The Saints of the Sword

A
lazrian’s mother had once said that the sound of rain was heaven singing. Tonight, heaven was screaming.

Five days of rain had turned the roads of Aramoor to rivers and made the grounds boggy around the Vantran house. It was spring, when this part of the Empire endured countless thunderstorms. It was the time of year that Alazrian’s mother liked best. Soon, when the rains were gone, the gardens would bloom with rosebuds, but she would not be around to see them. By the time the first butterfly took wing, she would be long gone.

A distant blade of lightning flashed outside the castle window. Alazrian watched it dispassionately. The torch on the wall bounced shadows across the hall. The rain beyond the misty glass was coming down sideways. He was glad his grandfather wasn’t still on the road. In the morning the storm would have passed; his grandfather could make it back to Talistan then. He wouldn’t be staying long. Just long enough to see his daughter die. Alazrian pondered what was going on behind the nearby door. Was his grandfather weeping? he wondered. Was his mother? She was so close to death now, probably too weak for tears. And she never really had use for tears, anyway—her life and husband had made her hard.

Lady Calida had been a good mother, and the only thing of beauty that Alazrian knew. She had the heart of a
lion and the soul of a poet, and it was a mystery to Alazrian how she had come from the same loins that produced her brother, Blackwood Gayle. Her father was sometimes a beast and almost always a madman. And though Tassis Gayle loved his daughter dearly, he had stood by while she married a man without love in his heart. Her life had been a terrible thing, but she had never admitted that to Alazrian. She had taken joy and refuge in him. She had worn him like a magic cloak to ward off evil.

A crash of thunder echoed through the hall. Alazrian jumped at the blast. Down the hall, he could see the man who was not his father give him a peripheral glare of disgust. Elrad Leth snorted and turned his attention back to his own window. He wasn’t speaking to anyone tonight, not even the king, and Alazrian knew that Elrad Leth was a million miles away, preoccupied with things more important than his wife’s impending death. He had his hands behind his back, the way he always did when he was contemplative, slapping one into the palm of the other. His long body swayed a little as if he was enjoying music, but his eyes never hinted at anything but disdain. Elrad Leth cared for nothing, least of all his wife and “son,” both of whom he beat regularly. He took no joy in food or pageants or expensive clothing, and the only time he smiled was when he sensed his power over others. The way the storm lit his face was frightful.

Elrad Leth, Governor of Aramoor province, waited impatiently for King Tassis Gayle to conclude his last encounter with his daughter. The family was dwindling now. Tassis Gayle had already lost his son, and Alazrian worried that this new loss would send the old man over the edge. Some were saying he had already passed it. But if that was true, then Elrad Leth would be there at the bottom, waiting for him.

But even in his grief, Tassis Gayle was different these days. As Calida faded, the king grew vital, as if through some vampiric magic he stole her years. Sorrow had given his life purpose, a dimension it hadn’t had for a decade. Grief had straightened his spine and strengthened him,
quelled his coughing fits. These days, Tassis Gayle resembled the blood-thirsty warlord he had been in his youth.

Leth paid his son no regard as they both stared out at the stormy night. Alazrian could feel the man’s disappointment. He had wanted a strong son, like himself. Instead, Calida had delivered him a bastard, and a weakling, too. Leth could prove nothing of Alazrian’s fatherhood, and Tassis Gayle would brook no talk against his daughter’s virtue. So Leth and Calida and Alazrian all kept up the pretense, each of them knowing the truth, but Leth still smouldered when he looked at the thin-boned son that was not his own. Someday, Alazrian knew, the dam of his hatred would burst and Alazrian would have nowhere to hide.

“Alazrian,” called Leth from across the hall. “Come here.”

The summons made Alazrian weak-kneed. He hated speaking to Leth. He hated being around him. But he picked his way cautiously across the hall and stood beside his so-called father, who sighed as he contemplated the rain. Alazrian waited. Finally the governor spoke.

“I’ve been called to the Black City,” he said. His voice had a confessional tone, like a whisper. “Emperor Biagio and his inquisitor wish to speak with me.”