The Last Plutarch

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The Last Plutarch Page 22

by Tom O'Donnell


  “He can speak to the Fog!”

  *

  Meric groaned awake and immediately regretted it. His head ached. His throat was dry. Scratches, cuts, and bruises stung his body. But he was alive.

  Unfortunately.

  He remembered Trajan. He closed his eyes and tried to pass out again.

  “You’re none too pretty,” Nog said.

  Meric opened his right eye. The other was swollen shut. He was lying in the grass, his head on a bundled cloth. Night was descending. The burly cook was seated on a rock beside him, feeding pecans to Mobius.

  “What happened?” Meric asked.

  “Well, Meliai hit you with a log. Among other things. Almost killed you. You’ll live though–if what the girl says is true.”

  “Where’s Meliai?” Meric asked, ignoring the pending threat.

  “She’s run off again. Spends a lot of time by herself, that girl. You know, from what I could see, she never listened much to her father. Didn’t think they were close. Growing up, you couldn’t tell her a thing. Stubborn as a blind mammoth. But she loved him; that’s plain to see.”

  “I killed him,” Meric said.

  Nog handed the squirrel another pecan, saying nothing.

  Truth is sharper than any scalpel. More bitter than any pill.

  Trajan’s words.

  Grief and shame twisted his insides. He felt lower than he’d ever been in his life. He turned onto his side–triggering new pains–and curled into a ball. Meliai should’ve ended it. Where could he go from here? He didn’t have the right to weep. He wept anyway.

  “Oh, the melodrama. You didn’t kill him,” Gallatius said.

  Red hot hatred bubbled up like lava, but something about the Plutarch’s appearance cut across it. One side of Gallatius’s face was swollen. He’d lost a tooth.

  “Yes, I had my own scuffle. I imagine it lends my good looks a charming, down-to-earth appeal, don’t you think?” Gallatius asked, smiling, noting Meric’s stare.

  “Bastard got a hand on Hestia’s knife,” Nog said. “Had to knock him cold. He’s just lucky she didn’t gut him afterwards. She wanted to.”

  “Why didn’t you let her?” Meric asked.

  “Such hostility!” Gallatius lamented.

  “He cost us a lot. His fate is for the elders to decide … As is your own. Thing is, Meric, we need to know,” Nog said.

  “Know what?” Meric asked.

  “Swan says you’re a sorcerer. Like Trajan. Is it true?”

  A sorcerer. Is that what I am now?

  “Yes,” Meric said.

  Nog blew out a breath.

  “Well, that changes things,” he said.

  “The Fog can’t bring Trajan back,” Meric said.

  “That’s kind of the point. No one else can speak the Fog’s language–except silver-eyes there, and I can’t see him being very cooperative. The People have no use for captured Plebians. What do you think is going to happen when we return to Red Oak Grove? Your Fog-sorcery is now the only thing keeping you and your friends alive.”

  *

  It was a dismal trip.

  In Red Oak, Meric and Swan were jailed in the Plebians’ clubhouse, which was emptied and placed under guard while the elders decided their fate. Gallatius was hauled off elsewhere. Swan had become almost unreasonably calm.

  “Aren’t you scared?” Meric asked her, though he himself felt only sorrow and the dull ache of his wounds. Swan was silent so long it seemed she wouldn’t answer. Then she said:

  “When Gallatius took me, I was scared. When he imprisoned me, I was terrified. I thought he’d left me to die. But there was a moment when I knew there was no hope, and in that moment the fear went away–because how could things get any worse? Dying didn’t seem so bad then. Everything that bound me to this world–the pain, the love, the fear, the hope–I saw that it would all just … unravel. Like loose threads. I would let it go. I would be free.

  “Then the prison was gone. I cried–because I knew then that I would live. I would not be permitted to die. I would go back to him. I would suffer until he grew bored of me. But I did not go back. You saved me. So no, I’m not afraid. Every day I spend free of the Fog is another day I won’t be used for Gallatius’s twisted amusement. I miss my parents. I wish I could talk to my mom. But I know she’d be happy I’m free. I’m never going back, Meric. No matter what happens. My life there is over.”

  He reached for her bound hands with his.

  *

  Among the People, the “elders” included all prominent adult males who’d been tested in battle and had at least one wife. They were led by Malthenian, a white-bearded, leather-skinned man who’d been old when he’d argued to accept Trajan into the tribe. Trajan had been influential, but his power had never been the absolute authority those in Panchaea had imagined. There was no “savage-king.” The elders had kept a close watch over him and sometimes overruled him. Now and then they also consulted Ishka, the Priestess who dwelt in a cave outside the village, with her own unique place in the tribal hierarchy. When the time came, Diodorus and Nog delivered up the tribe’s judgment.

  “You’ve got one chance to live. Who wants to guess what it is?” Nog asked, standing in the doorway to the cabin with a sour look on his face. The swelling around Meric’s left eye had gone down, though his vision was blurry.

  “Meric makes things in Ozymand,” Swan said.

  Meric had told her all about the lost Fog-city during their time in the forest.

  “Well, at least one of you has a brain. No second chances this time. Any foolishness and that’s the end of you. You make what the elders tell you to. Not everybody’s convinced we need the Fog. Some say sorcery is a curse.”

  The usually jovial cook glared at Meric, suggesting he was included in that number.

  “I will do as the elders ask,” Meric said, though he didn’t understand Nog’s anger.

  “What about me?” Swan asked.

  “You need time to learn our ways, as I once did,” Diodorus said. “For now, you’ll be kept under guard, though I’m less certain you need it. Considering that you fled from Panchaea, I doubt you’ll be eager to return.”

  “I would die first,” Swan said, lifting her chin.

  “Still, the elders want you guarded–for now. In time, who can say? There are many here who would vie for a wife half as pretty as you. Unless someone already has you in mind…”

  He trailed off, looking at Meric.

  “Anyway, first the tribe needs to know you’re telling the truth, so you’ll head to Ozymand,” Diodorus finished.

  “Yeah, and this time–no fogging stew!” Nog shouted, slamming the door on his way out.

  “Was he hoping for a different decision?” Swan asked, frowning after the cook.

  “Nog’s a good sort, he’s just angry about the punishments imposed by the Council. He and the others have been fined a number of yams and pigs and liters of wine. They’ll have to make sacrifices to their ancestors as well. Winter will go hard on them,” Diodorus said.

  “What were they punished for?” Meric asked.

  “Your escape, naturally.”

  “But–let them punish me for that.”

  “You were a captive. It was their job to make sure things stayed that way. They failed in their duty to the tribe, and the result was a disaster. Their punishment could’ve been worse,” Diodorus said.

  “And Gallatius?” Swan asked, a coolness entering her voice.

  “They’re still discussing his fate, but rest assured, his days in the clouds are over. It’s likely he’ll be given to the Bloodrats.”

  “Those men underground? What will they do with him?” Swan asked.

  “Whatever they want, I imagine.”

  “He should pay. He would’ve let me rot in that tube, and I’m sure I wasn’t the first. Such a man has no place in this world,” she said.

  “Be that as it may, it cost the tribe a lot to acquire him,” Diodorus said. “To execute him now woul
d be a total loss. But don’t misunderstand me. The Bloodrats are ruled by the Eyeless. Men who never see the light of day. Men who conduct forbidden rituals in the name of a six-armed rat-god, deep underground. Believe me, you don’t want to be at the mercy of men who don’t even have to bear the sight of what they’ve done. Meliai promised the Bloodrats a lot for their help. I imagine Gallatius will be part of that payment. We have to settle with them. They’re a big tribe, and they’re touchy about deals.”

  “Azog said as much. Why does everyone fear them?” Meric asked.

  “Weren’t you underground with them? Ah, but you don’t know the stories. Some years back, they made a deal with the Stonehearts–a proud people to the west. Renowned warriors, but not so good on credit apparently. The deal went sour. Maybe their chieftain thought the Bloodrats weak. I don’t know. One day the Stonehearts were called to a dispute with another tribe. They didn’t use women in battle, so only the men left the village. The dispute was resolved peacefully. But when the warriors returned, the entire village was empty. Gone. Only a pair of dying cripples were left to tell the tale. Bloodrats had swarmed out of the ground. Tails stitched to their bodies. Teeth filed to points. They used blowguns. A dart in the right place will knock you out in seconds. They took the woman. They took the children. Then they slunk back into the earth, leaving only a cloak of black fur bearing a red mark–to show the debt was paid. The Stonehearts tried to get their women back, of course. Fighting in the dark, underground, in a maze of tunnels? You can imagine how that went. There are no Stonehearts now.”

  There was a moment of silence.

  “Without Trajan, will the People be able to pay them?” Meric asked.

  “Well, that’s part of what you’ll be doing in Ozymand–making goods to settle the debt,” Diodorus said.

  “And how much more would it cost to keep Gallatius?”

  Swan looked at him sharply.

  “Why on Earth would you want that?” Diodorus asked.

  Meric sighed.

  “In Panchaea, I saw things–Fog that flowed like water, surfaces that changed colors, objects that couldn’t be reshaped. The Fog is easy to use. Intuitive. But I have no idea how those things were done. With no one to ask, I may never learn the trick. If I’m to serve the People in Ozymand, I need someone to consult. I need a Plutarch.”

  “Meric, Gallatius is evil,” Swan said, leaning closer. “Twisted. Sick. I haven’t told you all he’s done–and he has no remorse, no conscience. The world is a joke to him. Better to learn on your own, even if you fail. You cannot trust that man anywhere near the Fog.”

  “I won’t. He’ll be chained outside and kept under guard. But I need someone to teach me. Someone who knows the Fog.”

  “He will betray you,” Swan said.

  “I won’t give him the chance. Will you just ask the elders?” Meric asked, turning to Diodorus. Swan glowered at him.

  “I will the raise the issue, if that’s what you want. I share Swan’s concerns, but you’re the only one of us who can speak to the Fog. You’re the only one who really knows what difficulties you’ll face.”

  Diodorus held Meric’s gaze a long moment, his face unreadable.

  “Come for a walk with me,” the older Plebian said.

  Shooting a curious glance at Swan, who was still fuming, Meric followed Diodorus outside. Walking still pained him, but he did it almost eagerly, vehemently–as penance. Bird-calls bounced between the trees, echoing into the vast blue above. Shifting leaves whispered secrets with a sound like the Earth sighing.

  When Meric had first left Panchaea, his appreciation of the wonders of the outside world had been muted beneath a veneer of judgments. The Fog was superior. Nature was anathema to civilization. Only demons loved the wild. He’d had to suppress his true fascination beneath a layer of mental strata to satisfy his cultural programming.

  Now he was free to wonder at the world without shame … yet it was tainted for a different reason. The blunders that had freed Meric from his mental shackles had cost Trajan his life. He could only think how the old man would never see the trees again, never feel the sun on his skin, never hear the call of the creatures in the wild. Each day that passed was a day he would miss, and all because of Meric’s actions, Meric’s blindness, Meric’s mental rigidity.

  “You don’t have to lecture me anymore. I know you were telling the truth. I will never utter another word in defense of the Plutarchs,” Meric said.

  “Good to know, but that’s not why I wanted to talk. Swan told me about your escape from Panchaea. Would you tell me the whole story?”

  “I don’t think I’m up to talking about it.”

  “It’s important, Meric. I need to hear it.”

  Meric gave him a sidelong glance. Diodorus had an unusual gravity about him. Meric sighed, resigning himself to the effort. Once he began, his voice sounded dead in his own ears, emotionless, as though it had all happened to someone else. He glossed over the details. Diodorus, however, interrupted with questions until he had to fill in the blanks.

  “And your mother–your real mother–what happened to her?”

  Meric glanced at him, irritated. The Matron Adams was his “real” mother. He couldn’t believe otherwise.

  “She took her own life–maybe. Lillian seemed to think her father had something to do with it. For all I know, Lillian’s got the wrong person,” Meric said, shrugging. He glanced at Diodorus. To his surprise, the older man was struggling to hold back tears. He blinked hard to clear his eyes, looking away.

  They crested a small hill and passed a field in which a woman was harvesting demongrass. A mudstone hut stood on the edge of it. Two men were crouched by a fire out front, sharing an elaborately carved ivory pipe. Diodorus greeted them by name and continued walking.

  “That pipe was made from the Fog. You’ll want to take note of the things people use here. They’ll think better of you for gifts like that,” Diodorus said, though there was a tremulous note in his voice, and Meric knew his thoughts were elsewhere.

  “I’ve lost my care for what people think,” Meric said.

  “Do it for Swan then. All our fates are now tied to you. I’ve lived with the People many years, but I’ll always be an outsider. It comes out every time I speak–you’ve heard their accents. We speak the same language, but they took it in one direction and we took it in another. Just as the Bloodrats took in a third. Malthenian is a fair man, but he’s old, and tribal justice can be harsh. You screw up again, someone younger and stronger might take an issue with former Plebians. Might decide we’re all better off dead.”

  Meric nodded. Still, Diodorus was only delaying what he wanted to say. They walked in silence. The forest grew thicker, the path no path at all.

  “I never told you how I ended up here, did I?” Diodorus asked.

  “No,” Meric said.

  “In Panchaea, I worked in a spirithouse. Served up drinks, cleaned the tables. Perfect job for a philosopher. The more people drink, the wiser you become. Everything is deeply meaningful when your listeners are infested with spirits. After work, I would walk home. The Fog is peaceful at night. I always preferred it over the gray mornings. Walking took longer than a transport, but that was kind of the point. When you get too caught up in life, it’s easy to forget how wonderful a simple walk can be.

  “To get home, I had to cross the river. I’d take that arching stone bridge off Legend Ave–you know the one. Often I’d stop there and look down at the water. One night I was on that bridge, looking over the railing, when something caught my eye. A silver hair. Just one. It had caught on the stone. Now, you might think: some old woman left it. But it was long. I’m talking ankle-length. Have you ever seen an old woman with hair that long?”

  Meric shrugged, at a loss to where the man was headed, but Diodorus’s gaze had turned inward anyway.

  “I didn’t think much of it at first. One of life’s daily oddities. But every time I crossed that bridge, I’d get to wondering about who could’ve
left a hair like that. If they’d crossed once, they’d cross again, right? I watched the people on my way to the spirithouse. Sometimes I’d even sit on those benches by the water. Mostly I watched the river, but the people were always crossing the bridge, and then I’d think of the hair, and I’d wonder. It got to be an itch I couldn’t scratch. Something like a hobby. Kind of pathetic, sure. I didn’t have a busy life. Never many close friends. Just the same, it was nice to have an excuse to take a few minutes out of the day to sit by the water. Months passed, and I never saw anyone with hair like that.

  “Then one day I’m coming toward the bridge, and I see this woman standing in the center. Nobody else around. She’s wearing a black robe, hooded. I’m coming from the north, and she’s looking south over the railing, so her back is to me. I stopped right there. I had a funny feeling, like I knew what was going to happen. She looked around, but I was on the edge of the Fog, and she must not have seen me. She took off her robe.

  “Her hair was like a wave of shining silver all the way to the ground. She was young–too young for it to be her natural color. She climbed right up on the railing, raised her arms, and dove into the river. I ran to the bridge–but she was gone. Her robe was gone too. After that, I had to know who she was. I thought she was a water-spirit that slipped in through the river. My hobby became an obsession. I stalked that bridge. I watched the other bridges too. I checked the railings for silver hair. I spent my free time walking the river, spying on the people I passed. Time went by. I didn’t tell anyone. But every day I wondered who she was.”

  Diodorus paused to descend a rocky incline. They’d come to the same little waterfall and sacred pool in which Meliai had tried to cleanse Meric of his madness. Meric grunted as he descended, holding his injured side. At the water’s edge, Diodorus found a flat stone and did something Meric had never seen before: he spun it sideways so that it skipped across the surface.

 

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