“You have worked down here,” Amyu said, knowing full well that Atira had.
Atira just nodded, seemingly lost in thought. “I am going to make swords.” Her voice rang with quiet determination. “I will forge such blades that Singers will praise them for centuries to come.”
“First you have to advance past making nails.” A woman came up to stand next to them, a welcoming smile on her face. “Who is this, Atira?”
“Ismari, this is Amyu.” Atira said, still staring at the flames. “She has questions about re-forging a sword, so I brought her here.”
“A sword?” Ismari frowned. Amyu noticed that while she was Xyian she wasn’t wearing skirts. And her hands were calloused and rough, with a few old burns. Her eyes were bright and curious. “Well, Dunstan is the expert, but he will be at the fire for a while. Show it to me, and let me see what I can tell you.”
Amyu reached for the pack on her back, and pulled out the basket containing the shards.
Ismari took it, and her eyes went wide. “Is this the Crystal Sword of Xy? In a bread basket?” Her voice was hushed. She looked around, and pulled Amyu toward a nearby door, hustling her into another work area. “Let’s not give the apprentices more to gossip about than they already have,” she said.
Atira followed, but her steps dragged. Amyu gave the blonde warrior a questioning look. Atira shrugged sheepishly. “I don’t get down here as often as I wish.”
Ismari had pulled a thick black cloth out and spread it on the table. “Dunstan won’t be long,” she said. “Let’s see what we have here.”
Amyu dumped the basket on the cloth. Ismari winced. But she reached for the hilt and put it flat at one end of the cloth. “Let’s see if it’s all here.”
It was. All the shining blue shards made a pattern, and Ismari had a gift for sorting them out. Once they were done, the sword was recreated, except in parts.
“Odd,” Ismari stepped back. “I would expect some of the smaller slivers to be missing. But it all seems to be here, and would go back together if you had a way to bind them.”
The door opened behind them, and Dunstan stepped in, wiping his hands on a cloth. “Atira, Ismari,” Dunstan rumbled. “What—” he stopped dead. “Is that the Crystal Sword of Xy?”
Amyu sighed.
After explanations, Dunstan shook his head, his regret clear. “I know of no flame that would bind these parts together,” he said. “And that is a shame. It has always been part of the Monarch’s regalia.”
“I do not know that word,” Amyu said.
“Regalia?” Dunstan smiled. “It means the robes, the clothes, the jewelry, all symbols of the Crown.”
“What he or she carries at every ceremony,” Ismari said. “I’ve never seen this sword except in the hands of the King or Queen.” Her fingers touched the hilt lightly. “And it feels wrong to see it like this, even though it shattered for a purpose.”
“And no way to fix it,” Dunstan put his hand on his sister’s shoulder. “No fire, or any other element that I know of, could re-forge the blade. It’s not the kind of work for a smith, that’s for sure.” He turned away, looking pained. “Let’s find something better for you to carry it in than that basket.”
Archbishop Iian smiled at Amyu from across a table filled with sand. “This will not be as hard as you think,” he said. He picked up a jug of water and poured it over the sand.
“The Warprize wishes me to learn,” Amyu said glumly. This was not a task she would have chosen. But she’d come to the nursery as instructed.
“This is how we teach our children their letters,” Iian said, stirring the damp sand. He must have seen the doubt in her eyes because he continued, “I do not think of you as a child,” he said firmly as he smoothed the sand. “This is just the best way to teach you. Take this stylus,” he offered her a straight stick. “Now, this is how you make an ‘a’.”
Amyu watched, and copied him stroke by stroke as he went through all the letters.
“Now,” Iian put down his stylus, and leaned forward. “Let’s see what you remember. Write an “A”.
He recited the letters and Amyu drew them out as fast as he spoke, with Iian clearing the sand in between. At the end, Iian leaned back and shook his head.
“Flawless,” he said. “Your people’s memories are amazing.”
“So we are done?” Amyu asked.
“No,” Iian smiled. “You must still learn to form the letters into words and then there is the order words go in, and how to write them down so everyone can read.”
Amyu slumped in her chair. The shards of the sword clinked together in the leather bag tied to her belt. “Isn’t it easier to just remember it all?” she asked, trying not to whine.
“It is,” Iian said. “But we write things down to preserve our knowledge and information.” He frowned at the sand. “Although that didn’t work with the wyverns, did it?”
“Because there are no books?” Amyu asked.
Iian nodded, absently drawing a wyvern in the sand. “There should be records,” Iian said. “Something that preserved that knowledge. Yet we have nothing. If we of Xy had perfect memories—”
“Joden thinks it was deliberately forgotten,” Amyu said. She leaned her elbows on the sand table. “Long ago.”
Iian sighed. “If memory can be distorted or lost, and paper and ink lost and destroyed, how are we to preserve knowledge? There must be a way.”
“Even if it is remembered, the old can refuse to share their knowledge,” Amyu said glumly. “Kalisa refused to tell us anything about the past.”
Iian’s frown deepened. “True,” he said. He tilted his head to the side. “There are other, older people. Have you talked to Kendrick?”
“The Herald?” Amyu straightened. “Is he as old as Kalisa?”
“Maybe older,” Iian stood. “Let’s go ask.”
Kendrick chuckled at their question. “I am not that old. But I have served four monarchs in my life time. Xyvon, Xyron, Xymund,” a shadow passed over his face. “Othur was an old friend.” His eyes looked sad and distant, but when he focused back on Amyu it was with a gentle smile. “And now Xylara is Queen, may the God of the Sun bless and keep her.”
“So you don’t know the old ceremonies?” Amyu tried not to let her disappointment show.
“Of course I know the ceremonies,” Kendrick lifted his chin. “That is my charge.” He gestured to the shelves around the walls of his office, filled with books and scrolls. “All of the Crown ceremonies, rituals and the bloodlines of the noble houses. All here.”
Even Iian seemed stunned. The Herald’s office was lined with shelves and all the shelves were crammed with books and scrolls and loose papers. Dust floated in the sunlight that streamed through the windows.
“Could you tell me of them?” Amyu asked. “Of the rituals that surround the crystal sword?”
“Rare for one so young to care,” Kendrick said with a broad smile. “But I would be pleased to share my knowledge.” He rose slowly, and tottered over to a shelf. “This is the most recent copy of the Regalia of the House of Xy.”
The book was brown, its pages faded and curled with age. Kendrick brought it over and settled on a stool. “This was drawn by my predecessor,” he said, leafing through the book. “Here.” He put the book down, and pointed.
Amyu leaned forward, with Iian looking over her shoulder. The drawing was all crisp black lines. Amyu recognized the Council Room. The sword was displayed on the table, and on the wall behind was the tapestry of the airion.
“The Crystal Sword of Xy is one of the two most ancient artifacts of Xy,” Kendrick said. “It was always displayed in the Council Room, set out on the Council table as you see here. The sword is only removed for the High Ceremonies,” He continued. “The Coronation of the Monarch, the Marriage of the Monarch, the Confirmation of the Heir Apparent, and the Funeral of the Monarch.”
“Two ancient pieces?” Iian questioned.
“Yes,” Kendrick turned the page
. “The other is the Xyian Ring.”
This drawing was stark in comparison. The ring was a plain band, with a stone set in the center.
“The Xyian Ring was always worn by the Monarch,” Kendrick said. “Originally, the sword was always carried as well, but that practice ended before my time.”
“I had forgotten the Ring,” Iian said.
“Many have.” Kendrick shook his head. “Lara’s father, Xyron, wore it until he sickened. It kept falling off his finger as he grew thinner. I offered the ring to Xymund, but he felt that it was not worthy of him. He wanted something grander. Something that befit a king.” Herald sniffed. “Never mind its history, its age, or significance. He talked of melting it down, having it refashioned, and bid me store it until he had decided on a design.”
He stood, and reached deep into a high shelf, moving scrolls and papers out of the way. “Here it is,” he said, pulling out a small wooden box.
Amyu stared at the ring, a gold band and blue stone that matched the sword. “They are the same color,” she said.
“At every High Ceremony, at some point in the ceremony the monarch holds high the Sword, displays the Ring and recites the Call.” Kendrick turned back to the book and pointed to markings below the picture. “‘Let the protectors of Xy arise to my call.’ In suitable, stirring tones, of course.”
“Of course,” Iian said.
“There have been no changes in the rallying cry.” Kendrick started to thumb through the book, looking for something. “But there have been variations in the gestures over time.”
“Why isn’t Xylara wearing it now?” Iian asked.
“Xylara wore it for her hasty Coronation.” Kendrick frowned. “I made sure of that. But it slid off her finger and she wasn’t going to take it to the Plains. Something about ‘taking nothing from my Warlord.’”
“Take nothing except from the hand of the Warlord,” Amyu corrected.
“Ah,” Kendrick nodded. “A ritual of the Plains, no doubt.” He shrugged. “I have been meaning to speak to Xylara since her return, but with all the ruckus, I hadn’t had a chance.”
Iian looked around the small room. “Do you have apprentices? Assistants?”
“No,” Kendrick sighed. “Othur and I talked of it, but Xymund had no interest beyond his own glory. I haven’t bothered Xylara, but with the birth of the babes.”
Iian frowned. “We must take action to preserve—”
“Could I take it?” Amyu interrupted. She didn’t want to be rude, but they might talk forever. “I have an idea.”
“The ring?” Kendrick’s bushy eyebrows climbed up with horror. “But—”
“On my authority,” Iian said.
Kendrick looked at both of them as if their wits had been taken by the wind. “Let us talk to the Warden of Xy,” he said firmly, closing the ring box with a snap.
Amyu released her horse into the herd of cows grazing at the foot of the mountain. Kalisa’s family was nowhere to be seen, and the cheese cave was locked up tight. That suited Amyu. She didn’t want to have to answer any more questions.
She’d answered plenty in the last few days, enough that they still rang in her head. She’d been honest in telling Heath and Atira that she’d had an idea about how to summon the airions using the sword. She just hadn’t told them everything.
It had taken time to convince them. Days in fact, but that had been fine. She’d needed time to prepare and gather items for her own ritual.
There’d been arguments against her of course, with everyone pointing out the flaws in her idea. That she didn’t have the Blood of Xy in her veins. That the sword and the rallying cry were for the people of Xy, not some mythical creature. That no sign had been found by Rafe and the others. That this was a foolish idea, and that she’d lose the Ring of Xy in the brush and that was a hell of a way to treat an ancient artifact of the House of Xy.
That last had been from an indignant Kendrick, quivering with worry at the very idea.
In the end, Heath had shrugged. “The skies favor the bold,” he quoted as he gave her permission.
She cached her saddle, and took up her pack. She’d plenty of food, and all the gear she would need. This shouldn’t take as long this time, as she wasn’t searching. She knew exactly where she was going.
Amyu adjusted the straps of her pack, shifted to make sure it sat right. With a deep breath, and a shiver of excitement, she started up the path.
Chapter Thirty
Even knowing the way, it took time. It was easier, being familiar with the path, but she still took care.
It was also easier not having to worry about Joden… but she wasn’t going to let herself think about that. Or dwell on the pain. She concentrated on her feet and the path. Amyu wasn’t going to risk a broken limb or worse, losing the Ring or the Shards in a fall.
But after a few nights in the open she came to the small cave. The dried sticks were still out front of the opening, and the inside was still clear and clean of debris.
The scorch marks were still on the ceiling.
Amyu put aside any memories of Joden, resolving to lock them away, and to focus on other things. She made camp, setting out her gear and her bedroll, and got a fire started for hot kavage. It was early yet; she’d hunt later, to supplement her dried meat and gurt supplies.
For now, she settled on her bedroll, dragged her pack toward her, and with a deep breath she pulled out the battered lantern.
She had an idea, and now was the time to try it. Away from prying eyes and questions she really didn’t have answers for. It had been something Dunstan had said.
‘No fire, or any other element that I know of, could re-forge the blade.’
She set the small lantern down in front of her, and sat cross-legged, staring at it intently.
No element he knew of.
What if there was another element?
She held her breath, feeling a tingle through her body at the very thought. All her life, she’d been taught by the theas of the four elements that ruled the Plains.
Was it possible the golden light was an element that no one around her could see, or touch, or use?
Was it possible she was special?
Part of her rejected that thought in an instant. But part of her… part of her dared to think it.
Kalisa had said that she’d foresworn the power, and that meant that she’d used it at some point. As hard as it was for Amyu to believe, Kalisa had somehow seen it in her.
Amyu hugged herself as she stared at the lantern. ‘If you want to ride a horse,’ she whispered. ‘You have to get up on the horse.’
She closed her eyes and summoned the memory of being in the dark. Alone. A creature outside, with claws and fangs and…
Light. She needed light. But to set her weapons down, to fumble with flint and striker was unthinkable.
Another stick cracked, as if the creatures were gathering themselves up to rush her.
Light, her mind screamed, but she crouched low, frozen in fear.
Small golden sparkles started to gather at her feet.
Amyu opened her eyes.
Golden sparkles danced before her face, glittering little stars.
She breathed out, and then sucked a breath in astonishment. She reached out, and her hand tingled as if they were not there and yet really there at the same time.
The gold gathered on her fingertips, and traced her movements as she moved her fingers.
“Here,” she whispered. She lowered her hand, and put the sparkles in the lantern. “Stay here.”
The sparkles fell off her fingers and gathered into a ball in the lantern, glowing brightly. More sparkles joined them, until the light, the power all rested within.
A deep sense of satisfaction washed over her, but then her stomach rumbled and brought her back to reality.
She closed the small metal door, and light gleamed out from the metal. “Stay,” she whispered. “Stay for me.” She stood, taking up her bow and arrow.
When she returned, dead rabbits in hand, the cave still glowed with the light of the lantern.
Amyu set about spitting the meat, but she couldn’t help the excitement building inside. She could use it, control it, see it. What else could she do? She bit her lip, thinking, remembering the light, the fire and heat and—
She happened to look up. The scorch marks were above her, glaring down, the black a stark contrast to the stone in the light of the lantern.
Amyu settled back on the bedroll, and watched the flames of a perfectly normal fire sear the meat. With regret, she tamped down her excitement. Fire was an element. It was both friend and foe. A force to be used, a danger to be feared. That was true of the other elements as well.
She’d go slow. Be cautious. Wary.
But the excitement was still with her when she stretched out to sleep. Her stomach was full, the lantern gleamed, and her dreams were filled with flying.
The sparkles had faded within the lantern during the night, but that didn’t dim Amyu’s excitement. She packed up her gear, wrapped the remaining meat for her nooning and started up the path, light of step and heart.
Until she rounded a bend and memory struck her like a stone.
Joden standing there, bruised and battered, his eyes crinkled in the corners by his smile. He pulled leaves from the tangles in her hair, standing close enough that she could smell the scent on his skin. He smelled of crushed pine needles, moist earth and spice. As he pulled at the tangles he let the leaves and sticks fall to the ground. They both started to laugh as they stood there, worn, weary, and alive.
He took care around the feather she had tied into her hair, carefully arranging it in front of her ear. His eyes warm and strong and—
It was like a physical blow to her heart. Amyu stopped in the path, pressed her hands to her chest, and let the pain wash over her.
Tears threatened. It had been the right decision to set him free, but her heart could barely beat in her chest. She made the choice; they both made the choice. Joden of the Hawk must become what he was destined to become and she—
Warsong Page 26
