The Legend of Broken

by Caleb Carr

  It is Baster-kin who answers; but the Merchant Lord’s tone has changed, now. Gone are the attempts to challenge Korsar, to almost bully the yantek into more obedient and more pious behavior. In place of these efforts is resignation: confident resignation, to be sure, yet irritated confidence, as well, as if Fate has made its decision, and both men must carry out the irksome business of accepting it. And in this, Baster-kin and Korsar are not so different; yet each is a man of importance, and their words must be spoken, if only that they may be recorded by the scribe.

  “A god of unsurpassed wisdom, Yantek,” Baster-kin replies to Korsar’s last demand. “A god whose design was long ago revealed so clearly that even the heathen Oxmontrot could not deny it, choosing instead to allow Kafran law to become supreme, even as he himself kept the old faith. Or do you not remember that the Mad King began the banishments?”

  Korsar’s gaze becomes hateful. “Yes, that’s how you bend all facts to your purpose, isn’t it, my lord? You know as well as I do that Oxmontrot used the banishments as a practical tool to strengthen his kingdom. But he gave his life, as you have said, to the old faith—”

  “He did not give his life to anything, Yantek,” says Baster-kin. “His life was taken, because it was of no more use—he could not see divinity when it was before his face, because his mind was so broken by heathen idiocies. The banishments were never meant simply to make this kingdom strong—they were a sacred gift, granted in the hope that Broken would remain powerful. They were an instrument, not of survival, but of purification, a sacred method to root out imperfections in the people, to keep them strong, in body, in mind—”

  “And in purse—I know the litany, my lord,” Korsar says, with rising anger. But his disdainful demeanor is interrupted when he sees the Layzin’s head fall back into his hands, as if it has once again attained insupportable weight. “But it was a sin, Eminence,” the yantek continues, with more urgency than pride. “I know this. Whatever else the God-King Thedric called the continuation of the banishments, it was a sin against Kafra, against humanity! To go on dooming creatures like ourselves, simply because of imperfections of the body and mind—to destroy families—when the city and kingdom were already secure …” Korsar takes several steps toward the walkway up to the dais, at which the priests rush quickly to guard the thing, ready to withdraw it instantly if they must. The soldiers of the Guard start again in Korsar’s direction; but this time, Baster-kin himself stops them, realizing, it seems (as does Arnem himself), that every word the old soldier says only ensures his doom more certainly “But they survived the sin,” Korsar says eagerly, still speaking to the Layzin, who will not look up. “Those forsaken devils, dwarfish, sickly, mad, many of them still children—out there where death was all around and never merciful—enough of them survived to form a tribe and make a life, wretched as it was. As it is. And now, because of insatiable greed and ungovernable pride, Eminence, you would allow the Merchants’ Council to take even that away from them?” Korsar turns on Baster-kin. “Well, I will have none of it—no, my lord, I say I will have none of your fanciful, murderous plots!”

  At these words, the Layzin looks up and speaks, his voice so empty of emotion as to seem ghostly: “Do you say the poisoning attempt is a fabrication?”

  “I do!” At the words, the Layzin clutches the arms of his golden seat tightly, anger casting a pall over his features. But the yantek will not be dissuaded by scowling, now that he has traveled so far down the path of blasphemy. “I’ve spent my life defending this kingdom, Eminence—I’ve killed more Bane than my noble Lord Baster-kin has ever seen. And I say that they are not a people capable of such audacity—though, Kafra knows, they should be. I say it before you all—this is merely a contrivance to establish our control over the Wood, and by doing so to allow our merchants to bring even more precious goods out of the wilderness than the Bane can carry on their small backs!”

  For a moment, no one in the Sacristy is capable of speech. Arnem himself is concerned with somehow coaxing his chest to take in air, and with finding something upon which to steady himself. He is aware of what has happened, of the grievousness of Korsar’s statements; but he cannot make sense of the scene, cannot grasp the reality of this moment that will shortly demand from him greater participation.

  In the silence, the Grand Layzin’s face slowly softens, the rage becoming, once again, an acknowledgment of tragedy. Nor is there anything in his expression that might admit satisfaction at the exposure of a traitor; there is only regret clearly embodied in his next words:

  “Yantek Korsar, I do not know if madness or treachery has driven you to this outburst—your life and your service speak against either quality, yet what else are we to think? In the name of that life and that service, however, I offer you a final opportunity to recant your outrageous statements, and mitigate the punishment that must befall you.”

  But Korsar’s clear blue eyes are illuminated by defiance. “Thank you, Eminence,” he says, genuinely but unrepentantly. “I will stand by my words. Baster-kin and the Merchants’ Council have sent enough warriors to die in the cause of filling their coffers. There must be an end. Make peace with the Bane, let them keep the Wood. Let us continue to trade with them, but on terms, if not of friendship, then at least of respect. It is little enough to offer, considering what we have done to them. But I know you will refuse any such idea. And so,” placing his hands behind his back, Korsar plants his feet, “I am ready, Eminence, to face exile. No doubt Lord Baster-kin would like to escort me to the Wood himself.”

  Baster-kin, the Layzin, and Arnem react to these words in unison, each displaying a different kind of shock: but all are genuine. In Arnem, the stunning blow is deepened by sorrow; in the Layzin, it is accented by bewilderment; and in Baster-kin, the effect of the yantek’s words is mitigated by something like pity.

  “Exile?” the latter says. “Do you imagine exile could be considered an appropriate punishment for challenging the basis of our society?”

  For the first time, Korsar exhibits surprise: “My lord? Banishment is the ordained punishment for sedition, it has always been—”

  “For the weak-minded, or mere drunkards, yes,” Baster-kin continues, still astonished. “Or for any other hapless fools in the Fifth District. But a man of your standing cannot be granted a punishment equal to that of a child with a withered leg—your position demands that an example be made of you, an example that will serve as a warning to any who might be swayed by your calumnies, and tempted to repeat them. Did you not at least consider that before you indulged in this insanity?” The Merchant Lord waits for an answer; but, receiving none, he holds his arms high and then drops them in resignation, shaking his head. “For you, Yantek Korsar, there can only be the Halap-stahla …”

  A low commotion runs through the soldiers and the priests in the Sacristy, while Korsar falls as if struck into a nearby chair. For the first time, Arnem starts toward him—but years of discipline and the yantek’s own orders pull the commander of the Talons back again. Whatever his bewilderment and horror, Arnem knows that his friend has spoken nearly unprecedented treason against Broken, against the God-King and Kafra, against all that he once valued and that they both have spent their lives defending. But why? the sentek demands of himself. Why now? What has driven him to do it? And, most terrible thought of all: Is Korsar the liar of whom Visimar spoke?

  “The Halap-stahla,” Korsar breathes at length, the flame gone from his eyes and real fear in his voice. “But—not since Caliphestros—”

  “Not since Caliphestros has there been such treachery,” Baster-kin declares, still astounded at the yantek’s failure to foresee the consequences of his own actions.

  “The higher the position, the greater the betrayal,” the Layzin adds mournfully. “And the God-King has entrusted few in this kingdom with as much power as it has been your privilege to exercise.”

  Arnem’s heart is near to bursting, as he watches Korsar’s body begin to tremble. The motion is slight
, at first, but becomes ever more violent as he plainly imagines the fate that he has brought down upon himself. Yet then he calms, suddenly and strangely, and turns to Arnem, managing a half-smile of trust and affection, as if to tell the younger man that he has done well to control himself, and must continue to do so, for the sake of both Sixt’s life and Korsar’s own composure; then, just as quickly, the smile vanishes, although the yantek does grunt another of the humorless laughs that have punctuated his conversation throughout the evening.

  “Well, Baster-kin,” he says, remaining seated. “I suppose you think this puts an end to it. But you are wrong, great lord …” Slowly, Korsar drags his heavy, agèd frame from the chair, to stand once more in defiance. “Oh, you may mutilate me all you wish, and call it religion—but what I have said will remain true. You are leading this great kingdom to disaster, you are exposing its guts to the blades of all the tribes that surround us; and if Kafra does not punish you, there will be another god to attend to it.”

  “Yantek Korsar!” The Grand Layzin stands suddenly, holding an arm out, no longer in outrage, but in warning; and in his voice, a corresponding plea is plain: “Your crime is sufficient—I beg you not to endanger your life in the next world through further sacrilege in this one.” The Layzin then looks down the dark length of the Sacristy. “Linnet!” the Layzin calls. At this, all the soldiers of Baster-kin’s Guard move forward behind the commander of their detachment. “I almost dread to say it—however, you must take Yantek Korsar away. With dispatch.”

  “It must be in chains,” Lord Baster-kin declares, with neither venom nor satisfaction, but a perfunctory air of duty. His instruction has been anticipated, for one of the shaven priests now produces a heavy set of manacles from under his robe, and lofts them over the reflecting pool to the linnet of the Guard, who, as they crash to the floor before him, appears a different man than the insubordinate mass of conceit who escorted Korsar and Arnem to the Temple. With a nod, Baster-kin directs the hesitant linnet to put the manacles on Korsar’s wrists and ankles, and make a mere prisoner of the most distinguished soldier in Broken: small wonder that the linnet—a man unfamiliar with momentous events—finds that his own hands tremble as he complies.

  “Wake the commander of my Guard,” the Merchant Lord tells the linnet. “Herwald Korsar is no longer to be addressed by the rank of yantek. He will be held in irons until dawn, when he will be taken to the edge of the Wood for the ritual of the Halap-stahla.”

  “No.” The Layzin’s voice is painfully dry. “In Kafra’s name, my lord, let us not wait for dawn. My own priests will follow behind your men, when they have collected the sacred instruments. Let all be in place for the ceremony at the edge of the Wood, when the sun rises—we must not risk trouble inside the city, once word spreads.”

  Lord Baster-kin bows in response. “Wise, Eminence, as always.” He turns to his soldiers. “Very well—you have your orders, Linnet. Rouse your commander, and have him assemble a ritual detachment. Take the prisoner to the southeastern gate, to await the sacred party.”

  With a suddenness that strikes horror into Arnem, the soldiers begin ushering the yantek—nay, no longer yantek, now, only the agèd prisoner Herwald Korsar!—toward the Sacristy’s arched doorway. One Guardsman thoughtlessly takes Korsar’s arm as they go, but at a look from the still-powerful warrior the young soldier relents, and forms, along with his fellows, a close but respectful ring around the prisoner.

  Arnem’s self-control is no longer sustainable: the emotions that have been battling within him have caused a glistening band to form on his brow, and his vision grows blurred. He is aware that this is the last time he will see Korsar; and he feels a violent urge to bid his oldest comrade farewell, if only to assure the condemned man that they will meet again. Of this Arnem is certain, for the one article of faith that every warrior of every army that he has ever encountered has shared—no matter their specific gods—is the notion of a great hall in the next world where this reality’s bravest warriors will meet once more. Yet Arnem is still of this world, an Earthly soldier not yet fallen; and so, to his own amazement, the habits of duty keep his feet immobile, and his mouth closed. He finds himself beseeching Kafra to allow Korsar, who is now past redemption, to give some sign—

  And his prayer does not go unanswered. Halfway to the arched doorway, Yantek Korsar halts, and his guards do likewise. The old soldier turns around, facing Baster-kin and the Layzin once more, and the head he has held so proudly throughout this ordeal drops forward in respect.

  “Eminence—my lord—will you allow me to take leave of Sentek Arnem, who must take my place at the head of Broken’s army?”

  Baster-kin strides to the table on the dais, and affects to busy himself with papers. “You can have no further interest in the business of Broken’s army, Herwald Korsar. Nor may you—”

  “My lord.” It is the Layzin, his weary voice still compassionate. “How many scars of Bane attacks do you bear? Or do I? In the name of the man he was—we shall grant the prisoner this small request.” And with a simple gesture of the supple hand that wears the blue-stoned ring, the Layzin tells the Guard to allow Korsar to approach Arnem.

  “But you must take his sword,” Baster-kin orders, “and do not allow close contact.” As the linnet of the Guard draws Korsar’s raiding sword, Arnem goes toward the prisoner, stopping when he hears:

  “Close enough, Sentek.” It is Baster-kin again. “Eminence, there must be no confidences exchanged.” The Layzin nods, acknowledging the remark with as much muted irritation as agreement.

  From some ten feet away, then, Arnem and Korsar must end a friendship that has been rooted in far more than friendship, a bond in which far more has been shared than mere blood. Arnem finds that words elude him, but Korsar is not so impaired:

  “I beseech you—heed me, Sixt, it is vital.” Arnem takes two steps closer to the prisoner, and inclines his head to listen to Korsar more carefully: “This is your war, now, Sixt—and it may be a calamitous one. You will have to fight it within the Wood, for the Bane will not come out to meet you on the Plain. Do not oblige them too soon—do not fight upon their ground until you are sure our men know what such a fight requires. Do you understand? Do not be bullied into it—you have been there, you know what the Wood can do to men. Beware it, Sixt …”

  “Enough!” Baster-kin calls out, starting back down the walkway over the reflecting pool. “Sentek—this man is no longer your superior, you must not discuss military operations with him.”

  The Layzin can only lift his hands and declare: “Take him away, all of you—this is too much to bear …”

  As the shaven priests attend the distraught Layzin, Baster-kin gives his men a decisive wave of his arm, ordering them to remove their prisoner with haste. Now fully appreciative of the changed world in which they find themselves, two of the Guardsmen take rough hold of Korsar’s arms, while their linnet prods him toward the door.

  But Korsar will not be silenced: “Remember that, if you remember nothing else, Sixt: beware the Wood—beware the Wood …!”

  And then he is gone. Arnem, finally unable to contain the multitude of passions that burn up through his throat, takes one step to the doorway, unable to stop himself from weakly calling out “Yantek!” as burning tears cloud his vision. Aware of this last fact, suddenly, and hearing, in the new silence of the chamber, the rushing sounds of his surging blood and his own labored breathing, he turns away and works hard to regain his self-control. Daring only one glance up, his still-cloudy vision settles on the face of the Grand Layzin, who, through his own deep sorrow, manages the beginnings of a comforting smile, and inclines his gracious head as if to tell Arnem that he appreciates the terribleness of the moment, and does not fault the sentek for his reaction; and, finally, in those near-sacred eyes, there is an extraordinary reassurance that life in the kingdom will continue, and that all will, somehow, be well.

  The sentek starts when he feels a hand on his shoulder; and he starts again when he
turns to find Baster-kin, who is a good inch taller than Arnem, grasping the sentek’s shoulder so tightly that Arnem can feel his fingers through the thick shoulder panels of his leather armor.

  “Sentek Arnem,” Baster-kin says, in a tone that Arnem has never heard this man use before; a tone he would, if speaking of anyone else, call sympathetic. “Come with me, eh? We have much to prepare, and little time. I know how deeply this business has cut into you. But you are a soldier of Broken, and the safety of the God-King and his realm rest with you now: for reasons, the complexity of which you cannot suspect.”

  It is a bewildering statement; and hoping for guidance, Arnem looks past the Merchant Lord to the Layzin. But His Eminence—overwhelmed, at last, by the emotion of the occasion—is being guided by the two priests, along with the Wife of Kafra (who has reappeared without announcement), toward and through one of the doorways that lead to adjoining chambers.

  Baster-kin’s eyes, too, follow the Layzin out of the Sacristy; and when he and Arnem are left alone, the Merchant Lord confides, “He has been working himself to exhaustion over this business—nobly so, more than nobly, but he must take care, and rely on the rest of us to do more than he is accustomed to allowing.” Turning once more to the sentek, Basterkin declares, “To do so, however, he must be presented with evidence that we are fulfilling the momentous duties with which we have been tasked—and for you to understand your portion of those labors, Sentek Arnem, I would have you come with me to the Merchants’ Hall. We must be sure of your orders, and of what forces you will require; but above all, I must be sure that you understand why this war must be fought.”