The Legend of Broken

A few of the men take note of Isadora’s arrival, and soon word is spreading about the camp, producing a healthy effect. If Amalberta Korsar had been beloved as the mother of the Broken army, Isadora Arnem is adored as the object of its collective amorous (but always respectful) sentiments. By the time she has reached the steps to her husband’s quarters, on the far side of the southernmost drill ground, crowds of men from a wide variety of units have begun to assemble before the pine log structure, the differing colors of their tunics and trousers — blue for the regular army, wine red for the Talons — for once causing no competition. They have come together for the happy work of sending off the men who are being readied to march — Broken’s five hundred finest soldiers (and luckiest, say the men who must stay behind); and each man hopes to get a glimpse of Isadora, as well as a chance to hear Arnem’s words of encouragement for the coming campaign. To the west, the sun is just beginning to set, sending the warm light of a spring afternoon to break through the dust kicked up by all the busy preparations: no one could ask for a better setting from which to begin the hard work ahead.

Above the Talons’ quadrangle and drilling ground, Isadora finds her husband in close council with the leaders of his khotor and their staffs, some ten men, in all, gathered around a rough-hewn table upon which sit half a dozen maps. Each of these men snaps to glad attention when their commander’s wife enters, busily saluting and bowing, laughing, rolling maps to be slipped into leather cases, and thanking Isadora for once again making the trip to their district, as well as assuring her of how much it will mean to their men.

As his aide delivers Arnem’s wife to him, the sentek calls out: “Thank you, Niksar. And now, gentlemen, if you will all join your units, I need a few moments with my wife, who wishes to remind me, I’ve no doubt, of how an officer in the field ought to conduct himself.”

Well-meaning mumbling to the effect of, “Aye, Sentek, we’re certain that’s how you’ll pass the time,” goes around the group of departing officers, causing a ripple of equally good-hearted laughter to pass through the small crowd. Arnem scolds the men as he follows them to the door and closes it tight. He then pauses as he turns to his wife, raising his brow and widening his eyes, as if to say, What’s to be done, they are good soldiers, and good men, at heart …

“You are as popular as ever, as you can see,” Sixt says aloud, moving over to embrace his wife, who leans back against the table. “And they’re right — it means an enormous amount to the men.”

“So long as I serve a purpose of some kind,” Isadora answers.

Arnem tightens his arms around her, putting his lips close to her cheek. “Do you feel your life has no purpose, wife?”

“A purpose for children,” she answers softly, turning her head so that her lips meet his. “And I suppose that will have to do. For now …”

What man can truly know the heart of a woman who allows her lover or husband to pursue his destiny, even unto death? And what woman can understand the passion that such trust builds in men? To be sure, there is neither any woman, nor any man, whose heart achieves such mutual trust more flawlessly than does the honest soldier’s and his equally selfless wife’s; and no more instructive instance of their mutual generosity than these times of departure, when the full reality and weight of what may transpire during the days to come, in the home as well as in the field — when just what sacrifices each will incur for the honor and safety of the other — are brought home with a terrible yet magnificent poignancy. And, in the few minutes they have to themselves, both Arnem and Isadora indulge those passions, without removing all or even most of their clothing: for they know the maps of each other’s bodies as well as Arnem knows those more traditional charts that were laid out on his table but moments ago. Indeed, they now know them so well, and can satisfy their mutual desire so greatly and knowingly, that they forget, if only for a time, the admiring groups of soldiers who guard their privacy with ferocious loyalty — even as those men continue to make respectful yet enviously ribald remarks to one another, in the most discreet and hushed voices …

But in the wake of these transcendently private moments, more immediate and devilish questions intrude, as they must, on the sentek and his wife:

“You’ve had no word from the Grand Layzin?” Isadora whispers; and it need not be said of what “word” she speaks.

“No,” Arnem says, keeping his head at rest on her shoulder. Their gentle intimacy has drawn a soft moistness to the surface of her flushed skin, which makes the more delicate and deliberate fragrances of both her body and the wildflower extracts with which she scents herself more potent; and he breathes all the aromas in deeply, knowing how long these last exposures will have to sustain him. “But I assume the ritual took place,” Sixt continues. “Some sort of word would have come, if it had not.”

Isadora sighs, her eyes welling. “The poor man,” she whispers.

Arnem, too, feels an enormous weight press down on his heart. “Yes. Although they may be right, Isadora, he may simply have lost his mind — certainly, I’ve never heard him talk that way before …”

“Mad or no,” Isadora answers, “he was our friend, to say nothing of a great man to whom they owed much. How can they have treated him so? And how can we be sure that the same fate will not befall you, should you fail to please them?” Her eyes search Sixt’s desperately. “We know so little of it all — the Layzin, the God-King, the priests … I understand their need to preserve ‘the divine mysteries,’ but how should we know, husband, if those mysteries were no more than disguises for terrible lies?”

“We likely would not, my love,” Arnem answers simply, recalling his own, similar thoughts. “But — I would be more concerned, had Baster-kin not taken me into his confidence as he did. I tell you, Isadora, I’ve never seen the man like that. Direct, yes, he’s always been direct, even rude, but — he honestly seemed concerned. About us. He’s an odd man, no question, and often shows his concern in peculiar ways, but — so long as I succeed, and please the God-King, I honestly don’t think we have true cause for worry. In fact, I would guess that he will try to protect all of you, while I am gone — certainly he takes an interest in your well- being.”

They have too little time before Arnem’s departure, as it is, for Isadora to enter into a discussion of why else Baster-kin might take an interest in her and their children. So she gently turns Sixt’s head to force his eyes to stare into the small oceans of her own. “Let us pray that you are right …” And then she concocts what she conceives to be a helpful lie: “I’m sorry if I sound less trustful than you, Sixt. I suspect the Merchant Lord strikes a good many people as strangely secretive, but that does not mean, as you say, that he does not intend to be of assistance, while you are gone.”

“Indeed,” Sixt replies hopefully. Then he studies his wife’s face again, his hands gently moving over and beneath her cloak and gown, which have already been disarrayed by their encounter. “Who would ever have thought,” he murmurs, in amazement that is only partially affected, “that such great wisdom could come from so pretty a head …”

Isadora stings his cheek with the flat of her hand, just hard enough to let serious intent show through her playfulness. “Pig. Never let your daughters hear that sort of talk, I warn you …” Then she adds, even more earnestly: “Above all, we must decide what his posture regarding Dalin truly is.”

“I’ve told you, Isadora,” Arnem replies quickly; for on this matter, he believes he has read Baster-kin’s words accurately. “If the men and I do carry this business off, they will suspend the order — I truly believe it.”

“They did not suspend it for Korsar’s boy,” Isadora replies doubtfully, turning away from Sixt as her eyes again grow perceptibly mournful. “However great the services the yantek performed …”

“True,” Arnem answers. “And yet, I think that our situation is different — in fact, he nearly stated as much, although, as you say, one in his position will never reveal his true intentions, about this or anything else. But certainly, ours is a more serious case — else why should he have taken me into his confidence as he did?”

Isadora turns her face to his again, feeling the bristle of his beard as it passes her cheek, and tries with all her soul to smile. “And so — I must simply wait for you to succeed, and all will be well?”

“That is the matter entire,” Arnem answers, returning her smile. “And have I ever disappointed you?”

She puts a hand to his mouth and presses hard, laughing softly. “I despise your soldierly conceit, and always have.”

Pulling her hand from his face, Arnem protests, “There is no conceit in trusting the abilities of the Talons.”

“Ah. I see …”

“It is plain truth, wife! My officers — following my example, perhaps — have made those young men into a