by Lori Martin
Paither held himself still, like a statue of Armas, for a long moment. Then he raised his hand. There was a rustle of anticipation, and silence. Samalas glanced curiously; he knew the relas had had no time to prepare a speech.
Paither began, “A sun of gold shine upon this new life, and light long days.” The room stirred in surprise. He had begun the prayers for a newborn. “A moon of velvet protect this new life from night’s darkness. A rain fall gentle, a wind blow warm.” Slowly his voice rolled on, transfixing them as he invoked the divine blessings. “May the Mother lift this new spirit and abide with this new will. May love and wisdom guide these new mortal yearnings...”
They understood. The elder ones remembered when they had been able to say such prayers out in the open, confident that each little life would be blessed afresh. Each newborn could be promised a future under the heaven of the immortals, and though there might be heavy work and sorrow in it, the Mother would not leave any soul to suffer alone. There would be redemption.
He finished softly, “And may this heart be ever steadfast, unto our royals, unto our gods.”
The quiet was broken only by embarrassed sniffling. A few excited whispers were quickly hushed. Along the walls Defiers lifted their chins proudly, as if they had produced this royal themselves. In the front rows a woman rose to her feet. Her dark hair was shot through with white and grey; she was an Advisor, one of the many of the War generation whom Samalas had brought to work together. Paither turned to her, all attentive. She cleared her throat, glanced nervously about for support, and pulled herself straight. “Relas,” she said in a brisk business tone, “what are your orders for us?”
The room broke out with cheering. He was nearly overwhelmed with gratitude and a strange warm feeling of envelopment. It held him rooted. The reverent Lindahnes saw royal dignity in his pose and cheered louder.
Samalas had been expecting to present the relas to the gathering formally, perhaps even to draw on his own popularity to defend the stranger’s claim. He’d thought surely the relas would need his personal support. He felt strangely affronted. Without warning, they were past all that. They had come not to question the claim, but to see the royal miracle for themselves.
Paither finally quieted them. There was work waiting; he would be practical, too. He gestured to the map. “We’ll begin on the Fifth,” he said.
With Samalas he had worked out a meticulous campaign, a day-byday plan of attacks, scheduled to begin on the Fifth Hill, in answer to Governor Nesmin’s threats. (The temple of Reulas, it had been sternly announced, would be destroyed next, if the criminal in their midst was not turned over.) From there they would step up the fighting in intensity and in breadth, spreading across the valley to the Governor’s own headquarters – and finally, Paither said, into Mendale itself. He told the gathering only as much as they needed to know, saying nothing yet of the Feimennas. They’d had enough marvels for one night.
As he spoke, with Samalas occasionally interjecting, he became aware of a disturbance in the crowd. He went on, his eyes searching the room: the Advisors and nobles in front, worried but attentive; the Defiers, eager and excited; the commoners still a little dazed. The sounds were getting louder; an argument had broken out along the back wall.
“What is it?” he asked with forbearance.
There was a moment’s frightened silence; heads turned. A rebellious young voice suddenly piped, “Go ahead, then, and say it!” The group reshuffled themselves. A man of the War generation came forward. He was thin, almost bony, with the gnarled hands and weathered face of his trade: a fisherman.
“Sir,” he said, and stopped. He glanced behind, and suddenly shot out his arm, dragging a youth out to stand beside him. The young man dared him again, saying, “Go ahead!” Father and son glared at each other.
“If you’ve something to say, say it,” Samalas called. “If you’ve a family quarrel, take it outside. Have some respect in the relas’s presence.”
The fisherman clasped his hands formally before him and cleared his throat. “Sir... relas, sir... some of us older folk have been considering these plans you’re showing us.”
Paither said, “Yes?” His shoulders were taut.
The fisherman licked his lips. “We’re all good Lindahnes here, sir, but we’re not all Defiers. We’ve families, after all, it’s not everyone can go spying about the country and teasing the Mendales. But this fighting as you call it. It seems, sir, to be war you’re talking about.”
“Yes. Of course. What’s your name?”
“Genna, sir. Relas.”
“Well, Genna, you claim you’re not a Defier. Just a fisherman, is that what you would tell me? But listen. If you claim to be a true hearted Lindahne, then as of now you are a Defier. It is the same.”
“That’s what I say,” the young son burst out. His father hissed, “Hold your tongue!”
“Enough!” Paither’s fierce tone jarred them into silence. The room was quiet. He waited, giving them time to feel his anger. Genna paled. “If you are civil, you may continue.”
“Yes, relas. Forgive us.” The man could scarcely credit it: it was the old royal tone sounded again, and in his lifetime. “I mean to say, I was in the War, sir. I fought on this very Hill. My brother and sister were killed, relas, my boats were burned, and there’re many here can say the same. We were overwhelmed. Sir, the Mendales faced our very best Squads in those days. And yet we lost.”
Two Advisors in front were whispering together. Grey heads were nodding, in remembrance and agreement; the youthful Defiers, impatient with cowardly talk, were glaring. Like oil and water, the generations were separating.
“I’m aware of the War’s outcome,” Paither said softly, dangerously. “And?”
“Relas, in those days we were prosperous. We were united, we were led by King Raynii, your grandfather, sir, the gods bless his rest. And yet it all went wrong. Relas, if the Mendales could defeat us then, when we were whole and strong, what chance against them have we got now? Why, these young ones here haven’t even had real army training, and we’ve precious few proper weapons. And the Hills are crawling with Mendales.”
“We haven’t claimed this will be easy, Genna. Your concerns are well taken.” He paused, and suddenly smiled. “But the time has come.”
His smile glowed down on the faces of the young, lighting them with brilliance. They had been raised under a deep shadow, choked with held-back longings and an anger that needed only one spark to burst into fierce flame. They had reached their majority; they would throw off their enemies, throw off the mantle of shame – and throw off the fears of their elders.
The fisherman’s son stepped beyond the reach of his father’s hand. Genna, growing reckless with anxiety, called, “I say there’s just no sense in it.”
“How dare you!” Samalas suddenly roared. “How dare you address the relas in such a manner!”
Defiers called out angry support; voices returned insults. The argument was taken up everywhere. Samalas caught himself, took a heavy breath, and gave Paither a small apologetic bow. The relas demanded quiet again in a voice of stern authority, and received it. “By accepting me tonight,” he said, “you have bowed to the will of the goddess. Perhaps in all these long years some of you feared that Nialia had deserted us. The truth is that we have been in her hand all along. ‘Forever past and forever to come.’ I am the proof of it.”
Small sounds, like a sigh of relief or gratitude, replied to him. He gestured forward the fisherman’s son.
The youth came down the aisle with pride and fear, chin stuck out bravely. Over his head Paither said, “All those of fighting age who have not yet signed up as Defiers, see Samalas or my page in the morning. I expect from our older War veterans support at the backlines, and such sincere, frank advice as I have received tonight. We are again united. From tonight, you are all Defiers against our enemies.” He smiled down at the youth.
“I’m in need of a page. Would you be interested?”
; The son’s face split in a delighted grin. “Yes, relas. Thank you.”
Paither said lightly, “Council dismissed.” He headed for a side door, with the new page scrambling at his heels. A burst of sound made the youth check momentarily just as they crossed the threshold. He stammered, “Sir, they’re applauding you!”
Paither smiled to himself, and kept on walking.
Ennilyn skirted the temple of Armas. It was as heavily guarded as Nialia’s, and the sentries were more vigilant. She set out eagerly to find her father’s home.
The Feimenna followed her closely, an alien shadow. It was as well that the weather had grown crisp; she was able to bundle him from chin to nose in a heavy scarf, with his hood falling past his brows. He walked half-blinded.
Soldiers stopped them often. In recent years the Third Hill had become known as a hotbed of Defier activity, and with the unrest on the Fourth the Mendales here were wary. Several Bands were moving through, on their way to the Seacoast. They camped wherever they liked. A group of Lindahne estate owners (including Mejalna’s parents, who sill lived on the Third) sent Governor Nesmin a polite petition, asking for an acknowledgement of their land rights; the soldiers were stealing the livestock and tramping up the fields. Nesmin replied that all land belonged to the Mendale Trio and Assembly – and if they’d been permitted to continue to live on it, they’d do well to be properly grateful. “Those who do not welcome Mendale protection from rebels,” the message said, “will in future be considered rebels themselves.”
Ennilyn, when they were questioned, made easy answers to the soldiers. They had serious trouble only once. A patrol leader, clownish from drink, professed to disbelieve the story she gave, that of being a potterer’s daughter en route to her home town. After giving Nhy a withering glance of dismissal, he attempted a sporting flirtation with her. “Let’s see what you can do,” he said suggestively, and the patrol bundled them off to the nearest village and set her before a wheel. Ennilyn gave Nhy a look, warning him to keep his eyes down, and murmured an inward prayer of thanks for her childhood training. This of course was the craft she might have chosen, if Quienos’s temper had not made the family unwelcome in Guilds all over Mendale. The Lindahne wheel was strange, and her training below local standards, but the finished pot was good enough to satisfy the patrol leader. He insisted he would fire it in the kiln. When she presented it to him, he put one hand over heart ostentatiously, and said he would treasure it forever. His companions roared. Ennilyn batted her lashes at him, swished the skirt of her robe, and moved on without interference.
Discreet inquiries gave her the information she needed to find the house. It was clear that her father Rendell’s home was well known, rarely spoken of, and never visited. An aura of disgrace clung to it.
The main path was overgrown with weeds. The house itself had a sad look, as if it knew of its shame. The surrounding land held an eerie quiet. In the War years the Mendales had used the estate as a local headquarters and outpost; afterwards an occasional Mendale noble had tried to claim the house and farm the land. But the local people refused to work it for any wage, even in the leanest seasons, and eventually it had been abandoned. The house sunk deeper into the earth and the land fell fallow. Ennilyn was the first mortal to mount the steps to the house in years.
Old shutters hung across the windows, casting gloom. Mice scurried. She trailed through the rooms, climbing over wreckage. Windows were broken, and someone had even camped in the main hall. Much damage had been done, but the Mendales had come and gone. The house had taken no impression of them. It was Lindahne in every stone and brick.
“Your family?” Nhy asked delicately, the first question he’d posed. “This is theirs?”
“No. Yes. I don’t know.” She brushed away thick dust on a mantelpiece, wishing he’d choose another room, another doorway: must he always be at her heels?
She had not seen Feimenna, and found his presence almost incomprehensible, while he was awed by the mere nearness of a true Nialian. They were creatures of fable to one another. She turned aside most of his attempts at conversation, fighting off his ever-present watchfulness as she had once fought to hold back her darks. Sometimes his liquid red eyes seemed ready to invade her. His questions ruined her concentration and distracted her from her real business.
“Such places,” Nhy murmured. She supposed it a criticism, considering the state of the house, but in fact he was simply astonished at the size, work and permanence of such living quarters. He thought it magnificent, though a trifle sad. The people who lived in such a place would not have known the pleasure and freedom of moving with the changing seasons, as his own people did.
Ennilyn explored the upstairs rooms impatiently, searching with no particular object in mind. These apartments were in better condition, though woodworms had attacked the furniture. Only one apartment seemed to be a woman’s: well, that would be Mistress Pillyn’s, of course. She tried to conjure up a clear memory of the woman in the camp clearing, calling to Paither, and failed.
The next apartments were larger and littered with old scrolls, some half-gone. She unrolled one carefully. The paper was brittle. The handwriting, though faded, showed through firm and businesslike. Temple records. These were her father’s rooms, then. Here he had worked as a faithful priest of Armas, before his crime. As an experiment she said out loud, “Father?” But no shade answered.
The desk had been worm-eaten. She made a sound of distaste and shook away curled up larvae. In the lowest drawer, far at the back, she found an alabaster casket, sealed with encrusted gum. The worms had been unable to penetrate it. The sealings adhered stubbornly. From the doorway, Nhy spoke, falling forgetfully into his own language.
She said crossly, “What?”
“I beg pardon. I meant to ask you if you to wish to pass the nighttime here. It is getting dark.”
The seals popped with an exhalation of air. She lifted the lid.
On a bed of untouched velvet a green and lovely jewel reflected the room’s poor light from every facet. She stared. “An Armasii stone,” she exclaimed; she knew enough of Lindahne now to recognize it. Nhy cocked his head. “Each Armasii priest had one,” she explained lamely. “The jewel of their calling. He must have sealed it away, when they barred him from the temple... There’s something else in here, under the velvet.”
“Writings? Yes, I see. These are the rooms of a man who studied. Saved.”
Ennilyn sat down hard on the edge of the bed, as if her legs had given way. “The Book of the Gods. Nearly an entire copy, by the looks of it. I’ve only heard pieces – now I can read it! And it’s in wonderful condition.”
She had never spoken so many words to him before. “These are Great Cult writings?” he dared. She turned away again. He wondered if he had said something wrong, or against her customs.
Ennilyn said, “You’d better find a corner to be comfortable in. We’re staying.”
She read through the Book for most of the night, curled on the musty bed under tattered hangings, with a spluttering wall-torch for light. The Feimenna found it impossible to sleep in such a thickly enclosed place; it would be like nodding off in Great Cult itself. He paced the hallways restlessly.
In the early hours she called to him. Her strange sparkling hair was tousled; dark hollows had appeared under her eyes. “You must rest,” he said.
“No, I want to finish. But my eyes are tired, and the lettering is faded. Can you read our language?”
“Oh, yes. We have to saved the writing, too.”
She held out a thick scroll. “Please, will you read the rest to me?”
He hesitated, then bowed. “With honor.”
“Thank you. No, you’d better come here, the legs are half off that chair.”
He settled himself near the torchlight. She stayed where she was, so they were now side by side on the bed. She slid down on the bedclothes and shut her eyes.
The Feimenna read well and with pleasure. Many of the divine tales, he found, were
the same as those told by his own people. At first she found it difficult to follow him, because he refused to pronounce any god’s name. When he came to one, he substituted an epithet: the “Strong One” for Armas, the “Wise One” for Proseras, the “Mother” for Nialia. One story, which he had not known before, he was particularly drawn to; when he finished it he turned back immediately to the beginning and read it again. “I have dreamt another people,” he repeated with satisfaction.
A long time later he paused, thinking her asleep, but her eyes opened immediately. When he still did not continue she raised up on one elbow. “What is it? Are you tired?”
“I to wonder something, mistress.”
“Yes?”
“I to wonder why you do not like me.”
Ennilyn flushed. “I haven’t –”
“Have I to offended your customs? You are a priestess of the Mother. You above all I to wish to show my respect. If I to do something incorrect –”
“No, no, of course not. No.”
Paither had forgotten to warn her. When he suddenly touched her shoulder she jumped. She stammered, “My brother and I – we’re glad to have your help.”
“Yet you do to not like me. But yes, mistress, this I know. Why is it?”
He deserved an answer. “I think I’m frightened of you.”
“Of my people, of Feimennas?”
“No, you.” A Nialian shiver passed through her frame. The torchlight seemed to dim. She said, “You will bring me sorrow.”
She knew no more than that herself. His foreign face set into an unreadable expression. She leaned back again and closed her eyes, hoping this would end the conversation. Presently his smooth voice took up the tales of the gods again.
Chapter 26
“W
e’ll have to sacrifice it,” Samalas repeated, sounding edgy. “We haven’t the manpower to protect all the temples and at the same time put up a serious resistance to the Oversettle army.”