Post by Seek on Sept 2, 2013 3:10:25 GMT 10
Title: Interred With Their Bones
Rating: PG-13
Category: Tortall >1000
Length: 5214 words
Original and Subsequent Haunts: Goldenlake
Summary: Rikash tries to find his place. The deeds of the dead are seldom interred with their bones. And the living are often haunted by the ghosts of the past. Not very sequential and events happen very much out of order.
Notes: Written for Nat during the Merry Ficmas Exchange of 2011. Assassin's Creed fans might be amused.
-
My sister is always shifting, always restless. Some of the boys at Court jokingly whisper it must be the wild magic that runs thick in her veins.
Sarra hears these, of course. These same boys are too stupid to remember that the sparrow in the palace courtyard, the dog rolling over in the mud, the swallow taking flight: any one of these could be my sister. Sarra has the wild magic, you see. Just like Ma. She’s the one who can speak to animals, who can become them.
Ma and Da are always worried, even now. Sarra…she’s wilder than they know, and some days, they are afeared she’ll take Immortal shape, what with all the scrapes she gets into with Kit. There’s no turning back from Immortal shape, and knowing Sarra, she just might.
I’m not like Sarra. Not like Ma. I get along passably well with horses, dogs, especially so with creatures of the air. I think Ma and Da were relieved, the first time I showed signs of the Gift.
In hindsight, perhaps they’d already known. I heard stories of what happened when Ma had Sarra. Da said it had something to do with how the identity of infants was far more changeable than that of adults, even children. When Ma had me, though, there was no need to shift, to keep up with the various shape-changes I took on. I did not shift. Did not change.
I suppose they’d known, right then, that I was not gifted with the wild magic.
-
My name is Rikash Salmalin.
Some of the girls at the University thought it was fairly exotic. Rikash is a foreign name in Tortall, the second syllable harsh on the tongue. Salmalin is not exactly Tortallan either, in the way that names like Cooper or Goodwin are. Typically, Da thought it sounded flamboyant, exactly like a Player’s stage name when he took it. He was running from Carthak then.
When I was younger, I wondered what Rikash meant. Who had come up with it. One day, when I asked Da, he took me aside and firmly told me it wasn’t a name he and Ma had stumbled upon, stitching syllables together for something strange-sounding. After all, Sarra’s name is fair normal, for all they built it from grandma’s name.
I asked him who, and Da smiled. He always did that when I was being clever.
“A good man,” he said quietly. “A…strange man, but good. And a friend.”
I wondered why he hesitated over the word, ‘man’.
-
We never really talked about why I was named Rikash. In truth, all I really knew was that Rikash was a friend of the family. Uncle Lindhall didn’t seem to know very much about the first Rikash; if he knew, he wouldn’t say. That was the first hint.
Since I had the Gift like Da, I was sent to the Royal University in Tortall. Sarra spent half the time cutting classes and going off to do something like swimming with a pod of dolphins off Pirate’s Swoop for a week.
I spent most of the time climbing high places like the roof of the University. Most of the masters expected better from the son of Numair Salmalin, one of the few black robes in the world. I heard more than enough about what my Da did, things like turning a man into a tree (Da always looked sad when he talked about Tristan and he always went back to Dunlath) or shapeshifting.
Da learned how to shift into a black hawk. Shifting into a small eagle was surprisingly easy for me.
I think that was just about the only thing that surprised both Da and the masters. My Gift was strong, but I struggled at battle magic. I was far better at wards, and set spells. Battle magic, you understand, is fairly simple. Point and shoot. Throw power at…something. The more, the better. Ideally, the hapless target should spontaneously combust. Or get zapped. Or…something. Whatever that something really is. Mostly unpleasantly destructive. I know a master at the University who was adept at casting spells that got people torn apart by scorching sand-winds. Of course, he was a Bazhir mage.
In retrospect, Tortallan magic is mostly point-and-shoot. Most Tortallan battle mages don’t bother with set spells.
No wonder I spent most of the time climbing the buildings. It was, at least, difficult for the masters to find me there. Sarra just found it amusing.
She always did.
-
I had dreams, when I was younger. Dreams of flying, dreams of fire and blood and chaos. I was too little then, to wake up screaming in the night.
When I grew older, they changed. I dreamed of places I’d never been to; Carthak, a hot scorching desert. The skies above Fief Dunlath. I recognised the castle, when Da and Ma brought us to visit Aunt Maura.
It wasn’t until I went to the University in Carthak that I learned exactly what the dreams really were. Da had some idea—well, about as much as someone with an academic interest in the more obscure forms of magic could have had. But I’m getting ahead of myself here.
This is the short of it:
I am Rikash Salmalin, son of one of the most powerful mages in the world, short of some of the Scanran mages who practice sacrificial magery.
And I am a dead-speaker.
-
I first learned of who Rikash had been in the aftermath of one of the skirmishes on the Scanran border. The Scanran war had bloodied the noses of the Scanrans by the time a truce was negotiated. It was hardly costly enough to convince Scanra that it wasn’t a good idea to invade Tortall.
Sarra tells me there was a lot of arm-twisting going on. Something along the lines of ‘we sent a crack force of knights into your lands and killed the mage animating your dead into killing machines, we can do it again.’ I don’t ask where she got that from. Sarra knows plenty of secrets. I have my own.
In any event, skirmishes went on. King Maggur signed the armistice but raiding parties continued to enter Tortall occasionally. He claimed they were the action of belligerent warlords. It might very well be true. In any case, it was common to dispatch some mages from the University to join the forces on border duty. In the aftermath of the battle, when setting up wards upon the wounded and the dead, waiting for the healer-mages and the burial details to come, I spoke to him.
Many in Tortall hate the Stormwings, for what they do to the dead. None of them respect the dead, and it’s hard to interr a corpse with any dignity if the corpse has been mutilated and shat upon.
Still.
A Stormwing, dark-skinned, with strange bright blue eyes. This was a larger skirmish than most, and already, the area stank of blood and piss and s*** and death. Not the Stormwings. A common result of battle, I was beginning to learn.
I was already numb to the stench.
“Won’t leave any for us, Tortallan? You drive a hard bargain.”
I said, “It’s not mine to decide.”
A cackle. He flapped his wings, and I breathed Stormwing reek. “Interesting, Tortallan boy. What about the Scanran dead?”
I folded my arms across my chest. “You’re welcome to try,” I said calmly. “I don’t advise it. My wards are fair strong, I’ve been told. And annoying to run into.”
He tried it, anyhow. There was an explosion, and then he cursed, sneezing. The area reeked of onions, and his gleaming steel-fletched wings were blackened. “Damnable mages,” the Stormwing muttered. He sneezed. I felt a flash of sympathy. We were both just doing what we were supposed to.
Maybe it was because of the dreams. The dead were the dead, I knew. All that was left behind was a corpse, something we attached significance to. It hardly seemed worth killing Stormwings over. Sometimes I dreamed of them. Heard whispers during magical workings.
I didn’t mean to betray them, one of the voices said. I can’t remember why I did…
“No fear,” the Stormwing said. “Are you afraid, boy?” His sneezing had stopped, and his eyes were red-rimmed. Irritated. Da had taught me the onion-wards, taught me Stormwings couldn’t bear the stench. I mastered it within hours, sprang it on Ma for the fun of it. She was fair unamused, let me tell you.
Ma’s a bear when enraged.
If my Ma were anyone else, I wouldn’t have to add this: not literally.
I said, “No.”
“You’re strange,” the Stormwing said. “For a human. Even for a mage. What’s your name, little mage?”
“Rikash. Rikash Salmalin.”
Bright blue eyes narrowed; the Stomwing gave a raucous caw of laughter. “Rikash!” he crowed. “You carry a Stormwing’s name, little mage. Lord Rikash Moonsword, of the Stone Tree Nation. Am I right?”
I said, “What?”
I should have asked: “Stone Tree Nation?”
We learn little about the Stormwings, except that by nature, they defile the corpses of the slain and that they live off fear. They are immortals in only one thing: they do not age and die as we do. They can be slain just as easily by magefire or by an arrow. Most commanding knights prefer to have men put a few arrows through Stormwings. Far more expedient than shooting them off, and nobody misses a few dead Stormwings.
The Stormwing snorted and took off, lazily flapping higher and higher. He’d been hovering earlier. “Learn your history, little mage,” he said. I barely flinched as waves of Stormwing reek swept by me in his wake. “And we’ll see if there’s more to you than a Stormwing name. I am Lord Zerakh Flamewind of the Stone Tree Nation. Remember the name, boy.”
I watched him leave.
Now, I thought, I knew why Da had hesitated when saying, ‘man’.
-
I spoke to Da, in the aftermath of the battle. Not by a scarlet scry-fire. I spoke to him in person. Most mages have the courtesy not to intrude on a sending. And there are ways to ward against intrusion, but I wasn’t afraid of intrusion.
It was something personal. Such things are best done in person, away from the distance of a scrying-knife.
He took one look at my face and said, “We’ll talk on the Needle.”
The Balor’s Needle is often full of mages performing distance-workings, but at this hour of the night, it was deserted. As the king’s chief mage, Da has one of the keys to the Needle. I’ve heard that security at the Needle was increased after some incident involving a kidnapping and Lady Knight Keladry of Mindelan. I’m not exactly certain what happened. Most of the details were soon hushed.
He let us in, and we climbed the wrought iron staircases. If I tried, I could see the charms guarding against rust, spells for strength, safety…
Da said, “Rikash.”
I stopped my study of the wards. Good wards, I thought, approvingly. I said, “I spoke to a Stormwing, in the aftermath of the battle. The one involving three squads of the King’s Own and four army squads at Giantkiller.”
Calmly, Da said, “What did the Stormwing say?”
“Lord Rikash Moonsword,” I said. “He was your friend?” I leaned back, elbows propped against the iron railing. I’ve always had a good head for heights. And the ability to shapeshift, to fly…
That takes most of the fear out of any form of height.
Da snapped, “Rikash, stop playing with the railing.”
“You know it’s a long way to the ground. I’d shift to eagle even before I hit.”
Da’s jaw was tight and he said, “Rikash Salmalin, between you and Sarralyn, you are utterly determined to cause me to worry myself to bits, aren’t you?”
I shrugged. “I can take care of myself, Da,” I pointed out. I tried not to mention that a battle was infinitely more dangerous than falling because I’d leaned too far back over a railing. I had the misfortune of inheriting Da’s height. Railings can be dangerous. Mostly to do with centre-mass. In any case, I relented, and came off the railing. I watched him breathe easier.
“Lord Rikash Moonsword,” Da mused. He had the habit of continuing conversations a while later, as if no interruption had occurred. “We first met him in Fief Dunlath. Yolane—Maura’s sister—had been allied with Carthak. The Stormwings were working for the Carthaki emperor, Ozorne.”
“The Emperor Mage,” I said, recalling my history lessons. Master Halifax would have been proud. History becomes easy when your parents have played a part in living through some of it. “He started the Immortals War.”
“Yes,” Da said. “That Ozorne.” He added, almost as an afterthought, “It’s strange to hear him called ‘The Emperor Mage’…”
He gazed out into the distance. I knew that look. He was reminiscing, and so I prodded him. “You said you first met him.”
“Yes, well, we met him again in Carthak. He was part of the plan to trick Ozorne into taking on immortal form. As you know—”
“Once you take on immortal shape, you can’t change back,” We recited in unison. I said, “I’ve heard you and Ma impressing this on Sarra enough times.”
He frowned. “You can’t forget this,” Da said, and for a moment, he wasn’t Da, he was Numair Salmalin, black robe. It meant he was dead serious, and I knew why.
“I know, Da.”
“Good,” he said shortly. “Where were we? Carthak. We met Rikash in Carthak. He died during the last battle of the war, fighting during the siege of Port Legann. He helped us across the Sea of Sand in the Divine Realms, to find the dragons.”
Blazing rubbery snakes sharp impact of something hard maybe a rock unyielding taste of blood in mouth—
I said, “It was quick, then. He hit a rock.”
I knew.
Da’s eyes narrowed. He said, “He did.”
“You hesitated, all those years ago. When you said, ‘man’.” I said it calmly. I wasn’t being accusing. It was true.
I guess I just wanted to know why.
Da read my expression correctly. He said, “Does it matter?”
I said, “What?”
“Does it matter that Lord Rikash Moonsword was a Stormwing?”
I shook my head. “No. You never said, though.” Hard for me to say I’d a problem with it. Stormwings…they were what they were. That was a far sight more civilised than hurroks. Fief Dunlath had a reasonable accord with the ogres.
Hard to look at even a hated immortal and not see people, when your Ma had wild magic and talked to animals. When your sis had a habit of becoming some tiny squishy creature and wriggling out of your clothes at odd intervals to startle you. I’d built an empathy and an immunity by now.
He shrugged. “You never asked,” Da said, smiling faintly.
As an afterthought, he added, “Rikash, you’ve grown up learning Stormwings are nuisances. When I said he was a good man, I didn’t mean he was human. I meant I didn’t want to say he was a good Stormwing. His…well, species, wasn’t important, Ri. Only who he was.”
I nodded. I didn’t say anything. He put his arm around my shoulder. He almost didn’t have to stoop to do so, and together, we watched the moon set and the sunrise.
-
After Carthak, I knew why my dreams were of flying, of Dunlath. It was him speaking to me, all this while. Rikash. Lord Rikash Moonsword.
-
Once, he protected me.
I asked him, why?
He said, “You’re a dead-speaker, boy. Sometimes, you can do more than talk.” He grinned, white teeth flashing. His eyes were bright green in the darkness.
Ancient jade-green, like the old preserved forests in the Yamani Islands. I was much older then.
“Sometimes,” Lord Rikash said softly, much like the Rafik had, “Sometimes the dead watch over a dead-speaker. And sometimes, they can do more than talk through you. Stormwings have magic, boy. And someone like you…you’re an open conduit for these things.”
He didn’t reek.
The dead smell of nothing, except centuries of dust. And jasmine. Amaranth.
-
I went to Carthak to study at the University there under an assumed name. While the Emperor Kaddar had done his best to bury memories of Da’s name, too many knew that the criminal Arram Draper had become Numair Salmalin. Even more of his recalcitrant nobles knew that it was a distinctive name.
The memories in Carthak are long and bitter when it comes to Ma and Da. Ma’s rampage through the palace with an army of the dead, reanimated skeletons of dinosaurs…she was a vessel for the gods.
The Carthaki do not know that. The hatred runs long. Emperor Kaddar persuaded them by a tricky bit of statecraft, creating a general proclamation that all actions during the crisis, great and small, which contributed to the establishment of the new Emperor were to be taken as actions in good faith. No matter how dubious they seemed, the agents were to be pardoned. By this alone, he slipped Ma in by the skin of her teeth.
His nobles were furious. As like Ma will never set foot on Carthaki soil again. Sarrasri was not a good name to carry, in Carthak. It still isn’t. So I went under the name of Rikash Cooper. Aunt Alanna was amused.
Why Carthak: they had a University there. As far as I was concerned, then, it was good enough. A century of neglect had done wonders for the reputation of the City of the Gods. The Royal University was far too new for most serious mages to consider teaching there, though Da and Uncle Lindhall had done the University a world of good.
In truth: I wanted to fly far and free, read about some of the dreams and the whispers. In Carthak, I learned from old scrolls and a master of esoteric magics that I was a natural at dead-speaking.
A skill few mages practiced these days, and long thought lost.
In the plains of Carthak, many of the forgotten and older magics are practiced by tribes. I studied for a few seasons under one of the shamans, a Rafik, before I was allowed to leave.
Another reason:
I dreamed of Carthak at night. The sights and scents of the palace, the University, a flutter of steel-fletched wings, blurred faces.
With the walls of the palace closing in on me in Tortall, it was more than enough reason to go. Da said he understood.
Uncle Lindhall was happy for me.
-
Another reason I found my way to Carthak. I was growing restless in the palace. Sometimes, I helped Myles compile reports. I knew a little of what was going on. Sarra always told me that Myles was doing the legwork for Uncle George. It was an open secret—except for the bit where Uncle George was the king’s spymaster.
Ma and Da often helped Uncle Myles by working in the field. Ma’s ability to take animal form and Da’s skill with magery often helped. Once, Myles said, “Do you know why you’d make a good agent?”
I shrugged.
“I heard from your father,” Myles said. “Your spellwork is neat and thorough. You’re good with fine details. And you don’t leave traces.” He shook his head. “Too many mages are learning to look out for your father. He has a…distinctive Gift.”
Black as night, I thought.
My Gift used to be a bright orange. Aunt Alanna used to startle whenever she saw it. The king…Sarra once told me, “The king doesn’t like you.” I was six then. Maybe seven.
“Why?” I asked.
“Orange,” she said, grinning with all the malice of an older sibling. “Bad colour, Ri.”
Da’s was amber, he once said; it grew to black with faint sparkles as he grew stronger. I’d panicked then when my Gift changed. Mine turned a deep scarlet, almost maroon. I suppose Aunt Alanna was relieved.
-
Through the reports, I learned of the Followers of the Hag. They were a group of fanatics who emulated the hyena aspect of the Graveyard Hag. While they were prominent in Carthak, they’d quickly spread to many other nations. Tortall. Tyra. Galla. Even Scanra, but the Scanran version, at least, was subsumed by the disciples of Yahzed and became some mutated outgrowth that wanted to feed just about everyone to the hyenas.
Most of them darkened their eyelids to invoke the appearance of hyenas and wielded bone knives. Some wore furs, or were marked with the Hag’s symbol. It was enough to suggest they were crazy, except that on this side of the Inland Sea, the Followers had taken on some of the aspects of Goddess worshippers. They were now suggesting that the hyena was an aspect of the Goddess—that went down well with the Gentle Mother worshippers.
I was fairly unsurprised that the gods didn’t see fit to smite them. My family had plenty of experience with the gods and I was certain Aunt Alanna would be called on to present divine justice. Their ideas involved a fair amount of strange things with the dead and a lot of sacrifice.
I was working with some of the palace librarians then, to neaten out the indexing system at the palace library. Da had suggested they put me to use, and so they did. He decided a distracted and bored mage was a bad thing.
He was probably right.
That was when I came upon Lady Knight Keladry and Lord Sir Raoul in the palace library. He was cussing fit to bring down the ceiling, and I stood there, listening with amused interest. I will say this: I have known soldiers with mouths full of foul, inventive invective but I have never known a man to surpass my lord.
He was, understandably, frustrated. The labyrinthian nature of the palace library does that to most people.
I’d grown up with Da. Da’s workroom presented a unique challenge to any library indexing system. He works by a system of his own—if one could call it a system—and defies all of good sense.
Sorry Da. You know it’s true.
“My lord,” I said. I winced as there was an audible crash. Heaps of leather-bound volumes crashed to the floor. Dust swirled upwards in its wake; someone sneezed.
The loud cursing increased in volume.
-
For all his merits as a warrior, Lord Raoul is no researcher. After he and Keladry exchanged furtive looks, they cautiously informed me they were looking for a record written by the Lady-Captain of the Household Guard, Knight Sabine of Macayhill and Princehold.
I asked them about its contents. Another furtive look.
“Look,” I said, as I picked up the scattered volumes. Keladry helped. I let her move the bulk of the books. I’m as much a believer in chivalry as the next person, but Keladry was a lady knight. Heavily built. Walking around and whacking things in layers of armour tends to build a great deal of muscle and I was fairly certain she could squash me without breaking a sweat.
I hadn’t planned on spending my afternoon getting pounded into tarwater by a lady knight, thank you.
“I know the palace library fairly well, my lord. But if you won’t tell me what the book is about, I won’t be able to find it for you.”
Kel sighed. Patiently, she said, “We’re looking for a personal diary kept by his ancestor, Lady Knight Sabine. Some of the ancestral records in Goldenlake suggested that the actual volume was located in the palace library. Something to do with a religious movement known as the Cult of the Gentle Mother and the Disciples of the Bone Goddess.”
I nodded wisely. “Ah,” I said. “That record. I suppose Sir Myles wanted you to fetch it.”
They stared at me. It was actually a good guess, but I pretended to nod knowingly. Half the fun of being a mage, I suppose, is getting to pretend you know things other people don’t.
Keep that up, and it might actually be true.
In truth, I knew where the record was. This section of the library, at least, was fairly well-catalogued, which only meant that their sneaking between shelves, skulking, and looking generally conspicuous was for nothing.
Particularly since all they’d done was to draw the awed attention of the hapless pages working in the library.
In all fairness, pages generally don’t like books. Those pages were practically begging for any excuse not to read some dry tome on chivalry.
-
Here’s the brief summary of what we found.
The records of Lady Knight-Captain Sabine, or however her titles are properly rendered were missing. I cross-referenced a book on the establishment of the Household Guard and found no mention of any lady knights, much less any Captains. It seemed Eleni Cooper, now of Olau had managed to produce a diary that had established that Lady Sabine was instrumental in the establishment of the modern Household Guard but there was nothing in the library at all about her.
Almost as if the library had been systematically purged.
Yes, I will admit it: I was excited. It was a proper paper chase, if confusing. Keladry bore the searches through book after book with grit and stubborn determination. My lord of Goldenlake merely grinned and sat back in a chair, crossing his long legs. He was determined to avoid the paper work.
“You’re enjoying this,” Kel muttered, flicking a glance up at the former Knight-Commander of the King’s Own. Raoul grinned wickedly.
“Of course,” he said. “You’re far better at this than I am. Show-off.”
It wasn’t just the records. Any reference to lady knights in significant positions had been removed. Not entirely excised, but rather thoroughly…rendered trivial. Most writings spoke little of the lady knights. If they had, it was a mere stop-gap measure where Tortall had needed any sword on the battlefield—regardless of the hand that wielded it. The key was in contradictory accounts by respected historians. Clumsy work, I thought.
I closed Lives of Tortall’s Stoutest Defenders thoughtfully. The disatrous Battle of Sigis’ Hold was still there. Any records which discredited female knights—female warriors, for that matter—were left in full glory.
“I think the library’s been tampered with,” I said quietly. The chief librarian would have a fit. I wouldn’t even blame him. Kel glanced up at me. She looked politely confused, maybe disquieted. Her eyes narrowed.
“How?” she asked.
I explained. When I finished, Lord Raoul held out his hand. “Let me see the book,” he commanded.
I let him.
-
That drew me to Carthak, among other things. We knew of the rise of the Cult of the Gentle Mother. Not the details. Perhaps it was some man who was resentful of the lady knights, who wanted to destroy their power. For it was certain that the lady knights were an influential force in the realm, and some historians examine this in terms of power-dynamics. Simply put: who has the power, how does the power effect action.
Or perhaps it was simply a man who thought women were weaker. There are many of these. We studied men with strange notions at the University. The Bazhir notion of the Eternal Balance is, perhaps, closest to this. The Balance shifts; all we can do is to align ourselves with the Balance. To align ourselves with the Balance, we must follow our natures and be of righteous action.
Women are, by nature, gentle and nurturing forces. They create. Men are destructive forces. They ride like the scorching desert winds, they are militaristic, harsh. They destroy. Destruction and creation: when woman and men keep to their place and keep the Tradition, then all is well with the Balance.
There are more aspects to the Balance as a cosmic force. But there are features of this, perhaps, in the Cult of the Gentle Mother. Women are best kept to the fine arts; needlework, being ladies. They are nurturing mothers. To introduce them to violence is to destroy the woman.
The battle of Sigis’ Hold, when a lady knight broke the battle line was disastrous. Most military historians hold that Lady Arella’s actions were the breaking point for the king’s forces. Simply put: the Tortallan line was barely holding. Lady Knight Arella of Blythdin commanded the reserve force, meant to reinforce the anvil. Between the hammer of Cavall and the anvil of Blythdin and Hollyrose, the Tusaine army was to be crushed.
It did not work that way.
A few squads of skirmishers broke free and went straight for the villages. The history books say they ‘put them to the sword’. I imagine the reality must have been far harsher.
Blythdin disobeyed her commanding officer, Lord Edmond of Cavall. She led the reserves into a charge and lost the villages. Without the anvil, the Tusaine army broke free. Hollyrose was decimated and Cavall’s forces left in disarray. It was a crushing defeat for Tortall.
Perhaps if Blythdin had saved the villages, it would have been different. Could she have done otherwise?
But history does not care for what-ifs. They did not happen; that is sufficient. The dead and the history are one; she could not have left them to burn. In any man, it would have been the only decision they could have made. In the battle, this cost Tortall the victory. Tusaine had established a spearhead into Tortallan territory. The war went on for a few more years.
The anger from Sigis’ Hold carried over. The Cult of the Gentle Mother were proven right. Clearly, it had been the nurturing instincts of the mother in Blythdin that had removed her ability to reason, to stay her hand and to hold formation.
They were right.
In that moment, they ceased to be a cult. In generations, it became true.
The king could not fight them, the way they fought the Disciples of the Bone Goddess. He could not fight that when he too bore the anger from a battle needlessly thrown away.
But the Disciples began in Carthak. An entry in Beka Cooper’s diary places Sabine in Carthak; cross-references hint that Sabine had left a record explaining the rise of the Cult and the attempts in Tortall and Carthak to deal with this movements.
I asked Uncle Myles if he thought the Followers were that worrying.
He looked at me, eyes dark with exhaustion.
He simply nodded.
-
The next day, I took a good horse and a ship and sailed for Carthak, under the name of Rikash Cooper.
There was a world to see, and many things to study at the University there.
At night, I dreamed of a man, his face shadowed. I didn’t mean to betray them…he whispered. I don’t even remember why…
The Cult grows more powerful with each day…resentment, Macayhill…
Follow.
There was a good wind. I watched the last of Tortall recede from my vision, breathed salt spray and jasmine and amaranth.
Time to search the bones of the dead, to stir the dust of centuries.
Rating: PG-13
Category: Tortall >1000
Length: 5214 words
Original and Subsequent Haunts: Goldenlake
Summary: Rikash tries to find his place. The deeds of the dead are seldom interred with their bones. And the living are often haunted by the ghosts of the past. Not very sequential and events happen very much out of order.
Notes: Written for Nat during the Merry Ficmas Exchange of 2011. Assassin's Creed fans might be amused.
-
My sister is always shifting, always restless. Some of the boys at Court jokingly whisper it must be the wild magic that runs thick in her veins.
Sarra hears these, of course. These same boys are too stupid to remember that the sparrow in the palace courtyard, the dog rolling over in the mud, the swallow taking flight: any one of these could be my sister. Sarra has the wild magic, you see. Just like Ma. She’s the one who can speak to animals, who can become them.
Ma and Da are always worried, even now. Sarra…she’s wilder than they know, and some days, they are afeared she’ll take Immortal shape, what with all the scrapes she gets into with Kit. There’s no turning back from Immortal shape, and knowing Sarra, she just might.
I’m not like Sarra. Not like Ma. I get along passably well with horses, dogs, especially so with creatures of the air. I think Ma and Da were relieved, the first time I showed signs of the Gift.
In hindsight, perhaps they’d already known. I heard stories of what happened when Ma had Sarra. Da said it had something to do with how the identity of infants was far more changeable than that of adults, even children. When Ma had me, though, there was no need to shift, to keep up with the various shape-changes I took on. I did not shift. Did not change.
I suppose they’d known, right then, that I was not gifted with the wild magic.
-
My name is Rikash Salmalin.
Some of the girls at the University thought it was fairly exotic. Rikash is a foreign name in Tortall, the second syllable harsh on the tongue. Salmalin is not exactly Tortallan either, in the way that names like Cooper or Goodwin are. Typically, Da thought it sounded flamboyant, exactly like a Player’s stage name when he took it. He was running from Carthak then.
When I was younger, I wondered what Rikash meant. Who had come up with it. One day, when I asked Da, he took me aside and firmly told me it wasn’t a name he and Ma had stumbled upon, stitching syllables together for something strange-sounding. After all, Sarra’s name is fair normal, for all they built it from grandma’s name.
I asked him who, and Da smiled. He always did that when I was being clever.
“A good man,” he said quietly. “A…strange man, but good. And a friend.”
I wondered why he hesitated over the word, ‘man’.
-
We never really talked about why I was named Rikash. In truth, all I really knew was that Rikash was a friend of the family. Uncle Lindhall didn’t seem to know very much about the first Rikash; if he knew, he wouldn’t say. That was the first hint.
Since I had the Gift like Da, I was sent to the Royal University in Tortall. Sarra spent half the time cutting classes and going off to do something like swimming with a pod of dolphins off Pirate’s Swoop for a week.
I spent most of the time climbing high places like the roof of the University. Most of the masters expected better from the son of Numair Salmalin, one of the few black robes in the world. I heard more than enough about what my Da did, things like turning a man into a tree (Da always looked sad when he talked about Tristan and he always went back to Dunlath) or shapeshifting.
Da learned how to shift into a black hawk. Shifting into a small eagle was surprisingly easy for me.
I think that was just about the only thing that surprised both Da and the masters. My Gift was strong, but I struggled at battle magic. I was far better at wards, and set spells. Battle magic, you understand, is fairly simple. Point and shoot. Throw power at…something. The more, the better. Ideally, the hapless target should spontaneously combust. Or get zapped. Or…something. Whatever that something really is. Mostly unpleasantly destructive. I know a master at the University who was adept at casting spells that got people torn apart by scorching sand-winds. Of course, he was a Bazhir mage.
In retrospect, Tortallan magic is mostly point-and-shoot. Most Tortallan battle mages don’t bother with set spells.
No wonder I spent most of the time climbing the buildings. It was, at least, difficult for the masters to find me there. Sarra just found it amusing.
She always did.
-
I had dreams, when I was younger. Dreams of flying, dreams of fire and blood and chaos. I was too little then, to wake up screaming in the night.
When I grew older, they changed. I dreamed of places I’d never been to; Carthak, a hot scorching desert. The skies above Fief Dunlath. I recognised the castle, when Da and Ma brought us to visit Aunt Maura.
It wasn’t until I went to the University in Carthak that I learned exactly what the dreams really were. Da had some idea—well, about as much as someone with an academic interest in the more obscure forms of magic could have had. But I’m getting ahead of myself here.
This is the short of it:
I am Rikash Salmalin, son of one of the most powerful mages in the world, short of some of the Scanran mages who practice sacrificial magery.
And I am a dead-speaker.
-
I first learned of who Rikash had been in the aftermath of one of the skirmishes on the Scanran border. The Scanran war had bloodied the noses of the Scanrans by the time a truce was negotiated. It was hardly costly enough to convince Scanra that it wasn’t a good idea to invade Tortall.
Sarra tells me there was a lot of arm-twisting going on. Something along the lines of ‘we sent a crack force of knights into your lands and killed the mage animating your dead into killing machines, we can do it again.’ I don’t ask where she got that from. Sarra knows plenty of secrets. I have my own.
In any event, skirmishes went on. King Maggur signed the armistice but raiding parties continued to enter Tortall occasionally. He claimed they were the action of belligerent warlords. It might very well be true. In any case, it was common to dispatch some mages from the University to join the forces on border duty. In the aftermath of the battle, when setting up wards upon the wounded and the dead, waiting for the healer-mages and the burial details to come, I spoke to him.
Many in Tortall hate the Stormwings, for what they do to the dead. None of them respect the dead, and it’s hard to interr a corpse with any dignity if the corpse has been mutilated and shat upon.
Still.
A Stormwing, dark-skinned, with strange bright blue eyes. This was a larger skirmish than most, and already, the area stank of blood and piss and s*** and death. Not the Stormwings. A common result of battle, I was beginning to learn.
I was already numb to the stench.
“Won’t leave any for us, Tortallan? You drive a hard bargain.”
I said, “It’s not mine to decide.”
A cackle. He flapped his wings, and I breathed Stormwing reek. “Interesting, Tortallan boy. What about the Scanran dead?”
I folded my arms across my chest. “You’re welcome to try,” I said calmly. “I don’t advise it. My wards are fair strong, I’ve been told. And annoying to run into.”
He tried it, anyhow. There was an explosion, and then he cursed, sneezing. The area reeked of onions, and his gleaming steel-fletched wings were blackened. “Damnable mages,” the Stormwing muttered. He sneezed. I felt a flash of sympathy. We were both just doing what we were supposed to.
Maybe it was because of the dreams. The dead were the dead, I knew. All that was left behind was a corpse, something we attached significance to. It hardly seemed worth killing Stormwings over. Sometimes I dreamed of them. Heard whispers during magical workings.
I didn’t mean to betray them, one of the voices said. I can’t remember why I did…
“No fear,” the Stormwing said. “Are you afraid, boy?” His sneezing had stopped, and his eyes were red-rimmed. Irritated. Da had taught me the onion-wards, taught me Stormwings couldn’t bear the stench. I mastered it within hours, sprang it on Ma for the fun of it. She was fair unamused, let me tell you.
Ma’s a bear when enraged.
If my Ma were anyone else, I wouldn’t have to add this: not literally.
I said, “No.”
“You’re strange,” the Stormwing said. “For a human. Even for a mage. What’s your name, little mage?”
“Rikash. Rikash Salmalin.”
Bright blue eyes narrowed; the Stomwing gave a raucous caw of laughter. “Rikash!” he crowed. “You carry a Stormwing’s name, little mage. Lord Rikash Moonsword, of the Stone Tree Nation. Am I right?”
I said, “What?”
I should have asked: “Stone Tree Nation?”
We learn little about the Stormwings, except that by nature, they defile the corpses of the slain and that they live off fear. They are immortals in only one thing: they do not age and die as we do. They can be slain just as easily by magefire or by an arrow. Most commanding knights prefer to have men put a few arrows through Stormwings. Far more expedient than shooting them off, and nobody misses a few dead Stormwings.
The Stormwing snorted and took off, lazily flapping higher and higher. He’d been hovering earlier. “Learn your history, little mage,” he said. I barely flinched as waves of Stormwing reek swept by me in his wake. “And we’ll see if there’s more to you than a Stormwing name. I am Lord Zerakh Flamewind of the Stone Tree Nation. Remember the name, boy.”
I watched him leave.
Now, I thought, I knew why Da had hesitated when saying, ‘man’.
-
I spoke to Da, in the aftermath of the battle. Not by a scarlet scry-fire. I spoke to him in person. Most mages have the courtesy not to intrude on a sending. And there are ways to ward against intrusion, but I wasn’t afraid of intrusion.
It was something personal. Such things are best done in person, away from the distance of a scrying-knife.
He took one look at my face and said, “We’ll talk on the Needle.”
The Balor’s Needle is often full of mages performing distance-workings, but at this hour of the night, it was deserted. As the king’s chief mage, Da has one of the keys to the Needle. I’ve heard that security at the Needle was increased after some incident involving a kidnapping and Lady Knight Keladry of Mindelan. I’m not exactly certain what happened. Most of the details were soon hushed.
He let us in, and we climbed the wrought iron staircases. If I tried, I could see the charms guarding against rust, spells for strength, safety…
Da said, “Rikash.”
I stopped my study of the wards. Good wards, I thought, approvingly. I said, “I spoke to a Stormwing, in the aftermath of the battle. The one involving three squads of the King’s Own and four army squads at Giantkiller.”
Calmly, Da said, “What did the Stormwing say?”
“Lord Rikash Moonsword,” I said. “He was your friend?” I leaned back, elbows propped against the iron railing. I’ve always had a good head for heights. And the ability to shapeshift, to fly…
That takes most of the fear out of any form of height.
Da snapped, “Rikash, stop playing with the railing.”
“You know it’s a long way to the ground. I’d shift to eagle even before I hit.”
Da’s jaw was tight and he said, “Rikash Salmalin, between you and Sarralyn, you are utterly determined to cause me to worry myself to bits, aren’t you?”
I shrugged. “I can take care of myself, Da,” I pointed out. I tried not to mention that a battle was infinitely more dangerous than falling because I’d leaned too far back over a railing. I had the misfortune of inheriting Da’s height. Railings can be dangerous. Mostly to do with centre-mass. In any case, I relented, and came off the railing. I watched him breathe easier.
“Lord Rikash Moonsword,” Da mused. He had the habit of continuing conversations a while later, as if no interruption had occurred. “We first met him in Fief Dunlath. Yolane—Maura’s sister—had been allied with Carthak. The Stormwings were working for the Carthaki emperor, Ozorne.”
“The Emperor Mage,” I said, recalling my history lessons. Master Halifax would have been proud. History becomes easy when your parents have played a part in living through some of it. “He started the Immortals War.”
“Yes,” Da said. “That Ozorne.” He added, almost as an afterthought, “It’s strange to hear him called ‘The Emperor Mage’…”
He gazed out into the distance. I knew that look. He was reminiscing, and so I prodded him. “You said you first met him.”
“Yes, well, we met him again in Carthak. He was part of the plan to trick Ozorne into taking on immortal form. As you know—”
“Once you take on immortal shape, you can’t change back,” We recited in unison. I said, “I’ve heard you and Ma impressing this on Sarra enough times.”
He frowned. “You can’t forget this,” Da said, and for a moment, he wasn’t Da, he was Numair Salmalin, black robe. It meant he was dead serious, and I knew why.
“I know, Da.”
“Good,” he said shortly. “Where were we? Carthak. We met Rikash in Carthak. He died during the last battle of the war, fighting during the siege of Port Legann. He helped us across the Sea of Sand in the Divine Realms, to find the dragons.”
Blazing rubbery snakes sharp impact of something hard maybe a rock unyielding taste of blood in mouth—
I said, “It was quick, then. He hit a rock.”
I knew.
Da’s eyes narrowed. He said, “He did.”
“You hesitated, all those years ago. When you said, ‘man’.” I said it calmly. I wasn’t being accusing. It was true.
I guess I just wanted to know why.
Da read my expression correctly. He said, “Does it matter?”
I said, “What?”
“Does it matter that Lord Rikash Moonsword was a Stormwing?”
I shook my head. “No. You never said, though.” Hard for me to say I’d a problem with it. Stormwings…they were what they were. That was a far sight more civilised than hurroks. Fief Dunlath had a reasonable accord with the ogres.
Hard to look at even a hated immortal and not see people, when your Ma had wild magic and talked to animals. When your sis had a habit of becoming some tiny squishy creature and wriggling out of your clothes at odd intervals to startle you. I’d built an empathy and an immunity by now.
He shrugged. “You never asked,” Da said, smiling faintly.
As an afterthought, he added, “Rikash, you’ve grown up learning Stormwings are nuisances. When I said he was a good man, I didn’t mean he was human. I meant I didn’t want to say he was a good Stormwing. His…well, species, wasn’t important, Ri. Only who he was.”
I nodded. I didn’t say anything. He put his arm around my shoulder. He almost didn’t have to stoop to do so, and together, we watched the moon set and the sunrise.
-
After Carthak, I knew why my dreams were of flying, of Dunlath. It was him speaking to me, all this while. Rikash. Lord Rikash Moonsword.
-
Once, he protected me.
I asked him, why?
He said, “You’re a dead-speaker, boy. Sometimes, you can do more than talk.” He grinned, white teeth flashing. His eyes were bright green in the darkness.
Ancient jade-green, like the old preserved forests in the Yamani Islands. I was much older then.
“Sometimes,” Lord Rikash said softly, much like the Rafik had, “Sometimes the dead watch over a dead-speaker. And sometimes, they can do more than talk through you. Stormwings have magic, boy. And someone like you…you’re an open conduit for these things.”
He didn’t reek.
The dead smell of nothing, except centuries of dust. And jasmine. Amaranth.
-
I went to Carthak to study at the University there under an assumed name. While the Emperor Kaddar had done his best to bury memories of Da’s name, too many knew that the criminal Arram Draper had become Numair Salmalin. Even more of his recalcitrant nobles knew that it was a distinctive name.
The memories in Carthak are long and bitter when it comes to Ma and Da. Ma’s rampage through the palace with an army of the dead, reanimated skeletons of dinosaurs…she was a vessel for the gods.
The Carthaki do not know that. The hatred runs long. Emperor Kaddar persuaded them by a tricky bit of statecraft, creating a general proclamation that all actions during the crisis, great and small, which contributed to the establishment of the new Emperor were to be taken as actions in good faith. No matter how dubious they seemed, the agents were to be pardoned. By this alone, he slipped Ma in by the skin of her teeth.
His nobles were furious. As like Ma will never set foot on Carthaki soil again. Sarrasri was not a good name to carry, in Carthak. It still isn’t. So I went under the name of Rikash Cooper. Aunt Alanna was amused.
Why Carthak: they had a University there. As far as I was concerned, then, it was good enough. A century of neglect had done wonders for the reputation of the City of the Gods. The Royal University was far too new for most serious mages to consider teaching there, though Da and Uncle Lindhall had done the University a world of good.
In truth: I wanted to fly far and free, read about some of the dreams and the whispers. In Carthak, I learned from old scrolls and a master of esoteric magics that I was a natural at dead-speaking.
A skill few mages practiced these days, and long thought lost.
In the plains of Carthak, many of the forgotten and older magics are practiced by tribes. I studied for a few seasons under one of the shamans, a Rafik, before I was allowed to leave.
Another reason:
I dreamed of Carthak at night. The sights and scents of the palace, the University, a flutter of steel-fletched wings, blurred faces.
With the walls of the palace closing in on me in Tortall, it was more than enough reason to go. Da said he understood.
Uncle Lindhall was happy for me.
-
Another reason I found my way to Carthak. I was growing restless in the palace. Sometimes, I helped Myles compile reports. I knew a little of what was going on. Sarra always told me that Myles was doing the legwork for Uncle George. It was an open secret—except for the bit where Uncle George was the king’s spymaster.
Ma and Da often helped Uncle Myles by working in the field. Ma’s ability to take animal form and Da’s skill with magery often helped. Once, Myles said, “Do you know why you’d make a good agent?”
I shrugged.
“I heard from your father,” Myles said. “Your spellwork is neat and thorough. You’re good with fine details. And you don’t leave traces.” He shook his head. “Too many mages are learning to look out for your father. He has a…distinctive Gift.”
Black as night, I thought.
My Gift used to be a bright orange. Aunt Alanna used to startle whenever she saw it. The king…Sarra once told me, “The king doesn’t like you.” I was six then. Maybe seven.
“Why?” I asked.
“Orange,” she said, grinning with all the malice of an older sibling. “Bad colour, Ri.”
Da’s was amber, he once said; it grew to black with faint sparkles as he grew stronger. I’d panicked then when my Gift changed. Mine turned a deep scarlet, almost maroon. I suppose Aunt Alanna was relieved.
-
Through the reports, I learned of the Followers of the Hag. They were a group of fanatics who emulated the hyena aspect of the Graveyard Hag. While they were prominent in Carthak, they’d quickly spread to many other nations. Tortall. Tyra. Galla. Even Scanra, but the Scanran version, at least, was subsumed by the disciples of Yahzed and became some mutated outgrowth that wanted to feed just about everyone to the hyenas.
Most of them darkened their eyelids to invoke the appearance of hyenas and wielded bone knives. Some wore furs, or were marked with the Hag’s symbol. It was enough to suggest they were crazy, except that on this side of the Inland Sea, the Followers had taken on some of the aspects of Goddess worshippers. They were now suggesting that the hyena was an aspect of the Goddess—that went down well with the Gentle Mother worshippers.
I was fairly unsurprised that the gods didn’t see fit to smite them. My family had plenty of experience with the gods and I was certain Aunt Alanna would be called on to present divine justice. Their ideas involved a fair amount of strange things with the dead and a lot of sacrifice.
I was working with some of the palace librarians then, to neaten out the indexing system at the palace library. Da had suggested they put me to use, and so they did. He decided a distracted and bored mage was a bad thing.
He was probably right.
That was when I came upon Lady Knight Keladry and Lord Sir Raoul in the palace library. He was cussing fit to bring down the ceiling, and I stood there, listening with amused interest. I will say this: I have known soldiers with mouths full of foul, inventive invective but I have never known a man to surpass my lord.
He was, understandably, frustrated. The labyrinthian nature of the palace library does that to most people.
I’d grown up with Da. Da’s workroom presented a unique challenge to any library indexing system. He works by a system of his own—if one could call it a system—and defies all of good sense.
Sorry Da. You know it’s true.
“My lord,” I said. I winced as there was an audible crash. Heaps of leather-bound volumes crashed to the floor. Dust swirled upwards in its wake; someone sneezed.
The loud cursing increased in volume.
-
For all his merits as a warrior, Lord Raoul is no researcher. After he and Keladry exchanged furtive looks, they cautiously informed me they were looking for a record written by the Lady-Captain of the Household Guard, Knight Sabine of Macayhill and Princehold.
I asked them about its contents. Another furtive look.
“Look,” I said, as I picked up the scattered volumes. Keladry helped. I let her move the bulk of the books. I’m as much a believer in chivalry as the next person, but Keladry was a lady knight. Heavily built. Walking around and whacking things in layers of armour tends to build a great deal of muscle and I was fairly certain she could squash me without breaking a sweat.
I hadn’t planned on spending my afternoon getting pounded into tarwater by a lady knight, thank you.
“I know the palace library fairly well, my lord. But if you won’t tell me what the book is about, I won’t be able to find it for you.”
Kel sighed. Patiently, she said, “We’re looking for a personal diary kept by his ancestor, Lady Knight Sabine. Some of the ancestral records in Goldenlake suggested that the actual volume was located in the palace library. Something to do with a religious movement known as the Cult of the Gentle Mother and the Disciples of the Bone Goddess.”
I nodded wisely. “Ah,” I said. “That record. I suppose Sir Myles wanted you to fetch it.”
They stared at me. It was actually a good guess, but I pretended to nod knowingly. Half the fun of being a mage, I suppose, is getting to pretend you know things other people don’t.
Keep that up, and it might actually be true.
In truth, I knew where the record was. This section of the library, at least, was fairly well-catalogued, which only meant that their sneaking between shelves, skulking, and looking generally conspicuous was for nothing.
Particularly since all they’d done was to draw the awed attention of the hapless pages working in the library.
In all fairness, pages generally don’t like books. Those pages were practically begging for any excuse not to read some dry tome on chivalry.
-
Here’s the brief summary of what we found.
The records of Lady Knight-Captain Sabine, or however her titles are properly rendered were missing. I cross-referenced a book on the establishment of the Household Guard and found no mention of any lady knights, much less any Captains. It seemed Eleni Cooper, now of Olau had managed to produce a diary that had established that Lady Sabine was instrumental in the establishment of the modern Household Guard but there was nothing in the library at all about her.
Almost as if the library had been systematically purged.
Yes, I will admit it: I was excited. It was a proper paper chase, if confusing. Keladry bore the searches through book after book with grit and stubborn determination. My lord of Goldenlake merely grinned and sat back in a chair, crossing his long legs. He was determined to avoid the paper work.
“You’re enjoying this,” Kel muttered, flicking a glance up at the former Knight-Commander of the King’s Own. Raoul grinned wickedly.
“Of course,” he said. “You’re far better at this than I am. Show-off.”
It wasn’t just the records. Any reference to lady knights in significant positions had been removed. Not entirely excised, but rather thoroughly…rendered trivial. Most writings spoke little of the lady knights. If they had, it was a mere stop-gap measure where Tortall had needed any sword on the battlefield—regardless of the hand that wielded it. The key was in contradictory accounts by respected historians. Clumsy work, I thought.
I closed Lives of Tortall’s Stoutest Defenders thoughtfully. The disatrous Battle of Sigis’ Hold was still there. Any records which discredited female knights—female warriors, for that matter—were left in full glory.
“I think the library’s been tampered with,” I said quietly. The chief librarian would have a fit. I wouldn’t even blame him. Kel glanced up at me. She looked politely confused, maybe disquieted. Her eyes narrowed.
“How?” she asked.
I explained. When I finished, Lord Raoul held out his hand. “Let me see the book,” he commanded.
I let him.
-
That drew me to Carthak, among other things. We knew of the rise of the Cult of the Gentle Mother. Not the details. Perhaps it was some man who was resentful of the lady knights, who wanted to destroy their power. For it was certain that the lady knights were an influential force in the realm, and some historians examine this in terms of power-dynamics. Simply put: who has the power, how does the power effect action.
Or perhaps it was simply a man who thought women were weaker. There are many of these. We studied men with strange notions at the University. The Bazhir notion of the Eternal Balance is, perhaps, closest to this. The Balance shifts; all we can do is to align ourselves with the Balance. To align ourselves with the Balance, we must follow our natures and be of righteous action.
Women are, by nature, gentle and nurturing forces. They create. Men are destructive forces. They ride like the scorching desert winds, they are militaristic, harsh. They destroy. Destruction and creation: when woman and men keep to their place and keep the Tradition, then all is well with the Balance.
There are more aspects to the Balance as a cosmic force. But there are features of this, perhaps, in the Cult of the Gentle Mother. Women are best kept to the fine arts; needlework, being ladies. They are nurturing mothers. To introduce them to violence is to destroy the woman.
The battle of Sigis’ Hold, when a lady knight broke the battle line was disastrous. Most military historians hold that Lady Arella’s actions were the breaking point for the king’s forces. Simply put: the Tortallan line was barely holding. Lady Knight Arella of Blythdin commanded the reserve force, meant to reinforce the anvil. Between the hammer of Cavall and the anvil of Blythdin and Hollyrose, the Tusaine army was to be crushed.
It did not work that way.
A few squads of skirmishers broke free and went straight for the villages. The history books say they ‘put them to the sword’. I imagine the reality must have been far harsher.
Blythdin disobeyed her commanding officer, Lord Edmond of Cavall. She led the reserves into a charge and lost the villages. Without the anvil, the Tusaine army broke free. Hollyrose was decimated and Cavall’s forces left in disarray. It was a crushing defeat for Tortall.
Perhaps if Blythdin had saved the villages, it would have been different. Could she have done otherwise?
But history does not care for what-ifs. They did not happen; that is sufficient. The dead and the history are one; she could not have left them to burn. In any man, it would have been the only decision they could have made. In the battle, this cost Tortall the victory. Tusaine had established a spearhead into Tortallan territory. The war went on for a few more years.
The anger from Sigis’ Hold carried over. The Cult of the Gentle Mother were proven right. Clearly, it had been the nurturing instincts of the mother in Blythdin that had removed her ability to reason, to stay her hand and to hold formation.
They were right.
In that moment, they ceased to be a cult. In generations, it became true.
The king could not fight them, the way they fought the Disciples of the Bone Goddess. He could not fight that when he too bore the anger from a battle needlessly thrown away.
But the Disciples began in Carthak. An entry in Beka Cooper’s diary places Sabine in Carthak; cross-references hint that Sabine had left a record explaining the rise of the Cult and the attempts in Tortall and Carthak to deal with this movements.
I asked Uncle Myles if he thought the Followers were that worrying.
He looked at me, eyes dark with exhaustion.
He simply nodded.
-
The next day, I took a good horse and a ship and sailed for Carthak, under the name of Rikash Cooper.
There was a world to see, and many things to study at the University there.
At night, I dreamed of a man, his face shadowed. I didn’t mean to betray them…he whispered. I don’t even remember why…
The Cult grows more powerful with each day…resentment, Macayhill…
Follow.
There was a good wind. I watched the last of Tortall recede from my vision, breathed salt spray and jasmine and amaranth.
Time to search the bones of the dead, to stir the dust of centuries.