All those hands that grasp at lies
Not to touch; instead to hold
Reaching out to weightless skies
Fumbling for a crown of gold
The myth of power on the throne
Survives the glory of the bold
Writ on paper, carved in stone
The mirage of power is retold
Pawns in silks are held as kings
While someone watches time unfold
From the shadows, with the strings
-William Silverberg
A Fool's Legacy
-Hugo-
Shadows sailed across empty skies, weaving strands of fading light into some unseen pattern behind a cover of dim clouds. The heavens hid, quailing with each spark of dying brightness, as though shivering with fear of some anticipated outcome; an omen unknown to the living. Moonless midnight met the Grasslands on the horizon, where endless fields of tall grasses swayed in the wind; a reminder of the world's motion to bring words to the silence of the night, and contrast to the omens of an unseen mind. Gripping the fields, the wind was silent.
The grass grew tall as trees, flanking Hugo as he wound across the plains. With each step, the enormous, broad grass sheaves to either side shrank as he grasped at them, pushing the oppressive stalks aside as they reached out and wrapped themselves about his waist and shoulders, slowing him down. Determined, somehow calm and insensate, he walked down a lane of shadows as the wind sought him, hunting for his presence. With each step, the grasses shrank.
Stumbling down a slope, past a ravine lined with odd, bleached stones, he crawled onto a muddy ridge as the grass shrank down to his head. Past it, a bedrock, and upon the stone, a figure dressed in the Karayan soriak.
Cautious, Hugo squatted on his haunches to stare at the figure. With languid motions, the head rose, and its eyes met Hugo's. The boy smiled, and beckoned for him.
The grass fell away as Hugo rose, leaving barren fields of ashen dirt in his wake, and across the horizon. He approached, and settled down across from the boy. Between them, dying embers glowed within a fire pit circled by identical, round rocks. Bleached, and somehow odd.
Hugo glanced up, meeting the boy's eyes. "You're dead," he said. In place of joy, he found only guilt within.
Lulu grinned, weighing something back and forth between his clasped hands. "Life and death are but two ways for spirits to live. We are all dead."
Hugo furrowed his brows. "That's a strange thing to say."
Lulu shrugged. "It's your thought, not mine." Reaching down, he emptied his hands onto the ground, and bones clattered against the rock. Bleached bird heads and lion's teeth, dyed brown and green and red to contrast the white, all arranged in a chaotic pattern. The boy's eyes sparkled as he tapped the fetishes, mouthing unspoken words as he calculated their positions.
Twice in his life he had seen them. Diviners' tools, the aralay hunal, traditionally used by the tribe's shamans. A dwindling practice. Twice he had seen them used, but with a crucial difference.
Lulu was making of the bones and teeth a game
Grinning, wringing his hands in excitement, Lulu studied the aralay hunal as he spoke, "We spend so much of our time preparing. So much time spent… searching for words. Don't you agree? Of course you do." Mumbling between breaths, he never once looked up from the cast bones and teeth. "We whet our weapons, and search for words, hoping that our knives will be sharp enough when we need them the most, praying that our words will be heartfelt enough when we need to be heard." He frowned, leaning forward to examine a bird's skull. The bone was cracked, a hairline fracture running across the pate. "But it doesn't work that way, does it? Weapons snap and break in the heat of battle, and we find ourselves speechless when we need to say farewell."
Lulu looked up, and met his eyes.
Hugo's throat felt tight, and his mouth was dry. He could not speak. Around him, the world darkened alarmingly as the skies grew to fortress walls of midnight black. A fierce wind swept through his hair, passing without sound.
"Lulu…"
The smile drained from Lulu's face. "Why, Hugo?"
Lulu bent down, mouth gaping open as he clutched at his chest. Where he touched, blood began to pour from between his fingers; crimson streams escaping his fumbling hands. He shivered and quailed, smearing blood over his clothes as terror crept into his features. "Why won't you make the bleeding stop?"
"I tried." The words were a pitiful whisper.
"It's because of her. You won't close the wound, because of—"
A sword descended, lopping Lulu's head from his shoulders. Bloodless, the limp body fell forward onto the dirt, disturbing the teeth and bones as the head thumped against the ground. Roots sprung from the earth, grasping and pulling at Lulu's body.
A foot stamped down upon the boy's back, pressing down as the body sank beneath the ground. Shocked, Hugo raised his eyes.
Still and silent stood a wraith in armor, a woman whose hard features stood in sharp, bright contrast with the night. Silver hair and silver sword… and eyes that burned with violet flames.
"Because of her," Lulu said.
Hugo turned to see the boy's decapitated head peek up from the desiccated grasses. The eyes were stern, and accusing.
"Why won't you avenge me, Hugo?"
Hugo lurched forward, regaining his feet. His breath caught in his throat.
Around him, the field was littered with skulls. All facing him, all speaking in a single voice as they said, "Why won't you avenge us?"
Hugo backed away, clutching at his head. "No… I…"
The hiss of smoldering earth filled the air as the knight walked up to him. Her armor was gone, revealing features shrouded in bright light; shrouded, but unmistakably feminine. She held out her sword, a glowing beam of light.
Hugo shook his head, and turned. He ran.
His footsteps pounded on the cracked dirt, and each step sent tremors across the field, causing the world to quake. In the distance, he saw mountains break and topple. The ground sank away beneath him, as the world shrank to a spark of fleeing light. He fell, tumbling through darkness broken by a single, fading speck of light.
The voices followed.
Hugo woke gasping for air, shooting up from his mattress as he choked down the last part of a scream. Slick with sweat, he raked fingers through his hair as he took in the features of the room from his position on the floor. He felt frantic, and a chilling sensation washed over him. Sweeping his covers from his body, he sat up and adjusted his eyes against the moonlight streaming through the window. He clutched at his knees as his breathing slowed, and he calmed down. It was just a dream… But the voices won't fade.
Rising from the sweat-soaked bedroll, he stumbled onto his feet. He had to clear his mind; to feel the wind on his skin. The manor had a distinct, unfamiliar smell, and it unnerved him. Like the conjured world of shadows from his dream, the cavernous mansion seemed to shrink around him as his mind settled on the realization.
The voices are mine.
-Chris-
Chris was wandering aimlessly through the manor's main passage when a scream snapped her out of a dark thought. It came from a door down the corridor. Hugo's sleeping in there, she thought.
Her sword had left its sheath before she reached the door, and she tugged it open with a reckless yank and leapt inside. "Hugo?" she called out.
Something moved in the pale light, and a blade flashed. Hugo was upon her in an instant. He swung the knife, and she swayed. Iron tore through wood as the blade nicked the frame. He stumbled back and tore the weapon free, but she followed. Reversing the blade, she smashed the hilt into his neck.
Groaning, he stumbled back, and she saw his face.
"Hugo!" she gasped, "It was you?"
Coughing and wheezing, Hugo knelt into a split to massage his throat. She sank to the floor and sheathed her sword as she leaned closer to see his wound in the darkness.
Hugo snarled. He caught her wrist and shoved her around, pushing her facedown against the hard floorboards. She yelped and tried to twist free, but his grip was too strong.
"Why didn't you kill me?" he asked coldly.
"I do not—"
"Yes, you do," he said.
The sheath of Chris' sword stabbed against her leg in the unnatural position. She bent her head to glare at him. "Why did you attack me?" You certainly have reason to, but why now?
Hugo looked confused, but then his eyes hardened. "You're the one who tried to kill me."
"Do not be a fool," she said, "I came because I heard a scream."
"I didn't scream," he protested, but his eyes had widened as she spoke. His grip relaxed.
Chris spun around, freed her arm and shoved him away. He staggered and leaned back on his hands, while she bent her legs and sat down with her hands in her lap. "Yes, you did. In fact—"
She blinked.
"What?"
Chris' face flushed with color as her eyes roamed his body. The barbarian was dressed in nothing but his unmentionables! Sheathed in sweat as from hours of toil, his features were tan and toned, his shoulders were broad, and his arms …
She tore her eyes away, turning to focus on the unused bed. That is not a boy's body; a stray thought. "Goddess; you are indecent," she said, nearly choking on the words. She felt suddenly aware of her cotton nightgown.
"What? It was just a scream! I had a nightmare!"
"No, that is..." She glanced back at him. She noticed now how wild and unkempt his hair looked in the pale moonlight spilling in from the window. Her eyes fell on his chest as he squirmed, and she turned her head away again. Squeezing her eyes shut to will the embarrassment away, she said, "You are not properly clothed. This is improper." Yes; highly improper. She turned and stood.
She had taken a single step towards the door when his arm caught her shoulder. "Wait. I attacked you, and you didn't kill me. Why? I need to know!"
Because I killed your friend, she lamented. Drawing a deep breath to still the shame, Chris opened her eyes and glanced timidly at the boy. He's confused… But so am I. "Why did you come for me in the dungeon?"
He creased his forehead. "I rescued you. Isn't that what you meant to say?"
She thought she saw a look of smugness pass over his face. "I did not need your assistance," she said quickly.
His hand fell from her shoulder, and he stiffened. She felt a pang of guilt. "Your assistance was timely," she added, swallowing the bitter taste of remorse, "But I would have managed to escape on my own, if necessary." I believe that much is true… But I wish I hadn't said that. Why should he be so smug about it? Goddess, he must hate me! But a few hours ago, he risked his life to drag me out of the dungeon. She felt helplessly confused.
Hugo threw up his arms in exasperation. "Fine!" he exclaimed, turning to face the window. "I can leave at any time," he added.
"Indeed," Chris said with a nod. But you won't. Why is that?
Hugo's expression softened somewhat as he raked his fingers through messy strands of hair. His eyes took in the sight of her nightgown, and passed over her scabbard. "Do you sleep with that sword?" He did not wait for an answer. "Why are you here?"
"I told you; I heard you scream."
Hugo sounded suddenly weary. "No, that's not what I meant. I mean, why are you here, in this house?"
She raised an eyebrow as she turned to face him. "This is my home. I live here."
He shook his head and sighed. She froze as he leaned down to pick up his knife from the floor, but relaxed again as he quickly sheathed it beneath the blankets. "Sure; you live here in this enormous chunk of cut stone and carved wood. Fine; but why are you here now? You just got thrown into a deep hole by the Council, and dug yourself out. Aren't you going to do something?" He stretched out as he rose. "Besides; that woman…? What was her name; Jena? She gives me the creeps, and you look like you're going to breathe lightning when her back is turned. Why are you letting her stay with you?"
She realized that her mouth was sagging open as he spoke. When he finished, she snapped her mouth shut, and wagged a finger at him. "I am not letting her stay with me, and I do not look like I…" She paused, and sniffed as a look of amusement entered his features. "That is beside the point. That woman is—"
Chris snapped her mouth shut and turned towards the door to listen.
"What?" Hugo asked.
She hushed him. Confirming the sound of creaking floorboards from the corridor, she turned back to him. He was frowning, but she ignored it. "Listen, Hugo," she pleaded, "Please play along. She cannot be trusted."
Hugo's mouth worked, but no sound came. He stared at her with a puzzled look on his face.
-Hugo-
Hugo's eyes lifted from Chris' breast as Jena strolled into the room. Unlike Chris, she was wearing a prim dress with a high neck and lacy cuffs, and her hair was set in a pair of flat braids. Unlike Chris, she wore no weapon. A look of surprise came over her face as she saw them, and her small, petulant mouth twisted into a distasteful smirk as moonlight spilled over her features.
Past the threshold, Jena hesitated for a moment before approaching. Chris squared her back, and a stern look came over her face, but she did not turn to face the newcomer.
Hugo resisted the urge to glance at his sheathed knife. If she can't be trusted, why are we playing games? Spirits! We should stick a blade in her gut and throw her out the window.
A smug look came over Chris' face, as though a realization dawned on her. She nodded at him, passing judgment. "Excellent," she said flatly. "You will pass for the Karayan Chief's son, without a doubt."
Hugo's eyebrows lifted in surprise before he caught himself and smoothed his expression. What? He would have voiced the question aloud, but Chris silenced him by sealing her lips in an overly obvious gesture. He hoped that Jena had not seen his reaction in the dim light.
"Good," he said uncertainly. She's pretending that I'm an imposter? Her plan dawned on him. No; an illusion. That must mean Jena's in league with whoever's behind all these tricks. All the more reason to tie her up right now. Frustrated, he decided to cooperate, and hid a frown hopefully before Jena got close enough to see their faces. Chris flashed him a grim smile before turning to slowly face the woman.
"You have returned," Chris said.
Jena stepped from the shadows and into the moonlight, a quizzical look on her face. "Has there been another change of plans?" she asked Chris.
Both women seemed unnaturally tense to him, as they stood staring at each other. Their faces were inscrutable, and their actions coldly hostile. More than anything, the eye-contact resembled a battle of wills. She's said that the woman is 'needed' for some reason, but what? She hasn't told me anything; I might as well be trying to figure out Jena's intentions as hers.
He tried to think of what to say, but his mind fumbled with the subtleties of the situation. Maybe it's better I just keep my mouth shut… But what should I do? Nothing? Chris' cold eyes seemed to caution him against speaking, but his frustration was building. "I—"
Chris immediately raised a hand to cut him off. She did not even take her eyes off of Jena.
Hugo let out a heavy breath. Spirits! Why am I involved in this damn thing? I shouldn't even be in this Rune-forsaken place. I shouldn't be helping her. His mind ached with guilt, and he thought of the dagger hidden beneath the blankets.
The women did not see him. Sparks seemed to strike where their eyes met. "That is no concern of yours," Chris said, "Everything is going as planned."
"You were going to the Dunan Republic," Jena said slowly.
Chris hesitated.
-Chris-
Chris watched Jena as she considered the statement. What might the Republic have to do with this conflict? The woman's eyes bore into her, as though searching for a weakness. Is this a test? She must suspect me, though she can't be sure.
She considered her options for a second, and then said, "No." That should be suitably vague.
Jena showed a hint of surprise, but said nothing. Chris tried to gauge the reaction, but there was no way of telling what that moment of vacillation meant. Has she seen through my ruse? The insidious woman would likely bide her time, awaiting a better opportunity to unmask her, rather than put her life on the line by confronting them now. No, she won't reveal her intentions until she's safe, and if she's safe, then we're in danger. She cannot be sure; she must wonder why I won't kill her if I'm not who I pretend to be; this woman, this Chimera.
Chris fought to keep the hate and disgust from her features as her stare bore into Jena's cold eyes. She cannot know what I intend to do. I need to keep her distracted.
"I intend to sleep," Chris said, mimicking the imperious voice of the Chimera to the best of her ability. She had replayed the scene in the dungeon a hundred times in her head; the memory was flawless. "You are dismissed," she said to Jena.
The woman bowed respectfully, though Chris thought she saw the faintest glint of annoyance in her crooked smile. There can be no doubts about the relation of master and servant between the Chimera and her.
She turned to Hugo, and found that the barbarian was watching her impatiently. "There are some more details to be discussed," she said, and strode past him into the corridor. "Follow me."
Footsteps echoed through the hall as Hugo followed and Jena walked the other way. Turning a corner and gliding through an open door, Chris walked into the middle of the room and turned to face Hugo as he crossed the threshold. "Close the door," she said.
Hugo frowned at her, but swung the door shut in a swift motion. It slammed against the frame, causing her to wince.
Chris relaxed, and massaged her neck. She let out a breath and nearly collapsed backwards into a chair, clutching at the armrests. "Be still," she said, and—sensing the barbarian's dark mood as he froze in mid-step—added, "Please." The word felt awkward to her.
She held her breath, and heard only her own heartbeat. Several seconds passed, and she chose not to meet his eyes as she waited. When the time had passed, she exhaled and nodded.
"Forgive me," she said. "I had to be certain that she would not attempt to listen in." I know this manor better than anyone; there's no way to listen in on a conversation in the library without standing by the door, and you can't reach the door without causing the floor to creak—the sound runs through the floor into the library.
"Tell me why you're letting Jena walk away," Hugo said. His voice was tense with anger. He folded his arms over his chest—still naked, she noted, not without embarrassment—and glared at her. "Tell me."
Chris nodded. "Jena is working for the enemy; the woman who was instrumental to incarcerating me and, I believe, to the creation of the illusions we have witnessed as of late."
Hugo nodded slowly. "That woman's been pretending to be the Silver Maiden—you."
Chris frowned. "Yes. I have taken to thinking of her as the 'Chimera.' It is easier than 'that woman.'"
"That's why you made her think I'm an illusion. Because she thinks you're that woman, pretending to be you."
Chris nodded. "The illusions we have fought have been conjured of air, but she must also possess the ability to alter the appearance of others; as she did when I saw her. So, my intention is to pass you off as a thug disguised as… well, you."
Pacing across the room, Hugo snorted. "I don't like it."
Chris' heart sank. Will he betray me? "Hugo; these people are responsible for all that has happened."
Hugo turned to face her, and raised an eyebrow. His face was dark. "All? No; that's not true. The burning of Karaya; that was you and your knights."
Chris clenched her fists, and stood. "This conflict, it is all her doing. If not for…" she sighed. She felt weary; much too tired to think. Why hasn't he killed me? Why did he come for me? She shook her head slightly, trying to shake the feeling of guilt—and a little voice that spoke nonsensical thoughts about his motivations.
She walked over to the door, and turned to face him. "I need to sleep. We can talk more tomorrow, when we are better rested." She hesitated, crushing the thought that she would never again be rested. "Please, Hugo. If we work together, we can end this conflict, no matter how it began."
Hugo's voice became brisk. "How? You still haven't answered my question."
Chris straightened up and met his fiery eyes. "I intend to replace the Council," she said.
-Jena-
Jena's mind raced as she undressed, piling her garments on the bed in the manor's master bedroom. Sealed before her arrival, the luxurious dwelling was without a doubt the finest living quarters she had stayed in, and the room had been kept in pristine condition by the Silver Maiden's butler until Jena had removed him. Now, the pristine bedspread was showered by moonlight as she prepared for rest.
Could it be a coincidence? she wondered as she neatly folded her dress on the bed. Alron was taken away; the Silver Maiden must have escaped. However, Sarah—if that is her—claims that she dealt with the situation already, and that Alron was imprisoned as a result of his failure. If that is true, then the Silver Maiden is dead, and Sarah still wears the mask. Nothing strange there; she had already taken to wearing it around the hour before this.
Stretching out, she glanced at the moonlit window. But why would Sarah linger in Vinay? She was supposed to have gone to Iksay. Was there truly a change of plans, or is that a bold lie? Jena stretched her neck, easing the tension from her joints. Then there's the boy: the barbarian was with the Silver Maiden when we took her away. What does that mean? Sarah claims that the boy attempted to rescue the Silver Maiden—a claim too outrageous to be a lie—and says that she took care of them both. Now, she's having someone masquerade as the boy; why? It seems a viable scheme. Could it be a ruse?
Frowning, she rolled up her socks and let them drop onto the bed. No; it is plausible, if the rest is true. I do not believe in coincidences, she thought. She had learned that lesson the hard way. The most crucial question is this: if it is not Sarah, why am I still alive, and free? If she did escape, she would be wiser to leave Vinay, or try to appeal to the masses against the Council. Her behavior makes no sense. In addition, the Silver Maiden never struck me as particularly intelligent. I doubt if she would be able to orchestrate a ruse like this.
Jena sighed, silently cursing her lack of information. The guards in the dungeon had been less than forthcoming, and more than a little confused. They had been no help, and Alron had been taken away before she could speak with him.
Releasing her rigid braids, Jena shook her head to settle her hair about her shoulders. Sighing, she slipped beneath the warm blankets and shivered with contentment as she made herself comfortable. Ultimately, I need Sarah's approval, or the Harmonian occupation of Zexen will be a catastrophe for me. If I'm wrong about my suspicions… No; I can't risk Sarah's wrath unless I'm sure.
Closing her eyes, Jena tried to calm her wild heart. I need to speak with the Council, but I can't meet with them without a pretext, and if I'm wrong… They won't even listen to me unless I can prove to them, without a doubt, that my instinct is right. I have to speak with Alron, she decided. Should I sneak out tonight? No; the chances of discovery are too great. I can't risk acting without Sarah's sanction.
Mind racing with thoughts, Jena tried to find sleep. The strangest thought came over her.
If the barbarian is an illusion… why wasn't he wearing a shirt? I wonder… Which is less likely; Sarah's still in Vinay, or the Silver Maiden has taken a barbarian boy for a lover?
She could not say.
-Hugo-
Moonlight glinted off the blade in Hugo's hands. Holding the knife aloft, he studied Lulu's weapon as though its patterned-iron surface held the answer to his dilemma. Sitting cross-legged on the floor by the unused bed, he fought to reconcile the warring voices in his head. Lulu's voice was there, beckoning him to take revenge—a manifestation of his own guilt. I have to kill her, he thought. There's no way around it, after the oath I swore.
Then there were the other voices; a chorus of softer tones that tried to justify his current position. His mother's voice was distinct, supporting his choices and urging him to rethink his plans and avoid walking the same path she had in her youth. That's easy for her to say; she didn't turn back. Even if she says it now… He glared at the knife, and his thoughts turned. She won't admit that I saved her. Does that mean that she didn't need me? Did I waste all that effort to come for her? Why did I come for her? The answer to that question was hidden beneath a veil of absurd emotions; irrational thoughts that he dismissed as irrelevant to the situation. She says she's got a way to stop the war. That's why I'm still here: the illusions seem to be trying to tear us apart. If she's right, then that is more important. A twinge of guilt hit him. More important than my best friend? Is it?
Anxiously, he twirled the blade in his hand. Undecided, he took his rest.
-?-
Crickets chirped in the pale moonlight as he placed his claws against the stone and began to scale the wall. It was sheer, and formed from large slabs of stone, but his sharp claws easily found purchase in myriad handholds along its height. Tail swinging for balance, he ascended quickly and with ease.
Reaching the parapet, he heard the sound of a man yawning, and froze. Through the crenel he glimpsed a spear wagging towards him, and heard footfalls approach. A second passed to indecisiveness, and then he froze in place. His muddy scales were dull in the darkness, and the moon was hiding behind a stand of trees in the Zexen Forest, shielding him from view.
The footfalls came closer, and passed.
His muscles ached from the effort of hanging still on the parapet. In a single motion, he hoisted his body up and leapt over and onto the battlement.
Wood creaked under his feet. The man turned.
He drew his knife and clasped it in his clawed hand as he ran.
The Ironhead's mouth gaped open, and he fumbled with his spear.
—Too late. The knife cut through his throat.
The man made a gurgling sound and collapsed across his scaly shoulder as he leaned in. Sheathing his knife and hoisting the dead Ironhead, he grabbed the spear and leapt from the battlement onto a nearby house. The clay tiles clattered beneath his clawed feet, but he kept his balance.
The moon rose above the trees of the forest, as if to light the way.
Offering prayers to the Spirits, the Avenger swept into Vinay.
-Chris-
The sun produced a muted glow within the library as it fell on the thick curtains hanging from the eastward window. It was not enough to light up the room, but the stand lamp, close enough to warm Chris' elbow where she had leaned it against the table, provided enough light to read. The room was warm, but a pleasant breeze caused the curtains to flutter.
Hugo had remained silent since entering the room, and he now stood a step past the threshold, having closed the door behind him. He wore a blank expression, and the look on his face was inscrutable. He seemed hesitant to her, and as his eyes swept over row upon row of shelving laden with books, he seemed too preoccupied to really note their presence.
Chris sat in a chair with an open book resting in her lap. Unwilling to break the silence and release the charge that had been building in the air between them, she watched him, even as his eyes focused on everything but her. His hair was messy and unkempt, and the glistening of dried sweat upon his skin suggested that he was still in dire need of a bath. He had at least donned the wrinkled and dirty barbarian shirt he had worn when he came for her in the dungeon. He seems tense, she thought. Or perhaps it is my own tension that I feel.
"You must get a lot of messages," he said. She flinched, and watched him trace the palm of his hand along the spine of a large tome before he turned his eyes on her.
"What?" she blurted out. The word came weak, and she hastily cleared her throat. She laid the book on the table and placed her hands on her lap.
Hugo turned his head. "This is all writing."
"Yes," Chris said. "But they are books, not messages."
Shrugging, Hugo yanked an old tome from the top shelf and split the pages with his open hand. "So what—"
Hissing, Chris shot up from her seat and came to his side, placing her hands on the book. "Be careful!"
The boy refused to relinquish his obstinate hold on the tome. He frowned at her, and said, "I was just looking!"
"Just looking? You were brutalizing that poor book!" Chris said. She jabbed a finger at him.
Hugo grunted. "You've got too many messages. No one could read all of these," he said, hefting the tome in his hands.
Chris reached out to catch his wrist. "Put that back," she commanded. "And as I said, these are not messages. They are books about all sorts of things."
"Like what?"
"Like rom…—um, roaming knights. History books, about our ancestors and events from the past. Theories about science and religion… And I have read most of them." She drew breath, and silenced. Why did I add that?
"Stories." Hugo nodded thoughtfully. "It's important to have stories." He placed the book back on its shelf, and turned to meet her eyes. "Don't you have someone to tell you the stories?"
Taken aback, Chris glared at him. How can he speak so casually about these things when my heart is fluttering? He should be shouting at me! She hesitated, uncertain of what to respond. "No," she said at last, admitting it as the truth. "But that is beside the—"
"My mother," Hugo interrupted, and waited a moment for her to silence. "My mother once told me a story about a man, a hunter, who set out alone across the plains to prove himself as the greatest hunter of his tribe, by felling a great white boar of legend. He faced all sorts of hardships on the plains, but in the end, he turned back not because he was out of strength or skill, but because he was lonely."
"Your storytelling skills need some polish," Chris remarked.
Hugo shrugged. "You've gathered so many people in your towns and cities that you've forgotten each others' faces. Instead of being alone, like the hunter, you lose yourself between each other. How could you have no one to tell you stories?"
Chris' blood boiled. "Because they…" She bit her lip. Because they're all dead. "I grew up alone," she said. Alone, except for Prion. She pushed the thought aside before it took root, saving her worry for when she had the time.
"What about all these people?" He made a sweeping gesture. "Don't they care? In Karaya, a child who lost her parents is raised by the tribe as a whole. In the other clans, it is the same. But not in Zexen."
"Enough!" Chris exclaimed. She tensed, feeling as though the boy had torn open a wound in her. "Cease this. Stop talking about things as though… as though we were friends." Say what you mean.
"Friends," Hugo muttered. He closed his eyes and drew a deep breath. "The hunter," he continued, "Returning home, found that being the most skilled hunter meant nothing if he had no one who would hear about his exploits; no one to share in his victories. In the end, he set out on his journey again, but he did not travel alone…"
The look on Hugo's face sent a chill down her spine. "Stop," she said stubbornly.
Hugo was silent for a second, and then mumbled, "He brought his best friend." His face sank, and a tortured expression came over his face as he squeezed his eyes shut and balled up his quivering hands into fists.
Chris swallowed, feeling helpless to deal with his emotions. I have to say something. "Hugo…"
He grinded his teeth as he spoke. "You killed my best friend," he said, echoing the words he had spoken as he climbed through her window. Somehow, the shock of seeing him there had not yet relented, and now that she had a chance to respond, her shame stole the words from her mouth.
His eyes remained closed. "Tell me one thing."
Chris silently drew air. Her chest felt like it was filled with stones. Slowly, she nodded.
Hugo's eyes shot open, filled with a burning fervor. "You said that woman, the Chimera, pretended to be you." She saw a slight hope build in his eyes; a futile wish. "Since when?" he asked.
Somehow, Chris found the strength not to waver under the intense glare. The question was unmistakable. 'Was she the one who killed my friend?' How easy it would be to lie, now. Her mouth felt dry. "No," she said, her gaze flickering away from his face as she saw hope die in his eyes. "She was not the one who… killed your friend." She let her hand slide along the shelf to her side, and her fingers came away dusty—a grim reminder of Prion's absence.
"Hugo, I…" she began; her voice a mere whisper. "The attack on Karaya was not ordered by me," she said. "It was—"
"Who ordered it?" he growled, leaning in towards her.
"No one," she said. She shook her head and frowned. "It was not meant to be; it was a—"
"What?" he snapped. "What was it? A mistake?"
"Yes," she said. It is my responsibility as a commander. I cannot shirk the blame. "It was a mistake; a grievous one. Once I arrived at the scene, it was already—"
"How can you call it a mistake?" he demanded to know. He was shaking now, pressing closer to her with gritted teeth and balled fists.
Drawing a deep breath, Chris rose on her heels and stood her ground. "In war, these things happen. A sword strikes the wrong shield, an errant spark, and a flame is fanned…"
"You burnt a village filled with women and children! You slaughtered them! How can you talk of striking the wrong shield? What kind of swords are you knights armed with?!" he demanded. "You're all cowards!"
"You do not understand," she said icily. "You are still a child—"
"It was a child you killed!" he shouted.
Chris tensed, feeling the words twist in her heart like the blade of a dagger. "If I could have it undone…"
"But you can't," he said. Tears streamed down his cheeks as he fought to control his voice. "When I left Vinay, Alron attacked me. I was used as a hostage, to deny my mother her honor, to deny the Karayans their pride on the battlefield. You should be dead, and yet… instead…"
Chris swallowed, leaning back against the bookshelf. The boy seemed at once menacing and vulnerable; a wounded beast, frightened and confused. Her heart reached out to him, but it was too hardened to comfort, too hurt to console.
"We have both been hurt by Alron!" she snapped. Then, she added, "It was not my wish to harm your friend. Besides, it was the Clans who broke the peace at the negotiations! The lizards attacked us! Those were no illusions!"
"Because someone had Chief Zepon assassinated! The saraaks say you attacked the Great Hollow in person!"
Chris swept her arms at the air. "That was an illusion, and it is utter nonsense! Your mother was with me all that time. She will know this!"
Scowling with renewed pride, Hugo wiped the tears from his cheeks and stood silent for several seconds. "Yes. But how can we trust—"
"Trust? Why should we trust you barbarians, after all that has happened?"
"Don't call us barbarians," Hugo hissed. "You're the savages, hiding in metal shells, letting your children rot in your streets!"
Chris glared at him. "Get off your high horse!"
"I don't even have a horse, you frigid cow!" he shouted.
Chris' mind worked with frenzied alacrity, sorting through his words even as she searched for an evocative insult. If the lizards claim I assassinated Chief Zepon… "It is a figure of speech, you dirty barbarian!" Without losing a breath, she added, "Is Chief Zepon truly slain?"
"Yes!" he spat. "And you didn't even know?" He hesitated, taken aback by the twist of her words. "Don't call me a barbarian! …I'm not dirty!"
"You are covered in sweat, and you are half naked. I would surmise that you are a dirty barbarian," Chris said icily. She frowned, sinking into thought. "It cannot be a coincidence… The Chimera has a rune that allows her to assume my shape, and presumably others'. But to assassinate Chief Zepon…"
"Who is this woman?" Hugo asked. His voice had calmed somewhat, but a frown remained on his face.
"A Harmonian rune bearer. She would not tell me her name, but I believe Jena knows. They seem to be cooperating, somehow." Somehow, I need to learn the Chimera's name. If Jena suspects me, she is unlikely to volunteer the information unless pressured into doing so. Worse yet, she might try to trick me into admitting my ignorance.
Hugo paused for several seconds before speaking. "Is this why you're staying with Jena?"
"She is not staying with me. She is an intruder. She has killed those who…" She shook her head. "Before I mete out justice, she has a role to play. I need her alive, for now."
Hugo frowned. "Are you sure this Harmonian woman is behind all of the illusions?"
"I believe so," Chris said. "I saw her at Brass Castle that day, before you… saved my squire." Why is it so difficult to admit that? And there's more that needs to be admitted. She glanced at him, and colored. Curse this pride… She shook her head slightly, and paced around the floor. "She has been masquerading as me, and I believe I know her intentions, but I have a plan to turn recent events in my favor."
"Your favor?" Hugo spat. From behind, he reached out and took hold of her arm.
Chris turned and attempted to sweep his arm away, but once again she found that his strength was well beyond his years. His hand would not budge.
Unable to free herself without effort, she decided not to sacrifice her dignity to break loose. Hugo stared at her, gritting his teeth. "What about Lulu's favor?"
Chris raised her head to meet his wild eyes, and frowned. Her breathing felt labored as she struggled beneath the weight of her guilt. On the edge of tears, she held fast. Too proud to apologize and too tense to admit her guilt, she held it in and met his eyes. "Enough; it was a reaction. That is what it was; an act of self-defense. You are a warrior too; you should understand that there is no way to prevent such a conditioned response." She stood her ground and stiffened her back as his grip on her wrist hardened. I thought I could control myself, even in the heat of battle, but I was wrong.
Gasping for air, Hugo raked his fingers through his hair and looked at her. "I swore an oath," he said.
Chris felt a chill. "What manner of oath?"
"I swore I would avenge him," he said. He reached behind his back and pulled a knife from its sheath. "I swore I would kill the person responsible for his death."
Chris' eyes widened as she took in the blade in his hand. His eyes seemed sharpened on the same whetstone; cold iron daggers stabbing at her. She felt the absence of her scabbard. Armed with a sword, she was more than a match for the boy, but without a weapon, she suspected that he would quickly get the upper hand, knife or no knife. I've seen unarmed Karayans do some nasty things on the battlefield.
Stubbornly, she pushed her fear aside and grasped his arm, leaning in to challenge his sorrowful eyes. "What? You went through all of that trouble to get me out of the dungeon, just to kill me yourself? That makes no sense." I hope it does not. He's a barbarian, and an unpredictable boy. Chris clasped his arm in a furious grip, as though her fingers wrapped around his muscles would steady her shaking body. His arm tensed in her grip.
It seemed to her that they stood there in silence for a long time. Eventually, Hugo sighed. "Lulu's death was a mistake," he said. She felt his muscles relax, and he released her.
Chris almost stumbled back against the bookshelf, but steadied herself. He seemed calm now, and only the red streaks across his cheeks belied the composure of his straight back and steady grip. He reached back to sheathe the knife.
"I won't say I'm sorry," he said. "You deserve it."
Chris gritted her teeth, but held her tongue. I shouldn't tempt fate, even if he's a pompous ass. Heaving a sigh of relief, she leaned back against the shelf. She tried to mirror his composure, but did not believe she was successful. How can he seem so calm, now? Guilt and sorrow were sliced through her mind, but the words that had been spoken had soured her desire to unburden her heart. Though silence had come, there was too much bad blood between them.
Sighing silently, Chris turned her thoughts to the matters at hand. If only I could extract the information I want from Alron… She knew that the scoundrel would say nothing more than he had without proper… techniques. It is best to keep him locked up and out of the Council's sight while I align the pieces. However, Jena will no doubt seek Alron to find the truth. Even then, there is room for uncertainty on her part; my story still holds, although it is suspect. She frowned. I would feel better if Jena were unable to speak with him. She turned her eyes on Hugo. "Can we trust Nash?" she asked. Can I trust you? No; not yet.
"I don't know," Hugo said with a shrug, "But he doesn't seem to be working with the Council." He paused, and mumbled, "At least that doesn't seem to make sense."
"That is good enough," Chris said. Her eyes wandered over his clothes before she met his eyes again. "If you are to move about in Vinay, you will need proper garments. Follow me," she said. Without waiting for a reply, she walked past him towards the corridor.
Hugo turned, and hesitated for a moment before speaking. "Weren't we arguing?"
Right before the threshold, Chris turned to raise an eyebrow at him. "Why would we be arguing?"
-Hugo-
Hugo stood squinting against the sharp-edged shaft of light from the window, feeling the heat of the sun upon his wet hair as he struggled to button the cuffs of the stuffy shirt. Chris' back was turned, and she stood in the shadows near the corner of the room, as if frightened she might catch a glimpse of even an inch of skin. The Ironheads are modest in strange ways, Hugo though, but far too bold in other things. What an odd people.
He could not resist stealing glances at her where she stood in the pale light. Although she had neglected the usual complex braid at the back of her head, she had tied her hair into a pair of ponytails, one in the middle of the crown and the second laying lower, closer to the nape of her neck, where the tresses divided to spill over her shoulders on opposite sides. She seemed rigid, fussing over some pieces of parchment in a lacquered wooden box. The exercise seemed meant to give the illusion of preoccupation, but it seemed a farce to him.
Nothing had been said for a time. When the weight of their words grew too heavy, only silence remained between them, and Hugo struggled beneath that burden. The silence was unnerving, but Hugo could not muster the strength to break it, for fear that any meaningful words spoken might provoke a confrontation—and force him to make up his mind.
He was anxious about it, because somehow he felt that his wavering thoughts meant only that he could not accept the decision that he had already made. And, unconscious of what that decision was, he was afraid to see it through.
Hugo cursed the buttons on the shirt's cuffs in frustration. It was more than indecisiveness; he felt dazed and confused, and found it difficult to concentrate. Gritting his teeth, he pulled at the cloth to gain a better grip.
"I will assist you," Chris said. Suddenly, she was by his side, and Hugo almost recoiled as she took his wrist in her hand.
"I don't—" he began, but left the sentence unfinished when he saw her stern eyes questioning him. By the True Runes; I can't let her get to me this easily! He averted his eyes as her cold fingers reached around his arm to button the shirt over his wrist. I'm pathetic. She's already seen me cry… What an embarrassment. Flushing with color, Hugo glared at the windowsill and ran his fingers across the dusty surface as he tried to deal with the searing shame. She didn't even seem to be ruffled, earlier. Doesn't this even upset her? he wondered. His heart sank. Now she's fussing over me like a mother. She can't have any respect for me.
"There," she said.
Hugo turned his head, and stared right into the depths of her large, violet eyes. For several seconds, they watched each other in silence. She's too old, anyway, he thought suddenly.
Surprised, he pushed the thought away—firmly. He blinked, and tore his eyes from her face. That's absurd. Where did that come from? He ached with resurfacing guilt, but allowed the thoughts of Lulu's death in his mind, forcing himself to concentrate on the gruesome, hurtful images in a desperate attempt to summon some righteous anger.
Swallowing, Hugo nodded. He could not find the strength to say anything, and so he simply nodded. "Good," he said in a broken voice.
"Hugo," Chris said.
"What?" He slowly faced her, and saw that her features had hardened, as though she were willing the words into existence through great effort. His heart raced in anticipation.
"Thank you," she said. A few seconds passed, and then she added, "For rescuing me."
Hugo gasped for breath as a frisson of excitement passed through his body. He was shaking his head before his mind had processed the words, and he stumbled back and leaned against the windowsill, pretending that the act was casual. His cheeks flushed with color, and he grimaced. "You're… it wasn't, I mean… it was…" He could not find the proper words. "I wanted to do it," he blurted out, and instantly felt like a fool. What does that mean?
A small smile creased Chris' lips, and as the light washed over her face, she looked radiant. Hugo's heart skipped a beat, and he stood up straight. "I'm… going for a walk," he said. Without a word, he made for the door.
I should kill her, he told himself as he left the room. It should be easy; I should hate her.
It was not easy at all.
-Adeline-
The squawking of seagulls reached the Assembly Hall through tall windows with a view of Vinay's harbor. Outside, the gulls would be wheeling in the sky, pitching and banking to jockey for position over the scraps left behind by sailors and stevedores locked in the hectic pace of loading and unloading. Weaving through the masts of caravels and galleons, the gulls supplied the tune to which the waterfront moved, and their droppings littered wood and stone. There were times, Guild Delegate Adeline Tarnay thought, when she believed that the timeless dance of the gulls symbolized the Zexen Confederacy itself. Bleak thoughts for bleak times.
Bright sunlight streamed through the open windows, basking against half-drawn shutters and sending sharp-edged columns of light falling over the chamber's features while the rest remained in shadows. Light flooded the long table where the members of the Merchants' Guild sat crowded around a feast of food and drink, stopping just short of Adeline's position near the middle of the long end. Even the shadows were warm as a cook's cauldron, and she breathed listlessly.
She sat in silence, allowing the several dozen men around the table their chance to imitate the chatter of the gulls as each man tried to drown out the voices of the others. Adeline remained quiet, taking the time to contemplate her preferences: their words, or the squawking of the birds? Weary from a long, sleepless night, she cradled a glass of wine with cursory interest while pretending to heed the words of the obsequious man seated to her left. In spite of the butterflies in her stomach, she struggled to maintain a veneer of calm assurance.
Sighing inwardly, Adeline silenced the man at her side with a polite gesture and rose halfway from her seat. "Gentlemen, please," she said. She gazed coolly across the Assembly Hall while she waited for the discussion to die down. Their eyes fixed on her, and filled with doubt—or suspicion. Not a good sign, she thought. She forced a small smile.
"I agree," she said, "That the matter of the salt tariffs in Alderedai demands the Guild's attention, but I submit that there's a more pressing, more important matter at hand. As I tried to impress on the agenda—"
"Yes, yes," Darbin said, breathing heavily as he dabbed his heat-stricken face with a cloth, "The matter of the Council. We all know your stance, Adeline." Some of the others chuckled.
Adeline let the comment slide, and smiled. If I'm predictable, it's for a good reason, she thought vehemently. "Indeed," she said, "The Council."
Exhaling slowly, she ignored the beading sweat on her forehead. The sun pressed on the roof, baking the Assembly Hall. Servants milled about the table in silence, depositing plates of food or removing half-eaten dishes from before the assemblymen. Some private servants were fanning their employers with feathered shrouds to keep them from the heat. Too proud for such extravagancies, Adeline felt as though her clothes were smoldering with the sun's rage. Stubborn fool, she thought, and could not decide whether she meant Darbin or herself. "I cannot be the only one who questions the wisdom of the current Council. Their failure to fulfill the wishes of the Guild's members … Their policies, which have gone beyond what is questionable, and their decisions which are harmful to not only to the Guild," she straightened her back and made a sweeping gesture, "But to Zexen as a whole!"
The room was silent. Adeline held her breath, and looked from face to face. They would not meet her eyes. Glancing to the side or into the table, the delegates chose to pretend as though they had heard nothing. The only one who returned her look was a curious man she had not seen before; a young blonde with a striped green scarf wrapped around his neck in spite of the heat.
The sultry air wore on her, exaggerating her frustration to its boiling point. She waited for someone to reply.
Finally, Irian sighed, wafting a hand at his flushed face in an undignified manner. "To return to matters at hand…" his eyes wandered from her to the others, "Let's discuss our stance on the tariffs. I fear this will affect relations beyond those we enjoy with Alderedai."
The assemblymen began to stir; they nodded with great interest as a discussion quickly sprang to life around the table. It was as though she were not there at all.
Mastering her anger, Adeline spoke up, "As a Guild Delegate, I have a duty to bring this matter to the Assembly's attention, and I see it as by far the most pressing at this time. Foreign customs policy is important," she admitted, "But without stability in Zexen, it means nothing."
Darbin scratched his neck irritably. His silks were sodden, and his pudgy hands and round face sheathed in sweat. "Please refrain from interrupting, Delegate. The agenda has been set," he said, leaning forward with a grunt, "And accordingly, we will discuss it in the fourth Quarter." A chorus of grunts marked the assemblymen's approval.
Adeline sat down with a frown on her face. He couldn't have made his intentions clearer. The fourth Quarter, following the last serving of food, was inevitably fruitless. With the assemblymen's bellies full of spirits, their gaiety would preclude serious discussion and tradition had thus dedicated the fourth Quarter to idle prattle and merry diversions. The small smile playing on Darbin's lips left her no doubt. So, the setting of the agenda was deliberate… She had hoped to be able to move the matter to the forefront, but now despaired.
Again, the blonde man's eyes met hers, but she quickly broke eye-contact. Though he seemed sympathetic to her cause, as a stranger he must have been either a newcomer without influence or a passive observer representing some guild proxy. He would be no help.
Adeline cast her gaze on the glass in her hand and watched the wine swirl as she spun it. The words exchanged between the assemblymen were lost on her as she sunk into thought. Reflexively, she wiped the sweat from her brow. They have no intention of hearing me out. It's obvious now that the conservative faction has gained too much influence in recent years. She lifted her eyes to look at selected assemblymen as her thoughts wandered. Udemin, definitely, and perhaps Gend and Davon as well: those who are uncertain are unwilling to act for fear of the repercussions of choosing the weaker side. A strong figure could forge a rival faction out of them to match the conservatives, but they still view me as… a child. She frowned, gripping the body of her glass fiercely. If they saw me for what I am, I could easily direct them. Sighing, she waved off a servant offering to refill her glass, where only the swill remained. I'll speak with them in person, away from the influences of the Assembly. In private, I can make them understand.
"Adeline," a voice mumbled behind her.
She turned to see Farren—her aide—lean in to speak with her. "What is it?" she asked.
"The matter of the Brass Mermaid demands your attention. There's been… a new development."
Adeline felt her heart sink. The tense look in Farren's eyes told her that the news he brought were dire. "I… see," she hesitated, mastering her emotions. Drawing a deep breath, she rose from her seat and bowed her head at the assembly. "Pardon me; I must attend to some business."
The assemblymen paused to nod at her, and farewells were mumbled through the din of the discussion. To leave before the fourth Quarter was uncommon, but hardly rare enough to cause disgruntlement. Before turning to follow her, Farren bowed deeply at the table, and was met with a gracious nod from Darbin. Somewhat annoyed, Adeline motioned for her aide to hurry.
At the end of the table, chairs were being scuffled around as a man stood from his seat. It was the plump, clean-shaven Gattyn who stood, his prim clothes clamming to his sweaty skin. At his side, the blonde young man was leaning idly against his chair. For a moment, Adeline's eyes met with his, and she quirked an eyebrow.
His cryptic smile broadened, and he winked at her.
Adeline turned and marched out of the assembly hall, thoughts quickly shifting to other matters. The sun continued its assault with renewed vigor as she stepped outside, but the fresh sea breeze was a blessing to her skin. The smell of dried saltwater was palpable down at the waterfront, and seagulls were wheeling in the blue sky, squawking with tireless devotion. She squinted against the sun and watched the birds soar above.
Bleak thoughts for bleak times, she thought.
-Jena-
A pleasant breeze swept across the square, fanning Jena where she sat on a bench in the shadow cast by the Council Hall. Anxious and impatient, her eyes flickered across the square even as she pretended to busy herself with a basket of trinkets.
Finally, she saw the man she was waiting for round the corner of a building and cut across the square. She stood, and began to casually intercept him.
As the portly man approached, nearly waddling in his undignified stride, she saw that his face was flustered with heat, and he was breathing heavy from the effort of walking.
"Gattyn," she called out.
The man gave a start. "J-Jena…"
She smiled, but put no warmth in the gesture. "I have need of your assistance; I have a—"
"Forgive me," he said, scuffling to the side and passing, "I have to speak with the Council…" His eyes fell away from her.
Jena snorted, and stepped to the side, barring his way. "You have time to speak with me, first." She fixed her eyes on him, and glared.
Swallowing, Gattyn adjusted the collar of his sweat-soaked shirt. The bleak strands of his thinning hair were plastered against his face. He looks very much like a drowned rat, Jena thought. "Now," she said, lifting her glare, "I have a letter here…" She produced the rolled-up parchment and handed it to Gattyn, who reluctantly took it. "It should be delivered to a woman named Sarah, currently a camp follower in the contingent stationed near Iksay." If I am right, that is. "It must be delivered to her, and her only."
Gattyn nodded, fingering the letter with a look of thinly veiled distaste. "Very well," he said. Without another word, he tried to sweep past her.
Jena reached out and grabbed his shoulder, stopping the squirming man in his tracks. "Sir Alron has been imprisoned in the dungeons. I need to see him. You will arrange this."
Gattyn grimaced, but nodded. He pushed her arm aside, and half-ran into the Council Hall.
Jena sighed with relief. The message she had sent would be innocent enough even if it did not reach Sarah, but if it did… She would respond immediately, and Jena would know. A swift messenger can reach Iksay in a day. Either way, two days from now, I will be sure.
Holding her basket against her waist, she smirked, and began to stroll across the square.
Author's Notes:
The chapter I just finished turned out to be quite a bit longer than I'd expected, so I decided to cut it into three parts. The second part will be posted one week from now.
The "soriak" is the traditional Karayan dress worn by warriors.
The "assembly" referred to in Adeline's scenes is the "Customs Assembly;" an entity distinct from the council. From this humble merchants' organization created to lobby for lower tolls and customs grew the guild that eventually swallowed the Zexen Confederacy.
Next Chapter:
The web of deceit spins out of control as unexpected twists threaten to unravel Chris' carefully laid threads. Will the Silver Maiden be able to outwit her tormentor before it is too late? Will Hugo, faced with a difficult choice, stand by her side or turn against her to uphold his honor as a Clansman? Find out next time, in Blazing Waves, Burning Rain!