“A blade?” Rav asked, “Like
a knife?”
Artemi nodded.
His mouth twisted. “Why would you want to do that?”
“Don’t you have enemies?”
Understanding crossed Rav’s brow suddenly. “Ah. We prefer to settle our disagreements with honour and the hands that the Father gave us. You must dispense with your pintrata ways. Weapons are for weaklings.”
“She knows how to throw a punch or two, Raven,” Artemi’s rescuer said. ‘Learkin,’ Rav had called him. “She’s just too weak for them to do much.”
Rav rubbed his chin in thought. There was something about him - Artemi could not say quite what – something that reminded her of an old king she had once known. Marteus Ironheart. Marteus – how long had it been since she had conjured that name in her mind? “You think we should make her a Keeper of the Peace?” Rav asked his council. “Once she has her wings and has been given something proper to eat, of course.”
“Pintrata are immoral vermin. We cannot expect her to know right from wrong, let alone enforce it,” a sharp-nosed and full-lipped advisor hissed. She was just as evidently female as the older woman, but Artemi soon realised that neither of them had any bosoms to speak
of. They were just like she was, and just like the men in that area of their bodies. Whatever could the men ofthis world fill their conversations with if there were no breasts for them to moon over?
“I do not think this one is immoral,” Rav countered.
“Don’t be governed by your manhood,” Learkin warned. “Put this one somewhere she can prove herself trustworthy.”
Ravendasor’s eyes
narrowed only slightly, though he did well not to appear insulted by his friend’s comment. “We could have her work at the port. Plenty ofthings to test a young pup’s strength there. Plenty of lessons in morality.”
Their conversation soon turned to an argument about the best place for learning of their curious code of honour, and Artemi was left to consider her new problem. If Rav led these people, and he did not know of
any gateways to Achellon, or of anything that might resemble one, then who would? “Do you have a place of books? Histories – that sort of thing?” she asked, immediately silencing their debate.
“We have a library, but a lot of material was burned in a pintrata attack a few years ago,” the youngest man at their table said. His voice squeaked slightly when he spoke, and his wings were crisp and clean as if newly
unfurled from a chrysalis.
“What about another city?” Artemi pressed. “There must be more.”
“This is our capital,” Rav said calmly. “The most important texts were here. We have started refilling the shelves with records and copies of books from outside, but they’ll never be as... good as the collection we had before. It was a great loss indeed.”
The creatures around him nodded.
By the heat ofthe fires, she could not be trapped here! There had to be some pocket of knowledge to mine somewhere, someone who knew! “Don’t you have scholars?”
“There is Girrim who would have the time, but she is very old, and halfthe day she doesn’t even know her own name.”
The sharp-nosed councillor interjected before Artemi could reply. “Rav, you cannot think to trust this foreigner with Girrim.
The old crone’s too important – if this Artemi is bad, we could be opening ourselves up to destruction. Her knowledge-”
“I do not believe this one is bad.”
“But-”
Rav stood from the table, and the air seemed to thicken instantly. “Are you questioning my judgement, Wendala?”
Wendala rose to face him. “I
am.” Rav turned to Learkin. “And
you?”
Learkin stood too. “Yes.”
Whatever was going on?
A manner of acknowledgement passed between the three, and then Rav hit Wendala squarely in the jaw.
Artemi had faced male opponents who were not afraid to box with a woman before, but this was without any sort of hesitation or ceremony at all! Wendala fought back of course, though it was clear that she was
the weaker opponent. Rav had seemed so much more... chivalrous than this!
“Stop!” Artemi yelled at them both, “What in the blazed infernos are you doing?! Stop fighting!” But they did not appear to hear her at all. With Wendala conquered, Rav turned to Learkin, who had been watching calmly for the duration of the fight. In truth, every council member seemed to be watching the bout as if it were nothing more than a
polite exchange of red leaf cigars. Rav clenched his three free fingers and leapt at Learkin with a roar. This was madness! Artemi could stand to watch it no longer. She ran at them to block their clawing and punching, but her progress was impeded by an impossibly long arm of iron. “This is the first lesson you need to learn, pup,” the elderly owner of the arm said quietly, “Don’t interfere with a fight. He must demonstrate his leadership, for it
is never taken for granted. The day will come when Learkin is strong enough to defeat Rav, and both men know it. They must battle to know the place the Father of Storms has determined for them.”
Artemi’s mouth fell open. “They do this every time they have a disagreement? How can they ever achieve anything?”
“How can you be sure of anyone’s judgement or if the words they speak are truth if they do not fight to prove it? The Father of Storms favours the purest and the strongest. That is why we are the superior species of these lands – of all lands.”
With the old woman’s last word, Rav staggered back from his duel, shaking his bloodied clawhand. More blood dripped from his nose and from scratches on one arm. A new tear had been made in his left wing, but the fight was done. Learkin crawled on the floor beneath him,
groaning and clutching at his belly.
Rav’s eyes immediately settled on Artemi’s, but she did not wish to hold his gaze. He was the only one who had offered her kindness in this world ofthe damned, but he could never be anything other than a monster. He was no Marteus Ironheart, but a people-eating, hideous, brawling monster.
The rooms that Morghiad had reserved at the inn turned out to be far more pleasant than he would have expected of a village establishment. There was even a sitting area, and the furnishings were made of materials other than the usual
timber, bark or sticks. Kalad had taken a cushion to sit upon before the small table, as was the local manner, and Morghiad brought him a carafe full ofthe local wine. It reminded Morghiad ofthe taste of iron or some other metal, and he still wasn’t sure if he liked it. He poured some for his son, and settled himself upon the cushion opposite.
“How did my mother die?” Kalad asked.
Morghiad shook his head.
“She did not. She is very much alive, but has gone into The Crux.”
“You fell out?”
His lips formed a passable impression ofa smile. “No. No, she had to – she thinks she might be able to bring Tallyn back. We only just – it wasn’t that long ago that we found out.”
Son and host, the monsters whispered to him. What did that mean?
“Better if it had been me,
eh?” Kalad said, eyebrows raised. He lifted his mug of wine to his lips, and drank most of the contents.
“No, Kal.” There had been a time, when Morghiad had been without his memories and under the influence of The Daisain, when he had thought Artemi favoured one son over the other. But now he knew that simply was not true. One had just been easier for her to love. “It would have broken us both just the
same, and she would be doing for you or Medea just as she is doing for Tallyn.”
Kalad began to refill his mug. “Why didn’t you go with her?”
“I wanted to, but I have another duty of my own. And now I see that you needed me just as much as I need you.”
“I don’t need you, Morghiad.”
He looked down at his own drink, and sa
w there was some
sort of tiny insect swimming about in it. It wouldn’t last for long in there. “Did I mention I was attacked on no fewer than four occasions on my way here? Each time, it seemed to be a different group of people who were angry with me. Care to tell me why that might have been?”
“I hardly need to swear my heart away to one woman, if that’s what you want to instruct me on. Some of us are not made like that.”
“No. But I do know unhappiness when I see it in my children. Some men get a thrill from being chased and beaten up for their wrongdoings, but I did not see that thrill in your eyes today. I saw a man who wanted someone else to help him end it.”
Kalad set down his mug with a thump. “That is stupid. If I died, who would look after Danner?” He held Morghiad’s gaze for some seconds, and then broke it to look at the wine. “I
can’t die. Not by power or poison, anyway.”
“So you are happy with this life you have made for yourself?”
“I am free to wander the earth and lie with a different woman each night. What man would not be happy with that?”
Well, Morghiad for one, but he decided to keep such opinions to himself. “If you’re truly happy, then I’m glad. I’m not so glad that your happiness is stifling that of others. You’ve upset quite a few
ofthem.”
Kalad frowned fiercely at him. “Have you considered that their lives might have been miserable before I turned up? Kierina thought herself a wretched creature in her marriage; I performed a service for her.”
Morghiad thought he ought to have chuckled at that, but could not bring himself to do so. “You are like your mother in some ways. She doesn’t like
admitting she’s wrong, either.” He refilled Kalad’s mug. “There is the other business we need to discuss. I am arranging a peace between nations, and I need you to help me with it. It will happen in Astalon. Medea cannot attend herself, and so she has instructed that you represent Calidell.”
“Me?”
Morghiad nodded, and looked back to the contents of his cup. The insect was now floating lifelessly on the surface. He drank
the wine greedily.
“But I haven’t been in Calidell in years, and even then it was only for Tal’s funeral. And before that... it’s been decades! I don’t even know-”
“You will do this well. You’re good at talking, and that’s the most important thing. Med has provided you with some reading material to make sure you know what she needs. I am to remain impartial, but of course, if there’s anything else you require,
I will help you.”
Kalad set his mug down and spat, “I never asked for this. I never asked to be a bloody son of royalty! It’s not my responsibility.”
“The people of Calidell paid their taxes, and those taxes are what put the clothes on your back. They paid for your education. You owe it to them. You can save them from years – centuries of bloodshed.”
“I never asked for it.”
“I never asked to be king, but that is what I got.” That was a small lie, Morghiad pondered as soon as he had uttered the words, but it did not matter now. Who could have performed the role better than he had at that particular time? “There were far worse situations I could have been born into. Well, I was born into a worse situation – try having a mad oracle for a father who shuts you in a box every night when you fail to beat him at sword fighting, and has no qualms about cutting off your limbs.” Acher had never done that to him, for all of his faults and cruelties.
“The Daisain... locked you in a box?”
Morghiad nodded. He could still remember the stink of it, and the feel of the old, rotting arms or legs that had been locked in with him.
“Why didn’t you run away?”
“I was a child. I knew
nothing else. I thought it was normal, or that I deserved it. And he would tell me it was part of completing my mission; he told me every one of the lies I needed to hear.”
Kalad was silent for a moment, and his eyes were focussed only on the table surface before him. Eventually he said, “It still doesn’t excuse what you did. You left us. You left mother-”
“My actions were dictated
twice by a madman. I cannot excuse them – I regret them deeply, but I cannot undo them either.” He paused. “I thought I was doing the right thing. I don’t know what else I can say to put this right, or do for that matter.”
Still without eye contact, Kalad said, “Show me these documents.”
Well, that had to be a start at least. Morghiad dug the scrolls out oftheir bags and handed the first of them to his son. While
Kalad read, he went to gaze out of one ofthe windows, and Danner came to join him. Strangely, the wolf seemed quite keen for affection from him, and Morghiad obliged by stroking his large, grey-furred head.
“This is all coded,” Kalad said.
“Can’t have sensitive information falling into the wrong hands.”
“Yes, but I haven’t used any ofthese codes in years. I don’t
even remember half of the letters.”
Morghiad kept his sigh quiet. He was not really supposed to know their content, but ignorance would harm Calidell more than inappropriate knowledge. It was not as if everyone else in Astalon would trust him to be innocent of Calidell’s secrets, anyway. “Tell me what you have translated, and perhaps my hints will help you with the rest.” He went to
look over Kalad’s shoulder.
“Pudding adventure over the southern land...” Kalad began, running his finger along the line.
“No, it’s deserts advancing over the southern lands. What? Let me see that!”
Kalad handed the parchment to Morghiad without argument, and he read through it rapidly. By the end of it, he felt as if his heart had hardened to ice. Calidell’s green fields and forest were turning to dust, and none of Medea’s efforts at making rain appeared to be enough to prevent the march of the sands. Why had she not mentioned this to him? Was this happening to all countries?
He placed the scroll back into his son’s hands and returned to his staring place at the window pane. Sokiri, at least, was still very green. Though now that he thought about it, it had not rained in the days he had been here. It was always supposed to
rain in Sokiri. “How has the weather been since you came here?”
Kalad grunted into his cup. “Oh, they’re always going on about it – probably one reason why the wives don’t get as much attention as they should. The husbands are too busy fussing over the lack of rain. Makes the spirewoods shrink or something – well, they say it’s the spirewoods...”
Morghiad looked to the
point where the walls ofthe room met the bark of the tree it was tied to. Someone had recently stuffed the gaps with fresh-sawn timber, glue and nails. “It looks like this peace is going to be more important than I had initially thought.”
Chapter 5
Her eyes had peculiar lines about them, now that she examined them more closely in the mirror. When had those appeared? Was it the effect of sitting on that damned hard throne all day? No, she thought, pulling away from the mirror. It was because she was not getting enough fresh air in her lungs. She could not remember the last time she had held a sword, or had ridden out on her horse to visit the panthers in the forest. There were so few ofthem there now, mostly scared away by the number of people who rambled through the woods or had cut the trees back forfarmland.
A reserve, she thought. That had been on her list of projects to complete for some time now, but other problems continued to take precedence. She looked across to the table in the middle of her chambers – many hundreds of years old, but a recent goodwill gift from Forda. It was made of heavy winter oak, carved to resemble a panther’s head and painted in the blue and gold of the old Gialdin flag –just as it had been when a previous Jade’an had gifted it to the Fordans.
Medea reached to the pile of objects at the centre of it, and picked one ofthem up. It was freezi
ng cold against her skin, and clear and hard like ice, but it would only melt under certain conditions. She had managed to make ten ofthe things over two days by skimping on sleep and using every last dreg of energy and wit she had. While they lay upon the wooden table, they looked innocent enough, like shards of glass from a broken window, but when they were brought near the white walls of
Gialdin, they could prove to be an altogether more serious set of implements.
She had already carved up several sections of what little remained of Mirel’s prison cage, but it had only revealed to her how dangerous her latest creation was. If these cutters were to fall into the wrong hands, it could spell disaster for Gialdin City’s residents, for its defences and its palace. And so she had built in some protection. Just like
ice, these knives would melt away to nothing as they were used. She sincerely hoped that her solution had not come too late.
Medea rode to the site of the blight amidst her evergrowing entourage of soldiers, but kept her new blades in an unremarkable bag at the front of her saddle. The Watchers were still holding their vigil when she arrived, but their hopes and prayers had done nothing to hinder the advance of the rot. It
Voices of Blaze (Volume 5 of The Fireblade Array) Page 9