by F. C. Reed
“Oh yes. Please. I’ve been expecting a visit from you,” she said over her shoulder.
Next to Mirell, this other woman seemed ordinary, but Mirell learned to trust her wisdom. Now they both peered out into the open, the differences of reality and distortion of their perceptions so uncommon between them. They both pondered Mirell’s problems often, but Mirell rarely admitted to them herself, so the other assisted her in the task.
“I feel so alone. So unwanted.” The whisper rolled from Mirell’s tongue as she held its syllables.
“You will never be alone, my dear. It is your confidence that betrays and abandons you when you most need it.”
“Is that what you think?” Mirell asked, taken aback.
“That is what I have observed.”
Mirell nodded in agreement. “Perhaps you are right.” She went back to the images that appeared before her in her fantasies, content on not continuing the conversation.
No words were exchanged for a long while, one not wanting to disturb the other.
Mirell stroked her shiny blond hair and sighed heavily. They sat together, as a mother and daughter might, with one never content while the other suffered. And Mirell was often in discontentment.
“I believe I will not be joining the primus for dinner tonight.” Mirell did not move, fixed on the star-studded sky that she so wished to be a part of.
“If that’s what you want.”
“I mean, it doesn’t seem to be advantageous,” Mirell whispered. “It doesn’t seem to matter.”
“But what if Thanial—
“I do not wish to see him or speak with him.” The iciness in her voice hung in the air and hinted at anger.
“I’ll let him know if ever I run into him.” She well knew of their relationship, and the issues which gripped at it, and knew she was in no position to make improvements.
Once again, silence fell over the room. Neither could see the other’s face, but there was something that would not allow them to separate just yet.
“If you would like to discuss it. Thanial, I mean.”
Mirell sprang from her place at the window, nearly in a shout. “How could I have been so naïve all these past ten years?” A red face, wet with fresh tears, drove out the once proud and confident Mirell St. Castigan and set in her place, an angry, violent being. It surprised her to find she was crying, almost feeling the pain that radiated from her.
“I had not known that taking a liking to a myth would be the love of his heart.” Mirell stormed around the room. Small strands of hair stuck to her cheeks, captured by her tears. At each turn, they broke free and found themselves once again sprawled over her flush and angered face. “Still, I cannot rate high enough for even his attention when compared to his precious lioness of the red. I have tried to give him everything he could most possibly ask for. What the hells else could he ever want? I’m beautiful. I’m smart. Witty. Funny. I am from a powerful and wealthy family, more or less. I’m always ready to bear his children.”
She felt much more at ease now because of this recent release of frustration. It was what she needed. Like a caged animal longing for freedom, Mirell struggled within herself. Now that cage opened to let her thrash about, vicious and primal.
“I agree, Lady Mirell.”
Mirell feverishly paced along the lacquered floor. “As well you should,” she snapped.
“It is true. What else have you to offer beyond that which you have given him?”
Mirell stopped in her tracks and stared a horrifying stare. She frowned and cocked her head at her thoughts, almost as if someone had struck her across the face with a sack full of stones. “It’s a son, isn’t it?” she finally said. “He wants an heir. Someone to teach the ways of war and peace and politics, and to carry out his will and legacy. That is what his lineage does, isn’t it? So that must be what he wants.”
“You were pregnant with his child at one point, although I would hardly call how you acquired his genetic material normal.”
“Yes,” replied Mirell, gently caressing her midsection at the memory. Then her mood soured as she turned to pace about the room again. “No one is to ever know about that. Not even him. Don’t you ever mention it again. I thought I made that clear.” She glared at the other in the mirror until she felt her chastisement was sufficient.
“Yes, of course.” She wanted to reassure Mirell’s thoughts; tell her that everything would be all right, except she too had a difficult time believing it. Instead, she said, “We all know how strangely lie our fates. And you have no choice but to accept what fate lies for you and Thanial. He may slip away from you, but that only means you will need to try again to win his affection.”
Mirell shook her head. “I won’t have to try again. I will have him if it is the absolute death of me.”
In a stern tone, almost ignoring Mirell’s whispered interjection, she said, “You may need to try again. And again. And again. He’ll slip away, then return, only to find himself interested in something else,” she shot. “Attracting a man is a lot like fishing. You must bait the hook properly, or you’ll never catch the one you truly want.” Rolling her eyes to the floor, it pained her to say what she thought next, but it was a truth Mirell needed to hear.
“As strange as it may sound, women are of no particular use to men except to make more men, all pleasantries aside. You, Mirell St. Castigan, don’t own him near as much as he now owns you. This talk of having him, even if it’s the death of you, will certainly find you dead before you have him. He doesn’t want your fanaticism. That is the very first lesson you need to master to sway him in your favor. Learn how to tame yourself, not him, and not the red lioness. Tame yourself first.”
Mirell was surprised at that revelation, but it was no less the truth, no matter how harsh it was. With her eyes closed and her lips quivering, Mirell listened. These were the trials that tested her very humanity. She knew now not to entertain her thoughts, lest they betray her and rob her of her sanity. She stood motionless against the wind that pushed up at her through the window and into the room. A tear parted ways with her eye as she choked back her fear and humility.
“Then he will learn to love me,” she said in the same hushed whisper. Her eyes slipped closed as if to assist with making the statement true.
“Thanial truly loves you, Lady Mirell. Even if he does not say it with words. I can see it in his eyes when he sits with you. I can feel it in his—
“Strange,” Mirell snapped, her red, swollen eyes springing open, “that I cannot.” She narrowed her eyes in skepticism. “And what would you know about love? You are a broken thing from a broken family. A disgrace. A failure.” Mirell waited for a response, crossing her arms.
“My circumstances would not allow for marriage or children. A servant to the nation-state rarely has time for little else, and a servant to my father strips away what little is left. Your love becomes that which you do for the good of the family. But when I was younger, I met a boy eager to discover what physical comforts a woman could offer him. I made the mistake of assuming that what we had was love.” There was a lengthy pause. “My child, a product of that short-lived relationship, did not survive.”
Mirell flinched. “Yes, I know the story. A pity. An embarrassment.” An outstretched sorrow crept up inside of her. Her greatest fear stared her down. The worst of her nightmares would be the loss of that one thing they created together if ever they got around to it.
“I wasn’t bitter,” she continued. “But I ached with pain. Even after watching you grow and love and learn into something I had lost so long ago,” she said.
Mirell produced a smile. “Yes it took many, many years to recover,” she sighed. “There is quite a difference between losing a child and giving a child to death of your own free will. You lost your family over that. Used goods, your father said.”
“Focus, Lady Mirell. Don’t bog yourself down with unnecessary emotion. Always remember that Thanial loves you for you. That love you experience fro
m him every day, whether he coughs it out in a fit, or whispers it into your ear, or gives you an intensely loving stare so powerful, you feel his heartbeat in tune with yours—that is a love you experienced.”
“Then do you think I’m being selfish?” Mirell asked. She had previously considered it for sure. Thanial loved her, and she knew that. He had to. He was obligated.
“You may need to wait for him. You may need to fight for him. Or convince him. Or gain his attention. Or starve him of your presence.”
“Oh, by the gods, where do I start?” Mirell asked.
“How about starting with what you’ve found out? About the girl, I mean.”
Mirell recoiled. “I can’t do that. It would ruin everything. Any chance I have with Thanial would be destroyed if he found out I was behind her unveiling.”
“Isn’t that why you are here? To make the discovery about Amalia that you’ve made?”
Mirell nodded slowly; half-heartedly.
“Then let her know when she gets here.”
Mirell hesitated. “Yes, but I still don’t see how—
“Then I suppose you want to fail.”
“That can’t be the only option,” Mirell said.
The only reply Mirell received after a time was a soft knock on the door. “Come in,” she called.
“Lady Mirell.” Sky Marshal Sesanji stepped into the room and glanced around. She raised her eyebrows. “I believe you have some information for me?”
“I’ve made a significant discovery.”
The sky marshal’s eyes lit up. “Great news,” she said as she pulled up a chair and sat into it. “Leave nothing out.” Then she frowned and leaned forward. “Not to pry, but who were you talking to just now?”
“Excuse me?” The question caught Mirell off guard.
“When I walked up, I distinctly heard a conversation between two people, yet I am surprised to see this room empty save for you.” She watched Mirell’s cheeks color slightly. “Speaking aloud to yourself is one thing, but you were having a full-on conversation. With. Yourself.”
Mirell’s face flushed red, and she fidgeted with her hands. “You’re mistaken, Sky Marshal. I was only—
The lie stopped there as she clamped her mouth into a hard, straight line, unwilling or unable to continue speaking.
Sky Marshal Sesanji cocked an eyebrow and eased herself back into her chair, watching Mirell’s face harden as it reddened further, the girl’s tongue struggling over a set of dry lips. “Just tell me what you’ve found out,” she sighed.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Amalia stood in the shop’s entrance. A thick layer of incense clung to the air in a heavy, suffocating mist. She thought incense was an odd touch for a place that specialized in weaponry, expecting instead to see red hot metals being beaten and folded into submission by some brawly-armed smith. There was none of that. Instead, the smithy seemed to resemble a quaint curio shop.
An array of shields lined the walls, some intricate with carved lines and decorative symbols, others with gray and silver metals, smooth and shiny and unmarked. In another part of the smithy there were more than a few dented weapons, broken and rusting away in an old wooden barrel. The displayed weapons were in fine order save for the chaotic pile of scrap in a nearby barrel.
Some weaponry on display shone a cool blue, while others seemed to have a faint glow of red to them. There were pikes, axes, daggers, swords, halberds, glaives, hammers, sickles, and a few things she might have otherwise imagined, dreamed in a strange night of sleep, or maybe glimpsed in a fantasy or science fiction movie.
“For what are you searching, my dear?” came a man’s voice. “I take it you’re no ordinary patron, given that you’re standing in my shop. Most citizens nowadays can’t afford metal worked through with the ancient skills required to metal-bind.”
An older man appeared from behind a a thick, dusty rug that doubled as a door. The leathery brown skin on his face told tales of years spent near fire and heat. Graying brown hair lay neatly over his pate. Shorter than most other men, he stood at a height similar to Marchand.
“Since you’re here, I will assume also that you can afford to be here.” His smile was wide and genuine, welcoming and warm alike. It reached his eyes easily from behind his glasses. Given that, he didn’t possess the look of a seedy hustler, and the slick sheen of greed on most merchants was also not present. He wiped his hands against a white apron and held one out to her. “And I have the pleasure of addressing whom?”
“Amalia,” she said, surprised at his firm grip. “I’ve come to be fitted for a weapon.”
“Amalia. A pleasant name. You aren’t from around here. The name sounds foreign.”
Amalia shrugged but said nothing.
The man studied her, a curious grin playing on his lips. “I am Steig Hathor, the artisan smith. You must be looking for something very special.” His smile broadened. “Either that, or you, yourself, are someone very special.”
Amalia smiled back at him, but squirmed. She had already decided not to reveal to him who she was. It seemed to slow progress and cause problems. Or create more questions to her already extensive list. She just wanted to pick out her weapon and leave.
“I can see that I’ve made you a little uncomfortable.” Steig stepped closer. “Let’s start again.” He laced his hands in front of himself and smiled. “I already know who you are and why you’re here, Artemisia. Old Marchand is a good friend of mine, and General Strann is no stranger to my shop.”
Amalia exhaled audibly, still annoyed that the name Artemisia annoyed her.
“He mentioned your latent skill with the pole glaive. Not my first choice, but then again, I’m no warrior, soldier, or commander. And I’m far too short for such a weapon,” Steig said.
He moved along the edge of the walls to a section of weapons, all glowing faintly red. A long, black slender box rested nearby on a stand. “Unfortunately, or fortunately, based on whose perspective you happen to be viewing, the only pole glaive I have is forged from bloodsteel. There’s just not a demand for them anymore. The art of the blade dancer is as old as the first days of war, and those able to blade dance are far too scarce for me to justify making them.” He hoisted the black box and held it out to her. “But there still is one I’ve held on to. I made it quite a while ago by request, and have kept it in peak condition ever since.”
Amalia stepped closer, observing the box for a moment. She smoothed her hands over the black stained, lacquered wood. When she opened it, her breath caught in her throat. She could feel the tendrils of power licking at her forearms from inside the velvet-lined box. It felt invigorating, powerful, and magnetic all at once. The sensation reminded her of when her grandmother, or General Strann, gave her that keystone, but the intensity and pull felt exponentially greater.
“Oh my mother of,” her voice trailed off as she registered the havoc that was once her senses. “This bloodsteel stuff is—
“Inspiring. Beautiful. Poetic,” Steig suggested.
“No,” Amalia laughed, still astonished by the feel of the metal as though it were alive. “This bloodsteel stuff is the tits.”
Steig arched an eyebrow.
The pole glaive’s exquisite, lean, and perfect profile sat nestled in the velvet-lined sections inside. The handle, cross-wrapped in a thick brown leather, sported metal studs evenly spaced for increased grip. Upon lifting it, she found that it weighed as much as a lacrosse stick, and perhaps even less, belatedly realizing that may not be a coincidence.
“Why is it called bloodsteel?” Amalia asked, although looking at the red metal, she felt she hardly had to inquire.
“Because for it to be effective, it needs blood.”
Glancing sidelong at him, Amalia rolled her eyes. “Please tell me you’re joking” she said.
“Not at all, my dear. Bloodsteel is much more reliable than standard steel, much lighter, sturdier, holds a keener edge, and not at all known for breaking. It holds runes well. Most, if not
all, of its effectiveness comes from being bound to its wielder. Blood is used as a bonding agent. At that moment, the aethersphere will stitch the wielder to the weapon.”
Taken aback, Amalia continued to stare at the man. She searched his eyes for hints of a cruel joke or a smile that would reveal his wayward joke.
“Well, that seems like a small price to pay,” she said finally, still hoping Steig would return her smile, but he didn’t. “Okay, so assuming all of that nonsense is not nonsense, how do I give this blood to the glaive? And does it need repeating? Just let me know now, because I’m really not looking at feeding the damn thing regularly, am I? I mean, if you’ve seen Little Shop of Horrors, you would have no problems understanding my concerns.” She had to laugh at what she was saying, as if she was considering doing something as preposterous as donating blood to a piece of red metal.
“When the blade is ready, it will take the blood from you,” Steig said.
“Now that just sounds creepy,” Amalia said immediately. She held the glaive with both hands up to her face to observe it in the light. The blade shone like a translucent piece of red ice as she turned it over.
Steig only shrugged. “It will happen.”
“Yeah? When?” Amalia challenged him. “I could use some forewarning.”
Steig gingerly peeled back one of her hands. “It already has, more than likely,” he said, nodding and casting his eyes on her palm.
Amalia frowned at him, and then at her open hand. She felt nothing; no pricks, scratches, pokes, or pain. Even more curious than that, there was no blood either.
“I forged the glaive special. It’s been sitting in my shop here for more than - well, for a long time, waiting for its owner to come along and claim it.”
“And I suppose that’s me?”
“The owner is not you so much as it is the red lion. Or in this case, lioness. The marks on your fingertips and your palm tell the honest of all truths. Not that you can see them, but they’re there. Where the sword has bitten into your flesh, and drawn part of you into itself.”
