"Your Majesty," said the forest warden, kneeling before the King in the council chamber, "I have ridden far into Brigard disguised as a farmer and return with a harvest of grave news. Fergox Spearthrower is massing his armies all along our border. Reports from Felixholt, Niril, and Manford tell the same tale: soldiers are arriving from all over the Empire and digging in for the winter. It is likely they mean to make an assault on us come the spring thaw."
"We have feared this for some time," said King Lagan, glancing at the stern faces of his ministers gathered around him. "And we are prepared."
While trying to appear confident before his subjects, Lagan thought privately that his divisions, strung out in a thin line along the Brigardian border, were unlikely to be able to withstand this attack. If only the alliance had gone ahead, he would have a navy to defend his coasts and troops to spare for the border where the blow would fall first. But now, he had to prepare for an attack from the sea as well as by land.
"And, Sire, I bring other news," the warden continued, looking uncomfortable.
"Is it of my son?" Lagan asked eagerly, sitting forward.
"Yes, Sire. A merchant friendly to us in Felixholt told me that his royal highness had been seen. He is a guest of Fergox himself in the citadel."
"A prisoner, you mean?"
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"My informant was not certain. He only knew that Prince Ramil had been present at the testing of someone he called 'the Blue Crescent witch.' I think he meant the Fourth Crown Princess."
Lagan sat back. "Testing? What does that mean?"
"According to my man, she was denounced as a heretic, stripped of the symbols of her rank, and is now a penitent in the houses of the priesthood of Holin the Warmonger."
Lagan closed his eyes briefly, remembering the innocent face of the girl he had talked to on the terrace. He regretted now that he had suspected her.
She too was caught in Fergox's trap. But how had she got there and what part had his son played?
"And my son was present at this ceremony?"
"Apparently so, Sire."
"Willingly?"
"I do not know."
The councillors sat in silence while the news sank in. They all knew that Ramil had despised his intended bride, but to take her to Fergox for such treatment would be unforgivable. And how did that balance with the story that Ramil himself had been dragged to the Spearthrower's court?
"Your Majesty." Lord Usk was on his feet. "I beg leave to go in search of Prince Ramil."
"And I," added Hortlan and Yendral.
Lagan sighed. He knew how they felt. If he did not have to attend to the affairs of the nation, he would jump on a horse and go and find his boy himself.
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"I understand your concern, my lords. God knows, I feel it too, but I need all my young warriors with me at this time. An army stands between us and Rami! if the reports are correct. You would be riding to your deaths. Your duty now lies with the men of your houses and lands. We will soon have a fight on our hands; every one of you has a part to play in defending Gerfal."
"But, Sire!" protested Usk.
Lagan raised his hand. "I appreciate your zeal for my son but there is nothing you can do. I will not believe he stays of his own free choice: he is a prisoner of war. I fear we will hear all too soon Fergox's conditions for his release."
"What of the Blue Crescent delegation, Your Majesty?" asked Lord Taris.
"Should we tell them this news?"
King Lagan tapped his fingers on the arm of his throne. He was facing war with the most powerful naval empire in the world all because of a
misunderstanding. He needed some brilliant stroke to avoid it, but what?
Some gesture of good faith, a pledge of his son's honor. (Ramil had to be innocent, he had to be!)
"I have little doubt that the Blue Crescent will have their own informants in Spearthrower's court. They will hear this news eventually. Far better if we show our friendly intentions by revealing it now. Summon the delegates and--" Lagan ran his hand across his brow, weary and grief-stricken. It was hard to think like a king when he was full of the worries of a father "--wake the Princess Briony. I will require her to be present at our meeting with the delegates."
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An hour later, the Etiquette Mistress and Chief Priest were sitting opposite the King. A tousle-haired princess perched on his knee, half asleep, a robe over her nightgown and her favorite doll on her lap. Lagan hugged her fiercely.
"You'll have to trust me, Briony," he said in a low voice. "You'll come to no harm."
Briony, who hadn't been worried before, now felt alarmed. She stared anxiously at the strangers opposite, wondering what was going on.
At a sign from the King, Lord Taris presented the delegation with a copy of the written report by the Gerfalian spies. Lagan gave them a chance to read it, then spoke.
"You will see that our information is far from complete."
"Your information," snapped the Etiquette Mistress, incandescent with rage,
"says that your son witnessed this sacrilege but did nothing to prevent it!"
"What could he do, a prisoner himself?" Lagan asked, keeping his tone even.
"We do not know that he is a captive!" said the priest angrily. "Your spies"
reports are at odds. Prince Ramil made no secret that he disliked this union.
How do you know that he did not plan this?"
"I trust my son." As Lagan pronounced his conviction, he recalled Ramil's words said in anger only a few weeks ago. Like a cloud shifting from the face of the sun, he felt his private doubts dispel. Ramil could be foolish and downright annoying, but he wasn't so base
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as to plot against the Princess and the wishes of his own father. "And as a proof of this trust, I offer you my only remaining child, the Princess Briony, to be a pledge of her brother's honor."
"Father!" exclaimed Briony, squeezing his arm in shock.
Lagan held her small hand reassuringly. "I entrust her to you in the knowledge that you will treat her as one of your own until such time as the Princess Taoshira is restored to you or the full truth of these terrible events is revealed."
The Blue Crescent delegation were visibly taken aback by the magnitude of the gesture on the part of the Gerfalians. After a brief whispered exchange, the Etiquette Mistress rose and bowed.
"We accept that the father has had no part in the affront to our nation, but it remains to be seen whether the son lives up to his sire's greatness," she said. "We will treat the Princess Briony with all the honor that should now be shown to the Princess Taoshira but is denied her; your daughter will receive comfort and freedom while our beloved Crown Princess receives taunts and a prison cell. Come, Your Highness." She held out a hand to the little girl; Lagan pushed Briony gently off his knee. "In view of the change in our circumstances, we will no longer trespass on the hospitality of your court but accommodate ourselves aboard our own vessels."
The Blue Crescent delegation swept out, carrying a scared little princess with them. Lagan sat stony faced
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as his councillors whispered among themselves. He had spent both his children now in the service of his country and had nothing left. If this did not stop the war with the Westerners, then he could only fight with small hope of survival.
Tashi woke the morning after Ramil's visit feeling stronger. Tucking the paper models in the wide pockets of her black robe, she performed her rituals, then paced the cell to keep the cold at bay. After her public trial, she hoped that the priests would leave her alone to private contemplation. She could bear the incarceration, cold and comfortless though it was, as long as she did not have to go through further humiliation in front of other people.
Her hopes were dashed when a young priest came to fetch her.
"You are expected to attend morning worship in the temple," he announced, keeping his eyes averted as if he thought she would bewitch him with a look.
; "But I do not worship your god," Tashi replied, her back to him as she leant her forehead against the wall for comfort, finding the stone more sympathetic than his hostile looks.
"You will come." He nodded to the temple guards who stepped into the cell.
They surrounded her, swords pointing to her throat.
Brimming with impotent fury, Tashi walked into the corridor. The priest led her out of the crypt and into
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the temple itself. She'd had no chance to look at it properly when she had been brought this way the day before; now she saw that a once plain and simple building had been redecorated in honor of the new god of the Empire.
Bright frescoes of war covered the walls, gleaming with scarlet, gold, and black. The altar shone with the polished metal of the shields and weapons of fallen foes. A huge icon of Holin hung over the table, draped in swathes of red cloth. The priest directed Tashi to kneel on the stone floor in front of the congregation, who were seated in relative comfort on wooden benches. Her anger had burned itself out and was now replaced by fear, as she wondered what new humiliation they had in store for her. Keeping her eyes lowered, she sensed the presence of hundreds of people, all gathered eagerly for the service. The front rows were occupied by the rich, wrapped in furs and velvet against the chill air. Fergox would doubtless be somewhere close, sitting at the front in the place of honor. Her neck flushed as she remembered what Ramil had said about the man wanting to wed her. If this was how Fergox wooed his wives, then marriage to him was worse than any prison sentence.
A cymbal clashed and a drum began to beat. The senior priests filed in bearing the weapons of their god: swords, pikes, bows, axes, spiked maces.
Junior acolytes followed, clashing wooden sticks together in time with the drum. The congregation rose to its feet, but Tashi remained kneeling, her hands clasped loosely in her lap. In unison, the people began to chant the hymn of
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praise to Holin. She could hear Fergox's voice booming the words out behind her.
"Praise to the war god, glorious in victory,
Crushing his enemies all over the world,
We offer ourselves in perfect obedience,
Spilling our heart's blood and bending our knees."
The chief priest, a withered-looking man with a pinched, thin face, halted behind the altar and raised his arms, displaying hundreds of tiny white scars.
He took a knife and in the sight of everyone made a shallow cut on his forearm.
"Honor the Warmonger!" he cried.
"All honor to his name," responded the congregation.
Tashi watched in fascination as he let the blood drip onto the white cloth spread out on the table. He then chose two weapons from the altar and handed them to a pair of priests waiting eagerly on either side of the table.
He gave one the mace, the other a sword. Neither was given a shield. The two men turned to face the congregation. Tashi could see the steel caps on their boots.
"See how we fight for Holin!" they shouted in unison.
To Tashi's horror, they then swung at each other, sword angling down at the knees of the opponent, the mace bearer going for the head. The combat was only paces away from her. She could feel the rush of air as weapons slashed and robes whisked. The priests dodged skillfully; so far no one had landed a blow. Tashi began to hope that this was just an elaborate 128
dance pattern to celebrate battle without causing injury, but then the mace bearer crashed his weapon into the skull of the swordsman, who had not moved quickly enough. Tashi flinched as bone split and she was sprayed with a mist of blood. The victim fell onto the floor in front of her, so close she could have touched his head. The victor yanked out the mace to the applause of the audience. He shook it in the air and then presented it to the chief priest to take pride of place on the altar. The dead man was left lying where he fell. Tashi was shaking, sure she was about to vomit; she inched back to avoid the blood pooling on the steps until she felt a firm pressure on her neck. It was Fergox. He had risen and was now standing behind her.
"Stay where you are!" he ordered.
Stooping down, he dabbled his index finger in the blood, then wiped it on the forehead of the victorious priest who knelt before him to receive the mark of honor. Seeing Tashi's look of horror, Fergox smiled, reached out and smeared some on her cheek. Revolted, she made to wipe it away.
"Leave it!" he said, slapping her hand down. "Blood spilt bravely is better than white paint of falsehood." Leaning closer, enjoying her fear of him, he slowly daubed her other cheek.
Tashi trembled, close to tears, as Fergox watched her reaction with a mocking expression. She could feel the blood drying on her cheek, pulling on the skin, but she dare not touch it.
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Fergox turned from her and raised the victorious priest to his feet. He then lifted the man's fist in a punch of triumph.
"See how we fight and die for Holin!" Fergox shouted.
The crowd cheered and the priests struck up a chant.
"Give your offerings of blood, gold, and service," the chief priest cried in ecstasy.
The priests divided into two columns and began moving among the people with bowls. Most of the congregation poured out the contents of their purses, but some of the most zealous adherents sliced their hands with a knife and let the blood fall into the basins, prompting applause from the onlookers. As the priests brought the offerings to the altar, one paused by Tashi and held out his bowl. Eyes on her clenched fists, she shook her head, and he continued on to the front without a word.
The rest of the service seemed interminable to Tashi as she tried to regain some control over herself, some calm to counterbalance the panic and revulsion she felt. Songs were sung to the accompaniment of drums and blaring horns; a long recitation of the martial virtues expected of the perfect warrior was read out by a temple guard; the chief priest spoke at great length about the evils of foreign gods and the superiority of Holin. All Tashi could see was the dead man sprawled before her, receiving no honor because he had committed the sin of being beaten.
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Finally, at the end of the ceremony, the chief priest held up a hand for silence.
"Now we come to the Choice. One here among us has followed the demon goddess all her life but today, Holin, in his mercy, has given her this chance of salvation." He nodded to two assistants. They stood before Tashi, the one on the right hand holding warm clothes and a loaf of bread, on the left, a birch rod. "Choose service to Holin and your trials will be over; refuse and your mortification will continue until you are cleansed of your errors." He paused, then asked, "Penitent, who is the Supreme God?"
Silence fell in the temple. Tashi closed her eyes, wondering if her voice had fled. She had to say something.
"I am the Mother's servant." Her voice was surprisingly loud in the hushed temple.
"Blasphemy!" shrieked the priest. The crowd murmured and hissed at the kneeling figure in her black robes. "Take the witch back to her cell!" he ordered.
Two guards seized Tashi roughly under her arms and towed her back the way she had come. Behind her, the chanting began again as the priests hurried to purify the temple after the pollution caused by her words.
Once back in her cell, Tashi dashed to her water jug and rubbed frantically at her bloodied cheeks. She felt dirty long after she had cleaned the marks off.
Please, she begged the Goddess, please may they leave me in peace!
She was not to get her wish. The chief priest and his
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entourage followed on the completion of the service. He bore the birch rod in his hands, his expression unforgiving. Tashi backed against the wall, feeling the priests' hostility like a physical blow as they crowded into her small room.
The chief priest curled his lips in disgust and threw the rod at her feet.
"You've chosen the way of discipline. You will learn to fight and submit as becomes a warrior of Holin."
Tashi held out her empt
y hands. "My religion is one of peace. I will not fight."
He ignored her. "Your trainer will remain with you. Everyone fights eventually."
With a swirl of red robes, he was gone, leaving a single priest behind.
Glancing up at him fearfully, Tashi saw that it was the man who had so efficiently wielded the mace to kill his opponent. He now wore a robe fastened with a linked belt and a breastplate made of gold, spoils of his victory and a sign that he had graduated to the highest level of warrior-craft.
About fifty years old, he had the scarred face and hands of a professional soldier. He regarded his pupil for a long silent moment then pointed to the rod.
"Pick it up," he ordered, drawing from the fold of his robes a similar instrument.
Having no idea what to expect, Tashi scooped the rod up from the floor. She had decided to obey any order that did not conflict with her principles.
"Penitent, all Holin's followers must learn to fight for him and to submit to him as a good soldier does to his commander. You will quickly feel the penalty of 132
refusing an order from me, your master, if you refuse to give battle when told to do so. Therefore, I say, 'Fight!'"
The warrior-priest launched himself at her, swinging the rod down in an arc like a sword slash. Instinctively, Tashi raised her arms across her face. The blow whipped across the back of her hands. She yelped.
The priest gave a cold smile. "I think you understand now. I will keep on attacking until you fight back." He raised his rod again, expecting her to launch her counter-strike.
"I will not fight for your god," Tashi retorted, turning quickly so that the next blow fell on her back. The sting made her gasp.
"That is blasphemy." The man bent the rod in his hands, his eyes glittering with battle-fire. "The Warmonger wants strength and blood from his followers, not weakness and cowardice."
"Then I won't follow him."
The third blow hit her ribs with a crack.
"You must fight back or I will beat you until I have no more strength to raise my arm."
Tashi believed him, but either she let him break her body or crush her will.
She took a step forward, held her rod between her two hands and snapped it over her knee. She threw the pieces to the ground.
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