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This story is set in the same world as The Sum of Things, my very, very unfinished novel that was my failed attempt at NaNoWriMo in 2004. "Defender of the Faith" takes place about 1200 years before "The Sum of Things," in what later became the nation of Halo, a country more or less permanently engaged in holy war with Kanos. The old Haloro religion was polytheistic. Their new religion, Novi Samhiva si Temor (the Church of the Living Savior), is monotheistic, considers all other religions lies spread by evil demons to keep people chained to the endless cycle of reincarnation, looks forward to an apocalypse and subsequent perfect new creation, and is violently evangelical. You see, their apocalypse can't happen until a certain percentage of the people of the world have 'cast off their chains,' i.e. converted to Novi Samhiva.
"Defender of the Faith" is a story from the early days of Novi Samhiva, when its adherents were fighting to have it legalized and sheltered from persecution by the leaders of the old Haloro religion. It was an evangelical faith from the beginning, and its adherents were never pacifists, but the concept of holy war was several generations in the future. I think you don't tend to get forcible evangelism until you have some form of state power behind you, and until the ritual duel between Shemoni Kikalava and Jonoma Topio, state power was emphatically against Novi Samhiva.
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Defender of the Faith
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The king was swordborn. Nobody should have defeated him in single combat, not even with the Savior's favor. Temor was all-powerful, true, but he wanted the people to break their own chains the way he had broken free of the Wheel, so when he reached through to alter the laws of the world, his hand was subtle, vague, like the flash of a wing through early morning mist. He opened doors, but he would never compel a person to walk through.
Shemoni dug her sword point into the hard packed earth of the dueling circle and struggled to her feet, staring blankly at the king's empty hands. His sword lay where it had fallen, outside the circle, its point aimed straight at the old gods' shrine.
The king was disarmed.
That meant nothing. He was swordborn; he could take her own blade in a heartbeat, if he wished. But he turned his empty hands to hold the palms outward, facing her, in the ancient gesture of peace. "First blood," he said, his voice calm and even.
A tiny gash on his wrist, barely a scratch. "Not enough," Shemoni said. Her voice sounded thin and harsh and weak after his. A murmur of voices outside the circle rustled and swelled in agreement. The king could not lose. Especially not to an upstart follower of an upstart faith.
"The earth drank two drops," the king said. "Your point is won. By the gods' own laws, this new god -- this Temor -- is free to walk among them and fight for worship."
Shemoni dropped her sword.
She had never dreamed of winning. She had hoped that her death -- her execution, rather, since any fight against the king had a foregone conclusion -- might make her a martyr, might inspire others to open their eyes and see the truth of their chains. She hadn't even prayed for victory; only the hand of a god could hold back the king's sword, and Temor would never interfere so directly.
She hadn't won. She couldn't have won. What game was the king playing?
"You," she said, as he walked past her, toward the edge of the circle and his impossibly fallen sword. "I didn't win. Why didn't you block? What do you want from me, from us? What is the price of this freedom?"
The king turned, graceful as a man of twenty despite his gray hair and thickened joints. His eyes were clear and cold, colorless as ice. Demon eyes, Shemoni thought, and her fingers jerked halfway through a warding before she recalled herself and held them still. The king noticed -- how could he fail to notice? -- but he didn't grow angry.
"My sons are wastrels," he said. "My daughter has turned against me and fled to Orifan. My nobles are a pack of rabid wolves, slavering for prey. The speakers of the old gods squabble amongst themselves like ravens over a corpse. When I die, what will hold Halo together?"
"The princess will return," Shemoni whispered. "She must."
The king shook his head. "She will not. And winter will come. Someone must be left to tend the hearth until the sun returns. Maybe your Savior will serve." Then he smiled. "What sort of speaker are you, to doubt that your god's favor won the duel for you? Shame, girl. And mind your footwork, when next you enter a circle."
He strode onward and reclaimed his sword, sliding it easily into his sheath as if the blade were an extension of his will, a part of his body, something from which he could never be parted... save by his own free choice.
Temor opened doors.
Shemoni raised her face and offered thanks.
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Inspired by the 4/6/09
15_minute_fic word #105: impact
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On the one hand, I think I've written more in the past month than I did in most months of 2008. On the other hand, I am not finishing "Secrets." *thwaps self for being so distractible*
"Defender of the Faith" is a story from the early days of Novi Samhiva, when its adherents were fighting to have it legalized and sheltered from persecution by the leaders of the old Haloro religion. It was an evangelical faith from the beginning, and its adherents were never pacifists, but the concept of holy war was several generations in the future. I think you don't tend to get forcible evangelism until you have some form of state power behind you, and until the ritual duel between Shemoni Kikalava and Jonoma Topio, state power was emphatically against Novi Samhiva.
---------------------------------------------
Defender of the Faith
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The king was swordborn. Nobody should have defeated him in single combat, not even with the Savior's favor. Temor was all-powerful, true, but he wanted the people to break their own chains the way he had broken free of the Wheel, so when he reached through to alter the laws of the world, his hand was subtle, vague, like the flash of a wing through early morning mist. He opened doors, but he would never compel a person to walk through.
Shemoni dug her sword point into the hard packed earth of the dueling circle and struggled to her feet, staring blankly at the king's empty hands. His sword lay where it had fallen, outside the circle, its point aimed straight at the old gods' shrine.
The king was disarmed.
That meant nothing. He was swordborn; he could take her own blade in a heartbeat, if he wished. But he turned his empty hands to hold the palms outward, facing her, in the ancient gesture of peace. "First blood," he said, his voice calm and even.
A tiny gash on his wrist, barely a scratch. "Not enough," Shemoni said. Her voice sounded thin and harsh and weak after his. A murmur of voices outside the circle rustled and swelled in agreement. The king could not lose. Especially not to an upstart follower of an upstart faith.
"The earth drank two drops," the king said. "Your point is won. By the gods' own laws, this new god -- this Temor -- is free to walk among them and fight for worship."
Shemoni dropped her sword.
She had never dreamed of winning. She had hoped that her death -- her execution, rather, since any fight against the king had a foregone conclusion -- might make her a martyr, might inspire others to open their eyes and see the truth of their chains. She hadn't even prayed for victory; only the hand of a god could hold back the king's sword, and Temor would never interfere so directly.
She hadn't won. She couldn't have won. What game was the king playing?
"You," she said, as he walked past her, toward the edge of the circle and his impossibly fallen sword. "I didn't win. Why didn't you block? What do you want from me, from us? What is the price of this freedom?"
The king turned, graceful as a man of twenty despite his gray hair and thickened joints. His eyes were clear and cold, colorless as ice. Demon eyes, Shemoni thought, and her fingers jerked halfway through a warding before she recalled herself and held them still. The king noticed -- how could he fail to notice? -- but he didn't grow angry.
"My sons are wastrels," he said. "My daughter has turned against me and fled to Orifan. My nobles are a pack of rabid wolves, slavering for prey. The speakers of the old gods squabble amongst themselves like ravens over a corpse. When I die, what will hold Halo together?"
"The princess will return," Shemoni whispered. "She must."
The king shook his head. "She will not. And winter will come. Someone must be left to tend the hearth until the sun returns. Maybe your Savior will serve." Then he smiled. "What sort of speaker are you, to doubt that your god's favor won the duel for you? Shame, girl. And mind your footwork, when next you enter a circle."
He strode onward and reclaimed his sword, sliding it easily into his sheath as if the blade were an extension of his will, a part of his body, something from which he could never be parted... save by his own free choice.
Temor opened doors.
Shemoni raised her face and offered thanks.
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Inspired by the 4/6/09
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On the one hand, I think I've written more in the past month than I did in most months of 2008. On the other hand, I am not finishing "Secrets." *thwaps self for being so distractible*