“Let Shelwyn tell his tale. You are exaggerating this whole situation.”
Kraek turned to Denhall, who held his headsman’s axe. “Will you deliver justice? Or shall I?”
Denhall held his strong chin high. “Without the consent of the congress, this is not justice.”
“The congress has given power to General Laebm.” Kraek drew his own greatsword, dark gray rippled with silver blue. “I will not let it be said that Kraek’s sword remained dry during times of conflict.”
Kraek raised his sword. Drea shouted a curse. Denhall stepped back. Laebm swallowed. Theral’s nostrils flared. Balgray looked away. Kraek’s greatsword severed the sinew of Shelwyn’s neck with one quick heave. Falhill swallowed his vomit.
The head rolled down the stairs, and Drea recoiled. Shelwyn’s headless body flailed onto the courthouse steps. A pitiful end. Hrash, I pray I go with more dignity.
Yrnhill turned a corner, walking beside Traamis the True. Their smiles soured quick as the greatsword had flown.
Kraek smirked. “Ah, Yrnhill, Traamis — your grazers should clean up this blood before more arrive.”
With as much dignity as he could muster, Falhill took his seat in the rightmost marble carven chair, a septuplet upon the courthouse’s dais. The newly finished courthouse sat west of the Azure Artery’s mouth, a quarter mile down the coast from the temple. The sound of whitecaps ebbing and flowing echoed in the cavernous building.
An hour or so had passed since Shelwyn’s unfortunate execution, after which the congress met privately. Never had Falhill felt more tension as he did between Drea and Kraek, shouting the foulest curses for half an hour. Falhill and Theral had calmed them each respectively, enough to discuss the matters to come, not only the grisly matters past.
Now, the chamber brimmed with supplicants and witnesses. There was no crime to be tried this day, only supplications for the congress to hear and rule on or dismiss. The congressers had entered through the rear, Soldier Rudfynhill as escort. Kraekhill and Primhill stood sentry between the hewn benches of citizens and the long steps which led to the dais, where the congress sat in various states of comfort.
In the center seat, Drea sat tall, as did Falhill and Balgray in the rightmost and leftmost chairs. But Kraek and Theral tensed and grimaced, placed in between Drea and Falhill. Yrnhill and Denhall made up for the tension and sat loose and blase.
Grazers had made quick work of Shelwyn’s blood on the courthouse steps. But the stench of “King” Kraek’s takeover lingered in every nostril. Falhill would not soon forget Shelwyn’s pitiful old face.
On a bench near the front doors, Falhadn covered her face with a gray cowl. Falhadn had told her husband that hearing these supplicants was a poor idea, that there was too much unrest. “If their discontent is given a voice, it will multiply. Potential dissidents will feel united in their hatred of the congress,” she had said that morning. “I hear these people’s children speak freely. There are dozens of men and women who wish there was no congress. Some wish for Traamis to govern. Some want Kraek as king. Some simply want to farm their land in peace and not have to answer to some self-righteous group of out-of-touch noblemen and women.”
“Do you think we’re self-righteous?”
“Children will tell you all sorts of things if you give them sweets and attention. All I’m saying is that you may not have the support you think you have.”
“Who do you think gave them that land?” In hindsight, Falhill had to admit he hadn’t truly listened to her; frustration clouded his mind. Falhill counted it a blessing that he hadn’t had the opportunity for Falhadn to scold him for allowing Shelwyn’s execution.
He would try not to let these supplicants shake his resolve. But he knew it would be a challenge.
“Come to quiet,” Rudfynhill heralded. “The congress will hear Teacher Zanna Zannahill.”
Falhadn’s friend and fellow educator, Falhill knew. A safe inaugural petitioner. The comely teacher rose from the masses and sauntered forth, past the balustrade which separated the commoners from the congressers. Zannahill stood behind a tall, thin oaken table, where he set his hands.
He breathed in for what seemed like a full minute. “My congress, I bring forth an appeal to Hrash and his servants.”
Drea answered, “His servants listen.”
“More than five hundred children under the age of thirteen are citizens of this new land. A third of our citizens need education. I petition this congress to assign new apprentices, young and old, to train to become teachers within the year.”
“Young and old?” Drea repeated. “Are you suggesting we take away men and women from other fields of work?”
“So that we can educate our youngest generation, yes. I do not mean to step beyond my station, but I have been led to believe there is a surplus of seamstresses among us.”
Falhill answered, “This congress can work out the details. But for now, I believe it is safe to bring this petition to a vote.” He held his chin high and looked to his fellow congressers. “I elect we survey those citizens whose occupations are in surplus, to see who is willing to apprentice under one of our teachers.”
Drea recited, “All in support?”
All seven hands raised, and Scribes Henhadn and Denhadn scribbled the results onto fresh parchment, on either side of the dais.
Zannahill bowed. “Thank you, my congress.” And he returned behind the balustrade, sinking into the sea of two hundred tight-packed bodies. The spectators whispered to one another. The courthouse seemed to grow smaller. Now for the tricky ones.
“Come to quiet,” Rudfynhill heralded once again. “The congress will hear General Laebm-bal.”
“My congress,” Laebm Lionheart announced, “I bring forth an appeal to Hrash and his servants.”
As Drea’s mouth opened, Kraek answered, “His servants listen.”
“As there is a shortage of teachers, there is also a shortage of soldiers. Less than a score of soldiers made the trek north. When the ambassadors return with strange foreigners, shall we show them our strength of twenty men? They will laugh at us. Conquer us. We have toiled over this land and labored over these buildings. We have achieved much in two short months. Now we must defend our culture, preserve our society.”
“And what,” asked Kraek, “do you propose, Lionheart?”
“We have a vast segment of farmland, and a fair number of farmers to feed our people. I bring two proposals. One, men with occupations in surplus or which don’t require every hour of every day serve as provisional soldiers. Two, train every child to use a sword and bow and shield — so they may also serve as provisional soldiers when they come of age.”
Some citizens behind the balustrade were visibly distraught at the idea of their children training in swordplay. But not every citizen. Falhill frowned to find some among the onlookers who cheered at the idea.
“Please,” Drea implored, “calm down.” He turned to Kraek. “Need we any discussion before we vote?”
But Falhill spoke first. “I would be remiss if I didn’t mention that Laebm and his associates are already interrupting the children’s schoolings. He had his men construct child-sized shields, which I must conclude were for the express purpose of teaching children warcraft without the teachers’ or congress’s consent.”
“Slander,” Kraek hissed. “Some of your wife’s students are friends with the older boys who are apprenticing as soldiers. They will intersect on occasion. General Laebm Lionheart has done nothing inappropriate. Here he is, at the first ever hearing this congress has held.”
Drea held his hands in both directions. “We can debate all day long, but shall we vote on this issue at hand?”
General Laebm lifted his eyebrows. “Two issues, in truth.”
“Yes, we shall vote on the two issues. Does any other congresser wish to speak for or against these petitions?” After a moment, Drea continued, “I believe you, Congresser Kraek, would prefer to elect this petition.”
; Kraek shifted in his marble-hewn chair. “I elect we assign men with time to volunteer the occupation of provisional soldier.”
Before Drea could measure support, three knuckles rapped against the solid marble of their respective chairs. Drea nodded. “Congresser Balgray, you have an objection?”
Balgray brushed back a lock of her chestnut hair. “I elect we alter the wording of the congresser’s election. ‘Assign’ gives the congress too much authority on the matter.”
Kraek answered, “Fine. I elect we survey men with time to volunteer and assign those who volunteer freely the occupation of provisional soldier.”
Drea looked to Denhall, who had rapped his knuckles. Denhall smirked. “I elect we change the congresser’s wording. I believe ‘men and women’ would be more apt.”
Kraek submitted.
Finally, Drea yielded to Falhill. The final of the three objectors, Falhill squinted his eyes. “I elect we disallow those under seventeen to volunteer themselves.”
Kraek sighed. “Why not sixteen?”
“Some sixteen-year-olds are still apprentices. I cannot support your election if this volunteering leads to other professions dying away.”
“I’ll make it eighteen.” Kraek then repeated his full, amended election.
And Drea asked, “All in support?”
Every hand raised, and both scribes scribbled the results onto fresh parchment.
Laebm bowed. “Thank you, my congress.”
“Second,” Kraek continued, “I elect we set aside an hour of every day of schooling for qualified soldiers to teach our children about defending Independence. Between the ages of ten and fifteen.”
No knuckles tapped against the marble. Drea asked the congress, “All in support?” Kraek and Theral raised their hands. “Support falls in the minority, and this election fails.” Which won’t stop Kraek and Laebm from doing it anyway, Falhill worried.
Laebm grimaced and bowed perfunctorily. The whispers began again. He returned to his seat behind the balustrade, next to his son. Falhill hoped his wife was satisfied with Falhill’s “no” vote. But he knew it was unlikely.
Rudfynhill called the hall to quiet once more, and Dreahall escorted an older man down the aisle. Hraena hunched over and leaned on his twisted birch cane. Farmer Hraena was Dreahall’s other grandfather, besides the Drysword. Though Drea was twenty years his senior, Hraena’s life behind a plough and hoe had wrinkled his skin and gnarled his spine.
“My grandfather brings forth an appeal to Hrash and his servants.”
Drea sat upright, his spine straightened. “His servants listen.”
The gruff murmurs that flowed from Hraena’s drooping mouth did not reach Falhill’s ears. “Speak up,” Falhill said, kind as he could muster. “We want to hear what you have to say.”
“The congress,” he strained, “is unelected.” All seven congressers shifted uncomfortably as the audience chamber pulsed with whispers. “This oligarchy is chosen from the elite class.”
Denhall stood. “I will not hear another word if you would lie through your rotting teeth.”
“Please,” Yrnhill whined, “sit down.”
Denhall continued, “No. My mother is a scribe in poor health, and my father was an abusive blacksmith. Balgray is an herbalist, widow of a lumberer. Falhill’s mother and father were poor farmers, who only rose to fame because they were willing to help and hide Cleric Traamis when no one else would. This congress is fairly comprised.”
“But what if it wasn’t?” the weathered man of fifty-two years spit back. Hraena swallowed. “The people have no assurance that Hrash’s congress consists of the rich and the poor, the pious and the unbelieving, the traditional and the progressive. We should vote for our congressers.”
Drea Drysword scoffed. “Vote?” Falhill could tell that Drea immediately realized his reply had made him look more elitist, just as Hraena had meant to paint him. “Hrash guides his servants in selecting congressers.”
Yrnhill, the young cleric-turned-congresser, tried to maintain his irritating grin. “To allow anybody to vote for a congresser would be to allow false prophets to sway the sacred process. The faith supports this body’s decision to elevate congressers from amongst the leaders of a community, decided on by those leaders.”
“You must hear how backwards that sounds,” Hraena spit back. “I’m not saying any of you seven are corrupt or criminal. But I’m not saying that you aren’t either. Who’s to stop the next congresser from being a False Priest or another King Yaangd?”
“Us!” Drea answered, struggling to maintain his characteristic level head. “We, as congressers and leaders of this community, will ensure the continuation of strong and virtuous governance.”
“What if they had enough gold to persuade you? What if a sorcerer puts four of you under a spell? What if you seven are out of touch with the commonfolk?”
“That’s enough, Hraena. Will any congresser bring this issue to election?”
Kraek breathed in, a leopard ready to pounce. “I elect an open vote is to be held this month, for the public to decide on one nominee to the office of congresser.”
Balgray rapped her knuckles against the marble. “I can support this if the nominee is just that — a nominee, whom the congress must approve by simple majority.” Denhall agreed, and Kraek repeated his amended election.
Drea pursed his lips. “All in support?”
Kraek, Theral, Balgray, and Denhall raised their hands. Drea and Falhill slowly joined them. Only Yrnhill sat opposed, pouting. Dreahall escorted Hraena back to their seats.
Rudfynhill called forth Aer Aerhall the physician. But two men moseyed down the aisle. Soldier Rudfynhill’s sickly wedfather made his way past the balustrade alongside the physician. “Rudfynhill,” the old man uttered as he passed his late daughter’s husband.
Aerhall interrupted him, “This way, Pangder.” Falhill had heard him called Aerhall the Amputator, due to his many daunting surgeries back in Enesma. Falhill thought “Amputator” was a frightening sobriquet for such a mild-mannered man.
When Aerhall and the weak old man arrived at the tall thin table, Aerhall spoke to the congress, “My congress, I bring forth an appeal to Hrash and his servants.”
Drea swallowed. “His servants listen.” Drea Drysword had lived a quarter century longer than Pangder, and yet Pangder looked twenty years older.
“Many of you know this is Pangder. He served King Yaangd as tailor before the Great Epidemic four solar cycles past. The disease that swept through Eangd left Pangder with his life, but not his wits. The same epidemic took his daughter.”
Falhill remembered the epidemic. Falhadn had grown heavy with child, and Falhill toiled away as one of Yaangd’s myriad royal scribes. When smoke had billowed from every port in Eangd, Falhill knew death crept towards his unborn child. Before the pox breached the palace, he saddled the well-bred horse they received as a wedding gift and lifted his pregnant wife onto the flaxen palfrey. Falhill headed north, towards his sister, but found work in Haarzul before he reached Primhadn.
He had always suspected that the disease penetrated Falhadn’s womb and festered. When the baby boy was born dead, the epidemic was the last thing on his mind. But after the tears dried, Falhill blamed the Great Epidemic for the stillbirth.
Brow furrowed, Falhill said, “Many of us lost loved ones in the epidemic. Pangder’s daughter remains in our prayers. But what is your petition, Aerhall?”
“Pangder is a loyalist—” A dozen spectators stood and harangued the two men while mothers hugged their children.
“Quiet!” Drea Drysword called out. Rudfynhill drew his sword, and Kraek went to stand.
“Order!” Falhill called. The raucous began to taper, though the ire persisted. “Remember, please, this man is sick of mind. He does not understand all that has happened.”
“Why is he here!” one man called out. “Fetch the headsman’s axe!” called another.
Slumswain held his sword high. “This man
is my father.” That silenced the crowd. Rudfynhill sheathed his sword. “My wedfather. Before my darling Rudfynhadn breathed her last, she made me promise to look after her father — until the end. I will keep that promise until one of us dies.”
Falhill felt more than uncomfortable. “What is your petition, Aerhall?”
“I want people to know that he is sick in his mind. He has had rotten tomatoes chucked at him, excrement left on his wedson’s doorstep. His wedson Rudfynhill is the congress’s own guard. Yes, Pangder will occasionally say something inappropriate.”
“Illegal,” Theral interjected.
“Technically illegal, yes,” Aerhall admitted. “But he does not know what he is saying.”
Kraek leaned forward and scowled. “What sort of illegal things has he said?”
Aerhall hesitated. Theral’s son Gaerhill Graymatter stood from amongst the onlookers. “He says, ‘All hail the king’ in Sarahill’s tavern.”
“I heard him pray for the Unholy King’s health,” shouted Hrabhill the elder.
Laborer Baljiridhall even stood. “That man told me I should be ashamed for abandoning my king.”
“Please,” Kraek boomed, “order!” His eyes met Pangder’s. “A criminal. It seems we have a criminal come before us, begging petition.”
“Not a criminal,” Aerhall pled. “It is I who come before you. Please offer pardon to this old man as he lives out the remainder of his days in peace.”
“This old man,” Kraek pointed out, “is younger than myself. Younger than Drea. Of an age with Theral. And we are all well-minded, decent folks. We know it is treason to speak good of the abhorrent king of Old Coast.”
“As I said, Congresser, the epidemic took Pangder’s wits. Every other day, he thinks he is in Hrashmaad—”
“Old Coast,” Kraek corrected.
“My apologies. Old Coast.”
“It seems this loyalist has taken your wits, Aerhall.”
“Congressers, I beg of you. Allow me to care for this man until his final breaths. I will not allow him to be a disruptive citizen of this esteemed colony. And have pity. The man is here — alive — because of your own guardsman’s solemn pledge to his dying wife. Have pity.”
The Heirs of History: A Nation From Nothing Page 15