The Saints of the Sword (90 page)

“You’re going,” she said finally. Her voice was flat.

“Yes.”

“Good-bye, then. Have a safe journey to Nar.”

“I’m not going back to Nar,” said Biagio. “Not yet. First I’m going to Aramoor. I want to speak to Richius Vantran.”

“I see,” said Breena, continuing to prune. “And what makes you think he’ll speak to you? You’re still his enemy. You’re still the one that ordered his wife’s death.”

“Maybe,” said Biagio. “But I think the Jackal is eager to mend fences.” He took a step closer. “What about you?”

The girl lowered her shears. “Don’t ask me to forgive you, Lord Emperor. I cannot. Not yet.”

Biagio looked at her hands. She was still wearing the ring he had given her. To him, that was hopeful.

“I wanted to thank you before I left. You were very kind to me. You helped me to …”

“What?”

Biagio gave a pale smile. “To find my mind again. I am not insane, Breena. Someday I hope you’ll realize that.”

Breena shrugged. “Someday.”

“I will check on you from time to time. When I get back to the Black City, I will send people to the Highlands, to make sure all is well. If you need anything, just ask.”

“That’s very kind of you. Thank you.”

“No,” said Biagio. He took her ringed hand and kissed it. “Thank you, Lady Breena.”

Then he turned and left the sad woman behind, departing the rose garden for the long road to Aramoor.

It took days before Richius felt at home again, but eventually he settled into the familiar rhythms. Despite Elrad Leth’s occupation, the castle had changed little, and there were still some of his old servants in the lands around the keep. After the surrender of the Talistanians, he had let the soldiers return home. And he had opened the castle to any and all visitors, proclaiming his return. The Saints of the Sword rode through Aramoor with the news. Without Jahl Rob, they were diminished but remained stouthearted, and they helped Richius spread the word of his homecoming. They helped him at Windlash, too. The labor camp
had been the roughest part of Richius’ return. After freeing his people, he had ordered it burned.

Richius knew healing Aramoor would take time, and he had no magic to make it easier. Without Jahl Rob or Alazrian, he was alone, at least until Dyana arrived, and he knew he would depend heavily on Ricken and the other Saints. So far, his new friends had been invaluable. They had tamed the swelling crowds at the castle and had purged the country of Talistanians. Alazrian himself had left with Praxtin-Tar, using the warlord’s horde as protection during his own homecoming. Talistan would be a very different place now, and no one knew who would hold its throne. Richius supposed Biagio would make that decision. As emperor, it was his prerogative.

On the seventh day of his homecoming, Richius rode alone through the apple orchards, going from farm to farm to visit his wounded subjects. He had already been to the House of Lotts to pay respect to Alain’s parents, who now had only one son but graciously refused to blame Richius for their losses. It was a fine summer day and Richius had spent the morning at the house, tossing a ball back and forth with Alain and reminiscing about his dead brothers, Del and Dinadin. Alain was very much like them, Richius noticed. He was growing up to be a fine man.

Upon leaving the House of Lotts, Richius rode south, nearing the border with Talistan. There he stopped on the side of the road to admire the groves of apple trees and rest his tired horse. The trees provided shade from the sun, and as he sat he daydreamed about Dyana and Shani. It would be a long time until they arrived, but that was all right. It would give him time to ready the castle, give Aramoor some time to heal. Aramoor would welcome its new queen, Richius was certain. Leaning against a tree trunk, he let out a contented sigh.

He pulled a twig from a fallen branch and put it between his teeth, then noticed a lone rider in the distance, coming slowly toward him. Out of Talistan, Richius realized. The man wore black and carried a sword at his belt. He sauntered forward at an easy pace, unhurried by the
heat, his golden hair gleaming. As he drew closer he noticed Richius beneath the tree.

“Oh, my God,” Richius said. “I don’t believe it.”

Emperor Renato Biagio was a surprisingly muted sight. Without his train of slaves or baronial garments, he looked like any other road-weary rider, a lonely figure emerging from the hot day. His keen eyes regarded Richius sharply, but they no longer glowed sapphire blue, nor did his flesh have its impossibly golden sheen. Still, Biagio looked remarkably fit. He cast Richius a dazzling smile.

“I have a memory like a steel trap,” he declared, “and yours is a face I could never forget.” He brought his horse to a stop. “Greetings, Jackal.”

Richius didn’t get up. “You surprise me, Biagio,” he said. “I didn’t expect you to come.”

“Really? That would have been rude of me. I thought I owed you a visit. You and I have something to discuss.”

“What would that be?”

“Your rulership of Aramoor, of course.”

Biagio slid down from his horse, then surprised Richius again by sitting down beside him. The emperor picked up a twig of his own and began twirling it between his fingers. Richius watched him carefully.

“I am emperor, you know,” said Biagio. “I’ve had my problems, but I intend to solve them once I get back to Nar City. With Tassis Gayle out of my hair, I can finally concentrate.”

“Problems?” probed Richius. “What kind of problems?”

“Oh, I still have enemies,” said Biagio. “Believe me, there are problems to occupy me for a hundred years.”

When he didn’t elaborate, Richius said, “I see. So what about me?”

“I need your promise, Jackal.” Biagio’s expression was grave. “Will you follow me as emperor? Or will I have more treason on my hands? An honest answer would be appreciated.”

“First, I have a question for you,” said Richius. “Alazrian Leth gave me your letter. You said Aramoor would be mine if I brought the Triin into your war. Did you mean that?”

“I did.”

“Well, I’ve brought the Triin.”

“Yes,” laughed Biagio, “I’d heard. News of a Triin invasion travels quickly. I’d like to meet these Triin of yours. Are they at your castle?”

Richius shook his head. “They’re gone. They left yesterday for Talistan with Alazrian.”

“Alazrian?” Biagio looked disappointed. “Oh, bother. I had hoped to see the boy as well, but I avoided as much of Talistan as I could coming here.” He smiled impishly. “I’m not very popular in Talistan these days.”

“I can imagine.”

“How is the boy?” asked Biagio. “He is well?”

“He’s fine,” Richius replied, wondering how long that would be true. He didn’t tell Biagio about the curse of Triin magic—that it could only be used to heal, and not to harm. Nor had he mentioned it to Alazrian. He wondered how long it might be before Alazrian started showing symptoms—just as Tharn had.

“I am glad the boy is all right,” said Biagio. “That is good news.”

“Well, he’s not exactly perfect,” Richius confessed. “He killed Leth with his bare hands. And then he found out you killed his grandfather before he could try to heal him.”

“I had no choice,” said Biagio, tossing his twig to the ground. “The old man was insane. He deserved to die.”

“I don’t doubt that,” said Richius. “Still, your concern for Alazrian is surprising.” He looked at the emperor sharply. “Isn’t he just another of your pawns?”

“You wound me, Jackal. If you must know, I care about the boy. I intend to keep an eye on him.”

“Why?”

Biagio’s eyes flashed with familiar malevolence. “Because he just might be the most dangerous person in the world, that’s why.”

Richius nodded. “His magic.”

“He will have to be watched, maybe even cultivated. He will be powerful. I do not need more challengers in the Empire.”

“I won’t let you harm him, Biagio,” Richius warned. “And Alazrian has protection now from the Triin.”

“Bah,” scoffed Biagio with a dismissive wave. “I don’t mean to harm him. He has done me a service, after all. But I will watch him, and I will watch his magic grow. You would be wise to do the same.”

“You still haven’t answered my question, Emperor. Will you let me rule Aramoor?”

“We struck a bargain a long time ago, Jackal. Do you remember?”

Richius remembered perfectly. “Yes. You stay out of my affairs, and I’ll stay out of yours.”

“Just so.”

“Well, I think I can live with that,” said Richius. He couldn’t help but smile. Biagio looked like a little boy, sitting cross-legged in the dirt. “Is that it, then?” Richius asked. “Is that all you came for?”

“That and to see Alazrian. And, if I must admit it, to say thank you.”

“That’s a word I didn’t expect from you.”

“Spare me your sarcasm, Jackal. Now tell me, what of your wife and daughter?”

“What about them?”

“Are they well?”

“They are. I’ve already sent for them.”

“Wonderful! Then perhaps I will see them again. I’ve been travelling far too long, and I was hoping you could put me up at your home for a spell.”

“My home? You want to live with
me
?”

“For a while, yes,” said Biagio. “If it’s not too much trouble. I’d like a nice long rest before heading back to Nar. There’s bloody work needed in the capital, and I want to be prepared.”

Richius could barely believe it. He stared at Biagio, dumbfounded by his conversion.

“Lord Emperor,” he said, “you have certainly changed.”

A
lazrian knelt at the edge of the pond, staring at his watery reflection. He had laid aside his fishing pole because he hadn’t caught a single trout, and because he was fascinated by the face looking back at him. A small distance away, Praxtin-Tar was kneeling near a tree, facing far-off Falindar and praying softly. The warlord prayed four times a day, and his time in Talistan hadn’t eroded his devotion.

Since returning to Talistan a month ago, Alazrian and Praxtin-Tar had learned much about each other. Like Alazrian, Praxtin-Tar was alone now, for Crinion and the other warriors had returned to Lucel-Lor. Even Rook had been freed and had been given a horse to ride south, far from his vicious master. Now Praxtin-Tar was in self-imposed exile, left to explore the strange Empire and to protect his charge, the newly named regent of Talistan. Curiously, Alazrian had grown to like Praxtin-Tar, and Praxtin-Tar himself had slowly begun to thaw. Also, Alazrian was learning the Triin language. His frequent bondings with the warlord had allowed him to absorb more than just thoughts—he had knowledge now, and was soaking it up at a furious rate. No longer did he need to touch Praxtin-Tar to hold a conversation. Alazrian’s powers were expanding, and he knew it. Were
it not such a beautiful day, he might even have been alarmed.

But Alazrian was in too good a mood to worry. Biagio had declared him regent, and though the emperor himself had declined to come to Talistan, he had promised Alazrian assistance. For now, that satisfied Alazrian. He was content to have Biagio’s threatening shadow as a tool, and the fear of it had kept Talistan together. So far, no one had opposed his ascension as regent, and he doubted anyone would.

Praxtin-Tar finished his prayers and went to Alazrian, regarding him inquisitively.

“What are you doing?” he asked in Triin.

“Looking at my reflection.” Alazrian smiled. “I think I look more Triin as I get older. Do you think so?”

“I have not known you long.”

“No,” said Alazrian. “But I am Triin, aren’t I?”

“At least half so, yes.”

“Praxtin-Tar?”

“Yes?”

“Are you happy here? I mean, are you finding what you’re looking for?”

The question vexed the warlord. He said with a sigh, “Why do you ask such things? You are impertinent.”

Alazrian glanced up from the pond. “Dyana Vantran told me that I may not have any answers until I’m older. She told me that I shouldn’t question my powers, but that I should accept them and wait for life to tell me my purpose.”

“Kalak’s wife is a wise woman.”

“And you? When will you have your answers, do you think?”

The warlord’s face stirred with a smile. “I am here because I am waiting for you to find
your
answers,” he said. “Then, perhaps, I will have my own.”

“That was very evasive, Praxtin-Tar,” joked Alazrian. “And not very helpful.”

He gazed back down at his fair-haired reflection. Once, he had made a promise to his mother, to discover the
purpose of his strange gifts. So far, he had no answers. But he was still young, and Dyana Vantran’s advice seemed sound. Someday, he was sure, he would learn the truth.

Until then, he would enjoy the journey.

THE END

John Marco lives on Long Island, New York, where he was born and raised. He is a fan of military history and a long-time reader of fantasy literature. Since the publication of his first novel,
The Jackal of Nar
, he has been writing fiction full time.