The Sheening Of The Blades (Book 1)

by Kari Cordis

  “Ari?” He looked up from his ground-locked gazing, recognizing the voice. In his wandering, he’d come back to the intersection, and now a cloud scuttled away from the misty face of the moon to show a stocky, athletic man standing at its center. It was Traive, a cloak around his shoulders for the autumn chill, but still dressed in his practical shadowcloth uniform. He was looking intently at Ari, whose fuzzy mind was having trouble with the transition from drenched self-absorption to normal conversation.

  “Where are Rodge and Loren?” He had a steadying voice, unperturbed and practical, as if the world was completely normal and Ari had just lost sight of the fact. It was so equalizing that Ari managed to stammer lamely, “We met some girls…” before trailing off. The forces couldn’t use dasht, and the place, the Den, had had such a furtive, shady air about it, that he wasn’t sure how much he should say.

  “Ah,” Traive said, with calm and complete understanding. “I’ll get someone to take them back to the Palace.” He made a small gesture behind him and the shadowy form of a man—a

  Fox, no doubt—materialized from the deeper shadows of the path and headed back the way Ari had come. Ari slumped dejectedly. On top of everything, he’d left Rodge and Loren, though arguably they were the ones having fun. What if something had happened to them? What if he’d gotten them in trouble?

  “They’re in no danger,” Traive said, softly slapping his gloves against his palm, “but we have a long day tomorrow and they’ll not want to be…er, recovering.” Ari stared glumly at the ground, wishing it would separate and he could fall into it.

  Traive, staring searchingly at him, said casually, “I’m on my way to my sister’s house for dinner. She always cooks like she’s feeding a Tor…I don’t suppose you’d come along and help me eat it?”

  Ari hesitated, depressed and unsociable and yet very aware of his dream-mother’s warning of slipping into uselessness. Really, whom did he know more grounded than the Lord Regent of Cyrrh?

  “Thanks, I would,” he said, which came out more determined than gracious. They started off in the direction Traive had been heading, passing through patches of fog and moonlight, walking companionably for several minutes before Traive said, “You didn’t try any.”

  “No,” Ari said without thinking, and then immediately wondered how he’d known.

  “Your clothes,” the Lord Regent said calmly. “Dasht has a pretty distinct way of clinging to them. And there’s a well-known Den in that direction.”

  Ari, feeling an awkward silence looming, said, “It made me feel…disconnected.”

  “Yes,” Traive said, covering a laugh by saying gravely, “I believe that’s the intent. It’s rather rare to find that undesirable.”

  Well, Ari wasn’t about to explain himself there, but it felt a little dishonest to sense Traive admired him for it. He certainly wouldn’t if he knew what was behind it.

  Traive’s sister lived in a large, butter-yellow house that wound almost completely around the trunk of a gigantic old oak. An intricate, twining wooden staircase led to the second floor, where they entered the big main room, plush with soft furniture and pillows in oranges and golds. Traive’s sister, her hair blonder but with the same mossy green eyes and sardonic eyebrows, came to meet them. She had a big, ginger-colored apron, a wide smile, and an unself-conscious embrace for the Lord Regent. Ari looked around, a little embarrassed, while they spoke briefly; the room was both foreign and familiar, rich with Cyrrhidean art but full of the scents and sounds of a home. It was enough to bring a pang of terrible longing to his overtaxed emotions—the smell of stew, the sound of children playing in the background, the fire on the hearth. Searingly aware that it was all forever beyond his reach, he had the sudden desire to run, his heart so full of ache that he didn’t think he could stay.

  Then his hosts separated and Traive said, “This is Triivinesse, Triivi,” and she came over and took his hands in her little warm ones…and he thought maybe he could stay for a little while.

  “Welcome, Ari.” She had the same unaffected warmth and steady eyes as her brother, and she rolled them when he teased, “Triivi misses her menfolk, so you’ll be promptly adopted, believe me. I’d leave now if you don’t want to be mothered.”

  She headed back to the kitchen, saying, “We have two little brothers in the Forces, one a Jageer and the other just completed his Fox run—following in his brother’s footsteps, for some unimaginable reason—and my husband’s a Silver Torlord.” She’d been pouring a deep amber liquid, and now came towards them with two big glass mugs with frothy heads, saying practically, “You’ll want your beer on the porch. Dinner’ll be a little bit yet.”

  They wandered out onto a railed verandah, the great oak spreading overhead for a roof and the cool night throbbing peacefully around them.

  “She’s well-trained,” Traive said in a complacent undertone, and they both grinned when she called from inside, “I heard that.”

  They settled into chairs so delicately carved they didn’t look like they’d take their weight, setting their mugs on the table snugged up against the oak and staring out over a grassy sward striped with moonlight. Contentment snuck up on Ari like the wisps of fog starting to blur the scene in front of them. How strange…to go from such despair to such homey ease, such longing to such odd peace of mind. Lulled by the sense of privacy and Traive’s utterly informal tone as he made casual small talk, Ari had to ask.

  “Dasht…it’s not illegal, is it?”

  Traive murmured a negative, taking a gulp. “It’s only forbidden to the Forces because it dulls alertness, slows the reflexes, gives a false sense of well-being. You’ve seen some of what Cyrrh has to offer in the ways of thrills and chills,” he said with a chuckle. “You know that’d be a death sentence.”

  “No,” he continued in his strong, mellow voice, “it’s not even close to illicit. Taloners and Sentinels can use it off duty now.” Ari glanced at him. His blunt face was dappled by oak leaf shadow and moonlight, but there was nothing mysterious about the sarcastic disapproval in his voice. He caught Ari’s eyes on him and shrugged, elaborating, “Cyrrhideans have known dasht since Laschald introduced them a couple thousand years ago. He wanted some leisure for his people, a way to relax in Cyrrh’s endlessly stimulating jungles, so he showed them how to harvest it. At first, it was just for religious festivals. Once a year. In small doses. This was tradition for centuries—out of necessity, obviously. A Realm fighting day by day for its very life didn’t have the luxury of extended oblivion. But once the Peace came and attacks started dropping off, whole months, then years, would go by without seeing the Enemy. A sense of security, which even our elaborate defenses have never been able to ensure, began to steal over the Lirralhisel.”

  “And now,” he finished sardonically, “now we’re to this. An unprecedented number of young men with nothing to do and young women who think bearing children went out with the Days of Old. There’s no mandatory service in the Forces anymore, so given the choice of a life of hardship and discipline—and purpose—or a sedentary ease sprinkled liberally with dasht…well, the latter’s winning out.”

  “It’s not actually harmful, though, right?” Ari said, worried about his friends and trying to come to grips with this whole concept. A non-functioning, leisure-loving chunk of society was an unimaginable thing to the North.

  “No,” Traive conceded slowly, “not to the individual body that uses it. Its damage is more general…to the society that values its pleasures more than it does its own life.”

  Ari shook his head, still bewildered. “It’d never catch on in the Empire.”

  For some reason this made Traive choke on his beer. After he’d cleaned his face up some and stopped coughing, he managed to say seriously, “No. No, it probably wouldn’t. But, then,” he cautioned, face growing still, “I never would have thought to see it eat away so ravenously at Cyrrh, either. We are like a bright green apple that crumbles into soft, brown rottenness when you get to the core.” He stared
fixedly into the night, into a future that Ari was suddenly edgily aware of. Below them, the open space was filling with mist, softening the sharpness of the moon-etched shadows,

  This was eerily reminiscent of Flyr’s conversation. Ari began to wonder why this Realm, profoundly more aware of its security and the threat of danger than the North, should be so much more worried about it. Why did the Empire seem to be the only Realm that felt itself perfectly capable of handling whatever came down the road? Why were they the only ones that dealt with Raemon and the Sheel and the Empress and Ivory with such intellectual dismissal? Were they missing something, or was their level of knowledge really that advanced?

  He took a big swallow of beer.

  A child’s voice suddenly cried out in the room behind him, and turning absently to look, he set down his beer with a thump.

  Dra Kai was sitting on the edge of one of the chairs, double-hipped swords hanging like fangs on either side of his muscular legs. And between the steel vice of his black-clad knees, the color of death in every Realm, stood a small girl. She was very young, with more yellow-gold ringlets than anything else, and had a little hand imperiously on one of those knees. Her face was upturned, babbling with clear incoherence and utter trust up into that face. Kai, looking soberly down at her, was giving her all the respectful attention he’d paid Lord Khrieg a few short hours ago.

  Traive’s low chuckle sounded out of the deepening night. “Relax, Ari. Drae love children. There’s nowhere she’d be safer.” Ari looked uncertainly at the Lord Regent, then to the coiled Dra, then back to Traive.

  “He probably stopped by to give Triivi news of Gris—that’s her husband.”

  “He’s a…er, friend of the family?” Ari asked, still eyeing Kai warily. He hadn’t moved, despite the one-sided, animated conversation going on a few inches from his face.

  “Dra Kai? Very much so,” Traive said, waving a hand easily. “He’s an unusual Dra—very vocal at the Throne of Trees and a good friend to the Realm. Not only that, but he’s interested in more than just Cyrrh and the immediate needs of the Drae. They rarely leave Cyrrh, but Kai has travelled the Empire, made friends with her Wolfmaster and her Queen. He’s nothing short of…visionary. The Drae are lucky to have him. Especially at this particular junction of the stars.”

  “Is he some sort of official? Do they even have a government?” Ari watched Triivi come to get her daughter, the Dra rising and following her out of view. What did he know about the Drae? They were nothing but dark, romantic figures in the North, two-dimensional heroes or villains, depending on the Tale being told.

  Traive gave him a steady look, confirming his ignorance. “What do they teach at that University?” Ari half-smiled ruefully.

  “The Drae are brothers to the Rach—you notice how closely they resemble each other? Their ‘government’ works exactly like Aerach government, very tribally oriented, with a huge pool of Royal Line. The ‘Drachar’ are the kingmakers and advisors and the only tangible institution outside of the ruler himself. They elected Kai almost thirteen years ago, when his uncle was killed in the Crystal Pass.”

  “Kai?” Ari said stupidly.

  Traive looked at him with a vast, amused patience. “Yes, Ari. Kai is the Dra, like Kyr is the Rach.”

  Ari stared into his beer, scrambling to catch up with life. Things he had taken for granted for months now were being revealed as quite different with an unsettling regularity here of late—his own bloodlines, mad Master Melkin of the Natural Sciences Department, the presence of a mysterious Dra (the Dra, as it turned out) in their party…

  “They split off from the Rach centuries ago—no one remembers why,” Traive was saying. “Some matter of honor that would only make sense to a Rach. They wear their black like a badge,” his voice was wry, “determined that everybody remembers their disgrace, though they are about an honorable a people as they come. You think the Rach are hard to understand…” His voice trailed off, and he lifted one corner of an eyebrow, teasing Ari, “Though, if you’re a typical Northerner, you won’t know anything about the Rach, either.”

  Ari felt a dry cold squeeze his throat shut. The Rach, who more than any other Realmsmen recognized him for what he was, who would sabreslay him on sight and ask questions later. Did Traive not know? Did it not make any difference to him? Emboldened by that thought, he ventured carefully, “I’m not sure that it would be a good idea for me to go strolling around the Ramparts.”

  Traive gave an appreciative snort, but was otherwise maddeningly uncommunicative.

  Ari screwed his courage up; this, after all, could be his best chance. Traive was Lord Regent of the most tolerant Realm there was, and in charge of the most extensive intelligence network in the world. If anyone could shed light on his horrifying genetic predicament, it would be him.

  “Do you see a lot of…people like me…in Cyrrh?” he asked, trying manfully for indifference.

  Traive looked up, full in his face, studying him like he’d just noticed the fiery red hair and brilliant blue-green eyes. At least a year passed.

  “Occasionally. We’ve seen a lot more since the Peace.” His voice was still noncommittal.

  “They’re all…that is, their parents…were all..?” There was no way he was going to be able to say it. But judging from a good portion of the night’s conversation, Traive’s list of skills included mind-reading. He answered in a normal voice, “Yes.”

  For a second he looked at Ari’s downcast eyes, the slumped shoulders. “Melkin told me a little of your story.”

  Ari stared fixedly at the shadow-dappled table, wild hope and dread smashing around inside of him like two fighting tomcats. Unable to stop himself, he asked, “You don’t happen to know anything about...me?” He felt ridiculous.

  “No. But the stories are usually the same.” Ari’s eyes snapped up, fixing hungrily on the Regent’s, who said very gently, “They’re not usually very pleasant.”

  The agony of ignorance was fast replacing any horror the words could bring. He was morbidly fascinated by the thought of his own dark origins, staring mutely at this source of even a glimmer of explanation.

  Traive reluctantly drained the last of his beer. “They come from the Swamps, usually,” he said quietly. “That’s south of Cyrrh, where the jungles get so wet it’s really a whole different Realm. That’s where the dregs of society have gathered over the centuries, where all the deserters, the oathbreakers, all the criminals of all the Realms have tended to congregate since such people have begun to exist. It’s also the only place where there is regular, non-violent contact with the Enemy. Sometimes they’ll sell the Swamp dwellers breeding females—they don’t treat their women very good—in an effort to take over the world simply by populating it with Sheelmen. And sometimes they’ll sell them children, for the same reason. You can’t accuse them of intellectualism,” he commented dryly. “It doesn’t work, of course, as children grow up mostly a product of their environment.”

  That was a lance of relief in a swelling boil of horror. He swallowed noisily. “But, you can always tell who their parents are,” he said hollowly, thinking of the children.

  “Not always.” Traive shook his head, casual as if they were talking about goats or chickens. “They don’t breed true. The, er, distinctive coloring never lasts even a generation. Half-breeds rarely look any different than any dark-skinned Realmsman.”

  What a dull, dawning revelation that was, Ari thought, his insides suddenly yawning away into a long, black tunnel. He was a full-blooded Sheelman. His sensory input seemed to shut down as he considered it, as if he was wrapped in a dark, silent shroud, a cocoon of numbness.

  He didn’t notice when Triivi came out with the stew pot, though a moment ago the smell had had his mouth flowing juicily. He didn’t see the inquisitive look that passed between her and her brother. His eyes seemed trapped by the empty clearing their porch fronted, now almost full of grey, dense, obliterating mist. The sounds of life seemed muted and far away. The only smells we
re the sharp, acrid odor of dying leaves and the pervasive dankness of cold fog.

  Where the mist was thickest, though, you could still make out the gaslights, a softened golden nimbus. For some reason, it reminded him of his dream…he didn’t know how or why it was so fortifying, but he found himself resolutely straightening up, squaring his shoulders. He felt like he’d been dragged behind three or four carts today, but—fire and ash, he swore grimly to himself—he’d keep getting up as long as he could.

  With great determination, he turned back to his hosts and picked up his spoon.

  “It smells delicious,” he said stolidly.

  Triivi looked relieved. She and Traive were already well into their bowls and after the first bite, he didn’t have to pretend appreciation.

  “It’s rabbit,” she said lightly. “The wild ones, which are goat-sized, are pretty tough, but I can raise them myself to be tender as veal.”

  “They’re not man-eating?” he quipped, and they both grinned at him.

  “One of the few creatures in Cyrrh that still runs from you,” Traive agreed. His mind casting around for suitable distraction, Ari caught onto that, saying quickly, “In the Circle of Silk, they talked about northern Cyrrh like it would be a worse hazard than southern. How can that be?” he asked it sarcastically, half-joking, but neither of them even smiled.