A Standup Philosopher
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Nothing Is True Chapter 12
🕑 Added 2023-08-27 05:46:49 +0000 UTCNothing Is True (Save For The Blood We’ve Shed)
Chapter Twelve
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The throne room of Polis was a simple one, despite it’s lofty title and the nature of what happened within it’s expanse. Seats and spaces designated for standing lined the sides, positions for guards and arbitrators were subtly marked and left unencumbered by any obstacles that would slow their intervention, and the dais upon which sat the Throne of the Commander was a simple one, a mere three steps above the floor itself. Even the throne was simple, if beautiful. Carved wood, crafted from one of the ‘friendship trees’ of Ton D.C. at Aleksia Pramheda’s direct guidance, with the bare minimum of padding and without gilding or rich accoutrements of any kind, it looked less like something the Old World would have considered a throne and more the sort of thing a wood-carving enthusiast would have on their own porch.
But then, that was rather the point.
Regrettably, that lack of padding made it…less than comfortable to sit on for long, unbroken periods of time, no matter what one was wearing or the position that one adopted. Something it’s current steward, Leksa, had lamented both to herself and her closest family more than once. Yet, it was not the throne and the discomforts of sitting on it (nor the weight of responsibility that followed) that was on Heda Leksa’s mind, not this time. No, far more personal and (potentially) significant issues occupied her thoughts.
To say that Leksa had been concerned by reports that Niylah’s Trading Post had been utterly destroyed by the Maunon would be quite the exaggeration. While she was nowhere near as close to the young tradeswoman as her lover was, they had met a handful of times in the past and she had found the blonde engaging and intelligent, if thoroughly uninterested in any sort of politics or in rubbing elbows with famous and powerful people. That was actually the thing Leksa appreciated most about Niylah, the fact that she had no interest in leveraging her friendship with Kostia for any reason whatsoever.
So, of course, she had asked for further information. Niylah might not be close to her, but she was close to Kostia, and for her beloved’s sake Leksa would happily make use of her more autocratic powers to ensure that Niylah was alright. What she had heard had ratcheted her anxiety up more than a few notches, for her lover had gone off after a fallen piece of sky-metal only a few hours of riding from Niylah’s Trading Post…and not a day after she did so, two enormous columns of smoke, indicators of large fires, were sighted. When responding outrider groups arrived in the region, they had found the charred remnants of the trading post and, further along the way, evidence of Maunon tek being destroyed by the second fire.
Thus began the gnawing uncertainty, the anxious wondering if Kostia had run afoul of the Maunon. It wouldn’t be the first time that the Coalition and the Maunon had met and fought at the landing site of sky-metal, but Kostia had been alone, and while Kostia was a good fighter, her talents lay in scouting and in ambushes, not direct combat. Not that Leksa would ever say as much out loud, even if her lover would be the first one to agree with her. There were plenty of people in the Coalition who turned their nose up at the idea that the Commander’s lover and closest companion wasn’t a powerful and talented fighter, or even one of the Chosen, but instead a simple village girl turned scout. She wasn’t going to give such people any more ammunition to try and mock her Kostia if she could help it.
Then a letter had arrived via courier from one of the out-posts keeping an eye on the settlement nearest Niylah’s home, informing her that Kostia, Niylah, and a blonde stranger by the name of ‘Klark’ had passed by, on their way to Polis. There was a small annotation, one from Kostia, promising more details later, but that she didn’t want to risk sending along a more detailed, personal note at the moment. That certainly caught Leksa’s attention, because why wouldn’t her lover be able to give her (if not a full report, given the distance and limitations involved) an overview of the key points, just like she had so many times in the past? Surely she didn’t think that the couriers were compromised, or that someone would try to read their personal correspondence? That would be suicide!
Perhaps the story was too complex for a brief overview? The letter from the outpost commander had noted that the stranger, Klark, had been nursing two injuries from fayagons, which confirmed that the Maunon had been out and about and spilling blood once again. And odder still, Kostia had said that she would be ‘keeping Klark close’. Why would that need to be the case? What was so important about this ‘Klark’ girl that Kostia felt it necessary to mention that specifically? If she just thought the girl was cute, or could be useful to Leksa, she’d just mention it when she got here. The idea that Kostia had fallen in love with this girl and meant to leave Leksa to be with her was considered for barely a heartbeat before confidently discarded. No one would ever push her and Kostia apart, she knew that. That confidence, however, did nothing to resolve her confusion, and she huffed in annoyance.
“Good thing none of your adoring subjects are here to see you pout like that, Little Blade.” Anya teased as she strode into the room, taking a moment to divest herself of a collection of weapons onto a small table by the door. This was one of the few places her adoptive elder sister and mentor would allow herself to be anything close to unarmed (though Leksa very much doubted that she had truly taken off of all of her weapons), thanks to the significant number of guards in and around the rest of The Commander’s Palace. Not to mention the Chosen that made residence here as well.
Speaking of the Chosen…
“How go preparations for the next Conclave?” Leksa asked, pushing her curiosity about Kostia and Klark and whatever had happened between them far aside to focus on the extremely important upcoming event.
“Well. People are finally starting to properly celebrate them again after Sheidheda’s heresy.” Anya answered promptly, scowling at the name of Leksa’s predecessor and perhaps the greatest villain (Maunon included) the Clans of the Coalition had ever known.
When Aleksia Pramheda had established the traditions of the Coalition and prophesized that a Princess of the Sky would fall from the stars to lead humanity into a golden age, free of the corruption of the Old World and the suffering of the New, she had decreed the method that would be used for the stewards of her throne, the Commander of the Coalition, to be chosen.
Pramheda had been a wise and long-sighted woman, and she had known that corruption of her legacy was not just possible, but probable. That those whose only interest lay within their own power, their own greed, would seek to control the throne, whether overtly or covertly. So came The Tests, a series of, well, tests dedicated to finding those who would help the Commander steward the throne, and those who would serve it best when it was held by the Prophesized Princess at last.
First came The Evaluations. Preliminary tests held by each of the Coalition member tribes to decide for themselves from amongst themselves who was worthy of sending to Polis to be candidates for a Conclave. While these Evaluations varied between the tribes somewhat, based more on minor differences born from differing environs and living requirements than anything else, all of them followed the same basic requirements of physical fitness and mental acuity.
Next came The Inspections, held by the Flamekeepers of Polis. The most learned men and women of the tribes, they were responsible for maintaining the knowledge, codes, and traditions left behind by the Pramheda. ‘The Flame of Knowledge must be forever kept and forever fed’, she had said often and firmly, words that had been taken to heart ever since they had first been uttered. The methods they used to thin the proverbial herd varied wildly, allowing no candidate to bypass them through ill-gotten information, though their effectiveness was never in doubt.
Next came The Conclaves, tournaments dedicated to separating and uplifting those that had the dedication, the loyalty, and the sense of duty required for their weighty responsibilities. Rigorous to the point of bordering on brutal, Conclaves tested the martial, political, moral, and intellectual strengths of applicants. Those few that managed to thrice pass the tests, win the duels, and build the alliances received the mantle of Chosen and a place within not just Polis, but the Heda’s compound itself. There, they would spend their time training, preparing, and building the close relationships the future would require.
For many, this is where their ascension ended. Winning three Conclaves was no mean feat, after all, and a position many spent their entire lives preparing for and still failing to reach. Yet it is not where the traditions ended, for there was a step beyond even this. A higher goal, one that many dared not even strive to reach, for it required winning not one, not two, not three, but five Conclaves. Emerging from that crucible not just as a Chosen, but as the highest scorer in multiple categories of evaluation. One who did such a thing had the right, sacred and rarely-used, to call a Great Conclave. Only those Chosen that had one three or more Conclaves were permitted to participate, and the winner of this Great Conclave had an even more sacred right, one invoked so rarely that a single hand could count them with fingers remaining unuse: to challenge the current Heda for their position. To take the throne for themselves. As if that were not enough, when a Great Conclave is called, no matter the result of the Heda’s Challenge, the victory count of every Chosen are reset to zero.
Yet despite this gauntlet of evaluation, this long road to power meant to build on a righteous foundation and weed out the weak or the wicked, evil could still succeed to the detriment of all. Such was the way it was with Heda the Damned.
Malakaia kom Sangedakru, known by no small litany of hateful epithets and titles, most commonly referred to as ‘Sheidheda’, the Dark Commander, was a woman whose evil had been so pervasive, so vile, that it was forbidden to speak her name aloud. When she had ascended to the throne, she had passed many controversial laws, circumventing many of the protections for thralls and ignoring the threat of the Maunon to focus on consolidating her own power. Worst of all, she attempted to change the method of the Conclaves. No longer were the duels to defeat or submission, but unto the death. A genuine heresy against Pramheda’s laws, which declared that no Chosen was to shed the blood of a sister. Indeed, it was seen as shameful, an inability to control yourself and your weapon, to shed the blood of an opponent during a Conclave. What could require more talent, after all, to utterly defeat a master combatant without not just killing them, but without shedding a single drop of their blood? Yet what could the people do, in the face of her Special Guards, her harsher laws, her occasional purges? What could the common citizen even imagine doing, when she was publicly executing Chosen that spoke out against her, that protested her actions and decrees?
It was only when The Sentinels, the mysterious and near-mythical Guardians of the Tomblands, met with a number of Chosen and revealed many things once hidden to them that the tide turned. The Sentinels presented proof of deep sins, crimes unforgiveable
That she had been a devoted member of a cult, a cult that descended from the very wretched Order that had caused the Final War that had nearly ended humanity. A cult dedicated to eradicating free will and self-determination for all time.
That she had, with the assistance of this cult, poisoned many of her rivals during her ascension to the throne, weakening them so that she would not have to contend with them fairly. Winning the throne through trickery and malicious manipulations.
That she had murdered Flamekeepers, inserting other cultists into their positions in an effort to eradicate Pramheda’s Wisdoms and replace them with the evils of the cult. To turn the Coalition into fervent soldiers in pursuit of destroying everything Aleksia Pramheda had entrusted to them for safety.
The Chosen had, with the aid of The Sentinels and the public at large, rebelled. It had been a bloody struggle, the rebels and their supporters versus the cultists and theirs, destroying villages and causing hundreds of deaths. Yet in the end the rebels succeeded, casting down Sheidheda and placing the leader of the Chosen rebels upon the throne in her place. For her pursuit of justice, her preservation of that which was righteous, and her relentless pursuit and eradication of the cult had earned her the title of Heda the Redeemer.
Leksa’s predecessor.
But the scars of that time lingered long and deep. Heda the Redeemer had not held Conclaves for her entire reign, too focused on purging the cult and adding further safeguards to ensure that no one could ever again come to power as Sheidheda had. Indeed, Sheidheda’s wickedness had deepened great rifts between the clans, causing conflicts to break out between them. It was only Leksa’s own efforts that had brought the Conclaves back two years past.
“Good. Very good. How many?” Leksa asked with a small, pleased smile, and Anya had a thoughtful look for a moment before responding.
“Some hundred and fifty hopefuls, nearly twice as many as last time, but if you’re asking how many I think stand a chance, few enough. A handful at best. Certainly no one that will be able to stop Ontari’s implacable march to equal you.”
Leksa resisted the urge to scowl at the name of the Azgeda girl. It wasn’t as if Ontari offended her on a personal level, in fact the girl was far from unpleasant, if brusque and possessing little in the way of tolerance for social niceties or prevarication, but the idea of having the adoptive daughter of Nia of Azgeda as a Chosen was painful. No matter how well-deserved it was. And it was well deserved. The ravenette was a superb fighter, an excellent tactician (though she struggled badly with things on the strategic level, compared to some), and devoutly loyal to the Wisdoms of Aleksia Pramheda. Unfortunately, she was also devoutly loyal to Nia and the ideals of the Ice Nation.
She had also won three Conclaves, and from what Anya had said she was virtually guaranteed to win her fourth over the next couple of weeks.
“I suppose I should be happy about her dedication and drive to succeed. It will make her a great asset when the time comes.” Leksa sighed finally, and Anya shook her head with a small smile. In many ways, Leksa was an idealist, perhaps even admirable so. Dedicated entirely to the people of the Coalition, to their safety and prosperity, and devoted to the belief that the heiress to Pramheda’s throne would arrive during her reign. Some might have called that arrogance, a belief that she was clearly the best choice to be a bride to the future of mankind, but Anya knew better. Oh, she knew her little sister and former protégé had quietly but closely held romantic notions of a blissful life living alongside the Sky Princess, fighting beside her to secure mankind’s future, but that was the hopeful dream of Leksa the Woman. Leksa the Commander wanted the prophesy to be fulfilled to ensure a life free of suffering and strife for her people. “Remember to keep the guard rotations fair, Anya. I don’t want any clan receiving favoritism, never mind any sort of prejudice. Polis is for everyone and anyone.”
Anya resisted the urge to roll her eyes, instead nodding obediently in agreement. It wasn’t an order she needed voiced aloud, never mind more than once, but she could understand why it was important to Leksa that no one clan was receiving either the best assignments nor the worse more than was strictlyfair and reasonable. Just another example of her desire to rebuild bridges weakened from clan rivalries and nearly destroyed outright by Sheidheda’s monstrous actions, and her efforts at doing just that.
Seemingly satisfied, Leksa beckoned her closer, offering her the brief note from the outpost. Reading it quickly, Anya felt herself frowning lightly. Clarke (and wasn’t that an interesting spelling?) was not a particularly common name amongst the clans, certainly not amongst girls. In fact, Anya would go so far as to say that she hadn’t met or heard of a single one. It was a small thing to have stick out, but stick out it did, even if she wasn’t sure why. Perhaps it was the odd way Kostia spoke about her, talked about keeping her close as if that should be important somehow. But no, as note-worthy as that was, it was the name that captured her attention. It wasn’t spelled the way the clans tended to spell their names, any of the clans, and just from looking at it she was willing to bet it was not pronounced quite the way the clans would have.
A minor thing to some, perhaps, but Anya wasn’t ‘some’ and she was well aware that the minor things could not only be importantthings, but could often be the most important thing. She’d be paying extra attention to this Clarke girl when she arrived, no matter what Leksa thought about the girl or the situation in general. Not just as a loyal general, but as someone who loved Leksa more than life itself.
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Dealing with Niylah’s heartbreak over the loss of everything she owned had been as hard as Clarke had feared, but between them (and the pile of artifacts from the bunker she had convinced her fellow blonde to lay claim to) she and Costia had been able to cheer her up a bit, at least outwardly anyway. It had helped that Costia had put her to the task of playing tour guide to Clarke, who was describing in great detail just about everything of relative significant that they passed, particularly anything that could somehow be related to her father. If Clarke hadn’t already been fairly fond of Niylah, the obvious admiration and adoration that the older girl had for her father would have sealed the deal. It was something that Clarke could resonate with quite easily, and before long the pair were chatting quite happily about various wonderful moments.
For Clarke, it was something of a healing moment, talking about her dad. There weren’t many people she could have done that with on the Ark, not without risking compromising of her authority and her image, the image that many had relied on to listen to her when she spoke. Of course, she still had to be careful not to say anything that sounded too strange, even if Costia and Niylah both already knew that she was foreign to their area. There was a limit to just how foreign that someone could be before people started getting suspicious, after all, and she didn’t know nearly enough about the ground to have any notion of where that limit actually was. And aside from the emotional component, and the fact that sharing personal stories with people tended to build relationships with them faster (the use of which could not possibly be underestimated), listening to Niylah talk about everyday life was, well, giving her an idea of what everyday life was. If her goal was to blend in, to not stick out or attract trouble as she tried to complete her mission, she didn’t need to know what life was like at the top. She needed to know how the general public did things.
The outpost that they had passed through had been interesting. A small fortified camp in a large, obviously man-made clearing, it had been clean, well-maintained, and well-manned by a mix of fighters (gonas, to use the grounder word) from several different clans. Niylah had been familiar with many of them and wasted no time whatsoever in introducing Clarke to them, something that had been nerve-wracking at first before shifting into being dangerously comfortable. Grounders, it seemed, were not very different from Arkers in quite a few ways. Comments about her appearance, flirtations both bold and subtle, and curiosity about where this exotic stranger had come from had been the order of the day.
The fact that she had, so far as she was willing to explain, from a distant land and on a pilgrimage to Polis garnered both significant interest and no small amount of approval. It also, she found, provided her with a perfect opening to get more information about the clans and how they viewed her ancestor.
All for the sake of ‘comparing the differences and similarities between our mutual respect and admiration’, of course. Certainly not for any other reasons, like a deep and eager curiosity to learn more about how a whole different culture viewed a member of her own family.
What was interesting was what the different clans focused on. The Azgeda spoke in great detail about her military prowess and strict enforcement of the law, speaking with admiration of her iron fist and ruthless strategies. The Floukru admired her even-handed approach to creating those laws and her ‘diplomacy first’ approach to life. The Trishanakru appreciated her spirituality and willingness to work with nature rather than consuming and eradicating it. The Sangedakru remembered her as the person who brought irrigation and better methods of growing crops to their parched lands.
It was all fascinating, so fascinating she didn’t even notice that Kostia had vanished with the commander of the camp until the scout had returned, joining the conversation as a mounted courier (carrying word of the Maunon incursion and the destruction of Niylah’s trading post to Polis) thundered out of the camp. There would probably be some sort of sweep in the woods, Clarke imagined, to make sure there weren’t more Maunon lurking in the woods somewhere. A quiet question to Costia confirmed that the redhead intended to inform the leadership about the cameras that the Maunon had been intending to mount in the woods. A long-sought answer to the question of how the Maunon ran rings around Coalition soldiers and patrols despite being in bright, loud, entirely unsubtle radiation suits. It could save countless lives, being able to blind those electronic eyes…or being able to control what they saw and when.
All warfare is based on deception. She had mused to herself with distinct approval. Ambushes, captives, false information, all of that and more was now at the Coalition’s fingertips, and Clarke couldn’t be happier to have helped, even if that hadn’t been her intention when she had done it.
Then had come the embarrassing moment when the garrison had offered them spare mounts, and Clarke had had to explain that she had never ridden a horse before, much to the bafflement of everyone present. Bafflement that had only deepened when she abashedly admitted that she had never even seenone until Kostia had arrived with Mist. An unusual amount of information for her to so freely offer, especially when it was such a great oddity that it could rouse suspicion against her, but she wasn’t stupid enough to pretend otherwise. Above and beyond the obvious insanity of getting up on top of something like a horse (which weren’t exactly small creatures!) with no notion of what it was or how this whole riding thing worked, she knew enough about horses and horseback riding to know that doing it wrong was dangerous for the horse as well.
Between her ignorance and her injury, it was decided that she would ride with Kostia while Niylah would follow with Mist on a lead. Not the most impressive look for Clarke, but she pushed the embarrassment aside and simply held tightly to her companion’s waist and listened intently as Kostia explained the various, vital matters of riding and caring for horses, wondering what it would cost her to buy or borrow one and imagining how much faster it would let her get around.
Of course, she still had to figure out how the ever-loving fuck she was going to communicate with The Ark if Mount Weather was compromised. Maybe ALIE would have more information for her once she reached Polis? God, she hoped so. She was basically flying blind right now, and six months sure as hell wasn’t looking like such a long time frame when she didn’t even know if there was a way to accomplish her mission.
She shook her head. There had to be a way to succeed. She couldn’t let herself have any doubts. She had far too much to accomplish, goals far too important for failure to ever be a possibility. If there wasn’t an easy solution, she would use a hard one. If a hard one didn’t exist, she would make one.
Where there was a will, there was a way, even if she had to forge that way with her own two hands.
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