The Sheening Of The Blades (Book 1) (65 page)

Mind churning ponderously, unwilling to join the rather raucous group around the fire, he wandered thoughtfully out into the meadow.  A short distance away, the horses were rolling and grazing and doing horse things, Verrena
’s stallion guarding them alertly.  They had the fine bones and glossy, jewel-toned coats of Aerachs, and every one of them a beauty, worth a small fortune in the North. 

The stallion blew out his breath at him, shaking his silky black mane in warning as Ari approached.  Ari
’d never been afraid of horses, though, even when very young, and he’d never known one that didn’t eventually come to him.  This one was a little stubborn, his powerful, slender legs sidestepping him away when Ari got too close.

“Fine,” Ari said, low and soothing.  Smiling, he moved past him towards the herd, which wasn
’t nearly as suspicious.  The stallion objected behind him, realizing he’d been outfoxed, but by then, Ari was wandering into the midst of those gleaming sides and lustrous manes and tails.  Some of them nuzzled him, most ignored him, and he gazed around in wonder.  Even through the faint coating of reddish dust that hadn’t been completely scrubbed off yet, they were gorgeous animals.  There was a softly golden palomino with a glow like a halo in the fading sunlight.  A gorgeously dappled grey with pure white mane and tail.  A bay the color of oozing blood, he was so red.  Looking closely at them, Ari frowned—almost half the herd were stallions.  But then, why would he expect the Whiteblades to lay claim to a herd of horses that followed normal rules of nature?

“You
’re a brave man,” a woman’s voice said quietly behind him.  He turned, surprised to see Verrena, cleaned up and looking at him unsmilingly.  In the soft gloaming, his senses seemed muted, as if he was half-asleep, and she was like a dream…all soft edges and glowing eyes.  The comfortable munching and blowing and tail-swishing of the horses was almost hypnotically calming.  “A kick from one of these hooves could kill you.”

“I
’m not afraid of horses,” he answered, his voice deep and mellow. 

Slowly, she joined him at the side of the cream-colored mare he was petting, close enough he could smell her wild, clean scent.  “Nor I,” she said softly. 

His awkwardness had faded, too.  Maybe it was the night.  Maybe it was the utter confidence of this particular Whiteblade.

“You
’re a Rach?” he asked, for something to say, and was mildly surprised when she shook her braids.

He was even more surprised when she said, “My father was a Dra.  My mother was    Cyrrhidean.”

“I didn’t think Drae…rode.”

She turned to look directly up at him, her eyes green as spring leaves in the warm dusk.

“They do not ride…out of shame, for a long past dishonor.  Il frees us from those burdens.  He takes our shame on Himself…and destroys it.”

He stared at her, benumbed, his senses so full of her presence that his mind was having to race to deal with the import of her words. 
He’d been born with a little shame of his own that he’d rather not be thinking about right now.

“How…nice,” he managed finally, trying to sound neutral.  A casual night, a casual conversation—and suddenly they were as deep into
theology and his inner life as if they’d known each other for years.  He didn’t know quite what he thought about that, with all its suddenness.

“It is not a distant occurrence that happens just to other people,” she said drolly, reading him very correctly.  “It is a service He provides for everyone…”

“I…haven’t done anything to deserve that…” Ari laughed self-consciously.  He was so far from what he’d seen in Illian devotion—he wouldn’t
really
even consider himself, you know…if it came right down to it…

“No,” she agreed.  “None of us have.  It is a gift.”

He stared at her.  “There’s nothing given for nothing.”

“You sound like a Northerner,” she said dryly.  “A lot of them decline His joy and the peace of life with Him for that very reason.  Sometimes it
’s easier to cling to ‘too good to be true’ than it is to accept truth itself.”

“It
’s not like I don’t
want
it,” Ari protested.  How had they gotten into this conversation when seconds ago he’d been so relaxed and happy he could have draped himself over one of these beautiful backs and snored?  “But you can’t just wake up one day and say, “OK, today I’m going to be an Illian.  It wouldn’t mean anything…” he trailed off, a little flustered to think that that was exactly what he had done when he remembered that he’d been raised by nuns. 

“You are right.  You cannot.  The secret to being an Illian…is Il.  It
’s about what He does, and has very little to do with what YOU do…”

That made no sense at all.

“It is like being trapped in the bottom of a deep well,” she said, eyes drifting off of his face and into the thick, warm night.  “The only way out is a rope that must come from the top.  Some people spend their whole lives denying they are in a well.  Some deny there is a rope.  And some realize the well is filling with water or want something more out of life than a small, dark, enclosed space…and look up.   And ask for the rope to be lowered.”

             They looked at each, for a minute, an hour, an age.  Ari couldn
’t remember later.  He just  remembered he felt all murky and unclear inside. 

             Maybe because she was looking back at him so steadily, so expectantly, he said, “I don
’t know if I…I can do that.”  His voice was very low, and hers was even more so when she replied, “You are right to be afraid.  His love will change your life…and turn it upside-down and backward from all you thought you knew.”

CHAPTER
31

At lunch the next day, Ari wandered over to the edge of the trail.  The escarpment plunged abruptly here, and in a break of the brush and trees, you could walk right to the edge.  It was a heady feeling, standing there on the edge of the world.  Far below, at the seam of mountain and desert where there were sharp, crusty wallows of dry river beds, rank after rank of the feathery tree-bushes that gave the mountains their name were in full bloom.  It was like a delicate pinkish-white lace edging the skirt of the reddish hills.  And then, beyond, like a magnet that drew his eyes, lay the endless stretches of glowing sand.  He wasn’t sure the attraction was all healthy…it was, he couldn’t help thinking bitterly, his homeland. 

“It
’s probably not a good idea to silhouette yourself for too long,” Dorian’s smooth voice said next to him.  “We are trying to escape detection for as long as we can.”

“The Sheelmen
’ll probably just think it’s one of their own,” Ari said, not very civilly.

He felt her eyes on him like a physical pressure.

“Petulance suits you ill,” she remarked.

He didn
’t follow when she turned away, his tanned cheeks warmer than just the heat of the sun could account for.  Petulance?  She knew what he was.  It wasn’t like he was throwing a tantrum over not getting a sweet.  But shame twisted uncomfortably in him.  He didn’t know why he was in such a horrible mood, why he couldn’t stop thinking about his conversation with Verrena, why his past should be haunting him again now when his most fervent daydreams had come true and life had a purpose again.  Much more than it had before, actually. 

When he stepped back out of sight, Kai was there.  The Dra glanced at him—the equivalent of a long gaze into the soul—and said, “You have been made as was intended.”

Normally, the Dra was the most undemanding company imaginable, but that comment was enough to make Ari glower at him.  It smacked uncomfortably of divine purpose to his sensitized ear.  It was several moments of characteristic silence later that he added, “What you
become
is largely up to you.”

Great.  Just what he needed.  More moralizing.  Did he have a big sign on his forehead today proclaiming
helpless child in need of instruction
?

He didn
’t stay there long after Kai left, not finding the company to his liking, and headed back to the fire. He almost ran into Voral, who was coming in off whatever duty she’d been on. 

“Voral—” Jordan began as soon as she noticed her.

“One more word about gravitational equilibrium and you’re flying over the cliff for illustrative purposes.”

Still open-mouthed from whatever she had been going to say, Jordan began to smile.  “You completely underestimate the power of the expanded mind.  Do you really think there
’s no more to life than a backswipe or the underhand chin-cut?”

“We
’re not communicating here,” Voral answered heavily, sinking into a powerful squat by the fire and tearing into a tender piece of grouse off the make-shift grill.

“Jordan
’ll do enough communicating for the both of you,” Yve said, raising a circle of chuckles.  She was bending over something involving baked apples and sugar crust that had Ari’s mouth watering despite his full stomach.

“Warrior,” Dorian
’s regal voice cut through the banter like a hot knife through a lump of lard.  “Has there been any sign of the Hand?”

“None,” she growled around a chunk of gristly fowl.  She glanced up, shrugging her shoulders at Dorian
’s piercing look.  “I don’t have Ash’s eyes,” she protested obscurely.

Verrena rose gracefully from her crouch nearby, her long, slender body giving the impression more of a sabre than a sapling.  Like the Drae, there was something about her that made her movements seem important, her words worth listening to—whatever it was, when she spoke everyone usually listened.

“Let me take their horses and meet them,” she suggested.

Voral gave her a look over the remnants of grouse.  “What for?  We
’ve gotta wait for Rheine and Saffron anyway.”

But Dorian
’s eyes had narrowed, and after a minute’s silence, she nodded.

Verrena turned swiftly, moving to the side of her black stallion grazing nearby and mounting all in one seamless flow of motion.  She headed him right in to the nearby herd and, in a matter of seconds, had cut out three other horses.  As they were riding by, a greyish dun stallion, a chestnut that shone like polished brass, and the darkest caramel-colored palomino Ari had ever seen, Dorian called after her:

“Be back in two weeks, Rider.  No more.”

She raised a slim brown hand in acknowledgement and disappeared down the trail back north.

The rest of the Northerners began to mount up, too, reluctantly, as all the Whiteblades were melting away back to their various sentry duties.

“I hate it when they leave,” Rodge remarked, in a general and all-encompassing way.  Cerise rolled her eyes.

“I thought there were five Whiteblades in the Hand of Mercy,” Loren said.  “She only had three horses.” 

“Dorian
’s one of them,” Banion growled, provoked at all the sorcerous goings on and in no better mood for having to constantly explain them. 

“And the other is Rheine,” Ari said slowly.  “The Chieftess.”  And then, because his tone of voice was making everyone look at him, he added briskly, “One of those trapped in the Swamps.”

He was relieved when Loren, on top of his game today, continued, “Traive—where are your Fox?  I haven’t seen any of them in ages.”

The Lord Regent shot him a sardonic glance.  “They haven
’t been around since before the Swamps.”

“You lost them?” Loren said.

“The Ivory probably asked them to return to the Torques,” he chuckled.  Everyone else in the party goggled at him.  He shrugged.  “The Ivory are held in great esteem in Cyrrh.  It is not unlikely that they could’ve proven quite…persuasive.”

“It
’s a good trade-off,” Rodge murmured contentedly.  Several pairs of eyes lingered for a moment on the panorama of feminine loveliness on its way out of camp.

But Banion said, “You don
’t have any tighter control over the men under you?”

“It was no doubt in their best interests,” Traive said comfortably.  Despite Banion
’s faint disapproval, Ari had to agree…those Swamps were a death walk. 

He looked restlessly at Kai, on foot
up ahead, and longed for something similar to do.  Ari had tried to join him this morning.  He’d slapped his brown on the hindquarters in the direction of the herd, since Cerise had been given a spare, and the brown (gelding or no, such a lovely group of mares was nothing to curl your lip at) had been happy to go.  But the horse had been stopped peremptorily by Dorian, who managed to walk him back without having to bother with that silly bridle thing the rest of them had to use.

“Ride, please, Ari,” she said quietly, though he was well aware it wasn
’t a request.  He may have had a rebellious look in his eye, because she granted him an explanation.  “These hills are still dangerous, though you may feel you have been through the worst there is.  If we are attacked, you must be able to run with the rest of the party…you especially.”

Well, what was he supposed to say to that?  It was very difficult to look into those perceptive eyes and not feel childish and petty even when you weren
’t acting that way.

But the hours and the days passed safely.  Despite the calm faces of their escort, tension sifted inexorably into the increasingly anxious days.  They were racing south and trying to stall for the missing members at the same time, and it was making Ari aware of the same disconnect inside of him. 
It was to the south that his purpose lay…but he was not altogether sure he was ready for the end of this trail yet.  Who was he?  Who was he to Il?  Who was
Il
? 

He was arguing a fine point of the Battle of Montmorency with Banion and Loren one afternoon when his unspoken wish for a little distracting action came true.  He had just turned to look at Loren when a Whiteblade sailed between them at eye level.  They blinked at each other—they were on horseback—before thinking to follow her trajectory.

Their jaws dropped.  It had been tiny Irise, the airborne one, and she had plowed into some monstrous, beaked, gangly-looking winged thing that had crept up behind them so silently they hadn’t even known it was there.  As they watched, she spun up from the ground where she’d landed, twirling like a dust devil, feet flying into the creature—bird—thing’s face.  There was no sound yet, no cries of alarm, no screams.  Ari and Loren sat gaping on oblivious horses as the delicate little china doll summarily dispatched this huge, ugly bird-thing.  To their credit, it
was
happening rather rapidly, but she’d slashed the creature’s throat, spun, fitted an arrow to her little bow and fired at another one rising from the trees behind them, calling out in rising warning, “Dor-
i
-
AN
!” before the boys made a sound.

“There
’s giant bird things!” Loren crowed, not really of much clarification, but their reflexes were so well trained at this point that it was really the panic in his voice that was most effective.

“Attack!” Ari cried at the same time, which he thought later seemed much more dignified.

“Scrub condors,” Dorian glanced back and said, as if someone had asked what was for dinner.  “Let’s go!”  She took off in a sprint—their way led right across a big open space—and they all put heels to their horses and followed.  They’d reached the trees on the other side when Kai came pelting back past them, and Ari, looking behind him, felt his heart plummet.  Rodge was still back there, right in the middle of the meadow fooling around with his horse.

His
gelding was no stag, but he was the nimblest horse Ari’d ever been on.  He was almost thrown off when he yanked back on the reins, the little brown skidding to a halt almost on his haunches, and had to grab on to the saddle to keep up with it when he turned it back the way they’d come.  He’d barely gotten reseated—his little half-blooded Aerach could really
move
—when he frantically pulled back again, trying to stop in time to be of some use to Rodge.

Rodge had fallen off in their dash across open ground and was trying to remount Radish, whose eyes were rolling wildly and fearfully behind him.  And over the tree line, coming into view just as Ari looked, was a monstrous one of those things in flight.  Later, with the detachment of hindsight, he could say that it was nowhere near as terrifying as a gryphon.  Its wingspan was less than half, and there was nothing even approaching that lethal ferocity that they
’d seen gleaming from gryphon eyes in Cyrrh.  However, at the time, to see those leathery wings spreading out a man’s length to either side of the long, sharp beak, and the big, spread, clawed talons, and to stare into those dead avian eyes—was quite stimulating.

“Rodge!” Ari yelled—as that helps a man remount—and pulling the terrified brown up near the pony, reached over its back and pulled Rodge bodily up into his saddle.  The thing swept toward them on ghostly wings, filling the sky like a big, dry, brown storm of fear.  Where had Kai gone?  Ari swatted the pony
on his haunches and screamed, “RUN!” 

There was no way, under normal circumstances, that pony could
’ve kept up with that half-Aerach.  But fear is a wondrous equalizer, and as they raced away from the swooping monster there was so much combined adrenalin release among them it could’ve fueled a whole herd of fat ponies.  Still, time seemed to slow to a crawl.  Ari was sure that thing could fly faster than they could run.  He was sure he could feel its hot bird breath on his back, feel the wind from its wings fanning his fevered face. 

And then he saw one of the Whiteblades
appear suddenly just ahead of them.  She was poised composedly, bow drawn and arrow pointed barely over their heads—and right in their path.  It was Vashti, the Brown Beauty, her fine braids stirring a little in the breeze.  Yanking frantically on the reins, he swerved barely in time to avoid flattening her, so close her cloud of unbraided hair brushed his sleeve.  Again he got the brown turned; the horse was soaked, slick with lather as much from ffright as all his acrobatics around the meadow.  He rushed back.

“Come on!” he shouted down at Vashti, whose clear brown eyes were fixed on two more of the beasts.  He didn
’t know what had happened to the one that had been chasing them.  She glanced up at him, surprised.  Hurriedly, she waved him on, her swift hands already nocking another arrow.

“I
’m not leaving you!” he cried stubbornly.

A dozen yards away, the other Dra, Atlanta, was watching them as she notched and pulled her bow.  “Do not tarry,” she cried in warning, with that charming understatement they all seemed to have.  In one liquid move, she pivoted her torso around the tree bole and let fly
with her arrow.

Almost impatiently, Vashti grabbed his arm and swung up behind him, so athletically that he hardly felt her weight.  Instantly, he released the brown, who
’d been throwing his head at the restraint, and they plunged once more across that big field at a wide-open run.  Ari felt her legs like iron pincers around his thighs, and then, unbelievably, the twang of her bow almost in his ear.  At full speed, on a galloping horse.