The Sword of Midras

by Tracy Hickman

  “Oh, sister!” Amanda exclaimed, her voice quavering as she spoke.

  Syenna dropped her bag and rushed forward, catching her sister as Amanda’s strength gave out and she fell. She held her sister close to her in her arms.

  You are my pain, she thought. You are all my reasons. You are who I am.

  Amanda sobbed out her joy and relief. “I wanted to give you something when you came home again!”

  “You have,” Syenna replied as tears welled up in her eyes. “You have given me everything.”

  CHAPTER

  13

  Councils

  Baroness Gianna Baden-Fox closed her eyes in frustration. This effectively blocked the sight of the arguing factions but, unfortunately, did nothing to alleviate the assault on her ears from the increasingly vitriolic arguments being flung in attack and counterattack from all sides of the hall. The baroness opened her eyes once more and tried to take in the turmoil at the center of her keep.

  It was too much, and her anger, that beast within her over which she had always held tight control, could be restrained no longer. The baroness stood suddenly from her chair at the end of the audience hall, raised her ornate staff of office, and jabbed its metallic tip violently against the stones at her feet.

  The sound shot through the rhetoric, cutting a brief silence in the space of which her words could be heard.

  “There will be order in my hall!” The words of the baroness were a statement of fact whose very tone dared anyone to challenge their absolute reality. “The sovereigns and ambassadors who have come to council will conduct themselves with courtesy within my hall. Those who cannot will find their accommodations moved to my stockade. There you may shout at one another all you like; I will not hear you and will sleep all the sounder for it. So, my most honored and esteemed guests, you will all sit down, or by the Storm Gods, I will have you removed from my hall.”

  The baroness had been beautiful in her youth, and there were still the remains of a fine woman about her, but time and the sedentary nature of her office had softened her lines and added some girth. Her face was round and looked slightly puffy. But that, her courtiers would say, was where the softness ended. She had outlived her husband, who had set sail on another of his trade missions across the Bay of Storms and never returned, but not before she had borne him five sons. Each of those she raised with an iron will, and each of whom were at sea learning their father’s profession. Although she preferred to wear elegant dresses and measured barely over five feet tall, everyone in Etceter, and in many courts beyond, knew her as the Bonesteel Baroness whom anyone would be well advised not to cross.

  Slowly, everyone in the hall sat back into their chairs. The terrible tension and animosity could still be felt palpably in the room, but at least now there was silence into which reason might be spoken.

  The baroness waited until everyone had settled before sitting down herself.

  What a terrible mess, she thought.

  As soon as she had gotten word of the related messages from Syenna, the baroness had acted at once, sending word to all the courts of the Council of Might of an urgent need to convene.

  The Council of Might was a rather grand misnomer. There were a number of city-states, kingdoms, warlord strongholds, and at least one shogunate that had risen out of the ruins of the Fall, each one struggling to establish order and law out of the chaos. Each looked to the ruins of the past and aspired to their greatness, but none of them had come close to achieving it. At best, each was a shadow of past glory, a flickering ember of the fire that had once lit the world. But with the rise of the Obsidians, these embers were being snuffed out one by one. None of the fledgling kingdoms could stand alone. So the call went out from Tsuneo, the shogun of Ardoris, asking that representatives from the largest of the existing kingdoms form a pact of strength and defense. Seven answered that call, and by mutual acclamation, formed the Council of Might.

  It was, in all substantive ways, the last thing they had agreed on.

  She had offered the hospitality of Etceter as the most convenient—or, at least, equally inconvenient—location where counsel might be held on such short notice. Gianna was initially pleased that all the members of the Council of Might had responded, including Norgard, who, despite being a member, had declined every invitation to council for the last eighteen months.

  The first respondents had given her considerable cause for hope. Ardoris, the city-state beyond the Brightbone Mountains to the east, had sent word that Shogun Tsuneo himself would be attending. Count Ekard, Master of the Council of Aerie, would make the journey from his port city to the west at the tip of the Longfall Peninsula. Everyone expected Opalis to be represented by Ambassador Miriam Heath, as the Titans seldom consented to an audience and never traveled from the city.

  That pleasure, however, was quickly tempered when she discovered who would be representing the remaining member city-states. The mountain stronghold city known as Resolute, situated among the peaks of the range known as the Pillars of Night, dispatched Minister Arthur Falcone to represent Marshal Nimbus, as the marshal declined, saying he was too busy with military matters to attend. Ambassador Miles Shepherd, who had been in Etceter when Midras fell, had declared himself the Midras government in exile and, as no word had come regarding the fate of the priestess of Midras, or any of the rest of the government of that city-state, there was no one remaining to contradict the ambassador’s assertions.

  Most troublesome of all was the appointment of Tribune Marcus Tercius to represent Norgard. No one had expected the emperor himself to attend, nor did anyone know anything about the tribune or had any past dealings with him. What was known was that the armies of Norgard had crossed the Nayad Channel from their large island homeland the year before, and had been expanding eastward from the Verdantis Coast ever since.

  Now, as the baroness looked around the room, she wondered how the Council of Might had ever managed to agree on a name for themselves, let alone agree to work for the common good.

  “Are you all right, Baroness?”

  Bending over from where he stood next to her, Gerad Zhal whispered into Gianna’s ear.

  The baroness turned her head toward her counselor and whispered in return. “Decidedly not. The cawing of these crows has brought a thunderous aching to my head. You are my loremaster; do you know of anything that will rid me of this pain?”

  “Short of emptying the hall?” the loremaster responded quietly. “I have an elixir that could provide you with some relief, but I would not advise you drinking it within view of this council.”

  “A drink is perhaps exactly what I need,” the baroness murmured in response. She glanced at the loremaster. “Won’t our guests think you and I are plotting something if we keep whispering to each other?”

  “Yes, Baroness,” the loremaster replied. “But it has also afforded everyone a little time for hot tempers to cool and reflective thought to replace rhetoric. Besides, everyone here is expecting intrigue. It would be bad manners as a hostess not to at least provide them with the suspicion of some.”

  Gianna tried with only moderate success to suppress a smile playing at the corners of her lips. “You are wise indeed, Loremaster.”

  “That is, of course, my job,” Gerad replied with a nod as he straightened once more to stand next to her chair.

  Gianna considered him for a moment. Gerad Zhal had been the loremaster to the Etceter courts for as long as she could recall. He was not much taller than Gianna, with a stocky build and broad shoulders. The baroness had insisted today that he wear the deep blue mantle of his office with its matching flat hat and dangling tassel, but she knew he much preferred his comfortable shirt with the wide sleeves, and his leather vest. The bald top of his head was rimmed with white hair, and his face reminded Gianna of a hedgehog she had seen once when she was a little girl, all at once bemused and mischievous.

  The baroness turned her attention back to the audience hall and the problem at hand. The six other represe
ntatives in the room were seated to her left and right, three on each side of the room, facing one another. The seating arrangements alone had taken careful consideration.

  Ambassador Shepherd turned his angry gaze back toward the baroness. The ambassador from the fallen city-state of Midras had been situated in the seat farthest on Gianna’s left. His bushy mustache and long, swept back hair were both iron gray. He wore a crimson red tunic with a long black mantle, the colors of mourning in the culture of his city. He had the broad chest of an old warrior, although his abdomen demonstrated a slight paunch. He had his arms folded across his chest and was fuming over having his speech interrupted. “May I continue?”

  Gianna braced herself but nodded graciously. “Pray, do so.”

  “The point is,” Shepherd said as he stood up, “that this ancient relic of the Avatars was discovered in Midras and, by right, is part of my city. Does this not demonstrate the vital and ancient importance of that place to the Avatars themselves? This sword is evidence—a sign if you will—that Midras’s fall must be avenged, the city retaken—”

  “Your city is lost!” bellowed the enormous warrior seated farthest from Gianna on her right. Sir Arthur Falcone, who had come in place of the marshal of Resolute. He was a large, robust man with a voice that was too loud and a temper that was too quick. His broad face and lantern jaw featured a long thin mustache and an even longer scar that ran from the bridge of his nose, across his cheek, and to nearly the base of his ear. His clothing and boots seem to have been chosen entirely out of dull, earthy colors, with the exception of a bright blue tabard featuring the symbol of a dragon, its wings spread wide, embroidered entirely out of silvery threads. “We did not come all this way to listen to your sobbing over a city you could not properly defend and hold.”

  “None of us could defend or hold our lands against the Obsidians’ might,” said Miriam Heath from the middle of the three chairs at Gianna’s left. The ambassador from Opalis was a slender woman with prominent cheekbones and violet eyes. Her dark, curly hair she always wore pulled back and bound at the nape of her neck at official functions, although Gianna had occasionally seen her informally when Miriam would release her hair into a glorious mane. As ambassador, Miriam was a person of few words, but when she spoke, it was with the full confidence and authority of the Titans who ruled Opalis and, for today, the perfect buffer sitting between Tsuneo and Shepherd. “That was and remains the point of the Council of Might. No one of us alone has the strength to stop the Obsidians. Their magic is powerful, but with this discovery of the Avatar’s weapon, we may be able to recover the magic that was lost from before the Fall.”

  “The Avatars?” Count Ekard chortled, shaking his head.

  Closest to her right sat Tribune Marcus. He wore the uniform of the Norgard elite, an ornate breastplate over his tunic and a belted apron of leather straps around his waist. His dark hair was so closely cropped as to be difficult to see at all. He was clean shaven with a prominent, hawkish nose and a slightly receding chin. Marcus slouched casually in his chair, viewing everyone else in the room with thinly veiled distain. “Stories told by children to impress other children!”

  “The Avatars existed,” Miriam asserted. “The power of their magic shaped worlds and brought us the Virtues.”

  “It is a pleasant enough fiction, I suppose.” Count Ekard, a tall, skeletal man of advancing years, sat leaning forward in his chair just beyond the tribune. Ekard wore the deep purple cassock and matching shoulder cape that signified him as head of the guild council ruling the port of Aerie. Gianna suspected that the guild council was working in league with Norgard and had hopes of profiting from their expansion. Count Ekard had a soothing way with words, and Gianna often had to remind herself not to believe any of them. “These myths about Avatars were brought into existence out of the ancient Virtues, not the other way around. Such bedtime stories about returning champions keep the peasants in line, I’ll grant you that, and gives them some sort of false hope to which they can cling.”

  “False hope?” Shepherd’s voice shook. He gestured toward the main doors at the far end of the hall. “The proof is here!”

  “A proof that serves Midras,” Marcus observed with a casual wave of his hand. “You could not defend your own city against the Obsidians, and now you want us to take it back for you because of some old sword that was found there.”

  “And how were we to defend Midras when her friends would not come to our aid?” Shepherd demanded. “Where were the Virtues espoused by Ardoris when their armies slept in their beds while children died in the streets of Midras?”

  All eyes turned to Tsuneo, Shogun of Ardoris. He was seated closest to Gianna on her left, his arms folded across his chest over his brightly colored robes. He was a dark-complexioned man with a carefully trimmed goatee beard, and he was demonstrably unhappy. He looked as though he expected to be personally under siege. On either side of his chair stood his two “advisers,” although everyone in the room knew that their function was to guard the shogun more than give their advice. He always thought before he spoke in his deep, rumbling voice. “Ardoris seeks to discover the Virtues in its heart and live them in its actions. The priestess of Midras sought the Virtues in her own path and by her own counsel. Her plea for aid came too late to have mattered. The children of Midras would not have been served by more deaths sacrificed on the path to the same destiny. There is Virtue in sacrifice for the greater good. There is no Virtue in sacrifice without purpose.”

  “If so, then Ardoris chooses for its own convenience which Virtues it will uphold!” Shepherd snapped. “The Avatars brought us the true Virtues in ancient days before the Fall—”

  “All this talk about the Avatars when it’s the Obsidians that are the problem!” Falcone growled. “As much a problem as the Avatars, if you ask me. Behind all them legends and them Virtues they spouted were a bunch of thieving brigands who did nothing but ruin the world with their meddling. Were there a single calamity of the ancient world’s myths that weren’t caused by some Avatar come stomping about the world and kicking over carts? Damned if I don’t believe they caused the Fall in the first place. Good riddance to them, says I, and no rusty sword of their make is gonna make a sliver’s difference when it come down to battling the Obsidians.”

  “You are quite right, Sir Falcone,” Gianna said with a gracious nod.

  “I am?” Falcone was genuinely surprised. No one ever agreed with him.

  “The issue is, indeed, the Obsidians and what we are to do about them,” the baroness said. “However, something has occurred to me that I think we should consider.”

  Ambassador Shepherd, still standing, was about to interrupt her.

  “Sit down, Miles!” the baroness spoke in her most commanding tone. Shepherd slowly sat back down into his chair. “Everyone here has had a great deal to say this morning, but there is one testimony we have not yet heard.”

  Sir Falcone glanced about the room. “Who, Baroness?”

  “Why, the sword, of course,” Gianna replied. “Bring in the sword.”

  CHAPTER

  14

  The Bearer

  “You cannot possibly be serious,” Syenna said, shaking her head in disapproval.

  “What, this old thing?” Aren stood in the center of his stockade cell, pivoting around once completely in front of her. Although a number of blade strikes still marred the finish and a number of pieces were bent out of shape or missing entirely, there was no mistaking its infamous form. The captain stood before her clad completely in his Obsidian armor. “It was just something I had lying around.”

  “Take that off at once,” Syenna fumed. “You cannot appear at court in that abomination.”

  “Quite the contrary. It is precisely because I am appearing at court that I must wear my uniform, or at least something that passes for one.” Aren flashed a bright smile of mock tolerance. “You would not want me to misrepresent myself. After all, I suspect I am the first representative of the Obsidians t
o ever grace this court.”

  “You are the first we haven’t killed before getting this close to court,” Syenna snapped. “And if you wear that, you may be the first to be killed at court.”

  “You are hardly one to be complaining,” Aren answered, gesturing at Syenna with his right hand. “Especially given your own attire.”

  Syenna drew in a breath between her teeth. “This is the traditional uniform of the Baron’s Guard.”

  “The breastplate is functional enough, I’ll give you that,” Aren observed as he folded his arms across his own armor and looked her over with a critical eye. “But that enormous red plume on the top of a morion helmet? Your enemy would see you five weeks before you got within striking distance. And those bloused pantaloons with the multicolored stripes? Obviously those will provide you with the perfect camouflage for—oh, let me think—nowhere. Are there many of you dressed like this, or is this some sort of cruel joke being played on you?”

  Syenna, not for the first time, ignored Aren’s remarks and continued. “I will not have you present the sword in court donning that armor.”

  “Oh, I see.” Aren furrowed his brow in consideration, pouting slightly. Then he shrugged, gesturing toward the long object wrapped in oilskin that lay on his cot. “Very well. I suppose you will want to present the blade at court yourself?”

  Aren saw the color drain from Syenna’s face as she took a single, involuntary step back, away from him.

  “Well”—Aren smiled knowingly—“perhaps not.”

  Aren turned back to the oilskin wrappings laid on his cot. He carefully unfolded them, smiling as he uncovered the familiar gleam and shape of the sword. He quickly reached down for the grip, closing his fingers around it.

  The odd sensation that came to him every time he picked up the blade again returned. It was a familiar sensation, like shaking the hand of an old friend with whom you had a falling out years before and had long since forgotten what the argument was about. He gazed intently for a moment at the runes on the blade, which seemed forever to be changing before his eyes into new shapes at whose meanings he could only guess.