by Gail Dayton
Joh stayed with them, guarding her other side. He had to fend off a crazed dedicat who charged screaming, kilt and sword dripping with gore, before leaving to find easier prey.
Kallista ran to the sand pit behind the big arena. There, hopefully in the center of the skola grounds, she planted her feet, caught a shoulder on either side for balance and closed her eyes to call the magic. Torchay's strength, Joh's understanding surged forward, under her hands. Kallista reached a bit farther for Fox's order, Obed's truth, and farther still for Aisse's loyalty, Viyelle's creativity, Leyja's love. Together with the will her own magic provided, it needed only Stone's joyful eagerness to be whole. But surely for this, it would be enough.
She shaped the magic for sleep, excluding all her own people. With a prayer that it would work, she threw her hands wide. Then she gave the magic a hard shove. And a kick. She threw a noncorporeal shoulder into it and heaved. It wobbled a bit and rocked back into its rut.
"Damn it, move!” she bellowed, and blasted it out of dead center with a burst of sudden power.
The shouts and screams cut off almost instantly. Kallista scrabbled for more magic to send out a quick reassurance to her people that this was what was supposed to happen.
"Now.” She looped her arms through Torchay's and Joh's, hoping they wouldn't notice her trembling. Surely she had strength enough left to heal those who needed her particular ministrations. “To the sorting out."
* * * *
Captain Kargyll organized the work parties. The injured were brought to the infirmary where the bodyguard-medics worked over them. Too many of the injured—and the dead, who were laid out in the sandpit—were the skola's medics. The youngest boys still in the skola, those with the barest fuzz of hair, were brought to the dining hall. Everyone else went to the arena.
Kallista was in the infirmary, located beside the arena, working on a young dedicat with four just-severed fingers. Kallista's mother had pioneered the reattachment of such losses some years ago, and since the bodyguard-healers seemed to be handling the other injuries perfectly well, Kallista had decided to see whether she could help this young man. It was delicate, painstaking work, but she had got three of the fingers back on with the blood flowing nicely through and bones beginning to knit when she heard a keening cry from outside.
It rose and fell and rose again, laden with howling grief. It tugged at Kallista, almost a physical grabbing hold. She looked at the tattooed hand she worked over. One finger left, the smallest.
The wailing cry pulled at Kallista again. The dedicat would be fine with three fingers. She could not ignore that cry.
A pair of young soldiers stood awkwardly to one side while a woman in white-trimmed blacks knelt on the ground, weeping over the body in her arms, Genista mourning for her Ruel.
Kallista sent the soldiers back to their duty with a gesture. Her own eyes near blind with tears at this vision of her own loss, Kallista wanted to turn away, to run and hide and mourn her Stone. But she couldn't. She literally could not walk away, could not even turn into Torchay's comforting arms where he stood at her back. Why?
"Give him to me.” Kallista walked forward, toward the grieving woman, not understanding the impulse that drove her.
Genista clutched Ruel tighter. “Will you deny me the chance to say goodbye? We never got more than hello."
"Give him to me, Bodyguard.” Kallista knelt beside Genista, touched the young champion's body, and she finally knew what drew her. “He's not gone. He still lives. He doesn't want to leave you. But you must let me have him."
If Kallista could keep another from facing the pain of such a loss, she would do everything in her power to make it happen. Wild hope rose in the young woman's face as she tumbled Ruel's body into Kallista's arms.
His wound was obvious, a deep slash that laid his thigh open and severed the artery to set his blood spilling life out onto the earth. Kallista's stop-gap magical patching that she'd sent during the dash from the village had saved his life. It hadn't stopped all the blood loss, poorly targeted and slow-moving as it had been, but it had thinned the gush to a seep.
"Help me.” Kallista laid Ruel's head gently on the ground. “Help me pull the edges together."
"But the dirt—” Genista protested.
"The magic can clean it out. The wound is spread too wide. I need you to pull it together so I can heal it properly."
"Yes, my Reinine.” With both hands, Genista pressed the gaping wound closed, kneeling beside Ruel in the dusty path.
Kallista used her newly practiced skill at matching blood vessels together, and tendons and muscle. She got the artery sealed tight, and worked her way to the surface, flicking away everything that didn't belong, until she closed the skin over the top. When she was done, she sensed more than saw Ruel settle happily into his body, and tears blinded her again. Stone would have done the same had it been only the poison killing him.
She fought back the tightness in her throat until she could speak. “Cherish him well,” she told Genista. “He lives because he would not leave you. If he had died before we found him—"
"He lives because of your magic.” Genista lifted Ruel's head back into her lap. “We have seen how slowly the wounds bleed. You have given him back to me."
"His own determination kept him alive long enough for my magic to do some good.” Kallista saw Joh approach from the arena. She beckoned a pair of soldiers over, sent them for a stretcher to move Ruel inside, and stood to see what Joh wanted.
"Obed thinks we've found them all,” he reported. “Kargyll's troops are conducting a room-by-room search, but we think they're all accounted for."
"How many dead? Too many, I know, but how many is that?” She took Joh's hand as they walked to the arena, needing the touch and knowing Torchay wanted both his hands free.
"I don't have the final count, but last I heard, it was well over thirty."
Kallista shuddered, outraged by the carnage, the waste of so many lives, and for what? An old man's madness? “How many were boys? Children?"
Joh shook his head. “I don't want to know. I might kill someone—the wrong one, or the right one at the wrong time."
"Aye.” Torchay breathed the word, his voice rougher than usual.
The sleepers were laid out in rows along the arena floor. Murat and several of the bloodiest lay in a bunch at the far end of the arena. Another small group lay nearby. The rest of them, some forty or fifty dedicats and champions, lay between.
"These are the ones we found defending the skints and fuzzheads.” Obed used the skola's slang for the youngest students, gesturing to the nearest group. He flicked a finger at Murat's bunch. “Those are the ones doing the slaughtering. The ones we are sure about. The rest—"
He indicated the big bunch in the middle. “We don't know which side they were on, or if they took any side at all."
"Let's find out.” Kallista considered her options. She was tempted to wake the defenders first, leave the rest of them asleep, but it would better to have witnesses to the tale. And an idea presented itself to her.
"Are there any villagers here?” Kallista strode to a bench still placed along the side decking of the arena.
"I think so.” Obed looked confused.
"At the gates,” Fox said. “They haven't come inside."
"All right. This is what we're going to do."
* * * *
Dawn was breaking by the time everything was ready. The villagers filed in through the gates, escorted by fuzz-headed boys, first to the sandpit where the dead lay in their rows, then to the infirmary where the wounded moaned in pain, and finally to the arena. The youngest boys came with them, leaving only children and their caretakers in Edabi village.
The headwomen of the village took the bench set up for them at the end of the arena farthest from the main doors, the honored place.
The rest of the villagers lined the arena decks on either side, crowding in with the younger students. The dedicats and champions still lay sleeping
on the arena floor, though they had been rearranged to face the elders’ bench.
Kallista sat near the elders, off to one side, about to drop with weariness. Once, this would not have tired her. Age had its price—she was fairly sure it was age. She leaned against Fox standing behind her, her eyes closed for the few moments of rest she could get while waiting for everything to be ready. Her godmarked were with her, around her. The rest of her people either tended the wounded or protected the children. She wanted this to be a Daryathi event, not one imposed by Adarans. Mostly.
The buzz of conversation grew until Obed bent and spoke into her ear. They were ready. Kallista opened her eyes with a sigh, and took a deep breath. Time to begin.
Obed pounded a staff he'd appropriated from somewhere on the raised wooden floor. The echoing boom was muffled by all the people standing on it, but it made enough noise to stop the talking, turn everyone's eyes his way.
"I am Obed im-Shakiri a-Varyl, once dedicat of this skola, a nine-marked who fulfilled his dedicat vows and lived to depart into the world.” He pulled his overrobe back to make sure everyone saw all nine of his tattoos. While he went on to give his credentials as someone with the right to be involved in skola matters, Kallista began to bring the sleepers awake.
She wrestled with the magic, shaping it carefully to keep the captives from speaking out of turn, from attacking anyone. As long as their intentions were peaceful, they could move, but they could not hurt anyone. In afterthought, Kallista barred them from leaving the arena floor.
Sweating with the effort, trying hard not to pant, she gulped the water Leyja handed her and tried to find where Obed was in his speech. He'd reached the part about the godmarks already. Kallista took another sip of water and let Torchay and Joh help her to her feet. She gathered magic and held it in her “hands,” waiting for Obed to pass her the staff.
It took effort to keep from leaning on it when he did, she was so tired. She released the magic, sent it to finish waking the sleepers. “These masters, dedicats and champions are only sleeping,” she said. “The magic bestowed on us by the One, as Obed Reinas explained, allowed me to stop the ... disturbance here in the skola so that together we can discover the truth of what happened and so that you can decide what to do about it."
A murmur rolled around the edges of the arena.
"I know this is not in your usual practice of justice, but is it not possible that the One has a better way than death? Would it not be better to determine the truth of a matter and together use your own judgment to decide matters? Why else would the One have given us truthsaying magic?"
Kallista had to pause for a louder sweep of shocked conversation. Most of the sleepers were awake, and those who weren't were almost so. She drew more magic, slowly, to keep from straining herself worse. “Yes, there is even now one of your own truthsaying naitani at work in the city of Mestada, not cloistered away in the temple. Will you listen to what these men have to say? Will you judge for yourselves what happened here and how this kind of justice can work?"
"How will we know they speak truth,” one of the elders asked, “if this nathain is in Mestada?"
"I will act as truthsayer.” Kallista shaped her magic into the truth mist she'd used at Habadra House and sent it to hover above the arena. “The mist will show you if someone speaks truth. Do not expect other truthsayers to create this mist. I know of none who can. I believe it was given to me so that you can see the truth and believe it, even though I am Adaran."
"How does it work?” one of the fuzzheads piped up in a high, clear voice. “The mist?"
Those around him tried to hush him up, but Kallista smiled at the boy's youthful bravado. “Try it. Tell us a lie."
"I love beetroot.” He grinned, then laughed out loud as the mist went instantly black, his laughter echoed by others.
"Now, a truth.” Kallista caught herself leaning on the staff and straightened.
"Kassid Penthili-tha is my best friend."
The mist turned white again, and a babble of talk broke out across the chamber. Kallista remembered to hand the staff back to Obed. Her part was done, except for managing the magic.
"With your agreement—” Obed bowed to the elders on their bench. “The nathain Kallista will act as truthsayer. I, as nine-marked dedicat of this skola, will conduct the investigation into the truth. And you—” He swept his arm around the arena, taking in all of the observers. “You will sit in judgment."
"Do you bring—” The elder who spoke, the oldest of the three women, with scant wisps of white hair above bright black eyes set in a crinkled face, was interrupted by a commotion at the far end of the arena.
The doors had opened and a contingent of injured champions hobbled in, led by Athen im-Noredi and Ruel Dobruk-sa who was supported by Genista Fynli. Hands reached out, boys ran to support them, to lead them to the steps and help them sit.
Ruel remained standing. “We have the right to be here,” he said, his voice shaky. “To tell what we know."
"You do,” Obed said. “Welcome. Please sit."
Kallista reached for the staff, but Obed apparently knew what she wanted to say, for he said it. “Do not speak unless you have been called upon. Don't interrupt anyone while they are speaking, even if you believe they speak lies. The mist will show us what is truth."
The oldest of the elders stood. “Do you bring your weak foreign ways to impose on our Daryathi strength? Our way is—"
"Is it strength—” Ruel clutched at Genista's shoulder, trying to rise from his half-way down position. “Permission to respond, Lord Dedicat,” he said belatedly.
Obed nodded, holding the staff at an angle, pointed toward the injured man.
"Did you see the dead?” Ruel asked. “Did you walk by that place and see? All those boys, those strong men? How can it be strength to kill so many of our best? All respect to you, Elder Sothi, but that is weakness, not strength. Strength is in life, not death. It is in truth. Hear the truth, and then decide."
"I will not—” Old Sothi was interrupted again by the boom of Obed's staff. Reluctantly, pouting, she asked permission to speak and was granted it.
"I will not take part in this travesty. You violate Daryathi tradition as it has come to us through the years. I demand that you end this now, Cori, Lutha. This is wrong."
The middle elder, the apparent leader, signaled Obed with an upraised finger, got his nod and a shift of the staff toward her. She stood. “I agree with Ruel. Death is not strength. I see no foreigners here, save for the nathain and her people offering her magic, and the medics aiding our injured champions. Before the Troubles, our ways were different, and that was not so very many years ago. I say we find the truth and decide. Sothi says no. What do you say, Lutha?"
The third woman, the youngest but still older than Kallista, stood. “I say aye. We listen. We decide."
"I will not abide this!” The old woman shook her fist at the other two and stamped her feet.
"Then leave." Elder Cori's voice boomed over the arena.
Old Sothi shot her a poisonous glare and stomped away, out the side door near that end.
Obed handed Elder Cori the staff and she raised her voice. “We will not decide today who will take Sothi's place as elder, merely who will sit with us for this deciding. Do I have names?"
In a quick, rough-and-tumble session, someone was selected to share the bench with the two town elders, a male metalsmith from the village. Finally, Obed received the staff back and the investigation into the slaughter at the skola began. Ruel and the injured with him spoke first.
They had been awakened in the night by the grand master screaming with rage, demanding everyone get up and assemble with weapons, as they were. Those who took time to dress became the particular focus of his anger. He ordered them to pair off, begin fighting in the flickering torchlight at the practice arena, spurring them on despite the danger.
The other masters began to join in, and some of the dedicats and champions, shouting at the youngling
s, beating them with the flats of their swords if they did not show sufficient enthusiasm for the combat.
Anyone who protested was immediately set upon by those encouraging the mêlée.
Then Grand Master Murat came upon Ruel. Until this point, no one had been seriously injured. A few scratches, some sprains, bruises and such from stumbling in the dark, but no real injuries. But when Murat saw Ruel, it was as if a spark caught in gunpowder.
Murat attacked, screaming that Ruel should have died, that he had disgraced himself losing to a woman, allowing himself to be mauled in public—on and on. Ruel fought hard, but Murat's frenzy seemed to give him strength. Ruel fell, mortally wounded.
His blood spilling black in the torchlight seemed to set loose the bloodlust, according to others who took up the tale. Murat ran for the infirmary, screaming Athen's name, while those who had joined his madness began to lay about them with sharp edges, rather than the flats of their swords.
Yanith, the dedicat who had lost in the arena to Torchay in the last combat yesterday, best against best, managed to send the brand new skints out of the skola. With some of the others, he had organized a group to defend the fuzzheads at the dining hall, though it was too late for many of the boys.
As the wounded champions spoke, they pointed out those they had seen among the men gathered on the arena floor, the ones who had participated in the slaughter and those who had fought to stop it. The mist stayed white.
After a time, Elder Cori raised a hand, asking a turn to speak. “May we not speak judgment for some of these now?"
Obed glanced at Kallista, who shrugged. This was no Adaran trial. The three justiciars were in charge. “That is your choice,” he said. “I act only as investigator. Kallista Naitan—Nathain Kallista is only truthsayer.” He handed over the staff.
Cori conferred with the other two for a moment before speaking again. “Dedicat Yanith, did you defend those who could not defend themselves, sending the younglings to safety?"