The Bard's Blade

by Brian D. Anderson

  “I know this is all a bit much to accept,” said Felistal. “And I know how afraid you must be.”

  “I’m not afraid,” she managed to whisper. She wasn’t. But what was she feeling? Anger? Misery? Desperation? It was all of these and more. But fear? No. Definitely not fear.

  “So you’ll stay?” asked Lady Camdon.

  Mariyah did not answer for several seconds. She then locked eyes with Lady Camdon. “Yes. But only under my own terms. I want to be free to leave anytime I want. If I change my mind, you must agree to take me home. And I mean my home.”

  “I told you before we got here,” Lady Camdon said, not attempting to conceal her annoyance. “If you choose to stay, that decision is set. You cannot leave.”

  “I know what you said. And now you need to hear what I’m saying. If what you tell me is true, having seen Ralmarstad cruelty for myself, I would most assuredly wish to protect Vylari. In fact, were I a trusting child, I would probably not question it. But the fact remains, I do not know you … either of you. The first Lamorians I met in this world seemed kind. Then one of them turned us over to evil people. You ask for my help, then make threats. How are you better than those you say are the enemy?” She rose from her chair. “I will stay. And I will learn what you have to teach me. Should I find you’re telling the truth, I will even fight. But I will be a servant no longer.” She held out the hand bearing Lady Camdon’s ring. “You ask me to trust you, yet you do not trust me.”

  Felistal looked over to Lady Camdon, an amused grin spread across his lips. “She makes a valid point, Loria.”

  Lady Camdon shot up from her chair, cheeks crimson and fists clenched. “I will … I will…”

  Mariyah stood her ground, eyes fixed, arm extended. “Yes or no?”

  For a tense moment it looked as if Lady Camdon would attempt to throttle her. However, after Felistal emitted a particularly contrived-sounding cough, she gradually relaxed her posture and met Mariyah’s gaze squarely. “You will not disrespect me in my home. You will not tell the others what we do. And you will behave as if things are just as they were before. Otherwise you can leave. I’ll not jeopardize everything simply to make you feel better.”

  Mariyah nodded. “Agreed.”

  Lady Camdon rounded the table and removed the ring.

  “There is one more thing I would ask,” Mariyah said, rubbing the spot where the ring had been. She saw a flash of anger appear on the Lady’s face. “It’s not a demand. I agreed to respect you, and where I’m from we never disrespect someone in their own home. If you say no, I won’t ask again. But I will make this request just once: Please bring Gertrude back.”

  “Gertrude never left,” she said. “I only told you that to force you into confrontation.”

  Mariyah glared. “Why would you do that?”

  “I told you. I needed to know your limits.”

  “Personally,” Felistal chipped in, “I thought it was a stupid idea.”

  “It was,” Mariyah agreed, still simmering.

  This drew a smile from the old man. “I like her, Loria. She reminds me of you. Well … before you were the Iron Lady.”

  Camdon was not amused. “I’ll thank you not to mock me in my own home.”

  “You’re right, of course,” said Felistal. “I say let us leave the past in the past. It is time we move forward. Our foes are advancing, and we must be prepared.”

  “Yes,” said Lady Camdon, her indifferent demeanor returning. “Quite right. I’ve sent out invitations for a ball to be held in three weeks’ time. I expect you to be ready, Mariyah. And if you think I was difficult before…” A wicked grin appeared. “Well … you should get some sleep.”

  “What about the staff?” asked Mariyah. “Are they permitted to speak to me now?”

  “I don’t see why not. There’s no further need to keep you from them. But I think you’ll find your time quite fully occupied with other matters.”

  Felistal pushed himself up, groaning from the effort. “Now that all that’s settled, if you don’t mind, I too have business that requires my attention. However, I would appreciate your company, Mariyah, at least until we reach your chambers.” He tottered over to Mariyah and held out his arm. “If it pleases you, of course.”

  Mariyah glanced over at Lady Camdon while taking his arm. The woman’s expression was unreadable—a practiced and perfected mask. Had she enjoyed her little torments? It was hard to say. Mariyah didn’t want to think so. Though now that things were different, she would find out soon enough. One thing Mariyah did know was that when she looked at the tall, regal frame and proud bearing, she did not see Lady Loria Camdon. She saw the Iron Lady.

  With Loria already departed and way ahead of them, at first Felistal appeared deep in thought and did not speak as they walked slowly through the manor.

  “You should not judge her too harshly,” he finally said. “Loria Camdon is a remarkable woman. Everything you see around you is from her own labor. The Camdon family, though nobility, was of low status before she came into her inheritance. It was only through her shrewd dealings and outthinking of those who would see her fall that she’s become one of the most powerful nobles in Ubania.”

  “Power doesn’t make you a good person,” Mariyah countered.

  “No, it doesn’t. Unfortunately, society is not kind to women like Loria. At least not in Ubania.”

  “What do you mean, like her?”

  “Unmarried. And unlikely to ever be.”

  Mariyah frowned. “Why should that matter?”

  “If she were not a noble, it wouldn’t. But as part of the nobility she is expected to create alliances, and the most common way is through marriage.”

  “Maybe she hasn’t met the right person.”

  Felistal shook his head, laughing. “The right person? How wonderful life must be in Vylari. The right person is the one who has the most wealth and influence. Love is not a consideration.”

  “How awful.”

  “Indeed. But it is the way of things. And for Loria, her challenges are compounded by a lack of an heir. If they could, her enemies would destroy her. But Loria is too clever for them by far. She may seem hard and uncaring, but that’s how she must be in order to survive.”

  “That’s still no reason to be hateful to others.”

  He sighed and patted her hand. “It has made her callous, I admit. But the young girl I knew is still in there somewhere.”

  “How do you know her?”

  “I was her instructor in magic.”

  “So she’s a sorcerer?”

  He tilted his head, a grin forming. “If that’s the term you choose to use, then yes. We referred to ourselves as the Thaumas, but sorcerer is the more commonly known name. And you, young lady, have the potential to be a truly great one.”

  “I still don’t understand why you say that. I accidentally melted an anklet. Nothing more.”

  “It wasn’t just an anklet. The metal used in their construction is quite unique and virtually indestructible by normal means. And as a Thaumas ages we become increasingly sensitive to the magic of others. Being near you is more than enough for me to know what you are capable of achieving.”

  “You should know I was raised to think magic is evil. And I have seen nothing yet to convince me otherwise.”

  Felistal chuckled. “I understand. And given that you have witnessed only its dark side, I understand why you might feel that way. The anklets are a terrible misuse. You have yet to see the beauty magic can create. Take your home, for example. It’s magic that protects Vylari, not swords and spears. I think if you keep an open mind, you too will soon begin to see magic as I do: an instrument for good.”

  In spite of his words, Mariyah was finding it a hard struggle to imagine magic as benign. Even before being subjected to the anklet, she had always been told it was corrupt. That was why the people of Vylari had abandoned the practice long ago. For her to cast aside a lifetime of belief on the word of a stranger in such a short space of time
was impossible.

  “I’ll try to keep an open mind,” she said after a lengthy period of thought. “That’s all I can promise.”

  “I can ask for no more.”

  When they reached her door, Felistal took her by the hands. “Do take care. You may not believe it yet, but you can trust Loria. Difficult as she is, if you listen carefully to her instructions, you will never again be a victim. She can show you how to triumph over those who would seek to harm you. That alone must be worth staying here for a time.”

  She dearly wanted to trust the old man. His kindly eyes and warm bearing reminded her of Shemi. So too did the way he’d been lost in his reading when she’d first seen him. But that wasn’t enough. She simply could not give him her trust. Not completely … not yet.

  “Thank you,” she said. “I’ll remember everything you’ve told me.”

  “I’m sure you will.”

  She waited until he had rounded the corner before entering her room.

  Lying in her bed, she recounted the events of the day. She felt in control—not just for the first time since leaving home, but in a strange way, for the first time in her life. She had stood up to those who had power over her, and she had taken that power back. Yes, Lady Camdon could still make her life miserable if she chose to—possibly send her to prison. That wasn’t the point.

  She had shed her fear. And never would she allow it to regain its hold.

  20

  HOW TO KILL A HIGH CLERIC

  Though the war has at last ended, peace remains elusive. Skirmishes continue to spring up along the border, though it doesn’t appear likely to rekindle into a full-blown conflict. For that, at least, I am thankful. I doubt I will ever be forgiven for allowing the Archbishop to retain power in Gothmora and Ubania. I can only hope that one day people will understand why it was necessary; that I did it to stop the fighting and end the bloodshed. May Kylor forgive me.

  Letter from High Cleric Marli Brume to Queen Lyn Malferos of Lytonia

  Shemi’s face conveyed no emotion as he looked across the table. The small café where Lem had brought him for breakfast and to reveal his secret was empty aside from themselves and a few staff. It wasn’t a popular place; the decidedly mediocre fare explained why.

  His uncle’s tone was as indecipherable as his expression. “Is that what you’ve been doing when you disappear at night? Murdering people?”

  “Yes. Well, not every time. I have to learn as much as I can about the target first. I follow them around for a few days before completing the contract.”

  “You say target as if you were hunting a deer or a rabbit. These are people.” The old man’s eyes drifted down to the table. “How about women? Or children?”

  “No.”

  “Would you?”

  “I would never harm a child. As for women, I’ve been lucky not to have had to make that choice.”

  “But you would.”

  Lem nodded. “Yes. I think so.”

  “And you claim all this is to save Mariyah. That’s the only reason you’ve become a paid killer?”

  Lem recounted in some detail how he had come to this pass.

  “So it’s Farley’s doing…”

  His uncle’s eyes were pleading, and Lem knew he was searching for a way to absolve him, a way that wouldn’t force him to face what his nephew had become. Reaching over, Lem took Shemi’s hand. “I was the one who agreed to it. All Farley did was provide me with the means.”

  Shemi jerked his hand back. “Don’t defend that pig.”

  “I’m not defending him. Believe me, if I could, I would leave him right now.”

  “So why don’t you? There’s nothing holding you here. Ralmarstad is hundreds of miles to our backs. And if that’s not far enough, we could keep going.”

  Lem shook his head. “I need to earn enough gold to buy Mariyah’s freedom once I’ve found her. I’d never be able to do that on a musician’s wages.”

  “But why do you need Farley?”

  He checked to be certain none of the staff could hear. “He’s a member of the Order. I’m not. I work under him.”

  Shemi took a long breath. Rather than the anger and disappointment Lem expected, he saw pity. “I know you were afraid to tell me this. Now that you have, to be honest, I’m not sure how to feel about it. I’ve known you all your life, and I just can’t picture you harming a soul. But I know how much you love Mariyah. I love her too. But there must be another way.”

  “There might be.” Lem told him of the contract for the High Cleric. Shemi’s reaction was predictable.

  “Are you completely mad?”

  “That’s why I needed to talk to you. If I succeed, I’ll have enough gold to free Mariyah.”

  “And if you fail, you’ll be dead. Then who will save her?” He threw up his hands. “How could Farley even suggest it?”

  The answer to that was easy to state. “Greed, pure and simple. But leave Farley out of it for now. Isn’t it worth the risk? Isn’t this the chance that would make every horrible thing I’ve done worth it? I’d be able to free Mariyah, and the three of us could find somewhere up north to settle down. I can earn enough playing the balisari. I might even see about becoming a bard.” Even as he said it, he knew it was a fantasy. When he and Mariyah were reunited—and they would be, he had to believe it was true—there was still the stranger’s dark vision to face.

  Shemi regarded him for a long moment. “I am glad you told me. If you hadn’t, you might have actually convinced yourself of the nonsense coming out of your mouth.”

  “How is it nonsense?”

  “Because killing someone like the High Cleric is impossible. What do you think I do in the library? I’ve read all about him. The High Cleric is as powerful as any king or queen and twice as wealthy. You think someone like that isn’t well protected? Not to mention that Farley is sure to betray you. For all you know, he’s just using you to suit some other scheme.”

  Lem had already considered this possibility and put it aside.

  Shemi’s brow suddenly creased and his eyes narrowed. “Tell me again exactly what he said to you. Leave nothing out.”

  Lem did as requested. He could see that his uncle was working something out. Gradually, a smile formed on the old man’s face.

  “So King Tribos wants to install his own brother, does he? And to achieve this, he’s willing to risk his throne if he fails?” He leaned back in his chair and took a bite of his less-than-tasty eggs. “I have an idea.”

  * * *

  Lem’s hands were trembling. Never before had he seen a structure of such unimaginable size and splendor. Not even the watchtowers in Lobin could compare with what stood before him.

  Massive silver columns, untarnished by the weather, spanned the building’s five-hundred-foot-wide façade. The edifice reached to an almost impossible height. At its apex, Lem could just make out a relief depicting the heavens shining down on a field of tall grass, in the center of which was a lone man kneeling with arms outstretched and head thrown back as rays of celestial light rained down around him. A staircase, also spanning the building’s entire breadth, climbed up to a dozen evenly spaced archways, each watched by a pair of guards. Fifty more were standing at the bottom of the stairs, clad in crisp uniforms of a deep blue, matching the color of the dusk sky, golden helms, and each carrying a long spear with a hooked tip. The square, twice as large as any Lem had seen before, was home to a vast multitude of statues and fountains of such delicate beauty it was hard to believe they existed. Hundreds of people were walking about. Some, probably pilgrims, were unable to do anything but gaze in wonder. Others were knelt in prayer.

  This was the true heart of clerical power, and it was clear that the church wanted everyone to know it. Lem shoved his hands into his pockets and did his best to steady his breathing. His legs felt like they were filled with wet sand as he took his first step. The second step was no easier. Nor was the third. By the time he reached the line of guards, he felt as if he would empty his
stomach. Since becoming an assassin, fear was a thing he thought he could control. He was wrong.

  At the top of the stairs, Lem paused. He had read as much as he could on his way to the Holy City of Xancartha, a two-day ride from Ur Minosa where the troupe was still located. Information was abundant, yet even drawings of what was referred to as simply the Temple had not adequately prepared him for its reality. Though anyone was permitted to enter, only those members of the order assigned here were permitted to worship within its walls. Everyone else prayed in the square, which would fill to capacity each night when the High Cleric’s Light Giver would deliver the daily blessing. Just once a year, on the official first day of fall, the High Cleric himself would perform this rite. Not that fall ever came to the Holy City. Here, it was eternally springtime. The faithful believed this phenomenon to be the work of their god, but Lem suspected magic was involved—though how magic could be used to alter the seasons was incomprehensible. Winter had come and gone, and yet not a single flake of snow had fallen. Here there were only warm breezes carrying the pleasing fragrances of the gardens throughout the city and gentle rains that could be counted on falling at the same time each week without fail.

  A hand touched his arm. “Are you all right?”

  Lem looked across to see an old woman dressed in the blue robes of the clergy. She was smiling up at him.

  “You look ill,” she said. “Perhaps you should sit down?”

  “I’m fine. Thank you.”

  “Don’t be silly. You’re as pale as milk. Come. There’s a bench just inside.”

  Lem allowed himself to be led through one of the archways and into a large gallery that was also filled with pilgrims, clerics, and all manner of other people. It was as opulent as he expected. He was surrounded by more statues of masterful design, and gilded ornaments and relics in glass cases were on display for visitors and scholars to view at their leisure. As for the walls, though there were various artworks and tapestries, they were completely dominated by the life-sized portraits of past High Clerics. Each painting was so realistic, Lem could almost imagine that whenever he glanced at one, it was looking right back at him.