Swords and Saints- The Complete Saga

by Alec Hutson

  “Perhaps I could borrow some coin from you?”

  Her grin widens. “I’m sure I can think of some service you could render in return.”

  “I’m not sure I like the implication of what that would make me.”

  She moves on to her other greave, shrugging. “You could try begging the smith for charity.”

  There are certainly worse ways to earn a suit of armor. I scoop an oddly shaped pauldron from the floor and hold it out for her to take. I’m struck by how incredibly light the material is – it doesn’t feel like metal at all.

  “What is it made out of?” I ask as she stands and takes the twisted bit of armor from me, then clasps it to the cuirass she’s wearing.

  “Carapace,” she says. “We have some rather large insects in Vel. Don’t tell any arachnia you see though, all right? I’m not sure how sensitive they are to having their cousins worn as outer wear.”

  We follow the Contessa’s emissary outside, clattering down the tavern’s rickety steps. The breakfast crowds are still clustered around the food carts, but the dazed barbarian and his friends have vanished. In their place is an elegant carriage of lacquered golden wood drawn by a team of white stallions with silver manes. It looks decidedly out of place in the Blight.

  An older man in silver and red livery hops down from the driver’s seat and swings open the carriage’s door for us. He’s wearing a brooch that looks like a curled silver cat. A quick glance at Xela shows that she’s also wearing one of these – I’d assumed it was part of her armor’s silver fastenings. The woman from Zim leaps inside and seats herself on the plush velvet cushions. We follow, Bell settling beside Xela.

  The carriage door swings shut, and to my surprise there aren’t any windows. It’s like being crammed inside a small golden box. I try and tamp down my uneasiness at being ignorant of where we’re being taken.

  I notice as the carriage lurches into motion that Xela is staring at our brooches, the black fox heads that Bell had secured for us yesterday.

  “Why did you not seek protection from the Gilded Lynx Trust?” Xela asks. “Surely the Shadow Fox could offer you little that we could not.”

  Bell frowns slightly. “To be honest, I was unsure how the Contessa would feel about us arriving in the city without the glitter. I thought it best to not announce our presence.”

  Xela gives her a cool look. “You must have realized we would find you. The famed revolutionary Bellamina del Alate is not easy to hide, especially when she returns to The Last Word, that hotbed of sedition.”

  Bell grimaces. “Yes, well, you found us a bit quicker than I thought you would.”

  “Famed revolutionary?” I say, and Bell tosses me a withering look.

  “Another time, Talin,” she says, and the Zimani woman chuckles.

  “He does not know, Bellamina?” She turns to me. “Your companion is infamous, warrior.”

  “Oh!” Deliah says, slapping her knee. “That is why you seemed familiar. There were still a few of your pamphlets circulating in the city when R’znek and I arrived. What was it called? A False Dawn?”

  “A New Dawn,” Bell replies softly.

  “R’znek found the whole premise ridiculous. Rule by the people? The commoners? The idea that the strong would follow the whims of the weak appalled him.”

  “The tyranny of the many is better than the despotism of the few,” Bell murmurs, turning away from us to stare at the shimmering golden whorls set in the panel beside her.

  “A supposition directly at odds with the philosophy of Enlightened Zim,” Xela says. “However, I have to admit I have some sympathy for such views. Though the Contessa does not, I’m afraid. So I would avoid reminding her of your . . . populist leanings.”

  “I didn’t bring it up,” says Bell, her tone suggesting that she is swinging shut the door on this conversation. “You did.”

  At that, the carriage lapses into silence. Xela sinks back into the plush seat with an enigmatic smile. Deliah examines the gray handle of her glaive – the weapon just barely fits inside the carriage – tracing a series of small marks that must have been made by the barbarian’s ax. Bell remains fixated on the wood beside her head, not looking at the rest of us.

  Even though there are no windows I can tell we’ve passed out of the Blight. The ride becomes smoother, suggesting that the quality of the road has improved. The sound of many voices swells – we’ve entered a more lively district, and I hear strange bleating and roars and a screeching that reminds me of the giant cockerel that pulled our rickshaw the day before. Gradually, though, these noises subside, and beneath us the road seems to have improved even more, the carriage barely shivering as we race along. If I was to hazard a guess I’d say we’ve entered a more private and privileged neighborhood.

  The carriage slows once, and I can faintly hear an officious-sounding exchange. Then we lurch forward again, slower than before, until finally we come to a halt. Moments later the door swings open and a pale boy of almost ethereal beauty gestures for us to step down. He’s also wearing the silver cat brooch.

  “Welcome,” he says softly, gesturing to encompass the sprawling manse behind him, “to the lair of the Gilded Lynx.”

  Our carriage has stopped at the end of a long private drive that stretches back to an imposing gilded gate. The way is hemmed by trees speckled with tiny white flowers and a row of iron posts, from which dangle glass spheres that are linked to each other by thin glimmering filaments.

  “The Contessa is intrigued by this new electryc light,” Xela says, noticing where I’m looking. “This house is one of the first in the city to glow inside when night falls.” Following the looping strand from globe to globe I can see that at last it vanishes inside the ancient manse.

  As we approach the soaring doors of gleaming black wood, a pair of guards in silver and red livery uncross the halberds they’d been blocking the entrance with, dipping their plumed helmets at Xela. Then they each take one of the massive curved handles and pull the heavy doors wide.

  The pale boy precedes us inside into the dimly lit interior. We’ve entered a large foyer bedecked in furnishings that look both extremely expensive and extremely old. A twisting statue of a thorned tree dominates the space, and even after stepping closer to examine its substance I can’t decide if it’s actually stone or wood that’s passed into a state beyond ancient. The floor is covered with rich carpets patterned with strange geometric designs that seem to squirm, and the heads of various monstrous creatures stare down glassy-eyed from high up on the walls.

  “This way,” the strange boy says, starting down one of the many passages radiating from this room. Bell and I share an uncertain glance and follow.

  The sense of great age permeates the rest of the house as well. The air is thick and oppressive, and dust roils and glitters in the few places where light stabs down from narrow windows. Ancient paintings of men and women wearing featureless ceramic masks stare at us, many with spotted cats curled in their laps or lying at their feet. Our footsteps are silent, swallowed by the thick rugs. With a start I realize there’s no sound at all, not even distant voices or the thump and clatter of servants working.

  After a litany of musty rooms and twisting corridors we step across a broad threshold into something new. Light floods this vast space, pouring through the interlocking panes of glass that form the curving walls and ceiling, splashing upon a lush indoor garden. A tiled path wends between sprays of fronds and leaves and profusions of brightly colored flowers. The branches of small, gnarled trees obscure what is deeper inside, but I hear the trickle of running water. The air is heavier, almost oppressively so.

  Deliah bends down to gently cup a spiky orange blossom. “An elioch thorn flower. These grow only on Vel.”

  The boy does not pause as he starts upon the path. “This garden contains plants from a hundred different lands. Several of the past contessas have been dedicated botanists.”

  “But not the current one?” Bell asks.

  “She
has . . . other interests,” the boy replies. “But she still enjoys the solitude of the garden.”

  Small chittering animals scamper upon the trunks of the stunted trees, and jewel-bright birds flutter higher as we pass beneath their perches. We push through a curtain of twisting vines hanging from a wrought copper trellis and find ourselves at the edge of an artificial pond spotted with lily pads and white lotus blossoms. A woman in a red dress sits on a marble bench, facing away from us. She raises an arm and scatters a handful of rice into the pond – immediately the water begins to churn as a school of red and white koi rises to feed.

  “Contessa, your guests have arrived,” the boy announces, and then withdraws with a slight bow directed at the woman’s back. She in turn does nothing to suggest that she has heard, dipping her hand into a small pouch beside her on the bench and then tossing more rice into the thrashing swarm of fish.

  “Such fierceness,” she says softly when the battling koi finally subside, and the water grows calm once more. “They seem so content until we offer them something they want. Then their true natures emerge – ravenous, selfish. The strong will gorge themselves past the point of satiation, denying the small and weak.”

  Gracefully she stands and comes around the bench to face us, then sinks down again, her hands in her lap. I say face, but that’s not truly accurate as she’s wearing a white mask with narrow slits for her eyes and mouth. The holes are so thin I can’t see anything beyond them. For a moment I wonder why someone would restrict their vision in this way, but then a scratchy voice floats up from the well of my memories: ‘The mouth may lie, but the eyes always tell the truth’. It’s some truism of this world, known to the gray scholar whose mind I have imbibed. I suppose the people of Ysala believe there is no advantage in hiding behind a mask if others can see your eyes.

  From what I see of her I’d say the Contessa looks somewhere in her middle years. Her long hair is a deep black, marred only by a shock of silver like a lightning strike on a moonless night.

  When she had turned I had thought I’d seen her hesitate, ever so slightly. Perhaps she had only expected Bell to return with Xela.

  “The strong gorge, and the weak starve,” she repeats, idly tracing a large moonstone set into one of her many rings. “That was the core of your manifesto, was it not, Bellamina? The Trusts toss down their scraps, and the common people tear each other apart fighting for them. But why should we be allowed to feast? Why not demand seats along the table?”

  “You have the essence of it,” Bell says quietly. Her hands are balled into fists, her posture rigid.

  “A dangerous sentiment,” the Contessa continues with a sigh. “You know, after your pamphlet created such a stir, several of the heads of the Trusts wanted to make an example out of you. A public execution. I was one of those counseling against such an act.” She pauses, as if waiting for something. “You may thank me, child.”

  “Thank you.” Bell’s voice is barely a whisper.

  “You’re welcome. Though in truth I cared little for you, and I found the ideas you’d expressed so forcefully to be the sort of naivety that if realized would result in far more suffering than under our present system.”

  “Then why save me?”

  “Because I needed your father – and you, child, were my leverage. He was the only man in Ysala who might convince the black sand pyromancers to part with some of their precious glitter. They would trust him and his intentions, I believed. And I was right. So in exchange for you being spared the headsman’s ax, he agreed to bring me back what I desired. And of course you accompanied him, which allowed the leaves you’d stirred up with the storm of your words to settle again.”

  Another deep sigh. “But now you stand before me, without the glitter or your father. What am I to do?”

  “Help us get them back,” Bell says without hesitation.

  A throaty chuckle. “Help you? That would suggest you have some chance of recovering what you have lost.”

  “We do.”

  The Contessa cocks her featureless head to one side. “The Marquis is a clever adversary. Even by the standards of my peers among the Trusts he is considered ruthless and exceedingly careful.”

  “So it is hopeless, then? Why summon us here?”

  “Perhaps I wanted to make sure that you and your father are not conspiring against me. That this is not some elaborate betrayal.”

  “It’s not.”

  “I believe you. I’m an excellent judge of character, and I would wager that you are speaking the truth. That comforts me. And it means I will take you into my confidence in these matters.”

  “You know something about this? Why the Marquis wants the glitter and my papa?”

  The Contessa smooths her long dress. “I do not. It is a substance of unimaginable potential, as you well know. There are a dozen uses for it that would advance the interests of the Red Trillium Trust.”

  I jump as a shriek rends the tranquility of the garden. Bell and Deliah look around wildly, and the lamias’s hand goes to the handle of the glaive strapped across her back. The Contessa only raises her arm into the air, her long red sleeve falling away from her pale wrist. Something as fast as a loosed arrow explodes from the branches of a nearby tree and flies to her, then wraps itself around her forearm. It looks like a many-colored snake, though it is feathered rather than scaled, and a half-dozen gossamer wings vibrate along its length. A saurian face glares at us with beady black eyes, its forked tongue flickering.

  “A quetzl,” Deliah whispers to me out of the side of her mouth. She sounds unnerved, which unnerves me. “Very dangerous. One bite and you’re dead.”

  The Contessa ignores the colorful snake-thing coiling around her arm. “But I have been given some interesting information.”

  “And that is?” Bell can’t seem to look away from the quetzl, as if she’s a mouse trapped by the gaze of a hooded serpent.

  “The Marquis is attending a secret meeting tonight at the Temple of the Cleansing Flame. Not with the hierophant, oddly enough, but with one of his high bishops. I don’t believe the rest of the clergy even know, in fact.”

  The Temple of the Cleansing Flame. Why did that sound familiar? It takes a moment, but eventually Bell’s story of saints and ascension swims up through the fog of last night’s excesses.

  Bell looks shaken. “Do you think the Marquis will try to ascend?”

  The Contessa shakes her head and sighs. “I wish he would. Then my greatest rival would explode in a burst of flame. The Marquis has risen to the top of the Red Trillium Trust, yes, but that is very far from what is required to achieve sainthood. No, he must want something else from the Temple.”

  “But you think this meeting concerns the glitter?”

  “I have only my suspicions. The Cleansing Flame is voracious and must be fed constantly – it can never go out, and it consumes at a much quicker rate than a normal fire. A forest’s worth of wood is fed to the flame every month, and I know the clerics have been searching for a different fuel for a long time, something more efficient. I believe the Marquis will offer them the glitter, and also perhaps your father’s expertise in harnessing it.”

  “And what will he get in return?” Bell asks.

  “That,” the Contessa says, shaking her arm so that the quetzl is jostled loose. The colored snake unwinds from around her arm at frightening speed and launches itself into the air, vanishing among the foliage of a nearby tree, “is what I want to know.”

  The Contessa gestures with her newly-empty arm at Xela, who steps forward. “She will observe this meeting.”

  “Secretly? She won’t be seen?”

  “Xela is a Zimani shadowdancer,” the Contessa says, and though her words are nonchalant I can see their effect on Bell, who suddenly looks startled.

  “Truly? I thought they were legend.”

  “A legend, but some legends are true,” Xela says with a smug smile. She steps closer to the dappled shadows thrown by a tree – the one where the quetzl has
vanished into – and reaches out her hand. I gasp as she casually scoops up a clump of the darkness; it clings to her hand, trailing wisps of shadow like smoke. Then she presses it to her other arm, molding it quickly so that her elbow to her wrist is sheathed in blackness. And when she moves her arm the shadow stays with her.

  “Incredible,” Bell whispers. “How do you do it?”

  Xela smirks. “A secret, of course.”

  “It must be science, right?” I say sarcastically, but Bell ignores me. She steps forward and reaches out towards the patch of darkness, her trembling figures nearly brushing the rippling black.

  “I am a skilled adept,” Xela says. “And I have enough control to keep myself and one other shrouded for a few watches.”

  “I have other servants who are loyal to my Trust and could accompany her,” the Contessa says, “but perhaps if we are to be allies in these matters you might send your companion, this one who has been chosen by a lamias.” The Contessa turns, and I can feel her hidden gaze crawling over me. Her attention seems strangely intense. “He must be a great warrior, and if Xela is discovered I want her protected by a skilled sword.”

  Everyone turns to look at me. I glance from Bell to the Contessa to the patch of darkness enveloping the shadowdancer’s arm. Then I shrug.

  “I’ll go.”

  16

  The ride back to The Last Word is quiet. Bell’s brow is furrowed, as if she’s trying to work through a seemingly intractable problem. Deliah is watching me with pursed lips, her fingers drumming a pattern on the haft of her glaive. Xela has stayed behind with the Contessa, though, apparently, she will join us at the tavern later, and then together she and I will go to the Temple of the Cleansing Flame.

  “So,” I finally say, “how does everyone think that went?”

  Bell blinks, as if her mind is being pulled back from somewhere else. “Better than I’d hoped,” she says. “I never thought the Contessa would want to ally with us. She treated with us as equals, and that’s very surprising.”