The Sheening Of The Blades (Book 1) (8 page)

“
Suddenly, Raemon gave a great, “NO!” and with a deafening clap of sound, he was gone.  The light was gone.  There was no sound.  And where the Empress had been stood a stone statue in her exact likeness, arched backwards as in her last defiance.  Like the sound of the ocean came a roar from the Tarq, and with great confusion and distress, they turned as one body and fled.”

When Galeb finished, there was utter silence.  For one thing, the information just presented required some adapting of thought processes.  Some of them didn
’t even know where to start, and her voice was the first heard.

“
So,” Cerise said with a smooth and awed sarcasm, “you’re saying the Empress turned to
stone,
killed a
god
, and saved the world from certain destruction…?”

             
“Oh, no,” the Shepherd corrected mildly.  “Raemon is not dead…only imprisoned in the statue that had once been the Empress.” 

While the rest of them were chewing over these juicy improbabilities, Ari saw
the outline of Melkin and Banion, silhouetted against the tremendous mountain background, turn their heads and look at each other.

“
Is that where the promise of peace arises?” Melkin asked.  “Of all that story, that is the only part that survives—and that only in bits—in the Northern Histories.”

“
The Merranic, too,” Banion said, surprised or maybe embarrassed. They were dancing gingerly around full acceptance of this tale, hungry for any usable information without wanting any commitment to the more outlandish parts.

“
Yes,” Galeb confirmed.  “That came several days later, brought by the Followers as the Armies of the Realms rested and recovered from their decades, centuries actually, of war.  The Followers rode up to the Tents of the King one morning, when the mist lay like a soft blanket over the exhausted land.   They were battered and bruised, it is said, for in those days they fought alongside the Realms and were much honored.”  His voice had dropped back into the deep, resonant sing-song of the story.

“
King Kamron came out to greet them, and bent a knee to the Chieftess.  ‘We owe you our unending gratitude,’ he said simply.”

“
Rise, High King, for you are delivered by none that yet walks the earth,’ she answered.  The Statue of the Empress sat nearby, and all present turned to gaze upon it.”

“
She gave her life for us,’ the King began.”

“
She gave her life to Il.  Now, High King, hearken unto me.  Five hundred years the Statue shall bind Raemon, and in that time there shall be peace.  As has not been since the days of Raemon’s Taking Out, so shall it be again.  Yet, if the Statue were to fall into the hands of the Tarq, all will be surely lost.  You must guard it more surely than you do your own borders.”

“
King Kamron sank again to a knee, promising, “I accept this sacred trust, and will hold true faith to this great sacrifice, I and all my generations.”

Silence fell again.  The acolytes, unbeknownst to any of them
(except perhaps Kai, who stood alertly at the edge of the verandah), had started a fire in the verandah’s pit.  Its evocative crackle was the perfect backdrop for the tingling tale-telling.  Loren, who loved all this deep chivalry stuff, heaved a great, contented sigh.

No one said anything—whether brooding over what they
’d heard or mute with disbelief that they were expected to believe all this, Ari couldn’t tell.  Galeb, perhaps the professional   storyteller in him feeling this wasn’t a satisfactory ending, finished, “And from that came the Five Hundred Years of Peace.  For innumerable generations, the Statue sat in the courtyard at the very center of the Palace Grounds in Archemounte, but as the centuries passed, and the reality of everything that Peace means began to dominate the thoughts of the Realms…it was gradually forgotten.”  He chuckled.  “We humans are an ungrateful lot, with short memories unless it serves our purpose to be otherwise.”

“
And where,” Melkin said in an odd, low voice, “is the Statue now?”

Galeb shook his head regretfully. 
“You ask things of the world, now, my friend.  The Empress has been lost to history…in more ways than one, apparently.  I don’t know where the Statue has disappeared to, nor who took it.”

“
Disappeared?!  Took it?!” Several voices said at the same time.  Galeb, gazing on the fire-lit faces around him, looked a trifle helpless at their repeated demonstrations of ignorance.  “It is long gone from Archemounte,” he clarified, shrugging.

“
Then the Enemy could have it,” Melkin snapped.  “Perhaps that is why we are seeing these omens of enemy activity!”  Cerise gave him a look of profound and cynical scorn.

“
Not necessarily,” the Shepherd demurred, pausing to search the Master’s face quizzically.  “Do you not know?” he asked slowly.  He looked around the group, at the blank faces, at the obvious ‘know what?’ in everybody’s eyes.

“
The Five Hundred Years are up.”

“The Followers…” Banion groaned from his mattress of pine boughs, where he lay like a beached whale covered in hairy barnacles.  He’d even run a comb through the haystack on his head.  They were all, with the exception of an un-missed Cerise, in various stages of cleanliness in one of the spacious rooms further back in the Shepherd’s hall.  A fire blazed cozily on the big hearth, and they were taking turns with the fresh water.

“
Who are the Followers?” Rodge asked cynically, just heaving his skinny self out of the basin.
              “The Whiteblades,” Banion said unhappily.  “The Swords of Light.”

Rodge stared at him. 
“So, gods fighting humans, streams of supernatural power, humans being turned into stone, gods captured in stone that used to be human—none of this bothers you, but mention the Swords of Light and you feel like we’re pushing the edges of probability.”

“
The Whiteblades are real,” Banion lowed.  He reminded Ari of a sick, hairy, downed cow.

Rodge looked up from his toweling in shock. 
“
None
of that nonsense tonight was real!  They’re fairytales, Banion! 
He was telling us stories.”

“
Oh, they exist all right,” Banion contradicted him glumly.  “There’ve always been plenty of girls down through the centuries deluded enough to take on the roles.”

All three boys looked at him blankly.  Melkin
said dryly—and carefully, as he was trimming his iron-shot beard, “Merrani has been particularly plagued by the Whiteblades’ missionary zeal.”

“
The Swords of Light have been Pains in Butt for centuries—and now we have to go and hunt one up!”  Banion was almost howling.  He was an astonishing sight from a Northerner point of view; they tended to be more circumspect with their body size—and hair growth. 

Personally, Ari had felt
that
took first place among all the implausible statements made that night.  After Galeb had admitted that accurate calendar-keeping was not an Addahite strength, and that the
actual
anniversary of Montmorency was sometime close but in reality unknown, Melkin had pressed him hard for any details about the Statue.  Where it might be.  If the Enemy knew of the importance of it.  What would happen if they got a hold of it.  What exactly was due to happen when the five hundred years ended.

And Galeb
’s advice?

To ask the Swords of Light.  After all,
he explained, the happenings of the world were their province. They’d all looked at him in open-mouthed incredulity.  When they’d parted with Cerise shortly afterward, there’d been a steady stream of contemptuous disbelief flowing from her thin lips.

“
He claimed to have no knowledge of the Ram,” Melkin said slowly, finished with his beard.  He looked across the room to where Kai stood at the window, watching the evening deepen over the canyon outside.  The Dra turned his head to look at him, shrugging his bronzed shoulders so that the muscles rolled.  “There is no guile amongst the Addahites,” was all he said.

“
Hmmph,” Banion retorted in ill humor.  “They’re all Illians.”  He made it sound like a contagious, pustulous disease.  “Addahites, Empresses, Swords of flaming Light…”

Ari slipped out of the room.  He was unbearabl
y restless and he wanted time to think.  Besides, it was hard to be crammed inside with a bunch of noisy men when the outdoors beckoned so strongly, whispering of beauty, of silence and fragrant peace.  He wandered back outside, rubbing his arms against the high country chill.  To the far side of the building, there was a small area of lawn—fronting rather abruptly the looming chasm that was the dominant terrain feature in this particular patch of Addah.  He walked to its edge, eyes rambling over the silent, enormous silhouette of the opposite mountains etched against the barely lighter blue-black of the sky.  Already, stars could be seen dimly, and they drew his eyes upward…and up and up until his mouth gaped open.  Seized with a sudden pulsing vertigo of exquisite awe, he let his knees give way and fell back, gazing unblinking at the vista stretching from one horizon to the other.

Archemounte was famous for her gas street lights
; he’d never even bothered looking at the sky in town…but even at Harthunters it had never really been dark at night.  And his and Loren’s nights outside had been in the heavy forests of the northwest Empire—cozy little bits of star-gazing seen through the trees.  Nothing, ever, like this.  He’d never seen anything like this.  The sky was enormous, black, so thick with stars it looked encrusted with diamonds.  The ground seemed to spin under him as his eyes traveled dizzily from one far solar system to another, the world suddenly a huge, unknowable, awesome place. 

He
felt like a speck, a bit of lint, in the face of this enormity.  How could anything be so huge as this picture in front of him, as this world singing with silent bits of light?  All the Shepherd’s talk of Il seemed to suddenly bubble quietly to the surface of his awareness, joined by barely remembered streams of thought from his childhood with the nuns.  They claimed Il was this big; vast and powerful enough to explain man’s convoluted trail of history, to explain how such beauty and wonder could travel side-by-side with such violence and utter evil.

C
HAPTER 4

Sable, Her Most Royal Sovereign, Queen of the Imperial Realm of the North and Defender of the Great Northwest Wilds, sat crosswise in the Imperial Throne—a huge, one-size-fits-all behemoth of crimson and silver—one leg lounging on an armrest.  The hard part, coming to the decision, was done.  The harder part, convincing her fellow monarch of the plausibility of it, would commence as soon as he walked through the door.

The great Throne Room, empty in the rays of the setting sun, glowed rose and gold, the colors reminding her powerfully of the first time she had ever seen it.  Then, the rich color had been spun from a hundred lanterns, reflecting off the enormous, polished wood floor holding the packed crowds of the Royal Welcoming Ball.  Tremendously young—they
’d come for her when she was barely sixteen—she had been fresh from the south, cheeks still tanned, eyes sparkling with excitement and resolve.  There hadn’t been much fuss about succession; she’d grown up with the phrase,
one step to the side of the High King’s Line
, bouncing off her eardrums.  Her father, determined to give up the kingship, had drilled it into her along with the best education money could buy outside the University.  Long before her birth, he had been crippled in a bad fall, and the Imperial Councilmen, exhausted after decades of helping King Carnelian just exist, never mind rule, allowed the abdication with probably more relief than such irregularity should warrant.

Used to running free through the benevolent, golden days of the south, she
’d been brought up sharply by the cool, sharp people of the north, by the cool, sharp summers and frigid winters buried in snow, and by a Council thankful for a healthy young monarch that would do whatever they suggested.  Or so they thought.  She smiled grimly.  Hard to believe that had been seven years ago.  She felt like a grizzled veteran after all the battles she’d fought with the Council.  She remembered well that first major showdown, almost a year in the building, fed by rumors of secret meetings, unsanctioned decisions, independent action. It had been whispered to her one night that they were in full session.  To vote on a policy that had not even been brought before her.

Coldly furious, she had marched into the lofty Imperial Council Room, feathers floating gently from her pink down dressing gown.
  The room had gone dead quiet.  Her Prime Council at the time, Philian, had risen uncertainly and with a great show of civility.  “Your Majesty, what disturbs your rest?” he’d asked in affected concern.

“
I was not aware,” she’d answered, wrapping her already famous poise around her like a cold shield, “that Council was in formal session.  Which of course it is
not
,” her eyes swept the room, “since that is illegal in the Queen’s absence.”  She’d come prepared.  At her signal, Palace Guard had stepped quietly and impressively into each of the seventeen doors—one for every member, plus her own double doors—and the Councilmen looked over startled shoulders as every one of them was firmly drawn closed.

“
Surely,” Prime Council Philian said patronizingly, with a smooth, isn’t-she-adorable little laugh, “you do not mean to arrest your Council?”

She let the question hang for a long minute unanswered, until several members that had been ignoring her looked up uncertainly and others stirred in their seat.  She moved gracefully to her
place at the immense table and smiled a brittle smile.  “Of course not.  Not for a little misunderstanding.  Now, what is it we’re discussing?”

Relief had spread almost palpably thro
ugh the big, echoing room.  But no one answered her.  In fact, there was so much shuffling of parchment and moving of feet and coughing and looking around that the silence began to grow into an almost physical thing.  She said nothing, not about to dispel any of their well-deserved discomfort.

Finally, Philian had to say something, and he had chosen,
“It is nothing, Your Majesty…we’re but discussing how best to present certain matters to you at our next, er, formal session.”

“
Ah.  Well, you can practice on me now.”

“
No, no, Your Majesty.”  Again that annoying, sugary, run-along-to-bed-now little laugh.  “We are not ready.  We shall alert you when we are,” he’d said in encouraging dismissal.  He was a persuasive man.  That’s how he came to be Prime.  But she was Queen, and she was losing control and she wanted it back.  “I’ll wait,” she’d said glacially.

That night, she had learned to put steel in her voice.  She
’d discovered how to stand down discourtesy and stand up to stubbornness, how to rush at patience and outwait boldness.  It had been a long, long evening, overripe with flattery and bullying and superiority and pleading, and it taught her how fragile and frightened loyalty could be.  It won her the grudging respect of her Council, but it was only the greatest of her battles…not the last.

She hoped her wisdom had kept pace with her cynicism.  But looking at the room as it was in the sunset
, in her current pensive mood, she was reminded of the time when she’d had neither.  That first night…when her life was still magical, the Palace a fairytale, courtiers and Councilmen fresh and enchanting.

Poor Cleeve, the man assigned to be her tutor in the ways of court, was perhaps an inappropriate choice.  He was a tiny, fussy, academic sort that came barely to her shoulder, had large spectacles, no imagination, and favored severe, colorless clothes
with hose that tended to bag around the ankle.  Sable, a quick learner and full of mischief and energy, had been roughly twice as clever, twirling verbal loops around his fusty head so fast he was blinking and pondering as much as he was instructing.

He
’d been her escort the night of the ball, as was traditional, circling around the bright ballroom with her arm in his, making introductions, whispering agitated hints of decorum up at her—when she’d spotted Kane.

Sable
’s soft lips curved wryly at the memory.  Her father had idolized King Kane,
the
model of royalty, known throughout the Realms for his justice, his keen judgment, the marked (and un-Imperial) warmth he had for his people. The first thing she’d noticed, however, was that he was very large, very fit, and strikingly handsome.  Tanned from time at sea, the blue-gray eyes penetrating and full of character, he towered over everyone else in the scintillating room.  Seek him out, her father had advised her, value his council.  Had she ever been anything but a dutiful and obedient daughter?

Eyes shining, lips parted eagerly, she
’d set off energetically across the ballroom, almost jerking Master Cleeve off his feet.  His poor legs practically churned air trying to keep up with her.  Used to dragging along willful horses as she was, poor Master Cleeve was as so much empty space.

They came to an abrupt halt in front of the King of Merrani, who
’d been watching their progress in fascination.  Smiling winningly, she’d curtsied low…which didn’t work out well for  Cleeve, still linked in her arm and finding himself suddenly dashed to the floor.

“
Your Majesty,” she’d gushed brightly—and was crushed when his first words were, “Monarchs…must be thoughtful of those that are less powerful…in their grasp.”  She was pretty sure the whole incident had been exaggerated by an indignant Cleeve and a bevy of tittering ladies-in-waiting (she really didn’t remember anything very well that night but Kane), but the crush she’d had on the Merranic King had been memorable enough.  It had taken years to get over it.  They’d been inseparable since the first, he realizing she needed a good deal of advice and she delighted at any time he could spend with her.  Kane, a father of nine at the time, had hardly shared her infatuation, but he had gone from avuncular advisor to fatherly mentor to now close as a brother.
              That made one friend, and they were a rare commodity—the Palace was a hornet’s nest of intrigue, though the Assassinations of Carnelian’s reign had, unbelievably, cleaned out the worst of it.  It made her deeply thankful to Melkin, ornery and stubborn as he was.  He was scrupulously honest, at least, and you were
never
in doubt about what he thought.  She’d been lucky to keep him and she knew it, proud as he was.  Within a scant few years of taking the throne, the reshuffling of personnel required by the new Palace forced itself onto her list of duties.  After endless debating, Throne and Council had agreed to retain such positions as Groundsmaster, Weaponsmaster, Horsemaster, Guardsmaster (much reduced in scope), but the vast majority of the old positions were ruled obsolete…including Melkin’s.

She
’d insisted on telling each of the newly unemployed personally…rather beneath a ruler’s dignity, the disapproving whispers circled.  But Sable was well aware that the decisions meant much more than the loss of a few staff members—all of the posts were those linked deeply to tradition and the past, especially defense.  This had been one of the most divisive issues in the building of the New Palace, and the political overtones were deafening.  The Empire was doing away with a way of life, with an ideology, and though she was committed to the course, that didn’t mean she couldn’t be saddened at the passing of the Old Ways, or appreciate those who had fulfilled their duties so faithfully.

Melkin was without contest the hardest interview; of course, she felt the worst about him.  She remembered her faint shock when he walked through the door.  She hadn
’t seen him since she was about twelve, when he and Lauralin had come to visit Mother and Father.  He’d always been gruff and taciturn…but Lauralin could make sun out of thunderclouds.  She and Sable’s mother were alike, but even her sister couldn’t match Lauralin for making people smile just to be around her.  With her death, Melkin’s face had lined, his hair had silvered, and those shrewd grey eyes turned piercing, alight with the angry, bitter intensity that had taken the place of his love for his wife.

She
’d cleared her throat uncomfortably.

“
I hope you’re not going to apologize,” he said with a scathing dryness, his voice the same sandpaper-on-gravel that she remembered.  The unpleasantness on his face looked like it had been settled there for a lifetime instead of just a few years.

“
Melkin,” she began, “I would very much like you to stay on, perhaps teach at University.  Your scope and depth of knowledge lay far above and beyond your craft—they are irreplaceable…”

He had stared at her in angry amazement. 
“Are you out of your mind?!  I want nothing to do with your REIGN!  You have signed the North’s death warrant if the Enemy were ever to attack again, what with your “Ornamental Wall Remains,” and the release of the Wolf, and the reduction in the Patrols…!” he’d snapped in snarling disdain, mindless of rank, title or station.  He’d stared at her almost viciously, his voice dropping into low, bitter accusation.  “You think because we haven’t seen the Enemy in a couple hundred years that all the wars of all the millennia preceding this never happened, that the—”

“
And what if we’re wrong?” she’d interrupted quickly, though there was nothing in all the facts laid before the Council that would suggest such a thing.  “Melkin,” she said persuasively, moving around the big desk that separated them, “I am surrounded by people who all believe the same about an issue that has split the North almost in half.  I
need
a voice from the opposition.  And I need one that is not afraid of being surrounded.”

His eyes had snapped at her like firecrackers, but for or against, she couldn
’t tell.  “I know you would not accept favoritism because of our relation,” she said carefully.  “And that is not what I am offering.”

“
Don’t ever mention that again,” he said so quietly, in so different a voice than the one he’d been berating her with, that she paused, mouth still partly open.

“
The less your enemies know about you, the less they can hurt you.”

And she suddenly had an advisor on staff, one that not only
didn’t mind being politically outnumbered, but that wasn’t overly timid about
anything
.

Impatient with the inactivity of memories, Sable flicked her leg off the Throne and rose, gliding restlessly across the wide expanse of flooring all the way to the great windows capturing the
last of the sun.  Her simple gown glowed vermillion, the gold beads at the top of the high waist glinting like the real thing in the rays of the sunset.  She stared reflectively out through windows three times her height, gazing at her Realm as it stretched far away to the south.  Was compromise so impossible?  Could they not be prepared for war and enjoy peace at the same time?

Just then, the double doors at one end of the room
were flung open and Kane strode in, long-legged and impatient.  His boots echoed ringingly as he spotted her and pounded over.

“
I’ve been here a week, Sable, and as we get ready to ride you’ve suddenly got to talk?” he said vexedly.  His hair had distinguished grey wings now, his beard streaked with the same, but his eyes had not lost their keenness, nor their emotive power—currently occupied with shooting darts of aggravation her way.

She took a deep breath to steady herself, and forced her eyes to meet his. 
“I’ve decided to call a Kingsmeet.”