Jarrel blinked and stared open-mouthed at Hrisko.
Hrisko smiled with pride and said, “From now on, I will call you Hawkeye.”
Jarrel woke.
Sunlight streamed into his east window. He rose and sat on the edge of the bed, recalling the dream. “Nothing, and everything,” he whispered.
He had promised Queen Laurice an accounting of the investigation, and he would definitely give her one.
Out in the hallway he called Polto.
Polto straggled out of his own room, rubbing sleep from his eyes. “Yes, Jarrel?”
“We have an audience with the queen.”
“We? This early?”
“Yes. Run ahead and announce us, will you Polto? I have an errand to do first at the eastern guard tower.”
Polto nodded and ran off toward the queen’s chambers.
“You’d better have good reason for waking me this early in the morning, Jarrel,” Laurice said, cinching her robe tighter. Polto was there, in one corner, and so was Chancellor Skaal, sitting on a wooden chest. “It better be good news,” she added with a sigh.
“It is, and it isn’t.”
Laurice shook her head, looking Jarrel up and down. She sat on her bed. “You are a puzzle.”
Skaal stood and smoothed out his own night dress. “Well, I heard Polto running down the hall and decided to see about the commotion. But if you don’t need me, I’ll go back to bed.”
“Stay,” Jarrel said. “For I’ve discovered who took the Tappan stone.”
Skaal blinked in surprise, then sat.
Laurice said, “What? Already?” She glared at Polto, who suddenly looked nervous.
Jarrel walked over to Polto, whose eyes betrayed his worry. “Polto was a thief, and his mother was poor, this much is true. The Tappan stone is priceless, but therein lies the problem. Who in his right mind would think for a minute of trying to sell the Tappan stone for coin? Polto was a thief, but no longer. And his mother is living comfortably at least.”
Queen Laurice smiled. “I never doubted Polto for a moment.”
Polto looked relieved, but Jarrel thought he saw a moment’s irritation on his servant’s face.
Jarrel turned his attention to the chancellor. “Chancellor Skaal. You never made contact with Bakal, the seer. Was it so Bakal couldn’t track the whereabouts of the Tappan? So you could hide it without worrying whether the seer would find it in a place that incriminated you?”
“No!” Skaal insisted.
“No,” Jarrel said. The thoughts that fell into place during the night after his dream had cleared his head of much of his doubt. Certainly, he’d realized his skill did extend farther than trailing pickpockets. He could read Skaal like an animale master. “No, you didn’t. But you’ve resented King Torrance from the day he married Queen Laurice and you had to give up your regency, isn’t that so?”
Skaal slumped, looking at the floor. “Perhaps I resented him,” he said. “But I didn’t take the stone to enact revenge on him.”
“You wouldn’t necessarily have had to take the stone. You’d only need it to disappear. You’re an Eliminator. Destroy the Tappan, and Torrance would be ruined.”
Skaal stared hard at Jarrel, his eyes dark and unyielding. “I didn’t.”
“You’re a loyal man, then. You once saved Torrance’s life.” He walked to the eastern window and looked out toward the sun. “Tell me something, Skaal. Have you, to the best of your knowledge, ever disobeyed an order from King Torrance?”
Skaal’s answer was quick. “No.”
“An order from Queen Laurice?”
“No.”
“Why didn’t you allow Bakal to come up to see the Tappan?”
This time there was a pause. Jarrel turned back to Skaal, and on the chancellor’s face a flurry of expressions cycled through a handful of emotions before his jaw clenched.
“Why, it was the wish of Queen Laurice.”
Jarrel now walked to the bed and crouched down until he was face to face with Laurice.
“You would have the unlikeliest motive for taking the Tappan. It would put your husband at risk. You specifically asked me to lead the investigation. Surely you had nothing to hide.”
She smiled a pleasant smile. “Of course not.”
He stood, shaking his head. “And that puzzled me. Because you really do have a motive. You really don’t care much for the king. Yours was a marriage of convenience. Convenient because in truth, you despise Varlaux, don’t you? Enough so that you would rather be at war with them than be at peace. Oh, and I certainly know you don’t think much of my abilities as an investigator. Apart from watching money pouches.”
Laurice reddened and patted her hair. “That’s very interesting, Jarrel, but I’m still waiting to find out what happened to the Tappan.”
“Polto,” Jarrel said, turning to look at his servant. “Do you remember the night on the tower, when you came to get me? When Queen Laurice told me to find the Tappan?”
“Yes, Jarrel.”
“Did you see her do anything unusual?”
He shook his head. “No. I mean, nothing unusual for a Changer. She turned one of your buttons into a shawl.”
“Do you have the shawl, Queen Laurice?” he asked, turning once again. “Could you retrieve it?”
“It’s in my wardrobe.”
“Could you retrieve it?” he repeated.
She stared at him a moment, then gave a sigh of exasperation. “Fine. Yes, of course.” She stood and went to her wardrobe. In a few moments she found the shawl and gave it to Jarrel.
Jarrel nodded his thanks and took it over to Polto. “Take a close look, Polto. What do you see here embroidered on the corner?”
Polto peered intently at the shawl. “I see two letters. An L and an S. Those are initials.”
“Laurice Sunderstone,” Jarrel said.
“It’s my shawl,” Laurice said. “So?”
“Well, I was always under the impression that you were a Changer. You take an ordinary object and change it into something else.” He jabbed a finger at his temple. “I thought about that, you know. That you might have changed the stone into something, and no one would be the wiser. But when I realized what you were doing with your magic, I knew you couldn’t possibly have done that.”
Laurice smiled. “Of course not.”
“You’re not a Changer, you’re an Exchanger.”
“What?” Skaal said.
Laurice was silent.
“You didn’t change my button into that shawl. That shawl already existed. It’s yours. You simply made the button and shawl trade places.”
Skaal drew in a breath. “Good gods,” he said.
Laurice looked uncomfortable. She smoothed a wrinkle out of the bedcovers. “So I’m not a Changer. Where are you leading with this, Jarrel? Do you have the Tappan or not?”
Jarrel reached into his pocket and pulled out four round black objects. “I found this hawk dung behind your throne.”
Laurice paled and put a hand to her throat. She let it flutter there, nervously.
Jarrel put the dung back in his pocket. “I didn’t tell you this, but I’ve been unable to commune with my hawk, Talam. He won’t respond to me. He flies as if insane.”
“That’s—unusual,” Laurice said.
“Here’s what happened.” Jarrel sat on the bed next to Laurice. He draped her shawl over his knee. “Before meeting with me, while in your throne room, you made the shawl and hawk trade places. That put Talam there with you in the room.”
“What?”
“Of course, that left your shawl somewhere outside on the ground. You couldn’t figure out any other way to capture the hawk, and you certainly didn’t know I communed with it.” He raised the shawl. “That night out on the tower, you realized you didn’t have this, and exchanged my button for it.”
“So I like hawks,” she said. “Why not bring one inside the throne room?”
Jarrel shook his head. “Once you had the haw
k, once you could visualize this particular hawk, you exchanged again.”
Queen Laurice said nothing.
“Exchanged for what?” Skaal asked.
Jarrel ignored Skaal’s question. “Last night I had a dream. I dreamed of my past, when I was a boy studying under Master Hrisko. You remember him, don’t you Queen Laurice? You studied with him for a time yourself, though you never did do well as an animale initiate.”
She glared at him, but nodded.
“I learned to commune with hawks by realizing that I had to use my eyes,” Jarrel said, “not my tongue. When sight is altered in any way, the connection is lost. That is especially true of the animale. In my dream, as in my past, I could not communicate with the hawk when Hrisko put a hood over his head.”
Jarrel stood, handing the shawl to Laurice.
“So finally,” he said, “you took the Tappan and exchanged it for one of the hawk’s eyes.”
“Good gods,” Skaal said again.
“Like”—Polto stuttered—“like a glass eye!”
Laurice leaned away from Jarrel, then stood.
“That’s why I couldn’t speak with Talam,” Jarrel said. “You damaged his sight, and it broke any possible connection with me. This wasn’t your intent, not knowing about Talam. You simply hoped that without direction, he would wander off, perhaps to the far villages, where food is plentiful, taking the Tappan away from the castle.”
Laurice walked away, came to stand by the window. “Like you said, Jarrel, you have everything, and nothing. No Tappan, no proof.”
“I had nothing,” Jarrel said. “Polto, would you please open the door? I have a guest outside.”
Polto nodded and slipped by everyone to the door. When he opened it, a young man in uniform came in carrying a burlap bag. On his back was a bow and quiver of arrows.
Jarrel motioned the young man to him. The man gave Jarrel the bag, turned and bowed to Laurice, then left the room.
She whispered, “I hate it when people bow.”
Jarrel opened the bag. The hawk was there, injured but alive. “That was one of our best archers. Clipped Talam’s wing, enough to bring him down.”
He held up the hawk, and the Tappan stone was there, in the hawk’s right eye. The red gem, flawless, glowed as if from an inner fire.
Laurice made for the door, but Skaal, still quick in his old age, got there first and blocked her way.
“You still have the eye, don’t you?” Jarrel asked her. “You had someone cast a spell to preserve the eye. Someone insignificant in the scheme of things, someone who didn’t understand what was going on or realize the full seriousness of the matter. So that after you were rid of Torrance, you could, no matter how far away Talam was from the castle, exchange Talam’s eye with the gem and miraculously find the Tappan again.”
Laurice was as silent as the hawk, which had not moved since being taken out of the burlap bag.
Jarrel glared at her. “Where is it?”
Laurice hung her head and said, “A box. Under my pillow.”
Polto went to the bed, removed the pillow, and found the box.
“Look inside, Polto,” Jarrel said.
Polto looked and made a face. “Looks like an eye to me.”
Jarrel held the hawk higher. “Make the exchange. Do it now, and King Torrance might be lenient when he returns.”
Laurice sighed, tears pooling in her eyes. She closed them, the tears tracking down her white face, and mumbled softly.
The exchange was made. Jarrel knew it before looking at the box. At this close distance, he could sense Talam’s presence and his confusion. He squawked loudly, trying to move from Jarrel’s grip. Jarrel communed easily with the hawk for a few moments, then broke the light trance and put his hand out for the box.
While Polto gave the box to Jarrel, Skaal took Laurice gently by the elbow. “Come on, Laurice. I’ll have to take you to a holding cell until King Torrance returns and can decide what to do.”
“That’s Queen Laurice,” she mumbled.
“Not anymore,” Jarrel said.
Laurice lowered her head, avoiding eye contact with Jarrel, who had come up close beside her. The hawk squawked again.
“You can’t blame him,” Jarrel said. “Talam really doesn’t like you.”
Then Skaal led her away.
Polto followed to the door, poked his head out into the hallway, and watched them disappear down the corridor. When he turned back into the room, he said, “The Tappan. What will you do with it?”
Jarrel gave the hawk to Polto and took the Tappan out of the box, holding it up to the morning light. It shone like wildfire. “Take it somewhere safe.”
He would take it to the seer, Bakal, where it would remain until King Torrance’s return. Then it would be given back to Varlaux, and peace between the two kingdoms could begin. He smiled at Polto. “First, I’m going to talk to Talam for a while. Then I’ll get him some help for that wing of his.”
“I like him,” Polto said.
Jarrel nodded, pleased. Maybe Polto would make a good animale initiate.
Polto smiled, giving Talam back to Jarrel.
After Polto had left, Jarrel communed with Talam. For the first time in a long while, he felt peace.
RAMÓN TERRELL
WHEN SHAWN INVITED ME TO WRITE A STORY FOR PART THREE OF HIS amazing Unfettered anthology series, I had to take few moments to come down off the excitement of such an opportunity so that I didn’t foam at the mouth all over him through the computer screen. This series of anthologies means a lot to me for several reasons. The first Unfettered was born by top SF&F authors coming together to donate short stories into what would become a bestselling anthology to help a truly worthy cause. Being part of Unfettered, which launched Grim Oak Press and lists some of the biggest and best authors in the genre, is a high honor that has left me thrilled and humbled.
My decision to write “The Spectral Sword” came through my longtime desire to return to the World of a Broken Age. I started that world when I was a new author. My first book in the series, Echoes of a Shattered Age, was the first book I ever wrote. Looking back, I see how much I’ve grown since then. I wanted to write something in that world again that would introduce people into the World of a Broken Age, before the events in Echoes. This story sits in a book among giants. I truly hope you will enjoy it.
Ramón Terrell
The Spectral Sword
Ramón Terrell
1
Staring across the threshold of the underground chamber, Shinobu could imagine the admonishments of every one of the teachers—young to practically ancient—of the farstrider clan. Just as when he was a boy, they would warn him about his maturity level not matching his skill. They would have demanded he leave this place.
But they hadn’t cried themselves to sleep every night as a child. Shinobu closed his eyes and could see his big sister and brother, smiling teasingly at him after many a beating during their endless sparring matches.
Aika. Hironobu.
Gone. Disappeared one day, with only the faint trace of some otherworldly resonance remaining. “Demonic resonance,” the family elder, Hikaru had said. Even now, decades later, Shinobu could see her in his mind’s eye, trying to hide the genuine fear in her eyes when she’d detected the residual energy. “Sometimes even a weaker demon can find its way past the barrier between our dimensions, Shinobu,” she had told him. “But for one to bypass the wards and take someone back to their world speaks not only of power, but cunning. Beware evil possessed of cunning, boy.”
Shinobu opened his eyes and stared at the sword . . . that beautiful sword, sitting secure in a recess in the stone wall on the far side of the chamber. He thought he could hear it calling for him to enter the chamber and take it up in his hands.
The farstrider took a deep breath. Two nights ago he’d dreamed someone had come to him with a sword that could help him free his siblings. The visitor had been shrouded in green mist, but the power of its presence
was overwhelming. Shinobu had known better than to tell anyone about the dream; anyone but wise old Hikaru, that is.
“Beware spirits and demons that come to you in dream,” Hikaru had warned. “They know our deepest desires and use them to ensnare us, or use us as their instruments.”
Shinobu had bowed politely and thanked her without another word. Trap or not, if there was a chance his siblings were alive and he could free them, he would take it.
He remained just outside the threshold, frowning at the sourceless green light that illuminated the chamber like mist drifting in the air. Vertical runes were carved into every wall. Shinobu knew they must be important, but it hardly mattered. He couldn’t read them anyway.
He recalled the many stories he’d heard about mysterious chambers like this one. Such places were supposedly scattered around the world, and had survived every cataclysm and human-wrought breaking of the ages. Some were flesh forges: chambers inhabited by malevolent beings who demanded sacrifice of the flesh in exchanged for safe passage.
Shinobu’s gaze returned to the sword. He saw no altar of sacrifice, no indication that anything inhabited the chamber. He reached over his shoulder and slid his fingers over the hilt of his own sword for reassurance. If this was a flesh forge, or home to any other type of evil, he’d find out as soon as he stepped into the chamber. Shinobu looked at the sword across the room again. He could barely make out some sort of design etched on the blade. He had to have a better look.
With another deep breath, the strider stepped across the threshold and stopped. If stepping through triggered a trap, he could still dive back out into the corridor. When nothing happened, he took another cautious step forward. Shinobu kept his hand over his shoulder, fingers resting on the hilt of his sword as he eyed the chamber. That no monster or entity materialized made him especially wary. Could the sword itself be some sort of adversary?
He scoffed at the thought. One needn’t look far to find a story about a fabled “sentient sword.” The idea that an inanimate object could speak to someone had a fun ring to it, but the strider didn’t believe in such things. He did, however, believe in monsters and evil places housing evil entities. He’d seen too much of the world to be fool enough not to.
Unfettered III Page 53