Absoe had actually reached the seventh generation while she daydreamed on her throne. After the fourth generation, the last three were from Findias and its sister city Falias. Not really surprising, as most of the colonists could say the same. Oren would confirm that his ancestors were councilors of Findias and Falias and that his most distant cousins still ruled there today, but it was hardly a revelation. Such political connections only emphasized his loyalty to Brian, their present Warlord, and her son-in-law.
And then it fell together in her mind.
“Your sons are working for Nemed of Gorias,” she said. “They have taken their families across the sea, to fight for the holy city of Gorias?”
Absoe was silent, but he nodded angrily. Brea could see he was winding himself up to argue with her. She raised her hand to hold off his angry response.
“My sons are also with Nemed,” she said sadly. “I understand your position.”
The court went silent, the loud babble of crosstalk dying almost instantly. The wave of understanding spread outward from the throne in a circle of silence, growing to fill the Blessed Grove. The attention of the masses focused on their Judge’s words. The civil war wasn’t entirely hidden, but they had not spoken of it in open court. It was certainly not known to the Ruad around them.
All the folk of Pywer are at peace, she thought. But by the breath the Good Father gave you, if the conquered peoples found out that the Blessed Folk were missing more than half their armies, the Ruad would explode. She wouldn’t say another word on this matter, especially as the Ruad representative was barely across the grove, listening intently.
Perhaps, she thought, I shouldn’t have spoken of it at all. She regarded herself with a good bit of cynicism in her mental voice. Hail to your great wisdom, again. The civil war among the holy cities was bad enough. Should the Ruad feel that the Daen could be beaten in battle, there would be war in the colonies as well.
It would be good to loosen the ties on Answerer’s sheath again, draw forth the blade of her grandfather, and call her opponents to their doom. Pleasant thoughts of battle filled her, but the small voice of wisdom intruded.
A war in Pywer would weaken our defenses, perhaps critically. The civil war could come here. Mistress Brea didn’t want to end up fighting the armies of her own sons on their own soil.
Damn the Ruad to the Dragon’s Lair. If Nemed finds that the colonies are the weak spot in Findias’ armor, I will have a real war on my hands.
It didn’t take much to figure out why the council put her, the most politically connected of all the Blessed Folk, in charge of Ard. If a war with the Ruad made the colonies into Findias’ weak spot, I would be the one to blame for the resulting catastrophe.
She leaned back in her throne, letting the burnt smell of the sacrifice fill her nose, calming herself from the thoughts of blood and war. She looked out across the crowd, her people, and composed her thoughts. The crowd was beginning to get restless before Brea spoke again.
“When I arrived two years ago, Judge Eliam told me they used the term ‘use of the fields’ and called it an old tradition of Nuada himself, though I have not encountered it before. Current law does not abide it but does not revoke it. Legally, it can amount to permanent indentured servitude for a family given use of the fields. Also, during a bad year when your fields are fallow, and there is no hidden store of treasure, it can lead to a lack of responsible parties for the taxes.
“State for the record.” She directed this at Absoe and not the crowd at large. “Did your grandfather’s uncle, Macha the Hundreds Slayer, pass the use of one-seventh of your fields to this family?”
“Yes, your Grace,” he said. “They were his chariot drivers. He wanted them given a place below his soldiers, the Eio, but a good place. This year, their field was fallow; they only had men for three of my fields and we did not collect sufficient extra to feed our families, support my sons at war, and pay the tax.”
“And you have no other sons to work.”
“No, your Grace. My eldest has provided his first-born son for inheritance, but he is only four years old.”
“You owe considerable taxes. I could confiscate more than one of your fields.” She didn’t like supporting Nemed in his damn civil war against the home cities, but strangely, her wisdom actually applied itself. She held her tongue. She gave Absoe a sickly smile which she hoped contained a full angry exposition, if only for his eyes.
Absoe nodded, receiving the full brunt of the meaning. Oddly, in the face of her anger, he smiled.
“Your Grace, I have a plea for special consideration.”
Judge Brea sat up and cleared her expression; she was confused.
“On what grounds?” she asked.
Absoe waved his hands at the family standing to his side.
“Go. Go,” he said.
They bowed hastily, with a, “Yes m’lord,” to him and a, “Pardon, your Grace” to her, and the handful of them moved quickly back to where their wives and children were sitting with some baggage. They quickly caught up three cases and bore them up to the front of the hall.
Brea frowned, thinking, as she was confused at this development. If he intended a bribe, the tax of a field should be nearly equivalent. If he were going to use rank or privilege, he should have presented that in his lineage. She couldn’t imagine him threading the needle between the taxes he owed and the bribe enough for her to ignore them.
She looked down at Oren who was making totals on his pad. He showed her the number, and she blinked. It would be a large bribe. She wasn’t having any trouble feeding and taking care of her boys, but this would cover upkeep for most of a moon.
Frankly, she was pleased that this was resolving itself before noon. There were other cases that could be considered, but most would be resolved by her clerks, the young priests she called “her boys.”
Most of the boys were initiates of the Blessed Mother. They had all been trained as soldiers and were here in Ard to be trained in law, as legal matters and almost all matters of the land were under Her auspices. Inheritance was an exception. It was considered to come with the gift of life, so it was a matter for the Good Father and handled by Brea’s handful of His priests. With over five hundred land owners among the Blessed Folk, they stayed busy, but few cases were referred to the full court.
Absoe waved forward two of the young men carrying the smaller of the two cases.
“In my youth, I served in the southern army as a Group leader. I had twenty-four soldiers, twenty-four chariots, and twenty-four drivers assigned to me. Some of their gear was lost in war against the Bolg, some of it was destroyed, and some was taken by my sons.”
The Magda boys opened the case, revealing twelve bronze swords in a case that could easily hold twenty-four. They were excellent blades, about as long as one’s forearm, thick where they were riveted to the hilt, thin at the tip like a needle. This was carried to the base of the throne and laid upon the raised platform before it.
Brea smiled. Her sword “Avenger” had been identical to one of those southern blades. She had held that sword for most of eighteen years, till it had been buried with Coscar, her husband. She rubbed her palm against Answerer’s hilt.
The second case was opened, and it held fourteen bronze helmets. These were Daen make, of the old style. There was no bronze hat brim like the Ruad put on their helmets. Each helmet was inscribed to look like a face, with thick eyebrows, wide cheek pieces and a nasal like a man’s nose. The peoples of the earth had long feared the warrior face of the Blessed Folk.
Brea felt her heart stop as four more men, older and stronger, carried forward and opened the largest of the cases. Within shimmered the fish scales of a dozen bronze cuirasses. Under a thick leather capelet, a warrior wearing these protections would be nigh invincible.
Mistress Brea felt herself moved to tears. She had spent the fortune she had gained in war equipping a dozen bands such as this. This prize was worth far more than a field, but could not be bought or
sold, by the ancient law of the Blessed Folk. What he needed was to field his own unit; the value of it would easily replace the losses from his son’s desertions.
“Oren, do I have sufficient funds to complete the supply for a dozen soldiers?”
He looked up, thinking numbers when he would rather have his books before him.
“Yes, Mistress, I believe we could cover it.”
“Magda, have you twelve men?”
“No, your Grace, we have but eight.”
“If I grant you warrant, could you find four more from your servants?”
The Magda looked at Absoe, and he nodded at them.
“Thank you, m’lord,” he said to Absoe.
“Yes, your Grace, there are servants serving Lord Absoe who could fill the other four places.”
Brea looked at the scene before her and made certain of her choices before she spoke. Once she began to speak as a Judge, all was for the record, and any stupidity, any lack of wisdom, on her part would be recorded forever.
“Lord Absoe, do you grant me possession of a war band, for which you will receive reasonable return, as I see fit?”
“Yes, mistress.”
“Magda, you have been charioteers; do you wish your sons to be warriors?”
“Yes, your Grace,” their eldest replied.
“Then, Lord Absoe, I shall resolve your taxes personally; I shall find supply from my personal possessions.” She waved a hand to indicate the equipment placed before her.
“Between us, we shall supply a dozen warriors who will battle under Warlord Brian in your name. Your servants have given themselves to seven years of war in your name, for which they may gain reward as you have done. I will record the taxes paid for your properties for the previous two years. I will find no taxes owed for your properties for the next seven years.
“I hope that their triumphs bring wealth and standing to all your families. May the love of the Good Father and justice of the Blessed Mother go with you.”
The Magda and Absoe bowed together, for soon they would be equal in rank, of which only priest was higher. Absoe was giving generously for someone who had much to lose in their success.
Oren raised his voice.
“This concludes the Trial of Absoe of Eidon for failure to pay taxes. He is freed from his back taxes and freed from further tax burden for seven years. A great victory has been won!”
The crowd roared in approval, and Brea’s heart was happy, for nothing fills the heart of a Daen more than war. Is there any greater ending than warriors going off to battle?
She wished that she was still of an age to go on campaign. Her sword had found a hundred necks even before the glorious death of her husband, Coscar. Her glories in battle were only shadowed by Nuada, Lugh, and Coscar, each so renowned that the whole of the world fell under their shadow. She gloried in the memories of old battles while her servants carried away the chests. In the morning, she would have new soldiers. Slowly, she refocused herself on the action beneath her.
Oren spoke again. “Is there any further business before the court?”
The Ruad may have been a large man for one of their race, but he was no taller than a child by the standards of the Blessed Folk. His hair was long and blond, and he could be mistaken for some pretty, pale youth until he opened his mouth.
He stood at the edge of the inner circle, where he had slipped as easily as an eel through a net during the confusion of the conclusion of the last hearing.
“Great Judge of the Daen,” called the messenger. “Cailagean, King of the Ruad, calls upon you and asks you to come to him.”
The Ruad had no power to call for her people; the power of the Blessed Folk was higher than the power of the Ruad king, but she was willing to listen to the messenger.
Speaking in the tongue of the Ruad, she asked, “Tell me, messenger, why would the King of the mighty Ruad call upon the Daen? Have you gone to war with the Bolg again?”
The crowd mostly spoke the Ruad tongue, and all of them who heard laughed at Brea’s joke. Everyone knew the Daen were the greatest fighters of all the races of man. Brea herself was perhaps the greatest fighter in Ard, and her a woman with children grown.
“The Ruad people are in need,” cried the messenger. “Some evil creature is killing their children. They have heard of your great deeds, and they cry out to you for help.”
A woman standing near the throne stifled a gasp. She stood on the front row holding her hand in front of her mouth. Her man put his arm around her shoulders, holding her close. In the sudden stillness, her whispered words carried to Brea’s ears. “The Shadow Man…”
Why would the Ruad call for me, when they had a hundred philosophers and warriors enough to trouble even the forces of the Blessed Folk?
The answer was obvious: the Ruad philosophers did not believe in the Blessed Mother, the spirit world, the spirit talking of the Bolg or the blood sorcery of the Fomor. Their philosophers would never admit to any limit on their abilities. But, if the mob turned against them, they would not rule the Ruad for long. The Red king wanted answers, even if it passed the limits of his philosophies.
Perhaps the king had heard about the Burning Ghost in the slave quarters. It had near driven the slaves to open revolt, but she doubted the king believed the true story. The king would never credit the existence of a ghost. There was no proof that he would accept on that account.
But the slaves had been calmed, and the riots had been averted. She had only been involved as the protector of Waylaid and his apprentice from the King’s own men who had sought to kill the wild Bolg. In the King’s eyes, that strange Fomor scholar and his Bolg apprentice were hers, as if anyone could own a Fomorian giant. For reasons far beyond her understanding the giant, as knowledgable as any man on Pywer, had come to her Library to study. He was tainted by sorcery, but he said he wanted to study the true and forgiving god, the Good Father, not one of the deceiving demons worshiped by the Fomor.
The crowd had stilled, while she thought. As the words had passed around the crowd, the messenger had passed from a simple distraction into the center of attention. The crowd considered the murder of children, and, though few were warrior born, their blood burned.
Brea had raised four children to adulthood, but she had borne other children who hadn’t made it. Children died―you spend all your love and your time to keep them safe―and still they died. If someone was killing children…well…it wouldn’t be good for them when her sword found their neck.
“The king may credit me with great deeds,” she said. “Some of which I deserve, and some of which I do not, but I will come to his aid.”
She stood and the crowd moved back from her. Oren pressed Answerer’s hilt into her hand, and she drew the long bright blade. Answerer burned in her palm; the hand of the Blessed Mother was upon her.
“The murder of innocents will not stand unanswered. I hold The Blessed Mother’s Answer, I act in Her name.”
INTERLUDE 1 PIJU’S TALE
Midwinter’s Night, four and a half years ago
Don’t tell the Kerrick how to find the way,
It is for the hunter to know his prey.
-Bolg saying
Piju was twelve when he had first spoken to the broken man. He had sought out the monster after the ceremony of adulthood, when the Kerrick had told him that he would have to seek a different master.
The Kerrick was a title, a person, and a household. The Kerrick was the eldest male of the family and the master hunter. The Kerrick had been like a father to Piju for the last five years, since the death of Piju’s own father.
Now, he thought miserably, this part of my life is coming to an end. No, he corrected, my life is coming to an end.
Like most boys his age, Piju was just a pale bundle of arms and legs topped by a black mop of hair. He spoke less than most, but (as far as he knew) he wasn’t particularly loved or hated by any. He had been given three successful hunt tattoos by the Kerrick on his left arm, which was a good
set for a young hunter, so he didn’t seem lazy, but three wasn’t a big number, so it didn’t seem excessive.
Each tattoo had a special meaning for Piju. He had spent the year after the loss of his parents miserable and alone, but he had discovered that he was born to be a hunter when he had earned the red bird tattoo. That mark was common for a hunter, but it had been remarkable for a nine-year-old. After being shown the technique once by one of the older apprentices, Piju had organized a bunch of boys for netting birds in the fallow fields. That hunt was his first happy memory in the Kerrick, his mark of acceptance.
At ten, he was put in charge of the roe deer hunts, his second tattoo. The hunting band had gone as far as three days into the mountains to find the herds, the farthest any of them had been from Leest. Roe deer are small, and even a boy can carry two, when gutted and hung. Work in the deep forest had been hard, but he had come to know his new family there.
My old family, now, the one I no longer have.
He remembered the wolves that had followed their trail down into the valley, and nearly attacked them. In his mind, he pictured the wolf and remembered his terror. A terror he had learned to face down; he had kept his head and brought the hunters and most of the meat home, earning the Roe’s Ear on his forearm. It was a simple mark, but to him it meant thinking through his fear, working under pressure.
Just killing an animal didn’t earn you a tattoo, though the master hunter could decide that it did. The requirements were significant, including organizing the team, laying the slain animal’s spirit to rest, preparing the hide for use by others, preserving the meat, and (most importantly) bringing the hunting team home. At eleven, the Kerrick included him in the wolf hunt. He was the youngest boy to have hunted wolves. The symbol on his bicep was a pair of yellow eyes, like the ones he had feared in the dark. He rubbed it in memory.
The Broken Man Page 6