Touch of Iron (The Living Blade #1) (20 page)

T
he library was a large
rounded room that curved with the temple’s tower shape. No wall was a straight line, so all the bookshelves stood not up against the walls but in double rows like eager soldiers, leaving a small passageway between them that smelled of dust and parchment. Rays of light with specks of dust swirling in their unseen currents slanted down each of the rows, and the middle of the room was dominated by a long reading table. It was heaped with paper and scrolls and codices and lost half-empty mugs of some liquid, making it look just like Owen’s desk back home on the Ridge, only on a larger scale.

Nora saw her brother and her heart leaped painfully to the back of her tongue. He holding an engaged discussion with none other than Prince Bashan, the once and future emperor as it were. They both stood, hands on the table, like generals poring over maps of war. Her smile wavered with emotion. She swallowed the lump down.

“I’m just saying it would be more logical to look for the Cauldron of Arrun than for the Blade itself. Every source I’ve read so far shows that every wielder of the Blade breaks down after a time. Kandar came to this temple spouting nonsense in an ancient tongue no one could identify and sometimes thought he was a woman. The Cauldron holds no such risks.” Owen held up his hands.

“I don’t want the fucking Cauldron of Arrun!” Bashan interrupted, throwing his hands up. “I want the City of Arrun. My city. The imperial city. And for that I need the Blade. So just find me the Blade and spare me your sidetracking.”

Owen ran a hand through his hair. It stood up like raven’s feathers. He looked tired, with dark rings under his eyes, his jaw clenched tight. Nora took it all in at once, drunk on the sight of that so-familiar face she hadn’t seen for such a long time. One thing was new: a thin red scratch ran along Owen’s left cheek, from his nose to his ear, like someone had carved him an extra smile. He kept picking at the scab while Bashan talked.

“Well, the Blade must be here,” Owen said. “In the north. Our safest bet is if we strike north as Kandar did, past Moorfleet, and head through the Wightingerode.”

“And ask the wights where the Blade is?” Bashan threw his head back and flared his nostrils.

“You have connections, don’t you?”

“Oh, yes, when Telen shows up, we can just ask him whether he knows where exactly his great-grandfather killed my ancestor, the founder of the empire,” Bashan scoffed.

“If it helps,” Diaz spoke into the ensuing pause, “I could ask my father what he knows. Though I doubt it would be much. If the wights knew where the Blade was, they would have used it themselves to gain back their lost lands.”

Bashan and Owen looked up and saw Diaz and Nora standing at the edge of the row of bookshelves. The prince sighed audibly in relief.

“Thank the gods, reason has finally returned.”

“Nora!” Owen actually sounded surprised.

She took a step forward but then hesitated, suddenly unsure what to do. All this way—what if he didn’t want to see her? What if it’d be awkward between them?

She needn’t have worried. Owen leaped over the table, scattering paper all across the floor, and smothered her in an embrace before the paper stopped falling. He was warm and smelled of knowledge and soap.

“I am so, so sorry,” he kept saying over and over.

“It’s all right,” she answered again and again.

They heard the soft talk of Diaz and Bashan in the background, but mostly the familiar sound of each other’s heartbeat. Nora started to laugh. Or cry. She wasn’t sure which. Owen’s shoulder became damp, either way. Her brother took a deep, shuddering breath and rested his chin on top of her head. He sniffed.

“You reek,” Owen said after a moment.

“I’m sorry.” Nora dug her face deeper into his shoulder, laughing. Then she looked up. “What happened to your face?”

“It got cut. What happened with you?”

“I got shot. Long story.”

Two heartbeats of silence.

“You didn’t happen to bring my stone collection?” Owen asked.

Nora shook her head.

“Pity. I’ve found a translation of Kerrulan’s essay on the nature of minerals here. It’s quite fascinating. Especially his theory of similarity. He says if you smash a mineral into pieces, each piece will resemble the structure of the larger stone. If you were able to grind it down to its very last piece, that piece would still have the structure of the large stone. His conclusion: the essence of stone is embedded in every part. Although, he then finishes his essay with a catalog of stone categories instead of asking the real question.”

“And what would that be?”

Nora pulled away from her brother to look him in the eye. His sharp mind flashed before her in a mischievous wink.

“Does the similarity exist merely in stones, or in all life? Look at you and me. We’re similar enough on the outside, but crushed into our very essence, I wonder whether we’d still resemble each other.”

“I missed you, Owen.” Her voice broke, but her smile didn’t.

He nodded sagely.

“I missed you too.”

M
aster Akela, Master Cumi, and
Diaz had all convened in the kitchen. The great hall was too chilly for Akela, who had grumbled into his cowl and then promptly fallen asleep in his chair next to the fire. Akela was younger than Diaz, if only by two years. But then, those were a lot of years for a human. Diaz looked about the kitchen, thinking of a painting that hung in the great council chamber of the Temple of Arrun, depicting a Convening of Masters. In oil colors on canvas, twelve masters sat on identical chairs in a perfect circle, a symbol for the equality of all opinions, all viewpoints. The masters in the picture were discoursing with solemn expressions, as though they were discussing matters of great social and political import, the fate of the world, perhaps even “philosophical bullshit,” as Noraya would say. Diaz smiled. In all his years as a master, he had never been to a meeting that had even come close to that picture.

Right now, though, this was ideal—much better than the painting. He was clean, rested, warm, and not hungry.

“Calla, pour the tea,” Cumi told a young blonde girl who hovered behind her.

“Where’s Kenneth?” Diaz asked.

“He asks you to excuse him. He has to be with his bees,” Cumi said, watching the girl pour scalding-hot water into their cups. “I don’t know why. It’s winter, after all. You remember Calleva, Telen?”

He was about to say he didn’t, then stopped himself.

“Master Rallis’s initiate? You’re training to become a midwife?”

Calla blushed and cast her eyes down.

“Yes, master.”

“A very useful skill. And Calla is very good,” Cumi said. “I’m thinking we could specialize in healing, too.”

The girl blushed a deeper red. Then she looked up and considered Diaz with large eyes. There was no fear or repulsion in them. Just curiosity. That was…different. Diaz shifted on his chair, cupping his tea with both hands.

“Where is Master Rallis?”

“She died, Master Diaz,” Calla said. “Last summer.”

Diaz arched his eyebrows at Cumi across the table.

“Oh, that,” Cumi said and waved a hand. “Must have been a heart attack. There was really nothing I could do. She was quite old, you know. One minute she was standing right there next to the sink, and the next she was on the floor. Calla has all but replaced her. She’s not a master yet, but she’ll get there. That was your cue to leave, Calla.”

They had tea and almond biscuits. All was set. Cumi waited until the girl closed the kitchen door behind her.

“So, what do you think?”

He shrugged.

“She’s copying your styling, and it doesn’t suit her. You should tell her. However, I don’t know her enough to decide whether she should be a master or not.”

“Akela? What do you think?” Cumi beamed at Akela’s answering snore. “Yes, I think we should wait, too. She’s still very young.”

“You’re still very young,” Diaz said.

“I don’t feel it.” Her bangles jingled as she picked up her cup and held it to her lips. “I’m old, you know. Very old. And tired.”

“One is as old as one feels.” Diaz took a sip of tea.

“And how would you know?” Cumi gave him a sharp look. He held the tea in his mouth, cup still half raised.

She took a deep breath and smiled an apology.

“I’m sorry. Shall we start over?”

Diaz swallowed and put down the cup.

“Very well.”

Cumi neatly folded her hands before her on the table.

“There are a number of things we need to discuss. We’ll need to talk about the refugees and the situation in the lower courtyards. And the untimely death of Master Darren, of course, and the vacancy he leaves. I think I can speak for Master Akela and say he turns down the position of Guardian of the North.”

“It’s the third row to your right, my boy,” Akela said, eyes opening for a moment before he settled back into his slumber.

“So there’s that to discuss,” Cumi continued. “I’ve sent word to the Temple of Arrun, but as it’s winter, who knows when we’ll get an answer back? Though that is probably to our advantage. Have you met the boy they sent to the Shrine of Hin last year? Twenty-three-year-old arrogant little flunky. Every letter Darren sent me was one of complaint. So, naturally, the mother temple in Arrun will want to name the flunky Guardian of the North.”

Cumi smoothed her hair with a hand, adjusting a silver chain caught behind her ear.

“Did you know Empress Vashti has issued a decree which undoes the taxation laws her father imposed on the order? She’s trying to break the chain, poor girl. We’ll see how long she lasts among the lions of Arrun. But who knows? Maybe it is true what they say and the world would be a better place if a woman ruled it.”

“Don’t you already?”

Cumi smiled.

“I wish. My main job right now is keeping the dignitaries of various small villages and hamlets from lording it over each other. Having second thoughts on joining Bashan on his quest?”

She lashed her question out like a whip. They gazed at each other over the table. A candle flickered its soft light across Cumi’s face, blurring the creases that showed in daylight. Diaz remembered when her hair was black and not gray. Her piercing eyes were still the same, though. He leaned on his elbows, folding his hands before his face.

“No,” he said.

“Liar.” She smiled. “So, Telen Diaz, as the eldest pilgrim master among us, do you accept the authority and duty of Guardian of the North?”

“I have given my word to help find the Blade. When I return, though, I will,” he added.

“You will?” Her eyes narrowed.

“Yes.”

Her eyes narrowed even more.

“Such change.” She tilted her head and gazed at him intently with a pinched mouth. “I wonder…is it the girl?”

He laughed at that.

“You have met Noraya, yes? She’s hardly what would inspire a man to any action other than throwing one’s hands up in despair.”

“She did seem to have a wild manner about her.” Cumi’s eyebrows arched high.

He shook his head.

“She has no manners whatsoever,” he said. “She is a mixture of pride and impertinent independence. But she is tough, enduring. Uncomplaining. In her home village, she took on a number of men alone with nothing more than a kitchen knife and a meat cleaver.”

“So she is insane as well. Or did she know you were there?”

“No, she did not.”

“You like her,” Cumi observed, a smile playing around her lips.

He frowned. “I am…intrigued, perhaps. She—”

“What?”

He folded his hands on the table and stared at his intertwined fingers.

“I’ve never met anyone more fit to train as a swordsman. Swordswoman, in this case,” he corrected.

“Then why don’t you train her?”

“I can’t,” he said simply.

“I see you have both hands still remaining to you. They are capable of holding weapons, yes?”

“Yes.”

“Aren’t you still the best warrior in the order?”

“Again, yes.”

“Then I don’t see your problem, Telen. Train the girl if you want. If she has the talent you think she has, no one would suit her better as a master than you.”

He sighed.

“A male master shouldn’t take on a female student,” he said.

A short silence followed that statement.

Cumi clicked her tongue in disapproval. “A woman can never be a warrior, never be a leader, never be better than a man—that is what you would hide behind.”

“What is this girl to you?” He ran a hand through his hair, exasperated that the subject still hadn’t changed.

“A test, Telen.” She shrugged. “I had expected differently from you after what I heard about your time at the Temple of Fire.”

“What you heard?” The sensation of a hand trailing over his burning chest played on his heart. His breath faltered.

Opposite him, Cumi watched his expression ardently.

“I was visited last summer by a few young pilgrims from the Temple of Fire,” she explained slowly. “They came bearing a message from the prophetess there. A message of hope. A hope they desired to spread throughout the north. They left for Hin’s shrine and Moorfleet shortly after, lamenting that they hadn’t had the chance to meet Master Diaz in person—the great Master Diaz—but still glad to hear you were in Bashan’s company, looking for the Living Blade. You never told me you had been to Shinar’s temple.”