The Legend of Broken (22 page)

As the troops march back down to the Eastern Gate, they once again pass under the watchful eye of their commander, as well as of Baster-kin. Citizens begin to shower the troops with flower petals, and Arnem agrees with both Baster-kin and the other merchant councilors who, all on foot, soon collect about them: the men are in fine form, and their morale seems appropriately high. When the last of the troops have passed by, Arnem salutes Lord Baster-kin, for whose presence he has been genuinely grateful; and Baster-kin continues to speak with the air of confidential trust that he established the night before.

But is it in that same sense of trust that he delivers his final remarks to Arnem? Or does something more perverse lie behind them?

“Oh, one thing more, Arnem—” The Merchant Lord spurs his black mount alongside Arnem’s grey. “I thought you’d like to know—the ceremony went off well. Korsar was a model of discipline to the end.”

All the joy of the review drains out of Arnem; and he looks down the Celestial Way and over the walls of the city, to the line of Davon Wood, where his friend and commander is almost certainly hanging still, perhaps in wretched agony. “You—you had reports, my lord?”

“I went myself,” Baster-kin replies simply. “It seemed the thing to do. At any rate, I thought you’d like to know that he met his end well. Now—fortune go with you, Sentek. Return victorious!” Baster-kin’s heels dig into his mount, and he trots easily off in the direction of the Merchants’ Hall.

Arnem does not proceed; and Niksar grows concerned.

“Sentek?” Niksar says. “It’s time.”

“Yes,” Arnem answers slowly. “Yes, of course, Niksar,” he adds, forcing himself out of a moment both dazed and pensive. “We go—but Niksar? If you happen to see that old madman we encountered last night—bring him to my attention, will you? I’ve a feeling he’s in the crowd.”

“Of course, Sentek. But, if you like, I can take care of him myself—”

“No, no, Reyne. Simply point him out …”

As it turns out, Arnem does not need any help from Niksar in finding the old man. When the column of men begins to pass through the Eastern Gate, the sentek and his aide are still bringing up the rear. Arnem can see that Niksar has been somewhat unnerved by the mention of the apparitional heretic; and the commander attempts to calm his aide’s restless thoughts with pleasant conversation.

“Your brother serves in Daurawah, does he not, Reyne?” the sentek says. “Under my old friend Gledgesa?”

Niksar brightens. “Aye, Sentek. He is a full linnet, now, though I can scarcely believe it. All reports of his service are excellent.”

“You’ll be happy to see him. As shall I. A fine lad.”

“Yes,” Niksar says with a nod. “And surely
you
will be happy to see Sentek Gledgesa? For it must have been years—”

It is Arnem’s turn to smile. “True. But Gerolf Gledgesa is much like the immutable stone of these walls, Reyne. I expect him to be exactly as—”

Arnem goes silent as he glances toward the Eastern Gate. It is the briefest flash of fabric, but unmistakable enough for the sentek’s ever-watchful eyes to mark it: that same garment. The old, faded robe, which was once, no doubt, kept clean and without rips or wrinkles by the careful work of young acolytes, although not such acolytes as are found in the High Temple. The man stands beyond the regular army guards at the gate, staring into Arnem’s eyes. How long he has been there, the sentek cannot say, any more than he
can
say why he indulges a perverse idea:

Arnem reins the Ox in, near the spot where the old man stands. Niksar appears increasingly disturbed by the meaningful but silent looks that his commander and the old cripple are exchanging, and finally calls out:

“You, there—guard! Remove that old heretic—”

Arnem holds an arm out, and orders: “No—stand easy, soldier!” He turns to his aide. “No need for that, Reyne,” he goes on, as they are enveloped by a hail of rose petals tossed from the tops of the guard towers on either side of the gate. Arnem would indeed be hard-pressed to say why he is about to carry out a most peculiar plan: was it Baster-kin’s mention of Yantek Korsar’s mutilation, and the peculiar shadow that it threw over Arnem’s previously proud mood? Or was it his wife’s confusing insistence that he take her pagan clasp, which is even now pressing against his ribs? The sentek has no answers, but he proceeds with his scheme:

“Niksar,” he says, still quietly. “Tactfully instruct that guard to let the old man through. Then I want you to ride ahead, and get one of the spare mounts from the cavalry units.”

“Sentek?”
Niksar says in astonishment, keeping his own voice low. “He’s mad, and a heretic, what can you possibly—”

“Do as I say, Reyne,” Arnem insists gently. “I shall explain later.”

Niksar shakes his head in exasperation; but he is too used to following Arnem’s orders not to realize when the sentek is in earnest. He pushes his mount through to the gate, and has the guard snatch the mad, agèd vagrant from the crowd. The old man smiles at this, although he must work his staff quickly to coax his wooden leg to keep pace with the soldier. Niksar tells the “heretic” to go to the sentek, while he sets off at a gallop to fetch the horse Arnem has commanded be brought.

As he stands before the new chief of the army of Broken, the old man’s lips once again curl into that slight, knowing smile; and, to his no more than mild surprise, the sentek returns the expression.

“Visimar.”
Arnem holds the Ox steady. “Unless I am mistaken.”

The old man’s smile widens. “You
must
be mistaken, Sentek—for the man you mention is long dead. Indeed, you, as part of the military escort for the priests of Kafra, were present at his mutilation. I am called Anselm—
now
 …”

“‘Anselm’?” Arnem nods judiciously. “‘The Helmet of God,’ eh? An ambitious name. No matter. You were once a follower of Caliphestros.”

“I was first among his acolytes,” Anselm declares, discreetly but firmly.

“Yes—all the better,” Arnem answers, as Niksar comes back leading a riderless horse behind his own. “Niksar,” Arnem says, with subdued cheerfulness. “Meet a man called Anselm. Anselm, my aide, Linnet Niksar.”

The old man inclines his head, as Niksar declares, “I’ve no need to know the names of heretics, Sentek.”

“Oh, but you do need to know this one,” Arnem replies; and then he looks back down at Anselm. “Can you ride, old man?”

“Sentek!” Niksar blurts out. “You cannot—if word spreads—”

“But word will not spread.” Arnem’s tone has the ring of finality, and he stares into Niksar’s eyes, exuding uncompromising purpose. “You will see to that, Niksar. You’re no longer a spy, you’ve been told as much. Now, you act only in the interests of the men. And this will, I believe, serve those interests.” The sentek looks at Anselm. “Well?”

“I can ride, Sentek,” the old man says. “Perhaps you will even wish to explain my missing leg by saying that I was a cavalryman maimed in battle.” Arnem smiles and nods agreement. “But, whether I ride or walk, the course that we must now travel was determined when you found me last night: there can be no question but that I shall go with you.” Anselm approaches the horse, then glances about for assistance.

Arnem calls out to the nearby guard: “You. Get this man mounted.”

The guard makes objection with a sour face; but he knows well enough to follow orders, and quickly forms a sling with his hands. Anselm puts his one good leg into the guard’s palms.

“Thank you, my son,” Anselm says. “Now, if you would only help me swing this gift from the God-King over the beast …” The guard—too humiliated to even make sense of this remark—lifts the old man, then roughly seizes the wooden leg and pushes it across the horse, evidently causing the old man some pain; but it is not enough to diminish the latter’s pleasure at the moment. “And, if I
should
at any time complain, or slow you, Sentek,” the cripple says to Arnem, getting his one foot into the waiting stirrup, “I hope you will tell me. I’ve no desire to burden this mission more than it already has been.”

“Nor shall you.” As their horses start through the gate, Arnem turns a serious face to Anselm. “For your role will be that of a mad fool, brought along to coax good fortune out of our smiling god. You agree, I trust?”

“You have my word, Sentek. Now—shall we see what Fate has prepared for us below the mountain?”

Arnem nods, and, with Niksar unhappily bringing up the rear, these last three members of the column head out through the Eastern Gate.

The men eventually wheel right, heading toward the southern and fastest, if not the easiest, route up and down the mountain. (They could not very well have used to Southern Gate for their exit, for it guards the far less than glorious Fifth District.) In making this move, they are brought to and over a bridge that spans Killen’s Run, where Arnem, accompanied by Anselm and Niksar, rides ahead to take up a waiting position and keep a careful eye on his men as they cross, knowing that Niksar’s uneasiness about allowing the old man to travel with the column will at first be shared in the ranks. Yet by showing, from the outset, that Anselm travels at his invitation, Arnem knows that he can counteract this. Indeed, if all goes well as the sentek hopes, Anselm may soon be perceived as just the bringer of good fortune in the field that he has mentioned. For soldiers are a superstitious lot, and a wise commander makes that instinct work for rather than against him—

None of which truly explains why, Niksar observes silently—as Arnem and Anselm receive the (admittedly confused) cheers of the troops during their crossing of the Run—the sentek has asked this disturbing old heretic along on an expedition of vital importance to the kingdom …

The march out of the city has been a lengthy one, however, even given its joyous nature; and no man in the ranks is inclined to dwell on the newcomer’s presence, nor to fix any save momentary attention on anything but the trail down the mountain and the adventure that lies beyond it. Were any one of them
to
persist in such curiosity, and to look, for instance, down at Killen’s Run as he passes over it, that man would see there, wedged in among the rocks and drifting sticks, the lower portion of a small human arm. The fetid, decaying skin is jaundiced, and drawn tight over the bones; large sores gape grotesquely in the lifeless tissue; and, as the Run laps at it, small pieces of flesh are torn away, disappearing amid the waters that rush to join the Cat’s Paw.

The Bane foragers learn of their people’s fearsome hope—

and of the part that they are to play in realizing it …

Two small fires burn in three-foot holes chiseled long ago into the cold, smooth granite floor of the antechamber of the Den of Stone, offering some warmth but, together with a few torches mounted on the walls, far more light. Heldo-Bah and Veloc walk behind the Groba Elder and through a short stone passageway leading into this relatively small area, and they do so none too eagerly: both men are aware that their tale, while important, will as a matter of course be doubted by those awaiting them. Indeed, even before they enter the Den, the Elder turns on them suddenly and says: “I warn you two—the High Priestess sits with the Groba tonight, accompanied by two of her Lunar Sisters.” Tugging at his beard as he continues forward, the Elder adds, with a sense of gravity heightened by the crisis at hand, “Let us see how well you lie before
those
esteemed personages …” Then the older man pauses, commands the foragers to remain in the antechamber while he announces their arrival, and disappears down a second passageway that is longer and even darker than the first, and leads finally into the Den.

Heldo-Bah immediately begins to pace in fear. “Oh, sublime,” the gap-toothed forager noises. “Perfection! Did you hear, Veloc?”

The handsome Bane is wandering about the antechamber, admiring a series of ancient reliefs that are cut directly into the stone walls: scenes of exile and suffering, which eventually lead to happier images of homes being built and a tribe being formed. And in the background of each depiction looms the image of a fortress-capped mountain, a constant reminder of how consistently the people of Broken have tried to thwart the ambitions of the Bane—without success. Water that seeps down slowly from springs inside the stone walls and ceiling has covered the carvings with a light, black-green growth; while the motion of the water itself, along with the jumping light of the fires, makes the carvings seem alive.

“Did I hear what, Heldo-Bah?” Veloc asks, transparently blithe.

“Don’t—do not even attempt it,” barks Heldo-Bah. “You heard—the bloody High Priestess is there. We are
dead men
!”

“You overstate the issue,” Veloc says, maintaining his false air of calm. “She and I parted on congenial enough terms …”

“Oh, certainly—she rejected your application to be the blasted Bane historian out of hand, and sent us out into the Wood immediately! Very congenial!” Heldo-Bah paces anxiously. “It’s never made the slightest sense, Veloc. You try to seduce every woman in Okot, in Broken, and in every town between—and when a woman who might actually do us some good asks for you, what do you do? Refuse her!”

“I’m not some prized bull, to play stud to an overbearing young female whenever she goes into heat.”

“Absolutely absurd,” Heldo-Bah murmurs, shaking his head. “Utterly and completely—”

He is interrupted by the sudden call of the Elder’s voice: “Ho, there! Foragers! You may enter!”

The two men walk into the passageway before them, the utter darkness of which is a contrivance designed by the Groba, so that when supplicants enter the main chamber they will be all the more overawed by its dimensions: a ceiling over thirty feet high, with enormous, needle-like formations of rock and minerals seeming to drip down from above, as though the cave were slowly melting. The walls of the chamber are adorned with elaborate suits of Broken armor, stuffed with rags and straw so that they appear alive, even to the smooth white-and-black riverbed stones set into the sockets of human skulls (which in turn rest inside each helmet), so that they resemble the eyes of dead men, staring madly at those who have come through the passageway. Weapons of the Tall also adorn the walls: large collections of spears, swords, battle-axes and maces, each group bursting out from a Broken shield, any one of which is as tall as a Bane. The chamber is lit and heated by an enormous fire set into one recess in the wall opposite the Groba’s council table; and the “chimney” of this fiery alcove is a naturally occurring shaftway that empties out at the very top of the rock formation, along the sharp rise of the mountain slope above. In all, it is a sight that makes a profound impression on nearly every Bane, particularly as most only ever see it once in their lives, when they petition for permission to wed.

For habitual guests of the Den, on the other hand, the inner chamber is noteworthy only because it never changes, save for the occasional addition of some trophy taken from the Tall; but often, even these changes go unnoticed, for to be a frequent visitor is to be an incurable nuisance to the tribe—or worse—and all such tend to train their eyes on the Groba itself, to determine what mood the old men are in, and what chances exist for leniency.

Heldo-Bah follows this pattern, taking in the five familiar faces of the Groba Elders: elected officials,
†
each of whom is, in appearance, remarkably like the next. They all wear identical grey robes, cut their beards to the same middling length, and sit on rough-hewn, high-backed benches. The only differences among the five are the amounts of hair on each head, the length of their noses, and, finally, the fact that the chair belonging to the senior Elder (formally referred to as “Father”) has a higher back than the others; and that the top of said back is carved into a crescent Moon whose horns point skyward.

Tonight, however, all is different among the Bane, within the Den as without. At the right end of the table sits the Priestess of the Moon, who wears a golden gown over a white smock. Draped over her shoulders and head is an airy shawl of deep blue, onto which have been embroidered golden stars, which grow more numerous as they approach the front of a golden coronet that holds the shawl in place, and which is adorned with yet another crescent Moon. She is young, this High Priestess, having taken her vows only a year earlier, at sixteen. Before that, she had been merely the most promising of the Lunar Sisterhood, and was therefore entitled, as Heldo-Bah has said, to decide which men from the tribe she would mate with, in the hope of producing more semi-divine female children. Thus, all of the Lunar Sisters, and therefore the High Priestesses, are descendants of those women who originally held the same positions, and their pure lineage gives them enormous power: for, while they are far from a chaste order of female clergy, they are as close as any member of the Bane tribe (whose notion of immoral behavior is usually quite loosely defined) could wish for—or would desire.

It therefore requires men of rare talents to push the boundaries of so loose a system of theology and morality beyond acceptable limits; but Veloc and Heldo-Bah are just such men …

The two foragers can see that behind the High Priestess are not only two of her Lunar Sisters, but a pair of Outragers, as well. Evidently, the High Priestess has points she wishes to make about the catastrophe that has struck the Bane tribe, and she wants to make them forcefully enough to command compliance from the Groba Elders, who, if the letter of Bane law is followed (and the Bane have indeed preserved their laws in writing), have principal say over secular matters in Okot, just as the Lunar Sisterhood rules on matters of spiritual importance. Yet, again, laxity of customs allows these divisions to occasionally shift; and every so often, control of the tribe’s reaction to a secular threat can be influenced by the High Priestess, presently a young woman whose only qualification for power over matters of mortal importance is that she is said to possess a unique ability to converse with the sacred Moon.

The Groba Father, a man whose features—sharp, clear-eyed, and tightly wrinkled—seem to indicate an even greater intolerance of nonsense than that which characterized the bald-headed Elder whom Heldo-Bah and Veloc have just followed into the Den, looks up from a scattered raft of parchment documents
†
that litter the council table. His grey hair and beard are distinguishable from his those of his fellows only by their streaks of white: badges of honor for having prevailed in a majority of the frequently argumentative sessions of the Groba. And never is the chamber more full of disagreements than when the High Priestess chooses to attend—a fact of which Heldo-Bah and Veloc are only too aware.

“Ah. Heldo-Bah—finally,” says the Groba Father, his voice hoarse. “I might have known you’d be the last to return. But it’s just as well—your party will have a crucial task, and we have just finished compiling all information that was gleaned in the Wood by the other foraging parties.”

“Father?” Heldo-Bah says, astoundingly obsequious, considering his constant complaints about what he habitually calls that “great collection of stone-brained eunuchs,” the Groba.

The Groba Father ignores him. “And Veloc is here, too. Good. Less time wasted explaining.” The Father looks down the council table. “You will remember Veloc,” he says. “The man who was nominated for Historian of the Bane Tribe last year.” The four other men nod, so nearly in unison that Veloc almost laughs aloud; but he becomes somber again, and quickly, at the sharp sound of the High Priestess’s voice:

“A nomination that was rejected,” she says, the pretty dark eyes in her round face fixed on Veloc, as if she will destroy him with a glance, “because of the corruption that we discovered in his disobedient soul.”

Heldo-Bah’s eyes open wide, and he bounces a bit on the balls of his feet, looking up at the cave’s ceiling and murmuring softly, “Oh, yes, by all means—let’s bring
that
up at a time like this …”

“You spoke, Heldo-Bah?” the Priestess demands.

Keeping his gaze as wide as an innocent child’s, Heldo-Bah replies, “I, Divine One? Not a word.”

“See to it that you don’t,” the Groba Father says sternly, “unless you are spoken to. We have much to resolve—approach the table!”

Dragging their feet and picking at their tunics, which are laden with signs of nights spent in the Wood, the two foragers move to the council table. The faces gathered around that heavy assemblage of split logs become clearer in the light of small fat lamps that sit upon the uneven surface. Viewed close-to, the Groba Elders display admirable self-possession, both despite and because of the ongoing crisis. The faces of the High Priestess and the Lunar Sisters, by contrast, remain haughty, dissatisfied, and full of accusations, while the Outragers behind them display a much simpler desire to beat the foragers senseless.

“Your current foraging assignment,” the Father says, staring down at a parchment map, “should have taken you northwest. Near Hafften Falls and Lord Baster-kin’s Plain.” The Father looks up, expecting a contradiction. “Did it?”

“Of course, Father,” Heldo-Bah answers simply.

“How refreshing to even think of you obeying an order, Heldo-Bah,” the Father says, with weary familiarity. Then he takes note for the first time of just who is
not
before him: “But where is Keera?” he says, deeply concerned. “She is the leader of your party, and the key to what we seek from you.”

“She searches the
Lenthess-steyn,
Father, to find her family,” Veloc answers, his own worry plain. “Or at least, to hear word of them.”

For the first time, all the Groba Elders display signs of exhaustion. The Father rubs his eyes hard, and then sighs. “The Moon go with her,” he says, and the other Elders murmur assent.

The eyes of the Priestess, however, blaze ever hotter, though her body remains quite still. “She has done little, of late, to earn the Moon’s favor.” The Priestess concentrates her gaze on Veloc, who persistently avoids it. “Indeed, none of this party has ever shown true worthiness.”

The Groba Elders are clearly not in agreement with this statement, or at least as it refers to Keera; but they desire to avoid an argument with the Priestess. Into this momentary silence steps Heldo-Bah:

“We cannot all be blessed with your abundance of virtue, Divinity,” he says with a patently false smile. He catches the Priestess’s eye, but, unlike Veloc, refuses to turn away.

“Do not,” the Father repeats in annoyance, “speak, Heldo-Bah, unless it is to answer a question. So—Keera seeks her family, and you have already been fully informed of the details of the plague?”

“Well, we were hardly likely to miss—” Heldo-Bah’s comment is cut short by one of Veloc’s boots, which catches him in a shin.

“I beg your pardon, Father,” Veloc says. “My friend is, for want of a better word, an idiot. To answer your query, we have seen the fire in the northeastern settlement, and we have spoken with Yantek Ashkatar. He said that the pestilence is believed to be the work of the Tall—” Noticing the impatience on the Father’s face, Veloc grows silent, realizing he is providing excessive detail.

“We are concerned,” says another Elder, who puts his elbows on the table and folds his bony hands, “with what you have seen in the
Wood,
not Okot—assuming that you did, as you say, follow your assigned route. Were there any signs of plague to the north? Unexplained animal carcasses? Dead men? Activity of the Tall near the river?”

“We saw nothing—” Veloc suddenly stops himself, catching sight of the High Priestess’s hateful eyes; but thinking of his sister and of what is at stake for the tribe as a whole, he decides that he must abandon caution. “Actually, Elder, that’s not true. We saw and heard several things that we could not explain, and that may well have to do with the plague.”

The Groba Father folds his arms, and lets out an infuriated snort.

“I am sorry, Father,” Veloc says to the man. “But you did say that we must only answer questions.”