The Name Of The Sword (Book 4)

by J. L. Doty

  ••••

  Rhianne awoke, sighed with contentment and lay in bed. She’d been having the most wonderful dreams, very unladylike dreams. They’d also been most undreamlike, which she now understood was the nature of these dreams that weren’t truly dreams. Each had ended with her and Morgin lying beneath the sheets in each other’s arms, content and happy, though their joy had been shadowed by their fear of what the jackals might do to retaliate.

  For several nights now she had had the joy of those dreams, each night a little different, but always the two of them laughing and cavorting like innocent children as they played at some very adult games. It was strange that she and Morgin found happiness only in her dreams, when in life they had found so little joy together. The hard part was that each morning she had to awake to this reality.

  “Milady,” Geanna said. “I see you’re awake, and His Majesty wants you to attend an important meeting later this morning. So we must get you bathed and dressed.”

  Rhianne sat up in bed. “What meeting is that?”

  “His Majesty hasn’t informed me of the details.”

  Rhianne knew that to be at least partly a lie. She’d carefully tested the girl, said certain little mistruths when only Geanna was present, and most often nothing came of it. But once she spoke of how, as a child, she had loved the scent of the blossoms on the lime trees in her father’s orchards, and a few days later Valso had mentioned her father’s lime trees. But her father had no lime trees in his orchards. She had lied to Geanna, and by that simple, little, roundabout circuit of false information, had confirmed that Geanna regularly reported her words and actions to Valso. Apparently, she reported even the most trivial of things, such as lime trees in her father’s orchards.

  Rhianne had tested the other girls as well, and now knew exactly which of the them were, and which were not, Valso’s spies. It was an exceedingly valuable piece of knowledge to have.

  Geanna and her handmaidens dressed her carefully, wrapping her in layer after layer of clothing. It reminded her of the many layers Morgin had peeled off her that first night, and a smile touched her lips.

  “You seem happy, my lady.”

  “Oh, just a fond memory.”

  The girls put her hair up, colored her lips and applied careful touches of makeup, then gowned her in one of those revealing dresses, reminding her once again of her failure to acquire more modest clothing. Once, she’d tried using a broach to pin a silk handkerchief to her dress to cover her cleavage. Valso had taken one look at it and ordered it removed. After that there’d been no more broaches in her suite.

  “It’s time. Is she ready?” There was no mistaking the harsh voice of the Kull lieutenant.

  Rhianne turned, and with her chin held high, she stepped out of her boudoir into the sitting room. The Kull looked at her breasts hungrily, reminding her of the way Valso’s eyes always settled last on her breasts. She didn’t give the halfman the satisfaction of blushing.

  Six Kulls awaited her out in the hallway, and it gave her some satisfaction that Valso felt the need to guard her so carefully. They escorted her down to the main floor of the castle, then through its labyrinthine corridors to the Great Hall. The massive main doors at its entrance had been thrown open, and there the Kulls peeled off and remained outside as she stepped across the threshold. She paused there for a moment.

  Valso had chosen to have quite a number of his courtiers present this day. They lined the walls to either side, leaving a wide aisle down the center of the hall. At the far end he sat on his throne at the top of the dais, Carsaris standing beside him at his right hand, Salula at the bottom of the dais to his right. Clearly, he’d wanted to impress her, or perhaps cower her, so without waiting to be properly announced, she marched purposefully down the center of the hall. The herald hurriedly rapped his staff on the floor three times, and in a rush of words announced, “Her Ladyship, Rhianne esk et Elhiyne.”

  She stopped about 20 paces short of the dais, looked up at Valso, nodded her head and said, “Your Majesty.” She curtsied, doing so with a flourish, though she did not bow her head and lower her eyes while doing so. And she did not wait for his permission to rise, but did so immediately and stood proudly. Valso looked at her for the longest moment as the Great Hall filled with the hiss of a hundred whispers. Beside him Carsaris took one fearful step back, as if he feared the king’s anger might focus on him.

  Valso opened his mouth to speak, and the whispers died. “Ah, the lovely Lady Rhianne. This should be an interesting morning. Please, take your place.” He held out a hand, indicating she should stand at the base of the dais on his left.

  Saying nothing, she crossed the short distance and turned about to face the court of the Decouix king. As if on cue, the herald at the far end of the hall rapped his staff against the floor three times and announced, “Magwa, queen of the jackal hordes, and mistress of the jackal court.”

  This time Rhianne knew what to expect. As before a strange and unruly retinue accompanied Magwa, all walking with the awkward gait of dogs who stood on their hind legs, but not like that of a trained pet, for their upright stature was clearly unnatural. As they drew nearer, Rhianne saw that three of the jackals following the bitch queen limped badly and wore bloodied bandages. And the right arm of one of them ended in a bound stump, his paw missing at the wrist. Rhianne’s heart pounded up into her throat as she recognized the captain of the jackal troop who had abducted Rhiannead. For a moment she feared he’d recognize her, know she saw the events in the Kingdom of Dreams through Rhiannead’s eyes. Would he reveal that to Valso?

  “Magwa,” Valso said. This time he did not stand and descend the steps of the dais. “I get the impression I’m not going to be pleased with the news you bring.”

  Magwa stepped forward and barked defiantly, “Three twelves of my best warriors. Three twelves of them I sent, and only a half-twelve return, and badly wounded at that.”

  Valso stared at her, a blank expression on his face. “It appears your dogs were not up to the task.”

  Magwa’s retinue yipped and howled as she stepped forward and wagged a paw at Valso. “You said it would be easy, that you and your master’s magic would protect them from the forest and the shadowwraiths, and without them there’d be no real opposition. Just go to the Kingdom of Dreams and retrieve the damn sword, that’s what you said.”

  Valso leaned forward on his throne. “I have no doubt of my magic, so don’t try to tell me it did not work. With my master supporting me, the forest could not have sensed your warriors.”

  “Oh it worked, exactly as you said it would. It was not the shadowwraiths or the Living Forest that defeated them. They were defeated because you failed to anticipate all of the opposition they faced. Had you done so we would have gone there in far greater force.”

  “And what did I fail to anticipate?”

  Magwa stepped forward and said, “The one who fights with shadows was there.”

  Rhianne’s heart went cold.

  Magwa’s retinue began yipping and howling loudly. Salula started, actually broke his calm and took an involuntary step toward her, and Valso stood with such speed it startled them all.

  Valso threw his head back and laughed. He looked at Rhianne and said, “Of course his soul departed the Mortal Plane, he went to the Kingdom of Dreams. I must give him due credit for being rather imaginative in his choice of hideout.”

  To Magwa he said, “You still failed. Our master will not be pleased.”

  Spittle flew from Magwa’s muzzle as she growled, “I killed him centuries ago when he wore the skin of a Benesh’ere, and I can do so again.”

  “I’m glad to hear that,” Valso said. He marched down the steps of the dais, taking them two at a time. “You must go back, and as you said, in force. We’ll assault the entire Kingdom of Dreams. We’ll raze the castle and unseat the Unnamed King, if need be.” He looked Salula’s way. “And the good Captain Salula here will accompany you, with twelve twelves of his most cruel figh
ters.”

  Salula’s lips turned up into a broad grin. Rhianne hated seeing such malice on the kindly swordsman’s face.

  Valso spun around to face Rhianne. “Your husband gives me great sport. I’ve always liked that about him. But I no longer have time to amuse myself with his trivial games, so we’ll finish it this time.”

  Magwa stepped between Rhianne and Valso, approached her and stopped with her muzzle only a finger’s breadth from Rhianne’s nose. “The price you will pay grows with each day.”

  Only a few days ago Rhianne might have flinched at the threat in her words, but she no longer feared this jackal queen, not in the way she once had. Rhianne smiled just to taunt her. “The price my husband will exact from you grows daily as well.”

  The jackal warriors howled with rage. Magwa growled, leaned back and swung out. Her claws felt like hot brands as they raked across Rhianne’s cheek. Rhianne staggered back a step, a runnel of blood from a gash on her face flowing down her neck and covering the front of her gown. But just to taunt the bitch-queen further, Rhianne ignored the pain and held her smile.

  Magwa raised her paw to strike again, but Valso stepped forward and gripped her arm. She spun toward him and snarled, “Release me.”

  “Of course,” Valso said, “but you’ll not touch her again. She is still mine, and until she is yours, you will not harm her.” As an afterthought he added, “That is, unless I tell you to.”

  Valso stepped around Magwa, almost as if he would place himself between the two of them to protect Rhianne. “That’s a nasty cut,” he said. “I’ll have Carsaris look at it immediately. He’s quite powerful, should be able to heal it with no scar.”

  At Valso’s orders a servant produced a bandage to stem the flow of blood, and as Carsaris and the servant escorted Rhianne from the Great Hall her heart filled with joy. While they knew Morgin had survived Salula’s obsidian blade, none of them yet knew he was the King of Dreams, nor that she could communicate with him through her dreams. And that gave them a small edge, no matter how slight. Perhaps she and Morgin might yet find some happiness.

  17

  To Fight the Obsidian

  Lewendis arrayed his archers at the customary two hundred paces from the ancient rock wall that demarked the Elhiyne border. He watched the Elhiyne’s doing the same, noted that they had doubled the size of their patrol, so once again they had parity.

  He turned to his sergeant and said, “Give me your crossbow, armed and cocked.”

  The sergeant’s eyes narrowed, but he said nothing. They’d had words last night about this, and Lewendis had reminded the fellow it was not his place to judge a nobleman’s actions. The man put a bolt into his crossbow, cocked the mechanism and handed it to him. Lewendis hooked it to a buckle on the side of his saddle.

  He watched the Elhiyne lieutenant ride out to the tumble of stones that had once been a wall, and though it was hard to be certain at that distance, he thought it might be DaNoel. If so, he’d been looking forward to this for some time.

  He spurred his horse forward, and half way there noted happily that he’d been right; it was DaNoel. When he reined his horse in at the tumble of stones he turned it sideways, which made the crossbow hooked to his saddle less obvious.

  “Lord DaNoel,” he said.

  “Lewendis,” DaNoel said.

  Lewendis swore inwardly, and decided then that DaNoel would acknowledge him properly before they parted. “It’s Lord Lewendis to you.”

  DaNoel smirked. “Lord Lewendis, is it? So you’re now making a claim to nobility?”

  “I don’t need to claim nobility. I was born to it.”

  “Were you now? I’ll wager you were born in some hovel to a whore.”

  Lewendis felt bile rise in his throat. “My mother was no whore.”

  “Just because some nobleman chose to acknowledge a bastard begat on some trollop—”

  Lewendis lifted the crossbow and leveled it at DaNoel, whose eyes widened. “You are rude and arrogant, and without honor.”

  “That may be,” DaNoel said, showing none of the fear Lewendis had hoped to see. “But the question here and now is—” He nodded toward Lewendis’ crossbow. “—are you a murderer?”

  No, Lewendis knew he couldn’t just shoot the bastard. He did have a legitimate claim to nobility, but DaNoel had been born much higher than him. If he killed a member of the ruling family of one of the clans for just a few insults, he’d pay a dear price, possibly even his life.

  “No,” Lewendis said. “I’m not a murderer. But you are rude and arrogant, so maybe you’ll learn a bit of humility if you have to walk back to your men.”

  Lewendis lowered the crossbow just a bit and pulled the trigger. The bolt thudded into the chest of DaNoel’s horse. The animal reared, screamed and DaNoel jumped clear just as it collapsed beneath him.

  “You maniac,” he screamed.

  Lewendis was furious with himself. He’d only intended to frighten JohnEngine, to get the satisfaction of seeing his eyes widen with fear, then perhaps bury the crossbow bolt in the ground. But he’d allowed the Elhiyne to goad him into a foolish act. For a peasant, killing a nobleman’s horse would be a hanging offense. But while Lewendis need not fear the hangman’s knot, there could be serious repercussions.

  He pulled his horse around, turning his back on the Elhiyne. He touched his spurs lightly to his horse’s flanks, and trotted away to the sound of DaNoel screaming curses at him.

  ••••

  Morgin lifted the obsidian blade and dagger off the table in the king’s privy chamber and examined them carefully. The first blade he’d made had shattered on impact, and yet Salula’s blade had remained whole. On his second try he’d carefully inscribed runes on this blade and the accompanying dagger, using an emblem that had haunted him for most of his life: the symbol of the sunset king with crossed swords beneath it. Not the emblem Olivia had seen at his Naming, but the completed name, the name only he had seen. It was a sigil that filled his soul with terror. And yet, his instincts told him he must use that glyph on this blade. He’d completed the blade by instilling the runes with power. It had taken him several days, and now the time had come to test his craftsmanship.

  For just an instant he thought he heard pipes. It came as a faint sound, as if from a far distance, a sad, sorrowful tune filled with grief and regret. It was a tune he’d heard before and knew well. But the instant ended and silence returned.

  “A strange blade you hold there.”

  Morgin recognized that voice. Still holding both the blade and dagger, he turned to face Metadan. Dressed in his signature black leathers, but bearing no weapon, long dark hair framing an aristocratic face that could only be described as beautiful, the dark angel did not bend the knee, for he claimed no allegiance to the Unnamed King. But he did bow deeply with the elegance of the most fashionable courtier. “Your Majesty.”

  He straightened. The proudest and most arrogant of all the archangels, darkness still clouded his features. “You requested my presence, Lord Mortal, and I find it curious that you did not summon me. I would have been forced to obey, but I could have easily refused a polite request.”

  Morgin leaned back and sat on the edge of the table. “I don’t need your obedience.”

  “Then what do you need?”

  He extended the obsidian blade, held it with the point aimed at Metadan’s chest as if they were about to duel. “I need you to teach me how to fight with this blade.”

  Metadan’s eyes seemed to pierce Morgin’s soul as he considered him carefully. Then he slowly crossed the room. He stopped with the blade’s point just a finger’s breadth from his chest and extended his hand, palm up.

  Morgin lowered the point, then gripped the sword by the blade and reversed it, laying the hilt in Metadan’s hand.

  The archangel lifted the blade and regarded it carefully. “I see you’ve put quite a bit of work into this blade. But my master will not like it if I help you.”

  “Then perhaps we s
houldn’t tell him.”

  “It’s that simple, is it?”

  “Foremost of the archangels,” Morgin said, “and now foremost of the Fallen.”

  His words clearly stung Metadan. “It might have been better had you summoned me. Then I could plead that I had no choice in the matter.”

  “But regardless of how you came here, by summons or request, you could still refuse my appeal for help.”

  “And you felt I might be more amenable if not forced. Give me one reason to help you.”

  Morgin knew one name that would carry great weight with the archangel, the one being Metadan loved more than his own pride, and the one being that loved him back so much, she now hated him. “Ellowyn would like it if you did.”

  Metadan didn’t move a muscle, but his eyes shifted focus away from the blade, past it and into Morgin’s eyes. “You’ve asked her?”

  “No. But we both know she would.”

  “Aye, we do both know that.” His eyes shifted back to the blade, and he seemed to take a special interest in the runes Morgin had placed upon it. “Interesting, that you’ve adorned this blade with your name.”

  “Is that what that symbol is, my name?”

  “I find it ironic that you must ask such a question.”

  “He knows all names but his own,” Morgin said. “I know the symbol, and I think I know the name it represents, if it is a name, but I don’t think it’s my name.”

  “Then what is your name?”

  “If I knew that, I wouldn’t be the Unnamed King. So if you think you know my name, why don’t you tell me?”

  “Far be it from me to enlighten you. But I must tell you that you cannot win while you deny your name. Victory can come only when you bear the burden of it.”

  “I’m the Unnamed King. I don’t deny my name, I just don’t know it.”

  Metadan’s eyes remained locked on the blade. “Believe what you will,” he said. He hefted it carefully and tested its weight. He turned to one side, slashed the blade to right and left, then lunged at an invisible opponent. He straightened and looked at the blade again. “But you have it wrong.”