Jumping out of bed, he shoveled clothes into his traveling pack, thankful for his Journeyman training which had sent him back and forth across the country, and instilled the instincts to travel light and ready at a moment’s notice. Slinging his pack over his shoulder, he eased out of his room and crept to the throne room.
Once again, the palace passageways were empty, with everyone inside fast asleep. His feet carried Fayne to the base of the dais and he stood in front of the Sword That Sings. He reached up to grab it and paused, his hand stilled just a finger’s width above the hilt. He took a deep breath and lowered his hand onto the metal, bracing for the shock of cold.
To his surprise, the weapon did not freeze his arm this time. It was chill to the touch, but there was a warmth underneath, like a fire in the middle of a snowstorm. The sword had spoken to him—this needed to happen. He knew that now.
Grabbing the sheath of the weapon, he tucked it away and fastened the belt around his waist. The blade felt oddly light compared to swords he had carried before, just a reminder that while it was enchanted, it was no weapon in the traditional sense. Even though he no longer held the hilt, Fayne found that he could still feel the magic, was still aware of its presence and the sensations it conveyed.
He ran out through the great hall and to the side door leading to the courtyard, opting for haste over stealth. If anyone saw him now, it would be impossible to explain why he was carrying the Sword That Sings. There was no reason for it to ever leave the main hall. This action doomed him as a traitor.
He eased the door open, wincing as the hinges groaned in protest, but the only sound that came in response was the chirping of crickets in the yard. Fayne didn’t bother to close the door as he slid through and ran to the stables. He didn’t want to take his chances going on foot. He needed to put as much distance between himself and the inevitable pursuit as possible. Plus, he needed help.
The small cottage house where Jhaeros lived was not even a stone’s throw away from the stables, but no light emerged from the windows. Fayne wasn’t surprised. Jhaeros would need to be up a few hours before sunrise to make sure the horses were fed and taken care of in case any of the lords or ladies wanted a morning ride.
Fayne knocked on the cottage door several times. Jhaeros groaned on the other side, but it was impossible to tell if it was a sign of him getting up or rolling over and going back to sleep. Fayne pounded on the door with the bottom of his fist, using a bit more force to add some urgency to his summons.
“Jhaeros! It’s me. Get up. We need to go, now!”
After some unintelligible mumbling and a few heavy thumps, the door swung open and Jhaeros stood there, blinking several times, then knuckling his eyes as he stifled a yawn. His dark hair was disheveled and pointing in more directions than the thorns of a thistle seed. A cold burning sensation emanated from the sword and spread through Fayne’s hip.
“Fayne? What the hell? The sun’s not going to be up for a few hours.”
“You remember what we were talking about in the stable? Well, looks like you get to live your dream. Traveling swordsman and all that.”
Jhaeros reached up and pulled his hair back, tying it behind his head with a small strip of leather. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. When he opened them, he focused on the man standing in front of him. “What are you talking about? Make some sense, or I’m going to shut this door in your face and crawl back into bed.”
“You know how I said that the sword spoke to me during the ceremony? It did it again. And it told me that I need to get it out of the city as soon as possible. It can’t stay here. Our entire future’s at stake.”
While Fayne spoke, his hand strayed over to the hilt of the sword, capturing Jhaeros’s attention and pulling his gaze down. When he saw the bejeweled hilt, his eyes grew wide and any trace of sleep fled completely. His hand reached out for a moment, but he jerked it back well before it came close to making contact.
“That’s . . . really it, isn’t it? The legendary Sword That Sings? You realize that even taking it out of the palace is a crime. Leaving the city with it would be considered treason!”
“I know, but there’s no other way. Look, I can’t explain it, you need to trust me on this one.”
Jhaeros hesitated, making Fayne pause. He needed to convince his friend—he couldn’t do this alone. Fayne forced a smile onto his face, hoping his feigned exuberance would cover the blatant lie. “Besides, once we return, we’ll have saved the nation and be heroes. Real honest-to-goodness heroes responsible for saving our country!”
Jhaeros stood in the doorway, his eyes darting back and forth from the sword to the stables. After a few tense moments of internal debate, he nodded and clapped Fayne hard enough on the shoulder to make the smaller man stumble.
“All right. I’ll come with you.”
• • •
Fayne shivered as the wind howled across from the Comb and bit through his clothes. A fierce gust caught the fold of his coat and ripped it from his hand, leaving him exposed to the fierce gale. After a brief fumble, he pulled the jacket closed, trying to shield himself from the elements. Not for the first time, he wished he’d the foresight to bring heavier clothing.
Their only remaining mount walked close enough behind him that her head prodded him, pushing on him as he fought against the wind. Jhaeros sat in the saddle, leaning forward to hug the horse’s neck, trying to absorb as much of the animal’s heat as possible. His face was etched into a scowl that had become his standard look these past few weeks.
Ahead, the road bent around a small cluster of boulders arranged in such a way that they were clearly meant to be a resting spot for travelers. The blackened fire pit in the center of the limited shelter reinforced this theory.
Once they were out of the wind, Jhaeros slid out of the saddle, collapsing to a knee with a hand on the ground to steady him. Fayne walked over to help his friend stand up, but Jhaeros slapped his hand away.
“Why are we here? We should have gone east like I suggested, headed into Karse. At least then we’d be warm.”
“The sword says—”
Jhaeros launched himself up and shoved Fayne hard enough to make the man stumble and fall backward. He instinctively reached for the sword, even though it was ceremonial. Ignoring him, Jhaeros stormed over to the exhausted horse, the animal too tired to eat, and began unloading gear from its back for the coming nightfall.
“I’m sick of listening to your damned sword! It doesn’t talk, but still you know what it’s saying and that it wants us to kill ourselves in these hills. There’s not even enough food for the horse! I thought we were going to be heroes. Instead we’re out here, on the border of Valdemar, just before winter, with almost no food. If that sword’s even saying anything, it’s been giving you the worst advice it possibly could!”
Fayne pushed himself up, dusting off the dirt after he did so. “And what about the times we tried ignoring the sword and what it wanted? Do you remember that? Do you remember the bandits stealing our horse? Do you remember the patrol from the capital that almost found us and would have killed us for traitors? Or how about the angry villagers in that town you insisted we stop at, despite the sword’s misgivings? You just wanted to have a nice bed for the night, and instead we barely escaped with our hides intact. It seems to me that the sword isn’t the one giving the poor advice.”
Leather creaked in protest as Jhaeros tightened his hands around the straps holding their meager gear in place. Fayne noticed the tension and backed down, shrinking into himself as he walked to the firepit.
“I’ll start a fire,” he offered so softly it could barely be heard over the wind whipping around the rocks. Jhaeros offered no response but continued unloading their gear, tossing a bedroll to land near Fayne’s feet. As he lit the fire with his magic, Fayne was painfully aware of how low his reserves were. Normally such an easy trick, now it left him bar
ely holding on to consciousness.
They went about the rest of their preparations for the evening in silence. Words had still not been exchanged by the time they were seated and eating salted pork and apples. It was simple fare, but it traveled well.
Afterward, Fayne curled up in his bedroll, removing the sword from his belt and cradling it in his hands as he fell asleep. It felt cold enough to sting his hands, but he refused to let it go and was too exhausted to let it keep his eyes open.
Again, his dreams were troubling. He imagined he was trapped in a blizzard, walls of white surrounding him on all sides. Someone shouted at him, but the words were lost to the roar of the storm; all that was left was the sense of urgency and importance. Fayne couldn’t even tell where the sound was coming from, nor could he see anything beyond the thick snows.
When he woke, he still clutched the sword, but something felt wrong—faint for lack of a better word. Sitting up and trying to shake the cobwebs of the dream from his brain, Fayne knew something was wrong.
He looked around, trying to put the pieces together. The fire was out, and only a few ashes remained, but that was to be expected. Jhaeros wouldn’t have kept the fire going and would’ve wanted to get some rest himself.
Realization crashed over Fayne like a wave. Jhaeros wasn’t there!
He scrambled to his feet and looked for some sign of his companion, but there was nothing. At first, he thought they might have been attacked, but then he noticed that all of the extra gear was missing, as was the horse. All Fayne had left was his pack and the sword.
He walked onto the trail and looked back, searching for any sign of Jhaeros, but it was too dark, and the hills obscured his vision. Maybe he could try setting out in the morning, hoping Jhaeros didn’t travel too far before making camp.
Shivering from his exposure to the bitter wind, Fayne slunk back into the shelter. He thought to check his pack before curling back up, and was pleased to see that at least Jhaeros had not ransacked his personal supplies. Fayne tucked himself into his bedroll, savoring the fact that it still had some residual heat. He grabbed the sword and froze, breaking out into an immediate sweat despite the cool temperature.
He didn’t believe it at first, so he checked again, feeling with his fingers and holding the hilt up to the sky so he could use the limited moonlight to verify his fear. Jhaeros may have left Fayne’s pack intact, but he had pried loose the precious stones from the hilt of the Sword That Sings.
Fayne let out a wordless scream of rage, pain, and exhaustion that echoed off the hills and came back to him. Tears burned against his cheeks as he clutched the sword to his chest. As he curled up, lacking the energy to remain kneeling, a soft and gentle heat spread out from the blade, lulling him into a restful—if not comfortable—sleep.
• • •
With a grunt of effort, Fayne pulled himself across the ground into the shelter of a low cluster of rocks that blocked the wind. At their base was the only place he could see that wasn’t covered in snow. Every muscle in his body was shivering. Where his clothes weren’t frozen solid, they stuck to him with a damp cold that ate through his skin.
Once he was out of the snow, he rolled onto his side and shrugged off his pack. The bedroll was damp too, but the inside was dry as he wrapped it around him. He continued shivering, but it did offer some small bit of comfort.
Once his trembling had calmed down enough that he could feel the exhaustion seeping into his bones, he considered his options. The bedroll wouldn’t warm him enough without a fire, and his reserves were too depleted to magic a flame or provide a shield from the elements. He reached down and clasped the hilt of the sword. He didn’t know if it could hear him, but he needed to try.
“I’m going to need your help. I could use some of that warmth of yours right now. Otherwise I’ll never make it through The Comb.”
The sword pulsed softly, issuing a gentle warmth that chased some of the chill from his body before falling still once again. Feeling invigorated from the magical assistance, Fayne stood and managed to trudge the couple steps to the edge of his shelter. Bracing himself against the rough rock, he leaned out, trying to see just how far he still had to go. It was a clear day, with a harsh wind that blew into his drawn face. But even here, near the top of a hill, all he could see was a barren, rolling, white landscape stretching as far as he could see in every direction. The trail was long lost, and it would take at least a couple more days to make it through The Comb.
Going back to his pack, he searched for food, but he found nothing. Upending it and spilling all his belongings out over the floor, Fayne saw he had no food left. He might be able to manage finding water, but nothing grew here that he could eat. His options were to starve, or head back and hope for the best.
He sat down and leaned back against the rocks, gazing out over his homeland stretching far to the south as far as he could see. His hand dropped down to the sword and rested on the hilt.
“I never was supposed to make it to Valdemar, was I?” he asked, his voice soft.
The sword was quiet for a long time before emitting a low, mournful sound that was beautiful enough to break hearts.
Fayne nodded and his lips curled up into a soft smile as he caressed the hilt with his thumb. “It’s all right. I think deep down, I always knew that. But . . . this will help them? This will save my people?”
The Sword That Sings began to glow, emitting a light as bright as during the coronation ceremony a year and a half ago. Fayne’s eyes had already closed of their own volition, but he could feel the light beyond them. And the song the blade released made Fayne think of his home, his people, and the country he loved. Fresh tears streaked his cheeks, with none of the sting of before.
“Then it was worth it.”
Fayne drifted into an exhausted sleep listening to the song of his homeland, the song of hope and prosperity. The sword slowly faded into silence as Fayne passed from the world . . . the traitor who had saved his kingdom.
Discovery
Nancy Asire
The storm that had lashed the town had dissipated with the coming of dawn, but relief from the oppressive heat and stickiness that usually followed such departure was absent. By midmorning, the town began to swelter in the summer sunlight.
Perran, traveling judge out of Sunhame, representative of the Son of the Sun and keeper of the laws of Vkandis, sat by the open window that overlooked the garden behind the inn where he and his assistant, Levron, had rooms. The two guards that always traveled with Perran stayed in an adjoining room, ready to take any orders from their master at a moment’s notice.
The scent of the flowering bushes in the garden wafted through the open window. Now that the sun had risen and the dampness of the rain began to evaporate, the perfume from those bushes grew even stronger.
“If it gets much hotter today, I swear I’ll melt.” This, from Levron, who stood by the window. “You’d think the storm would have brought some relief.”
Perran nodded. “It’s summer. We’ll survive.”
The judge sat clad in only a light white tunic, the black cloak of his judicial calling hanging by the side of his bed. He blinked and rubbed his forehead. The case he had been called to adjudicate appeared simple on the surface, but first impressions often led to misunderstanding. He caught Levron’s eyes.
“So, what do you think? A simple case of one family accusing another out of jealousy, or is there more here than apparent?”
Levron shrugged. “Hard to tell. The interviews I’ve conducted with their fellow citizens seem divided. Some favor the plaintiff, while others are strongly behind the defendant. As of now, I’d say the opinions are close to equal.”
“Equal? At first glance, possibly. Did you sense any underlying evasiveness in anyone’s answers?”
“I can’t truthfully say one way or the other. But given the status of the defendant’s family in th
e town, I wouldn’t be surprised if some statements might be swayed by their position.”
Perran steepled his fingers in front of his eyes. “So. What I need to know is rather simple on its face. Is this suit brought against Brock’s family because the child has a bad reputation, or is the plaintiff asking for relief because Jerret’s family suffered a loss caused by Brock? And what is the relief sought?” He glanced out the window and back again. “You’ve interviewed the majority of the townsfolk. Now I’ll need you to take the statements of the mothers involved.”
“Of course.” Levron rubbed the back of his neck and stared at the ceiling. “Not a chore I’m looking forward to. From what I can tell, the two ladies aren’t all that fond of each other.”
“A fact evidenced by the other interviews you’ve conducted. You say this animosity has been brewing for years?”
“According to everything I’ve been able to discover. Even those who appear to favor Brock’s family admit he’s been in and out of trouble since he was little. The only thing that has kept him from stronger discipline is the fact that his family is more prominent than Jerret’s.”
“Well,” Perran said, “not that we haven’t run into that before.” He sighed. “Do your best. And make certain the two ladies realize that you’re my assistant, that what they say to you will be repeated exactly to me. Don’t forget to pin your badge on your shoulder. That should be enough to keep what they say as honest as possible.”
• • •
Who to visit first? Levron paused at the edge of the street bisecting the town of Zallow’s Fork. This was the center of town, filled with the homes of the well-to-do, shops that catered to them, the inn where he and Perran were housed, and the town hall where the trial would take place. He looked to his left and right, considered tossing a coin to make his decision, then set off for Brock’s home.
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