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While they waited for the valati, Oban told the other directors what he knew about Gurney Bluff. Ipid sat on one of the benches away from Härl and watched. He was so drained that he could barely move and was at least somewhat embarrassed by his display. Many of the directors still watched him with mixed emotions, but he was confident that he had at least one believer.
When Valati Lorenzo finally arrived, Oban called the session, which had gone into recess for a light dinner, back to order. The Chairman asked Ipid to tell his story in as much detail as possible and ordered the other directors to hold their tongues. Ipid did not disappoint. Over an hour of undisturbed speech, he told the directors everything he knew about the invaders and their leader; gave his account of what had happened in Randor’s Pass, Gurney Bluff, and the other western villages; and disclosed his influence over the invaders’ strategies. The directors sat in thrall of his words until he began to describe the stoche and the magic that had brought him to Thoren the night before. Oban almost screamed himself hoarse to restore order over the cries of disbelief and accusations of blasphemy that erupted from the directors, but not even Oban could silence his fellows when Ipid recounted his conversation with Eia that morning and her claim that the te-am’ eiruh were the Lawbreakers of legend.
Through all the yelling, Ipid could tell that the consensus of the directors had changed from believing him treasonous to believing he was either insane or extremely gullible. He had anticipated this as part of his original strategy and waited patiently for the shock to run its course. Likewise, Oban had given up on trying to control the meeting in an apparent hope that the directors would scream themselves out of voices. He sat back in his chair and huffed as men shouted and pointed around him.
Much to their surprise, it was Valati Lorenzo who somehow subdued the directors. “Excuse me. If I may,” he said in a soft voice that the directors should not have even been able to hear. Somehow, they all grew silent. Valati Lorenzo had been made the voice of the Holy Order in Thoren just a few months ago in what was still considered a very controversial decision by the Church. He was sent from the Hall of Understanding in Sal Danar by the Xi’ Valati himself after the death of the previous valati, a local man who had served for over thirty years. It was an extraordinary snub to many important counselors and had created quite an uproar in the city. The fact that the new valati was a foreigner – and from the Empire at that – only exacerbated the situation and meant that most of the directors did not trust him. Through his own sources, Ipid had heard that Lorenzo was highly regarded in the Hall of Understanding as a scholar, but that just made his appointment to a largely administrative post in the distant Kingdoms even less explicable.
Now, every eye in the room was on the small, stout man. It was the first time Ipid could remember him speaking to the Directorate since his appointment, and he did not look any more comfortable now than he had on that fateful day. He was an ugly, little man with yellow buck teeth, huge ears, sunken eyes, a pock-marked face, and bald head. He had blanched a sickly white that offset his dark hair and brown eyes. Valati Lorenzo gulped and fidgeted with the wooden medallion that marked his position. Ipid hoped that he would not faint.
“Well, what is it then? With all respect Valati Lorenzo, we do not have all night.” Oban bellowed at the man, but it just blanched him a paler shade of white.
“I am sorry to interrupt.” The valati started to speak then seemed to think better of it. “Oh . . . my . . . . Ahh. I . . . ahh . . . don’t know if I should. Ahh . . . .”
“Either you can tell us or you cannot,” Oban roared, “but if you say ‘ahh’ one more time, I am going to pack you back to Sal Danar. His Excellence the Xi’ Valati be damned!” Oban seemed to just then realize what he had said. “May the Order protect and guide him,” he interjected and looked somewhat nervously toward the secretary. “That does not need to go into the record,” he instructed.
The secretary nodded. He had been at his job long enough to know how to keep it.
“Now, while our fine instructor from the Church is deciding what he will say, I can confirm at least part of what Ipid has said.” Oban looked down the table then turned to Captain Defours, who was standing at the other end of the room. “Captain Defours, can you tell us what you know of the creatures?”
“Certainly, my lord.” Captain Defours approached the podium, swept his lavish green cape behind him, and bowed to the directors. “My scouts report having seen a variety of unexplainable creatures in the skies above the invading army. They have not approached the city, so we know little of their number or capabilities, but they are said to be huge and fearsome in appearance. We have consulted the relevant experts at the university but have not been able to explain the creatures or their existence. We have also had unsubstantiated reports of non-flying creatures. These have been little more than wild tales from farmers and refugees, but they are generally consistent with what Lord Ronigan just described.”
Defours bowed again but it was lost in the explosion of voices. Most of the directors demanded to know why they had not heard of his threat prior to now. The faces were red with rage and the spittle flew liberally to punctuate their outrage.
“Silence!” Oban forgot his mallet, hammered his huge hand down on to the table, and stood. His voice rose over the collective yells. “I didn’t tell you for this very reason. I didn’t want to start a panic, and I still don’t. Do you all understand that?”
The yelling ceased, but the hum of murmured voices continued to pervade the room. Oban spoke over them. “As Captain Defours suggested, we have recruited the most learned men in the city to look into these creatures, but we still know far less than what Ipid just told us, so all I can do is confirm part of what our colleague has said.”
Oban paused, drew a deep breath, and glowered at the valati. “Now, Valati Lorenzo, have you decided that you have something to tell us, or is the guidance of the Church too much to ask in this troubled hour?” Oban grumbled to himself and looked at the secretary again. The man was already nodding his understanding.
The valati seemed to have recovered some of his color and composure, though he still fondled his medallion nervously. “Yes, Lord Markovim, I am ready to speak, and I am sorry for causing your frustration. I am certain that the Order will forgive your blaspheming, though it trembles at your temper.”
Oban growled at the valati and clutched his mallet. The little man gulped and let the transgression drop. “What I am about to tell you is known by the barest few within the Church.” He paused again to let the weight of that sink in. “I am sworn to keep it with my life, but I have to believe that this is the very reason that the His Excellence sent me – of all people – to fill this post.” The valati smiled at the self-deprecation and added under his breath, “Though I can only imagine how he knew.”
Ipid looked around to see if anyone else had heard the comment, but he was by far the closest to the valati. No one else made a point of the comment, and Ipid did not have a chance to note it before the man continued.
“The Exiles are real,” the valati announced. All his trepidation had gone, and the conviction of his tone left the directors stunned. “The great teacher did not believe in metaphor or allegory. Every word in The Book of Valatarian is true. There are those, such as the honorable Lord Ronigan has suggested, that can muster the powers of chaos and use them to break the laws of the Holy Order.”
The room exploded. Every director stood and yelled at the same time. Oban finally did break his hammer trying to bring them to order and was just calling for the guards when a powerful voice cut through the confusion. “I will be heard!” It was the valati. His eyes were sharp and his words echoed through the room even after it had fallen to silence. Every eye was upon the little man, but not a sound disrupted the sudden silence.
“I have studied those scriptures and the time before the Exile most of my life, but I have to
admit that, from what he has said, Lord Ronigan already knows more about the Lawbreakers and their abilities than I. The only thing I can tell you is that they existed and, before our great savior Xionious Valatarian, their powers were vast. I cannot confirm anything about their time in exile or their espoused change of heart. I can tell you that their reign was a time of terrible suffering. They worshipped turmoil. Hatred and pain were their only goals, and order was their most dire enemy. But my knowledge is entirely of the past, of a time almost a thousand years gone. As we all know, much can change in that time." The valati dropped his head and went silent.
Still, Ipid wondered. If what the valati had said under his breath was true, then someone knew more. Someone knew to expect the Exiles’ return, and they had known it for some time. He watched the valati carefully as the directors rumbled. The little man looked nervous. His eyes roved the room like a caged animal. He was hiding something. Ipid could not say what, but he was certain of it.
“My fellow directors,” Oban ended the mumbled conversations and Ipid’s contemplation of the valati. His voice was somber but powerful and commanding. “I thank you, Valati Lorenzo, for sharing this information. I wish we had more time to discuss the significance of your words and why the Church has deemed to keep them secret, but that is a luxury for another time.” Ipid had to look twice to confirm the sincerity of Oban’s conciliatory tone. Another look at the valati showed a small smile that did not mask his desperation.
“Given these revelations,” Oban continued, “I have to say that I believe every word that our colleague, Lord Ronigan, has told us. I also believe that Ipid was a prisoner of the invaders, that he was forced to learn their language and aid their leaders.” He paused but did not allow interjection. “Now, we could say that he should have died rather than aid these bloodthirsty criminal, but I also agree that his death would have bought nothing, that it is valuable to have someone working inside the enemy, someone who is learning their ways and influencing their movements. Already, Ipid’s insight into their numbers and plans is more than every scout in the Kingdoms could have hoped to learn. And his knowledge of the Exiles eclipses even that of the Church.”
He looked hard at each of those gathered around him. “Still, I am but one voice in a directorate of eleven elected voices. As the chairman, I call a vote. How say you, bearing in mind not only what Ipid has told us but also what you have seen and what you know about him as a man? Those who believe that Lord Ronigan is a willing traitor and accomplice to the enemies of our people, please, raise your crests to be counted.”
Ipid looked expectantly down the table one way then the other and back again. He was stunned by the sudden call of a vote and realized that he had no idea which way it would go. He wished that Oban had allowed more debate, so he would at least have an idea of his fate. As it was, several of the directors clutched their crests, watched one another, waited to see what the others would do. Geoffrey Ahern’s fingers were white from the death grip he had on his medallion, but it did not rise off of the table. It was as if a magical force was holding it down, making the circle of gold too heavy for him to lift.
Still, if one of those men gained the courage to vote, others would follow. The struggle was obvious. Their minds fought their hearts. Their minds told them that they should vote – all the evidence pointed to guilt – yet their hearts told them that it could not be, that it did not fit. If they had the support of others, their minds might have the justification to defeat the conviction of their hearts, but without it, they did not have the courage to go against what their hearts told them was true. Thus it was that each man in turn released the grip on his crest, and they fell to the table with a ringing clatter until even Geoffrey Ahern could no longer maintain his hold, and his crest rattled to the planks.
Oban let out a great sigh, and Ipid suppressed a laugh of joy. “We are only half way there, my friend,” Oban mouthed so that only Ipid could see then looked back to the directors seated around him.
“I am pleased to see that you all had the courage to trust your hearts. I ask you to do so once more, for we still have not decided on the proposal brought to us by Lord Ronigan that the people of Thoren should participate in this ‘Battle of Testing’ at the request of our enemies, that we should meet them in a battle that would most certainly be our destruction in order to save the lives of countless others.”
The big man paused to allow the gravity of his words to resonate. The table was silent. “Again, I will give you my view on this issue. We have already said that our trusted colleague is not in willing league with the enemy. Thus we must believe that Ipid believes that he is speaking the truth. That, however, does not mean that he is speaking the truth.” Ipid’s heart sank at the words. Was he destined to win the battle for his name only to lose the one for his home? “It is possible that our colleague has been deluded by the invaders, that he has been tricked into bringing this proposal to us on false pretenses. In fact, I think that is likely the case. The alternative does not ring true to me, does not sound logical, does not make sense.”
It was over. Ipid felt the wind go out of him as if he had been kicked in the stomach. His shoulders slouched. He wanted to collapse onto the ground and die.
“However,” Oban’s voice rose to a roar; hope was reborn. “I am not sure that we can risk making that assumption. What if Lord Ronigan does speak true? What if we don’t heed him and countless thousands are murdered as a result? Is that risk worth the gain of holding the city? There will be other cities to stand against the invaders, and if they are lying now, we will not fall for their tricks again. But if they are telling the truth, we will not have the option to try again. We have already heard what these depraved men are capable of doing, of their disregard for life. We have confirmation from Valati Lorenzo that the invaders are in league with the Lawbreakers. Who is to say that they would not do as Ipid suggests? And if they do, if women and children are slaughtered because we stayed hidden behind these stout walls, do you think that the Holy Order will welcome us when we too have met our end? I for one, think that this is a small sacrifice to make given the risks we run. One city, one garrison weighted against the lives of every person in the Kingdoms. In my mind, it is not a difficult measure.”
They had a chance, Ipid thought as Oban finished. He looked at the faces gathered around the table but could not read them, could not tell which way a vote would swing. Oban opened his mouth to call for that vote, but a crest rose into the air before he could.
“I will have my say, Lord Markovim.” It was Geoffrey Ahern. He was not defeated after all. “You cannot withhold debate on such an important topic. I will be heard.”
Oban sighed. “You are quite correct, Lord Ahern. Please, proceed.”
Having won the right to speak appeared to surprise Lord Ahern, and he spent a long moment searching for his voice. When he managed to gather himself, however, his words were smooth and confident. “I, along with the rest of you, agreed that Lord Ronigan is no willing traitor. I too was moved by his words, by his story, and I stand by my vote in that matter, but I see his motives in a different light. He is no willing accomplice, but rather a broken man who will do anything to please his masters. You heard him talk about his torture, his fear, his desire to improve his standing with the invaders. He claims that this willingness to aid them is fueled by a desire to influence and defeat them from within, but what if it is really done to save his skin? What if Lord Ronigan has been so abused that he no longer knows the difference? What if his real desire is to gain some slight security from his new masters by delivering to them the jewel that is Thoren intact and undefended?”
The sallow-faced director stared down the table with his dark-brown eyes to drive his point home. “I say to you, my fellow directors, far from being the devil for not sacrificing ourselves, we will be the goats of history if we are so easily duped. Who is to say that these Darthur will not
kill us all no matter what we do? I, for one, say that we should use these strong walls and buy time for our allies. We are the bulwark that must hold if the Kingdoms, yea the world, are to have a chance in this war, and I will not see that bulwark crumble so easily.” He pounded his fist down to end and glared down the table. The looks in many of the eyes there showed that his word had resonated. The situation was desperate.
“Your bulwark will not last a day,” Ipid mumbled.
“What is that, Lord Ronigan?” Grand Duke Oscante asked, his hand behind his ear for emphasis.
“I am sorry, my lord. I said that the city will not last a day against the power I have seen from the invaders. Valati Lorenzo has confirmed the power of the Exiles. They will tear down these ‘strong walls’ without every coming into range of your defenses. From what I have seen, you have a better chance on an open field than you do from within these walls.”
Several heads nodded at Ipid’s words including the valati – though the distance in his eyes suggested that he was nodding at something very different. The man did not say anything further, but others saw him, and Ipid hoped that they would be influenced by his apparent assent.
“We have heard several valid arguments.” Oban brought everyone back to the task at hand. “If no one else has anything to add, then it is time that we decide. This, my friends, may be the most significant decision you ever make. Personally, I can see both sides and give great credence to what Director Ahern has said. So I leave it to you to decide what you believe. Because of the importance of this vote, I call for a blind tally. Captain Defours, Valati Lorenzo, and Secretary Smalters will witness the vote. Ipid, as you have been cleared of any wrongdoing and are still a member of this directorate. Please, take your seat.”
Ipid was stunned. He had not imagined that he would be allowed to vote, but because the Directorate was ten without him, he would be the tiebreaker if things went that way. He had to keep himself from running around the table to his seat, two down from Oban on the left. Geoffrey Ahern glared at him the entire time, but Ipid did not care. He found his things on the table exactly as they should be and gripped his crest tightly, prepared for the vote.
A blind tally meant that all the directors would close their eyes while the votes were being cast. The three witnesses would tally the votes and the secretary would relate the result back to the chairman. No one but the three witnesses and the guards would ever know how the individual directors voted, and they were sworn to secrecy upon penalty of expulsion from the city. Likewise a director who was caught peeking during the vote would be stripped of office, lands, and titles and cast out of the city. Because of these complexities, blind tallies were extremely rare and only used for the most controversial of circumstance.
Ipid’s hands were already trembling as he closed his eyes and waited for Oban to call for the vote. “On the matter of the Battle of Testing,” he announced in a booming voice. “All those that will have the men of Thoren, as many as can be mustered, stand against the invaders upon the common lands two mornings thus as described by Lord Ronigan, please raise your crests and be counted.”
There was a swirling of cloth around him, but Ipid could not tell how many arms had risen. At least it wasn’t silence, he thought. A suggestive cough from in front of him interrupted his contemplation with the realization that he had forgotten to raise his crest. Thanking the Order for the secretary, his hand shot up. He held it there for what seemed a long time, cursing himself the entire time and barely avoiding his desperate desire to peek.
Secretary Smalters broke the tension with another cough. “We are ready for the dissenters.”
Oban chimed again, “All who say that the men of Thoren shall stay within the good walls of this city and bide time for our allies while risking the destruction of our nation and all who populate it, please raise your crest and be counted.”
There was another swish of material on material. But was it louder than the last one? Ipid could not be sure. He kept his hand locked to the table before him, unwilling to breathe for fear that he might be misrepresented. The need to look was even greater now. He barely suppressed it.
When he could take it no longer, the secretary cleared his throat. “The vote has been tallied and certified by three witnesses, of which I am one.” His voice was high-pitched but formal. “It is my duty to inform you, Lord Chairman, that the ‘yea’s’ have carried the vote: seven votes to four. The Directorate has spoken, and so its bidding shall be done.”
Ipid’s eyes shot open, and he nearly bounded from his seat before a glance at Oban stanched his revere. There was no joy in the big man’s eyes, no sign of victory, and his cold expression restored Ipid’s perspective. His victory was these men’s death sentence. They had bravely voted away their lives in the service of their countrymen, had voted away their lives on Ipid’s word, on their trust in him. There was no reason to celebrate, Ipid realized, and he suddenly wished that he had not voted at all.
Chapter 36