The Sheening Of The Blades (Book 1) (23 page)

“
Bet the Merranics didn’t mind the Whiteblades back then,” Loren said mischievously.

“
They were useful back then,” Banion sallied.

“
What happened?” Ari pressed.

“
The Peace came and they turned into a proselytizing scourge—” Banion began heatedly.

“
No, I mean with the forming of the Whiteblades.  First there were the Swords of Mercy, right?” Ari said hurriedly, foreseeing distraction.

Banion stared at him. 
“You know this.”

He felt Melkin
’s eyes boring into him, and Selah, who’d come back from the river, lifted her head from where she sat listening in the background.

He colored. 
“I read it.”

“
Where?” Banion asked, in rather insulting disbelief.

“
The Book of Ivory.”  They were getting close to a rather private part of him.  He felt like a boy with a secret crush.  After all, it wasn’t very socially acceptable to have such ardent, brotherly fondness for a pack of gorgeous female warriors. At least, he
remembered
them as gorgeous. “It was in the library at Harthunters.”

Lor
en, not the most scholastic of heirs, looked at him in surprise.  “I don’t think I ever read a book out of there…”

Banion, if looking at him a little too closely, was at least back on track now. 
“You’re right,” he said slowly.  “The Empress formed the Hand of Mercy several hundred years before the rest of the band existed.  She took a Merrani, a Cyrrhidean, two from the North and one from the deep south and formed them into the Hand of the Empress—supposedly fierce fighters.  Their stories are almost always of deliverance from the Enemy, arriving in the nick of time, saving an old couple’s last child, averting whole towns’ certain death and disaster…that sort of thing.

“
Why don’t they call them ‘Bane of the Tarq,’ or ‘Steel for Sheel,’ or something more militant?” Loren pondered.

Banion looked at him, pained.  Ari threw his handful of plucked grass in the air.  Selah giggled.

“Because they threw the name of Il around like a magic amulet.  You hear ‘Light of Il,’ ‘Mercy of Il,’ ‘Love of Il’ enough, it’s bound to make you go doe-eyed and soft in the head!” Banion ground out.
              That ended that.  Ari, banking the fire as everyone finally bedded down, was aware of a deep longing.  Surrounded by Imperials again, he was once more acutely conscious of his too-bright hair and wrong-colored eyes, of the stares, and of the lack of family that surrounded him like a moat of emptiness.  It seemed he couldn’t even hear talk of the Swords of Light without instantly seeing them in the little garden of his childhood.  He was quite sure there was some sort of mental block going on under his cursed red hair; no normal eighteen-year-old male should have looked on Adama’s pretty face in Alene…and longed for a sister.

King’s Crossing was raucous, an exuberant, sparkling display of barely organized chaos.  They knew this from almost a half-day’s ride away.  They could hear it, smell it from the vendors’ food stalls, see it in the packed crowds on the Southern Way, and most of all, sense the crackling excitement of it in the bright summer air.

They rose at dawn that last day and were still far from being the first on the road. 
  Bluebirds warbled, people laughed and chatted and possibly the only person in the entire southern Empire that wasn’t happy…was Melkin.

He
’d been sinking into a blacker and blacker mood the closer they got to Crossing, and when the already heavy traffic bunched up at a bottleneck ahead, he frowned ferociously.  They could make out Imperial Police far up in the milling crowds in front of them, and Kai pushed through to investigate.

Ari,
as light of mood as everyone else, dejection forgotten in the carnival air, turned to say something to Selah and was surprised to find her nervously urging her mare towards the edge of the crowd.  He reached out a hand to her horse’s bridle, and started to ask lightly, “Where are you going?” when the expression on her face stopped him.  Wary, alert, her eyes flitting repeatedly to the Police ahead, she barely even glanced at him.  His heart sank as he rather thick-headedly put it all together.  “It’s all right,” he said quietly, soothingly, pulling the mare over next to him as they moved forward.  “There’s no way they can know anything about you.”  He was sure,
sure,
she couldn’t have done anything too bad, but some day he’d have to get her to tell him why she’d been running from Imperial law.

It was almost an hour
before they made it to the checkpoint.

“
How many are you?” the first Police troopman asked, a harried, harassed, mussed version of the customs agent on the Kendrick.

Melkin cast a cursory glance over his shoulder, narrowed his eyes, the
n replied with curt impatience, “Seven.”

Eight
, Ari thought, even as his heart dropped out of his chest.  Dread gnawed at his belly as he unobtrusively looked around, scanning their group, then the crowd, then as far out as his eyes could see.  She was gone.  He felt like all the air had been drawn from his lungs, like someone had gut-punched him.  Surely, she’d find them again.  There wasn’t a doubt in his mind that she’d never leave, really leave, without a word, without saying goodbye.  Well, maybe a very small doubt…

They were herded through to a second troopman, who looked over their party and immediately singled out Cerise
, peremptorily beckoning her to dismount.  Her eyes blazed and if anything her perfect posture straightened even more.

“
I’m going to have to ask you to dismount and step aside for questioning, please,” he said insistently, rushed and impersonal.  He pointed to where a line of young women stood in various attitudes of fear, anger, and defiance.  It was a long line.

“
I’ll do no such thing,” she announced, in icy outrage.  “I am the Lady Cerise, here on Queen’s business!”  She snapped open her Letter of Passage from Sable with an impressive flick of her wrist.  It barely missed his nose and his hot, preoccupied face blanched.  He took a hasty step back.

“
My apologies, my Lady—”

“
Let’s go,” Melkin barked, not bothering to wait for him to finish.

Bunched together as they were, Ari heard Banion even over the noise of the crowd. 
“What was THAT about?”

Melkin, almost savage, said,
“Sable wanted to get some verified reports of the Whiteblades’ movements.  I told her this was a fool plan—Imperial Police have all the subtlety of a horsefly bite.”

“
Ari,” Loren said, low and urgent.  “Selah’s gone.”

Ari swallowed hard. 
“Is she?” he managed in a normal voice.

“
Good thing,” Rodge said airily from his other side.  “Queen Sable’s Letter of Marque didn’t include her.”

Ari wanted to hit him.

The crowds picked up a little speed after the checkpoint, but not much.  Just when Ari despaired of ever seeing Crossing (and how was Selah ever going to find them among this great crush of people?), the outlines of its buildings finally appeared on the horizon.  The chatter around them grew louder with expectation and soon, still far outside city limits, tent cities could be seen.

Crossing itself
had doubtless run out of lodgings weeks before, and hawkers stood by the roadside barraging the traffic with sales pitches for their high quality, temporary accommodations—no rats, no rain, no thieves, 10% discount for parties of six or more, children under five free.
              Over them, the sound of festival music began to drift through the air.  They were close now, and the scent of meat pies and fruit tarts and the bright flapping of pennants and house flags filled the air with promise.  Even in the midst of the almost electric excitement, though, Ari found himself anxiously searching the face of every dark-haired young woman, looking for the one that had left him.

Crossing was in reality a good-sized town; it had just been dwarfed by the influx of three Realms and the Ramparts.  Soon they were in its proper outskirts and Ari and Loren exchanged wondering glances, grins tugging at their faces.  The big Harvest Festival at Harthunters was the largest, busiest affair they
’d ever seen, and it had always seemed immense until now.  Around them, vendors lined the packed streets, selling anything you could think of—necessities, luxuries, produce, hot foot, weapons, livestock.  There were games of chance, games of wit, games of strength, games of skill, archery contests, lancing bouts, horsemanship trials, knife-throwing competitions.  You could dogfight, cockfight, fistfight, race your horses, hawks, dogs, pigs, or your own two feet.  And weaving in and around it all was the humming, laughing, shouting, squealing, bargaining flow of humanity; pale white Northern faces, huge Merranics, dark, exotic Rach and silk-swathed Cyrrhideans, they all swirled in a multi-colored blur past the travelers.  The well-dressed, the ragged, the garish, the wealthy and poor, all rubbed shoulders equably, smiles and gaiety on every face.  Even Northerners, never happier than when there was a steady stream of commerce going on, were in the mood, cheerfully raking in piles of tirna.  Ari saw one man obligingly taking off his own belt, willingly exchanging it for coin from an animated customer.

The boys were almost whining with eagerness to be released when Melkin finally drew them all in together, the crowd jostling their horses as it parted around them. 
“You boys stay with Banion,” he said loudly, to be heard over the commotion.  “He’ll get you back to our quarters.”  That was a relief—Ari’d been afraid they’d have to go all the way back out to find lodging later, and then fight the crowds again tomorrow for the Kingsmeet.

“
Cerise, you and Ari come with me.”

Ari
’s mouth fell open.  Rodge and Loren looked at him.

“
You want to be in on the royal councils,” Melkin rasped out, ill-tempered, and turned the blue roan back into the crowd.

Not
now.
  Not this particular one, right at this particular moment.  Deflated, not even caring if it was a compliment, he turned the brown to follow.  Suddenly, he missed Selah, like a lance of loneliness.  She would have stayed with him.  Where was she?  It wasn’t like she couldn’t take care of herself, but the thought of her being all alone with the rough masses around Crossing left him fretting worriedly.

A
nd what was she running from?

Sable, Queen of the Imperial North, was relieved to be out of the saddle.  They’d been almost a month on the road, a journey originally suggested to be taken by carriage.  It made her shudder just to think of all those leagues, those endless hours, locked up in the airless, jarring, garish prison of her carriage.  She’d had to fight tooth and nail to convince her council that she was young, healthy, and perfectly capable of riding her parade horse, Sneed—a risk akin to taking a bath, as he had the approximate temperament of mop water—down to Crossing.  Some very old-fashioned Councilmen had wanted her on a palanquin, so the people could see her.  As if lolling about in languid exhibitionism
so
conveyed strength and purpose.

She
’d done a lot of thinking about that these past long weeks.  In between practicing the ceremony (twice daily, from start to finish) and flirting dutifully with Rorig, the Queensknight, her thoughts kept returning to how she was going to present herself at this Kingsmeet.

Strong, purposeful, concerned, capable—all
that went without saying.  But Kane’s outburst was still bothering her.  She’d even toyed with the thought of showing up in leather trousers and thigh-high boots with a sword belted on her hip…but somehow she didn’t think it was going to escape the other sovereigns’ attention that she was a woman.  So instead, it was understated Imperial dignity: a snowy skirt of stiff, flared taffeta, a bold scarlet slash of velvet across her chest, the ceremonial diamond-decorated tiara in an upswept hairdo.  Clothes…presentation…all-important concerns to the North.  But would any of it make any difference to the Border Realms?  The other rulers were men, not known in general for their extraordinary attention to fashion details, and on top of it, they were all from much more primitive cultures, probably impressed more by physical strength and steelskill than her selection of dress material or matching accessories.  Words…words were the key.  All leaders knew the power of speech, the stirring of men’s souls that eloquence could effect—she must convince them she was firmly resolved on a closer relationship between the Realms.  Secondly, that she wasn’t a featherbrained fool for believing the Enemy might become a threat in the near future. 

Her mind was pinging from all the gnawing doubts bouncing around inside it, but h
ours and hours of long, undemanding, undistracted riding had brought her to an unexpected solace.  Clarent, who with all his self-righteous pride was traumatized at just the thought of a menace to his political power, would probably have been surprised to find his threats and tremendous charisma hadn’t had the effect he’d intended.

Partly in rebellion, partly because her interest had been piqued, she
’d probed a little deeper into the Shepherd’s story.  The Illians made vast claims, of course; that’s why they were still a cult.  The Il they presented was too big, too—well, everything—to be real in any sense, but there was something about the concept that intrigued her, had a sort of resonant truth.  The problem, really, was Karmine.