The Sheening Of The Blades (Book 1) (25 page)

Before
Ari had time to wonder what had happened, they were being ushered in after the rulers, settling onto padded benches behind and off to the side of the main table.  A little intimidated by the strangeness and the oppressive formality, the boys huddled near Melkin, trying to breathe as inconspicuously as possible.  Opposite them, another set of benches filled up, the spectators looking like characters out of a fairytale.

The rulers began speaking again, with enough thee
’s and thou’s that it didn’t take a genius to figure out the ceremony had picked up where they’d left off up in the Square.  Ari’s attention wandered—the room was full of such fascinating people.  Closest to them sat the Aerach delegation, both of the men dressed in beautifully tanned, fitted leather breeches and vests.  There was not a stitch of decoration that he could see on either of them, no jewels, no crown.  The only thing that would differentiate
the
Rach from any other plain old Rach off the desert was the armband of beaten copper around his right bicep, two perky, blood-red feathers springing out of it.  In black leather, with swords, they could be Drae—same whip-cord bodies, golden tan skin and black hair and eyes.  The least adorned in the entire room, they still seemed to dominate it, their energy a pulsing aura around them.

On their left
was the weathered Skylord of Cyrrh, and next to him sat the young woman that had been leading the lighter-colored gryphon.  She was in liquid layers of beige and grey silks, her gorgeous brown skin setting off pale green-grey eyes and cornsilk hair that hung to her waist.  But there was no expression on that beautiful face—not from a Dra’s discipline, but from what seemed like utter, languid, indifference.  There was so little character there, so little life, such muted color, that Ari’s eyes tended to skim right over her.  NOT so Loren, fixated hungrily, convinced that against all expectation he had found his Cyrrhidean princess.  He may have whimpered.  Both Cyrrhideans were dripping with jewels, circlets of woven gold on their light-colored hair, slender bracelets at their wrists and tiny rings on their hands, a delicate emerald amulet on Lord Khrieg’s thin chest.

And then Ari
’s attention sharpened as the tone in the room changed.  A silence fell. The rulers seemed almost to sigh.

Then Sable began to speak.

So far, so good, the Queen of the North said bracingly to herself.  She was sure Kane would have thrown her some hint—like a slap upside the head—if she’d made a misstep. 

“
I’ve called this Meet,” she began crisply, determined to play this Old game if that was what it took, “to discuss the appearance of some very ancient, potentially ominous indications that the Enemy may be stirring, and that our Peace may be threatened.  The nature and gravity of this possibility, as well as the gap in our communications with one another over time and distance, are my justifications for calling you all from your Borders.”

All the rulers nodded at this and she felt herself relaxing in the very supportive atmosphere.  Despite Kane
’s predictions, none of them were looking at her with anything even approaching animosity.  Kyr was frankly admiring—she pushed that thought out of her head.  She had never seen anyone so captivating.  “Though we all came prepared to discuss events in our Realms, I will have Master Melkin start with our story in the North.”

Melkin
’s face was as ill-humored as ever as he stood in a rustle of robes, but before he could say anything, Rach Kyr unexpectedly dipped his head and said respectfully, “Wolfmaster.”  The three boys next to Melkin swiveled their heads up to look at him in such perfect, wide-eyed unison that it was almost comical.

He wordlessly returned the courtesy, then
began without preamble, “For over thirty years, I had the care of the Warwolves that lived beneath Archemounte.  I know their ways intimately, know the lore that surrounds them, have observed them closely for decades, both in the wild and in captivity.  Several years ago I noticed a phenomenon so markedly different from their normal behavior that it warranted investigation.”

Melkin
’s students were still staring up at him with those identical, flabbergasted looks.  The blond was gaping slightly.

“
In the wild, wolves run in packs, mate for life, and normally have one breeding pair—the alpha male and his mate.  The exception to this is the situation in which there is an overabundance of prey, when nature tells them instinctively that a larger population of wolves can be supported.  Also, if inclement weather or other conditions exist that may result in a higher mortality rate, then you will sometimes see multiple breeding pairs bearing litters.”

“
Warwolves in captivity are under exactly the same immutable dictates of nature, with the exception that there is never more than one breeding pair because the environment is artificially controlled.  They are protected from the weather and we monitor their food to keep them fit—there is
never
an overabundance of prey, so to speak.  However…this is exactly what happened.  The small pack that was the remnant left in the Imperial Dens suddenly had all three she-wolves come into season and bear large, healthy litters.”

“
Mystified, I went in search of an explanation.  With the help of Dra Kai, I searched out and observed the wild wolves of the High Wilds, but after many months of tracking, we found no evidence of increased litters…however, every
Warwolf
pack we tracked, living side by side with their regular brethren, was breeding prodigiously.  The difference in the species, obviously, is the innate hatred of the Warwolf for the Enemy—an instinctive predatory urge that will keep them on the trail of a Sheelman without resting or eating for days.”

“
It seemed to me possible, if unlikely, that perhaps Enemy were deemed by nature and the gods to be a Warwolf’s…prey.  A limiting factor in regulating population.  So, I searched through the records of the time before the Peace in Archemounte’s library; if my hypothesis was correct, the phenomenon should have been well-known throughout the Ages of War.”

His gravelly voice paused, dropped an octave.
“The old records are in poor shape and make little mention of things that were such common knowledge at the time…but that is exactly what I found.”  A cold menace seemed to filter through the room, like a wolf glimpsed through the trees.  Sable, even knowing what was coming, shivered.  She remembered well the release of the Warwolves, the ecstatic slogans of animal lovers crooning about the “freedom from cruel captivity,” “finally progressing from the dark, ignorant days of the past,” and such.  She would never forget the twisted look on Melkin’s face, the freezing scorn as he had to virtually chase the animals away from his feet, from licking his hands and jumping up to lick his face (not much of a jump, granted).

Sable adroitly let the silence weigh for a moment.  She wasn
’t sure how much the other Realms would view this as a waste of time.  When she’d judged the words had had their maximum effect, she began again, thanking Melkin.

“
Without Master Melkin’s knowledge and persistence, I might never have tied his evidence into the next, nor come to the conclusion I have.”  Slightly behind her and to her right, she heard Prime Council Channing shifting disdainfully.  She’d had to choose someone, according to custom, to ‘Sit at Elbow, for the purpose of support, giving reminder, and aid in deduction,’ none of which Channing was going to excel at.  The Council had been furious, deeply offended at her tradition-sanctioned unilateral decision, and more than anything, completely befuddled as to how she could think such a thing as the sudden resurgence of the Enemy was even possible.

“
The next incident that seemed to augur change concerns Marek.”  She hesitated, considering Kane’s advice on this delicate subject.  “The, er, voice of Marek is not heard in the North as the gods are in other Realms.  He…guides us gently, from afar, with little day to day involvement in the running of the Empire.”  She didn’t mention that any Northerner worth his tirna would be insulted if he was instructed on a daily basis on how to make more of it.  “So, for us to have contact with him—visual, audio, whatever—is extremely…rare.”  She cleared her throat.  “Hasn’t actually
happened
in, well, centuries.”  Eyebrows went up around the table.

“
So,” she moved on hurriedly, “when the High Priest sent word that Marek had spoken to him in his dreams and that the Diamond Triele and been seen to pulsate and glow, it was a momentous thing.”  She had originally thought of laughing lightly at this, as it could easily have been a bit of nighttime indigestion, in her mind, but she noticed there was not a single speck of skepticism around the table.  She elected to stay sober.

“
What did he say, Sister?” Lord Khrieg asked in such a fine, courteous, silken tenor that it sounded like a song.

Sable blinked. 
Say
?  Who?  Clarent?  Marek?  Kane would doubtless chide her later for not bringing the High Priest, but he didn’t know about their latest little squabble (and wouldn’t have approved if he did—in Merrani, the King
was
the High Priest). 

“
It was not made clear, my—Brother—and was deemed irrelevant in the face of the unusual circumstances,” she scrabbled diplomatically.  The faces around the table fell.  Had they been expecting a message from the gods? 
Take up your arms, my people…the Enemy will attack next Monday at Alene…

She recovered smoothly. 
“The last issue is perhaps the most tenuous of all.  In the past year, there have been thirty-two confirmed individual sightings of the Whiteblades.  Every report is similar: the Swords of Light appear in a mounted group and always bring with them the warning of the Enemy.” 

No one laughed.  In fact, Kyr, whom she didn
’t think could look more alert than he did already, seemed to sharpen his gaze, looking at her so intently with those black eyes that she temporarily lost her train of thought.  “Moving as a band?” he demanded, that rich voice throbbing through the room and doing funny things to her inner ear.

She looked at him blankly.  Hadn
’t she said that?  “Yes.”

He and Khrieg exchanged meaningful looks.

“Is this somehow significant?” Channing drawled from behind her.  Her heart sank as everyone turned in surprise to look at him.  So much for discreetly trying to cover her ignorance.  Even Kyr looked a little displeased—and his Council was livid.  The Rach had introduced him as Kore, and it was he who answered after a quick, outraged look at his Rach’s face. 

“
The Swords travel singly when they are on missions for Il,” he rapped out, voice taut and flat with displeasure.  “If they are moving as a band, it can only mean one thing.”

“
And that is?” Channing pressed, in the same mocking drawl.

There was some severe negative energy crackling through the air now.  Kore was positively glaring. 
“The Swords of Light only
do
two things…make words, or make war.”  The cool, even tone contrasted disturbingly with the hot look in his eyes, and Sable turned quickly to Channing with a glare of her own.

“
As you can see,” she said appeasingly, deliberately fixing Kore with her gaze, “we have forgotten much in the north, so far from the Sheel and so well-protected from its threat.”

It was the perfect thing to say.  Anger melted almost visibly from the handsome face and he bowed his head deeply in reply, eyes lingering in awe on her own.  Trying not to sound
relieved to move on, she said brightly, “As we are here to learn from each other and to share knowledge, let us now hear from our—Brother—from the Seas.  King Kane?”

As Kane began to rumble, her mind had a few moments to fly back over what had just been said.  This was definitely going differently than she
’d envisioned, though she wasn’t about to concede the fact that Kane had been right.  He may have had a point, she’d admit.  Was is just her, or had Melkin’s nice, sound, scientific presentation not been given near the attention that vague stirrings from the local deity and the obscure actions of a bunch of politicoreligious renegades had?  And the whole questionable premise of the Sheelmen rising and the Ages of War crashing back down on them didn’t seem to faze anyone at all.  Perhaps her words to the Rach’s Council had held more truth than she’d intended.  The North had moved on, rapidly, thoroughly, and brilliantly, from the dark days of the past…but perhaps the other Realms, without Marek’s drive and focus, still looked to war for their purpose.  What validity, what value, did a Border Realm have after all…if it bordered nothing but a peaceful world empty of Enemy?

“
The First Mage of the Academy of the Magi will present this first matter,” Kane was saying, and she riveted her attention on to the man causing her fellow ruler so many headaches.  He stood up behind Melkin, rich robes of royal blue winking with bits of gold like stars in a night sky.  He was a neat, cultured-looking person with an unflappable air of dignity, and a voice of rich, mellow, sedate calmness.  Not exactly what the North would label a firebrand.

“
The past year has seen a marked increase in the number of geophysical events in Merrani,” he began intellectually.  “Namely, earthquakes and some hurricane-level storms.  And although we do not keep as near a quality of written records as the North,” he added, to inexplicable soft snorts of laughter, “our oral tradition in this area is well-preserved.”