Spirit of the Sword: Pride and Fury (The First Sword Chronicles Book 1) (6 page)

 Even through the fog of pain now obscuring his thoughts that rang clear as a trumpet call. "Alive? But where my lord, have you seen her? Did she leave town before this happened?"

 "In a manner of speaking," Gideon said. "But she is in grave danger now and requires your aid. Will you go with me and save Miranda from the perils that surround her?"

 "What perils my lord?" Michael asked. He was so very weary he could barely keep his eyes open.

 "I'll explain all that later," Gideon said. "For now, are you with me?"

 "A man guards his family," Michael murmured. "I am with you, my lord. I..." he found his voice would no longer obey him. Nor would his eyelids as they dropped down to cover his world in darkness.

 "It's alright, Michael," Gideon repeated. "I've got you."

Miranda awoke to the feeling of a soft bed beneath her, and when she opened her eyes she saw a room lit by candle light and a ceiling over her head painted with images of gods and spirits cavorting in the clouds.

She sat up, gripping her ebony cane tightly. She had been nervous at first, but with her blindfold so tight and her earplugs blocking out all sound it had been very easy to fall asleep. Apparently she had slept all day. And in the process someone had laid her in this bed. The pillows were softer than any she had known, the blanket was scarlet, the sheets were edged with gold and the matress felt as though it was about to swallow her whole as she sank without a trace into its depths.

Miranda brushed her white hair out of her face as she sat up. "Lysimachus? Julian? Ascanius? Anyone?"

A door of polished walnut opened and Lysimacus appeared, the candlelight casting long shadows over his face. His eyes had lost their earlier brightness and returned to normal. "Have no fear, Filia, I've not abandoned you."

"I was not alarmed," Miranda said sharply. "I was... confused. Where are we? Why am I in this bed?"

Lysimachus smiled. "You are in the house of Lord Quirian, ma'am. And you are in a bed because you are his honoured guest. Would you rather had been laid out to rest on the floor?"

"Then we have arrived?" Miranda asked. "In a single day?"

"I have my ways, Filia," Lysimachus replied.

Miranda heard footsteps on the stairs, moments before Ascanius and Julian followed Lysimachus into the room. Ascanius leaned forward to whisper in Lysimachus' ear.

Lysimachus nodded. "Lord Quirian wishes to speak with you, Filia. If you'll follow me."

"I will, but if I may have a moment first." Miranda swung her legs out of the bed and, pushing up against her cane, pushed herself up onto her feet. She walked across to the balcony, her stick thumping softly against the opulent Xarzian rug. 

"Filia," Lysimachus said. "Is anything wrong?"

"No," Miranda murmured, standing on the balcony and looking up at the sky. "I've just never seen this sky before. It looks almost completely different to how it does in Corona." She had to look to the far east before she found a constellation she recognised: Niccolo, the favoured son of Turo. At home it had hung directly overhead, but now when Miranda looked up she saw nothing that she recognised.

Miranda smiled. "I am away from there. I am truly away and nothing can drag me back. I have escaped! I am free!" She laughed like a little girl enjoying her first Covenant festival. She heard Ascanius chuckling at her expense but did not care.

"I'd hazard you are pleased to be here, Filia," Julian said.

"You have no idea how hard that place was to stand sometimes," Miranda said. "I am hoping that Eternal Pantheia will be more enlightened."

Lysimachus chuckled. "It is said that within the walls of the eternal city may be found the whole world in miniature. I'm sure you'll find some part of it to your liking." He looked up at the night sky. "Do you look at the stars often?"

"It was a hobby of mine when I was a child, but since people started beating a path to my door to be cured of all their ills I have had less and less time for it," Miranda admitted. "I doubt that that particular situation will improve now that I am in the prince's service."

"Lord Quirian is a generous master, he might surprise you," Lysimachus said. "But, generous as he is, his patience is not unlimited. He will not wait all night."

Miranda nodded. "Very well. Let me meet this Lord Quirian who has offered me such generous terms."

She allowed Lysimachus to lead the way, with Ascanius and Julian following her down the narrows stairway. It was hard going at times with her clubfoot and her bad leg, but Miranda would not ask for help: instead she gritted her teeth and kept on moving. She would not be dependent upon anyone.

The three former soldiers led her through a house overflowing with mosaics and statues of incidents and figures from the days before the rise of the Empire; Miranda recognised some of the Coronim legends, though she did not particularly care for them. It puzzled her a little, why an Imperial patrician should lavish so much care upon pre-imperial scenes for his decorating, but she paid it little mind as she was led into a sparsely appointed - though what was appointed looked to be of the very finest quality - dining room.

Standing between a red velvet reclining couch and a carved oak dining table - laid out with a pitcher of wine, a pitcher of water, two cups and a plate of honey cakes - stood the largest man that Miranda had ever seen. In a country where the average height for a man was around five foot six, this man had to stand at least seven feet tall. Seven feet tall and rippling with muscle. He looked strong enough to tear Michael in half with his bare hands. And yet there was nothing bestial or animalistic about him, as Miranda had found there usually was with strong, muscular men like her brother or his fellow gladiators. No, this man, standing with statuesque stillness waiting for her, appeared eminently civilised, perfectly controlled. His handsome face - he looked to be in the midst of his thirties - betrayed no emotions. His long dark hair was oiled back so that not a single strand obscured his face. His brown eyes were keen and penetrating. He wore a white toga trimmed with gold, and wore it in the antique style with no tunic underneath, only a loincloth to preserve his modesty otherwise.

Standing behind him, and quite literally overshadowed by him, were two smaller and less burly figures. Both were dressed in black, wearing leather cuirasses and hiding their faces behind silver masks which reflected the orange glow of the torchlight. The one on the right right wore a sword across his back and a stiff iron gauntlet upon his left hand, which was held flat in paralell to his body. The other wore a brace of knives at her waist and dark leather vambraces upon her wrists.

Miranda approached the trio tremulously. "Pater...forgive me, but surely you cannot be Lord Quirian."

The large man raised one dark eyebrow. "Can I not? How very surprising. May I ask, Filia, if there is any particular reason why I cannot be the man I am?"

Miranda swallowed. "Because...quite frankly my lord, you look more bodyguard than master."

Quirian let out a bark of laughter. "Yes, I suppose I am rather imposing, aren't I? But you will learn, Filia, that in Eternal Pantheia nothing is quite as it seems. Though I possess the height and build of an orc champion I
am
Lord Quirian, and though Metella here," he gestured to the woman on his left. "Does not have quite my inches I assure you she is the one that you should fear."

Miranda raised her eyebrows. "Have I any need to fear anyone in this house?"

"Thankfully not," Quirian replied, an easy smile dancing across his face. "In fact, it is my dear hope that we shall become fast friends. Filia Rebecca Miranda Callistus, allow me to be the first to welcome you to Eternal Pantheia and my home, and let me say how delightful it is to meet you in person at long last." He smiled broadly as he offered Miranda an elaborate bow, then took her hand in his and brushed his lips against her knuckles so gently Miranda felt it only as the passage of a breeze. "Your reputation as a magician precedes you, madam, what a pity that your loveliness is not equally far famed. You are right welcome in our company."

Miranda did not know where to look as she felt her face begin to burn with embarrassment. If she had enjoyed overheated and melodramatic declarations she would have stayed in Lover's Rock and spoken to her brother more often, yet she could hardly give her host and employer the rough side of her tongue over it, or even a mild rebuke. With as much grace as she could muster she replied, "You are, um, you're welcome, my lord. But, if it please you, I would ask that you call me Miranda from now. I'm not especially fond of Rebecca."

"Truly? Then you have my most heartfelt apologies, Filia, Miranda it shall be," Quirian said. "Allow me to present to you Filius Lucifer Nemon Filius, the captain of my household warriors, and Filia Metella Kardia, my personal bodyguard."

"A pleasure to meet you, Filia Miranda," Lucifer said, his voice sounding familiar to Miranda even though she was certain she had never heard it before. Metella merely nodded.

Quirian smiled as he turned away towards Lysimachus. "Lysimachus, I cannot express well enough my gratitude for the service you have done me. You have my thanks. And the thanks of the Empire of course, we must not forget the thanks of the Empire."

"Thank you sir," Lysimachus replied. "Permission to dismiss?"

"Of course, of course." Quirian whirled around as Lysimachus and his men took their leave, turning his attentions to Miranda once more. "And now, Filia, if you are not too worn out by your journey I should like to discuss exactly what work you are to do for me, and of course for His Imperial Highness."

"That would be very fine," Miranda said. "However, before we start, Lord Quirian, there is something I should like to discuss with you."

"I am attentive to you with ever fibre of my being, Filia," Quirian said.

Here goes
, Miranda took a deep breath. "Lord Quirian, I am appreciative of the opportunity that you have given me to come here and serve the Prince and yourself. I am grateful and I am enthusiastic to begin work. That being said, my mother was a seamstress who spent the last years of her life a pariah for faults not her own. I myself have risen from the depths of poverty to attain a semblance of respectability. I do not need, nor do I particularly want, to be treated like some princess who has only descended from her gleaming tower this very day. To be blunt, I find your overheated manners a little offputting. Circumstances have left me with very little patience for affectation."

Quirian's face assumed a stricken aspect. "Filia, you wound me terribly. In my day a young man who failed to address a young lady with sufficient politesse would be thought the most vulgar of barbarians."

Miranda raise one eyebrow. "In your day? You do not look like you are within five years of forty."

Quirian smiled. "I am extraordinarily well-preserved, ma'am. But, in deference to you sensibilities, I shall endeavour to reform my manners to better fit this modern age. Now, will you sit?"

Miranda sat down upon a blue settee opposite Lord Quirian. "You must tell me exactly who it is that Prince Antiochus wishes me to treat. Is he ill? If he is I can understand why you would want to keep it a secret."

"Oh no, Filia, the prince is in fine fettle," Lord Quirian said. His eyebrows rose. "You'll not recline, Filia?"

"If you forgive me, I am not altogether sure I would be comfortable," Miranda replied. The settee was designed for her to lie upon her left side, which was the side of her bad leg. She doubted it would take her lying upon it without protest.

"Ah, of course," Quirian said. "You will take wine?"

"Only one third wine and the rest water, thank you," Miranda said. "Any more and I will not sleep."

"Of course," Quirian smiled. "Captain, if you wouldn't mind."

"Not at all, my lord father," Lucifer bent down and filled Miranda's chalice one third with wine and the rest of the way with water. Quirian's own cup he filled halfway with wine, then water. For some reason he did not use his mailed hand to steady the jug or hold the cups, performing every action with only the one hand, the one that was visible to Miranda's eyes.

"Thank you." Quirian raised his cup. "To you, my dear."

"To new beginnings," Miranda replied, taking a healthy swallow. "Now then, my lord, who is it precisely that you wish me to heal? Soldiers? The Imperial Guard? The Emperor himself, is that why there was such secrecy?"

"Frankly, Filia, I doubt there is anything you could do that would interest His Majesty, unless you can get his wife with child and put to rest for good the rumours of her barrenness," Quirian replied. "The truth is, Filia Miranda, that I did not summon you here - the prince did not summon you here - in order to heal the sick. You are here for a far higher purpose."

Miranda blinked. "Then you will be disappointed. All I can do is healing."

"No, my dear, that is all you know how to do at present," Quirian replied. "Have you ever considered where your powers came from?"

"No."

Quirian looked surprised. "Truly? Not once?"

Miranda smiled wryly. "When I was a little girl my mother told me I had been given my powers as a gift from God, a reward for my virtuous nature. Michael thought that too at one time; later on - though he never said it in as many words - he came to believe I was descended from Gabriel and Aurelia. He also thought it made me destined for some sort of greatness and invented all manner of stories about portents surrounding my birth; to hear him talk you would believe that when I was born the earth trembled and the skies burned as comets raced across the heavens. They were both fools. Dreamers, blind to the real world. No one can live on such things. I do not know where my powers came from, nor do I care. I have them and I use them, to help myself and to help others. That is enough."