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Chapter Sixty-Two



The door to the council room closed. Both Alcuin and Sutaenë sat heavily.

Druadaen watched as Paramon assessed the stunned faces in the room and, eyes bright, recaptured the initiative by moving the inquiry into a new domain of contention. “Outrider, I have a question about the notes you sent back to the Archive Recondite with Captain Firinne. Specifically, it is about a phrase you used in several places. You write that ‘the world is broken.’ Tell me, what do you mean by that?”

Between contempt for the hierarch’s obvious scheming, and the ruin it had just wrought before his eyes, Druadaen was not mindful enough to moderate his tone or his words. “How is it not broken? How is it that, every ten years, the Bent reproduce into yet another Horde? How do giants even move, let alone exist? How do dragons’ wings not tear apart when holding a multi-ton creature aloft? How is it that a world only ten millennia old has fossils that take much longer to form? And how is it that a continent and a people appear out of nowhere?”

Paramon shrugged. “You suspect inconsistencies, witness and measure them, and conclude that our world is broken, rather than seeing them as evidence of miracles.” His tone was so suddenly calm that Druadaen knew a trap was coming. “So, it seems that whatever you presume lies behind these ‘contradictions,’ it is not the power of the gods. Which means you clearly do not believe in them.”

Druadaen did not have to feign a short surprised laugh. “Not believe in the gods? Why, what else but acts of gods could explain such impossibilities?”

“Well, if you do believe in gods, then you are disputing their wisdom and the accounts of creation they have revealed to their consecrants. In short, you are a heretic.”

Druadaen had to keep his suddenly resurgent anger in check. “How can I even be a heretic when no god would have me?” He was suddenly grateful for his old, and oft-repeated, training to become an epiphane. “I was taught that the creedlands only exist because the gods are equal as well as different. And because of that, a person can only be accused of heresy within the confines of their own creed.” He shook his head. “I don’t have one.”

Paramon’s impatience returned in a flash of heated annoyance. “Still, how can you say the world they made is broken, when you admit that the gods have the power to sustain it with their miracles?”

Druadaen shrugged. “Firstly, I do not know that they created the world. All I know is that temples assert it is what their gods told them. But if that is true, then I can only conclude that the gods have little regard for the physical properties and rules that both order and govern their creation. On the contrary, they alter and frustrate its natural laws at every turn.”

Temmaê’s voice was calm, possibly intrigued. “But why would they do such a thing?”

Druadaen nodded. “That question is the root of all my others. Because if the gods made an orderly world only to keep breaking the rules that are the source of that order, then they have, by their own standards, created an intrinsically broken world.”

Sutaenë lifted her chin. “Which is simply one of the ways they strengthen our faith: by leaving such challenges with which we must grapple.”

“Sutaenë, I mean no disrespect, but is that truly a worthwhile test of faith when violations of the natural laws created by those gods are explained away, denied, and even suppressed by their anointed?”

“We suppress nothing!” exclaimed Paramon.

“Then what do you call this forum? Why do so many of the Consentium’s most powerful leaders deem it necessary to summon a single, unremarkable Outrider before them to argue such matters?” Druadaen risked a shrug. “If you had full confidence in your cosmology, and that exceptions to the natural order are simply a test of faith, then you would not hide them. Logically, questions would be embraced as the path whereby belief is expanded, not endangered.”

Olcuissan shook her head, frowning. “You may not be a heretic, possibly not even a nonbeliever, but if not, then your contempt for the gods is profound. And ill-advised.”

Druadaen shook his head. “I cannot have contempt for entities of which I have no personal knowledge. I simply assert that the many contradictions of natural law—extending even unto the origins of our world—are neither adequately addressed nor answered by the gods’ own account of creation. If that account is, in fact, accurate.”

Sutaenë bristled. “And you say you are not a heretic, suggesting that the words of the gods are false?”

“Hierarch Sutaenë, I fear you mistake my meaning. I freely admit I have no idea what the gods have or have not said. Rather, I am posing a different question: Were the gods the source of those accounts, or were they written by nervous hieroxi who noticed the same apparent inconsistencies I have and resolved to explain them away or bury them?”

Paramon’s rage had him spraying spittle. “You call us liars!”

“Not at all,” Druadaen responded mildly. “I am simply pointing out a very basic truth: that not all humans are truthful. Not even those that the gods choose to anoint as their servants.”

Sutaenë’s frown was ominous. “You believe that gods fail to detect such flawed souls during epiphanesis and then consecration? Or that they would fail to correct such misconduct?”

Druadaen met her damning eyes. “Do gods know our future actions? Do they meet their followers in the creedland to correct their errors in belief or deed? On the first matter, I am told the gods have always been silent. On the second, I have never heard of a god speaking to a follower as they dreamwalk.” He paused, studied the silent hieroxi. “But perhaps one of you has experienced otherwise?”

He was answered by utter silence and utter stillness, except for a slow, small grin on Temmaê’s face.

Until Sutaenë—tears starting into her wide, desperate eyes—shouted, “Who are you, to question millennia of faith? This is why consecrants keep such matters to ourselves: look at where your cursed questions have brought us, and what they have wrought! Mirroskye and the Consentium parting ways; it is worse than my worst fears of what could arise from this forum. This is what Tsost-Dyxos wants! Us bickering, our oldest allies walking out the doors that they first built and later bequeathed to us.”

Paramon took that as his cue. “Do you see what you have done, you impudent pup? You are ruining what thousands of years could not!”

“Then it wasn’t very solid to begin with,” Druadaen said with a sigh. “I am but one inconsequential person asking peculiar questions to which almost no one listened. Until they became troublesome. But rather than ignore or tolerate or encourage them, you summoned me here with great urgency.” He shook his head. “It is not my nonbelief or even my investigations that concern you; it is the fear of what might happen if others begin asking the same questions I have.”

Druadaen shrugged. “One person does not have the power to topple a temple…unless it has become so dry and brittle that, with a single push, it is ready to collapse under its own weight.”

No one at the table spoke until Alcuin rose. “Thank you for your forthright statements, Outrider. Please wait outside with the escort.”

* * *

There was no way to keep track of the passing time in the corridor. The many buildings of the Propretorium were designed to be citadels of last refuge as well, so their casement windows admitted little sun on the best of days. But this one was still overcast. Of course.

Druadaen wondered if they were deciding whether to release him, ask him more questions, or arguing over his fate—whatever that might mean in the context of such a strange and unofficial forum as this one. He had almost accepted that he had no reasonable reason for anticipating any outcome more than any other when the door opened and one of the guards asked Druadaen to return.

The faces behind the long table were impassive. Senior officials every one, they had all developed the ability to remain utterly expressionless. They continued doing so until he had once again come to stand behind the small lectern facing them.

Sutaenë stood, tilted her chin a little higher before she spoke. “Druadaen, son of Tarthenex. Your questions, investigations, and opinions clearly demonstrate that you reject the authority of the temples of the Helper pantheon, as well as the theology and cosmology that is their foundation, and for which the acts of living gods stand as daily proof. Indeed, you have turned your back upon all creeds. So now they must turn their backs upon you.”

You mean, a second time? he wanted to ask, but didn’t.

“Accordingly,” she continued, “insofar as you do not recognize the powers or prerogatives of Dunarra’s temples, nor profess allegiance to or membership in any of them, you must be deemed a person who is unwilling to ensure their welfare when acting in the name of the Consentium. As such, we are formally petitioning the secular authorities to immediately suspend your status and rights as an Outrider, as well as any other official position or capacity with which you have been entrusted. This measure is adopted pending your final and irrevocable dismissal from national service.”

Druadaen managed not to blink in surprise. Clearly, this had been a forum in name only; having become a bone of contention between Dunarra’s religious and secular authorities, his own fate hung in the balance.

As Sutaenë sat and Alcuin stood, he wondered just how ferocious this fight was going to get.

Alcuin cleared his throat. “It is the opinion of the representatives of the Propretoriate here present that Outrider Druadaen has committed no offense against the Consentium or any other power. Furthermore, we reassert that he has the same rights as any citizen, including full freedom regarding his religious practice and affiliation, including nonbelief.”

It was a reassuring start, but there was something creeping into Alcuin’s tone, something too much like…regret?

“However, insofar as our society is made stable by the harmonious synergy of both secular and divine power, and insofar as the particular activities of Outrider Druadaen would cause especial and profound strife between those two institutions, the Propretoriate is, effective immediately, resolved to release you from service. With great regret.”

Druadaen managed not to sway but could barely keep track of the flowing words as the shock moved through him.

“Since this matter is not being resolved in a court or other official hearing, you may contest it. However, I must warn you that the Propretoriate does not encourage nor welcome a challenge to this decision and would look unfavorably upon it. The secular powers of Dunarra cannot safely reject or ignore the deepest concerns of the divine, and we have agreed to this resolution as a singular accommodation to their singular level of concern.

“We do, however, encourage you to pursue any other profession you may choose within Dunarra. Your various commanders, as well as the Propretoriate representatives here present, shall be pleased to support those pursuits with letters of recommendation. You will be recorded as having served the Consentium with honor, high merit, and in a fashion befitting of an exemplary citizen.”

Paramon allowed a smile to creep up the corners of his mouth. “About that citizenship.”

Alcuin, who had been halfway into his seat, frowned, stood again. “What about it?”

“I am afraid,” the hierarch explained, “that he was never a citizen.”

Alcuin’s frown was as intense and dangerous and worried as his voice. “What do you mean?” But it was Temmaê’s reaction which turned Druadaen’s stomach hard and cold: she closed her eyes and put her fingertips to her smooth forehead.

Druadaen didn’t know how, but he was suddenly quite sure that his was a lost cause.

“Well,” explained Paramon, “when the Outrider’s name came up in connection with all three Tsost-Dyxos attacks, we discovered that his parents were not, in fact, Dunarran. It was not by chance that they dwelt in Connæar, although it seems they never swore fealty to her king, either. Which means they also lacked status as citizens of that protectorate. So their son was, and still is, as unattached as they were.”

“But…but I have served the Consentium as a citizen!” Druadaen blurted out before he was even aware he was going to do so.

“Under false pretenses,” amended Paramon.

“But I did not know!”

“That is a moot point. Your service does not make you a citizen, particularly retroactively.” Paramon turned and smiled broadly at Alcuin. “Did you not wonder why we so quickly abandoned our demands that he be banished? Or worse?” The hierarch shrugged, turned away from Alcuin’s silent, fuming stare. “Now, there is not even a need to formally banish you, young sir. We merely demand that the secular authorities promptly enforce what they should have long ago; revoke what was always your provisional status as a citizen of Dunarra.”

Druadaen straightened. “Your authority is religious, not secular. You cannot dictate matters of citizenship!”

Paramon looked at him, almost amused. “Can’t we?”

Druadaen looked to Alcuin—and in that moment, and in Alcuin’s anguished, rageful expression he read a crushing truth that he had never thought to encounter in Dunarra: that even here, justice, rights, and promises are all dispensable when the fate of an individual is the price to be paid for the unity of a nation.

Druadaen felt a chill run out from his shoulders and down his spine. “So, is it the temples that rule in Dunarra, now?” he asked the room. Then he stared at Alcuin. “And are priests now autocrats, presumed to have the support of what is supposed to be a voting citizenry? Am I the only one who sees the paradox—not to say ‘contradiction’—in this?” He stepped toward Alcuin.

He heard the escort moving behind him.

Alcuin waved them to stop. “I am sorry, Druadaen. This is my fault. I was unaware of the details regarding your parents.”

“And apparently,” Paramon said, “young Outriders are not the only ones who can conduct detailed research. Just as comparatively young secular leaders are not the only ones who can exert influence beyond the normal limits of their office.”

“I’ll apply for citizenship,” Druadaen muttered. “Certainly I can—”

“Certainly you cannot,” Paramon almost gloated as Sutaenë stared at her colleague in frank disgust. “There is a law against it, in these specific circumstances.”

Druadaen frowned, fought against the feeling that his head was starting to spin. “What is he talking about?”

Olcuissan looked straight forward as he explained. “It is an obscure code that dates to the end of the First Consentium. When Dunarra retracted, thousands of people who’d worked with it, or served it as military auxiliaries, begged to become citizens. The numbers were too great. So an ordinance was passed that excluded prior service as a factor in considering requests for citizenship.”

“Well,” Druadaen muttered, casting about for a solution. “I can make my request without reference to my prior service. I can still apply. Just as I am.”

“You need persons to speak for you, young former Outrider,” Paramon pointed out. “And if anyone should happen to make a personal recommendation against your application—well, I’m told that makes the outcome very uncertain and very, very lengthy.” Paramon smiled. “But do try! I’m sure you’ll be rejected in no more than five years’ time. Well, perhaps seven.”

Peripherally seeing Alcuin’s head sag, Druadaen knew that Paramon was neither lying nor exaggerating. “Where…where shall I go?” he wondered aloud.

“Not our business,” Paramon said, “and you must depart the Waiting House within the day, now that your status has been determined. You came on a ship? Good. You probably haven’t unpacked yet, so with any luck you can be on one tonight. Or sleep in the foreigners’ quarter. Or the streets.”

Paramon stood, every other eye in the room burning into him. If he noticed, he gave no sign. Still in high spirits, he said, “Well, Sutaenë, do call an end to this dreadful forum! I’m late for lunch.”


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