The Legend of Broken

with real force. She leans down, her ordinarily thin eyes narrowing in her broad face so much they are scarcely discernible, and murmurs, “Would you behave like a teasing, disrespectful brat in front of your mother?”

It is far from the first time that Isadora has been deeply grateful to Nuen (whose own son, but a year older than Golo, marched off with Sixt Arnem’s khotor the day before, as skutaar to the sentek himself), but the act is no less appreciated for its reliability. “Thank you, Nuen,” Isadora says, trying with all the composure she can collect to keep her temper; then, scowling at each of her younger children in turn, she declares, “And now, all three of you — upstairs. If you mind me, I may be persuaded to let Nuen tell you marauder stories.”

Even Dalin’s face brightens a bit — for there are no legends or histories, even in the city library, that can match the excitement of Nuen’s horrifying tales of storied battles and rivers of blood, of men who ride their small horses so fast and so hard that they can, it is said, cook meat between their own naked thighs and the backs of the animals, and most famously, tales of the skulls of their fallen and executed enemies piled as high as mountains†— and the fact that they are related by such a deceptively docile teller only seems to increase their power to excite, no matter how many times they are repeated.

Aware of how restless such stories will make the younger children during the night, but also aware that her ladyship has, at the moment, larger problems with which she must grapple without the children asking too many questions, Nuen turns to Isadora, arching one of her long, thin eyebrows and making only one inquiry of her own: “My lady is certain?”

Sighing at the inevitability of her own night’s lost sleep, Isadora nods. “Yes, Nuen,” she says. “I would appreciate the help, just now …”

The three youngest children turn eagerly to the stairs, Golo and Dalin quickly disappearing up them. Only Gelie, as she passes Isadora, pauses to comment upon the mystery of her mother’s having donned her best green gown and her small but lovely golden necklace, as well as her having applied the poppy-dyed paint that beautifies her lips, and the lines of black galena that make her eyes appear even larger and more mysterious than they actually are. But Anje quickly steps in to take her sister’s hand. “You and your questions come with me, little empress,” Anje tells her sister. “You can hear all about it when Mother gets home, and if you don’t hurry, you will lose your chance to learn of new marauder horrors …”

Isadora’s pride in her eldest daughter swells once again, making her realize how soon an appropriate suitor for the maiden will have to be found: a suitor, that is, who will allow her to establish a household that will, Isadora is certain, be more sensibly supervised than this one in which she has grown up. These thoughts are confirmed when Anje looks at her mother a last time, aware that Isadora has not revealed all of her plans to her, but accepting that she has good reason for withholding them. The maiden barely whispers the words, “Be careful, Mother,” before chasing Gelie up the stairs; and for a moment, Isadora’s admiration becomes melancholy at the notion of how close she is to losing the daughter she has come to depend upon so …

Finally, Dagobert alone is left standing before her; and Isadora’s features suddenly darken, although perhaps not as much as she might wish or intend. “Do you have any idea, Dagobert,” she begins, “what your father would say and do, were he here to see you in that costume?”

But Dagobert holds his ground admirably: “I imagine he would be pleased, Mother, that I have followed his instructions so closely.”

Pausing to consider the entire matter, Isadora at length asks, “And when, pray, did you two concoct this scheme?”

“Yesterday, when he left the house. He pretended to have forgotten Yantek Korsar’s baton, the baton of the army’s supreme commander, and went to fetch it. When he returned with it, he also handed me the note.”

“Very clever …” Isadora pauses, silently rebuking herself for having been taken so off-guard; but then she nods in defiance. “All right, then,” she says, without enthusiasm. “You shall come, if that is how it must be. But wait in the garden, while I fetch my healing kit from the cellar.”

Isadora walks swiftly to a door beneath the staircase, one that leads to the cool confines of the house’s lowest chamber, where the family’s supplies of wines, oils, herbs, root vegetables, and meat are stored. It is a place that the children are forbidden ever to enter — since it is here, too, that Isadora keeps her supplies of the ingredients for her medicines, and where she mixes those concoctions. Ignorant tampering with such dangerous things, the Arnem children have been taught since birth, could result in sickness and death; and so, unruly troop that they often are, they obey this one household stricture without question.

None of which means that they have not experienced great curiosity about the place; and in recent months, the inquisitiveness of the two oldest Arnem offspring has become most pointed. There are many reasons for this, but most important among them are the continued remarks by children outside the Fifth District about Isadora’s having been raised by a witch. And, although the studious Anje has carefully determined that the crone Gisa was nothing like so malevolent a being, she has also become convinced that Gisa was an adherent of the old religion of Broken. This proposition has been supported by investigations undertaken by sharp- eared Dagobert, who has several times lain his head upon the flooring of the hall on the house’s main level to gain clues about what transpires below. For while the walls of the cellar are composed of the same raw stone from which most of the rest of the city was carved, the ceiling is nothing more than the bottom of the thick plank flooring of the hall above. These planks are softened and sealed, during the winter, by carpets and skins; but at the first hint of warmer weather, all such coverings are removed, laying bare the floor.

It is thus free of coverings this evening, making it an unusually propitious moment for Dagobert to risk putting an ear to the cracks between the floor planks, in order to see if his mother is merely collecting the bottles and earthen jars of secret mixtures that have maintained her reputation as a healer, or if she is not also about some other work: work hinted at by mysterious recitations, pieces of which Dagobert has more than once heard.

One phrase is common to all of the statements Isadora makes when alone in the cellar, a phrase that, from the first, did not seem to concern medicine — or at any rate, not medicine specifically. Rather, it always seemed an appeal to a deity, one whose high office was and is apparently that of Allsveter:† the “All-father,” a title that Dagobert and Anje have discovered during their studies was often given to the chief of the old gods of Broken, a being called Wodenez,‡ whose image the children have seen displayed upon a silver clasp with which their mother often fastens her cloak: a clasp that Isadora has consistently explained was simply a dying gift from the woman who raised and taught her, the supposed “witch,” Gisa.

And again this evening, with the younger children upstairs struck silent by Nuen’s tales of marauder ferocity, Dagobert hears this phrase through the flooring of the hall; this, and one more, one that, although voiced in his own Broken tongue and clearly not the name of any entity, contains some secret that makes it every bit as strange as the other:

“Tell me, great Allsveter,” the Lady Arnem seems to plead, as cool, dank air brings her words through the cracks in the floor to her son’s ears, “what can all this mean? Why are such great spirits consumed by fever, which is precisely the element over which they have mastery, even as they dwell in and near cooling water? What unnatural forces create so terrible an illness, which the runes†† say portend great danger to this city? What sense can there be to so strange a riddle: how shall water and fire conquer stone? ”

Dagobert lifts his head, utterly confused; but before he has time to puzzle with his mother’s last words, the sudden sounds of final preparation — vials and bottles being capped and replaced in their shelves — carry up from below; and, at the first step of his mother’s feet upon the stone stairs that are carved into one wall of the cellar, the youth is up, has taken hold of the pot of stew that Nuen has left steaming on the floor, and is out the door of the house, calming his nerves and pacing upon the terrace in what he hopes is a confidently expectant manner.

His mother soon approaches him, and, with her black box of medicinal supplies snug beneath one arm, she passes by the youth without a word, her moments of preparation in the cellar seeming to have reconciled her little if at all to her son’s secret arrangement with his father. Dagobert follows uneasily, as Isadora leads the way quickly back to the door in the garden’s southern wall, which she pulls open in a swift motion, further revealing the strength that she possesses at moments of anger and peril. Darkness has fallen entirely, and, with the Moon as yet unrisen, all light on the Path of Shame is supplied by torches fueled by whatever the drunken residents can scavenge or steal. The sounds of mindless laughter have become noisier and more numerous, by now, as well as more insistent, forcing those engaged in equally senseless arguments to shout their meaningless indictments and insults at each