CHAPTER ONE
The twenty-second day of October in the 940th year a.g.l.
Carle and I are on our way to Emor. Carle says that the Capital City of Emor isn’t far from the border – only half a day’s walk – but we’re forced to proceed slowly, as we are pulling a cart that carries Fowler.
Gamaliel drugged Fowler for the journey, for which I am grateful, as I’m sure that I’m the last person Fowler would want as his escort. It’s necessary that I accompany Carle on this trip, though, because I must be approved for the patrol by the Captain of the Home Division.
“It’s purely a formality,” Carle assured me as we reached the final ridge leading down into the Emorian borderland. “The patrol selects its own guards and takes care of its own. Captain Wystan’s only duty is to intervene in important disciplinary cases. I’m sure that the captain is more than happy to leave the patrol’s activities in Quentin’s hands; Wystan already supervises three divisions. The Home Division,” he explained, without waiting for me to ask. “That’s the division which guards the city and palace if the vanguard should be withdrawn from the palace grounds due to war. The Border Division – not just the mountain patrol, but all of the border guards of the empire. And the Division of Disclosure – that’s made up mainly of spies.”
“Spies?” I said, turning my head. We’ve been taking turns driving the hand-cart: one person pulls at the front while the other pushes at the back. Carle’s face was covered in sweat, and his red hair had turned black where it clung to his forehead.
“Spies,” said Carle with a grin. “You’ll meet those eventually. So what do you think of our palace?”
I swung my head around, as rapidly as though I had heard a breacher creeping up behind me. There, falling away under our feet, was the final stretch of bare mountain, followed immediately and abruptly by a carpet of autumn-brown fields, neatly divided by stone walls. Not a tree was in sight – this was the first thing I noticed, as I suppose it is the first thing that any newcomer to Emor notices. But my puzzlement was soon replaced by a hollow pit in my stomach, for spread across much of the horizon was the curving grey wall of the Emorian capital. The city was built on an upswelling of the land, and I could see little grey houses clustered within the great walls. Rising above them all, ringed by two more walls, was a steep hill of immense proportions. It looked as though it could house all the armies of the Three Lands and still have room for the barbarian armies. Yet the whole of its crown was capped by a shining white building. It looked, I thought, like the palace of the gods within the City of the Land Beyond.
I became aware that Carle was standing beside me; he was pulling from his pack the food for our noonday meal, while watching me, a smile on his face. I cleared my throat and said, “It’s a bit larger than the buildings I’ve seen before.”
Carle laughed then and said, “A bit more intimidating, you mean.” I nodded. “Well, you’ll have to overcome your fear soon,” he said. “This time tomorrow, you’ll be standing inside that building.”
I gulped and looked back at the palace, blazing white like the sun at noonday. “We’re going inside the Chara’s palace? Why? I thought you said that the army camp was located next to the palace.”
“On the northern side of the palace grounds,” Carle confirmed, leaning over the cart to check on Fowler. “But of course we have to enter the palace. You still want to give your oath of loyalty to the Chara, don’t you?”
His face was serious; his expression mildly inquisitive. Perhaps he was wondering, from the expression on my own face, whether I was going to faint on the spot. “Carle,” I whispered, “you don’t mean . . .”
“Oh, didn’t I mention that?” he said lightly, handing me my share of the bread. “Border mountain patrol guards, like all other members of the special divisions, have the honor of being under the Chara’s immediate care. Strictly speaking, Captain Wystan isn’t our high official; the Chara is. Naturally, one can’t expect the Chara to supervise the everyday activities of the division; Captain Wystan does that, in the Chara’s name. So you’ll never meet the Chara – except when you give him your oath. It’s no worse than meeting the King. You’ve done that, of course?”
“Carle, I’ve never— That is, when I was young— But I was only a babe in arms when my grandfather died and my father—” It is perhaps just as well that I lapsed into Border Koretian at this point, and no doubt incoherent Border Koretian, for in the next moment I noticed the laughter struggling behind Carle’s face, and I realized that he was teasing me about my prior contact with royalty. So we both burst into laughter, and by the time we were through, the moment was past, and our talk had turned to other subjects. It occurred to me afterwards, though, that I gave Carle a very hasty summary of the events leading up to my arrival in Emor, and perhaps I didn’t tell him as much as I should have. But there’s plenty of time for that. Right now, my mind is too filled with the powerful oath of loyalty I will give tomorrow. Finally, and for all time, I will be free of the blood-lusting gods.
o—o—o
We’ve paused again on our journey. I had thought that Carle would hire a pony to pull the cart, once we reached the Emorian borderland, but we passed through the borderland without stopping at the villages, and eventually I realized the obvious. Quentin could easily have hired a merchant and his horse-cart to bring Fowler back to Emor’s capital; merchants pass by us every few days. He must have chosen this manner of travel so that Carle could test my physical endurance. This drove from my mind any temptation to complain about the heavy travelling.
We’re taking the journey in easy stages, though, and we’re presently sprawled under the afternoon sun, all except Fowler, whose cart is under the shade of the only tree we have passed during our journey.
Carle is an arm’s length from me, lying on his back with his hands behind his head and his eyes closed, though I’ve no doubt that he would leap to his feet with blade in hand if he heard the slightest sound of danger. Between us is the flask of wine we’ve been sharing. It has occurred to me since I wrote my last entry in this journal that, while Carle doesn’t know everything about me, I too know very little about Carle. Fenton almost never spoke of his slave years, and all that I know from him about Carle was that the young boy whom Fenton tutored was clever and loyal and courageous and affectionate in a reserved manner. I’ve learned all of that on my own. I wish I knew more about Carle – about his weaknesses especially – for I’m dreadfully afraid of doing something that will hurt him and build a wall between us.
Yesterday, for example, the patrol brought Fowler out of the hut’s storage room, where he had been lying since his wounding. He was groggily conscious at that time, and I felt uncomfortable being in his presence, so I went into the storage room to see what lay there.
I’d never seen a room that was filled with so many items. Iron shelves jutted out from the stone walls, from floor to ceiling; I could dimly see them in the lamplight. Stacked on the shelves, in an orderly manner, were food supplies, bowls and spoons, fire-pots, swords, whetstones, boots, blankets, bandages and dried medical herbs, splints, fire-flints, firewood, a death mask . . .
I asked Devin about this last item when he entered the storage room a short time later, in order to fetch a fresh linen cloth for Fowler. “That is Sublieutenant Carle’s notion,” he explained, pouring wine into a flask from one of the kegs. “When we execute Emorian prisoners, we send their bodies back to Emor for burial, but we burn Koretian bodies here and spread their ashes. That is why the ground around the hut is so fertile – it contains a thousand years’ worth of dead Koretians. The sublieutenant thought our relations with Koretia would be better if we burned the bodies in the Koretian manner: placing death masks over the corpses’ faces, reciting one of Koretia’s less disagreeable death rites . . .”
He gave a disarming smile as he said this. He was speaking in Border Koretian, which was kind of him, so I took the opportunity to ask him what it means when an Emorian shares his wine with another person.
> His smile disappeared then, and he gave me a look that I could not interpret, but he answered my question readily enough, even though it took me time to realize what he was saying.
When he did, my breath was driven out of my body by the realization of what Carle had offered me. The Emorian reader for whom I began writing this journal, if he has not long since disappeared, must have been shaking his head during the past couple of entries, wondering at the ignorance of Koretian-born men. Truly, how could I have known? But I understand now what Fenton meant when he said that the Emorians don’t take blood vows. After all, a life-binding vow need not be exchanged through blood. It could just as easily be exchanged through wine – and could be just as binding.
I was thinking all this through after Devin left, and was feeling the weight of what had happened fall upon me, when I noticed that Carle was standing at the door to the storage room, watching me with a serious expression. I was tongue-tied for a moment. What do you say to a new blood brother when you had not even known that you had exchanged blood? The matter was taken out of my hands a moment later, as Carle spoke.
“Now that you’re well again,” he said in a firm voice, “I suppose we’d better start your patrol training, and part of that training consists of learning the law. The first thing you need to understand is the concept ‘without clear understanding,’ which played such an important role in your trial. It’s more than simply a trial sentence; it’s a term that pervades the whole of the Chara’s law. The premise behind it is that no man can be condemned by the full force of the law unless he deliberately breaks the law, and that requires him to understand that he is breaking a law. Likewise, no man can keep the law in full unless he understands the law that he is keeping. Thus, Emorian law declares that an oath is not binding upon a man if he does not understand, at the time of his oath-taking, what vow he is making . . .”
Carle continued in this vein for several minutes. Gradually, it dawned upon me that Devin had reported to him what I had asked, and that Carle was telling me, in as tactful a manner as possible, that I need not consider myself his wine-friend, because I had not understood what he was proposing at the time he offered me his wine.
It was an awkward moment. Because Carle had spoken in the way he had – rather than raise the subject overtly, as Fenton or Hamar would have done – I tried to answer in the same way, making clear to Carle, through my comments about the law, that I would have accepted the wine in any case and that I was honored and overwhelmed to learn that he wished us to be bound in this way. But I had no practice in this type of sideways speech, and after a while, I found myself falling into helpless laughter.
Carle looked deeply hurt at first, as though I had pulled my blade on him while his back was turned, but after I explained, he grinned and said, “I suppose there’s something to be said for Koretian forthrightness.”
So then I poured wine into one of the flasks from the shelves, and this time I was the one who offered the wine, and everything was all right after that. But it made me wonder in how many ways I have hurt Carle’s feelings since my arrival, without clear understanding of what I was doing. I have so much to learn about being an Emorian.
o—o—o
The twenty-third day of October in the 940th year a.g.l.
I’m writing this entry under candlelight; it is not quite dawn yet, though from where I sit, next to the window, I can see the sky turning violet above the stone houses of the city. A few men are walking about already, all unarmed; my ears still burn as I remember Carle’s laughter yesterday when he noticed how I gaped at such men. Yet I think he understood my reaction better than anyone else would – certainly better than our host would have.
Yesterday evening, after we had delivered Fowler safely to the city physicians, I thought that we would proceed directly to the army camp, but Carle shook his head. “Never disturb an army official when he is off duty,” he said. “That’s the first rule you should learn as a bottom-ranked soldier. Of course, that rule doesn’t apply to me and the lieutenant, since we’re always on duty alert, but other army officials appreciate their leisure time. We’ll see Wystan in the morning. In the meantime, I’d like you to meet Neville.”
Neville, it turns out, is the palace clerk I heard Carle talking about several days ago; he was a mountain patrol guard for a year. “He’s the eldest son of a town baron,” Carle explained as we wound our way through the market, drawing stares from passersby who noticed Carle’s uniform and sword. “He doesn’t stand on ceremony, though. He considers himself to be just another patrol guard.”
I’m glad Carle explained this to me; I never would have guessed otherwise.
We sat a little while later in Neville’s living chamber, surrounded by a dozen lamps. Made of glass. I’d never seen glass before, but Carle assured me that that was what they were. Certainly the lamp-glass made the light much brighter than if the candle-flames had been shining through horn, which allowed me to appreciate in full measure the rich tapestries, satin cushions, gilded plaster, and jewel-spangled wine cups. No less than six servants hovered at our sides, offering imported Koretian wine, delicate pastries from Emor’s Central Provinces, and Marcadian berries that exploded with flavor when one bit into them. The only missing objects of richness were Daxion nuts, and Neville apologized for their absence.
“My father has cut down on my allowance,” he explained with a cheerful smile as he held his cup carelessly to the side. The servant next to him promptly stepped forward to pour the wine. “I think he wants to encourage me to work harder as a clerk so that I can win my elevation – hence the incentive. And here I’ve been promising for three years to introduce you to the delights of fine eating, Carle.”
“There’s no hurry, sir.” Carle, much to my surprise, was sitting relaxed among the opulence, barely glancing at the servants, but his voice had taken on the same tone it did when he was receiving orders from Quentin. “This winter will be soon enough to begin my introduction to the decadent ways of civilian life.”
Neville laughed appreciatively before turning to address one of the servants, who had brought forward a new wine bottle for inspection. I was sitting on a couch next to Carle; I took the opportunity to whisper into his ear, “I thought you said that Neville was a bottom-ranked soldier. Why do you keep calling him ‘sir’?”
I decided afterwards that patrol-level whispers should be spoken only when the room does not contain third parties who formerly served as patrol guards. Neville turned instantly, his eyebrows shooting toward the mosaic ceiling.
His voice was even, though, as he said, “Rank is always a difficult subject for Koretians to master.”
I felt Carle stir beside me, clear his throat, and then draw breath and hesitate, as though reviewing in his mind the text of a book entitled, “How to Rebuke the Man You Have Just Called ‘Sir.’” His face must have reflected what he was thinking, for Neville quickly added, “My apologies. I meant ‘Koretian-born Emorians,’ of course.”
“But we have ranks in Koretia,” I said, then added belatedly, “sir.”
Neville smiled then, the laughter lines crinkling in his face. He is eighteen, a year younger than Carle, but the wave of the hand with which he dismissed the servants was so authoritative that I began to wonder whether I had misheard what Carle had told me.
“Certainly you have rank in Koretia,” he said. “You have slaves, lesser free-men, lesser . . . No, you tell me. What ranks do the Koretians recognize, and what do the titles signify?”
It was then that I began to feel acutely uncomfortable and to wish that I’d taken more opportunity to talk with Carle during our journey. But I replied obediently, “Slaves are . . . Well, they’re slaves. Lesser free-men are free but not noble. Lesser noblemen are village barons and their heirs. High noblemen are rulers, lords, town barons, and their hei— Oh, I see.” I felt my ears grow warm.
Neville made no further reference to the matter, though the look he gave me managed to convey the fact that he expected me to
be grateful for his mercy. Instead, he turned his gaze toward Carle and said, “That reminds me, Carle. Last week, the Chara handed down a new decision which was meant to settle the question of whether honorary lords are equal in rank to council lords.”
“But it didn’t settle that question, sir?” Carle leaned forward; I caught a glimpse of the spark in his eyes.
“Apparently the Chara’s clerk and the council law researchers have been working late into the night to try to decipher the implications of the decision. Part of the decision, you’ll be interested to hear, cites titles given to members of the royal family over the years, and another part of the decision rests on the question of whether a younger son automatically becomes heir to a nobleman if the eldest son dies. Apparently that issue ties in with the question of whether honorary lords are under the care of the Chara or whether, as the lordship of dominion governors would appear to suggest, they are in fact under the care of the Great Council—”
“Was the decision of the Chara Rufus’s reign mentioned, sir?” Carle broke in. “I understand the Chara cited that in a case eight years ago, when he confirmed that the heirs of cousins in the royal family normally cannot inherit nobility – not that that needed to be confirmed. But that case also dealt with the question of whether being under the immediate care of the Chara brings obligations of special duty—”
I lost track of what was being said after that. Instead, I was noting how swiftly Carle turned the conversation from the general discussion that Neville had begun, transforming it into a minute examination of past court cases dating back to the early years of Emor. Within a short while I was dazed, and I think Neville must have been as well, for he eventually leaned back in his chair, gave an indulgent smile, and said, “We don’t want to discuss law matters too difficult for your partner to follow, Carle. Perhaps Adrian has a question or two about what we’ve been discussing?”
It was a generous remark, and it was aimed entirely, I could guess, at having me ask the ignorant questions that Neville himself was afraid to voice. I didn’t dare look Carle’s way, but I saw the steady manner in which he set down in his cup on the marble table before him, and I knew that he too had guessed Neville’s motives for turning the conversation toward me.
It was in my spirit to ask Neville the question that was really bothering me – why he baroned his rank over Carle when Carle knows so much more about the law than he does – but instead I said, in a voice that was a tad bit too cool, “I was still wondering about Emorian rank, sir. Forgive me for my great ignorance of such matters, but I don’t understand why what we discussed before has any application to this evening’s conversation, since we’re meeting in private and are not discussing official matters.”
Neville lifted his eyebrows again; this time a sardonic smile was on his face. “Carle,” he said, “can you make any sense of your partner’s thoughts? I confess that his reasoning is somewhat high for me.”
“I’m afraid I can, sir.” There was genuine regret in Carle’s voice, and I realized, with a lowering of heart, that this must mean I had acted the fool. “In Koretia, rank is linked with duty, so that when a nobleman is off-duty – when he is meeting privately with friends, for example – he will address the friends as though they were his equals.”
“Ah.” It was amazing how, in that single syllable, Neville managed to convey his full opinion of Koretian barbarities. “Well,” he said, his voice taking on the tone of a schoolmaster, “matters are different here in Emor. Here in Emor, if you meet a nobleman— No, perhaps we should explain this by way of the law. Carle?” The largesse of his gesture conveyed the impression that he could easily explain the matter himself but was allowing his inferior guest the honor.
“Let’s take a court case,” Carle replied. “A lesser free-man strikes another lesser free-man. He is judged to have acted without clear understanding. What sentence does the judge give him?”
I felt warmth run through my body as though it were a Koretian summer night rather than a cool Emorian evening. It was not simply that Carle had mentioned the case without revealing to Neville that I had been the prisoner. It was that he had mentioned the only law I yet knew, thus allowing me the opportunity to display my knowledge before Neville, who was so sure of my Koretian ignorance.
“Twenty to sixty lashes,” I said in a casual voice. “In most cases, forty lashes would be the sentence – unless, of course, the man was a soldier and had previously been sentenced to a rebuke.”
I noticed the slight intake of Neville’s breath, but he covered it quickly by sipping from his wine and then saying, “The same man has struck a nobleman, rather than striking a lesser free-man. What is his sentence?”
I hesitated, trying to guess the nature of this trap; I dared not look Carle’s way. Finally I said hesitantly, “Sixty lashes?”
Neville allowed himself to flash a tight smile of triumph before replying, “Branding.”
“But—” I stopped short, aware that any protests I babbled now would be scored on Neville’s inner chart of victory. In the end I said, in a carefully controlled voice, “I see. The crime is considered worse because the man who has been attacked holds greater duties.”
“No.” To my distress, exasperation filled the voice of Carle. “The prisoner was given a higher sentence because the man he attacked was above his rank. That’s the only reason. The nobleman in question could have been an imbecile, unfit to carry out any duties, and the crime would still have been considered great.”
“But . . .” This time I turned toward Neville in genuine bewilderment. “Is that fair? The crime is the same in both cases. It shouldn’t matter what title the victim holds.”
Neville relaxed back into the softness of his armchair. I sensed that my consternation had cleansed him of his earlier annoyance. “It works the opposite way as well, though,” he said. “If I struck you, a lesser free-man, then I would receive a higher sentence than Carle would if he struck you. My rank offers me greater protection against crimes against myself, but it also burdens me with greater responsibilities toward those of lesser rank. That’s why you don’t see Emorian noblemen being placed on trial very often,” he added with a quick smile. “There just aren’t sufficient rewards for committing a crime if you’re a nobleman.”
I sat staring at him in the flickering white light of the cut-glass lamps, watching sparks flare up periodically in the gilt of the plaster, and listening to the logs moan in the weariness of the late evening. Beside me, Carle said with urgent passion, “Adrian, listen. Tomorrow you will give your oath to the Chara. Would you strike him under any circumstances? Even if he were off duty? And would you complain if you were given a higher sentence for a crime against him than you would receive for committing a crime against me?”
I felt a deep stillness enter into me then, one I hadn’t felt for many weeks – one I hadn’t felt since the last time Fenton and I spoke. I understood. Not for the reasons that Carle had mentioned; I understood because Fenton and I had talked about this many times. About loving the gods. About loving them without reserve and accepting without complaint the mercy and vengeance they gave. And most of all – this was something Fenton told me, and I doubt any other priest would have said it – about taking that love and acceptance and giving it to all the people around you, as a sign of your love for the gods.
All of that is false, I now know; the gods are evil, and they care nothing for love. For many weeks now that knowledge has been an emptiness inside me, longing to be filled. And now I had learned that what Fenton had said was true – not about the gods, but about the Chara. Fenton must have taken what he learned in Emor as a child and applied that knowledge to the gods, trusting them to be as honorable as the Chara who had once been his ruler. Fenton was wrong about the gods, but he was not wrong about the Chara, and now I could take all that he had taught me and put it to use.
“I see.” I looked at Carle, forgetting that Neville was there. “You serve those above you in rank in the same way that you
serve the Chara, and they care for you in the same way that the Chara does. To serve and care for each other is a way of showing your loyalty to the Chara.”
Carle said nothing; he only smiled. I don’t even remember how the conversation turned after that. But what I’ve decided – and I must finish this entry quickly, for I can hear the others stirring from their sleep – is that it doesn’t matter what my life was like in the past, and I needn’t tell Carle anything that might discomfit him. Anything good that happened to me in the past is here with me now, as I serve the Chara.
The rest can be forgotten.
o—o—o
The twenty-fourth day of October in the 940th year a.g.l.
I have had the greatest disappointment of my life: I am not going to be able to meet the Chara after all.
“His schedule is too busy at the moment, I fear,” explained Captain Wystan when we met with him yesterday morning. “He is preparing for the wedding of his young sister – an important wedding from the point of view of the law, since the groom will become second in line for the throne, after the Chara’s son. Or is he third in line? Carle, you know these matters better than I do.”
He had raised his voice to be heard above the rain. Yesterday’s storm came on with a suddenness that startled me; winds pulled dark clouds from the north as quickly as though they were a vanguard army on the move. Fortunately, the army tents are waterproof – the Emorian engineers are just as skilled as I’d always heard – so only a trickle of rain came though a gap in the tent where part of the cloth didn’t overlap properly. The tent’s brazier was blazing fiercely when we arrived, so that Carle and I, still soaked from the rain, were able to warm ourselves. This was in fact the first order I received from Wystan, which says much about the man who will be my high official.
Carle was in the process of hanging our wet cloaks from one of the interior tent poles. He turned immediately and said, “Second in line, sir, since the Chara Anthony has no brother. The line of succession is son, grandson, son-in-marriage, brother, brother-in-marriage, uncle, and nephew.”
“And cousin,” said Wystan with a smile. “We must not forget the Chara’s cousins.”
“The succession is unlikely to fall that far, sir,” Carle replied stiffly.
Wystan raised an eyebrow, but merely replied, “Unlikely, yes, since the Chara’s son will doubtlessly produce an heir of his own soon. At any rate, my old captain says that Lord Nicholas gives the appearance of being a happily married man.” Seeing my puzzled look, he added, “The Chara’s son, Lord Nicholas, is presently living in Marcadia, assisting the subcommander of the Marcadian Army. I am originally from that dominion, as you will have guessed.”
I hadn’t guessed, for I’d assumed that his white hair came from old age; Wystan appears to be approaching his sixtieth year. But now I remembered Sewell’s white hair, and I realized that Wystan must be the second Marcadian I’ve met. I had a sudden vision of the whole of the Emorian Empire, stretching from Southern Emor on through the Central Provinces and up to the northern dominions of Marcadia and Arpesh, with nothing beyond them except the ice-bound mainland, where the barbarians live. . . . A moment later, I discovered that my breath was still caught by the wonder of it. All that land, bound in peace by the Chara’s law. If only the lands to the south of Emor . . .
I woke from my dreaming then as I caught sight of Carle, cloaked once more, ducking through the tent flap, and I realized that Wystan must have asked him to leave so that he could talk with me alone. My stomach tightened.
In fact, the interview was relaxed. The hardest part was explaining about my blood vow. When I’d finished, Wystan nodded and said, “Your lieutenant is right in believing that your broken vow is no barrier to your joining the Emorian army. From an Emorian point of view, you showed more honor by breaking your vow than you would have shown by keeping it. In any case, the law takes no notice of crimes committed in another land, unless those crimes are against the Chara’s law as well.” He leaned back in his chair. We were both seated, and Wystan had moved his chair out from behind his small desk so that we would be closer together and so that our conversation could not be overheard by Carle and Wystan’s orderly, who were conversing outside the tent.
“Do you have questions of your own?” Wystan asked. “I know that Carle is well qualified to answer questions you have about the patrol, but if you have any general questions about the army, I would be glad to answer them.”
I frantically searched my mind for an appropriate question. Fortunately, the sun shone forth at that moment, and a shaft of light travelled through the tent gap, onto Wystan. His neck-brooch shone like a reflection of the sun.
“I was wondering about the brooches, sir,” I said, with my eye on the gold brooch before me. “Most of the patrol guards wear iron brooches, but a few of them – including Sublieutenant Carle – wear copper brooches, and Lieutenant Quentin wears a silver brooch. I asked Sublieutenant Carle about this, but he didn’t seem to want to talk about it.”
“I am hardly surprised,” said Wystan. “Your sublieutenant is a modest man.” He rose to his feet, and after a moment I realized that I ought to do the same, and so I jumped up and watched as Wystan walked over to close the gap in the tent covering. As he did so, he said, “The brooches are awarded by the subcommander of the Emorian Army for honor and courage. The copper brooch is for great honor, and if a soldier should distinguish himself a second time, he is presented with a silver brooch for greater honor.”
“And the gold brooch is for greatest honor,” I said, keeping my gaze fixed on Wystan’s brooch.
Wystan laughed then as he tossed dirt onto the brazier to douse the flames. “Do not assume that my brooch is higher in honor than Sublieutenant Carle’s. Each unit in the Emorian Army establishes its own criteria for what constitutes honor, and the brooches are presented accordingly. I received my brooch in the regular army, which has lower standards than the special divisions – that is to say, the vanguard, the Border Division, and the Division of Disclosure. The highest standards of all exist in the border mountain patrol, with good reason. If we awarded brooches to patrol guards on the same basis that other soldiers are honored, every patrol guard would be awarded a gold brooch before the end of his first year. Those who were still alive, that is.” His gaze slid over to me.
I recognized what he was telling me – not only that the honor of being a patrol guard was the greatest, but also that the danger was the greatest. I did my best to straighten my back and look like the type of man who fearlessly faces death. The results must have been amusing, because a smile flickered across Wystan’s face, quickly suppressed.
I abandoned the effort and asked, “What type of act brings such an award in the patrol, sir?”
“Acts that are in the tradition of the patrol,” he replied promptly, seating himself once more. “That is to say, acts which no man with the slightest amount of sanity would perform. If you were to fling yourself unarmed onto a blade-wielding breacher, without the faintest hope that you would survive the encounter, that might earn you an honor brooch. I say ‘might,’ because your act would need to have been witnessed by at least two other guards, while at least two-thirds of the patrol – including one of its officials – would need to have agreed that your act was a model for other patrol guards.” He smiled as I reseated myself on a stool. “Even so, the border mountain patrol is the most heavily honored unit in the Chara’s armies. The patrol shields its honor jealously, and it admits no man to its ranks unless the patrol believes that he will match the honor of past guards.”
I thought of my broken vow; and of Fowler, lying wounded in the city physicians’ house; and of myself, standing trial for my crime; and I felt the darkness of the day lower itself upon me. I was still trying to figure out how to save Wystan the words he must say next when he added softly, “Which is why I consider it one of my greatest privileges to welcome to the Emorian army those men whom the patrol believes meet those standards. Here is your own brooch, w
hich, I assure you, shines more brightly in the eyes of the world than my own.” And he placed into my hand an army brooch of dull iron.
So then he called Carle back into the tent to be witness, and I gave my oath of loyalty to the Chara by way of Wystan, and afterwards I couldn’t remember why I had felt disappointed at the beginning of the visit.
o—o—o
The twenty-fifth day of October in the 940th year a.g.l.
Today I, Soldier Adrian of the Border Mountain Patrol of the Emorian Army of the Chara’s Imperial Armies, was fitted for a uniform.
Actually, it doesn’t look much different from the lesser free-man’s tunic I was wearing before. I was also fitted for boots, and afterwards Carle took me to the armory so that I could select my blades.
“You have your choice,” explained Carle, handing me a sword. “Have you ever had a close look at an Emorian-style blade?”
I examined carefully the sword. It was heavier than any I’d held before, and the hilt was guarded by curving metal that was evidently meant to protect the hand.
“I like this better than Koretian-style swords,” I said, moving the sword from side to side to check its balance.
Carle nodded. “I thought you might. I prefer Koretian swords myself, because of their lighter weight. I suppose you’ve never fought with a sword before.”
Actually, I had. Hamar used to let me borrow his sword, and he’d borrow Father’s, and we’d practice together. But of course I couldn’t tell Carle that, so I said carefully, “I have on a few occasions. The baron’s son in our village was generous about loaning out his sword.”
“Ah, yes; the baron’s son in my village was the same way. Now, then—” Carle unsheathed his sword in a move that dazzled the eye, and held it in readiness. In the next moment, I had my new sword poised, and we began to fight.
The armorer watched us with a mirthful smile. We were in the cramped space of his tent, along with other soldiers who had taken shelter from the never-ending drizzle of rain. This is the third time it has rained since we arrived in Emor, and I’m beginning to wonder whether I’ll ever see the sun again.
I concentrated my initial efforts on not killing accidentally any of the men standing nearby. Within a short time, my efforts were focussed on staying alive. The best bladesman I ever knew was my cousin Emlyn, but if he had met Carle, I think he would have hesitated before challenging Carle to a duel. Carle’s sword sliced through my barriers as though he were cutting soft cheese, his blade-tip always withdrawing before it touched flesh. Obviously he was aiming for disarming rather than first blood, so I clenched my teeth and tried to follow suit. After three sweaty minutes, I finally succeeded in flicking my blade upward at the very moment that Carle’s was sliding past.
His sword went flying, nearly decapitating a bottom-ranked soldier who was leaning forward to watch better. The soldiers had been chatting lightly with one another throughout the fight; now silence fell like a corpse upon the crowd. The armorer was no longer smiling.
The tip of my blade was touching Carle’s throat. I hastily withdrew it and sheathed my sword, saying, “I’m sorry – did I use a forbidden move?”
Carle was breathing heavily from the fight; his eyes were unfocussed. Several seconds passed before he smiled and said, “Don’t ask that question to a Koretian breacher. He’d geld you in order to teach you the meaning of ‘forbidden moves’ in Koretia.”
Several of the men laughed, and everyone turned their attention away from us as Carle scooped his sword off the dirt floor. “I won’t have to worry about whether you can guard my back,” he said. “I should have guessed you’d be skilled. I suppose you received your first blade when you were seven or eight years old?”
“Six,” I replied. “My cousin Emlyn gave me my first dagger as a gift when he moved south.”
“I received my first blade when I was fifteen,” said Carle; then he laughed as I struggled to control my expression. “It’s the custom in Emor – and the main reason why so many patrol guards die in their first year. We’re ill-trained in comparison to Koretian bladesmen, though fear of imminent death is an effective incentive to improve our skills.” He reached under the edge of his tunic, and when his hand came into sight again, he was holding a sliver of metal. “This is one area where you’ll need training,” he said.
And so he explained to me how to hold a thigh-dagger and how to wield it in combat, and I listened impatiently until he handed me the dagger, and then we had to wait for the armorer to hunt up a bowl of water and strips of cloth, and after Carle had washed and bandaged my hand he told me again how to hold a thigh-dagger, and I managed to do it properly the second time.
The other soldiers were very amused.
o—o—o
The twenty-sixth day of October in the 940th year a.g.l.
This is our last day in Emor. We spent most of today doing tasks for Quentin that were easier accomplished by messenger than by message. Carle went over to the city physicians’ house briefly, in order to check on Fowler and to confirm that he will recover within a month’s time. At the end of the day – a day when it miraculously did not rain – we sat with our backs against the exterior of the inner palace wall.
From where we sat, we could see the sweep of the army headquarters just below us, nestled at the northern foot of Palace Hill: tents and banners and horses and milling men, squeezed tight together yet spreading, it seemed, halfway to the horizon. It’s hard to believe that the headquarters houses only the Home Division and the vanguard, and that the greater part of the Chara’s armies is scattered throughout the empire.
I looked over at Carle, but his head was tilted back, and I saw that his gaze was directed further toward the horizon. From where we sat, the line of the horizon was blocked by a series of low mountains – foothills, really – that interrupted the rolling fields of lower Southern Emor. One low mountain stood out from the rest, being slightly forward of the others, and I could see that immediately behind it was another mountain, slightly higher, and still another mountain behind them, though this was almost hidden by the haze at the horizon. The flattened peaks looked like the knobby spine of an animal.
“Those are signal-fire mountains,” Carle said, seeing where my gaze was now fixed. “When a fire is lit on one of them, it can be seen on the next mountain in the chain. The signal-fire mountains reach all of the way up to the Central Provinces.”
“Why are the fires lit?” I asked. “To warn of war?”
“On rare occasions,” said Carle. “Tell me, what do you think it will be like patrolling the mountains when the snows come?”
I was unsettled by the rapid change of subject. A moment later, I was even more unsettled as I began to think my answer through. I’ve actually seen snow before; in the borderland, it snows occasionally, so I’ve witnessed the feather-fall of moist flakes from the sky. It always seemed quite peaceful on our side of the mountain.
On the other side, it was different. The mountain winds, howling almost ceaselessly through the mountain passes, whirled a wall of blinding whiteness against any passersby. Father had forbidden Hamar and me from visiting the northern side of our mountain when it snowed, and after one numbing, panic-raising visit, Hamar and I had complied with this order.
Carle had been watching my face carefully. Now he gave a short laugh. “Don’t worry, our sacrifices to the Chara aren’t that high. So few breachers try to cross the border during the winter that keeping us in the mountains isn’t worth the number of patrol guards who would die if we were forced to remain there. The patrol is withdrawn during the snow season. The trouble is in predicting when that season begins.”
As he spoke, the light wind continued to buffet our face. Above us, dark clouds rolled in endless waves across the skies. The shadow of one such cloud thundered silently past us, faster than a galloping horse.
I understood then. “So the signal fires are to warn that the snow is coming?”
Carle nodded. “The signal fires are the only messa
ges that can move faster than the storm clouds; even the Chara’s messengers aren’t that quick. Of course, sometimes the storms halt before reaching the mountains, but Captain Wystan can’t take that chance. As soon as he receives word through the signal fires of the storm’s approach, he sends a sealed message to Quentin. Sometimes the warning arrives a few days ahead of the storm, and sometimes it arrives only a few hours ahead.”
“Why a sealed message?” I asked.
One side of Carle’s mouth twisted upward into a wry smile. “Because our lieutenant has the unenviable task of deciding when to withdraw us from the mountains. Late autumn is the time of year when any Koretian who knows what he’s doing tries to breach the border, so we stay in the mountains until the final moment possible, in order that we can catch any Koretian making a last-minute trip. When to leave is the lieutenant’s decision, and while he has never miscalculated our withdrawal, I don’t envy him his job.”
I considered this, stretching my legs out onto the damp grass and feeling the shadows of the grey clouds scurry over my body. The stones behind me were grey with old age, but new mortar kept them firmly in place. Everything below us looked newborn: the bright weapons, the attentive guards at the camp’s perimeter, the crisp orders being shouted by a subcaptain. Yet all that I saw and heard was a thousand years old.
“Carle, why did you become a mountain patrol guard?” I heard myself ask.
Carle took the wine flask from my hand and sipped from it before saying, “Because of the Law of Vengeance, I suppose.”
“The Law of Vengeance?” I felt my heartbeat increase. I’ve resigned myself to the fact that the law seems to have the same effect on me as a rich meal does on a glutton, or as a beautiful woman does on a lecher. “You mentioned that law once. What is it about?”
After a moment, I turned my head and found that Carle was gazing upon me with the sort of expression I might wear if he had asked me the names of the seven gods and goddesses of Koretia. His voice was matter-of-fact, though, as he said, “The Law of Vengeance concerns the third of the Great Three crimes that can be committed against the Chara – the crimes that the Chara alone may judge. The other two crimes are described in the Law of Grave Iniquity and the Law of Bloodshed. Some day soon I’ll recite to you the Justification of the Law of Vengeance; the Justification is the portion of a law that describes why the law exists. That Justification’s passage on the burdens of the Chara is one that every schoolboy in Emor is required to learn. Less well known, though, is the sixth division . . .”
“Wait,” I said. “You told me yesterday that Emorian laws are divided into five parts.”
“All except the Great Three.” Carle’s gaze was fixed on the nearest of the signal-mountains. He had not raised the wine flask to his lips for several minutes. His voice was soft as he said, “The Great Three are the oldest laws in this land, so they retain a division that all of the older laws must have included at one time: the sacrifice division, allowing any man to offer up his body or life in exchange for that of a condemned prisoner. The chronicles say that this division was treated with great seriousness on the few occasions when it was invoked. Not only was the man punished in the appropriate manner, but he took on all of the guilt and dishonor that rightfully belonged to the prisoner. The prisoner was freed of his pain, his death, and his shame. The other man bore all of this for the prisoner’s sake.”
The wind continued to buffet us with its hand; the black clouds hovered over us, low and heavy with rain. From the city walls to the mountains lay fields filled with sheep and horses, lazy under the patchy sunlight.
“You said that the division ‘was’ invoked,” I said finally. “It’s not used any more? No one today offers up their life that way?”
Carle smiled, saying nothing. Beyond the army camp, beyond the outer palace wall, lay the buildings of the capital city of Emor: law houses, market stalls, community halls, and homes. And beyond our sight, hidden by the palace that threw its shadow over the whole eastern portion of the city, lay the city physicians’ house, where a patrol guard lay drugged, suffering from the pain of a blade inflicted by a law-breaking Koretian.
“I see.” My voice was low. I was struggling with the knowledge of a burden taken on – the knowledge of how far the Chara’s mercy extended, and who took on the weight of seeing that his mercy was carried out. I should have known, I thought, from the moment that Quentin bloodied his hand in his effort to save my life.
We sat a while longer, until it grew too dark to see the clouds hiding the stars above, and then we walked back to Neville’s house as the rain began to fall on the green and golden fields.