50. A Question of Loyalty (Jovadão)¶
In his childhood, Jovadão and his family had been quite devout, attending Harmony several times a week at their neighborhood Auditorium in Tenoava. He remembered feeling that he could hear the melody the Deucanta had woven through the world. But the war had driven him to drink, and the drink had muffled his faith.
After the war, he’d fled to Lietna, the Dzharian capital, avoiding the purges that decimated the ranks of the Feiçeira. Lietna was a great place to hide, and an even better place to drown his sorrows. Belosveka had found him in a windowless, flea-ridden boardinghouse. She’d dredged him up from his puddle of shame and helped him find a new purpose. With typical Dzharian indirectness, she never overtly reminded him of what he owed her, but his sense of obligation was even stronger because she didn’t abuse it.
It had been in Lietna that she’d told him of her plan to remake the world.
At her bidding, he’d come to Rilão to make contact with the surviving Feiçeira. He’d tried attending Harmony at the Sagradhão a few times, to see if his faith might grow back. The Sarmalan occupiers were savvy enough to understand the cultural significance of the place and allow Cantereians to worship there. But the prayersongs were no longer a celebration of the spreading roots of life. They’d all become dirges, reminders of what had been lost. He’d wanted to recapture his faith, but the mournful overtones just made him feel worse. Instead, he’d dedicated himself to Belosveka’s vision.
Regardless of his personal beliefs, the Sagradhão was a sacred place, so he was dismayed—although not terribly surprised—by the disrespect the Tementeira had shown it. He hid his anger as he ascended the steps, staring down the sullen, bearded guards at the entrance. After spending so much time in Sarmala, it felt more natural to hide his feelings than to reveal them, a fact he accepted about himself with distaste.
He’d been in Rilão for two days, watching and waiting, making careful contact with what remained of the Feiçeira network. When three strangers had been captured and brought to the Sagradhão, his informants had come straight to him. He hoped Ravásie wouldn’t make too much of the fact that he was arriving on the same day they were caught.
“What’s your business here?” said one of the guards, barely coming out of his slouch enough to level his spear. Their discipline was laughable, their weapons shoddy and ill-maintained, their “uniforms” dirty and mismatched.
Jovadão straightened, assuming a mask of disapproval that would have liquefied the bowels of a Sarmalan foot soldier. He had to maintain an attitude of dignity and superiority. “I’ve come to see the Ouvintero,” he said, letting his gaze travel up and down the soldier’s ill-kempt frame. He locked eyes with the man, whose certainty was already withering. “Tell him Beion vôa Audién Jovadão wishes to be heard.”
The guard paled and exchanged an anxious glance with his comrades, who straightened and gripped their spears, unsure whether to salute or attack. “Wait here,” said the first guard, ducking inside.
Jovadão stood, hands clasped behind his back, staring impassively at the two remaining soldiers. They sweated under his gaze like children caught stealing sweets. Eventually, the first guard returned, followed by a crowd of junior Tementeira and a sour old woman in a neck scarf. She sized Jovadão up, scowled, and wordlessly beckoned him inside.
The crowd followed down the corridor, something between a parade and an angry mob. He felt like a guest speaker at a grade school. The lack of discipline was truly appalling.
They passed the entrance to the nave and reached a stairwell guarded by several heavily-armed soldiers, who finally turned the gabbling crowd away. Unlike the other guards, these were actual soldiers wearing actual uniforms, and they regarded Jovadão with wary respect. He guessed they were members of Ravásie’s personal honor guard.
The stairs led to a narrow corridor lined with small offices and private studies. The scarf-wearing attendant halted at of one of the few that was occupied. Jovadão entered, followed the honor guard.
The Ouvintero was seated on the floor, studying a small document. He was young, his face animated by the kind of unearned confidence that arose from deaf faith. He smiled as Jovadão entered, setting the document aside and folding his hands in front of him, but Jovadão’s gaze was drawn to the woman sitting beside him.
Like Jovadão, Sumidáne had aged. Her short curls were striped with gray, her fighter’s body grown loose. Her eyes, however, were still as sharp as broken porcelain. During the war, she’d been one of the fiercest warriors the Feiçeira had fielded, unflinching in her duty. Jovadão had been put off by her rigidity, her total unwillingness to compromise, but had always respected her. Judging by her face, it seemed that time had only hardened her will. More worryingly, a constellation of witchglass now glinted in her throat.
“I understand you two know each other,” Ravásie said, his expression shrewd.
Jovadão dragged his gaze away from Sumidáne and nodded to the Ouvintero. “We served together during the war, a long time ago.”
“Yes,” Ravásie said. His voice betrayed a mixture of predatory excitement, envy, and distrust. “A long time. Much has changed. Please, sit down.”
Jovadão sat, still feeling Sumidáne’s eyes on him. Ravásie had to know Jovadão’s reputation, his status as war-hero-turned-traitor, and the power that came with such infamy. No doubt he was eager to use Jovadão’s fame to further his own ends. Jovadão had been expecting that eagerness and had hoped to exploit it, but he hadn’t reckoned on Sumidáne. Her skills were advanced. She’d immediately be able to tell whether he was lying.
“She Silenced herself, you know,” Ravásie said, following Jovadão’s gaze. “There was no one else to do it. She was the first of the Feiçeira to hear the Canticle, although more have followed since. She can still speak, of course, but it’s quite uncomfortable.” He smiled sympathetically at Jovadão, as though he were the one afflicted. “I’m keen to understand what you’re doing here. Did the Vorkyrda’s hospitality run dry?”
Jovadão shrugged off the taunt. “The Vorkyrda and I have a difference of opinion. She thinks she should rule Cantereia. I think she should drown in a ditch.”
Ravásie barked out a laugh. “You certainly enjoyed her largesse for long enough, though.” The Ouvintero paused dramatically, raising an eyebrow. “Hers and her brother’s.”
Jovadão forced down a spike of anger. Ravásie was trying to rile him up, but he had endured far worse. He could let this man score a few meaningless points. “Everything I did, I did for Cantereia,” he said calmly. “Even my relationship with Tadevi Kenem. Especially that.”
Ravásie’s smile dropped. He looked at Sumidáne, who nodded in grudging acknowledgement. “Interesting,” Ravásie said. “So you were a double agent all along. That must have been exhausting. I admire your resolve.”
Jovadão nodded, feigning gratitude. He truly didn’t care what Ravásie thought of him, but he found that Sumidáne’s opinion did matter. Despite his candor, she was staring at him with intense distrust.
“However,,” Ravásie continued. “That raises more questions. What were you actually doing in Thelenza?”
He could say nothing untrue in front of Sumidáne. But he could carefully omit things, as long as each individual statement was true. “I was sent to Thelenza to infiltrate the Helix, in the guise of a defector. I had hoped for a low-level position as a military advisor. But I saw a vulnerability in Tadevi Kenem, a sense of isolation I could exploit. I was able to gain his trust and rise through the ranks. When we realized how much access I would have, we changed our strategy. We began planning a big attack, with my access as the linchpin.”
“And then?”
He sighed. “An informant leaked the whereabouts of our safehouse to the Helix. I was forced to lead the raid myself. I had to kill several friends.” All true, just missing some important context about who that leak had been, her motivations, and her relationship to Jovadão. He had no need to fake his grief. Sumidáne frowned, but nodded her confirmation to Ravásie.
“So your blasphemous plan was spoiled,” Ravásie said. “Perhaps the Deucanta interceded to stop you. As the Canticle says, ‘You shall not lift your voice for bloodshed nor vice, yea, but only in harmonious praise.’”
Jovadão clenched his jaw, wanting nothing more than to backhand the smugness off Ravásie’s face. Instead, he shrugged. “Perhaps.”
“You say you led the raid, which means your cover was still intact. You could have stayed and rebuilt, continued your work. Instead, you are here. Why?”
“There was a complication,” Jovadão said with a grimace. “One of our agents let information slip to an asset he was recruiting, and that asset was captured by the Helix. The rescue went badly. My cover was compromised and I had to flee the city.” He was definitely skirting the edge of deception by leaving out his capture and escape, but talking about that could lead to Belosveka, and he couldn’t risk it. He forged ahead, hoping to gloss over that part of the story by grabbing Ravásie’s attention. “I came here because I’m still dedicated to fighting for Cantereian independence. You’re the power in Cantereia now. So you’re the one I have to warn.”
“Warn?” said the Ouvintero, frowning. “About what?”
Jovadão leaned forward, locking eyes with Sumidáne to make it clear that he was telling the truth. “The Vorkyrda will soon invade.”
The Ouvintero blinked, looking at Sumidáne in disbelief. “When?” she said. Her voice was a thin whisper, like a dead leaf skittering over paving stones. Jovadão couldn’t help but wince.
“Before the moon turns,” he said. “Their forces are already gathering near the border.”
Sumidáne sat back, shocked, but Ravásie leaned forward, rubbing his hands together almost gleefully. “So. The time of the Finêa is upon us. Just as the Canticle foretold.”
A look of dismay flickered across Sumidáne’s face, there and then gone, like the shadow of a bird flying past the sun. But it was enough. “I can help you,” Jovadão said. “I know their strategies, their strengths and weaknesses. Let me advise you.”
In Sussura, he sent another message, meant for Sumidáne alone:
He will lead Cantereia to annihilation. You hear it as well as I.
She stared at him, her face as unreadable as the floor. Ravásie, oblivious to Sussura, stroked his beard. “Hmm. No doubt you could be of use, but how can I trust a Feiçeira? You haven’t foresworn your allegiance to them.”
“Nor will I,” Jovadão said. “I will be a Feiçeira until I die. But we have a common enemy. After we’ve defeated the Sarmalans, we can go back to fighting each other.”
My loyalty is to Cantereia, always. Help me save her. That’s all I ask.
Ravásie turned to Sumidáne. For a long, breathless moment, she sat frozen. Jovadão clenched his stomach. If he’d miscalculated, his life would be forfeit.
At last, keeping her eyes locked on Jovadão’s, Sumidáne gave a slow nod. The Ouvintero grinned like a schoolboy meeting an athlete he admired. “It seems we are to be allies! I look forward to hearing which puzzles you can help us solve.” He glanced down at the scrap of parchment he’d been studying. “Perhaps we can start with this. No one here knows what to make of it.”
Jovadão took the scroll and unrolled it. It felt supple, the ink fresh, but there was no mistaking what it was. Sumidáne might have perceived his shock of recognition, but he was certain Ravásie did not. “This is High Anashic. I’m no expert, but I’ve studied the language a bit. With some time and access to the library, I could make a translation.” If Sumidáne heard his deception, she kept it to herself.
“Good. Take it with you,” Ravásie said. “Although I’m not sure how much free time you’ll have. We have much to prepare.” He stood fluidly and extended his hand. He trusted Sumidáne’s judgement completely, much as the Vorkyrda had trusted Jovadão’s. The irony would have been amusing if the situation hadn’t been so grim. Jovadão paused for the briefest of moments before allowing the younger man to help him up, his own joints creaking like old timber. “Cantereia’s new melody is just beginning. Let us sing it together.”
Jovadão smiled as he and the Ouvintero clasped hands, and the look he shared with Sumidáne was indistinguishable from gladness.
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