Mother of Lies

DANTIO CELEBRE

huddled by himself next to the foremast, chin on knees, struggling against madness. Too much joy! He was crumbling under the sheer load of emotion, his and others. Holy Mayn granted Her Witnesses all knowledge, but the corban She required was that they must never use it. They must observe and never participate, excepting only that they might testify for Speakers of Demern in criminal trials. All this Dantio had sworn at his initiation. Yesterday he had broken his oath, and for that he must die.

Of the five divine senses the Goddess had given him, “sight” was the least of his problems. The fighting at Tryfors was out of his range now, and he could see nothing of importance, only a peaceful passing landscape of pasture and some orchards, fading back edgeward to the gloomy forests of the Hemlock Hills with the glint of the Ice beyond. Seaward he could see to a hazy height of land two or three menzils away. The Wrogg was already a wide river here, a braid of streams twined between shoals and bushy islands, so the crew was busy with sweeps, keeping the boat in the best current they could find. “Doldrum weather,” they called this near the Edge, and it heralded the seasonal wind reversal. Upstream traffic had tied up to wait for a change. Poppy and the other Witnesses had fled Tryfors at dawn, heading downstream, carrying word of Witness Mist’s catastrophic meddling.

When the news reached the Eldest at Bergashamm, she would anathematize him and he would die. That was the price of his victory. He had accepted it; it was a problem for another day. At the moment he was overwhelmed by the sheer concentrated emotion aboard Free Spirit. He could not ignore it, as Witnesses generally could, because he was personally involved, trapped in impossible conflicts, with fear, love, anger, and hate beating on him like hailstones. He had kicked a rock and started a landslide.

He was tormented by “feeling,” which let him sense others’ emotions. The riverfolk were arguing in their singsong Wroggian about the dangers of having so many Werists aboard. Nok was insisting he would cut loose in the night and leave the ruffians on the bank, although then he must forfeit the silver promised him and abandon all the boat’s camping equipment. Others were arguing that these warriors were deserters and would fetch a handsome bounty if delivered to the rebel recruitment post at High Timber. It was typical sailor bickering, whose like Dantio had heard uncountable times on his travels, and in the end the crew would do nothing. Meanwhile he had to endure their emotional chorus. (anger-greed-fear)

The eight maligned young men sprawled amidships on and among the baggage were emitting an emotional storm sixty times stronger than the sailors’ as they adjusted to the morning’s stunning victory and their uncertain new status. (triumph-fear-love-fear) The seven’s devotion to Orlad was intense, almost sexual, and sex baffled Dantio, an irrational hunger he would never share.

Other conflicts roiled among the passengers in the bow: Horth, Ingeld, and Guthlag all anxious to go home but fearing revenge from the Children of Hrag (heartache-dread); Fabia cherishing impractical dreams of strolling over the Edge to Celebre and being acclaimed ruler. (greed) And Benard, sitting there with his arm around Ingeld? Often the lovers’ emotions were a sexual firestorm that Dantio found repugnant, although he was happy to sense Benard so happy. (lust-hunger-adore) Moments later they would be children together (covet-tease-make-believe) or mother and son. (guide-cherish-obey-protect) There was still a rejected orphan hidden inside the hulking sculptor and the hereditary dynast of Kosord had endured two loveless political marriages. He was hiding misgivings about becoming a father; she had seen frightening auguries in the fire last night. It was small wonder they clung hard to each other.

And if feeling was not enough, Witnesses also had “hearing,” which told them the recent history of things or people. Orlad and his Werists had fought a battle not long ago, and the carnage screamed at Dantio like trumpets in his ears. He knew which of the youths had actually killed, and how. He could, in a sense, hear the bloodstains they had washed away in the Stony.

Another of his divine senses badly overloaded was the one the Witnesses called “smell,” which detected the inner nature of people or things. Free Spirit carried many complicated, confusing people. Most of the Werists were naturally violent bullies, a few were misfits forced into an unnatural mold. Orlad was one of those, but it would be folly to tell him so. Fabia was not naturally greedy. She had modeled herself on Horth, who absolutely reeked of avarice. Her basic instinct was to mother her brothers, gather them under her wings.

It was all too much! Dantio needed to hide under a Witness’s veil. He needed a distaff and spindle to calm his thoughts and spin out the thread of events.

“Seer!”

Dantio looked around. “Lord?”

“Come here,” Orlad said. “Mist, or Dantio, or whoever.”

Dantio scrambled in among the baggage to join the Werists. Although he had about ten years on most of them, he felt like the new sapling in the forest. Orlad alone was a fair oak, although he was almost the smallest.

As Dantio settled in between Prok and Namberson, they scowled and wriggled aside to open space. Most of the eight were uncomfortable even looking at a eunuch, let alone touching one, although a couple of them were curious enough to make Dantio squirm. Earlier, when Orlad had shown off his manly brawn by carrying Dantio out to the boat, Dantio had learned that his brother was still a seasoner. “Taste” was the only one of the Witnesses’ five blessings requiring physical contact, and most seers went through life never using it, for seasoning was very rare. Orlad had not lost his by killing a son of Hrag. Both Benard and Fabia still had theirs, so the doors to greatness stood open to at least three of the Celebres. Dantio could not judge if his own seasoning had survived his meddling. He might have done all he ever could to alter the flavor of the world.

Orlad said, “Tell us about this horde at High Timber.”

“ It is known that Hordeleader Arbanerik Kranson was a hostleader in Stralg’s army on the Florengian Face and lost an arm in battle; that he returned over the Edge three years ago and began to gather a horde of his own, calling it New Dawn.”

“How many men does he have?”

“I have never visited his camp. He must have more than twenty sixty.” Saltaja had been quoting larger numbers than that and so had the Wisdom, the last time Dantio had been in Bergashamm.

The Werists exchanged glances. (excitement-approval-relief)

“And what is he going to do,” Orlad demanded, “this Arbanerik? He is opposed to Stralg?” His own motivation was vehement. Fanatics who changed allegiance kept their zeal. From being the Fist’s most dedicated supporter, Orlad had become his worst enemy. (hate-hate-hate)

“I cannot read thoughts, but I can witness, lord, that his detestation of the bloodlord is as great as yours.”

“How-” Orlad began, then scowled as his men chuckled. “I see.”

Waels, the one with the birthmark, said, “He bribes the riverfolk to recruit for him, to subvert new Werists on their way to Tryfors?”

“He does, lord.”

“So who supplies the silver?” (curiosity-suspicion) “Who feeds New Dawn?”

Waels was the smartest of the eight and that insight made Dantio smile-to his own annoyance. He felt naked without his veil.

“Others who support his aims.”

“The kings Stralg dispossessed? I thought they’d all died in failed revolutions years ago.”

Dantio said, “He may have a few of those around, but would they have wealth?”

One by one, with Waels first, the Werists picked up the hint and looked to where Horth Wigson was now talking with Benard. One did not have to be a seer to know from Benard’s animation and hand-waving that they were discussing art, but no extrinsic could have guessed that Horth’s polite air of bemused interest belonged to one of the shrewdest collectors on the Face.

“Did my brother really rescue Fabia from the satrap’s cells last night?” Orlad demanded. “How did he do that? An artist?”

“I don’t know!” Dantio snapped with less humility than Werists expected from extrinsics. “My blessing does not allow me to spy on the actions of gods, and he must have had help from holy Anziel. Even those shoulders could not budge bronze bars.” He had watched Benard go to the palace and return with Fabia, but he had not seen how the miracle had been done. He had asked her later, and she had not known. Benard had just mumbled about cult secrets. It was very annoying!

Orlad scowled. “How do you think he did it?”

How to explain art to a mob of Werist louts? “I think, my lords, that an artist sees the world as it is, but displays it as it should be. Benard sees a figure inside a block of marble and releases it so the rest of us can see the shape he saw.”

“He didn’t chisel a hole in the wall, though!”

“No. I am guessing, but I think he is such a superbly great artist that his goddess sometimes lets him just shape the world itself as it should be. Fabia said there were no bars on the window when Bena pulled her out. They were back there this morning.”

The warriors did not like that suggestion of personal miracle-working.

“I do not trust Werists,” old Nok warbled at the stern. “We must escape in the night and leave them.”

“Urth vouches for them,” said one of the women.

Fifteen years ago, at just about this point on the river, young hostage Dantio had decided that honor forbade him to learn Vigaelian, the language of his enemies. Instead he would learn the riverfolk tongue, so that one day soon he could escape and sail back up the river. By the time he reached Skjar, he had been almost fluent. His escape attempts had never prospered, and of course he now spoke Vigaelian like a native, but his Wroggian had proved very useful during his years as an itinerant Witness when he wanted to be Urth, the slave.

Orlad said, “If we go to High Timber, would we be allowed to leave?”

“Possibly not,” Dantio admitted.

“We would have to swear fealty to this Arbanerik?” (distrust)

“That seems likely, lord.”

“We might have to join in an attack on Nardalborg,” said one of the others, provoking an eruption of emotion. (hate-fear-disgust-outrage) Many of them were Nardalborg bred; all must have friends there, and some would have family also.

Orlad was registering joy. “But if Stralg loses Nardalborg, he will be crippled.”

“We might have to invade Florengia,” Snerfrik said.

This comment brought a roar of denials and argument-

“We’ve gone over that, Hrothgat!”

“Arbanerik would be crazy to try it.”

“He can shut Stralg out of Vigaelia and let the Mutineer finish him off.”

“He’d still have to hold Nardalborg against Horold and Eide.”

“Hold Tryfors, you mean! They’d starve him out of Nardalborg.”

When the argument wound down, Orlad said, “Where is this High Timber, Dantio? And why are you smirking?”

Again Dantio wished he had a veil. “Because that’s the first time you ever spoke my name, Orlad.”

Scowl. “Back in Celebre I must have.”

“No, you called me, ‘Anto.’” Orlad had been a beautiful baby, but to say so now would be suicide. “I am under oath not to reveal the rebels’ location.” Dantio winced at the resulting surge of anger and suspicion. “Near the Wrogg, but not on it. We can probably arrive tomorrow.”

“Anto?” sneered Snerfrik, the huge one. “Well, little Anto, suppose we decide we want to go over the Edge with Orlad and help him take power in this city of his-we have to get past Nardalborg?”

“No, lord. There is another pass, Varakats Pass.” Dantio sensed a breathtaking rush of interest in his listeners. “Indeed, Varakats was originally the easier of the two. Nardalborg Pass has been much improved, as my lords are aware.”

“So it would be possible?”

No, it was impossible, but Dantio would have to guide them to that conclusion gently. “The passes may stay open a short time yet. The problem would be on the other side. With respect, my lords, my skin and Orlad’s are not so very much darker than yours, but our hair is black, while yours is mostly pale gold, and it is hair color that determines warbeast color, yes? The opposing forces in Florengia are like pieces on a game board, black and white. If Orlad sets foot over the edge, he’ll be one of Cavotti’s. All the rest of you will automatically be Stralg’s, whether you like it or not.”

They did not like it. (fury-frustration) They were young, immensely powerful, had recently won a stunning victory, and why shouldn’t they see their hero elected doge?

“Where are we going now, today?” Orlad demanded. (worry)

“I must go to High Timber to inform the seers and Hordeleader Arbanerik that I have abrogated the compact between the Witnesses and the bloodlord. I will also pass on the news of your noble victory, of course.”

“But if we come with you, we will be recruited?”

“Seers cannot prophesy, but I expect so.”

“Or killed?”

Dantio sighed. “Detained, possibly. You will be hailed as great heroes, but the rebels must use extreme methods to keep their base secret.”

The Heroes were displeased. (anger-arrogance-belligerence)

Waels put it into words. “Or we could stop you going there. We could make the boat sail on down the Wrogg.”

“That is so, my lord,” Dantio said humbly. “But to where? Who else will give you refuge from the bloodlord’s wrath?”

They could hide their fear from his eyes, but not from his seer’s feeling.

One of the sailors said, “The Werists are talking about High Timber. Will we camp at Milk tonight?”

“If this wind holds,” Nok decreed. “The slave wants us to.”

“Saltaja told Fabia you were dead,” Orlad said suspiciously. “The seers must have told her.”

Dantio shrugged. “No Witness ever said that. It wouldn’t be true, would it?”