Ison of the Isles

by Ives Gilman, Carolyn

  It felt good to have finally gotten it down. His thoughts felt clarified, but no easier. He put away the letter to finish later on, for it had taken him a long time and he was now late for his visit to Harg.

  Immemorial custom was now governing all the Pavilion’s actions. Harg was being lodged in a comfortable room overlooking the Isonsquare, waiting for the day prescribed—and, given Harg’s temperament, quickly going crazy from inaction. The Grey Folk found it very difficult to be in his presence, because he fairly radiated pain—physical pain, mental pain, moral pain, all mixed so toxically that even Nathaway could feel it. But because it didn’t have the almost sexual attraction for him that it did for the Lashnura, he had become their intermediary and Harg’s only visitor. It was an odd reversal of their roles in Harbourdown.

  When Nathaway entered the room, Harg was standing at the window that overlooked the Isonsquare, peering out. “What are they doing out there?” he asked. “I can’t see.”

  Nathaway didn’t want to answer, but didn’t want to lie, either. “They’re constructing bleachers,” he said.

  Harg turned away from the window, looking ill with apprehension. His reaction made Nathaway regret his own involvement, even as witness.

  “Here’s your liquor,” Nathaway said, putting it on the table. “Don’t drink it all at once.” From the looks of the man, it was a real possibility.

  The horrible injury had left Harg looking much thinner and more drawn than before. But what was truly wearing him down was the constant knowledge of the reckoning he had brought on himself. It was preying on his mind at all hours, keeping him from the rest he so obviously needed.

  By way of distraction, Nathaway said, “Do you want to see what the Fluminos papers are saying about you?”

  “I’m in the Fluminos papers?” Harg said as if he disbelieved it.

  “Don’t celebrate yet.” Nathaway took out one of the clippings. “It says here that during the battle of Pont you took your pistol and killed a twelve-year-old child on your own ship, because she wasn’t fetching powder fast enough.”

  Harg was staring at him. “But that’s not true,” he said.

  “Of course it’s not. We’re talking about the Fluminos press. Really, Harg, you can be so naive.”

  He tossed the rest of the clippings on the table. Harg fingered through them, and picked up one illustrated by a woodcut of a fierce, swarthy giant wearing a sash bristling with dirks and pistols, his foot on the neck of a captured woman. “That’s you,” Nathaway said.

  Harg studied the drawing, then looked up. “Do people believe this?”

  “Unfortunately, yes.”

  “Innings are so naive.”

  Nathaway was actually glad to hear Harg fight back. He said, “Listen, Harg, it makes me as angry as you to think that this garbage is all the public at home gets. It’s not to anyone’s advantage. How can people make rational decisions about public affairs when misinformation is all they get? I’ve been wondering, would you help me write up a more accurate account? I’m sure they’d publish it.”

  The fact that Harg was anything but naive was confirmed by the next thing he said. “Would you let Auster sit in?”

  Auster could read, and would be able to check what Nathaway wrote down. “Of course,” Nathaway said.

  Apparently, the assent was all Harg had been looking for, since he began to tell the story almost at once. Nathaway had to tell him to wait while he assembled his paper and pens.

  Talking seemed to calm Harg’s nerves. He told the story well, with the precision of memory that Nathaway had begun to attribute to his never having learned to rely on writing. From time to time Nathaway interrupted to ask about something that would be opaque to an Inning audience, but most of the time he simply took it down as it fell from Harg’s mouth.

  By the time they finished it was dark outside the window, but the workmen in the square had lit a bonfire and were still hammering and sawing by its light. The sounds filtered in through the windows. Nathaway, watching Harg’s face, saw the moment when he became aware of it again.

  “I wish I could tell you the rest of it,” Harg said. “I wish I could get my whole life down before I forget what it meant to me.”

  He was assuming the dhota-nur was actually going to take place. And perhaps it would, Nathaway told himself. Perhaps Goth would arrive, and all would be well. Feeling awkward, he said, “Harg, do you want me to be there? Would it help?”

  Harg shook his head. “No,” he said. “I don’t want you there. I don’t want anyone there.”

  “You’re not going to get that wish,” Nathaway said.

  The strain on Harg’s face was hard to watch. Nathaway suddenly doubted the decision he thought he had made.

  “Listen, Harg, I know a little about what it’s going to be like,” he said haltingly. “When I first got here, Agave did something similar to me.”

  “What have you ever done to be cured of?” Harg said, looking at him.

  “It seemed like a lot.”

  Harg said quietly, “Have you ever killed a man?”

  “No.”

  “Have you ever made a decision that killed your best friend?”

  “No, but—”

  “I’m such damaged goods,” Harg said. “I’m not the right one for this. It should have been someone better than me.”

  Nathaway hadn’t put his glasses back on, but it seemed like he was seeing very clearly—not just the surfaces, but below them, to the blurred reasons that made things happen. “Harg, that’s exactly why you are the right person,” he said. “The world is so out of balance that a better person’s sacrifice wouldn’t be enough. It’s not really about you at all, it’s about the sickness of the Isles, and of my country too. This war is like a fever that needs to be cured, and someone must do that for his land, regardless of his own will or desires.”

  Harg was watching him, transfixed. “What makes you think I can do it?” he said.

  “You’ve got a better chance than anyone else. And it’s not because you’re a good man, it’s because you’re flawed, like the rest of us—because it will be harder for you than for someone blameless.”

  The moment of certainty faded, and Nathaway wondered how he had known to say those things. But they seemed to have settled Harg’s mind somewhat. He still sat staring into the future, but now he looked different—not at peace, but reconciled to his duty.

  Nathaway rose. “I’ve got to go,” he said. “I’ll leave this transcript here, shall I? You can get Auster to read it over to you.”

  “No, take it,” Harg said. “It’s fine. I hope it does some good.”

  Nathaway hesitated a moment, then gathered it up. “It will, I’m sure.” Awkwardly, he added, “Thanks for trusting me.”

  Harg was watching him as if he were a perfect enigma. About to leave, Nathaway turned back and blurted out, “Harg, I’m glad I met you. You have more courage than anyone I know.”

  His conscience was hurting unbearably as he left the room.

  *

  In the room directly above Harg’s, the windows had a better view of the bonfire in the Isonsquare, but Spaeth was not looking out at it. She was crouched on the bed gazing at her fingernails in the light of the bedside lamp. Dark half-circles were growing at the bases. Nathaway had commented on it that morning, unaware what it meant. The Black Mask was returning, too soon.

  She had been determined to handle it better this time. But it seemed like the Ashwin and Mundua were already ahead of her, prowling and voracious at the edges of events. How could they not be? Goth had given them a chance they had been waiting for centuries to seize.

  Spaeth had known it since the day she and Nathaway had arrived in Lashnish like a rock through the window, shattering the immemorial order of the Pavilion’s world. On that first night, Agave had turned to he
r with anguish in her eyes and said, “Was he sane? Did he know what he was doing?” Meaning Goth.

  The Grey Folk of the Pavilion had denied it at first, then fought it, then struggled to understand it. But Goth’s wordless message to them was unmistakable: it was time for the Lashnura to lay aside their ancient role, and cease to be what they were. They had served their purpose, and now other hands needed to take up the joy and duty of healing the Isles.

  If all Goth had done was send the message, it would have been upheaval enough. But he had backed it up with an action that would break the world wide open. Harg could not be Ison, and neither could anyone else. The Lashnura had forsaken their ancient pact. The Emerald Tablet of Gilgen, and all it symbolized, no longer belonged to them. There would be chaos when it was revealed, and the Isles would collapse like something boneless—but into whose hands: the Innings’ or the gods’?

  “You can solve this,” Agave had told her. “The stone is your right, your heritage. Take it back, and correct this mistake.” Since then, Auster and Agave had argued, persuaded, pressured, and pleaded with her. But it was not a mistake, and they knew it—it was Goth’s choice. To do as they wished, she would have to go against her creator, her bandhota, and her love. The choice had seemed clear, if not easy.

  And then Harg had struck the stone. Watching, Spaeth had known with solid certainty that Goth never would have given away the Emerald Tablet if he had known it would cost Harg his life. The balances, the line of Gilgen, the ancient authority of the Lashnura—all of them were abstractions. Harg was real.

  She closed her hands into fists, hiding the nails. “Goth, please come back,” she whispered. But even as she said it, she knew it would come down to her.

  *

  The day of the investiture dawned sunny but chill. In the morning there was frost on the stones that quickly melted as the sun touched it. People started gathering in the Isonsquare at daybreak, to get good seats. By now, the tiered bleachers were set up all around the square. From his window, Harg could see the section roped off for Tiarch and her retinue. They said she was bringing an envoy from the Monarch of Rothur to witness.

  His nerves felt jumpy and restless. His breakfast still stood untouched on the table; his stomach was too unsettled to eat it.

  “What’s the delay?” he said to Namenda Agave. She was standing by the door, as far away from him as she could get and still be in the same room. She had come to bring him some clothes to wear and a few last-minute instructions. When he looked at her, he glimpsed the now-familiar expression of barely-suppressed longing that all the Grey Folk in the Pavilion seemed to have.

  She hesitated over his question. For days he had had a feeling that there was something the Lashnurai weren’t telling him. They seemed incapable of straightforward answers or explanations. “We must give Goran as much time as possible to arrive,” she said.

  “I keep telling you, he won’t come.” The certainty had been growing like a cold lump in his gut. At first he had dared to hope, and dread, that this time it would be different. But as the days had passed without any sign of him, Harg had had to accept that Goth had not changed. He had never inconvenienced himself for Harg’s sake before, and he would not do it now.

  Misunderstanding, Agave said, “If he is still Heir of Gilgen, no Inning can stop him. The forces of mora themselves will free him.”

  It was the first time she had put it that way, and he pounced on her words. “If he is Heir of Gilgen? What does that mean?”

  “We will know by the end of today.”

  Harg could not fathom these people. The suspicion that something complex and shadowy was going on behind the scenes returned with redoubled force. “Namenda, I have a right to know what is going on,” he said.

  Her voice was harsh with tension. “We will all know by the end of the day.”

  She laid the clothes she was carrying on a chair. “You must wear these when we come to fetch you out into the square. When the ceremony starts, you will have to remove all but the breechclout.”

  “Why?” he said rebelliously.

  She answered, “An Ison is not like other leaders, who may hide their characters and purposes from their people. An Ison must be transparent as glass, so the people may know his soul, and all that lies in it. That is the purpose of dhota-nur. The candidate’s body and mind are revealed before the people he would lead, so that they can see into him, and judge him fit.”

  Harg felt sick with dread.

  “Dhota-nur is a cleansing,” she went on. “Afterwards, you will be changed. I cannot guarantee that you will even wish to be Ison any more.”

  “I don’t now,” he said.

  For a few moments she was silent; then, in a low tone, said: “I know. That is one reason we all believe this needs to go forward.”

  He hadn’t known that there was any doubt of it going forward, any possibility of stopping it. But before he could ask, she turned to leave. He thought of calling after her, demanding an explanation, but knew it would be fruitless.

  When she was gone, he went over to look at the clothes she had brought. They were loose, wrap-around body cloaks made of grey silk, in layers that could each be removed in one dramatic motion. He would look like a sham Grey Man in them—which was doubtless the purpose, to gild him with the Lashnura nimbus, to show that he was to be reshaped in their image. Fine as the raiment was, he could not imagine wearing it without feeling like a blatant fraud.

  Restlessly he paced over to the other window, the one looking out on the cloister and the Isonstone. There was a line of people waiting to pass by it, as there had been for days now. Harg watched as a father lifted his child up to touch the scar where the stone had been chipped. He had heard that pieces of the chip were selling for exaggerated prices in the city. A risky investment, he thought. After today they might be worthless.

  In the past six hundred years, sixteen men and women had struck the stone and become Ison, and four more had tried and perished. He wondered what they had felt. Had they been filled with the great missions before them, too full for doubt? Had their nobility of soul sustained them? Or had they all been as abject as he?

  By early afternoon the Isonsquare was packed, the bleachers full, and still no one came to fetch him. The day dragged by, the sun skimmed the western hills, and the crowd grew restless, for everyone in the Isles knew the ceremony had to start before sundown. Harg paced his room in a state of tension that grew more corrosive with each minute.

  The square had fallen into shadow but the sunlight still lit the tops of the buildings when Harg could stand it no more. Leaving his room, he went downstairs to the main door that opened onto the cloister. A cluster of young Lashnurai were in the hallway around it, talking tensely. No one in authority was present. As Harg arrived, there was a thunderous pounding on the door. Outside it, men’s voices were raised demandingly. One of the Lashnurai peered out a window and said in a strained voice, “It’s a troop of armed men.”

  Just then, Agave arrived. “Bar the door,” she ordered. “They must not come in here.”

  “Stop,” Harg countermanded. He turned to Agave, feeling calm for the first time all day. “Don’t trouble yourself, Namenda. I’ll handle it.”

  “You!” she said. “It’s you they’re after.”

  “Which is why I’m best to handle it,” Harg said.

  “No. It’s not safe—”

  Harg didn’t wait to hear her argument. He went over to the door and stepped out.

  There were perhaps twenty men gathered outside the door. They were Adaina, armed with clubs and cutlasses. They stood there dumbfounded to see him in front of them. Harg followed his first impulse. He laughed.

  “Quite an army you’ve got here for hunting a one-eyed bird like me,” he said. “Maybe you’d better haul up some cannons. Did you think I was going to fly away?”

  The
men lowered their weapons. “Not now you’re not,” one of them said.

  “Not now, not ever,” Harg said. “Why, what would I do? Sneak off into hiding while you and the Innings race to find me first? How am I going to hide with this kind of a face?” His voice veered between wry and bitter.

  The men were all looking to the one who appeared to be their leader. He glanced around as if to reassure himself they hadn’t behaved like fools. “Your time’s almost up,” he said. “There’s no Heir of Gilgen here.”

  “Yes, I’ve noticed that,” Harg said. “Listen, put away your weapons before someone gets hurt. I’ll go wherever you want, and wait with you till the sun sets.”

  “Out into the Isonsquare,” the leader commanded.

  “Whatever you want.”

  They fell in, surrounding him in a tight knot, and started marching out through the gate into the tight-packed crowd. There was a roar of anticipation when people saw Harg appear, and the men around him had to push and jostle their way forward to the wooden dais set up in the centre of the square. When they reached it, they formed a cordon around the steps that led up to the platform. Unwilling to climb them before the time came, Harg sat down on the third step. From here he could see down the Stonepath to the harbour, where the sun was still hovering above the horizon. It would be about half an hour till evening came.

  He felt strangely detached, even relieved that there would be no more choices for him to make. From the number of weapons he could see, it appeared that a good share of the audience had come expecting to see him unmasked as a tool of the Mundua and Ashwin.

  “Were the bookmakers taking bets on this?” he asked the man nearest him. It was a stupid question, as the man’s expression let him know. “What were the odds, do you know?”