Sword looked at the priest. He was turning so red she worried he might well explode, and though that would make the stain created by Malal's spilled wine that much easier to explain, she still didn't fancy that as an alternative.
"Malal, perhaps you could –" she began, then her voice cut off when she realized the Emperor's face was turning the exact same color as Brother Scieran's.
They're both going to explode.
"I'm going to murder you."
Brother Scieran's explosion was more verbal than the blood-and-bone variety, but it was still sufficiently violent that Sword worried the guards outside would rush in. She tried to hush the priest, but he just swiveled to point at her, shaking with rage. "I told you, didn't I? I told you it would be something ridiculous and infantile, and STOP LAUGHING!"
The last was aimed at Malal, and that was when Sword finally realized why the once-revolutionary, now-Emperor, and always-prankster was so very red: he was in hysterics. "I knew it," he finally gasped between braying howls. "I knew you'd believe I would bring you in here for that." He abruptly grew serious. "Hey! What does that say about what you think of me?" Then he waved the question off and laughed again. "Doesn't matter. The look on your face, priest. Priceless. We'll remember it for the rest of our lives."
"I need to make this very clear, you spoiled little –" Brother Scieran broke off in mid-threat. "Wait, 'we'?"
At the word, the room seemed to erupt in movement. Wind and Cloud emerged from behind a pair of thick curtains, the twins rarely far from each other – especially now that Cloud had been deafened and had only his sister for company. As always, Cloud wore a white tunic, seeming almost like something that had descended from the Heavens. As always, his sister wore a tunic as well – though any place from which she might have descended was no doubt a warring, deadly land. She wore the silver breastplate, greaves, and gauntlets that had become something of a legend in the castle – the guards said they had been crafted by the Gods, and could only be destroyed if the bearer were to become unworthy.
Sword didn't know about that. She only knew that Wind and Cloud were her friends. And woe to any who were their enemies.
From behind a pillar tottered another priest: Father Akiro. So old he made Brother Scieran seem a babe in diapers, he had a long gray braid down his back and was also a Priest of Faith, though he was a member of the Temple Faithful and not, as Brother Scieran, one of the Order of Chain – distinguishable by the gold trim on his robe, and the brass chain around his waist. The old man walked with the aid of two wolf-headed canes, and Sword noted with some sadness that he was a bit grayer, a bit slower, than the last time she had seen him.
"Father!" shouted Brother Scieran, unashamed happiness flooding his expression. "I thought you were in Faith!"
Father Akiro snorted. "And I thought you were supposed to secure further funding for the rebuilding the Grand Cathedral."
"I –"
Father Akiro waved him off. "You are hopeless. You have always been hopeless. You will always be hopeless." He squinted. "Though you do have a cane now, and I suppose that is something of an improvement. You can at least be called half a proper man, I suppose."
Brother Scieran growled. Cloud laughed as his sister translated the conversation, using the language of Sign to give the priest's words to him. She was deaf, too, but she had been deaf much longer and knew how to read lips.
Brother Scieran whirled toward them, and no doubt would have had choice words about the disrespect such laughter showed, but another form stepped out of a wardrobe at the far end of the room.
"Arrow!" shouted Sword, and then she was across the room and into his arms.
They held one another for a moment, and she didn't know if the others were silent out of respect, embarrassment, or happiness. She didn't care. She was just glad to see him again. He had been gone the last week, touring the outer rim of Fear, seeing how construction progressed in the wake of the eruptions Malal – the first Malal – had caused with his magic. Half the Imperial Army and many, many of the people who lived in that part of Fear had been killed. The rebuilding would be a thing of Turns.
"Are you okay?" she finally said.
"I'm fine. The worst danger was when I got Malal's message to hurry back and then got a cramp hiding in the wardrobe waiting for you two."
At that, Brother Scieran seemed to remember that he was supposed to be angry with Malal. "Wait. You brought us all here to tell us about stationary?"
"Of course I did."
Brother Scieran and Father Akiro both started yelling, and even Arrow looked a bit irritated at the joke.
Malal allowed it to continue for a few moments, his smile growing larger and larger, then he finally raised his hand in what he supposed was Good Imperial Fashion. No one quieted, so he turned to Wind.
"Captain," he said. "Would you please silence the rabble?"
Wind didn't move. She didn't have to. Like most of the Greater Gifts, her name reflected her power, and in an instant there was a change in the room as the air grew heavy. The voices petered out – Father Akiro and Brother Scieran were the last to stop talking – as pressure built in the space. Sword's ears popped. Not painfully, but uncomfortably enough to remind her that when she looked at Wind she looked not just at a beautiful woman, not just at the woman Malal had chosen as the Captain of his Imperial Guard – she looked at one of the most powerful magic-users to ever live.
"That's enough," said Malal lightly. "I don't think we need to burst their brains. Just shut them up. Especially the old ones."
Brother Scieran glared at that, but Wind frowned and took a step forward, and apparently even the priest could be cowed by such a thing, because he only grumbled a bit.
"Now. To the stationary." Malal handed each of them a sheet of the paper.
"We're back to –"
"It's really amazing," he said, speaking right over Brother Scieran. "If you look at it in the light, you'll see some things."
They all held their papers toward the nearest glo-globes or windows. Even Brother Scieran, though he grumbled as he did it.
Sword gasped. As soon as the light hit it, the paper exploded in color. Curls and arcs seemed to grow from the center of the page, turning in and around and over each other, then forming a series of images: a crown, the berries and wheat the were a symbol of the Gods' love, the inverted triangle bisected by two lines that were similarly a symbol of Faith –
(and again she had that feeling that familiar feeling that where have I seen this before and what does it mean feeling)
– and then it all scattered in a beautiful burst of hue that took her breath away.
Nor was she the only one. Sword heard gasps around the room as the others saw similar images; felt a wonder like unto her own.
"How did you do this?" asked Arrow.
Malal actually managed to look modest – no small feat for him. "A few Shatters, a few Shocks, a pinch of the work of an Artist, and all brought together with a Thread or two." He nodded back at the sheet Arrow still held. "But none of you have seen it all."
They returned their gazes to the papers as one, and as she did, the colors returned to Sword's page. Once more they swirled and whirled about in a graceful ballet, rainbows dancing about one another in gleeful pirouettes that finally settled into a recognizable pattern; a single word: Sword.
No sooner had she seen the word than it disappeared and another took its place: Malal. And then a third: Wind.
Everyone was gasping and murmuring in wonder at their papers, then glancing in confusion and askance at Malal, who still wore that amused look.
"Now, these are just drafts. More information will be filled in later: date, time, location, dress code – I'm looking at you, Scieran. But for now each paper has just three things: your name… and the name of the bride and groom."
Sword blinked. She looked at the paper again.
Sword.
Malal.
Wind.
She looked back at Malal.
And as she did, Wind left her brother's side, and walked over to Malal and took his hand in hers.
The room erupted. Everyone talking at once, everyone shouting, everyone holding each other and hugging. Sword thought that Brother Scieran might well destroy anyone who got between him and the happy couple, shoving Arrow aside with his cane and then sweeping Malal and Wind into an embrace so strong the Emperor exhaled forcefully.
The iron doors to the room opened, and the guards looked in, their faces masked but the worry clear in their stances.
Malal tried to wave them off, but Brother Scieran beat him to it, snarling, "Get out, can't you see we're all incredibly happy!" with such vehemence that it would brook no defiance. The guards very quietly withdrew, and Brother Scieran turned back to Malal and Wind, holding them close.
"Be good to her," he whispered, choking the words through tears.
Malal put one arm around the priest – his other was trapped between him and Wind. "I will, old friend," he said, and his voice was just as halting.
It was hard to remember sometimes, the way the two bickered, but they were old friends. They had fought and suffered and bled together. They loved each other.
Sword looked around the room. Not just at Malal and Wind, the lovers who would soon unite; not just at Brother Scieran and Father Akiro, the priests who would no doubt argue about who would perform the Binding; not just at Cloud and Arrow.
At them all.
At her family.
And then the screaming began.
3
The congratulations stopped immediately. The air changed as Wind and Cloud drew upon their magic, Brother Scieran yanked a short-bladed knife out of the handle of his cane, and Arrow… Arrow became a walking arsenal. He suddenly held a small, double crossbow in his right hand, and both of the bolts looked like they had explosive tips. His left hand held a gun – it looked like a nine-shot, and being who he was, Arrow could shoot it with perfect accuracy and supernatural speed, killing nine people before the first fell. He also threw back his cloak to reveal another crossbow on his back, along with a short rifle of a type Sword hadn't seen before.
Whatever it was, he'd be able to use it, faster and better than anyone alive, for that was his Greater Gift.
The doors remained shut – as they should, for it was clear that the sound was coming from outside the room. But Sword heard the sound of masonry crashing to the ground and knew that the false walls of the hall were being destroyed, that the guards behind them were taking up positions before the Emperor's chambers, ready to die for him.
For the man they think he is.
Not for the first time she felt a bit guilty at their deception. True, the Emperor had been utterly co-opted by the real power behind the throne –the man who had called himself Chancellor but who was really Phoenix, a Greater Gift who took the power and appearance and the remaining life-Turns of any other Greater Gift he murdered.
She wondered, suddenly, why he hadn't just killed Malal and taken his power. Instead, Phoenix had used one of his Gifts to make Malal – also a Greater Gift – do his bidding. To make the volcano of Fear erupt, and destroy half the Imperial Army.
Why?
It doesn't matter. Focus.
The screaming was still going on. But even as she pushed her mind back to the task at hand, it lessened and died.
Then… silence.
Once before, she had fought in another room in the palace. Then, she had battled a Fade – a magic user who could will himself to virtual invisibility. The only way to spot a Fade was to look at him or her directly, which was more or less a matter of luck.
But Sword had been able to find him. Not by looking, but as an extension of her power. And she did now what she did then. She closed her eyes. She breathed. She pushed out with her senses, feeling the room, the people in it.
Father Akiro and Brother Scieran. The two had taken up position in front of Malal and Wind, as though the two old men would be the last and best resistance against any threat that might make it through the guards, the door, the Greater Gifts in the room.
Arrow: breathing shallow, quick breaths. Moving slowly from side to side, his arms out in front of him as though he expected threats to materialize in their midst. That was impossible, of course: there were Screens throughout the palace, their own magic making it impossible for anyone to teleport anyone or anything inside the castle walls.
But that's the thing about magic, isn't it? We only know what we know about it because we haven't seen something new enough to prove us wrong.
She was glad Arrow was on the alert.
She kept looking without looking. Now feeling Malal. The man who was once a revolutionary, was now an emperor, and would always be something of a trickster and rogue, seemed utterly unconcerned about what was happening – at least according to his breathing and his perspiration. Only the fact that Sword sensed the blood thrumming through his veins, pulsing at his neck and temples, betrayed his fear.
Wind and Cloud alone were as they always were – silent, existing in still worlds of their own creation. Sword had been told of their pasts, of the losses they had suffered and the agonies they had endured. It was no wonder they were always so calm – surely the worst was behind them.
She pushed out. Beyond the doors. The guards – all of them, not just the two that had been guarding the door, but the ones hiding behind the corridors' false walls in case of emergency – crouched, waiting. They almost killed the man who ran around the corner. He squealed, raised his hands.
Sword could not hear them. She could feel what they did, though, and her body unclenched. She had not even called one of her weapons into existence – she tended to avoid flaming katanas when in close quarters with her friends – but she realized how close she had been. Her fists loosened.
"It's all right," she said, even as the doors opened.
One of the guards came in. Bowed. "Lord," said the guard, this one with the voice of a woman. "Master Iwala begs entrance." Then, without waiting for a reply, she bowed and left.
Arrow caught Sword's eye and he looked at her quizzically. She shook her head and shrugged.
A newcomer entered, his head bowed, which gave Sword an excellent view of the top of his utterly bald head. Master Iwala was the palace's Earmaster – not an Ear himself, but possessed of a pair of far greater gifts: he was an excellent organizer, and highly discreet. Since any Ear could instantly communicate with any other, they were the primary hub of information between the palace and the Army bases, the government installations, the centers of commerce. Every bit of information that mattered – and quite a few that didn't – came through the army of Ears stationed in the bowels of the palace. And Master Iwala, along with his staff, had to decide what should be passed where, to whom, and how fast.
He was the soul of tact, of careful thought, and quite unflappable, was Master Iwala.
At least, normally. Now, however, he was a wreck. He wore a saro – the long, skirt-like wrap of fabric favored by some whose ancestors hailed from Fear – and as he stumbled toward the Emperor one of his feet caught in the hem. He pitched forward and would have fallen if Arrow hadn't caught him.
He barely noticed it. He was babbling, his face red and his eyes wild, casting about the room as though certain that some enemy would lay waste to all in his sight at any moment. Murmuring under his breath.
"What?" said Malal. "What's that?" Then, to Brother Scieran, "What's he saying?"
"How should I know?" Brother Scieran snapped, a bit more harshly than necessary, but Sword couldn't blame him: seeing Master Iwala like this was enough to spook a mountain Claw. Brother Scieran moved to Arrow and Master Iwala. He took the crazed man by the arm in a surprisingly gentle move.
Sometimes he's so much the warrior, so much the Order of Chain, that I forget he is also a priest, also a man of the Gods.
Brother Scieran whispered something in Master Iwala's ear. It didn't seem to calm the man at all, but he nodded, a quick, jittery up-down-up tha
t seemed as much shudder as affirmation.
Brother Scieran looked to Father Akiro. "You've your oil?"
"Of course." Father Akiro drew close, putting one of his canes over his arm, freeing a hand so he could withdraw a small horn from the chain looped around his waist. He uncorked it and upended it. A single drop of oil fell to his finger. He deftly recorked the horn, replaced it on his belt, then rubbed the oil on Master Iwala's bald head. He and Brother Scieran placed their hands on the Earmaster's shoulders, then bowed their heads and whispered into his ears.
Sword looked at Arrow. He looked back, clearly unsure what she was trying to convey with her look, then his eyebrows rose. "You've never seen this before?" he whispered.
She shook her head, whispering back, "They frowned on church time in the kennels."
He hugged her, tight and long: an embrace that spoke not only love but sorrow for all that had been stolen from her – friendships, culture, life. "The priests annoint the afflicted with holy oils. It is a prayer of health, of peace. Master Iwala's people are those of Fear, and the people of Fear tend to be religious, so Brother Scieran asked if he would like a blessing."
It seemed to help. The two priests said closing words – Sword couldn't hear what, though she had to admit to a burning curiosity and an even hotter jealousy that she had never had someone offer to bless her this way, to offer her the comfort of the Gods or the simple closeness of a friend's hands on her shoulders in all the long Turns when she had fought in the kennels. When the priests took their hands off Master Iwala's shoulders, he seemed more himself. Shaken, but at least somewhat composed.
He drew a hand over his face, as though pulling an errant spiderweb away, or the last vestiges of an ill-omened dream. Then he bowed to Malal. "Your pardon, Emperor," he said. His voice quavered.
Malal waved his hand. "What news?" he asked.
"The Ears," said Master Iwala.
"What of them?"
For a moment it looked like Iwala might lose control of himself again. He drew a great shuddering breath and began trembling. Father Akiro put a hand on his arm, and that seemed to calm him a bit. Enough to say, simply, "They're all dead."
Child of Sorrows Page 5
