The naysayers had to be silent after that. If they protested, they’d be contradicting the First Tree. And if I made the high-pitched noise I wanted to make or went up to Pak Sey ben Kor and spat “Ha!” in his face, I would not be remembered as a dignified Champion.
I consulted strategists, asked the western clans to send me one picked greensleeve each and a bunch of grassgliders and thornhands, and requested siege crews from the Invisible Owl Clan.
Pen was very upset that I did not include her on the team.
“Only one greensleeve from each clan is participating,” I explained, “and I’m the one from the White Gossamer Clan.”
“But I need this, Nel! What they did to my brother—”
“I know, Pen. If you want to see action against the Hathrim, I can station you in the south, where the timber pirates make regular raids. But you’re our clan’s only other greensleeve. We can’t risk both of us on something like this.” She huffed, and I continued. “Speaking of risk … just in case, I have something for you.” I took from my vest a small wooden box and put it in front of her.
“What’s this?”
“Every new greensleeve gets one from an elder of their clan. I’m not sure when I’ll see you again, and I didn’t want you to miss out. Open it but don’t touch what’s inside.”
Pen carefully pushed open the hinge and saw the bantil plant seed inside. “Is this …?”
“Yes. Keep it with you always in case you need it to defend the Canopy.” I planted a kiss on her forehead. “I’m proud of you, cousin. I wish I could stay, but I won’t have much rest until Gorin Mogen is defeated. After that I can get you properly trained. Perhaps we can spend some time in the south together.”
“I would like that,” she said.
And I would like it, too, since Nef was from there and I’d have the opportunity to see him more often. We had enjoyed only a single, interrupted outing together, slurping noodles in a swing-by soup cradle, laughing together and almost kissing. We were leaning toward each other, slowly, enjoying the anticipation, when a thornhand found me and said I was needed at the Second Tree for the sway where I was to be named Champion.
“To be continued,” I said. Now he was under my command again, part of my siege crew, and we would have to wait a bit longer. That was fine: everything has its season, and budding promise has as much beauty as full flower.
High up on the slopes of the Godsteeth days later, I was in charge of a small army of the blessed intended to soften up the Hathrim before the Nentians, who were marching from the north, arrived in overwhelming numbers. I had my doubts and insecurities. I heard echoes of the criticisms levied by the Black Jaguars and the Blue Moths that I was too young, too inexperienced, to be given such responsibility. I worried that I would lead our forces into disaster or that the Nentians would arrive too late or prove ineffective and the giants would be firmly rooted here forever. But being named Champion by the First Tree appeared to have given everyone else complete confidence in my abilities.
At sundown, grassglider scouts lower down the mountain reported that a huge fireball had risen from the city, generated by two giants, but they had no idea what it signified.
Patrols of houndsmen passed underneath the scouts, unaware of their presence. For all that we are unused to attacking the Hathrim outside our borders, they are just as unfamiliar with defending against us. They are so used to looking down on everything that it never occurs to them to look up into the trees for silent watchers.
Rig Wel ben Lok asked to lead the first siege crew downhill, and I gave him the go-ahead at midnight. Grassgliders positioned themselves around the Invisible Owls, who all had portable pieces of a light catapult that would launch payloads of choke gourds over the walls, and they moved together in utter silence thanks to their kenning. Pods of thornhands with a grassglider each also streamed downhill to chosen locations.
I nodded with satisfaction as each crew and pod quietly mobilized. This is what the Canopy teaches us: grow while they’re not looking, silent and strong, and then, just as your competitors become aware that you may pose a problem, you grow thorns and choke them out, and they will fall by necessity.
I caught Nef smiling at me for no reason, his eyes keen to drink in the light of mine. I gave him only the tiniest grin in response, conscious of being watched, before sending him down with a few other grassgliders to spread bantil seeds in front of the southern and eastern gates. He makes me laugh, and it is easy to imagine being happy with him. Nef and Nel. Oh, that would be almost impermissibly adorable.
Bah—I have no time to dream of something that cannot bear fruit now. My mind should be employed anticipating what surprises the Hathrim will throw at us. I am certain they will do something horrific.
“Tomorrow: the Battle of the Godsteeth!” Fintan said.
This time, at least I got to finish my toast. But my dream of a pleasant morning was crushed as soon as a huge mariner I recognized knocked on my door after breakfast. He was one of the hallway guards in the Wraith’s spooky facility.
“He needs to see you now,” the mariner said. The thought was as appetizing to me as a spoonful of squid shit.
“He told me I wouldn’t have to visit him again.” The mariner shrugged. “Right. I’ll be out in a moment.”
We entered the secret complex by a different route, a door hidden behind some stinking barrels of fish heads and entrails that nearly made me vomit up my delicious toast. Labyrinthine security procedures had to be endured once again before I was dumped into the care of Approval Smile. She had no approval for me this morning, just a crooked finger as a summons to follow her. Ushered into the same dark room with the same dark chair, I was surprised to find a different picture hanging on the wall for me to stare at. No wraith among the trees this time: it was a landscape portrait of Goddess Lake in Rael, with the city of Killae shining on the shore. On the table next to the chair, resting near the single candle, was a journal bound in red leather. A blue ribbon marked a certain page.
The hoarse, wheezing rumble of the Wraith’s voice said without greeting, “I’ll ask you to look at that journal in a moment. First, are you familiar with Gerstad Nara du Fessett?”
“You must know that I am.”
The Wraith attempted a modest clearing of his throat, but it only inspired an epic fit of mucus-filled coughing. He groaned once and apologized when it finally subsided. “You know that she was away on assignment and that now she’s returned.”
“Yes. A broken arm, I’ve heard, but otherwise all right.”
“More than all right. She’s pulled off one of the most stunning espionage missions ever. One that I will tell you about because I made you a promise. But you must understand first that this information can never leave the room. You most especially must share no hint of it with the bard even though you will be sorely tempted to do so.”
“The only promise you made me was to tell me if you learned anything about my wife.”
“That’s correct. I doubt this knowledge will do you any good. I fear it may ruin what little peace you have.”
“I have no peace to ruin.”
“That’s nonsense. After you read the marked page in that journal, you’ll look back at yesterday as a time of carefree bliss. Go ahead and read it if you truly wish to know what happened to your wife. Or you could leave it alone and be assured that I—that we—will respond.”
I didn’t hesitate. I picked up the journal and flipped to the marked page, which had a folded sheet of paper inserted there as well. A flowing script in the Raelech tongue slowed me down.
“Can you read Raelech?” the Wraith asked.
“A little. I’m not as fluent as I’d like to be.”
“There should be a Brynt translation in there for you.”
When I unfolded the paper, a neat hand in Brynt provided the date: Shalech, Bloodmoon 9, 3041. The autumn before the Bone Giant attacks. The autumn Sarena fell ill.
Master herbalist from Aelinmech believes that a
new tincture, when added to drink, will finally work as a slow-acting poison that Brynt hygienists will be unable to counteract. The poison will collect in the liver and remain there, bonding to tissue, rather than flow free in the bloodstream. Liver failure and death will follow in a few months. I think that troublesome spy from Brynlön would make an ideal test subject.
Sarena had died at the end of Barebranch, her skin turning yellow from jaundice and no help for it as her liver failed. “Whose journal is this?” I asked, for I was already planning a trip to Rael.
“I will tell you, but there is nothing you can do about it.”
“Well, you can toss that notion into the abyss. Whoever this Raelech is, they’re going to die a horrible death.”
“Dervan, that is the personal journal of Clodagh of the Raelech Triune Council.”
“Clodagh? The militant councillor you said was dangerous now?”
“The same. Though that journal confirms that she has been dangerous all along, working in deep waters.”
“Does Fintan know that she ordered my wife’s poisoning?”
“I very much doubt it. But you can’t ask him about it or even allude to it, because then Rael would know that we’ve stolen it. And that would be an unhappy revelation for us right now seeing as they have an army already within our borders and marching this way.”
I shut my eyes, and my whole body clenched at the effort not to scream my frustration.
“The last time you looked like that,” the Wraith said, “you went to get your face smashed by Mynstad du Möcher. And it’s not healed yet.”
“That won’t happen this time. I was helpless to do anything then.”
“You still are. You can’t do anything right now except wait.”
“There has to be more we can do!”
“Clodagh is untouchable right now, but her term ends soon. Her service ended, she’ll be returning to her family in the country and be quite vulnerable. And this master herbalist she mentions in Aelinmech needs to be found, records destroyed if possible. We can hope that the formula for this poison has been kept secret.”
“Surely they’d figure we were responsible.”
“Accidents happen.”
I tasted bile in the back of my throat and felt polluted then, as if I’d tried to cleanse a foul cistern by shitting in it. His nonchalant talk of arranging murders placed him in the same moral cesspool as Clodagh—and if I pursued it on my own, I’d be joining them. Had Sarena been one who organized such accidents for others? Whether she had or not, working for the Wraith had gotten her killed. And if I pressed him, he’d say that the good she had done for the country in secret had been worth her early death. But it would never be worth it for me.
My body remained tense for another few moments of anger, but it relaxed when I decided I wouldn’t swim anywhere near these longarms if I could help it. Where would be my profit? I could never fill the emptiness of my wife’s absence with Clodagh’s death, and I’d come away from the experience forever stained and might not even feel any better afterward. Taking a deep breath and sinking back into the chair, I placed the journal back on the table.
“Thank you for keeping your promise,” I said, my voice flat. “Am I dismissed?”
“What? No, I need to make sure you understand how to approach the bard now. You cannot bring up the subject of Clodagh or her journal, and be very careful not to betray anything if he brings it up. I expect he will once their embassy hears about the theft, and that might be soon if they suspect us and sent a courier right away. He could try anything: claim that the journal is blue or that it was a series of papers or anything just to see if you contradict him. He may also bring up your wife’s death again to see how you react to that. Just be careful not to betray any knowledge of this journal to anyone. We are in no shape to start a war with the Earth Shapers.”
No, we weren’t. That made me wonder why he had taken the risk of sending Nara on such a mission. What if she’d been caught? How had she done it? Obviously she had used her blessing to move quickly up the river to Goddess Lake and thence to the capital and back again, but how had she infiltrated the Council chambers? I opened my mouth to ask but thought better of it. If I didn’t know, I couldn’t betray anything.
“I’ll be careful,” I said instead, and the Wraith was silent for a while as he considered—well, silent except for his wet, ragged breathing.
“Currents keep you safe,” he finally said, and I was free to return to the dubious care of Approval Smile. She led me to the exit by the docks again, and instead of going home or to the armory, I went down to the end of the quay where one could rent a remembrance craft and purchase a basket of white rose petals.
Raelechs like to erect monuments and stone edifices to mark where their people returned to the earth; Kaurians raise flags to blow in the wind; the Fornish plant something unusual when one of their own returns to the roots; the Hathrim have special candles to commemorate the dead; and the Nentians give everything to the sky. But we Brynts consign our dead to the sea, and so when we wish to remember them, we sail out a short way and spend some time alone bobbing on the waves, adding our salt tears to the salt ocean and spreading white petals on the surface, small fragile craft that bear the weight of our thoughts and memories for a while before sinking into the deep to join our loved ones.
I told Sarena that at least we knew who killed her now but I hoped she would forgive me if I left any vengeance to the Wraith.
“That’s not the way my river flows,” I said. “I suppose I’m not well suited to being a man of action anymore despite my occasional wishes to be. I’m too old, and my knee literally won’t stand for it. I know there are those who say if you are not strong, then you are merely a victim in waiting, but I think that’s the violent man’s way of justifying the evil he does. And it is profoundly simplistic, the sort of thing we heard from the fish heads who used to beat me and Rölly when we were young and living on the streets. I never wanted to believe in that or be the sort of person they were, and I don’t think Rölly did either. I think—and it is something I have thought about for a while—that there is a measure of heroism in providing safe harbor. Not actively saving anyone so much as providing the space for them to save themselves. It takes a lot of effort and patience and kindness and a resignation that while you may be thanked, you will never be celebrated for it. Though you did notice every so often. You used to tell me that our home centered you after your missions; it was dependable like the sunrise, the one true and solid thing in your life. For me, that was better than any medal I could have won in a war. Well, I can’t be your safe harbor anymore, but I’m trying to be one for another family now. It’s the only sort of heroism that suits me in my middle age. And it’ll do more good than seeking revenge.”
I scattered the rose petals onto the soft churning blue of the ocean, where they bobbed like curling white flags snapping in a distant sky. “I’m still here,” I said, “though I’ll join you soon enough, my love.”
During the row back into shore I determined to record what happened that morning and see if it survived the attentions of the Wraith. He no doubt had keys to my place and perused my manuscript regularly. Perhaps he would see, after tensions were not so high, that keeping the secret was moot. Clodagh had had my wife killed, and we had the proof. Let the Raelechs make a stink like a fishmonger if they wished. Sure, we stole their stuff. But the Earth Shapers could hardly point fingers at us and claim they stood on holy ground. Not anymore.
Fintan seemed especially cheerful when I met him for lunch and work, and I asked him why. “Numa’s here,” he said. So it was just as the Wraith had predicted: a courier would arrive to inform the Raelech diplomats that some valuable intelligence had been stolen.
“Oh? News from home?”
He shrugged. “I assume so. She’s at the embassy now and will meet with the pelenaut later, no doubt. I’ll get to see her tonight after the performance.”
“That’s excellent,” I said, and pre
pared myself for probing questions or statements about the contents of the journal tomorrow. I doubted Fintan was a party to Sarena’s murder or even knew that Clodagh was responsible. But he was oath-bound to support the person who murdered her and not, therefore, someone I could trust.
Fintan brought a full complement of musicians with him to the wall for the day’s song, which was largely instrumental and an old favorite at Brynt dances. It had only one verse, sung between long breaks of foot-stomping, furious music with a famous flute melody skirling above the rhythm, and the rule was that every time it was sung, the band had to play faster afterward and the dancers had to keep up. People would boast for years about any time they made it beyond six verses without collapsing from exhaustion, and musicians likewise bragged if they could play beyond eight. The words weren’t anything special, but by long-standing tradition, whoever sang it had to begin calmly and get progressively angrier with each repetition:
Well, the sun and the sea and stars up above
You can always take for given,
But you never know what will happen next
With the mariner men and women!
The Raelech bard’s band made it to nine repetitions along with two young dancing couples of extraordinary endurance, and then everybody needed a break before he began the day’s tales. He started with Hearthfire Gorin Mogen, fully armored, face half obscured by a helmet, and carrying both an axe and an enormous shield that must have been six feet tall.
The Fornish had their plans, no doubt, little scheming weeds they planted with the Nentians, which they hoped would grow and choke us out. The last thing I should do is wait for them to proceed. A warrior’s duty, above all, is to shit on the enemy’s plans.