The Swords of Night and Day (46 page)

Then they had talked. Kilvanen drifted away into drug-induced sleep, then awoke and began to talk about his work. One story stayed with Unwallis. Kilvanen had discovered a secret chamber on a mountainside. In it, upon a wooden stand, was a suit of incredible armor, gleaming bronze. Kilvanen had known immediately what it was. It represented the greatest find of his life. He had rushed back to the camp to inform the Eternal, and together, holding lanterns, they had eased their way through the narrow tunnel that led to the armor. She had drawn the sword and touched the gleaming breastplate. “Before we remove it,” Kilvanen had said, “we need to examine the chamber and see if there are any other clues as to why it was brought here.”

“I would imagine he would know,” said Jianna, pointing to the bones on the ground.

“My guess is that this was Lascarin the Thief,” Kilvanen had told her. He then outlined the story of the theft of the legendary armor. At the rear of the chamber was a doorway leading to a blocked tunnel. Kilvanen had walked along it. Behind him the Eternal had cried out. Kilvanen rushed back.

The Armor was now encased in a block of glittering crystal.

“What happened, Highness?” he asked her.

“It just appeared. Did you touch anything in the tunnel?”

“No, Highness.”

“How curious.” Then, according to Kilvanen, she had walked to the crystal and reached out for the sword. Her hand had passed through the block, and she had drawn the blade cleanly. She had laughed then. “It is merely an illusion,” she said, returning the blade to its scabbard. Kilvanen had approached the block—only to find it solid as glass. For a time they talked about the magical phenomenon. Finally Jianna gestured for Kilvanen to draw the blade. This time there was no resistance, and the arcanist pulled the weapon clear. “Now put it back,” she told him. After he had done so Jianna reached toward the glittering helm—only to find her fingers could not pierce the crystal. She had laughed. “A clever spell,” she had said. “The crack in the rock through which we arrived was not here when this chamber was built. The only entrance was the tunnel, into which you walked. It is the tunnel that activates the crystal barrier, and the sword that causes it to become illusion. This is so fascinating.”

For Kilvanen it had been the most rewarding moment of his life. His joy had been short lived. Jianna had ordered the opening sealed, leaving the Armor of Bronze untouched. Kilvanen had pleaded with her, but she had been adamant that not only was the Armor to remain where it was, but Kilvanen should tell no one of its existence. There was little chance of that. Kilvanen took ill almost as soon as they returned to the capital. He was dead within three weeks.

It was only later, when some of the Eternal’s other detractors died in the same way, that Unwallis realized she had killed the arcanist.

The Armor of Bronze, the great rallying symbol of the Drenai, was back.

Could it be, he wondered, that somehow the Eternal had engineered this also? That she had sought to make Skilgannon just a little more powerful, in order to heighten the risk?

T
hat evening, in her tent, Jianna communed with Memnon. “I want to see Olek,” she told the translucent image of the dark-eyed mage.

“I can show you him, Highness.”

“I want him to see me, too. Can you help with this from such a distance?”

“Distance is no object, Highness. Hold the talisman firm in your hand and lie back. I will guide your spirit to him. He will see you.”

Lying down on her bed, the bronze amulet in her hand, she closed her eyes. A cool breeze whispered across her, and she felt the mildly sickening wrench that always accompanied these flights of the spirit, as if a harsh hand had dragged her from her body. Then she was in the air, her spirit being drawn toward the northeast. She flowed over mountains and plains, and through a winding river canyon. Below her she saw five long barges, their sides painted bright crimson. They were anchored in the lee of a towering cliff face.

“He is in the lead barge, Highness,” came the voice of Memnon. “He may be sleeping.”

“Show me,” she said, feeling a sense of rising excitement.

Her spirit was drawn closer to the boat. There were horses upon it, and sleeping men. At the prow stood Skilgannon, the Swords of Night and Day on his back. He was everything she remembered, and a great sadness touched her. He was tall and dark, his eyes brilliant blue, his face handsome. He looked just as he had that last day at the citadel, when they had kissed for the last time. “Bring me closer to him, Memnon.”

Slowly her spirit floated over the deck, past the sleeping Drenai. She was now only a few feet from him. He was staring at the rearing cliffs, his eyes distant. Jianna knew that look. He was thinking and planning, examining every possibility that could thwart his mission.

“Ah, Olek,” she said. “I have missed you.”

“He did not hear you,” said the voice of Memnon. “I need a moment, Highness, to bring your image to life.”

Jianna waited.

Skilgannon suddenly stepped back, his face a mask of astonishment.

“I have dreamed of this moment for a thousand years,” she said. “But never did I think we would meet as enemies.” He said nothing, but she saw the surprise replaced by longing, and his expression softened.

“What is it you want here?” he said softly.

“To be friends again, Olek. To talk as we once did.”

For a long moment he said nothing. Then he sighed. “Shall we talk of the day you chided that boy you caught pulling wings from a butterfly? Or of your dreams of gathering the finest surgeons and apothecaries to a central university, in order to advance the cause of medicine? Or perhaps the promises you made to make life more prosperous and happy for all the citizens of Naashan?”

“Why must you always be so argumentative, Olek? You could at least say you are glad to see me.”

“Aye, it would be true, too,” he admitted. “When you died the sun ceased to shine for me.”

“Then come to me, Olek. Together we will build that university you spoke of. We will put in place all the plans we ever made.”

“And you would be Sashan for me again?” he asked. His soft use of the name they had concocted when she had masqueraded as a whore to escape capture lanced into her. It brought back memories so distant they had all but disappeared from her consciousness.

“I would love that, Olek.”

“It cannot be,” he said, harshly. “Sashan is dead, Jianna. As indeed you and I are dead. We should not be here.”

“Then you will not come to me?”

“I intend to end your reign.”

“You would kill me, Olek?”

“No,” he admitted, “I could never do that. But I can destroy the Eternal.”

“You were a great general, Olek. You taught me much. I have a regiment of Eternal Guard on their way to the temple site. And two hundred of our strongest Jiamads. You think this ragtag group of misfits and dreamers can oppose them? Even with you and Decado? Even with Druss’s ax and the Armor of Bronze? A thousand battle-hardened veterans, Olek. You really want to proceed with this folly? You really want all these boys to die?”

“I think you should go now,” he said. “There is no more for us to say. I love you. I have always loved you. But you are my enemy now, and I will bring you down.”

He turned away from her then, and gripped the boat rail.

“I love you, too,” she said.

Memnon’s voice whispered into her mind. “Is it finished now, Highness?” he asked.

“Yes,” she told him.

The world spun and she gasped as the weight of her body returned. Replacing the bronze amulet in its ornate box, she walked from her tent into the moonlight. She sent a sentry to find Agrippon. The officer had obviously not been sleeping, for he arrived swiftly.

“Dig up Agrias,” she said.

“Highness?”

“I have changed my mind. Bring him out.”

“At once, Highness.”

Jianna returned to her tent and filled a goblet with rich, red wine. She did not often drink, but tonight she wanted that warm, enveloping mist that would soften the sharp pangs of her regrets.

She had not set out to become the Eternal, back on that distant day when her new eyes opened to a world of blue skies and fresh, sweet air. That was when she had first seen Landis Khan. In those early days in the temple she had merely been glad to be back in the world of the flesh, enjoying the long-forgotten delights of eating, sleeping, feeling the sun on her face, the wind in her hair. And she had been fascinated by the temple and its artifacts. There had been no thought of building armies or regaining thrones. She learned within the first few days of her new existence that the old empire of Naashan had survived a mere fifty years after her death, and that now her old palace was a ruin. At first she had thought it would be good to travel across the sea and gaze once more on familiar mountains. Common sense told her that this was not wise. The new world was much like the old, torn by wars, greed, and the lust of men. A woman without wealth, traveling alone, would be prey to any bandit chief, slaver, or mercenary warlord.

The decision that set her on her current path had been made with the best intentions. Landis Khan told her that a former priest, now a renegade warlord, had gathered a force and was said to be marching on the temple, desiring its power and the wealth it contained. The priests were terrified. The ward spell that protected them could be pierced by the renegade. Jianna asked them why they were not making plans to defend themselves. Landis Khan pointed out that the men here were academics, and not warriors. They commanded no soldiers and no defense force.

By this time Landis Khan was her lover and would do anything to please her. She told him that the answer lay in hiring mercenaries from among the bandits who roamed the wild lands. He was aghast at the thought. “Anyone who tried to approach them would be taken and tortured,” he said. “These are savage, unholy creatures.”

“Who is the worst of them?” she had asked.

“Abadai. He is vicious and cruel.”

“How many men does he have?”

“I have no idea. Nor do I want to know.”

“How old is he?”

“In his middle years. He has been raiding the caravans and sacking towns for three decades at least.”

“Then he will do,” said Jianna. Two days later, on a borrowed horse and armed with a saber, Jianna had ridden from the temple. She still had a crystal-clear memory of the moment she glanced back and saw nothing but a mountain behind her. No sign of the great doors, or the many windows. Merely blank rock. Even the great, golden mirror atop the peak was no longer visible.

She pushed on, following the directions Landis had reluctantly given her. He had even offered to come with her, and she had seen the gratitude in his eyes when she refused. By late afternoon, high in the mountains, she saw the first of Abadai’s riders. There were three of them sitting their horses on the trail ahead. Jianna realized that from their position they must have been watching her for some time. As she rode closer she saw the hunger and the lust in their eyes. The men were of Nadir extraction, with high cheekbones and almond-shaped eyes. They wore breastplates of baked leather and carried long lances.

Jianna drew rein. “I am seeking Abadai,” she said.

“I am Abadai,” answered one of the men. “Step down and let us talk.”

“You are far too ugly to be Abadai.” The other riders smiled at her insult—the smiles vanishing as the first man glared at them.

“You will regret those words,” he said.

“Regret is pointless,” she told him. “Now either take me to Abadai, or—” The saber flashed into her hand. “—or just try to take me.”

The lance head dropped and he yelled a wild battle cry as he heeled his horse forward. Jianna swayed to her left as the lance blade thrust at her, then her sword arm lashed out, the blade slicing through the back of the man’s neck as he passed. His horse rode on for several steps. Then he pitched from the saddle.

“Do I have to kill you all?” she asked the two warriors, noting their expressions of shock. “Or will you take me to Abadai?”

“We’ll take you,” said one. “You should know that the man you killed was Abadai’s brother.”

The camp was a ramshackle affair, the tents old and patched. Naked children ran across the stony ground, and the women she saw were scrawny and undernourished. Raiding had obviously not been so profitable recently.

The men drew up outside a tent larger than the others. One of them called out, and a squat, powerful, middle-aged man stepped out. His harsh face was deeply lined, his eyes black and cruel. The riders spoke to him in a language Jianna did not know, and she sat quietly waiting.

At last Abadai turned his dark eyes on her. “Speak,” he said. “When you have finished I will decide whether to kill you quickly or slowly.”

“You will not kill me, Abadai,” she said, stepping down from the saddle and lifting her saddlebag clear. Draping it over her shoulder, she walked to face him.

“And why will I not?”

“I hold your dreams in my hand, warrior. I can give you what your heart most desires. I can also give your people what they most desire.”

“And what is it that I most desire?” he asked.

Jianna smiled and stepped in close, her mouth next to the warrior’s ear. “To be young again,” she whispered.

He laughed then. “And perhaps I could grow wings, so that I could attack my enemies from the air, like an eagle?”

“Invite me into your tent and I shall prove the truth of my promise.”

“Why should I even talk to you? There is a blood feud now between us. You killed my brother.”

“You will not mourn him. I doubt you even liked him. The man was an idiot. You are not. However, if my words prove false, or if you decide to take your revenge anyway, it can wait until after we have spoken. You know the old saying? Revenge, like wine, needs time to mature. Then it tastes all the sweeter.”

Abadai laughed. “You are an unusual woman. Is it merely extreme youth that makes you so reckless?”

“Youth, Abadai? I am five hundred years old. Now invite me inside, for the sun is hot, and I am thirsty.”