Once A Hero (63 page)

Then his body melted away, and I knelt there in a bloody lake. The stink of death clung to me, and drying blood threatened to stick my eyes shut. I looked over at where the Reithressa had been, but she had again become a sylvanesti. Clothed in robes of the brightest white, she turned toward me and I recognized her.

"Larissa?" A smile slowly spread across her face. "I knew it would be you, Neal. It had to be you. I wish I had been brave enough for it to be the two of us together."

"What are you talking about? You are here, now."

"I will keep my promises to you, Neal, all of them, not after how much they hurt me, because I would not cause hurt to you." As she spoke, I knew that what I was seeing was a magickal image of her. It could not hear me, it could not reason, and worst of all, it could not explain. All it could do is what Larissa had created it to do when she locked my sword away after my death.

Her image came toward me, hovering above the blood with each step. "Remember that I love you and will always love you, Neal," she said as she extended her right hand toward me. "Never forget me and do forgive me."

I reached up to take her hand in mine, but as my flesh met hers, light flashed and I felt the cool leather and weight of Cleaveheart once again in my hand. As my vision again cleared, I saw the sword with which I had won an empire. An old friend, it fit my hand as if I had never let it slip from my grasp. I smiled and, for a second, felt as I had before I died.

Then a tingle ran up my arm from the sword, and its special magick began to work.

In the same way that Cleaveheart had been more of a traditional Reithrese weapon when Tashayul used it, and then had become a stout broadsword when it passed to me, now it transformed itself again. The cross-hilt threw out tendrils of metal that wove themselves into a fascinatingly intricate basket-hilt. The blade itself stretched and narrowed, with both edges taking on a razor's sheen. The tip narrowed to a needle's point, and the hilt shifted subtly in my hand to provide me the greater control I would need to use it with the techniques I had learned from Berengar.

My circle of vision expanded beyond the sword, and I once again found myself in the old Reithrese chapel in Jarudin. My companions and the emperor, along with the dozen guards beyond them, stared at me intently. I smiled at them, stood, and worked the blade through a simple salute. "May I present Cleaveheart."

Berengar shook his head. "That can't be Cleaveheart. Cleaveheart was a broadsword and this is a rapier." He looked hard at the emperor. "What kind of game are you playing here?"

Hardelwick's expression mixed surprise with delight—the kind of open-faced, open-mouthed smile seen at juggler's shows. "There is no deception. Count Berengar. This is as much of a surprise to me as it is to you. Can you explain this, Man-Who-Would-Be-Neal?"

While I had seen the transformation, I had no idea what they had seen, so I asked.

Gena pointed to the marble circle. "When you touched the dagger to that circle, a solid column of light shot from you to Tashayul's forehead, and it pulled you inside. I saw shadowy movements, but heard nothing and could make no sense of what I saw. Then the light vanished and you were kneeling there with the sword."

I nodded. "This is not the first time this sword has altered its shape. I saw the transformation this time, but I expect that was just part of a spell that wanted to introduce the changed blade to me. I did not see the change the previous time because it happened during the year between Tashayul's death and my recovery of the blade from Jammaq. This sword is involved with destinies and empires, it appears to change itself to be best suited for the environment in which it is being used."

Berengar smiled. "That is fascinating. Perhaps, as it has become the sort of blade I wield, you should entrust it to me for safekeeping."

"I'm thinking that if I had a wife with whom you danced better than I, you'd not be asking to be keeping her, would you?" I laughed as he shook his head, and the rest joined in. "I'll be keeping Cleaveheart here for the time being, but if you want to continue my fencing lessons, I'd be obliged."

"And I would be honored."

"As will I be if you will consent to be my guests." The emperor bowed to me and I returned the bow. "You realize of course, that you are still the Knight-Defender of the Empire." Reaching over, he plucked a glove from where it was tucked into the belt of one of his guards and displayed it to me. "As you can see by this brand, we still observe traditions here."

"Then you know I would be honored to be your guest, If that is acceptable to my companions." Berengar and Gena both nodded their assent. "High time, you do realize I also have a Dreel in my company?"

Hardelwick's face lit up. "Shijef?"

"His great, great grandson Stulklirn "

"He is welcome as well." The emperor clapped his hands. "In one old diary I read of the feast Beltran intended to throw when you returned from the Reithrese war. As you have consented to return after five hundred years, I think it only fitting I complete his plans—if that is acceptable."

"It is, Highness, provided one thing, I'm thinking."

"Yes?"

I smiled. "I consent as long as you're going to be using food that wasn't put up at the same time I was put down."

Had she been asked to determine which of her companions would have been least enthusiastic with the suggestion of an imperial reception, she would have said Berengar would reject the idea. In fact, the suggestion sparked in him a pleasant attitude that had been rare since they left Jarudin on their way to Cygestolia. It was as if the recovery of Cleaveheart had been the climactic point of the mission and returning it to Aurdon was little more than perfunctory.

Despite his banter with Hardelwick when the offer was made, Neal seemed least at ease with the idea of a celebration. He agreed because there was no way not to agree to the honor—that much seemed clear to her—but she felt he would just as soon have quit the capital as fast as possible. Though he seemed happy to have reclaimed his sword from the place where it had been secreted after his death, melancholy took the edge off his normally stout-hearted person.

The Dreel, whom they found waiting for them in the suite of rooms the emperor gave over to them, appeared to like the capital and greeted the idea of remaining for a day with pleasure. "Capital cats fat be," he reported while smacking his lips.

It took Gena a while to put together her feelings on the idea of the celebration, and they were not crystallized even after a full day spent purchasing suitable clothing for herself and watching Berengar prepare for the feast. She realized she was doing everything she would have done, and, in fact, had done, to prepare for similar events in the past, but something seemed wrong in all of it. She found herself getting ready for the feast with the same trepidation with which one might walk across ice of an undetermined thickness. Passage was possible, but each step brought with it fear of disaster and a knowledge that the sound fundaments of the world may be nothing more than eggshell thin.

The palace contained a ballroom that dwarfed the one in the Fisher mansion in Aurdon, and it had been scrubbed clean and brightly lit for the gala. Enough candles burned in that room to set up their own wind currents, and light gleamed from polished gold and silver fixtures, as well as marble statuary and the multicolored floor. Silk streamers and drapes splashed blue and red throughout, and food and drink flowed in abundance.

In spite of the obvious preparations, the room and the people seemed wrong. The room had no life and people moved awkwardly through it. They appeared nervous and studied every little detail as if they were seeing each for the first time. Gena realized, of course, that was likely, which meant the room had been seldom used and, therefore, made everyone uneasy. Had they commonly been called to the room for festivities, they would have been used to it, and even oblivious to some of the more exquisite works of art hung on the walls—pity though that might have been.

The social mix likewise seemed designed to promote awkward and anxious relations. The first circle of guests—Gena thought of them this way because they seemed to cluster together in the northeast corner of the room—were imperial nobles of every rank, sex, and age. Their fine clothes were not new and, while in keeping with the red-and-blue color scheme, attained compliance by the use of scarves, hose, and ribbons that could be added or removed with ease.

Yet that seemed to be the only easy thing about them. Gena watched them interact and found them akin to a pack of dogs sniffing about to determine their correct social status. Clearly in the running for one of the primary positions, Berengar moved among them with a confidence and casual air that suggested he had no doubt as to where he belonged. He deferred to those who were clearly his superiors, by dint of age or wealth, yet remained cordial with those who were obviously beneath him. If he snubbed anyone, it was only someone the others snubbed, reinforcing his right to be there among them by helping exclude those who did not belong.

The second and third circles of guests had been selected by the emperor because of their connections to Neal and his era. Sharp and precise, the officers of the Emperor's Own Steel Pack seemed to take great delight in showing off their martial finery. Each of them wore a branded leather glove on his left hand and snapped to attention when Neal or the emperor passed by. Neal spent a certain amount of time speaking with them, which they seemed to enjoy. From what she heard of the conversations, she assumed that listening intently to old war stories was an acquired skill.

The third circle of guests were the descendants of the people Neal and her grandfather had referred to as "Mountain Men." She knew that the survivors of the group that willingly allowed itself to be trapped in the Hiris mountains had been rewarded with homes in the capital, but from the looks of their descendants, their exaltation had not survived more than a generation or two. All of them appeared to be well mannered, but grossly out of their class at the gathering. Tradesmen mostly, from the looks of their hands, they huddled together in small groups and spoke in low whispers with each other.

Neal spent an inordinate amount of time with those small peasant knots. She stood by him as painfully shy people introduced themselves and told him who their ancestor among the Mountain Men had been. Neal universally greeted them warmly and managed to come up with one anecdote or another concerning their kin. The people graciously excused themselves when he finished, but walked away with warm smiles to meet others of their kind and swap their stories.

She managed to steer Neal aside at one point and pressed a goblet of wine into his hands. "All that talking must make you thirsty."

He nodded wearily and drank a bit. "Wouldn't think it, but after this time I can actually see in them faces I knew."

Gena smiled, then looked down into the dark depths of her own wine. "Are all of those stories true?"

Neal's green eyes narrowed for a moment, then he nodded. "I'm thinking I'm remembering right. Only been about six months to me since I was up in the mountains freezing along with all of their kin. When they give me some details, I can remember most of them. Things have changed, of course, as stories come down through the years. The Mountain Men were all good folks, and I'm thinking they'd be happy that their kin are still living free because of what they did. It would make the sacrifice worth it."

She looked up into his face. "Do you think it was worth it?"

Surprise raised his eyebrows. "I always thought it was worth it. History, at least as reported to me by the Steel Pack and these people, has made the whole fight against the Reithrese into some glorious crusade where all of the people on the correct side of the conflict were rewarded with the spoils of the Reithrese Empire. They have made it into a war of loot, but that wasn't what it was at all. We fought the Reithrese because they denied us freedom and kept us as slaves."

"But knowing that there would be rewards for your actions must not have hurt things."

Neal shook his head emphatically. "We all thought we were going to die, and we were willing to die. If you ask any man or woman here to put a price on his life, you'll find no amount of gold or jewels will suffice. But if you ask the same person if he would be willing to lay down his life so his children and their children will never have to face slavery, there's scarcely one here who would tell you he would not."

He drank a bit as the vehemence behind his words sank into Gena. "You see, Genevera, the Reithrese built an empire to enrich themselves. We liberated an empire to free ourselves. That people became rich and successful after the fact does not mean that we fought our battles because of money. Some of those who were best in battle were likely worst in commerce or agriculture, so they did not benefit from their efforts in the way someone else might have. The point is, though, that we all fought so our futures would not be limited, not so we could limit the futures of others so as to enrich ourselves."

Neal hesitated, then smiled. "Forgive me, I did not mean to lecture you. I . . . it's quite a shock to see what sort of stories survive. We are as removed now from my war as I was from the Eldsaga. I wonder now about some of the things I held as truths about Elves because of how the stories were warped."

"But does that matter?"

Neal frowned. "Does it not?"

Gena shrugged. "You managed to look past what the Eldsaga said and become friends with my grandfather. You endured incredible abuse at the hands of my people, but you never rejected them. You never struck out against them, you fought for and with them. What you did, not what you thought, made all the difference."

She pointed to the crowd of Humanity moving toward the walls as the musicians in the northwest corner began to play. "It does not matter if these people think the war was fought for riches or freedom. The fact is that they remain free and they jealously guard their freedom. Berengar's quest to find Cleaveheart and end your domination of his family's destiny is just a small example of how valued freedom has become. The emperor is less a dictator than he is an archivist. That for which you fought lives on."