Everything in its proper place at the appointed time. When the era of peace is upon you, protect it fiercely, such that a man is born and dies in his gray years without knowing the weight of a sword in his hands. When the era of war is upon you, fight relentlessly, such that no man can die without spilling blood or having his blood spilt on the land.
-The Triptych; Book of Earth, Panel 24
Castle Tern, Dridon
For the third time in a single year, the throne room of Castle Tern filled with every class of Dridic citizen, the queen down to the lowest of beggars, for a meeting of the Council of Three. Such frequency of Council meetings was unprecedented; it showed in the worry lines deepening across all the adults’ faces. Lucanh attended court that day, his fear behind him rather than blocking his path. He felt the strange sensation of being chased to the edge of some great precipice in his mind.
Before the Three arrived at their decision, Queen Rhoda sought much input from the courtiers that surrounded them. Supplicants demanded bloodshed. Some knights agreed, while others hesitated to throw their helmets in the ring of war. People cut each other off and shouted over each other’s words to be heard until, at one point, the voice of a lone nobleman rose above all the discord, and the room fell silent to hear him.
“Let us cease our bickering over whether declaring war is just or unjust, holy or unholy,” he said. He wore a fine silk tunic dyed indigo; his scarlet pants were ostentatiously puffy, while his brown shoes curled up at the toes. “I say we are missing the point. Dridon should sign no Grackenwelsh treaty until we consider the reason for it. Why would a bloodthirsty nation like Grackenwell offer a peace treaty? It’s simple. They are afraid!”
“Elaborate,” said the queen. She was clear-eyed and spoke without a slur. Lucanh liked her better this way, when it was too early in the day for a drink.
“Zan Vayonado is a nation with a loose and complex cultural identity,” the nobleman went on, pacing as he talked. “They have no organized military. They rely instead on a private gaggle of sellswords—it’s no wonder they were conquered, really. And no wonder they allied themselves with Dridon at the first opportunity.
“But what did Garrotin do? He ambushed them in the desert, tortured their ruler, and established dominion overnight, dissolving the Concordat of Gacilia before we could even honor it. He did the same with the Archipelago! Why, then, would Grackenwell first extend a treaty to us? What other reason could they have but abject fear? They are afraid of our military might!”
“Or trying to minimize their losses,” the queen countered glumly. “Fight us and crush us and lose two thousand soldiers. Or keep us in line without ever having to draw a sword. Facilitate trade throughout the whole continent, and perhaps stack the odds in their favor should they choose to set their sights elsewhere. Qarda, perhaps? That kingdom would never consider a treaty with such traitors.”
“The choice is obvious,” interjected Sir Stepan, “even for those power-mad brutes. What does the gator do when it isn’t hungry anymore? It could kill anything it encounters with a snap of its jaw... but if it’s satisfied, it lies in wait.”
“Your Majesty,” said Zumawi, “I would like to steer this discussion away from lofty tactics and hypothetical strategies. I would like to highlight the necessity of meeting Grackenwell on the battlefield before war comes to us. The Grand Emissary of Zan Vayonado sought our help before it was too late. His remains now lie in an unmarked desert grave. He trusted us as an ally and we failed him. I’m afraid that further inaction will make it too late for Dridon as well, and I would hate for a similar fate to befall—”
“Watch it,” Sir Stepan cut her off. Like the other time, his hand flourished next to the hilt of his sword, then sat back in his lap. “Your thinly veiled threats have no place here.”
“Not a threat. A statement of fact! They have no regard for the rules of war. They likely had a hand in the assassination of the Qardish king across the sea! Two monarchs they’ve killed—what’s to stop them from trying again when our guard is down? We need to make the first move!”
“The ethics of war aside—”
“Enough!” Queen Rhoda interrupted. “We are not here today to debate the merits of declaring war on Grackenewell. We are only here to discuss their offer of a treaty. Is that clear?”
“Your Majesty,” said Sir Stepan gently, leaning forward in his armor. “Would the denial of their treaty not be an effective declaration of war, in uncertain times such as these?”
“Treaties,” Zumawi scoffed. “Zan Vayonado learned the value of those not long ago. As did Qarda. When Grackenwell has a mind to strike, no treaty in the world can save anyone from their wrath! But by all means, shake hands with the gator. See what happens when your back is turned.”
“What makes you so sure of that?” Rhoda asked her. “They are opportunists, yes. But you think they have no sense of self-preservation?”
The High Supplicant brooded in her throne. “Any nation that would enslave people by the millions cannot be counted as an ally, treaty or not. They would not strike until they knew they could succeed. But with slave armies growing by the moon, fed by new recruits from the islands and the desert... How long will that treaty last?”
Rhoda strung along the silence for a while. Meanwhile, Lucanh’s head was spinning. For a brief moment, he glimpsed the complexities of international politics, their ins and outs, the benefits and risks of each decision weighed against one another. It was a fleeting clarity, not unlike peering in on a dimly lit room and having the door slammed in his face. He shook it off.
The sentiment that kept returning to him was gleaned from the Book of Hells. It was his default, the honest truth burning in his heart of hearts—the Grackenwelsh deserved war. It was the only thought able to beat back the fear festering inside him. Visions of dead Grackenwelsh soldiers, his heavy, authentic blade cutting them down, their cruel faces contorting in death, and the king, that evil slaver king, cowering while Lucanh stood over him on a blood-soaked battlefield. “Mercy,” the king would plead. “Mercy!”
And Lucanh would say to him, “How many slaves begged for your mercy before they died? And how many did you oblige?” His sword would bring justice to a people that cried out for it, and he would relish his victory for the rest of his life.
It clawed at him from the inside out, that feeling. A slave of his own, of sorts, or perhaps a prisoner. It longed to run wild in the world.
“Sir Stepan,” Queen Rhoda finally said, “my High Knight, tell me this and tell me plainly. What would our chances of victory be in a war against Grackenwell?”
The broad-shouldered knight looked away and up as if to formulate his response carefully. “I believe we have the ground forces, my lady. Blade to blade, we would win handily. But they have a great deal more labor to squeeze out of the unwilling. And those cannons...” He shook his head. “We have nothing quite like those. It would be a close match. But they could never conquer us so easily as they did the nomads or the islands.”
The queen nodded. “Overall, that sounds encouraging. Do you think it advisable to sign the treaty and then make preparations as if we hadn’t?”
The High Knight shot her a worried glance. “Forgive me, Your Majesty. I misspoke. This is only if we deny the treaty outright and make the first move. The ratification of a treaty such as this—there would be stipulations from Grackenwell. Limitations on any military exercises, the deployment of soldiers. We would have no means of preparing for war except to speak of it here in the throne room. Every village, town, and city to the north...” He shook his head grimly. “Without their defenses fortified militarily, they would be lost.”
“Of course!” Zumawi slammed her fist down on the armrest of her throne. As she did, her silver bracelet jingled loudly. It had been a gift from the queen years ago when she was first appointed to her station. “So, you’re saying this treaty could very well be a trap to lower our guard, scale back our forces, and leave us open to attack?” Her passion riled up the crowd—the knights corralled them.
“Control yourself!” Rhoda rebuked them all. “Zumawi, you are here as part of the Council. Not to incite a riot in my court.” Lucanh could see his mother gritting her teeth behind her lips. “Time is of the essence. This decision cannot be delayed by days of debate—the northern king expects my answer shortly. Either way, preparations must be made in short order.” She closed her eyes, as if steeling herself to say something difficult. “Fortify the city walls. Recall all of our forces north of Kensingsham. Triple the scout patrols around Tern.”
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“Your Majesty,” said Sir Stepan. “Forgive me if I speak out of turn... Will this not be put to a vote?”
Zumawi scoffed in disbelief. “And what of our people to the north? What are they to you—sacrifices?”
Lucanh felt his shoulders tense up. He cast a glance over at Sir Godwald, who watched from a respectful distance among knights of his rank. The man gave him a sad half-smile and bowed his head.
The prince looked on as his mother’s face soured. She straightened the silver crown atop her head and sat up even straighter. “It is as Sir Stepan said. A refusal to sign this treaty would be tantamount to war. We must prepare regardless as best we can and pray to Triad that Grackenwell keeps its word.” She knocked her scepter on the floor. “My decision is final.”
The court swelled with the sounds of courtiers gossiping and bickering. Some called for war, the northern king’s head on a pike. Others said they would sooner let some of Dridon be enslaved than all of it. This led to accusations of slavery sympathy on one side, savage bloodthirst on the other, and knights moved in to separate squabbles that had broken out. It was not the orderly end to the Council of Three that anyone had predicted.
In the midst of it all, Zumawi stood calmly from her throne at Rhoda’s left hand. She unclasped the silver bracelet around her left wrist—dropped it on the stone floor. Somebody gasped.
“I hereby resign as High Supplicant,” she announced to anyone who would listen. There was a fire behind her eyes, to be sure, but not one to flare up and peter out; it was a fire that was steadily rising even now. “Come. Let us make our own way. We will not be taken in chains without a fight, nor will we stand idly by while half the nation is destroyed! Let the queen die a peacemaker if she so desires.” Zumawi led the beggars toward the grand corridor that led out of Castle Tern.
“Explain yourself, Zumawi!” Rhoda cried out, rising from her throne. “Tell me what exactly you meant by that, or you might find yourself in the dungeon before the day is done!” The ex-High Supplicant didn’t break stride. “Zumawi, stop at once! Knights—stop them!”
Sir Godwald stepped out to block their path, along with other knights in the vicinity. But she set her sights on Lucanh’s personal swordmaster. The knight spoke in a hushed tone with arms outstretched non-threateningly, but he stood firm.
Zumawi drew a dagger from her sleeve and touched the point to the knight’s throat.
“NO!” Rhoda screamed. Several knights around Sir Godwald drew their swords and held them aloft, aimed at Zumawi’s face. “Let them pass! Step aside—all of you! It is done!”
The knights obliged at once, clearing a path for the beggars. The small crowd stormed out of the castle, in rows of three, with a level of discipline that seemed as militant as any group of knights with formal training. The knights followed them out to ensure they left.
Lucanh couldn’t believe it. The threads that held Dridon together were unraveling before his eyes, and all with war looming on the horizon. What would happen to them, under his mother’s leadership, if Grackenwell did resolve to invade? He studied what his mother did next for reassurance. He found none, as frequently was the case of late.
“I fear I might have another uprising on my hands someday soon,” Rhoda said quietly.
Sir Stepan bowed his head. “With all due respect, Your Majesty, I believe you already do.”
The prince reflected on what his mother had said. You think you’re brave because you’ve never lost anything. But he could do nothing to quell the conviction that bravery, and only bravery, could prevent Dridon from losing everything.
“My Prince.” Sir Godwald had appeared beside him, and he put a gauntleted hand on his stiff shoulder. “Politics can be so tiresome. What say we spar in the courtyard, get away from all this mess?”
Lucanh stood from his small throne, out of the grasp of his trainer. “Not today, Sir Godwald. I feel I would rather be alone.”
***
An untimely chill sharpened the night air. Lucanh was grateful for the foresight to bring a cloak with him, which he drew up to conceal all but his eyes, as he walked the city of Tern. Lit torches lined the mostly empty cobblestones.
“Triad save us,” a beggar muttered on the street. He was dressed in torn rags, his face barely poking out from tangled white hair and a scraggly beard. “Triad save us. You there. Hey, you with the cloak! Spare a triskele?” The prince held tight to his disguise and pretended not to hear him. “Ah, to the Hells with you, then. Triad save us...”
Fewer lights lit the city than usual. It wasn’t often that Lucanh ventured out past the castle grounds, certainly never at night, but he seemed to remember a great deal more lanterns and hearths dotting the landscape when he looked out from his bedchamber’s oriel. People shuttered their windows as he walked by.
The Paupers’ District was sparser still. Precious few lights by which to see, and fewer people on the streets, even though almost none of them had homes to retreat to at nightfall. It looked as though someone had cleared out the poor from even their beds of straw in the alleyways.
But they were not gone from this place, he learned. They were gathered somewhere else.
“She would have you die in the streets where you lay your head at night,” said a familiar voice, “so that she could hold her head up high and say that she did right by the wisdom of Triad. But she worships only one head, when it suits her and even when it doesn’t. I mean to worship all three in their due season, beginning with the third. And I have faith the God of Hells will serve us well in this dark hour.”
Zumawi stood on a platform of discarded wooden crates, which was taller than the tallest of the paupers gathered around her. Two torches lit her from behind on either side. Her edges flickered with the movement of the flames, her face framed in ominous shadows.
“If the gator sinks its teeth into us, we will have no choice but to die. But the chance yet remains to clamp its jaws shut. Cut off its head before it’s too late.”
“The head,” said an onlooker—Lucanh recognized him from the crowd at Council. “You mean the king.”
Zumawi nodded once. “Precisely. We have no need of the knights, no formal declaration of war that we know will never come. Their army is formidable. But their king is only a boy, one who killed his own father to steal the throne. If he would do that to his own flesh and blood, what would he do to us? We can cut him down while he sleeps. Put an end to their line of murdering kings once and for all!”
“And how do you propose we return home to the land we have saved?” another beggar asked, a turtlelike old man with accusatory little beads for eyes.
“We may not return at all,” Zumawi said plainly. “Those who are afraid to die, I cannot ask for your help, nor do I want it. I do not share your fear. It’s better to die against a monster than live under one. I know I’m not alone in this sentiment.”
A girl at the periphery of the onlookers raised her hand in solidarity. She was young, close to Lucanh’s age, he guessed. “I will go with you,” she said. “I will go even if it means I lose my life!”
One of the men in the crowd scoffed. “Please. You have hardly lived the life you are so ready to party with, little girl!” He stepped forward into the light of the fires and revealed himself as one of the upper-class courtiers present at Council—the very one who argued against the treaty. “Zumawi, I am wholly sympathetic to your cause. A war with the north would wound us all deeply, myself included. Dridon’s prosperity has made me a very wealthy man, and no matter how much more wealth I could accrue through the ownership of slaves, it doesn’t interest me in the slightest.”
Zumawi indulged in a small sneer. “Oh, how noble of you.”
“Please allow me to assist you all! My name is Ogberd. I have the coin—perish the thought of a suicide mission when I can simply hire Zan mercenaries. I’m sure many of them have a taste for vengeance, and no Dridic blood need be spilled.”
“While that is generous of you, I must decline your offer,” Zumawi said sternly. “We’ve relied too long on beneficence that can be taken away from us without warning. We must make our own way. Tread our own path to enduring freedom.”
“A freedom you will never live to enjoy?” Ogberd countered. Lucanh recalled his swordsmanship training as they parried rhetorical blows, striking here, parrying there. “Why do you deny help when you need it most? Let a sellsword die in your stead and accomplish the same goal. You needn’t depend on me after it’s done.”
“Sellswords are no match for the conviction of Grackenwell,” she shot back. “We’ve seen proof enough of that in Zan Vayonado. What’s more, this is not a mission that can be undertaken more than once. If a sellsword fails, there goes our element of surprise. We can’t rest our futures on the edge of a coin.”
The nobleman shrugged. “If you insist. I’d be remiss not to offer you, at the very least, some armaments. Blades. Crossbows. Poisons. And, if I may be glib, something to take when the deed is done, should you find yourself cornered by those brutes. Call it a sleeping potion.”
Zumawi nodded. “For those things, we would be eternally grateful. And please, keep this endeavor a secret from the prying ears in Castle Tern—”
“But of course! The queen will hear nothing of this.” The nobleman paused awkwardly. “I will provide you everything you need, but I must know when and where to assemble it all.”
Zumawi bowed her head. The eyes of the Paupers’ District were all on her now, tired eyes with hungry, sunken sockets, bloodshot, the light of life in them receding like the setting sun. They searched her for something Lucanh couldn’t name, something he was not sure she had in her. Did he have it in him?
“Just outside the northern gate,” she replied. “Tomorrow. We leave at next nightfall.”
Lucanh closed his eyes and found himself again at the precipice overlooking an ever-shifting world of potentialities, at once ablaze and gleaming serenely in the sun, crowned and shackled, bloodied and benevolent, the true nature of which he could not know with certainty until he stepped off the ledge and plunged headlong into it. What would tomorrow bring? Or the next moon? For the first time, he knew exactly what to do.
He resolved to follow them the next day. He needed only to pack his sword and slip away unnoticed after supper.
He would throw himself at the mercy of the God of Hells, proud and unafraid, sacrifice in his heart. He would be the one to charge into the flames and emerge on the other side a true hero. But that wasn’t all.
His mother would admit her fault. His Zan father would look down from the Heights and be proud.