Spirit of the Sword: Faith and Virtue (The First Sword Chronicles Book 2)

by Frances Smith

  Hamara laughed as she strode over to where Gideon lay. "And what say you, Gideon Commenae? Did your victim also deserve to die? Was your envy enough to condemn your-"

  She stopped abruptly, because Gideon had just rose from where he lay on the ground and driven his black sword Piety through her heart.

  "I fear not, my lady," Gideon said softly, his eyes glowing purple. "But, though my crimes have undoubtedly earned me death, my duty will not yet allow me to submit to it. Certainly I cannot allow you to do any harm to Michael. He is far too valuable to me."

  Hamara shrank back before him, ichorous blood leaking from her wound. "You...how?"

  "The Empress protects, even from you," Gideon said, standing up. He held Piety lightly in one and, and he picked up Duty with the other while kicking Michael's spatha towards him. "I hope you'll forgive me for borrowing this, Michael."

  Ellyria snarled as she rose to her full height, her leather wings billowing around her, the flames on her sword leaping twice as high. "You cannot hope to slay us!"

  "Oh no, of course not," Gideon said, a soft smile playing across his features. "But I'll wager I can make you squeal a little."

  And with that he set upon them. The fury hounds shrieking ended as they scattered from his path like birds fleeing from a ferocious cat, darting this way and that as Gideon's twin blades scythed among them. Many blows he dealt, and though the hounds did not die they cried out in pain as the same ichor that flowed from Hamara began to flow from them in turn. Tyria and Ellyria sprang at him, with sword and club and axe and whip, but Gideon was swifter than the southern wind blowing in from the ocean as he danced amongst them, Duty effortlessly parrying Ellryia's burning sword as Piety darted in to skewer her in the belly.

  No wound he dealt to the Furies stopped them: Hamara rejoined the fight, Ellyria retreated only for a few moments before she hurled herself into the fray once more, but it did slow them, and none of them had been a match for Gideon anyway. Ellyria, as befitting her status, fought with her rage, swinging sword and club around with such ferocity that she nearly struck her sisters more than once. But she learned, as Michael had learned before, that blind barbaric fury was no match for the virtue and discipline of a skilled opponent, and Gideon stood her off with contemptuous ease, dealing out half a dozen injuries that would have killed or crippled a mortal foe.

  Hamara was different, colder, more calculating, like the icy sword that she wielded in her main hand. But Gideon was swifter than she was, and Duty was more than a match for the icy touch of her sword, and Piety's reach was longer than her poisoned dagger. She came at him with the most determination, a look of cold hatred etched upon her face, but she never came close to touching him.

  Tyria sought to fight from a distance, holding her stone axe merely in readiness while she endeavoured to wrap her lash about Gideon's limbs or neck and drag him to the ground. But Gideon was too fast, and whenever the cruel teeth of the whip came too close Piety would sing through the air to bat it away, and Gideon would close the distance between them to deal some injury in return.

  It was a matter of no more than moments before, each bleeding from a dozen places, each slowed and hampered by their wounds, they began to limp away, retreating into the shelter of the mists, where they could no longer be seen. Their cries of pain and outrage echoed out of the spectral fog.

  "They will think twice, I hope, before trying us again," Gideon said, sliding Piety back into its sheath. He offered Duty back to Michael. "Here, Michael."

  Michael shook his head as she climbed to his feet and retrieved his spatha. "I have a second blade of my own, and you are truly an artist with both weapons in hand."

  Gideon looked as though he would argue for a moment, but in the end he shrugged. "A debate for another time perhaps. For now, I think that we had best stop here for today, and resume our journey on the morrow."

  "Good idea," Amy murmured. "A better idea would be not talking this about this ever again."

  "Are you so afraid of guilt?" Jason asked.

  Amy glared at him before she picked up her helmet. "I'm not in the mood."

  "How do you think the undine felt?" Jason said.

  "Your Highness, please," Michael said. "This is hardly the time or place."

  Jason shook his head. "And you, Gideon, how did you escape the effects of the Furies' power?"

  "As I told them, the Empress warded me from them," Gideon said.

  "In spite of your guilt?" Jason asked. "Were you guilty, as they claimed? Of course you stopped them before they could say what you had done."

  "Your Highness." Michael’s voice was hard and unyielding. "I strongly advise you to cease this line of inquiry. Such barbs dishonour and demean the noble station of your birth."

  Gideon chuckled. "If the Empress turned away from her service every man who had a chequered past she would have been waging war upon the Daric League with only her wolf and unicorn for company. If the legions turned away any man with a criminal past scarecrows would police the borders."

  "That does not answer my question," Jason said.

  "No, it doesn't, does it?" Gideon replied. "Now, if there is nothing else, I suggest that we rejoin the world for now."

  Gideon held out his hands and tore open the veil the divided the living and the dreaming worlds. The little company piled out onto a cold, dark moor, with the wind blowing through the grass and chilling them to the bone. Gideon was the last man out, and behind him the veil snapped shut and, with a flash of bright blue light, disappeared.

  Michael collapsed onto his hands and knees, feeling the blades of grass pricking at the palms of his hands. Almost as many blades of grass as there were needles pricking at his conscience.

  God forgive me. Oh, God forgive me, for I am truly penitent.

  Michael looked at Amy, who was standing with her back to everyone else, her ragged cloak of salamander scales flapping in the wind. She had her sword out, planted point first in the ground before her, and her head was bowed.

  The Furies judged her as guilty as myself. I have corrupted her soul with my ill-influence. I am a poor friend, and worse in many a wise than any of her foes, for I have power to harm her soul and not her body. Forgive her, almighty lord of the oceans, for the fault is all with me.

  "Where are we?" Jason asked, drawing his coat about him. "It might have been worth stopping earlier if we could have stopped somewhere with shelter."

  "We are in the west of Turma Province," Gideon said. "And, while I agree the current location is rather inhospitable, our circumstances did not grant me a great deal of choice."

  There was a moment of silence, broken only by the chattering of Wyrrin's teeth.

  "We must find what shelter we can," Gideon said. "Rest for the night, and be on our way again at first light."

  They found the lee side of a hill, the most hospitable looking spot on this most inhospitable of moors, and did what they could to shelter from the biting wind. Wyrrin paced up and down, swinging his arms from side to side for warm. His Highness sat apart from all the others, whispering a spell into his wand so that the tip began to glow like fire; or perhaps it was fire, to keep him warm. Gideon, who needed no warmth but his love of country, leaned upon his stick, the strength that had infused him from his battle against the Furies having faded. At least Michael could see no visible injuries, unlike the time that he had fought the Voice of Corona.

  Michael sat down next to Amy, who sat with her legs crossed and Magnus Alba resting upon then, staring down at the blue blade.

  Michael looked away for a moment. "How are you, our Amy?"

  Amy scowled. "I'm fine."

  From his perch on Amy's shoulder, Char chittered mournfully.

  "I think even your pet knows that's a lie," Michael said with a slight smile.

  Amy looked away, scratching Char's neck. "I think he's growing. One day he might be big enough for me to ride. Wouldn't that be something?"

  "A steed fit for a knight, no doubt," Michael replied.
r />   Amy was silent for a moment, still not meeting Michael's eyes. "Are you here to ask about...?"

  "Not unless you want to tell me," Michael said.

  Amy was silent for a few moments more before she spoke in a soft voice, filled with regret. "He was unarmed."

  "Who?"

  "I don't know his name," Amy confessed. "He was just an undine, an old undine with his back bent beneath his burdens, walking down the road as we were riding up it. Ser Viola and some squires. We saw him, and I rode him down on my seahorse. Took his head off with a sword."

  Michael blinked. "Why?"

  Amy closed her eyes and sighed. "Because they laughed at me. Because they said that no human could ever be a knight. Because they called me 'human'. Because I wanted to be one of them. Because I wanted them to think me brave and bold... brave for killing an old man with no weapons, can you imagine such a thing?"

  "And did they?"

  "The squires laughed with me, for once," Amy said. "But when I turned the seahorse around, I barely noticed them. All I could see was the disappointment in Ser Viola's eyes; it was unworthy of a knight."

  Silence reigned between them for a little while, before Michael spoke. "It was me who killed the Lursus brothers."

  "They didn't drown then?"

  Michael shook his head. "No, I just pushed the bodies out to sea in their boat once I was done. I was so angry about Felix, I was so... I wanted someone to hurt the way that I was hurting. Except I kept on hurting, and I kept on wanting to spread it around."

  "Is that what the Furies showed you?"

  "Aye," Michael said. "Criminals in the arena, mostly, and the Lursus brothers of course. Those I made to suffer before they died. I have caused so much suffering."

  "So did the Lursus brothers, I'll bet."

  "That doesn't excuse the things I've done," Michael said. "I have acted more beast than human more times than I care to recall." He bowed his head. "We are neither of us the people we would like to be, are we, our Amy?"

  "Maybe not, but we are no worse than many other men, and better than some," Amy said, raising her head to look up at the unfamiliar stars glimmering over their heads. Michael followed her gaze, trying and failing to find a constellation that he recognised in the firmament above. He guessed that he would have to look south if he wished to spot Gabriel or Simon. Too far south to give him much comfort.

  "No," Amy continued. "Taken in the round, we are but mortals, no better but no worse."

  "That would be a fine thing, or decent at the least, if we aspired to be nought more than mortals," Michael said. "But for us, who wish to be far more than that, to be heroic figures towering over our fellows, it is scant consolation having failed in that to yet be ordinary."

  "There is still time for us," Amy said. "Time to redeem ourselves, time to purge our souls of sin and weakness, time to carve our names into the history of these times in letters that cannot be erased. Time to win fame enough for me and Fiannuala both. Time to win everything."

  "Do you think it is so easy?" Michael said. "Such a simple thing, to erase the stains that mar a person's character?"

  Amy looked at him. "I think it is, now that we're together. I was never so... I would never have ridden down that undine if you'd been with me, you and Felix, because I would have known that I didn't need to prove myself in any way to make you think well of me. I could put aside my sword and armour and be the most frightened, fainting, helpless maid in all Corona and still I would have your love, is it not so?"

  Michael held the gaze of her beautiful eyes as he nodded. "It is not your sword or armour that I love. It is not your valour, though it awes me, nor your strength, greatly though I admire it. You are our girl, Amy, and though you be a knight or though you swoon at the sight of a mouse that will not change. For myself... the days were never so bright as when you stood rival to the sun."

  Amy smiled. "It isn't your sword that I love, either. You're my boy, and now that we're together again we'll keep each other on the narrow path. Isn't that so?"

  "Before God and my ancestors I swear 'tis so," Michael said.

  "Michael," Gideon called. "Come here a moment."

  Michael stood up, and cautiously approached Gideon from behind. Gideon did not turn around, nor even turn his neck to look at Michael, but remained where he was, facing out across the moors.

  "The night is bitter cold, Gideon," Michael said. "It seems almost the last vestige of the furies' wrath."

  "The dawn will come, Michael, for the soul as for the body," Gideon said. "Have faith."

  "In you? Always," Michael replied.

  Gideon's lips twitched. "You could stand to have a little faith in yourself as well."

  Michael straightened his shoulders. "That way lies vanity and unearned pride."

  "Yet in the opposite direction lies ruinous self-doubt, inaction, mewling helplessness," Gideon said. "The way betwixt the inferno and the pit is narrow, and hard, but it is possible to walk it all the same. It is vital that you do so. If you falter... I fear the Empire will falter also."

  "If I were First Sword of the Empire, then perhaps-"

  "You will be," Gideon said firmly. "You must. There is no one else to take this burden from me."

  "Empress grant you hold it for many years yet," Michael whispered.

  Gideon chuckled. "If she wills. If not... it will all be as the Empress ordains."

  "I cannot lose you, Gideon."

  "All mortal things pass from this world, Michael, but you will not lose me," Gideon said. "Not in any way that matters."

  Michael smiled. "I need no strong prop of self-belief while I possess your confidence."

  Gideon turned to look him in the eye. "Less of that, Michael; I will not suffer it. You are a good man, of the best that I have known. I would have you agree with me before our journey ends."

  "You yet believe it so?" Michael asked. "After..."

  "The furies have lived unchanging since the world was young," Gideon said. "And since they have not changed in all that time they do not think it possible that others may change, to such an extent that you may meet a man in his youth and find him in his old age changed beyond recognition not merely in body but in character and mind also. We mortal men who live our lives in a world that, for better or for worse, is constantly in motion understand that better than they, I think. You and I am and Amy have upon our consciences acts grave and black. But we are not the men who did those deeds. We are not who we were even yesterday. Should a sin done in youth condemn a man for all his days? May a criminal not turn towards virtue? Is it not possible for a man to make reformation of his spirit and live thereafter in a purer vein?"

  "I believe it so, Gideon, and hope and pray so with all my heart," Michael said hoarsely.

  "I do not know the details of what you did to anger the Furies," Gideon said. "But that is not the Michael in whom I place my trust. There may be a monstrous beast in you, Michael, stronger than lurks in the hearts of most men; but there is a great hero too, and I believe that the hero can overcome the monster and cast his light upon the unhappy Empire."

  "If there is virtue in me it will out," Michael said. "For I would rather writhe a thousand years in the tormenting grasp of a demon host than fail the trust you place in me. You have my word, upon my honour and the honour of my tribe, sworn over the souls of my ancestors, by sea and surf and southern wind under the eyes of Turo: all that you would have of me I shall become."

  Gideon smiled. "I needed no ancient oath sworn in grandiloquent words to tell me that. Now get some rest; great perils lie ahead of us, we must take all respite while we can."

  VII

  Born to Command

  Miranda sat upon the grass, her walking stick resting on her knees, and closed her eyes as she sighed heavily.

  "Is everything alright?" Octavia asked anxiously.

  "Now that you're here it will be," Miranda murmured. "I...oh, it's just been such a day."

  "Do you want to tell me about it?" Octavia ask
ed as she began to rub Miranda's shoulders, caressing them with her delicate hands.

  Miranda chuckled. "You'll regret asking that once I've bored you to tears. But, since you ask: I was called to the bedside of a Pater Imperium, a very old and very wealthy man, well known to a great many people. He has festering injuries on his right arm; apparently he used to do a lot of sword-fighting. He is overweight, unfit, dying inside and out, yet all the while blustering in this thin, wheezing voice about how strong he was."

  "Did you make him better?"

  "That's the thing, I'm not sure that I can," Miranda admitted. "Prince Antiochus wants me to amputate the arm and give him an artificial arm of stone, but as bad as they smell I don't think his injuries are what is really killing the old man. Helen Manzikes denies that the man is ill in any way, and claims his sickness is his natural state. Princess Romana seems to believe that that arm is the healthiest part of the fellow, but that he can be healed from the inside out until his very youth is restored to him. It seems like madness to me."

  "What does the Emperor say?"

  "Very little," Miranda said. "He watches me and holds his peace, as though waiting to see what I will do."

  Octavia murmured sympathetically. "So what do you think?"

  Miranda sighed again. "I think it would be a kindness to put the old man out of his misery, but there isn’t a single person besides me who wants that, and when I suggested it Empress Portia became so upset. She has been so kind to me, I can't bear to hurt her." She looked downwards. "I think that Princess Romana is the only one who wants the old man better for his own sake. Everyone else wants to borrow money from him, or stay in his fabulous house. They're all afraid of what will happen if he dies. They're all afraid of change."

  "Sometimes it's natural to be afraid of things changing," Octavia said softly. "Not all changes are good."

  "I know," Miranda said. "I just...it always reminds me of my brother in the worst way."

  "Well, what does Lord Quirian say?"