“Indifference to dying,” said Salaman, musing. “Acceptance of death as an aspect of change.”
“That’s why they call themselves Acknowledgers,” Athimin said. “The thing that they acknowledge is that death can’t be avoided, that it is in fact the design of the gods. And so they do whatever comes into their heads to do, father, regardless of risk or discomfort.”
Salaman clenched his fists. He felt fury rising in him again after these hours of early morning calmness.
So the City of Dawinno wasn’t the only place plagued by an absurd new creed? Gods! It sickened him to hear that such madness was loose virtually under his very nose. This could lead to anarchy, this cult of martyrdom. People who fear nothing will do anything. And worship of death wasn’t what his city needed. What was needed here was life, nothing but life, new flowering, new growth, new strength!
He rose angrily to his feet.
“Insanity!” he cried. “How many such lunatics do we have in this city?”
“We’ve counted a hundred ninety of them, father. There may be more.”
“You seem to know a great deal about these Acknowledgers.”
“I’ve been investigating them all this month past, sir.”
“You have? And said not a word to me?”
“Our findings were only preliminary. We needed to know more before—”
“More?” Salaman bellowed. “Madness is spreading like a pestilence in the city, and you needed to know more before you could tell me even that such a thing exists here? I was to be kept in the dark about it all? Why? And for how long? How long?”
“Father, the black winds were blowing, and we felt—”
“Ah. Ah, I understand now.” He stepped forward and brought his arm up in the same instant, and struck Athimin ferociously across the cheek. The prince’s head rocked back. Sturdy as he was, he nearly lost his balance at the force of the blow. For an instant there was fiery rage in the younger man’s eyes; then he recovered, and took a step away from the throne, breathing heavily and rubbing the place where he had been struck. He stared at his father with a look of utter disbelief on his face.
“So this is how it begins,” said Salaman very calmly, after some moments. “The old man is considered so unstable, so easily deranged, that during the troublesome season he has to be kept from learning of significant developments that have occurred in the city, so that he won’t become so upset by them that he’ll take unpredictable action. That’s the start of it, shielding the old man from difficult knowledge at a time of the year when he’s known to behave rashly. The next step is to shield him even from the mildly disturbing things, so that he’ll never feel any distress at all, for who knows? He might be dangerous when he’s troubled in any way, even the slightest. And a little while after that, the princes gather and conclude among themselves that he’s become so capricious and volatile that he can’t be trusted even in the times of calm weather, and so he’s gently removed from the throne, with the softest of apologies, and sent to live under guard in some smaller palace, while his eldest son takes his place on the Throne of Harruel, and—”
“Father!” Athimin cried in a strangled voice. “None of this is true! By all the gods, I swear that no such thoughts have entered the minds of any of—”
“Keep quiet!” Salaman thundered, raising his hand as though to strike him again. He gestured furiously to the throne-room guards. “You — you — convey Lord Athimin to the North Prison immediately, and have him kept in custody there until I send further word concerning his disposal.”
“Father!”
“You’ll have plenty of time to reflect on your errors while you’re sitting in your cell,” the king said. “And I’ll have writing materials sent to you, so you can prepare a full report on these deranged Acknowledgers of yours, telling me everything that you were too cowardly or too perfidious to tell me until I pulled some of it from you this morning. For there’s more: I’m certain there’s more. And you’ll tell me all of it. Do you understand me?” He made a sweeping gesture. “Take him out of here.”
Athimin threw him a stunned, bewildered look. But he said not a word, nor did he resist in any way while the guards, looking no less astonished than he, led him from the great hall.
Salaman reseated himself. He leaned back against the smooth obsidian. He drew deep, steady breaths. For all his shouting and fury, he saw that he was beginning now to glide easily back into that curious godlike calmness that had come over him in his pavilion at dawn.
But his hand was tingling from the blow he had given Athimin.
I have struck two of my sons this same night, he thought.
He couldn’t remember having hit any of them ever before, and now he’d struck two in a matter of hours, and sent Athimin to prison besides. Well, the black winds were blowing. And Biterulve had broken a rule by coming to him in the pavilion. Maybe he thought that because he’d been allowed there once, he could come at any time. Athimin, too — what audacity, keeping the news of the Acknowledgers to himself! Downright dereliction of duty, it was. Which had to be punished, even if it was one of the royal princes who was guilty of it. Especially if it was one of the royal princes.
And yet, to strike the gentle Biterulve — and the steady and capable Athimin, who might well be king here one day if anything evil befell his brother Chham—
No matter. They’d have to forgive him. He was their father; he was their king. And the black winds were blowing.
Salaman sat back and idly stroked the armrests of the throne. His mind was tranquil, and yet it was whirling at a pace almost beyond his comprehension. Thoughts, ideas, plans, swirled through it like raging gales, one after another. He made unexpected connections. He saw new possibilities. Is it martyrdom that these Acknowledgers long for? Good. Good. We’ll have a use for some martyrs around here soon. If martyrdom is what they love, well, then, martyrdom is what they will have. And everyone will be the better off for it, they and we both.
He would have to have a talk with the leader of these Acknowledgers.
There were sounds in the hall outside. “The Prince Thu-Kimnibol,” called a herald.
The lofty figure of Harruel’s son stood in the doorway.
“Almost ready to leave us, are you?” Salaman asked.
“Another few hours and we’ll be ready to set out,” said Thu-Kimnibol. “If the storm doesn’t start up again.” He came farther into the room. “I hear from your son that a messenger from Dawinno arrived during the night.”
“A Beng, yes, a guardsman. He was caught in the storm, poor man. Died practically in my arms. He was carrying a letter for you. Over there, on that table.”
“With your permission, cousin—” Thu-Kimnibol said.
He snatched it up, stared at its face intently for a moment, ripped it open without pausing to inspect the seal. He read it slowly through, perhaps several times, running his fingers carefully over the vellum. Reading did not appear to be an easy thing for Thu-Kimnibol. He looked up finally and said, “From the chieftain. A good thing I’m about ready to leave here, cousin. I’m ordered to go back to Dawinno right away. There’s trouble there, Taniane says.”
“Trouble? Does she say what kind of trouble?”
Thu-Kimnibol shrugged. “All she says is that things are very bad.” He began to pace. “Cousin, this worries me. First the murders, and then the autumn caravan comes bearing word of upheavals and confusions and a new religion, and now this. Come home at once, she says! Things are very bad! Yissou, how I wish I were there now! If only I could fly, cousin!” He paused, steadying himself. In an altogether different tone he said, “Cousin, can you tell me anything about this?”
“About what, cousin?”
“These troubles in Dawinno. I wonder if perhaps you’ve had some report from sources of your own, something that could let me know what to expect.”