Six Celestial Swords (64 page)

“How you feel does not have to be spoken,” Xu Liang replied, still quietly. Neither his words nor his tone revealed anything as to how he might feel himself, not one way or the other. “However, it is not only my awareness that concerns you, Tristus Edainien. I know what you would seek from me...and it is something I am not capable of granting.”

Tristus’ heart broke instantaneously, far too quickly for tears to even form. He felt stunned and weak, and sought the balcony railing for support. Even expecting rejection, he could never have been truly braced for it. It hurt, like Hell itself. With a few simple words a dream was shattered, utterly destroyed—and he could already envision himself scrambling to collect the fragments, as if he had no dignity at all.

Xu Liang mistook his silence for confusion. “I am indebted to you, Tristus, for all that you have done, but I cannot return your—”

“I heard you,” Tristus said quickly. “Please, don’t embarrass me any further by sounding it out.”

“Forgive me,” Xu Liang said.

Tristus felt his blood rushing beneath his skin, his heart pounding mercilessly with pain, and with love that couldn’t be quashed as easily as his hope.

“There’s nothing to forgive,” he muttered, and turned from the railing, doing all in his power to avoid so much as glancing at Xu Liang while he left the balcony.

He walked quickly through the grand dining hall, leaving the banquet without a word to any of the others, determined not to stop until he reached the guest suites. He made it halfway up the first stairwell before he collapsed in a heap of misery, curses, and tears.

TAYA WAS BEGINNING to wonder what was taking Xu Liang and Tristus so long. Fu Ran and her uncle were rapidly becoming more irritating than humorous with their quaffing and gorging, and belching. She was growing so desperate for dignified company that she even welcomed the sight of Shirisae—beautiful and perfect as she happened to be in her long, flowing black gown with her flame-colored hair cascading down her back.

The daughter of the elven priestess sat down in Xu Liang’s seat, perching on the edge as if she didn’t plan to stay. A glance obviously told her that attempting to speak to either Fu Ran or Tarfan would be a waste of time, and so she asked Taya, “Have you seen Tristus?”

Taya mustered a quick smile over her automatic frown. “Not for a little while,” she answered, wondering if she looked as jealous as she felt. And then she stupidly asked, “Why?”

Shirisae sat back and sighed, apparently without noticing the tone of Taya’s interest. “I haven’t seen him since the banquet started. He looked a bit glum. I thought maybe I could help cheer him up.”

“No thanks,” Taya said, then bit her tongue and quickly added, “We’ve already got plenty of help in that area. Uh...Xu Liang just went to see if he’s all right, in fact.”

Shirisae rolled her golden eyes toward the ceiling, her red lips frowning. “I think that Xu Liang’s attention is the last thing he needs.”

Now Taya was curious, instead of simply jealous. “What do you mean?”

The lady elf glanced at Taya, then smiled too quickly. “Please don’t take me wrong. I have the utmost respect for him. I just think that sometimes he can be a little...cold.”

“Xu Liang?” Taya inquired, to be certain. Shirisae gave no indication, right or wrong, so Taya was forced to assume. Assuming that she was right, she lifted her chin haughtily and said, “He does have a lot on his mind, you know. I think it’s understandable that he’s a little detached after he nearly learned what it was to be on the stomped end of stomping a bug.”

Shirisae, whose mind had clearly gone elsewhere, looked at Taya suddenly. “What about bugs?”

Taya sighed irritably. “The giant. Remember? It almost killed him.”

“Oh,” Shirisae responded, then waved the subject away with her hand, looking around the banquet hall, obviously for someone specific.

Taya groaned impatiently. “He’s not here. What’s the matter with you? Aren’t there enough elf boys here that strike your fancy?”

The elf’s yellow-pale skin turned almost as red as her lips. Her golden eyes widened, and for a moment her nostrils even flared. Taya wasn’t sure if she should be prepared to dodge the lady elf’s scathing words, or the back of her hand. She was surprised when neither came at her and Shirisae suddenly relaxed, and even smiled. Her tone was too sweet when she said, “My dear little Taya, I’m so sorry for being insensitive. This must be miserable for you, being so far away from home and all the dwarf boys.”

Fu Ran and Tarfan both burst into laughter, of course choosing that very moment to pay attention to something other than their food and ale. Taya didn’t have a comeback or a retort. She sat quietly and fumed.

“By the way,” Shirisae said, drifting away from whatever satisfaction the previous moments may have brought her. “Has anyone seen my brother?”

Fu Ran lowered his recently refilled tumbler of ale and looked once around the room. “Come to think of it, has anyone seen Alere?”

Everyone looked at each other now. No one said anything. Fu Ran’s question had given them their answer to both concerns.

THERE WERE A great many vast and empty chambers within Vilciel’s enormous structure. It proved a welcomed convenience for two who had quickly become bored with Ahjenta’s banquet, and who didn’t believe in delaying the inevitable.

Alere twirled
Aerkiren
once in his hand, testing the weight against the chill air around him. He wanted no disadvantages here...for either of them. He eyed the Phoenix Elf across the large room they had selected. Shirisae’s brother prepared himself and his weapon for the impending duel in his own way, appearing no less formidable in his current lack of armor. Alere, who had never worn armor greater than his soft leather tunic, watched the flames dancing off the other elf’s curved sword and sent his voice across the empty distance. “Is that blade enchanted?”

“It is endowed,” D’mitri called back, his tone suggesting that to answer his opponent was a waste of breath.

Alere did not give him the satisfaction of an irritated response and asked, “What do you mean by endowed? Try to be clear. I want this to be a fair match.”

“It’s a match, is it?” D’mitri wondered, smiling insolently. When it became apparent to him that Alere refused to be provoked, he said, “This sword was forged in the fiery breath of an elder dragon, and thus endowed with its power; an everlasting flame.”

“Then the weapon itself is magical,” Alere deduced. “That will do.”

D’mitri did not hear him, or did not think it necessary to respond.

Alere sliced the air a few times with
Aerkiren
, then started toward his opponent. “Shall we begin?”

D’mitri unclasped his formal cloak, and threw it off to the side of their flat, featureless battleground. His teeth gleamed in the firelight cast down from huge braziers hanging high overhead. “I’ve been waiting for this. Don’t expect any mercy. Nothing would please me more than to put a stop to my sister’s plans for this ridiculous outing by killing you.”

“Or by dying?” Alere offered.

That was all it took to incite D’mitri’s temper. The Phoenix Elf charged, his flaming sword dragging low, informing Alere of his plan of attack.

Alere lifted
Aerkiren
high and halted the upward sweep, driving the fiery blade back down.

D’mitri swiftly broke away, leaping back and then lunging in again. He was an aggressive fighter, counting on the force of his frequent attacks to compensate for his lacking defense. Perhaps they were not so different after all.

For several moments, each of them tried to outdo the other’s attack, pressing harder, striking faster. Fire and twilight danced erratically between the combatants, the two lights waxing with every connection and waning between blows. This was the only way they could understand and tolerate one another; in a contest of strength, speed, and cunning.

They were fated to be enemies somehow, their hatred coming as sudden and automatically as the attraction between two who were destined to become lovers. It went beyond Alere’s resentment of his own kind, who failed to support the Verressi during the worst of the Shadow Wars. It extended far beneath the surface of D’mitri’s arrogance and contempt. Neither of them could explain it, and neither of them cared to. They only knew that this battle between them felt comfortable, satisfying.

Their blades came together again and held. Neither of them would have admitted that they were resting, even as each tried to force the other back.

“You’re better than I expected, for a child,” D’mitri said through clenched teeth.

“You must be growing old,” Alere replied. “I expected better.”

The easily taunted Phoenix Elf growled and shoved Alere back, his anger feeding his strength. Their fight resumed. The clashing of their weapons resounded loudly throughout the chamber, adding to the intensity.

Alere could have gone on for hours and had no doubt that D’mitri could as well, but the sudden eruption of thunder indoors proved an adequate distraction for both of them. Great streaks of silver light scorched the icy air. As if it was rehearsed, D’mitri and Alere each took a last swing, they each batted the other away, and each of them stepped gracefully out of their deathly dance. In the forced pause, both elves realized they were winded.

The source of the thunder had been no mystery, and so it was no surprise when Shirisae glided across the floor in her flowing silk gown, carrying
Firestorm
in both hands after shooting multiple arcs of silver lightning into the hall.

The disapproval in her expression did not affect Alere—he welcomed a fight from her as well—but D’mitri actually displayed remorse beneath his mask of arrogance.

“What do you think you are doing?” Shirisae demanded.

Alere kept silent when he realized her words were aimed at her brother.

“How dare you to openly defy our mother?” She added in a harsh whisper, “How dare you defy me? We have formed an alliance with this elf, as well as with the humans. Whether or not you can appreciate that, you must recognize it.”

D’mitri met his sister’s gaze briefly, then decided not to argue. He sheathed his sword in a scabbard that enveloped the flame as well as the blade—and was presumably also an item of magic—then glared hatefully at Alere, and left.

Shirisae did not watch him leave, but listened to his heels clicking against the smooth stone floor. When he had gained sufficient distance, she looked at Alere and said, “I apologize for his uncouth behavior. He has always been...difficult when it comes to outsiders.”

“I require no explanation,” Alere replied simply, putting away
Aerkiren
. “The decision to fight was mutual.”

Shirisae’s golden eyes glared, and she firmed her chin. “Well, it won’t happen again in this house.”

“No,” Alere agreed. “There is scarcely time for it if we are to depart with the mystic, come sunrise.”

Finally, the female elf said what she wanted to say. “You disgust me.”

Alere issued no comment, knowing better than to provoke a fight after the last time. It would hardly be a fair contest while she was hampered by a dress, besides. He walked away from her and came upon Fu Ran, Tarfan, and Taya in the corridor outside of the enormous room.

“Damn,” Fu Ran muttered. “It’s over.”

The faintest of smiles escaped Alere, as it amused him to think that the Fanese man had enough respect for either him or D’mitri to consider their battle worthy of an audience.

“I’m glad it is,” Taya said haughtily. “Was anyone hurt?” she demanded of Alere. She added flatly, “I see you’re not.”

“It was a draw,” Alere replied. “In every aspect. Where is everyone else?”

“The guards are in their places,” Tarfan answered in his gruff manner. “Never too far from the mystic, who decided to retire early in preparation for tomorrow’s journey.”

“And the knight?” Alere inquired casually—disinterestedly, the others might have believed.

Taya shrugged irritably. “Moping in his room, I suppose. He’s been acting unpleasant all evening and after Xu Liang went to talk with him, he didn’t even come back to say goodnight. If Xu Liang can’t reason with him, then...”