“It does,” Isadora replies, kissing her husband deeply just once more; then she whispers into his armor, so quietly that he cannot hear: “You will be back.” She feels again for the clasp. “He will see to it …”
Slowly and quietly, save for a few unexplained laughs such as pass between those who together have grown beyond explanations for such, the couple goes to the door. Sixt opens it, Isadora eases onto the platform at the head of the steps—
And a deafening roar rises up from the quadrangle, a sound more unrestrained than any heard within the Fourth District since last the sentek brought his wife to appear before his troops. The spectacle below and about Isadora is an awesome one: the five hundred most battle-hardened, disciplined men in the army of Broken stand in formation, cheering in appreciation. Surrounding these, in every free area, stand still more men, from other units that will not march today, who wish only to celebrate their comrades, their new commander, and, most of all, the woman who is their commonly held ideal of all that they train and march to war to preserve.
Arnem allows the men to continue until it seems they will exhaust themselves, and then takes his wife’s hand and holds it aloft.
“Talons!” he shouts, when their roaring lowers to surmountable cheers. “Shall I designate my wife to lead you against the Bane?”
The troops burst out in an ecstatic affirmation that makes even their first mighty effort pale by comparison; and only Isadora herself can finally quiet them, by holding up her free hand.
“I fight a far more ferocious battle at home,” she calls out, “against an enemy just as small, yet far more devious!”
It is almost more than the soldiers can bear, particularly the married men: Isadora’s words bring thoughts of their own homes and their own children, while she herself becomes the very spirit of all their wives; and her words draw a final, ecstatic cheer that is the loudest of all. It is for Arnem, now, to silence them, by banishing his own smile, letting his wife step behind him, and holding his arms up. On the ground, every linnet calls his men to attention, and they are silent, snapping their spears to their sides and fastening their eyes on the man in whom they have placed such trust as few are ever allowed to experience.
“You all know,” Arnem begins, when the men have become so silent that the warm western wind can be heard rushing through the yard, “of the fate of Yantek Korsar! We shall not dwell on it. Remember his past service to this kingdom, for it is all he would wish you to remember, along with the great cause to which he devoted his long life—the safety of this city and this kingdom! We are now charged with that responsibility, and we undertake our duty in dangerous territory. Or so some say. I say that, for the Talons, Kafra has yet to create the ground that is truly dangerous—let our enemies look to the dangers the ground holds for them! And in the meantime, we shall march to the Meloderna, to gather up all the supplies our train can carry. But supplies alone will not steel your hearts. To that end, I say only this: however insignificant the Bane may seem to any of you, they are a vicious people who have tried to strike at the beating heart of this kingdom—the God-King himself. The end of Saylal is the end of all you hold dear, Talons—defend him, defend the name of your legion, defend one another, and above all, defend your homeland, where your families will wait, secure in the knowledge that you will make them proud, and will return to them! Talons—Kafra bless you all, bless the God-King, and bless this noble kingdom! We march now!”
Only hours upon years of the most exacting training can hold the men of the Talons in their places at that moment. They shout with renewed passion, while the other soldiers, who are not required to be in formation, leap about, hang from the roofs of the other buildings in the quadrangle, and bounce off one another like wild animals. As if on cue, Niksar appears with Arnem’s horse, the speckled grey stallion known throughout the army as “the Ox,” in affectionate homage to the founder of Broken. Arnem descends to the ground before his wife and, placing a foot in one of his saddle’s iron stirrups, he mounts the restless grey. He then coaxes him closer to the steps, and reaches down to pull his wife onto the saddle in front of him—another gesture that drives the soldiers to delighted distraction.
And thus seated, Isadora stays, as the troops turn at the blare of horn calls from their standard-bearers. The column that marches out of the Fourth District is a joyous one, tempered only when, having ridden with her husband to the Celestial Way, Isadora kisses the sentek once more, then dismounts: the soldiers must now proceed through the city to the High Temple, and what is fond camaraderie in the Fourth District will seem improper before the Grand Layzin and Lord Baster-kin. And so, with the lead cavalry units having been brought their hundred horses (herded up from the greener slopes of the mountain before being saddled earlier in the day), the column starts north once more; and Isadora waits for the whole of the khotor to pass her by, waving, it seems, to each of the five hundred men individually, but reserving a thrown kiss for her husband alone, who rides with Niksar at the end of the column, having observed the entirety of the men’s march out and made sure that they are truly fit for the coming review. Isadora then accepts the escort of two regular army linnets, and sets off home.
The Talons draw crowds all the length of the Celestial Way. The Second and Third Districts are nearing the end of a long day of hectic bartering: trading stalls are being stored for use the next day, while the proprietors of shops within the buildings along the avenue are closing up early to avoid damage from the frantic spectators—and also to get a look at the review. The soldiers’ behavior becomes steadily more serious and precise the farther north they progress; and when they arrive at the Temple steps, they find the Grand Layzin, robed in white, under a canopy held by shaved priests. The men receive their blessing from the God-King, read to them by the Layzin; but this pious show is for the good of the citizenry, more than it is to the taste of the troops. It is only when the Layzin returns to the Temple and Lord Baster-kin appears on his own black mount that the soldiers feel once again free to fully absorb the ecstasy of patriotism that is consuming the citizenry.
As the troops march back down to the East 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 East 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 East 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 sentry who fetched him having returned to his duties, 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 presses the same guard back into momentary service: “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 East 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 the South 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 as 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 that leads finally into the Den.
Heldo-Bah immediately begins to pace in fear. “Oh, sublime,” the gaptoothed 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 drains down slowly from springs inside the stone walls and ceiling has covered the carvings with a light, black-green growth; and the motion of this water, along with the jumping light of the fires, makes the carvings seem alive.