The Sheening Of The Blades (Book 1)

by Kari Cordis

  They waited, shifting impatiently. Mornings in the south were not the cool, fresh, crisp things of summer in the north of the Empire, and the afternoons were sweltering. These crowds and the stifling, packed activity of Crossing would only make it worse. Ari was glad Kingsmeets started early.

  Suddenly the familiar throb of drums, still faint with distance, began to pulse through their boot soles. The desultory conversation picked up and people started craning their necks and fidgeting. The Drae, unaffected as steel, stood motionless.

  With agonizing slowness, the drums drew closer, and soon a rush of excitement swept down to the center of the square. The various monarchs had been spotted, though still out of sight for those near the center, the drums keeping them in step so they arrived simultaneously at the Compass. Over the gurgling babble of the throngs of people, music came faintly across the air. It was an old, old processional, played by every Realm’s band so that it crescendoed from every direction in unison. It was stately, dignified music, but Ari felt his blood stir as the sound of wild piping—definitely not from the North—began to arc impishly over the sedate melody, whispering of adventure, of exotic climes, of a wild freedom.

  The music swelled, becoming so loud you could hardly hear anyone talking even in your ear. Rodge nudged him and he swiveled his head to see Queen Sable coming into sight from the north, walking slim and erect in crisp snow and scarlet, the sun blazing off the jewels nestled in her dark hair.

  Then Loren was pulling at his arm from the other side, so crazed Ari figured he’d been stung by a bee or was having a seizure or something. He turned to find the heir of Harthunters literally unable to form words, eyes bulging. Exasperated, Ari had to lean around him to see what he was so spasmodic about…and then he understood.

  Stalking proudly towards the Compass from the west was the biggest, most brilliantly beautiful creature he’d ever seen. Its head looked like a gigantic eagle’s, set with fierce golden eyes and with a huge beak that was bridled in intricate gold. That head and the enormous wings—held rigidly straight up for a towering four yards or so into the air—were covered in silken feathers of dark emerald, the underside and the breast brightening into vivid tropical green. Somehow, the deliberate pacing of talons almost a yard across looked nothing like the awkward steps of a grounded eagle. And melding smoothly with this beautifully plumaged front…was the tawny body and flanks and long, lashing, tufted tail of a lion.

  Ari had to remind himself to breathe. It was gorgeous. It was unbelievable, a shattering of everything that qualified as ordinary. The crowd on either side of this wondrous creature drew back behind its curtain of Drae, eyes wide and mouths in almost universal O’s. Most of them, Ari saw, looked terrified. There was a distinct air of lethality about it, stunningly beautiful or not. That beak, those razor-sharp talons…they were big enough to be a threat to a horse, let alone a man. Ari spared a glance at Rodge and burst out in unheard laughter. Both he and Cerise probably would have lost their lower jaws if they weren’t securely attached by overused muscles. Their lives would never be the same.

  The gryphon, for that was surely what it was, drew closer, and Ari noticed a man walked next to it, overshadowed in every sense of the word. Dignified, slight, with a thin gold circlet on his white hair and dressed all in inky dark green, he paraded next to the creature’s shoulder. The glowing gold back was taller than his waist. Behind him, huge velveted paws kept easy, graceful pace with the ponderous forefeet. There were two gryphons that walked under the evergreen, turquoise, and gold banner of Cyrrh, the second a smaller, more delicate and strikingly paler version of the glorious creature in front. Its wings were a soft, pale green like new leaves, the lion’s end fawn-colored. This one was accompanied by a young woman and Ari glanced at Loren knowingly, hardly surprised to find him with his lips between his teeth and staring in avid interest. Ari hoped for her sake she wasn’t royalty. Or even available. Loren could be hard to shake once he got set on something.

  The drums were so loud now you could barely think. All the monarchs had reached the edge of the square, at least the ones Ari could see, and so suddenly that it seemed like he’d stopped breathing, the music ended.

  Of all that vast throng of people, no one made a sound. A bird flew irreverently overhead, but otherwise silence hung suspended like a physical pressure over the square. The boys gazed raptly, trying to take it all in. Then the Merranic drums started a slow, trilling roll, and as one all the monarchs recommenced their march…four zephyrs…blowing in from every point of the compass, to meet, and whirl, and coalesce into…what? A storm? A soothing breeze that would calm the clamor? The whole world seemed to be holding its breath as the drums rolled on and on in an agony of suspense.

  At the center of the square, at the Compass, there was a low, raised dais of worked stone. Each monarch, in measured, mirrored steps, mounted his or her respective side and came to a halt facing each other over the center. Ari strained to see around bodies and gryphon wings to the Aerach approach. From the glimpses he’d had, the fabled Rach looked like just a more expressive version of Drae, though their leathers were natural-colored. The drums suddenly sped their tempo, lilting briefly, then ending in a crashing, triumphant flourish that made the previous silence insignificant.

  Tension mounted almost unbearably. A tiny, teasing breeze barely ruffled the hair on Ari’s forehead. No one even blinked, they were so afraid of missing something. Finally, Sable’s clear, deliberate, feminine voice split the silence.

  “I am Queen Sable, of the Northern Empire, and I do summon thee, my Brethren, to this Meet of Kings.” She reached out one arm, draped in sheer white, and held it palm down over the center of the circle.

  “I am Kane, King of the Eastern Seas, Defender of the East, and I do hear thy summons and come to Meeting,” Kane thundered, so Merranically that several people jumped.

  In a much feebler voice, though wonderfully pure, the man who’d paced the green and gold gryphon called out, “I am Khrieg, of the endless forests of Cyrrhidia, Lord of the Skies and Sentinel of the West, and I do hear thy summons and come to Meeting.”

  Of all the strong voices that rang out over that square, Ari thought the last the most affecting of all. It was vibrant with energy, throbbing with life and power and purpose, and he bent his neck around in a renewed urge to see what sort of man it came out of. It clanged through the silence like a call to arms, “I am Rach Kyr, of the unchanging vigilance of the Ramparts, Shield of the Sheel. I do hear thy summons and come to Meeting!”

  As each man spoke, they had reached out their hands to cover Sable’s, and now they all said in unison, “Welcome, Brethren.”

  The nudging Ari had been subconsciously aware of fulminated abruptly into an elbow in his ribs. It was Loren, physically towing him along after Melkin and Rodge, who were already disappearing into the crowd behind them. Cerise gave them a withering look as they passed—probably jealous she wasn’t accompanying them. Melkin had told him last night they’d leave before the ceremony was complete. He threw more than one regretful glance over his shoulder as he followed in the Master’s wake, now even more sorry that he was going to miss any of this.

  The Kingsmeet itself was held underground. This was supposedly to protect it from attack, four Kings in one swoop being considered quite a prize in the old days. The monarchs would enter from the Compass, the raised dais sliding back to reveal the broad ceremonial stairs. But there were stairs from north, south, east and west for the non-royal attendees, and the North’s was now set at the back of a fine jewelry store. The owners had decided the advertising value of such a thing far outweighed any benefits of tactical disguise, and had decorated the brand new door with the Triple Mountain in garish real silver. Melkin rolled his eyes as he swung under the gaudy, red and white ribbon-bedecked lintel.

  They hurried down the well-lighted staircase and out into a broad, high corridor, coming to a stop outside a remarkably spacious assembly chamber. Inside, it was so thoroughly graced with gaslight
s and fresh flowers that it hardly seemed like they were underground at all. The hall continued on and Ari assumed that would be the direction the Kings—and Queen—would arrive from. Sure enough, within a scant few minutes, sounds of activity began to drift down from that way. Another few moments and Queen Sable appeared, Prime Councilman in tow, sweeping up to them and then past, into the chamber on their right. Behind her came the Rulers of the Realms, a surreal parade of magnificence, of Blood, of the very Line that had led people for three thousand years—all in front of Ari, the lowest-born commoner imaginable. They were impossibly, overwhelmingly regal, and he was so lost in the sensory overload of what was happening that he almost missed it.

  Suddenly, Melkin threw an arm out in front of him and Loren, saying quickly, “The boys are with me.” Bewildered, Ari looked over in time to see the eyes of the Rach and his Councilman just sliding off of them, their faces identical masks of startled intensity. The Rach’s companion had his hand on his belt, as if he’d reached for the sword that wasn’t there.

  Before Ari had time to wonder what had happened, they were being ushered in after the rulers, settling onto padded benches behind and off to the side of the main table. A little intimidated by the strangeness and the oppressive formality, the boys huddled near Melkin, trying to breathe as inconspicuously as possible. Opposite them, another set of benches filled up, the spectators looking like characters out of a fairytale.

  The rulers began speaking again, with enough thee’s and thou’s that it didn’t take a genius to figure out the ceremony had picked up where they’d left off up in the Square. Ari’s attention wandered—the room was full of such fascinating people. Closest to them sat the Aerach delegation, both of the men dressed in beautifully tanned, fitted leather breeches and vests. There was not a stitch of decoration that he could see on either of them, no jewels, no crown. The only thing that would differentiate the Rach from any other plain old Rach off the desert was the armband of beaten copper around his right bicep, two perky, blood-red feathers springing out of it. In black leather, with swords, they could be Drae—same whip-cord bodies, golden tan skin and black hair and eyes. The least adorned in the entire room, they still seemed to dominate it, their energy a pulsing aura around them.

  On their left was the weathered Skylord of Cyrrh, and next to him sat the young woman that had been leading the lighter-colored gryphon. She was in liquid layers of beige and grey silks, her gorgeous brown skin setting off pale green-grey eyes and cornsilk hair that hung to her waist. But there was no expression on that beautiful face—not from a Dra’s discipline, but from what seemed like utter, languid, indifference. There was so little character there, so little life, such muted color, that Ari’s eyes tended to skim right over her. NOT so Loren, fixated hungrily, convinced that against all expectation he had found his Cyrrhidean princess. He may have whimpered. Both Cyrrhideans were dripping with jewels, circlets of woven gold on their light-colored hair, slender bracelets at their wrists and tiny rings on their hands, a delicate emerald amulet on Lord Khrieg’s thin chest.

  And then Ari’s attention sharpened as the tone in the room changed. A silence fell. The rulers seemed almost to sigh.

  Then Sable began to speak.

  So far, so good, the Queen of the North said bracingly to herself. She was sure Kane would have thrown her some hint—like a slap upside the head—if she’d made a misstep.

  “I’ve called this Meet,” she began crisply, determined to play this Old game if that was what it took, “to discuss the appearance of some very ancient, potentially ominous indications that the Enemy may be stirring, and that our Peace may be threatened. The nature and gravity of this possibility, as well as the gap in our communications with one another over time and distance, are my justifications for calling you all from your Borders.”

  All the rulers nodded at this and she felt herself relaxing in the very supportive atmosphere. Despite Kane’s predictions, none of them were looking at her with anything even approaching animosity. Kyr was frankly admiring—she pushed that thought out of her head. She had never seen anyone so captivating. “Though we all came prepared to discuss events in our Realms, I will have Master Melkin start with our story in the North.”

  Melkin’s face was as ill-humored as ever as he stood in a rustle of robes, but before he could say anything, Rach Kyr unexpectedly dipped his head and said respectfully, “Wolfmaster.” The three boys next to Melkin swiveled their heads up to look at him in such perfect, wide-eyed unison that it was almost comical.

  He wordlessly returned the courtesy, then began without preamble, “For over thirty years, I had the care of the Warwolves that lived beneath Archemounte. I know their ways intimately, know the lore that surrounds them, have observed them closely for decades, both in the wild and in captivity. Several years ago I noticed a phenomenon so markedly different from their normal behavior that it warranted investigation.”

  Melkin’s students were still staring up at him with those identical, flabbergasted looks. The blond was gaping slightly.

  “In the wild, wolves run in packs, mate for life, and normally have one breeding pair—the alpha male and his mate. The exception to this is the situation in which there is an overabundance of prey, when nature tells them instinctively that a larger population of wolves can be supported. Also, if inclement weather or other conditions exist that may result in a higher mortality rate, then you will sometimes see multiple breeding pairs bearing litters.”

  “Warwolves in captivity are under exactly the same immutable dictates of nature, with the exception that there is never more than one breeding pair because the environment is artificially controlled. They are protected from the weather and we monitor their food to keep them fit—there is never an overabundance of prey, so to speak. However…this is exactly what happened. The small pack that was the remnant left in the Imperial Dens suddenly had all three she-wolves come into season and bear large, healthy litters.”

  “Mystified, I went in search of an explanation. With the help of Dra Kai, I searched out and observed the wild wolves of the High Wilds, but after many months of tracking, we found no evidence of increased litters…however, every Warwolf pack we tracked, living side by side with their regular brethren, was breeding prodigiously. The difference in the species, obviously, is the innate hatred of the Warwolf for the Enemy—an instinctive predatory urge that will keep them on the trail of a Sheelman without resting or eating for days.”

  “It seemed to me possible, if unlikely, that perhaps Enemy were deemed by nature and the gods to be a Warwolf’s…prey. A limiting factor in regulating population. So, I searched through the records of the time before the Peace in Archemounte’s library; if my hypothesis was correct, the phenomenon should have been well-known throughout the Ages of War.”

  His gravelly voice paused, dropped an octave. “The old records are in poor shape and make little mention of things that were such common knowledge at the time…but that is exactly what I found.” A cold menace seemed to filter through the room, like a wolf glimpsed through the trees. Sable, even knowing what was coming, shivered. She remembered well the release of the Warwolves, the ecstatic slogans of animal lovers crooning about the “freedom from cruel captivity,” “finally progressing from the dark, ignorant days of the past,” and such. She would never forget the twisted look on Melkin’s face, the freezing scorn as he had to virtually chase the animals away from his feet, from licking his hands and jumping up to lick his face (not much of a jump, granted).

  Sable adroitly let the silence weigh for a moment. She wasn’t sure how much the other Realms would view this as a waste of time. When she’d judged the words had had their maximum effect, she began again, thanking Melkin.

  “Without Master Melkin’s knowledge and persistence, I might never have tied his evidence into the next, nor come to the conclusion I have.” Slightly behind her and to her right, she heard Prime Council Channing shifting disdainfully. She’d had to choose someone, according to custom, t
o ‘Sit at Elbow, for the purpose of support, giving reminder, and aid in deduction,’ none of which Channing was going to excel at. The Council had been furious, deeply offended at her tradition-sanctioned unilateral decision, and more than anything, completely befuddled as to how she could think such a thing as the sudden resurgence of the Enemy was even possible.

  “The next incident that seemed to augur change concerns Marek.” She hesitated, considering Kane’s advice on this delicate subject. “The, er, voice of Marek is not heard in the North as the gods are in other Realms. He…guides us gently, from afar, with little day to day involvement in the running of the Empire.” She didn’t mention that any Northerner worth his tirna would be insulted if he was instructed on a daily basis on how to make more of it. “So, for us to have contact with him—visual, audio, whatever—is extremely…rare.” She cleared her throat. “Hasn’t actually happened in, well, centuries.” Eyebrows went up around the table.

  “So,” she moved on hurriedly, “when the High Priest sent word that Marek had spoken to him in his dreams and that the Diamond Triele and been seen to pulsate and glow, it was a momentous thing.” She had originally thought of laughing lightly at this, as it could easily have been a bit of nighttime indigestion, in her mind, but she noticed there was not a single speck of skepticism around the table. She elected to stay sober.

  “What did he say, Sister?” Lord Khrieg asked in such a fine, courteous, silken tenor that it sounded like a song.

  Sable blinked. Say? Who? Clarent? Marek? Kane would doubtless chide her later for not bringing the High Priest, but he didn’t know about their latest little squabble (and wouldn’t have approved if he did—in Merrani, the King was the High Priest).

  “It was not made clear, my—Brother—and was deemed irrelevant in the face of the unusual circumstances,” she scrabbled diplomatically. The faces around the table fell. Had they been expecting a message from the gods? Take up your arms, my people…the Enemy will attack next Monday at Alene…