Eventually, the children had tired themselves out and gone to sleep, and Ridmark, Calliande, and Tamlin had told Michael about their experiences in more detail.
“God and the saints,” said Michael when they had finished. “God and the saints. I’m an old man, but I’ve never heard such a tale in my life. For twenty-five years I’ve seen the War of the Seven Swords, and both King Justin and the Necromancer defeated in a single month? It seems like a miracle.”
“Many others have said the same thing,” said Ridmark.
“Poor Sir Aegeus, though,” said Michael with a weary shake of his head. “Still, at least it was quick. And…you can always tell when a man isn’t going to die of old age in his bed. Aegeus always was such a man, God rest his soul.”
“Aye,” said Tamlin, and they raised their cups and drank to Aegeus’s memory. “God rest his soul.”
“But…you found Tysia again?” said Michael. “Truly?”
“She called herself Tirdua,” said Tamlin, “but it was the same woman.”
“I know not how,” said Calliande, “but somehow Tirdua and Tysia were both aspects of the same woman. She was split into seven shards. Six of them were slain, but one remains somewhere south of Owyllain.”
Michael stared at her.
“My lady,” said Michael, “forgive an old man with little knowledge of magic…but that makes absolutely no sense whatsoever.”
“You’re not wrong,” said Ridmark.
“It doesn’t make sense, my friend,” said Calliande, “but we shall find the truth of it.”
Tamlin and Michael had still been talking when Ridmark and Calliande had gone to bed, and Tamlin had been well on his way to getting drunk. Ridmark thought Tamlin had needed that. He and Michael had known each other a long time, and Michael had known both Aegeus and Tysia well. Perhaps that would help Tamlin deal with his grief.
Ridmark knew all about grief, and he knew there were far worse ways of handling it than by getting drunk with an old friend and toasting the dead.
He put aside the thoughts and finished getting dressed. It was a pleasant luxury to enjoy a decent shave. Kept his face from itching. Calliande had hinted more than once that she thought he would look good with a beard, but Ridmark had refused. For one thing, growing a beard would make his face itch. For another, if it grew too long, it would give an enemy an excellent handle on his face in a fight. It was the same reason he kept his hair close-cropped whenever possible.
Ridmark descended to the courtyard and saw that Calliande, the children, and Michael were already up. The saurtyri had set up a table, and Calliande and the boys were eating breakfast. Gareth and Joachim seemed to be competing for her attention, and right now Gareth was reciting a list of the High Kings of Owyllain, which he seemed to have learned from Father Clement.
Michael hobbled over. “Good morning, my lord. Did you sleep well?”
“The sleep of the weary,” said Ridmark. “How’s Tamlin?”
Michael chuckled. “Sleeping it off, I suspect. I think he’ll be all right. Knowing that you’re going to find this…this seventh version of Tysia, and that his mother can live again…well, that gives him something to do. A quest, I suppose. Keeps him from slipping into despair.”
“Aye,” said Ridmark. Despair was something he knew all too well.
“I lodged Prince Krastikon in the same room as that strange young knight of yours,” said Michael.
“Sir Calem,” said Ridmark.
Michael nodded. “Given the way that he and Lady Kalussa were looking at each other…well, it seemed prudent to lodge them on opposite sides of the domus.”
Ridmark snorted. “You’re a wise man, Michael. Though the King has given Lady Kalussa permission to marry if she wishes.”
Michael smiled a little. “I imagine you’re relieved to hear that, my lord.”
“God and the saints, yes,” said Ridmark, looking at Calliande.
“And your friend,” said Michael. “The woman in the dark armor.”
“Lady Third,” said Ridmark.
Michael frowned. “Third of what?”
“She’ll tell you if you ask.”
“I found her a room, but I don’t think she used it,” said Michael. “Spent the night sitting cross-legged on the roof.”
“She doesn’t sleep much,” said Ridmark. “Sometimes she wants to be alone to think.” He shook his head. “If I told you half the things she and I have survived together, you would think me a wild liar.”
“Given that she crossed the Deeps from Andomhaim to Owyllain,” said Michael, “I rather doubt that.” He shook his head. “It is strange to me.”
“What is?” said Ridmark.
“I am but a simple man,” said Michael, “and I have lived to see two bearers of the Seven Swords thrown down, the Keeper of Andomhaim come to Aenesium, and a man whose wife died twice and might live again.”
Ridmark clapped him on the shoulder. “I think I know exactly how you feel.”
The boys rose as Ridmark approached.
“Good morning, Father,” said Gareth.
“Good morning,” said Ridmark, sitting, and the children sat as well. “I hope you haven’t been bothering your mother.”
“Not at all,” said Calliande, smiling. “They were telling me about their lessons with Father Clement.”
“I don’t want to learn orcish,” declared Joachim.
Ridmark grunted. “Easier to learn it when you’re young than when you’re old. And once you are a knight, you will need to speak orcish. The orcs of the three baptized kingdoms speak it back home, and so do the orcs of Mholorast here in Owyllain.”
They talked of trivialities for a while, and Calliande told the boys of some of the things they had seen on their journey to Trojas and back again, though she avoided mentioning the horrors they had encountered. Ridmark hoped his sons would never see something like Taerdyn’s corrupted heart floating over that desecrated altar, or the undead reapers erupting from the stone of the courtyard like floating shadows. Somehow the conversation turned to the rumors that Calliande had ridden a trisalian in battle, and she wound up promising the boys that she would take them for a ride on the back of a trisalian. Gareth looked dubious, but Joachim was delighted. He had been fascinated with trisalians on the way here and had listened to Sir Jolcus talk about them at length.
“Did you ride a trisalian, Father?” said Gareth.
Ridmark shook his head. “No. I’m a Swordbearer. The Knights of the Soulblade always fight best on their own two feet. Soulblades can make their bearers stronger and faster, but not their horses…”
He fell silent as Michael limped back into the courtyard, leading a young hoplite in bronze armor and a crimson cloak.
“A guest to see you, my lord,” said Michael.
The hoplite bowed. “Lord Shield Knight, Lady Keeper. King Hektor sends his greetings, and asks that you meet him at the Palace of the High Kings as soon as possible.”
Ridmark met Calliande’s eyes.
They knew what they had to do next.
Now it was just a matter of convincing King Hektor.
###
A half-hour later, Calliande was ready.
She had donned the green gown that she had worn when she had met Hektor Pendragon for the first time. It had been loose the first time she had worn it, and it had become looser since. Calliande had never gained back the weight she had lost during her long illness. Still, she felt hale. Walking halfway across Owyllain and back again had helped to keep her fit.
One last check of her reflection in the small mirror, and she descended to the entry hall. Ridmark and the others awaited her. Her husband wore his dark elven armor and gray cloak, Oathshield waiting at his belt. Third and Kyralion wore their usual armor and clothing. Krastikon and Tamlin both had donned the armor of Arcanius Knights, the bronze polished to a mirror sheen. Likely they had kept Zuredek’s saurtyri busy last night. Kalussa had changed to a sleeveless red gown that fit her well (though it made
for an odd contrast with the dark Staff of Blades), and Calem stood next to her, face impassive, though his green eyes kept flicking in her direction, almost against his will.
“How is your head?” said Ridmark to Tamlin.
Tamlin grunted. “Like someone is using it as a marching drum. But, I’ve done harder things while hungover.”
“Dare I ask what?” said Ridmark.
“Fighting, of course,” said Tamlin. He yawned. “Nothing unsuitable for the ears of ladies…”
He trailed off as Calliande descended the stairs to the entry hall.
“Ready?” said Ridmark.
“I am,” said Calliande. She reached the bottom of the stairs, smiled at him, and Ridmark took her arm. “The Keeper of Andomhaim is ready to pay a visit to the King of Aenesium.”
Ridmark looked to the hoplite, who stood just next to the door. “You heard her.”
The hoplite bowed and led them from Tamlin’s domus and into the streets of Aenesium.
Soon they came to the Agora of Connmar, the central square of Aenesium, with the massive copper dome of the Great Cathedral rising on one side, the maze of the Palace of the High Kings standing on its terraced hill on the other. A heroic statue in the center of the Agora showed Connmar landing upon the shores of Owyllain to found his new homeland, and statues of heroes of Owyllain’s past stood scattered around the square.
The hoplite led them across the Agora and through the double doors to the great hall. Calliande shivered as she looked around the great hall, remembering the desperate fighting that had taken place here. The servants and the saurtyri had cleaned up the blood and the corpses, but the fighting was still vivid in her memory. For that matter, the servants had not been able to repair the scratches from errant weapon strikes on the pillars or the grooves left by the razor-edged disks that Khurazalin had conjured from the Staff of Blades.
She glanced back and saw Kalussa staring at the floor, her expression tight, her fingers white where they grasped the Staff. Yes, she remembered, too.
The hoplite led them from the great hall and to the outer terraces of the Palace, past the rich gardens that grew there. Calliande looked over one of the gardens, and a far more pleasant memory went through her mind. On the night of the banquet, she had worn a reunion dress and led Ridmark to that garden, and they had lain together for the first time since she had gotten ill during her pregnancy. So long as their health and vigor lasted, Calliande prayed that she and Ridmark would never go through such a long drought again.
She glanced at Ridmark and saw him smile. He remembered, too.
They came to the terrace garden where Queen Adrastea had tried to persuade Calliande to allow Kalussa to become Ridmark’s first concubine. It had only been a month and a half ago, but so much had happened since then that it felt like half a lifetime. Small paths of white stones wound through flowering bushes and short trees, and the terrace garden had a splendid view of the harbor and the western sea beyond.
King Hektor Pendragon and two other men awaited them.
The King of Aenesium looked like many of the other Pendragons that Calliande had met over the centuries, with the same dark eyes, proud beak of a nose, and dark hair, though Hektor’s hair had turned the color of iron. His skin was leathery and scored with deep lines, and Calliande saw old scars on his face and hands and knotted forearms. The King of Aenesium wore only a red tunic, trousers, and dusty boots, though a diadem of red gold rested on his gray hair and the Sword of Fire hung in its scabbard at its belt.
The Sword of Fire blazed with magical power to Calliande’s Sight, as all the Seven Swords did.
The lines in Hektor’s face had grown a little deeper, and she saw the echoes of grief in his dark eyes. Losing his wife to the treachery of his firstborn had been a grievous blow, though he took care not to let the grief show.
Next to Hektor stood two other men. The first was a sturdy-looking young man of about Kalussa’s age, and he looked like a younger version of Hektor. That was Prince Aesacus, the new Crown Prince of Aenesium after Rypheus’s death. The second man was in late middle age, balding with a perpetually sour expression. He was Nicion, the Master of the Order of the Arcanii. He had tried to bully Calliande at first. That hadn’t gone well for him, so he had adapted by enforcing Calliande’s suggestions as orders, which she hadn’t intended either, but it was better than Nicion trying to undermine her.
Tamlin, Krastikon, and Kalussa went to one knee before the King, and Calliande, Ridmark, Third, Calem, and Kyralion bowed.
“My friends,” said Hektor in his deep, hoarse voice. “Please, rise.” His eyes flicked over them. “The Sword of Fire, the Sword of Air, the Sword of Earth, and the Sword of Death gathered together in a single place. That has not happened for over twenty-five years.”
“It has not,” said Calliande. “Perhaps we will be able to reunite the Seven Swords together before we destroy them.”
“We may hope,” said Hektor. He looked at Krastikon. “When last I saw you, Prince Krastikon, you were expecting not to return from Trojas. Now you are the Prince Consort of a newly-crowned Queen.”
Krastikon bowed again. “It seems that God had work for me yet, lord King. My wife Queen Zenobia sends her greetings and will give what aid she can in the war against the Confessor. Yet the Necromancer’s long rule left Trojas ravaged, and it will take some time to rebuild.”
“Your bear the Sword of Death,” said Hektor. “Then I assume that Taerdyn is indeed dead at last?”
“Yes,” said Ridmark.
“God and the apostles,” said Nicion with a long breath. For a moment his sour expression looked haunted. “I remember him well. There were four of us. Myself, Cavilius, Cathala, and Taerdyn. The four chief apprentices of Master Talitha. But now Talitha is dead, and Taerdyn as well. He was always the most brilliant of us, but the cruelest, the hardest.”
“He did not age well, Master Nicion,” said Ridmark. “It would have been a mercy if he had been killed at Cathair Animus, and much evil might have been averted.”
“Aye,” said Calliande. “But Cathala may not be dead.”
Hektor blinked, surprise going through his solemn mask. “Justin Cyros boasted of her death.”
“It seems he might have been mistaken,” said Calliande.
She recounted what had happened in Trojas, telling the King and the Prince and the Master of Taerdyn and his plague curse, of Tirdua and her strange death, of Taerdyn’s revelation that Cathala could be returned to flesh and blood by the power of the Sword of Earth. Hektor listened without interrupting, and even Nicion looked too startled to speak.
At last Calliande finished. “Once Zenobia was crowned, and the King’s Men appointed at the new nobles of Trojas, we left for Aenesium at once.”
“Father,” said Aesacus. “That is a strange tale, but the Shield Knight and the Keeper have aided us too much for us to doubt their word. What do you make of it?”
Hektor paced back and forth a few times. “In truth, I do not know.”
“If I may ask,” said Ridmark, “what are your plans now?”
“To march upon the Confessor in Urd Maelwyn,” said Hektor, “and to take the citadel and slay the Confessor, just as my brother took Urd Maelwyn and slew the Sovereign.” He let out a long breath. “It will not be an easy campaign. The Confessor knows that we will come for him. We shall have to take the outer citadels that guard the entrance to the vale of Urd Maelwyn, and then we will have to lay siege to the city itself. Due to the difficulty of supply, it is impossible to take Urd Maelwyn without a unified Owyllain to both feed the army and to defend the supply lines to the siege camps. My brother Kothlaric managed it. I hope I am equal to his example.”
“And you wish us to accompany you on this campaign?” said Ridmark.
“I do,” said Hektor. “If we can seize Urd Maelwyn and claim the Sword of Water, the way to Cathair Animus will be clear. We can march upon the ruin and force Rhodruthain to come to terms, and taking the Sword of Shadows from the
Masked One will be a simple matter. He has barely a thousand soldiers to hold Xenorium. With six of the Seven Swords, we can seize Cathair Animus, force Rhodruthain to surrender, and free my brother. Then Owyllain will be reunified under its proper High King once more, and we can compel Rhodruthain to send you and your family home to Andomhaim.”
Calliande took a deep breath. “Lord King, my oath and office as Keeper compel me to speak and offer counsel.”
Nicion looked irritated, but both Hektor and Aesacus nodded.
“Please, my lady,” said Hektor. “Speak and counsel.” A faint smile went over his bearded lips. “I doubt I could stop you.”
“No,” said Calliande. Her smile faded. “My lord King…I fear we are walking into a trap.”
“Please, explain,” said Hektor.
“Both Justin Cyros and the Necromancer believed that taking all seven of the Swords to Urd Maelwyn would herald the advent of the New God,” said Calliande. “They were mortal enemies, opposed in all things, yet they agreed upon this point. They both thought that bringing the Seven Swords to Urd Maelwyn would summon the New God. Why?”
“I do not know,” said Hektor.
“And there are other strange things we have seen, things for which there are no explanation,” said Calliande. She thought about bringing up the Masked One of Xenorium but decided not to strain her argument just yet. “The Maledicti claim to be serving the New God…but they have worked for different sides in the war of the Seven Swords. Khurazalin, I fear, corrupted your son.” Hektor inclined his head, his face a grave mask. “Yet Khurazalin also aided Sir Archaelon, and Khurazalin aided Taerdyn in the Blue Castra…”
Sevenfold Sword: Shadow Page 6
