by Kari Cordis
Sword play. Not sword practice, not training, but play.
So, Krysta led her down the long, wide flights of the Hilt stairs, accompanied by Evara, then Rorig, then two Hilt warriors—an accumulation of human baggage that reminded her again that her carefree days of comparative freedom were over.
Krysta took them to a ring encircled with waist-high stones that Rach were lying and leaning and lounging on. The inside of the ring was heaped sand, empty but for two furiously sparring combatants. None of this surprised Sable, nor did the level of noise or dust or heat this early in the morning. What made her go still was the action in the ring.
They said that Drae swung the deadliest steel in the Realms. That they moved like a striking snake and could use both swords simultaneously—and with equal effect. Back in the days of Heroes, when it was in fashion to admire them, Drae swordwork had been called ‘dancing death’ for its lethal grace. The furious clash of steel in front of her reminded Sable suddenly and strongly of all those romantic passages she’d found buried under dust in the Old Histories.
She wouldn’t have wanted to pit any of them against a Rach. Rorig moved up beside her, mesmerized, as well he might be. This lightning fast spectacle was as different from the skill he’d used to win the Queensknight Challenge as North was from south. In the North, they fought in pads and chainmail in the practice ring, as in war, but with wooden practice swords or—in the case of the Challenge—dulled steel. Sable remembered it well (they were held every three years to make sure the freshest, sharpest skill was at the Queen’s elbow). Remembered it as a long, tedious whacking and scuffling, with points going to first one opponent then the other in some mysterious assessment of skill determined by judges poring over rulebooks.
Here, the Rach were stripped to the waist, torsos bared to the blade and shining with sweat. Naked, elegantly curved sabres flashed and arced and screeched against each other a hundred times a minute, a ceaseless, tumultuous exchange of rapid-fire blows and parries. There was none of the great two-handed swings or dramatic footplay seen in Northern rings, and Sable had a feeling that no one was keeping track of points.
The two warriors shifted around in the boggy sand, steelsong never faltering, and the one whose back had been to them—turned out to be Kyr.
He had to practice, too, didn’t he? Sable asked herself, trying to quell the sharp spasm of anxiety the sight of him produced. Fortunately for her nerves, within the minute a bell was rung and the action abruptly ceased. The two men, chests heaving, grinned and gripped each other’s forearms.
“The Northern Queen!” someone bellowed suddenly, and instantly the ring went quiet as everyone fell to a knee. She felt a flash of irritation, flavored with a tinge of regret; it wasn’t really her intent to disrupt everything in the surrounding area for the next week or so. If Kyr was at Archemounte, he’d be lucky to get a nod from a serving maid. He, of course, was the only one currently still on his feet, searching her out from across the ring. He crossed quickly to her, face transparent with pleasure, still panting from his exertions.
Her cheeks pinkened against her will, and to forestall any of last night’s idiotic mental vacuum, she said, “A little sweat and steel to start the morning off?”
He grinned. His smile could stop the world. “I wanted to give you time to rest.”
“I’m rested,” she said briskly. They treated her like she was made of glass.
“Good,” he crowed. “Then let me show you around.”
“Don’t you want some breakfast first? Maybe…” she trailed off, gesturing vaguely at his slick chest and dripping hair. A bath.
But that was not the Rach way, everything at a set time, deliberate and scheduled. The Rach, it seemed, liked to leave room for impulse and the unexpected, and Kyr was no exception. He was tireless in his impetuousness, she’d found by the end of that first day, equally focused and flighty, able to be distracted by any toothless old woman or youngster wanting a ride in his strong arms. And utterly consumed with the thought of the Enemy. There was hardly any conversation that didn’t include them, somehow, so vital a part of the fabric of life here at the Ramparts of the Rach that they were virtually inseparable from it.
He showed her his horse—apparently a cultural mandate—who was a big, flaming red chestnut named Inferno that kicked the stable wall with enough force to topple a farm wagon and lunged at them across the stall door, screaming in fury.
“We haven’t been out in a couple days—he’s a little restless,” Kyr said fondly. He showed her where Filigree was stabled nearby, shamelessly making eyes at the stallion, and how the great Stables of the Wings stretched the whole length of the Ramparts, separated from the outer wall by a broad causeway.
“Sometimes they still breach the wall,” he confided. “And we don’t want horses hurt…though it’s been a long time since we’ve seen action so close to the Ramparts. For over a year now, there’ve been nothing but skirmishes far out in the Sheel, always instigated by the Wing patrols.”
The stalls were cavernous, the size of a small cottage, with arching ceilings far overhead that corresponded to the height of the outer wall. They had deep water tubs of beaten copper, filled with water piped all the way from the Don Eshaid when it couldn’t be struck nearby. Which was quite a feat for savages, Sable thought, a little smugly. She was beginning to look forward to giving a report to her Council on the ‘primitive’ ways of these people.
Some of the stalls had tack hanging in sight in the soft, dust mote-ridden gloom, and she did a double-take at the first bridle she saw. Intricately tooled leather, more evocative of Cyrrh than the Sheel, it was decorated in finely fashioned copper threading with unbelievable detail. Copper was everywhere, but she saw silver and even gold decorating the saddles, bridles, blankets.
And a few yards away, exposed to the merciless sun in an endless row close alongside the whole length of the Ramparts, spread the beloved tents of the nomad. It made Sable’s lips twitch. There didn’t exist the Northern woman who would live in a tent while her husband’s horse wore silver and gold.
“Do they all live out here?” she asked Kyr, shading her eyes to try and see to the end of the line of gently billowing and highly decorated canvas housing.
“Aye,” he said in mock martyrdom. “Only the Rach is bound by four walls, a sacrifice made in dedication to his people.”
During the early afternoon, when the Sheel lay shimmering like a furnace and the heat waves rose so thickly you could feel them as you walked across exposed ground, Kyr Stood in Judgment. Most of the Ramparts were unabashedly napping during this time, (she thought she might leave that out of her report; it wasn’t the sort of thing a Northerner would understand), but Sable had to see at least one day of this.
He truly Stood—it wasn’t just an expression—one leg cocked, arms folded over his bare chest, the liquid pools of his eyes for once unmoving, whole being focused intently as he listened to his people. She’d attended some of Kane’s vaunted Stone Bench sessions in Merrani, and the concept was roughly similar. There was, of course, an utter absence of formality or ceremony, but that didn’t surprise her as much as the cases that came before him in that ancient sandstone chamber.
A fifteen year-old Shaidian (all Rach were identified by the Wing they belonged to, and at fifteen this one was considered a man and a warrior) was fined for slighting his horse grain in order to give it to his comrade’s, who was sick. A Faracen was ruled against for refusing landing to an insulting Merranic trader: contempt for your fellow man and dishonorable conduct. Sentence: a year off the Ramparts herding cattle. The warrior had tears in his eyes.
Two Phantoms, in what at first Sable thought was a standard water rights case, were in conflict because both refused the right from the other. She listened with an increasing sense of unreality as Kyr carefully determined who had originally tapped the well and the reasons why neither would claim it. He finally judged the one must take it out of responsibility to his wife, who was lame, and to his mo
ther, who was gravely ill. The loser left jubilant, arm consolingly around the winner’s shoulders.
But the last case had to top them all. Two savage-looking men, bronzed dark by the sun and shaved completely bald, stalked to the center of the room. One had boots made of some spotted wild cat and the other a belt that looked suspiciously like lion mane. Their sign of submission and homage to the Rach was a fierce glare—they didn’t even pretend to dip their heads. The outlandish dress apparently indicated the Sharhi-Tir, one of whom in this case had refused a gift of a horse from a warrior whose life he had saved.
Kyr’s response was to ask to see the horse.
This seemed perfectly normal and right-thinking, evidently; they’d even brought the horse with them, all the way from the Tamarisks in the far west. It was led up the flight of stairs to the Rachar (also the name of the chamber where the Standings were held) and stood calmly with the unbelievable discipline of the Aerach. Kyr walked measuringly around him, checking mouth and eyes and ears, picking up hooves, running his sure brown hands over the glossy coat. He was a gorgeous bay with four white stockings, and Sable was quite sure there wasn’t an imperfection anywhere near him.
Kyr couldn’t find any, either. He pronounced the gift must be accepted, though it would leave the owner temporarily without a warhorse—in order to honor the debt-burden. And the two most feral, untamed-looking men Sable had ever seen acquiesced without a word.
That was the last case, and Sable remarked on the men as she left the chamber with Kyr. He smiled wryly and said, “We joke that they’re Sheel-bred.”
She frowned up at him. “Aren’t all Rach born on the Sheel?”
“Yes,” he said patiently. “That’s what makes it funny—‘Sheel-bred’ is used to distinguish those beasts that have no purpose off the Sheel.” Which humor escaped the Queen of the North.
The welcoming celebration started at dusk that night, in the magical peach-hued light of the desert’s setting sun. The moon was out early, glowing silver in the rosy pink sky, and as they settled into the cushions laid out on brilliant woven mats (still no tables, chairs, or roof) it was easy to imagine she was back in the wilds of the Eshaid. Sometimes it seemed the rugged traveling atmosphere of the Rach on the trail barely differed from the civilized air of the Rach at home.
Laughter and good will punctuated the glowing air as huge platters of grilled meat and fish (how had they kept fish cold enough to get it all the way to the Hilt?), desert tortoise soup (served out of an enormous orangey-tan carapace and into smaller ones), such an exotic variety of fruit that she couldn’t even name some of them, fresh coconut, dates and figs, creamy yogurt, and hot stacks of the delicious flat bread were all passed around.
Clear glass decanters (apparently, the Ishtans were glassmakers in their off-time) full of crystal cold water were kept filled, but there was no alcohol anywhere. When she leaned over to ask Kyr teasingly if Rach couldn’t hold their liquor, he said drolly, “They’re more worried about missing a swordstroke—or worse, an entire battle—than in downing a glass of fermented fruit juice.”
Here, at the Ramparts, even festivals were tinged with the thought of the Enemy a wall’s thickness away. What an odd thought, she considered as she nibbled an almond, to have such unpredictable danger, such insecurity, color your every activity and dictate your life. Northerners would never stand for it.
Northerners would never have had such a night, either. It was like a fusing of all the liveliest parts of what made the Rach, a distillation of their spirit—music wild as the desert, singing like the wind in the palms of the Don Eshaid, dancing like life would end tomorrow. She laughed out loud at the stories, clapped like a native at the antics and acrobatics of the youngsters, and felt herself drawn more and more irresistibly into the wild, simple, star-studded, sand-strewn life snagging her into its embrace.
It had been days since she thought of horse prices, cuts of beef, copper, cobalt, coconut or salt.
Her fiscal drive didn’t improve any over the next few days, despite her well-meaning intentions otherwise. Kyr just had so many plans, so much insight and vision and energy, that she found herself caught up in the whirl. They thought the same, understood each other, though his ability to consider so many things at once made him appear erratic sometimes. By the end of the second day, they were finishing each other’s sentences. Every conversation seemed to end in laughter—she couldn’t remember when she’d so enjoyed someone’s company.
She joined him one night in the big, mostly decorative room just down the hall from her own, jumping as a big Sheelhound rose, growling, just inside the door. Like the bloodhawks, these were not pets, their sole purpose in life being to guard the Ramparts. They applied themselves admirably and still hadn’t stopped growling at her, no matter how many times Kyr made them sniff her. She picked her hands up out of snack range and skirted around him.
They often met here after dinner, she and Kyr, in the huge, empty space that was open for yards to both north and south. The setting sun and yawning vistas turned it into a strangely private hideaway, despite the fact that anyone could wander through at any time. The expanse of the deserts on either side made it seem cozy, contained, as if the towering openings between floor and roof were ship’s portholes looking out over a shimmering, lush sea of vermillion and salmon and dusky orange and pinkish gold.
They could speak more privately here, too, out of earshot of a population very interested in how the monarchs were getting along.
“I don’t know how we grew so far apart,” Sable mused out loud after standing quietly next to Kyr for a few minutes. They were watching the brilliant arc of incandescent sun slip breathlessly over the horizon, and she was leaning against one of the sandstone pillars that, along with a knee-high fretwork of the same, was all that kept them from the burnished sand three stories below.
“You forget, we were busy making war,” he said, a pillar away and teasing her atrociously. He was a hundred times worse than Kore.
“But you’re right here—” she muttered. It was incomprehensible. Like knowing nothing about Addahites.
“I am,” he agreed devilishly.
“It would only take a couple weeks…I can’t believe not a single merchant was willing to brave the Eshaid or the Farae to establish at least a trade connection. You have priceless copperware, coral, beautiful glasswork, SADDLERY.”
“You’re speaking Imperialese,” he informed her, finger tracing patterns in the sheeldust on the railing. That was his way of saying she was wandering off on an uninteresting cultural tangent.
“My point is,” she persisted patiently, “the North knows absolutely nothing about the Ramparts. You share a border and we haven’t a clue about your culture.” For some reason, this was eating at her tonight…that there should be this gulf between their Realms.
“You’re chipped off a different piece of flint than most of the North, Sable,” he said wryly, watching her eyes flash in the fading light, watching the slenderness of her form sway tensely against the railing, watching the way her whole person seemed to resonate with purpose. “I’m not sure the rest of your Realm cares about Aerach culture.”
“Well, that’s senseless,” she retorted smartly.
“No comment.”
“It’s the same with the Addahites,” she complained. Instantly, his relaxed slouch turned into an alert, fixed stance, as if he was ready to set off north right then. With less international topics, they often did set off right away—to see his new cistern project, or visit the new healing tent, or any of a dozen other energetic sojourns around the Hilt.
“They’re on our border—right on our border—and it’s such a rarity to see any of the Ranks of the Ram that some of my Council think they’re gone. Don’t even exist. It’s just sheep and sheepdogs and shepherds and...Shepherds up there.” They glanced at each other. Hid smiles.
“The Imperial Rulers of old used to fight side by side with the Addahites, live with them on campaign, raise their children
shoulder to shoulder. It’s in the Histories. What happened? How could so much change in such an otherwise productive time as these last centuries?” she demanded.
“The Peace happened,” he said dryly. “And I think…I think the Empire grew afraid of Il.”
She stiffened, wishing that name didn’t keep popping up. “They weren’t too scared of him when his people were keeping the Enemy off their backs,” she said tartly. But even as the words left her mouth, she was thinking of her High Priest’s paranoia, of Karmine, who had to choose between her throne and her god…and who gave up a Realm for love of Il.
Kyr said nothing, watching the darkening light play over her beautiful face, watching the eyes snap and soften, frown and ponder, all in the space of seconds. He could watch her forever. Already there was a spot by his side that was never full unless she was in it.
“I don’t understand,” she murmured, paying him no attention. He was always looking at her. “He’s just another god. Why all this fuss and dissension over religion? Who cares which god anybody worships? I really think we’re BEYOND that by now.”
This made him grin and she ignored him with a vengeance. “He does claim to be more than just another god…” he reminded her.
“But the things he claims,” she said stridently, “are perfectly productive to a well-ordered society. His ‘laws’ are hardly revolutionary; they’re at the foundation of any regulated civil society—no thieving, no lying, no cheating or stealing, sleep in your own bed, don’t spill blood except to keep order…justice. Honesty. Taking care of each other! How are these things disruptive?! What offense is there in any of them?”
He grinned disarmingly, charmed at her fieriness, and she gave him a growly look. She was well aware he was an Illian—most Rach were, and that was fine for them. Their culture was simple, its ideology heartfelt and based on intangibles like honor and self-sacrifice. But, to be fair, it was also rather primitive—superstitious, even. Illianism just wasn’t going to succeed as the theology for a material-based culture like the Empire’s.