“You stop whistling that tune,” Syenna demanded behind him.
Aren had not even realized he had been whistling. “Really? But it is such a catchy little tune.”
“And I have been catching it for far too long,” Syenna said. “You have been humming or whistling that same tune ever since we left the Blackblade Mountains.”
“But it’s the only song I know,” Aren replied, still gazing at the blade and wondering at the shifting writing.
“I like a song as well as anyone, but couldn’t you at least learn something different?” Syenna asked. “And put that blade away!”
Aren chuckled to himself. It was one thing to enter the hall of the baroness in the armor of her enemy but quite another, he realized, to do so with his blade drawn. Being brave was one thing, but being stupid was another thing altogether. He slid the sword into his scabbard and turned again to face Syenna.
“Well, if the court of the baroness needs a fool, here I am,” Aren said, spreading his hands wide and bowing slightly. “Although, given your costume, I rather think you fit the part much better.”
“What do you know?” Syenna quipped. “You spent nearly ten days at sea with your head over the side of the boat.”
“I was in contemplation!”
“You, great captain, were seasick.”
* * *
Miles Shepherd experienced a glacial stillness as he sat nearest the great doors leading to the audience hall. He was surprised at how calm he felt and at the acuteness of his senses. It was as though time itself were slowing down all around him.
As they waited, Shepherd glanced around the audience hall, once more gauging everyone in the room. Directly across from him sat Sir Arthur of Resolute, a warrior whose battles were firmly lodged in his past and now beneath about thirty pounds too much weight. Count Ekard, who sat next to Sir Arthur, would run from any conflict, especially if he thought doing so would profit him. Tsuneo and his so-called advisers, who sat beyond Miriam Heath on his left, would not intervene in his purpose. The shogun’s warrior guards would be primarily interested in defending Tsuneo. Miriam herself was strictly an ambassador with no skill with a blade. Gianna and her gray-haired councilor could easily be discounted, as both of them were as inept at weaponry as they were adept at politics. That left the Etceter guards, who might respond, but the baroness had situated them specifically at the very farthest edges of the room so as not to impede the conference. Even that Syenna woman had been relegated to a spot near the door—which was far away enough for Shepherd’s purpose.
Shepherd folded his arms low across his lap, his right hand crossing beneath his black mantle. There, out of sight, he touched once more the hilt of his sword. It was a familiar friend whom in days past he had called upon often to defend his priestess and his city. Indeed, he was proud to have been counted among the Guardians of Midras in his younger days, and still secretly carried the skills and craft of that calling.
And, he reminded himself, his oath to uphold.
Everything had been taken from him. All that was left for him was his pain and his oath.
Now he could fulfill his oath.
And he had to stop the pain.
* * *
Aren stood outside the audience hall, bemused at the ten guards flanking him. What do they think I’ll do? Escape?
The truth was that he could not be more pleased with his current state. Admittedly, he had been rather embarrassed at having so badly misjudged Syenna and for allowing himself to be captured, but it had quickly become very apparent to him that he was really very much in control of the situation. Syenna was loath to touch his relic sword and had warned all the other members of her kidnapping party not to do so. Since they wanted the sword brought here, they had to keep him alive in order to do so. With no fear of being killed, he felt safer here than he had in his own command. His captors had to keep him alive—which meant so far as Aren was concerned, he had his own personal guard. When he discovered that Syenna intended to bring him before the Council of Might, he could not have been more overjoyed. This was a chance to acquire knowledge of his enemy that he had never hoped to achieve. His only real danger was in startling one of his nervous guards and being run through in a moment of panic. His greatest safety, therefore, was in making no sudden moves and being as calm as possible.
No, he had absolutely no intention of escaping … at least, not yet.
“Stop whistling that tune!” Syenna demanded under her breath.
“Sorry,” Aren agreed.
“You are to walk directly toward the baroness,” Syenna instructed. “Avert your eyes to the ground but remain facing her as you approach. Do not look to either side. The floor has an inlaid pattern. Stop on the circular stone in the center of the hall and then wait in silence. Speak only when you are spoken to, and only to answer questions. Is all that clear?”
“It was clear last night when you told me,” Aren replied. “It was even clearer this morning when you repeated it before we came up the hill to the keep.”
“And while you’re at it, get rid of that smile on your face!”
“Quite right.” Aren cleared his throat and gave his most serious expression. “Solemn occasion—understood.”
Syenna stood in front of Aren, and tapped the base of her ceremonial spear against the great double doors that were the main entrance to the audience hall. The doors opened outward, pushed by two Etceter guards clad in the same odd formal guard uniforms as Syenna.
Aren lifted his chin and strode past Syenna into the audience hall.
An audible gasp greeted him.
Tall pillars on either side of the room supported the beautiful arched ceiling twenty feet overhead. In front of the pillars were set six enormous chairs—three on each side—where an unusual collection of people were sitting. Two were in some sort of military uniforms, while others seemed to be in more ceremonial dress. He assumed they represented various organizations, nations, or states, although he did not recognize any of them by nationality let alone by name. The dark, stern-looking man in the bright robes farthest from him on the right was flanked by two large men who were obviously his personal guards. Aren noted in his mind to be particularly wary of them.
There was a seventh chair situated at the far end of the hall opposite the doors he had entered. There sat a woman in a gown. Aren assumed she was the baroness. Standing at her side was an oddly dressed older man—possibly an adviser but certainly no threat to him. There were guards in the room but those were situated at the perimeter of the room, well back from the chairs. The guards were listless and, undoubtedly, bored with the machinations and debates that had recently filled the room.
Aren continued to stride into the room, his gaze fixed on the eyes of the baroness. They were intent embers looking back at him in outrage. His uniform, he thought with an inward smile, was having the desired effect.
In a moment, the eyes of the baroness shifted suddenly, fixing to Aren’s right. The look on her face suddenly softened from its outrage, and her jaw began to drop.
Whether he saw it from the corner of his eye or sensed it in the air, Aren became aware of movement behind him to his right.
Aren spun around, turning his head and raising his arms in front of him.
The older man in the black mantle and the crimson tunic lunged at him with a saber. Aren instinctively shifted his left arm, sweeping it downward. The metal vambrace of his Obsidian armor swung against his opponent’s blade, deflecting it outward and away from the captain.
Aren was vaguely aware of shouts and cries rising around him. He stepped into his attacker, turning to his left and trying to arrest the man’s sword arm under his own.
His opponent anticipated the move, leaping backward and using the deflection of the blade to swing it back to a ready position. Aren reached down as he turned, the fingers of his right hand wrapping around his sword’s grip. He pulled the blade free just as the older man lunged again. Aren shifted the sword in front of him again to d
eflect the thrusting blade. Steel shivered against steel as the edges of their blades slid down each other until they clanged to a stop at the sword’s guards.
In that instant, their blades locked, Aren looked into the eyes of the hatred looking back at him.
Aren’s own eyes went suddenly wide.
Aren knew this man.
The captain felt his attacker pressing all his weight against the locked blades. Aren responded by suddenly stepping to the side, turning out of the direction of the man’s push. The attacker, suddenly with nothing to push against, fell forward. Aren kicked out with his leg, tripping the man as he tried to regain his balance and sending him sprawling face forward to the floor.
Aren quickly stepped over him as the man tried to roll to his feet. The captain kicked away the man’s sword at once, bringing the tip of his blade down to his opponent’s throat.
The tip of the Avatar blade hung unmoving, less than a finger’s width from the man’s neck.
The silence in the room felt as though it were charged with lightning. No one moved as time itself seemed to hold its breath.
“Miles Shepherd,” Aren murmured.
The ambassador lying on the floor had been staring with hatred up at Aren, but now he blinked, his features softening. “What? What did you say?”
“You are Miles Shepherd,” Aren continued, his voice quavering slightly as he spoke. “You loved the spring and the fall in Midras as your favorite times of the year. The city seemed to be the most alive to you then. You saw them as times of renewal and harvest. There was not a day gone by when you looked upon the old ruins of the city and saw them not as they were, but as what they might become through the love and work of the people.”
Syenna, her own sword drawn, walked carefully toward her prisoner. The other guards in the hall, awakened abruptly from their stupor, were closing in on him as well.
“You loved the priestess and were honored to serve her as a Guardian of Midras.” Aren sighed. “That’s why you accepted when she asked you to call for aid. That’s why you left the city.”
On the ground, Miles gazed up at the Obsidian captain in wonder. “How … how can you know these things?”
“Your beloved family was there when the attack came,” Aren continued, a sadness coming into his voice. “Your children and your grandchildren … and here you were, too far away to help or protect them.”
A tear fell from the corner of Shepherd’s eye.
Syenna was nearly ready to strike.
“Wait!” The old man who had stood next to the baroness suddenly appeared next to Aren, his arms raised against the approaching blades of the Etceter guards. “I am Gerad Zhal! In the name of the baroness, stand back, I say! Stand back!”
“You’re wondering if I know what happened to them.” Aren sighed as he looked down at Shepherd. “I am sorry, Ambassador, I do not. The siege was a difficult one, and there were many dead on both sides. But many in the city survived, and your family may well be among them. Yes, there are Guardians who still live, although I cannot tell you the fate of your priestess. We never found her.”
Aren pulled the blade slowly away from the throat of the ambassador. It hung in his hand, loose at his side.
“Most remarkable,” Gerad Zhal said breathlessly as he gazed down at Aren’s sword.
Aren turned slowly, gazing about the room. He at last faced the baroness. His breathing was heavy as he bowed slightly to Gianna. “My apologies, madam, for disturbing your court and your deliberations.”
“Captain Bennis!” Gianna spoke suddenly, as though her breath had just come back to her. “You are a servant of the Obsidian Cause, whose grievous crimes against our allies are unspeakable and whose conduct in my own court merits—”
“He must take the sword at once to Opalis,” Gerad Zhal exclaimed.
The hall was suddenly filled with half a dozen voices.
“Loremaster Zhal!” Gianna sputtered. “That is out of the question!”
“Hear me! Hear me now!” Zhal shouted, his hands raised over his head, demanding attention. “This may, indeed, be a blade of the ancient Avatars. From what I have seen of it, it has all the legendary markings befitting such a find. These artifacts were powerful, and their powers specific to each blade. The question in my mind is not if this blade is of Avatar origin—for I certainly believe that it is—but rather which of the ancient blades has been uncovered. So many of the books and writings of the past were lost to us in the horrible chaos that followed the Fall. My own collection here, even as loremaster, is so slight that I cannot possibly make a determination about this weapon. However, Opalis is ruled by the Titans—beings whom, by their very nature, know more of the past than any mortal human—and who have been working tirelessly to recover the knowledge of the past. They will know about this sword and what it portends for us.”
“It is only a blade!” Sir Arthur protested.
“It is not only a blade, but a symbol of our glorious past!” Zhad countered. “By itself it may not be terribly significant; how much can one warrior do? But in the hands of the right leader, it could inspire armies to do what no single warrior ever could.”
“Then take the thing from this Obsidian whelp and be done with it!” Tribune Marcus demanded.
“But this blade is cursed,” Zhal said, his hands open wide before him. “It has chosen this man—this vile man—to be its bearer. What if the blade itself is evil and must be destroyed? We cannot know this until the loremasters in Opalis have made a learned and proper examination of the matter.”
“So he nearly kills an ambassador to my court”—Gianna glared at her loremaster—“and you want to send him to Opalis?”
“But he didn’t kill him. Don’t you see?” Zhal replied with a smile. “Syenna has brought to us—to all of us—a tremendous enigma and an equally tremendous opportunity. If we could regain the powers of the ancient world, the magic that once was, then we would no longer have to fear these Obsidians. I dare say that having brought her prisoner this far, she could get him safely to Opalis. Wouldn’t that suit everyone’s best interests?”
* * *
“I thought that went well,” Aren remarked to Syenna as she shoved him back into his stockade cell.
Syenna slammed closed the ironbound door behind him and locked it without a word.
Aren turned and gazed out the small, barred opening in the door. He could see the stockade wall and the keep just up the hillside beyond. Syenna was stomping off in that direction, most likely to let her baroness know how badly she hated the decision of the Council of Might. Aren suspected it would make her feel better but not change a thing. The council had spoken and, it seemed, in two days’ time, they would be leaving Etceter.
The bearer, Aren thought smugly to himself, is to bring the sword to Opalis.
Aren carefully removed his armor and, once rid of its burden, sat back on his cot. He relished a moment or two before he once again began whistling his familiar, odd tune, the same tune he had been whistling since they had left the Blackblade Mountains.
He paused, thinking he had heard something.
He whistled the tune once more.
A shadowy head peered at him from beneath the edge of the cot.
“Well, my dear Monk.” Aren smiled broadly. “It’s about time you found me.”
The homunculus flapped its leathery wings joyfully and came to perch at once on the extended arm of the captain.
“I’m afraid you cannot stay,” Aren said, and nodded, rubbing his finger under the small monster’s chin. “I have a message for you to deliver, and it cannot wait.”
Aren gazed into the eyes of the homunculus.
“Personal message to Obsidian Evard Dirae,” Aren said. “Captured by enemy force and taken to Etceter. Am being taken to Opalis in South Paladis northeast of Jaanaford on West Jaana River. Arriving in eighteen days. Come and get me there.”
Aren thought for a moment and then continued, frowning.
“I’ve met the
leaders of the Council of Might—and I now absolutely know how to defeat them.”
CHAPTER
15
Bay of Storms
The Cypher set sail from Etceter the day after the council had pronounced their decision. Given the size of the ship—she was a rather large ship with three masts—it was remarkable to Aren that they had managed to provision her in so short a period of time.
Aren was not by any definition of the word a “man of the sea.” He didn’t know a belay from a barnacle, though he did recall hearing both terms while aboard the Mistral; especially the last, as it had often been applied to him. Even so, he could read a map and knew enough about the world as to make reasonable estimates about distance. They had come aboard the Mistral along the coastline somewhere south of the Blackblade range, and it had taken the ship eight days to arrive at Etceter. He had seen the port in Quel on a chart in the captain’s cabin once, as well as the position of Opalis in South Paladis. If they sailed eastward from Etceter and back along the same coast they had stayed with while coming here, it would take those same eight days to get back to the mouth of the Fang River and, given the distances involved, another five or six days to reach where the Jaana River emptied into the Bay of Storms. Then, given the overland distance into Opalis, another four days before they arrived.
As the ship slowly drew away from the dock at Etceter, Aren leaned against the rail and congratulated himself on a brilliant plan. Eighteen days more or less, at sea and in transit, to learn all he could from his captors. Eighteen days and his friend Evard Dirae would come for him. Eighteen days and then he would be free to return to his service in the Obsidian Empire, deal at last with General Karpasic, and figure out the most profitable way to be rid of this ridiculous sword.
Aren looked around the deck of the ship. Syenna was gratefully back in the more familiar garb of trousers, high boots, and tunic and was gazing back over the opposite railing at the port town receding in their wake. She seemed particularly melancholy today, and nothing Aren had said seemed to raise her spirits.
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