The Saints of the Sword

by John Marco

  His mother merely nodded. There was still a scar on her forehead where Leth’s ring had slashed the skin. Alazrian wanted to touch the scar and make it fade away. He wanted to heal her ravaged body the way he had the goat with the broken leg, knitting the bones with one miraculous touch. And he wanted to heal her broken soul too, but he knew that damage was beyond his power. Elrad Leth had cut those scars too deeply for any physician to reach, even one with magic.

  “Listen to me now,” Lady Calida ordered. “Don’t use it around your father, you hear?”

  “He’s not my father,” Alazrian scoffed.

  “Are you listening? Never around him. Or your grandfather. If they knew, there would be no peace for you. No peace. You grow up and get free of them. Find out about your real father and who you are, and never let them know you’re gifted.” The effort wearied Calida, but she kept a steely gaze on Alazrian, insisting that he listen. “Alazrian?”

  Alazrian nodded. “I hear you.”

  “Swear it.” Again she reached out, stopping just shy of his touch. “I won’t rest unless you do.”

  She was asking the impossible of him, but he knew there was nothing else worth saving here in Aramoor. Alazrian gave his mother a forlorn smile.

  “I swear it,” he said softly. “I’ll not use the gift around Father.”

  “Or your grandfather,” Calida cautioned again. “He loves you, Alazrian, but he’s not to be trusted. He’ll not be the same once I go.”

  True enough, Alazrian knew. He had already seen the aberrations in his grandfather. Tassis Gayle had never been stable and the death of his son had rushed him toward insanity. Now the death of his daughter was sealing his fate.

  “Has grandfather told you?” Alazrian asked gently. “I’m to go to Nar City. The emperor has summoned Father, and me with him. I’m afraid, Mother.”

  Calida’s thin eyebrows went up. “The Black City? The emperor has asked for you?”

  “Yes, I think so. Father just told me so. We’re to face the Protectorate.”

  Even from her sickbed Lady Calida had heard of the Protectorate. The emperor’s tribunal was famous throughout Nar. Or more precisely, it was infamous. War criminals from the corners of the Empire were being summoned to face Biagio and his inquisitor, Dakel. Since the death of Arkus, Nar had become a very unstable place.

  “I’m not surprised about your father,” said Calida at last. “The way he butchers these Aramoorians …” She thought for a moment. “Biagio is a devious man. Do you remember him, Alazrian?”

  “Not well,” replied the boy honestly. In the days before the death of Arkus when Biagio was merely the head of the Roshann, he would come to Talistan from time to time, mostly to supervise the goings-on in Aramoor. Alazrian’s grandfather always had a room ready for Biagio in the castle. The two titans had been friends then, or more precisely allies. But times had changed. “I remember he was odd-looking,” Alazrian mused. “I remember his eyes.”

  Lady Calida smiled. Biagio’s eyes were unforgettable. They were sapphire blue and preternatural, and they burned with fire. Alazrian didn’t remember much about Biagio, but he could never forget those eyes.

  “The emperor wants the truth,” Calida decided. “And he thinks he can get it from you.”

  “But I don’t know the truth. I don’t know what I can tell the emperor.”

  It wasn’t a lie. Elrad Leth kept everything he did a secret, especially from his son. And Calida had been too ill to find out what was happening. She had only the view from her window, and even that didn’t belong to her. It belonged to Richius Vantran, wherever he was now.

  “Don’t be frightened,” Calida told her son gently. “The Protectorate can do nothing to you if you tell them the truth. And the Black City, Alazrian … You’ve never seen anything like it. It’s breathtaking.”

  Alazrian sat down on the bedside waiting for his mother to regale him with a tale. She had only been to the Naren capital once, for the coronation of Richius Vantran, but it had left an indelible impression on her. Calida’s mind, soaked with painkillers, skipped back over her memories, picking out pretty pieces.

  “It’s so tall,” she sighed. “And the emperor’s palace looks like a mountain. There’s so many people that sometimes you can’t even move in the streets, but you can buy anything you want. Take money with you, Alazrian. Buy yourself some nice things.” Then Calida shook her head ruefully. “Oh, I wish the cathedral was still there for you to see. It was so beautiful.”

  In fact, it had been his mother’s favorite part of Nar City, and she had wept when she’d heard of its destruction. Now the memory almost made her cry again.

  “I will bring money with me,” Alazrian said. “And I’ll think of you when I’m walking the avenues.”

  “Yes,” she agreed. “You go to Nar City.” She was so excited suddenly that she tried to sit up. “There’s a library there, with scholars. They can help you find out about yourself. There are all kinds of texts there, about everything. Some about Lucel-Lor, I’m sure.” Her voice became a whisper. “And Jakiras.”

  Alazrian was shocked that she’d spoken the name, and quickly swiveled his head toward the door to make sure no one had heard. Only once before had she mentioned the name of his father, and only then when they were far from the castle, away from prying ears.

  “Mother, hush. The medicines are making you tired. No more talk.”

  “Listen to me,” his mother insisted. “Don’t be afraid of this trip, Alazrian. Use it. Find out about yourself and your father. Find out who you are.”

  “Mother, please …”

  “I didn’t know, you see,” she said sadly. Again she reached out for him, desperate but afraid to touch him. “But you can find out in Nar City.”

  “All right,” agreed Alazrian. “I’ll look when I get there. Now rest. Please, you’re getting weaker.”

  “I am weaker. Weaker by the moment.” Calida’s face betrayed the painful battle going on inside her. She was perspiring now, and the scar on her forehead flushed ruby red. “I want to touch you,” she said. “I want you to look into my heart. Do that for me, so you never forget how much you mean to me. But do not heal me, you hear?”

  Alazrian didn’t know how to respond. His touch could bring her back to life, and if he felt her love for him he might not be able to resist the urge to heal.

  Lady Calida put out her hand. It was frail and bony, a crone’s hand. Alazrian couldn’t speak. He could barely breathe. Her fingers twitched as she reached out. Their eyes locked, and there was so much strength in her stare that Alazrian’s conviction faltered. Slowly he took up her hand, cradling it in his palm. At once the power seized him. The magic bathed him in its warmth, and for the strangest moment he was Calida. Her heart and mind were his, like a book open for reading. Lady Calida was the purest thing he had ever experienced, and her love for him was boundless; it rocked him like a baby. But he went deeper still, closing his eyes and not moving, finding things he had never expected to find. He felt Elrad Leth’s rage and a fist flying out to strike her, and then he felt forgiveness of a kind only saints possess.

  Then, suddenly, there was a shift in the feelings. Anticipating something great, Alazrian held fast to his mother’s hand. He opened his eyes and saw that she had closed her own, thinking of something special, something she desperately wanted to convey. In the mirror of his mind Alazrian saw a young woman who was his mother, beautiful and not much older than Alazrian himself. She was with a man, also young, with shocking white hair and a gentle face. A Triin.

  Jakiras.

  Alazrian locked on the image of his father. His mother’s love for this stranger poured into him, and he felt profoundly sorry for her, that she had not stayed with the stranger from Lucel-Lor, and that her father had given her to Elrad Leth.

  Then the image of the young lovers vanished, and in its place came an anguished yearning for death. Alazrian swayed, sickened by his mother’s pain. But he didn’t release her hand. He held it, lost in his
empathic fugue, and let time slip into something meaningless. His mother was dying, here in the castle they had usurped from Richius Vantran, in a place she hated because it wasn’t home. Her hand went from burning hot to vaguely warm, and there was no death rattle or visions of God. There was only emptiness.

  His mother was dead.

  Alazrian carefully laid down her hand, then wiped his tears with his shirt sleeve.

  “I’ll go to the Black City,” he promised. “I’ll find out what I am.”

  ONE

  Dakel the Inquisitor danced across the marble floor, his satin robes alive with candlelight. A dozen candelabra tossed shadows around him, making him look taller than his six feet. In his hand was a gilded scroll, which he declined to read until the most dramatic moment. His ebony hair writhed around his shoulders as he moved with practiced grace before the hundred gathered eyes, and his voice filled the chamber. The crowd was silent as he spoke, their gazes alternating between his compelling countenance and the man on the dais. Dakel pointed an accusing finger at the man as he spoke.

  “I have charges, citizens of Nar,” he declared. “Appalling evidence of the duke’s crimes.” He held up the scroll for effect. “Enough to shock you good people, I’m sure.”

  From his chair atop the marble dais, Duke Angoris of Dragon’s Beak stared in horror at the Inquisitor, his face a sickly white. He had already endured half an hour of Dakel’s rhetoric, and the barrage was taking its toll. He licked his lips constantly, anxious for a glass of water that was conspicuously kept from him. He looked about to faint.

  “Now, I’m not a man of vendettas,” the Inquisitor declared. “You all know me. I’m a humble servant of the emperor. All I seek is justice.”

  There was skeptical chuckling from the crowd. Dakel took it good-naturedly.

  “ ’Tis true,” he said. “Justice is the sole commandment of this court. So I don’t read these charges with any relish or malice. I read them with great regret for the duke’s offenses. Through the things he has done, we are all diminished.”

  An expectant murmur bubbled up. Dakel let it dissipate before continuing. He whirled on the duke.

  “Duke Angoris, you are called before these good people of Nar for crimes against humankind, for sedition, for treason, for barbarity, and for genocide. These are the facts in my ledger. Shall I read them for you?”

  Duke Angoris began to croak an answer but the Inquisitor silenced him with a flourish of his sleeves.

  “People,” he said, turning again toward the crowd. “Worthy citizens.” He smiled. “Friends. When you hear the charges against Duke Angoris, you will have no doubt as to the rightness of this tribunal. I know there are those among you who doubt what we do here. Do not doubt. Listen. And keep your ears open for the most appalling tales.”

  Angoris grit his teeth. He had no barrister to defend him, only his own wits and the infrequent opportunities Dakel gave him to speak. The Inquisitor glided closer to the dais and unrolled the scroll in his spidery hands. He read it to himself, shaking his head in disgust.

  “Duke Angoris,” he began. “On the first day of winter you usurped the throne of the south fork of Dragon’s Beak. You killed the surviving members of Duke Enli’s household and took control from the ruling magistrate, who had been sent there by our own emperor. Is that so?”

  “The throne was empty,” Angoris said. “The emperor’s to blame for that.”

  “And in your killing spree the magistrate and his wife were murdered also, correct?”

  Angoris was silent.

  “You impaled them, did you not?”

  The duke groped for an answer. Every word in Dakel’s ledger was true, but admitting it came hard. Angoris was a stubborn man, with a head like granite and a fiery streak of independence. He had declared himself duke of the south fork of Dragon’s Beak after the death of Enli, the rightful duke. Then he had set out for the ruined north fork.

  “Answer the question,” rumbled Dakel. “Did you not order the magistrate and his wife impaled?”

  The duke answered, “I did.”

  “And upon murdering the magistrate and taking Grey Tower, you found an unused cannister of poison in the keep. The illegal gas called Formula B, isn’t that also correct?”

  The Inquisitor hovered over the duke, waiting for an answer. Duke Angoris shifted, his eyes darting around the vast chamber.

  “No answer?” Dakel’s immortally blue eyes watched his victim like a cobra’s. “The poison, Duke? Have you a recollection?”

  “I … I found the poison in the castle, yes. It was left there by legionnaires of the Black City. I didn’t put it there.”

  “And what did you do with the poison once you discovered it?”

  “I’ll not answer that,” spat Angoris. “Not to this court, and not to you. You have already judged me.”

  Dakel the Inquisitor, the very soul of the Protectorate, grinned wildly at the duke. “That’s fine, Duke Angoris. I’ll tell the story myself.” He turned like an actor toward the spectators in the candlelight. They were citizens of Nar who had come to the Tower of Truth for a show, and the master of the house would not disappoint them.

  “Good Narens,” he sang. “Let me tell you what this self-proclaimed duke has done. He has used the grievous and criminal poison called Formula B against the people of the north fork of Dragon’s Beak. These are people just like himself, you see, but Angoris is a man of boundless prejudice, and he is from the south fork, after all. This tyrant thinks of his northern brethren as beasts. He has systematically been exterminating them. He has burned out the eyes of young children with his ill-gotten poison, he has suffocated pregnant women, and he has put his own sword into the hearts of innocent men. And all for the crime of living just north of him.”

  Angoris rose to his feet. “Biagio has done worse!”

  “Yes, yes,” laughed Dakel. “Go on, dig your own grave.”

  “It’s true,” said the duke again. This time he pointed to a darkened alcove away from the candlelight, a place where one man sat, far apart from the spectators. “Biagio knows it’s true! Don’t you, butcher?”

  From his place in the shadows, Renato Biagio steepled his fingers and gave a tired sigh. He knew that neither Angoris nor the citizens could see him, and the veil of darkness served as a comforting cloak. He had expected Angoris’ outburst. Biagio settled into the plushness of his chair, reaching for a nearby brandy and sipping it thoughtfully. Dakel was in control, as always, and the Emperor of Nar wasn’t ruffled at all.

  “Emperor Biagio is not on trial here, Duke,” said the Inquisitor. “And I would strongly suggest you sit back down in your chair. You are the accused.”

  There was nowhere for Angoris to go, so the northerner sat back, enduring the growing snickers of the crowd. They loved a show, Biagio knew, and it was circus time in Nar. Angoris’ face turned an unpleasant shade of grey. Obviously, he was feeling the noose tighten.

  Biagio was tired from the long day and Dakel’s endless speeches, and it was only afternoon. Beyond the wall of the tower he still had a city to govern, and an empire beyond that. There were always so many pressing needs, so many questions to answer, so many hands to shake and deals to make. Biagio closed eyes that had lost their immortal radiance, and pictured his enormous bed back in the palace.

  To sleep, he thought dreamily. For a week, or a month …

  He could have slept for a year if it weren’t for the constant interruptions. He drained his glass of brandy and put the goblet down on the table beside him, then rose. The candelabra did a good job of blinding Angoris. Dakel had placed them perfectly, without needing Biagio’s guidance. Dakel was excellent at his work. And a loyal member of the Roshann, one of the few men in the Black City Biagio trusted at all these days. Angoris wasn’t the first of Biagio’s enemies to face the dancing antics of Dakel. Nor would he be the last.

  Biagio backed away from the stage, giving Angoris a final unseen look before departing through a private door. The Tower of
Truth had dozens of hidden corridors where the members of the Roshann could escape the curious eyes of the Naren citizens that gathered for the entertainment. Dakel was master of the tower. Since Biagio’s ascension to emperor, the sharp-minded Inquisitor had become head of the Roshann. There had already been two attempts on the Inquisitor’s life. And Biagio himself had been the target of countless schemes. These days, Biagio often stayed in the shadows.

  Out in the hall he found his pair of Shadow Angels, his private guards, waiting for him, silent behind their implacable silver skull masks. He walked past his men who followed directly on his heels, and left behind the thundering voice of Dakel, still ringing in the amphi-chamber.

  Biagio’s head was pounding and his eyes drooped from lack of sleep. He longed to return to the Black Palace, to escape the thousand pressures plaguing him. Lost in a fog, he moved through the tower’s marble halls and soon found himself at the gate where his carriage awaited. The elaborate conveyance was carved from mahogany and pulled by a team of black horses. Besides the driver, there were a dozen more Shadow Angels on horseback around the vehicle, ready to protect their master. A slave bowed to Biagio as he stepped through the gate and approached his carriage, then rushed to open its door. He was fair-haired, barely seventeen, with a pretty face and a lean body that sent the emperor’s heart racing. But Biagio was too tired to pay the boy more notice, so he merely stepped into the carriage and collapsed into its leather cushions, watching with relief as the slave sealed him inside, blessedly alone. For the first time in hours, silence engulfed him. He watched through the carriage windows as his bodyguards mounted their horses and the vehicle lurched into motion.

  A thousand sky-scraping towers soared around him. Nar the Magnificent. The Black City.

  Biagio smiled. Home. And what a thankless battle it had been to return. Only a little more than a year had passed since he’d become emperor, but the memory of his bloody coup remained. He remembered it each time his food tasted off and he feared poisoning, or whenever word reached him of another civil war. A year ago he had set a chain of events into motion and now he was struggling to stop the reaction. Renato Biagio tilted his head against the window and watched the city pass by. The Black Palace dominated the distance like a giant’s many-fingered hand. A familiar pall of smoke obscured the sun, setting the horizon aflame with Nar’s peculiar glow, and the countless smokestacks of the foundries and incinerators rumbled up their noxious gases, spitting them high into the sky.