Lesson of the Fire (57 page)

“Grief is no sin, Weard Verifien.”

Neither of them spoke, but Horsa noted that
more wizards had joined them. He looked around nervously, suddenly
painfully aware that his face was flushed with grief. He stood up,
trying to look harmless even with a marsord in each hand and a
third peeking through the hole in the front of his yellow
cloak.

He looked over the heads of the dozen weards
waiting his words. All were Mar who had proven their leadership and
loyalty — to him, to Ragnar, to the Mardux, Flasten and
Marrishland. Any one of them could lead the army now. He felt proud
to know them, and sad to think how he had come to know them.

“Flasten needs a dux,” Olvir said. “Dux
Feiglin and his children are dead. Magocrats on both sides agree no
one deserves it more than you.”

The yellow focused on the younger man
closest to him, ignoring the murmurs of the rest of his
advisers.

It could be you, Olvir. You could lead these
magocrats and be a dux. I have only tried to follow Sven’s example.
So did Eda. And you are only trying to follow her example. There is
something to be learned, here.

He shook his head. “I am a priest of
Marrish.”

“Every Duxess of Pidel was once a priestess
of Marrish,” Olvir reminded him.

“I am not an eighth-degree.”

A yellow stepped forward and thrust a red
cloak at him. “Take it, Weard Verifien. The Mardux himself will not
dispute your right to wear it.”

Horsa set the two marsords on the bench
behind him took the cloak from her, but he did not put it on. He
stared into her brown eyes.

Or this woman, whose name I cannot remember.
She is like a jug, filled with the water overflowing from my jug.
Or like a torch, lit by my fire. She could make a great leader.

But I hold this cloak.

“This is not how wizards ascend to eighth
degree.”

“Perhaps it should be,” the yellow said.
“Reds were rare enough a few years ago, and most of them are dead
now. Those who survived Dux Feiglin’s dispute with the Mardux are
not fit to rule a village, much less a duxy.”

The other wizards voiced their
agreement.

“I have sworn to serve Sven Takraf,” Horsa
reminded them. “If you make me your dux, peace will not come
swiftly to Flasten. The Mass has crossed the Lapis Amnis by now,
and it was always my intention to lead the Domus army north to
provide reinforcements to the Takraf Protectorates as soon as we
had finished dealing with the damnen and ochre invasion.”

“The Mass is a dire threat to Flasten’s
safety,” a cyan declared. “Lead, and we will follow you, Weard
Verifien. Time enough for peace when the war is won.”

The words of agreement were even louder this
time.

Weard Klarein did not wait for Horsa to
answer. “The Stormgul Legion prayed fervently that their deaths
would bring an end to the war between Domus and Flasten. What
better way to show our duxy’s good faith than to aid the Mardux’s
own homeland in its battle with the Drakes?”

Several wizards shouted their agreement.
Horsa opened his mouth, but the yellow that had brought the red
cloak spoke before him.

“We have heard that Weard Wost has taken
slaves of those who owe him no tribute and who have broken no
oaths. We must bring him to justice for his crimes. Perhaps we can
undo some of the damage he has done there, as well.”

Horsa bowed his head as magocrats of two
duxies called for him to rule them as the Dux of Flasten.

They need a leader, and I am the best
figurehead they have left. It isn’t what I expected, but both Eda
and Sven would want me to accept this opportunity. Who am I to
argue?

When he lifted his head, they quieted.

“When I became a priest of Marrish, I vowed
to obey the commands of my patron. It seems clear to me that he is
manifesting his will here, and I will not break that oath.”

Horsa removed his yellow cloak and put it
aside reverently on the bench behind him as the crowd looked on
breathlessly. He forced himself to put on the red cloak of an
eighth-degree wizard. His breath caught when he noticed the
embroidery on the breast of the cloak was not the broken, burning
marsord of Sven Takraf but a grey tower being struck by a bolt of
lightning.

The fortress that stands against the
darkness, the storm that bows the trees by night. This cloak was
meant for Eda, not me.

Horsa looked at them with eyes brimming with
tears. He raised his right hand in a gesture of salute, choking
back sobs as he spoke, “I accept the power and duty of Dux of
Flasten. By the Oathbinder and Marrish, my patron, I vow to lead
its magocrats, serve its people, and protect its territory from all
foes, be they Mar or Drake, internal or external. I serve at the
pleasure of the people of Flasten, and I swear to uphold the Law to
which I remain bound.”

The yellow raised her hand to him. “By the
Oathbinder and Fraemauna, my patroness, I vow to serve and obey
you, Dux Horsa Verifien. May Fraemauna grant you wisdom.”

The yellow withdrew, but the other magocrats
formed a procession, each one swearing fealty to him and offering
him the blessings of their divine patrons. Horsa accepted their
loyalty numbly, torn between shock and grief.

What a sad sight I must
be,
he thought.
Dux Weinen, they should call me — “the weeping
general.”

The oaths and blessings continued all
afternoon and late into the night. Shortly before dawn, a
thunderstorm swept down from the north, and the magocrats all
declared it a sign of Marrish’s approval of the new dux’s rule.

Horsa wasn’t so sure.

* * *

The Delegates were locked in a power
struggle, though Katla doubted any other Mar would have been able
to tell. The courtesies were there — the little rituals that held
the Mass together in an allied whole — but every suggestion sparked
a fierce debate between those who supported Doh Zue Sah as chair of
the Delegates and those who opposed her decision to continue the
war against the Mar.

She wanted to gloat. She had helped foster
this chaos.

The Delegates’ Tent was much more crowded
today than it had been when Katla first arrived. In the past
months, delegates had trickled in to voice their concerns before
Doh Zue Sah, who manipulated the Delegates deftly at this point —
this was her war now. Katla had burned many torches to stubs to
make sure everyone was aware of that.

All of their losses, all of the death, rests
at the hands of Zue Sah.

She smiled grimly at the striped guer as she
entered the tent, escorted by her Hue honor guard. Today, three
more waves had begun the march south, and the Thirtieth Wave had
begun mobilizing.

The tent was full: all thirty-five tribes of
spiny-tailed guer had delegates in the Delegates’ Tent. The regular
doling out of unpleasant duties to those tribes who had no
delegates present had seen to that. One jabber guer delegate was
here, for the others had been eager to join their armies in war.
Both gobbel delegates — Gue Gue Jue and Hue Tah Heh — had stayed to
oppose Koh Zue Ja and the five other ravit delegates who had joined
her.

The delegates from the other four tribes of
striped guer were today’s surprise, and their presence was a sure
sign that Zue Sah would soon have her authority challenged, or so
the captain of her Hue “honor guard” claimed.

Zue Sah returned Katla’s smile with a flat
stare of her own, and rammed her staff firmly into the ground.

“The Delegates recognize Zoh Lee Zah,” Doh
Zue Sah intoned.

The emaciated spiny-tailed guer stepped
forward, and there were murmurs among the delegates. Zoh Lee Zah
was dressed in the military uniform of his tribe with badges that
marked him as a member of the First Wave, which meant he was the
lone survivor of the Mass’s first battle with the Mar — the one the
Mardux had ordered teleported back to the Drakes.

“The Zoh thank Doh Zue Sah and all the
Delegates for hearing their concerns. My people are deeply troubled
by the events outside of Domus Palus. They have sent me to humbly
request that the Delegates intensify the attack on the Yee lands.
Yee Seh Tah killed every soldier of the First Wave with an army
much smaller than our own, and he did it with few casualties. Zoh
Lee Zah lives because Yee Seh Tah wished to use me to convince the
Delegates that we cannot win this war. The Zoh believe we can still
achieve victory, but we must send all the Waves we can muster.”

Most of the delegates had stepped forward to
speak before Zoh Lee Zah returned to his place among them. If the
Zoh had intended that Lee Zah’s speech convince the Mass to
redouble its efforts, and Katla wasn’t sure they had, it had the
opposite effect.

Zue Sah allowed another spiny-tailed guer
delegate to speak. Of the thirty-five there, Katla knew more than
half wanted an end to the war. Zue Sah had to know she was
outnumbered. The almost daily votes were getting closer and closer.
The arguments were never new.

But she wielded her staff with brisk,
vicious motions, and the spiny-tailed guer delegates opposed to the
war spoke one after the other, interminably, until even Katla was
bored with their monotonous arguments. Then an eloquent supporter
of the war — and Zue Sah — woke everyone up with a crafted,
impassioned speech.

The tactic was brilliant, but Katla,
watching the striped guer delegates eye each other, felt it would
be too little, too late.

Hue Tah Heh and Gue Gue Jue had stepped
forward to speak when the spiny-tailed tirade had tired, but Zue
Sah chose another veteran of the Mass’ invasion: the lame jabber
guer Jah Ta Jee. The gobbels held their ground but exchanged
glances with each other.

What is Zue Sah planning
here?
Katla wondered.

“The Jah thank Doh Zue Sah and all the
Delegates for this audience.” Ta Jee looked around at all the
attentive eyes on him. He raised a fist into the air. “The Jah are
without fear of death! We have been warriors for as long as the sun
has risen and set! The Jah gave five thousand to the First Wave and
forty-five thousand to the next nine Waves — our strongest,
proudest and bravest warriors.” He glanced at the badged
spiny-tailed survivor. “Unlike the Zoh, no Jah warriors tried to
surrender to the Yee when the First Wave attacked their great
city.”

Tah Heh and Gue Jue, as well as the other
handful of delegates waiting to speak, abruptly stepped back. A
spiny-tailed delegate placed a hand on Lee Zah’s shoulder to hold
him back, whispering ferociously in his ear.

Those are the waves that are known to have
been destroyed. The next ten, at least, are at the front right now.
Ta Jee will call for more waves, again, like Lee Zah did. Except he
called out the Zoh.

Ta Jee was alone in the center of the tent,
staring at everyone as his words faded into silence. The rage on
his face was marred by the tears in his eyes. He turned to face Zue
Sah and squared his shoulders.

“The Jah are the fiercest of warriors,” he
said, his voice hoarse. “Jah Ta Jee cannot offer the Delegates more
warriors, because the Jah have no warriors left to give. We are
bled dry.”

He shook in his boots in rage or sadness,
Katla couldn’t tell. The jabber had so much pride, and even that
had been defeated. In the thick silence, the only sound became the
wracking sob of the lone delegate.

Zue Sah raised the staff, possibly to order
Ta Jee to leave the ring. She did not look happy. Before she spoke,
two striped guer delegates stepped forward. One quietly bent to
remove Ta Jee. The other met Zue Sah’s eyes with a look of
imperious arrogance.

She has no choice,
Katla thought.
She has
lost.

“The Delegates recognize Due Goh Rue.”

“The Due thank Doh Zue Sah and all the
Delegates for this rare opportunity to speak.”

The tone was as flat as Doh Zue Sah’s had
been, but Katla heard volumes of irritation in her choice of words.
Katla had long suspected the striped guer were not capable of a lot
of vocal variation, and this confirmed it, in her mind.

“Due Goh Rue thanks the Jah for their
nobility and strength in these dark days. The Due, the Dah and the
Doh are troubled by the news coming from the war with the Yee and
are disappointed that the Delegates have not, in our opinion, been
allowed to do enough to resolve this situation. If the Delegates
are restrained in their actions, the blame lies with the Overseer.
Before this debate on wartime strategy can continue, Due Goh Rue
feels it is necessary for Doh Zue Sah to step down as Overseer of
the Delegates.”

The striped guer stepped back even as one of
the other striped guer stepped forward. None of the other delegates
moved. Though they had few votes, a striped guer had sat as
Overseer for as long as the Drakes had kept records of the
Delegates’ membership. No one would think of interfering with a
dispute between the leaders of the striped guer. Zue Sah was left
with no choice, then, but to give Doh Yue Dee — another delegate
from her own tribe — the floor.

Yue Dee seconded the request, and Zue Sah
had to open up the matter for debate. Lee Zah was the only ally the
Overseer had left, but he attempted to drag out the debate for as
long as possible. After nearly an hour of exalting Zue Sah without
presenting any new arguments, Yue Dee interrupted him.

“Stop speaking. You insult the Delegates and
the process by which we reach decisions, and if Doh Zue Sah has
grown so lax in her duties as to allow you to do so, Doh Yue Dee
must put an end to it instead.”

Zue Sah should have reprimanded them;
instead, she stood stiff and righteous. Lee Zah’s imploring look
was met with the side of her head, and he trailed off and stepped
back into his place in the circle as much out of surprise as out of
a desire to comply. After that, no one stepped forward to defend
Doh Zue Sah, forcing her to call the question. The Delegates
removed her and put Due Goh Rue in her place.