The Swords of Night and Day (45 page)

“I do not lie, Alahir.”

“Druss fought alongside a Jiamad?”

“We called them Joinings back then, but they were the same. A Nadir shaman had performed a melding on one of Druss’s oldest friends, a man named Orastes.”

“Ah well,” said Alahir, “that is different then.”

“What is?” inquired Skilgannon.

“The Jiamad was once a man Druss knew.”

Skilgannon took a deep, calming breath. “Where is the difference, Alahir? Shakul was once a man. All of them were.”

“Aye,” agreed Alahir, “but criminals and suchlike. Theirs is a punishment for crimes committed.”

Skilgannon paused. He had no wish to insult the man, and he was grateful for the action he had taken. He looked at the young warrior. “I know you are not a stupid man, Alahir. But what you just said shows a remarkable naïveté. Do you believe the Eternal is evil?”

“Of course. Her actions prove it.”

“Exactly. Why then do you suppose an evil leader would use only criminals for melding? Shakul was melded for the Eternal’s army. Yes, he might have been a thief, or a murderer. Or simply a good man who spoke against the Eternal?”

“I see where you are going. Yes, forgive me, Skilgannon. I am a stupid man.”

Skilgannon laughed. “When you consider this venture, I think we both qualify for an award in stupidity. Do not be so hard on yourself. We all get locked into prejudices. In my time and my country the Drenai were considered to be arrogant, selfish conquerors who needed to be taught a lesson in humility. Had I been a little older I, too, might have been part of Gorben’s army, taking on the Drenai at Skeln Pass. You look at the beasts, their awesome power, and their ferocious ugliness, and you wonder just what they could have done to deserve such a fate. For surely, if there is a Source watching us all, they must have done something. I don’t doubt the first Jiamads might have been criminals. After that, with the need for more and more to fill her armies, I expect they were mostly peasants, rounded up in villages. I tell you, Alahir, I was moved when I saw the pack volunteer to travel with Stavut. It made me think there just may be a chance for humanity to change one day. That a group of beasts could show such loyalty and affection inspired me.”

“Ah well, everybody likes Stavut. He has a rare gift for comradeship.”

Once back at the barges Skilgannon bade Alahir good night and wandered down to the last barge. He found Harad sitting at the stern, Snaga in his hands. He looked up as Skilgannon climbed to the deck. “You should have told me,” said Harad, tossing the ax to the deck. The points of the butterfly blades bit into the wood and the haft stood upright, quivering with the impact.

“What difference would it have made?” said Skilgannon, sensing what he spoke of. “She died in an earthquake. She died instantly.”

“Aye, but by my ax!” The anguish in his words was painful to hear.

“I knew a man once who was killed by a pebble, flicked up from the hoof of a passing horse. The man was a tough warrior who had survived a dozen battles. The stone struck him in the temple.”

“There is a point to this?” demanded Harad.

“We rarely get to choose the manner of our passing. You did not kill Charis. The earthquake killed her. Listen to me, Harad, guilt always follows bereavement. It is a natural part of the process. Someone we love dies and the first question we ask ourselves is: Could we have done anything to prevent it? And even if we couldn’t the guilt remains. Did we love them enough? Did we give them enough of our time? We remember arguments or rows, or tears or misunderstandings. And every one of them comes back to us like a knife in the heart. You are not alone in your suffering. Every man or woman old enough to know someone who has died feels the same. For me it was my wife. She was pregnant and happy. Then the plague struck. For years I suffered, knowing that I had not loved her enough. I traveled the world with a shard of her bone and a lock of her hair, seeking the very place we are now trying to find. I wanted to bring her back, to repay her for the days of love she had given me. Charis loved you, Harad. The gift of love is priceless. You are a better man for having loved her, and for having been loved by her. Let the grief flow by all means. But rid yourself of the guilt. You have nothing to feel guilty about.”

Harad sat silently for a moment, then he let out a sigh. “I will think on what you have said,” he told Skilgannon. Leaning forward, he wrenched the ax from the deck. “Why are we in these damned barges?” he asked. “I could walk to the desert faster than this.”

“Tomorrow you will see. Alahir says the waterway opens out into a great submerged canyon. We will have to leave the oxen behind, for there is no land for them to walk. There are sheer mountains all around. Alahir claims it is the fastest way to the Rostrias. If we had to ride it would take another two weeks to skirt the mountains.”

“I have another question,” said Harad.

“Ask it.”

“What happens if we do stop the source of the magic?”

Skilgannon was puzzled. “The Eternal will be able to create no more Jiamads or Reborns. Have I not said this before?”

“Yes, you have. I meant what
happens
to the Jiamads?”

“I really don’t know. They are melded by magic. It could be that removing it would cause the meld to come apart. Or it could be that nothing will happen to them. You are concerned about the welfare of the beasts?”

“As a matter of fact I am,” said Harad. “But I was thinking more about you, and me, and Askari.”

“I don’t follow you.”

“Were we not also created by magic? Are we not, in our own way, just as unnatural as the Jems? Perhaps destroying the source will kill us, too.”

“That
is a thought I could have done without,” admitted Skilgannon. He looked at Harad. “Does it make a difference?”

“No,” said the axman. “We are doing this to protect the weak from the evil strong. We are following the code. Have you any idea of how to find this temple?”

“I know where it
was,”
said Skilgannon. “We’ll start from there.”

S
eventy years before, when Unwallis had first traveled to Diranan, one of the first important people he had met had been Agrias. His position as the queen’s favorite, and chief councilor, had seemed unassailable. Fiercely intelligent, handsome, and multitalented, Agrias had radiated power and authority. Unwallis had stammered foolishly upon being introduced, muttered some dreadful banality, and then stood like a country bumpkin as Agrias and his entourage swept on through the palace.

Physically Agrias had not changed. He still looked young. He was still handsome and tall. But now he radiated nothing but fear as he was dragged before the Eternal. For five days he had been kept tied in a covered pit amid the ruins. He was hauled out on the fifth morning, blinking and squinting against the sunlight, his long pale robe soiled with his own excrement. Unwallis wanted to look away, but there was something magnetic about the man’s disintegration.

When he saw the Eternal, sitting on a high-backed chair and flanked by the senior officers of her Eternal Guard, Agrias struggled to find some last shreds of dignity. As the Guard released their hold on his bound arms, he drew himself upright. “No pretty compliments for me, Agrias?” said the Eternal. “Are you not going to tell me how my hair gleams in the sunshine in raven beauty? Or how to gaze upon my face fills your heart with light?”

“You, my dear,” said Agrias, rediscovering his manhood, “may look beautiful on the surface, but beneath the smooth skin there are the rotting bones of the long dead, and a stench of corruption.”

A Guard struck him violently on the side of the head. Agrias staggered but did not fall. A trickle of blood seeped from a cut in his temple. He suddenly laughed.

“Oh do share your good humor,” said the Eternal. “Amuse us while you still can.”

“When I was a young priest,” said Agrias, “I was gifted with visions. These faded as I grew older and became enamored of power and material wealth.”

“Wonderful,” said the Eternal. “I do so love a morality tale. Does it have a happy ending?”

“There are no happy endings for the likes of you and me, gorgeous one.”

“Ah! That compliment brings back happy memories. You have won a few extra moments of life, Agrias. Pray continue.”

“As I said, I once had a talent for prophecy. Last night, as I sat in the charming apartments you set aside for me, I had another. I cannot say that it entirely lifted my spirits, for my own death was part of it. Doom is upon you, Jianna. The world is about to change. The Armor of Bronze is once more gleaming in the sunshine. And heroes long dead will consign your empire to dust. You are about to become a legend, a creature of the past. Future generations will listen in horror to your tale. They will shiver and reach for talismans at the mention of your name.”

Jianna clapped her hands. “I already know that Alahir and his Legend riders deserted you when they found an ancient relic. The story you have built around their desertion is diverting, but not as fascinating as I had hoped.” Her voice hardened. “I am glad you liked the apartments I put aside for you. Even now bricks and mortar are being brought so that we can give you a more permanent roof. You will have no need of doorways or windows. You can spend your last days, or perhaps weeks, in quiet, lonely contemplation of your treachery.”

Unwallis shivered at the sentence. The man was to be buried alive. Now he looked away, not wishing to dwell on the stricken expression of the former minister. As Agrias was dragged away his courage broke. “Kill me now!” he screamed. “For mercy’s sake!” He was cuffed to silence.

Unwallis eased himself back through the watching crowd of soldiers.

Seventy years ago there had been two great men serving the Eternal, Landis Khan and Agrias. Both had now been dealt with. Landis was dead, his body burned, his ashes scattered. Now Agrias would die in a filthy pit amid the ruins of an ancient city. There had been others, who had not scaled the heights of Agrias and Landis, but who nevertheless were great men. Gamal, hunted down and murdered, Perisis, poisoned after he quit the Eternal’s service, Joran, killed by Memnon’s Shadows. The list went on and on.

He remembered the day Landis Khan had left Diranan for the lands granted to him by the Eternal. He had wondered then if the Shadows would be dispatched after him. He and Landis had spoken briefly on that last morning as servants packed Landis’s belongings. “Why are you leaving, my friend?”

“I am tired, Unwallis. I want to rest and look at the mountains. I cannot face another war.”

“There is no war.”

“No, but there will be. Agrias to the north, Pendashal across the ocean. One or the other. Perhaps both.”

“Have you told the Eternal of your fears?”

Landis had smiled. “You think she does not know?”

“I don’t understand.”

“She is bored, Unwallis. War is the only recreation that truly fires her blood.”

Unwallis had dropped his voice. “She
wants
a war?”

“Think about it. Before sending Agrias north she abused him in front of the court, heaping ridicule on his achievements. She shamed him, then, by way of apology, she granted him the lands beyond the Delnoch mountains. You know Agrias as well as I. He is unforgiving and vengeful. He is also powerful and charismatic. He has his own generals, his own artifacts. He can produce Jiamads. He can recruit men. If you were the lord of this realm, would you let him live?”

“I suppose not,” agreed Unwallis.

“Indeed not,” insisted Landis. “Now I have been granted lands adjoining his. I will not play this game, however. I will take no part in the coming war. Look after yourself, Unwallis.”

Looking back, Unwallis wondered how a man as intuitive and intelligent as Landis could have believed his later actions would fool the Eternal.

Unwallis trudged across the campsite to where his own tent had been placed. It was far smaller than that of the Eternal, and Unwallis had to stoop to enter it. There was barely room for the folding bed. He sat down upon it, then lay back and closed his eyes. It was as if a light had shone on a dark place in his mind, and he saw now so clearly. The first indication had come during the battle—or to be more precise, the dreadful moment when Jianna had drawn her grotesque horse alongside his and told him they were riding into a trap. Her eyes had shone with excitement, and he knew then that the Eternal
enjoyed
flirting with death. It seemed so obvious now why she engineered treachery and promoted men who would ultimately betray her. Eternal life bored her to tears. That was why she had ordered Memnon not to kill Skilgannon—not because she loved him, but precisely because he was a threat.

In effect poor Agrias was to be buried alive for doing exactly what the Eternal wanted.

How evil is that,
wondered Unwallis.

Then there was Decado. She had ignored his excesses for years, but when the time came refused to consider poison, which would have taken his life swiftly and without the danger of escape. Now he was with Skilgannon, making the threat to Jianna even more potent.

The Armor of Bronze was even more mysterious. Unwallis recalled a time some fifty years ago when the Eternal had become interested in archaic sites. She had traveled then with an arcanist named Kilvanen, a shy man with only one abiding passion—seeking to unveil the secrets of the past. Unwallis had liked him. Unlike most of his contemporaries the arcanist was not power hungry; nor did he seek to rise through the Eternal’s ranks. Unwallis felt comfortable in his company, and enjoyed the man’s tales of digging and scrabbling through ancient earth in search of history’s clues. He had become ill after a dig in the Sathuli lands. Unwallis had visited him. Kilvanen was not a rich man, and had few servants. He lived in a pleasant house on the hills north of the city. Unwallis had decided to offer him the services of his own physician, but when he arrived at the house he knew it was too late for medicines or potions. Kilvanen was all skin and bone, his skin pale and dry, his eyes bright with the coming of death. Unwallis asked him if he was in pain, but Kilvanen shook his head. “The Eternal has sent me strong narcotics,” he said. “Thank her for me when you see her.”