The Dark Glory War (2 page)

I said I did even though I didn’t, but I also kept to myself all the questions I wanted to ask. Thinking back on it there at the table, I remember one of Doke’s eyes having been blacked—badly enough that the bruise reddened his eyeball and extended well beyond the protection of the mask. And I remembered Sallitt, two years later, limping for the latter half of his Moon Month, which made him rather sour since he couldn’t dance worth a lick at the various parties.

Recalling their injuries did make me wonder what I’d be facing. While I did know what the end result of my brother’s Moon Months were, I really didn’t know what they’d gone through during them. I mean stories of the parties and feasts were common knowledge. While, as a kid, I could not attend, everyone my age had seen the preparations for various events. Still and all, I didn’t recall seeing much of either of my brothers during that month of their lives.

All stories that I knew concerning what one did during a Moon Month came from kin of merchants and tradesfolk. I’d heard of one girl who’d been shut away in a cottage spinning wool into yarn, or a baker’s-boy who had been tasked with making as much bread as he could in a day. Those sorts of monumental tasks were really the stuff of fey stories, though, so I didn’t set much store by them. The not knowing, however … that did start to get my stomach gnawing on itself.

Doke looked over at me and smiled at the trace of concern his question had sparked. He settled a big hand around the back of my neck and shook me playfully. “Don’t you worry, Tarrant. Nothing that will happen to you hasn’t happened to many before. They survived, as will you.”

“Just survive? I would like more than that.”

“So would many others, Tarrant.” My father gave me a big smile. “But, survival comes first. Remember that and you’ll be starting ahead of your fellows. Be yourself, and they’ll never have a chance to catch up.”

Valsina, like any other Oriosan city or town, hosted a moonmask gala on Mid-Summer’s Eve. The city-sponsored gala was not the only one held that night. Various guilds or religious sects held their own, but the city affair was by invitation only and involved the children from the finest families, a few of the brightest guild offerings, and a dozen or so people chosen by lot. Back then I didn’t see that these “lucky ones” were really allowed to attend as curiosities. It was expected that the one night they spent in our company would likely be the highest they would rise in their lifetimes. In my excitement I missed the cruelty entirely.

I spent the day as most others my age did, moving through a prescribed series of activities meant to reflect the new me. I began with a hot bath and good scrubbing, using a special cake of soap that had enough lye and grit in it to grind down the hoof of a horse. It left me red all over and tingling. My brothers helped me get over that feeling by dousing me with frigid water to rinse off.

I washed my hair, too, and my mother trimmed it up some. I didn’t go as far as some folks did, shaving their heads completely, but my mother allowed as how that was right since I’d been born with a full head of hair anyway. There were folks, generally out in the hinterlands, who actually bashed a tooth out of their moonmasked children, since few folks are born with teeth, but in the city we didn’t go that far. The rebirth was symbolic, after all, and we were coming into adult life as adults, not newborn babes.

I got dressed in a new set of clothes, from tunic and trousers to stockings, boots, and belt. The tunic was green, of the same shade as those worn by Lord Norrington’s retainers, and the trousers brown, though not as dark as the boots or belt. I wasn’t allowed to wear so much as a knife. Tradition had it that a moonmasker shouldn’t be saddled with the weapons of war, preserving innocence and all. I suspect there’s a more practical reason, though, since not a few moonmaskers get puffed up by their status and are giddy enough to do stupid things like challenge others to duels.

From home, with my mask in place, I made my way to the Godfield area of town. Valsina itself started in a small valley at the convergence of two rivers, and spread out over the years to cover the surrounding hills. Beyond it to the south and west are theBokagulMountains—home to one group of urZrethi, though I’d never seen any of them when I was in the mountains. From there the rivers flowed north and east across the plains. At Valsina the Sut andCarRiversbecome theCarstRiver, which twists on into Muroso on its way to theCrescentSeato the northwest.

The city itself is over five hundred years old. The original walls form a triangle in the middle of the city. Things spread out from there, with the architecture becoming less massive, less martial, and varying from elegant, like the Norrington Manor on South Hill, to more rundown and dismal along the river. Godfield lies just north of the Old Fort and is lined with temples and shrines. Despite being one of the older sections of town, the buildings are newer and quite impressive, but that’s because most of them have tumbled down or gone up in flames at one point or another, allowing their congregations to start over and thus outshine the competition.

TheTempleto Kedyn, the warrior god, had been built broad and strong. The grey and white stones used to build it were both crudely quarried and dragged from the fields wherever they lay. In some cases they were even hauled a long distance from the site of some memorable battles. The stones were then fitted together, with edges smoothed and outlines softened, leaving their natural shape mostly intact, but uniting them with the other stones to form a cohesive whole. Doke had once suggested to me that the builders intended the structure to suggest that different people, united in a cause, would be stronger than any individual alone, and that seemed to make sense.

Of course, anyone growing up in Oriosa and destined to take the mask read a lot of symbolism into almost anything. We tended to look for added meaning in things, trying to find intent when nothing more serious than an accident had happened. I’d heard my father often say that men of other nations hated that trait in us, and suggested we looked too hard for meanings. But he also said the ones who complained the loudest were those who didn’t want their hidden plans discovered.

I mounted the steps to the temple and bowed my head as I entered. Heavy pillars supported a tall ceiling and each ended in a cap shaped like the blade of a broad-ax. Stairs in the corners led up to a broad balcony, known as the priest’s-walk, which provided access to upper chambers. The priests maintained their personal quarters up there, as well as offices and storage space for seasonal decorations.

The dome over the far end of the temple had been shaped to resemble the underside of a shield. A statue of Kedyn lurked beneath it. All massive and terrible, the statue’s base rested in a depression that had been sunk below street level and had steps leading down to it. Sand covered the stone disk that formed the base, and in it were scores of glowing coals sending thick ribbons of musky incense drifting up over Kedyn’s form. Scars crisscrossed his body where the cloak of dragon flesh did not cover it, and the helmet crested with dragon’s claws hid his face in deep shadows. Kedyn wore no mask here in Oriosa, but his body bore the signs with which we would have decorated a mask. He was matched to us and us to him.

Murals depicting well-known battles or the exploits of famous heroes decorated the interior walls. Scattered throughout the main floor were statues of heroes and, in a few places, stone slabs marking the graves of Oriosan heroes from Valsina and the surrounding county who were deemed great and brave enough to be buried in the temple itself. No Hawkins had yet earned that honor, but my father said it was because we had the misfortune of surviving the sort of heroic acts that usually killed others and earned them a place in the temple.

My mother, in raising us all, encouraged us to continue in that tradition.

Off to the right was a small shrine to Gesric, the godling of retribution, and one of Kedyn’s children. Back and to the left was another smaller shrine to the crone Fesyin, Gesric’s half-sister. She’d been born of a union between Kedyn and the female aspect of death. She governed pain, and many were the ill and maimed who made offerings to her to relieve their suffering. Her shrine stunk ofmetholanth incense, which did not mix well with the muskier stuff offered to Kedyn.

I crossed to where one of the acolytes sold little charcoal biscuits shaped like a shield and thimblefuls of the incense powder favored by Kedyn. I offered him a fresh-minted Moon coin—a gold coin that I was honor bound to offer only once to any purveyor of goods in the city. The acolyte refused payment and gave me the charcoal and incense with a quick blessing. It was understood that in the future I would compensate, by action or through money, the kindness of everyone who refused to take my Moon coin—and by the next full moon it would be accepted as payment without a second thought by any merchant I offered it to.

I took the charcoal shield down the steps to the base and held the shield in the flame of an igniter. I waited until the edge had caught, then blew on it gently.Sparksjumped from the slowly expanding crescent until the coal burned bright red. I placed it down in the sand, elevating the unburned edge ever so slightly, then knelt and bowed my head.

It is said that the first prayer offered to a god by one of the moonmasked is the prayer most likely to be granted. Most folks say this with the assumption that the gods, who remain largely unseen and unheard from, favor the innocence with which such prayers are offered. Others, who have known some of the more self-confident of the moonmasked, assume the gods perversely grant that first prayer since most people discover it is not truly what they wanted or needed. And still others assume that the gods, like most moonmasked, are just silly and enjoy granting prayers that the faithful have no way of handling.

I had given long and considerable thought to the prayer I would offer. The warrior god was the god to which the Hawkins men paid their respects, and he had done well by us. The prayer I offered then would be the same as a prayer I might offer in the field, but here it was meant to cover my entire life instead of provide support in an immediate situation. I had my choice of the prayers for any of the six Martial Virtues, and sorting through them had not been a simple task.

No one prayed for Patience, though my father said that particular invocation was useful in the field when more waiting was being done than fighting. Many folks prayed for Mien—that collection of physical attributes such as strength, speed, and endurance that were crucial in combat. Courage and Spirit were also popular, as was Battlesight, or the ability to see and plan clearly for the campaigns to come. Each of them had their attraction for me, but I rejected them in the end. Physically I was well suited to being a warrior. I understood war and how it was waged, and realized that if I lived I’d learn more all the time. Courage and Spirit were things I thought I possessed, but at eighteen summers of age, there was no way to know for certain. Still, the arrogance of youth allowed me to imagine myself as not lacking in those areas.

What I asked for was Control. As I faced life and war, I wanted no illusions, no fog of war to confuse me, no momentary madness to leave me wondering where I was, why I was there, and what I should be doing. I wanted the clarity of mind that eludes many and without which all the other gifts would be useless. I knew that if my prayer were granted, I would find no escape from the madness that was war, that I would have to live with memories both exquisite and horrible, but better to live with them than not to live at all.

Over the years I have been given to wonder if my choice was based in innocence, arrogance, or some sort of delicious insanity that compelled me to want to know just how completely mad I should be.

I curled my left hand into a fist and clutched it to my breastbone, as if I were holding a shield covering my chest. My right hand poured the thimble of incense on the charcoal, then I extended my right arm down and away from my body, as if I were pointing a drawn sword at the ground. The incense began to smolder, pulsing a guttering ribbon of white smoke into the air.

“Most divine Kedyn, hear my prayer.” I kept my voice low, so as not to disturb the warriors to either side of me. “You are the wellspring from which all heroism flows. Your mind possesses the razored edge that parts fiction from fact, rumor from truth, fears from reality. I beseech you to hone my mind that I may see clearly, think clearly, and know in my heart and head what I must do, when I must do it, and how it will be best done. With your aid I will never shrink from battle, shirk my duty, or abandon those who most depend upon me. This I pledge on my honor, now and for all time.”

I glanced up at the statue. Smoke gathered around it like a thunderhead and I waited for a quick lightning strike. I got none, and realized I would have no sign of my prayer being heard or granted. Then I smiled as I wondered if that realization itself confirmed that Kedyn had granted me Control.Or it could just be self-deception, which would be evidence of the opposite?

Rising from my place, I ascended the steps again and presented myself to the acolyte. He took out a small carved stamp, inked it, and pressed it to my moonmask, below my right eye. It left there the tridentine sigil that marked my affiliation with Kedyn. I bowed to him, then wandered out of the temple.

As I emerged from the temple, two moonmasked youths sitting at the base of the temple steps rose and started up toward me. Both wore clothes with a similar color scheme to mine, but their garments had been fashioned of silk that flashed in the sunlight. Each wore a big grin and had temple marks on their moonmasks.

I recognized them instantly, but had to play through the charade of our being moonmasked. “Good day, my men. Who under the moon are you?”

“I am Rounce Playfair.” Rounce stood almost as tall as me, wasn’t nearly as big as I am, but almost made up in quickness what he lacked in strength. His brown hair had been trimmed short, in a style I knew his father favored, but his brown eyes sparked with enough mischief that I knew he’d not taken his shearing badly. His moonmask bore the mark of Kedyn, which surprised me, since I thought he’d have tended more toward Erlinsax, the goddess of wisdom, or Graegen, the male aspect of justice.