“Take it.” He smacked the mysterious weapon hard against the Inquisitor’s open palm. “And hope these rebels don’t have too many more of these.”
“That is doubtful, Lord Protector. Fortress seems to like annoying us by letting some of their craft out into the Law-abiding world, but they are too insular, too isolated, and the rebellion too poor to actively trade.” He took the device by the wooden handle. His eyes could be seen through the holes in his mask, and he seemed impressed by the thing. “We’ve found these before, but never one so compact. This would be easy for a rebel to conceal…Now, may I ask what brings you all the way out here?”
“It is none of your concern. I have other Protectors already on assignment in this region. Do you know their current location?”
“I do not. I can send for—”
“That will not be necessary.” Devedas began walking away.
“May I inquire if you are here searching for Ashok Vadal?”
Devedas didn’t bother to answer. He knew his former brother better than anyone else alive. From what he’d seen today, if Ashok had truly joined with the rebellion, he wouldn’t allow this carnage to continue unopposed. Anything Ashok considered a crime he would be compelled to stop. The object of his devotion might have changed, but Ashok never would.
The Inquisitor called after him. “Ashok Vadal hasn’t been seen for months. He could be hundreds of miles away.”
It wouldn’t matter if it was a thousand, Devedas knew that Ashok would be drawn here soon enough.
Chapter 4
The wild men of the swamp marked the end of the year with a vast bonfire.
As spring had drawn near, every member of the tribe had constructed for themselves a little doll out of hide, sticks, and vines. Each doll was given a name, like returned from the hunt without a kill, or fell asleep on watch, or failed to tend the crop. Then on the night they called Dahan the entire village took turns tossing their dolls into the great fire. Together, they watched their guilt and failings blacken and twist into ash.
The many other lands that Ashok Vadal had visited had all celebrated the arrival of spring with festivals of color, singing and dancing, feasting and drinking, but this outcast tribe kept their own odd tradition, which they claimed was based on a ceremony that predated the Age of Law.
Religious rites were forbidden. Such a brazen display of Law breaking would have angered him a year ago, but since this isolated people had scraped out an existence in the unforgiving swamps of Bahdjangal, where demons prowled the fog, only a few miles from the shores of hell, the bonfire seemed appropriate.
It made a certain sense that a grim people would hold a grim celebration.
“Where’s your doll, Ashok?” Thera asked, as the two of them watched the spectacle from a polite distance away. “If anyone has some sins to get rid of, surely it’s you.”
There weren’t sticks and vines sufficient in the world to build a doll big enough to absorb all his transgressions, nor a fire hot enough to burn them away. He would have to build an army of sin takers, and give them names like casteless who unwittingly claimed honors beyond his station and murderer of honorable men. Yet Ashok would never give up those burdens. He’d own them until death, because forgiveness was a myth. However, the two of them had many conversations while wintering here, so he knew Thera meant no offense. Blunt and abrasive speech was simply her nature.
“I have no use for foolish superstition. Where is yours, Thera?”
“I’m a criminal. What would I know about guilt? It’s you Law-abiding types who are constantly plagued with it, not me.”
“Guilt is the natural result of violating the Law. It is a warning that we have strayed from our place.”
“You keep telling yourself that, Ashok. Most of the Law is just smug proclamations from men who think they’re better than everyone else. You often still sound as much the religious fanatic as Keta, only your god is made of paper.”
“And yours is made of glowing noise.”
She snorted. “Fair.” Though one of the old forgotten gods had chosen her to be his prophet, Thera wasn’t particularly devout. In fact, she didn’t care for her god at all. It was an odd combination. “Regardless, these folks seem to take some comfort and strength from the spectacle.”
The tribe of swamp dwellers had pledged themselves to Thera and joined her rebellion. “They will need to be strong. Yet they’ve managed to survive in this inhospitable place, trapped between wizards and demons for a very long time. However illegal their customs, I cannot deny their effectiveness.”
“Maybe I should’ve made a doll…” A deep melancholy grew in Thera’s voice, and he suspected she’d have named hers led many fools to their demise. “But I don’t think I could’ve stitched together one with these hands.”
Ashok glanced over. She had her arms crossed and her hands tucked inside her coat. Most people would have taken her stance to mean that she was simply chilled and trying to keep her extremities warm. A reasonable assumption, given that even at the edge of spring this place was still wretchedly damp, and they were too far away to receive any warmth from the bonfire, but Ashok knew that stance had become a habit for Thera so she could hide her damaged hands from view.
He struggled with the concept of kindness, but never with honesty. “Severe burns take a long time to heal, and then rarely heal completely. You’ve recovered far better than I expected when I first saw your injuries. Wielding the Forgotten’s magic charred your palms so badly you are fortunate your fingers still work at all.”
“Yeah, lucky me.”
They went back to watching the ceremony in silence. The villagers had painted their faces, but unlike the bright and colorful festivals in the rest of Lok, the only pigments available here were black, white, and the grays in between. Their clothing was dark furs and tattered weavings, better to blend in with the hanging moss of their decaying swamp. They played simple instruments, drums and flutes, as the tribe’s headman, Toramana, called each of his people forward to burn what troubled them. Ashok noticed that while most of his troops were watching from the sides as he was, a few of the Sons of the Black Sword had joined in with the villagers and made their own sin dolls.
The Somsak especially seemed to have an affinity to the Wild Men. One group was from the mountains and the other the swamp, but both were barbaric in their nature. In this place, the Somsak had found a kinship. Perhaps long ago their houses had been distant cousins? On the other hand, the Sons of the Black Sword who hailed from the great houses of Thao, Kharsawan, and Akershan seemed to be uncomfortable with the whole thing. They came from lands where an open show of faith in illegal gods would bring a swift death sentence from the Inquisitors or Ashok’s old Order. So they were used to practicing their beliefs in secret, not with giant pillars of fire. Their prayers were whispers, not beaten on drums.
“You know, I think Toramana is telling the truth and this ceremony really did come from the Forgotten back in the old days,” Thera muttered.
Ashok looked toward her again, but her face was lost in the shadows beneath her hood. “Why do you say that?”
“It’s his style. I was a vessel for his failures, and then he threw me in a fire to burn up…” She pulled her hands from her coat, slowly unclenched her fists, and stared at her scarred palms. “I’m merely the doll.”