The Sheening Of The Blades (Book 1)

by Kari Cordis

  “The sword?” Loren asked in concern.

  “Oh, nay, nay,” Banion said swiftly. “No Merranic carries another’s sword—he alone has the right to pierce the silver lions.”

  There was a short silence after this obscure statement, but before it could be clarified, the lookout’s cry floated down from above, “Land ho!”

  The ship came alive with alertness, Fleetmen tensing up for the coming commands. Ari could hear it in his head long before the Sailmaster bellowed, “Make sail!” and they hove to.

  CHAPTER 10

  It was as if they had sailed up into the Age of Legends. The capital of Merrani perched on its solid, rocky headlands like a sprawling castle of old, an immense, forbidding town of heavy, dark granite, looming walls and gates, and sharp-eyed sentries. On a bright summer day, Archemounte made your eyes squint. Merrane made your head draw down between your shoulders and your voice drop.

  Ari looked around with awe as they unloaded the horses on the big quay—roughly the same acreage as the entire town of Alene. The huge, impregnable Black Sea Gates towered up nearby. They were so tall they blocked the rest of the town from view, regardless of the fact that it took up quite a bit of ground all over a very steep hill. Actually, the Gates themselves were open; it was the Sea Walls that were stretching reasonable vertical limits. Horizontal limits, too—they literally spread as far as the eye could see in each direction, encircling the big Bay of Kaedmar that Merrane presided over.

  The Northerners stayed close to Banion as he led them through the Gates, a passage that revealed Walls a man’s length deep, and up the immediate incline of the main thoroughfare. Just like Alene, here the streets were all narrow, steadily rising, and of tight-fit stone. But the bright clothes and profligate flags covered a much sterner local countenance than in Alene. The boisterous bellowing was kept to a dull roar, the buffoonery replaced by a tad more scrutiny out of those bearded faces, and the scenery dominated by intimidating leagues of solid rock. It rose around them in buildings, walled-off courtyards, tall sentry towers. Mastercraftsman-quality ironwork decorated every structure in sight, so finely done, often melded so beautifully with the stone, that it seemed more like greenery or a delicate, swirling painting. The designs were so intricate that even Cerise (frowning) slowed to inspect them.

  “Kaedmar One-Eye!” Loren cried. He pointed out a statue of the Lesser Hero, easily recognizable for the incomplete set of facial features, standing grandly in someone’s small forecourt. Cerise grimaced at the, er, exquisite detail.

  But they didn’t pause in their climb until they topped out in front of another enormous curtain wall, this one with stonework so fine it looked like it was dripping off the crenellations. A big, open space of packed dirt fronted it, currently filled with a lowing, bleating, neighing, squealing, honking cacophony of livestock. They paused there, but not to catch their breath from the climb, or even to admire the local sights—no, Cerise’s mare had seen an apparition of her death in the form of a big, fat grey goose waddling across the road, and was going wild.

  “The Shield Walls,” Banion said proudly while they waited. “And the Gates of the Lance.” These were folded back to the outside like the Sea Gates, but were a deep, storm cloud grey.

  “Stay away, you oaf!” Cerise shouted behind them, and a big Merranic shrugged and changed the course he’d been making to help her.

  “You really have a way with the indigenous peoples,” Rodge observed in warm admiration.

  “That might be easier to take from someone who didn’t just finish offending an entire town,” she snapped caustically. “MOVE!” she shouted at Banion as it became clear her mare was practically seizuring at the sensory input from all the animal life.

  On the other side of the Shield Walls, the neat cobblestoned street widened briefly and forked. Straight on, level and easy going, lay the street into town. You could see businesses and trades and marketing progressing along in a highly domestic and admirable rate. Off to their left, narrow and twisting and steep, the road angled up to where the great Fortress of the Sea sat high and implacable on the horizon, and within its legendary walls, the King.

  Melkin sighed. “I suppose we have to see Kane?”

  Ari stood in the crossroads for a second as everyone started uphill, feeling strangely prescient. Maybe it was all the stone and steel and reminders of fabled past, but it seemed like it was momentous, this moment, this choice of roads.

  By the time they’d finished toiling up the long hill, everyone but Kai and Ari and Loren, arguably in the best shape of their lives after playing around with the Fleetmen for a week, was heaving for breath. There was another large area of cleared ground out in front of the final Fortress curtain wall, and a beautifully-wrought lacy archway over the gate. Stone and metal graced the Fortress itself in gorgeous detail, far more artistic than any they’d seen yet, and more fabulous if for no other reason than there was so much of it. The place was huge—even more striking than the Imperial Palace. There were no silly architectural tangents or foolish greenery to break up its massive lines...in fact, they hadn’t seen so much as a blade of grass in the whole town.

  Feeling a little lost in all the intimidating immenseness of the forecourt, it was almost a relief for the party to step inside and get some walls around. Except that the Hall was also cavernous, gigantic ceiling beams so far overhead they could hardly be seen in the dimness. The Northerners felt like they’d wandered into a giant’s hall. The floor was of huge flagstones, and the soaring walls of big boulder-sized rock slabs were graced with a delicate décor of enormous antlered heads and yards-large stretched pelts. Cerise was appalled—it was a woman’s decorating nightmare—and even the boys gaped open-mouthed. Ari’s brilliant eyes almost started out of his head when he noticed the lion skin on the wall closest to him. He nudged Loren. Dove grey, as long as a Merranic, it hung with its stuffed head intact and its snarling mouth open in a roar. Pale blue eyes stared fixedly at the floor and all around the fierce head flared a cloud of grey and white mane tipped with black. They looked at each other in wonder: a silver lion.

  Out of the cavernous vastness came the sharp tap of boot heels, and they all looked up to see a neat man with a reddish beard approaching across the flagstones. Anyone would look small silhouetted against that background, but still, he was the most modestly-sized Merranic they’d seen…almost akin to a normal human.

  “Aronsen!” Banion cried. Commoners and guards had been saluting and dipping their heads to him ever since they’d disembarked, but this was the first time he’d acknowledged anyone.

  “Jarl Banion,” the man beamed when the echoes had died down. “It’s good to have you back.”

  “This is Aronsen, the Royal Steward,” Banion introduced them jovially. The man bowed formally in his standard Merranic dark blue and grey, then apologized, “His Majesty is on the Bench today, but he should be finished shortly. There are, of course, rooms for your refreshment and he will join you for dinner. If you would lead your companions to the rooms next to yours, Jarl Banion, I shall escort the young ladies.”

  He commenced to bestow a smile of such admiration and deference on Cerise that the cool planes of her face lightened a little. “It’s nice to be around people who appreciate quality,” she tossed over her shoulder at Rodge, as Aronsen led her and Selah off.

  “They should appreciate you,” Rodge remarked solemnly. “It’s obvious they love cold stone.”

  Ari sighed. “Our mal-adjusted little family’s back together again.”

  “Ari,” Rodge said in surprise. “When did you develop a sense of humor?”

  Banion led them off on an acres-long tour of the Fortress, up several flights of stairs, through leagues of hallways all decorated with weapons and trophies, until they finally reached—not their rooms, he pointed those out on the way—the baths. Apparently not an option.

  Ari, never overfond of bathing, had to admit that it had a whole different appeal Merranic-style. The Northern boys looked aroun
d in wonder, slowly stripping off their raggy, worn clothes. Great claw-footed tubs, steaming with heat and big enough to sit with your legs stretched out, were studded around the room. Next to each tub sat a bench to hold belongings, tankards of ale (!) and condensation-beaded pitchers of icy water for personal temperature adjustment.

  Northerners stood under a fall of water to clean themselves, an efficient, time-aware activity…after all, one didn’t earn tirna sitting on one’s bare bum. But pure, indolent pleasure stole over Ari as he lowered himself up to his armpits in the hot water. All his new, precocious muscles unknotted and relaxed, and with the last week’s combination of sleep deprivation and vigorous activity, he felt himself drifting into a haze of somnolent delight.

  Life is a contented thing buried to the pits in a bath, and he considered with new-found equanimity that his problems really weren’t that bad. With effort, and in blessed ignorance of the tortured road ahead of him, he decided naïvely that as much as he’d enjoyed the sea, he preferred dry land…the forest, the wild critters stirring around in the underbrush…

  “According to Kraemoor, there’s a good chance of seeing Whiteblades at the Kingsmeet,” Melkin growled, forcing Ari’s drifting mind off its deep intellectual path. “Cyrrh’s a big Realm to be searching directionless for ‘answers,’” he added snidely. He didn’t seem quite as relaxed as Ari, who wasn’t sure he could move if the Fortress was being overrun by Enemy.

  “I’m surprised you could get the Commodore to talk about the Swords of Light at all,” Banion remarked sleepily. “He has less love for Illians than I do.”

  “I’m surprised you can have an intelligent conversation with ANY of these people,” Rodge muttered, sounding wet and bitter.

  Banion, in the tub right next to him, yawned and casually stretched out his long, meaty arms—smacking Rodge right in the mouth. “And I never cease to be amazed,” the Merranic remarked conversationally, “that for such a bright, promising youngster, you don’t seem to have any ability to learn.”

  “I ca fil ma fess,” Rodge said pitifully.

  Ari cracked an eye open without much sympathy to make sure his friend wasn’t bleeding. Next to him, Banion looked asleep, hairy chest rising like a wet rug out of his bath. Beyond him, Melkin sat staring intently into space, ignoring the nonsense and apparently cerebrally undeterred by the paralyzing heat. At the end of the row, Kai, bathing like he fought—quick and efficient—was already getting out. Completely divested of clothes or weapons, he still looked deadly as a panther on the prowl.

  Ari’s eyes drifted closed again. The clouds of steam he’d last seen with them open merged into clouds of mist behind his lids. They melted away in a bright morning sun and he was laughing and running away from someone calling him. He fell to his chubby hands and knees, burrowing into the green, sun-dappled rabbit runs in his garden where only he could go. His heart was full of happy mischief. He’d left something in the middle of his private playworld, and he had to get it...a toy? his favorite blanket? He couldn’t quite remember what it was, but it was of the utmost importance, he was sure.

  “Ari!” Loren said again, nudging his shoulder. His eyes popped open. Everyone was getting out, drying, putting on the new clothes waiting for them. Disoriented—it had been a potent dream for all of its briefness—he did the same. They were having dinner with the King of Merrani, and here he was caught up in toddler memories.

  He’d never worn a silk shirt in his life, and his rope-rough fingers caught on the fine fabric as he gingerly tucked it in. There were new leather breeches and soft boots in his favorite color of rich brown, and the velvet burgundy overtunic was cut so that it emphasized his swelling chest. He grinned at Loren, in blue. They looked like princes.

  Their old clothes had disappeared in the convenient way of the upper classes, hopefully to be burned, Ari thought as they all trooped down the halls behind Banion. Even Rodge looked good, in dark grey, and only Kai the same, though his black leathers shone newly on his wiry length.

  The girls were waiting for them around a corner indistinguishable from a dozen others, Cerise such a pale beauty in sky-blue that the boys goggled at her. There was a year of passageways and chambers and then, finally, big double doors were opened and the King of Merrani was rising to greet them.

  “Welcome to the Stone,” he rumbled in his Merranic bass. Selah dropped instantly into a deep curtsy, legs dipping with a dancer’s grace, and Cerise stared at her in surprise. They all did something deferential, though not as graceful, the boys nervously following Melkin’s lead.

  Kane was laughing, a booming chuckle, eyes caught by Selah. “These halls haven’t seen such graceful courtesy since the last Drama—Rise, Daughter,” he said in self-mocking theatrics, because she was still bent over, face to the floor. “Who is this, Melkin?” he asked in that same rich voice, eyes resting on her pleasantly. “You’ve added to your party since Sable’s sitting room.” Cerise, ignored, glared at her servant.

  Melkin was staring at her, too. “A stowaway we picked up along the way,” he said tersely, weighing her with his eyes.

  Ari, alone knowing her secret, smiled to himself…until he noticed Kai was still looking at her. There was no need for that.

  The Merranic King was leading them into the dining room, on his arm a smug Cerise that had apparently forgiven him his inattention. Ari scurried to follow, giving Selah a warm, proud grin as he led her in. It wasn’t unenjoyable, the meal, despite the formality and the long table and the fact they were joined by the three eldest of Kane’s Line: Crown Prince Kierrane, and the Princesses Kilde and Katrine. The Crown Prince became (and stayed) instantly infatuated with Cerise, who flirted professionally, while Kilde’s wide eyes dashed with delighted indecision between Loren and Ari. Even with all the rampant royalty, there was amusing conversation, formal Merranics a dozen times more personable than informal Northerners.

  “Forgive the Queen’s absence,” Kane said after everyone had been seated and started in on the delicious food. “She’s with our newest.”

  “How many is this?” Banion asked good-naturedly.

  “Twelve,” Kane said proudly, and every Northern head picked up.

  “They don’t have children,” Rodge hissed at Ari, “they have litters.” Ari kicked him quiet.

  “It’s just a girl,” Kane went on, and Cerise choked on her chicken, “but she’s a wee, fair thing…little Kaelwynn.” Doting fondness fairly thrummed through his voice. Banion chuckled at him.

  “Speaking of children,” the monarch said more briskly, “I’ve five sons needing wives, and you, young lady, have a steady eye.” He was looking down the table to where the girls were sitting and Cerise smiled graciously, obviously agreeing with both his sentiment and his ambition.

  “You honor me, my Lord King, but I have been spoken for,” she said smoothly, dipping her glowing, pale head.

  King Kane raised his eyebrows, “Your pardon, Lady Cerise, but I was speaking to your young companion.” He smiled engagingly at Selah.

  Cerise looked like she’d been slapped with a butter knife. Ari didn’t hear the rest of the conversation—he was focused fiercely on Rodge’s frozen, twitching face, certain he’d burst out with something scathingly inappropriate any minute.

  As the last of them sat back with satisfied sighs and a dab of napkin, Kane said, “Kierrane, perhaps our young guests would be interested in seeing the Gardens?”

  Everyone rose respectfully when His Majesty did, small talk starting up as Kierrane offered Cerise his arm and led the way out. The men were going the opposite way, to a room being opened for them beyond the dining hall, the Merranics and Melkin already pulling pipes out of their pockets. For a second Ari hesitated, then, hardly believing he dared, he squared his shoulders and went to smoke.

  Kane looked at him in surprise as he turned to shut the door.

  “My daughters don’t please you?” he asked blankly. Ari paused, gulping, appalled by his own temerity and the offense he’d apparently given.
Everyone turned to look at him. Banion chuckled.

  Kane’s eyes were beginning to twinkle and he said confidingly, “You’re a wise man. Kilde’s a bit…troubled…right now.”

  And Ari, awed, found himself shown to a big, comfortable chair and promptly sank into it as far as he could, his presence apparently accepted. The room was lined with overflowing bookcases, big chairs, scattered tables and knick-knacks, and several wolfhounds, complete with their distinctive aroma. It was the coziest room he’d seen yet in this place—even cozier when one of the dogs flopped companionably and painfully onto his foot.

  The pipes were barely lit when Kane rumbled out comfortably, “Banion’s been keeping me abreast of events, Melkin, but I’d like to hear your take on them.” His presence filled the room, and Ari began to wonder a little wildly what in the world had made him think he belonged in a King’s council.

  “Most of what we’ve gotten is more questions,” Melkin said, as short-tempered as ever. “Raemon and his unquenchable propensity for war are supposedly imprisoned in a statue, the husk of the Empress. That’s also supposed to explain both her absence and the Five Hundred Years of Peace. The really pressing questions, what happens when the Five Hundred years are up and when that is, are apparently beyond the knowledge of the living,” he finished with a snap. He was in a silvery grey doublet that should have made him look grandfatherly, but instead, with his flinty eyes sparking irascibly, gave the strong impression of a rabid wolf ensnared in velvet blankets.

  “If the Shepherd is accurate, the prison is near opening,” Dra Kai said, deep and quiet. He was the only one still armed, though the blades hung free. “Our time grows short.”

  Kane nodded, eyes sharp and concerned despite the lazy rings of blue-ish smoke rising out of his pipe.

  “That Statue may be an issue,” Melkin admitted blackly. “If the forces are rising in the south, it may be because they know something we don’t…or that they’ve discovered the location of the Statue. Or, worse, have it already. The Shepherd hinted the Peace could come to a premature end if the Statue was broken.”