Liberation of Lystra (Annals of Lystra)

by Robin Hardy

  “I came on my own, in secret. After the Chatain disappeared last night and the Counselor was thrown in prison, a few of us went out again to search, hoping to find the boy and clear Basil. We didn’t. So today, Troyce declared the Chatain dead and himself emergency ruler of Lystra.”

  “He has no legal ground for doing that!” growled Roman.

  “No one seems to realize that but Basil,” Reuel pointed out disgustedly. “And anyone who speaks against Troyce brings suspicion on himself. So we few agreed that I would summon help from the outpost, while they kept watch on Troyce.”

  “You did well to come,” said Roman, “but is Basil still in prison?”

  “Yes, and Olynn and Sevter with him, for they backed him. I suspect they will also share the gallows. That was the final push to send me out the gates—when word leaked out that Basil was to be executed tonight at midnight. That’s typical of Troyce, to do it in the middle of the night without the town knowing, for Basil is more popular among the people than he. We could go along with Troyce playing lord until we had a chance to uncover the truth, but not if he’s going to execute the Counselor.”

  “The truth is about to break open Westford,” Roman promised grimly. “Turn and ride.” As they took up the road to the palace again, Roman shouted across to Reuel, “Does the army follow Troyce?”

  “They don’t know who they should follow,” Reuel shouted back. “The palace is in chaos.”

  “Indeed, what could happen in a week?” Roman muttered savagely to himself.

  Basil sat on a bench in a gloomy cell, staring at the stone walls. A torch in a corridor sconce cast deep, dancing shadows on the stones’ pocked surfaces. “I am an utter failure,” he announced to them suddenly. “A remarkable, spineless failure.”

  There was a stir in the cell opposite him. “You’re overly harsh on yourself, Counselor,” Olynn’s voice said. “I never saw such a bold liar as Troyce. When the soldiers won’t even listen to me, you know we’re up against something too clever for us simple men.”

  “They took Sevter from his cell when he asked to talk to Troyce,” Basil mused. “I wonder what Sevter wanted to tell him.”

  “They’re from the same country. Perhaps Sevter goes to reason with him.”

  “Or join him,” Basil said flatly. “I trusted those around me much too freely, and now I will receive my just recompense.”

  “Troyce cannot succeed in this,” insisted Olynn. “What do you think the Surchatain will do with him when he returns?”

  “Reward him,” Basil answered bleakly. Olynn shut his mouth, finding that an unnerving possibility.

  A guard let Sevter into Troyce’s chambers. The administrator turned to greet him, goblet in hand. “It appears I will not be under you after all, Sevter.”

  Sevter pleaded, “Lord Troyce, what are you doing?” Out of habitual respect, Sevter used the title which Troyce had not possessed since leaving Diamond’s Head. The fact that Troyce had persuaded a few others to continue calling him that did not contribute to his actual standing here.

  “What am I doing?” Troyce seemed perplexed by the question. “I am taking control of a country in crisis. I am going to save it, and make it what it should have been from the beginning.”

  “What it should have been!” exclaimed Sevter. “What more could it be?”

  “Sevter, you’re as blind as Basil!” Troyce set the goblet down with a bang. “I’ve been sitting back and watching Roman govern for over two years now, and all I have seen are missed opportunities and careless discipline. This province could be twice the size it is now, but he let those chances for easy acquisition slip away. He could have extended our power throughout half the Continent, but he refuses to take the initiative and be aggressive. I can no longer sit back and watch the chance for Lystra’s greatness pass by.”

  “You are the one who is blind, Lord Troyce! And I think it is not Lystra’s greatness you seek, but your own! The Surchatain is expanding the province, but with great care. He expands without war and bloodshed, and keeps order by benefiting the acquired areas. You forget what Lystra was when he came into power—nothing! That he has built it up to what it is now is astounding.”

  “I can do better,” Troyce stated.

  “How?” demanded Sevter. “By treason and the murder of innocent men? And what will you say to the Surchatain when he comes back knocking at your front gate?”

  “Sevter, you wound me. Is it treason to rescue a country from an incompetent ruler? Look at what Roman did: he not only went himself to Corona, but he took the Surchataine and his top officers, leaving Basil in control. Basil!” Troyce’s tone was that of angry disbelief. “I knew I must act then, and act quickly, or the country would rot.”

  Sevter was silent, groping for a foothold of reason by which to reach him. “After Galapos was hanged by Sheva, I heard you with my own ears swear a declaration of loyalty to God and to Surchataine Deirdre. To go back on such an oath is punishable by death. Dare you risk that?”

  Troyce looked hurt. “How am I betraying my oath to her?”

  “You will answer that when you tell me what you have done with her son,” Sevter replied.

  At this, Troyce’s pained expression mellowed. “If the silly girl got frightened and ran, it was certainly not my fault. I tried to warn her.”

  Sevter stared at him. “So you admit you took them. You admit breaking your oath to Deirdre, and it means nothing to you. Roman and Basil consider their word to be as binding as chains, and you despise them for it—yet you consider murder for the state an act of honor! You are deluded, Lord Troyce!”

  Troyce gave a half-smile at Sevter’s sarcastic use of his title. “I forgive your unkindness, Sevter. I won’t even think of it while you are swinging from the gallows.”

  “You learned well from Sheva,” Sevter remarked bitterly.

  Troyce merely opened the door to gravely inform the soldier standing outside, “He still refuses to swear loyalty to Lystra. Return him to the dungeon.”

  On the way down to the prison, Sevter said to the soldier, “Troyce is manipulating you all to gain power for himself. Don’t you see that?”

  “Who are we to obey, then?” the soldier asked. “You?”

  “Obey the man Surchatain Roman left in command: Basil!” Sevter replied.

  “And what if he did murder the child?”

  “Ask the men, who put a continual watch over the Chatain and the nursemaid? Ask them, who followed through with every instruction the Surchatain left behind? Was it Troyce or Basil? Then let them decide for themselves who is saying the truth. But for peace sake, don’t execute anyone until you’re sure of guilt, for what if you’re mistaken?” Sevter left off while the soldier opened the dungeon door and took him down a corridor.

  As the soldier directed him into a cell, Sevter shot, “And ask the men whether the Counselor has ever been shown to be a liar by anyone. Or Olynn—a Captain among you—left as acting Commander by the Surchatain! Was Roman mistaken to trust all three of us, or just Troyce? Ask them!”

  Olynn and Basil had come to the doors of their cells to listen. The soldier glanced their way, but reserved the bulk of his attention for Sevter. “I will speak to the others,” he grunted, then left.

  Sevter grasped the iron bars across the small window of the cell door as the soldier’s footfalls faded. From his cell nearby, Basil said, “Forgive me for doubting you, Sevter.”

  “Be assured Troyce intends to hang me along with both of you,” Sevter answered bitterly.

  “I should have seen it coming,” lamented Basil. “There was rebellion in his every move. Why didn’t I act on it at once?”

  “You did,” defended Olynn. “But who of us saw he was waiting for a chance to take power? Not even the Surchatain.”

  They were silent. Then Sevter said weakly, “God, Westford is crumbling. Help us. . . .”

  An hour later the tramping of boots brought the prisoners to their cell doors again. Stolid soldiers unlocked the doors.
By their attitude, the prisoners knew no reprieve had been given. “How shall you tell the Surchatain you hanged your Captain, Sebastian?” Olynn asked one of them scathingly. The soldier stared straight before him, expressionless.

  The prisoners were brought out to the courtyard, lit in the midnight blackness with torches carried by soldiers. Standing in their midst was the newly constructed gallows.

  Basil was both distraught and amused to see it. None of the soldiers serving now remembered how to build a sophisticated gallows with a trapdoor platform; the best they could put up was a simple pole and crossbeam from which a rope hung. The condemned would be fitted with the noose while sitting on a horse, then the horse would be taken away. The soldiers’ ignorance in the building of gallows spoke well of Roman’s peaceful rule, but bode evil for Basil. It meant he would die slowly from suffocation rather than quickly from a broken neck.

  Almost everyone in the palace had turned out to watch the spectacle. They filled the courtyard and walkways, and leaned out of palace windows and balconies. The buzz of their questions filled the air, as few knew who was to be punished for the Chatain’s disappearance. The palace gates were shut for the night, so no townspeople were present, and even the sentries had left their posts to observe the courtyard proceedings.

  Troyce rode up before the gallows and raised his hands, although there was already quiet around him. He proclaimed, “Because of treason against the Surchatain and the murder of the Chatain, this man Basil is sentenced to die by hanging. For betrayal and treason, these men Olynn and Sevter are sentenced likewise. Proceed to execute justice!” Astonished murmurings surfaced everywhere as soldiers took hold of Basil.

  Observing from a high palace window, one official turned to another. “The law says a man shall not be executed on the same day he is condemned, except by order of the Surchatain, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes,” said the other.

  “And Troyce has not legally been proclaimed Surchatain, has he?”

  “No.”

  “Well then—someone should stop them!” said the first.

  “Good!” said the second, his elder. “Will you go down and tell the army they must wait until morning to hang them?”

  The first said no more. Meanwhile, Basil was set on a horse, his hands tied, and he was led to the gallows.

  At that time a trumpet blast and shouts were heard faintly from outside the front gates, on the other side of the palace. “Someone is demanding entry,” remarked some observant folks.

  “It is the townspeople,” some others decided, and turned back to watch the noose being fitted around Basil’s neck.

  The shouts and trumpeting from beyond the gates intensified. “Ignore the distractions!” ordered Troyce, for the people were beginning to stir and look around.

  “Perhaps it’s the Surchatain returning,” someone said hopefully.

  “In the middle of the night? Don’t be stupid,” another answered. But a few of the soldiers slipped away to have a look from the sentry posts in the gates.

  “Have you any last words?” Troyce questioned Basil. The Counselor just stared at him mutely. “So be it.” Troyce rode away from the gallows, wheeled, and raised his hand. The people in the yard were torn between witnessing the hanging and attending to the increasing uproar at the gates.

  Troyce slashed his fist downward and a soldier pulled Basil’s horse away. He slipped from it, writhing on the rope. At that moment the soldiers who had gone to the gates came running back into the courtyard. “It is the Surchatain!” they yelled. “Surchatain Roman is at the gates! Come help us open the gates!” For it was a highly prized defensive feature of the gates that they could not be opened by fewer than ten men.

  “No! It’s a lie!” cried Troyce.

  An arrow whizzed through the air, neatly slicing the hanging rope. Basil fell to the ground, gasping and coughing. Sebastian stepped up with his bow and said, “No one’s to be hanged till we open the gates.”

  “Traitor! You set this up to gain control yourself!” Troyce accused him. Another soldier drew his sword on Sebastian and the army turned on itself.

  The handful of men who had gone to the gates ran madly among them as they fought, shaking them and insisting, “Stop, fools! The Surchatain is outside! Help us open the gates to him!” But in the heat and confusion, those who wanted to separate themselves from the fighting were unable.

  Then a crash rippled the air. The soldiers paused, looking in bewilderment toward the front gates. Another crash sounded, accompanied by the groaning and creaking of wood. Another crash, with the sound of splintering. The fighting subsided as those in the courtyard, stupefied, waited for the inevitable entrance of whoever was outside.

  On the final thrust, the heavy gates burst open, sagging between the iron and stone supports. An army poured in, knocking aside debris, as the spectators in the yard nervously clutched their weapons.

  Roman, clad in the shimmering brocade and silk, spurred into the midst of the gaping, silent crowd. He scanned them furiously, taking in the gallows, Troyce, and Basil, removing the noose from his neck. “Who is in rebellion, that you would not open the gates to me?” he shouted. “Let him challenge me to my face!”

  No one dared move right away, but the soldiers began looking at Troyce. Finding himself the object of increasing attention, he came forward and threw himself on the ground before Roman. “High Lord, we are in terrible difficulties without your leadership. There has been treachery among us, for the Counselor Basil, to whom you entrusted Westford, has murdered your son in an attempt to take power!”

  “How do you know this, Troyce?” Roman asked in a low, dangerous voice.

  A thousand people strained to watch as Troyce raised his face to the Surchatain, thinking quickly. He had told the men he had seen Basil take the child. As far as he knew, the babe and nursemaid were still in the forest somewhere. He cast a glance behind Roman and saw only soldiers. But when Troyce saw that Polonti Nihl sitting on his horse near Roman and smiling insolently, his mind was set.

  Troyce stood upright and declared, “I saw him take the babe and the nursemaid out of the palace. They have not been seen since.” Basil dropped his head with the resignation of the condemned. I will not escape again.

  Roman gestured to the side without turning around. Through the line of soldiers behind him came the carriage with Deirdre, Izana, Gusta and Ariel. Exclamations arose from the crowd.

  “Say again: Who took you from the palace, Gusta?” Roman asked in a loud voice, eyes on Troyce.

  “Lord Troyce,” she answered distinctly.

  One by one, faces turned to the administrator. “What have you to say, Troyce?” asked Roman.

  “I have committed no crime,” he said, defiantly lifting his chin. “My hands are clean.”

  Roman jerked his head, throbbing with anger. “Only because you were prevented from doing as you wished. You are such a thorough liar, I think you have deceived even yourself into believing you are innocent. But you have saved me some trouble,” he said, glancing ominously toward the gallows.

  “Troyce of Goerge,” Roman declared, “I charge you with treason and the attempted assassinations of the Chatain Ariel, his nursemaid Gusta, and the Counselor Basil. By my authority as Surchatain, I sentence you to die on the gallows you have built. Do you have anything to say in your defense?”

  “I have done nothing deserving of death!” sputtered Troyce.

  “Your own words have condemned you,” Roman replied.

  “I appeal to Surchataine Deirdre!” Troyce cried. Roman’s glare became fiery, but Deirdre sat stonily silent as she clutched her child to her, refusing the appeal.

  “Olynn.” Roman motioned to the Captain, who stepped out from between ashen soldiers, taking the rope they held. Olynn made Troyce mount the hanging horse and tied his hands behind him. Then he led the horse with its desperate rider to the gallows while Sevter replaced the rope.

  When Olynn put Troyce’s unwilling head through the noose he p
rotested, “You are about to murder a guiltless man!”

  “That’s what I kept trying to tell you,” Olynn said. “Now no one believes you, Troyce.”

  As the Captain secured the rope to the crossbeam, Nihl spurred up before the gallows. The administrator bit his lip. “Nihl, my friend—”

  “I consider you now paid back for the part you played in the death of Surchatain Galapos,” Nihl said. “Your heart never changed and you never regretted his murder. Your aim has always been to advance yourself, whatever the cost to anyone else. It is right that you have finally been exposed for what you are.”

  Troyce gazed at him, then shouted, “Drud! You are filth!”

  Hearing these last words as echoes from Tremelaine’s evil room, Roman lifted his hand and dropped it forcefully. Olynn slapped the horse on its haunches and it bolted. The crowd watched, tense and reserved, as Troyce’s accusations were silenced once for all.

  After sufficient time, Roman motioned for the body to be removed. Then he waved Basil forward from the crowd. “Counselor.”

  Uncertain as to what was coming, Basil limped up to Roman, still seated on Fidelis. Roman observed the rope burns on his neck and inquired, “Do you need the physician, Counselor?”

  “No, Surchatain,” he answered in a wavering croak. “Your appearance was most timely.” Then he opened his mouth to explain his failure, his lack of firmness in dealing with Troyce, his loss of the Chatain, and the ensuing chaos.

  But Roman forestalled him by asking, “Who else rebelled against you?”

  “Why—no one,” Basil replied, surprised.

  “They were going to hang you on Troyce’s word alone?” Roman asked in astonishment.

  “Well—” Basil faltered, looking back to Sevter for help.

  “It was such a strange situation, Surchatain,” Sevter interposed respectfully. “Troyce’s lies cast so much suspicion on everyone, no one could be sure who was telling the truth.”

  Roman looked in wonderment over the sheepish men. “Are you telling me no one thought to consult the written directives I left with Avelon?”