The Sheening Of The Blades (Book 1) (46 page)

“
Is he some sort of official?  Do they even have a government?”  Ari watched Triivi come to get her daughter, the Dra rising and following her out of view.  What did he know about the Drae?  They were nothing but dark, romantic figures in the North, two-dimensional heroes or villains, depending on the Tale being told.

Traive gave him a steady look, confirming his ignorance. 
“What do they teach at that University?” Ari half-smiled ruefully.

“
The Drae are brothers to the Rach—you notice how closely they resemble each other?  Their ‘government’ works exactly like Aerach government, very tribally oriented, with a huge pool of Royal Line.  The ‘Drachar’ are the kingmakers and advisors and the only tangible institution outside of the ruler himself.  They elected Kai almost thirteen years ago, when his uncle was killed in the Crystal Pass.”

“
Kai?” Ari said stupidly.

Traive looked at him with a vast, amused patience. 
“Yes, Ari.  Kai is the Dra, like Kyr is the Rach.”

Ari stared into his beer, scrambling to catch up with life.  Things he had taken for granted for months now were being revealed
as quite different with an unsettling regularity here of late—his own bloodlines, mad Master Melkin of the Natural Sciences Department, the presence of a mysterious Dra (
the
Dra, as it turned out) in their party…

“
They split off from the Rach centuries ago—no one remembers why,” Traive was saying.  “Some matter of honor that would only make sense to a Rach.  They wear their black like a badge,” his voice was wry, “determined that everybody remembers their disgrace, though they are about an honorable a people as they come.  You think the Rach are hard to understand…” His voice trailed off, and he lifted one corner of an eyebrow, teasing Ari, “Though, if you’re a typical Northerner, you won’t know anything about the Rach, either.”

Ari felt a dry cold squeeze his throat shut.  The Rach, who more than any other Realmsmen recognized him for what he was, who would sabreslay him on sight and ask questions later.  Did Traive not know? 
Did it not make any difference to him?  Emboldened by that thought, he ventured carefully, “I’m not sure that it would be a good idea for me to go strolling around the Ramparts.”

Traive gave an appreciative snort, but was otherwise maddeningly uncommunicative.

Ari screwed his courage up; this, after all, could be his best chance.  Traive was Lord Regent of the most tolerant Realm there was, and in charge of the most extensive intelligence network in the world.  If anyone could shed light on his horrifying genetic predicament, it would be him.

“
Do you see a lot of…people like me…in Cyrrh?” he asked, trying manfully for indifference.

Traive looked up, full in his face, studying him like he
’d just noticed the fiery red hair and brilliant blue-green eyes.  At least a year passed.

“
Occasionally.  We’ve seen a lot more since the Peace.”  His voice was still noncommittal.

“
They’re all…that is, their parents…were all..?” There was no way he was going to be able to say it.  But judging from a good portion of the night’s conversation, Traive’s list of skills included mind-reading.  He answered in a normal voice, “Yes.” 

For a second he looked at Ari
’s downcast eyes, the slumped shoulders.  “Melkin told me a little of your story.”

Ari stared fixedly at the shadow-dappled table, wild hope and dread smashing around inside of him
like two fighting tomcats.  Unable to stop himself, he asked, “You don’t happen to know anything about...me?”  He felt ridiculous.

“
No.  But the stories are usually the same.”  Ari’s eyes snapped up, fixing hungrily on the Regent’s, who said very gently, “They’re not usually very pleasant.”

The agony of ignorance was fast replacing any horror the words could bring. 
He was morbidly fascinated by the thought of his own dark origins, staring mutely at this source of even a glimmer of explanation.

Traive reluctantly drained the last of his beer. 
“They come from the Swamps, usually,” he said quietly.  “That’s south of Cyrrh, where the jungles get so wet it’s really a whole different Realm.  That’s where the dregs of society have gathered over the centuries, where all the deserters, the oathbreakers, all the criminals of all the Realms have tended to congregate since such people have begun to exist.  It’s also the only place where there is regular, non-violent contact with the Enemy.  Sometimes they’ll sell the Swamp dwellers breeding females—they don’t treat their women very good—in an effort to take over the world simply by
populating
it with Sheelmen.  And sometimes they’ll sell them children, for the same reason.  You can’t accuse them of intellectualism,” he commented dryly.  “It doesn’t work, of course, as children grow up mostly a product of their environment.”

That was a lance of relief in a swelling boil of horror.  He swallowed noisily. 
“But, you can always tell who their parents are,” he said hollowly, thinking of the children.

“
Not always.” Traive shook his head, casual as if they were talking about goats or chickens.  “They don’t breed true.  The, er, distinctive coloring never lasts even a generation.  Half-breeds rarely look any different than any dark-skinned Realmsman.”

What a dull, dawning revelation that was, Ari thought, his insides suddenly yawning away into a long, black tunnel.  He was a full-blooded Sheelman.  His sensory input seemed to shut down as he considered
it, as if he was wrapped in a dark, silent shroud, a cocoon of numbness.

He didn
’t notice when Triivi came out with the stew pot, though a moment ago the smell had had his mouth flowing juicily.  He didn’t see the inquisitive look that passed between her and her brother.  His eyes seemed trapped by the empty clearing their porch fronted, now almost full of grey, dense, obliterating mist.  The sounds of life seemed muted and far away.  The only smells were the sharp, acrid odor of dying leaves and the pervasive dankness of cold fog.

Where the mist was thickest, though, you could still make out the gaslights, a softened golden nimbus. 
For some reason, it reminded him of his dream…he didn’t know how or why it was so fortifying, but he found himself resolutely straightening up, squaring his shoulders.  He felt like he’d been dragged behind three or four carts today, but—fire and ash, he swore grimly to himself—he’d keep getting up as long as he could.

With great determination, he turned back to his hosts and picked up his spoon.

“It smells delicious,” he said stolidly. 

Triivi looked relieved.  She and Traive were already well into their bowls and after the first bite, he didn
’t have to pretend appreciation.

“
It’s rabbit,” she said lightly.  “The wild ones, which are goat-sized, are pretty tough, but I can raise them myself to be tender as veal.”

“
They’re not man-eating?” he quipped, and they both grinned at him.

“
One of the few creatures in Cyrrh that still runs from you,” Traive agreed.  His mind casting around for suitable distraction, Ari caught onto that, saying quickly, “In the Circle of Silk, they talked about northern Cyrrh like it would be a worse hazard than southern.  How can that be?” he asked it sarcastically, half-joking, but neither of them even smiled.

Triivi looked grave, and when Traive had finished his chunk of hare, he said equally soberly,
“Northern Cyrrh is nothing to take lightly.  Fox do their trial runs north of Lirralhisa—with about a quarter of them never returning.  Drae do their manhood rites up there.  Southern Cyrrh may be dangerous, but it’s very survivable, even outside the Torques…but north…there are no settlements north of Lirralhisa, and the Torques in that direction are a mere day’s ride from each other.  Not even Sheelmen go up there.”

“
Or if they do, they never survive long enough to attack,” Triivi added, snapping her fingers absently at one of her misbehaving offspring in the doorway.

Ari had stopped eating. 
“Why?  What’s up there?” 

“
Nobody knows,” Triivi said.  At the same time her more precise brother said grimly, “Wolven, which are bad enough, but some people say there’s even worse—specters, walking dead, strange, unexplained phenomena—and that it’s the refuge of all Laschald’s misbegotten mistakes.  But we actually don’t have much in the way of solid facts.”

“
Laschald?” Ari asked.  The god of Cyrrh?

“
The creator-god,” Triivi explained complacently. “He tries for the fantastic and beautiful, but sometimes things are off a little.”  Ari blinked at her.

“
That’s what happened to the Wolven,” Traive said blackly.  “They were meant to be a mix of man and wolf—the best of both, of course—but they turned out to be the worst of each.  Bloodthirsty man-hunters, they kill for pleasure, with no remorse.  Laschald should be whipped for that,” he growled with uncharacteristic savagery.

“
Don’t be blasphemous,” Triivi chided.

“
You’ve never seen an eighteen-year-old private ravaged by Wolven,” he shot back.  “Less than a minute from the Torgate.  If Laschald’s going to bring that sort of monstrosity into the world, he should at least be willing to take it out.”

“
He’s not very devout,” Triivi said apologetically to Ari, who was too amazed to respond.  For lack of anything to say, he went back to his stew.  No Northerner would dream of criticizing Marek…but then he never really
did
anything except lay down a book full of common-sense, financially astute rules and then back out of the picture.

“
Besides,” Traive recovered from his irreverence, “Melkin’s in a hurry.  Like the Border Realms, he understands the importance of instinct.  He’s got nothing but gut feeling to go on, which makes him short-tempered,” Traive allowed with polite understatement, “but, especially in Cyrrh, we understand that sensing something can save your life long before you see it or have time to reason it through.  He spent his life with the Warwolves, did you know?”

Ari nodded.  Yeah, as of a couple weeks ago. 
“That isn’t a particular Northern way of thinking,” he warned them.  It sounded plausible, and it sort of explained Melkin’s odd, rabid interest in the whole idea.  Sort of.

Triivi smiled warmly and Traive gave a bark of laughter. 
“Which has no doubt only added to his stress.”  He winked at Ari to take the sting out of his next words.  “Northerners tend to think knowledge only comes in the form of facts.  They miss a lot that way.”

The evening sped by, the talk drifting on to lighter topics.  Ari couldn
’t remember when he’d last been so relaxed, despite that little glitch in the middle.  In fact, he forgot all about it until Traive had walked him back to the guest chamber in the Skypalace.  Rodge and Loren were already there, sound asleep and reeking of
dasht
.  He slowly divested himself of the airy folds of silk and slid morosely between the sheets, mind dwelling on that persistent, gnawing canker of his being.  On the outside he was resolute, but on the inside, he felt like a brittle blank.

Three times his dreams woke him that night,
the first time in flames, with visions of vicious, red-headed men and a fiery world of blood and steel. Another time it was Selah, laughing, the embodiment of warmth, of beauty and companionship and all the normal things of life he could never have, and he woke to find his lip bleeding from where he’d bit through it in longing.

But the last dream was the most intense of all, the garden of his childhood that had haunted him for months now.  Only now there was no sunshine or laughter or joy.  The searching urgency that had been growing these past few weeks in the dream was now almost a madness—
whatever toy he’d once lost in that garden had come to epitomize all that was lost in his life…and the darker and more dubious his life became, the more frantically he seemed to be seeking it.

CHAPTER 22

Whatever he was missing, he groused to himself the next morning, it was irretrievably lost.
  He was exhausted and ill-tempered and it didn’t help that Rodge and Loren were offensively well-rested, playful, and acting like boys half their age.

They joked and pranked and toyed with Cerise
’s wealth of foibles during breakfast while Ari stared blearily at nothing and worked on his appreciation of rich Cyrrhidean coffee.  When a willowy blonde sauntered past the door of the breakfast room, Loren almost fell out of his chair trying to see if it was the Princess.  His face was so laughably disappointed that it inspired Rodge to say, “You’re pathetic, Lor.  You’ve got to get over her.  She’s a
princess
, for the love of weights and measures, and let’s face it:  I think you need someone a little more…well, ALIVE.”

“
He has a point,” Cerise interjected coolly.  “You are only the heir of a very minor landholding.  Even though, as a foreigner, you might nominally have some intrinsic desirability—”

“
Not to mention my stunning good looks,” he said encouragingly, waggling his brows and flashing a plastic smile full of teeth.

“
—you are still far enough beneath royalty that your predictive value for acquiring a marriage contract is statistically insignificant.”

Ari lifted his head. 
They all stared at her, expressionless, until Rodge said fondly, “You sentimental fool, you.”

Traive appeared in the doorway. 
“Good morning, Imperials.  I have some news for you and I had to fight Flyr for the pleasure of telling you.”  His voice was light and teasing, but there were circles under his eyes and a nick on the strong jaw.  After a pause for effect, he announced, “We will ride a-gryphonback to meet the centaurs.”

This was met with a plentitude of silence.

Then Loren let out a whoop and clapped Ari on the back, and Cerise closed her eyes briefly, and Ari felt a very little bit better about the day.

Traive herded them all down the twisting, exotic, colorful passageways of the Skypalace, falling companionably into step with Ari. 
“Doesn’t look like you slept much either,” he said out of the corner of his mouth, thankfully not asking why.  “Trinki—that’s my little niece that you saw  with Kai—kept me up all night with her little ‘I need water,’ ‘I need a story.’  He chuckled.  Ari wished that adorable little creature had been crawling through
his
dreams instead of the tortuous mental anguish he seemed to come up with on his own. 

They crossed the dew-s
pangled white bridge again, strung like a pearl tiara on the misty brow of Lirralhisa, but this time they entered the solid rock of the opposite cliff instead of going around the face, winding upwards on a wide inner stair chipped elegantly out of the rock but absent of any décor save the lights.  They came to a halt at a platform where a smallish room opened off the stairs.  Traive took them in and Taloners came over to them with piles of suede pants and jackets in their arms.

“
We’ll change here,” Traive said.  “We’ll need warmer clothes for flying.”

The boys leapt eagerly forward,
a couple of them thrilled at the picture that produced and eager to get out of their filmy tunics and pantaloons, and Traive turned to Cerise.

“
You’ll be escorted on up, my Lady, where you may see us off, or back to the Palace, if you prefer.

She looked at him frigidly—he still wasn
’t forgiven, though he doubtless wasn’t even aware of his offense.  “See you off?  I have no intention of being left behind.  Where are my flying leathers?”

Traive looked back at her respectfully. 
“We have none for you.  I’m sorry.”

A touch of exasperation in her voice, she pressed,
“What do Cyrrhidean women usually fly in?”

He rubbed at his jaw, raising his eyebrows. 
“They don’t, my Lady.”

“
This is ridiculous,” she snapped.  “Get me a pair of men’s leathers and I’ll make do.  You ride around on mythical creatures, talk to Whiteblades on a regular basis, eat snakes the size of a farmhouse for dinner and stumble over the concept of a woman wearing pants?”

Not having acquired his rank and position out of stupidity, Traive gave a little bow and sent her into another room
.  A shocked-looking Taloner was sent after her with several fashion choices in flying gear.

The men looked at each other, shrugged, and happily dressed themselves back in man clothes. 
Women took funny notions sometimes.  A man had to choose his battles.

They didn
’t feel constrained to wait for her, however, charging up the remaining flight of stairs behind Traive with so much enthusiasm they almost ran him over.  Even Rodge was good-naturedly resigned—until they came out onto a wide, bare, windy sweep of rock where their noble mounts waited.

The gryphons were striking enough.  Ari wasn
’t sure he’d ever get used to the sight of such magnificence.  But what made the boys come suddenly to a halt was the overwhelming sense of unbounded space around them, and then the realization that they’d soon be out in it, with only those unpredictable, unfamiliar beasts between them and leagues of empty air.

Melkin was already there,
radiating impatient energy and perfectly at ease in his fitted leathers.  Kai stood next to him, talking to a young man in the soft, fawn-colored suede the Taloner at the Kingsmeet had worn.  The embroidery flowing from shoulder to ankle on his uniform, though, was a deep, sapphire blue.  He caught sight of Traive and came over, walking with that bold, open confidence so different from the guarded Sentinel glide.

He was dark-haired for a Cyrrhidean, with a face that would make any girl stop in her tracks and that appealing unaffectedness that seemed to be a national trait.  After exchanging bo
ws with Traive, he introduced himself.

“
I am Romontier, Rom, Chief of Indigo Talon.  We have the honor of escorting you today—largely because we have the biggest beasts,” he admitted with a grin.  “Two isn’t that heavy a load, but we’ve got a long ride and there’s no need to tire any of the gryphons needlessly.”  He glanced around at them all, ending with Rodge, who gave him a very fake smile.

Cerise came up to them, looking quite fetching even in old, used suede, and there was a pause while she and the Indigo Chief spent a moment in mutual admiration.  Rom finally cleared his throat and turned to Traive. 

“They’re bringing Eneara up now,” he said formally, adding in an undertone, “She was troublesome this morning.  Even the parade gryphons are beginning to get restless.”  He and Traive moved off a little so that the Northerners couldn’t hear any more, but Ari felt like a cloud had moved over the bright promise of the morning.

“
I really do NOT approve of the way these people run a Realm,” Cerise muttered testily, as usual in a bad humor when things were out of her control.  There did seem to be a marked air of casual indolence, a sort of sloppy lounging of the riders and handlers that you never saw in the disciplined ranks of the Imperial Army.

“I’m sure they’ll be crushed to know,” Rodge remarked, too distracted by the enormity of the creatures in front of them and all the empty space looming in their future to really pay her much attention.

All along the bare rock, the splendid eagle-lions were sitting alertly or crouched as if anticipat
ing imminent flight, their huge golden eyes fixed on the great valley spreading out below in a pearlescent mist. Unlike their riders, there was an air of intensity about them, an almost tangible fierceness that seemed to clash with their gorgeous, candy-colored plumage.  Darkest among them was Rom’s, its feathers a deep, velvety midnight blue.  The rest mostly had the bright blue feathers more reminiscent of jays or bluebirds. 

The hoods were off, but every
right hind leg was shackled securely to the rock with chains that could’ve held a pair of draft horses.  One of the gryphons bent around to mouth its jessing as Ari watched, the enormous beak clacking against solid steel as its huge clawed foot, six-inch talons tipped with razor-sharp steel, clenched at the free air just out of reach.  The rock was scored deeply where centuries of such talons had gripped its surface in take-off or landing.

The boys, staring at the impressive grooves, almost jumped out of their skins when a gigantic
, ghostly shape rose swift and silent up over the edge of the rock.  Senses accustomed to Cyrrhidean suddenness or not, nobody expected something so large to just appear out of thin air like that.  It was a gryphon, of course, a beautiful creature the color of the morning mist, lion body almost white, wings the color of a dove, with a shimmering rose-colored breast.  She settled like a queen bee amongst the smaller Indigo Talon gryphons while the Northerners stared in wordless awe.

Eneara, apparently.  Traive crossed to her immediately, stroking her neck while the valet dismounted, and around them the Taloners began to
stir into purposeful motion.  Ari felt adrenaline squeeze through him.  Rom came over.  “If you’ll come with me,” he said courteously, “I’ll show you each to your mounts.  My Lady,” he nodded his head admiringly at Cerise, “if you will allow me the pleasure, I shall be your escort.”

Cerise, not one to put pleasure before matters of rank, gave him a diplomatic frown. 
“I thought I would be riding with the Lord Regent.”  As if it had all been settled ages ago, in stone.

“
He’ll be taking Kai; they’re the heaviest pair.”  Graciously oblivious to the dissatisfaction this engendered, he led them out along the spit of rock, which looked a lot narrower once you could see all its edges.  They split up, each Northerner experiencing various levels of muscle tremors as they were introduced to their gryphon-rider escort.

Ari stopped a little breathlessly next to his assigned beast.  It was the palest and largest of any there except Eneara herself, body fawn-colored, feathers a sky blue lighter even than the honors floating from its rider
’s arms.  It never took its eyes off the seductive air currents in front of it, but Ari was sure it was superbly aware of everything going on around it.  He could almost
feel
its alertness.

Belatedly, Ari realized his Taloner escort was bowing over his arm and introducing himself. 
“I’m Piorenen, Pior,” he said cheerfully from a long-nosed, brushy eye-browed face.  He had hair like a bramblevine thicket and an infectious smile that Ari couldn’t help returning.

“
This is Zhimesse,” he introduced his gryphon, patting the shimmering soft feathers on its powerful neck.  “He’s been cranky the past few days, so don’t take it personally.”  Ari looked between the two of them and decided he had no comment on that.

“
Make sure you never approach them from the front,” Pior continued with almost jocular hospitality.  “An off-hand swipe with those talons will gut you from neck to navel.”

Rodge must have been getting similar tutelage—a glimpse of his face over the immense back of the beast next to Ari
’s showed a fixed stare and the unmistakable signs of oncoming panic.  Before Ari could think of anything reassuring to call out to him, Rom’s voice floated out over the windy rock.

“
Mount up!”

His
guts lurched.

“
Ready?” Pior winked at him, then said in stern command to the gryphon, “Mount.”

Zhimesse sank into a powerful crouch that looked like he
’d be gone before they could blink, let alone get on his back, but he held it obediently while Pior unfastened the thick metal cuff from around his lion leg.  As soon as it clanked onto the rock, the beast lifted its near wing out away from its body and Pior slipped into the space, throwing himself up on the tall back.  Even lowered it was like jumping onto the back of a pony.  He turned to look down at Ari, grinning, and offered him his arm.

Gulping, feeling like he was jumping off the cliff,
Ari took it and swung up behind him.

His heart was pounding like he
’d run a marathon.  The lion body was warm between his knees, the throbbing, taut energy leeching through his trousers and making him instinctively grab the confident rider in front of him.

Though Pior was saying something that would forever be lost to time, all Ari heard was,
“Prepare to launch!” from Rom and then all the Taloners echoing to their individual gryphons, “Ready—” 

“
LAUNCH!”

The body under him exploded into action, the powerful legs thrusting them out into midair, the wings on either side of him flinging out and up and up and up in a great rush of sound and feathers until it seemed
everything in sight was pale blue plumage.  Ari’s heart leaped into his throat, his breath completely suspended with the thrill of all that strength and beauty.

Then those enormous wings gave a powerful downstroke, Rodge gave a spineless squall, and Ari
’s stomach joined his heart up in his throat as they were suddenly flung upwards.  Almost paralyzed with stunned amazement, Ari watched the wings stroke again, and again, a magnificent sweep of whispering, silken blue.  Abruptly, he realized they weren’t falling.