The False Martyr (34 page)

As it was, he’d had little
time or energy to think of anything other than how tired and
miserable he was. He was lucky to have survived, to have somehow
kept going day after day. In the Hall of Understanding, his most
strenuous activity had been lifting heavy books to his desk. The
idea of marching through the wilderness at a soldier’s pace had
been so far beyond him as to be a nightmare of comical proportions.
Yet he had somehow managed it. He had spent the days in an almost
meditative state, body no longer connected to mind, pain
disassociated, exhaustion irrelevant until a halt was called and he
collapsed to the ground in a heap. The soldiers let him be, never
asked for or expected his help preparing the camp or the meal. He
lived off their hospitality and had not even enough energy to thank
them.

It was only now that he
had returned to something familiar that he realized how truly
unfamiliar the past week had been. He shuddered as his body seemed
to realize what it had been through. He looked at his robe, felt it
caked to him, and recoiled from that which had seemed almost normal
a few minutes before, as if being covered in filth were normal in
the wilderness and only became abhorrent with a return to
civilization. Forcing his hands, finally, from his robes, forcing
his mind from his trials and exhaustion, Lius turned to the
room.

The familiarity that had
initiated his self-repugnance was the sitting room of a fine
country manor that appeared to have been abandoned. Though more
rural in its stylings, sprawling and less refined, it was similar
to the house where Lius had lived as a boy. It suggested that these
landowners, similar to Lius’ own parents, were sufficiently
successful to be comfortable while still well outside the highest
levels of Imperial society, which made it even more surprising that
the farm had, apparently, been abandoned. Though he knew nothing of
the comings and goings of soldiers, it seemed strange that estate
owners and all their serfs and servants would leave their property
simply because a company of friendly soldiers had taken up
residence.

But a look around the room
showed that it was not the soldiers that had driven the owners away
– dust on the table, shutters unopened despite the heat of the day,
long dead cinders uncleaned from the fireplace, glass on the floor
from a broken window, the stain of mildew below. The house had been
abandoned for months. Then he remembered the rumors of uprising
that had spread through the Hall of Understanding. Could this house
have been attacked? Had the soldiers been here to stop it? Were
they passing through or based here permanently?

Lius was just preparing to
trace the threads of the Order, to find his answers when Jaret
interrupted. “How did you know to throw that rock?” he asked from
the far side of the room.

He stopped his pacing and
stared at Lius so that he felt like his robes had caught fire.
Though slightly shorter than Lius and no larger in build, Jaret was
as hard as a man could possibly get. His small body was perfectly
honed to violence, like a knife that has been sharpened until the
very sight of it will cut you. His hair was grey stubble marked
with black. Even it looked sharp, standing out from his head and
face like tiny spikes. His chest was thick with the stuff. It burst
from the gap at the top of the vest, like a grey-black bristle
brush. His arms were bare where the fire had scoured him, but there
were no burns, only the small circular scars that lined every inch
of skin below his neck. Dried blood mingled with the soot that
covered his face, the only remaining evidence of a ragged cut on
his forehead that was now just another scar. Though he had seen
Jaret’s healing power before, Lius still shuddered at the thought
of the blisters fading before his eyes, the arm pulling back into
its socket, the cut stitching together. Yet even more disturbing
was that the terrible burns did not appear to have caused the
commander the slightest pain. He had watched his skin char – burns
that would have crippled a normal man, would have left the
strongest screaming – and had not even flinched, had simply watched
as if the fire were a warm breeze on an already hot day.

And that was only the tip
of Lius unease. Seeing a man who felt no pain, who showed no
emotion, was a distraction in comparison to what Lius found every
time he read Jaret’s place in the Order. For the thousandth time,
he tried to understand the patterns around Jaret Rammeriz. It was
like looking into a cave and wondering what passages lie in the
dark. The commander existed in the Order, he impacted the patterns
around him, but there was no way that Lius could find to predict
what his actions would be or to change or influence those actions.
He was simultaneously as immovable as a mountain and unpredictable
as the creatures that had chased him from the Hall of
Understanding.

“
How did you know to throw
the rock?” Jaret repeated. Lius expected the commander’s tone to
sharpen, his patience to strain, but there was no emotion in his
voice now or ever. He looked at Lius with the same steady stare,
eyes intense due to their calm certainty rather than hot
emotion.

“
I . . . I . . . .” Lius
stopped when he realized that he had no idea how to answer the
question. Jaret had led his men into seemingly avoidable battles
against increasingly outsized opponents almost every day since Lius
had joined them. They should have lost men in each of those
battles, should have all been dead by now. Lius, of all people, had
saved them each time. No one seemed to have noticed, but he had
done something in every battle to alter the outcome, but it had
been Jaret that had created the possibility for him to act. Coming
into the battle today, the best outcome that Lius had seen was that
half the legionnaires would die or be seriously injured. Then Jaret
had made a series of choices that Lius would have never seen or
anticipated, and an opening had been created. Lius had exploited
it, but it had been Jaret far more than Lius that had done the
impossible.

“
It was not mere chance,”
Jaret stated. “You threw that rock knowing that it would create the
explosion. So how did you know to do it?”

“
I . . . I read the
Order,” Lius said when he could not think of a lie.

“
What is the supposed to
mean?”

“
It . . . it is hard to
explain.” Lius kneaded his hands and stared at the rug beneath his
feet. “I don’t really understand it myself.”

“
Well try.”

“
I . . . I can see . . .
can see all the possibilities that exist in a given moment. I . . .
it doesn’t make sense, but almost everything that happens is
already set in the Order. I can see all those outcomes like a great
web spread out before me.” He paused wondering how far he should
go, what dangers he was inviting. What could the commander possibly
think of him? Lunatic, idiot, blowhard, blasphemer?

Jaret just stared at him
until Lius could not help but continue. “Valatarian called it a
tapestry, all the strings of possibility woven together into
patterns. And because I can see all those strings, I can – to some
extent – see what will happen if I change them. That is how I knew
to throw the rock. I could see what would happen if I did, but . .
. .”

“
But what?”

“
But it was you that
created the possibilities for me to exploit.”

Jaret stopped his pacing.
He held up a hand and stared. Behind his eyes, Lius could see the
conflict. He wanted to react, wanted to yell, wanted to denounce
the blasphemy of this fallen monk, but something kept him from
doing so. Something held him just as it held his emotions.
What is happening in his head?
Lius barely kept himself from asking the
question.

“
What do you see when you
look at my place in the Order?” Jaret asked. The question was said
with the same certainty as all his orders and proclamations, but
his eyes did not agree. They looked confused, lost,
overwhelmed.

He has no idea what’s
happening?
Lius realized and everything
came into focus. Jaret Rammeriz could not be read or controlled
because he was no longer a person. He was a manifestation of the
Order. He no longer had any control over what he did or said, was
trapped inside his own head as nothing more than a spectator.
Everything that Jaret had done over the past week had a purpose,
was dictated by the Order, was part of a larger plan that not even
Lius could see. Even these questions had a purpose, were meant to
create an end. Lius stumbled back. He looked at Jaret, expecting
impatience. The commander’s body showed indifference, his eyes
growing confusion. As a last confirmation, Lius tried to trace the
Order around them, looked at all the threads of possibility, but
they all disappeared into the same gaping cave.

“
I see a hole,” Lius
finally answered. “I see something that I can neither read nor
control. I . . . I have not been doing this for long, but I have
never seen anything like it.”

“
What do you think it is?
What do you think it means?”

“
You are the direct
manifestation of the Order,” Lius answered before he thought,
almost as if compelled.
I was compelled. I
am being manipulated now every bit as much as I manipulated the
outcome of that battle. For some reason, Jaret Rammeriz needs to
understand what is happening to him. He needs to see and accept it.
And the Order has chosen me to tell him.
“The Order controls your actions directly. I don’t know to
what end, but the Order has a plan, and your every action is meant
to further it.”

Jaret seemed shocked. For
the first time, he seemed to be in control of his own emotions, as
if the Order had allowed the emotional response so he could feel
the full implications of what he had heard. “But . . . but . . .”
the commander stammered, seemingly struggling with the freedom he
had been given as much as the revelation he’d heard. “But why would
the Order want me to endanger my men? Why would it compel me to
seek fights? Shouldn’t the Order seek harmony . . . peace . . .
?”

“
It is a common
misunderstanding,” Lius lunged at the all too familiar fallacy,
“that peace is the same as order. The Order is about conflict. It
is in constant conflict. Predators kill. Fires destroy. Rivers
flood. Weeds overtake gardens. Conflict is everywhere, but it is in
balance. It has a purpose.”

“
So you’re saying that my
actions, that all these pointless fights, have had a purpose? But
why would the Order want to kill all those men today? How could
that possibly further Its plan?”

Lius had to think about
that. If he, Lius, could manipulate the Order to change Its
outcomes, then who could say what the Order was. Was he now the one
defining the Order rather than Its creator? Was he the god? And
what about the Xi Valati? What he had done was far beyond anything
Lius could manage, and he had hinted that there were others more
powerful than even him. So where did it end? Where was the final
manipulation? And how did the unreadable, uncontrollable Jaret
Rammeriz fit into it all?

“
I don’t know.” Lius
finally admitted. “I have only been able to see the Order for a
little more than a week, and I’ve been too exhausted to understand
what I was seeing most of that time. I cannot track more than a few
connections before I get lost. The larger plan, whether that be
Hileil’s or someone else’s, is beyond me. But there is a reason.
Someone, something, wanted these battles. And they wanted you to
fight them in such a way that I could manipulate the outcome, so
that your men would not be hurt, so that you would win.”

“
So that at least one
survivor would escape,” Jaret added. He paced, rubbing his chin as
he walked, other hand held up to keep Lius quiet. This was the
commander, the legendary strategist, that Lius had always expected
Jaret Rammeriz to be. He stopped, stared at the ceiling, and seemed
to calculate. “By the Order,” he whispered. “It wants people to
know. The way these battles have gone, word will spread like oil on
water.” He paused, and a smile crept onto his face for the first
time that Lius had seen. “The Order is making me into a man that
the people will follow. It wants me to win. If we just follow it,
we cannot possibly fail.”

Chapter 21

The
23
^rd
Day of Summer

Ipid jumped from the desk
as if he’d actually been caught in the act of spying, as if it
actually mattered if he had. “Enter,” he called as he looked back
at Allard Stully’s desk. It appeared that the lord had removed his
papers prior to his evacuation, so there had been no political
strategies to steal or secret dealings to uncover, but there was a
stack of fine, white paper. Ipid inspected a sheaf. As he had
suspected, it was one of his. He could not help but feel a certain
amount of pride at that.

Captain Tyne entered the
room followed by an elderly servant with a silver tray. The captain
had removed his helm, and his close-cropped hair contained more
gray than Ipid would have expected given the brown that still
dominated his beard. He saluted and dipped his head. “You requested
me, my lord?”

“
Yes.” Ipid stood and
placed his hands on the cool, smooth surface of the desk before
him. He motioned the servant forward and asked him to leave the tea
on a side table. “Please approach,” he ordered the captain, “I
don’t feel the need to yell across the room.” As ordered, the
captain strode to stand a few paces from the desk. “Captain, I need
you to gather all your men and bring them here. This will be your
new headquarters. I need you and your men to be able to respond
immediately to my requests with every available man.”