I Vanadryn, CDXXXI
The tents stood crooked on the salt flats, buffeted by wind that smelled of copper and ash. The sun was still low. Fires hissed low over wet coals. Men murmured in their sleep, some rising to piss against the dunes. The banners fluttered limply. It was cold, but the heat was coming.
Gaspar stepped out from his tent. The scarf about his brow was damp with sweat. He looked east, toward the ridgeline. He had dreamed again of his father’s voice, though not the words. Only the weight. Tatva waited near the central fire. He’d already dressed and boiled water. His robes, even travel-worn, bore no crease. He stirred herbs into a black clay bowl.
“Bad sleep?” he asked without looking.
Gaspar crouched by the flames. “What gave it away?”
“You don’t sweat in the cold unless the spirit labours.”
From the shadows beyond the fire, Catellina emerged. She poured water into a tin, glancing once toward Gaspar’s eyes, then away. “We’ve had word,” she said. “Chief Mauru’s envoy arrived after nightfall.”
Giti joined them, half-dressed and still chewing dried fig. “He brought a scroll. Unsealed.”
Gaspar unfolded the parchment. Ink bled along the creases. The Queen had declared Mauru a traitor. Gobar was to be ‘restored to direct rule.’ Troops would be dispatched ‘at once.’
“She’s not bluffing,” Giti said. “Three revocations in a month. Fitire, Dauro… now Gobar.”
“She’s not bluffing,” Tatva repeated. “But she may be overreaching.”
Gaspar stood. “Wake the scribes. Call the chieftains. Let’s see how many names still mean something in this world.”
By midday, forty men sat cross-legged in the open dust, the ridge to their backs. Gaspar read the Queen’s words aloud. Some muttered, some listened. When he finished, he said only: “We answer or we fall.”
A long silence. Then one voice—Tatva’s. “Then let the gods be dead.”
The vote was taken in dust-scratched lines and callused thumbs. Every hand rose. That night, drums sounded.