by Stewart Ross
First published in 2014 by Curious Fox, an imprint of Capstone Global Library Limited, 7 Pilgrim Street, London, EC4V 6LB – Registered company number: 6695582
www.curious-fox.com
Copyright © 2014 Stewart Ross
The author’s moral rights are hereby asserted.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
ISBN 978 1 782 02088 2
A CIP catalogue for this book is available from the British Library.
Cover illustrations by KJA-Artists.com
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form or by any means (including photocopying or storing it in any medium by electronic means and whether or not transiently or incidentally to some other use of this publication) without the written permission of the copyright owner.
To Evie
1
The Ravine
“Guilty!” Yash looked slowly round at the eleven raised hands. “As I expected, the verdict of the Majlis is unanimous.”
Cyrus was surprised by his friend’s confidence. It was as if he had been Emir of Alba for months, not just a day or so.
“Thank you,” Yash continued. “You may put your hands down.” He turned to face the prisoner. “Konnel Padmar, you are a traitor. For that crime, as you know, there is only one punishment.
“As a traitor you broke the golden rule of our community – you failed to do your duty. Without duty our way of life – the Constant way – can’t survive. But you didn’t just neglect your duty, Padmar, did you? You committed a far worse crime. You betrayed me and all Constants, in Alba and everywhere else.
“Konnel,” Yash went on, advancing slowly towards his former colleague, “you were a woman in whom we all placed absolute trust, and yet you betrayed us in a way that, even now, we find hard to imagine. You betrayed us to a Zed.”
Yash was now staring straight at the short, round-faced woman standing motionless before him. “Padmar, you attempted to hand Alba over to Timur, the foulest Zed of all. For that you will be killed today, at sunhigh.”
The sentence, delivered with matter-of-fact bluntness, was no shock. The only sound that greeted its announcement was a satisfied grunt from Bahm, the fallen leader’s fiercest opponent. When no human being lived beyond their nineteenth year, death was an everyday occurrence. It was unpleasant but unavoidable, like the bouts of dysentery that swept through the mountainside community from time to time.
Two archers escorted Padmar out of the Ghasar, the wooden assembly hall where the trial had taken place, and into the square outside. The Konnels followed in twos and threes, expressing their agreement at the way things had turned out. They left Cyrus standing alone in the corner furthest from the door. He had been too young to join the ruling Majlis back home and the meeting had fascinated him. Now it was over, he thought again about his decision to lead the vital mission from Della Tallis to Alba, and how it had changed his life. On that long and perilous journey he had learned the basics of reading and writing. His literacy, now the Soterion vault was open, gave him awesome power and importance. It was why Yash had invited him to the trial – the Emir didn’t want to fall out with the only person able to reveal the Soterion’s secrets. Not yet, anyway.
Padmar had admitted everything. Yes, she confessed with painful honesty, she had indeed fallen for Timur, the fiendishly clever Malik of the Grozny Zeds who had wheedled his way into their community. Glancing briefly towards Cyrus, she acknowledged that her folly had come close to destroying Alba and its precious Soterion. In the process, she had been indirectly responsible not only for the murder of Chima, the previous Emir of Alba, but also of Cyrus’ Tallin colleagues, Navid and Taja. Roxanne, the inspiration behind the Soterion Mission, Cyrus’ teacher and the noblest, dearest woman he had ever met, had also perished as a result of Padmar’s folly.
Cyrus took a deep breath and rubbed his hands over his face. Roxanne’s death had left him shouldering an iron yoke of responsibility. Only he had the skills and knowledge to finish the mission. Her exhortation, almost the last thing she had said to him, was carved in his mind as clearly and ineradicably as the inscription on the steel door of the Soterion vault itself: “For my sake and for the sake of everyone, you must go on.”
And he would, whatever it took. In a private half-whisper, he repeated the promise he had made as she lay dying. “Yes, Roxy. For everyone, but for you above all – ”
“Hey, Cyrus!” Yash’s cry echoed through the empty barn. “Come on! Don’t stand there muttering to yourself. People will think you’re into your Death Month already!”
Cyrus shook his head. “I hope not, Yash. Too much to do before I go! We haven’t really started the important bit of the mission yet, have we?”
The newly elected Emir of Alba hurried over and threw an arm round Cyrus’ shoulder. “All that can wait, Cy. I need you at my side during the execution. I’m the Emir, but you’re the hero! I can’t do anything without you.”
As the two men left the Ghasar and walked side by side into the sunlit Square of the Lion, Cyrus wondered why Yash’s loud self-assurance made him feel uncomfortable. He had never doubted his own abilities, but he had always tried not to make a show of them. The smaller the dog, his friend Navid used to say, the bigger it tries to make itself. He hoped it didn’t apply to Yash.
Executions were rare in Alba, not because of moral objection or squeamishness – after their eighth winter, every Alban, male and female, was taught to fight, and few passed away before they had shed at least some Zed blood. No, their reluctance to take the life of one of their own was purely practical: they needed every able-bodied person alive and fit to help with the vital fighting, farming and breeding that kept the community going.
Officially, the crimes of disobeying a Konnel’s orders, cowardice and betrayal all carried the death penalty. In practice, those found guilty of the first two were simply thrown out of Alba and forbidden to return until a full winter had passed. If they survived in Zed-infested territory for twelve moons, they were said to have proved their worth and were allowed to return. But very occasionally – no more than once in every lifetime – a traitor was uncovered. For them there was no alternative but immediate death. The rarity and hideousness of the crime explained the buzz of expectation that shivered through the ranks of the assembled Albans as Yash and Cyrus emerged into the sunlit square.
Konnel Bahm and a pair of archers, anticipating a normal execution, had prepared the communal well standing in the middle of the square. They had unfastened the bucket from the rope and in its place tied a broad noose. The well was preferred to a tree for a very practical reason. If the hanging failed, as sometimes happened, the prisoner was lowered into the water to drown. When this happened, the next ten buckets of well water were thrown away for fear of pollution.
Padmar stood impassive as the archers knotted cords around her hands and feet. Dressed in a simple tunic of grey wool, with her long dark hair tied back and fastened with a wooden stick in the customary Alban manner, she had shed all her former power and majesty. She was just a plump woman with a pale brown face and a small, hawk-like nose. The eyes that not long ago had gleamed black as broken coal were dimmed and unseeing.
Looking her over with a cool detachment, Yash noticed a rust-coloured stain on the ground near her feet. It was Roxanne’s blood. It had fallen onto the cobbles two days previously when Timur, realising he was trapped, had thrust a knife into her chest.
Yash paused, looked at the stain and, with narrowing eyes, looked again at the convict. He shook his head. “No, it will not be a well execution, Padmar. I think you should die as your Zed copemate died. By arrows.”
It took Cyrus a moment to grasp the Emir’s meaning. The Tallin word for an intimate partner was ‘wedun’ – ‘copemate’ was new to him. Yash was referring to Padmar’s brief but fatal infatuation with Timur, Malik of the Grozny Zeds.
Obeying their Emir’s orders, Bahm and his helpers tied Padmar to one of the posts that held the winding handle over the well. With surprising respect, they adjusted her clothing lest its thickness act as a shield. Meanwhile, Yash had assembled a firing squad of fifteen archers and moved the spectators to one side in case an arrow missed its target and flew off into the crowd.
When all was ready, he reminded his audience, especially the younger ones lined up to his left, why the execution was taking place. “No single person,” he said, “not even an Emir, is more important than the community. To betray the community is to betray every one of us, our lives and the principles we have kept alive since the days of the Long Dead. Death is the only possible punishment for someone who has committed such a foul crime.”
Later, remembering these noble words, Cyrus would shiver at their dreadful irony.
Yash asked Padmar if she had anything to say. At first she shook her head, apparently reluctant to speak; then, after staring hard at Yash for a moment, she changed her mind. “Yes, Emir, I would like to say a few words,” she began in a voice so thin that those standing at the back found it difficult to hear.
“I am sorry for my weakness, and truly sorry for the pain and suffering I’ve caused. I was seduced, but not so much by a man as by the dream of power. That Soterion, full of the secrets of the Long Dead, is a wonderful, magical thing. We all dream, as our ancestors dreamed, of being able to bring back the marvels of the lost world.”
Yash glanced up at the sun and, reckoning it to be at its highest point, raised a hand for Padmar to stop.
“No, please,” she begged, her voice louder now, less tremulous, “let me finish. I have something important to say. Listen, Yash, Konnels and all other Albans! Yes, the Soterion is truly amazing – but beware its power! Cyrus and Roxanne have unlocked a force greater than any of you realise. Take care! Please take care!”
Cyrus glanced around him. The majority of the crowd looked puzzled by what they had heard. The discovery and opening of the Soterion was a dream come true, bringing a real opportunity of better, longer lives for everyone. What possible danger could there be in that?
Nevertheless, on one or two older faces Cyrus noticed looks of concern. Bahm in particular seemed agitated, frowning and twisting his large, gnarled hands. Yes, thought Cyrus, he understands. He’s worried by the darker side of what has been discovered: the knowledge and skills waiting to be unlocked will bring enormous power to whoever controls access to them. The despicable Timur saw this and it lured him to his death. Falling under the same spell, Padmar betrayed all she had held most precious. And what now?
Cyrus looked across at Yash. His friend was tutting and shaking his head. “Nonsense!” he said with a dismissive wave. “Too late for excuses, Padmar. Let’s get on with it!”
His weasel-faced copemate Sakamir, standing just behind him, nodded in thoughtful agreement.
The execution was quickly done. Yash stepped back, called for silence, raised a hand and, when the archers had steadied their aim, brought it sharply down. All fifteen arrows struck their bare-chested target. A surprised look lit Padmar’s eyes and she opened her mouth as if to speak. But no sound came. Her head slumped forward and her hair dropped like a curtain to hide her shame. Moments later she was dead.
The events of the morning left Cyrus feeling wretched. In an effort to clear his thoughts, he took himself off on a solitary walk through the terraced farmland that rose step by step above the settlement. He had not been gone long when he saw a familiar figure bounding down the slope towards him. It was Sammy, the lean and tousle-headed young man the mission had rescued from the Children of Gova on the way to Alba.
“Mister Cyrus, do you reckon I’d make an archer if I got myself trained up?” the lad asked after they had exchanged greetings.
Cyrus smiled. “Of course, Sammy. You’d be a great warrior. Why do you ask?”
“Well, I don’t want to be rude or anything, but the Emir, he’s gone and rejected me.”
“You mean Yash?”
“Yeah.” Sammy put out a hand to stroke the enormous dog that had been following a few paces behind him. After the death of Navid, his previous master, Corby had transferred his allegiance unhesitatingly to the young refugee and the pair were already inseparable.
“That’s strange,” replied Cyrus. “Did he give a reason?”
“Reason?”
“You know, did he say why you couldn’t be an archer?”
Sammy pointed to his left eye. The inflammation he had picked up in the desert had gone, but his sight had not returned. “’Cos of this,” he said, his lip quivering. “He said you can’t ‘ave no squinty warrior.” He knelt and hugged the dog close to hide his tears.
“He called you ‘squinty’?”
“Yeah. An’ the others heard it and started calling me that too. It hurt me, that did.”
“Come on,” said Cyrus, cloaking his anger, “there’s no point in moping, not if you want to be an archer. I’ll have a word with Yash for you.”
Sammy stood up and wiped his face on the sleeve of his tunic. “Thank you, Mister Cyrus. You always was good to me, wasn’t you?”
Cyrus laughed. “Don’t you start, Sammy. I’ve already been flattered more than’s good for me. Let’s go and find Yash and see if we can get him to change his mind. I’m sure he will.”
As long as Emir Yash is the same as the archer we first met, Cyrus thought. I really hope he is.
The bodies of dead Constants were burned, a custom from the time of the Long Dead. The reason was no longer clearly understood, but common sense dictated that it was both unhealthy and unpleasant to leave rotting human flesh lying around for long. The only exceptions were the bodies of criminals and Zeds. These were carried outside the walls and thrown into a ravine for wild animals to feed on noisily at night.
If normal custom had been followed, the corpses of both Padmar and Timur would have ended up in the ravine. But Sakamir argued otherwise.
“Padmar was our acting Emir,” she said calmly, as if stating the obvious. “And we should treat the body of one of our leaders, whatever they’ve done, with respect. The murder of Emir Chima and Padmar’s business with Timur undermined the position of Emir, weakened it. We need to build it up again, starting now. Make sure the Emir of Alba’s respected and obeyed, like they always used to be.”
She leaned towards her copemate and ran a hand through his unruly red hair. “You need all the power and authority you can get, don’t you my dear?”
Cyrus said nothing. Though he was Yash’s chief counsellor, his friend’s relationship with his copemate was none of his business. Personally, he doubted the Emir needed further authority. His swift action at the time of the Timur crisis had made him the Majlis’ near-unanimous choice. Backed by Sakamir, he had eagerly accepted the post and his confidence was growing by the day.
“I reckon Sakamir’s right, don’t you Cyrus?” Yash said. “It’d be wrong to leave the body of an Emir to be eaten by wild beasts, even if she was only an acting one.”
Cyrus shrugged. “Your choice, Yash. But if you want my advice, I’d suggest burning Timur’s body as well.”
“What?” retorted Sakamir, arching her thin eyebrows. “A Zed beside an Alban Emir? That’d be a disgrace.”
“Agree. Bit of an odd idea, Cyrus. What’re you thinking of?”
Cyrus told them what Roxanne had said of Timur’s sinister authority. When in captivity, she had seen how his power extended beyond his own Grozny tribe. In the world of the Zeds, Malik Timur had become a legend in his own lifetime. Just the mention of his name brought other barbarians out in a cold sweat.
“So I think it might be best to burn his body,” he concluded. “Get rid of him completely. Just in
case…”
“In case of what?” snapped Sakamir.
“I’m not exactly sure. It’s just I’d feel safer if there were nothing left of him. It’s to do with something else Roxanne mentioned. It’s weird, but she said the Long Dead believed well-known or important people never died, not completely. Their power carried on after death – they could still make things happen. Sometimes their bodies were somehow stopped from rotting, too.”
“Huh! There won’t be anything left of Timur’s body when the rats have had it,” said Sakamir. “Burned or eaten, he’ll be gone for ever.” Before Cyrus could reply, she added, “Agree, Yash?”
A flicker of embarrassment passed over the Emir’s face. “You don’t mind, do you Cyrus?” he asked, laying a hand on his friend’s arm. “Sakamir obviously feels strongly about this ravine business. But if you really think it’s not a good idea, maybe we could find a way …”
This was no time for argument, Cyrus decided. For the mission to succeed, it was vital they all pulled together. “Don’t worry, Yash,” he said lightly. “Sakamir’s probably right – at least, I hope she is!”
To show there were no hard feelings, he gave her a friendly smile. Her lips moved in response, but there was no friendship in those grey, deep-set eyes. Cyrus put this partly down to jealousy. Because he could unlock the secrets of the Long Dead stored in the books of the Soterion, for the time being he was more important than her Emir. She was probably suspicious of him because he was an Outsider, too. He didn’t blame her for that – Bahm mistrusted him for the same irrational reason.
Whatever happened, Cyrus told himself, he had to curb his natural impetuosity. Antagonising his hosts would get him nowhere. The Soterion was theirs, after all, and he was in Alba only at their invitation.
After Sakamir had left to arrange how the bodies of Timur and Padmar were to be disposed of, Cyrus asked Yash about Sammy being trained as an archer. To his surprise, the Emir immediately lifted his ban.