Blade of Tyshalle

by Matthew Woodring Stover

  "I—" Pain twists his face, and it's not physical pain. "I think I see—" "Go on, Kris. You've got the floor, man. Use it."

  Suffering shines from him like the eldritch light from his face. He lowers his head, closing his eyes against his own light, and begins to speak.

  6

  He stood in the center of the arena. Fireglow that leaked down from the clerestory of the vaulted ceiling shaded his penetrant shine toward a pale peach. Though his voice had never been strong, and now was weaker still with his infirmity, all could hear—his meaning, if not his words.

  All within that room were touched by his Meld.

  The spider-tangle of black threads he could see flowing into Caine knotted together in a flare of white fire within Caine's chest—white fire that Deliann could touch, white fire from which Deliann had drawn the power to tune his Meld in a wholly new way. His shine resonated with the Shells of primals, gaining strength and the colors of life; it flowed into the Shells of stonebenders, and out again to blend into ogres and trolls; the shimmer of ogre brought it to frequencies that might touch the ogrilloi, and the ogrilloi shaded it enough to slide within the consciousness of Flowblind humanity.

  He neither orated nor exhorted, but merely spoke. "This is the truth," he said, and through the Meld all knew it. He held on to what he knew was true, and let the story tell itself.

  "Some of you," he said, "believe you are here because you were imprisoned for the crime of thinking for yourself; you are mistaken. Some of you believe you are here because you were falsely accused of treason; you, too, are mistaken. Some of you believe you are victims of political oppression, or official misconduct, or simple bad luck. Some of you think you came to revenge yourselves on your enemies, or to stand by your friends.

  "You are all mistaken.

  "What brings all of us here is not Cainism, or human prejudice; it is not greed, or lust for power, or blind chance.

  "What brings all of us here is a war.

  "This is a war that is fought every day in every land; this is a war that began with the birth of life itself. This is a war the best of us fight in our hearts: a war against to get along; you go along. A war against us and them. A war against the herd, against the cause. Against the weight of civilization itself.

  "This war cannot be won.

  "Should not be won.

  "But it must be fought.

  "Here is the truth: We are offered a gift.

  "That we are here this night is the gift of T'nnalldion—what in the human tongue is Home, or the World. This is the great gift of Home: that once in an age, she brings forth this secret, silent war into the full light of day. This gift is the opportunity to stand as her shield; to see plain our enemy; to strike a blow face-to-face and hand-to-hand.

  "She held out this gift to my grandfather Panchasell, more than a thousand years ago. In accepting, he named himself Luckless, for he knew the doom he chose.

  "This was the first engagement in our theater of this war: when Panchasell Mithondionne closed the dillin that joined us to the Quiet Land. He fought the war in secret for two hundred years; when Home brought the war into the open day, Panchasell the Luckless and House Mithondionne took arms and led the Folk Alliance against the Feral Rebellion.

  "Almost nine hundred years ago, barely a bowshot from where we now stand, Panchasell the Luckless fell in battle.

  "On the day my grandfather was killed, Home held out this gift to my father, T'farrell Ravenlock. My father refused, and named himself the Twilight King; he wished the bright day of the First Folk to draw slowly to a close, instead of suffering the sudden nightfall of extinction.

  "He led our people away from the daylit war, ceding the open lands of Home to the enemy, and retired to the deepwood to preside over our long slow slide into history. This has come more swiftly than his darkest dream: We few, here today, may be the last of the Folk to stand together against our enemy.

  "More than four hundred years were to pass before Home offered her gift again. This time it was to the race of the enemy, many of whom had come to love her as deeply as any of the Folk; this time the gift was offered to a human named Jereth of Tyrnall.

  "Jereth Godslaughterer fought the enemy in each of its shadow-forms: as Rudukirisch and Dal'kannith, Prorithun and Kallaie, and in all the other names that humans give to the shared dreams that pool their collective desires. Like my grandfather, Jereth fell in battle—but it was a battle won: from it came the Covenant of Pirichanthe, which binds the human gods beyond the walls of time, and defends Home from their irrational whims of power.

  "Now, five hundred years have come and gone since the days of the Godslaughterer, and Home once more offers her gift.

  "Our enemy has struck already. He struck without challenge, as a poisoner strikes, against whom no armor may suffice. His blow has slain House Mithondionne, of whom I alone survive. Each of us in this room bears wounds from his hand. His weapon is madness, the same madness that some of us—here, tonight—feel coursing our veins. But against such an invisible sword, we now have a silent shield. T'Passe?"

  T'Passe, pragmatic as a shovel, tromped down the aisle to the arena; Deliann gestured to Raithe, and Raithe put the tureen into her hands. T'Passe shrugged, and ducked her head toward the contents of the bowl. "A little drink, that's all," she said heavily. "Even a sip." She handed the bowl to a human, one of the Cainists who sat on the floor in the aisle. Though already carrying the countervirus as did all the former inmates of the Pit, she dipped her hand, and brought it cupped to her lips; like all Monastics, she had a profound respect for the power of ritual.

  The Cainist who held the bowl scowled down into the straw-colored liquid within. "What is it?"

  She looked at Deliann, who gravely inclined his head.

  "Water," she said. "Water, with a little blood in it."

  Again, she looked at Deliann; his expression never altered, nor did the angle of his nod. She shrugged.

  "It's Caine's blood."

  A general murmur stirred the room.

  Deliann said, "Choose."

  The Cainist still scowled, but he dipped his hand and drank, and held the bowl so that those beside him could do the same, before he passed it on to a nearby woman.

  "In accepting the gift of Home, you bind yourself to fight in our war," Deliann said. "I know that many are without weapons, and more are without armor. Many—perhaps most—of you do not call yourselves warriors.

  "But as Caine has said: There is fighting, and there is fighting.

  "By this he means: It is not demanded of each of you that you take up a sword and slay. That is the task for warriors. Some may bind wounds, and comfort the injured. That is the task for healers. Some may cook food and carry water. Some may leave here this night, and never look behind.

  "Let each of us fight in our own way, according to our own gifts. A cook who pretends to be a warrior endangers his comrades; a warrior who pretends to be a cook ruins food we need for the strength to fight on.

  "Only this do I ask of you: I, not Home. Those of you who leave this place tonight, do not surrender to our enemy. Know that the shield of Home defends you, and can defend all whom you love. This shield does not move of its own. It does not grow unaided. It can truly defend only when passed from heart to heart, and flesh to flesh. To bring anyone or anything within the shield of Home requires only a kiss. Your choice can save more than you dream. It is the most important choice you will ever make.

  "Some here do not have that choice."

  A vague wave of his hand might have indicated the Patriarch, bound and leashed to the Ebony Throne, or the friars who stood on the arena sand, or both.

  "But we do.

  "We can choose to stand against the blind god.

  "We can choose to stand for Home.

  "We can—"

  He broke off, and for a moment lowered his head; when he looked up once more, he wore a small, melancholy smile, full of resigned self-knowledge.

  "I should say, you can cho
ose.

  "My choice is made already. I have made the choice of Panchasell. The choice of the Godslaughterer.

  "The choice of Caine.

  "I am Deliann, the Mithondionne. Here I will stand. Here I will fall. "I am Deliann, the Mithondionne. I set my name to this."

  He fell silent, and his light faded, and with it the Meld; after a moment he lowered his head.

  7

  They're all filing out, the Cainists and the Serpents and the Folk. After a minute, some clever guy gets a bright idea, and brings the tureen up to the arch where everybody can take a sip as they go out. Pretty soon somebody's at each of the other exits with a helmet upside down in their hands, holding a few cups scooped from the tureen, and the hall clears out faster. Most of them are heading for the Pit, where they'll go back the way they came: down the Shaft sump and out, to scatter across the Empire, and beyond. Stonebenders to the White Desert and the northern God's Teeth, ogrilloi to the Boedecken, treetoppers south to the jungles of lower Kor.

  Primals to the deepwood, and whatever's left of Mithondion.

  And that's it, then. Here, in this eerie muttering quiet, I'm looking at Shanna's victory. She and I and Deliann—and Raithe, too, can't leave that fucker out of it—we just beat HRVP.

  Sure, the disease has a big lead, but it's slow, and random. The countervirus is fast, and will be purposeful: with a few hundred people fanning out of here, spreading Shanna's countervirus every time they sneeze, or piss in a river, or share a cup of wine, we'll overtake it.

  Score one for the good guys.

  Which is all the enthusiasm I can muster; it's kinda anticlimactic. I guess it's because HRVP was just for openers—just a light jab to probe our defenses, and it too fucking nearly punched our lights out. Like Tan'elKoth used to say: You can win every battle and still lose the war.

  On the other hand, Kris' story was a good one; sometimes making a good story is winning, too. Spartacus. The knights of the Round Table. The Alamo. That's victory, of a sort.

  Shit, I hope so. It's the only kind we're gonna get.

  A couple of feys who used to do healing for the rough-trade girls at Alien Games work on my legs a little, scraping out the jelly of dead muscle and infected pus, and run some Flow in there to pump strength into the muscle.

  About the time they finish up, Majesty threads his way down to the arena. Somebody cut him loose after that ogrillo bitch went off with the ogre and the dwarf to look after Kierendal. He rubs the rope burn on his wrists, and he's covered in filth, but he looks pretty cheerful: his smile cracks the dried blood on his chin, and it flakes away as he scrubs at it with the back of his hand.

  "Damn, Caine," he says as he vaults into the arena. "Fuck a goat if you don't always find a way to come out on top." He bounces across the sand and climbs the dais, right up next to Toa-Sytell, and grins down at him. "Hey there, you shit-crazy cock," he says, and draws back his foot for a kick.

  "Don't."

  He looks at me and finds no room for argument in my eyes. He shrugs. "You're the boss, I guess," he says.

  "Yeah."

  The feys give him hard looks as they pack their shit and go. He ignores them. "What now, buddy? What's our next move?"

  "My next move," I tell him heavily, "is to send those friars down there out to fight some troops that are coming after me. Troops from my world."

  "Your world?" Majesty breathes. "Fuck me—it's true, then. It's true. It's always been true. You are an Aktir."

  "Yeah."

  "Fuck me," he repeats, but then he spreads his hands and smiles at me. "Hey, Aktir or not, you always knew who your friends were, right?"

  "Your next move—" I nod toward the back of the hall. Toward the door. "—is to follow those guys up there. Clear your ass out of town."

  "Huh?" Wariness sparks deep within his eyes. "I don't get you."

  "You're not popular with the Folk, Majesty. I'd lay odds the only reason you're still alive is that most of them aren't quite sure who you are."

  "Hey, c'mon, Caine. Aren't you the stag, here? You're saying you can't protect me?"

  "No," I tell him. "I'm saying I won't"

  His smile cracks like the blood on his chin. "Hey—hey, Caine, c'mon—"

  "You're why Kierendal had to be locked up. You killed half her people. The only family she had. You and Toa-Sytell. Your fucking Caverns War."

  "But, but, hey, I didn't have anything against her," he says, licking his lips. "Shit, Caine. This whole Caverns War—that was Toa-Sytell's thing. It was politics, that's all. Business. It wasn't personal—"

  "It was for her." I nod toward the door one more time. "You better go now, while I still remember how much I used to like you."

  He leans toward me confidentially. I can see sweat leaking out of his skin. "Come on, Caine. This is me. Even in the Donjon, didn't I help you out? Huh? Didn't I?" He reaches for my arm as though his touch will remind me of our friendship.

  I brush Kosall's hilt with my fingers. Its blade buzzes a rattlesnake's warning against the arm of the throne. Majesty's hand freezes, and he takes a cautious step back down the dais stairs. "Yes," I say. "You did. That's what buys you the chance to walk out."

  "But, but, hey, I mean, where am I supposed to go?" he says plaintively. If I didn't know him so well, I could almost feel sorry for him. Majesty's a weed; he'll. flourish wherever he falls. "Where can I go? What am I supposed to do?"

  "I don't care," I tell him, "so long as you don't do it here. Go." He backs away one more step. "Caine—"

  I point Kosall at him. The blade snarls. "Five seconds, Majesty."

  He turns and scampers down the dais, across the sand. He forces his way into the outgoing stream of humans and Folk and exits the Hall of Justice without looking back. I watch him go, remembering all the good times we've had together, but they don't mean much to me right now. There was a time I considered him my best friend.

  And I can't remember why.

  Down on the sand, Raithe gives his instructions—my instructions—to the friars, detailing them in squads to intercept and harass the approaching Social Police: just my way of saying hello. Pretty soon the friars go, and t'Passe heads off to coordinate the Folk and Serpents and Cainists who want to stay here and fight; Orbek takes Toa-Sytell's leash and drags him off to keep his Patriarchal ass out of mischief, and in all the whole Hall of Justice it's now just Raithe, and Deliann, and me.

  From the arena below, Raithe stares after Orbek and Toa-Sytell with those deep-winter eyes. He's wrapped pretty tight; he sizzles with the effort he's expending to hold himself still and silent. "What are you going to do with the Patriarch?"

  "Nothing you need to know yet," I tell him. "Kris—?"

  He stands in the center of the arena, lost in some infinite distance. "Kris—?" I say again, then more sharply, "Deliann."

  Slowly, his gaze gathers focus and finds me. "Yes, Caine?"

  "Let's do this thing."

  "Here?"

  I nod up toward the titanic figure of Ma'elKoth carved into the wedge of limestone towering over us. "You got a better place?

  He thinks about it, his face alien, unreadable. Then his eyes close and open again in a motion too slow and deliberate to be called a blink, and he says, "No. I suppose I don't."

  "What do you need from me?"

  "I'll explain as we go along," he says, mounting the dais to stand at my side. "Find mindview."

  I breathe myself into it; it only takes a second or two, and then twisting corded nets of black ropes web the Hall of Justice like it's the lair of spiders the size of horses. "I can see it," I tell him, and I can. Even though I'm talking, I can hold the image.

  "I know."

  "It's easier now. Easier than it was even when I used to practice this. Back in school."

  He offers me a smile of sad understanding. "Among the First Folk, we are taught that the path of power is measured by self-knowledge. To use magick, one must know oneself, and the world, and the identity they share."

  I
am at the center of that black and tangled web. It pulses into the base of my spine; strength and feeling swells in the muscles of my back and legs.

  Deliann turns to Raithe. "Kneel here, facing him," he says, indicating a spot an arm's length in front of my knees.

  Raithe looks at me.

  "Do as he says," I tell him, and he does.

  A different kind of glow surrounds Deliann now, a bluish Saint Elmo's fire kind of thing. That aura grows a limb—a pseudopod, an arm—and grabs on to something white in the middle of my guts. Lightning snaps back up that insubstantial blue and sparks it to a searing arc-welder blaze. It'd be painful, if I were seeing it with my eyes.

  He reaches for Raithe, and Raithe gasps as the colors blossom around him.

  "This will be a form of Meld," Deliann says. "It's a little like a Fantasy, except we will all be creating it together as we go along. Don't be alarmed at what you might see; none of us might look like we do now, but we'll know each other anyway. It's a ... metaphoric level of consciousness, like a dream."

  "And we can't lie," I murmur.

  Deliann nods. "This is a state of consciousness where deception is impossible. Concealment, though, isn't difficult. It is simply a refusal to share. It is the same as you should do if any of these Powers tries to join with you, or enter your body. They cannot do so without your cooperation—but they can be very persuasive."

  "Yeah."

  "What Powers?" Raithe says, staring raptly at whatever Deliann's touch upon his mind is showing him. "You still haven't told me what we are doing."

  I bare my teeth. "We're gonna have a little chat with Ma'elKoth."

  8

  A soft, hearth-warm glow appeared, neither close nor distant, in no particular direction: near, far, before, behind, above, or below

  None have meaning in the infinite lack.

  As patiently irresistible as gravity, the light drew her forward, or upward: in whatever direction from her that it lay. Without volition to resist its pull, she drifted toward it.

  She came to understand that this light was the sun, and not the sun. It was a star, burning in the heavens of the lack, giving light and life and reason to the boundless nothing of her death—but it was also a man, with elven features and a mane of platinum hair that twisted outward in streamers of fire along the solar wind. The sun man held a bow of fusing hydrogen, and carried arrows of light.