~~
“C-Contegon Justicar?” a Cleric stammered when she arrived at the Cathedral that night. Lun played across his rounded features, making him pallid and small. His hands played with each other, wrestling like children.
Chain nodded, his shock fuelling her satisfaction. “I believe I'm still invited, yes?”
“Of course! A moment, please...” He said before running through the Cathedral's tall mahogany doors, the tails of his red velvet waistcoat just avoiding being trapped in the jam, to make some arrangements. Chain tried not to laugh.
Alone, she admired the Cathedral: the towers, tall, curved, looked like they could rip the sky and painted glass effigies stood on protruding plinths: warriors and priests from before the Cleansing who were the models for the current caste system of Stations. Every surface was either flawless white marble or glass. And from their tip to where they deigned to meet the ground, its walls were smooth, unblemished, unscratched.
In the Academy, Chain had learnt that the Cathedral resisted all scratches, all stains. Such workmanship could only have come from Sol. Running her fingers across cool stone, frictionless as a polished blade, she knew this to be true.
The Cleric appeared again and coughed to interrupt her thoughts. “My apologies, sire: arrangements had to be made. We were instructed not to expect you...”
Chain held her temper. Besides, it was hard to be mad whilst she touched something so majestic as the Cathedral. “There's no need to apologise. Is everything okay now?”
He nodded and stepped aside. “Please, come in.”
She followed him inside.
The Guardian threw all his parties in the Space, an enormous room at the heart of the Cathedral. It held more than parties though: Guardians ascended there, a Lord's first vows echoed between its walls and the Solaric Council convened within it. It was a vital room, Geos' heart, because all power flowed from it. And she would be there, for a ball in her honour.
Chain took enormous pride in this. She'd never been to the Space and was looking forward to the Ten Days Ball now, so much that she wondered why she'd ever thought of not coming.
Silent, the Cleric led her through many long white corridors. It must have been her perceptions, her preoccupation with the ball, but it felt as though it took half an hour to get to the Space. Her wait outside suddenly seemed less remarkable, easy to forgive. But soon she was at the Space. Before its white doors stood another Cleric, this one holding a trumpet. He saw them, straightened his robes and smoothed his thinning hair against his head, then opened the marble doors with a flourish.
“I present our prime guest for the evening,” he shouted. “Contegon Chain Justicar.”
No one had called her that since her Naming. The shame of it stung in spite of her promise to own the name. But she hid it as she followed him into the Space.
And saw millions of Circles in clothing: women with long, flowing dresses of rich colours, plain but impossibly elegant; men with suits tailored to flatter even the heaviest of them, each with stitched detail of spectacular intricacy; and expensive jewels that sparkled in the candlelight as everyone turned to her, hundreds of small flashes. The women's haircuts and wigs put Chain to shame, filled with flowers or ebony wands as they were, but such opulence wasn't for a Contegon.
Littered amongst the fashionable were those of Station: Contegons, Clerics, Councillors and Lords. They wore just their uniforms, clean and pressed, to remind people that wealth wasn't the true measure of power.
And then there was the Space. Its cavernous ceiling was filled with candles that dribbled into individual wells, lighting the room almost as bright as Sol Himself. Centuries of wax reached down like vines from each candle, giving the room a sense of history and earned dignity. So large was it that hundreds of people stood on its polished white floor and still tables, a dance-floor and four bars fitted in comfortably.
Under the light, the gazes, the pressing expectation of so much wealth, Chain grinned and felt blessed by Sol.
Someone approached her, parting the crowd. “Contegon Justicar, what a welcome surprise!” they called from behind the throng.
And it was... Sol, it was the Guardian! Tall, noble, and impressive in his simple, two-piece fuchsia uniform – a loose shirt and loose trousers – he was a breathtaking sight. She couldn't have acquiesced faster.
“Sire! Thank you!”
“I'm glad you came: it wouldn't have been a ball without someone to celebrate. Plus it's always good to hear from you young ones, to see how far behind the next generation I am.”
The crowd laughed. Someone cried that the Guardian was being daft. It was panic rather than the joke which made Chain giggle.
“Come now, stand. We can't have you kneeling the whole evening, can we?” he asked the audience, who all agreed. “Though it would make for some amusing conversations... No, get to your feet, Contegon Justicar.”
Slowly, she rose. Her eyes met the Guardian’s. He was so young, barely-thirty five, but there was wisdom in those light green eyes. Geos had voted for him, the Council had installed him, and she'd heard no one complain about his rule. She found such achievement at his age inspiring. Truly, he had been chosen by Sol.
“Good good. Tell me, can you speak?”
“I can, sire, yes...”
“Good! So, walk with me and show me this talent you profess to.” With an open-palm, the Guardian gestured for Chain to walk with him around the Space.
The crowd giggled then returned to their own conversations. The Guardian walked ahead, skirting the outer limits of the ball.
“And, and what did you want me to speak about, sire?” Chain asked, matching his pace.
“If I may be blunt, I want to discuss the Heretic, Maya. You talked to her before she left the Academy, I understand?”
Chain suddenly felt cold in spite of the heat from the candles and bodies all around her. She remembered Contegon Ward and said, “I, well, that is... Yes, I did.”
“Contegon, there's no need for trepidation. You are blameless and have accepted Sol's blessings. I'm curious, that is all. I want to know what really drove her to throw her training away, let alone your friendship.”
“Is this really all that suitable for...”
The Guardian wrapped an arm around her and grinned, suddenly young and warm. “Of course it is! And do you know why?”
Chain shook her head.
“Because I said so!” he said, that grin widening.
Chain blushed: then looked at her polished black boots. “It is hard to say, sire. She was hysterical when she left, and I think she'd been so for some time. The Heretic... She can be headstrong, brash. Sometimes, she decides on a course and sticks to it. She wouldn't listen to me. She... she tried to hide her flight, and her reason for going, thinking I wouldn't understand.”
The Guardian had indulged her for a moment but he then restated his question. “What was her reason, Contegon?”
Repeating what Maya had said might be dangerous for her soul as well as her career. So she said only, “Maya had developed a Heretical view on the world, sire.”
“Is that all? Surely she said more.”
“I don't like to repeat such things, sire...”
The Guardian stopped short, still holding her shoulder. “And I don't like to repeat myself either,” he said.
Chain looked up and saw the Guardian take a glass of wine from a waiting Servant. Sipping, he waited for her to continue.
Chain thought an apology to Sol before continuing. “She said she didn't believe in Sol... and that Solarism was silly, of all things. What she said, her confidence in disregarding the Sol Lexic's teachings, were shocking and saddening. I'd hate to live in her world.”
“My, how curious. I'd thought Heretic was a misnomer, but the Lords insisted on labelling her so.” He sipped his wine. “I can see why she didn't want to be a Contegon. But what causes such madness? I wonder if there's a history of it in her family...”
“I don't know, sire.
The Heretic spoke of her family with pride, so I doubt it. My... my first thought was that her accident last year, near fatal, had affected her greatly.”
His eyebrows raised. “Really? Go on.”
It hit Chain then that she was talking with the Guardian, and he was listening to her. Her parents would almost die of pride, if she ever told them. But more importantly, Sol would not allow this to happen if she'd done the wrong thing before.
Finally, she felt able to accept Sol's absolution.
“During training,” she started, “the Heretic surprised a Contegon with an... ambitious assault. Panicking, they seriously wounded her. Worse, the Heretic caught an infection and almost died. And that's what I think killed her faith, sire.”
The Guardian took a loud sip. He swirled the wine around his mouth then shook his head. “No, Contegon, I think not. Did you know she was disciplined six months ago?”
“I... No, I didn't...”
“No, of course not. But I think that had an effect. Indulge me, Contegon Justicar: do you think part of why you're confused is that it doesn't seem like her to give up? Do you feel bad because you never knew her or because you didn't give her a chance to explain herself?”
It felt like he'd slapped her. Of course the Guardian would take an interest in her: the Advanced Squad often became his direct reports, and he's meticulous. And he surely must quiz all such Contegons, as he would anyone else... but this was astonishingly personal. Chain eyed him, unsure how to answer.
He smiled, the corners of his eyes creasing as he sipped wine. “You probably need to think on that,” he decided, placing his almost-empty glass on a Servant's silver tray. His smile did not falter; his tone did not change. “I hope you find the answer, Contegon. If you'll excuse me, I have other guests to attend to. Music will begin shortly. Socialise until then.”
The Guardian strolled away, finished with her. Wealthy people, who had apparently been listening in, turned to follow, like leaves caught in his wake. He gave orders and took guests with regal ease as he went, smiling and chatting. Chain watched this, dumbfounded.
“Makes you sick, doesn't it?”
Wasp appeared, an inch from her shoulder. He wore a dark purple suit with intricate and ornate stitching. Shirtless beneath the jacket, he exposed his smooth chest. He shaved his chest! How odd. He'd also painted his face with jagged black patterns, starting from his eyelids and trailing beneath his purple jacket.
Briefly, Chain wondered how far down the paint went.
“What makes you sick?” she asked.
“How good he is. He took some time to expose you, to make a very good point, and already he's controlling Geos again without breaking a sweat. Cool and collected.”
How dare he talk to her like that? Who did he think he was? She lowered her voice and said, “You don't know me, boy, so you don't know how good his point was.”
Wasp walked round to her other shoulder. He smiled, casual, infuriatingly handsome. “Which is an utter shame. I'd like to know you better.”
Fighting a blush, Chain faced him. “Why are you here? Surely there are women in Outer Aureu you could pay to accept your idiotic attentions?”
That was a little unfair, but she felt Wasp deserved it: he aggravated her, got her worked up quicker than anyone she'd ever met. And it wasn't just because of the difference in their Stations... There was something more that made it worse, perhaps the animal attraction she felt towards him, strange and confident creature that he was.
He tapped his chin with a long, dexterous finger. “There may be at that. How much do you think it would cost to buy one? Outright, I mean: not for a single night or some such nonsense.”
Chain's eyes narrowed and her fists balled. “What?!”
“To purchase a person, how much? Or could you only rent, like a man rents a wife at the cost of satisfying her whims?”
“People,” she prodded him, snarling, “are not objects: they are not property to be leased. How dare you be so...”
“How dare I, she says!” he whispered, harsh but quiet so as to draw no attention. “You judged me a callous, calculating man, knowing little about me! You said that I could go and pay a wretch from Outer Aureu for sex. As a Merchant's son, you readily believe I would look at a person and see them in Circles, see a woman in terms of their appreciable value. You wounded me, Contegon, with prejudices and the narrowness of your mind sharpened to a deadly point.”
He held up a finger when Chain tried to interject. “Ah, ah, ah, let me finish, give me even that, sire. Thank you. It is my belief that your training, your life to this point, has made you sheltered and small. You have been trained to fight death, the Disciples, and your instincts... but what were you taught about life? I think nothing.
“You, secreted away from the world so you'd be willing to fight for it, cannot understand someone tainted by what lies beyond Sol's Haven. Someone like Maya. Yes, you've learned the political landscape, prepared for Shields treating you as sex objects, but who taught you? Former Contegons, people who've spent their lives in the Academy. You're a discreet product of a procedure unchanged by time, Contegon, and this is why you leap to wound me.”
“I don't know you personally, but I know what becomes of Contegons. Your caste are naïve, Chain. That is all there is to your situation. It is what the Guardian was trying to say to you. A new Contegon is like a baby deer, uncertain and awkward. It's why I gave you no respect at the luncheon, and why you get none whilst you judge me as harshly as you do.”
Somehow, he maintained his calm throughout this dialogue. This surprised Chain more than his manner, his arguments or his apparent depth of feeling. And she somehow enjoyed hearing him make his points: it gave her the same kind of thrill she'd always felt going up against a skilled opponent in her Contegon training. It could be this feeling of excitement, more than his physical appeal, which confused and angered her so much in their brief encounters.
But that wouldn't stop her tearing his ego down. He wasn't a true Heretic in the way Maya had been, but there were the seeds of such thoughts there. She would not shirk her responsibility.
“Do you ever shut up?” she asked.
Wasp took a step back, as though struck. He blinked. Chain suppressed a grin.
“Wasp, a Contegon is trained in isolation, but this isn't her entire life! Twelve years pass prior to it, years of growth, learning, taking the values and morals of her parents. If we were raised from birth as Contegons then I would acknowledge your point... but we're not. Even during training we return home for two weeks a year, which explains why I knew nothing of the Heretic's 'taint' from the outside world. I am not narrow or shallow. I am a full person and I can make decisions with knowledge of how the world is.
“Contegons have been protecting you and Geos for more than century. If there were a weakness in the system, a fault, it would have shown by now. As it is, the Academy still holds to the tenets laid down by the First Servant. They have stood the test of time. The evidence of this is all around you: see the Cathedral unmolested by Disciples, the wealthy able to maintain luxury even during a war. We fight and we die for all of this and have succeeded in carrying out Sol's will.”
Chain allowed herself to smile. He looked crestfallen, winded. If anything, she found this more attractive than him in full flow. “Now, how can you tell me that our caste is wrong in any way when, without us, you would not be able to draw breath?”
Wasp coughed. “I did not know about your time at home.” It was a weak excuse, and he knew it, one born of an inability to admit his fallibility.
“We're too insular to talk about it much,” Chain replied archly.
“You still judged me too harshly.”
Chain took a deep breath and looked around. She decided to ignore his point for now. “Enough of this. You bring out something strange in me, Wasp. I think I like it. Go away, now, and socialise. When the music starts, come find me and ask me to dance.”
Chain couldn't help but laugh at his incredulo
us expression. Adrenaline and joy pumped through her, made her feel alive, giddy.
Wasp bowed, half-sarcastic, half-genuine. “Until the music starts, Contegon.”
Chain laughed again. She'd impressed him. He walked away and joined a group of overweight, middle-aged men in conversation. Probably other Merchants. She wondered whether he would return.
Instead of waiting to find out, she found officials who had attended her lunch. Feeling more social than they had in the Chamber, they asked about her training and her abilities. She answered honestly, telling small jokes or anecdotes from her days in the Academy. A senior Cleric even bet she couldn't catch a grape between her thumb and forefinger, and she accepted. Everyone laughed when she caught four of the eight grapes, then another in her mouth for comic effect.
During this time, she felt watched. Looking up occasionally, she would catch Wasp turning away. Underneath his ridiculous make-up, she hoped he was blushing.
Eventually, a Cleric stepped into the Space, a long parchment with the names of every Contegon who had ever passed the Academy's trials wrapped around his body, as tradition dictated. He was the announcer and would begin and end the festivities that evening. “Gentry and ladies, may I present your band for the evening?”
“Yes!” the crowd roared in reply.
The announcer stepped aside. Three men and a woman, Servants, marched into the Space. Applause surrounded them, charging their strings with energy, anticipation. All eyes moved to the dance floor.
Seats for the players were produced by other Servants. Sitting, the band launched into fast, complex music. Husbands proposed dances to their wives, suitors to their desired, and friends to one another. Twirling duos flew across the floor, laughing, flirting, staring lovingly or lustfully. The life, the pleasure, made Chain even giddier. She fought an impulse to clap along to the beat.
“Someone far more interesting than you told me to request a dance,” Wasp said, appearing before her with a smile. He extended his hand to her, so inviting.
“I've no idea why. When would a Contegon have learned to dance?”
Wasp looked startled, and, though Chain may have imagined this, hurt. He turned away, perhaps to find someone less antagonizing.
“However...” Chain continued.
He looked back over his shoulder and grinned. Chain coloured: she'd given him quarter by not letting him go.
“However,” she said, “there are probably other ways to engage a Contegon's attention. Why not try again tomorrow?”
His eyebrows rose at her suggestion, but he kept his grin. “I may do just that, Contegon.” With a nod, he left. Probably, though the thought pained her, to find an easier woman to conquer for the night.
She would not let her convictions waiver, though. If he wanted her, as she thought he did, then he would prove himself.
There was a tap on her shoulder. It was one of the lesser Lords from her luncheon. “Care for a dance?” he asked, his thin beard swaying with the words.
Chain smiled and took his hand. “Of course.”
12
Their trip to the Western Front was long. Long and humiliating. Snow spent most of it alone, reading, avoiding his Mother's glares and vicious attention and his Dad's attempts at understanding and comfort. He didn't know which was worse.
But he could not avoid them at mealtimes, and this was when the humiliation set in. His Mother was never satisfied with the food, the setting, the water... anything. Every breakfast, every dinner, she argued with the captain and crew, screaming and furious. His Dad tried to calm the situation, but was shrugged off and demeaned for his efforts. As the journey went on, the Mariner crew and the other passengers looked ready to haul her overboard, and Snow wouldn't have blamed them.
Even when they arrived in Call, the village which supported the Western Front and where Scar now lived, Snow's humiliation was not over. There was still the matter of payment.
“What do you mean, ten Circles?” she screeched at the captain.
“'Tis the standard fare, sire. Ten Circles each,” Seldom said plainly. He exuded a natural calm after years of sailing.
“Each? Each?! What kind of a monstrous scam are you running here? I could buy a boat for that much money.”
Snow looked away, watched the ocean. He gripped the boat's railing tightly, holding himself back. He wanted to intervene. Ever since she'd proposed this hypocritical flight, he had seen her for what she really was. But he'd only noticed this because of his stupidity, his lust, so it would be unfair to punish her. After all, this was all his fault.
Closing his eyes, he swallowed salt air.
“Mayhap you could, sire, but 'twouldn't pay for the crew nor the food to feed them. And yourself, who was very particular about what we did have.”
“You fed us tripe, kept us in cramped condition, and your men swore regularly around my boy and now you take me for thirty Circles? How do you sleep at night? How do you settle down knowing you're such a thief?”
“Wire! That's horrible...” his Dad said.
“Let go of me, you wet blanket. Snow!”
With a sigh, he turned. Hands on hips, his Mother bore into him with nasty eyes. “Snow, get your Granddad. He'll sort this out for us.”
“I doubt...” his Dad started.
“Shut up, Pitch!” she shouted without looking at him. “Snow, get going.”
Glad to escape, Snow disembarked. Mariners from the crew stood on the harbour and watched the argument, murder on their faces. Snow looked away, blushing. Why couldn't she see the effect she had on others? If it weren't for who her father was, she'd have been killed by now.
Then again, if it weren't for her, Snow would be facing execution.
Shaking his head, Snow took a map of Call from his pocket. Finely drawn in dark ink, it bore Scar's directions to his home. He'd given this to Wire years ago, encouraging family visits whenever possible. It was an offer she'd refused whilst Snow studied in order to maintain 'his' relentless march to success. And now, ironically, this visit was the only thing keeping this march alive.
Down a rough street of caked dirt flanked by rough paving, Snow saw buildings younger than him. Seeing so many new buildings was odd: most houses were older than Scar, had been standing before the Cleansing. But the Fronts needed artificial villages to provide food, repairs, morale, and to receive deliveries. Hence the new, pristine houses all around him. To make somewhere like Call easy to build, every structure was square, stood two stories high and was made of the same rough sandstone. But such uniformity was unnerving to someone who'd grown up in quirky Aureu. It didn't seem natural.
Snow quickened his pace.
Five turns – one of them wrong, another compensatory – and twenty minutes later he was at Scar's house. Typical, closely packed with its siblings, the blue shield hanging above the house's front door was all that set it apart.
The door was unlocked. Snow opened it and called out. “Granddad?”
Stepping inside, Snow looked around. It was austere, as expected. To his left was the dining room with a simple table and four chairs. Ahead of him were the stairs. And to his right was his Granddad in his study. Snow smiled. It had been years since he saw Scar last. Enormous, a mountain with a tall-man's stoop and a worry-worn face, Scar looked old but vital, like an ancient tree.
“Snow! How are you, General?” Scar replied, using his pet name for Snow. He stepped away from a scale model of Geos that dominated his study and offered Snow his hand.
Snow took it, shaking vigorously. “I'm fine, Granddad. Fine. Mother and Dad are arguing with the Mariners over the price of the trip. She asked me to come get you, but I say leave them to it.”
Scar's smile twitched, like it was trying to leave his face. “I bet it was your Mum who did the arguing, right?”
“Yes. Granddad, why is she like that? Why is she such a... a bitch?”
Scar's smile dropped. “Hey, that's not a word I want you to use about your Mother, hear? I don't care how she acts: you
've got to respect her.”
Snow sighed. “Yes, Granddad.”
“Good. Now, do you want to see my model of the Fronts?”
He'd deflected Snow's question. It was probably one he put to himself every day. Rather than push the issue, he gave a teenage shrug and said, “Sure.”
Scar pulled a stool from beneath the table, and Snow sat on it. The model gave Sol's view of the Gravit Mountains, a work of artifice and intelligence that also, surely, involved guesswork about the north. Across the dipping, jagged range were small, grey blocks of clay moulded into the shape of turrets, Disciple technology that didn't rest, capable of killing hundreds of men. He shivered. In front of these and either side of the mountains were blocks and shapes: Geos' forces. This was the centuries-old stand off rendered in miniature.
“They're very well defended,” Snow remarked rubbing his fingers across the 'mountains.' They were lucky the Disciples could not cross the Gravit Mountains, else Geos would never have been able to defend herself.
“Yes, they are. And it's worse than this model shows: each turret here represents three in the real world. We couldn't make the models small enough and still have them look right.”
Snow looked over the model: thousands of miles and not a single space had been left. “How did they set them if the Disciples can't cross mountains?” he asked.
“We don't know.”
Silence descended. Each model stood for thousands of deaths, countless losses. They masked a history of mutually-assured failure, of people like Scar sending the faithful to die. Snow decided to change the topic.
“What exactly do the shapes represent? Troops?” he asked, pointing to Aureu's forces.
“And our traps.”
This he hadn't expected. “Traps?”
“Yeah. Though the Disciples are abominably strong, they are also stupid and fall for simple traps. These blocks here,” Scar pointed to a blue section crossing most of Geos' west, “are deep water traps hidden by grass. People can just about stand on them, but the Disciples are so heavy that the dirt gives way and they drown. And the spheres on the Eastern Front are enormous boulders of wood which we roll down onto them when they next attack.”
With a nod, Snow looked over the model again. The layout of traps looked thorough, impassible, but there were more shapes stationed behind them, too clumped to be troops. “But there are more traps than you should need. Why?”
Scar ruffled Snow's hair and laughed. “I'm glad you inherited my brains, boy. I've got Contegons who can't think as clearly as you! We need more traps because the Disciples learn each time, never fall for the same trap twice. Every day, Artificers work on new ones, and we lay them, as we have for a century. We don't talk about this much, though. People might panic if they knew their protection was so flimsy.”
Snow looked over the model thoughtfully, especially at the northern half. Somewhere in that imagined territory was the Disciples' main city. If only the turrets could be breached. “And we can't use Mariners to go north?”
Scar sighed. “No boat we send north comes back.”
“I see why it's a tie, then.” Snow rubbed the green-painted wood, the 'grass', and his mind processed what he saw. “They can't beat us because we have superior brain power, and we can't beat them because they've superior fire-power. Why keep coming, then? Do they hate us that much?”
“I wish I knew, General. I'd stop fighting in an instant if I could.”
Snow saw the deep lines in Scar's face crease together as he stared at the map. The fighting, the traps, being in charge... All these things took the life from Scar, and no one thought to give back. Overcome, Snow reached out and hugged his Granddad. “Thank you, Granddad. Thank you for fighting.”
Scar took a breath, wanting to say something, but didn't. He just embraced his grandson and stood quietly.
It wasn't long before they were interrupted. “Snow, I asked you to get your Granddad to help us! We had to pay that robber ten Circles each because of you.”
Grandfather and grandson broke their embrace and turned. The full force of his Mother's glare hit Snow like a Disciple when she entered the room. He looked away.
Scar sighed. “Daughter, ten Circles is more than reasonable for the journey, and I wouldn't have made poor Seldom charge you any less than that, so lay off the boy.”
“Hmph. Where's that lummox got to?”
There was a clatter, and Snow's Dad entered the room, carrying the whole family's luggage. His Mother rolled her eyes. Snow felt hot. He gripped his jumper tightly.
His Dad either didn't notice or didn't care, just put the luggage down and smiled, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. “Ah, Scar, good to see you.”
“And you, Pitch. How's the tallow business?”
“It's great.” His Dad's eyes moved to Snow's Mother. They often argued about Dad's business: it wasn't good enough for her, no matter how comfortable it made them. “Business is strong.”
His Mother harrumphed and decided to change the subject. “This is the place they've got you in, a hero like you? It's a disgrace.”
“This isn't Aureu, daughter. We don't have luxuries here.”
She sniffed. “Still, this is a hole.”
Scar squeezed Snow's shoulder. He didn't even realise he was doing it. Snow understood: his Mother was somewhat like a Disciple, powerful but too stupid to learn. She always won her battles, but she lost out because Dad was fun when she was out shopping or visiting friends. Scar was relaxed and easy without her. They could be a family without her...
At that moment, Snow understood how Scar felt every day: angry, lost, disappointed, and confused about how to proceed.
13
After days of endless walking, Maya's mind cleared and she decided not to follow the ridiculous plan of marching to her death. It had been a strange fugue to inspire such idiocy, and she chastised herself strongly for her weakness.
But without that plan, daft as it had been, she found herself aimless. This scared her at first but she soon came to enjoy it, the freedom, the solitude. The Great Road was a path before her, a challenge and an invitation, and so she followed it thereafter. More time went, and she settled into her role as a traveller, enjoying the peace, keeping herself sharp and glorying in the new vistas she uncovered along the way.
It was just when she felt most comfortable that Maya faced the consequences of her flight.
She was gathering herbs – both medicinal and culinary – from the Great Road when it happened. Unowned, unnoticed so far from civilization, the plants were fair game. Maya gratefully plucked them: after meals of plain meat or boiled vegetables, some variety would be wonderful.
Quick slices with her smallest knife, its blade barely two inches, and heady aromas filled the air. She breathed in and smiled. The herbs must have grown from fallen seeds or stems, goods lost in the hurry to Aureu or the Front. Probably Aureu: they wouldn't waste such herbs on Shields' food. Maya breathed their scents in again then bundled the plants together and slipped them into her travel pack.
Jumping, she was on her feet. The day was glorious, sunny and warm without being obnoxious. She looked around, content, and saw endless farmland: corn and grapes, vegetables and cattle, with fields of bluebells hiding amongst the commercial crops like dirty secrets or shameful patches of eczema.
Ahead of her were the Prime Woods, an almost endless forest situated in a deep valley that dominated south-east Geos. The Prime Woods were a marvel: their imaginatively-named Prime Trees grew vertically regardless of the ground's angle and sprouted paw-print leaves that leaned diagonally from perpendicular branches. Legend claimed that Sol had first appeared there during the Cleansing and that the trees reached for him still. Rubbish, naturally, but she could forgive people such thoughts when they saw the unusual trees.
Maya felt glad. Maybe she would stop at Sleepless, a way station along the Great Road, and see what the town had to offer? Who knew? She was her own–
In the distance, she hear
d horses. This wasn't unusual, hundreds of Merchants had gone one way or the other since she left Aureu, but there were at least ten of them: she'd yet to see a convoy that size. And they were galloping, being pushed to their limit. Her rusty nerves began to twang with each clomp.
This part of the Great Road was atop a gentle incline, so she could see for miles. Hand shading her eyes, she tried to identify the horsemen. Unable to discern any colour, they were just dark figures, but their horses swept towards her in formation like... like Shields.
Shields. They were after her! Fuck, she must have been recognised along the way. Maybe they'd even been watching her home, had expected her to enter, not just run off like... like she did.
How they'd found her didn't matter. Only escape did.
What were her options? They must have seen her, a figure in the distance, and would give chase if she ran. When they caught her, it wouldn't take long to figure out who she was... and she couldn't outrun horses. So could she fight? No, they were just doing their duty. It wasn't their fault, and they did not deserve a crippling – or worse, she reminded herself that she didn't have the powers of control she thought she did.
Won't fight, can't hide, shouldn't run. It wasn't an amazing array of possibilities.
Maya turned from the oncoming capture and looked for inspiration. The Prime Woods! No one harvested the trees or hunted within them, so the forest was untamed, tough, with uneven ground that horses would have trouble with and tight, enclosed areas holding limitless hiding places.
What else could she do?
With a quick look back to calculate how much time she had, Maya sprinted away. Maybe five minutes to get to the forest, five minutes to run just short of a mile. This would be a challenge.
Maya sped up. Boot struck cobble, fast but measured: she didn't want to tire herself early. Geos shot by, field and farm and mountain, and her consequences approached. Louder, the sound of horseshoes chipping the stone below came up on her.
The Shield's shouting became audible, though not understandable. They were closing. They knew they had their girl, so they whipped their horses mercilessly to gain that extra bit of speed.
Half a mile. Her legs strained. Her nerves wanted to burst. Breath ragged, throat burning. Maya kept her pace, did not speed up as her instincts demanded. She could make out what the Shields were shouting, obscenities, boasts, threats and offers of sexual commutation. Maya didn't know which was most pathetic.
Quarter of a mile. An eighth. She imagined the horses would soon be close enough to hear their breath, taste their sweat in the air. The riders had no bows, either that or they weren't skilled enough to fire whilst riding. Maybe they had nets, maybe she would be entangled just before the forest's edge, but she couldn't worry about that: all that mattered was getting to the Prime Woods, keeping her pace, maintaining her breathing.
Yards away, she left the Great Road, ran onto plump grass. It felt like they were just behind her, like she could reach back and punch someone, but she powered ahead. The first trees were sparse, well separated, and offered no protection: it'd be another quarter mile before the Prime Woods would help her. And her pursuers were so close, had burst into the forest heedless of their horses. Such disregard was understandable, breaking a few of them would be less shameful than failing, but it angered Maya: the horses deserved more.
Needing more time and with no other option, she reached into her robe and pulled out a throwing knife. With a flick, she threw it towards the galloping, aiming at chest height for the riders. There was a scream. A horse wailed, and then halted. Perfect. The other riders slowed, nervous, and prepared themselves for her fighting back. Maya ran on, jumping between the Prime Trees, taking advantage of the time she'd bought.
Nine Shields left. Maya had three throwing knives. After that, she could use normal knives, two of them, but then she only had her short swords… and they wouldn't throw well. She needed cover, time to recapture her breath. If not, she'd have to fight. Maya didn't want to fight.
The ground ahead dipped, and the trees thickened, lined up like schoolchildren. Their vertical leaves and branches meant they fought for air space, not the ground, so they settled into close-packed lines. If she could just get through to the densest rows, slip through...
A bolt screamed past her ear and embedded itself into a sapling. Apparently they had crossbows. The Shields weren't playing any more... but the first true row of Prime Trees was just ahead. It would provide a small delay to her pursuers. Maya used her final burst of energy and approached this line, aimed for a gap too slender for a horse, ran, ran...
And got through. She dived at the last, dodging a bolt which could have killed her, and fell between the trees. The ground sloped so her momentum made her roll. Tucking herself in, she tumbled, her elbows and feet striking fallen logs and cloying mud. After her third roll, she landed on her front. Dizzy, aching, bruised and tired, she stood again and kept running.
Shouts echoed from behind her. The Shields' pursuit had been stunted, as she'd planned, but they simply jumped from their horses and, fresh and strong, came after her. Maya realised the Shields had always had the advantage. That explained why they'd let her run into the Prime Woods: they would now track and capture her with less effort. It was only when Maya had fought back that they'd become serious...
Keep moving, that's all she could do. Escaping would depend on luck, on if she could find a hiding place before being caught. Maya stumbled south-west, deeper into the Prime Woods, in hope.
But her pursuers were so close. She told herself not to worry about them, she could do nothing about what happened next, but her instincts screamed at her to get away and flooded her with adrenaline. Logic was overruled by her atavistic side, and she couldn't help but panic a little as she jogged weakly on.
It seemed the Shields had spread out, as only two sets of footfalls followed her. Maybe she had a small advantage in that she knew there was nothing ahead, but the Shields had to be wary of counter-attacks. As long as she kept quiet, she might survive.
Maya almost screamed when something whispered, “Are you okay?”
She looked around, not slowing in case it was a trap, and saw a bird above her. Or was it a bird? If it was, it was unlike any she'd ever seen: sleek, thin with feathers like tissues, bright green from beak to tail feather, it seemed unreal.
She shook her head. The whisper was probably her imagination, her stressed mind playing tricks. Even if it wasn't, did she really think a bird, even one she didn't recognise, could talk? Apparently Maya had another enemy to outwit: herself. Sadly, this was a fight she was–
The bird appeared before her. It didn't fly down or round her, it simply was there. And then it spoke, its beak miming the words “Hello there. Sorry, are you okay?”
Maya blinked then jogged past it. It's all she could think to do.
“You don't seem to be okay. Those guys are really gunning for you. And you clearly don't want to be caught. No, I don't think you're okay. So why won't you talk to me?”
An urge to turn and scream, “You're not real, that's why!” rose. She was hallucinating: she had to be. Yes, she needed to maintain her discipline, her self control, and keep moving.
The hallucination appeared ahead of her again. “You don't believe I'm real? Of course you don't. Anyway, there's an old log ahead. It's on your left. Hide there and we'll confuse them.”
“Who's we?” She couldn't help herself. Maybe she had gone mad.
It closed its eyes. Was it trying to grin? Why would a bird, lipless, try to grin? Why was she even asking herself that? “Can't tell you, sorry,” it said, grinning/not grinning. “There's a village nearby if you continue south. Hide there afterwards.”
“You're not real,” Maya said. Then, as though to contradict herself, she added “Leave me alone.”
No response. The hallucination was gone. She breathed a sigh of relief. Whatever madness she'd contracted, it had at least distracted her from a rising agony in her legs. Now, though, it c
ame roaring back, and her muscles tightened as though chained together.
All insanity aside, she would be captured soon.
Captured. They would take her back to Aureu and... And what? Put her through an inquiry of some kind – she thought they were called 'Hereticums' – then execute her. No one had ever turned Heretic in Geos, and the law only existed to remind people what's expected of them, so Maya didn't know how she'd die. Burning, most likely. The men chasing her would beat her, rape her, and then she would be burnt.
Joy...
Four more steps, and she fell, gloved hands sinking into moist soil. She didn't remember it raining recently. The shade provided by the Prime Trees must help the ground retain water. Not like this mattered, but it was nice to think of something other than nine men gathering around her, leering, grinning–
There was a log next to her. She looked inside. It was hollowed out, empty if you didn't count beetles and spiders. And it was big enough to admit her. Just as she'd been told. A hoard of questions arose, but they could wait. She had to make herself safe first.
Her energy reserves yielded one last rush, and she used it to hide. With muddy hands, she swept the cobwebs and insects away from the inside of the log, then cleared her tracks and set new ones toward a bog, the cause of the moisture in the ground. She stepped backwards through her bootprints to get to the log and crawled inside. Finally, she blurred her muddy entry with long sweeps and covered them with the strange, fallen, paper-thin leaves of the Prime Trees.
Satisfied, she pulled herself further into the log. It was maybe twenty feet long, a giant corpse. She pulled herself halfway inside. Then she waited. It was dark. It was damp. But it was safe.
Maya controlled her breathing. And she listened. Eventually, the Shields found her faked tracks.
“Here! She was... She was here, damn it!” one shouted.
“Fucking bitch. C'mon!” another shouted, raising his voice to summon the others. “We've found her tracks. She went this way!”
And then they convened, nine furious, battle-hardened men who had failed to capture an eighteen year old girl. A trained one, tough and fierce, but that wouldn't matter to men like them. Maya grinned in the log where she lay like a mushroom.
“And she went into the bog. She went into the bog,” this third guy sounded self-important, was probably the leader: each syllable was weighted, clipped and vicious, “and we let her. Go on, in you go, get after h–”
Then a flock of birds shot into the air, fluttering like rustled paper. The men stopped talking. They stopped doing anything. Silence reigned. Not even the leaves dared dance in the breeze. Maya's heartbeat thudded in her ears. She squinted through a small wormwood hole into the outside world but could see nothing.
It took her some time to decide to leave: the log was safe, comforting, and the silence could have been an elaborate ploy to flush her out. But, if it were one, why wouldn't they have checked the log first? The longer she waited, the more convinced she became that she had to move. So, streaked in moss and cobwebs, filthy, stinking of sweat and mould, she re-entered the world.
The Shields had collapsed. No obvious wounds, no bleeding. She gently snuck to the closest, a thick-set man with short red hair and a chin almost wider than his head, and felt his pulse. Weak but there. She checked another. Alive. And another. Also alive. They were all just unconscious.
That bird! It... it couldn't have... No. No, she refused to think about that. Instead, she went south, through the bog she'd tricked them into thinking she'd entered. She had spare boots and trousers but no other robes, so she tied the ones she wore round her shoulders and marched half-naked into the knee-high water, fending off the questions and theories her trained, probing mind fired at her.