Blade of Tyshalle

by Matthew Woodring Stover

  "Not mine. Ma'elKoth's." Toa-Sytell made another sketch of a salute toward the corner shrine. "You forget: I knew Berne. What we celebrate tomorrow is his sacrifice for God, not his character. As a man, he was a rapist and a murderer—worse even than Caine, and I don't mind saying so. Privately."

  Damon smiled painfully, as though bending his lips made his face hurt. "You sound a bit like a Cainist, too."

  "Ah, it's the brandy," Toa-Sytell said, tilting his glass high to catch the last drops before pouring himself another. "It must be made clear, Damon. Cainism is treason. Adherents of Cainism openly declare themselves the enemies of society, and of God. It will not be tolerated within the Empire's bound—not even from Monastic diplomats."

  Damon frowned. "You cannot expect to dictate the politics and philosophies of Monastic citizens," he said stiffly.

  This, too, Toa-Sytell waved aside with a weary pass of his snifter. "I don't. What I do expect is that the Council of Brothers will find it expedient to post holders of such views elsewhere—to avoid the appearance of deliberate offense to the Empire and the Church. After all," he said reasonably, "the Cainist heresy can't be very popular with the Council, either; if Caine had not died at Victory Stadium, I'm sure you would have found it necessary to kill him."

  Damon stared gloomily down into his glass and swirled the whiskey within it. "There are some who say that Caine survived—that he waits beyond the world, and that when Ma'elKoth returns Caine will as well, for their final battle."

  "Primitive superstition," Toa-Sytell snorted. "This kind of `final conflict' myth will always be popular among the ignorant—and it is the Cainists who spread it, no doubt. I intend to ensure that the Cainists never get the chance to fulfill their false prophecies. This is why I now speak with you privately, here in your office, Damon. I want you to understand that what I do is in the same service of humanity to which you and every friar are sworn; Cainism is our common enemy, and it can only be defeated by our common effort."

  The wariness he had earlier seen in Damon's face now returned with redoubled force. "I am not yet convinced that Cainism is our common enemy," he said. "What common effort do you expect? What is it you want from us?"

  "From you, specifically, Damon," Toa-Sytell said easily. "Time grows short; I do not have the month or six weeks to spare as couriers travel beyond the Empire's borders and return. I wish to converse with Raithe of Ankhana, the current Ambassador to the Duchy of Transdeia."

  "Speak with . ?" Damon stiffened. "How do you—"

  "You have a device—the Artan Mirror, I believe it's called—that you acquired from these Artans who now rule Transdeia. It's generally used here in this room, your office. I don't know how it is operated; if you would be so kind as to use it to make contact with Ambassador Raithe, I would be most appreciative."

  "But, but, it's impossible that you should—"

  "Know of this secret device?" Toa-Sytell sighed and drained his snifter one last time. "After a lifetime spent in the gathering of secrets as a profession, I find it has become something of a relaxing pastime in itself—a welcome diversion from the heavy cares of church and state."

  He allowed himself a rare, lazy smile as he fisted his chest then spread his hand before him. "The Eyes of God see all, you know. Ma'elKoth is supreme."

  6

  Toa-Sytell watched attentively as the Artan Mirror was set up for use. He'd had report of this device, but he had never seen it, nor did he know how it worked.

  The Artan Mirror was a valise-sized box that the Master Speaker, Dossaign of Jhanthogen Bluff, situated upon Damon's writing table. The Master Speaker then attached a thin, flexible cord of some kind to another that came unobtrusively in through the office window. It was faced with a very ordinary-looking mirror that appeared to be merely silvered glass, and on its side was a ring-shaped handgrip that seemed to be made of gold. Having joined the cords together in some fashion Toa-Sytell couldn't quite appreciate—he seemed to simply jam the end of one into the end of the other, like a branch grafted onto a fruit tree—the Master Speaker retired. One of his assistants—called a Speaking Brother—took hold of the handgrip and briefly closed his eyes.

  A long, long moment passed in silence, then the Speaking Brother opened his eyes and said, "I am received."

  Damon took the seat, facing into the Artan Mirror; the Speaking Brother took his hand. "Greetings from Ankhana," Damon said. "Ambassador Damon calls upon Ambassador Raithe."

  Toa-Sytell shifted his weight forward, peering at the box-shaped device; to his eye, it seemed that Damon looked solely at his own reflection, and spoke to himself.

  Another long moment passed in-silence, then Damon said, "Not well, Master Raithe. This is not a personal call. I have with me here His Radiance the Patriarch of Ankhana, who wishes converse with you."

  After a pause, Damon said severely, "But he does know. And it would serve you well, Raithe, to remember that the Patriarch once directed the King's Eyes. I chose not to insult him with disingenuous pretense, and I suggest that you follow my example . . . Very well. Yes, I recall, and you may be certain that the Patriarch does, as well. Bide a moment."

  He let go of the Speaking Brother's hand and turned to Toa-Sytell. He said with quiet irony, "Master Raithe bids me remember how busy he is, in his duties as Ambassador." He rose, and offered his seat to Toa-Sytell.

  The Patriarch sat down and regarded himself in the mirror. The deepening creases that accompanied the developing slackness of jowls along his jawline, and the near-black swipes of exhaustion under his eyes, made him wince and promise himself to take a long-needed vacation once the Festival was safely and successfully complete. He sighed—it seemed that he had been promising himself a vacation for seven years.

  He forced his attention back to his purpose. "How is this used?"

  The Speaking Brother extended his hand. "Your Radiance need only join grips with me, and speak as though Brother Raithe is here within this room."

  Scowling, Toa-Sytell took the Speaking Brother's hand. His scowl deepened further when his face in the mirror blurred and faded into greyish mist, which then coalesced into a new image: a thin, sharp-faced man with a pointed chin and skin like tight-stretched leather, a nose like a knife blade dividing rather close-set eyes as penetrating as an eagle's. His tonsured head sprouted a fringe of lank brown hair, and he wore the rich blood-colored robes of a Monastic Ambassador. And those eyes—they were decidedly disturbing: pale, almost colorless blue grey against his swarthy skin, flat and clouded as chips of ice set into his skull.

  He could not have been more than thirty years of age, was perhaps only twenty-five or -six.

  Astonishingly, Toa-Sytell recognized him; though he could not say when, Toa-Sytell knew that he had seen this intense young man before, perhaps years ago—and for a moment, he could only wonder at the tangled web of lives that touch each other again and again, for no discernable reason.

  Ahh, bugger it, Toa-Sytell thought. I must be getting drunk

  "Your Radiance?" The title had a slightly testy edge—it was Raithe, speaking to him through this device, from hundreds of miles away. The room where Raithe sat could not be seen; it was as though the Ambassador floated within a dense grey mist. "How may I be of service?"

  Toa-Sytell huffed a sigh through his nose. He could think of no reason to waste breath in polite chatter or to speak with less than absolute plainness. "You, as a Monastic citizen, are not an Imperial subject, and so I do not command you. The Council of Brothers does, however, require that the Empire be given aid and support to the fullest power of each and every friar; therefore, think of my request as proceeding from their lips."

  Raithe's pale eyes narrowed. "Please continue, Your Radiance."

  "Give this word to your Viceroy Garrette. Today, to expound—or even privately hold—Cainist ideas has been declared to be treason against the Empire, and an insult to God," Toa-Sytell began.

  At this, those eyes seemed to catch inexplicable fire, as though a winter sun
had burned through their permanent overcast. "This is a great day, Your Radiance—but, to tell the Viceroy? I don't understand."

  "Of course you do, Raithe; Toa-Sytell said irritably. "It is known that you are not a fool. It is also known that you received your current post for the sole reason that you are the Monasteries' leading authority on the Aktiri."

  Raithe's gaze focused like sunlight through a glass; Toa-Sytell would have been unsurprised to find his face blistering under its heat. "You cannot possibly—!"

  'Spare me." When he continued, Toa-Sytell endeavored to recover his customary dry precision of speech. "Our message to Garrette is simply this: To support the actions of these Cainist traitors will, from this day forward, be considered an act of war.

  "His Radiance," the young Ambassador said, "is making a terrible mistake."

  "This is not a discussion, Ambassador. Tell Vinson Garrette that he is known to the Infinite Court; from the mortal arm of Ma'elKoth, nothing can be hidden. Tell him, We know that he and his so-called Artans are in truth Aktiri. Tell him, We know the Aktiri have aided the spread of Cainism. And tell him that if he and his Aktiri masters continue their campaign of Cainist terror against the Empire, their tiny foothold upon Our world will be utterly destroyed."

  Raithe snorted with open insolence.

  "We will cry a crusade," Toa-Sytell said. "Do you understand?"

  Raithe appeared to, swallow, twisting his head as though his throat pained him, then nodded. "Yes, Your Radiance. I understand."

  "Make certain that Garrette does, as well. We know that the Aktiri wield potent magicks—but We also know that they die as easily as any other men. The Artans and the Empire do not have to be enemies; tell him this, too. The path is for him to choose: friendship, or death."

  "Your Radiance, please—" Raithe's young face worked as though he chewed upon broken glass. After a moment, he seemed to master himself, and he said thinly, "Though not of your Empire, Your Radiance, I am of your flock. I am, as I have been since the very birth of the Church, a Beloved Child. I passed through the Womb of Ma'elKoth under His own direction, and my devotion to the Church has never wavered. In the name of that devotion, I ask you to reconsider what you require of me. I know Viceroy Garrette too well —a threat this bald may spark the very war we all would wish to avoid."

  Toa-Sytell grunted his unconcern with this possibility. "Should Garrette wish to continue his Cainist games, We may turn to the solution Caine himself would employ, in the hope that Garrette's successor will prove more reasonable."

  "Your Radiance, you cannot." The young Ambassador spoke with clinical certainty. "You have no conception of the powers you confront—you would never be safe. There would be nowhere you could hide from Artan vengeance."

  The words echoed in Toa-Sytell's mind, and in their echo they subtly altered: You will never be safe, Caine of Garthan Hold. There is nowhere you can hide from Monastic vengeance. "Ha!" he barked, snapping his fingers and pointing at Raithe's image in the mirror. "I know you now—I remember!"

  Raithe's brows drew together. "I'm sorry?"

  "You were here, in this room!" Toa-Sytell said triumphantly. "That night—that night Caine killed him here on the carpet. You were one of the guards—"

  "I was," Raithe confirmed grimly. "But I do not see how this relates to your business with the Artan Viceroy."

  "Well, of course it does ..." Toa-Sytell frowned; of course there was a connection here. Wasn't there? He felt sure that the connection was an important one, a point that must be made, though now he couldn't remember why. He reached for his brandy snifter, but found it to be empty; he felt a bit dizzy, and he decided he had drunk enough for the night. "I, ah, the point is . . . I was only thinking," he said lamely, "about the way lives seem to cross each other, for no reason ..."

  At this, Raithe stiffened as though he'd taken a shock, and a vein bulged, pulsing, around his right eye, but Toa-Sytell was too light-headed to attach any significance to this. He wiped his free hand across his eyes and said, "Give my message to Garrette. Now. Tonight."

  Before Raithe could begin another protest, Toa-Sytell released the hand of the Speaking Brother, and Raithe vanished. Toa-Sytell blinked at the mirror, somewhat surprised to find himself staring at the reflection of an aging, exhausted drunk. Time to go home, he thought, and pushed himself unsteadily to his feet.

  From a seat beside the writing table, Damon stared at him, white faced, appalled by even the half of the conversation that he had heard. Toa-Sytell shrugged and shook his head to indicate there was nothing to worry about, though he could not bring himself to form the words.

  "Sorry about the ball, Damon," he said thickly. "Hope the rest of it goes well. I, ah, I'm going home now."

  He lurched toward the door, thinking Well, that should have gotten things rolling.

  7

  Raithe sat frozen before the Artan Mirror, his hand upon the golden grip. Me, he thought in wonder. It's me.

  He saw it now: his entire life lay unfolded before him, all its twists and turns laid bare. Here at this crux of history, standing on the nexal node of conflict between the Empire and the Artans and the subhuman House Mithondionne, he had found the connection he had sought. He had found the hand of Caine.

  He had found it in the mirror.

  Caine had made him; Caine had driven the quest for power and knowledge that had ended with Raithe being right here, right now, where history was so delicately balanced as to topple according to his slightest breath. Caine had put Toa-Sytell upon the Oaken Throne. Caine had inspired the heretic terrorists who had sparked Toa-Sytell's use of the Mirror, to bring those words to him:... the way lives cross each other, for no reason ...

  But there was a reason. Caine was the reason.

  He saw it now: saw the possibility, saw the opportunity. He saw what Caine might do here—if Caine served the true dream of One Humanity. He saw the opening for a Cainelike stroke: a balance upon which he could throw his own weight. On this whole continent, perhaps the whole world, there was no greater threat to the future of humanity than the elves of House Mithondionne. With one elegant gesture, he could bring against them the unguessable power of the other great threat to the true dream: the Aktiri—the people of Caine.

  And let the two most powerful enemies of the Human Future destroy each other.

  He rose.

  "Ptolan," he said calmly, distantly amazed at how serene and normal his voice sounded to his ears. "Master Ptolan, attend me."

  Only the scuffle of a step or two preceded the voice; Ptolan must have been eavesdropping. "Yes, Master Raithe?"

  "Summon the Speaking Brother; wake him, if need be." Raithe had the Mirror skill, to send this message himself, but he had urgent business within the walls of Thorncleft Castle above the town-business that could not wait the minutes such a message would require.

  "The Council must be informed," he said. "There exists a state of war between the Artan overlords of Transdeia and the elves of House Mithondionne."

  "War?" Nolan asked breathlessly. "War now?"

  Raithe's lips thinned; he stared far into the night sky. "Let us say, within the hour."

  As Nolan scurried away, Raithe slowly turned to the corner of his room, to strike his chest and offer his heart's blood to the shrine of Ma'elKoth.

  8

  The elvish legates stood in Vinson Garrette's drawing room with indifferent poise, as jarringly out of place as ballerinas in a slaughterhouse. Administrator Garrette gritted his teeth and tried to ignore the sweat that trailed down his ribs from his armpits.

  He had designed the room's decor himself, modeling it loosely upon the Cedar Room of England's Warwick Castle. Darkly polished, intricately carved, and interlocking wall panels stretched fifteen feet to the elaborate, gold-leafed plaster of the ceiling, which was done in the massive Baroque style of Italy's seventeenth century. The fireplace was an astonishing edifice of rose-veined marble, half again Garrette's height; upon the mantel stood an enormous mechanical clock,
its bejeweled pendulum scattering multicolored fire. Five enormous crystal chandeliers blazed with the light of three hundred candles. The carpet had been hand woven in a single piece, its design mirroring that of the ceiling above, and everywhere on that carpet rested furniture of unparalleled grace in design.

  This potent combination of wealth and taste would give any man pause, would place him in his proper relationship with the Artan Viceroy, starting all dealings off with the proper note of deference to Garrette's power and discernment which, of course, had much less to do with his own vanity than with his devotion to the Company. As Viceroy, he was the public face of the Overworld Company—of what the natives believed was the Kingdom of Arta—and, as such, it was his duty to present an image that commanded the respect the Company deserved.

  These damned elves, though

  They had minced around the room, muttering among themselves, occasionally giving out that tinkling wind-chime laughter of theirs. Now and again one would turn to ask him a courteous question on the origin of this fabric or the history of some particular type of scrollwork upon the furniture—questions of the sort that no one could have answered except some bloody interior designer, certainly not a man engaged in the important business of running this duchy. And they had seemed privately amused by his ignorance.

  He had hated them on sight.

  Those alien faces sketched in a cartoon of hauteur, the inhuman poise that underlay their polite interest in the furnishings—everything about them made him feel like some bloody yokel, a bumpkin displaying his backwoods sty as though it were a palace. They made this magnificent room feel like something an infant might fingerpaint in his own shit.

  He could dismiss the insult to himself, but disrespect to the Company was unforgivable. They made a joke of his entire life.

  And it was more than that, as the Administrator was not ashamed to admit. Those overlarge, overslanted cat eyes of theirs, their misshapen skulls, brought to mind the child-stealing bogymen that had haunted his dreams even through his teens: they looked like the villains of a thousand childish terror tales.