The Prince Deceiver (The Silk & Steel Saga Book 6) (11 page)

In The North

19

The Knight Marshal

No fodder for
his sword, the knight marshal slowed to a halt. Death surrounded him. Corpses
sprawled in the bloody snow, their sightless eyes gazing at him with reproach. Severed
heads, sundered limbs, the slaughtered corpses sprawled along the trail, blood
and entrails releasing a terrible stench. It smelled like death, it smelled
like victory.

The marshal used
a cloak from the dead to clean his sword. Dark as midnight, the black steel
glittered cold and keen in the waning light. Dragons coiled on the hilt, runes
carved between the runnels, the two-handed great sword thrummed in his hands,
hungry for more. A sword of power, a sword of legend, he raised the great blade
to the heavens, flush with victory. "I am a god!" His shout echoed
against the mountains, a challenge hurled to all of Erdhe. "
I am the
God of War!"

"War,
war, war..."
his words echoed back at him, an eerie refrain.

Sheathing his
great sword, he reclaimed his stallion. His warhorse pawed the blood spattered
snow, seeking tender shoots of grass among the dead. Taking up the reins, he
checked the girth. With the vigor of a much younger man, the marshal vaulted
into the saddle, keen for the next battle.

“Osbourne!” The
cry came from the hills.

The marshal
whirled, seeking the voice. And then he spied a new foe. A lone knight, mounted
on a horse, waiting at the crest of the trail.

“
Fight me!”
The marshal roared his challenge.

“Remember your
honor!”

*Kill!*
The
Dark Sword whispered its siren's song.

The marshal
spurred his horse to a gallop, ironshod hooves churning up the bloody snow.

“Remember the
maroon!”

Unsheathing the
dark sword, the marshal stood in the stirrups. Feeling invincible, he roared
his challenge, "
Fight me!"
Holding the Dark Sword aloft, he
raced towards this new foe, keen for combat.

The knight stood
his ground, his hands empty of weapons, his maroon cloak fluttering in the
wind. "Remember the Octagon!"

The marshal felt
the Dark Sword thrum in his hands, hungry for heart’s blood, hungry for death.

“Remember King
Ursus!”

King Ursus,
the
name shuddered through him, waking memories, his friend and his king, buried in
a stone cairn overlooking Raven Pass. Grief pierced him. The marshal slowed his
charging stallion, checking his mount to a trot.

*Kill!*
The
Dark Sword keened in his mind.

The mounted
knight sat unmoving at the trail's crest, hurling words like spears. “Remember
King Ursus, remember the maroon, remember Castlegard!”

Names slammed
against the marshal, laden with memories. He yanked on the reins, slowing his
warhorse to a walk. The stallion fought the bit, but obeyed. Battered by
memories, the marshal lowered his sword.

*Kill!*
In
his mind, the Dark Sword screamed its hunger, yearning for another kill, but
the marshal fought to ignore it. He stared up at the knight…and remembered his
friend's name. “Lothar.”

“Yes,” Lothar
nodded, “and you are the knight marshal of the maroon, my friend and my
commander.”

The marshal
slowed his stallion to a halt. He stared at his friend, horrified by what might
have been. “I nearly killed you.”

“It would not
have been easy.” Lothar gestured and twenty archers stepped from behind trees,
their longbows bent, their arrows aimed at the marshal’s heart.

A snarl came
from the marshal’s throat. He whipped the Dark Sword upward, poised to kill…but
something made him hold his ground. Breathing hard, he forced the sword down.

“It's the sword.”
Lothar held his stare. “Sheath it. I can feel its bloodlust from here.”

The marshal came
back to himself. He looked at the Dark Sword and then he looked down at his
silver surcoat spattered with blood, the octagon sigil nearly obscured by the
gore. And then he remembered the battle. Corpses littered the trail. Not just
slain, they were slaughtered, chopped to pieces. Butchered, dismembered, as if
a monster had come among them, rending limb from limb. A horrible stench rose
from the severed entrails. Sickened by the slaughter, the marshal rammed the
Dark Sword into the harness riding across his back. The dragon-coiled hilt
reared over his right shoulder like a promise and a threat.

Lothar grunted,
“Good.” He made a gesture and the archers disappeared back into the forest.
"Come. You need food and rest and time to remember yourself before you
seek another patrol.”

"I know who
I am."

"Do
you?" Lothar gave him an appraising look. "You're the knight marshal
of the Octagon, yet you slew all those who surrendered."

Kneelers,
the
word twisted in his mind like a curse, unleashing a terrible fury.
"Kneelers deserve to die."

"That's
Darkness talking." Lothar speared him with his stare. "Don't let the
sword claim you."

*Kill him!*
The
Dark Sword whispered at the back of his mind.

The marshal
grimaced, resisting the sword.

"You can
fight it!"

The marshal
locked stares with his friend. "I
am
fighting it! Else you'd be
dead."

20

Nimeria

Sunlight pooled
on the crisp white page of vellum, illuminating it with a golden glow. Despite
the light pouring through the alcove window, Nim lit eight lanterns and set
them in a circle around the desk. For this, her apprentice piece, she'd suffer
no shadows to hinder her view. A prudent practicality, the lanterns were also
part of the ritual, for they served to keep Darkness from sullying her work
while paying homage to the eight pointed star. "
Seek Knowledge, Protect
Knowledge, Share Knowledge
," she whispered the words of the Kiralynn
Order.

Taking a seat at
the desk, Nim contemplated the infinite possibilities of the blank page. She
loved the unbridled optimism of art melded with words, striving to create
something of lasting beauty imbued with intricate meaning. Since her very first
day in the monastery, she'd been enthralled by the illuminated texts shimmering
jewel-bright upon the walls, knowledge writ upon every corridor and hallway.
And now it was her turn to contribute to the monastery's works.

The other
acolytes sought easy passages to transcribe, but not Nim. She'd searched the
old tomes, seeking ancient patterns of intricate knotwork, seeking the pathway
to Illumination. She shivered at her own audacity, imagining her masterwork,
knowing every detail must be perfect for the ancient magic to take hold.

It began with a
blank page of vellum, so smooth, so superior to ordinary parchment, an
unblemished canvas awaiting enlightenment. "May the Lords of Light guide
my hands." Taking a deep breath, she used a sharp-pointed stick and a
straight-edged rod to line and block the page with the faintest indentations,
just deep enough to be seen but not deep enough to last. Having blocked the
page, she began tracing the complex designs for the great ornamental capital
letter and the illuminated armored knights riding forth from a dauntless
castle. She planned to add gold embellishment in a cascade of complex knotwork
beneath the illuminated letter. The knotwork would frame a gauntleted fist
holding a sapphire-blue sword aloft.
Blue steel,
the fabled swords of
the Octagon knights, the very stuff of heroic legends, a fitting topic for her
first master work.

It took the
better part of a fortnight to transfer the intricate details to the virgin
vellum, but finally her bold design took form, appearing as faint indentations
woven across the page. Keen to bring her design to life, she was finally ready
for ink.

Relighting the
eight lanterns, she trimmed her best quill to the appropriate shape for the
calligraphy's width. Nim opened a bottle of the finest black ink. Pricking her
finger, she squeezed a single drop of blood into the bottle, an offering to the
gods, a binding to the ink. Only a pinprick, yet she bound her finger with
cloth and held it till the bleeding stopped lest she stain the page. While she
waited, Nim cast her mind across the chosen text.

The text, like
the design, was of her choosing. Nim could have chosen anything from the
acolyte scrollaries, from the famed lyrics of Xel the Harper, to the poetry of
Keetai, to the philosophies of Aranald, but she'd heard the whispered rumors
and seen for herself how the frost owls flew thick as starlings, bearing
messages to the mountain mews. It did not take a sworn master to know that dire
times had befallen Erdhe. In such times, it occurred to Nim that the heroes and
swords of ancient times were sorely needed once more. Drawn to the Sword Codex,
she chose a passage on the forging of the first blue steel blade.

In her mind's
eye, she saw the passage, not as it was writ in the Codex, but as it would be
scribed upon her vellum. She visualized every word, every letter. When she was
certain the text was fixed in her mind, Nim took a calming breath and dipped
her quill in the gall iron ink.

Setting the nib
to the vellum, she began. Script flowed out of her, elegant calligraphy scribed
across the virgin page. Once started, she could not stop, breaking only to
carefully add more ink to her quill. Each letter was a miniature masterpiece,
scribed to exacting standards, yet the letters also held an elegant, seemingly
effortless fluidity. The smooth motion of her hand was imbibed by the ink, the
words forever captured on vellum. Consumed by the details, by the burning
passion of creativity, Nim worked without stopping till she reached the last
period.

She blinked as
if coming out of a trance.

Lifting the
quill from the vellum, she carefully set it aside lest an errant drop mar her
work. Stepping back, Nim stared at the whole and saw that it was good.

A good start,
her heartbeat quickened, thrilled by the challenge.

Nim forced
herself to wait a full day for the text to dry and then she traded black ink
for vivid color. Having ground and carefully blended the pigments herself,
she'd assembled a stunning pallet from the monastic stores. Vermillion red destined
for the castle's rippling banners and the knights' sigils, turmeric yellow for
the sun-blazoned castle walls, azurite blue for the sword, smalt for the
shadows, and a brilliant malachite green to offset the gold of the knotwork.
Using the finest brushes, she painstakingly applied the jeweled colors,
bringing the illumination to blazing life.

To bind her work
and exult the illumination, Nim planned to add silver and gold. This was the
trickiest part, for any mistakes could not be undone, but Nim was determined to
exult her work, to make it worthy of the gods. She started with silver leaf
beaten thinner than the finest parchment. Nim held her breath lest she tear it.
Bent over the desk, she carefully worked the silver detail onto the gauntleted
fist and the upraised sword. A rich shimmer of silvery light appeared along the
blade. Her breath caught, pleased with the effect, as if the sword were fresh
forged.

And then she
added the gold. Carefully cutting the gold leaf, she applied swirling curls
with stag's glue to the fretted knotwork, weaving golden light among the
painted twists and turns, creating a shimmering pathway for the eye to follow.
The knotwork pattern she'd chosen was old, very old, something she'd found in a
musty tome, a legacy from another age, yet she'd felt compelled to use it. For
days she sat hunched over her work, delicately applying the glimmering gold
leaf.

And then it was
done.

Her hands shook.

She was half
afraid to look.

Stepping back,
Nim studied her work with an artisan's eye. She could find no fault, no
smudges, no ink blotches, no malformed letters, no errant strays of color.
Satisfied with the detail, she examined the whole.

Gold and silver
leaf shimmered in the lantern light, bringing a dazzling metallic sheen to the
piece. Vibrant colors leaped from the page, ensnaring the eye of the beholder
and drawing the reader to inspect the stunning details. The raised sword
shimmered as if awaiting the hands of a hero. The castle battlements glowed in
stalwart sunshine beneath the ornamented capital. The intricacies of the
gold-leafed knotwork teased the eye with a convoluted mystery, all forming the
perfect framework for the exquisite text, art and meaning indelibly entwined.

Master Adelbart
peered over her shoulder.

Nim startled,
ambushed by her master's sudden appearance.

For the longest
time her master said nothing.

Waiting on his
judgment, Nim bit her lower lip, her heartbeat racing to a gallop.

"You chose
a text with a True Name?"

"Yes."

"And you
found a True Description?"

"I believe
so, master." She held her breath, waiting for a rebuke. 

"Why this
text?"

The words came
unbidden to her lips. "Because staunch swords are needed in dire
times."

Master Adelbart
said nothing.

Unnerved by his
silence, she dared a glance at his wrinkled face. Realizing his solemn stare
remained fixed upon her work, she snapped her own gaze back to the illuminated
vellum, praying he found it worthy.

Finally he
spoke. "Nimeria Harpsinger, an untried acolyte with years to live before
you reach the age of requirement, yet in this, your apprenticeship piece, you
have created a masterwork worthy of the inner monastery."

His praise rang
like a bell in her heart.

"As is our
custom, a finished illumination is first read aloud by the artisan who brought
the text to life." His words turned solemn. "Has this text passed
your lips?"

"No,
master."

He gave her a
piercing look. "You think you are ready for this? You think you are
capable?"

Sweat erupted
beneath her robes. Under his stern gaze, Nim was no longer so certain, but she
yearned to be a true illuminator in every sense of the art. "Let me
try."

His gaze gave
nothing away. "Despite your tender years, you have the eye and hand of a
master illuminator. We shall see if you also have the voice. Bring your piece
to the heart of the scriptorium so that your first reading may be heard by
all."

Both awed and
frightened by the honor, she bowed towards him. "Yes, master."

Master Adelbart
withdrew from her tiny alcove, disappearing as silently as he'd arrived.

Nim washed her
hands in the basin, scrubbing till she banished every ink stain from her
fingers. Drying her hands three times to be sure she would not stain the
vellum, she took a deep breath and then carefully lifted her finished work from
the desktop. Nim tried not to think about what awaited her in the scriptorium,
a trial by fire in front of her fellow acolytes, yet she dared not complain,
for she'd brought this challenge upon herself. Holding the vellum as if it were
the most fragile pane of glass, she slowly wound her way through the warren of
desks and alcoves now empty of acolytes.

Reaching the
bright heart of the scriptorium, her footsteps faltered, for the soaring
chamber was filled with blue-robed masters. Standing among them, she spied the
flowing white beard of Master Tolk, the monastery's venerable Chronicler. Nim
paled, for in all her ten years of study, she'd never seen the Chronicler in
the acolytes' scriptorium. And now he was here, with so many other masters, to
witness her brashness, to witness this trial of her own devising.

Master Adelbart
saw her trepidation and smiled. "Come, child, we have gathered to hear the
first reading of your newly exulted text."

The gathering
parted, opening a path to the central lectern. In a single glance, she knew the
blue-robed masters far outnumbered the golden-yellow robes of fresh-faced
acolytes. Looking neither left nor right lest her nerves betray her, Nim walked
the path, gently placing her finished piece upon the lectern. Sunlight dazzled
the gold leaf and lit the silver like a flash of light running along the blade
of the illuminated sword. Exulted by gold and silver and emblazoned by
sunlight, her work looked worthy to be offered to the gods. Nim gave the piece
one last searching glance and then stepped to the side.

One at a time,
the masters came forward to inspect her work. Their faces remained still as
stone but their stares were keen as swords, seeking flaws. Not one of them said
a word. Nim sweated beneath her golden-yellow robes. Her hands clenched behind
her back, she darted swift glances at the masters, hungry for their approval.

"How old
are you, child?" The Chronicler broke the silence.

Nim's eyes flew
wide, astonished to be addressed by the venerable master. "Sixteen."

"Remarkable."
His gaze roved the other masters. "Does anyone find fault with this piece?"

None of the
other masters spoke.

The Chronicler
fixed her with his stare that seemed to touch her very soul.

Nim held his
gaze, afraid if she faltered in anyway, she would forfeit her chance.

A hundred
heartbeats passed. The Chronicler nodded toward her. "By dint of  your own
work and by your own daring, you have won your chance. May the Light favor
you." He gestured for her to take her place in front of the lectern.

Her hands shook,
so she kept them clasped behind her back.

Nim stared down
at the illuminated script, drinking in the details just as she'd been taught.
She started with the illuminated paintings, the sword, the knights, the castle,
imprinting them in her mind like a cherished memory. Finished with the
paintings, her gaze followed the convoluted knotwork. In many ways, the
intricate knotwork was both a key and a lock. For those without the proper
talent, the knotwork was a busy distraction, muddling the mind and obscuring
the meaning, but for true illuminators, the knotwork was a pathway to other
planes, other possibilities. Following the convoluted curves and knots, Nim
felt her mind open like a budding flower seeking the sun. Ensorcelled by the
knotwork, her gaze sought the text. She began to read.

"At the
turn of an Age, when Darkness held sway and heroes were sorely needed, Orrin,
the last great wizard, turned his arcane skills to the forge. By hammer and by
rune, he sought to unlock the mysteries of blue ore. After a year of toil, he
discovered the key. The secret lay in the sequencing of hammer, heat, and
plunging cold, the final quenching forever fixing the properties of blue steel.
Never to be melted, never to be reforged, blue ore yielded a wondrous blade
forever sharp and strong, but Orrin Surehammer was forging a weapon for the Darkest
of times. Into the blade he poured his magic. Rune forged, with coiled dragons
sculpted on the hilt, the blade was bound with indomitable strength and
fearless courage. Gifted to the Octagon Knights, the sword was called
Dragonbane. In the hands of heroes, Dragonbane did many great deeds, but
towards the end of his life, Orrin foresaw that Darkness would covet the sword.
In secret, he forged a twin to the blade, equal in strength and magic. Binding
the blade with enchantments, he hid it to await the most desperate hour. Hidden
since that bygone Age, the True Name of the second sword was Invictus, the
blade that awaits the Battle Immortal."