The Foundlings (The Swords of Xigara)

by J. Mark Miller

  “Captain,” Karah said a bit more seriously, “I want to thank you for your service to my acolytes on Tower Island. Y’neth informed me of your care for her, and your respectful treatment of the fallen. Few would have ventured into uncharted waters to lend aid in these dark days. I would offer you a reward, but I suspect you would refuse.”

  “I’ve been more than compensated, ma’am,” Stile replied. “Ambassador Y’anna refitted my ship, and has hired my crew to bring Y’neth here to you. We only did what was right in any case, not what was convenient. I’d do it again, pay or no pay.”

  “Rare indeed,” Quist’s dulcet voice startled Stile. He looked up to see the elf’s grin had turned a look of genuine respect.

  “There is something I can offer, captain,” Karah said. “Whether you know it or not, you’ve involved yourself in events that will shake our world. Armies are assembling, the higher powers walk the earth for the first time in millennia, and ancient prophecies hang in the balance.

  “Keep to the faith, captain. Hold fast to what you have, and strengthen it. Only then will you be able to stand in the evil days to come. Look to the Great King to be your help and strength, not to force of arms or craftiness of mind. We face an enemy who is far beyond all we can offer as defense against him.”

  Stile had no idea how to respond. The fervor with which Karah spoke left his mind reeling. Part of him wanted to run, knowing he had no business being part of such schemes, but at the same time knew he could be nowhere else. He was terrified and comforted all at once.

  “A word of caution, captain,” Karah went on.

  “Yes?” he asked.

  “Be careful of your affection for Y’neth. Now is not the time to pursue your feelings.”

  Dumbstruck, Stile stared wide-mouthed at the elven matron. “How did you know? How could you know?”

  Karah smiled patiently at the fumbling man. “Captain, when you’re as old as I am, certain things become obvious.”

  “I can’t deny my feelings, lady. I’ve come to care for her.”

  “If all that exists are feelings then you must deny them, but if what you have is unconditional love it will remain and blossom, regardless of time and circumstance.”

  Stile nodded in understanding, then shrugged and held up his empty hands. “I have no idea if she feels the same.”

  Karah sensed his anguish and leaned forward to place a consoling hand on his arm. “Her feeling are similar, I assure you, but her responsibilities must override her desire. There will be no need for pursuit, captain, no need for emotional striving.”

  Stile looked down, turning over the Keeper’s words in his mind. He felt her hand tighten slightly on his arm and looked up, finding her penetrating eyes boring deep into his own.

  “Captain, be aware that she is not what you think, nor can she be who she wants to be until she discovers who she is. You will both discover much about yourselves as you play your parts as events unfold.”

  Karah looked over and gave Quist a nod. He stepped over to the door and opened it to reveal Y’neth standing just outside. She walked into the room dripping water on the carpeted floor, still wet from her frolic in the garden pool, a detail Karah seemed unconcerned about. Stile wasn’t surprised. The Shrine seemed to be more of a refuge within nature than from it.

  Y’neth stared at Karah’s hand resting on the captain’s arm and a playful smirk crossed her lips. She cocked an eyebrow at Stile when he looked her way, but there wasn’t a hint of jealousy. There was something intense behind those obsidian eyes nonetheless. Karah withdrew as Y’neth sat beside the captain, placing a wet hand of her own on his arm.

  Karah stood and looked the two of them up and down and smiled. “Now that you’re together, let me tell you things you both need to know.” Y’neth and Stile looked at one another, both wondering what Karah had told the other in private.

  “You’ve become players in a game larger than you possibly know. The talisman stolen from Tower Isle was Dilkah, one of the seven Swords of Xigara.”

  The revelation made Stile gasp and stare at Y’neth. Her face was unreadable but calm, and it was obvious she already knew what it was she had guarded. He turned back to Karah full of questions but she held up a hand to stave them off.

  “Events are unfolding in the wider world,” Karah said. “This theft was no coincidence, but part of the Enemy’s broader plan. My contacts have learned that Dilkah was taken to Ulquiy and is now in the hands of the current jelefe. The pirates who stole it gave it to him in the hopes of buying their way out of exile. Dilkah must be retrieved before it can fall into more sinister hands.”

  Karah stopped and stared intently at Y’neth. “The Sword Bearers are gathering and the Swords are being revealed. Two are already in the hands of their long-foretold Bearers, and another is about to be revealed.”

  She made another gesture toward Quist, and the elf stepped through a break in the wall Stile hadn’t noticed before. He reappeared moments later carrying a long box made from exotic wood. Karah stood and met him as he placed the box on the table behind her divan.

  Held together by simple but elegant clasps, the box opened easily, revealing red velvet cradling a fine sword with a dark blade. Karah grasped the hilt just above its oak leaf embossed pommel, and lifted the blade into the light. Its long, rapier-like blade was almost black, and looked wet like the surface of a deep pool. Y’neth sat opened mouthed at the sight.

  The High Keeper walked toward Y’neth, holding the blade out in front of her. She stopped and turned the dark blade in her hands, offering it hilt first to the blue-skinned woman. Y’neth stood, trembling, and reached out as if it were a snake that might strike if she moved too fast. The tension seemed to drain away once her hand finally grasped the handle.

  “Y’neth,” Karah’s voice resonated formally in the chamber, “take now Mesha, the Sword of Peace. You have been chosen by Yashar to represent her in this time of darkness. May you serve the Great King with all your heart, mind, soul, and strength.”

  Y’neth looked bewildered, her mouth opening and closing silently as a host of questions formed and died on her lips. Finally, she croaked one word. “Why?”

  Karah smiled in pity. There were more questions than answers to be found, answers Y’neth had to find on her own, but there was one question Karah could answer.

  “Why have I chosen you when all the prophecies foretell a Bearer of royal birth?”

  “Y…yes,” Y’neth stammered.

  “You have your answer.” Karah said.

  42

  The Isle of Nesos

  Tander awoke late in the afternoon to the sounds of birds singing outside his open window. He felt refreshed and peaceful, but also creeping regret over his pending departure.

  Someone had laundered his clothes while he slept, and he found them at the foot of the bed. No one else had washed his clothes since his mother died, the thought bringing a pang of loss, but he held onto the hope of the faith that had been embraced and passed down by his family.

  Or so he’d thought.

  He shook his head to clear it and sprung from the bed, refusing to let those thoughts intrude and ruin his final hours on Nesos. There would be time enough to drown in sorrow during the long hours airborne.

  Dressed, he made his way downstairs, marveling at the structure where he’d spent the night. He’d read about treosis in some of Vonedil’s books, an art the Yaar elves practices on the massive tower oaks native to their island. Mature oaks rose several hundred feet into the air, with a wide girth to match. Treosis allowed the elves to coax the trees into intricate shapes as they grew. An elf might spend centuries with a single tree, gently forming them into walkways and living spaces for the community.

  Little was done with each tree on a daily basis, so treosis practitioners worked with dozens of tower oaks at a time, spending a few moments in communion with the trees each week. Even the tree where Tander had spent the night was a work in progress, its upper floors in various stages o
f completion.

  Tander found Derae on the bottom floor. She stood with her eyes closed as she rubbed her hands over the surface of a waist-high table. Resplendent in the light of day, the girl’s mouth moved in a silent echo of her thoughts as she guided the tree with her internal vision.

  Her eyes fluttered open at the sound of Tander’s footsteps, and she greeted him with a smile. She gestured for him to take a seat at the table where he found a spread of food,—fruit and nuts, breads and cheeses, as well as a blue pitcher filled with clear water. His stomach rumbled in sudden hunger, and he filled a trencher to overflowing.

  Derae filled a glass with water and handed it to him, his fingers already stained with berry juice. Tander felt her fingers touch his and he flushed bright red, giving her a sheepish grin before looking down and telling himself to mind his manners.

  When Derae giggled at his embarrassment, he said, “You sure do laugh a lot. I suppose your vow must allow it.”

  Derae’s cheeks flushed in turn, glowing as she clapped her hands over her mouth. Perhaps laughing wasn’t permissible after all.

  They passed the time eating together, Tander doing all the talking while Derae tried to stop twittering like a bird. After clearing away two heaping trenchers of food, and almost all the water, Tander leaned back with a sigh.

  “I wish I could eat more, it’s so delicious, but I’m afraid the buttons on my trousers will pop. How do elves stay so thin? In fact, I’ve never seen a fat elf. Why is that?” Derae only shrugged her shoulders and laughed again.

  After they cleared the table, Derae led Tander outside. Sunlight dappled the soft grass beneath the trees, and butterflies flew about their heads as they walk. Villagers greeted them along the way, several of which Tander recognized from the previous night’s festivities. Tander followed Derae’s lead smiling and waving, feeling like he’d lived among these folk all his life.

  He noticed many of the villagers were moving in the same direction Derae was leading him, and the crowd seemed to grow every minute. Then they broke through the trees and entered a wide clearing where a multitude was gathering, sitting upon the stone seating of an immense amphitheater. Chrysafi sat on a dais in the midst of the throng, his scales shimmering brightly in the sunlight.

  “Wow,” Tander said, “I didn’t think Chrysafi could get any brighter. Winder does good work.”

  Derae smiled and nudged them in the dragon’s direction. Cern and Winder stood nearby, surrounded by a group of elves and dwarves dressed in a rainbow of robes. Derae moved to stand alongside three clerics who held bundles of various sizes. Uncertain what to do, Tander stood looking at the High Cleric and his court.

  “Welcome, Blade Bearer,” Cern’s voice boomed across the amphitheater. “A high doom is placed on you Tander, son of Festin, scion of Lonarch.”

  Tander stood straighter in surprise at Cern’s formality, swallowing hard as her heard the word doom.

  “You’ve traveled far, but only now do you take your first steps toward destiny. Your losses have been great, but greater still will be the evil that befalls us all should your quest end fail. The hopes of elves, dwarves, and free men ride with you and the company you will soon keep. We’ve gathered today to render what aid we may to help you on your journey.”

  “B…but I don’t even know what I’m to do,” stammered the boy. “What is my quest?”

  “The heir of Xigara walks the land,” Cern said, “and you must join them. You will become a companion and guide, one of a choice group of protectors who must guard the heir’s life above all else, even at the cost of your own. If the heir falls, all is lost.

  “The world is changing, Tander, and we must change with it. You are the first human welcomed to our land for several millennia, and though your time among us has been short, we’ve come to accept you as one of our own. Three gifts we bestow on you this day, instruments of love and skill we pray will aid you as you walk paths both dark and light.”

  The three acolytes stepped forward with their bundles. Winder took a bundle and turned to Tander.

  “This is the gift of the dwarves,” Winder pulled back the red silken covering to reveal a scabbard of fine steel mesh laying on a small cushion. Lined within with some sort of animal fur, a single golden oak leaf stood out in relief from the weave, an oak leaf identical to the one his Blade bore.

  “This scabbard was shaped by Xigara himself,” Winder said, his usual jocularity absent from his tone. “It was meant for his own blade, brother to the one you now carry. Xigara departed our realm in a hurry, leaving this behind. We’ve preserved it until a Bearer came among us to receive it. Wear it proudly, and may it ever serve you and your Blade.”

  Winder helped the boy work the dazzling scabbard onto his belt. Tander felt a sense of completion when he slipped the Blade home.

  “One word, Bearer,” Winder admonished. “You will find the scabbard’s greatest worth is when it is given away. Remember these words.”

  Tander nodded, though he didn’t understand.

  Derae came next. Her hands bore a small wooden box. She opened it and slowly drew out its contents.

  It was a medallion of intricate design hanging on a chain of finely crafted steel. Its shape was a trio of dragons, one gold, one silver, and one steel. Though equal in size, Tander clearly recognized the shapes of Sidero and Chrysafi represented in steel and gold. He assumed Asimi’s shape was echoed in the silver.

  The three dragons were joined in the center by their intertwined tails. The trio pointed outward as if in flight, connected by their wingtips to form a rough circle. Each neck pointed outward, heads brandished in the midst of furious roars. A band of bright platinum encircled the figures, its color similar, but somehow purer and brighter than the silver.

  “This is the gift of the dragons,” intoned Chrysafi, “formed from our scales and forged last night by those who have learned the ways of Xigara. The iron of Sidero will grant you strength when you find your own has failed. The silver of Asimi and my gold will attune you to the land and sea so you might always find your way. The binding platinum of our father, Sklyrino, will more quickly heal your hurts. Never before has such a gift been bestowed upon a human, but never before has the need been so great.”

  Tander bowed his head in reverence, and Derae slipped it around his neck. He felt strength flood his bones. Aches he’d accumulated in recent days began to fade away. Drawing himself to his full height, he felt more balanced and energized than ever before.

  “And this,” Cern said as he stepped forward, “is the gift of the elves.” He took another wooden box from a nearby acolyte and offered it to Tander. The boy took it, feeling a surprising warmth radiating from within.

  “This is a spirit compass, a most rare gift.” The elder slid the box top aside to reveal an amber-colored piece of glass. The glass was a port, allowing Tander to see down into the box, where a leaf-tipped twig floated aimlessly in viscous tree sap. Tander stared at it in confusion.

  “This device,” Cern continued, “only works for whom it was freely given, and then only once. Use wisdom.”

  “What does it do?” Tander asked.

  “Upon great need or desire, speak what you wish to find and the compass will guide you unerringly until it is found. Though you may only call upon its power once, the compass will direct you until you’ve touched what you’re searching for.”

  Tander stared at the device in wonder at the magic of such a thing.

  “Remember, Bearer,” Cern lifted a finger, “this gift was freely given to the elves by a tower oak, and freely we give it to you. It will only perform for those to whom it was freely given.”

  Confused by the repetitive emphasis, Tander could only nod again. He covered it back up and slipped it into an inner pocket.

  Cern raised his hands as if he were about to offer a blessing when his daughter and Winder stepped forward again. Derae held another bundle in her hands.

  “What is this?” Cern said with some consternation at the interru
ption.

  “Pardon,” Winder spoke, “but Derae has a gift of her own to bestow.”

  Cern raised an eyebrow in surprise, but gave Winder a nod to continue. Derae pulled back the covering silk to reveal a pouch of heavy tooled leather. She turned the bag on end and dropped the contents into her palm.

  She offered the item to the boy, and he nearly dropped it in surprise at its weight. It was an ovoid stone a little larger than a chicken’s egg, off-white with specks of red, green, and blue sprinkled across its surface. He shot Derae a quizzical look, receiving a wide smile in return.

  “It’s a rock,” he deadpanned, making Derae’s smile turn to a frown.

  “It’s not a rock,” Winder barely contained his laughter. “It is a blinkswift egg.”

  “Blinkswift?”

  “A variety of falcon native to Nesos. They’ve been bred by elven hunters for millennia, and this gift, like the others, is unprecedented. No human has ever possessed one of these magnificent creatures.”

  “But, it’s rock hard,” Tander protested. “How can a bird hatch from this?”

  “A blinkswift egg in this state will keep for years until incubated,” Winder said. “When you reach your destination, place the egg in a warm, damp, dark place. Darkness is the most important part.”

  “Why?”

  “An extended period of darkness initiates the incubation process, and facilitates imprinting.”

  “Imprinting?”

  “A blinkswift is more than half grown by the time it hatches. It will cry out with its first breath, and continue screeching until it first sees light. It will then imprint upon the first face it sees, bonding with that person for life.”

  Tander stared at the egg in his hand with growing awe. “What am I to do with it? I don’t know how to train an animal.”

  “There’s no training necessary,” Winder said. “It is capable of hunting as soon as its feathers dry. Once it imprints on you, it will never leave you. It will sense your hunger and hunt for you, it will know if you are lost and help you find your way, and the longer you live the stronger your bond will become. Some hunters have said they can see through the eyes of their blinkswift.”