The Strength of the Few (Hierarchy, #2)

by James Islington

FEAR, MY FATHER ONCE TOLD me, is simply our realisation of a lack of control. And that is why when we are afraid, sometimes the only way we can cope—the only way to dull the edge of that lack—is to put our faith in those who appear not to suffer it.

suppose the war is the easiest place to begin. It started thousands of years ago, against an enemy called the Concurrence. They were bent on enslaving everyone, and from what Veridius and I could tell, at one point they were winning.” His mouth twists. “So our side split the world into three near-identical copies. Res—where we’re from; Obiteum, which is here; and Luceum. Don’t ask me how,”

“What do you know about the Cataclysm?”

“They’re culls, Vis. The Cataclysms are culls by an enemy that everyone on our world has forgotten. That one those architects were trying to prevent? It was the eleventh. The eleventh in three thousand years. And even with all their knowledge, they failed.”

light, and then gaze drifting to the desolation around us again. “Is there any way back?” Caeror pauses, his smile fading, then exhales and

Sometimes, just the fiction is comfort enough. But eventually, as if a warm blanket has been stolen away, I wake.

“They tell me you were with him, at the end.” I swallow. “I was.” My friend suddenly in my arms again, bloody and broken. Struggling for every breath. And then not. “They say you carried him. All the way back to the Academy.” He finally looks across at me. Gaze drifting to my left side. “He was my friend,” I remind him softly. My voice does crack, this time.

THERE IS SOMETHING ABOUT WAKING FOR the first time after everything you know has fallen apart. A few beats of blissful, dark ignorance, the amnesia of sleep still in effect. Then the creeping memory of there being something wrong, though the specifics escape you. Confusion and denial as your mind searches unwillingly, hoping to find nothing, but deep down, knowing. Knowing.

The reasons were complex and many-faceted and unavoidably varied from person to person. But we never mentioned those during our childish vents as we watched the sun set over the domain of our enemy. Easier to despise than understand. Easier to mock than empathise.

Eventually, Emissa speaks into the awkwardness.

“A final question, Vis Telimus.” He taps the board, just once. “If you had not made any mistakes, would you have beaten me?” I shake my head slowly. “I may have beaten you,” I tell him quietly. My father’s words echoing on my lips. “Foundation is like life. You can make no mistakes at all, and still lose.”

“You know, it was always the thing that struck me most, that first year. How often I found myself wishing I’d appreciated what I had.”

My humour fades. “Truth,” I repeat softly.

“There’s an old saying, Vis. The young know they will die—” “But only the old believe it,” I finish. “I know. And I’m old enough.

Talent, as my father used to remind me constantly, matters only when it’s married to effort.

DEATH, EIDHIN ONCE INSISTED WHILE explaining the ddram cyfraith, is our most important horizon. It matters because we need an end to what we can see. Without it we would drift, overwhelmed, nothing to orient ourselves against. Without it, we would never be able to focus on what is truly important: that which is in front of us.

“No. Never. Rule a man, and he will do whatever you can imagine. Befriend him, and he will do more.”

He stands there for a few more seconds, and then pads forward. His teeth slowly disappearing. I keep my hand outstretched, but otherwise don’t move. He reaches me, and nuzzles his head beneath my palm. “Hello, Diago.” I gently stroke his massive head. “Rotting gods.” It’s Aequa again, relief palpable. My sense of her Will—unavoidably noticeable, this powerful and this close—vanishes. “You gave it a name?” Diago glances at her and gives a low rumble. “Diago it is,” Aequa mutters.

Aequa says something. Garbled. Meaningless. As I fade to unconsciousness, I can’t help but feel vaguely annoyed that she didn’t run like I told her to.

A MAN WHO IS CHASED may be free. A man who chases never is.

growl at him. “Does she know?” “That you crept off the Academy grounds with Aequa, then returned unconscious while being hauled by a tame alupi? Yes, my friend. Word may have gotten around.”

Veridius is going to have a lot of questions. “How angry was he?” “Not completely disappointed you came back alive. I think.”

I’ve avoided thinking of him. Ever since the funeral. Shied away from the pain of those memories because I’ve had more pressing concerns. More important things to do. What kind of friend does that? Grief, my mother once told me, is love’s most honest expression. The last and hardest aspect of truly, truly caring for someone.

Because it is impossible to truly love something that cannot be lost. I remember that day, and I remember my friend, and I weep.

I’m not sure if my tears are for the boy whose time was cut short, or myself for having to bear his absence. But it helps. I force the memories. Smile at some, even as I sniff.

But Fearghus says none of that. “I will not fight for him,” he says, puzzled. “I will honour my oath to him, but I will fight to protect my home, and my family, and my friends. For what other reason would a man kill and die?” A murmur of assent from the others. My respect for them, already high, grows.

a man is known by his failings until he is known by his actions.

“The oldest argument for doing something wrong is that everyone is doing it.

“A society cannot make a man a monster, Diago. But it can give him the excuse to become one.”

And like that, some of the unease lifts. Not because I am getting my own way. Not because my father thinks it is the right choice. But because he is willing to let it be mine.

The Hierarchy is a monster that has to feed to survive. And inevitably, once it has eaten everything else, all that is left to consume is itself.

What is it they say, again? The needs of the many will always be loud.” He leans forward. Hooked nose inches from mine. “But in the end, it is only the strength of the few that matters.”

Grief, he explained to me gently, is a process that has only a beginning. We work through it, not get over it.