Spirit of the Sword: Pride and Fury (The First Sword Chronicles Book 1) (75 page)

"Yes there is, give it here," Amy grabbed hold of him, and Michael was forced to endure ministrations until there was a tourniquet tied tightly around his left hand, soaking up the blood.

The seven of them lined up in the gateway to the dead city, looking in at the ruined houses and fallen temples, the crumbling shops and shattered towers, the demolished statues and the burnt out gardens.

Michael felt a shiver run down his spine at the prospect of entering this hallowed place.

Gideon looked to each of them in turn. "We have come far together. Some of us farther than others, true, but as a group, as a unit, we have come far." A small smile played across his face. "A contubernium such as this was never such a force as I imagined commanding, yet now that that is my command I find that I would not trade it for an entire legion. We stand now, I think, upon the cusp of success. I would like you all to know how proud I am of you before we take this next step."

Michael bowed. "And we are proud to serve in obedience to your will, Lord Gideon. If you will but issue the command, then we shall crown your long endeavours with the glory that is your due."

Gideon smiled and drew Duty with a flourish, holding it point up in the air, the blade aligned with his face. "For the Empress, and the Divine Empire forever! All together now, as one, forward!"

As one man they took the next step into Aureliana.

There was a snapping sound, like someone stepping on a dry twig, or the springing shut of a trap.

White light surrounded Michael, blinding him, forcing him to shut his eyes against it and raise his hands against the brilliance that burned past his eyelids.

When he could open his eyes again he was alone, and stood in the midst of a courtyard in some far off part of the city, wrecked and decaying houses looming all around him.

“Our Amy?” Michael called, turning where he stood to look around the ruined houses and the toppled temples. “Filia Tullia? Your Highness?”

There was no sound, no reply. He was all alone in this cold place.

Michael knelt down and prayed to God that they would find each other soon, to be reunited hale and hearty, before they could be picked off one by one by the killing blade or the magical arts of darkness.

XVIII

Guardian Naiad

Amy kept her sword out as she nosed through the ruins of Aureliana. She had not sheathed it since she became separated from the others.

So far, she had not been successful at finding either her friends or the Sword of Cupas. Of course as far as the blade went she wasn't really sure what she was looking for, but she hoped she'd know it when she saw it. Hopefully it would be shiny and decorated in some way. It was a knife made by gods after all.

The quicker we get out of this place the better,
Amy thought.
It isn't natural.

This place, its state of ruin, reminded her of villages she had seen after an undine raid, where her grandfather's knights had arrived too late to stop the raiders from doing their work and making off with the loot. This place had the exact feel: buildings destroyed, objects smashed, all that were missing were the bodies of the fallen.

The problem was, those villages she had seen had been days at most after the fighting that had wrecked them. This was five hundred years ago, there shouldn't be more than a few freestanding walls remaining. It was like someone had frozen the whole place in ice from its fall till their arrival. Not natural, not in the least.

And she was certain that something was following her. She could hear it whispering.

Amy tightened her grip on the hilt of her sword before she whirled around to confront her stalkers. "All right, I've had enough of this. Out you come!"

"Watch your tongue you insolent little brat, before I decide to have it ripped from your mouth," her grandfather shouted right back at her. He sat before her, hunched and stooped upon his lordly seat of carven stone, and his court stood ranged about him: her father, fidgeting with his hands and unable to meet her gaze; her uncle Antonio, whose mouth tightened as he regarded her; Antonio's son Ferdinand, Amy's cousin who was set to inherit Seafire despite being younger than Amy by a year; Cassio, her grandfather's Caedan blademaster; Prospero, a sorcerer, his skin wrinkled with age, who was her grandfather's most trusted councillor; Gonzalo the Steward and Hippolyto the Captain of the Guards. And beyond them, less distinct in Amy's eyes, all the knights and lesser lords of the Seareach staring at her, all save for Ser Viola, the only one who might have been on her side.

Before her eyes the world shimmered, and the city plaza became her grandfather's hall, hung with trophies of victories recent and far gone, merfolk servants bustling around her, the stillness of the dead city replaced with the heavy silence of the court.

"This isn't real," Amy said. "I'm not really here."

"You think so do you," her grandfather said. "I wish that myself. I wish that I didn't have to endure a half-human whelp as my granddaughter. I wish that I did not have to acknowledge you as part of my line. Well, blood or no you'll not inherit Seafire Peak, I promise you that! And you'll not take your cousin's birthright of that sword and armour either, get them off."

"I am the elder born, and offspring to your elder son," Amy said.

"You're a bastard born to a savage," grandfather snapped. "You have nothing here but what I give you. Nothing here, and nothing anywhere. Or did you think that I don't know the real reason you ran away, stealing what rightfully belongs to Ferdinand?"

"I left to help a friend."

Grandfather laughed. "You can lie to yourself, bastard, but not to me. I will always know all the truths you want to keep hidden: you ran away because you thought you could win glory on the land didn't you? And now you're back because it didn't happen. Ha! Did you think that just because they didn't know the intimate details of how you came to be that they might suddenly think that you were actually worth anything? Fool! Anyone with so much as a single eye can see you'll never be worth anything on land or sea."

"That isn't true," Amy said. "I left for Michael's sake, not my own."

"Would you have left if you had been given the knighthood you desired?" Antonio asked.

"I-" Amy hesitated.

"As if one such as you could ever attain knighthood," grandfather said mockingly.

Ferdinand's voice grated upon her ears, "If you had been grandfather's heir instead of me, would you have given Seafire up to me to go and help your friend?"

"I can't say what I would have done, only what I did," Amy replied.

"I tried to defend you, daughter," her father said in a slow and melancholy tone. "I told them that you would master your weak, human blood and prove yourself a true naiad, a daughter of Niccolo; but in the end you have shown yourself a mere human after all. Your mother's child, not mine."

Amy's jaw tightened. "If that's what you think then why did you marry mother? If she was so weak, so human, then what did you ever love about her in the first place?"

"Love," her father laughed. "You foolish child. I took a night's pleasure from your mother, intending to move swiftly on ere I returned to Seafire and my home; to take a naiad bride from a noble house, and sire worthy heirs upon her. But you, you bound me to that foolish creature, kept me in servitude for ten years, ten years in which I lost everything. And all because of a mistake."

It was what she had feared to hear from him, ever since she had been old enough to comprehend the slurs directed at her, the disdain the pureblood naiads felt for humans, the scorn with which she and her mother were regarded. Several times she had come close to asking her father what had brought them together, he and a woman from a race despised, but always she had drawn back from it in fear of his response. And now it seemed she had been right to fear.

Prospero cleared his throat. "I suggest the child be conducted to her chambers, where she may exhibit her grief without observation."

"Yes, tears would be a very human reaction," Antonio said.

"One I've no wish to see," grandfather said. "Air your human frailties in private, not in public."

Amy's face contorted into a snarl, the ice in her gut melting in the heat of her rage. "No, you'll not see tears from me. So you never wanted to stay around with your daughter, is that it, father? Well you know what? I wish you had gone if you wanted to! You never did a single thing for me my entire childhood. I was upset, sad and miserable nearly all the time and you never did anything about it, not even when I was getting beaten up for how I looked. Michael did more to stop what I was going through than you ever did, and you had the nerve to give him grief about it! About the only thing you ever did for me was bring me somewhere I could learn how to fight, and even then you didn't do anything to stop all the crap I went through on the way.

"You're weak and you're a coward and if I never have to see you again it will be too soon. My mother was worth a hundred of you."

And then, just like that, they were all gone. Her grandfather, her father, the entire court. All vanished, returned to dust and shadows. Amy stood once more in Aureliana, all alone.

She planted her sword point first on the ground, pushing her helmet up at little so that the cool air could blow upon her face.

"So that's how it's going to be, is it?" she muttered. "Look sharp, our Michael they'll be sending little Felix after you or I miss my bet." She was half surprised that she hadn't seen Felix herself. Maybe he was to come. Or maybe she didn't care about him enough any more.

That was an uncomfortable thought. Had her time as a squire made her selfish? Was she more concerned with herself than with anyone else?

No. I still care about other people. I care about Michael, I care about Fiannuala. I'd even be sad if something happened to Jason even if I do want to smack him sometimes.

God, if you really are still listening to us, if the prayers of your children mean anything to you, if you have any love in your heart for anyone, protect them all. I know they aren't all Turonim, but one of them is pious enough for three people and three of them worship your brothers and sisters.

"Hey, our Michael, are you about?" Amy yelled. "Fia? Fiannuala, can you hear me?"

No one answered.

"Obvious they're a way away then, they should have heard that half a city away," Amy said to herself.

She heard something chittering at her feet, and looked down to see Char crawling up her leg.

"Char!" Amy cried, as the tiny salamander climbed onto her shoulder and licked her face, chirruping cheerfully a moment later. "At least you're still here."

Char squeaked as he cocked his head to one side.

Amy grinned. "Let's go find the others, shall we? What do you say?"

Char bobbed his head up and down, chirping enthusiastically.

"I'll take that as a yes," Amy said, and she set off down the road, Magnus Alba drawn and held before her. "Our Michael, can you hear me?"

"The fire of the Arunim stands in grave peril," the bone-bill priest intoned as he paced up and down, his robes of many hues swirling around him. "If we do not take care, the fire of our race may be snuffed out forever."

Wyrrin stood with his head bowed before the elders of his city district: the district master, born of the ruling caste, the priest, the master soldier of the warrior caste who served as a captain under the Bright Flame, and seven masters of the artisanal caste. They were smiths, carpenters, stone-masons and potters, for Wyrrin's home lay in an artisanal district where there were no farmers or keepers of beasts, nor any great store of warriors. There were few drakes here who understood his frustrations, let alone sympathised with them. Even the warrior, the drake whom Wyrrin might have hoped for the most sympathy from, stared at him with hard eyes and nought but disdain in his expression.

They sat at a long, semicircular table, his judges, all save for the priest who had risen to pontificate. They wore their best robes, each of them, with the finest for the ruler and the least elaborate or elegant for the warrior. That was the way things were in Arko: rulers wore cloth of gold, slaves wore nothing but loincloths, and everyone else wore something in between, each according to his station. 

Behind him, in the darkness of the shrine to Arus, two guards stood. They were both spike-tails, heavyset and with such thick scales they almost had no need of armour. Either one was capable of overpowering a scrawny raptor like Wyrrin in this confined space, and their armour had been forged by master smiths, proof against even his sickle claws.

That would have been true even had his hands not been bound in manacles.

“In order for the city to survive, all must serve as Arus has dicatated,” the priest continued, bobbing his duck-bill head up and down as he gestured wildly with his arms. “Every fire drake has their place, every caste has an allotted role under the eyes of heaven. It is for females to breed, to bring forth the new generation who will carry on the sacred flame that burns within the heart of our race. It is for the rulers to govern us, the priestly caste to nurture the souls of the lesser castes, the keepers to raise the salamanders gifted to us by Arus, the artisans to make our home sturdy and comfortable. It is for the warriors to defend us, the farmers to feed us, and it is for the slaves to labour to assist the higher castes in whatever small measure that they can. This is the sacred word of Arus, delivered up to us by our revered ancestors. You, Wyrrin of the slave caste, stand accused before the elders of this district of breaking this most sacred law, and transgressing against the will of divine Arus himself.”

As the other elders murmured in disapproval, Wyrrin raised his head and looked each one of them in the eye, in turn. “So I am condemned for my whole life for something I had no part or choice in? Does my own worth count for nothing in the face of my birth?”

“It is not for you to judge your worth, nor to question the will of Arus; you are but a slave!” the priest roared. “You lied about your caste and impersonated a warrior.”

“You even fought on the field of battle against the faithless humans,” the warrior thundered, his anger undimmed by the fact that Wyrrin had risked his life under his command. “You have tarnished the honour of the whole army by your actions!”

“Yet I fought better than any of your warriors, born to fight,” Wyrrin spat. “I have killed humans and saved the lives of brother fire drakes, does that count for nothing? Do we not need our best fighters to defend us? Will it please Arus if we all die from following our castes?”

“Blasphemy!” the priest hissed. “The protection of Arus does more to protect this city than a hundred thousand warriors!”

The crafters, none of whom would have dreamed of taking up arms even if their homes were burning around them, nodded and murmured their assent. The ruler, Master Orrin, brought his hand down hard upon the table before he rose to his feet. He was a frill-neck, and his red-and-green frill flared wide around his neck to make him seem larger and more intimidating as he stared down at Wyrrin with disgust.

“Your reasons for breaking the law as you did are irrelevant, both to Arus and to this council,” Orrin declared. “You have admitted your guilt, which was in any case beyond doubt, and you have shown no remorse for this offence. Since it is clear that you have no respect for this city or her laws, the verdict of this council is clear: Wyrrin of the slave caste, I, Orrin of the ruling caste, master of this district, hereby declare you untouchable. I strip you of your caste and exile you from Arko and her lands. You are banished and cast out, to die amongst the faithless humans far from Arko and the protection of the community.”