The Sheening Of The Blades (Book 1) (41 page)

“
Do you need help?” Kyr whispered, now serious—no doubt this was a grave matter to a Rach—as she first blushed then stood there, tongue-tied.  The crowd waited, absolutely silent down to the last well-behaved hound and toddler, waiting for a name to occur to her.  She tore her eyes from his, which definitely weren’t helping her concentrate, and focused on her gift…the elegance of the slim legs, the high arch in the perfectly formed neck, the silken flow of golden mane and tail.  She was like a piece of art.

“
Filigree,” she announced.  She was expecting cheers and approbation, but not the shocked exclamations of delight, the clapped hands to wide mouths, the little cries and gasps that preceded the wide grins.  She looked around, wondering.  Even Kyr’s face showed surprise, though he hid it quickly with that irrepressible good-humor.

“
What?” she asked out of the side of her mouth.

“
It’s a good name,” he said, unhelpfully, taking her arm and heading into the Hilt.

“
Is it…significant?”

He seemed to be chewing on a smile. 
“Filigree was the beloved mare of Rach Kyle’s mate.”

The banquet, to Sable
’s surprise, was set for the next day.  Somehow, she’d expected the Rach to be the type that would want to appear strong and unaffected by such measly trials as traversing the desert for weeks on end.  She was unequivocally grateful for the chance to rest and the luxury of a bath…but as she sat looking over the Sheel from her rooms high up in the Hilt that night, she was shocked at the loneliness.  For weeks her nights had been filled with laughter and song, jokes and stories, the lilting, pounding, toe-tapping dances and the living, vibrating hum of human energy…right up until the moment she lay down and closed her eyes. In her mind, that long and toilsome trek through empty lands and debilitating heat had been a rite of passage of sorts.  They had lived through something, her and her Rach, and she missed them.

She had sent Evara next door to her own room, not wanting Northern company, but she looked up eagerly when
a Rach girl knocked and entered to attend her.

“
Do you need anything, Lady Queen?” the young girl asked.  Like all the teenage girls she’d come to know over the past days, she was slender and graceful and deft as she moved around the room, her long black hair hanging loose to her waist.  She was probably twelve or thirteen, too young to be married—just.  They didn’t dally about that sort of thing among the Rach.

“
No, thank-you.”  Just for conversation, she added, “The sand must get over everything down here, living so close to the Sheel.”

“
Sheeldust, we call it, and it does,” she answered, prompt and unaffected.  She gave Sable a smile, as shockingly free of sycophancy as all of them, and Sable sighed and smiled back.

“
What’s your name?” she asked her. 

“
Krysta.  Kore is my brother—you came down with him.”

Sable looked at her searchingly. 
“The Royal Line.  And you’re serving as a maid?”  High-ranking ladies like Cerise attended her in Archemounte, but you wouldn’t catch one of them turning down a bed.

“
The Royal Line runs thick and strong through the Ramparts,” the girl answered, unoffended and unperturbed.  “It is an honor to serve.  Even though Kore is the best-loved of the Shagreens, he gladly accepts even the most menial tasks.  And Kyr has sent him on some real winners.”  For a second she was all teenager, rolling her eyes and flipping a lock of hair over her shoulder.

Sable stifled a laugh.  Dragging a brush through her thick, drying hair, she asked carefully,
“So if something were to happen to the Lord Rach, would Kore be the next Banded?”  Sometimes the unguarded mouths of the young could be a great source of illumination.  What Kore had told her about the process certainly didn’t make much sense.

Krysta
’s face went still and she stared at Sable so stricken that the queen stopped the brush mid-stroke.  “When the Rachar next Stands, may all of us be gone.  It would be far better to have died at Kyr’s side than to live on without him.”

Sable stared.  Melodrama, while a normal teenage phenomena
, was not quite enough to explain this…this gravity.  But, surely…She tried to lighten things up.  “But he sends Rach away from the Sheel!” she said lightly.

“
That’s because he sees farther than the rest of us,” Krysta said softly, still serious.  “He listens harder, seeks more, feels deeper than anyone.  Shade’s a little cooler, water’s a little sweeter when Kyr’s around,” she ended, unapologetically eloquent.

Obviously a teenage crush, Sable thought to herself as she climbed between the
layered luxury of smooth cotton sheets later.  Nevermind that she was fast coming to agree with her.

CHAPTER 19

              It took them three days to reach the Silver Torque, three days of the unchanging, never-the-same shifting weave and weft of the jungle tapestry that encompassed their new existence.  Green of every shade imaginable was the order of the days, the scummy green of the Sirensong and the gooey trail, the reptilian grey-green of the crocodiles and pervasive lizard life, the bright, lush green of the trees and ferns and palms and the dense undergrowth, and the oppressive, dark green of the web of vines…and the shadows.  Endless shadow stretched away in every direction, leagues and leagues and leagues of it out of the touch of the sun and alive with whatever the imagination saw fit to populate it with.

             
It was the same crawling tangle of greenery in every glance, the same darting creatures barely seen before they disappeared, the same striking, beautiful plant life, the same flashing axes as stagriders cleared foliage and interested jungle denizens out of their immediate path.  Ari, trying clumsily to emulate them, found he hadn’t much dexterity.  Fortunately, there was plenty of practice.

             
The mind got so used to the visual pattern being imposed on it that when a stag and rider come loping up to them along the path one mid-morning, the Northerners thought they’d been stung by one of those potent little purple flowers again.  Loren had been loopy for several entertaining hours after the last one.   

But there were, truly,
apparently still other humans in the world, because they all saw this one bow low in his saddle and proceed surreally to welcome them to Southern Tor, Silver Torque, in the singsong voice of Cyrrh.  Sharing bemused glances, they fell in behind him down the widening trail.

             
A hundred yards out from the Torque, the ground dipped sharply in front of them, and the startling and fantastic vision of the great Southern Tor loomed suddenly into view.  Far taller than any structure they’d seen yet, it was escorted into being by an enormous, chilling mass of fangvine-swarmed wall, flanked by even higher trees, and for a few strides, impressively in full view.  In the center of the vision rose the slim, elegant, towering Tor itself, unassailable, otherworldly, a structure of such graceful power and artistry that it seemed like a lost relic of another age, buried in the vast jungle far from civilization. 

             
They approached almost in awe, senses reeling from the visual impact—though Rodge managed to find his voice when they drew close enough to see what was shimmering over the high, arched gate. 

             
“That…that
can’t
be real,” he said to Rhuq with avaricious amazement.

             
“Real?” The Cyrrhidean slowly began to smile.  “A real gemstone?”  They both ducked as a flying squirrel the size of a terrier dive-bombed them, snapping its teeth.  “Nay, friend.  ‘Tis a real Emerald, but it is a triele, one of the Stones of Laschald.”  Rodge’s mouth drooped open mindlessly as they passed underneath it, a huge, lozenge-shaped, faceted thing of luminous green.  It lay entwined in a shimmering mass of delicate silver leaves and vines, gleaming out at the visitors like some sort of all-seeing green eye.

             
Everything about this Tor was bigger, finer, more lavish, the walls more massive, the rooms grander and covered in delicate woodworkings as fine as tapestry, but the hospitality was the same.  They were treated like they were guests in a royal court, and if the Sentinels stared at Loren’s blue eyes and Rodge’s white skin, they virtually worshipped Cerise.  Perhaps not the best thing for her redoubtable ego, but it did keep the edge off her tongue.

             
There were other travelers at this Tor, the first they’d seen.  Rodge, who was amazed anyone would voluntarily endure this trip through the Torques, was further amazed to find they were
merchants.
  They ogled all night through dinner, but Melkin and Cerise completely and inconsiderately monopolized them for the entire evening.  The boys had to finally go to bed with only the barest shreds of curiosity being satisfied.

             
The next morning, the screaming jungle wasn’t the only thing that greeted them in the Tor’s courtyard.  There, in magnificent green and gold silks, tightening cinches on heavily loaded stags, were the merchants.  Unfortunately they were accompanied by a sudden climatic temper tantrum, a deluge of such magnificence that the Northerners could literally barely see a foot in front of them.  They turned and dashed back inside, where they shook as much water as they could off—in the few seconds they’d been in the rain, they were completely soaked.  It was like someone had upended a bottomless bucket of water over the Tor. 

             
Rodge, bumping into Melkin, jumped like he’d backed into a blade.  The Master’s face was black and surly, and he stared vindictively out at the storm.  Out in the curtain of rain, the merchants could be seen dimly moving around, continuing to tighten their shadowcloth-sheathed loads, and then, unbelievably, mounting up and heading south out of the gate, ignoring the raging inclemency all around them.

             
“What an unreasonable place,” Cerise observed next to Rodge, lips twisting at the impenetrable wall of weather just outside.

             
“What’s that?” Rodge asked, pointing at the golden bangle she was fingering on one slender wrist.

             
She glanced at it, shrugging.  “A gift.  From one of the merchants.”

             
Rodge goggled.  “He just
gave
you a solid gold bracelet?”

             
Her face indicated clearly that this was a perfectly appropriate gesture for one such as herself, but she managed to verbally contain herself.  “It wasn’t exactly free—it came with the requisite torturous background story.”  She held it up so they could see the design etched with intricate delicacy into the metal.  She rolled her eyes at them.  “The Empress’s first visit to Cyrrh, circa two thousand years ago.”

             
Loren and Ari brightened.  She shook her head at them.  “Forget it.  I’m not repeating that nonsense.”

             
“What else, exactly, is it that you have to do?” Loren said encouragingly, gesturing out at the sheeting rain.  “We need to know everything we can about the Empress.”

             
She gave him an even look.  But then Traive came down the stairs with the richly dressed Torquelord and stood with an air of readiness looking out at the monsoon, as if he expected clear skies any moment.  Obviously required to be in the immediate vicinity, and faced with Loren’s pleading look, she reluctantly caved.

             
“So, her first mission to Cyrrh was in the time of great darkness, or some such thing—the usual,” she sighed.  “Lots of despair, death and destruction, blah, blah, blah.  The first Torque kept being overrun by dragons, the gryphons were ravaging their handlers, or something, there was all this civil unrest, etc., etc.”

             
“What do you mean, ‘ravaging,’ precisely?” Rodge asked closely.

             
“Apparently they’re hard to train, or domesticate—I can’t remember the term he used—so they, er, tend to turn on the people trying to tame them.”  She looked uneasy, and went on quickly, “So, the Empress came in, this great dramatic entrance where she stopped an out-of-control gryphon from killing the ruler, the descendent of Khristophe, with just an upraised hand or some poetic greatness.  She healed him from—no surprise—mortal injuries, and stayed on to proselytize.”

             
She stopped.  The boys looked at her. 

             
“You’re a terrible story-teller,” Loren told her bluntly, at the same time Ari asked, “That’s it?”

             
She shrugged impatiently.  “Of course not.  The tale took hours.  There was probably at least thirty minutes of ‘pale-skinned for a Cyrrhidean’ and ‘dark-haired for a Cyrrhidean’ and ‘hair like the richest earth’ and other bilge just
describing
the Empress.”

“
The Empress is Cyrrhidean?” Rodge said.  Despite Banion’s explanation, they’d all just assumed with a nickname like ‘Empress’…

“
Didn’t you know?” she asked sarcastically.  Ari and Loren were still staring at her, thin-lipped.

             
Rolling her eyes yet again, she said, “There was something about her and Laschald—apparently it’s an interrealm belief that she had some sort of formal diplomatic relationship with the gods—she took it upon herself to chastise Cyrrh’s god for his social experimentation.”

             
“Can’t you talk like a normal human?” Loren asked.

             
“These are called
words,
” she retorted.  “Those who are not unlettered idiots use them to communicate.  If you can’t understand anything over two syllables, blame your ignorance on your efforts at University.”  He glowered at her.

             
“What social experiment?” Ari overrode them laboriously.

             
Her lips thinned.  “Apparently Laschald was trying out the idea of a society unburdened by formal marriage contracts, which was causing considerable unrest and lack of attention to things like security and survival,” she said, with rigor mortis-stiff disapproval.

             
The boys raised their eyebrows.

             
Her eyes shifted past them to the courtyard, face lightening.  “Well, tirna don’t rust,” she murmured.  The three of them turned just as the sun came out, the rain having vanished and birds already screaming raucously as if the world hadn’t almost just been flooded out of existence.

             
Traive, who they all had been thinking had finally lost his touch, walked calmly out and mounted up, and in a rush they all followed.

 
              The Gold Band, when they reached it a few days later, was obviously one more step up the ladder of opulence—as first evidenced by the gargantuan Emerald suspended over the gate from a nest of golden ropes that probably weighed more than Banion.  Everything here was grander, more elaborate yet, accompanied by such a marked air of age that Ari could feel it in the air.  The wooden cut reliefs in the enormous common rooms were almost black with all the centuries of varnish, their intricacies muted and dulled with the wearing passage of time. Still, though the walls may have been ancient and crumbling, they were so thick and well-built that all you were aware of was the aura of invincibility emanating off them.  Just the
size
of the place was intimidating.  And as they wandered into the Hall in search of the mess later, they stopped short at the sight of an enormous tapestry, still brilliant despite the fraying at its edges, a work of art preserved in breathtaking splendor.  It was a likeness of a woman, done in glowing, luminous colors, a good two man-lengths high and taking up one whole, soaring wall.

             
“This is pure silk,” Cerise said narrowly.  She’d walked up to it, leaning close to peer at the work.

             
“A picture of a Whiteblade, no doubt,” Rodge said drolly, well-versed in the ways of Cyrrh by this point.  “Commemorating her saving of the Torque uncounted ages ago.”

             
  “Probably defending it single-handedly from masses of Enemy,” Loren agreed, with more approval.

             
Traive, who’d followed them in with Melkin, said quietly, “That’s the Empress.”

             
The room went quiet.  Cerise backed slowly away, staring up at the picture, thread quality forgotten.  They all gazed at it, at the slim, straight figure, the long brown braid in a thick plait coming forward over one shoulder and falling past her knees, the piercing, gentle green eyes.  It made Ari feel strange, to see her as a human.                           

After dinner, Rodge and Loren bent their heads assiduously over the plans for the evening.  They
’d made several new friends amongst the Sentinels—the majority of them, to be precise, one of whom came with an innocuous pet cobra that was going to somehow find its way into Cerise’s bath.  Ari, whose appetite for carefree mischief was right up there with that for the local delicacy of grilled snail, wandered out of the Tor. 

             
Looming up around him in the simmering jungle gloom rose the colossal walls of the Gold Band, and seeing a private headed to the narrow staircase up to the sentry walk, he was struck with an idea.  The private bargained like a Northerner—tales of the Empire in exchange for such unauthorized access—but in the end he agreed to let Ari follow him up.

             
The wooden sentry walk was a lot less sturdy than it looked from the ground.  Ari felt his gorge rise when he risked a look down—dozens of dizzying yards, and not any easier on the stomach just because the light was fading.  He turned his back quickly and stared out into the jungle, already almost black, the light picking out lighter colored flowers and birds for only a yard or so into its depths.  He was convinced Sentinels
sensed
much more out there than they ever saw—they were reacting sometimes before anything even became visible.