Welferek sighs wearily. “Great Moon, they were a long time about it,” he declares, trudging back to the oak behind which he had earlier concealed himself. He plunges his sword half a foot into the ground, produces a small wineskin from inside his tunic, and sprays a hefty amount of its contents into his mouth and down his gullet. Hiding the skin away again, he relaxes against the oak, wiping his mouth. “Ill as they were, you’d think they’d have been happy to go,” he continues, still with nothing more than slight annoyance in his voice. Leaning more heavily against the tree, the Outrager reaches for his sword, pulls it back out of the earth, and levels it at Keera and Veloc. “And I’m warning you two,” he says, the wine working on his restraint. “Any more arguments and we will finish speaking. You”—he points the sword at Veloc—“I will kill quickly. Although you”—the tip of the sword moves to Keera—“I may take a little time with. You’re not at all bad to look at, little forager. Yes, the two of us might find all manner of sport — provided you cooperate. If you won’t, I won’t hesitate to—”
Something flashes through the air just in front of the Outrager, whose arm is still leveled at Keera and Veloc; and, although his eyes go wide and his mouth opens to scream in apparent pain, the arm stays up, as if of its own choosing. Then a second hurtling flash cuts the Moonlit night, and the Welferek’s left arm slaps back onto the trunk of the oak, again without his seeming to will or wish it to do so. He screams again, and his short-sword falls; but his sword arm remains upraised, unable to reach across and offer any assistance to his left. Indeed, Welferek seems to have lost all ability to control his movements.
And then, from atop the same mossy rocks where the Bane family leapt to their ends, bitter laughter cuts through the noise of the falling water, taunting the Outrager:
“You’ve already hesitated, you puffed-up fool …!”
1:{ix:}
Faith, treachery, and treason in the Sacristy
of the High Temple …
Upon reentering the Sacristy, Sixt Arnem finds all the participants in the tragic finish of Yantek Korsar’s career, and quite probably his life, positioned almost exactly where he left them long moments ago. Arnem is faced with a dilemma: as he walks down the center aisle of the great chamber — where the gentle Moonlight that drifted through the blocks of colored glass in the walls on his arrival has given way to the jagged illumination provided by torches, oil lamps, and a pair of braziers on the Grand Layzin’s dais — he feels his body pulling toward what would be its ordinary place, beside and half a step behind Korsar. But as Arnem moves toward this position, he catches sight of Lord Baster-kin, standing behind the Layzin’s gilded seat and staring directly at him; the Merchant Lord is plainly trying to tell the sentek this is no time for foolishly sentimental loyalty, but rather the moment to separate himself from his commander. Arnem is ashamed that he considers this directive, even momentarily, and tries to walk deliberately toward his original goal; but as he folds his hands behind his back, a peculiar thing happens:
Korsar, without looking at the sentek, takes half a dozen long strides away from him. The old commander has also caught Baster-kin’s meaningful glance, and is trying to protect Arnem in his own way; but it is, nevertheless, a jarring moment, the first time that the younger man has ever felt that standing by Korsar — whether inside Broken’s halls of power or on the field of battle — might be the incorrect thing to do. He will not insult the yantek by following him; but the loneliness that Arnem feels is a burden perhaps impossible for any who have not known combat — who are strangers to the manner in which true warriors must place their fates within each other’s hands — to comprehend.
On the dais before them, in the meantime, the Layzin sits with his head in his hands; and when he looks up, Arnem can see that he has maintained that position for as long as the sentek has been outside the Sacristy, judging by the marks his fingers have left on his face. That face has lost its gentle aspect; and his jaws now stiffen as his words go cold:
“Yantek Korsar. You have spoken treason, and within the Sacristy. As I am sure you know.”
“Eminence, I have spoken …” Korsar endures one last flush of self-doubt: doubt that seems to vanish only when he looks to Arnem, and finds his staunch friend standing quite rigidly, yet clearly on the verge of weeping. Korsar half-smiles at the sentek, then lifts his head proudly to face the Layzin again.
“I have spoken the truth!” he declares defiantly. At the words, the two shaved priests, who have been half-hidden in the shadows in the rear corner of the dais behind the scribe’s desk, move to protect the Layzin, while the soldiers of Baster-kin’s Guard advance toward Korsar. The Layzin holds up a hand, quickly and silently halting all activity; Korsar, by contrast, continues to raiclass="underline" “Yes, it was we of Broken who made the Bane — not Kafra! For what god would condemn the misshapen, the sickly, and the idiotic to such vicious, wretched ends as lurk in every corner of Davon Wood?”
It is Baster-kin who answers; but the Merchant Lord’s tone has changed now. Gone are the attempts to challenge Korsar, to almost bully the yantek into more obedient and more pious behavior. In place of these efforts is resignation: confident resignation, to be sure, yet irritated confidence, as well, as if Fate has made its decision, and both men must carry out the irksome business of accepting it. And in this, Baster-kin and Korsar are not so different; yet each is a man of importance, and their words must be spoken, if only that they may be recorded by the scribe.
“A god of unsurpassed wisdom, Yantek,” Baster-kin replies to Korsar’s last demand. “A god whose design was long ago revealed so clearly that even the heathen Oxmontrot could not deny it, choosing instead to allow Kafran law to become supreme, even as he himself kept the old faith. Or do you not remember that the Mad King began the banishments?”
Korsar’s gaze becomes hateful. “Yes, that’s how you bend all facts to your purpose, isn’t it, my lord? You know as well as I do that Oxmontrot used the banishments as a practical tool to strengthen his kingdom. But he gave his life, as you have said, to the old faith—”
“He did not give his life to anything, Yantek,” says Baster-kin. “His life was taken, because it was of no more use — he could not see divinity when it was before his face, because his mind was so broken by heathen idiocies. The banishments were never meant simply to make this kingdom strong — they were a sacred gift, granted in the hope that Broken would remain powerful. They were an instrument, not of survival, but of purification, a sacred method to root out imperfections in the people, to keep them strong, in body, in mind—”
“And in purse — I know the litany, my lord,” Korsar says, with rising anger. But his disdainful demeanor is interrupted when he sees the Layzin’s head fall into his hands, as if it has once again attained insupportable weight. “But it was a sin, Eminence,” the yantek continues, with more urgency than pride. “I know this. Whatever else the God-King Thedric called the continuation of the banishments, it was a sin against Kafra, against humanity! To go on dooming creatures like ourselves, simply because of imperfections of the body and mind — to destroy families — when the city and kingdom were already secure …” Korsar takes several steps toward the walkway up to the dais, at which the priests rush quickly to guard the thing, ready to withdraw it instantly if they must. The soldiers of the Guard start again in Korsar’s direction; but this time, Baster-kin himself stops them, realizing, it seems (as does Arnem himself), that every word the old soldier says only ensures his doom more certainly. “But they survived the sin,” Korsar says eagerly, still speaking to the Layzin, who will not look up. “Those forsaken devils, dwarfish, sickly, mad, many of them still children — out there where death was all around and never merciful — enough of them survived to form a tribe and make a life, wretched as it was. As it is. And now, because of insatiable greed and ungovernable pride, Eminence, you would allow the Merchants’ Council to take even that away from them?” Korsar turns on Baster-kin. “Well, I will have none of it — no, my lord, I say I will have none of your fanciful, murderous plots!”