The Saints of the Sword (45 page)

“What makes you think we can take the island? If it’s a training base, then surely they have guns protecting it.”

“No, no guns. No cannons, no defenses of any kind, because they don’t expect an attack. And with all those green troops as our hostages, right under the nose of our flame cannons … well, just think about it.”

Nicabar did. It was a cruel plan, and because it involved the deaths of thousand of Lissens, he was drawn to it. Knowing he had the admiral in his palm, Kasrin decided to close his fist.

“It can work,” he urged. “If we just take in two ships, we can make that island our own, hold it hostage and bring Liss to its knees. Then
Black City
and the other ships can come in on the next tide. They’ll be stationed offshore, waiting.” Kasrin paused as though this was the most important thing in the world to him. “What do you say, Admiral? Will you do it? Will you let me come with you?”

Nicabar’s eyes became shrewd slivers. “This means a lot to you, eh?”

“Yes,” said Kasrin. “It does.”

“Why?”

Kasrin told him what he wanted to hear. “Because I was wrong. And because I’m a Captain of the Black Fleet. I don’t like people saying I’m a coward, Admiral. I’m not a coward. Now I want to prove it. Not only to you but to all those others who are jeering at me, even as we speak. That’s why I came back. That’s why I got this map for you. Please don’t turn me away.”

A great, warm smile split Nicabar’s face. He put his arms around Kasrin, embracing him.

“Good work, my friend,” he said. “I’m proud of you.”

Kasrin stood there in Nicabar’s embrace, unable to return the affection or even taste the slightest sweetness of victory. Now he would lure his old hero to his death. And though it was richly deserved, Kasrin had never felt more like a traitor.

O
n Casadah, the highest Drol holy day, Lucel-Lor became a vastly different place. No one warred on this day of peace, especially not Praxtin-Tar. Casadah was the great celebration of Spring, a time to honor Lorris and Pris. Food and drinks were liberally dispensed, and the cunning-men—the Drol priests—walked from town to town proclaiming the goodness of the gods and the bounty of heaven. Children wove ceremonial wreaths and women wore dresses of the brightest fabric to mirror the world coming into bloom, and every territory of Lucel-Lor, no matter the beliefs of its warlord, enjoyed the celebration.

For Richius Vantran, who was neither Drol nor Triin, the holy day was a time for relaxing. This was his third Casadah since coming to Lucel-Lor, and each one was better than its predecessor. Though today he was under siege from the forces of Praxtin-Tar, Richius was determined to enjoy the day and not spoil it for Shani. His daughter was two years old now, old enough to start understanding things about her background and culture. She was growing up quickly, just like the other children trapped in Falindar. Despite the warriors waiting outside, Richius wanted desperately for her to have a normal life.

In the center of Falindar’s great hall, where the walls sparkled silver and bronze and the ceiling soared high as the sky, Richius sat cross-legged, bouncing Shani in his
lap. Next to him sat Dyana, beautiful in emerald, her eyes soft as she listened to Lucyler’s speech. A crowd had gathered in the hall, a mix of warriors and women and the farmers who had come to the citadel for sanctuary. Children sat with their parents, hushed at the sound of Lucyler’s voice. It was already noon but the fun of Casadah didn’t really begin until the ceremonial blessing. Lucyler, hardly religious at all, glowed merrily as he addressed the gathering. For the first time in weeks, he seemed genuinely happy. Richius leaned over to Dyana and gave her a kiss.

“Look at him,” he told his wife. “He looks great, doesn’t he?”

Dyana took his hand. She was happy, too, not just because it was Casadah, but because of the peace Praxtin-Tar had promised for the day. “He is wonderful,” she agreed. “The children love him.”

That much was obvious. The children of Falindar had taken to Lucyler like a father, even more than they had to Tharn himself. Lucyler was their hero, their savior.

Presently, Lucyler was telling them the story of Lorris and Pris. It was a tale recited every Casadah, in every town and village of Lucel-Lor, and it spoke of the deities and how they had once been mortal before their tragic ends. Lucyler looked like an actor on the dais.

“… but the evil Pradu had deceived Lorris,” thundered Lucyler. “He wasn’t Vikryn at all!”

Richius loved the tale, and so hung on every word just like one of the children, eager for the gruesome ending where Pris died in the city of Toor, and Lorris, overcome with grief, tossed himself from the towers of Kes. That part always elicited cries from the crowd, and this time, with Lucyler’s grand delivery, the reaction was deafening. All around the hall children squealed in delighted horror. Lucyler hung his head in sorrow for the dead siblings, then brightened and told them how Lorris and Pris had been taken into heaven by Vikryn, their patron, and how they were given immortality. They were gods now, Lucyler explained, and they were very real.

“Tharn showed us that,” said Lucyler to the crowd.
“He proved to us that the gods exist. I believed nothing before meeting Tharn, but now I know that there is something more than all of this.” He swept his arm across the chamber.

Richius smiled. Perhaps Lucyler had taken their talk to heart. He did seem better—much better, really—and the way he held the crowd in thrall made Richius proud. They had been through a lot together, had fought and watched comrades die, and it had forged a strange bond between them. Now they were under siege, and Lucyler had become a leader.

“What are you thinking about, Richius?” asked Dyana. “You are staring at Lucyler like one of these children.”

Richius chuckled. “Am I? I’m just happy, I suppose.”

“Me too,” said Dyana. Then her face darkened. “But tomorrow is another day. It is hard to forget, even for the little ones. I—”

“Shhh,” urged Richius, putting a finger to her lips. “Not today.” He cocked his chin at Shani, still in his lap. “Look at her. Look how happy she is.”

Dyana nodded. “Yes.” She reached out and took her daughter’s hand. “You like this story, Shani? You like hearing about Lorris and Pris?”

“Like Pris best,” said Shani predictably. “Father speak, too?”

“No, not me,” said Richius, laughing. “This is a Triin day, Shani. I’m not Triin.”

“Naren,” said Shani, crinkling her nose. Richius didn’t know what to make of the expression.

“You should speak, Richius,” urged Dyana.

“No, thanks.” Richius put his hands under Shani’s arms and lifted her up to face him. “You don’t want to hear me talk, do you, Shani?”

“Talk of Nar!” chirped the girl. “Aramoor!”

Now it was Dyana that frowned. “No, but you could talk about being here, Richius. The people admire you like they do Lucyler. You make them feel safe.” Playfully she poked his ribs. “Yes?”

Richius almost blushed. “That’s very nice,” he said, “but I still don’t want to get up and talk.”

“Oh, you should, Kalak,” said a voice. It was Lifki, one of the workers who was seated behind them. Lifki was a silversmith who had been employed at the citadel since the time of the Daegog. His family sat with him, a wife and three teenagers, all of whom nodded. “You should listen to Dyana, Kalak; she is right. All these people admire you.” Lifki nudged the man next to him. “I am right, yes, Lang?”

Lang hadn’t been listening, but when Lifki explained it to him the Triin warrior agreed. “Yes,” he declared. He clapped his hands together, urging Richius up. “Speak to us, Kalak. Let us all see you.”

“No, I can’t—”

“Richius?” called Lucyler. From up on his dais the Master of Falindar had seen the commotion building in the front row of his audience. Now he stared down at Richius with laughing eyes, suddenly making him the center of attention. “You have something to say?”

Flushed with embarrassment, Richius said, “No. I’m sorry, Lucyler. Just go on.”

But they were all looking at him now, and Lucyler wasn’t about to let him off so easily. Dyana was laughing with a hand over her mouth, while Lifki and Lang kept clapping, urging Richius to his feet.

“Go on, Richius,” prompted Dyana. “It is Casadah! Go up and say something.”

“Say what? What do you want me to tell them?”

“Tell them how happy you are today.”

“Oh, that’s silly …”

Lucyler stepped to the edge of the dais, grinning down at them mischievously. “The great Kalak should address us,” he said. He raised his hands to the crowd. “Yes?”

A happy chorus rose up. Richius felt blood rush to his face. He gave Dyana a dirty look.

“Thanks a lot,” he whispered. Dyana wouldn’t stop laughing.

“You will be fine,” she told him. “Now go; speak to us.”

Handing Shani to Dyana, Richius got to his feet before the crowd. He turned to face them and saw a sea of people,
far more numerous than they had seemed from his place on the floor. They waved and cheered when they saw him, and for the first time Richius felt the adoration Dyana had told him about. It was powerful, and when he heard the word Kalak run through the crowd he did not cringe. Once that name had been a hated insult, but no longer. Now he
was
Kalak. The Jackal.

“Hello, my friends,” he said awkwardly. Old men and young women tossed him encouraging smiles, and children cooed excitedly. “Uh, happy Casadah to all of you. I want to thank you. I—”

“Come up here, Richius!” urged Lucyler. His Triin friend stretched down a hand, offering to pull him onto the dais. The dais was just a handful of planks hammered together for the occasion, but it had been covered with bright cloth and looked impressive. So impressive that it intimidated Richius.

“I’m fine right here,” he told Lucyler in a low grumble.

“Nonsense.” Lucyler jumped down off the dais, taking Richius by the shoulders and pushing him toward the makeshift stage. Goaded on by a hundred voices, Richius climbed onto the dais and looked out over the gathering. His mouth dried up.

“Yes, well,” he began woodenly. He spoke in Triin, which made his delivery all the worse. “I really do not know what to say.”

“Kalak!” cried a boy happily from across the hall. Richius laughed at his echoing cry, feeling like an actor on stage in the Black City. He glanced down and saw Dyana looking up at him proudly. In her lap sat Shani, her eyes full of wonder as she saw her father on the dais. Suddenly Richius knew what to say.

“I am very lucky to be here with all of you,” he told the crowd. “I am luckier still that you have accepted me. When I first came here, I hated it. I was trapped, and I felt like I had lost my home. You all know about Aramoor, and what happened there. I lost a lot. I thought I had lost everything, really. But you have all made me feel at home here in Falindar. You are all my family now.”

“Kafife,” shouted Dyana. “Remember, Richius?”

Richius remembered perfectly. It was the Triin word for family, and she had taught it to him. He smiled at her warmly. Then he straightened, saying, “Some of you think I still miss Aramoor, and you are right. But some of you also think I plan on leaving here someday, and that you are wrong about. This is my home now. This is where my family is, and all my friends.” He laughed. “So do not keep asking me when I am going to leave, all right? I am not going anywhere.”

The crowd loved this, some rising to their feet. With one voice they shouted their adoration for Kalak, the Jackal of Nar. Richius watched the crowd, giddy with their affection, and when he gazed down at Dyana he saw that she was staring at him in astonishment, her lips slightly parted as if shocked by what she’d heard. Richius looked at her inquisitively, but she merely shook her head.

“Uhm, I do not know what else to say,” he told the gathering. “Except one more thing. We are all afraid of Praxtin-Tar and his army. I too am afraid. But we are strong here in Falindar, and Praxtin-Tar is weak. He might not look it, but he is. Right now he is out in the cold, alone with no one to help him. And we are in here.” He clasped his hands together firmly. “Together.”

At the base of the stage, Lucyler nodded solemnly. He climbed back onto the dais and embraced Richius, kissing his cheek.

“Perfect, my friend,” he whispered. “Perfect …”

Richius gave the group a final wave, then jumped down from the dais, relieved to be masked again in the crowd. Shani rushed up and wrapped herself around his legs. Proudly he dipped down and picked her up, pleased with himself.

“So?” he asked her. “How was that?”

“Good!” she answered, then buried her head against his neck. Richius sat down again with Shani in his arms. After two years as an outsider, they really did like him, and the realization lifted a great weight from his shoulders. He glanced at Dyana, who was still looking at him with the same disquietude.

“What is it?” he asked.

She smiled, but said nothing.

“Dyana, why are you looking at me like that?”

“Do you not know?”

“I don’t,” said Richius. “Tell me.”

Dyana looked away, glancing down at the carpeted floor. “For two years I have waited for you to say those words, Richius. I have waited and hoped but I never heard them. Not until today.”

Richius understood her perfectly. Shifting a little closer, he put a hand on her leg.

“I just hope you mean it this time,” she said sadly. “This time you will keep your promise, yes? No more going away?”

It was the easiest promise in the world to make. Aramoor wasn’t his anymore, and never would be. “I promise,” he said. “This is home now, Dyana.”

For the first time in their lives together, Dyana seemed to believe his promise. Her eyes lit up and her white face glowed, and Richius knew there was nothing on earth that could pull him away again.

Praxtin-Tar stood at the edge of his encampment, watching the trio of riders approaching. It was well past noon and the warlord was impatient, for he had sent out his warriors hours ago. Crinion still lay ill. Five days had passed since his wounding, and he had shown little improvement. Though he had awakened briefly, the many punctures in his body weren’t healing, and Valtuvus claimed that infections were setting in. Soon they might kill the young man, and there was nothing the healer could do to stop it. Valtuvus had tried his herbal remedies and leeches, had soaked the wounds in extracts and even made Crinion sip leopard’s milk, but all these so-called remedies had been in vain. Crinion was worsening. Today, on Casadah, not even the prayers of his father could help him. Crinion needed the prayers of someone with more authority, someone with the ear of Lorris and Pris.