The Sheening Of The Blades (Book 1)

by Kari Cordis

  “The Royal Line runs thick and strong through the Ramparts,” the girl answered, unoffended and unperturbed. “It is an honor to serve. Even though Kore is the best-loved of the Shagreens, he gladly accepts even the most menial tasks. And Kyr has sent him on some real winners.” For a second she was all teenager, rolling her eyes and flipping a lock of hair over her shoulder.

  Sable stifled a laugh. Dragging a brush through her thick, drying hair, she asked carefully, “So if something were to happen to the Lord Rach, would Kore be the next Banded?” Sometimes the unguarded mouths of the young could be a great source of illumination. What Kore had told her about the process certainly didn’t make much sense.

  Krysta’s face went still and she stared at Sable so stricken that the queen stopped the brush mid-stroke. “When the Rachar next Stands, may all of us be gone. It would be far better to have died at Kyr’s side than to live on without him.”

  Sable stared. Melodrama, while a normal teenage phenomena, was not quite enough to explain this…this gravity. But, surely…She tried to lighten things up. “But he sends Rach away from the Sheel!” she said lightly.

  “That’s because he sees farther than the rest of us,” Krysta said softly, still serious. “He listens harder, seeks more, feels deeper than anyone. Shade’s a little cooler, water’s a little sweeter when Kyr’s around,” she ended, unapologetically eloquent.

  Obviously a teenage crush, Sable thought to herself as she climbed between the layered luxury of smooth cotton sheets later. Nevermind that she was fast coming to agree with her.

  CHAPTER 19

  It took them three days to reach the Silver Torque, three days of the unchanging, never-the-same shifting weave and weft of the jungle tapestry that encompassed their new existence. Green of every shade imaginable was the order of the days, the scummy green of the Sirensong and the gooey trail, the reptilian grey-green of the crocodiles and pervasive lizard life, the bright, lush green of the trees and ferns and palms and the dense undergrowth, and the oppressive, dark green of the web of vines…and the shadows. Endless shadow stretched away in every direction, leagues and leagues and leagues of it out of the touch of the sun and alive with whatever the imagination saw fit to populate it with.

  It was the same crawling tangle of greenery in every glance, the same darting creatures barely seen before they disappeared, the same striking, beautiful plant life, the same flashing axes as stagriders cleared foliage and interested jungle denizens out of their immediate path. Ari, trying clumsily to emulate them, found he hadn’t much dexterity. Fortunately, there was plenty of practice.

  The mind got so used to the visual pattern being imposed on it that when a stag and rider come loping up to them along the path one mid-morning, the Northerners thought they’d been stung by one of those potent little purple flowers again. Loren had been loopy for several entertaining hours after the last one.

  But there were, truly, apparently still other humans in the world, because they all saw this one bow low in his saddle and proceed surreally to welcome them to Southern Tor, Silver Torque, in the singsong voice of Cyrrh. Sharing bemused glances, they fell in behind him down the widening trail.

  A hundred yards out from the Torque, the ground dipped sharply in front of them, and the startling and fantastic vision of the great Southern Tor loomed suddenly into view. Far taller than any structure they’d seen yet, it was escorted into being by an enormous, chilling mass of fangvine-swarmed wall, flanked by even higher trees, and for a few strides, impressively in full view. In the center of the vision rose the slim, elegant, towering Tor itself, unassailable, otherworldly, a structure of such graceful power and artistry that it seemed like a lost relic of another age, buried in the vast jungle far from civilization.

  They approached almost in awe, senses reeling from the visual impact—though Rodge managed to find his voice when they drew close enough to see what was shimmering over the high, arched gate.

  “That…that can’t be real,” he said to Rhuq with avaricious amazement.

  “Real?” The Cyrrhidean slowly began to smile. “A real gemstone?” They both ducked as a flying squirrel the size of a terrier dive-bombed them, snapping its teeth. “Nay, friend. ‘Tis a real Emerald, but it is a triele, one of the Stones of Laschald.” Rodge’s mouth drooped open mindlessly as they passed underneath it, a huge, lozenge-shaped, faceted thing of luminous green. It lay entwined in a shimmering mass of delicate silver leaves and vines, gleaming out at the visitors like some sort of all-seeing green eye.

  Everything about this Tor was bigger, finer, more lavish, the walls more massive, the rooms grander and covered in delicate woodworkings as fine as tapestry, but the hospitality was the same. They were treated like they were guests in a royal court, and if the Sentinels stared at Loren’s blue eyes and Rodge’s white skin, they virtually worshipped Cerise. Perhaps not the best thing for her redoubtable ego, but it did keep the edge off her tongue.

  There were other travelers at this Tor, the first they’d seen. Rodge, who was amazed anyone would voluntarily endure this trip through the Torques, was further amazed to find they were merchants. They ogled all night through dinner, but Melkin and Cerise completely and inconsiderately monopolized them for the entire evening. The boys had to finally go to bed with only the barest shreds of curiosity being satisfied.

  The next morning, the screaming jungle wasn’t the only thing that greeted them in the Tor’s courtyard. There, in magnificent green and gold silks, tightening cinches on heavily loaded stags, were the merchants. Unfortunately they were accompanied by a sudden climatic temper tantrum, a deluge of such magnificence that the Northerners could literally barely see a foot in front of them. They turned and dashed back inside, where they shook as much water as they could off—in the few seconds they’d been in the rain, they were completely soaked. It was like someone had upended a bottomless bucket of water over the Tor.

  Rodge, bumping into Melkin, jumped like he’d backed into a blade. The Master’s face was black and surly, and he stared vindictively out at the storm. Out in the curtain of rain, the merchants could be seen dimly moving around, continuing to tighten their shadowcloth-sheathed loads, and then, unbelievably, mounting up and heading south out of the gate, ignoring the raging inclemency all around them.

  “What an unreasonable place,” Cerise observed next to Rodge, lips twisting at the impenetrable wall of weather just outside.

  “What’s that?” Rodge asked, pointing at the golden bangle she was fingering on one slender wrist.

  She glanced at it, shrugging. “A gift. From one of the merchants.”

  Rodge goggled. “He just gave you a solid gold bracelet?”

  Her face indicated clearly that this was a perfectly appropriate gesture for one such as herself, but she managed to verbally contain herself. “It wasn’t exactly free—it came with the requisite torturous background story.” She held it up so they could see the design etched with intricate delicacy into the metal. She rolled her eyes at them. “The Empress’s first visit to Cyrrh, circa two thousand years ago.”

  Loren and Ari brightened. She shook her head at them. “Forget it. I’m not repeating that nonsense.”

  “What else, exactly, is it that you have to do?” Loren said encouragingly, gesturing out at the sheeting rain. “We need to know everything we can about the Empress.”

  She gave him an even look. But then Traive came down the stairs with the richly dressed Torquelord and stood with an air of readiness looking out at the monsoon, as if he expected clear skies any moment. Obviously required to be in the immediate vicinity, and faced with Loren’s pleading look, she reluctantly caved.

  “So, her first mission to Cyrrh was in the time of great darkness, or some such thing—the usual,” she sighed. “Lots of despair, death and destruction, blah, blah, blah. The first Torque kept being overrun by dragons, the gryphons were ravaging their handlers, or something, there was all this civil unrest, etc., etc.”

  “What do you mean, ‘
ravaging,’ precisely?” Rodge asked closely.

  “Apparently they’re hard to train, or domesticate—I can’t remember the term he used—so they, er, tend to turn on the people trying to tame them.” She looked uneasy, and went on quickly, “So, the Empress came in, this great dramatic entrance where she stopped an out-of-control gryphon from killing the ruler, the descendent of Khristophe, with just an upraised hand or some poetic greatness. She healed him from—no surprise—mortal injuries, and stayed on to proselytize.”

  She stopped. The boys looked at her.

  “You’re a terrible story-teller,” Loren told her bluntly, at the same time Ari asked, “That’s it?”

  She shrugged impatiently. “Of course not. The tale took hours. There was probably at least thirty minutes of ‘pale-skinned for a Cyrrhidean’ and ‘dark-haired for a Cyrrhidean’ and ‘hair like the richest earth’ and other bilge just describing the Empress.”

  “The Empress is Cyrrhidean?” Rodge said. Despite Banion’s explanation, they’d all just assumed with a nickname like ‘Empress’…

  “Didn’t you know?” she asked sarcastically. Ari and Loren were still staring at her, thin-lipped.

  Rolling her eyes yet again, she said, “There was something about her and Laschald—apparently it’s an interrealm belief that she had some sort of formal diplomatic relationship with the gods—she took it upon herself to chastise Cyrrh’s god for his social experimentation.”

  “Can’t you talk like a normal human?” Loren asked.

  “These are called words,” she retorted. “Those who are not unlettered idiots use them to communicate. If you can’t understand anything over two syllables, blame your ignorance on your efforts at University.” He glowered at her.

  “What social experiment?” Ari overrode them laboriously.

  Her lips thinned. “Apparently Laschald was trying out the idea of a society unburdened by formal marriage contracts, which was causing considerable unrest and lack of attention to things like security and survival,” she said, with rigor mortis-stiff disapproval.

  The boys raised their eyebrows.

  Her eyes shifted past them to the courtyard, face lightening. “Well, tirna don’t rust,” she murmured. The three of them turned just as the sun came out, the rain having vanished and birds already screaming raucously as if the world hadn’t almost just been flooded out of existence.

  Traive, who they all had been thinking had finally lost his touch, walked calmly out and mounted up, and in a rush they all followed.

  The Gold Band, when they reached it a few days later, was obviously one more step up the ladder of opulence—as first evidenced by the gargantuan Emerald suspended over the gate from a nest of golden ropes that probably weighed more than Banion. Everything here was grander, more elaborate yet, accompanied by such a marked air of age that Ari could feel it in the air. The wooden cut reliefs in the enormous common rooms were almost black with all the centuries of varnish, their intricacies muted and dulled with the wearing passage of time. Still, though the walls may have been ancient and crumbling, they were so thick and well-built that all you were aware of was the aura of invincibility emanating off them. Just the size of the place was intimidating. And as they wandered into the Hall in search of the mess later, they stopped short at the sight of an enormous tapestry, still brilliant despite the fraying at its edges, a work of art preserved in breathtaking splendor. It was a likeness of a woman, done in glowing, luminous colors, a good two man-lengths high and taking up one whole, soaring wall.

  “This is pure silk,” Cerise said narrowly. She’d walked up to it, leaning close to peer at the work.

  “A picture of a Whiteblade, no doubt,” Rodge said drolly, well-versed in the ways of Cyrrh by this point. “Commemorating her saving of the Torque uncounted ages ago.”

  “Probably defending it single-handedly from masses of Enemy,” Loren agreed, with more approval.

  Traive, who’d followed them in with Melkin, said quietly, “That’s the Empress.”

  The room went quiet. Cerise backed slowly away, staring up at the picture, thread quality forgotten. They all gazed at it, at the slim, straight figure, the long brown braid in a thick plait coming forward over one shoulder and falling past her knees, the piercing, gentle green eyes. It made Ari feel strange, to see her as a human.

  After dinner, Rodge and Loren bent their heads assiduously over the plans for the evening. They’d made several new friends amongst the Sentinels—the majority of them, to be precise, one of whom came with an innocuous pet cobra that was going to somehow find its way into Cerise’s bath. Ari, whose appetite for carefree mischief was right up there with that for the local delicacy of grilled snail, wandered out of the Tor.

  Looming up around him in the simmering jungle gloom rose the colossal walls of the Gold Band, and seeing a private headed to the narrow staircase up to the sentry walk, he was struck with an idea. The private bargained like a Northerner—tales of the Empire in exchange for such unauthorized access—but in the end he agreed to let Ari follow him up.

  The wooden sentry walk was a lot less sturdy than it looked from the ground. Ari felt his gorge rise when he risked a look down—dozens of dizzying yards, and not any easier on the stomach just because the light was fading. He turned his back quickly and stared out into the jungle, already almost black, the light picking out lighter colored flowers and birds for only a yard or so into its depths. He was convinced Sentinels sensed much more out there than they ever saw—they were reacting sometimes before anything even became visible.

  He was just warming up to his description of Archemounte, in dutiful payment, when low voices and the sound of steps on the stairway sent his companion vanishing guiltily into thin air. Ari followed as fast as he could, barely able to get out of sight along the walkway before the newcomers topped out. Part of the deal was forgetting the private ever existed if he was caught up here. He had no idea what he was going to do if they kept coming his direction, but the thought fled when he made out their voices. It was Melkin and Traive. He stopped, listening.

  “—But he was different,” Melkin was growling.

  “A change of heart, doubtless,” Traive’s voice was at its driest. “Kane can be quite explicit, I’ve been told.”

  “He’d been that already, and Perraneus had paid him all the mind of a misbehaving hound. He was just never that arrogant before—and not only was it out of character, it disappeared within, what, a week? And suddenly, at the Kingsmeet, he was meek as a mouse. If I hadn’t known him all these years, I would’ve questioned his mental stability.” Melkin sounded morose, obviously delighted at just one more morsel to add to his overfull platter of puzzles.

  “Perhaps,” Traive suggested, in a totally different tone of voice, “it was the news he brought…what he ‘foresaw.’ Raemon’s resurgence—with the power, for the first time, to destroy the other gods...well, that would be a sobering vision even for a madman.”

  Melkin grunted sourly. “I’m not saying I believe in prophecy, but I wouldn’t have minded if he ‘foresaw’ something else. He was right about the Empress being involved in this whole thing, which I had trouble giving much credence to at the time—”

  A woman’s shriek rent the air suddenly, and the conversation paused. Below, the local domestic fowl population began a disturbed din of protest behind their thick screens, and a cloud of butterflies, nothing but flutterings of shadow wings in the deepening dusk, rose in a soft whir from the wall near Ari. There was another scream, loud cries, a rushing of bodies. A chaos of noise punctured the air of what had been a rather peaceful evening, then there was a crash of something breakable contacting stone Tor, and the strident sound of female shouting of a whole different tone echoed up from below.

  “Ah,” Traive said complacently. For a moment, as the commotion very slowly ground to a lower decibel, they all stood quietly, two listening and one fervently grateful he wasn’t involved, and then Traive said mildly, “It should be safe now.” He and Me
lkin moved back toward the stairs and Melkin said, “What was that about?”

  Traive dipped his head with faint apology. “The privates need a break in routine sometimes…”

  Alone, Ari stared into the haze of jungle dusk, in the thrall of silence once more, bits of light marking fireflies and other unnamed motes of phosphorescence. Nearby, a silent Sentinel that he hadn’t even noticed manned an enormous mounted crossbow, but he paid Ari no attention. Perraneus…the mage had been different, Ari realized. He hadn’t given the Kingsmeet much thought, preferring to push that particular memory into a box and close the lid, and its unintentional recall punctured through the soft peace of the evening. Bitterly, he realized he was nothing but a moon-eyed calf, to think that he had known the Whiteblades just because he had dreamed of them in his babyhood. Technically, he was still dreaming of them, but that just made him more ridiculous. He was of Enemy blood, the people that worshiped Raemon, who was prophesied by certain mad magi to be looming up out of the near future desert with more power than ever. His dream mother had said Il was pure…well, what would He have to do with him, then, cursed by all Realmsmen as offspring of the world’s single greatest evil? If Il was so good and pure, how could he allow something like Raemon even to exist? For that matter, Ari thought glumly, how could he allow something like Ari to exist?

  There was a fresh breeze the next morning as they mounted up in the courtyard. It had come to them in beguiling puffs here and there over the last few days, so brief you thought you were imagining its coolness. But now it was a definite phenomenon, brisk and smelling of clean, open country, like a misplaced zephyr from the Crown Mountains far to their north.

  All the chatter and laughing (and bitter verbal assaults from the single put-out Northerner) came to a halt when the Torquelord escorted Traive and Melkin out. Respectful Sentinels made their farewells and fled to various duties less conspicuous than under the Torquelord’s eye, and it was just the stagrider escort and themselves again, heading back out into the forest. More than just the breeze was different this morning, though, and all of them could feel the air of anticipation.