The Saints Of The Sword (Tyrants & Kings)

by John Marco

  ‘I suppose,’ Jelena admitted. ‘The Fearless is the dread of my people. She’s sunk countless ships over the years. There’s no way we could declare peace with Nar until she’s destroyed. Biagio is wrong to think it’s just about revenge, though. It is more than that. It’s important to us as a people. We cannot go on without sinking the Fearless.’

  ‘I think I understand,’ said Kasrin. ‘It’s a matter of pride. Really, it’s not so different for me. You’re talking about the pride of a whole nation. I’m talking about the pride of one man. Me.’

  The queen smiled slightly. ‘All right, then. Since you’re the expert on Nicabar, tell me how we defeat him.’

  ‘Oh? Have you made your decision, then?’

  ‘Not yet,’ the queen answered. ‘We are just talking, you and I. Let us imagine for a moment what we would do if we were up against the Fearless. What are her weaknesses? How would you defeat her, Captain Kasrin?’

  ‘Blair,’ said Kasrin.

  ‘What?’

  ‘My name is Blair.’

  Jelena glanced away. ‘What would you do?’ she asked again.

  Kasrin considered the question. The Fearless was the largest dreadnought in the fleet, and the best armed. She was slower, too, but that wasn’t much of a weakness; her ponderous speed was the result of heavy armor. The captain stroked his chin thoughtfully. Maybe the Fearless didn’t have any weaknesses, but Nicabar certainly did. Kasrin considered what Biagio had told them, that Nicabar would fall for any trap if he thought it meant conquering Liss.

  ‘Ego,’ concluded Kasrin. ‘That’s the weakness I’d go after. I’ve never met a man more arrogant than Nicabar. Or more driven. Biagio is right about him. If I tell him I have a way into Liss, he’ll believe it.’

  ‘Are you sure? You just told me Nicabar hates you.’

  ‘Ah, my queen, there is one thing that Nicabar hates more than me, and that’s Liss,’ Kasrin chuckled. ‘That’s our trap. We have to draw him into a shallow fight, surround him with cannons with no way out. Some-place narrow, with high land around. The question is, are you willing to arrange it?’

  Still the queen wouldn’t commit herself. Kasrin waited for her answer, but Jelena was silent. She rose from the bench and went to the edge of the pond, squatting down to reach for a handful of clear water. She let it dribble slowly from between her fingers watching it splash back into the pond.

  ‘I love the water,’ she said. ‘That’s what it means to be Lissen. The water is our home. It is everything to us. I never thought Narens could understand that. I’ve heard about your cities, your Black Palace and war labs. To me these things are abominations.’ Then she turned and looked at Kasrin. ‘But you’re different, aren’t you?’

  Kasrin didn’t know what to say. He wanted to agree, to ingratiate himself with the queen, but all he could do was shrug. ‘Maybe. It depends on what you mean. I am Naren, Queen Jelena.’

  ‘I know, but you’re also not like the others. You refused to join the war against Liss. You’re a man of conscience, Captain Kasrin. I’m wondering how that happened to you. What makes you different?’

  More impossible questions. Kasrin puzzled over a response. ‘I don’t know. I am different from Nicabar, that I admit happily. But not every Naren is evil, Lady Jelena.’

  Jelena smiled sadly. ‘Oh, I know that, Captain. Someone already proved that to me.’

  The odd response made Kasrin frown. Jelena seemed to be in her own little world. Suddenly, an idea occurred to him.

  ‘Let me show you something,’ he said, going down to the bank to stand beside her. He began rolling up his sleeve.

  Jelena reared back. ‘What?’ she asked nervously.

  Kasrin laughed. ‘This,’ he declared, tracing the faded scar that ran along the bottom of his arm from the elbow to the shoulder. ‘You know what that is?’

  ‘A scar,’ replied Jelena dryly. ‘A very ugly one.’

  ‘That’s from a moray eel,’ declared Kasrin. ‘I got that when I was eighteen years old. About your age, I’d bet.’

  Cautiously, Jelena reached out a finger and ran it along the scar. ‘That must have been a big eel. I’ve seen them around Liss.’

  ‘They’ve got teeth like needles,’ said Kasrin. ‘Damn thing almost took my arm off.’

  ‘What happened?’ asked Jelena. She was engaged, just as Kasrin had hoped. Finally he was making a connection with her.

  ‘I lived in a fishing village when I was a boy,’ he began. ‘I always loved the sea, and I’ve been on ships since I can remember. When I was a teenager I had my own boat. It was just a rowboat, really, but I loved it. I took care of it like it was a child.’

  Jelena nodded.

  ‘One day,’ Kasrin continued, ‘I was scraping barnacles off the bottom of my boat. It was moored, still in the water, so I jumped in and got to work. I had a knife with a shiny silver blade, and the sun was bright that day. I remember because I could see it from under the water, shining on the surface.’ The captain paused, considering his scar, and the memory of the awful pain bloomed fresh in his mind. ‘I guess that eel thought the knife was a fish or something. It came shooting out, took hold of my arm, and did this to me.’

  ‘There must have been a lot of blood,’ remarked the queen. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Well, I didn’t die,’ joked Kasrin. ‘My father pulled me out of the water and someone in the village stitched me up. Scared the hell out of me, I tell you. But the point is, I wasn’t afraid to go back in the water. I didn’t stay away from the sea because I couldn’t. The ocean was part of me, even way back then. It still is, really. So you see, my lady? We’re really not so different after all.’

  A smile appeared on Jelena’s face. ‘That’s a wonderful story. I’m glad you told it to me.’

  Kasrin grinned. ‘So? Have I convinced you yet?’

  ‘It is not you, Captain. You are trustworthy, I think. It is Biagio that worries me. I don’t think you know how much we fear him.’

  ‘Oh, but you’re wrong. Believe me, I know what the emperor was like. I served with Nicabar, remember. Those two were a pair of hellions once. But Biagio has changed.’

  Jelena’s face soured. ‘That doesn’t seem possible to me. He was the one who prosecuted the war against Liss, along with Arkus. He supported Nicabar, and ordered the blockade of the Hundred Isles. That kind of past can’t be changed.’

  ‘Queen Jelena, listen to me,’ Kasrin implored. ‘Let me tell you what I know about Biagio. He was a butcher and a madman. He was the vainest man in the Black City, even more arrogant than Nicabar. Does he look like those things now?’

  After a moment, Jelena admitted, ‘No. But it might all be a trick. Biagio is Roshann, remember.’

  ‘It’s no trick,’ Kasrin insisted. ‘He has changed. I didn’t believe it at first, but I do now. If you can trust me, an officer of the Black Fleet, then why can’t you trust Biagio?’

  ‘It’s more difficult with Biagio,’ said Jelena. ‘He keeps secrets, even from you. Tell me – why does Biagio need a ship to take him to the Eastern Highlands?’

  Kasrin hesitated, the only proof Jelena needed. ‘You don’t know, do you? Because Biagio won’t tell you. So how can I trust him?’

  ‘It’s difficult,’ agreed Kasrin. ‘But Biagio told you the truth. He is weak now. And the Empire is in danger. Biagio has many enemies, and he’s trying to get allies to help him.’

  ‘He’s told you this?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Kasrin. ‘In his own way, he’s told me all that he could. Then he asked me to trust him.’ In his eagerness he almost took Jelena’s hand. ‘That’s what I’m asking you to do now. For the sake of peace, can’t you show a little trust?’

  Once more, the queen refused to answer.

  Biagio stood in the main hallway of the western wing staring at a single statue gracing a lonely corner. The statue depicted the goddess Irisha, a figure from Naren mythology; she was cradling a lamb in her arms. Irisha was the ancient goddess of youth, a symbol th
at had particular meaning to the life-stealing lords of Nar, and she was always shown as a young girl, just on the cusp of womanhood. The lamb, Biagio supposed, represented the constant hope of rebirth and the idea that all people were the lambs of heaven, carefully held in the loving arms of the gods. Because it was a particularly striking rendition of Irisha and because Biagio had an affinity for her, he had long ago purchased the statue from a dealer in the Black City, and had placed it here in the main corridor where he thought the light best captured its essence. It had been an expensive purchase, but that hadn’t bothered Biagio. Back then, his fortune had been vast indeed, enough to a buy a thousand such pieces. Yet today, it wasn’t the careful work of Irisha’s sculpted face or single exposed breast that caught Biagio’s attention. Rather, he was shocked to see the statue at all.

  During his two days as Jelena’s captive, he had discovered one awful truth about his former home – it was almost completely stripped of all his scrupulously acquired treasures. The portraits on the walls, the important tapestries from Vosk, the meticulously detailed master-pieces of Darago; they were all gone, sold to pay for the Lissen war. Only Irisha and her little lamb remained, and the strangeness of it bewildered Biagio. As he stood alone in the corridor staring up at her half-naked elegance, Biagio puzzled over the mystery.

  But his contemplations were interrupted by the sound of approaching feet. Queen Jelena’s shoes clicked on the marble floor announcing her arrival. She was alone. Biagio’s heart skipped at the sight of her. Finally, he might have his answer.

  ‘Queen Jelena,’ he said courteously. ‘I’m pleased to see you.’

  Jelena was her typically cold self. ‘Biagio, I must talk to you.’

  ‘That’s fine,’ replied Biagio. ‘But first . . .’ He gestured to the statue. ‘What is this doing here?’

  The question confused the queen. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘As far as I can tell, you sold everything else. There aren’t any other statues in the entire wing, not even the small ones I had on the veranda. Yet you kept this one of Irisha, right where I left it.’ Biagio looked at her pointedly. ‘Why?’

  ‘Irisha,’ echoed the queen. She regarded the statue, letting the whisper of a smile grace her face. ‘So that’s her name.’

  Biagio was intrigued. ‘She’s an ancient goddess of youth, from old Naren myths. Just a child, really, but almost a woman.’ He decided to nudge a little. ‘Like you, perhaps?’

  ‘No,’ said Jelena venomously. ‘Like my mother.’

  The answer made Biagio draw back. Jelena’s brief smile had been replaced by a mask of disdain.

  ‘I see,’ said Biagio.

  ‘She was killed in a Naren attack,’ Jelena continued. ‘Along with my father. I was sixteen at the time.’

  Biagio nodded. He already knew the story of the queen’s ascension. Again he looked at the statue. ‘This reminds you of her, does it?’

  ‘Very much. I shouldn’t admit this to you, but this statue looks strikingly like my mother. She was very young when she had me, about the age of this girl, I suppose. When I saw this statue it was like seeing her again.’ Jelena sighed. ‘That probably sounds silly to you.’

  ‘Not at all,’ replied Biagio. He remembered all the time he’d spent in Baron Jalator’s Wax Works communing with the figure of Arkus, hoping to glean some comfort from the display. Somehow, Jelena’s attachment to Irisha’s cold stone seemed sadly appropriate. ‘You were wise to keep it,’ he told her. ‘It is good to have things that connect us with the past.’

  Jelena glanced at him quickly. ‘That surprises me to hear, coming from you, Biagio.’

  ‘Why should it? You’ve already seen my fondness for antiques. I should think you would understand me better by now, having spent so much time destroying my home.’

  ‘As you destroyed mine?’

  ‘My lady, I have done things you wouldn’t believe,’ Biagio told her. ‘The rape of Liss is just one more thing on my conscience. But I have changed.’ He sighed, shaking his head. ‘You’ll never believe that, will you? I have wasted my time coming here.’

  ‘But I do believe you,’ said Jelena.

  ‘You do?’ His eyes narrowed. ‘Why?’

  The queen laughed. ‘You may thank your Captain Kasrin for that. I think he is a man of honor, despite the uniform he wears. He trusts you, Biagio.’

  ‘And that is enough for you?’ Biagio couldn’t imagine what Kasrin might have told her, or even why the captain should trust him. He’d been nothing but secretive with Kasrin.

  ‘You won’t understand this, Biagio, but I will tell you anyway. There is something about the people of the sea that binds us all together. Kasrin is like that. He is not so different from us of Liss. If he can find a way to trust you, then I can, too.’

  ‘You’re not admitting everything,’ said Biagio. ‘I can see the truth in your eyes, my lady. You want Nicabar.’

  ‘Of course I do,’ retorted Jelena. ‘I wouldn’t be helping you if I didn’t.’

  ‘Helping me?’

  Jelena nodded. ‘Yes. I will give you a ship, Biagio. Take it to the Eastern Highlands and find your allies.’

  My allies? wondered Biagio. How much had Kasrin told her? But he was too grateful to argue. In fact, he was almost too astounded to talk.

  ‘My lady, I really don’t know how to thank you.’

  ‘I can think of a way,’ said Jelena. ‘Tell me why you’re going to the Eastern Highlands.’

  The demand didn’t surprise Biagio. He had expected it, for he knew Jelena ultimately wouldn’t release one of her schooners without knowing why.

  ‘Very well,’ said Biagio. ‘I will tell you, but not yet. First get my ship ready to depart. I must leave quickly for the Eastern Highlands, and you and Kasrin have plans to make.’ He turned from the queen, reaching out a hand to caress Irisha’s perfectly sculpted leg. He would miss her. ‘We will meet on the eve of my departure,’ he told Jelena. ‘I will tell you everything then.’

  Thirteen

  Alazrian sat alone in his bedchamber staring at the moon and waiting for dawn. It was another dreary night in Aramoor castle, full of lonely footfalls in the corridor beyond his door and the buzz of distant insects. A clear sky hung over the land and a northern breeze bent the tips of the giant fir trees, making them sway to its sad rhythm. Moonlight poured through the dingy window striking Alazrian’s face, giving him a ghastly glow in the nearby mirror. He sat in pensive silence, his contemplation shifting between the moon and the secret envelope in his lap. It had been weeks since Biagio had given him the letter, and in all that time Alazrian had never been so tempted to open it as he was tonight. Tonight was the eve of his ride to the Iron Mountains. Soon he might come face to face with the Triin lion riders, and before he gave them Biagio’s fateful note he wanted desperately to know what was inside.

  Vantran, he told himself. This letter is for him, not me.

  He had been telling himself that for days now, but it never really helped. Since returning from Talistan, the letter had obsessed him, a constant, nagging reminder of the journey ahead. For three days he had been back in Aramoor, and for three days he did nothing but brood. He was frightened and lonely, and for some reason holding the letter was the only thing that gave him comfort. In the morning he would ride off with Shinn and the others. He might even be killed. This damnable letter seemed to be the key to his fate.

  Carefully, he held it up to the window, hoping the moonlight might reveal its contents. It wasn’t a lie, was it? He had touched Biagio, after all. He had seen into his mind and felt the truthfulness there. If the letter were any sort of trap, then Alazrian’s strange gift was a fraud, and since he knew that wasn’t true, he was certain Biagio’s letter was just as the emperor had claimed.

  ‘Well, almost certain,’ he whispered. He went to his bed and slipped the envelope under the mattress. His clothes for the morning ride were already arranged, neatly folded over a chair. When it came time to dress, he could easily stuff the l
etter into a pocket. Then, when he finally located the Triin . . .

  What? he wondered nervously. Would he just surrender to them?

  Alazrian sat down on the bed. If his mother were here, she would have known how to comfort him. She would have advice for him, sound, motherly words to ease his apprehension. If she were alive, she might scold him for what he was about to do. Though she knew her father’s madness, Alazrian very much doubted she would approve of his mission.

  ‘But there’s so much more at stake,’ he whispered. ‘Forgive me, Mother, but I have to believe Biagio. I looked into his heart, the way I did yours. Do you remember that?’

  Of course there was no reply. Alazrian opened his eyes and laughed ruefully. Lady Calida could never answer him again. All that remained was his mission and the strange promise he had made to his mother, to discover a purpose for his mysterious gifts. Suddenly, he understood that a new door was opening in his life. Tomorrow, he would cross the threshold. Once he rode off for the mountains, he would be a man.