Broken World Book Four - The Staff of Law

by Southwell, T C

  Kieran turned back to the window. “Get him a cow.”

  “I may have to soon,” she flung over her should as she left, taking the baby down to the kitchen, where the wet nurses usually spent their time helping Sheera with the cooking and cleaning.

  Kieran turned to stare at the Staff of Law, dead and cold on the velvet, the source of so much strife, and the only redemption for this dying world. How ironic, he thought, that this simple piece of stone was the only thing that could prevent the downfall of the world and restore it, and the most powerful being in the world, the Mujar, could not restore the staff’s power. What careful god planning had gone into this strange scenario, as if to prove their ultimate power? Was Chanter, he wondered, the last of his kind? The Mujar who had been thrown into the Pits were beyond help now, not only trapped by surely buried under the moving earth. Surely if there were others abroad, they would have come to this sanctuary by now, or Chanter would have found them. Would the gods intervene as Talsy hoped?

  Shaking his head, he left, closed the door behind him and sealed the staff in its prison.

  Over the next few weeks, Talsy did everything she could think of to draw the gods’ attention to the restored staff. She filled the room in which the Staff of Law lay with fresh flowers every day, sewed velvet curtains for it and acquired finely woven rugs. She asked two carpenters to build a wooden cradle for it, and some strapping helpers lifted the staff into its new, velvet-lined bed, raising its head four feet from the ground, its foot resting on the floor. Finally she persuaded an Aggapae artist to paint a massive mural on the wall behind the staff. It depicted a woman with sultry eyes and a gentle smile, while the man was a heroic bronzed giant with Mujar features and an expression of benevolent grace. These were Marrana, Goddess of Death, and Antanar, God of Life, she assured everyone.

  Chanter came and went as usual, stayed for a few days before he left again on his wanderings, saying little of where he had been or what he had seen. When Talsy showed him the mural, he gazed at it for a long time, studying it minutely while she held her breath, then turned to her with a solemn smile just before she ran out of air.

  “What makes you think that Marrana and Antanar look like that?”

  Her eyes widened, and she glanced anxiously at the painting. “What do they look like?”

  “I don’t know. I saw Marrana once, but not well. She was veiled by her mists, and it seemed to me that she had many faces. Antanar I’ve never seen. He doesn’t show himself, yet he is in every flower that blooms, every fawn that’s born. He’s Life, in all its beauty and savagery. Marrana is Death, and her aspect would be sadder, for although death is not truly sad, it is for those left behind, and it’s for them that she mourns. Those who die will be born again, but they will never know the loved ones they left behind again.”

  “You think I should change it?”

  He shook his head. “No, it’s fine. I’m sure they would be flattered, for you’ve certainly made them beautiful.”

  “They’re gods, they must be beautiful.”

  “And Trueman,” he teased, as if expecting her to be horrified at this assumption as well, but this time she had the answer, and smiled.

  “To us they would be, as to you they would be Mujar, and to a deer they would be deer and a horse -”

  He chuckled. “That’s right. They are all things to everyone.”

  She grinned at his mirth, delighted by his easy friendliness, which she had feared lost to her. “Do you forgive me?” The question burst from her, and she immediately wished it unasked, afraid to destroy the happy mood.

  He continued to smile. “I forgave you the moment you did it, but forgetting is another matter.”

  “I’ll never do anything like that again, I swear.”

  “We’ll see.” He clasped her shoulder. “I want to believe you, and I hope it’s true.” He glanced at the staff. “Don’t lose faith. It’s what has kept you going through all of this. It’s what made you so determined to restore the staff. Now you can do no more, just wait. Perhaps the gods won’t answer you, but maybe they will. You need hope to cling to. Without it your life here would become unbearable, pointless. I know I’ve always told you the laws can’t be restored, and I still don’t believe they can, but you do, and your belief has already done more than I had thought possible. Don’t give up now.”

  Her eyes stung. “I won’t.”

  Chapter Six

  Talsy stood on the windy parapet and stared out across the valley, letting the warm summer breeze ruffle her hair. Above her, the long winding banners of blue silk rustled in the breeze, there to give hope to the people who dwelt in the valley. They were Mujar blue, one emblazoned with a golden staff, another with the Mujar mark, the third with Kieran’s princely symbol, a black sword spangled with stars. These were the three things that kept order and peace in the valley: the hope of the Staff of Law, the protection of the Mujar, and the authority of the Prince. The people survived for them, worked and kept the peace, obeyed the laws and were grateful for their lives. Kieran’s authority relied upon the Starsword, whose powers ensured that no one would defy an order he gave, though he rarely had to lay down the law. Most of the time, the sword rested in an ornate bracket upon the wall of his bare room, taken down to be dusted occasionally.

  Far down the valley, a vast herd of horses grazed, spotting the velvet green with many colours. The Aggapae had kept their numbers down, preserved the grazing and saved the chosen from having to cull the beautiful beasts. Herds of sheep and cattle grazed alongside the horses, unchanged by the chaos, guarded by their herdsmen. Above her, ugly brown clouds roiled, shot with flickers of silent lightning, parting occasionally to allow golden sunlight through. Safe within the sphere of Mujar power, life in the valley remained tranquil. The chaos outside was sometimes evident in the massive black storms that passed overhead, strangely coloured lightning stabbing the swirling clouds in a savage frenzy. The howling winds did not enter the vale, however, and the rain that reached them fell gently and pure, cleansed by its passage through Chanter’s wards.

  Talsy pondered what had happened in the six years that had passed since the remaking of the Staff of Law. Travain’s development had been her greatest source of despair, and only Chanter had been able to save her from utter desolation with his gentle sympathy. At one year of age, Travain had developed the broken Mujar mark. Instead of the circle and cross, his appeared like a star, a broken circle with a fragmented cross within it. Chanter had hissed and recoiled from it with horror in his eyes. He had left the valley soon after, and she had not seen him for weeks. She had watched Travain closely, frightened by his father’s reaction. At that age, Travain could already walk and talk, and, shortly after the mark had appeared, his golden hair had turned brown and his blue eyes green. To Talsy’s intense disappointment, he had appeared to be a five-year-old Trueman boy in both stature and intelligence, his appetite growing with him.

  A month after the mark had appeared, Travain had proved that he was certainly not Trueman. In an incident involving a boyish prank, a bowl of hot water and a cook’s stout leather belt, Travain had discovered his powers. The fire had burnt the cook badly, and Talsy had discovered her son’s true nature. Travain had sneered at the cook’s suffering, refusing to help her. Talsy had gone after him with a strap, determined to beat some goodness into him. She fingered the scars on her hands, frowning at the memory. She had cornered Travain in the courtyard, hauled him out of his hiding place under a barrow by his scruff and bent him over her knee. It had not occurred to her that he would burn her, too.

  The pain had made her scream Chanter’s name, and the Mujar had arrived in moments as a sooty raven. She had hung onto Travain despite the fire, and Chanter had summoned Crayash. Travain had already held it, however, and what had ensued was a battle that should never have occurred. Travain had faced his father fearlessly, his green eyes filled with malice. Talsy had released him, but he was engrossed in the war of wills with the Mujar. What had followed was
imprinted on her memory forever.

  Chanter’s eyes narrowed as he realised that he could not simply snuff out the fire Travain held. Talsy whimpered and nursed her hands, wondering what he would do. Chanter bent and invoked Dolana, causing a wall of rock to shoot up between her and the boy. Travain eyed it and smiled coldly at his father.

  Chanter cocked his head. “Why do you burn your mother?”

  “She’s weak,” the boy sneered.

  “You would hurt those weaker than you?”

  “She wanted to hurt me!”

  Chanter raised his brows at Talsy, who had risen to stand behind the chest-high wall. She said, “He burnt the cook! I wanted to punish him.”

  “The cook tried to beat me too!” Travain shouted in his piping voice.

  The Mujar shook his head in confusion, and Talsy explained, “He poured hot water on her; she was going to punish him. I thought it was an accident, but then he refused to heal her. If he can burn, he can heal.”

  “Yes.” Chanter nodded. “He can.”

  “I can do anything,” Travain crowed, “and no one can stop me!”

  “Wrong, Travain,” his father informed him calmly. “I can.”

  “You!” the boy said, “Mujar scum!”

  Chanter glanced at Talsy. For a moment she thought he would leave, but he could not without leaving her at Travain’s mercy. He hesitated, staring at the ground, then looked at his rebellious, scowling son again.

  “You are unchosen.” He spoke the words as if they were a death sentence, and Travain’s scowl deepened.

  “So what?”

  “Oh, Travain,” Talsy groaned, “how could you?”

  Travain’s lip curled as he glanced at his mother. “Lowman slut. I don’t care what you think of me.”

  Chanter looked puzzled. “If your mother’s a Lowman slut, and I’m Mujar scum, what are you?”

  “Better than both of you.”

  Talsy gasped, horrified. She had been proud of his intelligence, but he had never spoken like this before. His metamorphosis with the discovery of his powers shocked her, and she could hardly believe that he was the child she had reared.

  Chanter frowned at her. “What would you have me do to him?”

  “Punish him!” she said, glaring at her son. “If I can’t, then you must be able to.”

  “Harm him?”

  “Yes.” She hated the necessity of it and the anguish it would cause Chanter. “Trueman children must be taught the difference between right and wrong. They’re not born with the knowledge, like Mujar. You must show him that he can’t harm others without drawing punishment upon himself, or he’ll do it again.”

  Chanter nodded and turned to Travain. “What’s your true name, boy? I know you have one.”

  “I wouldn’t tell you that, I’m not stupid.”

  The Mujar sighed, glancing at Talsy. “For what I am forced to do here today, I will owe regret. But not to you, boy, to your mother. She’s asked me to punish you, and I see that it’s needed, and that no one else can do it. I must inflict harm, which is against Mujar tradition, and abhorrent to me.”

  “I don’t give a fig for your Mujar ways,” Travain said, his eyes narrowed.

  “You should, since you’re part Mujar, and therefore you have our weaknesses, as well as our strengths.”

  “What weaknesses?” Travain demanded, frowning.

  “I’ll show you.”

  Chanter closed the gap between them in a lithe bound and gripped the little boy’s arms. Fire burst from Travain as he strived to defend himself, but Chanter ignored it, pinned his arms to his sides and pushed him down on the ground. Travain struggled wildly, screaming at the top of his lungs as the Mujar straddled him, holding him to the cold stone floor. Travain’s fire roared savagely around his father, the two engulfed in a blaze of green-streaked blue flames. The boy howled and kicked in vain, and within moments, his fire died. Still Chanter held him down, waiting as the child’s screams of rage turned to sobs of self-pity and growing trepidation. Talsy hardened her heart as he called out to her for help, the pain of her burnt hands reminding her of his cruelty. Chanter watched Travain’s growing discomfort dispassionately.

  “Unpleasant, isn’t it? Your first taste of Dolana. You’ve always been pampered with soft beds and chairs; you’ve never felt it before. This is a Mujar’s weakness. This is what holds us in the Pits and allows Lowmen to harm us. Soon you won’t even be able to move.”

  “Let me go!” Travain shouted.

  “Tell me your true name.”

  “No!”

  “I’ll hold you here until you do, and this will grow worse.”

  “If you don’t let me up now, I’ll kill you! I’ll cut you into little pieces and feed you to the dogs!”

  Chanter shook his head. “You can’t threaten me.”

  “Then I’ll kill her!” Travain turned to glare at his mother, and Talsy recoiled from the venom in his eyes.

  The Mujar glanced at her, then back at his son. “No you won’t. If you don’t give me your true name, the people will bind you with gold, then you’ll be as powerless as they, and harmless.”

  Travain squirmed and wept, unable to wriggle free of Chanter’s hold. He shivered and said, “Okay, I’ll tell you, just let me go!”

  “No, tell me first, then I’ll let you go.”

  Travain seemed hardly able to move, and Talsy marvelled at his stubbornness. Even he had his limits, however, and at last he snarled, “Drummer! My name’s Drummer!”

  Chanter nodded. “Give it to your mother.”

  Desperate to be free of the Dolana, Travain twisted his head to look at her. “My name’s Drummer!”

  Chanter released him, rose to his feet and yanked the child up by one arm. Travain tottered, then jerked free and ran from the courtyard. Talsy gazed after him with despair; Chanter shot her a sad glance. Appearing to shake himself from unpleasant thoughts, the Mujar let the wall sink back into the ground and came over to examine her hands. He led her to a bucket of water left by a kitchen maid and used its powers to heal her. When the pain subsided, she slumped against the barrow under which Travain had been hiding. Hot tears leaked from her eyes, and Chanter wiped them away.

  “He didn’t use his full power. Your burns were superficial. He only meant to hurt you, presumably so you’d let him go. If he had truly wanted to, he could have killed you easily. He’s not that bad, and it’ll be all right now, you can use his true name to control him.”

  “How can he be so vicious when he’s so Mujar?” she asked. “He even has his own name.”

  “No. One thing he’s not, and that’s Mujar. He’s a Trueman boy with Mujar powers. He’s exactly half of each, thus the broken mark, neither one nor the other, but his spirit is Trueman.”

  “You always knew he’d be like this, didn’t you?”

  “I feared it,” he admitted. “He’s dangerous now. You must warn people, and make him give his true name to as many as you can. I would cast him out, for on top of everything else, he’s unchosen.”

  “How can he be? He was raised amongst chosen, and he’s known you since birth!”

  “He’s very confused and angry. He knows he’s not like you or me, so he hates us both. Perhaps he has a little Mujar lore floating around in his brain, and this angers him further, for he doesn’t understand it.”

  Talsy looked down at his arm. Red marks covered it to the elbow with twisting patterns, like the burns of tiny flames. “What’s this?”

  He pulled away. “It’s not important.”

  “He hurt you!”

  Chanter took her hand. “Come, let’s find that cook and heal her.”

  “I should go and talk to him. Maybe I can help him to deal with what he is.”

  “Later. Let him calm down first.”

  When she had spoken to him, Travain had glared at her, his hatred plain. For months, she had tried every way she could to reach him, to give him love, which he had spurned, to help him understand himself, which he h
ad refused to accept. She had made him give his true name to as many people as she could, and explained how to use it to control him. After that, a semblance of normality returned to the castle, as Travain, unable to harm people, resorted to sulking and hiding. Within a few months, he mastered his powers, and roamed the valley in various green-eyed shapes. Unlike a true Mujar, the forms did not come naturally to him, and he could only emulate what he saw. Like his father, he spent little time in the castle, and shunned his mother’s company. Talsy missed Chanter terribly again, with only Kieran and Sheera for company. She and Kieran still argued often, but sometimes spent hours in pleasant conversation, took long walks and had picnics by the lake.

  Over the years, Travain continued to grow rapidly, but not as fast as the first year. At two he appeared to be a seven-year-old, at three more than nine. He enjoyed cruel jokes and vandalism, and sometimes killed livestock to annoy a farmer, or set fire to sheds and frightened people in the form of a great shaggy dog. His limited repertoire of shapes hampered him, for people soon learnt what they were and recognised him. His ability to kill horrified Talsy, and the animals in the valley feared him. The children soon learnt to stay away from him, and the only person who accepted him was Talsy, whose company he rarely sought. Chanter avoided him, and Kieran tried unsuccessfully to befriend him. Travain became a lonely, bitter little boy who grew into an angry, malicious youth. At six years of age, he appeared to be a stocky young man of eighteen, broad shouldered and coarse featured, lacking any trace of his father’s slender beauty or gentle nature.

  Talsy sighed and leant against the battlements, her eyes narrowed against the sun that burst through the ugly clouds to bathe the valley in golden light. She had not seen Travain for three days, and Chanter for almost a week. As Kieran had warned her, her half Mujar son roamed free, just like his father. At least she did not have to worry about him, for he was undying. Her dream of bearing a beautiful, gentle son who would honour his parents and comfort her in Chanter’s absence had become a nightmare of guilt and shame.