The Sheening Of The Blades (Book 1) (51 page)

CHAPTER 25

There wasn’t much time for good-byes.  Melkin’s months-worth of smoldering intensity had exploded into full flame, and as dusk fell in the brilliant City of the Seven Falls, the Northerners were once again a-stagback and retracing their hoof steps south.  The ghostly twilight, thickened with mist that coated the long avenues of glorious foliage and their tall, dark trunks, seemed to separate them from time.  It was as if the last few days had never happened, so familiar was the feel of the stags by now.  It was the same choppy, jarring gait, the all-too-familiar view of shadowcloth-clad riders ahead framed by the lyrical sweep of staghorns, and the feel of the journey seeping back into their bones.

But even Rodge hardly complained.  The sense of adventure had been heightened rather than dulled by the magical luxury of Lirralhisa, and had definitely been enhanced by the various fairytale creatures populating their recent existence.  Personally, Ari thought there was more to it than the odd centaur and the thrill of a gryphon ride or two.  There was something compelling,
something addictive about this venture.  He wasn’t the only one who hadn’t wanted it to end up there on that lost mountain, faced with a fantastical creature who knew more than he would say.  In fact, Ari had heard that even Cerise—prim, exacting, starchy Companion to the Queen—had requested in Crossing that she be allowed to continue with them. 

Up ahead, disembodied by the fog, Melkin
’s voice floated back to them.  He was in the lead now, cursing with great imagination at Rhuq to ride faster, come up with a swifter means of transport, etc., etc., as full of enthusiastic energy now as he had been rancorous resignation earlier. 

             
The group came up on Dra Kai, who had stopped and was staring back the way they’d come.  Sentinels turned alertly in their saddle, and Ari felt the old reflexes tighten his shoulders.  Something was coming up on their rear.

             
Several seconds ticked by with all of them straining to see into the dense grey behind them.  It turned out to be a single rider, which then further clarified—like a pea rising out of thick stew—into Traive, Lord Regent of Cyrrh.

             
Audible sighs sounded as the stagriders saluted.  Cerise curled her lip and turned pointedly away, but she was the only one even faintly displeased.

             
“Are you joining us?” Loren asked with boyish eagerness.  Traive was still his hero, identity deception or no.

             
“I think I will,” the Lord Regent answered, and rode past them to the front of the column.

             
Ari watched him in satisfaction.  Addictive.

             
As anxious as he was to be on with their quest, Ari found himself missing this magical, beautiful place already.  You could do anything in Cyrrh, things beyond imagining.  Be anyone.

             
They took a hurried rest that night, lying out in an enchanted glade swathed with mist, and pushed the stags all the next day.  But it was still late afternoon before they reached the Gold Band.

             
Dra Kai had made the suggestion last night that they make the return trip via the Sirensong, to profound approval from Melkin and thoughtful agreement from the Regent.  Apparently, even as sluggish as the river looked, it would shave hours off the trail ride, and was somehow inexplicably safer.

             
Rodge, not entirely convinced of the latter, had asked suspiciously, “What about the crocs?”

             
“I’d avoid them,” Traive advised him.

             
Rodge gave him a sour look.  “I’m worried about
them
avoiding
us
.”

             
Ari was beginning to look forward to the outside of the Ring, the Valley of the Falls, again.  Inside, after all, was safe.  Tame.  Domesticated.  The jungle now…not so much.  Breathing deeply of the wildness, he stepped quietly outside the great gate at the gold-encrusted Southern Tor.  His senses seemed to expand, to take in the warm, pulsing, dangerous dark.  Just inside, Melkin was tromping and stomping and irascible, fussing over the general lack of speediness with their preparations to depart, but it faded into the background in the face of the vast, living throb of the jungle.  It called to him, like the siren the river was named for, beckoning with its enchanted adventure—a place where mythical creatures could walk in stately silence out of the mists of legend.  Where Whiteblades rode like quicksilver between the tree trunks, almost glimpsed long enough to be real.

             
His dreams, he thought for the hundredth time with a flash of joy—they’d been real.  They were memories, and the yearning for those days was deeper than ever with the release of that one powerful memory.  Raised by Whiteblades.  Played at the feet of the Statue of the Empress itself.  He almost couldn’t believe it. 

             
“ARI!” Loren grabbed his arm exasperatedly.  “Come on, let’s go.”  The Cyrrhideans, who to listen to Melkin had been sauntering around picking at their facial orifices, had scrounged together some kind of water-born craft in record time.  It was a monstrosity, but Ari lifted one whole corner by himself, reveling in the strain of his muscles, heart alive with hope for his scummy past.

             
They climbed aboard under the lash of Melkin’s ungentle tongue, looking around curiously in the dim light.  These were far different boats from the gigantic, featureless nautical landscapes that plied the Kendrick.  High-sided as protection from over-friendly water critters and covered for the same reason from any drop-in visitors, they looked more like floating fortresses.  There were even slits for crossbows.

             
So, they set off into the moonlit dark, onto a broad, black, glinting highway overhung with dripping vines.  Before them, the jungle rang and screamed and hummed with its music of the night and their ghostly way was, for once, perfectly clear.

              They tended to sleep through the day.  Without the constant stimulation of slapping through aggressive foliage and the threat of imminent death that they’d had with stag travel, the sultry, soggy heat and forced inactivity made it almost impossible to stay awake.  Besides, it was captivatingly beautiful at night—and distinctly more dangerous.  Rodge spent the whole first 24 hours wide-awake and staring at the gap between the raft’s sides and roof, getting used to a whole new range of assaults on his psychological equilibrium.

             
Traive was utterly relaxed, in contrast.  This was considered such a safe method of transport that he was the only Cyrrhidean aboard—which was good, as things were a bit cozy as it was.  He was sprawled out against a box of supplies, looking half-asleep, when Melkin paused in his hundredth critique of Silverene’s high-handed manner.  With a voice so low that only he and Kai and Ari, who was sitting with them, could hear, he said bitingly, “You put so much stock in his advice, you should ask him what to do about your flaming Realm.” 

“Cyrrh will be there when she
’s needed.  I know my place,” Traive answered comfortably.  His fine voice was thick with doze.

“You
’re standing tall by a sinking ship,” Melkin growled back in disgust.

“That is my place,” he repeated patiently, stretching his hands up behind his head.

“Of all people in Cyrrh,” Melkin seethed quietly, “I would say it is YOUR place to do something.”  Though Ari couldn’t imagine a better place to speak freely, the only other thing Cyrrhidean in the vicinity being the teeming jungle, they both still kept their voices low.

“I am the Lord Regent of Cyrrh,” Traive said lightly.  “I can do anything.”  Melkin narrowed his eyes at him, trying to divine the meaning of that.  Ari stared, too, knowing it wasn
’t said in pride and a little awed that he’d become friends with such powerful people.  Was he trying to say he could rule from behind the Throne?

“Tell him, Kai,” the Lord Regent drawled lazily.

Everyone else on the raft was lounging in one limp posture or another, but the Dra poised alertly, squatting on his long, steel-strong legs.  Even as he spoke, his eyes roved watchfully over the scenery drifting by.

“Cyrrh must stand for the war, when it comes.”  His impressive voice rolled incongruously out of the quiet bronze planes of his face.  “But she must stand united.”

Melkin shifted his glance to him while Traive expounded, quite serious now, “A fight for the Crown of Leaves would mean Civil War.  That would destroy Lirralhisa, weaken the Torques as Sentinels were pulled back to the Ring, and cripple Cyrrh to the point that she’d have barely more protection than when Khristophe made camp at the feet of the Seven Falls.”  He shook his head.  “It cannot be.”

“Can
’t you force Kindri to marry?” Melkin muttered darkly, taking a different tack.

“That would solve everything,” Traive agreed.  “Her issue would be the only uncontested claimant to the Throne.”

“It’s
impossible
for a woman to rule?” Ari asked into the stretching silence.  It had been happening for centuries in the Northern Empire.  Traive, heavy-lidded, half chuckled. 

“You
’ve seen our women—would you place any of them in harm’s way?  No,” he brooded, “even if she would take the Crown, which she wouldn’t, I’m not sure she’d do any better than her father like she is…and we can’t force her off
dasht
.  On
dasht
, we can’t even get her to focus long enough to consider a suitor,” he added wryly.

“If it came right down to it, and Khrieg fell,” Melkin ground out like he was spitting nails, “What are the options?  Who can lead this flaming Realm if it
’s got to face the Enemy?”

“Krachelian,” Traive said, after musing a moment.  “A cousin of Khrieg
’s, a Fox.  It’s not the Cyrrhidean way to put oneself forward, but he would modestly accept the position if he could wrangle himself into the nomination.  He’s the most direct in line after Kindri, but Laschald doesn’t like him.” 

Ari
’s red eyebrows rose.  Was Marek the only god not intimately involved with his Realm’s political maneuverings?

Melkin
’s feral eyes glinted with curiosity and Traive responded, “Too driven.  Got enough ambition to be a Northerner.”  He winked at Ari.

A started yelp from behind Ari turned everyone
’s head.  Loren and Rodge and Cerise, who’d been limply sub-cognizant on the other side of the raft, were all wide-awake now, staring at a tiny monkey-looking thing in their midst.  It was a glossy dark brown and gold, with big, expressive eyes that were looking around at them all with perky simian interest.

“Aw,” Loren said, as it sat there posing cutely with one little paw-hand up.

“Don’t play with those,” Melkin called out irritably.

Loren answered happily, “It
’d be nice if there was one friendly, harmless thing in this whole blasted jungle.”

Suddenly the creature leaped into action, bounding forward to snatch the banana Rodge had pulled from one of the boxes.

An immediate struggle commenced, even though the whole purpose of the banana had been to give it to the monkey.  That was far different than having it taken, however, and Rodge, though he fell back with a cry of revulsion as the little thing morphed into a shrieking demon of flashing teeth and scrabbling hands and feet, wasn’t about to let go.  A Northerner never gives up his goods.

The little monkey yowled shrilly, Rodge threw insults and struggled to hang on to his fruit, and Loren rolled, howling with laughter.

Cerise’s voice, icy with derision, made itself heard over the ruckus, “You’re arguing with a primate.  And losing.”

Another one of the creatures whisked into the raft by the group around Traive, having the misfortune to land too close to Kai.  The Dra, without even rising, shot out a leg and spiked it out of the raft.

“Better to leave the wildlife alone,” Traive advised the howling circus across from them.  “People have lost limbs from festered tamarin bites.”

Loren sobered at that, and grabbing his trusty Cyrrhidean axe, made a lunge for the little ball of belligerence accosting Rodge
’s banana.

Screaming in outrage—much louder than his little friend who
’d had such an abrupt relationship with Kai’s boot—the creature fled, pausing to chatter furiously at them from the safety of the raft walls for a moment before swinging back up into the trees.

“Then there
’s Kiellorabean,” Traive said thoughtfully.  “He’s immensely popular, with a circle of friends as big—and important—as the Gold Band.  He’s the Jaglord now and slated to be the next Sentinalier…though traditionally that post’s almost always filled by the Captain of the Sentinels.”

“What
’s he like?” Melkin demanded gruffly.

“Solid.  Excellent strategist and sharp instincts.”

Melkin pursed his lips impatiently.  “Would you support him?”

Traive shot him a very level look.  “If he made a bid for the Throne, he would be a usurper.  It would be my responsibility to
shoot
him.”