The Saints Of The Sword (Tyrants & Kings)

by John Marco

  ‘I don’t know what I am, that’s the problem. Jahl Rob calls it magic. Praxtin-Tar calls it the touch of heaven, as you do. But to me it is all a mystery.’

  Alazrian sat down in front of Dyana. He was inexplicably drawn to her, and suddenly thought nothing of etiquette. Shani crawled over to him and put her hands on his legs. Alazrian stroked her fine hair. ‘Look at her,’ he said. ‘She’s just like me. But she knows who her parents are. She knows what she is, and she doesn’t have to keep asking herself where she belongs. I envy that.’

  ‘Shani is Triin,’ said Dyana. ‘Though she is also half Naren, we have raised her here in Lucel-Lor. You were raised in Nar. That makes you Naren.’

  ‘I wish that were good enough.’

  ‘But it is. You are the mating of your mother and father. You are Alazrian Leth.’

  ‘But I’m not, you see? I never knew my real father. And I’m not Leth’s son. He’d rather have me dead than part of his family.’

  Dyana reached out to touch his sleeve. Alazrian pulled away. Seeing his fear, her hand stopped just short.

  ‘You are afraid to be touched?’ she asked.

  Alazrian felt his face flush. ‘Not afraid, no. It’s just that . . . Well, the magic.’

  ‘You cannot control it?’

  ‘Not well. Sometimes I fear it.’

  ‘Is that all you fear?’ pressed Dyana. ‘Or something more?’

  Alazrian frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Richius told me about your mother. He said that she was a good woman, and that is a high compliment; Richius does not like Gayles. But he also told me about your father, the one called Elrad Leth.’ Suddenly Dyana looked profoundly sad. ‘I am sorry for you. I can see what he has done to you.’

  ‘Can you?’ said Alazrian, embarrassed. ‘My God, is it so obvious?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Dyana gently. ‘Your pain is like a cloak. In some ways you remind me of Richius, always sad behind the eyes. And you are like Tharn, too, perhaps.’ She studied him more, then concluded, ‘Yes, like Tharn. You have his strength.’

  ‘Tharn was strong?’

  ‘Oh, like the ocean. Tharn was a force of nature; he was irresistible.’

  ‘Did you love him?’

  The question made Dyana pause. ‘I am not certain,’ she replied. ‘I loved him the way a subject loves a ruler. The way a sister loves a brother, perhaps. But not the way a wife loves a husband. Not the way I love Richius.’

  ‘But Tharn knew what he was, didn’t he?’ pressed Alazrian. ‘I mean, he knew he was touched by heaven? He was certain?’

  ‘Tharn claimed that he was cursed. Yes, he was touched by heaven. He had no doubt of it. He was Drol, completely. But you ask if he knew what he was?’ Dyana shook her head. ‘He did not. Tharn was a mystery, even to himself. Even when he died, he did not know himself.’

  The answer smothered Alazrian’s hope. If Tharn didn’t know what he was . . .

  ‘That’s impossible,’ he said. ‘He ruled Lucel-Lor. He must have known.’

  ‘He did not. He used his gifts to destroy life, and the gods punished him for it. That was something he could never understand. He had devoted his life to Lorris and Pris, and they maimed him. After that, he did not live much longer. But he spent his days questioning himself. That I know for certain.’

  ‘Then I really have wasted my time,’ said Alazrian. ‘I came looking for answers, but there are none, are there? I’ll never know what I am.’

  ‘You are wrong,’ said Dyana. ‘You are Alazrian Leth.’

  ‘I know my name. But I don’t know what I am. Why have I been touched by heaven, if that’s truly what it is? Why do I have magic?’

  ‘Hush,’ said Dyana, ‘and listen to me. You are a boy, Alazrian. Why should you have all the answers? You cannot be older than seventeen.’

  ‘Sixteen.’

  ‘Sixteen? And you want to know what your life is about? It is more of a mystery than you think, Alazrian. Life does not have easy answers.’ Once again Dyana reached out for him, and this time he did not pull away. She squeezed his wrist reassuringly. ‘Do not waste your life searching for myths. You have been gifted. Use your gifts. Do good things with them. But do not question them so much.’

  ‘But . . .’

  ‘Live your life,’ she insisted. ‘Do not read the end of the book first.’

  ‘But Lady Dyana,’ Alazrian begged. ‘I want answers.’

  ‘There are none, Alazrian. Not for you, not yet.’

  ‘When, then?’

  Dyana smiled warmly. ‘You are not listening. You are making it harder than it is.’ She sat back, thinking. ‘You came to me for answers about Tharn. But Tharn himself had no answers. And he was a wise man. If he had lived longer he might have learned his answers.’

  ‘So you’re saying I’m not old enough to know?’

  ‘Yes. And you must accept that. Can you?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Alazrian. He was frustrated, but suddenly Shani wrapped her small hand around his thumb. Her touch soothed him. ‘I’m afraid,’ he whispered.

  ‘That is all right,’ Dyana assured him. ‘Even Tharn was afraid.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘More than you could know. Yet he won two wars against Nar. He did well for a man without answers, did he not?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Alazrian, understanding. ‘Yes, he did.’ Suddenly he rose and smiled down at the woman and child. He felt a great satisfaction. ‘Thank you, my lady. I should go now. Your husband will be here soon.’

  ‘You have no more questions?’

  ‘Oh, I have dozens of questions, my lady,’ said Alazrian, going to the door. ‘But I have time to learn the answers, I think.’

  Dyana smiled. ‘Good-bye, Alazrian Leth.’

  ‘Good-bye, ma’am. And thank you. I will give your greetings to Falger when I see him.’

  Thirty Eight

  Kasrin sat back in the catboat admiring the sunlight on the canal. His body swayed to the rhythms of the rowers, and the air’s briny scent filled him with satisfaction. Next to him sat Jelena, her golden hair hanging loose around her shoulders. There was a mischievous twinkle in her eyes, mimicking the sunlight, and a coy smile on her face that told Kasrin not to ask too many questions. They were alone in the catboat, except for the rowers, yet neither of them spoke. Kasrin avoided putting his arm around the queen, as he might have if they were alone. But he could smell her perfume and he longed to be with her, at least once more before he left.

  The late spring day was wonderfully fair, and Kasrin was happy. For the first time that he could remember, things were going well. Being with Jelena was like a dream, and her company had salvaged his black mood, rescuing him. He was no longer the broken thing that had washed up on the shore of the Serpent’s Strand. Once more, he felt like a Captain of the Black Fleet.

  He said nothing as the catboat drifted deeper into the folds of Liss. They were far from Karalon now and had been cruising for hours, exploring the canals and waterways of Jelena’s fascinating homeland. Kasrin was awed by Liss, just as Jelena had promised. During the long Naren war, he had only seen Liss from the deck of the Sovereign, and then only to pepper it with cannon fire. But he had never seen the interior of the Hundred Isles or experienced its fabled beauty. Today, at Jelena’s insistence, he was blinded by it.

  The boat passed under a blue-grey bridge, a span made of sculpted stone linking two of Liss’ countless islands. Kasrin craned his neck as they cruised beneath it, admiring the flowering vines tumbling down from its side. He stood, shaking the boat, and reached up to snatch one of the blooms. The rowers frowned in irritation, but Kasrin ignored them, sitting back down and presenting his prize to Jelena.

  ‘For you,’ he said. ‘You can put it in your hair.’

  Jelena accepted the flower with a smile. ‘I’m still not going to tell you where we’re going.’

  ‘Now how could you say that?’ asked Kasrin, pretending to be hurt. ‘This isn’t a bribe. But now that you menti
on it . . .’

  ‘It’s a surprise,’ the queen said. ‘Just sit back and relax.’

  So Kasrin sat back, sighing dramatically. He was enjoying the excursion, but Jelena’s furtiveness vexed him. She had told him that he had been working far too hard, and that now that the Sovereign was almost ready, it was time to take a break. In two days he would set sail for Talistan. Jelena had expressed sorrow that he hadn’t seen any of her homeland save for secluded Karalon. Today, she insisted, he would spend some time with her.

  ‘Beautiful,’ commented Kasrin. On both sides of the canal, the strange and compelling architecture of Liss rose up in towers and shining bridges and marvelous, spiraling aqueducts. Yet despite the sights, Kasrin’s thoughts kept drifting back to Karalon. The Dread Sovereign was almost seaworthy again. Jelena’s engineers had rebuilt her damaged hull and refitted her yards with strong new sails, and though some of the scars from her battle with the Fearless were still evident, she looked fine and proud. His ship would be ready, that much was certain. But would its captain be ready, too?

  ‘Jelena, tell me where we’re going. No more games, now. Where are you taking me?’

  ‘I told you,’ said the queen. ‘I just wanted you to see some of Liss before you go.’

  Kasrin didn’t believe her. Perhaps it was the twitch of a smile on her lips she couldn’t seem to stop.

  ‘We’ve been gone a long time,’ he observed. ‘It’s getting late.’

  ‘It’s not even noon. Now hush.’

  The little vessel continued, its crew dipping the oars steadily into the water. Other catboats passed them on the canal. In the smaller canals, jarls snaked between buildings and across watery avenues, conveying Lissens on their daily rounds. Most paused to gape at their queen and her strange Naren companion. But unlike Nar, where the emperor was revered, the Lissens showed no particular awe of Jelena, and Kasrin thought the whole thing remarkably odd. Liss, he was quickly discovering, was nothing like he’d imagined.

  ‘What is this place?’ he asked. The tall structures here were made of white and pink marble, reflecting the sunlight. There were hundreds of people milling along its walkways and bridges.

  ‘We’re near the village of Chaldris,’ said the queen. ‘This canal is called the Balaro. It’s the largest waterway in this part of Liss.’

  ‘Chaldris,’ repeated Kasrin, testing the word. ‘Does that mean anything?’

  ‘The word is from ancient Lissen. It’s the name of a sea god, if that’s what you mean. But this place has more significance than that. Chaldris was Prakna’s home.’

  ‘Prakna lived here?’

  ‘Near here, yes.’ Jelena pointed to a bank of buildings connected with catwalks and covered with lichens and algae. ‘There, in those apartments. He lived in Chaldris most of his life, right up until he died.’

  Kasrin felt an instant kinship to Prakna. The Lissen had died fighting the Fearless.

  ‘Did you know him well?’ he asked.

  ‘Very well. He was a great man, and I loved him. I never felt like a little girl when he was around. He always made me feel like a queen. I don’t think there will ever be a hero like him again.’

  ‘What about his family? Did he have children to carry on his name?’

  Jelena’s eyes lingered on Prakna’s village. ‘He had two sons. Both of them were killed in battle against Nicabar. That’s why Prakna hated Nicabar so much.’ She glanced at him. ‘You would have liked Prakna, I think.’

  ‘I like his memory,’ said Kasrin. ‘I remember Nicabar talking about Prakna. He used to call him an incubus!’

  ‘Well, we have righted that wrong, at least. But Liss hasn’t been the same without Prakna. When he died, part of our nation died, too.’ Jelena gestured again toward the high apartments. ‘Even his wife killed herself. She jumped off a balcony.’

  ‘God, how horrible. She must have been devastated, losing her whole family like that.’

  ‘Prakna told me once that she was like a ghost after her sons died. He said she was never the same after. And Prakna wasn’t the same, either. He became distant, brooding.’

  ‘War does that to people,’ said Kasrin. Suddenly he didn’t want to talk anymore. He looked away from Jelena and watched as the village of Chaldris drifted by.

  ‘There is a cenotaph near here,’ said Jelena. ‘It’s a memorial to the Lissens who died in the war. It’s very close.’

  Kasrin blanched. ‘Jelena, I shouldn’t go there.’

  ‘That’s what Timrin said,’ laughed the queen. ‘I told him that I wanted to take you there, but he said it wouldn’t be appropriate. The cenotaph gets very crowded. People might not like seeing a Naren at their monument.’

  ‘I don’t blame them,’ said Kasrin. ‘I’m not sure I could stand the sight of it myself.’ He closed his eyes. The little girl who had died from the Sovereign’s guns was staring at him across the years. He had hoped that killing Nicabar would banish her, yet she remained. ‘I’ve done things I’m not proud of, Jelena. There are things I want to tell you . . .’

  ‘Do not tell me,’ said Jelena gently. ‘I already know.’

  ‘No, you don’t. You need to realize what I am, Jelena, before you come to love me anymore.’

  The Queen of Liss slid a hand onto his thigh. ‘I know what you are, Blair Kasrin. Do you?’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Do you think of yourself as a butcher? Or as the man who stood up to Nicabar?’

  Kasrin smiled weakly. ‘Sometimes I think I’m both.’

  ‘Not to me, you’re not. To me, you are like Prakna.’

  ‘I’m no hero, Jelena.’

  ‘Not yet, maybe.’ The queen patted his leg playfully. ‘But give it time. Now, no more of this talk.’ She settled back again and watched the canal widen before them. ‘Let’s just enjoy the trip. We’re almost there.’

  ‘Almost where?’

  Mischief lit the queen’s face. ‘You’ll see.’

  ‘Not the cenotaph, Jelena, please. I told you—’

  ‘We’re not going to the cenotaph,’ she assured him. ‘Now be quiet. And have some patience, will you?’

  Kasrin sat back, watching as the Balaro Canal widened and Prakna’s village fell away to starboard. The vessel clung to the portside coast as she rounded the island, slowly revealing the skyline of another, much larger island up ahead. A huge lake separated it from the others. Across the crystal lake Kasrin saw docks, huge slips projecting into the water. As the catboat continued, more of the island came into view. Kasrin saw its harbor clearly now, crystal blue and dotted with ships. Some were small, like the catboat, while others were enormous, with ivory sails and brass figureheads and gleaming hulls fitted with saw-toothed rams.

  ‘Schooners,’ whispered Kasrin, awestruck by the sight. In the sunlight they looked alive, like golden sea creatures bobbing on the waves. He stood up in the boat, ignoring the rocking, and peered through the brightness for a better look. ‘God almighty. They’re beautiful.’

  ‘They’re yours.’

  Kasrin barely heard her. ‘I haven’t seen schooners like that since . . .’ Suddenly he looked down at her. ‘What?’

  ‘They’re yours, Blair,’ Jelena repeated. ‘They’ve been called back from Crote. They are going with you and the Sovereign to Talistan. And so am I.’

  ‘Oh, no,’ said Kasrin. ‘You’re not going anywhere. This isn’t your fight.’

  ‘Maybe not, but I am going,’ Jelena insisted. ‘Even now those schooners are preparing for the voyage.’ She pointed at the small armada. ‘Look.’

  Kasrin noticed the activity. The catboats and jarls were ferrying supplies to the schooners.

  ‘I brought you here so you could see them,’ said Jelena. ‘I want you to inspect them before we set sail. And I want the crews to meet you.’

  ‘But why? Jelena, I don’t understand. This doesn’t make sense.’

  ‘Rowers,’ called the queen to her servants, ‘take us to those ships.’

  ‘Jelena . . .’<
br />
  ‘Bring us around to the Hammerhead,’ she told them. ‘I want Captain Kasrin to meet Vares.’ She looked at Kasrin, adding, ‘He’s expecting you.’

  ‘Oh, really? And who the hell is Vares?’

  ‘Commander of the Hammerhead. You’ll be in command of the task force, but I thought Vares should be there for the others to follow. They’ll be more comfortable with him.’

  ‘Sure, that makes sense,’ said Kasrin sarcastically. ‘There’s only one problem – none of you are going.’

  ‘Blair, you’re being silly . . .’