by Alix Nichols
That kind of delusion of power could be forgiven in a young child, even encouraged to an extent. But it was unpardonable in someone like her.
The flogger’s final blow shook Lord Sebi’s dangling body without drawing so much as a twitch from it.
He was unconscious.
The high judge stepped forward once again. “We are done for today. Areg Sebi will receive fifty more lashes here in Town Hall Square in exactly one week, next First-day, the twenty-sixth of Mid-Summer, Xer-year 701 of the New Ra-human Era.”
The crowd rumbled, appalled.
“The man needs to recover!” someone shouted.
“You can’t do that!” Etana heard herself yell.
Several heads turned toward her, and Rhori gave her a round-eyed look.
“Oh, but we can and, given the gravity of his crime, we certainly will,” Judge Mahabmet said. “Unless he confesses between now and next First-day.”
He wouldn’t. Etana was sure of it.
“But, confession or no,” the judge added, raising his voice, “my colleagues and I will return with a verdict on Areg Sebi by then. It will be announced here, next First-day.”
“What do you think it would be?” Etana whispered to Rhori.
“For high treason?” He gave her an apologetic look as if to say, you know what.
“Death,” she said on an exhale.
“They never move this fast.” Rhori knitted his brows. “Even court-martials during the war didn’t move this fast.”
Etana hardly heard him.
Her mind was on fire, scrambling for options, for something, for anything she could do for Areg Sebi.
Perhaps…
She clenched her jaws, determined.
Tonight, as soon as she finished work at the Gokk House, she’d go to the temple. She’d beg the vestals to let her spend the night, and every night between now and the twenty-sixth, in their library. She’d read every code and custom book, every law, every compilation of decrees and edicts they had in there.
Since rescuing Lord Sebi through an imaginary gift was a nonstarter, perhaps there was a doable way to ease his suffering.
Maybe she’d find a law which forbade convicting a citizen of Eia, no matter his crime, without a proper trial and without a chance to defend himself. Failing that, she might uncover a ruling which prohibited giving anyone—even a convicted traitor—more lashes than the Ra-human body could endure.
Or maybe something else, completely unexpected.
If there was anything at all that could help Lord Areg Sebi, even in a tiny way, she’d find it.
She had to.
2
Slowly, the world came into focus as Areg came around.
He was stretched flat on his stomach on top of his pallet back in his prison cell. As his senses gradually sharpened, he realized he was cold, dizzy, nauseous and… stark naked, barring a cloth thrown over his ass. He could feel it rub against the raw flesh of his lower back as he tried to move.
“Lie still,” an authoritative female commanded. “I haven’t finished yet.”
“Finished… what?” Areg croaked, staring at the wall beside him. “Who are you?”
He was too weak to turn his head and look at the woman who’d spoken to him.
A soft hand touched his back and began to move clockwise, rubbing something oily into his wounds.
“I’m Reverend Goyyem of the Healers’ Order,” the woman said. “We’ve met before. You’ve been slipping in and out of consciousness over the last twelve hours. Novice Drisse and I are here to care for you.”
The door opened with a screech.
He recognized the voice of one of the guards who muttered a respectful, “Bless your endeavors, Glorious Maiden.”
“May your deeds please Divine Aheya, sir,” came the customary reply.
In his peripheral vision, Areg saw a young woman in a high-waisted vestal robe step into his cell. She carried a tub filled with a liquid.
The guard locked the door behind her.
Walking carefully so that she wouldn’t spill the liquid, the vestal approached Areg and placed the tub on the stone floor.
“Here,” the reverend said, handing the novice a sponge. “Once you’ve washed and toweled his face and hair, I’ll treat the gashes on his neck, and then we can bandage him up.”
As the vestals tended to him, Areg grew increasingly awake—and increasingly self-conscious. He had been naked in front of women before, but only one at a time. And they’d been naked, too.
And vestal virgins they certainly were not.
“I don’t ache as much as I’d expected,” he said as Novice Drisse toweled his hair dry.
“That’s because I gave you something for the pain when you woke last time.” Reverend Goyyem gestured to the younger vestal. “Help me sit him up.”
The cloth across my ass—it doesn’t cover…
A tiny smile curled Reverend Goyyem’s lips. “We’ll prop you against the wall, so you can put these on.” She handed him a pair of clean pants. “And we won’t look.”
“The guards wouldn’t let Reverend Goyyem’s steward come in to help you get dressed.” Sister Drisse pouted. “Ridiculous!”
Still red in the face, Areg let them help him sit up and lean his shoulder on the wall. Then he pulled the slacks on, cringing in pain when he bent down or flexed the muscles on his mutilated back.
When he finished, Novice Drisse gave him a glass of water. He emptied it. Then the vestals moved between him and the door, blocking him from whoever might be peeping through the door viewer.
“We’re going to swathe you in bandages now,” Reverend Goyyem said loudly, thrusting a small folded envelope into Areg’s hand.
He glanced up at her.
“Read fast and give it back to me,” she whispered.
While the vestals applied poultices and bandaged him, he opened the letter.
Dear Areg,
I am so sorry about what has happened to you! And I am sorry I’m not by your side now. Her Glory Superior Dienoma ordered me to go to the North Temple and officiate there this week.
But I’m traveling to the capital in three days whether I have her permission or not.
Eight army majors and I have obtained an audience with Governor Boggond. I’d asked Commander Heidd to join us, but he said, “A soldier doesn’t question his superior’s orders—he executes them.” I took it as a no.
The majors and I intend to beg the governor and the high judge to punish you by banishing you from Eia in recognition for your wartime heroism. The idea is to get you off Hente.
Be strong, my friend!
May Aheya look upon you with kindness.
In prayer,
Aynu
Areg gave the letter back to Reverend Goyyem who swiftly dropped it into her front pocket.
“Your Glory, please tell her to abandon that plan and to dissuade the majors,” Areg whispered while she bent down to fasten a strip of gauze. “They’ll be taking a huge risk—for nothing.”
There was no way Boggond would allow him to leave the planet. He wouldn’t run the risk of Areg coming back later and stirring up more trouble. What Boggond wanted was to make sure Areg was dead.
Reverend Goyyem let out a sigh. “It isn’t my place to tell Royal Prioress Eckme what she should do, but I’ll relay your message.”
Something told Areg Royal Prioress Eckme wouldn’t listen.
His childhood friend was one of the highest-ranking vestals in Eia. She was also a princess. Her grandfather, an anti-monarchist king, abdicated back in 645, so that his realm could become a republic. He also took a solemn vow that he and his descendants would stay away from politics. In exchange for this gesture, the Eckme family got to keep its vast possessions and the honorary “royal” in their title.
Aynu had every intention of honoring her grandfather’s wishes.
Bright and kindhearted, she’d joined the Healers’ Order when she turned eighteen. When the Teteum war broke out, she vol
unteered for the frontline and did a remarkable job overseeing military hospitals. In recognition of her service, the superior of the temple elevated her to prioress at the end of the war.
Revered by the people, Aynu was an exceptional person.
Exceptionally pigheaded, too.
Seeing the severity of the charges against Areg and the speedy indictment, Boggond was hell-bent on getting rid of him—but not before dragging him through mud first.
Nothing would make him give up on that plan.
A brief time later, the vestals secured the last bandage and drew back to survey their handiwork.
Reverend Goyyem handed him a clean shirt. “I’ll return tomorrow to change your bandages and administer another dose of pain relief.”
“Thank you,” he said while she helped him into his shirt. “You’ve both been very kind.”
“Just doing our duty,” Novice Drisse said.
Of course, they were. Nursing the sick and the wounded was the mission of the Healers’ Order, and its vestals ran hospitals and did rounds at prisons as part of that mission.
What didn’t make a lot of sense to Areg was why the police chief had allowed them to nurse him.
There was only one explanation. Boggond wanted him well enough so he wouldn’t pass out too soon at his second flogging.
Reverend Goyyem gave him a gentle smile and headed for the door.
Grabbing their medical case, Novice Drisse scurried behind her.
Once again alone in his cell, Areg lay facedown on the pallet.
Stubborn Aynu! If only he had a way to prevent her and the majors from moving forward with their ill-conceived plan! Boggond wouldn’t arrest them, he wasn’t that desperate, but he’d surely add them to his blacklist.
Too many people—good people—had already died because of Areg. The thought that, even silenced and imprisoned, he was endangering more was unbearable. He turned his head and lifted his gaze to the tiny window under the ceiling.
Sweet Aheya, please, put an end to this!
If she struck him now, Aynu would have no reason to plead with Boggond. Neither she nor the majors would end up on Ultek’s blacklist. And he, Areg Sebi, might be allowed to spend some time with his ill-starred family and his dead friends in the peace of the Eternal Garden.
He longed for it.
Areg closed his eyes and saw Nollan’s face. Fifteen years Areg’s senior, Lord Nollan Dreggo had been his favorite professor at the Orogate Academy. After Areg graduated, the two of them stayed in touch. With time, their mutual appreciation grew into a genuine friendship.
And when, six months ago, Nollan decided to run for governor, Areg didn’t hesitate a second. Not only did he support Nollan’s bid financially, but he also actively campaigned for the professor.
His motives hadn’t been entirely selfless.
At the time, Areg had just resigned from the army with the intention of moving to the south and taking the reins of the family estate. He needed a reason to linger in the Orogate Valley. He was looking for a worthy project to buy him time, so he could prepare better to return to his and Nyssa’s childhood home—a happy home—and face its emptiness.
Nollan’s bid gave him that reason.
For the umpteenth time, Areg thought back to the last public debate he and Nollan had held in Orogate a month ago.
The Royal Theater was full to the brim. Noble-borns and eminent proficients occupied the front rows. Menials crowded the back, many of them standing or sitting on the floor between the aisles.
“In Xereill,” Nollan began his address, “there are planets where gifts abound, where rich-bloods can harness their abilities inherited from the Ra to solve almost any issue.”
“Lucky them,” someone in the audience said.
“Indeed, they are lucky.” Nollan nodded. “And I can see why they turn up their noses at technology. They have no need for it.”
Areg peered into the crowd. “But then there are other planets where gifts have not survived. I visited some of them when my late father served as Eia’s ambassador to the League of Realms.”
A teenage boy raised his hand. “The League of Realms… those are the guys who keep the Treasures of Xereill List, right?”
Areg’s lips curled up. “A branch of League of Realms called ERIGAT does that. Oh, and please don’t ask me what that acronym means because, for the life of me, I can’t remember.”
Nollan’s eyes lit up at the opportunity to enlighten an ignorant. “The League of Realms, or the LOR, as it’s commonly called, is much more than that.”
Areg rubbed his mouth to hide his grin.
Once a teacher, always a teacher.
“It was founded exactly one hundred years ago,” Nollan said, “After the Allied Realms won the Empire War.”
Instinctively, Nollan had switched to his lecturer voice. Which had thrown Areg fifteen years back, to his Academy days. Keeping a straight face became a challenge.
Dammit!
The last thing Areg wanted was to suggest a lack of respect for Nollan. Casting his eyes down, he interlaced the fingers of his hands over his mouth.
“The LOR’s stated goal is peace and good governance throughout Xereill,” Nollan explained. “Its decisions are made by the Assembly, which includes all the allied realms in Xereill. Urgent matters are decided by the Council of Seven.” He turned to the teenager. “Does that answer your question?”
The boy nodded, yawning.
“Those giftless planets that Lord Sebi mentioned, are they like Hente?” a woman asked.
“Yes and no.” Areg turned toward her. “Without the rich-bloods and their powerful abilities, things on those planets are more… predictable.”
The woman cocked her head. “In what way?”
“Let’s see…” Areg’s lips quirked as he came up with an example. “You can expect people around you not to shift shapes or make apples taste like poop.”
“Why would anyone do that, anyway?” the woman asked.
“Because they’re bored?” Areg shrugged. “And because they can.”
People chuckled.
“So those planets are exactly like Hente, then,” someone said.
“Not exactly.” Areg ran his hand through his hair. “Their societies are fairer. Everyone has a lifestyle similar to the lifestyle only noble-borns and some proficients enjoy on Hente.”
“That’s Aheya’s Eternal Garden you’re talking about!” someone near the door shouted.
Areg cracked up.
Nollan shook his head. “No, sir. My friend is talking about places in this life, in this galaxy.”
“How is that possible?”
“Thanks to good government,” Nollan said. “No one is forced to do the hardest work, the kind of work that wears people down before their time.”
“How does that work get done, then?” a woman in the back of the room asked.
“Indeed, please tell us,” a man in the first row said, “If everyone can choose not to work in the mines or the laundry room, who does those jobs?”
“Machines.” Areg paused to let that sink in. “Level-two implements far more advanced than the tools you’re used to. Thanks to them, an individual’s birth doesn’t equal their destiny.”
Nollan addressed the back of the room. “Everyone can choose what they do in life. They can choose who they want to be.”
“I want to be a governor,” a woman shouted from the floor between two rows.
The room tee-heed.
“On the planets Lord Sebi and I are talking about,” Nollan said, peering in the direction the voice came from, “you could be.”
Areg leaned forward. “The new superintendent of the League of Realms, Lady Olinnie Tann-Lo, is a woman from a low-income family. True, she’s a polygifted rich-blood and exceptionally smart, but her title is not hereditary. She earned it on her home planet, working as an investigator.”
Areg glanced at Nollan who looked pleased watching the room hum with the information.
&nb
sp; The seed was planted.
Everyone there—especially the menials—would mull over what they heard here for weeks and months to come. They’d tell their families and friends about it. For the first time in their lives, they’d allow for a possibility of a better life for their children.
And perhaps even for themselves.
“Caretaker Governor Boggond disapproves of level-two technology and so do the vestals,” Orogate’s mayor said. “It’s evil. Don’t you remember, Lord Sebi, what caused the Cataclysm over two hundred years ago? Professor Dreggo, have you forgotten that?”
Everyone turned to stare at Nollan.
“I haven’t,” he said. “And I don’t think anyone should, ever. But here’s the thing. It wasn’t the fusion bombs that almost destroyed Hente. It was the people who built them and fired them. It was bad government. Evil was in the people, not in the technology.”
He paused before adding. “If you think about it, level-one tech isn’t that different. A knife is as good—or as evil—as the use we put it to.”
“Except a knife won’t destroy an entire world, no matter how you use it,” a vestal priestess countered.
Nollan blinked, appearing at a loss for words.
“It’s a good point, Your Glory,” Areg said. “But it’s moot. Thing is, Eia isn’t the only Ra-human society in Xereill. Nor is it the only one on Hente, as we know all too well. When other realms adopt level-two tech, while we hang on to our knives, we make ourselves vulnerable. Eia becomes fair game.”
“Need I remind Her Glory how we got Teteum to retreat and sign a peace treaty?” Nollan said, recovering his cool.
The vestal pursed her lips.
“The late Ambassador Sebi filed a complaint with the League of Realms,” Nollan continued. “LOR attempted mediation. When that failed, they supplied us with weapons. Level-two tech, all of it. That’s when we began to push back, instead of just getting massacred by the Teteum Army, which was half the size of Eia’s.”