"Dead, and better off there," Michael snapped. "Trying to live like the character in some stupid children's story, living the shadow of values from tales told of hundreds of years ago that probably never happened. The folly is sickening. All the lies I told myself, all the things that I believed in: honour, chivalry, duty, manliness, piety, they're all lies, empty words, none of them means a damn thing! So pathetic! Heroes die as easily as ordinary men, easier sometimes, while the most undeserving villains are left behind. Slaves outlive their masters. Lords and patriots fall in battle while lesser folk are spared. Nothing we do, nothing we believe in, nothing we try to be matters a bit, it all ends up the same way in death and dust and ashes. It's all so pointless."
"If you look at it like that then of course it's pointless," Amy snapped. "Did you think that life was going to mean something all by itself? You have to make it matter by living your ideals and never giving up and living them so well that other people want to live them too. You're right, honour is an empty word just by itself. It's what you think it means, what you hold in your heart and in your soul, how you let that meaning guide the actions of your life, that's what matters and that's what makes the word matter too."
Michael said, "I don't feel anything in my heart or soul any more Amy, so what am I supposed to hold there in this dead emptiness?"
Amy hesitated. "I don't know."
"I killed them," Michael said, "Fiannuala, Tullia. I killed them because I wasn't strong enough to save them, because I was too busy playing children's games."
"Is that what all this is about," Amy grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and hauled him up so his feet didn't touch the ground, glaring at him with fire in both her mismatched eyes and fury on her face. "You arrogant, patronising wanker. Do you think Fia or Tullia were helpless, that they were precious flowers who needed you to take care of them? They were warriors, both of them, and they took their lives in their own hands when they ventured onto the battlefield."
"And they both died, they must have had shaky hands," Michael said.
"Shut up!" Amy screamed. "I know they're dead, that's the risk we all take every time we fight, and sometimes death comes for the very best of us. They knew that, and they fought anyway. Not for you, not because they thought you'd protect them, but because they knew the risk and decided that it was worth it. They fought because they wanted to, because there was something important to them at stake. Because they were both brave, admirable, wonderful people. And they're dead. And that is a tragedy. But they aren't dead because of anything you did or didn't do, and it isn't sad they're gone because of how bad it makes you feel, and it demeans and insults the both of them to act like it was your actions determining their life, or that the only reason their deaths matter is how it affects you."
Michael looked away.
She hit him, pounding him to the floor with the force of a tidal wave upon his cheek, slamming him downwards into the hard surface of the house.
She turned her back on him. "Leave if you want to. Don't come back if you don't want to. I don't care any more."
Michael turned his head away. "I'm sorry, Amy. I'm so sorry for everything."
Amy looked back at him, then with much grinding of her armour she sat down. "I miss them too you know. A lot. But I don't go acting like an arse because of it."
Michael snorted as he rolled onto his back. "This is what I am Amy, this is the first time in my life that I'm not acting. I'm not playing a part now, I'm not pretending to be something I'm not."
"Well start acting again, I don't much care for this real you," Amy said.
"How should I act? I've nothing left to believe in any more, should I pretend that I do?"
"Would you?" Amy asked. "To please me?"
She smiled hopefully, and he would have dearly liked to have told her yes, for her he would once more become the honourable firstborn, the strong Coronim prince.
But there was an emptiness in his soul now, and even Amy's smile and the gleam in her beautiful eyes was not sufficient to fill it up again.
"I don't think I can. Not even to please you."
Amy closed her eyes, sighing as she bowed her head. "Pity. I could have used some of that pretended confidence."
"The sword?" Jason asked. It was the first time he had spoken since Amy and Michael had begun their quarrel.
"Gone," Amy spat. "Someone got there before us. Not too surprising, they probably didn't bury their dead. But Gideon's taking it hard. Normally I'd suggest Michael have a word with him, but at the moment I don't think that's wise."
Jason closed his eyes for a moment. "So what happens now?"
"We keep on going," Amy said. "We keep up the fight however we can. In Eternal Pantheia, Gideon says. What else can we do but go on?"
Michael and Jason followed her outside, to where Wyrrin and Gideon where waiting. Gideon looked quietly furious, Wyrrin ashamed. None of them said anything. Nobody had the energy to say anything, either to encourage or to shame.
What can be said now? Michael wondered. Tullia and Fiannuala are dead and we have failed. What words can make such catastrophe better?
And so it was in silence, heads bowed and shoulders slumped, that the five of them exited the dead city and all its traps and spells, leaving two of their number behind them until the world itself should come to an end, and passed once more through the iron gate.
The ringing sound of swords drawn from scabbards filled the air as they found a company of armed men waiting for them with weapons bared. And at their head stood Quirian, holding his right hand a white sword, shining with the power of the divine: Semper Fidelis.
"Ah, Gideon my dear old friend, how nice to meet you again after all this time," Quirian said, spreading his arms wide. "What do you think of my new sword?"
XXI
Helen
The house of the Manzikes' family had had a new gate put up to replace the one destroyed by Lysimachus. It was of bronze instead of wood, and looked hard enough to withstand a battering ram, though probably not another such as Lysimachus had been. However, having gained a new gate, the house had lost the vast host of soldiers that had garrisoned it on Miranda's last visit, the host of soldiers who had been so grievously slaughtered in Lysimachus' crazed rampage to reach Lord Manzikes and take his life.
Now, as the brass gates opened, Miranda saw only a small number of guards, mostly old men, standing ready in the courtyard. Despite their age - there was barely a man Miranda saw whose hair was not grey or white - they looked wary enough, and they were armed well enough.
"Are you sure this is a good idea?" Octavia whispered as she helped Miranda out of the palanquin.
"I have to confront her about this, before another attempt on my life gets someone else hurt, like you or Portia or even Princess Romana," Miranda said. "I want this over with. I want to know why."
"I don't like you putting yourself in danger," Octavia said.
"I don't like being in danger myself, but it has to be done," Miranda replied.
"No you don't," Octavia said. "You could just-"
"Just what?" Miranda asked. "Let it be? Turn a blind eye? No. I lived with the threat of the knife hanging over me for years. I will not do so again. I mean to have this out with her."
"What if she just decides to kill you?"
A smile tugged at Miranda's face. "She won't. That isn't how things are done here."
One of the armed retainers - a tall gentleman with silver hair and sharp features - marched out of the Manzikes' courtyard to greet her, bowing to Miranda.
"Filia Miranda Callistus, I presume?" he said.
Miranda nodded. "Indeed."
"Mater Manzikes is expecting you. She said that you would already know the terms of entry."
Miranda smiled. "Of course. Aelia, wait here with everyone but Octavia. Octavia, come with me."
"Always," Octavia said, her presence at Miranda's side exuding reassurance for all that she was trembling a little at the thought of walking into the lion'
s den.
Not the lion, the boar, Miranda thought. And her tusks are sharp, even if her aim is not so true.
Lady Manzikes' man led her across the courtyard - which was now so well tended that one might never guess that it had recently been the scene of a bloody massacre - into the house, which Miranda saw was far emptier than it had been. The bustle of her last visit was all but gone. She saw hardly any slaves or servants anywhere, only one or two passing through the corridors like ghosts on their way to whatever tasks they had been assigned. There were fewer candles, too, the darkness lending the Manzikes' house a murky, gloomy atmosphere like some old, abandoned ruin. The only thing that had not reduced since Miranda had come here was the sheer number of military trophies on the walls, the martial tapestries and stony friezes depicted battle long ago, the arms and armour taken from defeated foes across the centuries, the foreign battle standards carried home from the victorious wars. There seemed to be more of them than Miranda remembered, there was hardly a patch of wall that was not covered with them. What few staff Miranda saw seemed principally engaged in keeping them all clean.
"Is there a purpose served by so much vainglory?" Miranda asked.
Lady Manzikes' man said nothing in reply. Possibly he had not heard her, but more likely he simply did not deign to respond. Miranda wondered if she would get so frosty a reception from his mistress.
Miranda and Octavia were led into a modest parlour, with a few candles but a fair amount of natural light coming in from the west. There were a few couches surrounding a reasonable sized table, with both couches and table in various stages of worn out dishevelment. The table was of dark mahogany and set for tea, with honey and lemon cakes on silver trays.
On a couch of blue sat Lady Manzikes, dressed in a mourning gown of unflattering black, her light brown hair pinned in artfully untidy ringlets, her neck and arms devoid of jewels and a veil hanging down her neck and back. Her eyes, which Miranda had once though watery and mild, bored into Miranda as she rose to her feet.
"Filia Miranda, Filia Octavia," Lady Manzikes said without enthusiasm. "I would say how good of you it is to visit me except, of course, you rather invited yourselves. Or one of you did. Thank you, Faunus, that will be all now."
Faunus - the white haired fellow - bowed. "Yes, ma'am."
He retreated from the room and closed the door.
"Good morning, m'lady," Miranda said.
"I am no lady, not by law at any rate," Helen Manzikes muttered. "You may address me as ma'am, or mater, or Mater Helen if you wish."
Miranda frowned. "But your father is dead and-"
"And membership of the College of Patricians must be granted anew for each new generation by the Emperor," Helen said. "So far His Majesty has not seen fit to grant me my father's title."
"I am sorry if I offended you, ma'am," Miranda said. "Doubtless you can find some consolation in your vast wealth and holdings."
"Hah!" Helen snorted. "Spoken like a true equestrian, concerned only with the acquisition of wealth, no wonder you did not take that grant of a public horse, it would not have suited you at all." She rose to her feet, her mourning veil falling behind her down as far as her knees. "The first Lord Manzikes, Diomedes Manzikes, was admitted into the college during the conquest of Decura. For over five hundred years we have served the Empire proudly, without either question or complaint. That sword there was a gift from the Lord Diomedes to his son, Tydeus," Helen gestured to a sword that hung on the wall behind Miranda. It was a slender blade, curved a little on one side, with a gilded hilt shaped like a horse's head, with tiny emeralds for the eyes. The blade, Miranda saw, had a nick in it that had never been repaired. "It was carried for Romanus the Second at the battle of Irenicus; Tydeus Manzikes was one of the Fourteen Gallants who slew Agesilaus."
"I've no doubt a great many swords were carried for Demetrius the Third at Mirandahem," Miranda said. "Few of them are as well preserved as yours, I'll wager."
Helen continued as thought Miranda had not spoken. "My father was a great man, a great Commander of the Army, and he was but the latest in the long line of Manzikes who have devoted themselves in service to the state. And for that service the Emperor withholds my rights from me for no better reason than to spite my father for being a better man than he could ever be."
"I am sure His Majesty has his reasons," Miranda said.
"I know his reasons," Helen snapped. "He is a petty little man who seeks to maintain his position by casting down better men. Do not speak to me in defence of Demodocus the Second, I will hear none of it. If you came here for his sake you may as well leave now."
"Very well, I did not come to praise the Emperor," Miranda said. She looked around for something else to say. "I am a little surprised to find you still in mourning. Your sister is out of black, I believe."
"Anna may do as she pleases, as may I," Lady Manzikes said, her voice as hard and unyielding as a fortress wall. "Sit down, both of you. I understand that you are more than mistress and protector, now."
"Is that any of your business?" Miranda asked as she sat down.
"It is as much my business as my mourning is yours," Helen replied.
Miranda pursed her lips together for a moment. "I take your point, my lady."
Lady Manzikes sighed. "Anna and Alexius were betrothed when they were both still infants in swaddling clothes, you know. My father was a great friend of Alexius' father, and they dreamed of joining our two families. So Anna, although the elder, was raised to be the Lord Commenae's wife while I was raised to be my father's heir, and as his heir I will remain in mourning until he is avenged."
"Lysimachus Castra is dead," Miranda said.
Helen's lip curled into sneer. "Do you believe I care whether the sword is broken? I want the hand that wielded it." She was silent for a moment. "I must commend you, Filia Miranda, on your courage in coming here. I would probably not have accepted an invitation to Lord Quirian's house."
"I was not afraid of coming here," Miranda said quietly. "I am not afraid of you, Mater Helen, I have no fear that you will set your men upon me. I understand how this game works."
"Indeed?" Helen said. "And how does this game work, Filia? Enlighten me."
"Those in your position may do whatever they like provided that they do it in the dark," Miranda said. "But in the light you must observe the forms of tradition and propriety. You sent a woman into Quirian's house to kill me. You paid two men to infiltrate the palace and murder me at luncheon. But you will not kill me in your own house, while I am your guest. Some things, it seems, are simply not done."
Helen's smile was cold and sharp like a knife. "How astute of you, Filia. There are people who live their whole lives in our circles and never realise such simple truths. Some try to live their whole lives with honour and honesty, and they are undone by more disreputable men. Others try to take what they what, brazenly and in the sight of all, but in the Empire only the majesty of the throne can withstand the light shining upon it. For the rest of us, power is like a shadow: it withers under the gaze of the sun.
"It's rather a monstrous humbug, don't you think? We will fight and kill but only through proxies paid in secret and given orders in hushed whispers. All the while we strut about, mingling with our enemies at parties and soirees and boast all the while of our honour and the civility of our society."
Miranda leaned back against the settee. "It is hypocrisy, to be sure. And it would be unnecessary if you all tried to live your lives with 'honour and honesty'."
"Yes, I'm sure that if all men were honest there would be no crimes, and if I had been born a man I could have been the soldier son my father wanted," Helen declared. "The world is not as we would like it to be. My father was a honourable man, so was Alexius' father. And now they are both dead, and both their murderers are still alive.
"Both were brave men, both were great soldiers, both had the love of their troops, both had legions at their command as well as gold and influence and the resources of great house
s. Yet both are dead, struck down before their time, and if their armies and their wealth and their influence could not protect them then their honour certainly did not.
"And I am a woman. I have no armies to command, I have no legions to follow me into battle. All I have is gold and knives and prying eyes and so I will use the weapons allowed me to keep my house strong and my family safe. Surely you would agree Filia that, in a man's world, women do not have the luxury of honourable conduct?"
Miranda tilted her head to one side slightly. "In truth, my lady, I have always felt that honour was a bit of a humbug entire. My brother talked of his honour often and anon. How his honour demanded this, how honour would not allow him to do that, how so and so lacked honour but someone else was a fount of it. He once staved a boy's eye in with a rock, but he had acted honourably, for it was done in defence of a poor helpless maid. Honour is what people who cannot or will not behave in a moral fashion create so that they can claim to be acting in accordance with some higher principles. Did honour give the boy his eye back? No, I did that with my magic. Honour will not resurrect your father, and not even my power may drag him back from death. It is true, as you say, that women do not have the luxury of behaving honourably, but that does not excuse you or I from behaving morally."
"And how will morality shield me any better than honour will?" Helen demanded. "To be lectured upon right and wrong by you... you killed my father!"
"I saved your father's life," Miranda said.
"And murdered him moments later," Helen snapped.
"I had no part in your father's death," Miranda insisted.
"It has not escaped me, though it has escaped many others," Helen said, with the air of a conjurer about to reveal her trick. "That all of those killed by Lysimachus Castra were officers who had served in the Oretine war. Until, of course, he came to kill you. But of course he did not kill you, but perished at the hands of your golems. What a fillip for you and your cause, suddenly your golems were the talk of the city, and most of the talk compares them favourably to flesh and blood soldiers. Rather a coincidence, no?"
Spirit of the Sword: Pride and Fury (The First Sword Chronicles Book 1) Page 67