The Sheening Of The Blades (Book 1)

by Kari Cordis

  She fumbled her way into her room at last—it was at least a league further down than she remembered—and closed the door and locked it behind her.

  “Your Majesty,” Evara said in alarm, rising to her feet.

  “I won’t require anything tonight,” she managed out of unfeeling lips.

  “Are you all right, Your Maj—”

  “You may retire.”

  Bewildered and worried, her maid hesitated, wringing her hands and staring at her mistress for what seemed an Age before finally withdrawing. Then, finally, Sable could move shakily around the chamber, blowing out the lamps until the room was blessedly dark and no one could see her loss of control streaking down her face. She was a Queen, she told herself, and a grown woman. I will not cry like an overwrought teenager, she told herself numbly, insensible of the wet tracks racing down her cheeks.

  She stumbled over to her favorite cushions, thrusting her head out the window as if at least that part of her might escape this crushing, hopeless ache threatening to smother her. A cool wind feathered her face with the fine grains of sand they called sheeldust, like an invisible mist. She didn’t care. Didn’t care that her face would be a muddy, tear-tracked mess. There was a cavernous hole in her heart that could never, ever be filled.

  To have looked all these years for this, without even knowing she was searching…then to have found and lost it within the space of a moment. What a funny, cruel world it was. She wept without knowing it for a long time, dwelling on the richness of the man she loved, the surge of feeling sweeping through her, the utter void at the knowledge that she had to leave him.

  It was very late and her mind was dulled and spent from the onslaught of emotion when a thought came drifting to her, like a puff of breeze off the Sheel. It was the memory of her conversation with the Aerach women over a dead crocodile. They will speak of Il as men do, Taneh had said, with the eyes of a woman twice her age. Of His might and will and honor and strength. But we know the truth. That He is the God of endless comfort, the God of more-than-death, the God of life-goes-on.

  The God of life-goes-on. The Shepherd had made alive that vision of a God of great love and it had struck her forcibly, beguiled her with the thought that there was more to life than duty. And now, now she understood. The thought of that love that had upended her nice, ordered little royal life sent a fresh lance of pain through her tattered heart. Through it, a dull rebellion seeped. If He was a god of love, in charge of all things that had been and were and were yet to come, why would He let this happen? This crippling sorrow that drained her like an upended bucket? Wearily the question ricocheted around the emptiness inside of her.

  It shouldn’t have surprised her that Karmine came to mind—sometimes she felt like she never left it—and suddenly another thought sifted through the gloom of her despair. Karmine had perhaps been asked to give up her throne for her all-seeing God…maybe Sable was now being asked to take hers up.

  But, she owed no allegiance to Il. Her brow furrowed, eyelids feeling puffy after all the weeping. Wide-eyed, she stared out at the huge, silent, moon-silvered world. A whisper stirred her mind, like a breeze that couldn’t be felt, and gradually a great Presence moved through her, around her. She couldn’t breathe at the immensity of it…He was there. All around her. She was enveloped by a sense of vast support, of timeless love, of a Presence so enormous that it surpassed everything that was. This was not the dry collection of ideologies she’d always pictured Him as, but a rich, pervasive, living…BEING.

  And her tears changed from the hot, stinging acid of self-pity to a warm, gentle, healing flow of wonder, of comfort, of gratefulness. It was going to be all right. She would be able to live a semblance of a normal life, perform her duties—not because she had no choice, but because He had given her the strength to make the choice. Indescribable peace washed over the rough, raw wound of her sorrow. In the sudden certainty of His existence, where there had once been only dry, shriveled skepticism, she knew, with a sense of profound wonder, that she would be able to handle anything—war, Kyr falling, the loss of her Empire. Unthinkable things—it was as if nothing could shake that inner surety, that calm power that seemed to buoy her up.

  No wonder all the words to describe Il had always seemed so sentimental, so incredible; they were so inadequate. For all the superlatives offered by the power of speech, they were just shadows, like seeing Il through a mist. He was so big. So beyond any human experience.

  When the Sheel began to lighten under her unseeing gaze, she came back to herself and rose stiffly from her cushions. She wanted to be out there, out in that huge land of no boundaries where Il could flow around her in His own immensity. The room suddenly seemed a prison, a reminder of a life of sadness and useless toil that she was now free of.

  She cleaned her face and changed, heart beating quiet and steady despite the dull ache of the thorn of her love for Kyr. She must leave, of course. It would be unbearable to stay. But first she needed this morning. One last, brilliant morning in a land she loved, with the power of Il a bright sunrise around her.

  Far before sunrise, the Hilt was up and active, though she passed down the stairs without acquiring Rorig. Outside, Kore had just come out of his tent, and he stopped mid-stretch when he saw her. He came over, transfixed by the look on her face.

  “My Lady Queen?” he asked softly, touching her arm. She understood now, all the touching the Rach did. Why would you not, when people were so precious? She felt like her heart would burst from the love she’d been shown.

  “Kore,” she said warmly, “I would like to ride in the Sheel this morning. Can you arrange it?”

  The slightly puzzled smile disappeared right off his handsome face. “My Lady Queen,” his voice was stilted and serious, “the Sheel is danger itself—it is no place for a casual ride.”

  She gazed up at him peacefully, teasing gently. “It has been many months since any Enemy has been seen around the Ramparts, despite your ardent hopes to the contrary. I haven’t the faintest doubt that it is safe.”

  He was shaking his head. “It is impossible to predict the Sheel. I would not endanger you out of a false sense of security—”

  “I am choosing it.” She was tranquil, sure, and unswayable.

  He began to look concerned as he realized she was determined to go through with it. “You do not understand,” he tried urgently.

  “I wish it, Kore.”

  For a moment, he just stood and stared in disbelief, half-hovering over her as if already protecting her. Torn between obedience, duty and honor, conflicting emotions raged across his open face. What a friend he was!

  “Now, Kore,” she said, very gently. To see the sun rise on the Sheel…

  Looking like someone who was ripping his own guts out, he spun sharply away from her and called to his rillian, “Tarran! Get a cyclone spun up. We ride from the gate in five.” The man’s eyes went huge in his brown face, but he dashed off. Kore turned to look for one of the ubiquitous stable boys, one of the youngsters that hung out at the Stables just to have anything to do with the horses. One had been listening and with a shocked face was already scurrying towards Filigree’s stall with a saddle.

  It literally was no more than five minutes before she was mounting Filigree, who tossed her pretty head in delight at the outing, and heading toward the big, iron gate in the Ramparts, a grim Shagreen tautly by her side.

  Six warriors waited for them there, decked out in leather armor over back and chest, thighs and forearms. No threads or tidbits of metal decorated these bridles or saddles, nothing to catch the sun and give away a position. There were no billowing white blouses, either, and not a whisper of laughter or joking or pranks.

  Sable barely even noticed them, eyes fixed on the peachy-pink sands beginning to show as the heavy points of the portcullis were pulled up into the air. It was like a portal opening, revealing the way to a new world, a new life.

  “Lady Queen,” Kore said, low and pleading. “Let us ride the Eshaid.”


  But she shook her head wordlessly, knowing all Rach knew instinctively what she had just recently learned. The Eshaid was a safe, lifeless wasteland, the Don a green pearl in all its still folds. The Sheel…the Sheel was a wild, fierce, vibrant infinity, like the Rach, full of life itself. Like her God, breaking through all her defenses so she might know His love.

  It was exquisite to walk those sands, to feel the breath of eternity brush her cheek, to gaze on endless horizon in three directions. It was awesome to see the sands blaze into brilliant orange as the rays of the sun crept over them. Overwhelmed, she rode lost in thought and wonder, everything new and fresh, her life flooding with understanding and thankfulness.

  Finally, she looked around and saw that they were riding basically a hand’s breadth from the wall of the Ramparts. Stifling a sardonic smile, and realizing at last what an uncomfortable outing she was making for the conscience-stricken Rach, she reached out and patted Kore’s strong brown hand. His face was a mask of intensity; she’d never seen him like this.

  “All right, Kore,” she said ruefully. “We can go back.” She hadn’t even finished speaking when he’d snapped out a command and the group began to tightly turn, seemingly on top of itself. “Thank you, my friend, I know this—”

  The world exploded in sand. Horses shrilled, and suddenly, the Rach were shouting, and there was blurred action all around her. What had happened? Where there had been nothing but utter peace and silence, now everywhere was bedlam. She couldn’t make out a thing for all the fine, blowing sand—then she heard the unmistakable crash of blades and felt cold terror grip her heart.

  NO. What had she done?!

  Confusion held her motionless. She wouldn’t have known what to do even if she could comprehend what was going on. Her brain was numb. And then, she felt dry, strong hands clutching at her, her legs, her waist, her arms, coming like disembodied claws out of the swirling clouds of fine sand.

  She screamed in fear and revulsion and gave Filigree her head more out of accident than choice. Instantly, the little mare reared, neighing her outrage and almost unseating Sable. Sheel-bred to her dainty hooves, she lashed out with her forelegs and Sable felt the jolt as she made a very solid connection. But still, the hands were unrelenting. Kyr’s words came back to her, revitalizing her with desperate energy. Frantically she fought them off, wanting to climb up on the saddle to get away from that ceaseless, psychotic, faceless grasping. But then one got a good hold that she couldn’t shake, around her arm—and pulled her from the saddle.

  Instantly, she felt them pressing in close around her, stifling the breath from her, confining her so that she could hardly struggle, a claustrophobic nightmare. A hand closed over her mouth and, jerking and straining with all her might, she was dragged down, down, down, through sand and choking sheeldust, down into the utter, silent blackness of a tomb.

  CHAPTER 25

  There wasn’t much time for good-byes. Melkin’s months-worth of smoldering intensity had exploded into full flame, and as dusk fell in the brilliant City of the Seven Falls, the Northerners were once again a-stagback and retracing their hoof steps south. The ghostly twilight, thickened with mist that coated the long avenues of glorious foliage and their tall, dark trunks, seemed to separate them from time. It was as if the last few days had never happened, so familiar was the feel of the stags by now. It was the same choppy, jarring gait, the all-too-familiar view of shadowcloth-clad riders ahead framed by the lyrical sweep of staghorns, and the feel of the journey seeping back into their bones.

  But even Rodge hardly complained. The sense of adventure had been heightened rather than dulled by the magical luxury of Lirralhisa, and had definitely been enhanced by the various fairytale creatures populating their recent existence. Personally, Ari thought there was more to it than the odd centaur and the thrill of a gryphon ride or two. There was something compelling, something addictive about this venture. He wasn’t the only one who hadn’t wanted it to end up there on that lost mountain, faced with a fantastical creature who knew more than he would say. In fact, Ari had heard that even Cerise—prim, exacting, starchy Companion to the Queen—had requested in Crossing that she be allowed to continue with them.

  Up ahead, disembodied by the fog, Melkin’s voice floated back to them. He was in the lead now, cursing with great imagination at Rhuq to ride faster, come up with a swifter means of transport, etc., etc., as full of enthusiastic energy now as he had been rancorous resignation earlier.

  The group came up on Dra Kai, who had stopped and was staring back the way they’d come. Sentinels turned alertly in their saddle, and Ari felt the old reflexes tighten his shoulders. Something was coming up on their rear.

  Several seconds ticked by with all of them straining to see into the dense grey behind them. It turned out to be a single rider, which then further clarified—like a pea rising out of thick stew—into Traive, Lord Regent of Cyrrh.

  Audible sighs sounded as the stagriders saluted. Cerise curled her lip and turned pointedly away, but she was the only one even faintly displeased.

  “Are you joining us?” Loren asked with boyish eagerness. Traive was still his hero, identity deception or no.

  “I think I will,” the Lord Regent answered, and rode past them to the front of the column.

  Ari watched him in satisfaction. Addictive.

  As anxious as he was to be on with their quest, Ari found himself missing this magical, beautiful place already. You could do anything in Cyrrh, things beyond imagining. Be anyone.

  They took a hurried rest that night, lying out in an enchanted glade swathed with mist, and pushed the stags all the next day. But it was still late afternoon before they reached the Gold Band.

  Dra Kai had made the suggestion last night that they make the return trip via the Sirensong, to profound approval from Melkin and thoughtful agreement from the Regent. Apparently, even as sluggish as the river looked, it would shave hours off the trail ride, and was somehow inexplicably safer.

  Rodge, not entirely convinced of the latter, had asked suspiciously, “What about the crocs?”

  “I’d avoid them,” Traive advised him.

  Rodge gave him a sour look. “I’m worried about them avoiding us.”

  Ari was beginning to look forward to the outside of the Ring, the Valley of the Falls, again. Inside, after all, was safe. Tame. Domesticated. The jungle now…not so much. Breathing deeply of the wildness, he stepped quietly outside the great gate at the gold-encrusted Southern Tor. His senses seemed to expand, to take in the warm, pulsing, dangerous dark. Just inside, Melkin was tromping and stomping and irascible, fussing over the general lack of speediness with their preparations to depart, but it faded into the background in the face of the vast, living throb of the jungle. It called to him, like the siren the river was named for, beckoning with its enchanted adventure—a place where mythical creatures could walk in stately silence out of the mists of legend. Where Whiteblades rode like quicksilver between the tree trunks, almost glimpsed long enough to be real.

  His dreams, he thought for the hundredth time with a flash of joy—they’d been real. They were memories, and the yearning for those days was deeper than ever with the release of that one powerful memory. Raised by Whiteblades. Played at the feet of the Statue of the Empress itself. He almost couldn’t believe it.

  “ARI!” Loren grabbed his arm exasperatedly. “Come on, let’s go.” The Cyrrhideans, who to listen to Melkin had been sauntering around picking at their facial orifices, had scrounged together some kind of water-born craft in record time. It was a monstrosity, but Ari lifted one whole corner by himself, reveling in the strain of his muscles, heart alive with hope for his scummy past.

  They climbed aboard under the lash of Melkin’s ungentle tongue, looking around curiously in the dim light. These were far different boats from the gigantic, featureless nautical landscapes that plied the Kendrick. High-sided as protection from over-friendly water critters and covered for the same reason from any drop-in vi
sitors, they looked more like floating fortresses. There were even slits for crossbows.

  So, they set off into the moonlit dark, onto a broad, black, glinting highway overhung with dripping vines. Before them, the jungle rang and screamed and hummed with its music of the night and their ghostly way was, for once, perfectly clear.

  They tended to sleep through the day. Without the constant stimulation of slapping through aggressive foliage and the threat of imminent death that they’d had with stag travel, the sultry, soggy heat and forced inactivity made it almost impossible to stay awake. Besides, it was captivatingly beautiful at night—and distinctly more dangerous. Rodge spent the whole first 24 hours wide-awake and staring at the gap between the raft’s sides and roof, getting used to a whole new range of assaults on his psychological equilibrium.

  Traive was utterly relaxed, in contrast. This was considered such a safe method of transport that he was the only Cyrrhidean aboard—which was good, as things were a bit cozy as it was. He was sprawled out against a box of supplies, looking half-asleep, when Melkin paused in his hundredth critique of Silverene’s high-handed manner. With a voice so low that only he and Kai and Ari, who was sitting with them, could hear, he said bitingly, “You put so much stock in his advice, you should ask him what to do about your flaming Realm.”

  “Cyrrh will be there when she’s needed. I know my place,” Traive answered comfortably. His fine voice was thick with doze.

  “You’re standing tall by a sinking ship,” Melkin growled back in disgust.

  “That is my place,” he repeated patiently, stretching his hands up behind his head.

  “Of all people in Cyrrh,” Melkin seethed quietly, “I would say it is YOUR place to do something.” Though Ari couldn’t imagine a better place to speak freely, the only other thing Cyrrhidean in the vicinity being the teeming jungle, they both still kept their voices low.