In Your Honor

Monsatis Monestrum: Part Three

Dearest Brother,

Mom and dad say that I won’t be able to see you anymore – and that you might not even want to read the letters I send. They say that you probably hate me now, that you consider us traitors. If you’re not going to read this, I understand. If you tear it up without even looking at it, I can’t blame you. But if you are reading this… please, the first thing I want you to know is that I didn’t choose this. I didn’t want to leave; but I couldn’t let mom and dad go alone. The people here don’t trust us and they still think we might be spies. They’re reading all our letters before taking them out to meet the outriders who’ll carry them along the south. Of course, I can’t tell you where we are or the name of the village where we live now. But I can tell you that it’s a strange land – harsh, but healthy too. It’s a wonder anything can grow in this humidity, but somehow the people here make do.

They’re not evil like you think, Xire. They’re just scared, and what do they know about us? That we’re the enemy. I’d like to convince them that, just the same, I’m not evil like they think. My parents aren’t, either. And you aren’t. We’re all just scared, for ourselves and our homes and our families.

Please write back, some time. I promise I’ll keep writing, every month, until you do. I swear I’ll make peace with you someday.

-From the letters of Luca Buday, dated 240 YT.

242 YT: Outside Etyslund. Eight months before the execution of Marga Zelenko.

Luca tucked the Valer’s leather head-covering into her bag and fastened the clasps on her long, cloak-like thin coat. The fabric, fine-woven, still holding together well despite the climate of the Vale and despite all these years away from the Gaurl Core where it was made. It brushed against her ankles in the light night-time breeze. Luca Buday whispered to Eirchais, who hung to the back of her mind, like ghostly fingers almost dug into her scalp under bleach-streaked curls of hair. The wind stilled for a moment, and she reveled in the momentary silence. She reached into her bag again and placed the old silver necklace over her head, ornamented with red and blue and yellow, rows of tiny lacquered-wood beads. The tightness of the jewelry was a shock to Luca, a familiar feeling once forgotten. She started up the tight, steep road along the very edge of the hill.

Eirchais whispered in the back of Luca’s head: I understand what this means to you, but what if somebody sees you dressed like this? They might think you’re an advance scout.

Inwardly, Luca grunted, indignant and resentful. Half of them already think that. What do I care what they think? Eirchais didn’t have an answer to that. He never really did, but neither did Luca, for that matter.

The path up the hill was tough and as Eirchais’s hold on the wind lightened, the going became tougher. Luca slipped and nearly stumbled, catching herself against the earth with a hand. A clod of dirt broke free and tumbled down the hill, back toward the houses at the very edge of the village. Looking down, it occurred to Luca that the Valers of Etyslund must have had great faith in the hill that overlooked their home. Had they not, it would be foolish to build houses so close to the edge, where an avalanche might spell destruction.

As Luca recovered from her near-fall and continued up the side of the hill, moving a bit to the right so her path was less steep, she grew irritated as she projected her thoughts to Eirchais. You could give me a little more help with this wind, unless you want your Devoted to fall to her death.

Of course I wouldn’t wish such a thing to happen, Eirchais’s nonchalant voice responded. Here, Miss Buday. The wind let up a little bit.

Luca continued her climb. You don’t need to call me that, you know. You’re my Devotee, not my waiter. How long have we known one another?

Why, I have known you since before you were a thought in the minds of your mother and father, Miss Buday. All things become clear in the light of the sun, eventually.

Yes, yes. Luca smiled and laughed aloud. Share with me your knowledge, O Fragment of God.

To be precise, it’s been seven years since we first spoke. And while I appreciate the familiarity, you will always be Miss Buday to me. It’s always been my precious honor to serve alongside your family. Eirchais’ voice sounded almost… sheepish? Luca considered pressing him, but thought better of it. she drew further up the side of the hill, further around, and turned.

Before she could think any words worth projecting directly to Eirchais, Luca saw something that took her breath away and made her clench her teeth in shock, fear, and anger. She touched the drawstrings of the pocket hanging over her stomach and tried to look down at it.

But Luca Buday couldn’t take her eyes away from the pile of scattered rocks and the charred scraps of old paper. The names of her parents, her words of mourning and well-wishing and hopes for the future, lay curled up and consumed by black flame under the rocks.

A few patches of the grass around the remains of her parents’ cairn were charred, but only a few. Around those bits of char and wilted, dehydrated brown, there was bright green grass, untouched by flame. It was the touch of a human hand, the same hand that had scattered the rocks to the six skies.

The hairs on the back of Luca’s neck rose in agitation, and the wind began to pick up. She thought of projecting to Eirchais, to tell him to stop, but she couldn’t steady her breath, couldn’t unclench her jaw or stay the resentment. Luca took her hand away from her pocket, marched up to the spot where rocks had only recently been piled, and kicked at the charred bits of paper. “Ungrateful wretches!” she screamed, only noticing the tears pooling under her eyes when she looked up to the sky and saw the angry orange and black of the early night through a blurry film of water and salt. Luca bent down and picked up one of the largest rocks, turned and threw it overhand toward Etyslund with all the might she could muster, shouting “Eirchais! Make them hurt!

“Ungrateful!”

Luca watched the trajectory of the rock she’d thrown, as it reached its crest and started down toward the village. She saw it disintegrate in midair, felt the direction of the wind change and a slight heat rise in the air around her. Luca, startled, turned to look over her own shoulder.

A Valer woman approached, her short, thin, closed-front leather coat and mid-length skirt giving her silhouette an indistinct quality in the wind. Luca picked up another rock and drew back her arm to throw. “Was it you? Did you do this?” The woman continued to walk towards her.

“They died for you, and this is how you repay them? With dishonor? Mockery?” Luca threw the stone.

The woman stepped closer to Luca, and the stone disappeared inches from her head. Luca looked into the dark, and saw a familiar face. Zelenko, she thought, that’s her name. “Did you destroy this cairn?” Luca shouted.

“No,” the woman said. “I didn’t destroy the cairn. I heard you shouting and thought you might need some help. It’s quite a windy night, isn’t it?” She gestured to Luca. “Perhaps you can calm the winds a little.” Luca didn’t react to that, didn’t consciously reach out to Eirchais, but the winds died down.

The Devotee spoke in her mind: We ought to heed her.

She continued to speak: “I’m Marga Zelenko. You must be Luca, right? I knew your parents, and I promise you I wouldn’t do something so crass as to tear down their cairn. I wouldn’t dishonor my friends so.” Marga bent down and picked up a stone, and carried it to the spot where Luca stood. She set the stone near Luca’s feet, then picked up another and set it against that one.

Luca, caught in her own silence, sniffed and suppressed her tears. She picked up a rock from nearby, carried it to the pile.

For several minutes they worked like that, in silence, until the rocks that hadn’t fallen from the side of the hill were gathered. The new cairn was smaller than the old, with fewer easy slots for the slips of paper Luca wished to place there, but it was a cairn still – built in the Valer Abrist fashion. Luca bent down, on her knees, and Marga stepped away, bowing her head and folding her hands.

Luca drew the slip of paper out of her pocket and read over it, muttering the names and the words under her breath. When she was done, she folded the paper and placed it in among the rocks. The Abrist cairn, and the Solist mourning papers, stood cold and untouched by the flame that must have been set not more than a few days ago.

Marga sat down next to the pile of rocks, next to Luca, muttering some Words under her breath. As she held her cupped and reversed hands up to the rocks, light began to shine through the gaps of her fingers. Luca watched in awe, and the rocks took on a shining quality, reflecting red in the early moonlight.

A shower of sand burst from the air around them as Marga’s words cut off, and the grains whistled and whispered when they fell down along the earth’s slope. Marga sighed. “If anybody else tries to destroy this monument, they’ll be in for a nasty little surprise.” She inched closer to Luca. “I am sorry, and if I knew who did this I would confront them. For the time being, I don’t. But…” Marga leaned in a bit. “You know, we Reapers are known for our tracking abilities.”

Luca giggled a little. Shouldn’t we indulge in a little revenge? I know it’s not right, in the grand scheme, but… She felt Eirchais’s disapproval, tinged with sympathy – the desire to approve even within the refusal.

I would love to take up Mz. Zelenko on her offer, had I no thought for diplomacy. Yet think of what it would mean if we acted in anger and confronted the one who did this. You have few friends, Miss Buday. Best not lose them over a matter that is now done.

Luca wanted to retort, but Eirchais was right. She had few friends in Etyslund. Whose fault was that? She kept that thought to herself.

Marga spoke again. “How have you been getting along, Luca? These past couple of months, I mean. It’s been a while since we’ve seen each other in the orchard.”

“I miss working in the orchard,” Luca said, “But the orchard-master doesn’t like me and I’m tired of listening to him judge my pace so harshly. It’s like he thinks I ought to be a workhorse, while the rest of you may work at a leisurely pace.”

Marga hissed quietly between her teeth. “I ought to reprimand him. He knows better.”

“Well, I’ve been helping out at the tailor’s shop for some time. There’s plenty to do there, so of course I’m not just leeching…” She nearly stumbled over that last word. In spite of all the differences between the Gaurl and Valer tongues, that was one similarity that gave her pause. To “leech” – to be a part of a community, and benefit from its largess, without contributing much – it meant much the same in the Vale as in Gaurlante. The main difference was how communities tended to handle those guilty of “leeching.”

In spite of everything, Luca had no desire to face exile from Etyslund. An unwelcoming home it might be, but it was the only home she had now.

“Oh, I didn’t mean to accuse…” Marga chuckled. “But Luca. How have you really been getting along?” Her voice took on a serious tone, and Luca drew back a bit under her intense scrutiny.

“I manage,” she said in reply. “I’m not starving, I have a roof over my head. That’s better than what a lot of people can say, especially since the war started to get worse in the south. With, you know…” She didn’t finish the sentence, watching Marga’s reaction closely for any signs of offense.

“The Adma, yeah, I know.” Marga shook her head. “A sorry collection of fools alongside people who’ve chosen to abandon all pretense of good conduct.”

Luca laughed nervously. “I take it you don’t think highly of the Adma, then.”

Standing up, Marga held out her arms at her sides in a sort of shrug. “I can’t say I’m in the majority here, but no, I don’t think highly of them. They don’t know what they’re doing.” She took a few steps away from where Luca stood, and glanced down the hill towards Etyslund. “When people are blinded by anger and resentment, they make bad decisions. When people expect nothing from others but hate, they become filled with hate themselves.”

Luca grunted in assent, glancing back at the new cairn they’d built. It still glowed with a very light red sheen in the early night. Luca wondered if it would still be visible come the morning. She began to drift into a comfortable reverie.

Marga’s voice shook her back out of it. “Why not come to the gathering hall with me? There are a few people you can sometimes find there this time of the evening. They’re friends of mine; I’ll introduce you.”

“Are you sure that will be okay?” asked Luca.

“If they’re not okay with you being there, I’ll give them a few choice words.”

Luca fell in step behind Marga and followed her down the longer path from the hill into Etyslund. As they walked, Marga continued to speak.

“You know, Luca, you don’t have to stay here if you don’t want to. I’m sure you miss your family back in Gaurlante, and if you were to return, they might very well let you back in to the Core. You could say everything was your parents’ choice, that you had nothing to do with it. you had no agency at the time, being only a child.”

“I don’t want to,” Luca said. “Maybe they would let me back in. And I do miss my family. My brother, who stayed behind, he still won’t write back to me even after all this time. I suppose he must hate me. He said as much – that he would only forgive me if I served the Invictans. But…” she ran a hand absently along the side of her head, looking out at the line spruce and birch trees separating the village from the rest of the land. “Even if it’s safe, I don’t know what I’m going back to. I don’t know where I ought to be. I could go back to the Core, be a loyal subject of the Empire, maybe even join up in the army. But I don’t know whether I’d be defending Gaurlante against the Adma, or sent to invade the Vale and kill your people. And I can only imagine what my parents would think if I joined the army they turned against. They gave up their lives so that this land could resist it, and…”

“They would expect you to join the army, if you returned?” Marga asked. “I’m sure you could simply go back to a normal life, right?”

“What’s a normal life?” Luca shrugged. “It’s not so bad here, anyway. I wish the people trusted me more, but I can’t blame them for thinking I’m suspicious.” The two turned around the hill and passed by Etyslund’s makeshift gate – Parshir, standing guard, leaned against a small metal table, surface covered in a leather front. His crossbow sat on the table, the tip of a bolt poking a crease into the leather, trigger facing toward Parshir.