Awakeners by Sheri S Tepper

“No,” he croaked. “They would not dare.”

“They have,” she asserted, her face radiant with truth. “I tell you they have! What is the Protector of Man if any man is nothing? Have you thought of that, General? If even a single man is nothing, of what value is the Protector of Man?”

“Man?” he asked, uncertain how she had meant it.

“Northshoremen,” she whispered, “Jondarites. Chancery-men. Noor. Yes. Even the Noor. For if the Noor are made less, then their Protector is made less. A blow at the Noor is a blow at Lees Obol. . . .

“And the workers, too, General. Were they not once men? If they are used and eaten, is not Lees Obol minimized by that?”

“Who does these things?” he asked, still a little uncertain, his slow, ponderous mind finding its way among the things she had said. Part of it had been clear the moment she said it. If a treasure was of no value, then he who guarded it was of no value, either. He could grasp that, all at once. It needed no explanation. “Who?”

“You know who. Who here in the Chancery treats with the fliers, General? Who here in the Chancery maintains the Towers? Who goes ravaging among the Noor?”

“We?” he asked, uncertain, in growing horror. “I?”

“You have said.” She nodded to him. “You have said, General. All of you, here in the Chancery. You have betrayed Lees Obol!”

He roared then, striking her hands away, glaring at her with red, righteous eyes. How dared she? How dared she? And yet. Yet. The roar died in his throat. She stood there still, glowing, totally unafraid, looking at him with pity.

“It’s not your fault,” she whispered. “You didn’t know. Not until I told you.”

“I know now,” he growled. It was a question, but it came forth as a statement of fact. “I know now.”

“Yes.” She waited for a time while he stood there, immobile, the child on her shoulder, then turned and left him, without another word, walking out through the tent flaps where the soldiers waited. One of these men called, uncertainly, “Shall we take her back to her tent, General?”

He muttered something affirmative, unable to form words, standing there in silence, brooding beside his fire, slowly building the edifice his nature demanded, the structure that must properly house the Protector of Man. It could have no window or door to admit error. Monolithic, it must stand forever. Lees Obol must be better served, and he could be better served only if man were better served.

What had she said to him? There were only those few words. He said them over to himself, again and again, seeking more. There must have been more. And yet, had she not said everything?

Late, past midnight, he sat there, getting up from time to time to add a stick to the fire, sitting down again. Very late in the night he rang the bell that summoned his aides. When they came, he astonished them with the messages he gave them, each signed with his own seal.

When only one was left, he said, “That woman, the prophetess. She is a warrior for Lees Obol.”

The man, not knowing what to say or if it was wise to say anything, merely nodded, attempting to look alert.

“She needs armor. A fighter needs armor. Tell my armorer. A helmet for her. Made to her measure. And a set of fishskin body armor, such as we wear. And boots. Have him plume the helmet with flame-bird plumes, like mine, and make her a spear.’’

The man presumed to comment, “Can she handle a spear, General?”

“No matter. Someone can carry it at her side. Let it bear a pennant. Tell the armorer. He will know. And bring one of the weehar oxen over the pass for her to ride, one of the young ones.”

The man went away, shaking his head, puzzled, wondering what the prophetess would think of all this.

She, when the armorer came to measure her the next morning, thought it another sign. Neff from his shining cloud approved, and the radiance and the shadow both nodded.