The Saints of the Sword (6 page)

“Oh? I had heard the Lady Calida had hair like a raven.”

“Well, yes.” Alazrian cleared his throat. “I suppose.”

“You’re not big like your father, either. He’s like a tree, that one. But you—” He shrugged. “You must be still growing.”

All the old anxieties came flooding back. What was Dakel doing? Alazrian hurried to change the subject.

“Thank you so much for coming to see me, Lord Minister. Perhaps you can tell me of some interesting things to see while I’m in the city. I had hoped to do some exploring. Maybe this evening.”

“Certainly,” said Dakel. “I can have a carriage take you anywhere you wish. You can tour the city.”

“I’m fond of books. Are there any libraries here? It’s such a grand city. I imagine you must have scholar halls.”

This made the Inquisitor’s eyes narrow. “Of course we have books. What type of books are you looking for?”

Alazrian played the little boy. “Oh, anything! We don’t have many books back home, and I do so love to read. History books on the Black City would be wonderful. Or fictions. Yes, I like those very much. Maybe your driver can take me?”

“Whatever you wish, young Leth.” Dakel still had suspicion in his eyes, but Alazrian pretended not to notice. “Call for Rian whenever you want to go. He will arrange the carriage for you. But I do advise you to get some rest. The tribunal starts early.”

“I understand, Lord Minister. Thank you again for coming to greet me, and for the marvelous rooms.”

“You are welcome,” said Dakel. “The emperor and I want your stay to be comfortable.”

“The emperor?” asked Alazrian. “Will I be meeting him as well?”

Dakel shrugged. “Perhaps, young Leth,” he said vaguely. “Perhaps.”

And then he was gone as quickly as he’d come, disappearing like a wraith through the door, his long robes trailing behind him. Alazrian stood and stared at the door, puzzled by what had transpired. Despite Dakel’s claim of innocence, he didn’t trust the Inquisitor at all. And that mention of the emperor had unnerved Alazrian, reminding him that it was Biagio who had summoned him here to Nar City.

“But why?” Alazrian wondered aloud.

There was no reply from the opulent room.

That night, after a painfully awkward dinner with his father, Alazrian escaped into the city. The sun had gone down behind the surrounding hills and Nar’s black wings enveloped him, swallowing him in its crowded streets. As Dakel had promised, there had been a carriage and driver for him, a luxurious vehicle fit for royalty with two twin geldings and gold-gilded rails shaped like sea serpents. Alazrian sat on the edge of the ruby cushions as he stared
out the window, his nose pressed to the glass. He was on an avenue thick with people and horses and shadowed by tall towers with gargoyles and buttresses, a thousand candles blinking in their windows. The unmistakable, metallic stink of the city soured his tongue and made him clear his throat while overhead played an orchestra of fire, the dazzling blue-orange flares of the smokestacks. Beggars and prostitutes mingled on the streets shouldering up to Naren lords walking manicured dogs, and children cried and ran through the avenues, some as filthy as rats, others as pampered as their regal parents. Alazrian watched it all with dumb amazement. Suddenly, Aramoor and Talistan seemed very far away.

Lady Calida had been right; surely there was no place on earth like the Black City. The Naren capital seemed taller than a mountain and wider than an ocean, and it had a dream-like quality that was almost more nightmare than lullaby.

He was on his way to the Library of the Black Renaissance. According to Rian, it housed the largest collection of manuscripts in the city and had been commissioned by the late Emperor Arkus. Apparently, Arkus had a penchant for knowledge, and had named the library for his revolution. It was an odd name, but Alazrian liked it because it suited this mechanized city. If it was as grand as Rian claimed, then certainly it would have books about Lucel-Lor.

And maybe magic.

Alazrian lifted his hands and inspected them, turning them in the grey light. There was something inexplicable in his touch. This city, which had a magic of its own, might just have answers for him.

The carriage stopped at a cross-street, letting a parade of people and horses pass. Alazrian glanced out the window and saw a woman approaching him, gesturing suggestively. She flashed him a smile. Alazrian looked her up and down, knowing in an instant that she was a prostitute.

“My God.” He stared at her through the glass. She approached the carriage, ignoring the driver who threatened
her with his crop, and tapped at the window. When she winked, Alazrian’s breath caught.

“Oh, you’re beautiful,” he said, not sure if she could hear him. She was young and tight-skinned, not like the other harlots he had seen, and her eyes were bright and inviting. She seemed to sense his interest and tossed back her hair. Alazrian laughed, remembering the coins he had brought along. He doubted that this was what his mother had in mind.

“I’m sorry,” he said loudly, shaking his head. “I can’t.”

She heard him plain enough, gave a suggestive shrug, then turned and strode away. Alazrian stared at her as she departed, admiring her walk. And then a darker thought came to him. He looked down at his hands again and flexed his fingers. Could he be with a woman? he wondered. He was at an age now when such things mattered to him. The changes that had wrought manhood in him had also delivered his strange gift, and the correlation vexed him. Could he harm as well as heal?

The carriage moved off, bearing him far from the pretty prostitute. He wanted to believe that his mother had been right about things, that his powers had a purpose beyond making him different.

It wasn’t much longer before an ivory building greeted him, a broad structure with white columns and sculptured depictions of scholars across its roof. Alazrian read the chiseled greeting over its wide threshold, each letter as tall as a man. The words were in High Naren, but Alazrian had learned the language as part of his upbringing.

“To learn is to walk with God,” he read aloud. The notion made him smile. He wasn’t a god, just a boy looking for answers.

The carriage came to a stop outside a flight of alabaster steps. Alazrian wasted no time. He tossed open the carriage doors and dropped down onto the street, staring up at the monstrous building.

“This is it, Master Leth,” said the driver, another of Dakel’s countless slaves. “The Library of the Black Renaissance.”

“Amazing,” said Alazrian. “Can I go inside? It’s very late.”

“Late? Oh, no, sir. The library never shuts its doors, and there are always scholars available to help. Just go inside and someone will find you.”

“Will you wait for me? I don’t know how long I’ll be.”

“I’ll have to move the carriage,” said the driver. “But I’ll check back for you here on the hour.” He pointed toward a tower in the distance. On its face was a huge illuminated clock. “Look to the Tower of Time when you need me. You’ll hear when it strikes the hour.”

“I’ll listen for it,” said Alazrian. “Thanks.”

The driver snapped the reins and the carriage pulled off, leaving Alazrian on the stairs. He steeled himself with a breath, then began climbing the flawless steps. The library’s doors were opened wide, and when he reached the top of the stairs, Alazrian peered inside to see a vast arena of wooden shelves, bookcases, and desks, all polished to a pristine luster and stretching out endlessly in corridors and alcoves. There was a bright glow from oil lamps and reading sconces, and the warm smell of oak and leather wafted over the threshold. Little men with hunched backs and beady eyes poured over texts, silently studying, and workers pushed carts of manuscripts through the halls, carefully categorizing them on the countless shelves. Alazrian stepped into the library, suddenly conscious of his own breathing. It was as if sound couldn’t penetrate the thick walls; even the drone of the city’s incinerators fell away behind him. His shoes scuffed soundlessly along the carpeted floor, and his head swivelled to survey his surroundings. The Library of the Black Renaissance was astonishing, just like the Tower of Truth and the Black Palace and the harlots in the streets.

“Young man?” came a voice. “May I help you?”

Turning, Alazrian discovered a woman behind him, studying him curiously. She wore a simple green gown belted with a scarlet sash, just like the workers pushing around the carts. She looked serene and peaceful and Alazrian liked her instantly.

“Hello,” he offered, unsure what to say. “Uhm, my name is Alazrian Leth. I’m from Talistan. Well, Aramoor now.”

“Yes?”

“I’m visiting the city,” Alazrian explained. “I’m a guest of Minister Dakel.”

The word “guest” made the woman frown. No one was really a guest of the minister’s, despite his hospitality.

“I’m one of the librarians here,” she said. “What can I help you with, Alazrian Leth? Are you looking for something?”

“I don’t really know what I’m looking for,” Alazrian said. “I was wondering about Lucel-Lor, and thought you might have some manuscripts I could look at. Aramoor is very near Lucel-Lor, and I don’t know much about it.”

Again the librarian frowned. “No one really knows much about Lucel-Lor, I’m afraid. There aren’t very many texts on it. Just some from the war.”

“Yes, the war,” chimed Alazrian. He knew the war texts might make mention of the magician Tharn, and that would be a start. “Where are these books, please?”

The woman had Alazrian follow her through a narrow corridor, past a collection of reading desks, and up a small flight of stairs to a landing overlooking the main chamber. Along the wall was a long bookcase crammed full of manuscripts and scrolls, some faded to yellow by years of decay. The librarian fingered through them, whispering to herself as she searched for the proper section. Finally she fished out a text bound in brown leather and embossed with the impressive title
Lucel-Lor—Historical Facts and Notes
. Alazrian’s eyes widened when he saw it.

“What’s that?” he asked eagerly. He reached out and took the book from the librarian, handling it as carefully as if it were an infant.

“There are some others but this is really the best,” said the woman. “It was written about a year ago by an historian that lives here in the capital. Emperor Biagio himself had the book commissioned so that there would be some record of the events of the war. It’s a very fine work.

Conhorth, the historian, took care with it. He interviewed survivors of the war from Talistan and Ackle-Nye. I think it should help you.”

Alazrian ran his hand over the tome. It was far too long to read in one night and he doubted he would be able to take it with him. He would have to get reading quickly.

“Thank you,” he said. “Thank you very much. You’ve been a great help.”

The librarian smiled and told Alazrian that she was at his service if he needed anything else, but he hardly heard her. He was already lost in the pages of the remarkable book, flipping through the leafs and studying the hand-drawn illustrations that jumped off the parchment. Whoever this Conhorth was, he had done an impressive job at the emperor’s behest.

Excited, Alazrian went back down the stairs with his prize, located one of the vacant reading desks, and examined the tome. On the very first page was a crude map of Lucel-Lor. Calligraphy indicated the names of the different regions. Alazrian tried to sound them out.

“The Dring Valley.” He had heard of that one. “Tatterak. Kes.” The next one he had never heard mentioned. “Reen?”

Obviously, he had a lot to learn, but he didn’t have a lot of time. Tomorrow was the tribunal, and after that—who knew? He might be returning to Aramoor. Or worse, he and Leth might wind up in prison. It didn’t seem fair that he should have such a book and not be able to read it, so he plunged ahead, devouring all he could of the High Naren writings, and an hour slipped by before he realized it. He read about King Darius Vantran of Aramoor and his own grandfather, Tassis Gayle, and how Emperor Arkus had made them both send troops to Lucel-Lor to defend the Daegog. He read about the Triin warlords and how they each ruled a different region of Lucel-Lor, and of the Drol and their revolution, led by the zealous Triin holy man—

A name leapt off the page. Alazrian let it slip from his lips.

“Tharn.”

For a moment Alazrian could read no further. In
Talistan, it was almost forbidden to speak the name of Tharn. This was the man who had defeated the Empire. Together with Richius Vantran, he had killed Blackwood Gayle.

The Triin had called Tharn “storm-maker,” the book claimed, because he could command the sky and the lightning. The book swore that this was no rumor, but a truth corroborated by witnesses. The thought of it stirred Alazrian’s soul. Here it was, the proof he needed. For the first time he could remember since his body had changed, Alazrian didn’t feel alone. Tharn
had
existed. And he had possessed powers that no one could explain. Conhorth wrote that the Drol said their leader was “touched by heaven.” For Alazrian, the claim was wondrous.

“Touched by heaven,” he whispered. “That’s what I am.”

But the book didn’t say how this could be, and it didn’t say how Tharn had died. It only repeated the rumors that Alazrian knew already—that Blackwood Gayle was killed by the Jackal, Richius Vantran, and that the Triin holy man Tharn was dead as well. Frustratingly, there was nothing more. Alazrian started thumbing through the book desperately searching for more references to Tharn, but there were none. Nor was there any mention of Jakiras, Alazrian’s father. The omission disappointed the boy. He hadn’t really expected to see Jakiras’ name, for he had only been a merchant’s bodyguard, but any proof of his existence would have lightened Alazrian’s mind.

His head aching, Alazrian closed the book and leaned back in his chair. The library was silent. Hours had passed. He thought of leaving the library to check the clock, but a dreadful melancholy pinned him to the chair. The giddiness of earlier had gone, and all that remained were questions. How had Tharn gained the touch of heaven? Why did it burn in both their bodies? And what had really happened to him? Surely he was dead now, but that wasn’t enough for Alazrian. Some were even saying Richius Vantran was dead, too. It had been two years since the Jackal had left Aramoor. Alazrian sighed. Tomorrow he would face the Protectorate. It would have been so much easier to die knowing what he truly was.