The Saints of the Sword

by John Marco

  “Thank you, Mistress Estrella,” he sighed, “for making this boorish journey a bit more civilized.”

  TWENTY-THREE

  Wind blew through the canyon, threatening a spring storm. Alazrian looked into the sky and counted the rain clouds. A thunderhead was rolling in from the west, thick and black, battling the sun for dominance. Already shadows were growing on the mountains. Flier, Alazrian’s horse, snorted disdainfully.

  Jahl Rob slowed his mount to a trot. He glanced around at the rugged hills surrounding them. They were brown and ugly, and deathly quiet. This was Tatterak, Lucel-Lor’s northern territory, and the earth here was hostile and unyielding, broken only by mountains and spotty patches of twisted trees. Few rivers cut through the hills and only a handful of villages clung to the mountainsides, scraping out an existence. It was an unforgiving land, and its roads were a nightmare to travel, gutted with holes and sometimes narrowing down to snaking trails. The terrain had slowed the duo’s progress, and now the weather was threatening to join the conspiracy.

  Alazrian unhooked his water skin from his belt and took a sip. For five days they had travelled, and only now were they entering Tatterak. They had left behind Ackle-Nye and Falger’s hospitality, having filled their stomachs and saddlebags with food, and had followed the map Falger had drawn for them. According to Alazrian’s calculations, this canyon was a gateway to Tatterak. And Tatterak was the gateway to Falindar. Soon they would come upon a village. There would be water, and news—and if its Triin inhabitants welcomed them, there might even be shelter. But there was no way they would reach the village before the rain came.

  “Should we stop now?” Alazrian asked. “Make camp before the storm?”

  Jahl Rob shook his head. “It’s a long way to Falindar yet. Maybe the storm will pass us by.”

  Alazrian gauged the wind. “I don’t think so, Jahl.”

  “We’ll go on,” said the priest. “A bit more, anyway. How much farther to that village?”

  “I’ve checked the map. It’s miles yet. We’ll never make it.”

  “Let’s try, at least. If it rains we’ll find shelter.”

  Alazrian agreed, urging Flier alongside Jahl’s horse. Jahl Rob was anxious to reach Falindar, and didn’t seem to care about the warlord that Falger had warned them about. He was driven, and Alazrian knew it was his reunion with Richius Vantran that spurred him on.

  “What will you do when you meet the Jackal?” asked Alazrian.

  “Why do you ask that?”

  “Just curious. You’re very keen to reach him, aren’t you? I’ve noticed that.”

  “Maybe I am.”

  “So? What will you say to him?”

  “You’re very nosy.”

  “And you’re very slippery.” Alazrian grinned. “Don’t you want to talk about it?”

  Jahl Rob turned his face away. “No, I don’t want to talk about it. All right?”

  “But you’re angry with him, aren’t you? Is that why you agreed to come with me? To tell him that?”

  “So now you’re a mind reader as well as an empath? I thought you had to touch someone to know what they were thinking.”

  “Not always. You’re easy to read, Jahl. For a priest you’re not very forgiving.”

  Jahl fixed Alazrian with a furious glare. “Do me a favor, boy. Get out of my mind. I don’t like your parlor tricks.”

  Alazrian drew back. “I’m sorry, Jahl, I—”

  “You have no idea how angry I am at Vantran. So just don’t try. And don’t make me explain it to you, because I won’t, understand?”

  “Yes,” said Alazrian softly. “I’m sorry.”

  The priest rode ahead of Alazrian from then on, not acknowledging him as he kept his careful pace through the canyon. His feelings wounded, Alazrian waited a long time before speaking again, giving Jahl time to cool off. He still liked the priest, and was determined to crumble the wall separating them, brick by brick if necessary. So he trotted up beside the priest again, this time trading his mischievous smile for a genuine one.

  “We’re making good time,” he observed. “Maybe we will reach the village before it rains.”

  Jahl Rob had let go of his anger. He looked to the west where the thunderhead was growing and said, “Hmm, I don’t think so, but we’ll try. I don’t like the idea of camping in this canyon. There’ll be animals here, no doubt. Falger told us about those snow leopards.”

  “I have my dagger,” said Alazrian. “And you have your arrows.”

  “Neither of which will help us much if we’re sleeping. Besides, I’m not that good with a bow. You know how fast a leopard is? It’d be on us before I could draw from my quiver.” Then he laughed, adding, “But I appreciate your confidence, boy.”

  “I saw you in the Iron Mountains, when you were fighting Shinn, remember? You’re as good as he is, I’ll bet.”

  “Not hardly. That bastard’s an expert with a bow. Compared to him I’m just an amateur. I practice, though. It’s a handy habit to have these days, even for a priest.”

  “Can you teach me?” asked Alazrian. “I’d like to learn. I’ve never shot a bow before.” His expression soured. “Elrad Leth wouldn’t let me. He used to say I was too weak to pull back the string.”

  “Elrad Leth is going straight to hell. I wouldn’t believe anything he tells you.”

  “I think I would be good with a bow,” said Alazrian. “I have long fingers, like the Triin. And the Triin are supposed to be great archers.”

  “Yes, I’ve heard that.”

  “So you’ll teach me?”

  “Not right now.”

  “No, not now. But maybe when we reach Falindar? We’ll have some time then.”

  When Rob didn’t answer, Alazrian pressed him.

  “What do you think, Jahl?”

  “Yes, all right. Maybe. If we have time.”

  Alazrian beamed. “That would be great.” He ran a hand over his brow, wiping away the sweat. Despite the breeze and cloud cover, he was warm from riding. Jahl Rob had a slick of perspiration, too. Again Alazrian took up his water skin. “I’m thirsty,” he said.

  “Me too,” said Jahl. “It’s all these dusty roads.”

  Alazrian took a pull from his water skin, then offered it to Jahl. “Here.”

  Rob turned, noticed the offered skin, and blanched. His eyes darted down to the mouthpiece, which had just come from Alazrian’s lips. “Uh, no thank you.”

  “Aren’t you thirsty?”

  “We should conserve water,” said Rob awkwardly.

  “Jahl, it’s about to start raining any moment. Take a drink.”

  “I said no,” snapped the priest, then turned and rode ahead.

  Alazrian sat in his saddle, stunned. He watched Jahl Rob ride off, and after a moment of confusion realized what had happened. Dejectedly he put away his water skin. Now it was contaminated. The superstitious priest could never drink from it.

  “Wouldn’t want any of my unholy magic, would you, Jahl?” muttered Alazrian under his breath.

  Alazrian sat in contemplative silence brooding over the fire and listening to the sounds of thunder rolling through the hills. Outside the rain was slanting down, sheeting from the clouds in a rushing torrent. It had only taken a few minutes for the storm to reach them, and they had hurried for the shelter of one of the many caves, narrowly escaping the worst of the rain. Jahl Rob had built a fire and taken care of the horses, hitching them near the mouth of the cave, which was cramped and quickly filling with smoke. The priest had sensed Alazrian’s anger and so waited near the maw contemplating the storm and not speaking.

  Alazrian held a stick into the fire, watching the tip burn away. His feelings were hurt worse than he wanted to admit, but Jahl didn’t seem to care. Not only didn’t he want to share a water skin with Alazrian, but now he didn’t want to share the fire. A clap of thunder shook the cave, rattling its roof. Two quick blades of lightning followed fast after it, silently stabbing through the distance. Alazrian peered p
ast Jahl’s unmoving body and saw that the afternoon had darkened, wrapped in a cloak of storm clouds, and the wind made the priest’s hair dance. They had barely said a word to each other since coming to the shelter, and the wall between them was suddenly higher than ever. The feeling of isolation made Alazrian shiver.

  When the rain didn’t slacken, Jahl Rob finally returned to warm himself by the flames. He put his hands up to the embers as though nothing was wrong.

  “Hungry?” he asked.

  Alazrian shook his head.

  “Well, we might as well eat something, make use of this rest. Soon as the rain clears we can be on our way again.”

  “So eat,” said Alazrian. “Nobody’s stopping you.”

  Jahl glanced over to his packs. They were still filled with the provisions Falger and his people had provided, enough to last them until Falindar. But Jahl didn’t go to his bags or even seem interested in food. Instead he sat down across from Alazrian, letting a sheepish smile cross his face. Alazrian stole a glance at him through the flames.

  “Not much farther ’til that village,” said Jahl. “If this rain stops, we’ll be there soon. Maybe buy our way into a couple of soft beds. That would be nice, wouldn’t it?”

  “Sure, that would be real nice. Maybe we can get separate rooms this time, too.”

  Jahl looked stung by the barb. He shifted where he sat, glancing down at his hands. A terrible silence ensued. Then, finally, Jahl spoke.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean anything by it.”

  “No?” said Alazrian bitterly. “Sure seemed like you did.”

  “Your magic makes me uncomfortable, boy. I’m just a little afraid of it, that’s all.” Through the fire Alazrian saw Jahl try to smile. “I’m a priest, remember. Magic is unholy.”

  “That makes me feel much better. Thanks.”

  Jahl sat up. “You know what I mean. You were raised in Talistan, after all. You were part of the church once. The holy books tell us sorcery is evil.”

  “Is that what you think I am? A sorcerer?”

  “I don’t know what you are. All I know is the word of God. And breaking bread with magicians is wrong.” Jahl shrugged. “You’ve been cursed by bad fortune, boy. It’s not your fault, and I don’t blame you for it.”

  The words did nothing to comfort Alazrian. Angrily, he poked his stick into the fire. His mother had been right—he shouldn’t have revealed his powers to anyone, not even to a priest.

  “Lord,” he sighed. “I’m so tired of keeping secrets. I’m so tired of everyone shunning me, even people who don’t know what I am.” He tossed the stick into the flames and watched it ignite. He didn’t say what he really felt—that he was tired of being alone. For Alazrian, the world had been empty since his mother’s death.

  “I am sorry for you,” said Jahl Rob. “Truly, I am. You don’t deserve this curse. But it frightens me.”

  “It’s not a disease, Jahl. You won’t catch it from me.”

  Jahl smiled sadly. “What is it then? Do you know?”

  Alazrian was silent.

  “Of course you don’t, because that is the way of magic. It is secret, dark. It never reveals its true nature.”

  “You know what scares me, Jahl? People like you. You’re a priest, for God’s sake. You’re supposed to help people, not turn them away. I’m afraid every time I run into someone like you, because I never know what they’re going to think of me, or what they might do if they find out I’m half Triin or that I have magic. That’s what I’m afraid of. You try living with that for awhile, then talk to me about being scared.”

  Across the fire, Jahl Rob looked at Alazrian, his face flushed with embarrassment. “You shouldn’t be afraid of me. God is love. There is room in His heart for everyone. Even you.”

  “All the prayers and stained glass won’t change what I am, Jahl,” said Alazrian bitterly. “They won’t make people fear me any less.”

  “Oh, you have it wrong,” said Jahl. “Don’t mistake cathedrals for God. That isn’t my faith. Churches and hymns are the poetry of my faith. They give me comfort, but that is all.” He shifted a little closer to Alazrian, coming around the fire to sit an arm’s length away. “I find God in every grain of sand,” he said. “Not in the works of man.”

  “But you loved the Cathedral of the Martyrs. I know you did. I remember, from when I touched you.”

  “It was a wonderful place,” acknowledged Jahl. “I don’t think a more splendid place ever existed.”

  “My mother loved it, too,” said Alazrian. “She wanted to take me there someday. I think she wanted me to marry there. Oh, but Elrad Leth never would have allowed that. He despises Nar City, and the church.”

  “How well I know that,” said Rob.

  Alazrian sighed. “I loved my mother very much. Now that she’s gone, I don’t seem able to find myself. She was the only one that loved me, besides my grandfather. And he’s, well … you know.”

  Jahl Rob didn’t say a word. He simply watched Alazrian in the dancing light, letting him confess the poison in his life.

  “Elrad Leth is a monster,” he whispered. “He used to beat my mother. She even had a scar across her forehead from a ring he wears. I always tried to defend her, but I was so much smaller than him. I couldn’t fight him.” Alazrian’s lips began to tremble, and he felt his throat constrict. “One time he tried to strangle my mother. I jumped on him and I told him I was going to kill him. I was really young then, about twelve I guess. He …”

  Alazrian’s voice quit on him, forcing him to look away.

  “What?” coaxed Jahl. “What happened?”

  “He took off his belt and beat me until my back was bloody,” Alazrian whispered. “It didn’t matter how much I screamed or how much my mother begged him to stop. He just kept at me for an hour. I could hear myself crying. It was like it wasn’t me, but someone else, just crying and crying.” Alazrian shook his head, wondering how such a horrible tale could be true. “When he was done beating me he dragged me upstairs into my bedroom. There was a little closet in my bedchamber, hardly big enough for a man. He locked me in there. I was in that closet for two days before he let me out. And when I got free I couldn’t see because of all the darkness. My eyes …” Alazrian put a hand up to his eyes. “I was blind.” He looked around the dark cavern. Sometimes small spaces still made him scream.

  “Sweet heaven,” said Rob. He gazed at Alazrian, stricken, and Alazrian, who hadn’t told that story to anyone, felt depleted by the catharsis.

  “You know what the worst part is, Jahl?” he asked. “He’s the only father I’ve ever known. No matter how much he beat me, part of me always wanted his acceptance. But he never wanted me.”

  Alazrian closed his eyes. The confession nearly brought him to tears. It was a sick thing to admit, but he really had wanted Elrad Leth’s love. It wasn’t right to have only a mother’s affection, not when a father was so near.

  There was an appalling silence in the cave. Alazrian could feel Jahl Rob’s gaze burning into him. If not for the storm, Alazrian would have bolted.

  “Alazrian, get up,” said Jahl Rob suddenly. Alazrian opened his eyes and saw the priest standing over him.

  “What?”

  The priest’s face was expressionless. “Get up. I want you to come with me.”

  Alazrian got to his feet warily. “Where are we going?”

  “Outside.” Jahl headed for the front of the cave, stooping to pick up his bow and quiver. He paused in the mouth of the cavern, looking at Alazrian. “Well? Are you coming?”

  Alazrian was speechless. “It’s raining …”

  “It doesn’t matter,” said the priest softly. Then he walked out into the rain, heedless of the clouds and the distant groan of thunder. Alazrian didn’t move. Was this pity? he wondered. He hurried after the priest. The rain had slackened, but he was quickly drenched anyway. Jahl Rob stopped in the middle of the muddy road and glanced around.

  “There,” he declared, pointin
g off toward a fat pine tree cracking through the rocky earth. “That’s our target.” He handed the bow to Alazrian. “Take it.”

  “But I don’t know how to shoot,” said Alazrian. “What do I do?”

  “I’ll show you. Just take it.”

  So Alazrian took the bow, holding it the way he had seen Shinn hold it, then plucked at the string with his right hand. Jahl Rob produced an arrow from his quiver. His hair was already soaked with water. Alazrian could feel his boots filling with rain. But he didn’t care at all. Jahl Rob moved up behind him and wrapped him in his arms. The priest took Alazrian’s hands in his own, guiding the fingers around the bow and string. The warmth of his touch made Alazrian tremble. How long had it been since someone had touched him?

  “Like this,” said the priest into his ear. Gently he used Alazrian’s hands to draw back the bowstring. “Close your left eye. Keep your right eye on the tree trunk, all right?”

  Alazrian nodded, but he really couldn’t see the target through the rain and tears obscuring his vision.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  He was called the Red Stag.

  At twenty-seven, he was the eldest of his father’s clan, and so had risen to leader upon the old stag’s death. He was slender like a reed, with green eyes and weathered skin, and he had a voice like the sound a crystal goblet makes when it’s tapped, beautiful and resonant. Because his clan dominated the Eastern Highlands, he was supreme among his people, a burden he bore on his young shoulders with ease—for it was his fate to rule the Highlands, just as it was to command the latapi.

  Prince Redburn crouched in the brush of the elk yard watching the latapi drink from the river. He was very quiet and barely breathed. Every muscle in his body had turned to stone, refusing to twitch. This was the breeding season, when the elk came together in the valley between mountains, flattening out the earth with their hooves to make their private yards. Here the bulls fought for the cows, bashing their antlers together in the ancient rite of rutting.