The Bard's Blade

by Brian D. Anderson

  As promised, a row of wooden benches flanked a six-foot-tall crystal spire with the great eye of Kylor emblazoned in gold at its summit. The woman shooed away two young men chatting with each other and gestured for Lem to sit.

  “Better?” she asked.

  “Yes. Thank you.” He did feel better, actually. His hands had stopped shaking, and his stomach was not churning quite so badly.

  She patted his leg. “Now, why don’t you tell me what has you in such a terrible state?”

  “I was just a bit dizzy. Really. I’m fine now.”

  “Then if you won’t tell me what’s wrong, why don’t you tell me why you’re here?” She regarded him closely. “Not a pilgrim, I presume. And I can’t place your accent.”

  “I’m here to see someone,” he replied.

  “Aren’t we all? If you tell me who it is, perhaps I can help.”

  “Thank you again, but I doubt you can help me.”

  The woman frowned. “Young man, you should not underestimate the elderly. I’ve been walking these halls for more than fifty years. There isn’t a soul here that I don’t know.”

  “Forgive me. I didn’t mean to insult you. But I think you would laugh if I told you who I’m here to see.”

  “Is it the High Cleric?”

  Lem stiffened. “How did you know that?”

  The woman’s smile returned. “You’re not the first to come here hoping to see him. At least a hundred people every day try to gain an audience, all with what they think to be urgent business.”

  “Do any get to see him?”

  “Not a single one, I’m afraid,” she replied, her tone sympathetic. “You could try to make an appointment. Though it could be quite some time before you see him.”

  “How long?”

  “Three years. Two, if your business is truly urgent.”

  His heart sank. “I can’t wait that long. It’s vital I speak with him now.”

  She met his eyes for an extended moment. “I can see your determination. But sadly, it won’t do you any good.”

  “There must be a way. Surely if it’s important enough they’d allow it.”

  After another pause, she sighed. “Very well. There might be. It depends entirely on your reason. Tell me what it is, and I’ll see what can be done.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Then I can’t help you. Believe me when I say that no one else will either.”

  After a moment of silence, she took his hand. “Nobody is going to just take your word for it that your business is important enough to grant you an audience. You’ll have to explain it to someone. Why shouldn’t it be to an old lady who’s willing to listen? Better that than an uncaring bureaucrat who will more likely than not throw you out on your ear before you’ve spoken two words.”

  She had a good point. He would eventually need to explain to someone why he was so desperate for an audience. And if this woman had been here for as long as she claimed, she might very well be just the person he needed.

  Lem drew a breath. “Someone is trying to kill the High Cleric.”

  The woman raised an eyebrow. “You don’t say? And who might that be?”

  “The King of Garmathia.”

  This prompted a short laugh. “Tribos? That rascal? What’s he up to this time?”

  Lem was more than a little taken aback by her casual reaction. “This is serious. He’s already hired someone to do it.”

  “Really? He found someone stupid enough to make the attempt? I don’t suppose you know whom he hired?”

  Lem drew the contract from his shirt pocket. “Yes, I do.”

  The woman took the parchment and looked it over. “Astounding,” she muttered. “Simply astounding.” She handed it back. “And seeing as it’s in your possession, I take it that you are the assassin in question?”

  He nodded his affirmation. “The man I work for thinks I’m here to carry it out.”

  “But you decided to warn the High Cleric instead. Am I right?”

  “Yes.”

  “And the man you work for … Where is he now?”

  “In Ur Minosa.”

  “And you would be willing to testify against him?”

  Lem’s hope was increasing. “Absolutely. But I need to speak with the High Cleric first.”

  The woman leaned back on the bench, eyes downcast in thought. “I suppose there’s something you want in exchange. Yes?” Before he could answer, she said, “Not that it matters. I’m sure whatever small reward you ask for will be well earned and easily provided.”

  “Then you’ll help me?”

  “I will. But you must tell no one else why you’ve come.” She stood with surprising verve for one so old. “You say that your employer is in Ur Minosa?”

  “Yes,” Lem replied. “Just across the border in Daris.”

  “What is his name?”

  “Farley. He owns an acting troupe called the Lumroy Company.”

  “Would your return arouse suspicion?”

  Lem creased his brow. “Why would I go back? I thought you were going to help me see the High Cleric.” He also needed to strike a bargain that would shield him from anything Farley could say. Without that, he could find himself in prison or worse.

  “If you’re concerned about your own safety, don’t be.” Her tone had leveled and she appeared less frail than she had only moments before. “Whatever you’ve done in the past can be forgiven. That’s why you want to see him, yes?”

  Her insight was startling. Lem found himself feeling very small and vulnerable under the gaze of her bright blue eyes. He felt a sudden urge to run.

  “Don’t be afraid,” she said. “You just might have saved the High Cleric’s life. What do you think he would do, regardless of your offenses? I’m just happy it was me you found and not some mindless acolyte who was too ignorant to recognize the signature and seal of King Tribos as authentic.”

  Lem stood, still feeling a bit cornered. “What are you going to do?”

  “The High Cleric returns tomorrow,” she explained. “But it will take time for me to see him. I would prefer that you give me the contract as evidence, but were I in your position, I would be reluctant to give it up. So I won’t ask you to.”

  “Will he believe you?”

  “Without question. And when the time comes, you can show him the contract. Then he will believe you too.”

  “How long should I wait?”

  “Until you hear from me,” she replied. “I’ll send word with instructions.”

  “I don’t even know your name.”

  “Dorina. Sister Dorina. Now be off with you. I have much to do if I’m to see His Holiness. You wouldn’t believe the number of people involved in an audience, even for someone who’s been here as long as I have. It will take me all day and probably most of tomorrow.”

  “Thank you. You have no idea what this means to me.”

  “It is I who should thank you. King Tribos has been a thorn in our side for some time. But thanks to the proof you showed me, we can finally rid ourselves of him.” She caught the arm of a passing woman in cleric’s robes and whispered something into her ear.

  Lem noticed the way she bowed exceptionally low to the older woman and then immediately left with urgent steps to do her bidding. Apparently, Sister Dorina was someone of considerable importance. This was encouraging. Perhaps she really could help.

  Dorina watched until the woman she had sent off vanished down a narrow corridor on the left of the gallery before turning back to Lem. “Now remember, not a word to anyone until you hear from me.”

  “I understand,” he assured her. “And thank you again. I was afraid I had come here for nothing.”

  After bowing, he started toward the exit, feeling as if a great pressure had been released. Fortune had smiled on him for the first time in a while. For once, he was saving a life rather than taking one. Soon he would be free of Farley and reunited with Mariyah. Then, perhaps, the future would not appear so utterly bleak. Who could te
ll? In time, maybe he really would become a bard.

  The two-day ride back to the troupe was spent in daydreams about his future with Mariyah. He imagined her cries of joy upon seeing him, the look on her face when he freed her, and most of all, the way she would feel in his arms as he held her for the first time in what felt like years.

  Though it would be wonderful for them to find a way back to Vylari, in all his and Shemi’s research they had found nothing about their home that did not refer to it as mere myth—fantastical tales told to children about a land with rivers of starlight and fields of gold, where its people who dwelled in shimmering halls of spiritual light never aged and could call upon the rains to fall at a whim. A few mentioned the barrier, but only in passing, as a way to explain why it could never be found. Children’s tales or no, there were certain truths buried within the fiction. Several had described the Sunflow River with surprising accuracy. And while not immortal, the people in Vylari did live considerably longer. But from what he could tell, this didn’t become apparent until later in life. Most people could guess at Lem’s age, but Shemi was taken for a man at least thirty years younger. Why this was, and why Vylarian men could not grow beards, Lem had yet to discover. But he did derive some pleasure from the knowledge that there were differences, as did Shemi. Still, a life outside of Ralmarstad would not be the worst of fates. It would never replace home, but he was confident they could carve out a good life for themselves.

  By the time he reached Ur Minosa, he was feeling as if he had arrived at the end of a long and difficult road. He had to keep reminding himself that the end, however close, was not there yet. Farley was troubled by his early return, but Lem quickly explained this away by stating that the High Cleric was not in the Holy City, and that accommodations there were very expensive.

  “No need to spend gold needlessly,” he said. “Unless you want to pay.”

  “Did you figure out a way to do it?”

  “Of course I did. I’ve worked out everything. Don’t worry.”

  Betrayal was not in Lem’s character. But betraying Farley … that was different. He had to force back a smile whenever he thought about it.

  Shemi was delighted that things had unfolded as planned. Well, maybe not exactly as planned. Even after many hours of careful consideration, they had not been able to work out how he would manage to gain an audience with the High Cleric. Initially, this seemingly unsolvable problem had made Lem want to abandon the idea. But Shemi had insisted that it would work out; that Lem would find a way.

  “You see?” said Shemi. “I told you. Good always triumphs eventually.”

  “I’m not sure how good I am,” Lem responded. “But I have to admit, you were right.”

  And I was lucky, he added inwardly.

  Farley continued to look at him with mild displeasure, remarking several times that he should just go back to Xancartha and wait.

  “This is a dangerous contract,” Lem told him. “I will not charge in until I think it’s time.”

  “And how will you know when that is unless you’re there?” countered Farley.

  “I’ll leave in a few days. Calm down.”

  The troupe had a license to perform for three more days. After that, they would be forced to move on, at which point Lem would have to go back to Xancartha to inform Sister Dorina of their new location. Farley was already suspicious. If Lem were to leave the troupe and return for a second time without having fulfilled the contract, it would probably push Farley’s suspicions into outright certainty that something was amiss.

  By the time their last night in Ur Minosa arrived, it was Lem who was growing suspicious. Had Sister Dorina lied? Had she simply told him what he wanted to hear in order to make him leave? He thought she had believed him. Now it was starting to look like he might have to go through with it after all.

  “Don’t worry,” Shemi said as they were bedding down. “She’ll send word.”

  Lem was not convinced. He knew that by the time the sun was past the horizon the following day, the troupe would be on their way to the next town.

  Unable to sleep, he was still mulling over what he should do next when the scraping of boots on stone and the clanking of metal had him sitting bolt upright. Shemi heard it as well and was scrambling from his cot.

  “Hide the contract,” Shemi whispered urgently.

  Lem had been keeping it in his pocket, unwilling to let it out of his possession. His eyes now darted about for a place to conceal the document, but it was too late. The tent flap flew open and four members of the Clerical Guard rushed in, their short blades drawn.

  Clovis and the others leapt from their cots, looking confused and frightened.

  “What is this?” Clovis demanded, though with very little authority and backing away as he spoke.

  “Which one of you is Lem?” responded the guard, the additional chevron on her sleeve denoting she was in charge.

  Lem stepped forward, with Shemi rushing to his side. “I am.”

  The lead guard gave a sharp nod in his direction. The others searched him thoroughly, quickly finding the contract and handing it to their commander.

  “Take him,” she ordered.

  “You can’t do this,” shouted Shemi.

  “No. Stay out of it,” Lem told him.

  Ignoring Lem’s plea, Shemi tried to follow as they shoved him toward the tent exit. Only a strong hand to his chest and the threat of a blade kept him at bay.

  Once outside, Lem saw Farley in his nightclothes being forced from his tent by three more guards. He cast Lem a hate-filled stare. “You think to betray me?” he raged while struggling uselessly against his captors. “We’ll see whose head ends up beneath the executioner’s axe.”

  In response, Lem simply smiled.

  Six more guards marched past. Three entered Farley’s tent, while the other three headed toward Lem’s. Two caged wagons were waiting in the city square where the troupe had been performing. Farley, thrashing wildly and shouting obscenities, was being led to the first. Fed up with his resistance, one of the guards struck him sharply on the back of the head with the pommel of his sword. Farley promptly went limp and was thrown unceremoniously through the cage door.

  Lem had no intention of resisting. It was over. His plan had failed. Sister Dorina had betrayed him. It was his own fault; he should have just taken Shemi and made a run for it the moment he was told about the contract. That the guards had no interest in his uncle was a small consolation. He could only hope that Shemi didn’t do something stupid and get himself locked up as well. The thought of Shemi being alone was troubling. But for the time being, he at least had Lem’s gold. That would be enough to keep him safe and fed for a fair while. Hopefully he would find work well before it ran out.

  They bundled Lem roughly into the second cage and the door slammed shut with an ominous boom. There was a finality to this that he had never before experienced. He should have been afraid, but for some strange reason he wasn’t. On his way back from the Holy City, he had imagined coming to the end of a long road. He had been right. It just wasn’t the end he’d been anticipating.

  As the wagon carrying him to his death pulled away, he began to laugh softly at the irony of it all. He had thought that if anyone were to be the instrument of his undoing, it would be Farley. How he hated the man! At least he’d had the opportunity to savor his downfall. More than that, he’d wanted Farley to know that he was the cause—the smile given when their eyes met was to let him know that it was he who had betrayed him to the High Cleric. After all, Farley had deceived and lied to him from the moment they met. Why shouldn’t he have done the same in return? Of course, that was the irony. In the end it was not Farley but a kind old cleric who had brought him to his knees.

  With the cage rumbling away from the square, looking back he could see the troupe gathering near the stage and staring after him. Clovis and Hallis were holding onto Shemi, preventing him from giving chase.

  Lem turned away. Yes. The road had indeed e
nded.

  21

  GLAMOR, SECRETS, AND POLITICS

  A noble rarely says what they mean directly, and never means what they say exactly. The art of diplomacy is centered in deception. It is cloaked in rumor, shielded in innuendo, and armed with lies.

  The Art of the Silver Tongue

  Mariyah opened her eyes and let out a startled gasp. She was home. The sun was shining onto the porch where her mother and father sat each evening after a hard day’s work. But it was too early yet, and their chairs were empty. Birds sang joyously while flitting about the apple trees that she had delighted in climbing as a girl. The apples were not yet ripe, though it wouldn’t be long. And when they were ready, the air would be filled with the aroma of her mother’s pie. Hot cider would fill her glass, warming her belly to drive away the chill of the night.

  The garden was in bloom, with bees buzzing from flower to flower in a capricious dance that ensured new life each spring. Their labor would soon be enjoyed by all; honey was a particular favorite. As a child she would wait with gleeful anticipation as mother unpacked her shopping basket.

  “I don’t know what you’re so happy about,” she’d tease, making a point of removing all the other items first. “They were sold out.”

  “Don’t say that,” Mariyah would respond, folding her arms over her chest. “It’s not funny.”

  Invariably, right at the end, her mother would produce not one, but two large jars of the golden treat—the first for making breads and other delectable sweets, and the other Mariyah was given to keep for herself.

  At this time of day, she knew that Father would be tending the vines and Mother would be at the market buying fresh vegetables for dinner. Mariyah hoped she didn’t forget to pick up some strawberries. She loved to drop them into her wine; the tastes blended perfectly. Father was not keen on her doing this, actually looking offended at the mere suggestion that his wine needed anything to better the taste. Never had a man been born who took more pride in his labor. A pride well deserved. The grapes he grew were coveted by every winery in Vylari—of which there were quite a few.