The king appeared to be speaking with his advisors, turned in his chair to face them, but no words came from their lips. None would dare speak, while he listened in on the argument between the noble and the Daen. Officially recognized by Mistress Brea, he paused but a moment, then brushed away his advisors and rose from his throne.
King Cail stepped down from his throne, raising his hands to shoulder height with fingers turned forwards. Brea touched her fingertips to his, the dignified greeting of noble equals rather than grasping of forearms as a commoner would. The king was a big man among the Ruad, nearly of a height with Brea; he was tall and dignified in his old age. His hair remained red, though there was less of it than when he had ascended to the throne, many years ago.
He kept the majesty of his throne by stepping down from it; surely (in the minds of the members of the court of the Ruad) the throne of the Ruad was higher ranked than a Judge of the Daen. But since the Judge had also stepped from her throne to attend the King, the room nodded; Balance had occurred.
Balance was a key philosophical principle to the Ruad, as close to a religion as they had before the coming of the Daen. Their beliefs were not the blood sacrifice and fear of the Fomor, or the pathetic mumbling after spirits of their close kin the Bolg. They were intellectuals, above the petty ravings of gods and goddesses. They had difficulty equating their superiority with the existence of the Blessed Folk. The Daen were more powerful than the Ruad by every measure and attributed much of their power to the gifts of the Good Father and the aid of the Blessed Mother. The Ruad, to remove this inconsistency, simply appeared to forget that the Daen existed when one wasn’t present in the room.
It was an inversion of religion; they treated physical beings as something to be reduced to a moment of prayer and taxation, to be forgotten as soon as possible once back on their own ground. But outside of their convenient philosophy, there was a practical aspect to be considered. There were few among the Ruad who would dispute the might of the Daen warriors; should Brea have decided to take the throne, a Judge would sit upon it. It was little enough to grant her the right to stand in front of it and speak openly to the King.
King Cail took a deep breath and stilled himself. Still touching her fingertips, he spoke.
“I ask of you a favor. Freely given.”
It was a statement in the form of a ritual of the Ruad court, one they both knew. The rituals of the Ruad were complex, in practice near a religion; they held certain philosophies as more powerful than rank and status: Balance, Truth, Service, Honesty, and Knowledge.
“If your wish is within my power, King of the Ruad, I will grant it.” A grant of Service, called a geas, was a powerful thing, but it had requirements on both the giver and the receiver as well. The first element had been Balance. Rulers require taxes, services, from their people. For the people to ask a service of their lord is Balance.
He nodded and lowered his hands, wishing for a moment the absence of the advisors. He was weak here, so a display of weakness was necessary. One cannot call a geas without giving in return. The second element was Truth. Truth was like all learning, simply telling what was known.
“Something terrible is killing the children of the Ruad, and I have no means to stop it.”
Truth had to be complete. Incomplete truth is a lie of sorts, and certainly doesn’t count toward the Three Things which were required by this ritual.
“I have not hunted in a dozen seasons. Such is age, but there is a beast in the forests the likes of which I have never heard.” He took a deep breath.
“Our wise men, my closest advisors, are baffled. I have spoken in the last moon to a dozen hunters and a dozen of my philosophers, but they are ignorant of the nature of this creature as well.” The pain of completeness here was tantamount; he did not enjoy this.
“Twelve,” he realized as he said the word that he spoke a number which had mystic properties for the Daen. Perhaps the stars had defined this geas and not simply politics. He cleared his throat. “Twelve children have been reported killed by this beast, and at least six have been confirmed by my philosophers. Some of the causes are yet unconfirmed, but we may have lost more whose deaths were not recorded. The children appear to have suffered horribly, but have no mark upon them but their eyes, which showed no white―they were completely black.”
He nodded to himself, licking his aged lips. Honesty revealed a personal interest in a matter. Honesty would be the easiest to fulfill.
“I will tell you that some looked at me as though I were mad. That in questioning the method of these murders, I had somehow broached a subject long proved closed. They would not countenance the action of magic or the presence of a god.”
“I am sure your philosophers are wise,” Brea interrupted, “not to suspect a god when the hand of a man may do the deed as well.”
The king was pleased at the Balance her comment contained. The barbarian priestess was contributing valuable Balance where he had not.
“I cannot reconcile the philosophies myself,” the king said. “But I did hear of your involvement with the so called ‘Burning Ghost’ in the slave quarters. Perhaps it was an hysteria of weak minds, as my advisors warned, but you found…something…and put a stop to it.
“In one way, these two problems are related. The Burning Ghost was a creature out of a Fomor ghost story, somehow stirring up trouble among the slaves. I’ve been told that these children’s deaths match a second ghost story. The Fomor myths call these injuries a sign of a soul taking, possibly from another evil ghost.
“My advisors believe that someone is spreading tales with foul intent. They started first in the slave quarters and are now among my peasants. The children who have been told this tale call the creature ‘The Shadow Man.’ Perhaps it is simply a weakness of the mind that these children die from being told a story of a terrible ghost.”
He paused and reluctantly gave balance. “Or perhaps there is some creature behind this myth. Can you find the tale teller or the creature behind this?”
Brea nodded, slowly, massaging the palm of her sword hand. She looked disturbed, but focused on him intently.
“I will take this geas from you,” she said. “The Blessed Folk will find it, whatever it is, and kill it.”
The advisors stirred uneasily, uncomfortable with the pact their king was making. The tenets had been spoken, the ritual had been completed. An agreement between two advisors on grain and beans had been enacted this morning, with more ceremony than this, but this simple act had indebted the Ruad to the Daen, a dangerous precedent.
“The people of the Ruad, seen through me, will owe you greatly.” He motioned to an advisor. “Take them to the place of the recent attack, to the body of the girl. The Judge will know what to do.”
An advisor with seven broad red stripes upon each sleeve stepped forward and lifted the back of his hands toward the king. Cail touched the back of the advisor’s hands with his fingertips, and the advisor stepped away from the throne. He offered no greeting to the Daen, but only said, “Follow me.”
Cail, King of the Ruad, retreated to his throne, deeply disturbed at the path this day had taken.
Brea turned to her people, and they gathered around her. Oren held Answerer in both his hands, so that its hilt rested by her right side. Keynan stood to her left, hand upon his blade. She stepped after their guide, and her guardians followed a pace behind.
Three low-ranked philosophers gathered near the door. None had more than three bands upon their sleeve, but they held themselves as though they were kings among men. They spoke in hushed tones but with full voice to their words. It seemed a performance. At first sight, Brea believed them to be the thoughtless puppets of some higher ranked philosopher who wished this show but did not dare perform it himself. She prepared herself for a minor jest or a token display of resistance against the rule of the Blessed Folk.
“Perhaps the Daen’s imaginary friend can convince the slave’s imaginary friend to play nice.” They laughed beh
ind their hands, while pretending to bow to the seven-banded philosopher leading the Judge from their chambers.
Brea felt the white heat enter her, cleansing her mind as she turned to them. Her right hand reached out as if of its own volition and grabbed Answerer, still in its scabbard, and pulled it to her. Her left hand gripped the sheath and it slid to her left hip, ready to draw. The hilt pulsed with a sudden red heat.
Oren released Answerer without thought. He shook off his surprise nearly as quickly and pulled his dagger. He carried it in a sheath beneath the leather vambrace on his left arm. It appeared like a magic trick, he simply crossed his arms across his chest and when he uncrossed them, he held a dagger. He held it point down in his right fist with his thumb over the pommel. He moved, putting himself precisely one arm’s length from her right hand and one pace behind. The guard hadn’t started to move; it was unlikely that they would have a chance.
These minor players had meant to earn their bread with a bit of theatre, but they had chosen their target poorly. Mistress Brea was a priestess first, and her Goddess would accept no insult from a conquered people.
Keynan floated, his stance light, as he moved to Brea’s rear, a pace behind her and an arm’s length to her left. His thumb tabbed off the leather guard ring for his sword’s hilt. He did not draw, but the blade was loose for quick action. Should one of the guards move from the wall, he would take him. He knew the six basic fights of sword against spear. He had faced the Bolg in the south ten years ago and knew he could use those techniques in battle. None were easy for the swordsman, but all were fatal for the spearman. Absent the wine, he still woke with nightmares from those battles, but he knew he could kill if he had to.
He wished he had brought a shield, but carrying it up the hill had just seemed like a waste of time. He slid his hand into the strap for his cup. It would only be good for a single strike or block and would ruin his best cup. But the cost of a cup, even a very nice one, didn’t seem as important as keeping Brea, and his own skin, intact.
Their guide had already moved past and was standing at the doors. He paused to let a noble enter and looked back toward them as Mistress Brea began her quick step entry. Her left hand was on her scabbard, her right hand caressed Answerer’s hilt.
“No!” he cried.
Brea’s world was her target’s eyes. She moved, sliding forward in a quick arc to take him from his right. He stared at her, unable to understand how his world had changed between two beats of his heart. He opened his mouth but no sound came forth; his knees buckled and he fell to the ground.
The Judge spoke with her voice ragged and low pitched in her anger.
“Grovel, godless wretch, or I will have your head.”
His friends scattered. The room was curiously still as two men fled through it. Keynan backed a step to keep proper distance from Brea, and Oren shifted slightly, to watch a guardsman.
The nobleman who had just entered the Hall of Thrones had also served in the war. He was no callow youth but knew well the difference between challenging a Bolg and a Daen. He nearly laid his hand upon his hilt but found Keynan watching him, calmly and coldly.
Keynan measured the distance needed to take his head and still cover Brea’s back; shifted his stance for the leap and his grip for the killing draw. The noble lifted his hands from his blade, laying them flat across his chest and covering his right with his left. Keynan let his eyes slide from the noble to the guards, who were coming awake.
The guards started from their quiet. Through many years of peace, they had become accustomed to fights which built over half the morning before erupting, but this fight had exploded with no warning. Nearly as one, they hooked the butt of their spears with their heels and kicked them back toward the wall behind them. The tips jumped off the wall, and they leveled them toward the Daen.
“HOLD YOUR PLACES!” shouted the king.
Everyone froze. Brea stood in position to draw, her blade forward a thumb’s length from the scabbard. The three-banded philosopher knelt on the floor, a keening noise coming from his throat. His eyes were focused on Brea’s, and he held no more volition than a rabbit faced with a hawk.
The king sat on his throne, at the far end of the hall. He was, for a moment, transformed into the likeness of the great kings of old. For a single moment, one could believe again that these people ruled Pywer by the strength of their arms and not through their passive acceptance of the Blessed Folk.
Keynan spoke to the King, taking on his herald’s voice. He spoke loudly but calmly into the sudden silence.
“Do you wish to formally request of the Judge of the Daen to spare the life of your philosopher?”
The king tilted his head slightly and waved his nine-banded philosopher to his side. They spoke quietly for a moment. The hall remained mostly still and silent. The flap-flopping of running sandals seemed more to punctuate the quiet and stillness rather than break it. Even those sounds faded as their owners reached an outer hall.
“No,” replied His Majesty, thoughtfully. “I see that I was mistaken in stopping you. Please carry on.”
The man on the floor tipped forward and placed his palms by Brea’s feet. Staring at the marble floor he found a voice. It was tiny and dry, but he used it.
“Please, spare me.”
Brea was moving, Keynan at her back. Answerer slammed back into its sheath. Rage burning out of her without a target against which to vent, she stalked through the Hall of Thrones toward the brilliant light of the doorway. She was already walking and had a good lead on Keynan as she passed through the doors. Keynan kept to his duties. He focused on the noble whom she passed by at barely an arm’s length. The noble bowed and kept his hands clasped to his chest.
Oren let them go and knelt by the young man’s side.
“You have done a very bad thing, little man.” Oren spoke softly to him, but there was no kindness in his tone.
“The next time the Judge or one of her priests catches you outside of this court, you won’t last a heartbeat.”
He pressed the edge of his dagger into the Ruad’s face, pressing a line from his jaw to his eyebrow. He crouched next to him, sticking his left thumb under the man’s chin and tilting his head up to look him in the eye. It was quiet in the hall, but he spoke just a handbreadth from his face, like lovers in a crowd.
“The Ruad say they don’t believe in gods. Well, I’ll give you something to believe in. You are going to worship a Daen Judge with all your heart, and if you don’t believe in the edge of her sword, you damn well don’t believe in living.”
Holding the young man’s head still with his left hand, he pushed the edge of his sharp bronze knife into his cheek. The hall was chill, but a hot breeze blew in from the open door. The banners flapped against the windows, high in the walls above them, the only motion in the Hall of Thrones.
“You worship her, and maybe she will forgive you for that insult. The Blessed Mother won’t forgive you, and, bless your poor, poor soul, Judge Brea will never forget.”
Oren nodded to himself, standing slowly. He drew the dagger up with him, and the blood flowed down the man’s face. The man made a faint gasp of pain and fear; the room stood still, watching.
Oren spoke, still softly enough for just the two of them to hear, addressing the top of the man’s head.
“You might want to think about what gifts to send your high priest, which, if you were uncertain, is me. I’ll make certain to tell you if you are forgiven.”
Oren turned slowly, wiping his dagger with two smooth motions on his leggings, and sliding it back into the vambrace sheath from which it had emerged. He walked slowly out of the near-silent room, leaving the man sobbing quietly behind him.
CHAPTER 6 PIJU AND THE SLAVE QUARTERS
Midsummer’s Day, Year Twenty-Seven of King Cail’s Reign
The Bolg are weak of mind and believe stories of ghosts and spirits.
-Ruad Teaching
The room was still around Piju and hot in the faint bre
eze. The afternoon sun beat upon the plain wooden walls of Roe’s simple house and little air could move inside the walls of the slave quarters, but the simple room was cooler than the courtyard outside. Air eased in through the front door, funneled up into the loft, and slid out through the bedroom windows. The midsummer sun beat its rays upon walls around them and the black-tarred roof above them, but the children sat in breathless silence in the shadowed darkness inside. It was a perfect landscape for one of Piju’s tales.
Piju sat on the packed earth floor at the center of the house’s single ground-floor room. He shifted to the left and then the right; the dried grass laid upon the floor rustled as he grappled the invisible creature. The children swayed with him, striving to break the hold of the invisible beast. His voice pitched high with excitement as he built the scene for the enraptured children, who drank up every gory detail of the horrible battle. With a final terrific shout, he brought his hands down to slap against his knee.
“And that is how Waylaid broke the back of the Demon of Leest!”
“Yay Waylaid!” shouted the eldest.
He was nearly six years old and clearly skipping out of housework to listen to Piju’s tales. The youngest leaped up and ran around the room with his arms in the air.
“Rarr,” he shouted, bringing his arms down and breaking a demon across his knee.
“Rarr!”
Rolling back on the floor, Piju laughed at the children’s celebration. He spoke a simple prayer.
“Thank you, my father, for watching over me and guiding me to such a good place.”
Roe’s house was filled with life, even in her absence. Propping himself back up on his right arm, he looked over the small boys. They were all under five, except for a big boy called “Dog.” Most children were working somewhere by that age.
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