clichéd aphorism apropos of nothing.
Definition was mentioned, and they went off into that while the lamp approached the guttering stage and voices grew gravelly, and then they discovered that Chalis was asleep where he sat. Falc rose.
“Go to bed. I will see to the dargs. I would also much prefer to sleep atop all that fresh-cut rint. Will you grant me that pleasure?”
“You are my guest!” Querry came to his feet. “You will sleep in my house!”
“I am serious, Querry. I had truly rather sleep in the barn. We omos have prayers, and rites before we retire, and I want to be out there. It is nothing against you or your house. Remember that one of us lives in a house, and one of us travels. Unless you object to my sleeping on the rint —”
“No no! It is that —”
“Then I will. And may Ashah grant us all a better morrow.”
He was partway through the door when Querry said low, “One of us sleeps in a house, you said... and you have no woman either, have you Falc?”
“No,”
Falc said, “and I am not known for smiling.”
He went out and closed the door after him, knowing what Querry had told him without meaning to do: niece or no, Querry had a woman.
The rain had long since become a tired drizzle, leaving behind that familiar clean scent along with the usual paradox: mud. The second moon was up, a pale and haloed little ghost that rode in and out of long grey-blue clouds like tattered banners across the black of the sky.
3
Falc saw to the dargoni, which were coexisting amiably enough. He murmured words of the Way and performed not one but three several rites and exercises as well. Just when he was preparing to lie back on the great pile of still-sweet rint, the pale light came into the barn.
He stood erect at once, head inclined within that ethereal luminosity, as the Manifestation coalesced. The Manifestation took as much form as it ever did, until it was a wavery silvery-grey figure, robed and faceless in the last helmet and war-mask Sath Firedrake had ever worn. The Messenger spoke, in a voice that sounded hollow and as if rebounding from old grey stones deep in a well.
“Say to me the Credo of the Order.”
“The purpose of the Order Most Old is to preserve the social order,” Falc said, from rote but with feeling. “Thus the purpose of the Order Most Old is to hold and cherish knowledge; to hold ever foremost its duty to the social order; to dispense it with love and great care for its value and its danger to the social order; to assist communication among its leaders; and to strive ever to maintain that social order.”
That first question always prefaced the communication from the Temple, while the second was never predictable, but taken at random from the Way of the OMO. It was both test and assurance of identification, Falc believed, and assumed it must mean that the Messenger could not see him, but only knew where he was. This time it was the Second Statement the Manifestation wished:
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