But it was not written by a poet. It was written by a tax collector. A man who never wrote anything else. And more astounding yet, Matthew’s book was but one of four, all by different authors, none of whom were writers, and all of whom told the same exact tale.
Talon could only conclude that it was not, therefore, fiction. It was an account of a life actually lived. What did that mean? She did not know. She had successfully tested the power that might be hers through an act of submission, in the manner of this passive hero. This much was sure: It worked. So she had to ask herself, was there a similar path before her now? She needed to know. So when she opened the sheets of parchment and read again, at this moment, with the body of her husband near her, how the Son of God taught men to live, she was in a very specific way looking for His help.
And that God, that Christ, said clearly in these pages that she should love her enemies. She should turn the other cheek, allow herself to be hurt by them. He was telling her she should sacrifice herself. She should die in the way He did. She should sacrifice her child the way God did His.
With the blood of her husband hardening on her robes, soaked through the silk fibers and drying on the skin that protected the life of her child, she considered this path very carefully. Turning the other cheek would mean allowing her enemies to do as they would to her. Like Packer, she would be dropping her sword and accepting her own death. Like God, she would be accepting her child’s death.
To follow Jesus’ teaching was to accept one’s own demise on someone else’s terms. Of that, there could be no doubt. He said so, just that plainly. This passive activity, this active, knowing, willful passivity in the face of one’s enemies was precisely the option the Vast God, the Son of God, wanted her to choose.
She considered it very carefully, deep into that dark night. And she rejected it.
She had no love for the Court of Twelve. She loved the Hezzan, and she loved her own child. But she had no love for her enemies. She hated those who had killed the Hezzan. She hated Sool Kron. She could not pretend otherwise. This request, this mission the Vast God required was simply a higher calling than she could attain to. It was more than she was willing to attempt.
She could protect her child. She could fulfill the Hezzan’s mission. She knew how to win his war, and to see the Drammune take their place as the leaders of the world, just as her husband had envisioned it.
She would choose the Hezzan over the Christ.
Talon closed the pages and put the books back into the drawer. She looked at them one last time before she shut them away. Perhaps one day she could live up to those standards. She would try to do justly, she told herself, as much as she could. She would try to reject bloodshed for the sake of vengeance, reject vengeance motivated by hatred. She would try to remember the God who spoke to her through the weakness of Panna, and of Packer, and through the death of her father and the death of her husband.
If that wasn’t good enough for the Vast God, then He could kill her, and that would be the end. She would not blame Him. But no, she would not accept her own death, not at the hands of someone as devious and despicable as Sool Kron.
So she changed her clothes, put on her dark leather robe, and when she was ready, an hour before dawn, she called for the General Commander of the Hezzan Guard.
Talon’s bargain with Vasla Vor was a simple one. He was a loyal man, loyal to his Hezzan at all costs, which was why he was chosen to protect the emperor. He detested politics and politicians, respected warriors, and loved the Hezzan more than any man on earth. Talon brought Vasla Vor to see the Hezzan, dead, lying on the floor where he’d been shot, the three grotesque arrows still protruding from his chest. Vor’s grief and anger were barely contained, as she knew they would be.
She did not hide from him her belief that the arrows had been meant for her. She spoke of Drammune assassins who had known her movements, who had chosen a time and place she would be alone, when they believed the Hezzan would be nowhere near. They had not meant to kill the Hezzan; they had not wanted him near when they killed his wife. They had not wanted his anger aroused, blowing hot dry winds across the red coals of his grief.
She spoke, as they knelt by the Hezzan’s body, of the deceitfulness of the Court, their lack of honor, their willingness to risk their country and their emperor’s life, even the outcome of the war, over their petty jealousies. They would kill a woman, and for what? They would kill the wife of the Hezzan, who was under his protection, and for what? They would kill a Drammune warrior, and for what? They would kill the Hezzan, and for what? All in a vain effort to protect themselves, to regain favor they perceived they had lost.
As she spoke, the broad shoulders of this battle-hardened soldier rose. He did not take his eyes off his commander, his emperor. His jaw tensed, the lines of his forehead deepened, and his eyes narrowed. She spoke of the ineptitude of the Court. She spoke of the danger to the nation that they posed, their recklessness, their immorality. She spoke of them not as individuals, but as a single entity, a single enemy, a single mass of cancer.
Finally she went silent, and he turned his face to her. His expression was deadly. “Can you prove their treachery?”
“Here is the proof.” She held her hand out, gesturing toward the body of her husband.
“Can you prove they conspired together?”
“I can. They do not yet know that they have slain their emperor. I will call them together, through the emperor’s messenger. When they see me instead of the Hezzan, you will be there to witness their reaction. Then you will know.”
“And if I am unconvinced?”
“Arrest me. Do with me as you please. But if you are convinced…”
He nodded at her.
“Ah, I see you’ve finally decided to freshen up your appearance,” the prince said to Panna. He had sought her out in the cool of the summer twilight to confirm his plans for the evening. He found her not in her usual spot by the pond, which she seemed to have abandoned several days ago, but sitting on the back steps near the servants’ entrance, chatting with several chambermaids. They all scattered the instant they saw their prince appear. He did nothing to stop them.
Panna had been something of a mystery to the servants. She had not given up talking with them, and eventually she had gotten several of the younger ones to let down their guard. When certain advisors of the Crown found Panna’s visits to the maids beneath the dignity of a palace guest, the prince’s mind was sought on the matter, and a simple order came back: “Let Mrs. Throme do as she likes.”
Panna did have free run and though she was followed by the Royal Dragoons incessantly, the prince was clearly willing to make dramatic exceptions for her. This fact was daily displayed by her drab peasant clothes. The staff knew that the prince sent Panna a new outfit almost daily, hoping something would catch her eye and soften her resolve. The one elegant dress she owned she wore only to the formal dinners to which she was occasionally invited.
But last night, she had sent her peasant dress out in the evening to be cleaned, and it didn’t return. Lost amid the royal wash, she was told. She questioned the chambermaids, but everyone was quite close-mouthed on the subject. Only the young servant girls with whom she had just been conversing would occasionally speak ill of the prince. In fact, they seemed to have no great love for anyone in the royal family. Panna had yet to get to the root of their disrespect, but she got the definite impression that it grew from the king himself. But Jacqalyn, she was told, was a known gossip, willing to spread the worst kind of falsehoods, while Mather’s younger brother, Ward, was an all-around scoundrel.
“I have few things,” Panna said to the prince, standing to confront him. “You have many. But what I do have, you feel the right to take away?”
For a moment, the prince was baffled by her intensity. “Of what do you accuse me, Mrs. Throme?”
“My dress. It’s gone. I want it back.”
Mather was relieved. For some reason he had feared she was talking about
her husband. He waved a hand dismissively. “Perhaps one of the servants thought it a pile of rags,” he said, a charmless sentiment, but uttered with his usual smile and wink and casual smoothness. He allowed his eyes to flutter briefly and admiringly toward the dress she now wore: robin’s-egg-blue, her one stylish gown. “At any rate, the improvement in your appearance is immense, and I for one am grateful for it. Brightens up the place.”
Panna seethed. “I am not a marble pillar or a stick of furniture,” she said, her hands on her hips. “And I am certainly not interested in brightening up the place to please you. If you had any decency, you would let me go home, where I am respected and accepted regardless of what I’m wearing.” She hoped she was being harsh enough to convince him she had no interest in him, should Jacqalyn’s warnings turn out to be accurate.
“My, you’re in a bad mood.” The prince, attempting to be casual, hiked his trouser legs and sat on the steps. He sighed. “Look, I know what you want, Panna. But you know you can’t leave. I’m trying to make this as comfortable for you as possible—I would hope you understand that. Why bring it up again?”
“But I will bring it up. Over and over until you set me free from this highly polished prison.”
“The bird in the gilded cage is supposed to sing more sweetly. Somehow, this principle seems lost on you.”
She crossed her arms. “I am not a bird. And even if I was, I would certainly not be your bird.”
The prince looked like he had no idea why she spoke in this way. “No. Of course that’s true. But this is my cage. And you are, do not forget, my subject, while I am your prince. That accident of social positioning does create some responsibility on both our parts. I seek to fulfill mine, and hope one day soon you will seek to fulfill yours. You are too hardheaded by half to be trusted not to tell what you know, or think you know.”
“I live in Hangman’s Cliffs. Hangman’s Cliffs! It sits on the very edge of nowhere. All the men who can serve have gone off to fight your war. Who would I tell?”
“You are the hero’s wife. People will find you. But enough of this. I came to tell you that tonight, dinner is at eight. Please try to be on time.”
She stood, bowed briefly, and left him. Mather marveled at her ability to infuse such a simple gesture with such a subtle shade of hostility. He wasn’t sure how she accomplished it, but he was quite sure she had perfected the sarcastic curtsy.
The Trophy Chase would not be caught by the Drammune. She had simply vanished.
The Marchessa was a good ship, well-crewed with sailors who had been aboard her for years, and well-captained by Moore Davies. But she was not nearly as fast as the Trophy Chase, and she could not keep up. Davies was not surprised when the Chase disappeared into the darkness. He knew the ship, knew her captain, and was glad to have such a weapon out there on his side. He didn’t worry. What he couldn’t outrun he was sure he could outsail, and the darkness of the night gave him every advantage.
But he worried about the Silver Arrow. She lagged badly.
The Vast warship was captained by Bebo Melloon, a Navy man with a fifty-year career strewn with commendations and decorations for honor and valor. But his most recent medal carried almost three decades of tarnish, rust, and dust. He was nearsighted to the point of blindness, forgetful to the point of dementia. He had not sailed with the Fleet to Drammun when King Reynard ordered his ill-conceived show of overwhelming force. Considering some of the decrepit captains who had sailed to their demise, this was notable.
But Bebo’s self-assurance had waxed as his other faculties waned, and with the prince insisting that at least one Vast warship, one remnant of the Royal Navy, join this mission, Admiral Hand had finally agreed to appoint him to captain the third vessel. To hedge his bets, though, he had given Bebo a first mate of true distinction, a man named Orly Fine, who could sail rings around most captains. And, not insignificantly, who could remember what orders he had given his own men yesterday.
The admiral’s command to Captain Melloon had been, “Orly will sail. You fight.” And it worked out almost that way. Orly sailed, and Melloon fought Orly.
The crew was at first confused by the bickering, and then dispirited, and then apathetic, all of which resulted in something well short of a showcase of naval prowess. When the Arrow ran, she staggered. When she sprinted, she limped. She could make good time in short bursts, but then she’d falter, sails luffing like a winded runner.
Captain Davies’ decision was a hard one, but the only one. He could not protect the Silver Arrow from a hundred warships. Admiral Hand had signaled them both with orders to run, not to stand and fight. So Davies ran, even as his crew looked astern with wide eyes, straining into the growing darkness as the pale sails of the Silver Arrow sank farther and farther back toward the blood-red teeth of the enemy’s canvas.
Eventually, there was cannon fire. At this distance in the gloaming, it could be seen only as pinprick flashes of yellow light. It could not be heard at all. But through the telescope, from the crow’s nest, every blast lit the low sky and illuminated the ship at which it was aimed. The lookout called out the action, and it was relayed through the rigging down to the deck.
“Arrow’s takin’ it from two sides!” he announced. The news was repeated, received glumly. They had caught her, then, and surrounded her.
“She’s givin’ as good as she gets!” A grim hope grew.
“An equal exchange!” Crew members buzzed as spirits rose. Martial praise rose up from the decks. The old buzzard can still fight!
“The lee ship is listing! The Arrow’s got her!” The crew of the Marchessa whooped.
But then there was a long silence. And finally, “No, no—the lee ship was turning. The Arrow’s listing now.”
And then, “She’s takin’ it hard.”
The flash of cannon now clearly favored the Drammune, two blasts from the enemy for every one from the Arrow. Then four for one. Then ten. And then the cannon fire from the Arrow ceased altogether.
“She’s done. No return fire.”
The Silver Arrow’s mainmast came down, her sails settling over her like a sheet pulled over a corpse. The ship heeled terribly. Then she began to burn.
“Arrow’s aflame. It’s over.”
The crew of the Marchessa was silent and grim. Men took off their caps.
“That’s it, men!” Moore Davies cried out, cutting through the moment with an unexpected energy. “Let’s run, boys, or we’re next!”
The sailors of the Marchessa jumped to life, putting their minds and backs into their own tasks. To falter meant death, and death was at their heels.
CHAPTER 9
Flight
All night the Chase ran in the dark. Once the signals had been sent to the Marchessa and the Silver Arrow, Admiral Hand ordered hull speed. All lamps were doused, and no pipes or cigars were to be lit. The men on deck draped themselves with muskets, pistols, swords, and knives. And excepting only the muskets, the men in the rigging carried the same accoutrements, maneuvering through the darkness with the clank and jingle of weaponry hung from belts or strapped across chests and shoulders. The cannon were charged and loaded, and cannoneers stood by, their torches soaked in oil and waiting on the unlit matches that were held in hands or chewed between teeth.
John Hand had not ordered silence, but the men were silent anyway, as though they might be able to hear over the slap of the waves and the creak of the spars some sign of their enemy. Or as though they might be overheard.
Once the sun had set, low clouds hovered, obscuring the moon, making the darkness seem unreasonably thick, giving the night a texture of gloom. Only rarely could moonlight be seen glowing above the heavy blanket that been thrown over the world. When light did occasionally creep through, not a man looked up to its source; every eye scanned the horizon for a trace of a crimson sail.
But the mood aboard ship could not stay as dark as the night, or as grim as the circumstances. More than half the men now aboard this ship had never
ridden the Chase at top speed. She ran, they now knew, like an absolute lioness in full stride, smooth and easy and graceful, cutting through and over the waves with utter disdain for them, as though measuring each and absorbing it or hurdling it, bounding effortlessly. With her sails full, she heeled to starboard at an angle that for a lesser ship would have put sweat into the palms of her crew—but the Chase felt steady and sure under their feet. She gave off a palpable sense of power, of being at ease with power. Those who had sailed her before remembered why they loved her, and those who hadn’t knew now they would never want to sail another.
The beast had gotten little more than a bellyful of splintered nothing for all its trouble with the Seventh Seal. One tiny morsel, no larger than the others. All the rest shell. In brooding darkness, it circled. It had not feasted. It had not dared to rise up into the storm to gather in the small morsels on the surface, though the blood scent was strong.
But it had learned. The only reason a shell would be empty was if something had emptied it. It now understood. The victor, once it had killed its prey, had eaten out the meat. Only the empty husk sank below the surface. To feast on the full flesh of these creatures, the Firefish concluded, it must attack the victorious creature. It was the long, deep-finned one that held the meat.
But before it could attack, it sensed the presence of many, many more of these storm creatures. These were of the same ilk, swam in the same straight lines. It was an enormous pack. In frustrated darkness the beast dove, and then waited. The pack approached the deep-finned one. Were they attacking? What would the deep fin do?
It did not take long. Very quickly, the deep fin turned and fled. And with amazing speed! The Firefish was not sure it could catch the deep fin, or even keep up. It watched, but did not pursue. The others, the smaller ones that had left the deep fin alone, these also fled from the huge pack. But these were much slower.
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