I broke the silence. “Are you feeling well, Captain?”
He didn’t respond immediately. I was about to ask again, wondering if maybe I’d been wrong and he was in danger of slipping into himself when he said, “I’ve had another person moving about inside me, who I didn’t trust in the slightest, in league with the person I might trust the least, and with no permission granted from me, either expressly or even obliquely. How do you imagine I feel?”
The tone didn’t dovetail with the language at all. Any other time, this would have been delivered with a hint of rancor and ridicule. But it was still eerily calm.
“I can’t even begin to imagine how you feel, Captain. I suppose that’s why I asked.”
I cursed myself the moment the words were out. But he turned his head my way and replied, “You do have the right of it. You couldn’t fathom it. Betrayed and violated, not only with my men’s knowledge, but their provocation and approval. And yours, of course. Don’t think for a moment I’m not aware of the part you played.”
The urge to look away was strong-at the horses’ asses, my feet, the woods on either side of the track-anywhere or at anything besides my accuser’s face. But that would only compound whatever guilt he was assigning. “Captain, it was the only recourse we-”
“No, no. There are always options, Arki. Sometimes the choice is between two equally detestable options, but there is never only one recourse.”
“Very well. In that case, there wasn’t enough time to find another Lloi. The choice was let you rot or invite your sister into the room.”
“It was not simply my life hanging in the balance, scribe.” Braylar lifted his hand, and drummed one finger on his temple as he looked at me. “There is information here-that I don’t expect you to be aware of-that could damn not only me and my men should it fall into the wrong hands, but our entire Tower. And more besides. There is more at stake than my sanity or even life.” He looked back to the road. Well, the Syldoon riding on it ahead of us, more precisely. “Never fear, I don’t blame you. Much. As I said, you couldn’t be expected to know just what a terribly incriminating and costly move it could be inviting a Memoridon to tromp around in my memories, yes? But Mulldoos? Hewspear? Vendurro?” Still very calm, he shook his head. “They put everything at risk. Everything we hold dear and fight for, at least.”
I tried to find a compelling rebuttal and opted for the most direct one. “They saved your life.”
“Yes. Yes, they did. For the moment. But they could have signed all of our death decrees in the process.”
“Would you rather we’d let you wither and die?”
I expected masterful obfuscating or an abrupt change in topics, but instead he replied, “No. Far too much was risked, and very possibly for naught if we are all hung without reprieve when we return to the capital. But in truth, I am not ready to die yet. A coward’s confession, but there it is.” He still possessed the strange calm. Which was nearly as disquieting as his bald honesty.
Figuring I had only a moment or two before he recovered and assumed his normal slippery mantle, I asked, “After Skeelana was done, and your sister confronted you, what was she talking about?”
He didn’t respond right away and I sat there mute as we rolled along. But he still seemed placid, which was peculiar, and the silence wasn’t as oppressive as it had been in the past. I thought about a different line of questioning, but waited. Braylar looked up and watched some squirrels chittering on the branches above us, not happy to have whatever squirrelly business they were on interrupted by a small caravan. Braylar pointed out a black squirrel. “My tribe. The Vorlu. They put a great deal of stock in omens, believing the natural world will give you signs if you are smart enough to pay attention. Observing a black squirrel, for instance, was supposed to portend good luck. And like most superstitious primitives, they were sorely mistaken.”
Braylar paused, and I thought maybe that was designed to dry up conversation, but then he sighed deep and long and said, “I was a boy, and had seen twelve winters. Ice cracked, spring rains came, and with spring, the Syldoon returned to the tribelands. Every three years, they came to our islands, and the tribes sent some of their children willingly with the Syldoon. Hewspear has gone on at interminable length about this Syldoon tradition, yes?”
I nodded and he continued, “On our island, the Syldoon arrived in the spring, a few weeks after thaw. They sent word to our tribe, as well as the Zundovu, the Bandovar, and others in the area, and we were invited to Sanctuary.”
“Hewspear mentioned this. What is that exactly?”
“A very pedestrian and unoriginal name for the meeting between the Syldoon and the tribes. Any hostilities between the tribes-and there was always some, as we were constantly raiding each other’s lands-the hostilities were called off with a temporary truce. The meeting took place at a camp in neutral territory, where everyone would consort, trade goods, reintroduce themselves.”
I said, “Something of a fair, then?”
“On a very modest scale, yes. The site was between villages, so nothing like the festivals you see in places like Alespell. No jugglers or stilt-walkers, menageries or rippers. No huge crowds. Mostly, Sanctuary was designed to foster good relations between the Syldoon and the tribals. Which it did, for the most part.”
I thought back about the piecemeal information I’d gleaned when they were talking the night before-really, all I knew was that his father was murdered somehow. “So, even though the tribes you mentioned fought constantly-”
“Frequently.”
“Frequently, then. Even with the warring going on, or raiding, they honored the truce? Did fighting ever break out at Sanctuary?”
Braylar was still looking up at the trees. “On rare occasion. While we would steal each other’s sheep and murder anyone who tried to stop us, there was still some etiquette observed. Sanctuary was sanctuary.”
“So,” I tried to imagine all these barbarians agreeing not to massacre each other for a day, “did all the tribes attend unarmed then? I’m assuming the Syldoon didn’t?”
“Tribal warriors were allowed to bear one weapon only-we would sooner cut our cocks off than be completely disarmed-but they had to be bound by a peace cord.”
“A what?”
He glanced at me and smiled, devoid of derision and remarkably free of twitches. “I do forget sometimes where you come from. It is a leather thong on a scabbard that was looped around the hilt. A peace cord hinders the drawing of a blade, especially in a moment of anger. It was used during tribal weddings, funerals, treaties, surrenders. And Sanctuary. That was my first one. My father took us. Soff and me. It would be my last as well.”
I hesitated to ask the next question, but seeing how generous he was with information, I pressed on. “So your father was a warrior?”
“Ha! No. Not even reluctantly.” Braylar took a deep breath, released it out his nose. He looked pensive, but still not as irritated as I expected. “I don’t know if any of us know our fathers well. We often see them as less or more than they really are. I knew he was fat. I knew he was soft in our discipline, often deferring to our mother. He liked bees and honey. He was a good breeder of sheep, and could play the flute with moderate success. He brewed very fine mead, but rarely drank, despite the often-flushed face and broken blood vessels in his nose.
“And I knew he would rather do anything but fight. This last colored everything else in my eyes. The Vorlu is a warrior culture. A man is judged on how well he wields a sword or a spear, how many raids he has been on. A man who does these things well is glorified in song and poem, his exploits recorded to be celebrated, and a man who does them exceptionally well is remembered in exceptional songs that are sung for eternity. A man who fights poorly might still be valued in the tribe for his husbandry, craftsmanship, knowledge of the law, what have you. But he’ll never be glorified, and even if he’s gifted beyond measure at what he strives at, he’ll be forgotten. Quickly.”