The Sword Of Angels (Gollancz S.F.)

by John Marco

  ‘It felt like death to me,’ said Lukien, remembering the bliss of floating and the perfection of the apple orchard. ‘It is just how it was last time. Except . . .’ He shrugged. ‘She never came.’

  Lahkali was silent for a moment. She kept her hand in Lukien’s, giving it her reassuring grip. Soon the crimson would recede and the water would return to normal. In a few days time, the miracle would be over. Lahkali seemed determined to enjoy every minute of it, but her face drooped with concern over what Lukien had told her. She grew edgy.

  ‘Do you have anything that belonged to her?’ she asked suddenly.

  Lukien looked at her. ‘What?’

  ‘Cassandra. Do you have anything of hers with you?’

  ‘That’s an odd question, Eminence.’

  ‘I am wondering, that’s all. Some men carry trinkets of their lovers with them. Do you have one?’

  ‘No,’ Lukien said sadly. ‘Only this . . .’ He patted the amulet beneath his shirt. ‘Cassandra wore it before it was given to me. It reminds me of her constantly, but it’s not the kind of good memory you mean.’

  ‘Do you have anything else? A ring, maybe? Or a lock of her hair?’

  ‘No, nothing. Lahkali, why do you ask?’

  Lahkali did not look at him, but rather kept her gaze on the river. ‘Maybe I’m just curious.’

  ‘Or maybe not,’ said Lukien suspiciously.

  ‘What about a story,’ the girl suggested. ‘There must be a story about her that only the two of you know, something you both shared. Can you think of one?’

  ‘I suppose I could if I tried. Tell me why.’

  Lahkali laughed. ‘You are mistrustful!’

  ‘Lahkali, it’s a strange question!’

  ‘No, not here it isn’t,’ said the Eminence. ‘That’s how people talk about the ones they love here, Lukien – with stories.’ At last she turned to him. Her eyes looked tired. ‘We have been here long enough. Let’s go back to the palace.’

  ‘Already? We just got here.’

  Lahkali let go of his hand and began to move away. ‘It doesn’t matter. Let’s go to the palace, Lukien.’

  The long ride back to the palace was punctuated mostly by silence. Lahkali rode in a litter carried by a dozen brawny, bare-chested servants, while Lukien rode behind her on a horse of his own, remaining with the soldiers and Karoshin’s acolytes. The whole group seemed disappointed in the Eminence’s decision to leave the river so soon, but when they arrived at the palace Lahkali gave all of them leave to go back if they wished. Confused, Lukien hurried up to Lahkali and asked for an explanation. The young ruler merely smiled and took his hand again.

  ‘We should be alone,’ she said. ‘I want to show you something.’

  She was acting strangely, almost giddy, but Lukien allowed her to guide him away from the others and along one of the palace’s many flower-lined paths. It was late afternoon and the trees threw long shadows across the lane, providing needed shade and a hint of the coming evening. A few straggling priests who had not joined the others passed them along the way, bowing deeply to Lahkali and offering her words of thanks. They were in a part of the sprawling palace Lukien had never been before, and he took the time to marvel at the statues and high walls that rose up around them like a maze. The grounds became deathly quiet. Priests sat cross-legged under trees, deep in prayer, their lips barely moving as they lightly uttered chants. Lahkali kept to the path, walking slowly as she held Lukien’s hand, not bothering to explain any of the interesting things they passed. A strange sense of dread dropped over Lukien, but he could not fathom why.

  ‘Where are you taking me?’ he asked in a whisper. He looked around, surveying the statues and the walls built of carefully laid bricks. ‘Why is it so quiet here?’

  ‘This is a place of prayer,’ explained Lahkali. ‘People come here when they want to commune.’

  ‘Commune?’

  ‘Wait,’ advised Lahkali. ‘You will see.’

  They continued walking, turning left and right and left again, going deeper into the maze as if it had no end. The priests soon fell away, and up ahead stood a tall black gate with ornately twisted iron bars. Past the bars Lukien could see what looked like a cemetery, with long, rolling lawns and neatly trimmed trees. Dotting the grass were stones, some of them beautifully carved, others small and ugly. The gate was unguarded. It was also unlocked, as Lukien quickly learned when they reached it, watching Lahkali tug on it to pull it open. As she did she stepped aside, fully revealing the lovely space. Lukien peered his head inside. The tranquil setting brought a smile to his face.

  The garden went on for acres, stretching past the visible end of the palace itself, all of it hemmed in with various walls that directed the eye to the many separate areas. Amid the stones and trees, Lukien saw small pockets of people gathered, many of them kneeling next to the carvings, talking or nodding happily. Even the ones who were by themselves were talking. The nearest person, a young man in plain peasant garb, lay on his side near one of the stones, laughing and chatting all by himself. Lukien stared at him in wonder, and suddenly he remembered a very similar looking rock that he had once uncovered by accident.

  ‘Story stones,’ he whispered. He looked at Lahkali for an explanation. ‘What is this place?’

  ‘We call it the Story Garden,’ said Lahkali. Her face grew placid. ‘Lukien, this is the greatest gift I could give you. I have no other worthy way of thanking you for what you did for me. I laid in bed for days wondering how to repay you, and this is the only way that made sense to me.’

  ‘Lahkali, I don’t understand.’ Lukien peered into the garden. ‘Is this a burial place?’

  ‘No.’ Lahkali took his chin in her hand and guided his gaze to hers. ‘Listen to me now – this place is sacred to us. You spoke of the story stones. Do you remember?’

  Lukien remembered perfectly. In Kaliatha, Raivik the Akari had come from a story stone. It was how his people communed with the dead, he had told Lukien. ‘Tell me,’ he urged. ‘This place – can anyone speak to the dead here?’

  ‘It is a secret,’ said Lahkali. ‘No one outside of Torlis has ever seen the Story Garden. Only you, Lukien.’

  ‘Why me?’

  ‘Because you mourn, Lukien. All these years, and still you mourn.’ Lahkali took his hand again and stepped through the gate. The others in the garden paid them no attention. ‘Look at all these markers, Lukien. They are what the Akari Raivik told you they are – story stones. They call the dead back to our world.’

  Lukien was awestruck, drifting after Lahkali with his eyes like saucers. ‘All of these stones? They are all for speaking with the dead?’

  ‘In this place there are no boundaries between the worlds. The spirits of the dead can cross easily into our lives. The story stones summon them.’

  ‘And all these people? They are talking with the dead?’

  Lahkali smiled. ‘Does that seem unbelievable to you?’

  ‘No,’ sighed Lukien. ‘No. I want to believe. Tell me more, Lahkali. Tell me everything.’

  As they walked Lahkali spoke, continuing to lead him deeper into the Story Garden. The iron gate fell far behind them as Lukien listened, enraptured by the girl’s tale.

  ‘Malator the Akari built this place for us,’ she began, ‘hundreds of years ago. His people have the knowledge of summoning the dead; you know this already, Lukien. When he came to us, he passed this knowledge on to us and created the Story Garden.’

  Lukien nodded. ‘You haven’t mentioned Malator since I came here, Lahkali.’

  ‘And you have not asked, Lukien.’

  ‘What could I ask that you would tell me? He must have something to do with the Sword of Angels. Ah, but I don’t care about that now.’

  ‘You want to speak to your own dead lover, I know,’ said Lahkali patiently. ‘But listen to my story first.’ She continued walking, tredding green grass with Lukien at her side. ‘The Akari were angels to us. That is how the sword got its name. It is the Sw
ord of the Akari – the Sword of Angels. Malator was kind to the King of Torlis, my ancestor. This garden was a gift for the king.’

  ‘A gift? For what?’

  ‘That doesn’t really matter. Malator came here to ask our help, remember. In those days the Akari were warring with your people, Lukien. The Jadori were slaughtering them.’

  ‘The Jadori aren’t my people exactly, Lahkali. But go on.’

  Lahkali slowed. Up ahead stood a small altar, weather-worn but sturdy looking, sitting alone near a tree. A handful of chisels and brushes lay across the altar. Stacks of stones lay near its base. They were the same small, ugly stones Lukien had seen dotted throughout the garden.

  ‘Here,’ Lahkali pronounced. She stood beside the altar. ‘Later, when you are done here, I will tell you the rest of the story. But now there is something you must do, Lukien.’

  Lukien looked at her helplessly. ‘If there’s any way for me to see Cassandra again . . .’

  ‘Choose a stone.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘So you can make a story stone for Cassandra. Take any of them, it doesn’t matter.’

  Lukien nervously picked up one of the rocks. Smaller than his head, it nevertheless made a loud thud when he placed it on the altar. His hands dithered as he brushed the dirt from its smooth surface. He stared at the stone, then at Lahkali.

  ‘I’m afraid,’ he confessed.

  Lahkali’s face filled with sympathy. ‘Don’t be, Lukien. Remember – this is what you’ve always wanted. You don’t have to die to see Cassandra. You have only to come to this holy place.’

  It seemed impossible, yet Lukien believed. In Torlis, where rivers turned to blood and gods came to life as serpents, what did it mean to talk to the dead? It was just one more miracle.

  ‘What do I do?’ he asked.

  ‘Think of a story, anything that is special between you and Cassandra. Think hard on it, and then carve the words into the stone. Not the whole story, just a few words. Just something that she will remember. And when you do, believe.’

  ‘Believe,’ echoed Lukien. ‘Yes, alright.’

  He picked up one of the chisels, a small tool with a blade kept sharp by some caring grounds-keeper. He knew exactly what to carve into the stone, remembering those long ago days when he would send secrets notes to Cassandra. He always signed them the same exact way.

  ‘When I first loved her she was the wife of my king,’ said Lukien in a low voice. ‘Every chance I had I sent her notes. It was our secret. She kept them, I know, and hid them from her husband Akeela. Lahkali, if I sign on this stone, will she know it is from me? Will it summon her?’

  ‘Yes, Lukien.’

  ‘But it’s just a stone . . .’

  ‘No. Not here in the Story Garden. They are markers. They summon the ones we love. You have to believe, Lukien.’

  ‘Yes,’ Lukien agreed. ‘Alright.’

  He steadied the stone with one hand and began to carve with the other. Lahkali assured him that it made no difference how beautifully he carved or how he spelled the words. It was only the meaning that mattered, she explained, and how deeply he believed. Slowly, carefully, Lukien carved the stone with the words he’d used to sign his love notes all those years ago. It took long minutes for him to complete, and when he was done he leaned back and showed his work to Lahkali, who read the inscription and smiled.

  ‘Your Adoring Servant.’

  Hearing her say it made Lukien colour. ‘That’s it. That’s what I was to her. I still am.’ He looked at her blankly. ‘What now?’

  ‘Now you choose a place for it,’ replied Lahkali. ‘Someplace quiet and pretty.’

  *

  The place Lukien chose was away from all the other story stones, beneath a tree that reminded him of the apple trees in Lionkeep’s orchard. With Lahkali’s assurance that the stone would be left undisturbed, he set it down near the trunk of the tree and leaned back to study it. Lahkali had already left, telling him that she would return in an hour or so. Lukien stared at the stone, unsure how to begin. In the distance he saw an old woman kneeling comfortably by a stone of her own, a much taller and grander stone that had been carved with runes and gently sloping sides. Her face was serene as she spoke, confidently conversing with some dead loved one. Lukien noticed her casual demeanour, wondering again if this was all some elaborate ruse. Perhaps the dead did not come to the living at all here. Perhaps it was all just some grand imagining.

  Finally, Lukien placed his hand on the stone and thought of Cassandra. He had never summoned a spirit before, so he closed his eyes and concentrated, feeling a bit stupid.

  ‘Cass? I’m not sure what to say. If you’re here with me, please let me know.’ His hand began to tremble. His fingers brushed the stone, gently caressing it. ‘Maybe I was only dreaming up in the mountain, but it seemed so real to me. I was sure you would come, but you didn’t. I don’t know – maybe you never did come to me that one time.’

  He kept his eyes closed, making a picture of her in his mind. The picture was static, quiet and unmoving. Without a background, it was colourless. Lukien grimaced, realizing it was hopeless. Until the picture moved.

  It was not he who controlled it anymore. The image of Cassandra came alive on its own. Lukien’s hand froze on the stone. When he opened his eyes, the picture remained.

  ‘I can see you!’ he gasped. ‘Cass!’

  ‘I can feel you, Lukien,’ said Cassandra.

  His whole body swelled with her warmth. Lukien stared into the distance, looking past the trees and rolling lawn to the figure in his mind. Cassandra reached out a hand. The touch was sweet. Lukien melted.

  ‘You’re here,’ he sighed. ‘Cass, you’re real.’

  Cassandra’s face came clearly to him now, very close, as if she were laying next to him. She smiled serenely, her skin untouched by time or disease. ‘I am still here, Lukien,’ she said. ‘I told you I would be. I told you I would always be with you.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Lukien, remembering. ‘I’ve felt you close. I’ve tried to reach you, so many times!’

  She could sense his agitation and quickly moved to calm him. ‘My love, it is the way things must be.’ She moved even closer, almost touching his nose with hers. For Lukien, there was nothing else in the world but her. ‘I

  promised you this place, and you found it.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Lukien excitedly. ‘We can be together now always!’

  Cassandra shook her head. ‘Not yet. I brought you here to find the sword.’

  ‘I know, but I can’t find it, Cassandra. They won’t tell me where it is, not even Amaraz! But I can stay. Lahkali will let me. I don’t have to go . . .’

  ‘Lukien, no.’ Cassandra’s face twisted as though she were in pain. ‘My love, you’re not done yet.’

  ‘But I am! I helped Lahkali. I came here. I did everything!’

  ‘Except find the sword.’

  Lukien stared at her. ‘I don’t want to know where it is. If you know, do not tell me.’

  ‘I have to, Lukien. I must.’

  ‘But how can you know? You never knew before! Cassandra, don’t tell me, I beg you.’

  Cassandra’s hurt expression grew. ‘I can feel the sword, Lukien. I can feel it very near.’

  Lukien put up his hands. ‘Damn it, no! I’m not a pawn anymore!’

  ‘No, beloved, you’re not,’ said Cassandra gently. ‘You’re a man of honour. And you have a duty.’

  ‘Duty?’ laughed Lukien. ‘Doesn’t anyone have a duty to me? Not even Amaraz talks to me! Why, Cassandra? Tell me that, will you?’

  Cassandra smiled. ‘I have all the answers now, my love.’

  ‘What?’ Lukien fell backward. ‘Why then?’

  ‘Because the sword has an Akari. The sword is yours. The Akari is yours.’ Cassandra closed her eyes dreamily. ‘I can feel him, Lukien. I can feel Malator. He’s waiting for you.’

  Lukien refused to accept her words. ‘No, Cassandra. You don’t understand. You’re
not an Inhuman. I have an Akari. He’s a damned menace, but he’s mine.’

  ‘You’re wrong, my love.’ The pain left Cassandra’s face, and she opened her eyes with a smile. ‘Malator is your Akari.’

  Two hours later, Lahkali returned to the Story Garden. Beneath the tree where she had left Lukien, she found him still sitting alone. His eyes were open, but he was not speaking, and Lahkali knew that his conversation with Cassandra had ended. She took her time walking toward him, making sure not to disturb his contemplation, and when he turned to look at her he smiled. He looked tired, but also immensely pleased. Lahkali returned his kind grin.

  ‘It happened?’ she asked. ‘You have seen her?’

  Lukien nodded, then took the Eye of God out from beneath his shirt. ‘You see this? Soon I won’t need it anymore, Lahkali. I’m going to have an Akari of my own to keep me alive. A proper Akari.’

  Confused, Lahkali asked, ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The Sword of Angels,’ replied Lukien. His face was serene. ‘It’s mine. It belongs to me, and I know where it is.’

  48

  As he walked with Lahkali across the rolling greens of the Story Garden, Lukien felt more than simple bliss. What he felt was indescribable, too much for words, and because he had no words he said nothing. Lahkali’s voice was low and sweet, as though she were reading a sonnet to him. Lukien nodded politely, trying to listen, but his every thought was of his beautiful Cassandra and the brief, dream-like time they had spent together. She had touched him. From her place among the dead she had reached her hand across the void as though she were still alive. Her fingers burned with life and passion. Lukien thought of her and smiled.

  Jahan had been right about Torlis. It was indeed a place of miracles. And Lahkali had gifted him with the greatest miracle of all, one that made the river of blood seem like a parlour trick. Lukien floated as he walked, not really caring where the girl was taking him. He had told her about the crypt at the other end of the Story Garden, and she had smiled at him with open pleasure. Cassandra, now part of this strange city, had known at once where the crypt was located, finally ending the maddening mystery. But to Lukien, the revelation was merely one more tiny blessing. He no longer really cared about the Sword of Angels, or about the tale Lahkali was spinning. He had seen Cassandra, and for him that was enough.