A Warrior's Knowledge

by Davis Ashura

  Thunder pealed as Lienna screamed in fury. Where was He?

  There! She had Him. And this time, She would end Father for all time!

  Chapter 28: Hounding Secrets

  Choices made in the past resonate throughout the years, limiting and expanding options in the future. It is an obvious but often overlooked truism.

  -The Sorrows of Hume, AF 1789

  Farn paused at the entryway to Dar’El’s study, surprised to see the House Council waiting for him. He had been called to the Shektan Seat for an afternoon meeting, but he hadn’t realized he would face such a formal gathering. Everyone looked so serious. It had Farn wondering if he’d done something wrong, or if something had gone wrong.

  Sophy Terrell, the Hound, sat perched upon the couch. She had an intense air of concentration about her, and Farn quickly looked away. As a child, he had always tried to avoid the Hound’s notice. She was so intimidating, and time had done little to diminish her fearsome presence.

  Sharing the couch with Sophy was Satha Shektan, who smiled warmly at him. Farn nodded greeting, smiling in return. He’d grown up in the House Seat as much as he had his own home, and Satha was like a second Amma or a favorite auntie to him.

  Seated in a chair next to the hearth was Durmer Volk. The Great Duriah — an appellation none would dare say in his hearing — remained the same blocky, stolid man Farn remembered. Even his thin, shoe-polish black hair and thick, curling mustache drooping past his perpetually frowning lips were the same.

  Of course, Dar’El was also here. He was the one who had called for the meeting after all.

  But where was Garnet Bosde? Since Farn’s return to Ashoka, he had yet to see the old Councilor. Rumor stated Garnet was in declining health, that his mind wasn’t what it had once been. Or so went the euphemistic description. Farn could read between the lines. He’d seen something similar happen to his naanamma — his father’s mother. It had been painful for everyone involved; to watch helplessly as the light of knowledge, love, and laughter faded from Naanamma’s eyes. It had taken a toll on all of them, especially Nanna.

  “Thank you for coming on such short notice,” Dar’El said to Farn, gesturing for him to take a seat. “Now that you’re here, we can begin.”

  “As you know, we had always hoped the Chamber of Lords would rescind Rukh’s judgment,” Satha began. “We never expected for it to happen, but Fate has decided to grant us her favor.” She smiled wryly. “Which leaves us with a conundrum.”

  Durmer cleared his throat, and for a wonder he was grinning broadly. “They — ” he gestured to Satha and Dar’El “ — never planned what to do if the Chamber voted in favor of our petition. For Rukh’s sake, for his honor basically, all they cared about was getting the judgment overturned. Now that it has, they have to figure out what to do next.”

  Farn knew what was coming. Dar’El and Satha had already discussed it with him once before. “I’m the only one who knows Stronghold’s location,” he said.

  “You would have to go back,” Satha confirmed, hesitating a moment later. “I hate to ask this of you given how recently you returned home, but we need to get word to Rukh as soon as possible and let him know what’s transpired.”

  “Take some time to think it over,” Dar’El urged. “Discuss it with your family. This is your decision.”

  Farn already knew his answer. It was the same as the one he had given the last time he’d been asked. “Of course I’ll go,” he replied. “You know I’m not going to change my mind on something so important.”

  Satha stood and drew Farn into a startled embrace. “You have no idea how grateful I am,” she said, her eyes tearing.

  “I love him, too,” Farn said, uncomfortable with Satha’s appreciation. “How could I do anything less?”

  “There are several other details we need to discuss,” Dar’El said. “First, I have proposed the funding of a Trial to Stronghold. Based on what you’ve told us, it seems we have many items the OutCastes might find useful, and their new firefly lamp designs could prove very valuable to us as well. Second, Jaresh wishes to go with you, and we’ve given him our blessing. He’s yours if you wish.”

  “I thought the commander of a Trial had full discretion with regard to the compliment,” Farn said.

  “He does,” Dar’El said. “Which leads me to the third item. You will be the one to lead the Trial.” He smiled. “Congratulations, Lieutenant. Get used to coming to the House Seat for many meetings in the upcoming weeks. We have a lot to planning to complete. I want to see this Trial ready to depart in a month’s time.”

  *****

  Dar’El was worn to the nub. For the past three weeks, he had worked from well before sunup to hours after sundown, trying to make sure the caravan to Stronghold was properly provisioned. This would be a Trial unlike any other in Ashoka’s history: the first caravan sent to a new city and with no previously established routes or landmarks to follow. Such an expedition hadn’t been attempted since the Days of Desolation, and putting it together had required new ways of thinking. The warriors would need food and equipment to take them through everything from a hot spring day to a snowfall in the mountain passes. And since the normal caravan wagons couldn’t make it through the Privations, new, smaller versions had to be designed. In the end, though, much of the required gear would still have to be hauled on horses, mules, and donkeys, a far costlier means to haul freight than for other Trials.

  The cost of such an approach was staggering. It might have even proven ruinous, except a number of Houses had stepped up and offered to help bear the expenses. Of course, they wanted something in return; likely a discount on whatever items Stronghold was willing to trade, especially any materials and goods that could find a market in Ashoka or elsewhere. It was a grand bargain as far as Dar’El was concerned. House Shektan wouldn’t lose money on the Trial, and Rukh would come home.

  Right now, however, all those issues were far from his mind. Even the ongoing meeting of the Society of Rajan couldn’t hold his attention. He’d barely even registered the many hearty congratulations for his victory in the Chamber or the actual proceedings themselves. All of their warm wishes somehow seemed unimportant. Thankfully, the meeting was soon to adjourn. Thrivel Nonel, the Sentya Master, had a few final words to say before it was over.

  And then Dar’El could confront Ular Sathin.

  Ular Sathin whose fingertips were faintly stained the orange-brown color of henna.

  Dar’El had found the Sil Lor Kum.

  The knowledge should have filled him with great satisfaction, but all it did was bring him a churning stomach, one full of upset, betrayal, and heartache. Ular Sathin? How could he? He and Dar’El had been friends for years. Anger and anguish coursed in equal measure through Dar’El as he stared across the table at the Muran Master. The older man had his hand in front of his mouth as he and Anian Elim, the Journeyman Duriah, chuckled over a private joke.

  The meeting concluded, and Dar’El made his way toward Ular.

  “May I have a word in private?” he asked the Muran Master.

  “Of course,” Ular said with a friendly smile. A moment later, upon taking in the Dar’El’s forbidding countenance, his smile faded. “What’s happened?” he asked.

  “In private,” Dar’El said. He glanced meaningfully at the other Rajans.

  Ular nodded understanding. “Ah. For my ears only.” His expression turned more serious. “You’ve learned something about one of our fellow Rajans.”

  Dar’El nodded, unable to say anything more. He was too heartbroken over what he had to do, and a part of him still prayed that there was a more innocuous reason for Ular’s stained fingers. In fact, Dar’El had always hoped the traitorous Rajan would turn out to be an Apprentice, someone with whom he didn’t have decades of friendship.

  The Hall finally emptied and he and Ular were alone. It was time.

  He turned to the Muran Master. “The fingertips on your right hand have an unusual color,” he noted.

&
nbsp; Ular glanced at his hand and chuckled. “You should have seen them before,” he said. “I was handling henna and … ” He shrugged. “I was clumsy and got some on me. It only started fading a few days ago.” He gave a puzzled smile. “Why do you ask?”

  It was all smoothly said, a reasonable explanation. It could have happened just as Ular claimed.

  But it was a lie. Dar’El knew it.

  While he had been speaking, Ular had darted a glance at the closed entrance to the Hall. And right now, though he stared at Dar’El with wide, guileless eyes, a bead of perspiration tracked its way down his forehead. He was nervous.

  Dar’El didn’t reply. He merely stared flat-eyed at his one-time friend.

  Ular licked his lips. “Surely you didn’t ask for this private meeting in order to discuss henna,” he said, darting another glance at the closed door.

  “I know who you are,” Dar’El said.

  More sweat broke out on Ular’s forehead. “What do you mean? Of course you know who I am.” His smile became uneasy. “We’ve known each other for years.”

  “But until an hour ago, I didn’t know you were Sil Lor Kum.”

  The accusation produced a deathly silence, one eventually broken by a shaky laugh from Ular. “Is this a jest?” he asked. “If so, it’s in unbelievably poor taste.” He made to stand. “I think I’ve wasted enough time on your sick humor. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have an important — ”

  Dar’El snarled. He conducted Jivatma and grabbed the Muran Master by the collar, lifting him from his chair and slamming him onto the table.

  Ular screamed out in terror. “Don’t kill me,” he choked out. “I know many things.”

  Dar’El’s hold tightened. He wanted to snap the other man’s neck. It would be so easy, and Ular deserved it. But it wouldn’t be right. With a cry of disgust, he threw Ular aside. The man didn’t deserve an easy death. “I know you know ‘things’,” Dar’El said. “And you will tell me all of these ‘things’, especially the name of the Withering Knife murderer.”

  “He’s an older Kumma,” Ular blubbered. “A man of wealth. Probably an ‘El.”

  “All this I already know,” Dar’El hissed. “Give me his name, or the Isle of the Crows will be your final bed.”

  “I don’t know his name,” Ular wailed. He shrieked when Dar’El grabbed him again. “He’s the SuDin. Our leader. I’ve never learned his name,” the Muran babbled. “But I know the names of all the other MalDins. I know them all. You’ll be able to clear out the Sil Lor Kum, destroy it entirely. All I ask in return is sanctuary.”

  “You think you should be allowed to live after what you’ve done?” Dar’El snarled. “It will not happen.”

  “It has to happen, or you’ll learn nothing.”

  “Or maybe I should break your fingers. One at a time,” Dar’El threatened. “We’ll see how well you maintain your silence then.”

  Ular blanched.

  Dar’El was equally appalled by his words. What was he saying? Threatening torture? Even someone as degenerate as Ular didn’t deserve a fate so terrible. But then again, what about the promised death to which the man would be subjected? Was it not a form of torture? Dar’El growled in frustration. Now wasn’t the time for philosophical meanderings.

  Ular used Dar’El’s momentary distraction to regain a measure of his courage. “You won’t do that. I know you too well. You’re a man of conviction and honor. Morality is bred into your bones and blood.” He swallowed heavily. “You will meet my demands, or you will learn nothing.”

  Dar’El’s released his grip. “It is not my place to make such a promise. Only the Magisterium can do what you want.”

  “Then make them see reason!” Ular pleaded.

  “If the Magisterium learns your name, they will gut you. You’ll be clutching your entrails while the crows peck out your eyes,” Dar’El said. “On the other hand, I can give you an easy death.”

  “An easy death is still a death,” Ular said. “I want to live!” He lifted his chin defiantly. “If you tell the Magisterium who I am, my life may end in torment, but it won’t help you learn what you want to know.”

  Dar’El gazed upon the old man in sadness and revulsion. Had there ever been any honor or decency to Ular Sathin? Had it all been a sham? How could someone smile and share friendship with others, all the while lying to them and betraying everything they held dear? “Or I can tell the Magisterium your name, and they can make you the same promise I offer.”

  “I won’t be taken by them,” Ular vowed. “You have five hours to save my life. Otherwise, I’ll take my secrets to the pyre.”

  Dar’El moved to seize him. The old man couldn’t kill himself if he was tied up.

  Ular held up a forestalling hand. “I have a means to end my life even in your custody. Let me walk out of here, and you can go about saving me. Then I’ll talk.”

  Dar’El growled. “Five hours then.”

  *****

  There were times when Hal’El was certain he had been marked for glory. How else to explain everything he had accomplished? He was the finest warrior of his generation and had survived more Trials than any man since Hume. From there, he had gone on to become the ruling ‘El of one of the oldest, most powerful Houses in Ashoka. And during all this, he’d managed to keep secret his membership in the Sil Lor Kum, even rising to leadership of that hated organization. Then had come the unsought boon of the Withering Knife. With the black blade in his hands, Hal’El had dared hope he now possessed the means by which he could save Ashoka, and defeat Suwraith Herself. The murders he’d committed with the Knife, the rush of stolen Jivatma, it had filled with him heady assuredness. He was more powerful than he had ever been when young and all his injuries, including the damaged knee, had all been miraculously Healed. Devesh, or some being of power, must have marked Hal’El for greatness and glory.

  But then had arisen the voices in his head, whispering hatred and dire punishment. Aqua Oilhue, Felt Barnel, and Van Jinnu; the names of those he’d murdered; victims who had refused to remain dead. Now, they lingered in his mind like phantasms of revenge, and all his certainty was gone like sandcastles before the tide. His future, like that of Ashoka itself, was uncertain. Would the Sorrow Bringer come against the city this summer as She had vowed? If so, there was nothing Hal’El could do to stop Her. It seemed the future was doomed. They were all going to die.

  Once he had thought using the Knife would give him strength enough to challenge Suwraith, but he knew better now. The Knife granted power, but the cost was the wielder’s sanity. It wasn’t a price Hal’El was willing to pay. He wondered if Suwraith might have once been Human. Had She been faced with a choice similar to his: destruction of all She had loved versus Her sanity? Perhaps She had used the Knife and it had given Her unstoppable power even as it drove Her mad.

  With thoughts of loss and death on his mind, he almost didn’t recognize Ular Sathin when the old man brushed by him. The Muran was a half a dozen steps past, when Hal’El realized who he was. He had looked upset, his face puffy and his eyes red, as though he’d been crying.

  Curious, Hal’El turned to follow. He’d long ago learned to trust his instincts when it came to these type of matters. Something was wrong with Ular, and if so, it might affect the Sil Lor Kum, and through it, Hal’El and Varesea.

  Ular walked swiftly back to his home, a row house in Hart’s Stand with quiet Rahails living on all sides of his own. Foot traffic dwindled, and Hal’El took the opportunity to duck into a nearby alley and Blend. He’d somehow tortured the knowledge from Van Jinnu and Felt Barnel. He still wasn’t sure how he had done so, nor was he particularly proud of his actions, but in the end he wasn’t ashamed. If those he’d murdered insisted on staying with him, the least they could be was be useful.

  He stepped back onto the street, but by then Ular had already entered his home. All the curtains were drawn, but a light leaked out from around one of them. At least Ular wasn’t huddled in total darkness. Just then,
the curtain was pulled back a fraction, and Hal’El saw Ular’s frightened face peer out into the street.

  Even more curious.

  Hal’El made his way to the rear of the home. He tested a door half-hidden beneath a clematis-covered pergola. It was unlocked. Hal’El smiled. Ular was spooked, and in his panic, the old fool must have overlooked it. Hal’El eased open the door and stepped inside Ular’s home.

  He’d never been here before, and he took a moment to get his bearings. He was in a narrow, galley style kitchen that was as neat and tidy as a penitent's mind. A door on the far wall led further into the house, and the room it led to was obviously meant for dining. A rectangular table, four chairs, and white walls were the entirety of the furnishings within it.

  It seemed Ular’s house was a reflection of his passionless nature.

  Movement and sound came from further inside, and Hal’El crept toward it. The next room was a sitting area with a couch, coffee table, and an unlit hearth. A narrow staircase to the side of the front entry led upstairs, and a single firefly lantern on the mantle provided the light.

  Ular paced before the fireplace. He was sweating profusely. It was unlike the old man who was known for his cold dispassion.

  Hal’El stepped forward. “You seem nervous,” he said.

  Ular shrieked and darted his gaze about. “Who’s there?” he said in a tremulous voice.

  “The SuDin,” Hal’El said, maintaining his Blend, though it was growing taxing. “Why do you appear so frightened?”

  “Who wouldn’t be startled when a voice from nowhere suddenly speaks to them?” Ular said. He drew himself up, trying to regain his composure. “Why don’t you show yourself?”