NAITH
Naith pulled his hood further over his face, tilting his head so that he might see the boy up on the wooden platform Naith had ordered constructed. He might not wish to show his face in the streets of Urian just yet, but there were plenty of people at his disposal. At least enough to build a platform.
Bo-Bradwir looked nervous. There was no denying that. But he also looked ready.
The young man waited a moment, looking out among the gathered peasants. Then he spoke loudly. “Friends, I bring you a message of hope. The crown has failed us all.”
Even this simple statement garnered cheers.
“The number of Tirians isn’t getting smaller, is it? Each year, more are added to our population. Babes are born, and that means more mouths to feed. Has the monarchy responded? Does the monarchy answer when these babes cry for food? When our farms are strained to the point of absurdity? No. They demand taxes.”
A loud chorus of boos and jeers. Just as Naith planned when he wrote it.
“We must seize our power, friends. What powers exist in our world? Population? The nations of Haribi and Minasimet have as many people as we do. Meridione, though small, is not far behind. Tir no longer holds the power of population.
“Then maybe size? But, no. Tir is not bigger than Haribi. The Bellithwyn continent is twice the size of Tir. What other source of power do we, the Tirian Empire, have?”
The boy was fouling up some of the language Naith had carefully crafted. But Naith had done what he was able to do with the time he was given, considering this boy had sounded every bit the Pembroni farmer when he had first come to Naith at the temple. The results weren’t bad.
“The third kind of power relies on the strength of its people,” Bo-Bradwir continued. “That we could have, friends. We did have once. But we let it die. We let it go to waste. As we scramble to meet the demands of the crown, we forget who we are.
“So what is our strength? Our Tirian race. Our Tirian heritage.” Bo-Bradwir paused and looked at Naith.
The boy hadn’t liked this part. In the end, the Master had needed to produce the most difficult of all strands, draining but effective. Ones that manipulated sentiment. The Master had showered Bo-Bradwir in them—wrapped them all around him like a coiled snake so that the words might come out the way the Master and Naith desired. Even so, Bo-Bradwir paused.
His will could be strong at times.
But after a moment’s hesitation, the speech continued. “We need to remember the strength of our Tirian blood. The purity of it. The power of it. We must remember the purity of our race and the glory of the Tirian minds who conceived the great city of Urian, the Tirian hands that built it. Aren’t we willing to fight for these things?”
A roar of approval from the crowd.
“Those who are not willing to fight will let our country—our pride and our glory—be stolen from us. Are you willing to fight, my friends?”
A louder roar than the first.
“Do you not want a leader you can believe in? Someone who is one of you? Someone who knows what matters?”
Naith’s watchful look intensified. Bo-Bradwir held his hands out, and orbs of fire glowed in his palms. The crowd gasped.
“I am the one you can believe in. I will challenge the crown and restore Tir to its glory!” The fire turned to bread, and the peasants erupted.
The sound was delicious—the approval and rabid enthusiasm of those who didn’t know any better and who couldn’t see past their own stomachs.
Bo-Bradwir was passing out the large quantities of bread they had made in advance. Now was the time to slip away. Naith rounded a corner into an alleyway, pulled his hood lower, and spoke in low tones.
“Master?”
The misty strands appeared almost immediately. “Yes?”
“The boy is ready. And so are the peasants.”
“Well done, Naith.”
Relief. “A dozen more speeches like this, and the whole kingdom will be prepared. Tir is ready. It is time for you to collect your weapon, Master.”
“Indeed. And this time, I will not fail.”