Six Celestial Swords (23 page)

MY BELOVED EMPRESS, as my spirit reaches yours, my body enters the frigid mountains of this fascinating land. We have found the Twilight Blade, or rather, it has come to us from the colder regions even farther north along our journey. It has wandered from Upper Yvaria, where I suspect we will still find one other, the Night Blade. I believe we will discover those once wielded by Cheng Yu’s servants in the plains on the other side of these mountains. Perhaps my return will be sooner than I predicted. With the Swords in Sheng Fan you will be triumphant over those forces which threaten to destroy it. You will bring peace to the land and your dynasty will be fortified upon that harmony. Hold strong, my Empress.

T
HE INTERIOR PASSAGES of the Hall of Imperial Peace had been made off limits. The order had been put forth, not by the Empress, but by her unofficial guardian—the Silent Emperor, whose private ambitions may have been hidden from some, but not from others.

Han Quan stood at the end of a deceptively empty corridor, studying the random circular patterns in the stone. Han Quan pressed his hands together and closed his eyes. He spoke softly, repeating the same verse over and over, until strain textured his features and beads of perspiration formed across his brow.

“Curse you, Xu Liang,” he muttered tersely at the end of his ineffective chanting.

He calmed himself, then spoke one more word of magic and spread his hands apart, turning his right over to catch the pebble he’d formed of the air. He flicked the stone into the corridor ahead of him and watched the unseen, unheard winds catch it and spiral it violently about the passage. His frown slowly lifted as he watched the pebble hit a void and fall dead to the floor.

“Ah, that is new.” Han Quan chuckled to himself. “This will not last, Xu Liang. You will soon learn that a young, pampered whelp such as yourself is no match for one of my wisdom and skill. The Empress will be eating out of my hand long before you return from your hopeless quest and together we will decide your fate, and the fate of Sheng Fan.”

Han Quan turned from the Wind Corridor and headed back to the outer passages and courtyards. He knew there were other ways to the central hall, other corridors that would be similarly trapped by the younger scholar-mystic, who distrusted his colleagues, even after his since-famed purging from office of all who struck him too rebellious. An upstart surely, a child without question, but even a rebellious child could hold power and Xu Liang’s was not to be taken lightly. He, like all true sorcerers of Sheng Fan, had been mentored by his ancestors in this calling and by the gods themselves—in Xu Liang’s case, the gods of the winds. The aeromancer’s youth was no statement of his talent, but only a promise as to how much greater it would become if he were permitted to live so long.

If only you would be gracious enough to die in the barbarian lands,
Han Quan thought with a small grin.
But that would hardly befit your reputation.

There were many in the Imperial Court who took their young superior for vain and, of course, he would have to be in some measure. Xu Liang’s excessive beauty was no secret—to himself least of all, as it had been the source of much unhappiness for him. This, he had confided to Han Quan, believing his older colleague to be a firm Song loyalist…and he was, he simply was not a supporter of what may soon be the Xu Dynasty, if the Empress did not obtain a new tutor and advisor. It was upon the Song Dynasty that Han Quan’s would be built.

Fortunately, Xu Liang was still young enough himself—and vain enough—to be persuaded by flowery words and flattering behavior. He did not suspect his elder of any ill intentions against him and he would not, so long as he didn’t return to the Imperial City.

With that thought, Han Quan closed his eyes, feeling the anger behind them burning his eyelids.
Xiadao Lu! Why do you continue to fail me? Bring me Xu Liang’s head, if you value your own!

SLEEP ENDED abruptly.

Drawn to consciousness by the threat of danger, Xiadao Lu took up the weapon lying beside him and rose quickly to his feet, prepared to gut the intruder. He found no one in the tent and dove quickly into the night beyond to find it empty as well. He heard only the crackling of two torches that kept the small camp lit and the day-old mountain snow eerily aglow. Past the reach of the firelight there existed nothing but deep shadows. Against the starless sky, one could not even make out the silhouettes of the sharp mountain tops surrounding the cliffs. Far below the treacherous landscape was a river canyon with no route down to it—none that could be found, except by accident in the night. Such was the main reason they had elected to make camp shortly after the sun had set, bleeding its last red light over the freezing earth as it dropped out of view. The only way Xiadao Lu coped with the delay was in believing that Xu Liang’s group would have to stop as well, else risk plummeting to their deaths in the canyon below.

Still, they had fallen more than a day behind. Ma Shou’s sorcery had limits. If they lost too much ground, he might never be able to locate Xu Liang’s trail again. Sadly, Ma Shou was not as devoted to his craft as his fellow. He would not give up food and drink, and real sleep for a taste of pure water every third day and a purified soul.

Ma Shou also claimed that, while such strength of spirit would likely bolster his ability to locate Xu Liang, it would undoubtedly attract Xu Liang’s attention as well. The Imperial Mystic would sense the strong presence behind him, and he would look over his shoulder and ponder the matter until he understood it. A confrontation would probably result, and while Xiadao Lu would welcome one, Ma Shou reminded him that Xu Liang had not been made Imperial Tactician on a whim, or by a child. It was Emperor Song Bao himself who had recognized the man’s skill at defeating an enemy long before a single soldier stepped foot onto the battlefield. He stressed that they must use the element of surprise while it was theirs.

Xiadao Lu did not agree, but he accepted the circumstances for now.

ALERE WOULD NEVER have guessed to find himself in the company of others on his quest for revenge, least of all one quite so large as the motley troupe he’d been traveling with for nearly three days now. A Fanese sorcerer, a small army of Fanese warriors in demon armor, two dwarves, a wandering giant, and a gypsy sailor. It was strange, but somehow not unsettling to an elf who had fortified his strength in loneliness. The loneliness of being orphaned, of living in a stranger’s home, and of the battlefield. He had been prepared to face his hunt alone for as many long years as it took and all too suddenly, he’d found a stranger whose sword spoke in familial tones that
Aerkiren
answered with equal warmth. Not only that, but there were others as well.

Alere marveled at the idea of the Swords being the product of the gods’ inspiration. That those same gods might have been summoning them together, calling upon their bearers to take up this war against the evils of Dryth that had been breeding unchecked for far too long. He considered these things with a flute to his lips. The perfectly carved white wood resonated with his mood. His fingers shaped a haunting melody of the somber tone that was carried high and clear on the cold, crisp air.

“It is said that where a mountain elf plays, Keirveshen wail in torment,” someone said when Alere’s song had ended.

Alere lowered his flute and said, “Your people nurture many foolish myths.”

The once-gypsy made no sound, but Alere could feel his dark eyes on him.

In a moment Alere added, “The Fanese guardsmen are handling the watches. Shouldn’t you be asleep?”

“I have trouble sleeping on land,” Bastien admitted. “I have not forgotten the stories told by my people, many of which are not myth.”

“Only garishly adorned reality.” Alere replied. “The Keirveshen need no embellishment. They are hideous enough as they are. They fear an elf’s music because only an elf can make it, and they know that a hunter of their kind is near.”

“Why do your people hunt them?”

“Humans fear them too greatly. They would rather hide from them and tell tales by firelight, collecting coins for retelling the horrors endured by others.”

“And elves don’t fear them? Not in the least?”

Alere glanced back at the dark-skinned human. “My people are a doomed race. Our numbers dwindle. Our life spans are beginning to be measured in decades rather than centuries. Long ago, many of us fled the mountains for new regions because of the shadows and those of us left are too few. The shadows are too many for us and yes, my people fear them. While they make corpses of men, they make ghosts of elves.”

Bastien frowned softly. “What do you mean?”

“An elf’s spirit cannot be taken by shadow. They are left behind when their bodies are destroyed. That is partly why they fear us. Whatever plague attacked Yvaria centuries ago, or longer, elves were immune. Men became twisted shadows of themselves. They became the Keirveshen. Elves survived, and as much as they are resented for it, they are feared for it. The demons attack us in legions when they dare and it is a brutal slaying on both sides that takes place.” Alere turned around and lifted his gaze to the blackened sky. “For many long years, because of elves like my father, the shadow folk were silent in the Verres Mountains. We had finally reclaimed our home. A bright time lay ahead of us. Our populations would replenish in the peaceful days that followed. We lived as other people and warred with other mortals only when they dared to attack our lands. And then the Keirveshen returned, stronger and fouler than they were before.”

“They killed your father,” Bastien deduced, speaking quietly. “Didn’t they?”

Alere did not answer. He lifted his flute once more and resumed his song.

NO STARS AGAIN this night. Such darkness...will it never end? Even
Dawnfire
is having difficulty penetrating it.

Tristus glanced at the platinum spear given to him by an angel of Eris. The weapon had begun to glow two days ago—not as intensely as it had against the shade demon, but it glowed nonetheless and there were times when the white-gold hue seemed to intensify. A few moments ago the spear had shone so brightly, Tristus could feel the heat from its magic, but it seemed to be fading now as he proceeded through the night, unable to sleep as he pursued his unknown quest.