27. Ethics of War

Chapter twenty-seven

Ethics of War

Han

T he next morning dawned bright and cold. We were all awake by the time the Mandible knocked at the door.

"The high priestess asked me to accompany you this morning after you've broken your fast," she said when I answered the door. "I have a meal prepared at my house, if you would be interested in joining me."

I bowed. "We would be honored, mistress."

She smiled, revealing long, sharp canine teeth. "We don't use honorifics, Han Antonovich—apart from the high priestess, who is called ‘Lady' when not referred to by her title. You may call me Xhela in conversation, or ‘the Mandible' in more formal settings."

I bowed again, wishing I'd had more time to study the culture before we came. Or that the tsar had sent someone with more experience. I was woefully unprepared for these negotiations. "We'll take your custom as our own during our time here." Hopefully that gesture would earn me a measure of goodwill.

Her home was on the same street as the guest house we were staying in. Carved into the mountain, it was a single room, but privacy screens made of leather separated it into sections. An iron grill hung over the fire in the center of the room, on which three large trout were nearly finished cooking. My stomach gurgled at the savory, smoky smell filling the air.

Xhela indicated the low table near the fire. "Please, sit."

We took our seats on the furs as she removed the fish from the grill. She served us each a generous helping, followed by an acorn cake. When she poured us our drinks, I sniffed mine. The scent was yeasty and familiar. I took a drink.

"Kvass?" I'd thought the drink was unique to Inzhrians.

She smiled again. "Most of my people don't drink it, but I've developed a taste."

"It's very good."

"Do you live here alone, Xhela?" Lada asked, taking a pat of what I assumed was goat butter and spreading it on her acorn cake.

"My mother lives with me, but she's visiting relatives for the time being."

I took a bite of my acorn cake. It was nutty and slightly sweet, though a bit dry. I spread butter on it as Yakov asked, "Are there many Drakra towns?"

"No more than a dozen, spread throughout the mountains." Xhela placed another serving of fish on Yakov's plate without asking.

"My father said there used to be Drakra settlements all over this side of the country," Lada said. "After the Spider Wars, the treaty restricted the Drakra to the mountains and claimed the towns for Inzhria." She looked to Xhela for confirmation.

I glanced at Lada, surprised, as the Mandible nodded. I'd known the Drakra had lost land during the wars, but I didn't remember their territory ever extending beyond the mountains.

"You're well educated on the topic," Xhela said. "You can't have been more than a baby at the time of the last war."

Lada smiled wryly. "My father insisted I have an understanding of the tsardom's most recent history, given my parentage."

"I see. I suppose you weren't born at the time of the wars, Yakov?"

"No," Yakov said. "My father fought in the last one, though." His eyes widened as he realized what he'd said, and he smacked his hand over his mouth. I tensed, watching the Drakra woman for her response. We would have enough difficulty making this alliance without insulting our hosts.

Xhela waved a hand, unbothered. "Don't worry. My parents met on the battlefield during the first war. He fought for the humans, and she for the Drakra. I don't hold a soldier's battles against him—or against his children."

I knew the Drakra took prisoners of war as slaves. Had her father been forced to sire children on a Drakra woman? The practice of slavery was monstrous, and I felt an accord with Prince Radomir, who had made his distaste for this alliance clear. The tsar couldn't allow such a practice to continue.

It wasn't my place to dictate what the tsar could or could not allow, I reminded myself. I was a soldier, a loyal servant of Borislav. I was here to serve, not to make demands.

When we finished eating, Xhela led us through the narrow streets. "This town has been home to our people since we emerged from Xyxra's eggs that formed these mountains." She gestured to the temple, several streets above us. "You've seen the temple, the high priestess's home. Each town has its own temple, though the priestess resides here."

"If she lives here, why build temples in the other towns?" Yakov asked, face screwed up in confusion.

"Does your tsar remain in only one castle?" she retorted. "The priestess lives here, yes, but she does travel to the other towns in her domain. A town would be dishonored if it didn't provide a dwelling place for the goddess and her chosen mouthpiece."

She pointed out sights as we walked—the home of a war hero who perished in the last Spider War, the place to buy the finest wool, the ancestral home of the former high priestess's family. I listened in fascination, grateful for her insight into the culture. Despite my initial impression, the town was not a ghost town. The Spider Wars had taken their toll, but the town was healing. The Drakra were a resilient people.

We turned onto the street below the temple, and a colorful scene came into view, a striking contrast to the rocky grays of the rest of the town. Tapestries hung outside the houses, lining the street with brilliant pieces of art. Each piece was detailed and unique, some depicting intricate scenes, while others were an abstract explosion of color. Along the street, weavers, both men and women, sat on low stools, working threads into designs.

"Weaving is sacred in our culture," Xhela explained as we walked. "The houses nearest to the temple are reserved for weavers and their families."

I stopped to watch a woman working on what appeared to be a shirt. Her hands moved almost too fast for me to see, weaving together strands of brilliant reds and browns.

"They're all handwoven," Xhela said. "You won't find any lazy human looms here in the mountains—meaning no offense," she added belatedly.

Lada stopped next to me. "None taken. The artistry is incredible."

Xhela practically preened at the compliment. "Drakra weavers are the finest in the world."

It was late morning by the time we reached the temple. The high priestess waited for us, not in the formal altar hall where we'd first met her, nor in the cozy room where we'd dined, but in a third room. I looked around as we entered. Furs covered the floor, as in the other places I'd seen, but the tables in this room were taller, surrounded by woven stools. Shelves, too many to hold the few books in the room, lined the walls.

The priestess, sitting on one of the low stools, gestured for us to be seated.

"I have consulted the goddess regarding Borislav's desire to form an alliance," she said without preamble.

My mouth was cottony. What would we do if she refused to negotiate? Please, Otets, let her agree.

"The webs tell me Miroslav's reign will end within the year. Borislav's future is harder to read." She peered at the table, as though seeing the omens of her goddess in it. "He has many paths he may take, and his web is tangled up with many others." She looked up at me, her yellow eyes narrowing. "Yours in particular."

Yakov and Lada looked at me, and I frowned, meeting the priestess's stare. "What does that mean?"

She leaned in, resting her chin on her knuckles, and considered me with furrowed brows. "Reading the webs takes skill. Many have misread them to their ruin. I do not know what this means, but your choices give Borislav the crown—or keep it from him."

I swallowed. That didn't sound promising. But hadn't I already had an influence on the war, just by telling his story? Maybe that was all her webs meant. If it wasn't all superstitious nonsense. The Drakra had magic, I knew, but that didn't mean they could see the future.

"If my decision can make Borislav tsar, he will be tsar," I said firmly. "But what is your decision, high priestess? The support of the Drakra could bring him to the throne sooner, saving countless lives."

Xhela, sitting next to the priestess, cut in. "Saving countless human lives, perhaps. Many of our people would still die."

She wasn't wrong. The Drakra were already depleted by the Spider Wars. I opened my mouth to respond, but Lada beat me to it.

"Many more of your people will die if Miroslav wins. Like his father, he believes these mountains should belong to Inzhria. Borislav would return some of the land their father took; Miroslav would take more."

The priestess tilted her head, considering us. She stood and took a sheaf of papers from a shelf. A stack of maps, I saw as she set the papers before us.

"Show me what you can offer."

***

Negotiations filled the next week. Occasionally, we were joined by other Drakra—most frequently, the priestess's husband Xolok—but for the most part, Yixa na Chekke and Xhela na Zanik met with us alone.

"What good will all this land do us if it lies fallow for generations?" Yixa na Chekke asked. "My people were slaughtered during the ‘Spider Wars,' as you call them. We do not have enough people to work the territory your tsar promises us. I can't take this risk."

The talks were devolving quickly. If I didn't do something soon, the high priestess was going to refuse the alliance.

"Give us one more night to consider a solution, Lady," I said. "Please."

She pinched her mouth together and nodded once. "If we cannot reach an agreement by sunset tomorrow, I fear there may not be a reason to continue negotiations."

"Thank you for your patience." I stood and bowed, my body stiff from so many hours sitting at the table. "We'll have a solution for you in the morning." I just hoped it was one I could live with.

Back at the guest house, Yakov flopped down onto the furs. "She's going to refuse."

"We'll think of something," Lada said, taking a seat next to him. She put a hand on his knee. "It's in their best interest to join us, too. I wasn't lying when I said Miroslav would destroy them. He won't be satisfied until he rules the whole world."

My stomach was tight with nerves. I took a seat next to the fire pit and built the embers into a fire. "I think I know what we have to do." I couldn't look at them as I said it.

"What?"

"The tsar… The night before we left, he told me if they wouldn't agree to our terms—" I broke off, shaking my head. "He wants me to offer them the prisoners of war. As slaves."

Yakov swore. "You can't do it."

"Why not?" Lada crossed her arms. "We killed their people. It's only right we give them what they need to rebuild."

"People aren't wood and stone," he snapped.

I held up my hand. "It's not up to me. If negotiations look like they're going to fail, the tsar told me I have to make this offer. We've tried everything else. She's going to say no, and we can't afford to lose this alliance." I ran a hand over my face. "I don't want to do this, either, Yasha," I said, lapsing into his nickname. "But I need you on my side. Both of you."

"How long?" Lada asked. "They won't get to keep the prisoners for life, right? We'll place a limit on it?"

"Eight years. That's how long they traditionally kept their prisoners."

Yakov grimaced. "I can't. I can't agree to this. You're taking men from their homes, their families, for eight years. I don't care if the tsar ordered it. You can't do it."

Lada glared at him. "It's either taking Miroslav's men from their families for eight years, or getting all of our men killed." She turned to me. "If this is what we have to do, we'll do it."

I looked at Yakov. "I hate it, too, but do you see another way?"

Emotions battled for dominance on his face. Anger, frustration, reluctance. Finally, he sighed. "I'm with you."

The next morning, we sat around the negotiation table one last time. Xhela and Yixa watched me, their faces as unreadable as stone.

I took a deep breath. One last attempt before I made the tsar's proposal.

"Tsar Borislav will make a formal apology to you for the wrongs committed against your people," I said. "Perhaps you can allow the humans to remain on the land he has agreed to return to you. They can pay tribute until your population has grown enough to work the land yourselves."

She sniffed. "And take the chance that they may refuse to leave when my people are ready to take what was promised? I think not." Standing, she said, "I do not see anything you can offer that will make it worth the lives we would lose."

I had no other choice. I glanced at Yakov and Lada. Yakov gritted his teeth, but Lada gave me an encouraging nod.

I swallowed. "What about lives, Lady?"

She sat back down. "Go on."

"The Drakra's tradition is to keep prisoners of war as bondservants, yes?" She nodded, and I continued. "Tsar Borislav is willing to grant you the prisoners from this war to work the land he offers. He would keep any high-ranking officials and commanders, but the majority could return with you, according to your tradition. You may keep them for eight years, as you did in the past, at the end of which time they may return home."

"Or stay, if they so choose?" Xhela asked. "It's not unheard of for them to become one of us, to marry and settle among our people. My father was a bondservant who stayed here by choice. My husband, also, was a bondservant, though he served only a short time before he was freed by the treaty."

"I didn't realize you were married, Xhela." If her father and husband had both survived their service and agreed to marry their captors, perhaps it wasn't as cruel a fate as I'd thought.

Her expression softened slightly. "I followed him west after the war ended. He passed into the other realm, and our daughter is grown now, so I returned to my people."

"If your prisoners choose to remain after their service, the tsar will have no objection," I said. "As long as the decision is theirs alone."

The priestess considered me for a moment. "We will need time to discuss the issue." She stood and left the room without another word. Xhela followed behind her.

They were stalling, trying not to appear too eager, but I had seen the desperation in Yixa's eyes. They would return in a few minutes, ready to agree to all the terms offered. They needed the people too desperately to refuse.

All we had to do was live with ourselves.