Chapter Text
Drifter gazed down on the encampment that held nearly all the souls in Duviri. Tents were arranged in concentric circles around the Agora and the lake and decorated with flags, banners, and small touches of color saved from the destruction of their cities. When the Court made their attempt to remake Duviri at the Palace from the throne of Duviri, the kingdom's citizens would make their last stand here. They would either hold fast together or, like the Zariman's colonists, allow fear and madness to tear them apart.
He could not be their king; he'd do whatever else it took to keep them safe.
On the edge of camp, their band ran straight into trouble brewing. Lequos, the queen’s steward, argued with the foremen of shovel-carrying laborers at the edge of a muddy trench leading to one of the small streams from the lake. No amount of gesticulating with his schedule board made any of the workers willing to get down in the dirt and dig.
Lequos threw up his hands. “Since you won't hear it from me, ask Her Majesty's Party Planner. He'll tell you what needs to be done.
“What for?” Drifter asked.
“Latrines.” Lequos said. “More citizens pour in every hour and we must have our sanitation situation in order.”
Deniphus, the new Loneryder, said, “Ah. No one likes latrine duty, but it must be done.”
“What he's not telling you,” the foreman explained, “Is that people have already been using this trench. He wants us to dig wider and deeper before he puts the seats over it. Are you volunteering to dig sh*t?”
Denphius said, “Oh.”
Dominus said, “Ugh.”
Lequos appealed to each of them in turn in vain. No one really expected Luscinia or Bombastine to get their hands and silks dirty. Even Denphius said. “I mean to help Duviri's people, but not like that.”
“No one? Okay, fine, if you won't, don't blame me when there's piss in the streets, sh*t on your boots, and the fish in the lake die because even Golden Maws won’t eat-”
Drifter took his last deep breath of fresh air. “Give me a shovel.”
“What?”
He held out his hand. A wide-eyed laborer handed hers over.
Everyone looked at him like he'd gone insane. Even Dominus, who muttered under his breath, “You really will run errands for anyone, won't you,” before asking, “Aren't you going to report to the Queen with us?”
“I wish,” he replied, provoking a wave of laughter. “You go tell her what a good job you've done, warn her about the Others, all that. As for me…”
He planted his shovel on the edge. This was it. The point of no return. Then he slid down the side to the squelching bottom.
At least someone had sprinkled aggristone dust over the sh*t, so it'd crusted over and most of the smell was contained. It wasn't that much different from mud, he told himself. Or tamm sh*t. He'd shoveled tamm sh*t before. It couldn't be that bad. “I’ve got work to do, since no one else will.”
He dug his shovel in deep and turned it over. Under the crust, it was fresh. And mushy. The unmistakable effluvia of someone else's sh*t wafted up. He gagged. “I'll get used to it!” He called up, and pulled his hood on.
More laughter came from the laborers. Soon enough they slid down into the trench alongside him.
Long, wide, and deep they dug that trench. All the while Lequos ran around between theirs and the other latrines, arranging for wood and more craftsmen to build benches and makeshift structures that had none of the comforts of the city toilets and all of the benefits of making sure people weren't fouling the lake instead.
He'd only been at work for an hour when Lequos came back, schedule in hand. “Drifter, I need your help.”
The grinning foreman helped boost him out of the pit.
“More “party planning?””
“More of your “leading by example.”” Lequos fanned himself with his board. “We'd better get you washed up first.”
“Good idea.”
“And a change of clothes.”
“Sure, where's the bath house?”
Lequos checked his schedule. He winced. “Still under construction.”
“Great. Point the way. I'm sure the smell of me will be an excellent motivator for the work crews.”
So it proved. As the bath house's first customer, he scrubbed and scrubbed every inch of himself till he was raw. After he'd dressed in a fancy purple tunic Lequos found for him that he privately thought was a little much. “What's next?”
Instead of checking his list, he asked, “Why’d you do it? You're supposed to be Her Majesty's Party Planner.”
He'd done it instinctively, committing without reflection because his Sun's intuition told him he could not compel anyone to do a (literally) sh*tty task he would not do himself. Because he’d led by example, a necessary job got done.
Now, he considered that he’d also done it out of habit. He was so used to jumping feet-first into the next task at hand that he’d missed opportunities to plan ahead and thus change the big picture. This campsite was as big a responsibility as all the souls on the Zariman. Its people needed leadership even more than they needed one more man with a shovel. “Thanks for the reminder.”
“Thank you for helping me out earlier. Would you rather keep working on construction or sort out the food snarls?”
At the mention of food snarls, his pulse rate skyrocketed. They’d starved on the Zariman. Hunger had only been one of many nails in their coffin once they made the fateful void jump, but he knew that gnawing beast in his belly far too well to wish it on anyone else. “Food.”
What he had not considered before this day was the logistics of how Duviri’s citizens got fed. Everyone was entitled to a daily dole of simple, nutritious grain. Under normal circ*mstances, the farmers harvested and planted on the good Spirals, the farms brought their daily harvest to the royal granaries, the granaries dispensed the dole to bakers in villages and cities, and thus everyone had bread to eat. Much like the Zariman's agribiome to cafeteria line, it was an intricate system he'd never given any thought to until the day he was turned away at the lunch line with an empty tray.
Fortunately, Mathila's steady hand on the reins ensured that, even though it was a Joy Spiral, there would be no sabotage of the food supply. All that remained for the Party Planner to do was listen to the experts and solve the problems that they pointed out.
Problems like that which arose in Watershed Hamlet when a butcher and his baker wife, after accepting the milled grain yesterday, now barred their doors and refused to hand over the baked bread at mid-morning. Under normal circ*mstances, that was punishable by none other than death by impalement. Under these, the Dax Equitem advised, “If we don't drag them out by their heels, you'll have hoarders holing up more goodies than Thrax on tax day.”
“Yeah.” He couldn't help but remember the fear the Zariman's security officers inspired. “I think I'll try talking to them first.”
So he knocked on the boarded up door. “Uh, excuse me, is there any particular reason you're mewed up like Lady Sythel back during the bad spirals?”
He expected an answer along the lines of “We've got our food; screw you.”
He did not expect the baker woman to yell, “What color are his eyes?!”
The butcher pulled off a slat and squinted at his face while holding a cleaver as wide as his hand ready to chop off any fingers that might grab the opening. “They aren’t black!” He flashed him a quick, nervous smile through the small opening.
Oh, that's good, Drifter thought. Then it registered. “sh*t. You’ve met your Others too?”
”You’ve met them? They’re real?!” The butcher replied, even more horrified than before.
As the baker began to hyperventilate variations on “Oh, void. Oh, Thrax. We're doomed,” Drifter sighed, wiped his face, calmed himself and started over. “Yeah, they're real and apparently as murderous as Govio's gravestone would indicate. How did you even find out about them? And, uh, can I come in? It's a little awkward talking like this…”
“Oh. Right.” He fumbled with all the latches. “Dear, grab a loaf for Her Majesty's Party Planner, would you?”
Despite the Dax outside, the normalcy of sitting down at their own kitchen table amidst the toasty smell of hot baking bread ovens to talk to an authority about their fears steadied the man and his wife immensely. As Drifter made short work of a warm loaf, they explained the rumors they'd heard from workers and Dax leaving the Agora camp. “I heard it from a farmhand who heard it from a Dax who heard it from one of the Queen's own guards that there are black-eyed rogues out to replace us and our neighbors. They want to BE us!”
Though mangled, he heard the echo of how Bombastine’s must have reported the incident to Sythel. “As with most rumors, there's a grain of truth.”
“Should we fear for our lives?” They clutched each other's hand, and with their free hands clung to his cleaver and her rolling pin.
His instincts said, “Yes.” He’d never forget the utter indifference that precipitated the violent ambush on him and Dominus.
The part of him that looked at the big picture said, “Someone’s going to get brained with a rolling pin. It might even be you.”
He chewed over the last crust of bread. “This is delicious, by the way.”
“Why, thank you.”
These were good folk facing the fear of the unknown, not intentionally selfish hoarders. He made up his mind. “Look, the truth is that while I don’t know how to get rid of the Others permanently, I do know that the only way we saved ourselves was to look out for each other. I protected Dominus.”
They nodded. A father should look after his son. Spouses should look after each other.
“Luscinia protected Bombastine with her hairpin.”
They gaped in astonishment.
“I know, right? I’m just saying that your best protection isn’t boarded up doors, blocked windows, and butcher knives. If something happened to you two in here, we’d never know. It's your family, friends, and fellow citizens who’ll come through for you in a pinch, just like you’d stand up for them.”
They squeezed each other’s hand and said, “Aye, we can do that.”
“Great. Tell your friends, neighbors, everyone you can. We all look out for each other. Nobody gets left out. And, uh, the bread was delicious. I need it delivered to the Agora-” he checked the nearest water clock, “-two hours ago, actually.”
Because he was Her Majesty’s Party Planner and Lequos had been right to remind him of such, he sent a messenger to the portrait painter for the kaithe racers. Duviri, like the Zariman before it, was a festering ground for rumors that would spread halfway across the kingdom before the truth got its boots on. So he mocked up a poster of a black-eyed mask, warning of the danger, and likewise encouraging a simple message to stay calm and look out for each other.
Then he delegated the task of posting them to the Dax and rushed back to the Agora, because it was nearly time for the midday meal and citizens already lined up for their share of bread. Her Majesty’s Party Planner plain view with his fancy tunic (okay, maybe Lequos had a point) with a bullhorn kept everyone calm and in mostly orderly queues.
“Do not shove! You'll all be able to get your bread, I promise!”
“We crave your patience for just a little longer.”
“I won't eat until you're all fed, so trust me, you'll all get bread.”
All the while, he kept an eye out for the people who led by example. Those who waited their turn in line and kept everyone else doing the same. He delegated tomorrow's bread line to them.
Afterwards, he stole just a moment for himself. Would anyone expect Her Majesty’s Party Planner to carry his lunch behind a newly built bath house and bury his face in his hands and massage cheeks that just weren't used to constantly, confidently smiling? He tore open the connla sprout. Fresh sweet water quenched his throat, parched from so much talking.
How on earth had his parents managed it? How had the officers on the Zariman lived with the weight of all those souls on their shoulders?
If he failed to make an environment where everyone could stay calm - if he f*cked this up - then he'd lose everything he cared about.
No wonder the ship all went to hell when the jump failed. He ate his lunch without tasting it and was just about to get back to work when a familiar voice called, “Hey!”
Mathila waved cheerily from the back of a produce wagon rumbling into the encampment. She hopped off.
“Hey,” he waved back.
Maybe it wasn't so surprising he felt so overwhelmed. This was a Joy Spiral, so of course he felt suffocated with the sense too many things to do, right now, gotta make sure the day went just right.
She plopped down next to him, slung her arm around his shoulders, and proclaimed, “You look like you could use a-”
“A break? Yeah. Not gonna get one anytime soon.”
“I was going to say “a little word of encouragement.” We're doing just fine, you know? Harvest is in full swing. I can even take a minute to sit with you before going to see Sythel.” She tipped her head back into the light. “Look at those kaithes fly.”
He leaned back, closed his eyes, and let himself soak in the moment.
The sounds of the camp filtered in. Now that he had a moment to breathe away from the bustle, Luscinia sang. Bombastine echoed faintly from the stage. Childish voices practiced their rhymes. Laughter and cooking and daily life carried on despite the looming danger.
His family, friends, and fellow citizens were staying calm.
He opened his eyes. That was Kaithe up above. He'd know those powerful wings anywhere. He was King of the Air, mount of two kings, and now pulling ahead with Barris to deliver his message of far more import than any racer's flower crown. “You probably ought to see what Sythel needs.”
“Sure.” She stood, stretched, and added, “Just so long as you know you aren't in this alone.”
He accepted her hand up. Maybe what trapped and suffocated him was not the Joy Spiral, but his own ability to symbolize. In the real world, these emotional Spirals would be metaphors and tools to help him, not the be-all, end-all guides to action that he ordered his daily life around. Ironically, he continued to give them too much importance, even now. The Zariman's crisis was a guide for how to do better, not a prophecy of failure. “Thanks. I needed the reminder.”
He found Lequos, snagged a board to start his own schedule, and compared priorities.
Lequos said, “The Upperhaven refugees are filling the tents I got set up for them, but they're upset that Netherbarrow already got the best spots.”
“Well, I reckon I've got a little goodwill after I helped keep their homes from burning down.”
“I was hoping you’d offer,” Lequos admitted.
He grinned at him. Maybe this was how it was done: no one alone because family, friends, and fellow citizens all pulled together. “Let’s go.”
Upperhaven’s citizens were flooding in, eager to get out of their high city and none too happy to realize they were behind both Castle Town and Netherbarrow when it came to tents. Since the Queen’s banner was raised at the central Agora, everyone assumed that closer meant better treatment. No, it was not so easy to erase the habits of a hierarchical society.
Drifter rubbed his face. His accumulated goodwill wouldn’t go far once he started telling them “No, you can’t push and shove.”
There had to be a better way for them to advocate with the Queen. Back on the Zariman, they’d elected a class president.
“Pick a delegation from amongst yourselves,” he ordered. “Prince Lodun is from Upperhaven, so he’ll be your direct representative on the Queen’s court. Everyone else, just make sure there’s both nobles and commoners. And one of your fire chiefs, because I’m not having this place go up in flames the first Anger spiral.”
It was a good idea, in theory.
Unlike the Zariman, Duviri had no real idea of how one went about picking representatives for oneselves. It promptly dissolved into shouting, raised hands, and chaos.
Red Raiments promptly took charge of picking the noble contingent, delegating her authority to those she trusted to, in her words, “work with Lodun, though be neither lickspittle nor lackey.”
That was bad enough. The real problem came from Drifter's decision to nominate a Fire chief, because no one wanted to offend the others for fear of their tent and all their worldly possessions getting burned down.
He watched in dismay. Worse, he had no realidea how to fix it. If he picked at random or from those he knew on sight, he’d only inspire resentful envy against his choices.
No sooner had the shouting come to a head than Dominus came looking for him. He wore a black sash that marked him as one of Sythel’s page boys and looked run off his feet. He observed the chaos and said, “This is voting? It's a mess.”
“Yeah, I know.” Drifter said, about ready to throw in the towel himself. “I’d forgotten it was just a glorified popularity contest. Or worse, because who wants to vote against anyone who’ll hold a grudge?”
Dominus considered that. “So what you’re saying is that I should hold a vote, right now, to elect me king or else?”
“No.”
“I was joking.”
He hugged him. “I know.”
But Red Raiments had been listening. She said, “It's not really a joke.”
“No,” Drifter admitted. “I'm all out of ideas.”
“Hmm.” She raised her voice. “Citizens, are we a bunch of troubled tamms without a shepherd? Or will we figure out a way to cast a secret vote so no one may cast blame?”
A few suggestions later, they gathered nacreous pebbles and plain aggristone pebbles for the citizens to put in vases for their pick.
Drifter was amazed at how quickly she'd corralled them into order. “How?” He asked.
“I breed kaithes,” she replied.
He considered what sort of attitude it would take to make Kaithe do something he didn't want to do. “I see. Can I help?”
“I hear that Denphius Dax is now Loneryder. He seeks to help Duviri's people. I think he owes us recompense, don’t you?”
It might soothe some tensions. It might not. “I’ll ask him.”
“That’s all I can ask.” Contemplating her people, she said, “We’re proud of our city. But I suppose a city is not merely a high perch on which to look down over Duviri. The heart of a city is its people.”
Yeah, she’d do just fine. He checked with Dominus. “Hey, how’re your feet holding up?”
“They hurt.” He thought about it. “I'll be okay.”
“Me too. I’m sorry to say that the reward for a job well done is more work.”
“That must be why Sythel wants to see you.”
It was just mid-afternoon when they walked into Queen Sythel’s ersatz court in the Agora. She and her Courtiers gathered in a ring around the map of Duviri. The models of the Amphitheater and the whole southern island had been removed.
As for the Void's hands that tore them down, however…their models were back. Acrithis paced, face set in a deep frown, casting anxious glances at the Left Hand reaching for the Archarbor. If glares could kill, Lodun would've burned the Right Hand reaching for Castle Town. No doubt Barris brought the warning that the Void targeted the outlying islands first.
Drifter felt sick. “So that's why Upperhaven evacuated. What else can we do?”
Sythel said, “Well, we're at an impasse.”
“Are we?” Lodun asked. “Because the way I recall it, we were all set to go to the Palace and recreate Duviri before the riders brought the bad news and then, suddenly, Acrithis wants to drop everything and go save her books.” His voice dripped with scorn.
Acrithis looked fit to burn him in his own book-burning brazier. “Those books are just as much Duviri's heritage as that pile you call a Palace. What's the point of saving the throne and not the literature that makes life worth living?”
“The point,” Lodun roared back, “is that we can save both! Who's with me?”
Bombastine awkwardly looked at the floor.
Luscinia said, “I don't think we're near as ready as you think we are.”
Mathila dusted off her hands. “Look, either way, I need an answer because if we’re not rushing off to remake Duviri, then I have absolutely got to help till and plant the fields while the good weather holds, or we’ll fall behind on harvests. And once people start going hungry, we can't expect them to stay calm enough to hold the Void at bay and keep our little island steady.”
Lodun asked her, “Are you ready to recreate Duviri?”
She considered, and said deliberately, “Queen Sythel, I vote we try.”
Now, there was a phrase that had not been uttered to a King or Queen of Duviri before. They reigned absolutely with singular power over the kingdom.
Lodun scoffed at the idea of voting, but did not scorn her support.
Acrithis immediately said, “Well, I vote that we save the Archarbor and then we recreate Duviri. I'm not willing to risk losing the true treasures of the kingom.”
Whatever Lodun's objections to voting, wasn't willing to forego his say, “The throne of Duviri, the laws of the land, and the decrees of the king are treasures too. I vote that we make for the palace at once.”
When Queen Sythel did not speak up to defend her royal prerogative against voting courtiers, Drifter almost spoke up for her. This was a more important matter than a family debating naptime, choosing a class president, or even electing a handful of people to speak for their city. This was Duviri's life or death. How could they afford the sort of chaos that voting could unleash when the Court must stand united?
The only thing that held his tongue was the nagging doubts that whispered, “Remember Kullervo's Hold? You lived your whole life in a hierarchical society under the reign of tyrants. Can you still dream of anything better or will you remain trapped by your ability to symbolize?”
He said nothing.
Luscinia cast skeptical looks at Bombastine, Dominus, and even Drifter. She said, “Have we not seen enough of how rushing into things only leaves us blind to bad habits that will send up tumbling back down our Spirals? If we try and fail, the Void will not be so merciful as to give us a second chance to prove ourselves. I vote that if anyone has doubts, we must give them time to overcome them.”
Bombastine nodded. “To be honest, I think I need more practice mastering my envy. Or else I shall simply recreate my sad spiral.”
Lodun said, “I can't believe I'm saying this and not Acrithis. How many more islands do we have to lose before you'll be ready?”
Dominus stepped up next to his new teacher. “He's brave enough to admit it. I need more practice too.”
Lodun retorted, “Since when are you included in Duviri's recreation?”
Though everyone looked to Drifter for an answer, he studiously pretended to be absorbed in the battle map. If they couldn't figure out how to lead their kingdom without him now, in small ways, what hope was there for a recreated Duviri?
Nevertheless, he hoped.
Dominus broke the silence. “The last thing I want to do is throw piss on anyone by saying this, but I think what I bring to the table is a wealth of experience-”
“Hah.” Lodun snorted.
“-of what NOT to do.” Dominus finished. “I hope the knowledge of my many failures might be even more useful to our future spirals than my meager track record of success.”
Had Drifter not been so resolved to keep his mouth shut and let them make their own decisions, he would've said, “That's my boy,” so proudly his son would be embarrassed all over again.
“....huh.” Lodun raised no more objections.
Mathila said, “Two in favor. Three against, if we don't count Dominus except in an advisory position. No offense.”
He muttered, “None taken.”
She eyed him.
Ruefully, he said, “I clearly need more practice.”
“Sythel, that leaves you as the deciding vote.” She urged.
Every eye was on the paralyzed Queen.
Her eyes darted back and forth between each of them in barely concealed panic. She didn't even count, probably because it'd remind her that she needed to count herself one way or another. “I'm the Queen. I should save Castle Town first. But what if I'm wrong? What if? What if?”
Everyone spoke at once.
Drifter watched in dismay as the Court devolved into bickering and finger pointing and bullheadedness worse than two bull tamms in the same pen. It wasn't that they hadn't learned from their mistakes. It was that they all had such firm convictions and this was the old Joy Spiral. The awful chaos of a good thing taken to such excess that no one was happy. None of them were wrong; the stakes were so high none of them felt they could afford to let the others be right.
Or, maybe it wasn't the Joy Spiral. He couldn't see the way out because he was trapped. This wasn't a crisis he could intuit his way through. This required a receptive mind. Unfortunately, he could hardly think for their arguments, much less find the calm of the true warrior.
Then Dominus’ high voice cut above the rest. “Hey, everybody, calm down!”
For one glorious shining moment, every Courtier stood unified in outrage. As one, they glared at him.
Dominus didn't falter, for he himself was as calm and emotionally regulated as Drifter had every seen him. “As long as we stay calm together, we'll keep the ship of state steady.”
Lodun said, “Bah, no more useless platitudes.”
“It's not,” Dominus replied. “None of us are going to stay calm while the treasures we care about most are in danger, right?”
Mathila nodded, because that was why she'd sent her family to safety with Teshin.
He said, “We can't recreate Duviri yet. But that doesn't mean we can't save what we can. We split up. Each of us saving what's most important to us. Our heritage, our books, our laws, and our people.”
Lodun and Acrithis looked at each other, silently acknowledged that there might be room for compromise after all, and nodded.
He continued, "If we dare with courage and conviction, we might yet save them all and thus win for ourselves a firmer foundation on which to recreate our beloved land.”
Sythel took a deep calming breath. She nodded.
Bombastine applauded. “You’ve got your father’s talent for speechifying.”
Dominus relaxed. “If I get half his talent in leadership by example, I’ll be doing good.”
Drifter said, “That’s my boy.” He could not be prouder that his son found a way through where he could not.
“Dad!”
Drifter asked, “Will you go to the Archarbor with Acrithis? Or the Palace with Lodun?”
Dominus wiped his sweaty palm on his tunic. “I made a grave mistake when I clung to my throne instead of making way for the right king. I think it's time I reminded myself of the value of books, instead. With your Majesty’ permission?” He asked Sythel.
“Permission granted. Unless…” and here she looked hopeful indeed. “Are you sure you don’t want to be king? I hate this job.”
“Oh, I do,” Dominus said. He could not hide the raw longing. “But I clearly need more practice. I must learn to serve my people as they deserve. I must allow my Courtiers to follow the dictates of their conscience instead of my whims.”
The Queen and her Courtiers split up, each according to their own conscience. Sythel was relieved to have Lodun's company to reclaim her Palace. He was glad not to be alone. Mathila rushed off for the farms to feed the people. Bombastine offered to recruit his fellow actors to help secure the Archarbor. Acrithis graciously accepted all the help offered, including Drifter who was only relieved of his Party Planning duties because someone had to supervise Dominus.
Lequos did not take it well. “I'm neck-deep in my own work. You can't just hand me your schedule!”
“It'll only be a few hours at most,” he said. “One way or another, the Archarbor is going to fall.”
Lequos looked from him to the Courtiers saddling up to fly out. He gulped. “I guess that puts it in perspective.”
He felt such a wave of kinship for him then. The other man was just as overwhelmed by the gravity of it all. Yet he shouldered the burdens of responsibility and carried on. “We'll be back,” he assured him. “In a few hours, we'll all come home. Short a few islands, yes, but we'll come back safely.”
“I'll hold you to that.”
When he climbed up behind Dominus, Luscinia came to wave goodbye. She would remain behind, singing to buoy everyone's spirits. Now, she laid one hand on the bridle and said, “Fly swiftly, sweet Histornam, and bear them safely there and back home. For a home is what we make of it, and we have made this our home.”
Dominus said, “Duviri is our home. We'll do right by her.”
“You know what?” She said, with a brilliant smile. “I believe you. I'm proud to say it.”
They took off.
The tent city now stretched across the whole basin. The Court was mirrored by rings of tents and campfires and watchtowers. Families, friends, neighbors, and strangers all gathered around cooking fires and makeshift market squares and workshops.A whole kingdom of souls, precious beyond imagining.
He squeezed Dominus’ shoulder. “There's no one here to embarass you in front of.”
“Dad.”
“Nowhere for you to escape either.”
“Dad, no.”
“I'm so proud of you.”
