Yet there had been a harsh side to this utility: soon not only those who would not work toward the kingdom’s safety and wealth, but those who could not — the feeble, the weak-minded, the stunted, all who did not embody the goals of physical strength and perfection — found themselves exiled by Kafra’s priests to Davon Wood. The wilderness’s dangers would provide an ultimate solution to the problem of their imperfect existence, or so it was thought, among both the Kafran clergy and the rising merchant class that built the great houses lining the broad avenues that met near the High Temple to their smiling, golden god. So plain and pervasive had become the priests’ severity that even before Oxmontrot fell victim to a murderous plot led by his wife and eldest son, Thedric,† there were rumors that he had realized the error of taking advantage of the new faith, rather than forbidding it. Indeed, it had been his doubts on this point, many said, that had sealed the Mad King’s fate. Officially, the Kafran priests’ version of history had said that the blasphemous perpetuation of Moon worship had caused his death; and while Arnem’s discomfort with the recent demands of the Kafran priests has not led him so far as taking up the ancient faith, there have been moments, of late, when he wishes that it would — for absolute belief in something must be better than his silent uncertainties.
This recent silence has become especially difficult because the son whom Arnem wishes so earnestly to keep out of the reach of Kafra’s priests is anxious to undertake his service to the God-King in the shrouded Inner City; whereas his mother — Arnem’s wife, the remarkable Isadora,‡ renowned for her work as a healer within the Fifth District — is equally adamant that her husband’s long and loyal service to the kingdom ought to free any and all of their five children from religious obligations that will break the family into pieces. Arnem himself is torn between the merits of the two arguments: and religious doubt, while perhaps troubling for those whose daily lives involve no regular confrontations with violent Death, is an entirely different breed of crisis for a soldier. To feel that one is losing faith in the same god to whom one has prayed fervently for luck amid the horrors of battle is no mere philosophical vexation; yet Arnem knows he must resolve this crisis alone, for neither his wife nor his son will give any ground. His household has been in exhausting turmoil ever since several priests of Kafra arrived to inform Sixt and Isadora that the time had come for young Dalin, a boy of but twelve, to join their elevated society; and that turmoil is what has driven the sentek up onto the walls every evening for a fortnight, to spend long hours beseeching Kafra — or whatever deity does guide the fates of men — for the strength to make a decision.
Arnem takes a small piece of loose stone from the parapet and tosses it lightly in one hand, gazing down at the mighty outer walls of Broken. When originally carved from the natural stone formations that made up the summit of the mountain, the walls followed the basic shape of that peak, a roughly octagonal pattern, with massive oak and iron gates cut into each face. Staring at the portal beneath him, Arnem catches sight of two soldiers of Broken’s regular army. Though on sentry duty, the pair are trying to steal a few minutes’ sleep: they struggle to obscure themselves beneath a bridge that spans Killen’s Run, a stream that emerges from the mountain just outside the city wall, although its subterranean course begins within the Inner City’s eternally clear, unfathomably deep Lake of a Dying Moon.
From the point of its emergence under the southern wall, Killen’s Run rushes down the mountain to join the Cat’s Paw; and once, many years ago, these guards who now seek to hide on its banks would have been Arnem’s comrades. The sentek remembers vividly the weariness that drives regular soldiers to steal what rest they can. But the sympathy he feels for their plight cannot now stay his commander’s hand, and he drops his bit of stone downward, where it strikes one of the soldiers on the leg. The sentries leap from the cover of the bridge and look up angrily.
“Ah!” the sentek calls to them. “You wouldn’t feel such anger had that been a poisoned arrow from a Bane bow, would you? No — you’d feel nothing at all, for the wood snake venom would already have killed you. And the Southern Gate would now be unmanned. Keep vigilant!”
The two soldiers go back to their posts on either side of the twenty-foot gate, and Arnem can hear them grumbling about the easy life of the “blasted Talons.” The sentek could have both men flogged for their insolence; but he smiles, knowing that, exhausted as they may be, they will now perform their assigned task, if only to spite him.
Footsteps echo: an eager yet entirely professional step that Arnem recognizes as that of Linnet Reyne Niksar,† his aide.
“Sentek Arnem!”
Arnem turns to face the linnet, without standing. A golden-haired ideal of Broken virtue, Niksar is the scion of a great merchant house, who five years ago gave up command of his own khotor (or legion, each khotor being composed of some ten fausten†), it was said for the honor of serving so closely with Sentek Arnem. In fact, Niksar was suggested for the post by the Grand Layzin because he came from one of the oldest houses in the city: the ruling elite of Broken, unlike the rest of its citizens, do not fully trust the sentek from the Fifth District. Arnem himself suspects that Niksar is an unwilling spy; but he admires his aide’s dedication, and the arrangement has not yet produced either friction or any question of divided loyalties.
As the linnet approaches, Arnem smiles. “Good evening, Niksar. Have you seen the torches on the edge of the Plain, as well?”
“Torches?” Niksar answers in worried confusion. “No, Sentek. Were there many?”
“A few.” Arnem studies the deep lines of concern above Niksar’s light brows. “But a few are very often enough.” The commander pauses. “You bring a message, I see.”
“Yes, Sentek. From Yantek Korsar.”
“Korsar? What’s he doing up at this hour?” Arnem laughs affectionately: for it was Yantek Korsar who first recognized Arnem’s extraordinary potential, and sponsored him for high rank.
“He says it is most urgent. You are to bring your aide—”
“Yourself.”
“Yes, Sentek.” Niksar is fighting hard to maintain his discipline. “Bring your aide to his quarters. There is to be a council at the Sacristy of the High Temple. The Grand Layzin is to attend, and also Lord Baster-kin.”
Arnem stands up straight and glances at Pallin Ban-chindo, who, although he keeps his gaze fixed on the horizon, cannot help but smile at this news. Arnem urges Niksar a few paces further down the wall.
“Who told you this?” Arnem’s tone is earnest.
“Yantek Korsar himself,” Niksar replies, no longer concerned with shielding his uneasiness from watchful sentries. “Sentek, his manner was strange, I’ve never seen him …” Niksar holds up his hands. “I can’t describe it. Like a man who senses Death hovering nearby, yet makes no move to avoid it.”