by JA Andrews
Still tired from the long ride the night before, Sini sank down onto a rough bench along one wall.
“What have you done to warrant so much watching?” Sora asked, sitting beside her and watching Pest. “This is the first I’ve seen you without one of your two bodyguards.”
“I wish I knew. They’ve been commanded to guard me.”
“Just you?”
“So it would seem.”
Sora studied Pest and Roan for a moment. “Ordered by who?”
“The queen, I assume.”
Sora gave a noncommittal grunt. “I’m not sure I trust Pest.”
Sini watched the man lingering by the gems. “Why not? Aside from the fact that I’m pretty sure he’s stealing from the dwarves right now.”
“He skulks.”
Sini laughed. “You skulk, and I know many people who trust you, including one Keeper who’s quite in love with you.”
A grin slipped out of the edge of Sora’s mouth. “Will’s too nice. He trusts everybody. And I don’t skulk, I track.”
“There’s a difference?”
The ranger nodded and leaned against the wall, stretching out her legs, seemingly perfectly at ease. But her gaze shifted to Roan.
“Do you trust Roan?” Sini asked.
She shrugged. “I wonder if your soldier there took it upon himself to decide you needed guarding.”
“He’s not my soldier,” Sini objected “and why would he?”
“Because he admires you.”
Sine felt a slight flush at her words. “He does not!”
“He definitely does. I just can’t decide if he’s inappropriate about it. He’s a formal sort of fellow.”
Sini laughed. “Yes. He does nothing inappropriate. Ever. He takes his position and his engagement to the future queen seriously. If he feels anything toward me that is even positive, this tedious guarding began long before that.”
Howls of laughter came from across the cavern where Will was regaling three dwarves with some story. Sini could see a light mist of blue green air around him as he filled his words with enthusiasm. Sora’s face softened.
She glanced back at Sini. “Just be careful with yourself.”
“Not all of us fall in love with someone we’re not supposed to.”
Sora’s smile turned self-conscious. “It’s easier than you think.”
With no change in Horgoth’s condition, the next afternoon Douglon led them to an enormous cavern that was so bright he handed out thin blindfolds before they reached it. Sunlight snuck in through small holes in the roof and an assortment of metal disks reflected the light down into garden. Through the gauzy blindfold Sini could see bright green plants growing in endless rows. Dwarves were sprinkled throughout the room, tending them.
“This is our greenhouse,” Douglon explained. “We grow wheat out on the mountainsides, but in here it never gets too hot or too cold, so we have fruit trees and spices. The sunlight comes down chutes from the surface. Every fall we burn the old crops and let the soil lie. Every spring we shovel new dirt down the chutes.”
Until she stepped into the frail sunlight, Sini hadn’t realized how deeply she’d missed the sunfire. It rested gently on her skin, greeting her like an old friend. She worked the blindfold off and blinked into the brightness. Tentatively she drew some sunfire in. She braced herself for the longing for more to return, but she felt nothing beyond a comforting warmth.
“You have sheep herds too, right?” Roan asked. “Is there a cave somewhere housing them?”
Douglon laughed. “They eat too much. We keep them in valleys too isolated for humans to reach.”
Sini breathed in the sunfire and felt something inside her loosen. The light was still the same as it had always been. When Douglon led them back into the dark caves, she followed reluctantly.
Duncave was intriguing, but the shadow of Horgoth’s health hung over them whenever they were in the main city. There was a tavern not far from their rooms, and Sini found herself there more often than not with whoever else was unoccupied.
Pest could navigate the caves well and when he was on guard duty, she had him lead her back to the sun cave just so she could sit in the sunlight and read. Slowly, bit by bit, she found comfort again in the light, and the fear that had eaten at her since feeding the elves faded.
On the third day Alaric and Douglon were tied up in council meetings. Roan and Sini went to lunch at a tavern not far from their rooms where their group ate most of their meals. They found themselves alone until Douglon stumped in and sat down heavily on the bench beside Roan.
A dwarf brought Douglon a large tankard of ale. He took a deep drink and dropped his head into his hands. “What am I going to tell Rass? She can’t come here with me. There’s no grass. She’ll grow weak within a couple days in the tunnels.”
Sini searched for something comforting to say.
“In my study of history, I have noticed,” Roan continued, “when a king chooses his advisors wisely and lets them do their jobs with little interference, the country prospers.”
Douglon looked up at Roan. “You’re saying I’m superfluous?”
Roan laughed. “I’m saying that a government runs a country, not merely a king. Or a high dwarf.” Roan paused. “Three generations ago, our king Tunnred had a wife with fragile health. They had built their home in one of the southernmost valleys of Greentree to take advantage of the warmth. When he became king, she couldn’t follow him to the chilly winters of Queenstown, and as he was unwilling to be absent from her constantly, he spent one month out of three in Greentree.”
Douglon’s bushy eyebrow rose. “And did Queensland prosper?”
“We enjoyed a prolonged season of peace and growth because Tunnred had good people running the country.”
A grin split Douglon’s beard. “One out of three months, huh? Might need to make it one out of two, but that has possibilities.” He considered Roan. “Is Queen Saren going to keep you as ambassador once you’re tethered to the future queen?”
“I hope so.” Roan looked around the tavern. “Trips to Duncave would be vastly preferable to staying at court all the time. But my decisions seem to be made by higher powers.”
“You’d think once you became the higher power you’d actually have freedom.” Douglon peered into his tankard. “But what you lose is the choice of how to spend your day, and who to spend it with.”
Roan let out a long sigh. “I’ve noticed.”
Douglon glanced at Sini. “Keep your head down, and hope the next Keeper they discover is so spectacular everyone forgets who you are.”
“After listening to you two moan,” Sini said, “I certainly will do my best.”
Douglon was summoned to something official sounding, and Roan escorted Sini back to her room before joining him.
“Are you really as upset about your position as you sound?” she asked him.
Roan blew out a long breath. “I was handling it all better before this trip. I’d almost forgotten how much I loved traveling, having concrete goals and destinations. Seeing new places.” He rubbed the back of his neck and gave Sini a troubled glance. “It’s going to be hard to go back to court.”
A bell rang out, echoing down the hallway, signifying the beginning of a council, and Roan smiled a little. “The councils here are far more interesting. The dwarves mostly shout over each other and occasionally bang their axe handles on the floor. And Douglon cuts off anyone who gets too pompous. You want to come?”
“Not at all.”
He laughed. “Then I’ll send Pest when I find him.”
In her own quiet room she lay down, letting her mind shift over the last few days. She thought of Horgoth’s failing body, how odd it was to see Killien, how happy Will and Sora seemed. But her mind kept shifting back to Lukas. How had he gathered such an army?
Annoyed with the worry of it all, she pulled Chesavia’s journal out of her pack to distract herself. She had barely read any of it.
She lay
in bed, her eyes skimming over pages of writing and sketches of people or scenes, only paying the barest attention to any of it.
Until her attention caught on a word.
Naj.
Sini blinked.
Naj? Svard Naj was the sword Lukas had stolen from Killien.
She sat up.
The Wellstone had been right to connect Chesavia to the sword.
She flipped quickly back to the beginning of the entry.
4th day, Wolf Moon, 8th year of King Lenus
I found Naj!
I’ve tracked his Monnton tribe across the moors.
Below the words was a sketch of low hills covered with coarse, stunted plants. The barren place where Chesavia had stood in the Wellstone was the moors of Gringonn. There was a connection between Lukas and the moors.
Sini turned the page so quickly she tore a small rip in the edge.
I’ve never seen such a desolate place. The hills go on forever in a blue-green nothing. The plants are scrubby and short, they scuff at my legs as I walk, making each step a battle. There are no paths to follow, so I kick more plants out of my way and aim toward the smoke on the horizon.
The vastness of it is daunting. But it is better than court.
I wonder, now that I have found Chief Naj, will I find his sword?
Naj was a man? Killien had assumed it was the name of the sword.
6th day, Wolf Moon, 8th year of King Lenus
I’ve met him.
It took some work to keep the guards from killing me, and I feel bad about the one who wouldn’t listen. He’ll recover quickly, I’m sure.
Naj is…not what I expected. He is almost civilized. When I was finally taken to him, he was suspicious, but treated me well. I am now a personal guest in his tasarr. The tasari of the others in the tribe are small, drab, serviceable tents, but his is extravagant. It has six rooms. The ground has been cleared of scrub bushes and covered with thick animal hides. The incessant wind is blocked by the thick walls woven out of bright colors. It is almost comfortable.
Naj himself was raised in a wealthy shipping family along the coast. When I asked him how a merchant becomes a warlord on the moors, he merely answered, “Life does not let us choose our paths.” I wish he had answered me honestly, instead.
He is smarter than I expected, and more educated. Yet he is entrenched in only this insignificant bit of the world, consumed by the goals of his small tribe.
9th day, Wolf Moon, 8th year of King Lenus
I have seen the swords!
Yes. swords. There are two of them, not one.
To look at them, you’d never know they were valuable. They’re so rough they’d look at home in a farmer’s cottage.
But they are what I’ve been looking for, there is no doubt. When they are together, they glow—one blue, one smoky black. Naj couldn’t see it, of course. But the power in the swords is unmistakable, even to him.
He found them in a shipwreck and claims they are blessed. Anyone who carries them into battle cannot be defeated.
I fear it is much worse than that.
Beneath the entry was a sketch of two swords, identical except for the runes. Svard Naj was unmistakably the sword that Lukas had stolen from Killien.
11th day, Wolf Moon, 8th year of King Lenus
Naj and I are quite comfortable now. So much so that I worry he’s entertained thoughts of making me his twelfth wife. I doubt he’d force the matter, but it may be time to finish here. He’s given me a silver ring shaped like a crescent moon. It’s lovely.
He let me touch the swords.
I claimed an interest in the runes hammered into them. The hammering is as rough as the rest of the blades. The blue blade says Svard Naj, or sword of Naj, the shadowy one says Swift Death. The Monnton are experts at metalwork. Their other weaponry has intricate words and runes and pictures on them. Naj says these are rough because the metal was almost impossible to mark.
Now I know how the Monnton have gained so much power so quickly. The swords are much more than blessed. Or maybe much less. ‘Blessed’ is the wrong word.
Touching the handle of either sword does nothing. But the blades…
The blue one is filled with an energy that seeped into my hand when I touched it. It burned enough that I was reluctant to hold it longer, and I have little sense of what else the energy would have done. It did not feel wholesome.
The blade with the dark glow…that should be destroyed. I merely brushed my finger along it, and it drew vitalle out as quickly as the blue blade had offered it. My finger grew cold to the second knuckle and hours later it still aches.
Naj does not notice the effect of either. Perhaps it isn’t noticeable to someone who can’t move vitalle. In battle he says the blue blade does more damage than he can explain, and the black kills more quickly, although he says its power only comes rarely. It will kill a first opponent almost instantly, filling Naj with an exultant power, but then it is like a normal sword for a long spell before it will kill quickly again.
My best guess is that the black blade draws out life, but only of one person before it needs to…rest. Swift Death indeed. I would guess it transfers that energy to the wielder and the blue blade, empowering both to fight.
These weapons trouble me. They were not made to be wielded by an ordinary person. In Naj’s hands they wreak destruction in this small part of the world. But I dread how terrible they would be were they wielded by someone who understood them, who could use the power in them.
The idea unsettles me greatly.
Sini bit her lip. Unsettling was an understatement.
13th day, Wolf Moon, 8th year of King Lenus
I write in haste before I lose the light. The Monnton have mobilized for a battle. Another warlord was spotted to the south. Naj had become possessive of me, and I worried he would not let me go, so I left during the commotion, leaving him only a note. It felt cowardly, but I believe it might have been my last chance. While the man is almost civilized, he does have a feral streak. I think I will not risk a fire tonight.
I am still unsettled over the swords. The black more than the blue.
It is my consolation that there are almost no people here on the moors. It is probable that Naj’s tribe will fall, like every other small war tribe here, and the swords will be lost. They are so plain compared to the rest of Naj’s belongings that no looter would bother to pick them up.
At least that is my hope.
Chesavia’s journal entries after that went back to her life at court, new entries coming only every few months to say that King Lenus was still difficult. Sini skipped ahead, looking for anything else.
She had almost given up when she caught sight of the word ‘Naj’ again. The entry was a full ten years later.
27th day, Blood Moon, 1st year of King Rushua
I am troubled.
I have just returned from the moors. I found the grave of Naj. He was killed by an arrow, his tribe wiped out or enslaved. There is nothing left of the Monnton.
Naj was buried under a stone cairn.
I left his grave alone until the sun was high in the sky. I had no desire to see those swords without access to sunlight. Under the stones, the rough twin blades lay crossed on his chest. None of his more valuable looking weapons were there. His enemy, who had fulfilled the tradition of burying their foe, had probably thought leaving these swords was an insult.
But they were the reason I found him. Even beneath the earth it was easy to find their vitalle.
His grave saddened me more than I expected. He could have been more than a warlord. If only he hadn’t been so focused on blood, he could have built something better here.
But perhaps that was not possible, as long as he had the swords.
I have heard the stories of his ruthlessness over the last ten years. They hold little resemblance to the man I met. Was it the swords that drove him to brutality? Or was he on that path on his own?
I do not think the swords should remain togeth
er and the Shield agrees. I will take the blue sword away, and bury the black one deep beneath the earth. Not under a cairn though. I will leave its grave unmarked.
The black sword lay on top, and while moving them, I touched both blades at once. The surge of energy between the two knocked me to my knees. A terrible coldness gripped my chest and my hands locked on the blades.
Without the sunfire I never could have pulled my hands off. I believe I would have been dead in a matter of breaths.
I wrapped the black blade in a blanket before moving it to a new place. It is buried deep, the location unmarked. The blue blade I wrapped in the thickest fabric I could find and then again inside my bedroll.
I encountered the Shield in Greentree and have passed off the blade to him. I can’t say I’m sorry to be free of it.
Sini reread the entry, an ache forming in her own chest to match Chesavia’s words. This was the reason Lukas was on the moors. This dreadful sword.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Sini opened her door, finding Pest leaning against the wall outside. “I need to talk to Alaric and Will. And even Killien.”
He pushed himself off the wall and led her to the tavern. The Keepers, Sora, and Killien sat around a table in tall-backed chairs, eating a rich smelling stew that made Sini’s mouth water. She dropped into an empty chair, surprised to find it dinnertime already. She eyed the soup, and explained what she’d read.
“This is about my sword?” Killien asked. “The one I got from Flibbet the Peddler? How old is that journal?”
“Chesavia died almost 200 years ago,” Alaric answered.
“I think Lukas knows about the black sword,” Sini said, ignoring Killien’s shock. “I think he really has been on the moors, that the dragon sightings are real, and that he’s looking for the twin sword to the one he has.”
“How could he know about them?” Alaric asked. “Unless he found a copy of Chesavia’s journal before we did, which seems unlikely.”
