“For a moment I thought you looked as though you were going to be sick again,” Syenna chided.
“For the last time, I was not sick,” Aren said with a haughty grin. “I was merely employing an unusual interrogation technique on Loremaster Zhal.”
A loud guffaw exploded from the loremaster.
“Four days in your bunk with your head in a slop bucket and as weak as a newborn kitten?” Syenna considered with a raised eyebrow and as straight a face as she could manage. “I say, that is an unusual technique.”
“Indeed and dedicated, too,” agreed Zhal through his laughter. “He had to torture himself nearly to death before I talked!”
Syenna barely managed to stifle her own laughter.
“Well, it worked, didn’t it?” Aren interrupted loudly. “It wasn’t my fault that the loremaster didn’t know anything worth learning.”
“Or I didn’t tell you anything worth learning,” Zhal corrected through his smile.
“All this over a worthless sword,” Aren groused.
“Worthless?” Syenna asked skeptically.
“Yes, worthless,” Aren replied.
“Now what are you talking about?” Syenna sighed.
“Look, ever since I found this sword, I haven’t been able to attack anyone with it.” Aren shrugged as best he could with his hands tied. “What good is a sword that won’t kill?”
“Quite so.” Zhal nodded. “One of many questions I would like to have answered about your most remarkable weapon.”
“And you will share those enlightened answers, Loremaster, when the time comes?” Aren said, turning toward Zhal.
“Absolutely, although sometimes finding the answer isn’t nearly as difficult as discovering what question one should be asking. Whatever the questions, all our answers lie in that city on the horizon.” Zhal beamed as he urged his horse forward.
“Yes.” Syenna nodded. “All our answers.”
“And I promise to tell you everything I learn,” Zhal said to Aren, “while we’re on the ship back to Etceter.”
Aren’s stomach turned over at the thought.
* * *
Aren Bennis was a captain in the Obsidian Cause.
As such, he did not concern himself with the increasingly heavy foot traffic as the inhabitants of Opalis moved around him. He examined the city they were approaching as he had examined so many towns and strongholds over the past few years, with a military eye toward defense and conquest. The structures and tents of Brambletown outside the city wall were separated from the wall by what turned out to be large depressions with steep embankments. They were rather like oversize moats without the water, although Aren suspected that they might be made to fill with water. It would be easy enough to divert the West Jaana River with a sluice gate for that purpose. Even dry, those deep depressions would make for a formidable crossing. Warriors attacking the wall would have to first charge down the embankment, crowding into the depression before they could climb up the steep embankment opposite them. Only after all that would they have even reached the base of the wall itself. Formations would tend to bunch up in the limited space of the depression, making defensive fire from the walls far more deadly. The only level access into the city appeared to be along the causeways—essentially, ground that had been removed to create the depressions that led to the city gates.
They approached the gate at the southeastern edge of the encircling wall. Here the crowds were thick on the causeway. The gate was recessed somewhat, with a section of wall looking down on the approaches from the left and a turret from the right. Aren noted that there were armed guards walking the battlements above, but not nearly as many as the captain would have posted for the city’s defense. Perhaps they were not expecting an imminent attack and were, therefore, maintaining a minimal defense. There were two sets of double gates, each two feet thick and steel-bound, each set separated by a narrow stone tunnel that penetrated through the twenty-foot thickness of the wall. Both gates were open, allowing the people, their carts, and occasional wagons to move in and out without being challenged.
Loremaster Zhal—helpful as ever—had informed Aren that this was called the Storm Gate, since it represented the beginning of the road to the Bay of Storms. The city had three such gates; the two others, known as the Fields Gate on the west side, which accessed the farmland to the southwest, and North Gate, which was, well, on the north. The North Gate was the largest of the three, as its roads connected Opalis with Resolute, situated in the mountains far to the north, and also Willowvale, across the Pillars of Night Range to the northwest.
Aren had heard of Resolute, but Willowvale meant nothing to him. The Obsidian captain was at the very boundaries of his knowledge of the world and felt somewhat concerned that he might fall off if he were not careful.
They passed through the Storm Gate and into the city beyond. After the wide sky beneath the open prairie, the small square just inside the city gates seemed uncomfortably close. A broad avenue curved around the sheer curtain wall of the citadel that towered above them. Buildings were uncomfortably close to one another, and the people on the avenue milled, shifted, and moved around one another like a slow river.
“Hail, Etceter!” cried out a guard who appeared before them from out of the crowd. He was a tall man with a stocky build. His wide face was made even wider by the carefully trimmed, dark beard and broad smile. His hair was a tight thatch of curls about his tanned face. He was clad in a padded cerulean doublet with the image of a falcon, its wings spread wide, emblazoned across the front. He wore no armor, so far as Aren could tell, but rested his left hand casually on the hilt of a rapier strapped to his side. He raised his right hand, palm open toward them, in salute.
“Hail, Opalis!” Zhal called back, returning the open-palm salute from the back of his horse. “It is good to see you again, Captain Trevan.”
“You as well, Loremaster Zhal!” The captain of Opalis smiled even more broadly than before. “We had word of your approach two days ago. I was nearly of a mind to come and get you, fearing you might get lost along the way.”
“Now what kind of a loremaster would I be if I couldn’t remember my way home?” Zhal chuckled.
“Exactly my point.” Trevan smiled. “I see you have brought a rather large contingent with you. Perhaps you would be so good as to introduce them to me?”
Aren gnawed at his lip. The citizens who were thronging the streets were drawing back toward the edges of the square, stopping to watch the unusual events unfolding before them. He had assumed that Syenna and Zhal wanted to keep their journey and its purpose a secret, but now they were on horseback in the public square of the city being introduced to a guardian of the city as though they were paying a social call. Aren was uncomfortable with the attention it would draw to him.
“Of course. Mikas Trevan, Captain of the Opalis Legion,” Zhal announced with a slight bow from his saddle. Zhal smiled and gestured toward Syenna. “May I present the Lady Syenna, Shieldmaiden to Baroness Baden-Fox.”
Shieldmaiden? Aren thought. What’s a shieldmaiden?
“A great pleasure,” Mikas responded, bowing in Syenna’s direction. “Opalis welcomes you.”
“And Aren Bennis, Captain of the Westreach Army of the Obsidian Empire, conqueror of Midras, and adviser to General Milos Karpasic,” Zhal said easily.
The murmur of voices from the citizens crowding the edges of the square suddenly diminished to an uncomfortable, shocked silence.
Trevan looked askance at the loremaster, as though he were expecting Zhal to break out into laughter over his own joke. Aren watched as the knowledge quickly dawned on the commander of the Opalis Legion’s face that his old friend was in earnest.
“Captain … Aren Bennis,” Trevan said in somewhat icier tones than before. His smile fell slightly at the corners, and the commander’s eyes shifted sharply toward Aren. He took him in all at once, and his eyes narrowed under furrowed brows when he saw that Aren was allowed to wear his sword, but yet his hands were bound.
“Opalis … welcomes you as well. I am most curious about you, sir. I am keen for a most earnest discussion between us. May I offer you the hospitality of the Opalis barracks?”
“Captain Trevan.” Aren nodded toward the commander, his ears filled with the silence of the square. “I look forward to such an opportunity, if it does not put you out.”
“Oh, I insist,” Trevan said emphatically. He then turned to the loremaster. “What brings you back to Opalis the Beautiful, old friend?”
“Consultation with our loremistress,” Zhal replied. “Is she in residence?”
“I believe you will find her in the Athenaeum, as usual,” Trevan replied, pointing down the wide avenue to the left as they entered the gate. “May I accompany you?”
“I can see it from here,” Zhal said, laughing. “I hardly need a guide!”
“Even so,” Trevan said, his eyes fixed on Aren. “I believe I shall insist.”
* * *
Lanilan Stranthas, Loremistress of the Athenaeum of Opalis, sat with her elbows on the desk in the center of the Athenaeum, both hands cradling her chin. Her thick, curly hair was tucked up into her flat cap, its annoying tassel pushed out of the way at the back of her head. Her large, dark eyes took in the manuscript pages in front of her with such devout interest that she had completely forgotten the rest of the world.
The manuscript had recently been brought in from ruins discovered far to the east of Jaanaford in the Blackblade foothills. The parchment, discovered in a stone box, was badly deteriorating but could still be separated and was remarkably legible. She had been carefully transcribing the text to new papyrus sheets when the contents had distracted her. She became so absorbed in the story they told that she forgot that she was supposed to be writing it down.
It was the tale of ancient royalty—a lord—who had once walked the face of the world in the days before the Fall. His deeds were mighty and miraculous. It was not the first time that Lanilan had encountered stories about this lord, for he appeared in tales told in diverse and distant cultures. There were great differences between the details of the stories, but each one had several common elements, the most unifying of which was the belief that this lord—regardless of which name he chose—would return to the world after the Fall and bring with him its final judgment: doom or redemption depending on the culture’s need.
This particular text dealt with the shattering of the moon. It told the story of the lord—named Brinist in this version—fighting the Dragon of Chaos. Lord Brinist’s sword swept across the sky to deal the final blow to the dragon, but the dragon was too quick, and dove beneath the arc of the blade. The sword of Brinist, missing its mark, cleaved the moon instead, dragging it across the sky and causing the remains to bleed white blood.…
The loremistress shook her head and smiled to herself. This was actually an Avatar story in most of the renditions of the tale, but for some reason the author of this text had mistakenly combined the Avatar and the lord figures into one character. She wondered if whoever had originally written the text had purposefully left the Avatar out of the story for some reason of their own.
Lanilan returned to examining the text.
The wound it caused in the heavens broke the bones of creation, which fell as sharp blades from the sky and wounded the world. In rage, the lord turned upon the Dragon of Chaos and …
“Mistress Lanilan?”
She became aware of people standing in front of her.
Lanilan looked up. She could not be entirely certain that they had not spoken her name several times.
“Oh, my apologies,” she said, standing up. She straightened her deep blue mantle, the silver chevron of her office extending down from her shoulders to a point in the front, and reached back to place the tassel in its proper position over her right ear. There were a number of people standing expectantly before her. “Greetings, Loremaster Zhal!”
“Greetings, Loremistress.” Zhal bowed his head toward her. “Did you not get word of our coming?”
“I did.” Lanilan nodded, still trying to extricate her mind from the story on the desk before her. “I did … but I was not expecting you quite this soon. But, no matter. I am prepared to assist you as I can. What have you brought me?”
Zhal turned, gesturing toward the man with bound wrists who was standing behind him. “This man—”
“He is of Drachvald, judging by his complexion and the shape of his ears,” the loremistress said at once. “The clothing would indicate that it originated somewhere near Rhun … most likely part of those commonly issued to the ranks of the armies operating in the Midmaer. This means he is either a mercenary or a regular warrior, most likely in the service of the Obsidian Cause, which—”
“Loremistress!” Zhal interrupted. “We know all that. His name is Captain Aren Bennis—he’s a warrior of the Westreach Army of the Obsidian Empire.”
“Really?” the loremistress asked. “He seems … shorter than I would expect.”
“Well, be that as it may, he is,” Zhal continued to press on. “This is Syenna, a shieldmaiden of Baroness Baden-Fox.…”
“How do you do?” Lanilan nodded. “I’ve never met a shieldmaiden either. Tell me, the Rite of the Shieldmaidens—do they still involve the four tests of—”
“Loremistress,” Zhal continued insistently. He was apparently intent on keeping Lanilan’s curiosity limited to one subject at a time. “You already know Commander Trevan.”
“Well, yes, of course! But then why did you bother to bring him to me?” Lanilan blinked at the loremaster.
“It is not Trevan, but Captain Bennis who we have brought to you, and it is because he is the bearer of something that is a mystery to us,” the loremaster said. Zhal turned again toward Aren. “Show the loremistress your sword, Captain.”
Aren raised his eyebrows, holding his bound hands forward.
Zhal sighed and then reached out, unbinding the captain’s hands.
Aren rubbed his wrists, then reached across to his scabbard, pulling out a sword. It gleamed even in the dim light of the Athenaeum.
Lanilan’s eyes widened with wonder.
“Do not touch it, Loremistress,” Zhal warned. “There appears to be some sort of curse associated with the artifact.”
Syenna spoke up. “We believe it to be an Avatar blade.”
“As indeed you should,” Lanilan said, nodding. “Do you think it would be possible for us to get a rubbing of the blade on papyrus? I would dearly like to study the writing on the blade more closely.”
“That may not be of much help,” Zhal commented. “The engraved writing on the blade appears to change from time to time.”
“That, itself, is significant,” the loremistress said, leaning closer to the weapon.
Commander Trevan, who was standing behind them, stepped forward, frowning as he, too, looked at the blade. “Is this why you’ve come?”
“What do you know about this blade, Loremistress?” Zhal asked.
Lanilan considered for a moment before answering. “I believe it may very well be a blade of the ancient Avatars. Its shape is in the pattern found in several of the Scrolls of Libris. The question may be not whether it is an Avatar’s weapon, but rather which Avatar’s sword.”
“What do you mean?” Syenna asked.
Lanilan took a step back from her desk as though it would give her a better perspective on the artifact. “There were many Avatars before the Fall, and many Avatar blades. Many of them were named and had specific qualities. You see the symbol on the pommel at the end of the hilt? One curved sword is showing there when there should be three.”
Aren lifted up the hilt to look at the pommel more closely. “That’s odd. I’d never noticed that before.”
“The chamber where we found it was filled with symbols of three interlocking blades,” Syenna said.
“And so it would be.” Lanilan nodded. “It’s a classic symbol of the Avatars and found in a number of different places. What we need to determine is whic
h sword you have found.”
“An Avatar blade?” Trevan spoke up. “The Avatars were the embodiment of the ancient Virtues! How is it that a sword of the Virtues can be held by this servant of death and darkness?”
“That may depend on which servant of death and darkness you’re dealing with,” Aren said with some irritation in his voice. “Can I put this away now? Please?”
“Yes.” Lanilan nodded again. “I’ve got to research some texts from the vaults. Once you have found lodgings, Loremaster, perhaps you could return and assist me?”
“Certainly,” Zhal responded. “I would be delighted.”
“Commander Trevan?” Syenna said suddenly.
“Yes, Lady Syenna?”
“Would you be so good as to find appropriate accommodations for Captain Bennis?” she said. “I think he would be most comfortable surrounded by other warriors.”
“At once, Lady Syenna,” Trevan said. His grip on Aren’s arm made the captain wince. “Will you be joining us?”
“Presently,” Syenna said. “I’ve a question for the loremistress.”
Trevan drew Aren with him out of the Athenaeum, Loremaster Zhal at their heels. Presently, the great doors shut in the distance. Only then did Syenna turn back to face the loremistress.
“What is your question, child?” Lanilan said.
“My … my sister,” Syenna whispered, her voice quavering.
“Yes, child,” the loremistress asked, leaning across her desk. “What do you want to know about your sister?”
CHAPTER
17
Crossroads
Commander Trevan dragged Aren awkwardly into the antechamber of the Athenaeum as Loremaster Zhal closed the doors behind them. They had passed through this room before on their way into the Athenaeum. The narrow windows of leaded glass on either side gave gentle illumination to the room. The opposing set of double doors, Aren remembered, led back out of the building and to the crowded street.
“I’m afraid I must insist on your handing me your sword, Captain Bennis,” the commander said from behind Aren.
Aren turned his head toward Commander Trevan. The man’s left hand had a grip like iron. “You might want to reconsider that, Commander.”
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