The Swords of Night and Day (8 page)

“No. My friend does not wander the Void. He passed beyond it. His deeds would have ensured him a place in the Hall of Heroes, or paradise . . . or whatever exists beyond the gateway.” He smiled ruefully. “And even if you could find his spirit he would not return. He would ask:
What will become of Harad?
No, Landis, he will not return, though it would lift my heart immeasurably were it to happen. I liked him better than any man I ever met.”

“You are sure? Gamal could search for him.”

“I am sure. Why do you want me to travel the mountains with him?”

“It was Gamal’s idea. He felt you needed time away, to consider your actions. He thought also—as do I—that the company of someone familiar to you would help you link more strongly to the memories of your previous existence.”

“He was right about one thing,” said Skilgannon coldly. “It will be good to be away from here for a while. Did your guests arrive?”

“Aye, you will see them at dinner this evening. There are two, Unwallis and Decado. The first is an adviser to the Eternal. He is sharp and observant, with a brain that is cunning and subtle. Not an easy man to read, and a difficult one to fool. I did have a nephew called Callan. He ran a farm near Usa, in the lands you would have known as Ventria. He died last year. His ship was lost in a storm. Should he ask you about this you can say you survived by clinging to a piece of driftwood. Whatever you choose. Best, though, to say little.”

“And Decado?”

Landis took a deep breath. “No more evasion, you said. So be it. Decado is a failed Reborn, like Harad. The Eternal had his bones brought back from a tomb on an old battle site. The original Decado was the leader of a group of warrior priests called the Temple of the Thirty. He was known, in his day, as the Ice Killer, a ferocious and deadly swordsman—possibly the greatest of his time.”

“I sense there is more,” said Skilgannon.

“Indeed there is.” He sighed. “I had a long conversation with Gamal this morning. He knows far more about you than I realized. For reasons best known to himself he did not share this knowledge with me until now.” He glanced up at Skilgannon. “According to Gamal the original Decado was your direct descendant.”

“More myths, Landis. I had no children.”

“Gamal told me that a woman called Garianne bore you a son. He was born in the temple of the Blessed Priestess eight months after your battle with a villain. I don’t recall his name.”

“It was Boranius.”

“Yes, I remember now. Anyway, your bloodline was strong and true—a line of warriors. On the instruction of the Priestess, Garianne continued the tradition of your House, Skilgannon. The first male child was called Decado, and his first son was Olek, then Decado, and so on. Gamal knew only the outline of the story. History tells us nothing of Garianne and her life, her thoughts or her dreams. However, back to the present. The Reborn Decado is also a swordsman, and one of great repute. He carries two blades in a single scabbard—like your Swords of Night and Day. He has killed twenty men in single combat, or duels. Like his namesake he is deadly. He is also—according to Gamal—existing on the borders of insanity.”

The shock was intense, but Skilgannon disguised it and forced his mind to focus. “Why is he here?”

“To study our defenses, I should imagine. He is a skilled strategist.”

“And Unwallis? What does he require?”

“He will seek to persuade me to renew my oath of allegiance to the Eternal. This will be a difficult request to deal with. To the north of us is one of two armies of the Rebellion; to the south, the forces of the Eternal. If I swear allegiance to her, then the rebels will seek to kill me or conquer my lands. If I refuse then the Eternal will send an army to reoccupy Petar.”

“The choices you face are not enviable,” said Skilgannon. “What will you do?”

“I shall play it like a maiden being wooed. I will hedge and I will prevaricate, and do my best to keep both suitors at arm’s length. And now it is time to prepare for dinner. Do you wish to sit beside the politician or the madman?”

“The madman. I do not like politicians.”

T
he rooms assigned to Unwallis were in the southern wing of the palace, but there was a balcony terrace that overlooked the western mountains. An hour before the meal he stood upon it, watching the sun set behind the snowcapped peaks. It was his favorite time of the day, and he liked to spend it alone.

He found himself missing his garden back in Diranan. During the last few years Unwallis had discovered great joy in tending his flower beds. The cycle of life, death, and rebirth in his garden fascinated him. Below, upon the western wall of the palace gardens he saw a climbing plant, with huge blooms of lilac and gold, clinging to a trellis. It was called Ustarte’s Star, and Unwallis had never had any success with it in his own garden. He would plant it in good earth. It would grow voraciously for half a season, then inexplicably die back. The topmost leaves would turn black, and then nothing would save it. Unwallis found it most galling, and decided he would ask Landis Khan for advice over dinner.

Unwallis sighed.
What a strange world we live in,
he thought.
I am to dine with a man I shall—in all likelihood—order to be murdered. Before that, however, I will ask his help with a gardening problem.

The thought weighed heavily upon him. He had always—despite his best efforts—liked Landis Khan. The man was a legend in Diranan when Unwallis was a student, an enduring part of modern history. He had served the Eternal for centuries. Indeed, no one knew how old he was, nor how many lives the Eternal had granted him. His powers were enormous, and yet, despite them, he was easygoing and cordial with the young men who came to serve. He had been most helpful to Unwallis in those early years. Seeing him with gray hair and the lines of age upon his face had seemed almost unnatural. Unwallis sighed and found himself hoping that Landis would agree to the Eternal’s demands.

Will it matter if he does?

The thought was immediately chilling, and Unwallis tried to push it from his mind. The Eternal had told him to convey her wishes to Landis, but had then told him he would be accompanied by Decado. This had surprised him. Why send a deranged killer on a mission of diplomacy?

The sun was going down. Unwallis heard the door of the apartment open and turned to see a young woman bearing a lantern and a taper. She curtseyed to him and moved around the apartment, lighting lanterns.

Unwallis poured himself a goblet of wine, adding water to it. He did not want his senses impaired during the coming meal. There would be only four people present, he and Decado, plus Landis Khan and his nephew, Callan. Unwallis wondered why Gamal would not be joining them. His understanding was that the old man was now living with Landis.

The girl curtseyed again and left the room.

It would be an uncomfortable meal. Decado, when in pain, was not an easy man to spend time with. His manner became harsh and confrontational, his conversation limited to weapons and warfare. Unwallis found himself wondering what the Eternal saw in him as a lover. He recalled his time with her, and found once more the ache of regret filling him. It was not merely the joining of bodies, the passion and the extremes of pleasure, that haunted him. More it was the quiet times afterward as they lay upon the satin sheets and talked. Those moments lay in his memory like hidden treasures. He had been in love. Massively, completely, irrevocably in love. Then she had discarded him. He had felt like a man deprived of food and water, his soul starved. She had sent him across the sea, to serve her in the eastern empire. He had labored long and diligently there, hoping that one day she would call him back again to that satin-covered bed. She never had.

Unwallis imagined the Eternal lying in the moonlight and talking and laughing with Decado. Free of pain he was a witty man, and he was young and handsome. The Eternal’s lovers were always young and handsome. It always surprised Unwallis when he thought of her laughing. The sound was rich and almost musical. It was a sound of joy that lifted the spirits of all who heard it. He found it hard to equate this wondrous woman with the ruthless queen who could casually order the deaths of thousands. Unwallis was forced to admit that he did not understand the Eternal at all. She could be harsh beyond reason, and cruel beyond measure. She could also display great affection and loyalty.

A sense of melancholy settled on him, so great that his spirits were raised when Decado appeared in the doorway. The young swordsman’s long dark hair was pulled back from his head into a ponytail, and he was wearing a tight-fitting black shirt and leggings with calf-length riding boots of black leather. The only adornment he sported was a wide belt edged with silver.

“Let’s get this over with,” said Decado.

“How is your headache?”

“Bearable.”

Unwallis looked into his eyes. The pupils were distended, and the statesman knew he had imbibed more of Memnon’s narcotic to relieve his pain. Donning a cloak of cream-colored wool edged with silver, Unwallis walked out of the room.

A servant was waiting at the far end of the corridor. She led them up a flight of stairs and into a long room, lit by glowing lanterns. A table had been set near a huge window overlooking the mountains. Landis Khan was standing by the window, talking to a tall young man. Both men turned as the guests arrived.

“Welcome once again, dear Unwallis. And to you also, Decado. It is good to have guests from Outside. I fear we are so cut off here that I long for news from the city.” Unwallis looked at the young man with Landis. His eyes were an astonishing blue. “My nephew, Callan,” said Landis. “He is visiting from Usa.”

“A troubled land,” said Unwallis, shaking the man’s hand. “You are a soldier?”

“A farmer,” said Landis, swiftly.

“You have the look of a soldier,” said Unwallis.

“Looks can be deceiving,” put in Decado. “He looks to me like a farmer.”

Callan laughed aloud, the sound full of genuine good humor, which was a relief to Unwallis, but seemed to irritate Decado further. “What is so amusing?” asked the young swordsman.

“The choice of words. If
looks
can be deceiving and yet I
look
like a farmer, does this suggest I am—or am not—a farmer?” Before Decado could consider a response the young man pointed to the black scabbard hanging from Decado’s back. “Is it the custom here to come armed for dinner?” he asked.

“They are always with me,” said Decado, staring hard at the man.

“Well, put your fears to rest. There are no enemies here.”

“Fears? I have no fears.”

“Might I see one of the swords?” inquired the man. Unwallis saw Decado hesitate. There was sweat on his face, and the statesman guessed the exchange was increasing the intensity of his head pain. Unwallis thought he would refuse the request. Instead he pressed a jeweled stud on the hilt of the lower sword and drew it, passing it to Callan. Landis Khan’s nephew hefted the blade, then stepped back and swung it expertly several times. Then he flicked his wrist and released his grip on the hilt. As the weapon rose from his hand he slapped the hilt. The sword spun viciously, the razor-sharp blade slicing through the air. Unwallis flinched. Callan’s left hand snapped forward, smoothly grasping the ivory hilt. Unwallis could scarcely believe what he had seen. One tiny mistake and the blade would have slashed through his fingers, or his wrist, or ricocheted across the room, spearing through one of the watching men. “Beautiful balance,” said Callan, reversing the blade and offering it to Decado.

“Where did you learn that?” asked Unwallis. “It was incredible.”

“We farmers learn a lot of things,” said Callan. He glanced at Decado. “You do not look well, boy.”

Decado tensed. “Call me
boy
one more time, you whoreson, and I’ll show you how a sword
should
be used.”

“This has gone quite far enough,” said Unwallis, trying to sound stern. “We are guests here, Decado. And you, sir,” he said, addressing Callan, “should not seek to provoke a soldier of the Eternal.”

“I accept your rebuke, sir,” said Callan, with an easy smile. “I, too, am a guest in this house and should have known better.” He bowed gracefully, then turned to Landis Khan. “Perhaps we should eat, Uncle.”

The meal was conducted in near silence. Unwallis was relieved once it was over and Decado rose, offered cursory thanks to Landis Khan, and stalked from the room.

“Believe me, sir, that was very unwise of you,” Unwallis told Callan. “Decado is a deadly swordsman, and not a man to forgive an insult. I suggest you return across the sea as soon as is convenient to you.”

“I intend to. It is my hope to explore the old kingdom of Naashan.”

“You are a historian?”

“Of a kind.”

“Naashan, eh? One of your favorite places of excavation, Landis, was it not?”

“Yes indeed,” said Landis Khan. “A great many artifacts were discovered there. And now, I think, it is time for you and I to sit down and talk.” Turning to Callan, he said: “I fear our conversation would bore you, nephew.”

“Then I shall leave you,” said Callan, rising from the table. Bowing once more to Unwallis, he left the room.

“By the Blessed!” whispered Unwallis. “Does the man have a death wish? Or has Decado’s reputation not reached the east?”

“He knows his reputation, my friend. Callan is not a man who scares easily.”

“He has an odd accent. I have traveled in Naashan and never heard one quite like it.”

“East coast,” said Landis with a smile. “I had immense trouble understanding any of them.”

Unwallis sighed. “I shall try to keep Decado from killing him. Though I cannot guarantee it. The man is somewhat inhuman when he is sick. If his head pain clears he may be in a more forgiving mood.”

“Why is he with you?” asked Landis as he filled two goblets with wine.

“I have asked myself the same question. Perhaps the Eternal is tiring of him and wanted him away from Diranan. I really don’t know. But let us talk of you, Landis. You know the peril you are in.”