The Crimson League (The Herezoth Trilogy) (63 page)

“Not always sound,” said Kora. “If I hadn’t eavesdropped on your brother that day Kansten died….”

“Eavesdropping was my stroke of brilliance.”

“And I went along with it. It came down to me, in the end. I cost us four lives.”

Lanokas sighed. “After three years of tension rising around him, Hune crumpled. He was crushed, is what he was. That was no one’s fault, not yours, and not his. Not his either, I realize that now. The personal responsibility he felt…. I wouldn’t have lasted half as long, not in those circumstances. He resisted self-destructing for as long as he could. He wasn’t unbending by nature, and I refuse to think him sincere in what he said to Laskenay.”

“I don’t hold his parting words against him. I prefer to remember the Menikas from my first days with the League, the one who helped me accept that I had powers.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“You don’t remember the two of you finding me in the washroom? When everyone was sleeping?” Lanokas said he didn’t: at least, he didn’t recall his brother being there. “That’s funny. I remember it vividly.” Kora paused. “I remember it all, everything we lived through, everything I saw with that cursed necklace. That necklace, Lanokas…. After all the plans Zalski held for my brother, to think Zac and I will teach his nephew, his own blood….”

“It’s the ultimate revenge.”

“I don’t know about all that. It’s certainly ironic. I admit, I’m glad the boy looks nothing like him. At least, he didn’t before.”

“He doesn’t,” said Lanokas. “And if he did, you’d see his mother in him. You’ll see pieces of Laskenay as it is. His temperament’s like hers. He’s quiet, but with a marked presence. He’s less cultured, more direct when he does speak, but that’s to be expected with his upbringing—which I’m not judging, I swear to you. Laskenay entrusted him to the right person. I can’t help but think something led us to Teena when we fled Podrar without any strategy, any set destination. Panthers and snakes, perhaps.” Kora froze in her seat. “I tell my sons that story, you know. Valkin likes it particularly. He’s my oldest.”

“Your oldest,” Kora repeated. “Are you…. Are you certain I can’t get you anything?”

“In all honesty, I’ve stayed longer than I should have.”

“I don’t know how you made time to come here in the first place. I wish you could stay longer, though. To see Zacry. You wouldn’t recognize him. He’s twenty-three and getting married in the fall, to a sweet girl, one I just adore. I’ll tell him you enjoy his writings. He’ll appreciate that.”

“As will I. Your telling him, that is.”

“Before you go, Lanokas, I just, I want to say….”

“Thank you.” They spoke in unison, rising together.

“For saving me from that mob.”

“For not loathing me.”

“As though I could ever loathe you.”

“I wish I could have met your children.”

Was that why he had come by day? But he had not known about her family, had he?

“Me too,” she said. “Me too, I’d love for you to see them. Our timing always was dreadful, wasn’t it?”

“That it was,” said Lanokas. Kora walked him to the door. He kissed her on the cheek, and she embraced him. They said their goodbyes, the obligatory I-won’t-forget-yous (though not quite in those words) which they had not been able to exchange before, and were making their way down the walk when they spied Zacry, leading Kansten by the hand and holding two-year-old Wilhem in his second arm. Walten walked ahead with a stick he was banging on the ground. Zacry stopped short when he set eyes on the king; his niece had to pull him forward. She gazed skeptically up at the stranger.

“Who’re you?”

Kora patted the girl’s head. “This is an old friend of Mommy’s and Uncle Zac’s.”

That merited Kansten’s stamp of approval. She ceased her scrutiny and said hello. Zacry let go of her hand to shake that of Lanokas with a “What in God’s name took you so long?”

Kora whacked her brother upside the head. Lanokas smiled, stifling a laugh, and told her, “I should be able to send Vane to you in a couple of days.”

“Vane?” said Zacry. He shifted the toddler to his other arm. “Laskenay’s Vane?”

“I’ll explain in a minute,” Kora told him. “Lanokas can’t stay.”

“That’s a shame.”

Lanokas said, “It is a shame. At least I can tell you congratulations on the wedding. How much longer?”

“Two months.”

“Don’t let family life disrupt your essays. We’re all awaiting the next one back in Herezoth, even those who burn them after reading. They’re brilliantly argued, Zac.”

“Thanks. Thanks a lot.”

“You take care of yourself. You too, Kora.”

Kora put a hand on the king’s shoulder. “I’m doing just fine.” They hugged one last time, Lanokas shook Zacry’s hand again as Walten walloped the king with his stick and Kora pulled the weapon away—“You should see my calf,” said the boy’s uncle—and Kora, her brother, and her children all watched Lanokas until he shrank from sight. All but Walten, that is: he was reaching for the leafless branch that his mother held out of reach.

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SECOND EPILOGUE

Legacy

The professor was a young man with rounded glasses and an air of confidence he mostly faked. Some of his students, aged eighteen to twenty, got routinely sucked into his passion for history, for passionate he could be. The great benefit of this—to their manner of thought—was that class seem to last less time than the two hours assigned to it. Ten minutes remained of the current lesson, and the professor walked up and down the narrow aisles between desks, distributing papers.

“I’d like to finish our unit on the dictatorship four hundred years ago with the words of one of the major actors in those events, a woman who was born just outside this very village.”

“Kora Porteg?” said a boy. His instructor nodded. “I’ve seen her grave in Traigland. She’s famous over there too. Her epitaph calls her a patriot of two homelands.”

“We’ll discuss what she might say about that after we read her first publication. Her book’s a different work completely, and I highly recommend it. Zacry Porteg’s
Collected Essays
on the Magical Nature
, I remind you,
are required for Monday.” The professor looked at his watch. “You’ve all seen Kora’s statue outside Town Hall. You know her story, so I won’t bore you with it. Imagine, after fighting long and hard to restore order to the land, to restore the monarchy—there were no well-formed ideas of democracy back then, and the royal line did govern more or less with justice—imagine, after all of that, you’re forced into exile by the king, sitting on a ship watching your country’s coastline shrink for what you suspect will be the final time. So what do you do? You write a letter you’ll send to a handful of papers in Herezoth, hoping to set the record straight. Hoping to improve relations between the magical community and the rest of society after Zalski’s regime destroyed them completely. Hoping at least one editor might let you plead your case and not toss the letter in the trash bin. And one didn’t, only one: the local paper in Fontferry. Once they printed her address, people began to talk. Word spread, until finally the major papers distributed the missive. Their readers were demanding it.” The professor placed a paper on the final student’s desk and caught the eye of the girl who sat there. “Kora, it seems appropriate you do the honors. Will you read, please?”

I consider myself, and will always consider myself, a loyal subject of Herezoth’s rightful king. I’m proud to be one of my nation’s proud people, but not so proud I would refuse to resign myself to Herezoth’s wishes, or to the king’s orders when he sets himself in line with them. Herezoth, you have nothing to fear from me and never will. There are many things said about me, some contradictory, some outright lies, but the truth is I was born without the sorcerer’s mark. The midwives of Hogarane who delivered me are still alive and will testify to that. The truth is I joined the resistance without suspecting I had magical abilities. I discovered them searching for a spellbook that we, the Crimson League, loyal to the royal family, wanted to hide from Zalski Forzythe. I have only one witness to this, but one I trust the people will believe: the king himself.

The solemn, honest truth is that I never planned to tear down the sorcerer just to put myself in his place. Such an aim would violate all sense of patriotism. All sense of decency. It would rightly be condemned. I admit I grew to embrace my magic—how else could I protect myself from an army backed with your stolen wealth? How else could I have challenged Zalski? I’m eighteen, a woman, and from the country. I had no weapons training of any sort. I was naïve, I think, horribly naïve, but when I joined the Crimson League my hope was nothing more than to live to see the king upon his throne. I was fortunate enough to receive what I wanted, and I believe that exile is small cost. My deeds, if you judge me honestly, will show I was willing to pay much more.

Those deeds won’t be proof enough for some. Perhaps for most. They’re the only evidence I can offer of my loyalty besides humbly accepting my lot, which I fully intend to do. I don’t apologize for other things I’ve done, because I know I acted rightly, or at least I tried to. Zalski was a man full of hatred, inexcusable hatred whatever its source was, and my father raised me to believe that hatred should not be tolerated. My mother enforced the lesson through example. If I have one regret, it’s this: I should have entered the fight sooner, but I waited, I waited until circumstances gave me little other choice. Like many, I was frightened. What reason did I have to be confident or ambitious? I was no one, I was unknown, I wasn’t born into a family of any name like Zalski was.

You have my defense before you, though I can’t say for certain why I’m writing this. I suppose I feel that I deserve some small chance to defend myself, and more, that you’re my fellow citizens and deserve to hear my version of events, if you can bring yourselves to listen. My story is unique. It may or may not be worth telling, but I know it’s being told. I can’t offer perfect proof of my loyalty or honest goals. But then, no soul living or dead can prove me a traitor, I swear that on the flag of my homeland, my Herezoth.

“Good,” said the professor. The girl named Kora fell silent. One of her classmates was sitting with his eyes closed and his head propped up with his hand; the instructor slammed his palms on the boy’s desk, and the student jolted. As though nothing had happened, the professor then directed himself to the entire class.

“Is the letter moving?” he asked. A handful of females and two or three boys nodded. “Why, Ryan?”

“I don’t know,” said the boy to the sleeper’s left. “It just is.” Some of his classmates snickered.

“The style, son, the style. The simplicity of it. The conversationality.”

“It’s rather informal,” offered Kora.

“Exactly. The use of contractions, the comma splice, it almost seems as though she’s speaking to a family member at parts. Some scholars think it’s manipulative, feigned. I personally think she didn’t know how to write another way. Records show her level of formal education was little more than minimal. Either way, it’s a masterful piece of rhetoric.”

“Did it work?” asked Ryan.

“Pardon?”

“Did it work? Did it change what people thought of her?”

“During her life, to some small extent. Opinion became more mixed. It helped her case that the king and midwives verified her claims about the spellbook and the sorcerer’s mark. After death, when it was indisputable she never sought to return home, the vast majority gave her the benefit of the doubt. It wasn’t until the next century that the culture as a whole considered her a hero and condemned their forebears, whom they believed had wronged her.

“Well, that’s all for today. We’ll continue tomorrow.” The students began throwing papers and notebooks in their backpacks. “For homework, I want to you think about that letter. Analyze it. That means finish reading it, since there are only two pages left. Porteg explains her personal history in greater detail: how it happened she didn’t have the mark, how a ruby attached to her forehead, how she took up with the Crimson League. Read it all and write a reaction of about a page. What devices does she use to form her argument? What doesn’t
she say, and what difference does that make? Does she convince you? What are the strengths, the weaknesses of her approach? How could she have argued her case more effectively?

“This assignment does have a purpose beyond annoying you. It’ll prepare you to analyze Zacry Porteg’s essays at the end of term, so spend time with his writings. They can teach you how to think, how to deconstruct the garbage people like me throw at you all day long. His structure’s masterful, simply masterful. He leaves no counterargument standing.”

Some students jotted down a note about the assignment, while others decided to trust their memory.  Kora was one of those who pulled out a planner, and she was the last in the room, besides the professor. He stood at his desk organizing his papers, markers, and books.

“Dr. Markson?” He glanced up from the task at hand. “I brought something from home you might want to see. Considering the unit we’re on….”

She handed him a man’s gold ring, with an engraving somewhat faded but still identifiable. “You might recognize the crest.”

“That’s the crest of the kings. The Phinnean line. Is this authentic?”

“My grandfather had it authenticated years ago.”

“Are you descended?”

“Not from the royals. From Zacry Porteg. The story’s that Rexson gave it to him during the dictatorship.”

“
During…
? They knew each other
during
the dictatorship? The king knew your namesake, obviously—they fought together—but Zacry would’ve been young, very young.”

“Twelve or thirteen, if my father’s right. That’s what been passed down, but I’m sure the facts were distorted.”

“Fascinating. Simply fascinating, that’s not in any book I’ve seen. By all accounts Rexson and Zacry Porteg never knew each other before the Magic Council.” Dr. Markson studied Kora curiously, hungrily, yet hesitant to ask the question she knew was burning him.

“I
am
a sorceress,” she said. “I have no mark.”

“When are you joining the Magic Court?”

“Next year. You have to be twenty, right?”

“I’m a member myself. A non-magic member, my specialty of study qualifies me. An ingenious project of Rexson’s son, not just to resuscitate the old Court but to do it with half magicked members, half non. His aspirations did just as much to stabilize relations as Zacry’s essays and Vane Unsten’s school. Your ancestor, of course, is as famous for being Vane’s teacher as for his writings. Kora’s book helped too, have you read it?”

“I have. It’s an easy read, like her letter. It’s honest. She didn’t have access in Traigland to all the documents she needed, and when that’s the case, she admits it.”

“She’s not entirely honest,” said Dr. Markson. “She wanted to validate magic in the public mind by explaining its past, that’s what she proposes in her preface. Well, the king was beloved. The people were content and his power secure by the time Porteg wrote her book, more than secure. How better to validate magic, then, than to reveal Rexson’s telekinesis?
But she never mentions the magic thread that ran through the royal line
. She had to have known about it, from the days of the resistance. That’s a question I’ve always found intriguing. I imagine there’s a story there.”

“If there is we’ll never know.”

“Very true, that. Very true…. Do you have any family in the Court?”

“My father. Harry Dant.”

“I didn’t realize Harry Dant was your father.”

“It’s a common last name. Well, I have to go, I have another class.”

Dr. Markson passed back her heirloom, but only after he looked it over again from four or five different angles. “Twelve years old, you said?”

“If it’s true,” Kora told him. “Personally, I doubt it is. The ring’s genuine enough, but why would Rexson give it to Zacry as a boy?”

“You think he gave it to Kora? Or that she stole it somehow?”

“I’m not sure…. I really need to go.”

“I’ll see you next class,” said Dr. Markson. “Thanks for letting me see that ring.”

Kora slipped the ring in her bag with a smile. “I thought you’d appreciate it.”

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