by Lori Martin
In the darks she heard again that far-off voice, calling out a name she could never remember. But the sound now was one of command: an imperious call to... what? Madness, perhaps. She feared that above all.
The pounding started again, just behind her eyes, and hot jabs seared along her temples. She clutched in vain at her head, as if she could rip the agony away. Her fingers felt only the worn greasy fabric, a rag torn from her underslip which she had wrapped around her head. Since her imprisonment, she had been unable to keep her hair cropped.
Imprisoned likewise not far away, Paither also had time on his hands, time to think and consider. He believed he would have to learn to be a royal, not yet realizing he had carried it within since birth. He had always been fiercely protective of his servants, of his mother’s happiness, of little Calli, even of the estate horses. The gaping wound of his soul had been caused by this protective pull to anything of his on the one side, and his restraining love for Nichos on the other. Loyalty to both seemed impossible. Guilt had beat at him; he had even blamed himself for Nichos’s abduction. He had failed his father again.
Now for the first time there was a promise of healing. He had surety. The curse of self-doubt was lifting. I am a Lindahne, he had said to her. Now he thought, I am a royal.
His thoughts turned to Samalas, who had ordered him confined to this tent for the duration of the truth-seeking. Samalas had the confidence and will of a leader, the ability to attract and hold followers – after all, he had built the Defiers from nothing. But that wasn’t enough. He was also bitterly angry, and Lindahne could not be rebuilt on such anger. The goddess lived in light.
So it was Nialia, was it? Mejalna had asked. Who else could have guided him to find her – or permitted her to open herself to his demands? Why else would she have taken the chance of helping him?
Not for my looks, that’s certain, he thought sardonically. He knew he craved her acceptance, and it made him angry. She was the first Defier he had known; she represented all that had meant to him: a commitment he lacked, a history he had been denied. And she refused to believe in him! Even at the end of his long story she would only say that Samalas should hear it; clearly she thought his claim wild, founded on the uncertain word of Mistress Pillyn, a woman who’d already had the bad judgment to marry a Mendale and turn away her own people. Once their eyes had met above knifepoint. He remembered the piercing questing look, the contemptuous name, “halfer”. She’d looked at him and seen a Mendale, just like the poor common girl in the quarter.
Well enough for her, Squad leader from Lindahne, nobleborn who had always known her own lineage, her place in the Hills. Lately she was forever considering him, as if he were a bright coin piece in her palm which might, by some luck, turn out to be real gold.
He shook his head clear. She didn’t count, she shouldn’t count; he had all of the Defiers to convince – which meant, really, just one: Samalas.
He rehearsed the proper things to say, words that would move those he meant to make his. (What force, human or divine, had his lost royal mother been able to call on?) And he heard over and over Pillyn’s shrill protest when he’d first told her he was going to the Defiers. If you claim my life is Nialia’s will, he had argued, what harm can come to me? She had cried out, “The girl-child was Nialia’s will, too. Your sister. And she died. She died!”
A muted bell rang again somewhere in the trees. He knew what it meant. The truth-seeking was reconvening.
“I demand the release of my husband.” Pillyn was trying a new tactic – let them answer to her this time. “What right have you to hold him? What right have you to threaten his life?”
Samalas wasn’t put out. “He is a prisoner. We, as Defiers, are at war with Mendale, for however long it will take until we are free. He’s our enemy.”
“No. Do these people – do all of you –” she turned to the circles. After days of thought and argument, the Defiers had reached only one consensus: that this woman, whatever wild tales she told, could not be easily dismissed. “Are you all aware that Tribune Nichos spoke out in defense of the queen? That he has worked for years to –”
“I’m sorry,” Samalas said, “that the original plan could not have been followed; we’d have the First Tribune here instead. And you would not be here then, would you, Mistress Pillyn?”
Would she? Would she have told Paither the truth for any price less than Nichos’s life?
She was silent.
Samalas urged her to continue; he wanted an end tonight. He had learned that MenDas had closed the town gates, but he didn’t know why, since the Defiers at the Bread Bakers Guild were unable to bring him reports. From beyond the city walls the scouts he sent out from the camp could tell him little. This matter of the truth-seeking needed to be settled quickly. Things were going wrong, the Assembly was planning something, and they would have to be prepared. “You claim you were with the relas –”
Pillyn started again. She resented having to bare herself this way, giving away all the secrets of the people she had loved. Even to save Nichos, it seemed a high price. But no, she was doing it for Paither.
This time they listened quietly. A wind of hope came up and blew; her words drifted down, and lifted up again. The eyes of Hajia, the Nialian woman, stayed steady on her face, like the gaze of a brooding animal.
She told them of the birth of two children to the relas, and waited for the storm of derision to break. Instead head after head turned to Samalas; they were waiting for his reaction. He didn’t utter a word of protest, but even in the firelight she could see the blood drain from his cheeks.
The Nialian said, “The prophecy rested on one child. If it’s possible there were two –”
Samalas said, “There are those who believe the relas’s forbidden child was the cause of Lindahne’s defeat and downfall.”
“And there are those,” Pillyn countered, “who believe that a rightful heir to the Chair still lives.”
He nodded. She went on: the madness of their pursuers, Dalleena’s final stand. She described what they had found afterwards, and a thrill of sympathetic hope went through her as she heard, scattered here and there, stifled weeping. They were Lindahnes, of her blood, they understood... She told them of the loss of the girl-child. The Nialian said sharply, “They murdered an infant? But why didn’t you find the body?”
“Thick woods, and hours elapsed,” Samalas said delicately. Pillyn noted how he was helping her now. “Animals, perhaps.”
“Yes, but –” the Nialian shook her head, dissatisfied. After a few moments she withdrew from the firelight.
Silence like a still lake spread out all around Pillyn. Perhaps they knew at last what she had come to say. She swallowed twice, searching desperately for the right words. A log fell on the blazing fire, and one high tongue of flame shot up. Beyond it, Samalas spoke, and helped her again.
“And the boy-child? Where is he, mistress?”
“Here among us,” she answered simply, finally. “He is Paither Lista, called as his real mother named him. And he is the true born relas of Lindahne.”
Commoner and noble, servant and Defier, every Lindahne present had understood what she was ready to say; now that she had actually spoken they needed to hear it again. Pillyn, who had waited nearly nineteen years to make this proclamation, knew only that no one was responding. She repeated shrilly, “He is the relas of Lindahne!”
“It’s an interesting story,” Samalas said. His back was very straight, inches from the support of his chair. He knew his followers far better than she did. He knew their silence held a great hope – and a vibrating fear of disappointment. His tone was matter-of-fact. “If one is willing to believe in the possibility of a mortal woman, even an extraordinary one like Dalleena-relas, giving birth to twins – well, the rest of the story almost seems sensible. It’s the first time that I personally have heard a good reason for the relas to have committed her crime; it never seemed to make sense. Of course the problem is how we are to prove or
disprove what you’re claiming.”
“In the name of the Mother,” Pillyn said, “I swear to –”
“After all,” Samalas continued, still calm, still detached, “if we set up the man you’ve been calling your son as our relas, we’ll be his followers. That means we’ll be following a man raised in Mendale, who by your own words has no memory of even seeing Lindahne. A man who you yourself admit long believed Tribune Nichos to be his father. A man who might be happy to return the Tribune safely home – and then turn all of us over to the Assembly.”
“Oh,” someone said softly, in pain. Sad whispers drifted towards the fire. Pillyn stared at him. It was clear the entire camp would follow him, and only now did she seriously consider the possibility of failure. She had thought only of what a wondrous gift it would be to them, to have a royal at their head. Now she realized what that meant to Samalas, who had devoted himself to this cause, created these Defiers, and who was their highest commander. Once accepted as relas, Paither would displace him. He would be nothing.
How can I ask this heart-cold man to give up his command?
Samalas twisted in his chair, seeking. “Hajia? What do you think of this?”
The young Nialian, still hidden in the shadows, refused to come closer. She shook her head, eyes intent on the fire. The Defiers near her edged away.
Samalas’s lips pressed together, but he checked the impulse to order her forward. Instead he ran his eyes along the crowd. “Chenni?... Jui? ... Gidos?... Can any of you help us?”
One by one the women he called on stood, and Pillyn could see they each wore the Nialian yellow. “I’m sorry, Samalas.” “I’ve seen nothing.” “... still dark,” they pleaded. Samalas waved away their apologies. They sat down.
Pillyn said, “I have the ring.” Inwardly she said a quick prayer of thanks that Paither had been moved to return it to her, saying she had kept it so well she had better keep it awhile yet. She drew out a gold chain from her neck. It caught for a moment on her braid as she lifted it over her head.
“Mistress?”
His voice was different. It gave her renewed confidence. She held out the chain; the simple gold ring hung from the center. “This is the ring of the relas. Dalleena wore it for most of her life, until treachery took it from her – but we recovered it. It’s the same ring Lindahne heirs have worn for untold generations. I kept and guarded it for Paither.”
Samalas signaled to a servant, a youth just past boyhood. He stepped forward nervously. Pillyn, keeping her look on Samalas, handed over the chain. The servant took it gingerly, holding it out from his body. The ring swung free in the air. Pink beams of light danced off the jewel at the center.
“Sir.”
Samalas draped the chain over his fingers and the ring came to a rest in his palm. He turned it delicately. The relasii jewel sparkled up at him. He saw the outline of the inscription and jerked his head; the servant held a firebrand aloft. He read aloud, “‘Forever past. Forever to come.’”
Murmurs went though the crowd as the words were repeated backwards to those who hadn’t heard. Pillyn was distracted by the sound, and darted a quick glance around. When she looked back, her mouth opened in wordless astonishment: Samalas’s eyes were glittering with held-back tears.
He believes me.
“Yes, this is the relas’s ring,” he said, in a harsh tone that bewildered her. He added fiercely, “Anyone can steal from the dead.”
“No! No, I swear by the gods... please, why don’t you let him speak? Why don’t you bring Paither here? He has the mark. He can show you!”
“What do you mean?”
“On his shoulder! It’s a blue mark, raised like a seal, a royal seal. He was born with it.”
“I don’t understand you.”
“The sign of their joining,” another voice said. It was Hajia, her eyes still locked on the flames, which were dying down. After a silent moment she glanced up towards Samalas. “The children of Mother Nialia, Simsas and Reulas, were born at one birth. Each one had a blue seal on his shoulder. The Book of the Gods says the blue was for their royalty.” She quoted, “‘The seal is the sign of their joining. Thus are they called the Twins, or the Twain, and two is the divine number.’”
“Yes,” Pillyn said. “Do you see? That mark was set again on Dalleena’s children. Paither has it on his left shoulder. It’s a sign from the goddess, and a –”
But their listeners had finally lost patience. People scrambled to their feet to protest. “Samalas, this is impossible –” “ – and see if he really has a –” “Blue dye even, or any kind of a trick –” “But if she has the relasii ring –”
“Silence!” Samalas roared. “Sit down at once!”
He had always kept strict discipline. They obeyed, floundering. He turned a last look of appeal on Hajia, but she held up both palms, a gesture of emptiness. “I’m sorry, Samalas. The truth is hidden from me.”
“The truth is here.” In her frustration Pillyn actually stamped her foot, like her own little daughter. “You do believe in the mark? In what it means?”
Every eye went to him again. His icy reserve had returned to envelope him; Pillyn despaired. He said, “If it is there…”
He sent a summons for Paither. Pillyn, overwhelmed, gazed about in a vague dazed way. The main fire blaze was nearly out, though a few of the side fires still glowed at points about the ground. Light was lifting around them; the dawn was spreading. Hajia led her aside, kindly, and seated her against a tree.
The boots of the guards marched away. The hem of the second one’s cloak brushed against a woman seated at the outskirts of the circle of the nobles. Her red gold hair was ruffled but she didn’t look up.
Mejalna had refused to believe Paither’s claim, though she had felt compelled to grant his demand to be brought here. He had told her only a few pieces of the story – a random madness to which she had paid little heed. Early in the truth-seeking, however, it had all started to fall into place: one cloth, one fabric, tracing a clear pattern. And Nialia of Fate was the weaver.
She thought, The first time we approached them, that man Temhas said it right in front of us. “The day may have come”... and later he told me, he told me, that the queen was not the one we should be fighting for. After that Paither caught me and – and – when we were struggling... my knife... And I might have killed him!
“Can it really be true?” a man beside her whispered. “Can the royals really have returned?”
“Hush,” she whispered back. “Hush.”
Paither strode up out of the shadows and into a gathering light. A corridor of waiting eyes opened before him. All the Defiers had risen, and closed ranks as if ordered. An open line led to a circle of smoldering ashes, to a raised chair, and to Samalas.
Paither wore a robe of deep brown. Above the dark horizon of his shoulders, his fair head rose like a young sun. The guards behind him stood not as his keepers but as his pages; they looked ready to do his bidding.
Samalas took it all in, receiving the full impact of Paither’s eyes across the stretch of empty air. As he advanced, Samalas left the chair and descended the platform.
In the listening quiet Samalas could hear only the sounds of the trees blowing, and the small stirrings of the wood’s morning. Paither halted, waiting, serene.
Samalas came down the line, seeing each face, feeling each of his followers passing behind him. The gold chain and ring were clasped in his left hand. When he reached Paither he was surprised to find him almost a head taller. They had never stood together before.
With jealousy and hope, even a cold fear, Samalas grabbed a handful of the fabric across Paither’s left shoulder. He yanked.
The wool gave way, ripping with a loud tearing noise. Paither’s pale skin was exposed to the elbow.
Samalas stared at the perfect seal, a mark of the divine etched into mortal flesh. The Lindahnes close enough to see sucked in hissing breaths; someone murmured the goddess’s name. Samalas looked back, do
wn the long line of faces. Hajia, seeming to glow in her Nialian robe, stepped forward, staring at the seal. Then, with her eyes still locked on the seal, she nodded slowly.
Samalas let out his breath. He turned. His eyes met Paither’s. A small smile was on Paither’s lips: not of triumph, but of welcome.
It was remarked on later, how the cold and aloof Samalas had suddenly smiled back, radiantly; new tears ran unchecked down his cheeks. He lifted the chain. Paither inclined his head, to have the chain draped over him. Then the relasii ring shone on his chest.
Samalas was first. But as Paither straightened he saw them all, row upon row, line after line, doubling over into the deep bow of the Lindahne court.
He had never seen it before. And they had never before performed it.
Chapter 15
They held a feast to give thanks to the Mother, a two-day affair that gave them all time to catch their breaths. After the first outpouring of emotion shyness struck them. Paither-relas
and his people met not as strangers, but like two close friends who have been long separated: they embrace again in gladness, step back, and exchange silent embarrassed smiles, but neither is sure where to begin.
With stiff correctness Samalas took him over the essentials, showing him on maps the locations of the three remaining spearhead camps and explaining the lines of communication (sometimes secure, sometimes tenuous) that kept the Defiers linked. Paither nodded, secretly impressed that all this organization had been carried out beneath the noses of the Mendales. “And how many officers in the third camp?”
“Only four. It’s the smallest, and mostly a base for commoners. A lot of them rotate into the Bread bakers Guild. Or at least they did before the city was closed off.”
“There’s no more news about that? I don’t like the sound of it.” “Nor I... relas.” They shot each other swift glances; neither was used to the title. “But I can’t see what it gets them. Perhaps they’re just afraid we’ll try another abduction. Now over here, the second camp is larger...” Samalas was good at briefings, bringing in relevant points without overwhelming his listeners with too much information. He was determined to orient Paither quickly, determined to pass over power as soon as the new leader was ready to receive it. Who would decide when Paither was ready was a question he pushed aside. In the meantime he was somewhat relieved. The relas’s questions were intelligent, and he held fast to details. His long study of war might almost have been deliberate training.