Penumbra - Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fourteen
“They said they would consider it!” The furious bellow could be heard from the top of the townhouse to the depths of the sub-basement.
The day had been a disappointment. From the moment he had risen and boarded the floater, wrapped in a hooded cloak that covered his uniform and distinctive hair so that the people on the streets would not recognize him, to the time he was admitted to the Council chamber after an irritatingly long wait, nothing had gone as he expected.
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When he entered the chamber and stood before the smug men and women smugly ensconced within their sacerdotal robes, he became painfully aware that he presented a less than convincing figure - a half-mechart half-man leaning on a cane, peering through wire-framed spectacles, still pale from his prolonged hospitalization. A sudden, sickening loss of confidence jolted him when he recalled Naufrage telling him that his days as a Warrior were over and he wondered just what he thought he was doing here in front of this jury and before a judge who had already handed down his decision. There was a certain futility in declaring his intention to return to active combat, insisting upon his suitability as a Warrior, pleading for permission to be what he still felt himself to be before this panel of skeptics. Nevertheless he drew his dwindling self-possession about him and prepared to make as good a case as he could.
“I have heard you don’t believe I’m ready to resume my position at the head of the Cadre. But I can see no other reason for you to have spent all this effort and money on my restoration unless you intend me to continue as a leader to your armies. If I do not return to your service, you have wasted both time and treasure.”
Naufrage himself deigned to respond. “First, let me express the sentiments of the entire Lamasoni - we are delighted to see you well enough to move easily about the city and hope that you are finding the current facilities we have supplied adequate for your needs. Few would have believed, seeing you as you were a short four months ago that you would be standing before us today declaring yourself ready to resume your office at our command. We were not mistaken in your courage and strength and should there be anything else at all you require, please don’t hesitate to let us know. Our resources are yours and we are united in our wish for your complete recovery. However, we are also unanimous in believing that it is much too early for you to take up the rigorous duties of military service. We had hoped that you would be willing to assist us in certain diplomatic and patriotic venues until your physical condition has bettered.”
“What sort of diplomatic and patriotic duties have you in mind?” He could be mild when it was wise although he was unable to prevent a whisper of sarcasm from creeping into his voice.
“We can discuss that later when you’ve had more time to mend. Remember, you’ve only been out of the hospital for a month and are still considered to be recuperating. I’ve spoken to Nolex and the other surgeons. They won’t sign off on you for some time yet. Truly, Anjh, we sincerely appreciate and value your wish to be of service to our causes but you must be sensible.” Naufrage was wearing his stern but loving father persona.
“At least, give me some idea of when you’ll be willing to think about permitting me to go back where I belong. I am not and will not be content to vegetate in this manner much longer; complete physical recovery is not required for the resumption of headquarters duties,” he was insistent.
“Have you not at least considered that you might retire - what’s it called ... Volteflame? - instead of continuing to be a Warrior?” Normath had always prided himself on his blunt, no nonsense manner of expressing his views.
Anjh gritted his teeth and forced himself to speak softly, “The word is Voltefase and, no, I have not seriously considered it at this time.”
“I suppose I should have made this clearer when we spoke earlier,” Naufrage said with the slow heaviness of authority. “But I wanted you to reach this conclusion for yourself ... Anjh, face the facts - you are older now than your father was when he died and he was an old man by the standards of our armies. You have passed the time when most of your race make the choice to practice a profession other than warring; you are a veteran by any measurement a Warrior might use. It is time for you to gracefully accept this and prepare for a more rewarding, less strenuous life.”
Caught off-balance by the bluntness of the statement, Anjh was momentarily silenced.
Diranda smiled at him with her Lilar charm, “Dear Anjh, you are so loyal and brave. Do you think that we require you to give your life - again - for your country? We were all so happy to have the opportunity to, as you say, restore you that...”
“I know; I saw the discs,” he interrupted dryly.
“We had intended to offer them to you when we thought you were ready,” Naufrage intervened. “Such images are perhaps not the best viewing for a man in your still guarded condition. I have some far less gruesome recordings made after the final surgeries that might be more pleasant for you to see.”
Anjh looked sharply at the older man. This could only mean that their last meeting in that dismal room had been recorded and Naufrage was threatening to publicize it. Why was he using such tactics so early in this conference?
“I am grateful for your concern, Ombrios,” he replied with elaborate courtesy. “But I am hoping your response will leave me little time for such personal entertainment. I’m eager to return to the practice of the profession for which I have been preparing all my life. In spite of what you perceive as my advanced age, I feel I still have something to offer in that line.”
“I’m sure you feel that way; you’ve always been remarkable in your courage and willingness to take risks for the sake of your duty. However, in this case you must permit us our own version of honor - how can we be asked to send into battle a man who is still suffering from the results of the last time we did such a thing?”
Anjh argued; the Council soothed. He raged and threatened; they temporized. At the end, he brought his cane crashing down on the huge table before them, splitting it into several parts and sending the Lamasoni scrambling for safety, grateful that it was a stick in his hand and not a sword.
“There’s your proof of my fitness,” he shouted into the awed silence as he struggled to retain his balance. “Now, let me go back to the world I belong in - the one you interfered with when you took it upon yourselves to do what you did with me!”
The Ombrios, sheltering behind the largest remaining portion of the table raised an authoritative hand, “This must stop at once. Anjh, you’re acting like a madman. We’ve never doubted your strength; it’s your health and future that continues to concern us and this kind of behavior doesn’t do a thing to convince us that you are, in fact, well enough both physically and mentally to resume your service to the state on the battlefield. On the contrary, it raises serious questions about your fitness to command even from behind the lines. Don’t make this worse by forcing me to point out the other reasons you aren’t ready - the ones you won’t admit.”
The thrust and content of Naufrage's words pulled Anjh up short, reminding him again of their earlier encounter and what the older man could do if he wished. He had not intended to let his temper loose before the Council; it was counter-productive in the extreme. Bitterly aware that he had just lost his plea to be reinstated in his former position and could blame only himself, he glared around the room, spearing each Lamason in turn with his eyes in order to disguise his defeat.
The Ombrios laid a consoling hand on his shoulder, “Go home and be patient a little longer, lad. You have my word we’ll consider what you’ve said. Convalesce in peace for just a little while longer; it will do no harm to regain more of yourself. We’ll take advice from your Healers and think long and hard about what you’ve said. It is possible that you’re right and we’re wrong in our assessment of your abilities and I, at least, do not discount your sense of your own condition... But there is one thing that would be a reassurance to me and help persuade me of your good judgment - will you give me your word that you will make no effort to return to the War without our permission? I have no wish to tie your hands but I don’t like to think of your taking such a step without discussing all the ramifications with me if not the entire Council. Most of all, I have no wish to see you injured and immobilized again.”
Since Naufrage had faced him down in the hospital room, Anjh had been wary of the man, knowing all too well the raw power that lay hidden behind the genial facade. However, even with his special knowledge, he was surprised at the bald threat the smooth voice insinuated; the Ombrios knew far too well how the shameful memory of being drugged and fettered still festered within him. So this was how Naufrage intended to force him to accept yet another renegotiation of their agreement. He judged that the Ombrios would not hesitate to further humiliate him in front of the entire Council or, for that matter, all Junonia if he continued to push his demands. This was not a man who played games only for his own amusement.
“Can we discuss this later, in private?” he choked out, ruing the advantage he had lost by displaying his anger.
Naufrage smiled with surpassing sweetness, “I’m afraid my time is pretty well filled for the next several weeks and I would really like to think that we understand one another before I am forced to immerse myself in government affairs.”
“I understand you well, Ombrios. And I will await your word before I act.” Anjh perceived he had no choice but to acquiesce.
“Thank you, Anjh. That is a great relief to me.” Naufrage patted the shoulder under his hand.
Not trusting himself to avoid another confrontation if he stayed any longer and with renewed awareness of the warnings given him and the demands closing about him, Anjh turned abruptly, shrugging off the mocking comfort and limped as rapidly as possible toward the lift and the floater home.
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In the heart of Aleofane, in the suddenly quiet Council room, Lamason Caffolas smirked to himself, grateful that he had not yet broached the subject of using this dangerously unstable man as his cat’s paw in the Pit of Archaos matter. He would have been almost certainly turned down by his fellows who seemed unnaturally protective of the creature. Now, after this demonstration of ingratitude and obstinacy, he had a much better chance to advance his argument. He would point out that if Anjh were truly what he seemed, a Thanamant, - Caffolas hugged himself deliriously as he mentally sucked on the naughty word - he might as well be made use of on his way to extinction. Destroying the thing in the cave would be a heroic - even a legendary - feat, one of those deeds that minstrels sang about and that passed into folklore. He could almost hear the ballads now: how the half-human, half-mechart demigod, resurrected for this specific purpose, descended into the depths of the Underworld alone (of course one would leave out the rest of the Zealots) and, after surmounting various trials (to be filled in later), met the Daemon of the Cave, slew the monster and in slaying, was slain. Why, sung by a moderately decent tenor, it would be enough to make strong men weep on the streets and weak men compose poetry. There would be statues and tributes and women would pledge their virtue to his memory... Carried away by his imaginings, Caffolas stumbled over a piece of the table and was unceremoniously propelled back into reality. Still smirking and rubbing his bruises, he wandered off to bludgeon his arguments into a shape that would convince the more tough minded of his brethren who were not swayable by fantasy. And to hatch a plan to snatch the Prydain from under the promise the Ombrios had forced from him.
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“Why do you want to go back to war?” Jaithlym was curled up on the divan in the sitting room, nibbling at one of the pastries sent up for their refreshment. “It seems to me that you’ve done enough in that line.”
“You know I’m Prydain; we fight.” The man standing in the door to the balcony turned partly toward her.
“You also teach, govern and do other things. I’ve studied a little bit about your culture, enough to know that you aren’t barbarians, that you do a lot more than butcher Ferals.”
“When we’re ready, we leave the field; I’m not ready.”
“Prydain also leave the field when they are too old to fight well or when they’re too badly injured. Not even Prydain are required to keep on fighting until they die. I looked it up in that big reference book downstairs.” She was smug. “Surely, you’ll agree that you qualify under the injury exception. Can you think of any other man who has survived what you have and kept on fighting?”
“I can’t even think of another human who has been forced to survive what I have, fighter or not. Jaithlym, I don’t need reminding of what I am or what happened to me. It’s not something I’m likely to forget since I wake up to it every morning.” His tone was a clear warning to drop the subject.
She was generally quite perceptive, but this time she was too absorbed in her earnest attempt to dissuade him from his perilous intention and continued, “No, really, love. Why go back? How effective could you be? Everybody in Junonia knows that you have given more to defend this world than any other living man. You don’t have to keep on doing this now that you’re not ... not as able as you were. Let others have their stab at glory - you’ve earned your share in abundance. There’s no need for you to die for a principle that doesn’t apply any longer...”
He swung his eyes back to the view of Aleofane, only the increased tightening of the sinews in his back indicating his displeasure. She stood and approached him to take his right hand in both of hers.
“Anjh, my love, you speak of remembering when you wake each day - it isn’t only memory. I hear you cry out in your sleep almost every night and I know you’re in pain. I’ve seen you reach toward your left side and moan. Why can’t you tell me what’s happening and let me help?”
“It’s not something you can help with or that I care to discuss.” He kept his gaze fixed on the cityscape beyond the balcony. “The surgeons assured me that the problem will pass with time. It’s not all that unusual.”
“Not unusual that you, a Prydain, would react like that after months of healing? What are they thinking?”
“Drop this, Jaithlym. I’ve said I don’t want to discuss it. In the meantime, if your sleep is so troubled, you have the option of quitting my bed; you have one available in your own suite.”
“No, that’s not what I meant. Why do you have to deliberately misunderstand what I’m saying? My sleep is not the problem here; I just don’t want you to hurt.”
Anjh idly brushed his cane against the balcony curtains, creating the illusion of a breeze. “Jaithlym, let’s be honest. You knew from the beginning that I was a Warrior and likely to be injured, maimed or killed at some point. All three have happened and I have inadvertently and improbably survived. That’s the best that can be reasonably expected. I’m not immune to pain even thought my racial heritage does give me more resistance than most. Yes, I hurt much of the time and it’s worse when I’m asleep and not consciously suppressing it. I no longer expect it to stop completely so I see no purpose in further dwelling on a problem that has no immediate solution. Was this what you wanted to know when you raised this topic? Are you quite answered now?” His voice was coldly courteous.
“Not altogether. I’m still puzzled about why you insist that war is the only profession you’ll even consider. Beloved, you can’t do this anymore. Somebody’s got to tell you straight out; you can’t do this anymore. You’ve been a Warrior for, what, seventeen years and that’s all the time you have. Surely you’ve learned what’s likely to happen to you if you go back; I saw what the sand-bear did - you’ll have a set of scars down your ribs for a long time. And you’re lucky you were able to...”
“I slipped on a rock; it had nothing to do with any handicaps or whatever you’re hinting at.” He was stubbornly impatient.
“I've watched the record of the exercise and know what happened there,” she paused and looked intently at him when he didn’t respond. “Anjh, are you a Hunter of Death?”
He did not return her gaze. Limping toward the door of the lift, he muttered something about going down to the therapy rooms.
“Stop! Tell me; are you?” Jaithlym spun around and ran to grasp his arm. “I must know.”
“Why?”
“Because I need to understand you and why you’re doing these things, why you’re so set on going back. I love you...” To her fury, she realized that she was about to cry.
“Lady, none of this is any of your business. You share my bed, not my life. How often must I repeat myself? You knew from the beginning I had duties to fulfill, tasks to complete. I am profoundly grateful for your affection and companionship but I have no future here or anywhere on Junonia ...” He paused, then continued almost inaudibly, “I am what you think; I have reason.”
“What reason?”
He rounded on her with explosive fury, “I’m disgraced like this because the Ordmun and the Council - and you - decided to make me live for whatever ends you deemed valid. I left my own father to die on a battlefield while I pursued my personal glory and he rightly cursed me as a coward with his last breath. I sought a worthy death to disprove his judgment and I found it and now this disgusting misuse of technology is forcing me to live, shamed, broken and useless. That’s more than enough reason to keep hunting death. Can’t you see I have no choice?”
“You have choices; make the right ones. I’ve never asked for more than to share your bed. You owe me nothing for the pleasure we’ve given and taken. But you do owe yourself some compassion. I’ve heard about the death of your father. Nobody thinks you deserted him; they all agree that you did what you had to do to save the army and the victory that day.”
“You only know from hear-say; I was there. This discussion makes no sense. I’m doing what I must.“
“You are doing what that damned Prydain philosophy tells you to do. Anjh, you’re not an idiot. Think, just think for yourself without that terrible bias you’ve let possess you. There is so much that Junonia needs; her people are cowering in terror or dying for nothing. You could inspire them, you could unite them, you could lead them into a future... You can have a future...” She was clinging to his shirt, sobbing with frustration.
Gently he disengaged her. “Don’t do this to yourself and to me, Jaithlym; let it be. You’ve no cause to worry just yet. It doesn’t look like I’m going to have the opportunity to throw my life away for quite a while; Naufrage has seen to that.” He kissed her hands softly as he stepped onto the lift.
Jaithlym leaned against the wall. She had handled that about as badly as possible, she berated herself. Why had she gone all emotional when she knew perfectly well that there was no more certain method of hardening his purpose? She was smarter than that. Apparently, the fact that she loved him interfered with her judgment and made her clumsy in her pleadings. All she had done while trampling like a sand-bear on his pride and dignity was to learn the one thing she had most dreaded to know. He was Thanamant and now she had the additional worry of deciding how to protect against that particular pathology. She had not thought it would be so hard to heal him; no other man had resisted her so strongly or with such stubborn disdain. In this case, fear and haste had made her maladroit.
“Damn!” she spat out loud, “Now I’ve got to start over and earn his trust again. I’m not usually so clumsy; must be some sort of sickness.”