Chapter 17
A Messenger
Demara finished climbing the rocky headland. Surf crashed onto the sand on the narrow beach below her and terns circled overhead. Stunted and twisted gorse ringed the rise but did not ascend to the summit. The sea breeze blew her hair about and she looked off into the setting sun. The clouds were all tinted pink and red except for one grey storm cloud.
As Demara watched, the one grey cloud blew in her direction. As it got closer to the mount it got darker. Then, through the bottom, burst an equine figure, all in black smoke. Occasional bursts of flame could be seen from its hooves, nostrils, mane or tail. As it got lower, a figure could be seen on its back. It wore bright plate armor covered in a blue and white surcoat. A large, smoky black great sword was strapped to the horse, next to it. The smell of wood smoke engulfed the ridge as the rider reigned in and alighted on the ridge, a shower of sparks kicked up from its hooves.
Up close the horse was clearly made of dense, black smoke. Flame like cinders glowed for eyes and licks of flame flickered from its mouth and hooves. The rider dismounted, throwing the reigns to Demara. She drew the horse's head down and patted its quasi-insubstantial cheek. “There, there, Cookie, how is my little flour pastie?” The horse pulled back on its reigns, gave a whinny like fingernails on a chalkboard as flame and smoke jetted from its nostrils. “Now, now”, cooed Demara. “What have I told you about biting the hand that feeds you?” The horse shuffled its feet and calmed down dramatically. Its flaming eyes looked at her expectantly. With her other hand she reached into one of her baskets, pulled out a ceramic jug, and popped the cork off with her thumb. The horse pranced a bit in anticipation as she swirled the jug and held it up to its lips. She let go of the reigns as it grabbed the jug's top in its mouth, and threw its head back, guzzling the contents. “Nothing like a pint of whiskey after a long ride” Demara said, patting its flank.
The rider had dismounted, and sunk to one knee. Her dark hair was cropped short, and her olive skin and high cheekbones were similar to Demara's. Her surcoat bore an emblem of a sheaf of wheat, the same as Demara wore in her hair.
Demara turned to her, raised her hands, and prayed. “May rich-haired Grania, blessed goddess, who glories in the harvest, give peace and health, propitious times and necessary wealth, and, ever present, by thy votaries aid Desdemona, Knight of Grania, your servant.” The benediction over, Desdemona rose, and Demara passed her a flagon and loaf of bread.
“Thank you, blessed mother”, she said, drinking and eating. As she did, it became clear the racial resemblance to Demara was only superficial. Several of her teeth were pointed, and her eyes were red and glowing, not unlike her mount.
“Baked fresh this morning”, said Demara. She let her eat in peace for a while. There was no point in superlative backing if you didn't let someone enjoy it. She watched the waves come slowly rolling towards the shore in the lengthening shadows. After a time, she continued in a lower voice. “So how's it going on the continent?”
Desdemona swallowed and breathed deeply. “Not so good. Everywhere I saw full fields, but no one left to reap them. Farm animals going feral. People are on the move. Driven this way and that by the armies.”
“Did you have any trouble yourself?” asked Demara with concern.
She shook her head. Amongst the tousled hair were two small horns. She glanced at the sword on her horse. “Between Cookie and Seeker no one really wanted to mess with me. Not for long.” She looked along the blade. Gaps could be seen where the smoke stuff was thinner, an inverse shape of archaic runes. “Its power is spent, but it still looks pretty intimidating.”
“Not to mention yourself”, said Demara, smiling. “Were there problems distributing the food?”
Desdemona laughed. “No. My appearance notwithstanding, hungry people didn't seem to have a problem accepting handouts. And, after I made a few examples, army patrols became very careful not to shake down any refugees carrying loafs with Grania's symbol on them.”
Demara nodded. “Romitu?”
“They kept their distance, for the most part”, said Desdemona. “I walked into a few ambushes by accident. But they disengaged when the mistake became clear. They were pretty polite about it. Considering.”
Demara shrugged. “At least one side still has a trace of nobility.”
“Pity it's the god killing side”, said Desdemona, sternly.
Demara pursed her lips. “About that...” Desdemona looked up warily. “I had a visit from someone that I didn't want to see. He said some things I didn't want to hear.”
Desdemona's hand moved slightly towards her sword. “Are they trying to compel you to pick a side?”
“Ha!” said Demara, dryly. “My choices are my own. But this was more about the larger picture, not just who is beating up whom on the continent.” They both jumped slightly as Cookie finished the whiskey and started crunching its way through the bottle. “There are some things to do that I might ask of you. But they won't be easy.”
“Blessed mother”, said Desdemona. “You interceded with Grania herself and won my soul back from damnation to self-determination. There is nothing you can ask that I won't do.”
Demara smiled and looked down. “We were lucky Grania heard my call and saw fit to act. So you should not just blindly do as I say.” She looked back into the coal like eyes. “What I won for you was self-determination. Not obedience. Your soul will now be judged according to your actions. Therefore it is up to you to decide what you do, or do not do.” Desdemona nodded.
The sun was nearly set. Demara looked out over the purpling sea and fussed with her apron. “I accept that gods are born, and that, in theory, gods may die. I do not agree with this policy of killing gods. But neither do I agree with the forced incarceration of souls. Not with yours. Not with those in The Black Hole. Not, as practiced, with certain of the gods.”
“Would you then judge the gods?” asked Desdemona.
Demara looked straight back at her. “There is no point in having strong morals if you do not use them for judgment. There are things that are just plain wrong and need to be stood up to. To abandon that is to descend into moral relativism.” She made a distasteful face, though half comical.
“This is what they would have you do?” asked Desdemona.
“No. Not exactly.” Demara fished for words. “Let’s just say that sometimes even utter fools can speak wisdom. Even if only by accident.” She gestured at her basket. “I've written up some messages. Proposals, in a manner of speaking. Benevolent leaders should have no fear of their subjects leaving them, if given a choice. If they adopt this position, I think Romitu would be satisfied. If they would hold a Soul against its will, then in my judgment what they do is wrong.”
They stood silently for a while, listening to Cookie grind the last of the ceramic shards with its molars as the darkness descended. “So you need these messages taken to the gods?” asked Desdemona. Demara nodded.
“Who then will take bread to the refugees on the continent?” asked Desdemona.
“No one”, said Demara, flatly. She was not going to mince words with the Knight. Demara was the last person in the world to consider asking Desdemona to make a value judgment without full knowledge.
“What will become of them?”
“Some will starve. Some will die.” Demara sighed. “Our missions of mercy have not become the leavening in the bread I had hoped they would be. I think it is time to pound the dough harder.” Sometimes showing people the right way to behave was enough to embarrass them into behaving right. Sometimes you just needed to knock some heads together.
“I do not like giving up on them.” Desdemona looked down at her feet. “But I see the wisdom in what you say.” She patted the horse's flank. “Cookie and I can trod the high paths to the gods. I'm not sure we will be all that welcome.”
“Ah”, said Demara. “I had a thought about that.” She smiled mischievously. “A good deal is in the interests of both sides. I think we c
an find someone on the Romitu side to accompany you. The gods have avoided engaging Romitu so far and will probably think twice about smiting someone with an... escort... from Romitu.”
Desdemona cocked her head. “Who? Who of the Romitu would join me on such a crazy errand?”
“Go back to the continent. Find where the fighting is heaviest. Look for Sir Coral Valkyr.”
Red Queen Page 17