Seeds of Rebellion (45 page)

“Sorry,” Rachel said, climbing into the bed of the wagon.

“No apologies required,” Galloran said. “I felt you issuing some potent commands. Such dedication to your talent is commendable. I waited until the last moment to send Jason to fetch you.”

Lodan and Farfalee sat up front. Lodan snapped the reins and the team tugged the wagon forward.

They all wore dressy robes. Rachel wondered how they had scrounged enough for everyone. Corinne looked especially gorgeous, her hair woven into elaborate braids. If that girl ever made it to America, she was a supermodel waiting to happen. No surprise that Jason found her so interesting.

“Everyone looks really official,” Rachel commented over the clatter of the wagon.

“It was tricky to outfit Aram,” Ferrin said. “Fortunately, Farfalee had kept some apparel from Lodan’s infancy.”

“Keep it up,” Aram dared him.

Ferrin grinned. “Or perhaps she borrowed the robes from a doll.”

“Do us all a favor and toss your mouth overboard,” Aram replied.

“Not bad,” Ferrin said. “You just earned a truce.”

“Only until the sun goes down,” Aram grumbled.

Rachel sat silently, enjoying the cool breeze, the bright sun, and the pleasant countryside. She wondered idly why they didn’t see more people on the road. Aside from their wagon, the day seemed very still.

She got her answer when they arrived at their destination. The Conclave met in a large amphitheater between five hills. The oval
depression descended one concentric ring at a time, forming a bowl large enough to seat thousands. Not only was the sunken amphitheater crammed with seedfolk, but the surrounding hillsides were thronged as well. Nobody had been on the road, because they were already at the conclave!

“I hope we have reserved seats,” Jason said, voicing her thoughts.

“We’ll sit up close,” Galloran said. “How glad we are to be there will depend on how the Conclave rules.”

Lodan remained with the wagon while the others disembarked. Farfalee led them down a long stairway to the bottom of the amphitheater. Galloran kept one hand on Dorsio’s shoulder. Rachel watched the crowd, men and women clad in robes, not many of them beyond middle age. She only spotted one possible teenager, a girl with light brown hair. Nobody looked younger.

As members of the crowd took notice of the procession marching down the stairs, they became quiet. Rachel felt the weight of thousands of eyes staring her way.

At the bottom of the huge bowl, three men and one young girl sat at a bulky stone table surrounded by a flat, open area. There was clearly room at the table for a fifth person.

“Who’s the little girl?” Jason asked.

“Ilestra, the eldest surviving seedwoman,” Farfalee said. “Her First Death happened by accident at age seven. Her latest rebirth occurred only a year ago.”

After the stairs ended, Farfalee gestured toward an empty bench situated front and center. Rachel filed over with the others as Farfalee claimed her seat with the Conclave.

A strapping man with his hair twined in a pair of long braids arose off a bench and strode to a position to one side of the stone table. He was meatier than the typical seedman, and spoke in a strident voice.

“By order of the Conclave, five speaking as one, this emergency conclave is now in session. Galloran, son of Dromidus, will be the sole petitioner. Naman of the Conclave has elected to personally serve as rebutter.”

A murmur rippled through the onlookers.

The heavyset seedman glanced over his shoulder. The man seated at the center of the table dipped his head. The speaker turned and announced. “The Conclave recognizes Galloran.” He withdrew and sat down.

Dorsio guided Galloran to the position vacated by the speaker, then stepped back a few paces. “Forgive my voice,” Galloran said, raising it as best he could. “I inhaled an acidic concoction some years back, and it has never been the same.”

He sounded plenty loud to Rachel. The audience was silent, and the space seemed to have good acoustics, which helped. Craning her neck to look upward, she figured the crowds on the neighboring hillsides were out of luck.

“I am honored to be back among the Amar Kabal and to stand before this illustrious Conclave,” Galloran began.

“We are delighted to see you again,” said the seedman in the center, a handsome man with dark-gray eyes and a slightly crooked nose. “Diverse rumors have circulated concerning your fate. We feared you had met your end in the dungeons of Felrook.”

“My mind and body were maimed in those dungeons,” Galloran said. “But I was eventually released. It has required some time and effort to become functional again.”

“What brings you before the Conclave?” the seedman asked.

“I wish for the Amar Kabal to reconsider their current relationship with Maldor. I want to urge your people to support a rebellion.”

Murmured reactions percolated through the assemblage. The seedman at the left end of the table stood. Tall and trim with rather
wide shoulders, he wore his black hair in a topknot. He had a high forehead, sunken cheeks, and a broad mouth. “We expected this request.” He strode around the table to stand opposite Galloran, separated by several paces. “This debate has been settled for some time, unless you have new information to contribute.”

“I have a proposal you may not have considered,” Galloran said. “And yes, Naman, I also bring new information that could impact your current stance. Pallas, you may recall discussing a particular word with me some years ago.”

The seedman seated at the center of the table nodded. “Those specifics may need to remain private.”

“No longer,” Galloran said. “There has long been a rumor of an Edomic key word that could destroy Maldor. Supposedly the Word had been created by Zokar to keep his dangerous apprentice in check. As it turns out, both myself and my friend Lord Jason, a Beyonder, succeeded in obtaining this key word and speaking it to Maldor. The Word had no effect. It was a fraud.”

Garbled commentary arose from the crowd.

“Order!” Pallas called. The onlookers went silent immediately. “No doubt some here have heard of the rumored Word. Most are probably learning of it for the first time. Some, myself included, have harbored a quiet hope that one day this Word would undo the emperor. Is it wise to mention this Word in public?” The question held reprimanding overtones.

“This false Word has diverted the efforts of many,” Galloran said. “Some of the best blood in Lyrian has been spilled searching for it. All along, Maldor had been using the quest for the Word to stall traditional opposition and waste the efforts of his most ardent enemies. As soon as Jason confirmed that the Word was fraudulent, Maldor began slaying those who had guarded the individual syllables. Once the emperor made that move, I decided it was time
to publicly debunk the myth, lest any more effort be wasted.”

“Understandable,” Naman said. “This is news, indeed, and you paid a grievous price to secure this information. But consider the reasoning behind our attitude toward Felrook. We have assessed that an offensive against the emperor would be doomed to failure. Therefore, preparing our defenses became the only acceptable policy. If the Word is false, Maldor is even less vulnerable than we had supposed, which only serves to support our current stance.”

All eyes at the table turned to Galloran.

“That is one way to interpret the news,” Galloran acknowledged. “The main reason most kingdoms have avoided open conflict with Maldor is because they do not believe he can be beaten. Many have surrendered to him without a fight. His conquest of Lyrian has only been slowed by kingdoms like Belaria, Hindor, Meridon, and now Kadara, which have elected to defend their borders. The former three kingdoms I mentioned have all fallen, just as Kadara will fall before next year is through.

“As most of you know, I hail from Trensicourt. My father was king. Like the Amar Kabal, Trensicourt hesitated to go to war with Felrook largely because we did not believe that Maldor could be defeated. Part of the justification for our hesitation derived from the hope that the Word provided. In our highest councils, the Word was viewed as a possible alternative to widespread bloodshed. Had we known the Word was false, we would have accepted that the only remaining course of action would have been to unite the remaining free kingdoms and stand against the emperor.”

Naman folded his arms. “We of the Amar Kabal have no intention of kneeling to the emperor. We know that Maldor despises and fears us more than any nation in Lyrian. We understand that there will never be true peace between us. And we realize that our best chance of resisting Maldor is to force him to bring the war to
our gates. We continue to fortify our defenses, knowing that only by repelling his armies will we endure as a people.”

Galloran frowned. “Do you honestly believe the defenses of the Seven Vales can withstand the emperor once the rest of Lyrian has fallen?”

“I would like to think that with proper planning and vigilance, we could hold out for many lifetimes. This is our best hope.”

“You evaded my question,” Galloran said. “Consider the history of your enemy. Consider his resources. Consider his motivation. Do you honestly believe that you can indefinitely keep the emperor out of these Vales?”

Naman pressed his large lips together. “Our defenses will eventually fail.” Some utterances of dismay arose from the gathered multitude. Naman held up a finger. “But if they must resort to an assault on our homeland, our enemies will pay much more dearly to take our lives than if we participate in a desperate offensive abroad.”

“The Vales will eventually fall,” Galloran summarized. “Do you suppose that you can run?”

“For a time,” Naman replied. “We have fallbacks prepared.”

“I agree that you could retreat for a time. Do you imagine that you could run to a place where Maldor will not follow?”

“No,” Naman said. “We might prolong our existence for many lifetimes, but in the end, we will perish. Some talk of fleeing over the sea, but within twenty years Maldor will have massive fleets on both coasts.”

“
Many lifetimes
suggests a very optimistic time frame,” Galloran said. “The emperor will not relent until all of Lyrian is secure. Barring collaborative opposition, you and the drinlings will be the last free people in Lyrian within five years. Rooting out the drinlings will take time, but Maldor will succeed. He will then
spend some years mustering his strength, laying plans. By my most optimistic assessment, within twenty years Maldor will attack the Vales from the north and the south simultaneously. In the north he will merely cut off your retreat; from the south he will storm your gates. He will not fight fairly. He will show no mercy. You will die alone and cornered. Some of you will be tortured. Some will be examined. Maldor is curious to study how you were made. In the end, your seeds will burn.”

A boisterous outburst from the assemblage made Rachel cover her ears. Apparently the notion of dying permanently did not sit well with the audience. It took Pallas some effort to restore order.

“These are vile prospects to consider,” Pallas recognized, once he could be heard, “but such are the times in which we live.”

“I have heard your assessment,” Naman said reasonably. “I have answered your questions candidly. Now show me equal courtesy. With the present resources the free kingdoms have at their disposal, is it possible to mount an offensive against the emperor with any reasonable expectation of success?”

Galloran straightened. “I don’t know.”

The crowd reacted raucously. Again Pallas called for silence.

“I find myself wondering why we convened this conclave,” Naman said, earning a chuckle from the onlookers.

“I believe there is hope for a successful offensive, or I would not have traveled here,” Galloran explained. “Nevertheless, I do not intend to lead the free people of Lyrian to a hasty demise on a hopeless campaign. I do not desire to spend your lives casually. Without a truly viable offensive strategy, I would rather you died defending your homes. My concern is that if we never take the offensive, there is no chance we can win.”

“What are you here to propose?” Pallas asked.

“We have a small window of opportunity while the armies of
Maldor toil in the east against Kadara. His forces have simultaneously besieged their three largest cities, which entails a massive commitment of resources. I am the heir to Trensicourt. I am ready to regain my kingdom and to lead a rebellion. I have come into possession of a vast new stockpile of orantium. I cannot divulge the location publicly, but in private I will share the whereabouts of hundreds of globes, including a score of the larger spheres known as gatecrashers.”

This earned an excited buzz from the crowd.

“I believe we can also enlist the drinlings. They only fell out of the war after Kadara abused them. I expect we can also arouse Meridon. My sources there report that Maldor does not have a strong enough presence to suppress a revolt.”

“Assuming all of this is true,” Naman said, “how does it amount to sufficient power to combat the emperor? He has the resources of more than twenty kingdoms at his disposal. Not to mention the displacers, the manglers, the giants, and the torivors.”

“I do not imagine we could stand against his full might,” Galloran said. “We would have to outmaneuver him. Fight the battles we can win. Earn victory one step at a time.”