by Lori Martin
“Yes. Lovely farm. Is it yours?”
The horse, who also knew the young man, swung its head out
playfully. The farmer patted it, and casually patted the hanging saddle
cases. “My wife and I are going to raise a family off of it,” he said.
His hands brushed the outline of her small bow, packed in the soft
materials of her clothing. “Seen anyone else on the road, miss?” “No, not at all.”
“Ah. Well. Enjoy your ride, miss.” He nodded, jerking his chin
with broad emphasis. Now the archers would lower their bows. “Good even’.”
Once she was in the trees the formality was over. They chirped at
her from the highest branches, like hungry lasbirds.
“What’s the news, Mej?”
“What have you heard?”
“Did you have any trouble?”
“Good even’,” she called up. In the dusk she could see a boot here
or there, a few eager faces peering down. “The new Third Tribune
made a speech. No trouble on the roads.”
“Nothing else?”
“What kind of speech?”
“You’ll hear,” she told them, over her shoulder. The first shack
house came into view. A few men were lighting fires for the evening
supper.
Renasi, the man who had accompanied her to Nichos’s estate,
waved her over. “You’re just in time.”
She dismounted. A young girl of perhaps fifteen nodded shyly to
her and led the horse away. Renasi held out his wine flask. “Meeting of all the Squad leaders, Samalas says, and he meant the
minute you got in. Are you tired?”
“Thanks. Yes, but there’s no help for that right now. I’m hungry,
too. Where are they?”
“The central house. I can’t go; he’s making this a closed meeting.
But I’ll round up supper for you and send it in.”
She turned for the central house, wondering if Samalas, the head
of the Defiers, had thought of a solution. He was twenty-eight –
thought of as an older man, since most of his followers were just past
their majority, and a good number were actually underage. He was
sharp-witted, daring, arrogant. Mejalna respected his abilities but
found it difficult to like him, though she kept trying. His absorption
with their cause was absolute; nothing else, including personal affection, was allowed to intrude. But he had chosen her as one of three
Squad leaders (following the Lindahne military form). They worked
well together.
The central house was no more comfortable than the other shack
houses, merely larger, with a porch of three long wood slats. Two
servants were playing dice on the top step.
“Good even’, Mistress Mejalna,” the girl said. She made a clumsy
effort to rise.
“No, sit, please, Essa.” The girl was heavy with child. The man
beside her rose and nodded. “They’re waiting for you, mistress.” “Has Samalas decided what to do with you two yet?” “Yes, mistress. He’s letting us stay until after the baby’s born. Then
he’s sending us back home. We’re to travel like we were a family returning from the Hall of Merits.” He added, “He’s lending us money.” The girl said gloomily, “But we’re out of the Defiers, for good.
We’ll marry at home, and try the Sea trades.”
“It’s for the best,” Mejalna said, but kindly.
Although passion-children were well-loved in normal Lindahne
society, Samalas maintained that active Defiers had no right to encumber themselves with a family. As a consequence, romance, or at
least the physical expression of it, was discouraged. Even the married
couples that insisted on joining together were expected to keep to
this rule. The youngest Defiers, still shy and uncertain in their love
affairs, were half-grateful for the restrictions; most, like Mejalna, took
their obligations seriously and held themselves aloof from entanglements. There were of course those who counted on luck. This couple
was only the second in the last year to lose their gamble. In Lindahne she herself had been betrothed. Thayner had been a
cheerful, energetic man, much like her beloved brothers; a man, she
had thought, with courage. On the day when she first told him she
was joining the Defiers, she had expected him to join with her, postponing their own union until Lindahne was once again free. She had
hoped his eagerness would match her own; she had hoped desperately
that he would understand the shame driving her. Instead, he had been
mortified, then angry. They had quarreled furiously, and there had
been no reconciliation.
She shrugged off the memory and entered the house. Smoke from
the open fire was collecting under the low, uneven ceiling. The long
table, which showed the marks of hasty construction, was covered
with maps. Samalas looked up. “You’re late. Any trouble?” “For me, no. For us, yes.”
Ymon, the other Squad leader, greeted her cordially. Samalas
waved a hand at the servant tending the fire. “We’ll start the meeting
now. See we’re not disturbed.”
“Yes, sir.”
She pulled up a chair, watching Samalas for any telltale signs of
excitement. He grew fiery with ideas. But he seemed composed,
sitting like a hard-driven skeleton with cold intelligent eyes. A shock
of white, which he had had since childhood, rose at the peak of his
forehead among the dark hair.
He had weaved the Defiers from a tangle of thin threads. At first
he had been prompted by a wish for revenge, after the murder of his
brother by a bullying Mendale soldier; later he felt it his destiny and
duty. He relied on his father, a former councilor to the royals, for
advice and guidance. But the older man was weary and sometimes
despairing, and would not take part in any more fighting. Throughout
Lindahne, Samalas had heard similar sentiments. The War generation
had known death and defeat. For all their still-churning anger, few
had the will to raise swords again.
So he had turned instead to their children, and soon found himself
with eager recruits. He would hear of a farmer’s son on the Third Hill
who had knocked a Mendale trader from his horse, or of a nobleborn
girl on the Second who had “accidentally” shot her arrows at a Mendale
ranking. He searched such people out, and as each joined with him,
others had had the courage to follow. The nobleborn came with him
and received positions according to their rank and capabilities, while
the commoners’ children asked only for the chance to strike back at
the Mendales.
Eventually, his father, roused, had called together a group of former
councilors, priests, and priestesses: older men and women who served
as the “Advisors,” taking no active part in resistance but giving the
young Defiers the advantage of their War experience. Samalas himself had grown into a respected man, their unquestioned leader. The Defiers who had followed him here to Mendale, to live in secret among their enemies, were without home or family, without the help of the Advisors or the outward comforts of their secret faith.
They had only each other.
“Vallas rode in yesterday. He says they were threatening to execute
the queen,” Samalas said. “Have you heard anything more?” “Just confirmation. The Second Tribune gave a very success
ful
speech this morning, right in front of the Assemblage House, yelling
about vengeance on the Defiers. It looks like she’ll get her way.” “Nialia curse them,” Ymon said. He shook his head, and his hair,
tousled up in yellow waves, fell over his eyes. He was a brave fighter,
Mejalna knew, but he liked to make a show. Gold chains sparkled
around his neck and glittering rings winked from his fingers. “We’ll have to stop it,” Samalas said, with a calm certainty that
they could.
“The new Third Tribune spoke after her. He called for mercy; he
said they should spare the queen.” Both men stared. “He seems decent,
for a Mendale. But no one wanted to listen to him.”
Ymon joked, “Maybe we should have gone to him for help, instead of asking his wife.”
Samalas pressed his lips together. Contacting Mistress Pillyn had
caused an angry debate. “Do you still think, Mejalna, that we haven’t
breeched our security there?”
“I don’t think we have to worry about Mistress Pillyn, or her
husband.”
”Well, if they cause trouble we’ll have to deal with them. What
about the son? You haven’t seen him again?”
A tap came at the door.
“I asked not to be disturbed!” Samalas bawled.
“I’m sorry, sir,” the girl’s timid voice said through the door. “Master
Renasi insisted.”
“What is it?”
“Supper, sir. For Mistress Mejalna.”
Ymon laughed.
“He knew I was hungry,” Mejalna apologized. The girl scurried in,
dropped the overloaded plate in front of her, and rushed out. “Ranfox again,” Ymon explained unnecessarily, as the hot smell filled
the room. “I don’t know why we can’t get a good juicy rabbit once in a
while.” Mejalna was too hungry to care. She took a hearty bite. “Have you seen him?” Samalas pursued, as if there had been no
interruption.
Her look stayed on her plate. She chewed, chewed harder, shook
her head, and swallowed.
Ymon said, “All right, I’ve waited as long as I could. He’s been
hinting and hinting, Mej, that he knows what we can do about the
queen, but he made me wait until you got here. So let’s hear it.” “All right. Here’s the Assemblage House,” Samalas said, unrolling
one of the maps. “Over here we have the Second Tribune’s quarters,
between the Northeast and Southeast Gates. Over here – these are
the Third Tribune’s apartments. Has the new Tribune moved into
them yet?”
“I heard not. Not until next week.”
“Good, then they’re empty. Now over here is the First Tribune’s
section, by the Northwest Gate. Now – but maybe it should be the
Second Tribune,” he interrupted himself, frowning. “She’s the one
who’s behind all this. It would be more fitting. On the other hand,
we need the highest one.”
“The Mendales claim the Trio are all equal in power to one another.” “The Mendales claim a lot of things. The First has been in office
longer and he has more friends in the Assembly. All right. We’ll keep
with him.”
Mejalna sliced her meat, smiling. Ymon said, “Well, I’m glad that’s
settled. Any hints as to what we’re talking about?”
Samalas didn’t answer. He stared at the far wall.
Mejalna said, “We’ll have to move fast, before they take the queen
to a holding-house, as they said they would do.”
“They already have,” Ymon answered, startled. “Didn’t Renasi tell
you? He found out yesterday. They’ve walled her up in solid rock,
with guards everywhere.”
She uttered a pained sound and pushed away her plate. Directly
to Samalas she said, “We have to save her. Are we going to storm it?” “But Mej,” Ymon spluttered, “we can’t attack a holding-house.
They’d have every soldier in the country on us. And they’d probably
murder the queen before we could even fight through to her.” “They’ll also be expecting it,” Samalas said.
“But –”
He pointed again at the map. “Through here would be the best
way, I think.”
“Name of the gods,” Ymon said. “The best way for what?” “For getting to First Tribune Haol, of course.”
The other two exchanged glances. Surely he knows better than
this, Mejalna thought. Out loud she asked, “We’re not going to kill
him? That won’t save the queen. Or do you mean speak with him?” “Samalas, begging our friend Haol for mercy is like asking a wolf
not to eat meat.”
“No, no,” he said impatiently. “Don’t you understand? We’ll have
to capture him.”
Ymon was dumbfounded, but Mejalna, quicker, suddenly lit up
with excitement. “Abduct the First Tribune?” Her voice rose with
exhilaration. “And hold him for hostage?”
“If they want him back,” Samalas said, “they’ll have to return
Queen Ayenna to us, unharmed.”
She bent eagerly over the map. “It wouldn’t be too difficult to get
this far, say, but beyond this point we’ll have to –”
“I don’t believe either of you,” Ymon said. “They’ll never, never,
let us get away with it. Even if we can pull it off, Nialia knows how,
they’ll be all over us. They’ll destroy us. Samalas! The Defiers will be
wiped out.”
“Without the queen, we have nothing.”
“But –”
“We have nothing!”
She remembered the sad whisper, We have lost our royals. And another voice: The day may have come. “Do you believe the stories
they tell at home, that Dalleena-relas may have borne a child?” “If she did, where is the child now? We don’t have the luxury
of stories. We’ve always known it would come again to war. I had
thought one more year – we’d be more firmly established here. But
the time’s been chosen for us. If we save the queen, if we humiliate
the Trio and bend the Assembly to our will, all of Lindahne will take
courage. Instead of mere rebels, we can be a true army. And we can
win. This is the first step, we can’t be afraid of it.”
“Oh, yes we can,” Ymon retorted. “All right! I follow where you
lead. Let’s work it out.”
They turned to the maps. Mejalna said softly, “May Proseras make
us wise.”
“May he make us fast,” Ymon said. “We may have to do a lot of
running.”
A few hours later, Renasi found her slumped on the central house’s porch. He said, “Everyone but the sentries have gone to bed, they’re dreaming in Feimenna. Why are you still here? It’s cold.”
“I don’t know. Just thinking. I’m so tired. And what are you doing?” “Looking for you, of course.” He sat down beside her. “You’re a good friend, but I don’t know why you bother. Not in
love with me, are you?”
“No,” he said frankly. “Although any man has to notice how
beautiful you are, but you know that. The truth is, you remind me of
my sister at home. Brave but too impulsive. Neglecting yourself because
you’re caught up in what you’re doing.” He laughed. “But you’ve got
more sense than my sister.”
“Do I? I haven’t been very sensible today. I let someone... touch
me in some way. And I lied to Samalas about something imp
ortant.”
She looked down at her hunched knees. Her hood was off. Her long
light auburn hair slid down across her neck and shoulders, enveloping her in soft comfort.
“Mej, why did you become a Defier?” Surprised, she lifted her
head. Renasi said, “Yes, I know. We’re not supposed to ask that of
each other, or talk about our old lives.”
“I’ve wondered sometimes why Samalas made that rule.” “I know why. It’s because we’re all here from grief. Yet we can’t act
from that, we have to act for justice. But tonight let’s break a rule.
Tell me your grief.”
She said slowly, “Not a death. Not the grief of death.” She closed
her eyes. Across the blackness she saw the images: the darkened
temple above, the boy running to her in the sunlight, tumbling and
laughing down the slope...
“I have four brothers,” she said. “My father was a priest of Armas before the War, and my mother was the head of the Third Hill
council. They raise cattle now.” Her mouth closed, as if her thoughts
had melted in shadow. Renasi waited. She began again. “My mother
had – important papers, historical documents from our Hill. And the
year before she married, King Raynii honored her with the safekeeping of some royal archives. She was very proud of that. During the
War when they had to evacuate the Third, when the Mendales were
winning, she and my father buried the archives beneath the altar of
Armas: the god’s Strength to guard them.
“Later when I was growing up, I used to go with my brothers to
the temple – we couldn’t get in, of course, because of the soldiers,
but we stood near and looked. I told Daiv, the youngest of us, ‘This
is where the archives are, the archives the king gave our family to
protect.’ We’d whisper it to each other: our family.
“Sinna and Johrae took up work on our estate, and Lis took over
a sheep farm. Daiv wasn’t of age yet, nor was I, but he always said he
wanted to get involved with village government. He said he’d like to
use whatever little power the Mendales would spare us, to work for
our people. I was at home that day, on the afternoon the Oversettle
solders came.” She paused.
After a few moments Renasi urged, “What were they after?” “The archives. They’d found out about them.” She continued flatly, “They tore the altar up from its base and split it in two, and then they took hammers to the mosaics. When they found what they were after, they made a bonfire on the crest of the slope and burned the archives.