Jeff Salyards - Veil of the Deserters

As the wagon jostled over the rutted and uneven road, pots and pans and tools and every other thing that could possibly swing from a hook oscillating wildly, I was about to find the spot where I was least likely to get banged in the head from something when Braylar called me to the front of the wagon.

I made my way forward, arms up to ward off blows, and still managed to slam my shin into a crate as I pulled the canvas flap back and awkwardly dropped myself onto the front bench.

The captain didn’t speak right away. I wondered if one of his men had told him I suggested Soffjian tend to him, or that I met her in private (well, got cornered with no one around at least), and fully expected him to verbally or physically assault me in either case. Hazarding a look in his direction, I was almost shocked to see just how calm he was. And not like he had been as he receded from himself in the steppe, growing more and more distant, a forced placidity that left him essentially a husk. This was something else. I’d seen him appear bitter, angry, measuring, enraged, witnessed him issue hard orders and biting rejoinders, and sarcastic assessments, all with an excess of vigor and indulgence. But now, he looked… thoughtful. I’d only met one or two men who might have been smarter in my life-instructors at university-but while Braylar did a great deal of thinking, it still always seemed to be pulsing with intense and critical energy, calculation just preceding violence of some kind. Or crafty consideration before delivering a charade any playhouse actor would be proud of.

But not meditative thought. And certainly not after returning to the land of the living the night before to discover that a Memoridon had been walking in his skull. The unwound quiet was more disturbing than any tempestuous rampage would have been.

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.”