The Bard's Blade

by Brian D. Anderson

  When it was time to return to the troupe, he did as instructed and brought the books to the desk, thanked the woman for her help, and started to the exit.

  “I hope you’ll come back,” the woman called after him.

  “I will,” he promised. “First thing tomorrow.”

  He was as good as his word, and over the next week fell into a routine. After breakfast each day he would spend a few hours at the library, then return to the troupe to tell Shemi what he had learned. His uncle had become quite excited on being told how many books the library held, even suggesting that he might go there himself. However, after approaching Farley on the matter, the idea was quickly squashed as being too risky.

  “Indentures don’t walk about freely,” Farley explained. “We’ll be leaving Ralmarstad in a few months. He’ll be able to do as he pleases then.”

  Aside from all manner of mundane tasks, Shemi’s regular duties involved helping Finn to keep the troupe fed and their clothes washed. He didn’t seem to resent this. Indeed, he said that he wanted to contribute so not to be a burden. And after a few days, Finn had stopped looking at Shemi as if he were liable to launch an attack at any moment.

  Lem’s fame in Lobin had spread, and now the square was filled to capacity every night. Such was the size of the crowds that the city guard was sent to keep order, though there had not yet been any serious disturbances. And though he did nothing to encourage it, most of the citizens genuinely believed him to be a bard, a fact that Farley relished.

  “I’ll have enough gold to free Shemi in no time,” Lem told him after a particularly good night.

  “You’ll have to wait until we leave Ralmarstad for that,” Farley responded. “There’s no sense in freeing him until then. It’s not like he can just wander around. Don’t worry, we’ll sort it out. Besides, he’s not begging to leave, so what difference does it make?”

  “I think it makes a difference to Shemi,” Lem countered. “And I know it does to me.” This was the first time he had argued with Farley. He was expecting him to be put out, but all he did was smile.

  “I understand how you feel. But think about this. By the time you have the gold, we’ll be out of Ralmarstad, or at least very nearly. If I free Shemi, all I can do is pass over control of the anklet. Otherwise there will be an inquiry as to why he’s being released early. Too much attention. Do you really want to control your uncle?” Farley slapped him on the shoulder. “Just be patient, lad.”

  Lem wasn’t entirely convinced that what Farley said was true. At the same time, he didn’t yet understand the laws well enough to contradict him. He was a slow reader, and given the vast amount of information he was still wading through each morning, it could be some time yet before he could accumulate enough knowledge to fully understand the laws that governed the land.

  He had learned that beyond the provinces of Bulvidar, Dumora, Galidor, Thrisia, and Ur Gathswan, which made up Ralmarstad, as well as two of the Trudonian city-states, Ubania and Gothmora, on the north shores of the Sea of Mannan, those who did not follow Kylor were not looked upon as heretics. The High Cleric did not possess the same power and influence as did the Archbishop. Beyond Ralmarstad, the church was subject to the rule of the monarchy and courts of the land. Not to say that the High Cleric was not powerful, being considered by the faithful to be the manifestation of Kylor’s voice and will, but very limited by comparison.

  Where the Church of Kylor had once been a single entity, this was changed during the Ralmarstad civil war, which broke out in the midst of a long and brutal famine. The High Cleric, helpless to do anything to alleviate the suffering, begged the people to have faith that Kylor would help them. He promised that soon the rains would return, and the crops would grow once again. Each day he would kneel in front of the temple steps for all to see and pray for mercy.

  But as time passed and more people perished, it became clear that the High Cleric’s prayers had gone unheeded. It was in this most desperate of hours that an ambitious cleric named Rupardo Trudoux declared the state of suffering to be an act of Kylor, a punishment on Ralmarstad for the kingdom’s heretical ways. Moreover, he blamed the High Cleric directly for allowing the heresy to fester. Thousands flocked to his banner. The result was a bloody uprising, and the queen and High Cleric were both exiled. The High Cleric retreated to Xancartha, establishing it as a new holy city where he continued to guide the religion of Kylor in peaceful worship. The queen, sadly, was later captured and executed by the Hedran.

  The more Lem read, the more he came to realize that everything led back to the Archbishop. Nothing was done without church approval. Most books on the subject Lem read incessantly praised the Archbishop, claiming the True Church was chiefly responsible for the peace enjoyed since the war that shattered the kingdom, though to call it peace was misleading. Several wars had been waged against the nations who refused to, as it was phrased in one particularly biased volume, give themselves over to the true word of Kylor. Which basically included any kingdom outside of Ralmarstad. Each war ended in stalemate, the most recent being fifty years past.

  As far as information on the current High Cleric, Lem had yet to find anything significant. Though the reason for this could have been that he had simply not found it yet among the thousands of books and it was still waiting to be discovered, he thought it likely that, given the way the histories were written to be favorable to the Archbishop, they had been omitted from the library entirely.

  Shemi had been appalled by this when Lem told him. The thought of burying knowledge was unimaginable. But when he mentioned it to Farley, his reaction was predictably dismissive.

  “What do you expect? The Archbishop doesn’t tolerate dissent. And nothing fosters rebellion like knowledge. Keep them ignorant. No easier way to stay in power.”

  The truth of his words was inescapable, and ultimately Lem resigned himself to the fact that what he learned would be strongly biased until they left Ralmarstad behind.

  He and Vilanda had barely spoken since Shemi’s arrival. Whether this was due to Farley interceding or her dismissing the notion that she was being replaced, he didn’t know. Though he caught her staring at him with clear disdain from time to time, he was too overcome with concern about Mariyah and the Thaumas to spare any energy toward worrying about her as well.

  It was the end of Lem’s second week in Lobin when things changed. He had just finished his performance and was in his tent when Farley arrived, carrying a folded parchment with a wax seal bearing the imprint of a five-pointed star. The symbol of the Order of the Red Star. The final play was still in progress, and Shemi, as had become a usual routine, was gathering up the brooms and brushes for cleaning the stage. They were alone.

  “It’s time,” Farley said, handing over the parchment. “Once you break the seal, there’s no turning back. The contract is yours, and only you can fulfill it.”

  Lem looked down at the lump of wax as if it might leap up and bite him. “What happens if I don’t open it?”

  “Then I’ll give it to Vilanda.”

  “And if I fail?”

  “That would be unfortunate. For both of us.”

  Lem held the document up to the lamp, but could not see what was written. “What do you mean by only I can fulfill it?”

  “Precisely that. Once the seal is broken, you are bound.”

  “You mean I have no choice in the matter?”

  “None other than death. Should you change your mind about accepting the assignment after breaking the seal, you will die.”

  More magic, Lem thought. And magic just as malevolent and cruel as the anklet. He was coming to understand why those who had founded Vylari had shunned its use. That the people of Lamoria could so easily embrace it was a testament to their brutality.

  “On the bright side, not all contracts are like this,” Farley added. “It’s just that seeing as how you’re untested, the client insisted. It costs more, but it guarantees success. Once you’ve established a reputation, it won’t b
e necessary. Vilanda’s husband, Travis, rarely had to do these kind of assignments. Though he didn’t mind, given that they pay more.”

  Lem took a deep, cleansing breath. He had already come to terms with the fact that he would become a killer, so why should this deadly clause make any difference? But it did, all the same. He had already lost so much control over his own life. This was giving up even more.

  As if to firm his resolve, an image of Mariyah rose in his mind. She was alone, she was being held captive, and it was his fault. If he didn’t do this, he would be sealing her fate. That was more than enough to press him on.

  Holding up the contract, he gripped the seal between his thumb and forefinger. There was a loud pop as he applied pressure, followed by a soft hiss. The seal dissolved into a small puff of red smoke that shot straight up into Lem’s nostrils. He tried to turn away, but it was too late. The bargain was made. He sat there for a long moment, rubbing his nose. Though odorless, the smoke had caused a terrible itching. But this only lasted for a few seconds.

  “I know how hard that was for you,” said Farley. “But you made the right decision. In the end, you’ll see.”

  “How long do I have?”

  “As long as you need. The binding spell isn’t set to a specific time. However, it knows your intent. If you change your mind and decide to let the target live, it will know.”

  Lem frowned. Farley made it sound as if magic had a mind of its own. Perhaps it did. Perhaps magic was nothing more than some evil spirit sent to plague the world, used by sinister forces to bend others to their purpose. But then again, was it not also a kind of magic that protected Vylari? Suddenly, he felt very small and weak, helpless against the ferocious malice of the world. All those around him seemed to know so much, while he knew next to nothing.

  He opened the parchment and looked at its contents. Lord Brismar Gulan. Beneath the name was written: 4371 King’s Crown. North Lobin.

  “A noble lord on your first kill,” remarked Farley. He could not see what was written from his vantage point, so obviously he already knew the contents of the contract. “A real stroke of luck. You get two gold for your share.”

  A surge of disappointment rose. “Only two? I thought you said…”

  “You work under me,” Farley explained. “And before you start thinking to get your own contracts and cut me out, remember two things. One: Your uncle is indentured to me. And two: I know who you are … and where you’re from.”

  Lem’s sense of disappointment was overcome by a flash of anger. “If you tell anyone about Vylari, I’ll…” His voice trailed off. What would he—no—what could he do? Farley had hinted that Vylari’s location would be of great interest to the Archbishop. Lem had repeatedly explained that it could not be found, to which Farley would shrug and say that it wouldn’t prevent them from trying to pry the information out of him in a most excruciating way.

  “Don’t worry, lad. I’m sure I’ll never need to reveal your secrets. Just do your part and all will be well.”

  The friendly smile on his face; the kindness he showed by rescuing him from Zara; even his help releasing Shemi—it had all been leading to this. Despite Farley’s denials, Lem felt certain that this was what he’d intended all along. From the moment he walked into Zara’s tavern, the wheels had been set in motion.

  “What do I do now?” he asked.

  Farley spread his hands. “How should I know? You’re the assassin. But I suggest that you acquaint yourself with where he lives. That seems like a logical place to start.” He stood and moved toward the exit.

  “Can I ask you a question?” called Lem.

  Farley paused. “Of course.”

  “How did Vilanda’s husband die?”

  Farley did not answer immediately, head downturned, a barely noticeable smile twitching at the corners of his mouth. “Maybe you should ask her that. She was there when it happened. She can tell you all about it.”

  Once alone, Lem looked at the contract again. He ran his finger over the name. Lord Brismar Gulan. Though he said it aloud a few times, it didn’t feel as if he were talking about a real person, someone whose fate was sealed. What had he done to deserve death … to be murdered?

  Shemi arrived a few minutes later, his back bent and looking utterly exhausted.

  “That bloody Finn has the energy of ten festival dancers,” he said.

  Lem jumped up and helped him over to his cot. “What happened?”

  “Oh, nothing really. It’s just that ever since he got over his fear of me, he insists on us playing every game he knows. It wouldn’t be that bad if I didn’t have to work so late. But by the time we finish with the stage, I feel like I’ve been working all day in my garden.” His joints cracked in protest as he stretched out. “The boy needs friends his own age, that much I can tell you. Sooner or later, my old bones are going to give out.”

  “You want me to talk to him?”

  “No. I can handle it. He’s just lonely. I’ll set him straight in a day or so. Anyway, from what Clovis said, we’ll be leaving soon.” He pulled up the blanket. “And then Finn will be heading back home to his parents.”

  Lem had been surprised to discover that Finn was not a regular part of the troupe. It turned out that Farley had hired him when they arrived in Lobin. Apparently, it was a habit of his to hire a local child in each city they visited in order to help with the upkeep.

  “Farley doesn’t like attachments,” Quinn had explained. “Particularly when it comes to children. In his mind, it’s better to find someone new each time we move on.”

  Shemi was soon in a deep sleep, allowing Lem to move back to the table. After taking another long look at the name on his contract, he retrieved a knife from his belongings and fastened it to his belt. By now the crowds outside had dispersed. That Clovis, Quinn, and Hallis were not there meant they had decided to go to the tavern.

  Stepping from the tent into the night, he heard the sound of shoes scraping against the pavement off to his right.

  “So he did give it to you. I knew he would.”

  Standing in the shadows between the tents was Vilanda.

  She moved closer, allowing Lem to see her more clearly. Her face was not powdered, and she had already changed out of her stage costume. She was not one for the night life, generally retiring directly to her tent after a performance.

  “I’m leaving,” she told him.

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” was all he could think to say.

  Vilanda sniffed. “No, you’re not. But you should be. You have no idea what you’re getting yourself into.”

  He tried to affect a confused look. “What are you talking about?”

  “No need to lie,” she said. She didn’t appear angry, as he would have expected. In fact, he could swear there was pity in her eyes. “Farley told me he was giving you the contract. I guess I’m not as good as Travis was.”

  The reference to her husband rekindled Lem’s curiosity. Without thinking, he asked, “How did he die? Farley told me that you were there.”

  “Of course I was there. I needed to be sure it was done right.”

  “You’re saying that you killed him?” he asked, horrified.

  “Not with my own hand, no. But I was the one who paid for the contract.” She sneered at Lem’s reaction. “You think I wanted it? You think I wanted to kill my own husband?”

  “Then why?”

  Though her expression did not change, a single tear slipped down her cheek. “So that Farley couldn’t. I loved my husband too much to let him suffer. I had to know it would be quick and painless. That’s why I paid the contract. And that’s why I had to be there.”

  “I don’t understand. Why did Farley want him dead?”

  “Does it matter? All you need to know is that Farley is not the man you think he is. If you stay with him, he’ll eventually kill you.”

  “Is that why you’re leaving? Because he wants you dead?”

  “I doubt he cares enough to bother killing me,”
she replied. “No, I’m leaving because I can’t watch it happen again.” She stepped in close and placed a hand against his cheek. “So young. So many experiences ahead. Don’t let him take it from you. Get out while you still can.”

  She turned and began walking away, but stopped after a few steps. “You could leave with me if you wanted. You could pack your things and forget all about this place. There are other troupes. Better than this one.”

  The offer took him aback. The sincerity in her voice was genuine. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I can’t.”

  She let out a mirthless laugh. “You’ve already broken the seal, haven’t you? Too bad. You have a true gift. If you want to know the real reason I’m leaving, it’s so I don’t have to watch you become like Travis. He was gifted too.” She removed something from the folds of her sleeve and placed it on the ground. “This was my husband’s vysix blade. I considered using it on you tonight.” She started once more to walk away. “One day you might wish that I had.”

  This time she did not stop. Lem watched as she vanished around the last tent, her words seizing him to the core. She had come to kill him. What had changed her mind? Why had Farley wanted her husband dead? And if what she said was true, why had she chosen to take his place?

  So many questions were rattling around inside Lem’s head, but he knew it was pointless to dwell on them. He could not have gone with Vilanda even if she had told him the answers. It didn’t make any difference if Farley was the wickedest man alive. No matter what she revealed to him, it would not have released him from Farley’s influence. Nor would it have freed Shemi … or saved Mariyah.

  He picked up the blade she had left. The scabbard was made from dull black leather with no ornamentation whatsoever. The handle was black also, and when he pulled it free, so was the blade. This was the weapon of an assassin. Of that there was no question. Returning it to the scabbard, he shoved it into his belt. Unlike the knife he had brought with him, this was a blade that had taken lives. It made his skin crawl to have it pressed against his waist. How many had already felt its touch? Yet another question without an answer. One thing was certain: However many it was, that number would be increasing by one.