Zachary Jernigan - No Return

Churls kicked the fire’s last glowing coal into sparks, and reclined under the lean-to Berun had constructed. “What does it matter?” she asked. “We won’t be there for at least three weeks.”

Vedas stared down at his clenched fists, and slowly opened them. “I’m expected in the first week of Royalty.” He held a hand up, forestalling her response. “I’m not opening up that old argument or complaining. Still, I won’t pretend I like the situation, not knowing what I’ll be waking into. If there’s a way to be more prepared, I want to take it.”

Berun shrugged. “What do you want me to do?”

“I want you to observe the city. At the end of this month, people will start to arrive. Religiously neutral gamblers and fighters from Casta. Adrashi of every denomination and occupation from Stol and Nos Ulom. Fewer are coming from Dareth Hlum, as the trip requires travel through Nos Ulom or Toma. Because it falls on the eve of the half-millennium, Toma has prepared for this tournament for years, and will send thousands of its people northward. The largest group by far will be Knosi, and though they have pledged to keep the celebration peaceful, they will fail.”

“How do you know this?” Berun asked.

Vedas sighed. “The tournament has always been followed by small-scale riots. I persisted in believing that this year would be different. I thought the celebration would overwhelm the instinct for violence, even among the Tomen. In other words, I fooled myself. I didn’t want to believe the actions of my brothers and sisters could have such consequences.” He nodded to Churls. “My eyes have been opened.”

Churls met Berun’s gaze. “Trust him,” she said.

“Hopefully,” Vedas continued, “the violence will be restricted to fractious Ulomi and Tomen on the outskirts of the city. If it spreads to the general populace, the whole of Danoor could be in danger. It would be very helpful to know the situation before stepping into the city. In fact, it would be good to know how things progress from the very beginning.”

“Why?” Churls asked. “I don’t see how that will make a difference.”

Berun had been about to say something similar. He stared at Vedas, noting the way the man massaged his hands, how he avoided direct eye contact. Clearly, he would rather not divulge whatever information he possessed. For all the grace and skill Vedas displayed at fighting and hunting, he knew nothing of masking his thoughts. It was odd, Berun thought, that the man’s most obvious weakness was also his most endearing quality. Few men made it so far in life without learning to lie.

“I’ll win the tournament, or I’ll die,” Vedas said. “I expect to win. As we’ve traveled, I’ve become more confident in my skills.” He caught Churls’s eye briefly before looking into his lap again. “Our practices have been very helpful. And while it pleases me to think of victory, I now understand its magnitude. Winning the tournament will result in greater changes than I suspected when I left Golna. It’s not a mere contest of faith. I thought it was, but it isn’t.”

Churls cleared her throat, but held her peace. Vedas stiffened, and then relaxed.

Berun considered his companions, the shaky ground between them, and spoke. “If Churls won’t say it, then I will. There’s no such thing as a mere contest of faith in this world, Vedas. You above all others should know this. To think, even for a moment, that it’s possible to wage war against other men without consequence beyond the battlefield is pure idiocy. You’re not a fool—don’t speak as if you are.”

Grimacing, Vedas ran a hand over his face. “Two months ago, I would have taken issue with those words, but you’re right: I’ve been a willfully ignorant fool. Slowly, I’m coming to understand that men of the same order—brothers and sisters who profess the same convictions, curse the same god—can work toward opposing ends. The stated goal of the tournament is to win converts to our faith, to convince people of the power and truth of our vision. Despite my doubts, despite...”

He closed his eyes and exhaled. “Despite Julit Umeda, I still believe in this goal. The world is not Adrash’s plaything. Men are not pawns. What I no longer believe in is my right to send an entire city into upheaval.”

“How would you accomplish that?” Churls asked.

“Whoever wins the tournament will have enormous influence. Many who hear him speak will act as he commands without thinking.” As if he were doing so with great reluctance, Vedas pulled a slim tube from his pack. Its wax seal had clearly been broken. “I opened this just after our encounter with the Baleshuuk. I don’t know why I did. I was told not to. It contains a speech written by the master of my order. He has commanded me to read it during the New Year’s celebration in the Aresaa Coliseum, which holds one hundred and fifty thousand men. Afterwards, I’m to have the text copied and distributed.”

He met Churls’s gaze. “I don’t think I can do that. Reading it alone may cause a riot. Still, I must read something. They’re expecting a speech from the winner.” He looked to Berun. “Will you help me? Help me monitor developments in Danoor. Read the speech and tell me I’m crazy, or tell me I’m right to worry. Please.”

He held the tube out, offering it to either of his companions.

Churls took it without hesitation.

‡

They arrived in Bitsan an hour before sunrise on the twenty-first day of the month: Qon’as Du’ses, First Day of Learning.

An unexpected blessing for the travelers, it began the Month of Learning for the D’Ari A’draasis, the major Adrashi denomination of Stol’s southern lakeside communities. The D’Ari measured the year with a twelve-month calendar, and ended it with thirty-six days of fasting and study. Commerce all but stopped while the sun was in the sky, and tribal hostilities ground to a halt. During the Month of Learning, violence to man or creature was forbidden, a fact all the more remarkable for the legendarily hot-blooded D’Ari.

“I’ve heard of this kind of luck, but never experienced it,” Churls said as she and Berun walked along the city’s deserted main thoroughfare. While she had established the city’s peaceable nature during her dawn reconnaissance, she had nonetheless advised Vedas to stay at the campsite. “We’d better not push our luck by bringing you into town,” she had told him. “It’s enough of a risk bringing Berun in.”

Berun did not need to ask why she wanted him along. Her look of disgust communicated more than enough. No, she did not like asking for protection, but she was not stupid. Besides warfare, the D’Ari were known for their love of foreign women. Pale-skinned wives commanded a high price from tribal leaders. Even the Month of Learning might not prevent them from laying hands on a freckled Castan.

They found an inn close to the docks. Berun and Churls stepped through the door into humid, candle-lit gloom.

“Try not to attract attention to yourself,” Churls said, the hint of a smile on her lips.

For all the alarmed stares their arrival caused, Berun knew few if any of the customers recognized him. The D’Ari had fought for millennia with Nos Ulom over Lake Ten’s trade routes, and by every account disdained all things Ulomi. When a tribal leader took an Ulomi woman as his wife, he removed her tongue so that she could not talk of her homeland. Conceivably, if the men in the inn knew that Berun had killed Patr Macassel, they would welcome him as a hero.

Though he would not voice it to Churls, he found himself wishing for the exact opposite. A vexing wrath blossomed within him, spreading rapidly outward from his central components, causing his body to vibrate from head to toe. He pictured himself knocking the inn’s customers aside as if they were ragdolls, pulping skulls between his palms.