Child of the Sword

by J. L. Doty

  “You dreamt badly, my lord,” Rhianne said, “and fell from your bed.” She pointed to a small bedside table. “You cut your cheek on the edge of this table here.”

  He thought of the dark angel and shivered.

  “Are you cold, my lord?”

  He could see that she wanted to comfort him, but could only think of how she’d gone to Valso’s bed. He could not put that from his mind. “No,” he said. “I’m not cold. It was just a very unpleasant dream. And I told you I don’t want to see your face. Get out of my sight.”

  As she fled from the room in tears, JohnEngine turned on him angrily. “What in netherhell has gotten into you?”

  Morgin snarled. “She betrayed me, betrayed us all.”

  JohnEngine frowned. “What are you talking about?”

  It was now common knowledge that Morgin had managed to sneak into Elhiyne while Valso and his Kulls had occupied the castle, and that it was Morgin who had killed the Tulalane. But he’d never talked of it to anyone, never related any details of what he’d done lurking in the shadows of Elhiyne. He now told JohnEngine how he’d used his shadow magic to spy on Valso and the twoname, how he’d watched Rhianne agree to betray them all, watched her agree to go to Valso’s bed.

  JohnEngine closed his eyes, sighed tiredly and ran his hands through his hair. “Oh dear gods! And all this time you thought she betrayed you?”

  “Of course. I saw it with my own eyes.”

  JohnEngine shook his head. “No. You heard her agree to go to Valso’s bed, but it was a ruse to get close to him. She took poison to his chambers and tried to kill him. But she failed, and no one can fault her for that, you bloody idiot.”

  Morgin couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “But, I heard—”

  JohnEngine stood and shouted in his face, “You heard, but you didn’t see. She saw you standing in the shadows nearby, and she didn’t betray you. It was her witness, along with Nicki’s, that proved you were not the coward grandmother believed. And she paid a brutal price for her loyalty to us, her loyalty to you. You bloody, bloody idiot. You’re not the only one who was hurt in this. She bears scars as well, though not as visible as yours.”

  JohnEngine turned and stormed out of the room. “You bloody, bloody idiot.”

  Morgin thoughts raced frantically through his memories of lurking in the shadows of Elhiyne. The night she’s agreed to go to Valso’s bed she had glanced his way. He’d watched her do so, feared at the time that she might have seen him, knew now that she had, knew now that he was a bloody, bloody idiot.

  He called out for Rhianne, called out for help, and a servant came. He asked the servant to find Rhianne and bring her to him. When the servant returned she said, “The Lady Rhianne said she’s not available. And she told me to tell you that, henceforth, someone else will see to your needs.”

  Chapter 29: The Song of the Betrayer

  Morgin stood in front of the full-length mirror in his room and looked carefully at his own image. He looked ridiculous. He felt ridiculous. He felt like a clown, dressed all in red: red breeches, red blouse, red cape. He understood that red was the ceremonial color of House Elhiyne, and he understood that Olivia had arranged for high ceremony that day. But red from head to foot? And the lace! White lace at cuffs and collar! He looked like a dandy, and felt like a fool. At least the knee-high boots and the hip length doublet were black leather. He put his hands on his hips and scowled. “Must I wear this in public?”

  Avis, kneeling beside him, making last minute adjustments to his sleeve, spoke around a mouth full of needles. “It is customary, my lord. And it was the outfit chosen for you.”

  Avis was being diplomatic. Olivia had chosen the outfit, and sent it with the servant to Inetka. But Avis knew better than to mention the old woman’s name around Morgin.

  “Very well,” Morgin said. “Let’s get this over with.”

  “Another moment or two, my lord,” Avis said. He worked feverishly at a small leather button on Morgin’s cuff. It looked all right to Morgin, but something about it offended Avis’ sense of propriety. Finally, satisfied, he stood, stepped back a few paces, and carefully inspected every inch of Morgin and his attire. “That should do it, my lord. Shall I tell them you’re ready?”

  “Ya,” Morgin said unhappily. “Go ahead.”

  “Very well, my lord.” Avis bowed deeply and turned to leave.

  “Oh,” Morgin said. “There’s one more thing.”

  Avis stopped just short of the door. “Yes, my lord?”

  “I haven’t forgotten that you were one of the few who had faith in me when everyone else thought I was a coward.”

  Avis smiled, a rare breach of his own private etiquette. “Thank you, my lord.”

  “No, Avis,” Morgin said. “I thank you.”

  Avis’ formality returned and the smile disappeared. “Will there be anything else, my lord?”

  “No,” Morgin said. “I guess I’m ready.”

  Avis bowed and left.

  Morgin, alone now, turned slowly through a full circle and surveyed his room carefully, making sure that everything of importance had been packed. He felt no regret at leaving, for there were no fond memories to look back upon. But after four months of continuous residency he had grown accustomed to the place. He turned back to the mirror.

  It was customary for a clansman to wear something of his clan’s colors on ceremonial occasions. And the higher the clansman’s station, the more of that color he wore. If it weren’t for that, and the fact that he’d seen his brothers and cousins wearing something similar on other occasions, he would have refused to wear such outlandish clothing.

  His eye caught a hint of movement in the mirror, someone in the room with him, behind him. He spun about, found the dark angel of his dreams, tall and black-clothed and handsome.

  Morgin backed away from him, thankful that he’d begun exercising again with France. His muscles were greatly improved. He had at least a faint chance of escaping whatever harm the dark angle intended. But his sword lay on his bed on the other side of the room, and he faced the angel unarmed.

  The dark angel shook his head, as if he were dazed or confused. Then his vision seemed to clear. He looked at Morgin and frowned. “You need not fear me,” he said. He held out both hands, empty. “See. I am unarmed. I have not come to harm you.”

  “Why should I believe you?” Morgin asked. “You tried to kill me once. Why are you here, if not to try again?”

  “I have come to deliver a message.”

  “A message?” Morgin demanded. “Who sends me a message?”

  The dark angel shrugged. “The source of the message does not concern you.”

  Before either of them could speak further the door burst open and Ellowyn charged into the room, broadsword in hand, her anger a livid and bright halo about her shoulders. “I knew you were here,” she screamed. “I sensed it.” She shouted out her hate, leapt at the dark angel and swung her sword.

  The dark angel eluded the stroke deftly. “Ellowyn,” he pleaded. “I am unarmed.”

  “You and your evil are never unarmed,” she screamed, “and now you must die.” She swung her sword in a long, flat arc meant to cut him in two. He was backed against the wall, with no room to step out of range. Her sword sliced through him cleanly, but in the instant of contact it touched only a column of gray smoke formed in the shape of a man. It whooshed through it with no discernible resistance, and slowly the smoke began to dissipate into the air of the room. Morgin and Ellowyn were alone.

  “What is that smell?” he asked.

  Ellowyn stared at the spot where the dark angel had stood, and after a long pause she spoke absently. “Brimstone, my lord.”

  “I suppose . . .” Morgin said, “. . . that you’re going to tell me that that was just another dream.”

  “No, my lord,” she said. “This now is a dream.”

  “Are you going to tell me who he was?”

  “No, my lord.”

  “Do you
refuse to tell me? Is that it?”

  “No, my lord. It is not by my choice.”

  “Is that the difference between us, Ellowyn?” Morgin asked. “Is that the difference between mortal and angel? We have a free will, and you do not?”

  She shook her head. “No, my lord. The difference is only that you believe you have free will.” And then she was gone. Just like that, Morgin stood alone in the room again.

  He collected his sword, buckled it to his waist, stepped into the hall and found it crowded with a large number of servants and retainers all dressed in the ceremonial yellow of Inetka. The soft murmur of idle conversation ceased quickly, and in silence they all bowed. Again he wondered why he must go through with this.

  Roland and AnnaRail and JohnEngine and Annaline awaited him at the bottom of the stairs. He and Roland had had their private reunion at Roland’s arrival several days earlier. Roland had been warm and close, without that distant reserve that Morgin sensed in JohnEngine and AnnaRail and Tulellcoe. And Annaline was just Annaline, more of an Inetka now than an Elhiyne.

  Wylow and his sons were there, and Edtoall and Matill and Rhianne’s sisters and their husbands. And too there was Val and Cort and Tulellcoe and Eglahan. And behind them all, far to the back, stood Rhianne, alone, with an almost vacant look of unconcern on her face. She too wore Elhiyne red, with her hair piled high on top of her head, and as always there was an unruly lock that had come loose to tease the edge of her cheek. Morgin remembered the night they first met in Anistigh. She had been beautiful then, with a twinkle in her eyes that hinted at a spark of mischief and strong will. She was beautiful now, as beautiful as ever, but the twinkle was gone.

  She’d avoided him and he hadn’t seen her since she fled from his room in tears. For just an instant she looked his way and their eyes met. In hers he saw a tear, a question, and then her look turned hard and angry. For this grand ceremony of Olivia’s she had her role to play as well. And, if need be, he would use that to advantage. So slowly, carefully, he walked toward her and the crowd parted before him. When he stopped in front of her he offered her his arm. She looked at him with cold indifference and took hold of his arm with a proud and strong grip.

  For Morgin’s return to Elhiyne, Olivia had sent with Roland an escort of twelve twelves of crack, mounted troops. They were the best in the tribe, having competed for the honor of accompanying the ShadowLord on his triumphant return. When Morgin stepped into the Inetka castle yard they startled him by snapping to a rigid attention, with each man standing beside his horse. They were an impressive sight, dressed all in red, with brass and silver hardware polished and gleaming in the sun, men and horses lined up in the yard in twelve rows of twelve.

  Their sergeant-of-men stepped forward and dropped to one knee in front of Morgin. He bowed his head as he said, “ShadowLord. My men and I are at your service.”

  “Abileen?” Morgin asked. “Is that you? Stand up and look me in the face.”

  The soldier rose and stood proud and strong. “I am honored that you remember me, my lord.”

  “Of course I remember you,” Morgin said. “You rode beside me at Csairne Glen, and I am honored that you ride with me now.”

  Abileen bowed deeply. Morgin noticed then that he wore a black armband. He asked about it.

  “The arm band signifies that I was in your original troop, my lord. There are few of us left, but we are all here today to ride in your escort. My lord, the men would be honored if you would review them.”

  This ceremony was taking a turn Morgin was not prepared for. “Of course,” he said. Then he whispered quietly so only Abileen could hear. “I’m not used to doing this kind of thing so you’d better lead the way.”

  Abileen smiled, turned about smartly. They passed down each row of soldiers, and Morgin paused and looked each man in the eyes, though only for an instant.

  As Abileen had said there were few wearing the black armband, all too few. But with each, Morgin went to the extra trouble of stopping and extending his hand. The first tried to bow and kiss it. “No,” Morgin said sharply. “We’re comrades, you and I, so just shake it.”

  The soldier beamed with pride at the rare honor. He shook Morgin’s hand happily, and kept shaking it until Abileen nudged him forcefully.

  When he finished the review Morgin turned to Abileen in front of the men and shook his hand. Then he reached out and embraced him tightly. The soldiers let out a single great cheer, then subsided into silence as Wylow ushered Morgin to a reviewing stand erected for the occasion.

  Wylow made a rather long-winded speech, praising the glory of the ShadowLord’s victory over the Decouix army. He spoke of more war, and painted a vivid picture of the price the Greater Council would pay for their aggression.

  Roland’s speech was quite different. He spoke of truce, an end to war, and he painted a picture of the good harvests that would come without soldiers tramping through the fields. He received polite applause, nothing like the raucous cheers that had accompanied Wylow.

  Then it was Morgin’s turn. Olivia had prepared and written a speech for him, and sent it with Roland with instructions that Morgin should not deviate from it by so much as one single word. Morgin knew her arrogance was not Roland’s fault, and while he considered refusing to accept the old witch’s instructions, that would have been quite unfair to his father. So he accepted the written speech without comment, then later, with no one to observe him, he tore it up without so much as reading it. If it were up to him, he would give no speech at all. But as in most things his preferences mattered little.

  He stepped up to the podium, looked down upon a sea of faces. Everyone had come to see the ShadowLord: the lords and ladies of Inetka, peasants from the countryside, soldiers and merchants, rich and poor, all come to bid farewell to the ShadowLord as he took leave of their lands. And in those faces he saw that they expected far more of him than he could ever give.

  Silence descended. They waited for him to say something wise and profound, and he forgot the few carefully chosen words he had prepared.

  A voice far back in the crowd screamed, “Long live the ShadowLord!”

  Abileen’s soldiers took up the cry and chanted, “ShadowLord . . . ShadowLord . . . ShadowLord . . .”

  The assembled throng joined in and it quickly became a deafening roar. Morgin raised his hands to silence them, and they screamed even louder, calling his name as if it was a badge of honor, or a cry to war.

  A hand touched his shoulder softly. He turned and found Roland there. “Perhaps now is the time to go, son.”

  Morgin said, “I didn’t want this.”

  “I know, son.”

  Wylow used his household troops to open a path through the crowd to Abileen, who waited at the far end of the yard with his men and horses, and pack animals, and Morgin’s retinue, and some spare mounts for Morgin and Roland and JohnEngine, and a carriage for AnnaRail and Rhianne and the ladies that would accompany them. Abileen held the reins of a large black mare, a tall, sleek, beautiful animal. But as Morgin approached more closely the sight of the animal sent a shiver down his spine, and when he finally stood beside her the magic of her touched at his soul.

  He looked at Abileen carefully, tried to keep the tremble out of his voice as he spoke. “The horse I was riding at Csairne Glen; where is she?”

  Abileen frowned. “Why she’s dead, my lord. In fact she died beneath you.”

  “Did you bury her?”

  “We must have, my lord, though we buried many horses that day, in a common grave. Did you favor the animal? Had we known we would have buried her separately.”

  Morgin shook his head and looked at Mortiss. She snorted and looked back at him as if to tell him he was a complete fool for not realizing she would be here, even if that meant returning from the grave.

  “Is this mount not to your liking, my lord. We can find another.”

  Morgin shook his head. “No. That won’t be necessary.” He took the reins from Abileen, grasped Mortiss�
� saddle horn. He still limped a bit, and had to bat a few retainers away when they tried to help him mount. But he carefully and painfully climbed into the saddle. Roland, JohnEngine, Val, Cort, Tulellcoe, and Eglahan mounted up and clustered about him, for they would ride beside him. Abileen’s soldiers mounted up in a single motion, and with a shout and a cry they rode from the castle along a road lined with cheering people.

  France was nowhere to be seen, and Morgin wondered where he’d gone. He asked those about him, but none there had seen the swordsman that day. But as they trotted down the road, well past the last of the cheering crowds, they came upon him waiting patiently by the side of the road. As they approached, he mounted his horse and brought it up to a pace that matched theirs, merging with them without a single missed step. He rode beside Morgin without comment, without expression.

  ~~~

  Morgin awoke to the sound of pipes. It was an eerie, faint sound, far in the distance, originating deep within the forest that surrounded the Elhiyne camp. The pipist was good, for the notes he blew told of years of practice. They spoke of the kind of familiarity with his instrument that came only after a lifetime of play. But the tune he chose was a sad one, almost a dirge, and it spoke of sorrow, of unhappiness and regret.

  Morgin looked up at the inside of his pavilion. He rolled groggily out of bed, pulled on a pair of plain, brown, loose fitting breeches, the kind he preferred. He threw on a white blouse and a leather doublet, then fought his way into his boots. The morning air in the mountains was always cold so he threw a cloak about his shoulders, then peered carefully out through the flap that separated his sleeping chamber from the rest of the tent. No one else was about, which was typical for one of his dreams.

  He tiptoed quietly through the antechamber. The guards outside leaned drowsily on their lances. Morgin tiptoed past them and was quickly gone.

  Only a thin sliver of sun had yet appeared over the mountain tops that surrounded Csairne Glen. The grass beneath his feet was green and wet with dew, the air about him cold and crisp, with a gray mist that hung close to the ground and made the sunbeams visible, but so faint that only the most distant objects were blurred by the haze. One would never know that this peaceful, grassy glen had recently been the scene of so much death. But the pipist knew; it was in his song.