The Legend of Broken

by Caleb Carr

  But now, as the Layzin’s mind inevitably turns to thoughts of the departure, earlier, of five hundred of the city’s finest young men to attend to a problem that the Layzin himself knows to transcend that of the Bane, the exhausted high priest finds himself rising to close one set of the gossamer drapes that hang on the veranda; finds himself, strangely, obscuring his view of the Inner City and the Lake of a Dying Moon, and then taking his seat again, to stare at the long avenue down which those five hundred nearly perfect men—commanded by an officer of, if not perfect breeding, at least perfect loyalty—marched on their way out of the city.

  And, thinking of all these things, the Layzin sighs …

  He is still dressed in his ceremonial robes, which are of the softest white cotton available to Broken traders; and he sips the sweet white wine made from grapes native to the valley of the Meloderna. Below him, he can hear the frequent laughter of the Wives and the other priestesses, which should be a perfect accompaniment to the beautiful spring evening. But then, as he looks to the right of the Celestial Way and at the gates of the Inner City (the walls of which enclose no fewer than forty ackars), he spies detachments of Lord Baster-kin’s Guard changing their watch; and the pleasure of the roses and the laughter fades. Yet all is being done that can be done, that is certain, he tries to tell himself; and then the nagging doubt: But will it prove enough …?

  To his right, the gossamer drapes catch the sharpening golden light of the setting spring sun: that same light that entranced so many Layzins before him. The drapes diffuse the glare, in much the same way that the wine begins to calm the Layzin’s soul; and a light breeze buffets the fabric ever so slightly, then does the same to similar hangings that cover the arched doorway to his bedchamber. Suddenly, through these last drapes, the Layzin sees the silhouette of a graceful servant approaching. He silently prays for the servant to bring no new reports, no new rumblings of still more troubles in the farthest reaches of the kingdom, and, above all, no word of still more poisonings—indeed, the Layzin would be pleased with no message at all.

  But he knows that it cannot be so: not at this moment in the life of the kingdom. Thus he is unsurprised when the youth—some seventeen years of age, with a powerful body plainly visible through his own very sheer white robes—delicately steps out onto the veranda, made timid by the thought of disturbing his master.

  “It’s all right, Entenne,” the Layzin says softly. “I am not sleeping.”

  “Thank you, master,” the youth Entenne says. “Her blessedness, the First Wife of Kafra, has returned from Davon Wood.”

  “Ah.” The Layzin sets down his goblet, believing his prayers for good news to have been answered. “Excellent.”

  The youth wrings his hands in distress. “Apparently there was an—an encounter, master. Of which she can best tell you, I am certain.”

  The Layzin appears pained. “All right. Then let her enter.”

  The youth slips from the veranda as silently as he entered it; and in moments a young woman with a long, striking sweep of black hair and brilliant green eyes enters. She wears a robe of black edged in red velvet, and moves with confident strides toward the Layzin, her remarkably fit legs appearing through long slits in the robe. Kneeling, she takes the Layzin’s ring hand when it is offered, and kisses the pale blue stone, which appears all the paler under the brilliance of her green eyes. She kisses the stone a second, then a third time, after which she holds the hand tightly to her neck.

  “Master. I have succeeded. In the name of the God-King, and for his sake. The animal is within the palace. The children are outside.”

  The Layzin leans down to her. “And this ‘encounter,’ Alandra …?”

  The woman looks up at him, smiling yet momentarily concerned. “A party of Bane foragers, Eminence. Before their Horn had sounded. No harm was done—I believe they suspected sorcery.”

  The Layzin cups the woman’s chin, admiring its perfect angle and size. “And would they have been so very wrong? I sometimes wonder …” He stands. “The animal is for tonight. Saylal is most anxious. And the children—their parents agreed?”

  “Yes, Eminence. It was only a matter of money.”

  “And what are the ages?”

  “Twelve years the boy, eleven the girl.”

  “Ideal. We must prepare them at once. The others …” The Layzin looks at the guards before the Inner City gates once more: “The others are dying more quickly than we can dispose of them … And it grows harder to greet those who replace them, knowing …” He rouses himself. “But it must be done—and so bring them to me, Alandra …”

  The woman departs; and for several disconcerting moments, the Layzin tries, with every ounce of strength, to continue looking out over the city; anywhere, save west, at—

  The woman reappears, this time accompanied by two children, who wear clothes of a rough fabric. They are fair-haired, with light young eyes that peer out from pale faces in wonder and fear. Guided by the woman, they approach the Layzin, who smiles gently at them.

  “Do you know why you are here, children?” he says. Both the boy and the girl shake their heads, and the Layzin laughs quietly. “Your family has given you in service to the God-King Saylal. What that means is very simple—” The Layzin glances up when he hears the musical rattle of glass, and sees the woman Alandra within the bedchamber, preparing two deep blue glasses with lemon water, the new granulated crystals known as sukkar (for a taste of which nearly all children, and many an adult, will do almost anything), and finally a third ingredient, contained in a glass vial. The Layzin looks at the children again. “Whatever you are told to do, you must obey, with pleasure when you can, but above all without question—to doubt is to risk your souls, and those of your families. Kafra rejoices in the prosperity of the God-King, and the God-King delights in the obedience of his servants. Here—drink this …”

  The Layzin takes the two glasses from Alandra, and hands one to each child. They drink cautiously, at first, then eagerly, when they taste the sweet liquid. “Good,” the Layzin pronounces. “Very good. Now—” Tenderly, the Layzin kisses each child on the forehead. “Go along with your mistress,” he whispers. “And remember—obey, always.”

  Looking more confused than they did on entering—but also undisturbed, now, by that confusion—the children follow the First Wife of Kafra out of the room.

  “Entenne?” the Layzin calls softly; and the youthful servant reappears. “Run to the home of Lord Baster-kin. Say to him that I am unwell, after the exertions of the day, and will not be able to attend his dinner. Express my apologies.”

  Entenne nods, and goes down on one knee. “Of course, Eminence,” he says, kissing his master’s ring and departing quickly.

  The Layzin then reclines upon one of his sofas, grimly determined to enjoy the remainder of the sunset. He has suddenly realized that much of his disquiet, this evening, has been most immediately caused by Lord Baster-kin’s characteristically relentless insistence that the matter of Sentek Arnem’s son entering the sacred service be pressed upon the great soldier’s wife at once. If you feel so strongly about the matter, the Layzin had finally replied to Baster-kin earlier in the evening, why not tend to it yourself?

  He might have known it would be just the sort of commission that would delight the Merchant Lord …

  Several additional moments of similarly irritating ruminations continue to give the Layzin scant relief; and his mood does not truly improve until he catches sight of the youth Entenne departing the House of the Wives and moving onto the near-empty Celestial Way. The pleasant image of his favorite servant setting off at a run, southeast into the wealthiest residential section of the First District, prompts the Layzin to marvel, as he so often has, at the power and grace of Entenne’s long, muscular legs; and all thoughts of Lord Baster-kin’s aggressively pious preoccupations (which are no doubt patriotic and faithful, at heart, the Layzin eventually decides) dissipate, as the herald vanishes from view. His Eminence then allows himself to r
ecline more fully and rest more completely, as the dusty golden light that fills the city at this peaceful, divine hour slowly begins to give way to equally serene nightfall; and he allows himself to hope—even to believe—that all in Broken will yet be well, despite the shrouded ills that beset the entirety of the kingdom, from the depths of the seemingly serene Lake of a Dying Moon behind the Inner City walls to the farthest towns and villages in the Meloderna valley, into which the loyal soldiers of the God-King are even now making their way. All shall be well, all shall be well, the Layzin muses; until he finds that, in his desperate desire to believe the statement, he is whispering it aloud …

  Isadora Arnem’s children bring her signs of a deadly mystery, one that only she may be able to understand—and put to use …

  QUIETLY GAZING from one of the tall, open windows of the sitting room that overlooks the unique garden of her family’s home, Isadora Arnem appears to be both keeping watch over her children, who have gathered about the stream in their walled wilderness, and preparing to attend to several of the vital trivialities of a mother’s existence: sewing, mending, settling household accounts, and writing letters. And, were her husband merely on duty in the Fourth District, or had Sixt left the city on some trivial military matter, such would doubtless be the sorts of activities with which Lady Arnem’s mind and hands would now, in fact, be preoccupied. But this is early evening on the day following the departure of the Talons from the city, and the commencement of their campaign against the Bane in Davon Wood has complicated the affairs of Sixt’s family ominously: for Isadora has already received written inquiries from Lord Baster-kin, expressing the Grand Layzin’s desire to know when the priests of Kafra may expect to receive Dalin Arnem as one of their acolytes …

  Isadora had not been so foolish as to believe that her husband’s departure would actually bring an end to the matter of their son’s religious service. Nor is she entirely surprised that Lord Baster-kin is pressing the matter: for, despite the sentek’s oft-expressed admiration for the Merchant Lord, Isadora has personal reasons to suspect that the latter might prove … troublesome. Yet she had dared to hope that her husband’s belief that his own elevation would protect his wife and children was right; now, however, she sees that precisely his elevation, together with the convenience of the great soldier’s being away on campaign, are the factors that have forced the hands of Broken’s rulers. The importance to the Kafran clergy of preventing the Arnems from becoming a dangerous precedent for other powerful families who might have doubts about making gifts of their children to the God-King (especially given Isadora’s known origins as an apprentice to the heathen healer Gisa) must have superseded any moderating considerations: more and more, Isadora curses herself for not having seen before Sixt departed that this calculation might even have played a role in the orders that sent him from the city in the first place—particularly if, rather than despite the fact that, the royal retinue heeded the advice of the man Isadora once knew as an angry, sickly youth: Rendulic Baster-kin …

  These thoughts, and others like them, have rushed about Isadora’s tormented mind throughout the day and evening; and so it is perhaps not surprising that even this strong-willed woman cannot now find the composure to simply sit and occupy herself with ordinary tasks. Instead, she has decided to stay by the sitting room window that offers the best view of the garden and of her children, and to fix her mind upon the sounds of those children at play: for their daily boisterousness, when released from the restraint of their lessons and into the protected freedom of their marvelous garden, has ever been as consoling and amusing to her as it is to them.

  Yet today, even the comparatively small and qualified comfort of her children’s enthusiastic games and endless disagreements is denied her: the voices that are carried into the sitting room, as the light of spring at dusk begins to burnish the city with a flush of deep gold, are unnaturally controlled and plainly uneasy. Looking more closely, Lady Arnem sees that all five of her children are drawn together in a close circle, and are talking among themselves quietly. Their attention is closely fixed upon something that Dagobert holds in one cupped hand, and little Gelie has begun to weep: not in an overwrought manner, which is her usual reaction to such typical trials as condescending insults, but out of sadness, such sadness as makes Isadora immediately suspicious as to what the unknown object in her son’s hand might be. Lady Arnem knows only too well what creatures inhabit the children’s breck, and also understands far better than any Kafran how important those creatures are: indeed, the chance to bring such beings into close proximity to her family and their home was an important (if unstated) reason for her having told Sixt that the children’s ideas about remaking the garden were healthy ones. And so, demonstrating the extent of her concern, she walks quickly into the front hall, then through the building’s stone-framed doorway to the terrace outside.

  When she emerges, it is teary-eyed Gelie who catches sight of her first; and, despite warnings from her siblings, she runs to her mother, who is already on the path that follows the stream through the garden.

  “Mother!” Gelie cries, throwing her arms around her mother’s waist and placing her feet atop Isadora’s, so that Lady Arnem’s strong legs lift and carry the girl as she herself walks along the path. “Mother, you must help!”

  “Gelie—!” warns Golo forcefully; for, unlike the thoughtful, moody Dalin, Golo is every bit the youngest child’s equal in phrenetic energy. He, too, runs to his mother’s side, but walks manfully beside her, staring hard at his sister. “Didn’t you hear what Dagobert just said?”

  “I heard him, Golo,” Gelie says defiantly. “But Mother understands the poor creatures best, so we ought to tell her!”

  “We didn’t want to keep it from you, Mother,” Golo explains. “But we know you’ve been worried about Father, and we thought …” At a loss as to how to continue, Golo looks (as all four of the younger siblings are accustomed to doing, in moments of difficulty) to Dagobert, who—possessed of both his mother’s fair coloring and his father’s handsome features—speaks with all the confidence of the admirable, resolute Broken youth he has in recent years become:

  “We thought that we could solve the problem on our own, and we didn’t want you to have to worry any more than you have been.”

  “We shouldn’t be ‘worrying’ at all,” mutters Dalin, who keeps his distance from the others and scowls at his mother. “Paying so much attention to those creatures is a sin—you’re acting like pagans!”

  “Oh, don’t take on such airs, Dalin,” says the ever-practical Anje, throwing her long braid of golden hair behind her back. “You’re angry over being kept from the Inner City, and your anger makes you say things you don’t believe—you ought to put that anger aside and help, instead of assuming that your own family has been swept up by some strange desire to commit sacrilege …”

  Although full of curiosity, Isadora takes a moment to nod in great and characteristic appreciation to her elder daughter. “True, Anje,” she says; and looking at the faces assembled before her, she asks, “For what have I always told you about making assumptions?”

  Dagobert smiles, knowing the answer, but too near to being a man to play childish games that are clearly intended for the others.

  It is the decisive finger of impulsive little Gelie that shoots up from within her mother’s dress, as she cries, “Oh, I know!” Having brought her body out from her hiding place, the girl assumes a declamatory pose, and recites words that her mother originally learned at the feet of her own guardian and teacher, Gisa: “ ‘Assumption is the laziest variety of thought, which leads only to weakness and bad habits!’ ” Then, with the same rote quality to her words, and her triumphant little finger still in the air, she adds: “But please do not ask me what any of that means!”

  Her anxiousness eased a little by this display, Isadora is able to laugh for a fleeting moment: “What it means,” she says, lifting Gelie up and groaning at the speed with which the ten-year-old is growing,
“is that making assumptions before we have assembled all available facts, and before we have determined the reliability of those facts, is not only foolish, but mischievous.”

  “But I don’t see why, Mother,” Gelie answers, folding her arms. “After all, when we visit the temples or do our religious studies, it seems that all we ever learn are more ways of making assumptions without facts.”

  “Gelie.” Isadora’s voice becomes stern for an instant, although in her heart she is glad to see that even her youngest child can detect the superstitious essence of the Kafran religion; but, to keep her safe, she must warn her: “Those are matters of faith, not reason. Now—tell me what you’ve all been doing out here, other than getting yourselves filthy and squabbling.”

  Dagobert, staring into the pool at the base of the woodland waterfall, says, “It’s strange, Mother—we had been trying to determine if the newts have mated yet, because we haven’t seen any eggs. And then we found …” His words drift, as he studies the water with real concern: “Well, we’re not really sure, Mother. They have come out, but they—”

  “The poor things are dying, Mother!” Gelie blurts out.

  “Gelie,” Golo scolds. “Let Dagobert tell it, you don’t understand—”

  “Stop this bickering at once,” Isadora says, suddenly and inexplicably grave, “and show me what worries you all so.” Dagobert holds out his hand—and his mother is brought back to the true starkness of the dilemma facing her family when she sees: