Jeff Salyards - Veil of the Deserters

The men unsaddled their horses and let them graze in the long grass on the right side of the road before leading them all off into a copse of trees that would provide some cover for the night. Most soldiers took the opportunity to check and perform minor repairs on their armor where they could, sharpen their blades, stuff some dried meat or fruit in their mouths.

I unloaded my writing case and set to recording, wanting to stay as current as possible.

Progress was slow and halting, as I nibbled on cheese and nuts and seemed unable to focus on capturing the recent conversations and revelations, my mind pulled back to Alespell and what I’d seen there. And done. Though I tried very hard not to travel far down that road.

Eventually finished, I closed my case and then closed my eyes, head against my saddle, a blanket pulled tight. I thought sleep would be a long time coming, given the events of the day and the vulnerable state we were in, hidden among some trees alongside a road that could be filled with Hornmen or Brunesmen at any moment.

Before I knew it, Vendurro was rousing me at dawn and it was time to mount up again. I felt anything but well rested.

We began putting more miles behind us, the sun rising higher, the chill of morning long gone, as the day would prove to be a hot one. I looked up at the endless sky. It seemed artificial, something painted on the interior of the largest dome in creation, the blue of the backdrop almost too brilliant, too pure, the numerous clouds almost perfect in their rendering, with ashy shading counterbalancing the stark whiteness, and of every size and shape imaginable, as if the artist had been charged with cataloguing clouds in all their infinite variety. They didn’t seem to drift in the slightest either, fixed there as if they’d remain until the paint chipped and cracked and fell down on every cloud-gazing fool. The air was hot and still, without even the slightest breeze, let alone anything to get those clouds moving again, and I wanted nothing more than to close my eyes.

But as usual, my curiosity wasn’t sated. I kept running over the conversation we had on the road the previous day, and still had more questions than answer.

When we stopped to rest the horses, I spotted the captain and his lieutenants off to one side, as usual, separated from the rest of the troops, but not distant.

Mulldoos was leaning against a tree, his eyes closed, Hewspear was working away at his flute, and Braylar was fiddling with his helmet strap.

Braylar looked up as I stopped in front of the trio. “You have that pensive look about you that always prefaces disquieting questions. Out with it.”

Well, directness did save me the trouble of trying to wheedle my way into a conversation before asking anything. I glanced around to be sure no one else was in earshot. “The scrolls you want me to translate? How is High Priest Henlester connected with those? You said they were from ancient collections and libraries.”

Mulldoos opened his eyes and sat up. Hewspear stopped working on the flute. I expected one or all three of the men to silence me, either with sharp rebukes, brutal mockery, clever evasion, or oppressive silence. But, after a moment when the lieutenants looked at their captain and he looked at each in turn, some strange unspoken thing must have happened. Captain Killcoin glanced up the road, as if to make sure Soffjian was not storming back down it, and then he turned to me. “You know the Syldoon Empire is comprised of factions, yes? Constantly maneuvering and politicking against the others, soldiers loyal to the Empire in theory, but only deeply loyal to the Tower they belong to. Well, the Memoridons are the same way-beholden to Towers. The Tower Commanders, in truth.”

“I know very little about what they can or can’t do. Only what I’ve read in university. Which is sparse and-”

“Total horseshit,” Mulldoos offered.

I couldn’t argue that point very well, so ignored it. “But I saw Soffjian, and Skeelana too, for that matter, in Alespell. They did things that were… amazing. How is it the Towers control them, keep them in check?”

Hewspear replied, “As the captain noted, they are fragmented, as we are. Memoridons from one Tower are secretive and competitive and reclusive-they don’t congress much with their sisters from other Towers. And there are other factors that keep them in check, as you say.”

Mulldoos said, “What the wrinkled cock here is getting at is, every Tower is different-some bigger or smaller, depending-but there’s only one Memoridon for every fifty Syldoon, at best. No Tower gets more, not even that prick Cynead’s. The ratio is the ratio. And they might be bitches and witches, but they ain’t all powerful.”

I considered that. “That makes sense. A cap on numbers certainly is a natural limiting factor. But what’s to prevent them from capturing your Tower Commanders or assassinating them? Or fleeing Sunwrack? They obviously don’t have the numbers to overwhelm you by sheer force, but that doesn’t seem to be their strength anyway. Well, with exceptions like the captain’s sister. So there must be something more, then?”

Mulldoos’s very pale brows closed ranks. “Figured that out all on your lonesome, did you? Must have missed the part when Hewspear said ‘factors,’ huh? Meaning plural. Sure with your fancy education you know about plurality?”

I tried not to grit my teeth as I said, “That was my way of asking what the other factors were.”

“Maybe next time, how about you just say, ‘What are those other factors the old goat was going on about?’ See how that works? Real direct like. No confusion. Doesn’t invite nobody to question your intelligence at all. Stick with that. Lot safer for you, scribbler.”

I fought off the urge to engage him and turned instead to Hewspear. “I believe you mentioned something about other factors?”

“See, there you go!” Mulldoos said. “Though you forgot the goat part.”

Hewspear replied, “The Memoridons are bonded to the Tower Commander. It’s not a process most Syldoon are knowledgeable about, only those in the commander’s immediate circle. So I can’t reveal much. Only that the Tower Commanders do not practice memory magic themselves, so the bond is an unusual one. There is a construct involved. And the mechanism, the ritual, the binding, it not only protects the commander from any sorcery the Memoridons wield, but prohibits the witches from being away from the frame-” I started to ask a question but he anticipated it, “That is, the construct-for very long. Part of the reason they aren’t assigned to accompany units like ours for extended periods of time. This binding, and the relative scarcity of Memoridons, together ensure their compliance. Though our understanding of the process is limited. And I suspect even those intimately involved know less than they believe.”

Mulldoos chortled. “Wait, before that, did you just admit there was a topic known to all the tribes of the world that you weren’t some sort of expert on? Did you just say that? You said that, didn’t you? With witnesses and everything? Plague me, that’s a first.”

“Alright,” I said, excited to be getting some straight answers, but still floundering a bit in making sense of it all. “So what does this have to do with dusty tomes from other kingdoms? And Henlester?”

Mulldoos nodded in an exaggerated fashion. “See, real direct, boy. You’re learning. Slow, but you’re learning.” I wasn’t sure if he was mocking me. Well, of course he was, but it seemed slightly less biting than usual. That seemed like progress.

Hewspear answered, “The Syldoon are reviled for a number of reasons, as you well know, and employing the Memoridons while all other kingdoms hunt them to extinction certainly does us no favors. But the Empire is relatively young compared to most kingdoms. And the memory witches have been around for far longer, burnt and drowned and hated and feared. No one knows for sure where those powers come from. But some believe the Deserter Gods instilled it in men.”