146 - Accept it with courage and fortitude

Chevengani Mental State Assessment Committee of Yeola-e, Vae Arahi

Aras 27, 50^th-to-last Year of the Present Age

Dear Sers:

The enclosed letter, written by the late Triadas Teleken Aitzas, might be of interest to you.

Karamas Menorii Paenen Aitzas

---

Karamas Menorii Paenen Aitzas

Oak Forest House

Farisae

Aras 11, 58^th-to-last Year of the Present Age

Beloved Kara:

Probably it seems strange that I am writing when I am so close, still in the City Itself, and when I will see you so soon, not later than three or four days at most, to bid you farewell before I go to war. I have had it confirmed that my plan against the Yeolis is likely to be even more effective than I’d hoped, and so our Imperator Whose Choice is the World’s Destiny has seen fit to mobilize now, and thus I will be on the march when I say. But matters weigh upon me and I find relief in writing. I hope you will forgive my self-indulgence.

Without violating my own categories of classification, I think I can tell you that I, and Arko itself, have been fortunate to a degree that can only have been divinely-decreed, in that we have captive the Yeoli king, Shefen-kas the Fourth Sheranoias. By routes other than official, he was brought to Arko and sold into the Mezem, where he fights under the name Karas Raikas. His presence in the City came to official attention due to war preparations.

That was fortuitous enough, but what is of even greater advantage is his military expertise. It is generally known he has a great name as a warrior (which Mezem attendees see confirmed with his every fight, of course) but also he was serving as high general on standby in case of war, before he was captured. Though he is very young, not even past third threshold, he is brilliant, extremely dedicated and loyal to his nation, knows everyone in high military or political positions there, and is one of those who prides himself on rarely having to refer to papers, having memorized all the information he might need.

So in effect, due to the action of truth-drug, I have had the best consultant I could possibly have to aid me in planning this campaign: much, much better than any traitor or spy, for he is a man of such quality as would never turn against his own, and such men do not come willingly, of course.

All well and more than good, of course; but my conversations with Shefen-kas have left me somewhat troubled.

In pure matter of conscience, it is that he is being mistreated here, handled roughly by the Mahid and others, I think; he is so struck by, and grateful for, the small and routine kindnesses I grant him that it seems he has had nothing but ill treatment from all other Arkans. Perhaps the Mahid are entirely incapable of treating with dignity someone deserving of it, whether Arkan or foreign, so we cannot blame them, and slavers—well, we know the nature of slavers.

(And yet, the man has a king’s pride—Yeoli-style, I suppose—which is unassailable. When not under the effects he speaks very freely; once he said, “You feel sorry for me.” I do, of course—I am no Mahid, how can I not?—but answered what was proper, that I would not wish to so diminish him. He said, “What do you mean? If I were you, I’d feel sorry for me; look at the situation I’m in! How does your sympathy diminish me?” It was as if he didn’t understand, and we ended up agreeing that my propriety must be an Arkan custom. He is, to tell the truth, a delight to converse with, even suffering so bitterly as he is, perhaps because he has nothing to lose by being entirely honest.)

But more of my trouble is purely aesthetic, I know, and thus I should put it out of mind, for war is never an aesthetically-pleasing thing, and one should not enter into it if one cannot leave aesthetics in the galleries and boudoirs of civilization when one marches off. Well, you know I have some suffering of this, you have heard me lament before. But I suppose I see something of myself thirty years ago in Shefen-kas, barbarian or not—yet perhaps greater than I, at least in potential; for as you know I was never much of a hand-to-hand warrior, and nor was I entrusted with any responsibility so great at so young an age, even in a province as populous as his nation.

Perhaps this would be most illustrative: when I was nearly done the first truth-drugging session, yesterday, it came to me almost as an afterthought—sent by Muunas, I do not doubt—to ask him whether he had formed any plans of his own as a result of what he had told me. He answered that he intended to commit suicide that very night. Not out of remorse or anguish, though he must feel these things to an incalculable degree, but because the effect of the drug would not last long enough to let me finish, so there was much more information I required, necessitating more sessions. He had taken the decision quite rationally that, given this, he would serve his nation better by dying, so as to deny me that information, than by living.

Instead of having him fully restrained, I chose to have him administered the Mahid amnesiac, so as to expunge from his mind both that decision and the reason for it, as well as spare him the pain of knowing, and the indignity of restraint, and will do that after each session.

This is for the best; he must stay alive and in good health so that he may be profitably ransomed if that is deemed the best course. But you see what a terrible thing I am doing to him? I have prayed, and will pray again, for Divine forgiveness for this, for all I know it must fit into a Divine plan. It is one thing to put a man in chains, take away his bodily freedom; his thoughts and his knowledge are still his own. But Shefen-kas I do not even allow that, not even the inviolacy of the mind; today when I saw him again he was in good spirits, when by his own choice he should be dead, and if he still retained the knowledge he acquired, he should be devastated; the brave grin that comes only of amnesia is a wretched thing to see on the face of such a man. I have seen him shed tears but once, just as I ordered him given the amnesiac again after today’s questioning, and he understood why he had forgotten yesterday’s, and thus why he had not killed himself already as he planned to yet again—and that he would be thwarted by the drug again tonight, and each time from now on. After I am finished with him and he has suffered the last dose, I will pray that he never remembers any of it as long as he lives, however long that is.

He is an enemy, who would be a very dangerous one, were he free, so Muunas be praised that he will never be; one whom for the good of Arko I would spare no resources to eliminate, if he were. And yet I cannot help but feel for him. You see, Kara, how it is a matter of aesthetics; I know in my intellect that this must all be done, and why, but feel in my emotions a fundamental wrongness in it, the way you feel a wrongness when a portrait does not catch the likeness of a person it loudly claims to, or when fool’s gold is passed off as gold; a wrongness that is of the heart, not the mind, that one cannot easily explain, let alone debate in the field of logic, with words.

So more I will not burden you with. It is all depressing, and yet it is the unavoidable lot of those of us whose trade is war, so that we should accept it with courage and fortitude, not with futile bellyaching to those we love, at least not at greater length than I have here. I will see you soon, to which I look forward with all my heart.

Deepest and most enduring love from he who is slave to your happiness forever,

Triadas

Triadas Teleken Aitzas,

General August of the Forces of Imperium

†

They were gentle, in the way they forwarded it to me. Omonae brought it up to the Hearthstone personally, to put into my hands. “It is information that you should have, but which will be very painful for you,” he said gently. “Prepare yourself, make sure you’re not somewhere you must hide emotion, and have someone, or more than one, who loves you, with you, when you read it.”

Foolish me, I thought, ‘How bad can it be?’ As ever, Kurkas’s Arko outstripped my imagination. I had to lie down. Even so, some distant part of myself was thinking, “Committee members – add two… or three or… how many? …more to the list of suicidal incidences.” What really twisted the knife was how praiseful of me Triadas had been, and how kind-hearted.

The Committee questioned me just to confirm that I didn’t remember any of it, but otherwise did little with it, apparently not really counting it. Perhaps suicide was understandable to them after all, if it was sacrificing my life for the people.

The writers, on the other hand, did plenty with it. I lost count of how many times I said, “I don’t remember a thing of it—nothing.” It gave me pause when the first one asked me to speculate on Karamas’ motives for sending it to the Committee. In doing so, as he must have known it would be passed on to me, he’d thwarted his dead love’s wish that I never know; was it out of a vengeful wish to hurt me (which succeeded), thinking Triadas would have been less merciful if he’d known I’d be his killer? Or was it from thinking that I would actually be better off knowing, so as to break the letter of Triadas’s wish so as to further the spirit? Without meeting Karamas himself, I could not know, so I threw out both possibilities to the writers. He never sent word as to which it was.

I received the letter, and the Committee and then the writers questioned me, on the second day of the Games, a day off between my first and third Games. I had surprised myself again when the senior students had debriefed me about what I could do before the start; I told them about the brass chain. Weapon-sense works just as well on game weapons, or more to the point, wouldn’t work on them, just the same, while I had the chain around my neck. They found that intriguing. Of course a moment after it was out of my mouth, I thought, am I out of my mind? But a game is, essentially, sparring by thousands on thousands instead of one on one. The seniors, bless them, gave me lots of warning; they told me they’d have me wear it in the last final. Surya consented. I think he was thinking of it as a lesson for me, in how the other half lives. This was the closest I’d ever get to knowing what it was like to be in a war without weapon-sense.

Of the twenty-four candidates, I knew four well. Araha Saranyera was Krero’s little sister, of course, whom I’d known in diapers. Toras Meneken, who’d come so close to arranging my death and winning back the Arkan Empire in Anoseth, would be the first Arkan ever to enter the School if he managed it. They’d allowed him to write the exam, but told him it must be in Yeoli like everyone else; so he learned within a few months both to speak it well—with gestures, something to see from an Arkan—as well as to write classic script and Athali. Then he’d scored one of the highest marks ever on the exam, and won enough of his preliminaries despite having all sorts of dung thrown at him for being Arkan, to be here.

There was Mirasae Shae-Koraha, the loudest mouth among those few Yeoli hawks who had not been charged with vote-stealing, but who had smeared me mercilessly during the campaign to impeach me; I couldn’t ask aloud, of course, but prayed in my mind to the senior students, “Set me against her.”

Finally, there was Elera Shae-Tyeba, the centurion from the Lakan war who was so eaten up with envy of me he’d had me flogged to falling for saving most of his hundred. That had been fourteen years ago, of course, and he’d fought with distinction against the Arkans; but it was still on his record that he was a good commander so long as he didn’t have Fourth Chevenga Shae-Arano-e under his command. If the senior students decreed, I’d be there again, which would be a true test of whether he’d overcome his only great deficiency.

I’d added an extra fillip to the whole idea: to tell no one but the senior students, who set the scenarios, and show up in standard armour, a helmet close around my face and a waist-slung sword, and see if I could get into the first game at least unnoticed. That’s a test of a general, too. I did manage it, with the enormously-talented Tasera Kril—she even made me do eighty pushups for showing up late, which I’d done purposely so I’d miss the call to reveal my abilities in the warrior-sort.

If all goes well, a warrior can fight in a total of nine games: three of the twelve quarter-finals, three of the six semi-finals and all three of the finals. It usually runs about three quarters of a moon; I would see Surya, if he required it, in between.

Most of my game-generals consulted with me on their plans, appointed me field-general and let me have my head once we were fighting. But I had one who wanted to keep me under such tight rein that he threw me out of his army after making me do what seemed like five thousand pushups, and another who ceded the entire command to me, sat back on his butt and watched me give him his win, which was in a final and so landed that unworthy butt in the Circle School.

But it was here, doing that which is as close to fighting as one can get without fighting, that I learned what it truly was to have lost five hundredths of my wind. It did not seem that I was any poorer a warrior; it was just that much harder to be as good as I was. I had lost five hundredths of my endurance; towards the end of each day, though I would have thought I’d feel it in my muscles, it seemed I felt it in my bones.

The first day of the fifth game I fought in was also my twenty-ninth birthday. I’d been planning to make little fuss of it, celebrating only with family and close friends, and here I was, stuck in a game-encampment. At least there were friends. I told everyone, “It’s this day next year we’ll do in style.”

No surprise, my life wasn’t destined to be as uneventful as just Games and having my soul turned inside out by Surya. The day after my birthday, in the evening when the game was over, I dropped in on Assembly Palace to pick up my mail, and everyone I ran into wished me happy birthday. “Make sure you don’t miss next year’s,” they all said, as if everyone else wasn’t saying it.

To my surprise, though, a few mentioned that Skorsas had been there today. He’d never been to Assembly Palace except once out of curiosity to see what was done there. “I’ll wait until you’re in your proper chair again, and then I’ll go,” he’d always said, a tad huffily, while I was on leave. That evening as I was having a post-game soak, I asked him why he’d visited today.

“Oh,” he said, blinking too casually, “I was just having a conversation with the Chevengani Mental State Assessment Committee, that’s all.”

--