2 Days to the Falling

Ten humans occupied the room. One wall was composed of what seemed to be a single continuous pane of glass that ran the length of the long chamber, bending around one corner to compose a second wall. The room rested in one corner of one of the highest floors of the Tower. This was a floor ordinarily reserved only for priests, Griidlords, and the Lord Supreme. It was strange that I was entitled to be here, and that the three others were privileged to be permitted.

The three others had vastly outranked me in the structure of our society only a few weeks ago. Now, the best they could hope for was to be considered equal or peer. And even that was generous.

Lance (senior, the father of my rival in the arena) Darkwater sat beside the other two. The second was Theo’s father, Lord Rodney Farseer. The third was Lady Morticia Ironveil. The three nobles sat on one side of the long, shining table; the five Griidlords sat opposite. Baltizar and Bishop Ra sat at the top of the table.

Darkwater was finishing a long, winding point he had been making. He looked like I imagined Lance would in decades to come—a man whose youthful handsomeness had only matured into something refined and elegant. His hair had lost its golden hue to the years, but he was still vibrant.

His was an argument I actually didn’t disagree with, but I felt a boiling hostility toward the man that made it hard to accept his case.

“...be a different case in years to come, as I’ve said, over and over. None can deny that the Force is best deployed under the command of the Sword, but our intrepid champion is young, so young. Lord Bloodsword, you can hardly disagree. Your adventure in the Pittsburgh Hills, while fabulously successful, speaks to the need for us to let you ripen into the fruit of your wisdom before burdening you with command.”

Chowwick bristled. “Lance, he fucking did it. That’s the point. We’ve been dicking around for years, playin’ it safe and gettin’ fucking nowhere. We got an army that can go toe-to-toe with the best, and the suits in this Tower are no slouch. It’s time to gamble. Go big or go home.”

Morticia spoke, her voice cool. She was beautiful but pallid and cold. When she spoke, there was a magic to her—her voice reeled you in, made her point for her. “Rather, you should say go big or go hungry, because that’s what the result of a bad gamble in the Falling would be. Hunger for the masses. We don’t have the luxury of putting the Force in the hands of a gambler. No offense, Lord Bloodsword. As Lance said, you will undoubtedly be prepared to lead the Force in years to come. Doubtlessly, it will be a fine role you will play, but surely you would agree that you are only learning your suit. You can’t be expected to be distracted by command as well.”

Tara and Alya remained studiously quiet. Alya was listening intently but holding her counsel. Tara was staring out the window, lost in a dream of her own creation. Magneblade did as Magneblade always did—he sat and vibrated with an energy that spoke of a desire to murder, not deliberate.

Baltizar sat, leaning forward, hands clasped. None could hope to read his thoughts from his expression. I wondered; he had spoken of changing the status quo, of daring to change more. But he was practical, stoic, considered.

The simple fact was that I didn’t think I wanted command myself. I knew nothing of the role, and they were right—I had enough to distract myself with in learning and growing in the suit. But I felt that to relinquish the right of the Sword to lead the armies would reflect poorly on me. And Chowwick was arguing so vigorously in favor of giving command to me that I didn’t want to embarrass him. I too held my tongue, hoping the conversation would reach a consensus that I could just happily consent to.

Ra just sat unhappily. I knew his plight, and it delighted me. Ra, for all of his sudden embracing of his new Sword, still held me in poor regard. Ra would like nothing better than to see the honor of command given to another. But the traditions of Boston held that the Sword be commander of the armies at war or during the Falling. If he spoke at all, it would be his duty to argue in favor of giving the role to me.

Lord Farseer spoke, “Frankly, there are times when it has seemed silly to force the Sword to carry the weight of both roles. Leading our Griidlords and existing as a weapon himself is more than enough for a man to bear. In the Western Empire, the Sword is a soldier like any other, expected to follow orders. Just a soldier. A magnificently remunerated one, but a soldier all the same. In Greenbay, the Griidlords are subject to the Voice of the People. In Miami, they obey the queen. It’s really only in our corner of the world that Swords lead armies instead of being part of one. Why, even the New Yorks see their armies led by their kings, not their Swords.”

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As Farseer spoke, Darkwater seemed to be staring thinly veiled daggers at him. This got my attention. Was there a rift between the Farseers and the Darkwaters, or was it something he’d said? Baltizar seemed to have grown especially interested in Farseer’s words as well.

Licking his lips, Baltizar said, his voice oddly warm and familiar, “Rodney, I can’t argue with you. The role of the Sword as commander of the armies is a tradition, and as much as we value traditions, we may have to face that times have changed. The wars of our day are fought mostly by professional armies, not farmers as they were when these traditions were established. Tiberius, would you argue that you would be a greater asset in the field with the distraction of command? A distraction you have no experience in?”

Chowwick sat back in his seat, holding his tongue. I had noticed that Chowwick deferred to Baltizar in a manner almost contradictory to his personality.

I said, “I, ah—”

Darkwater spoke quickly, “Lord Bloodsword, if I may. We seem to have been sidetracked. This conversation has shifted from War Council to History Class. I don’t think anyone came here today to discuss tradition.”

He laughed. The laughter was musical and golden and terribly forced. What the hell was going on?

Darkwater said, “Perhaps we could make a compromise. Your Grace, I’m sure you have been greatly disturbed by our disrespectful—unintentional and benign though it might have been—talk regarding our sacred traditions.”

Ra nodded solemnly. “These traditions have stood in the doctrine of Boston since the founding. This is the framework through which we have always interacted with The Oracle.”

Baltizar said, “But there are mechanisms for change.”

Ra nodded slowly. “But we don’t take changes lightly. What we do now may affect generations to come. These traditions have served us well.”

Baltizar pressed, “Well enough that we are one bad season away from starving citizens, as Lady Ironveil said?”

Ra waved a hand. “Those are material matters. I speak of the divine…”

I could see Darkwater and Lady Ironveil exchanging glances. There was something happening here that was beyond me.

Morticia said, “Of course, Your Grace, I am ashamed to have pressed against such ancient rites. I spoke out of turn.”

Enki was in my ear, suddenly loud and plaintive. “Oh Gaaawwwd! They’re not still talking?”

Enki had been present earlier in the meeting, but I had become aware of its absence at some point. The tedium had exhausted the entity, and the consciousness had fled elsewhere for a time.

Enki continued, “Everyone’s in fucking meetings today… fucking everywhere!”

I thought, What’s happening? One minute the nobles were pushing to have the command role removed from me, now they seem to be backpedaling.

Enki said, “Oh? Is that right? Maybe something interesting is happening. Shut up a second.”

Darkwater held out plaintive hands. “I too misrepresented myself. I never meant to suggest that we decline to offer the role of command to Lord Bloodsword.”

Chowwick quietly and sourly said, “Exactly what you fuckin’ said.”

Darkwater shot him a withering look but continued, “Lord Chowwick, you misunderstood me. Let tradition aside, the people would be in shock if we denied to let their new Champion lead the army forth. They’ve waited so long to see the role held by someone of… someone born differently.”

There was disgust in his voice at the last. He must have wanted me to hear it; this man wouldn’t let such emotion slip through unbidden.

Baltizar remained cool, but I could sense the conversation had turned from his intention. “What exactly is it you propose then, Lance?”

Enki said, “Ah, I get it. Balty thought he had an opening there.”

I thought, An opening? For what?

Enki said, “To start changing the rules, dummy.”

I suppressed the urge to nod. I understood now. Baltizar dreamt of rewriting the rules of Boston. It could be done; the charters of every city had mechanisms to change sacred rites. It was baked into the contract with the priesthood.

Ra said, “Yes, we would be most interested.”

Ra seemed expectant. The priests didn’t exactly belong to any one city. They were a continuous entity. The priests were sworn to the Oracle, to the Church. The Church was committed to the charters—agreements made with and sworn to before the Oracle.

Altering the tradition of giving command to the Sword would have been Baltizar’s chance to wedge his foot in the door. If the change had worked and been successful, it could have been what was needed to open the conversation on more changes. Changes like that could not be made in this room, but Baltizar would have liked to force these powerful nobles to commit to alterations to the charter. Darkwater and Ironveil had clearly seen his plans.

Darkwater said, “I simply propose, very informally, that Lord Bloodsword continue assigning field commanders the role of assisting him in the process of running the expedition. An honorary titular role of some kind, to assuage the concerns of those who fear the young hero is too lacking in experience.”

Enki said, “See? Aren’t you excited? You’re gonna get to run an army!”