Memory 2: resistance planning

[shintaiprotagonist]

The setting sun is peaceful as you enter the old barn. It’s been a while since you’ve been here; ironic, since you wove the working on it with such care. You’ve been far too busy to use it for the purpose you intended it for, even if any of the other village boys had been interested enough to need the privacy. Alas for your fourteen-year-old self’s ambitions, you muse wryly, stepping into the dusty darkness.

Still, you’re glad you went to the trouble, now, even if you never would have foreseen the need you have today.

Aside from you, Liet is the first to arrive, surprisingly light on his feet as he slips through the door and raises a hand in friendly greeting. He’s grown again, another inch since last month, and his hair has finished darkening to the color of old blood, but he stands straight-backed and calm despite the temper you remember from your younger days. He embraced the path you nudged him onto years ago and found himself better for it, along with everyone else around him; the proof of that follows him in, whipcord-slender, her hand tangled with his. It’s only this year Mei decided to allow him to court her, but it’s a good match, you think, and one envied by most of your age-mates.

Mei nods to you, squinting into the dimness, and you busy yourself kindling the crude essence-lamps you set around the walls. Liet might see in darkness as well as dusk, and you might know this old building’s layout as well as you know your hands, but your other guests won’t have either advantage. You work quickly, and as the last lamp begins to shine under your hands, the others arrive.

Tel, the village smith, hands still soot-stained from the forge. Gera, the old mayor, still spry enough to rival a woman half her age, and Rhea, her wife and the only schoolteacher within a league. Mei lets Liet’s hand go and darts to the latter’s side, as is proper for an apprentice attending her master. More follow: Verun the tinker, pockets jangling with the trinkets he never leaves his wagon without; Arl, who speaks for the smallholders; and lastly Yran, your teacher until your learning outstripped his, weathered and welcome to your eyes. He bows his head to you, eyes twinkling, and settles himself against the wall to listen as the others form a loose circle. You close the door behind him, focus your will, murmur the incantation; a line of peacock-blue script kindles across the doorjamb, and the air takes on a hushed quality as you rejoin the others, standing with them in the circle of elders.

Gera opens the discussion, as is only proper. “Thanks be to young ****, for the use of this space,” she says, with a dry look at you; you fight not to flush under that gaze, suddenly sure that she knows perfectly well why you had such a convenient ward. After an instant where you fail to crumble, her eyes turn approving. “We all know why we’re here, my friends -- or if any don’t, they’ve hidden their heads in the tallgrass for too long to be welcome among us. Honored Yran,” she nods to the wall, “has cast the trigrams; the vanguard of the Living Tower’s forces will arrive before the sun sets, two days from now. We have that long to decide how we’re to prepare.”

Verun nods, his face sober behind his heavy beard. “I’ve had word from others,” he reports. “Great Octavian’s forces have landed across the world. They take slaves and stores, kill those who resist.”

Liet straightens, his broad shoulders squared. “I’m willing to fight if it comes to that,” he says, a trace of eagerness escaping his attempt to hide it. “The rest of the Watch are, too. But there’ll be a lot more of them than there are of us.” He leaves unsaid that the Living Tower’s front lines will be filled with his servitor-races -- cloud-arsenals and jeweled wasps, blood-apes like Liet’s own distant ancestor, trained and equipped to battle others of their supernatural kind. The Watch are brave, you know; they take care of wandering beasts and marauders just fine. But bravery won’t be enough, not head to head with an army.

“If we don’t fight,” Arl says grimly, “those that aren’t taken as slaves won’t last the winter. The harvest’s in; there won’t be time to grow or gather enough to last until the planting seasons, if the invaders take what we have.”

“I do not accept that our only choices are to die now or later.” Rhea’s voice is clear as a bell, a tone you remember well from your days in her classroom. Her wife squeezes her hand.

“And that is why we are gathered,” Gera agrees. Her gaze falls over each of the gathered elders, ending with you. “****, I know you would not have offered us a meeting-place unless you had something to say to all of us.”

Sometimes you forget that to Gera, who’s known you all sixteen years of your life, you must be as transparent as glass. You straighten your spine and resist the urge to clear your throat. You know how you must look -- small and slight compared to the solid bulk of Liet, dark of hair and quick of tongue, your eyes marked by the uncanny powers you’ve mastered. You hope that your words will be enough to outweigh that.

“The Living Tower is a conqueror,” you say, and for a wonder your voice comes out clear and firm. “But it isn’t conquest that he seeks on our world. His forces are deployed to take, not to hold; to grasp what they can and be done. There is nothing here he wants that he can’t have elsewhere.”

Yran nods encouragingly at you from his place against the wall, and after a moment where no one chooses to interrupt you, you continue.

“A man might pluck a peach from a tree, if it’s on his way,” you say, referencing the old story and ignoring the amused glints in the eyes of those who know it, “but if a wasp riding it stings his hand, he’ll let it fall from his hand uneaten.” It’s your turn to let your gaze travel over the circle, catching nods as some of them begin to follow your intent. “There are other peaches and other trees to sate his hunger. So if we sting Great Octavian’s reaching hand…”

“...he’ll let us fall,” Arl finishes. “Bruised, but uneaten.”

You nod, keeping your face in a mask of calm as tension battles anticipation in your gut.

Liet leans over to clap you on the shoulder, and for once he remembers you’re half his weight. “I like it. Better than starving or last stands.” At his side, Mei nods emphatically.

“It’s a good start,” she agrees.

Verun is the next to speak, a grim little smile almost hidden by his beard. “Bold,” he says, “but meekness won’t serve us in the time to come. Well thought, young sorcerer.”

Gera and Rhea trade glances, and nod as one; the mayor smiles at you, fond and sharp. “Now, then. I presume you have thoughts about how to sharpen our sting, young man?”

“As it happens,” you say, fighting down a great swell of relief, “I do.”



MEMORY NOTES:

* Xian is substantially younger in this memory, and has almost none of his powers. He's clearly a sorcerer but doesn't have his Exaltation yet.
* His name is blanked out with static in the places it would otherwise appear.