Forging the Sword (The Farsala Trilogy) (47 page)

“Meetings,” said the peddler with distaste. “I hope Barmael’s accomplish more than the council’s have—those poor Kadeshi need someone rescuing them.”

“They are,” said Jiaan. “Accomplishing things, I mean.” The Kadeshi did need rescue, and not only the peasants Siatt had black-mailed to fight. All Kadesh would benefit from Hrum rule—unlike Farsala, they needed the Hrum. Or had Farsala needed them too? What Kavi and the council were building now … It wasn‘t as black and white as Jiaan had thought.

“What matters now is peace,” he said aloud. “The council’s plans sound promising, but it’s going to take time for Farsala to grow into them, time to put down roots. Until then, we won’t be able to defend ourselves from the Kadeshi or anyone else. If Farsala lies inside the empire’s border, no one will be able to attack it. If we have some space to grow, it could be very good here, for a very long time. But for that we need peace, so I’m going to go with the Hrum and be a part of their wall.”

There were other reasons for his decision, of course. The knowledge, bone-deep now and from both sides, of how commanders with
conscience—or without it—could influence a war. And the knowledge …

“It’s a good choice,” said the lady Soraya firmly. “You’ve an excellent commander, not just for making men obey you, but for tactics and strategy and things. My father would have wanted you to use that.”

He’d been Jiaan’s father too, though he’d never acknowledged it aloud. Nor had Jiaan, come to think of it. Had his father been waiting for him to speak first—to say the word “father” as Jiaan had waited for his commander to call him “son”? It was a painful thought, and Jiaan pushed it aside as the peddler spoke.

“From the looks of your tent, they’re starting you as a decimaster. Quite a comedown from running your own army. They still don’t know you’ve Sorahb?”

“They know I led the army,” said Jiaan. “Some of them, at least. But I’m not Sorahb, no more than you are, or the Lord of Lightning here.”

Jiaan still found it unnerving that Soraya could work the Suud’s magic; she seemed no different from before, sitting on his cot, wrinkling her nose at Sorahb’s latest title. New and even more wonderful bits of Sorahb’s legend were sprouting like mushrooms. Thank Azura, Jiaan had had the presence of mind to refuse the name when Patrius turned to him.

“Unless you want to claim it,” he continued, looking at the
peddler. “We could still change our minds.” He took malicious satisfaction in the alarm that flashed over Kavi’s face.

“Don’t you dare!” the peddler exclaimed. “Besides, that poor lad deserves to get something out of it.”

The fact that Kavi would refer to any deghan, even a dead one, as “poor lad” told Jiaan something about how far he’d come—though Fasal himself would have found his sympathy insulting. Jiaan felt a deep regret for Fasal’s death, and an even deeper regret for having failed him as a commander. Thinking about the changes that were sweeping over Farsala in the deghans’ absence—even aside from what the council was doing—Jiaan felt as if all the deghans, both the good and the bad of them, had died with Fasal. He was glad Fasal could be Sorahb—that much, at least, Fasal would have approved of.

In many ways the new Farsala that Kavi and his council were building would be better than the old one, and in some ways it would probably be worse. But that was true of all rulers, of all lands, and Maok had been right—when the world gets kicked, making it come out a little better than before is the best you can hope to do. And if it should come out worse … someday the Creator Spirit would kick the world again.

“In fact,” Soraya said now, “that Lord of Lightning business is the only thing that worries me. Almost everyone is attributing it to Sorahb, or to Azura, but I’ve heard a few people talking about the
storm at Mazad, and they finally remembered that there were ‘Suud demons’ in the city at the time.”

“What’s the problem with that?” Jiaan asked. “There weren’t any Suud, or anyone who could work their … their magic, in Setesafon except for you.”

It chilled him to say it aloud—and he knew the Suud. Perhaps she was right to worry. “Besides,” he went on, trying to reassure himself as much as them, “it’s only a few rumors, and the other versions are more popular. Any talk of Suud sorcerers will die soon enough.”

“Maok didn’t want it getting about that the Suud could work magic,” said the peddler, looking almost as concerned as the girl. “And I think she’s … wait, I’ve got it!”

“Got what?” Soraya asked warily.

“The answer,” said Kavi. “Since they’re so busy making me high official goatherd and all, I might as well take advantage of it. Most folk think I worked for Sorahb, so no one will disbelieve me if I start telling his story. The true story of what really happened.”

“The true story?” Jiaan asked, alarmed.

“No, but it will be by the time I’m done with it,” said Kavi confidently. “A good lie beats the truth any day.”

Soraya snorted, though she also looked thoughtful. “How will you explain the lightning? Not even Rostam could throw light—”

A warbling whistle interrupted her. It wasn’t loud—Jiaan
would have dismissed it as a birdcall—but Soraya smiled and rose to her feet. “That’s for me.” She picked up her pack. “And it’s not farewell, not really. I’ll come back to Farsala from time to time. I’ll probably see both of you again.”

Jiaan wasn’t as certain as she seemed to be, and the peddler was frowning. “Back to Farsala? Where are you going?”

“You can’t guess? Herd your councilors well, Kavi. And you,” she turned to Jiaan. “You remember … what you’ve about.”

It wasn’t what she’d started to say, but the whistle sounded again. She shook her head sharply, cutting off further speeches, and marched out of the tent.

Kavi and Jiaan followed her out and stood, watching her walk through the untidy sprawl of the Farsalan camp toward the low, rolling hills. Jiaan would have sworn there was no cover—the robed and hooded figures seemed to appear out of nowhere, out of the earth and rocks. Jiaan wondered if he was seeing magic, and shivered.

“I should have guessed,” said the peddler.

“It still surprises me,” Jiaan admitted. “I mean … she’s a
deghass
. I know there’s not much here for deghans, not anymore. But will she be happy living in exile?”

Kavi snorted. “You’ve not seen her with the Suud, have you?”

“No, but what’s that got to do with it?”

“If you’d seen her there, you’d know.”

“Know what?” Jiaan asked, trying to keep his rising impatience out of his voice.

He must have failed, for the peddler grinned. “She’s not going into exile,” he said. “She’s going home.”

Watching Soraya, Jiaan realized that Kavi was right. She was walking up the first hill now, eagerly, not looking back.
How very Like her.

Only the ache in Jiaan’s heart proclaimed that she was his sister—in truth now, as well as in blood. Like his father, she would never say the word. Curse her for it, and curse him, too! It was time Jiaan stopped waiting for his family to claim him. A man who hoped to command shouldn’t be a coward.

Heart pounding, Jiaan cupped his hands around his mouth and bellowed, “Farewell, SISTER! I’ll see you again when I come back to Farsala!”

People two hundred yards away were staring at him. Soraya jerked like a hooked fish and stiffened. She turned, slowly, and lifted a hand in acknowledgment. Then the Suud reached her, and she was swept off among them.

The peddler stood beside him, shaking with suppressed laughter. “Well, that took long enough,” he said. “I don’t envy you.”

Jiaan wasn’t entirely sure where this sudden acceptance would lead either. The next time he saw her, she’d probably have young Merdas with her, and perhaps the lady Sudaba as well. He took a
deep breath and straightened his shoulders. “I’ll manage. It may be harder than fighting the Kadeshi, but it’ll probably be easier than managing the council.”

That wiped the grin from Kavi’s face. “You’ve right about that. In fact, I’d better get back to it.” He turned to go.

“Don’t forget about the legend,” said Jiaan. “And make it… make it …”

“I’ll make it a good one,” the peddler promised, serious for once. “I owe him that, at the least.” Then the familiar glint of mischief lit his eyes. “Don’t worry. I can take care of Sorahb.”

S
O
S
ORAHB DIED ONCE
more, in all the power and beauty of his youth. And if the god promised him another return to this world, no Living man know of it.

In the centuries that have passed since that fateful day, councilherd after councilherd has followed Sorahb’s great plan, guiding Farsala to the peace and prosperity it now enjoys.

Despite time’s passage, men still remember the tale of how the treacherous Hrum strategus killed Sorahb, and how the god Azura slew the strategus in turn with a bolt of his own lightning. But until now the events before that tragic day have never been revealed—for it is only in the newly discovered papers of my own distant ancestor, Kavi, the first councilherd of Farsala, that these truths were written down by a man who lived at that time and knew of them.

And who could know better? For as all men know, the first councilherd was himself the clumsy soldier whom Sorahb so nobly saved at the cost of his own life.

Modern scholars have speculated that Sorahb might have been more than one man, for how could one man—no more than a youth!—have been all that he was, accomplished all that he did?

But the final proof that the boy the Hrum strategus killed was indeed Sorahb lies not in these papers, but in the years that followed. Years in which Kavi the Honest guided the council, shaping Farsala into the land it has become. Years in which, ironically, many men from the army Sorahb had led joined forced with the Hrum and liberated the downtrodden Kadeshi Years in which the desert tribesmen that Sorahb had recruited traded with Farsala, learned to irrigate their desert, and grew into the powerful ally they are today. In all these years, no one ever came forward to claim Sorahb’s identity and his deeds. By this fact alone we may be assured that he slept, as he still sleeps in peace.

The End

Hilari Bell
is a librarian in Denver, Colorado, where she lives with her family.

Her favorite books are fantasy, science fiction, and mystery—all the ingredients for a great novel! Hilari is also the author of
Fall of a Kingdom, Rise of a Hero, Songs of Power, A Matter of Profit,
and
The Goblin Wood.