The Sheening Of The Blades (Book 1) (75 page)

If the party from the north thought they were finally going to be in on the Real Plan and find out what they had come all this way to do, they were to be disappointed.  The Chieftess of the Whiteblades moved neatly onto a breakdown of troops and equipment.

“The bows will be on the floor with me—Huntress, Scholar, Messenger, Dancer, Archer.”  She looked at them each in turn, then moved that burning gaze onto Irise, able to sit stiffly now with the rest of them.  “And thee, Siren.”  Raven-curled and disappointed, the little Follower mustered a resigned smile.

“Archer,” she said quietly, moving on, “As soon as we get the weapons, you must get that Northern Gate down.  Reinforcements will begin p
ouring in almost immediately; we cannot fight the entire Sheelshard, as prepared as we are to do so.  Time will not allow.  Huntress,” she turned to tap another opening in the rough square of the Hall drawn in the dirt. “The six guards at the main doors are yours.  When the decoy team comes through, they’ll bring the main gate down behind them, so your only concern is to get the gate guards out of the way.”

She crouched lithely for a moment amongst the swirl of lines, thinking, then moved to the “south” of the drawing and looked up at the Whiteblade that had come in with her from the Swamps.  “Thief, you will bring the Ambassador with the weapons relief up through the high passage.”  Saffron,
the new Whiteblade she was addressing, nodded her head, a heavy wave of thick yellow hair falling forward to veil one of her bright, unperturbed eyes. 

Briefly,
Rheine’s eyes met Dorian’s calm ones, glowing topaz as the light faded.  “We have talked of this many times,” she said softly, “On my signal, you must be ready.”   More briskly, she continued, “Warrior, the way to the Altar must be kept cleared—that will be your main responsibility.”

Voral, the only one there with her feet and legs splayed into the center of the circle, nodded casually, but her greenish eyes sparked with excitement.

“Tendress, Arboress,” the sibilant voice continued, implacable as death, “get to the main gate as soon as you’re down.  Fighting will be heaviest there until the other team gets in.”  Her face, suddenly grave, lifted across the circle to Rhoda.  “Singer,” she said somberly, “you are now second.  And Healer, third.  The timing is critical.”  Her eyes slanted briefly toward the group from the north.  “I would advise waiting until the gates are down, but circumstance may not allow it.  Use your own judgment.”

“Scout, is that subterranean passage still viable?” she asked next.

Tamaren, the newly arrived Hand that had been running recon, said, “Aye. 
‘Twas three months past.”

“Let us hope it is still.  You and Ash will lead the decoy:  Oratrix”—Adama playfully stuck out her tongue at a disappointed-looking Voral—“Rider, Spear, Provendress.  Wait for the sound of blades to start your rush through the halls.  You are relief, but you must draw off some of the reinforcements first.  It
’ll be heavy fighting in those tight passageways…do not get incapacitated before you get to the Hall,” she warned.

“Softy,” Yve accused her, but very quietly.

Rheine rose, standing in commanding silhouette for a moment and looking down at the non-Whiteblade detachment.  “I will not ask you to stay out of the fight that is sure to come.  Nor are any of you under compunction to do other than you will.  But there will be more than a few surprises in the Hall of Sacrifices; I would ask for your own safety and for the sake of the mission that you do as asked.  There will be little time for explanation once steel starts singing.” 

Most of them just nodded, possibly feeling a little overwhelmed, but Melkin said in his gravelly voice, “What of the Empress?  Where does she fit into this?”

“She will be there,” Rheine said, which shed a whole lot more light on the subject.  Then the Chieftess turned abruptly away from them and sought her seat, and an uncharacteristic silence settled over the group.  Ari had an ache in his gut, a sinking conviction that more was going on and would go on than this simple plan she’d just outlined.  She hadn’t even mentioned Raemon.  Or Ari’s role, though he didn’t really want anyone to know about it.

“Lord Il,” Rheine said, voice rich with feeling, and the Whiteblades as one dropped their heads respectfully.  “King of all and ever, great has been Thy keeping these many long years.  Though they have weighed heavy on us, keep us in mind of Thy will and the deeds now required.  We will need Thy strength in the evil place we must go, a
s will those in our care.  Grant it, we pray Thee, by thy Wisdom for thy Glory, that thy Dominion might ever reign.  Let it be done.”

“So let it be done,” whispered around the group.  The Whiteblades raised their heads, shooting serious looks at each other.

“Can you play, Siren?” Rheine asked quietly into the soft, pensive dusk.  Faces brightened instantly, and Irise, chirping an affirmative, pulled out a tiny set of pipes from somewhere on her person with her one good hand.  Animated change swept over the group as the first notes broke into the air.  Sylvar leaped like an antelope from a cross-legged sprawl to a whirling dance in the middle of the circle, her boots pounding into oblivion the lines of tomorrow’s plan.  The northerners had never heard such a mad, energetic tune in their life—they could hardly sit still listening to it, and indeed, within minutes several other Whiteblades had joined Sylvar, their feet leaping and kicking in heady unison.  It went on for over an hour, tune after sprightly tune, with laughing and clapping and joking calls to the dancers.  Sylvar was little less than an acrobat, her feet moving so fast sometimes they were a blur; she turned backflips, kicked her legs in dizzying repetition toward the sky, and, occasionally, when a tune turned wispy and sentimental, twirled and curved and arched her body so slowly and gracefully that it made your throat tighten. 

Sweet Rhoda sang a song that would make a stone wall weep, and was begged for more so many times that there were hours more of that, sometimes with dancing, sometimes not.  The northerners had heard a few of them, but most sounded old, with archaic shifts of tone and odd, mournful flats.

Then, very late, when the sky was nothing but brilliant diamonds overhead and the moon was the only light in a clearing long dead of fire, Irise started a new, strange tune on her set of pipes.  All the Whiteblades rose as if on signal, singing a single word in a deep, primal kind of tune.  They all began to move in unison, a set dance, kicking their feet slowly and stepping to the side so that soon they made a circling wheel.  The tempo picked up, the song brightened, Rhoda’s disembodied voice singing a heart-breaking aria in and around the base melody.  The circle linked, beginning to whirl faster and faster as the music became poignantly triumphant, so much so that Ari longed to jump up and join them. 

It was the most beautiful thing he
’d ever seen, those girls in the moonlight, lovely faces thrown back and luminous with joy, hair floating out behind them in glossy, silken strands, slender legs in their lilting, gliding dance circling round and round in a night molten with deep, thrumming exaltation. 

It was a cold breakfast the next morning, Yve having disappeared sometime in the night with the rest of the other teams.  Ari could hardly eat anyway, pacing nervously.  He
’d washed out a fresh shirt for the occasion and it was already soaked with sweat.

Banion had a tremendous appetite, for his part, and was on his second ham and merrily propounding the benefits of fighting on a full
stomach when the Whiteblades began to drift in. 

It wasn
’t uncommon not to see them right away, but this morning seemed especially significant.  They apparently thought so, too, and the boys’ mouths went slack as they appeared one by one.

“Oh, look,” Cerise said sarcastically, “they
’re color-coded.”

They seemed to be.  The worn leathers were gone, replaced with fine Cyrrhidean suede, dyed to match their coloring, and pale silk blouses.  You could guess which of the horses out of the herd belonged to whom, Ari realized; they matched, too.

“Is—is she—wearing
jewels
?” Cerise demanded, eyes glued to a brilliant opal nestling in the curve of Jordan’s throat.  “To a battle?!”

Traive came up beside them, looking pleased.  “Those are gifts from Cyrrh, from so long ago they were thought to be lost to legend,” he said quietly.  “Each according to her kind.  What an honor…” he murmured.

“Is there a party we don’t know about?” Loren asked, bemused.

“We
’re going to find out,” Rodge said gloomily.  He wasn’t looking forward to the day.

They all made a pretty picture, and were distracting for a few moments, but Ari soon began to feel his stomach jumping again.  The
strangely silent Whiteblades mounted up, and the northerners did the same, quickly, though you wouldn’t think they’d be worried about being left behind.  Hands shaking, Ari straightened his plain wood scabbard once he was up, wondering where all the white ones of the Followers were—they weren’t on their hips.  He managed a brave smile as he helped Selah up behind him.  All the horses were in use today, including her spare. 

It was almost a relief to be moving.  Ari glanced back, finding it hard to believe the little clearing had ever held such vibrant, vivid life as it had the night before.  There wasn
’t a sign that humans had been there. 

Rheine, as calm and poised as if they were headed into town for marketday, led them uneventfully down into the canyon.  Ari
’s heart started to pound as soon as his gelding tipped downhill.  The pass was empty, red rocks motionless and haloed by heat waves so close to the middle of the day.  It was an oven down at the bottom and his face started to feel as hot as his hair looked. 

He rode right behind Rheine, with Vashti on a beautiful buckskin to his right and the other Dra, Atlanta, on her velvety brown stallion off to his left.  His
‘guard,’ he thought, sick with nervousness at the part he was required to play.  It lasted forever, that canyon.  Rheine’s map had definitely not been to scale, because that trip was at least three lifetimes long.  He was about sweated out, his mouth a cotton ball, when it happened.

There was no warning.  They were just suddenly there, men in red dust-colored cloth, heads wound so that only their eyes showed—brilliant bluish-greenish eyes, clear as water in the Pools of Tiramina.  Ari was so shocked he forgot to be nervous.  So
that’s
what people saw when they looked at him.

Cerise gave a little choked-off cry of startlement, but otherwise there was no sound.  The party came immediately to a halt.  Vultures circled high overhead, three of them, in a patient circle.  The rocks sat in timeless, uncaring audience all around.  Not even a hint of breeze broke the stifling heat.

“Thou art outnumbered,” Rheine said dispassionately.  “And we have business with your priest.”  Ari had no idea how she could sound so uninterested.  He didn’t even think he’d be able to get words out. 

The Sheelmen stared at them wordlessly, swords drawn.  Several more, Ari saw, were up in the rocks on either side of them, perfectly camouflaged except for those eyes.  Silence
stretched unbearably.  Rheine’s hot-blooded stallion, less patient than his rider, snorted, pawing the ground with a fine-boned forefoot.

Finally, in an accent so thick it was barely intelligible, the Sheelman closest to Rheine said, “You are mad to think to gain entrance to the High Priest.”

“You are mad to stop me,” she noted casually.  “Do you know what I bring him?”  She tossed her thumb in the direction of Ari.  He felt sweat trickle down his temple as all their shimmering eyes turned upon him.

The Sheelman shrugged.  “What is another Skoline (he pronounced it “Skleen”)
ghrak?
” he almost sneered.

“He
’s no
ghrak
,” she said ominously, allowing the red stallion to dance a little under her.  “And I would be interested to know what Zakkar would do to you if you accidentally slaughtered the last of the
Gaermon
.  Especially after all the months he’s spent trying to capture him.”

Silence fell again.  Ari could sense they were surprised, uncertain, but you
’d never know it to look at them.  The cloth covering their faces masked their expressions, and their eyes were unfathomable as a Dra’s.

“What of all these others?” the Sheelman speaker finally said.

Rheine leaned an arm on her pommel, her sibilant voice almost a purr, “Do you not think Raemon would like a few samples from the Realms to be perfuming the air when he awakes?”

For a moment, the Sheelman held her eyes, then suddenly they narrowed and he spat out, “The
Shangani
do not willingly give up human life, especially to Raemon!  We know that is not your way, and your purpose must lie out of our sight!”  He backed up, half-raising his sword, and Ari heard Rodge give a faint, “Ahh!” from behind.  No acting skills required.

“And we know,” the Chieftess
’s voice was suddenly one of frosty command, “what lies even now in your Hall of Sacrifices, what awaits Raemon on his foul altar.  Do you think we do not know the value of trade?”  Her voice was scornful, impatient almost.  “If you are so stupid that you cannot see the importance of either that prisoner or this, than we are wasting time.”