Spirit of the Sword: Pride and Fury (The First Sword Chronicles Book 1) (3 page)

Mother pushed his hand away, Michael's palm was covered in the black ichor of the poison that had coated the knife. She whispered, "I'm afraid there's nothing you can do. God has called me, and none can fail to answer when Turo calls for them; soon he will send his naiads to gather me to his side."

Michael crouched over his mother's body, his face so close to hers their noses were almost touching, not knowing what to do.

“Mother,” Michael whispered, so small and quiet the word seemed to have been spoken by a voice far off, so hard was it to hear. “Mother?”

His mother smiled, a soft and gentle smile. “Look after Miranda, and Felix too. Do you remember what a man does?”

Michael nodded, tears beginning to fall down his face, “A man guards his family. He serves them and protects them all his days; else he is no man at all. I remember, Mother.”

“Of course you do. You’re a good boy. A good man. My brave little Firstborn."

Michael's tears, the tears he could not restrain, fell onto his mother's face.

"Are you crying?" she asked him.

Michael nodded. “I don’t want you to go. Please stay.”

His mother reached up, and tenderly wiped the tears from his cheek, “Don’t cry. Men never cry, and I need you to be a man now for your brother and sister. Do you understand?”

“I won’t let them see Mother; not Felix or Miranda or anybody. I won’t let them see. I promise.”

“Open your eyes, Michael,” an imperative voice said loudly. "Michael, wake up."

Her tone would brook no argument. Michael’s eyes flickered open and he looked into the face of his little sister crouched over him. Rebecca Miranda Callistus ban Ezekiel had the same brown eyes as the rest of the Callistus family, but instead of black her hair was silver white as though some god had stolen moonlight from the heavens and woven it in her hair as an adornment to her beauty. Her face was round and softly curved; Miranda was lovely as her namesake, Turo's daughter. It was a constant disappointment to Michael, whenever he asked news of his sister, that there seemed to be no young woman in her life.

Miranda stood up, leaning on a silver-topped ebony cane. She was dressed simply but well, in a light blue chiton dress with a modest neckline that looked to have been tailored to fit her near exactly. A small pearl adorned each ear. In Michael's sparse cell, amidst the straw and the smell of sweat and blood, she stood out as an emissary from another world.

Michael sat up on the pile of straw that served him for a bed. "I did not expect to see you."

"You're welcome. For saving your life."

Michael felt his side, the wound where Judas had stabbed him was gone, vanished by Miranda's power. He smiled wryly. "I apologise, my low state has eroded my high manners. Thank you for saving me, you have my gratitude."

"Liar," Miranda said tartly. "All you want is death and we both know it."

Michael did not reply to that. If this visit of his sister's could end without a blistering quarrel he would thank Turo for it. Instead he looked down, at the clean unbroken flesh that had last time he looked been bleeding his life away. That was Miranda's power, her unique glory: to heal any wound, unmake any injury, cure any bodily ache. No one else in all Pelarius could do this, nobody could remember anybody who had save for Michael, whose interest in the tales of Old Corona led him to recall that many centuries ago Aurelia the White had worked such marvels. He had oft wondered if there was some connection, 'twixt Aurelia's high blood and the low estate of the Callisti. But no, that thought was the height of conceited arrogance, and Miranda would never believe him if he laid his theory in front of her.

But still. If not from there, then where?

Miranda said, "Was it necessary for you to get so angry out there?"

Michael looked away. "So you saw that did you?" Miranda did not answer, but disapproval radiated off her like the rays of the sun. "That was the man. The one from five years ago. He killed our Felix."

"And do you feel better now, having killed him and mutilated his body?"

Michael frowned. "No."

"I didn't think so," Miranda said.

Michael still could not meet her eyes. "Are you well, sister?"

"Well enough," Miranda replied. "I continue...to continue. I thought about moving to Davidheyr, but...I changed my mind."

Michael said nothing to that. It was his personal opinion that Miranda would shine in the provincial capital, but she would not want to hear his thoughts upon the subject. Instead he asked, "How is Mater Doraeus?"

"Declining, I think," Miranda said. "The ailment is in her mind, and the mind is beyond even my powers to heal. She forgets everything except that her daughter is gone, and yet she swears up and down that Amy went under the ocean to live with the naiads and the merfolk, and that she will return any day now. I think that's as bad as it sounds. Honestly I find it very hard to visit her... the way that she talks about the past like it's happening, like Felix is still alive... I can't stand it. I send my maid to see how she is from time to time but I seldom go myself."

"Miranda," Michael said, letting reproach slip into his tone. "That family did right by us after mother died. The least you could do is look in on her."

"When I want to be lectured on my behaviour, I'll go to someone who didn't sell his moral authority along with his freedom," Miranda said coldly. "And on you, self-righteousness is a cloak even more tatty than that red rag you wear. Now get up, I'm getting you out of here."

Michael's brow furrowed. Seven years ago he had sold himself into slavery to Jonathon Dolabella, and the proceeds had gone to keep a roof over Miranda's head and food upon her table. But though she probably now had the money to buy him back - last year she'd moved into a new house, which was large enough to have a garden, of all luxuries - Master Dolabella would not sell a gladiator with a record of victories and years of fight left in him, would he?

Or would he, after what he'd seen today?

Michael hoped not. He did not particularly want to go back to the real world. All he knew how to do was fight and kill, what was he supposed to do in the real world? When he was growing up, he had only ever considered doing two things: joining the priesthood of Turo, or serving his younger brother and sister as their protector like the Firstborn of old had done.
But he had failed to protect Felix, Miranda had rejected him as a warrior guardian, and his hands were now too stained with blood for him to ever be thought fit to serve God.

The world outside the arena held nothing for him. He preferred the certainties of slavery and these confining halls.

"What are you talking about, Miranda?" Michael asked. "You never wanted me before."

"I said I didn't want you 'protecting me' following me around, hitting anyone who looked at me wrong the way you used to trail after Felix and Amy," Miranda snapped. "I never said I didn't want a brother."

"That is what a brother is-"

"Oh bollocks," Miranda spat. "And if you say one word about the damn Firstborn I swear I'm going to slap you. You aren't an ancient hero, I'm not your damned princess and you need to grow up and start to live in the real world."

"Why should I if I don't want to? It's not like I'm hurting anyone," Michael snapped.

Miranda swallowed, and her voice was quiet as she said, "Yes you are."

Michael was silent for a moment, his eyes wide and mouth open. At last he spoke, "I regret, Miranda, that this is who I am, for all that you do not approve. And if you have bought me then I would prefer you treated me as your slave, rather than granting me my liberty. I would not know how to begin being free in such a world as this."

"I haven't paid anything for you. Jonathon Dolabella doesn't want my money and won't take any price," Miranda said. "So I'm breaking you out of here. Lysimachus!"

A man stepped out of the corridor and into the cell, fortunately his wiry frame did not take up too much room. Lysimachus' hair was dark and flecked with grey; his nose, recalling somewhat a bird of prey, was but the sharpest in a collection of sharp features. His eyes, one blue and the other red, swept over Michael briefly and perfunctorily as he stood, half lounging, in the doorway fingering a curved knife at his belt.

Miranda said, "This is Lysimachus Castra, I hired him to get you out of here, him and his men. Lysimachus can you do it?"

"Easily, ma'am," Lysimachus said in slow, deliberate drawl. "Julian's got the door and Ascanius can take care of the guards outside. No killing, just as you said, but he'll get them out the way. We can all be off quick as you like once we're done here."

"Are your two friends soldiers too?" Michael asked. Castra was the name given to children born of the camp, and generally such children swelled the ranks themselves when they grew to manhood.

Lysimachus nodded. "Both of them, aye."

"How much money have you promised these men for their services, our Miranda?" Michael didn't know whether to feel horrified at the expense or impressed that his sister was doing so well she could afford it.

"Nothing, but it would be worth everything I own to get you out of here," Miranda said. "Lysimachus works for a man, a lord, who has asked me to come to his estate and work for him." She smiled. "Eternal Pantheia, Michael. The capital, the very heart of the Empire. This man, the one Lysimachus works for, he is a confidante of Prince Antiochus himself."

Michael grinned. "That is wonderful news for you, our Miranda. You will be a right proper lady there, you will. You shall shine brighter than any star in the night sky. I wish you every good fortune and success."

Miranda sighed. "I didn't tell you so that you could be happy for me but so you could understand that we have a place to go, far from here, where Jonathon Dolabella cannot touch us. As part of my price, Lord Quirian has loaned me Lysimachus and his men to get you out of here. It's a fresh start, Michael, a wonderful opportunity. I am sure that I can see you placed in Lord Quirian's household or in the palace, even in the Prince's guard if that's what you really want; but somewhere safe, somewhere I won't have to worry each day about the possibility of you dying." She paused, at once hesitant and expectant. "So, are you coming?"

"I cannot Miranda," Michael said. "You know that and you know why." 

"You think this is the life Mother wanted for you," Miranda shouted. "You think this is what Felix would want?"

"I think they're dead, and so it doesn't really matter what they might have wanted," Michael snapped. "They're dead, I'm not and I've had to live with that every day for seven years and I'm sick of it! I just want this to be over, is that so much to ask?"

"Yes," Miranda said. "I'm still here, Michael. I'm still here and I love you and I almost die every time I have to watch you go into that butcher's yard. Do you think the baying crowd loves you more than I do? You're a performing seal to them, an animal decked out in armour and the moment you die they'll find someone else to fawn over. Champions can be replaced, it happens all the time, you know that as well as I do. But I can't replace my brother."

“I did this for you, Miranda,” Michael said. “I sold myself so that you could-“

“No,” Miranda said firmly. “No, I have put with seven years of that excuse from you and I am not having it any more. If you stay here then at least have the balls to admit that it’s for you, and not for me. And if you let me walk out that door, then don't expect to see me again. Now are you coming or not?”

Michael stared into his sister’s eyes, and saw only pity there. And as he looked away, he could feel something snapping between the two of them. “No.”

Miranda sighed, a sound that carried a deep finality to it. “I see. Goodbye, Michael. Come on Lysimachus.”

Michael couldn’t look up as he heard the cell door being opened, couldn’t look up to see his little sister walking away and out of his life forever. He didn’t look until she’d gone, to stare at the empty corridor outside for a moment. Slowly Michael got up, faced the back wall, and rested his forehead upon it. His eyes closed, he struck the wall with his fist, over and over again until his knuckles bled and his hand was numb to the pain.

“Forgive me, little sister."

II

The Crimson Rose

Miranda sat on the beach with her back to the town and let the sounds of merrymaking wash over her like the waves washed over the sand. It was the final day of the Sea Covenant festival, and Lovers' Rock was full of strangers come to celebrate in the very holy place itself, the place where Prince Simon and Princess Miranda - Turo's daughter, and her namesake - had met, fallen in love, and eventually been married by God in person. Michael might claim that Prince Gabriel was the hero he liked best from all the old stories, but his favourite story was without a doubt the Prince and the Naiad, not that he would ever admit it. Personally Miranda had always found it too incredible that the two should fall in love at first sight in spite of all the grief that lay between their races, but Michael was an incurable romantic at heart. For herself, Miranda had always liked the stories of David best: a man born in harsh circumstances, tested by cruel times, who had faced the world without flinching and overcame every obstacle that fate had placed in front of him without sacrificing his pride or his sense of right and wrong. Now there was an example people might learn from. Some people needed to learn from it more than others.

The sounds of revelry continued unabated but Miranda did not look back, staring instead out to sea, watching the waves flow in and out, the blue canvas stretching boundless to the horizon.

Lysimachus stood at her shoulder. Ascanius and Julian stood together a little way away. They were waiting for her, but she was not quite ready to put everything behind her yet.

"You know, I'm less than a year younger than he is," Miranda said, whether from a need to fill the silence or else because she wanted to get it off her chest she did not know. "He was born in Ture, while I was born in Aurelie of the same year, so there's hardly a distance between us at all."

"I'd never guess you were so close in age, from the way he treats you like a baby," Lysimachus said.

Miranda laughed darkly. "That's nothing new, he always did that. I don't know if its because of, or in spite of us being born so close together, but we were never as close as we could have been. I don't think he appreciated how direct I was, and I certainly didn't appreciate his absurdities. Michael has always wanted an appreciative audience."

Lysimachus nodded. "Me, Ascanius and Julian all served in together in the Seventh Legion. I was the company sergeant-major, Ascanius was a sergeant and Julian was an optio. Our captain, he was a lot like your brother sounds. It wasn't enough for him to do the job, he had to be celebrated for how he did it. A lot of good men died to sate his craving for admiration, on both sides."

"At least only bad men die for Michael's thirst for glory, I suppose I should count that a blessing," Miranda said. She sighed. "Felix now, he doted upon Felix because Felix idolised him in turn. Michael couldn't do anything wrong in Felix's eyes, and Michael let him get away with such things; do you know he once stole one of Princess Miranda's pearls from the temple? Just grabbed it when no one was looking, and afterwards he gave it to Amy like it was his to give away. Now if I'd done that then I'd have caught the maelstrom from Michael over it - he wouldn't have told on me, but he wouldn't have let me forget it either - but because it was Felix he just smiled and talked about how sweet it was. Idiot."

"She was a friend of yours, this Amy?"

"She was a friend of theirs, not mine," Miranda said sourly. "Oh how they fawned over that girl. 'Our girl', Michael used to call her; you'd have thought she was his sister instead of me. They'd follow her around like dogs, and if they'd all been older then they would have made absolute fools of themselves over her. And she encouraged them, she loved it. And after Mother died... she was the only one who could get Michael to act like a boy again, instead of trying to be our father. She'd come over, and he'd get this big smile on his face like I don't know what, and when she left again he'd go all grim-faced and start trying to order us round again. I used to hate her, for being able to make him smile like that. Does this all sound horribly self-pitying?"

 Lysimachus smiled. "Only a little. If you don't mind me asking, are you ready to leave? Lord Quirian is anxious to make your acquaintance."

Miranda grunted as she pushed herself to her feet, ignoring the dart of pain that stabbed through her leg. She had been born with a twisted foot, and her left leg had never grown the muscle that it should have done to bear her weight beneath it. Her mother had told her that, as she had been gifted with great power, so she had lost something in return, but Miranda was not sure how much she believed that, even as she acknowledged that it was a fair exchange - she might need a cane to steady herself, but she could never have done as well as she had as a runner. She had learned to live with her condition, and with the fact that her own disfigurement was the only condition which her power could not correct, but that did not eradicate the pain or the difficulty it gave her in walking. "Yes, let's go. I'm sick of this place."

Lysimachus offered his arm, but Miranda waved it away. She could walk by herself; she refused to be helpless.

"Form up," Lysimachus snapped, and Ascanius and Julian took up positions on either side of her. Ascanius was a tall fellow, taller than Lysimachus - who was not short himself - with a face that looked unfortunately like a ferret at rest, but could become roguishly handsome when he smiled, as he was smiling encouragingly at her now. His eyes were coal black, flat and inscrutable, and his hair was dark, long and untidy. Julian was the smallest of the three and the most unassuming looking, with mousy hair and a moustache that was too thin to be imposing and too thick to be unobtrusive. They were dressed in common tunics, in homespun shades, but their bearing left no chance of mistaking them for anything other than a trio of soldiers, even had they not been wearing swords on their hips and knives on their belts.

With Lysimachus at her side and his two men guarding her, Miranda was led through the bustling streets of Lover's Rock, to the outskirts of town, and out into the dunes beyond.

"Where are we going?" Miranda asked as the town began to grow distant, as the pain in her leg began to get worse, and as there was no sign of any form of transportation. "Is there no carriage waiting? Are we to walk all the way to Eternal Pantheia?"

"In a manner of speaking," Lysimachus said. "We've something a little bit quicker than a carriage, and Lord Quirian and the prince are very anxious to meet you."

They came to a halt out in the dunes, well out of sight of Lover's Rock or any prying eyes.

"Excuse me Filia," Lysimachus advanced to the head of his men, took a deep breath, and then his whole body seemed to shine with some inner light as he appeared to reach out and grab the air as though it was a set of curtains, wrenching some invisible barrier aside.

There was a ripping sound, and sky itself was torn in half, the world parting like a veil to reveal another world, a grey and shadowy world half hidden by grey fog. A fog in which Miranda thought she could see creatures moving.

"What have you done?" she murmured. "What is this?"

"You don't want to know," Ascanius muttered. "I wish I didn't know. Pits' fire but I hate doing this."

"It could be worse," Julian murmured. "We could have two dozen shapeshifters all around us 'escorting us' all the way home."

Ascanius shivered. "I wish you hadn't reminded me of that."

"Shut your gobs, the pair of you," Lysimachus snapped. "You sound like a pair of Tyronian maidens."

"What are you all talking about?" Miranda asked.
              "Best if you don't know, ma'am, you'll just get nightmares," Lysimachus said. "Speaking of which, best if you put this blindfold on your eyes, and plug your ears with these."

Miranda looked at the black blindfold and wax earplugs in his hands. "Are those really necessary?"

"It isn't a road for the unwary," Lysimachus said. "Speaking of which, with your permission I shall have Julian carry you."

"No," Miranda said flatly. She would not be helpless.

"It is a hard day's march, even if it will take us to the capital faster than any earthly transport," Lysimachus said. "And a dangerous journey as well. I have sworn to Lord Quirian to keep you safe."

Miranda frowned at him, but his expression was one of immovable obstinacy. If she wished to go, it would be on his terms.

"Very well," she growled, and allowed him to tie the blindfold over her eyes and plug up her ears. She felt Julian pick her up in his arms and lay there, in the darkness and the silence, feeling the motion as he led her into the tunnel.

Though I am a prince and was in a palace raised, I would happily dwell in the hut of the rudest peasant and count myself the most fortunate of men if I could but serve God and my country.

Michael recited the quote over and over in his mind, as he stared blankly at the wall of his cell. It was from the second Prince Jonathon, Jonathon Ocean-Lover, son of Simon and Miranda, after he had been defeated by his elder sister in the combat for the leadership of the Firstborn. As the firstborn son he had claimed the right to command, but having been humbled by Ameliora's might he had fallen to his knees and begged to serve.

Michael knew that he could not say his motives were as pure - he did crave the love of the people, the applause of the crowd - but that did not make his choice wholly ignoble the way Miranda said it did.

Or at least he hoped not.

Is it the act that matters in Turo's eyes, or is it the motive behind it? Would I not have made quite the priest, not knowing the answers to questions like these.

Not that it mattered, even if Turo judged him pure as Raphael in this, he had sins enough without to see him condemned to the maelstrom for sure.

Mother had trusted him to raise his brother and sister right after she died, and look at what had happened: Felix was dead and Miranda hated him. So much for his mother's faith.

Michael heard something outside. A faint sound, at the moment, but growing louder. His ears pricked as he recognised exactly what that noise was: the sounds of fighting breaking out somewhere outside. Weapons clashing, men screaming, war consuming his home.

The Crimson Rose. Turo guard Miranda and all decent folk.

Michael pulled at the door to no avail, trying to force it off its hinges that he might join the defence. He might have been the tide buffeting the shore for all the good it did.  

"Hey, Mark, Master Dolabella, anyone. If the rebels are out there I can fight. Open the door. Please?" 

Michael heard footsteps running towards him, and pressed his face against the bars to see who it was. Three men, servants to Master Dolabella. House slaves, not gladiators or guards. Michael had seen them all more than once, but never learned their names nor paid them much mind. There was a hierarchy amongst the chattels as surely as among the citizens, and in that hierarchy mere house slaves were beneath his notice.

But now all three of them carried spears and wore looks of grim satisfaction on their faces as Michael backed away from them all the way up to the wall of his cell.

The man in the middle, with greying hair and a double chin, leered as he poked his spear through the bars of the door. "I've been looking forward to this, I swear."

"What a little life you must lead if this is what your grand ambitions amount to," Michael said.

The youngest of the three, his breath reeking of strong drink, snarled like a dog. "You always thought you were better than us, didn't you? You with your swords and your armour, with your airs and graces; well now look at you!"

"I am better than you," Michael replied with frigid hauteur. "And the fact that I am in a cage and you are not doesn't make a bit of difference. I could be bound in a walnut shell and still would I be worth one hundred of you. The three of you are but rebels and runaways and the master will see you all hanged for it."

"Salted master's dead," the middle man said. "Gutted him myself, so I did. Should have seen the look on his face."

Turo judge him justly and with mercy.
Michael would have asked if they had no shred of honour or decency, had there been any point in even using such words around the Crimson Rose.

Still, he did not want to die this way, killed like a bear bearded in its den by the spears of the hunters.

Michael licked his lips. "If you were real men, possessed of the honour of a dead dog, you would open the door first."

"If we were fools, maybe," the man in the centre said. "But we're not." He drove his spear forward.

It wasn't long enough, the point stopped about six inches from Michael. He did not even try to restrain his laughter.

In frustration they thrust their spears towards him again and again. "Come closer, you bastard!"

"Come in here and face me with some courage," Michael replied. "One of me and three of you, are those not odds enough to fortify your valour?"

Scowling, the centre rebel unlocked the door. It squeaked as they pushed it open, and advanced inside.

Got you.
Michael smirked as he leapt upon them. He gripped the spear shaft of the youngest man and pushed it backwards, his strength overpowering his opponent as the shaft struck him in the throat. Choking, the rebel reeled in retreat, clutching his throat. The older man thrust at him but Michael parried with the shaft of his spear before hitting the foeman in the gut and then, when he doubled in pain, the face.