Blade of Tyshalle

by Matthew Woodring Stover

  4

  They threaded between the ranks of Household Knights, who stood at attention with weapons at port arms and standards lowered. Alone at the end of the ranks, shivering despite being half buried in an enormous raccoon coat, stood Avery Shanks.

  Caine and Faith stopped before her.

  She matched his level stare.

  "Faith?" Caine said, releasing her hand and placing his own on the middle of her back. "Go with Grandmaman back to the palace."

  Faith's eyes had the otherworldly half emptiness of the river's Song within her head. "All right." She held him with her gaze. "I love you, Daddy."

  "I love you too, honey. I just—I have some things I have to do by myself. I'll be there in time for supper."

  "Promise?"

  "Promise," he replied, and the memory of his last promise to her, and how badly he had failed it, ripped him like fishhooks dragged across his heart.

  Reluctantly, Faith joined her grandmother and took her hand. Caine once again met Shanks' gaze. "Take care of her."

  She snorted. "Better than you ever did," she said. "Better than you ever will."

  As he watched them walk away, hand in hand, picking along the winding pathways that had been cleared through the debris-choked streets, he murmured, "I have always been fortunate in my enemies."

  Mm, flattery, the voice within him hummed dryly.

  Caine opened his mouth as though he might reply, but instead he grimaced and shook his head in silence. He swung his legs into motion, climbing over a crumbled wall, heading toward Rogues' Way, toward Fools' Bridge. When he told me this story, he said that he simply needed to move, that he wanted to get off the island for a little while; the Caine Mirror confirms this, but I think it is not the whole of the truth. I believe he wanted to go into the Warrens to see what was left of his old neighborhood.

  To see what was left of himself.

  5

  The gap in Fools' Bridge where the timbers of the bascule had burned away was spanned by temporary planking supported by ropes of knotted hemp. On that morning, workers trundled barrows of brick and salvaged limestone blocks across, and so Caine took the catwalk on the upstream side: a pair of taut ropes, one above the other. He did not pause over the river—he kept moving, sliding one foot ahead of the other along the lower rope while he slid hands along the upper—but his wife was much on his mind as the water rolled beneath him. He thought, so his Soliloquy claims, of what she had shown him, in that infinite instant when he had joined with the river: how the river was everything within its bound, and everything within its bound was the river.

  He thought of so many men and women and children on Earth, for whom a river is a natural toilet, suitable only for flushing away their waste. In a distant, abstract, impersonal way, he felt sorry for them. But not too sorry. If they wanted their world to be different, they could change it.

  It wasn't his problem, not anymore.

  Just so. But this begs the question: What, then, is your problem?

  Caine left the bridge and wandered at length upon the north bank of the river. From the Warrens to the ruins of Alientown and back again, the streets were filled with people clearing away debris, separating what could be salvaged and used again from what would be suitable only for landfill. Nearly all the corpses had been cleared away and burned days before, and there was a certain grim cheerfulness among the townsfolk, a camaraderie in adversity, that bespoke their shared determination to rebuild their home.

  Much of the rebuilt Ankhana will be constructed of timber from the goddess' unnatural spring: young and sap-filled, many of the tree trunks had burned only on the surface, where the oil had oozed through their bark. Their hearts are sound, and will form the skeleton of the city that will rise from this waste of ash and rubble.

  Everywhere Caine went, he was greeted with nods of recognition. It was a strange feeling: Everyone knew who he was, and no one feared him. The greetings he got were instead respectful, and that respect was tinged with awe. Most of the citizens of Ankhana were Beloved Children of Ma'elKoth, and each of these had awakened to the new world with an eldritch knowledge in their hearts of what Caine had done for them, and for their world.

  Even more strange for him, I think, was to walk, and walk, and continue to walk with no particular place to go; to return nodded greetings in a friendly way, to listen to the breeze and the conversations, smell the old char on the wind and feel the crunch of gravel beneath his boots

  And find nothing he had to do.

  I cannot be certain—the device records no commentary-but I believe he took some comfort from this. These few days were the closest he had ever come to a respite from the struggles of his permanent war. In all his life as Caine, there had always been someone he had to kill, or some-one who sought to kill him; always treasure to be searched out, or adventure to be pursued; there had always been the pressure to keep his audience entertained.

  Now he was the audience, and he found that the path of a cloud across an autumn sky had an unexpectedly great entertainment value of its own. Whenever his wandering turned him back toward the Warrens, he found himself staring at the vast hulk of the Brass Stadium. The lone structure of stone in all the Warrens, it towered above the remnants of burnt-out buildings around. In years before, Caine had been an honorary Baron of the Subjects of Cant, the Warrengang that had used the abandoned stadium as their headquarters. In those years, the Subjects had been his family. He had left his family on Earth—his father—for the family of the Monasteries; he had left the Monasteries for the Subjects of Cant; and he had left them in turn to make his own family with Pallas Ril

  But once again, the device records no commentary. And perhaps I am not telling his story here, so much as I am my own.

  Sometimes I have difficulty telling the two apart.

  I can say for certain that he spent much time staring at the Brass Stadium, and twice made halfhearted attempts to pry off the boards nailed across the street entrances as though to slip inside, and twice changed his mind. Here I do have his words, in Soliloquy: I'm breaking into the wrong stadium.

  With that, he turned once more to the west, walking with purpose now, following the dockside to Knights' Bridge. On the Old Town side, he passed the crater where the Courthouse once stood with barely a glance.

  I suppose Caine and justice have always had little to do with each other.

  For me, though—my heart clenches whenever I review this part of the recording. That crater, that slag-crusted gap in the city, is a scene of personal destruction: I did that.

  I died there, doing that.

  It's not easy to look at.

  I've had, as of this writing, some few weeks to brood on the experience of being dead. It's not easy to think about.

  Caine had seven years.

  The recording admits only of a stew of emotions, cycling and shifting and mixing until all that is definite is their overwhelming power; I will not venture a guess as to what Caine might have been thinking as he crossed Kings' Bridge and saw, for the first time with his own eyes, the Cathedral of the Assumption.

  6

  He'd seen it hundreds of times, if not thousands, through the eyes of his Studio's Actors, but to be there in the flesh makes it immediate in a way that a simichair can't duplicate. It towers overhead, looming until it eclipses half the sky: a titanic arc of snow-white marble, the tallest structure in Ankhana, overtopping even the surviving spire of the Colhari Palace. There are no straight lines or hard angles here; the facade curves away in an eye-fooling trick of perspective, to seem even larger than it is, its true dimensions unguessable. Its appearance dwarfs even its reality, and it is fiercely blank: no decoration or detail gives it human scale.

  It stands unscathed by fire and battle. No living thing grows upon or within it; no ivy scales its pristine walls. Its floors are stone, its doors iron, and its ceilings brass. The Cathedral of the Assumption transcends mere intimidation; to enter is to be crushed by one's personal insignificance.

&n
bsp; Caine barely noticed.

  He walked up to it, whistling tunelessly, absently: a whisper that carried only a ghost of music. Teams of acolytes swung from ropes moored to the roof, scrubbing the facade; though none of the black oil had fouled it, smoke from the fires had stained its gleaming surface.

  "I suppose you'll be shutting this place down," he muttered.

  Why should I? the voice within him replied. Ma'elKoth yet exists—still the patron of the Ankhanan Empire, still the grantor of His Children's petitions. Though He is only part of what I Am, the name Ma'elKoth still compasses what He is.

  There are many such: I am an entire pantheon. Did you not understand this? Pallas Ril is part of Me, now, even as is Ma'elKoth; she shall be the patron of the wild places that she loves, and also the defender of the weak and oppressed, even as the wilds shelter those who must flee

  "Christ, shut up, will you? If I'd known I'd have to listen to you yap for the rest of my fucking life, I would have let you kill me."

  He went to the gate, and a priest wearing white robes under a mantle of maroon and gold opened it for him. "In the name of the Ascended Ma'elKoth, this humble Child bids the Lord Caine welcome."

  Caine made a face and brushed past the priest's deep bow with a bare nod of acknowledgment. The priest called after him, "Would the Lord Caine desire an escort? A guide, perhaps? Can this humble Child direct him in any way?"

  "I can find it," Caine said, and kept walking.

  He had no difficulty making his way to the sanctum. Seven years is not so long a time that any detail of this place was less than fresh in his memory. He knew the sanctum well: he had died there.

  The Cathedral of the Assumption had been built around Victory Stadium.

  He came out a long dark gangway into blinding sun: the interior of the stadium was still open to the sky, and virtually unchanged since that original Assumption Day. He descended the shallow steps toward the retaining wall around the arena, and every time I review the recording I think he's about to vault the rail and alight upon the sand.

  But he never does.

  Instead he sighs, and I feel a grim set fix itself on his face. He looks about, and finally moves along the rows until he sits in one of the Ducal Boxes—the one that had belonged, in fact, to the late Toa-Sytell. He leans forward, supporting his weight with his elbows upon his knees, and stares out across the sand.

  For a long, long time.

  Again, the recording offers no Soliloquy, no clue to his thoughts, save only the occasional adrenal race of his pulse, and once or twice the hot sting of incipient tears.

  Finally, he mutters, "The problem with happy endings is, nothing's ever really over."

  Amen.

  Another long, long silence, while he searches the sky as though he seeks there the clashing eidolon of the goddess and the god; then he fixes his gaze on one spot of sand, far out near the center. Near the altar.

  "And Lamorak?" he says, at length. "That shitbag's a god now, too?" Of course.

  "Christ."

  No. Say rather: Judas. Lamorak shall be the god of traitors, of jealous lovers, of all who plot harm in their hearts, and seek to carry it out in secret. Poisoners.

  Assassins.

  "Great," Caine grunts, his mouth a bitter twist. "That's like a little gift just for me, huh?"

  No reply comes.

  "What about Berne?"

  Alas, no. I do not carry Berne within Me. A pity; he would have made a lovely god of war, don't you think? Very Arean, in so many ways."

  Now it is Caine who does not answer.

  A bit later, he mumbles pensively, "What about Hannto the Scythe? He—you—started out as a necromancer, right? God of death?" Beauty.

  Caine snorts.

  Ironic, yes? A man so ugly I could not bear to be him yet his sole passion was the beautiful. Even now, it is only this for which He truly cares.

  Caine shakes his head. "Seems kind of a pissant job. I mean, he's the original You, right?"

  And that is why He is chief among Us, Caine.

  "Chief? The god of beauty?"

  If you'll permit, I believe Keats put it well:

  Beauty is truth, truth beauty; That is all ye know on Earth, And all ye need to know.

  This sets Caine to leaning back, staring into the sky to consider; I think he might sleep for a time, here; there comes a point when he closes his eyes, and when he opens them again, the shadow of the cathedral wall seems to have climbed the eastern grandstand.

  He seems calmer, when he speaks again, almost—almost—at peace. "What's with this Lord Caine shit?" he says slowly.

  The dry voice replies without hesitation, as though for it no interval has passed. Only the smallest gesture of My gratitude. My Children will address you so, and will do you honor every day of your life.

  "Well, fucking cut it out. I don't want to be Lord anything. I'm Caine. That's enough."

  There comes a pause.

  Then: Perhaps it is. But how then am Ito express how deeply I value you, and what you have done for Me? What reward could possibly suffice? "You could leave me the fuck alone."

  Ah, Caine, has either of us ever been able to do that?

  Caine does not answer.

  Can I offer you a job?

  "A job?"

  Would you like to be, say, Emperor?

  "Good Christ, no!" Caine says, and actually bursts out laughing. "Call that a reward?"

  But the Empire needs a ruler, and many men would consider nearly unlimited power

  "I have plenty of power," Caine says. "Remember?"

  After a pause: Just so.

  "Stick me with a job I'd suck at? Yeah, that'll cheer me up. Shit. And working for you doesn't always turn out so well for either of us, you know?"

  Again: Just so.

  How about eternal youth?

  Caine blinks, startled by the idea. "You can do that?"

  I can. In the moment when you and Pallas Ril joined Me to the river, I knew you utterly. I know you to the molecule, Caine; to the atom. I can make a new body for you, just as Pallas Ril began to make one for herself I can make you twenty-five again—twenty-five forever. Think of it: no pain in the hip and shoulder, muscles with the supple flexibility of youth ... And I can do better: I can give you superhuman strength, and speed, make your flesh regenerate wounds

  "You can stop there; I've heard enough. No thanks."

  This would not be some simulacrum, Caine: You would be you. The nervous system of the new body would receive your consciousness every bit as well as the one that channels it now, and probably better.

  "And that's it. That's exactly it: that part about better."

  Why would you turn down a perfect body?

  He says through his teeth, "Because I can't fucking trust you." Caine, you have My word

  "Yeah, we both know how much that's worth," he says. "And we both know that while you're building me a new body, and you're already in there tinkering around, you'd start to get the itch to perfect my mind, too. Erase a couple of those bad habits that nobody likes about me—cussing too much, scratching in public, whatever—it'd start with minor shit like that, and end up with some of my other bad habits. Like kicking your ass every once in a while."

  A long interval passes in silence.

  At least let me fix your legs.

  "They work all right, these days."

  Their use remains a chancy proposition, Caine. You may live to regret declining this offer.

  "I'm living to regret plenty of things," he says with a deep sigh.

  Here I flatter myself I believe he might possibly be thinking that he is the sum of his scars.

  7

  How, then, may I show My gratitude? How may I show the world how much I value you, My friend?

  Here Caine takes a long, slow breath and speaks in tones deliberately flattened, to rob them of any suggestion that some emotion might color his words: a judge issuing final instructions to a jury. "We," he says, "are not friends."

  Ca
ine

  "No," Caine says with inarguable finality. "I had a sort of friendship, once, with a man named Tan'elKoth. He's dead now. You—I don't even know what you are, but you're no fucking friend of mine."

  You know what I am: I am as you have made Me, Caine.

  I am Home.

  And I am your friend.

  "Well, I'm not yours. You killed my wife, you sack of shit: You hurt my daughter."

  And from those crimes, you and I saved the world.

  "Fuck saving the world. You could save ten worlds. You could save the motherfucking universe and it won't get you off the hook with me. I don't care if you are God. Someday, somehow, I'm gonna fuck you up."

  We were at war, Caine. We both fought for what we most loved.

  "So what?"

  Sacrifices had to be made to defeat our common enemy.

  "Yeah? What did you sacrifice?"

  Apparently, your friendship.

  Caine spends a long, long time staring at his hands, making fists and opening them again, watching them transform from tools to weapons and back to tools once more.

  "I saw that statue," he says finally. "The night of the fire. David the King. It was a good likeness. A good statue. Your best work. But it's not me." I disagree.

  "I'm not your David."

  Oh, that—yes. You are correct, however much I would wish that you were wrong. Where I disagree is this: David the King is not My best work You are. "Shit"

  I see a man who was shattered more thoroughly than that block of marble—who has been reassembled into something greater than the sum of his parts. The artist in Me will always take pride from My participation in that reconstruction. If you and I must be enemies, so be it.

  It has been said that the true measure of greatness is the quality of one's enemies. If this be so, then I am proud to be yours, Caine.

  Caine?

  "Hmn?" Caine grunts. "Were you talking?"

  You weren't listening.

  He shrugs. "When you start to drone on like that, it makes my eyes glaze over. I was thinking: That new body trick—you can do that for anyone who was joined to the river?"