Joel Shepherd - Tracato

“I know a little Lenay,” said Reynold. “It means…‘blood on the steel,’ yes?”

“ No sheth an sary, no sheth an sary .” From the speech of Aldrynoth, at the Battle of Myldar. Danyth of Rayen had killed his brother. Aldrynoth had sought revenge. “No herb shall heal, like blood on the steel.” She had never wanted love, nor sex, nor warmth, nor life itself, as badly as she wanted to kill Reynold Hein. It was a revelation to her.

SASHA’S LAMP WAS DYING when the cell door creaked open, and new light flooded the cool stone. She lay on her back on a pile of straw, trying to keep her breathing shallow. What was left of her clothes now made for a pillow. Her one relief was that underground, in the dark, the air was neither warm nor cool, and near nakedness suited the temperature. Despite that, her skin flushed hot and then cold, with the onset of what she suspected was fever. The pain was incredible. She wanted to pass out, but had no chance of sleep, and was too strong of constitution to faint. Suicide occurred to her, and was dismissed just as fast. Errollyn needed protecting, and Kessligh helping, and Lenayin saving. And enemies killing.

She closed her eyes against the new glare, trying to keep her wrists still. In the manacles, they chafed something awful, a pain nearly as bad as the burns. There were ten of those, two to each side, two on her back and two on each thigh. The cane had made cuts, and her stomach and ribs were bruised all over. Every breath was agony, though she did not think a rib was broken. Fury was the only thing that made it bearable.

The cell door shut. The owner of the lamp crouched nearby. Sasha slitted her eyes, rolled her head, and looked. Emerald eyes, beautiful and frightening beyond description. Snow white hair. Such unearthly, long-limbed beauty. Memories of loving friendship, all betrayed…fury surged, and she was lunging to her knees, lashing with manacled wrists, whipping the chain toward that long, shapely neck… But it was pointless, and the chains pulled her short, an agony of severed skin, and wounds disturbed.

Rhillian barely moved. She watched as Sasha strained against the chains like a mad thing. And finally collapsed, frothing and gasping. She set the lamp aside.

“Sasha,” she said coolly. “I’ve been to see Errollyn. They would not let me talk to him, but he is well. Alythia too. You are the only one I can talk to. Kessligh is demanding that someone gives him proof you are still alive.” Sasha said nothing.

“Sasha, the Justiciary is heavily defended,” Rhillian continued. “A thousand, I’d guess. I have not seen Sinidane, I don’t know if he lives. There is open war in the city, I have not the forces to contain that and retake the Justiciary. I must prioritise. Council has fallen too. The Civid Sein hope to make a rallying cry, by claiming control of Tracato’s institutions.”

Sasha gave an exhausted, crazed, exasperated laugh. “What do you want me to do about it? Help? You make a fucking mess, Rhillian. You always make a fucking mess. Look at me. I’m a fucking mess.”

The cell was spinning. It was too much, and she slid down on her side, and lay on the straw. Rhillian did not reply.

“I cannot be always attempting to justify myself to you,” she said finally. Her voice was quiet. Strained, almost. “We shall all do what we will, for the best interests of all. It’s all we can do. None of us is wise enough to know all ends.”

“That’s great, Rhillian,” Sasha gasped. “A philosophical excuse. Sorry I fucked everything up, even the wise are fallible. How nice.”

Another, longer pause. Rhillian got up abruptly, and strode to the cell door. Stopped just as abruptly. Came back, and squatted once more. Sasha struggled for focus, through slitted eyes.

“I cannot stop them from hurting you, Sasha,” Rhillian whispered. Her voice trembled. “They are cruel. All sides are cruel. I play them against each other. I will defeat them soon, or they shall defeat themselves, but I cannot stop them from what they do here now. I have not the force.”

“You said that already,” Sasha managed. “What do you want from me? Forgiveness? You won’t get it.”

“There was a time you would have forgiven me anything.”

Petrodor. Sadisi festival, dancing and cook fires on the dockside, reflections gleaming in dark waters. Rhillian, impossibly beautiful, taking a prawn from Sasha’s plate. Laughing, avoiding the inquiries of forward young men, discussing the night with wonder in her eyes.

“Not anything,” Sasha murmured. To her incredulity, there was a lump in her throat. Not now. Revenge required a steely heart, such softness appalled her. “Never anything.”

“Do you recall,” Rhillian said softly, “that once, I insisted you should sleep with Errollyn?”

“I didn’t do it just to please you,” Sasha croaked.

“No.” Rhillian’s lips pursed in a small smile. “I don’t suppose you did. Had I known the trouble it would cause me, I would never have suggested it. Do you recall our discussions with Father Berin?” The North Pier temple on Dockside, near the great shipping docks. Berloni the painter, swathing beautiful, holy images across the ceiling. Spirits she wished she were back there now. “He insisted that if he could convince just one serrin of the holy teachings, he would die a happy man.”

“You used to provoke him.”

“I did. But he was a rare Verenthane, he enjoyed it. I truly think he was more interested in converting you than me.”

Sasha managed a small, breathless laugh. “I’m even more the hopeless case than you.”

“I did tell him,” Rhillian agreed. “I also think he merely enjoyed the company of two pretty girls, whatever his priestly protestations.” She gazed at Sasha in the lamplight, humour fading from her eyes. “Oh, Sasha.” Regarding her wounds. “What have they done to you?”

“You protest yourself innocent of violence now?”

“Any serrin can kill for the cause of survival, Sasha, but…” she shook her head. “This is not in our vocabulary. To kill fast is one thing. To kill slow is entirely…”

“Kiel would,” Sasha gasped. “I hear that Kiel has.”

“Sasha, please, just tell them what they want to hear. The Army of Lenayin is powerful, it will make no difference if they know…”

“I don’t care. I don’t care. I’ll kill them.”

“Sasha,” Rhillian protested, in mounting desperation, “these people are crazy! They…some of them accuse the priesthood and refuse religion, but in truth, they remind me of the fanatics at Riverside. One truth, one belief, and it’s repeated, over and over, as though by sheer force of will they can arrange truth and stone and blue sky above to suit their fancy. And Reynold Hein! The most intelligent man of the bunch, and the worst as well. Every opposing argument, he turns on its head, twists it, flips it, remoulds it to suit his preordained conclusion. It’s the most incredible feat of intellectual self-blindedness. There are serrin in Saalshen who have not travelled in human lands who struggle to believe it when I explain it to them! How can I explain the likes of Reynold Hein to the wise and gentle souls of the Saalshen councils? Even Lesthen struggles, and he’s travelled widely!”

“You forgot Sevarien.”

“No, I never counted Sevarien amongst the most intelligent,” Rhillian retorted. “He was always a big, blustering fool. Sasha, they have identified themselves as the victims, and in their victimhood, all manner of crime becomes acceptable. And worst of all, they are the victims of feudalist oppression, so their arguments appear valid to any without the patience to search more deeply!”