The Turning of the Wheel: The Assassins of Harmony, #1

One

When the hour of execution arrived, Edmund, the chieftain of Clan Iredale, stood at the head of his family. Included in the group was the condemned man’s son, Vlod.

It was a defiant move, that choice to include the son of a heretic, but Edmund could do no less. He had ought to have done much more.

They had arrayed themselves on the chieftain’s balcony, which overlooked the inner ward of Olney Castle.

They were on their home ground, at least. Olney was the Iredale’s seat of government, Edmund’s principal residence, and his ultimate stronghold.

Being there helped to soothe the agony but it also redoubled the peril. It signaled their weakness and the Mother Metropolitan’s overarching power.

A child of nine, Vlod stood in plain view. It was raining. The rain was cold and sharp-edged, a slashing drizzle, but the boy made no effort to shield himself. Rather, he held his head up, enabling the near sleet to sting his face.

From cloak to boots, Edmund had dressed Vlod in grays and browns and blacks, the somber hues, but the clothes were the finest possible, the attire of a chieftain’s favored son.

Thus, the warning stood clear, as inescapable as the rain, as inescapable as the Mother Metropolitan’s will.

The storm had begun as a splotch of low pressure out in the Gulf of Alaska. The low had deepened, and as it had done so, its temperament had changed. No longer content to play, it had become a winter storm, a true child of January, of the God Janus, two-faced and ever-changing.

The storm had doubled and redoubled. Its winds had pushed the waves higher and higher, smashing over the crests, transforming them into avalanches of foam, and streaking them out to leeward.

When the storm had gathered sufficient strength, when it had grown restless, it had closed ranks and had marched off to the southeast.

A week later, it had swaggered ashore across a front hundreds of kilometers wide. Its center could have landed on the west coast of Vancouver Island, or at Grays Harbor, or at Yaquina Bay, or at Coos Bay, but it hadn’t. Rather than striking any of those places, its center had hit the mouth of the Columbia River. It had hit like a drunk hoping to start a brawl.

For several hours the wind and the rain had flown at Olney’s battlements, and it had howled through the streets of Fort George, the Iredale’s capitol and the port city that had grown up, century by century, between the castle and the riverbank.

But then, with the arrival from upriver of the execution party, the storm had obediently lain down, as though the Mother Metropolitan’s authority had also given her command of the weather. The wind had lessened, and the rain had ameliorated to a cold, penetrating drizzle. The storm had transformed itself into a smug assassin.

The shift had surprised no one. The storms of the northern Pacific are nothing if not fickle creatures, especially along this stretch of coast, this run of sand and rock and rivers and trees, watched over by Olney Castle.

Down in the inner ward, Vlod’s father, Shivananda, was about to be burned at the stake for heresy. The wood, the pitch, and the torches were already in place, and Vlod’s father had already been chained to the stake.

The rain glistened on the paving stones and on the stake and on the chains and on the man’s face. The face was impassive, an utter blank, but it was as pale as though it belonged to a corpse. His left eye was swollen shut, and blood was streaming down from the left corner of his mouth. Mixed with saliva, it hung in long, dripping strings.

Edmund had forbidden his daughters, Dagna and Brenna, aged five and seven, from attending, but equally he couldn’t have prevented his son, Morven, now twelve, from watching, from delighting in the spectacle.

From gloating?

That possibility sickened Edmund, but he forced his mind away. The child was young, his excitement natural.

Morven darted this way and that, hoping to find a better place from which to watch.

Annoria, Edmund’s wife, sunk her fingers into Morven’s shoulder, arched an eyebrow, and with no wasted words, convinced him to stand at her side. He was to be quiet, unmoving, impassive. To give nothing away. Not one thing. He was to wipe that snotty smile from his face. If she so much as glimpsed it again, he’d be the sorrier for it.

Vlod stood between his chieftain and the clan’s battlemaster, Wolfram. Wolfram was Edmund’s younger brother and the overall commander of the Iredale’s military forces.

Wolfram was a large man. He was a full head taller than Edmund, and he was broader through the shoulders. A lifelong warrior, he was the sort of fighter who would rather attack across an open field than defend from behind a stone wall.

When the liquor was flowing, many said that it was Wolfram who ought to have acceded to the chieftaincy, not Edmund. They said that it was Wolfram who was the better man, the better strategist and the superior tactician.

Alas, they observed, while reaching for the bottle yet again, he had been born too late. He was out of his proper order by a piddling two years.

Had Edmund and Wolfram been born the other way around, they whispered, had the Gods and the Generations chosen differently, it would have changed everything.

But that was the way it was with the Gods and the Generations, those mongers of fate: the Goddess, Her pantheon, and the Generations, the holy ancestors of humanity. They chose as they saw fit. One could question, one could complain, one could bargain, one could thrash around, but in the end, obedience was unavoidable.

Even the demons and the devils obeyed, so what hope did human beings have to go their own individual ways?

Edmund and Wolfram smelled of well-worn leather and fresh tobacco smoke, of the new oil on their swords and daggers, of damp wool, and of the traces of mud on their boots.

It was midmorning, and rain was doing nothing to lessen the stench in the inner ward. That stench was a mixture of odors from the boiling pitch and the smoking torches. The air also smelled of wet basalt, wet roofing tiles, wet horses, and wet men-at-arms.

They were the Mother Metropolitan’s men-at-arms, formed up in their rigid ranks and files, neatly squared.

Olney’s inner ward smelled of the rain itself, too, January-cold and salt-laden.

Ocean rain.

Vlod’s father loved that smell, and he exulted in the feel of that type of rain.

Vlod wondered if his father, chained to the stake, could smell the rain, that special rain, fresh in from the Pacific. Vlod hoped that he could.

Vlod listened to the charges, the verdict, and the sentence of death by burning.

He caught the eager rustling of the torches.

His father stood on top of a log pyre, chain-bound to a heavy timber post, the stake.

The Mother Metropolitan’s people had stacked smaller, pitch-soaked lengths of wood around his legs, as high as his knees.

Two priestesses came forward and poured buckets of hot pitch onto the stacked wood. They were careful not to splash too exuberantly. Such a display would never do.

The pitch tasted bitter in the air.

Her Beatitude, the Most Blessed Thora, Mother Metropolitan of the Inland Empire and the Holy Oregon, was resplendent in her robes. She strode forward and stood before the unlit pyre.

It was then that Vlod noticed an Asian moving among the members of Thora’s retinue. He was dressed in old hunting clothes, a brown-and-gray wool cloak draped across his shoulders. It, too, looked as though he’d owned it for many, many years. He wore two katana. Both were housed in featureless black scabbards.

No one seemed to take any notice of him, but he appeared to move wherever he wished, unobtrusively shadowing the Mother Metropolitan, but never in such a way that he would draw attention to himself.

It was only because the Asian had moved slightly before the Mother Metropolitan had that he had drawn Vlod’s attention.

Thora looked up at Vlod’s father. Do you have anything to say, heretic? she demanded. She had raised her voice to a near shout, and the strain was too much for her vocal cords. She sounded more like a petulant child than the religious leader of the millions of souls dwelling in the Columbia River basin.

May I ask a question? Vlod’s father asked. His voice was little better than a croak. Blood drooled from his mouth, and several of his teeth were missing, beaten out. Bruises mottled his face, giving it its only color, apart from the trails of blood. Many of the bruises were dark, but an equal number had begun to yellow.

By all means, Shivananda, Thora said, making a show of using his name, of showing her magnanimity.

Thank you, Vladika, Vlod’s father said, using one of the quasi-familiar, quasi-formal titles for a mother metropolitan. His use of it conveyed no small amount of contempt, of confrontation, of his refusal, even now, to surrender.

As much as Shivananda could, he lifted his head and squared his shoulders. Where is it? he yelled, his voice inexplicably strong. Where is the ash?

Mixed into the ground, Morven said excitedly. He was bouncing on his feet. The same way we mix in the fireplace ash.

Quiet, Edmund said.

But I heard from—

Hold your tongue, Edmund said.

Where’s the ash? Thora shouted, sarcastically. I’m about to send you looking for it. She smiled, very pleased with herself. You’ll have to send us a report! Write us another one of your learned monographs!

Laughter rippled through the attending members of her court, her men-at-arms, her priestesses and priests, and the judges of the Holy Tribunal for the Defense and Propagation of the Faith.

The laughter faded.

That’s no answer! Vlod’s father said. Vladika, you cannot answer because you have never seen it!

I most certainly have, heretic. It’s everywhere around us. She made an encompassing gesture, her arms spread wide. Everywhere!

You’re no shepherd, and you’re no protector. You’re a charlatan and a fraud! You’ve never found a grain of it!

I’ve never needed to search for it! Unlike you, my dear Shivananda, I have complete faith in the Goddess’ revelations of Herself. I have no desire to tempt Her!

A round of cheering filled the inner ward.

Peering down over the balustrade, Morven said, Who’s the gook?

Edmund spun him around. Never use that word again! Edmund’s voice was low and dangerous. That man is Japanese. He is Master Yokashima, and he could snap you in half with his little finger.

Our senseis—

Are dilettantes compared to him.

Down in the ward, Vlod’s father was saying, Your evasions, Thora, answer nothing. Where is the ash?

Never worry. You’ll find it soon enough!

The laughter of Thora’s court rattled along the walls.

She snatched a torch from a waiting hand. The hand belonged to a girl. To Vlod, she looked to be about Morven’s age, making her twelve. She was dressed in clothes so fine, the weave so tight, the threads so small, the colors so bright, the stitching so exact, that they marked her out as one of Thora’s protégés.

Thank you, Ulricka, Thora said.

The honor is mine, Your Beatitude, the girl said, and withdrew. She stood away, not alone, but slightly apart, nestled in her finery, cosseted by a tweed cape patterned in dark green and black. A new expression settled on her face. It was neither smug nor prideful, but one of discovery, one of purpose.

Next to her stood Ameretat, the châtelaine of the Châtellenie of Clatsop and Mayger, the châtellenie that coincided with Clan Iredale’s lands. Her labrys hung from her belt, the ornate, highly engraved blades shining. Her crosier was a seemingly simpler affair. From a distance, it looked like an authentic shepherd’s staff. It was only nearer to that the gold and silver inlays and the enamel work became evident.

Thora held the torch aloft, waving it as though it were a flag.

Her court gasped in anticipation. The moment had arrived. Righteousness was about to be restored, enforced, and spread abroad by the flames and the smoke and the screams. Clearly, so very clearly, they were obeying the will of the Goddess!

Vlod felt Edmund’s hand on his shoulder. Do not react, Edmund said, his voice pitched for Vlod alone. You’ll shame him if you do.

Vlod nodded his understanding, his remembrance of everything that Edmund and Wolfram had drilled into him the night before.

Thora drew herself up. Heretic! It’s time for you to burn! she shouted, and threw the first torch.

It landed on the top of the ranks of logs, bounced, and came to rest next to Vlod’s father’s legs.

The pitch caught, slowly at first because of the cold and the rain, but then the flames sprang to life and the smoke rose up, black and thick.

Vlod’s father straightened as though he were backing away from the burgeoning inferno about to engulf him.

More torches followed onto the piled wood.

The fire spread. The wood hissed and popped, and the flames, yellow-orange in the cloud-shrouded light, burst upward.

Vlod’s father twisted his face away. Reflexively, he jerked and strained against his chains.

To no avail.

It was the desperate thrashing of a man about to die in unimaginable agony, in a fury of rage and defeat.

Bridging the inner ward, the heat warmed Vlod’s face.

His father screamed.

And once started, he did not stop.

As the flames climbed up his body, his screams became high-pitched shrieks.

The shrieks echoed from the walls of the inner ward. They seemed to penetrate into the basalt blocks, fouling them.

Thora and her court smiled. Some cheered. Some laughed. And Morven giggled in delight.

Edmund seized Morven’s neck and squeezed, digging the tips of his fingers into the soft, yielding flesh. I’ll not tell you again, boy, Edmund said.

Morven wriggled to break free, clawed at his father’s hands, but ceased his repulsive giggling.

The flames reared up, and the smoke lifted toward the sky in black, sinuous billows, like house snakes rising from their holes.

Had his father been wrong to act as he had? Wouldn’t it have been better if he had kept his suspicions to himself?

And yet, the ash had to be somewhere, all around them in fact, if Vlod were understanding correctly what his father had told him—all around them and in thick pockets beneath the soil.

Nevertheless, the hard truth was that his father was dying for the sake of a metaphysical hunch, for the sake of his intellectual pride.

Could that be true?

Had Thora been right about him?

Vlod’s stomach clenched, but he did not throw up.

He caught the pitch-fired stench of the smoke, and he heard, he forced himself to hear, his father’s frantic screams.

They were useless to him, but they were completely satisfying to Thora and her swarm of bootlickers.

The back of Vlod’s throat stung. It threatened to close, and his nose felt as though it were on fire. He could barely see.

He refused to give in, to cry, to wail, to provide Thora with the satisfaction of his grief. It was exactly as Edmund had warned him it would be.

Look at him squirm, Morven said. He looks like a burning tent caterpillar!

Vlod shifted his weight, brought his hand in close, and balled it into a fist.

Edmund did two things at once. He gripped Vlod’s shoulder, staying his strike, and he backhanded Morven. The blow sent Edmund’s son sprawling.

On your feet, Edmund said, and keep your mouth shut. Am I understood? You’re enough of an embarrassment as it is.

Blood trickled down from the right side of Morven’s mouth, which was now quivering.

The smoke now smelled of burning clothes and burning hair.

Yes, my lord, Morven said,