Earthborn (Homecoming)

by Orson Scott Card

  “I didn’t need you to tell me that,” said Akma. “I hoped I wouldn’t have to go in cold and deal with something.”

  “Oh, just admit it that you’re scared,” said Khimin. “You know you’ve been bad, and the king has got to be angry enough to tear you to bits if he weren’t such a kind benevolent despot.” In recent weeks, Khimin had discovered in the ancient records that the city of Basilica had been governed by an elected council, and now he was constantly suggesting that the monarchy be abolished. No one paid any attention to him.

  “Nothing is going to stop us from speaking tonight, is it?” asked Ominer. Since he had been trying to get them to go public for the past several months, during the worst of the persecution when it would have looked truly terrible to come out against the Kept, it was only natural that Ominer would now be worried that once again Akma might be talked into delaying.

  “You’ll be able to give your speech,” said Akma. “As it’s written, remember. Nobody is to start making things up on the wing.” Ominer rolled his eyes.

  Akma turned to Mon. “You’ve been quiet.”

  Mon looked up, startled out of his reverie. “Just thinking. We’ve been a long time waiting. Now we’re going ahead. That’s fine. It’s a relief, don’t you think?”

  “What about my interview with your father today?” asked Akma.

  “You’ll do fine,” said Mon. “You always do. They’ll try to talk you out of this. You’ll be polite and decline to change your mind. Simple. I’m only disappointed they didn’t invite us along to watch.” He smiled.

  Akma heard Mon’s speech. There was nothing obviously wrong with anything he said. But something still bothered him. There was something wrong with Mon himself. Had he become unreliable? What if tonight Mon got up and stated that he was standing with his father? A division among the sons of Motiak would destroy everything—everyone would assume that the loyal son would become the heir and that Akmaro’s reforms would be permanent. That the Kept would always have the inside track in the government. Therefore it would be good business to be one of the Kept, and Akmaro’s religion would remain dominant. Akma had no illusions—the doctrine he was going to be teaching, starting tonight, was not the sort of ideology that would stir souls; no one would die for this religion. It would only attract converts by promising a return to old tradition and by seeming to be the religion of the future—specifically, when Aronha became king. They were sure to become the dominant religion almost immediately, as far as sheer numbers were concerned. More important, the leadership of the new assembly would be the core of the future government. Akma could see to it that once Aronha became king, the only advice he would hear would be to carry war to the Elemaki. No more defensive posture—the Elemaki would be routed out of their hiding places in the high mountains. The land of Nafai would be redeemed in digger blood, and the place where Akma had been in bondage would now be a place where digger slaves toiled under the Nafari lash. Then Akma’s triumph would be complete. His father’s weakness in the face of persecution would be redeemed by Akma’s courage.

  It begins today. And Mon will stand with us. He’s a true friend. Maybe he’s so morose because he still harbored some hope of ending up with Luet. Well, that was the one good thing about Luet’s decision to marry. It would free Mon to concentrate on the work at hand. More than any of the others, Mon had the skill to speak with as much fire and charm as Akma. More, really, because Akma knew he sounded like a scholar; Mon had the common touch, a boyish style of speech, a kind of energy that would speak to people at a deeper level than anything Akma could manage. Not that Akma didn’t expect to do well. Despite his weaknesses as a speaker, he knew that people pretty much ended up in his bag by the end of a talk. He would look people in the eye as he was speaking and it felt almost as if a cord tied them together, and he had only to draw it in and he would own the person he spoke to, at least for the hour, for the night.

  Almost like the powers of a raveler, as the ancient records described them. Only ravelers were always women, and besides, all that raveler business was superstition. The cords Akma imagined were only a metaphor, an unconscious visualization of his skill at establishing rapport with strangers.

  It wouldn’t work on the king, though. Akma knew that from experience. Whatever skill he had at influencing people only worked on those who were at least marginally receptive. Motiak never gave Akma the opportunity to work on him.

  “Are you going to sit there moping all morning?” asked Ominer. “Father’s waiting for you now—you’re late.”

  “Yes,” said Akma. “I was just thinking. Try it sometime, Ominer. It’s almost as fun as swallowing air so you can belch. Something that I hope you won’t be doing tonight.”

  “Give me some credit,” said Ominer disgustedly.

  Akma slapped him on the shoulder to show that he was teasing and they were still friends. Then he left, striding boldly through the rooms that separated the library from the king’s private chamber.

  He was the last to arrive; he had rather hoped to be. Motiak was there, of course, and, as Akma had expected, so were Father and Mother. Not Edhadeya, gratefully; but . . . Bego? Why was Bego there, with his otherself, bGo, sitting behind him and looking miserable? And this old man? Who was he?

  “You know everyone,” Motiak said. “Except perhaps Khideo. He knew you when you were a baby, but I don’t think you’ve seen each other since then. Khideo used to be governor of the land that bears his name.”

  Akma saluted him and, at a wave from the king, sat down at the table. He kept his eyes on Motiak, though of course he couldn’t help but wonder why Khideo was there. And Bego. Why were Bego and his brother there? Why had Bego avoided his gaze?

  “Akma, you spend most of your time in my house, but I never see you,” said Motiak.

  “I’m a scholar,” said Akma. “I’m grateful that you’ve given me such free access to your library.”

  “It’s a shame that with all your study, you’ve come out knowing less than you did when you began.” Motiak smiled sadly.

  “Yes,” said Akma. “It seems that the more I learn, the less I know. While the ignorant remain absolutely certain of their convictions.”

  Motiak’s smile faded. “I thought you’d want to know that I’m issuing the decree that you suggested to Edhadeya. It seems to be a solution to the immediate problem. As you suggested.”

  “I’m grateful that I could be of service,” said Akma. “I was . . . very unhappy with the way things were going.”

  “I can imagine,” said Motiak. “Sometimes the things we set in motion don’t work out as we planned. Do they, Akma?”

  Akma recognized that the king was digging at him again, blaming him for the persecutions. He wasn’t going to sit still for it. “I learned that lesson already, several times over,” said Akma. “For instance, your religious reform of thirteen years ago hasn’t had the effect you planned. Tragic, seeing now where it has led.”

  Motiak smiled again, only this time he was showing more of his real feelings: The smile was feral, the eyes dancing with rage. “I want you to know, Akma, that I’m not such a fool as you must think. I know what you’ve been doing, how you’ve been maneuvering around me. I watched as you won over my sons, and I did nothing, because I trusted them to have some sense. You bested me there—I overestimated them.”

  “I think not, sir,” said Akma. “I think you underestimated them.”

  “I know what you think, Akma, and don’t interrupt and contradict me again. Even though your entire strategy is based on the fact that someday I will die and someone will be king after me, please remember that I’m not dead yet and I am the king.”

  Akma nodded. He had to be careful. Let the king play out his little drama. Tonight Akma would have the last word.

  “Your father and mother and I talked over the terrible things you went through as a child, and tried to figure out why the experience turned everyone else toward the Keeper of Earth, and turned you away. Your father was very ap
ologetic, of course. He kept expressing his regret that his mistakes as a father should be causing innocent people to suffer.”

  Akma wanted to shout back at him that he did not cause the persecution, that if he had his way there would never be cause for any such thing to happen again. He also wanted to scream into his father’s face, to hit him, to hurt him for daring to apologize to the king because his son turned out so badly. But he contained all these feelings, and when Motiak waited for him to respond, he only nodded and said, meekly, “I’m sorry that I’m such a disappointment to you all.”

  “What we couldn’t figure out for the longest time was how your achievement in suborning my sons became so widely known, and so quickly. You never seemed to be in contact with anyone among the Unkept. You hardly left the library.”

  “I’m a scholar. I’ve talked to no one but your family and my family and a few other scholars.”

  “Yes, very carefully done, very clever—or so we thought. How is Akma doing it, we thought. And then we realized, Akma isn’t doing it. This wasn’t Akma’s idea.”

  Motiak looked toward Khideo. It was the old soldier’s cue. “When I was here to consult with the king immediately after our rescue, I made contact with someone who shared some of my views. The opinions of the Zenifi—that humans should not live with either of the other toolmaking species. Or I should say, he made contact with me, since he knew my views and I couldn’t have known his until he spoke to me. Since then, he has been my link with the king’s house, and what he told me, I told my fellow Zenifi. Most important, he promised me then, thirteen years ago, that he would deliver all of the king’s sons. As soon as he achieved it, we would spread the word, so that people would know that all of Akmaro’s reforms were temporary, and the old order would be restored when one of you inherited the throne.”

  Thirteen years ago? That was impossible. He hadn’t come up with this plan until after he had realized there was no Keeper.

  Motiak looked at Bego. Quietly, the old archivist began to speak. “I tried to work directly with Aronha, but he was too much his father’s son. And Mon couldn’t get over his self-loathing. Ominer—too young, and not really bright enough to grasp things. Khimin—definitely too young. For a while I tried to work with Edhadeya, but her delusions about true dreams were too strong.”

  Motiak growled, “Not delusions.”

  “I have confessed to you, Motiak,” said Bego defiantly. “I have not said that I agree with you.” He turned back to Akma. “You, Akma. You understood, the brightest boy I ever taught. And I saw that you had a way of winning people to your point of view. As long as you’re with them. A talent for it, that’s what you have, a talent for persuasion, and I realized that I didn’t have to persuade Motiak’s boys. I only had to persuade you and you’d do the rest.”

  “You didn’t persuade me of anything. I figured it out myself.”

  Bego shook his head. “It is the essence of teaching, that the student discovers everything for himself. I made sure that you reached the conclusion that there was no Keeper, and you leapt from there to everything I might have hoped for. And your deep hatred of the diggers, that helped, of course.”

  “So you thought I was a puppet?” asked Akma.

  “Not at all,” said Bego. “I thought you were the finest student I ever had. I thought you could change the world.”

  “What Bego is not telling you,” said Motiak, “is that his actions constitute treason and oath-breaking. Khideo has been studying at Shedemei’s school the past while. A great deal of moral philosophy. He went to bGo, and then together Khideo and bGo persuaded Bego to come join them in confessing to me.”

  “I’m sorry that Khideo and bGo and Bego decided to do something so unnecessary and inappropriate,” said Akma. “But as Bego can also tell you, the first time we learned that he had any outside contacts was after the persecutions began, when he kept urging us to speak openly against the Kept. You will notice that we did not do it. We utterly refused to do anything that might be construed as support of the persecutions.”

  “I’m quite aware of that,” said Motiak. “That’s why you aren’t under the same charges as Bego and Khideo.”

  “If you think you can silence me by threatening the death penalty for Bego, you’re mistaken,” said Akma. “It’s me you’ll have to kill.”

  Motiak leapt to his feet, leaned across the table, and slapped the surface right in front of Akma. “I’m not killing anyone, you stupid little boy! I’m not threatening anyone! I’m letting you see the truth about what’s been going on!”

  “Very well,” said Akma quietly. “I see that Bego thought he controlled me. I see that Khideo believed it also. Unfortunately, it was never true. Because I formed my plan long before any of you think. I planned it sitting on a hill in a place called Chelem. Watching my father shower love on torturers and tormentors, I took a solemn vow that I would someday come back to that place with an army at my back, to conquer and subdue the Elemaki. The land where I and my people were enslaved and mistreated will fall under the power of the Nafari, and the diggers will be driven out. They and the humans who choose to live with them will have no place in the gornaya. That was the vow I made then. And all that has happened since has merely been a part of accomplishing it. What do I care about religion? I learned from my father that religious stories are just a way to get people to do what you want—the way he did with the Pabulogi. The tragedy of my father is that he believes his own stories.”

  Motiak smiled. “Thank you, Akma. You’ve given me what I needed.”

  Akma smiled back. “I’ve given you nothing that you can use. Your sons and I have already planned the military strategy that will bring us victory. We’ve studied the reports of the spies. You discard all the useful information because you have no interest in carrying war to the enemy—but we use it, we learn from it. The Elemaki are divided into three weak and quarrelsome kingdoms. We can defeat them one at a time. It’s an excellent plan, and there is nothing treasonable about it. Whatever role I play will be as the true and loyal servant of the king. That you will not be the king to whom I bring such glory is sad, but that is your choice, sir. By all means, announce to your people that this is my plan—to defeat and destroy our enemies and bring peace to the whole land. See how unpopular it makes me.”

  “The people don’t love war,” said Motiak. “You misjudge them if you think they do.”

  “You misjudge them, not me,” said Akma. “They hate the constant vigilance. They hate knowing that the Elemaki raiders know they can return beyond our borders and we won’t pursue them and destroy them. Why do you think there was so much loathing against the diggers? Why do you think the civil guard wouldn’t obey you when you commanded them to stop the violence? The difference between us, sir, is that I will channel that rage against the real enemy. Your policies channeled it against children.”

  Motiak stood. “There is no law requiring me to appoint one of my sons to succeed me.”

  Akma also stood. “And there is no law requiring the people to choose the successor that you name. The people love Aronha. They will love him all the more when they see that he—that we—intend to restore the old order, the old ways.”

  “All that you plan, all of it, and the fact you dare to fling it in my face—it all depends on the fact that I’m a gentle king and don’t use my power arbitrarily.”

  “Yes,” said Akma. “I count on that. I also count on the fact that you love this kingdom and you won’t needlessly plunge it into civil war or anarchy. You will appoint Aronha as your successor. And by the time that day comes—and we hope it is not soon, sir, no matter what you might imagine—by that time we hope, we believe, that you will have come to realize that our plan is ultimately the best for your people. You will wish us well.”

  “No,” said Motiak. “That I will never do.”

  “It’s your decision.”

  “You think you’ve outmaneuvered me, don’t you?”

  “Not at all. My only enemy is th
e nation of diggers and loathsome ratlike humans in the high mountains. I had nothing to do with the trials that led to the legal situation that opened the floodgates of persecution, and you know it. I was never one of the players in that miserable game, and I reject it. But this decree you’re making now, yes—that is a maneuver. But I didn’t notice you coming up with anything better. It seems, however, that my reward for suggesting the solution to your problems is to come to this room to be called a puppet, a traitor, a torturer of children, and every other vile thing you can think of. I will not forget that my mother and father sat and listened to all of this without once, not once, raising their voices in my defense.”

  Bego laughed. “You are the man I thought you’d be, Akma!”

  A look from Motiak brought silence to the table.

  “Akma,” said Father, quietly. “I beg you for mercy.”

  No, don’t do this, Akma said silently. Don’t humiliate yourself before me, the way you humiliated yourself before the Pabulogi.

  “I have searched my memory and my conscience,” said Father, “trying to imagine how I might have acted differently back in Chelem. I beg you to tell me now—what should I have done? Befriending the sons of Pabulog, teaching them the way of the Keeper, the doctrines of Binaro—that won our freedom. It brought us here. How else could I have done it? What should I have done?”

  “I don’t dwell in the past,” said Akma, trying to fend off the embarrassing question.

  “So you can’t think of anything better I could have done, either,” said Father. “No, I didn’t think you could. Hatred and anger aren’t rational. Just because you know I had no other choice doesn’t make the anger go away. I understand that. But you’re a man now. You can put away childish things.”