‘That’s only three Signs, and you’re stretching it. What are the other two?’
‘They’re apocryphal,’ she said. ‘Grafting prophecies from after the times of Saint Loa, so it’s fair enough that you wouldn’t have heard of them. A friend from the west: a Grafter from Argos who joins our fellowship and uses his powers for good. That’s you. There’s a lot more about what you’ll do for the people of Nur, but I won’t burden you with it.’ She grinned.
‘And the last?’
‘A king in chains.’
‘There are far too many kings in these prophecies,’ Tymon noted laconically. He was beginning to relax, to forget the difficulties posed by her rank. ‘Which one is this? Not the Green Lord again, I suppose, otherwise there wouldn’t be any chains.’
Her answer was muffled as she hunched over the balustrade.
‘What?’ he asked, taking advantage of the opportunity to move closer to her.
‘It’s me, I said. The prophecy refers to the twelfth Kion. I’m the twelfth direct descendant of the first king of Nur. The chains aren’t literal. They just mean that under my reign, Nur is enslaved. A whole people in chains, as it were. The yoke of tyranny.’
‘Well.’ He whistled. ‘So I’m not the only Divine Leaf and Sacred Trumpet around here. Nice to know.’
‘Tymon, be serious.’ Her eyes flashed dangerously in the darkness. ‘The Year of Fire is no laughing matter.’
‘Alright, alright,’ he protested feebly. ‘I’m just not used to thinking of any of this as real.’
‘Then get used to it, and quickly. We don’t know exactly what we have in store for us, but it will be momentous. We have to be ready. If we aren’t…If we don’t step up to the mark…Others will take our place. It’ll be harder. We’ll be swept aside and the Sap will find some other channel.’
‘I understand,’ he assured her, though he did not. This sort of apocalyptic fervour was beyond him. The more he heard of Samiha’s beliefs, the more he dreaded that they might turn out to be true.
‘The stakes are high,’ she mused, still gazing over the balustrade at the twinkling lights of the village. ‘The Council in Argos knows that well enough. They stand to lose the most during the Year of Fire. They are the old world, the dead wood. They will be burnt away.’
‘I’m guessing this is not a literal burning or Caro would be a happy man.’
She barely smiled, lost in her own thoughts. ‘The priests in Argos, particularly the Council and inner sanctum, are well aware that their fate is bound up with the Grafting prophecies,’ she murmured. ‘With the Nurian Grafters in particular. There are very few people left in the world with the Sight. The Council flushes them out, one by one: those they cannot persuade to join them, they kill. We’ve lost far too many that way.’
He made no reply, as she did not seem to require one. The Friend star had appeared above them, shining through the twig-thickets. He stifled a sigh. It was a moment before he realised that she was looking at him again, gazing earnestly into his face.
‘I can’t lose you too,’ she whispered. ‘Please, Tymon.’
She was the one who moved close to him now. He caught a hint of the light perfume that clung to her. Then, without knowing quite how it happened, his arms were about her and she was pressed against him in the warm darkness. He tried to hold her, his hands fumbling through her hair, touching her face; he felt like a thirsty wanderer who had found a pure Tree-well after days of drought. He wanted to kiss her again, properly this time. But she was rigid and unyielding. He just managed to bump his mouth awkwardly against hers before she pushed him away and stepped back.
‘Ah,’ she murmured. ‘That, on the other hand, is not a good idea. For many, many reasons.’
He bowed, hot with humiliation and regret. ‘I’ll be on my way then,’ he said, turning aside. ‘Don’t worry, shanti, I’ll make sure you have your Grafter intact tomorrow. I won’t fight the duel.’ He could not look her in the eye.
‘Wait,’ she called after him, as he stalked up the ramp. ‘Wait, Argosi.’
She ran to him and took his hand, hesitating and shy as a little girl. ‘Please don’t be upset with me,’ she said. ‘I want us to be friends. I do care about you. I just can’t give you anything else right now, do you understand?’
She looked at him so pleadingly that he nodded, relenting.
‘Besides, I haven’t told you the good news yet,’ she reminded him. ‘A letter also arrived today, from Marak. Though if Caro had known to whom it was partly addressed, I doubt he would have brought it.’ She withdrew a strip of delicate paper from her pocket, the sort that would be attached to the leg of a messenger bird, and handed it to him. ‘It’s from Noni, Oren’s sister. She says the authorities released her after only a day of questioning. Oren’s still in prison but he was well enough to write to you.’
The translucent paper was covered in densely packed lines of Nurian script, almost invisible in the dim light. The writing crawled sideways, diagonally and upside down, filling every available inch of the page. Tymon squinted at it as if it were a nest of snakes, wondering how she expected him to read it.
‘What does he say?’ he asked.
She pointed a finger to a corner of the paper. He saw that one line at the base of the text was written in Oren’s condensed brand of Argosian.
‘Timon, friend,’ he read aloud, ‘You have Seen. Congratulation.’ He glanced up at Samiha in surprise. ‘How did he know?’ he stammered. ‘I mean, I have…I’ve been meaning to tell you…I Saw the Focal, in the arena…’
Briefly, he recounted his vision during the trial, the encounter with the dead man. Samiha listened attentively. When he reported the fragment of conversation he had overheard among the judges, a sharp hiss of breath escaped her lips and she rapped the railing with one hand, triumphant.
‘If only Kosta could hear that…Well, no matter. He’d still listen with stumps in his ears,’ she said. ‘What he didn’t want repeated at the trial was the fact that Ash knew perfectly well what you were capable of, Tymon. He told me all about his meeting with the novice of Argos when I came back to Marak. He had high hopes for you. He said that you’d admit to knowing him in your own way, in your own time, when you were ready. That’s the odd thing: a Grafter can’t be a Grafter until he’s ready.’ She gazed at him with shining eyes. ‘You’ve come into your power, Argosi. I’m very glad to see it, because we need all the help we can get.’
He felt a flush of pride, his disappointment at her rebuff somewhat mollified.
‘But how did Oren know?’ he enquired. ‘Is he a Grafter, too?’
‘Sadly, only a Grafter-in-training, though a very talented one. The Focals were among the last full-fledged Grafters in the canopy. Oren was only halfway through his studies with them. The other young people in his class were even less advanced. We lost much when the Focals were taken from us.’
She shook her head ruefully and turned her attention to the purse at her belt, taking out a small object on a string and holding it up to the light. He saw that it was the pendant Oren had worn the day of their escape from Marak, an oblong of hardwood carved with the sign of the key. The symbol caught the glimmer of the lanterns and shone as if it were on fire.
‘Noni also sent this,’ she continued softly. ‘This sort of pendant is very old and very rare. The keyrune is inlaid with orah, some of the last of that material known to exist. Orah focuses a Grafter’s power. It also protects him.’
Tymon stared in wonder at the bright inlay. It really did look like trapped sunlight, he thought. ‘Why does it help Grafters?’ he asked.
‘No one knows exactly. I’ve heard people say that all the orah was blessed by a powerful sage when it was first mined from the Tree. There are only five such pendants left in existence, anyway. They are worn by trusted warriors who have sworn to defend the Kion. Oren is passing this one on to you, since he’s no longer able to serve in that capacity. You already noticed it in Marak—that’s a good sign. Do you accept i
t?’
The pendant sparkled merrily in her hand as she offered it to him. He suddenly smiled. All the stories he had listened to as a child and learned to scoff at later had come to life; there really were Grafters and sorcerers, lost kingdoms and hidden worlds beneath the Storm. The only thing that had been missing was a radiant glimpse of orah. He took the pendant and slipped it over his neck. Then he went down on one knee before Samiha.
‘I’d be honoured, Highness,’ he said quietly.
23
At dawn the next day he arrived at his appointment in the arena, a dull knot of apprehension in his belly. He had promised Samiha he would not take up Caro’s challenge, much as it irked him, and dreaded the public announcement he would have to make to the villagers. He knew the refusal could only come off as a lack of nerve and therefore lack of integrity on his part. The Nurians whose path he crossed on his stared at him with open dislike. The clouds hung low over the promontory and silence wrapped the twig-thickets like a shroud. Even the birds appeared to have forgotten to sing at sunrise, misled by the mora. As Tymon trudged down the stairs to the well, supporting Galliano, he found himself longing for rain, for the touch of real water on his skin. His eyes were drawn to the foggy hole on the east side of the arena. There was now no mistaking the remains of the broken branch peeping out from under the stage. He shivered as he stepped for the second time onto the wide central platform.
The space ahead of him was full of people. On this occasion the spectators had not remained on the terraces, but stood about on the stage in murmuring groups. Tymon saw that the only individuals seated in the arena were the judges themselves. They occupied the lowest tier on the western terraces, their unmasked faces stern. He identified Laska, Kosta, Gardan and the man named Davil, and made out Samiha’s lithe form at the end of the row. His spirits sagged as he identified the figure with the yellow hair and beard standing beside her. Caro stared at him insolently as he approached.
‘You won’t get away with this treachery, Argosi,’ pronounced the militant. ‘I’m here to see that justice is done.’
Tymon scowled at his adversary and helped Galliano onto the terrace next to Samiha.
‘Ha!’ grunted the old man in an undertone as he eased himself down on the ledge. ‘Justice is as justice does.’
‘The Freehold judges have already seen to justice, citizen Caro,’ noted Laska crisply. ‘If you were wise, you would accept their ruling and go in peace.’
Galliano had taken the last available spot on the judges’ terrace and no one offered Tymon another seat. He was left loitering uneasily by Caro on the stage. Somehow, although he appreciated Laska and Samiha rallying to his defence, he would have rather defeated the yellow-haired Nurian on his own merits. The prospect of backing down in the face of the challenge weighed heavily on him.
‘You may proceed, citizen,’ said Kosta to Caro. ‘State your aims in calling us here this morning but be brief. The court does not have time for idle chatter.’
The militant bowed and addressed the row of judges in strident tones.
‘Syors: forgive me. I disturb the court only because I must. I came to you yesterday with news of our losses in Marak, only to find that you have allowed another Argosi to join our sacred fellowship. That’s bad enough. But as to him possessing the Sight—I cannot comprehend how you even begin to speak of it! He is a putar! He is the enemy!’
‘That isn’t your decision to make, Caro,’ put in Samiha. ‘We must allow the committee time to deliberate on this matter.’
Caro scarcely glanced at her. He paced on the stage in mounting excitement, his voice reverberating through the arena.
‘These are no times for pious sentiments, overtures of peace and brotherly love,’ he announced to the people about him. ‘Nor do we have time for committees and long deliberations. We are facing annihilation: we are defending our very right to exist! Would the Council in Argos extend such courtesies as we have to the Argosi, if one of us were in their city? Neni, o Sav! A Nurian in Argos would be clapped in hardwood fetters in the deepest dungeon of the seminary, if he was not thrown into their Sacred Mouth as fodder for their Rites!’
The sneering statement had the desired effect, and his audience rippled with outrage. Tymon stood miserably silent. How was he to answer such a deft mixture of fact and fiction? With a simple denial? No one on the Freehold would believe him if he were not willing to put his life on the line. Caro turned to the judges once more, his pale face flushed in triumph.
‘If you are handicapped by your own concern for law and precedent, then let me help you!’ he urged. ‘I have no doubt the putar is a liar. I’ll prove it in a trial by branch! The Tree will decide between us. Let him answer that challenge, if he dares!’
‘I’ll answer it!’ piped a querulous voice at Tymon’s side. Galliano tried to struggle up from the terrace before giving up and continuing from a seated position. ‘I don’t understand why we’re listening to this troublemaker,’ he objected. ‘He’s taking up our time and energy, and has held back my work schedule something terrible. I’ve known Tymon all his life and I know he’s a good boy. The judges examined the evidence against him already and threw it out. Why are we even discussing this?’
‘Be still, old man,’ barked Caro. ‘You’re here on sufferance, and only because of your knowledge—’
‘Which we appreciate tremendously,’ interjected Kosta. He gave Caro a meaningful stare. ‘Do not misunderstand us, syor Galliano,’ he said in an aside to the scientist. ‘I believe the issue is only one of Freehold security. We must be sure Tymon is not an unwitting tool of our enemies.’
Galliano subsided, mumbling in protest, as Samiha joined the debate.
‘Trial by branch is an ancient custom and a barbaric way of making your point, citizen,’ she pleaded with Caro. ‘I beg you to reconsider. The ruling of this court is law.’
Once again, the militant did not deign to look at her, but focused his attention on the villagers.
‘Well, if we turn to barbarism, it might be because we’re left with no other choice,’ he replied, slow and droll, engaging the crowd. ‘Perhaps dreams and prophecies are not enough, shanti. Perhaps the current laws no longer fit our needs and we need new laws, a new kind of leadership. This is no longer the Kingdom of Light, after all. The old ways are dead. The old Kings are dead. Why do we hold on to them? Give power to the people, I say, power to those people who know how to defend us.’
The open declaration of revolt seemed to strike his audience dumb. The villagers gaped at him in shock. Laska, Samiha and most of the other judges sat by, grey-faced and speechless. Only Davil and Kosta huddled together in whispered debate, their heads bent close together. Tymon suddenly understood that this was what the yellow-haired Nurian had been aiming at from the outset. The duel was not about him at all: it was about politics and jockeying for power. Punishing the putar was secondary to seizing control of the Freehold, aided perhaps by judges such as Davil and Kosta, quick to see an opportunity to extend their influence.
‘If you wish to dispute leadership of this Freehold with the judges and the Kion, then say so clearly, citizen,’ answered Samiha. ‘Don’t play games and don’t hide behind other issues.’
Her voice shook a little as she stood up from the terrace to face Caro. She seemed tiny beside the powerful Marak man.
Caro’s eyes flicked towards her at last, and he allowed himself a moment to look her up and down, scornful. Then he laughed. The harsh sound echoed in the arena.
‘For now, I only ask that the Argosi respond to my challenge,’ he said with exaggerated politeness. ‘Or is the putar too much of a coward to speak for himself?’
Tymon’s frustration finally boiled over. He could not bear to see Samiha treated with disrespect. He could have borne any insult but this.
‘I accept your challenge,’ he cried, stepping around Samiha. ‘I’ll fight for the honour of this court and for the Kion.’
The whispering between the judges suddenly ce
ased. Davil and Kosta’s startled faces turned towards him. Gardan, who sat nearby, gave a short, dry laugh.
‘Tymon, no!’ gasped Samiha. ‘You promised!’
‘The monkey has broken his leash,’ said Caro, flashing his unpleasant grin.
‘You don’t have to accept the challenge, Tymon,’ interjected Laska. ‘Your opponent is older and heavier than you are, and you do not know our ways. It’s an antiquated custom. Normally,’ he glanced grimly at Caro, ‘no one would think of using such a rule.’
The militant made no response, his smile smug.
‘I’ll do it,’ Tymon declared. He avoided Samiha’s furious gaze.
‘I ask you all to bear witness!’ Caro raised his voice to the crowd. ‘The Argosi accepts my challenge! It is lawful—’
Laska interrupted again, stern. ‘Not so fast. You have not told us which rules you wish to fight under, citizen. Did you think we would sit by and allow you to take advantage of the ignorance of a stranger?’
‘I said I’ll do it,’ broke in Tymon. ‘I’m not afraid to fight under any—’
‘Peace, young man,’ observed Gardan. Her face was grave but her eyes twinkled, as if she were proud of him. ‘Listen a moment, and learn.’
‘This duel is a test of strength,’ resumed Laska. ‘Breaking your enemy’s club or knocking him unconscious confers victory. In case you had forgotten, Caro, I will remind you that a fight to the death is prohibited, as one of the claimants is a foreigner. You may choose a duel in three blows or in one.’
The yellow-haired Nurian glared at him sullenly. ‘Then I choose a duel in three blows, syor,’ he spat. ‘It’s the only honourable option you leave me.’
Laska sighed as he turned to Tymon. ‘Do you accept a duel in three blows, Argosi?’ he asked.
‘I accept it.’
Tymon was conscious of the people on the stage drinking in his words, savouring the syllables. The villagers pressed in a tight, eager semi-circle about him. He saw Solis and his band in the front row, their faces shining. After a brief deliberation with his colleagues, Kosta spoke again.
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