Darkened Blade: A Fallen Blade Novel (18 page)

More light jumped up from the spell lines, enclosing us in a translucent pyramid of golden light. Below us, and invisible within the earth, another such extended downward. We stood within a fortress of magic until such time as one of us released their glyph or all of us died and the warding failed.

Siri stepped away from her glyph and walked up behind Faran. The warding was a part of her now, drawing nima directly from the well of her soul so that she no longer needed to maintain her position physically. “Faran Ghostwind, you have come here to the final resting place of Namara, Goddess of Justice, to ask a boon. State your desire.”

“I bring the swords of one who once served justice.” Faran drew Parsi’s swords with a snap and held them high over her head. “She is as dead as Namara, but her weapons may serve on, if justice wills it. I would take these swords up in the place of she who once held them, and serve justice as a Blade full and true.” She knelt before the stone head, her arms crossed with one sword held straight up on each side of her face.

Siri placed her hand atop Faran’s head. “With the goddess departed, the duty of justice falls to the Blades she left behind. Who sponsors this woman to become one of us?”

I had been expecting something like that, so I was ready, stepping forward to stand beside the head of the goddess. “I am Aral Kingslayer, First Blade of Fallen Namara, and I stand sponsor for the petitioner.” Like Siri, I mimicked the intonation of the priests who had served with us before the fall.

Siri nodded solemnly to me, though I thought I saw a twinkle somewhere in the deeps of her eyes, suggesting she approved of my language. “There is none better to speak for you, Faran Ghostwind. You may rise and approach the statue of the goddess.”

Faran did so, stopping and bowing once again when she stood a few feet in front of the great stone face. For perhaps ten heartbeats she stared deep into Namara’s cold, dead eyes.
Then she straightened her back and let her swords fall to her sides.

“I am ready,” said Faran.

Siri nodded. “Will you petition the goddess by entreaty or by ordeal?”

“Ordeal.” The word came out flat and cold—a strong woman making a hard choice. The spell-light that danced across the surface of Namara’s head stopped shifting colors, settling on a deep crimson, like the sun shining through a curtain of blood.

“So be it.” Siri crossed the short distance to stand behind Faran. “You know what comes next. Face me when you are ready.”

Faran took a long step forward so that she was practically touching the head of the goddess before turning around. “I am ready.”

Siri drew her sword again and placed it on the ground between Faran’s feet and the head of the goddess, perpendicular to both. Then she looked at me. “Your first duty as sponsor is to close the doors of steel around the petitioner.”

I drew my own swords and laid them so that a triangle of goddess-forged steel enclosed Faran hilt-to-point-to-hilt in a never-ending loop. When I stood up, Siri’s eyes met my own, and I knew her well enough to read a clear and simple message there.

Don’t fuck up.

I nodded even though it felt like my heart and stomach had decided to wage the most devastating sort of magical war on each other, laying waste to the whole of what lay around and between them in their battle. Siri turned her attention back to Faran, stepping to her left.

“I am Siri the Mythkiller. The Challenger’s sword is mine to deliver.” She extended her hand.

Faran nodded and flipped her left-hand sword around, extending the hilt to Siri, who took it and looked at me. “Sponsor, the other sword is yours.”

I took a deep breath and forced a calm I didn’t feel as I stepped to Faran’s right—I had a horrible suspicion that I
knew where this was going, and I didn’t like it even a little bit. But the decision was Faran’s. “I am Aral the Kingslayer. The Sponsor’s sword is mine to deliver.”

Faran offered me her other sword, and I took two steps to the north, following Siri as she made the same move on the other side. We now stood slightly behind Faran, with the head of the goddess between us.

Siri spoke again. “Faran Ghostwind, you have chosen the way of ordeal. Assume your place.”

Faran nodded and leaned back against the head of the goddess, extending her arms behind her so that the backs of her wrists touched the goddess’s temples. “I am ready.”

Siri looked at me again as she raised the sword and turned it carefully, placing the point against the inside of Faran’s right wrist, its back toward her palm. I mirrored her action, though what I really wanted to do was swear and shout and call the whole thing off.

“The ordeal begins now.” Siri drove the sword through Faran’s wrist, sinking it deep into the stone.

I did the same. There was a tiny bit of resistance as the point passed through Faran’s flesh, but virtually none at all when it hit the stone. Pushing it forward until the hilt touched Faran’s skin took virtually no physical effort, though the emotional cost made me want to vomit.

Faran’s back arched and every muscle in her body went tight and hard. But she didn’t cry out. It wasn’t until the blood started dripping from the corner of her mouth that I realized she’d bitten her lip through in her efforts to remain silent. More blood rolled slowly down the stone from Faran’s wrists, though nowhere near as much as I would have expected from such wounds.

Nor was Ssithra spared the ordeal. Faran had drawn her familiar around her, forming a second, shadowy skin as part of the ritual, just as the rest of us had. Now Ssithra’s substance roiled and twisted around the place where the steel pierced her partner’s flesh, and I knew that Ssithra had submerged neither will nor sensation for the ordeal.

I couldn’t resist the urge to tug ever so lightly on the
sword as I stepped back and slid my grip free of the hilt to mirror Siri’s actions. It felt as tightly fixed in the stone as if it had been pounded into place with a sledgehammer. When Siri moved back around in front of Faran and lowered herself to sit cross-legged there, I quickly joined her. It reduced the temptation to try to wrench the sword from the stone—an act I knew to be both against the spirit of the ritual and quite futile. That sword wasn’t going anywhere before the proper ritual conditions had been fulfilled.

Siri didn’t look any happier about the thing than I felt, and I could hear her slow-counting the seconds away under her breath. By the time the tally reached ten minutes, I thought that I would burst. More than ever I wanted to scream this horror to a halt. But if Faran could bear the pain in silence, I knew that I couldn’t fail her by doing less.

When half an hour had passed, Siri touched my shoulder and we rose together.

“Faran Ghostwind, you have stood the test of pain,” said Siri. “You may now release yourself or ask for aid. In either case, the time has come to see if you have proven worthy of the swords of justice.”

Faran nodded grimly. She was covered in sweat, and the blood from her lip had run down her chin and neck all the way to the tip of her right breast. Without speaking, she tightened the muscles in her shoulders and chest, pulling. . . .

For nearly a minute nothing seemed to happen. Then, with a low grating sound, her wrists moved an inch or so out from the stone, dragging the swords with them. Faran paused for a moment, visibly relaxing her arms. Blood flowed more freely now, though still only a fraction of what I might have expected. Ten seconds she waited, breathing slowly. Then she strained again. This time the response from the swords was faster. The hilts moved a good ten inches, pivoting forward as well as sliding outward, without leaving any obvious marks in the stone head.

Another brief pause. Faran’s breath came quicker and more erratic now, and the blood from her bitten lip dripped faster. Her eyes found mine then, and held as she pulled
again. I willed her success as I matched her gaze and refused to look away.

With the faintest of pops the swords came free of the stone—later, I would look and find that they had left no marks there. I bit my own lip nearly bloody as Faran brought her arms around in front of her and took the hilt of the sword that pierced her right wrist in her left hand.

“I am Faran Ghostwind and I claim this sword in the name of justice.” She pulled it free of her flesh in a long smooth motion that must have cost her dearly in pain.

The blood that should have burst from such a suddenly opened wound didn’t come as she turned her right hand and caught the hilt standing out from her left wrist before pulling it loose as well. “This sword, too, I claim as mine by right of ordeal. What say you, Challenger?”

Siri stepped forward and rubbed the blood away from Faran’s wrist. There was no wound, only a narrow scar that looked as if it had been there for years. Healing without spell-light and beyond anything a mortal healer could manage. It smacked of god-magic.

“I am Siri Mythkiller and I speak for the challenge. The sword has accepted its master. I say that the petitioner has earned the right to call herself Blade. Sponsor?”

I repeated Siri’s performance with Faran’s other wrist, exposing a second scar. “I am Aral Kingslayer, First Blade of Namara, and I speak for the order. Welcome, Faran Ghostwind, Blade of Justice.”

Faran sheathed her swords. “Blade of Justice . . . I like the sound of that.” She smiled at me, then swayed alarmingly. “Can I pass out now?”

“Only if you really want to.”

“Will you catch me?”

“Of course.”

She fell into my arms and darkness together.

A
scar is a history of pain written on skin. Mine are palely drawn, cream on sepia—the book of my past reversing the typical colors of ink and paper. But then, my whole life reverses the order of day and night and so many other conventions.

Such were my thoughts while I waited for Faran to wake. Scars and what they say about us seemed terribly important as I contemplated the fresh marks on Faran’s wrists. Once Siri and the others released the wards, I had carried Faran to the grass beyond the stone circle and gently lowered her to the ground, placing her head in my lap.

Kumi brought over a couple of ponchos to make a blanket for the unconscious girl, covering her from toes to chin. For reasons she didn’t choose to share, she had very carefully crossed Faran’s arms on her chest above the fabric, exposing her new scars to the moonlight and my contemplation. I don’t know how long I sat there ruminating on the way the past writes itself into our flesh, but after a time Siri came and stood above me. I didn’t really notice her until Triss gave me a mental nudge.

I looked up. “Yes, Siri?”

“We’ve cleaned up from the ritual and figured out how we can improve it next time. Now we need to start looking for those lost swords. Do you want to leave Faran here, or should we start without you?”

Before I could answer, Faran stirred, roused perhaps by the speaking of her name. She looked up into my face and smiled. “Hey there, old man, you look worried. I hope it’s not about me, because I’m fine.” She blinked and her expression clouded. “Unless that whole thing was a nightmare . . .”

“Nope. You, my young monster, are now the first fully initiated Blade since the fall of the temple. Welcome to the club. It’s small enough that we can hold meetings in a rowboat these days.”

“Well, we’d better do something about that, then, hadn’t we?” She looked up at Siri. “Did I hear you say it was time to look for the swords? Because I want a piece of that.”

“You heard right,
Master
Faran.” Siri grinned down at the younger woman. “And, may I say that it feels just this side of miraculous to welcome a new sister to the order at this late date.” She squatted and extended her arm in formal greeting.

“Master Faran, and for real, finally and truly . . . that sounds fucking fantastic.” Faran laughed and sat up, clasping forearms with Siri. “Thank you, Master Siri. I am delighted to . . .” She glanced down then, and I could see a blush darken the back of her neck, as she snatched up the fallen poncho and covered her breasts. “You know, maybe I ought to shut up and put some clothes on before I contemplate doing anything else.”

I blinked at that. Faran had never exhibited much in the way of modesty before this moment—take for example the cheerful way she’d stripped down and tossed her clothes into one of the floating baskets before swimming across to the island earlier—and I wasn’t sure what had triggered an attack of it now.

“It’s up to you,” I said, “but I suspect that we’re going to be doing a good bit of our searching underwater along the edge of the island.”

“Maybe just a bandeau then. Siri, would you be so kind as to . . .” She trailed off when Kumi appeared to offer her a scarf of mottled gray silk—repurposed from someone’s cowl.

“Thank you.” Faran nabbed the scarf and slid it under the poncho, deftly tying it in place. “Good to go now. Let’s find those swords.”

Siri took Faran’s arm again, pulling the younger woman to her feet as she stood.

I think I missed something there,
I sent to Triss.
Any idea what it was?

None at all . . . Well, that’s not entirely true. It is often the case that when your people do things that confuse mine it has to do with the way your species absolutely obsesses about sex. Given that, and your occasionally bizarre fixation on nudity, the odds are decent that it was a sex thing of some sort, though I couldn’t say what.

Not sure why it would matter now when it didn’t two hours ago, but you might be right.
I shrugged.
I guess it’s not my worry, whatever it is. Let’s hit the water.

*   *   *

Aral,
I don’t want you to make any sudden moves, but you should probably turn around.

Triss’s mental voice sounded more cautious than alarmed, so I didn’t immediately spin away from the underwater crevice I’d been prodding with the tip of one of my swords. Instead, I very carefully pulled my sword free and, as casually as I could manage it, rotated in the water. That allowed me to bring my sword around to a place where I could easily use it without making an overtly threatening gesture. I didn’t know what Triss had spotted, but his tone suggested that it was potentially dangerous, if not immediately so.

And . . . I blinked several times.

. . . So
that
was what the front end of the hunters in the deep looked like. The enormous face reminded me of nothing so much as what you would get if you crossbred one of the ancient bewhiskered bureaucrats that ran Tien’s government offices with a catfish.

A wide lipless mouth big enough to swallow me whole. Scales the color of new copper coins danced across black in jagged lightning-like bands. One long whisker at each corner of the mouth, with a half-dozen shorter ones along the jaw. Barbels, really, or maybe tentacles, since they looked more flexible than the ones you normally found on carp or catfish. High bulging forehead, like no fish you ever saw, and wise eyes, green and luminous—totally unlike anything else in the piscine world.

Well, hello there!
I sent silently to Triss.

The fish flicked the longer tentacle-whiskers at the side of its mouth back and forth in a distinctly apologetic gesture.
I’m sorry, could you repeat that? You spoke quickly, and your mind flavor is . . . odd to these ancient tasters.

That
was a surprise and a half, but I nodded. What? I was going to say no to the enormous but thus far polite fish who could as easily have devoured me?

I’m sorry,
I sent, aiming my thoughts forward now instead of inward, and trying to enunciate as slowly and clearly as I might when trying to make myself understood in a language I had not yet mastered.
I was speaking to my companion, and I didn’t realize you could hear me. What I said was: “Well, hello there.”

Ahh,
sent the fish.
Much better. May I make an enquiry?

You may,
I replied, unsure of how literal minded it might be.

Companion?

Yes. Triss?
I carefully directed the second word down the link between me and my familiar.
Make yourself known, please.

Of course,
he replied and my shadow shifted, assuming the form of a small dragon that flicked its wings to rise and hover beside me in the water.

The shadow of a dragon without the dragon,
sent the fish.
Excellent. I was sent to find the one called Kingslayer, and now I see that I have.

Sent?
I enquired, wondering without asking, by whom? And, for what?
Also, may I ask whom I am addressing? It’s customary among my kind to introduce oneself.

Oh. How odd. I am:
image of scales flashing bright in a cloud of churned-up bottom mud
. In your tongue . . . Mudlight? Yes, I think Mudlight is closest. The chief of my clan/school/pod, Slitherstrong, asked that I find and lead you to the gullet of Namara.

I felt a surge of excitement, and wished that I could mindspeak to Triss without any danger of sharing my message with other ears. I responded to Mudlight instead.
If that is what I hope it is, I should collect some of the others first. . . .

Mudlight flicked his barbels again.
Slitherstrong has already anticipated you. Others were sent to find Mythkiller, Ghostwind, Deathwalker, and . . . Is it Dukesbane? The translation didn’t make much sense. Oh, and the two who do not yet own proper callings . . . Kumi and Roric, I think they are . . . named.
The huge fish sounded out the syllables as though the idea of names that didn’t describe were utterly alien to it.

I thank you, Mudlight. Though I must admit surprise that you know all of our callings.

We watched you cross from the . . . groundsea? Would that be the word in your tongue? Doesn’t matter. That is how it
ought
to translate, that is how I will call it. We watched your passage through our realm to the dirtplace of the goddess, guarding your flanks and unders as we promised your Namara that we would when we made our bargain with her.

Thank you,
sent Triss, his mental voice possessing a sort of weird echoey quality as he projected it outward.
We did not know that you were there to protect us.

The fish bobbed its head in a sort of bow.
Namara is gone, but as long as her children, both of flesh and shadow, remain and return, we will watch and ward you, just as we watched and warded when you raised the head of the goddess. Or when our shamans listened from the pool while you made the Ghostwind one of you. There is very little that passes through our realm that escapes our attention.

I guess I’m ready then,
I sent.
Lead on.

We will go faster if I tow you. May I hold your hand? It will not harm you.

All right,
I sent, though the idea made me nervous.

Mudlight turned his head and reached out with his long right barbel. It wasn’t until he actually caught my hand that I realized the last ten inches of it could split apart, giving the fish a pair of large and very flexible tentacle-fingers. Before I had time to do much more than register surprise, Mudlight rolled sideways, pulling me away from the rocks. Then, with a sort of sinewy twist, he began to slither through the water at a speed that would have torn me free of his grip were it even a tithe less firm. As a mode of travel it lacked something, and we left my stomach far behind in the first few seconds.

If you don’t mind my asking,
I sent once I had recovered some measure of my calm,
what do your people call yourselves?

We are:
sweeping tails, flashing scales, churning fins, songs and sins . . . The images and sounds went on for some time in a sort of kaleidoscopic poetry of the senses that I found as deeply beautiful as it was incomprehensible.

But that is not, I think, what you really want to know,
Mudlight sent when he had finished.
The Lady of Leivas named us Storm Eels, and that suits us well enough for dealing with your kind.

Speaking of which,
I sent,
all these years and you never contacted us before this—at least not that I ever heard about. Why now?

When your goddess lay dying, we comforted her as best we could, buoying her soul up with our songs. She made of us certain requests then. Till now, the conditions to fulfill any of them had never been met. . . .
He sent the mental equivalent of a shrug, or, at least, that’s what I took away from the image of gills flicking, and the emotional undertone that went with it.

I—
Mudlight’s mental voice went suddenly silent. He stopped swimming a moment later.
Bide. One calls.

I caught only the faintest hint of whatever was occupying him . . . the spillover from an absolute torrent of images and sensations shooting back and forth from one alien mind to another. It felt a bit like overhearing a fast discussion conducted in a foreign language by people who are experts in a very complex field of endeavor—tons of information being conveyed quickly with little in the way of the sort of side talk that happens in normal conversation at the market or tavern. Finally, it stopped.

I’m sorry,
sent Mudlight.
There has been an unpleasantness at your temple. The
: images of rotting corpses that moved where no life should exist, anger at a violation of nature, decaying smells as conveyed through water,
have come. They tried to get in through the water ways, but we stopped them there.

The risen?!?
I sent, urgently.
Were any of the students harmed?

Your younglings are fine, but we will have to get them out. There is a chance that the . . . risen, you call them?

Yes,
sent Triss.
They wear the bodies of fallen humans, but really they are a sort of elemental power of death, just as I am a spirit of shadow.

Thank you for the word and the explanation,
sent Mudlight.
The risen, then. There is a chance that they will be able to get at your young from above somehow. They are much stronger on land than they are when they enter our element, so we will bring your young out here to the dirtplace of Namara, where we can better protect them. Your Dukesbane has gone with Finflyer to explain it to them so that our presence will not bring them fear.

That’s a great relief,
I sent.
Thank you.
I thought for a moment.
I don’t know how far beyond the edges of your realm you can see. Do you know if there are other forces besides the risen around the temple?